Title: To Wait for You.  Part 1 of “My Heart’s Desire” series. 
Author: Ryo
E-mail: izumrud4u@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17 (overall)
Pairings:  Gildor/Thranduil, Haldir/Gildor
Summary: Be careful with what you ask of the Valar for your wish can be 
granted.

Author’s Notes: Thanks to: Katherine – for answering my stupid questions 
on the English grammar. Robin – for trying to improve my style. Orchyd – 
for the elvish names and phrases. Gross – for the consultations on male 
psychology. Jilly and Laurelin – for the invaluable help, enthusiastic 
encouragement and kind support. Thank you all! All the mistakes and 
faults still to be found in the fic are mine, my own.

Dedication: to my dear friend Laurelin for everything she has done for me.                                              
   
   
   
                                                           MY HEART’S DESIRE
   
                                                        Part 1. To Wait For You.
   
                                                                     Chapter 1. The Lady’s Kin.
   
   Haldir looked down from his balcony at the city of Caras Galadhon, 
bathed in the silver light of Ithil. It looked beautiful and peaceful, as 
always. No, Haldir shook his head. Not as always. It was different now 
that *he* was gone. Where once there had been peace, born of happiness 
and contentment, there was now the quiet of a lifeless void. But the elves 
he watched walking and laughing in the glades beneath his talan, did not 
seem unhappy. So then, he mused, the emptiness he sensed around himself 
must be only an echo, a mirror reflection of his inner void. Yes, he felt 
hollow and cold.
   
    ‘Is a wound caused by the Ice Blade as deadly as one caused by a 
Morgul sword?’ he wondered with sad irony. 
   
   He saw Glorfindel cross the clearing side by side with two elves of the 
Lady’s Noldorin guard. Haldir sighed and brought to his lips the goblet of 
wine he was holding in his hand. He did not want to think where *he* was 
and what *he* was doing at this hour. Instead, he let his thoughts wander 
back to the day he’d seen the elf for the first time, when he just emerged 
from the wood on the border of Lothlórien. 
   
   
                                                                                      * * *

   From the cover of the lower branches of a mallorn tree, Haldir and his 
brothers heard the thud of hooves on the ground and then two riders came 
into the glade right in front of the guards, as if they knew they were there. 
As most likely they did, for one of them was Glorfindel, Lord Elrond’s 
seneschal, and a frequent and welcome guest in the Golden Wood. As the 
guardians stepped or dropped down out of their hiding places to greet the 
guests, Haldir took a proper look at Glorfindel’s companion and nearly 
gaped. 
   
   Even for one of the Fair Folk he was dazzlingly beautiful. He was very 
young. His features were delicate and perfectly formed; and his hair, even 
against Glorfindel’s golden mane, looked somehow more golden and 
shining, almost like sunrays spun into silken threads. It wasn’t braided; it 
just fell in bright lustrous waves down his shoulders and his back. There 
was a white flower stuck behind one of his pointed ears; and to Haldir’s 
utter surprise, under the pale soft petals a small earring flashed at times, as 
it caught the sunlight. No one in Lothlórien, at least no one among males, 
wore such adornments and it looked foreign and a bit barbaric to the 
Marchwarden. But he had to admit that combined with the flower it made 
the young one look even more attractive; both innocent and seductive at 
the same time.  
   
   His eyes, the colour of the first green leaves, were slightly slanted to 
his temples, giving him a bit feline look. The rein of his horse lay loosely 
on the saddle as he went on picking at a handful of berries at will while 
Glorfindel talked to the guards. As if enchanted, Haldir’s eyes followed 
his hand to his bow-shaped mouth, and when he saw the tip of his tongue 
lick the juice from his lips Haldir’s heart missed a beat and he felt his 
leggings grow a little too tight for him. 
   
   “Has nobody ever told you it’s not polite to stare?” Haldir suddenly 
heard an amused voice.
   
    With a start he came to his senses. He darted a glance around and was 
relieved to see that nobody paid him any attention. All seemed engrossed 
in the conversation, Glorfindel giving the news from Imladris. So, 
deciding it had been only a trick of his imagination, he let his eyes return 
to the slender figure of the young elf. He was clad in the blue and silver of 
Imladris. He wouldn’t be too tall, Haldir reckoned. And he looked very 
exquisite, every inch from head to heel. 
   
   ‘A lover, not a fighter,’ Haldir smiled to himself.
   
    But at that moment the youth turned a bit and Haldir’s bewildered 
eyes fell on the silver inlaid hilt of a sword behind his shoulder. It did not 
look right. He couldn’t be possibly wielding such a weapon, could he?  
But Haldir did not have time to ponder on the idea as the conversation 
came to an end and his brothers stepped aside from the path so that the 
riders could continue on their way.
   
   
   “I’m sure the Lady Galadriel will be glad to see her cousin,” Orophin 
said politely.
   
   Haldir noticed a shadow of a smile curve the elfling’s lips and 
wondered at the meaning of it.
   
    Glorfindel bid them goodbye and the riders left, the younger one 
never touching the rein. The guardians all followed them with their eyes.
   
   
   “Did they make love somewhere on the way or what?” Rúmil asked 
softly. “Look at their hair! I’ve never seen Glorfindel’s without a single 
braid.”
   
   As if he had heard the words the young elf tossed his head back and 
shook his golden mane, making sunbeams dance upon it. He said 
something to Glorfindel, which made him laugh. Haldir suddenly felt a 
sharp pang of jealousy. He desperately wished to be there, by the golden 
beauty’s side, looking into his face and laughing at his jokes. He was only 
too aware of the fact that he hadn’t heard the young elf’s voice and that 
during the whole encounter he hadn’t given him even the shortest glance. 
   
   
   Rúmil jabbed Orophin in the ribs with his elbow and nodded his head 
at Haldir. Both brothers grinned mischievously.
   
    “Look! He’s been turned into stone by the Lady’s fair kin!”
   
   “Aye, like a troll in the sunlight!”
   
   Haldir glared at his siblings but his dark look was lost to them as they 
went on teasing him.
   
   “Struck deaf and dumb, I thought he’d pass out!”
   
   “I think he’s sick with love.”
   
   Haldir knew from his long and sometimes painful experience that he 
had to do something really fast or it would go on like this for hours.
   
   “I may be sick,” he snapped back, “but with something more primitive 
and less foolish than love. “
   
   He spoke with his usual bravado though he felt somewhat funny. He 
did not know what to make of the feeling yet, but knew for sure that he 
couldn’t afford his brothers to get even a slightest suspicion about it, lest 
he should become a target for their ridicule for months to come. So he 
went on with his best “the-arrogant-bastard” air.
   
   “He’s delicious, like a ripe fruit ready to be plucked. Why not by me, 
then?”
   
   Haldir’s performance seemed to be a convincing one.
   
   “Haldir, no!” Orophin at once grew serious. “He is cousin to Lady 
Galadriel and she is sure to disapprove of your ill-using her kin.”
   
   Haldir gave him a wicked grin.
   
   “I can promise to use him well. And he may like it after all.”
   
   “Oh, indeed,” Rúmil sneered. “And the Balrog Slayer will just smile 
indulgently and step aside for you to ravish his mate.”
   
   “You cannot scare me with Glorfindel!” Haldir snarled at him.
   
   “Haldir, for the Valar’s sake, be sensible,” Orophin tried to reason 
with his brother. “Glorfindel isn’t the only problem. That elfling is the 
Lady’s kin, meaning that he too is a Noldo. And the Noldor are not people 
to be meddled with painlessly. Have you seen his sword? Do you earnestly 
believe he carries it just for show?”
   
   That was a mistake. Orophin knew it the moment he uttered the 
words. Haldir was sure to take them as a challenge. And that he did.
   
   “It makes it even more interesting, don’t you think, brother?”
   
   Noticing Orophin’s doubtful expression, he narrowed his eyes.
   
   “Would you care to wager?”
   
   Rúmil grinned, willing to accept, but Orophin gave him a severe look 
and he kept silent. Orophin once again turned to Haldir.
   
   “I wish you could leave him alone, little brother.  I’ve got a feeling 
that there’s more to that stranger than he may seem.”
   
   But Haldir was already past reason. He looked in the direction in 
which the riders had left with only one thing vexing him at the moment. 
He could not start his hunt at once because he had two more days of the 
border duty ahead of him.
   
   
   Still, all things come eventually to an end; and so did the last two days 
of duty. A fresh patrol came to rotate their shifts and Haldir was at last 
free to start for Caras Galadhon. As he was walking through the forest 
with his brothers Haldir lost himself in thoughts.
   
    Usually he did not have any problem getting elves he wanted, of 
either sex, into his bed. But this time it could be different. The golden-
haired stranger was jaw-dropping beautiful. No matter how naïve he might 
look, he was no doubt aware of it. Surely, someone had already taken the 
trouble to enlighten him on the fact. For all Haldir knew, the youngster 
could turn out to be quite spoilt by the knowledge by now. Besides, there 
was the issue of Glorfindel. Though he had brushed aside Rúmil’s 
argument with seeming carelessness, he had no suicidal tendencies in his 
nature and he understood only too well that to confront the Balrog Slayer 
spelled certain doom. Especially, in love matters, he reckoned. So he 
would have to first learn if the golden beauty really was Glorfindel’s mate. 
And Haldir earnestly hoped that he was not. But if he *was*, then he 
would have to think of some way to give it a go with the youth and to 
survive the venture. The hunt was going to be thrilling. And, doubtlessly, 
rewarding. Oh, yes…
   
   
   He was brought out of his reverie by Rúmil’s voice.
   
   “I wonder how close a kin he is to the Lady?”
   
   “Who?”
   
   “Oh, come on! You fairly well know who I’m talking about!”
   
   Haldir sighed. “Well, and what about him?”
   
   “I think he isn’t a Noldo after all.”
   
   “Why?” asked Orophin. Haldir did not look interested.
   
   “Surely, the Lady does not have any Noldorin cousins left on this side 
of the Great Sea by now? Besides Glorfindel, I mean. At least I cannot 
think of any. Can you?”
   
   Orophin pondered on it. “Then perhaps he is a Telerë and a cousin on 
her mother’s side.”
   
   “Or may be he is kin to Lord Celeborn,” added Haldir in a bored tone.
   
   Rúmil looked at him in open amusement. “You really did not hear a 
word of our conversation with Glorfindel, did you, little brother? He quite 
definitely said ‘my kin and a cousin to the Lady.”
   
   “Oh, all right! Does it matter so much?”
   
   “Well, I do not know. I was just curious.”
   
   “If you’re so interested in his background, why don’t you ask him 
about it when we’re in Caras Galadhon?” smirked Haldir.
   
   “Maybe I will, little brother,” Rúmil returned the smirk.
   
   But they got an answer to the question much sooner than they had 
expected…
   
   
   At the city gates they were overtaken by a rider. He was member of 
the Lady’s personal Noldorin guards. Long ago they had come to 
Lothlórien with her, and they took orders only from her. They had not 
been mingling much with the Galadhrim, not that the latter regretted it. 
The people of the Golden Wood still found the Noldor alien and rather 
eerie, though they loved and respected their Lady. But this one, Narmacil, 
was the friendliest of them, and Haldir was on fairly good terms with him. 
The Noldo left his tired horse to a groom and exchanged news  with Haldir 
and his brothers as they walked together to the centre of the city. Narmacil 
said that he was returning from Mirkwood having delivered a dispatch to 
the king from Lord Celeborn. And Haldir told him about the visitors to the 
Wood. When the Noldo heard about the Lady’s kin he looked at him with 
sudden interest.
   
   “What is his name?”
   
   But at that moment they saw the person in question. He was talking to 
the Lord’s advisers.
   
   ‘And Glorfindel is again at his side,’ mused Haldir silently. ‘I 
wonder…’
   
   But he did not have time to finish the thought as Narmacil gave a 
joyous exclamation and cried out: “Nairalindë!”
   
   The young elf whirled about, his face lit up. “Narmacil!”
   
   In one swift motion he was in the Noldo’s arms and gave him a hearty 
hug. They spoke in Quenya and their voices flowed joyfully and rapidly 
like the waters of two springs, happy to join in the song of their meeting. 
   
   Those shreds of Quenya that Haldir knew did not help much and he 
lost the stream of the conversation from the very beginning. He stole a 
glance at Glorfindel to see how he was taking it all. The Elda was smiling. 
So either he did not mind it or was able to hide his feelings well. 
   
   At last the Noldor seemed to come to some agreement and with one 
more hug to Narmacil and a nod to the Silvan brothers the Lady’s cousin 
danced back to Glorfindel.
   
   
   “You seem to know him quite well,” Rúmil remarked nonchalantly.
   
   “Aye, I do,” Narmacil replied, his eyes still on the golden figure.
   
   “How long has he lived in Imladris?” Rúmil took the chance to pursue 
the matter.
   
   “From the very beginning.”
   
   “The very beginning of what?”
   
   “Why, Imladris, of course!”
   
   Narmacil turned to look at them. The three brothers were staring at 
him in mute bewilderment. Rúmil was the first to recover his voice again.
   
   “Are you joking? He’s hardly of age!”
   
   “He surely *looks* like that.”
   
   The Noldo did not try to hide his amusement. Haldir’s eyes searched 
the glade for the sight of the elf in question but by now he was nowhere to 
be seen.
   
   “If he’s lived in Imladris for that long,” came Orophin’s composed 
voice, “how is it then that we haven’t heard about him at all?”
   
   “But I’m sure you have.”
   
   “We’ve never heard of anyone called *Nairalindë*!” Rúmil stepped 
into the argument.
   
   “You may have never heard the name of Nairalindë but I think the 
name of Gildor Inglorion is not unknown to you?”
   
   Once again the three Geledhil found themselves bereft of their voices. 
Narmacil looked at them enjoying the effect his words had produced.
   
   “You mean Gildor the Langveleg? Gil-Galad’s companion? That… 
that youngster...?” Rúmil refused to believe his ears. [the Ice Blade]
   
   “That’s him,” the Noldo smiled.
   
   “But how can it be? He does not look *that* old! In fact, he does not 
look old at all!” Orophin shook his head.
   
   Narmacil shrugged. “I do not know. He just goes on looking like that 
since the time back in Valinor. Maybe it’s because he’s a prince of the 
Vanyar royal house, his mother being the youngest daughter of Ingwë 
Ingweron.”
   
   Rúmil looked at his brothers weakly. “I think I’m going to faint!” he 
moaned.
   
   All of them laughed at the expression of mock awe on his face.
   
   “I only hope,” Rúmil went on in the meantime, “that he is not of 
Fëanor’s blood in his father’s line. Or we, poor moriquendi, won’t even 
dare raise our eyes on him, lest the light of Valinor shining from his face 
should blind us forever.”
   
   “He is not,” Narmacil reassured him, still laughing. “But you’d better 
mind your eyes all the same. His father *is* of the Noldor and one of the 
Firstborn.”
   
    Haldir looked at his elder brother. “Do you still feel like passing out, 
Rúmil? I think I’ll join you. You, Orophin?”
   
   “No,” the eldest Galadhel shook his head, “not yet, at least. I’ve still 
got a few matters  to clear up. If he’s a Vanya, how does he happen to be 
here, in Middle-Earth?”
   
   “He came with the Valar army in the War of Wrath.”
   
   Rúmil rolled his eyes and fell shamming a faint, to be caught by 
laughing Haldir. Orophin did not pay any attention to his brothers’ pranks 
and asked his next questions.
   
