Summary: Beltane, Avarin-style. Music, dancing, spiked wine and a couple of unwary Noldor...
Author's Note: The great fire festivals have marked the turning of the natural year since time out of mind. Beltane celebrates fertility and the renewal of life.
Seneschal: 1. the steward or major-domo of a medieval great house.
2. chiefly historical, a governor or other administrative or judicial officer.
* * *
The towering
mountain peaks, snow-capped even� in the height of summer, hovered
in the distance. Elrohir, numb with boredom, rode towards the Misty
Mountains through a landscape that varied from scrubby, uneven grassland
to endless hills covered in tinder-dry grass and outcrops of bare, grey
rock. Long before they reached the foothills on their way to the High
Pass, the party of elves returning to Imladris from the Greenwood had
been subdued into silence by the desolate landscape through which they
passed. �
The exception
was Glorfindel, formerly of Gondolin, who rode in the lead, humming
softly. He and an escort of carefully
selected warriors were responsible
for the safety of the group that included such notables as Lord Elrond's
younger son, his seneschal, Erestor, and Caedion, the ancient elf who
was his senior advisor on trade. As little as fifty years ago, the reborn
warrior�s presence would have sufficed. Now, growing rumours of dark
things walking the face of Middle-earth made an armed escort necessary.�
The official
purpose for the visit to the woodland kingdom had been
the wedding of Thranduil's
youngest daughter, at which Elrohir would represent both Imladris and,
on a more personal level, his father. As was always the case at such
times, a secondary purpose involved discussions concerning matters of
mutual benefit to both realms. The wedding was a warm, laughter-filled
occasion and, somewhat to the surprise of all parties, the talks turned
out to be almost equally successful�
During their
stay, Elrohir and Glorfindel had both attracted a great deal of attention,
Elrohir being blessed with a quiet beauty and an intriguing family history, while
the hero from Gondolin was both charismatic and charming. Elrohir, aware
of Erestor's scrutiny, had conducted himself impeccably throughout the
visit - courteous, respectful, sober - while Glorfindel, having few
duties with which to occupy himself in the safety of Thranduil�s realm,
had spent a large part of his time learning local drinking songs and
dubious jokes from the horde of young admirers who swarmed around him�
Allowing his
horse to pick its own route as he followed the riders ahead of him,
Elrohir let his thoughts drift from one topic to the next and tried to
stay awake. He wondered idly what Elladan was doing.� His brother
would be unsurprised to learn that every
other person
Elrohir had met in King Thranduil�s realm had asked after his twin.
People often seemed surprised to find they could act alone - as though
being a twin made one less able to function when separated from one�s
sibling. Elrohir had given a lot of energy to making polite responses
through gritted teeth.�
It was true,
he acknowledged, that as children he and Elladan had been inseparable,
and were still the closest of friends, but their lives had taken them
down separate paths. Elladan, their father�s heir, had to learn the
intricacies of running a self-contained community, while Elrohir had
been drawn to healing and spent his time studying
the injuries and ills that befell elf, man, or beast. Their duties meant
that Elladan was the more likely to come home with interesting tales
to share, and Elrohir was rather looking forward to having a chance
to turn the tables. �
His musings were
brought to an abrupt end when he noticed a thin plume of pale smoke
in the distance, close by the approach to the High Pass. With thoughts
of possible Orc foraging parties in mind, and the opportunity for adventure,
Elrohir urged his horse forward alongside Glorfindel.� �
�Smoke up ahead,�
he said, gesturing.� He was relieved to hear that his voice sounded
steady, almost casual. The tall, golden-haired hero of nursery tales
both fascinated and intimidated him, and made him feel young and inexperienced.
