Ionnath Estel 10

Ionnath Estel

Part 10

Posted: September 28, 2007
Title: Ionnath-Estel (The Sons of Hope)
Author: Kenaz

*****

Elladan drew the last strands of his brother's hair into a thick queue.

"Are you certain?"

Elrohir nodded. "Aye. I have been for some time."

Elladan tied off the braid, a simple if archaic style favored by Gildor and his compatriots, with a length of silver thread that shimmered brightly against Elrohir’s dark locks. He had left his own hair unbound, and it fell over his shoulders in dark waves, oiled with lavender and bergamot.

"This will mark you his, you know."

A soft and eager joy sparkled in Elrohir's eyes when he raised his head to meet Elladan's appraisal in the looking glass. "I know."

Smiling against the pang that tightened his stomach, Elladan could already imagine how naturally the expression of pride and delight would wear on Gildor's face. The wanderer would receive an incomparable gift tonight, even if not a single word of troth were uttered.

"Then I am pleased for you." He set the mithril circlet, twin to his own, on his brother’s head, adjusting it so that Eärendil’s star gleamed above his brow. "Shall we make our entrance, then?"

Elrohir pulled at his sleeve to draw him down until their faces were level in the looking glass. Elladan gazed grinningly upon the familiar planes and angles of his brother’s face, the symbol of their house shining brightly on their foreheads as if their ethereal grandsire himself had set his hand upon them.

"I am proud to call you my brother," Elrohir whispered, reaching up tenderly to Elladan’s cheek, "and to cross this threshold at your side tonight."

A true smile blossomed from the grin and he swiftly bussed his brother’s cheek. He knew he need say nothing; Elrohir had always known his heart.

His brother' expression took on an apprehensive cast. "Have you spoken with Haldir yet?"

"Spoken with? I have not even seen him!" Elladan frowned. "Each time I made to seek him out, someone dragged me off, insisting that I greet this person or that. My mind reels with all the names we are expected to remember!" He sighed and glanced obliquely at his brother’s reflection. "I have not seen Legolas these past two days, either."

Elrohir's brow arched. "Then he does not know..."

"No." Elladan gave a slight wince. "I know I should have told him directly after I learned Haldir had come. I do not know why I hesitated."

"Truly, you do not?"

The wince became a grimace. "Tell me I have not dug myself a grave."

Elrohir rose and straightened the pins at Elladan’s shoulders that fastened the blue silk and cloth-of-silver cape so artfully embroidered by their mother and granddame. He adjusted the drape of the fabric down his brother’s back and then firmly clasped a hand around his neck to draw him out of the chamber, but said nothing.

Haldir lingered in the gardens as long as he dared.

Watching the various guests traipsing toward hall had given him pause; each figure that passed him seemed more resplendently dressed than the last, each clothed in a manner that displayed their heritage: the pearls and nacre on the silks of the Lindon folk; the white tree of Númenor worn by the men of Arnor. Each symbol was a reminder that all the gathered tribes shared kinship, however distant, with the sons of Elrond, the heirs of Imladris.

All the tribes save his own.

The gruff rumble of a foreign tongue met his ears and he turned. Four Dwarves of Durin’s Folk in Khazad-dûm marched by in a bearish pack, short as the stumps of felled trees, but rugged as the stony caves that birthed them.

Well, he amended, all the gathered tribes share blood kinship with Elrond’s house save my own... and the Dwarves. A cold consolation.

He glanced down into one of the reflecting pools. Just beneath the surface of the water, carp darted in irregular circles, scales of orange and white flashing in the twilight. When they scattered, the pool darkened and Haldir fixed his eyes upon his reflection. He had braided his hair away from his face in the warrior fashion, leaving his forelocks free to show that he had been blooded—though after hearing the tales of Gildor and Glorfindel, the skirmishes he had seen on the marches of Lorien seemed more like child’s play than warfare. It was one thing to take down Orcs with arrows from the safe distance of a mallorn bough, quite another to slay dozens hand-to-hand before Turgon’s palace, or on the killing fields of the Dagor Bragollach.

He straightened the lacings on his shirt, hoping he had not used too heavy a hand with the oil he had dabbed behind his ears; the scent of sandalwood lingered in the air around him. He looked quite fine for a Silvan—he could imagine the appreciative glances that might fall his way had he shown himself dressed thusly among his own people at one of the Great Feasts in the wilding woods—but there was no mistaking him for anything other than he was: an Elf of modest means, well-scrubbed and turned out in the only fine clothing he possessed, and borrowed clothing at that.

The smooth, white stones of the garden path made a faint clicking sound beneath the tread of boot soles. Someone was coming. Nearing Haldir, the walker’s footfalls dislodged a pebble from the path and sent it tumbling into the pool with a musical plop. Haldir’s image dissolved in ripples, framed by the lashing tails of fish.

Haldir jerked up his head abruptly and turned his back to the water. The approaching Elf was walking briskly toward the great gall. He was clad in garments cut in a Silvan style, but rendered in plush velvets and embellished in gold that few Silvans would own. The clasps of his tunic were formed in the shape of oak leaves, an emerald stone in the center of each one. The gold that bound his fair head, despite its simplicity, established him as royalty, and a single glance left little doubt as to his identity: the prince Eryn Galen, King Thranduil’s son.

