Ahyamë

Title: Ahyamë : Change
Chapter: Fifteen
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/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 Fifth 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.
Note: //...// denotes dreaming.

---

May, Lórien, Aman

Irmo appeared just inside the hut, a faint smile on his lips. "Yes, Gwindor?" he asked in his most neutral, even tone.

Seeing the Vala materialize out of nothing set Gwindor further on edge; before he could stop himself, he blurted out the first words that came to his mind. "Why did you... I didn't..." A distressed whimper escaped his lips, and he chewed at them before starting over. "You might have let me in on it beforehand, my lord."

"If I had told you," Irmo said kindly, "then you would have expected it. Such things should not be expected, Gwindor. They should be experienced." He continued to smile. "I think my home is a far better venue for this conversation, and I had been in the middle of an important debate when you summoned me." Irmo held out his hand expectantly. "Shall we go?"

Gwindor hesitated, but could not refuse the invitation. Running a hand through his dark hair, he reached out and allowed Irmo help him to a standing position. They walked in silence from the hut, and Gwindor was startled when he realised that the rain did not fall upon him when Irmo was near. The Vala led him at a calculated pace, no doubt hoping to calm him with the light exercise. Grudgingly, Gwindor had to admit it was working, and as they neared Irmo's well-lit cottage and the surrounding gardens, he shivered in anticipation of the warm fire that seemed to blaze within the dwelling.

Irmo led Gwindor into the main room of the cottage, smiling at the other occupant. "I have brought someone."

"I know," Námo said as he turned to face the pair. The Vala's voice was like crashing glass against damp rocks, and his eyes burned like cold-fire in his snow-pale face. Hair as dark and deep as a starless sky framed the tall, slender form that was clothed in what could only be described as living shadow. Though a fire did blaze in the hearth, the room possessed a distinct chill, the same one that followed Námo no matter where he went. Even the warmest summer day could go as cold as the dead of winter when he walked abroad. "Good evening, Gwindor."

An audible gasp of shock was easily heard over the muted crackle of the useless fire, and Gwindor fought the urge to cower. The voice of the Vala of Death was jarring to his senses and shattered whatever calm he had gained from the short walk through the rain. The two brothers were physically almost identical except for the warmth that shown in Irmo's violet eyes and kind face, a stark contrast to the cold dispassion in Námo's piercing blue depths. Gwindor had never thought he would see Námo again after his release from the Halls, and being thrust into the chill of the Vala's presence without warning alarmed him to stillness. "Lord Námo," he managed in a panic-stricken voice, hoping against all odds that the cold Ainu was not here regarding *him*.

Irmo sighed. "Brother, you are upsetting him further." He turned laughing eyes to Gwindor. "He is not as intimidating once you have seen him without clothing."

"Shall I remove my robes?" Námo asked, and there was no note of jest in his voice. He was making the offer honestly, for he possessed none of the modesty of the Elven race. If it would put the Elf at ease, he would walk about nude; uneasy Elves tended to do stupid things, if anyone had asked Námo's opinion.

Gwindor's eyes went unbelievably wide, and he put up a prohibiting hand. "No! Good Gods, no!" And while the simple idea of it horrified him, he was unable to deny the humour and absurdity of the suggestion. His tension eased minutely and, holding his forehead in his hand, he took a few steps into the room.

Námo blinked several times and looked to his brother. Irmo chuckled, shaking his head. "Thank you for the offer, Námo, but I think he will be just fine with us all clothed."

"He has come seeking answers," Námo remarked mildly.

"Answers have already been offered," Irmo added, the brothers' voices near identical in pitch.

"Forgive me," Gwindor cut in, the dialogue between the twins only increasing his confusion, "but if the dream was supposed to provide the answers you speak of... I'm not sure I follow." His brow furrowed, and his cheeks flushed as he looked down, his embarrassment unmistakeable. How did the dream provide answers? All he had were more questions!

Námo frowned, though it was almost an imperceptible change in expression. "He is oblivious."

"He is also in the room," Irmo pointed out shortly. Námo's eyes narrowed a fraction, and he turned his back to the room, approaching a window. Irmo, on the other hand, faced Gwindor with kind openness. "Then tell us what your questions were."

