The innocent of an ancient letter never received brings Elrond both comfort and closure of sorts.

Rating: NC-17

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"And even though the moment passed me by
I still can't turn away
Cause all the dreams you never thought you'd lose
Got tossed along the way
And letters that you never meant to send
Got lost or thrown away
And now we're grown up orphans
And never knew their names
We don't belong to no one
That's a shame
But you could hide beside me
Maybe for a while
And I won't tell no one your name
And I won't tell them your name
And scars are souvenirs you never lose
The past is never far
Did you lose yourself somewhere out there?
Did you get to be a star?"
-- Goo Goo Dolls, "Name"
 
 
Prologue:
[Laire 40, the Year 2717 of the Third Age, the valley sanctuary known as Imladris]
 
The angled rays of Anor's late day position cast a warm, golden glow upon a solitary figure. Legolas sat cross-legged on the stone floor of the expansive library of Imladris, a single strand of his braids lazily falling across his face as he cocked his head to one side. He perused the books with half-interest, his fingers lingering over their spines as he searched with misplaced intent. His mind was still mightily fogged from the surreal, sensual dreams of the eve before. Would the High King be so understanding - could he be so -- about the prince's usurping of Elrond's affections and his bed? A shiver ran down his spine as he sent a silent prayer winging to the Snow-white Lady that he might never find out the answer to that question in the flesh.

Shaking his head to dislodge the cobwebs of guilt from his mind, he once more concentrated on the task at hand. Glorfindel had generously offered to save him from his own ignorance and teach him to read and write in the High Tongue. <<Yet one more way Imladris has ruined me,>> he mused with a chuckle. Thranduil strictly forbade the use of the High Tongue in his realm, thinking it the speech of kinslayers and rebels. The prince had managed to learn a scant few words, largely those one would not utter in polite company, uttered by various guards over the years. Legolas thought his father's prohibition mere stubbornness and superstition, and felt his ignorance yet one more reminder of just how far he was from being Lord Elrond's equal, outside of their bedchamber. He also wished to learn the tongue of the Blessed Lands out of respect for his bloodline, remembering how Lord Cirdan had chided him for his ignorance of his own history. Besides, he was becoming increasingly more bored and restless in his convalescence, and felt he had to find some constructive use for the long hours he was confined to bed - besides taking his fill of his lover's flesh.

<<"You need not learn a new tongue to impress my old friend,">> Glorfindel had gently teased him. <<"He cannot possibly love you with greater strength than he does at this moment.">> But yet he felt it was the very least he could do, to prove himself worthy of a position of honor in the lofty court of the valley. He would rather die than cause Elrond embarrassment of any sort, his father's feelings be damned. <<Then let me prove myself an apt pupil - beginning now.>>

He studied the volumes with renewed intensity, fingering each leather-bound volume in turn. Some had writing on the spines, some symbols, yet none was foreign enough to be the tongue he sought. Glorfindel had appointed him the task of finding a suitable work to translate, directing him to the older volumes relegated to the out-of-the-way bottom shelves. Growing increasingly frustrated, he leaned over to follow the volumes to the very end of the long shelf and felt his fingers skip across a folio juxtaposed in an obvious way. The slender volume had been tucked between the top of the neatly stacked bottom row of books and the underside of the next shelf, requiring a resolute tug to free it from its hiding place.

The prince carefully blew away the dust from the spine of the book and studied it with hope. It bore the star of Feanor upon its faded, brittle cover, the symbol grown nearly imperceptible with the relentless ravages of age. With reverence he opened the ancient cover and was rewarded with his sought-for prize. He could not read the title, as he had hoped, yet he recognized the strong, fluid pen strokes which had transcribed it. A smile curled his lips as he turned the page, feeling it fitting that he should learn the High Tongue with a primer written by his lover's own hand.

Eager to begin his lesson, he rose to his feet, the volume balanced in one hand. As he transferred it to his other hand, something slid from between the pages, and he scooped the surprise up with his free hand just before it hit the floor. It was obviously a letter, sealed with a pale splatter of wax. Tucking the book under one arm, he studied the ancient missive. He did not recognize what he presumed was the name of the intended recipient, carefully inked across the front in a firm, flourished hand. A loud gasp filled the otherwise empty room as he turned the letter over and instantly recognized the seal of seven stars as that of the High King and his house. Just at that moment the ravages of time took their final toll on the brittle wax, and it cracked in myriad pieces and fell to the floor.

Utterly horrified, Legolas froze, staring at the naked back of the letter and the now-opened leaves which taunted him. What could he do - place it back into the book and forget he had ever seen it? Destroy it and save his beloved the pain of having to relive the past after he had seemed to come to peace with it? Perhaps he should read the letter and then decide the proper course of action. No, that would be the worst of all, as it would be an unabashed invasion of Elrond's privacy, not to mention that of the late king. In the end, there was only one real choice possible. Sucking in a steeling breath, he carefully cradled the precious letter in his hand and set off to find his lover.

Legolas found the elder elf in his sitting room, lounging in his favorite chair, reading some correspondence from far-flung allies with mild amusement. He stood before his lover, bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet, clearing his throat far louder than he intended.

Elrond glanced up from his reading, one eyebrow arching skyward in question. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes - no - I mean...," the prince babbled. Sighing, he simply held out the volume and handed it to the elder elf. "I found this book, forgotten, tucked in a bottom shelf in the library."

Elrond gently accepted the book, turning it over in his hands with obvious tenderness. "'Tis one of my favorites. I had long thought it lost, or destroyed," he sadly said. "I should thank you for rescuing it from obscurity."

"Before you thank me, you should see what I found within its pages," the prince guiltily explained. Hesitating for a lingering moment, he reluctantly handed over the ancient letter, feeling it nearly burn him in his guilt as it left his fingers. "The seal broke - the wax was old and brittle - I did not mean to break it - I would never read it...." Legolas stared down at his feet, unwilling to meet the other's accusatory gaze.

"Leave me."

That two words could be so coldly spoken shocked Legolas to the bone. That two words could cause him so much pain surprised him further still. With a curt nod of understanding, he turned on his heels and sprinted from the room, the sound of his blood rushing through his ears, mixing with the echo of his beloved's icy voice haunting his every step....

[The year 587 of the First Age, in the days after the overthrow of Morgoth the Dreaded, the shores of the newly created Gulf of Lhun]
 
Rodnor Gil-galad, High King of Middle-earth, stood on the deck of his sleek ship, staring out over the sea toward the Blessed Lands he had never seen. Behind him the joyous sounds of reunions and remembrances filled the evening air, torches casting ghostly images across fleet-footed dancers. Yet for all the merriment surrounding him, he felt far less than festive.

The time since their arrival somehow seemed as the passing of an age, filled with renewed alliances and solemn introductions to long-lost kin. Finarfin, the legitimate king of his kind, was gracious and wise, mighty and fair, all that a true king - and heir of Finwe - should be. Gil-galad heard of the sad, self-inflicted fate of Feanor's only remaining sons from Finarfin's lips, and found he felt even more alone. Despite his deep-seated repulsion of the Feanorian's murderous, single-minded obsession with the jewels of their father, having them walk the wilds of Middle-earth made him feel at some unconscious level as if he still had a connection to this land. Now Maedhros was dead, and Maglor nearly so, and all that remained of his accursed clan were himself and Galadriel, whom he found as inscrutable as the stars themselves.

A gust of wind blew through his hair, his intricately plaited braids rustling for a moment before settling back against his head. He had taken the time to make his appearance more controlled, more regal, before going ashore to pay his respects to Fionwe and his victorious generals. Shortly after he had spoken to Fionwe, he had seen the mightiest eagles wing their way northwest. They followed the command of their master, Lord Manwe, Fionwe's sire, bringing a message to the refugees still spread across the several small islands which were all that remained of western Beleriand. Now his eyes spied the return of the avian messengers, borne all the more swiftly by the tail wind sent by the Lord of the Air himself. He imagined it filling the pure white sails of the Teleri's swan ships, and knew the ranks of the revelers would swell come the dawn. 'Twas only fitting that all of his kind be present when Fionwe made his pronouncement in the name of the Valar. Why did that inevitability leave Gil-galad with a feeling of foreboding? Surely the Blessed Lands would embrace them again, forgive all transgressions and misguided actions, much as a parent would an errant child.

The question was, did he wish to be forgiven?

A figure softly stirred behind him, the gentle sounds of robes shifting in the wind nearly imperceptible. A throat cleared with obvious purpose, and Gil-galad reluctantly acknowledged the presence. "Yes?" he inquired without turning around.

"My lord, a pardon for the intrusion, but you have a visitor who wishes an audience."

"Who is this visitor, Beldoron?" he asked his faithful herald.

"Elrond Earendilion, sire."

The High King's heart leapt into his throat, a curious combination of anticipation and hesitation stalling his reply. "Have him join me here," he finally instructed. "Alone," he added, almost an afterthought.

"As you wish, my lord."

Gil-galad waited until Beldoron's footsteps had faded from earshot, then shrugged his robes - and his dignity - back into place before turning around. Which of the twins would come into view - the haughty or the haunted? He knew which his heart preferred, yet fear filled him all the same. For the depth of his unexpected captivation with the still unnamed Half-elf scared him more than much of what he had experienced in this age. A sharp breath of delight escaped from his lips as the new owner of his heart slowly walked into view, still dressed in the simple travel-wear of the Eldar race, his hair carefully plaited in a sweeping, loose style.

"My lord," Elrond reverently offered, bowing lower than a person of his bloodlines should.

"What brings you to my ship, when you should be celebrating?" Gil-galad spoke in bluffed seriousness.

"I thought it proper to pay my respects to my king," Elrond earnestly replied.

Gil-galad studied the other without staring, although he found holding the balance the very definition of difficulty. As lovely a figure as he had cut on the shoreline, the son of Earendil was more irresistible still in Ithil's silvery hues. "And what of your brother?" he forced himself to ask with palpable disinterest.

Elrond bristled uneasily, shame coloring his cheeks in a gentle hue only keen elven eyes could discern in the pale light of the eve. "He did not agree," he reluctantly explained.

The High King walked a few steps closer, clasping his hands in front of his robes. "'Tis I who should offer my respects, son of Earendil, heir of Luthien, and my apologies for not arriving at your mother's aid in time." He halted just shy of arm's reach to the peredhel and swallowed hard. "My failure has haunted me all the years since."

"You torment yourself unnecessarily, my lord," Elrond offered. "My life has not been all sorrow, despite my brother's jaded belief otherwise. I hold you no ill will, nor have I ever. Your place was with the better part of what free people remained, protecting Balar. I knew you would come to our aid, yet I also knew it would be too late." He smiled broadly, and the light of his forefathers shone brilliantly despite the relative darkness. "The wounds of the past have borne far too much bitter fruit. This is a new beginning - we should embrace it with open arms and open hearts."

The sagacity of this advice stunned the king. Could it be the half-elven were wiser than the Eldar themselves? "You have the courage of your father and the compassion of your mother." <<And a beauty which surpasses both - within and without, Peredhel.>>

Elrond lowered his eyes in a hint of a bow. "You offer me the best compliment imaginable, my lord."

Gil-galad continued to study the other's features as closely as he dared, and felt his heart soaring and falling at the very same time. <<What words my heart would speak to you, if only I had the ability to express them, and the valor to utter them aloud.>> "Your mother loved you and your brother more dearly than I could hope to explain. I kept her letters - I shall present them to you so you may read her proud words for yourself."

Elrond's eyes brightened, rivaling Helluin. "I would consider that a most precious gift. I have not the words to thank you."

"None are required. It pains me that she cannot tell you in person just how proud she is of you at this moment, but the Valar have made for her a place of peace in the Blessed Lands, and for your sire as well." He noted the depth of sorrow in the other's eyes and was reminded of a similar pain he had carried for far too long. "I, too, miss my mother, even after the passage of many years. It is in her honor that I use the name she gifted upon me, rather than that from my sire."

"I have no other name," Elrond sadly replied. "I never saw my sire until the siege upon Thangorodrim."

"Have you been given no epesse? No kilmessi you have chosen for yourself?"

A hint of color flamed brighter in Elrond's cheeks. "Only the boasts of childish pride."

"Sometimes we know ourselves best as children, before the world makes its demands upon us," the king sagely noted. "Might I be so bold as to ask what name you chose for yourself?"

Elrond hesitated, then acquiesced. "Gil-estelion, my lord."

