The Dark Star of Gondolin
folder
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
15
Views:
7,594
Reviews:
17
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
15
Views:
7,594
Reviews:
17
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter 2
Title: The Dark Star of Gondolin
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Author: Lynsey
Beta: Patricia Pleasant aka slayer9649
Chapter: 2/?
Pairings: Eventually Erestor/Glorfindel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: MINOR!!!! Slash, prostitution, drug use, hermaphroditism, miscarriage
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Do not sue, all I got are college loans, and this isn’t helping to pay them off.
Summary this Chapter: Glorfindel takes in a stray.
A/N: The boy in this story is the equivalent of 15 human years old (which is still a child in my eyes). This also contains the idea of the ellian, a hermaphrodite elf. I am taking into account that most human females start their menstrual cycles and are able to reproduce at the age of 15. I distinctly remember one of my friends getting pregnant at the age of 13, so I figured the same could happen at 15.
Glorfindel awoke at the sound of cloth rustling. However, he made no move to betray his awakening, and he watched his new acquisition from the cover of his blankets.
‘Boy’ was sitting on the side of his cot, arms wrapped around his abdomen. He was still naked from when Glorfindel had laid him on the cot, and his bones were highlighted in the light of the late morning sun. From the red-rimmed eyes and sour look on the boy’s face, Glorfindel assumed he was probably suffering from mild withdrawal. It had been several hours since he had brought the boy home, and if he was taking as much drug as Glorfindel thought he was, the boy was going to be feeling the effects.
The boy rubbed his face and looked around the room, focusing on the bathroom he had been in the night before. He stood unsurely, and slowly moved toward the bath. Glorfindel grimaced as he watched the boy move out of sight. There was a trail of blood running down his thighs. The lord left his bed and moved the blankets covering the cot. Blood.
He silently opened the half closed door to the bathroom and looked in on his new charge. The boy was sitting inside the tub, but he had not run any water. He reclined on his side, leaning on the deep incline that made up the back of the tub. He had both hands tucked under his head, and his legs were tight against his chest.
His swollen eyes looked up at the intruder, and they seemed feverish and weary. “What?” he demanded of the golden lord standing in the doorway.
“You’re bleeding,” Glorfindel said quietly, tilting his chin to indicate the small spatters of blood decorating his tiled floor.
“Aren’t you a flipping genius,” the boy muttered.
Glorfindel ignored the child’s attitude and lowered himself down to sit at the side of the sunken tub. Looking in, he saw a small, thin stream of crimson making its way across the porcelain of the tub to drip down the drain.
“Where are you bleeding from?” Glorfindel questioned.
“Cunt,” answered a tired voice.
Glorfindel sighed. He really was going to have to do something about the boy’s language. He heard the door to his chambers open and he rose to peek outside the bathroom. Halide stepped into the room, and Glorfindel gestured him nearer.
“Go get Arene. He’s miscarrying, and I need her expertise,” he said in a low whisper to his ward.
“I can still hear ya,” said a quiet voice from the tub. “I’m na’ stupid either. I know what’s wrong wi’ me.”
Glorfindel gestured for Halide to leave, and he once again sat at the edge of the tub. “By your mannerisms, I would have thought you of lower than average intelligence,” the lord said, goading the boy. It was easier to keep them alive if they were angry he had found.
“I am just as intelligent as any child of nobility, my Lord. I simply choose to disregard that fact.” The change in the child’s speech threw Glorfindel for a loop. He had gone from speaking the slurred language of the streets to the refined language of the courts in one sentence. This was no ordinary child of the streets he had on his hands. He took several towels off of a nearby stand and covered the boy with them.
“Where did you learn to talk like that?”
“When I was the fuck boy fer some lord or ‘nother,” was the answer.
Ah. So that was it. The boy had belonged to some lord before being tossed onto the streets after he was too old to suit the lord’s taste any longer. It was not common, but it did happen. Glorfindel knew of at least two lords who participated in this act. They took beautiful children from the streets, kept them as pleasure slaves until they were too old, then they dumped the children back onto the streets to fend for themselves. Many died soon after being released, but it seemed this one learned a way to survive.
