Imladris, TA 1004
Glorfindel welcomed the dimness of the hallway with relief. The shadows cast by a few flickering candles accentuated the emptiness of the narrow corridor, making it feel like a haven. They were walking quickly, eager to get away from the oppressive mood of the dining hall, Erestor clutching Glorfindel's hand as if he were afraid to let go. Glorfindel had tried to catch his lover's eye a number of times, eager to offer comfort, but Erestor kept staring at the ground. The demons chasing him were frightening enough to keep him from even looking over his shoulder.
"Dinner must have been torment for him," Glorfindel thought, the memory of Gildor's scornful smile making his blood boil. He took a few calming breaths; if he gave his anger free rein, he would be of little use to his lover, whose distress was clearly greater than his own. Erestor had made no scene, had barely spoken a word throughout the whole meal, but Glorfindel saw him grip his fork just a little tighter and down his wine with just a little more urgency than usual. Though his erect posture never wavered, toward the end of the banquet his hands had started to tremble.
The most Glorfindel could offer in the way of reassurance was the warm pressure of his leg against Erestor's thigh throughout the meal. The banquet table did not lend itself to private conversations. He wished he could at least have had a chance to speak to his lover after the troubling events of the morning, but the demands of Erestor's position had whisked him away before Glorfindel could reach him.
At last they came to the doorway they sought, and Erestor drew out his key with shaking fingers. He fumbled with the lock, turned the handle and, throwing his full weight against the wooden surface, forced the door open with his shoulder. Quickly, they made their way inside. When the door had shut behind them with a comforting click, Erestor leaned against it, closing his eyes and letting his shoulders sag.
Glorfindel tentatively placed his hand on Erestor's elbow, waiting for him to speak. In response to the touch, Erestor's dark eyes opened and he attempted a half-hearted smile, although it seemed more like a grimace.
"He is here," Erestor said.
"I know."
So the words had been spoken, unnecessary though they were. And yet the cloud of apprehension that seemed to hang about Erestor did not dissipate or even lessen, for how could it? The source of his distress had not vanished but at that very moment sat in the dining hall contentedly sipping wine. Erestor's heart, already bearing Gildor's bitter imprint, had just been branded anew, and though speaking the words aloud may have eased his hurt somewhat, this was not the kind of tale that would be rendered painless simply with the telling.
"Are you alright?" Glorfindel asked, already knowing what Erestor's answer would be.
"No."
Glorfindel moved closer and enfolded his lover in an embrace. He felt the tension in Erestor's back under his fingers: muscles tightened to knots after the day's ordeal.
"It galled me to see that smug look on his face, and his eyes -- always on you, always taunting... How I longed to wrap my hands around his throat and--"
"Glorfindel, you know you can do no such thing."
"I know. But I hate to see you suffer."
Erestor brought his lips up to Glorfindel's ear. His voice held a note of desperation. "Then ease my suffering."
"How?"
"Make love to me. Touch me. Show me I am yours."
Glorfindel's eyes opened in shock. He pulled away from the embrace and scrutinized Erestor's face.
"You're certain? After the memories today must have awoken in your mind? You want me to--"
"Yes."
There was no hesitation in Erestor's voice, and so Glorfindel took him at his word. His hands wandered down Erestor's body, fingers gently kneading, careful not to push too hard or startle.
"Glorfindel?"
"Yes?"
Erestor shifted in his lover's arms and looked up. His eyes, black and burning, held a silent plea.
"I am not made of glass," he said.
Glorfindel hesitated, his hands still handling Erestor's body with care. "I don't want to hurt you."
"I need to feel your hands on me. Please, I need to feel your strong hands on me."
