Quietude

Title: Quietude – Part Two
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: Elladan/Erestor, others of interest
Summary: The sexy chapter!
Rating: NC-17 – for sexual tension, erotic fantasies, and outright smut
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.
Author’s Note: Please heed my warning, this one is brutal at first. A character is irrevocably maimed, the consequences are bloody, and the repercussions visceral. If this only incites you to read on, then please do! There are smutty treasures awaiting those who are loyal to the cause. :)
Feedback: Would be delightful.
Dedication: To Eresse, dearest friend, blessed writer, and shrewdest critic. Hope this is payment enough for your constant and vital support.

A/N 2: Thank you to everyone who read, and especially those who reviewed. Just to let you all know, in case of AFF going down, this story is also posted on my Live Journal. The link is www.livejournal.com/users/gloromeien. Take the best of care, one and all.


Quietude - Part Two

Imladris, Year 873, Third Age

One Month Later

Erestor conjured the crackle, spark, and fizz of flaming wick in his inner ear, as Elladan mated candle to lantern. The early summer night was far too balmy for a fire; indeed, all the shutters had been thrown open to welcome in the weak breeze. Yet they could not do without some illumination, so his loyal steward set about lighting a few of the opulent Haradin lamps, with their topaz-tinted panes and their voluptuous shape, then hanging them from the ceiling hooks.

His one trip to the desert southlands nearly three millennia ago – in a spate of espionage he had performed for Ereinion – had inspired many aspects of his bedchamber décor, which only amplified the luxury of its sultry climes. Dressed in regal hues of crimsons, coppers, violets, and gold, the tapestries were woven with scenes of their ancient mythology, the linens of their finest silk, the headboard imported from a market in the swarthy capital.

Most of his lovers commented that the mysterious atmosphere of his bedchamber complimented his own exotic looks; what they did not know was that his great-great-grandmother had been a Haradin slave in the court of his father, the Sindar Lord of the Falas, the seaside havens of Beleriand. The tradesmen ships that docked there to barter with the elves had their share of mutineers and deserters; she had been one of the latter. One of his Adar’s counselors became her refuge, taking her to his bed though never daring to bind with a mortal female. Three generations later, just two decades before Morgoth would ravage the havens and force his father into exile on the Isle of Balar, the stirrings of conflict, as well as the prick of an inopportune love, moved the longtime bachelor Lord of the Falas to take the slave’s granddaughter as his bride. If the line descendent from the Haradin deserter had not been matrilineal, then this foreign aspect to his provenance may have been squashed by an overbearing aristocrat as it snuck through the regal succession. His father, however, had never been one to heed to the imperious ways of others; he had waited too long to meet the one who would help him bear through the devastation that followed, as well as provide him with an heir that would defend the founding principles of his realm, if not the realm itself. By consequence, he was bequeathed an ample share of the exotic looks that lay dormant in the blood of his mother’s line: hair of velvety thickness, dense-lashed eyes of almond shape, and lips of decadent pulp. Erestor also flattered himself that his sexual prowess and his sensuous nature were a direct consequence of that defiant coupling of elf and southlander, for in his experience the Haradin people had been much more overt, yet maturely so, with their physicality.

He sighed longly as he dropped his formal robe, which pooled around his ankles until he stumbled out, intoxicated by the most lofty contentment he had felt since his maiming. He meandered over to the open window, drinking in the heady scent of a summer midnight. They had spent a wonderful, lively evening at the gaming tables. He and Elrond, for the sake of facility in communication, had taken on Elladan and Glorfindel; an unwieldy match of strategy versus stealth. Yet such old friends could not fail to taunt in such a familiar ways that everything was implicitly understood. Their teasing grew so ribald, as well as mimetic, that they had nearly toppled over the game board, which he imagined would only have heightened the competitive tension. The real surprise of the evening was how well he had found he could read Elladan’s face. Even when studiously blank, Erestor discerned the subtle workings of his mind – hardly stunning, since they had a month’s experience at such silent interaction. This had, however, not rightly given them the upper hand, as Elladan proved equally adept at reading both him and his father, though it had brought about a whole new level of mockery, at the expense of the two haughty elders. Erestor had been tickled by the complicity he felt with his former charge and current steward, he came to relish it as much as the goblets of wine he was finally allowed by his healer.

Indeed, he later found that he had imbibed perhaps a cup or two too much, as Elladan had needed to lace an arm around his waist to steady him when they stood. He had felt a rather delicious shiver, then, a sizzle of faintly sexual heat up his spine, and was only too glad that they were retiring. Yet a glance at Elrond woke him from this nostalgic reverie – he was not, as in times of yore, with a doting lover - his dizzy head had no doubt been further befuddled by the wine. He bumbled through his fare-thee-wells, his tipsy mind quickly dismissing his faux pas in favor of gratitude for a gorgeous night, then left his constant steward to guide them back to their suite.

Now sobered some by the lengthy walk, he was alternatively disturbed and concerned by his body’s reaction to Elladan’s touch. Indeed, as the days had turned to weeks, the weeks to over a month of his doting care, he would be a fool not to admit that his feelings towards his young steward were deepening at a rapid rate, from simple, paternal regard, to recognizing his gallant character, to encompassing respect as a peer, to an adamantine bond of genuine friendship, to… if he was honest, a budding desire. He knew his loneliness, his intense, unreasonable, and urgent want of a lover to bear him through the still relentless heartache of his condition, only fuelled the misconception that he wished for Elladan to console him in all conceivable manners. And yet… their closeness was telling, though perhaps equally deceiving. Certainly, any sign of his desire returned could be woefully misinterpreted, especially by one so desolate, yet craven, as he.