   “But why did he stay? Why didn’t he return to Valinor after the war 
was over?”
   
   Narmacil’s face swiftly became cool and aloof.
   
   “I’m sure he had his reasons but what they were I cannot say. I hope 
you’ll excuse me now. I have to report to Lord Celeborn.”
   
   And bowing slightly he hurried away.
   
   “What ailed him?” Haldir looked at Orophin in surprise.
   
   “I do not know,” he answered softly, shaking his head.
   
   “Well, little brother,” said Rúmil, folding his arms and surveying 
Haldir archly, “have you changed your mind by any chance? Or do you 
still want to bed a creature almost as old as Arda? It would certainly give 
*me* the creeps should I find myself in bed with him.”
   
   “You never will,” Haldir replied evenly.
   
   “Feeling possessive already?” Rúmil smirked and turned to wink at 
Orophin.
   
   “Stop it,” the eldest elf sighed.
   
   Rúmil once again looked at Haldir.
   
   “You know, pen-neth, there’s really no way out of it for you. You 
cannot win and you certainly won’t survive the defeat. “
   
   “Rúmil!” came another warning from Orophin but Rúmil ignored it 
again and grinned.
   
   “I wish I’d taken your bet, brother. For then, I would soon have been 
wearing your new tunic, the silver-blue one, you know.”
   
   A swift cuff on his nape caught him unprepared.
   
   “Ouch! Why?!” Rúmil spun around to face Orophin.
   
   “I’ve told you to stop! He doesn’t need your instigation. He’s reckless 
enough as it is to attempt this suicidal pursuit. Haldir, won’t you listen to 
reason now? The Elda can eat ten of your like for breakfast and ask for 
more! Do you not understand he can really hurt you? Hurt you badly? Can 
you not feel it?”
   
   But Haldir only shook his head. He had to think it over, for sure. But 
he was not prepared to entirely give up the idea of conquering the 
mysterious golden creature. Besides, even with what little Quenya he 
knew he had managed to catch some familiar words: meet, later and public 
baths. This guess was worth checking up on.
   
   
   Being of an old and noble family the brothers had been well provided 
for before their parents left for the West. Thus, each of them had a talan of 
his own. And though his house was not very large and on the same 
mallorn as his brothers’, Haldir was quite often grateful for the peace and 
privacy it gave him.
   
   He had to spend some time trying to shake off Rúmil but at last he 
succeeded and sped up to his flet. There was a bathroom in his talan but 
this time he was not going to use it. He collected a towel, soap and a 
change of clean clothes and started for the hotspring, anxious to learn what 
or rather whom he would find there.
   
   
   When Haldir arrived on the spot he was pleased to find that his guess 
had been correct.
   
   Narmacil and Gildor were already there. And no one else. Haldir 
carefully hid his satisfaction and inquired politely, “I hope I’m not 
intruding?”
   
   “Not at all! You’re welcome to join us,” Narmacil responded, his 
usually dispassionate face flushed and animated. 
   
   “After all, they are public baths, aren’t they?” added Gildor lazily, 
looking up at the Galadhel. He spoke with a hardly audible shadow of an 
accent, his voice flowing smoothly and unhurriedly like thick honey.
   
   Haldir nodded in thanks and moved to the opposite side of the pool. 
Turning his back upon the pair in the water he took off his clothes and 
unbraided his hair. He heard subdued murmuring but it was so soft that 
even he with his acute hearing could not make out the words. Then there 
came a splash, Narmacil’s laughter and Gildor’s resentful voice, “Why not 
if I enjoy it?”
   
   Haldir turned and entered the pool. He lay down at the shallow end of 
it and sighed contentedly as the steaming water enveloped his tense body.
   
   “Behave, Nairalindë!” he heard Narmacil saying.
   
    He looked at them from under his long black lashes. They were at the 
deeper end so the water reached up to their chests. Narmacil was leaning 
against the marble side of the pool and Gildor now stood facing him. His 
golden hair was gathered into a tight knot on his nape and fastened with 
long wooden pins, thus revealing his slender neck and the luring lines of 
his finely sculptured shoulders and back to Haldir’s hungry gaze. He 
craved for the full sight of his naked body though even what little that he 
saw made his own body react swiftly and acutely. He was grateful for the 
cover of the steaming water in the distance between them, masking his 
present condition.
   
   In the meantime, the Noldor continued their interrupted conversation.
   
   “He was delighted to hear you were coming, I saw it,” Narmacil said.
   
   “I bet he was!” Gildor chuckled. “Did he ask if I was coming alone?”
   
   “No, but the younger prince did.”
   
   “I thought as much,” murmured the golden-haired elf.
   
   Haldir stirred uneasily as he heard profound satisfaction in his voice. 
The younger prince? He did not like the sound of it at all! The next 
moment Haldir received yet another shock.
   
   “I missed you,” said Narmacil huskily, tracing a droplet of water 
along Gildor’s arm with his finger. 
   
   “Why did not you come to Imladris for so long, nildo? Did your bossy 
lady keep you away from us on purpose?”
   
   “I’m not in the position to question the Lady’s motives.”
   
   Gildor moved to Narmacil’s side and now Haldir could see his fine 
profile. There was a look of genuine concern on his face. 
   
   “I thought you might have left for Aman.”
   
   “I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye to you,” smiled Narmacil. 
“And of course I wouldn’t go before the Lady leaves Middle-earth.”
   
   Gildor opened his mouth to answer but the next moment his perfect 
features were distorted by rage so hot that Narmacil recoiled from him. 
Haldir felt the power of the dark emotion and it raised the hair on the back 
of his neck. Instinctively, he started moving backwards closer to the edge 
of the pool. For several heartbeats the Vanya’s eyes became glazed and 
blank but then he was once again his former calm and charming self. He 
reached out a hand for his Noldorin friend and pulled him back. 
   
   “I’m sorry you had to witness it, Narma. You were not meant to. It’s a 
family squabble. But I hate her spying on people! Especially in such 
private places.” 
   
   He smiled apologetically at the still stricken Noldo.
   
   “Will you mind touching me now?” he went on tentatively. “I’d like 
you to help me wash my hair.”
   
   He raised his hands and took out the pins. His hair cascaded down his 
back and floated around him on the water like bright silken seaweeds. 
   
   “She won’t be watching us any longer, I promise,” he added softly.
   
   
   The next half an hour was a pure torment for Haldir. As the Noldor 
moved to the shallower part of the baths he mirrored their motion, circling 
to the deeper water and keeping as much distance between them as the 
pool allowed. Of course, Narmacil could not deny the help he’d been so 
charmingly asked for. And Haldir watched with helpless jealousy as he 
touched Gildor – oh, so casually, so accidentally – while he went on with 
the washing of his golden mane. Haldir knew he would not be able to 
leave the baths before the Noldor quitted them because of his present state 
that was throbbing painfully between his thighs. So he gathered all his 
willpower and retained his detached and placid appearance. 
   
   Haldir suffered the longest of agonies as Gildor slowly moved out of 
the water, inch by inch revealing to his hungry eyes the breathtaking 
beauty of his naked body. When at last he stood at the edge of the pool to 
wring his hair, Haldir’s eyes flew open and he just gaped. He simply could 
not help it though he understood what a ridiculous sight he must have 
presented. Gildor was perfection given flesh. Golden, glorious, enticing 
flesh. The Marchwarden cursed inwardly at the sharp painful sensation in 
his groin.
   
   ‘It should be forbidden for him to undress when someone is around,’ 
he thought weakly. ‘It’s impossible to see him like this and not to crave 
him.’
   
   But both Noldor seemed oblivious to the effect Gildor had on the 
Galadhel. They went on chattering on trivial subjects while they toweled 
themselves dry and got dressed. Then they wished Haldir a good day and 
left.
   
   Haldir quickly took himself into his hand and with several forceful 
strokes reached the longed-for release. He shuddered and closed his eyes. 
He felt somewhat dizzy and exhausted. He was starting to realize now that 
the hunt was going to be long and even more precarious than he had 
previously thought, and would require all his skills and patience. But the 
prize was worth it! The prize was worth all the time and the effort, the 
trouble and the pain. Yes, *this* prize was worth anything.
   
   Langveleg – Ice Blade
   Nairalindë (Q)– the Sun’s music (Naira – Heart of Flame, the Sun)
   Narmacil (Q)– Flame Sword
   Moriquendi (Q)– dark elves
   Nildo (Q) - friend
   Pen-neth (S)– young one
   
   
   
                                                               Chapter 2.  Hardships of the 
Hunt 
   
   
   Being of noble birth certainly had its advantages. Haldir lived in his 
own quarters, did not have to worry about earning his living and, by his 
right of birth had a place at his Lord’s Table.
   
    When their parents went to the West Haldir, the youngest of the 
brothers, had hardly come of age. The Lord and the Lady of the Wood 
took it upon themselves to look after him and take care of him. They were 
kind and loving guardians, always glad to see him in their talan. Now it 
turned out to be very useful as it gave him a chance to be where Gildor 
was. 
   
   Haldir was a good observer; he watched, listened and analyzed the 
results of his observations. He was surprised to find that there was little 
love between Lady Galadriel and her cousin. In his presence her renowned 
serenity somehow wavered and Haldir felt she was tense and on guard. As 
for Gildor, he had a distinctly disdainful and nasty “to-Mordor-with-Your-
Ladyship” air about him at these moments, and his sense of humour 
attained a biting edge. Haldir sensed strife between these two, a strife that 
was many centuries old. 
   
   On the other hand, there was no doubt that he and Lord Celeborn liked 
each other. They behaved like old friends and looked quite comfortable 
and happy in each other’s company. A couple of times Haldir caught 
Gildor looking from Celeborn to Galadriel and back as if wondering what 
his friend could possibly find attractive in his cousin. And Celeborn called 
the Vanya “Nairalindë”, one of very few people besides him. Actually, 
there were only two others: Glorfindel and Narmacil. Oh, yes, and Lady 
Galadriel as well. But she hardly ever addressed him by any name at all.
   
    Haldir watched even more attentively when Gildor was with 
Glorfindel. The way they talked to each other, the way they exchanged 
amused glances or knowing smiles, the way they bantered and teased, the 
casual familiarity in their touch, easily understood hints and allusions, the 
way they could communicate without words… It all spoke of a 
relationship centuries old, genuine friendship and deep affection. But, 
Haldir wondered, was there love? 
   
   Orophin with his natural gift of reading people seemed to be right 
again. There was something disconcerting about the Lady’s kin. 
Something that made “Gildor” and “love” two colliding concepts. Passion  
yes, temptation, pleasure; but not love. Although, Haldir mused, he had 
never been seriously in love himself and did not feel inferior because of it. 
Besides, he did not need Gildor’s love. All he wanted was possession. It 
was as simple as that. It was a natural reaction to the elf’s beauty, he 
supposed. Surely, he did not ask more than the Elda could give? But how 
to make him willing to give what Haldir wanted of him was a problem to 
be considered carefully. Haldir had no wish to be spurned by the golden 
elf, for it would truly be a highly disappointing and unpleasant experience, 
and a painful blow to his pride, too. 
   
   That very same day he got a vivid example of *how* unpleasant 
Gildor’s refusal could be. 
   
   
   The weather was sweltering, summer nearing its peak. The brothers 
decided to go for a swim and Haldir and Orophin were waiting for Rúmil 
to come down from his talan when Orophin looked over Haldir’s shoulder 
and muttered, “Another Silvan fly to the Noldorin spider.”
    
    Haldir turned around and saw Gildor being approached by Amarion, 
the Marchwarden’s life-long friend and rival. Surprisingly, for just this 
once, Glorfindel was nowhere to be seen and obviously, Amarion decided 
to act upon the chance. Haldir could not hear what was said and what was 
answered; neither could he see the Vanya’s face. But Amarion suddenly 
cringed back as if struck, shock plainly written over his beautiful face. He 
turned quickly and went away.
   
    As if out of thin air, Glorfindel appeared at Gildor’s side. He grabbed 
his upper arm roughly and spun the Vanya around to face him. By the look 
of the Elda, Haldir could tell he was furious and he was squeezing 
Gildor’s arm so forcefully that his fingers were sure to leave black bruises 
on the soft skin. However, Gildor did not even wince, his face a mask of 
cold detachment. Glorfindel gave him a shake and talked to him earnestly. 
Gildor’s aloof posture wavered; he listened, sighed and gave a reluctant 
nod. Glorfindel started walking, still holding the Vanya by his arm, though 
more gently now. 
   
   When they passed the Geledhil, Haldir heard him say, “No bloody 
blades in Lórien. You promised, remember?”
   
   Haldir followed them with his eyes, unwilling to turn and face his 
brother. When he did, though, he tried to make light 
   of it. “Well, no luck for Amarion, it seems!”
   However, Orophin was in no mood for joking.  “No luck for anyone,” 
he replied tersely.
   
   
   Fortunately for Haldir, Rúmil brought some friends with him, so they 
could talk on safer subjects than the Lady’s cousin. On the riverbank they 
were joined by even more of their companions, and after spending some 
time with them Haldir slipped away quietly and walked farther along the 
stream to his favourite bathing place. 
   
   It was in a secluded glade some distance from the city, so it was not 
frequented by others. The river fell down from a cliff into the almost 
perfectly round bowl of a pool and then ran swiftly away through the 
wood. The pool was rather deep and the water was pleasantly cool. A few 
haphazard boulders lay strewn about the glade, the largest one at the very 
edge of the water. 
   
   Haldir spent some time swimming and lying in the sun; but when he 
saw his pale skin start to turn pink, he dressed and climbed an old oak 
growing at the glade border. He reached the fork of two sturdy branches, 
his favourite spot for resting and watching the waterfall, and stretched 
himself out on one of the tree limbs. He was lying in relaxed drowsiness 
when suddenly he heard voices. He looked down and froze. Lord 
Celeborn, Glorfindel and Gildor were entering the glade. What should he 
do? Should he show himself, or stay hidden and wait till they left? While 
he was pondering on the problem, it was decided for him as the tree of 
them were now too close for him to escape without notice.
   
   “I really do not understand, Celeborn, how you can wear those robes 
on such a hot day!” exclaimed Gildor. 
   
   He himself was barefoot and dressed only in leggings and a gossamer 
loose shirt. He shed those few clothes at lightning speed and with a joyous 
whoop rushed into the water. Glorfindel followed suit but Celeborn sat 
down on the grass near the pool.
   
   “Aren’t you melting in all those clothes of yours?” Gildor baited him 
from the water.
   
   But Celeborn only smiled and shook his head.
   
   “I just cannot see why you and Elrond fancy this style so much. You 
only manage to hide what you should show off.”
   
   “Perhaps because my robes make me look respectable, and even 
wise,” laughed the Lord of the Wood.
   
   Gildor stared at him with something that strongly resembled pity.
   
   “You certainly do not have to be *made* to look respectable. Or wise 
either. You look maddeningly wise as it is. Celeborn the Wise, that’s you.”
   
   “And you’re Nairalindë the Unbearable,” countered Glorfindel. “Stop 
pestering our friend with your ideas of dressing. He’s loved by his people 
the way he is.”
   
   The Vanya snorted at him and started wading out of the water.
   
   “Do you think he’ll be less loved if he showed more of his shapely 
legs and less of his renowned wisdom?”
   
   “I *prefer* to be loved for my wisdom and not for my legs!” laughed 
Celeborn.
   
   “And it is really a shame!”
   