More than one attempt at conversation had left Elrohir tongue-tied and
stammering and flushed with embarrassment�
Instantly alert,
Glorfindel stopped humming and squinted against the sun in the direction
Elrohir had indicated. He raised a hand, calling the party to a halt,
as he sat considering the situation.� �
Followed by Caedion,
Erestor joined them and fixed Glorfindel with an enquiring look.�
�Smoke,�
the warrior said briefly, pointing. He spoke to the seneschal as though
to a brother warrior, Elrohir noted with a tiny stab of jealousy. The
two often argued, occasionally flirted, and it was easy to overlook
the core of genuine respect that had somehow grown between them. �
Erestor, who
was far-sighted even for an elf, sat tall on his horse and shaded his
eyes as he peered into the distance. After a moment he gave a small
exclamation and relaxed, dropping his hand and shaking his head as though
amused.� �With all this travelling I quite lost track of the
days - today must be Beltane. We should have been home earlier than
this.� He settled more comfortably on the horse and looked around,
smiling. �Well. Joyous Beltane, I suppose.��
Both Glorfindel
and Elrohir looked at him blankly, unable to see a� connection
between the distant smoke and a festival
marking the passage to summer, though after a moment�s thought Caedion grunted in what
might have been acknowledgement.�
The need for an explanation finally occurred
to Erestor, who gestured towards the thin feathers of smoke. �Over
there in the foothills near the road. It�s a holy place, a crossroads
� surely you felt the power flowing from it on the journey down?� �
Erestor apparently
thought this statement sufficient, but Glorfindel responded with a wrinkled
brow and a look of charming confusion. Watching Erestor dismiss this
with a cool glance from amber eyes and a flick of long, black lashes,
Elrohir wondered why the subtle flirting between the two bothered him.
He knew it was none of his concern.�
Erestor looked
pained. �Do I need to explain ley lines to you? Elrohir, define ley
lines for Lord Glorfindel, please.��
Erestor had tutored
the twins in mathematics and history, and responding to his instruction
for a definition was as automatic as breathing. Elrohir was on fairly
safe ground here. His mother had taught him about such things, much
as she had learned of them from her father�
�Ley lines
are the lines of power that cross and re-cross beneath the surface of
the land,� he recited. �They are the conduits of the world�s strength,
and we borrow that energy to help things to grow or heal, or� or do
other things�� He tapered off before slipping into a potentially
hazardous discourse on his father�s or - worse - grandmother�s possible
use of this earth-energy. �
Erestor nodded,
looking pleased, while studiously ignoring
Glorfindel�s muttered, �I knew that - we just had another
name for them.� �
�Great reservoirs
of power are found in those places where many lines converge,� the seneschal continued.
�One of
these lies within the boundaries of L�rien.
And sometimes - like here � where the lines bisect, they form a kind
of crossroads.
Wells of Eternity they call them in the Wandering Companies.
To some these are holy places, and they will journey far to celebrate
the festivals within them.��
Erestor had spent
the centuries at the beginning of the Third Age amongst the Wanderers,
and had only settled in Imladris within the last five hundred years.
Elrohir knew he had lost his lover in the final battle of the Great
War and had spent the intervening time healing, but he and his siblings
had been discouraged from asking questions about his past. Now, however,
caution was flung to the wind.�
�Is the fire
set by one of the Companies, then?� he asked eagerly. �Is this where
you used to celebrate Beltane when you travelled with them?��
He realised that
he sounded altogether too young, and blushed, which made it worse. He
heard Glorfindel chuckle softly, which was unfair as
he was probably
wondering the same thing, though he got away with it by being �not
from here�. Erestor
shook his head, apparently unconcerned. �
�Not by the
Wanderers, no. There are others who roam the land, and they believe
that during the four festivals - the passages to summer and winter,
the times of planting and harvest - the power within the Wells is at
its strongest. They celebrate the High Days in these places with rituals
that are almost as old as the land itself, rituals that arose in the
Long Dark after our ancestors went first into the West.��
�That�s all
very well,� Glorfindel said, remembering responsibility and shaking
off the spell woven by the seneschal�s voice, which had grown soft
with memory. �But we still need to make certain.� Strange things
walk abroad these days, so it is said. And this is far too close to
the approach to the Pass to be left uninvestigated.��
They started
riding again while he was speaking, and were drawing closer to the smoke.
