Suffering

Suffering

Chapter Two.


Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and to everyone at h_w_m for the ideas and feedback *begs for more reviews*

Farewell: here you go, sorry it couldn’t have been earlier.

Author's Note: *this* denotes thoughts; **this** denotes indirectly reported thoughts. There would have been italics, but the computer was uncooperative.

Oh, as you will gather, Glorfindel doesn’t have a clue in this story… (well, at least not at first)

Well, this is up at last (after many, many failed attempts, hence it saying that I had updated), so I’ll shut up and leave you to read…

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Elrond shifted uneasily in his chair in the council chamber, trying unsuccessfully to concentrate on Erestor’s erudite explanation of political factors in negotiations with the King of the Greenwood, but he felt as restless as an elfling despite the great weight which seemed to have settled in his chest, crushing him until he was breathless with nameless fear. Only the previous night Glorfindel had found him leaning over the desk in his study, gasping for air.

When the concerned elf had placed a hand on his shoulder, he had startled wildly then merely shaken his head at the other’s worried inquiries, brushing him away.

In truth, he knew that he had been neglecting great Imladris which he loved with all his heart. Stronger love yet consumed him, dulling his senses and preventing him from giving his attention to the concerns of his city.

Elrond tapped his foot in exasperation at the seemingly never-ending discussion, twirling a quill between his shapely fingers.

Finally released from the morning’s debates, he shrugged his heavy robe from his shoulders, ripping the ceremonial diadem from atop his midnight hair.

With long strides he sought his bed chamber, wincing at the sight of the empty expanse of mattress, so barren of any conjugal joy. Abandoning the discarded garments, he whirled hastily and left the room, clad only in dark breeches tucked into soft leather boots, and a dark green tunic which reached his knees.

He hastened to his library, hoping to lose himself for an hour or two in the solace of books, or at least wallow suitably in his own grief.

*I wonder where I left my copy of the Lay of Leithian?*

He paused on the lintel, arrested by the sight which greeted him. Celebrían sat within, curled into the window seat, her knees drawn up almost to her chin. Her gaze rested intently on the book clasped in her hands, clearly enraptured by the tale within.

Elrond’s heart stopped. Her hair might be pulled back into a tight braid which could not become even the daughter of Lady Galadriel, and she might be clad in her oldest gown which she usually wore when climbing trees, but the sight brought back the most bittersweet memories. This was how he had first seen her, almost exactly as she was, her fair hair draped over her sweet face as she read in the dark hours of the night. He had thought that he had glimpsed a kindred soul, a joy which far surpassed any earthly beauty.

*But* he mused bitterly, *although she is indeed clever and learned, and her form is as fair as the dawn, and I love her for all those things, she cannot have perceived any likeness to me. And maybe she was right. After all, does not my Edain blood make my countenance less pleasing than those of the Firstborn and darken my soul?*

Retreating soundlessly he sped away, determined to leave her to her quiet perusal.

Celebrían, sensing rather than seeing a shadow in the doorway, did not look up, caught as she was in the sorrow and glory of the tale of Lúthien and her human lover Beren.

*Oh what it must be to be loved that truly!*

Hurrying through the beautiful corridors which gave him no comfort, Elrond found that he could not bear to resign himself to the humdrum tedium of work.

Without conscious effort his leaden legs carried him from the house, out through the gardens and up a steep path which climbed the side of the valley. Pausing for a moment he considered the vista below him, but nausea rose within him, clouding his quick brain.

Ignoring the bright splendour of the deep valley, he struggled higher and higher until he reached the topmost point of the ridge.

Resolutely turning his back on the haven he had founded, he gazed up under furrowed eyebrows at the monumental peaks towering above him.

“Where are you now, my father, my king?” he sighed into the soft breeze. “What would you bid me do to ease my heart?”

But no answer was borne from the Halls of Awaiting far away in blessed Valinor, and he was as alone as ever on the bare stone outcrop.

Stretching his broad shoulders to work out the knots of tension which had settled there in the past few days, he tried to set his mind free, to let his thoughts roam out across the broad plains and gentle hills to the wild sea beyond, but it was to no avail.

Sinking down onto a stone shelf, he began to un-braid his hair with shaking hands.

“How like are these stones to the heart of Arda laid out for all to see,” he murmured to himself. “Just as mine is laid at her feet.”

Unbearable melancholy swept through him at the thought and he sprang up, his boots scuffing viciously at the soft turf. To and fro his feet carried him, round and round the peak, dizzy with the fear which clamped around his heart.

