Fate's Mirror 33

Fate's Mirror

Part 33

Posted: March 2004
Author: Larien Elengasse

*****

October 3441, Second Age, Mordor

Many years had passed since the Last Alliance had marched on Mordor, seven long years of death and destruction, advancing and being driven back, but once inside the Dark Gate, the Last Alliance could not be moved from Sauron's land.

Thranduil took up his father's kingship with grace; he led his warriors in battle and fought side by side with them. He took up residence in his father's tent, as was expected, and met Gil-galad and Elendil as their peer. He and Gildor's friendship remained ever strong, but the toils of war and the heavy weight of Oropher's legacy wore hard upon Thranduil. He remembered the promise he made his father the night before he died, he knew it was an oath he must fulfill. He had not spoken of it to Gildor in all these long years, but he knew he must before he returned home.

He sat in his tent; the bitter autumn wind setting the tent walls flapping, and the flames that burned in the lanterns that lit the room were flickering. It was one of those rare lulls in battle as their troops regrouped and found rest and the camp was quiet save for the rumbling of the mountain. He wrote a letter to Nessa, which was to accompany the official correspondence that would return to the Council that governed Greenwood in his stead. In it, he told her how much he missed her, and in truth, he did. He missed her bright eyes and gentle smile; he missed her innocent enthusiasm and love of life. He felt he could use some of that enthusiasm at the moment, for the long years of the war were draining his own, slowly but surely. He set the seal upon the letter with his ring and slid it aside, propping his elbows up on the desk as he rubbed his temples. He worried about returning home, as he felt ill prepared for Kingship. As long as they were at war, he was a warrior, a Captain first, King second, and that was something he understood.

He felt a gust of wind blow inside as he heard the tent flap open and he looked up to see his herald enter. The herald bowed low and softly addressed him, "My Lord, Lord Gildor wishes to speak with you."

He nodded and answered quietly, "Send him in."

The herald turned and raised the flap and Gildor entered, pausing before the desk and bowing his head, covering his hand with his heart. "My Lord," he said formally.

Thranduil looked to the herald and nodded, dismissing him as he rose from his place behind the desk and came round it to stand in front of Gildor. He reached out and lifted Gildor's chin, his fingers trailing over his face as he turned his long time friend and lover's gaze to his own. "Gildor, mellonen," he whispered. "I have missed you these many long days."

Gildor smiled and stepped forward, taking his lover into his arms and pressing his lips to Thranduil's ear. "I have missed you as well, meleth. But now that you are King, things have changed, at least while we remain here."

"It must be hard for you," Thranduil whispered in his ear as his hands roamed the suede of the elf's doublet, "being torn between allegiances, serving one King and loving another."

"I am not torn," Gildor answered. "I can do my duty to the High King and still love you."

"Things were once so simple," Thranduil sighed. "I defer to Gil-galad and Elendil as they have experience in war that I do not. But each time I give way to them I see the look in my warriors' eyes. I am not as strong as my father was, I do not know how to do this," he whispered.

Gildor took Thranduil's face in his hands and answered, "You do not defer, Thranduil, you do your part as a member of a greater force. Had your father done the same he would still be here and you would still be in my bed."

Thranduil turned his gaze to Gildor's. "Perhaps not. Had my father not done what he did, it would be I that lay beneath the swamp and someone else in your bed."

Gildor shook his head and whispered, "Never. No one will ever occupy my bed but you, Thranduil. I have given my heart to you; I can give it to no other. Had you gone into that swamp, I would have followed, and we would be together in Aman."

Thranduil put up his hand and answered, "'Tis no matter, what is done is done. I am left to rule in his stead just as he said I would be. Whether I wish it or no, I am King now."

Gildor pulled Thranduil's lips to his own and whispered against them, "And a fine King you will be, melethen. For you are strong and proud, and you are kind and noble. Your subjects will enjoy many years of peace under your reign."

Before Thranduil could reply, Gildor covered his mouth with his own and pressed a claiming kiss to his lips. Thranduil melted into the kiss, forgetting for the time being his oath and duty, and simply loving the one he had loved for so long.

Gildor's hands traveled to Thranduil's tunic, undoing each clasp as he tasted of him. It had been weeks since they had last lain together, weeks of lying in his bedroll, exhausted yet still aching for him. His hands slid inside his love's tunic, over the finely sculpted muscles of his chest and shoulders, and he reveled in the quiet sigh that escaped his lover. After a long and slow perusal of Thranduil's sweet mouth, he released his lips and made his way lower, along his jaw line and lower still to the soft flesh at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

Gildor's fingers grazed the ring that pierced his nipple and Thranduil groaned, his arousal coming to life inside his leggings. He tangled his hands in Gildor's hair as his lover's mouth traveled lower to his chest, taking the ring between his lips and fondling it against his tongue. Thranduil gasped and hissed between his clenched teeth, pressing his chest to his lover's mouth before lowering his own to nip at the point of Gildor's ear.

