Ahyamë

Title: Ahyamë : Change
Chapter: Twelve
Author: Orchyd Constyne and Ashek Thordin
Contact: ashekandorchyd@gmail.com
Website: http://www.hithanaur.net/
Update List: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/nairn_orchyd/
Fandom: LOTR
Archive: OEAM Feedback: Yes! Always!
Disclaimer: We do not own LotR or any characters, lands, or items from the Tolkien world. They belong to their respective copyright holders.
Rating: NC-17 Warnings: slash, het, incest, twincest, rape, torture, BDSM, kink, mpreg (eventually), violence, angst Beta: Helena Snow-Renn, Chloe Amethyst
Cast: Thranduil/Erestor, Thranduil/Gwindor, Gwindor/Erestor, Gwindor/Thranduil/Erestor, Maglor/Maedhros, Maglor/Daeron, Maedhros/Fingon, Daeron/Thranduil, Thranduil/OFC, Thranduil/OMC, Daeron/OMC, Erestor/OMC, Glorfindel/Gelmir, Amrod/Amras, Legolas/OMC, Námo/Ingwë, OMC/OMC, OFC/OFC, OMC/OFC... just to name a few! Summary: In the Seventh Age of Man, all the Elves who had wandered through Arda have returned to the shores of Aman.
Author Note: This fic is dedicated to the memory of Di, who had been a great lady. She left us far too soon.

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February, Tirion, Aman

Gwindor growled in frustration as the clamour of colliding steel resounded through the domed room. His arms ached; his legs burned from the strain of his exertion as he advanced, retreated, and wove his way around his opponent. Gwindor's breathing was ragged and laboured as he struggled to retain his dignity under the powerful onslaught. Blood rushed in his ears, and he ground his teeth, his pulse pounding painfully throughout the myriad of bruises he had obtained in the last two months, all in different stages of healing.

He swiped hair from his drenched face, his long braid clinging to his sweaty back despite the jarring of his body as he blocked yet another of Thranduil's vicious strikes. He held up his hand to signal a moment's pause, and he took three steps backward, resting for a moment as he regarded Thranduil.

Every day was the same.

Each day, they met on this battlefield, one of unknown rules and increasing fury. In the beginning, Thranduil's hits had been barely felt, but by the end of the second week, he used the full force of his strength. It seemed he took perverse pleasure in leaving Gwindor battered after every session. The only sounds that permeated the practice chamber during those two arduous hours were metal striking metal or the thump of flesh meeting blade. If they spoke, Thranduil always had some poisonous, cruel barb to spit at him, leaving Gwindor furious and even more confused.

After those sessions, the true torture would begin.

A different voice would break the quiet of the estate as Thranduil took another to his bed. At first, it had been one every few days. Then, it became one every day. More recently, though, Thranduil had no less than two trysts a day, sometimes three, and *always* with a different Elf. Gwindor wondered how in the world Thranduil was able to find so many partners! He almost wished for silence.

But even silence was unbearable.

Strained, full of unspoken things that he neither understood nor wanted to understand.

Thranduil became more and more restless, like a wolf in a cage. He stalked the halls of his home, flaunted himself after each conquest, and there was now a hardness in his gaze that had not been there the previous autumn. As the days passed, they came together for longer sessions, Gwindor using the pretence of alleviating Thranduil's undisclosed stress to vent his own frustrations.

Frustrations which escalated with each scream from above, with each arrogant smirk, with every snide, hurtful insult spoken and not, until Gwindor had been pushed to the edge of his reason.

To the very brink of his sanity.

Once his vision cleared, Gwindor raised his blade once more, and the fight resumed.

"You bore me, Gwindor," Thranduil spat, hitting the Noldo hard across the hip with the flat of his blade. "Hardly a challenge at all!"

Gwindor had to grit his teeth to keep from vocalizing the pain of the blow. Another blow, another insult. It enraged him! "Keep your acid tongue behind your teeth, and *spar*," he demanded. With a flurry of movement, he parried across his body, spun for momentum, and landed a hit of his own on the back of Thranduil's thigh.