The king smiled broadly, nodding his approval. "An apt name, and richly deserved." <<Would that you deigned to be my hope.>> You and I have much in common, son of Earendil. You lost your home in the cruelest of betrayals, and were thrust into the theater of battle long before the age of majority. I, too, found myself an orphan, and a refugee, and more unexpectedly, a king, before I thought myself more than a child."

"I do not envy your responsibilities. It must be a lonely lot to find oneself in such a position."

"More lonely than you know," Gil-galad uttered, then regretted. Quickly recovering, he redirected the conversation. "You and I are distant kin, yet our lines were almost joined."

"How so?" Elrond asked with interest.

"My sister offered her heart to Turin, your grandsire's cousin, but he rebuked her love." Gil-galad fleetingly relived the days of his youth with melancholy and regrets. "Some say her love was his only hope of escaping the cruel hand of fate." He signed heavily, the weight of his office, and his life, perfectly painted in its tone. "Some would say that in the end, we cannot escape our fate."

Elrond resolutely shook his head. "Nay, I will not believe the Lady would leave us without hope."

"She allows us our hope, but a false hope it may be."

"No hope is truly false, if it keeps us alive."

Gil-galad chuckled, a hint of a smile tugging at the sides of his mouth. "Now you sound like him."

"Who?"

"Turin Turambar." He paused, admiring once again the features that bore a definite similarity to that noble face, but with a beauty magnified by the blending of Eldar and Adan blood. "When first I saw you on the shore, I thought you were him, reborn."

An inscrutable expression of ill-ease upon his face, Elrond turned away and walked toward the edge of the deck. "So that was the cause of your stare," he sadly spoke, softly and with hesitation.

<<Is that disappointment I hear in his voice?>> Gil-galad felt the flames of hope lick at his heart. Dare he admit what he felt - he knew - without question? "Yes," he lied instead, unable to open himself up to the pain of rejection, no matter how slim that possibility seemed at this moment. "I was also much relieved to see you and your brother still lived."

"Of course you were. 'Tis your duty as our king."

The lament in Elrond's voice tore at Gil-galad's heart. Instinctively, he walked a few silent steps closer and reached out a hand, his fingers nearly connecting with the strong shoulders.

Whether by coincidence or because he sensed the proximity of the wavering hand, Elrond chose this moment to turn around, catching Gil-galad retracting his hand not nearly quickly enough. "My lord?" he inquired, his expression a mixture of hope, surprise, and uncertainty.

Gil-galad felt the heat uncharacteristically arise into his own cheeks, as it had not done since he was a princeling in his father's court. Shaking his head, he turned away himself. <<That was an invitation, I know it without a doubt! Curse my cowardice!>> "Nothing," he mumbled gruffly.

"It grows late, and Lord Fionwe expects our audience come the dawn," Elrond awkwardly offered. "I will trouble you no more this eve."

The king listened carefully and heard no sign of Elrond's leaving. <<Turn around you fool! He has given you a chance to redeem yourself. Do not forfeit this opportunity for happiness! It may be the only one you ever receive.>>

But the sound of a heavy sigh and soft, swift footsteps retreating told Gil-galad he had indeed waited too long. He stared up at the Lady's handiwork, cursing his own weakness and self-doubt. The sound of unexpected steps approaching caught his attention, the king instantly turning toward the sound. But to his palpable disappointment it was not Elrond returning, but Cirdan.

"I saw the Earendilion leave in a rush. Is all well between you?"

Gil-galad sighed and turned away again. "All is as it should be - as it must be between a king and his subject."

Cirdan nodded, understanding what was said and, more significantly, what was not. "What is the use of being king if what is within your heart remains unspoken, my friend? Do not hide behind your office - if you truly desire him, allow him the courtesy of the decision to reciprocate or not."

"I already know what his answer would be," Gil-galad bitterly replied.

"No, you do not, for if you did, you would have never let him leave this ship without your taste upon his lips, and his upon yours." Cirdan smiled sadly at his friend. "I do not know which of you is the blinder, but I do see who is the more stubborn."

The high king kept his back to his advisor, instead staring skyward once more. "What is the use, Cirdan? After Fionwe pronounces the Valar's doom upon us in the morn, our fates may be forever sundered." He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "No, 'tis for the best that nothing was said, and no action taken. To have tasted paradise once only to have it taken from me would be far greater torture than to never have experienced it at all." With that he turned on his heels and stalked past Cirdan without meeting his gaze, retreating to his quarters to pass the remainder of the night alone with his crushing regrets and his shattered dreams.

[The shores of the Gulf of Lhun, the hour of Anor’s greatest height in the vault of the heavens]

With the first of Anor’s rays they arrived from the west, the elegant swan-ships of the Teleri, each bearing as many of Balar’s former residents as was possible. Many of the Eldar had not waited for the graceful sailing vessels to reach the gentle shoals of the newly formed bays and inlets, instead leaping into the shallow waters and rushing ashore to meet the waiting arms of friends and family. The morn had thus been one of rejoicing and renewed familiarity, the refugees welcomed by the host of Beleriand as long-missed kin and the true proof of victory in this war.

At the midpoint of the day the sweet clarion of elvish horns sounded, and the throng gathered more tightly together to hear Fionwe’s pronouncements in the name of Manwe, his sire. He stood on the crest of a small hill, overlooking the unsullied purity of the newly-born shore and the figure-filled grassy plains beyond. Dressed in robes the hues of sky and stars, he appeared a magnificent mixture of his father’s majesty and his mother’s sparkle.

Elrond watched in rapt silence, as he had done for the passing of most of the morn. He had welcomed the few survivors of Arvernien he recognized with a warm smile and earnest relief, but did not know how to answer the increasingly banal platitudes concerning his resemblance to his father and his mother. One particular elvish face he recognized well but made no attempt at contact, Elrond instead avoiding Oropher as a flame does water.

All this was an excuse, a self-imposed ruse, to avoid thinking about the uncertainty of what was to come, of the doom to be pronounced by the Valar upon the Eldar, the Edain, and those who were both, yet strangely neither. It was also a convenient diversion from the other gloom which hung over him as a wet cloak – his humiliation at his presumptuous behavior of the eve before. Surreptitious glances at the High King were all he dared snatch from time to time, the last cut shorter still by the embarrassment of being caught by Gil-galad’s burning gaze. <<Ai, you burn with a fire I have not seen before, Finellachen. You may be Moriquendi by birth, but you are Calaquendi to my heart.>> He silently rebuked himself for giving thought to that hopeless, romantic thought. Had he not been shown the foolishness of his heart on the deck of the royal ship? How dare he consider that the High King of the Noldor might regard him as anything more than a distant kin and loyal subject?

As the throng pressed closer to Fionwe, a nervous twitter filling the air, Elrond glanced to his right, where his brother stood stone-faced with the remainder of the Three Houses of the Edain, his comrades in arms and their distant kin. Elrond noted that his brother cut a most regal figure and easily appeared the mightiest among the mortal band. He stood near his brother not out of a feeling of camaraderie, but simply because he knew not where else he should be.

Where did he belong?

The answer was painfully clear, despite the storm clouds of doubt gathered around his mind. <<With my heart, and my king.>>

The horns blew once more, their echoes dying down just as Fionwe raised his hand to speak. “The Great Enemy is defeated and will trouble these shores no more!”
The crowd erupted spontaneously in a thunderous shout of approval, swords triumphantly raised toward the heavens.

“Feanor’s jewels are returned to the air, the sea, and the earth, and his sons are lost. Their ill-sworn oaths have brought utter ruin upon themselves, as Mandos decreed.” Fionwe lowered his hand, a sweet smile of piquant memory playing across his noble face. “Long ago the Valar offered the First Born a choice, to travel west from Cuivienen, the cradle of their kind, to the Blessed Lands. Many accepted the gracious gift, yet some never completed that journey, despite their original intent. The bonds of loyalty to kin kept them in Beleriand, searching for the king they had feared lost. To you, Elwe’s kin, the Valar again extend the invitation that your forefather’s forfeited in the name of fealty to your lord – to you is given the grace to pass West and see with your own eyes the beauty of Aman.”

A collective gasp of astonishment quickly turned into a burst of joyful exclamation erupting from the crowd. Elrond looked around at the refugees who embraced and sang hymns to Lady Elbereth in their overwhelming joy, and wondered if the invitation was extended to him. After all, was he not descended from Elwe’s daughter, Luthien Tinuviel herself?

Fionwe raised his hand once more to settle the crowd back into attentiveness. “Great sorrow was caused by the rebellion of Finwe’s kin, those who chose to follow Feanor and his sons in their ill-planned pursuit of the Enemy and the cursed jewels. The Blessed Lands were decreed henceforth closed to the rebels. However, Lord Manwe has lifted that ban for all who would return now of their own accord, to come back to their rightful home. Finarfin stands before you now, the King of the Noldor in Aman, and is eager to permanently reunite with all his kin.”

A still louder cry arose among the Eldar, embraces of unbridled joy coupling the Noldor as they had the Sindar before them. Elrond felt his heart rise and fall nearly simultaneously as he watched the crowd around him react to the remarkable news from the West. Surely the offer would extend to him, as the descendent of Finarfin’s brother? Perhaps not, but it would, of course, part his very heart from him. In a panic he sought out Gil-galad with his eyes and found the High King, standing at the base of the grassy hill, and decidedly not among those celebrating. Neither was the fair-haired figure to the High King’s side, her richly appointed, regal apparel and distinctly noble features setting her apart even among the beauty and grace of the Eldar. <<Lady Galadriel?>> Elrond questioned to himself, studying the sorrowed features of his legendary, distant kin.

“What of the Avari?” Gil-galad solemnly spoke above the spontaneously reverie. “Are they not invited to complete the journey they refused in their innocent fear and confusion all those years ago?”

“Some choices cannot be changed in the waning of this age,” Fionwe sadly responded. “Perhaps in the next, but that is not in my power to say.”

“And what of those who would not leave these shores in such a rush? Is the choice forever lost to them as well?”

Elrond sucked in a sharp breath, stunned by his king’s impertinent questioning of the Valar’s gifts.

Fionwe answered without offense, yet was enigmatic once more. “The offer is made at this moment. Who can say for how long the doors of Aman will remain open?” He smiled, his voice turning indescribably melodic and beseeching, as soothing as a mother’s lullaby yet possessing some obvious urgency all the same. “It is the wish of the Valar that the elder children of Eru return home and sit at the side of Manwe and Varda, where they belong.”

Finarfin unexpectedly spoke out from near Fionwe’s hilltop perch, the true king of the Noldor having been nearly forgotten in his purposeful acquiesce to Fionwe’s message. “What say you, daughter mine? Will you now return, now that all is forgiven?”

The Lady Galadriel, as fair of face as her father and no less kingly in demeanor, remained with her king and beside her husband, Celeborn standing silent and serious in his unspoken support. “Middle-earth is our home, and here I will remain,” she answered without hesitation.

Elrond noted the haughty expression in her eyes and wondered at the true reasons for her refusal to return.

Fionwe sighed sadly, shaking his head in obvious disapproval. “You still wish for a kingdom of your own, daughter of Finarfin. Have you learned nothing from the fall of your house?” Hearing no reply, he simply added, “So be it.” He turned his attention to the High King of Middle-earth, his solemn gaze so obviously falling upon the Noldorin Lord, who, in return, did not shrink nor back down from his intense wariness. “What say you to the choice, Ereinion Gil-galad?” Fionwe inquired.

Shrugging his richly embroidered, azure robes around his solid frame, the High King squared his shoulders and held his head high. “I too would remain, not because I wish for the throne, but because it was thrust upon me as a child. Now I accept the responsibility willingly, in the name of those who will not travel West.” He turned his attention toward Elrond and locked eyes with the peredhel without apparent care for who noticed. “And in the name of those who cannot. I will not abandon them.”

Elrond felt the fire of Gil-galad’s gaze melt the remaining ice surrounding his heart and felt himself utterly lost yet at the same time found for the first time since his home had been taken from him. Here he had found a new home – a home of both the flesh and the fea. Now he found he barely heard Fionwe’s voice above the furious beating of his own heart, the moments passing in some strange, fluid, dreamlike state which failed to seem real despite his mind’s assurance that it must be so.

“It seems the house of Finwe has yet learned from its ill-sworn oaths,” Fionwe spoke with palpable approval, “and now puts the good of others before its own benefit. So be it, son of Orodreth, scion of kings.” He raised a hand toward Gil-galad and addressed the crowd with joy and respect. “Peoples of Middle-earth, I give you your High King, once so by birth, but now also with the blessing of the Valar!”

