Title & Chapter Number: Unspoken 1.1/1
Author(s): - Author's Index
Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own nothing, more's the pity. If I did, those beautiful elves would have a lot more fun than the good professor ever allowed them.
Warnings: Slash, duh. Tiny bit of BDSM, more implied than explicit, but don't say I didn't warn you. Also, some incestuous thoughts.
Betas: Nope
Cast: Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Elrond/Erestor
Timeline: Pre-LotR AU
Spoilers: None
Summary: Elrond has always fascinated Elrohir, but what happens when Glorfindel finds out?
Notes:
Elrohir was never sure exactly when his feelings changed. He had always thought Elrond beautiful, but that was not unusual. To most residents of Imladris, the elf-lord was held up as a standard of beauty, so exotic in his unusual darkness and so regal in his bearing.
Many eyes of both sexes followed him in admiration and, not infrequently, a good deal of wistfulness as he moved among his people on feast days or strolled casually in the extensive gardens surrounding his home. Elrohir had laughed along with his siblings to see the astonishment with which visitors to Imladris, even elves of an age to know better than to openly show their feelings, had greeted the first sight of the master of the last Homely House.
Growing up in such close proximity to the elf most viewed as almost a legend made flesh had not caused Elrohir, as it apparently had his sister and brother, to take Elrond's presence for granted. Elrond's youngest son had instead hero-worshipped his father from the first moment he could remember, loving nothing so much as an elfling as curling up in Elrond's strong arms to be read a bedtime story. The fact that the exercise often turned into another history lesson--as his father did not waste an opportunity to instil in his sons a knowledge of their people's lore--had encouraged Elladan and Arwen to find excuses for avoiding the nightly sessions. This suited Elrohir perfectly as he then had his beloved Ada all to himself.
The lessons had changed over the years from bedtime tales to nightly chess games or lessons in politics and medicine, as Elrond discovered to his delight that, unlike his eldest son, who loved sports and hunting above all things, Elrohir had tastes more in line with Elrond's own. In truth, Elrohir little cared what subjects his father chose to discuss; the chance to be in his company was enough to make anything interesting. As the years passed, however, Elrohir began to have strange thoughts in these nightly meetings. He found himself watching with something like fascination the play of firelight over his father's long, alabaster fingers as they hovered over a chess piece, or the delicious sheen to his long, dark hair as it brushed the page of the book he was reading. Elrohir loved the intense concentration Elrond could summon to whatever he was doing, almost as if he saw and heard nothing else. He began to wonder what it would be like to have that concentration turned on him, to have those beautiful pewter eyes really see him as Elrohir, and not as simply "the quiet one" or "the good student."
He thought his silent admiration had gone unnoticed until the fateful night when he saw Glorfindel looking at him strangely across the dining table, and realised that he had been so busy gazing at Elrond that he had largely forgotten to eat. He made matters worse by blushing fiercely, causing the thoughtful blue eyes of his father's seneschal to move from him to the master of the house, who was holding forth on the differences between Quenyan and Sindarin poetry in the Second Age, and back again. Glorfindel's elegant lips had turned up in a slight smile, and a mocking light had appeared in the knowing eyes. Elrohir had turned his attention back to his neglected plate and hoped his old tutor would choose to ignore what he had seen. He wasted no time in vacating his seat after the meal concluded, hoping to get to his rooms before he was waylaid, but Glorfindel somehow reached the corridor to his rooms before he did. Sometimes he and his brother had speculated that there must be some type of hidden corridor system at Imladris. They had never been able to find any secret passages, but Glorfindel had a way of suddenly appearing, seemingly out of nowhere, that made no sense otherwise unless the elf was a ghost. He did look rather spectral, Elrohir thought in something like panic, as the light from an artistic wall sconce created a strange aura around his pale hair and flowing grey robes.
"A word, Elrohir," the vision said, and before he could think of an excuse or frame a protest, he found himself steered into the seneschal's nearby rooms. Glorfindel had one of the few inner suites in Imladris; Elrohir saw with mounting nervousness that it did not have a balcony or even a window, and Glorfindel stood between him and the door.