Thranduil's knee buckled, and he stumbled forward. Gwindor had little time to savour his small victory, though, as Thranduil planted the tip of his massive sword into the floor and threw a vicious kick behind him, catching his opponent firmly in the stomach. He heard Gwindor fall to the floor, and he spun around, yanking his sword up, eyes narrowed as he stalked over to the fallen Noldo. "How was that? Was that good for you?" Heated sapphire eyes looked over his sprawled form. "I must admit, you do look best on your back, writhing and panting."

For many moments, Gwindor could do little more than gasp for breath, each rushing movement of his diaphragm sending a shock of pain through his torso. His sword still held tightly in his hand, he eventually shifted to his side, curling up in order to alleviate some of the strain breathing produced with his torso elongated. He seethed, waiting for his voice to return, finally rasping out, "I'm not... one of your whores..."

Thranduil crouched down, that annoying, priggish expression on his face. "You could be," he purred, eyes glittering as he gazed at his felled rival. His voice took on a sadistic, cold quality as he asked, "May I kiss you?" The question, once asked as a gentle offering of warmth and comfort, now seemed warped, a dark reflection of itself through a cracked mirror.

The words cut Gwindor deeply, but the *tone* was even more devastating. It confirmed, all the more clearly, what he meant to Thranduil: nothing. The kiss they had shared two months prior was, in that instant, twisted into something that 'elevated' Gwindor's status to that of a whore. It demeaned him; it made him into all he had been in Angband. Once again, he felt he was being kept around simply for the perverse pleasures of others, and it left him hollow and broken inside. Moaning softly in pain, he forced himself to his feet. His expression was dull and unreadable as he shuffled over to Thranduil.

Grey eyes met cerulean and Gwindor held that gaze, the stillness adding to the eerie quality of his sudden silence. It seemed a small eternity that he stood there, his eyes unwavering, until a subtle shift came over him. In a single, powerful stroke, Gwindor lashed out, his fist connecting harshly with Thranduil's jaw. His gut contracted agonizingly, protesting the jarring movement along with his burning muscles and swimming head. His breathing ragged and arduous, Gwindor sneered at Thranduil.

"You disgust me."

The strike shocked Thranduil, his jaw snapping shut with his tongue partially between his teeth. Blood gushed into his mouth, but it wasn't the pain radiating from his mouth that made Thranduil's eyes shimmer for a moment... it was those three words. He stared at Gwindor and actually *saw* him; to Thranduil, it seemed to be the first time he'd seen the Noldo. Had Gwindor's eyes always seemed so haunted? Had they always held that deep, pulsing hurt begging for understanding and compassion?

Thranduil threw his sword down and spat blood onto the floor, the crimson smeared over swelling lips. With a final dark, shadowed glance at Gwindor, Thranduil turned on his heel and stormed from the room, the door slamming sharply behind him.

Gwindor stared into the emptiness of the chamber, swaying dangerously on his feet before finally releasing his sword. The clattering metal rang through his ears, startling him from his dazed state. With a tremulous exhalation, he crumpled to the floor like a marionette whose strings were suddenly sheared. In one blinding, despairing moment, all he could feel was pain and hopelessness, and it forced an anguished sob from his bruised chest.

It was this sound Rhovandir was greeted with as he entered the practice room, having passed Thranduil, bloody face and eyes full of regret warning the elder Elf not to follow him. Rhovandir had then made the only decision he felt he could make: he sought out Gwindor, for if Thranduil was distraught, he was certain Gwindor was traumatized.

He crossed the wooden floor, kicking the swords out of his path, and knelt down beside Gwindor, pulling the limp, weeping Elf into his lap. "My Lord Gwindor," he said, concern making his voice deeper. "Gwindor, what has happened?" The tension in the household could not be denied, but Rhovandir now questioned his choice to remain silent, allowing the pair to hash out their differences on their own terms.

