Ahyamë

Title: Ahyamë : Change
Chapter: Thirteen
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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April, Tirion, Aman

He'd woken late once more. It was the fourth morning this month.

Gwindor had been away for two months, and Thranduil felt his absence acutely, much to his dismay. His feet thudded dully as he walked from room to room within his vast estate, frowning when he found himself in Gwindor's empty quarters. He looked around, the room as neat as when Gwindor left, and Thranduil walked a little farther in. His eyes swept the room, and he noticed a bookshelf on the far side of it that he knew had not been in there when he'd assigned his cook the space.

Thranduil eyed it, coming closer, and noticed that, carefully displayed, were small Elven dolls. Male and female, all dressed in the colours and styles he had seen all those years ago in Nargothrond. It dawned on Thranduil that *this* had been what Gwindor spent his wages on... pieces of his lost history. His head whipped around, eyes falling to a beautifully draped quilt emblazoned with Orodreth's crest. On top of the dressers were chess sets -- intricately carved pieces of marble, eyes of dragons and Elves sparkling brightly in the midday light. Looking closer, he realised the one chessboard with the wargs was the very set he'd battled Ereinion on.

The crown jewel of the room, though, was a small lamp beside Gwindor's bed. Thranduil crept closer, bending at the waist to peer into the bluish, flickering lamp. He simply stared at it, mouth agape as the knowledge of what he was witnessing sank in.

"It's a Fëanorian lamp," he breathed, fingers touching the top. Magic sizzled under his fingers, and Thranduil smiled faintly. While the magic was old and deep, the lamp itself was relatively new, and the magic that lit the flame within had the distinct feel of Gwindor. "Such secrets, Gwindor... why did I never think to ask after them?"

He sighed, stood, and made his way out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. Thranduil *missed* Gwindor, and it made his head hurt, his gut roil. Restlessness clawed at him, made his skin crawl. He began to pace the upper floor, darkness enveloping him like a thick cloak, and he did not know how to alleviate the feeling. He was lonely! There had been no sweet smells from the kitchen, no quiet humming from the library, no clashing of swords in the morning. Everything was still. Deathly still, for even Rhovandir kept his distance from the main house since Gwindor's departure.

A blanket of melancholy had fallen over the Elvenking's home, and none dared to disturb it. The last lover he had taken had been that Elf from Alqualondë, and that had left a sour taste in his mouth. It had driven Gwindor away...

...which had been his intent, had it not?

"Dammit!" Thranduil shouted to the silent house. This was all Gwindor's fault! This... this... loneliness was because of Gwindor. His lack of intimate company, the cooling of his passions, they were all the annoying Noldo's fault, and it ate at Thranduil. He wanted to hear Gwindor's laugh again. He wanted to see him smile. He wanted to *see* him!

He raced down the stairs, his jaw clenched, and he stormed through the lower rooms. A city of walls. A city of Elves he did not know and did not want to know. He was stuck in this city, and all he wanted was to return home. Thranduil wanted his trees, wanted to feel the verdant touch of Laicanan against his spirit, and, damn it all, he wanted to press his lips to Gwindor's once more.

Thranduil burst through the kitchen door and stopped short, eyes narrowing as he watched Rhovandir prepare a small meal for them. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here, Sire," Rhovandir said mildly. "If you mean why am I in your kitchen..." His grey gaze focused on Thranduil. "You have not eaten in the last four days, Ardaur. That is not advisable nor is it acceptable."

"I am not hungry," Thranduil snapped.

Rhovandir was unfazed, as always. "Of course not. However, you will eat. Sit, Ardaur."

Only Rhovandir would dare to command Thranduil. With an annoyed glare, he sat at the table. "Should I count myself lucky that Daeron is not present to demand I not only eat, but enjoy it as well?"

"You should count yourself lucky Daeron is not here to kick you in the ass for your behaviour," Rhovandir replied, placing a plate before Thranduil. "He taught you better."

Thranduil averted his eyes, feeling a moment of shame. "He did."

Rhovandir sat, sipping his water as he regarded his king. "Perhaps you should take a holiday. There is that small forest due east, south of Formenos. Perhaps no more than a three-day ride. Spend the summer season among the trees."

