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Summary: A sun-swept afternoon prompts Elrohir and Erestor to reminisce about the origins of their romance.
Author's Note: In the Gaelic tradition, the Lughnasadh holiday is celebrated on the first of August, or at the time of the ripening of the local berry crop, or on the full moon nearest the midpoint between the summer solstice and autumnal equinox (Thanks, Wikipedia). This is more or less my intent in using it here. However, as the god Lugh doesn’t exist in Tolkienian mythology, I have used ‘Lhûn’, which approximates the spelling, but by no means is it of similar etymology. For me, the importance was the holiday itself, not the meaning of the words. For those interested, Dancing at Lughnasa is also the name of an excellent play by Brian Friel (and a not so excellent film version starring Meryl Streep).
~~~
Imladris, Year 138, Third Age
Twas a glorious midsummer sun that beamed down upon the blooming gardens of Imladris, tinting the edges of every petal and leaf with a fringe of glinting gossamer. The Lady Celebrian, herself a vision of ethereal grace despite the beads of perspiration that mired her otherwise immaculate brow, surveyed her work with unabashed pride. Her blossoms were enjoying their most extravagant year yet, spilling over the manicured ledges of their beds, cascading fulsomely down their trellises, abundantly laurelling her gables, and painting a mosaic so obscenely pretty that the pebbled walks had been more populated than ere before.
Spying a familiar, somberly dressed figure emerge onto the terrace, she sighed in perturbation, recognizing how swiftly all her diligent care could be trundled by the two ecstatic toddlers that flanked him, who by their shining eyes were all but raring to dive into the nearest geometrical bank of flowers and gambol about like a pair of rabid hares. Thankfully, some of the manners she had attempted to impress upon them appeared to have stuck, for, once unleashed, they sprinted wildly towards her, but did not, mercifully, trample any begonias or other flora planted there.
As they smashed into her skirts, grabbing for any clasp of leg available to them as they babbled excitedly about their day, for they were still at a tender enough age to be enthusiastic about learning, she waved gratefully at the demure, studious elf who was their tutor, the lone scholar, junior or otherwise, of Ereinion’s court that Elrond had specifically invited into his own, though he was hardly of years enough to be a decent counsel. With his tousled morass of ebony tresses, tendency towards funerary garments, and immaculate porcelain skin, Erestor of the Havens was more specter than elf, especially given his penchant for enclosing himself in the library for weeks at a time when researching some topic of interest.
Yet on the few occasions when they’d trafficked together, Celebrian had keenly observed him, witnessing for herself the stunning attributes that her husband so prized in him. His eyes, for one, were not only of a piercing blue, but their crystalline depths betrayed a preternatural lucidity, as was borne out by his incisively strategic mind. When he had cause to lash out, his whip-swift wit could master a legion of pompous pretenders; she certainly saw for herself preliminary evidence of the potential ally that Elrond often professed he would become. Though her inevitably preoccupied mate, who was more focused on conquering young Erestor at the Battle Game than on cultivating his society, had missed the wealth of tenderness lurking beneath his shy, deferent demeanor.
Orphaned in the Last Alliance and having barely surpassed his first half-century, she had long intuited that the reserved Lindonian had few outlets for his great reservoirs of care. One had only need observe him mentoring the twins to realize how kindly and patient a companion he could be, which was perhaps why he had eschewed the normal route to promotion and had instead petitioned to be headmaster of their burgeoning school. Regardless, by their emphatic salutes and manic trills, her sons could not be more enthralled with him, especially her sweet Elrohir, not blessed with the most confident of characters himself.
“Nana, Nana!” her far more boisterous Elladan beckoned from below. “Master Erestor said there are no lessons tomorrow.”
“We like lessons, Nana,” Elrohir seconded, with an irresistible pout.
Elrond was ever chiding her for being too enamored of their little ones, as she was somewhat lacking in the realm of discipline, but how could she be cross with such adorable creatures? Especially when they were still at a more or less obedient age. She could scold them when they did indeed finally turn into terrors.
