Ahyamë

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

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November, Tirion, Aman

Gwindor had worked himself into exhaustion, having spent the last two full days in the Tirion library, reading without pause. A force unseen seemed to drive the Elf, compelling him to study through the long nights and not return to Thranduil's estate.

He had ignored the library aide's glances as they turned from mild fascination to genuine concern; he dismissed the offers of assistance when the poor scribe occasionally found him sobbing over the ancient tomes or pacing angrily with clenched fists. But who could not be struck by the overwhelming tragedies of Elves and Men from the Changing of the World at the end of the First Age to the Last Alliance? Cursory though his research had been thus far, Gwindor found himself struck to the core by most of what he read.

After two emotionally draining days without food or rest, he was forced to finally leave his candlelit corner of the library and venture back to the Elvenking's dwelling. With only a momentary pause in the kitchen, Gwindor returned to his bedchamber and changed into a night shirt and sleeping trousers. Each night since his arrival in Tirion, he had drunk a sleeping draught. Small but potent, the blend of herbs all but tranquillised him each night, sending him into a deep sleep uninterrupted by the nightmares he knew lived in the recesses of his mind, waiting for an opportunity to resurface.

This night, however, Gwindor had failed to remember the need to retrieve more of the concoction on his way back to the estate, and, upon checking his stores in the washroom, he groaned. Less than half a dose remained, but in his exhaustion the young Noldo found himself caring less and less as he prepared for bed. Swallowing what was left of the vibrant blue serum, he collapsed into the quilts and pillows of his bed, a fitful slumber instantly taking hold and dragging him under.

//Flashes of fire in oppressive darkness. Blistering heat and freezing isolation. Distant screams echoing into his ears...

Repetitious labour and ever-present pain, a reminder of the torture endured for the sport of twisted creatures whose malicious faces leered and cackled in dimly lit, blood splattered chambers beneath the earth.

A loud crash and his shivering body was dragged from his icy cell down to the depths of Thangorodrim. His feet were long ago scored with cuts to prevent his escape, and the heat of the mountain core blasted feeling back into his body, reawakening his injuries with unrelenting harshness. His breath stolen away by the sweltering torridity, his body jerked uncontrollably as he was brought into a larger chamber and chained for what he instinctively knew would be another session of torment.

And that face... *his* face... that terrifying countenance belonging to the Enemy's Commander... The questions did not need to be repeated. And even if he knew the answers to those questions, he would never fully break.

The blows began without a word from his captors, and though he gritted his teeth through the first minutes it wasn't long before his screams joined the others ringing through the winding tunnels and forges of the Iron Prison...//

In the late morning hours, Gwindor's fitful groans slowly grew louder as he tossed about and squirmed in his sleep. A harsh scream suddenly erupted from him, torn from his dry throat and sent resounding through the stillness of the estate.

Erestor looked up from his reading, knowing he sat under the bedroom Thranduil had assigned his Noldorin cook. The Sinda had left the estate for the day, informing Erestor he intended to visit with Glorfindel for a short time before going on to the orchard for a few hours before supper. He had chosen to remain behind, slowly reading through the new books in Thranduil's library. He was certain Elrond's patience was growing thin with Thranduil's demands on Erestor's time. He had now spent the last two days in the Elvenking's bed. Thranduil took great pleasure in trying to make him scream, some perverse game he seemed to be playing with Gwindor, but Erestor had kept his silence. He refused to aid his friend in causing Gwindor unneeded discomfort.

He would have to return to Elrond's estate soon, but before he did that, Erestor's curiosity regarding that scream overtook him.

Setting aside his book, Erestor stood and mounted the stairs, bare feet silent as he approached Gwindor's bedroom. He knocked softly at the door, but when he only heard more moans, growing in distress and volume, Erestor chose to let himself into the dark room. The curtains drawn tightly against the late morning light, Erestor's eyes had to adjust to the gloom. He crossed the floor to the bedside where the other Noldo tossed fitfully, and he reached out, his hand gripping Gwindor's shoulder. Erestor shook the sleeping Elf, calling softly, insistently, "Gwindor. Gwindor! Wake, meldir."

