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enismirdalTitle: Underestimated
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Pure, unadulterated fluff. This is soppy of the soppiest kind :)
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my world. No insult intended, no profit made.
Part 8
Faelon was happy. Everything was wonderful. Rúmil was more amazing than he’d thought it possible for one individual to be; he was generous, caring, sensitive and intelligent, interesting and amusing… Faelon was always thinking of more complimentary adjectives that could be applied to his new lover.
And as an added bonus, his work was progressing well. The documents they had brought to discuss with the Lord and Lady had been met with full approval. Celeborn had shown some interest in becoming discreetly involved in one of Imladris’s existing trade arrangements with a settlement of Men in the north, whilst Erestor was surprisingly enthusiastic about information Galadriel had obtained from…somewhere that a complete set of early Third-Age annals had been discovered in Gondor which, apparently, were stubbornly resisting the scholars’ attempts to translate them.
He was actually regretting the fact that he would be returning to Imladris within the month - in between successful talks with Celeborn and Galadriel, walking in the woods with a certain Galadhrim and having that same Galadhrim curled up in his arms each evening, he was having more fun than he recalled having in a millennium.
The feast scheduled for tonight promised to be a lively affair and Rúmil had talked him into attending. He smiled to himself as he put the finishing touches to his braids and checked his robes were all straight. He was looking forward to the evening - what was there not to look forward to?
Although he was far too proud to admit it, he was both incredibly grateful to Erestor for deciding he wasn’t working well enough and brining him on this trip, and secretly glad he’d got lost and been given a chance to discover Rúmil’s sincerity. He had sorely underestimated the Galadhrim once, but he promised himself that he would *never* do so again.
***
“Come on, Erestor!” Rúmil approached the counsellor wearing a dazzling smile and a leading Faelon by the hand. Erestor held up his own hand in polite refusal.
Now Faelon joined in with his new lover’s plea. “Yes, come on, Erestor! You *never* dance…”
“Exactly. I never dance, “ Erestor countered with a firm shake of his head.
Rúmil grasped Erestor’s fingers with his free hand and tugged gently; the older elf instinctively pulled away. The Galadhrim’s eyes were pleading. “Come on. You’ll enjoy it once you’re out there. This is one of my favourite pieces of music!”
Faelon laid a staying hand on the young elf’s arm. He addressed the counsellor with a small smile playing on his lips. “What if I bring Glorfindel over?” He stood on tiptoe and waved towards the table behind Erestor, on which a buffet had been laid out. He beckoned Glorfindel over; the Elda arrived with at least twenty cherries in one hand and a slice of cake in the other. He offered both to his lover, but Erestor declined them as well.
“You wanted me?” Glorfindel asked, popping another cherry into his mouth. Erestor wondered what he intended to do with the stone once he’d finished; the golden-haired Elda did not seem to have thought to collect a bowl before answering Faelon’s summons.
Faelon nodded. “We’re trying to persuade Erestor to dance, and we were hoping he’d relent if you would.” Glorfindel responded with a raised eyebrow, laying his hand almost protectively on Erestor’s shoulder.
“Do you want to?” he asked his lover simply.
Light as elves may be on their nimble feet the wooden floor resonated rhythmically as they executed the steps to the current dance. Laughing faces were everywhere he looked; some eyes were swimming with love, such as those of the sweet young couple in one corner who were so absorbed in one another, they’d just carelessly crashed into a table. Others were alive with amusement and joy. Haldir was dancing with an elfmaid in an absurdly overplayed genteel fashion which was making the maiden blush as some of her other admirers watched jealously. One of the guards who had accompanied the party from Imladris appeared to be engaging a local marchwarden in competition over who could dance more seductively, one which the Lórien elf was winning by several miles. Erestor observed all this - and yes, he was almost tempted to join in. But then his customary self-consciousness resurfaced, and he shrank from the dance floor into Glorfindel’s strong, reassuring arms. The golden-haired Elda rubbed his back in gentle circles.
Erestor shook his head at the two younger elves. “Maybe later. Not now.”
Rúmil’s shoulders slumped in defeat. But his face brightens as he turned his attentions to Glorfindel. “What about you?”
Glorfindel’s fine, pale eyebrows drew together. “I don’t know. Erestor’s said he doesn’t want to, and I don’t think it would be quite the same without him.”
