Love in the dark

Love in the dark


Author: Casualis (Casualis2000@yahoo.fr)

URL: www.thecrystal.cjb.net

Pairings: I would like to say surprise, but for some pairings it’s impossible not to tell people. So, Elrohir/Elladan

Disclaimer: They are not mine, no hope.

Summary: They fought long ago and learnt to forget they were bound by something no one could destroy. But can time heal everything?

Rating: PG-13 for this part, will be NC-17

Warning: Twincest of course, dark fic also…

Author’s notes:

Dedicated to my dear Haz who thought there was a lack of twincest of late. I thought she was right, so I wrote this fic that turned into something very different from what I intended at first.
d ald also, many many thanks to Joey who had the patience and the gentleness of beta-reading this fic. Dear Joey, I am forever grateful for your help.


*

“Here in the shadows
I'm safe
I'm free
I've nowhere else to go
But I cannot stay where I don't belong”

Evanescence, Exodus

**

He surveyed his surroundings, his grey eyes shining in the enveloping darkness of the sleeping night. The gardens were quiet, the branches of the trees rustling and dancing with the light breeze refreshing the hot summer night and caressing with long and invisible fingers the fevered skin of his face. In the dark velvet sky, thousands of stars sparkled, looking like many finely cut jewels gathered into an infinite case. How much he would have liked to touch them, to gather and hold them in his hands. But they were far beyond his reach. He could see them. He could admire them. But they would never be his. In the distance, a cheerful music sof softly sounded, twirling in delighted notes, alternatively increasing and decreasing in intensity, testimony of the feast at its height on the other side of the manor.

But the music did not touch his soul. Indeed, he did not care. He had little love left for those animated feasts that graced the vale for the celebration of each season. Once - a long time ago - he had loved them above anything else, awaiting them with eager impatience. He had enjoyed the joyous animation seizing the vale, the light of happiness in the other elves’ eyes. The music and the wine. The dance and the seduction. Once, they had meant life to him, breaking the monotonous rhythm of days spent between studies, patrols and duties.

But not anymore. Now, he was not far from hating what he had enjoyed so much. They were memory and pain. Sorrow and remembrance.

A long time ago, he had danced at those feasts. Danced all the night without stopping, twirling and spinning unceasingly. Laughing and drinking with the eagerness of youth. With the joy and happiness brought about by the presence of the one he loved. But now, he had no one to hold tight in his arms and to whirl with. No one he really wanted to dance with. So, why dance?

A long time ago, they had been said to be the best dancers in Imladris. Whenever they were on the dance floor, people had stopped to watch them, wondering at their grace and their wild beauty, their eyes holding that odd sparkle of fascination. But they had never given those others any attention, preferring to focus on each other and forget those awkward gazes.

Now, he could dance no more. He did not want to. Instead, he took a seat in a distant and dark corner and he watched him from afar. Always watching him. Never letting his lithe frame slip from sight. Observing his every move. Looking for each of his smiles when he bent over the one that was lucky enough to be held tight against that firm chest, to have his hand on the slender waist, to feel his perfumed breath brushing the skin of his cheeks whenever he murmured sweet words in his ear.

How could he have really enjoyed those feasts when his beloved was in the arms of another?

Even if he had wanted to dance, he was not sure he would have been able to. He had never danced with any other. Never. They had learned the intricate steps together. They had shared their first dance and all those that had followed. He had never felt another body pressed against his own, another arm around his waist, when the music had intoxicated them, enveloping them in the exaltation of its ardour.

He had never ceased to attend to those feasts, coming here to see him, to watch him and to remember what he had lost through his own fault. But this night, he had not been able to.

He usually satisfied himself with sitting and drinking his potent and intoxicating wine, drowning his pain in the welcoming heat of the alcohol, relishing in the sensual smile displayed on the fair features he had so often admired. Looking at the slow ritual of seduction taking place between his skilled beloved and his consensual prey. Recalling what it had been like to feel that nimble body against his own. Remembering how everything had seemed good and right. Tracing in his mind the lines and the curves of that body he knew so well but that he had never claimed, imagining that it was his hand going astray the length of the strong and broad back.

