Melpomaen heard the door close quietly, then watched Elrond turn towards him and smile.
"Here we are."
The Elven Lord's voice was hushed, hardly more than a whisper, and it sent a shiver down Melpomaen's spine. The thought of what they had just done and what they were about to do made his knees tremble and his palms sweat. Although he had fantasized about this moment more times than he could count, and his heart was filled with a grateful amazement that it was actually, truly happening, he could not deny the fact that he was apprehensive. For all his desire and eagerness to please, his experience was limited. Would he be clumsy? Would he disappoint?
His self-conscious musings quickly evaporated into the night air as two strong arms gathered him up from behind and he felt Elrond's breath on his neck. "Welcome to my chambers" the Lord of the valley breathed into his ear. "I do not think you've ever been here before."
"No."
"You are most welcome," Elrond said, and then set about demonstrating just how welcome Melpomaen was.
Through the cloud of lust rapidly enveloping his brain, the young Elf looked about him and took in his surroundings. The room was spacious and elegant, as befitted the noble Lord who dwelled within, but nothing about its furnishings could be called lavish. Even the large four-poster bed that was its centrepiece seemed fairly plain. It was a practical and comfortable room, with shelves lining its walls and a large desk under the open window. Light curtains billowed in the breeze, filling the chamber with the fresh scent of lilacs. Even in his less-than-coherent state, Melpomaen could see that Elrond's bedchamber lacked a woman's touch. Everything about it was masculine, from the heavy leather-bound volumes filling its shelves, to the sword proudly displayed on the wall, to the pragmatic blue cotton sheets on the bed toward which the older Elf was slowly leading him.
"Lay down with me." Elrond's husky voice held the promise of such delights that Melpomaen fairly swooned in his arms. He felt himself being lowered onto soft covers, felt the touch of cool cotton against his burning skin, then saw Elrond settle in beside him and turn toward him. The Peredhel's elegant hand stroked his cheek. He shivered, uncertain whether it was from desire or fear.
"Shh, pen-neth. We'll take it slow." Elrond's hushed murmur was more comforting than seductive, and Melpomaen felt grateful. With all the nerves jangling in his body, he did not think he could handle a demanding, aggressive lover. Not now. As aroused as he was, he was also afraid. Although, he thought, he wouldn't change the course of this night for anything.
Elrond's gentle hands moved against Melpomaen's face as his lips lightly caressed the trembling Elf's ear. Melpomaen heard his own breath quicken and felt his thighs part of their own accord. He turned to face his older lover and looked into his grey eyes. "Touch me," he said.
Elrond smiled and did as he was bid. His strong body moved atop the dark-haired Elf on his bed, his hands eagerly learning the lines and curves of the young one's prone form. His mouth sought the hungrily parted lips of the Elf beneath him, tasting him and letting himself be tasted in return.
Melpomaen, delighting in the weight that was pressing him down into the sheets and reeling from the sensation Elrond's fingers and lips were eliciting, let his own hands wander over the powerful body so close to his own. Delicious fantasy at long last turning into incredible reality, he grew bold and let his palms slide over the curve of Elrond's spine down to cup his shapely rear. But he did not linger. Suddenly timid, he moved his hands away almost as soon as they had reached their long coveted destination.
Elrond broke their kiss and looked into Melpomaen's flushed face, curious. "Do you wish to touch me?"
Melpomaen nodded, his throat suddenly dry.
"Then take your fill, lirimaer." The Lord of the valley smiled at the obviously aroused yet uncertain scribe in his arms. "There is nothing I would like more than to feel your hands on my body. Touch me, however you will."
And Melpomaen did. Thinking back on it later, he would not be able to truly say whether it was courage or lust that spurred him on and guided his shaking fingers. Nor did he care to analyze his motivation, not when Elrond moved so beautifully in his arms, eagerly leaning into his awkward caresses, nor when the lovely Peredhel's eyelashes fluttered and his lips parted in soft, pleased gasps under Melpomaen's unpractised touch.
They moved lightly on the bed, undressing each other slowly and with care. Every inch of Elrond's flesh unveiled to the eager scribe's eyes and hands was a revelation, a gift. After months spent coveting the Elven Lord from afar, Melpomaen found that he could barely contain the fever that consumed him. His heart beat madly in his chest as more and more of his lover's beauty was gradually bared to his admiring gaze.
Elrond's burgundy robe was pushed out of the way, exposing a well-toned chest and taut stomach. Melpomaen's lips parted in sudden want when he saw the dark trail of hair leading down from the Half-elven's navel and disappearing beneath the band of his leggings. His hands could not help but follow that tempting path as his tongue timidly lapped at the older Elf's neck. He felt his own leggings being eased down by Elrond's expert hands, then bravely mirrored his new lover's actions.
They lay naked together, entwined on the bed, relishing the unfamiliar contact of skin on skin. Searching hands explored newly discovered flesh, delighting in the differences between them; Elrond's slightly darker complexion a contrast to Melpomaen's paleness, which almost seemed to glow in the darkness of the room. The Half-elven's broader shoulders bore witness to his warrior past, as did the few silvery scars that marred his otherwise perfect form. Suddenly reminded of the age and wealth of experience of the one lying beside him, Melpomaen was struck by a sense of awe, which temporarily halted his curious fingers' progress.
Then he looked down and all uncertainty fled, replaced instantly by an overwhelming, desperate desire. For even down between their thighs they were different; Elrond's proud erection duskier and heavier than Melpomaen's own long, slender shaft. The sight of his lover's sex majestically rising from a nest of dark curls was too much for Melpomaen, who had never before been faced with such tempting beauty. All the furtive longing of the past few seasons suddenly tumbled together in an avalanche of pure need, his timidity temporarily forgotten. Urged on almost by a force beyond himself, the young Elf found his ardent tongue following the enticing trail of hair down to the source of Elrond's pleasure, his lover's heady scent beckoning him with the promise of even greater rapture.
Before amazement at his own daring had time to register in his passion-fogged mind, Melpomaen parted his lips and captured the crown of his lover's length in his greedy mouth. Experimentally, he ran his tongue over his prize, remarkably silky, warm and responsive under his touch. He tasted both sweetness and salt, and, with blood pounding in his ears, began suckling softly, his long fingers twining in the curls at the base.
Anxious to please, he tried to remember what Elrond had done to him not an hour earlier. Incredulous, he tasted his lover's desire, then cautiously took his shaft in deeper, closing his eyes in concentration. To his delight, he heard the Elven Lord moan and felt him arch his back above the cotton sheets. A fine-boned hand tangled itself in his dark tresses, gently urging him on. Breathless with the unexpected thrill of power that made all his hair stand on end, Melpomaen assiduously applied himself to his task.