A deafening roar arose from the assembled crowd, yet Elrond found he himself could make no sound, for he was still sweetly snared in the net of the King’s unwavering gaze. He desired above all else to rush to Gil-galad’s side, to capture that resolute mouth in a breath-robbing kiss, but found his feet strangely bound to the grass beneath them. It was as if something were holding him back, something which still made him doubt. He did not distrust the desire of Gil-galad, for that was as undeniable as Anor above. No, Elrond still had doubts about his own self worth. How could he, who did not even know what manner of creature he was, dare to think himself worthy of the High King’s touch and affection?

The trumpets sounded briefly, reluctantly drawing Gil-galad’s attention back to Fionwe and breaking the sensuous spell. Elrond likewise turned his gaze back to the mighty son of Manwe, awaiting what further edicts were apparently to be pronounced. To his amazement and dread, he found his eyes met by the piercing, eagle-sharp sight of Manwe’s heir.

“Sons of Earendil – to you I give a choice of another kind, yet one no less weighty,” Fionwe pronounced with substantial solemnity.

Elrond heard a lyrical voice echo in his head, a long forgotten memory from the uncertain days before the war. <<"Choices will come to you such as you cannot now hope to understand. Always remember to follow your heart, now and until the end of days, and you shall never fail.">> He smiled, remembering the vision of the Lady he sometimes doubted as only a dream. Now he knew without question that it was real, and the Lady had, in her prescient way, prepared him for this moment.

Fionwe continued, his gaze passing equally between Elrond and Elros. “As your parents before you, you must choose, Peredhil, which kind ye would be, Edain or Eldar, body and heart, fate and fea, until the end of Ea. Consider well, and choose your doom.”

Elrond’s eyes instinctively sought out Gil-galad and found his hopeful gaze met with one equally filled with anticipation, and unexpectedly, doubt and worry as well. Elrond smiled slightly, his decision instant and unwavering, one he knew he would never regret, not in the passing of a thousand ages. He opened his mouth to speak but found his brother more swift of tongue.

“I will gladly choose to remain among the Faithful of the Edain,” Elros resolutely offered. “I have no wish to remain tied to this world when I am old and weary of its sufferings. I have already seen far too much of pain. I have seen the First Born fall into evil and obsession and I want no part of their supposed grace.”

“So be it,” Fionwe decreed without emotion. If he had an opinion to the sagacity of Elros’ insult-laden response, he made none apparent. “You have made your choice, and it will be granted.” He next turned his clear, sapphire eyes to Elrond. “What say you, Earendilion the younger?”

It seemed to Elrond that Gil-galad held his breath, his eyes unnecessarily beseeching. <<As if I could refuse you anything, my King, my heart.>> “I, too, am weary of the sorrows of this world,” Elrond slowly began, his tone deceivingly calm. He glanced at Gil-galad and recognized the terror of rejection in the king’s face. A twitch of a smile teased his lips, his heart singing louder with each passing moment. Keeping his eyes firmly trained on the High King’s face, he completed his answer to Lord Fionwe. “Yet whereas my brother wishes to escape from these sorrows, it is my earnest wish to redress them. If I were gifted with the grace and wisdom of the Eldar, I would use them to heal the injuries of the past and ease the suffering of the future, and always rejoice in all that is beautiful and just in this world. Arda may be marred, but ‘tis still the creation of Eru, the One, and it may be made more lovely still with the efforts of many.”

A hint of amusement could be heard in Fionwe’s tone, apparently catching the spark between the High King and the Peredhel that neither cared to deny. “Then you choose as your parents before you, Elrond Earendilion. So be it.”

Elrond found he ached in a way he had never before, his heart filled with indescribable ecstasy, yet at the very same time in agony that he could not bridge the physical gap between himself and the holder of his heart. The blissful expression on Gil-galad’s face mirrored what he felt within him, and he knew he would taste true joy soon enough – as soon as decorum allowed.

Fionwe continued his pronouncements with an obvious tone of satisfaction in his voice. If he found surprise in any of the choices made thus far, he did not acknowledge that fact. “In the name of Manwe the Far-seeing and Mandos the Holder of Dooms, I promise both sons of Earendil that your wishes will be granted in full. To you, Elros, shall be granted the choice to leave the world when the years grow too long and their burden too grave. Yet to you shall be given a span of years in which to be hale and whole in body far longer than any of your kin. You and your line shall be the Kings of Men, and I will remain among you for the passage of some years, instructing you in wisdom and lore which you and yours will pass down through the years. The Valar shall gift upon you and all the Faithful of the Edain a new home, a new beginning, which Lord Ulmo shall raise out of the waves, nearer to the Blessed Lands than these war-torn shores.”

Elrond watched in wonder as the Son of Varda fell silent for a moment, smiled to himself and nodded slightly, as if hearing a voice meant for his ears alone. A shiver ran through Elrond in anticipation as he awaited Fionwe’s next words, uncertain what other unexpected gifts he might be granted this day.

“Elrond shall be welcomed into the company and lifespan of the Eldar, and be granted his wish to partake in their grace and wisdom, and larger measures of both than most. To him also is given the duty of service, to his new people, and their king. Therefore it is decreed that he become esquire to Ereinion Gil-galad and remain with him here in Beleriand where ye both shall build a new kingdom for the Noldor and the Sindar alike, being a bridge between those who have been slayers and the slain, in the name of forgiving ancient ills.”

A loud thunderbolt boomed overhead despite the clarity of the cloudless sky, shaking the ground beneath them. “So it is decreed,” Fionwe announced with up stretched arms. “All dooms have been pronounced, all choices made. Now let us return to the sweet songs of victory and look to the future which is laid out before you all!”

A riotous cheer arose, warriors embracing and maidens weeping in their joy, yet two whose hearts beat as one merely stood in silence, content for the moment to share a knowing expression of anticipation and satisfaction, feeling for all the world as the chosen of the Lady above. 

[Gil-galad's ship, some hours later]
 
 
The door shut behind him with a stiff click, leaving Elrond alone for the first time since the remarkable events of the morn. He looked around the small, private cabin, finding it sparsely furnished with a narrow bed, chair, and mirrored dressing table. He had been brought here to clean himself up, and, he gathered, await his king’s call. A shiver of anticipation echoed through his flesh, the necessity of decorum and agonizing self-control he had been bound to for the long hours of the day finally nearing their end. It had been as the greatest torture standing at Gil-galad’s side for the passing of hours on end, as the well-intentioned Eldar paid their respects to their king and acknowledge his squire, and welcome Elrond into the ranks of the First Born. Elrond had managed to survive his first taste of the burden of office, made more bearable by the fleeting smiles and knowing glances exchanged from time to time with the new owner of his heart.
 
With said heart beating swiftly and his blood burning high, he slowly walked over to the dressing table and poured some water into a basin. He breathed in deeply and detected the distinctive odor of honey wafting into the air. A smile rose to his lips in his amazement that he could detect what he suspected was only the barest hint of a scent.
 
Elrond hadn’t been consciously aware of it at the time, but all the rest of that long day, since the fateful hour of Fionwe’s pronouncements, his senses had slowly heightened, now reaching a sensitivity he suspected matched the mightiest of the Eldar. He stared at his face in the mirror and studied it with much interest and some anticipation. It seemed the very same, yet somehow not so. The lines earned through years lived in the harsh environs of the Great War were still there, though softened somewhat. And there appeared an intensity in his gaze he had not noted there before. He listened to his surroundings and found his ears, too, seemed far keener than they had been when he awoke that morn. Not only could easily hear a mouse scurrying within the woodwork of his cabin, but he distinctly discerned the creature’s breathing as well.
 
With hesitant, uncharacteristically clumsy fingers, Elrond began to undress, first allowing his leather belt to fall to the floor, then shucking off his sand-covered leather boots. He stood and surveyed his figure in the mirror. He sighed as he noted that his elvish transformation had not made him instantly taller or more regal. He unlaced his leather tunic and slung it over the back of the chair, followed by his threadbare, battered undershirt. He winced as he folded the shirt and hung it on the chair. Stained and faded by blood and the grime of war, it was the best garb he owned. He had tried to wash it as best he could before visiting his king for the first time the previous eve, with minimal success. He was therefore not surprised that his first impressions made were less than stellar. A smile of anticipation curved his lips. No matter, this night such pleasures would be his as he had never dared to hope. For he knew his audience with his king – and new lord – would be one of passion and promise.
 
He studied his bare shoulders and chest in the mirror and gasped in surprise at what he found. The myriad angry scars which had previously crossed his flesh in a grotesque web had significantly faded from view. He ran trembling fingers over the strangely smooth skin and wondered at the transformation which remade his flesh in Eldar form seemingly before his very eyes. He continued to undress, unlacing his leggings and shucking them to the floor to step out of them. Staring warily at the flesh that twitched with anticipation between his legs, he felt the insecurity of inadequacy. Would he be fair to Gil-galad’s eyes? Would his touch be pleasurable? Would he be able to hide the fact that he had never touched another in a private way? He felt ashamed, as a maiden in the tender blush of youth, rather than a battle-hardened warrior. Of course he would not be able to hide anything from the elder elf, nor did he truly wish to. There had been enough of lies and treachery in the past of Middle-earth – he did not wish for there to be any compromising their future.
 
<<Our future.>> The thought of spending a single night with the High King in his arms was thrilling enough, but to ponder the possibility that they would spend many nights, many years, perhaps the passing of an entire age together was nearly too blissful to comprehend. Others may pass West to the Blessed Lands, but he had found his own paradise on these newborn shores.
 
With a renewed sense of purpose, he turned his attention to the task at hand, pouring some viscous, flower-scented cleansing oil into the basin and washing all hint of the day’s long hours from his flesh. Afterwards, he donned the simple sapphire robe which had been earlier laid out for him on the end of the bed. He studied his image in the mirror once more and sighed in disapproval. He was certainly cleaner than he was before, and somewhat better dressed, but still woefully inadequate to stand before the king and expect to deserve his affection.
 
Determined to do the best he could to alter his appearance into a more noble form, he undid the loose, looping braids he usually wore in honor of Maglor and carefully plaited his hair in a tight, intricate manner he considered more regal in bearing. He checked his reflection and felt the dragon of insecurity attack him once more.
 
A sharp knock on the cabin door came unexpectedly, panicking him for the moment. “Yes?” he called out, more gruffly than he intended.
 
“My lord, you have visitors,” a voice he recognized as belonging to Gil-galad’s herald called out.
 
Squaring his shoulders, Elrond tugged on the robes, vainly trying to make them somehow look more flattering than they were. Failing miserably, he sighed in his defeat and walked to the door to open it. He could not help but stare at the sight that awaited him. “Lady Galadriel – Lord Celeborn,” he stammered nearly simultaneously, not certain who it was more proper to address first among them. He bowed clumsily, backing into the cabin so the regal pair might enter. Tall they were, Celeborn more so, and carried themselves with an air which made Elrond more keenly aware of his own rough upbringing in the wilds. She had the golden hair of the Vanyar, and he the silver hair of Thingol’s line, the pair of them seeming as the living embodiment of the Two Trees.
 
“Do not bow to us, Elrond Earendilion,” Galadriel lyrically spoke. “I see in your mind that you do not yet understand the nobility of your blood. Not only do my husband and I count you as distant kin, but within you lies the hope for the future. You and your brother are the end of many bloodlines – Thingol and Turgon, Huor and Barahir. It is with reason that many rejoiced upon seeing you and your brother whole and hale upon these shores.”
 
Elrond felt a hint of color singe his cheeks, unaccustomed as he was to thinking of his mixed blood as anything but a sign of immeasurable fault. <<How can she understand my mind better than I can myself?>> A wave of panic washed over him at the thought that she might also be able to read the impure thoughts he held for their king this eve.
 
Galadriel smiled slightly and answered without moving her lips. <<I know that your heart bursts with love, yet that is plain to anyone with eyes. ‘Tis not my place to judge whom you would love, nor would I speak of it to others. We have all suffered far too much pain in this age to begrudge others – or ourselves - the sweet peace of passion.>> Her smile grew bright as Anor’s midday raiment. <<You are still growing into your newfound powers Earendilion. One day you will find that I will no longer be able to visit your mind without your permission.>>
 
Celeborn silently unfolded a bolt of cloth from his arm, and Elrond recognized it as a mantle. “I wish to give you this, son of Luthien’s line, heir of Thingol Greymantle,” the silver haired lord explained. “May it bring your heart closer to that portion of your blood.” He held up the garment for Elrond to inspect. Dark grey it was, the hue of a summer storm, embroidered with small, snow white flowers along the hem and trim. “’Tis said the niphredil sprang from the earth at the birth of Luthien.”
 
