Quietude

Title: Quietude – Part Three
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: Elladan/Erestor, others of interest
Summary: Tensions mount as the lovers struggle to communicate something more eloquent than mere desire.
Rating: NC-17
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.

/ ---- / = mindspeech

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Quietude - Part Three

Imladris, Year 873, Third Age

Five Months Later

My Dearest and Most Cherished Son,

First and foremost, I send my love. The sea is temperate this night, a blue so rich that it cannot be found in any beast or bird of this vast land. Tis for such sights that I linger here, at port, by the ocean, lulled by the crashing waves against the cliffs and the cooing doves nesting in the eaves. Yet as the Shadow’s claw reaches out to hover ominously over even this gray haven, we have known our share of storm.

I will be frank, ioneth. It pains me to have heard of the tragedy that has so brutally struck you through the spare, indeed rather bloodless pen of Elrond. If you were too weak to write, then all is forgiven. Yet surely in the four months since, you have recovered enough of your strengths to compose even a brief summons. I can only conclude, in light of Elrond’s veiled warnings and your own continuous silence, that you wish for me to remain in Lindon. I will do so, if tis your true desire, but please do send some word. I cannot fathom what force of tide might be washing through you, my brave, clever child, but know that there will always be a home for you here, by the consoling sea, and that no matter how despairing the missive, your letters are always wanted, welcome.

Perhaps you hope to visit me yourself, come springtime? I certainly hope the thaw will see you home. Beregor and Aerlien have been asking after you, though as instructed I have told no one of your circumstance. If you are hesitant to travel, I would be most glad to holiday in Imladris for a spell. Just to see you would set this father at his ease. Tis a rare day that passes, or has passed, without thought of you, Erestor. My pride in your accomplishments is undiminished. Do not doubt that a wealth of untapped resolve still lies within you.

You have a place in this world, my dearest one, as surely as you are kept in my heart.

May the Valar’s grace light your days and darkest hours,

Ada


Erestor’s tawny head was haloed by the peachy haze of an early autumn dawn as he sat, poised as a heron among the daybreak thrushes, in the basket of his wicker chair. The misty morning that awaited him beyond the cozy climes of his bedchamber was damp with dew and strewn with fallen leaves, its paths clogged with vermilion mulch. Swaths of diaphanous fog rolled through the black, stoic woods, whose soggy glades suddenly became the spookiest of haunts.

On such ghostly days, in an era long past, when even the sun glowered a sinister red-orange, twin elfling sprites had been known to steal into his bed, their very twitchiness alerting him to their presence if their bounding across the coverlet did not. Once he had been summarily poked awake, their pleading would begin; to delay their morning lessons in favor of a tramp through the spectral woods, to cancel entirely so that they might enjoy a natural expedition. They would ply him with a helping of facts recalled from his own lectures: that beneath the gauze of fog the trees would be stuck with the most diverse species of insect on offering in the Rivendell valley, that unique variations of moss sprouted under such gloomy conditions, that they had not yet gathered enough leaves for their costumes for the harvest festival. In truth, they had not needed broach even the most tenuous argument with him, for he could not rightly deny their earnest, innocent faces a thing in this world. Too soon, he had foretold, the call to arms would clamor through their duty-hewn, honorable bloodline. Too soon he would loose them to broadsword, bow, and hunting knife, to the guard, to the cause, to the second great war of his time.

Yet as his marveling eyes looked past the weathered scroll before him, over to his resplendent bed, he could not help but wonder if he had foreseen as clearly as he had once so honestly believed. For burrowed beneath the tousled sheets lay the more strident half of that twinly pair of yore, sleeping off a week’s gallivanting about the wilds on a training exercise with his novitiates, as well as a reunion night’s roguish sensualities with the lover he had left behind. Elladan had been as famished for his affections the previous eve as he had been eager for their woodland adventures in his gambling youth, the purity of his perspective untainted even by centuries of realm defense, errantry, or even the latest, most gutting calamity, the deafening of his former tutor. Erestor could not fathom how the elf-warrior could greet him, time after time, with the same infectious enthusiasm as ever he had been blessed with since his younger years, though luckily his fascination with earthworms, leeches, and sea-urchins had been replaced by a healthy appetite for the taming of trouser-snakes.

In his companionable, soothing presence, any of the lingering insecurities, fears, or sorrows Erestor was still routinely plagued by were instantly dispelled. The constancy of his care was equally astonishing. Elladan was not blind to his vulnerabilities; if ought, he was leonine in his protection, lashing out at any who dared discomfit him when he could not properly retaliate. Yet he was also fiercely committed to his recovery, encouraging him into controlled social situations and fighting to enable him to one day resume the duties of his former office. There was not a second spared to complacence nor to misery in their daily routine. Indeed, with Elladan so selflessly and so ardently leading him down the path to wellness, Erestor had had no choice but to follow his rather sterling example by enjoying every opportunity his friend had won for him to the fullest, if only to be worthy of the wealth of nightly rewards the younger elf so rapturously bequeathed to him.

Yet twas still of some surprise to Erestor when he began to regard his former charge as more than just a gifted lover, more than just an amiable companion with which to bear through this trying time. The vital flow of their lives had bled together, had blended into such a confluent course that should they be bisected into forking tributaries, both would give a stream of their essence to each separate rush of river. Even through this third absence, necessitated by the need to accomplish certain training exercises before the first fall of snow, Erestor had but to think of the warmth that would overcome him upon Elladan’s return in order to survive the trials before him. Indeed, merely gazing upon those starlit features in repose flamed a blush in the smooth, porcelain surface of his cheeks, welled up such a flood of feeling within him that even his baser emotions were drowned out. Elladan’s every tenderness, every mercy had come to affect him so deeply that he had to wrench away from the too-eloquent sight of him a hundred times a day, tears beading his eyes. Yet so vigilantly did he school himself of softness that he knew his guardian was unaware of the deepening of his regard, no matter what the darkling elf might himself feel about him; Elladan was too elemental a spirit to be burdened by such knowledge so early in the development of their relationship.

For their companionship was to him, he had come to realize, a love relation.