Elrond's hips moved instinctively, though Melpomaen could tell that his lover tried to hold back out of concern for his inexperience. Still, with the heat of passion impeding logical though, the older Elf could not help but forget himself as he sought his pleasure ever deeper in the young scribe's mouth. Unaccustomed to such an intrusion, Melpomaen gasped for breath as he struggled to continue his ministrations. Finally, when a particularly energetic thrust suddenly brushed the back of his throat, he whimpered, coughed and pulled away.
He was immediately caught by the shoulders and pulled up to lie flat against Elrond, as his mouth was captured in a searing kiss. He felt his older lover's hand snake down between their bodies and purposefully wrap itself around both their erections, his own hot and eager, Elrond's still moist from Melpomaen's mouth. The sensation of being stroked thusly, feeling both the friction of the Peredhel's hand and the damp silkiness of his member against his own hardened flesh, quickly proved to be Melpomaen's undoing. Though he tried to rein in the wave of mounting pleasure, he could not delay the climax that gripped him with surprising force and swiftness.
Melpomaen's essence surged across Elrond's hand and abdomen and the younger Elf reddened with shame.
"I'm sorry..."
"Whatever for?" The Lord of the valley softly kissed Melpomaen's ear as the embarrassed scribe hid his blush in the crook of his older lover's neck.
"I spent too soon..."
"Oh, but you're so lovely when you spend..."
The teasing sensuality in Elrond's voice was enough for Melpomaen to glance up, and his uncertain expression was met with a warm smile. Elrond discreetly cleaned the evidence of his young partner's passion with the edge of a blue cotton sheet, then tenderly took the hesitant scribe's face in his hands.
"I like to watch your pleasure, Melpomaen. It shows that you desire me, that I please you. You need not apologize for that." Elrond kissed him. "Besides," he continued with a grin that could only be described as wicked, "you will spend many more times before this night is through."
Feeling his desire quicken once again at his lover's brazen words, Melpomaen willingly surrendered to the Peredhel's possessive kiss. He melted bonelessly under his lover's attentions, as the Half-elven touched, stroked and caressed every part of his trembling body. The older Elf's hands ghosted over his ear tip, neck, chest, shoulders, and Melpomaen sighed. Elrond's fingers brushed his nipples, stomach, thighs, and the young Elf arched up and closed his eyes. Skilful hands moved over his rapidly swelling member and teased the sensitive sac beneath, and he moaned softly. The touch drifted further down and cautiously explored his cleft... Melpomaen tensed.
Sensing his young lover's obvious discomfort, Elrond moved his hand away. "It's all right," he whispered. "We don't have to..."
"Wait." Courage and determination shone from Melpomaen's eyes. He swallowed nervously. "I want to." He took Elrond's hand and slowly guided it back to his parted thighs. "Just..."
"I'll be gentle, I promise," Elrond breathed. He gave his young lover a tender kiss, then gently positioned him on his right side and spooned up behind him. Melpomaen closed his eyes and concentrated on how the night breeze cooled his heated flesh, as Elrond lightly caressed his buttocks. A shiver ran through his tense body as he felt the Elven Lord shift away and heard him open a drawer. "Elbereth!" thought Melpomaen with a trace of panic, "this is it!" He tried to calm his racing heart, but it fluttered in his chest like a frantic bird.
"Breathe." He heard the smile in Elrond's voice as the older Elf spooned up behind him again. He felt his virgin opening teased once more, this time with something moist and slick easing the way for Elrond's fingers. "Are you certain?" he heard his lover whisper, and he knew that if he were to say "no," the beautiful Peredhel would stop at once, pose no questions, make no recriminations and ask no more of him than he was ready to give. He also knew, deep down in his young heart, that he wanted to give himself to Elrond, to offer the ultimate gift he had to give. Precisely because the older Elf did not demand it. Because he was so kind and patient. And Melpomaen's heart ached with love for him.
"Yes," he whispered, and felt a slick finger penetrate him. He heard the curtains flutter in the summer breeze. Another finger. The sweet scent of lilacs reached Melpomaen's nostrils as he tried to relax against the careful intrusion. He felt Elrond softly kiss his pale, hunched shoulder. Probing fingers moved slowly, meticulously preparing him for what was to come. It felt foreign and new, but not painful. Melpomaen relaxed. The fingers retreated, leaving him with a feeling of strange emptiness, and the young Elf sensed Elrond shift again. Then he felt something hot and rigid between his buttocks and he clenched his eyes shut.
There was surprisingly little pain. He had expected it to hurt, to tear, but Elrond had prepared him well, and his passage admitted his lover's length with remarkable ease. What he felt, to his amazement, was a curious sensation of fullness, of being completed from the inside out. That, and the warmth of his lover's body pressed up against him in the most intimate of ways. Elrond held still for a moment longer, then began to rock forward.
Melpomaen felt his lover move inside him, thrusting slowly. His eyes still closed, he cautiously began to relax and let the sensation wash over him freely. It didn't feel bad, no; it felt almost pleasurable to have Elrond's sex sliding deep within. It was good to have the other Elf so close. Melpomaen felt his lover cup his erection in his palm, Elrond's other hand reaching around the young scribe's shoulder to clasp his hand. He entwined his fingers with Elrond's, his full attention focused on the strange sensations the Peredhel was eliciting.
"Good?" Elrond breathed in his ear.
"...good..." Melpomaen's hesitant tone contradicted his answer, the frown of concentration on his brow a further clue to his incomplete ease and imperfect enjoyment.
"Mayhap we can make it better," his older lover whispered, then shifted the angle of his hips slightly, continuing his attentive exploration of Melpomaen's tender passage.
His desire suddenly cresting, Melpomaen bore down on the hardness gently invading him, surprised by the insistent "yes!" that escaped his parted lips. Valar, what was that? His dark eyes, hitherto closed in the private discovery of new sensations, flew open as he felt Elrond stroke something within him that made all the stars in the heavens explode in a flash of fire. He quivered in weightless bliss, suspended somewhere between earth and sky as Elrond masterfully brought him to the brink again and again. By all of Ilúvatar's creation, he had never dreamed it could feel this good!
