Light, Dancing On Water

Light, Dancing On Water

Posted April 28, 2006
Title: Light, Dancing on Water
Author: Eawen Penallion
Type: FCS
Characters: Glorfindel/Lothvaen, Ecthelion/Glorfindel (implied)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: all rights to the characters belong to JRR Tolkien - I'm only playing with them.
Warnings: Slash, explicit sexual encounters between two males.
Timeline: Middle of Third Age
Beta: Most excellent Nienna, so encouraging!
Author's Note: This story is written as a challenge at the LesserElves Yahoo group. The challenge was: Person - Ecthelion; Place - Greenwood; Thing - Elrond's Eyebrow of Doom

Summary : Glorfindel has loved Lothvaen for over a hundred years, but another elf threatens to destroy their love from beyond the grave.

*****

Glorfindel glared at his lord.

"Escort Lindir to Mirkwood," he repeated in a disbelieving voice, "to attend a music seminar?"

The Lord of Imladris looked up from behind his large, document-strewn desk and nodded. "Yes, that is what I said. You must leave in two days in order to arrive in plenty of time. Lindir is taking a few of his guild members as well, so I will leave it to you to arrange the details with him. Oh, and I will have some missives for Thranduil. Erestor will give them to you tomorrow." He looked down at his cluttered desktop. "If I can find them."

The golden lord was not deterred. He continued to question this most unusual assignment.

"There is no hidden agenda? These missives, surely they must contain news of some importance? Patrol movements? Orc sightings? No, of course not, I would know of any recent problems regarding the last two. I *am* the Seneschal of Imladris after all. So why, I wonder, does a simple escort duty require the presence of the *Seneschal* of Imladris?"

He folded his arms and lowered his fair brows, awaiting a response from the Lord of Rivendell. It quickly came and he almost laughed when the single eyebrow lifted in an expected movement.

"Ai! Elrond's infamous 'Eyebrow of Doom'!" Glorfindel placed his thick , splayed fingertips onto the polished mahogany surface and leaned his solid body forward in an attempt to intimidate his old friend. "Elrond, in the past month you have asked me to travel to Lothlórien in escort to a delivery of silks from the weavers, to the Havens to place an order for rope from Círdan, and to Laketown for ale. To none of these have I gone for, after considerable 'discussion', you have agreed that my captains were perfectly competent to carry out these duties. It gives them an opportunity to improve their command skills, and their expertise in planning and coordination of efforts. Now tell me - why do I get the feeling that you want me out of Imladris? Why do you want to be rid of me?"

Elrond stared implacably at his seneschal, then finally recognized his defeat in the adamant sapphire eyes. Throwing his quill onto his desk he sat back in his chair, studying the golden lord.

"All right, Glorfindel. Since you won't leave Imladris then I must send Lothvaen away. I think Lothlórien, perhaps. He will benefit from the restful atmosphere of the Golden Wood."

Glorfindel's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Send his lover away? His little Lothvaen? His appeal came out as a plaintive cry.

"Lothvaen? But why? Ai Elrond, what cause do you have to divide me from my lover?" He paused, placing more force, more anger into his next words, straightening into an affronted pose. "By what *right* do you interfere in my private life?"

The elven lord shook his head, his dark braids swaying with the movement. His voice was tinged with sadness and concern.

"When your private life went public, mellon nín. When arguments ring across the Hall of Fire; when your lover flees, drenched in tears; when I must provide Lothvaen with a sleeping draught; when Erestor finds him collapsed on the floor between the racks of the library, unseeing and unresponsive. When Erestor expressed his concern to me." He leaned forward, his grey eyes capturing Glorfindel's shocked blue orbs. "When we began to fear for Lothvaen's health - and for you."

It was too much. All of Glorfindel's righteous anger drained from him and the seneschal dropped heavily into the chair in front of the desk. Trying to grasp control again, he sought for harsh words to throw at his lord but could find none. Finally he looked up mutely at Elrond, who rose from his chair and circled the desk, drawing up a chair to sit by him.

"Glorfindel, you and Lothvaen have been together for - how long now?"

"One hundred and twenty years."

Elrond nodded. "We were all delighted when you both declared your love for the joy emanating from you both lifted the spirits of all, so bright did it shine. I admit that I was initially quite worried, as there is such a disparity in age between you, but then I became convinced that soon you would come to me to set a date for a binding ceremony. That has not happened, but it has become apparent in the last few years that all is not well between you, and the incident a few weeks ago seems to confirm it. Your argument in the Hall, and Lothvaen... Glorfindel, perhaps you should consider some time apart so that you can both review your relationship and see what you want from your love."

Glorfindel had coloured at this very candid discussion of that which he considered private. Defensively, he protested his objections.

"Lothvaen wants us to marry, aye, but Elrond - I see no need to change things. I love him and he knows it! Why do we have to upset things?"

Elrond shook his head. "Binding is not simply a piece of paper, Glorfindel. For elves, it is a true and eternal commitment. Perhaps Lothvaen is hurt that you do not feel the same desire as he does to complete the circle, that you do not feel the same love?" He paused, fearing Glorfindel's reaction to his next words. "Perhaps he feels that you prefer the memories of the past to the hope of the future. That you would rather wait for Valinor, and Ecthelion's rebirth?"

Glorfindel shot out of his chair, rage explicit on his face.

"Leave 'Thel out of this! He has nothing to do with Lothvaen!"

"No? When every song that you have sung, every tale that you have told in the past five years centres upon your dead lover? When every other sentence holds a remembrance of Gondolin, and your legendary lost love? Lothvaen was brought up on the stories of the First Age. *You* are a legend brought back to life. That he has gained your love is a miracle to him - but he is sharing you with a dead hero, and he feels that he cannot compete against such a renowned warrior. Ecthelion still echoes in your ears, your memory - and your heart."