Thranduil had changed so much; he had been changed by the weight of his crown and his duty. His body was transformed by days without end of battle; he was stronger, more powerful than he had once been. But he still tasted the same, he was still as beautiful a being as Gildor had ever laid eyes upon. He had often wondered how Glorfindel had walked away and left him, how the Elda had been able to turn his back and leave such a magnificent creature. He had envied his friend in knowing Thranduil as a youth, in having his lithe young body in his bed, in being able to gaze into eyes that were clear and unclouded with sorrow and the weight of duty. But his lover was still beautiful to him now; after all the long years of loving him, Gildor was still set afire by one look, one touch from his love.

He groaned as Thranduil bit the point of his ear and pulled his head back up to his lips. Never had his lover kissed him like this, it was heated, forceful, and claiming. He yielded to his beautiful Sinda, opening to him as his hands slid over Thranduil's muscular back. After what felt like an eternity, Thranduil released his mouth and slid his hands over his chest. Gildor had not felt his doublet opened, nor his shirt unlaced, he had been so distracted by a kiss the likes of which he had never felt before. He arched into his lover's hands as they roamed possessively over his form. He gasped as he was pushed to the bed and Thranduil fell upon him with his mouth. He was on fire, aching, burning for his lover's touch. He felt Thranduil push his boots off with his feet and he lifted his hips as his lover pulled his leggings down past his hips, freeing his heavy length to the night air.

Gildor moaned as he felt Thranduil's lips brush through the fine hair that grew about his arousal and his lover's hands grip the insides of his knees, spreading his legs wider and leaving him open to him. He gripped the heavy blankets in his fists as Thranduil nudged his length aside, concentrating on the soft pouch of skin that lay beneath his arousal.

"Please, meleth," he whispered, "do not torment me so."

"Patience, melethron," Thranduil answered, his hot breath ghosting across Gildor's heated flesh. "All in good time."

Gildor felt his legs spread wider as the King's tongue made its way further back, flickering against his entrance as he groaned and arched against him. Heated words spilled from his lips as Thranduil continued his sensual torment, and he found himself begging to be taken.

Gildor had nearly always assumed a more dominant role in their lovemaking, though he had certainly not been the only one to initiate it. Thranduil had been happy in the role of the more subservient one, and had never been left wanting for love or affection. This was yet another way in which his lover had changed. The way he touched him, the way he kissed him, was forceful and possessive, these were traits that Thranduil had never shown before.

Gildor cried out as his lover's tongue breached his body and he arched against him, his thighs trembling from being spread so wide. His heated length was leaking constantly, throbbing an insistent rhythm that matched the beating of his heart. He longed to be touched, craved the warmth of his lover's mouth on his aching flesh. He whimpered when Thranduil's tongue left his body and returned to the swollen pouch of flesh that lay between his legs. His arousal twitched again as the King lapped at it, and he felt tears of need begin to fall from his eyes.

"Please, melethen," he whispered, "I am desperate for you."

"Then you shall have me, meleth," Thranduil answered.

Gildor groaned as his length was engulfed by his lover's mouth. He resisted the urge to thrust into that hot, wet embrace. Warm, wet suction and Thranduil's wicked tongue were driving him faster toward his release. He set his jaw and groaned, fighting to stave it off, wanting it to last forever, yet also wanting it to come. A keening cry escaped him as he thrust deeply into Thranduil's mouth, his lover milking his essence from him as he spilled down his throat. He panted and gasped for air as Thranduil leisurely cleaned him with his tongue, each soft, long stroke sending fresh tremors through his body.

After thoroughly cleaning his lover's length, Thranduil worked his way back up his lover's body, bestowing kisses upon each rib, each rolling muscle in Gildor's abdomen. He gently suckled each nipple until it was a hard nub before placing a soft kiss upon it. He claimed Gildor's mouth once again, plundering its depths as he pressed his own body to that of his lovers.

Gildor moaned into the kiss, tasting himself upon his lover's tongue and plunging his hands into Thranduil's flaxen mane.

"I want to take you, meleth, here in my bed," Thranduil whispered huskily into his lover's ear.

"Yes," Gildor responded breathlessly, his heart still racing from his spent desire. "Melin le, Thranduil."

"Melin le, Gildor," Thranduil answered.

He rose from the bed, slid out of his leggings and boots, and retrieved a bottle of oil used for soothing sore muscles. He looked intently at Gildor as he coated his length with it, then returned to the bed, gently rolling his lover to his stomach and spreading his legs with his knees. "Relax, meleth, and tell me if I cause you discomfort," Thranduil whispered into Gildor's ear.