This only gored his heart with further grief. In the best of health, he was no match for a Prince of Imladris, let alone its crowned heir. While Elladan had most emphatically proved to Erestor that he had a purpose yet on these Shadow-stricken shores, he could do naught to change the demands of his own birthright, nor could he forsake his vow to defend and to preserve Imladris, should he even desire to do so. Erestor had no proof whatsoever that the elf-warrior wished to prolong their physical relationship beyond his healing; indeed, any medic of note would already consider any continued notion of remedial coupling between them a stretch at best. Yet Elladan certainly appeared far from appeased of their passions, if even the previous night’s activities were examined for a sign of his fatigue. The only exhaustion in evidence post-coitus was his own body’s, at having ridden, then been rode, into a state of utter delirium. Even then, he had greeted Erestor’s climactic erection with the slyest of smirks, then set about some fervent oral ministrations before swallowing down his last spurt of seed and curling into arms that longed so to berth him. Yet there were as many reasons for such devout behavior as years of their friendship. None necessarily portended love, merely care, attraction, succor, admiration, or satisfaction; all dimensions of love, but none did a romance prove.

Though he scolded himself for even contemplating such a wretched emotion, he envied Elrohir and Legolas their freedom in courtship, as well as the acclaim their match had received among the Noldor nobles. As long as they behaved with propriety, they could flirt, nuzzle, even kiss in a casual public forum; not that they necessarily relished the consequences of doing so, but they oft could not quite help themselves. Their mutual entrancement was so unmistakable, so bedazzling, that they routinely forgot themselves in view of prying – or proud, or jealous, or bemused – eyes. That Elrond and Celebrian were thrilled by the prospect of their future binding, no matter how patiently they would have to bear through the time until such a blessed day, was so blatant as to dissuade any suitor that thought to upset the delicate balance of these first, heady years of togetherness by wooing one of the stunning pair for his own. Arwen was already pestering Elrohir for a promise that she would be included in the playing out of the ceremony – much to the elf-knight’s consternation. Lindir was rumored to be composing a wedding march influenced by both Noldor and Sindar folk rhythms, while Glorfindel himself had written to Thranduil to request that Legolas sojourn at Imladris for a few years, ostensibly to impart his mastery of bowmanship to the novices. Though Erestor was hardly so poor of character as to blame his familiar for rallying around such a sweet, adoring couple, he was not honest if he denied some mild resentment.

Yet even as he sometimes prickled with indignation, he understood that any love relation he himself might embark upon – other than one with Elladan – would be received with similar heart. Twas merely another twist in his cruel, tormenting fate that his heart should burn for the one most likely to raise it to cinder.

Erestor re-read his Adar’s letter a fourth and final time, then tucked the scroll in between the sheathes of the formal correspondence fanned out before him. His shame had been such that he had not been able to find the words to write to his father about his maiming, though he had wanted every single conscious instant for his advisement, for the wisdom that had guided him through the perils of his troubled adolescence, in exile on the Isle of Balar, and for the support that had solidified his resolve to join Elrond in the envisioning of Imladris. He had been born in the embers of a devastated land, to a humble line of tradesmen who were forced into lordship, sword-mastery, and warfare. Practicality was their way; the annals of commerce, the construction of useful things, the organization of goods, supplies, armies… They were the enablers of their race, the force to call upon at the first sight of trouble. Though his father had crossed the sea at the Helcaraxe, had dwelt for an entire age in Beleriand, and had lived through the most vicious period of their people’s evolution, he had never been of a lordly nature, despite his entitlement. Instead, after witnessing the devastation of his first set of havens and surviving through the overthrow of his land by the forces of evil, he had settled the family he had established just as his kind suffered through the worst upheaval in their long history in new havens, in Lindon. He was the gatekeeper to the Blessed Realm, the hardy guardian who eased wounded, itinerant souls through the passage from this land to the next, servant, as ever, to his race’s twilight years. He would be the last of the Firstborn, of those who chose to do so, to leave these shores, though by trade he was a shipright and twas thus that he defined himself.

From this unassuming elf, Erestor had learnt to achieve his own sort of glory; not through battle, but through the unfailing support of the nobles who flew off to fight the heathens. He was perhaps less ambitious than his father had been, positioning himself not at the eye of the action, but on the home front. Yet twas there that his talents were most useful, as Ereinion himself had so oft remarked. Twas in the High King’s court that he had encountered the twin sons of Earendil, his father’s great friend; his inestimable support of Elrond when his brother chose the path of men had soldered their unbreakable friendship and had sown the seeds of the ideal that was Imladris. While he had not lived for any length of time in Lindon since the reign of the High King of Elves, twould forever be a refuge for him, as his Adar’s letter so poignantly reminded him.

In the first months after his injury, he could not bring himself to think of standing before his dear, gentle father in such disgrace, barely an elf at all. Indeed, he was rather glad that Elrond had usurped him in this. What could he have possibly written to sufficiently explain the tragic circumstance? How could he have set such black emotions to parchment, immediately inciting his father to defy his wishes and race down from Lindon? At present, the thought of facing him so mangled remained unpalatable, but future circumstances might eventually dictate a hasty flight back into his Adar’s nest.

Where else to find solace after he broke with Elladan? For he finally understood - this morn, this loving paternal missive in hand, possessed by the memory of their childhood treks through the haunted woods, hopelessly captivated by the sight of his most precious prince slumbering in the wake of their scarlet night – that he would not be able to sustain his health for long, without endangering the life Elladan had fought so valiantly to preserve, if his love for his rescuer was allowed to deepen further. Already he could barely stop himself from kissing him whence in the thrall of their coupling bed, a gesture which would signify far more than he was currently prepared to divulge of his own emotional state, which was not aided in the least by Elladan’s similar penchant for extended foreplay and for slow-burn penetration. His emotions ran riot whenever the elf-warrior departed for even an afternoon’s training exercise, to say naught of his continued deception of Elrond, his Lord and lifetime friend. He lived in dreamscape terror of a slip during their mindspeak, though he knew well enough that Elrond would only hear what he deliberately sent into his conscious mind. Yet Erestor was so mired in steamy thoughts of Elladan that he could err all too easily, thus ensuring the break not only of his relationship with the son, but of his longtime friendship with the father. Elrond would know him a betrayer. As a consequence, he would have sacrificed everything he held dear for the sake of a fleeting indulgence: his twins, his loyals, his beloved Imladris. For his valley alone, he had to break with Elladan; for his two loves were so innately intertwined that to loose both would surely finish him. Instead, he would crawl back to Lindon to lick his wounds awhile, reminded by his Adar’s constant and amenable ethic in what regard he was most valuable.

