Mask

Posted: October 2003
Title: Mask
Author: Kharessa Bloodrose
Type: FCS
Characters: Glorfindel/Erestor
Rating: R
Warning: PWP, light kink, and fetish
Beta: Circe
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or settings, and I am making no profit from the writing and sharing of this story.
Author's Notes: This story was inspired by a conversation I had with Jess a while back, and so I dedicate it to her.
Summary: Erestor does something for Glorfindel.

*****

He gazed at his reflection in the gilt-framed vanity mirror, and his lips curved in a satisfied, feline smile. It was not his habit to linger in front of the looking glass, but this night was different; this night demanded it.

It was not quite a request that Glorfindel had made, but more of a comment, lightly made and left to lie, seemingly without thought. Erestor knew better than that, however; Glorfindel did not speak either lightly or thoughtlessly, and had not been merely paying a compliment when he'd said that Erestor's lashes were so dark as to make his eyes seem outlined in black. His fingers had drifted to Erestor's face when he'd said that, middle finger tracing softly over the smoothness of a closing lid. There had been heat and just the faintest pressure, and Erestor had understood the request hidden within the compliment, the suggestion that lay beneath gently tracing fingers.

Erestor met his eyes in the glass, not merely checking his appearance but studying himself. High cheekbones and full lips met his perusal, hair pulled back from ears that were his secret vanity. Dark eyes peered back at him, eyes that had been described as both cold and warm, intelligent and secretive, bottomless pools of midnight.

Erestor leaned forward, pressing an index finger to the outer corner of his left eye, closing it and gently pulling at the same time. With his right hand, he lifted the slender brush lying on the vanity, and carefully dipped it into a pot of liquid not entirely unlike the ink into which he spent his days dipping his quill. He had never done this before, but the action was not so different from the smooth, swift, and effortless sweep of quill on parchment, not so different at all from the graceful flourishes of calligraphy. From corner to corner the brush slid, leaving a line of purest blackness in its wake.

He blinked for a moment, staring in momentary consternation at the single line, dramatic and unusual along the line of his lashes. Then, swiftly, before he could change his mind, he dipped the brush once more. This time his eyes remained open as the black tide washed elegantly across the lower rim, and when he blinked again it was against the unexpected sting of the unfamiliar cosmetics. For a moment he feared the outline would be washed away, and he swiftly tilted his head back, willing the reactionary tears not to fall. When he faced himself again, all was set; his eye had reddened slightly, but already that was fading, and one eye stared back at him as darkness accentuated by darkness.

The process was somewhat more awkward when repeated on his left eye, and he had to wipe away his first effort with a soft cloth and a bit of a cream. The second try was more successful, evenly matching the first. Erestor nodded in satisfaction, ignoring the swift rhythm of his heart as he reached for the canisters set near the pot of what he could not help but think of as ink.

He swallowed hard as he unscrewed the lids, forcing down his rising trepidation and nervous excitement, not quite able to restrain himself from darting curious, half-frightened looks at the mirror. The creature who gazed back at him could not be him, not with those dark eyes that seemed so much larger now, exaggerated.. The soft, earth toned powders within the canisters would only accentuate them further. He paused before touching the slick, crumbling, colored powder, waiting for his hands to still.

Erestor had only his fingers with which to apply it. Acquiring the cosmetics had not been easy, particularly since he had not wanted his purchases to be discovered by anyone else but Glorfindel, and also because he had not known what items he would need to use. The human woman had been amused, more inclined to laughter than to helpfulness at his fumbling attempts to make his wants known to her. She'd had dark hair and eyes; Erestor had studied her face quickly, and chosen the colors she'd worn. He'd known that he would need a brush for the eye ink, but for the soft powders he'd decided his fingers would do.

Darkness of rich soil along the hard curve of bone above his eye, swept back towards slender brows; light of winter ground on the lid itself; a shade that lay half way between the two, verging on peach, between deepest darkness and black of brow. Erestor felt a momentary panic as he beheld the almost comic affect of those three colors applied in even swatches, then remembered the smudged quality of the merchant woman's eyes. Licking his lips, he carefully wiped his fingers clean, then dragged the tips of index fingers across his efforts, blurring the edges of color into color.

Now there was no denying the fright that lay in those dark orbs, no escaping the comparison between elf and panic frozen doe. Erestor, Chief Advisor of Lord Elrond, was gone. In his place was left a being of indeterminate gender, wide-eyed and appearing impossibly young. Erestor blinked, accustoming himself to the soft weight on his eyelids, to this feeling of being painted, of wearing a mask so thin yet so impenetrable. Certainly there was nothing of cold logic here, no glitter of superiority. It was a mask so complete that even he could not find himself behind it. Erestor of Imladris was… gone.