Glorfindel's heart began to beat faster at these words. Erestor had asked this of him before, had wanted Glorfindel's hands to treat him harshly and mark his pale skin with bruises. Although their lovemaking wasn't always so, there were days when Erestor craved this, days when he revelled in being mastered and taken without ceremony. At first Glorfindel had reluctantly obliged, moved by love and wanting only to please. But, as their time together wore on, Glorfindel found he enjoyed the role more than he had at first expected. There was nothing that roused his lust as much as the sight of Erestor completely and willingly in his power, nothing that made the blood rush to his head as much as the feeling of dominating his lover. Hearing Erestor's rasping voice call out his joy at the fierce grip of Glorfindel's hands on his body was a thrill Glorfindel had come to savour.
"Are you sure?" he asked, still unwilling to abandon himself to his desires without thought for Erestor's fragile state.
Erestor nodded in response, parting his lips and arching his back so that his groin came into direct contact with Glorfindel's, teasing and tempting.
"Yes," he said, and closed his eyes.
"Very well. If you wish it."
Taking his time, Glorfindel untied the black silk sash knotted at Erestor's waist, reached around in a wide embrace and carefully bound Erestor's hands behind his back. Erestor sighed, a shiver of anticipation making his mouth tremble.
"Come this way," Glorfindel said, his voice slightly huskier than usual.
Slowly he steered Erestor farther into the bedchamber, to a low armchair beside the curtain-draped window. The chair's back was waist-high and usually helped cushion the neck and shoulders of the one who sat in it, reading by the light of the afternoon sun. Today it would serve a different purpose.
When Erestor's rear came into contact with the armchair's velvet upholstery, Glorfindel halted. Then he forcefully grasped Erestor's hips, turned him around and bent his body over the back of the chair. Yanking up the black robes, he grasped hold of Erestor's leggings and pulled them down in one swift tug, exposing his behind to the dim light of the candle-lit room.
Erestor gasped, his voice muffled by the soft upholstery, thighs parting in invitation. He looked so beautiful in the warm glow of the candlelight, buttocks pale and taut, raven hair falling all over the seat of the chair in disarray, that Glorfindel wondered for a moment why he should be the fortunate one to lay his hands on this lovely creature.
"It is a shame to mark something so unblemished," he thought briefly, letting his appreciative gaze wander over Erestor's backside.
"Glorfindel..." an impatient whisper came from the midst of the velvet cushions. "Please..."
Glorfindel looked around him, trying to find some object that might serve as the proper tool for the punishment he was to dispense. Seeing nothing appropriate, he decided that his palm would have to suffice, as it had many times before. Slowly he slid both his hands up Erestor's thighs, gripping the buttocks in his fingers. He dug his nails in, parted the firm flesh and, exposing the cleft, blew a stream of cool air across it.
Erestor bucked and gasped, but Glorfindel would not be rushed. "Patience, lovely one. I have other things in mind for you before you feel my caress where you crave it most."
Letting go of the yielding flesh, he flexed his large hand, brought his arm back to increase the momentum of his blows and delivered the first strike. The sensitive skin reddened almost instantly, a rose-coloured tint blossoming across Erestor's bottom like a modest blush. The shade looked so inviting that Glorfindel could not help but want to see it bloom and deepen its hue. He grabbed a firm hold of his lover's hip with one hand as his blows began raining down on the exposed buttocks in earnest.
There was a certain pleasure to be found in this act alone. The feel of Erestor's rear under his fingers, firm yet resisting, the gradual transformation of the skin's paleness to a ruddier shade -- all those things were appealing to the senses. But what really set Glorfindel's blood racing and made him grow hard with desire were the sounds that accompanied his hands' punitive deeds: the resonant smack of a palm against waiting flesh; Erestor's breath coming in short, needy pants; his encouraging moans, somewhat stifled by the velvet cushions.
When at last Glorfindel judged that Erestor had been sufficiently marked, he stilled his hand, fell on his knees, brought his open mouth to one of his lover's flushed buttocks and bit down forcefully. The delighted howl that emanated from Erestor's mouth only spurred Glorfindel on, and he sank his teeth in again. Breathing hard and gripping the advisor's backside with both hands, he exposed the tempting cleft once more and ran his tongue along it, hurriedly preparing the way, for he knew that he could hold back no longer.