Elrond sighed, ignoring the outraged protest of his friend. He stood once more, facing squarely up to the reborn lord.

"It shall be so, Glorfindel. It is your choice. Where shall it be? Lothlórien for Lothvaen - or the Greenwood for you?"

****

"The Greenwood. Huh! Why Thranduil still bothers to call this spider-infested armpit of Sauron by its former name I do not know. Surely it would be better to put a torch to the lot, and leave the stinking place behind. There are other better and brighter places to live upon Middle Earth, why he insists on fighting to stay I do not know!"

Lindir smiled at Glorfindel's acerbic comment, for he had heard this particular refrain many times during the long journey from Imladris. He had known the golden lord since his arrival in Rivendell after his rebirth and a few grumbles made no impression on him. Instead his response was mild and soothing.

"I suppose that if evil were to encroach upon Imladris then we too would hold fast to our home, out of love and devotion to its beautiful memory."

Glorfindel grunted. "Huh, I'd like to see evil try to invade - it would be dead within three paces of passing the border."

Lindir grinned, seeing the determination upon Glorfindel's face. It was very likely that the statement would be true if the seneschal were present, for Glorfindel had an intense hatred of all Morgoth's creations and those too of the Maia Sauron. Lindir's smile faded as his thoughts dwelled upon another time, when Glorfindel had faced evil and had both won and lost. He had gained the lives of Idril, Tuor and Eärendil by his heroic battle upon the heights of Cirith Thoronath against the fearsome Balrog, and had thus ensured the lineage and eventual birth of Elrond and his twin. He had lost his own life though, and had seen the love of his heart fall into flames and steam, when Gothmog had dragged Ecthelion to his fiery death in the fountain in the Square of the King - an ironic and horrific demise.

Lindir's thoughts remained ponderous for he was no fool and, although he had not been privy to the heated discussions between Lord and Seneschal, he knew the reasons that Glorfindel was here in the ' Greenwood'. Lothvaen, in the few hundred years that he had been in Imladris, had become well-known and well-liked by all the inhabitants for his gentle, cheerful demeanour, and his positive and helpful attitudes. Like Glorfindel, Lindir had become very fond of the young ellon but from the moment that Glorfindel had set eyes upon the dark beauty, the seneschal had been lost. They were perfect together, the seneschal and the scribe; complete opposites in physical looks and behaviour, they seemed as two sides of the same coin, and Lothvaen looked happiest when wrapped in the protective and loving arms of his lord. Lindir sighed, for the picture became skewed as he remembered Lothvaen's sobbing confession, just before they had set out.

"He cannot forget him, 'Dir! He cannot leave him in the past, nor concentrate on our present and future. He once said that my hair was as dark as *his*, that I sang as sweetly as *he* did. Am I but a poor substitute for Ecthelion? Does he love me only because I remind him of his lost love? And when we finally journey into the West, will he run into Ecthelion's arms and leave me behind? Nay, I would rather end this now than live forever in the shadow of the Fountain Lord, and be rejected at the last. Glorfindel and I are finished!"

At that Lindir had taken the sobbing scribe into his arms and had soothed him until he had found peace in reverie. Now, looking at Glorfindel, Lindir could see that pain and confusion etched upon the golden lord's face, vainly hidden behind bluster and rhetoric. The thought of the two now separated by this conflict pained Lindir more than pleased him, for although he had once harboured his own hopes of the scribe, now he saw only sorrow in his friends.

Lindir's musings were broken when the announcement came of their arrival at the gates of Thranduil's caverns. The gates swung open, admitting them to the inner courtyard where a small party had gathered to greet them. Lindir was surprised and honoured to see that as well as his counterparts in the musician's guild, the Prince of Mirkwood was also present in the welcoming party.

"Legolas!" Glorfindel cried in delight as he swung himself down from Asfaloth. "It is good to see you! I did not expect to see you amongst our musical brethren, when your favoured lilt is the whistle of your arrows or the whirr of your blades!"

Legolas laughed, grasping the golden lord's shoulder in greeting. "I offered my support to Glirfaer in assisting with this welcome, and in the preparation of the seminar. As part of the workshops there will also be concerts and song recitals. My father is delighted to host this convocation, for the merriment and music will bring some light and joy to help fight the encroaching darkness that threatens our Greenwood."

He looked directly at Glorfindel in his sincerity, and the golden lord had a sinking feeling in his stomach that they had been monitored as they moved through the forest, and that his speech had been overheard. The prince continued.

"Aye, we know of the renaming of our home by others and indeed, it has been called Mirkwood even by our own people - but in our hearts our home is as green and vibrant as it ever was. Greenwood one day will be returned to its glory, in a more peaceful world."

Glorfindel nodded, somewhat chastened yet heartened by the prince's obvious devotion to his people and his home. He glanced around, surveying the bustling courtyard and seeing in this familiar scene a sense of his home, of Rivendell. They were the same kin, of the Firstborn of Ilúvatar, with the same hopes, dreams and aspirations. No, they were not so different or dark after all. The golden lord turned as he overheard a snatched fragment of conversation between Glirfaer and Lindir, and realized that is was something that he could perhaps help with.

"...aye, it is a tragedy, for to lose such a musician of his caliber diminishes us all. His work on the lute is excellent."

Glorfindel caught the eye of the leader of the Greenwood guild and signaled that he had a question.

"I apologise if I am interrupting, but did I hear you say that your colleague was injured? For I play the lute and indeed, I have brought mine with me. I would be happy to offer my assistance."

