Ahyamë

Title: Ahyamë : Change
Chapter: Nineteen
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
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.

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October, Tirion, Aman

Daeron lay sprawled on the bed, his arms stretched above his head, fingers grasping the headboard. His intoxicated mind had managed to warn him not to eat the muffins he had snatched from Gwindor downstairs. Instead, he had swiftly drunk a glass of water and, relieving himself, undressed as ordered by the Elvenking. He felt his heart beat wildly as he spread his legs wide on Thranduil's oversized bed. What he had said to Gwindor wasn't *that* bad, was it? He had meant well, after all, and... What had he said again? He blamed the wine for his sudden loss of memory, resting his forehead against the soft coverlet of the bed.

Thranduil entered the room, closing the door firmly behind him. In silence, he undressed, tossing his trousers over the arm of the sofa. He went to his wardrobe and opened it, eying the various implements he kept in the dark recesses. "You have trouble with decorum, Daeron," he said darkly. "I think we should address that." He chose a thin leather strap, wrapping one end around his palm a few times as he approached the bed. "He has not been home a full day and already you have thoroughly embarrassed him."

If Daeron had been in a more lucid state of mind, he would have known better than to challenge Thranduil, but the words slipped from his tongue before he could stop them. "I meant no harm. Surely you both know that..." Turning his head, he caught a glimpse of Thranduil and the leather strap he held firmly in his grasp. He shivered, the muscles of his bare back and thighs twitching beneath pale skin marred only by several semi-circular marks he still bore from Thranduil's recent attention a couple days prior.

"What did you mean?" Thranduil asked. "What purpose could you have intended other than to humiliate by informing him that he should use plenty of lubrication with me?" The strap fell across Daeron's buttocks without a moment's hesitation. A vibrant red streak appeared on the white flesh, and Thranduil brought the leather down on the same stripe, increasing the darkness and sting of the mark.

Daeron gasped at the first blows, his fingers tightening at the headboard. His own words came back to him with Thranduil's prompting, and he replied in a rush of breath. "Just advice, Ardaur. I... I wasn't thinking!"

"I know," the Elvenking growled, the cadence of the strap musical in its own right as Thranduil built the rhythm. "You didn't *think*. Advice? He needs no such advice!"

A whimper left Daeron, his mind becoming further muddled with the stinging pain blooming on his backside. "He will if he's... with you!"

Thranduil struck the flesh hard, seeing a welt instantly form atop the red stripes. "He will *never* be with me, Daeron, and I do not need your meddling in my affairs." There was darkness in Thranduil's voice, a sharp edge of loathing malice not directed at Daeron, but bubbling up from within Thranduil himself.

The harsher blow evinced a musical cry from Daeron, and he forced himself to stay absolutely still beneath the lash, his toes curling from the pleasure that was instantly awakened in him through the pain. He could hear the anger, black and opaque, simmering in Thranduil's voice, and he foolishly disregarded it. "If you don't snatch him... someone else will," he warned with a dark, slurring laugh. He raised his head from the coverlet, his eyes unfocused. "Who knows... I could stick around... tap the fire in those deep eyes and the softness of that well-formed backside of his."

Fury, unbelievable in its depth, rose in Thranduil, and he threw aside the strap, his hand diving into the midnight mass of Daeron's hair. He yanked his lover's head back sharply, eyes indigo with his rage, and forced Daeron up to his knees. "You will *not* touch him," he snarled into Daeron's face. "You will not even *look* at him with such intent!"

Ice-blue eyes were forced to meet fiery perse, and the smallest glimmer of fear appeared in the ancient depths as they stared up at Thranduil. "Who are you to stop me?" he questioned through clenched teeth, not struggling against the iron grip that held him in place. "What claim have you staked on him? He's returned... but what is he staying for? If you're not going to make some effort--"

Before Thranduil could stop himself, he slapped Daeron hard across the face, just wanting the words to *stop*. Panting, eyes wide as they stared at the budding hand print, Thranduil managed, "He... will never be with me."

Daeron's head snapped sharply to the side. The blow was personal, and a painful throbbing spread through his head as blood rushed to the abused skin. Righting his head slowly, he brought his eyes back to Thranduil's. "Why not?" he asked with surprising clarity, enunciating each word despite the sizzling pain the movement caused.

Thranduil held Daeron's gaze for an endless moment, and then he took his lover's mouth in a possessive, silencing kiss. He thrust his tongue into Daeron's mouth, pressing him back to the mattress and situating himself between the bare thighs. Eyes closed, his heart pounding, Thranduil kissed Daeron repeatedly until they were both aroused and breathless. "Hand me the oil," he ordered.