   
   While talking, Gildor got out of the river and climbed the largest 
boulder at the edge of the pool. Now he stood at its top almost 
immediately above Celeborn’s head. Haldir caught his breath, so enticing 
was the beauty offered to his eyes: hard but graceful muscles under 
smooth, golden skin; long, slender legs, shoulders framed by glorious 
shining hair. He looked like a child of Anor. A mischievous child too, as it 
turned out the next moment. 
   
   Gildor stepped off the ledge of the boulder and plopped down in to the 
water, hitting the surface with a large splash. Haldir was taken aback; he 
had not expected the Vanya to give so ungraceful a performance. 
Glorfindel seemed to share his opinion. 
   
   When Gildor burst through the surface the Elda laughed, “That was 
the ugliest dive I’ve ever seen!”
   
   “How awkward of me!” Gildor grinned and spun around  in the water 
towards the bank.
   
   “I’m awfully sorry, Celeborn!” he exclaimed in mock repentance.
   
   Glorfindel looked at their friend and saw the sloppy dive was a trick 
Gildor had used to soak him through.
   
   “Shall I get out and help you take your clothes off so they can dry?” 
Gildor offered.
   
   “No, thanks! Stay away from me!” Celeborn laughed, starting to 
undress.
   
   “Come, Celeborn!” called Glorfindel. “Let’s drown this elven bane 
and be rid of him once and for all!”
   
   “A tempting offer indeed!” answered the Lord of the Wood, wading 
into the water.
   
   Gildor saw his friends ganging up on him and backed away.
   
   “Hey, it’s not fair! Two against one!”
   
   “You’re a formidable adversary, Nairalindë.” Glorfindel gave him a 
predatory grin. “So take it as a compliment.”
   
   The Vanya was quick, and he *almost* managed to escape, but in the 
end they cornered him between the two of them. He was caught and 
dragged by hands and ankles out of the water only to be swung and hurled 
back again. It was another of Gildor’s ugly dives as Glorfindel called it. 
But the golden elf did not seem to mind.
   
    Haldir watched the romp with an open mouth. He could hardly 
believe it was his Lord that he was looking at. He had never seen him so 
lively and carefree; so flushed, laughing, beautiful. Haldir was apt to agree 
with the Vanya. Celeborn’s robes did conceal a lot. 
   
    After the revenge on Gildor was taken, the company settled in the 
shade of the oak in which Haldir was hiding and picnicked on the wine 
and fruit they had brought with them. 
   
   
   “Tell me, Celeborn, is it much fun being married to Altáriel?” asked 
Gildor mildly.
   
   Celeborn looked up in surprise. “I do not think I know what the true 
meaning of your question is, gwador,” he answered in a time.  “Nor do I 
wish to, either,” he added after another pause.
   
   “Oh, is it *that* bad? I’m sorry, I had no idea,” Gildor feigned a deep 
concern but his eyes sparkled with mirth. He reached forward and took 
Celeborn’s hand in both of his. 
   
   “Can I help in any way?” he said, managing a genuinely heartfelt tone.
   
   “No!” Celeborn laughed. “Thank you very much, but no.”
   
   “Oh, all right.”
   
    He withdrew his hands looking not in the least offended, and picked 
one of the peaches out of the basket in front of him. He turned it slowly in 
his long slender fingers admiring its subtle colour. Then he brushed it 
lightly against his cheek and lips relishing the tender touch of its velvet 
skin and bit delicately at its ripe flesh. At once juice moistened his full lips 
and ran down his hand. He licked his fingers neatly, purring softly at the 
sweet flavour on his palate and remaining seemingly oblivious to the 
profound effect his little tricks were having on his companions.
   
   Even where he was lying up in the tree Haldir could feel the powerful 
impact of the hot wave of his sexuality. His mouth turned dry and his 
breath became rapid and shallow. Celeborn was just as mesmerized by the 
provocative performance.
   
   “Are you absolutely positive you do not want my help?” murmured 
Gildor surveying him from under his long lashes. And to Haldir’s stunned 
amazement he saw his Lord blush. Celeborn laughed and turned a look of 
mock pleading on Glorfindel.
   
   “Drop it, uan dithen!” commanded Glorfindel.
   
   Gildor obeyed at once and dropped the peach, looking at him 
innocently and docilely. Glorfindel rolled his eyes.
   
   “You very well know what I’m talking about.”
   
   Gildor sighed and picked up his peach again. “You, meldir, really do 
not know how to have fun.”
   
   Glorfindel shook his head and smiled apologetically at Celeborn. 
“Now you see why I do not bring him with me on my visits to 
Lothlórien?”
   
   “Aye, you just send me flying all the way down to Mirkwood, 
instead,” Gildor replied sarcastically.
   
   Glorfindel grinned. “I really cannot help it, as you’re the only elf from 
Imladris Thranduil is always willing to receive.”
   
   “And entertain, meldir,” murmured his fair companion. “And 
entertain.” 
   
   “So then *he* knows how to have fun?”
   
   “Oh yes, he does, indeed. But it is no excuse for Elrond and you to 
trade me for Mirkwood wine.”
   
   Glorfindel tried very hard to look hurt. “How can you think so lowly 
of us? Trade you! And to Thranduil of all people!”
   
   Gildor raised an eyebrow and Glorfindel laughingly confessed, “All 
right, meldir, we do. But, mind you, only for the very best of his vintage.”
   
   The Vanya curled his lips. “That is what I call true friends.”
   
   Celeborn smiled at him, “I wish, cousin, Lórien could offer something 
for such a trade.”
   
   Gildor leaned forward to him so that Celeborn could feel his peach 
scented breath on his face. “For Lórien, gwadoren vain, I’m willing to do 
it just for love, not for money.”
   
   Celeborn felt somewhat dizzy and was grateful to be once again 
rescued by Glorfindel. The Elda pulled the golden temptation away from 
the Lord of the Wood, took him into his own arms and firmly kept him 
there.
   
   “You’re most shamefully shameless, pen-velui.”
   
   “Am I?” 
   
   Gildor wriggled in Glorfindel’s embrace making himself comfortable 
against the Elda’s broad chest. Glorfindel winced as the little disaster of an 
elf rubbed his firm buttocks against his groin. 
   
   “Well, maybe I am. But being all the time shy and pure is no…”
   
   “…fun!” both Celeborn and Glorfindel finished together, laughing.
   
   “You’re quick students,” Gildor nodded in approval. 
   
   They talked and bantered for some time longer. Then, their wine 
finished and Celeborn’s robes dried, they got dressed and left.
   
   
   Haldir relaxed on his branch once again and contemplated on what he 
had seen. He was confused and intrigued. Was Gildor’s flirtation with 
Lord Celeborn the reason for or only a consequence of the enmity between 
Lady Galadriel and her cousin? Somehow, this flirtation did not look like 
the real thing to Haldir. In more ways it resembled a game, played over the 
centuries. A game enjoyed by both of them, where the rules were equally 
familiar to both participants.
   
    
   Gildor... Haldir sighed and closed his eyes. He felt overwhelmed with 
a mad desire to take, to engulf, to possess; the power of that sensation 
frightened him. He wanted the elf more than he had ever wanted anyone 
else in his life. But he could not start his own game. He, the notorious 
beauty of Lórien, the irresistible seducer, simply did not know where to 
start. He had strong doubts that Gildor, if asked, would even remember his 
name. The fair Vanya certainly paid no more attention to him than to any 
other elf around the Lord and the Lady.
    
   He hardly noticed him any more than he did decorations or furniture in 
the Lord’s halls, Haldir thought with self-irony. He was not used to being 
ignored. He was infuriated and amused at the same time. He felt at a loss. 
And he did not enjoy the feeling.
   
   The next evening there was a feast at the royal talan.
   
   Uan dithen – little monster
   Gwadoren vain – my beautiful cousin
   Pen-velui - lovely one
   
   
                                                       Chapter 3.  Nightingales Match.
   
   
   “Well, if it’s not the peacock of Lórien!”
   
   Haldir turned and met Amarion’s laughing eyes. Haldir and his 
brothers were ascending the long stairway to the assembly hall. Amarion 
caught up with them and walked alongside his friend.
   
   “I see you’re wearing your hunting attire,” he smirked, looking the 
Marchwarden up and down.
   
   Haldir was dressed in a tunic, one so admired by Rúmil. It was dark 
blue with an embroidered pattern of silver mallorn leaves and small 
mother-of-pearl niphredils. Through the slits on the sleeves and at the 
sides flashed the shimmering silver of the under shirt. Leggings of indigo 
suede clung to his long legs showing off every well-toned muscle. The 
colour of his clothes complimented his pale complexion and highlighted 
the midnight blue hue of his eyes. Mithril hair ornaments were clipped 
into his elaborately done braids but two silvery-blond locks were left just 
in front of his ears to accentuate the shape of his face and his high 
cheekbones. He truly presented a stunning sight.
   
   
   Amarion gave a long whistle of appreciation. “My, my! You look 
impressive, Hunt Master; but it’s hardly sufficient.”
   
   “Sufficient for what?”
   
   “For bagging your game.”
   
   “You are just afraid that I can best you,” Haldir said smugly.
   
   “I wish you all the luck. Even with all the charm you can muster, this 
quarry will not let you take him.”
   
   “Oh, spare me your prophecies, I beg you!”
   
   “It’s no prophecy. I simply happen to be clever and have the ability to 
see things the others cannot, or do not want to see.”
   
   Haldir just rolled his eyes and did not bother to answer.
   
    “So good luck to you, meldir,” Amarion went on earnestly, putting 
his hand on Haldir’s shoulder. “I promise to sing a most touching lament 
at your funeral. I only wish I could be there to witness it all, but 
unfortunately, I am to leave for the border tomorrow.”
   
   “Then perhaps, I’ll tell you later how I got my prize. In detail. In each 
small and sweet detail,” Haldir smirked.
   
   “Dead elves tell no tales,” Amarion’s smirk matched Haldir’s.
   
   “Oh, was *your* hunting experience that bad, meldir?” Haldir asked 
sweetly.
   
   “Bad enough, for me to share it with my best fellow-hunter,” the elf 
smiled amiably.
   
   “A true friend you are, Amarion.”
   
   “And a noble rival, too.”
   
   
   Bantering, they entered the assembly hall.
   
   “Sweet Elbereth,” murmured Haldir, “do you think he does it on 
purpose or it just happens naturally?”
   
   “Whatever the reason, he is not likely to get lost in any crowd.”
   
   Both of them were looking at Gildor. And indeed, his striking figure 
stood out against the multi-coloured crowd. He was clad in Noldorin 
black. Buttery soft leather leggings molded to his slender legs like a 
second skin. His sleeveless tunic of fine silk hugged his lithe body leaving 
very little to the imagination. It was decorated only with embroidery of his 
family’s coat of arms: the Vanyarin two trees and the Noldorin stars. Wide 
bands of silver armlets braced his bare biceps as silver bracelets did his 
wrists. The jewelries were apparently ancient and of amazing 
craftsmanship. Haldir wondered if he had brought them from Valinor. But 
then, he reasoned, one did not usually put on adornments when going to 
war. At least, not adornments of that sort. 
   
   Gildor’s head was crowned with a wreath of elanor. In his black attire 
and with his unbraided golden hair he looked like a torch, erect and bright.
   
   Haldir searched the hall with his eyes and spotted the Lady of the 
Wood. Galadriel looked serene and calm, as always. But her smile seemed 
to Haldir a little strained. Celeborn was at her side, as well as Glorfindel. 
Though Gildor was left to mingle on his own, the Marchwarden saw the 
Elda watch his friend from where he stood. Haldir’s eyes returned to 
Gildor.
   
   “So, he is the Prince today,” Haldir said, eyeing the crown of elanor 
on his head.
   
   “A clever guess, my friend,” Amarion smiled at him archly.
   
   But Haldir paid no heed to his quip.
   
   “Who gave him the crown?”
   
   “The Lady.”
   
   “Oh!” Haldir was genuinely surprised to hear it.
   
   “Well, the party was held the next day after they had come. And in 
their honour, too. So it was either him or Glorfindel, and as he is not seen 
here as often as Glorfindel… It was only natural, I believe.”
   
   “Oh, yes, natural and very diplomatic,” Haldir looked thoughtful. 
“And now he is to choose the next prince.”
   
   Amarion gave him a mocking glance. “Do you hope to be chosen?”
   
   Haldir shrugged. “Why should I? We hardly know each other.”
   
   His friend pursed his lips. “Don’t try to act modest. It does not 
become you. And you do not know how to do it right, anyway.”
   
   
   Haldir talked, flirted and danced through the evening, though never 
letting Gildor out of sight for long. The Vanya seemed to enjoy himself, 
joking with male elves, flattering the ladies of the court and occasionally 
making eyes at Celeborn. He was doing everything with the easy grace of 
one born and raised in a royal family. But he was not too willing to dance, 
as Haldir noticed. Actually, after three or four dances Gildor deftly 
escaped the ring of eager candidates and headed for the tables where 
refreshments and drinks were served. 
   
   Haldir, who was waiting there for his glass to be refilled, watched him 
come. The Vanya asked for a goblet of Naurdirith. 
   
   “You do not enjoy dancing?” Haldir murmured.
   
   Gildor turned to look at him.
   
   “Gildor of Imladris,” the Galadhel greeted him with a bow.
   
   “Haldir of Lórien,” the Vanya bowed back.
   
   “Oh, so you do remember my name?” 
   
   “You thought I wouldn’t?”
   
   “I wasn’t sure.” Haldir brought his glass to his lips.
   
   “I do not easily forget such a pretty face as yours.”

Haldir choked on his wine. Wait a minute, that was supposed to be 
*his* line!
   
   Gildor smiled at him sympathetically. “Be careful with the wine, pen-
neth. It’s one of the most potent of Thranduil’s vintage.”
   
   And then the Vanya gracefully threaded his way through the crowd to 
Glorfindel and Celeborn. 
   
   
   When Gildor joined them the Lord of the Wood asked for everyone’s 
attention and announced that it was time to choose a new Prince or a 
Princess of the ball.
   
   “Now, Gildor,” he addressed the Vanya standing next to him, “choose 
the person who appeals to you most. And give us a new Prince or a 
Princess for tonight.”
   
   There were murmurs and laughter among the elves, gathered in a 
semicircle around their Lord and the current Prince. Haldir could feel the 
unmistakable air of excitement and expectation among the Geledhil who 
never failed to enjoy this game.
   
    Gildor measured the crowd with laughing eyes. His amused gaze 
slowly moved from face to face as he sipped at his wine, and then a half-
smile curved his lips. Haldir held his breath as Gildor looked him up and 
down appraisingly.
   
   “Don not forget, gwador,” came Celeborn’s merry voice, “along with 
your crown you are to give a kiss.”
   
   “What?” Gildor turned abruptly to face Galadriel. “Is it true? *You* 
did not kiss me!” he accused her mockingly.
   
   “But I did not make any choice. In fact, it was your welcome feast, 
cousin, so it was only just for you to become the Prince,” the Lady 
explained sweetly, but there was an acid tint in her voice.
   
   “Are you insinuating that I got the crown not for this heavenly beauty 
of mine but only because I happened to be your kin? How frustrating!” 
Gildor rolled his eyes dramatically. “But still, the Prince I am. And if I’m 
to pass the crown on with a kiss, then it goes to… you, Celeborn.” He 
beamed at the Lord of the Wood. 
   
   His words were met with cheering and applause from the Geledhil. 
And Haldir had to strain his ears to be able to catch what the Vanya said 
next.
   