"Why would I do that?" Thranduil asked as he began to pick at his meal.

Knowing, ancient eyes skewered Thranduil. "You are not leaving for Laicanan, Ardaur."

Thranduil leaned back in his chair. "No. I am not."

"Then a season in Ílëa Taurë will be just what you need," Rhovandir smiled. His smile hid his worry, for Thranduil had been eager to return to Laicanan before Gwindor's departure. Now, his king aimlessly wandered the home and grounds, taking no lovers, and barely speaking to his friends. If Rhovandir did not know better, he would have sworn Thranduil was in mourning.

In silence, they completed their meal, and after Rhovandir cleaned the kitchen, he disappeared out of the main house. Thranduil sat at the table, lost in thought, until the sun sank low in the sky. He blinked, rose from his chair, and exited the house, walking purposefully to the stables. He mounted Gladho'laur, leaving her tack behind, and set out for Ílëa Taurë just as the Sea swallowed the sun.

Two days, stopping only so Gladho'laur could rest, passed by the time the forest came into sight. He dismounted a handful of leagues from the wood, whispering to his mare that she was to remain in the area, but was free to wander. With a final, fond pat to her nose, Thranduil ran towards the forest, not looking back, the tranquillity of the trees already soothing his ragged, confused spirit. Within moments, the Elvenking disappeared into the darkness of the Ílëa Taurë.

***

Gwindor awoke with a start, jostled from his mercifully dreamless sleep by the soft nudging of Tuilinn's cool nose. The horse had been the most steadfast companion Gwindor could have hoped for in such a state as he was, and he took a few deep breaths before reassuring the steed that all was well. His dreams had continued to haunt him during the first portion of his journey, but they soon faded into nothingness as he rode away from Tirion.

The first two nights on the plains had been the most difficult. A thin layer of February snow had blanketed the grassy earth, making sleep uncomfortable even with the bedroll Thranduil had packed for him. Then his dreams had assaulted him, visions of searing pain and suffocating darkness that ultimately roused him in a cold sweat. But he always woke alone, and the loneliness was such a stark contrast that he had once again taken to holding his sleep at bay.

His mind was fragile, pushed to the breaking point, and the days and nights seemed to stretch on forever as he rode Tuilinn as hard and long as the steed could handle before resting and tending to her. Gwindor was desperate to arrive in Lórien, desperate for the answers the Vala of Dreams could supply and for the repose that had been denied him while he lived under Thranduil's roof.

Thranduil.

The Elvenking entered his thoughts frequently, though Gwindor's reactions were as varied and unpredictable as the weather in Aman, which shifted erratically as Spring came and he made his way south. There were moments in which he wanted to hate Thranduil because he despised the way his employer had treated him. He felt scorned and abused, belittled by an Elf he wanted so badly to admire.

Thranduil was a survivor. Darkness and shadow had consumed Greenwood, and Thranduil had fought against it until he was victorious. He had never given up and eventually delivered his people from that darkness into safety and prosperity. It was something that had made Gwindor's heart swell when he had read it in the history books, as well as when he had asked Erestor about it in more detail. Thranduil had protected those he loved when all hope had seemed lost.

It was something Gwindor had ultimately failed to do.

His admiration of Thranduil was a constant source of conflict for him. Gwindor wanted to hold Thranduil in the best regard, but the Elvenking made it so difficult! It seemed that every step he took forward was met with a sharp slap that would send him reeling three steps backwards. Gwindor had grown tired of the dance. Trying to gauge Thranduil's motives and his intent was exhausting, and he had little enough patience for the sexual torments he was put to each day.

He simply didn't understand. What had he done so wrong? Certainly he had made up for his rejection when they had kissed following the sparring match... Gwindor brought his fingers up to his lips, the memory of that kiss, of the reaction Thranduil had pulled from him, causing a shiver of remembered pleasure and repressed disgust to run down his spine. Did Thranduil not see how hard he'd been trying? He wanted to make the Elvenking happy, to see those rare, affectionate smiles directed at him. From the food he meticulously prepared, to the time he spent being mercilessly pummelled in the practice rotunda, to those giant steps towards an intimacy he had been unready to face, he'd only strived to win the barbaric Elf's approval.

