My Heart's Desire - Part 1. To Wait for you.

Chapter 6. Shadows of the Past.

Gildor sat on his balcony, his back against the wall, his forearms resting on his updrawn knees. Through half-lidded eyes he was looking at the tops of the trees. He knew the signs well. Another bout of despondency was upon him. By some whim of the Valar his age did not show on his appearance, but from time to time he would have a dreadful sensation as if his long years suddenly fell on his shoulders like heavy iron chains. He would feel old and weary then. Exactly like he was feeling now: old, weary, lonely, defeated, lost. Stranded in the middle of the world, in which he had failed to learn to feel entirely at home. Home… Valinor… *That* was the place he thought of as *home*. Always. In spite of the fact he he had spent practically all his life here, in Middle-earth.
But had he really *lived* his life, he wondered. It seemed to him that all he had been doing these long millennia was waiting. In vain.
Gildor rubbed his face with his palms. By stars and winds, how he hated these moments! But from his painful experience he knew there was no way he could dispel his black mood. He could only struggle through it and pray that it would not last too long and be too bad.
However, this time it was somehow different. There was some feeling he could not put his finger on. … His instincts were warning him something was going to happen. Suddenly, he felt as though the trees of Lórien crowded in on him, depriving him of any air. He tugged at the collar of his tunic. He felt like an animal trapped under the ground before an earthquake. He felt restless and vulnerable.
‘It’s not good,’ Gildor thought, troubled. It had never been *that* bad before. Time to leave for Mirkwood. Hopefully, by the moment he reached it, his bout of depression would have passed. He really did not want to find out what he was capable of doing, if provoked in such a state. And here, with Galadriel so close at hand…
Yes, Gildor decided. He would leave for Mirkwood tomorrow morning.
He got up and went inside to pack his belongings. He took his sword out of the chest, unsheathed it and inspected the blade. Then his eyes fell on his own fingers wrapped around the silver-inlaid hilt. He froze, staring at it wide-eyed. He could see other hands holding this weapon, bigger, stronger, and more skillful.
Gildor shuddered. Why, why for Valar’s sake must he remember it today, of all days? Today, when he did not feel strong enough to fight his memory. And his guilty conscience…

* * *
“Come, Nairalindë, you are not even trying!”
The next moment his sword was knocked from his hand and he found himself lying flat on the ground, his body pressed into the soft grass by his adversary’s weight, his wrists pinned to the earth above his head.
“You should concentrate on what you are doing or you shall always end up like this.”
Nairalindë looked up into the smiling face above him and pouted.
“I do not need it, this sword-fight skill! Whom do you expect me to fight here, anyway? Altáriel? But even she wouldn’t attempt to kill me with a sword.”
“Perhaps, it’s not your life you’ll have to defend day day,” the other elf whispered in his ear, and Nairalindë squirmed uneasily at the sensation it had sent through his body.
“Oh, stop it, Ermenor,” he protested weakly.
“And not from your caustic cousin. But from someone else… Someone like me,” a whisper in the other ear.
Nairalindë looked in Ermenor’s gray eyes and sighed slightly. He knew what was coming. Ermenor dipped his head, his hair falling down like a dark silken curtain. Then Nairalindë felt his soft warm lips on his mouth and sighed again. At first the kiss was gentle and tender, as always. And Nairalindë, being the defeated party after all, was prepared to endure it graciously. But gradually it grew more demanding and hungry. Suddenly, Ermenor’s tongue pushed between Nairalindë’s lips and the stricken younger elf felt his mouth invaded and plundered. He had never been kissed like that before. He gasped in shock and wriggled trying to break free, but in vain. He moaned in dismay, feeling helpless and frightened. But it was when he felt Ermenor’s arousal rapidly growing hard against his thigh that he panicked in earnest. When the other elf started unconsciously rocking against his body, with the strength he did not know he possessed Nairalindë tore his hands free and pushed Ermenor away.
“Get off me! Let go!”
Ermenor sat up on the grass and, stunned, looked at his panic-stricken friend.
“Nairalindë?”
Nairalindë scrambled to his feet and backed away.
“Don’t touch me!” he shouted at him. “You do it on purpose! You trick me into your so-called combat lessons just to have a chance to grope me! I needn’t be a warrior; I do not *want* to be a warrior! I’ll never be one! And I do not want to be kissed by you like that! We are friends! Why must you spoil it by trying to make me be something else! Why must you force me to do things I hate doing!”
Nairalindë knew he was being hysterical but he could not help it.
Ermenor got up to his feet in one fluid motion, and Nairalindë instinctively took another step back. But his friend did not try to cross the distance between them. His face was white as if all the blood had drained from it. His look was empty.
“I’m sorry, Nairalindë. I did not know you feel this way,” he said in a dull voice. “It’s all my fault. I’m sorry. I did not want to frighten or upset you. It shall never happen again. Forgive me.”
He turned and started walking away.
“Ermenor!” Nairalindë called after him. But he only shook his head and quickened his steps. Soon he disappeared behind the trees.
Nairalindë sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands. So this was it, then. For some time now he had known that Ermenor was in love with him. But he just could not love him back the way the other elf wanted. So he managed to pretend he knew nothing about it in childish hope that things would infinitely go on the way they did; that they would be just good friends. But after what had happened today nothing would be the same again. Nairalindë knew there was only one way he could keep Ermenor now. Either he would have to accept him as a lover or he would not have him at all. And at this moment he knew as certainly as if someone had shouted it into his ears that he had just lost his best friend.
Then his eyes fell on Ermenor’s sword lying nearby and he wept.

