Further Tales Of Elbereth's Bounty

Title: Further Tales Of Elbereth’s Bounty – Rohrith’s Tale, Part 3
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: multiple OMC/OMC, Tathren/Echoriath, references to Legolas/Elrohir, Glorfindel/Elladan
Summary: This is a companion piece to Of Elbereth’s Bounty, which takes place between the action of the final chapter (16) and the epilogue, set centuries in the future. Some of the characters from OEB deserved to have their own stories wrapped up outside of the actual narrative of that tale. This particular tale, along with Ciryon’s Tale, concern the majority rites of two of Tathren’s triplet brothers.
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.
Author’s Note: While I think parts of this story can be understood on their own, I think it better to read the whole cycle, or at least Of Elbereth’s Bounty, to completely understand the world I’ve created and the character histories. The series is as follows: Part One is ‘In Earendil’s Light’, Part Two is ‘Under the Elen’, and the vastly larger Part Three is ‘Of Elbereth’s Bounty’.
Feedback: Would be delightful.
Dedication: To Eresse, as always.

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Further Tales Of Elbereth’s Bounty

Rohrith’s Tale – Part Three


Two Weeks Later

The crack and spit of the kindling hearth was echoed in the scratch and seethe of his wound, which kept him alert but allowed him no true rest. The day was of unconscionable gloom for the prime of the summer season, the gray sky clotted with cloud-cover and the air dank as a marsh. The dismal season was complicit with his hard countenance, the pearly sheen of eyes, that veiled an eviscerating sorrow, and the statuesque ivory of his face, that masked the spidery creases of anxiety beneath. As he reclined on a sober couch by the fire, awaiting the bitter tea with which he would purposefully scald his tongue to stop himself from complaining of his state, he shifted his weight to cinch in his abdomen, gritting through the resulting spasms of pain until his sutures went numb.

Exasperated by his restlessness, Ciryon had earlier taken him for a patient stroll down the riverside, but even his brother’s thoughtful company had not been enough to distract him from the gnawing scars of his middle, the fangs of frustration that bit up his spine, nor the incessant nag of his protective instincts. They had had no word of Dioren’s progress for nearly a fortnight; if not for the strictures of his belabored recovery, Rohrith would have rode off for the coast by now. That his own healing was of a tardiness near to ridicule only provoked him further, though many of his self-appointed guardians wondered if even an instantaneous curing would have satisfied his indauntible spirit.

His family members had each spent their allotted time as his makeshift motivators, part jailor, part necromancer, part wet-nurse, but even these dear ones could not tame him into any sense of complacency. He would froth with impatience as an over-boiling cauldron, fume like a cindery forge through the endless days, or languish with glacial resignation in his stark study, but his feebleness forbade that he rise to action. At times, he would grip their hand with fervor and beg their forgiveness for his black moods, but they too-well understood the cause of his barely repressed anguish.

His heart fought off, with a scything champion’s sword, the encroaching threat of grief.

As vigilantly as he prayed for Dioren’s wellness and as tirelessly as he hoped for his renewal under Glorfindel’s fine tutelage, Rohrith, for the first time in his brash young life, bemoaned his revelations to his beleaguered friend such that he was struck by unyielding terror. Despite his growling outward demeanor, within his brittle heart lurked a fiendish shame, which spewed through his veins like acid at the merest thought of that vulnerable, witless moment when he had declared his love. When he finally succumbed to sleep, his mind would let no peace reign; his resting hours ravaged by nightmares of scathing reunions with his forlorn friend, who cursed him, derided him, or, worst of all, was completely indifferent to any of his cares. He daily tortured himself with resurrecting that fateful evening to relive, and to suffer again, his idiocy, though he knew not fact from lazy-minded fiction and ruthlessly exaggerated his own forthrightness, to the point of cruelty. Rohrith felt he could not suffer enough for his babbling, for his saccharine candidness, which Dioren, even in his own straits, probably mocked on a nightly basis, for the vital sustenance of mirth.

What Rohrith would never confess, from accursed pride, from acute despair, from the inestimable fragility of his imperiled heart, was that he secretly wanted that his words had pricked Dioren; that within his spiritually disabled friend lay a plane untouched by misery, innocent and yielding, waiting to be scorched by feeling. That he, the one who had battled for his friend’s sanity for a century’s time, might by some miracle penetrate his legion defenses and win this fallow land for his own. Yet he dared not even contemplate such a possibility, lest the future evidence of its impossibility best him through.

He had, after all, sworn to his father that he would survive heartbreak. This consideration stretched out to his beloved brothers, each presently consumed by their own passions.

Baked rosy by the glow of the hearth, Ciryon fussed over the percolating kettle, feigning patience with little art. Entranced by the flames, by his dizzy gaze he could be thinking of none other than Ivrin, upon whose return they awaited. Rohrith’s injury and subsequent convalescence had affected his gentlest brother most viciously; Ivrin’s opportune sojourn from his apprenticeship in Tirion had heartened Ciryon tremendously, as well as helped him release his stores of tension, if the purple smears about his neck and shoulders were any indication. The toppling of ravenous bodies to the floor and the ecstatic cries of completion that had rung about the trees the night before had had the odd effect of soothing Rohrith, as little else had in these last weeks. The aura of effervescent contentment that had rippled through the channel of their brotherly bond had given him his one moment of happiness in this stark time, for he would sacrifice anything for his twins to find their bliss. Self-forfeiture was the only way he knew how to give of himself, how to assure a beloved’s sanctity… how to love.

Little wonder he was, through the endless slog of recovery, terribly slow to mend. Even with his very life imperiled, he gave everything to others: his future hopes to his siblings, his strength to his fathers, his sweetness to his worried mother, and his every thought, want, will, breath to his golden Dioren. Rohrith grumbled acidly through his convalescence, but like his wound he knew his efforts would eventually prove fruitless. That true healing came at an unthinkable price.

Emotional severance from the one he held most dear.

When the door creaked open, Ciryon dropped the kettle with a dull clank onto the hearthstone and skipped over to the entrance hall. The unmistakable smack of lips and purr of stroking tongues heralded Ivrin; Rohrith had no need of yielding to his wound’s singeing protest to forgo rising to greet him. Though he was glad enough of his brother’s fulfillment, he patently refused to witness such things firsthand, if only that his sleep was already plagued with nightmares galore. Ever were there things one should not truly come to know about one’s nearest and dearest.

The couple murmured conspicuously awhile before venturing into the common room, Ciryon lazing against his beloved, their faces pink with eagerness for some solitary time. Rohrith rose then, if only to prove himself capable of doing so, though his abdomen flared angrily at even this slight exertion. Their stroll by the river had perhaps been more injurious than he had earlier estimated. Ivrin, though awash with concern, clapped a crushing grip to his own; they had not yet met up since his arrival. Twas then that he marked the faint scrape of boots over the hardwood floor, saw their eyes flit to the archway. Ciryon’s were moist with apology, but this veiled a sterling hope that all might soon be righted.

Rohrith did not need turn around to know who awaited his beckoning.