   “After all, I always wanted to learn how it feels to kiss my cousin’s 
love-ma...er… life-mate,” murmured Gildor.
   
   Then he handed his glass to Glorfindel, took the elanor wreath off of 
his head and put it on Celeborn’s. His hands slowly slid down, caressing 
the Sinda’s silvery hair. Then one of them found its way under the silky 
tresses and to the back of Celeborn’s neck, while the other slipped further 
down to lie on the Lord’s chest against his heart. Gildor edged even nearer 
pulling Celeborn’s face closer, so that their lips almost touched. And then, 
stunned, Haldir actually saw the tip of his pink tongue lick Celeborn’s 
bottom lip sensually before sliding into the Sinda’s mouth. The Lord’s 
arms flew up instinctively to wrap around the Vanya’s shoulders. Gildor 
tilted his head drawing the Lord of the Wood into an even deeper kiss, his 
fingers now entwined in Celeborn’s blond hair. 
   
   There was dead silence in the hall, all the Geledhil watching the 
kissing pair with wide eyes. Haldir was sure he could hear his own heart 
pounding in his chest. Then, all of a sudden, Celeborn seemed to come to 
his senses and pulled away from Gildor, his lips dark red and kiss-swollen. 
   
   “It tastes like honey,” murmured the Vanya so softly that Haldir had 
to make an earnest effort to catch the words. “To kiss you tastes like 
honey.”
   
   “Ion orch,” Glorfindel muttered under his breath, though Haldir was 
not sure he heard him correctly.
   
   Gildor looked at his friend and Galadriel with big innocent eyes.
   
   “I did have the right to kiss the new Prince, didn’t I?”
   
   “As I now have the right to ask a favour from the former Prince,” 
Celeborn was quick to intervene and change the subject.
   
   Gildor turned to smile at him. “What would you have me do, my Lord, 
my Prince?”
   
   “Will you sing for us, Gildor?”
   
   “I cannot possibly refuse you anything, my Prince.”
   
   There was a general bustle in the hall as the Geledhil moved to take a 
seat on the benches, settees and cushions strewn along the walls, everyone 
still feeling somewhat unsettled by what they had witnessed and, 
therefore, glad to ease the tension. Besides, there was an air of joyful 
anticipation, as elves delighted in music and song. And Lórien elves were 
no exception. Glorfindel took a seat on a bench to the right of the Lord’s 
and the Lady’s chairs. Gildor sat cross-legged on a cushion at his feet.
   
   “What shall I sing?” he asked, tentatively plucking the strings of the 
lute he’d been given. “Maybe, this…”
   
   The tune he started to play sounded vaguely familiar to Haldir, but the 
next moment the instrument was snatched away from Gildor’s hands.
   
   “Not this one!” Glorfindel hissed at him.
   
   The Lórien elves were taken aback by the unruly display of emotions, 
so uncharacteristic of Glorfindel. And considering their own Lord’s 
unexpectedly passionate performance earlier, it indeed made the Geledhil 
suspect that it was all Gildor’s doing. That there was something about this 
unusual cousin of the Lady’s that made even the most sensible and sober 
elves behave like... well, not like themselves.
   
   “Why not?” Gildor asked Glorfindel in innocent surprise. “The song is 
good and it does you credit.”
   
   “Not this one,” the Elda repeated, dispassionately.
   
   “Who would have thought that you could be so modest,” the Vanya 
sighed. “All right, my shy friend, then *you* tell me what to sing.”
   
   Glorfindel did not take time to ponder on it.
   
   “The one Legolas taught you.”
   
   “Ah, *Laiqualassë*, Mirkwood’s tinuviel,” Gildor smiled dreamily. 
   
   Haldir had never met the younger prince of Mirkwood but felt he was 
starting to hate him.
   
   “Good. Legolas’s song, then. Will you accompany me?”
   
   Glorfindel nodded and started playing a sweet, sad melody. All grew 
quiet. And then Gildor closed his eyes and began singing, his voice soft 
and fluent.
   
   
   “If you go away on this summer day
   then you might as well take the sun away;
   all the birds that flew in the summer sky,
   when you were with me and our hearts were high.
   When the day was young and the night was long,
   And the moon stood still for the nightbird’s song.
   If you go away, if you go away, if you go away.”
   
   
   Then he opened his eyes and sang the next stanza looking Glorfindel 
straight in the eyes, his voice clear and resonant in contrast to his former 
velvety tones.
   
   
   “But if you stay, I’ll make you a day,
   like no day has been, or will be again;
   we’ll sail the sun, we’ll ride on the rain,
   we’ll talk to the trees and worship the wind.
   Then if you go, I’ll understand,
   Leave me just enough love to fill up my hand.
   If you go away, if you go away, if you go away.”
   
   
   Glorfindel watched Gildor sing, trying desperately to figure out what 
was wrong; why, unexpectedly, his friend was looking so alien and yet so 
familiar at the same time. But then, suddenly, the reason dawned on him, 
and his fingers almost faltered on the strings of his lute. Gildor was in fact 
not just *singing* Legolas’ song; he was *acting* as Legolas singing it. 
Those were the prince’s gentle intonations; the way Gildor smiled or 
sighed while singing, the expression on his face, the way he lowered his 
eyes or tilted his head – all that was a very accurate imitation of the prince 
in his performance. Glorfindel could almost see Legolas sitting at his feet 
instead of Gildor.
   
   
   “If you go away, as I know you will,
   you must tell the world to stop turning till
   you return again, if you ever do,
   for what good is love without loving you.
   Can I tell you now, as you turn to go,
   I’ll be dying slowly till the next hello.
   If you go away, if you go away, if you go away.”
   
   
   Haldir was enthralled by the performance. He grudgingly had to admit 
that Legolas *was* good at composing. The music touched the very core 
of one’s soul and the lyrics were heartfelt. Haldir wondered if the song had 
been meant for Gildor. It surely caused a strange effect on the Vanya. He 
seemed somewhat a different person, as if someone else were looking now 
at Glorfindel through his eyes.
   
   
   “But if you stay, I’ll make you a night,
   like no night has been, or will be again;
   I’ll sail on your smile; I’ll ride on your touch,
   I’ll talk to your eyes that I love so much.
   But if you go, go, I won’t cry,
   Though the good is gone, from the word ‘good bye’.
   If you go away, if you go away,
   Please don’t go away.”
   
   
   The song finished. Haldir could swear he saw tears in the Vanya’s 
eyes, but then Gildor blinked and was again his former derisive self, with 
an amused half-smile on his lips.
   
   There was a moment of silence in the hall and then there came a loud 
applause and exclamations of praise and delight. Gildor gave a mock bow 
to Celeborn and brushed the compliments away, carelessly.
   
   “You should hear Legolas sing, then you’ll know the difference.”
   
   “Who would have thought that *you* could be so modest,” Glorfindel 
mockingly repeated Gildor’s own words.
   
   “Do sing more for us,” urged Celeborn.
   
   But the Vanya declined the offer, laughingly.
   
   “Oh, no, gwador! I think it’s Lórien’s turn now. Surely, she has 
singers to match those of Mirkwood. Or of Imladris.”
   
   “Well, my Lady,” Celeborn turned to his wife with a smile, “it seems 
we’ll have to meet the challenge. Whom would you name a defender of 
Lórien’s honour?”
   
   Galadriel surveyed the smiling and whispering Geledhil.
   
   “Haldir, would you be Lórien’s champion?” she asked then in her 
melodious voice.
   
   Haldir, who had been lost in his own thoughts and totally missed the 
whole conversation, was brought out of his reverie by a jab in the ribs 
from Amarion. “What?”
   
   “Will you sing for us?” Celeborn rephrased Galadriel’s question.
   
   “I?” Haldir looked at him, baffled.
   
   “A Lórien nightingale for a Mirkwood one, how sweet,” murmured 
Gildor.
   
   Haldir was embarrassed; singing was the last thing he felt like doing at 
the moment.
   
   “Yes,” Galadriel went on smiling serenely, “sing us *Bonding*.”
   
   “*Bonding*?” At that, he thought he saw a way out and was quick to 
attempt it. “But, my Lady, I cannot possibly sing that. It’s a duet.”
   
   “Oh, I think that can be easily arranged,” smiled Celeborn. “I’m sure 
Gildor knows the song so you can perform together.”
   
   Gildor seemed no less surprised than Haldir. But then, seeing 
Galadriel’s face he chuckled.
   
   “Well, Marchwarden, if your Lord and Lady want us to perform 
*Bonding* together, we’d better resign ourselves to it, I’m afraid. So, 
come here,” he patted a cushion near himself. “It would be awkward to 
sing a duet across the hall.”
   
   ‘Well,’ Haldir gave a mental shrug, ‘why not, after all?’
   
   He gracefully rose to his feet and walked to sit down cross-legged 
next to Gildor. Lórien musicians joined them, one taking the lute from 
Glorfindel, the others producing flutes and harps.
   
   “Who will start?” Gildor asked Haldir.
   
   “You are a guest here, so it’s up to you.”
   
   “You have impeccable manners, Marchwarden. But I haven’t heard 
you sing. So for you it’s easier to choose, I assume.”
   
   Haldir inclined his head, admitting the logic in Gildor’s remark.
   
   “Then, I’d rather take the second part.”
   
   “Good.”
   
   And the Vanya nodded to the musicians to start. The moment they 
began playing Gildor swiftly changed his manner again. Haldir was 
grateful he was not the first to sing. He was stunned by what he saw in 
Gildor’s face. There was love there, genuine love. For him. Gildor was 
looking at him with shining, happy eyes and when he started singing his 
voice was filled with tenderness and affection.
   
   
“My dreams and hopes I bring here to you, like diamonds on a string 
all for you. 
Just promise anything, anything I'll believe it's true.” 


   Haldir joined in, his timbre deep and sensual. 
   
    
”Your heart says it’s time for us two, your eyes look into mine and I'm 
through. 
Not all the stars that shine will outdo, the diamonds they're in you.” 
 
”The one I've come to love, this handsome cavalier. 
Won't know how I can love, until I hold him near.” 
 
”You say that I don't know, but when you look at me. 
Your eyes have such a glow; I know how it will be.”
   
   
The refrain they sang together, their voices uniting in perfect harmony, 
as if entwining and caressing each other. 

 
”So look no more for love, love is you. 
Love’s all I am made of, Oh so true. 
The sun will shine above on our love the day I’m bound to you.”
   
   
Their eyes locked, Haldir leaned forward and took Gildor’s hand in 
his. 

 
”I'll find you in the night, when all the moonlight streams 
Will cover you in light, and I will touch my dreams.” 
 
”And all the words you'll say will fill my heart with fire. 
As night turns into day, I'll do all you desire.”
   
   
   Haldir felt his blood turn to fire at the promise he saw in Gildor’s eyes. 
He knew the Vanya was just acting out passion but, still, he couldn’t help 
his body’s reaction. 

   
”So look no more for love, love is you. 
Love’s all I am made of, Oh so true. 
The sun will shine above on our love the day I’m bound to you. 
The day I’m bound to you.”
   
   
   Haldir could not help it, he brought Gildor’s hand to his lips and 
kissed his palm. For a split second he thought he saw the Vanya’s eyes 
widen. But the next moment the astonishment was gone and Haldir was 
not sure it had not just been his imagination. 
   They were still looking at each other as the last accords of the music 
died. Then there came even more enthusiastic applauding and heartfelt 
praise. The dark veil of desire disappeared from Gildor’s eyes and once 
again they were clear and cool. He pulled his hand away from Haldir’s and 
turned to Galadriel.
   
   “Your choice was good, cousin. I can see now that Lórien’s 
nightingales sing just as sweetly as Mirkwood’s. Perhaps, I should come 
and listen to them more often.”
   
   Then he looked at Haldir and smiled.
   
   “If you’re as good a warden of the march as you are a singer then I 
can sleep safely, when in Lórien.”
   
    Haldir wondered if he should consider it as a compliment or a 
sarcastic insult.
   
   At a jesture from Celeborn musicians began playing again and dancers 
drifted back onto the floor.
   
   Gildor turned to the place where he had put his glass of wine earlier. 
The glass was empty. He looked up at Glorfindel in mild annoyance. 
   
   “Glorfindel, that was *my* Naurdirith!”
   
   “Oh, was it?” the Elda seemed genuinely surprised. “Are you sure?”
   
   “Yes! And you know it!”
   
   “All right, all right, there’s no need to get so upset about it. I’ll go and 
fetch you another one.”
   
   When Glorfindel left to refill his goblet, the Vanya turned to Haldir 
who was still sitting beside him. 
   
   “You’re good at duets. It seems you’re quite experienced in that 
arena.”
   
   “May I return the compliment?” Haldir smiled. “And if you enjoyed 
the experience we can do it again, any time you wish.”
   
   “Oh.” Gildor looked at him appraisingly. “I’m afraid, your Lady will 
not approve of any activities of mine, involving her subjects.”
   
   “Well, I do not think she’ll approve of any activities you do,” Haldir 
answered quite bluntly.
   
   Gildor chuckled. “So, you’ve noticed, haven’t you?”
   
   “Whatever you may think, I know of some other ways to use my eyes 
than to make them at beautiful strangers.”
   
   The Vanya widened his eyes in mock disbelief.
   
   “Pretty, experienced, ironic. And no fool. What else are you, 
Marchwarden?”
   
   “Why don’t you just try and find out?”
   
   “Why don’t I, really?”
   
   Haldir’s heart missed a beat, as Gildor seemed to ponder on the offer. 
Then the Vanya sighed and shook his head.
   
   “Tempting! But… I think I’m more used to performing duets with a 
Mirkwood partner than with a Lórien one.” 
   
   Haldir tried to make light of it though he felt bitterly disappointed.
   
   “Well, maybe some other time.”
   
   
   Not waiting for Glorfindel to return, Haldir took his leave of Gildor 
and walked away. He stayed in the royal talan for some more time, 
seemingly enjoying the evening. But then he left, taking with him 
Theladir, a Galadhel who had been looking at him invitingly during the 
whole party.  A tryst with the comely youth let him blow off steam, but 
Haldir had to muster all his concentration not to call him Gildor at the 
moment of his climax.
               
   Ion orch – son of an orc
   Tinúviel – nightingale
   Naurdirith –Flowing fire
   
   A/N: The song “If you go away” is an English version of Jacques 
Brel’s “Ne me quitte pas”. “Bonding” is another translation from French. 
This is a duet from “Notre Dame de Paris” called “Ces Diamants-La”. I 
admit though that I allowed myself some tampering with the text of the 
original to suit my purpose. ^_^
   
   
                                                             Chapter 4.  Unattainable.
   
   
   The evening was cool; there were even occasional wafts of a 
refreshing breeze. After a suffocatingly hot day it was a welcome change. 
Haldir was wandering aimlessly through the moonlit city of Caras 
Galadhon, not paying any attention where his feet were taking him. So, 
when he was brought out of his thoughts by a voice calling his name, he 
was surprised to find himself near the glade of Lady Galadriel’s mirror. 
The Lady had just ascended the stairs, leading from it, and was coming in 
his direction. Haldir greeted her, bowing his head respectfully.
   
   “How do you fare on this beautiful evening, young one?” she smiled 
at him.
   
   “Very well, thank you, my Lady.”
   
   She gazed at him in her serene manner and he shifted uneasily, fearing 
his thoughts were only too plain for her to read. But if they really were, 
she did not comment on them. 
   
   Instead, she sighed softly and asked, “Could you do me a favour, 
Marchwarden?”
   
