Of Elbereth's Bounty
folder
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
17
Views:
5,632
Reviews:
38
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
17
Views:
5,632
Reviews:
38
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Epilogue
Title: Of Elbereth’s Bounty – Epilogue
(third in my unofficial series, after In Earendil’s Light and Under the Elen)
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: OMC/OMC, Legolas/Elrohir, references to Glorfindel/Elladan
Summary: They have indeed been beautiful friends to me. This is the end.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the pleasure of his estate and aim not for profit.
A/N: If you have not read the Further Tales posts, then it is perhaps advisable to do so before indulging in this epilogue, since there will be a few character whom you have not met before. Howerver, to forgo chronological progression might just imbue these lovely strangers with a greater sense of mystery, and compell you to seek them out; I certainly hope so!! Finally, my heartfelt thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read this far! I certainly didn't expect it to be this long, but I am grateful for the support both from reviews and from lurkers. I hope you will continue on with me through other adventures not in this series, which will be coming soon. Until then, namarie!! -G ;D
***************
Of Elbereth’s Bounty
Epilogue
Midsummer, Yen 1000, Fourth Age
The Lord of Imladros cut a bold swath of golden majesty against the twilight firmament, as he stood atop the precipice of the waterfall. Just steps beside, the effluent force of the Silpion flew over the spouting edge and dove blithely into her sister, the Sirion, before segueing in a rush laced with fume and foam into the vast blue of the ocean. He peered out through the sharp, crystalline night towards the midnight dark horizon, desperate for a glimmer, a spark of indication that the shift of power in Arda was complete, that this night would herald the dawn of a new age.
The last embers of their jovial feast fumed among the huddled familiars on the plateau behind, where his extended family had gathered to frequent each other’s warm company, to watch for the firelight to the east, and, most importantly, to celebrate his firstborn’s tenth begetting-day. As the order sounded for the lighthouse beacon to be dimmed some to better see the faraway aura of the revels soon to rage in Arda, a tiny hand slipped stealthily into his own. Tathren, affected by the moment’s incredible poignancy, swooped down suddenly and gathered his son in his arms, holding his child high above the port and the valley he ruled over, as if in gracious tribute to the Valar above.
With the exception of the rich amber hue of his eyes, his Lasgalen, whom everyone affectionately referred to as ‘Las, was in every way an exacting reproduction of his grandsire, the hallowed archer of the Ring Fellowship and former Prince of Mirkwood. Already Tathren saw gleams of his father’s honor, prowess, gallantry, and renown mischief in his little one, which only endeared him more to all the forefathers and foremothers only too ready to spoil him with care. Yet, as he and Echo had keenly discovered, ‘Las was never one to rest on his laurels, but took on the marveling world at large with avid curiosity and with relentless ardor. As such, he was only too eager to scour the horizon for any flare or flicker, happy to sacrifice his own stake on the day’s significance for the greater thrall of history-making.
“Will it come soon, Ada?” he asked breathlessly, barely tearing his eyes away to solicit his father’s answer.
“It may not come at all,” Tathren admitted, cautious not to entirely discourage his bright-minded elfling. “Though Ada-Echo has done some many experiments and has high hopes. If but a little more cloud gathers, we may see some reflection there.”
“Is Arda very far away?” he queried, still working out for himself the logistics of this unfamiliar place.
“Leagues and leagues,” Tathren replied. “Tis further oversea to Arda than the entire stretch of coastline from Laurelin to Gondolen. We sailed for many months, to come home to Aman.” He knew ‘Las did not entirely comprehend how his fathers could have been born in another place and consider this land their home, as he himself had not yet traveled much, but insisted on slowly familiarizing his child with his family history.
“For months?!” Lasgalen gasped, wide-eyed. “On a tiny ship?!” He could not quite conceive of lacking space in which to frolic and to play.
“Twas a colossal ship your grandsire built,” Tathren informed him. “Not like the trade ships that sit in the harbor, pen-neth, but sleek and graceful. We will visit one, when next a dignitary comes from Tirion.”
“Verily?” he grinned, already wriggling with delight. “I must tell grandsire, Ada!”