They were soon close enough to make out figures moving
in and out of a gap between the rocks.�
�Moriquendi?� Glorfindel
exclaimed, surprised.�
Erestor nodded,
sunlight glinting off his long, black curls. �Dark Elves, yes,�
he agreed. �Amongst themselves they have many names; Kindi, Cuind,
Hwenti, Windan, Kinn-lai, Penni,� but to us they are the Avari
� The Unwilling, those whose fathers refused the call to travel into
the West.�� �
Their approach
was noted; before they could reach
the outermost rock of the circle an elf strode out to greet them. He
was tall and sharp featured, with piercing green eyes and light brown
hair which hung in a loose tangle around his shoulders. He wore leggings and
tunic of rough homespun fabric, the colours muted, making it easy for
him to blend into the landscape. He was carrying a staff, blackened
with age, and had a knotted red cord tied around his forehead. �
They halted and,
to Elrohir�s surprise, Erestor dismounted and went forward alone.�
A short distance from the stranger he stopped and bowed slightly. �I
am Erestor, formerly of the Company of the Bear,� he said, speaking
clearly. �We are residents of the Valley of Rainbows and are on our
way home. We saw your fire and wished to offer our respects.��
The green eyes assessed them, noting their number,
their weapons and their general appearance, before turning to Erestor.
�I am Meret of the Kinn-lai,� the elf replied. �An initiate of
the Company of the Bear is an honoured guest at our Beltane feast. If
those who ride with you are willing to leave their horses and weapons
here, they, too, may share our fire. � �
�
&&&&&�
Horses and weapons
were left in the care of two warriors, and they followed Meret through
a gap between the rocks. Immediately the air seemed to change, becoming
tense and more potent as in the moments before
the breaking of a summer storm. They
found themselves
in a sheltered, roughly circular area around which ancient rocks towered.
The ground, although stony in places, supported unexpectedly lush,
flower-dusted grass,
while to one side a spring bubbled between rocks, the water spreading
out and collecting into a small pool.�
The centre,
by contrast, was bare and sandy and had been piled high with wood. As they entered the final branches were
being set in place, and Avari with unlit torches
were beginning to form a circle around the prepared bonfire. The smoke
that had first drawn their attention came from firepots, placed to mark
the cardinal points of north and south, west and east.�
There were around
eighty Avari in the hollow, and all eyes turned to follow the strangers�
passage to the outcrop of flat rocks Meret silently indicated. Elrohir
noticed that while most were simply clad, a number of the younger ellyth
wore short, brightly-coloured robes made of a light, swirly
material that
clung and shifted as they moved. �
�Unbound maidens,�
Erestor explained in a low voice in answer to his whispered query. �The
clothing identifies them as willing to honour the spirit of the festival.
Keep your distance from them or we'll both have your father to
answer to.��
Meret took up
a position facing the spring and raised his staff high, and the elves around
the unlit fire fell silent. Three times he struck the ground with the
base of his staff and
then, clasping the age-blackened wood with both hands, began to chant.
His voice rose and fell, the sound insinuating itself into the place
within each listener where whispers of night-dark terror resonated. There was no other sound;
the building
power deepened and drew closer, concentrating itself about him.� �
The words he
intoned were clearly spoken, but resembled neither Sindarin nor Quenya.
After a few moments, Glorfindel nudged Erestor carefully and raised
an eyebrow.�
�He calls upon
the spirits of this place, the dwellers in rock and water, and the souls
of the ancestors and the fallen from amongst their number.� Erestor
replied very softly, his eyes on the shaman, his lips
barely moving. �He will ask for their goodwill and a blessing upon
his people, good hunting for the season, feasting, fertility, protection
from evil, and that the great spirit that manifests here guard them
and give them shelter from the dark things that walk the land���
His voice had
taken on
the rhythm of the shaman�s chant, weaving in counterpoint to it. Elrohir
turned, startled. �How do you know�?� he began, only to be hushed
by Glorfindel, Caedion, and several others. �
Caedion said softly, �Master Erestor's life has taken
him to many places besides Imladris. He had an - unusual - life in the
years before joining your father�s household.��
�Quiet,�
Glorfindel interrupted. �Look.��
Moving with strange,
jagged steps, Meret crossed the circle to the spring. A flat rock painted
stark white lay directly before it, upon which two bowls and a small
lamp had previously been set. He bent and lit the lamp with a motion
of his hand after which, still chanting, he took first one bowl and
then the other and emptied their contents into the spring . Behind him
in the deepening shadows caused by the setting sun, the rest of the
Avari softly took up the chant, the sound echoing eerily within the
circle of rock.� �
Elrohir, attempting
to catch Erestor�s eye, found Glorfindel�s blue gaze
instead and they exchanged the slightly bemused smiles of two acquaintances
drawn together in a situation that went beyond their Noldorin understanding.