It didn't take long for Elrond's sure strokes to bring Melpomaen to his peak. Panting with astonished delight and eagerly impaling himself on his lover's length, the young scribe came with spectacular force, his fingers tightly clutching the Half-elven's hand. He barely noticed Elrond's final push as the older Elf found his own release in the recesses of his body, though his keen Elven hearing did register the whispered "Melpomaen..." that left his lover's lips at the moment of climax.
Lying in a boneless heap atop the blue cotton sheets, Melpomaen slowly came back to his senses. His lover's body felt comfortingly warm against his back as the soft night breeze gently cooled the last tremors from his spent flesh. The covers beneath him felt soft, as did the silky strands of Elrond's hair falling over his shoulder. His pillow felt... damp. Regaining awareness with a jolt, Melpomaen suddenly perceived the tears gliding down his cheeks.
Elrond's fingers, reaching up to brush a sweat-dampened strand of hair off Melpomaen's cheek, encountered undeniable trails of salty wetness. The Elven Lord leaned over, alarmed, and peered into his young companion's flushed face.
"Have I hurt you?"
The urgency in his voice heightened Melpomaen's dismay at his own lack of control. How could he be so transparent in his innocence? Why, he may as well have printed "virgin" across his forehead; his reaction could hardly have been more telling. His face colouring in disgrace, he hastened to reassure his lover.
"Nay, I am not hurt. It's just..." He fumbled for the right words and came up empty.
Elrond shifted closer and looped a protective arm around Melpomaen's middle. His mouth hovered close to the young scribe's ear. "The first time can be quite... moving," he whispered.
Melpomaen's cheeks, already red with embarrassment, blazed anew. He turned to face Elrond, his wide eyes mortified. "Was it that obvious?"
Elrond smiled and, in true diplomatic fashion, parried with a question of his own. "Was it all right?"
"It was better than all right." Melpomaen sighed as he nestled closer. "It was... lovely. It was not what I expected."
Elrond smiled again. "You know," he murmured conspiratorially, "I was nigh terrified my first time. I still remember it clearly, though it was long ago." Noting Melpomaen's curious expression, he continued. "I was older than you, by a few centuries, but still... felt like a mere Elfling. He was a warrior in his prime, proud and strong. He could be fierce in battle. I feared he would tear me asunder and..." He paused, his unfocused eyes staring out over the dark room, then continued. "I remember being surprised that someone so mighty could be so tender. And astounded that two male bodies could fit together so well."
"What happened to him?" Melpomaen asked softly.
"He is dead," Elrond said simply, and a brief spasm of pain flickered across his face, then was gone.
"I'm sorry." The young Elf whispered respectfully, lowering his gaze. He felt Elrond stroke his cheek.
"It was long ago, pen-neth," the Elven Lord said, then leaned down to kiss him. "And we are not here to dwell on past pain, but rather to rejoice in the gifts this night has brought us."
Melpomaen leaned into Elrond's embrace, his heart full of love. The night had already brought him far more riches than he'd ever dreamed could be his. No matter how it ended, he would not be sorry.
With the first light of day timidly illuminating the sky, Elrond felt Melpomaen shift in his arms. He gently stroked his companion's shoulder, willing him to relax and fall back into the pleasant reverie they had both been enjoying, but the younger Elf would not be calmed. He seemed restless as he turned on his side and nervously brushed a strand of coal-black hair behind his ear. The bedchamber grew brighter. Melpomaen hesitatingly sat up.
"I... should probably go," he said, his voice strangely hushed.
"Why?" Elrond sleepily lifted an eyebrow, instinctively reaching out for the one who was suddenly professing an inexplicable desire to leave the warm bed.
"Dawn is nearly come," Melpomaen answered, looking out the window – purposely avoiding his eyes, Elrond realized.
"So?" The Elven Lord was still baffled.
Melpomaen met his gaze at last, his expression uncertain. "Midsummer night's eve is at an end..." His eyes dropped again. "It was... wonderful, but... I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome. If you wish to be rid of me, you need only say..."
"Rid of you?" Elrond was fully awake now, his voice incredulous. "Mel... did you think all I wanted was one night?" He sat up in consternation and peered into the younger Elf's face.
"Midsummer night's eve isn't just any night. Things happen that otherwise... wouldn't. I do not know what you wish, but you already know my heart. I told you before that you could have anything... I meant that. As for me, I do not mind... I will be content with..." Melpomaen broke off, holding back tears.
"Mel," Elrond twirled a strand of the scribe's jet-black hair around his finger, then pulled him closer. "Do you think me so callous as to go around bedding innocent young Elves and then casting them out of my chamber at the break of day?" His tone was teasing, but the expression on his face was not.
Not getting a response, the Lord of the valley pulled his young lover into a tight embrace. "Listen to me, Mel. I hardly remember the last time my heart felt this glad. I have waited a long time for you, wishing to be with you and thinking you beyond my reach. I do not take what happened between us lightly. I would have it mean more... if that is also your wish."
"It is," the young scribe whispered, and Elrond felt himself enfolded in a crushing embrace.
Notes: pen-neth - young one
lirimaer - lovely one
Elrond rose from the cooling water of his bath and quickly dried the droplets from his body. Shivering, he eagerly slipped into his warm robe, enjoying the feel of the warm cloth against his skin, then hurried toward the warmth of the fireplace. The playful dance of snowflakes outside the window was a sure sign that winter had arrived in the valley at last, and the heat of the fire was pleasantly comforting to the Half-elven's chilled flesh. His fingers reached for his hairbrush on the side table and encountered a small silver hairclip instead. He smiled, weighing the little trinket in his palm, as he thought of the one to whom the tiny ornament belonged.
Melpomaen had risen early that morning and, discreet as always, had slipped away to the privacy of his own chambers before Anor's first rays had lit up the sky. As always, he was forgetful, and had likely left his hair unbound as he made his quiet way through the deserted hallways of the Last Homely House. "No matter," thought Elrond, "he will retrieve his clasp the next time he comes." He smiled as he felt gratitude flood his being, from the top of his head to the tips of his somewhat icy toes. Melpomaen was truly a gift from the Valar, and Elrond was not so arrogant as to neglect thanking Elbereth for the good fortune she had bestowed upon him. For the first time in centuries he greeted his mornings with joy, and his nights... His smile widened as he recalled the many pleasures of the nights he shared with his young lover.