Fearlessly squirming out of his hold and down the length of his leg, ‘Las barely glanced back at the dead-drop cliffside, before scurrying off to find any one of his grandfathers willing to lend his lilting chirps an ear, which meant all of them.
With a final, wondering look across the sea, Tathren himself ventured back to their banquet table, admiring the glorious assembly of their family as he strode forth.
At the head of the table the elders sat, in rapt observance of their vivacious brood, proud as peacocks and dressed with similar ornamentation. Elrond was ever chief among them, even in the realm he had bequeathed to his grandson, with his silvery wife Celebrian constant by his side. Laurelith and Dioren’s mother, Indis, gossiped nearby, while Erestor and Haldir made a decent show of politeness whilst their two infant granddaughters tousled about their robes. The parents of this lively sextet, Cuthalion and Miriel, were locked in a gauzy gaze, as Talion fondly pet the bulbous belly that would berth their seventh babe for some months yet. Tinuviel and Orinath were happily wrestling with some of his older nieces and nephews in the verdure behind, when not toppling each other with an entirely different intent, but with equal fervor. Along the never-ending table were collected so many goodly others: Echoriath’s sisters Crissae and Hislome, Luinaelin’s family, Mithbrethil and his bereth, Lalaith and her new husband.
In the central seats, the three ring-warriors mocked and jested as if in a Gondorian ale hall, ever thick as proverbial thieves, though the molten looks Legolas shot Elrohir were more scandalous than criminal. Though Elladan was momentarily turned away from Glorfindel – who was engaged in quiet conversation with Nenuial and her mate – their hands were entwined on the table top. The knightly trio’s merriment was paused by the advent of an ecstatic Lasgalen, who regaled them with his lately learnings. Though the elfling could not possibly be still during his recounting, each of his astounding number of grandfathers was only too eager to flatter their little one with touches, clasps, and caresses, the fact of his existence still somewhat magical to them. Elrohir especially could not long keep from tangling his fingers in those angelic tresses of hair. Every time his father repeated this gesture, Tathren’s breath caught in his throat, though his heart had long settled on the reason for it. Yet the echo plunged him so deeply into childhood memories that he oft thought they might drown him, so he shifted his gaze to his gaggle of brothers.
They were a motley bunch, as ever, their wiles not much improved with the addition of loving mates, in his taunting fraternal estimation. A twinge of anxiety overcame him at the thought of their imminent departure for his birth-land. Ivrin was at last undertaking a life-long dream of his, to sail to Arda. Ciryon had been somehow convinced to accompany him – Tathren gathered there must be some considerable sensual treats promised for such an uncharacteristic recompense – which had lead Rohrith and Dioren, Brithor and his sprightly mate Eressea to beg allegiance. Despite the uproarious objections of most of their elders, they had hotly vowed to be extremely cautious, to traffic only with elves, and to not linger past the advised six month sojourn, but privately they had confided to him that they wanted to see what remained of Imladris, Ithilien, and sneak into Minas Tirith to meet secretly with the new Queen of Gondor. They swore black and blue that they would take huge pains to conceal their elven qualities and that the task of delivering Erestor’s histories to the right-minded loremasters was a vital one, but Tathren nevertheless suffered sleepless nights at the thought of what they might encounter there; this, before they had even cast off!
Thankfully, Echoriath was schooling them in preparation for the journey. Tathren could not help but course with undulating affection at the sight of his starlight mate, who presently cradled their newly twin babes with the affinity of an adoring parent; their daughter, Elladriel, and their second son, Ecthelion. As he settled in beside his genial husband, he marveled anew at their incredible fortune, that Elbereth’s handmaid had been so generous as to be the vessel of three gorgeous children, these last two unprecedented in elven history as fraternal, dual-gendered twins. After planting kisses on both his sweetly babes, Tathren implored Echoriath to give in to Ciryon’s covetous eyes and allow him to coddle his niece, while Elrohir suddenly swung down beside him to solicit them for his grandson. Legolas, Elladan, and Glorfindel also came to join their beaming circle, with impish ‘Las still holding court from grandfather’s lap.