Glorfindel decided to change the subject. “Why did you come lay in the bathtub?”
“Cause that way I wouldn’ make a mess. I tol‘ ya. I know what‘s goin’ on.”
“How?”
“I dun it before.”
Glorfindel squeezed his eyes shut at that admission, and his breath shuddered from his lungs. He wanted to cry, scream and rage for this child, this boy who had suffered so much, but doing so would solve nothing. Instead, he stayed quite, setting up anything he thought they may need.
As Glorfindel filled a cup of water from the bathtub faucet, his healer entered the rooms. Arene was an old elf, a healer that had served the house of the Flower for as long as it had been founded. In fact, she had delivered Glorfindel himself.
“Hello, young one,” she greeted the child in the bath.
“Hi,” he whispered back.
“Would you not be more comfortable in a bed?”
“Maybe.”
The healer waved her hand at Glorfindel and the Lord approached. He leaned down to lift the towel wrapped boy from the basin, but a hand on his chest stopped him.
“I’m goin’ ta make a mess,” the boy said, looking into Glorfindel’s eyes. “You sure you wan’ me messin’ up a bed? Thinda always made us sit in the outhouse ‘til we were done. Tha’ way we didn’ make a mess. Ya sure ya don’ wan’ me ta stay ‘ere?”
“I care not if you make a mess, young one. I want you to be comfortable.” He lifted the all too light bundle in his arms and tucked the dark head under his chin to hide the tears that streaked down his face. Glancing at Arene, he found she did not fare much better. He took his newly found treasure into the bedroom and he lay the child on his bed instead of the cot.
Arene cleared her throat and hastily wiped her cheeks. “Do you know how far along you are, pen-neth?” she asked softly.
The boy turned onto his side as soon as he was upon the bed and curled into a fetal position. “Don’ really know. About four months maybe.” The healer sat on the side of the bed and gently removed the towels covering his stomach. She ran careful, knowing hands over his distended abdomen, pressing here and there.
She pulled the towels back over the small form as well as one of the down comforters. “The babe has passed to the halls,” she said quietly. “It will need to be passed in the next few hours. We will stay with you, young one.”
There was silence for many minutes as Arene set up different pots of healing salve to treat the boy’s wounds and teas to calm his body.
“I’m glad it died,” the boy said suddenly.
Glorfindel’s eyes widened. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“If you were me, would you want your baby to grow up like you did?”
The two older elves sat, digesting that piece of information.
“Are…” the boy choked on the words, “Are there any prayers we can say? Last time…last time I didn‘t get to say any prayers, cause I didn‘t know any.”
Glorfindel knelt until he was at eye level with the boy. He grasped the small, cold hands in his own and looked into the teary, chocolate eyes. He started singing a lament. He never raised his voice to any loud volume. He sung in a near whisper, but it seemed to satisfy the boy on his bed. Soft grunts and harsh indrawn breaths came from the darkling as he tightly clenched his eyes against the pain. Glorfindel sang through it, stroking back the clean, if brittle, hair. Arene checked the boy periodically as she methodically went about cleansing his other wounds.
Glorfindel’s voice finally had an end at around late afternoon. He closed his current song, seeing their patient had collapsed into an exhausted sleep. He stood stiffly, sore from kneeling for so long. His voice was hoarse as he addressed his healer, “Do you thing he can survive this and withdrawal from the drug also?”
“He’s a strong little thing. I would bet he can survive. If he has lasted as long as he has, then there is a high possibility he can make it through this too.”
The two elves went about cleaning the bloodied sheets, and they helped the nearly incomprehensible boy sip some water containing healing herbs. He was fast slipping into a withdrawal state. He must have been taking more of the powder than even Thiol had known.
“Despite everything, his light shines like a star on the darkest of nights,” Arene commented as she once again pulled the covers over the skinny frame.
“Aye, he does,” Glorfindel agreed. He stroked back raven tresses and gazed upon the most beautiful face he had ever seen. “We shall call him Durel.”