The loud cries of rapture that were by this time coming from Erestor's mouth could easily be heard in the next chamber and probably halfway down the long corridor as well. Glorfindel wondered briefly whether the banquet was still under way or whether guests had begun to filter back to their rooms. He would normally have been more concerned by their lovemaking's lack of discretion, but at this moment he honestly cared not. All he could think of was burying himself deep in that eagerly proffered rump and thrusting until he had no more strength left to move.
Blood thumping in his ears, he fumbled with his own clothing and scrambled to his feet. He grabbed Erestor's thighs, brought his length into position and slid inside. Then he stilled.
"Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"Yes!"
Erestor's answer was almost a scream, and Glorfindel took it as licence to forsake all caution. His hands gripped his lover's hips harshly as he arched his back and began pounding into the willing body. Somewhere at the fringes of his consciousness he could hear Erestor's euphoric shouts along with the sound of the chair's wooden legs scraping across the floor. If the Last Homely House had caught fire at that moment and required his immediate aid, he would have said, "Let it burn."
It did not take long for both Elves to reach their climax and collapse over the back of the armchair. Long moments passed in sweet, blissful insensibility as blood slowed and awareness gradually returned. As soon as Glorfindel had regained enough composure to be able to tell which way was up and which was down he stood up, not wanting to crush Erestor, and set about untying his hands.
Erestor flexed his wrists, allowing the blood to flow once again in his numbed fingers, and pushed himself upright. Not meeting Glorfindel's gaze, he quickly pulled up his leggings and smoothed his wrinkled silk robes over them. Tangled hair had fallen into his eyes, but he made no effort to brush it back, rather letting it conceal his flushed features.
"Erestor?" Glorfindel moved to touch his tousled lover, but stopped when he saw Erestor's shoulders stiffen.
Erestor turned away from Glorfindel's open arms, facing the window and hugging himself tightly. He hung his head.
"I cannot even keep my voice low, but shriek my disgrace all over Imladris. You must be so mortified to hear such sounds, Glorfindel, so ashamed of me..."
"Erestor, no!"
Alarmed, Glorfindel quickly closed the short distance between himself and his lover, enfolding him from behind. Despite Erestor's struggle to free himself from the embrace, Glorfindel would not let go, but held on until Erestor gave up all attempts at resistance. Smoothing the raven locks off Erestor's face, he brought his mouth up to a pale temple, alternately kissing and whispering soft words.
"I could never be ashamed of you. You make me proud."
"But my behaviour--"
"Only kindles my passions further and adds to my pleasure."
"You sound as if you speak true, Glorfindel, and yet how can I believe--"
"Erestor!" Glorfindel turned his lover around, looking intently into his eyes. "I am not Gildor."
Erestor's shoulders slumped and he leaned heavily against Glorfindel. For a long while his eyes remained focused on the stone floor as his uneven breathing returned to a normal pace. Finally he looked up.
"I know not how long he is staying," he said, his voice tired. "But even if his visit is only brief, I cannot see how I can bear it. It has been less than a day and already I feel as though I am going mad. Whenever he looks at me, it is as if everything I have learned or become since that time simply disappears, and I am left exposed and ashamed."
"It is he who should be ashamed, to have treated you so badly."
Erestor wound his arms around Glorfindel's waist and laid his head on the seneschal's shoulder, his eyes closed.
"The Valar have been kind to me, Glorfindel, placing you in my path," he said.
Glorfindel's heart soared so high that for a moment he felt light-headed. "I am the fortunate one," he thought, and would have said the words aloud but for fear that his voice might break. Instead held Erestor close, glorying in the feel of the advisor's breath on his collarbone.
When at last he could trust himself to speak, he said, "However long Gildor chooses to stay, we will cope, Erestor, we will stand together. You are not alone."