In terms of physicality, Elladan was an elf in his prime. Erestor remembered well how potent an unbound elf of his age was in springtime, when forces both internal and natural colluded to incite a young elf to bind. No matter what one’s social, political, or aristocratic situation, both elven and manly bodies were designed for reproduction whence in youthful years; instinct would be satisfied, no matter what the personal cost. While, through the simple course of aging, Erestor’s own impulses had tamed some, he knew that Elladan’s were at their demanding peak, urging him to couple, if not to bind, to mate as often and as ecstatically as he could. Though he could hardly be considered some wanton letch or his lusting far beyond his own control, his strapping peredhil body was not entirely immune to this primal influence, especially once lured into the somnolent bosom of the elven dreamscape.

Every night, they shared a bed. Yet to interpret his guardian’s pert, prodding morning erections as ought but the unconscious affliction of springtime urges upon an elf in his youthful prime would be dangerously foolish. Indeed, Elladan took great pains to conceal himself, to steal away to the bathing chamber and to quietly rid himself of his rigidity; Erestor only knew of his tumescence in the rare times he woke before the dawn, his sleep troubled. In truth, Elladan had never engaged him in ought but the most platonic of affections, the doting intimacy of which developed as a result of their bearing through trauma, not from some rabid need to rut. Though, when in the privacy of his library study, Erestor occasionally imagined how exquisite it might be to lie with someone who knew you on such a level of intimacy, he was not so dim as to think himself worthy of such a pleasure.

An elf as golden-hearted as Elladan deserved better than he; cripple, outcast… a wretched thing.

The young peredhil had sacrificed so much for him already, he certainly could not ask him to give his body, as well. To say naught of his loyalty to Elrond, who would most certainly disapprove of a liaison between his closest advisor and his princely heir. The Lord had only recently - and privately, for he would never so direly influence such a vital choice to his children - resigned himself to the fact that both Elladan and Elrohir preferred the company of males. He knew how necessary a noble match was to a peredhil ruler, especially one with such a fraught history, perhaps not on these shores, but certainly in the Blessed Realm. A Prince of Greenwood was a fitting, fortunate choice, if Thranduil ever let such a binding come to pass. The lowly son of an exiled shipwright, who had been the son’s childhood tutor no less, would hardly be heralded as innovation. He had lived in ancient times, he knew the brutal realities of class struggle among the Firstborn. Even an affair between them was unadvisable, at best.

And yet.

For all his misgivings, he had undoubtedly experienced a similar sizzle up his spine on numerous, completely lucid occasions, such as on those morns when he fortuitously woke to the sensation of a hot, hard, thriving shaft poking into his thigh. Elladan’s nightly disrobing, especially after he had been training, was an indelible temptation; that sculpted chest, those sinuous arms, the flat, furry slide of navel into breeches. Just the differences between elven and peredhil bodies were endlessly fascinating to him. Indeed, if he was judicious with his balance, he merely had to turn discreetly towards the center of the room to again witness the peerlessly seductive sight of Elladan’s torso baring, perhaps even accompanied by a not-before-seen doffing of the breeches, as the elf-warrior was becoming terribly casual in terms of self-exposure. That he was comfortable enough in his tutor’s presence to be naked was both heartening and somewhat tormenting.

Erestor feared that, as his unfulfilled desires amplified, he would have to dismiss Elladan, if only for dignity’s sake. Although he hardly expected the young elf to serve him indefinitely, he sensed that neither was yet truly ready for even a trial separation; to force one would be madness, threatening to both their states of wellness.

Yet as soothing arms wove around him, as he sunk back against that broad chest, as he was cinched into the embrace that had kept him safe through his most desolate days, the timid swell of his still mostly soft member told him his vigilance was not unwarranted.

Of the echoing swell of his heart, he was yet blissfully unaware.

************************************

After a growling, leonine yawn, Elrohir padded out into the foyer that adjoined his bedchamber suite with that of his perpetually absent twin, clad in naught but the flimsiest of bathing towels. With his sweet Legolas still near-comatose from a fevered ravishing the night before, burrowed so deeply under the coverlet of his expansive bed he seemed to be hiding from a swooping Nazgul, Elrohir was free to putter about the hearth, brewing them a pot of tea and toasting them some lembas slices. He hardly saw the need for more coverage, since Elladan but ghosted through their rooms under diaphanous veil of moonlight every week or so to deliver his soiled raiment and to fetch his laundered tunics from his armoire.