“I can read a whole story by myself!” Elladan trumpeted, his smile utterly bedazzling.
“Me, too,” Elrohir tremulously mentioned, never one to boast of what he oddly understood were rudimentary accomplishments.
He was, by far, the more intellectual of the pair, devouring books at such an unprecedented rate that the Chief Librarian could barely keep up his stock.
“Would it not be worth forgoing lessons for an even better activity?” Celebrian coyly inquired, tickled when their silver eyes flared with eager interest. “Tomorrow begins the festival of Lhûnasadh, my sweetlings, when all the industry in the valley halts and all the elves about convene on the green or by the river, to celebrate the summer’s bounty. There will be treasure hunts and races, pony rides and swimming. The warriors will likely have an archery competition, and there will be a great feast. Your Ada has even granted you permission to stay for the dancing afterwards.”
Two awestruck gasps precipitated raucous shouts of glee, as they released her skirts and began to bounce around. She chuckled softly at their ardor, trying to absorb every minute of this delightfully impressionable age.
“I will dance with you, Nana!” Elladan declared, skipping around her in demonstration of his technique.
“You both shall, and with Ada, too,” Celebrian agreed. “But who else would you like to dance with? For there is a custom that you must present them with a flower prior to the festivities, so that they know your intentions. That is what we will do this afternoon, my sweetlings, collect a special flower for each person you want to dance with. But you must select carefully, thinking of each elf in turn and what they would prefer.”
Though she had planned the exercise, she bleat inwardly for the sanctity of her lush garden once Elladan cast his hawkish eyes on the myriad blossoms about. Before she could caution him further, he darted over to the eleanor patch, then fidgeted in place until she pursued him. Pleased to note that he had absorbed such an advanced lesson as waiting for a parent’s help, she pinched him on the cheek, then bid him fetch the two baskets waiting by the fountain. So charged, he raced off, as his brother grappled up onto a nearby bench, content to wait out the details of his twin’s list whilst he amassed his own.
“I will dance with…” Elrohir considered, then assayed a cutely befuddled look. “Who will I dance with, Nana?”
“Who else would you care to dance with, my dear one?” she queried in return, aiming to encourage him to deduce on his own. “Are there any maids among your friends you might care to present a flower to?”
“Nay,” Elrohir replied, with a sour look, as if she had suggested gorging himself on pickled orc’s fingers.
“I am sure some of the warriors would dance, if you were very brave and asked them,” she suggested. At this, he appeared utterly aghast, for apparently one did not denigrate the sacrosanct honor of a career soldier by requesting a jig at Lhûnasadh. Or perhaps he was more distressed by the thought of presenting one with a flower. “Surely, you will want to dance with Lalinthiel.”
“She likes eleanor, too,” he reminded her, his imagination not quite sparked by the prospect of spinning his grandmotherly guardian about. Suddenly, his eyes scintillated with insight, then he triumphantly announced: “I know, Nana! I will dance with Master Erestor!”
Celebrian made a mental note to warn the shy teacher of her son’s quite winning ambition, inwardly praying that the darkling elf had the grace to accept, despite his own reluctance to attend such events.
“That is a splendid idea,” she smilingly concurred, though Elrohir was already scouring the vicinity for the appropriate flower for his esteemed tutor. “But you must choose very carefully, my sweet one. Master Erestor only keeps certain plants in his study. Do you remember which ones?”
Elrohir screwed his face up as if in deep, weighty thought, that pearly visage exhibiting a trace of anxiety, for she had long believed he idolized the skittish academe.
“Violets,” he finally stated, with impish sagacity that she could not save herself from giggling at. Seconds later, he appeared stricken, such that his mithril eyes began to moisten. “But, Nana! Violets are too small to collect!”
“Then tis fortunate that I have procured a small pot,” she assuaged him. “Into which we can transfer the loveliest violets from our own patch.”