Elrohir put on a brave front--after all, Glorfindel had long been his tutor and although he had never felt the warmth or affection emanating from him that was a matter of course from Erestor, he was hardly a monster. All he had to do was to bluff it out; the older elf could prove nothing, after all. "I am tired, Glorfindel, what is so important that you must keep me from my rest?"
The blond smiled and, as usual, it did not reach his eyes. Elrohir looked into those ancient depths and swallowed nervously before he could stop himself. He felt suddenly far out of his depth. A strong, sunbronzed hand reached out to twine slowly in Elrohir's dark locks, curling a section of silky hair around a finger in a way that was somehow disturbing. "You blush prettily, meldir. But not so much as tonight at table. Do I really keep you from your rest, or from . . . other things?"
"I do not know what you mean." Elrohir tried to move away, backing further into the large, opulent suite behind him, but Glorfindel simply matched his steps until Elrohir's progress was stopped by his legs coming into contact with the softness of a plush bed behind him.
Glorfindel widened his azure eyes and failed to look at all innocent. "Oh, so you do not dream of him as you lay in your bed; you see no storm coloured gaze in your mind; you do not imagine those battle-hardened arms around you; those perfect lips on yours? It is not his name you cry out when you . . . "
"Stop!" Elrohir tried to twist away from the hateful face in front of him, but Glorfindel threaded his hand through more of his dark hair, gently but firmly trapping him.
"The truth troubles you, lirimaer? But why? You are soon to reach your majority; why should you be ashamed because you feel the urges common to all flesh?" Elrohir felt a strong hand slide along his back to rest lightly on his hip, and Glorfindel's voice lowered to a pitch that only an elf could hear. "We all have dreams, little one."
Elrohir felt rather as if he had fallen into a nightmare. Could it have been only a few minutes ago that he sat in the brilliantly illuminated great hall, surrounded by carefree, laughing elves? Now he found himself in a blue-black twilight, as Glorfindel's rooms were lit only by the dim glow of a few flickering candles, and it was clear to him as never before that his old tutor must have sometimes dreamed of him as he did of Elrond. "No!," he twisted away with sudden force, surprising the older elf into letting him go for an instant, and lunged desperately for the door. The battle-toned reflexes of two ages quickly recovered, however, and his old master tripped him up by the casual seeming action of hooking a foot around his leg. His own forward momentum threw him to the floor, and he hit the polished wood with an audible thump.
Glorfindel followed him down, covering the shivering elf's body with his own and trapping Elrohir's hands within his strong grip. Once he had subdued the writhing elfling, he sat back on his heels, still astride his victim, and smiled. Strangely enough, his expression looked more genuine this time, as though something had truly amused him. Watching him through nearly hysterical eyes, Elrohir had the passing thought that perhaps he had never before seen his tutor's real face, without the mask of cold indifference or amused contempt that it habitually wore. The older elf's features were flushed slightly and, as he allowed his gaze to drift over the finely muscled form so securely pinned beneath him, his eyes sparkled with mischief.
"No?" He bent his golden head to Elrohir's delicate, pointed ear, and slowly, deliberately, caressed its outline with his tongue. Glorfindel's smile widened slightly as the action caused a shiver to run through his captive's form. "I think I could change your mind, lirimaer," he breathed, the words causing another frisson in Elrohir as they tickled the wet skin of his sensitive ear. "You are passionate and curious, and oh, so very ripe . . . someone will take you soon--you are practically begging for it in every gesture, every look. Why should it not be me? I, at least, can promise that your first time will be . . . memorable."
"Please . . .," Elrohir had never felt so helpless and his panic was by now in full bloom. He had no doubt Glorfindel could do what he wanted, and if Elrohir then went to his father to complain, what might his wicked tutor not tell the lord of Imladris? Could he look into his father's all-knowing eyes and deny his attraction? He knew in his heart that Elrond must see the truth, if ever it was pointed out to him, and then what? Would he see revulsion in that beloved gaze? Might he not be banished forever from the only home he had ever known?
