THE HERALD

Teri (eldawisdom) ~ I’m so glad you’re enjoying it. I naturally agree about Elrohir, and the portrayal of Elves in general, as if they have no personal struggles when it comes to their vocation - only their love lives. As I see it (all down to personal interpretation), Elves are not these perfect, ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ creatures. They too have uncertainties, imperfections and anxieties, and I hope to encapsulate these in my narrative. Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Kalima ~ Absolutely, I too feel a little short changed when things happen too quickly and the characters hop into bed by the fourth paragraph. Nothing enflames the mind as not having it straight away, and the build up of erotic tension is sometimes way more enthralling than consummation. I’m glad you’re enjoying the story so far, and I will try to keep updating regularly. Thanks for reading and reviewing!


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Story Information

Title: The Herald
Author: Scribe of Imladris © 2007
Pairing(s): Haldir/Elrohir (major), Erestor/Glorfindel (minor)
Rating: R
Timeline: 2511 of the Third Age
Summery: Deep foreboding stirs the northern territories of Middle-earth, and all evidence points towards Carn Dum, former seat of the Witch-king of Angmar. When the Elves are reluctantly drawn into the puzzle, they unearth a dark secret that poses a threat to the free peoples of Arda.
Disclaimer: These characters & Middle-earth are copyrighted by the Tolkien estate. This story is not meant to infringe on that copyright, nor is any profit being made.
A/N: Set a century before the Quest. While there are AU elements to this story, it adheres to the general canon.

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Chapter Four

“’Ro?” Elladan squinted into the dimly-lit room, his eyes poring momentarily into the waning embers of the fire. “Are you there?”

Elrohir emerged from the adjacent chamber wrapped in a towel. “Suilaid, Dan.”

Elladan frowned. “Have you spent the entire eve frolicking in the bath?”

“Nay.”

“Well,” Elladan crossed his arms. “Where were you?”

“Out,” came the stoic reply. Elrohir discarded the towel, his taut muscles prevalent in the pale moonlight filtering through the heavy drapes.

“Valar!” Elladan scowled. “Why must an inquest precede every rotten dialogue with you?”

Elrohir furrowed his brow. “I do not interrogate you about your business, brother, why must you grill me about mine?”

“The difference, brother, is that I volunteer information of my own accord whereas you need to be cross-examined.”

Elladan ambled over to the four-poster bed and sat down with a heavy sigh. He surveyed Elrohir’s statuesque build with an appreciative eye, knowing that his brother’s fine physique mirrored his own.

Elrohir pulled on his nightshirt. “I am tired,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Will you rest with me tonight?”

Elladan blinked. “You wish me to share your bedchamber?”

“What of it?”

“Nothing,” Elladan shrugged. “Only that we haven’t slept together in years,” he unbuttoned his leggings.

Elrohir climbed into bed and watched his brother disrobe. “Dan,” he paused. “Have you ever been with a male before?”

Elladan chuckled. “No,” he finally said, lying back against the afghan.

Elrohir yawned. “I see.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.”

“Liar.”

Elrohir frowned. “Why must I have a clandestine motive, I was merely curious.”

“Liar.”

Elrohir laughed. “Not a very good one, apparently.”

Elladan smoothed the goose-feathered quilt over his bare torso. “Nay,” he said. “So why the sudden interest, ‘Ro, I daresay you’ve hardly bedded either sex.”

Elrohir bit his bottom lip. He would not rise to the bait. Nor would he propagate the scores of maidens he had bedded, elf-kind or otherwise, when he felt the urge to ride to the village of Bree and satiate his desires among the women-folk. A mere six minutes older than Elrohir, Elladan may as well have been six hundred years older with his constant teasing.

“You are right,” Elrohir sighed. “I have ne’er bedded a male before.”

“Heh,” Elladan smirked.

“We did not have the luxury of a bed.”

Elladan frowned, until realisation dawned. “What!”

Elrohir laughed.

“’Tis not a laughing matter!” Elladan gaped at him. “Do I know the blighter?”

“As a matter of fact you do.”

Elladan sat up facing Elrohir, his legs crossed. “So that’s what you were up to this evening,” he grinned. “Tell me everything. Who is he? How long has this been going on?”

“Hang on,” Elrohir smiled. “I do not know that anything is going on, it all happened rather suddenly.”

“Who is he? I know, Nestadion, right? You’re always scurrying off together.”

“Nay, Nestadion is but a friend.”