They had kept their relationship very private out of consideration both for Elrond's distant spouse and Melpomaen's position in his older lover's household. Not only would it not do for the Lord of Imladris to flaunt his newfound happiness while his wife still lived on this side of the sea, but it would make it supremely awkward for Melpomaen to be known as Elrond's consort while his status as the Elven Lord's advisor was still not established. The young scribe may have been bright and able, but malicious tongues would surely take advantage of any hint of Melpomaen's success to imply that he owed his advancement not to his skills as a scribe and advisor but to his... other talents. Elrond couldn't bear to subject this sweet young Elf to such hurtful gossip, and so the delights they found in each other's company remained their own affair. The few close friends that were privy to their happiness could be trusted to keep that knowledge to themselves.
Having finally grasped his elusive hairbrush, Elrond set about combing the tangles out of his long dark tresses and fashioning his hair in elaborate braids, as befitted his status. He smiled again as he thought about how Melpomaen liked to braid his hair for him. The young scribe's fingers were nimble and deft, and the plaits he wove always seemed somehow more elegant than those Elrond could manage on his own. It was yet another one of Melpomaen's numerous gifts which the Elven Lord was forever discovering, to his boundless delight. His young lover sometimes reminded him of a curious object Elrohir had once purchased at a fair in Lórien; it was a gracefully carved and elaborately painted wooden figurine that, when twisted open, revealed another, smaller figurine, which in turn revealed another, and another... Melpomaen was like that, Elrond realized, as his heart gave a pleased leap; just when he thought he knew everything about his young, dark-haired love, Melpomaen would surprise him with a completely new, delightful aspect of his temperament.
The young scribe had not minded the need for secrecy their relationship involved, although Elrond had at first feared that he would balk at the clandestine nature of their love. Far from being upset, Melpomaen had accepted the limits of their situation with astoundingly good grace. "Aye, I am truly fortunate indeed," though the Lord of the valley as he once again contemplated the many riches of his lover's heart. Melpomaen had proven to be wise beyond his years, his insight tempered by the hardships of his young life, and Elrond was both gladdened and relieved to find that the young Elf's ardour in the bedchamber was fully matched by the depth of his compassion and understanding. Despite his tender years, Melpomaen was no child – he was someone Elrond could actually talk to, and the ancient Elf Lord found that to be a treasure worth far more than any of the jewels safely hidden in the vaults of the Last Homely House.
Elrond sat down on his wide bed and, slipping off his warm robe, began to dress for the day. Drifting down, his gaze was met with the sight of a dark passion mark on the inside of his right thigh. He sighed and closed his eyes as pleasant memories flooded his mind. A great deal had changed since the first night the young Elf had trembled in his arms. Over time, Melpomaen had grown more comfortable in their love play, becoming bolder and more adventurous. His hesitant hands had grown steadier, more sure, as he gradually learned just how to bring Elrond to the brink of ecstasy and beyond. It was not unusual for him to take the lead in their lovemaking of late, and Elrond gladly relinquished control of their sweet couplings to this fiery young spirit who possessed him so utterly and so passionately. It felt good to trust someone enough to allow himself to be taken, Elrond thought. He hadn't been in that position since the days Gil-galad's sturdy frame had covered his more slender one in the High King's bed – the place where the Peredhel had taken his first lessons in pleasure, love and devotion.
The Lord of the valley gave the reddened mark on his sensitive flesh one more curious look before pulling on his leggings. "The little minx!" he thought with a smile as he recalled the delicious events of that morning. He had been awakened, with the first hint of the dawn glowing in the sky beyond his window, by the feeling of a teasing, kittenish tongue lapping at the tip of his still-sleepy desire. He had lifted up his head from the comforts of his pillow and looked down, only to be met with the sight of his own flaccid sex being enveloped in the exquisite heat of Melpomaen's mouth. His young lover had worked his talented tongue over his rapidly hardening member, all the while gazing up shamelessly into Elrond's astonished eyes, as if daring him to stop what he had taken the initiative to begin. Melpomaen had had his way, of course. Within minutes, Elrond was panting, head thrust back in undeniable bliss as the dark-haired vision between his thighs brought him to an explosive climax and then enfolded him in a tender embrace.
It had been a lovely way to start the day, thought Elrond as a pleased shiver travelled down his spine. Unfortunately, the time had come to bring his mind to focus on other, more official, matters. He sighed as he fastened the last few closings on his formal robe, then set off down the hall, in the direction of his council room.
He sincerely hoped this morning's council would be more productive than the one of a few days before, which had been downright strange. The Lord of the valley had never before seen his seneschal and chief advisor acting so, well... bizarre. Glorfindel and Erestor – both usually so professional and controlled – had seemed to completely forget their surroundings as they engaged in relentless verbal warfare, only thinly veiled by the pretence of a discussion about distant patrol outposts. Although the words they spoke and the arguments they brought forth seemed well within the limits of the subject being debated, the sparks that flew between them and the daggers in their eyes told quite a different story. Something was definitely afoot.
"Why am I always the last one to know these things?" Elrond puzzled as he pushed open the door to the spacious chamber, already filled with his advisors. His eyes instinctively flew to the figure of a dark-haired young Elf standing in the corner of the room. Melpomaen gave him a brief, knowing smile, then discreetly lowered his gaze to the ground. Sighing quietly, Elrond willed his mind to leave personal affairs be, and concentrate rather on important matters of state.
"Twenty-three, twenty-four... twenty-five..." counted Glorfindel with amusement. "Our distinguished friend has really outdone himself this time."
The official gathering was finally drawing to a close, and the golden-haired seneschal was trying desperately to stay alert as one of the junior librarians gave an account of the re-cataloguing of the Last Homely House archive. The topic, though no doubt of some importance, was unfortunately as dry as the bed of the Bruinen after a severe drought, and the thoroughly bored Elda was attempting to divert himself by tallying up the number of times the serious librarian said "in truth" – one of the otherwise quite competent Elf's more annoying habits.
"In truth," the librarian droned on, much to Glorfindel's delight, "the re-cataloguing efforts are now complete and the Imladris archive has never been in finer condition."
Silence settled over the room, interrupted only by the buzzing of a stray fly – its sound surprisingly clamorous in the otherwise hushed chamber.
"Thank you." Elrond's voice betrayed a note of relief. "That was most... enlightening." The Elven Lord rubbed his eyes, then reached for a crystal goblet filled with water. "Now, before we conclude this morning's council, there is one more matter I wish to inquire about..." Elrond's eyes sought out Erestor who, it seemed to Glorfindel, visibly stiffened under his Lord's gaze.
"Erestor," Elrond continued, "I should very much like to have that report on the weapons' inventory you were to prepare for today."