Haldir lowered his head reflexively as the prince strode by, and the prince in turn spared a smile for Haldir, his handsome face brightening as he dipped his head graciously. He murmured an informal greeting in the Silvan tongue. It jarred Haldir to hear his mother-tongue here in this Noldor domain, particularly when spoken by a voice lacking any hint of a native speaker’s burr.

Haldir watched him pass, hurrying toward the festivities with an eager yet confident stride, and a pang of wistfulness plagued him; he wondered, and not for the first time, what it might be like to be Elladan’s equal, with coin and a title all his own, a lineage of kings. But this was a foolish thought, a child’s fantasy. He was what he was, and nothing more.

"He is a gentle soul, and a stalwart friend."

The deep voice caught him off his guard and he turned, flustered that he had not heard anyone approaching. Just as quickly, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head deeply, for though they had not yet been introduced, he knew full well who stood before him now, clothed in a cotehardie of velvet that sparkled with tiny gems as if he were draped in the night sky and its stars. He wore a face both similar to and very different from the one Haldir most longed to see.

"Lord Elrond. Forgive me, I did not hear you behind me."

A kind laugh followed, and a summons to rise. "Haldir of the Golden Wood. We have not met, and yet I would know you anywhere. My son has sung your praises all these many years."

Haldir blushed and ducked his head in another awkward bow. All he had gleaned of protocol from his marchwarden and from Amroth’s guards was that he was to stand at attention, and to remain silent unless spoken to; in the ranks, he knew his position, knew what was expected of him. He was at loose ends now that he was out of uniform and out of formation.

"How have you found Imladris? Does it compare with Lorien?"

He considered his answer carefully. "The valley’s beauty is a different sort of beauty. It is both stately and welcoming. The beauty of Lothlorien is in its wildness. I find I cannot compare them."

A wry smile arced across Lord Elrond's face. "A very diplomatic answer, young one. Well done."

He began to walk toward the hall, gesturing for Haldir to accompany him. They looked before them as they walked, and Haldir was relieved to evade those canny grey eyes. Up ahead, Legolas had stopped to speak with some Elves that Haldir did not know. For a stranger to this land, he had ingratiated himself with all due speed.

In a low voice, Elrond retrieved the thread of his earlier conversation. "As I said,
the prince is a gentle soul and a stalwart friend."

Haldir’s heart climbed to his throat, suddenly anxious over whatever words the great Peredhel might say next.

"And yet, Haldir, son of the Golden Wood, Elladan would hold you in great regard even if your brow was never crowned with anything more precious than willow-fronds."

Haldir looked up with a start, stunned by Elrond’s pronouncement, but the Elf Lord had already been swept away by some of Círdan’s folk. He was left to ponder those words, and to enter the great hall, very much alone.

Within the great hall, the torches burned brightly, banishing all but the craftiest shadows. The guests mingled idly, seeking out their places at the broad tables that stretched the length of the room. Lord Elrond's table stood on a dais at the far end, the standards of the visiting realms suspended from the beams above.

The guests had already begun seating themselves when Haldir braved his entrance and joined the rest of Amroth's guards at a table comprised mainly of Imladrin soldiers and a trio of Gildor’s men, their suede coats cinched with vibrant silk sashes, souvenirs of journeys to far-flung lands in the South and the East. He nodded amicably to those he recognized from the training ground, where he had occupied many hours. They had been quite welcoming, unlike the gaudy capons he had encountered in the courtyard.

Yet even so, he was more than a little cowed by the grandeur of Elrond’s hall in its splendor. The most formal occasion he had ever witnessed was the induction of the new tyros each year, and the promotion ceremonies for those ascending the ranks of the guard. Those had been austere events; pomp and pageantry was not a thing common in the Golden Wood beyond the King’s inner circle. Haldir had never even so much as climbed up to the talan of Cerin Amroth, let alone partaken in one of the King’s affairs. He hardly knew where to look tonight, or the proper way to greet the high folk who sat in the tables closest to the dais, so he sat down quickly to avoid the need. He was glad he had been put with familiar faces who might advise him before he made some awful misstep.

He picked up a knife from the table and tried to examine it without drawing undue attention. It was a fine item; too dainty for a weapon, but with more than enough of an edge for carving up a bit of meat. He was glad, now, that he had not carried his own dagger; with its rough blade and whitebeam handle, it would surely have marked him as a boor.

"It is as I said, no?"

Haldir turned to find Cúron, one of Gildor’s men, sliding into the seat beside him, swinging his long braid over his shoulder. It had been Cúron who, that very afternoon, had warned Haldir to leave his dagger behind. He had said it would be considered inappropriate to bear arms at a feast.

"But how will I cut my meat?" Haldir had asked, confounded.

"Your host will provide knives for the meal," Cúron had replied. "It is a custom begun in Gil-galad’s court which Lord Elrond has retained. You will see."

Haldir had no choice but to obey and hope that Cúron was not making sport of his ignorance.