Following the command out of instinct, Daeron reached for the half-empty vial on the bedside table, handing it to Thranduil. Any words of protest, or those that would bring attention back to his unanswered question, died in his throat as pressure was put on the welts striping his backside. Arousal stole away what was left of his reason, and he shifted, laying back in silent surrender.

Thranduil wasted no time, coating two fingers with oil and easing them into Daeron. He continued to kiss his lover, finally abandoning lips in favour of the bard's throat. Thranduil nipped and sucked at the column, spending many minutes on the flesh just above the throbbing pulse. Curving his fingers, he brushed along the gland inside Daeron, offering pleasure after so much pain. He worked Daeron's body, hands still rough, his touch harder than necessary, but his goal was no longer to punish or hurt Daeron. Thranduil merely wanted to lose himself, and sex was his preferred method of doing so.

His old pupil was escaping from reality; Daeron would realise that much later. In his current state, however, all he knew was the burning of his face and backside, and the blinding pleasure that streaked through him with every touch of Thranduil's fingers. A sustained moan vibrated from beneath Thranduil's teeth as he bit into pale skin. Daeron's pulse raced, and he brought a shaky hand down to Thranduil's groin, stroking him with practiced ease unhampered by his inebriation.

"You feel good," Thranduil panted into Daeron's ear with a groan. He added oil to Daeron's hand, and then returned to the bard's throat, raising a bright mark over that tempting throat.

Daeron groaned, his hand tightening on Thranduil as he was marked. "I'm... I'm drunk, Ardaur..." he managed, breathing heavily.

Thranduil lifted his head, staring down into Daeron's eyes, his hand stilled buried in his lover's backside. "I know." He pulled his hand from Daeron and hoisted the long legs up over his shoulders, exposing Daeron completely. In one motion, he joined their bodies, crying out as he was engulfed by sweet tightness. Bracing his arms on either side of Daeron, leaning forward and forcing the other Sinda's legs up to his chest, Thranduil did not pause before withdrawing and thrusting back in to the overwhelming heat. The angle allowed him the deepest penetration, and Thranduil thought only of their shared pleasure.

Crying out, Daeron fisted the sheets beside his head, his body readily accepting Thranduil with an ease helped along by the alcohol pumping through his system. His breathing was ragged as he tried to push up into the pleasurable fullness, desperate to appease the overmastering lust running rampant along every nerve.

The pace was swift, and Thranduil claimed Daeron's mouth as thoroughly as he did his body. Within moments, he shifted his weight onto his right hand, wrapping his left around Daeron's sex. He nosed Daeron's throat, panting as he pushed into the willing body beneath him, distantly reminded of the animals in his forest that rutted come spring. Mindless in their pursuit of gratification, the spending of the seed, and a choked moan was uttered into the damp, musky skin of Daeron's neck. His hand jerked unevenly on the hard flesh, his own rhythm beginning to falter with the approach of his climax.

Daeron's voice rang through the chamber, echoing repeatedly on the walls. The rapid shifting of their bodies caused waves of pleasure and pain to wash over him, and it was only a matter of minutes before he was begging Thranduil for his release. His hands grew restless in the sheets and latched onto Thranduil's arms, nails digging in slightly with his grip as he felt his body teeter on the edge of his release, and then topple over. His mind was lost, gloriously numbed by heat, light, and the rushing sound of his blood. His back bowed as much as it was able, trapped beneath Thranduil's weight, and with a cry resembling Thranduil's given name, Daeron spilled over his lover's fist.

Thranduil roared his release, the fire of the physical racing through him unchecked. He gasped several times, blinking in order to clear his vision. He looked down at Daeron, the mark on the beautiful face already purpling. A sick feeling twisted in his gut; he had never struck Daeron like that, in anger. Gently, he parted from Daeron's body, easing the bard's legs to the mattress. He disappeared into the bathroom, returning in order to clean the drunken, pain-ridden Elf of seed and oil. When he was through, he offered Daeron a glass of water, unable to meet his old tutor's eyes.

Still shaky from his climax, Daeron flopped onto his stomach, offering Thranduil a small, grateful smile after he was tended. The expression made his cheekbone and jaw burn, and he quickly resorted to a half-smile, letting the bruising side of his face rest. He sipped his water, somewhat dizzy and thankful he did not need to rise from the bed. When his mind cleared a bit, he regarded Thranduil. "Will you... hand me the muffins, please?" He knew he needed some sort of nourishment before he could allow himself to sleep.

