Gone with the Wind by Sleepless_Malice

Haunting Dreams

Chapter Summary: Irmo requested an audience with Manwë and pays him a visit in Ilmarin to obtain council from the King of Arda, whilst Glorfindel slowly begins to discover his own fate during Gondolin’s fall.

[Beta Chapter 01] - Thank you ilinnare for plot discussion and advice and SomewhatByronically for beta reading this chapter

[Quenya Names]

• Glorfindel – Laurefindil/ Laure
• Fëanor – Fëanáro
• Fingolfin – Ñolofinwë
• Idril – Itarillë
• Turgon – Túrukáno
• Maeglin - Lómion
• Gondolin - Ondolindë
  

Read Haunting Dreams

Chapter 01 - Haunting Dreams

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Ilmarin upon Taniquëtil

~~

From the heights of long forgotten lands the wind came running, gliding over the plains that lay before the mountain ridge, its arm following the command of only one. His fingers traced unseen the fate of all, spreading his arms wide over the world itself. As the mountains rose, the wind rose with them, leaping against the ore-rich stone that led to incredible heights.

High aloft upon Mount Taniquëtil, the mighty King of Arda, Manwë and his spouse Varda resided, shimmering clouds wavering around the blinding white palace of Ilmarin that shone against the blue sky from afar. Up there in the highest peaks, it reached freezing temperatures already, but no snow fell from the silvery clouds that decorated the sky. Not yet at least, but it would not take long anymore. Up and up the stairs led, and further upwards still until it felt as if the clouds were within reach, as all lay still beneath them.

The days drew long in Manwë’s vast halls that were towering high above Tirion upon Túna and Ingwë’s breathtaking castle; the intricate temple of which the Lord of the Winds was so pleased with. The world moved on around him, whispered words of death and horror reached his ears, but his halls persisted, no matter what dark storm would grow in the far lands.

So it always was, so it had ever been.

Lord of the Winds, Súlimo - the breath of Arda he was named, divine ruler in Ilúvatar’s stead, the Elder King - mighty and fair, wise and noble, righteous too, although this had been heavily debated among those Námo had named the insolent and thankless First Born.

Despite the foul and accusing words that had been spoken many millennia ago, Manwë still had pity for the elves who had turned their backs to the Blessed Realm; ‘Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,’ Fëanáro had cried in his blind rage, gathering his sons and other followers around him ‘Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth. On the holy mountain hear in witness and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!’ [1]

And thus the proud son of Finwë had sealed their final fate.

The words Námo had spoken on the northern shores as Fëanáro and his followers departed, echoed endlessly in the Vala’s head, the doom, which had sealed their final fate: ‘Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever.’ [2]

“The Dispossessed shall they be for ever,” he repeated, and although the elf was not Fëanorian, nor had he sworn the forsaken words in Tirion upon Túna, he had lamented against the Lords of the Wests, spoken of thralldom, just like Fëanáro had done before his first banishment. That the elf’s motives had been different still, only he, the Elder King, would ever know.

Long had Manwë contemplated with himself how to proceed with the situation he was faced; in fact he had barely rested ever since the golden-haired elf had set foot into Námo’s dark and endless Halls of Waiting.

His final fate, however, was not at his will.

Nothing in the world happened without the Lord of the Wind knowing of it, and often, Manwë wished he would not see what exactly would come to pass, what perils awaited the first born children of Ilúvatar. To know the bitter truth was not always pleasant affair, the Lord of the Winds had learned many millennia ago. Every day, and every night he wished he had not unlocked the heavy chains of steel that had been bound around Melkor’s wrists and ankles.

Month after month passed, the nuances of the Great Music unfolding before him as it always had been, but within the divine music his own incapability and sadness mingled, as melancholic memories of a long forgotten past resurfaced. Long had he indeed avoided the unavoidable subject - until the Master of Desires requested an audience in his halls.

 

 

“My Lord,” Irmo announced himself as the entered the seemingly endless hall, bowing before the King of Arda and his herald who stood beside his impressive throne. ”I thank thee for granting me a visit, much do I desire to speak with thee.”

“So I have heard,” Manwë gestured towards a nearby table as he slowly descended upon his throne.

His silken clothing flowed about him as if the material was light as air, the flickering torch light catching itself in the silver threads that were carefully woven through the blue fabric. With innate grace, he stepped forward in an unhurried manner. “Come hither and take thy seat. What lies so heavily upon thy heart that thou shalt seek my council? Discourse,” he said, a regal authority accompanying his words.

Rare indeed had Irmo’s visits to his halls had become, and although Manwë already knew the answer to his question, he wished to hear it aloud.

Gracefully, Irmo took the seat that was offered. “The elf I have taken care of on my brother’s behalf,” he began, studying the other’s face closely. For moments, Irmo believed, he saw a little twitch in the Lord’s otherwise emotionless expression, but when he looked again, nothing of it was to be seen anymore.

“As much I have assumed already,” Manwë told him with mastered indifference. Lately much among the Ainur’s discourse was about the elf who now had taken residence in Irmo’s garden, a reality he had cowered before until it finally became unavoidable. “Go on, then, Master of Dreams.”

Such strict words came somewhat as surprise for Irmo, and he could not help but wonder. “I would not have come, my Lord, if the situation was not so grave.”

“No, indeed would’st thou have not,” responded Manwë – long had the plans for the elf unfolded before him, and he knew the warrior had yet to fulfill a much greater task than most elves on Arda’s soil could imagine.

Whether he liked the plans or not, it did not matter and he would not speak about his own thoughts. “But enough of flattery and fine words, now. What is it that troubles thee? Speak plainly, as my time is limited.” Authority enwrapped each word that spilled from the Vala’s lips, an authority that would make most flinch and cower, but Irmo’s steady gaze persisted.

“If I must, I will,” the Master of Dreams began with a brief nod. “The reason why I have come to consult thee is this, hark now: his state is unchanged, my Lord. We had hoped that he would recover once being in my care, but oddly I seem to fail. Deep are his mental wounds and his internal struggle seems to be beyond my power. Thou may have seen parts of his upcoming fate I assume?”

Manwë answered with a nod, and then, Irmo continued. “We need him, if not immediately, at one point we will, for the sake of all people that dwell on Arda’s soil. Dark days are looming, a storm gathering in a land far away. Believe me thus: often and continuous I have tried my luck; alas! He refuses to discourse with me, he barely eats – his once sparkling eyes are dull, lifeless even, his mind reeling in the past.”

To both Irmo and Estë, the elf in their care had always remained a strange mystery, and never before had he or Námo met one so defiant, so hard to break in his will. Everything in their might they have tried, combined forces from time to time - without accomplishing anything for the better.

Manwë frowned at the words that he was told, this was certainly not what he had wished to hear, although he had already feared it. The elf had always had a very strong will of his own, no one knew it better than himself. On this affair, however, he remained quiet; something that had come to pass many millennia ago did not matter now as something greater was on their agenda.

The question was dispensable, Manwë knew, but he voiced it nevertheless. “Your dreams…, your spouse’s skill?”

Irmo shook his head, “Despite my title as Master of Dreams and Illusions, they fail their cause on the elf. Believe me, I have surpassed myself with the imaginations I have granted him; a happy life in a secluded valley beneath mountain ridges, the soft sound of waves against the beaches, the chirping of birds that would be a pleasant constant in his life once he is re-embodied. When Námo sent him into my sanctuary, hope remained that his mental wounds would heal as had his flesh, but it seems we have both been mistaken. The elf appears to be internally broken to an extent we both could not fathom, unable to be cured by our powers alone, drowning in his miserable state of grief and self-pity. Plainly speaking – we are at loss of how to proceed and require your help.”

At Irmo’s words some rather unpleasant emotions flickered across Manwë’s face, but with the same swiftness as they have arisen, he had concealed them, masking his face in long trained indifference once more.

Yet, that he, of all beings at Ilúvatar’s will should cure the elf’s broken soul was a sad irony in itself, and the Elder King was not sure if he could ever succeed. Try he would, however, success was most dependent on the elf himself; guidance he could offer, but the stubborn child must listen – and act.

The following matter to discuss was a fickle one, and it was not the first time he had approached it, however, Námo had been his vocal opponent then, an opponent that would not heed his advice. “Does he know what happened after the White City fell?”

For Manwë, who still pitied the elves’ fate, to speak about Ondolindë’s fall felt as if his heart would scatter into a thousand pieces, the hidden city, glooming white against the sky; their sanctuary, which Túrukáno had built in secret after Ulmo had given him a divine vision. For many centuries the elves had been granted a life free of sorrow and turmoil – until betrayal from their own rows had led to Melkor’s deadly assault.

Once a splendid and striving city, nothing but ash and ruins remained, the dead bodies of many inhabitants buried beneath it.

“Nay,” for a moment Irmo paused, considering his words, as Arda’s King with all his might and power had always remained a fragile mystery to him. “Námo had never allowed him to see his very end and so I did not, either, following the guidance my brother had offered me.”

Much he had assumed, although he had hoped for the better.

“I am not speaking of his violent death, nor the death of his friends and family,” Manwë replied equally considerate; showing the elf his brutal death just right away was certainly not the wisest choice, but something had to happen, otherwise the elf would linger for an eternity in his obscure state of mind. “Rather than death I am speaking of life, Irmo. About Itarillë and Tuor’s escape, and the rescue of his own body from the abyss.”

Again, Irmo shook his head before the Lord of the Winds, wondering if his brother’s advice should have been doubted by himself. “I doubt that he knows anything about it. My brother,” Irmo added, but was interrupted by words and a dismissive stare.

“Thou art responsible for his fate now, dost not forget this. Námo knows that I have a different view on this, I always had and thus I have told him on several occasions. Strictly speaking, I do not deem it wise to withhold this precious information from the elf, however, meddling in other’s affairs is not in my nature, so I refrained and let the matter rest on your brother’s behalf. And, alas, there art thou, bidding for my council. As nothing else seems to be sufficient to cure his broken mind and soul, I advise you to change your proceedings: Show him everything about that fateful night, except his violent death – and let him roam thy gardens freely, let him speak with me through thy dreams and allow me to visit him when time comes. Otherwise he might linger in the shadows for many more centuries to come. That is all advice I can give thee, all I ask for.”

“Gramercy, for thy wise council, Lord of the Winds and King of Arda,” said Irmo, rising from his seat. Not openly had he been dismissed, but the words spoke volumes for themselves. “Come and wander my gardens as it pleases thee.”

There has been a time, when Manwë had been one of the few who entered the gardens without concern in search for recreation, however, the Elder King had not visited his sanctuary for a long while, he realized. “Dost as thou have often done in the past,” he added before he bowed and left the halls without further delay.

Thunder clamored in the far distance as Irmo returned to his gardens, and it was obvious whose work was happening.

 

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The Gardens of Lórien

~~

The wind heralding the heavy rain made the windows crack and its metal fastenings chime, soft rustling of leaves at first, soothing sounds, which soon developed into deep tolling noises of large branches and trunks. Again, the thunder clamored in the distance, but drew steadily closer, the elf noticed as he checked the wooden door and windows again. Soon after, heavily, the rain came down, rattling and clashing against the little house that he now called his home, and instinctively, Laurefindil knew that long the bad weather would persist, as his gaze reached the darkness that veiled the sun, menacing shadows hiding its beauty from him.

A beauty that was unrecognizable and veiled in his melancholic state of mind.

Back then, in the blissful days of old, he would have sat down in front of a crackling fire with a book in his hand, cherishing the pleasant diversion of being granted a few hours of solitude as the storm raged outside, unable to fulfil the duties his rank desired.

But life had changed, and it was irony in itself that Laurefindil thought of ‘life’ when he was not even certain what his current condition was, being trapped in a state between sleep and awake, caught in the dreadful misery of his broken soul.

Cold it was, almost bitterly so, as howling wind crawled through the bricks inside, the elf thought in silence as he sat down on the heavy and comfortable armchair, covering himself with a thick blanket of finest wool. Despite the hearth in his house, he had never lit a warming fire, preferring the frosty embrace of cold over warmth, shunning the searing and ever consuming flames from his life. Not much did he remember of Ondolindë’s fall, but the mere thought of fire made his entire body shake.

 

The book he had considered to read whilst the storm raged above him, had long fallen onto the ground when dreams invaded Laurefindil’s slumber.

“What ails thee?” A voice as soft as a gentle summer breeze asked, a voice that danced around him, luring him into a spell of enchantment, which he was unable to resist. The words felt like the sweetest embrace, warm and soft and soothing, an affectionate gesture he had not known in many years.

Startled, the elf turned around but could not quite distinguish from where the words had been spoken, nor did his gaze met the source of it.

“Who is speaking?” he inquired with wide eyes that resembled the blue color of the ice he had crossed so many millennia ago.

For brief moments, only the soft rustling of leaves could be heard before the voice was raised again: “Does it matter, Laurefindil of Ondolindë, valiant Lord of the Golden Flower, who was dear to so many?”

He, who spoke, dearly hoped, it mattered not as Laurefindil’s wrath could be like a vicious beast when it was cornered, and revealing himself just now would certainly lead to wrath and angry accusations. The stranger’s identity was one the elf was acquainted with, although a long time had passed since their last meeting.

Again, Laurefindil spun around, but the stranger was still veiled in darkness.

The voice was strangely familiar, but he couldn’t distinguish from where and when he knew it, a voice he had not heard in many millennia, when hatred and grief had chased him from the bliss and beauty that reigned in the Blessed Realm, a beauty he had been unable to see any longer in his blind rage and despair.

Briefly, he considered the friends he had had in Valinor - but then, this could not be, the elf decided, how should the stranger know about his life in Ondolindë?

“Yes – and no,” the elf finally responded to the question that left him startled, and if he was honest it mattered not who was holding conversation with him.

The words he had shared with the immortal race of elves were few save in matters that touched him near, and then his voice had a power to move those who heard him, but more recently, he barely had conversed with the First Born, Ingwë being an exception. However, with this elf, it always had been different, and involuntarily, his mind began to drift away.

“Thou hast not spoken with anybody since thy arrival in the Halls of Waiting, and pardon me, but I wonder wherefore,” the stranger asked quietly, with such a calm demeanor that Laurefindil’s eyes grew wide. Stunned, the elf could but stare, bewildered and befuddled, wondering where the stranger had all the knowledge from, as he was right.

Since his arrival in the Halls of Waiting, Laurefindil had shunned elf and Vala alike, his lips had been sealed with dread and horror. Once before, he had cursed the Lord of the Wests in all their glory and might, in Námo’s halls he had cursed its keeper again for meddling in his own affairs.

Oh, how dearly he now wished the stranger would reveal themself.

Odd indeed it was; the elf had not spoken since he did not even know how long, but now he did - much to his own surprise the words simply spilled down from his lips, and more surprisingly he began to enjoy the conversation, although his voice sounded throaty and alien to him.

He opened his mouth to argue that he had remained silent all the years for good reasons, but then he shut his mouth, sealing his lips with his fingers; how could be certain that the voice did not belong to one of the few he had refused to speak with?

Most likely that was the truth, and a spark of anger flared, cautious he had always been and not easily did one gain the golden-haired elf’s trust. “What does it now matter, stranger?” he proclaimed, anger shining in his voice as his inner tension grew. He felt tricked – and worse: betrayed. “I am dead as one could ever be.”

Laurefindil went over his words before wincing heavily as he realized how it must have sounded; so much dread and accusation shone from them that he must have been an open book to be read to whomever the stranger was. ‘Incarnated woe, drowning in self-pity’ he thought in silence, ‘that is what thou art’, and he could not help but despise himself for it.

He, who was once a formidable warrior, battle-steeled, a trusted advisor to Ondolindë’s King and loved by many of the White City’s inhabitants was only a mocking shadow of himself.

“Thou art not dead, but contemplating and reveling in thy dreadful past,” the faceless voice said, gaining authority with every word that left the invisible lips, and involuntarily the elf flinched upon its might, cowering before the verbal assault. “Is thy downfall that what numbs thee, memories of thy death that haunt thee?”

“If I had any,” the elf shook his head a little, as if to chase the thoughts immediately away. “No, it is not my death I mourn, although I do not remember it,” Laurefindil confessed truthfully. His life had always just been another little piece in the Great Music of the Ainur, a life that did not matter for the greater cause. At first, when he still had been rather young, the realization had pained him, but long ago he had come to terms with his destiny, after all they all only were tiny wheels in Arda’s fate. “Death is just another path we all have to tread, this is not what ails me; it is the ill feeling of not having been able to protect my city – my kin, the ones I have sworn to protect at all costs. I have failed as much as one could ever fail his trusted and loved friends.”

Manwë sighed in silence; everything seemed to be as he had feared, and exactly this suspicion had he voiced before Námo many years ago, still nothing had ever happened in his gloomy halls where black shadows danced against the mighty walls.

“But nothing of it is ever true,” he tried his luck again, internally doubting that the elf would believe his words. “Thou hast done everything to protect the white city and its inhabitants,” the stranger stated as if he knew what had happened. But then again, the elf asked in silence, how should he know?

“Yet I have failed,” the elf retorted almost petulantly with an incredible sadness that made the Vala’s stomach turn. It was the same sadness he had only once witnessed before among the First Born, and it had happened thousands of years ago, still he remembered it as if it had been yesterday. A warrior the golden-haired elf was, noble and highly respected among his kin, responsible for the cities’ protection and defense, always friendly and often laughing; now he was a mere shadow of his former self.

“The city has burned to the grounds and their people with it, has it not?” the elf asked, and tore the Vala out of his silent musings.

Despite his invisible state, he nodded. “Aye,” he said, an apologetic tone accompanying the word.

There was no point in denying the bitter reality, Ondolindë had fallen, burnt down to the ground by Melkor’s foul creatures until only smoldering ruins remained, hundreds of lives taken by sword, arrow and searing flames.

The Vala swallowed hard as the dreadful images resurfaced; oh, how he wished he could banish them for all eternity, and in silence he cursed his forsaken brother, as he had done so many times before. “Foul had been Melkor’s deeds that much I know, Laure, but hope remains, even if thou failest to see it. With thy deeds of valor, both Itarillë and Tuor live in safety now, and so does Eärendil. They have escaped the inferno unharmed and great songs will be sung of thy fight against the Balrog upon the pinnacle.”

Blurred images of a massive fiery beast with a whip of fire and soaring eagles appeared in his mind and before he could follow them, they disappeared, vanished and forgotten as quickly as they had invaded his mind, exchanged against images of yellow-blossoming flowers against rocky ground; flowers the elf had never seen before blossoming in these lands.

“I never thought it possible,” Laurefindil responded in pure and heart-warming astonishment, but soon suspicion took over his mind again. The most blatant lies could be laid right before him and he would not be able to know if they were true or not. Snippets of Lómion’s betrayal resurfaced, but then again, he doubted the stranger’s words. “But tell me, wherefore should I believe thee?” Once more he asked, rubbing disbelief right out of his eyes. Vivid snippets of Túrukáno’s daughter and the valiant man swept into his vision, so close that Laurefindil extended his arms as if he wished to touch them – and then they were gone.

“They are alive because thou hast saved them. Deep inside thou hast always known, Laurefindil,” the voice confirmed, regaining its soft and gentle note again, smooth and firm, yet barely there, just as a gentle breeze that danced through his hair.

‘My life thou might take,’ he had screamed towards the foul creature that had blocked his way, ‘but them, thou wilt not harm!’ The elf had no explanation where this memory had arisen from, only snippets he occasionally remembered. No matter what the voice was whispering, doubt remained within him. A dream this was, nothing more than an ordinary dream, vivid, so utterly rich in detail, but still a dream given to him by the Master of Dreams and Illusions.

Laurefindil said nothing. Countless words were caught in his throat and he would rather remain silent than stammer.

The voice became more distant, as if it had spoken to him from far away, carried towards him by a lofty breeze. “Turn melancholy forth to funerals, Laure, awake the nimble spirit of mirth once more, love and languish for thine own sake.” The elf was advised, and then again, the eagles soared high up through the air, drowning the words he had not fully comprehended yet.

‘Who art thou?’ The words lay upon his lips, but Laurefindil did not dare to spit it forth, although his curiosity was infinite.

For how long Laurefindil slept at the end, he did not know when a sudden sharp sound stirred him from his slumber, a noise like roaring thunder right above his little house, fierce in its intensity and the elf nearly fell off his chair. There was a vicious throbbing in this temples, he realized, just as if he had consumed too much wine, although he certainly had not. And he was exhausted - so exhausted as any ever could be, and carefully he allowed his gaze to wander to check if he was still alone. Of course he was!

‘A dream, nothing more than another dream,’ he told himself, but deep inside he already knew that this was no mere dream like he had been granted so many by the Master of Dreams in the past years. ‘A dream, nothing more than a dream.’

Laurefindil could not explain his returning memory with rationality, however, he did not believe in magic of that sort, either. What was this all about? So many questions, so many fleeting images that rushed through his troubled mind – so many memories he had long deemed forgotten. Hadn’t his death been final, hadn’t he locked him away in his self-proclaimed misery, denied all that probably HAD cared for him?

Something within his mind had changed upon the awkward conversation he had held in his state between sleep and awake, and despite his exhaustion his mind was constantly reeling until fatigue overwhelmed him once more. The eagles – no! The memories of one very specific eagle it were that hold him captive. Blurred images of Thorondor, the King of the Eagles in all his might, who held a tiny figure with flowing blond hair between his claws, circling high above a landscape that was veiled in darkness, appeared before his inner eye and he stared in awe. He had come to save his body from the abyss, Laurefindil realized as he watched his rescue strangely detached from the world that was once his own. The mighty bird, who spread his wings on only one’s command, soaring high up into the sky, only to descend again to lay his life-less body down onto the rocky ground.

In those days which were long forgotten by now, long before the elf had crossed the Grinding Ice following Ñolofinwë’s lead, Laurefindil had often seen the eagles fly high above Tirion upon Túna, circling around the towering peak of Taniquëtil and the blinding palace of Ilmarin.

At first, he dismissed the thought as another ridiculous idea of his troubled mind, but the longer he thought about it, the more sense it made, and it was as if everything slowly began to fall into places.

Had the Lord of the Winds been the one who had invaded his slumber, who had spoken so gently to him?

Was this the answer to all the riddles that had occupied his mind so many months, or had it been even years? There was no way to distinguish anymore, having lost all sense of time – but then, how?

And more so - why? Why now, after so many years?

Laurefindil’s breath caught in his throat, as his mind was pondering every possible answer.

Hadn’t he raised his voice in a way he should never had all those millennia ago?

Hadn’t he followed the Ñolofinwëans over the Grinding Ice, defying and rebelling against the mighty Lords of the West, their King above all others? Yes, his motives for leaving the Blessed Realm behind had greatly differed from the others, but the consequence he had drawn had been the same.

The Olórë Mallë, the Path of Dreams, had been blocked for him immediately as he had left the Blessed Realm behind, the moment Námo had uttered the dreadful words on the northern shores. No, despite his motives, Laurefindil had not any better than all the others, the elf thought as the words of doom and dreadful foreboding echoed repeatedly through his head. ‘Your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. The Valar have spoken.’

This was exactly where he was – and then, he was not. He was not in Námo’s care any longer, but residing in Irmo’s quiet sanctuary – but did this mean he was alive? Nothing seemed to make sense any more, not that it had been any better in the darkness of the Halls of Waiting.

 

Day after day, night after night the dream returned, each time it became more vividly, more detailed in its riches. From time to time, now voices mingled with the fragments of memory, voices he had heard before, but then he had not and memories long forgotten and concealed to shield his heart resurfaced. To the question what this was all about the golden-haired elf couldn’t find an answer, at least no sufficient one, and thought at times insanity reigned his troubled mind.

The rain refused to stop its vicious assault, and heavy winds raged over the Vala’s garden, thunder clashed and clamored heavily. The days drew long in Irmo’s sanctuary and for many days, Laurefindil was condemned to stay inside the little house he had been granted to live in, which sat dark and forlorn in the twilight of the storm, and the elf inside indulged into long forgotten reveries.

But finally, his heart longed to see the beauty the Gardens of Lórien were famous for.