It was the thought of never again seeing his father that decided him.
Screwing up his eyes in disgust and fear, Elrohir prepared to undergo whatever torments his father's seneschal could devise. He would be strong, a true son of Elrond, and his father would never know of his shame . . .
"Open your eyes, Elrohir, and stop looking like the end of the world has come," came the unexpectedly dry comment from above him. When he did as he was bid, he saw an exasperated look on his tutor's face. "I am not in the habit of having prospective bedmates look as if they are preparing to undergo some form of orcish torture!," he continued caustically.
Elrohir blinked at the tone, and at Glorfindel's plain speech about such a thing. "Then . . . you'll let me go? You won't tell father?"
Glorfindel shifted slightly, and Elrohir felt his body respond in a quite alarming way to the simple action. Fortunately, his tutor did not seem to have noticed; in fact, his gaze was suddenly introspective, and he frowned slightly. After a few moments in which a variety of expressions crossed the usually impassive face, most too quickly to read, he sighed and looked down at his wide-eyed captive with what looked like chagrin. "You test me," he murmured absently, "but then, you always did."
Elrohir thought that was rather unfair, and said so. "Elladan was the difficult one, not me."
Glorfindel smiled strangely at that, and ran a casual finger down Elrohir's silky cheek, watching with what seemed detached interest as a charming blush followed his touch. "Oh no, I beg to differ. Your brother is admirably predictable and completely dull; even his pranks were exactly what one would expect of an elf of his age and . . . lack of imagination. You were always the one no one could read. Your father often said that even he could not fathom the thoughts that hid behind those dark eyes of yours . . . all for the best, it now seems."
Elrohir blushed even more furiously at that, and Glorfindel's eyes narrowed to see it. "If I were one of the noble elves that people those tales your father used to tell you--which, I might mention were censored of some of their more interesting details, I was there, after all--then no doubt I would let you off with a warning. I will give you the warning, for you obviously need it. For someone usually so inscrutable, you were amazingly transparent tonight. I do not think anyone else noticed, but if you continue this way, it is only a matter of time before everyone knows, including your father."
Elrohir shifted uncomfortably, both because of his chagrin at the truth behind Glorfindel's words, and because of his growing physical reaction to his tutor's nearness. The blond gave an evil grin at the sensation, and altered his position slightly to make clear to Elrohir that he was well aware of the young elf's predicament. "Fortunately for your continued education," he murmured, "I have never been particularly noble." He laughed, and it would have been a genuinely infectious sound if not for Elrohir's state of mind. "Instead, I will offer you a fair chance to retain your chastity. If you can hide your feelings for Elrond, and give no sign, visible to me or to anyone else, of your . . . infatuation, then you have nothing to fear from me. I will remain silent about any observations I have or will make. On the other hand, every time you slip up, you will pay me a forfeit, to be determined by me. Each will, I promise you, become progressively more . . . interesting. Do we have a deal?"
Elrohir was regarding Glorfindel much like a mouse might a cobra. He had never heard any elf state such things with so little regard for the proprieties. His speech alone was positively indecent! The Valar alone knew what perversions such a mind could invent with which to torture him. "Do I have a choice?," he all but spat the words at the smug face above him.
"Not really." Glorfindel said absently, once again letting his eyes roam over the captured form beneath him.
"I have agreed to your condition, now let me up!" Elrohir was becoming seriously worried at the increased signs of arousal in his captor--his usually blue eyes were almost black with it, and his sun kissed skin was flushed.
"Oh, not yet, lirimaer," Glorfindel whispered, "you forget, you owe a forfeit for your actions tonight. Now, what shall I choose? The possibilities are so many and so . . . delicious."
The perverse creature actually licked his lips as Elrohir regarded him through disbelieving eyes. "But . . . there was no agreement until just now! You cannot exact a forfeit for something that occurred before we talked!"
