Further Tales Of Elbereth's Bounty

Title: Further Tales Of Elbereth’s Bounty – Prologue: A Bushel of Brothers
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 is a prologue of sorts to the three tales that follow, where the main characters of those stories are set up.
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 alternative universe, as well as 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’. There are three Further Tales, which will all be added to this file.
Feedback: Would be delightful.
Dedication: To Eresse, as always.

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Further Tales Of Elbereth’s Bounty

Prologue: A Bushel of Brothers

Yavië, Yen 196, Fourth Age

As dusk swept over the hush vale around them, a panoply of stars pricked through the sky’s indigo canvass, icy, lustrous, and remote. A smoky wind rustled the shadowy gardens around them, the black river rushing far beneath the terrace’s glass floor; to a passing observer on the mulch banks below, the circle of elves around the spitting, makeshift hearth were but glimmers in the vast firmament above.

These brave ones bunkered into their spare pewter armchairs and burrowed in their woolen cloaks to stave off the crisp autumn air, their bitten cheeks peaked rosy from the cold, heated ruddy from their mugs of hot cider. The impromptu gathering was ostensibly to celebrate a passing of the torch, though Tathren needed no excuse to indulge in an evening’s conversation with his three blossoming brothers. The triplets were but a three-month away from their first majority; as such, they would soon require proper housing, away from the familiar nest of their doting fathers. He and Echo had built themselves a more formidable home some years ago, and as they had quite recently completed construction on Cuthalion’s talan, their bachelor apartments were newly empty. The two trees that berthed them had flourished through the years, so it was little trouble for one of Echo’s talents to add a third apartment over the first on the more bountiful of the mallorns. A spiral staircase of spun glass gave this talan access to the still revolutionary translucent terrace; the only quarrel that had remained would be which brother would occupy which space.

Despite Tathren’s ever-constant encouragement, benevolence, and filial devotion, the three had nevertheless been astounded at their good fortune, when their gift had been revealed to them that very evening, as they toured the renovated apartments. While leonine Rohrith had been the most anxious for independence, he had also immediately assured the more introspective Ciryon that he would protectively reside below him. Brithor, the most wildly social of the three, would no doubt be the loudest, thus his brothers would appreciate even a subtle distance in his residence across the way, while Ciryon would relish the seclusion of the higher boughs. Each could not cease their commendation of Echoriath’s efforts, such that his humble bereth was plum-cheeked by the time they settled around the hearth. Cuthalion, never one to miss such intimate moments among his brethren, had brought a keg of simmering cider, so their conversation might span long after midnight.

As the triplets were on the cusp of maturity, this would be one of their final chances to frequent them in frazzled, brimming innocence.

Tathren himself had not yet entirely digested the fact of their coming majority. He could only imagine how his esteemed Adar felt, to see their three sprightly sons grown into creatures of such sparkling grace, they could outshine the Evenstar herself. Their sultry locks of hair, when loose, fell in thick waves, of a velvety blackness that lured many a stolen, indecent caress, when in unfamiliar company. Their wolfine beauty had grown more feral with the onset of adulthood; their skin the consistency of churned cream, their obsidian eyes rapt, piercing, their lips a sumptuous snarl of scarlet, the sinuous virility of their bodies slowly emergent.

During their recent, two year sojourn in Gondolen, their elders had had to monitor them with hawkish vigilance at any social gathering, feast, or festival; not from their own exuberant ways (for the triplets were often dutiful to a fault, and were nevertheless allowed to freely explore the myriad experiences offered there, the very intent of the journey’s undertaking), but from the covetous actions of other, older predators, who sought to taste what had in no way been granted to them. Tathren had, somewhat gleefully, taken to tossing these rogues into the deeper swells of the river, though some public humiliation was also employed to temper their lecherous ways. Cuthalion had himself suffered a fractured arm in one brawl; when an elf was so impudent as to claim he had already taken on two of the three and was angling for a hat-trick, though the elf in question had far graver injuries, nearly being sent to Mandos by their silver cousin’s rage. Elrohir had even expressed his gratitude that Tathren had not been present, for he did not doubt the elf’s thieving tongue would have found itself wrenched out, his dumb spirit in the Halls of Awaiting before he could blink a gouged eye.

