Faking It

~~*~.~*~.~*~.~*~~

The next morning, having been informed of Vardamir’s rapid recovery, the housemaid Eirien looked shocked to find the mortal lad in the same state as the previous morning. When he asked again for Master Elrond, the maid slipped out the door and down the hall. Although he certainly did look in need of a healer, she had her instructions from the lord of Mithlond, and she would carry them out.

Back in his bedchamber, Vardamir waited impatiently for his uncle’s arrival. Try as he might, he had not managed to devise any way out of this day’s council meeting, so in the end he had simply decided to entrust the matter to his uncle’s capable hands. Indeed, the half-Elf had protested most strongly the previous evening, but when he saw his nephew’s genuine distress, he wouldn’t need much more convincing.

Vardamir, in his anxiety, had talked himself round to this way of thinking, and now he was sure that Elrond would help him once again, if only he would hurry and find his way to his nephew’s bedchamber. The young man didn’t understand the long delay; his uncle’s rooms were not far from his own.

Finally he rose from the bed and put his ear cautiously to the door. Hearing nothing, he chanced a peek out into the hall, but it was deserted. Vardamir shut the door again and leaned against it. What could be keeping him? Vardamir worried his bottom lip, a childhood habit, and at last decided he could stand the wait no longer. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and crept into the hallway.

He slinked silently but quickly along the wall, approaching the main hall. Hearing nothing, he crossed it in a short sprint and continued until he reached a turning. Moving cautiously again, he listened then slipped around the corner and sped for Elrond’s door at the far end, realizing along the way that he had not even put on a robe over his nightshirt. Reaching his destination, he didn’t knock but entered quickly, shocked to find his uncle still abed.

“Tôr-en-adar! You must help me!” He spoke breathlessly as he entered the room and shut the door behind him.

“Might I be of help, daerion-nin?”

Vardamir’s heart plummeted to the floor at the sound of Círdan’s voice. He could do naught but turn and stare at his daeradar, who sat at the small writing desk on the other side of the door, arms crossed over his chest and a stern, yet quizzical expression upon his face.

The young Man opened his mouth, but found not a word forthcoming.

“Well, Vardamir, please tell me if I may be of assistance. I was on my way to your chamber to assist you, as I’d heard you were abed with fever again. But here you are.” He paused, and still his grandson gaped, eyes wide. “In truth, I’ve had little luck this morning in giving assistance. I believe that your uncle has yet to find me the least helpful.”

Vardamir’s gaze swung quickly to the half-Elf in bed, noting the bowed head, the slumped shoulders. Everything came together in his mind in an instant: Círdan knew! Elrond had told him!

“You betrayed us! How could you?”

Elrond’s head shot up, tear-stained face full of anger and hurt. “Nay, Vardamir, do not even think it! I told you as much last night. I gave you my word.”

“Which is no good at all! ”

“By the --! My word is good!”

“Indeed?” Círdan arched a brow from the corner, and Elrond’s shoulders sagged down again as he brought his hands to his face, a heartfelt sob spilling into the air though he struggled to choke it back. “And you, daerion-nin? Should you have my trust as well?”

Under his daeradar’s stern glare, listening to his uncle’s quiet weeping, Vardamir’s anger subsided quickly. He found his eyes fixed on his bare feet beneath his long nightshirt as if they were the most interesting things in Middle-earth, but he could think of absolutely nothing to say.

“If, indeed, you do not need my assistance, pen-neth, perhaps you might assist me, and fill in a few details. Would you do that, Vardamir?”

The lad swallowed. “Details, hîr nin? About what?”

Círdan’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “Well, Vardamir, your uncle has confirmed that your supposed illness yesterday was in fact a ruse. He has admitted to administering an unnecessary sleeping draught. Perhaps you might tell me why?”

Raising his eyes to meet his daeradar’s self-assured gaze, Vardamir wondered what to say. He couldn’t recall ever having been so thoroughly exposed to Círdan, and the urge to bolt, to hide was nearly uncontrollable. Aye, Vardamir feared Círdan’s anger, but he was absolutely terrified of disappointing him with his incomprehensible cowardice.

How could this noble, wise Elf understand what it meant to be a frightened young Man unwillingly thrust to the forefront of history by the simple fact of his birth? Was it possible for him to know and accept the many fears that Vardamir had to face to live up to his father’s—nay, his people’s expectations of him as heir to the King of Númenor? His daeradar knew no fear; how could he sympathize with it?

An unwise decision was rashly made, and Vardamir spoke. “I asked him to, hîr nin. I did not desire to sit in council.”

“Indeed?”

“I… I find it tedious, Daeradar. I wanted to spend time with my books instead.” The half-Elf in bed looked up, but quickly ducked his face out of sight again.

Círdan’s eyes narrowed. “But you were not reading, daerion-nin. You were asleep.”

“Aye, ‘tis true. I thought to simply stay abed, but Tôr-en-adar…” Vardamir looked over to Elrond, whose tears had ceased to fall. He sat listening but not watching, twisting his hands in his lap.

“Go on, Vardamir.” Círdan’s tone brooked no argument.

“I…I gave him the sleeping draught so th-that he might not give away the ruse.” Elrond’s voice rose hesitantly, although he kept his eyes on his blankets. “I-I thought that he might not stay abed otherwise. ‘T- ‘twas my idea, th-the sleeping draught.”

“But the ruse was mine, Daeradar.” Vardamir watched Elrond fiddle with his hands and thought that he had never seen him so distressed. Like Círdan, his half-Elven uncle was usually so self-assured, so confident. The young Man had a hard time believing the pitiful figure before him was the same person as his esteemed mentor. “I simply asked Tôr-en-adar to help me.”

Círdan looked incredulous. “To help you lie and shirk your duty, so that you might stay abed reading? Forgive me, Vardamir, but I find it difficult to believe that Elrond would so casually risk his word and reputation, that you might find pleasure in a good book!”

Vardamir’s gaze dropped, and again he considered confessing his feelings about sitting in this council to his daeradar. But he feared the Elf lord’s pity or, worse, his scorn, should he admit to such destabilizing fears, so he remained silent, allowing his hastily contrived untruth to stand as explanation..

“Well in that case, ion-nin, we are back to where we left off before Vardamir’s arrival.” Círdan’s eyes focused on Elrond, whose own eyes still found the blankets endlessly fascinating. “I must ask you again to clarify this for me, as I am at a loss. Why would you lie to me, lie to Gil-galad, betray your training as a healer by administering an unnecessary cure, all so that your nephew might rest peacefully in his own bed while you were required to sit in the council that I know you would much rather avoid?”

At that moment there was a short knock at the door, then the High King stepped into the room, apparently puzzled by what he found there. “Elrond, you’re…what is it, muindor?” The peredhil had turned his tear-ravaged visage to his brother, who moved quickly to the bed. “Are you ill? What has happened?”

“The truth has come to light, ion-nin,” Círdan spoke from his corner of the room, once again startling a newcomer. “Although it’s not the entire truth, I fear it has pained your brother all the same.”