The Noldo merely wept, huddled against Rhovandir's stomach. The sounds were painful to hear, and Rhovandir realised Gwindor was not able to speak. The sobs were great, heaving gasps, rough and raw as his shoulders shook almost violently. Be it some sort of physical pain or an emotional blow, he simply could voice no answer to Rhovandir's question.

With great care born from ages of tending the wounded, Rhovandir lifted Gwindor into his arms. "Come, my lord. Let us tend to you," he whispered. Slowly, he walked from the room, the trembling mass held gingerly against him, as if Gwindor were the most precious gem within Thranduil's treasury.

***

The Elf was broad in the shoulders with silver hair sticking to his sweaty back as he clung to the rocking table in the centre of the kitchen. Thranduil's thick shaft pierced him repeatedly from behind, and the sounds of wet flesh and enthusiastic moans caressed his ears. He had found the Elf wandering the markets, and after striking up a brief conversation wherein Thranduil had learned the Elf's name and where he was from, he'd returned with him to the estate and promptly bent him over the main working table.

He knew Gwindor had been moving about, and he'd known that the Noldo would eventually make his way down into the kitchen. This tryst was a blatant message that Gwindor would not be able to ignore, as the kitchen was Gwindor's space, his refuge when he felt overwhelmed, which Thranduil had noticed during his employee's time with him thus far. Although, he had to admit, the table was of ideal height... Thranduil forced himself not to climax until the damned Elf walked in on them. It was a calculated, cruel slap to Gwindor's face, and Thranduil winced with the pain that blazed along his jaw as he smiled nastily at his current partner's back.

Gwindor had spent hours in the care of Rhovandir, who had kindly bathed him and tended to his wounds, dressing them with numbing salve. There was only so much the Elf could do, however, and the deeper bruises on Gwindor's hip, midsection, and left hand throbbed incessantly with his heartbeat as he made his way down the stairs with heavy, ungraceful movements. Steadying himself against the wall, he paused when he heard the all-too-familiar sounds of Thranduil's passion.

It was the last sound Gwindor wanted to hear in his current state, and he felt bitterness rise in his throat. He had been pulled so taut with the strain of his confrontation with Thranduil, there was no more room for accommodation. He had reached his breaking point. And with another punctuating cry from his kitchen, Gwindor finally snapped.

"Have you lost your mind, Thranduil?!" Gwindor bellowed, and in his wrath, he looked every bit the valiant warrior who had fought his way through the host of the Enemy to the very gates of Angband.

Thranduil paused, buried to the hilt within the body of his companion, and glanced over his shoulder, a look of amused contempt in his eyes. "Why, not at all." He looked away and began to thrust once more, the fabric of his robe shielding Gwindor from actually seeing the act. "I happen to know exactly where it is at this moment, and it does not wish to be disturbed by the prudish conceit of the Noldor."

"Get out!" Gwindor screamed, and his face was like white fire, stoked into a terrifying blaze. "I'm giving you a single minute, Thranduil, and when I return, that Elf will be *gone* and you will be *dressed*!" Commanding and fell, his tone brooked no argument, and he turned on his heel, disappearing into the hallway, where he paced and counted.

With a colourful, quiet curse, Thranduil pulled out of the Elf. "Go," he said in a low, dangerous tone. As the Elf hurriedly yanked his trousers up, looking back once at the king before disappearing out the door, Thranduil tied the sash of his robe loosely. He crossed his arms over his chest, annoyance dark in his blue eyes as he leaned against the sink basin, waiting for his insubordinate employee to return.

After precisely one minute, Gwindor pushed through the swinging door again, his fiery eyes narrowed as he regarded Thranduil with indignation. "Tell me why you are *punishing* me, Thranduil," he demanded, crossing his arms to hide his hands, which trembled uncontrollably.