"Of course," Thranduil murmured. He picked up one of the muffins, breaking off a piece and pressing it to Daeron's lips. "You do not usually drink so much."

Daeron chortled, taking the piece of muffin into his mouth, careful to chew only on his unaffected side, though it did not lessen the pulsing ache. "The Noldor are usually a bore... but they had a fine selection, and when Gelireth of your eighth generation offered me a drink, I took it." Nevermind that he had seen a certain tall Noldorin maid and had wished to forget the sighting. "I overindulged." Offered another bite of the muffin, he took it gratefully. "Damn... these are good," he commented, his mouth still full.

"Such manners," Thranduil chuckled. "Yes, they are good. I've missed his cooking. Gelireth takes after her mother, luckily for the Noldor. They need the wild blood in their well-kept, carefully maintained city."

"That or a swift grope in the dark," Daeron muttered under his breath.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, withholding the next bite of muffin.

Daeron opened his mouth for the next bite, and, when it did not come, he eyed Thranduil. "The Noldor," he said. "Uptight... swift grope..." His brow furrowed as he slumped against the bed. "Just let me eat, and tell me why you evaded my question."

Feeding Daeron another piece, Thranduil smirked. Daeron, he had to admit, was adorable when intoxicated. "What question?"

"Why not?" Daeron restated with an almost incredulous look. "Why do you think Gwindor will never be with you?" Was Thranduil daft? If *he* could remember their dialogue when drunk, Thranduil had no excuse.

"He is an Elf who desires love and commitment and a gentleness I simply do not possess," Thranduil said, stuffing the rest of the muffin into Daeron's mouth.

His response muffled horribly by the large quantity of muffin blocking the way, Daeron sighed in drunken frustration, silenced for a few moments as he chewed, and then swallowed. "That's not true," he said, motioning for the glass of water and taking a sip when it was handed to him. "You're gentle now... You're gentle whenever you are with Rhovandir... or when you spend time with Eirien and Legolas. You possess gentleness, Ardaur. You just don't seem to be willing to *apply* yourself."

Thranduil frowned. "Why are you so determined to see me with Gwindor, Daeron? Even Mother isn't this insistent when it comes to my heart!"

"Heart! Yes..." Daeron nodded vigorously, instantly regretting the action, as his head was beginning to ache along with his cheek and jaw. "Gwindor would be good for your heart," he stated, poking Thranduil in the chest.

"My heart died with Arasiel," Thranduil murmured.

"Ardaur," Daeron said with a silencing tone only he could summon. "Your heart may have died with her, but it was set free when she refused to return from Mandos. She's not coming back, Ardaur. Like it or not, your marriage is dissolved, and it has been for millennia."

Hurt darkened his eyes, making Thranduil look a fraction of his age. How long had he waited for her? The years stretched out behind him, countless and lonely. "She... is the mother of my children, Daeron."

"And she loves them still, I'm sure," Daeron breathed, his eyes sad.

"But not me."

"Nonsense," Daeron stated, thwapping his hand on the mattress. "She was taken from you and your Song continues on... She would want it to continue on. She would want you to find happiness again, maybe a happiness she could not give you." He swallowed thickly, grabbing his water glass again and emptying it slowly.

Thranduil stared at Daeron in disbelief. "She made me... very happy, Daeron."

"What if... you could be happy again? What if, Thranduil?"

"You believe Gwindor can make me happy?" Thranduil shoved his gold hair out of his face. "A prudish, mousy cook?"

"I believe 'e already makes you happy," Daeron began to slur, his eyelids growing heavy. "And I believe that's worth making an effort."

Thranduil watched Daeron slip into reverie, the bard's final words echoing in his head as the sun sank lower in the sky.

***

Gwindor was thankful that the morning was sunny and bright, as it brought the winter birds out into the skies. The calls of jays and cardinals, sparrows and finches, filled the air, making it easy for Gwindor to block out the faint cries that sang out from Thrandui's estate as he made his way through the softening snow. The air was crisp and his feet carried him effortlessly to the manor of Elrond Peredhel. Stillness was just being broken when he finally reached the entrance, and he was about to knock when the door opened before him.

Lothvaen stared down at the slender Noldo, recognizing him instantly from his previous visits. "You came back? What sort of glutton for punishment are you?" he asked snidely.

"Lothvaen," Glorfindel snapped from behind the scribe. An annoyed thwap to Lothvaen's head was met with a sour look. "You're treading on thin ice, meldir. Elrond wants to speak with you."

"No, he doesn't," Lothvaen grumbled, fussing with the hair his lover had displaced. "You just want me to leave Thranduil's catamite alone."