The elf-warrior’s obsessive devotion to their former tutor was rather adorable altogether, he and Legolas had decided just the previous evening, the very sort of dedication Erestor himself would show if either of them had ever been so grievously crippled. That such honorable behavior came from his gallant brother was of no surprise to him, yet that it was coupled with such touching displays of tenderness and of patience from one so characteristically strident had been something of a shock. In matters of war, Elladan was renown for his frankness, as candid with his praise as with his rancor. While some newly promoted guard-captains were known to mollycoddle the soldiers who were once their friends, now their patrol, his brother had been strict, disciplined, and of formidable temper, which was not always to everyone’s liking, even those so hardy as to be chosen for service in Imladris. In those first years, there had been gossip aplenty about his mannish brusqueness, theories about how he had received the larger share of manly traits while Elrohir was more elven in nature, and, once, an incident where a career soldier had been relegated to the home guard for an entire century of penance. If that incensed elf, who had subsequently moved to Lorien, could witness Elladan’s effortlessly attentive speech-therapy sessions with Erestor now, Elrohir thought he just might reconsider his hasty migration. The elf-knight did not know what aspect of the advisor’s plight had proven so evocative to his twin, but he was more than pleased to note a newfound softness in him, as was their Lord Adar.

He was even more stunned to find Elladan himself plunked down before the hearth, his dull argent eyes mesmerized by the flickering tongues of flame within. No brother, let alone a twin, could fail to recognize such a trance as one of intense contemplation, of what lately troubles Elrohir could not conceive of. Erestor’s progress was continuing apace, his mood had improved tremendously over these last weeks, and he could even be prodded to venture, now and again, into the banquet hall for a meal with the family. Elrohir gave his brother’s attentions and influence no little credit for these small victories, as oftentimes Erestor could be seen to visibly wilt when Elladan had to momentarily absent himself from the room.

He could only conjecture what two elves so renown for their carnal prowess got up to in that enormous bed every night, but he suspected their activities were not entirely restful. While his reputation on the training ground or in the battlefield could be less than complimentary, his brother had never had any trouble luring one he coveted into his arms, nor did he struggle hard to keep them there. If ought, they became so convinced – through the artfulness of his bodily adoration – that they were the one for him eternally, that when they discovered this was not the case, the subsequent break was viscerally painful. Absolutely committed to monogamy – thanks to Erestor’s sterling example, no less – Elladan could never be less than truthful to his partner when his eye inevitably began to stray; in recent years he had become more selective, more discerning, more scrutinizing of a potential lover’s reasonable nature. Erestor was, of course, possibly the most hallowed bachelor in the valley. Yet he managed what Elladan could not, to segue his lovers from sensuality to friendship, thus never offending them with his inattention. There was merely a shift in tenor, which suited most of them fine. While Elladan was still considered both a youngling and a potential match, Erestor had lived so long without permanently attaching himself that few entered into a relation with binding formally in mind. Regardless, they were both so steeped in experience of the loving arts that he envied how sizzling their sessions must be, even without benefit of sound. Both were quite eminently suited to one another, so Elrohir could do naught but wish them a huge amount of pleasure, the best remedy yet available to Erestor.

This shroud reflection of Elladan, however, gave him some measure of pause. He meandered over to their plump-cushioned sofa, then made a loud show of collapsing into the nest of pillows collected there. Elladan started, whirled back with a warrior’s keen instinct, then snorted at the debauched sight his twin so rakishly presented to him. Yet he was desperate enough to take the bait, scrabbling to his feet and shuffling over to the sofa, plunking himself well within hugging distance. His brother clearly required not merely advice, but some consoling affection. Elrohir would be only too glad to oblige.

“By Elbereth, what did you do to so tire our fair archer?” Elladan quipped as overture. “I have not known him to laze past ten bells since his randy adolescence.”

Elrohir grinned with delectable wolfishness, then replied: “Even one so fit as he has his levels of endurance, I assure you. I merely… tested them out. He will rise eventually.”

“Aye, but you wantons best stroll to the cascades,” Elladan taunted. “The grooms will be excited to exercise Tiren, he is a fine horse.”

“Horse able as rider, then,” Elrohir smirked, far too pleased with himself for the sake of his own humility. “But I must chide you some, toren. All these long weeks you have been so shackled to Erestor’s luxurious bed that I have heard naught of your own indulgences.”

Elladan foist such virulent eyes upon him that Elrohir realized at once that he had made a most grave and insulting assumption. After a tense moment, his brother’s silver eyes went oddly fluid, then his earlier gloom descended anew. Could it be that Erestor had rejected his advances? Yet best not to leap to any conjured conclusions, but let his twin confess his heart.

“I wish you would not parrot such tiresome rumors,” Elladan retorted, with a huff. “A blatant falsity, Elrohir.”

“Have you spent these last weeks camped on the divan in his sitting room, then?” Elrohir queried, his tone studiously playful.

“Nay, we lie toge-… *beside* one another,” he corrected. “That is, we are cuddled, but chastely so. He required my succor, not my advances.”

“Yet you would… advance?” he asked plainly, then rolled his eyes at his twin’s weak bleat of noble protest. “Do not even attempt to convince me, Elladan, that you wake each morn as limp as a tree slug, having dreamt of naught but gambling through the forest glades like an elfling unawares. Even felled by injury, Erestor is a peerlessly erotic creature, oft so alluring as to entice a nymph to never so much as dab her toe into another pond.”

“You fancy him, then?” Elladan attempted, instead, to defer his response through humor. This proved even more unsuccessful a gambit than his previous effort.

“Aye, as a bond-brother,” Elrohir shot back, which effectively sobered the elf-warrior. “Have you informed him of your desire?”