Gil-galad creased his brow in confusion at his foster father, then his puzzled gaze found his nephew standing barefoot in his nightshirt, arms crossed, eyes on the floor in front of him. “What truth, Ada?” He looked at Círdan, who did not reply, before turning back to his brother, sitting down to take his hands in his own. Elrond tried to pull them away, but Gil-galad held them firmly and sought to catch his brother’s eye. “Tell me, muindor,” he said softly, pulling the half-Elf into his embrace.

“N-nay, brother.” Elrond shook off the arms around him, sniffing back the tears that sought release once more. “I-I cannot take your co-comfort. I do not deserve it.”

“Nay, ‘tis not so, Elrond. Enough of that. Tell Gil-galad, pen-neth.” Círdan rose and moved to the end of the bed. “It saddens me to see you suffer so. Tell your brother that we might ease your pain.”

Elrond pulled his hands to hide his face once more, but Gil-galad grasped them again and held on. “What have you done, muindor?”

The peredhil ducked his head, which seemed the only way to stem the continuing tide of tears. “I l-lied to you, b-brother. V-Vardamir was n-not unwell, I g-gave him a s-sleeping d-draught!” With that, Elrond collapsed into his brother’s arms and sobbed as if Beleriand were sinking into the sea all over again.

“Hush, muindor. All is well. Fear not, I am here, muindor.” The High King whispered soft reassurances in Elrond’s ear, holding him firmly about the shoulders until he calmed, quieting down. “Tell me, muindor. Why did you do it? Why did you lie about Vardamir?” The half-Elf in his arms simply continued to weep softly, shaking his head.

“Aye, ‘tis the sticking point, ion-nin.” Círdan looked over at his daerion, who looked very close to tears as well, hugging himself tightly about the waist and rocking against the wall. “I fear we’ll not have the answer here, so I would suggest that we move this discussion to my study.”

Gil-galad felt his brother’s grip tighten around him at the suggestion. “Ada, neither one is dressed.”

Círdan nodded. “We shall settle our business that much quicker, then.” He took up a robe of Elrond’s that lay across an armchair, then moved to the door, where Vardamir met his gaze with a pain filled expression. “I may trust you not to flee?”

Vardamir nodded, turning to allow Círdan to put the robe over his shoulders. He slipped both hands in, then pulled the front closed, crossing his arms tightly across his stomach once more.

The High King gave his brother one last squeeze before releasing him to go to the wardrobe. He pulled out another robe and helped Elrond into it, pulling the sash closed loosely. He couldn’t resist opening his arms to his despairing brother for another hug, and the peredhil fell into his embrace.

In truth, Gil-galad could not remember when last he’d seen Elrond in such a pitifully dishevelled state. His eyes were quite swollen, and his entire face was splotchy red and streaked with tear tracks. His normally impeccable hair was mussed and tangled from sleep, some of the ends wet. As an Elfling, he could often be seen sucking on his hair when distressed, and it was a habit he’d not yet broken, Gil-galad noted. Obviously, this incident had disturbed his generally peaceful slumber, and he’d needed the comfort gesture after a nightmare.

Vardamir’s more calm appearance belied his inner turmoil. His view of the whole situation had shifted when he saw Gil-galad comfort Elrond. His desire to avoid dishonor had led him into a most dishonorable transgression. Worse, he’d involved Elrond in the scheme through emotional manipulation. He wondered now if Elrond would ever allow him back into his confidence and his heart, because on the face of it, it looked doubtful.

The fear that had propelled him headlong into this foolishness suddenly seemed ridiculous and petty, and he longed to confess it and be forgiven. But now loomed the very real fear of being taken to task by Círdan, and he dreaded the moment when all his errors would be under scrutiny.

He could only hope that something would allow him to get the confession out soon. He’d been over his daeradar’s knee before, but that seemed so long ago he could barely recall it. However, he was well-versed in his own father’s discipline; as the eldest of four, he had not only his own experience but also that of his younger brothers and sister by which to judge the situation. Well he knew how little Elros cared for withholding a confession, and he could only imagine that his daeradar felt exactly the same.

Círdan opened the door and set off down the hall with a determined step. It was still quite early, not yet time for first meal, so the risk of running into anyone but the servants was quite slim. Indeed, the Elven lord hoped they might reach his study unobserved. Elrond and Vardamir, though in disgrace, did not deserve any further humiliation.

At least, not that he was aware of. He was more than curious to know what had pushed the two normally sage scholars into such a deliberately reckless and wicked action, what had caused his daerion to stand before him and tell a blatant lie. Soon he would have his answer, and they would have their peace, of that he was certain.

~~*~.~*~.~*~.~*~~

Círdan had been certain that there was something amiss as he left Vardamir’s room the previous evening to follow Gil-galad to one of the public rooms. The odd behavior of his younger foster son and his grandson had kindled a strange unease in his normally calm spirit, and he needed a bit of quiet to get in touch with that part of himself that simply knew something was wrong. What it might be, he could not be certain.

“I feel much heartened by young Vardamir’s rapid recovery.” Gil-galad moved into a cozy receiving room and poured out two small cordials from the tray on the side table. He handed one to his father, who accepted it with a nod. “In truth, I feared having to send for Elros, should his condition worsen.”

“Aye. I found your concentration lacking in council.” He sipped his drink, then spoke again in a softer, thoughtful tone. “Like that of your brother.”

The High King winced at the rebuke, not really hearing the remark about Elrond. He reflected on his behavior in council for several long moments and at last decided that his adar’s comment was well-spoken. “Did anyone else notice?”

“I do not believe so. It seems the rest of those sitting in council were focused on their task. We should be adjourned before the midday meal.”

“Let us raise our glasses to that, then!” Gil-galad lifted his glass, but noticed Círdan’s hesitancy. “Ada, I assure you, with Vardamir now healed, my concentration will return to the affairs at hand.”

“Aye, ‘tis well nigh certain, ion-nin.”

“Then what troubles you still, Ada?”

“’Tis just a small matter that I must think upon.” He stood silently for a few moments, then finished his drink in one swallow. He handed the empty glass back to the High King, who moved to set it back upon the tray. “I fear I must leave you to reflect in peace. I bid you pleasant dreams.”

“Good night, then, Ada.” Gil-galad watched his father leave the hall, already lost in thought, and wondered what might be troubling him. He finished his cordial and went off to his own chamber, remembering Círdan’s concern about his concentration and vowing to himself that on the morrow he would be fully present for the council.

Círdan set off slowly toward his tower study, reflecting on what he’d witnessed in his daerion’s bedchamber. The young Man seemed quite well and in good spirits, at first, but Elrond had been troubled all day, it seemed. In truth, his unease in Vardamir’s room had become…irritation. Aye, Círdan remembered the moment when the half-Elf’s ill-humor had erupted in a sharp remark to Gil-galad.

Another might imagine that perhaps Elrond envied Vardamir’s day abed while he himself sat in council, a duty that he accepted only on the rarest of occasions. But Círdan dismissed the notion, knowing not only his foster son’s great affection for the young Man, but also his just nature.