Glorfindel's eyes gleamed, reflecting the dim light of a nearby candle. "I am surprised at you, Elrohir. You were usually such a good student. Didn't I just tell you, I am not particularly noble?" Before Elrohir could frame a proper retort, the blond dipped his head again and this time quickly covered his captive's lips with a warm, seeking mouth. Elrohir gasped in shock, and Glorfindel immediately seized the opportunity to slip an experienced tongue between his lips.
Elrohir twisted his head desperately in an attempt to get away from the unwanted invasion, but Glorfindel merely transferred both his captive's hands to one of his larger ones, and used the other to hold the young elf's head in place. The kiss seemed everlasting to Elrohir, as the Eldar leisurely explored every inch of his mouth. When the need to breath finally caused the torment to end, Glorfindel trailed a line of kisses down the side of his young charge's face and neck, nuzzling the pale flesh and murmuring ancient Quenyan love words in what seemed to Elrohir a deliberate pantomime of true love-making.
Yet there was a strange look in the lapis eyes as they locked with his for a brief moment, before Glorfindel finally rose from him in one fluid action. Elrohir immediately rolled to his feet and bolted for the door.
"Remember, lirimaer," he heard a calm voice behind him as his shaking hand finally found the door latch, "I will be watching you."
~*~*~*~
Grey eyes held his with great tenderness, as slender hands caressed him gently. Dark hair fell around his face, the colour so close to his own as to be almost indistinguishable, yet these strands were softer, finer, more like spun silk as they lay across the white expanse of his pillow. Sweet words of love echoed in his ears, and the caress became stronger, more insistent. He felt a warmth enclose him, a light caress on his most private area, a teasing, velvet heat that slowly brought him to the brink of ecstasy. He arched up in his growing passion, a shudder tearing through him as climax was reached at last, and into the darkness of his empty room, Elrohir screamed his father's name.
He woke up suddenly, sweat drenched and sticky as usual, and stared, panting, at his dark and silent room. When the dreams had first started, over a year ago, he had requested Erestor to have his rooms moved to a more isolated section of Imladris. Not that he had put it so bluntly. His excuse had been that his old view displeased him, which had seemed reasonable enough as his childhood rooms, although extensive and beautifully furnished, had the misfortune to overlook the stables. His current assignment was not much better from most people's standpoint, having no view of any of the beautiful waterfalls for which Imladris was justly famous. Instead, it faced a blank expanse of forest, not unattractive, perhaps, in its way, but rather boring by the standards of the house. He could have had much better rooms, but all those available had been far too close to his father's beautiful suite, or to those that surrounded it--Elladan's and Arwen's--and the thought of their faces if they knew about his nightly curse had made Elrohir specifically request a suite on the other side of the house.
His current rooms had originally been designed for high-ranking guests to Imladris, and as such were elegantly appointed, but were too far from the main sections of the house for most people's liking. In fact, the only suite near them, other than for a few normally unused guest quarters, was . . . Glorfindels. The events of earlier in the evening suddenly came back to Elrohir in brilliant clarity. He felt his face burn in the darkness and cursed the fair skin that blushed so easily. Pausing, he listened for any sign that his dream had been overheard, but there was no sound detectable even to his elven ears. Perhaps Glorfindel had slept through his most recent performance; he fervently hoped so, considering the forfeit he would no doubt have to pay otherwise. Of course, it could always be argued that the stuff of dreams was hardly under his control, but he could see the seneschal's mocking stare if he dared to proffer such a defence, and he heard him say again that he was not particularly noble. On that point, at least, he and Elrohir could agree.
The familiar nightly ritual of washing himself and changing the sheets before the servants could find them was performed almost automatically. He was, he supposed, the only elf of his rank ever regularly to wash his own bedding. Not that it would matter if he did not, of course. Elladan had once joked, rather crudely Elrohir had thought at the time, of the number of extra servants his father must have to employ simply to keep his eldest son in clean linen, but Elrohir had not his brother's easygoing attitude about such things. He preferred to do the work himself, and avoid any awkward questions.
Gathering the soiled linen into a tight bundle, he threw on a light night robe--he had long ago learned that it saved washing time not to bother wearing anything to bed--and slipped from the room. One of the problems with the suite he occupied was that they had no private bathroom. They were situated so closely to Imladris' public baths that the architects must have thought it unnecessary. In most instances that was undoubtedly true, but in Elrohir's case it merely made nightly perambulations around the palace necessary.