“How could I, conscionably?” Elladan sighed, finally allowing himself to evidence some frustration. “At times I still sense that… that I am his only anchor to this world, the only constant that keeps him from plunging headfirst into a depressive abyss-“

“Rather melodramatic, that,” Elrohir interrupted him. His brother’s mouth formed a moue, but still he pressed on. “As you yourself have mentioned on numerous occasions, if Erestor had wanted to finish himself, he would have done so on the precipice. If he is resolved to life, then he is equally resolved to the quality of his own. He will certainly wade through the murk of black spells… but he is mostly settled, now. He has his duties, and is working on communication alternatives so that he might return to his office. He is perhaps more solitary than is the norm, but what else might one expect? Indeed, I imagine that he must be quite lonely. One so social as he, to be ostracized from one’s peers must be terribly… If ought, I wager that he fears he may never again enjoy the company of a lover.”

“Ridiculous,” Elladan challenged. “One of Erestor’s beauty and boudoir talents is never entirely forgotten. They merely await his signal. They will come when he beckons them.”

“Then you must take advantage of his blindness to his own continued appeal,” Elrohir encouraged him, to which Elladan laughed dryly. Yet he allowed himself a smirk, as well. “Better yet, demonstrate for him just how alluring he still is. Give him the confidence to venture out again, if he so chooses. I cannot see how your invitation would fail to hearten him.”

“And if he denies me?” Elladan prodded, searching more for reassurances than for answers he knew well enough. “What of our friendship?”

“He is *Erestor*,” Elrohir insisted. “He will be flattered, gracious, and accommodating, as ever. Yet call it foresight if you will, but I sense that he will not deny you. That he will welcome the overture and indulge himself to the hilt. That perhaps… this is what frightens you most?”

Elladan swallowed hard, looked askance.

Elrohir, for his part, fought to stifle a gasp. His brother’s situation was even more intense than he had first suspected.

“You cannot fathom,” his twin quietly, reverently explained. “How forceful even the purest tides of emotion are between us in our relation… in that bed. I sometimes fear I will drown in the very sheets, so awesome is the pull towards him. The way he looks at me… so eloquent… so worshipful, at times… and then, when I return at night, when I disrobe…” The memory affected him such that he began to tremble. “Tis all melded together; gratitude and giving, lust and longing, craving and cherishing…”

“Then how can you forgo the chance to experience such powerful emotions?” Elrohir demanded. “Are you not the same elf that urged me to pursue Legolas, even when I was doubtful of his regard? That helped me weave the disparate strands of my feelings into an unbreakable cord, with which to rope him in? Who shoved me forth when I would have hesitated, who gathered me up when I stumbled, who convinced King Thranduil himself of an entirely fictional feast day in hope that, at such raucous revels, you and your beloved might finally fall over each other?” When Elladan giggled mischievously at this last reminder, the elf-knight knew he had convinced him. “By the Valar, toren, seduce him this very night! If naught else, it will ease you both to enjoy an activity you so excel at, and masterfully at that. I cannot even imagine how sensuous such a pairing might prove. Perhaps you should store up provisions? You may not see light for days on.”

“Nay, I will see light,” Elladan boasted, fuelled by his brother’s kindly compliments. “The mellow flame of satiation in Erestor’s beauteous blue eyes.”

“My, we have grown suddenly bold,” Elrohir teased, to which his twin blushed quite fetchingly. In truth, he was only too glad to provoke him, as the elf-warrior had been merciless in the early days of his relationship with Legolas.

The peel of sticky-slick feet off the hardwood floor warned them of imminent interruption, as a tousled, flaxen archer, decorated for his valiant endurance with a laurel of love-bites round his neck, wandered into the foyer, his cottony mouth hankering for a fresh cup of tea. Elladan was unceremoniously shoved over so that the Greenwood prince could recline into his lover’s warm embrace. Legolas, still drowsy and deliciously pliant, curled up into his arms, having neglected to spare a second even to clothe himself.

Elladan’s resulting smirk was not as typically mocking, but instead tinged with hopefulness that he himself might soon spend a lazy morn tucked up with his own languid-limbed lover.

As he leaned over to kiss his golden one, Elrohir could not help but wish the same.

************************************

The giddy patter of summer rain upon the domed pane of the skylight above was a welcome distraction from the clanks and flops of Erestor’s faraway progress through the stacks. With a huff, he rifled through a pile of horticultural ledgers, before uncovering a dusty chest of archaic design. The lock would require some nimble-fingered needling. Fishing a hunting knife out of his boot, he set to work.

When he’d first walked into the library early that afternoon, the storm summarily compromising the training exercise he was just about to inflict upon his novitiates, he had hoped to find his charge tucked into a nest of blankets in his largest armchair, sipping a herbal tisane and flipping through a dog-eared volume of Seregin Nerdanil’s early poetry. The advisor had ever had a penchant for the spare, haunting versus of the ancient Sindar, especially on days of drowsy contemplation, such as the weather portended this could be.