Few such incidents were repeated within the secure borders of Telperion, where the irrepressible triplets had made themselves beloved and respected by all. Indeed, Tathren had come, of late, to wonder which lucky elves would enjoy majority rites with these beauteous three, as he, despite being their closest confidant, had heard hide nor hare of any romantic dealings beyond the chastest flirtations. Echoriath had also expressed some concern to his mate, specifically in regards to his pet, Ciryon; an elfling of similar disposition to his once-timid husband’s younger incarnation. Meanwhile, Talion had been appraised of some rather wanton behavior from the amiable Brithor, while in Gondolen – not unconscionable considering Tathren’s own past, but certainly worth a carefully-worded warning from elder, more experienced elves. Rounding out the brow-furrows, whisperings around the training grounds had caught Tathren’s own attention in regards to Rohrith, a normally affable and invigorating elfling who was lately given to sullen moods and bouts of mild depression. His brother was such a tremendous spirit – blessed with effortless leadership skills and a budding orator – that the only trouble Tathren could conclude that might so plague one of such ardor, was, of all things, a broken heart. Thus, the three older elves had engaged these hardy younglings in fond, often jesting, ultimately secure conversation, in hope of imparting some timely advice to them.

Cuthalion’s recent romantic entanglements unwittingly provided them with safe passage to such closely-guarded intimacies, though the silver elf was suffering for it.

“Does it not chasten you some, dear cousin,” Brithor taunted daringly. “That your very potency as a male rests on the steady and sure maturation of your relationship? That your journey, as they say…”

“-or more specifically, your elfhood-” Rohrith mirthfully added.

“-rests on the edge of a well-flinted knife,” Brithor finished, with despotic flourish. He rested his tongue-tip on the sharp of his left incisor, savoring the fire that burned Cuthalion’s cheeks. “Wielded by no less than a former Marchwarden of the Galadhrim?”

“You underestimate our esteemed Loremaster, gwanur,” Ciryon commented, his innocuous tone and his innocent air belying the keen intelligence he was known for, in family circles. “With the annals of our people at his disposal, his methods would perhaps not be so brute… but they would be prolonged and tortuously painful.”

“Such chances you take, cousin, and for what?” Brithor laughed wryly, though he knew very well how sought after Cuthalion’s beloved indeed was.

“For one inestimably dear,” Talion softly replied, his reverence for her plain. “I hope, pen neth, that your heart will one day be so thoroughly ensnared as mine. Though I should perhaps save such experience-gleaned counsel for later years; for from what I have discerned about the vale, I should rather bequeath you my former mantle of maid-lover par excellence than lecture you on the charms of celibacy.”

Brithor smirked amicably, but did not deny the charge.

“One between us three must match our elder brother’s impressive example,” he murmured, though was smart enough to feign contrition.

“What may impress those of tender age,” Tathren himself noted. “Can seem regrettably naïve in later years, even to the elf himself. In one’s race for carnal knowledge, one might fly by a worthy, patient heart.” He lifted his husband’s hand to ready lips, caressed the soft of his palm.

“Though without that frivolous experience,” Echoriath reminded him. “The elf in question may never have slowed his pace long enough to mark the one who awaited him.” He shifted his warm, amber eyes to an avidly attentive Brithor. “Your confidence is admirable, nin bellas. It takes a not insignificant amount of self-possession to claim in elflinghood what is meant for majority time. I hope you were treated well?”

“Exquisitely well,” Brithor acknowledged, realizing that his sibling and cousin only sought such assurance, his ease in such private activities. “Forgive me, I have been too boastful. I have known no maid since our return…” The flint of mischief alighted his onyx orbs anew. “Though I have entertained some rather… enticing offers, for my majority rites. I am blessed with quite a selection, especially since my brothers follow the family tract, so to speak, in this regard.”

