Quietude

Title: Quietude – Part Five
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: Elladan/Erestor, others of interest
Summary: With both a brother and a father to appease, not to mention his own appetites, Erestor misses a vital cue from his new husband.
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.
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.
A/N: Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed, especially keekercat, Kitty, deathangelgw, minuial, kenaz, and all the lurkers out there. You are my inspiration and I adore you! This may be the end of their tale, but a sequel featuring Elrohir and Legolas will be coming soon. In the meantime, enjoy!

/ ---- / = mindspeech

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Quietude - Part Five

Imladris, Year 873, Third Age

As they peered over the rail of the highest ledge in all of Imladris, the fecund Rivendell valley spread her lush climes out before them like a maid ripe for birthing. Through the misty spray of the cascade that damped their ruddy cheeks, they could admire the voluptuous orchard hills, the curvaceous woodland slopes, the rich amber fields of grain and the burnished sheen of the foliage. The Loudwater ripped through the bracken-thatched gully, her lively rush blighted out by the crash of the waterfall into the basin below.

While Beregor marveled at the powerful plunge of the river over the ledge just above them, Erestor called up this imperious sound from the caverns of his memory.

The Harvest Festival may have passed, but the season was far from ended. In the late days of autumn, the Last Homely House resumed the truer purpose of her creator’s intent, a refuge to the errant warriors at large, as well as those grievously sick, permanently wounded, or altogether abandoned in the realm at large. The Healing Halls, the hillside cottages, and the barracks swelled with inhabitants seeking a winter sanctuary. Glorfindel’s spies, as well as the mercenaries he loaned out to various allies, all returned to roost. These were immediately put to work in the fields, to preserving the stores, or to preparing the residences for harsher weather. Lord Elrond’s governmental duties became more incidental. Erestor himself took on the lion’s share of the largely record taking and bookkeeping chores, while the renown healer focused his energies on remedying those who had traveled far to solicit his kind attentions. Indeed, twas perhaps the most fortuitous time for Beregor to have visited Imladris, for never were her ideals of fraternity, solidarity, generosity, and serenity more readily observable than in the bleak time of nature’s fall.

During the long hours of their elaborate tour, he had certainly appeared both enchanted and awestruck by the intricate workings of the place; how even the most strident soldier leapt to the aid of a serving boy, how everyone greeted friend or stranger alike with gracious courtesy, how dedication to the task at hand was championed by all, and, especially, how every elf they encountered welcomed his brother like a long lost friend. If Erestor was flush, twas because he had never been so frequently embraced in all his years, neither so ardently nor so impulsively. Indeed, he had struggled to conceal just how acutely their recognition affected him. That they were glad to see him well was deeply heartening to him. He only hoped that he had been able to properly communicate this to them. His shrewd sibling had not missed a clench, slap, or seizure, nor had he mistaken Erestor’s sheepish recollection of each and every name for felicity alone. While he had simply followed along, with characteristic humility, it had been only too obvious how impressed he was by the fellowship of his peers and the incredulity of his accomplishments.

He came to understand, as so many who journeyed there, that Erestor was Imladris’ live, thriving heart.

Yet Erestor’s effluence of spirit had been tempered by even the fleetest glance from his brother. Across the clear surface of his oceanic eyes none could mistake the ever-present ripple of sadness; every gaze at his elder had quickened this disturbance, until he could do naught but wrench them away to focus on some impassive scenery. If the previous afternoon he had compensated for this with physical affection, on this day he was aloof, barely daring more than the press of a soft hand to his lower back to guide him forth. While Erestor could not discern any trouble beyond the constant reminders of his disability, his stormy stare spoke volumes of his inner turmoil. The advisor was far too intuitive not to understand that Beregor must be near to bursting with questions, most of which he had probably deemed too personal and thus was still mounting the courage with which to pose them. The younger elf was not helped by the subtle role-reversal between them; whereas Erestor had once been his confessor, he would now have to provoke a confidence from him. He sensed that Beregor was still evaluating, in his awkward and obvious way, how willing his brother might be to genuinely answer him.

Erestor himself was not entirely unaware of the nuances implicit here. No matter whether he and Elladan chose to visit Lindon come spring, his responses, as well as the authenticity of their tenor, would no doubt eventually be related to his Adar, which his parent would then use in determining the level of his approval in his choice of mate. With this aspect in mind, he had intended to ask Elladan to leave them their privacy, though his beloved had usurped him in this and offered an even more useful alternative. The ethereal Lady Galadriel, to whom he was now eternally indebted, had summoned her most potent magicks to strengthen the fraternal channel between he and Beregor, so that they may converse through mindspeech. This belated binding-present would last until the royal couple’s departure at the end of the week, certainly enough time for Beregor to apply himself to learning the basics of his sign-language. Better yet, their initial, hesitant dialogues had done wonders to comfort his brother; even the sound of his voice had not been so well received. Possessed of yet another tool with which to rebuild their frayed relations, Erestor was confident that he could convey to his sibling the depth and breadth of his adoration for his newly-sworn husband.

He certainly would have no difficulty in painting a warm image of his bonded’s devotion, as Elladan was but one of many subjects on which he was most effusive. With his dearly one in mind and his beloved valley in sight, he saw no reason to further delay their most imperative discussion.

A touch of vertigo urged him away from the edge. Through the rut and tumble revels of the past few days, he had forgotten how precarious his balance still was. Yet before he had even sufficiently backed away to steady himself, arms ironed forceful by hundreds of years of shipbuilding clamped around him. He was quietly ushered over to a nearby willow, under whose sashaying branches a small measure of quietude could be found. Before he could properly settle himself at the foot of the tree, a waterskin was proffered; with an insistent look from those adamantine eyes he was bade to drink deep. He did so, enjoying the cool liquid as if it were savory wine.