The smile this produced nearly robbed her of breath, so elated and exquisite was her quiet little son, already of princely disposition at such a tender age.
* * *
Imladris, Year 1873, Third Age
As a moody springtime sun peered down from amidst its nest of thick, cottony clouds, the noble Elf-Knight of Imladris gazed out through the arc of cathedral windows of the turret in which he was ensconced, like the princess with the long cascades of locks in that fable of old. He was also awaiting his prince, though he was by no means as lonely, nor as hirsute of crown, neither was his bookish, falcon-like beloved heroic in the classic sense. Yet he knew some of her fraught anticipation as he scanned the picturesque landscape beyond, upon which small gatherings of elves lounged on this first day of mild weather.
Though the scent of wild violets wafting up from the pots on the window sill recalled to him moonlit walks, darkling woods, and the sultry song of the nightingale, as well as his Erestor’s most intimate touch, he longed to join his fellows on the newly verdant lawn, stealing an afternoon’s leisure after an endless winter of fortifying the northern borders against the unrest still brewing in Rhudaur and Cardolan. Such an ambition, however, would not be truly relaxing without the cushy lap of his lover to pillow his drowsy head, without those slender, petal-soft lips to sip from. Surely even the harried Chief Councilor and Loremaster to Lord Elrond Peredhel could spare an hour or two to that most elven of pursuits, the tranquil worship of the natural world.
With a soft, cleansing sigh, he dismissed his own impatience, recognizing that whatever kept Erestor away from his study was doubtless a matter of some urgency. Not that his beloved would even expect him, as he was not technically due to return from patrol before the end of the week. Regardless, Elrohir could not quite quell his eagerness to pull that epicene frame against him, to press his face into that elegant neck, to hold tight to the irreplaceable soul that so munificently ruled his heart. After well over a millennium of togetherness, he still desired Erestor as hotly as he had on the night of their first coupling, still experienced his absence as a visceral ache, still relished every moment they were together as if he was the most privileged elf in all of Arda. Away from the battlefield, he had never been a terribly assertive elf, but his love of the demure Loremaster had ever fuelled his few instances of bravery that had not included a sword, such as on the day, now centuries ago, when he had come to announce to his longtime friend and former mentor how their relation had evolved for him, when he had finally girded up enough courage to demonstrate to the shy scholar just how cherished he was…
~*~~*~~*~~*~
Elrohir stood before the massive, ornate oak doors cradling a flower pot, staring intently at the fine-crafted etchings, as if their indecipherable script was some sort of incantation he could use to force entry without a flinch. Previously, he had envisioned every aspect of his plan with pristine accuracy, as an actor might sketch out the shades of the character he would perform. His entry, his declaration, the presentation of his symbolic gift, all had been meticulously imagined. Every scenario was accounted for. Yet he had apparently neglected one essential element: how was he to begin? From which heretofore undiscovered inner reservoirs would he derive the crucial courage required to go forth? Was he truly prepared to sabotage their perfectly agreeable and nourishing friendship, one so hard-won, so vital to him, through a bold gesture of self-revelation that might very well scandalize the one he aimed to court?
“Enough dawdling,” Elladan insisted, resting a sure hand on his shoulder nonetheless. “Knock.”
“I cannot,” Elrohir prevaricated, fear ripping wildly through him. “It will ruin us. We are comfortable as we are.”
“Aye, that you are,” his brother exasperatedly observed. “Stultifyingly so. You are expert piners both. You would be prematurely embalmed by composure and politesse, but I say to you, love is not gracious. Nor does it take well to etiquette. It sears your guts through, and if it not given some air, then it begins to corrode. Do you not burn for him, in your own… overly respectful fashion?”
