Marchwarden: Son Of Guilin 8

Marchwarden: Son Of Guilin

Part 8

Posted: June 2005
Title: Marchwarden: Son of Guilin
Author: Kenaz

*****

Lothlorien, Third Age 29

The first warm rays of morning peeked playfully through the open window, beckoning him from slumber. But greater heat yet came from the body curled against him, the arm tossed possessively across his chest as if to claim him even in sleep. Awaking surrounded by such indolent comfort was delectable, he thought, but would be ever so much more enjoyable shared. He rubbed himself against the slumbering form behind him, rewarded when at least part of his companion stirred. In the blink of an eye he was on his back, arms pinned over his head. Hair like shadows swept his cheek from above. Even in reverie, his captain's responses were swift as lightning.

"Did I not satisfy you enough that you must take from me my well-deserved sleep?"

He smiled wolfishly but offered no response

"What makes you think you will receive further favors from me?"

He raised his hips to grind against his captor. "This."

His lips were prized apart by an invading tongue and he sank back into the pillow, entreating the vanguard to press on. Sweet joy it was to find his mouth pillaged, his contented sighs enflaming his lover and deepening the kiss.

His pinioned arms were released and flew to the warm, broad back above him, fingers tracing the familiar paths of muscle and sinew, sliding down to knead a firm backside while the eager mouth wandered his neck.

He subtly hooked an ankle around his captor's legs, and with an unanticipated twist, the tables were turned. He grinned down at the possessor now possessed, the affection in his eyes gentling the smugness in his smile. Grey eyes flashed dangerously, the shadow hair fanning out across the pillow. His grip on the captain's arms was unbreakable; he leaned forward to lie against him, the sensation of skin on skin wringing shivers from them both

"If you are in need of rest, perhaps you should simply lie back and allow me to serve you. You know I do so quite... dutifully."

The captain laughed, a low, throaty chuckle. Desire had dilated the dark centers of his eyes till they appeared almost black. He enjoyed the weight and heat of the elf's body atop his own, the delicious friction of their hungry shafts unbearably pleasant

"Perhaps I should... Perhaps I ought simply close my eyes, spread myself wide for you, and bravely take your steel..."

He had but a moment for the incendiary image of his captain's surrender to heat his blood to boiling when he felt his body lifted. After a brief struggle, he was face down, ensnared once again, a length hard as tempered steel filling the cleft of his backside

A threatening growl: "But I think not. Do you yield?"

A smile played across his lips, pressed though they were into the pillow, his voice muffled: "Always."

The back of his neck was conquered anew with sharp nips, raising the fine hairs there on end, and harsh suckling brought livid blossoms to the skin, a garland proclaiming him utterly, thoroughly owned.

"Up, soldier. On your knees."

His hips swayed impatiently. His body maintained its memory of last night's breeching and awaited again the pure pleasure it found in being claimed. He was stretched, filled to bursting. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to be ridden to exhaustion. He surrendered. He begged.

"Move in me..."

Again, the throaty husk of a laugh found his ears. He breathed in...out...felt a hand languidly stroking his back, fingers slipping like water in the fosse of his spine.

"As you wish."

Slow, shallow thrusts tormented. He pressed back, his body pleading for harder usage. Yet even as the pace and depth of the strokes crescendoed, the hands gliding down his sides and brushing over his flanks were gentle. The union of lust and tenderness was intoxicating; it was what marked their encounters as singularly theirs, those private gestures of desire. He was overwhelmed. He was always overwhelmed.
Strong arms reached around his chest and pulled him up on his knees, drew him to arch his back against the powerful body holding him, his head lolling on his lover's broad shoulder. Their bodies collided in a punishing rhythm and he cried in needy pleasure when his nipples tightened under a demanding thumb. He felt his lover smiling against his neck.

"Wanton."

Aye, he thought. For your touch I am wanton. I will shamelessly writhe and sing and even beg if it will bring me your touches. But he had no breath to spare for words.

"To see you undone... there is no greater guerdon."

The warmth in that whispered voice made his heart pound. A strong, tight hand moved in time with his hips. His skin tingled. When the Captain's grip around his chest tightened, he knew his lover neared as well. Their fingers laced together, pressed tight against his breast, and they howled, bodies rigid in their ecstasy, tumbling as one into the abyss of a molten rush.

Riding out the tremors of their completion, they sank back to the bed, a tangle of spent limbs and softly murmured endearments. Though the day called, they allowed themselves to lay in blissful reverie a bit longer...