   Relieved, Haldir bowed again. “Of course, my Lady.”
   
   “Go and find Lord Glorfindel. Tell him I wish to speak with him. 
Bring him to my private chambers, please.”
   
   “I’ll do it, my Lady.”
   
   She smiled. “I hope my request does not interfere with your plans for 
the evening?”
   
   “Not at all, my Lady,” Haldir smiled back and took his leave of her.
   
   She followed him with her eyes, thoughtfully turning a ring on her 
finger.
   
   
   The most logical place to start looking for Glorfindel was the guest 
talan he shared with Gildor. So Haldir started for the mallorn next to the 
one that held the royal chambers, climbed the stairs up to the highest 
levels and walked to the door of the guest chamber. But when he was 
about to knock he stopped dead, stunned by what he heard from behind the 
door.
   
   “Curse you, Nairalindë! It hurts!”
   
   “It’s because you’re too tense.”
   
   “It’s because you’re too rough! Don’t press so hard! And use more 
oil!”
   
   “If you relax it won’t be so painful.”
   
   “How can I relax if…”
   
   “Damn it, Glorfindel! Do you want me to do it or not?”
   
   A muffled sound. 
   
   “Relax then!”
   
   A sigh.
   
   “That’s better.”
   
    A soft cry.
   
   “You’re getting old and rusty, Mallos.  We should do it to you more 
often.”
   
   A low moan of pleasure. Some rustling.
   
   “*Now* what’s wrong?”
   
   “Shift a bit. I’m not comfortable like this.”
   
   “You’re so difficult today, Glorfindel!”
   
   “No, I’m not! It’s…”
   
   “Oh, shut up for a while, could you? Let me concentrate on what I’m 
doing.”
   
   A gasp. Another long throaty moan.
   
   “E-eru… Nairalindë…Ahh…You’re… You’re so…”
   
   A low amused chuckle.
   
   “I know… I love you too…”
   
   “Now what?” thought Haldir, blood pounding loudly in his ears.
   
   He felt stunned, aroused and hurt. Should he knock? Or should he wait 
till… ‘Till what?’ Haldir snarled at himself. What a sight he would make, 
listening at the door, if someone came across him here.
   
   “Feeling better now?”
   
   “Yes… Mo-ore…”
   
   Haldir drew a deep breath and knocked.
   
   “Enter!” came Gildor’s immediate and cheerful response.
   
   Haldir was taken aback. He was prepared to be cursed at, to be talked 
to through the door or even to be completely ignored. But to be actually 
asked to come in? He set his jaw and entered the room.
   
   Glorfindel was lying prone on the rug. Gildor was straddling his hips 
and… expertly massaging his back. Haldir almost laughed with relief but 
collected himself in time.
   
   Gildor was bare to his waist, as well as Glorfindel, and Haldir could 
see taut muscles, working under the silky skin. Some tresses of his unruly 
hair fell into his face and he brushed them away with the back of his palm, 
leaving an oily smear on his cheek.
   
   “Yes, Marchwarden, what can we do for you?” he inquired, shooting 
Haldir an amused glance.
   
   Haldir looked at the Eldar in an imperturbable manner.
   
   “I have a message for Lord Glorfindel from Lady Galadriel.”
   
   Glorfindel tried to rise but Gildor pushed him down with strong hands.
   
   “Keep still! I must finish it. And you do not have to stand to be able to 
listen. Unless the message is private and is meant only for your ears.” He 
arched an eyebrow at Haldir.
   
   “It is not,” the Galadhel answered dispassionately.
   
   “See?” the Vanya smiled, never stopping his ministrations.
   
   Glorfindel sighed and looked up from the floor at Haldir.
   
   “Please, Marchwarden, speak.”
   
   Haldir hid a smile. Obviously, it was easier to let Gildor have his way 
than to argue with him.
   
   “Lady Galadriel wishes to speak with Lord Glorfindel and asks him to 
come to her private chambers.”
   
   “What! A tryst?” Gildor sneered at the elf beneath him. “You 
philanderer, does Celeborn know?”
   
   Haldir stiffened at the offensive insinuation. The next moment 
Glorfindel bucked up, almost throwing the Vanya off. Before Gildor 
regained his balance the Elda rolled over swiftly and sat up, so that when 
the golden-haired elf landed back on Glorfindel’s legs, they were facing 
each other. Glorfindel grabbed a handful of his hair and gave it a forceful 
tug. Gildor cried out with pain.
   
   “Why? What have I done?”
   
   The Elda, still holding his hair in a tight grip, yanked his head back.
   
   “You’re insulting the Lady. And in front of her subject, too.”
   
   Gildor winced and tilted his head to one side, so that he could dart a 
glance at Haldir. After a moment of hesitation and one more tug on his 
hair he licked his lips.
   
   “All right, Hîren. If you let go, I’ll apologize.”
   
   Haldir watched them wide-eyed. He was stunned by the eroticism of 
what he was witnessing. The intimacy of their pose, Glorfindel’s confident 
dominance, Gildor’s unwilling submission… He let out a breath he was 
not even aware he had been holding… and caught Glorfindel’s knowing 
smile.
   
   The Elda still kept Gildor’s head tilted back, opening the other’s proud 
jaw-line and a graceful neck, ending in pronounced collarbones to Haldir’s 
eyes. Gildor’s hair fell in soft waves over Glorfindel’s arm. His eyes were 
half-closed and he was biting his full bottom lip. Watching the guardian’s 
face, the Elda raised his left hand and slowly ran his fingers from Gildor’s 
chin down along his throat, then dragged them further down his chest to 
the waistband of his leggings, marring the satin skin with long pink lines 
and eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the golden-haired beauty. 
Haldir knew he was giving himself away but he could not help following 
the Elda’s hand with his eyes. When Glorfindel touched the soft suede on 
the Vanya’s abdomen Gildor hissed at him in Quenya. Haldir quickly 
looked away. Glorfindel laughed and let go of Gildor’s hair. In one fluid 
motion the golden elf was on his feet and turned to face the Galadhel. 
Glorfindel rose as well and stood next to his friend, twining one of the 
Vanya’s fair curls round his finger.
   
   “My apologies, Marchwarden,” said Gildor, his voice the cool 
sonority of a mountain spring. “I did not want to insult you.”
   
   Glorfindel slightly pulled the lock he was holding. Gildor pursed up 
his lips.
   
   “Nor your Lady, either.” 
   
   Haldir knew it was the best apology he was likely to get, so he nodded 
tersely and said addressing Glorfindel, “I’ll be waiting outside to take you 
to Lady Galadriel’s chambers.”
   
   And he left the room.
   
   “Enjoyed your little performance?” Gildor turned to his friend. “Well, 
*now* can I learn the purpose of it?”
   
   Glorfindel chuckled. “He’s growing too fond of you.”
   
   “Fond? You call it fond? Indeed, you’re very modest in your 
assessment of him. I could feel his desire envelop me like a thick blanket.”
   
   “Then you’ll be able to understand my motives. I thought it kind to 
make him see that you’re not to be had. So that he would not spend 
sleepless nights, dreaming of the temptations of your body.”
   
   “Ah, meldir,” sighed Gildor, “how little you understand the ways of 
temptations. I’m afraid your display of my amenities will cause quite the 
opposite effect.” He narrowed his eyes. “And don’t you dare pull on my 
hair like that again!”
   
   Glorfindel laughed.
   
   “And you’ve scratched me!” the Vanya added, accusingly. “I do not 
appreciate rough treatment.”
   
   “Oh yes, you do.”
   
   “I do not!”
   
   “Well, at least you used to.”
   
   Gildor’s eyes flashed, but before he could voice a retort there was a 
knock at their door. The Vanya raised his eyebrows.
   
    “Is he back?”
   
   “Come in!” called Glorfindel.
   
   This time it was not Haldir, though. It was Narmacil.
   
   “We are going with the friends to have a drink in the town. Would you 
care to join us?” he asked after a greeting.
   
   “Glorfindel has an appointment tonight,” Gildor informed him 
cheerfully. “But I’ll gladly join you if you give me a moment to dress.”
   
   “Great!” Narmacil was pleased. “We’ll meet you at the bottom of your 
mallorn, then.”
   
   “I’ll be down shortly.”
   
   The Noldo was about to leave but then remembered something.
   
   “By the way, there’s a Galadhel waiting out there. A pretty one.” He 
winked at Gildor.
   
   But the Vanya waved it away. “Don’t look at *me*. He’s Glorfindel’s 
escort.”
   
   “Oh? All right. I just thought you should know.”
   
   
   Haldir was leaning on the railing of the open platform near the top of 
the staircase. He was looking down at the forest thoughtfully as he waited 
for Glorfindel to come out. He saw a company of Noldor at the base of the 
mallorn tree. They were rather boisterous and not as reserved as was their 
habit. Going to spend an evening out, Haldir decided. Must be waiting for 
Narmacil, and for Gildor, perhaps.
   
   Gildor… Haldir closed his eyes and again saw the fair elf as 
Glorfindel had shown him to Haldir: though still defiant but subdued for 
the time being, helplessly open to a look and to a touch, bent to the Elda’s 
will. Haldir understood Glorfindel’s message. Quite pointedly, it read 
*mine*. The Marchwarden knew he was trespassing but he just could not 
help it. He was drawn to Gildor, forcefully, inexorably, inevitably. He did 
not know where this feeling had come from; at what point his casual fit of 
lust turned into a burning, unquenchable desire. Now he could not fight it; 
it was stronger than he. He wanted the elf. He needed him. Again, he 
imagined Gildor’s upturned face, his exposed throat. He swallowed hard. 
He longed to touch him, to bite and suck his supple skin to mark him as 
his own. To claim him…
   
   Haldir started at the sound of a door being opened. Narmacil walked 
out. Alone. Humming to himself he strode past the Galadhel, giving him a 
friendly nod. He did not bother to climb down the long stairs; he just 
grabbed a support cable and slid to the ground. ‘Gracefully enough. For a 
Noldo’, Haldir smirked.
    
   He saw Narmacil join his companions but still, they did not leave. So 
Gildor *was* going to join them. Haldir turned to watch the door. Soon 
enough, it opened again. This time, indeed, it was the Vanya. He was 
dressed in a simple dark green tunic and gray leggings but even in his 
plain clothes he did not appear any less desirable for the Marchwarden. 
Gildor looked at him and smiled.
   
   “I’m sorry you have to wait but Glorfindel is making himself… fit for 
your Lady. I believe he’ll be ready, eventually.”
   
   And he headed for the stairs. When he neared Haldir, a mischievous 
thought formed in the Galadhel’s mind.
   
   “There’s a shorter way,” he said.
   
   “What?” Gildor looked at him, puzzled.
   
   “Shall I give you a ride?” Haldir smiled at him seductively.
   
   “*A ride*?” The Vanya’s eyes widened in disbelief.
   
   The next moment the Lórien elf’s arm snaked around his waist and he 
was jerked forcefully against the guardian’s broad chest. With his other 
hand Haldir grabbed the same support cable that Narmacil had used, and 
deftly stepped over the edge of the platform, bringing Gildor along with 
him. The Vanya gave out a loud gasp and his arms flew up to clutch 
Haldir’s shoulders. Unconsciously, he clung to the solidity of the 
Galadhel’s body and Haldir revelled in the sensation. Their hair got caught 
in the wind and intertwined, caressing their faces. Haldir breathed in 
Gildor’s scent of fresh dew and apple blossom, and his grip around the 
other’s waist tightened of its own accord.
   
   Too soon for Haldir’s liking their feet touched the ground. But they 
did not break their tight embrace for a few moments longer, Gildor’s arms 
around Haldir’s neck, Haldir’s leg between Gildor’s thighs.
   
   “So, this is what you call a ride in Lórien?” 
   
   The Galadhel felt a warm sigh on his lips.
   
   “And what do you call a ride in Imladris?” he whispered back, a waft 
of his breath stirring a stray lock of golden hair across Gildor’s brow.
   
   The Vanya looked at him thoughtfully, as if contemplating the idea of 
a demonstration. But then he took his hands off of Haldir’s shoulders and 
took a step back. Reluctantly, the Marchwarden let him go. Gildor shot a 
glance at the top of the mallorn and grinned.
   
   “Perhaps, you should ask Glorfindel. I’m sure he’ll be able to explain 
the difference to you. Good night, Marchwarden.”
   
    And he sauntered away to join the waiting company of the Noldor. 
   
   
   Mallos – golden flower
   Hîren – my lord
   
   
                                                                    Chapter 5.  Merrymaking.
   
   
   “Alfirin, more wine, please!” Orophin called to the barmaid.
   
   “In a moment, Phin,” she replied.
   
   “*Phin*?” Rúmil arched an eyebrow. “Is there anything I do not 
know?”
   
   “No, there isn’t.”
   
   “But she called you ‘Phin’.”
   
   “I heard it.”
   
   “So…?”
   
   “None of your business.”
   
   Rúmil feigned offense. “But I’m your brother! I have a right to know.”
   
   Orophin sighed. “If you’re so keen on prying into your brothers’ 
affairs why don’t you go and satisfy your curiosity at Haldir’s expense, for 
a change?” 
   
   “Ha! To do that would be nothing short of a suicide. A caring elder 
brother you are to give me such advice!”
   
   “Speaking about Haldir,” said Amarion who had been laughingly 
listening to the brothers’ bantering, “where is our valiant Marchwarden?”
   
   “Star-gazing somewhere, I think,” answered Orophin with a hint of 
anxiety in his voice.
   
   “Uh huh, somewhere in the vicinity of the guest talan, I bet,” smirked 
Rúmil. “Instead of having a drink with his brothers. As used to be his 
habit.”
   
   “Well, the worse for him, it seems,” murmured Amarion as the door 
swung open and a noisy company of laughing and talking elves burst 
inside.
   
   Rúmil, who was sitting with his back to the door, looked over his 
shoulder and then understood the meaning of Amarion’s remark. For, the 
first whom he recognized was none other than Gildor. The rest turned out 
to be the Lady’s Noldorin guards. The Noldor being that boisterous and 
joyfully carefree was such a rare and unfamiliar sight that the Geledhil in 
the tavern could not help staring. The Noldor were completely unaware of 
the general amazement, as with much laughing and bantering they moved 
two vacant tables together and settled around them.
   
   “Can you believe it?” Rúmil exclaimed in indignation, watching as 
Alfirin hurried past them to the Noldor’s table, a tray with goblets and a 
carafe of wine in her hands. “I thought you carried some weight here, 
*Phin*.”
   
   “I do not remember claiming it,” Orophin laughed.
   
   Alfirin poured the wine. Gildor took a sip from his goblet and put it 
down. Then he looked at the barmaid and turned on her all his refined 
charm.
   
   “What is your name, tuilinn dithen?”
   
   “Alfirin, sir.”
   
   “And I am Gildor.”
   
   “I know your name, sir.” She blushed.
   
   Gildor flashed a smug smile at his companions. “I told you I’m 
famous!”
   
   Then he turned to the girl again. “I must confess, Alfirin, you’re the 
prettiest barmaid I have seen in Lórien. My friends and I would like to 
drink to your beauty. Do you give us your permission?”
   
   Alfirin was embarrassed. Nobody had ever talked to her like that 
before. To be treated like a real lady was very flattering. She smiled, “If 
you wish, sir.”
   
   The Noldor kept silent, watching Gildor with amused interest and 
trying to guess where he was steering it.
   