Gildor nodded and wadded the covers in his fists. A gasp escaped him as the first finger slid inside him and he tensed for a moment. He heard his lover's deep, soothing voice whisper to him to relax and he willed himself to do so. He breathed deeply as the burning subsided and Thranduil spread his legs further apart. A second finger was added and he groaned quietly, his body growing accustomed to this sensation after so long without it. Soon he was pressing back against his lover's hand and moaning wantonly. His desire had returned, and his arousal pressed into the soft bedding. He rolled his hips forward, the friction of silk upon his heated length causing him to moan breathlessly.

Thranduil lifted Gildor's hips, and his lover pulled his knees underneath him. "Are you ready for me, melethen?" Thranduil whispered into his ear.

"Yes," Gildor whispered in return.

Thranduil nudged his lover's entrance with the tip of his rigid length as he steadied himself with his hands on Gildor's hips. He sheathed himself inside Gildor's body with agonizing slowness, not stopping until he was buried inside him. He leaned forward, pressing his cheek against Gildor's back as he waited for his lover to adjust to him. He stroked his arms and back, whispering loving words in his ear as he began to slowly move within him. Gildor's whimpering cries drove him onward and he began to move faster. His lover's body squeezing his length, wrapping him in heated, velvet luxury. He reached down and pulled Gildor back so that he rested against his chest and he took Gildor's length in his hand, pumping it in time with his thrusts.

Gildor cried out and bucked back against Thranduil as his lover found his mark, brushing against it with unerring accuracy each time he drove inside him. He threw his head back, his hair falling over Thranduil's shoulder as he thrust forward into his hand, his body tightening as he cried out his release.

Gildor's tightening body squeezing his length dragged Thranduil over the edge as he groaned, spilling himself inside his lover. He held Gildor there awhile, cradling his nearly limp form in his arms, his hand sliding through the viscous fluid that coated his lover's stomach. "Melin le, Gildor," he whispered into his lover's ear.

Gildor sighed and smiled as he whispered, "Melin le, Thranduil."

He slowly slid from his lover's body and stepped off the bed, washing his hands and groin, and retrieving a clean warm cloth. He lovingly cleaned Gildor then tucked his lover beneath the covers. He tossed the cloth back onto the wash basin and climbed in beside him, taking him in his arms and feeling his body sink into the soft bed. They slept peacefully in one another's arms until dawn.

* * * *

Glorfindel blinked as he returned from reverie. He lay atop his beloved, his head resting on Erestor's back, and his lower body still resting between his legs. They were sticky but warm and happy, both having been too exhausted from lovemaking to even rise to clean themselves. He nuzzled his lover's back with his cheek and smiled. His fingers were still entwined with Erestor's and he looked at their matching rings as they lay side by side.

Erestor sighed and shifted beneath him and he heard a slight grumble come from his lover. He chuckled and slid up to place a soft kiss on Erestor's ear as he whispered, "We should have bathed."

Erestor groused and answered, "We would have if you had been able to lift your bulk off me."

Glorfindel chuckled and nodded. "Aye, I was spent. You do that to me, seron vell."

"I slept in this damp spot all night, I am afraid I will not be able to peel myself from the bed," Erestor grumbled.

Glorfindel laughed and slowly rose off his lover. "I will make it up to you, melethen, I promise."

Erestor rolled over, a look of mock disgust on his face. "You most certainly will." His grimace turned into a smile as he sat up and caressed Glorfindel's face. "Melin chen, rawen," he said softly.

Glorfindel smiled and answered, "Melin chen, ervainen vorn."

They rose together and bathed from a basin of water inside their tent.

* * * *

Reinforcements from Gondor and the north, as well as elves from the west arrived to help bolster the Last Alliance; casualties were heavy on both sides. In the waning hours of day, seven years to the day of his father's death, Thranduil waded knee deep into battle, his face and tunic stained with both black and red blood, his arms weary as he cleaved through masses of orcs.

It was barely controlled chaos. Orcs and trolls streaming from the mountains and the Dark Tower nearly as quickly as the ones upon the field of battle fled the relentless onslaught of the armies of the west. The air was filled with sound of clashing metal, arrows singing, anguished cries of dying men and elves, guttural screams of perishing orcs. They were within reach now, the iron gates of the Black Tower in view, and Orodruin erupted ceaselessly.

The battle had raged since just before dawn, and the field was littered with the corpses. Elrond called for another volley and the white and green fletched arrows of the woodelves flew upward, finding their marks as the bodies of orcs fell from the battlements like heavy black rain. The Dwarves hacked their way to the foot of the gate itself, as the men of Númenor streamed in behind them; they could smell victory.

Gil-galad raised his spear, shouting again as the elves rushed the gates. The downfall of Barad-dûr was at hand.