Erestor's pale skin turned a shade whiter as he stared back at Elrond across the table, looking somewhat... cornered. Glorfindel could almost hear the thoughts flying wildly in the chief advisor's brain as his fingers frantically searched through the pile of papers in front of him.
"The... weapons inventory report?" Erestor sounded uncertain.
"The very same."
"Ah, well... it seems that..."
It suddenly occurred to Glorfindel that Erestor – always-organized, never-unprepared Erestor – was about to get caught with his proverbial leggings down. Elrond's raven-haired chief advisor was starting to look a little bit panicked and distinctly uncomfortable under Elrond's questioning stare. It was rather disturbing to see the usually so unflappable Elf looking so out of character. Glorfindel felt a pang of conscience at the thought that it was likely his continued attempts to pursue the reluctant advisor that had contributed to Erestor's unusual memory lapse. And if he was the cause of Erestor's imminent debacle, then maybe he...
"My Lord, if I may..." Glorfindel sprang into action. "I'm afraid the fault is all mine."
Glorfindel barely registered Elrond's disapproval, his full attention being focused on Erestor's reaction. The dark-haired Elf who had been the subject of so many of his dreams over the past months looked slightly taken aback.
Glorfindel continued. "It was my duty to provide Erestor with the most recent weapons count and... it seems I have been remiss."
"I was rather hoping to peruse that report today." Elrond sounded disappointed.
"I assure you, my Lord, I shall deliver the information to him as soon as I can. I apologize once again."
"Very well." Elrond gathered up his robes and stood up. "Erestor, as soon as the report is complete, could you let me know?"
"Of course, my Lord." Erestor, still looking a bit dazed, remained seated as the other Elves slowly dispersed. When the door had closed behind the last of the stragglers, Glorfindel strode over to the confused chief advisor and sat down. The eyes that met his were filled with dismay.
"That was uncalled for." Erestor's tone was sharp.
"I was merely trying to..."
"I would appreciate it if, in future, you did me no more favours."
"But, Erestor, I..."
"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself; I do not require your patronizing concern."
"I merely thought that since..."
"Then stop thinking, Glorfindel! Leave that to those who are trained in the task." Erestor's voice dripped with sarcasm. "And, while I have your attention, I would be greatly indebted to you if you refrained from pestering me. Please do not gift letters and flowers upon me. Do not manoeuvre your way to my side at mealtimes. And, for Valar's sake, cease your attempts to edge your way over to me in the public bath! It is a wonder I manage to perform my duties at all; wherever I turn, your face is all I see!"
"Merely because I find you so hard to resist..." Joking his way out of difficult situations had always worked for Glorfindel, but not this time.
"Your advances are not welcome! Do you understand?!" Erestor looked to be near his breaking point.
Glorfindel took in the sight of the beautiful, irate chief advisor, then lowered his head in defeat. "Yes, Erestor. I'm sorry." He glanced up in time to watch Erestor's midnight hair disappear around the corner of the doorframe with a swish. Mere seconds later, the door closed with an audible thud. Erestor was gone.
"Alas, all my brilliant strategies have turned to dust," thought Glorfindel bitterly. The silence that settled over the room was almost deafening. What was he supposed to do now? Not only had Erestor not appreciated Glorfindel's valiant attempts at rescuing him, he had made it abundantly clear that he was not interested in the golden-haired seneschal at all. "Valar, what now?" Glorfindel rubbed his temples in frustration. It was true, he had made himself a bit of a nuisance since the very memorable events of midsummer night's eve. But how could he not? Erestor had gotten into his blood. That one taste of the usually so icy chief advisor's passion had been intoxicating, and Glorfindel could not help but crave more.
Or, at least, that's how it had begun. Glorfindel would slip into reverie only to find himself staring into the dusky eyes of the one who haunted his waking dreams. He would walk the hallways of the Last Homely House and find himself inexplicably drawn to the spacious library and, once there, to a certain heavy oak desk in the corner, and the black-clad silent figure usually seated there. He learned to recognize and love the barely perceptible sound of the chief advisor's efficient footsteps in the silence of the long Imladris afternoons, and the downy hairs on the back of his neck would stand up whenever his nostrils caught a hint of juniper mixed with ink – Erestor's very own scent.
The very council sessions he had previously seen as tedious and dull – a necessary evil at best – now became rare opportunities to delight in the dark advisor's intelligence and wit. Sometimes he even deliberately provoked Erestor with his comments and questions just to hear his impatient and scathing retort. Oh, how it thrilled Glorfindel to see those ebony eyes flash fire as well-aimed verbal barbs were flung his way, cutting him to the quick. Sometimes he even thought he could see traces of a different kind of fire in Erestor's gaze, though the proud advisor would never deign to admit it. It was this vague hope – hope that the fervour he had briefly experienced in the beautiful Elf's arms might not be out of his reach again – that led Glorfindel to pursue his heart's desire in earnest.
He went about it in the way that had always stood him in good stead in the past: he took the most direct path. But, though he usually had little trouble getting Elves to succumb to his charms, he quickly found that Erestor was no ordinary Elf. The sweet words Glorfindel spoke and the gifts he sent were met with indifference or were ignored outright. His attempts to get close to the reluctant advisor were brushed off tactfully but effectively. His one bold proposition that Erestor dine in his chambers was met with a polite, but definite, refusal. It was disheartening, to say the least, and almost – almost – made him abandon his efforts. But just when Glorfindel was about to give up on his impossible quest and settle for admiring the cold, dark Elf from afar, he would catch an unguarded expression on Erestor's face, see the counsellor's eyes blaze briefly as they met his own, and know deep down in his bones that he had not imagined it; there was something there. And so the entire infuriating dance would begin again. It was utterly exasperating. He was utterly exasperating. His difficult, abrasive, beautiful, most intoxicating of Elves.
Seeing him at this morning's council, so unsettled and unsure, robbed for a moment of his ever-present control, had touched something in Glorfindel, causing him to react almost without thinking. "I should have known better," the Elda sighed. Erestor would not take well to any insinuation that he needed help. He would never ask for it, and he was not likely to accept it gracefully when it was freely offered. Especially not from the one Elf in Imladris who had been hounding his steps for months, intent on getting into the chief advisor's bed and, Valar forbid, his heart.
"I am a fool." Glorfindel closed his eyes and dropped his head down to the table before him, his golden mane falling all over the polished wood in disarray.
"Am I... interrupting something?"
Startled, Glorfindel quickly straightened up in his chair, his slightly mussed tresses evidence of his inner unrest. A narrow crack in the door revealed a pair of curious black eyes.