He was, perhaps, more of a gallant than he had initially surmised.

Erestor drifted from his contemplation to meet with shining silver eyes, as a smile of opulent warmth overtook the plush peredhil lips he had, regretfully, never tasted in five months of regular lovemaking. A peaked eyebrow posed an obvious question to one immured in the sultry arts: ‘why so far away, beauty?’ Elladan propped himself up on their patch of pillows, sculpted chest of wild black bracken exposed in all its fetching form. An outstretched hand waited to drawn him in, to hold him tenderly close, to clutch him with the fever of one utterly besotted. What creature of this land could resist such feral charms? Not he.

Erestor slid off his robe, slunk across the coverlet. His lover, however, was apparently too raw to even contemplate another coupling session. His designs were simple enough; to languish the morn away in the embrace of the elf he was most enamored of. Yet even as their positions were shifted so that Elladan reclined against the sleek chest of his darkling elf, those mithril eyes shimmered with the impishness of old. Over and again, his eyes darted out of doors, out to the mist-swathed haunts of the spooky autumn forest. Erestor would, no doubt, be lured into a stroll there, once they deigned to rise - the young elf compelling him as incorrigible as ever.

He thanked the Valar for the brume that had blanketed the valley with this morn, as if meant to conceal the beads of tears that would doubtlessly adorn his eyes, when he walked those familiar paths with the child he had grown to such glorious adulthood, with the lover he must forsake in deference to that sacred bond.

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As he wandered through the ornate pewter gables that framed the terrace beyond his Adar’s study, Elladan strolled into a garden wilded with autumnal splendor. The meandering paths were scattered with crackling orange leaves and dry windmill seeds. The more elegant flowers swooned over the edges of their manicured beds, as if faint at the very sight of him. Cascades of vivid red ivy spilled over the far wall, while the flaxen branches of the willow tree tossed flurries of jaundiced leaves into the chill breeze. Though the puckering roses were increasingly susceptible to their black, incisive thorns, the marigolds rejoiced at such flattering surroundings, their bushy crowns bobbing back and forth as if in acknowledgement of their supremacy.

The landscape was saturated in such rich, riotous colors that Elladan could not help but be lured out of the musty halls of the Lord’s manor, as if his own ruddy heart had provided the palette for these lush gardens of late-summer chaos unleashed. Only such vermilion abundance could appease his tempestuous spirit this afternoon, whilst he awaited the resolution of Erestor’s consultation with his esteemed Adar. Twas not his Lord the advisor had so fervently sought out on this appointed day of rest, but the renown healer, as that very morn – and quite unexpectedly – Erestor had suffered a considerable shock. The memory of his lover’s simultaneously enlightened and aghast face still amused him such that he enjoyed a hardy chuckle, though he still could not quite fathom how one so scrupulous as Erestor had remained oblivious to this painfully obvious aspect to his recovery.

That its discovery had been upon an entirely unremarkable morn only made its seismic effect on his lover all the more entertaining, though Elladan had to admit that Erestor had also been hopelessly endearing in his initial befuddlement. If he had playfully eluded some of his more pointed questions at the time, twas merely because they so rarely could have some fun whence discussing such a weighted issue as the progress of his physical healing. Erestor was still terribly delicate, his braising insecurities and his scathing self-image constantly undermining even the reason that so defined him. As such, all in the immediate family were weary of making light of even the most glaring of tease-worthy moments, such as the wobbling effect of even one discreet glass of wine on the steady advisor. Elladan so believed in the cathartic impact of this morning’s breakthrough that he was all but quaking with anticipation, thus the enchanting garden was a most worthy distraction.

They had been breaking fast with the usual languor of a duty-free day in the verdant conservatory adjacent to Erestor’s foyer. Both had been reclined on opposing ends of a plush divan, clad in naught but their light bed-trousers, their legs in a lazy tangle. Erestor was absently perusing a dispatch from Lorien, a gossipy missive from one of his close friends on the royal council (though by ‘close friend’ Elladan had immediately understood the implied ‘former lover’), as he nibbled at his toasted lembas with considerably more crunch than in times of audio-wellness. Elladan had ostensibly been contemplating the spirals of light the crystal gems cut into the window trim cast on the pillars of the archway behind, but in all veracity he had been rapt upon the exotic features of his black swan lover, whose pristine elven grace was in no way betrayed by the velvet richness his Haradin ancestry had bequeathed him.

In the bloom of replenished health, Erestor was a beauty of dark, smoldering devastation; a violet orchid, a pearl of pure obsidian, an ebony dove. His glacier blue eyes were rimmed by lashes so lush as to be almost tormenting when that stricken gaze implored one. His lips were so curvaceous that they were as luscious in a smirk as in a snarl. The texture of his hair was so luxurious, so sensuous, that one could not be scolded for mistaking its thick sheathes for spun cashmere. Elladan had suddenly flashed back to that day’s break, when wicked eyes commanded his transfixiation, voluptuous lips parted in molten servicing, and a silken mane lapped at his shiver-thighs, so effortlessly aiding in his undoing.

Indeed, his over-misted mind had been contemplating a tickle-suckle of the toes dabbing into his side when he had been caught out in his scarlet musings by a pinning stare – not so upbraiding as it was bemused. Undaunted, he had met the ice-blue eyes with bold resistance, then had raked the prone, sinuous form of his lover with flagrant appreciation. He had barely stopped short of leering, but then neither had that been his original intent. His blazing eyes had not neglected to reflect a shimmer nor a gleam of Erestor’s unreasonable beauty, though he had known the advisor could naught but demure under such an adoring gaze. He had certainly not been prepared to acknowledge even the flicker of love beamed at him, not so soon. Elladan had been unsurprised at the click of tongue that had followed, neither had the restless toss of mane been so unusual. He *himself* had not found the discourse that followed particularly revolutionary, but, then, he had heard its like before.

“Elladan,” his lover had reproached him, though completely unaware that he had been doing so vocally. “Save your lechery for our bed-sport and finish off your lembas before the honey congeals.”

