Marchwarden: Son Of Guilin 15

Marchwarden: Son Of Guilin

Part 15

Posted: November 4, 2005
Title: Marchwarden: Son of Guilin
Author: Kenaz

*****

Twilight burgeoned in the garden, and the many hues of green variegated with splashes of bright color muted into a uniform tenebrous shade as Anor's rays sank below the horizon. Already, the Eves had taken to calling this "Galadriel's garden," though the Lady was not in residence. King Amroth himself had commissioned the bower, had drawn the plans for the neatly manicured beds and smooth pathways that serpentined to decorative bridges spanning trilling streams. It was a masterwork, emerging gently from natural curves of the forest and then seamlessly reintegrating itself back into the wood, giving it an air of lush formality without ever overriding the innate majesty of the wild wood.

But the King had been distracted from this task—in truth, had been distracted from many tasks—by the mysterious object of his affections who, even now, kept her distance from Caras Galadhon and any other populated place. She flitted like an ephemeral sunbeam, dappling the distant edges of the forest with her elusive presence. Few understood the King's beguilement, least of all his advisors who had daily railed at him to set aside this love that seemed destined to go unrequited and return his attentions to matters of state.

Rather, the advisors had daily railed, until Amroth used his royal prerogative to simply disappear for months on end, chasing his cagey maiden and suing for her love.

In his absence, his advisors had come to depend on Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel for guidance as they assumed the duties their King had abdicated. The Lord and Lady came often from Imladris to Lothlorien, and were both graciously and gratefully welcomed. On her last sojourn, Galadriel had taken it upon herself to oversee the completion of the garden, which, like so many other things in and about the royal city, had been left half-finished.

And now, verdant and immaculately maintained, Galadriel's garden had become a popular place for Lothlorien's populace to stroll or convene with friends. Thus it was that the younger sons of Guilin, with friends and mates in tow, came thence to linger in felicitous fellowship and observe from a safe distance the ritual which had become a regular occurrence of late.

"Watch!" Orophin announced in a hushed tone, craning his head at the scene unfolding behind him. "You can see the very moment the hunter moves in for the kill!"

The elves chuckled and watched surreptitiously as another of their number hovered near the youngest in the latest crop of wardens. He circled predatorily, lured his prey with a gentle hand on the back, or an arm tossed in ostensible camaraderie around a shoulder that lingered just a little too long. He disarmed with bright-eyed laughter, and soon the space between them closed. A hand stealthily moving to rest on a hip marked the springing of the trap.

"And... it is done!"

With impressive synchronicity, Haldir turned as Orophin spoke and led his latest conquest out of the gardens while the group stifled their collective laughter.

"I daresay tonight's dish is a tender piece." Rumíl quipped. "I did not know our brother's tastes ran to veal!"

"As far as Haldir is concerned, old enough to heave a sword is old enough to sheathe a sword!"

Alquonís, happily ensconced in Orophin's lap, masked her chuckle in an affronted titter and he ducked, though not quickly enough to escape her swatting hand.

"You are unkind! Your brother succors himself in his own fashion. Do you begrudge him what little solace he can find?"

Orophin caught her hand and clasped it in his own, the matching bands of silver on their fingers still lustrous in the low light. "Nay, dear heart." He touched her gently, reverently, yet there was sublime pride in his eyes when he looked upon her and twined her slender digits with his own. "I simply fear that leaving a trail of discarded bed-treats in his wake will only attract more misery to him in the long run."

His betrothed eyed him wryly. "Such concern from one who left quite a trail of his own bed-treats in days not so long past!"

He smirked at her, wrapping his arm snugly around her waist. "Yes, and I am made to suffer for my past transgressions daily. I pray my brother suffers a kinder fate!"

The warmth of a mouth drawing him steadily toward release set his head spinning, temporarily distracting him from the void left by the absence of his lover and his best friend. A hand buried deep in satiny blonde locks twisted with inadvertent roughness, enough to elicit a choked yelp. He loosed his grip and let his knuckles slip over the other's cheek in a conciliatory stroke as he continued to casually thrust in and out, his hips rocking in primal delight.

His orgasm began to rise in him like sap through a tree, his limbs involuntarily tightening in preparation. With a grunt, he pulled free from the willing mouth, gripping himself hard at the root to forestall his completion.

The young warden looked up in confusion and concern, but Haldir smiled at him, drawing him up from his knees and onto the bed, meeting his mouth in a devouring kiss. He tasted the bitter precursor to his own seed on his partner's tongue. With one hand, he adeptly loosened the laces of the other elf's breeches and tugged them down over his hips, pulling until they crumpled on the floor with the rest of their discarded clothing.