Elrond’s eyes widened as he studied the magnificent gift. “’Tis the most generous of gifts, Lor – Celeborn my kin,” he managed to correct himself. “I shall wear it with pride, ever remembering the bond of blood between us.” He allowed Celeborn to hold it for him to slide into, the added weight feeling strangely comforting. He checked his appearance in the mirror and smiled in satisfaction as he buttoned the mantle together at his waist.
 
“There, now you look a Lord of the Sindar,” Galadriel proudly pronounced, smoothing out his shoulders. She gently turned him around to face her, her delicate hands capturing his sword-roughened ones. “You may not have his title, but your blood is no less regal. I count you both as kin, and as equals, from this moment on.” Smiling, she pressed a fleeting kiss of affection upon his cheek then turned to leave, Celeborn following immediately after with a slight bow of acknowledgment.
 
Elrond admired his form in the mirror for the passing of several minutes, feeling more secure in his own position than he had before his visitors. Another rap at the door to his cabin reluctantly pulled him away from the mirror. “Yes?” he called out once more.
 
“My lord, a thousand pardons, but you have another visitor.”
 
Elrond smiled at Beldoron’s apparent discomfort at interrupting his privacy. “Enter,” he called out happily. He turned toward the door, his smile brightening as a familiar face entered the cabin. “Lord Cirdan,” he cheerfully spoke.
 
“Lord Elrond,” the silver-haired shipwright answered with a deep bow. He stepped forward and grasped Elrond’s forearms in a warrior’s greeting. “It brings me great joy to welcome you fully into the company of the Eldar, and into the household of the king.” He studied Elrond’s appearance with a sharp eye and a hint of a tear. “Your mother would be most proud of you, as she was on the day of your birth.”
 
“You were there?” Elrond asked in amazement.
 
Cirdan nodded. “I was the first to hold you, after the midwife, and it was I who presented you to your mother’s awaiting arms. Such a light shone in your face, even then. Now it is amplified still.” His expression slightly shifted, his eyebrows knitted, his eyes reflecting what could only be called disapproval.
 
“What is it?” Elrond self-consciously inquired.
 
“’Tis nothing,” Cirdan replied. “You have changed the style of your braids.”
 
“Yes, I thought this more formal and appropriate, befitting my first audience with the king in my new station. You do not believe it so?”
 
“Pay no mind to the opinion of an old fool,” Cirdan offered with a wave of his hand. “’Tis only that the other style reminded me of – of days long past.” Clearing his throat of the slight catch it had assumed, he reached into the pocket of his forest green robes and pulled out a carefully wrapped package. “I had Celebrimbor fashion this as a gift for your father, my friend and apprentice, to celebrate his return from his voyages and his reign as ruler of Arvernien.” He voice became hushed and sorrowed. “I never had the opportunity to deliver it to his hands.”
 
Elrond accepted the gift with trembling hands, the thought of having something of his father’s thrilling him beyond measure. Carefully unwinding the silken wrapping from the gift, a gasped breath escaped from his lips at the first sight of its contents. It was a coronet, wrought in the finest silver and gold, intertwined like the light of the Two Trees, and set with pearls, which shined with Ithil’s light, and sparkling rubies. “’Tis too fine a piece to sit upon my rough head,” he protested.
 
“Nonsense,” Cirdan answered. Taking the circlet from Elrond’s hesitant hands, he set it into place and directed the wearer’s attention to the mirror. “It sits as if it was made for you alone. The rubies represent the House of Turgon, your father’s grandsire, and the pearls represent the sea, which calls to us always.”
 
Elrond marveled at the reflection which faced him. The piece did sit well upon his brow, and made him look even more stately still. He felt his confidence wax and his insecurities wane.
 
Cirdan watched Elrond preen before the mirror, a smug, knowing smile upon his lips which suddenly turned melancholy. “You may feel me presumptuous, but I find I cannot still my tongue.”
 
“I would never think you such,” Elrond swiftly responded. “’Tis said you are the wisest of all the Eldar. I will always regard you counsel as most valuable.”
 
“Then you are indeed less stubborn and more sage than our king.” Cirdan’s smile twitched brighter, but his eyes reflected the sorrows of past regrets and chances missed. “Do not let the past come between you and your desires. Always look to the future and cherish the present, as both are gifts, but of different sorts.”
 
Elrond raised an eyebrow in confusion. “I do not understand.”
 
The shipwright clasped Elrond on the shoulder. “You will,” he presaged with sorrow-filled eyes, then turned to walk away.
 
Elrond watched the elder elf leave in silence, Cirdan’s silver hair cascading down his back like a river of moonlight. An unexpected connection was made in Elrond’s mind, shocking him, yet making sense all the same. “Celebrenol,” he whispered.
 
Cirdan suddenly stopped at the doorway, a visible shiver running through his tall frame. He cautiously turned around to face Elrond once more, but the quiver in his voice betrayed his attempt at detached coolness. “What did you say?”
 
“Then ‘tis true,” Elrond marveled in hushed reverence. “You are the one of whom he sang, in the deepest hours of the night, when he thought none listened to his private pain.”
 
“What did he sing?” Cirdan pressed, taking several wary steps closer.
 
“Of love and passion, chances taken and chances lost. Of the great sorrow he ever bore because of the distance the terrible oath of his family created between you.” Elrond smiled, closing the distance between himself and Cirdan and resting a hand upon the other’s shoulder. “He was a fine foster father to my brother and me, and rued every drop of blood which was spilled in the name of his father’s accursed gems.”
 
Cirdan nodded slowly, a hint of moisture in his eyes despite the smile upon his lips. “I thank you for the spark of joy your words have brought to me. Now you understand why I say you should not waste your chance at happiness.”
 
“I do,” Elrond whispered softly.
 
“He desires you as you do him. I saw it in his eyes last night when you left his side, as your own eyes betrayed you to me, and to him as well.”
 
“I know.”
 
“Then do not let anything come between you – not now, nor in the years and ages to come.”
 
“I will not – I swear,” Elrond firmly promised. “Only Mandos alone can separate us.”
 
The wisest of the wise smiled sadly to himself. <<And He shall, one day.>> “Then I will not take any more of your valuable time this eve. We shall have many a chance to speak of the mistakes of the past and what hopes we have for the future.”
 
“I look forward to both,” Elrond answered with a smile. He watched Cirdan bow slightly and leave in silence. Such revelations had this day born, this last being as important in its own way as Fionwe’s. <<Where is Maglor this night? Does he know we speak of him? Shall I ever lay eyes upon him again?>> A melancholy sigh was softly given wing into the night at the thought of his foster father wandering alone in his sorrow and the madness of his agony after being burned by the silmaril. Another unexpected knock at the door caught his attention. “Enter,” he called out instinctively, wondering what manner of surprise was to find him this time.
 
A moment of hesitation passed, then the door slowly opened, and Elrond beamed as he recognized a beloved face from his childhood days. “Meleth,” he murmured in wonder, tears instantly welling up in his eyes.
 
“Maerhun,” the raven haired nursemaid replied with sobbed tears of relief and joy as she rushed into the cabin. She knelt at Elrond’s feet, clutching his hands in hers, but Elrond instantly pulled her up to her feet and embraced her tightly. “I feared you and your brother were dead,” she babbled.
 
“As we did you,” Elrond replied through tears of his own. Tenderly he pulled away, holding her at arm’s length as he wiped the tears from her eyes with a single finger. “You survived the ruin of Arvernien.”
 
“Aye, my lord, I did. I was badly wounded, but Lord Cirdan and our King found me in time, and I was returned to health by the King’s healers themselves. I have had the pleasure of serving in his house ever since.”
 
“He has treated you well, I hope,” Elrond queried with interest.
 
Meleth smiled broadly in return. “As well as your mother and your sire’s mother before her. It has been my honor to serve him, as I have your family through several generations.” She studied Elrond’s face with sorrow, the fingers of one hand tracing out the lines in his brow. “What horrors you have faced,” she tremulously whispered.
 
“Morgoth was as terrible as you warned us as children,” Elrond recounted, a sad smile of understanding curving his lips. “You were right to use his name to frighten my brother and me into rightful actions.”
 
Clutching his larger hands in hers, Meleth raised them to her lips for a kiss. “I would that I could have spared you such a sight, and all the pains you have suffered since last I saw you.”
 
“I have learned that one needs to experience the darkness so one can fully appreciate the light.”
 
Meleth smiled broadly, stroking one of Elrond’s cheeks with the back of her hand. “You were always the wiser of Earendil’s sons, and the light of the First Born ever shone in your face. Now it shines more keenly still.” She reached into the pocket of her golden dress and pulled out a small parcel, holding it reverently between the palms of her hands. “Your mother bade me to save this at all cost,” she explained. “It was her most treasured possession, after the Silmaril which had been won at the cost of Beren’s hand and many lives.” She offered the package to Elrond and watched as he unwrapped it. “’Twas a gift from Idril to Tuor on the day of their betrothal, and you father gifted it upon your mother in the very same circumstance. It would give your parents the greatest pleasure to have you present it to one you love, someday.”
 
It was a broach, wrought in silver and gold, masterfully molded in the shape of two intertwined swans, an obvious symbol of love and the solemn bindings thereof. “I have not the words to thank you,” Elrond offered in hushed tones.
 
Meleth took the broach from his hands and proudly fastened it to his chest, smoothing out his robes around the decoration when she was done. “None are required. Seeing you one more time before I sail West is more joy than I ever expected. ‘Tis a gift from the Lady Above.”
 
Elrond was gravely saddened at the idea of Meleth passing West, but realized it was but the first of many separations his choice would henceforth demand. She had survived the destruction of Gondolin and Arvernien and deserved naught but the rest and security of the Blessed Lands. “May you find the peace you deserve.”
 
“May you find the love you deserve,” Meleth offered in return. She cupped Elrond’s face with one hand and gazed upon him as if to memorize his face, then turned to leave.
 
As he watched her depart, a single hopeful thought rang through his head. <<With the Lady’s grace, I believe I already have.>> 

[Gil-galad's private cabin, some moments later]
 
The High King stood before his gilded dressing table mirror, brushing out his night colored mane with unsteady hands. Gone were the carefully woven braids and all other pretence of the throne, replaced by the simplicity of unadorned hair and an unpretentious, honey-hued robe. He was determined to appear to Elrond’s eye in this rough and honest way, yet a portion of his heart still insecurely wondered if he would be found as fair and desirable thus stripped the majesty of his office.
 
A sharp rap on the door caught his attention and set his heart aflutter. “Enter,” he called out brusquely, attempting to mask his nervousness the most natural way he could. He smiled at the sight of his herald and trusted friend bowing upon entering. “Is Lord Elrond ready for an audience?”
 
“He is, my lord,” Beldoron affirmed.
 
Gil-galad nodded with satisfaction. “Very good. Bring him to my quarters then.”
 
“As you wish.” The herald turned away, then stopped, hesitated and finally turned back to face his king. “My lord, there is something I feel I must say.”
 
Strange waves of panic swept over the normally steadfast king. “Is something amiss with Lord Elrond?” he narrow-mindedly assumed.
 
Beldoron smiled slightly, apparently finding amusement in the other’s uncharacteristic insecurity. “Far from it. He eagerly awaits your company.”
 
“Then what troubles you?”
 
The herald glanced down at the wooden planks of the floor and nervously cleared his throat, yet did not reveal the millstone of his thoughts.
 
Gil-galad stepped closer to the elder elf, reaching out a hand to clasp the other’s armored shoulder. “We have known each other since I was barely out of my cradle. You have never found it necessary to still your tongue before, so why do you do so now? Speak without fear of rebuke or of disappointing me.”
 
“Alas, I know I must do the second,” Beldoron sorrowfully replied. He hesitantly raised his eyes to meet his king’s gaze, his own expression burdened with the weight of long-pondered decisions. “I have served your house with all my strength, and have never rued one moment spent in that honored task. Yet now my heart would accept the Valar’s offer, and sail West.” He hesitated, then added, “With your leave, my lord.”
 
A bittersweet smile softened the king’s face. He squeezed the other’s shoulder, then allowed his hand to fall away. “You need not ask my leave, my friend. You have served my father and me with distinction, and it is with a peaceful heart that I release you from all responsibilities. I shall miss you dearly, but you above all others I know deserves the peace of the Blessed Lands.”
 