Notes:
Again, for reasons why Erestor seems to be so frightened of Gildor see the last chapter of Sweetness and Gall. :)
Imladris, TA 1004 –- One month after Celebrían's arrival
Early morning
Glorfindel hesitated for a few seconds before raising his hand to the door. The rap of his knuckles against solid wood sounded disturbingly loud, almost rude, in the silence of the hallway. He flinched. He did not want to disturb Elrond in the sanctuary of his chambers -- not during the few morning hours that were uniquely Elrond's own -- but felt he had little choice. Once the Last Homely House was fully awake and the official business of the realm commanded all of Elrond's attention, it was next to impossible to engage him in a private conversation.
And the matter Glorfindel was hoping to speak to Elrond about was distinctly private. That night Erestor had once again woken abruptly from a fitful sleep, shaking and bathed in sweat. Gildor's continuing presence was affecting the quiet advisor greatly, and it went against Glorfindel's nature to stand idly by and do nothing. It was time to tell Elrond; Glorfindel was badly in need of his friend's wisdom and insight.
The door opened almost immediately. "Glorfindel. Come in."
"Elrond, it is barely past dawn. I had expected to find you in your nightclothes or dressing gown, not in your official robes. Is everything well?"
"I could not rest, that is all, so I decided to put my waking hours to good use." Elrond's voice sounded tired.
Glorfindel felt a twinge of guilt. In his preoccupation with Erestor's well-being he had nearly lost sight of Elrond's quandary. Now, looking at his friend's face, he could see that Erestor was not the only occupant of the Last Homely House who had found little solace in reverie over the past month.
Something clinked, and it was only then that Glorfindel noticed the sharp steel weapon in Elrond's hand.
"Polishing your sword?" he asked. "But we have expert bladesmiths who would be more than willing to do that for you. You need only go down to the armouries..."
"But I prefer to do it myself. I am quite capable, having learned the craft in my youth. And I find it soothing." Elrond moved to the desk and carefully set down both sword and polishing stone, then turned to Glorfindel, the line of his back tense. "What did you want to speak to me about?"
"It can wait. I think I would rather hear about what makes you leave your bed and seek your sword before even the sun has risen," Glorfindel replied. "Here, sit. Let me rub your shoulders. You look like you haven't slept in weeks."
Elrond pulled the desk chair toward him and straddled it. Resting his arms on the back of the chair, he bowed his head and closed his eyes, letting Glorfindel's hands do their work.
For a while the room was quiet. Elrond's breathing gradually slowed, to the point where Glorfindel thought his friend had finally succumbed to his fatigue. But when Glorfindel moved his hands away, intending to let the tired Elf get whatever rest he could in relative privacy, Elrond looked up.
"Well?" Glorfindel asked. "Are you going to tell me what terrors the night holds for you or will you confide in none?"
Elrond took in a long breath and began in a low voice: "I have such dreams sometimes... Last night I thought I heard Mel screaming, calling for me. I woke and listened for his voice, but it was nothing. Nothing but the fruit of an overactive, feverish mind."
"Have you talked to him?"
"I haven't spoken to him in weeks, Glorfindel; he avoids me and I have not sought him out. What would I say to him if I did? I know so little..."
"A strange admission from one renowned for his wisdom." Glorfindel smiled.
"I may know the lore and history of our people but I know nothing of the contents of my wife's heart."
Glorfindel moved around to Elrond's front, and sat down on a low stool. He leaned forward, eager to catch every word.
Elrond continued. "She knows, Glorfindel. She hasn't spoken it aloud, but I can see it in her face. She knows exactly what Melpomaen means to me."
" And?"
"She is deciding what it all means to her. To her pride."
"She is deciding your doom."
" And his."
Elrond lowered his head into his hands and remained still, his bearing not that of a warrior ready to do battle, but of a prisoner waiting to be condemned. Suddenly Glorfindel understood the reason for the dark shadows under his friend's eyes.