~~

 

 

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Chapter End Notes

[QUOTES]

[1] “Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,‘Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth. On the holy mountain ear in witness and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!” Oath of Fëanor, History of Middle-Earth, Part 10 (Morgoth’s Ring)

[2]“Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever. [..] Your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. The Valar have spoken.” Doom of Mandos, The Silmarillion – Of the Flight of the Noldor

Long forgotten Memories

[Summary] - After the dream he was given, Glorfindel finally starts to enjoy the pleasantries the Gardens of Lórien have to offer, and slowly memory returns to him. Several weeks later, a visitor he had neither expected nor anticipated pays him a visit ....

[Inspiration for the Gardens of Lórien] - Apart from the information that is canonically available, my concept of Lórien’s garden is very loosely based on the gardens of the Alhambra, especially when it comes to the geometrical alignment of pools and gushing fountains, but it is much more open and bigger, with open fields and lush meadows. Apart from that, I found inspiration in traditional Japanese gardens and the gardens of Tuscany. Also, elements from typical English cottage gardens are undeniable. [Beta] - Thank you, OohLaGalion for beta-reading parts this chapter, and ilinnare for plot discussions

Read Long forgotten Memories

Chapter 02 - Long forgotten Memories

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Ilmarin upon Taniquëtil, many weeks later

~~

There was no need for splendid extravagances this morning, the Lord of the Winds had decided, disguising himself in the form of the Firstborn children of Ilúvatar, a fána he had not worn for many years. His unfamiliar skin was caressed by a shining robe of silver and blue silk, pooling around his hips and thighs, and a shimmering but rather ordinary circlet sitting upon his brow, matching the color of his pale hair. The light of the torches caught itself in the jewel that was adorned in the circlets middle, shining brightly like one of Fëanáro’s forsaken Silmarilli.

The cape he wore over the lithe robe was a brilliant blue, just a shade darker than the robe was, with the emblem of a soaring bird embroidered in silver silk on its back; briefly, he considered changing the heavy material to another, but then, something would be amiss in his physical appearance and he refrained.

As his gaze fell onto his own reflection in the mirror, he could have smiled and cried at the same time. Once – only once—before he had worn these exact garments, so many millennia ago. Distant memories immediately surfaced as he stared into his own blue eyes, bewitching and enchanting alike they were, and time slipped through his hands as he was mesmerized by the reflection that met his gaze.

A heavy breath, followed by another, a shake of his head upon his own ridiculousness, and then another until the memories were completely chased away. He smoothed his hair, and stepped away from the spellbinding looking glass.

The matter at hand was more complex than a simple action on Irmo’s behalf. That much he already knew as he padded in near silence down the endless hallways which lead to his Great Chamber. A train of silvery-blue robes gathered on the ground, pooling around his feet, his face masked in a solidified expression of frozen ice, devoid of any emotion. No one shall ever know of his inner turmoil, the anxiety which had made him shy away from his obligation for many weeks.

The days stretched slowly, winter finally yielding to spring, as it always did, even up here on the pinnacles of Taniquëtil. Still, the breeze that came through the open window pierced the alien ivory skin like the sharpest arrow.

Speaking with the elf through dreams, watching him from afar was one thing, confronting him in person was an entirely different matter. Yet he knew he must, for the sake of all.

His royal duties had to wait this day, the Elder King declared to his loyal herald and left his fortress, which towered high up in the sky without revealing where his journey might lead nor when he would return to the vast halls he called home.

 

~~

In the Gardens of Lórien

‘A pearl set in emeralds’ – that was how the ancient lore of the Eldar described Lórien’s garden, an allusion to the color—shimmering shades of white and rose—of the few buildings that stood in its center, and the woods surrounding it.

Lovely specimens of magnolia and cherry trees, scented shrubs, and carefully laid out selections of evergreen grew as far as the eyes could see. High trees protected the gardens against the cold winds from the sea, creating a heavenly tranquil atmosphere of which was said that it shall sooth mind and body alike. The Gardens of Lórien were composed of a series of large gardens, and countless smaller ones, where every corner held a novelty and a pleasant surprise for both eye and nose. The air was always thick and heavy with novel scents, mingling with the salty breeze that was blowing in from the nearby sea. Terraces and symmetrically aligned fountains filled the air with sounds of gushing water, chirping birds savored the cool high above beneath the rustling leaves; water lilies on the surface of natural pools, fed by small streams that meandered peacefully through the garden, shaded by impressive weeping willows and surrounded by trellised flowerbeds.

It was a firework of scents and surreal impressions.

Pergolas and intricately forged flying arches were covered by cascading climbing roses in every imaginable color, ranging from soft ivory to bright peach and yellow, whilst others blossomed in bright pink and red. Occasionally, the lilac flowers of wisteria intervened, hanging from the arches in heavy umbels, comfortable benches made out of white marble sat under them, inviting the strolling wanderer for a little pause. Dimmed sunlight managed to force its way through the trees every here and there, caressing the mossy ground and flower-covered meadows, and from time to time a pleasantly cool breeze would waft through the archways, carrying with it the strong scent of lavender.

Massive the estate was, and this was most likely a poor understatement, gardens filled with a luscious beauty, which Laurefindil had deliberately decided to ignore, locking himself away in his little house.

 

~~

Day after day passed, night after night, the moon waxed and waned above him on the starlit sky and despite his notice, the elf could not tell if only a few days had passed since he was given the odd dream, or if it had been many weeks. The life in the Gardens of Lórien was strangely detached from time and space, the seasons there barely changing, and the lavish green in front of his house a pleasant constant. Much to his surprise, he had been allowed to dwell in peace ever since he had conversed with the stranger, and nobody ever approached him to speak with him again. Not Irmo, nor his obsolete brother. Night after night the dreams returned, each time more vivid, but never entirely clear; so many questions arose, so many answers he wished to hear, yet who should ever give them to him?

Although no actual seasons existed in Irmo’s sanctuary, the elf felt as if spring arose with all its might, chasing the remains of winter away. Spring, with all its lavish scents and flowers, had always been Laurefindil’s favorite season, and it was not different now. Unknown flowers covered the creeping ivory with pink and yellow blossoms right before his little house, the soft light of the sun glittered through the open windows; a long forgotten compulsion to leave his safe haven arose.

And finally, the elf indeed carefully ventured outside and began to explore the luscious gardens, which were so breathtakingly beautiful, and no matter how hard he tried to figure it out there was no rational explanation as to why he had forced himself to stay inside for so long. A long forgotten bliss and beauty was manifested in every square meter of the divine sanctuary.

Early spring it was, yet nothing prepared the elf for the glistening sunlight on his skin that was so much paler than it had ever been, the way the soft breeze carried alien scents across the land, the touch of leaves and grass against his bare feet. Laurefindil was amazed and delighted by the foreign but still familiar smells: lavender, roses, fresh herbs and violets.

Nothing had prepared him for the possibility that he might live to see any of it again, either – he felt it all once again, taking in the wonders of nature with all his senses, and tears of joy began to collect in his eyes; he couldn’t exactly tell where they had come from, because he was not happy, not in the usual sense at least, but then was he not? He did not understand himself any longer, or his motives for condemning himself to a life inside once he was released from Mandos’ Halls.

From far away, Irmo spied the elf once more wandering through his flowery gardens, his large hands trailing over the fragile petals heavy with morning dew, caressing them gently as if a sweet memory was connected to the flowers; relief and hope stirred in the Vala’s heart. The elf was still far away from being completely recovered, but the first, hardest step had been finally taken. The Master of Dreams watched him move towards the meandering stream, which seemed to become his favorite place. Day after day, the golden-haired elf would come, sitting down beneath the weeping willows and staring into the distance as if sweet memory consumed him, strangely detached from the world around him.

Without doubt, Irmo possessed the powers to look right into the elf’s heart and mind, but he refrained from the temptation to invade his reveries, although he had to admit that he was curious indeed.

With half-lidded eyes, Laurefindil faced the late afternoon sun, breathing in the subtle freshness of the arising spring. It smelled of dust after the fall of rain, a smell he had already once deemed forgotten; after the everlasting horrors of ice and snow and howling wind on the Helcaraxë, the smell of grass and spicy wildflowers, the divine scent of life had been as strange to him as anything could ever be.

Now, day after day, he ventured outside, and with every stroll he took through the tranquil sanctuary, he discovered a new sensation that lurked behind each corner. Once he had discovered a lawn at the east end of the impressive estate, hidden behind massive cypresses and crowned with an enclosed rose garden, so tall and thick that he had never seen the lawn before; but oddly it was incredibly familiar with the ancient sorts of bourbon and damask, shining in all colors in the blinding sunlight.

 

Archways and gushing fountains completed the divine allusion, and it took him many days to figure out that Ingwë’s royal gardens below Mindon Eldaliéva followed exactly this design, and he couldn’t help but stare in wonder. In his youth, Laurefindil had often visited the sacred gardens, sitting down beneath the rose bushes to read or simply dream the days away. Now, with all the sweet memories resurfacing, his mind began to drift away towards long forgotten days of bliss and beauty.

Occasionally, he would enjoy the pleasant company of others, listening to Tirion’s newest rumors and gossip under the trees’ soft light, although he had always stayed away from spreading rumors himself. He was well-liked and trusted by his countless friends, males and females alike, most certainly because he could keep their secrets forever, and avoided open confrontation wherever possible.

Rumors told that the Lords of the West themselves would wander Ingwë’s gardens from time to time, but Laurefindil had never quite believed it to be true – until he had met one of them himself when he had least expected it.

From then on, his entire life was turned upside down for all the years that followed.

 

From time to time it was as if an otherworldly figure, clad in finest silks of silvery blue roamed the gardens in the far distance, gracefully he treaded along the narrow paths; from appearance one of the Eldar, but then, the typical behavior was somehow lacking. Each time his eyes fell upon the figure, Laurefindil dismissed the thought as another hallucination of his recovering mind - just as he had dismissed the thought of the Lords of the West roaming Ingwe’s gardens all those years ago.

He was alone in Irmo’s sanctuary, and apart from its keeper not a single soul was seen or heard –to be honest, he was grateful for it; alone he was, but not lonely, not even a little.

Laurefindil sat down cross legged on the soft grass, with his back resting comfortably against the trunk of a large weeping willow whose branches almost tickled the ground. Slowly, he allowed his gaze to wander over the ever-flowing stream right before him, the flower-covered meadow, the whistling tree tops, towards the high mountains in the far distance. He let his eyes travel as far as his sharp eyes could see, but he was still unable to see the beauty that lay right before him. Sweet and earthy scents of the ancient garden filled his lungs, but he couldn’t be bothered to distinguish between the fragrances of roses and wild flowers that so magically wafted through the air.

Rather absently, he watched a single drop of dew tremble upon a fallen leaf, and then another, feeling the soft rays of the sun against his golden skin. With eyes closed he listened to the flitting of birds and butterflies that swirled around him, swarming from one heavy blossom to another, as restlessly and steadily as the clouds above him.

It was as good a day as any, but then it was not, although Laurefindil could not explain with rationality what exactly bothered him; the Gardens of Lórien were as peaceful and tranquil as ever. With half-lidded eyes he raised the silver chalice in his hand carefully to his lips; he had not drunken of the sweet honey wine ever since his arrival, afraid of its effects on him. Although the body he was granted after his release from Mandos’ halls resembled his old physical appearance it still felt strangely alien to him, and he feared getting easily carried away by just a glass of mead.

Until now, the air had been still, not even the slightest breeze danced through the leaf-canopy above him, but then, Laurefindil felt a gentle wind dance through his golden strands, caressing his cheeks and shoulders and the leaves began to rustle above him. In the far distance, wind chimes sang, but the elf decided not to pay too much attention to the wind that arose over the sea, and indulged in his reveries once more. He watched the skittering and rustling of the branches, the shadows half-seen before they vanished again, movements that seemed to be no more than the brush of the sighing wind. Maybe, he thought in silence, he should not have tasted from the sweet mead which might have fueled his odd dreams, but then another sound startled him, a noise that was much more palpable than the wind that only had been a distant foreboding, one he had been too blind to see.

 

A heavy sigh fell from Laurefindil’s lips when he heard footsteps coming in his direction, followed by a rustling of the dense shrubs behind him; he didn’t need to turn around to know who paid him an unbidden visit. With eyes closed he would recognize him, being robbed of all his senses he would still sense his presence - not after many centuries of separation would he ever forget, and his lips twitched with disdain. Despite his unwillingness to indulge into any sort of conversation, he greeted the stranger uncertainly, feeling very aware of the Vala’s curious and piercing eyes on his back.

An unwanted surge of nervousness rushed through him, emotions he had long deemed forgotten resurfaced, emotions he was not certain he was able to deal with in his fragile state of mind.

Yet, he opened his mouth to speak, surprised to hear his voice after so many years of silence aloud. “After all those years thou hast come…,” the elf stated, accusation lingering in every word that left his lips and he clutched the chalice hard in his fist. The fragile constitution was just another excuse made up by his mind to protect himself, Laurefindil noticed; he was not prepared for anything like this – and never had been. Even back then, in Ondolindë on the peak of his strength and glory, the elf had not – and he never would be, no matter how much time would pass.

Deep inside, he hated himself for his emotional weakness – was being left in peace and solitude too much to ask for?

Carefully, the stranger took a step forward to where the elf sat amid the desiccated grass.“Aye,” the Vala nodded, telling him with a voice too soft and too gentle for Laurefindil to stomach. “Many years have passed since I have last discoursed with thee.”

A harsh gasp left the elf’s struggling lungs, and the stranger hesitated for a while, pondering his thoughts of how to proceed. No easy quest was at hand, he had already known as much since he had left his fortress high in the sky behind, but facing the defiant creature was a different matter entirely, especially if rationality seemed to fail the mighty Lord of the West. Countless words of accusation had the Vala heard falling from the lips of many elves, words of hatred and rage he would not forget as long as he lived, and he was able to recreate their tones effortlessly, pretending to be just another elf in Irmo’s care. Easily he could have disguised himself to the extent that Laurefindil would never have been able to recognize him, but he had refrained; no tricks and foul illusions should be played between them anymore, even if it meant having to finally face the elf’s rage.

“Wherefore?” the elf asked in a wondrous tone, still keeping his eyes lowered, blinking at the mossy floor and waiting solemnly for questions he had long forgotten to ask. “Wherefore now?” Over the years he had lost all sense of time, unable to tell how many time he had spent in Námo’s or Irmo’s care, and today was a day as good as many.

He should have known better, the Vala concluded.

Stupidly, he had not thought about an open confrontation, and he wished he would have been prepared for what to expect. With caution, he took another step towards the contemplating elf, and no matter what he would say, the chances were high that Laurefindil would not believe a single word of it. He could have come many moons ago, or not at all.

The question was a just one, and as such it deserved an answer.

A step, and then another, he took before he raised his voice again: “I came on the behalf of Irmo, who had consulted me a while ago.” This statement was not exactly a lie, though it was not the entire truth either, but at least it provoked a final response from the other.

Momentarily, the golden-haired elf held his silence, and with a sudden rush of anger he turned around to face him. A delicate eyebrow was raised, followed by a deadly and sullen stare and the Vala knew he had the chance of a peaceful and civilized conversation.

“Save me thy speech!" Laurefindil hissed, his voice trembling and cracking. “What else?” He asked. Futilely the elf fought against all the emotions that were washing over him, the long forgotten memories that seemed to overwhelm him as his gaze fell onto the otherworldly figure in his elvish fána, standing beside the trunk of the tree.

Long, pale hair pooled around his shoulders, unbraided and without shimmering beads and tendrils woven into it, but still glittering in the filtered sunlight. He wore an intricate, shimmering robe, which the elf, completely lost in revelation, remembered all too well; silver mingled with different shades of blue, the garment almost translucent, and running like silk through trembling fingers – a memory that made him gulp. His head was adorned with a silver circlet, holding a single stone in its middle, a design which had been so common among the elves of Tirion upon Túna all those millennia ago. But then, the stranger was no elf, although his appearance resembled the body of a Firstborn. Bile rose from Laurefindil’s guts – what madness was this, what foul trick was being played at his expense?

‘Oh in what mocking irony darest thou stand before me?’ he thought in bitter silence as his eyes wandered from the Vala’s head downwards; the other could choose his disguise as he wished, choose freely from a myriad of clothes and crowns – why the shimmering robes that held so many memories? Why the cape of matching colors? Why?

Laurefindil could not comprehend what was happening, and he was unable to withstand the other’s expectant gaze, turmoil and anger mingling in his mind. “Thou hast spied on me, hast thou not?” inquired the elf, recalling the memory of the unfamiliar figure he had seen wandering far away in Irmo’s sanctuary.

“Nought else,” the Vala said, fighting back the ill feeling that coiled in his stomach upon such daring words of open confrontation. But then, he of all, exactly knew where the elf’s anger stemmed from, and allowed it to happen. “And nay, if thou must know – I have not spied upon thee.” Aye, indeed he had watched him from afar, but he had never spied upon him, although it possibly did not made any difference for the elf.

His tone was dismissive, “If thou hast come here to lie right to my face, Lord of the Winds, I bid thee farewell,” and internally the elf hated himself for it. Inability to control one’s own emotions was the greatest weakness of all, he had found.

Their bond might have been extraordinary and unheard of many millennia ago, and the elf had indeed taken many daring and foolish liberties with the one who stood before him now, but nothing had remained when he had raged and rebelled before leaving the Blessed Realm’s shores.

The King of the Valar was not one to be crossed lightly – mighty and noble, fierce and strong – and despite the fact that his wrath was nothing he wished to evoke, the elf could not keep his mouth shut and stop the accusing words that fell from his lips.

With eyes wide in anger, the Elder King shook his head; the urge to admonish such open disrespect, to retort in a roaring thunder, was strong, but his will to end this conversation well was – for once – stronger, although it did not come naturally to the Lord of the Winds.

Manwë knew he was treading on thin ice when he addressed the golden-haired elf with the name he had used so many years ago in privacy, but haven’t they had been friends after all? Hadn’t they trusted each other?

“What dost thou wish to hear, Laure?” the Vala sighed, taking another few steps towards the elf, who sat on the flowered ground in misery.

“Do not refer to me thus!” the elf snarled, unable to keep his hurt and anger at bay any longer, lashing out vocally. “Never again, King of Arda.” Thousands of years Laurefindil had spent trying to forget, thousands of years had he forced his memory to the back to his mind; the moment he had set his feet onto the ice of the Helcaraxë he had buried all hopes of ever seeing him again. With reckless abandon he had tried to forget everything that was burnt so vividly into his mind, but often his internal struggles had been doomed to failure. However, over the endless stretch of years he had mastered his thoughts and kept his memories at bay.

And now? The blink of the moment was enough and everything came back to him, trapping him in an endless maelstrom of memories and fleeting images.

“Alas, then tell me, what dost thou desire to hear from my lips, instead!” the Vala said icily, and the change in his voice made Laurefindil flinch in return; certainly it had been his rejection that had evoked such a response? What else had he expected? Even deserved? “That I desired to lay my eyes upon thee once more?” Much to the elf’s relief, the icy note had vanished just as quickly as it had arisen, and a sigh of relief left his lips. “That I have missed thy presence ever since thou hast left the Blessed Realm behind?”

Peace only lasted momentarily before Laurefindil again lashed out in bitterness and grief. “This was thy very own fault...”

Maybe it was, maybe it was – who can tell what was right and wrong?

“Silence! Thou wilt not interrupt me,” the Vala thundered in response, having finally had enough of the elf’s blatant disrespect, and all Laurefindil could do was to cower before him like a doomed thrall, glad that the following words were much more gentle, almost as if the Vala regretted his temperamental outburst. “For once thou wilt listen, Laurefindil.” The elf’s face pinched in irritation, but he nodded and remained quiet just as was expected of him. “Listen now, and I will gladly take my leave afterwards if thou desirest so, never to step before thine eyes again – this I pledge before thee.” Laurefindil stared at him with wide eyes, and when his gaze met the eyes that so much resembled his own, an awkward shiver rushed through him. But then he nodded, gesturing for the other to continue.

“Hardly a day had passed in all those years that I have not thought of thee, thy fate that awaited thee on the distant shores, but thy destiny was not all I have thought of,” Manwë confessed with a heavy sigh, the words he wished to speak did not easily come to him, “never could I forget that fateful night, Laure – so many hours, so many days I have thought of how thy fingers had lingered just a second too long on my skin to be accidental. Memories and fragments of our conversations haunted me, as did thy smile, thy shining eyes. Heavy was my heart and soul when thou hast left these shores.”

The mighty Vala smiled, a barely noticeable smile, but still an attempt at kindness and compassion that Laurefindil had long thought forgotten, and for a long moment, the elf was speechless.

His voice rose again in anger; where the first words had been gently and truthfully spoken, the elf’s tone soon changed: “I would never have turned my back on these lands, the lands that I so much loved and cherished, if it had not been for that fateful night, and something in thy gaze tells me that thou know’st as much. Never had I been close to Fëanáro or his sons, never have I defied and rebelled against the Lords of the Wests before, not once!” he raged on without even noticing. For once, Manwë decided to turn a blind eye on Laurefindil’s insolent behavior and allowed it to go unpunished; yet after all these years, the golden-haired elf was still granted the privilege of fooling with him. “Thou could’st have had it all,” the elf screamed, his eyes glistening with surreal and ill-fitting fey, “and so much more. Dost thou still remember what I offered so freely in my naïve youth?”

Of course he did, how could he not? The question was ridiculous in itself – the moon continued to wax and wane, but his memory was as endless as the star-lit sky. “Not a day had passed when I had not remembered thy words, Laurefindil,” Manwë said softly in hopes of soothing the other’s blinding anger, and much to his surprise he did indeed succeed – at least, he appeared to be calmer than before. “Thy destiny was not here in the Blessed Realm. I did not know what fate would await thee, but I knew thy future lay beyond the sea.”

“Yet thou hast never seen the need to tell me,” Laurefindil answered quietly, but the coldness accompanying the words could not be tarnished. The elf was no stranger in outrunning the authorities, Manwë knew, and once his anger was sparked it was not easily soothed. A wrong word might turn the tides again.

“Thou would’st not have believed me, I fear.”

The elf did not answer him right away.

Instead, mournful tears suddenly began to drip down his cheeks as memories overwhelmed him; despite his inner turmoil he remained resolutely silent. Their eyes were locked in a heavy embrace, and Laurefindil did not dare to break the silent spell, but he could see every slight movement in the Vala’s eyes, every breaking point in their relationship as if it only had been yesterday. When Manwë sat down silently beside him on the mossy ground, carefully avoiding touching him in his misery, for once he did not object.

“Perhaps I would have,” responded Laurefindil with a sigh after long moments of silence, even if he knew that this was anything but an obvious lie; he would never have left the one behind he had truly loved, with all his heart and soul.

“Now it is thou who art lying to my face,” Manwë commented, authority palpable in everything he said. “Thou would’st never have left the blessed realm, we both know it, and I could not let this come to pass.” The decisions had been his own to make, but then they had not, as he ruled the world in Ilúvatar’s stead, following his eternal will.

Beside him, the elf crumpled, visibly flinching upon the hurtful words, all enchantments ripped from him; plainly speaking, Manwë just had confirmed that he would rather see him dead than residing in Valinor’s eternal bliss, and he could not help but regret his own words, which had provoked such a response.

“So many would’st and could’st …” he whispered absently, as if his mind was caught in a land far away. “Perhaps thou art right, I might not have left these shores – but – and I beg thee, be honest to thyself, Lord of the Winds; in the end, your rejection had not solely been for my fate on Arda’s soil. It had been thy pride, and thy morals that had hindered thee, had it not?” the elf accused him with anger flashing in his eyes, and every word spoken sliced through him like a sharp blade. “Had it verily been too much I have asked thee for? Had it?” As before, disappointment mingled with endless words, and the provocations flew freely. Whether or not he wished to believe it, Laurefindil already knew the answer to his own question; they had gone too far that night, besotted by their emotions and the potent liquor they had consumed.

For the first time in many years Manwë was at a loss; there was so much grief, so much bottled-up rage palpable in everything the elf said, mingled with an endless sadness about the night in question. He deliberately wished to talk sense and reason into the elf, but then, how should he blame him for what he said? After all, it was not entirely fabricated by his troubled mind. He had always felt compassion and pity for the Eldar, and now he felt pity and compassion for the elf sitting beside him – but in a different way. Oh, how he wished how to respond appropriately – both vocally and physically – but he didn’t know how, he never had, and it pained him.