* * *

Glorfindel entered the room and found his friend staring at his sword in a kind of trance. He had lived by his side long enough to be able to recognize the look on his face. He knew he would have to do his best to distract him; otherwise Gildor would be brooding for days. And though when in a black mood, the Vanya tended to become edgy and to flare up like dry timber, Glorfindel had long ago worked out his ways to handle him.
So, he closed the door behind him and inquired sarcastically, “Are you trying to remember what this thing is for?”
Jerked out of his memories, Gildor gave him a dark look.
“Or are you considering it as a remedy for your hangover?”
“I never have hangovers,” Gildor snapped back but the corners of his mouth twitched. “And I was not drunk enough yesterday to have a hang-over today.”
“You were drunk enough to sing bawdy songs about me.”
“I sang only one song and it’s not bawdy!” the Vanya protested. “It’s quite witty and it does you credit, just as I told you. And besides, I do not have to be drunk to sing it.”
“Then it means you’ve sullied my reputation, being of sound mind and sane memory. Well, it makes it even worse. I demand satisfaction.”
“Oh.” By now, Gildor was genuinely amused. “And how do you want to be satisfied?”
“Thoroughly.” Glorfindel just could not help it.
Gildor grinned. “*That* I can promise you. Shall we need any weapons?”
“No weapons. Hand to hand.”
“Oh, all right, then.”
Gildor sheathed his sword and put it back into the chest. “Do wan want to be satisfied indoors or in the open air?”
Glorfindel, well-trained in double entendre word-duels with his friend, smirked. “We’ll go outside. I know just the right place where no one will hear your cries for help and will come to your rescue.”
“Glorfindel, you’re an arrogant, insolent braggart!”
“And this from *you*, Nairalind

