Ahyamë

Title: Ahyamë : Change
Chapter: Three
Author: Orchyd Constyne and Ashek Thordin
Contact: ashekandorchyd@gmail.com
Website: http://www.hithanaur.net/
Update List: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/nairn_orchyd/
Fandom: LOTR
Archive: OEAM
Feedback: Yes! Always!
Disclaimer: We do not own LotR or any characters, lands, or items from the Tolkien world. They belong to their respective copyright holders.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: slash, het, incest, twincest, rape, torture, BDSM, kink, mpreg (eventually), violence, angst
Beta: Helena Snow-Renn, Chloe Amethyst
Cast: Thranduil/Erestor, Thranduil/Gwindor, Gwindor/Erestor, Gwindor/Thranduil/Erestor, Maglor/Maedhros, Maglor/Daeron, Maedhros/Fingon, Daeron/Thranduil, Thranduil/OMC, Daeron/OMC, Erestor/OMC, Glorfindel/Gelmir, Amrod/Amras, Legolas/OMC, Námo/Ingwë, OMC/OMC, OFC/OFC, OMC/OFC... just to name a few!
Summary: In the Fifth Age of Man, all the Elves who had wandered through Arda have returned to the shores of Aman.
Author Note: This fic is dedicated to the memory of Di, who had been a great lady. She left us far too soon.

---

October, Tirion, Aman

The great doors of Mandos closed ominously behind him. Not with a crash of metal or a resounding slam of heavy wood, but with barely a whisper of sound, much like a full breath that is released slowly into the cold air of winter. A soft caressing sound that floats for a moment in the stillness before being swallowed by silence and icy mists.

Gwindor cringed slightly, raising a hand to shade his sensitive eyes from the morning sun. He had been in the shadow of Mandos so long that he had nearly forgotten the brightness of day. The warmth of Anor, the feel of the wind caressing his skin and tousling his dark hair -- the simple interactions of Elf with nature now held a deep and sacred significance to him that they never had before.

The Halls had not been a place of restful peace for Gwindor as they were for many of the Firstborn following their deaths. No, watching the world unfold in the tapestries of Vairë after his death had brought him nothing but guilt. Seeing the chain reaction of events caused by his folly had, in its own way, been a punishment rivalling that which he endured at Morgoth's hands. He shuddered, shaking off the memories, and walked slowly down the barren mountainside toward the stretching fields to the East.

He had no idea how far he was from civilization, but all he could see from the heights of the Doomsman's dwelling was a sprawling landscape of fields and mountains shrouded in early morning mists. Gwindor could tell he was in for a long journey, but he strangely looked forward to it, reacquainting himself with his body and the world around him.

Days and weeks passed as he walked, ever eastward toward the rising sun. Each day brought a new fascination. The vibrant colours of unscarred earth and the hues of the sky from sunrise to the dead of night captivated him. The warm rains of summer cleansed him as he made his sojourn, and he partook of what food he could readily find along the well-trod path he decided to follow. Each night he stared at the beauty of the stars or of the clouds swept by the nearly constant winds of the plains. Amid all the beauty and wonder, however, there were also the unpleasant sensations of hunger and thirst, of sunburn and the occasional minor injury. But worse than all those discomforts, Gwindor's nightmares had returned with his ability to find reverie. Apparitions of darkness, heat, pain, and overwhelming guilt tormented his dreams. To escape them, he quickly began to forego sleep and travel through the moonlit nights.

Aman.

The blessed realm he had merely read about in his years of schooling in Nargothrond.

This was his second chance. A chance to redeem himself -- to take back the elf he was before the wars of the First Age, before his torture… before his heartache. And as he walked beneath the trees of an apple orchard, he felt his hope rekindle.

Pausing to retie the laces of his boots, which had come undone yet again, the young Noldo sighed, resolving to somehow replace the weather-worn leather as soon as possible.

*****

Thranduil hated being away from Laicanan. *Hated* it. It had only been two months, but it might as well have been twenty years. The forest was his home, was the very breath in his lungs and blood in his veins. Just as Greenwood had been in Arda, Laicanan was in Aman. It was a haven for the Nandor, for *his* people, and he resented his daughter's insistence he come to Tirion.