Quietly, he began: “A combination of all three might be the correct answer, however, in the end it had been thy fate, thy destiny beyond the sea that had mattered most. All of us are in this world to fulfil our destiny, never forget that, Laure. Nought on Arda happens without the will of Ilúvatar, and I am forced to obey his will and enforce it as King of Arda.”

For a few seconds, an oddly familiar spark soared through the elf’s body and he condemned himself for the improper about that the Vala’s words elicited; he was not overly fond of royal authority, nor intrigued by pride, power or status – but then again, oddly, he was: the thrill that rushed through him was undeniable, and in vain he fought against it.

It was apparent that the elf did not wish to hear any of it; at least, that was what Manwë thought, as Laurefindil had ignored the last remark completely. Slowly he turned his head and stared at the Vala with a narrowing expression, anger flashing in his blue eyes. But beneath the anger another all too familiar emotion coiled. “A kiss – a mere kiss in the gentle light of the mingling of the Two Trees,” he said, strangely detached from reality as his mind recalled and vividly depicted the entire scene again, losing himself in all the spellbinding memories that were once a blissful reality. “Was it truly too much?”

Long had he tried to look at the elf with mastered indifference, but now he failed. Manwë could not help but admire how devastatingly magnificent Laurefindil was in the orange light of the late afternoon, with his golden hair pooling around his broad shoulders, shimmering in the Arien’s last caresses – an odd vulnerability shining in the elf’s tear-stained eyes that watched him out of the haze of memory.

The enchanting, yet unintentional beauty made it all too evident what had made him forget his principles, his position as Elder King all those millennia ago, why he had fallen head over heels for what was never meant to be his own. “Thou hadst not asked for a mere kiss, Laure…” the Vala sighed, as wave after wave of feelings and emotions washed over him. Oh how he wished to fight against the coiling sensation in his stomach, against his improper thoughts as his gaze wandered over the taut muscles that flexed beneath the elf lord's silken tunic. So foreign, so divine, and enticing, and within reach to touch, to devour. Hard the Vala fought against the incredible temptation.

Laurefindil shook his head in denial; no, he hadn’t asked for a mere, harmless kiss among friends, that much they both knew, had always known. When he had voiced his question—not really an inquiry in the ordinary sense of understanding – but an offer of the most inappropriate kind, he had kissed him under the soft light of Laurelin until their lips had been bruised and swollen, until the kisses had not seemed to be enough anymore, at least not for the elf. With frantic desire his hands had sneaked beneath the Vala’s robes and had delicately drawn thoughtless patterns against the heated skin that Laurefindil desired so much in a way he never should.

The silence hung heavily between them now as the late afternoon sun mimicked Laurelin’s golden light, as both their minds went astray in the exact same direction, wandering along the path of memories that for so long had seemed to be forgotten.

>>For Manwë, the entire concept of sexual desire was as unusual as anything could ever be, although it had become much more familiar the past months, and he could not even recall what he had thought about where their clandestine relationship was leading. He was a stranger to it; he had always been indifferent towards the yearning of flesh, which occupied the elves’ hearts. Marriage among the Ainur was so entirely different, a sacred union of spirit and soul rather than of flesh and carnal need. Nay, he had never thought their odd dalliance to whatever end, and a mocking irony it was that he had initiated their clandestine meeting under Laurelin’s gentle light. Wine and mead had flowed freely through their throats on that night, pleasant laughter and merriment filling the air around them – and everything was as it had always been… until the elf in his lap had voiced his indecent proposal aloud. Then it dawned on him, and he realized what exactly his behavior had provoked.

The elf wanted to take him to bed, in their case a bed composed of moss and heavenly smelling flowers; but no, that was not it. It was the other way round - the elf wanted that he would take him to bed, having offered his innocence in the most unmistakable way. Not only emotionally he wanted him, not just as friend, not for kisses and affectionate touches, not for foolish confessions, but sexually. It was nothing more than the logical consequence, actually what he should have expected from the beginning. But he hadn’t! He simply hadn’t even considered it.

Sudden terror seized him, and his world went blank, a million thoughts and emotions swirling through him.

Laurefindil desired him, wanted him desperately in a way nobody ever had and possibly ever would again, and the evidence of just how much he desired him was embarrassingly apparent, manifesting between the elf’s strong things. The entire concept of desire and bodily union was such a foreign concept that he had been speechless for a long moment, unable to respond to Laurefindil's proposal. Helplessly, he stared down, tensing with every second that passed, with his mind reeling; this was not solely about him, nor them, nor about his own laws which he was about to abide – a greater cause, the elf’s long foreseen destiny, stood at a stake, and everything depended on the answer he would voice, must voice, for the sake of all.

Manwë had sat back, a jolt of desire sparking in his stomach, as his gaze had met the half-lidded eyes that so expectantly looked up to him, and his heart had begun to falter. When remaining silent for longer, the elf’s melodious voice spoke again and eyes blue as the endless sky met his own. ‘I desire thee with all my heart,’ Laurefindil had whispered before he allowed his maddening lips to brush against the tip of his ear, ‘would thou refusest what I am offering so freely?’

After an eternity, he finally had said: ‘I would – and I will,’ feeling as if his heart would tear apart, and he couldn’t hold the elf’s hurt gaze any longer. The words had been firm and final, and made  Laurefindil’s stomach sink to his feet instantly, all magic vanishing as swiftly as it had arisen.<<

 

“Nay, that is not true, thou art right,” Laurefindil began with a small sigh, which the other could not quite hear, “not for a mere kiss I had asked thee,” his blush deepened as he finally confessed, recalling the exact words he had said all those millennia ago, words that never failed to make his stomach flutter in delight, although he had carefully locked them away for all eternity.

Easily he had slipped into lascivious flirtation and shameless innuendo after the feast, where spiced wine and cider had lessened previous inhibitions; he had been shamelessly encouraging in what just came so naturally to him. And the Vala hadn't exactly discouraged him when his lips began to graze his neck. Oh how Laurefindil wished his emotions were completely at his will, when desired swelled within him anew. What madness, what weakness was this? Desperately he tried to force down the sparks of lust from where they arose, choking out the words he wished to ask in earnest. “The question, however, remains the same: was it too much I have asked for?”

“Thou knowest the laws as much as I,” responded Manwë, although the laws had been not the sole reason why he had denied what both equally desired.

The elf laughed at that, a bitter and entirely unpleasant laugh. “Oh, art thou speaking of those god-forsaken laws nobody ever abides?” Fey and alien the laugh was, strangely unbefitting for the fair creature, a noise that pierced marrow and bone. Although he left the elf’s outburst uncommented on, the words evoked another incident he had long not thought of.  

Laurefindil’s accusation drew on as he repeated his question, staring him right into his iridescent eyes. “Do not divert, Lord of the Winds. Was it truly too much I have asked thee for?” Without voicing it aloud it was all too evident that he demanded an answer; subtle gestures and hidden glances had often been enough to say volumes between them, and Manwë obeyed the elf’s silent demand.

“The answer is both yes – and no.” The Vala sighed as his memories traveled back to that fateful night. “Although I doubt thou wilt believe my words, I wished I would have been able to give thee a different answer all those years ago.”

Over the years, Laurefindil had often wondered if he had only dreamt the light and warmth of their odd relationship, had doubted its very existence, wondering if his youthful mind had seen so much more than there had been – now finally, the truth was revealed. “Then, wherefore thou didst not?”

With sadness, Laurefindil shook his head, involuntarily shifting a little bit closer towards him. Compared to the time when they had met clandestinely, he was now old, and naivety was substituted by ancient wisdom. Yet with the matter at hand, all rationality seemed to fail the elf. “Hast thou ever imagined how hard it had been not to fall under thy spell? After all, thou art King of Arda in Ilúvatar’s stead, mighty and powerful, so breathtakingly beautiful in thy elvish disguise thou had chosen when thou desired to meet me, with long flowing hair that resembled the silver of the sky, Telperion’s divine light. And it was myself whom thou had showered with thy friendship – and more. Often, oh so often, I felt as if was merely wandering an endless dream.”

Tantalizingly slow, he turned his head towards the other and looked up expectantly with watery eyes, in a way that the words Manwë wished to say nearly got caught in his throat. “Hast thou ever imagined how hard it had been not to fall under thy spell?” the Vala began, repeating the elf’s statement from his point of view. “Glittering in golden shades like Laurelin’s soft light, valiant and righteous, young and so beautiful- a glorious future lying in front of thee. Charming in thine innocence, …” So much more he could say about the fair elf, but he cut off his monologue; what had happened between them could not be undone.

“What?” the elf inquired softly as the Vala hesitated, the word so silent it was barely there. “Tell me that thou hast not desired me that night so many centuries ago, and I will never speak of it again!" Laurefindil rushed on, the words just falling from his mouth in an avalanche; too many thoughts, too many questions, too many emotions he simply could not understand. The elf could blame the incident on his naivety and his youth, on changes brought with growing into manhood, whereas his opponent could not; old and wise as the world itself he was, always had been. Now, that he thought about it again, and despite the constant whirl of want, he had to admit that the question itself was rather unfair.

Laurefindil felt genuinely sorry, and just as he opened his mouth to apologize, Manwë’s voice filled the air again, although not easily would the words come. “Nay,” he answered truthfully. “I cannot, and moreover I will not tell thee this, because it would be nothing more than another comfortable lie to sit upon.”

When he paused, Laurefindil swallowed hard and tried to catch the Vala’s gaze; what he saw there was as unexpected as anything could ever be. For a moment he thought he glimpsed the same uncertainty--almost fear of what he was about to confess--in the Vala’s eyes. Worry mingled with something else, something greater the elf failed yet to understand, even if he was certain he had seen the emotion before. A strangely familiar sensation began to form in his stomach. Oh he was so utterly predictable, and he hated himself for it.

“Shh, do not interrupt me, but hear me out,” Manwë continued, holding the elf’s gaze steadily “As hope still remains that thou would’st understand my motives: Thou would’st never have left these lands if I would have given into thy tempting pleas, and apart from that I was – I am married, although marriage among the Ainur much differs from that among the Eldar. And, alas! As if this were not been enough: Remember! Thou wert hardly an adult back then – grown up, yes, but still a child in our eyes. Beautiful like no other in the golden light of Laurelin, valiant and fierce and utterly stubborn. A dangerous temptation.” A temptation that sat beside him, as alluring the elf certainly still was, staring at him with pleading eyes. All it would take, Manwë knew, was a single murmured hint of desire and the elf would be his, and at his will. A pity it was indeed, and he swallowed hard to focus on everything he still had to say, must say on Irmo’s behalf. “All these years I have lingered in the ‘what if’s’, unable and partly unwilling to leave the memories I had of thee behind.”

Now, Laurefindil openly stared in astonishment - and partly in disbelief, certain that he must have misheard half of the words. “So dost thou finally confirm that thou hadst desired me in the same way I have desired thee?” he asked, the words were nothing more than whisper, barely there, soft as the breeze that rustled through the leaves above them. ‘Desire me still?’ - ‘As I do?’ he wished to add, but bit his tongue. Not with rationality could he explain his train of thoughts. How long had it been since he had tried to lock away his feelings? Lock his heart? Millennia! And now mere minutes of conversation were enough to turn his world upside down, allowing long forgotten days to revive. Until then, he had not noticed just how close to each other they sat upon the flowery ground, how close their faces were; all he had to do was to lean in just a little more and their lips would touch. He wouldn’t survive another rejection, he simply wouldn’t, and therefore he refrained.

“Only a blind one would not see the desire that shone from my eyes. ‘Tis I have, Laure,” Manwë began, his voice a little strangled, and for Laurefindil it was as if the mighty King of Arda tried to keep his own emotions at bay. The Vala’s mind was reeling, and that the elf’s piercing eyes rested expectantly upon him did not help its cause. “Always and utterly – so much that a mere child could see my distraction whenever I met thee in the gardens of Mindon Eldaliéva. Soon, after our first meeting, if thou might recall, I avoided to meet thee when thou hadst been among others, too dangerous I deemed it. Still I was thither – formless or hidden in disguise, watching thee from the shades at safe distance, letting my eyes travel over thy form. Carefully I listened to thy voice, thy joyful laughter – the laughter I could never forget in all those centuries, Laure. Knowing that I could never return what thou hast felt for me, nearly tore my heart in two. Watching thee from the shades did hurt, but still - I have been unable to tear my eyes away from thy divine form. I who watched thee leaving these shores until thou wert out of sight, and my heart wept. And then, after thou hast finally gone, it has been thy smile, thy laughter that hast kept me company year after year.”

 

Laurefindil stared mesmerized, unable to say a word. However, it wasn’t necessary as the monologue continued and he lost himself in rapture as the name he was once named, fell from the other’s lips again. “I had been torn, Laure and my feelings nearly consumed me, seared me from deep within. I desired thee, yet I knew thou wert never meant for me, for any of us to take. Never let thy heart rule thy head, I have told myself in an ever repeating mantra, and then that fateful night happened: I was close, so very close to finally give into thy temptation and thine indecent proposal. All the years I have hated myself for the rejection I made; after all I have invited you, after all I have given you false hopes. Forgive me, my golden child, forgive me now what thou couldst not forgive me all those years ago. We both know what had happened in the following weeks; soon thou hadst gone, never to return to these shores. So many words, so many things which were meant to be said between us, Laurefindil.”

Tears began to collect themselves in the elf’s eyes, tears neither of them could explain. Wordlessly, the Vala reached out and threaded their fingers together in a gesture of comfort, and in the dim light, his eyes appeared even lighter, until they almost seemed to glow.

Again, Laurefindil shivered at the heart-breaking confession. Never, not once, had he imagined that the other could suffer the same way as he did, feel the same sadness and emptiness in his heart, and in response his hand was squeezed ever so lightly. "Thou knowest, King of Arda, mighty Lord of the Winds – that of all sad words, the saddest art 'it might have been’”

For the first time, neither grief nor anger glittered through the elf’s voice; Manwë only nodded and remained silent upon those incredible words of wisdom. He bit down his lip apprehensively, fighting the urge to speak, for he wished this to take a different turn, to be so different in comparison to how their last meeting had ended.

“Never to return…” Laurefindil whispered to himself, picking up the where the other had left off. “Yet here I am, lingering in a state between sleep and awake, a state which I still cannot comprehend fully. What am I? Dead, Alive?” Oddly enough, during their conversation he had entirely forgotten of the dream that returned to him day after day, but now he remembered.

Absently, the elf lifted his free hand from his side to brush against his cheek, his fingers wet when he removed them – until then, he had not even realized that tears had found their way into his eyes, that weakness was visibly displayed across his face. However, he decided to ignore the little detail; after all, it was not the first time the Vala had seen him cry, even if the circumstances had been entirely different.

“Alive thou art, certainly.” Manwë said, glad that their conversation now followed civilized rules and that the topic Irmo had asked him to address could finally be discussed between them. “Released from Mandos’ halls, suffered to live in thine own body again. Still, thy heart and soul lingers in the past, and it was not long ago when thou hadst even refused to step outside thy little house. Remember, thou hast refused to do anything that would help thy recovery – thou hast not discoursed with anybody apart from me, hast barely eaten. A long way until thy recovery it is still, I daresay. Thou might have never noticed as thou refused to listen and preferred to linger in the state thou hadst chosen. Thou hast locked thyself away, Laurefindil. What for?”

“Thou might already know the answer,” said the elf after a little eternity, struggling for the right words. “I have fallen, aye. Alas, it is not my fate I am contemplating, not my death it is that I mourn. Tell me, what remains thither for me to live for? Thou, best of all, should remember the words we have heard as we turned our backs onto the Blessed Realm. ‘And thy houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. Thither long shall ye abide and yearn for thy bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for thee.’ Now tell me, wherefore should I seek recovery when my fate is sealed?”

In silence, Manwë thought, ‘if thou knew thy future, thou would’st not speak thus,’ but at the same time he could not find the heart to tell the elf of his destiny, fear arising that his recovery might take an ill fate once he knew.

Again, Laurefindil shook his head, Námo’s dreadful words had been long forgotten when Ondolindë fell and all he wished to do was to curl up into a fetal position, at best with the other’s arms wrapped around him. The thought, however, was immediately dismissed from his mind as he continued, the words barely audible: “Not my fate it is I struggle with, it is those dreadful memories that haunt me, the never-ending screams of my kin that echoes in my ears whenever I lie down to sleep, the stench of burnt flesh seared into my mind never to be forgotten; that is what makes me suffer. I dread I might remember it as long as long as I live – but wait, oh what an ironic thing to say for one who is dead! Ondolindë was my home, the white city of all our dreams, finally come alive under Túrukáno’s guidance.” So vivid the images of the White City’s fall were, so heart-wrenching the echoing screams that tears began to flow freely down his cheeks, the words he spoke drowned by sobs, bleeding into the silence that fell once he was finished.

“My family, my friends – everything worth living for; lost forever, burned to the ground, fallen into ashes and ruin!”

Without even noticing it, the elf’s head fell heavily against Manwë’s shoulder. The Vala, for once, allowed it to happen – if it was wise he could not exactly tell, but it mattered not. The elf’s inner turmoil, anxiety and worries were heartbreaking, and compassion for the Eldar arose, although pity was usually not something the Firstborn associated with the Ainur, especially not those who followed either Fëanáro or Ñolofinwë into exile across the sea.

So many words Manwë wished to speak, so many thoughts he had kept hidden all those centuries, and absently he squeezed his old friend's hand in return, doubting that Laurefindil would even notice. “I know,” he mumbled barely audible against the elf’s golden head.

The elf's eyes fell shut for moments, and within him all frustration whirled anew. “And I couldn’t protect them,” the elf told him, fighting with the heavy tremors that shook every part of his body with strength Manwë had never seen before in any elf.

“I simply could not,” he repeated, at a loss for further words. “I couldn’t – I do not even know if they made it across the pass.”

In his dreams, he had seen Itarillë fleeing the pass of Cirith Thoronath,but then his memory had left him, and the world had gone black before his eyes. Fleeting images of foul creatures and searing flames he saw, but the memories of his escape from Ondolindë still remained veiled by a hazy curtain.

“Their survival had been my responsibility.” Laurefindil felt like a small child again, sobbing against the Vala’s shoulder in his unbearable grief and pain, “and I failed them.”

Nothing more the elf wished to do than to curl up into a ball and hide for the rest of eternity, guilt and grief overwhelming him once more. No matter what his friend of old tried to tell him, the screams of his beloved kin still echoed restlessly in his drowsy head. “I failed them, all are dead.”

“Do not doubt thy deeds, Laure, thou hast not failed thy kin. They escaped the inferno of flames and smoke – they are alive; thy lead and valor were the very reason they survived. Never forget that, never blame thyself. Thou didst whatever could’st have been done – and so much more. Great songs of thy valor will be sung, thy selfless deeds will never be forgotten among the Firstborn. History will become legend, legend will become myth, and thy deeds shall be rewarded in time.”

Manwë’s words bore a strange foreboding, but Laurefindil was too blind to see. In his dreams, he had once envisioned his return to Arda upon a mighty ship that carried him towards the distance shores, to a hidden valley rich and sacred, with its people already awaiting his return – and indeed songs of his deeds of valor where sung among the elves, but the taste of reality lacked the sweetness of such songs, and Laurefindil had turned around and left the Great Hall.

"Yet another dream," he had told himself afterwards, "another odd dream, one among many."

“Yet it never seemed to be enough.” The elf’s voice wavered, the words interrupted by heartbreaking sobs he was unable to control any longer, his body violently shaking against the other, too occupied to realize that the Vala’s arm was placed around his waist, pulling him close into an all too familiar position. The words that usually came rather easily to him, seemed to fail him now. He swallowed hard, and then again, before he whispered: “Hast thou … hast thou seen my death?”

Sooner or later he had feared the question would arise, and the Vala sighed in silence; the elf was not prepared to see everything to its full extent, that much Manwë knew, and it certainly would not help his recovery, but he could not remain silent and deny him the answer he so much wished to hear. With a nod, he began to tell the elf’s tale: “Aye, I have seen it both on the tapestries and in my vision later on, and often I wished I had not. An illusion of fire and darkness, a surreal dream of dread and horror, of searing flames. Thou know’st we shall not meddle in the affairs of the Firstborn, and believe me I wished I could prevent what had happened. However, to some extent, I could – and I did. Because I felt compassion, because I have pity. I couldn’t save the city, but I could save thee.”

With wide eyes, the elf simply listened as the history of his own downfall unfolded in his mind.

“The dream…” Laurefindil’s voice was distant, strangely detached from the world around him as he recalled his dream. “Continuously and repeatedly I have dreamt of soaring eagles high up in the blackened sky. A never-ending abyss at the edges of the narrow path, a rocky grave of elves and orcs alike, down at the base of the mountain's slopes. Day after day, the dream would returned to me, each time more vividly, enriched in details. A beast of flame and smoke, yielding its fiery whip against myself. And then, a heavy curtain of grey and black falls and I remember naught. Tell me, I ask thee, Lord of the Winds – what is it that I see. A dream, a dreadful nightmare? Or reality enwrapped in the plush form of dreams? The eagles only fly at your command … ”

Deep inside, hidden from him for his own safety, Laurefindil already knew the answer, but he needed to hear those words spoken aloud.

“Right thou art,” Manwë confirmed the elf’s last statement with a small nod, and graced him with an explanation for his reasons. “Thorondor only spreads his wings on my command. The moment I saw Ondolindë’s fate on the tapestries I summoned the Lord of Eagles to Ilmarin to instruct him.”

The elf tilted his head in astonishment.

“Wherefore …?” Laurefindil asked. His death had been unavoidable, that much he knew, had always known, so why retrieve his lifeless body from the abyss? “I was sentenced to death from the day I was born, so wherefore, I ask thee?”

“Both thou and I know on whose behalf the White City was attacked. Melkor, Morgoth – name him as you wish,” a sudden coil of anger erupted from the Vala, and was manifested in his voice. Laurefindil could all but flinch. “Urqui, Valaraukar and other ilk freely roamed the lands covered by dark clouds and smoke, foul creatures set free on his command. I saw thy death on the tapestries but the details had been veiled from my eyes, for better or for worse I do not know. Thou could’st have been still alive after thy fall – barely possible, I have to fathom, but a slight chance remained. Thou shalt never doubt that his dreadful servants would have found thee, taken thee right before his dreadful throne of black and icy steel.”

For a moment he paused, inhaling sharply. Ilk his brother had brought upon the world, dread and horror, torture and flames. “Thou know’st about the elf lord Melkor had held captive, who nearly had not survived his endless torment… Thy lifeless body in the hands of my forsaken brother, caught in his gloomy halls, suffering, being at the mercy of him and his sadistic pleasures, condemned to endure an endless ordeal of torture and worse, becoming his thrall. No, Laure – the mere thought of this scenery come to pass made the bile rise to my throat. I could never allow this to happen.”

He found himself lost in the rapture of Manwë’s beautiful voice, despite the dread he spoke of. Never had he even considered such a fate for himself, and momentarily the blood froze in his veins – such a horrendous scenario the Vala had painted. Aye, he knew of Nelyafinwë’s fate and of his rescue by his valiant cousin; Turukáno had rarely spoken about this fateful tale so many years ago, and he had never dared to ask.

Although the sobbing had finally ceased, tears were still flowing freely down the elf’s heated cheeks. With closed eyes, he exhaled slowly and drew in another deep breath to steady himself; too many emotions were flickering through him at once – thoughts and emotions he had long deemed forgotten. Much to his surprise, his head rested against the Ainu’s shoulder, and at first Laurefindil did not notice the familiar arm around his waist, nor had he noticed that their fingers had threaded together.

‘‘This cannot be,’ he told himself just a moment before a gentle voice stirred him from his thoughts.

“Naught has changed over the past thousands of years, Laure,” Manwë told him, suppressing the urge to wipe away all the tears that were streaming down the golden skin. “I care for thee, I always have. No matter how much thou hast rebelled against the Lords of the West, against myself above all others, how much thou hast cursed and hated me on thy way into exile, I never stopped to care for thee - nor for the others who followed Fëanáro across the sea. Thy motives where different from theirs – as was my pity for thy fate.”