“He is not some common object of lust,” Elrohir lashed out, the stress of the circumstance fraying his nerves. “He is…” He swallowed back the troths that sprung to his lips, knowing that to become overwrought with emotion would only chasten him further. He did, in the end, want to be goaded into venturing forth. Why else would he have begged for the company of his preternaturally strident twin? “He is our elder. Worse still, he sits on the High Council and is our Adar’s chief confidante in matters of state. I disrupt much by even confessing myself. He has every reason to dismiss me outright-“
“But he will not,” Elladan repeated, as genuinely as the hundred times before. “The gaze that falls upon you unawares does not emanate from the doting eyes of a trusted elder. He regards you sheepishly, true, his shame at the softness of his admiration rife and revealing, but his look is not one sourced in a tutor’s pride, nor a guardian’s protectiveness. In his own gentle way, he covets you, Elrohir.”
The elf-knight fell silent at this, the mere mention of those sweetly incendiary looks enough to provoke him. How long had they been engaged in this stealthy, unassuming dance around one another? The first he remembered of it was shortly after his graduation from novitiate training to full fledged warrior. Before departing for patrol one morn, he had snuck down to the library to select a book, when he had come upon Erestor meditating, ceremonial blade balanced on his upturned palms. Only when he had woken from the trance had Elrohir realized he’d been staring, but the Loremaster had been wonderfully informative about the process, such that he had nearly been late for his first major military assignment.
Through the ensuing years, he’d become a voracious reader, with Erestor ever happy to advise him on the contents of some strategic tract or tome of legends. Slowly, a tradition had been founded, that he would visit the library late at night, that they might converse about the tract he came to exchange, then spend a few hours reading together, both heartened by the other’s company. Thus, he had come to know the mature, adult elf that Erestor was, banishing all but the fondest memories of the teacher and guide he had been. This ever-deepening friendship had prompted them to seek one another out at formal gatherings, banquets, and festivals, their mutual reserve much easier to conquer with an accomplice. His feelings for the awesomely intelligent and secretly witty Loremaster had gone tender nearly from the start, but he had stumbled through a few casual relationships before earnest emotion bloomed, as he had never considered they would be able to surpass the tremendous obstacles against them: their disparate ages, their mutual positions of entitlement, the perception of his parents’ disapproval. Compounding his reluctance was Erestor’s own aloofness, for the scholar ever treated him with respect and remove, never indicating that his own heart might have been similarly swayed.
Twas a combination of his annoyance at Elladan’s urgings and his own abject frustration that had finally encouraged him to act on his emotions, for, after 150 years of yearning, he was even becoming exhausted with himself. Still, his capitulation was no guarantee of anything beyond his courting of embarrassment, for Erestor had every reason to reject his suit. Only one, however, was required to welcome it, so, as he absorbed his brother’s words, he attempted to picture that singular moment when his darkling one might indeed agree to set off on that treacherous path with him.
“I know it,” he conceded to his twin, then, before he could retreat, knocked sharply on the door.
He thought that he might collapse where he stood when that velvety voice beckon him in. Thankfully, Elladan himself pressed the handle in, then gave him a vigorous push. Elrohir centered himself before charging through the threshold, staring baldly into those shrewd starburst eyes as he strode towards the desk. Surprise had shot Erestor out of his seat, the warmth beaming from his beauteous features enough to blanket the elf-knight away from his initial jitters.
“Elrohir,” the Loremaster intoned, his gladness unmistakable. “How pleased I am that it is not an errant scribe come with some ominous writ. I can spare only a few moments, but our latest acquisitions have arrived and I know you are as eager as I to peruse them.”
“I cannot,” he blurted, then quickly recovered himself. “That is, I have not come to banter, but… I mean, I do so enjoy our evenings together, and our literary explorations, and ou-our companionship. Our togetherness, Erestor, I… I-I value it as little else… Rather, naught else in my life, and…” The scholar had gone eerily still, his earlier air of intrigue now appeared to be plastered to his face, artificial and unmovable, the gape of horror behind it slowly cracking through. Elrohir swallowed dryly, then soldiered on to his doom. “I have brought you these.” He all but shoved the pot of violets into the Loremaster’s paralytic hands, then brusquely forced the fingers to curl around them, gasping in distress at the cruelty of the gesture. His heart thundering like a stampeded of mearas, he raced on, if only to end this torment and receive his brute punishment. “Tis somewhat preemptive to present you with a Midsummer bloom, I know, but I wanted to give you time to consider your response to…”
“Go on,” Erestor urged him, though pale as a sheet of parchment, as well as quaking ever so subtly.