   “Thank you, Alfirin,” he sounded genuinely grateful. “But your 
beauty deserves to be toasted with the best of the wines. Does there 
happen to be any Mirkwood vintage in your worthy establishment, by any 
chance?”
   
   The Noldor started grinning. *That* was it!
   
   “Yes, sir,” answered the barmaid to their delight.
   
   “Oh, come, Alfirin! Stop calling me that! You know my name.” The 
Vanya flashed a warm smile at her.
   
   “Yes, Gildor.” And she hurried happily away to fetch the wine.
   
   “It really beats me why girls fall so easily for such cheap tricks,” 
Rúmil snorted in disgust.
   
   “Well, cheap tricks or not, they’ll be drinking Naurdirith in no time at 
all. And our glasses are still empty,” laughed Amarion.
   
   “Oh, how I suddenly miss my little brother!” Rúmil sighed 
dramatically. “If he were with us now that silly fool of a girl wouldn’t go 
farther than two steps away from our table. Alas!”
   
   Alfirin reappeared carrying three dark-green glass bottles. It *was* 
Naurdirith. The Noldor welcomed her with joyous whoops. While they 
were opening the bottles Gildor took the girl’s hands into his.
   
   “What can I do to thank you, tuilinn dithen?”
   
   “Come on, Alfirin, tell him your heart’s desire. Don’t miss your 
chance,” Rúmil murmured acidly.
   
   “Dance with me,” said the girl.
   
   “Dance?”
   
   “Yes, there will be music here later. Will you dance with me, Gildor?”
   
   “Gladly.”
   
   She smiled with delight and walked back to her bar stand.  As she was 
passing the brothers’ table her eyes fell on Orophin and she suddenly 
remembered they had asked for wine long ago. 
   
   “Oh!” she exclaimed guiltily. “One moment!”
   
   “What?!” Rúmil looked furious. “One *more* moment?”
   
   “Don’t get mad, Ru. I’ll be back in a second.”
   
   “And mind you, we’ll have the same vintage as you served your 
Noldorin guests,” demanded Rúmil. “Or do I get Naurdirith only when I 
come with Haldir?”
   
   Alfirin made a face at him. “All right. I think I can find you a bottle.”
   
   When she left, Orophin looked at his younger sibling.
   
   “She called you Ru,” he remarked nonchalantly. “Now, is there 
anything *I* do not know, brother?”
   
   
   The Noldor drank happily to Alfirin’s beauty, then to each other’s 
health. And two of the three Mirkwood bottles were empty. But the last 
one Gildor kept close to himself. When Narmacil made an attempt to nick 
it away the Vanya batted his hand. “No, you don’t! It’s mine. I’ve earned 
it.”
   
   “If you drink it all alone you’ll get shamefully drunk.”
   
   “I never get drunk, let alone shamefully.”
   
   “Oh, yes, you do!”
   
   “Says who?”
   
   “Me!”
   
   “You fibber! You’ve never seen me drunk!”
   
   “Yes, I have.”
   
   “And when, pray?”
   
   “Yes, Narmacil, do tell us. We’re all ears,” Minalcar urged him 
laughingly.
   
   The rest of the company was watching the argument with keen interest 
and wide grins. More wine was brought and poured.
   
   “Well, it was rather long ago,” Narmacil admitted, “back in Valinor. 
When we were going to leave it.”
   
   A shadow crossed Gildor’s face but it was quickly gone.
   
   “Oh, yes…” he drawled, “I remember it. But *you* cannot possibly 
remember anything, as it was you who got shamefully drunk that evening. 
You’ve never been able to hold your drink, Narma. And on that very 
occasion, as I recall, you could not even stand, not to mention walk. 
Actually, I had to take you to bed. That is, take you home and put you to 
bed.”
   
   His words were drowned in a burst of laughter.
   
    “Whose bed, Gildor, yours or his?”
   
   “Oh, his, of course,” Gildor smiled sweetly. “I took him to his home 
and put him into his own bed. And believe me, his dear mother was 
definitely not happy to find him lying in my arms the next morning, and in 
a disheveled state, too.”
   
   His friends roared with laughter.
   
   “So you did stay for the night after all,” Tindel managed to say.
   
   “Well, it just happened so,” Gildor admitted.
   
   “Happened what?” Narmacil stared at him in suspicion.
   
   “See! You do not remember anything.”
   
   “For shame, Narmacil!” exclaimed Minalcar wiping his eyes. “To 
forget a night with Gildor!”
   
   “Do not believe everything you hear about me, Minalcar,” the Vanya 
chuckled. “Not all my nights are unforgettable, most of them I just sleep 
peacefully through. Actually, I decided to take pity of Narmacil and to 
sing him my best hangover-preventing lullaby. And it seems I fell asleep 
in the process. But as he did not have any headache in the morning it must 
have worked, all the same.”
   
   The Noldor laughed again.
   
   “Perhaps, I should return the favour and put *you* to bed today,” 
grumbled Narmacil.
   
   This caused another fit of merriment.
   
   “To *your* bed, Narmacil?” “See to it that Gildor wouldn’t have to 
sleep peacefully through *this* night as well!” “And do not fall asleep in 
the process yourself.” “Or Glorfindel will be definitely not happy to find 
you sleeping in Gildor’s bed!”
   
   “Oh, shut up, you all!” Narmacil cried in mock indignation.
   
   “By the way, where is Glorfindel, Gildor? Why did not he come with 
you?” asked Sairin.
   
   “He’s seeing someone else at the moment,” the Vanya answered after 
a short hesitation.
   
   Narmacil grinned at him knowingly. “Someone tall, blond and 
gorgeous?”
   
   “Exactly.” Gildor thought of Galadriel and thus was taken by surprise 
by the next twist of the conversation.
   
   “Exactly like the Galadhel I found loitering around outside your 
chamber?” Narmacil winked at him.
   
   “Was it the same Galadhel who helped you down from your talan so 
deftly?” asked Minalcar archly.
   
   “And was holding you so very-very close?” added Morwinyon.
   
   Orophin and Rúmil exchanged a quick worried glance.
   
   “He said he would give me a ride,” Gildor chuckled, recalling the 
encounter.
   
   “What?!” The Noldor stared at him in merry amazement.
   
   “He also was eager to learn how we do it in Imladris. So probably 
Glorfindel will have to give him a demonstration.”
   
   
   Rúmil laughed heartily at his table, “Oh, little brother, now you’re in 
for trouble!”
   
   Orophin did not think it funny at all. If Haldir was to confront 
Glorfindel, the consequences could be disastrous. But then he found 
Gildor looking at him. The Vanya gave him a quick smile and a wink, and 
Orophin felt relieved. So, Haldir was not really in trouble after all. Well, 
for the time being, at least.
   
   “See, Narmacil! If Glorfindel is so occupied tonight it’s quite safe for 
you to take Gildor home,” remarked Tindel.
   
   “Do not start it all over again, for Valar’s sake!” moaned Narmacil. 
   
   “Well, if you’ve changed your mind I can do it instead of you and sing 
him to sleep.”
   
   “No, you cannot.”
   
   “Why not?”
   
   “Because your singing can give a heart attack even to an orch.”
   
   “Then I’ll do it!” offered Sairin.
   
   “Oh, come, Sairin, you do not know a single song which is more or 
less decent,” laughed Telpilin. “Besides, I also want to sing for Gildor!”
   
   “Why don’t you do it all together in chorus then?” suggested Narmacil 
in jest.
   
   To his surprise, the Noldor welcomed the idea heartily.
   
   “Valar help us,” moaned Gildor. “You simply do not know any 
lullabies, you goblins!”
   
   “We know dozens of them!” argued Sairin.
   
   “We can sing them all night long and never repeat ourselves!”  
Telpilin joined his bragging.
   
   “Give us a moment and we’ll show you,” said Minalcar. 
   
   The Noldor put their heads together and talked in hushed undertones 
for some minutes. Then they sat back and grinned at Gildor. “Three-four!” 
Minalcar commanded. And they started singing.
   
   
Hush-a-bye, birdie, 
I’ll sing you a song, 
One that is sweet 
And not very long. 
Peep, peep, 
Go to sleep. 


   That was a chorus to hear: half a dozen males, millennia old, being 
half-drunk and trying to sing a children’s song. Narmacil propped his 
elbows on the table and dropped his head on his palms; his shoulders were 
shaking. Gildor covered his eyes with his hand and was rocking from side 
to side. Unperturbed, the Noldor went on singing. But with each line they 
seemed to sing more and more out of tune, and more and more at sixes and 
sevens. Now all the elves in the tavern were rocking with laughter. 
   
   
Hush-a-bye, birdie, 
The moon’s in the sky, 
Time now to sleep; 
Tomorrow to fly. 
Peep, peep, 
Go to sleep. 


   Telpilin and Sairin were the last two to finish. Gildor dropped down 
his hand and looked at his friends, his eyes dancing with mirth.
   
   “Go to sleep? Are you joking? With such a lullaby half of Lórien will 
have nightmares for months!”
   
   “Peep, peep!” mimicked Narmacil and sent everybody into another fit 
of laughter. “A band of drunken dwarves can sing better than you!”
   
   “We’ve never had a drink with dwarves so we’ll have to take your 
word for it,” came Tindel’s swift retort.
   
   Rúmil turned to his friends and caught Amarion looking at the Noldor 
with an odd expression on his face. 
   
   “What is it?” he asked curiously.
   
   “It’s strange,” murmured Amarion.
   
   “What?”
   
   “They look absolutely *normal*, just like any of us look when having 
fun. Noldor or not, they do not differ from us much after all, it seems.”
   
   “Yes, creepy, isn’t it?” Orophin laughed.
   
   “In fact, I find them very attractive this way,” said Amarion, eyeing 
Narmacil closely.
   
   “Oh, what is it we’re witnessing?” Rúmil teased him. “A new 
romance budding?”
   
   But Amarion ignored him, his eyes still on Narmacil.
   
   
   At this moment the Noldo in question turned to Gildor. “It’s your turn 
to sing now, Naira.”
   
   All the rest supported the request enthusiastically.
   
   “Yes, sing us something!” “Sing about Glorfindel.” “ ‘His lance is 
long, and straight, and strong…’ ”  “Yes, as he’s not here now, sing that 
song about him!”
   
   “Do you want my untimely departure to Mandos’s Halls?” Gildor 
chuckled. “If Glorfindel finds out I did it again he’ll kill me. Slowly and 
painfully.”
   
   “He needs never to know!” Tindel tried to coax him. “No one will tell 
him. Right, friends?”
   
   Everyone, eager to hear the song, agreed gladly.
   
   “Oh, all right,” Gildor gave in reluctantly. “Is there a lute in this 
place?”
   
   Alfirin, happy to oblige, brought him an instrument. He smiled at her 
in thanks, touched the strings tentatively, checking if the lute was tuned, 
and then started playing.
   
   Orophin was surprised to recognize the melody as the one of the 
famous ballad about Gil-Galad. But the lyrics were different. Entirely.
   
   
   “Glorfindel is an Elven lord of whom are many stories told.
   His valour’s sung by minstrels. But I shall sing of something else.”
   
   
   And, truly, Gildor did. In expressions, both eloquent and explicit, he 
sang about Glorfindel’s prowess in amorous affairs, the merits of his 
‘primal weapon’ and his accomplishments as an ardent lover.
   
   The song was far from decent; and wiping his eyes with his palms 
Rúmil asked breathlessly, “Was he really going to sing *this* in front of 
the Lady?”
   
   “Oh, but she knows it by heart, pen-neth.” The answer seemed to 
come from nowhere.
   
   He turned around and saw Gildor smiling at him. Stunned, he darted a 
look at Orophin and Amarion. But they seemed to have noticed nothing 
amiss. 
   
   ‘Mind-reading, great,’ Rúmil cursed silently. ‘It was a private 
conversation, you know,’ he thought then, looking back at Gildor. The 
Vanya grinned, not even a trace of remorse on his face. 
   
   Then musicians took up their instruments, and dancing was starting. 
Alfirin came up to Gildor to claim her reward; he took her by the hand and 
led to the dancing ground. There she put her hands on his shoulders, he 
took her by her slender waist and soon they were swirling and jumping to 
the quick merry tune, apparently enjoying themselves. Before long 
dancing was in full swing, both Geledhil and Noldor reeling and jigging to 
their hearts’ content.
   
   Narmacil did not dance though, and neither did Amarion. They were 
immersed in a private conversation; and by the look of them both, they 
were having a good time too.
   
   After the first dance Gildor came back, flushed and hot. He pulled off 
his tunic and put it on the back of his chair. Narmacil gave him an arch 
smile.
   
    “Are you going to shed a garment after each dance? You’re running 
the risk to end up naked.”
   
   “You think so? Then perhaps I’d better strip right away.” 
   
   Gildor opened the upper laces of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. 
Then he went back to join Alfirin.
   
    Rúmil watched for some time as the Vanya twirled the breathless girl 
around, his smile flashing as brightly as his earring; his half-opened shirt 
revealing quite a breath-taking amount of his golden-skinned chest.
   
   “Sweet Elbereth, he is gorgeous!” he breathed.
   
   “So now the thought of bedding him does not give you the creeps?” 
Orophin inquired, amused.
   
   “Oh, but it does, brother! Because I know what Haldir will do to me if 
I even attempt it!” Rúmil laughed.
   
   
   The revelry went on and on. And it was some hours past midnight that 
Gildor got back to the guest mallorn. As he looked up at the long winding 
stairs leading to his talan he suddenly thought of Haldir with a 
considerable amount of longing. If he were here to get him up as swiftly as 
he’d got him down, Gildor even would not mind all that silly talk about 
giving or taking a ride. But alas! He had to climb all the way up to his flet 
by himself.
   
   When he entered his chamber he found Glorfindel still awake.
   
   “Enjoyed yourself as I see,” the Elda remarked mildly.
   
   “Didn’t you?”
   
   Gildor took off his tunic and threw it on the chair.
   
   “‘Glorfindel is an elven lord’,” he hummed to himself as he started to 
open the laces of his shirt.
   
   “Nairalindë!” Glorfindel barked in indignation. “Don’t tell me you 
sang it out there!”
   
   “The song does you credit, meldir,” the Vanya told him soothingly. 
“Everyone agreed on it.”
   
   “What!” the Elda almost jumped in the bed.
   
   Gildor darted into the bathroom and swiftly shut the door behind him.
   
   Glorfindel looked at the closed door and shook his head laughingly.
   
   
   
   Haldir was peacefully sleeping in his bed. Though perhaps, 
‘peacefully’ was not exactly the word to describe it. The dream he was 
having was rather stirring, as it involved a certain golden-haired elf, 
blissfully naked and in a very appealing stance. But before Haldir could 
start enjoying himself to the full he was mercilessly snapped out of his 
slumber. Looking up at the cause of his abrupt awakening he was not at all 
surprised to find that it was none other than Rúmil. His curse of a brother 
was sitting on the edge of his bed, and by the look of him he had had a 
long night somewhere in a tavern.
   
   “Next time you wake me up like that again you’ll be flying out of my 
window, head first!” Haldir snarled at him.
   
    Rúmil looked not in the least intimidated. “Cannot believe you’re 
sleeping so early in the evening!”  He grinned. 
   
   “It’s early in the morning, actually,” grumbled Haldir, sitting up in his 
bed.
   
   “Cannot believe you’re sleeping so early in the morning!”
   
   Haldir was anything but amused. “What do you want, Rúmil?”
   