‘Only the blind would not see,’ – and blind he had been, indeed, Laurefindil thought when he realized that it was exactly the same position they had been in that fateful night when everything had changed, his free hand lying flat against his stomach with taut muscles flexing beneath the soft fabric that caressed his fingertips, lingering for long moments there without being pushed away. Instead, gentle fingers ran up and down his forearm in soothing strokes. The gesture, as innocent as it was and certainly not meant the way he so desperately wished it were, sent jolts throughout his body. Time slowed, and he felt every nerve in his body unravel, every ounce of tension and previous anger vanish like the last rays of the sun that disappeared across the horizon, as if holy flames had embraced the sky.

Tears rose again. Tears of sorrow, of forgiveness and joy mingled on his cheeks, and he was unable to distinguish them anymore as the world seemed to pause for mere seconds.

Oh if he were already seated, he would have fallen to his knees for the words to come; so many wrongs he had committed – in deed and thought – so many words never said between them. “Forgive me my heated words,” the elf apologized with closed eyes, exhaling slowly as if he thought the beauty of the moment would disappear within a moment. So many accusations had spilled so freely across his bruised lips that fateful night, blinded by rage and never-ending sadness. Oh how he had sworn and cursed as he had never done in his life before. And never since. So blind he had been, so fueled by grief and utter disappointment, unable and unwilling to see his own mistakes. An eternity needed to come to pass before he finally saw his own behavior through much wiser eyes; ashamed he was, possibly more than he had ever been, and Laurefindil found his own apology beyond ridiculous.

How on Arda, should he ever make all the wrongs he had committed right again?

How should they make amends? Reconcile?

Before he continued to speak, he wiped his wet cheeks dry with the end of his sleeve, feeling ridiculous for his emotional outburst and unfair behavior earlier. “Forgive me everything I have said and done - I got lost in blind rage and the eternal grief that had occupied my heart and mind dominated my thoughts; my heart was filled with endless agony. No words were made to describe how hurt, disappointed, and overwhelmed by my own emotions I was that fateful night, besotted by thy touch and thy lips, by too much spiced wine.” Carefully, Laurefindil shook his head against the Vala’s shoulder, astonished by his own words. “I couldn’t understand, couldn’t believe that I might have misread all the signs. I was so young … so naïve, verily believing I was naught more than another game thou hadst decided to play. Forgive me, my fault is past. Forgive me everything.”

The elf’s odd shyness was beguiling, if not somewhat enamoring, and the temptation to lift his face and kiss away all the tears that still lingered on the golden skin and those rosy lips he had once tasted before was nearly impossible to resist. Yet he knew he had to, but nevertheless the corners of his mouth curved gently as he tried not to smile.

Manwë replied quietly, “I long have,” but his voice barely reached the elf, and he had to replay what he had thought he had heard; denial was buried so deep in his subconscious that at first the elf doubted the sincerity of the Vala’s words - before he finally understood.

The words pronounced absolution, and his heart leapt in joy; never had he thought this possible. Immediately relief was followed by exhaustion, which washed over the golden-haired elf in a wave of relief as soon as his mind had comprehended; Laurefindil hadn’t held a true conversation in what seemed to be an eternity, avoiding every contact that was brought upon him, and now, with the thoughts swirling uncontrolled in his mind, it became too much.

“I know,” he mumbled in response, and indeed he had always known it deep inside. “I always have, but I did not dare to see the truth, as it would have meant having to look back and reappraise the situation.” Again the tears flowed, but now they were tears of pure joy and gratitude.

“Do not fret, Laure,” the Vala said softly, letting go of the elf’s body in his arms with little reluctance, “I shall take my leave now, as thou art troubled and exhausted.”

Laurefindil had never been one to be extraordinarily insecure, Manwë knew, but now the golden-haired elf was, unintentionally so. Enamoring, enchanting, and vulnerable. An irresistible desire to protect the golden-haired elf lord arose within him, with a strength that nearly took his breath away. Possessive thoughts dominated his mind, his entire body.

“Would’st thou pay me a visit if thy time allows?” he asked in a voice that was barely audible, as he lifted his head to meet the Vala’s gaze, and for the blink of the moment he lost himself in the mesmerizing iridescent pools of rapture.

The undisguised hope shining in the elf’s eyes was unmistakable, and it was enough to make his stomach flutter, sparking strange sensual feelings he long had thought lost. Manwë wished he could stay forever.

So many questions he still had, so many answers he needed to receive, but his strength, both mentally and physically, failed him, and he nearly lost consciousness still leaning against the other.

“Thus I will. Rest well, my child of summer.” The Vala whispered and placed a gentle kiss to the top of the elf’s head, before carefully lying him down onto the soft grass, where deep slumber immediately overwhelmed him. “Sleep well, until we meet again,” he added with a smile as he covered the fatigued figure with his silken cape. “Fare thee well, Laure.”

*

Smoke and Fire

[Chapter Summary] Glorfindel relives Gondolin's fall.

[Warnings] Vivid description of injuries and burns, violence, character death

this chapter is unbeta'd (due to the simple lack of a beta reader)

Read Smoke and Fire

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Chapter 03 – Smoke and Fire

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In the Gardens of Lórien

~~

No matter how much his curiosity was sparked to take a look himself how their conversation went, Irmo had refrained by blocking the vision from the part of his gardens where they spoke, waiting patiently for the Elder King to return.

“Given the amount of time thou hast spent in my gardens,” the Master of Vision said stepping onto the pathway from behind a tree, “I assume thou hast succeeded?”

Startled, Manwë looked up from where he had halted. He had no idea for long the Master of Dreams had watched him so lost in thought had he been. “To some extent I think I might,” he nodded, trying to keep his voice under control. In fact, he was a little surprised by Irmo’s curiosity and had not suspected that he would approach him on his way back. “I have spoken with him, although he had been reluctant at first.”

“And?”

Manwë raised a delicate eyebrow but said nothing for long moments – usually he was accountable to no one, but the matter with Laurefindil could be seen a little different than anything else. “As I have suspected,” he finally said, “it is not his death that troubles him, not the situation he is in right now - but endless grief for his people, mingled with a massive amount of guilt still occupies his heart. Actually, the elf thinks he is responsible for Ondolindë’s fall, that he had failed those he loved most dearly; he cannot remember his own fate. In fact he remembers nearly nothing. I have already told him, that those he had protected are safe, but he needs to know the truth, he has to see the entirety of the fall and his death to fully recover. Otherwise he will not be of any use.” The thought alone that he will return to Middle-Earth again to face the darkness again, elicited an uneasy feeling deep within him. The fates of all were long set, and there was nothing he could do against it – but he was not supposed to like Ilúvatar’s decisions. Many he had mourned, often in the past he had contemplated with the Firstborn’s destiny.

Manwë’s words did make sense, Irmo had to admit, but still he hesitated. “Dost thou deem it wise?” he asked, knowing what dreadful images his dreams would bring the already troubled elf.

“Alas, ‘tis is the only chance we have,” the Lord of the Winds replied, although he knew there was a second, much more intimate possibility to erase the elf’s sorrows. But he remained quiet on this matter. “And we must take it, otherwise he can never fulfil the future we have foreseen. I fear nothing will ever change if we keep the information from him forever and you, best of all, know about the power of dreams. ”

“So be it.” Irmo responded. He was not entirely convinced, but he did as we was told, unblocking the mental link he had with the golden-haired elf.

If the decision he had made once Irmo had agreed upon his suggestion, was wise or not, he could not exactly tell, but he proceeded nevertheless.

“Fare thee well, Master of Visions,” Manwë said with mastered indifference, and not a moment later he vanished, dissolving like a gentle breeze of spring, pretending to return to his towering halls high up in the clouds.

 

~~

Laurefindil had lost all sense of time when he awoke under the weeping willow, strange voices dancing through his head, unfamiliar scents tickling his nose. Had it only been a pleasant dream, given to him by the garden’s keeper, had he truly come after all those years? The elf asked himself as he rose to his feet, fatigue still paralyzing his mind – until his gaze fell to the lavish blue cape made of the finest silks available. Immediately, all the silent riddles were solved and a smile tucked at his lips – this was no mere dream, and his heart leapt in joy despite his exhaustion.

The Vala’s touch seemed to linger on his skin, soft like the salty breeze from the sea that danced through his golden hair, innocent but so electrifying at the same time. With his mind reeling, he returned to his little cottage embedded in lavish lavender fields, embraced by coldness as he opened the wooden door that lead inside. So many things he wished to do, so many thoughts that occupied his mind – but all this had to wait. Laurefindil was too exhausted to stand, or think, swaying into the direction of his little bed where he lay down immediately and sank into slumber, with keen eyes watching him from the nearby chair.

 

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>> ‘The city falls’ said his own voice in his mind, vibrating through every muscle in his body as he ran. The white city was lost, Laurefindil knew it as he saw the black smoke rising high into the air. Covered in blood of his own kin, in blood of orcs and other foul creatures he made his way over dead bodies, fighting the dread to the back of his head. There was no time for grief nor was their time for sentiment as his, no their life did depend on fast action. Many of his friends were slain, that much was certain, only very few would survive the fall – if any at all, eyes unseeing looked up at him as he stalked across the dead.

High up into the mountain the small group of survivors made their way along the narrow path that lead to the never-ending peaks and pinnacles; Tuor, Itarillë and little Eärendil among them, and a few other warriors of his house. Black smoke blackened his sight, and burned his lungs with every heavy breath he took. Desperately, he struggled not to choke on the sick air heavy with burnt flesh.

‘Run,’ he had screamed – or at least attempted to upon their dreadful plight over Cirith Thoronath, the Eagles’ cleft as the first orc sprang right into his way, ambushing their flight. “Itarillë, RUN”

Laurefindil clenched his teeth, oh he was exhausted, his armor lying heavy upon his bones – he tried to sound brash and strong, just as it always had been, but nausea and dread distorted his voice.<<

Rather vividly the elf’s sleep was; his entire body trashed against the heavy sheets and desperately he screamed the words aloud, encouraging the fleeing to proceed in the most heart-breaking manner. Eye-lashes fluttered open and then close again, and arms swirled through the air as he fought the invisible enemy. Soothing words filled the room and momentarily the struggle ceased.

 

>> The peak towered high over the rest of the mountain range, reaching past the dreadful clouds, piercing through them like a pinnacle. Narrow the path had been that lead beyond the peak, facing the abyss on one side, while sharp rocks hung into the air from the other side. Only a few warriors the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower could recruit, most had lost their lives already defending their homes and the city. The sorrowful whine of another arrow filled the air, but neither Laurefindil nor his men could locate the archer behind the sharp rocks to bring him down, but soon his attention was diverted to another, yet more dangerous matter at hand.

Grim eyes met his own, flames arising from the foul creature of Angamando’s pits that had followed them on their flight up the mountain ridge. Somewhere in between dreadful images of his friend’s death in the middle of the King’s Square mingled into his train of thoughts as he rose his brandished and blood covered steel against the Valarauka, who let his fiery whip dance high through the air. Their safety was all that mattered, but they needed time to escape the foul creatures.

And then the first stroke fell, and the golden-haired elf’s world went blank, flames burning into his flesh.<<

 

When his gaze fell onto the dreadful creature in his dream, Laurefindil’s eyes widened in shock and horror, a visible shiver running through his entire body. He could see the dream as clearly as ever possible, see all that was yet about to come to pass.

The horror had just begun.

“I know .. “ he softly whispered not to wake the sleeping elf. Oh how he wished to ease the pain the elf had again to endure, to hold him tight, do anything at all; oh he so much wanted to, with a fervent desire - but what were the options? There were none – almost, none which would not be deemed entirely inappropriate. With utter care to avoid any noise he moved the chair forward until his invisible hands were able to hold the elf’s own in comfort.

Tears slowly began to tickle down Laurefindil’s face and there was nothing he could do against it. “Laure, calm down,” he tried in a soothing voice, knowing all too well, that his words were spoken in vain.

 

>>Horrible and large eyes looked down at him with glee, before the Valarauka sneered, revealing the sharpest row of teeth within his mouth: ‘Your world will burn’, and shortly after, he raised his whip high in the air again. The words curled through his mind, endlessly and black like smoke, heavy and sick. The aftertaste of burnt flesh made him gag, but his world went blank when flames of hell lashed down on him.

He let out a scream even more piercing than his last one, when the whip of fire wrapped around the elf’s skin. Screams, deriving from each direction, filled the air, his own mingling in the dreadful sound.<<

Just as Laurefindil screamed in his dream, he screamed aloud in a tone that easily could scatter glass or more. This entire body jerked upwards, driven by pain and anguish and the hold the Vala had around his hand tightened in return. He saw naked worry in those bewildering blue eyes now, worry that soon would turn into despair and anguish. Many tears he had shed the day Ondolindë had fallen into shadows – now tears began to fill his eyes once more.

>> Golden skin sizzled when the whip of fire stroke again, and the stench of burned flesh filled his lungs until no scream would escape his throat anymore, dread poisoning and swelling from his lungs to his heart. He could smell the stanching tang of her singed golden hair where the flames had caressed the delicate skin. He moaned in pain, and then again – before he focused again on the Valarauka who laughed right into his face, threatening with his fiery whip: ‘Elf-scum.’

Red. There was so much red. Blood and flames, flames that burnt everything to the ground with their never-ending hunger, black smoke veiling the white city in darkness. Brandished steel clashed against the foul beast, fighting for disdaining fortune, though all hope was lost. Severely wounded he already was as the last blow hit him hard, and with the last remaining strength he fought Morgoth’s foul creature towards the edge, his golden sword and armor gleaming against the flames. The fire blazed around him, dancing shadows of bright red flames that seemed to be everywhere, above him, around him, beneath him. Vicious, threatening, scorching.

Just as the Valarauka tumbled over the edge, a mighty hand arouse and gripped a fistful of golden strands, and both fell into the abyss. The air he breathed with his last intake of air was hot and searing, burning his lungs as it filled them, clogging his respiratiory system with acrid smoke that was so foul and acidic, that Laurefindil’s guts cringed.<<

 

Absently, and ever so delicately, he freed one hand from the elf’s hold and wiped away the countless tears that fell down Laurefindil’s cheeks, ignoring his own as both his hands were occupied. So much dread the Firstborn had to endure, so much pain, so much grief and sorrow, caused by Melkor’s foul deeds, whom he had released many millennia ago.

 

>> As he fell and consciousness left him, dark clouds appeared against the sky, drawing closer; the eagles had come, their chief leading them towards the mountains. Orcs shrieked in the distance as he fell, and fell and fell into ruin, black smoke and brightly burning flames surrounding him. He saw himself falling into eternity, strangely detached from his body already, orcs following down through the smoke-veiled air and then, it grew deadly still as if his mind and body was enwrapped in something that swallowed each sound.

Spiraling downwards he saw himself fall, so far down that he feared to crush against the spikey rocks at the mountain edges. He screamed and closed his eyes in dread, and when he opened them again, large wings blocked his visions upwards and he felt strong claws against his chest, and cold wind blew across his body – and then everything around him went black as if night had fallen within a second. No orc screeched, no elf spoke – only silence filled the heavy air until his gaze fell onto a stone-cairn right below Cirith Thoronath built by Tuor himself and other men from his house to cover his dead body. Soon tiny yellow flowers began to wither in the harsh surrounding amid the blankest stone in memory of the elf who lost his life there, watched and guarded by the mighty eagle until the world was changed.<<

 

---

 

When he awoke, he was covered in sweat, panting and more exhausted than he had been before he fell asleep. Images of soaring eagles, fire and orcs, blooming flowers raced through his mind as he failed to follow them, and for seconds it felt as if a hand reached out to squeeze his hand, but the room was empty as it always was, and Laurefindil dismissed the illusion as figment of his troubled mind. Still, despite all the death and horror he had seen in such a vivacity in his dream, he strangely felt at ease deep inside. Whole again, complete, the first time since he had awoken in the Halls of Awaiting.

“So it is true, then” he whispered to himself, his mind caught in astonishment.

‘I have told you so,’ came the immediate response in his mind and his eyes snapped open. What trickery was this again? But the voice decided to remain silent this time, and Laurefindil was thankful for those who had finally decided to show him his own fate and Itarillë’s survival.  

For many days he was not seen wandering the Gardens of Lórien, and in silence Irmo began to wonder if the memory had been too much for the elf in his care. In silence, and unseen, the Vala stepped before the window of the little house and relief filled him when his gaze fell on an elf who was deeply lost in reverie.

 

 

Endless Days of Solitude

[Chapter Summary] Instead of the one he so much desires to see, Glorfindel meets Nienna for the first time in the Gardens of Lórien - before being granted another visit of the Elder King

Read Endless Days of Solitude

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Chapter 04 – Endless Days of Solitude

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In the Gardens of Lórien

~~

The sun rose and set, and yet again, and despite the fact that Laurefindil had not been doing anything except of brooding and day-dreaming, in days he felt exhausted, so utterly exhausted like he had not been in a very long time and rather easily he succumbed to slumber and reveries, both often mingling as he drifted continuously between the awkward state between sleep and awake. The richly adorned cloak the Vala had left behind covered his form most of the time, and every now and then, the elf wondered if Manwë had simply forgotten the beautiful garment – or had left it on purpose, the latter certainly the scenario Laurefindil preferred to assume.

More often than not, his only option to tell the difference between the two states was the content of his dreams; whilst his thoughts and musings constantly returned to the meeting beneath the weeping willow and everything that he had associated with it, memories that heavily violated his heart, the actual dreams mostly repeated the dreadful scenes of Ondolindë’s fall.

Impossibly hard it was for him to distinguish which memory exactly hurt him more; the salacious fire that again poisoned his veins, the awakened feelings of forsaken desire that began to coil in his stomach once more - or the bitter truth of the elves’ defeat upon the hand of the Black Foe? Hurtfully both stung, however on completely different levels: where his death and Ondolindë’s fall could not be altered by any means, so many expectations filled his heart and mind in regard to the Vala’s visit. Stupidly his thoughts had been or course, ridiculous and utterly foolish and often enough Laurefindil hated himself for the abundance of those reveries of ‘what if’ scenarios; a rather innocent encounter of a few hours seemed to turn his world upside down once more, reviving the endless emotions which he had fought down for countless years ever since he had left the Blessed Realm behind, softly spoken words which igniting the yearning he had once felt anew.

O, so much he disdained himself for the weakness of both his body and mind, yet no cure seemed to exist to fight his resurfacing desires: every thought about the Elder King he had provoked an endless wave of excitement, every touch against his skin, no matter how innocent and floating it had been, elicited an indescribable yearning for more, for something he shall never experience anew, wherefore his mood switched between sadness and foolish excitement back and forth.

However, worse than everything else of what he felt was that he missed him; every hour that passed by in silence, every day he spent in solitude and futile struggle against his emotions, he the longing to see and speak with him only increased, every second he was awake he imagined his fair features, his eyes, his lips and the longer the hours drew, the more his thoughts began to drift into other, not so innocent, directions – for which he despised himself all the more.

 

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One day when it still was rather early Laurefindil awoke to a noise outside his room he could not quite distinguish, and drowsily he rose from the bed and walked towards the window to let his gaze roam across the sky; the sun had not even touched the distant horizon but its soft glow slowly chased the darkness away and turned the sky into nuances of dark blue and purple, the moon and stars giving way to the brightness of the sunshine.

‘A day as good as any,’ Laurefindil said silently but with a certain bitterness and despite his slumber he did not feel entirely relaxed and more often than not, gloomy thoughts still occupied his mind. However, not for ever could he lock himself into his house, brooding over things he was unable to alter nor to forget.

It was the fifth day after the dream had initially occurred, and early this day he had finally forced himself to venture outside, taking a stroll through the undoubtedly pleasant gardens at a leisurely pace. No explanation had he for why he went where he was going, his feet almost moving at their own accord along the shady paths that meandered endlessly through the Gardens of Lórien; past gushing fountains, flower-covered meadows and blossoming orchards of trees he could not even name and certainly had never seen before. Admittedly, a divine sanctuary these gardens truly were with all the scents wafting through the air, opalescent dew-drops adorning the rarest of flowers that stood idly near-by, with all the birds chirping in the tree-tops above him.

Long enough he had been unable to see the beauty that was laid out right before him, drowning in the proclaimed self-misery and in his dreadful thoughts; not entirely disappeared his misery had, however, his mood seemed to brighten day after day and less frequently, despair seemed overwhelmed him out of nowhere.

When he passed by a massive tree, one of those which had abundantly grown in the woods around the hidden city, memory once more caught him off guard and the tears began to flow freely upon the sickening certainty of Ondolindë’s fall and the death of so many. O, so much death and horror, so much blood had been spilled among those who should not die. Never before had the dreadful prophecy spoken on the northern shores been more accurate than the day when the white city had fallen upon the Black Foe’s hand, Laurefindil thought silently. Innocent and helpless inhabitants had been slain, children, women, traders and simple farmers, all those who had never participated in any battle against the dark lord; so cruel this bloodshed had been, so unnecessarily dreadful, like the entire prophecy spoken at the northern shores had been! Never, not once, had he raised his arms against his own kin, never had he participated in the despicable deeds of Fëanáro, yet the same doom had awaited him, had awaited many innocent who had followed Finwë’s second son across the Grinding Ice. Rather futilely he struggled against the flow of tears that did not cease to run down his cheeks, no matter how often he wiped the wet trails away with the end of his sleeve.

“Dost not be ashamed of shedding thy tears, Laurefindil” a female voice as soft as the golden rays of the sun which fell through the dense leaf canopy said, and finally stirred him from his musings. Aye, there was no denial that he had been heavily occupied with his own thoughts, but nevertheless he could have sworn that he had not passed by someone whilst he had walked past the row of trees from where the voice had come from.

Startled, he turned around to meet the piercing gaze of a female who seemed entirely unimpressed by his concern. “Who art thou, my lady?” asked the elf at last, although he could have guessed from the appearance alone whom he was talking to. The figure covering wore a fluttering scarf of an iridescent fabric over her mouth and nose; the veil only spared her shining eyes that gloomed in shades of violet with silvery threads in between. Her thick, pitch-black hair was braided intricately and adorned with sparkling jewels and beads of different colors, shining through the thin headscarf she wore to cover her head and parts of the high-necked dress of dark grey with highlights of silver and amethyst she wore. Although Laurefindil was certain he had never heard the voice before, she seemed strangely familiar to him. “Methinks that I have lain my eyes upon thee before, or am I mistaken?”

A gentle smile tucked at the corner of her lips which were barely visible beneath the opalescent fabric. “One of the Fëanturi I am, Nienna, the sister of Irmo and Námo,” she began to explain with a voice that was so soft and sweet like the blossoming roses next to where he stood, “and nay thou art not mistaken by saying thou hast seen me before in the twilight halls of my brother; often do I venture there and tend to the mourning souls who are contemplating about their deeds in life and sorrows in death, for their grief is my own, their sorrow is mine to share.”

Despite his conversation with the Elder King, Laurefindil did not have any knowledge about just how many years he had spent in the Halls of Mandos, those gloomy halls of twilight, which did not know day or night, a never-ending gloominess clinging to every wall and every room, veiling the entire place into a darkness of surreal twilight. A dreadful place he had to admit, and although he could not be bothered for many years, now he was relieved that he could dwell in Lórien’s sanctuary instead. Impossibly it was for him to understand how somebody could go there willingly, but then, the Ainur’s thoughts and motives always had seemed incomprehensibly.

“Thou hast not spoken a mere word,” he commented at last, because certainly he had seen her wandering the gloomy corridors when he had occasionally dared to step outside his own chambers. Flames were burning far away, resembling the flickering light of torches of which he was so familiar with, but when he had walked down towards the source of light, it appeared as if he would never come any closer, and after several tries to chase the light he had given up. Her head she shook before she spoke again: “Hast thou, I ask thee? Weariness and heavy woe hath occupied thy heart.”