Approval constantly denied to him.

Even leagues from Tirion, Thranduil dominated his thoughts. He could not escape! The mount he now owned had been given to him by Thranduil... the final contact he'd been granted had been Thranduil's lips against his own... and his humiliation, the absolutely mortifying, sinking feeling he'd lived with each day while working for Thranduil had also been a sour gift shoved into his hands.

It hadn't been fair, and the bitterness of his situation brought tears to Gwindor's eyes, though he refused to let them fall. He would not give Thranduil any more of his sorrow. The Wood-Elf had already taken so much from him, even if he was unaware of it.

Rising from his place on the ground, he rolled up his bedding and blanket, meticulously brushing the grass from the dense fabric. He tried to distract himself for a moment by brushing his hair and braiding it back from his face, but with a frustrated sigh, he abandoned the endeavour, staring up at the sky while taking deep, calming breaths. The moon had set and the night was black as pitch but for the soft starlight that occasionally cast a gentle glow through the clouds. Though Gwindor guessed sunrise to be some hours off, he packed his supplies onto Tuilinn's saddle and they were quickly on their way. He was close to rounding the final mountain that hid Lórien from his view, and he was determined to reach the dwelling as soon as possible, even if that meant not sleeping for the next three days.

The air was cool and moist as Tuilinn slowly built up speed. Another storm was coming; Gwindor could feel it in the texture of the air as it swept through his messy bangs and rushed coolly against his skin.

Two months.

Gwindor needed a bath.

It was simple thoughts like those that kept him going when it seemed his body would give out in exhaustion. A warm bath, a soft bed, an inviting hearth with a roaring fire. He rode on.

***

A rush of breath left Gwindor as he gazed at the beauty of Irmo's Gardens, illuminated by the early morning sunlight. Spring was in full bloom, and Gwindor found himself fighting back tears as he took in the array of colours that were painted in each beautiful bloom, some delicate and mild, others ethereal in their brilliance. With the dirt crusting his skin and hair, he nearly felt himself a blemish to the serene landscape, and an embarrassed flush came over him as he dismounted unsteadily and led Tuilinn into the paradise on foot.

He was met immediately by a petite woman dressed simply in white linen, her pale hair swept back in crown of blossoms. Her smile was welcoming, gentle and compassionate as she held her slim hand out to him. She might have been mistaken for an Elf if not for her eyes.

Deep, ancient pools of indigo that glowed faintly with an otherworldly light, they were eyes that saw *through* those they looked at.

"Gwindor," she said, and her voice was like living music. His name became a caress of butterfly wings against a cheek, sweet rain upon a parched tongue, and the scent of marigolds and cinnamon on a faint breeze. "Welcome to Lórien."

His eyes fell shut in bliss, and Gwindor leaned weakly against Tuilinn, inclining his head respectfully to the Maia. Everything about her radiated a sense of calm that overtook him like a soothing balm, and a single tear trailed down his dirty face. That scent was familiar and comforting, but it took him a few moments to place it.

Thranduil.

Gwindor could not help but smile at the irony. Marigolds and cinnamon. Even here in Lórien, he could not escape Thranduil.

His fingers twitched in Tuilinn's mane, and his legs gave out beneath him as darkness consumed his vision.

***

Irmo was much like his twin, tall with dark hair and pale skin, though his eyes were a warm blue-violet where his brother's were sharp cold-fire. His robes, muted violet and silver, were light, and they seemed to compliment his surroundings. He bent over the Elf in the bed under the thatched roof of the small hut hidden among the milky flowers with wide, shimmering petals. Irmo smiled, the expression amused and enigmatic.

"Gwindor," he called quietly. "Gwindor, it is time you wake." The voice was commanding, but softly so, and it demanded Gwindor wake from his three-day rest.

The voice reached Gwindor as if from a great distance, gently pulling him from unconsciousness. Gwindor's charcoal eyes cleared, and he instantly became aware of the presence leaning over him, as well as the comfort of his surroundings. He moved to sit up, finding his body clean and encased in comfortable, white linen. A faint, embarrassed smile graced his face as he leaned up against the headboard of the bed. "Lord Irmo," he said respectfully with a voice still rough with sleep. Gwindor knew instinctively that this was the Vala he had searched for; the same air of peace and tranquillity emitted from the being's very spirit, from every note that escaped his lips. "How long have I been asleep?" he asked quietly, brushing his fingers through his hair only to find it braided back from his face.