“Tis a comfort to see you so restored, gwador,” Ivrin noted, with a soft smirk. “You seem so well, I think we might dare take a brief leave. What say you?”

“Go on, if you would,” Rohrith allowed, fortifying himself for the coming confrontation. “But do not be so avid in your indulgence as night last, else you might well come through the roof!”

With a merry smile, Ciryon embraced his brother, then both raced off to the terrace stairs. At once, Rohrith sensed his approach almost too keenly, every step a shiver up his back. His mind scrambled for an overture, the perfect phrase, the disarming jibe that might cut through the fog-thick tension and settle them with venting laughter. Restless after but a brief moment’s anticipation, he veered around, then nearly fainted dead at the incensing, rapturous beauty his Dioren had become.

He was a devastating contrast of climes; of moonlit lushness but of commanding frame, his eyes like daggers of crystalline ice but his skin as supple as a swath of satin, his stance of sinuous elegance but his body vibrant with power, stealth, majesty. He looked regal as a starshine prince, but his build betrayed a capacity for brute force; despite himself, Rohrith instantly craved its claiming, maiming touch. He was astounded, and in a strange manner honored, to behold a creation of such magnificence; Elbereth must have wept when she imagined him into being.

Rohrith was struck dumb at how Glorfindel’s efforts had polished him so stunning, such that he found he could not speak a word in greeting, even to this dearest of friends.

Dioren, however, was not nearly so afflicted. Emboldened by the sight of his friend so hardy, if yet somewhat delicate, he launched forward. Before Rohrith could even gasp, he was being hugged with alacrity, nearly crushed but so emphatically he almost sobbed in relief. In that breath-stealing embrace he felt all of Dioren’s cyclonic emotions, from anguish over his vivisecting slice to fervent remorse at his unexplained absence, from the blithest gratitude for Rohrith’s safekeeping to the colossal force of his devotion to him. After a time, the peredhil loosed his hold some, which let Rohrith snake his own arms around his friend and add his own weak grip. They clung to each other vigorously, silently, as the minutes spanned into a quarter-hour, then long past, until Dioren was supporting Rohrith’s weight entirely, nearly cradling him like a babe. Rohrith, for his part, found he could no longer keep his sensitivity caged; he buried his face in Dioren’s neck and mewled like a declawed kitten, overwhelmed by what he had never acknowledged that he awaited, that his healing body needed, that he so longed for.

Dioren’s succor.

The effect of parting again was almost visceral for him, though Dioren barely slipped from his arms and stayed but a foot away. Forgetting his own culpability, the golden elf examined him with an exacting eye, assuring himself that he had not abandoned his friend to unaccomplished healers. Through this, Rohrith could only gawk at him, at his comeliness, at his assured manner, at the touchingly endearing eyes soon foist upon him, wet with repentance.

“How oft must I forgive you before it takes, meldiren,” Rohrith responded to his unspoken question. “By the Valar’s grace, the incident has been completely erased from my memory. I have mused only, through weeks past, upon the state of your wellness. You must recount every moment of your sessions! Have you benefited from them? What progress have you made? Has Glorfindel been kind with you?”

“Think you Glorfindel has been sharp?” Dioren smirked, unsurprised – knowing his friend only too well - at how swiftly any thought of Rohrith’s own pains were dismissed in favor of inquiry after Dioren’s condition. “In truth, I cannot say the time has been pleasant, though the constant, calming presence of the ocean did much to pacify my more insurgent emotions. I am noticeably bettered by the sessions, I believe, if not wholly restored. Yet I am… I am hopeful that I may in time *be* restored. That wholeness may be mine.” Almost sheepishly, he revealed more. “I have come to know this other self quite intimately in past weeks. Though fraught, the experience of his life is terribly moving. I have found him to be… quite likeable.”

“I already adore him,” Rohrith fondly remarked, then caught himself cold.

His cheeks burning with embarrassment, he attempted to slink out of Dioren’s casual hold, only to be betrayed by his wound. With the damper of the other’s body no longer snuffing his strained, furious nerves, the scar began to fester with pain, such that Rohrith was soon being carried over to the couch and lain across its bristly cushions, while Dioren scoured the area for remedial salve. Rohrith pointed meekly to the bowl waiting on the waytable, the mixture’s elements still strewn around. Once perched on the slight edge by his friend’s waist, Dioren carefully peeled up his tunic to reveal the arc of snarled sutures, the crimson frown sewn across his abdomen.

Though there was minimal gore at this advanced stage of recovery, Dioren blanched to a near-diaphanous pallor when so confronted by the dreadful acuity of his swordsmanship; Rohrith half expected another blustery apology. None, however, was forthcoming. Instead, he scooped up a generous glob of salve and greased it along the path of inflammation, his eyes shining with tenderness, with remorse, but not a hint of self-berating. Rohrith finally released the breath he did not know he was holding back, urging himself to enjoy – for the first time in his infirmity – another’s care.

Dioren, however, was no simple other, thus every swipe of his fingers over his itching skin elicited a frisson of too enticing sensation. He was thankfully rendered impotent by sickness, else he was certain such teasing tickles would have adamantly roused him; Dioren’s discomfiture would be only too plainly beheld, and *this* when he wanted platonic assurances. Struggling to ignore the too tempting spread of salve across his middle, Rohrith instead rallied his concentration towards some digestible explanation for his mush-minded behavior in the Healing Halls, some winning notion of how to wipe out the entire episode from Dioren’s memory.

Despite the hot flush of utter mortification that burned his face red at the slightest thought of his poorly-recollected troths, he could not for all his wits come to a solution. Indeed, as Dioren meticulously taped a bandage down, he became utterly bewildered by the notion of even revivifying the matter between them. Perhaps he could somehow pretend that the moment was spurned on by a drug-induced hallucination, that he had believed Dioren was one of the builders in Tathren’s crew and that he had just ungraciously fallen from a tree. No elf would possibly admit to such a fallacy without undue provocation, surely Dioren might be swayed…

“Can you sit?” Dioren asked once his task was accomplished to his satisfaction. “I would speak with you on a rather… sensitive matter.”

Rohrith’s cheeks fired anew, but he conceded with a tremulous: “Aye.”

He managed to distract himself while shifting position, his wound still nibbling in fits. To his surprised, Dioren tucked rather closely in with him, extending a supportive arm around his shoulders and leaning around to face him. His friend quivered with apprehension. Though his eyes beamed a reverent regard his way, his mouth grimaced in elaborate deliberation.

The weave of soothing fingers through his hair was not unfamiliar, nor was the hand that rested on his chest. Rohrith had expected stuttering, shyness, even incisiveness, as Dioren was rarely afraid of overt confrontation. He had not, however, by any means expected the blush that bloomed in his friend’s cheeks, nor the rush of exhaled breath, nor the quick, nearly blindsiding swoop into his space nor the whispering sigh… nor the velvet press of his pink, pillowy lips in a scarlet kiss. Rohrith would have been agog, had he not been so occupied with suckling the mouth that covered his own so delectably, that opened every so often for a fleet flick of tongue which did not yet dare delve. The thought of such delving, of parting those silken lips and stroking tongue to tongue crazed him such that he couldn’t properly counsel himself against it.