"You will do as she asks," he said. It was a statement, not a question.
"Yes. I owe her that much."
Anger began to build in Glorfindel's chest. "She owes you much more."
"Do not start this argument again, my friend. It led nowhere the last time."
"You expect me to hold my tongue and allow her to destroy your happiness like she did before?"
"There was no happiness to speak of, before. And yes, I do expect you to hold your tongue."
Glorfindel rose to his feet and shook out the folds of his robe, incensed. 'What of Melpomaen and what you owe him?' he was tempted to ask, but held back. Elrond had doubtlessly put the question to himself many times; there was no need to further torture a conscience already in pain.
Walking over to the side of the desk, Glorfindel glanced down at Elrond's sword, which lay beside its polishing stone. He picked up the blade and held it up to the light, examining its straight edge and perfect symmetry -- the product of countless hours of concentration and single-minded focus. A labour not of love, but of dread.
Turning to face Elrond once again, he laid the weapon back down. "How long until she speaks her mind?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"And so you wait."
Elrond nodded. His long, unbound hair fell forward over his shoulders, framing his pale face. Without his circlet of office or his elaborate braids, he looked younger, more exposed. Glorfindel felt a vague ache in his chest at the sight of his old friend looking so uncharacteristically helpless.
"Elrond, I think you're carrying your misguided loyalty too far."
"Thank you for your opinion, but I will live my life as I see fit." Elrond's voice was louder than usual.
"We have had this argument before, when Celebrían first decided to leave all those years ago; do you remember?" Glorfindel could hear his own voice rising in volume. "She had her way then, and she is about to have it again."
"I could not keep her here by force. And, besides, this is different."
"How is this different? In that she is about to trample on two hearts instead of just one?"
Elrond started as if he'd been slapped. "Glorfindel, watch what you say!"
" And allow her to leave your life in ruins again? No! Elrond, you are a strong, decisive leader, but that same quality sometimes makes you as stubborn as a mule." Glorfindel took a deep breath, then another, willing his racing blood to calm down. "I have spoken as a friend. Even if my words were harsh, you know I have your best interest at heart."
Elrond nodded but did not reply. His eyes were looking past Glorfindel's shoulder, staring unseeing at a decorative fresco beside the door.
Glorfindel shook his head in exasperation, his patience at last worn out. "However, if you wish me to keep my opinions to myself, I am perfectly capable of doing so," he said. Getting no response, he walked toward the door and reached for the metal handle, resigning himself to the fact that he would continue to encounter a dejected-looking Melpomaen in the corridors for weeks to come.
Before the door had even closed behind him he heard the clatter of a chair being shoved out of the way and the clink of Elrond's sword against its polishing stone.
Late morning
Haldir was watching him again. Melpomaen could sense the guardian's eyes on him as he slinked past the exercise yard, and instinctively picked up the pace. If only the walkway wasn't so exposed... The path between the main buildings and the medical archives in the healing house wound its way right next to the enclosure used by border patrol guards to keep their fighting skills sharp. Here there were no arched doorways to duck into, no heavy curtains to hide behind. Aside from a few sparse trees, there was nothing that a harassed scribe could use for shelter.
Melpomaen's feet hastened along the stone pathway, his arms full of papers. His peripheral vision registered a number of silhouettes in swift motion, but he did not turn to look; the clash of metal blades and the occasional encouraging shout or grunt told him all he cared to know. A heated sparring match was in progress, pitting some of Imladris' finest warriors against a few of the Galadhrim. Although the fight had presumably been initiated in the spirit of friendly competition, Melpomaen's ears had picked up a number of muted invectives originating from the spectators. It seemed the honour of each realm lay in the sweaty hands of its duelling soldiers.