Glirfaer bowed, a grateful yet rueful smile upon his face.

"I thank you most sincerely for your offer, my lord, but you misheard me. I did not say 'lute' but 'flute'. It is our flautist, Anthion, who but yesterday met with a fall on the stairs, breaking his leg and spraining his hand." Glirfaer turned to Lindir once more, spreading his hands in helpless and evocative dismay. "To compound the problem, our second flautist was with him and in trying to save Anthion, he too injured a finger. We are now left only with their young apprentice, who is talented but does not have the skill to take on a piece of any difficulty."

As Lindir nodded in expressed sympathy, Glorfindel bit his lip in indecision. It was to his own amazement that he blurted out his offer.

"I play the flute too, Master Glirfaer. I may be a little rusty, but I was once considered competent at the instrument."

The two elves turned to Glorfindel in amazement and Lindir's mouth dropped open in shock.

"Glorfindel! I never knew that? You are an accomplished musician - but this is a skill that you have kept well hidden."

Glorfindel shrugged his shoulders self-consciously. "Ecthelion taught me when we moved to Gondolin. I figured that if I had to put up with his squeaks and squawks then I had better learn how to play it too - so that I could drown him out!"

They all laughed at the quip, but Glorfindel felt a pang at the happy memories that the topic had brought to mind and indeed, the exquisite beauty of the melodies that had floated from the silver flute of Ecthelion. They had been in no way related to the screeching noises that Glorfindel had intimated in his jest.

"When do we play our first concert then, mellon nín?" he asked of Glirfaer.

"The first three days will be devoted to workshops, my lord," Glirfaer replied. "These will comprise exchanges of techniques, tunes and ideas between the two sets of musicians, each within the discipline of their chosen instruments. Then we will play some of our own pieces in small recitals, as well as rehearse en masse for a larger piece which has been composed by myself and Master Lindir."

Lindir smiled at this, for he and Glirfaer had been corresponding for over a year in preparation for this event and the process of collaboration over such a distance had been interesting, to say the least. Glorfindel's eyes widened at the shortened timescale.

"Ai, then I had best make the acquaintance of Anthion as soon as possible, Master Glirfaer. I presume that I may use his flute, for I have brought none of my own?"

Glirfaer nodded in his eagerness of accepting the golden lord's offer. "I do not think that it would be a problem, my lord. As for meeting Anthion, I would suggest delaying until tomorrow for he is yet in some pain, though I have been told by the healers that he will be released from the infirmary to his own chambers in the morning. In the meantime I am sure that you will wish to rest and bathe after your long journey, and then this evening the king has commanded that a feast be held in honour of your arrival."

Glorfindel bowed his acquiescence and thanked Glirfaer for his kind words. He looked forward to the meal and renewing his friendship with Thranduil. At times the king, with his obsession for protocol and order, could be a little tedious, and his overwhelming love of riches a bore, but on many subjects Thranduil had the sharpest mind that Glorfindel had ever known, save for Erestor. Combined with his generous nature as a host, Glorfindel knew that the feast would be a sumptuous change after waybread, and already he could taste the luscious dishes and fine wines in his watering mouth. So it was that when Glirfaer and Legolas led the Rivendell delegation into the caverns of Thranduil, Glorfindel followed gladly.

****

Weariness swept over Glorfindel as he peeled off his clothes and laid them neatly upon a chair, fully ready to fall into bed and glaze his eyes in reverie. The celebratory feast had been as spectacular as he had hoped and, refreshed from a luxuriating bath and dressed in his finest garb, Glorfindel had indulged to the fullest. Lindir, as leader of the Rivendell musician's guild, had been tonight's guest of honour, a position usually accorded to either Glorfindel or Erestor when on missions of diplomacy. Glorfindel had relinquished this place with ease for he did not truly enjoy the pomp of formality, no matter what others thought of his overtly genial personality.

With another stretch the golden lord made for the bed to slip his naked body between the cool cotton sheets. He turned to lie on his favourite side, then blinked when he realized that he had automatically left space for a second occupant. His hand crept across to the empty space, reflecting upon the elf who should have filled it - and grieved for the bright being who would no longer be there when he returned from his journey.

The parting from Lothvaen had been acrimonious to say the least. As much as he had protested he had not been able to persuade his little librarian that this journey had not been of his own volition.

"You don't want to be near me anymore!" Lothvaen had shouted. "You do not want me by your side or in your heart! Well, fine. Go, Glorfindel of Gondolin. Go play your music, go sing your love songs. At least from Mirkwood I will not have to listen to you pine for *him*! And when you return, my lord, you will not find me in your chambers either!" Angry tears had rolled down Lothvaen's face as he snarled his final words. "I hope that the memory of Ecthelion is cosy and hot, Glorfindel, for that is all that you will have left to warm your heart - and your bed!"

Now a tear trickled down Glorfindel's face as he pulled a spare pillow into his arms, trying to fool his mind that the soft and pliable mass was the firm and slender body of his beautiful little scribe.

"Ai, Lothvaen," he whispered to the unresponsive down of the pillow. "You never understood my need to keep Ecthelion alive in my life, my memory - and I never understood how much I was hurting you."

Thinking about that slim body, Glorfindel felt his quiescent member start to fill in response to the heated desires that Lothvaen had always elicited in him, but he tried to push away images of the pale and tender skin. Lothvaen now wanted nothing more to do with him, and he would not indulge himself by wishing for what Lothvaen would not now give him - the right to worship the dark elf's sweet body. He would not abrogate his little one's wishes by using memories of their physical love to spur him on to bodily relief.