He met a bashful smile on his brother’s otherwise creased features, his overbearing concern rather precious. He pet Erestor’s hair as if he were an impish elfling who had overstepped his bounds, but visibly recoiled in shock when the elder playfully offered him the services of the waterskin. Beregor’s cheeks burned at the taunting laughter this incited, then stopped his strokes to swap Erestor upside his shoulder. The pout-like moue that mushed his mouth only further reminded his older sibling of his once precocious elflinghood, in accidental tribute of which the young shipwright sighed with exasperation at his brother’s antics and slumped dejectedly into his seat. With the stealthy weave of his arm, Erestor invited him to recline against him, which he did without a trace of his earlier reluctance. He exhaled longly as he leaned back into his brother’s hold, the surge of his more tender emotions explicit on his face.

/Forgive me, toren,/ Beregor begged him. /Tis merely that I cannot fathom… I look upon you and… my heart cleaves for you./

/Yet I am quite well,/ Erestor assured him. /My valley keeps me well, as do her people. My purpose here is unchanged by calamity. My place, as ever, is in her service./

/She is a lovely mistress,/ Beregor admitted. /Nana had told me much of her enchantment, but I have this day discovered that even the loftiest description does her no justice. Tis not simply the beauty of her landscape that compels, but the sense of community among her inhabitants. If I were as entrenched as you, I could not rightly leave her, even if I’d lost all my limbs to severance./ With a disheartened frown, he hinted as to his own purpose there. / I am on a fool’s errand./

/To steal me back into my Adar’s fold?/ Erestor carefully inquired. /Nay, gwanur. Much as I enjoy Lindon, I will have no peace there./

/Lindon was only to be a way-station on a journey of greater import,/ Beregor confided, even his inner voice hushed to a whisper. /You must understand, Erestor, Ada was frenzied fretful. I have never seen him thus. For months, he bade Aerlien and I greet those who would pass on, for even the sight of a shroud face pained him for days after. He drifted through his tower hold like a waning spirit, only descending when a messenger would arrive. This behavior was indecipherable to us, until finally I begged the truth out of him. He ranted on about his pledge to Ereinion, about his charge and his oath. He feared he would have to do what no father could: watch his own grieving son sail off to the Blessed Realm. He did not bid me merely fetch you, toren. He bid me compel you home to Elbereth, our Lady Patron, in Valinor./

As this daunting news sunk in, Erestor was immovable. Yet his recovery was swift enough, indulging in a sigh of his own before giving his brother a hardy squeeze.

/ I fear Ada is in for quite a shock,/ he replied, with subtle mirth. Beregor’s proved more blunt, in the form of a sharp laugh. / I see tis inevitable that I will travel north, come springtime. I must let the presence of my entirely whole and hale person convince him that his sorrow begot a spell of momentary madness./ The irony of this statement was not lost on him, as he thought of his dizzy binding night. /Yet I cannot say that I am not terribly pleased that you have come for a spell of your own, Beregor. I have so longed to see you in my comely valley’s thrall./

/As I am pleased to winter here,/ his brother acknowledged. /Nearly every minute I encounter some aspect that intrigues: the crafting skills of the fine engravers about, the astounding pliancy the smiths wrought of your mithril store, the management of such a vast enterprise…/ He paused a moment, then vividly colored. /The… the doting familiarity between yourself and the Son of Elrond. Elladan, I mean. Twas my impression that… that is, are you…? Is he…?/

/My lover?/ Erestor finished for him, grinning mischievously at the bright blush this bloomed in his brother’s cheeks. /Aye, he is that, and much more besides. He is my love, as well./

/ I know we have never spoke so directly of such things before,/ Beregor continued on, before his embarrassment chastened him. /One immediately senses his… his vigilance over you. Tis almost of a feral quality. He must love you deeply./

/Ours is a bond of friendship forged in his earliest years,/ Erestor explained. /Then, in light of this recent tragedy, the more visceral emotions we scarcely could admit we had harbored since his later adolescence came surging forth. I must confess that their fervor was such that we have been furiously devout for several months now. Indeed, they so soaked our reason spongy that just a mere three days ago, they overtook us completely. We bound ourselves on the night of the Harvest Festival./

/You are *bound*!/ Beregor exclaimed, though joyously so. /By Elbereth…/ His brother shook his head so vigorously in disbelief that Erestor feared he might also become tipsy. /Ada and Nana will be incensed with happiness, to say naught of… of myself!/ He launched himself at the stunned elder, so gleefully that one could not help but be anew reminded of his sprightly elfling years. /Long have I wished your giving heart met by one to match it, gwanur! I am perhaps still green of the world about, but I wager few blaze with honor as sterling as the Prince of Imladris. If you have found him worthy, then I cannot imagine how much more gallant he must truly be than my first impression of him. /

/He is the dearest creature around, to my eyes,/ Erestor confessed, grown suddenly sheepish himself. /Twould please me to no end if you came to know each other well./

/Then I am so ordered,/ Beregor smiled, pulling away to admire the rosy countenance that so became his brother. /Though perhaps ill intended, this might prove to be the most fruitful journey I may ever undertake. Verily, I am glad to have come, Erestor. Yet I will be even more heartened to leave you here, come springtime, to the tending of your fulsome valley and to the loving of your valiant prince./

Erestor chuckled aloud at the sweetness of this pronouncement, but nevertheless had cause to consider it some.

/A tender and lover I will certainly be,/ he answered. /But I may yet follow you north, so that our fretful Adar’s worries might be appeased by a surprise introduction to his bond-son./

Twas troublesome to perceive, in the subsequent cackle of snickers, whether Beregor was more tickled by the thought of Erestor accompanying him or the picture of his Adar’s gawking face.

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

Spring 874, Third Age

The peachy aura of rising dawn over the bottle-throat peaks of the Tower Hills guided the last of the company’s early morning descent. Gossamer ribbons of light washed over the open plain before them, as their sprightly, replenished steeds galloped over the gilded grass towards the faraway spires of Lindon. The roofs of the portside guildhalls stretched up towards the firmament, in dazzling tribute to the vaulted cathedrals of Vinyamar in the Blessed West, as if every one of the shipwright’s seaworthy creations was commissioned by the Valar themselves. The tulip-bulb houses strung like wreathes around the halls were of equally lofty stature, their silver shingles coolly incandescent under the rosy springtime sun.