His heart skipped a beat as that thought crossed his mind, and then his smile surfaced once more. Erestor of Imladris was gone, hidden behind a thin skin of powder, and something else had risen to take his place. It was not so different from the subterfuge of the council chamber, these cosmetics that the merchant woman had laughingly sold to him; here was concealment, and possibilities made apparent through that concealment.

Glorfindel had only spoken of his eyes, but Erestor had known that to color his eyes alone would leave all else in shadow; all that would be seen would be his eyes, dark and staring from a forgotten expanse of whiteness. Two more jars were swiftly opened. One contained another powder, this one tending more toward liquid of faintest pink. The other held cherry slickness. Again using his fingers he quickly applied them, the first across the apples of his cheeks, the second to his lips.

He was momentarily nonplussed to find his hands stained red, but once again the cream and rag were utilized, leaving him pristine once more. Erestor watched the elf in the mirror as he screwed lids back onto canisters, jars, and pot, and hid them away in a vanity drawer. This surreptitious view revealed an elf too soft to be a politician, too flexible and yielding. The thought bothered him less than it previously had; appearances could be misleading, he knew. His thoughts drifted to Elralinde, the beautiful Mirkwood advisor, to the way Glorfindel's hand had rested just above the soft swell of her buttocks when he'd danced with her, and the way her eyes had hardened to cold steel in Elrond's study.

He didn't know what to do with his hair, so he simply unbraided it, combing it back from a face whose features were both exaggerated and enticing. When at last his eyes met the reflection squarely, he thought that he could see Erestor of Imladris from behind the mask, at least a little of him. His gaze was coldly speculative, scrutinizing, not looking at his face as a whole but studying it piece by piece. Dark hair swayed as he nodded his ambivalent approval, and another cat-like smile curved lips now red as crushed cherries.

*****

Erestor had left the dining room immediately after dinner, leaving Glorfindel to finish his dessert with Lord Elrond's family. It was always his wont to linger at the table, to enjoy the warm familial setting that he only vaguely remembered possessing in a time long passed. It was midwinter, and travelers were few. They'd taken advantage of that by having the meal set in the small dining room rather than in the hall, and it bothered Glorfindel not in the least that his knees brushed those of Elrohir as they crowded around the small table. If Erestor had remained, they would be playfully glaring at each other as their elbows collided; Erestor was left handed, a small problem that never seemed to be properly handled at meal time.

When at last he'd bid the family goodnight, no fewer than two strawberries had been tossed across the table while Celebrian wasn't looking, and Glorfindel was quite pleased that, in spite of jostling knees, very little of his own dessert graced the front of his embroidered jacket. That was another source of amusement between himself and Erestor, and Celebrian was not above making the occasional ambiguous remark about his laundry while setting out plates of pastries or pie. Crumbs and pie filling would not dare to mar the somber formality of Erestor's garments, nor the airy beauty of Celebrian's gowns, but Glorfindel often found himself in a state not much better than that of the twins by the end of mealtime.

--If it were only a matter of proper handling of fork and knife-- he thought as he strode down the hall, dusting flakes of crust from his jacket, --I'd have no problem.-- His fingers brushed across something wet and sticky, and he paused in front of his chamber door, glancing down resignedly. Yes, it was strawberry sauce, and a healthy dollop of it, too, low and off to the side where he hadn't seen it; he couldn't for the life of him imagine how it had gotten there. Sighing, he turned the latch and pushed the door open – then froze, thoughts of crust and pie fillings and stained jackets abruptly and completely driven from his thoughts.

Erestor lay across the bed, a thick tome lying open before him, and his hand came to rest on the page as he looked up at Glorfindel's entrance. The robes he wore were black, but heavily embroidered with scarlet threads, slit high at the sides to reveal leggings of deepest crimson. It was not the robes that had captured his attention however, nor the leggings.

"Erestor…" he said, and his lover nodded, a brief inclination of the head that let his raven tresses fall briefly forward. Erestor's hand lifted from the page, pushing them back once more, and his eyes widened as he met Glorfindel's gaze.

And Glorfindel could only stare - stare at eyes that were huge and limpid, eloquent, outlined and smoky in a way that he had imagined, but had not dreamed of actually seeing. Those eyes seemed to swallow Erestor's face, dominating above cheekbones that were suddenly impossibly high, lips that were impossibly full, appearing wet and utterly kissable.