...Elemmakil's eyes blinked, clearing, the room awash with the echo of his breath. The light was not a laughing dawn sun reflected off white stone, it was moon and stars filtered through mellyrn leaves. The floor beneath his feet the pale and sturdy wood of a Silvan abode, not the cool marble of the House of the Fountain. His body, however, knew no difference.

Beneath him, the night air turned sweat on his sheets to damp discomfort. The hardness between his legs ached terribly, the first drops of his release darkening the sheet that entrapped it.
But he would not take himself in hand. He never allowed himself release when these dreams fell upon him, did not wish to debase them with the frantic friction of desperation. His hands, though adept at many things, could not summon reality from dream or conjure flesh from shadow, and he knew full well the emptiness that followed when the moment passed and he was again alone, flaccid member in hand. He would not taint his memories thus.

He fought to control his breathing, to still his pulse, willing his arousal to dissipate. When his body finally heeded his demands, he did not move from the bed. Could not. He laid his forearm across his eyes. Even the moonlight was too bright to bear.

Haldir recognized the voice, a seductive, poisonous purr. Feredir. He scowled, his grip tightening on the torn leather of his bow grip; he was not alone in seeking out the bowyer this morn, it seemed. Though from the sound of it, the elf was more interested in snaring a new conquest than in setting up his tackle.

He speaks sweet as the bud on a tree, yet he is treacherous as bird-lime on its branches.

Haldir and Feredir had, with pronounced effort, managed a frigid civility since the incident at the practice field so many seasons ago. The Marchwarden had assigned them young swordsmen to train, and when forced to work together they did so stiffly. But effectively, Haldir thought begrudgingly. Though it pained him to say it, Feredir was all but unsurpassed with a blade, and his novices responded well and quickly to his instruction. Not that this precluded his galling effrontery off the field, hissing slurs of "captain's whore" under his breath, or suggesting that Haldir was perhaps better at sheathing a sword than at swinging it. Haldir bore his antipathy through gritted teeth and a clenched fist, mustering all of his control to ignore the bait the hunter dangled under his nose.

This morn he thought to wait for Feredir to finish his business before venturing further into the armory, but when he heard a second voice, the coy recipient of Feredir's honeyed words, his control slipped.

He stalked into the equipment room just in time to watch Feredir tuck an errant lock of pale hair behind Rúmil's ear, the backs of his fingers skimming the young elf's neck as he did so. Haldir's fingers curled into fists, the self-control gained over years of the Marchwarden's tutelage a fine and tightly-stretched thread that held him from throttling his bane. When he summoned his words, they pierced his lips in a tone promising violence.

"Daro, Feredir. Have a care."

Feredir swiveled his head slowly, unfazed. A placid grin turned up under eyes gleaming with spite

"Rúmil does not require your assistance, Haldir. He is capable of choosing his own company."

Haldir's jaw fell wide at the audacity. "Are you so much a scapegrace that you would entice an elf not yet grown?" He hissed.

Insulted, Rúmil turned on him. "I am near enough grown! Or have you been so distracted on your wide patrol that you have forgotten I will soon be of age?"

With inveigling sweetness, Feredir turned back to the young elf. "Perhaps you should leave us to speak alone, fair one." Rúmil blinked with simpering eyes and nodded, shooting Haldir a scowl as he brushed by.

Waiting until the youth was well out of earshot, Feredir squared himself to his rival. "You impugn my honor, Haldir. I have behaved in no way untoward, nor do I take unwilling or unwary partners. Yet the fact remains: he will soon be of an age to treat with whomever he wishes. You have had a strong hand in raising him; if you trust not his judgment, look to yourself for blame." The elf knew from the subtle tensing in the cords of Haldir's neck that he had drawn blood.

Haldir crossed the room in a single stride, his eyes narrowing lethally at his unflinching antagonist. "He is an innocent. Do not go through him to damage me."

Feredir's expression remained aloof. "Again, you insult me. That Rúmil shares your blood is both unfortunate and incidental. Whatever you might think of me, and I assure you it is no more than I think of you, I do have my honor."

He slung his bow over his shoulder, his cold eyes fixed on Haldir's. He shouldered forcefully past the furious elf rooted by his rage in the doorway.