But not this night.

This night, it had been too much to behold. In the playful light of the candles of the chandeliers, he could not bear the sight of the magnificent and sensual smile that had brightened his love’s fair face. He could not tolerate the vision of the close bodies and the entwined fingers. He had felt his heart tightening in his chest when a melodic laughter he would have acknowledged among thousands had dominated the crowd for some seconds, rising in irresistible waves before suddenly dying off. So, he had emptied in one gulp the wine in his glass and, rising from his uncomfortable wooden chair, he had left the vast hall, seizing on his way a bottle filled with golden wine. He had felt on him the eyes of many, knowing well that they wondered why he was leaving the feast when it had just begun. But he did not care. The only person that really mattered had not raised his head to look at him. Was not even aware that he had left.

So, why care?

He turned left after leaving the feast. That was the only thing he was sure of. Then, he had wandered through the manor, through the maze of large corridors where it was so easy to get lost if one did not pay heed. But he had not really minded getting lost. Perhaps, he had even wished it. The only important thing, the only thing that had mattered had been to get away from the feast, to go away from the vision of his beloved in another’s arms. Then, he had put one foot in front of the other, mechanically walking, oblivious of his surroundings, his mind full of bitter thoughts.

When he had halted his hazardous walk and raised his eyes, he had found himself in front of a little wooden door at which he had looked with unseeing eyes, picturing instead what was to be found behind it. His hand shook slightly when he stretched his arm toward the finely carved copper coloured knob. He didn’t even wonder why he’d come here. Why among the numberless rooms and places in the manor, chance had taken him here. It seemed like a dream. He had hold back his breath as the door had slowly turned on its hinges, revealing bit by bit the dark garden. It had been only when the door had been completely opened that he had dared to breathe again.

How long had it been since he had been here?

Long. Too long.

Hesitantly, almost shyly, he had gone down the stairs, brushing the walls with a hand, not willing to disturb the quiet ambiance of the place, not daring lest he might awaken too many memories. But it was too late for that. Memories were there, engraved in his mind.

He should have left. He knew he should have turned on his heels and run away. He knew that he would find no respite, no peace in this place. But he had not found within himself the strength to flee. It had been too late.

There he was. One hand against the rough stonewall, the other clutching his bottle of wine, his eyes drinking in the sight of those forgotten gardens. It was as if he was sent back many years ago. It had not changed. Nothing had moved. His bottomless, stormy grey eyes watched in awe the games of light and shadow the dense foliage of the trees displayed on the grass, the light of the moon falling on him. His ears were filled with the soft rustling of the leaves and the songs of the nocturnal animals. His nostrils were full of the sweet scent of the roses that perfumed the gardens.

Leaning against the wall, he let himself slide to the ground, not caring that the dust and dirt might soil his clothes. His eyes were fixed on his surroundings. In the darkness of the night, his alabaster skin seemed paler than ever, softly glowing in Ithil’s light. Not a muscle of his face moved, as if frozen in his silent contemplation.

It was as if he had come here yesterday.

But he knew it was not the case. A long time had passed since the last day he had put a foot in these gardens. He had passed many hours there. Many memories were bound to that place. Images of his childhood and of his adolescence. Images of an easier and doubtlessly happier life. Images of innocence. This was where he had grown up, where their love had blossomed until it became the most beautiful rose in the garden in the whole acceptance of both their hearts. They had never discussed of it. Never spoken of it. They had simply known and accepted. Easily.

Slowly, he raised the transparent bottle to his lips, willing miruvor to chase away the illusions of the past that were floating around him. He opened his full lips, letting the fresh and cool liquid flow down his throat, enjoying the heat that spread from his stomach. But even the sweet warmness did not raise his dark mood. The garden kept calling back images of the happiness and love he had held in his hands…that he had had and that he had rejected.