"Why did you make me dream such a thing? Why Thranduil, when all I have been trying to do is escape thoughts of him, which constantly move me to distraction?" Gwindor's eyes pleaded with Irmo, asking for understanding.

"Why do you think thoughts of him plague you?" Irmo countered. "I did not make you dream anything, Gwindor. The notions have been hiding within your mind since the moment you saw him on the road to Tirion."

Námo turned then, eyes focusing intently on Gwindor. "You cannot claim to have been upset by the dream. You found it so pleasurable that you spent yourself upon the sheets."

Irmo held out his hands, palms up. "No pain came from it. No fear. Your body surrendered to what Thranduil has woken inside of you, and it is only your mind that muddles up the simplicity of emotion."

"No!" Gwindor protested, distressed as he paced a few steps. Denial was his defence, a way of keeping himself safe. Cradling his head between his palms, he once again whispered, "No..."

"Yes," Irmo said, voice low as he approached the distraught Elf. "You spread your thighs willingly, and welcomed him into your body. You found pleasure in his arms, and even now, the memory causes your heart to beat wildly and your body to ache. It is there, Gwindor, and it will no longer be denied."

Gwindor could not deny the rushing of his pulse, the ache in his chest, which only served to push him deeper into his affliction. The mere thought of Thranduil brought his mind and body to life. "But why?!" he demanded, and his vision blurred, charcoal eyes suddenly drowning with tears.

"You know why," Námo said softly from his position by the window, whose panes had begun to ice over from his proximity.

Gwindor stopped in his tracks. He held his breath as he clenched his eyes shut. The heat of his body, the panicking agitation, suddenly called him back to a time he had wished to forget. He knew the feeling too well. It had sustained him through unspoken tortures, been a light in a world of darkness. Gwindor's hands shook as they fell away from his face, and his eyes opened even as tears streamed down his face. "I love him..." And as the words left his lips, he felt more lost than ever. A deep sadness overtook him, and he all but collapsed on a nearby couch, burying his face in his arms. He had never thought to love again, not after the heartache of losing Finduilas, and now he was drawn inexplicably to Thranduil, the one Elf who had done all in his power to alienate him. There was no sense of false hope this time; Thranduil hated him, and the knowledge filled him with despair.

Irmo crouched before the sofa, reaching out his hand to gently stroke the Elf's dark hair. "You mourn your love for him," he observed gently. "It is an odd thing. Most rejoice when they discover love."

"Why should I feel joy, knowing my spirit yearns for one who will do nothing more than use and humiliate me?" he asked in a tremulous voice, half muffled by his arms. His mind recalled vividly the pleasure of the dream he had enjoyed only hours ago. Irmo's touch was soothing, and he lifted his head, charcoal eyes meeting preternatural violet. "So cruel... to paint such a beautiful picture of what cannot be. What am I to do?"

"I painted no picture, Gwindor," Irmo said, the honesty of his words easily read in his eyes. "You and Thranduil painted the scene together, I merely provided the opportunity. I influenced nothing, created nothing. What you both enjoyed, you enjoyed because you wove the tapestry together."

Námo watched them, silent all this time. "It has unnerved Thranduil as much as it has unnerved you. You might be amazed at the effect you have had upon him, for he has tarried in Tirion, waiting for your return."

"He -- He has waited?" Gwindor blinked repeatedly in confusion, the barest hint of hope creeping into his sad eyes. Thranduil had planned to leave for Laicanan months ago. Why would he have stayed? And what did Irmo mean by them *both* enjoying the dream? "Did Thranduil... have the same dream? You make it sound like he was truly there with me... and I with him." His mind was awash in contradicting emotions. Sadness warred with hesitant hope; confusion clouded clarity that seemed just out of reach.

"Thranduil runs through Ílëa Taurë." Námo stepped away from the frost-covered window. "He will return to his home when the leaves begin to change. He will wait for you, though he does not realise it is you he seeks each time he looks out a window."

Irmo smiled, brushing a finger down Gwindor's teary cheek. "He was truly with you, in spirit and mind if not in body."