Stroking his shaft under the sheets, Glorfindel tried to focus upon the last time that he had seen the beauty of his first love, waiting for the sun to rise, high upon the walls of Gondolin. He did *not* think of the very last moments of his life... No, he thought of his dark Ecthelion, whose black hair had reflected the twinkling starlight. Whose ready smile and self-assurance lifted his spirits as 'Thel had turned to him in laughter and delight. The remembrance of the firm, battle-honed body hidden beneath the glorious silks of darkness and diamonds...

The hand took a firmer grip, stroking the length from base to tip in long sweeping motions, spreading the dripping pre-cum as remembered moments came to mind - the taste of a warm mouth, where tongues clashed in erotic duel; the laving and nipping of aroused teats, shooting sharp darts of desire across the body; the exploration of skin, velvet and silk in smoothness and heat.

The tiny rose that opened from a bud, allowing entrance to heaven.

The waves of lust washing through Glorfindel came as a rush, his sacs tightening in anticipation as he finally found release and cried out his love's name in his needful ecstasy.

"Lothvaen!"

Glorfindel panted with his exertion and his explosive climax, but lay there quietly, a silent tear rolling down his cheek in loneliness and loss.

****

Although the cavern tunnels were wide and well lit, Glorfindel felt oppressed by the lack of natural daylight - though his depression of soul may have had something to do with his dour mood. Giving himself a mental shake, Glorfindel paused to compose himself before rapping upon the door of Mirkwood's lead flautist. It was the first day of the seminar, and the Lord of Gondolin was to have his own private workshop with Master Anthion.

The door opened and a young elf stood there. At first Glorfindel was confused - for this lad could not be the musician he had come to see - but then a recollection of the previous day's conversation brought to mind the mention of an apprentice. This was confirmed as the young elf welcomed him and led him into the chambers.

"This way, my Lord Glorfindel. Master Anthion awaits you."

A quick glance around the outer room confirmed that this indeed was the abode of a musician. There were racks upon racks of musical scores, and shelves of musical instruments upon the walls. The items were mostly wind instruments but a few small drums and fiddles hung there too. A large table bore witness to new scores in composition or transcription and a smaller table held jars and clothes used no doubt in the maintenance of the various musical implements. Finally there was a display cabinet, enclosed in panes of glass, in which reposed items that seemed to be of value to the flautist. The collection was not complete, however, for there were spaces where objects seemed to have been removed.

Seated in a high-backed chair, his leg supported on a stool and his arm cradled in a sling, sat the owner of the room. Master Anthion seemed a pleasant fellow, his eyes smiling with his gentle mouth, his dark blonde hair tied back from his face. Glorfindel blinked, for the colour of the hair was much darker than normally seen in the Silvan elves, but then he remembered his manners and made his bow, hand on heart in greeting.

"Mae govannen, Master Anthion. I am Glorfindel. I trust that you are feeling a little better after your sad accident?"

The flautist bowed as much as he was able in response, a wry smile upon his face, his eyes darting in nervous excitement around the room. Glorfindel was not alarmed at this, for he knew his reputation often created great awe in some elves.

"The honour is mine, my lord. To greet such a famed warrior as you in common interest is a privilege for both myself and young Tulus here." Anthion waved to the apprentice, smiled readily at the young ellon. "A talent for the future to be sure, and in many fields too."

With the greetings completed Glorfindel was eager to proceed, for he had not picked up a flute since his rebirth and he only hoped that his new body retained some of his old skill. Tulus brought him a flute and Glorfindel laughed as he took it in his hands and brought it to his mouth.

"At least I remember how to hold it!" Taking a controlled breath, he formed his starting embouchure and blew gently across the mouth hole as his fingers danced upon the keys to play a simple air, one of the first that Ecthelion had taught him. He did not open his eyes until the last note faded into silence. When he focused once more upon the room, the flautist was smiling widely at him.

"That was quite beautiful, Glorfindel. The air is familiar to me but I cannot quite place it."

Glorfindel shook his head. "I would be surprised if you did, mellon nín. It was composed by my teacher, Ecthelion of the Fountain, but it did gain some open popularity in Gondolin at the time. I would be pleased to learn that some of his work is still remembered."

Anthion's face froze for a moment, as if in some sort of shock, then he smiled once more, a feeble imitation of his earlier smiles.

"You certainly can remember your lessons, my lord, but if I may make a few suggestions...?"

The tutorial continued and Anthion became more relaxed as he pressed Glorfindel to practice breathing techniques that he had not used in millennia, so that he could hold the notes longer. Anthion also used Tulus to demonstrate alternative fingering techniques that had developed in the Ages since Glorfindel had first learned.

When the lessons finally drew to a close, Glorfindel found himself flexing his fingers to sooth the ache.

"Oh, it has been *far* too long since I played. I promise that I will do better tomorrow, Anthion," he said to the grinning musician.

Glorfindel grinned too, at both Anthion and Tulus. Once they had got past the formality of titles, the trio had fully enjoyed their session. The flautist shook his head, answering in his pleasant musical voice. "You play well, Glorfindel, considering how long you have been away from the instrument."

Glorfindel winced at the praise, knowing that his performance had been pedestrian at best.

"No, Ecthelion always said that the flute ought to sound as if it was moonlight, dancing on water - full of sparkle, ripples and reflections of the spirit. I am afraid that I am a ship plowing through that water, sturdy and carrying the tune without the gentility of spirit which would otherwise bring a performance from plodding to remarkable."

Once again Glorfindel noted that Anthion withdrew at the mention of his old love's name, but he supposed it to be the discomfort of one who was discomposed when talking to a hero of Ages past. Lothvaen had exhibited the same response when he had first made advances to the little elf. Giving a final stretch, Glorfindel stood and bowed his farewells.

"Until tomorrow, my friends."