Indeed, Elrond’s sense of justice would preclude him from seeing Vardamir’s unfortunate illness as the direct cause of his unpleasant assignment. Furthermore, Vardamir had fallen ill only after the peredhil had accepted the duty the previous evening. Indeed, ‘twas a duty he might have refused, but he had surely heard the unspoken command in his brother the High King’s request that he sit in council to offer his support for Vardamir. Vardamir, who had been most put out with his father’s departure and his own call to duty...

Círdan reached the stairs to his study and began the climb, bringing his thoughts again to the earlier scene. Vardamir’s illness suddenly struck him as strangely convenient, coming just in time to prevent him sitting in council, which he had made clear he did not want to do. The lord of Mithlond recalled as well how his daerion had been almost shocked to hear that the council would be continued on the morrow, how his demeanor had changed at the discovery.

At the time, he had not made the connection. He had thought perhaps that Elrond had seen clearly, that the young mortal’s strength had been expended by the excitement of taking his meal with his family just on the heels of his high fever. But perhaps the explanation lay elsewhere. He’d had no time to reflect upon the matter earlier, as Elrond had ushered everyone out of the room…

Círdan reached the top of the stairs, but deciding quickly, he turned and went back down. He made his way to the kitchens, hoping to speak with Calimë the housekeeper but finding only the housemaid Eirien, readying the kitchen fire for first meal on the morrow.

“Hîr nin?” She stood hurriedly before Círdan, dropping a curtsy then looking expectantly at the master of the hall. “How may I serve you?”

“You remembered to retrieve our young patient’s dinner tray?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Calimë has retired for the night, I presume?”

“Aye, my lord. With all the company, she’s quite at the end of her tether.” Eirien giggled, then realized with whom she’d shared the jest. Círdan’s eyes were kind in their regard, but he didn’t smile. She cleared her throat and hoped she could hold her tongue. In truth, she was exhausted herself and a bit giddy because of it.

“In any case, ‘tis you yourself who will be sent to wake young Master Vardamir come morning.”

“Aye, hîr nin, me or Lastamë, depending.”

“Listen, then. You are to tell Calimë first thing that I have charged you with the task. My grandson has recovered completely from his illness, it seems. However, I would be assured that it is so. If by chance he should again be overcome by fever in the morning, you are to alert me at once, do you hear?”

“Aye, hîr nin.”

“If there is anything amiss when you wake him, come directly to me.”

“You may rely upon it, my lord.” Eirien dropped another curtsy, and Círdan smiled at last.

“Good. You have almost finished here, Eirien?”

“Aye, ‘tis only the fire to see to, unless my lord requires another service?”

“Nay, pen-neth. Off to bed with you as well. I would not have you dropping from exhaustion while serving our guests at first meal.”

Eirien smiled at the Elven lord’s back as he left the kitchens. “You needn’t tell me twice, hîr nin,” she said to herself as she set about finishing up at the fireplace.

Círdan decided not to go to his study and soon reached his private apartments, ready to let the day’s puzzlements fade from his mind, that sleep might give him counsel. The desire to set things right rose strongly in him, but he had only suspicions as of yet, and they were suspicions that pained him to contemplate. As he readied himself for bed, he deliberately focused his mind on finding inner peace and certitude, that he might not wonder and worry over what the morning might bring.

~~*~.~*~.~*~.~*~~

The early morning sun brought its golden rays to shine at sharp angles all the length of the hallway as Elrond fell in step behind Vardamir. He heard Gil-galad close the door behind them and take up the rear. The peredhil’s mind was quite numb; he felt physically drained, and his breathing was broken by occasional hiccups. He knew what awaited in his ada’s study, yet he found himself strangely calm about the prospect. It was bound to be memorably painful, no question about that whatsoever; Círdan took issues of trust and confidence to heart, and the half-Elf winced to imagine the thoroughness with which he would express his displeasure.

But it was inevitable at this point, like the sun rising in the eastern sky, and he’d released some of his dread earlier with his many tears and his short time in the comforting arms of his older brother. Often, a correction was made worse by anticipation, and not knowing when or if the correction would come at all. There was no more doubt in this case, if indeed he had ever truly doubted that his foster father could be kept in the dark, about anything.

As always, what Elrond had dreaded most of all was the moment that his guilt became evident to Círdan. There was ever a hint of doubt in his mind, a persistant inability to trust in the love that had been given him by one who actually had no blood obligation to him whatsoever. He would imagine his Ada’s face crumbling, disappointed in his foster son, turning away from him, leaving him alone and disgraced.

It was a scenario that haunted his dreams throughout the previous night. Several times it had brought him struggling to consciousness with such anguish that he scarcely remembered when the first strands of his silky dark hair found their way into his mouth.

He’d already faced the dread of that moment all night and this morning, and now that moment had come and gone. Walking down the familiar hallways of his childhood home, Elrond was reassured. His ada knew what he had done, and what had he said? “It saddens me to see you suffer so. Tell your brother that we might ease your pain.” To be sure, Círdan did not yet know why he had done it, but in that, at least, Elrond felt some small measure of confidence. It was poorly done, to be sure, but Círdan would accept his motivation as noble if horribly misguided and forgive him. He would, of course, assure himself that Elrond had understood his errors fully and completely, and that he would not soon forget the lesson.

As the foursome began to climb the narrow staircase up to Círdan’s study, the peredhil wondered briefly how quickly forgiveness would be offered him. For the moment, he could not explain the reasons for his thoughtlessly foolish act, as his reasons were inextricably linked with the deep anxieties of his nephew. Vardamir seemed determined to conceal his fears, Círdan determined to bring any darkness into the light.

Remembering how the young Man had significantly compounded his errors by lying to Círdan outright, Elrond shuddered. Reflecting further, he considered the presence of Gil-galad in the group and decided it was unlikely that his brother had accompanied them simply to offer moral support. He suppressed another shudder.

Bound to be painful, the morning might also be long. Elrond drew forth a deep sigh and prayed to the Valar for strength as he stepped through the door.

~~*~.~*~.~*~.~*~~

Círdan opened the door and stepped aside to allow the others to enter the study before him, then shut the door after Gil-galad. “Elrond, Vardamir, stand in front of the desk.” He went and took his own seat, as Gil-galad settled himself in a chair near the fireplace. Standing in front of his daeradar, Vardamir could not face his regard; his every nerve jangled, and his heart raced with dreadful anticipation. Elrond’s posture and countenance also appeared frail and meek, yet he did not hesitate to meet Círdan’s gaze.

“Shall we take up where we left off, then? Elrond, you have naught to offer by way of explanation for this ill-conceived fabrication?”

“Nay, Ada. I am truly sorry.” The peredhil spoke quietly, his gaze dropping briefly before rising again to Círdan’s.

“I confess, as much as such an admission pains me to hear, I much prefer it to a falsehood.” Círdan’s regard was forbidding as his eyes narrowed at Vardamir. “And yet that, daerion-nin, is exactly what you have already proposed as elucidation for this distressing state of affairs.” Still the young Man did not raise his eyes, though his cheeks colored at the accusation. “I would ask you, again, why your uncle might feel obliged to help you play the truant and neglect your responsibilities. I am quite sure there was more motivation to it than simply satisfying a childish whim.”