A high-pitched scream split the air and Nazgûl descended upon them from the darkening sky. Men shrank back in fear, but the Eldar drove them on. Erestor thrust his sword deep into the chest of a large orc that had been poised to run his lord through the back. Glorfindel swung his sword in a large arc and cut the leg out from underneath a troll that advanced upon them from the north.

Glorfindel's blood ran cold as he heard the inhuman screech of the Nazgûl, and the bellowing cry of the beast that bore him. He turned in time to see the winged beast cut a swath through Erestor's line, snatch his beloved up in its claws, and take to the air. He howled in anger as he raced after the beast, it was circling back over his head toward Barad-dûr.

Thranduil heard the anguished call of his friend and looked up to see Erestor in the clutches of the beast. He called to his archers and directed their fire with his sword. "Hado i philinn!" he shouted.

A count of some fifteen arrows struck the beast at once, causing it to howl and release Erestor, the Noldo's body falling upon those of dead elves and orcs. Glorfindel raced across the ground, cutting down orcs in his path to reach his beloved. He shouted, "No!" as he watched the Witch King run his beloved through with his blade before releasing him. Before he could reach Erestor he saw the figure of the Nazgûl impaled with Aiglos as the spear pinned the beast to the rock. The Witch King screeched and flung the spear aside falling upon Gil-galad with fierce vengeance.

What happened next was pure confusion. The great iron gates of Barad-dûr opened and Sauron himself strode onto the field of battle. Glorfindel cradled the broken body of his beloved in his arms, crying out in anguish, too crippled by despair to react. Thranduil called to his archers to release another volley upon the orcs that descended upon Glorfindel, and they fell in great numbers as the Sindar King rushed to his friend's aid. Gildor also rushed forward, running to aid his fallen King, hacking his way through the orcs that remained.

Large numbers of orcs shrank back in fear as Sauron emerged and only the Elves, Elendil, and Isildur dared hold their ground. Sauron cut a swath through the line with his mace, and Elendil was struck as he shoved his son aside, saving his life. Elrond received a glancing blow and was driven to his knees, as Isildur rushed to his fallen father's side. Sauron advanced upon the Prince and Isildur took up his father's sword, only to have it break beneath the Dark Lord's foot. With the shard remaining upon the hilt, Isildur swung wildly, cleaving the finger that bore the Ring from Sauron's hand.

The Dark Lord howled in anguish and his form exploded in a burst of light and smoke. Both Gildor and Thranduil were pinned against the rock walls of Barad-dûr's foundation, held by the Witch King of Angmar. But the destruction of his lord greatly weakened him, and he released the elves and fled into the dark.

Glorfindel called upon every ounce of strength he had as he ran toward the healer's tents, carrying the broken body of his beloved. "Please, Erestor," he cried through his tears. "Do not leave me now, not when I need you most." His own blood poured from his veins as he raced across the barren plain, a black arrow protruding from his shoulder.

Thranduil gasped for air as he struggled to his feet, his hand upon his throat. He saw Glorfindel's flight across the plain and grabbed Gildor. "Get Elrond, quickly!" Gildor nodded and raced across the ground, leaving his lover and his fallen King at the foot of the tower.

* * * *

"I do not know if he will survive, mellonen," Elrond said weakly as he dropped to the ground beside Glorfindel. "Perhaps he will, as the power of the Nazgûl is greatly diminished now."

Glorfindel shuddered with fever as the healers attended him, but he did not notice. All his thoughts, all his hopes lay with Erestor's recovery and his Lord's ability as a healer.

Elrond felt a hand upon his shoulder and looked up to find Thranduil standing over him. "You have been injured, Lord Elrond," The Sindar King said quietly. "You must be attended to as well."

"'Tis naught but some bruised ribs, Thranduil," Elrond answered quietly. "I will be fine. And you? What is this angry mark upon your neck?"

Thranduil's hand drifted to his throat briefly and shrugged it off. "I had not known that cold could burn so," he answered quietly. "'Tis the mark of one who would have killed me, had the Dark Lord not met his demise when he did." He sighed as he knelt next to Glorfindel. "I will be fine, Elrond, it will disappear in time. Go now and find rest, I will stay with Glorfindel."

Elrond nodded weakly and slowly rose to his feet. "Try to convince him to rest as well, Thranduil. He suffers from fever and has been wounded."

Thranduil nodded slowly. As Elrond departed, he touched his friend on the shoulder and spoke softly into his ear. "Come, mellonen. I know you will not leave him, nor would I ask you to. Take your rest in my arms, Glorfindel, I will stay with you."

Tears finally took the warrior and he collapsed into Thranduil's embrace, sobbing in the Sindar King's arms as he held the hand of his beloved.

Mellonen = my friend
Meleth = love
Melethen = my love
Melethron = my lover
Melin le = I love thee
Seron vell = dear lover
Melin chen = I love you
Rawen = my lion
Ervainen vorn = dark beautiful one
Hado i philinn = Release arrows

*****

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