How thoroughly mistaken he had been, not to mention deluded as to how long one of Erestor’s spirited efficiency could be kept from some major project or similarly epic undertaking, even if his energies were still somewhat depleted by his recent injury. Instead of a languorous, cuddly elf in repose, Elladan had discovered a library laid-waste by a too-long-idle mind. There was, apparently, a vast vault of underused tomes still left to be catalogued; gifts from various dignitaries, records salvaged from razed castles, and a store of controversial literature deliberately kept under lock. No longer, it seemed. Erestor had always planned to blend these books into the regular selection, but had not been able to entrust such a task to one of skills inferior to his own. As none save the Lord himself was more learned than Erestor in matters of lore and as the chief advisor was forever occupied by some more pressing chore, the vault remained sealed for centuries on. Yet now the usurped loremaster had ample time in which to commit himself to the muscle and wit strengthening project, which had then become most apparent to the doting steward who had stumbled into the chaos that very afternoon.

Once he had both located Erestor and made his presence known without startling him, his warrior’s brawn had been put straight to work: emptying the higher stacks, transporting recently catalogued tomes into the main library, giving some lower piles a cursory sorting through. Some of the books relegated to the vault had been so for good reason, after all; either for their tedium or for their archaic notions of deportment. One of his former tutor’s most marked characteristics was his devotion to progressive social mores, thus he heavily frowned upon some of the more ‘barbaric’ works of old. He would store them, for certes, but they could only be consulted by special request. That Erestor took a special pride in briskly ordering him about was instantly apparent; if ought, it reminded him of his elfling years, where rainy days were spent, most often than not, routing around the library stacks under their tutor’s patient watch. If the twins managed mischief without too much ruckus, then they were spared the challenge of one of Erestor’s effortlessly creative employments of their time. Needless to say they became masters of discretion, for, ironically, their tutor had seemed to have even keener ears than their own naneth. Yet his fondest recollections were of late day storytelling sessions, when the advisor would gather them up into his blanket-nest by the fire and bedazzle them with tales of elven history. The twins learnt more in those deeply cherished moments than in any of their lessons, though these were also remarkable for Erestor’s awe-inspiring erudition.

Elladan fought through the sadness that washed over him at this memory. What he would not give to bear through Erestor’s hectoring now, or, better yet, one of his sprawling tales of errantry. The wounded elf appeared entirely unaware of, or perhaps deliberately ignored, the speech potential he yet possessed. While only the most instinctual or impulsive sounds bleat from his lips, they were perfectly clear utterances; perhaps a conscious attempt would slur them, but he need only practice some. They had developed a workable series of signals between them, but at present only he himself understood every gesture. If Erestor could enhance these speech sounds, other might possibly prove more amenable to learning the basics of their sign language. There was still much left to interpretation, of course, as inflection and nuance were anathema to such rudimentary interaction, but they managed well enough. Yet not quite as well as when Erestor inadvertently spoke. When troubled, he was particularly adept at summoning him; quite volubly, as well. An anguished ‘Elladan’ would break from the bathing chamber, the foyer, or the bedroom; in a flash, he would be there to help him out of the tub, tame the overzealous fire, or simple crawl beneath the covers to console him through a bout of sorrow.

The most thrilling sound he still made, one he must be aware of, was his laughter. Whether a dry snort of mock disapproval, a wry snicker at some peculiar ruse of his, or the flirty, throaty chuckles that made his skin prickle, every laugh was an abject joy to him. A triumph of will. A herald of brighter days to come.

Though his chat with Elrohir the previous morn had done wonders to rally his spirits, he was yet rather confounded as to how best to approach Erestor with his controversial advances. How does one advise the elf in one’s care that one’s regard has gone hopelessly scarlet? That no matter what the tenor or the mood of the situation, every minute in his presence was imbued with its own affecting form of stimulation? That his childhood memories of their togetherness were fond and well, but easily fogged over by a mind bogged in steamy, insatiable desire for his sexual possession? He could hardly write him a billet-doux. Instead, he found himself embroiled in a spate of over-analysis, Erestor’s every touch scrutinized for hidden meaning.

Elladan was certain that, if his longing did not spoil their casual intimacy, than his assuming mind surely would.

The primary trouble was that, though their coupling might be more remedial than genuinely heartfelt, his intentions were quite contrary to this ambition. That he was earnestly, passionately, and irrevocably in love with Erestor was as undeniable a truth as his half-elven state. While this did not mean that he could not survive a more nonchalant physical relation with him, he was not entirely convinced that he wanted to have him thusly. Elladan was willing to bequeath him any and every platonic affection in order to see him well again, but his heart was his own, to protect as well as to nurture. Yet, as estimable as such a resolution was, neither could he deny the rising heat between them – even if this was just a mirage conjured by his craven imagination.

He was, in essence, beginning to despair. Perhaps he should simply sit Erestor down before the fire that night and explain the circumstance to him in explicit detail. Twas not the most romantic route, for certes, nor was the honest road without its perils, but better that than another aching morn, his arms full of tempting, untouchable, peerlessly exotic advisor.

As if to mock him through serendipity, Elladan finally broke from his musings to focus on the unlocked chest before him, brimming with books. Yet upon closer perusal, he understood the necessity for the double security of vault and of chest, as this was Glorfindel’s collection of ancient erotica, from the extremely permissive society of Gondolin. Once tucked away on the furthest shelf in the dimmest corner of the library, Erestor had been forced to confiscate these saucy texts, not for their content, but due to the fact that they were often, and unthinkingly, vandalized by their borrowers. Elladan had only learned of this when he and a lover had gone searching for some literary inspiration one tipsy night, just the sort of redoubtable venture the loremaster had sought to protect against! Yet his and Elrohir’s discovery of such bawdy works could be dated much earlier, as evidenced by a certain tome he was currently scouring around for.