But the Noldo could not hear his entreating words, the sound of his name being called. Gwindor's unseeing eyes were focused on the phantom orbs of his tormentor from ages past, eyes that seemed to burn through his very soul. His body recoiled from the shaking touch on his shoulder, his muscles contracting so violently that he was thrown to the opposite side of the bed, where he teetered for a moment before falling over the edge, taking a majority of the bedsheets with him.

Under any other circumstances, the scene would have bordered on hilarity, but the haunted anguish in Gwindor's eyes, along with his defensive body language, told Erestor how serious the younger Elf's nightmares truly were.

The hard impact on the wooden floor of his bedchamber jarred Gwindor to semi-consciousness, but, completely stunned and disoriented, he could do little more than lay there, paralysed as his chest heaved irregularly in his fright.

Erestor rushed around the bed, his eyes wide. "Gwindor!" He crouched down beside Gwindor, hands trying to help the younger Noldo up. "Gwindor, are you all right?" Gwindor's state worried Erestor, as he hadn't seen such nightmares since Glorfindel had first come to Imladris. Those had been long, exhausting nights... and Erestor paused in easing Gwindor into a sitting position. "Come, meldir, let us right you, hmm?" he asked, remembering how the softer tone, the gentle caresses once eased Glorfindel's fright.

Gwindor's dark eyes finally cleared, losing the haze of reverie, and Erestor's words finally registered. Still a bit disoriented, his rough voice had difficulty stringing his words together. "Where... I... You...?" Comprehension seemed to dawn slowly on his flushed face, and he quickly went a sickly shade of pale. With a strangled sob, he buried his face in his hands, curling into a foetal position and clutching desperately to the sheets that had tangled about his limbs. He leaned against the bed frame, and despite Erestor's presence, he could not help the feeling of isolation and pain that crept over him, as if he were utterly alone.

"Gwindor," Erestor said softly, his heart going out to the other Elf. He debated his next course of action, but he decided Gwindor needed comfort. Erestor wrapped his arms around Gwindor, holding him in a close, comfortable embrace. "I am here, meldir," he murmured. "Whatever haunted your dreams is no more. You are awake. You are home." It was as close to home as Erestor assumed Gwindor had, but it was familiar. That was what was important.

The contact was unlooked for and, though it shocked Gwindor, who had never received such comfort back in Nargothrond when his dreams often took a nasty turn after his captivity, he gave in instantly. Clinging as if the dark-haired Elf was a lifeline thrown to him on a stormy sea, Gwindor sobbed into the crook of Erestor's neck. "Why... do they still torture me? How can they... still reach me?! After all this time... how?!" His body shook with the force of his heaving breaths, so full of adrenaline that it expected to either face a dreadful foe or flee instead of sit on the cold floor.

"Memories are strong things," Erestor said, stroking Gwindor's tousled hair. "Do you... Can you tell me what these dreams are? Perhaps if you spoke about them..." Erestor could help little if he didn't know what it was he was facing. His logical mind wanted to know what the problem was so that it might sort it out and offer a valid, solid solution.

Gwindor did not wish to talk about it... had not talked about it for Ages lost in time and space. Finduilas had been the last to listen, but as her heart darkened with love for Túrin, Gwindor had withdrawn, trying to save her from his agony if he could not save her from her own. He bit his lip, whimpering as tears spilled down his cheeks and after several false starts he spoke in a shaky, hushed tone, as if the monsters in his head were listening and would torment him if he was caught speaking.

"They... In Angband, they cut your feet first, to ensure you could not run away. Then they," he swallowed thickly against the lump in his throat, "tortured you until your spirit lay broken, shattered completely so hope was utterly lost. But... if torture was not enough... they searched for your weaknesses and..." His voice broke, though he was sure the rest of his sentence was clear. His tormentors had searched endlessly for the one thing that would break him, that would leave him with so little hope that he would betray his kin and his realm to the Enemy. The pain of the memories was unbearable, and as he leaned heavily against Erestor, he tried to will the images of molten steel and blood spattered stone from his mind.