"Three days," Irmo said, standing up straight. "I think it is an adequate time to rest, considering you rode hard for three days merely to arrive." He chuckled. "Was I that interesting of an attraction, Gwindor?"

Out of habit, Gwindor answered the question immediately. "I needed... to get away from Thranduil." He had wanted to say he was merely seeking Irmo's counsel on his dreams, but he had a feeling Irmo already knew the true reason behind his visit.

"I know," Irmo murmured. He looked over his shoulder at the twilight of his garden. "Walk with me." He turned on his heel and began to walk, the pace lazy so Gwindor might keep up with him easily.

Rising from the bed, Gwindor methodically replaced the sheets before hurrying after Irmo, falling into step behind him. He was suddenly very nervous, and his hands began to twitch uncomfortably as he kept his silence, not knowing what to say.

Irmo pulled a large, bright green apple from his robes and offered it to Gwindor. "Here. I am certain you are famished, and this will give you something to do with your nervous hands."

Gwindor smiled shyly, biting his lip as he accepted the proffered apple. He turned the shapely fruit around a couple times, both to admire its colour and to give his restless hands an excuse to fidget. He took a couple quick bites to satisfy the sudden ache of his stomach, and then slowed himself down, enjoying the apple's crisp flesh and its tangy flavour, which faded slowly to sweetness. A sigh of pleasure escaped him, and he paused between bites to address the Vala with a more relaxed smile. "Thank you, my lord," he said with a blush. "This has a wonderfully sweet aftertaste," he could not help but comment impulsively.

"Everything in Lórien does," Irmo said quizzically. "You come to me seeking answers." It was a statement of fact. "The answers I have for you, you may not want. Are you prepared for that?"

Swallowing his last mouthful of apple, Gwindor tossed the core aside and thought a moment before answering. "Not really. How can I truly prepare for something I do not expect?" He smiled slightly. "I would like to hear them, regardless... anything you will tell me."

"Everyone's guilt preys upon them in their own way," Irmo began, eyes scanning the flowers as they walked. "Guilt is very particular in that manner. Most Elves learn to face their guilt, to force it back to where it belongs. Your guilt is over things long in the past, long forgotten by most who walk these shores. The sadness of the First Age was one that smothered many, and so their own darkness is what they focus on. Much as you do." Irmo clasped his hands behind his back thoughtfully. "The horrors are as they are. They are vivid because you hold to them still and treat them as a lover of yours, welcomed into your bed in order to punish yourself further. You have paid your atonement, Gwindor, in my brother's Halls. Until you accept that, accept who you are, what you have done, and make them merely facets of who you have become, those horrors will forever haunt your footsteps and darken your dreams." He paused, his gaze piercing in its clarity. "It will forever keep you from him."

Gwindor sighed, his forehead knotting with concentration and displeasure as they continued to walk along a grassy path. Irmo's metaphors struck him to his core, as he was certain they were meant to do. To have his fears equated to a foulness taken to his bed unsettled him deeply.

He knew Irmo was right, of course. Without all those events, Gwindor would never have become the same person. While he still thought himself to be tainted and battled constantly with his inner darkness, he could at least proudly say he was an Elf of good intent. But how could he possibly accept the torture? Embrace the heartache of seeing love fail and an Age fall to ruin? How could he cope with the knowledge that nothing he could have done would have changed anything?

The concept of fate had always disquieted him. He liked to feel in control. After all he had endured, it was a feeling he tried to hold on to, one that always seemed to be lacking in his life.

"None are in control, Gwindor," Irmo said with a secret smile. "Not of the major events of history." That was a necessary distinction for the Vala to make. "The Song was Sung, from beginning to end. All play the part assigned to them, and there is no deviation from the Music. It is the way my Father intended it to be, and none can turn that intent aside."