With the most impish of smirks, Elladan had proceeded to do just that, only to sense his love go entirely rigid. The dispatch had fluttered to the ground, ignored. When he had looked curiously up, Erestor had blanched as white as the driven snow, his mouth agape and his hands shaking spasmodically. He had instinctively recoiled his legs, though he had not yet raised them to form an obstruction, so the elf-warrior knew he had to move quickly. Yet neither could he incite further distress. With the sure poise of one approaching a skittish doe, he had taken up his hands, clasping both in one and employing the other in doling out calming strokes. Softing his upset lover with a warm gaze, Elladan had swiftly managed to ease his shaking, though he knew the shock might require days of doting ministrations to appease. He had been glad of the ample parchment around, for the predicament would necessitate methods of communication beyond their crude system of signals.

Erestor, it seemed, had finally rediscovered his perfectly vital powers of speech.

“*Elladan*,” he had tentatively whispered, but was too struck by the sudden recognition of the syllables vibrating off his tongue to try more.

Elladan had been glad to be able to draw closer, to envelop his lover in loose but consoling arms. With an eager nod, he had encouraged him to attempt another sentence, but Erestor had been too shy, still considering this newfound capability somewhat suspect. Instead, the elf-warrrior had indeed swiped up that parchment, then snatched a quill from the side table. They rarely resorted to such measures in their typically instinctive interaction, but explanations would be such that they must rely on writing now. Elladan had settled the startled elf into his lap, so that they might read each other’s responses as they were being composed.

/How long?/ Erestor had begun, as if in brevity there was some sort of refuge.

/Since the first,/ Elladan had replied to him. /They did not cut out your tongue, nin bellas. Why should you think-/

/How did you know?/ Erestor had scrawled, plucking the quill right out of his grasp. Twas then that the damn had broke, preempting a veritable flood of questions. /Do I make many sounds? Much noise? Are my words clear? Jumbled? Pronounced? Do I speak in public? Have others heard? Do they mock me? Why has no one told me of this?!/

Elladan had not been able to help chuckling some at the vociferousness with which the last was writ, which had only earned him a razor-sharp look. He had taken up the quill, reflecting some before committing to any potentially controversial statements, then composed a clear, uncomplicated missive.

/Peace, lirimaer,/ he had first instructed. /You have never stopped emitting the usual grunts, groans, and sighs of any elf. When you were initially struck down, you would mewl through the night. Twas heartbreaking, a bleat so desolate tis best forgotten. Indeed, I would that I could abolish it entirely from my memory! When you began to heal, you calmed. When in times of great discomfort or distress, you would call us by name, as you now continue to summon me in private. The reason could be as negligible as a misplaced shoe, as important as a disturbance of your balance, or as dear as a cry in the throes of passion. /

Erestor had summarily halted him there, his eyes wide, tinged with horror. He had grabbed Elladan’s hand and underlined the last clause, demanding some form of reckoning for love crimes untold.

/Tis terribly rousing,/ Elladan had continued, after a soft kiss to his temple. /Aye, you call out when we couple. You purr and growl and curse and keen and I would not have it otherwise. You are glorious in the thrall of ecstasy! I want you all the more for the little moans you make as we are beginning, or in the aftermath. They are as vital to me as your exquisite sweetness./

Erestor had by then been flushed crimson with embarrassment, which had put Elladan in mind of some of his earlier queries.

/Other than the occasional sniff or sigh, I have never heard you speak when in public,/ he had comforted his lover. /I am unsure if others are even aware that you still possess this capability. Ada surely must know, as do Elrohir and Legolas… but others? I am doubtful. As for why no one has made your voice known to you… mostly, we thought you knew already, but chose not to speak until you were ready to do so. It was obvious that you only spoke when instinct prompted. We did not believe that you would make the conscious choice, and so we did not broach the subject overtly, any communication between us still being… difficult. /

Erestor had indeed sighed at this, comprehending their reserve. His sheepish smile had alerted Elladan to his slight discomfiture, but soon his cheeks burned with the bright, rosy flame of excitement. The darkling elf had not hesitated to embroil his lover in a fervent hug; not of the sensual variety, but one that portended a major revision in his future deportment. Kisses had smacked over his brow, temples, eyes, cheeks, and chin, everywhere but the most meaningful part of his face, yet these caresses had hardly been without eloquence. Before he had dragged him off for a hasty dressing, Erestor had made one last, valiant attempt at speech.

“Come, Elladan,” he had beckoned, with as much urgency as enthusiasm. “I must this minute consult with Elrond.” The elf-warrior had discerned that he took particular joy in the repetition of his name, as he had continued to call to him throughout their breakneck toilette.

At present, he could do naught but await the outcome of this intense consultation with an impatience all his own, with only the cacophonous twitter of the last, lingering swallows for company. Wisps of winter’s advent were in the crisp of the wind, though this fairest of seasons would last out the imminent harvest festival, for which the farmers, tradesmen, and herders about the valley were already scouring away stores. While he himself was somewhat weary of the relentless exercise regiment they as guard-captains had set for the bumbling novitiates, neither was he so settled in his current relationship as to welcome the docile occupations of the bleak season. Indeed, he hoped upon hope that this morning’s discovery would be the fissure in the damn of Erestor’s repressed emotions, the seismic revelation that would allow his regard to deepen as Elladan’s had.

The efficacy and the ease of their couplehood impressed him, as well as upon his swollen heart. Though they had lived in the most intimate of quarters for over a six-month, enduring the permanent injury of one of the parties as well as the physical evolution of their togetherness, Erestor still shied from his tenderness when not meant as consolation. While he had made incredible strides towards overcoming the restrictions of his condition and resuming his official duties, he had not been similarly dedicated to exploring the emotional potential of their liaison. Elladan was as yet uncertain as to why his longtime friend was so reluctant to open himself to the one who had embraced him even when in the depths of misery and who had championed his preservation when he himself would have wafted off to Mandos without a care, but he had a strong inkling his reservation was related to notions of worth.