Never had he personally experienced such tortures, but Erestor had known Elves who had survived the horrors of an enemy camp. The things Thranduil and his people had endured when Greenwood darkened had been truly terrifying. Erestor rocked Gwindor gently, continuing to pet his hair and whisper softly to him. "Those times are long past, meldir. They are but memories, ghosts of an Age lost to the Sea." Thoughtfully, Erestor offered the only solution his mind could conjure. "You... you may wish to speak with Lord Glorfindel. When he returned to us, even after years in Aman, his mind was tormented by his memories. His death, his sins. He might be able to give you answers or advice that I cannot, though I do offer you my shoulder should you ever need it." Erestor leaned back so he could smile at Gwindor, brushing errant hair from the other Noldo's tear-streaked face. "I am your friend, and, Gwindor, you are no longer alone."

His lip quivered for a moment, and Gwindor broke down again, though his sobs had a distinctly different sound to them. Relief filled him from within. He had been alone for so long... The statement of support meant more than Erestor likely knew. After many minutes, his tears slowly diminished, and then dissipated. Leaning back away from Erestor, Gwindor wiped at his damp face with the sleeve of his night shirt, which was all but saturated with sweat from his feverish nightmares. "I... ruined your tunic..." he murmured with a hiccup, eying the large dark spots on Erestor's clothing.

Erestor laughed, shaking his head. "It is hardly the first article of clothing a friend has ruined. I will change." He regarded Gwindor, nodding with finality. "We are going out today, Gwindor. I think you need sunshine, and I need away from Thranduil before I throttle the barbaric oaf."

"But my duties..." Gwindor blinked with a hesitant smile, unable to deny the fact that an afternoon in the crisp air of early winter would likely do him quite a bit of good.

"...can wait." Erestor grinned. "If Thranduil throws a fit about it, I will adequately distract him, and he will forget your lapse in cooking for him."

Gwindor chuckled, though the sound came out resembling a hiccup, and slowly stood, unwinding the sheets from his limbs with a small blush of embarrassment. "Why did you not tell me the two of you were... involved? You made it sound as if you knew him only as an ambassador of Lord Elrond's."

Erestor also stood, straightening his tunic and trousers, eyes keen. "Would you have spoken so openly or easily to me if you had known we occasionally shared a bed?"

Letting his messy bangs hide his flushed cheeks, Gwindor looked down. "No."

"Then you know why I did not casually offer up the knowledge of my relationship with Thranduil, which is far more complicated than merely 'involved'." Erestor tilted his head. "Does it bother you?"

"Bother me?" Gwindor echoed, sitting on the edge of the bed, now free of the bedsheets, though his sleeping clothes stuck to his skin uncomfortably. "Not really. What you do with Thranduil is your own business. I was just shocked to see the two of you... together." He paused for a moment, waiting for his blush to subside. "Perhaps my upbringing in Nargothrond left me ill prepared for such openness."

Erestor leaned against a nearby dresser, crossing his arms as he sighed. "I am not usually so... open," he admitted. "Thranduil makes it easy to forget where I am, who might be around. He is rawly sensual, and it is hard to deny his desires when he chooses to pounce. Gwindor, I honestly had not intended for you to learn of my relationship with Thranduil in that manner. Please, accept my apologies for the embarrassment it caused you."

With a nod, Gwindor offered him a small smile, the expression erasing the remnants of his fear and nightmarish memories from his eyes. "Your apology is accepted. Will you excuse me, Erestor? I think I desperately need to bathe." His stomach interrupted him, rumbling loudly and twisting an unpleasant knot in his gut.

"Of course," Erestor nodded, and then smirked at the sound of Gwindor's stomach. "I have an idea. I will prepare us a simple meal, and you and I will go riding. Those horses of Thranduil's need exercise, and we need sunshine and fresh air. Thranduil has gone until supper, and so we can enjoy ourselves for a while before returning. Does that sound agreeable to you, meldir?" Erestor wanted to see Gwindor laugh, see him feel free and alive, and he did not believe the other Elf could feel either of those things cooped up in the estate, tending to the spoiled Elvenking.