Just as he spied the errant folio of erotic images, the whisk of wafting robe against the crisp sheets of paper warned him of interruption. Better yet! If Erestor was not thoroughly reddened by this reminder of one of their more precocious pranks, then he would certainly laugh quite hardily. With a crack of the floorboard and a tisk of the tongue, the advisor himself was peering over his shoulder as he flipped to the back, defaced page of the folio. Elladan rose, so that his friend could better read the childish scrawl, inscribed in what must have been his twenty-fifth or twenty-sixth year. The elf-warrior gingerly nodded towards the taunting message with all the inherent perspicacity of his earlier, elfling self. The notation boasted: ‘Master Erestor does not think Elrohir and Elladan have seen this book, but they have, and they like it very much!’

All the moisture drained from Elladan’s mouth, when that wry, throaty chuckle rumbled up from Erestor’s chest. He moved closer, wove an arm around his waist, so as to better admire the ancient folio. A deliciously becoming smile curled his lips as he examined the second columns of notations, written in a more practiced hand, but its cryptic etchings indecipherable to one unknowing of its legend. He gazed up questioningly, amusedly, at Elladan, who before those crystal blue eyes could not rightly fathom how he could possibly deny himself the ultimate pleasure of lying with such a comely elf, should Erestor succumb to the advances he was now committed to pursuing.

A peaked eyebrow wondered at his delay. Elladan’s own brow furrowed. How to explain without gushing, awkward justification of the terribly adolescent game he and Elrohir had challenged each other to so many years on, and without words. His shame flared bright on his cheeks. Erestor seemed only more tickled by his sheepishness. With a halting gulp of air, he pressed on. With a twitchy finger, he outlined to his former tutor that the symbols were a tally of sorts, with a column reserved for he and for his twin. He then flipped back several pages, careful not to linger too long on the ecstatic images, indicating a number assigned to each successive act. He then compared certain numbers in the column with their corresponding erotic act, thus revealing the chart to be a scorecard of the twins’ sexual exploits.

Those bejeweled blue eyes took on a rather deviant twinkle of their own. Cozying up even closer to his now quite uncomfortable, yet somehow, strangely excited steward, Erestor quickly memorized a string of the numbers in Elladan’s column, then quite brazenly sought out the acts that they depicted. While this was mildly embarrassing to him, Elladan could not help but bristle at the delectable naughtiness of the enterprise, as well as at how Erestor insisted on passing comment on each of the acts themselves. Whether through a teasing squeeze, a clack of surprise, or an outright glare of mingled admiration and astonishment, his reactions were ever playful, good-natured, and, he slowly began to understand, desperately arousing. If this was how loving would be between them, warm, comfortable, and of utterly relaxed sensuality, then he wanted this, him, the two of them.

The concept that Erestor could very well have been seducing him only dawned on him much, much later; indeed days later, when similarly nuanced tactics lured him from bath to bed.

Elladan was too embroiled in raptly observing his friend’s subtle reactions to presently manage much sentience. Erestor had paused his progress on one particularly salacious – if not downright orgiastic – image of several elves in a daisy-chain of fervent fellatio. Yet his sharp eyes glared dubiously at his steward, to which Elladan could naught but blush. He looked askance, indicating that he may have somewhat exaggerated his participation. The advisor laughed softly, pecked him on the temple. His musky, mysterious bouquet was so potent at this proximity that Elladan thought he might swoon. He was both thankful and weary of the arm anchored around his waist, the taunting squeezes to his hip that pinched the ropes of nerves that knotted in his groin. He suddenly found that he was alarmingly stiff, even the most conservative shift in stance towards his friend might result in revelatory contact.

Oblivious to his concerns, Erestor pressed on, finally halting at a number that was not listed in his column, but that was so routine a position that he seemed shocked at its exclusion. His regard drifted into reverie awhile, most probably reminiscing upon an occasion when he himself had enjoyed such a taking, or had taken in kind. Remembering himself in company, he soon forced himself to wake, querying with a fleet, inquisitive look. Elladan struggled through his mimed explanation. The system, like the twins, worked on double scale. One was only awarded bragging rights if they had experienced both the dominant and the submissive pose. He bashfully admitted that he had done the dominant stance, but not the submissive one.

A spark of inspiration fired in Erestor’s eyes. Elladan did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed, when his tutor folded the folio shut, then slunk discreetly away to replace it in the chest. The air between them was rife with tension; troubled or tantalizing, his dizzy mind could not judge. Yet neither could he quite absorb the scorching stare that struck him, when Erestor turned back to face him. He extended his hand, offered it for the taking, an unmistakable invitation in the aftermath of their appraisal of the erotic images. Erestor’s smile was soulful, enigmatic, yet explicitly welcoming; his cheeks were dappled by the rosy blush of desire. There could be no question of his willingness, nor of his cautious enthusiasm.

He gave him his hand.