In the span of a few moments, Haldir's mood had turned irredeemably foul. Most unpalatable were the insinuation that he had in some way failed in his duty to Rúmil , and the unassailable fact that Rúmil was nigh old enough to seek what company he would. Stubborn as he was, the young elf was likely to pick partners that his brothers found irksome if only to prove he was his own master. But of all the elves in the realm, he was angry and disappointed that his brother would fall under the spell of the one who held him in greatest contempt. Could Rúmil not understand the hurt it caused him?
"It is hard, I think," Orophin rationalized, "to receive the attentions of one so fair as Feredir—for as loathsome as his character may be, he is indeed fair—and not find them enticing. He is new yet to these attractions."

The keen sound of a whetstone whistled in reply as Haldir zealously sharpened a knife blade.

"He stands on the cusp of maturity, Haldir. His begetting day is weeks away. He must learn to rely on his own senses, and we must learn to hold our counsel unless it is asked."

Again, the whetstone rasped. Orophin was right, of course. And Rúmil, despite his occasional impetuosity, had grown into a fine elf. He trained hard and already excelled as an archer. Once of age, he would no doubt petition to join the wardens and would then be tested, as Orophin and Haldir had long ago been tested, in archery, swordplay, tracking, and horsemanship. Haldir had no doubt he would outstrip any other contestant. Sorely, Haldir admitted he could little fault his brother's disposition, so akin was it to his own. Even Orophin had been a competitive and temperamental youth, and now, though junior in years, Haldir often found him greater in wisdom. If Orophin counseled patience, Haldir would try.

Orophin nudged him from his thoughts. "Do you have his gift?"

He nodded, reaching into his belt pouch. He dropped a ring into Orophin's waiting hand. It was a silver band, forged from their parents' betrothal rings, engraved with a motif of mallorn leaves on the outside, and each brother's name within. Faelas had bequeathed him the rings when she departed from Lorien, and Orophin agreed sure she would have delighted in their new form. And Ada as well, he thought.

As Orophin eyed it, turning it in the light to see the precise yet artful tengwar of their names in an unending loop, Haldir stewed in his gloom. "Like as not, he will try to file my name away rather than have it chafe against his skin as I seem to."

Orophin's consoling arm slipped around his shoulder. "Trust him, Haldir. His temper will pass yet his love will remain."

Hithaeglir bared its jagged teeth to the sky, a black scar stretching overground far into the North. Turning, the Gladden Fields lay wide and green. To the East, Greenwood the Great spread her verdant body across the land like a lover reclining on a broad bed. Behind them, the Ents of Fangorn kept silent watch. Keen elven eyes narrowed, pinned on distant points, watching Anor's journey take him low in the western sky.

"This may well be the most useful thing our King has crafted in his rule." The elf sighed with exasperation, drumming his fingers on the rail encircling the topmost level of Amroth's talan. From here, the entire realm—and well beyond—could be observed. "Mayhap the only useful thing."

Celeborn's eyes hovered over the eaves of Fangorn, recalling his walks in those dark woods with the mossy whisper of the Ents to welcome him. "You have no faith in him, then?"

The Marchwarden shrugged. "Amroth is much beloved, not least of all by me, but he is not his father. He has little interest in kingcraft beyond its pageantry. He never wished to stand in Amdir's stead, and long believed he would not have to. He is besotted with some strange lass who holds herself apart, and did his advisors not manage him, he would happily spend his days eschewing his rule to court her favors."

"And now he would have you take to the trees," Celeborn added with a subtle grin. Though telain had long been used by the wardens on the borders, only recently had the King encouraged his subjects to take to them as permanent housing. Elemmakil, while admiring of their craftsmanship, remained dubious.

"Perhaps for the Silvans it seems no strange thing, but to an old Noldo born to the stone halls of Vinyamar, it seems almost primitive."

Celeborn laughed. "I imagine it does, though I, for one, welcome it. Galadriel planted these mellyrn and I tended them from seedlings." He reached out to stroke a broad green leaf and it curled into the warmth of his caress. "They are strong and generous, and embrace those who would use them well. But should you choose to remain on the ground, I think no one will object."

"Nay, as a servant of the King, it would not do for me to balk. Surely I will warm to it soon enough."

Turning his wry face to the West, the elf lord watched the forbidding maw of the mountain range devour the swollen sun. "Tathalion reports the borders have been quiet."

Elemmakil nodded. From time to time, yrch attempted raids, but they were easily repelled. Men were seen more often now, mainly small bands traveling south through the Wold to Rohan. Those who strayed too close were warned away; those with more sinister intent were handled accordingly.

"Haldir wondered if the patrols should be increased along the Celebrant. It merits consideration. He has learned much these years past."