Gwindor's eyes lit up at the mention of food and riding horses. He had been far too sedentary the last few weeks, and even with the weather chilled... "That sounds like a wonderful idea." Standing from the edge of his bed, there was a distinctly more cheerful bounce to his gait as he walked to his wardrobe and retrieved a set of clothing. "Shall I meet you in the kitchen then?" He was excited already, and it showed in every detail of his expression and manner.

"Aye," Erestor said as he smiled brightly. "Dress warmly, as I think a ride to the shore will be ideal." He gave another warm smile, and then he ducked out of Gwindor's room. He paused at the room Thranduil had given him, changing swiftly into warmer clothing and pulling on his riding boots. Humming pleasantly, he headed down into the kitchen and, with Rhovandir's amused help, he prepared simple fare, stuffing the paper-wrapped food into a stiff pack he could tie to his back. He picked up an apple and began to eat it, waiting for Gwindor and passing the time with Rhovandir. The Elf had always fascinated him, the ancient, quiet air around him, but Erestor never pried, no matter how much he desired to.

It was several minutes before Gwindor appeared in the kitchen. He had taken the time to braid his hair... and with his left hand as clumsy and untried as it was, the finer movements had taken quite a few trials to get right. And even then, his bangs stubbornly refused to stay in the plait and escaped into his face. Warmly dressed, even with a cloak and proper boots that Rhovandir had kindly provided him a couple weeks earlier, he joined Erestor at the counter. "What have you packed?" he asked, his stomach as eager to eat as his spirit was to feel the wind on his skin.

"Simple food," Erestor said, handing Gwindor the other half of his apple. "Bread, cheese, the left over roast from the other night, which I must compliment you on." It had been superb, and Erestor had marvelled at the use of sweeter spices on the meat. "I must tell the cooks of Elrond's estate of the combination."

Gwindor smiled, something inside him warming at the compliment. Hurrying to his pantry, he grabbed a set of small jars and handed them to Erestor to add to his pack. "Trust me," he said mysteriously, and taking a large bite from the half of the apple Erestor gave him, he pulled his cloak about him and stepped out the door into the crisp air and sunshine.

They walked across the estate courtyards towards the large, well-kept stable. The wind was crisp, the sun cutting through the chill. Already, thanks much to Rhovandir, the stablehand had two of Thranduil's finest ready, simple blankets thrown over the horses' bare backs. Erestor was immediately drawn to the dusty looking mare, speaking softly to her before mounting. Perched perfectly on her back, Erestor's sparkling eyes turned to Gwindor.

The young Noldo had always had a great love and respect for horses, and he approached the chestnut mare reverently, his charcoal eyes locking with the horse's before he slowly established contact with the reddish brown coat that was thick for the winter season. For long moments, he simply stood there, letting his hands run soothingly along the planes of the horse's face and neck. Without looking away, he asked, "What is her name?"

Erestor smiled. "Tuilinn. She's very sweet. Swift. She will keep up with Gwaeron easily."

Gwindor leaned his head forward, resting his cheek against Tuilinn's face, whispering quietly to her in a voice low enough that Erestor could not hear. After a few moments, the mare whinnied and nudged his shoulder happily, and Gwindor mounted her effortlessly with a pleased chuckle. "Where to, meldir?" he asked, leaning forward to feed the last chunk of his apple to Tuilinn.

"To the east," Erestor instructed, leading Gwindor and Tuilinn out of the estate and through the glittering streets of Tirion. Erestor waved and nodded to various Elves as they went, but he never stopped. It took them very little time to exit the eastern gates of Tirion, and once they were down the incline of Túna, the horses leveling out along the flat plain that stretched towards the Sea, Erestor gave Gwindor a laughing smile. "Shall we run?" Running on horseback was as close to flying as Erestor ever thought he would come, and it was one of the most exhilarating feelings, to which the cold breeze would only add.

Tuilinn seemed just about as giddy as Gwindor once they were on the open plain, and with a mischievous glint in his eyes he used his heels to surge his steed into an outright gallop. "Catch me if you can, pen iaur!" And his first joyous laugh since arriving in Tirion was sent echoing on the wind behind him. Urging Tuilinn faster, he revelled in the way the wind began to whip through his bangs, rushing in his ears and sending the skin of his face and neck to tingling with the chill of November.