Elladan woke only to the swish of the closing curtain. Erestor’s study did not have a formal door, but he trusted they would not be disturbed, as word had no doubt leaked of the work to be done in the library and few would unwittingly volunteer with their presence. A shiver ripped through him when Erestor but grazed his knuckles across his cheek; before this dark beauty, Elladan suddenly felt as innocent and inexperienced as the adolescent that had so immaturely tallied up his meager conquests, fabricating encounters with a raconteur’s skill just to best his brother. While he was hardly so green as that after seven hundred years of coupling – not that his beddings had been so numerous – he was still quite intimidated, by Erestor’s renown prowess, by his ages of experience, by the plain truth that this was not merely a lover, but his beloved he was about to mate with. Be taken by, no less.

Sensing his nervousness, Erestor’s overture consisted of enveloping him in a soothing embrace. He held him tightly, longly, until the luxurious press of their entire bodies together revealed how emphatically they were both aroused. Elladan groaned into his neck, so that the vibrations rippled through the sensitive skin of the slope, then began to suckle the pale flesh. He was instantly, voraciously hungry. Erestor did nothing to assuage him, shifting his legs so that their hips locked together, rocking his hips in a maddening friction of rough breech-cloth on hard, swollen member. The resulting throb grew to such ferocity that he feared the festivities would be ended before they’d truly begun, but Erestor was wiser than he and gently parted them in time.

By the diamond cast of his eyes, he was utterly entranced, as well as eager to feast upon his prize. With a blink, he commanded him to disrobe. Elladan knew well enough when to flaunt his sinuous form, and he did so now, peeling off his tunic as sensuously as a concubine shed her veils. By the time he’d doffed his boots and grabbed hold of his breech-laces, Erestor proved too anxious to let him be, snatching his fingers away, plucking the strings apart as incisively as a hawk claws at its prey. The cool air bit at his throbbing engorgement whence it was last exposed, though Erestor’s lip-licking admiration seared him through. The darkling elf dropped his robes with the loosening of a clasp. Elladan had barely a moment to marvel at the elegant composition of his form before he was seized up again, in a far more sensual embrace than before.

There were no more cloth barriers between them, just hot, sweating skin that craved a most thorough fondling. They petted and groped with abandon as they staggered over to the plush divan, the heady liberation of being able to touch, rub, explore at will overtaking them both. Elladan soon became incensed by the silken feel of Erestor beneath him, the puckered nubs of nipple on his lips, the slick prod of shaft into his navel, the slink of thigh on thigh, the gouging clench into his buttocks when he accomplished a particularly deft maneuver. Before long, he had slipped between his sprawled legs, pumping their gorgeous, purple erections together in a breakneck grind. Erestor was thrashing beneath him, panting wildly, the leonine passion that had been pent up for so long finally unleashed.

How could he have thought that this would be other than the glorious carnal celebration that it was? How could he have doubted the depths of their need, the fervor of their loins, the magnificence that would come of their coupling? As their fever mounted, as the concomitant throb of their writhing bodies became night unbearable, as Erestor dug piercing nails into his shoulder-blades, arched his back, and sung out his spending with pure exultation, Elladan could do naught but erupt himself, viciously, exquisitely, as befitting a climax wrought by the masterful elf beneath him.

He collapsed into covetous arms, and was glutted with tenderness. Though, in their ardor, they had not come close to reenacting the position they had set out to enjoy, there would be time enough for such pleasures under the veil of darkness, in their bed. When Elladan finally found the strength to raise his woozy head, he saw that Erestor was vainly battling a sudden fatigue, not surprising for one who had so recently recovered from trauma. The elf-warrior shifted them into a more familiar pose, so that his new lover might cuddle against him and store up his energies for the coming revels.

The night, he did not doubt, would be ripe with the most sensual sweetness.

***

The smooth texture of the amber liquid poured languorously over his tongue, its mild bitterness tantalizing. He held the translucent goblet up to the fire, the coppery tint of the miruvor within glowing a bombastic bronze against the flames, then took another savory sip. Though the night’s promise counseled temperance, Erestor wanted nothing more than to imbibe, of the magma flow of this remedial digestive, of the lava course of his new lover’s loins. Not five hours had passed since their scorching encounter in the library vault, yet already his worldview had been washed in the distinguished sepia tones of the tonic he drank down like honey wine.

If his pulse fluttered some as he awaited his lover, if his stare flickered from hearth to hallway door in flighty anticipation, then perhaps he could be forgiven his eagerness. Even that quick tussle upon his plush divan had rung through him like a clarion bell, trumpeting, so that even he could hear, of his triumphant return to the living. His body had sung, singed under Elladan’s extraordinary touch, which had awakened the amplified sensitivity of his four remaining senses. Never had another tasted so luscious, smelt so divine, felt as silken nor looked as luminous whence twined in carnal embrace. The young elf’s delectably dominant streak only served to rouse him further, challenging him to match his ardor stroke for impassioned stroke. No elf of worth could, no matter how numbed by trauma, lie passive beneath such a pure spirit, whose only intent was to wreck you with pleasure.

Wreck him he had, but he was raring for more.

Dinner had been a tense affair, as both had mightily struggled to conceal the lusty hunger that still besot them wretched. Barely a glance could be spared in the other’s direction, lest they reveal themselves with even the most casually flirtatious stare. A pious gaze could instantly be perverted if fixed upon an exposed slip of neck, a plump of lip, fingers fidgeting about the cutlery as if desperate for a grope. Yet the meal itself had been devoured by both as if wolves over a freshly felled carcass, both rabid for even the most rudimentary of sensual stimulations, as well as anxious to sufficiently fuel themselves for their evening exertions. When Elrond had announced the delay of dessert in order to pay audience to Lindir’s latest composition, Erestor had feigned a maudlin bout and retreated to the twilight climes of the balcony. The ruse worked a treat, as Elladan had been immediately ordered out to console him.