Beldoron smiled broadly and clasped the king’s forearm in friendly salute. “Perhaps we shall see each other again, on the shores of Eldamar.”
 
“Perhaps,” the High King, echoed without conviction.
 
Allowing their arms to part, Beldoron bowed deeply and turned to fulfill his King’s orders for what they both knew would be one of the last times.
 
Moments turned to veritable ages as Gil-galad paced around his cabin, watching the candlelight flicker across the room from the wall-mounted, silver sconces. The light appeared to tremble and vacillate with the same uncertainty as his heart. They still seemed but a dream, all the sweet events of this momentous day. Could he truly be so blessed as to have the vision of his heart bound to his household by the Valar’s will, and made his equal in the span of life and powers of wisdom? <<May this truly be the answer to all the prayers of my life, Lady Elbereth.>>
 
A hesitant knock made his heart skip, and with held breath he walked over to open the door with his own hand. He meant to welcome Elrond into his cabin with all the eloquence of his well-rehearsed lines, but instead found he had lost the power to speak in the presence of such an unexpectedly beauteous image. Dressed in the finery of the highest elven courts, Elrond looked every bit the summation of his noble bloodlines, and the height of all the king’s desires. Gil-galad backed further into his cabin, allowing Elrond to enter without a word, all the while the two elves engaged in a silent conversation of wonder, intently studying each other with widened eyes.
 
Their expressions morphed from shock to smiles, to smoldering want and need, all within the timing of a few beats of their hearts. Finally Gil-galad broke the spell, chuckling lowly as he bowed. “You honor me with the symbols of the great houses of your blood, son of Earendil.”
 
Elrond bowed even lower in return. “Nay, you honor me, by being the ellon and not the office this night.”
 
Gil-galad bathed Elrond with his sweeping gaze, lingering over every hint of skin not covered by the flowing robes, his mind painting its own sensual picture of what well-formed flesh lay underneath. He smiled slyly as his eyes settled upon the floor. “Is this some custom of your forefathers which has never before reached my ears?” he playfully teased.
 
Elrond glanced down guiltily and shifted the robes to vainly try to veil his inappropriately bare feet. “My boots were far too rough and marred with wear and weariness to profane these magnificent gifts my kin have given to me,” he admitted with palpable shame. “I pray you will forgive my lapse in decorum, my lord.”
 
The High King closed the distance between them and raised a hand as if to stroke the other’s cheek, but curled his fingers into his palm instead and smiled in self-restraint. “Some say Luthien danced with feet unadorned upon the grassy glens of Doriath. Did that make her any less fair?” With a smile he turned away, slowly walking over to a small table set in one corner of the cabin. He poured two glasses of a viscous, golden liquid from a crystal decanter then carried the drinks back and handed one to Elrond. “This is made from precious flowers which only grew on Balar the blessed. A single bottle was all I could save when the isle was lost to the rending of the world in the Last Battle.” He stared sadly at the glass, cradling it in both hands. “’Tis the last bottle which shall ever be.”
 
“Then I shall cherish every sip.”
 
<<As I shall cherish every moment of this night.>> Gil-galad watched in utter rapture as the glass was raised to Elrond’s awaiting mouth. The luscious lower lip pressed against the rim of the glass while the slimmer upper petal caressed the top, the smallest of openings between the rosy flesh petals welcoming the liquid. Elrond tilted back his head slightly to drink more fully, the elegant throat rippling noticeably as he swallowed. The king felt nothing less than fire surge through him, settling in that private area whose impulses he had learned to ignore for so very long. He envied the glass, and the wine, and even the very air for passing between those maddeningly desirable lips. For the briefest of moments he contemplated wrenching the glass from Elrond’s hands and pressing him onto the bed to smother him in kisses both sweet and strong. But alas, he could not profane his respect for the Peredhel by such base and rude actions. Instead he gulped down his wine, placing the empty glass down upon his nearby dressing table.
 
“My lord? Have I done something to disturb you?” Elrond urgently inquired.
 
<<Aye – nay – ai, I am utterly come undone!>> “This whole day has been as a dream to me, Earendilion,” Gil-galad earnestly admitted with a sigh.
 
“To me as well,” Elrond concurred. He finished his drink and took a step forward, setting his empty glass down next to Gil-galad’s. He seemed to glance at his reflection in the mirror, then turned away abruptly as if he did not like what he had seen. “When I and my brother were children, we worshipped you from afar,” he softly spoke, his voice dripping with awe. He fixed his eyes upon Gil-galad’s face, the king nearly melting under the heat of their intensity. “You were as a legend to us, like the Valar, and the West. I never thought I would actually stand in your presence.” His eyes grew hooded in obvious desire, his voice low and husky with barely restrained need. “Especially not as one of your kind.”
 
“’Tis I who would worship you this night,” Gil-galad offered in return, stepping so close to the younger elf that he could feel Elrond’s breath upon his face. “You are, and ever shall be, my sole vision of the Blessed Lands.” He hesitated, then noting his own unquenchable longing undeniably mirrored in Elrond’s face he raised his hand once more and brushed the back of his fingers against the other’s high cheek. “And yet you are far more of a blessing then those shores could ever be.” He felt Elrond shudder under his tender touch and his heart leapt in joy. “What would you have me do?” he whispered huskily.
 
Elrond closed his eyes and tilted his head, pressing more fully into the fleeting contact. “I would have my king do whatever he wishes.”
 
“Look at me, heir of Earendil.” Gil-galad waited until the storm-hued eyes met his own passion-flamed gaze. “What your king – what I wish – is that you do naught but what you are wont to do, this night and all others that you are in my house.” He rotated his hand to cup the angled face, feeling the heat rise in that pale flesh. “What is in your mind – and your heart - to do?”
 
“I – I cannot be so bold, sire,” Elrond stammered softly, his eyes pleading, his breath uneven and rushed.
 
The king slowly shook his head, a hint of a smile twitching his lips. “No, ‘tis I who would be too bold. A king cannot claim that which is not given freely and without reservation.” He brought his lips closer to the other’s, feeling the increasingly wracked breath flutter across his mouth. “This night I wish to forget the burdens of my office, and the pains of this age. You alone have the ability to grant my wishes, and for that I believe you are nothing less than a gift from the Lady of the Stars.”
 
“As I believe you are to me.”
 
“Then claim your prize, as the Lady wishes.”
 
Elrond hesitated for a moment, his gaze still locked upon the other’s with an intensity only Eldar eyes could withstand. He succumbed to the invitation without a word, winding his arms around the other’s back and capturing Gil-galad’s mouth in a brief, exploratory kiss which instantly deepened to the height of passion’s fullest ardor.
 
All that they had endured, suffered and lost seemed to bring them to this singular, healing moment. If a solitary kiss could heal the hurts of an entire age, this would be the one. Each had spent the years of their lives utterly alone despite the earnest company of others, always feeling somehow incomplete. Now each understood that they had found what was missing of themselves – namely the other half of their hearts.
 
Gil-galad laced his fingers through the carefully secured braids, using them as reins to lock their lips into deeper contact still. He suckled the other’s lips with bruising force, desperate and possessive, then suddenly pushed away. “Nay, I will not rush this. I have wanted nothing else since the first moment I spied you on these foreign shores.”
 
“As have I,” Elrond sensually purred. The hint of color Gil-galad’s kisses had raised in his cheeks deepened sharply. “I – I must admit….” He fell curtly silent, glancing away from the king’s impassioned gaze.
 
“You have never shared such pleasures with another before,” Gil-galad patiently finished with knowing certainty. “Which makes this moment more precious still,” he huskily whispered. He hesitated, thinking perhaps he should reveal a secret of his own, but thought the better of it. <<Best to let him believe that I have experience that he does not.>> He brushed his lips across the other’s in fleeting, teasing brevity. “I shall make your pleasure my sole concern, my most solemn duty. I shall not cease until every morsel of your body crackles with the lighting of summer, sings sweetly as the birds of spring. I shall show you how blessed these lands might be, so long as we two are joined as one.” With that promise he reclaimed the kiss-swelled lips once more and began the fulfillment of his sensual pledge.

The son of Varda’s brightest star and his radiant starlight passed many magnificent moments in the simple enjoyment of each other’s taste, content to memorize each subtle nuance of awareness their heightened Eldar senses allowed. The soft rasp of tongues dueling, the hushed sound of lips shifting against each other, each new sensation was a renewed source of rejoicing and wonder.
 
Breathless and flushed in the excitement of ripened anticipation, Gil-galad trailed his mouth along the other’s jaw, hovering over the tender shoreline of a finely shaped ear. “Your kisses are as Anor’s flame itself,” he huskily breathed. “They burn me, yet I feel naught but delight.” The king shifted his hips forward, grinding his veiled, turgid flesh against Elrond’s lower body. His impertinent member was instantly rewarded by the discovery of its likewise robe-sheathed twin. A smile of knowledge curled the king’s lips. “You desire me as deeply as I do you, pen-bain-nin,” he purred in a breath, tracing his tongue along the delicate sculpture of the ear’s pointed peak.
 
“Nay, more so,” Elrond breathlessly swore in return. “I have wanted nothing as badly as I do you at this moment, lachen-nin.” He slid a serpentine hand between the friction-warmed fabric which separated them and cupped the other’s handful of urgency. “Nothing.”
 
“Then you shall have me, in each and every way you desire.” Gil-galad stepped out of their embrace and with a slightly evil smile, his gaze focused keenly upon the other, unfastened his robe and slid it off his shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor in a shimmering cascade of honey-hues. He stood before the object his heart’s sole longing, unadorned save for the smoldering heat of his desire. With one hand placed over his heart, he sank to one knee, his eyes never relinquishing their iron hold on Elrond’s sight. “Tonight I am your humble servant, and you are my lord.” He knelt in silence, his eyes tracing out the beads of nervous sweat which glistened upon that noble brow. “With your leave, my lord, I would rid you of the burden of your mantle.”
 
“Then make it so,” Elrond eagerly agreed, his voice tremulous with need and obvious thrill. His eyes unabashedly focused lower than the king’s face, evidently on the proud shaft which saluted him from between Gil-galad’s thighs.
 
Gil-galad rose to his feet, bowed slightly, completely unabashed by his nakedness and the tension of his flesh, and stepped behind the peredhel. He wound his arms around the other’s waist and slowly unfastened the mantle’s single, ornate, golden button. He allowed his fingers to linger there, gently caressing the flat plain of Elrond’s stomach through his robes, the Noldor’s breath hot and moist on the side of his lover’s neck. With measured meter he traced his fingers up the embroidered lines of the mantle’s lapels, carefully paying brief homage to the raised peaks of flesh which stood on each side of Elrond’s chest. Reaching the shoulders, he grasped the garment and slid it off the other’s limp arms, allowing it to puddle to the floor as an ocean of grey velvety foam while he ran his tongue down along the length of the younger elf’s neck. He received the gift of a sweet shudder running through the other, and smiled to himself in satisfaction.
 
Pressing his insistent need firmly into the back of Elrond’s sapphire robe, he slid the shaft up and down along the cleft which broached those firm, fleshy globes. He was soon rewarded by a low moan, and the solid pressure of Elrond swaying back into his embrace, intensifying the contact. “My lord, you seem far too hot in this robe. Might I remove its offending weight from your royal skin?”
 
Elrond nodded enthusiastically, his voice rough with need and the hesitation of one inexperienced in the ways of passion’s rules of engagement. “Yes, I beg of you.”
 
The High King pressed a kiss into his lover’s hair, lingering to drink in the floral fragrance tinged with the sultry natural scent of Elrond’s skin. “My lord need never beg me for anything. My purpose is to fulfill his every desire, this night and all others.”
 
“Then let me feel you against me, skin to skin,” Elrond begged, his voice cracking under the strain of unbridled necessity.
 
“As you wish.”
 
As the fleeting of night from dawn’s rosy embrace, Gil-galad broke their contact with a backward step. He spun Elrond around to face him and, with cautious fingers, removed the obvious heirloom of Earendil’s house from the robe, reverently setting it upon the dressing table for safekeeping.
 
Elrond made as if to remove the jeweled circlet from his head but Gil-galad countered that action with a firm hand and firmer tone. “No, I beg you, leave it where it is,” he urged. To his relief he was rewarded with a slight nod, and the sensual game continued with renewed resolve.
 