Now the lithe Noldo settled in next to him and lifted an identical knife from beside his own plate, the light of the torches flaring along the flat of the blade.

"I heard the tale from Gildor of how these knives came to be, and he had it himself directly from Lord Elrond. In Lindon, as it remains in Lorien, it was common for a man to come to table with his own knife for his dinner. However, many of the lesser lords tried to make show of their wealth and shame their peers by bringing their fanciest blades."

Haldir smirked, thinking instantly of the absurdly decorated sword carried by one of the Elves who had maligned him.

"Time passed," Cúron continued, "and the knives grew larger and larger, and encrusted with greater and greater gems, until finally Gil-galad could stand the ostentation no more. The High King declared that anyone dining at his table would use one of his knives, lest he be forced to endure the spectacle of some grandstanding fool massacring a braised squab with a broadsword. He made all the knives alike, even his own, so that no man that broke bread with him should feel greater than or less than his neighbor or his host."

"Is that so?" Haldir chuckled aloud, feeling a wave of appreciation for Gil-galad, and for Lord Elrond by extension, for keeping such an equitable—as well as practical-- table. "I had no idea."

The savory scents of spiced fruits and roasted meats wafted around them. Cúron rubbed his hands together with anticipatory glee as oven-warm loaves and tureens of soup were set at their table, the first of many dishes that would be laid before them this night.

"I hope you took my other advice and ate little today. There will have enough here to sate you for a fortnight if you pace yourself!"

Of a sudden, a dull clamor traveled through the hall. Haldir and Cúron looked up, and saw that their hosts and the vaunted representatives of the gathered realms were entering, and the other guests were rising to their feet to greet them.

There came Eldacar, Crown Prince of Arnor. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, and he was taller and more handsome than Haldir would have expected from a mortal, though admittedly he had little upon which to base his expectation: he had only been given his first glimpse of the Secondborn on the journey to Imladris, and that glimpse had been only been of a small band of southbound traders passing them at a distance in the foothills where Eregion once stood. He had had always assumed Men would be short, hairy and warlike. That description did, however, fit the Dwarf from Khazad-dum who appeared in lively conversation with King Amroth. The woodland prince was seated beside Círdan, the ancient lord of the Havens with his strange silver beard. Glorfindel sat, in all his radiant glory, at one end of the table and Gildor at the other, with his hair, like Cúron’s, plaited down his back. Only the middle seats at the table, where Lord Elrond and his family would sit, remained vacant.

"Behold, the House of Eärendil!" The cry rose up from the center of the hall. "Hail to our hosts!"

The hearty greeting echoed to the rafters as Lord Elrond entered in his cloak of midnight, the Lady Celebrian glittering beside him in pale silks, a jewel in her own right. Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel moved in solemn beauty, graceful and remote, and Haldir found he could not fathom either of them doing anything as mundane as eating meat off the bone. None of these faces, fair as they were, was the one he sought. But then, a moment later, Elladan filed in behind Lord Elrond to stand at his father’s right side.

Haldir’s innards seized as if clenched in a fist. Oh, how Elladan shone. All the promises of youth had more than been fulfilled in his graceful form: the withy limbs had thickened, the shoulders broadened, the fine features solidified in their maturity. And yet, from afar, at least, he remained unchanged: the vibrant smile, the proud carriage, the impish cock of the head. Elladan remained himself, yet distilled. Refined. No hint remained of his coltishness, of legs too long to wrangle and boyish features. There, up on the dais, his brow bound in mithril and his strong shoulders cloaked with silk and silver, stood a Peredhel grown, and glorious. He scanned the room, but did not look at Haldir, a fact for which he was equally disappointed and grateful.

Lord Elrond made his invocation and bade the guests sit. Elladan and Elrohir delivered their own speech of welcome and thanks, and the assembly murmured their approval. Haldir sat mute, wondering at the poise and certainty of Elladan’s voice, how easily it carried through the hall. The last time Haldir had heard him speak, it had been a stumbling apology for hurling Haldir’s stars from their alignment, and it had been spoken in a small voice, choked with tears and fraught with dread which he might have dispelled with a reassuring word... had he not been too callow to do so.

Throughout the meal, Haldir stole glances at the dais. More than once, he caught himself staring outright, his fork or goblet raised half-way to his mouth, until finally Cúron nudged him.

"You must make a better effort than that, my Silvan friend!"

Haldir flinched, fearing his secret revealed, but Cúron was only gesturing at Haldir’s plate, which had gone largely untouched.

"Our hosts will be offended."

He returned his attention to his plate and ate, but he had little stomach for the feast. What need was there for such earthly fare as meat and bread when he had already been sated by one glance at the star who sat upon the dais, glowing just beyond his reach?

At long last, when even the most zealous eaters had swallowed their fill, the feast was concluded, and the guests rolled out of the hall toward the evening’s other entertainments on a glutted tide of laughter and goodwill. Haldir had tried for a final glimpse of Elladan, but even as he craned his head to look, he was swept forward by the crowd at his back and tugged along by Cúron’s eager grasp on his sleeve.