Tulus bowed in response, thrilled that he was now the friend of the Lord of the Golden Flower. Anthion however gazed after the departing lord, his face troubled with guilty contemplation.

****

The days sped by quickly, so fill they were with music and mirth. The three flautists became close in their common love of the music that they practiced. Tulus was to take the part of second flute, and Glorfindel soon saw that the lad would be a musician to rival even the great Lindir of Rivendell. Anthion too was truly a master, and his ear for even the slightest change in expression of the notes placed Glorfindel on his mettle, and made him perform to beyond what he would have thought himself capable. He could therefore not take too seriously Anthion's praise, turning it aside in a self-deprecating manner.

"I fear that the Lord Ecthelion must have been a less than effusive tutor, not to have given praise where praise is due," commented Anthion warmly. "Although it is obvious that your hand is more used to holding the hilt of the blade than the slender metal of the pipe, yet your deep love and empathy for the emotion of a musical work is remarkable."

Glorfindel blushed and laughed, proud and grateful for the praise. "Ai, my friend, 'Thel had his motives for not giving me such fulsome appreciation - he knew that my head would swell too large for my helm! Not an advantage as a warrior of Gondolin!"

Once again, Anthion had cast his eyes down, as he often seemed to do when the Fountain Lord was mentioned, but Glorfindel could discern no reason. He thought long and hard as to the evidence of Anthion's aversion but could come to no conclusion and therefore reluctantly cast his ponderings aside.

When the time came for Glorfindel and Tulus to perform in public for the first time they were gratified at how well received they were.

"Bravo!" cried Lindir afterwards, sweeping his old friend in to his arms. "That was truly delightful," he smiled. "Ai, Lothvaen should have been here to hear such a wonderful performance - he will be truly proud of you." There was silence and a bleak look upon Glorfindel's face, and Lindir silently cursed his inept words and dire memory. "Oh my friend, I am sorry - so sorry for everything."

Glorfindel nodded. "I miss him, Lindir. I really miss him."

Lindir opened his arms and took him into his embrace, and the two stood quietly for a moment, silver-white hair mingling with shimmering gold, mourning the loss of love.

Yet the days went on and soon it was the eve of the last performance, an evening of rest, for the next night would be the unveiling of the joint composition of Lindir and Glirmaer. All the musicians who would be performing had been told to prepare at their ease, and only a few apprentices played soft airs at the evening meal. It was during the meal that Anthion, now able to leave his room on crutches, asked Glorfindel to come to his chambers after the meal.

"I have something to tell you, my lord - something to confess, and I hope that when you hear my words that you will forgive me."

Both puzzled and troubled, for he now counted Anthion as a friend, Glorfindel thus made his way to the musician's quarters to find out what caused his friend such concern. Anthion was waiting for him, but Tulus was unusually nowhere to be seen.

"Please sit, my lord," Anthion gestured to an easy chair, taking a sit in one nearby. On the table to his left Glorfindel noticed a bound book and an instrument box, obviously one for the separated components of a flute. He waited for Anthion to speak, for the flautist seemed to be composing himself and trying to find the words to explain his problem.

"You may have noticed," the musician finally said, "that I am not full Silvan in my heritage. My hair is much darker that the fine blondes of this court, and my skin much swarthier."

Glorfindel nodded. He had noticed, obviously, but thought little of it. Although it was not usual in Mirkwood, where first Oropher and then Thranduil had kept their people apart, yet some mixing of the blood of the kin of the Firstborn was not unknown in any realm. Why, Glorfindel himself was both Noldor and Vanyar. Anthion continued.

"My Noldor heritage comes from my grandfather, who was a refugee in the Mouths of the Sirion near the end of the First Age. He married a lady of Doriath and removed to the Greenwood after the War of Wrath. My father was thus counted as a Silvan in this realm and he married my mother, who was of Oropher's court. I am an elf of the Greenwood and Thranduil is my king. My grandfather however followed another king who died, killed by Morgoth's hordes through vile treachery. That king was Turgon."

Glorfindel gasped at hearing *his* kings name, bringing forth remembered pain at the memory of the roaring thunder of the collapsing Tower of the King which had signaled Turgon's demise, and of his last sight of Gondolin from the heights of the Cristhorn, smothered in a thick black pall issuing from the burning buildings of the Hidden City.

"Turgon! Then - your grandfather was from Gondolin! Who was he? Did I know him?" the golden lord asked eagerly. So lonely did he feel at times that any connection to his former life eased his aching soul. When Anthion nodded, his heart leapt.

"I believe so, my lord. His name in Quenya was Oiotarmo, and in Sindarin, Conuiron. He was of the House of the Fountain."

Glorfindel beamed in delight.

"Varda, yes! Conuiron was Ecthelion's master of music! He taught all of the members of the house, he and his guildsmen. Why, the sound of the warriors of the Fountain marching to war to the music of the flute and pipe was all due to his innovative production of sturdy instruments for travel. It was he who instigated their distinctive voice, their signature that would bring fear into the heart of the enemy. Ai, this is such good news, Anthion - but why did you delay to tell me it? We could have discussed your grandfather at length over the past week and more!"

Anthion hesitated, then turned to pick up the bound book on the table, leaning forward to place it into Glorfindel's hands.

"Because of this, my lord." Glorfindel looked into Anthion's worried eyes, then down to the book again and started to turn its pages as the flautist spoke again.

"My grandfather was in charge of Lord Ecthelion's flute on the night of Tarnin Austa, on that fateful night. After singing the salute to the dawn, his lord was to have played a new piece of music composed for that day. Of course, that was when Maeglin's treachery betrayed them all, and as the song was not sung, neither was the piece played.