Erestor’s character was molded in the crucible of courtly manners. Ever had his family seconded the mighty, the regal of elf kind: kept their harbors secure, counseled their kings, captained their legions and hardied them for battle. To say naught of the fact that he had been his tutor from the earliest of ages; indeed, his Naneth oft told him that Erestor had been the first to cradle him after Adar and herself. As he had once cleansed his bottom after peeling off a soiled nappy, he now washed his raw buttocks of his own fevered spending. Little matter that the early foundation of their friendship bond was the fertile ground in which their present affection was sown, the sacred earth in which their love would flourish if Erestor would finally heed his wooing; he implicitly sensed that the advisor would not relent to a love relation between them, not unless caught in the thrall of the emotion himself. To his immense regret, Elladan had yet to witness even a glimmer of devotion returned from his lover, even after their most poignant coupling sessions.

Yet each day saw the disparate strands of their occupations further embroidered into an intricate pattern of entwinement, each night the interlacing of their most secret cares became all the more unavoidable, the binding of their souls into a solid, supportive cord that secured them both all the more inexcusable, at least to Elladan. Perhaps he could not see past the shimmer-mist of his own besotting. Perhaps twas naïve of him to believe a former guardian could somehow quit his vigilance to become the carnal caretaker of his charge without sacrificing some of his own sense of gallantry. Perhaps he could never rightly clean himself of the rank stain of having tainted one who would forever be of innocence to him. Regardless, he was – however foolishly – unable to entirely vanquish his commanding adoration of his former tutor, current lover, and found he would not be able to outlast the winter without at least partly declaring himself. Each sweet, sultry morn he woke pillowed by that slender muscled chest further incited him to somehow communicate the laurels that sprouted so effortlessly in the garden of his heart, though he knew that to do so would be madness.

His strident nature, however, would not long be blighted by reason. Indeed, twas something of a miracle in itself that he had held his tongue for so long, for he was veritably sodden with love.

Yet *this* morn had been bathed in the very light of the Lady herself, blessed by such revelation as could only be bequeathed through divine intervention. The strategist in Elladan had long held that Erestor could only be roused from his emotional stupor whence preoccupied by some astonishing predicament, that his only chance at striking true to his well-guarded heart was to shoot straight through his temporarily weakened defenses. As such, the outcome of his consultation with his Adar was of premium import. Erestor was already distracted by a shock of considerable tumult and bluster. If Elladan could time the gush of his heart’s venting correctly, who’s to say how swiftly his lover might be swept up in the rage of his own emotional upheaval? How poorly his barriers might be protected, how quickly realization might overtake him, how viscerally he might succumb to the force of his most primal feeling? The elf-warrior honestly had not the slightest notion of the depths of Erestor’s care, he knew only the potential he felt simmering under their every emulsifying act of love.

He could only trust in the Lady’s grace, pray that his own worth would be honored by Erestor’s love.

Before he could muse on further aspects of his essential regard for his dear friend and peerless lover, the elf himself strode into the garden, his gemstone eyes reflecting a newfound resilience. Indeed, he verily glowed with renewed vigor, his skin of buttery complexion and his smile of voluptuous warmth. Yet one sensed that nothing gave him a greater charge of triumph than his ability to beckon the elf-warrior to him, which he effected with giddy authority. Even he must have known that Elrond would emerge only seconds after, but still he snatched up Elladan’s hands and pressed a flattering kiss into the clammy palms. The young elf flushed a burning scarlet, not out of the bashfulness he hoped his father would interpret his flaming cheeks for, but out of his inability to properly restrain the emotion that flared within him. How he wanted to fuse their lips together, to celebrate Erestor’s rediscovered capacities by savoring the mouth that would order him obedient!

Alas, his implacable Adar joined them by the withering roses, thus smiting his heart’s thunder. Thankfully, the healer was more focused on his patient’s welfare than his son’s coloring, though Elladan knew that the minutiae of Erestor’s every interaction was noted and recorded for future contemplation by his discerning father. Elrond had not earned his Lordship through self-appointment, but was rewarded for his service to the High King with the hard-earned loyalty of his courtiers, none of whom would have abased themselves to the leadership of a half-elf if said peredhil was unworthy of their utmost respect. Erestor in particular had had his choice of appointments, as well as a permanently awaiting position at the Havens, yet was lured away by the ties of friendship that had come to bind the two elves through centuries of dedication to Ereinion. Elladan was in no way unaware of how threatening such ties were to his own romantic ambitions. Erestor had sacrificed too much to such a vital relation to carelessly betray Elrond by dallying with his beloved son. As such, the advisor must be wholly convinced of the relationship’s viability if he was to be urged into straining his friendship with his Lord, no matter how heartfully his father might nominally approve of their match.

For Elladan had no mind for halvings, other than in his own genealogical makeup. If they were to love, then they would do so fully, utterly, and eternally.

“Your Adar has instructed me,” Erestor haltingly informed him, cautious over his ‘r’s’. “If you are agreed, that is… to practice my speech each day. To recount to you… whatsoever you may wish to know.” With a taunting smirk, he added: “I told him… that as you did not attend me in your youth… that I do not see why you would do so now… even for the benefit of my health.”

Elladan took on an air of sufficient indignation at his remark, which, to his delight, tickled both friend and father.

“Yet even one so bold as Elladan can see opportunity before him,” Elrond shrewdly countered, relating his comment both openly and in mindspeech. “A golden one, at that, to plunder the expert memory of one steeped in elven lore and witness to the overthrow of our highest court. An elfling cannot fully appreciate the tales an adult soldier might eagerly inquire after. Is that not so, ioneth?”

“I would be more than honored to attend you, Master Erestor,” Elladan insisted, effecting a quick, playful bow. He did not doubt that his father transmitted the message. “Indeed, perhaps we could repair to the shade of the willows by the Bruinen? You can begin your lessons, there.”

After his Adar’s approving nod, the elf-warrior gallantly offered his arm. The hands that grasped hold trembled slightly, whether aquiver with excitement or shivering anxiously at the prospect of speaking for such an extended time, he could not say, though he ever had his hopes. Elrond gave an encouraging squeeze to his friend’s shoulder, as well as a silent, warning glare to his son not to tax the vulnerable elf overmuch, then ushered them off into the woods.