Vardamir looked up, and his voice was earnest. “I did not set out to neglect my responsibilities, Daeradar, nor did I give in to a childish whim.”

“Indeed, I am convinced of it. I know you to be an honorable young Man, and your uncle’s reputation has ever been above reproach. And yet here you both are, dishonoured. You have plotted and lied, then concealed your devious conspiracy and lied about it once more.” The Elven lord’s voice revealed his increasing frustration. “Vardamir, I would have the truth. Forthwith. Show me that you would again be worthy of my trust.”

“Please, Vardamir.” Elrond spoke softly, but with conviction, not looking over at his nephew.

“Aye, hîr nin. I would be worthy.” Vardamir’s own voice was hushed and hesitant, betraying his uncertainty about his ability to obtain said worthiness.

“You admit that you were never unwell?”

“Aye, hîr nin.”

“That you conspired with your uncle to contrive an illness?”

“Aye, hîr nin.”

“To avoid sitting in council?”

Vardamir hesitated fractionally before nodding the affirmative. “Aye, hîr nin.”

“Very well, then. Consider the next question very carefully, and think well before giving me your answer. Why did you want to avoid sitting in council?”

“In truth…’twas not the sitting which…inspired the falsehood.”

“Go on, Vardamir.”

Taking a deep breath, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if his words were written there, Vardamir tried to gather his scattered thoughts. “’Tis not that I didn’t want to participate in the council, although…‘tis true enough that I did not wish to do it.” Realizing suddenly what he seemed to be saying, he looked down quickly to see Círdan’s growing ire, then rushed on. “But that is not the reason that I did not do it! I know my duty! Even if I did not want to, I would have done it, except…except…”

As the young Man’s voice faded into a silence which lengthened, the Elven lord cleared his throat and folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “Daerion-nin, you are trying my patience to the very limit. I do not believe that either of us wishes to witness my reaching that limit.” Círdan spoke softly, his words belying his calm exterior.

“I…I just could not face them all, Daeradar! With Ada gone, it would have been just me! To speak for all of us! All of Númenor! In front of everyone!” Gaining speed as the words tumbled out, Vardamir closed his eyes and shook his head, allowing the full horror of such a situation to overtake him. “I could not have done, my lord—nay, I could never have done and will never do it! I am hopeless, irretrievably hopeless in council, and there is naught to be said or done about it! I have tried all that I know to put this aside and do what is required of me, but this is without doubt beyond my capacities. ‘Tis simply something horribly wrong with me, that I can feel this…this…that is to say…I don’t actually…” The young Man sputtered to a stop as his outburst came ringing back to him. He realized how ridiculous it all sounded, and how he’d almost spoken not of his lack of ability, but of his surplus of irrational fear.

Círdan’s expression changed from one of carefully restrained anger to bewilderment, before cautious understanding dawned. He glanced over at Gil-galad, but the High King was looking perplexed and simply raised an eyebrow. For his part, Elrond raised his eyes to Círdan though his dark head remained bowed, a curiously hopeful expression on his face

“Vardamir, ‘tis not the first time you have sat in council in your father’s stead. He would not have left you a duty which he was not confident that you could fulfil.”

“He does not know, hîr nin. I did not tell him.”

Círdan looked sharply at the young Man. “He would have seen for himself, daerion-nin. For that matter, I have seen you take the floor in council. So you have done it, and are capable of doing it. Yet you say that you cannot. I am beginning to wonder what it is that you persist in trying to keep from me. Is it simply this council of Elves and Men that has frightened you so?”

“I’m not frightened!” Vardamir spat out in a disgusted tone, then looked more surprised than Círdan at the eruption of anger.

“Indeed?”

“Well, no…I just can’t…” Again the abashed mortal trailed off, abandoning his futile attempt to explain the situation while neither lying nor telling the truth.

Círdan’s temper seemed to have been calmed by Vardamir’s declaration. “You are too like your father in some respects, tithen pen.” He paused, waiting for the lad to look up at him before speaking. “There is no shame in fear, only in allowing fear to control your actions.”

Vardamir stared at his daeradar, and the Elven lord’s countenance remained solemn as he continued. “That is what you have done, Vardamir, is it not?”

The young Man glanced down an instant before giving his answer in a quiet voice. “Aye, Daeradar.”

“You hid your fear.”

“Aye, Daeradar.”

“With that you gave it power over you, allowing it to direct your actions. You see now where that path has led?”

Vardamir did not look away now, wondering at the acceptance he saw reflected in his grandfather’s eyes. “Aye, Daeradar.”

“And you, ion-nin. Your nephew shared his fear with you, and it was strong enough to infect you as well?”

“Aye, Ada.”

“To the point that you would lie and betray your training as a healer?”

Elrond nodded, sighing heavily. “Aye. I knew of what he suffered, having suffered it myself. It spoke to me. I should not have listened.”

“Nay, you should not have done. But tell me, Elrond: why is this the first time that I am hearing this regarding your own suffering?”

Elrond’s eyes widened, realizing that he had actually managed to keep something from his foster father, and for a very long time. “I did not speak to you of it, Ada…I did not want to disappoint you. I shared this with Elros many years ago, and he worked with me.”

Círdan narrowed his eyes at the half-Elf. “You have ever told me that sitting in council was a disagreeable task. You never mentioned your fear.”

“Nay, Ada. I did not. I should have done.” Elrond looked up, his expression pained. “Surely if I had, we would not be here now.”

“You speak truly, ion-nin. Yet here we are, all of us, manipulated into this unpleasant situation by uncontrolled fear. It ends now. Vardamir, you have heard your uncle state that he was able to overcome his fear regarding sitting in council. You are equally capable. ‘Tis simply a question of will and method, and of course, time.”

“Aye, Daeradar.” Indeed, Vardamir felt vastly relieved simply having the burden of his dark secret lifted from his shoulders. Here in this room, surrounded by his family, he was convinced that he could do anything his grandfather asked.

“Elrond, you shall work with the lad while he remains here, and this matter shall take precedence over all other pursuits until it is resolved. I shall be checking your progress, and helping you if necessary.”

“Aye, Ada.”

“Very well. We have wasted more than enough time; the council will wait for the High King, but we will likely miss first meal. Vardamir, to the corner.” Círdan gestured to the far corner behind him. “Gil-galad, as this fabrication was first related to you by your brother, I believe it is fitting that you commence.”

On hearing the words, Vardamir trudged heavily off to his corner, and Elrond froze for an instant. He felt like disappearing through the floor, but it was distressingly unyielding. He had already guessed that the High King would take the occasion to right the wrong that had been done to him. Yet the disgraced immortal could only tremble at the thought of Círdan’s paddle directly following whatever method his foster brother chose to employ. He slowly turned to face Gil-galad, who patted his sturdy thighs with both hands. “Come, muindor. I am most anxious to relieve your troubled heart.”