"His... Lothvaen, go. Now." Glorfindel was trying to keep his temper in check. Any argument he might have with Lothvaen he would prefer to have in the privacy of his chambers. Met with such an acidic look, Lothvaen knew better than to speak again, and he pursed his lips together as he turned and strode from the entryway. Glorfindel sighed, blue eyes turning to Gwindor, and a smile graced his lips. "You've returned. We were all beginning to worry. Come inside," he said, motioning Gwindor inside.

Gwindor may have been in the debates of the council in Nargothrond, but he was always a warrior and had never had a splendid vocabulary. He didn't know what Lothvaen had just called him, so he managed to brush it off with relative ease, stepping into the foyer at Glorfindel's invitation. He smiled pleasantly. "It is wonderful to see you again, Glorfindel. Were you truly starting to worry?" It made him feel cared for, having people notice when he was gone.

Glorfindel chuckled, placing his hand at the small of Gwindor's back, escorting the younger Noldo through the halls. "Yes, we were. Erestor, Elrond, and I had been speculating if Thranduil's pigheaded behaviour had truly sent you running from Tirion, never to return."

"You know better than that," Gwindor insisted. "Even if I had come back only to collect my belongings and move to the far side of the city, I do believe I would have returned here. Lórien was enchanting, but one cannot live forever solitary in a realm where life becomes a dream. If I had wanted such an existence, I had one close to it in Mandos." The realms were indeed similar in certain ways, much like the Valar who reigned in them. He followed Glorfindel up a winding staircase, his eyes ever busy in Elrond's home, taking in the sculptures and the intricate designs set into the stone so artfully.

Leading Gwindor into a small, private library, Glorfindel nodded. "Lórien is indeed peaceful, but you are right. On both accounts." Erestor sat behind one of the two desks in the room, and his grey eyes lit with joy to see Gwindor at Glorfindel's side. "Come, sit with us and tell us how you fare," the blond said, drawing Gwindor down onto a sofa, quickly joined by Erestor.

Gwindor found himself swiftly embraced by Erestor, and he chuckled, returning the gesture without hesitation. "I am well," he said with a happy smile. "The road to and from Lórien is long, so I have had much time in the sunshine and rain. I think I had neglected that while I lived here before. I can find nothing to compare it to except that I was a sapling trying to take root near a mighty oak tree. I needed my own nourishment and space in order to grow."

"You have grown," Erestor observed with a pleased nod. "It is visible in your manner and the light in your eyes."

Glorfindel looked into Gwindor's gaze, smirking. "The flame within his eyes is vibrant. I wonder what lights it so."

Swallowing, Gwindor tried to hide his blush by lowering his head so his bangs fell into his face. "I made many realisations in Lórien," he continued in a quiet voice. "There are quite a few things in my past that I will need to move beyond. My torments have been put into a slightly different perspective, but I know I shall battle with my time in Angband for a long while before things fully resolve themselves. But, beyond all that... I had a dream." Gwindor blushed more deeply at the mere memory of it, but he refused to go into detail. He could feel the two Noldor eying him with interest, and he slowly levelled his gaze on them. "From that dream, I realised... I am in love with Thranduil."

The smile on Glorfindel's face faltered, and he glanced to Erestor, worry clear in his sapphire eyes. "In... love with him?"

"Truly, Gwindor?" Erestor asked, the same concern visible in his eyes. "And you learned this from a dream?"

Gwindor nodded, noting his friends' concern with a wilting expression. "Aye... and a long conversation with Irmo and Námo. I am fully aware of how difficult this makes things, and I am prepared to endure the consequences."

Erestor attempted to approach the topic gently. "Then, you know that Thranduil--"

"--desires me but may not ever love me in return?" Gwindor finished. "Yes."

"That is a difficult path to walk, meldir," Glorfindel warned. An odd expression crossed his face. "Why are you here and not with him, then?"

A streak of crimson crossed Gwindor's cheeks. "Daeron... said something that embarrassed me. Thranduil followed him up to their chambers, and... Rhovandir advised me to come here and return at dusk."

Once again, the elder Elf-lords' gazes met. Glorfindel wet his lips and sighed. "Have you told him of your feelings? Of this dream you had?"

"No," Gwindor shook his head, looking down at his hands, folded in his lap. "He knows of the dream, though I did not speak of it to him. Irmo said we had the same one, that we constructed it together with little interference from him. As for my feelings..." he sighed. "Thranduil doesn't need to know. It would be pointless to tell him."