"I can... come back later..."
"It's alright, Melpomaen, come in. I was just..."
"Taking a well deserved rest?" The amused tone in the young scribe's voice brought home to Glorfindel just how much Melpomaen had changed over the past few months. When he first came to Imladris, the young Elf would never have dared joke so easily with Glorfindel. But now Melpomaen no longer saw the golden-haired seneschal as an ancient Elf Lord; he saw him as Elrond's good friend. The proud warrior of Gondolin cringed at the thought of the many `Glorfindel stories' the Lord of the valley had likely shared with his young lover in their quiet moments between the sheets. No wonder the young one felt free to take such liberties.
"Yes... well, the morning has been rather trying," the seneschal admitted grudgingly.
"I do not doubt it." Melpomaen gave Glorfindel another cheeky grin, then sat down across the table from him. He gazed at the older Elf for a moment, as if weighing the words he was about to speak, then leaned in closer. "He didn't mean it, you know. Whatever he might have said."
Melpomaen's words, though quiet and almost deliberately gentle, made Glorfindel's heart pound. "What?"
"He was only upset..."
"Who?"
Melpomaen looked at him rather like an exasperated tutor would regard a not-too-bright student who had neglected his lessons. "Who do you think?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Do you honestly think others don't see?"
"See what?"
"The way you act around him. The way... he acts around you." Melpomaen shrugged. "He does, you know."
"Erestor?" Glorfindel heard the note of hesitant hopefulness in his own voice and felt ridiculous. He was far too old and experienced to be acting like a blushing youth. Here he was, getting romantic advice from... from Melpomaen, for Valar's sake! Damn that cold-hearted chief advisor: he was turning him into a laughing-stock!
"Yes. Erestor." Melpomaen smiled at him – a smile that was not at all mocking – and Glorfindel felt his embarrassment ebb somewhat. The young one did, after all, know a thing or two about the torment of unrequited love... Funny how the tables had turned.
The dark-haired scribe patiently continued. "You know I usually work in close proximity to him in the libraries, so it's difficult not to notice his moods. Especially when they're so obvious." He smiled again. "He's been... quite distracted lately."
"Lately?"
"Ever since midsummer's night, come to think of it, but then..." The young Elf blushed. "I was far too preoccupied myself for a while to heed the clear signs."
"Of course." Glorfindel smirked.
"But now... it's getting nigh impossible to work with him! He practically threw a heavy volume at me the other day just because I mentioned something about balrogs in passing. And it had nothing to do with you! And he forgot all about that report – quite unlike him, you have to admit. He hates himself for it, it's plain to see. He hates having his carefully arranged world disturbed."
"So... why did you say that he didn't mean it?" Glorfindel was puzzled. "If he hates it so much, then why wouldn't he hate... me? It's only logical."
"Yes..." Melpomaen gazed off into space, his eyes focused on a speck of dust twirling in the sunbeam falling across the wooden table. "Except..."
"Except what?"
"The other day..."
"For pity's sake, Melpomaen, speak your mind!" Glorfindel was beyond politeness, his patience having been exhausted long ago.
The young Elf gave him another exasperated look, then continued with his tale. "You sent him a note, which he promptly crumpled."
"Yes, I know. All my notes get the same treatment."
"That was in the morning. We worked all afternoon, and Erestor was touchy as usual. We finished work around dusk, then retired for the evening meal."
"I do hope there's more to this story..."
"Patience, Glorfindel, please!" Melpomaen glared. "Later on that night, Elrond asked me to get some of his papers from the library, so I went back. It's usually quite deserted by that time, so I was surprised to see Erestor there. In the corner, by his desk. He didn't see me, though. I was quiet."
"And??"
"He held your note; he was reading it. And then... now, this may sound strange, but I swear it's true, although it's so unlike him..."
"Melpomaen!!!"
"Sorry. He... kissed it. He held your note to his lips, closed his eyes and kissed it! I don't think I've ever seen such emotion in his face. I was so shocked I forgot all about Elrond's papers and just left. I think he meant for that gesture to be private and I couldn't very well just walk in and..."
"Did he really?" Glorfindel's wide-open eyes held all the hope and amazement of an Elf a fraction of his age and wisdom, but he was long past giving a damn. Erestor cared! Arda was a beautiful place! He stared at the young Elf across the table – the bearer of such good tidings – and laughed; an honest, genuine laugh of pure joy.
Melpomaen gazed back at him in obvious pleasure, then gathered up a pile of papers and rose from his chair. "I should return to the library; he sent me for these documents which he had... forgotten." The young scribe smirked at Glorfindel. "I can't tarry any further. I simply though you might want to know..."
"Thank you, pen-neth." Glorfindel crossed the room in a few long strides and enclosed the young Elf in a warm embrace. "You are a prince among Elves."
"Hardly." Melpomaen extricated himself from the seneschal's crushing, if heartfelt, clasp. "Just someone who knows how it feels to be..."
"In the dark?"
"And without hope, yes." Melpomaen smiled and made for the door.
"Tell Elrond he's fortunate to have found you."
"He knows." And with a last mischievous grin, the young Elf was gone, leaving Glorfindel alone with his thoughts, which were, for the first time in a very long time, glorious.
Notes: pen-neth - young one
A quiet, barely perceptible, knock at the door roused Glorfindel from his daydream. He had been staring out the window of his bedchamber, enthralled by the play of the light on the pristinely white surface of the snow outside. It had been a long time since the rays of the setting sun had so captured his attention but, then again, it had been a long time since he had felt this elated. The entire afternoon had drifted by in a pleasant haze of Erestor-filled dreams. The responsible seneschal of Imladris had sat on the edge of his bed and watched the snowflakes twirl about as his thoughts lingered on dark hair and black, angry eyes... His conversation with Melpomaen had put him in a ridiculously good mood, and he did not care if he frittered the afternoon away in a manner utterly unsuited to his status and age. Erestor cared! What else mattered? Glorfindel smiled. He would give the offended advisor some time to let his anger cool, and then he'd approach him again. All was not lost.
The stubborn knock on the door returned with slightly more force this time. Glorfindel sighed and reluctantly moved to answer it. Late afternoon was turning into evening; and the thoughts of most of Imladris were likely focused on the upcoming evening meal. Who was bothering him now and what could they possibly want? One of his strong hands grasped the door handle and pulled the door ajar in an exasperated motion. His annoyance fled, however, as he beheld the figure of a clearly uncomfortable-looking Elf standing in the hallway.