Placidly, Thranduil met Gwindor's fierce gaze, one golden eyebrow raised. "I do not have the slightest idea what you are referring to."

"I am not *daft*, Thranduil. I have lived under your roof for seven months now, and I am keen enough to know that you never do anything without an explicit purpose in mind."

"And how do my sexual exploits concern you, Gwindor?" Thranduil pushed away from the sink basin and took several steps towards Gwindor, licking his lips suggestively. "Unless you are interested in finally becoming part of them..."

Gwindor's glare narrowed even further, Thranduil's sexually crude behaviour not affecting him in the slightest. "They don't! It's not the sex, Thranduil! You always choose to have sex when you know I am in the estate. You approach me directly afterwards, asking inane questions, just to make sure you're in my presence after your lusts are sated. You may be fucking an endless stream of Elves I do not know, but your actions are directed at *me*, and I want to know why you are punishing me. It started the moment I refused your kiss, and since our first sparring match it has become all the more apparent. What have I done?" he asked desperately. "What are you trying to accomplish, Thranduil? What do you *want* from me?!"

Thranduil's eyes were as dead as the gems they resembled as he stared down at Gwindor. There was no response he could give, no reasoning either he or Gwindor would understand, and so he said the only thing he could. "Supper had best be on the table at sunset." He brushed past Gwindor, exiting the kitchen, his feet soundless as they ascended the stairs.

Gaping with outrage, Gwindor yelled after Thranduil, his voice carrying through the corridors of the estate. "Make your own damned supper!" He paced for several moments before letting out a despairing cry of hysteria. Throwing up his arms, he grabbed his cloak from its wooden peg near the door, slipped into his unlaced boots, and trudged out into the sudden snowstorm that raged through the cold streets of Tirion.

***

Elrond watched Gwindor frantically pace across the room. He had listened intently as the distraught Elf had vented his confusion and rage, and he had lost count of the number of times Thranduil's name had tumbled bitterly from Gwindor's lips.

When Gwindor had turned up on the doorstep of Elrond's estate, he had been pale as the snow flying around him in violent, careless drafts of wind. The burning gaze set in the blanched features had caused Celebrían to step back after opening the door to him. Glorfindel and Erestor had gathered in the entryway when Celebrían gasped Gwindor's name, and it had been Glorfindel who'd escorted the deathly quiet Elf into Elrond's office, leaving the pair alone. Elrond had been shocked to see the state of Gwindor's body, the dark circles under his eyes, and he did not speak, allowing Gwindor the time he needed. After a long, tense moment, Gwindor unleashed a litany of curses in various languages before the tirade began.

Elrond had listened patiently, calmly, his gaze following Gwindor's every movement, noting the stiffness, the winces, and the pauses to clutch at his gut before continuing.

Now, the worst of Thranduil's offences given, Gwindor's ability to ignore his pains gradually vanished, and he sat heavily in a chair opposite from Elrond, panting with physical agony and emotional distress. Elrond left Gwindor for a few short minutes, returning with a basket of supplies. "Remove your shirt and trousers, Gwindor," he said gently, opening several pots and bottles, placing them on a low table near the Noldo's chair.

Gwindor complied weakly, unbuttoning his tunic and shirt before shrugging them off. His trousers proved more difficult, forcing him to bend over and peel the fabric from the bruises on his hip and legs. His exhaustion was strikingly clear in the way he slumped back in his chair once his task was complete, unable to hold himself upright as his head swam.

Elrond's hands touched various bruises, seeking where the most damage had been done, and he began to tend to the deep, dark bruise that spanned Gwindor's stomach. No words were spoken as he used a cool liquid that smelled faintly floral over the massive mark, and then massaged a thick ointment that warmed the more he rubbed. "Why does Thranduil's behaviour bother you, Gwindor?" he finally asked, the words soft and mild.

Forced to think about it, Gwindor's brow furrowed deeply as the pain faded from his abdomen. "All he is directing at me... I don't know how to handle it, my lord. The raw sensuality, the vindictive aggression..." His voice trailed off as he had trouble articulating the rest that he felt.