“Do you want to?” Erestor asked, echoing the words which moments before had been addressed to him. The look of longing that his beautiful beloved threw at the cavorting couples said it all, and Erestor gave the gilded elf a gentle push in that direction. “Enjoy yourself. I’m sure those two will find you an agreeable partner.” Indeed, Rúmil was already presenting Glorfindel with a pretty elf-maiden, who fluttered long, curling eyelashes at him before curling a slender arm around his waist and leading him into the throng.
Erestor watched in silence. He delighted in seeing Glorfindel’s strong, supple body move in harmony with his partner’s; feet landing with perfectly precision on every step, golden hair flying up like a gilt fan when he whirled her around. Why had it taken Erestor so long to admit his desire for that radiant warrior? Why had he ever held back? *Fear*, his thoughts informed him. *Fear of getting hurt, getting used, being rejected*. Had any of those things happened to him, he was certain his spirit would have broken. He would have retreated from his emotions and never let another see them ever again.
But when he looked into Glorfindel’s sparkling eyes he saw only love and security, kindness and adoration. Those two precious jewels were worth more to him than any treasure in Middle Earth, and he would happily gaze upon them a thousand times a day. *Aiya, Glorfindel…my Glorfindel…is it possible for one being to hold so much love for another? Even when that other is you?* Sometimes, the love he felt was so intense he was certain it must set his whole form shining with emotion for all to see. The first time he’d felt that, he’d been confused and a little frightened, unable to identify what was happening to him. But then he’d realised.
For the first time in his life, he was no longer lonely.
***
Ithil outlined everything in a pale silver-blue; the trees, the stylised arbours and trellises on the /telain/, the elegant architecture of Lórien’s central refuge. Overhead, the silken sky was embroidered with a million brilliant-cut diamonds. All the feast’s guests had now returned to their rooms, and servants flitted from lantern to lantern extinguishing the amber flames. Erestor turned his back on the stunning scene and smiled at Glorfindel, who was draining a cup of hot tea, having drunk just slightly more than was strictly wise over the course of the festivities.
It took a few moments before the golden Elda noticed the intense scrutiny to which he was being subjected. When he raised his head and met Erestor’s eyes, he treated his lover to a puzzled look, replacing the cup on its carefully-painted porcelain saucer. “What is it, /melamin/?” he enquired.
“I’m ready to dance now. Will you come?”
“Now? You realise it’s hours past midnight. All the other guests and even the musicians will have gone to bed…” He broke off, evidently recognising some emotion flickering in Erestor’s eyes, and caught the dark-haired counsellor’s hands in his. “Of course, /melamin/. I’d love to. As long as you promise it’ll be you, and only you, who I get to dance with,” he added teasingly.
“I promise,” Erestor said solemnly, entwining his fingers with Glorfindel’s and fitting himself comfortably against the Elda’s side.
The two forms, both tall and comely, but one dark and one pale, glided between the /telain/ like ghosts, their outlines softened by the moonlight. They ascended the stairway to the Great Talan as if it were no more than a gently inclined, perfectly smooth ramp, and never once did they break the contact between them. Erestor attuned his senses to every nuance of Glorfindel’s form, every small movement of his eyes or body; he even felt the Elda’s heartbeat when he pressed close into his lover’s possessive embrace.
They both hesitated at the same moment as they entered the largest room in the Great Talan. The banqueting hall, just a few hours before as colourful as a meadow in spring, was now empty, deserted - and yet even more beautiful than it had been before. Ithil’s light left ever detail shimmering as if it were made of pure /mithril/, darkening to pewter where pillars formed from tree branches cast long, dignified shadows across the floor.
But when Erestor turned to his beloved, he saw that one thing was not /mithril/. Glorfindel was a sculpture of brilliant gold, a vision of radiance harking back to the days when the Two Trees still lent their gentle illumination to Arda. He could have been Laurelin itself, waxing under Telperion’s delicate light.
Erestor had always known on some level that there was something special about Glorfindel, but tonight he recognised and understood it properly for the first time. This being had dwelt in Valinor, had entered the Halls of Mandos and returned. He had stood before one of Morgoth’s Balrogs and shown no fear, and by slaying it at the expense of his own life, allowed hundreds of others to live. That nobility and generosity which personified Glorfindel kindled a glorious inner light within him, and it shone outwards for any to see who were prepared to look.