Erestor, not turning,
answered as though he had been asked, �He
offers the guardian of the well salt, flame, water and words. In return�� �
His voice drifted off as the chanting
ceased. In the audible stillness, Meret took a waterskin covered with strange, bright markings
and, kneeling, filled it from the spring. Erestor nodded to himself
and continued, his voice barely audible, �In return for his offering,
he demands water from the spring as a gift to carry with them - holy
water for times of need.��
Meret held the
skin high and ululating triumph rose around the circle, only to stop abruptly when he lowered his arms. He
carried the waterskin to a nearby rock across which had been
spread a deerskin dyed vivid red, and laid it down carefully, then returned
to his original position. There he stood motionless, staring at the
spring. �
The air felt
tight and thin, as though the rocks themselves waited. The Avari had
turned as one to follow the direction of his gaze. The silence was absolute,
as though time itself had stopped. Then a late beam of sunlight slanted
through a gap in the mountains and struck the rock just above the spring,
turning the water to molten gold. The Avari shouted, a single word uttered
as one, and again fell silent.�
Meret strode
back to the spring and picked up the lamp still burning on the altar
stone.� He moved a few paces towards the fire, offering it to the
torch bearer nearest him, then returned the lamp to its place before
the spring as soon as the torch was alight. One torch lit another and
that lit the next, filling the sunset hollow with living flame. �
Meret waited
until all the torches were ablaze and all eyes had returned to him,
before raising his staff and intoning a final litany. Then, once again,
he struck the ground three times and nodded sharply.� At this
signal, the torchbearers held their lighted brands high before casting
them amongst the carefully stacked branches, and the bonfire caught
and caught and caught again. As the flames leapt towards the sky, the
feeling of coiled power rose and expanded, sweeping over and through
them all like a wave before dispersing into the early evening air. �
�And now,�
Erestor said in a judicious tone, as the Avari erupted into sound and
movement, �We eat. And drink rather a lot. And dance. And generally
welcome the summer.� He frowned slightly at the somewhat awed looks
he was receiving, mainly from Elrohir. �What? Of course I know what�s
going on. This is hardly my first Avarin celebration. Like Caedion said
- I wasn�t always an administrator.��
&&&&&�
Night had fallen,
a quarter moon shone down out of a star-bright sky and the revelry was
well underway.� Food and wine � and other, nameless beverages
- had been set out some distance from the spring with its makeshift
altar. Someone had begun piping a merry tune on a flute, and the refrain
was taken up by others. Simple stringed instruments joined in and soon
dancers begun to weave around
the fire, singly, in pairs, in small groups.�
Most of the company
from Imladris remained on the far side of the grassy enclave, though
Elrohir, Glorfindel and young Maerion could be seen amongst the Avari
near the fire. Erestor sat sipping a cup of potent red wine, his expression
distant, firelight dancing across his cleanly sculpted features. As
a gesture to the occasion, he had changed into the pale green, embroidered
robe that he had worn to Thranduil�s daughter�s wedding, and had
twisted strands of exquisite moonstones � the love gift of a long-dead
king � into his hair. His thoughts appeared to be a thousand miles and many years away.�
Caedion wandered
over, cup in hand, and settled down beside him with a grunt. Erestor
withdrew from memory and glanced at him. �They�ll be dancing till
near dawn,� he remarked. �Not to your taste?��
�Are we going
to be staying the night then?� the ancient asked in response.�
Erestor looked
across at the fire again, considering. An Avarin youth was demonstrating
a dance step to an enthralled Elrohir, while Glorfindel, who loved music
of all kinds, stood close by, snapping his fingers and swaying to some
inner rhythm.� Erestor smiled slightly, his amber eyes affectionate.