“Erestor,” he delicately elocuted, as if the name itself were a fragile treasure. “Will you dance with me on Lhûnasadh night?”
After a long, stagnant pause, during which the elf-knight barely contained the impulse to evaporate into thin air, the Loremaster politely cleared his throat, then glanced down at the hauntingly pretty violets in his pot, product of months of Elrohir’s nurture and care, the most exquisite blossoms, he proudly believed, ever to have been grown under the shade of the Homely House conservatory. Erestor grazed a lissome finger along a petal’s round ridge, then unleashed the most blazing smile the darkling elf had ever seen on him.
“I would be most honored to be your companion on that sacred night,” the scholar blushingly assented. “But must we verily dance?”
Suddenly delirious with joy, Elrohir paid no heed to those pithy reservations as he swooped down upon him. So irrepressible with ardor was he that he immediately claimed his lips, pouring every ounce of affection within him into their first, stunning kiss. The elf-knight thought he might burst with elation when two slightly hesitant arms wove around them, the tender press of their mouths growing all the more sensuous as Erestor sought to express his own long-restrained emotion.
Both were breathless, and mildly dizzy, when they finally parted, the Loremaster intuitively tightening his hold on his youthful lover, who found himself both shocked and frazzled by the boldness that had prompted their recent clinch.
“Tis not that I am in any way ashamed to be courted by you,” Erestor murmured against his cheek. “If that is indeed your intent.”
“It most certainly is,” Elrohir declared, then plucked another heady smooch from that plush mouth.
“Tis only that I care not to be so… overt,” Erestor gently counseled. “Especially as we have just immersed ourselves in this new rush of feeling.”
“A potent rush, though, is it not?” the elf-knight chuckled, resting their brows together that he might drink in his beloved’s rich, spicy scent. “I did not mean to startle you. It was just… so harrowing. The anticipation.”
“How can I fault you for instigating what I have quietly craved for centuries on?” Erestor wondered rhetorically, reeling from the intensity of his intoxication. “I only pray I will not be banished for caring as deeply as I do.”
“Adar granted me his consent,” Elrohir assuaged him. “I knew you would be fretful, so I took the liberty of securing it. He is quite pleased. His esteem for you is quite boundless, you know. Were he not already settled, I would flare with jealousy.”
“Do not dare think I could ever look on another,” Erestor swore intently, so much so that he astonished even himself, jumping out of the moment to assay a bashful grin. “I fear I am in for quite an adventure.”
“Indeed,” the elf-knight smiled, all but mesmerized by the slinky creature in his arms. “But a most heartening one. You have my troth.”
~*~~*~~*~~*~
…a telltale creak sent him swerving around to confront the beseeching eyes of his beloved one, who smirked flirtatiously as he sauntered over to claim a smoldering kiss of reunion. Erestor’s evaluating fingers raked over him, not quite as salaciously as he would have preferred, as he knew his lover was searching for any wounds or bruises, which the elf-knight had a tendency to conceal from him. Once assured that his darkling one was entirely whole, he brazenly molded them together, drawing from his warmth as much as relishing the feel of his muscular frame.
“I did not expect you for days,” Erestor sighed, his voice thick with contentment. “But how I am grateful to have you home.”
“Does your gratitude extend to shirking your duties and escaping with me to our familiar glade?” Elrohir smartly inquired of him, sipping sweetly from his temple to encourage him.
Though the scholar shot him a sly look, it was one bristling with disapproval.
“You are wicked to tempt me so,” he all-but-scolded him, though his crystalline eyes sparkled at the prospect. “The industry of our enemies does not sleep when we are lazy.”