Instead, he cupped Dioren’s flaming cheeks, his thumbs grazing the edge of his defined jaw. In an effortless maneuver, he licked brusquely at the luscious mouth as he simultaneously eased those sultry lips apart, until his probing tongue brushed along a slinky texture that nearly maddened him. He purred, like the overeager kitten he was, into that steamy cavity, when their tongue-play turned succulently languorous. The fevered laps Dioren roughed along his slick muscle spoke an unmistakable language all their own, as did the fleshy stiffness – though sheathed in leather breeches – prodding into his hip.

Rohrith was only too grateful to be so gorged upon. He didn’t give the oddity of the action another thought; not that many could be summoned, amidst the lusty haze that misted over his senses. He only wished, with more fervor than he could ever politely admit to, that his body was not so stressed by convalescence as to prevent him from producing his own erection, which his girding loins felt but tragically could not show. Dioren, despite his own tumescence, seemed content with the raw sensuality of their kissing, their tongues now entangled in a giddy contest of wills.

After deliberately seeking to numb himself into complacence, after raging so vociferously against fear, vulnerability, and self-loathing, Rohrith was soon blazing with empowered emotion, his confidence gloriously revivified. He wanted to suck at Dioren’s tongue until he spent in his breeches. He wanted to daub his fingers in the extra salve, sneak down his backside, and stab into Dioren until he howled with pleasure. He wanted to rip his laces off and tare down his trousers, so that he might maul the scarlet symbol of his insurgent desire to distraction, until Dioren sobbed with need of release.

No such carnal ruse was allowed him, however, as Dioren snapped away as suddenly came on, his face so panic-stricken Rohrith was nearly sick himself. He tried, with more instinct than design, to catch his lips again, but Dioren only allowed the briefest flutter before he moved away.

“Forgive me,” he tentatively intoned, as if unsure of his own voice. “I have been bold for one so uncertain.”

“I do not mind,” Rohrith insisted, but understood that he must attend his explanation with patience. “Indeed, I find such boldness rather…affecting.”

“Then I… I pleased you?” Dioren asked, with pleading eyes. “You seemed shocked. At first.”

“I am entirely undone,” Rohrith promised him. “I long for more.” Yet the words, though honest, felt strange on his tongue. Insight dawned over him, keen as his mind ever was, as to some troublesome potentialities. Why had Dioren embraced him so? As if… as if his very existence depended on the action. He suddenly saw the overture in an altogether more sallow light, though he prayed he was mistaken. “If that would please *you*, gwador.”

“It could do,” Dioren hesitantly admitted. “First, I must appraise you of… of some of the rather revolutionary discoveries from my sessions with Glorfindel.”

Rohrith wove caring arms around Dioren, then urged him: “I attend you.”

Dioren sucked back a brisk gulp of air, then expelled slowly. To Rohrith’s mounting dismay, nothing in his fair countenance even hinted at the desire to caress, to nuzzle, or to seek out heartening reinforcement.

“I will elaborate at a later time,” he cautiously began. “But suffice it to say that… that I have come to know a fragment of my true nature. That I am, in essence… that you were correct in your assertion concerning my taste for maids. Though only a half-elf, I know the stirrings of the duality of elf kind. I have come to desire… indeed, to burn with a raging fire such as I have never known… for the incendiary touch of males.”

Stunned, Rohrith could only gape anew. “You… burn?”

“Aye,” Dioren nodded, smirking shyly. “I *crave*.”

“Crave,” Rohrith repeated, his mind vividly assessing the ramifications of such a development even as he absorbed the truth of it. “Is there… is there one in particular, that you might crave?”

“Perchance,” Dioren acknowledged, ruddy as a plum though not above some gentle teasing. “Glorfindel believes that I might come to find a greater sense of self-worth, of pleasure and ultimately of wholeness, that I might be fortified for trials to come through… through some… carnal exploration.”

Rohrith nearly swallowed his tongue. “You mean… *bed-play*?”

“Aye,” Dioren rasped. He could not suppress a stretching grin, though he still blushed furiously. “He proposed that I indulge myself, but cautioned me to chose a patient, loving partner. One that knows of the intricacies and the perils of my plight, and who would be able to care for me, should I become embroiled in a spell. Indeed, he believes I may even be able to tap into further knowledge of my past, in such naked, intimate moments.” Steeling himself for the coming reaction, he ventured past the point of no return. “In my esteem, there is no other who has shown me such compassion, such affection…”

Before he could utter another word, he was assaulted by hungry lips.

“I will,” Rohrith agreed, between heady draughts on his mouth. “I *must* be the one.”

Dioren pressed a delicate kiss home, to silence him.

“I did not doubt your instant dedication to the task,” Dioren chuckled, though beneath there was yet some reservation. “But, since your… altogether overwhelming and colossally affecting troths that evening, in the Healing Halls, I feel I must keep a close vigil over that deceptively tender heart of yours, gwador-nin. Now that I know of its honor, its immaculate beauty, I must battle, even against my own betterment, for its sanctity. This rapid-strewn course of treatment I wish to undertake… you must understand that its source is purest desire. Lust, and this alone.” As if a curse, he whispered his conclusion. “Mistake it not for love.”

With a blustery sigh, Rohrith cast his eyes down. Ever before, his moods were write large across his wolfine features, as easily readable as any proper scroll. Yet in the grip of this instance, his friend’s face colored with shades and hues he’d never even imagined. Their revelation, in such a rapt moment, only made him more admirable.

“You have been many incredible things to me, meldir,” Rohrith remarked softly. “But never cruel. Never foolish, nor unobservant. You know too well that I cannot refuse you. That after my timely confession, after such an extraordinary overture, I am ensnared. There is no choice before me… and the outcome, too, *my outcome*, is set from this point on. Yet, knowing this, you persisted. You lured me forth… Can you truly say that there is no glimmer of a chance for love? That by a kiss, you have knowingly condemned your greatest champion to grief?”

“I cannot promise,” he insisted, shame scorching him. “I cannot swear.”

“You are no blackguard, Dioren,” Rohrith cooed, before plucking another perfect kiss from him. “Nor can I ought but gamble my fate. If you will wait out my convalescence, then I would be most…” He raked a sultry gaze over his brawny frame, at once rapacious and adoring. “…blessed, to be your guide in these *carnal explorations*.”

“I will remain with you, this night,” Dioren vowed, lured anew to the voluptuous snarl of his lips. “I will dedicate myself to your succor, gwador.”

Before sinking back into the luxury of their embrace, Rohrith fixed him with black, piercing eyes and told of his good fortune.

“You must never forget, my brave one,” he underlined. “I have *always* known who you are.”

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

With the growling moan of a mountain cat lazing across a sun-baked rock, Rohrith woke to a hazy, hothouse midsummer morning. The top cover had been unceremoniously, and no doubt unconsciously, cast off not just their slow-roasting bodies but the bottom edge of the bed. The sheet beneath was soaked clammy with sweat, as well as other unidentifiable excretions common to the male of the species. Their bare skin was already flush moist by the ungodly temperature; but despite the lugubrious atmosphere, he could not ever recall being so content.