Gil-galad unbuttoned the sleek robe with nimble yet unrushed fingers, and once freed of all bindings pushed it back off Elrond’s well-formed shoulders. As it fell to the floor in a waterfall of night hues, the king blessed each shoulder in turn with a non-too-delicate kiss of welcome and ownership. “The stars envy your beauty, Earendilion, and I weep with joy that it is within my grasp. The Lady is most generous indeed, to allow such loveliness to grace my arms rather than her heavens.”
 
“Your tongue rivals Maglor’s in its talent to weave exaggeration into song,” Elrond uncomfortably countered, the crimson of blood coloring his cheeks.
 
“’Tis no exaggeration, but the truth of my heart.” Gil-galad claimed one of Elrond’s hands in his and pressed the still-calloused palm to his lips, then curled their conjoined hands to his heart. “The years of our lives have overflowed with the horrors of war, mere survival an uncertainty. I will not apologize for the song of joy your presence has awakened in my heart.” With that he captured the other’s lips in a crushing kiss of undeniable ownership and desperation, his fingers winding around the carefully plaited braids as ropes binding them even closer together.
 
Feeling Elrond tremble in his embrace as their equally needful tumescence ground into imperative acquaintance, he resumed the secondary role he had chosen to portray. “Your bed awaits, sire,” he whispered.
 
“No, our bed awaits – lead me to it,” Elrond begged between urgent sucklings of the other’s lips.
 
Gil-galad took the other’s hand and raised it to his lips, blessing the back of the fingers with a lingering kiss. He repeated his benediction to the palm and wrist in turn. Sensing a shudder run through the sensitive skin, the king smiled into the final kiss and raised the hand to cup his own cheek. With his free arm wound around Elrond’s slender waist, he danced them back to the waiting bed, falling gracefully back onto the comfortable mattress with Elrond pulled down atop him in fluid obeisance to gravity.
 
True to his early pronouncements, the High King refused to succumb to the alluring call of immediate pleasures, forcing himself instead to linger maddeningly long in the passionate prelude of Elrond’s alluring kisses. He felt his lover writhe impatiently against his body, each purposeful thrust of engorged flesh against its mate sending sparks of pure lightning coursing through his entire being.
 
Unable to control himself for another agonizing moment, Gil-galad rolled their inseparable bodies over on one side, one hand desperately clutching the tightly bound braids framing Elrond’s face. He suckled the other’s bottom lip, gently nipping it before relinquishing his oral control. “You desire to feel my flesh against yours?” he huskily purred, shifting his hips to thrust his spear against the other’s.
 
“Yes,” Elrond breathlessly whispered. “I can wait no longer.”
 
“Neither can I.” Sheathing both their members within the curve of his free hand, Gil-galad began to pleasure himself as he had often done, yet this was far more sensual still. The sensation of Elrond’s hot breath upon his face, growing more staccato with the passing of moments, the velvety caress of his lover’s turgid flesh against his, made the familiar rhythm of his fingers as a glimpse of Eldamar itself. He felt Elrond tense and twitch in that telltale way, and plundered the gasping, moaning mouth with his tongue. The first shuddered spray of liquid warmth against his stomach dragged the king into the welcoming abyss himself, and drowned his own guttural groans of delight in the pool of his lover’s mouth.
 
Their kisses grew less desperate as the tremors of their release faded away into the realm of memory, their flesh relaxing within the king’s continued grasp. Gil-galad released the other’s lips and loosened his sticky fingers, bringing them up to his lips to taste. With his smoldering gaze locked into the other’s heavy-lidded eyes, he began to clean his fingers with purpose, wondering at the intermingled taste of musk and spice. “I desire to taste you in full,” he announced, then shifted position, rotating himself to face the foot of the bed. Wrapping his fingers around the other’s now relaxed flesh, he pressed a tender kiss against the glistening crown, then began to gently lap his tongue around the sensitive, ridged circumference.
 
Gasped groans of appreciative satisfaction wafted through the air, and Gil-galad smiled into his task with renewed enthusiasm. Despite his inexperience in pleasuring another in this way, it appeared he had learned enough in his surreptitious observation of his tutor’s private affairs to be crowned an apt pupil. Elrond shifted beside him and Gil-galad assumed it was in appreciation of his masterful pleasuring. A small gasp of surprise escaped from the king’s lips as he felt the other’s fingers cradle his lax flesh and then lips caress the responsive rim. Focusing on his own mission he swallowed the bulbous head and ran his tongue along its sensitive underside, his attentions soon rewarded with a renewed rigidity in his lover’s groin, and his own.
 
Without warning, he found his entire length engulfed in the wanton warmth of Elrond’s mouth in a slow, steady swallow, and shuddered in delight. Determined to match his mate in this game of sensual skills, he too slid his mouth down along the length of the tumid shaft, but found his throat betrayed him in the end. Backing off just short of the other’s stomach, the king concentrated instead on masterful ministration paid to the length he could comfortably accommodate.
 
Gil-galad increased both the speed and intensity of his oral embrace, delighting in the upward rise in the engorged, fleshy orbs which adjoined the other’s shaft. He felt his own needful flesh released, a moan of disappointment instinctively rumbling in his throat. Yet the words which followed more than compensated for any loss of contact, and were burned into the recesses of his most treasured memories until the end of Arda.
 
“Ai, I can bear it no more! I must have you, now! Become one with me, fill me as I know you desire!”
 
The High King shuddered, both in overwhelming desire and the fear of being found out for the neophyte he was. He shifted around to face the flushed features which beseeched him from the head of the bed. “What do you know of such things,” he bluffed with forced humor.
 
“Enough to know ‘tis the most wondrous pleasure two edhil can share.” He paused, reaching down a hand to wind it through Gil-galad’s tousled mane. “Please, my lord. Grant me this one thing.”
 
Elrond’s voice tore through Gil-galad’s heart, the sorrow, the need, the longing, and plea nearly too much to bear. He captured the hand which caressed his hair and brought it to his lips for a kiss, then clutched it tightly to his cheek. “You are the lord of my heart, and my one true victory in this accursed war. If you desire me, then have me you shall, once, twice, or even without pause until the return of Anor to the sky, if that be your wish.” <<I beg the Lady, may I not disappoint you by the inadequacy of my skills.>>
 
With that he leaned forward and reclaimed his favorite lips, lingering in the tremulous contact, the shivers of anticipation equal parts his own and his lover’s.
 
A momentary wave of panic swept over the inexperienced king, the realization of one necessity for coupling somehow penetrating into his passion-hazed mind. Releasing Elrond’s lips, he pressed a single finger across the swollen petals of his lover’s mouth and whispered, “Dartho.” Seeing Elrond watch him in frozen anticipation, Gil-galad gracefully rolled off the bed and sprinted across the room to his dressing table. His fingers floated over several bottles and jars in turn, settling upon a slick, sweet-smelling hair lotion used to tame his dark mane.
 
Grasping the bottle in one hand, he returned to the bed and knelt beside Elrond, raking his free hand through the tightly coiled braids. The younger elf tilted back his head with closed eyes, his lips slightly parted in wanton expectation. Gil-galad traced the tip of his tongue along the pulsing perfection of the alabaster neck, gently nipping the sensitive skin just below the ear. “Hwinio-or,” he whispered sensuously. “On your hands and knees.” He felt a shiver tremble through his lover’s flesh and pressed a deep, promissory kiss onto Elrond’s lips. Releasing them with an exaggerated suck, he knelt back and allowed Elrond to assume the position he had requested.
 
Gil-galad removed the top from the bottle with one hand while the other gently caressed broad circles across one firm, fleshy globe. Halting his motion, he poured more lotion than he intended into the palm of his hand, then leaned down to set the bottle onto the floor. He spread most of the fluid across the length of his already weeping rod, then ran a slickened finger across the fullness of Elrond’s private cleft. A loud moan of approval, and the hips instinctively bucked backwards, increasing the intensity of the contact. Swallowing hard, Gil-galad tentatively pressed one fingertip against the sensitive, puckered entrance and with held breath slid it slowly inside.
 
He wondered at the tightness and for a moment doubted that he would be able to honor Elrond’s begged request. Retracting his finger, he was met with a groan of obvious disappointment. “Patience, meleth-nin,” he whispered, then returned his finger – and a companion – to the glove-like fit of Elrond’s body. He twisted his fingers as leaves in the wind, and his inexperienced attempt at pleasuring and preparing was met with naught but encouraging moans of delight.
 
Elrond’s breath became wracked, his flesh flushed, his hips gyrating in synchronicity with the elder elf’s strokes. “You tease me, ai, you torment me,” he breathlessly whispered.
 
Gil-galad leaned forward and proffered a kiss upon the base of the other’s spine, his fingers stilled for the first time in many moments. “Would you have me now, my lord?” he huskily answered, already knowing the answer.
 
Braids waved in the air as Elrond nodded with great enthusiasm.
 
“Then tell me what you desire most, my lord, and I will make it so.”
 
“You, I desire naught else but you.”
 
Gil-galad smiled lasciviously to himself, delighting in the delicious sense of control his unintended game had granted him. “Is this what you desire – more of the same?” he inquired with mock innocence, sliding his fingers nearly out of their sheath, then sliding them all the way in once more.
 
Elrond groaned, bucking back against the tormenting digits. “You know what I desire,” he gruffly replied. He reached one hand between his own legs and captured Gil-galad’s moistened shaft. “All of you – all of this – within me.”
 
The High King gasped as the younger elf squeezed his passion-sensitized flesh. “Then you shall have me, and I shall have you – now!” He felt his rod released and sucked in a steeling breath, then slid his fingers from their temporary home. Positioning the swollen head of his eager member at the gate, he hesitated for the passing of a single moment, then breached the walls in a single, fluid stroke. The tightness amazed him, thrilled him, and he found he had to take a moment to adjust to the sensation. “How does it feel?” he asked hushedly.  
 
“As nothing I have ever felt, nor could I ever hope to describe,” Elrond whispered so lowly only keen elven ears could discern.
 
For the briefest of moments, Gil-galad felt jealous, wishing to feel their coupling from Elrond’s perspective. As exquisite as it felt to be surrounded, nay owed, by his lover’s tightness, he now wished that he could be the one taking possession. Without thinking he pushed more fully into the flesh gauntlet and was met with an unmistakable gasp of shock and pain. Gil-galad froze, afraid to move even a hair’s breadth either in advance or retreat. He cursed his lack of mindfulness and his inadequacies of experience. “I have hurt you, meleth-nin?” he worriedly inquired, tenderly caressing the sides of Elrond’s hips. He felt his flesh deflate slightly in response and dreaded that the most perfect of experiences had been utterly ruined.
 
“Nay, I – I was just taken unaware,” Elrond breathlessly assured the elder elf. “I did not know you would feel so – sizeable.”  
 
Despite his fear that any hint of movement would only add to the other’s discomfort, Gil-galad shuddered at the sensual compliment, his shaft returning to its previous tension with a twitch. “And I did not know anything under the Lady’s stars could feel so perfect, so – completing – as your body does to mine.” He gasped in utter surprise and thrill as Elrond slowly, deliberately, pushed back against him, welcoming him more fully into that intimate sheath. He felt those full, fleshy cheeks gently slap against his skin and he knew he had found his very own taste of the Flame Imperishable.
 
They settled into a slow, deliberate rhythm, a symbiotic dance of delights where none led and none followed, and both found their every expectation exceeded beyond compare.
 
Gil-galad unconsciously shifted slightly in response to a twitch in one leg, and was unexpectedly rewarded with a guttural moan of intensified pleasures. Uncertain what he had done in the blindness of his ignorance, he did not question his blessed luck, and continued to thrust forward in exactly the same manner.
 
Bliss beyond description enveloped the king, flowed through him, turned him utterly boneless. Desperately he grasped onto Elrond’s hips, his fingers digging into the other’s flesh as he tried to keep connected with reality. Elrond thrust back more desperately against him, the sharp smack of flesh upon flesh the sweetest melody imaginable to his ears.
 
Suddenly Elrond stiffened and shuddered, screaming unintelligibly into his pillow. Gil-galad found himself being dragged over the precipice of pleasure and tumbling into the void of mindless completion. Caught utterly unprepared by the overwhelming waves of ecstasy which swept over him, he threw back his head and screamed out his delight in a volume more suitable to the field of battle than the privacy of his bedroom.

Under the canopy of the Lady’s twinkling gems, the lovers stood unaccompanied on the deserted ship deck, staring over the water at the grassy shores beyond where the Elvish host peacefully slept. The gentle slap of wave against wood filled the air, occasionally punctuated by the forlorn call of an errant bird. The two plainly robed figures stood at the wooden railing, wrapped in their spooned embrace, and utterly bereft of adornment of office or bloodline.
 