Haldir wasn't fighting this time, but stood to the side, observing the progress of the match with interest. Melpomaen held his breath and hurried along; the last thing he wanted was to attract Haldir's full attention. That piercing gaze had already been trained on him far too often lately. Melpomaen was beginning to feel like a target.
"Melpomaen!" Haldir's voice rang out, easily carrying over the noise.
Melpomaen let out the breath he had been holding and reluctantly slowed his near-run. Turning in the direction of the voice, he attempted a smile.
"Haldir. Good morrow."
" And to you, my friend. Care to join the rivalry? Imladris could use some help."
Melpomaen scanned Haldir's amused expression and decided that the guardian was definitely jesting, although whether he was laughing with him or at him was somewhat unclear. Haldir's thin-lipped smile was kindly enough, but the look in his eyes was so intense that Melpomaen nearly looked away.
"I shall be of far more help if I keep off that field, Haldir. My skills with a sword are notoriously inadequate."
"You do yourself a disservice. I am told that few could match you thrust for thrust."
Melpomaen's arms reflexively tightened around his papers. In spite of himself, he blushed and nearly took a step back. Why was it that Haldir had the ability to throw him off balance so easily? And why did he insist on doing it at every possible opportunity?
"I assure you, Haldir, I would do Imladris little honour with weapon in hand," he replied curtly.
"All the same, I should like to cross blades with you before duty calls me back to the Golden Wood. I am certain we would both profit from the experience. Even seasoned warriors can gain much in the practice of their craft, and I can sense that there is a great deal you could teach me... I'm quite willing to learn, you know."
Haldir's voice would have been almost hypnotic had his words not been punctuated by the tapping of his sword against his boot. Distracted by the sound, Melpomaen glanced down to where the metal blade made contact with polished leather.
Haldir's boots were tall, and had quite obviously been designed to show off their owner's muscular legs to good advantage. The soft black leather hugged the curve of the guardian's calf and ended around mid-thigh, the boots' elegant line automatically drawing the eye's trajectory to the very place Melpomaen should not have been looking.
"Surely those boots are not part of the uniform of the Galadhrim," Melpomaen thought, making a conscious effort to pull his eyes away and feeling furious with himself for the fact that such an effort needed to be made. Every encounter he had had with Haldir over the past month had made him feel like a mouse trying to avoid a trap. To his dismay, the trap was getting progressively more tempting.
"Perhaps another time, Haldir." Melpomaen hugged his papers to his chest and drew himself up to his full height.
"Another time then," Haldir said, inclining his head. Smiling, he turned and sauntered away.
Melpomaen's eyes could not help but follow the progress of those entrancing black boots, though he felt a wave of loathing for himself at such evidence of his weakness. Haldir's slow stride made admiration easy as his snug leggings flexed over thighs and buttocks. He walked gracefully, like a large predatory cat, his every move radiating sensuality. After a month of enforced celibacy, this kind of blatant display was the last thing Melpomaen needed. He closed his eyes and conjured up an image of Elrond's face, feeling awful for having betrayed his lover even in thought.
Forcing his eyes back down to the dusty stones beneath his feet, Melpomaen turned and set out for the healing house once more. This time there was no urgency in his step; he did not think he was in any danger of attracting Haldir's attention again so soon. Some hunters enjoyed toying with their prey, taking sadistic pleasure in wounding and leaving the hapless creature to slowly bleed and weaken. Melpomaen knew he had not seen the last of Haldir, but he could also sense that it would be a while yet before the Galadhel moved in for the final kill.
Early afternoon
The healing house medical archives were kept in one large, many-windowed hall, which offered little privacy to those working within. When Celebrían pulled back the curtain and entered, the first notable thing she saw was the tall figure of Erestor standing beside a table at the other end of the room, studying a scroll. Briskly, she made her way over and stated her errand.
Erestor bowed his head in a polite greeting. "A book on sleeping draughts? We have plenty of material on the subject, and the dried plants used to make the draughts themselves are kept in an adjacent room. You have certainly come to the right place, my Lady, although I am perhaps not the best person to advise you."