With Dioren curled up so cozily against him, Rohrith could suffer the fires of Mordor; his flaxen head tucked into his neck, the silken filaments of hair and the tangle of ivory arms webbed across his torso, the balmy gusts of breath down his chest. Though for the past five nights they had been chaste as a maid on the eve of her majority, he could not imagine how any carnal act – from his own, limited experience of them - might be more nurturing to either Dioren’s fraught spirit or to his fractured body than this simple intimacy between them. As never before in his impetuous existence, he found himself lazing about their bed until noontime; if not for Dioren’s afternoon sessions with Glorfindel and the necessities of his newly empowered physique, he would devise some excuse to keep him the day long.

Dioren was only too glad to indulge him. For one who had known times of both succor and severity, his character had been molded most by the latter. His prime directive, when not engaged in the struggle towards his own wellness, was the insurance of Rohrith’s comfort. If Rohrith would later take on the colossal task of his bed-learning, then until such a time Dioren would dedicated himself to nursing his friend back to vitality. Each morn, after a brisk swim in the river, he would brew a pot of herb tea to rouse Rohrith’s drowsy senses; cups of which led them to engage in rowdy, sprawling, and oft taunting debates, all whilst lingering abed. By noontime, he would lure the grumpy elf into the bathing chamber, where they would cleanse themselves of wooziness, spar giddily while armed with whipping, wet towels. After fortifying words from Rohrith during their luncheon, Dioren would toddle off to Glorfindel; at their supper upon his return he would give his report of the day’s advances. Though Rohrith was keen to entertain a few friends or relatives in the evening, even his meticulously ordered pontifications on whichever subject they chose to espouse were cut short by nightfall, so that his devout caretaker might be drawn into their bedchamber, might succumb to his teasing caresses. They would stretch out on the chaise-longue beneath the skylight and kiss with breathtaking eloquence, until Dioren was too overcome by desire to keep himself counseled.

Rohrith’s continued unresponsiveness to such acutely stirring kisses was a growing frustration for him. Though he restrained his ire from affecting Dioren, he ached when his friend had to steal away, like some perversion, to an undisclosed location – whether moments after he sank into sleep, in the sultry dark of night, or with the blushing break of dawn – to wrench out his release. There were no secrets between them, but neither did they overtly speak of Dioren’s ripening sexuality and the necessities of such an overwrought state. While Dioren did not shy away from the subject, he would not hear of pleasing himself in Rohrith’s presence during his convalescence. Despite Rohrith’s repeated assurances that he would learn, though more importantly *enjoy*, witnessing firsthand his friend’s performances, Dioren had been adamant. So strongly was he resolved against forcing his needs on one injured at his hand, that even when embroiled in steam-clouded dreams he rolled to the far side of the bed, preferring Rohrith’s phantom touch to the real press of his body against him. That Dioren muttered his name alone whilst in the thrall of such wanton dreams was of little comfort. Though moved by Dioren’s gallant attitude towards his mind’s conservation and his body’s protection, he was sickened by his own prolonged impotence.

His hard-won prize was displayed before him in all its gilded glory, but he could not yet grasp hold.

This morning was providing some small measure of consolation, what with Dioren napping so sweetly in his arms, though such softness had come at a brutal price. The previous evening, Dioren had not returned for their late meal; indeed, he had not snuck into the apartment until nearly midnight. Two truths had been immediately clear from his sallow, strained visage. First, that he had hoped Rohrith would be too stressed by his body’s mending to stave off sleep. Second, that his session with Glorfindel had resurrected some deeply embedded hurt from within the trenches of his earlier life. When he marked Rohrith sitting on the edge of their bed, a despairing cry sounded from him. Dioren had staggered blindly over, collapsed onto his knees, and berthed his tousled head in Rohrith’s waiting lap, as he sobbed his chagrined story out. He had remembered not a torment, but a blessing from his previous incarnation.

His mother’s love.

Ever had Dioren believed that his mother’s behavior had been similar towards him in both of his lives, that she had been of chill heart even during his first elflinghood, when faced with her mate’s abandonment, with the solitary rearing of their half-breed child in a time when such things were still frowned upon in the impenetrable circles of Sindar nobility. As with the repression of so many other of his likes, loves, and yearnings from that tender time, he had forgotten her warmth, her unflinching support, and her irreplaceable kindness. She had not been a cold mother, but – he now vividly recalled - had escaped while pregnant from the deadly clutches of his manly forefathers by her own keen devices and had fought her regal parents like a lioness when, upon his birth, they would have exposed him to the elements (the only way to irrevocably snuff out an elven soul) rather than rear a half-elf as their own. Dioren understood, through this shattering revelation, why she had grieved so upon his malformed rebirth; what else could she possibly give the child she had already debased herself for, battled for and bled for. One of her blithe nature could only endure so much disgrace, so many trials and so much bereavement, from a child who remembered nothing of how she had adored him, of their dearly, quiet times together and of their earlier adventures.

To say that Dioren’s spirit had been mightily bruised by such a searing insight into his first life would be a grave understatement. That night, he had spent himself in sobbing, crushing their bodies together until their joints cracked, his fingers clawing into Rohrith’s back, no hold secure enough, warm enough, to sate his brutal need for softness. Rohrith had half feared he would rush off in search of some curvy maid to bed or, worse, immerse himself in an extended fugue, but after the storm of sorrow passed, he had wanted only assurances: that their friendship could be sustained beyond his tumultuous majority, that Rohrith would always hold him dear, that he did not act out of pity but out of genuine regard. Despite the sapping energy it required to keep vigil over him once he found slumber, Rohrith was true to his every vow; even now, he doubted he had even shifted his hold an inch during the night, not that embracing Dioren was such a challenge to him.

Even whilst his charge was yet heavy with sleep, his sculpted peredhil body knew no rest from wanting. An eager erection pressed rather emphatically into his hip, though its rosy skin was not yet stretched firm. Dioren’s eyelids batted and fluttered as if upon a dreamscape, his parted lips sucking in quick pants of air. His needful body would not wait long on waking whilst in such a roused state, but Rohrith prayed, nevertheless, that he might doze through his lurid fantasy and spend across his abdomen; a most fitting salve for his wound.

A symphony of grunts and groans wafted in from beyond, like a bawdy choir in place of wind. In such humid climes of pane-less windows, of open balconies and of unlatched doors, the quarters the triplets shared atop the mallorn boughs seemed even closer still. Though each individual apartment had its own space, sound whisked about unrestricted between their talans, as fleet-footed as the winged messenger of Quenya myth. With no possible filter for their more salacious ejaculations, Rohrith had anguished through many a sizzling summer night, his ears ringing and his libido perilously roused. Little wonder he was so easily stirred in sunny months, for his vow of abstinence had to contend with the ardor of Brithor’s latest fling and the fervor of Ciryon’s devotion to his Ivrin.