"I owe you an apology." His unexpected visitor glared at him with a guarded expression. He did not look repentant. "May I... come in?"
"Of course, Erestor, you are most welcome."
Glorfindel stepped back and let the door swing wide open. He gestured for the advisor, dressed in severe black as always, to approach the fireplace. Then he closed the door and turned to face his guest, excitement mingled with fear churning in his gut.
"What you did today was inexcusable." Erestor's voice, though no longer livid, still held the sting of indignation.
"You have a most interesting way of apologizing, counsellor." A hint of a smile could not help but creep into Glorfindel's voice. Leave it to Erestor to make even the simple task of apologizing as frustrating as possible. That damn Elf seemed to take every established rule and then stand it on its head.
"And you have a curious conception of what is 'helpful,' Glorfindel," Erestor shot back, staring the seneschal down. "You should know by now that I do not require... assistance. If I fail in my duties in any way, I should be the one to deal with the consequences. I am not a maiden to be rescued."
"I know, Erestor," Glorfindel said quietly, turning his blue eyes away from the tension in his friend's gaze, "I was in the wrong."
"Not to say that I don't..." Erestor's voice abruptly lowered both in pitch and volume, "...appreciate it."
Glorfindel looked up, uncertain he'd heard correctly. Did Erestor just say he appreciated his clumsy attempts to help? Had those foreign words actually left the chief advisor's lovely lips? It couldn't be.
Erestor apparently sensed his companion's confusion, for he moved forward and continued to speak, his coal-black eyes tenuously focusing on Glorfindel's blue ones.
"I may sometimes appear cold and distant, Glorfindel, but... I am not made of ice, in spite of what people say. I know you've made repeated efforts to... be kind to me in recent months, and... I am not very good at responding to that kind of attention. Still, I wanted to let you know that... that..."
The usually so eloquent advisor was desperately struggling for words, his pale features flushed with consternation. Seeing the strange fire in the dark-haired Elf's eyes and hearing his nearly frantic tone, Glorfindel stepped closer. And closer.
"...let you know that... I am not completely unaffected..." Erestor's eyes widened at Glorfindel's steady approach, but he did not move. His breathing had become unsteady, however, and he now sounded as if he'd just run a great distance. "...unaffected by your... your...oooooh, Glorfindel!"
The last exclamation came just as the golden-haired seneschal, impatient from months of fruitless pursuit and nearly out of his mind with crazed desire for the Elf before him, suddenly grabbed Erestor by his hips and pulled him close, crushing his mouth in a fierce kiss.
The next few minutes were a blur of hot mouths, tangled limbs and discarded robes. The two Elves rolled on the soft carpet in front of the fire, heedless of their surroundings, wanting only to taste and feel as much of each other as possible. The long, drawn out build-up to the encounter only served to heighten the frenzy and passion of their coupling. Hands explored skin, clutched at hair and grasped buttocks as the air was filled with desperate moans and whispered endearments.
Glorfindel, his long-ignored hardness fit to burst with want, clutched his partner as if his life depended on it. Not knowing which part of Erestor to touch or taste first, he attacked the hitherto reluctant Elf with unparalleled ardour. His mind long past the state where rational thought was possible, he did not even consider the mechanics of their lovemaking until he heard Erestor hiss in his ear "take me!" and saw the dark-haired advisor get on his hands and knees and look over his shoulder, eyes half-closed in lust and lips parted.
The balrog slayer frantically snatched the long-unused bottle of oil from his night table, sending assorted items clattering to the ground in the process. The sight of Erestor's pale bottom so invitingly displayed against the flames dancing in the fireplace was almost enough to bring on his release, but he held on, maintaining control through an almost heroic effort. Knowing he would not last long and practically delirious with anticipation, he laid his hands on that eagerly awaited prize and, after only the most cursory preparation, mounted Erestor from behind.
The world stopped. Responsibilities, worries, regrets – none of them counted in this instant, none of them existed. The universe spun out into insignificance, and all that remained was the willing body beneath him and the pulsing sheath of heat swathing the only part of him that still mattered. At this moment, Glorfindel would have gladly given his soul back to Mandos' keeping if that had been asked of him in return for this unearthly pleasure. He held still, the sensation almost enough to rob him of consciousness.
Then Erestor dropped down onto his elbows and laid his head on the soft carpet, his raven hair fanning out around him like tendrils of dark flame. At the sight of that long back, white against the deep russet of the rug, Glorfindel lost all shreds of self-control that may still have been his to command. Releasing a savage groan, he closed his eyes, threw his head back in abandon and began to thrust.
He was not gentle, nor did he think that Erestor would have wanted him to be. The way the pale advisor moved under him, his body taut like a tightly coiled spring, told him that the forceful rhythm he'd set was precisely what was desired. Still, he was vaguely conscious that his hands' grip on the dark-haired Elf's hips was so firm as to border on painful, and he suspected that once their frenzied passion was spent, Erestor would be left with dark bruises as tokens of their coupling.
Concerned for his partner's comfort, he made an effort to clutch him less roughly, loosening his hold on the narrow backside so temptingly displayed under his gaze. But his palms were slippery with oil, and his fingers skidded down the beautiful advisor's hips, awkwardly breaking the pace Glorfindel had set for their lovemaking. Striving to keep his balance, the Elda scrambled to gain purchase on the slick body under his hands, inadvertently grazing the skin with his nails and leaving angry red marks behind.
Words of apology died on his lips as he saw Erestor throw his head back in ecstasy and cry out "more!" in response. Incredulous and slightly taken aback, he experimentally dug his fingers into the yielding flesh and squeezed. The gasp of rapture that was his answer would probably have been enough to instruct him as to his lover's surprising preferences, but then Erestor looked over his shoulder, gazed directly into Glorfindel's eyes and nodded. And the warrior of Gondolin knew beyond any doubt what his partner wanted.
The golden-haired seneschal hesitated for a few disconcerting seconds, then promptly made up his mind. After all, he'd had stranger requests before and, though the reserved advisor's penchant for rough play came as somewhat of a shock, it was hardly offensive. Glorfindel had yearned to touch that lean, pale body for many lonely months, and if the touch he now bestowed on it was harsh instead of tender, so be it.
Determined to please, Glorfindel pulled away from the heat enveloping him just enough to deliver a stinging slap to the eagerly proffered buttocks, then drove his mithril-hard need into the tight channel before him with all the power he could muster. Erestor practically shivered with delight, spreading his legs wider and arching his back to give the balrog slayer easier access to his willing entrance, the sharp gasps coming from his parted lips evidence of his obvious pleasure.