Glorfindel stepped into the centre of the great chamber and the golden aura seemed to linger in the air for a moment even after he had passed. His arms were extended in invitation to join him.
Erestor threw himself into those arms, as he had done so many times before, capturing Glorfindel’s lips in a passionate kiss, inhaling the sweet scent of his dearest love, detecting the subtle flavour of honey and wine. Glorfindel, too, pressed close, seemingly needing the closeness just as much as Erestor did. For a few moments, they just stood there, lips still touching, barely even breathing, just enjoying everything about one another, but then Erestor decided it was time for the dance to begin.
His feet drew patterns on the floor, patterns they had not practised for many a long year, which he’d feared he may have forgotten, but which returned of their own accord now, heedless of the lack of music.
Glorfindel joined his partner. His movements matched Erestor’s, taking their tempo from the dark-haired elf’s own heartbeat. His hips swayed gently as he danced, his hands resting lightly on his lover’s slim waist, the ankle-length formal robes he wore swirling around his feet, a river of magical fire.
The harmony was perfect, the bliss total. Each elf knew instinctively how the other would next move and willingly blended with it. Midnight hair and golden lifted on the currents of air created by the two dancers, chasing each other playfully in never-ending circles.
Without pausing in his steps, Erestor leaned in and kissed the smooth column of Glorfindel’s neck, lapping briefly at the pulse he felt under his tongue. “I love you,” he declared, realising this genuinely was the first time he’d ever put that feeling into words. He had always been afraid before…but now there was nothing to fear. Together, they were two parts of a single, greater whole, he and Glorfindel, drawing strength and completeness from each other.
He reached out with his hand, trailing his fingers across Glorfindel’s face, and as they moved into a column of moonlight he saw, to his amazement and delight , the fiery path of a shooting star reflected in Glorfindel’s eyes. Did even Elbereth confer her blessing on them? How he gloried as those cherished words, words which grew more lovely each time they were spoken, fell freely and wholeheartedly from Glorfindel’s lips. “I love you too, Erestor, /melamin/, more than anything.”
“/Ilyamenie/,” Erestor whispered.
“/Ilyamenie/,” Glorfindel agreed.
Then Erestor closed his eyes and drew, if it were possible, even nearer to Glorfindel, letting his heart soar upon the tide of the only music there would ever be for him. It was the only music that mattered - the music of their souls. The music of their love.
THE END
Translations:
ilyamenie - always
melamin - love
F/B welcome, good or bad, as long as it's *constructive*. But be gentle with me - this is my first LOTR slash! :-)
Notes on the story:
1. Yeah, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm going with the one-reborn-Glorfindel version, not the two-different-Glorfindels version. I've never actually met anyone who does go with the 2 Glorfindels version, but David Day in his range of Encyclopaedias and the like seemed to think there were 2 Glorfindels...
2. I've taken plenty of liberties with Faelon, but I make no apologies since I haven't found any other author(s) who've got there first. See this as a PR exercise.
3. To visit Faelon, go to: http://www.geocities.com/faelon_x/index.html
4. I think I've left the timeframe pretty open, but if you want a year, I'd suggest maybe 2700. Sometime after Celebrían's upped and outed, but before the Hobbit and LOTR.
5. Justin's actually Brett's *older* brother, but I've put Figwit and Faelon the other way round. So there :-)
6.The author would just like to point out that any opinions expressed by soggy, tired elves in this fic about any of the poetry contained within do not in any way reflect the author's own views of aforementioned poetry. There is a reason I am not Poet Laureate. That is it.
7. OK, so unless Asfaloth was as immortal as an elf, he's not likely to exist at this time, but it's not uncommon for people to have a whole series of animals, all with the same name. Why not?
Hmmm...that's all.
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Date: 15 Feb 2004 18:43 (UTC)Re:
Date: 15 Feb 2004 22:11 (UTC)Re:
Date: 16 Feb 2004 16:19 (UTC)Re:
Date: 16 Feb 2004 16:32 (UTC)(And yes, it is entirely irrelevant whether you liked it or not; it just means a lot to me that you bothered to read it at all)
(But you're welcome to comment if you think I need to improve my writing style)