�Let them enjoy themselves,� he said by way of an answer. �What
harm if we reach home a little later than planned?��
As he spoke,
sporadic drumbeats began to sound as a lone drummer, shortly to be joined
by others, began to follow the refrain of the pipes. The atmosphere
around the fire began to change as more dancers made their way forward
and casual movement gave way to a more formalized activity. Erestor
experienced a few moments of concern as first Elrohir and then Glorfindel
were drawn into the crowd, but then he settled back and relaxed. The
warrior could surely be relied upon to keep an eye on his lord�s son,
and Elrohir was no longer a child and could only benefit from exposure
to cultures other than his own.�
Caedion leaned
back against the rock and produced a piece of dried meat, which he proceeded
to gnaw at in a contented manner. �There�ll be fornication going
on out there till morning and beyond,� he remarked round a mouthful,
gesturing towards the fire with the strip of venison.�
Erestor shrugged
and grinned briefly. �Well, Beltane IS the Passage to Summer, and
a time to celebrate fertility and growth, is it not?� he asked, laughter
in his voice. �Even in Imladris. When we reach home, I�ll wager
we find a small increase in the population � and with a year between
conception and birth, there�s an obvious conclusion to be drawn.��
While they were talking, Meret had gone over to the altar before the spring to assist an older elleth in the placement of a large bowl upon one of the flat stones near the still-burning lamp. Once satisfied, he took up a solitary station upon one of the rocks overlooking the fire, where he sat with his head bowed and his elbows resting on drawn-up knees. Shortly after, the first of a number of Avari wandered almost casually over to the spring, each carrying a drinking vessel. After a few words that may have constituted a blessing, the elleth filled these from the contents of the bowl.
Caedion had been
watching with interest. �And that?� he asked eventually, jerking
a thumb towards the altar.�
�Something
to guarantee the evening�s main activity, of course,� Erestor said
lazily, smiling into his wine. �A form of aphrodisiac. The potency
varies, but the constant is that a couple who share a cup will be impelled
to spend the remains of the night honouring the season � it�s all
about fertility and new life, remember? The trick, as I understand it,
is to be sure you share it with the right person��
Caedion grunted.
�We manage that well enough without the benefit of drugs,� he said.
�Go beat the bushes in Imladris after any conception or binding party
if you doubt my word.��
&&&&&�
Time passed,
the moon rode low in the sky and the night was filled with an earthy,
rhythmic drumming woven about with a wild skirling of pipes. Over time
the dancing had grown less inhibited, though the dancers were markedly
fewer in number. Erestor thought it likely the diminished contents of
the bowl beside the altar had something to do with this. He was doing
his best to keep Elrohir in view, but as the activity grew more frenetic
this became more difficult. The smoke had thickened, and he suspected
this might be due to the addition of a hypnotic herb to the fire. �
He was not in
any way concerned for Elrohir�s safety. The Avari offered no threat
and if anything untoward were to occur, Glorfindel was close at hand.
Friendly and outgoing as ever, the golden elf had woven his way enthusiastically
amongst the dancers, drifting from one partner to the next, but Erestor
noted that he returned often to spend a few minutes at Elrohir�s side,
to talk and occasionally to dance. Having witnessed Elrohir�s uncertainty
around the reborn elf, Erestor was pleased, and hoped the shared experience
would put the younger elf more at ease once they returned home.�
The seneschal�s
thoughts turned to food. Although Glorfindel had insisted that a decent
portion of their travel supplies be offered as a guest gift, the Avari
had packed this away and instead made dried meat and oatcakes available,
perhaps as part of their ritual. One of the Imladris party had, however,
kept hold of a bag containing dried fruit, which he was finally offering
around. Erestor turned to investigate the contents, selecting a handful
of apricots. When he looked back, Elrohir was nowhere in sight. �
He knelt up,
craning his neck as he searched amongst the dancers. It was not the
first time he had lost sight of the young elf that night, and for the
moment he was puzzled rather than alarmed. It was only when he looked
away from the fire that he finally caught sight of Elrohir, walking
back from the direction of the spring and drinking from what appeared
to be a very full cup.�
Erestor was already
on his feet, hand extended to prevent wine from spilling on his good
robe, when Glorfindel wandered into view. He had been dancing tirelessly,
both partnered and alone, since the music began, and his habitually
neat appearance had quite disintegrated. His sleeves were rolled back,
he had dispensed with his boots and was barefoot, and his golden hair
had come adrift from its careful coiffure to wave in loose disarray
to a place well below his hips. He spotted Elrohir and hurried over
to him smiling, a hand outstretched. �
For one hopeful
moment Erestor thought the warrior was going to remove the tainted cup,
but after a few words and a smile he placed one large hand around the
younger elf�s wrist, raised the cup to his mouth and drank deeply.