Involuntarily and rather visibly, the elf flinched upon her words which bore slight notes of accusation, and his reaction was apparently answer enough for her as she spoke again: “Alas, thou hast not, dost not forget this and blame thyself for lacking interaction from our side; thou hast shown us rather obviously that thou refusest any counsel, and therefore I did not approach thee, letting you linger in your woe and weariness, accepting thy chosen solitude. What choice did I have, I ask thee, and not certain am I if I could have been of any help. Thy cause is specific, and mayhaps even beyond my ability to cure and heal your sorrows; nevertheless I have always known thy history, felt thy grief and internal despair. The tears thou shed, Laurefindil, are mine to share, the grief that occupies thy heart is mine to feel – then as it is now, although thy tears are not entirely based on your history.”

Sheer astonishment was visibly spread across the elf’s face, and his eyes widened in surprise as he asked in disbelief: “How would’st thou know?”

“As I have told thee: I sense thy emotions – and trust my knowledge: countless years I dwell on this soil, countless souls I have tended to in many a century; every single nuance of grief and sorrow, of loneliness - and love-based sadness can I distinguish from another. Thou art not the first suffering from those emotions I have never been able to completely understand.”

Had his expression shown a surprising note before, it was now changed towards worry, fear even; nobody must ever know what he had felt and still feels towards the mighty Lord of the Valar, what had happened between them so many centuries ago.

“Worry not, Laurefindel,” she softly said in reassurance as if she could read his mind, “I shall never speak to no one of thy sorrows and pain if this soothes thy troubled mind, nor do I know for whom thy heart weeps, whom thou hast or still desire, and never will unless thou tell me so.” Nienna’s words had his smile made return, although only slightly, as the sadness seemed to be etched right into his mind.

“Another who is far beyond my reach,” Laurefindil said silently and actually more to himself than for her to understand his words, but she had heard them nonetheless, and actually he could not find the heart to care as another wave of indescribable longing swapped over him. O, he wished to let down his guard, at least once, and share his secret with someone who might understand him, who could offer him counsel and much needed compassion, yet never would he dare to say what troubled both his mind and heart.

“Dost not share thy secrets with me,” she said, placing her finger over his lips as if she had read his thoughts. “Nothing good shall ever come from it. Instead, ask thyself about the importance of thy feels towards her or him - that is all counsel I can give thee.”

And then she was gone, dissolving in the air without remnants as if she had never stood beside him, but despite her absence her finger still seemed to linger against his lips.

‘What madness is this?’ Did she harbor any suspicions of whom he had been thinking about, with whom he had met and talked a few days ago? Laurefindil asked himself, did they all suspect anything, and as much as he wished to believe her words, he felt unable to; maddening his thoughts were, and again he was alone, hoping for the one who seemed to have forgotten about him yet again. O, so desperately he wished to share the thoughts and emotions that coiled with him, yet never had his spirit been summoned by the Lord of the Winds. Not today, and not tomorrow, and despair began to gnaw at him again until the sun had reached its peak on the third day.

 

---

 

Yet another treachery of his vision this most likely was, but the sun of the early morning seemed to be brighter than it had been ever before, Laurefindil noticed; Irmo’s sacred sanctuary stretched out before him, glowing vividly in the brightest of colors like a most exquisite painting, which had come to life over the long hours of nightly darkness. With a certain reluctance he had to admit that in the moons, which had gone by since he had been granted to stay in the Gardens of Lórien instead of the Halls of Awaiting, he had found he had grown more and more fond of the peaceful and tranquil environment of his new surroundings.

Without a distinct direction he had wandered again throughout the gardens before an all too familiar voice from behind had startled him, a voice which had made him spin around with his heart leaping in joyful excitement, a voice that so easily was his undoing; so many days he had waited and prayed for him to pay him another visit, had sought out the spot under the weeping willow where they had met the last time but nothing, much to his own dismay, had ever happened.

“Would’st thou mind if I walk with thee a little?” The Vala had asked with one of his rare but breathtaking smiles, only to diminish Laurefindil’s hopes with the words he had added immediately afterwards as he stepped into pace with the elf. True affection still accompanied them but the elf failed to notice. “Admittedly, I am not granted much spare time these days, however I much desired to see to thy recovery myself.” He had looked at him with a mixture of misery and gratitude, apparently unable to decide what to feel about the unexpected visit. In the last moment, Laurefindil had bitten back the heavy sigh of frustration which nearly fell from his lips; ungrateful he was, and in what position exactly was he to demand anything from the one who was king of all? Couldn’t he count himself lucky that Manwë had visited him at all, visited him again?

And so they had walked beneath the blossoming cherry trees holding idle conversation about things that perhaps did not matter for both of them, but neither dared to speak their true thoughts and emotions aloud.

Twice they have met since the first meeting under the weeping willow, and incredibly brief and innocent as anything could ever be those encounters had been. O, so many dreams and worries Laurefindil wished to voice aloud, yet he had never found the heart to do so, afraid to scatter the pleasant memories which were basically everything that kept him alive. Once before he had already ruined everything that was dearest to him, not a second time anything which would be remotely comparably would happen.

However, he could not help but wonder what a foolish charade this was as they walked through the Gardens of Lórien again, and despite the light breeze that rustled the leaf canopy above them, the air between them was thick and heavy, filled with something of which the elf missed the words to phrase it accurately. Well, probably and most likely he was mistaken, perhaps it was just wishful thinking from his side again, ambiguous, delightful thinking, but wasn’t it apparent? Those shy glances cast in the moment the other seemed not to watch, the fleeting touches against each other’s hands that just lasted a second too long to be entirely accidentally – everything seemed to be how it had been millennia ago at the very beginning of their foolish attraction towards each other.

Never in his life had Laurefindil shied away, be it a matter of social nature or in combat, yet so strangely shy and insecure he felt in the Vala’s presence that he had cursed himself several times.

Impossibly hard it was to ignore the increasing longing, the desire which clearly floated through his veins, with all those long forgotten dreams resurfacing, those futile desires he had thought long buried somewhere in the Blessed Realm, which were so entirely inappropriate for the situation. Desperately, he fought against the blush that began to crawl over his skin when his own fingertips brushed against the back of the Vala’s hand; both were silent for a long moment, yet Laurefindil felt that he was caught, trapped.

He felt Manwë’s intense gaze resting upon him although he had cast his own glance downwards, a fact that certainly did not help to dissolve his embarrassment and in his mind, he already searched for the most ridiculous excuses - no matter what had happened between them previously (which was not much if he was honest), admitting the improper thoughts would mean that these meetings he took so much solace and joy in would immediately stop. Aye, fleeting and brief the encounters were, but everything they shared was so much better than the heartbreaking solitude he had endured for so many years. Deliberately he refused to meet the Vala’s eyes and uncomfortably the silence stretched; and when he was still struggling with anything to say that would pacify, he was torn out of his mental state.

“Look at me,” Manwë demanded, and for the elf it was as if his voice was different than usual, fainter, more distant, almost carrying a slightly nervous note. However, authority never lacked, and with a certain reluctance, Laurefindil finally lifted his head. Disobeying the request was no option, even if he would have much desired to do exactly this in this very moment; too great the worries of what further disobedience would provoke.

Eyes as clear as the cloudless sky above them met his own, and where he had expected to see anger and disapproval he only caught glimpses of sincere regret: “As much as I would enjoy to walk amidst the blossoming cherry trees with thee for many an hour, I shall not, as obligations which I have postponed await me. Already many moments too long I have lingered here in thy company, Laure.”

Laurefindil gulped in response and desperately fought against the disappointed which seemed to coil and spread in his stomach: “I understand,” he simply said, and aye he did, however, the prospect of another parting filled him with sadness; but then, what had he expected, what right did he have for his ridiculous thoughts and wishful thinking? Wasn’t this already so much more than he had ever thought possible, was this not a wonderful confession from the Vala’s lips? Still, as much as he already had never seemed to be enough, sufficient, so much more he wished to say, to do – to feel, no matter how foolish he deemed his own thoughts, he was unable to stop them.

He could not tell for certain if it was nothing more than hopeful imagination or if he had truly felt the Vala’s fingers brush against his own for the briefest of moments, and oh so easily he got carried away once more that he hardly noticed that Manwë spoke to him again. “Worry not, Laure, once my time allows it, I will return to thee and thou shall await me.”

“I will,” said Laurefindil before he had realized that he wished to say anything at all, and for moments, he allowed himself to drown himself in the sky that seemed to float through the Vala’s mesmerizing eyes, before all coherence left him, when he felt Manwë’s fingers thread through his own. Truly it was as if he was caught in his own realm of dreams of wishful thinking, everything around him seemed to slow down when the Elder King leaned in and soft lips brushed against his own for not longer than the blink of an eye. Enough this was to make his knees grow weak, for his body to begin to tremble. Brief and almost innocent the contact was, sadly too brief to be reciprocated on his side, though it easily had been enough to leave a shiver in its wake, so much more than he had ever dared to dream of.

The rarest of smiles graced the Vala’s fair features as he let go of the elf’s hands and said his good-bye in an almost apologetic tone, his expression one of both understanding and undisguised admiration: “Fare thee well, Laure,” and before Laurefindil could speak or react in any way, he was gone, his fána dissolving into the spring breeze that caressed his skin and hair.

Laurefindil’s hands rose on their own accord with the fingertips brushing against his lips were just a moment ago the Vala’s own had lingered in too brief a touch. A dream certainly this must have been, a trick, nevertheless he whispered, amazed by the moment that just had passed, although he already knew that he had spoken in vain: “Stay, and repeat thy deeds!” he demanded, but did not receive, just as expected, any answer.

O, what madness was this, he asked himself in astonishment, what cruel mockery of his fantasies; a trick upon his expenses? Nay – immediately Laurefindil dismissed the thought.

But why leave, why now? Why leaving him with a mental disaster as if his state had not been worse and troubled enough all the days before? Nothing of Manwë’s words and deeds would he ever understand, but then, the Ainur’s minds always had been a strange mystery and nearly incomprehensibly not only to himself, but to others as well, and out of frustration he kicked a small stone out of his way.

A chaste kiss this had been, aye on his lips, enough to fuel those desires he long had buried, and although he did not understand any of Manwë’s actions, so much possibilities to linger, to dissolve in sweetest illusion for many a day. The sweetest of solace for all the empty and long hours he was certain about to come.

Dreams Come Alive

[Chapter Summary]: After long days spent in solitude Manwë pays Glorfindel another visit. [aka basically the chapter with all the Vala/Elf porn you have ever wanted (or not) - sorry not sorry]

[Warning] - M/M, explicit content.

Read Dreams Come Alive

Chapter 05 – Dreams Come Alive

 

In the Gardens of Lórien

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Day after long day passed without a visitor for Laurefindil, a week went by and then another, and although he deemed his own impatience ridiculous, worries and melancholy began to gnaw at his fragile state of mind once again: had he said or done anything to displease the Vala during their brief encounters?

Had he been so obvious in everything he had done, had the briefest of caress just been the last good-bye – a sorrowful good-bye like he had experienced it already before?

Oh, cruel this was, and the longer he indulged in his musings, caught in a maelstrom of melancholy, the prospect of having said his last good-bye seemed to be the only valid explanation; but then, hadn’t the Vala said he would pay him another visit once his tight schedule would allow him such idle pleasantries? Unable Laurefindil found himself to distinguish between right or wrong any longer, here in Irmo’s sacred garden, where he had so many questions to ask, about his past and about his future - if there was any for him.

Laurefindil bowed his head and pressed his shaking hands together, and in silence he vowed he would not remain silent any longer, post-pone all the question that burned so wearingly on his mind; no matter how brief their next encounter would last, he would force himself to speak his mind aloud.

 

Many days later

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Day after day, he would come, enjoying the soft sound of gushing water, staring right into the stream for hours and hours and despite the fact that he had always enjoyed the beauty of nature, he was almost magically drawn towards this secluded place. Seated beneath a weeping willow nearby the gushing stream, his hands wandered idly over the tiny violet flowers that covered the entire ground, their heavenly scents wafting around him. It was impossible to determine which season it was as the gardens seemed to be nearly unaffected by seasonal effect, blossoming forever as it seemed.

The tedium of this particular afternoon was proving especially difficult to endure.

For countless years he had sought solitude and rejected all during his stay in Námo’s halls, be it Valar or his own kin, but now, strangely as it perhaps was, he felt lonely. As long as he had lived, Laurefindil had always enjoyed the pleasant company of friends, and much had he been liked among nobles and common folk alike, greatly he had indulged into the splendor of great feasts, and all the amenities Túrukano’s court had to offer. Indeed, never had he been one to shy away from the regular social obligations which came with his rank among the noble lords of the white city; quite the contrary. Wholeheartedly he had indulged into easy conversations and deep discussions alike, and now, somehow his old self seemed to awaken within him again.

Slowly, certainly, yet unmistakably so.

For hours, he was lazily drifting between stages of consciousness and sleep when the rustling of leaves behind him jarred him back into reality, although at first he had almost dismissed the sound as just another figment of his dreaming mind; but then, the soft noise had persisted, and excitement began to coil within him.

No need there was to turn his head nor to rise from the position he was in; the otherworldly presence of one of the Ainur around him was distinct against his mind, and in this moment, he knew that his silent pleas were finally answered.

“Alatúlië,” (Welcome) Laurefindil greeted in delight, yet he resisted the urge to spin around immediately as he would have much desired to do with the childish excitement that rushed through him. O, so many days he had waited to lay his eyes upon the ethereal Lord of the Winds again, to lose himself in those stunning blue eyes as he had done so many times before, to finally be granted time to ask all the questions that were occupying his thoughts day and night.

“Well met, Laure,” The Vala responded in a voice that was strong and soft alike as he took a few steps to come to stand next to the sitting elf, and into his vision, and not unnoticed the widening of Laurefindil’s eyes went, as for long moments the elf simply stared rather mesmerized as his gaze fell upon him, absorbing the sight the Lord of the Winds presented.

“Different thou dost look,” Laurefindil remarked when he had collected himself, at least a little: breathtakingly beautiful the Vala was with his silvery hair that cascaded down his shoulders like a moonlit waterfall, tiny pearls and beads of different blues woven into the strands that now reflected in the sunlight, the silver crown adorned with precious jewels of the same color upon his head. The silken clothing flowed about him as if the material was light as air, the filtered sunlight catching itself in the silver threads that adorned the precious fabric.

Majestically he was like Laurefindil had only once seen him before: on the night Finwë had wed his second wife, Indis of the Vanyar, when all inhabitants of Tirion had gathered for a joyful feast; nothing more than a child he had been then, and in unspeakable awe he had stared at the mighty Lords of the West who graced the newlyweds with their presence. Mesmerized he had been by their ethereal splendor until his mother had scolded him not to stare in such a blatant way. Never before, and never after he had seen such magnificence, such spell-binding beauty, and, truly he had thought a marriage blessed by the mighty lords themselves was automatically granted happiness.

What an utmost foolish assumption!

Peacefully and quiet the first century indeed had been, but soon after, subtle threats of rebellion had wafted through the nightly streets of Tirion, and not much later, Fëanáro openly had openly rebelled against his half-brother, heeding the lies the Black foe had sown in his untamable spirit.

Rumors of planned usurp, weighting one against the other, such malice within the own family and open threats, something Laurefindil, who had always seen siblings as a blessing, could not understand. Barely an adult he had been when Fëanáro’s judgment by the Valar had been spoken in the Ring of Doom, and foolishly he had thought that peace and quiet would gain the mastery once more.

Aye, for a few years peace indeed had come back to the shining streets of Tirion, and with every year that passed, all their lives slowly went back to how it had always been; however, deeply underneath the smooth surface it boiled and simmered like the lava boiled beneath the ground until the pressure would tear the earth apart, until fiercely the hot liquid would erupt. Too deep the hurt and worries ran within Finwë’s eldest son, and the slaying of his beloved sire and the theft of the jewels which had been so dear to him, so much dearer than any living being possibly could ever be, had been the final trigger.

Where others would have sought solace within the family, grief in silent contemplation, Fëanáro had sworn foolish revenge against the Dark One in his blinding wrath, and Laurefindil had never been entirely certain what occurrence the proud Ñoldo had mourned more.

Many millennia ago all these incidences had been, and now, with the wisdom that often came with age and personal experiences, the flight of the Ñoldor seemed only all the more ridiculous, doomed to failure from the very beginning.

But then, after all, he had desired to follow across the Grinding Ice - not Fëanáro himself however, but his half-brother, and out of different reasons. Always had he been indifferent towards the rift that had grown over the years between the sons of Finwë, at least had he tried to be, even if a certain influence from Túrukano’s side couldn’t be denied. However, Laurefindil had always doubted that he would have ever followed wouldn’t it have been for the fateful night all those countless years ago, and now all seemed to be revived by a chaste caress bestowed upon his lips. Incapable he still was to understand the true meaning behind it, and often he thought he simply had interpreted too many a thing into it.

Completely astray his mind had went, back towards the day when he had seen Manwë in all his splendor, when he had blatantly stared - and unable he was to tear his gaze away now; quickly, he closed his mouth because yet again he caught himself staring with his jar gasped open, entirely unbefitting to greet the Elder King. “I wished to step before thee as the one I truly am, for once not hidden in false disguise of thy kin; so wrong it hath felt that something of such importance should be built upon lies and false deception.”

Wise words, the Vala spoke, Laurefindil had to admit, though yet he failed to understand the true meaning behind them, but they held enough beauty to let his mouth fall open once more.

Aye, he had always known – or at least heard of the fact that the Ainur could choose their appearance as they wished, their bodily form merely a projection; always had the idea of the changing fána intrigued him, but long years did pass until he understood the meaning in its entirety. At first, when they have accidentally met in the gardens of Mindon Eldaliéva, he had not recognized the Elder King and so embarrassed he had been afterwards by mistake him for an ordinary elf.  

“Thus, I thank thee,” responded Laurefindil after a while, releasing the breath he did not even know that he was holding until then, and desperately he forced his facial expression to become normal again; how much he succeeded, however, he did not know, because gloriously indeed the Elder King’s appearance was. It was not so, that Manwë’s usual fána which resembled the bodily form of his Laurefindil’s own kin had not been extraordinarily pretty as well, yet this was unexceptional, and such a rare occurrence.

He had never been easily intrigued by the visible display of power, not in Tirion or later in Nevrast; aye, certainly, he had always shown appropriate respect towards his superiors but never had he been found among those who swooned openly upon all the splendor. Much later in Ondolindë, when he had been counted among the noble lords himself, this exact behavior had always made him uncomfortable as respect and affection should always come from deeds and sincere liking, never from a position alone.

Now, however, undeniably he was affected by what he had so much despised whilst he had been alive, at least a little, and like the child with shining eyes holding his mother’s hand, he felt once more, struggling for words which simply did not wish to come: “I ask thee, if thou wouldest not mind, take thy seat beside me,” he finally managed to say, being certain that his state of mind did not go unnoticed, though the Vala remained silent as he sat down beside him.

Slight threads of nervousness began to coil and spread within him; in silence he had vowed to himself to ask all the questions which had so long troubled him lately, and although hard it was to focus on them again now with Manwë’s presence so close, a welcoming diversion from what truly occupied his mind they were. Hardly he could voice his desires to feel the Vala’s lips against his own again, now could he without causing yet another rift between them?

Laurefindil drew in a deep breath, looking down at his own hands, which still played with the violet flowers that covered the lush meadow, before he asked the first question, an ask he almost knew the answer to already: “Thou hast granted me to see mine eternal fate, hast thou not?”

“Aye,” the Vala nodded in confirmation, “Irmo’s vision thou hast seen, given to thee on my behalf. Unable I have always been to understand why both Námo and Irmo hath been so reluctant to show what had happened after Ondolindë’s fall, only just I would name it.”

“This, I do not know; haply they have thought I would be unable to bear the dreadful memories? Admittedly, many a day after the initial dream I have suffered gravely, possibly even whilst I have dreamt, still I so much deem it necessary and past-due. My praise and thank thou hast, and many a thing seems clearer to me now - still not all questions are solved on mine side.”

“What ails thee, speakest, what liest so heavily upon thy heart?”

“O, so many thoughts occupy mine head, so many unresolved questions float through mine mind,” Countless would perhaps been the better choice of word, but at least half of his questions he did not dare to speak of, at least not yet. “The eagles have guarded mine memorial for many years, those divine birds that only follow thy command; wherefore, I ask thee, wherefore?”

Did he truly not know? Hard the Vala found to believe it, but he had vowed silently to answer all of the elf’s concerns. “Always thou hast been dear to me, Laure, thou hast refusest to see it in thy blinding rage. Thy eternal fate I could not alter, nor could another, and neither could I interfere in anything thou hast done once thou hast set thy feet upon the Grinding Ice; yet, despite better knowledge I have watched thee from the utmost West, and listened to the words Thorondor had to say to mine ears. Believe me, I do not lie when I say thou always had mine love, though perhaps I have not understood myself what I have felt for thee, how mine feelings towards thee have been slowly altered over the years - an. Not the only one thou art who hast suffered from thy decision to leave these shores.”

Only then, Laurefindil stopped to idly play with the tiny flowers and tilted his head to meet the Vala’s gaze; always had he been fascinated by the stunning blue eyes that so much resembled the blue of the brightest morning sky, but until now he had not noticed that the change in fána also had an effect on Manwë’s eyes; it was as if he looked right into the endless vaults of heaven.

With sheer astonishment he exclaimed, finding his voice he had thought lost again: “Thine eyes…”

Not by surprise, Laurefindil’s notion came for him, as unusual his eyes truly were, and genuinely he began to explain: “Alas – mine eyes are unlike from what thou hast seen ere, but worry not, Laure; their appearance is a glass of mine emotions, they reflect mine mood unguarded for all to see. Unable I am to take external control, and thus only very few among the Eldar have ever seen me with these eyes in the days of old, Ingwë and Finwë among them.”

Taken aback Laurefindil was, lost for words with his mind reeling upon the divine sight of those bewitching eyes when Manwë spoke again: “Mourned thy decision to leave these lands behind I truly have, and much alike I have mourned thy death and Ondolindë’s fall, and despite of what thou hast assumed for countless years: thou hast had mine love, Laure – no matter what thou hast said or done in thy blind anger, no matter how fiercely thou hast screamed for vengeance, I felt for thee – still I feel for thee, and mine genuine love thou hast.”

Never had he thought to hear such a confession, such gentle words, and deliberately all those long years he had truly thought he had rightfully lost all respect and love the Vala once might have harbored for him – astonishment upon his own misconception struck him violently. “Tis .. wherefore thou hast let me wait for so many a day? Wherefore.. thou hast kissed mine lips o so gently ere thou hast vanished from mine sight?” Too wonderfully this would be, yet hardly he dared to believe it thus, and indeed his thoughts were extraordinarily veering this day.

A shiver rushed down his spine when he caught the Vala’s gaze for the briefest of moments, enough reassurance to let go of the breath he was holding, and for the first time he realized that subtle notes of arousal already began to stir within him as he felt his hardened nipples brushing against the soft fabric of his tunic.

“Verily, seldom it doth occur,” Manwë began, words that certainly did not fail its mark, “a rarity thou mightest say, and right thou art! Yet sometimes mine own emotions seem to overwhelm me, but aye, thou art right in thy assumption: a gesture of reassurance, as something to keep thy mind occupied with instead of those dreadful memories and melancholic thoughts.”

As much as Laurefindil wished to allow his thoughts to wander towards what he had so much hoped for in the darkest of nights, he dared not to, as no matter how much Manwë said he cherished, even loved him, something entirely different simply could not be erased from reality. Briefly, he closed his eyes and drew in a sharp breath only to exhale exaggeratedly shortly after, gathering the internal strength he certainly would need to speak the words, the strength he would need to cope with the devastating answer of which he was certain would follow.

Reluctantly and barely audibly he forced the words past his lips: “What about … what about thy spouse…?” Certain he was that his dream would be heavily crushed once the question was answered.

“Worry not,” responded Manwë, and only seconds later, snippets of a conversation filled his mind, and all he could do was to stare in awe; he heard and saw what perhaps was never meant for him to witness, but then, the possibility that he would not trust him, did exist, he had to admit. ‘No more lies shall stand between us’, the Vala had said earlier to him, and finally Laurefindil realized Manwë truly had meant ever word he had spoken when he continued to listen to his monologue. “Tough it strikest thee strange, she knowest I am here. With thee – and alas, so she doth know about the incidence all those years ago; after many years I have been faithful and revealed everything to her.”