A gentle wind swept the unmistakable scent of briny seaweed up from the Gulf of Luhn, whose salty pinch woke Elladan from his stunned absorption of the lovely view. A flocks of scavenging gulls were the only sentries to greet them, as they trot onto the sandy path that lead travelers down from Ered Uial. In light of the recent fall of Arnor, they had plotted a southern route from Imladris; though few men would have troubled with such a purposefully armed party of elves, he had not wanted to chance even a brief skirmish with his Erestor riding among them. A year after calamity’s cruel strike, his husband’s energies and abilities were flourishing, but Elladan was too meticulous a mate not to secure him in every way possible. As such, a frown of disapproval momentarily creased his mouth when he realized that the Havens were not so much as encircled by a wrought-iron gate, nor concealed by a dense forest, nor fortressed by the vigilant peaks of a mountain range, nor camouflaged by a trick in the landscape. Even with the mannish fort of Mithlond looming on the far bank, only a rather ornately railed dock could be discerned by the riverside.

They were, for all intents, exposed to the wilds of Arda.

Twas only as they slowed to a canter that he sensed the thickening of the air around them, as if they had passed under the spill of a cascade into the humid atmosphere of the cave behind. His breaths became labored, as if each draught was laced with a vaporous anesthetic. A giddy rush coursed through him, his nerves twittering like a laurel tree of songbirds and his veins bubbling like a cheery brook. Instinctively, he looked to Erestor to assure himself that he was well, yet to his surprise his heart swooned such at the sight of his beauteous mate that he nearly crashed their stallions together in reaching out for him. His beloved chuckled softly, touched his face with appreciative tenderness.

/Tis but the daunting potency of the Fire Ring, melethen,/ his husband reminded him of the secret jewel that the lordly shipwright bore, which did indeed protect his realm from mischievous interlopers. /Its powers appease even those who shoulder immeasurable grief, as well as those who bear them forth to the Havens, so that all may find peace before an untimely departure. Yet you are not sorrowful, but blooming with new love, so its effects are doublefold upon you. /

/This knowledge does naught to couch my admiration for you, moren vain,/ Elladan insisted, mesmerized by his comely one. / I adore you./

/As I, you, inden,/ Erestor pledged to sober him. /Yet take care to counsel yourself before my father. He will not take kindly to you fondling me as we wait before him for appraisal./

Elladan snapped back into himself, as all his earlier tipsiness fluttered down to his innards. In the thrall of the Fire Ring, he had conveniently forgotten their charge on this litmus day of Erestor Cirdanion’s return home. Whether this family reunion would see him welcomed into the fold or banished as a half-breed upstart would depend on his reception by an elf lord wisened by countless millennia of rule, yet also tormented by unnatural anguish at the wounding of his firstborn. By all accounts – and Elladan had solicited many through the long months of winter that preempted this journey north – Cirdan was a soul of deepest compassion, as well as a great friend to his grandfather Earendil.

Yet he possessed the gift not of complete foresight, but of era-spanning intuition. By the calmest probing of one’s eyes, it was said that the shipwright could sense the tone of one’s destiny, both immediate and through the coming age. If what he perceived within Elladan displeased him, there was no telling what such a recently aching parent might do to buffer his son from the impact of a loss that might occur centuries in the future. No Son of Elrond was bred to be convinced by Sauron’s apparent defeat at the Last Alliance; the Shadow may not creep forth for a host of years yet, but the Dark One would be avenged. Already the ravagement of Arnor could be interpreted as the first stirrings of wretchedness in the heart of men, to say naught of Isildur’s loss of the One Ring. There was no telling who among his mortal kinsmen might at this moment be under the heathen sway of the Foul Jewel. That this mannish weakness was part of his own fraught lineage would perhaps matter little to one who had served with three generations of his family line. The choice that yet loomed before him, however, might be the fissure in his otherwise sterling armor of worth as mate to the soothsaying elf’s eldest son.

Elladan glanced at Elrohir over his husband’s shoulder, met his mirror’s encouraging smile with one of his own. Though the winter had seen the re-soldering of their brotherly bond in the wake of his marriage, none among their company of familiars – not even his immaculate mate – knew of how his rash binding had momentarily frayed his relationship with his more pensive twin. Indeed, twas only a month after, on the night of the first fall of snow, that Elladan had realized that he had not conversed intimately with Elrohir for any lengthy of time since the events of the Harvest Festival. As one month of distance begot another, he began to suspect that his brother was not so much devoting himself to the relentless worship of Legolas’ fine form as avoiding any chance encounter between them in a torchlit hall, when the elf-knight would have no choice but to agree to a nightcap should his twin propose one. Sure as his strident nature, Elladan had not hesitated to force a confrontation, but had been woefully unprepared for the bitterness Elrohir had displayed, if even this was tempered by his characteristic impulse towards diplomacy.

While he had not indicated that he was displeased by Elladan’s relationship per se, he had been angered that his brother had indefinitely tied his spirit to this world without consulting him. Since their earliest childhood, they had sworn to make their formal choice together, united in intent. Neither had wished to suffer the same fate as their father, who lost half of his soul to the doom of men. Indeed, they had instinctively know that their bond was stronger, more vital, more essential than that between Elros and Elrond. They had keenly known that neither one could survive without his beloved twin; as such, their choice would be to live together, or to die together. By his binding vows, even one so honorable as Elladan had forsaken his brother, or so Elrohir viscerally felt. Even as he had celebrated the love that his twin had found, inwardly he had cursed the forcing of his own hand, for he would not be so base as to go back upon his own pledge. Yet the unwitting betrayal had caused a rift between them, one Elrohir had struggled to reconcile within himself, and so he had pulled away in a desperate attempt to heal. On such a painful subject he could not speak with his chief confessor, their Adar, not their Naneth, nor his current, younger lover. Not even their sister could he confide in, as Arwen had gone off to Lorien with their grandparents. So the abandoned feeling had festered within, until Elladan himself had demanded it come out.