Haldir was returning from his favourite bathing place when he heard some strange noise and muffled sounds. He stopped to listen but everything was quiet again. However, he had not been made a Marchwarden for nothing. So he decided to check it and started moving stealthily in the direction the noise had come from. Then he heard voices and crept forward even more cautiously. When he saw who it was, he soundlessly dropped to the ground and cursed silently. It looked like he would soon become an accomplished voyeur. He knew he should leave before he was discovered but he could not make himself wrench his eyes away from the object of his longing.
Gildor was lying in the grass with his head in Glorfindel’s lap, his shining golden mane fanned around them. Both of them were clad only in their leggings, their tunics and boots lying nearby. The Elda was raking Gildor’s hair with his fingers picking out wood debris that had got entangled into it.
“Look, your hair is a mess!” he rebuked his friend. “Why don’t you plait it at all?”
“I do. Sometimes… Before a battle, for instance.”
“Why don’t you do it besides before a battle? Why don’t you use those mithril hair clasps Thranduil gave you?”
Gildor looked at him in mock horror.
“By Eru, no! I’m not wearing anything mithril when I’m away from Thranduil! I have enough of it as it is, while in Mirkwood. He’s hanging me with such lots of his jeweled trinkets that I can hardly stand.”
“Maybe you do not appeal to him in an upright position,” murmured Glorfindel and earned a scornful look from Gildor. “And anyway, why do you comply with his whims if you hate jewels so much?” Glorfindel went on teasing.
“I do not *hate* jewels; I just do not find them much fascinating. I believe, in this case my Vanyarin heritage gains the upper hand over the Noldorin one. Besides, it pleases Thranduil and I do not mind indulging him. In minor matters.” Gildor gave Glorfindel a little smile. “Just for the sake of my diplomatic missions, you know.”
“Of course!” laughed Glorfindel. “Your usual altruistic self, aren’t you?”
“Exactly.” Gildor grinned at his companion and then asked softly, “Why don’t you want to go to Mirkwood with me? You know he’ll be waiting for you.”
‘Who is he?’ Haldir wondered.
“I cannot,” Glorfindel sighed.
“Curse your Noldorin stubbornness! Yoow yow you want to go and you know he wants you to come. So why not?”
“Even if he does, I cannot, really. I do not want to get him into any sort of trouble. He’s still under age. And I won’t be able to keep away from him. Thranduil will get mad if he finds out, and I’m sure he has already got some suspicions by now. He’s smart and cunning.”
“Like a dragon, I always tell him so!” Gildor chuckled. “But I can manage Thranduil for you, if you wish. I’ll keep him occupied… otherwise.”
‘So be it the prince or the king, Mirkwood spells rivalry,’ Haldir thought with irony.
“You can manage anyone, pen-veren, can’t you?” the Elda’s tone was mildly teasing again.
“I certainly hope so.” The Vanya drew up his knee and started rocking it from side to side absentmindedly.
Glorfindel looked at his friend thoughtfully. “You are fond of him, Naira, aren’t you? You are fond of the king?”
“Of course I am,” the Vanya answered without a pause. “He is intelligent and beautiful. And he has the driest sense of humour I have ever met in an elf. Besides,” he smiled wickedly, “Thranduil is very inventive and thus, highly entertaining.”
Glorfindel chuckled. “But still you are not in love with him?”
Haldir held his breath.
And again Gildor did not take time to think. “No, I’m not. You of all people should know it.”
“But you do seem to have surrendered to his charms,” the Elda noticed mildly.
“My dear Glorfindel,” Gildor sounded more than a little annoyed. “I simply do not surrender. Never. To no one. *That* you also should know by now. As a matter of fact, it is Thranduil who has to surrender. He might be his unbearable, haughty and defiant self in public but in private he is, well… different. He simply knows that otherwise he won’t get anything at all.”
“Oh, stop it!” Glorfindel protested. “I do not want to know the details of your intercourse with the king of Mirkwood.”
“Why not? You may find them useful after all, if the son takes after the father,” the Vanya teased.
“Stop it, I tell you! I do not want to talk about it.”
“You do not want to listen to me and you do not want to talk yourself. You’re boring company, Mallos.”
“Why don’t you go then and find somebody more “entertaining”?”
“Well, I did not want to ask you as I was afraid to hurt your feelings, but now that you offer it yourself…” Andone one cat-like motion Gildor jumped to his feet. But Glorfindel grabbed his arm and pulled him back into his lap.
“You are not going anywhere without me,” he informed him.
“And why is that, I beg you?”
“Because I promised Galadriel to keep you away from some certain company.”
“What the ..?” Gildor fought furiously to break from Glorfindel’s arms and the Elda had to summon all his strength to prevent it. “It’s none of her business whose company I choose!”
“She cares for the boy.”
“I bet she does! Jealous bitch!”
“Really, Nairalindë!” Glorfindel looked scandalized. “Your choice of words!”
“I choose my words correctly and mean every one of them!”
“She’s simply afraid you may hurt him. After all, you are not called Langveleg for nothing.”
Gildor calmed down suddenly and after a pause coolly agreed, “In that you are right.” Then he sighed, “Always chivalrous, aren’t you, seneschal? Never can say “no” to a lady? All right.”
He disentangled himself from Glorfindel’s arms and rose to his feet.
“Come, amlug. Come and guard your treasure. But if I’m saddled with your company for good I’d better warn Narmacil beforehand. Do you fancy threesomes, pen’lín?” he smiled sweetly.
Glorfindel chuckled and rose as well. “Ah, Nairalindë, you cannot even imagine to what extremes I can go to make you happy.”

Haldir kept as still as possible and even tried not to breathe till they passed his hiding place. He waited for their voices to die away in the distance and then relaxed and lay back on the grass.
*I simply do not surrender. Never. To no one.*
‘Why does it sound so familiar?’ he asked himself in amusement. ‘It seems we’re alike in some ways. But I’d *love* to see you surrender. By Eru, it will be an intoxicating sight. I know you’ll look beautiful when rampant with need, helpless and begging to be taken.’
Haldir shuddered involuntarily at the maddening mental images. Hhed hed for the elf, burned for him. ‘Sweet Elbereth! How I’d love it! Rúmil, you were right for once: there is no way out of it for me now. Either I shall have him or shall die trying.’