"We will be honoring Elladan and Elrohir with a performance," Cúron told him. "Gildor will lead it. It is an ancient dance, and we are quite proud of it. Be certain to stand where you will see it!" He slapped Haldir roughly on the back and then slinked off into the crowd to find the rest of his fellows. Once again, Haldir was left alone.

Outside, Fëanorian lamps glittered eerie and blue in the trees and along the darkened pathways. On the lawns, the musicians had already begun to play on harps and drums and flutes. Haldir staked out a spot at a slight distance, watching as a wide swath of grass was cleared before them and couples paired off, ladies to the right of their partners, bowing to the others in the circle. It was a formal dance, lovely to watch if not lively, and the ladies' dresses all shimmered in the flickering lamps, flaring out as their partners spun them. He thought of Mithrellas, with whom he had taken many turns around the festival fires at harvest time. She loved to dance, and she would have delighted in the spectacle of these fine maids in their gilded frocks, though she would have been clad in homespun herself. He stopped his thoughts guiltily. Had he wished to dance with Mithrellas, he could have stayed at home and promenaded her around the solstice fire. But he had not stayed at home. Despite Mithrellas’ disappointment, his father’s objections, his captain’s disapproval, and the whispered taunts of his fellows, he had not stayed at home. He had come to this land of laughing waters and reborn heroes and star-crowned princes; he had come to the epicenter his of own unspeakable desires.

As the dancers whirled, Haldir saw the brethren draw near, stopping every few steps to receive greetings from well-wishers. He considered approaching them, but never moved from his inconspicuous spot. He felt he would be an imposition...or else that he would be exposing himself to the unfriendly speculation of any who saw him. Besides, those who circled round Elladan and Elrohir now were fine lords and ladies, and dignitaries from distant realms. Imagine the audacity of Haldir, border guard of Lorien in borrowed breeches, pushing aside Galdor of the Havens to greet his friend! No, there would be a time and a place for their meeting, and it was neither here, nor now.

He was swift to notice, however, that wherever Elladan went, Legolas of the Greenwood was never more than a step behind, ever ready to refill his mazer, or whisper something in his ear to make him grin or even laugh aloud. Oh, that long-missed sound! Elladan’s laughter was the song of a river over rocks, of wild birds calling across the wetlands at dawn: bright and full of promise. He envied the prince his position, wished it were he who was culling merry sounds from Elladan’s throat.

His envy flared to jealousy outright, however, when he watched Legolas’ hand brush against Elladan’s thigh in a motion that was anything but accidental. The warm and private look Elladan returned made his gut twist. To have come so far, to have Elladan so near, and yet so see him comfortably ensconced in another’s company seemed a vicious cruelty. And yet, he could not deny that it was as it should be: a prince for a prince; no meager border warden would suffice where royalty would stake its claim. Dizzy with the thought of it, he examined with hawkish fixity every look, every gesture that passed between them, as if he could divine the secrets of their relation from a distance in the canting of heads and the turning of smiles. Lord Elrond's words replayed in his mind, and he tried to hearken to them, but their sound was drowned out by his own voice grimly repeating, ever vigilant, ever the watcher. He hoped no one would mistake the flagrant bloom of blood in his cheeks for anything other than the flush of wine.

The stately dances continued for a time, and midnight loomed when the harpists settled their deft fingers on their strings, damping the lingering traces of their final chord, and flutes went silent. As the couples cleared the green, the playful patter of the drums slowed to a heavy throb. This was unexpected; the guests turned and shifted, wondering what was to come. Soon, they saw it.

From all around the courtyard, Gildor’s men were stepping towards the clearing in time to the drumbeat, not marching exactly, but striding with great purpose. Haldir saw that some of them had strapped on their swords, and the bells on their sashes jangled with a sound more fey than festive: these were warriors of lethal repute, no matter how gay their demeanor in the peaceful valley. Haldir watched Cúron take his place in the circle, his mirth subdued, his face composed in a fine, dispassionate mask.

When the circle had been formed, the drums fell silent, and for the space of a few heartbeats there was no sound to be heard but the collective breathing of the assembled throng. An instant later, the glade rang with the shrill song of metal as those who had swords drew them in perfect synchrony and saluted, while the others cried out as one.

At that, the drums began anew, faster and louder than before, a punishing triplet like hoofbeats that pursued the dancers with every step. Gildor’s men moved with perfect precision, the sword-bearers swinging their blades as they ran, the others leaping and turning in a spectacle that was half a dance, half a fearsome chase. The clash of blades was punctuated by wild howls of the pursued. Haldir lurched where he stood as the blows fell, anticipating wounds that never came, so precise were the dancers’ motions. They dipped and dodged, the circle growing tighter, the dance more frenetic. Here was the Wild Hunt of Oromë, a tale every Silvan father passed to his son in the dark of night, a story of harts and hounds and red blood sacrificed to the soil beneath a sky that had not yet borne the touch of sun or moon.

If asked later to recall it, Haldir would have said that the lanterns had burned red, casting the dancers in a bloody light, as if a sacred fire had blazed high behind them. He did not know what made him look up then, beyond the circle, but when he did, what he saw stopped his breath in his throat. Elrohir’s eyes were wild and rapt, and lit with unearthly light. They saw nothing but Gildor, and held him with a preternatural force that drew him to Elrohir even as his body bent and reeled in the dance. No matter how the ancient warrior leaped and lunged, no matter how the swordsmen hounded him and brandished their weapons to cleave the air a hair’s breadth from his skin, his eyes never left Elrohir’s.