“Are you all so overwhelmed by choice?” Tathren inquired delicately. With a fortifying breath that did not go unnoticed, he phrased his following question with a studiously muted tone. “Or have you resolved yourselves to the pursuit of a particular someone?”

Neither Echoriath nor Cuthalion dared add their expectant stares to Tathren’s own gentle gaze, as the other two fell deathly silent. Rohrith, to their astonishment, began a meticulous examination of his cider mug, while Ciryon was quite obviously at war within himself.

Brithor intuited this struggle within his intelligent, awkward brother, and so remarked: “Ah, gwenin, why so glum? Are we not fortunate to have such betters to consult, such a collection of widespread experience before us? Our elder brother, who has known maid and male, promiscuity and heartbreak, the stark nights of celibacy and a half-century’s loving bond? Our familiar cousins, estimable for their varying extremes, one pledged nearly from birth to a beloved and the other embarked on a lifelong search for companionship, only recently accomplished? Tell me we are not so stubborn as to deny ourselves the chance to engage them with our woes!” Both his twins absorbed this for some stretch of time, seeming affected by his arguments but yet unable to formulate the proper questions for this sudden consultation.

“You are wise indeed, Brithor,” Cuthalion praised him, to underline their intent of sympathy and of succor to the young elves. “To include my gentle brother in your estimation. Many green elves might think his counsel ridiculous, given that he has only loved one in his time. But that would be an injury, methinks. He has known the trials of love as few among we, more lust-glutted things, his unique experience could prove a lesson in devotion to us all.”

When Echoriath blushed nearly crimson at this, Tathren could not keep his tongue: “You may be shocked, cousin, to discover what other, more practical lessons a lover such as your brother might have the rather exceptional proficiency to impart.”

“Or perhaps you merely wish for some further instruction this night, bereth-nin,” Echoriath recovered saucily, sinking further into Tathren’s tight embrace. “Though I heartily agree that this student has long matched his teacher in wiles… if not, at times, surpassed.”

“Surpassed!!” Tathren exclaimed, digging his fingers down to Echoriath’s waist and launching a masterful tickling assault. The dakling elf squealed, squirmed, and soon none in their company could keep their giggles back.

With the exception of Ciryon, who timidly essayed: “I… I did not know that you… that Tathren was… your bed-teacher.” The others hastened to settle themselves, not loosing their smiles, but well aware of the effort it took Ciryon to speak of such personal matters.

“He was indeed,” Echoriath warmly elaborated. “Your brother is a gallant beyond compare. The only fear I felt was of my own conjuring, not once did he give me reason to doubt him. He guided me, pleased me… and kept my heart, besides.”

“You loved him even then?” Ciryon asked, his face still somberly beset.

“I have always loved him,” Echoriath underlined. “From my elfling years. At first, as a guardian and companion… then as my desire began to rear itself in my fortieth year, twas he who was its centrifugal focus. I never gave even passing thought to another, not even when my father pressed the issue some upon my second majority. But even then, I knew my heart. I just did not believe my chosen one thought softly on me, in return.”

“Though he was subsequently proved horribly wrong on this account,” Tathren chuckled, stealing a proper kiss. Yet he had tender eyes for his brother, as well, and these soon rested on shivering Ciryon, as Brithor stroked a consoling touch over his back. “Is there one, then, who moves you, pen-gwanur?”

Ciryon only flushed further at the insinuation, though Rohrith piped up to encourage him.

“There is one who gave him kisses,” Rohrith explained. “Though he will not indicate if this is the elf who holds his heart. Nor this bold one’s identity.”

“He was sweet with me,” Ciryon assured them, not wanting them to assume the worst. “He is… altogether remarkable.”

“Have you courted some?” Echoriath questioned.