When he looked up again, he felt another thrill; it wasn’t only an answer, it was a statement and Laurefindil had to fight against the urge to simply throw his arms around the Vala in frantic happiness which began to coil in his stomach, but he decided against it and listened closely instead: “Many a thing I have learned the past millennia, Laure, trust me for once I ask thee, and not pleasantly it hath been. In regard to what is on thy mind but thou darest not to speak: she doth love me as I love her, and I most likely she hath always known; she hath seen me suffering all those years, often lost in silent musings, lost in dreadful thoughts wandering mine halls high upon Taniquetil. Love among the Ainur is different to what the Eldar feel towards their own kin... to what I feel for thee, and perhaps always have felt.”

Laurefindil could not prevent the smirk that started to tug at the corner of his mouth when his reeling mind had finally processed the meaning of those softly spoken words.

Had Manwë just said that he loved him, desired him still?

That nothing should ever come between them .. that he would – finally – give into his silent pleas?

O, certainly he must have misheard or misinterpreted the divine words, too heavenly they were to be sweet reality. But then, the Vala’s gentle voice interrupted his train of thought once more: “I beg thy forgiveness, truly I do ask for it,” Manwë added, visibly struggling to voice his most intimate thoughts, his eyes pleading for pardon, “unfaithful I might have been, and trust me when I finally admit: never have I been so mistaken in mine life as I have been all those countless years ago. I desire thee, thy flesh and body in a way I never shall.”

Laurefindil’s mind spun upon the newly obtained information, and oddly he felt a wondrous surge of triumph rush through him. No, he hadn’t thought this possible. Never, and for long moments he relished the silence, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and tried to calm his thoughts, but he was condemned to fail. The memory was vivid and fresh as if the night the Vala had been talking about had only been a fortnight ago.

Involuntarily, his body began to tremble ever so slightly, and for moments it felt as if something special, something of which Laurefindil l had no words for transpired between them, sparks of energy, a searing heat that made him hot and cold alike when he felt the burning gaze of the Vala wander along his neck and arms. Without giving his idea much thought he shifted his position ever so slight that he more or less faced the other, and in that moment the Vala rose his hand. He didn’t know if Manwë truly wished to touch him there or if his hand had brushed accidentally against his face, but Laurefindil decided it mattered not; too wonderfully the touch felt against his skin.

“Good lords, many a night mine thought hath dared to dream exactly such…,” was his response when Manwë’s fingers lingered a moment too long on his cheek to be accidental, a little too demanding for a gesture of comfort between friends.

“What sayest thou, what art on thy mind?” Gently the words were spoken, however with such a persistence and beseeching tone that the elf did not dare to refuse him an answer.

A lump began to form in Laurefindil’s throat, the fears of rejection and disappointment still occupying parts of his mind; too wonderfully the words the Vala had spoken simply were, too surreal to be reality. He blinked, partly out of confusion, partly out of embarrassment because his thoughts had not been entirely innocent. “Wilt thou kiss mine lips, as thou hast kissed them under Laurelin’s auric light?” His words were nothing more than a breathed whisper, shy and insecure, nothing remaining of the fierce warrior the golden-haired elf was, the Lord of the Golden Flower upon whose valor and deeds songs were already sung. “As thou hast done to bid me thy farewell?” The subtle notes of worry upon yet another rejection threaded through every vein of his body, and all he could do was to cast down his glance.

Soft fingertips found their way beneath his chin, lifting the elf’s head up ever so slightly to meet the storm-clouded sky that danced now through Manwë’s eyes. “Dost thou require a spoken answer, Laure?” responded the Vala, and Laurefindil was all too easily losing himself in the darkened eyes with undisguised longing shining in them, and for the first time since Manwë’s arrival he dared to touch him, carefully and not more than the dance of fingertips. His hand was warm against the Vala’s skin that was so soft that he did not wished to let ever go.

Visibly he was now aroused, his cheeks flushed and he could feel yet another surge of heat stir in his lower abdomen, sparks of fluttery excitement that elicited a visible shiver: “With all mine heart - nay.” he said without concealing the naked longing in his eyes, taking his delight in pulling the rare smiles from the Elder King’s lips.

But then, the smile was gone and Manwë’s lips were against his own, soft and ever so careful, yet as demanding as Laurefindil had remembered them to be, assisted by eager hands that threaded into his golden hair. How many centuries had he hoped that history would repeat itself, and now it was finally happening, and his heart leapt in delight. Shivering, he hitched himself closer, bringing his own hands upwards to touch the Ainu’s face, his fingertips idly dancing across the silvery brows, the soft eyelids and lashes. For moments, the world stood still, Manwë’s hand was warm and solid against the back of his head, a heat rising from his palm that bleed through his entire body. Laurefindil opened his mouth against Manwë’s lips and tasted the heat of his tongue, a gentle play of desire and exploration, and instinctively he moved closer until the ache in his loins threatened to consume him.

Their eyes have long fallen shut and when the Vala’s fingertips tighten even more in his hair, he felt as if his bodily form would dissolve. In his reveries, the lips of the one he had desired for so many years had been warm and soft, gentle yet demanding, but they were only a poor imitation of reality, lacking the divinity, somewhat unreal – over the years he must have forgotten.

The kiss was slow but passionate, Manwë’s tongue probing against his lips once more and he willingly opened up to him almost wantonly, and equally demanding as if millennia old longing was finally set free; heavy the air between them was with expectations, with sinful illusions of equal desire and temptation, neither of them wanting to pull apart to breathe when the sensation was overwhelming. O, so easily Laurefindil could lose himself in the bliss that threatened to consume him, once already he had lost himself in frantic and blind desire, and long ago he had sworn to himself that he would never make the same mistake again. He had to know, he had to ask the question which would seal their eternal fate; with much reluctance he let go of the Vala’s lips and broke the divine contact, and again nervousness and worry seized him, yet he had to know.

Not easily the words would come, and indeed he had to summon all his strength to choke out what lay so heavily and paralyzing upon his heart and mind: “Thou wilt not rekindle mine hope, mine dreams,” Laurefindil began to mumble barely audibly whilst his eyes held the Vala’s gaze, “mine perhaps ludicrous desires … anew? To ... to..” Desperately, he struggled to voice his greatest fear aloud, but he could not bring himself to say the words - too deeply the disappointment still sat within him, and despite the fact that he was still completely dressed he felt so utterly exposed.

Not necessary it was, however, as the Vala’s voice filled the air again and it was as if Manwë had read his thoughts once more: “I know what fear doth occupy thy heart, Laure; that, at the end of all things, I shall say ‘I cannot’? Nay, Laurefindil – I shall not, and more importantly, I will not. Such a grave mistake I once have made already – deliberately I have hurt thy emotions, placing false hopes in thy heart. Thou must trust me: not mine intention it hath been to hurt thee.” Laurefindil hung on the Vala’s lips, absorbing every single word that was spoken, and he found himself unable to withstand the notions of sincere guilt and hurt floating through Manwë’s eyes. “With all the wrongs I have committed I shall not repeat mine decision! Many a cold night I have regretted such, contemplated mine choices of old, suffered endlessly on the words I have said – no more.” The Vala’s voice caressed the wind, but for many moments, Laurefindil’s senses were too dulled to comprehend the words, and he helplessly glanced at Manwë, his own irritation had rendered him speechless; unable he felt himself to do anything but to stare mesmerized in childish fascination. This was as close to an apology as he would ever receive from the Elder King, words he had never imagined to hear, and still he was not entirely certain if he had not misheard, exchanged words and syllables in what he so desperately wished to hear.

“The pain of regret we share,” Laurefindil said at last with astonishment still ringing in his voice, but now the words he had not dared to say during their previous encounters, spilled freely over his lips when he changed his position to come to sit between the Vala’s parted legs, his back resting against the other’s chest just as it had been the night he could never forget. “Truly, countless the hours have been in which I have recalled the past - from our first meeting in the splendid gardens of Mindon Eldaliéva, how day after day mine emotions for thyself grew, flourishing, blossoming like the luscious flowers we both have so much enjoyed. O, so young I have been, so innocent and fragile in all mine hopes and dreams. Mine mind hath been reeling, and barely I have been to understand it such – nor could I understand the desire that so freely began to flow through mine veins, a desire so fierce that I thought it would consume me. Over years we have met and talked for many hours, walked the gardens, remember?”

Finally, Laurefindil allowed his gaze to wander, and mesmerized he watched as the Vala’s hands slid down his arms until both of his own hands were entwined with them: “Every word thou hast spoken I remember as if it hath been only a moon’s turn ago? O, Laure, sayest, how could I not remember such a fortunate coincidence? Together we have enjoyed the soft light of the mingling trees, the flowers, the forests, the swarming butterflies that took an odd liking to thy hair. Day after day and our unusual friendship grew, and aye, often have I lingered in time long past, too; thou wilt not leave mine soul, mine heart, and in mine dreams I still could pretend that we would meet there besides the ever flowing stream, how so often we have done before that night which changed all. Dreams, naught more than a humble fragment of reality, and alas, the truth is: never have I thought anything could come between us,”

Laurefindil leant backwards and tilted his head and momentarily, the Vala’s eyes became unfocused as if his mind was wandering astray and caught somewhere completely else, and much the elf would give to be able to read the other’s thoughts.

“Neither have I,” Laurefindil admitted, as his thoughts already travelled back to the night so many years ago, “and never have I forgotten anything of what had happened that day; such innocent details seemed to be etched into mine mind, beginning with mine own excitement when I prepared myself for one of the first weddings I have attended to, finally having come of age. A traditional Vanyarin wedding, both bride and groom of noble birth, the firstborn children of lords – such splendor, such an abundance of mead and wine, truly they have surpassed themselves in the preparations,” Briefly, Laurefindil allowed his eyelids to flutter close to let the memories appear before his inner eyes: the breathtaking ceremony, the cheering crowds that had welcomed the newlyweds, the abundance of flower bouquets in silver and gold – but foremost, he remembered how his gaze had fallen upon the Lord of the Winds when he had last expected it, the outrighteously beautiful fána the Vala had decided to disguise himself into that day. “A marvelous feast this truly was, so much beauty and perfection all around me, yet I only had eyes for thee, searching for thee among the sea of honored guests, and more often than not, I caught myself staring.”

“Thou thinkest no-one would ever see,” responded Manwë with a chuckle much to the elf’s dismay, yet the voice rippled through him, the heat rushing to his face, “truly, mistaken thou hast been; thy burning gaze I felt upon me, hungrily thy gaze roamed over mine shoulders, mine back – though disguised as one of thy kin I have been mine senses remained the same.”

Was he shocked, or amused, Laurefindil could not exactly tell. Had he truly been so obvious?

“Thou hast never revealed such knowledge to myself,” Laurefindil said with played annoyance and for the first time, he allowed his fingers not to lay idle at his sides but to brush against the Vala’s thigh for the briefest of moments, enough to feel the electrifying sparks against his skin, a touch instantly reward by a fierce tremor from the Vala’s side.

Did Manwë hesitate or was he yet again mistaken? “How should I have, tell me? Barely a word we have spoken that day, remember, with prying eyes around us, and therefore, no possibility there hath been to reveal mine knowledge to thee,” he said at last, a blissful smile tucking at the corner of his lips.

“Aye, unwise such behavior would hath been,” the elf nodded in confirmation as he recalled the scenes so vividly as if it had only happened yesterday, “and truly otherwise engaged thou hast been until late at night with honored guests and bride and groom alike, condemned for an endless flow of idle conversation instead of indulging into the merriment,” Laurefindil’s eyes sparkled with mirth upon all the memories that flooded his mind, because he had both embraced dance and wine alike that night.

“‘I shall take my leave now’ thou hast said with such an unmistakable twinkle in thy shining eyes, and with every word that hath so freely spilled from thy lips, thou hast fueled mine hopes, mine desires all the more; ‘meet me down at the river when Laurelin’s auric light is at its highest. I shall await thee and anticipate thy arrival thus.’ And so I have sneaked away from the festivities without saying a word whence I was heeding to and wherefore I am leaving not to raise any suspicions – oh and so wonderfully I have felt in my foolish anticipation, so excited I perhaps never been ere – and ever after. Good lords,” Something between his legs began to stir to life upon the memory, and the same foolish excitement rushed through him in the most wonderful way, “not even now I have the words to explain what I have truly felt that very night, how I nearly have tumbled over mine own feet to get to thee all the faster; mine wildest fantasies would come alive, would be fulfilled, I truly have assumed.”

Much to his surprise he felt Manwë’s arms sneak around his waist, with his hands coming to rest on his stomach where he covered them with his own. O, forever he wished to stay like this, reveling in the bliss and beauty only he could give him, dissolving in the strong arms that held him close, and suddenly all too close the Vala’s lips seemed to be against his skin, as Manwë spoke again, warm breath brushing against his ears and neck, and he actually had to force himself to keep listening to the words Manwë had to say: “Forgive me, Laure, and regret I harbor, I truly do; every word thou hast repeated I have said, and perhaps these words can easily be counted among my gravest mistakes, at least in personal matters. So much I desired to speak with thee in private, away from all those prying eyes, and as ere I have said, I have noticed thy blatant stare, and I caught myself staring more often than I should have, inappropriately so, yet impossible twas to speak with thee amongst the crowds, dangerous enough have been the words I have spoken,”

Briefly, Laurefindil allowed his eyes to fall shut whilst he drew idle patterns across the Vala’s hands, before Manwë’s voice stirred him; “Always have I know thou wouldest come, but I have not thought that two flagons of wine would accompany thee. I know not what to say to earn thy forgiveness, apart from begging thee for forgiveness and offer thee mine most humble apology.”

The words simply seemed to slip from his tongue on their own accord: “Countless years I have been determined that I never could, but by now I think I might – and perhaps I already have…” Not even certain Laurefindil was if he spoke the truth, but for the first time since many a day, he genuinely held no grudges against the one he had once loved – and still loves.

Laurefindil drew in a deep breath and allowed his head to fall back just a little until the Vala’s lips accidentally brushed against his earlobe. The brief contact was glorious despite its innocence, and the world he would give to provoke the reaction he so much anticipated, however, not a single inch he seemed to move, instead his pleasant laughter filled the air, before Manwë spoke anew:

“On purpose thou hast done this, hast thou not?”

Laurefindil furrowed his brows and shrugged his shoulders just a little, as if he would like to say ‘Needless to say’ “A little encouragement from mine side,” he laughed after brief hesitation, again looking for the right words, giving him his most charming smile as he tilted his head to catch his gaze, “as I have tried under the weeping willows all these years ago. Remember, how thy lips hath wandered along mine neck,”

O, what would he give to feel the grazing teeth against his ear once more. The memory, clad and disguised in the Vala’s voice, stirred through his mind, and he adjusted his position ever so slightly to catch his gaze. Where once the white clouds drifted through them, they now resembled a darkening sky. “As it is now,” the Lord of the Winds said quietly, his breath dancing over Laurefindil’s skin, brushing against his flushed ear, and leaving a shiver in its wake.

“Whence the wandering water gushed, were we drank and laughed until the light of the trees began to mingle and painted the sky in the most surreal twilight.” By now, Laurefindil’s mind was completely consumed by the distant memories; it felt truly as all the anger that had come afterwards was erased, as if nothing of it had ever happened.

Deeply he inhaled and the Vala’s unique scent, a scent of freedom and distant lands, of the fresh air of the early morning tickled his nose in the most wonderful way, “Whence thou hast said words I have never thought existing in the vocabulary of the Lords of the West,”

Soft chuckle filled the air, as Manwë’s phrasing had been indeed extraordinarily filthy for one called King of all, before both grew silent, each occupied with their own thoughts of what had happened afterwards

Laurefindil was the first who somehow managed to stir from his musings: “Whence I have dreamt of so many more sweet words of adoration to follow, words which soon would have been exchanged against moans and gasps tumbling from thy divine lips.” he shook his head to chase the melancholy that once more found its way into his mind away, “All those years which came after, mine nights were haunted by those painful what if’s and figments of mine own imagination; scenarios of how it would feel like, to kiss thy lips, to kiss thy skin. Countless scenarios I have made up in mine head, of how thou caressest every inch of mine body, how I let mine own lips wander across thy silvery skin; O so futilely I have clung to all the memory I had, buried deep in mine heart never to forget, but those dreams and memories seemed to lack everything.”

The night that came after, Laurefindil had nearly lost his senses.

Repeatedly he had heard his own screams again and in anger and frustration he had screamed anew, cursing himself and the world for his crushed dream, disappointment mingling with wrath and cries for vengeance.

Laurefindil had laid in bed and thought about how Manwë had nearly begged him not to argue in such a furious manner, but then he had only laughed as fey and had screamed all the more, countless obscenities freely spilling from his bruised lips.

Hurt he was, especially his pride and betrayed he felt; so utterly betrayed, and he had wondered if the Vala had felt for him at all, or if he had completely misinterpreted everything in his drowsy state of mind.

But, then, the kisses had been all but innocent, all but brotherly love – that at least had been what Manwë had tried to tell him. Never had Laurefindil been certain if those apologies had not been anything but blatant lies.

Manwë hummed, a pleased little sound, and with that he brushed his nose along the elf’s cheek in utter affection before he spoke. “Shh, dost not irk.” The Vala murmured against his neck, his tongue darting out to lick up that little spot behind the pointy ear. All those millennia he had not forgotten of Laurefindil’s fierce reaction to exactly this, and he was not disappointed by the elf’s immediate response that was so breathtakingly divine. Still half lingering in his reverie, Laurefindil whimpered, with a jolt of incapable and powerful sensation rushing through him. Carefully he let his head fall backwards against Manwë’s shoulder and tilted it just a little to the side, actually meant to give him better access, but his reaction provoked an entirely different response.

The kiss that followed, was just an innocent peck to the corner of his mouth, yet it was enough to make his stomach flutter, eliciting sparks and frustration alike. “I beseech thee, dost not hesitate or discontinue,” the elf demanded, catching the lust-filled gaze that made him shudder, the Vala’s eyes that were so much darker and burning now than they had been before, spoke more than words could ever tell. “Countless years I have waited to feel thy lips caress mine skin, I beg thee,” Laurefindil swallowed hard to fight against the nervousness that rushed through him – once, only once before he had seen the Vala like this – in said fateful night.

“Even if I would wish to, I do not know if I ever could,” Manwë said, as his hands finally sneaked beneath Laurefindil’s tunic, his fingertips so heavenly ghosting over his stomach and chest, “nay, truly I could not,” he added after brief consideration, whispering against the elf’s ear “and perhaps worse: I do not even wish to, even if it means to break mine own laws.”

Laurefindil looked at him, fascinated by his words and reassuring touches, how he fought against the inner turmoil that certainly raged within him; the mere thought of the regal and ethereal Lord of the Wind caught in frantic desire with him was enough to fuel his own desires, longings against which he had struggled so long to keep them at bay. Manwë’s hands found his waist, strong hands, perfectly manicured and soft, but firm, nevertheless – hands that could easily pin him down and end his life if the Vala desired so. There was neither haste nor hesitation from the Vala’s side, when blissful dreams finally became reality for the elf. Every gentle touch elicited gooseflesh on his skin, ever small kiss against his neck left a shiver in its wake, and not long did it take until the first shy moan fell from his lips,

“Those laws thou hast defied and broken eons ago, if I may remind thee” the elf reminded him with a sigh of approval when the fingertips brushed against his hard nipples where they idly remained for a while whilst the luscious lips grazed along his neck downwards towards his collarbone, “and certainly no consequences hath followed, otherwise thou wouldst not be here I assume. However, thou art not the only one, perhaps no one of thy own kin hath broken them, but of mine; the knowledge thou mayest not like and perhaps dismay thou feelest, but readily the laws are broken among mine own kin – myself no exception.” he confessed, although it became impossible hard not to let coherency entirely slip from his mind.

Much to Laurefindil’s surprise did not comment on the last words he had spoken: “Verily I recall, how should I not? And aye, the truth thou speakest, ere I have acted against them. However, Laure, kissing thy luscious lips in foolish excitement after the consumption of many a goblet of wine, and taking pleasure from thy body are two different matters entirely, dost thou not think?” Cautiously Manwë stroked down his side, an idle dance of fingertips that were so maddeningly arousing.

“Aye,” he nodded in response, “However what I desire from thee is not only take, but give as well – a heavenly exchange of pleasantries and caresses. Against ‘taking pleasure from my body’ I am speaking, as pleasure wilt come to both of us. Manwë, I beg thee – thou of all knowest exactly how much I desire thee, desire this. O, how many dreams I have spent dreaming about thee, about giving mine body to whom I will – thee and thee alone! Not about thee this is, but us, a journey of mutual exploration and endless heights of bliss.” Beseechingly he spoke, hoping that his passionate words would erase remaining doubts from the Elder King’s mind.

“Thou better than I, shouldest know to whatever consequences the act of love shall lead,” Manwë said with hesitation, struggling to find the right words for something he had no experience with, words he had never used before. But then, never had he thought to hold one of the fair children in his arms in such a compromising manner, his arms sneaked around the divine body, his fingers exploring skin with taut muscles underneath whilst his lips and teeth grazed along the golden skin until the elf moaned upon the caress. Where he had been worried upon the alien sound at first, these little moans soon became heavenly music to his ears, and his own desire began to flare. Had the Vala previously thought he could never feel the same sexual attraction and desire as the Firstborn could, now he had to admit that he was thoroughly mistaken. The burning sensation between his legs told him as much, and soon he felt his body reacting violently upon the tingling heat.

“Consumed I have, but never truly loved,” confessed Laurefindil with equal consideration, completely aware of the reassuring hardness that grew against his back. However, it was only partly true, as his heart had never forgotten the one whom he had loved over all the years and unable he had found himself to open his heart readily for another. “The moon hath waxed and waned as my desire hath flown and ebbed like the tides against the rocky shore, but something deep within mine heart hath remained untouched as long as I have lived.”

Astonishment was an understatement for Manwë’s response, had Laurefindil truly never gifted another with his heart? “All those years?” So much more he wished to say, to do – anything to comfort the troubled elf in his arms – but he did not know what, he had never been good at this, and so he remained quiet apart from the question, and listened to Laurefindil’s confession instead.

“Aye,” he began his monologue, bringing his arms around the Vala’s neck to pull him closer if that was ever possible, “Thou hast won my heart and soul all those millennia ago and although I have never spoken the words, I have been in love with thee, perhaps from the first time I have met thee and always have been ever since – and still am; foolish excitement of youth thou mightest say, but twas not so. Aye, I have cursed thee with everything I was, mine heart and spirit, and to some extent I might curse thee still - truly I have thought the pain of thy betrayal will consume and end me, as I cannot deny mine heart had undergone a change after what I deemed utmost betrayal from thy side; so disappointed I have been, so sad and angry at the same time, drowning in melancholy. Often I have tried to hate thee with all mine heart, believe me, but after a while I could not find the strength to do so. ‘Never hate the one thou hast once loved,’ my mother hath once said to me, my mother who hath died on the Grinding Ice; but then, when she hath spoken the words I have only laughed bitterly, unwilling and unable to see the truth in her words. The realization came centuries later – I might have changed, but mine heart and feelings for thee hast not, not even death could alter my longing for thee as it seemeth.”

The air between them was heavy with expectation, and for once words did not seem to be sufficient any longer.

“Laure…” Manwë whispered against his ear before his lips continued their journey along the elf’s cheekbone down his neck and collarbone, showering him with such intimate affection that a sigh tumbled from Laurefindil’s lips in beautiful sensation, maddening desire washing through him.

O, so often had he fantasized to feel Manwë’s lips exploring his skin, his hands mapping every inch of his body until he would lose himself in revelation, and now that it was truly happening, Laurefindil felt as if he would dissolve in the Vala’s arms. So wonderfully his lips felt, and the soft bite against his collarbone only intensified the divine feelings that catapulted him into the realms of his own fantasies; and more importantly, every journey of the lips was accompanied by gentle fingertips that brushed against his nipples, playfully lingering there for mere moments until they trailed down further, brushing over the taut muscles that flexed beneath the skin, halting briefly as they reached the waistband of his leggings. Laurefindil released the breath he did not know he was holding, which resulted in a helpless sigh of anticipation. Never had he touched him there, not once, no matter the elf had secretly wished of it to happen, but always had this seemed like an overstepping of boundaries, an act of intimacy which Manwë had not been willing to give.