Thinking ruefully that the way to his heart was most definitely not through his hindquarters, the peredhil moved over to his brother waiting on the chair.

“Remove your robe, Elrond,” Círdan spoke softly. He watched, still sitting behind his desk, as Elrond laid aside his outer garment.

Clad only in his nightshirt, Elrond lowered himself carefully over Gil-galad’s lap. The High King adjusted his formal robes to position his brother over his left knee, closing his right leg over Elrond’s bare ones. The half-Elf gripped the chair legs as his nightshirt was lifted and he was suddenly more than half naked, exposed and waiting for Gil-galad’s ministrations. Laying a hand gently on Elrond’s backside, the High King sighed. “Muindor, I am disappointed that you did not trust me with this situation.”

His heart squeezed tightly in his chest as Elrond cast a glance back at the frowning face behind him. “Forgive me, brother. I did not mean to hurt you. Truly.”

“Aye, Elrond, I am certain ‘tis as you say. Let this be the last time that such a thing comes between us.”

The peredhil nodded with a sigh and looked back down to the floor in front of his eyes. “Aye, Gil-galad. That it might be so, ‘tis my wish as well.”

“Make it so, muindor.” With that, the High King raised his hand and began with a thunderous smack of his broad hand.

Elrond gasped, then bit his lip. In truth, it had been years since he had found himself in such a compromising position with Gil-galad, but he suddenly remembered just how strong and direct his older brother was. Gil-galad had taken the precaution of scissoring his legs, and his foresight was not unreasonable. The strength and rapid succession of his blows soon had his little brother bucking uselessly in the leg lock. He also sought to twist away, but a strong arm held him around the waist, forcefully immobilising him.

Denied freedom of movement, Elrond struggled on in vain, holding his tongue for the most part. Gil-galad didn’t pause or hesitate in raining hard smacks all over his backside, and he wanted to screech and cry, but the thought of his nephew held him back. Not only would it distress him unnecessarily, when the spanking he was receiving did not actually merit quite such a desperate response, but the half-Elf also thought to give the young mortal a better example to follow than he had been doing recently. He knew that this would be Vardamir’s first time over his Elven uncle’s knee, and he wanted to reassure the lad by taking this correction with as much dignity as possible, and certainly more than he was accustomed to do.

Of course, Gil-galad would have some say in the matter, and he appeared not to appreciate his foster brother’s unusually stoic reaction. He soon lifted his knee, angling Elrond in a better position, and began in earnest on the tender spot at the tops of his thighs. He concentrated on one side, over and over in the same place, and soon the peredhil could not but cry out as the pain blossomed hotly under his brother’s hand. ‘Twas the same when the High King applied the method to the other side, then started over again on the first side. Elrond’s cries soon became broken sobs.

The peredhil slumped over Gil-galad’s lap when at last it was over, and released his white knuckle grip on the chair legs to bring his hands to cover his face. His brother rubbed his hand comfortingly over Elrond’s now scarlet bottom and thighs, and the half-Elf moaned at the relief it brought. Gil-galad had let go his waist and now brought that hand to rub lightly over his back and shoulders.

Soon Elrond’s weeping had subsided for the most part, replaced by an occasional soft sigh of appreciation at the comforting touch of his older brother. Gil-galad looked up at Círdan, who cocked an eyebrow. With a reluctant sigh, the High King put Elrond’s nightshirt back over him and, giving him a final pat, helped him to his feet. There he enfolded him in his warm embrace, and kissed his brow when at last his brother raised his eyes. “You are forgiven, pen-neth.”

Elrond moved his head to the crook of Gil-galad’s neck, soaking up his warmth and the scent that was uniquely his. “Thank you, muindor.” He turned his eyes to his father, who gestured to the empty corner behind him.

“You will wait there, ion-nin.”

“Aye, Ada.” The half-Elf left his haven of safety and went quietly to the corner, frowning with the pain each movement brought.

“Vardamir, to me.” Gil-galad took his seat once again as the fearful young mortal approached.

In truth, the lad was much less calm than he had been upon finding his nose in the corner. Having to listen to someone else being spanked was always dreadful, as he’d learned on more than one occasion with his younger siblings. But in this case, it was much more wrenching than usual; not only did he consider himself entirely responsible for his tôr-en-adar’s predicament, he also knew with sickening dread that he would soon find himself in the same position. Worse, he could not forget that his daeradar sat waiting his turn, and Vardamir doubted that Círdan would feel inclined toward leniency, despite seeing two backsides already tanned deep red.

With hands that almost trembled, he removed his robe and knelt to take his position over his Elven uncle’s muscular thighs. Feeling the chill as his backside was bared, he took the chair legs in hand and breathed in a deep, calming breath.

“You are safe, nephew,” Gil-galad spoke, laying his hand on the slender white cheeks before him.

“Aye, hîr nin.” The slight tremor in his voice betrayed his anxiety, and he cursed his insufferable cowardice, clearing his throat. “I am ready.”

“Perhaps more ready than I, tithen pen. This is our first time, and I would reassure you, that I might continue with a lighter heart.”

Vardamir thought perhaps a lighter hand would be more to his liking, but he would sooner have removed his own tongue than to sass the High King from this position. He replied simply, “Aye, hîr nin.”

“I shall do my utmost to ensure that you will have a lighter heart as well, when this unpleasantness is behind us. Do you trust me, Vardamir?”

“Aye, hîr nin.”

“Then let us begin.” The first blow fell strong and true, and Vardamir stifled a grunt of surprise. Indeed, as Gil-galad continued his forceful ministrations, the young Man over his knee continued to hold in his vocalisations, but allowed the surprise to fill his mind. How Elrond had kept silent so long was an impenetrable mystery to him, as the first few minutes of the spanking had Vardamir wondering how he would be able to keep from begging Gil-galad to stop. He could only grit his teeth and hope to hold out.

The High King set an energetic pace, and the burning all over his rear made Vardamir squirm and kick quite futilely. Gil-galad held him in the same position in which he had held his brother and did not let up as he applied his heavy hand to his nephew’s backside with vigor. The lad’s grunts and gasps slowly grew louder as the spanks continued to fall without pause until at last he was crying out with each blow.

Then Gil-galad shifted his position.

Vardamir knew what was coming, but when the punishing hand struck the fragile undercurve of the first cheek, his wail filled the room.

Not to be deterred from his task, the High King continued in the same manner which he had used with his brother. Vardamir’s distress was appallingly evident as Gil-galad left the mortal’s sit spots burning hot to the touch. When at last it was over, Vardamir’s wails changed to sobs and hiccups. His uncle quickly rubbed a soothing hand over his backside and massaged his slumped shoulders.

Several minutes passed as Vardamir regained his composure through Gil-galad’s comforting touch. As he was helped to his feet, the young Man dragged the back of his hand across his tear-soaked eyes. “I am sorry, hîr nin.”

Gil-galad pulled him close. “You are forgiven now, pen-neth. Sorry no longer.”