“For a time,” Ciryon admitted. “He is a journeyman, at times in the vale, but most times away. We frequented each other in Gondolen, not knowing… verily, twas I who did not know that he... he esteemed me as I… then on the ship pointed home, he revealed himself as my admirer, but he was off to adventure immediately after.” His voice lowered to a pained whisper, he bleat his last. “He will be away for our majority. Indeed, I know not when he might return, or if… if…” Ciryon winced his brimming eyes shut, rallied his emotions. “Was it very tough for you to forgo your first majority, cousin?”

“You would wait for him, then?” Echoriath asked rhetorically. “Nay, it was little trouble. There was but one who had my heart. I could not conceive of giving it to another, even if I was unsure this one’s would ever be my own.”

“Yet your own liaison shows promise,” Cuthalion encouraged him. “It would be little trouble, if you so chose, to wait but a little while to see if it bears fruit, though the intensity of your own desires are the best gauge of this alternative’s viability. He must return before too long, and then… you must be brave, and have your answer from him.”

“Tathren and I would be most glad to entertain you on your majority night,” Echoriath insisted. “I imagine that between us we might plot some merriment to suitably distract you. And if the elf indeed turns up, then we can easily be forgotten.”

“Verily, I would be glad of it,” Ciryon attempted a smile, heartened both by their sage counsel and their peerless care.

“Might I join you in this revelry?” Rohrith inquired softly, the strain of his own indecision writ large across his lush features.

“Is there none you have found who pleases you?” Tathen asked in return, surprised his boisterous brother had not settled on a choice. Though ardent as any elf in his knowing, others often mistook Rohrith’s outgoing nature for an unthinking one, whereas those who knew him well knew that though he acted boldly, it was ever with well-planned purpose.

“There is one,” Rohrith confessed tightly. “He will not have me.”

“He has refused you?!” Tathren gasped, shocked that any would deny one of the renown triplets, once offered.

“His… his actions do everything to draw my comradely affection,” Rohrith elaborated. “But his heart is bolted shut. He claims to favor maids, but I have heard of his dalliances and… he seems to take no true pleasure from them. For sure, I know little of such things… but if my lover spoke thusly of our bed-play, I would quit him the very instant!”

“You may not have experience, pen neth,” Cuthalion assured him. “But your lover’s heart knows well enough what softness is. If you say this elf is cold, then he must have suffered such that he would keep his heart, even from his own knowing. Is he of Sinda lineage?”

“Aye,” Rohrith told him.

“Some of the elder ellon among their tribe have been known to dislike the mating of males,” Cuthalion remarked. “Even when their own desires turn that way. Might this be the trouble?”

“I feel it is,” Rohrith agreed. “Though I have no evidence of any real trouble… merely dissatisfaction with his current bed partners.”

“Are they numerous?” Tathren inquired.

“At times,” Rohrith shrugged warily. “In truth, I try not to mark their numbers. I would not hear of such escapades, except that we are swordbrothers… dear friends, indeed, and I would console him, if he is in need of my ear.”

“You are valiant, even in your heart’s agony,” Echoriath praised him. “Though I fear it will take some time, if not some great calamity, to open him to the true tenor of your regard. It is a delicate exercise, and one you cannot accomplish alone. He, too, must play a part, and for this he must be convinced of many foreign and unpalatable things.”

“But if there is one who might affect him,” Tathren seconded. “One of such a heart as yours, gwanur, will know this triumph.” Rohrith nodded meekly in acknowledgement of this praise, but remained unconvinced. “In the meantime, my husband and I would be most glad to entertain you on your begetting day, plotting a second, equally devious surprise.”

“Then plan a third, as well,” Brithor trumped him, reaching out to grip the arms of his maudlin twins. “Why should I spend such a momentous eve in the arms of an admirer, when my brothers are idle and lonely? We will stay the course together, gwenin, and take heart in our own, precious company.”

Both Rohrith and Ciryon were madly content as a result of his declaration, pushing back their cloaks and squishing themselves into Brithor’s armchair. Their elders were similarly heartened by this decision, as well as the subsequent display of playful affection.

Though the trials before them were daunting ones, as they flirted with adulthood, they may not yet have entirely cast off their gleeful elfling ways.


End of Prologue