“That is why they are foes, and not fellows,” Elrohir keenly countered. “What is the worth of this temporary peace if we do not rejoice in it? Surely those reports can wait on a few hours’ leisure. Or have I traveled through the night just to be quarantined in our chambers, by one who names himself my lover only when it is most opportune?”
Though he had meant the latter as a jest, his chest tensed when Erestor blanched. In an instant, his cheek was cupped and his jaw thrust towards the most eloquent set of eyes he had ever gazed upon.
“Everything I do is out of love for you, Elrohir,” the Loremaster insisted, fervently caressing his face to impress his emotion upon him.
“I know it well, inden,” the elf-knight consoled him, leaning in for a quick, pacifying peck. “Tis selfish, I confess, to yearn so constantly for your companionship, but as I was strolling up from the stables earlier, all I could think of was sprawling out on the grass with you at my side, soaking in the dim rays of sunlight emanating from above.”
“How can I fail to be lured out by such a plea?” Erestor acquiesced, his smile already lazy with much-needed languor. “Lead me there, melethron.”
“By your leave, my dearest one,” Elrohir beamed, snatching up the basket of vittles he had prepared before tucking his swarthy one securely under his arm.
They wandered off into the wilds, already tipsy on the bliss of their deeply loving relation.
* * *
Sprawled in the midst of a sun-washed glade, his drowsy head pillowed on the bundle his impish Elrohir had fashioned of his shod robe, the sage and shrewd Loremaster of Imladris felt as languid as a puddle on that glorious springtime day. Indeed, his limbs were so lax that the only motion he could manage was to pet through the obsidian swath of mane that fanned over his bare chest, as the noble head it crowned reclined against his side, half-lidded eyes gazing up so adoringly at him that he felt a glutton of care, so perpetually ravenous was he for the singular light of that look.
How his beloved could ignore all the splendor about in favor of beaming at him, he would never rightly comprehend, but he was not a whit ungrateful. Rather, he was being quite egregiously spoilt that afternoon, as Elrohir had been thoughtful enough to procure a picnic basket from the cooks, replete with the most delectable treats and three generous skins of wine. They had nibbled and tippled with relish until lethargy had conquered them, the sheer pleasure of being isolated together in such a picturesque setting enough to absorb them for the duration.
With one arm anchored around his elf-knight’s torso, he had given sway to leisure as he had not in decades – when away from their bed, at any rate. He marveled at the sense of security that infused him simply by virtue of being with his beloved, that his accompaniment blighted out any anxieties he might still harbor about the propriety of such brazen exposure. Yet any elf who bothered to wander by could gawk all they liked, so long as they did not disturb them. Erestor would never cease to be grateful that the primal peredhel lounging against him was his and his alone, that those silver eyes were ever trained on him, that those plush lips were his to plunder at will, that the Valar above had taken pity on a scholar of bashful character and had designed him the gentlest of champions.
In moments of quietude such as this, he truly did not wish for anything more, the luxury of Elrohir’s attention and caresses more fulfilling than the achievement of any life’s ambition.
Once upon a time, his work had been his only sustenance, his only solace, his Lord’s recognition the one reward his piety permitted. That a simple pot of violets, the gift of an overzealous elfling, had heralded such tremendous changes in his attitude and outlook was still somewhat unfathomable to him, but it had occurred, and he was the richer for it. Indeed, by his account, he was the wealthiest elf in Imladris, for he had earned himself a priceless treasure, the heart of the valley’s most exemplary prince. All his efforts towards chasing down the Shadow were now a means of protecting this rarest of jewels, of ensuring that the lucre of their relation would be his to cherish forevermore.