"You've gotten your dessert on yourself. Again," Erestor said softly, crooking a beckoning finger, and Glorfindel drifted forward, speechless. He knelt on the edge of the bed, still staring. This was no female elf; females wore cosmetics no more than males did. Certainly, this was no human. It was his Erestor, turned mysterious and otherly, reminding him of something upon which he could not quite place his finger.

"You won't want the stain to set," Erestor said, crawling toward him with a motion that was slow and languorous, in contradiction of the short distance between them. Glorfindel thought that Erestor would kiss him, but, instead, he bowed his head, moved lower, settling lips against the wetness of strawberries clinging to his jacket. The sound of Erestor's tongue rasping softly against wet velvet made Glorfindel shiver; suddenly his leggings felt constricting, tight and teasing in a way that was both frustrating and delicious. He wondered if strawberry would be replaced with cherry, soft tracks that could be followed to lips full and ripe, swollen with kisses not yet bestowed.

Glorfindel's hands moved to Erestor's hair, sliding through blackness and then gently lifting, gently because that was the only way to treat this creature. Again their eyes met, and again Glorfindel could only stare. For a long moment they gazed at each other, one seated and the other on hands and knees. Glorfindel's eyes reflected awe and desire; Erestor's revealed curiosity, promise, and a hint of knowing amusement.

The cherry lip coloring had smeared somewhat, leaving the edges of Erestor's lips blurred, the borders uncertain. Glorfindel stared then finally raised his hands, resting his thumbs lightly on obediently closing eyelids. The powder was smooth under his thumbs, slick and warm, and Erestor's voice was warm also, slightly breathless as he asked, "What would you have of me, my lord?"

"This," Glorfindel answered, his own voice rough with rising need. He applied a bit more pressure, just a touch, and slowly dragged his thumbs outward and down, leaving a trail of mingled earth tones and midnight black behind them. "You. Like this."

Erestor's eyes were startled when they opened once more, no longer circled in slender brushstrokes of blackness, but smeared, ringed more than outlined. Then he was being pulled forward, into Glorfindel's lap, faintly peach lips meeting cherry red, face held by a strong hand that left a smudge of black on the hollow of his cheek. When they parted, peach had turned faintly rose, and Erestor's lips were further smeared, pouting and deliciously marred.

He had expected Glorfindel to undress him, but the warrior's hands searched beneath the robes rather than removing them, tugging blindly at legging laces left loose and carelessly tied. It was a matter of only a few seconds to undo them, and he knelt up as Glorfindel slipped them down over his hips and down to his knees, not objecting when Glorfindel pushed him gently back to ease them over calves and past his feet. The black socks went next, one by one, and he purred as Glorfindel pressed a brief kiss to each sole before returning his gaze to Erestor's gloriously ruined, painted face.

"Beautiful, Erestor," he whispered, and then there were no further words as he undressed, down to skin, baring himself for his lover's gaze. That gaze seemed heavier for the weight of smeared kohl, black bleeding into browns and then whiteness, heavy with silent heat, silent need. Erestor's lips parted as the last of Glorfindel's garments were carelessly tossed aside, revealing what could only be an alabaster angel, spotless save for the mingled shades of earth staining his thumbs and fingertips. Erestor spared not a thought for his own clothing as those stained fingers pressed against his robes, smoothed the softness of velvet over chest, then hips and thighs, traveling lower to push the hem up to his waist.

Their dance was almost formal, a careful minuet gracefully followed even as Erestor placed the vial of oil, secreted under the pillows, in Glorfindel's hands. Warmed velvet and hot flesh touched, sliding together even as their bodies joined and slid together, one rising and falling like waves on the sea, the other holding back, staring down into passion distorted perfection. Callused hands explored the hardness of muscle through soft fabric, drifted upward to trace the unclear line of lips, and ghosted over the bruise-like smudge on a white cheek. Doubly black eyes stared up, locked with eyes of purest blue, and their completion was nearly soundless, a silent outward spiraling of blurred color and light.

Erestor lay in breathless disarray as Glorfindel parted from him, curling up at his side and wrapping an arm about his waist. The robe was ruined, oil stained and tracked with dark finger marks, and, though Glorfindel had decorously lowered the hem, Erestor was yet a vision of dark debauchery. He turned toward Glorfindel, against allowing their now similarly stained lips to meet.

"Now I know where I have seen the like of this before," Glorfindel whispered, a small smile gracing his proud features. "'Twas at a theatre in Gondor, long ago. The players wore masks…" he touched a finger to one slender, dark brown eyelid, again drawing his finger downward over lid and onto Erestor's cheek. Erestor blinked, and smiled lazily.

"I had the same thought," was his whispered reply, and again there were no further words as Glorfindel's hands sought the demolished robe's fastenings, and the dance began again.

*****

THE END

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