Night last, while fidgeting in wait for Dioren’s return, Rohrith had spied Brithor sneaking across their terrace with not one, but two of the more loose-skirted maids recently migrated to their vale from Otirion. His brother had become rather over-ambitious, since his last, lengthy relationship had ended so disastrously, with his banishment from her father’s realm. If one dallies, near adulterously, with a lady promised by her noble kin to their long-sworn enemy, to ensure the peaceful alliance of their houses, then one might expect some fury upon the affair’s discovery. Brithor, however, was somehow immune to politicking in his own, endearing, perpetually amiable fashion. The blow of their breaking had gutted his poor brother through. He had loved the girl, in his own, earnest and noncommittal way. Rohrith often felt that he must cherish them all for the time of their togetherness, that their loss, whether through his own decision or through calamity’s strike, was its own tiny heartbreak, which through time would eventually take their toll and cause him to settle permanently. Brithor, since their second majority, had been revenging himself on his sadness, taking no partner for more than a week of raucous tumbling and running from any maid that might truly capture his affections, even for a brief while. His fathers kept a hawk eye on this behavior, but did not yet object, as only once vetted of this loucheness would Brithor open himself to another’s more heartful care.

The throaty moans and peals of childish laughter that currently tippled from his talan were those of a courtesan’s den. They were provoking all the same, their merriment and their abandon rather addictive, as were the more rapturous purrs just beginning above. Rohrith could not rightly keep himself from coloring out the scene in his mind from this rich sonic sketch; Ivrin’s rugged bass was the more prominent, while Ciryon’s soprano was muffled, as if stopped by some blunt yet giving implement. The entire effect was terribly shameful, but he could not genuinely think of shame when his loins gurgled so obstinately, their full boil iced over again and again by the stab of his severed belly. The sounds made his mouth tacky, palate bone dry but jowls sagging with saliva. His hard stare flitted down to the swollen head drooling over his hip, the elongated shaft hidden beneath a muscular stretch of leg.

Suddenly, his lusting mind could find no reason why Dioren could not enjoy such oral stimulus in his stead. He was, quite obviously, affected by the heady chorus, even in light sleep. If ought, it would ease his personal frustration to know that some elf had benefited from such a scorching orchestra, especially since Ivrin’s purrs had become outright hollers of delight; Rohrith anticipated his howling completion any second.

There was not a moment to waste on dainty pondering.

Inspired by the twin trill of shrieks blasting forth from Brithor’s bedchamber, he eased Dioren onto his back while nuzzling his neck, encouraged by the little bleats of affection that tripped from his smiling lips. Rohrith knew he must avoid those if he wished for his friend’s blissful fulfillment, for even the chaste lap of his tongue might wake him. With this in mind, he briefly suckled the lissome neck, dip of collar, pursed pectorals, and wispy plane of chest, marveling at how his lips pinked the skin so lovely. He could not help but maul awhile at his puckered nipples, though a lively gasp from Dioren pushed him onward, down the sleek slope of abdomen and into that sinfully musky navel. He laved with abandon, entranced by the sharp, manly scent of his beloved, so gracious in form but yet of such sublime potency. What was once a symphony beyond was now a clamor of cries, screams, and curses, as the gleeful maids turned on their stud and Ivrin above was spread for breaching.

The hot space around Dioren’s groin singed the skin of Rohrith’s neck, even his succulent navel could not further occupy him when he was but moments from truly tasting the one he had so long hungered for. Yet he went about the task with delicacy, with every skill in his possession, circling the broad head with but the tip of his twitching tongue before swiping flat down the shaft, which was strung tight as a leather strap. He taunted the stiff swell as long as he could, head, shaft, and bollocks galore, before he had to swallow him. He was barely conscious of the guttural moans his talents were eliciting from his peredhil prey, nor the shallow thrusts into his mouth. His loins burned and his wound seethed as he indulged himself with impunity, exploiting this one, thieved chance to gorge, as he had only dreamed, on the too-savory flesh.

With a roar, fingers scraped across his skull, then Dioren spent deep into his throat.

Silence fell like a slap around him, the air live with shock. Dioren shuddered, panting wildly, not even his astonishment able to stop him from writhing through the sensuous slithers of his orgasm. As he crawled up to greet him, Rohrith stroked over his sensitive skin, smoothing greedy hands over his sinuous frame, thereby prolonging his pleasure. Dioren was still enthralled, bristling and unfocused, when Rohrith settled them into a tight embrace; he groaned loud at but a sweetly kiss to his temple.

“I had… forbidden…” he mumbled, but the lofty air stung him such that he had to burrow further against Rohrith, until every possible strip of skin stuck to his.

“Have you not the grace to thank me?” Rohrith teased him, with a fond chuckle.

After a rumbling sigh of gratitude, Dioren thanked him through the rough tangle of tongues. With Rohrith’s self-esteem suitably appeased, their lips pecked and flirted awhile, until Dioren’s reverent smile was so implacable that he could do naught but bask in it.

“Your brothers are quite… voluble,” he noted bemusedly. “I cannot fathom how you abstained so long, with such lusty singers about your eaves.”

“I may have forgone the company of a lover,” Rohrith smirked. “But I hardly abstained. I merely preferred to conjure the lover of my choice, whist suitably… inspired, by the goings-on about.”

“And who was this lucky elf of your sultry, sticky dreams?” Dioren grinned rakishly, with pointed brow of nearly Elladanian arch.

Rohrith, however, demurred, blushing quite fetchingly and nuzzling his face into Dioren’s hair. He could not yet quite bring himself to speak so casually of a feeling that possessed him so completely, not with the object of his devotion, of his obsession. He yet feared giving his heart entirely to Dioren, as too many others were at stake, too many vows had been pledged to vigilance. He was yet too raw to commit himself to fate’s eternal condemnation.

“Never have you, brave one, skittered away from an honest reply,” Dioren remarked gently. “Even when speaking of the pains of my condition, never have you failed to meet my eyes, Rohr-neth.”

“I said enough, when silly,” came the rote response. “I know you did not fail to mark my ravings, addled as they were.”

“Has your heart changed, then?” Dioren queried, as if asking after a late relation.

After an extended pause, a whisper ghosted down the teardrop slope of his ear. “Nay.”

Dioren carefully drew his friend down into his arms, until the darkling elf was being cradled. He brushed wandering fingers through the lengths of ebony hair as he considered his following move, wanting to continue his questioning, but worried that this would only quiet Rohrith further.

“Why do you fear my confidence?” Dioren finally asked, choosing an earnest tract. “Ever have we been forthright in our dealings, emotional or otherwise. Ever have we been the other’s sanctuary. Perhaps you fear that I am threatened by your too endearing revelation, but I am heartened. Never has one so sterling as you, my dear mellon, esteemed me so. I only wish…” He rallied his emotions, knowing only too well that any sign of softness might be grievously misinterpreted. “If we are truthful concerning our feelings… it might provide a measure of solace.”