Had Haldir not developed such a profound respect for Gildor in his brief tenure in this realm, and did he not know Elrohir for a courtly soul, he would have been horrified by such a display, a prince and a warrior staring at each other with nothing less than blunt desire in full view of all. There was rawness to their expressions that bespoke sublimated need, the garish fecundity of spring after winter’s privations, and the message was clear that what Elrohir’s youth had denied them until this night would be denied no longer.

Haldir could not even fathom gaping so openly upon an Elf-maiden, let alone one of his own gender. It was unthinkable, embarrassing... yet he was unable—or perhaps only unwilling—to turn his own eyes away, and all the while the drums thundered their relentless tattoo.

How could they be so brazen? The whole of Imladris—to say nothing of the lords of Lorien, Eryn Galen and the Havens, and two kingdoms of mortal folk—looked on blithely as their faces sang out their tale of longing and desire. Could the others not see it? Were they all of them blind? Gildor’s expression was luminous, hungry, and though he moved with the fearful majesty of an Elf-lord in all his potency, Elrohir owned him with nothing more than a look. The charisma of the Peredhil was not to be underestimated.

He had scarcely registered the dance had ended, half of Gildor’s band on bended knee in an attitude of mock defeat, the other half poised with blades aloft as if to deliver the killing blow. Not until the sound of applause echoed in the trees did Haldir shake off the bespelling fog the dance had drawn up around him. He blinked once, twice, and his head turned just enough to force Gildor and Elrohir out of his frame of vision. Yet with all the swiftness of a sprung steel trap, his heart doubled its beat he and he was snared anew by a second silvery stare.

Elladan had seen him at last. And if he had been discomposed by Elrohir's stare as it fell on – nay, claimed – Gildor, that was but a taste of the soul-rattling panic he knew when he felt the weight and focus of Elladan's eyes upon him.

A shiver wracked him, though the night air was more than warm enough. He dipped his head in acknowledgement, a meager bow at best, then turned and vanished into the mingling crowd, picking a swift path through the idle bodies until the darker paths beyond the courtyard beckoned him to safety. He silently berated himself for fleeing like a craven, but to stay was to be unmanned, to fall before that adamant stare like a hart would fall to the Huntsman of the Valar. He all but choked on his rising choler. He was a Galadhel, curse it all! Not some beast to be hunted for sport!

Yet with every step of his retreat, he knew himself already caught beyond all earthly hope of escape. What else was there, but to wait for the mercy stroke?

Elladan swore under his breath. "He flees like a startled hare."

Elrohir looked up. His eyes momentarily flickered over Haldir’s retreating back before returning to Gildor, who was clasping hands with Cúron, who had only moments before held a sword over his head. "Will you go to him?"

Elladan’s eyes remained fixed on Haldir, tracking him through the crowds as he escaped toward the forest path. Legolas stood in lively conversation with Galdor. It was the farthest he had wandered from Elladan’s side all evening. He felt a renewed twinge of guilt at not having told him of Haldir’s arrival.

"Yes," he nodded. "I must."

As Gildor drew near, Elrohir seemed to return to himself again. "Gildor and I can stand watch for you for a few moments. It will be easy enough to distract any who try to follow, though you will be missed if we are too long absent from your own party."

Elladan looked almost pleadingly at his brother. "A brief reprieve to greet him is all I ask."

An indulgent smirk accompanied the reply. "Go then. Quickly."

The harp and drum were a distant chorus now, the songs of the crickets and cicadas prevailing. Elladan found Haldir on the unmarked path which served as a camouflaged shortcut between the Great Hall and the garrison. Cloaked in shadow, he watched from a slight distance, his heart already thundering in his chest. That Haldir had found the path so easily meant he had been occupying himself with the other guardians, or perhaps some of Gildor’s men. He was glad Haldir had found some fellowship, but it should have fallen to him to teach his friend the lesser trails and hidden byways of his home, as Haldir had done for him in Lorien. In being a proper host to the other visitors, he had been a poor host to his friend. He had intended to watch for a moment more, but his voice came out of him unbidden, as if his heart could no longer bear the quietude.

"Glorfindel told me you had come. I scarcely dared believe him."

Haldir turned slowly, as if he had sensed Elladan’s presence all along, and mayhap he had. But there was no galling grin, no eyebrow rakishly raised. Uncertainty ruled his features, a sight Elladan had not seen since his childhood, in the wake of his terrible fall from the mallorn tree. Haldir sank to one knee, his head bowed, silent and deferential.

"My lord. Happy begetting day."

Elladan received the words coldly. "Rise, and do not name me thus. I would not see you bend the knee to me; I am not your lord."

"Yet a lord you are." Haldir rose, but came no closer, stealing cautious glances, but not meeting his eyes.

I have truly spooked him, Elladan thought sadly.

"Wherefore this distance between us?" he asked in earnest. "Would you come so far from home merely to behold me from a distance?"