Durel = Dark Star
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Author: Lynsey
Beta: Patricia Pleasant aka slayer9649
Chapter: 2/?
Pairings: Eventually Erestor/Glorfindel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: MINOR!!!! Slash, prostitution, drug use, hermaphroditism, miscarriage
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Do not sue, all I got are college loans, and this isn’t helping to pay them off.
Summary this Chapter: Glorfindel takes in a stray.
A/N: The boy in this story is the equivalent of 15 human years old (which is still a child in my eyes). This also contains the idea of the ellian, a hermaphrodite elf. I am taking into account that most human females start their menstrual cycles and are able to reproduce at the age of 15. I distinctly remember one of my friends getting pregnant at the age of 13, so I figured the same could happen at 15.
Glorfindel awoke at the sound of cloth rustling. However, he made no move to betray his awakening, and he watched his new acquisition from the cover of his blankets.
‘Boy’ was sitting on the side of his cot, arms wrapped around his abdomen. He was still naked from when Glorfindel had laid him on the cot, and his bones were highlighted in the light of the late morning sun. From the red-rimmed eyes and sour look on the boy’s face, Glorfindel assumed he was probably suffering from mild withdrawal. It had been several hours since he had brought the boy home, and if he was taking as much drug as Glorfindel thought he was, the boy was going to be feeling the effects.
The boy rubbed his face and looked around the room, focusing on the bathroom he had been in the night before. He stood unsurely, and slowly moved toward the bath. Glorfindel grimaced as he watched the boy move out of sight. There was a trail of blood running down his thighs. The lord left his bed and moved the blankets covering the cot. Blood.
He silently opened the half closed door to the bathroom and looked in on his new charge. The boy was sitting inside the tub, but he had not run any water. He reclined on his side, leaning on the deep incline that made up the back of the tub. He had both hands tucked under his head, and his legs were tight against his chest.
His swollen eyes looked up at the intruder, and they seemed feverish and weary. “What?” he demanded of the golden lord standing in the doorway.
“You’re bleeding,” Glorfindel said quietly, tilting his chin to indicate the small spatters of blood decorating his tiled floor.
“Aren’t you a flipping genius,” the boy muttered.
Glorfindel ignored the child’s attitude and lowered himself down to sit at the side of the sunken tub. Looking in, he saw a small, thin stream of crimson making its way across the porcelain of the tub to drip down the drain.
“Where are you bleeding from?” Glorfindel questioned.
“Cunt,” answered a tired voice.
Glorfindel sighed. He really was going to have to do something about the boy’s language. He heard the door to his chambers open and he rose to peek outside the bathroom. Halide stepped into the room, and Glorfindel gestured him nearer.
“Go get Arene. He’s miscarrying, and I need her expertise,” he said in a low whisper to his ward.
“I can still hear ya,” said a quiet voice from the tub. “I’m na’ stupid either. I know what’s wrong wi’ me.”
Glorfindel gestured for Halide to leave, and he once again sat at the edge of the tub. “By your mannerisms, I would have thought you of lower than average intelligence,” the lord said, goading the boy. It was easier to keep them alive if they were angry he had found.
“I am just as intelligent as any child of nobility, my Lord. I simply choose to disregard that fact.” The change in the child’s speech threw Glorfindel for a loop. He had gone from speaking the slurred language of the streets to the refined language of the courts in one sentence. This was no ordinary child of the streets he had on his hands. He took several towels off of a nearby stand and covered the boy with them.
“Where did you learn to talk like that?”
“When I was the fuck boy fer some lord or ‘nother,” was the answer.
Ah. So that was it. The boy had belonged to some lord before being tossed onto the streets after he was too old to suit the lord’s taste any longer. It was not common, but it did happen. Glorfindel knew of at least two lords who participated in this act. They took beautiful children from the streets, kept them as pleasure slaves until they were too old, then they dumped the children back onto the streets to fend for themselves. Many died soon after being released, but it seemed this one learned a way to survive.