As Elrohir’s lids finally draped entirely over his eyes and the last of the tension in his broad shoulders relaxed, Erestor unleashed the mind that was previously preoccupied with admiring his beloved to meander through the annals of his memory, journeying back to the night when they had first visited this verdant glade, when he had first been enlightened to the elf-knight’s depth of emotion for him, and quite stunningly so…
~*~~*~~*~~*~
The heat of the billowing bonfire flames could be felt some twenty paces aloft, or so Erestor’s riled senses insisted, overstressed and enervated as they were by the perpetual proximity of his genial suitor, whose starlit graces so mesmerized him that he had been witless the entire eve. He nigh broke into a sweat when Elrohir but tightened his arm around him, his body simmering in response to this rather rudimentary show of possessiveness, though, to an already intimidated scholar now being scrutinized by a throng of the elf-knight’s warrior fellows, the solid clench around him was everything.
So far, the night had been a vertiginous one, with Elrohir shepherding him from table to table of residents, from high-born aristocrats to hardy tradesmen to the families of childhood friends, all of whom deserved the well-wishes of their kindly prince for the imminent harvest season. He had been repeatedly introduced by the blush-inducing moniker of “our esteemed Loremaster, who so generously allows me to court him,” though Erestor imagined the title of “lover” was perhaps too descriptive for those who were nominally subjects. It would also be a blatant falsehood. Not for lack of yearning had they abstained, but in the interest of rooting their relation in an intractable foundation, one that would prove fecund for centuries to come.
Though his darkling one had suggested this slow progression, the scholar had fervently agreed, for he had still been adjusting to the thought that he was the consort of such a valiant and beauteous creature, let alone the lover of one. The fatal flaw in their compact had been revealed to him some months later, on one of the many nights they were tucked cozily up in the library, and he was all but livid with desire. He had not the fortitude to chance a rejected overture. The notion that a youth of such diplomatic character and lush comeliness enjoyed his particular company was one he had slowly come around to. The idea that this same dashing elf would deign to suffer his tremulous and awkward advances was another entirely, one he could never quite convince himself of.
Thus, he found himself stranded with a famished libido in a veritable ocean of drunken revelers with no end in sight to Elrohir’s royal responsibilities on this, the night of their first anniversary. To say the opportunities for grandiose embarrassment were plentiful was a gross understatement. Worse still, his elf-knight kept smothering him with kisses as they strolled between the tables, kindling far more that the Loremaster’s goodwill and graciousness. Most egregiously, he had been unable to refuse the goblets of wine every subsequent gaggle of celebrants foist upon him. Each sip of those savory draughts mercilessly stoked his need, enhanced Elrohir’s irresistible musk, and cruelly diluted his inhibitions, such that he was now all but coiled around his beloved, resting a dizzy head on his shoulder in a gesture far more suited to silly maids than esteemed scholars.
Thankfully, his tipsiness permitted him to divorce himself from the clamor about, as said swinish fellows teased Elrohir most raucously about their tenderness. The elf-knight was similarly unsparing in his retorts, which only served to encourage them, though Erestor was far more concerned with the pets and caresses that ostensibly served to placate him through the ordeal, but rather set his skin a-broil. By the time Elrohir glanced down to catch his eye, then murmured an unnecessary apology for his friends, the scholar was altogether oblivious to all but the eloquence of those silver orbs, which set his pulse racing. The kiss that was meant to appease him became instead a torrid affair, a luscious clash of tongues that both were too overwrought to extricate themselves from, until a brute slap of approval to the elf-knight’s back jostled them into the present circumstance anew.
A keen flint, such as he had never noted before, flashed in his darkling one’s eyes. Rather brusquely, Elrohir hoisted him up to his feet, then enveloped him in such a forceful embrace that the Loremaster nearly melted against him. He knew then, with a delirious certitude, that he would succumb to him before the night was through.
“Sweet Erestor,” the elf-knight beseeched him, in a voice that withered the last of his strength, and certainly all of his resistance. “Might I persuade you to dance, just once, with the elf that loves you?”
“Is it not Lhûnasadh night?” Erestor coyly queried in turn. “Am I not ever yours to command, my brave, beautiful one?”
