Memories Of Years Gone By

Memories Of Years Gone By

Posted: August 31, 2007
Title: Memories Of Years Gone By
Author: Enide
Type: FCS
Characters: Celeborn/Gandalf
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns them, I make no profit.
Warning: Graphic sex, sorrow, anger rekindled
Author's Note: Reread the appendix of RotK and started to think of why the Lórien elves suddenly decided to storm Dol Guldur. And I have always wondered if the Ring of Fire didn’t have other powers as well…
Beta: Alex!

Summary: Celeborn remembers days gone by and comes to a decision.

*****

“Where is Gandalf, for I much desire to speak with him.”

“He has fallen into shadow….”

The words echoed in the elf-lords mind, over and over again, as he made his way to Cerin Amroth. The dead weight of sorrow made his motions slow and heavy as he leaned on the great tree for support, but though his face was drawn taught, there were no tears on his cheeks. He wondered a bit over this as he started to ascend the tree, his thoughts absent and weary. He should be crying, and mourning. The great support of his life had disappeared, lost forever, to the shadow of flame and darkness that none could survive.

He reached the summit and sat down on the great talan there, alone but for the presence of the tree, which knew nothing of the sorrows of elves or men. Again, he tried to call upon the tears, but they did not come. The hard look on his face would have surprised any watchers, had there been any, and even himself, had he known of it.

He knew they though him weak, and he had always believed them to be right. The people of Lothlorien, his once-beloved Galadriel, even this weary fellowship that had come seeking for help. He was not one of the great elven lords of old, no Finrod or Thingol or even Elrond, lords both strong and wise. He was counted wise, yes, but without the strength to back it up, it meant little to them. Even the Ring-bearer and his friends felt it. It was clear in their glances that they would not turn to him, but to the Lady for aid.

Had Mithrandir been there perhaps he could have found the strength to act differently, and not hide here alone, crying.

Only, he was not crying.

Mithrandir too had though him weak, he knew, but that had not lessened him in the wizard’s wise eyes. He still remembered how upset and angry he had been when the wizard first had arrived to Lothlorien, many years ago. Mithrandir held a great spirit and a sharp mind in his strong body and it was soon obvious that the people of the Golden Wood would look to him rather than to lord Celeborn, with his days of youth and travels far behind.

Even Galdariel….

It had hurt too much to be born, and finally he had confronted the wizard.

Mithrandir had listened, a concerned frown on his forehead to the distraught elven lord.

“It is not always an evil thing, to give up your power to one whom might better use it,” the wizard had said.

They were alone in one of the high talans far into the Golden Wood, for Celeborn had not wanted any spectators.

“Sometimes, peace of mind can be found in the strength of another – if you can find it wise to trust his strength,” he added as he rose. When the strong hand had caressed down his cheek, Celeborn had first startled and pulled back, but the hand closed around his neck and pulled him near in a kiss, so hot and passionate that there was no resisting it.

No one had touched him like that since the starlit nights in Doriath, and the strong embrace of Thingol…

He made no protest but symbolic ones when his robes were opened and the grey beard started tickling his chest. Leaning back, to allow the wizard’s tongue better access to the bared skin, he felt his breath grew harsher. The body pressed against his was growing hard, as was he, and the hands more insistent. The robes tore apart as the wizard’s patience run out and the flimsy shreds fell to the floor. Taking a step back, Mithrandir eyed the now naked and flushed elven lord with approval. He was lean and broad shouldered, pale skin shimmering in the soft glow of stars and moon over Lórien. Stronger by far than any could have guessed, but hesitating, and too careful for the dangerous days to come, when brazen courage may be the only thing to lay hope upon.

For Celeborn the strong, unyielding wizard was a presence of power of a kind he knew far too well; a power that had excited him in days now long lost, never to return. The power of one of the Three Rings; but not the cold, distanced power of Nenya on Galadriels hand.

“You!” he had panted, still aroused by the wizard’s touch. “You have the Ring of Fire! Narya!”

Mithrandir had nodded, as if pleased by the recognition.

“I have, and its Fire is burning in me. Will you help me quench it?”

Without waiting for other answers than the one in the elf’s eyes, the wizard took him in his arms again, pulling him down. Kneeling in front of the wizard, he could hear the sound of a robe being slipped aside, and then the pain and pleasure rushed him as the wizard drove inside him. Instinctively he threw himself forward, away from the pain, but the strong arms caught him and let him back, slowly, carefully. A hand caressed over his chest, teased the nipples as the wizard rode him, whiles the other held him around the waist, not letting him slip away. Surges of desire rattled his body, the bittersweet taste of succumbing to the helplessness of someone else’s strength.

The wizards hand was upon him, caressing him in the slow rhythm of his hips until it all became too much and he would have fallen forwards in the wild climax if Mithrandir had not held him so close. Laughing freely as the last of his responsibilities was removed, he leaned his head back on Mithrandirs shoulders, spilling silver hair on the wizards grey robe as warmth filled him.

“Now, do you see?” Mithrandir had asked. “Do you understand?”

And he had nodded, safe and free in the wizard’s arms.

And now Mithrandir was gone, and all the heavy duties were back upon his shoulders. He should cry, he should fear the loss of strength, he should despair….

But anger filled him instead, as hot and burning as ever the power of Narya.

So he was to crumble and cry like a lost child? He was to be helpless, at the knowledge of his love and strength was lost? He was to be weak? Again? As if Mithrandir had taught him nothing and their time together had meant even less?

He rose up. The golden leaves quivered as if the felt the newly woken power, so long in sleeping but all the more terrible when roused.

He did not look back west were his grief lay under the mountains, nor south over the realm of Lórien. At first he looked east, to the immense shadow of Mordor, but shook his head. No, he would not leave all his wisdom. Mordor was a power he could never battle.

Instead he looked north, to where the eaves of Mirkwood could be seen. In there was a lurking power, dark and terrifying, for all that its true master was long gone. Dol Guldur, and its powers were spreading.

He squared his shoulders, staring back at the gloom without hesitation. He might never be able to find his revenge for Mithrandirs death, but he would do all that was in his power. And that, he realised now, was much more than anyone had ever believed.

Tears were running down his cheeks now, but he did not heed them.

After all, not all tears are of evil.

*****

THE END

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