Elrohir pulled it back from him with a laughing protest, took another
mouthful and thus, talking animatedly, they moved back into the whirl
of dancers. In the last view Erestor had of them, Glorfindel had a hand
resting lightly on Elrohir�s waist and Elrond�s son, who appeared
to have quite overcome his shyness towards the hero from Gondolin, was
smiling up at him.�
Erestor sat down
slowly, his mind empty. Then he brought his winecup up to his lips and
drank deeply and steadily until it was empty. �
�Shit,� he
said, with quiet sincerity.�
Caedion, who
had been watching the entire interchange expressionlessly, grinned briefly
at him. �It�s like we always tell the youngsters - there�s no
teacher quite like experience. They�ll both be a lot more careful
about what they drink in future.��
�At least they
have a future. There�s a strong chance that Elrond might kill
me,� Erestor muttered darkly.�
Caedion snorted.
�I very much doubt it. That �fledgling� you�ve been watching
over is close to his thousandth begetting day. You have to assume in
all that time he picked up some amount of first hand knowledge about
which part fits where.��
&&&&&�
The fire leapt,
and Elrohir danced as though he were a part of it, his body guided by
the drums that drew him in, making him one with their rhythm. The wine
he and Glorfindel were sharing was sweet and strong, sharp-tasting but
with undertones of honey and - something else. To begin with he had
tried to remember what it put him in mind of but now, surrounded by
the night, his reality filled with souring flames and acrid fire
scent, with bodies jostling him, leaping past, it seemed unimportant. �
He had no idea
how long they had been dancing. It felt as though there had never been
a time when he had not been obeying the confident
hand on his waist, on his shoulder, in the small of his back. Time had
slowed, the world was reduced to a small circle of sound and scent and
taste. When Glorfindel pulled him into an embrace, slowing their steps,
sliding one hand down to rest on Elrohir's backside, it seemed right
and natural, as predicted as the brush of the warrior�s lips against
his.�
Kisses and touches,
long hair not his own drifting across his face, the feeling of 'rightness';
all these things fitted into the night, fitted beside the crackling
fire. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could remember insecurity
in the presence of this self-assured, heroic figure sent back from the
dead by the Shining Ones to swear service to his father, but it all
seemed remote now, irrelevant. The figures moving around him seemed
vague and indistinct, Glorfindel the only reality.�
"Come, take
a walk with me. Let�s get some fresh air."� Glorfindel had
to put his mouth close to Elrohir's ear to make himself
heard, and
his breath tickled warmly, making Elrohir shiver like a cat. He looked
up into intense eyes and nodded wordlessly, and was rewarded by a firm
kiss, full lips pressed against his cheek, making his skin tingle. �
Glorfindel took
his hand as they threaded their way
between the dancers. Soon they were outsiders looking in from the cool
shadows amongst the rocks, apart and distant from the revellers and
the blazing fire with its heady scent of burning herbs. Glorfindel slid
an arm around Elrohir's shoulders and drew him against his side, and
Elrohir's heart leapt in his chest and his world became defined by sensation
alone; rough ground and cold, starlit grass beneath bare feet, sun-warm
rock under his hand� Somewhere, dimly, he understood he was drugged,
that they both were, but they were together and nothing else seemed
to matter.�
Glorfindel stopped
walking and momentarily released him, and he stood, dizzy, turning within
sheltering stone, hearing drumming, piping, the blood pounding in his
ears. A sense of space around him, uncertainty, the world whirling abruptly
past in a heated haze. Confusion� and need. Hunger woven from wine
and more-than-wine, and from the energy of the place and time. And,
rising out of a combination of all these things, a wave of overwhelming
heat and desire.�
And then falling,
reaching out blind hands� Finding strong arms, a tangle of hair, golden
as the sun, silk-strong, sliding over his questing hands. Lips on his,