"Thranduil is unpredictable," Erestor murmured. He was unsure how Thranduil would react if he knew. It was clear the Elvenking harboured feelings for Gwindor, but if faced with such a confession of love, his friend might run, as he had run for millennia, avoiding true relationships that extended beyond the sheets of his bed.

Glorfindel shook his head. "He may be unpredictable, but if Gwindor is to have any peace of mind while in Thranduil's home, he needs to tell him. He loves you, Erestor, and he has never shunned that love. Or Daeron's. He fears giving *his* love, not receiving it." He thought Thranduil thrived on how many loved him, in fact, so long as no one demanded he love them in return.

"You... both think I should tell him?" Gwindor questioned, slightly intimidated by the prospect.

Erestor sighed, looking between Gwindor and Glorfindel. "He's right, Gwindor... If you wish to have peace of mind, you will need to tell him. You will need to be cautious, but if you know of any boundaries you have, they will need to be set firmly."

"I would suggest you tell him sooner than later," Glorfindel murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips. "He will not be cruel to you. I think you taught him his lesson in regards to his treatment of you."

Gwindor nodded, taking his friends' words into consideration. After a short silence, he smiled. "Thranduil has been very kind since my return. Protective, even, if this morning is any indication. It's unexpected... and quite pleasant." His thoughts flitted back onto the beautiful doll Thranduil had made for him. His eyes were constantly drawn to it whenever he was in his chamber. It was, without a doubt, one of the most thoughtful gifts he had ever been privileged enough to receive.

"That is good to hear. You were so unhappy before," Glorfindel said, relaxing into the cushions of the sofa.

"I feel... a bit more stable now," Gwindor replied, and his expression was calm and collected in a way it had not been so many months ago, when he had last visited this house in hysterics.

"Just watch your footing," Erestor said with a chuckle and a friendly nudge. "I would hate to see you stumble and fall into the lion's den."

Gwindor laughed happily, a spark of his old, playful nature coming back. "Only a lion, Erestor?" he asked with a scoff. "I've faced worse."

***

He had returned at dusk, just as Rhovandir suggested, and the house was quiet, the expansive grounds seeming empty in the cold of winter. Gwindor had gone almost immediately in search of Thranduil, his steps taking him from room to room swiftly, as if his haste would lessen his nerves or bolster his courage. He finally spotted his quarry in a warmly heated sitting room upstairs. Thranduil sat in an armchair by the blazing fireplace, half-dressed, as usual, and holding a wine glass in one hand.

Gwindor hesitated at the threshold. The wine glass was half-empty, and Gwindor could tell by the look on Thranduil's face that he was deep in thought. In a few deep breaths, Gwindor was able to summon his faltering courage. He crossed from the doorway into the room, the light of the fireplace illuminating him as he approached Thranduil.

Eyes almost black in the low light of the room flicker to the Gwindor, and Thranduil couldn't stop the flutter in his chest at the sight of his cook. "Gwindor." The Noldo was, as always, properly attired, and the firelight brought the deep russet tones in the black hair to life. It seemed as if embers glowed from beneath the dark tresses. His throat felt dry as he gazed up, and he only hoped he looked as calm and composed as he always did. "How do Erestor and Glorfindel fare?" he asked softly, his voice a little rough.

Gwindor swallowed thickly, his palms sweating as his fingers fiddled restlessly with the hems of his sleeves. "They are well," he said in answer to the question. A pregnant silence fell over them both, and Gwindor found he could not take his eyes from Thranduil, though he faltered in nearly every other way. Clearing his throat quietly, he made a couple false starts before words escaped his tight throat. "I... I should be in the kitchen, preparing supper... but I wanted to tell you..." He paused, and his racing pulse seemed the only sound beyond the crackling fire for several moments. Licking his lips, he finally said the words that were poised on his tongue. "I love you, Thranduil." A rush of heat ran through him, causing his cheeks to flush and his throat to go dry. His hands shook and a shy smile appeared on his face. Not trusting his voice to say anything more, he slowly backed away, his eyes on Thranduil as long as he could bear before he turned and fled the room, feeling his heart was about to burst.

Thranduil sat there, unblinking and unmoving, long after Gwindor had left. Those words... that smile... He stood up in one fluid motion, leaving his glass on a table, and stalked out of the sitting room, heading for the kitchen. There was no way the beautiful, prudish cook could come to him, say those words, and escape without recourse. A pleased, joyous smile graced Thranduil's face as he padded down the stairs, and when he rounded the corner, the kitchen door insight, he knew what he was about to do would change his life forever.

TBC...