They had fought for the first time in memory, and for what he prayed would be the last. Never had he felt so dejected, so forlorn, yet he had known that such agony was but a glimpse of what he had unknowingly inflicted upon his innocent brother. The elf-knight had not raged; worse, he had simpered so eloquently that Elladan had soon been reduced to tears. The final blow should have heartened him, but it only cut him so deep that he had feared his flame had been snuffed entirely, that he would crawl back to Erestor a parched and broken wraith.

Elrohir had forgiven him; miraculously, unconscionably absolved him of his crime.

Yet with such a cleansing anointment had come an indiscernible poison’s taint. The compact had been made dissolute by his brash action, he had been told. Elrohir would delay his choice until a clear-headed decision could be made, though Elbereth knew when such a time would be upon them. As such, he had challenged Elladan’s own resolution; there had been no other way for the elf-warrior to respond but to enfeeble his own commitment to eternity, for he was bound to Erestor, not elfkind. This had not either satisfied Elrohir, who had called him a twofold fool. Elladan had slunk away in despair; but having learnt his grave lesson, had somehow managed to confess the toll of it to his husband. The peredhil prince had known himself the most blessed of creatures that black night, for his most selfless mate had impossibly, incredibly understood. Indeed, Erestor had counseled him to let the tension between his twin and himself dissipate, then to devote himself to the reparation of their emotional severance. He had not been a second threatened by the thought of loosing his beloved, but had vigorously attacked the problem before them, until he had actually inspired confidence in Elladan that all would eventually right himself. The young valiant had loved his one to the nth of ecstasy that night, yet had subsequently shown similar dedication to the reparation of his fraternal bond.

By winter’s thaw, they were jesting again, though Elrohir had not as of yet expressed any desire to rescind his own distempered oath to choose by his own conscience. Elladan and Erestor had often wondered if Legolas had been appraised of these goings on. As Elrohir’s own love relation had further entwined him to the Greenwood prince, they had begun to predict not their own grief, but that of a certain archer of incomparable talents. Indeed, while his brother had been quite sorrowed by his love’s necessary return to his Adar’s stronghold, Elladan was somewhat glad to seize a chance to speak with him in a foreign environment, away from any ghost of Legolas or their loving time together, for he believed Elrohir to be on the precipice of a most treacherous error in judgment.

These, however, were matters for a later hour. At present, he was but a quick clop away from being introduced to his bond-parents, who would not fail to perceive that while his flame was fierce, amplified by the love of his mate, it was not yet of pure elven radiance. He suddenly wished for the intoxicating effects of the Fire Ring to overwhelm him anew, but alas he was too anxious to succumb to them.

The company segued from the pristine streets of the solemn city into the spare courtyard before the shipwright’s abode. Erestor had warned them not to expect ostentation; while his ancient family’s home was of a decent sprawl, they lived among hardy luxuries of a true, warm hearth. Theirs was a basic structure of silver, slate, and stone. They had no private stable, deferring to the common hold and the experience of the breeders there. If the gardens were luscious with budding vegetation, then twas merely to feed their many guests through the winter. The rooms would be of quaint design, with no frills, fringes, or tassels. Their banquet hall seated but twelve, with space for three or four more if they transported the table out of doors. If Lindon had once been a thriving City of Kings, such glorified notions were left to rot long ago, when Cirdan moved the settlement to the east by a hour’s ride to better service the main road.

As the procession filed into a rather majestic pose before the Lord’s house, Elladan made a mental note to pester his Adar into giving him a tour of the ruins to the west, where once Elrond and Erestor both had been advisors to the most hallowed of Elven Kings, called Gil-Galad by his peers, Ereinion by his intimates. Yet he knew his own renown family was of imposing grandeur, even in such an ivy-strewn, overgrown courtyard as this. No less than the Balrog-slayer of Gondolin himself headed their company, partnered with Beregor, the second son of the House of Lindon, who had not failed in his winter-long quest to wheedle every last tale of honor from the warrior’s considerable stores. A triad made up the middle section, with a princely twin on either side of the soundless Chief Councilor of Imladris. The Lord and Lady themselves followed, enjoying the journey on a single horse. A pair of their stealthiest swordsmiths brought up the rear, who had been selected, at Beregor’s request, as much for their skilled protection as their interested in sharing their smithing technique with their Lindonian counterparts.

A third had been sent ahead to announce them, which had evidently lured the requisite nobles beyond their front entrance, as twas there that Lord Cirdan and Lady Indiris awaited them, along with their steward, Galdor. The winter, as well as notice of his son’s wellness, had been kind to the sage mariner, whose stately countenance belied the generosity of spirit within. His lush-featured lady looked ripe as a plum, if only from the plump swell of her burgeoning belly. The shipwright, as reputed, was indeed more fecund in times of strife. Elladan felt a thrill of delight rip through his beloved when he spied his pregnant mother, of whom he was an exacting, if more masculine, reproduction. While Beregor bore hints of the shipwright in his breadth and stolid bulk, the lady’s swanlike grace had blighted any of this roughness from the figure of their eldest son, who could not help but launch himself into her arms the second he dismounted. Yet Erestor was equally effusive with his Adar, who clutched him such that the company all wondered whether he would ever release him again. When he at last did so, it was to hold his son by the shoulders and stare into the deep of his eyes, as if to ferret out even the slightest glimmer of sadness within them. Erestor bore this scrutiny with affable serenity, then, once the trial was over, beckoned both parents into a lengthy hug, during which he no doubt whispered to them of his haleness, of his enduring contentment.

Elladan was surprised to find himself flanked by his own Adar and Naneth, both of whom stood ready to champion him before their longtime friends. Once they were done showering their affections over Erestor, they greeted them with a formal bow, linking arms with their dearly son as if he was but an ingénue being introduced to his first suitor, not an elf of over a millennium. When he locked eyes with his beloved, all the others melted into the surrounding haze; the sea could have swallowed them all and he would have seen naught but those shining blue eyes before him. Erestor’s effluent smile spoke silent reassurances to him, of the surety of his love and of the inevitability of his acceptance here, but he needed no such consolation, not when his mate was already won, not when his dark beauty was his forevermore.