Vardamir rested his head a moment on the strong shoulder offered him. “Aye, hîr nin.”

The sound of a drawer sliding open broke the now peaceful silence of the study. Gil-galad felt his nephew tense in his arms and sighed. Aye, ‘twas difficult enough to listen and watch his loved ones being spanked, but to have to do so just after spanking them, knowing how much pain they had already suffered, and by his own hand…The High King sighed again and released Vardamir.

Círdan stood and moved to the front of his desk, then removed his formal outer robe. “Daerion-nin, to the corner. Elrond, I am certain that you know what I expect of you.”

The half-Elf left his corner and came around with a heavy step, stopping in front of Círdan. Laying his body carefully over the edge of the desk, he hitched up his nightshirt to fully expose his multi-hued backside and thighs. His chest now flat on the polished wood, he turned his head sideways and came face to face with his adar’s paddle. Bringing his hands to grip the far edge of the desk, he turned his head the other way to avoid looking at the horrid thing.

“Ion-nin, I believe that you are quite clear on what has brought you to this unfortunate pass.” He reached out to pick up the paddle.

“Aye, Ada, ‘tis clear enough.”

Círdan frowned as he moved to Elrond’s side and laid a hand low on his back. “We shall be discussing it presently, so whatever aspect you feel lacks total clarity will be made absolutely transparent.”

“Aye, Ada. I am sorry, Ada.”

“As am I, pen-neth. Let us set things right.”

Elrond tried to brace his already smarting rear for the first swat, but he’d ever found it impossible to prepare himself without tensing up, and that was even worse than no preparation at all. So the first of many blows landed with studied accuracy, and he felt it all the way to his toes, the pain resonating downward.

He hardly had an instant to breathe before the wicked paddle struck again, and he tightened his fingers on the desk’s edge and prayed again to the Valar for the strength to bear this well-deserved correction. Keeping his dignity would likely be too much to hope for; he simply wanted to be able walk away, eventually, although he could imagine spending some time stretched out on the floor, on his stomach in front of the fireplace, waiting for the fire on his backside to cool.

Círdan’s arm rose and fell tirelessly, it seemed, landing the paddle on every inch of Elrond’s now crimson bottom. The peredhil cried out with every spank, the thick wood branding his backside with blow after blow. He jerked, bucked, twisted and squirmed, yet managed to hold his position, always keeping his fingers curled desperately around the wooden edge in front of him.

In truth, ‘twas the unique thing that kept him on the desk, and he clung to it like a lifeline, even as he began to howl from the pain exploding behind him. Círdan had not needed to remind him what would happen should he rise from his position. Though it had been decades, he distinctly remembered five nights of successive spankings, each more horrible than the last, and ‘twas not an experience he cared to repeat.

The sound of the paddle falling was entirely drowned out by Elrond when Círdan applied his correction to the peredhil’s already throbbing sit spots. He screeched, then screeched more as the crease at the tops of his thighs got repeated attention from the Elven lord. Then he moved lower to redden the half-Elf’s thighs, pink from Gil-galad’s earlier efforts.

Finally Círdan paused, his hand gently rubbing Elrond’s back. The peredhil’s entire body shook with the force of his sobbing. His foster father waited quietly for him to regain some small measure of control before speaking. “Ion-nin, tell me how you have come to find yourself in this most regrettable position.”

Elrond had released the desk edge, his head now cradled in his folded arms. He turned his face to the side before answering. “I- I lied t- to you, A- Ada. A- And kept a s- secret.”

“Aye, you did, ion-nin. You know how I feel about that.”

“Aye, A- Ada.”

“What else, pen-neth?”

“I b-betrayed my t-training, Ada.”

“Indeed. ‘Tis a most serious offense, ion-nin, and one that, in truth, I would never have expected of you before this day.”

Elrond turned his face back to the shelter of his arms, trying to fight down the sobs that threatened to overwhelm him again at his father’s words. The disappointment in his tone was all too plain to the peredhil, and for a moment, the only hurt that mattered twisted his insides into a tight, painful ball. How could Círdan ever forgive him?

“Shall we continue then, pen-neth? I believe you yet hold this close to your heart, and I would not leave you grieving so.”

The half-Elf didn’t trust his voice to answer; he simply moved his hands back to the edge of Círdan’s desk and let his cheek touch the smooth surface, squeezing his eyes shut.

Again Círdan lifted the paddle and brought it thundering down on the vulnerable half-Elf who struggled to keep himself laid out over the wide desk. With each blow of the paddle now, Elrond cried out louder, until at last he began to beg for an end to his torment, his desperate pleading punctuated by wails of agony.

In his corner young Vardamir no longer felt the sharp sting of his rear, as his heart was being torn from his chest with each beseeching cry of his uncle. He knew it was all his doing, and he hung his head and let the tears fall. By the Valar, would this never end?

“Please, Ada, no more! Ai! Forgive me, Ada, please!”

When at last Círdan stopped and laid the paddle on the desk, he stood beside Elrond. He didn’t dare touch his foster son’s flaming backside, as it would surely cause more pain that comfort. He suspected that even the peredhil’s soft cotton nightshirt would feel like the roughest sandpaper grating over that crimson skin

Carefully the Elven lord leaned over and slid his hands under Elrond’s garment, finding the warm smooth skin of his back and stroking slowly but firmly. The half-Elf did not even feel the comfort at first, lost in his tears as the pain in his rear overwhelmed everything else. Slowly he became aware that despite the dreadful heat emanating from behind him, there was also soothing warmth from strong, capable hands.

After several long minutes his weeping at last faded to shuddering breaths, and he lifted his face from his encircling arms to glance back at his adar, who was concentrated on his task. Catching Elrond’s gaze, he withdrew his hands, leaning even farther forward to gently smooth the wayward strands of dark hair back from the peredhil’s face with his palm. “You may rise, Elrond.”

Grimacing at the prospect, the peredhil nodded in agreement. He gasped as Círdan drew his nightshirt down over his backside, then gamely he pushed himself up and away from the desk. Groaning at the pain that flared anew with every movement, he found himself upright, if somewhat stiffly. He glanced up at his foster father, then ducked his head to brush at the tears that lingered in his eyes.

“Ion-nin, you are forgiven.”

The half-Elf looked up at the quiet declaration, and took an awkward step to find himself enfolded in Círdan’s strong embrace. It was so familiar and yet so rare these past years. Elrond steeped himself in his father’s acceptance, laying his head to his chest and hearing the steady beat of his devoted heart. The arms around him would never let him wander astray, the quiet voice that reassured him would never betray him with unkind words. He let the safety surround them both and closed his eyes.

“You shall rest soon, pen-neth.” The whispered words in his ear were both comforting and distressing, as he knew he must now leave Círdan’s arms. “I know your dreams were troubled last night. For now, go to your brother. We shall not leave Vardamir to suffer any longer.”