“A handsome friend,” Elladan winked.

“Interested?”

“Valar, no, I’m not interested in males.”

“Neither was I until a few hours ago.”

Elladan nodded. “Well, are you going to divulge his identity?”

“I would rather not,” Elrohir sighed. “’Tis early days, brother, I would be doing us both a disservice. I will answer any other questions you have, though.”

“Will you,” Elladan grinned. “How does he look like?”

Elrohir laughed, and Elladan joined in. “Oh come on!” Elladan beckoned. “Give me something to work with. You need not disclose the particulars, but throw me a bone.”

“A bone.”

“Aye,” Elladan chuckled. “A juicy one.”

Elrohir rose from his bed, seeking to distance himself from the pleading candour of his brother’s eyes. He was unsure whether he wanted to share his experience with Elladan, so he fiddled with the wick of a candle instead. All of a sudden he was filled with trepidation, longing for the unequivocal certainty of Haldir’s arms. Elrohir pondered the complication his feelings would bring upon their delicate friendship, and the awkward tension they would forever face in each other’s presence. By the Valar, Elrohir knew that his heart now belonged to Haldir, and it was a revelation that cast aside all doubt.

“His hair is woven moonlight,” Elrohir whispered. “He smells of the forest – of pine and of sandalwood. His is sharp, astute, and intensely sensual.”

“Tell me more.”

“He is a valiant warrior, renowned and respected by all who know him.”

Elladan’s eyes widened. “Are you speaking of a certain Marchwarden?”

“Aye,” Elrohir sighed.

“Elbereth!”

Elrohir rolled his eyes, and peered out into the darkened furrows of the courtyard. His brother’s voice was like the slanting light amidst the dim boughs of the trees. There, but cloaked somehow by the recollection of Haldir’s mouth against his skin.

***

While all in Rivendell adhered to the siren call of Morpheus, a black sun ascended over Barad-dûr. Here were the scablands, ancient water channels, choppy gouges through the earth where the mines had wiped out the good soil and green hills that were once there. Here the water had made a desert, and the dirt roads swept through it on a ledge below the bluffs and above a narrow, ragged plain. Across a bridge spanning the cursed expanse of Minas Morgul, the Witch-king arose from his chamber. He donned his usual black; so out of place in daylight, so very appropriate at night. The colour of secrets and stealth. The colour of death. He needed no mirror to tell how very well it became him, how flattering and suitable the hue. He smoothed his long, dark tresses behind his ears, and murmured a silent spell.

“Sire,” a light tapping at the door.

The Witch-king turned to face his aid, a smile adorning the bluish-purple swell of his lips. “Welcome back to Mordor.”

The wraith nodded. “Thankee, sire. How fare thee?”

“I shall fare better once we dispense with the pleasantries,” the sorcerer's eyes flashed in the gloom. “What tidings from the north?”

“They are all assembled in Rivendell, sire, and plan to make for the Ettenmoors.”

“The Ettenmoors,” the Witch-king laughed. “What ever for?”

“It is where they believe we are based.”

“Nonsense,” spat the Witch-king. “Elrond is no fool.”

“Nay,” the wraith swallowed. “But the orcs are, and they have not been covering their tracks very well. Tracks that have led that accursed balrog slayer, Glorfindel, straight to Langwell.”

“They must not discover the citadel.”

“Nay, sire.”

“So, they make for the Angmar,” the Witch-king paused. “Let them spar with the Uruk-hai. Like breaking a butterfly on a wheel,” he said wistfully and faced the window.

The wraith waited a moment before addressing his master again. “The Nazgûl await your command, sire.”

“Dispatch reinforcements to Carn Dûm, and send three riders to intercept the elves at Mount Gundabad. Bring Elrond’s son, unscathed, to Mordor.”

“Which one, sire?

“The soldier, Glorfindel’s lieutenant. His twin will not be in the commission.”

“Aye, sire. Right away,” he bowed and exited the chamber.

The Witch-king’s lips pursed in a faint smile, his eyes carrying over Barad-dûr, where his Lord nestled amidst the fiery chasms and incanted a voiceless whisper in his mind.

***

The following day Elrohir awoke to find that his brother had already left the bedchamber. While he half expected this, poised in the knowledge that Elladan had martial duties to attend to, he could not help the feeling of melancholy that behest his soul. Elrohir washed his face, and took a sip of honey-dew. Then, he dropped down at the edge of the bed, put his elbows on his knees, and propped his chin in his hands.