Gwindor slowed as they neared a bench on their path. Sitting without a sound, he held his forehead in his hands, his mind overwhelmed. There was no deviation from the Music; the thought circulated in his mind, leading to endless branches of memories and questions of their significance in the Song. Tears soon came to his eyes as visions of both the joys and sorrows of his short life flashed through his mind. "Please," he all but whispered, and there was a look of desperation in his eyes as his hands clenched into fists. His voice was uneven and imploring. "I must know... if all my rashness... the chain of consequence... has it all contributed in some way to a greater good?"

"Of course it has," Irmo said gently, stroking Gwindor's hair like a father would. "It has contributed the whole of Eru's symphony. It has made His work ever that much greater and more beautiful. Never doubt that," he murmured, fingers brushing over the Elf's brow. "Though there is no deviation from the Music, you should never think that all you have done and will do has no purpose."

Tears streaked down from Gwindor's charcoal eyes, and he collapsed in on himself. It took all that he was not to sob outright, but his frame shook as he wept, radiating relief that he had never before allowed himself to feel. It was not full acceptance, just a tranquillising sense of relief, but a small voice in Gwindor's head whispered that relief was often the first step toward acceptance. It was the initial realisation that all was not lost, and all he had strived to accomplish was not entirely in vain.

Irmo remained quiet, offering no more words, only his soothing presence, as one of his kind tended to do. When Gwindor leaned in toward him, obviously needing his comforting touch, he gave it willingly, stroking the Noldo's dark hair and simply letting him mourn.

It was many minutes before Gwindor's crying began to calm, reducing to the occasional hitched breath. His voice was nearly inaudible as he tried to speak again in tremulous syllables. "And... my present... Is there a purpose?" Deep inside, he feared that he had been reborn merely to receive more torture, this time at the hands of another Elf. Was there a purpose behind all that had happened between him and Thranduil, and all that continued to haunt his thoughts?

"There is always a purpose," Irmo replied evenly.

Gwindor blinked a few times, tilting his head to the side. It was not the answer he had been seeking, and it took him several moments to realise that he had asked the incorrect question. "*What* is the purpose?" he corrected himself, wiping his nose as he sniffled pathetically.

"Do you wish to know the purpose of his actions, the reasons for his actions, or what he hoped to accomplish?" Irmo wiped at Gwindor's cheeks. "There are so many questions, Gwindor, and you must ask the right ones."

Gwindor opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again, forcing himself to take the time to think about the exact question to which he wanted an answer. After another long minute, when his tears had finally ceased to run down his lightly flushed skin, he finally asked, "Why has Thranduil felt it necessary to flaunt his sexual exploits in front of me, though he knows it unsettles me? I do not need to know why he beds so many Elves... but I want to know why he chooses to force them upon me."

"Because he is conflicted," Irmo said smoothly, eyes dark and full of mysteries. "You hearken to something he only vaguely remembers, and it frightens him. He chooses to drive you from him. If he alienates you, you will leave, and he no longer has to face that which you threaten to wake within him."

With a crinkled nose, Gwindor took in the information. His head was starting to ache. "Is it something good?"

A laugh bubbled from the Vala's throat as he continued to pet the Elf. "Yes. It is. If you can reach it. If you can weather his darkness."

Sudden determination overcame Gwindor, sparked by something deep in his chest. He wanted so badly to do good. Guilt still gnawed at him for all he had failed to accomplish in his former life. Even after all he had endured in Thranduil's employ, if there was something good he could do in the Elf's life, he was willing to do all that he could. Why was he so willing to help Thranduil? It made no sense at all! Gwindor's head throbbed a bit, and he sighed, his brow knitting once again in confusion.

"Though your senses of hearing and taste are things to marvel at, you are quite blind," Irmo remarked. "You should return to bed."

The statement only proved to confuse Gwindor further, and he sighed. "I'm still hungry," he declared in an almost child-like manner, blushing at his own bluntness as he rose slowly from his seat.

"Return to your bed," Irmo insisted with another parental pat to the Elf's head.

Gwindor did as he was told, walking sluggishly back along the path to his modest hut. Inside, he found a large tray of food and drink set out on the coverlet of his bed. Gwindor meant to thank his host, but when he looked down the path again, Irmo was gone. Hoping the Vala heard his grateful thoughts, Gwindor savoured every morsel of his meal and set the tray aside, promptly falling asleep once his head rested against his pillow.

TBC...