Erestor laughed, the sound of Gwindor's laughter pleasing him. He kicked Gwaeron into a swift run, intent on catching up with his companion. He whooped, his black hair fanning out behind him much like Gwaeron's mane and tail. It was wonderful, his cheeks and nose reddening with the chill of the day, and Erestor felt so young, rushing after Gwindor.

Gwindor had not had the opportunity to ride so freely since the last years of the Long Peace in Beleriand. His younger brother Gelmir had often raced with him through the paths of Taur-en-Faroth south of Nargothrond's caverns, the trees swishing past them as they struggled to best one another. And it was that air of competition that brought out something childish and untainted in him, lending true light to his eyes, and levity to his spirit. "Not going to let a mere child best you, are you Erestor?" he challenged with a glance behind his shoulder, noting with sparkling eyes that the scribe was gaining on him.

"Never!" Erestor laughed, spurring Gwaeron to run faster. He was not the most accomplished rider, as he was a *scribe*, and he had never seen a battlefield at the height of carnage. Afterwards, when the death count had to be made, and notifications to family had to be sent, Erestor arrived. His ability to wield blade, bow, or pike was pathetic at best, and his riding was passable. So long as Gwaeron kept the pace, and he kept his balance, all should end well. Erestor, though, did not believe he would outrun Gwindor, as the younger Elf obviously had far more training and experience upon a horse than Erestor could ever have hoped to possess.

The sprawling fields eventually began to rise and lower in gentle slopes, easily navigated by the racing Elves, and when they crested a large hill dotted with trees already bare with impending winter, the Sea became visible, a breathtaking backdrop of blue-green and white crests of sea foam that lapped the pale, sandy shores. Gwindor slowed Tuilinn to a gradual stop, his eyes taking in the sight like one who had not seen in millennia. And, in a way, he *hadn't*. The beautiful rippling texture of the ocean in the afternoon light, the salt in the crisp air, struck Gwindor to reverent stillness even as his heart pounded from the exhilaration of their ride.

Erestor brought Gwaeron to Tuilinn's side and gazed out over the Sea. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" he panted out softly. "I used to spend hours at my balcony in Lindon, staring out over its vastness. I wondered what lay beyond the horizon, as I'd heard the tales of Aman and its islands. Fear, though, kept me from ever setting foot on a ship until the day I sailed from the shores of Arda. Once I left Lindon for Imladris, I never again returned to the seaside. I was always terrified that, if I saw it again, I would want to leave all I knew and all I loved. I waited until all I loved was ready to travel with me... except Thranduil. Stubborn buffoon he was." He turned his eyes to Gwindor. "Shall we go to the shore?"

Gwindor listened intently, taking in the information as his eyes soaked up the vision of the Great Sea. "Aye," he said quietly, and, ripping his eyes away from the expanse of blue, he spotted a path that led down toward the white sand. Whispering to Tuilinn, the chestnut steed walked at a leisurely pace along the trail. "So Thranduil lingered before sailing here?" He had to admit he was curious about the arrogant Elvenking, despite his infuriating ways.

"Aye," Erestor said, following a bit behind Gwindor down the path. "He loved Greenwood, and when the Shadow was finally driven from it, he wanted to remain. From what Celeborn told me, Thranduil remained in Eryn Lasgalen for a handful of years before the remaining Nandor travelled with him to Imladris. There he and Celeborn remained until Elrond's twins were ready to leave. It was then Thranduil sailed for these shores, and he was dreadfully unhappy." He sighed at the memory. "While his children were in Alqualondë, Arasiel had not been reborn, and he was without a realm. With no purpose, Thranduil, quite honestly, became quite the ass."

Times, it seemed to Gwindor, had not changed all that much. He understood what it was to yearn for a realm far away, however, so could he really blame Thranduil? "Nargothrond was the place my heart dwelt. Being kept from that realm... from my betrothed..." The separation itself was torture enough, even without the tortures he endured at the hands of Morgoth's minions, and his heart ached with the memory. "I know what it is like to long for a place no longer reachable. I did not even know Beleriand had fallen into the Sea before Thranduil mentioned it." He looked down at Tuilinn's mane, petting her neck softly. A question came to his mind, but he hesitated many times before speaking, the words poised on his lips and then swallowed. "Do you..." he blushed. "Are you in love with Thranduil, Erestor?"