   “I want to know why you did not come to the Silver Goblet. We were 
waiting for you there and you never showed up.”
   
   “I was busy.”
   
   “Busy, eh?”
   
   “Yes. Lady Galadriel had an errand for me,” said Haldir, his irritation 
growing.
   
   “An errand, involving Glorfindel?” he heard a mocking voice from the 
door.
   
   Turning his head he saw Amarion lounging against the doorframe.
   
   “Oh, no,” Haldir groaned, “what are *you* doing here? I thought you 
were to have left for the border.”
   
   “I traded shifts with Thrandvell. I decided I wouldn’t like to miss all 
the fun, after all.” Amarion gave him a smug smile.
   
   “I’ll make sure you’ll spend the rest of the summer on the northern 
fences,” Haldir promised him darkly.
   
   “If he is so mean to his friends, then we’ll not tell him what he has 
missed by deserting us tonight, shall we, Amarion?” Rúmil asked. 
   
   “Perhaps, we should do quite the contrary thing and tell him 
everything. Let him know what he has missed. *That* will serve him 
right.”
   
   Haldir was in no mood for riddles. “As telling me is what you’ve 
come here for, it seems, and you won’t leave without it, anyway, be 
through with it quickly and leave me alone.”
   
   “Very well. But remember this,” Rúmil looked vindictive, “you owe 
us at least half a dozen of Naurdirith.”
   
   “And why is that?”
   
   “You did not come; and without you that miser of a barmaid wouldn’t 
spare us more than one bottle. And all the rest went down the damn 
Noldor’s throats just because that little tricky Imladris cousin charmed her 
into giving him whatever he wanted.”
   
   Haldir laughed. So, this was then the real reason for Rúmil’s 
resentment. 
   
   “Take it easy, Ru. He is just a new face and you are a bit stale an 
attraction for Alfirin.”
   
   “Stale?!” Rúmil almost fell off the bed in indignation.
   
   Haldir laughed again. “Yes. And I doubt even my presence would 
have helped you. Have some patience. He’ll leave soon enough and then, 
in no time at all, you’ll get Alfirin’s favour back, as well as access to the 
Silver Goblet’s wine-cellar.”
   
   “You are a cynic, Haldir,” chuckled Amarion. “Tell me, is novelty 
what attracts *you*? Is it why you are pursuing Galadriel’s cousin?”
   
   “Perhaps.” Haldir was not going to discuss with Amarion the nature of 
his feelings for Gildor. “Besides, he is a surpassing beauty.”
   
   “You’ll regret you haven’t seen him tonight,” his brother teased him, 
“singing bawdy songs and dancing half naked.”
   
   Haldir raised one elegantly curved eyebrow. “Only *half* naked? 
Then I haven’t missed much.”
   
   “Oh, yes, you have,” Amarion assured him. “You would have liked 
the sight of him: hot and flushed, his damp golden strands sticking to his 
forehead and temples; a fine sheen of perspiration glimmering on his 
throat and collarbones; the sun-kissed skin of his arms and the hard plains 
of his chest glowing softly in the light of lanterns…”
   
   Haldir was acutely aware that Amarion was watching his face 
carefully while artfully weaving his lace of words. He did not want the 
others to see how much he was affected by the picture his friend had 
drawn. So he put on a look of mild boredom.
   
   “Well done, meldir,” he smirked. “I’ve always known that deep in 
your heart you are a poet. I can take from here, though, if you wish: a 
narrow waist, a sensuous line of hips, long graceful legs, lean satin thighs; 
and delectable buttocks, perfectly round and taut. Oh, yes – and a small 
pretty mole on the left one, close to his hip.”
   
   Rúmil was staring at his brother open-mouthed.  “Haldir, don’t tell me 
you you’ve been spying on him bathing!”
   
   Haldir was not going to admit how close to the truth Rúmil’s guess 
was. 
   
   “All right, brother, if you ask, I’ll tell you no such thing. And now, 
could you kindly get lost and let me catch at least *some* sleep?”
   
   Muttering to himself Rúmil stood up, and together with Amarion they 
left Haldir’s talan. Amarion looked thoughtful. They climbed down 
several turns of the stairs when he suddenly stopped. “That’s it!”
   
   “What?”
   
   “He never laughs!”
   
   “Haldir? Well, not when he’s in foul mood, but…”
   
   “No, not Haldir. Gildor. I felt there was something strange about that 
elf, something that kept on troubling me but I could not put my finger on 
it. Now I’ve got it. He never laughs. Have you noticed?”
   
   Rúmil just stared at him.
   
   “He smiles readily and charmingly,” Amarion went on explaining, “he 
grins sometimes. But I have not even once heard him laughing. Have 
you?”
   
   Rúmil shook his head, sighed and resumed walking downstairs. “I’m 
beginning to agree with Orophin. I wish Haldir could find someone else to 
get infatuated with, someone less enticing perhaps, but more fathomable. 
Those Eldar – they are too enigmatic and untouchable for my liking.”
   
   
Tuilinn dithen– little swallow

A/N:  The author of the lullaby is Clara Beeson Hubbard. So the credit 
for it goes to her.

   
                                                      Chapter 6.  Shadows of the Past.
   
   
   Gildor sat on his balcony, his back against the wall, his forearms 
resting on his updrawn knees. Through half-lidded eyes he was looking at 
the tops of the trees. He knew the signs well. Another bout of 
despondency was upon him. By some whim of the Valar his age did not 
show on his appearance, but from time to time he would have a dreadful 
sensation as if his long years suddenly fell on his shoulders like heavy iron 
chains.  He would feel old and weary then. Exactly like he was feeling 
now: old, weary, lonely, defeated, lost. Stranded in the middle of the 
world, in which he had failed to learn to feel entirely at home. Home… 
Valinor… *That* was the place he thought of as *home*. Always. In spite 
of the fact that he had spent practically all his life here, in Middle-earth. 
   
   But had he really *lived* his life, he wondered. It seemed to him that 
all he had been doing these long millennia was waiting. In vain. 
   
   Gildor rubbed his face with his palms. By stars and winds, how he 
hated these moments! But from his painful experience he knew there was 
no way he could dispel his black mood. He could only struggle through it 
and pray that it would not last too long and be too bad.
   
   However, this time it was somehow different. There was some feeling 
he could not put his finger on. … His instincts were warning him 
something was going to happen. Suddenly, he felt as though the trees of 
Lórien crowded in on him, depriving him of any air. He tugged at the 
collar of his tunic. He felt like an animal trapped under the ground before 
an earthquake. He felt restless and vulnerable. 
   
   ‘It’s not good,’ Gildor thought, troubled. It had never been *that* bad 
before. Time to leave for Mirkwood. Hopefully, by the moment he 
reached it, his bout of depression would have passed. He really did not 
want to find out what he was capable of doing, if provoked in such a state. 
And here, with Galadriel so close at hand… 
   
   Yes, Gildor decided. He would leave for Mirkwood tomorrow 
morning.
   
   He got up and went inside to pack his belongings. He took his sword 
out of the chest, unsheathed it and inspected the blade. Then his eyes fell 
on his own fingers wrapped around the silver-inlaid hilt. He froze, staring 
at it wide-eyed. He could see other hands holding this weapon, bigger, 
stronger, and more skillful.
   
   Gildor shuddered. Why, why for Valar’s sake must he remember it 
today, of all days? Today, when he did not feel strong enough to fight his 
memory. And his guilty conscience… 
   
   
* * *

   “Come, Nairalindë, you are not even trying!”
   
   The next moment his sword was knocked from his hand and he found 
himself lying flat on the ground, his body pressed into the soft grass by his 
adversary’s weight, his wrists pinned to the earth above his head.
   
   “You should concentrate on what you are doing or you shall always 
end up like this.”
   
   Nairalindë looked up into the smiling face above him and pouted.
   
   “I do not need it, this sword-fight skill! Whom do you expect me to 
fight here, anyway? Altáriel? But even she wouldn’t attempt to kill me 
with a sword.”
   
   “Perhaps, it’s not your life you’ll have to defend one day,” the other 
elf whispered in his ear, and Nairalindë squirmed uneasily at the sensation 
it had sent through his body.
   
   “Oh, stop it, Ermenor,” he protested weakly.
   
   “And not from your caustic cousin. But from someone else… 
Someone like me,” a whisper in the other ear.
   
   Nairalindë looked in Ermenor’s gray eyes and sighed slightly. He 
knew what was coming. Ermenor dipped his head, his hair falling down 
like a dark silken curtain. Then Nairalindë felt his soft warm lips on his 
mouth and sighed again. At first the kiss was gentle and tender, as always. 
And Nairalindë, being the defeated party after all, was prepared to endure 
it graciously. But gradually it grew more demanding and hungry. 
Suddenly, Ermenor’s tongue pushed between Nairalindë’s lips and the 
stricken younger elf felt his mouth invaded and plundered. He had never 
been kissed like that before. He gasped in shock and wriggled trying to 
break free, but in vain. He moaned in dismay, feeling helpless and 
frightened. But it was when he felt Ermenor’s arousal rapidly growing 
hard against his thigh that he panicked in earnest. When the other elf 
started unconsciously rocking against his body, with the strength he did 
not know he possessed Nairalindë tore his hands free and pushed Ermenor 
away.
   
   “Get off me! Let go!”
   
   Ermenor sat up on the grass and, stunned, looked at his panic-stricken 
friend.
   
   “Nairalindë?”
   
   Nairalindë scrambled to his feet and backed away.
   
   “Don’t touch me!” he shouted at him. “You do it on purpose! You 
trick me into your so-called combat lessons just to have a chance to grope 
me! I needn’t be a warrior; I do not *want* to be a warrior! I’ll never be 
one! And I do not want to be kissed by you like that! We are friends! Why 
must you spoil it by trying to make me be something else! Why must you 
force me to do things I hate doing!”
   
   Nairalindë knew he was being hysterical but he could not help it.
   
   Ermenor got up to his feet in one fluid motion, and Nairalindë 
instinctively took another step back. But his friend did not try to cross the 
distance between them. His face was white as if all the blood had drained 
from it. His look was empty.
   
   “I’m sorry, Nairalindë. I did not know you feel this way,” he said in a 
dull voice. “It’s all my fault. I’m sorry. I did not want to frighten or upset 
you. It shall never happen again. Forgive me.” 
   
   He turned and started walking away.
   
   “Ermenor!” Nairalindë called after him. But he only shook his head 
and quickened his steps. Soon he disappeared behind the trees.
   
   Nairalindë sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands. So this 
was it, then. For some time now he had known that Ermenor was in love 
with him. But he just could not love him back the way the other elf 
wanted. So he managed to pretend he knew nothing about it in childish 
hope that things would infinitely go on the way they did; that they would 
be just good friends. But after what had happened today nothing would be 
the same again. Nairalindë knew there was only one way he could keep 
Ermenor now. Either he would have to accept him as a lover or he would 
not have him at all. And at this moment he knew as certainly as if 
someone had shouted it into his ears that he had just lost his best friend.
   
   Then his eyes fell on Ermenor’s sword lying nearby and he wept.
   
   
                                                                                              * * *
   
   Glorfindel entered the room and found his friend staring at his sword 
in a kind of trance. He had lived by his side long enough to be able to 
recognize the look on his face. He knew he would have to do his best to 
distract him; otherwise Gildor would be brooding for days. And though 
when in a black mood, the Vanya tended to become edgy and to flare up 
like dry timber, Glorfindel had long ago worked out his ways to handle 
him.
   
    So, he closed the door behind him and inquired sarcastically, “Are 
you trying to remember what this thing is for?”
   
   Jerked out of his memories, Gildor gave him a dark look.
   
   “Or are you considering it as a remedy for your hangover?”
   
   “I never have hangovers,” Gildor snapped back but the corners of his 
mouth twitched. “And I was not drunk enough yesterday to have a hang-
over today.”
   
   “You were drunk enough to sing bawdy songs about me.”
   
   “I sang only one song and it’s not bawdy!” the Vanya protested. “It’s 
quite witty and it does you credit, just as I told you. And besides, I do not 
have to be drunk to sing it.”
   
   “Then it means you’ve sullied my reputation, being of sound mind and 
sane memory. Well, it makes it even worse. I demand satisfaction.”
   
   “Oh.” By now, Gildor was genuinely amused. “And how do you want 
to be satisfied?”
   
   “Thoroughly.” Glorfindel just could not help it.
   
   Gildor grinned. “*That* I can promise you. Shall we need any 
weapons?”
   
   “No weapons. Hand to hand.”
   
   “Oh, all right, then.”
   
   Gildor sheathed his sword and put it back into the chest. “Do you want 
to be satisfied indoors or in the open air?”
   
   Glorfindel, well-trained in double entendre word-duels with his friend, 
smirked. “We’ll go outside. I know just the right place where no one will 
hear your cries for help and will come to your rescue.”
   
   “Glorfindel, you’re an arrogant, insolent braggart!”
   
   “And this from *you*, Nairalindë!”	
   
   
   Haldir was returning from his favourite bathing place when he heard 
some strange noise and muffled sounds. He stopped to listen but 
everything was quiet again. However, he had not been made a 
Marchwarden for nothing. So he decided to check it and started moving 
stealthily in the direction the noise had come from. Then he heard voices 
and crept forward even more cautiously. When he saw who it was, he 
soundlessly dropped to the ground and cursed silently. It looked like he 
would soon become an accomplished voyeur. He knew he should leave 
before he was discovered but he could not make himself wrench his eyes 
away from the object of his longing.
   
   Gildor was lying in the grass with his head in Glorfindel’s lap, his 
shining golden mane fanned around them. Both of them were clad only in 
their leggings, their tunics and boots lying nearby. The Elda was raking 
Gildor’s hair with his fingers picking out wood debris that had got 
entangled into it.
   
   “Look, your hair is a mess!” he rebuked his friend. “Why don’t you 
plait it at all?”
   
   “I do. Sometimes… Before a battle, for instance.”
   
   “Why don’t you do it besides before a battle? Why don’t you use 
those mithril hair clasps Thranduil gave you?”
   
   Gildor looked at him in mock horror.
   
   “By Eru, no! I’m not wearing anything mithril when I’m away from 
Thranduil! I have enough of it as it is, while in Mirkwood. He’s hanging 
me with such lots of his jeweled trinkets that I can hardly stand.”
   
   “Maybe you do not appeal to him in an upright position,” murmured 
Glorfindel and earned a scornful look from Gildor. “And anyway, why do 
you comply with his whims if you hate jewels so much?” Glorfindel went 
on teasing.
   
   “I do not *hate* jewels; I just do not find them much fascinating. I 
believe, in this case my Vanyarin heritage gains the upper hand over the 
Noldorin one. Besides, it pleases Thranduil and I do not mind indulging 
him. In minor matters.” Gildor gave Glorfindel a little smile. “Just for the 
sake of my diplomatic missions, you know.”
   
   “Of course!” laughed Glorfindel. “Your usual altruistic self, aren’t 
you?”
   
   “Exactly.” Gildor grinned at his companion and then asked softly, 
“Why don’t you want to go to Mirkwood with me? You know he’ll be 
waiting for you.”
   
   ‘Who is he?’ Haldir wondered.
   
   “I cannot,” Glorfindel sighed.
   
   “Curse your Noldorin stubbornness! You know you want to go and 
you know he wants you to come. So why not?”
   
   “Even if he does, I cannot, really. I do not want to get him into any 
sort of trouble. He’s still under age. And I won’t be able to keep away 
from him. Thranduil will get mad if he finds out, and I’m sure he has 
already got some suspicions by now. He’s smart and cunning.” 
   