“What else am I to tell you?” Rohrith demanded, his aching vulnerability plain. “I have vomitted out my entrails for you to examine, have you not discovered there evidence enough of the bile I have swallowed as eagerly as your seed in… in caring for you.” He hoisted up on his elbows and foist pleading eyes at him. “This dawn has seen the fulfillment of… of one of my most revisited, most lingered upon desires. I have reveled in the body that has tempted me for so long, brought explosive pleasure to the one I… I adore. *Saes*, Dioren, I know you care only for my wellness, but… do not ruin this moment with talk of what cannot be altered, even by such pleasures as we have known this morn. Of what must, for the sanctity of our much cherished friendship, be suffered in silence.” After laying his cheek back in the nest of satiny hair and burying even more closely to his friend, Rohrith added bitterly: “My brothers have not mistaken your cries for pain. They will be here soon enough to sour my mood with their prying, though well-intentioned, questions.”

With a kiss of agreement to the crown of his black hair, as well as a prick of despair within, Dioren fell silent.

***

When the familiar patter of twin knuckles knocked at the balcony later that morn, Rohrith’s mood had not dulled from its earlier sharpness. Though he was no longer cross with Dioren, who had scooted off to meet Glorfindel after taking him for a brisk, cooling swim in the river, he was foul with anticipation of his imminent discussion with his brothers, mostly because the arguments they would no doubt present to him were both reasonable and sound. A skilled debater, Rohrith was sure he could deviate their logic far enough from their initial tract to win them over; the question remained of whether this was a wise course.

Subterfuge was never an honorable choice, especially before those who had his best interests at heart. He acknowledged, somewhere deep within, that his agreeing to instruct Dioren in matters of bed-play was folly for one so enamored of him, that even his golden one’s laurelled friendship would not be enough to sustain him in the long term, and that his heart read into the peredhil’s succoring acts a tenor of emotion that was not honestly therein, with only too much mule-headed facility. Even Glorfindel’s approval of such methods was suspect, his match-making tendencies well know among the youth of the vale. Rohrith had tallied all these objections to himself ad nauseum over many lonely afternoons of aggravating rest, but could not yet reconcile their obvious merit with a truth he’d confessed to no other, not even Dioren himself.

Being with his friend, in any capacity, restored him.

Despite his mild sourness in the face of his upcoming placation of his twins, Rohrith’s rejuvenating body was visibly bettered from the previous day. Though he had not drawn physical satisfaction from pleasuring Dioren, the fulfillment of this longtime dream had nourished his body in other ways, such that he moved with greater ease, had endured a longer swim without tiring, and was not, even just before luncheon, betraying a whiff of fatigue. He even felt he had the stamina for some revision of the treaties the conference had engendered; though not pressing, his grandsire did await his notes on certain stipulations. Most of all, he veritably sang with expectancy for Dioren’s return that evening, when, with the memory of that morning’s release still coursing through him, his golden one might be nudged towards further sensual explorations, which hopefully would incite his own body to rouse, even for a brief while.

He snapped awake from these sultry daydreams when Ciryon and Brithor entered his common room, bearing a carafe of iced mead, a bowl of seasonal fruit, a plate of toasted lembas, and a tray of smoked meats. Rohrith may not be tired, but he was famished from his morning exertions; his eyes as gaping as the black mouth of a cavern, ready to devour, at the food so caringly prepared for him. They knew well how to ply him! With a roguish grin, he sprang up from his reading to greet them, then ushered them and their culinary delights into the dining room. His twins were mildly stunned at the force of his welcoming embrace, further evidence of the strength his emaciated frame was slowly reacquiring.

Rohrith was not, however, deceived by the splendor of their offerings, nor the jovial quips that preceded their meal. His brothers were too earnest to properly conceal the spindly lines of concern that fringed their bright eyes, too direct to entirely camouflage the quicksand they slowly lead him towards. When, after polishing off every last morsel they had bourn to the table, an uneasy silence fell, Rohrith prepared himself for their conversation to take on the expected severity. After Brithor rose to pour them a light, syrupy digestive liquor, Ciryon’s face took on the air of solemnity he usually reserved for the recounting of cautionary tales to a gathering of elflings, which would have amused Rohrith had he not been so affronted by the implication of his naivety. He himself took on his diplomatic pose, as if preparing to bargain with an aggressive noble from afar; sitting with regal poise about his high-backed chair and attuning his senses to the slightest dissonance in the other’s conversation.

“Though tis no hardship to lunch with so adored a brother,” Ciryon began softly. “I suppose, gwanur-nin, that you know only too well why we have come calling this particular noontime.”

“Aye,” Rohrith demurred, giving up no more rope than was necessary.

“Then we heard true, early this morn,” Ciryon noted rhetorically. “These were indeed moans of… pleasure, sounding from your bedchamber. You were engaged in…”

“Rohrith, what in Elbereth’s name has possessed you?” Brithor demanded, slicing through the formalities with a keen knife. “I know how your weakness chafes you, but your ailing body is yet too vulnerable to couple-“

“If your rather imposing investigation must be given the saucy details,” Rohrith snipped acidly. “I know my limitations well enough, and would not suffer the strictures of this condition any longer than absolutely necessary. I gave pleasure. I did not receive. Not bodily. My spirit, however, is effulgent, and as such has fired my capacities, so you best… resolve yourselves to more nocturnal symphonies.” He added a gibe, with a wink. “Tis not as if you do not orchestrate your own nightly, gwenin.”

“Yet I play with one whose heartful ardor is equal to my own,” Ciryon quietly objected. “While Brithor tunes about with those who seek, as he, only a song’s harmony, a night of satiation. The note struck by Dioren’s heart is perilously dissonant to your own, gwanur.”

“He has not yet caught the melody,” Rohrith challenged. “But already he has come so far. After just a few weeks of sessions with Glorfindel, his heart beats out an entirely opposite tattoo to the one he’d previously strummed to. With a little encouragement…”

“At too dear a price, Rohrith!” Brithor suddenly shouted, exasperated by their skittering about this vital matter. “Do not mistake me, I sympathize with Dioren’s plight and wish him every happiness, but I will not sacrifice my most valiant and irreplaceable brother for its achievement. Methinks even this calamity has not impressed enough caution on your too strident spirit! What injury must he cause to convince you of the dangers of this course of action? Or will you only reckon the threat to your beleaguered spirit once in Mandos itself?”

“Brith-neth, you are too sharp with him,” Ciryon attempted to soften him, as Rohrith had gone terribly pale. “Naught will be achieved in distemper.”

“Nay, Ciri, I have not been sharp enough,” he blustered on. “All of our elders tip-toe around the matter, as if ogres in the garden fearing to upset the rose beds, but in being so docile their anxiety is dissolute.” He inflicted his hard, black stare upon Rohrith, almost cruel from one usually so unfailingly kind. “I cannot conceive, gwanur-nin, of how you can so flagrantly court fading, when every member of your family is wrought with worry over this foolish notion of Ada-Fin’s for Dioren’s treatment.”

“You are one to speak,” Rohrith shot back. “Rutting your seething heart away with every lax-legged maid in Aman.”