At last he came to rest, staring up into the blue sky. Helplessly carried upon a tide of memory, he recalled the night of their marriage. He had led her to their chamber and peeled her clothes from her, layer by layer, until she stood before him, revealed in all her pale glory.

He felt his treacherous body tighten at the thought and forced his mind back to the true course of events.

As he had pushed her back onto the downy bed with exquisite tenderness, she had submitted to his wandering hands, neither resisting nor accepting his caresses, and he had know in that moment what a fool he was. She had merely acted as a decorous wife not an eager lover, and as he felt the warm darkness of her body envelope him he had lost himself to solitude.

**But what it would be to have her wrap her arms round his neck, and murmur endearments into his receptive ears, and welcome him into herself, her legs twisted around his waist pulling him nearer…And as the night faded into dawn they would curl into each other, revelling in each other’s presence, sharing secrets and hopes…**

elt elt a thrill of pleasure course through him.

Glancing down, he saw with abject self-loathing that his fingers had crept to the aching bulge in his groin and trailed across it.

He grabbed his hand away and, tearing a handful of moss from the ground scrubbed it roughly between his fingers.

Flinging the tuft away he examined the green stains marking his hands.

“Vile creature!” he spat. “You who pride yourself on your restraint are viler than any of Morgoth’s creations, Elrond Peredhil.”

Collapsing to the ground he bent his head into his hands, on the verge of tears.

“I cannot have her … I have no right to make these claims…”

But the dreams which haunted him in the night and all his wistful imaginings tormented him, setting his thoughts on fire.

Slipping Vilya from his finger, he held it up to the sunlight, wishing that he could cast it away into the wind and escape into the hills, far away from all the agonies which bit at him. He could lose himself in the wilderness as Eluréd and Elurín had been so many long years before.

“But could I do such a thing?” he demanded of himself in a ringing voice. “Could I abandon a treasure far above even my mother’s Silmaril?”

He continued, his voice hushed, “Even if Celebrían does not want me, I cannot bear to be parted from her.”

For an instant he was lost in the splendour of love itself, in the soaring joy, and in wonderment at her beauty and wit, but then sorrow pulsed through him.

“What can I do? How can I assuage this … this longing?”

Although he did not consciously welcome it, a suggestion came to him.

“I could … I might … I need heirs in case I fall in battle against the darkness which must surely come…”

His will raged against it, trying to free itself from the cloying tendrils, but it was too weak.

“I never swore that I would not do this … and after we have children, I shall make no further demands on her body, nor on her company…”

He almost wept at the thought.

“I cannot … I must not…”

But his lovelorn heart overrode his famed reason and he made his way back down the sheer face of the mountain with a soft melody of desire and desolation sweeping through him.

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“Elrond…?”

“Hmm?”

“The patrols have returned and…”

“Hmm?”

“Are you listening to me, mellon-iaur?”

“Probably not,” Elrond replied, grappling with the uncertainties of his heart.

Glorfindel grinned wickedly.

“Who can have caught so caught the fancy of stolid Imladris?” he asked merrily.

Elrond shot him a venomous look.

“Oh aye, I know how close-mouthed you are about such matters,” the golden-haired elf chuckled. “Fear not, I shall inquire no more.”

With an unusually grave expression falling across his face, he tugged the oblivious Peredhel towards his study where the Captain of the Guard awaited the arrival of his lord.

Catching sight of the livid bloodstains on the soldier’s cloak, Elrond’s mind was rudely forced back to reality.

“Suilaid,” he called to the still figure. “What happened, Aelingalen?”

The other elf bowed curtly, cringing at the strain on the wound in his side.

“An Easterling attack, my lord,” he croaked. “We drove them back, but we lost two men in the battle.”

Elrond’s face crumpled in anger.

“Do you think that this was some part of a concerted move against us?”

The other paused, considering the idea, before shaking his head.

“No,” Aelingalen replied. “They were simply a wandering band. We were taking a break for out midday meal when they came upon us. It is possible that they did not realise that we were soldiers of Imladris and mistook us for easy prey.”

His voice shook with pride and exhaustion.

Elrond accepted his assessment contemplatively. Looking down carelessly at the tiled floor, he saw crimson blood pooling around the other elf’s feet. In an instant, Elrond was by his side, catching the swaying figure.

“You are seriously injured. Are any others?” he demanded.