Encouraged by this partner's enthusiastic response, Glorfindel abandoned himself to the frenzied pace of their joining, forsaking all thought of care and instead treating the eager Elf beneath him with all the harshness he seemed to relish. His hands held the other's body in a bruising grip as he pierced him again and again, delivering the occasional blow with his palm or pinch with his fingers. Finally, when the quiver of Erestor's muscles signalled just how close he was, Glorfindel wrapped his hands around the advisor's flowing dark mane and, using the midnight tresses as reins, rode the Elf to completion.
Erestor cried out and collapsed on the soft carpet, panting. Glorfindel quickly followed suit, wrapping his arms around the shaking advisor and tenderly pressing his mouth to a single blue vein throbbing a rapid rhythm in the hollow of Erestor's throat. Suckling gently, the Elda felt his companion's heartbeat gradually slow under the light touch of his tongue. He closed his eyes and delighted in the stillness, the calm that had come in the aftermath of their untamed lovemaking. Erestor was in his arms. It seemed the Valar had answered his prayers at last.
He was about to whisper as much into the delicately pointed ear of the one curled up against him when, without warning, he felt the pale body stiffen and move away. Before he could protest, Erestor had scrambled to his feet and, his gait unsteady, began to gather up his clothes. His eyes frantically searched the ground for carelessly discarded garments, looking everywhere but into Glorfindel's baffled face.
"Erestor, what..."
"I'm sorry Glorfindel, I... have to go," Erestor addressed the crumpled velvet robe at his feet, hands hastily gathering up fabric.
"What's the matter?" The disconcerted seneschal raised himself up on an elbow, thoroughly puzzled. "Didn't I please you?"
Erestor looked up from the sad looking heap of clothing in his arms and Glorfindel saw his eyes. The look in those deep pools of blackness could only be described as haunted.
"I'm so sorry... I got carried away... I should never have..." His voice breaking, he haphazardly pulled on his robe and, clutching his soft leather boots to his chest, fled into the hallway.
"Elrond!! Fires of Mordor, Elrond! Are you in there?!"
Elrond's long fingers, hitherto gently caressing the arch of Melpomaen's slender foot, halted their progress at the sound of Glorfindel's enraged voice, accompanied by the hammering of fists on the door to the Peredhel's bedchamber. Alarmed, Elrond let his lover's foot slip from his grasp, rose from the armchair he had been reclining in and hurried toward the entranceway. Melpomaen curled his long legs under him and settled deeper in his own chair, turning his face toward the sudden uproar with curiosity.
"I'm here, Glorfindel, there is no need to break the door down." Elrond did his best to sound soothing, hoping to pacify his friend before the latter did any permanent damage to the elaborate woodwork. The balrog slayer's strength was legendary, and no door was likely to withstand his attack for long.
Moving with efficiency, Elrond turned the key in the lock and admitted their unexpected visitor. The sight that greeted him and Melpomaen was one for the history books, though Elrond doubted anyone would actually have the nerve to pen the description of the noble warrior of Gondolin now standing before them in all his dishevelled glory.
Glorfindel – usually so careful, almost pedantic, in his appearance, so fastidious about his dress and hair – was the picture of disarray. His face was flushed, his leggings rumpled, his hair tousled, and one of his warrior braids undone. His tunic was on inside out. He was wearing only one shoe.
"Is he here?" he asked, seemingly completely unconcerned by the impression his unusual state may be making on the two Elves staring at him in disbelief.
"Who?" Elrond's eyebrow rose skyward in bewilderment.
"Erestor isn't here, Glorfindel." Melpomaen quickly came to his confused lover's assistance.
"Where is that cursed Elf?!! If I ever get my hands on him..." Glorfindel's voice was shaking, his breathing ragged.
"It seems to me that you already got your hands on him," Melpomaen remarked with a smirk, eyeing the obvious love bite on Glorfindel's neck with amusement, "or, rather, he got his hands on you..."
"Erestor?" Elrond's expression turned from bafflement to shock as his eyes traveled from his seneschal to his lover in turn, then back to his seneschal. "What in Valar's name..."
"He ran from me." Glorfindel's breathing had calmed somewhat. "I don't know where he is. He is not in his chambers, nor in the library. Not in the gardens either. In fact, he is nowhere to be found." The Elda's blue eyes regarded Elrond and Melpomaen with desperation. "I must find him. I have to speak with him. I have to speak with him now. Please, if either one of you knows where he might be..."
The pleading in the blond warrior's voice was a sound neither Elrond nor his young lover was used to. It took them both aback and made them look twice at the ruffled Elf before them. Glorfindel, nervously cracking the large knuckles of his strong hands, seemed almost afraid.
"Have you tried the guest wing, Glorfindel?" Melpomaen asked with compassion, wisely deciding that jests could wait for another day.
"Guest wing?"
"He goes there sometimes when he wants to be alone. Try one of the garden suites at the very end of the corridor. We have no guests in attendance at present, so maybe..."
"Guest wing..." Glorfindel repeated to himself, nodding, his eyes focused on Melpomaen's face. "Thank you, pen-neth." He sighed.
Then, as abruptly as he had appeared in their midst, he was gone.
Elrond turned his puzzled expression in the direction of his lover, who had gracefully risen from his comfortable chair and now stood beside him. "May I ask just what exactly that was all about?" The Peredhel's tone betrayed his utter consternation.
Melpomaen smiled and wrapped his ink-stained fingers around one of Elrond's ceremonial braids. "You mean to tell me that you, the Lord of this realm, are completely in the dark as to the affairs of your subjects?" he joked.
"Affairs?" The Half-elven let his perplexed gaze rest on Melpomaen's amused face. "You mean to tell me that Glorfindel and... and Erestor are..." His eyes fluttered in disbelief as he searched his lover's eyes for answers.
"I think I have been misled about your powers of observation, melme," teased Melpomaen mercilessly, delighting in the older Elf's unusual lack of composure.
"And I think that I have been deliberately kept uninformed of this most crucial development," Elrond parried in turn, the initial shock of the surprising revelation wearing off somewhat. "And now I think I shall ask you to explain all about this affair and your inexplicable familiarity with the situation..."
"Oh no, meleth," Melpomaen whispered seductively as he secured a firmer hold on Elrond's braid and pulled him in for a kiss, "I think I can find far better uses for that sweet mouth of yours..."
Notes: meleth - love (Sindarin)
melme - love (Quenya)
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