Even his tipsy mind still could not quite manage to recall what transpired next without sparking every nerve under his skin and setting his simmering loins abroil. First contact alone, a mere laying of hands on his shoulders, had been vertiginous, the weave of owning arms around him as incendiary a restriction as the sash that tied wrists to a bedpost. Though by all distant appearances, it had seemed he was being succored; in veracity a hot mouth had nibbled his neck a gory violet, fiendishly sensate fingers had raked over his navel, before a gorgeously assertive grip had cupped him through his robes. He had been primed as a peacock flaunting his plumage, his proud member oozing just from that tight clutch. The purr of lips on his collar had unmistakably been a growl. His predatory lover had wasted no time in luring him into a precarious concealment by the far side of the balcony door.

Barely a sword-hilt’s length of stone stood between them and revelation, should one of the family have decided to seek them out. While he had mentally noted to encourage future discretion in their encounters, in the folly of the moment he had thrilled at their potential exposure, abandoned thought entirely whilst in the mesmeric thrall of those adamantine eyes. Elladan had shoved him against the wall, then hung temptingly over him, stoking his desire with nothing more than a raising, rousing stare. After a rather salacious lick along his bottom lip, he had dropped to his knees.

The memory, and all its attendant shivers, ripped through him even now; the parting of his robes, that first, gaudy lap at his slick head, the commanding clamp around the base of his shaft, the blistering worship of lips, teeth, and tongue that followed. He had been sucked as if his seed would sow a famished land bountiful, yet so artfully his sacs were swollen as ripe as plums. Even his most talented lovers had not been blessed with such a fevered mouth, into which he could do naught but spend, beautifully, violently, until he had been rendered boneless with ecstasy.

He had sunk, woozy, into waiting arms, but had searched in vain for a shaft to play with. Elladan had looked almost guilty when he had discovered the moist patch at his crotch, but Erestor had reassured him by miming the sign for ‘later’. With a downright wolfish smile that said he would rather be baring him, Elladan had helped him restore some order to his appearance, just seconds before Glorfindel had made his own. The guard-captain required an after-dinner consultation with the twins, in preparation for the following day’s exercises, at which Elladan yet tarried. This had done little to improve his restlessness, but it had given him the time to cozy up the room for their night of sensual revels.

A passel of luxurious furs had been spread before the hearth, a tray of amenities waiting near. He himself was tucked up in his usual armchair, though rather bereft of raiment. The tingle of miruvor within his belly did little to assuage the forge of heat fuming his loins into a hard, scarlet iron, which he would have to pound into submission if Elladan did not come soon. Its throb was such that all his loneliness, all his sorrow, all the despair of the past weeks and all the suffrage since his injury was blighted out, was replaced by a need so crude, so essential to his sense of self, to his very elven makeup, that he could naught but heed its siren call. He was wanted, cherished even for a fleet while. He would be wanton, but he would be loved; perhaps not for the subtleties of his soul, but for his beauty, for his sensuousness, for his taste, touch, and talents.

Indeed, he was rather giddy with anticipation, though perhaps twas merely the tonic at work.

When his lover at last alighted this drowsy chamber with his swarthy, starlit graces, Erestor knew precisely how he would tame the sultry beast. He would beckon him over with bawdy eyes, their swirling depths portending of the pleasures to come. When that sinuous peredhil frame would stand, with the appropriate swagger of hips, above him, he would not think to hesitate. If he was to be had, then Erestor must charge him with submission from his first gesture, first glance even, for tis Elladan who will be bested this night. He would tare his trousers open with cunning decisiveness, then, confronting the bold affront of his formidable phallic gifts - mannish girth and elven spike - he would lavish his engorgement with lips and tongue until it shot clean.

With his lover suitably plied by euphoria, Erestor would pounce. He would guide him over to the furs, spread him out along the downy pelts and smooth his hands over every slip of his skin. He would render him utterly witless with desire by massaging out the kinks in his meaty muscles, coating him with fragrant oils, then caressing him into limpid languor. He would make such a lubricious display of preparing himself that his stripling would wrestle him onto his back and imperiously threaten to breach him, but after gouging a daub of salve from the pot and smearing it into the crease of his buttocks, Elladan would see naught but red, visions of his own undoing playing before his patently entranced eyes. In that heady moment, he would be stroked as easily as a cream-glutted cat, basking in the promise of his own imminent penetration.

Yet even his hazy mind could not rightly conjecture the power of such a possession, how wildly his lover might keen, how erotic might be the maddening sensation of that final, eruptive thrust, how sundering might be their climactic spending. Even imagination would never truly rival the act itself; indeed, the carnal knowledge of his constant friend would hold its own form of spiritual gratification, one that provided a privileged form of nourishment beyond the limits of consensual lust, one that would prove vital to his soul’s renewal.

As his gaze flew once again from fire to doorway, where now lingered the very elf he sought, he thanked the heavens that he had survived to know this night of passions unbound.


End of Part Two