“We come before you, Lord of these Gray Havens and great friend of mine,” his Adar’s voice sliced into his fugue state. “To present to you our son and heir, the elf-warrior Elladan. He comes to beckon your favor, for he has bound himself to a child of your house. That we stand by him attests to our blessing of this union. It is our hope that you will bless them, as well.”

“If he, as told, as once foretold, is the one who has bound my wounded child to this land in tragedy’s wake,” Cirdan declared, yet in a simpler manner. “Then his heroic deeds are sung by every member of this house and every elf across its lands. He is indeed welcomed into its heart, and beloved as a son of our own.” With a humble gesture, Cirdan entreated him forth. “Come greet me, Elladan, for I am this day sworn your bond-father.”

Even for one of his impish nature, Elladan could not help the elation that rang within him, such that he was not contented by an artful bow before his bond-sire, but seized him into a rather vigorous hug. A chorus of chuckles sounded out, yet none was so dear as that which could only be heard within him, as his ticked mate made his merriment known. The elf-warrior found he especially enjoyed embracing his bond-mother, whose body was baked hot from the incubation of the nascent flame within. He immediately felt a pang of tenderness towards her, as this reminded him of nothing so much as his own naneth’s warmth during her second pregnancy. Yet no set of arms proved more enticing than those of his sultry husband, who later curled up to him so that they could watch their two families come so joyously together.

There was but one more hurdle to clear, then their binding would be absolute. With a pang of sympathy and with shroud silver eyes, Elladan sought Elrohir out among the crowd. He found his twin typically reserved, smiling generously, but inwardly musing on Legolas’ whereabouts. He could not fault him, for if Erestor was absent he would be a veritable wreck, especially if there was no probable sight of a reunion in the near future. He was certain the bountiful Indiris was little comfort to him, as Legolas had been suddenly called away by the urgent news that Queen Laurelith was also harboring a new babe. The elven rulers all appeared to be taking advantage of this time of relative peace to sire themselves a new generation of warriors, if not an army in itself. Yet he was sure Elrohir was not reflecting on these emergent lives, but on the wealth of his own without Legolas.

Elladan resolved to console him some, this night, to make up for his brute neglect of his dear brother. Though he was raring to merge with his beloved, to rejoice upon their good fortune through the blazing thrall of their spirits, he could not forget the one to which he had ever been bound, from the moment of their begetting to the last flicker of their soul flames. Love had distracted him from this primal connection, but no longer.

He now had two precious souls to tend, and both, though the manner of nurturing varied, required his most explicit care.

***

Upon the violet blush of twilight, the time was meet to venture out to the seaside, to a strip of beach he had noticed Elrohir drift off towards from his bedchamber window. That he had been leaning back into the sensuous arms of his beloved, that said husband’s hands had been sunk down the front of his dog-eared breeches and pried up under his tunic to pinch at his exposed nipples, that he had been enjoying their expert strokes as he admired the breathtaking view mattered not. His brother had had the better part of two hours to sulk about the coast, and if Elladan had tarried some after his altogether smoldering coupling session to recuperate, then that had only allowed the elf-knight even more time to glower. Now that he was spent of sexual frustration, the brasher twin could concentrate all his energies on consoling his dismal brother, after which he hoped Elrohir would feel somewhat lightened, if not relieved of some of the burden of a love affair left pending.

Once they had calmed of their passionate loving, Elladan had consulted his learned husband as to how best to urge his brother towards inner tranquility. Erestor was naught if not the most able caregiver in existence, so naturally he had imparted much useful advice. Most of all, he had encouraged his younger mate to trust his instincts, that their fraternal bond – even if weakened some – would nevertheless tell him much of how to succor its maudlin twin.

As he scaled overtop the undulating dunes, relishing this first experience with the dry yet squishy feel of sand beneath his feet, he caught sight of Elrohir perched upon an enormous stone some ten paces into the shallows. The somber elf-knight stared out towards the ocean, not swept up by the call of the sea so much as longing for the arms of a faraway love. Elladan knew instinctively that he was imagining himself taking ship, sailing out to distant shores, embracing an eternal life, and gauging how intensely the prospect frightened or delighted him. While Elrohir was hardly of mannish predilections, he was in essence a ponderous soul, ever reviewing his place, his purpose in the world. His prolonged courtship with the Prince of Greenwood had been a complex, trying, oft precarious endeavor, as they had known Legolas from a very young age, when he was so innocent as to the ways of their kind that he had not even known that males could favor males.

Yet Elrohir’s overly mature attraction had endured through the greenling’s rampant curiosity, his patient love through his period of fumbling experimentation with lady-lovers, and his constant friendship through every waking moment of their acquaintance, from first sight to their farewell kiss just days ago. Even now, after they had spent over a year flirting, carousing, and loving most fervently, their hard-won relationship was nothing close to secure; there were simply too many unstable elements for even their best intentions to prevail. Indeed, Elladan feared that he had done their slow-forging devotion a disservice when he had erred so spectacularly by binding without consulting his brother. If Elrohir had not been so upset by his rash action, then he would have perhaps been more willing to commit to Legolas on a deeper level than merely voicing a promise to be true. Perhaps the elf-knight himself would have put himself in the position of petitioner to his twin, begging that they swear to an eternal life so that he might convince Legolas of the purity of their love relation.

Regardless of what might have been, his brother’s lowly mood was currently such that he appeared terribly lonely, a state one half of such a vital pair should never find himself in.

Elladan doffed his boots as quietly as he could, though Elrohir seemed too embroiled in his bleak thoughts to mark what amounted to a crab’s scuttling. Yet, as he waded out towards the huge white rock, he considered that perhaps it would be better if his brother was somewhat forewarned of his provenance, since he hardly sought to surprise him. Elrohir had yet to flinch, after he grappled easily enough up to the flat top of the stone, so he plunked himself amiably by his side and strove to wait out his silence. As ever in their tight-hewn relationship, he did not have to wait long for his weighted twin to beckon his assistance in bearing the load.

“Tis more than passing wondrous, is it not,” the elf-knight noted, with studious awe. “That two of the four noble houses should beget a child this same year?”

“Twould be even more so if both expected sons,” Elladan casually commented. “But Erestor has already predicted the birth of a second sister and, as I understand, the Greenwood King awaits yet another guard for his ever-expanding borders.”