Círdan released Elrond, who turned away with a sigh, then a hiss of pain as he walked the few steps to Gil-galad’s chair. Kneeling carefully beside him, he lay across his lap, head on one thigh, the other thigh supporting his midsection, leaving his posterior free from pressure. The High King brushed the half-Elf’s hair back and away from his face, then drew his fingers along his brother’s cheekbone, and laid his hand across his brow. With the other hand, he rubbed Elrond’s back as the peredhil closed his eyes.

“Vardamir.”

The young Man could not ignore the implied command, and he turned slowly to walk to Círdan, head down.

“Lift up your nightshirt and lay across the desk.” He put a hand to Vardamir’s shoulder, and the lad looked up apprehensively with eyes already tear-soaked. “Mark me, daerion-nin: if you rise before my leave, you shall thoroughly regret it.”

“Ada speaks truly, nephew.” Elrond’s head was turned in the other direction, eyes still closed as he confirmed the warning.

“Aye, pen-neth.” Gil-galad seconded his brother’s remark with a rueful wince. He, too, had experienced the repercussions of his own unfortunate reaction to his father’s prowess with the paddle, and like Elrond, had ever after found some source of inner strength to control the impulse to escape.

Vardamir nodded once at his grandfather, then lowered himself over the desk, adjusting his nightshirt to expose his reddened buttocks and thighs. Círdan picked up the paddle once again and laid his hand on his grandson’s lower back. “You know what errors have brought you before me, do you not?”

Gripping the desk’s edge, the young mortal turned his head to the side and grimaced. “I was afraid, Daeradar.” He yelped as Círdan landed the paddle lightly on his backside.

“Nay, tithen pen, ‘tis not an error. Try again.”

The lad squirmed up on the desk, his concentration already slipping at the sharp reminder of what was to come. “I lied, Daeradar.”

“Aye, Vardamir. You were only a small boy when first I took you to task for a falsehood, do you remember?”

“Aye, Daeradar.”

“Yet it seems that the lesson was not memorable enough, daerion-nin. What else?”

“I… I neglected my duty.”

“Aye. I can well imagine what your father will have to say about that on his return.”

The young Man’s eyes widened in shock. How could he have forgotten? He had not even considered the possibility of correction by his father’s hand, and after all this! He lifted his head to look over his shoulder at Círdan, who raised an eyebrow.

“’Tis an unpleasant prospect, to be sure. Yet ‘twas Elros who set you to the task, which you then set aside. He shall not be pleased.” Vardamir laid his head on the desk again, his anxiety about the present situation nearly forgotten at the thought of his father’s return.

“Daerion-nin, concentrate on what is happening now, not on what will happen tomorrow or several days hence. Reflect on how your fear led you onto this path.”

Vardamir wondered how it could be, that his grandfather had no idea that serious reflection was nearly impossible during a spanking. Granted, he was absolutely certain that Círdan had never been spanked, but hadn’t he given enough spankings to have learned as much?

The lad hardly had the time to wonder at Círdan’s remark before the paddle began to fall, and he could no longer form a coherent thought. It was so much more than excruciating, after Gil-galad’s forceful application of his heavy hand. The blows from the paddle immediately brought a searingly intense fire to his behind, and it was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Vardamir gripped the far edge of the desk, praying to the Valar that he could hold on.

He lifted his head and howled with each swat, but they came so rapidly that his voice did not rest. His grandfather’s arm rose and fell relentlessly over the bare young backside perfectly presented before him, administering the paddling with efficiency and thoroughness. Vardamir’s cheeks, already well-colored when Círdan began, soon became so darkly red that they veered to violet. But Círdan did not release him; he commenced on his sit spots.

Elrond felt his chest tighten with Vardamir’s every cry. Blessed realm, if only he had been strong enough to help his nephew! The peredhil could not but blame himself for the entire situation. Every blow to Vardamir’s backside reminded him of his own weakness. The young mortal had needed help from his uncle, and this is how Elrond had chosen to help him! Nay, this he had not chosen, but neither had he been strong enough to prevent it. The half-Elf shuddered as Vardamir’s cries took on a desperate edge, which Elrond knew meant that his adar had moved the paddle lower.

Gil-galad reached to smooth his brother’s hair back from his ear, then leaned in close. “He is strong, muindor. Do not fret.”

Gripping the desk’s edge frantically, young Vardamir shouted on, until his voice seemed to break at the same time as his will. His shouts turned to nearly hysterical weeping as he pleaded for an end to the punishment. “I’m sorry, Daeradar! So sorry! Ai! Please!”

After liberally dosing Vardamir’s undercurves with heat from his paddle, Círdan halted at last and put a comforting hand on his back. He rubbed small circles as the minutes ticked slowly by, allowing his grandson all the time necessary to calm himself, to rediscover his ability to think and reflect.

“Tell me again of your fear, pen-neth.”

Vardamir turned his head from the shelter of his arms and struggled to gather his thoughts to answer Círdan, voice breathless and hitching. “I…I did not speak of my fear.. to you, hîr nin…I ...I am sorry.”

“Why did you hide it, Vardamir?”

“I…I was afraid, hîr nin.”

“Of what, exactly?”

Here the young Man hesitated, letting the silence grow, until Círdan spoke quietly. “Very well. We shall continue.” Vardamir’s howl of protest drowned out the sound of the paddle’s blow; after the blow landed, he was louder still.

Círdan did not spend much time applying the paddle to Vardamir’s backside, moving instead to his thighs and landing strong swats in rapid succession. The young Man had reclaimed his hold on the desk, yet the pain was such that he was fighting desperately to keep his place, not really believing he could do it. He was sobbing loudly now and begging Círdan’s forgiveness. And still the paddle fell.

“Sorry, please! Ai! Please, no more!”

When Vardamir realized that Círdan had stopped at last, his sobbing grew louder, but it was muffled in his folded arms. Oblivious to his grandfather’s comforting touch on his back underneath his nightshirt, the lad wept bitterly for many long minutes.

When at last Vardamir quieted to shuddering breaths, and a certain peace reigned again in the cozy study, Círdan spoke. “You have not forgotten what I told you about fear, daerion-nin?”

“N- Nay, Daeradar.”

“Then why do you hesitate? May I assume that you do trust me?”

“Aye, D- Daeradar! I do ! B- But you…you are…n- not afraid !”

Despite his empathy for the lad’s pain, Círdan did not suppress the small smile that rose unbidden to his face. “Nay, ‘tis true, I am not. But neither am I you, Vardamir. Perhaps you have reasons to fear that I do not.”

The young mortal raised himself on his forearms to look over his shoulder at his grandfather, who cocked an eyebrow. “’Tis clear, Vardamir, that we are not in the same situation. How am I to help you if I do not know what sort of help you require?”

After a long minute, Vardamir spoke. “I am sorry, D- Daeradar. I d- did not trust you. I…I thought…I was afraid…you w- would be d- disappointed.”

Círdan sighed. “You have many responsibilities on your shoulders, young Vardamir, and more every day. I would help you where I can, as I am doing now. But surely I can be of more help than this!”

Vardamir attempted a weak grin at the comment. “I hope so, D- Daeradar.”

“Then you will allow me the opportunity next time, so that we might avoid this unpleasantness in the future.”