“Only two,” Aelingalen replied faintly.

As the elf-lord supported him from the room, he whispered, “It was my duty to report first.”

“Little fool. It was your duty to ensure that I have a Captain of my Guard tomorrow!”

But Elrond’s tone was not unkindly.

When they reached the Halls of Healing, Elrond settled the wounded elf on a bed, watching out of the corners of his eyes as his assistants tended the rest of the patrol.

Exposing the raw wound incised deeply into Aelingalen’s side, he cursed himself under his breath for his inattentiveness, switching to the Common Speech when Sindarin failed him.

*I should have been here to welcome the patrol. I should have noticed that he was injured. What kind of healer am I?*

Chanting low words of healing in Quenya, he worked to staunch the deadly flow of blood and poultice the wound. Giving Aelingalen a sleeping draft he moved to help the others, skilfully assessing injuried spd splinting broken bones.

When all was done and he had expended every last ounce of his energy on the one who lay near death, leaving him to the mercy of the Valar when his knowledge failed, he stumbled to his rooms. He trembled with fatigue and shame. No matter how many battle wounds he tended, even after the horror of the Last Alliance, it always left him like this: sick with fury and disgust at the shedding of blood.

Blinded, he collapsed onto his bed, burrowing his face into the comforting pillows.

Drowsily, Celebrían sat up beside him. Against her better judgement, which urged her to feign indifference, she inquired, “What ails you, my husband?”

“One of the patrols was attacked; two of our forces were lost; I have just come from tending the wounded,” he trembled.

“Oh.”

She had seen his talent at work before as he nurtured the injured, soothed the dying and calmed the bereft. He was so assured, so unshakeable in his confident store of lore that she found it hard to reconcile it with this broken man.

Elrond had never let her see this before, afraid that she would scorn his weakness and very human fraility.

Staring into her impassive eyes, he shook himself.

“’Tis nothing. I am concerned, and some of the injuries are very grave indeed, that is all.”

Briskly he stood up, revealing the bloodstains on his clothes. Celebrían’s eyes widened at the sight.

“Poor child,” she murmured. Although she would never show how much he hurt her, she could not abandon him thus, drenched in the life-blood of those he had worked so hard to save.

Elrond flinched at the term she chose.

Clinically, she began to strip his filthy clothes from his wearied body and shoved him gently towards their private bathing chamber. He obeyed her mutely although he burnt at her accidental touch

While the elf-lord submerged himself in the fragrant water from Imladris’ hot springs, Celebrían discarded the heavy throw which Elrond’s garments had marred. Her mind sorrowful, she sat cross-legged on the slightly rumpled sheets, holding an almost forgotten letter from her parents in her hands.

Thus it was that Elrond found her as he re-entered the room, a towel slung low around his lean hips and a loose gown thrown of his shoulders. His breath caught in his throat.

*Melethril* the endearment which he never dared to utter sprang to his mind.

Although he would have stopped it if he could, he felt himself grow hard under the towel, and his heart hammered in his throat. Wrapping the gown firmly around his body to conceal his reaction he crossed the room and settled on the stool by the dressing table. Resting his elbows on the lacquered wood, he buried his head in his hands.

Celebrían regarded him solemnly, her heart breaking at the defeated slump of his shoulders, and she was reminded once more why she loved him with such tremendous passion.

*His heart might not be mine, I may be determined not to prostrate myself at his feet, but how can I ignore him when he is like this?*

She walked to him, scooping up a long-toothed comb as she went and, standing behind him, began to untangle his wet hair.

Tensing immediately as he felt her deft fingers on his scalp and running gently through the sodden strands, Elrond found himself even more hopelessly excited. Almost unaware of what he did, he swivelled to face her and, wrapping his arms around her waist and shoulders, pulled her into a kiss.

After a moment’s blissful surrender, Celebrían took a step backwards.

“My lord…” she protested.

“I apologise most sincerely,” he whispered, fixing the gaze on the floor. “I was not thinking.”

Despite the words which cut her to the quick, Celebrían softened, her righteous anger melting away. Reaching out one hand to brush his cheek tentatively, she sighed.

“No. It is your right. After all, what did we contract this match for but to beget heirs?”

For a heartbeat, she thought she saw pain flash through his eyes at her words, but when she looked back the granite façade was once more in place.

“I would not force you to share my bed … know that I would not,” he pleaded, his eyes guilt-ridden.