The elf before him was young and pale with the slim musculature of one just stumbling into maturity, his body withy and fit from sword work and calisthenics, but lacking even the smallest blemish that the older wardens wore as testament to long years of rough service. He was a beauty, as gregarious and vocal in bed-play as Haldir had found him during the off-hours of their last patrol, when he had first come into the elder warden's notice. Little effort had been necessary to rouse his interest in a night's company, and he had proven an enthusiastic partner. Now, stretched across the bed, his arousal-darkened length standing eagerly in a nest of golden curls, he evinced a charming readiness to entertain Haldir in any fashion requested.

With a masterful hand, Haldir fisted his bedmate, watched his hips jerking in fervent response, readying him with his fingers before tacitly making his intentions clear by rolling the young galadhel to his stomach. The warden needed no further prompting; he raised himself to his hands and knees and arched his back like a cat, presenting himself unabashedly to Haldir.

The tight heat of a body gripping his erection shuttled his mind into blankness, and he reveled in the pure physical sensations of lust. The warden's voluble cries erupted in stark contrast to Haldir's mannered reserve; a grunt, a moan, perhaps a whispered word of enticement in a peaked ear in the moments before his partner bucked and brayed in the throes of release, but never the bestial growls and whines he once freely loosed on Elemmakil's bed.

But if the elf in his bed tonight was perturbed by the laconic nature of the elder warden, he did not show it. Rather, he dropped his chest to the bed and tilted his hips higher, pushing back wantonly against Haldir's shaft, inviting him to thrust hard and fast, and Haldir was happy to oblige.

"Touch me, meldir... please touch me..." The young voice was pinched with the desperation of arousal. "I am so close!"

Haldir moved a hand between the elf's legs to catch the heavy stalk bobbing and swaying with the force of his thrusts, and with a few deft strokes, brought his partner to a raucous climax. His own, pleasant but barely voiced, came shortly after.

When Haldir collapsed on the bed, the warden insinuated himself under Haldir's arm and lay his head on his chest. He reached for a lock of Haldir's hair and coyly laced it through his fingers.

"The hour grows late. Might I pass the night here with you?"

Haldir shifted awkwardly. "It would be best if you returned to your own quarters. I find I do not sleep well with others in my bed."

The youngster heard the words unspoken. "Did I not please you?"

"Aye, you pleased me well, but as a warden, duty is my mistress, and none come before her. You understand, I wager. It is a pleasure to revel with our brothers-in-arms, but nothing more should come of it, if we truly desire to give duty her due."

"Yes, of course," the elf responded, unconvinced but not bitter. He was young, and while easily smitten, he was content enough only to share a passing interlude, curious to taste the favors of many of his fellows. He slipped quickly from the bed and dressed himself. Haldir pulled on a robe and escorted him to the door, relieved that he had not sulked. The elf turned at the threshold to behold his erstwhile bedmate one last time.

"Perhaps we will share another night, should you find yourself of a mind for it."

Haldir smiled gently. "Perhaps."

The young warden left, and Haldir retreated to his bed alone, deciding that was not tired so much as he was simply weary.

After the incident with Haldir, Galion had consoled himself in his own fashion, taking extra shifts in the infirmary to fill his days, and of late spending his evenings in the company of one of Amroth's scribes, whose hands proved near as deft as his own. The dogged attention to detail that served this ellon so well in the exacting art of illuminating the King's manuscripts translated delightfully when applied to other, more robust, arts. No great spark of romance had flared between them, but cordial conversation and mutual attraction held their own charms, however impermanent.

A note had come from said scribe that afternoon, begging Galion's presence for a late night promenade through the new gardens. He had accepted, but only after chuckling to himself at the elf's insistence on such formal etiquette when they were both well aware that the true purpose of any meeting held between them after dark was decidedly less austere than a casual stroll.

Returning to his abode from the infirmary, he found something hanging on his door handle. A braided leather strap with length enough only to gird a child, well-worn and stiffened with age. Lashed to it was a sheath embossed with intricate knotwork. From butt to point, the knife within barely surpassed the length of his palm. The hilt was so narrow that he thought his fingers might wrap twice around it. The blade shone bright, lovingly oiled and polished, and when he flicked the pad of his thumb across the edge he found it dull, not from lack of use, but because it had never been sharpened.