demanding. Parting to a thrust of tongue, honey sweet, questing, exploring,
enticing him to catch it and suck, to follow in the� dance - heaving,
twining to match the carousing around the fire. Hands on his body, his
clothing being unlaced... He struggled for a moment, confused, his eyes
fighting for focus, and heard Glorfindel�s voice, ragged but recognizable.�
"Shh sweet
one, be calm, it's all right..."�
The world turned
and he turned with it, lying now on coarse, damp grass,
his clothing being pulled open, off by hands made rough
by need.� Night-cool air against heated skin, grass cool and prickly
under naked buttocks, thighs... Squirming to enhance friction arousing
as a touch. A mouth - Glorfindel�s mouth - tracing a line of fire
down his body, peaking his nipples with teeth and tongue, pleasure-pain
pulsing in waves, a wet swipe to navel, stomach, hip. A pause. Glorfindel�s
warm breath, the ardent, throbbing hardness below engulfed by wet warmth,
by passage of lips and tongue, suction and the graze of teeth.�
Crying out, and
again. Fingers knotting in grass, body writhing, knees raised, wantonly
spread, hips thrusting. Glorfindel's withdrawal, cool air whispering
over moist, aching heat, a voice, his voice, begging wordlessly. Thick
hardness, perilously erect, pulsing under his touch. His hand closing,
squeezing, stroking silk-clad steel, his thumb finding the swollen crown,
grazing the slit. Glorfindel�s muttered oath, more movement. A large
hand covering his, guiding it; pressure, slippery moisture slick against
his mouth.� �
�Open.��
Obedience. Licking,
tasting salt-sharp, tasting desire. Swallowing cock, deep, deeper, grasping
firm buttocks, strong thighs. Hands grasping his head, fingers in his
hair. Confusing view of muscled abdomen, crisp, pale curls. His mouth
being ridden steadily, ruthlessly.�
�Good, that's
good. Make me wet, make me ready, oh, so good�� A low, crooning
voice, Glorfindel and yet unlike.�
Choking, struggling�
and withdrawal.� �
�Turn over,
knees and elbows. Quickly.��
Hands on his
body, impatience to match his urgency, hurrying him. Crouching on hands
and knees, grass and gravel scraping eager skin, offering himself, pleading
to be used. Strong hands on his buttocks, spreading him wide, sharp
puff of air against his hidden place, the shattering swipe of wetness,
tongue against puckered flesh, a voice - his voice � keening, hoarse
with desire. Press, withdraw, swipe, penetrate, withdraw� �
Hard bluntness,
pain. Hands on his hips, gripping. A flash of fear - too broad, too
long. Stretching, discomfort, sobbing breath. Glorfindel, filling him,
panted obscenities, riding him slow and deep and hard, each thrust grazing
his centre, no more pain, nothing but searing white heat and hungering,
fire-edged need.�
Hard, warrior�s hand questing over thigh and below, his erection grasped, raggedly stroked in time almost to the thrusts within. Gasping, grunting cries, a primal song woven within the world-swallowing sound of drum and pipe. Bollocks tight, clenching urgency, sounds of flesh on flesh, the rhythm harshly speeded. Glorfindel thrusting to the hilt, Elrohir jerking back in response� And release; engulfing fire, consuming heat, seed spilt in hot spurts upon the ground, a Beltane offering as old as time.
Shuddering, clenching
painfully, squeezing the thick, pulsing� hardness still within.
Glorfindel�s curse, hands gripping his groin, drawing him higher,
closer. Powerful hips jerking punishingly, swift, shallow thrusts changing,
plunging deep within him, deeper. Stilling. And again. And again. Breathless
incoherent, the warrior�s voice hoarse and thick�Hot, pulsing release,
completion.�
Collapsing tangle
of sweat-damp limbs, gasping and shaking into nothingness. �
Elrohir, waking
to a jumble of movement, embraced the night without question as the
world whirled past him once again. He lay on his back, arms flung wide,
his legs being spread roughly, drawn up over wide, muscular shoulders.
Hunger kindled, flaring within, his cock twitched then hardened, responding
to the promise of pleasure renewed. Reaching up with eager hands, exploring
smooth, firm skin, relishing muscles of stomach and chest sliding under
his palms. Sensing power, coiled strength, responsive to his touch.