Gwindor felt the warmth of hope rekindled spread throughout his body. "He was so different in the dream... I was different. I used to be like that before darkness enveloped the world," he said softly, a tinge of sadness to his tone. "After all that has happened between Thranduil and I -- after all that happened in Beleriand -- is it really possible for me to be that way again?"

It was Námo who answered Gwindor's question, innocent wisdom in his words. "We are all different now, with Arda marred. We have all become something other than what we were when Arda was ideal and perfect." He crossed the room, his steps leisurely as he approached. "It is the cost of progress and momentum. It is the cost Melkor has forced us to pay with his need to fill something that was not his to fill."

Irmo's eyes closed when his brother stopped near his back, for all the Valar knew the personal toll Melkor's destiny had taken upon Námo.

"It is not a matter of becoming once again what we were, but reconciling who we were with who we are now." Námo held Gwindor's gaze steadily as he spoke. "Once the reconciliation can be made, you may find that the need to be who you were is not so great."

The smallest of smiles curved Gwindor's lips as he gazed at Námo with newfound respect, trying his best to hide the involuntary shiver that travelled through him. It almost sounded like Námo was giving him comfort, which was wholly unexpected and, in a strange way, amusing. Gwindor fell silent, contemplating if that carefree, impulsive nature of his could re-emerge without fear after being dormant for so long. He knew it was time to move on, so the question now concerned his courage to depart from his past. He was unsure how to continue.

He loved Thranduil. The shock of that truth had not yet worn off, and he tried to wrap his mind around it. How could he have fallen for one who treated him so badly? There was no sense behind it all! Gwindor sighed, running a hand through his bangs. He had learned long ago that love was illogical, a double-edged blade. With the pleasure of love came the heartache and fear of loss. There was so little he could expect from Thranduil... yet, the Elvenking was waiting for him, and Gwindor suddenly wondered why.

"That is for you to discover," Irmo said, standing fluidly. "The only way for you to discover it, Gwindor, is to return to him."

Gwindor let out a suspended breath, knowing the Vala spoke truthfully. After a few moments, a smile broke out on his face, lighting up his eyes with surprise and mirth. "I actually want to see him again. I... look forward to going back."

The twins seemed to then have some sort of silent conversation, and finally Irmo cleared his throat, addressing Gwindor once more. "If you are truthful with him," the younger Vala said softly, "about your limitations, he will not press you, Gwindor."

"Thranduil is an honourable Elf, even if he is unconventional," Námo added blandly. "His reasons for his cruelty towards you--"

"Námo!" Irmo spun, glaring at his brother. "No. That is for Thranduil to explain when, and if, he so chooses. Not ours. Why do you not go... watch the firstborn? I hear he is quite taken with the odd animal that visits him near daily now."

Námo immediately fell silent, looking away from Irmo.

Gwindor blinked repeatedly, looking between the two Valar with a small, wistful smile. "I will have to speak with him, I am sure. I just hope he will be receptive to my limitations... He has disregarded them repeatedly."

"He will be more receptive than you can currently imagine," Irmo said.

Námo tilted his head a bit and regarded Gwindor. "Can you accept it if he never loves you in return?"

"Námo," Irmo warned.

Cool eyes dispassionately looked between Vala and Elf. "It is an honest question he should ask himself."

Taking a long moment to fully consider the question, Gwindor raised his face slightly to make bold eye contact with Námo. "I have survived heartache before, in a way. You know, probably better than any other, that I will do so again if I must. I already know Thranduil's thoughts on love. I shall just have to take my chances." Then again, what else could he do?

Irmo smiled with pride. "You see, brother? Sometimes you risk your own unhappiness just for a moment with someone you love." He glanced over his shoulder at Námo. "Perhaps it is a lesson you could learn."

"It is not logical in any manner," Námo replied, ignoring the second portion of Irmo's statement. "Why love someone who cannot, or will not, love you in return?"

Gwindor could not help himself and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "If unrequited love were truly a choice, who in their right mind would choose to endure it? Love is rarely logical, my lord. Surely you have witnessed as much yourself."

"He has not only witnessed it, Gwindor, he has experienced it," Irmo murmured, eyes locked with Námo's.

"It was but a dream, brother," and there was a note of distant sadness in Námo's voice.