Hours later, Elladan was still sprawled across the mossy banks of the river, his drowsy head berthed in Erestor’s soft lap but his silver eyes alight on the comely face of his beloved. The lithe tug of lissome fingers brushed through his raven hair, which was fanned out over a newly thickened thigh. The blousy branches of the willow provided considerable camouflage from prying eyes, though they thankfully did not blind them entirely to the resplendent view of the Bruinen beyond. Though he had been tentative at first, as Erestor had warmed to his subject he had rambled on apace, until Elladan had hardly needed to prompt him at all. Indeed, if the young elf had not been so fascinated by the tales of his early years, of his family’s trials through the fall of Beleriand, he would have already lured his lover down upon the spongy grass and mischievously tempted him into a tumble.

As it was, Erestor himself could not quite resist the sight of his pliant lover spread so becomingly across his legs, for one hand abandoned its combing of ebony sheathes in favor of stealthily unlatching the front seam of his tunic. The darkling elf was in far too high spirits, this triumphant day, not to succumb to his young valiant’s charms, especially when he had been so patient as to wait out both a lengthy consultation with his Adar and a meandering interlude through his oldest remembrances. They both deserved some late afternoon indulgence upon the green, if only to stave off the winter through the sheer heat of their coupling.

With these heady thoughts in mind, Erestor halted his narrative, looking down at Elladan until their faces were covered by a black, velvety curtain of hair. He grazed a feathery touch down the slope of his cheek, whispered his name like a caress. The young peredhil required no further encouragement, yet his initial maneuver surprised him. He sprung up from his prone position to meet his eyes directly, so suddenly earnest was his stare that Erestor caught his breath. A gaze as molten as mithril ore burnt into his lust-fogged senses, not one of predatory sensuality, but of pure, ardent affection. Indeed, his eyes were so evocative that his throat clenched; Erestor had never thought to be so immaculately regarded, not by suitors past and certainly not in the coming years of disability. Hot tears, spurned on by an elemental understanding of the emotion echoed within those shining argent eyes, welled in his own, but Elladan would have none of his sorrow, not on this day.

He cupped his cheek, wiped the first stream away with his hilt-worn thumb. This tender gesture was followed by the fleetest, sweetest press of lips to his own, which retreated long before they overstayed their welcome. Yet, once well received, their petal-silk came again, suckling, teasing, until those they so amorously pursued joined them in play. When they parted on a gasp of searing pleasure, Erestor could naught but seize the chance to plunder the depths of that sensuous mouth, instinct overcoming any lingering hesitation. This eloquent, vertiginous embrace purged him of any reserve; the floodgates of his heart were so emphatically thrown wide by this most delicate gesture of love that he was instantly drenched in impassioned feeling.

Elladan was no less enthralled by the intensity of his beloved’s response to his overture; indeed, he so relished his enjoyment of such chaste affections that he abandoned all thought of coupling. Instead, the lovers sunk down into the soft grass, kissing and caressing away the remains of that burnished autumn afternoon, lost to all but the other’s lush embrace.


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

Swirling like a cyclone of leaves from a wind-tousled tree, the court dancers swished and whirled their diaphanous sashes to the tipsy rhythm, flaunting their autumnal colors before their sozzled audience of nobles. This week of harvest festivities was crowned by a more ostentatious banquet than the carefree revels of midsummer, as evidenced by the desiccated plates of tart fruits and the carcasses of roasted boar that had been the highlight of the decadent feast laid before them. That his Lord was also hosting his bond-parents, the haughty Lord Celeborn and the ethereal Lady Galadriel, was apparent in the formality of the entertainment performed post-repast, for rare was the Imladrian celebration in which the inhabitants themselves did not kick up their heels.

As such, the atmosphere was not so much staid as it was simmering with restrained ardor. When such elemental creatures as elves in high spirits were not allowed to vent their jubilation, especially after such an exceptional meal, a bountiful harvest yield, and a year of relative peace, their bubbly elation fermented into a potent elixir. The air itself was ripe with the raw scent of their gorging and the spicy sweat of the dancers. With bellies long glutted, wine-sodden thoughts veered towards a more carnal hunger. Couples about the Hall curled into a single chair, so knottily twined that one soon became nearly undistinguishable from the other. Singletons trolled the outskirts of the performance space with a jaunty, telling swagger for the lads or a strategically demure saunter for the maids. Belts were loosened and sashes unbound not to ease the constriction that came with overindulgence, but to accommodate the uncomfortable swelling of certain erogenous zones.

The swarthy ambiance was oddly reminiscent, to one who had once experienced such an orgiastic display, of the bacchanalian court of the wanton Lord Orthir of Mount Ramdal, in Beleriand of old. Indeed, just a fortnight ago Erestor had been recounting the very tale of his most eccentric night in the tents beneath the ancient Mount, amidst the hush climes of afterglow, to his Elladan. Even one as well-bedded as his beloved had been scandalized by some of his racier recountings, though he had been more than happy to tease Erestor frightfully red by insinuating that he was deceiving him into believing that he had not participated in his fair share of debauchery whence at Orthir’s court. In truth, Erestor had been but an adolescent at the time, as well as in the protection of his Adar; he had learned more through voyeuristic observation and vociferous self-abuse, as he had explained to an absolutely delighted Elladan. His only regret had been that he could not hear the raucous chuckles that hiccupped from his snickering lover, though his later loving had been so inspired, that Erestor could naught but credit his bawdy tale.

The advisor was no less affected than his companions by the heady, intoxicating haze of the banquet hall. While his lazy legs were tucked under him so as to tent the drape of his formal robes away from the sensitized skin of his thighs, to say naught of his burgeoning groin, he was nevertheless content to shrewdly observe those around him, if only to distract from Elladan’s telltale absence. The elf-warrior had slipped away when the head table’s attention had first been drawn to the dancers, daring to ghost a kiss behind Erestor’s earlobe before slinking out unremarked by his elders. He was under no illusions about where his beloved had absconded himself to; the darkling elf fully expected to be romanced on such a special night and there was none in Arda entire, he was slowly discovering, more romantic than his strapping young peredhil.