“May I?” Laurefindil heard the words spoken to him through his veil of lust and anticipation and truly amazed he was by such words of politeness where others – perhaps himself included – would have simply acted upon their own desires.

‘Everything thou desirest, Lord of the Winds, as thy desire is mine,’ heavily and reluctantly the words lay upon his tongue, and would not slip over his lips. In fact, unable he found himself to say a single word, wherefore he simply nodded his consent, a reaction the Vala found extraordinarily endearing.

Sparks were already flowing behind his eyelids when the Vala’s hand slipped beneath the waistband whilst he pulled him close with his other arm, hindering him from trashing all too violently. Soft fingertips ghosted over his silky skin, carefully and almost scared to use too much pressure, but for Laurefindil it truly felt like heaven. Every stroke, every touch bestowed upon him pulled a gasp or moan from his lips, all the more, when Manwë whispered something in a tongue he could not understand in his ear. “Good gracious, dost thou know how many years I have waited for this? More.. I beg thee,” beseechingly Laurefindil mumbled in a ragged voice, and much to his delight, the Vala obliged to his voiced desires, enwrapping his arousal completely before he allowed his hand to run up and down, slicking it with his own fluid. They fell into a comfortable silence that only was interrupted by soft moans filling the air around them, all the more when Manwë’s teeth grazed his earlobes, the breath maddeningly hot against his skin. Unable for Laurefindil to see, the Vala watched his expression closely, losing himself in the bliss that was visibly adorning his fair face, pleasure that spurred his own desire, and more eager his hand became with every stroke, with every moan that fell from the elf’s lips.

Laurefindil’s legs parted on their own accord to give the exploring fingers better access as they constantly trailed lower from the head down the shaft, until Manwë’s fingertips brushed against his testicles and he rocked his hips in response. Long his eyelids have fallen shut and his head back against the Vala’s shoulders, and o so heavenly he was touching him, with his own body rocking back and forth to meet each trust. He knew not long would he last if the Vala decided to keep such a frantic pace, but apparently entire different ideas were on Manwë’s mind; further down the fingers wandered until they disappeared between his cheeks where they remained idly for a moment and desire mingled with threads of nervousness.

“Wait,” he whispered almost apologetically when Manwë’s fingers resumed their journey, and instantly the explorations ceased. Laurefindil’s eyebrows drew together, worry mingling with pleasure, worry that was visible trapped between the creases in his forehead.

“Reluctantly I am to admit, believe me, but a certain nervousness filleth me,” Laurefindil admitted with a sigh, “and I hate myself for it. Never have I done anything alike.”

Millennia old he was, yet still a virgin in that regard, overwhelmed by ridiculous worries spreading through every fiber of his body, and no matter how often he had dreamt about this exact scenario, experiencing it was a different matter entirely.

“Worry not, Laure, neither have I,” carefully, the Vala placed his hands tentatively on the elf’s shoulders, his fingers catching in the golden strands that glowed so wonderfully in the filtered sunlight that fell through the dense leaf canopy, and truly amazed Laurefindil was by the look of genuine understanding and reassurance. “But thou wilt excuse my curiosity: I thought consumed thou hast, or do I recall thy words wrongly?”

“Nay, those words I have spoken to thee, and verily consumed I have, Lord of the Winds, but never have I submitted to anyone in mine life,” This came hardly as a surprise, Manwë thought in silence, and he could vividly imagine the golden-haired elf’s reluctance to such a suggestion. “No matter who hath asked, always have I been utmost reluctantly to be on the receiving end, and therefore never submitted to anyone. Never have I experienced this side of desire. Wherefore, thou mayest ask thyself: my reason is simple - such an intimate act I have wished to share with the one I loved – and trusted – which is thyself! Plainly speaking, it hath never felt right with another.”

Relieved to a certain extent Laurefindil was that the truth was finally revealed, and exactly this had been how it had always felt; he wished to savior this precious gift for the one he had truly loved beyond hope, and actually for many years Laurefindil had not even had the faintest of desires to indulge into the foolishness of bed play, too deep his hurt and betrayal still ran.

But now, lust was rekindled anew, and despite his nervousness his thoughts were heading into a rather distinct direction. “O, good lords, art thou aware of how often I have dreamt to spread my thighs for thee in the darkest hours of the night, nearly consumed by searing desire? Art thou aware of how much thou hast left to mine imagination that fateful night? Nay? O, truly, mine imagination rather vividly could be.”

Much to the Vala’s delight the wrinkles of worries had finally disappeared, and Laurefindil seemed to be his own self again, almost and despite his own longing he had offered that there was no need to continue, words which probably would have earned him at least a stare of dismay – if not worse. Laurefindil’s entire body was trembling against Manwë s and something within him arose, something which he had long thought lost; a playful eagerness, a mighty need to touch the other, to feel kiss and devour every inch of his divine body began to spread through his veins.

Idly sitting on the ground did not seem to be sufficient enough any longer and without giving his idea much thought, Laurefindil turned around and crawled onto Ainu’s lap which earned him a quizzical look and a delicately raised eyebrow.

“My humble apologies in advance I give thee. Thou wouldst not be reluctant, wouldst thou?” he asked with a delighted laugh, his voice filled with curious excitement and an unmistakable portion of wickedness. For seconds, he looked down in awe, as Manwë’s desire was so obvious, and these brief moments were enough to be entire caught off guard.

In response to his words, the Vala only chuckled lightly before he spoke, “perhaps I would, haply I would not,” and before Laurefindil could follow the words and process them, their position was reversed with Manwë sitting astride of him, pinning him helplessly down onto the soft grass, struggling futilely against the hold.

There was a strength in Manwë’s grip he had for some reason not expected and an almost threatening note in his voice that made his blood boil in his veins. “Foremost, thou sparkest my curiosity of what thou hast imagined, Laure. What dreams have occupied thy mind in all those lonely nights?” For moments silence reigned again, and Manwë admired the divine sight the elf presented with his golden hair fanned out over the lush green, highlighted against it, shimmering like a halo.

Laurefindil’s cheeks reddened as he recalled his imaginations how he had imagined what exactly the Vala’s frantic movements would feel against his sticky skin, his face flushed and his breathing shallow as he devoured every inch of his body, until he trashed and tossed beneath him, just as he did now.

Carefully he raised his head until his lips were only inches away from the Manwë’s, the silvery hair that cascaded down his face acting as a sinful veil around them. “Myself yielding, submitting to thee and thy will and desires,” whispered Laurefindil as if it was the most natural thing to say for the battle-steeled warrior. In truth, he would not ever yield, not in battle, nor in bed, with one exception: “Willingly, for thee to ta.., to devour,” he corrected, because nothing else his fantasies had been. Of such frantic pleasures he had dream that he had been unable to walk for many a day afterwards, of golden skin that was so heavily bruised and decorated with countless scratches that he had to cover himself up with high-necked clothes; his hair tousled and a untamable mess after the bliss of orgasm slowly ebbed and he still lay in the Vala’s strong arms, whispering sweet words of adoration into his ear. Nay, not of the gentle art of love under Laurelin’s golden light he had fantasized, of ruthless fucking and carnal lust his dreams had been made of.

A hint of surprise danced through the Vala’s eyes and Laurefindil took the opportunity to wrap his arms around the other’s neck, pulling him close until their lips touched. “I desire thee with all mine heart and soul, my body aches and yearns for thy divine touch. Wilt thou satisfy my insatiable needs, right here on this flowery bed?” Laurefindil breathed, repeating the words he had said millennia ago. “Wilt thou accept what I am offering so freely, with all mine heart and soul?”

This time, no words were said between them, as Manwë claimed the elf’s lips in a gentle kiss that soon became more frantic and demanding, until his entire body quivered with need, until he begged for mercy. Laurefindil tried to catch his breath, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of their kiss, by the expertise of the Vala’s lips and tongue, with desire endless as the floating sky above them.

A secret whisper stirred in Laurefindil’s soul as if the Vala’s words were placed right there, ‘Tis I will, and so much more, I promise’; nothing alike had he ever experienced, and in surprise his body seized and his eyes snapped open, before his lips were sealed again. At first it was barely a press of lips against his own, and yet he felt a shiver of delight run down his spine, making the tiny hair at this neck stand on end; soon Laurefindil did not know anymore where his body ended and the other began. The silent promise to take things slowly from the Vala’s side was easily forgotten as the elf’s breathing increased, rather it seemed as if he nearly begged for him to proceed.

As Laurefindil’s lips were released again, he allowed another of his fantasies to spill free, his voice ragged and heavy with arousal, “and sometimes, when all my other fantasies seemeth not to be sufficient anymore, I have imagined myself yielding - not so willingly.” The little detail that the Vala still wore his jewel-adorned crown, the visible sight of his rank as King of All only served to fuel his desires. His breath hitched upon the filthy thoughts and confession, and his eyes shone in mirth – but his words evoked a reaction he had not expected. As if his breathing was not heavy with lust enough, Manwë brought a hand between them, cupping the bulge in Laurefindil’s leggings until he ached against him in response, all coherency slipping from his mind and body. “If thou desirest such, thou shalt have both – in time, my golden love.”

The sudden heat that surged through Laurefindil’s body upon the sinful promise caused his skin to prickle with visible manifestation of his excitement as the Vala withdrew his hands from his chest and began to undo button after button of his tunic, every motion accompanied by an audibly gasp falling from the elf’s lips, before he found himself unable to be patient anymore, capturing the lips until all air had left his lungs. Shortly after, desire knew no boundaries anymore; the elf’s tunic was the first garment which carelessly fell onto the ground, followed by his leggings and the Ainu’s delicate robes and crown, a tangled mess of arms and limbs, hungry kisses and gentle bites against the other’s skin.

Never before had he seen the Vala in his breathtaking and glorious nudity, and Manwë’s hungry gaze that roamed over his body told him that the Vala had exactly the same thoughts as he himself harbored, and for long moments they simply admired each other’s well-shaped bodies, before they wholeheartedly indulged into searing kisses and not entirely gentle caresses once more.

Manwë’s hand tightened on his wrist, and he looked down on Laurefindil who tried to pull away in playful eagerness. “O, not the gentle art of seduction, Lord of the Winds,” the elf laughed heartily with genuine mirth dancing across his face as the shift in angle meant that he could feel almost all of his body pressed against his own, including the prominent erection against his stomach.

“Art thou complaining, and hath it been not thyself caught in dreams of carnal desires?”

“Haply this was me, haply twas not” teased Laurefindil, rolling his hips as much as it was possible against the weight that pinned him down, “O, well – admittedly neither was the case: my humble self merely wished to see a glimpse of thy own desires to which willingly I shall succumb to.”

Since his brother’s betrayal and ensuing flight, Manwë had not been tricked upon, and this insolent elf had managed to fool him. “Art thou begging for thy due punishment?” he asked, and for seconds the elf could not quite distinguish if the Vala had uttered the words in sincerity – or not. A visible shiver eased down his spine as he recalled fleeting fantasies of unusual desires that had often found its way into his mind later in his life, fantasies of mingling pleasure and pain, where the sweetest sort of unease lasted so much longer than pleasure ever could. His own need matched the fleeing cadence of his heart, spurred on by his filthy thoughts. “Thou considerest such divine treatment punishment? O, trust me, gladly will I spent the rest of mine life in thy dungeons, becoming a thrall of thee.” Astonished Laurefindil was by his own words, a little bit frightened even as if he might have overstepped an invisible boundary, but when the bite against his neck came not a moment later, he knew he was mistaken.

“Be careful of what thou art asking for,” dangerously the words were whispered against his heated skin, but still a certain playfulness rang in them, a fact that made the elf smile broadly in response.

Carefully, he weaved his hands in the silvery strands and pulled the Vala’s face close to his own until their lips were almost touching. “Thou might grant me my wish?” Foolish expectation rang in his voice, and although he knew nothing of that sort would ever occur, he could not stop himself voicing his thought aloud.

“O, Laure, thou art persistent” responded Manwë with a soft chuckle and shake of his head, “verily, a tease art thou, and hast always been, incorrigibly so,”

Laurefindil could not breathe, could not think anymore, it felt as if he was dreaming yet again, toe-curling and sensual, messy and heavenly alike the Vala’s lips and hands explored every inch of his body, ere his lips were captures in another breathtaking kiss again.

His lips curled into a heart-warming smile ere he spoke again, the words accompanied by childish chuckles, “Art thou voicing thy complaints?” he asked without much sincerity.

“Nay,” said Manwë and suddenly all easiness was gone from his voice, exchanged for something utterly sincere, almost worrisome, Laurefindil noticed and furrowed his brows in response as the Vala lifted his head to meet his gaze. “Thou hast counted among the fairest children of the Eldar, thou not attracted toward thy beauty I have been – not solely at least – rather towards thy demeanor around me, thy laughter and shining eyes. Thou hast been one among very few who ever dared to speak thy true mind whilst being around me, one of few who hath done so. With cunning hast thou won mine heart.”

Idly, the Vala’s fingertips traced along the scar tissue that ran from Laurefindil’s left shoulder down towards his right hips, now blossoming where once had been smooth and soft skin, a ferocious manifestation of the Valarauka’s horrid assault, and Manwë found himself unable not to feel compassionate. The elf who had always strived for utter perfection, marred by such a horrendous wound, “I ask for thy forgiveness,” he mumbled, once more apologizing for his brother’s despicable actions.

“No need there is to,” he said with sincerity, “mine own desire twas to keep the scar after my re-embodiment as a visible reminder of the Black Foe’s gruesome deeds – and mine own limitations in combat,” he added with a sigh; he had fought, but then at the end he had fought in vain and when Námo had spoken about granting him his old body upon re-embodiment, the only words Laurefindil had spoken whilst he had still felt as if he was suffocating, caught in the endless vacuum of numbness, had been that he much desired to keep the countless scars.

“Not limitation such a decision showeth, but strength,” and upon these words, Laurefindil forced his lips into a smile even though he still was not entirely convinced that his deeds had been of valor. However, remains of doubt and self-loathing were erased from his mind as the Vala’s hands continued their journey over his naked body, followed by his lips kissing every inch of the impressive scar, and more than one wave of bliss made his body move against his will; soon words were exchanged by searing kisses against his lips, careful touches became scratching against each other’s skin until Laurefindil decided he could take no more. “Manwë, I beg thee,” he asked in a voice thick with emotion and dreading desire.

When he caught his gaze, he shuddered upon the undisguised desire that shone from Manwë’s eyes, “What for art thou begging, I ask thee?” he heard the Vala ask, and certainly, Manwë knew what he was talking about, still he could perfectly understand the urge to hear his own desires voiced aloud. O, and beg he would at all costs; no matter what Manwë wished to hear, he would gladly say the words, every single one.

“Thou dost not know?” Sharply he inhaled before he confessed the desires which so long had accompanied him and robbed him of many a good-night’s sleep. “Claim me here amidst the weeping willow as I have dreamt so often in the cold and bitter nights, as I have hoped thou wouldest have done so many centuries ago,” A tremor began to spread throughout his entire body, and helplessly his gaze searched for his lover’s eyes to catch the subtle changes upon his admission, and wouldn’t he had already fallen under the spell of those bewitching eyes, at the latest he would now lose all his wits.

“I shall, but therefore turn around.” Much harsher than he had intended the words fell from the Vala’s lips, but how should he think coherently when the temptation made flesh lay right before him nude like the day he was born, his shimmering hair fanned out around him like a golden halo highlighted against the lush green of the grass they lay upon.

“Nay,” Laurefindil l stated with such determination that the Manwë was robbed for words for seconds, “I shall not.”

Briefly, visible puzzlement mingled with sheer disbelief was spread across the Vala’s fair face.

Had he been mistaken in what he had thought how these things tend to work?

Hadn’t his research been sufficient enough in those matters?

O, so much he wished to had better insights into the art of love among the Eldar, and for seconds he even wished to have personal experience, yet he hadn’t and all he could ever do was to ask the elf: “Nay thou sayest? But …” he began, but Laurefindil interrupted him immediately after placing a soft kiss against his palm.

“Verily I refuse thy proposition,” he said with a reassuring smile, “and despite my knowledge that it mighteth be easier how thou suggestest, I say nay with all mine heart: much I desire to look upon thy fair face whilst …” the word lay on his lips, but he could hardly use such a filthy vocabulary right now, could he? “.. thou takest me,” he opted for the safe phrasing which earned him a delicately raised eyebrow.

Aye, Manwë was genuinely relieved and glad alike that the elf had voiced his concerns aloud, not even had he thought about such important facts, but how should he ever know with his own lack of experience?

“I cannot deny that thou hast raised a more than valid point, Laure, and thy wish shall be my command, and therefore heeded. However,” he added briefly afterwards, unable to suppress a hearty laugh recalling the filthy word that had rushed through the elf’s mind, “be thy true self whilst around me, and use the words thou wouldest say with another, and always remember: many a thought of thee I can sense and feel.”

Now Laurefindil blushed like one of those innocent maidens of Ondolindë who had admired him from afar and blushed to the tips of their pointy ears no sooner than he had talked to them, but before he could revel more in long past events, he felt a hand gripping his shoulder tightly, pinning him down against the earth. The words the Vala spoke were nearly incomprehensible to his drowsy ears and desire-veiled mind, and his own fingers trembled when he reached out to touch the Manwë’s iridescent skin as he had never done before.

O, so often a night he had wished for exactly this to happen, so often had he lost himself in the ever occurring dreams, which so maddeningly and vividly had ran through his mind in the dark and lonely nights – the secret fantasies which now came alive.

Nothing could disguise the pure joy Laurefindil felt in this moment; naked skin against skin, earthy scents and the sweetness of the nearby flowers drifting through the warm air, the ever flowing stream with its gushing and gurgling sounds.

Anticipation and mutual longing that was indescribably with words alone, and no matter if this was nothing more than idle fun for the one he had loved for countless years, he began to completely dissolve in the pleasures the Vala’s hands and lips against his skin brought.

Involuntarily, his mind and thoughts lay completely bare to the other, and curiously Manwë asked: “Idle fun .. as such the act of love is named by thy kin?”, and for seconds, astonishment was visibly spread across the elf’s face, but he did not question the Vala’s notion further.

“Otherwhiles,” answered Laurefindil, words which were not a lie but not the entire truth either, but he was in no mood to offer a sufficient explanation for what he had just thought, knowing all too well that exactly this did heavily violet the laws which were imposed upon them. Ridiculous his hesitation to reveal his thoughts was, he had to admit, because was this what they did not a hundred times – worse? Perhaps, but at the same time, exactly this added to his excitement.

Soon however, all thoughts were erased from his mind when Manwë changed his position until he came to sit on his haunches between Laurefindil’s parted legs, his hungry gaze travelling from his face downwards, and all he could do in response was to admire the otherworldly beauty of the Vala – no crown adorned his head, but still majestically his aura was, his iridescent skin and silver hair shimmering in the filtered sunlight as if the starry sky was project onto it.

Laurefindil’s breath hitched and nearly unable he found himself to speak, “Beauteous thou art, Lord of the Winds, enthralling” he complemented in words that were nothing more than a breathed whisper, yet they were enough to elicit one of those rare smile from the Vala.

“As thou art,” responded Manwë, equally affected by the situation they were in. Carefully, he leaned in to kiss Laurefindil’s scar once more before he allowed his lips to wander towards the hard nubs, caressing them with his tongue until the elf’s body trashed underneath. Simultaneously, Laurefindil felt a warm finger slip between their heated bodies, trailing downwards into a very distinct direction. Never had anybody touched him there, never had he allowed anything of that sort to happen in those frantic nights after many – too many - glasses of mead and spiced wine which so abundantly had flowed during Ondolindë’s feasts, saving the touch for what he was certain would never come. Reflexively, he tried to summon the remaining strength to keep his eyes open but he failed, utterly and completely, and perhaps for the first time of his life he embraces his own failure with indifference, joy even.

“Touch me,” a voice which Laurefindil recognized as his own through the haze of lust demanded rather impatiently of the Vala to proceed, “so many centuries, so many millennia I have waited for this to happen; so many nights I have dreamt of this to occur, I beseech the, continue.” Scarlet cheeks graced his handsome face as he was begging so wantonly beneath the Elder King. “Wilt thou?”

“Patience hath never been counted among thy biggest strengths,” Manwë said with a smile, and Laurefindil had to admit that he had never been extraordinary patient, especially not with himself.

“Nay, verily it hath not,” he answered, unable to suppress another moan when the Vala’s hand brush ever so lightly against his erection, “and beware, in death I shall not alter mine habits of old.” Especially not now, when his mind was occupied with thoughts of heavy breaths and tremors, fluttering eyelashes and feverish kisses, dreams of pleasurable gasps and panted, filthy confessions, cries of carnal lust and the treacherous smell of sex which already hung in the air.

 “No need there is to, as I cannot deny a certain impatience myself,” Manwë confessed, and upon the words elf’s eyes fluttered open again to meet the Vala’s eyes which now so much resembled a stormy sky, undisguised desire shining from them, desire which certainly reflected his own longing. Laurefindil had no idea where the small flask in his lover’s hands came from but soon enough he found himself he couldn’t care anymore about the ‘whence and whys’.

Easily the first slicked finger found its way inside Laurefindil’s untouched body, and rather on their own accord, he found his hips pushing back impatiently against the alien caress, which was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Good lords, words failed him yet again to voice just how much he wanted this, had always wanted exactly this! And no matter what discomfort he would feel, no matter if pain would filled his very being, and gladly he would embrace all of it.

Demanding lips covered his own o so sensually, and so easily it was to lose himself into the kiss, to completely relinquish control and willingly yield for the first time in his life.

“More …” Laurefindil was murmuring his words in anticipation against the Vala’s lips, and without hesitation his wish was heeded.

Not so easily a second digit found its way inside and reflexively he winced in slight discomfort, cursing himself for it as the fingers immediately stilled their explorations in response. Exactly this he had feared, and it was not what he wished.

“Proceed, I beg thee,” whimpered Laurefindil, fighting against the discomfort that was carried away with his voice.

Stormy eyes met his own, a gaze so heavy with unspoken apologies and worries that Laurefindil wished he could have remained quiet, “No desire do I have to hurt thee,” Manwë whispered against his lips, placing his free hand against his cheek.

“Nay,” Laurefindil found himself respond when he cupped the Vala’s face with both of his hands, “every moment, every breath thou keep thy foolish hesitation shall hurt me more than pain thy hands couldeth ever bring, believe me; only momentarily mine discomfort shall last, and be assured that something greater, something far more pleasurable will follow - for both of us. Thou wouldest refuse what I am offering so freely? What I desire with all mine heart and mind? What not only is mine desire, but thy own? Unmistakably long harbored longing shines from thine eyes.”

Laurefindil spoke with such accuracy and determination that made it all too easy to – at least – partly ignore the pained expression that still veiled the elf’s face.

Wordlessly, the Vala reached out and threaded their fingers before he spoke at last, “Nay, I shall not, and right thou art; I, too, desire thee with all mine heart,” continuing his gentle preparations.

Every touch and every kiss against the elf’s neck provoked a visible shiver or a breathy moan, a wonderful distraction from the discomfort Laurefindil certainly still felt; O for endless hours Manwë could simply have watched the writhing figure beneath him, losing himself in the filthy noises that spilled from the elf’s lips. Truly a marvel the Firstborn were, and deep inside he dwelled on melancholic thoughts of how he could have seen all of it many millennia ago wouldn’t he have let the presented opportunity slip by.

However, no need there was to hang onto gloomy thoughts when the most wonderful being demanded his complete attention once again; the elf’s lips searched desperately for his own, and more than willingly the Vala obliged and returned the quest of searing lips and tongues.

“Take me,” ere Laurefindil was aware of the fact that he wished to say anything at all, he heard himself whispering in between kisses, his breath ragged and short, all the more when long fingers ran along his neck lightly, touching him at the spots where his pulse was most evident, making it nearly impossible to speak: “Make me thy own after all those long years in which I have lingered in futile want and despair, never daring to wish that the situation would repeat itself.”