He was in a city of walls and stone, with too many Elves and not enough forest. The extent of Tirion's forests was the apple orchards outside the main city. This annoyed Thranduil.

The orchard had become his haven. Every afternoon, he would leave his estate and sit in the trees, communing with them until long after the sun had set. Today was no different.

Except for the odd Noldo he saw kneeling below his tree.

Thranduil, after weeks in Tirion, knew all the Noldor residing in the city. He did not know *this* one, though.

His eyes narrowed, and he stood up on his branch, at home in the limbs, and followed silently through the boughs of the massive apple trees. He watched the Elf, his frowning deepening. Did the Elf have no sense of self-respect? He was a mess! By the Valar, did he not know a bath or a hairbrush or even clean clothes?

*****

Gwindor glared at his boots as he finally managed to retie the laces, and, standing, he continued on his way. After a few moments, he found he could no longer resist the beautiful, ripe fruit about him and he reached up to a low hanging branch. Gwindor selected a ruby specimen and, not bothering to shine the apple on his filthy clothing, took a large bite. As the sweet juice flowed through his senses, Gwindor closed his eyes, savouring the taste and texture of the crisp fruit.

Thranduil jumped down silently from the tree, landing perfectly before the dark-haired Elf. He stood, his clothes impeccably clean, his hair a mass of wild gold, and narrowed sapphire eyes. "I do not know you," he called, his voice rich with an undercurrent of raw sensuality. It was always there, whether he wanted it to be or not. "I do not know of a single Elf who would allow himself to become so unkempt as to be a disgrace to his species."

Gwindor could not conceal his surprise when the golden Elf landed right in front of him, and he nearly choked on the bite of his apple that he had been chewing. Swallowing, he narrowed his dark charcoal eyes at the Elf, not bothering to make an attempt to remedy his appearance. He knew his hair and body looked atrocious. After all his time in the cold of Mandos, he finally came across another of his race and it had to be *this* Elf, whose cerulean eyes regarded him with unconcealed disdain. "Yes, well, death sort of does that," he replied in a voice rough from lack of use, his annoyance clear.

"Death does much to us," Thranduil said, looking down his nose at the much shorter, unknown Elf. "It does not, however, mean one should disregard personal grooming habits."

Gwindor scoffed unhappily. "Forgive me for leaving my brush and soaps in the Halls of Mandos."

"One should never leave their place of residence without such basic needs," Thranduil said without pause. "It is disgraceful." He sniffed the air, his acute sense of smell offended. "You also smell." He paused. "Badly."

The Noldo folded his arms, glaring at the blond. "If you are going to offer no remedy," he cleared his throat, "then I see no point in carrying on this conversation. If you will excuse me." And with that, he started to move past the golden-haired stranger.

So much for being welcomed by the living.

Thranduil's hand moved fast, grabbing the other Elf's grungy arm. "Do you have somewhere to go? Family in Tirion who can see to you and your distressing state?"

Gwindor looked back over his shoulder briefly before dropping his gaze to the soft earth of the apple orchard. "No," he said softly. "My kin were all long ago killed and, to my knowledge, none but I have returned from the Halls." He had not really given much thought to where he was headed or what he would do once there.

"What did you expect to do once you arrived in the city?" Thranduil sighed. "You will come home with me. You need a bath. Desperately. And clean clothes. And from the looks of it, a decent meal. Rhovandir can provide the meal, as *I* do not cook, and luckily, I do have clothing you would fit."

He thanked the Valar Erestor spent enough time with him to have changes of clothes at the estate.

Gwindor opened his mouth to protest, but the annoyed words died on his lips. This Elf, infuriating as he was, had offered him temporary shelter and a meal.

Food.

Real food.

"Gwindor," he said in acquiescence. "Gwindor Guilinion of Nargothrond."

Thranduil nodded. "I knew the realm while it stood. I played there many times as a child." He released Gwindor's arm and began walking towards the city gates. "I am King Thranduil." Not that he expected the reborn git to know who he was.

A King? How magnanimous of him to offer his royal help. Gwindor grudgingly bowed his head in respect he felt obligated to display. "Thank you for your aid, my Lord."