His most secreted longing for a love relation revealed by that first, gentle, and yet tumultuous kiss by the riverside, Elladan had spent the month since searing the earnestness of his intentions onto every swath of Erestor’s skin, as if by the invisible mark of his firebrand lips he could possess him entirely. The elf-warrior had waged such a glorious assault on all his healthy senses that any lingering reservations as to why they could not love had been conquered by his explicit care: the meaningful tokens he almost daily surprised him with, the stealthy caresses he could not keep himself from even in public, the concentration with which he dedicated himself to developing his speech capabilities, the prolonged kindling of passion that played out once they retired. In the days leading up to the festival, when the furious preparations reached their stressful zenith and not an evening could be justifiably spared to loving, Erestor had realized how valuable his lover truly was, as arms to fall exhaustedly into, as a sounding board for his myriad considerations, as the assuager of his insecurities. Indeed, Elladan had proved so tenacious in ferreting these out that he barely felt any further constraint from his disability; if ought, he prided himself on the acuity of his other, sharpened perceptions.

In essence, love became them both. This night would see the culmination of the emotion wrought between them through this fecund season, pleasures so richly deserved by both as to be almost sickeningly sweet.

Though their coupling was the most sublime fission of the physical and of the soulful he had ever known, that they would broil like a cauldron foist over a pyre was a given. What tantalized him, as he fuelled his own desire by noting every flirtatious nuance about, was the wooing preamble, the smoldering overture, the lengths to which his lover had gone to create a sanctuary for their most intimate time together. Yet he was hardly the only elf that would be worshipped this night, if the head table was but a specimen of the general feeling about. Indeed, the affectionate tone was set by Elrond and Celebrian, whose gazes flittered from the performers to their mate with the vivacity of a hummingbird before a flower. None in the realm doubted the devotion of its Lord to his resplendent Lady, the love between them deep, sure, and fierce as the Bruinen. Though they had sworn upon a milliard occasions that Arwen would be their last child, something about the glimmer in their eyes this night made Erestor wonder at the firmness of that resolution. He would certainly welcome another little one to spirit about the valley wilds!

By contrast, Celeborn and Galadriel were the picture of composure, but this did not fool him in the least. The longtime couple may be more expert at the concealment of mutual attraction, but the proverbial still waters in which their relationship was moored insinuated uncharted depths of passion in their bed. There certainly would be revels enough to cover their more riotous moments. Arwen and her maids had a consortium of suitors to choose from, whose mettle they currently tested through the not-so-subtle art of feminine seduction before their elders. Conscious of their rampant predators that would seek their relation’s demise, as well as the need for propriety before the Dorian nobles, Elrohir and Legolas were more subdued in their affections, though the Greenwood prince was visibly struggling to retain his poise. The younglings were perhaps not so knowledgeable about the effects of even the sparest consumption of alcoholic beverages upon an elf in the blush of love. The fea was, at times, a delicate vessel, violently influenced by tides of intense emotion. The most common example was the doom of a heartbroken elf, but those in the bloom of a romantic relation could also be powerfully moved by various stimulants.

That Legolas’ heart was purely devout to his elf-knight was an incontestable fact. That Elrond, or even he himself, should have been more vigilant in his observance of the couple early in the eve was also indisputable, for the archer – tightly enveloped in his beloved’s arms – was latched to Elrohir as one clings to a guideline in a gale. His glistening eyes told of the emotions savaging him within; while his darkling love watched the dancers twirl, he was drowning in his confusion, in his uncontrollable need to flood his one in the torrents of feeling pouring from his heart. Legolas required nothing more than a quiet room, a cold compress, a few doting kisses and a few whispered troths to dim his raging flame, to be the epicenter of Elrohir’s focus awhile.

This put Erestor in mind of his own fledgling lover, and fear pricked him. He silently summoned Elrond to attend him, then directed his dazed eyes towards the younglings with a pointed look. By then, Legolas had burrowed his face entirely into Elrohir’s neck, only too aware of the import of the occasion and desperate to shield his weeping. The elf-knight’s face was stricken, as he had finally attuned himself to his lover’s woes, though he was clearly at a loss as to what might have evoked such sorrow within him. His Lord Adar quickly surmised exactly what had transpired and was discreetly extricating himself from his wife’s arms, in order to best advise his anxious son. When Glorfindel ushered the pair from the hall unseen, Erestor glided out after them, unnoticed in the wake of his clever diversion.

Not that the Greenwood prince did not require their concern, of course! Simply that he currently had concerns, if not outright distractions of his own to attend to; it would be best if they remained as secret as his relationship with Imladris’ eldest son. If he was honest, he had not entirely confronted his fear of revealing their love to his Lord and lifelong friend. Indeed, he was quite baffled as to how such a declaration might be embarked upon, though the necessity for such a decision was becoming more imminent with each passing day. His devotion to Elladan was a thing untamed, incomprehensible and indefinable, but most vitally… eternal. Even if he did not yet have the wherewithal to acknowledge the permanence of their love, nor was he completely resolved to condemning Elladan to endless years of commitment to a disabled elf, neither could he even remotely contemplate a severance. Time would tell what choices they would make, what paths they would follow to their shared destiny, but, regardless, Erestor had known from that first, breathless kiss that he had found his one. His *only* one, forevermore.

Once liberated from that sultry, stifling hall, he all but flew down the corridor, his heart heavy with the prospect of finding Elladan similarly reduced to simpering whilst balled up in their bathtub. Yet just around the closest corner, he met cute with a peredhil giddied by his own ingenuity; hardly the desolate youth he expected. This sparkling one only shone brighter at the sight of him, all too eager to sweep him away after the requisite smattering of kisses upon his plush mouth. That brief taste was enough to lure him through the torchlit halls to their remotely located suites, before whose doors Elladan could not resist a long, pregnant look at his beloved, before escorting him within.

Their foyer’s transformation into the most entrancing Haradin harem he had even seen was so exquisitely accomplished, Erestor could naught but gape. All the furniture had been removed - a more practical task here than in their bedchamber proper. In the center a single-cushioned, circular bed awaited, cosseted by a sheet of mauve satin, enclosed by diaphanous lilac veils, and bursting with pillows in a variety of violet shares, trimmed with gold tassels. A sprig of musky incense melded with the haunting fragrance of the jasmine blossoms scattered across the floor, wisps of its smoke wafting through the honeyed glow of the cloistered lanterns, which shadowed intricate patterns across the ceiling and the walls. The room was even more inviting than he could have imagined, an exotic tinge to a peerlessly erotic night.