When Guilin had commissioned the little knife, a gift for Haldir's begetting day, Faelas had drawn her lips in a tight line. She had not been eager to have the tools of a soldier put in her child's hands so young. "Little hands are for grasping poppets," she had pleaded with her husband. "He will come to your ways soon enough, there is no need to hurry him."

But Faelas had known even then that it had been futile, that Guilin's blood ran stronger in her little one's veins than her own, and that he was born for soldiering no matter how much she loathed the shedding of blood. Make it dull, she had at last conceded, and Guilin had done so; he knew that Haldir was brash and careless in the way of all youngsters whose attention flits hither and yon, and that, coupled with his impatience for mastery and constant attempts to emulate his father, made him more apt to accidentally injure himself than perhaps another of similar years would be.

Though Guilin had taught him how to properly handle it ("You must be ever vigilant with your weapons, and always respect the blade, for it cannot tell friend from foe"), he could not resist brandishing it in Galion's company, wildly pantomiming the many ways in which he would fell an orc or challenge a wild beast. Galion had watched patiently but with little interest. If Haldir bore his father's blood so evidently, likewise Galion carried the blood of his mother, and in the manner of most healers, he had little interest in the workings of weapons, save only to understand how they wrought their harm so that he might later undo it. All the same, he had been content to watch Haldir thrust and parry with shadows, infinitely certain that his friend could save them from any manner of harm.

Galion remembered how Haldir had told him the story of the vigil he kept at his bedside while he lay insensate from the brutal onset of his healing powers, how he had whispered in Galion's unhearing ear the promise of the little knife in exchange for his waking.

And now, the little treasure Haldir had long ago bartered lay small and cold in his hands. Galion understood it for what it was: an admission of guilt, a plea for forgiveness, a pointed reminder that the friendship that now lie in tatters was as dear to him and as sorrowfully missed as it had been all those years ago.

With his stomach in knots, he went in search of Haldir.

Haldir was not difficult to find. He was in his talan, seemingly waiting for Galion's arrival. His look was sorrowful, and yet this contrition only irked Galion, and his words fell with careless cruelty from his mouth.

"When I was ill, you offered to trade this token for my health. You could not part with it then, though I knew naught of that, but you offer it to me once again. Have I grown so high in your esteem, or has your little knife only lessened in value over time?"

Haldir winced visibly at the bitter rhetoric. "You hone the thing to an edge it lacked when I was small. It draws blood now, and I see you would cut me with it."

Afraid that he might hurl it, Galion quickly let the knife drop to the table in its sheath.

"You came to me in Imladris." He snapped churlishly. "I did not seek you out, I did not demand anything of you."

"Nor did you turn me away."

Galion released a deep breath. "No, I did not. Nor did I say it was unwelcome." The wall was cold against his back as he shifted his weight against it.

"You came to me wracked with concern. Do you not remember how afraid you were the night before you departed? How ill-used you felt by Elemmakil even then? I wanted to give you ease. For all the love I bore you, I wanted to assuage those fears and see you sally forth with pride and courage."

Sensing his imminent chastisement, Haldir hung his head. "I know your motives were pure."

"But you would make of them something base! Forcing yourself on me, drunk, while recalling that night took one of my most treasured memories and tarnished it with crass lust. I have long made do with the leavings of your attention, yet you would take the one moment you were fully mine and wield it merely to avenge your insulted pride."

Haldir shut his eyes. "I know not what to say, Galion... I will not insult you with excuses. I only ask that you forgive a wounded fool who erred grievously."

Galion turned away. How could two emotions war so deeply within him? He wanted throw his arms around Haldir's shoulders and beg the whole incident be set aside and forgotten... yet another part of him wished to see Haldir hurt and humiliated as he had been, wanted to scream that he would be taken for granted no longer.

"Understand, Haldir, that my loyalty and my respect are to be earned, not assumed. If you imagine me to be a well of limitless tolerance, let me swiftly disabuse you of that notion; my tolerance does indeed have limits, and you have sorely tried them."

"Aye. I know. Just tell me there is a chance to regain your trust."

The healer remained silent, looking away as if to ponder Haldir's query and feeling a cold flicker of satisfaction flaring as he left Haldir to twist in the noose of anxiety in wait of his answer.

"In time, yes."

Relief was instantly evident in the slight loosening of Haldir's shoulders and the creep of color into his cheeks.

"It grows late. Will you not stay?"

"No," Galion told him, but more gently than he had spoken before.

"I mean only for sleep! I would gladly give you my bed and take my bedroll to the floor..."

"I cannot, Haldir." He took a breath. "I have a prior engagement."