"Before their escape from the city, Conuiron decided that not all things of beauty would be left to be destroyed by the evil one. As his burden for the journey he took it upon himself to bring his lord's own flute, and this bound book of Ecthelion's compositions, which my grandfather had helped to prepare. It was most complete, as you can see."

Glorfindel lifted his head, looking up from the last score in the book. A single tear ran softly over his cheek.

"It is dated for that last night. The last night of our city. The last night of his life - and mine..." He looked down once more, reading the dedication aloud. " 'For Glorfindel, my dearest friend and most beautiful companion, who loves me more than I deserve, and whose love I have never been able to return in its fulsome generosity. As much as I do care for him, I will never be able to match the depth and breadth of his open heart.'"

The tears flowed freely now, and Glorfindel placed his arm over the pages and he bent his head in sobbing grief. Anthion wept too, silently and in sympathy for this broken edhel. His voice cracked as he spoke again.

"My lord, I know that this book and the flute should have been returned to you upon the announcement of your rebirth. I was my own selfishness that has now caused you such pain, and I am truly sorry for that. It was just... this is regarded somewhat as an heirloom in my family, a rare and precious tribute to our fallen lord. I ... I could not let it go, and so I hid it. I am so sorry."

Glorfindel shook his head, and his voice trembled. "Nay, Anthion. I understand. Conuiron's rapport with Ecthelion was remarkable, and their friendship true. I know that you had your reasons."

Anthion smiled weakly, his guilt somewhat assuaged by Glorfindel's kind words.

"My lord, I have learnt that piece, and can play it well. My hand is now healed, and I would like to play it for you, if you wish?"

The golden lord nodded his head, but kept it bent so that Anthion could not see his expression. Anthion leaned across to the table once more, taking and opening the box which lay upon it. Lifting the components from their protective casing, Anthion deftly reassembled the flute.

It was a pinnacle of workmanship, without peer. Of strengthened silver, it was polished to a reflective sheen, the padded hole caps were gilded with rich gold and in the center of each was inlaid a fine-cut circular diamond. Glorfindel looked now upon it, hearing Ecthelion's voice in his ear, as proud as it was when he had first received the flute from the craftsman who had made it.

"The diamonds will shimmer in the light when I play it, mellon nín - like raindrops falling from a sunlit sky, transforming Anor's rays into a myriad of rainbow colours." The slim lips had curled in amusement. "Light, dancing on water, my friend."

As Anthion blew softly across the mouth he and the first note sounded, Glorfindel gave himself over to the music and let the sparkling notes fill his soul.

****

Glorfindel took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet pine-laden air. It soothed him as it always did upon his returns to Imladris, his home. He had been away too long, encased too deep in Thranduil's caverns. The return journey had nourished his soul with the clarity of the breezes through the mountain passes, and the wide-open vistas upon their descent from the heights.

The courtyard around him was full of elves, bustling around the traveling party in welcome, helping unload the horses and lead the to the stables to be groomed, fed and watered. Glorfindel thanked the young stablehand who took Asfaloth's reins, a slight pang in his heart as he watched the noble stallion being led away, for he normally took care of the horse himself. However he had a need in his heart to salve and that need - that elf - came first.

Looking around at the faces he did not see the one he had hoped for, though both Erestor and Elrond came to greet him. Completing the usual pleasantries, Glorfindel swiftly asked his question.

"My Lord, where is Lothvaen?"

The eyebrow of doom rose, but the expression in the eyes was of sympathy. It was Erestor who answered.

"He would not come, meldir. He sits working in the library - alone."

Glorfindel nodded, understanding the intonation. Making his excuses, his long stride took him inside the main building aas he eagerly traversed the corridors to the vaulted halls of the library.

Erestor was not totally accurate in his statement for the main room, so resplendent in its towering racks of tomes, had a number of scholars engrossed in their contents - but this was not the province of Lothvaen. Manouvering carefully past the unseeing elves, Glorfindel made for a side room where Lothvaen was usually occupied with transcribing, annotating or cataloguing the many volumes.

The long dark hair fell like a velvet curtain over the deep red silk of his robe, falling forward to pool on the polished wood of the writing table at which the edhel sat. Circling slowly around the slender elf, Glorfindel's heart lurched when he saw that the end of the quill feather was pinched between the pursed pink lips, a habit of concentration that had always made Glorfindel melt at the sweetness of the unconscious gesture. Satisfied that he would not disturb a delicate penstroke, Glorfindel addressed the young scribe.

"Lothvaen? Pen neth?"

The scribe turned with a gasp, his emerald eyes shining with joy as he saw the seneschal and Glorfindel felt his heart swell with love and with hope that he could still claim the beautiful elf as his own. His smile faded when doubt filled those green orbs and the enthusiasm of the welcome faded as that last conversation came to Lothvaen's mind.

"Glorfindel." The voice was soft and controlled. "You have returned."

Glorfindel's voice was just as gentle. "Yes, pen vuin. I am come back to you.," he whispered hopefully. He knelt before the seated elf, the plea evident in his sapphire eyes. "Lothvaen, I know that I have served you many wrongs, and I am so, so sorry, my heart. I know also that I have no right to ask you but will you come with me, come to hear my tale, for I would tell you something of great importance to us both?"

Lothvaen looked at him seriously, examining the truth in the seneschal's eyes, then at the last nodded his agreement.

"I will listen, Glorfindel, but be warned - I will not easily return to your side. What we had you destroyed. There is little left to hope for."