The smile that dawned at his acquiescence blazed brighter than the pyre, then he was quickly swept into the fray, before his reason could overcome his reverence for his gallant prince. Fortunately, Master Lindir deftly segued into a ballad, enabling Elrohir to all but cocoon him with his massive body, his peredhel might nearly doubling the scholar’s diminutive frame in size. The hot press of his sculpted musculature against his front rendered him altogether breathless. His grip was never less than incendiary, as that searing touch groped liberally over Erestor’s buttocks and back, that covetous kiss all but mauling his neck, those craven eyes boring intently into his own, conveying thoughts both scarlet and tender.
When the song ended, the usual cheers and applause erupted around them, but they were lost to the sensuous feel of one another, to the silent, still somewhat shy acknowledgement of their mutual desire, to the sultriest of kisses, which served as its own seduction.
After tightly entwining their fingers, Elrohir lead him away from the festivities, into a secluded glade of hauntingly romantic atmosphere, in which all was laid bare between them, and passion reigned through the night.
~*~~*~~*~~*~
…Erestor was summoned back from his reverie by the soft press of lips to his lissome fingers, then he gazed dreamily down at his beloved, who was absently stroking a thumb along the palm of his hand.
“Sleep more if you are fatigued,” he urged his elf-knight. “I will watch over you.”
“Nay, I have been duly replenished,” Elrohir assured him. “Most especially by your care.”
“Alas, tis no special talent,” the Loremaster teasingly replied. “I do only what is most natural, perhaps even essential, where you are concerned. Tis inherent to our race, the trait that guards so vigilantly over that which is most precious to us.”
Elrohir blushed at this estimation, but his eyes warmed like mercury.
“You were earlier quite absorbed,” he fondly remarked. “What were you contemplating?”
“I was only remembering our first escapade in this most hallowed glade,” the scholar elucidated. “You cannot think to bring me here and somehow avoid such salacious distractions.”
“Indeed, I did not,” Elrohir candidly admitted, crawling up so that he blanketed his lover. “Though I would first put to you a few prescient inquiries.”
“Has some trouble been weighing on your mind of late?” Erestor asked directly, his brown instantly furrowed with concern.
“No trouble, melethen,” the elf-knight assured him. “Merely a… a conundrum, of sorts. I would know if you are satisfied by the state of our relation. If there is ought more that I may do to serve you, or fulfill you in some unforeseen manner. I would be your all, you see, but I cannot know if I am achieving this singular goal without further insight.”
As well as being irrepressibly endearing, the query was playful enough to assuage him.
“Rochiren, you are my sun and moon,” Erestor appraised him. “I thrive in your radiant light and find sanctuary in your velvet dark. If your love were any more nourishing, it would ruin me, for already I find myself insatiably voracious for your company and care. You have not only seconded me when I thought I would be relegated to a solitary existence forevermore, but your affection and attention has enhanced what I am, honed me into gilt, glorious form. Your kind influence has molded me as artfully as a sculptor crafts a masterwork from a slab of stone. I can only pray that my devotion has yielded half of what you have gifted me, and so blithely. So humbly…”
By the end of his proclamation, the Loremaster’s natural timidity could be glimpsed anew upon his florid features, though the elf-knight’s eyes were far too effusive, shining like the most opulent silver rings, for him to dare draw his own stare away.
“Then it is with equal humility that I pose this vital question to you, moren vain,” Elrohir portentously whispered. “If we are so snug in our togetherness, so elemental to one another, is it not time we thought of soldering our relation into an eternal bond? Dearest, sweetest Erestor, I am nowhere near as eloquent as the poets you so regard, but I am skilled enough of tongue to ask you to honor me with your most sacred vow. My wise, gentle one, will you be my mate?”
Erestor might have gasped, had he not been so utterly, impossibly enthralled with his beloved one, had the afternoon not been so blissful, had he not been so gorgeously recumbent beneath the one who would now and forever own his heart.
“I will, melethron,” he vowed, then sealed their forever with a blistering kiss.
The thought of centuries of tenderness danced through his mind, as wildly as they had on many a Lhûnasadh night.
The End