A mottling of red crept above Haldir’s collar. At last, some sign of life! Elladan stepped closer, knowing Haldir would not, and lifted one of Haldir’s braids between his fingers. Haldir had not yet earned them when he had seen him last. What violence had befallen the borders of the Golden Wood that Haldir would have cause to fight and kill? Under his touch, Haldir went still as stone.

"What's this?" The pale plait in his fingers gave him something to behold beyond the disquiet flaring in blue eyes. "A blooded warrior fears one who only yesterday was counted a child?" Haldir's reticence hurt. It brought back the full sting of being put aside with nothing more than silence and speculation to comfort him for fifteen years.

A noise of irritation preceded the reply. "I do not fear you."

"Perhaps not, but you startle at my touch." He could not keep the disappointment from his voice. He had long girded himself for this, for Haldir to reject him and his yearnings, yet to have it come to pass so swiftly, without even a kind word and a moment of reunion...in truth, he had imagined that things would play out much differently. Or perhaps he had only hoped that they would.

Haldir scowled. That much, at least, was familiar. "Amroth's guardians do not startle, my lord."

Elladan's head snapped up. "But apparently they keep their friends at arm’s length and persist with ludicrous formalities." He watched the working of Haldir's throat when he swallowed. "You once named me your boon companion. Is it so much to wish to be greeted as such?" He had come as close to begging as his pride would allow.

The chattering of the crickets seemed to have risen to a dull roar, underscoring the plague of silence between them. At last, just as Elladan had been about to step away and shamefacedly excuse himself, something shifted in Haldir's stance and he took a hesitant step forward. Haldir had never been demonstrative; it was not the Silvan way. Yet now Haldir moved to him as he had been charged, and in a halting, awkward motion, he pulled Elladan to him.

At first, the arms that embraced him were stiff and unyielding. He wondered jealously if he held his forest maiden thus, as if she was a delicate bird he feared to crush in the cage of his arms, but he was no slight creature to fear an iron grip. He returned the embrace, no fool to waste such unlooked-for largess, chuckling when Haldir shifted uncomfortably in his clutches. He did not let go until the moment he felt Haldir's forbearance rearing. Yet when he took pity and loosened his hold, the Galadhel did not rush to escape, but pulled back to look him full in the face. A savagely rucked brow loomed over eyes that glowed with trepidation as well as longing.

"I have missed you," Elladan whispered, rewarded by the slight upturning of Haldir's mouth. 'Twas not the broad and haughty grin of old, but it would serve.

When he lifted his hand to sweep Haldir's cheek, Haldir flinched, yet still did not pull away. This, even more than the ghost of a grin, bolstered him, and he let his fingers continue their course, closing and turning his hand so that his knuckles traced the contours of Haldir’s jaw.

The thunderous beating of Haldir's heart was as audible as the insect songs, a second melody of breath and blood overlaying the first.

"Long have I dreamed of your kiss, Haldir. Long have I wished that you might bestow such a gift upon me now that you could not in any conscience bequeath me in my youth. Curse me for this if you must, but I would that you know the truth of it. It would not be meet to embark upon maturity with the secrets of my childhood laying so heavy on my heart."

Haldir drew a breath, short and sharp. Elladan feared on that he would push him away, yet he did not.

"This is not well done," Haldir whispered, but Elladan did not think the words directed at him. The breathy entreaty was not an outright refusal. A voiceless battle was even now being waged in the depths of his companion's soul, knowledge and tradition set stolidly against desire.

There was no warning before Haldir's lips collided with his, as if he were compelled to strike before logic intervened. Their teeth clashed together with a painful crack, but Elladan dared not even wince lest Haldir recoil.

A hungry heart unfurled itself in the wake of the onslaught, and Haldir drew up his hands-- one to cradle Elladan's cheek, the other to tangle in his hair. How could he have forgotten the warmth of those lips, and their softness? How could memory have failed to remind him of the sweetness of Haldir’s mouth? Far from being cold and restrained as Elladan had feared, Haldir was ravenous, devouring him with lips, teeth, and tongue. Elladan propelled himself into the kiss, meeting Haldir's hungriness with his own, cinching him tighter in his arms, reveling in the low moan that followed. He had heard these strained whimpers once before, on a rainy day in Lorien, but then they had heralded consternation. Not now. Now they drew Elladan closer, bade him to lean into that heat, to open himself to the joy of the moment, to bask in this long-awaited communion. They lingered there together, entranced by the alchemy of their kiss, where nips and nuzzles became the expression of sublimated desire and cautious hope fulsomely blossomed.

"I have brought you a gift," Haldir told him when at last they pulled apart. "A trinket, really. I fear it is terribly simple."

In response, Elladan darted in to swiftly steal a kiss from those pouting lips. "You are here with me; achieving that was nothing simple."

Haldir laughed, but it sounded uneasy. "All the same, I felt I should preface it, lest it disappoint."

"Let us have it, Galadhel," Elladan chided with mock annoyance. "My begetting day will be a distant memory if I we must stand here listening to your disclaimers."

That, at last, brought a genuine smile. That is the smile I have missed, he thought. That is the smile I have conjured in my dreams.