   “Like a dragon, I always tell him so!” Gildor chuckled. “But I can 
manage Thranduil for you, if you wish. I’ll keep him occupied… 
otherwise.”
   
   ‘So be it the prince or the king, Mirkwood spells rivalry,’ Haldir 
thought with irony.
   
   “You can manage anyone, pen-veren, can’t you?” the Elda’s tone was 
mildly teasing again.
   
   “I certainly hope so.” The Vanya drew up his knee and started rocking 
it from side to side absentmindedly.
   
    Glorfindel looked at his friend thoughtfully. “You are fond of him, 
Naira, aren’t you? You are fond of the king?”
   
   “Of course I am,” the Vanya answered without a pause. “He is 
intelligent and beautiful. And he has the driest sense of humour I have 
ever met in an elf. Besides,” he smiled wickedly, “Thranduil is very 
inventive and thus, highly entertaining.”
   
   Glorfindel chuckled. “But still you are not in love with him?”
   
   Haldir held his breath.
   
   And again Gildor did not take time to think. “No, I’m not. You of all 
people should know it.”
   
   “But you do seem to have surrendered to his charms,” the Elda 
noticed mildly.
   
   “My dear Glorfindel,” Gildor sounded more than a little annoyed. “I 
simply do not surrender. Never. To no one. *That* you also should know 
by now. As a matter of fact, it is Thranduil who has to surrender. He might 
be his unbearable, haughty and defiant self in public but in private he is, 
well… different. He simply knows that otherwise he won’t get anything at 
all.”
   
   “Oh, stop it!” Glorfindel protested. “I do not want to know the details 
of your intercourse with the king of Mirkwood.”
   
   “Why not? You may find them useful after all, if the son takes after 
the father,” the Vanya teased.
   
   “Stop it, I tell you! I do not want to talk about it.”
   
   “You do not want to listen to me and you do not want to talk yourself. 
You’re boring company, Mallos.”
   
   “Why don’t you go then and find somebody more “entertaining”?”
   
   “Well, I did not want to ask you as I was afraid to hurt your feelings, 
but now that you offer it yourself…” And in one cat-like motion Gildor 
jumped to his feet. But Glorfindel grabbed his arm and pulled him back 
into his lap.
   
   “You are not going anywhere without me,” he informed him.
   
   “And why is that, I beg you?”
   
   “Because I promised Galadriel to keep you away from some certain 
company.”
   
   “What the ..?” Gildor fought furiously to break from Glorfindel’s arms 
and the Elda had to summon all his strength to prevent it. “It’s none of her 
business whose company I choose!”
   
   “She cares for the boy.”
   
   “I bet she does! Jealous bitch!”
   
   “Really, Nairalindë!” Glorfindel looked scandalized. “Your choice of 
words!”
   
   “I choose my words correctly and mean every one of them!”
   
    “She’s simply afraid you may hurt him. After all, you are not called 
Langveleg for nothing.”
   
   Gildor calmed down suddenly and after a pause coolly agreed, “In that 
you are right.” Then he sighed, “Always chivalrous, aren’t you, seneschal? 
Never can say “no” to a lady? All right.”
   
   He disentangled himself from Glorfindel’s arms and rose to his feet.
   
   “Come, amlug. Come and guard your treasure. But if I’m saddled with 
your company for good I’d better warn Narmacil beforehand. Do you 
fancy threesomes, pen’lín?” he smiled sweetly.
   
   Glorfindel chuckled and rose as well. “Ah, Nairalindë, you cannot 
even imagine to what extremes I can go to make you happy.”
   
   
   Haldir kept as still as possible and even tried not to breathe till they 
passed his hiding place. He waited for their voices to die away in the 
distance and then relaxed and lay back on the grass.
   
   *I simply do not surrender. Never. To no one.*
   
   ‘Why does it sound so familiar?’ he asked himself in amusement. ‘It 
seems we’re alike in some ways. But I’d *love* to see you surrender. By 
Eru, it will be an intoxicating sight. I know you’ll look beautiful when 
rampant with need, helpless and begging to be taken.’
   
   Haldir shuddered involuntarily at the maddening mental images. He 
ached for the elf, burned for him. ‘Sweet Elbereth! How I’d love it! Rúmil, 
you were right for once: there is no way out of it for me now. Either I shall 
have him or shall die trying.’
   
   
   
   As the day grew older Gildor felt more and more restless and edgy. 
Even Glorfindel’s unobtrusive company gradually became more than he 
could bear. So he left their talan and went wandering around the city, 
unconsciously choosing the most secluded and solitary places. He was 
walking in two worlds at once: as his feet carried him efficiently through 
the real world of the Golden Wood, in his mind he struggled through the 
world of his memories. And it was in the latter that he had a farther and 
harder way to go. It came as no surprise for him that when he eventually 
came to his senses he found himself in front of the bowl of the Mirror. He 
put his hands on its rim and looked into it. There was no water in the bowl 
and he could see his own face reflected in the silver surface of its bottom. 
He sighed. 
   
   “Oh, Melian, why is it that your mirror always shows me myself? It’s 
not the kind of an image I like to see.” 
   
   He studied his reflection in the bowl.
   
   “Is it how the others see you?” he asked himself. “You’re a shell, 
Nairalindë, beautiful but empty. With nothing inside, nor a pearl, not even 
a living mollusk.  Where is your fire, Nairalindë? Burnt to ashes, I think… 
With a cold and echoing void left in its stead… That’s what comes of 
challenging the Valar. You should have known better…”
   
   Gildor hanged his head, a bitter taste of defeat in his mouth. His hair 
streamed down over his shoulders and as its golden tips touched the 
bottom of the bowl it seemed to ripple like water and images started 
forming on the polished silver of its surface.
   
   “No, Varda the gracious! No, please,” moaned the elf as he made a 
futile effort to turn away and flee. He was grasping the rim of the bowl, 
but whether in an attempt to push himself away from it or to prevent 
himself from falling – he could not say. He did not want to look but he just 
could not tear his eyes off of the picture in the Mirror. A picture of himself 
it was again; himself, as he had been at that fateful day of the Noldorin 
rebels’ departure from Valinor.


                                                                                           * * *

   
   They were leaving. He could not believe they were truly leaving. His 
kin, his companions, his friends… 
   
   Glorfindel, his cousin, with whom he had argued and pleaded till he 
got himself hoarse in an attempt to persuade him to stay. But Glorfindel 
was carried away by Altáriel, and she could always manipulate males 
around her. Their ambitious kin wanted to leave and to find a realm for 
herself to rule; so Glorfindel was leaving now too. Nairalindë would never 
be able to forgive her for that. Ever. 
   
   Narmacil, his co-prankster, his companion, his confidant. Who would 
take care of you now, nildo, with me so far away? 
   
   Ermenor… His best friend… For the first time since that disastrous 
day they were standing so close to each other, were looking into each 
other’s faces.
   
   “Ermenor, please, don’t go!” Nairalindë pleaded urgently. “Please! I’ll 
do anything for you, I promise! Only stay!”
   
   “What will you do, Nairalindë?”
   
   “Anything! I… I’ll be your lover…if you still want me.”
   
   Ermenor smiled sadly. “It’s a very generous offer, melwa. But can you 
promise to love me?”
   
   Nairalindë bit his lip. He wished he could lie and thus keep Ermenor 
from leaving. But he just could not, not in this matter. “I can promise I’ll 
try,” he said tentatively.
   
   But Ermenor shook his head. “No, Nairalindë, you know that try as 
you might, you won’t be able to do it. And without your love even this 
blessed land is no more than a dead desert for me. I’m sorry. I’d better 
leave.”
   
   Nairalindë shut his eyes trying to keep his tears behind his eyelids but 
they nevertheless started running down his cheeks. Ermenor cupped 
Nairalindë’s face in his hands and gently made him raise his head.
   
   “Do not grieve, lindë endonyë. It’s not your fault you cannot love 
me.”
   
   Then he kissed him on the lips, very tenderly and very gently.
   
   “Namárië, melmë.” Ermenor looked at him for one long moment as if 
trying to memorize his face, then he turned and walked away; the wind 
catching at his cloak and revealing a sword with a silver inlaid hilt, 
strapped onto his back.
   
   Nairalindë watched him go in stunned disbelief, refusing to accept the 
disastrous reality. When he felt familiar warm hands on his shoulders he 
turned around and hid his tear-stained face against his father’s chest.
   
   “Oh, atar,” he said in a muffled voice, “why don’t the Valar stop 
them? Can’t they just forbid them to go?”
   
   Inglor cradled his anguished young son in his arms trying to give him 
all the comfort he could.
   
   “The Valar did try to stop them, my little one. But Fëanor wouldn’t 
listen and wouldn’t let the others listen, either. So I’m afraid they have 
chosen their fate.”
   
   “But there’ll be no way back for them! They will all perish!”  
Nairalindë cried in despair.
   
   “Only the Valar know it for sure, yonya. But however that may be, it 
had all been in the music of the Ainur long before we woke up under the 
stars. We cannot change it.”
   
   Nairalindë knew his father was probably right, but this fatalistic 
argument was a poor consolation for him. So he let his tears soak his 
father’s tunic as he grieved his loss.
   
   
                                                                                                * * *


   Gildor staggered back, away from the Mirror; his hands numb from 
squeezing the rim, his head reeling. Pain, desperation, fear, fury were 
boiling in the caldron of his soul into a deadly brew that threatened to 
sweep away the restraints of his self-control and to burst out.
   
   He heard voices and shied deeper into the wood. He felt he was 
nearing his breaking point and did not want anybody to be around him at 
the moment. He was not sure it was safe.
   
   
   Pen-veren – brave one
   Mallos – golden flower
   Amlug - dragon
   Pen’lín – my sweet 
   Nildo – friend (Q)
   Melwa – lovely one (Q)
   Lindë endonyë – song of my heart (Q)
   Namárië – farewell (Q)
   Melmë – love (Q)
   Atar – father (Q)
   Yonya – my son (Q)
   
   A/N: There is no evidence in Tolkien’s works that the Mirror could 
not belong to Melian before it became Galadriel’s property. So…
   
   
   
                                                              Chapter 7.  Enjoy yourself
   
   
   Haldir knew his time was running short. The next morning his patrol 
was to leave for the border. And by the time he returned Gildor was sure 
to have left for Mirkwood. So, if Haldir was going to take any decisive 
actions he would better do it now.
   
   But truth be told, he was not sure if he should attempt anything. Of 
course, he could go and try on Gildor his well-honed seduction technique. 
He was even sure he was very likely to succeed, but… Not that he did not 
*want* the elf. He wanted him so much that it hurt. The problem was he 
did not want him for *one* night. That was, he wanted him for more than 
one night. He had to face it. And to be entirely frank, he wanted him not 
only for nights but for days as well. 
   
   He wanted to learn what Gildor liked and what he hated; what made 
him happy and what made him sad. He desperately wanted to hear him 
laugh. He wanted to see his face in the throes of passion and in peaceful 
sleep; to talk to him and to be comfortably silent together; to fight by his 
side and to join him in singing. Deep in his heart he was afraid he knew 
the reason, but he would not admit it even to himself.
   
   Haldir felt drawn to the Vanya like a fish on a line. A fish, that could 
try to escape, could put on a struggle, but eventually it would end up in the 
fisherman’s basket. It was unsettling and rather frightening. To give in to 
the feeling meant to give up control, to throw himself at Gildor’s mercy. 
The idea was even more dreadful. All that was Haldir rebelled against it. 
Yes, he wanted the elf. But he wanted him on his *own* terms.
   
   Lórien had slowly sunk into her dark blue star-lit night and Haldir was 
still debating with himself what to do. He stopped abruptly in the middle 
of his chamber, becoming suddenly aware that he had been unconsciously 
pacing his room all this time. He scowled at himself. Being confused and 
uncertain how to proceed were states of mind he was unaccustomed to. 
Finally, he decided that he would just go and do what he was good at – he 
would try to bed the Elda. And he would worry later how to keep him in 
his bed; and in his life. Perhaps, Haldir thought smugly, Gildor himself 
wouldn’t want to leave afterwards. The Marchwarden’s prowess in 
bedchamber activities was well known and highly praised. Which Haldir 
believed only fair.
   
   So he left his talan and set out in search of the Vanya. Somehow, he 
knew where to go; and the trees confirmed he was right. The ancient one 
was by the broken oak. But the trees thought the warden should not disturb 
him now for the Elda was sad and angry. 
   
   “Never mind,” Haldir reassured them, “I’m going to offer him 
comfort.”
   
   
   
   Gildor roamed around the forest for a long time trying to wear himself 
down and to work off the mixed feeling of frustration, grief and anger. He 
ended up in a small clearing with an old oak in the middle of it. The tree 
had been struck by lightening and its powerful trunk had been split in two. 
One half was withered and dead, the other was still living and sprouting. 
For several moments he stared dumbly at the corporeal image of his inner 
duality, being somewhat darkly amused by the symbolism of it. This 
never-say-die thing, surviving, clinging onto hope against better judgment 
– he had become really good at it all.
   
   He sat down, his back against the dead part of the tree, his hands 
dangling between his updrawn knees. Oh yes, he was good at it; but now 
and again weariness and desperation would gain the upper hand over him 
and he would feel exactly like the trunk behind his back, dry and lifeless. 
He was fighting the depressing emotion the only way he knew how - by 
turning it into fury and resentment. He knew where he could place the 
blame, as well as he knew he was very likely to pay for it in the future. 
Had he not been paying for his former impudence all these ages? 
   
   Drat it all! It was hopeless. It had been hopeless from the very 
beginning. *They* had never meant to keep their promise. ‘Ah, now, 
Grandfather would have fainted at this blasphemy,’ he thought with a 
tinge of amusement. But the flicker of a lighter emotion died out in a 
heartbeat.
   
    It had been stupid of him to believe they would let him push them 
around, let him have his way. But he had been so young then, so naïve... 
He was changed now. He had lost his childish naïveté somewhere along 
the way, with a number of other things. However, should he confront them 
now, would he fare better? Hardly. It was hopeless.
   
   He bent his head and twined his hands in his hair. He wanted to 
scream, to strike, to break something or to draw blood. The cool night 
breeze was kissing his silky tresses and caressing his tense shoulders, but 
Gildor was oblivious to the light comforting touches, swallowed up by the 
dark tidal wave of his jumbled feelings. 
   
   And then, he felt a presence and heard trees whispering the name 
affectionately. Slowly, he looked up. Surely enough, it was the 
Marchwarden. He moaned inwardly. The accosting Galadhel was the last 
thing he needed at the moment. But then his eyes narrowed at a sudden 
thought. Perhaps, Haldir was a Valar sent distraction, a lightning rod. 
Gildor scrutinized him through squinted eyes, wondering how far the 
Marchwarden would dare carry on his advances to him. Gildor could 
certainly do with some good fighting. Maybe, with some provoking from 
him…
   
   
   Haldir found Gildor where he had known he would be. And yes, the 
Elda *was* sad. Actually, he looked an epitome of despair, as broken as 
the tree behind his back. But then the Vanya raised his head, and Haldir 
stumbled at the edge of the clearing. Oh, and he was angry all right. 
Though “angry” seemed hardly an adequate word to describe the cold and 
resentful look Gildor gave him. But then, oddly enough, Haldir felt being 
weighed up and… challenged?  The Vanya was looking at him with those 
unfathomable eyes of his, a little dangerous