Glorfindel decided to change the subject. “Why did you come lay in the bathtub?”
“Cause that way I wouldn’ make a mess. I tol‘ ya. I know what‘s goin’ on.”
“How?”
“I dun it before.”
Glorfindel squeezed his eyes shut at that admission, and his breath shuddered from his lungs. He wanted to cry, scream and rage for this child, this boy who had suffered so much, but doing so would solve nothing. Instead, he stayed quite, setting up anything he thought they may need.
As Glorfindel filled a cup of water from the bathtub faucet, his healer entered the rooms. Arene was an old elf, a healer that had served the house of the Flower for as long as it had been founded. In fact, she had delivered Glorfindel himself.
“Hello, young one,” she greeted the child in the bath.
“Hi,” he whispered back.
“Would you not be more comfortable in a bed?”
“Maybe.”
The healer waved her hand at Glorfindel and the Lord approached. He leaned down to lift the towel wrapped boy from the basin, but a hand on his chest stopped him.
“I’m goin’ ta make a mess,” the boy said, looking into Glorfindel’s eyes. “You sure you wan’ me messin’ up a bed? Thinda always made us sit in the outhouse ‘til we were done. Tha’ way we didn’ make a mess. Ya sure ya don’ wan’ me ta stay ‘ere?”
“I care not if you make a mess, young one. I want you to be comfortable.” He lifted the all too light bundle in his arms and tucked the dark head under his chin to hide the tears that streaked down his face. Glancing at Arene, he found she did not fare much better. He took his newly found treasure into the bedroom and he lay the child on his bed instead of the cot.
Arene cleared her throat and hastily wiped her cheeks. “Do you know how far along you are, pen-neth?” she asked softly.
The boy turned onto his side as soon as he was upon the bed and curled into a fetal position. “Don’ really know. About four months maybe.” The healer sat on the side of the bed and gently removed the towels covering his stomach. She ran careful, knowing hands over his distended abdomen, pressing here and there.
She pulled the towels back over the small form as well as one of the down comforters. “The babe has passed to the halls,” she said quietly. “It will need to be passed in the next few hours. We will stay with you, young one.”
There was silence for many minutes as Arene set up different pots of healing salve to treat the boy’s wounds and teas to calm his body.
“I’m glad it died,” the boy said suddenly.
Glorfindel’s eyes widened. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“If you were me, would you want your baby to grow up like you did?”
The two older elves sat, digesting that piece of information.
“Are…” the boy choked on the words, “Are there any prayers we can say? Last time…last time I didn‘t get to say any prayers, cause I didn‘t know any.”
Glorfindel knelt until he was at eye level with the boy. He grasped the small, cold hands in his own and looked into the teary, chocolate eyes. He started singing a lament. He never raised his voice to any loud volume. He sung in a near whisper, but it seemed to satisfy the boy on his bed. Soft grunts and harsh indrawn breaths came from the darkling as he tightly clenched his eyes against the pain. Glorfindel sang through it, stroking back the clean, if brittle, hair. Arene checked the boy periodically as she methodically went about cleansing his other wounds.
Glorfindel’s voice finally had an end at around late afternoon. He closed his current song, seeing their patient had collapsed into an exhausted sleep. He stood stiffly, sore from kneeling for so long. His voice was hoarse as he addressed his healer, “Do you thing he can survive this and withdrawal from the drug also?”
“He’s a strong little thing. I would bet he can survive. If he has lasted as long as he has, then there is a high possibility he can make it through this too.”
The two elves went about cleaning the bloodied sheets, and they helped the nearly incomprehensible boy sip some water containing healing herbs. He was fast slipping into a withdrawal state. He must have been taking more of the powder than even Thiol had known.
“Despite everything, his light shines like a star on the darkest of nights,” Arene commented as she once again pulled the covers over the skinny frame.
“Aye, he does,” Glorfindel agreed. He stroked back raven tresses and gazed upon the most beautiful face he had ever seen. “We shall call him Durel.”
Durel = Dark Star