Elrohir grunted in acknowledgment of this sad truth, but still did not tare his eyes from the darkening horizon.

If they were agreed on any aspects of the Son of Oropher’s imposing and eccentric personality, it was that he was a vigilant father strangely willing to sacrifice his sons to the greater cause. Not even those of his Sindar tribe, such as the mariners here in Lindon, could understand why he forced nearly every male or maid of his people to be trained in warfare, as surely the Shadow has more important targets to assault than the woodland elves, with their self-appointed ruler and their obscure ties to elven nobility. Most were not even Sindar purebloods, like the royals, but of the Silvan line that originated in Beleriand. Yet their King was preparing a move into a cave stronghold, while the princes were being primed for the slaughter. Though none could argue that one of Legolas’ innate talents was born to hold a bow or palm a broadsword, his two elder siblings, while no less dedicated soldiers, were clearly suited to more pacifist tasks, Lorindol a natural statesman and Lasgalen of an underdeveloped artistic streak. Who was to say what potential might lie within this newly babe that Thranduil would brand a captain from birth?

“Once Legolas acclimated himself to the news,” Elladan carefully remarked. “He seemed quite thrilled by the prospect of a younger sibling.”

“Aye, by the end of the letter he was already brimming with excitement,” Elrohir replied, almost anxious to speak of his beloved, in any manner deemed appropriate. “He must be pestering his naneth as we speak. I doubt the King himself could be more wanting for the chance to cradle this child. Yet I think the announcement shocked him some, as he had no concept of his parents desiring to expand their family. He has enjoyed his status as youngest and most doted upon, but he is about to be rather summarily usurped.”

“A feeling we came upon only too brutishly,” Elladan smirked, though not without affection for his sister. “Although, to be fair, we were never truly alone in our parents’ care. Yet there was some special quality to being a twin, which did attract its share of exclusive focus that was somewhat difficult to surrender.”

“On first glance, if you recall,” Elrohir reminded him. “Arwen was a rather precious creature. We were under her spell, like the rest. Twas only in later years that we came to be enlightened as to her… more capricious qualities.” Both shared a hardy chuckle at that, the memories of so many tricks, pranks, and general tomfoolery conjured in their mind’s eye. If they were honest, they gave as good as they got, but they were rarely less than determined when the trumping of their sister – who in truth they cherished with abject devotion - was concerned. Yet Elrohir was soon lured back into the gloom, his regal features struggling to remain impassive in the face of encroaching sorrow. “How I wish…”

“Wish?” Elladan prompted him.

“That I could steal into the birthing chamber, like a sprightly specter,” Elrohir intoned, fighting to keep his voice steady. “That I could see his face light in wonderment as he holds his new brother for the first time. That I could watch him…” He finally broke, gathering himself up into an impenetrable ball and bowing his face to conceal the streaks of his tears. Elladan curled tightly around him, the clutch of his iron arms strung with consoling strength. “I have wronged him. In chiding you, I have wronged him. I may have lost him, Elladan!”

“To be eager at the prospect of a new brother is not to shun a lover’s regard, toren,” the elf-warrior insisted. “Yours was as heartfelt a farewell as I have ever witnessed. Do not doubt his care.”

“Tis my own that is doubtful,” Elrohir disparaged himself, though he did allow his brother to enfold him entirely in his arms. “I was so quick to guilt you for choosing in haste that I did not think on my own situation. That I love him past forbearance, that my soul craves him as its mate, that even if we must battle through the years to ensure our binding… twould be no use for him to do so if I was to chose a mortal life. I was so angered when you acted in the thrall of passion, but perhaps I should have done the same. I should have thought of our love before my own rancor. I have callously ripped out all the meticulous bonds of trust I so delicately embroidered during our long, mad courtship. I have ruined us.”

“Elrohir, you have done no such thing,” Elladan soothed him. “Tis but the distance between you that aches your heart. If he were journeying with us, you would not be so pained. You would be tempting him into a last tumble before evening meal as we speak.”

Elrohir, alas, chose to ignore him. “I have wronged you as well, Elladan. I scolded you for acting out of heart, when I only wished that I could do the same. That I could be so bold as to dismiss all the conditions that impede my binding with Legolas and seduce him into an eternity together.”

“Nonsense,” the elf-warrior groaned. “You were right to reproach me! I broke our vow. I behaved dishonorably towards the one who has ever been my ally, my champion, my friend and my comfort! So let me repay my debt of gratitude for that deserved chastening with some wisdom of my own, toren. Your ‘situation’ with Legolas, as you say, is far more precarious than my own with Erestor. Thranduil is no humble shipwright. To have bound without consent with his currently youngest son would at best have gouged open barely mended wounds between our peoples, at worst provoked a civil war.” When Elrohir moaned despairingly at this pronouncement, he hastened to press on. “That is not, however, to say that such an alliance may not be achieved through patience, time, and the proper application of parental influence. If any can sway the ornery Greenwood king, tis you, my shrewd diplomat.”

His brother quieted some, appeared to accept this reasoning.

After a considerable, reflective silence, Elrohir responded: “Yet without the proper leverage, any efforts towards winning him will be for naught.”

“Leverage?” Elladan questioned, somewhat confused by these governmental technicalities.

“Aye,” Elrohir whispered, lifting his head to meet his befuddled eyes. “If I cannot commit to *being* an elf, then what of my petition to win the heart of one?” Elladan tensed, hardly daring to hope that he was hearing what indeed he thought. “It occurs that I have not yet fashioned you a binding-day gift, toren. Might I not make one now? Twould be an oath similar to that we took as children, yet irrevocable before the gods. Come, stand by my side.”

“Elrohir,” Elladan protested, as he was hoisted to his feet. “You are sorrowful. Tis not meet to act so rashly over such a permanent decision!”

“You of all would advise me thus!” Elrohir exclaimed, almost mirthful at his misstep. The elf-warrior at least had the humility to blush.

“Tis not the same,” Elladan countered. “I was absolutely legless with bliss. You are in the thick of a corroding emotion, guilty over your imagined mistreatment of both love and brother, and ready to bind yourself to an eternity that moments ago you were unsure of ever achieving.”