"Why do you stay? Most Elves would leave under such circumstances, and yet you remain," Elrond commented, moving to the bright bruise along Gwindor's hip.

Gwindor shifted uncomfortably to give Elrond better access, laughing mirthlessly, the sound hollow. "I don't know." He cradled his face in his hands, dark bangs falling over the bruised skin of his left hand. "Perhaps I *should* leave..."

Elrond moved from bruise to bruise, methodical in his task. Under his hands, flesh warmed and pain receded, but it was not Elrond's primary goal. Touching Gwindor allowed him a more empathetic connection with the Elf, and it was that connection that allowed Elrond to sense the emotional turmoil raging under exhaustion and betrayal. "You have been in Thranduil's employ for several months now," he said, tending to the final bruise. He worked the ointment into Gwindor's left hand, his grey eyes lifting to capture Gwindor's. "Perhaps it is time for you to take a holiday."

Gwindor sighed, a small grimace interrupting the slow exhale as tendrils of pain shot up his arm, pulsing before they gradually ebbed into vague warmth. "Where would I go?"

"There are the other Elven realms," Elrond said, sitting back on his heels with his hands clasped in his lap. "Alqualondë, Valmar, Formenos... However, if you would like my honest opinion?" Gwindor nodded once, solemnly, and Elrond smiled. "I suggest you sojourn to Lórien, Lord Irmo's realm. His gardens have always been a place of rest, and it is rest you need, my friend."

Gwindor's lips twitched into a hesitant smile, though his eyes were filled with sadness. "My dreams have been troubled of late. The nightmares are worse than before," he confided quietly. "I suppose it is time I take counsel with Lord Irmo... as so many have proposed."

Elrond nodded, thinking it the wisest course to set. "How soon will you leave?" He did not envy Gwindor having to tell Thranduil of his intent.

It was a thought that weighed heavily on Gwindor's mind as well, causing a maelstrom of emotions to whirl through his head, though he tried his hardest to keep them hidden from Elrond's knowing gaze. "The day after tomorrow."

The Half-Elf stood, smiling kindly down at Gwindor. "Tonight you will remain here. The storm has worsened, and you are exhausted. Returning to Thranduil's estate is not an option." He was met with silence and a resigned nod, but when Gwindor began to reach for his clothing to redress himself, Elrond stopped the movement with a soft gesture. Walking to the entrance of the room, the door cracked open as if on cue, and Elrond took the robe that was instantly offered to him by Glorfindel. Returning to Gwindor, he helped the Elf to his feet and wrapped him loosely in the soft fabric. There was no resistance from Gwindor, as it seemed the fire had been drained out of him, and Elrond carefully handed him over to Glorfindel, who gingerly supported his weary friend. "You will be right down the hall from me," he said comfortingly to Gwindor, before turning to Glorfindel. "Watch over him, and should he have need of me, do not hesitate to come."

He watched as Glorfindel led Gwindor away, and then he closed his door. With a sigh, he set about replacing his supplies before exiting the room himself, feeling weighted down by a darkness unknown in Aman. As he passed the kitchen, he snatched from the racks a bottle of wine and three glasses, and then set off for Erestor's room, knowing Glorfindel would join them shortly.

***

Thranduil had been waiting for him in the kitchen the moment he returned, and Gwindor let out an annoyed sigh as he removed his boots.

"You are late," Thranduil said, hooded eyes following Gwindor. "I told you to have supper on the table at sunset, and it is now mid-morning. You did not return home, and you did not perform your duties." His voice took on a razor's edge. "You failed, Gwindor."

Unaffected by the acidity of Thranduil's words, and unwilling to apologize, Gwindor stiffly hung his cloak on its peg near the door. "Then deduct it from my wages," he responded flatly. "I care not."

"If you do not care, then perhaps I should simply relieve you of your position within my household," Thranduil snapped.