Glorfindel was only grateful for the chance to redeem himself in the scribe's eyes and took the proffered hand, so delicate in his own broader palm. The walk was in silence and it did not take any guesswork on the scribe's part to see their destination, but he forbore to comment. Instead, once inside the chambers he took the chair by the unlit fireplace, his favourite resting place when in happier times he and Glorfindel had whiled away long winter afternoons by a roaring fire, indulging in low conversation and fine burgundy wines. Now he maintained his reserved demeanour, looking expectantly at the golden lord. Glorfindel glanced once at his travel bags, thankfully returned to his rooms by one of the housemaids, then seated himself opposite Lothvaen in the matching armchair, leaning forward in his earnest desire to persuade the other elf of his sincerity.

"My story begins on our arrival in the Greenwood, dearest Lothvaen, and with news of the injuries received by a musician named Anthion..."

Glorfindel told the story at an even pace, trying not to place too much emphasis upon his emotional response to the artifacts that Anthion had placed before him, but in open honesty he did not hide that they had indeed affected him. As his tale ended he tried to gauge Lothvaen's reaction, but the scribe had learned to emulate his master well and in his cool manner he was as successful at hiding his emotions as Erestor. Glorfindel stood in the silent room and crossed slowly to his bags, retrieving his lute from its case. Returning to his chair he cradled the instrument as he tuned it, tightening the strings in readiness to play. Lifting his head from the tuning, his sapphire eyes begged for indulgence.

"I have a melody to play for you, ind nín. Will you hear it?"

The green eyes flared, releasing at last the ire that had grown from the first moment that Ecthelion's name had been mentioned in Glorfindel's tale. His words carried the force of a raging inferno.

"You would play me *his* tune? The one that he wrote for you? Egad, Glorfindel, you must think me a doormat, just waiting for you to wipe your boots on me! How can you ask this of me? Do you hate me that much?"

Glorfindel reached to catch the ellon's wrist, alarmed at the vehement outburst. "No, no, my love! Please, it is not like that! I promise! Please, will you not sit? Please, my heart, my Lothvaen..."

The plea was heartfelt, the desperation so clear that Lothvaen sat in shock. Finally he nodded, and Glorfindel began to play.

The melody was soft and low, evoking a sense of loneliness and solitude that pulled at the heartstrings. After a short time a new refrain was introduced, causing the first to fade into the livelier melody, filled with joy and laughter, chuckles singing from the plucked catgut. Lothvaen began to smile and sway at the sweet tune, so merry and bright. The culmination of the piece was full of light and happiness, as if a soul was singing to its mate, two twirling strains dancing around each other. As the last note resonated on the lute's string, Glorfindel finally looked up at Lothvaen and the scribe was surprised to see tears shining in the bright blue orbs.

"That was not Ecthelion's tune," the Lord of Gondolin said softly. "That was my song to you, written on hearing the history of Anthion's family and seeing the relics of Ecthelion's life. The song tells of my life, my feelings upon my return to Arda - old in spirit, alone, so isolated in a changed world. Nothing recognisable, for even the lands had been reformed. Welcomed by Elrond, but I was a single lonely ship lost in the vastness of a grey sea. Then a light appeared in my life, a beacon to bring my ship home to a safe harbour, a home for my sad soul. You, meleth nín. And I have now ruined that love and extinguished that light because of Ecthelion, because of his memory and how he has intruded in my life - our lives.

"Ecthelion was never in love with me, Lothvaen. Never. Oh, he loved me as a friend, as a bedmate, as a comrade-in-arms, and if I had been satisfied with that then I could have enjoyed our time together in Gondolin. We had known each other since Valinor, had crossed and survived the Grinding Ice, had fought against evil and were Guardians of the Hidden City- together. And I thought that was enough. Our friendship was special. *We* were special - or so I thought. *I* was the one who wanted to commit to love, who thought that our unity during our trials was evidence of a life-long commitment. I thought that I felt the pull of the soul, but Ecthelion did not and he was right. It would have been wrong, foolish to bind ourselves in a one-sided marriage. It did not stop me longing, hoping, and living a lie. When he died I thought that there was nothing left to live for and so felt that there was nothing to lose in my stand against the balrog on Cirith Thoronath. If my death could serve to save lives then so be it. At least I would be with Ecthelion again, or so I thought. However, Mandos does not work that way.

"I was so lonely, so alone on my return. No love, only duty - until you arrived in Imladris. Like an explosion of fireworks you burst into my soul, igniting it for the first time ever, filling me with light and colour. A day, a year, a hundred years passed so swiftly, too swiftly, for I lived every moment in your precious love. Then you asked for more, you asked for a commitment and a betrothal, and I panicked. Once before I had thought that it was true love, and I had been wrong. What if I was wrong this time too? And what of Ecthelion? Had my love for him been but a pointless lie? Had I wasted my first life, was there truly nothing there in the first place? I started to think of him, talk about him, bringing him into our conversations because I saw that he was fading from my mind, as he had faded from my heart once you had entered there. It was a desperate justification of the choices I had made in Gondolin, and I tried to prove to myself that I was not as fickle as I felt myself to be. It is so hard to explain, my love, because I do not truly understand my actions or my feelings. I urgently wanted that first love to be real because I so desperately needed this second love, this deep love, to be true and for ever. And in doing so, I hurt you beyond repair.

"Ecthelion once said that the notes issuing from his flute were as light, dancing on water. That is what he was to me - light, elusive, fleeting, dancing always beyond my reach - never mine. You are different, Lothvaen. If I am a ship, then you are my sea. I am nothing without you; I have no purpose without you. I float on you, I am supported by you; you give my life meaning. You provide my light upon the water. Without you I am beached, stranded, useless, for a ship has no purpose if there is nowhere to sail, and there is no sea to sail upon. I am lost.