"I am doing Tirion a favour, though I doubt the Noldor would thank me for it." Thranduil's disdain for the Noldor was obvious in his tone as he led Gwindor through the city streets. "They are too busy with their noses in books or in closets polishing shiny objects to care what charity is given to them."

As they walked, Gwindor thought more than once to duck behind a building and take a chance to get aid from some other Elf. The thought was very, *very* tempting. "What a bastard," he murmured to himself as he followed behind the blond, feeling like less than street rubbish.

"Yes, I suppose I rather am," Thranduil said, glancing behind him with a rakish smile. "I am a complete arrogant ass, but I have every reason to be. I am beautiful, I am intelligent, I do possess wisdom, I am almost unmatched on the battlefield, and I have no difficulty in finding nightly company for my bed." He paused outside the gates to his massive estate. "Tomorrow, I will send Rhovandir to the tailor and the cobbler so we might outfit you in something far more becoming than what you currently have draped over your body."

He opened the door and ushered Gwindor inside, the halls lined with great works of art, expensive fabrics, and fine furniture. A somewhat tall, dark-haired Elf appeared at the end of the entrance hall and raised an inquisitive eyebrow at his king.

"It followed me home," Thranduil said with mock-cheer as he closed and latched the door.

Rhovandir winced. "Come now, Thranduil," he admonished. "I am certain *he* has feelings you are currently hurting."

Thranduil looked at Gwindor, eyeing him. "He is well protected from my insults by the thick layer of filth on him."

"Thranduil," Rhovandir warned again.

"Very well. Please fix him some food while I scrub the grime from his body," Thranduil replied, pointing to the stairs. "Up with you, Gwindor."

At the mention of the Elf's name, Rhovandir paused, glancing from Sinda to Noldo and back again. "Will Gwindor remain with us?"

"Yes," Thranduil said with finality. "I will give him a room."

"I think we should speak soon, my Lord," Rhovandir respectfully said.

"All right. After I remove the offending odour from Gwindor, we can talk." Thranduil's keen, sharp eyes focused on Gwindor. "Up the stairs and to your left."

For a few long moments Gwindor seethed, his eyes blazing with a depth only those reborn from Mandos held. But then a deep sadness overcame him, a hurt at being treated thusly. With that hurt came indignation, however, and he was quickly seething again, though the depth of emotion in his eyes remained the same, full of hurt, shame, and resignation.

He followed King Thranduil's directions, not even glancing up at the Elf in the blond's employ, just slowly making his way up the stairs and left.

"There," Thranduil said, pointing to a door. "This room will suit you."

Inside, the room was lushly appointed, the fabrics in deep reds and browns. The bed was high, the mattress thick, and there were several pillows scattered at the head.

"Go through that door there," Thranduil said as he paused at a wardrobe. He pulled out a set of clothes before following Gwindor into the bathing chamber. "Please strip yourself and put the clothes in the corner. I will have Rhovandir burn them."

Who knew what manner of critter might be living in the crevices of the fabric?

Thranduil turned on the hot tap, expecting each order to be carried out, and added various salts and oils to the rapidly filling basin.

Gwindor's eyes went wide for a moment as he took in the lush furnishings of the room that was to be his. Even in Nargothrond, he had never dwelt in such opulent surroundings.

Silently, he complied with Thranduil's orders, stripping and undoing the sloppy braids he had tried and failed to put in his hair. He was still unaccustomed to having his left hand once more. His clothes were thrown into the corner, and Gwindor had to admit he would not miss the garments. Three months in a single outfit during the summer months had him eager to bathe and put on fresh clothes.

When the tub was prepared for him, he gingerly stepped in, an audible moan escaping his lips. He had not felt anything so warm and welcoming since his rebirth, and the sensation nearly brought tears to his eyes as he submerged to wet his hair and resurfaced again.

Thranduil watched the Elf as he removed his own light shirt so as not to drench it. "I take it a bath is a luxury for you?" he asked as he knelt beside the tub, taking a phial of soap oil in hand. "Did you not even bother to borrow a stream to remove some dirt?"