A rose-hued glow dawned on the horizon, though the sun had yet to sink entirely behind them. Each member was suddenly rapt to the seaside, still in reverence for the passing age. Tathren curled in close to his Echo, nestled his face in his sleek, ebony hair. He thought of his first glimpse of his beloved one, the first flame of his golden eyes, a swaddling babe in his arms. He thought of their tragic departure from Arda, of the loss of both their naneths, one to the death of men and one to precarious fate. He remembered every kiss they had shared, from his overture in the stormy, spelled orchard, to their pledge of love on the coral shelf, to the blistering embrace that sealed their binding. He hotly recalled the pride they’d felt at the founding of Gondolen, then Imladros, at the momentous births of their children. He let the effulgent flame of their binding surge within him, feeling the oneness they alone shared, knowing of the peerless light that had guided him through hundreds of years, through the sacred age that had seen them blessed and blissful.
Surrounded, like petals around the bud of a rose, by those they loved best, Tathren and Echoriath kissed with breathless eloquence, as the beacon of the Fifth Age blazed across the sky.
***************************************************
A brief note, mellonen, to end this particular volume,
Though the manners and emotions known to the ancient ones may appear, on first reading, foreign to those so long away from the elders of our kind, I have no doubt that such a tale of love might move even the hearts of men, especially those descendent from my swordbrother Elros, who in their very natures secret away the elven impulse to nurture and to secure. In mind of kindling this forgotten kindness to all creatures, I have included three Further Tales to this blissful song of Tathren and Echoriath, which may further elucidate the trials, treasures, and rewards of deepest love. I hope your manly pupils and your own people come to cherish these tales as we do the dear ones within them. More than the facts of elven history, these stories possess in their very element the fundamentals of being.
I humbly thank you for your patronage, as well as the gifts that will return with our honorable sailors. I look forward to future barters between us, to reforging ties too long severed between our lands. I wish you safe passage to Ithilien with this precious cargo, as well as continued peace in this fretful new age.
May the Valar Bless,
Erestor Cirdanion
Loremaster of Telperion
End of Of Elbereth’s Bounty
(third in my unofficial series, after In Earendil’s Light and Under the Elen)
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: OMC/OMC, Legolas/Elrohir, references to Glorfindel/Elladan
Summary: They have indeed been beautiful friends to me. This is the end.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the pleasure of his estate and aim not for profit.
A/N: If you have not read the Further Tales posts, then it is perhaps advisable to do so before indulging in this epilogue, since there will be a few character whom you have not met before. Howerver, to forgo chronological progression might just imbue these lovely strangers with a greater sense of mystery, and compell you to seek them out; I certainly hope so!! Finally, my heartfelt thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read this far! I certainly didn't expect it to be this long, but I am grateful for the support both from reviews and from lurkers. I hope you will continue on with me through other adventures not in this series, which will be coming soon. Until then, namarie!! -G ;D
***************
Of Elbereth’s Bounty
Epilogue
Midsummer, Yen 1000, Fourth Age
The Lord of Imladros cut a bold swath of golden majesty against the twilight firmament, as he stood atop the precipice of the waterfall. Just steps beside, the effluent force of the Silpion flew over the spouting edge and dove blithely into her sister, the Sirion, before segueing in a rush laced with fume and foam into the vast blue of the ocean. He peered out through the sharp, crystalline night towards the midnight dark horizon, desperate for a glimmer, a spark of indication that the shift of power in Arda was complete, that this night would herald the dawn of a new age.
The last embers of their jovial feast fumed among the huddled familiars on the plateau behind, where his extended family had gathered to frequent each other’s warm company, to watch for the firelight to the east, and, most importantly, to celebrate his firstborn’s tenth begetting-day. As the order sounded for the lighthouse beacon to be dimmed some to better see the faraway aura of the revels soon to rage in Arda, a tiny hand slipped stealthily into his own. Tathren, affected by the moment’s incredible poignancy, swooped down suddenly and gathered his son in his arms, holding his child high above the port and the valley he ruled over, as if in gracious tribute to the Valar above.