The younger of the Eldar rested his head back against his lover’s cheek, soaking in the intimate, barely detectible brushing of lips against his braids. Elrond trained a lazy eye across the deck, his ears not picking up the slightest hint of company. “The volume of your passion strikes fear in the hearts of your crew,” he teased. “None dare show their face until the safety of the dawn.”
 
The king chuckled lowly, playfully digging tickling fingers into the other’s waist. “If it will grant us private moments such as these, I shall remember to scare others away more often.”
 
Elrond wriggled uncomfortably, but not merely from the action of the king’s hands. “Does it distress you that some may know about us?” an insecure voice inquired.
 
The response was firm and instant. “Nay, why should it?” A weighty sigh whistled through Gil-galad’s lips. “Loving you is the most noble thing I have done in this accursed age.
 
“Some say a new age began today.”
 
“Then it shall be the most noble thing I do in this new age as well.” Smiling broadly, Gil-galad wound his arms possessively around Elrond and whispered low in his ear. “Woe to any who deign to come between us, in this age or any other.” The High King hesitated, a hint of uncharacteristic insecurity settling in his voice. “Does the dawn find you satisfied, meleth-nin?”
 
“More than I thought possible,” Elrond assured his lover.
 
“I did not know how to – prepare myself – for your audience.”
 
“What do you mean?”
 
“As foolish as it now seems, I wished to leave behind my office for one night and stand before you as myself, for you to either accept or reject without prejudice.”
 
Elrond chuckled in amusement. “’Tis not foolish – I find it the greatest compliment possible. But you should know that I could no more reject you than the grass spurn the dew, whether you be finellach or finraunlach.”
 
Gil-galad felt the tinge of self-consciousness, but tried to mask it within a playful tug of Elrond’s carefully coifed locks. “You prefer my hair confined?”
 
“I do not consider it confined, but adorned, somehow more befitting your grace, and your beauty.” Elrond paused, his voice reflecting sincerest awe. “Your majesty derives not from your crown, but from your fea.”
 
“Then I shall ever be your Finellach,” the High King proudly pronounced. Gil-galad briefly stood lost in thought, knowing that it was finally time for his reluctant admission of inexperience. He could not bear to have any secrets or misconceptions stand between them, not now, not ever. It would profane the purity of this most precious gift from the Lady above – namely the gift of love. “I have a confession which cannot wait for Anor’s return,” he hesitantly began. Elrond shuddered within his embrace and the king responded with a tightening of his embrace. “’Tis nothing for you to fear. ‘Tis I who worry -- worry that you might now find reason to think less of me.”
 
Elrond instinctively spun in Gil-galad’s embrace, his fingers finding a natural home caressing the sides of the king’s cheeks. “It would be easier to make Ithil fall from the sky.”
 
Closing his eyes, Gil-galad drew in a slow, steeling breath, then opened his eyes and caught Elrond’s concerned gaze. “You are the first I have ever loved in this manner,” he admitted in a whisper.
 
An expression of utter shock replied, “How is this possible?”
 
“’Tis easy,” the king responded with a sweet smile. His fingers raised and captured those that caressed his face. “No one has ever touched my heart, or stirred my flesh, as you have this night. Whatever manner of knowledge I have in the ways of love was gained by spying on my tutor when I was in my father’s court.” His smile turned sad, wistful in difficult remembrance. “All who know me know that I spend my nights alone, and I always have. Oropher, the pompous fool, called me Rodwen Gil-galad when he thought I could not hear, in disrespect of the name my sire gave me.”
 
To Gil-galad’s surprise, Elrond visibly bristled at the mention of Oropher’s name. “He was a refugee from your home, from Arvernien, was he not?” the king probed cautiously.
 
With great reluctance, Elrond offered, “Yes.”
 
“Did you know him as a child?”
 
Even more grudgingly came a whispered “Yes.”
 
“Did he harm you,” Gil-galad protectively growled, his eyes ablaze as Helluin in anger.
 
“Nay, he did not,” Elrond unconvincingly replied far too swiftly.
 
Sensing the depth of his beloved’s ill-ease, Gil-galad acquiesced. “I fear you do not speak the entire truth, but I will not press, not if it causes you discomfort.” He pulled Elrond into a protective embrace, their foreheads touched as one, one hand caressing the back of the other’s neck. “Know that Oropher will have his own measure of pain in the future, payment for the rashness of his actions in the past.” 
 
Elrond shuddered once more within his arms, pulling slightly away from the king. “That is what she spoke to me,” he whispered in strange awe.
 
“Who?”
 
“You will believe me mad.”
 
Gil-galad gathered Elrond back into the tightest possible embrace, pressing a kiss into the other’s furrowed brow. “Never.”
 
A palpable moment of obvious hesitation, then Elrond submitted. “The Lady Elbereth. She came to me, in a dream perhaps, when I needed reassurance the most – on the day my brother deserted me.”
 
The High King sighed loudly. “Then she did hear my prayers and take them to heart.” He nuzzled his lips next to one delicately shaped ear. “When first I learned that the Feanoreans had taken you and your brother from Arvernien, I prayed to the Lady that she might watch over you both and protect you.” He paused and sighed forlornly once more. “As I had failed to do.”
 
“You watched over the remainders of my father’s people, from that day forth. That ‘twas your duty.” Elrond stretched his neck back and pressed a kiss upon the king’s cheek. “I owe you the greatest gratitude for protecting Meleth and taking her into your home.”
 
“’Twas my honor.”
 
The lovers shared the simple intimacy of a kiss, their lips lingering in the lush contact until they were both bereft of breath. With insistent fingers, Gil-galad turned his lover around once more, resuming their spooned embrace of earlier moments. In silence they stared over the gentle wavelets of the rising tide, northward to the nearest shore.
 
Gil-galad raised his arm from Elrond’s waist and possessively wrapped it across the younger elf’s chest, resting the hand upon the opposite shoulder. “There,” he gestured with his outstretched free hand, resting his chin on Elrond’s shoulder. “There is where we shall make our new kingdom, our new home.”
 
“In the north?” Elrond questioned, with reasonable trepidation.
 
The king certainly understood well his lover’s hesitation. “The darkness cannot touch us, meleth-nin. It is cleansed from this world. This is a new beginning – for all of us.” He held Elrond closer, gently stroking his fingers across the robe-draped chest while the other wound low and loose around the slender waist. “You have seen far too much pain in this age.”
 
“As has all of Middle-earth.”
 
“I would have you see naught but joy from this moment forward.”

Elrond chuckled, a hint of sadness in his voice. “’Tis an unrealistic hope.”
 
“Perhaps, but ‘tis mine to hold, and I will not relinquish it.” Pressing a consecrating kiss onto the other’s cheek, Gil-galad turned his gaze to the east, toward the initial silvering of the sky which heralded Anor’s return and the stars’ retreat. A smile graced his lips at the sight of a brilliant golden star, a steady, brilliant beacon low in the distance. “Your sire and his silmaril smile down upon us this morn, Earendilion. He gives us his blessing.”
 
Storm-hued eyes trained in the same direction with unfamiliar elvish clarity. “The moment I first beheld his face with my own eyes upon the field of battle shall forever be cherished above all other memories,” Elrond sadly noted.
 
“I beheld his first rising above these troubled shores with wonder. Little did I know Gil-Estel would truly bring to me hope in the flesh, in the form of his own son.” Gil-galad gently released his embrace and turned Elrond around to face him. He cupped the much-loved face with one hand, while the other caressed one noble cheekbone with the back of his free fingers. “The blood of the three Eldar kindred flows through your flesh, as does that of the three Houses of the Edain. Even the line of Melian the Maia adds to your grace. Your blood is as the ninniach, blending together all the colors in the sky, as a sign of hope, just as your sire.” The king smiled broadly as a keen spark of cognition flashed through his famed blazed gaze . “Ninniachiar, that is what you are, and as such, estel-panuin.” Without hesitation, he claimed those enticing lips and wished he could never release them, not unto the end of Ea itself. <<Estel-nin.>> 

[Imladris]
 
Elrond stood in the eerie silence of his private chambers, staring at the haunting, handwritten name which stared back at him from the age-yellowed parchment. “Ninniachair,” he whispered to himself, remembering well the precious, private moment Gil-galad had gifted him with that kilmessi. It had been a priceless secret between then, whispered sparingly in intimate moments. In contrast, Gil-galad had taken to using his given kilmessi as a badge of honor, even going so far as to use it in addressing his letters to Elrond’s kin on Numenor.
 
<<The broach – ai, my flawed memory betrays ?xml:namespace prefix = st1 />me.>> He had taken to wearing the treasured heirloom more often than he should until the clasp broke one day when upon the deck of a ship patrolling the coastline. It was only by the keenness of his elvish reflexes than he caught the priceless piece before it tumbled into the water below. Celebrimbor had fixed the clasp, but Elrond never wore it again, thinking it too precious to risk losing. It was meant to be given to another, in celebration of the bonds of marriage, as generations before him had done.
 
Thus it was that it had passed out of his conscious memory by the end of the Second Age when he and Gil-galad became hervenn to each other. Too late had he remembered the broach, when he returned home, alone, from the horrors of Mordor. He had put it away, yet another far-too-painful sign of opportunity forever lost. He never considered giving it to Celebrian – it was meant to be given in the sanctity of love, not in the courtesy of duty. It had passed out of active memory again as the long years of this age wore on, and Elrond grew more certain still that the blessing of love had forever passed beyond his grasp.
 
How utterly unexpectedly had the golden prince shown him how wrong this hopeless sorrow had been. He thought back to the awe he had held for Gil-galad in those early, innocent days, how young and painfully inexperienced he himself had been. How all-consuming this first love had seemed, as a fire which flowed through every morsel of his being and burned him as surely as Arien scorched Tilion’s face. A smile of piquant recognition curled his lips. Now he better understood the insecure intensity of the golden prince’s every touch, each expression. He sighed in gratitude, amazed and warmed by how Legolas made him feel surprisingly young again, despite the weight of his lengthy years.
 
Elrond swiftly wiped a nascent tear from his eye, determined not to succumb to the darkness of sorrow. For this night he would rather celebrate his boundless joys than dwell upon his unbearable sorrows. He wondered how it was possible to love someone with such fervor that he ached, let alone love two with such depth in one lifetime, even one as lengthy as that of the Eldar. <<’Tis the Lady’s hand blessing me far beyond what I deserve.>> A voice not dimmed by the passing of ages echoed in his head. <<”You shall face loss greater than most can stand, yet you will in turn be rewarded with love beyond what you can imagine.”>> He smiled to himself, feeling the subtle weight of the metallic butterfly which bound his braids behind his head. “I have, fair Lady. I have,” he whispered to the eve.
 
With held breath, he turned the letter over carefully in his trembling fingers and gently unfolded it, terrified that it might crumble in his hands before he had the opportunity to read what he assumed were Gil-galad’s final instructions for him before leaving for battle. Elrond read them through once yet found he must reread them, uncertain whether his eyes played a cruel trick upon him. The ink was faded by age, the hand which wrote it hurried, yet the words conveyed meaning unmistakable and unclouded by the passage of lengthy years.
 
“Hervenn-nin –
 
The dawn approaches, and I fear that it may find our last sweet moments together. I face what is to come only with the strength and blessing of your love. You have always done what is best for others, placing their lives, their wishes, before your own. You have always put people before pride, and have always acted in wisdom, and in love. I may have worn the crown, but you were far more deserving of the throne.
 
Now we suffer much because of the lies of the past, and for that I shall never forgive myself. It may very well be that we may not return from Mordor. If one of us is to fall, I pray that it be me, as it would befit the crimes of my past. I do not fear death, but I do fear what my death would do to you, iaur-nin. Love not only means being willing to die for another, but to be willing to live, even though the pain may be unbearable. But that pain is not for the passing of all time, not for our kind. Even if I am doomed to Mandos’ care, it will not be until the end of Ea, yet I know it will be for longer than most. Such is the cost of lies and deceit, and it is mine to bear. But the long years of sorrow and separation will be made tolerable if I know that you still live, and enjoy the fruits of our victory. Among those fruits is love, meleth-nin. As much as I hope you would save your love for me, I would not doom you to live without its sweetness for the passing of an entire age without hope. That would be the height of selfishness, and what manner of love would that be?
 