"You don't have to," Gwindor snapped back. "I'm leaving anyway."

A deafening silence fell between them as Thranduil merely stared at Gwindor. Quietly, he asked, "You are quitting?"

Gwindor sighed, lowering his eyes for a moment before meeting Thranduil's gaze again. "I am not quitting... I am going on holiday."

"When are you leaving?" Thranduil demanded, and then, almost hesitantly, "When will you return?"

Another sigh and a thick swallow were the only indications of Gwindor's discomfort as he looked away once more. "I leave tomorrow. You once said I should seek out Lord Irmo. My dreams have worsened over the last fortnight. It is time I took your advice. I am not sure when I will return." There was a long pause before Gwindor met Thranduil's blue eyes evenly. "But I *will* return."

The Elvenking's expression became closed, his eyes distant and cold. That chill could even be heard in his words. "I leave for Laicanan in two months."

Gwindor got a sinking feeling in his gut when he realised he would never see Thranduil again. He could not assume he would be welcome to return with Thranduil to Laicanan, nor could he draw out his stay for another two months with the way Thranduil was treating him.

Thranduil held Gwindor's gaze for several minutes, waiting for... something... and when it did not come, he turned his eyes to the meal he had been preparing for himself. "You are dismissed, Gwindor."

There was nothing more to be said, and, in a rare show of formality he did not tend to exude near Thranduil, Gwindor bowed low and took his leave.

***

Anor had not risen when Thranduil stepped from his home out into the icy morning. The storm had passed during the night, leaving everything under a fresh blanket of snow. He walked with purpose to the stable, the sacks Gwindor had packed and left in the hall in his hands. With hushed tones, Thranduil coaxed Tuilinn from her warm stall and out into the main corridor of the stable. He sang to her as he used the curry comb, making her hair shine beautifully in the light of the gas lamps. He took his time, as if he could put off the inevitable departure of his cook, and Tuilinn nosed his cheek.

"Aye," he murmured. "He is leaving."

And, for a reason he could not name, his heart was heavy with the knowledge.

Since the journey would be long, Thranduil chose to put bridle and saddle on Tuilinn, and to her saddle, he tied Gwindor's bags. His hands lingered on her hindquarters as the sky began to lighten, and with a sigh, Thranduil led her into the paddock.

"You must wait. He will arrive soon," he explained to her. With a final pat to her nose, he returned to the house, to the kitchen, and waited for Gwindor to appear.

Gwindor appeared just as the first ray of sunshine broke through the trees, casting a warm glow through the kitchen. He was dressed for his journey, warm tunic and leggings encasing his body, hiding the bruises that peppered his pale skin, making his movements tight and his limbs less flexible. Gwindor was blissfully unaware that every garment he wore was designed with Thranduil's tastes in mind, and he started when he saw Thranduil waiting for him. Blinking a few times, he stared at the Elvenking, charcoal eyes shining with uncertainty.

It did not escape Thranduil's notice how the colours chosen for Gwindor were some of his favourites, and that the cloth cut and type were specifically known to Laicanan. He looked Gwindor over, his eyes flashing with what might be seen as regret, before motioning for the Noldo to follow him. They left the main house, Gwindor keeping several steps behind Thranduil as he was led to the large paddock in front of the stables. Tuilinn stood proudly, decked out in some of Thranduil's finest tack, Gwindor's luggage secured to her saddle. Thranduil stopped beside her, patting her shoulder, unable to meet Gwindor's eyes.

"This is my gift to you," Thranduil said, his voice uncharacteristically rough. "Tuilinn is now yours."

Gwindor was shocked to silence, his eyes wide as they darted from Thranduil to Tuilinn, and then back again. He had packed light, under the assumption that he was walking to Lórien as he had walked to Tirion upon his rebirth. Taking a few steps forward, he whispered softly to Tuilinn, rubbing her nose and neck lovingly before turning back to Thranduil. He looked up, unable to speak to the tall Sinda as a lump formed in his throat, though his gratitude was clearly visible in his dark eyes.