Although as the proud daughter of a proud mother Celebrían might have drawn back, she could not; even the mention of their bed made her mind swim as it was assailed by the most erotic of visions.

“I know; but never let it be said that I do not do my duty by my husband.”

She tilted her chin up defiantly.

Elrond caught her hand and brought it to his cold lips, merely flickering them against her skin.

“Once … once we have children, I shall press my attentions on you no longer,” he murmured, echoing his earlier thoughts. Celebrían felt tears welling up in her eyes.

In unison they moved to the high bed. She quickly divested herself of her soft grey robe, letting it fall to the floor, and they lay down side by side.

At the tail-end of his self-control, Elrond smoothed one hand over her side. She bit her lip to prevent any noise from escaping her and rolled onto her back. Closing her eyes firmly to prevent bright tears from flowing down her pale cheeks she felt Elrond straddle her and his hardness press against her thigh.

The contact sent a shiver of desire through her, but Elrond mistook it for distress.

“I shall stop,” he whispered, although he felt himself burning with a sudden fiery need and droplets began to bedew the tip of his erection.

*As if I was a mere adolescent, overcome by the sight of a beautiful woman beneath me! How ridiculous!*

He shifted away, but a warm hand restrained him.

“Stay my husband.”

Scrutinising her face, he perceived a mask of acceptance, devoid of both hope and fear, and nodded.

Resting his weight on one elbow he passed the other hand down her body, gliding like a shadow over her nipples and tracing a path to the triangle of mithril curls between her thighs. With little effort he found what he sought.

*At least I can give her this*

He swirled one finger experimentally round her clitoris, grazing the sensitive skin delicately.

Celebrían moaned, her mind cast adrift, intensely aware of the sensations which his fingers, roughened by sword and by pen, were wringing from her. Nonetheless, some faint spark of conscious thought railed against it, crying out in the name of pride and dignity.

Moving lethargically she stilled his hand. Elrond was dazed almost to the point of insensibility by the scent of her hair, by the friction of her soft body beneath his, and the play of his fingers through her curls. Only slowly did he respond, gazing up into her blue eyes which seemed more distant than the infinite depths of the summer sky.

“I beg you not to.”

”But my lady,” he reasoned, “if I do not I shall cause you pain. That I do not desire.”

Celebrían dragged herself upright, fighting the urge to submit to his attentions.

*Even if he does not give them from true desire, only from consideration…*

Elrond sat back on his heels, his hair falling over his face, and as he watched her a blush mounted to his cheeks.

She slicked her hands with her tongue and slid them over his erection, marvelling at the heat of it compared to the icy chill of his damp arms and chest. When she was satisfied, she lay back, her legs spread, inviting him. He settled atop her once more, and as he did so she covertly admired the play of muscles under his ivory skin, the tensing of his buttocks. He positioned himself carefully, hovering over her entrance, awaiting her signal.

With a sigh, she surrendered to him, and he eased himself into her, inch by inch in an attempt to reduce the discomfort she felt.

Despite the sharp pain which momentarily made her wish she had recanted her pride, Celebrían felt a searing ache of desire as he filled her. If she closed her eyes and dreamt, she could imagine that he was here of his own free will, and all was as it should be…

Elrond rocked his hips against hers, frantic with lust and love, knowing that the embrace was incomplete, that he wished for her hands to skim across his hips, drawing him lovingly closer. When his climax flamed within him, its intense spasms shattering his soul, he cried out, and although he did not hear it, Celebrían groaned slightly as she felt his release.

As he clambered off the bed, his limbs still shaky, he brought one of her hands to his lips in a formal salute and, gathering up an armful of robes, slipped from the room, returning to the bathing chamber. From there he walked solemnly to the gardens, trying to regain his composure amid their verdant solitude.

Left alone once more, silent tears soaked Celebrían’s cheeks. Driven to desperation by her own need, she circled her breasts with her hands, pinching the rigid nipples until she gasped. She concentrated on the remembered impressions of her husband inside her, the velvety touch of his skin on hers, the intense delight as the crisp dusting of hair on his chest brushed her sensitised breasts.

Closing her eyes she imagined that he was bending over her, his eyes alight with love, like the stars in autumn.

**His hands would touch her just so, exploring the insides of her thighs…**

She mimicked the motions with her own hands.

**As he bent lower and lower, his hair would flutter across her breasts and stomach…**

She caressed her midriff with feather-light touches.