"I love you, Lothvaen, beyond all other loves. Forever I will love you and no other. If I have lost you then so be it, I have none to blame but myself but I would have you know this - I left Ecthelion behind in the Greenwood. The flute, his music, him. He is gone and is but a pleasant memory of friendship alone. He will never intrude in my life again.

"Tell me, my little Lothvaen, I plead with you - have I no hope?"

The scribe looked long at Glorfindel's face, studying it intensely, trying to discern if what he had heard was true, if Glorfindel's love for him was genuine. Finally with a tearful sparkle in his eye he stood and reached for Glorfindel, to pull him up to face him. Lifting his chin, emerald orbs met with sapphire blue.

"If you truly love me, and me alone - then there is always hope, fëa nín."

The seneschal stood in silent shock for a moment, then a smile split his face and with a shout he picked up the little scribe and swung him around with fierce delight, their happy laughter ringing through the chamber. As their spinning slowed so did Glorfindel lower his head to kiss Lothvaen in a touch that was full of sweetness and promise. Lothvaen parted his lips to allow Glorfindel to deepen the kiss, welcoming that diving, searching tongue as he held close to his love. How he had missed his golden lord!

As the kiss ended the two elves looked at one another, adoration spilling from the lustrous eyes. In silent communion Lothvaen led his lord to their bedchamber where they disrobed amidst sweet kisses to lips, eyelids, neck, the tempting hollow at the base of the throat. Hands roamed in a gentle wander, exploring through silken hair, causing soft gasps as slender ear points were stroked in passage to sinewy neck; firm chest was lavishly smoothed and kneaded, and teats teased with flickering tongue-tip; hip bones were laved with moist heat as leggings were discarded.

Lothvaen hissed as the red-lipped mouth opened to engulf his swollen arousal, as the shaft was taken to the back of the deep throat. Slowly the lips pulled back once more, encircling labia taut around the aching member. Another plunge forward, and Lothvaen screamed as the motion was repeated again and again. He could not thrust for hands held him at his hips, firm in their refusal to allow him any control. This was Glorfindel's apology, his gift of sorrow and love to his pen neth. A tight hand around the base of the worshipped member denied Lothvaen release, and he squirmed as he tried to push past the barriers that held him from completion. Finally Glorfindel relented and slowly pulled away, yet Lothvaen clung to him, weak with need.

"Come to the bed, my love" whispered Glorfindel hoarsely, and Lothvaen could only allow himself to be led in his lustful stupor. The scribe was confused when the golden lord lay down on the top of the coverlet, lifting his legs and spreading them wide.

"Take me, Lothvaen. Please," he begged, and Lothvaen understood. Glorfindel needed this rare reversal of roles, needed to surrender to the devotion he had fought for and make certain of Lothvaen's eternal love for him. Lothvaen knew that it was what he needed too. Bending forward he took the proffered shaft within his mouth, loving it as much as Glorfindel had worshipped his. When finally he removed his mouth the scribe reached for the vial of oil upon the bedside tale and uncorked it slowly, knowing that the blue orbs were devouring his body in the adoring gaze.

Smoothing the oil freely over his fingers, he gently circled the puckered entrance before slipping a digit through the taut muscle. He took his time in the preparation, twisting the fingers and stretching the hole for this uncommon intrusion, probing for the small gland that would bring such joy to his strong lover. Glorfindel cried out, arching off the bed when Lothvaen succeeded in his search, and again when the movement was repeated. Bending his head forward Lothvaen reclaimed the purple arousal and grinned around the stiff shaft when inane words came tumbling from Glorfindel's mouth.

"'Vaen, my Lothvaen! More, now! Garo nin!"

Unable to refuse in his overwhelming desire to possess his lord, Lothvaen leaned over him, catching the bent legs over his arms and pressed forward in one long smooth stroke. He slid past the pressure of the guardian ring, crying out as his length slid in the whole way. Slowly he pulled back then dove in firmly, beginning to drive forward with powerful, even strokes, hitting the small gland with each thrust until the tightening of sacs and clenching of thighs drove him over the edge. Screaming Glorfindel's name he plunged one last time, the force of the dive pulling Glorfindel's own climax from him in shuddering spasms. Hot cream spilled into silken passage and splattered onto muscle-toned stomach as they cried out together in utter fulfillment.

They lay for minutes uncounted, sweat-soaked bodies entwined in heart-bound completion. When finally they parted and Lothvaen's flaccid member slipped from Glorfindel's body, the warrior gave a sigh of sadness. An enquiring eyebrow lifted, and Glorfindel laughed.

"Ai, meleth nín, do not bring Elrond to our bed, I beg of you. The imitation is far too uncanny!"

The dark elf laughed, and rested the length of his body upon his lover's. "No one else will ever enter our bed again, my glorious lord. It shall be but you and I in our refuge from the world."

Glorfindel smiled, knowing now that this was true, and that Ecthelion had truly been exorcised from their lives. "You are my sea, Lothvaen, the one who bears me up. Be it in storm or sunshine, I will always sail upon your waters knowing that you will take me with you wherever you wish to go, knowing that you will bring me to the safe harbour of your love." He paused for a moment, and then asked in a hushed voice, "Will you bind with me, love? Will you truly be mine?"

Lothvaen lifted himself off Glorfindel's chest to gaze lovingly into those beautiful blue eyes.

"I will, my Glorfindel. And you will forever be my ship of joy speeding merrily over my waves - like light, dancing on my waters."

*****

Elvish:

mellon nín - my friend
ellon - male elf (sing.)
edhel - elf (sing.)
meldir - my friend (male)
pen neth - little one
pen vuin - dear one
ind nín - my heart
meleth nín - my love
fëa nín - my soul
Garo nin! - have me!

*****

THE END

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