Far below, on the forest floor, a fox pup watched his larger companion snatch a young rabbit from its warren. It was not dead but stunned, and he dropped it at the pup's feet. The youngster sniffed at it warily, and its long tail twitched. In that instant, instinct met experience and the young pup understood. With a hard shake, he snapped its neck and trotted back in the direction they had come, his prize firmly clenched in his teeth. The elder fox followed close behind. Celeborn watched the scene play out from his airy vantage point before questioning the Marchwarden.

"And how does Guilin's son fare, Elemmakil?"

Elemmakil stiffened. He did not relish these discussions. "He is aware of the limitations of our relationship, if that is your concern."

"And you are certain your limitations are acceptable to him?" He watched the Marchwarden draw up his arms tightly across his chest.

"Others have been satisfied with the arrangement."

"Others were not so young," Celeborn chastised. "You yourself remarked his heart was green."

Elemmakil did not answer. Celeborn knew him all too well.

"He is not Ecthelion, Elemmakil.

"They never are!"

He own vehemence startled him and he gentled his tone. Celeborn meant no harm. He pressed his fingers to his eyes until bright spots skated behind the lids. Guilt fell like a heavy mantle across his shoulders.

"Why are still determined to hold yourself aloof? You were not bound in Gondolin, and now you have love freely offered by a most worthy companion, yet you refuse to claim it."

"No good can come of it," Elemmakil stated flatly. "I have known love, and I have known its loss. I would not revisit that fate, and I would spare him from ever knowing it as well. It is because he is most worthy that I would not see him suffer as I have." His jaw flexed as he drew his breath. "Love is a distraction a soldier cannot afford. Better he come to terms with this fact now, while he is young. I learned it too late and at great cost."

Celeborn listened patiently to the familiar discourse on the vagaries of a soldier's life and the strange fates awaiting those who take up arms. Long ago he had argued with the Marchwarden: the love he shared with Galadriel ran sure as the Anduin and as deep as Moria's mines. Love had never been a distraction, if anything it had shorn him up in battle, her gentle presence in his mind and heart bracing his resolve on the nights when hope was dim. Elemmakil had dismissed his arguments so often that Celeborn no longer bothered trotting them out, only listened, wondering if, after unnumbered years, the captain was any closer to believing his own words. Elemmakil's feelings for Haldir ran true; that much was clear. Rarely had he kept a lover so close, or for so long. Yet unless Elemmakil would concede that there was indeed love, it would come to no good end for Haldir.

A shroud of shadow had fallen across the talan as the last light of day withdrew. The purple dusk threw Elemmakil's features in relief, his profile finely carved, his cheekbones high and strong. It was only in his eyes and the grim set of his brow that one might discern his many years. Outwardly, he still appeared youthful, and with his arms crossed and shoulders hunched, he looked strained and unsure. Celeborn resisted the urge to pull him into a fraternal embrace and instead issued a warning.

"You ought consider the path on which you lead him, lest the very thing you seek to protect him from comes to pass in spite of you." He paused, assaying the planes of his friend's face. "Or because of you."

Moments fell away before Elemmakil found his voice, and he spoke with a shrug as if he had not heard Celeborn's remonstration. "He is still in need of training. I would have him prepared to take my place or Tathalion's. He will be Marchwarden here, I know you have seen that much. I want him safe. I want him ready."

Celeborn turned sharply. "Then send him with me. We are taking some of the healers to Imladris to study under Elrond's staff, and as our company grows, our escort must as well. From there, perhaps a stint abroad with Inglorion's band. If indeed you are grooming him, he should know more of Arda than only the Dagorlad and the Golden Wood."

Elemmakil considered this, though he did not meet Celeborn's eyes until the Sinda turned his shoulders and forced his gaze. He found no condemnation therein

"Let him go, my friend, or you will do him a grave disservice. Do not compromise his happiness because you have closed off your heart to love."

The Marchwarden's eyes flashed, lightning on stormy waters. "Do not think I toy with him, Celeborn." His tone stopped shy of desperation but his grief was plain. "I have given him all that I can."

The weight of Celeborn's hand settling on his shoulder was both an admonition and a comfort.

"If that is enough for you, so be it. But ask yourself truly if it will be enough for him."

*****

Gwador = sworn brother (not related by blood)
Muindor = brother (blood relation)
Muindor = brother
Orfalch Echor= The dry river bed leading to the secret gates of Gondolin. Elemmakil was the keeper of the First Gate, the Gate of Wood. (For more information about Elemmakil's history, see Tolkien's Unfinished Tales)
Daro = Halt, stop
Telain = plural of Talan

*****

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