“Then I have but to think of Legolas, of your eternal happiness with Erestor, and I will be resolved,” Elrohir declared, his face newly aglow with the prospect of pleasing both present brother and absent love. ”Come, Elladan. The gloaming hour is upon us. There could not be a more reverent moment than this for us to swear. We will call up to the heavens, and grandsire will shine upon us, blessing us with his light.”

The elf-knight sighed longly, as a sudden peace came over him. Any with sense knew he was conjuring up Legolas in his mind’s eye, as Elladan was imagining Erestor swaddled in their bed, waiting on the dream path for his mate to rouse him with a kiss. Yet when his silvery eyes alighted on his brother, he thought only of devoting himself utterly to his twin’s care, to aiding him in his quest for the Prince of Greenwood’s heart, to standing by him through the ages, until the very end of time.

Together they looked West, towards the future, and embraced their ancient lineage forevermore.

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

Upon a misty, starless midnight, the pearly moon nested in a shell of filmy, diaphanous cloud like a luminous oyster. The dense gray stone of the craggy castle and the decrepit battlements absorbed her cool, opalescent cast as stealthily as shadow swallows lamplight. If not for the itinerant ambling of two rather intoxicated intruders, the once-hallowed ruins would be wretched with seething darkness. As it was, a faint glow emanated from one of the minor turrets of the imposing castle, as well as from the wine-ruddy revelers who presently stole into the courtyard.

Their one, tipsy torch bobbed unsteadily through the nearly tactile blackness as they swaggered and swayed through the moss-spackled gate of the ancient city, still strung together by garlands of white roses and water lilies to signify their binding. Indeed, twas a wonder that the tiny pyre had not yet ignited the thatches of creeping ivy that sagged over every arch and eave, for they often staggered together for a greedy, groping kiss, letting their torch droop perilously towards the serpentine stems. The couple, newly blessed by kith and kindred at an informal, if raucous, celebration in their honor, were soaked through in countless ways; by drink, by mirth, by a precociously potent love, by the insatiable itch of desire, by their deliciously forbidden absconding into this once-flourishing seaside town, now a site of corrosive decay despite its weathered majesty.

While he had consumed far less of the chilly ice wine than his impish mate, Erestor was at pains to guide him through the pitchy streets, his renown, precarious sense of balance completely wobbled by the few goblets he had sipped down. His sudden pique of adventurousness was aided none by how delectable Elladan looked in his finery, roguish as a nomadic mercenary-for-hire yet as regal as the High King himself in his most golden hour. Decked out in a jacket of plummy violet silk and breeches of swarthy sable velour, he’d recklessly left his collar unbound, which revealed a sinfully elegant column of throat and a few spare sprigs of hirsute manliness so scandalously virile that even the most scabrous mariners felt a quiver in their thighs when they spied him. Upon first sight of his husband, Erestor had nearly dragged him into an antechamber and dropped to his knees; only the twinkle in his naneth’s eye had kept him sober enough to endure the ceremony that followed. Currently faced with the navigation of the labyrinthine corridors of the castle keep, he considered stripping his beloved so that they might have a path of clothes to guide them back out, but doubted they would ever reach the bed chamber he had so lovingly prepared for them if he did so. Besides, they were nearly cocooned in the garland strands, which had played their vital part in keeping him upright so far.

With a jolt, his back met the dusty wall of the stairwell, a broad peredhil frame encasing him there awhile. A ashen rain of cindering moats pattered over them, until Elladan shoved the torch into a nearby stand. The landing, it seemed, was suitable enough for a brief, lecherous encounter. He felt the fleet ululation that accompanied a snicker patter against his jowl, then teeth nipped at the goose-pimpled skin of his neck. The crush-press of hungry bodies followed, as incisors scratched down the salty slope to gnaw at his shoulder, his warrior-love impatient with their explorations and, by the bulge jabbing into his hip, gorgeously erect. With a snarl of lip and a rear of mane, he pawed open his robes, exposing sinuous chest, limber legs, and red-swollen groin to his flinty, feral eyes. Erestor wet his lips as he was explicitly admired, his breaths coming in quick, ragged pants. The scorch of those mithril eyes was such that he could have spent at their silent, boring command; the besotting alchemy of violent lust and of viscous love coursing through his veins the most powerful, possessing sensation he had ever known.

Yet Elladan made no move to bare himself. Instead, he moved in so that the hem of his silky jacket flicked over a sour-pussed nipple, which caused such a sizzling bolt of pleasure to shoot through him that he could naught but curse. At the second flick, he slammed his head back into the hard stone, but this did nothing to stop the masterful assault. A virtuoso of the sensual arts, Elladan began to ply a symphony of moans, grunts, and howls from his strung body, his instrument all the textured fabrics at his disposal. The silken cuff of his sleeve and the folds of his jacket tormented the trembling chest before him, while a velour-sheathed knee came up to knead at his aching shaft. That same bristly fabric taunted the insides of his thighs until he could do naught but beg for more friction or for fiercer manhandling, for Elladan never stroked in earnest when a delicate swipe would do. By the rabid look in his eye, his warrior-love was suffering just as much from keeping himself back, as Erestor’s streaming skin was nothing less than incandescent in its throes.

Finally, when neither predator nor pawn could bear any more rousing without some thought of release, he shoved himself between Erestor’s legs, hoisted him up into a straddle, then ground their loins together with sure, pounding gyrations of his manic hips. He flayed open the front of his breeches just in time for his first, creamy spurt, the singe of which caused his beloved to crest rather magnificently himself. The thrall of ecstasy was such that he sank to his knees, mercilessly still covered least he scrape them on the sooty floor. His darkling love had enfolded him into his arms, hot as a scalding sick-blanket around him, sucking gaudily at his mouth even as he chuckled softly. The downy scent of lilies mingled with the richer musk of their sweat and their spending, perfected by its own absurdity.