Brithor ignored this slight, instead telling of his desolation: “Since our earliest years, Ciri and I have followed your example, at times blindly, as ever were you bolder, keener, and more adventurous than we. When you charged forth, we ran behind; gladly for we knew you would never lead us to harm. Yet if you continue on your present path, you will lead us all to ruin! I cannot live on without my beloved, insurgent brother; I would be lost without your guidance, Rohrith, your care. We are meant to be three, to doubly support our weakest link. With two such brothers…”

Brithor bowed his head, cursing his ineffectual tongue. Why must Rohrith have their entire share of eloquence? Tears beaded in his eyes, but he had not the heart to brush them away. He was going to lose his brother. Even at his most tender arguments, Rohrith’s eyes had glowed with defiance, with the scintillating spark of one who had recently been embroiled in a love-act with the one who held his heart. Under much more joyous circumstances, he had witnessed the same nascent flicker in Ciryon’s eyes, after his first indulgence with Ivrin. Their relationship, however, was not expected to prove so grievous. Was loving another always so fraught with risk? If so, he prayed he would never truly love, for all he wanted in the world was to live on in harmony with his beloved twins.

Twins who, at present, were not entirely immune to his arguments. While Brithor struggled to stave off tears and Ciryon pleaded silently with Rohrith to comfort him, Rohrith himself was in a stew. How to explain his hopefulness, the necessities of his love for Dioren, the yet inconceivable fact that he would not ever allow his brothers to fade should he be forever denied? He was a leader of purest element, who gave of his very essence even in the direst straits. He would fight off Mandos as if a horde of fiery Balrogs, never would he give in! His brothers, however, were not so stoutly made, which was not to fault them. Each of the three had their own, precious and unique qualities; combined they were unstoppable, even against grief.

“With two such brothers,” Rohrith repeated, with a more potent emphasis. “Mandos cannot even dare to claim us. Do you think me so love-crazed as to give up those made of the very same matter as myself, even for one so dear as Dioren? If ever have I forged ahead, then you must now trust that I do so knowingly, purposely, and with conviction that this is the best course for us all. Though I do not oft betray evidence of this awareness, I do know my own limits, Brith-neth.” Brithor snarked out a laugh at this, but was not yet appeased. “Yet neither will I concede so easily a battle I have waged for a century long, not when victory is in my sights. Dioren’s wholeness becomes a more palpable reality by the day, but he cannot vanquish his divisiveness and win back his livelihood without the stability of our friendship. That this affection between us must now be physically manifested is a treacherous course, true. But judging from our too-swift indulgence this morn… I cannot conceive of how such ecstasy could possibly bring about my ruin. I assure you, I feel… vital. Empowered. Hungry…” At Brithor’s smirk, he added: “Do not tell me one of your carnal appetites knows naught of such voraciousness.”

“I know only too well,” Brithor sighed, reaching out to clasp his brother’s hands and to solder peace between them. “But I will say only that I hope, should you need my ear, you will seek me out, when the consequences of such wantonness come about. For their will be consequences, Rohrith, little matter how glutted you become.”

“I swear I will not forget your words,” he vowed contritely, rising to embrace them both. “Nor dismiss the cautions you have laid bare, this day. I cherish your concern, gwenin. I myself would be lost without your guardianship, the inestimable wealth of your care.”

They wound tightly together, as when they were young, letting their brotherly affection run riot through their twin-bond; each painfully reluctant to break away.

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

One Month Later

With the clogging brume and the incensing heat of midsummer having burnt itself away, the dulcet summer days welcomed such common elven activities as Rohrith was now, Valar be praised, hardy enough to undertake. Dioren had, to his own inner satisfaction, imposed upon his friend an exercise regiment whose rigors increased not with his ambitions, but with the evidence of his regained dexterity, of which there was ample. His frame, though yet too slender, began to be strung with thin lengths of muscle, his skin again took on that healthy, buttery tone, and his wound was but a blurred pink smear across his newly taut abdomen. Indeed, when caught in the flow of a typical day’s work, not even his familiars would guess at his extended convalescence, if they had not already been aware.

While Dioren’s routine varied little from what occupied him following the accident, Rohrith had almost completely resumed his duties for their Lord, though Elrond yet insisted that he remain housebound, with a brother, elder, friend, or colleague near. Rohrith swallowed this cautionary measure with difficulty, but, with his usual cunning, continually devised reasons for the Lord himself or his esteemed councilors to visit there, knowing that eventually they would tire of this displacement and allow him to walk the tranquil path to the Hall of Fire each afternoon. Mornings were yet reserved for their exercise and evenings for their entertainment, though their late nights alternated between the blissful and the fraught.

Dioren himself was well enough; the memories trickled forth at a leisurely pace, so he could easily pour off what might overly-ripple his outwardly calm surface. Indeed, this intimate time with Rohrith was proving to be the most agreeable of this life. Despite his earlier reservations against receiving pleasure when he could engender none in his partner, his craven body could not long refuse Rohrith’s too explicit attentions, as his friend was only too willing to appease him with sensuality. The darkling elf, through lengthy erotic trials, had mastered the meticulous arousal of his body and his senses, until he smoldered to a sundering release. Every aspect of their play, from teasing to eruption, was exquisite, though he longed most, after being so expertly tortured, to experiment on Rohrith himself.

This uncharted territory, however, proved a minefield of trouble for them.

Rohrith, despite their relentless nights of love-play, had yet to recover his potency. He could bear a certain amount of petting, stroking, and skin-scouring from his curious friend, as he *was* eager to teach him all aspects of male coupling, but eventually his touches would venture too close for comfort. His lack of response would frustrate him so that he would wrench away, fuming and grumbling, his flaccidity shaming him into a hasty retreat. Yet Dioren would only have to wait a few moments before he crawled back, muttering apologies, to finish him. True to his gallant form, he would not broke a whisper of protest, reassuring an equally perturbed Dioren that he took more pleasure in being able to affect him as he did than in any orgasm he might himself experience.

The molten chemistry between them only cut him deeper, when so brutally faced with his own continued impotence. Though they had resolved to keep their physical relationship from their circle of friends and to behave chastely among family, when alone, when he felt spirited, Rohrith was an incorrigible flirt, even the most simple phrase perverted by innuendo, the most gentle touch magnetic with desire, the most casual look sizzling with the promise of his future unraveling. Emphatic in this as in his every occupation, he let Dioren know how coveted his charms were at every available opportunity, though the peredhil was, due to extenuating circumstances, somewhat more cautious when voicing his own praise, not wanting his friend to turn unexpectedly maudlin. Even in company, they had to be vigilant, their bodies lured together by the other’s siren song even when the intended touch was merely supportive, or platonically tender. Dioren could not imagine, but anticipated with growing urgency, the gorgeous harmony their eventual joining would create, the mellifluous ecstasy that might then be known to them. He no longer feared any aspect or act of male coupling, as the overwhelming pleasures he had known under Rohrith’s exceptional tutelage had utterly abolished them. He longed only for his learning’s completion, to be able to rouse his lover to the heights he had soared and to be filled to the core by his passion.