Slipping into the baths, he chose a private room and securely locked the door behind him. After running a hot stream of water into the large, round pool, he dunked the sheets and let the steam stroke his face. It took a few moments before he realised that the water on his cheeks was not all due to the steam, and he cursed himself for a fool for still feeling such deep pain after so long. A true son of Elrond would have been able to master his emotions by now, would have controlled any inappropriate thoughts, and would never have put himself in the position to be blackmailed by a villain like Glorfindel.
Dropping his robe, he decided to join the sheets in their nightly soak. He needed the water's calming embrace, and the heat that would help to loosen the knots that seemed perpetually to cramp the muscles of his back these days. He knew there was nothing really wrong with him, just the tension from constantly living a lie. It would, he supposed, increase now that he had to constantly guard against not only his father's, but also Glorfindel's, watchful gaze.
He thought, not for the first time, that perhaps he should just go away. Arwen had recently returned from an extended visit to Lothlorien, and the Valar knew his mother practically lived there anymore. It was easier to calculate how many years Celebrian had been away in his short lifetime, than how many she had passed at Imladris.
He dwelt, as the water gradually relaxed his tense nerves, on the sadness of his father's position. There were stories told of the great love Elrond bore his wife; songs composed to the happiness she had brought him, some of which his father had written himself in the early years of the marriage. Yet, although these were still sung on feast days, especially on the rare occasion when Celebrian was actually in residence, he wondered how many people believed them anymore. He didn't think he ever had.
Elrohir was known for the excellence of his memory, but he could not think of a single, happy childhood scene that included Celebrian. She always appeared as a transitory figure in his mind, dressed in her travelling attire as the only times he usually saw her, other than at meals, was when she came to the nursery to bid them farewell when starting yet another journey. Even his child's mind had known something was wrong, had felt something missing in the beautiful blue gaze which looked at him blankly, almost as if he was a stranger, whenever he dared to disturb her with some childish concern. He had soon learned to go to his father with any problems, and Elrond had more than made up for any deficiency in Celebrian's care. It had been his hands which tucked his children to sleep at night, his arms that rocked them soothingly when lightening and thunder crashed nearby, and his voice that sang the only lullabies they ever heard.
Elrohir had long pondered the reason for his mother's seeming indifference to a life that would have seemed a dream to most. He had never arrived at a completely clear answer and, indeed, was not sure his mother could have given one herself if pressed. His grandmother had come closest to answering, he supposed, when in the direct way of a very young child, he had long ago asked her why mother was away so much. A sad expression had flickered over Galadriel's perfect features, and he thought for a minute that she meant not to answer him, but she had finally commented that 'the heart loves where the heart loves, little one' which, Elrohir thought, summed things up fairly well. The marriage had been a political alliance, after all, and yet, so everyone had thought who saw the expression in Elrond's eyes whenever they looked on the beautiful only child of the Lord and Lady of Lorien, a rare love match as well. They should have looked closer at Celebrian's expression. Elrond should have looked closer.
Still, Celebrian had done her duty, as any child of her parents would, but now that three perfect, or so everyone thought, children graced the last Homely House, she preferred to return to the woods of her youth and the joy of her real family. Elrohir supposed he could understand that. Yet, as much as he pitied her a loveless marriage, he pitied his father more. Celebrian had walked into the union knowing her fate; Elrond had been too blind to see his until it was too late. But he knew now, Elrohir thought, remembering the hurt in his father's eyes last winter when Celebrian had stopped by the library to tell him she was going on a brief visit home. The fact that Lorien was the only place she ever designated with that name was bad enough, but that she had only just returned a few months previously from another "brief" visit, which had spanned the better part of a decade, had caused Elrond to hesitate briefly before expressing his wishes for her a safe and happy journey. Elrohir had wondered then if, had he not been there, his father might have said more, but as it was, the habitual serenity of Elrond's visage had quickly replaced the brief expression of sorrow, and he had calmly summoned Erestor to make arrangements for his wife's latest trip.