His eyes travelled over Gwindor's form though, appreciating it for what it was, and noting the Elf was, for his tastes, a bit too thin. He soaped his hands and delved into the black mass, washing the tresses and massaging the scalp before rinsing the suds with a pitcher, and then washing the hair a second time.

"Aye, I did borrow a stream as often as I could," he said with a small note of indignation. His voice softened a bit as he continued. "It simply did not feel as nice as this." And he was speaking both of the salted, oiled water and the sensation of the Elf's hands washing his hair. He had forgotten how nice basic physical contact was, even the contact that was being granted him at that moment.

As Thranduil washed his hair, Gwindor set to ridding his body of the filth that had caked on his limbs and torso throughout his trip. And after long moments in the warm water, scrubbing his skin with a sponge and extra soap, the dirt finally gave way to pale skin.

Thranduil used another sponge, heavily soaped, to scrub Gwindor's back. When he was done, he rinsed the sponge and set it aside, standing and leaning against the windowsill. He looked Gwindor up and down in the tub and smiled faintly. "Ah, so there was beauty under all the dirt."

Gwindor glared up at Thranduil. The blond was striking, as he himself had vainly pointed out, and Gwindor quickly adverted his gaze. Staring at his left hand, he was quiet for long moments. Beautiful? He was not beautiful. He was scarred, despite the restoring of his body. "You insult me, and then you compliment me. I do not understand," he murmured, his voice slowly adjusting to speech once more, allowing the lilt and softness of his tone to break through the roughness.

Thranduil shrugged. "I am honest." It was as simple as that. "You were filthy, I said as much. We removed the filth and I can see what was under the grime. What was under it is fair to look upon. I would, if I thought it would be worthwhile, take you to bed, and I do not take the unattractive to my bed."

Gwindor's eyes went wide and his head snapped up so that he could stare at Thranduil, a distinctly fearful expression on his face. Drawing his knees tightly to his chest, he stammered, "I... you... What?!"

Thranduil's brow furrowed. It was an odd combination, the age he saw in Gwindor's eyes and the childish manner with which he huddled in the tub. "For Valar's sake, it is not as if I was threatening to pin you to the floor and take you here and now," he snapped, not liking the way Gwindor looked at him. "I was merely pointing out that I found you pretty, not that I was going to force you between the sheets."

The words did nothing to dissipate Gwindor's unrest, and he tried his hardest not to panic. Reason told him Thranduil meant no harm, but even so... He felt there was no escape from his place in the tub, and feeling trapped had never had the best effect on Gwindor. "Leave," he pleaded quietly, feeling very small in the water, his dark hair falling around his face and shoulders. "Please leave so I may dress. Thank you for your kindness."

Thranduil could not explain why it annoyed him so to be ordered out. "So you can dress? You stripped in front of me, let me clean you, and have sat there until now content as you could be. *Now* you wish to display modesty?" It baffled Thranduil.

Gwindor's body visibly contracted as unbidden memories came to his mind. Trapped. He felt trapped. Burying his hands in his hair, effectively hiding his face, his voice came out as little more than a desperate whisper. "Please... go."

Thranduil didn't speak again. He snatched up his shirt and slammed the bedroom door closed on his way out.

Downstairs, shirt unlaced, he glared at Rhovandir in the kitchen. "The Elf is mad."

"Mad?" Rhovandir asked mildly.

"He had no trouble stripping and bathing with me in the room, with my help, but I compliment him and tell him he is pretty enough I would take him to bed, and you would think I had threatened to force him!"

Rhovandir raised an eyebrow. "To him, you might have."

"What?"

"He is Gwindor, one of the lords of Nargothrond, Ardaur. He was taken as a thrall in Angband for nearly fifteen years. I am certain he suffered all manner of torments at the hands of those Morgoth called his." Rhovandir placed Gwindor's generous bowl of stew and bread on the kitchen table along with a large glass of water. "It would make sense your sexuality and sensuality would frighten him."

Thranduil stood with his arms crossed, an unpleasant expression on his face. "I don't actually want him. He may be pretty, but he's a mouse of a thing. He is not my type of lover."

Rhovandir chuckled. "Lucky him."