Irmo smiled, dropping the topic and returning to the previous one. "Thranduil is not one of your tormentors. He is not someone to fear. There are none here for you to fear anymore. Be assured of that." He clasped his hands before him. "You must trust him. It is not only time for you to change, but also for him. The wheels have been put into motion, Gwindor, and it is your choice whether or not to allow them to continue turning."

A sigh passed Gwindor's lips, and he acknowledged Irmo's words with a nod. "Irrational as it is, I fear reliving my captivity..." An embarrassed flush came over his cheeks. "Arousal has brought me shame and revulsion because of what I endured. I don't want to feel that again... especially not with Thranduil. I know that it will take time to... teach my mind that this is... different..." Gwindor was less than confident that Thranduil wanted to take the time to do such a thing, however.

"If it is something you wish to pursue," Irmo said hesitantly, "you may wish to explain to him the full nature of your torments so that he shall be more prepared not to inadvertently do something that might throw you into such memories." It seemed Irmo wanted to say more, but was uncertain of how to continue. Námo solved the dilemma for him.

"He is, so we are clear, speaking of you telling Thranduil the acts and positions and details so that he will not accidentally recreate such situations." The Vala of Death was far more blunt than his brother. "If you do not wish for him to bind your hands and take you from behind, then you must make that absolutely clear to him." He knew the events of Gwindor's life, what torments he'd endured, even if his understanding of those tortures was vague and limited.

Gwindor shifted backward on the couch, shuddering as he brought his knees up to his chest. "I don't like to think about it," he said slowly, the words nearly inaudible. "But I know you are right. If Thranduil and I decide to become intimate, he will need to know..." he hesitated, "everything... and he cannot know unless I tell him." It was a conversation that seemed inevitable, one Gwindor was most certainly not looking forward to. Even now, he tried to push the subject from his mind.

"Be careful of your heart, be careful of your words, and do not take anything he says at face value," Irmo warned. "Sometimes, you need to look below what is spoken to hear what is truly said with Elves such as Thranduil."

Nodding slightly, Gwindor kept his chin on his knees. He had never met any Elf who was completely singular in thought. All beings had layers of some sort; facades that hid the things they never wanted others to see or touch. Why would Thranduil be any different?

"Because," Námo said while he watched Gwindor, "he believes what he has told himself. That is a hard thing to overcome. You are wounded in many ways, and one must question if you have the wherewithal to endure the trials of anything dealing with Thranduil." It might have sounded like a challenge.

Perhaps it was.

Irmo simply looked annoyed.

To his credit, Gwindor looked up evenly at Námo, his grip on his knees only tightening a fraction. "I do not know what is to come, Lord Námo. I cannot boldly assert that I will triumph over every obstacle in my future, nor can I guarantee Thranduil will overcome his own trials. I can only assure you that I shall do all in my power to aid him as we weather the hardships fate has put before us." He surprised himself, speaking so adamantly regarding Thranduil. Gwindor finally looked away from Námo's cold, calculating gaze. "I believe my wounds can and will heal. Triumph is never assured... but aye, I believe I can 'endure' with him."

Irmo smiled brightly. "Good. Do not let my dour brother put doubt into your mind."

"I am not dour," Námo replied sharply.

"You are, now hush," Irmo said, never looking away from Gwindor. "Should you ever have need of it, my garden can be a place of solace for you. Come here when you think there is nowhere else to go." It was an ominous offer, and the words were laced with a sense of premonition. "You may always come here, Gwindor."

Gwindor returned Irmo's smile a bit hesitantly, hearing the odd tone in the Vala's voice. Rising to his feet, he blushed, not knowing exactly how to take his leave or express his thanks. "I am sure you have no need for such things, but if you are ever in Tirion..." he shook his head with a small smile, feeling foolish. "I cannot speak for the rest of Thranduil's estate, but my kitchen is always open to you both." Approaching Irmo, Gwindor reached out to his shoulder uncertainly, wondering if touching his host was against propriety. "Thank you for your counsel and comfort. I am grateful for your aid... and even for your questioning," he said with a glance at the ever-stoic Námo.

Irmo smiled, bowing his head respectfully. "Return to your hut, and sleep well. No nightmares will assail you now."