Yet when those stunning mithril eyes locked with his own, all the trappings around him evaporated away from his consciousness through the sheer heat of his adoration. They bared each other in silence, no communication needed to convey the respect they held for the beauty of the other’s form, the reverence of this moment between them. They enjoyed their loving too much to rush to completion, both implicitly understood the rewards of patience, gentility. If Elladan trembled slightly as he wove his arms around him, then twas to be expected, for he had expended a great amount of effort to perfect this night’s indulgence for his lover and was yet a mite too tense to fully give himself to them. The slow suckling of his luscious lower lip pacified him long enough to lead him over to the bed, where soon they were curtained in to a world entirely their own.

Erestor spread himself across the sheets, offering his body’s treasures to the one who coveted them so. The rake of Elladan’s eyes across his porcelain skin did not disappoint; it smoldered with a desire that had been hidden awhile, not smote. Yet within those silvery pools coursed a fierce current of emotion, so clear and true as to nearly quench the fire within. All he had ever wanted was reflected in those eyes: a ferocious spirit, an adamant heart, a soul of primal, insatiable cares. Erestor found he could not lie idly before such a one, but had to rise, had to cinch him into a securing embrace, had to meet that singeing stare with one of equal fervor.

Indeed, he was so rapt upon his gracious, beauteous prince that he barely flinched when the dagger was presented to him, its sheath’s inscription speaking of the intent his beloved could not voice for his hearing. Once he’d extricated the weapon, Erestor found that it was still encrusted with the blood it had spilt at his Lord’s binding ceremony, which he himself had drawn from his proffered hand. A distant part of him, when subsequently shown the ornate sash that would tie their hands, warned of the visceral consequences of such a rash decision, but when he was offered a ring decorated to represent a joining of the houses of Lindon and of Imladris, the very ring that Earendil had given as a promise to Elwing before his long absence, he found he could not heed his mind’s foreboding.

He saw only the slip of that golden band onto the finger that would declare him owned by its bearer. He felt only the steamy gush of a call to the Valar misting across his cheek, its fervor such that its beads of moisture congealed upon his neck. He knew only the need to adorn his beloved’s hand with the humble ring that had been provided him, soon to be replaced by one requested from the coffers of his Adar’s trove; to press his face to that of his only one upon this celestial plain and to summon the blessing of the gods above in a wrought invocation that he could not himself hear, but that he hoped pleased his mate. So entranced was he in that sacred moment that he did not feel the bite of the knife, nor the silk of the sash as it wrapped their hands. Only the burning meld of bloods, of souls, of sentience between them moved him to cry out, but then the sweetest kiss he had ever known caught up his lips and he was lost to the thrall of pure sensation.

They were made one beneath the heavens by their troth, by their boundless love.

Once the blinding shards of beatific light dimmed to an unearthly shimmer that bedazzled them both, they eased out of their embrace some to wonder at their bonded’s radiance. Their healed hands snuck capriciously out of the cloying weave, all the better to explore the sweeps of luminous skin before them. He found himself awestruck by Elladan’s beauty, elven grace immaculately mingled with mannish ferality in such a compassionate being that he could not longer keep apart from him. His feeble body suddenly demanded the empowerment of coupling with its mate. No sooner did this thought flitter through his mind than he was toppled back, then summarily pounced upon, as no force in Arda or Aman could stay his elf-warrior when he coveted the consummation of their binding rites.

Yet for all his vigor, Elladan knew well how to relish the spoils won in his love-campaign. Erestor was not his to seize, but to savor. He did so with a reverence befitting his new husband, venerating every patch of skin with the wealth of his sensual talents. He nipped at the taut mounds of his chest, tongued down the rip of his abdomen, and culled dizzying draughts from the dank under his arms. He supped on his lips until they were but a scarlet smear, then dove down to lap the sweat from his navel. His nipples were bitten tight as crimson buds, but that was just a prelude to the mauling of his downy thighs. Erestor was not beyond some plundering of his own, throwing Elladan over to ravish him in turn, until both were panting and groping feverishly, nearly frantic for that primal communion of flesh with flesh. That every swipe of his tongue, every knead of his hand, every pinch of his fingers was echoed on his own strung, sinuous form only heightened their pleasure well past delirium.

When he could suffer no more of Elladan’s writhing beneath him, he pinned his beloved down to their binding bed and bore into him with his own bejeweled gaze. His beaming eyes spoke volumes of his intentions, of his adoration, of how skillfully he would unravel him and how completely he would claim him. His dominant elf-warrior could have subdued him at any time, for Erestor hardly bested him in strength, but he did naught but regard him with the utmost trust, submitting to him bodily as ardently as he had given his soul just moments before. As roughly as he had come on, Erestor gracefully retreated, moving back to simply admire the sight of his husband spread out before him, breathlessly awaiting his touch.

He bowed before such a lovely, starlit creature, before the titanic engorgement that begged for the lash of his tongue. He could not rightly deny his love in any thing, and certainly not in such a moment as this. He teased the rose-swollen shaft until it was dripping copious amounts of seed, which he drank down like the most divine of nectars. His lips smoothed up the serpentine vein, then lapped at the creamy head, but the oral worship ended when those lascivious hips began to buck, for there was still the incidental matter of their mating to be addressed. Such fiendish taunting had unhinged his whimpering, needful love, who grabbed the salve from the bedside table and shoved it at him, as he was far too unsteady to attempt a suitable application without perhaps swallowing him whole. Erestor’s made a wicked display of preparing himself, which proved unadvisable before an elf-warrior, who rather persuasively clamped his legs around his waist and silently demanded to be pierced.

Yet they had come too far for manhandling. Erestor gathered his lover up into his arms, tendering his lips with sizzling kisses. With a shift of his hips, Elladan sheathed him, then all went gorgeously golden. Caught in the eye of an ethereal conflagration, their flames commingled as their bodies became one. The rapture was far more intense than any one spirit could stand, but together they rode out the molten surge, quaking, moaning, cursing, until Erestor felt himself become the blaze itself, until all around was burnished, was love, was Elladan.

A blistering howl bayed through the vacuous silence, as Elladan crested, spent with flourish.

Only when they had curled into a delectably sweaty tangle of limbs, only when the brilliant gauze that blanketed them drifted off, only when his well-sated husband’s purrs rumbled up to pay him a reverberating compliment, did Erestor comprehend that he could, indeed, hear them.


End of Part Three