*****

The slam of the door was jarring and Gwindor stayed in the water until he was sure Thranduil was gone. Even then, he lingered, trying to get his thoughts under control and banishing the dark memories back to the recesses of his mind. Slowly, he removed himself from the tub and dressed. The trousers and tunic fit him well enough, and just as he felt himself growing calm, he came across his reflection in the mirror as he reached for the hairbrush on the counter.

Seeing himself as he had been millennia ago, long before his torments in Angband... Shock overtook him and, dropping the brush to the tiled floor, Gwindor staggered back. Exiting the washroom, he backed himself into a corner of the bedchamber, where he quickly crumpled and allowed himself to weep.

It was a short while before Gwindor had composed himself enough to leave the room and descend the stairs to the first level of the large estate. His nose led him instantly to the kitchen, his stomach growling with hunger he had been able to suppress over the last three months of his travel.

Entering the kitchen and seeing Thranduil there, Gwindor stopped at the entrance, his gaze averted to eye the food set on the table.

"It's for you," Thranduil said stiffly. "Sit and eat while I speak, for there are some things we must arrange before you leave this room."

Rhovandir shook his head, immediately going to Gwindor and separating the Elf's wet hair into three strands. "Allow me to plait this for you, my Lord, so it will keep away from your face as you eat," he said in a soft voice, much like the tone one would use to calm a frightened horse. Rhovandir began to braid the hair, eyes warning Thranduil to be gentle with the poor creature.

Gwindor nodded and did as he was told, offering Rhovandir a hesitant twitch of a smile when he offered to braid his hair. Even after three months, he still had problems with finer movements that relied on his left hand, like manipulating his hair. It was kind for the Elf to offer, and the way in which he addressed him soothed his frayed nerves a bit as he began to eat.

Soft sounds of pleasure escaped him as he first savoured the taste and texture of the fare, and then started to consume the meal voraciously.

Thranduil remained standing, dominating the space. "What can you do, Gwindor? What sort of skills do you possess? While I am content to allow you to live here as Rhovandir and Calwen do, I do require that you perform tasks in exchange for the shelter and food."

Gwindor paused in his eating. "I... can cook well enough. It was the single joy I held after... when I returned to Nargothrond." He paused, looking up hesitantly to the deep blue eyes of his host. "I can pull my own weight... clean, care for horses." He mentioned neither his forging experience nor his skill in combat. Such things were no longer significant; they were not skills he would want to exercise now that he had been reborn.

"Cooking is good," Thranduil said with a nod. "Rhovandir tends to the administrative aspect of things while we're here in Tirion, and Calwen tends the house. We have a stablehand who comes each morning and each evening to tend to the horses. Cooking is the one task we do not have someone on hand for. It will do."

He turned his eyes to Rhovandir, who was tying off Gwindor's hair. "You must go into the market tomorrow and fetch him clothes, boots, house boots, sleeping trousers, and whatever else he needs."

"Yes, Sire," Rhovandir replied with a bow.

Thranduil was quiet for a moment. "Ten gold and five silver to start should be enough, don't you agree?"

Rhovandir smirked. "Twenty gold would be better. He is new to life."

"Twenty it is," Thranduil sighed.

"'Tis not as if you have not the funds, my Lord," Rhovandir chuckled, beginning to clean up the kitchen.

"You are lucky I love you, old Elf," Thranduil smiled.

Rhovandir shook his head with a laugh.

The familiarity between the two elves put Gwindor more at ease, and he quickly finished his meal, his stomach pleasantly over full. "May I request a couple days to... adjust?" Being on the road was quite different to living amongst others in an estate of stone.

Thranduil nodded. "Of course. Take as much time as you need."

Gwindor rose slowly from his seat, bowing to both the Elves. "I shall begin my duties in three days. I thank you for your hospitality. Please excuse me. I am in great need of some rest."

Looking briefly in the cupboards of his washroom, he found the ingredients for a sleeping drought. Knowing it would keep him in deep enough sleep to not dream, he had resolved to take it in order to sleep for the first time in weeks.

He had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that this new life was not going to be easy, though he had hardly expected it to be.

TBC...