"Navaer," Námo said simply from his position behind Irmo. He was not one for many words when one would do.

Bowing in turn, Gwindor retreated outside into the gardens, thankful that the rain had stopped. Dawn was not a far way off, but he felt his limbs grow heavy as he walked back to his hut, the moist air fragrant with summer blooms. He had much to think over, but the tranquillity of Irmo's gardens would lend him peace as he rested and prepared for his return journey to Tirion.

Irmo was quiet for a few moments after Gwindor departed, and then turned to his twin. "Will you see your suitor tonight?"

"I have no suitor," Námo said with a frown.

"Of course not," Irmo laughed, shaking his head. "You have an obsession."

Námo stalked towards the door of the cottage. "I am not one to be courted by any of the living, and none of the dead would desire my company."

"You do not know if he would desire your company, brother, for he does not know who it is that visits him each dawn."

"He never will," Námo said quietly. "It is just curiosity. He is the eldest. His behaviour intrigues me. It is nothing more."

"If you say so." Irmo walked his brother out into the dawn-kissed garden. "Gwindor and Thranduil have a long road ahead of them."

"Longer than even you know," Námo murmured, staring up at the sky. "I bid you goodnight, brother." The tall, dark form of The Judge shifted, muted, and blurred, replaced by the shape of a large, oversized white wolf with impossibly blue eyes.

Irmo watched Námo run from the garden, disappearing from sight. "The eldest would have you," he sighed, "if you would but give him the opportunity." With a shake of his head, Irmo turned and entered his cottage once more, smiling when his wife's form appeared in the central room. "Wife."

"Husband," Estë purred.

***

The skies were lightening with tones of violet and pale gold as dawn approached, casting the elegant architecture of Valmar into soft, hazy shadows. Mist fell thickly along the hillside behind a grand estate of polished stone, gently ensconcing the hunched form of an Elf staring at a dew-laden bloom that slowly woke with the sun, light blue eyes steady with deep reflection. His hair was long and loose, pale in a hue that matched the early morning clouds as they drifted slowly across the heavens, still dotted with the brightest of Varda's sentinels.

These were the quiet hours, the small expanse of time in which no demands were placed on him, no duties or audiences to interrupt the silence that pulsed with gentle sounds of the earth, wind, and trees. How he loved these moments in which he could observe the ever-changing world of nature. It was in his quiet reflection that he fully appreciated the complexity of the Song, the passage of time, the significance and, contrarily, the seeming insignificance of all creatures and events.

He had seen the beginning, or as close to it as any Elf could have witnessed. He had seen the rise and fall of entire kindreds of Elves; he had beheld the destruction wrought by Melkor and the other Valar with keen sight that, according to rumour, had been gifted to him by Manwë himself. A strange rumour, he often mused. It was not the favour of the Valar that gave him such insight; it was simply age and experience, which he had acquired in overabundance throughout the Ages. Had anyone had courage enough to ask him, he would have readily shared the fact.

But none ever dared, most likely due to his name and the prestige that followed in the wake of being the eldest of all Ilúvatar's children.

It was a lonely existence, but one Ingwë had long ago grown accustomed to, spending his time in quiet communion with nature. The consistency of change never failed to engage his mind, and he had quickly fallen into a routine, spending the early morning hours outside regardless of the elements.

The great white wolf with burning eyes padded softly over the late-spring leaf litter. Námo sat at the edge of the small copse of trees, watching the eldest as he stared at the opening bloom. This was his habit: every dawn, he arrived and spent time with the Elf, and every dusk, he returned to bid the Elf goodnight. He tilted his head, his muzzle opening into the closest thing a wolf could come to a smile, and patiently waited for Ingwë to take notice of him.

Ingwë took his time, sensing the subtle change in the air. His eyes did not waver, but stayed trained on the flower. He watched the dew collect on the petals and leaves, which shifted slightly whenever the morning breeze swept through the small clearing. Moisture beaded and rolled down the contours of green; silky shades of vibrant red were revealed as the corolla unfurled, and Ingwë released a pleasant sigh.

Turning his head, he finally regarded the beautiful wolf, ancient eyes sparking with amusement and an engaging smile removing many years from his fair face. "You are later than usual, my friend."

TBC...