This garden was a kiss. Soft and chaste, pure and innocent. The feather touch of two soft mouths discovering each other in modesty. The awakening of pleasure. The heat spreading in his loins.

This garden witnessed his uncontrolled reaction of fear and anguish. The abrupt way he had broken away and left. Left on hazy explanations. Left never to come back.

Sighing, he shifted against the wall, lost in the mist of his memories, of his sorrow, he drank again, wiping the lingering wine from his lips with the back of his hand in a casual gesture.

He had not been able to help his silent answer. Not been able to master the sudden angst that had taken hold of his body. It had meant so much too him. The realization of many dreams, the achievement of a love that he had always felt in his soul. But it had also meant the collapse of a world and the birth of another, where no certainty was possible. He had backed away. Denying the need of his heart and the cry of his torn soul. He had fled like the coward he had been. He had fled the love that had been offered to him and that he had wanted so much to take.

Breaking his beloved’s heart and his own in the process.

And every day for a long time, he regretted that he had behaved thus. Because he had lost everything. His only friend and his only love. Remorse was heavy that night that looked very much like the one when they had come here to admire the sparkling of the stars in the sky. He closed his eyes, not willing to remember the closeness of their bodies, the sudden intake of breath, the darkened grey eyes that had lulled him. And the kiss. The kiss that had changed everything.

Everything.

He breathed deeply, trying to chase away the lingering visions behind his closed eyelids. But, instead of the expected void that would have comforted him and helped to soothe his pain, others came, stronger, flashing in quick succession, twirling before fading, soon replaced. Images of the one he loved in the arms of others. Others that had the chance to touch him and make him shudder in pleasure. Others that could see his beautiful features distorted in wild abandon. Others that could make love with him when he himself was alone in his vast and empty bed.

He knew this was his punishment. A form of retaliation. None of the elves that passed in his beloved’s bed had caught his heart. Nor his soul. It was a kind of vengeance against him for having made him suffer. He was punished for having been weak and having rejected him in spite of the love they felt for each other. He could read that knowledge in the bottomless grey eyes so like his own whenever they fell upon him. They seemed to challenge him, to want to increase his discomfort. He knew it because they had always known each other, and because words and sentences had always been useless between them.

At first, he had hidden his true feelings, his shame of his reaction and his sorrow, disguising them behind a cold facade of indifference. It had not been so difficult as they had avoided each other, trying not to find themselves in the same room. But with the passing of time, he had found the game more and more difficult to play. To behave as if none of that had any importance. Because it had importance. Much importance.

For he loved him desperately and hopelessly with the knowledge that he had spoiled everything.

But now, he could not pretend that it had no effect on him. He could not stand the situation any longer. Could not stand what his life had become. A world of hate, of deep hatred, where he was utterly alone, consumed by a vivid jealousy. Hate for all those who approached the one he had not known to accept. Hate for his unique love. And, above everything else, hate for himself, who had made of his life what it had become, who had not known to seize the opportunity.

He brought the neck of the bottle to his lips and absently drank.

Anger flared anew in his constricted heart. Anger directed toward himself and the loneliness weighing on his shoulders. Anger directed toward his love, which refused to see what he was doing to him. Anger directed toward the one who would share his beloved’s bed this night.

Burning rage gnawed at his stomach and at his temples.

He raised the delicate bottle to the level of his eyes, watching cautiously the reflections of the remaining liquid that seemed to entice him. A grimace distorted his lips. Grimace of disgust. Disgust at himself. For his weakness. For seeking comfort in the stunning vapours of alcohol instead of taking his life in hand.

This could not last. He had to do something. Something to end this situation. Something to make the pain in his heart stop. He could not bear it any longer.

But what to do?

Perhaps he should ask his father if he could go to Lorien. There he might find again an inward balance and build a pretence of normal life. A bitter smile graced his lips, as he contemplated the almost empty bottle, watching the wine swirling against the glass walls. Always the easy solution. Fleeing. Running away. He was a coward.

But he knew he would not be able to face him. To watch in those accusing eyes that seemed to see him for what he really was. A frightened coward.