“Nor have I dared to hope for such to occur, and admittedly often have I wondered how thy fate would have been altered if my decision wouldeth have been another.” As much as the words served as a distraction, Laurefindil cried out and bit on his bottom lip as a third finger was pushed passed his ring of muscle. Good lords, he wanted this so much that it nearly hurt, more than the Vala’s fingers within him could ever hurt him, and deliberately he forced himself to relish the divine feeling of him filling him.

His breath was coming short already, the words nothing more than chokes accompanied by needy whimpers, “No more – let us not linger in all those ‘what if’s’ if the present is so much more appalling and beguiling,” Laurefindil did not dare to speak of future, judging everything that had happened and shall happen between them as idle fun how he had previously named such encounters.

“Rightly thou speakest,” Manwë was lost in what they shared, overwhelmed by the intimacy he had never experienced or witness as such; and no matter what the elf would desire of him he could not deny him any request, nearly sickening his longing for Laurefindil was.

As alien the entire concept of love and physical longing still was to him, oddly enough, his own body had been reacting fiercely to every touch the elf had bestowed upon his skin, to every kiss and gentle bite. Never before had he felt such a searing longing that threatened to consume his very being, never before had he been aroused with such an urge to complete what they have started long ago, a fierce longing that was irresistible to ignore.

“I shall fulfill our both desires,” the words spilled over his lips on their own accord, voice thick with desire, and momentarily, Manwë simply admired his lover’s beauty, observed those emotions that randomly flickered through his shining eyes and the unmistakable feeling of love filled his heart, spreading its warmth throughout his body.

Frantic excitement began to rush through Laurefindil as Manwë withdrew his fingers and positioned himself for what was about to come; O, ever so often it was himself who had been in the same position in all those nights spent in idle pleasure, the cries and filthy moans of the ones who he had taken now were ringing in his ears.

This, however, was different as anything could ever be and he could not help but wonder if he would cry out all the same when his last remaining innocence was taken.

The corners of his lips were turned upwards into a smile a felt himself being pinned down against the earth, he, the mighty warrior, so willingly yielding to the most carnal acts of lust still amazed him. But then again, it felt like the most natural to do, submitting to the divine creature his lover certainly was, and momentarily his eyelids flew open again to catch a last glance of those bewitching eyes that so much resembled the sky above them. Dark and stormy, filled with searing lust that reflected his own desire. Restrained he was, both of their hands by now entwined with each other, which – a little to his own disappointment – made it impossible to touch and caress; his time, however would certainly come, a time where he could touch every inch of the flesh he so much desired to devour inch by inch.

Breathtakingly was an understatement when he felt those demanding lips again cover his own, indulging him into returning the caress as distraction; familiar Laurefindil was with such procedures, but that knowledge did not hinder his body from quivering in excitement, and somewhere in between that he found himself nod his consent.

The Vala entered him in one smooth thrust, and instantly a sharp cry spilled from Laurefindil’s lips against his own, and the elf’s entire body bucked against him.

Delay would possibly had only made it worse, the Ainu thought, still compassion for the elf’s state filled his heart as he broke the kiss for brief moments. “Breathe – for me.”

Somehow the words found their way through Laurefindil’s lust-clouded mind, and so he obeyed, at least he tried to as much as it was possible with his lover’s lips sealing his own, kissing away the pain that was so alien to him.

Great pleasure had he taken from the elves that have writhed and tossed beneath him, but only now he truly understood all the countless emotions, which had so evidently shone from their eyes. For many moments nothing happened, the peaceful tranquility only torn by their ragged breathing, precious moments in which Manwë stilled his movements to give him time to adjust his body to his erection. Every subtle change in angle Laurefindil savored, the odd and yet astonishing feeling of being completely filled by the one he loved so much – combined with the knowledge that soon he would find himself floating in endless waves of bliss.

Carefully, Laurefindil detangled his hands from Manwë’s and cupped his face before he sealed the Vala’s lips with his own.

“Never ere have I felt this way,” The words the Vala spoke were barely there, gentle like the softest of winds dancing across his golden skin, his eyes endless pools of dark blue in which Laurefindil so easily could lose – and nearly lost - himself. “Never have I thought I would ever feel this way, not for the endless years of immortality.”

The moment, where Manwë wished to continue to speak, the elf gently interrupted by squeezing his legs around him, whispering against his lips; “Pardon me, but wouldest thou mind to move?” he asked with a chuckle, which earned him a brief stare of utter confusion.

Easily it was forgotten, but if he had interpreted the Vala’s previous words correctly Manwë had never done anything alike, not even remotely, but at the end, carefully he rolled his hips against the elf’s body.

Absently, Laurefindil’s hands weaved into the silvery strands that threaded like silk through his fingers, pulling him close for yet another breathtaking kiss, upon which he began to caress the Vala’s silky skin. Slowly, his fingertips started their journey along Manwë’s back, ghosting over the broad muscular shoulders until they came to a comfortable rest around his neck where they remained, gently painting patterns on the silvery skin for moments. Where his touches had been gentle, almost insecure at first, soon Laurefindil felt himself unable to withhold; he couldn’t breathe, could not think any more, hardly able to fight the urge to scream the Vala’s name over and over again as pleasure seemed to overwhelm him, but before he could day a single word, his lips were sealed with a kiss that was so different than all the previous ones they have shared, far more fervent, wanting, sinful.

Obscene.

Mingling hands and fierce kisses and scratching fingernails soon accompanied each thrust, careful at the beginning, but soon becoming more wantonly, more demanding - words that long seemed forgotten spilled from their lips, confessions which were meant to be said centuries ago and the armada of ‘what if’s’ became reality as the earth around them vanished, as they were existing as one for what seemed like a little eternity.

Manwë had always known, or at least assumed, that elves had different beliefs and desires when it came to the act of love and pleasure, and from time to time he had caught himself wondering what it would feel like to indulge into those pleasantries of body and flesh, but no matter how vivid his dreams had been throughout all the years, they had lacked everything he now had to admit.

Now, that he had tasted the sweetness of desire fully, the subtle change of breathy moans and whimpers that tumbled absently from the elf’s lips, the sensation of shivering skin against his own and the feel of experienced lips kissing and biting him.

Addictive.

Utmost addictive and captivating.

That were the only words that seemed to be vaguely befitting for all the emotions the Vala felt as he repeatedly pushed into the wet heat engulfing him, and each thrust was rewarded by yet another hearty moan. Those moans however, were the most innocuous sounds that spilled over the elf’s lips as Laurefindil’s spoken admissions in the throes of passion were all but innocent – indeed they were outrightly filthy – obscene – and so entirely alien to the Vala; never before had he heard the fair children speak in such a hardly befitting tone, but then again, he had never witnessed the act of love nor had he taken partake in it.

His lips wandered along Laurefindil’s collarbone, at first kissing him there before he allowed his teeth to graze the tender skin, “such filthy words spilleth forth from thy sweet lips Laure,” he breathed against the wet trail he had left behind, and the elf’s body underneath him twitched in response. Aye, astonished he truly was by everything Laurefindil said, but neither did he feel repulsed or embarrassed, in fact, quite the contrary was the case. This was yet another side of the golden-haired elf, who had always been special to him.

Like an endless journey of novel discoveries their encounter seemed, and easily both lost themselves easily in the thrill of it, cherishing the other as if there was no tomorrow for them – and maybe there wasn’t.

“Only the truth it is I speak,” the elf mumbled his words of flattery, interrupted by another sharp gasp, “for thou hast claimed to never have done alike, thy talents are incredibly.”

Not that he had much comparison though.

Everything felt so perfect, so divine, and so easily he lost himself in the motions of their bodies rhythmically and fluid, never-ending like the waves ebbing against the sandy shores, intense as nothing had ever been.

“I fear I could love thee,” Manwë whispered between kisses; to some extent he had always loved him but the shared passion evoked something within him which was even for him impossible to describe.

Laurefindil smiled as the Vala lifted a hand to brush a stray lock away from his forehead, and the slight shift of angle only increased the pleasure that ran through his veins.

“Allow me to remind thee, but thou art already loving me.” This was madness, even if it was the most wonderful madness Laurefindil had ever succumbed to. To lay with another man – no, one of the mighty Ainur, in the middle of another Vala’s sacred garden, not only this but everything they have indulged into was hardly appropriate to do or see, not once had he thought about it before. Wasn’t this judged as blasphemy, and weren’t there not certainly consequences to follow?

Involuntarily, his body began to tense and his eyes snapped open.

Not aloud he had spoken his worrisome thoughts, however, Manwë commented on his fears nevertheless, having read his mind once more or maybe the unmistakable language of his body had simply betrayed him: “Worry not, Laure, Irmo cannot see or hear through the veil of enchantment around us – nor can any other who passes by; this is for us and us alone, Laure. Every second, every minute I spend with thee I wish to savior until it is etched into my mind with every blissful nuance of desire accompanying it.”

A sigh of relief spilled from his lips, and slightly ridiculous he felt assuming that such an important detail should have been ignored by the Elder King, and astonished he was by the possibilities such an odd dalliance offered.

When the Vala resumed his motions, impossible it was to withstand the waves that swept repeatedly through his body; many years he had lived, yet never before had he felt such an incredible and overwhelming sensation before during the most intimate of acts, and everything he had experienced seemed shallow and meaningless in comparison. “More, I beg thee,” he whispered against Manwë’s bruised lips, and much to his delight the Vala obliged immediately, increasing his pace until he whimpered helplessly beneath him, arched his back against the grass to intensify the divine contact. Often the Eldar King had been described as emotionless and distant, his words only a few expect in grave matters that affected all – o, truly they all had been so utterly mistaken. Such fierce and heated passion he showed in this moment as he fucked him, devouring his mouth and dominating his body with such perfection that Laurefindil felt his heart race in response. With incoherence he found himself mumbling between heated kisses, scratching along Manwë’s spine until the Vala moaned against his lips, biting it shortly after and pleasure and pain began to mingle in the most heavenly way. Rarely elves sweat, but he found tiny droplets of transpiration form upon his forehead; and as much as Laurefindil wished their frantic would truly last forever, he knew he could not withstand the treacherous tingle that began to form in his stomach much longer. Manwë kissed him over and over, drove into him relentlessly until he cried out his name, begging him for what he did not even know it exactly was, his head thrown back in pleasure and his eyes tightly close to savior every nuance of the divine sensation, to etch every touch, every kiss into his mind for the rest of eternity.

It was everything!

Everything Laurefindil had ever wanted, so much better than he had ever dared of it to be, and when Manwë’s hand found its way between their heated bodies he knew he had lost his internal struggle – not a second longer he would last.

Suddenly his entire body shuddered and clenched around the Vala’s erection, and again he cried out his name in a primal scream in which his heated moans mingled before he closed Laurefindil’s mouth with his own. For moments the world stood still as their mind and bodies existed as one, rocking and breathing together at the heights of pleasure, exploding like the grandest of fireworks with their hands and legs entangled and salacious fire searing through their bodies. Time seemed to become a blur when Laurefindil felt coherency leaving his body as he rode the never-ending waves of climax, his mind flying through the cloudless sky towards the endless vaults of heaven until nothing more than sparkling stars seemed to surround him – and his beloved, and for the first time in his life he began to understand what it was like to truly experience mutual love and pleasure. The stars seemed to flow past them as they soared through the sky as only eagles could, detached from bodily restrictions, their deepest thoughts unveiled, laying bare to the other in all its innocence. Cried could have, and unable he found himself to describe the joy that pierced his soul, the fierce tremors that continue to shake him as he reached out to touch the clouds that wafted around him, floating through the moonlit sky for what seemed an eternity. (*)

When he awoke from what he had no words for to explain, his still trembling body was carefully enwrapped by the Vala’s strong arms and gently Manwë’s fingertips brushed against his burning cheeks.

‘To reach for the stars, to fly into heaven’ was a common allegory for the experience of orgasm, ‘experience exploding fireworks’ - but now he had truly and literally soared along the endless sky until the stars were within reach. For long moments words simply failed him as he tried to recover from the most intense and amazing climax he had ever experienced. Nay, he found himself unable to explain what had happened.

Was it because he still lingered in the strange state between death and life?

Because of the blessed soil beneath their quivering bodies?

Easily, Manwë could read his unvoiced questions as his mind and thoughts lay completely bare to him. “Neither,” the Vala whispered against the crook of Laurefindil’s neck, “twas thy fëa flying with my own in the heights of pleasure.”

Laurefindil’s eyes widened in response and deliberately he searched for his lover’s gaze, lifting his head, “how .. and wherefore?” he asked in sheer astonishment, and patiently the Vala began to explain, still holding him close, “mine body is not much more than a lifeless shell, Laure, a projection of what I truly am, manifested in flesh and bone to make myself visible to thine eyes. All I feel and sense is through my mind alone, a mind that can fly to the end of the world and soar high up into the sky if I desire so. Ere the beginning of days I have often wandered among the clouds for countless days, mingling with the winds that are so dear to me, observing the stars, swimming in the endless ocean of heaven.”

Fascinated, Laurefindil stared down at him, unable to voice his countless questions, but then again, there was no need to as the Vala continued: “As for the rest: I wished thee to experience the same explosion, the same bliss I felt during the heights of pleasure. Remember, when I have said: ‘No more secrets and lies shall stand between us’?”, upon which the elf merely nodded, “I meant it, Laure, every word I have said was nothing but the truth. Not of thy kind I am, everything I perceive and feel is different to how thou seest the world, and although I am easily able to see the world through the eyes of the Firstborn, naturally the gift to sense with the mind of the Ainur is blocked for all of ye. However, thou canst catch glimpses, experience the journey among the stars if I will it.”

Mesmerized, Laurefindil listened to every word the Vala said. The chances were extraordinarily high that he was the very first of his kin to have ever witnessed such a heavenly and addictive experience. So many thoughts occupied his head, and barely able he found himself to speak a single one aloud: “Wilt thou make me fly again?” he asked at last, his voice almost insecure and filled with notes of melancholy.

Not possible he had thought such, but a genuine smile graced Manwë’s lips: “If thou desirest so, gladly I will oblige; no harm doth come from it,” he said which such affection that Laurefindil’s heart leaped in joy. A promise this was, a promise he had never dared to hope for.

Never had he felt happier in his life, and words which he had long forgotten resurfaced in his mind.

‘Death is just another path,’ Ñolofinwë had once said to him when he was sick with grief after his family had died on the Grinding Ice, words he wouldn’t understand for many millennia, but now they returned to him, and where he once had doubted their truth and they certainly had failed to ease his grief, now he understood them at last.

In death he had found his salvation, the reason to live which he had always searched in vain whilst being alive.

And then they kissed, for long moments that nearly seemed endless with their legs and arms still entwined, savoring the close intimacy which both perhaps never dared to hope for, their fingertips idly painting useless patterns against their skin. Absently, Laurefindil played with a strand of his own hair, before he began to braid it together with a strand of the Vala’s silken tresses; never had he realized it, and he truly wondered how that had ever been possible, because it was breathtakingly obvious.

"Look,” he mumbled in a wondrous tone, holding the braid into Manwë’s vision, “the same colors as the trees were, mimicking their mingling light.”

An affectionate smile tugged at the corner of the Vala’s lips before he spoke softly: “Aye, I know – it is wonderful, is it not?”

Everything of what they have said and done, every single motion just had felt – and still feels - so natural, so beyond perfect as if they were made for each other, Laurefindil thought in silence when he snuggled against Manwë’s body that still carried a pleasant heat, lowering his head against the muscular chest and listened for a while to the even heartbeat of the Vala.

Previously the Vala’s time for him had been so extraordinarily sparse and often almost seemed to be non-existent, yet today countless hours he had already spent with him, certainly other obligations must await him.

“So this it, then?” Laurefindil finally dared to ask when Manwë shifted his position, regret and an indescribable sadness audibly in his voice as he broke the silence. “I understand if thy duties await thee, truly I do.” No lie it was as indeed he would, still he wished to stay like this forever.

With a gentle smile, the Vala murmured, lifting Laurefindil’s head a little to look him directly into the eyes, “verily, my desk is filled with endless paperwork, however, I prefer to spend mine time attending to thee for once, my sweet child of summer.” And with that said, Manwë leant down again and kissed him sweetly onto his lips, their naked bodies touching from toes to chest. Laurefindil closed his eyes, and breathed him in. Oh it was perfect, more so than he had ever imagined it could be, having his desire of old so close, invading all of his senses.

It was as if those words had broken the last remains of hesitation, as if something within him was finally set free, and curiosity awoke within him. Carefully, he shifted his position, almost rolling on top of the Vala with his arms crossed over Manwë’s chest. Long moments of silence that was not uncomfortable at all passed, time in which all he did was to admire the beauty of the Vala’s face.

“Pardon and allow me mine curiosity,” Laurefindil said at last, idly playing with a strand of silvery hair, “are there .. I mean has something what we just have shared … ere happened? Dost thou know?”

Of course, if anything alike should have ever happened in the endless tidings of the world, the Elder King should know, and oddly Laurefindil felt the urge that he must know, too.

“Aye, apparently,” the Vala nodded in confirmation, and involuntarily the elf’s eyes widened in astonishment. “I have not known it all the years back then, maybe if I would have I had been wiser, but over the past millennia I have seen and heard many things that hath been hidden from mine eyes.”

“Who?” For some reason this little detail intrigued the golden-haired elf, and to provoke an answer he gave him his most charming smile.

Was it wise to give away the information, the Ainu did not know, but he could not deny Laurefindil the desired information as he caught the sparks of curiosity in his eyes. “The third son of Fëanáro and Oromë, a dalliance of carnal lust I might say, long years before they have sworn their forsaken oath in our Allfather’s name and have left these lands.”

Laurefindil’s eyes widened – never had he even thought about this, but it all made sense now: the endless hunts in the wilds, the gift in form of a giant dog that even followed into exile, the countless hours they have spent together. Before he could say anything, Manwë continued: “and many years after they have left the hither shores, something else had happened. Thou knowest that Fëanáro’s spouse hath not come with her family into exile?”

Of course he knew; he had always admired Nerdanel for her strength and witty demeanor, although he had never understood how she could have fallen for the arrogant son of Finwë. “Aye,” he simply said, unable to guess whom she might have given her heart after the fierce disappointment Fëanáro flight with all her children certainly had been.

“The contact between Aulë and Nerdanel hath remained over all the years and every so often she hath been a much anticipated guest in his vast halls.”

Laurefindil’s mind was reeling, “art thou implying her and Aulë…?” He asked in pure astonishment.

“Nay, nay, beware,” the Vala laughed, as this had been his first suspicion too, before he placed an idle kiss upon Laurefindil’s nose. “Naught but friendship exist between them. However, over the years a strong friendship hath developed between her and Yavanna, too, and from said friendship love hath grown and is still blossoming.”

Never would he have guessed this dalliance, but now, when he thought about it, they fitted perfectly together for some reason, and somehow a certain happiness filled him, because Nerdanel had certainly deserved better. This happiness however only lasted for the blink of an eye, until he caught Manwë’s gaze again. Where he had only moments ago seen affection and understanding, disdain raged in the now stormy eyes. “What is it?” he asked carefully.

“Mine brother,” the Vala said with a heavy sigh, pulling Laurefindil closer to his body if this was ever possible as if he wished to protect him from the evil deeds, “he as well hath engaged into despicable acts, which are a different matter entirely.” The true extent of Melkor’s foul deeds was still partly veiled, even to the Lord of the Winds, but glimpses of certain elves he had hold captive over all those years were enough to make the Ainu’s stomach cringe, after all he had granted him leave after his imprisonment, when others had advised him he should not, “a matter of unspeakable gruesomeness, torture .. and worse.”

With every word Manwë spoke bitterness crept into his voice, and pain was visibly spread across his otherwise relaxed face; O, how much Laurefindil wished he could console him, as he heavily could assume what his lover’s words implied, what gruesome deeds took place in Angamando’ darkest dungeons of which only a handful had ever escaped alive.

“Dost not despair,” he tried, simply because he felt he had to say anything at all, weaving their fingers together, “thou hast been lied at and tricked by him, how on earth should thou hast ever known what insanity reigned in his corrupted mind?”

Manwë simply shook his head but at the same time he gripped the offered hand firmly as he spoke: “When I should have heeded the other Valar’s warnings, I have been blinded by his sweet words and charming lies, a tragedy which maketh me responsible for all your fates, the fates of Arda Marred. Evil deeds are such an alien concept for me, Laure as I cannot feel this way. Despite all the years my being exists, I am still struggling to discern the concept of enmity and wrath, to understand the nature of evil.”

“Shhh,” he whispered against the Vala’s lips, briefly kissing him in an innocent gesture of comfort, “not forever shall he roameth these lands.”

‘Wisely spoken, and perhaps he shall not,’ Manwë thought in silence, as he allowed his eyes to fall shut, ‘yet others, long corrupted by his evil soul, shall take his due place, adapting and spreading his horrors and evil deeds.’ He couldn’t bring himself to tell the elf his own fate in the final defeat of evil, although he had long foreseen it, the reason why recovery of the elf lord was of utter importance. Not for many years, Laurefindil would be sent back towards the lands he had once loved, to fight the spawns of the Black Foe until the fate of all is sealed.

No need there was to trouble him now with a knowledge Manwë himself wished he had not as it seemed just like another betrayal, stir him from the sweetest of exhaustions, when their fingers languidly traced each other’s skin. A day would come when he had to finally reveal the Ainur’s plan for him, a scornful day when he would face the golden-haired elf’s due wrath again, today, however this day was not. Nor tomorrow, or the day after, and now that he had tasted from those luscious lips, had consumed – devoured – Laurefindil’s body in the most wonderful way, the thought alone made his innards cringe.

‘I fear I could love thee,’ he had said earlier, words which certainly had to be altered into: ‘I fear I love thee with all mine heart and soul.’ A warmth began to spread throughout his body, a tingling sensation awoke anew as he felt Laurefindil’s lips and teeth graze along his collarbone. Some wickedness was on the elf’s mind but for the first time he failed to read the thoughts - or simply did not comprehend them.

“What occupies thy pretty head? Speakest!” Manwë asked in silence, placing the words right into Laurefindil’s mind.

Instead of replying immediately, Laurefindil rose to his feet, stretching his exhausted body, yawning before he extended his hand to the Vala that looked up at him with a certain puzzlement, before finally he spoke: “Rise, I ask thee.”

Golden locks were cascading over the elf’s shoulders, a truly magnificent sign to behold he was – beauty and temptation incarnated, and o so easily the Vala could lose himself in those eyes which were filled with mirth and reawakening desire.

Manwë failed to understand the elf’s request, but followed his wish nevertheless, and not a second later after he had risen from the lush grass, he found himself being pinned against the trunk of the tree, with the elf’s hands immobilizing him against it. “What is this, I ask thee?” he asked and Laurefindil almost felt pity when he saw the panic floating through his lover’s eyes.

“Dost thou remember thy words, Lord of the Winds? Thou hast asked what thought hath occupied mine mind and soul – I merely assumed thou art curious still,” Laurefindil said with the most charming smile he had to offer before he released the Vala’s shoulders and sunk down onto his knees with his hands trailing over the iridescent skin, with his smile only intensifying towards the most radiant and sheepish grin. “If not – my humble apology I give thee.”

Much to his delight, he certainly was not mistaken as Manwë’s words confirmed, “Nay thou art not,” the Vala said still slightly puzzled, and his words were followed by a sharp intake of breath as Laurefindil’s hands trailed tantalizingly lower until they came to rest on his hips.

Curious the Vala indeed had been of what the elf had dreamt of in the darkest hours of the night, but what he certainly had not expected was that Laurefindil would use his mouth on him the way he did, slowly encircling the tip of his reawakening erection with his bruised lips for the briefest of moments, before he confessed: “I know not by what power I am made bold. King of All they name thee, the Elder King – believe me, countless a night I have spent dreaming of how to pay rightful homage to my king on mine knees right before thee, my gracious lord.”

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The End

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Chapter End Notes

(*)This part was heavily inspiered the the most amazing Eönwë/Mairon fanfiction Chasing Mirages by Russandol where I first have read about the concept of flying fëar and admittely I simply LOVED it