Erestor blinked, riding up alongside Gwindor again. "In love with him?" He laughed softly. "No. Once, when I was very young and we first met, I thought I was. He was so beautiful, all gold hair and sapphire eyes. The words on his tongue could make my blood burn, and I thought that was love." His face darkened a little. "Thranduil has only ever loved one, and when she was taken from him, he spurned love. Well, I know he loves me, as I do him, in ways more than platonic and less than a lover... it is the same love he feels for Daeron and Rhovandir. I cannot love someone who will not love me, and I have never deluded myself into believing Thranduil could love me like that." He looked at Gwindor then. "Why do you ask?"

Gwindor blinked a few times, looking at Erestor queerly. There was a deep well of innocence within the reborn Elf that even the fires of Angband had failed to dry up. "I... thought you were in love with him. How can you give yourself to him, knowing he is not the one you are meant to be with?"

"Need and friendship are not so simple," Erestor said gently. "Thranduil has not been my only lover throughout the years, only my most steady one. It is... intensely pleasurable to be in his bed and under his body. I enjoy the conversation, the verbal sparring we engage in. He challenges me as I challenge him, and there is a level of comfort in knowing neither of us expects commitment or fidelity from the other. Our relationship is based first and foremost on friendship. The sex is only a pleasant addition."

Blushing furiously, Gwindor mulled over the idea for several moments, controlling his anxiety by chewing his lip and breathing as deeply as possible. His eyes were shadowed as he looked out over the waves toward a land that no longer existed. "I could never... Not with someone I do not love." And, in a barely audible whisper, he added, "Not willingly."

Erestor noted the shadow in the charcoal eyes. "I love him, I just know he is not the mate I am intended for, if I ever do find that elusive Elf." He was quiet as they approached the shore, and when they stopped several feet from the rushing waves, he spoke. "Gwindor, I have seen how you react around Thranduil. His... overt sexuality upsets you quite often, and when you walked in on us, one could have thought you walked in upon him harming me instead of bringing me pleasure. Forgive my bluntness, but I am a blunt Elf... while you were in Angband, did they force you?" It was dreadfully important for him to know for certain, because he and Thranduil would need to be more careful around Gwindor if he had been. He felt a budding friendship with the quiet Noldo, and Erestor did not want to jeopardize that.

Gwindor's unease increased the longer his companion spoke, and with the direct question came a tide of scorching red and groping hands that made his body contract as if struck hard at the sensitive junction of his ribcage. He dismounted swiftly, needing to feel the ground beneath his feet, and hid his face against Tuilinn's neck. Hands gripped tightly at the gentle beast's mane as he nodded his answer, his eyes clenched shut against the wave of terrifying memories that caused him to cling to the mare's sturdy frame like a frightened child.

They had clawed, bitten... beaten him until he could no longer fight back except with the grip of his teeth if any got too close. They had... Gwindor whimpered and Tuilinn, sensing her rider's distress, began to shift uneasily.

With a frown, Erestor dismounted Gwaeron and came to Gwindor's side. He reached out to stroke Gwindor's hair reassuringly, his heart breaking for the tormented cook. "I am sorry Thranduil and I have been so careless, meldir," he murmured, truly apologetic. Thranduil was selfish enough not to consider Gwindor's past, but Erestor had thought himself better than that. "We will conduct ourselves with more discretion. If you would like me to speak to Thranduil about this, ask him on your behalf not to approach you as he has in the past, I can."

Releasing Tuilinn's mane and neck, he turned to face Erestor, his charcoal eyes darting up to reveal an endless cataract of tormenting memory that over time had worn his spirit thin. "I used to be so much stronger. I used to joke. I used to *dance*." With a small sob, he wrapped his arms around his waist, and when his body remembered the comfort Erestor had provided earlier, it leaned in towards the Elf instinctively. "They destroyed everything I held dear; they took all I held sacred and twisted it," he choked out in a voice fragile as spun glass. "I know I should face it, but... all I remember when he looks at me as he sometimes does is shame and blood and pain. I keep thinking he'll hurt me. I don't want him to *hurt* me!" Desperate, his fingers gripped the taller Noldo's cloak, blindly seeking as he had not since Faelivrin had given him comfort after he returned from his captivity. What he was searching for, Gwindor did not know... *anything* to keep the memories at bay.