With a furious gesture, he cast the bottle aside, emptily watching how it broke in thousands of pieces on the gravel. Shattered. Broken. Like him. He buried his head in his hands, passing his long fingers over his raven plaits, unbraiding them in quick succession with the agility given by centuries of habit. His heart was deeply aching, but he did not care. He knew he was paying the consequences of his acts.

This had lasted for too long a time. Now, it was time to act. Time to make a decision.

Slowly, he leaned against the wall to raise himself and once he was up, he glanced toward the stars in the sky, slightly lingering on the most shining of them. Eärendil. But for him, there was no hope anymore. He has lost his love because of his own stupidity. Definitively lost. He had to accept that fact, no matter how hard it was. He had to turn the page. To forget the past and concentrate upon the future. But words are always so easily spoken.

Slowly, light-headed because of the wine he had drunk, he walked toward the door, his heart heavy in his chest, but his face expressionless, unaware of his surroundings, feeling too lost to really care. A shrill crackle abruptly sounded, catching his attention and he lowered his gaze, cautiously watching the scattered pieces of glass on the ground that he was crushing under his booted feet. A wave of guilt at the memory of his uncontrolled fit of temper crashed over him and he sighed. He felt suddenly so young. Almost an elfling lost in the meanders of his growing mind. But he was no youth. He was an adult, responsible and supposedly wise enough to assume responsibility for his acts.

Supposedly.

He gracefully knelt, his lithe frame bending over the ground, intent on the sight the soft reflections that Ithil’s foggy light made in the scattered pieces of the broken bottle. It seemed to call to him, to lull him. He could not help to notice that the reflected light called back the image of his love’s bright eyes when they had laughed together, their laughter twining in a harmonious melody. Yet, it was no more than a flickering memory that faded as he blindly blinked. Without thinking, mechanically acting, he stretched a long-fingered hand toward the broken glass, as if to catch the versatile memory. But he quickly retrieved his hand, muttering a curse under his breath, as a sudden stab of pain spread from his fingertips, calling him back to reality.

He raised his hand into the nocturnal light of the stars and unbelievingly watched as blood flowed freely from shallow cuts on his fingers. He absently got up, his eyes still fixed upon the wound of his hand, his pupils dilated in gruesome fascination. His blood. Red and bright. Running the length of his hand and slowly dripping on the ground that absorbed that unexpected offering.

He brought his hand to his face, his sensitive nose catching the metallic and bitter scent of the vital liquid, his sharp eyes noticing the soft reflection in the dark essence. He swallowed with some difficulty, his breath suddenly quickening as he lowered his gaze once more, taking in the sight of the soiled pieces of glass.

And the unbidden thought came once more, echoing itself in his mind, swirling in desperate whirlpools before abruptly halting and resuming once more its motion.

‘Why not?’

He knew in himself that all his attempts to build a new life far from his beloved were doomed to failure. Doomed to fail. He was not able to live without him. For, without him, he did not exist. If it were not for the terrifying pain in his heart and the horrible void of his mind, he would have satisfied himself with simply watching his love bedding anyone he wanted. He was trapped. Trapped in a vicious circle of love and hate, where pain and sorrow were inevitable, where he would find no escape.

Except one.

His breath caught in his throat as he imagined the cold sensation of the cutting edge of the glass on his fevered skin, the ecstatic agony spreading through his arm before reaching his heart, paralysing his limbs and his mind, preventing his thinking of his faults, of his failures, of his empty and lonely life. Giving him the peace that he had so thoroughly sought for so many years.

His morbid and fascinated reverie was disturbed by loud and musical laughter that abruptly brought him back to reality, cutting him from the bewitching spell woven around him. His eyes snapped open, his pupils focusing again on his surroundings and he turned his head in the direction of the sound. But, even if his sight caught nothing, he had no need to see to know who had entered the gardens. He had heard that voice so often that he would have recognized it among thousands. He knew each of its notes, each of his sudden inflexions, the nuance it took when he was angered or when he was happy, when he was thoughtful or playful.