As the day grew older Gildor felt more and more restless and edgy. Even Glorfindel’s unobtrusive company gradually became more than he could bear. So he left their talan and went wandering around the city, unconsciously choosing the most secluded and solitary places. He was walking in two worlds at once: as his feet carried him efficiently through the real world of the Golden Wood, in his mind he struggled through the world of his memories. And it was in the latter that he had a farther and harder way to go. It came as no surprise for him that when he eventually came to his senses he found himself in front of the bowl of the Mirror. He put his hands on its rim and looked into it. There was no water in the bowl and he could see his own face reflected in the silver surface of its bottom. He sighed.
“Oh, Melian, why is it that your mirror always shows me myself? It’s not the kind of an image I like to see.”
He studied his reflection in the bowl.
“Is it how the others see you?” he asked himself. “You’re a shell, Nairalindë, beautiful but empty. With nothing inside, nor a pearl, not even a living mollusk. Where is your fire, Nairalindë? Burnt to ashes, I think… With a cold and echoing void left in its stead… That’s what comes of challenging the Valar. You should have known better…”
Gildor hanged his head, a bitter taste of defeat in his mouth. His hair streamed down over his shoulders and as its golden tips touched the bottom of the bowl it seemed to ripple like water and images started forming on the polished silver of its surface.
“No, Varda the gracious! No, please,” moaned the elf as he made a futile effort to turn away and flee. He was grasping the rim of the , bu, but whether in an attempt to push himself away from it or to prevent himself from falling – he could not say. He did not want to look but he just could not tear his eyes off of the picture in the Mirror. A picture of himself it was again; himself, as he had been at that fateful day of the orinorin rebels’ departure from Valinor.

* * *
They were leaving. He could not believe they were truly leaving. His kin, his companions, his friends…
Glorfindel, his cousin, with whom he had argued and pleaded till he got himself hoarse in an attempt to persuade him to stay. But Glorfindel was carried away by Altáriel, and she could always manipulate males around her. Their ambitious kin wanted to leave and to find a realm for herself to rule; so Glorfindel was leaving now too.
Narmacil, his co-prankster, his companion, his confidant. Who would take care of you now, nildo, with me so far away?
Ermenor… His best friend… For the first time since that disastrous day they were standing so close to each other, were looking into each other’s faces.
“Ermenor, please, don’t go!” Nairalindë pleaded urgently. “Please! I’ll do anything for you, I promise! Only stay!”
“What will you do, Nairalindë?”
“Anything! I… I’ll be your lovf yof you still want me.”
Ermenor smiled sadly. “It’s a very generous offer, melwa. But can you promise to love me?”
Nairalindë bit his lip. He wished he could lie and thus keep Ermenor from leaving. But he just could not, not in this matter. “I can promise I’ll try,” he said tentatively.
But Ermenor shook his head. “No, Nairalindë, you know that try as you might, you won’t be able to do it. Anthouthout your love even this blessed land is no more than a dead desert for me. I’m sorry. I’d better leave.”
Nairalindë shut his eyes trying to keep his tears behind his eyelids but they nevertheless started running down his cheeks. Ermenor cupped Nairalindë’s face in his hands and gently made him raise his head.
“Do not grieve, lindë endonyë. It’s not your fault you cannot love me.”
Then he kissed him on the lips, very tenderly and very gently.
“Namárië, melmë.” Ermenor looked at him for one long moment as if trying to memorize hise, te, then he turned and walked away; the wind catching at his cloak and revealing a sword with a silver inlaid hilt, strapped onto his back.
Nairalindë watched him go in stunned disbelief, refusing to accept the disastrous reality. When he felt familiar warm hands on his shoulders he turned around and hid his tear-stained face against his father’s chest.
“Oh, atar,” he said in a muffled voice, “why don’t the Valar stop them? Can’t they just forbid them to go?”
Inglor cradled his anguishoungoung son in his arms trying to give him all the comfort he could.
“The Valar did try to stop them, my little one. But Fëanor wouldn’t listen and wouldn’t let the others listen, either. So I’m afraid they have chosen their fate.”
“But there’ll be no way back for them! They will all perish!” Nairalindë cried in despair.
“Only the Valar know it for sure, yonya. But however that may be, it had all been in the music of the Ainur long before we woke up under the stars. We cannot change it.”
Nairalindë knew his father was probably right, but this fatalistic argument was a poor consolation for him. So he let his tears soak his father’s tunic as he grieved his loss.

* * *

Gildor staggered back, away from the Mirror; his hands numb from squeezing the rim, his head reeling. Pain, desperation, fear, fury were boiling in the caldron of his soul into a deadly brew that threatened to sweep away the restraints of his self-control and to burst out.
He heard voices and shied deeper into the wood. He felt he was nearing his breaking point and did not want anybody to be around him at the moment. He was not sure it was safe.


Pen-veren – brave one
Mallos – golden flower
Amlug - dragon
Pen’lín – my sweet
Nildo – friend (Q)
Melwa – lovely one (Q)
Lindë endonyë – song of my heart (Q)
Namárië – farewell (Q)
Melmë – love (Q)
Atar – father (Q)
Yonya – my son (Q)

A/N: There is no evidence in Tolkien’s works that the Mirror could not belong to Melian before it became Galadriel’s property. So...