Taut nipples grazing his thumbs, instinct telling him to roll and pinch��
Thighs beneath
his backside, bruising clasp of hands, thumbs probing, stretching him
wide. Speared in one deep, endless, wrenching thrust, Elrohir flung
back his head, crying elation to the night, drowning in an endless,
drug-induced spiral of lust beyond anything either he or Glorfindel
might have dreamed possible. Again and yet again through the long hours
of the night, the driving power of their lust, the energy of their release,
flowed into the crossroads, part of an age old rite of oneness with
the land�
&&&&&�
Morning dawned
clear and still with a cloudless sky.�
Erestor had slept briefly
once the fire had begun to
die down and the music had faded to memory. He had dreamed of other
times, smaller fires, strong arms and a tumble of thick, dark hair�
He woke to the sound of a solitary bird calling and lay disoriented,
half-believing that if he kept very still he would hear slow breathing
close to his ear, feel a warm shape at his back. Then, fully conscious,
he pushed down the small,
sharp tug
of sadness and, rising, looked around him.�
The Avari were already awake, or perhaps they had
never slept. The
remains of the fire had
been cleared from the circle, food and wine had been packed away, the
altar was no more.
Meret stood off to one side, watching as his people tidied the holy
place. He exchanged glances with Erestor, but no words were spoken The
Avari finally assembled in several small groups and began to leave the
circle, passing the spring on the way. Each paused to dip a hand into
the water and touch it to his or her forehead before departing.�
Erestor sighed
softly, and nudged Caedion delicately with his toe. The aged elf had
drunk deeply of the fiery wine the night before and was sound asleep.
When he finally heard a grunt that might be construed as wakefulness,
Erestor left him and went in search of
privacy to remove his �good� clothing, untwine the moonstones from
his hair and ready himself for the final stage of the ride home. �
Rounding a boulder,
he almost
walked straight into Elrohir and Glorfindel. Elrond�s son looked half
asleep -
or possibly dazed - and jumped visibly
at the sight of him. They were both saved from having to say anything by Maerion stumbling out of a cleft
in the rocks to call goodbye to a young Avari maid, who was running
to catch up with her departing people. �
�She�ll be
looking for you in Imladris well before a year has passed, boy,� Caedion
called across to him. �You don�t think there�s a chance seed sown
on Beltane would fail to take, do you?��
�At least I�m
still young enough to put the night to its proper use,� Maerion retorted
cheekily, which was greeted with
raucous laughter
by the rest of the party. Under cover of this exchange, Glorfindel said quietly, �Go and see if the
horses are ready, Elrohir, and make sure the escort is awake and ready
to ride.��
Light grey eyes
widened in surprise at the realisation that Glorfindel had, for the
first time, spoken to him as though he were one of the warriors, not
simply Elrond of Imladris� younger, more studious son. Elrohir offered
a nod and a small, rather shaky smile and headed for the exit between
the rocks.
He was very careful to avoid
making eye contact with Erestor.�
The seneschal
let him go and turned to assess Glorfindel, his amber eyes slitted disapprovingly.
The warrior�s long hair hung loose in a disorderly tangle, there were
kiss marks on his neck and at the corner of his mouth, and his clothing,
barely fastened, was covered with grass stains. The blue eyes, however,
were steady and returned him stare for stare.�
�Not one word
from you, you night crow�� �
�That will
teach you to check the contents of the cup before you drink.� Erestor
interrupted dryly.�
�The wine?
I thought it was the fumes from whatever they were burning on the fire�?��
Erestor smiled
thinly. He was rather enjoying this. Glorfindel was always so relaxed
and in control and � happy - with life. �
�The altar
wine contained a fairly effective aphrodisiac. Elrohir filled his cup
there. Before I could warn him, you had joined him and helped yourself.
The rest, as they say, is history. Aided, I suppose, by the after-effects
of the herbs they burnt on the fire, yes.��
�Not. One.
Word.��
�But of course not,� the seneschal
agreed, blandly, �Elrohir is no longer a child, the matter is between
the two of you. And his father, if and when he finds out.� He watched
with satisfaction as Glorfindel shrank a little then added, �Beltane
joy, Glorfindel. May the season burn bright for you and bring your dreams
to fruition, as we say.� �
He watched Elrohir
pass from view before adding, �I suppose we should all give thanks
that Elrond decided at the last minute to send Elrohir with us, and
not Arwen as originally planned. That
is not something I would look forward to explaining to him a few months
from now.��
end
^^^&&&&^^^�
AN: I am assuming
Glorfindel returned with the Istari in about TA 1000.� Shortly
after TA 1100 the Greenwood darkened and became known as Mirkwood and
travel became dangerous. The events in this story would not have happened
even a hundred years later.�
Caedion � son of the land
Maerion - good son
Meret � who knows? Even Tolkien didn�t speak much Avarin.