“Ilúvatar, lift my thoughts to the summit of true experience with thee, for in doing so, my mind will know peace at last,” Elrohir murmured, as Haldir rapped softly at the door. “I plumb the depths for thy waters sweet, and seek the Valar’s confidence and thy grace.”

Haldir entered the room quietly and paused by the door, waiting for Elrohir to complete his prayer. Not a spiritual elf, Haldir had never felt the need to address Ilúvatar or seek their counsel in times of need. Besides, hearing not a word nor seen a vision in his long years to save or condemn his soul, Haldir was ill-convinced of their existence. He respected Elrohir’s devoutness, however, and beheld the intercession with curious eyes.

“Quel re,” Haldir said once their eyes had locked.

Elrohir smiled. “Didn’t realise I had an audience,” he stood up and flexed his muscles.

“Apologies, Elrohir, the door was ajar and I didn’t want to wait outside.”

“Lest you run into my Adar?”

Haldir laughed, and closed the door. “Aye.”

“You wouldn’t want him finding you in my private quarters, I take it.”

Haldir blinked. “Nay, that isn’t the reason at all,” he said and sat on the bed, motioning Elrohir to follow suit. “Glorfindel went on patrol at daybreak, taking most of the guard with him, including our brothers and Anyriand. I believe your Adar and Erestor are seeking to engage me in a private dialogue today about our forthcoming mission,” he sighed. “And I would truly rather wait until Glorfindel returns.”

“Why?”

“Because I have gotten into trouble before with these stealthy conferences. The mood has been heavy enough since the tumultuous undertakings of the last forum, and it doesn’t help that I neglected to show up for dinner last night, either,” he said and leaned back, propped up on his elbows.

“Oh,” Elrohir flushed, thinking of the reason they had both been detained. “Don’t you think this may be a good opportunity to clear the air and discuss an alternative?”

“Nay.”

“Are you going to tell me why?”

Haldir sighed. “In a nutshell, I am unhappy with the way things have turned out. What am I doing here, beside touring the grounds and drinking too much miruvor. I disagree with Lord Elrond’s philosophy of avoidance, forestalling an inevitable conflict. What’s the point in waiting? I would go back to Lórien would I not have to ride straight back.”

Elrohir’s eyes darkened. “I see,” he stood up. “Well, I am sorry you are so miserable here,” Elrohir stalked heavily toward the anteroom and peered into his dresser.

Realising what he had said, or rather the way it was interpreted by Elrohir, Haldir got off the bed and joined Elrohir by the marbled cupboard. Elrohir sifted though an impressive array of lavish robes, his hands lingering momentarily over a plain, bottle green tunic.

“How about this one,” Haldir motioned at a lilac tunic hemmed with delicate silver detail. “You would look ravishing. Trust me, I know fashion,” he winked lightheartedly.

“The muted greys of a Galadhrim uniform are hardly haute couture, Haldir.”

Haldir laughed. “Humour me?”

“I am riding to Bree. ‘Tis difficult enough blending in without looking like an elven princeling.”

“Bree? But I thought we could spend the day together.”

Elrohir scowled. “Something to keep you distracted before you ride off to make sport with the orcs, eh. I think not.”

Haldir wheeled him around. “Elrohir, listen to me. You have misunderstood. While I am frustrated with the war-effort, I am thrilled with what has come to pass between us. Last night was wonderful,” Haldir’s voice softened. “I could truly fall for you.”

“Please,” Elrohir’s nostrils flared. “Your belief in love equals that of your belief in Ilúvatar, you faithless mule.”

“Touché!” Haldir chuckled. “But, we have forged a strong connection, have we not? I would like to explore this with you.”

“And it’s something to do until Adar gives you and Glorfindel the go-ahead.”

Haldir threw his hands up in the air. “Perhaps I have overestimated your maturity, Elrohir Peredhil. Send word once you have developed beyond the spec of an elfling!”

A gentle gust carried into the room, stroking Elrohir’s flushed cheeks. He would retain all words, those syntactic devils that should have been confined within the confidentiality of his own mind. Instead, they had the brute proclivity of searing out in a rage of torpid emissions, in the most inopportune and infantile way.

“Haldir,” he breathed. “I am sorry.”

Haldir nodded. “Now,” he kissed the tip of Elrohir’s pointed ear. “No more nonsense.”