Yet such blissful unison would come at a severe emotional cost to his dear, deceivingly delicate friend. Dioren was beginning to suspect that Rohrith’s libido was more protective of his interests than first thought, to its merit. Yet he also could not much longer bear witness to Rohrith’s scathing abuse of himself when he failed to perform, nor how his patience had begun to fray. The night before, he had nearly wept – to quench his charred pride – when Dioren’s rather vigorous suckling had failed to rouse him even to slight firmness; he had been so bereft that he had flipped onto his stomach and ordered Dioren to mount him, if for pity’s sake alone. This had frightened Dioren such that he himself had softened, no mean feat for a peredhil on the cusp of majority, for which Rohrith was instantly in his arms, kissing his face and swearing that he only meant it in jest. Dioren had seized the opportunity for some calm discussion, assuring Rohrith that he wanted only his full recovery and suggesting that perhaps they had proceeded too quickly to overt physicality. This had soothed him some – for he knew only too well of his shortcomings and his relentless nature; they had even caressed for a time, before sleeping.

With characteristic adamancy, Rohrith had, upon waking that morn, convinced him to exercise with blunted swords in the glade below his talan. The bright sun had banished any last lurk of gloom, so there was little chance of Dioren’s ensorcelling. Indeed, the verdant lawn practically begged to be trampled by boot swagger, mowed down by a tumbling back, or ground to shreds by an implanted heel, so fertile were its expanses. Dioren had made Rohrith swear that they would merely practice a few established sequences, but he would be a fool not to anticipate defiance. Even while his heart pulsed with fondness at the thought, the hairs on his neck bristled with worry. The impulse to fight had not sprung from a true desire, but from a lack thereof; never a good omen. Nevertheless, he had dedicated himself to Rohrith’s care; he could not now abandon, nor hector, him for his too-glaring mulishness.

Therefore, they now stood with strike-poised swords beneath the bold sun, seizing each other up with more bemusement than ferocity. Rohrith, to his dismay, cut so feral a figure as if torn from his most tawdry fantasies; if the darkling elf continued to flirt so audaciously, even before combat, then he would perhaps suffer the breaching he had pled for the previous night. The first moves were strict, but he was married to them; in conformity and in routine would come the warrior’s thrall, where all consciousness dripped away and one swam through the air like the mer-creatures of legend.

They continued on apace, neither dominant, Rohrith complying to the sequences with rather distressing stricture. Some impishness was no doubt being devised as they sparred, some insurgence, some improvisational flourish to unsettle him. None, however, was attempted. They parried and feinted with little ambition, the only tension rising between them of a physical palpability entirely unrelated to their stilted combat. Soon, Dioren was raptly concentrated not on the accomplishment of his swings, but on taming down his fierce arousal, which flamed with each clink of their swords. Soon, both were drenched with perspiration from just a few gentle sequences, for which even the warm sun could not be blamed.

Suddenly, Rohrith halted them with a brusque gesture, lowering his weapon before any protest could be broached. Heaving for breath, he trudged over to a nearby tree and leaned his back against the cool bark, his face flushed nearly scarlet from their fight. Dioren threw his blade into the grass and went immediately to his side, fearing some fever afflicted him. He cursed himself for not thinking to bring a waterskin; instead, he brushed away the strands of hair stuck to Rohrith’s brow, silently offering any aid he might require, though he knew his friend was too proud to admit to his weakening.

“What is amiss?” he prompted, ready to ply him with a kiss, still the most effective method of extracting information.

“Naught is amiss,” Rohrith answered, breaking into a rather salacious smirk. “Yet something is rather… painfully erect.” A bedazzling smile overtook his lush features. His eyes flicked downward where, to Dioren’s amazement, his breeches were manfully tented. With a faint, luring whimper, Rohrith latched an arm around him and secured him to his side, flattering the tip of his ear with his tongue. “Saes, Dioren… *touch* me. Grip me tight, claw me with conviction, finish me brutishly. I’ve grown desperate for release at your hand.”

Maddened by his immolating words, Dioren bit a kiss into his neck as he yanked up his tunic, groping over his sensate chest until Rohrith howled with the most coveted frustration even known to him. His already puckered nipples were viciously pinched and twisted, so gorgeously that he knocked his head back against the trunk in rearing, his black pearl eyes already streaming joyful tears down his ruby-red cheeks. Dioren’s deft fingers gingerly plucked off his laces, shoved his breeches down, then hovered above his sleek, elegant erection, tantalizing the sensitive head with their close proximity. Dioren stole a moment to admire him, the pinkish tinge to the deep purple of his full swell, of decent girth but of an elongated stretch, such that his buttocks twitched in anticipation of his piercing by this luxurious length. With a growl of impatience, Rohrith pressed the frothing head into his palm, slicking it generously for the wild strokes it soon undertook.

Dioren would have time, later, for gentilities. Rohrith was writhing with need, with breathless elation, coughing up mighty sobs even as he moaned out his pleasure. Dioren spared him no niceties, as requested, but wrenched impressively controlled pulls across his throbbing shaft, until Rohrith was nearly boneless against the tree, holding to his friend with a iron clutch that gouged deeper with every buck of his hips. He cursed with luscious vulgarity when he spent, voluminously milked of nearly a entire month’s worth of cream, which seeped into the glad, thirsting ground at their feet.

With a crazed cackle, but moments after his recovery, Rohrith whirled him round and slammed him back against the unsuspecting tree, jabbing a famished tongue into his stunned mouth and mauling a kiss over his lips. The duel that ensued was the most sensuous he had ever known, Rohrith’s crude hunger enrapturing. Serpentine hands slithered under his clothes, over his tingling skin, loosening every tie that restricted them until his entire raiment was sagging off. The garments peeled off him as easily as petals from a bloom. He was guided up to their bedchamber by a giddy woodland sprite, who never lost a chance to paw at him, to pet him shamelessly.

Once above, they paused a moment to stand before each other, gloriously naked and violently hard, primed for the pleasures their brimming bodies had so long promised them.

Rohrith’s face shone with the light of the silmaril itself, his eyes of such an adoring glow that Dioren nearly denied him. Yet he could not rightly tare his own reverent gaze from the wolfine beauty before him. His heart sang with a confounding chorus of emotions, but none so much as the honest, earnest affection he bore this ethereal elf. He opened his arms to this new lover and welcomed him within his hot embrace.

With a gleeful trill, Rohrith pounced on him. The following hours of rowdy, ravenous bed-play would forever be branded in his mind, scored into his very skin and writ across the flesh of his heart. The braising force of feeling was so visceral, he oft thought he’d been slain anew, but then Rohrith would nip at his neck, purr against his cheek, or teasingly slap his bottom, and his fever would break awhile. When, in the gloam of twilight, they collapsed into a tipsy, glutted heap of exhausted limbs and sated loins, they lingered about their coupling bed as the burnished sun sunk below the dusky treeline.

Dioren felt, sheltered in Rohrith’s loose, loving embrace, as if he belonged.


End of Part Three