Finally meeting Gwindor's gaze, Thranduil saw the Elf in the newly risen dawn. Had his hair always shimmered with deep reds, like a dying fire in the night? As if seeing Gwindor for the first time, Thranduil was struck by how truly beautiful Gwindor was. He swallowed repeatedly, his throat dry, knowing he would most likely never see Gwindor again. "May I kiss you?" he whispered, and though his tone was soft, it displayed no noticeable note of sadness.

Gwindor closed his eyes for a moment, but he was nodding his assent before his mind could debate his response. Biting his lower lip, his eyes fluttered open, obsidian locking with sapphire. "You may."

Thranduil cupped Gwindor's face tenderly, the touch so light as to almost not be felt, and he brought their lips together in a chaste kiss. He did not seek to deepen it, keeping his lips closed, but he lingered in the simple caress. His eyes remained partially open, memorizing the hue and depth of Gwindor's gaze in this moment. He was reluctant to part from the Noldo, as he knew that when he did, Gwindor would leave him... and, Thranduil thought to himself, who could blame him?

Tears pricked at the backs of Gwindor's eyes. It was a final caress, the last one he would ever feel from Thranduil. He would always remember this kiss; every detail of the soft lips against his was stained upon his memory, and he could not stop himself as his right hand came up to lay atop Thranduil's at his cheek. His touch was warm and soft as they lingered, drawing out the moment to its completion.

Hands fell away, lips parted, and Thranduil stepped back from Gwindor, finality in the separating of their bodies. "Safe journey," he murmured.

Gwindor nodded, taking in a deep breath and releasing it shakily before mounting Tuilinn. "You as well, Thranduil," he all but whispered, unable to keep the sadness from his voice and the depths of his eyes.

Thranduil walked from the paddock, his gait confident and unrushed, and too soon, he disappeared into the house. He leaned against the door after shutting it, eyes raised skyward, the sound of Gwindor's sorrow bothering him deeply. After taking several breaths, Thranduil shoved off from the door and mounted the stairs, finding solace in his private library near his chambers. He lit no lamps, and the hearth remained cold; he did not need to watch Gwindor depart.

He knew instinctively when the Elf rode from his home and his life.

Gwindor's head was downcast as Tuilinn led him slowly from Thranduil's estate, and he stopped only once to look back, right before the bend in the road that would cause the snowy rooftop to disappear from his view. Tears streaked down his face as his eyes lingered on the place he had called home since his rebirth. He felt his despair crystallize before him in every breath that left his lips, and with a final exhale, he squeezed his eyes shut and spurred Tuilinn forward.

He was gone.

***

Day had passed into evening, and evening had bled into night. Thranduil had not moved from his position on the sofa in his library. His muscles screamed at him to shift, his skin begged to have a fire lit, but he did nothing. Could do nothing, for what he could have done was now a moot point to be debated by his mind and his heart.

Arasiel had always said he was a rash, cruel man, and Thranduil still wondered why the woman had loved him so. In fact, at this moment, with the house so empty and so quiet, Thranduil began to wonder why *anyone* bothered to love him. His actions were selfish, his words spiteful, and his behaviour unacceptable... and what was it about that damned Noldorin cook that made him suddenly question his entire lifestyle!

Out of the shadows, Erestor emerged into a slender column of moonlight that sent his sharp, calculating features into contrast. He regarded Thranduil silently for many moments before moving closer. Pulling a bottle from the folds of his cloak, he retrieved two ornate flutes from a nearby table and poured each of them a full glass of wine. He heaved a sigh, approaching Thranduil and offering his friend one of the glasses with a disappointed glare. "Were you *trying* to run him off?"

Though Thranduil accepted the glass, he did not drink, his eyes focused on the desolately cold fireplace. "I have no idea what I was trying to do."

TBC...