Elrohir had almost gone to him then, put his arms around him and just held him, as Elrond had done for him when he was pained by anything as a child. But he had refrained, knowing that his father took great care that he and his siblings lived in a happy environment, secure in the fiction that their parents were the perfect loving couple. Elrohir sometimes felt like telling him that even Elladan, who tended to be a bit thick at times, had long ago recognised the truth, but he had not had the heart. He never wanted to hurt his father, only to protect him, to love him . . . he deserved someone who would really care for him.
Like you?, his inner voice teased. Elrohir shuddered, finding himself suddenly cold even in the warmth of the bath. That was all it would take for Elrond to truly despair. He loved his children deeply, and the thought that one of them had somehow become so depraved as to lust after their own parent . . . it would kill him. Elrohir had recognised that early on, and done everything in his power to restrain his feelings. Nothing had worked. It would help if Elrond had some flaw on which he could focus, if he occasionally yelled at him or was short tempered, if his famous calm would crack and he would lash out.
Elrohir wouldn't have even minded physical abuse, although he knew the odds of Elrond ever hitting one of his children was about the same as Sauron turning to charitable works, but in a way it would have been a relief. Perhaps if he had something, anything, for which to fault his father, the feelings he was now helpless to overcome would fade. As it was, he knew that sooner or later, no matter how careful he might be, he would give himself away.
It had almost happened a week ago when he had been happily engrossed in helping Elrond make some of the many healing ointments he regularly used in his medical work. Elrohir had long before accepted that he would never have Elrond's skill at healing--few, if any, did--but he could relieve Elrond of the mundane chopping and cutting of plant materials, and, after more than three decades working at his father's side, could make most of the more simple balms.
He had almost finished his assigned tasks when, while in the process of setting a pot of unguent on a particularly high shelf, he had lost his footing and fallen off the short ladder to land painfully on the hard, tiled floor. Nothing had been broken, although his left ankle and knee had received a nasty turn, but elves healed quickly and his limb was strong enough to support his weight by the next day. The problem had been that, naturally, Elrond had attended to the task of examining his injuries. His fine hands on Elrohir's bruised ankle had been gentle and his touch, as always, soothing, but the intense reaction Elrohir had had to the simple examination had appalled and shaken him. He had lost his calm completely when Elrond requested that he remove his leggings so that he could tend to his knee. Elrohir knew that he must have looked as horrified as he felt, as that particular course of action was not, at the time, advisable; in fact, he wasn't sure it would have been physically possible to strip off his suddenly painfully tight leggings in any case. Elrond's normally calm expression had taken on a worried tint as Elrohir had scrabbled away from him as fast as possible across the slippery floor, muttering something about his knee, which actually felt like it was on fire, being perfectly alright and that he would just go get a hot bath and everything would be fine. He had finally stopped babbling after reaching the door, and had limped away from the healing chambers as quickly as his bruised body could carry him.
His father had, mercifully, not made a reference to his son's strange behaviour the next day, but simply asked him how he felt. Elrohir had mumbled assurances of his well-being, which thanks to his elven healing abilities had soon been true enough, but he knew that the whole episode must have seemed odd. He sunk under the bath water now and knew in his heart that he was doomed.
The steam had almost all evaporated when Elrohir roused himself to wring out his now clean sheets and make his way back to his rooms. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, grim though they were, that it was not until he actually ran into the figure lounging in the hallway outside his door that he came back to his senses. Grabbing at the damp sheets, he glanced up to see his worst nightmare smirking at him. An elegant finger lifted a small patch of wet cotton while its owner arched one golden eyebrow in that smug way of his.
"How dutiful of you to spare the maids some of their cleaning duties. But I can think of better ways to pass the night, nin bain." Glorfindel opened the door to Elrohir's rooms and tossed the wet mass inside. Turning back to the apprehensive youth in front of him, he gave what could only be described as a leer. "Especially now that you owe me another forfeit."
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