He felt the pouch drop into his palm, and he tugged at the strings to open it. His fingers delved, and pulled out a snail’s shell.

Haldir chuckled. "Ah. That is Rúmil’s gift. I hope you do not already have one like it."

"One can never have too many snail’s shells," Elladan bantered. "Though the snails might tell you differently." He rolled the shell in his palm. In Rúmil’s presence, Elladan had seen Haldir’s capacity for gentleness and affection. The vainglorious youth and efficient soldier had shown himself warm and doting when the sweet child was in his arms. "I am surprised he remembers me. He was quite young when I made his acquaintance."

"You have a way of making an impression, Peredhel." Haldir’s breath was warm in his ear, his lips sweet as he bussed Elladan's cheek.

Elladan turned the pouch over, and a silver pendant tumbled out. The star of his forefather greeted him, resting in the graceful curves of a mallorn leaf.

"It is nothing," Haldir demurred. "A bauble."

"Hush, fool," Elladan silenced him. "You honor our friendship with this gift. I will be proud to wear it."

"I could not give you a chain for it," Haldir continued.

Elladan nudged him with his foot. "I care not. I prefer the leather. Tie it on me."

The leather was smooth against his neck. It was flesh-warm, in contrast to the pendant that now hung just above his heart. When Haldir had finished making the knot, Elladan pulled his face close again and kissed him once more, thoroughly and deeply, until the rustle of branches sent Haldir reeling skittishly backward. The night air sent an abrupt chill over Elladan’s skin as Haldir’s warmth withdrew. His eyes had gone wide and fierce as he pulled away, and there was as much fear lurking in their blue depths as embarrassment.

Elladan spun around with a biting remark poised on his tongue. Who would have dared stalk him here if Elrohir and Gildor had set themselves as sentries? But his anger died on his lips as the interloper appeared, and he felt his stomach plummet. For while Gildor and Elrohir might have handily distracted a wayward or curious guest, they would not have anticipated the stealthy stalking of one as canny as they were, especially if the interloper had desired his own departure to go as unnoticed as Elladan’s.

He swallowed once, then held out his hand in greeting.

"Legolas..."

At the sound of his name, Legolas stepped forward, but he was uncertain of what to say. What, after all, was the appropriate response when you have stumbled upon the one you most desire as your paramour locked in a heady clinch with some stranger?

When Elladan had vanished— adroitly managed, as Legolas had kept him in his sights all evening— Legolas assumed he had stepped away to make water, or perhaps he had been pulled aside into some necessary conversation with some dignitary or other. As his absence stretched on, however, he began to wonder. And when he saw Elrohir looking at regular intervals toward the darkened copse beyond the courtyard he knew at once where Elladan had gone, though to what end, he could not fathom. A wish alighted in his mind that Elladan might be lying in wait for him there, knowing he would eventually discern his whereabouts, and that he might leap out with a finger pressed to his lips and a hand reaching to lure him away into complicit delights just out of sight of the unsuspecting guests. That thought had quickly flown. The hand extended to him now was offered in supplication, with a guilty expression to match.

When Elladan’s companion leaped back as if to deny their closeness, Legolas knew at once who the Elf was, and why he had turned such anxious and mistrustful eyes upon him. It was the Silvan he had passed early in the evening along the garden path. This was Elladan’s Galadhel. He had come, somehow, to Imladris, despite Elladan’s assertions that he would be absent. He might have been truly happy for Elladan did he not desire to take the Galadhel’s place at Elladan’s side, close to the heat of that formidable frame, his own mouth wet with Elladan’s kisses.

He drew up his dignity. "I see your friend has come to you."

Looking closely at the Silvan, he could practically see the Elf’s heart thundering through his shirt, probably more from fear than from unvetted lust. He was fair enough, Legolas supposed, although he was hardly feeling charitable. He was taller than most of the Silvans Legolas knew from Eryn Galen, and sturdily built with the broad shoulders of an archer. His dress must have cost his family dear, though it was, well... quaint. That was as generous as he was prepared to be at the moment.

Elladan beamed a smile at him, and his mood was tempered somewhat by its brightness.

"Yes, he has. Beyond my wildest imaginings. Legolas, this is Haldir of Lorien."

Legolas watched the Galadhel bow stiffly, his eyes still radiating suspicion. He thought of all the sly touches he and Elladan had shared that evening, the casual flirtations carried out before the whole of the court, and felt a moment of sympathy. No doubt it had pained this newcomer to watch and wonder about the nature of their friendship.

Well, let him wonder, he thought, his disappointment making him uncharacteristically sour.

Legolas inclined his head shallowly. "Elladan must have been very surprised to find you." He did not add that he was pleased to meet him; they would both have known it for a lie, and Legolas did not lie, even for the sake of politesse. "He was most certain you would not come."

The twitching of Haldir’s jaw suggested that he did not quite know what to make of the comment. Elladan stood apart from and between them, the apex of a triangle.

"Have the Lorien Elves had a change of heart, then, that their Greenwood cousins have not yet embraced? For in my father’s realm, the Wood-elves take only maids to their beds."