**And then his fingers would slip lower still, spreading her wide open and he would lavish his adoring attention on her, delighting in her delight, echoing her sounds of pleasure…**

She teased her clitoris between her fingertips, shuddering at the delicious torment.

**Then he would pull her down to him, claiming her lips in a kiss, and would enter her, murmuring her name.**

Her other hand slid down to join the first, and its fingers began to move rhythmically in her dampness. The wave of orgasm crashed over her and in the safe stillness, Celebrían moaned Elrond’s name.

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An hour or two later, awoken from her restless doze, she arrayed herself in a gown of silver and the deepest blue and joined the household at the evening repast.

“I bid you good evening my lady,” Elrond said, inclining his head.

“And I you, my lord.”

Celebrían tried to stop the blood rushing to her face. It would be unbecoming to appear flustered.

“How are the injured?” she inquired while trying to recover her composure.

A sad smile graced Elrond’s face, tingeing it with great bitterness.

“Two will recover in a matter of days; the third, it seems, was beyond my skill to heal, and passed to Mandos in his sleep,” he confessed. His hands clutched the goblet of wine so tightly that the glass creaked beneath his touch. She took it from him.

“I fear that you might cut yourself on the shards,” she said.

“Thank you for your thoughtful concern, my…wife,” he responded harshly, shooting her a sourly ironical look.

Celebrían straightened.

“Very well, my husband, do as you will,” she snapped returning the vessel to him. Elrond’s fingers tightened around it once more until his knuckles shone white through his skin.

*That was cruel* he reprimanded himself, but he could not will himself to speak. For the rest of the meal no words passed between them as they listened to the idle but somewhat muted chatter of others.

The Master of the house retired as early as was seemly from the mournful singing in the Hall of Fire, and returned to his study.

Amid the dim light and raised voices, Celebrían sought Glorfindel out.

“Walk with me, Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower,” she beseeched him.

Taking a flask of spirits in one hand and two glasses in the other, the blond elf followed her out into the night. When they had settled themselves on a stone bench, he handed her one laden glass, keeping the other for himself.

“How may I assist you, Lady Celebrían?” he asked politely.

She sipped at the potent liqueur, feeling it warm her against the darkness.

“I … I …” she stumbled to a halt, regretting the impulse which had brought her here. Rallying her courage with a deep draught of the golden liquid she continued breathlessly, “You knew my husband long ago?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, did he have many lovers?” she asked tremulously.

Glorfindel broke into a peal of laughter which rang through the night. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he giggled, “No, my lady, not many, although there were some.”

Celebrían looked vacantly into the distance, and the golden-haired elf raised his glass to his lips.

“Answer me this then… Was the High King among them?”

Glorfindel choked on a mouthful of liquid and collapsed in hysterical laughter. Thumping him on the back, Celebrían looked at him curiously.

“I have heard that they were very close,” she stated.

“Nay, nay my lady, do not tease me so,” he begged when he finally regained control of his voice. “They were indeed close, but Elrond looked on Gil-galad as a replacement for Eärendil who sailed away, and the king saw Elrond as the son he never fathered.”

Celebrían sighed in relief, and mustered her will for one final question.

“And now? Does Lord Elrond have a lover now?”

Glorfindel’s face turned sombre, and he touched her shoulder in brief comfort.

“That I know not,” he sighed. “My friend has always been silent on such matters.”

“Thank you, my Lord Glorfindel,” Celebrían curtseyed, and strode away, her thoughts not significantly more at ease than they had been before he had spoken.

The fair elf sat in thekneskness, passing his cup from one hand to the other.

“So,” he mused quietly, “Elrond’s young bride is concerned where he bestows his favours… I wonder what this means? More importantly, I wonder what his reaction will be?”

Moving swiftly, he sought out Elrond’s study where he expected to find his friend bent on some task amid stacked books and papers. However, when he approached the Peredhel, he saw his dark head slumped on an open volume, his cheek pillowed on his arm and his eyes glassy with sleep. Rescuing one black lock from the open inkpot, he left the elf-lord to his repose.

*But still, this is very intriguing…*


TBC


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Translations and explanations:

The Lay of Leithian – the story of Lúthien and Beren.

Eluréd and Elurín – the twin sons of Dior: Elrond’s uncles. They were abandoned in the wilderness by the followers of the sons of Fëanor. Maedhros tried to find them but could not.

Mellon-iaur – old friend.

Suilaid – greetings.

Aelingalen – this should mean ‘green pool’

Melethril – lover (female).