When they recovered themselves enough to stand, Erestor did not hesitate to peel off the last of his raiment, as he deemed that neither should be clothed for another second of their night together. As they skipped and clamored up the remaining steps, they flung the garland wreathes behind them, a few inevitably blackened by the torch, but most spared by the grace of Elladan’s agility. When they segued into the residential wing as if instantly refreshed from their exertions, their pert engorgements spearing up, battle-ready, but seconds after conquest, they began to suspect that they were the lucky victims of one of Elrohir’s stronger aphrodisiacs. Gleeful as striplings, they raced into the bedchamber and pounced upon their four-poster, conscious of nothing more impressive than the need to devour each other. Elladan was soon as docile beneath him as he had been vociferous earlier, imploring his beloved with shining silver eyes to make him writhe and quake.

/Mark me with your mouth,/ his young valiant pleaded with him, offering up his pelt of starlit skin like a hunter’s prize. /Maul me raw, purple me with bruises. I want your lips to sanctify me scarlet, know every inch of my body as your sacred own./

While Erestor was too incensed by desire to deny him, he spared him as much pain as he could by gentling his caresses, so that only the most succulent parts of him were gorged a ripe crimson. Yet after tenderizing his supple mate into heady lassitude, he found he could not quite resolve himself to a particularly preferred act. Elladan sprawled out decadent for his perusal was simply too wholly delectable to prompt an obvious choice. Instead, he reclined back to better admire him, ordering him to prime his own already stiffening member as he considered his veritable feast of acts and options. The elf-warrior whimpered softly as he stroked himself, which only confounded him further.

Yet when in doubt, twas ever best to solicit an alternative opinion.

/Tell me, moren vain,/ Erestor inquired. /What do you hunger for?/

/*Everything*,/ came the fevered reply, the thought of which moved him to quicken his pace.

/ I certainly need to taste you before the night is out,/ Erestor reflected, enjoying the view too much to hasten towards a decision. /Several times, if possible./

/Twould be pleasurable to taste you, as well,/ Elladan indicated, his free hand sneaking over to cup and fondle him. / I would do so now, if you will./

With a wink of acknowledgement, Erestor slithered his hips down until plush lips hovered above him, then dipped to sip on the flesh of his thighs. Both hilt-calloused hands were soon wringing intense waves of pleasure from his shaft and his sacs, as a rough tongue rolled its thick over the spuming head. The patient, expert teasing inspired him suckle the oozing erection abandoned in pursuit of his own by his most selfless mate. Yet placing a lover’s interests before your own does have its rewards, as Elladan soon discovered, between rumbling growls around the engorged bulk currently being bucked down his throat. That the elf-warrior only sucked harder as he spent himself was a tribute to his skill; as such, Erestor was only too happy to glut him with cream even as he savored the tangy taste on his tongue.

Ersetor purred, stretched, content to lounge awhile, their limbs vaguely entwined. Elladan, however, was astonishingly spry. After a head perked up to marvel at the romantic atmosphere of the resplendent, candlelit room, he lit upon the various engravings, scripture, and murals that served as an archaic form of décor. Despite Erestor’s groan of protest, he leapt up to examine them, though the sight of him wandering naked about the shadows, his toned bottom as firm as a peach and his muscled form as sculpted as an elven Adonis, did hasten his own rise. With a sigh toned somewhere between approval and reluctance, Erestor crawled out of bed. Yet he did not waste any time trailing after his intrigued husband, but pressed against his backside and curled his arms around him, the familiar heather scent of his hair enticing his face to nuzzle within the ebony sheathes.

/This depicts the fall of Eglarest and Brithombar,/ Elladan remarked, with palpable fascination. /Your family’s exile to the Isle of Balar./

/These were my rooms, when Ereinion reigned,/ Erestor explained, daring a nip to his shoulder.
/ I wished to tell you more of my time here, of my duties at court… and those ordered in secrecy. Beregor has helped me prepare the vital amenities around, so that we might rest here awhile. A fortnight should suffice us. Our families might tire of our complacence if we linger. I hoped the environment might stir some of the remembrances I may have unwittingly suppressed. I want to tell you every tale in my memory, and those that I must yet grapple for, so that you might know me utterly, thoroughly, completely… so that you may love every part of me with reverent fire, as I do you, melethron./

As touched by his thoughtfulness as by his effortless care, Elladan turned into his embrace. Their lips met sweetly, conversing with pecks and culls of their devotion. Yet the beam of those rapt argent eyes bade him pull back, to gaze at eyes aglow with nothing less than abject worship.

/Ever have I loved you, Erestor,/ he swore. /Though I am more than eager to enrich the wealth of knowledge I already posses, I need no learning to adore you as I do. Even when your sterling character was swathed in mystery, your eloquence of spirit and your purity of heart shone bright as our midnight moon. That I have eternity to admire you is a blessing that I cannot fathom deserving, but one that I will cherish every moment of our lives, as we mature into our bond and change with the ages of this world./ He sealed his troth with a breathtaking kiss, cinching his arms around his precious one. / Indeed, I have kept a most heartening turn of events from you, in hopes of gifting you, this night of nights, with the surety of our forever. Elrohir and I have but days ago made our final choice. We pledged ourselves to the Valar that very eve. We are eternal, melethron. We are of elfkind./

The smoldering blue flame that lit within those crystalline eyes was such that Elladan struggled for breath. Yet the darkling elf was of a more deliberate nature that resorting to the obvious overtaking of his ethereal, vulnerable mate. The erotic course of the aphrodisiac poured warm as honey through his veins; as such, he was of an admittedly hazy mind to prime his lover into a slow, incensing burn, of such emulsifying heat and sensuality that he would be raving for hours. He snatched up Elladan’s hand, escorted him over to the bed, they lay his glorious body across the white satin sheets.

He gazed with impassioned, endearing eyes upon his dearly one, his forever mate, his treasure eternal. He knew himself the wealthiest and most privileged of elves in all the disparate lands of the Valar’s benevolent reign, then bowed to love he who had sealed this hallowed fate with his own blood, who had saved him, secured him, won him.

Who had healed a wounded, forlorn elf through the blissful virtue of his heart’s love.


Finis


A/N: The sequel, Requiescence, is coming soon!!