As their lips met, Elrohir savoured the sweet hint of figs on Haldir’s tongue as it smoothly swept across his own. A shudder passed through him and he suppressed a catch in his throat as he felt the cotton hem of his nightshirt lifted high above his head and off of his arms. Haldir kissed his neck, the curve of his collarbone, the thin lines of his ribcage.

“I desire you,” said Haldir urgently. “Humour a crass legionnaire, will you princeling?”

Elrohir grinned as he smoothed his tongue over the cerise swell of Haldir’s lips and kissed him deeply, urgently, as strong arms swept him back to the four-poster bed in a whirlwind of limbs and angles. If the Valar did not exist for Haldir – he would account for their loss. Here, in the province of lust, where all sensibilities were cast aside for the crux, raw element of their bond, Elrohir would restore Haldir’s faith in Ilúvatar.

And just maybe, given time, in love.

***

On the sixth day of his arrival in Rivendell, Haldir stirred in the misty dawn and cast half-open eyes at the golden light sloping in through the drapes. Well accustomed to rousing at daybreak, he yawned and noted Elrohir's slumbering form under the soft eiderdown, his back mounting steadily with each breath. Haldir smiled lazily and planted gentle kisses upon Elrohir's nape and the taut muscles adorning his pale, upper-back. Elrohir shifted slightly and pressed himself against Haldir's growing arousal, eliciting a quiet moan. Haldir snaked his left arm around Elrohir and traced featherlight fingers down his chest, stomach, and fully erect member. Haldir smiled, and began a slow caress up Elrohir’s shaft, until he reached the head and rubbed his thumb against the sensitive opening. Elrohir gasped and bucked under that simple touch.

"Oh I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

Haldir chuckled and pumped Elrohir’s aching member, his pace quickening in synch with Elrohir’s escalating heartbeat. Elrohir moaned, and pressed harder against Haldir, raising his left thigh and motioning Haldir to enter him.

"But," Haldir breathed.

"No need," Elrohir groaned, as Haldir's ministrations were bringing him close to the edge.

Haldir needed no further solicitation. Using the pearlescent beads of Elrohir’s arousal to sleek his way in, Haldir gently permeated Elrohir's rocking form, while maintaining a firm grip on his throbbing erection. Together they moved and swayed in a fervent unison, each thrust a perfect impetus and echo of the other's pleasure, until they collapsed, violently, in the aftershocks of their mutual release.

After a spell, Elrohir wheedled out of bed and made for the washing basin.

“Where do you think you’re off to?” Haldir drawled lazily.

“Shrine for Eru Ilúvatar, to atone,” Elrohir rinsed his face.

Haldir furrowed his brow. “What the devil have you got to atone for?”

“Sacrilege, profanity. The usual,” Elrohir murmured.

Haldir threw his head back and laughed. “Great sex and comedy, eh? I think I’m in love!”

Elrohir’s ensuing silence spoke volumes.

“Elrohir?”

“And then there’s buggery, too.”

Haldir blinked. “Buggery? Elrohir, you cannot be serious. Please tell me you’re joking.”

“'Tis no laughing matter.”

“I’ll say! It’s bloody hilarious. What becomes you, Elrohir?” Haldir got out of bed and stood before the retiring younger elf. “Well?”

Elrohir raked a comb through his hair and avoided Haldir’s eyes. “Calm down. Surely you realise that what we are doing is...is not favourable.”

Haldir bit his lower lip, barely containing his ire. “First you go to great lengths to avoid me and provoke the unwanted scrutiny of Erestor, who in turn affords me with a disagreeable inquiry into the nature of my treatment of you. Then you use your Adar’s diktat vis-à-vis the war effort as a means to circumvent our relationship,” Elrohir turned to leave before Haldir grabbed his shoulders and lodged him forcefully against the wall. “And now you feign religious bullshit. What the hell are we doing here?”

“Let me go!” Elrohir tried to free himself of Haldir’s powerful grasp of his person.

A callous smile ghosted Haldir’s lips. “With pleasure,” he let go of Elrohir and retrieved his discarded clothes by the bed. “Should have done that days ago,” he muttered and dressed quickly.

“Haldir,” Elrohir croaked. “I did not mean to lead you on, I—I just can’t…I’m sorry.”

“VALAR!” Haldir growled. “Save your acts of contrition for them. You do indeed have much to atone for. Farewell.”

Haldir left the room in a gust of swishing robes, leaving a sobbing Elrohir in his wake.


TO BE CONTINUED......