It was his voice. His beloved. Not alone, as the very feminine giggle that followed the first laughter gave testimony. And he froze, his heart seeming to stop in his chest, his hand forgotten, his whole attention fixed on the agitated murmurs reaching his ears. He closed his eyes, willing to cut himself off from his surroundings, willing to stop the rage and the pain that spread in volutes of sweet suffering in his heart. He felt tears gathering in his eyes, cold tears of helplessness, and he quickly blinked as if to chase them. He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched, enhancing thus the angular features of his fair face.

Why?

Why here? Why did he bring his conquest here? There were so many places, so many dark corners in Imladris where he could have brought her? But why here? Here where so many memories lived? He narrowed his eyes at the thought that it was surely not the first time that he brought one of his ephemeral lovers here. Like a last blow. Like a last affront to what they had been. Another way to make him pay.

He could not see that. He could not.

From a hidden pocket, he pulled a light handkerchief that he wrapped around his injured fingers. The fabric was soft and silky and it would not stop the flowing of the blood, but at least, it would prevent that he soiled the marble of the corridors. Impassive, he watched how the pure white colour of the fabric turned immediately to a deep red. Then, without further waiting, trying to block out the sounds of intoxicated laughter that weakly resounded through the night, he quickly headed toward the door. With every silent step he took, he heard more clearly the sounds of their twinned voices and, slowly, the rage replaced the pain. He could feel it running through his veins, beating in his temples and burning his stomach. He only heard them.

Laughing when he suffered so much.

As he reached the door, another musical chuckle resounded, stronger than before, making him stop in his tracks. As if to support himself, he clenched his uninjured hand around the thick wood of the doorframe, unaware of his nails digging into the hard material, his eyes fixed on the ground, his raven hair making a curtain around his pale and tense face.

This was their place. Theirs. The place where they had been happy. They had no right to be there, to soil his memories.

Slowly, he turned upon his heels in a silent and feline gesture, his fair and angular features glazed in an emotionless mask, betraying none of his real feelings. His eyes were fixed on the couple leaning against the rough bark of a tree not so far from him, fingers entwined, their bodies intimately pressed together and whispering sweet nonsense.

And the whole world disappeared.

Nothing mattered save for the dark-haired elf kissing the blond maiden. He was oblivious of his quickened breath that came in painful pants, of his straightened stance that seemed to glide on the ground like a phantom, of the menacing sparkle in his grey eyes that had dangerously darkened till seeming of the darkest black. He swallowed with difficulty as he found himself approaching the kissing couple and his heart seemed to beat more strongly in his chest.

This could not go on. The game had lasted long enough. Time to stop playing. Gritting his teeth, trying to master the furious quivering of his voice, he called:

“Elrohir!”

His voice snapped, harsh and emotionless, cold anger flaring in the usual smooth tone, contrasting strongly with the playful whispers emanating from the couple. His eyes narrowed as he watched how the two elves precipitously disentangled themselves from each other, noticing their swollen lips, the disarray of their clothithe the parts of flesh revealed in the light of the stars.

And his heart beat more strongly, like an untamed colt running in the vale. Images flashed again in his eyes, reminiscence of his own dreams. Of his own deceived hopes. Of his faults. And he hated them as he had never hated before. And he hated himself for hating them. For his inability to accept.

One of the two figures took one step toward him, leaving the shadows of the trees to go into the pool of moonlight where he was standing, revealing features that mirrored his own. The grey eyes that met his own were as hard as his and for seconds they wordlessly stared at each other, the silence became tense reflecting the fight of wills between the two brothers.

Then, with an unmistakableertoertone of impatience, the younger figure snapped, his eyes narrowing and his dark eyebrows drawing a perfect arc above them:

“What?”

Elladan did not move, his features frozen, his gaze never leaving his brother’s eyes. Time to end the game. Time to stop playing. He said the words he had thought he never would say, clearly articulating each syllables when he spoke, his voice threatening in its unwavering emotionless tone:

“We need to talk…”



TBC...