“Aye, Daeradar.”

“Very well. You may rise, daerion-nin.”

Círdan pulled Vardamir’s nightshirt and laid it over his crimson behind, and the lad hissed at the contact. He scooted himself gingerly down the desk to push himself up more easily, yet still the effort was painful, and he rose wincing to face his grandfather’s open arms.

“You are forgiven, Vardamir.” The young Man reached out to pull himself into Círdan’s strong arms. They tightened around him as he buried the top of his head in his daeradar’s neck, rubbing his cheek against Círdan’s soft shirt. His own father was nearly as tall as the Elven lord, and the position felt quite natural, despite the fact that he’d rarely been gifted with an embrace from his grandfather. He treasured the gift now, sighing and breathing deep of Círdan’s familiar scent, relishing the strong yet comfortable grip around him.

Several minutes’ peaceful silence was suddenly shattered by the loud rumbling of Vardamir’s stomach. Gil-galad chuckled from his chair. “The hour grows late, indeed.”

Vardamir hugged Círdan tighter, knowing the moment to release him was nigh. “I can wait.”

“In truth, you shall have to. By the time that you and your uncle are presentable for first meal, it will be over.”

“Ada, might we have a tray sent up for them? You and I may go to the dining hall.”

“In order that they might return discreetly to their chambers once the council has begun?” Círdan’s brow furrowed. “You do not intend them to sit in council, then, even as observers?”

“Nay, Ada. ‘Tis not a chore likely to instill confidence in Vardamir for the next council. Also, considering that Elros has yet to speak his piece in the matter, I see no reason to add humiliation on top of all that.”

Elrond lifted himself back from Gil-galad to kneel upright and look at him in shock. “Because you believe that our brother shall be ‘speaking his piece’ to me?”

Gil-galad narrowed his eyes. “Because you believe that he shall not?”

“Nay, brother. And should he commence, I do not intend to listen!”

The High King reached over quickly to deliver a stinging swat to Elrond’s backside. The half-Elf yelped and twisted away, nearly falling on his derriere but catching himself just in time on the arm of another chair. He looked up to see Gil-galad’s stern face. “’Tis strong speech, indeed, from one in such a vulnerable position. In truth, I cannot be certain what Elros might have to say on his return. However, he did consider you as one of Vardamir’s guardians in his absence, and he may have some remarks about how you upheld that confidence. ‘Tis only just, do you not agree?”

Elrond simply turned his head to look into the fire, a thoughtful light in his grey eyes as he knelt stiffly by the chair. Gil-galad looked over at Círdan, who frowned back at him over Vardamir’s head. “ Perhaps I should be present for the reuinion, ion-nin. To ensure that the conversation flows smoothly.”

The peredhil didn’t turn, simply frowned into the fire, assuming the remark was addressed to Gil-galad. Círdan released his grandson, who stepped away with a sigh. “That’s settled then. For now, I shall send Eirien up with a tray, and you two shall return to your chambers during the council meeting.”

“Aye, Daeradar. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Ada.”

Elrond kept his back to his foster father, his eyes from his brother’s gaze. Yet Gil-galad could see the peredhil’s troubled countenance and sighed wearily as he rose and went to the door. “Elrond, pen-neth, I beseech you. Do not attempt whatever foolishness I see lurking behind that contemplative expression of yours.”

Elrond turned a frown on his brother. “’Tis not foolish to contemplate one’s predicament, brother.”

Gil-galad frowned back. “’Tis indeed, if one is contemplating a way out of his predicament. Thoroughly foolish.”

Elrond regarded his brother’s already dark expression grow darker, quickly realizing that prudence at this juncture was not unwarranted. “Aye, perhaps, brother. And I would not be foolish.”

“I should hope not, at least not so soon after such a painful lesson.”

Círdan released Vardamir from his embrace and narrowed his eyes to mirror Gil-galad’s expression. “You would do well to remember that painful lessons can be repeated, ion-nin, as often as necessary.”

Elrond laid his body out, stomach to the fur rug in front of the fire; and grimaced at the pain shooting all over his hindquarters. “Ada, I may never forget, I fear.” He sighed as the pain receded to a stinging ache once he stopped jostling his throbbing rear. “Vardamir, why do you hesitate? ‘Tis small relief , but relief nonetheless. You would not join me?”

“Aye, pen-neth, take some rest before the tray arrives.” Gil-galad spoke as the young Man moved to take a spot on the rug beside Elrond. “Ada and I will visit you both in your rooms after the council meeting.” Círdan crossed the room and went out to the stairs, and with a nod, the High King shut the door behind them both.

Only the fire crackled to break the silence, as two well-punished backsides were kept immobile and uncovered. Closing his eyes, Vardamir watched his uncle’s face through his lashes. Elrond had glanced at him once, then turned his attention again to the fire. As the young mortal watched, the transfixed gaze of the half-Elf seemed to lose focus, and his eyelids came down.

Vardamir felt the throbbing of his backside too keenly to nap, although he had spent half the night awake, seeking a solution for the new day. Worse, he could not relax with his stomach twisted in a guilty knot. He kept hearing the spanking and the paddling that his uncle had taken on his behalf ringing through his mind, and his conscience pushed him to speak, to seek an end to his culpability. “Can you forgive me, Tôr-en-adar?”

Elrond opened his eyes and saw the genuine anxiety on the young Man’s face. He stretched his arm over to lay a hand on Vardamir’s shoulder with a soft smile. “My nephew, that is a question that I should be asking you.”

“Nay, Tôr-en-adar, ‘twas my own weakness that brought us here. I am sorry.”

“As am I as well, pen-neth. Yet ‘tis not you the guilty culprit, as ‘twas I who led you astray.”

“I was astray before you arrived to lead me in any direction whatsoever. I should not have entreated you to join me on such a foolish path.”

“And I should not have allowed your demands to overrule my own reason.” Elrond pulled his hand away with a frown. “‘Twas not your error, but mine.”

Vardamir still shook his head. “Had you not been available to assist me, I would yet have found a way to avoid the council and invite censure. Yet you would still be sitting comfortably, had I not come to seek your aid.”

The peredhil looked back to the fire with a sigh. “And had I been competent to offer you aid, we would both be sitting comfortably. Yet we are not, and will not be capable of it for some time.” He paused. “I am sorry, Vardamir. I hope that I shall truly be able to help you now. ”

The young Man reached his hand out to take Elrond’s and squeeze it. “And I am also sorry, uncle. And I am glad ‘tis you who will again be there to guide me. Please, may we now put it behind us?”

Elrond smiled, patting Vardamir’s hand. “Nay, nephew, but if you wish, we shall put it to rest. I am quite sure that I want nothing behind me right now.”

Vardamir smiled and laid his head on his now folded arms. “Aye, Tôr-en-adar , we shall put it to rest, and rest ourselves.” Once again, the rumbling of Vardamir’s stomach sounded loud and clear, and he rolled his eyes. “The task will be easier when I have put my appetite to rest as well…”

~~*~.~*~FIN~*~.~*~~