Haldir's face fell, and he grew uncommonly flustered. Galion found, to his discomfort, that the twinge of guilt he felt at Haldir's dismay came in tandem with an equal measure of malevolent pleasure.

"I see... well, then," Haldir recovered, "I shall not delay you further."

He stood to walk his companion to the door feeling that things between them had been only partially resolved. His gaffe had not been beyond Galion's ability to forgive and their friendship, while strained, might yet be restored, yet already there were others who had taken priority in Galion's attentions. He counseled himself to have patience and let the healer return to him in his own time, and then he frowned. Patience was a quality he lacked almost in like degree as foresight and humility. But patience was all that was left to him, and though it was something he yet lacked, he would perforce learn it soonest. He went to bed, once more alone, sorely missing his friend.

Lothlorien, Third Age 1040

It seemed an eternity before Galion emerged from the chamber, and all the while, Haldir had worried and paced, worried and paced, the sound of cries from within rising from low moans to high-pitched squalling. When at last the door swung wide and the healer emerged wiping blood from his hands, his knees nearly buckled in grateful relief.

"Well?"

The healer beamed. "A son. A fine, healthy son."

A whoop of joy, and Haldir launched himself at the healer and spun him around, laughing. In time, Orophin, too, emerged, his eyes bright with tears and his face emblazoned with a dazed smile.

"He is perfect."

Ethuilion he was called, for he was indeed the son of Spring, born as the first tender shoots flowered on the vine. Alquonís was lovely in her fecundity, her tumbling locks darkened to the color of ripe wheat, her cheeks touched with a becoming blush. Haldir knelt at the bedside, watching with reverent awe as the tiny babe rooted blindly at her breast, and stroking sweat-damped hair gently from her brow.

"How do you fare, muinthel?"

Alquonís's beatific smile was lit from within. "Tired. Blissful."

"You are as dear to me as the kin of my blood. Your son shall be as my own. I swear to you, Alquonís, that I shall do all in my power to see him grow happy and healthy and strong."

"I am honored that our babe will be so well loved." Her slight fingers stretched and arched toward Haldir's hand and he clasped it tenderly. "I only wish that you had a love of your own that you might know the bliss I share with your brother."

Blue eyes gently closed. "It is not my lot. Our fates are apportioned each in their own way, and I have made my peace with mine. I hope you do not think me lonely... I have ample camaraderie, and... more ...when I so choose."

This, at least, was true: Haldir's bed was rarely cold, though he had taken the Marchwarden's parting words to heart: love was duty's bane, and therefore he sought it not. His trysts were short in duration, a season here, perhaps a year there. It was said that some, younger, brasher elves, placed bets amongst themselves as to how long they could hold the warden's attention, and it was also said that these wagers rarely paid out. Indeed, the only time his bed was empty was in the dead of night, for he never allowed his partners to encamp in his quarters, nor did he pass his nights in his companions' beds. Too easy, he reasoned, to mistake physical proximity with intimacy, to ascribe a deeper level of devotion when waking in a warm tangle of limbs.

Often, this proved a bone of contention with some partners who, even after being liberally plied with Haldir's well-practiced politesse, watched him roll from the bed and casually dress after what they perceived as a fulsome coupling. He mentally catalogued numerous stock phrases with which to soothe the ruffled feathers of those who felt that they were entitled to a larger share of his affection, but smooth words did not always suffice, and when slighted lovers took a stand and delivered Haldir with an ultimatum, he greeted their imminent departure with a resigned shrug and well wishes.

Even with bedmates seeking no attachments, liaisons were not long-lived. After a span of some months, a year or two at best (and certainly never with any delusions of constancy), they would find themselves curled in sated afterglow with a partner who was deliciously endowed, undeniably skilled at delivering carnal pleasure, and who could be, when he so chose, a delightful conversationalist with a vivid wit and surprisingly well-rounded intellect...but who was never the least bit forthcoming about his thoughts or feelings. They would ultimately determine that a tongue that went utterly silent at the first sign of a conversation tacking towards the personal, no matter how hot or clever it proved in service to other matters, held only limited appeal. These relationships died their own natural yet civil death with little fanfare. But whether they ended with a handshake or a tantrum, all of Haldir's trysts ended.

"I am not lonely," Haldir said again, though Alquonís had heard him plain the first time. She squeezed his hand, her fingers strong in spite of her fatigue.

"As you say, Haldir."

Ducking his head and clearing his throat softly as he began to stand, he leaned in to kiss Alquonís on her brow, and the warm and velvety head of the babe at suck. "Rest well, meldis."

*****

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