Nay, I would wish naught for you but joy, what I have wished for you from that very first moment I held you in my arms. If you find that peace in the arms of another, then that is the Lady’s will, and I will sing her praises from the darkness of Mandos’ Halls. If that love is true and you are treated as the treasure that you are, I will be content to serve my sentence in peace, knowing that you abide in the light, and in happiness. As Miriel so decreed, I would even be willing to forego the possibility of return until the End of Days, as knowing that your heart feels naught but delight will lift my burden from my shoulders. If you love again, love for both of us, Ninniachair. Be my bridge from the darkness to the light, and your own as well.
 
As long as Ea remains
As long as hope remains
Until then, may you, too, remain
And dispel the miseries of the world.”
 
The letter was signed with the kilmessi which Elrond had gifted upon the High King on their first dawn together, a final memento of the boundless love they had shared, even in those first innocent days.
 
Elrond raised the letter to his lips and kissed it, his eyes tightly shut to stem the rising tide of tears. All the worries of betrayal which had haunted him these past nights were in vain. The High King would find no blame with the love he had found with the young prince; indeed, he would willingly step aside and doom himself to Mandos’ care for a love this deep and pure. How like his beloved – rather than have Elrond suffer in a choice which would break his heart, Gil-galad had already made the choice for them.
 
“Ar-nin, melethron-nin, cuil-nin,” he whispered. “Hervenn-nin. I could never wear the crown. None was as selfless as you.” Carefully refolding the letter, he set it into the drawer of his dressing table and set off on fleet footsteps to right an unintended offense and fulfill his King’s final command. 

A solitary figure nervously paced the stone parapets of Imladris in silent dread. Occasionally he gazed skyward, measuring the passage of time by the deepening of the twilight hues and the emergence of the Lady’s heavenly jewels into view one by one. An especially brilliant gem hung low in the West, lingering above the point of Anor’s departure from the sky. Legolas swiftly looked away, feeling as if even Earendil cast a disapproving eye upon him. He had meant no harm, had acted in complete innocence and good intentions. Why, then, did he feel naught but guilt and fear?
 
The reasons were as plain as the sparkling of the Valacirca above. The High King was always a presence in his relationship with Elrond, yet never so keenly as he was this night. How could he hope to compare to the first love of Elrond’s life? <<His true love, his hervenn.>> He could not, and he had been the worst sort of deluded fool to believe he could. Elrond’s instinctive reaction had proven that beyond even his ability to deny.
 
“You have not made it easy for me to find you.”
 
Legolas stiffly spun to face the familiar voice, his heart lodged in his throat. “I meant no harm…” he earnestly babbled, but found his word ceased by eager lips pressing insistently against his. With a throaty moan of relief, he melted into the kiss, wondering what manner of miracle Lady Elbereth had arranged for his benefit.
 
Elrond leisurely pulled away, his fingers lightly grasping the prince’s forearms, and smiled inscrutably at the young elf. “I wish to thank you for delivering that letter.”
 
“I had no choice,” Legolas offered with an uneasy shrug.
 
Fingers raised and cupped his face, and Legolas instantly bent his head, curling more completely into the sensuous contact.
 
“There is always a choice, Malthenel-nin. Always.” Elrond brushed his thumb against the plush petals of the prince’s mouth, which trembled beneath his touch. “If you had not chosen to bring the letter to my attention, I would never have known.”
 
A shudder ran through the prince’s flesh, his eyes widening in horrified anticipation. “Known what?” he managed to squeak, unable to control his raw emotions. His stomach tightened into elvish knots, his heart beating so furiously he felt it should burst.
 
To his utter astonishment, a smile of untold sweetness and relief unfolded on the elder elf’s face. “That Gil-galad would wish us no ill will.”
 
The words echoed in head, yet the prince found he could not believe them to be true. “He would not? But he was – he was your – hervenn.” The word burned his mouth as well as his heart, yet it was the inescapable truth he had fought so long to deny.
 
“’Tis true,” Elrond offered in a sigh. “But he loved me above all else in this world, and my happiness was his supreme desire, and his mine, from the very first day we met.”
 
The tears glimmer in Elrond’s eye, the tender emotion in his voice -- the unmistakable passion tore at Legolas’ heart. “You love him still,” he whispered, his heart drowning in its self-loathing, selfish ache.
 
“A part of me always shall. We were together for the passing of an entire age.”  But this is a new age, and my memories of him do not diminish or defame my love for you.” Elrond obviously traced his eyes over the entirety of the prince’s fair features. He captured the artistic cheeks in his hands, locking his searing, stormy gaze with one far less certain. “The past can only come between us if we let it. Its ghosts only have the power we offer to them, nothing more.”
 
Legolas trembled despite his intense wish for self control. “If only it could be so,” he whispered hopefully.
 
“It can. I swear it, meleth-nin.” Elrond brushed butterfly kisses against those soft, supple lips. “It can,” he whispered, then plundered that hot, moist mouth with an intensity that turned the prince’s legs boneless.
 
Still breathless from his lover’s unexpected ardor, Legolas felt himself spun around, then recaptured in a spooned embrace. Together they stood for the passing of long, comfortably silent moments, gazing westward over the valley. The prince closed his eyes, losing himself in the security of the protective, cocooning embrace.
 
“Did your mother gift upon you a name of her own?” a hushed voice suddenly interrupted.
 
“None that she told,” the prince softly answered, snuggling back against the other’s solid, robe-veiled form. “My father believed that a custom of --.” He opened his eyes, horrified that he had nearly used the pejorative he had learned to loathe.
 
“Kinslayers,” Elrond completed with sorrow. “’Tis a shame. ‘Tis said they are prophetic.”
 
Legolas captured one of the hands which lay across his chest and raising it to his lips for a kiss. “I already know my fate, and ‘tis one I most willingly accept – to love you with all my heart, all my fea.” He heard Elrond sigh and smiled to himself, then unexpectedly heard the elder elf’s voice soar in song.
 
“I swear here oaths,
unbreakable bonds to bind me ever,
by Timbrenting and the timeless halls
of Bredhil the Blessed that abides thereon -
may she hear and heed - to hunt endlessly
unwearying unwavering through world and sea,
through leaguered lands, lonely mountains,
over fens and forest and the
fearful snows,
till I find those fair ones, where the fate is hid
of the folk of Elfland and their fortune locked,
where alone now lies the light divine."
 
Elrond hugged Legolas more tightly to him, pressing a kiss onto the back of his head. “Maglor’s song contains one lie.”
 
“What might that be?”
 
“The light divine does remain on these shores – in your face.”
 
The prince turned in Elrond’s embrace, framing the ancient yet ageless face with his fingers. “And here I swear oaths, unbreakable to bind me ever, to be worthy of your love in all that I do, from this day forward, until Arda is unmarred.”
 
“I have no doubt you will fulfill that oath,” Elrond replied reverently.
 
Winding his fingers around his lover’s loose, looping braids, Legolas brought their mouths together in their favorite way, breathless and fervent, a smile rising to his lips at the hopeful thought that, as unbelievable as it seemed, he might be graced with these simple pleasures for the passing of ages untold. The past was a memory, the future yet a dream. For now he would savor the present with hope and gratitude, and know whatever was to come, he would never face it alone.

[Imladris, Coire 29, the year 3434 of the Second Age]
 
 
Anor’s first golden rays intruded unwelcome upon the peace of the Lady’s stars, an errant honey-hued beam illuminating the face of Rivendell’s slumbering lord. The high king watched in rapt reverence from his bedside chair, memorizing every well-loved portion of the sheet-draped form. With a loud sigh he turned his gaze to the folded letter he tightly grasped in his hands. The sloppily formed seal hardened before his eyes, the warmth of its wax fading from the signet ring which sat upon one finger. The words contained within burned him with an intensity which the candle’s drippings could never hope to match.
 
With a heavy heart, he turned the letter over and stared at his handwriting, it somehow seeming foreign to his eyes. He had gifted this kilmessi upon his hervenn on the occasion of their first dawn together, when their love was new and pure and untouched by the deceits of this age. Memories flooded back to him, of the ecstasy and the awkwardness of those first priceless moments together, of the way Elrond’s body felt to him as an inseparable part of his own flesh, as it still did to this day. <<Lady Elbereth, I pray we may yet share many a dawn together, as we had that first.>>
 
The weight of the long years of this age crushed the king, filling him with weariness and regrets. <<Now I know how the line of Numenor felt when deciding to leave the world in their years of old age.>> Yet no such choice faced him now. Battle loomed before him, as it had at the end of the previous age, and this time he would be a main player upon the field of battle, as he should have been at Thangorodrim’s fall. <<Elrond and I shall stand shoulder to shoulder, fea to fea, as we have all the years since the Morgoth’s fall.>> 
 
Gil-galad rued his decision to repay his debts to the Numenoreans through the bonds of elf and man. Why should Elrond have to suffer for his sins? Yet Elendil believed Elrond to be as guilty as the king he served, as Gil-galad’s herald, counselor, and lieutenant. The thought of Isildur touching his beloved was more revolting than the stench of death, yet he had made that a certainty too terrible to bear. For the fleeting of a second he pondered the childish desire to flee, to take a white ship to the West, with Elrond at his side, to the safety of the Blessed Lands, where none of the stain of this world could touch them ever again. But he instantly realized that was not only impossible, but the height of selfishness. Had he not made far too many decisions on Elrond’s behalf without his knowledge?
 
<<”I may have worn the crown, but you were far more deserving of the throne.”>> How true were those words he had penned a scant few minutes before. Elrond would never desert these shores, not while the darkness still threatened those he called kin. Gil-galad chuckled lowly to himself. <<You call all manner of creatures kin, Ninniachair. And that is the source of your strength, and your beauty. Ai, I do not deserve to call you hervenn, meleth-nin.>>
 
With each passing beat of his heart, Gil-galad became more furious still, angry for putting them in this hopeless situation, infuriated for believing he could lie to Elrond about the contents of his heart, and most of all enraged at the fact that this could be the last morn he spent in Elrond’s bed.
 
<<No! I shall return to this very room, to your bed, whether it be directly from battle or eventually from the gloom of Mandos’ Halls. We shall love anew, of that I swear on all that is beautiful and precious in this world. I swear upon the sanctity of our vows themselves.>> His false words taunted him from the folded privacy of the letter, the possibility of Elrond loving another more terrible than the Black Gates of Mordor. His words were a cruel lie, and there had been far too many of those in this age. He would not profane their love with one this egregious.
 
<<I may have to share your flesh, hervenn, but I shall never share your heart. None could ever love you as well as I.>> His gaze once more studied Elrond’s peaceful countenance, his heart nearly bursting in his sorrow and shame. “Woe to any who dare to come between us, in this age or any other,” he angrily growled under his breath. Resolute to right this wrong, he gripped the letter tightly in his hands and began to rend it into pieces, but before the first tear could be made, Elrond stirred loudly in his sleep. Panicked, Gil-galad glanced over at the dressing table and shoved the false missive into the volume which lay there. He barely managed to compose himself when Elrond fully awakened to the world.
 
“Anor returns already?” Elrond noted with melancholy disappointment and a deeply furrowed brow as he wriggled beneath the sheets.
 
With a forced smile, Gil-galad leaned over his hervenn and planted a sweet kiss upon those troubled lips. “Come, iaur-nin, ‘tis time to meet the morn and our fate,” he softly suggested.
 
“So long as we face it together, the burden will not be too arduous to bear.”
 
Gil-galad smiled sadly to himself and raised Elrond’s hand to his lips. The gold band he had placed there the night before felt cool upon his lips, yet its presence burned him with a rekindled fire of slender hopes. “Si a an-uir,” he vowed anew, cupping their conjoined hands around his own cheek.
 
“Si a an-uir,” Elrond immediately repeated, his voice choked with knowing emotion. Leaning up from his pillows, he reclaimed Gil-galad’s mouth as one starved to near the point of death. “Fate can await us a moment longer,” he huskily whispered between tender tastes of his hervenn’s mouth. “I would have you one last time before leaving Imladris. The memories will make the march to Mordor bearable.”
 
“As would I,” Gil-galad agreed, knowing full well that a worse fate than the Black Gates awaited Elrond at Isildur’s haughty hand.
 
Thus it was that the world awoke unnoticed around them as the last High King of Middle-earth and his beloved herald sated their hearts and their flesh for the final time of this age, the High King’s voice finally carried across the valley in his throes of his ecstasy without shame or regret.
 
 
The End - Footnotes

Valinor