Elladan’s smile faded at that cruel and unsubtle jab, and Legolas was immediately sorry for his distemper. Seeing all the color drain from Haldir’s face only increased his contrition. He was not a bully, and it was unkind to make sport at another’s expense, even if he were a rival. He had been taught by his father’s kingly example to grasp victory from his opponents by proving himself worthier, not by resorting to spite and subterfuge. It was not Haldir’s fault that Legolas' pride had been pricked; were he indeed the wise friend and generous spirit his father had tried to make of him, he would be celebrating his dear friend’s reunion with a beloved rather than striking out with childish blows.

Legolas sighed. "Fear not, Haldir of the Golden Wood. None shall know of your relation from my lips. I do not truck with malicious gossip. Elladan’s happiness is paramount, tonight of all nights."

Haldir visibly relaxed, the flush slowly returning to his skin. "Thank you," he said simply.

Elladan turned to Haldir. "Legolas has become a dear friend to Elrohir and to me, and he brings with them the hope of reunion between my father’s realm and Eryn Galen. At last the wounds of old might be healed, and all the Elven realms of Arda might join their strengths together in this time of renewal. His presence here is a gift to us all."

Though he schooled his expression easily enough, Legolas knew that Haldir likely thought his presence a gift of decidedly less value.

When the silence between them threatened to grow awkward, Legolas took his leave. "Elrohir was keeping close watch when I slipped away, and I will join him in safeguarding your privacy in this moment. I wish you a fond reunion."

He caught and held Elladan’s eyes, and the gratefulness he found there— as well as the unspoken apology— balmed him. With a nod of farewell, he turned away and returned to the gathering by the same way, and with the same stealth, that he had come.

In the depths of the night, past even the hour when the doughtiest of revelers had at last owned themselves defeated by wine and weariness, the Lord of Imladris made his way with silent steps down a darkened corridor. Passing Elrohir's door, he heard the Gildor’s melodic voice in the room beyond, followed by Elrohir’s dulcet laughter. He smiled. He could not have wished for a better companion for his Elf-Knight than the wise and stalwart warrior, whose skill and valor so inspired his younger son, and whose wry wit and good humor disarmed the Elf-knight's occasional brooding.

With paternal intuition enhanced by the foresight of his line, he knew his son had found his match, yet feared that the impetuosity and lustful curiosity of youth would threaten a burgeoning bond. Elrond had been compelled by his respect for the warrior to share his concerns. Gildor had only smiled warmly and shaken his head.

"I am an old elf, Elrond, and a patient one. I am no heartsick youth whose insecurity demands continence; I have lived and loved in profusion, and he should have the opportunity to do the same. It would be unfair for me to desire any less for him. If our fëar are fated, then no youthful dalliance will tear that bond asunder. He will come to me in his time, and I am prepared to wait."

If the easy laughter creeping under the doorjamb was any indication, Gildor would not have long to wait before Elrohir declared himself. He had all but done so in any case, appearing tonight before all and sundry with his black hair plaited in the manner of Gildor’s tribe.

Would that he could feel so secure regarding his elder son’s future.

Down the empty hall, away from the warm sounds carried on the flicker of a candle’s light beneath the threshold, he moved toward Elladan’s rooms. No light burned within, and no low rumble of conversation reached him. Elladan slept alone.

Elrond’s restless feet carried him out of the halls and down the long breezeway. A candle still burned in the chamber of Legolas Greenleaf, but he, too, kept a cold bed on this warm night. His eyes scanned the adjacent grounds, roved over the shadowed paths few other eyes but his could find, and saw at last a lone silhouette among the tall pines near the garrison. Who but a Silvan would wander so late to commune with the trees? Alas for the young Galadhel, he thought. His heart is at war with his conscience.

Returning to the Last Homely House, with its broad stone halls and the murals on its walls, he passed once more by Elladan’s door. Carefully, quietly, he opened it and stepped within, a swath of light from the lamps in the hallway splitting the darkness in his wake. He closed it softly behind him and padded through the sitting room and study to the bed chamber beyond.

Elladan was asleep on his back, one arm thrown carelessly above his head. Moonlight danced on dark hair lying in untidy waves across his pillow. The steady tide of his breath betokened the deep sleep of dreams, and Elrond hoped that he dreamed well.

Foresight had failed him where this child was concerned. He could see Elrohir’s life stretching out before him with Gildor at his side, but Elladan’s path appeared far less certain. If he pinned his hopes on one who could not fulfill him, what then? The prince of Eryn Galen waited eagerly in the wings, but for how long?

The blood of the Second-Born ran strong in Elladan, more so than in Elrohir. His flame burns hot, Elrond mused, but I fear it will burn short. So bold, this one, so impetuous. So fervent in his wish to throw aside old ways and to merrily guide all those around him toward the righteous light of the new.

Ah, and so very, very alike to another dear soul, one who was lost to him forever. For a moment, it was as if he looked upon another body in that bed, another dark head reposed in untroubled sleep.

It would break my heart to see him take my brother’s path...

Quietly, he turned away, departed the room in silence, and turned back to seek the sanctuary of his own bed. Celebrian’s tender presence beside him under the counterpane, even in sleep, would be balm to him this night.

*****

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