With the exception of the rich amber hue of his eyes, his Lasgalen, whom everyone affectionately referred to as ‘Las, was in every way an exacting reproduction of his grandsire, the hallowed archer of the Ring Fellowship and former Prince of Mirkwood. Already Tathren saw gleams of his father’s honor, prowess, gallantry, and renown mischief in his little one, which only endeared him more to all the forefathers and foremothers only too ready to spoil him with care. Yet, as he and Echo had keenly discovered, ‘Las was never one to rest on his laurels, but took on the marveling world at large with avid curiosity and with relentless ardor. As such, he was only too eager to scour the horizon for any flare or flicker, happy to sacrifice his own stake on the day’s significance for the greater thrall of history-making.
“Will it come soon, Ada?” he asked breathlessly, barely tearing his eyes away to solicit his father’s answer.
“It may not come at all,” Tathren admitted, cautious not to entirely discourage his bright-minded elfling. “Though Ada-Echo has done some many experiments and has high hopes. If but a little more cloud gathers, we may see some reflection there.”
“Is Arda very far away?” he queried, still working out for himself the logistics of this unfamiliar place.
“Leagues and leagues,” Tathren replied. “Tis further oversea to Arda than the entire stretch of coastline from Laurelin to Gondolen. We sailed for many months, to come home to Aman.” He knew ‘Las did not entirely comprehend how his fathers could have been born in another place and consider this land their home, as he himself had not yet traveled much, but insisted on slowly familiarizing his child with his family history.
“For months?!” Lasgalen gasped, wide-eyed. “On a tiny ship?!” He could not quite conceive of lacking space in which to frolic and to play.
“Twas a colossal ship your grandsire built,” Tathren informed him. “Not like the trade ships that sit in the harbor, pen-neth, but sleek and graceful. We will visit one, when next a dignitary comes from Tirion.”
“Verily?” he grinned, already wriggling with delight. “I must tell grandsire, Ada!”
Fearlessly squirming out of his hold and down the length of his leg, ‘Las barely glanced back at the dead-drop cliffside, before scurrying off to find any one of his grandfathers willing to lend his lilting chirps an ear, which meant all of them.
With a final, wondering look across the sea, Tathren himself ventured back to their banquet table, admiring the glorious assembly of their family as he strode forth.
At the head of the table the elders sat, in rapt observance of their vivacious brood, proud as peacocks and dressed with similar ornamentation. Elrond was ever chief among them, even in the realm he had bequeathed to his grandson, with his silvery wife Celebrian constant by his side. Laurelith and Dioren’s mother, Indis, gossiped nearby, while Erestor and Haldir made a decent show of politeness whilst their two infant granddaughters tousled about their robes. The parents of this lively sextet, Cuthalion and Miriel, were locked in a gauzy gaze, as Talion fondly pet the bulbous belly that would berth their seventh babe for some months yet. Tinuviel and Orinath were happily wrestling with some of his older nieces and nephews in the verdure behind, when not toppling each other with an entirely different intent, but with equal fervor. Along the never-ending table were collected so many goodly others: Echoriath’s sisters Crissae and Hislome, Luinaelin’s family, Mithbrethil and his bereth, Lalaith and her new husband.
In the central seats, the three ring-warriors mocked and jested as if in a Gondorian ale hall, ever thick as proverbial thieves, though the molten looks Legolas shot Elrohir were more scandalous than criminal. Though Elladan was momentarily turned away from Glorfindel – who was engaged in quiet conversation with Nenuial and her mate – their hands were entwined on the table top. The knightly trio’s merriment was paused by the advent of an ecstatic Lasgalen, who regaled them with his lately learnings. Though the elfling could not possibly be still during his recounting, each of his astounding number of grandfathers was only too eager to flatter their little one with touches, clasps, and caresses, the fact of his existence still somewhat magical to them. Elrohir especially could not long keep from tangling his fingers in those angelic tresses of hair. Every time his father repeated this gesture, Tathren’s breath caught in his throat, though his heart had long settled on the reason for it. Yet the echo plunged him so deeply into childhood memories that he oft thought they might drown him, so he shifted his gaze to his gaggle of brothers.