Erestor slid his arms around Gwindor, holding him close and stroking his hair. "Gwindor... Thranduil is many things, but he is not a monster. He will respect your needs. I will make certain of that." If Thranduil had only casual interest in Gwindor, Erestor was certain he would make no headway. It was best he warned his friend to cease his actions before he added to the scars Gwindor already carried with him. "He will never hurt you," he murmured, though the phrase seemed odd to Erestor's ears. It seemed... incomplete. Gwindor did not want Thranduil to hurt him, that was certain, but Erestor's expert ear picked up something else, something under the words that begged to be voiced. What that was, Erestor could not say, and he would not speculate. "He is such a regal, honourable Elf. One day, he will show you that himself, and you will not have to merely take my word for it." Erestor leaned back a little, tilted Gwindor's head up. "Would you rather live in my home? You could still cook for him, but... not live with him?" It was the only solution Erestor could think of that would ensure Gwindor's comfort. Erestor only had one lover at the moment, but Thranduil had many. He was certain the Elvenking's promiscuity would not help matters. "Thranduil would understand."

If he had to, Erestor would *make* Thranduil understand.

Gwindor shook his head slightly, lifting his hand to wipe at the traces of wetness near his eyes. "No... no... I can't just reject his hospitality. And..." he paused a moment. "I want to stay." The reason for it still could not be explained; the force that compelled him could not be identified. Too many scattered thoughts... his head ached.

"Then you should stay." Erestor smiled, brushing back a stray strand of Gwindor's hair. "Do you want to return to the estate?" He looked up at the sky, noticing how Anor sunk closer to the Sea. "I would hate to keep Thranduil's supper waiting," he chuckled, eyes returning to Gwindor.

"Not just yet." Gwindor removed his cloak and folded it in a very precise fashion, his boots soon joining the neatly folded fabric. He hiked up his pant legs, whispering, "Never too cold for a fleeting touch..." And he walked slowly in the cold sand, closing his eyes to take in every detail of the grainy texture and the way it became moist and compact as he came closer to the edge of the rolling foam from the waves. The roar of the tide, the way the sand hissed gently when the water receded, were as if the earth itself breathed with each ebb and flow, and Gwindor lost himself in that rhythm as he walked to where the waves caressed his ankles and small surges brought the water up to the middle of his calves. "The ocean reminds me of Gelmir," he mused softly, leaning forward so his hands could touch the water. "I first saw it with him on the road to Eglarest... beautiful and golden with the setting of the sun in autumn."

"I always wondered what it would be like to have a sibling. Many of my friends have them." Erestor dug his toes into the soft sand, sinking deeper into the water. "Were you close?"

"As only brothers can be," Gwindor chuckled, the skin of his hands and legs tightening with the cold, making the very fine hairs on his extremities stand on end. It was a strange and pleasant sensation, one which he relished as an Elf who had known the numbness of death. "He teased me mercilessly; we bantered often and sparred every day with one another. He sought me out for advice every so often, and I likewise looked to him for counsel along with my mother. Gelmir was very dear to me. When he was captured... a part of me darkened, hardened and matured in an unnatural way."

Erestor nodded, silence greeting Gwindor's words. He'd had an ideal family life, one that offered him many opportunities and unending love from his parents. He turned his eyes to the Sea, watching the waves in the dying light. "I hope Aman brings you peace, meldir. Peace, friendship, and love. I think you have well earned them."

Lifting his hands from the water, Gwindor smiled softly. "Thank you, Erestor. I hope so as well."

As the sun sank lower behind them, the waves shimmered with vibrant shades of rose, orange, and violet, a gift to all eyes weary of strife and perpetual unrest. The Sea's whispers soothed more than the heart. The gentle rushing of the water offered true tranquillity for the very spirit, something so rarely found, even in Aman.

TBC...