They were a motley bunch, as ever, their wiles not much improved with the addition of loving mates, in his taunting fraternal estimation. A twinge of anxiety overcame him at the thought of their imminent departure for his birth-land. Ivrin was at last undertaking a life-long dream of his, to sail to Arda. Ciryon had been somehow convinced to accompany him – Tathren gathered there must be some considerable sensual treats promised for such an uncharacteristic recompense – which had lead Rohrith and Dioren, Brithor and his sprightly mate Eressea to beg allegiance. Despite the uproarious objections of most of their elders, they had hotly vowed to be extremely cautious, to traffic only with elves, and to not linger past the advised six month sojourn, but privately they had confided to him that they wanted to see what remained of Imladris, Ithilien, and sneak into Minas Tirith to meet secretly with the new Queen of Gondor. They swore black and blue that they would take huge pains to conceal their elven qualities and that the task of delivering Erestor’s histories to the right-minded loremasters was a vital one, but Tathren nevertheless suffered sleepless nights at the thought of what they might encounter there; this, before they had even cast off!
Thankfully, Echoriath was schooling them in preparation for the journey. Tathren could not help but course with undulating affection at the sight of his starlight mate, who presently cradled their newly twin babes with the affinity of an adoring parent; their daughter, Elladriel, and their second son, Ecthelion. As he settled in beside his genial husband, he marveled anew at their incredible fortune, that Elbereth’s handmaid had been so generous as to be the vessel of three gorgeous children, these last two unprecedented in elven history as fraternal, dual-gendered twins. After planting kisses on both his sweetly babes, Tathren implored Echoriath to give in to Ciryon’s covetous eyes and allow him to coddle his niece, while Elrohir suddenly swung down beside him to solicit them for his grandson. Legolas, Elladan, and Glorfindel also came to join their beaming circle, with impish ‘Las still holding court from grandfather’s lap.
A rose-hued glow dawned on the horizon, though the sun had yet to sink entirely behind them. Each member was suddenly rapt to the seaside, still in reverence for the passing age. Tathren curled in close to his Echo, nestled his face in his sleek, ebony hair. He thought of his first glimpse of his beloved one, the first flame of his golden eyes, a swaddling babe in his arms. He thought of their tragic departure from Arda, of the loss of both their naneths, one to the death of men and one to precarious fate. He remembered every kiss they had shared, from his overture in the stormy, spelled orchard, to their pledge of love on the coral shelf, to the blistering embrace that sealed their binding. He hotly recalled the pride they’d felt at the founding of Gondolen, then Imladros, at the momentous births of their children. He let the effulgent flame of their binding surge within him, feeling the oneness they alone shared, knowing of the peerless light that had guided him through hundreds of years, through the sacred age that had seen them blessed and blissful.
Surrounded, like petals around the bud of a rose, by those they loved best, Tathren and Echoriath kissed with breathless eloquence, as the beacon of the Fifth Age blazed across the sky.
***************************************************
A brief note, mellonen, to end this particular volume,
Though the manners and emotions known to the ancient ones may appear, on first reading, foreign to those so long away from the elders of our kind, I have no doubt that such a tale of love might move even the hearts of men, especially those descendent from my swordbrother Elros, who in their very natures secret away the elven impulse to nurture and to secure. In mind of kindling this forgotten kindness to all creatures, I have included three Further Tales to this blissful song of Tathren and Echoriath, which may further elucidate the trials, treasures, and rewards of deepest love. I hope your manly pupils and your own people come to cherish these tales as we do the dear ones within them. More than the facts of elven history, these stories possess in their very element the fundamentals of being.
I humbly thank you for your patronage, as well as the gifts that will return with our honorable sailors. I look forward to future barters between us, to reforging ties too long severed between our lands. I wish you safe passage to Ithilien with this precious cargo, as well as continued peace in this fretful new age.
May the Valar Bless,
Erestor Cirdanion
Loremaster of Telperion
End of Of Elbereth’s Bounty