The dark circles under Erestor's eyes seemed to lend credence to his claim. Celebrían quickly put her doubts aside, however; whatever personal demons had kept Erestor from getting his proper rest had little to do with his knowledge about these matters. "But you are practically Elrond's right hand; I know he relies on you for counsel on matters not only of politics but healing as well."
"You are very kind." Erestor crossed his hands over his chest and bowed again, acknowledging the compliment. "But, you see, we have recently begun re-cataloguing all our scrolls and volumes, and the bulk of the project has rested on Melpomaen's shoulders. While I am still quite muddled when it comes to all the changes, he knows this archive like a good warrior knows his sword and armour; I daresay he could find what you seek blindfolded and with one hand tied behind his back."
The temptation was too great; Celebrían could not help herself. "That sounds most intriguing," she said. "However, I assure you that no such services will be required of him." She smiled, amused to see Erestor looking somewhat flustered. She had always delighted in throwing the dignified advisor off balance; to his credit, he usually reacted to these attempts with good humour.
True to his reputation, Erestor lifted both eyes to the ceiling and shook his head, though Celebrían could see him trying to suppress a smirk. For a moment, the fatigue vanished from his features. Then he looked over his shoulder and called out, "Melpomaen! Your expertise is needed. You know I have a hard time finding aught in this archive without you of late."
Another curtain moved behind Erestor, and Celebrían realized she had judged the archive's lack of privacy inaccurately. The bookshelves at the very back of the room were arranged in such a manner as to offer a good-sized working space hidden from prying eyes. She managed to catch a glimpse of a desk piled high with papers before Melpomaen appeared beside Erestor, and the curtain once again swung closed.
Melpomaen smiled, apparently pleased at being complimented so, then saw who it was that required his assistance and immediately sobered. "My Lady." He bowed low.
Though his show of respect seemed genuine, Celebrían remained on her guard. She had received enough false praise and deference over the years to be wary of sycophants. And she had still not had a chance to make up her mind about this one; despite the Last Homely House's relatively small size, Melpomaen had managed to successfully avoid crossing her path since her arrival.
"The Lady Celebrían has inquired about sleeping draughts," Erestor said. "Is that not the section you recently re-organized?"
"Yes." Melpomaen nodded.
"I shall leave it to you, then; I need to carry these back to the main library." Erestor picked up the stack of scrolls he had been examining, bowed, and headed for the exit. Melpomaen's eyes followed his progress across the spacious hall until Erestor had disappeared behind the heavy curtain.
Then the young Elf cast a nervous glance at Celebrían. "May I ask about the purpose of the sleeping draught you wish to prepare, my Lady? Not all plants are equal, and not all draughts require the same concentration of herbs. They must be chosen carefully, with the recipient in mind."
Celebrían looked Melpomaen squarely in the eye, but kept her expression neutral. Though her primary goal in coming here had been to obtain the herbs she wanted, she saw she had just been given a perfect opportunity to test Melpomaen's mettle. She was curious about how he would react when subjected to her scrutiny. "It is to be used simply as a sleeping aid for someone who has been hard pressed to find rest lately," she said curtly.
"Very well." Melpomaen bowed and led the way.
They walked among the tall stacks, Celebrían neglecting to look at the titles of the volumes they passed, and using the opportunity rather to observe Melpomaen at his work. Though he looked anxious in her presence, he was clearly comfortable amid the interminable maze of books and scrolls. As they wandered in deeper into the forest of paper, his step grew progressively more confident and he seemed to relax. At last they came to a bookshelf filled with meticulously organized volumes, and stopped.
Melpomaen reached up, retrieved a large book and opened it to a page filled with drawings of plants. "For the most common kind of sleeping draught, there are several options." He pointed to a picture of a green herb with a tall, slim stalk and bunches of small white flowers. "Valerian is the most reliable and the quickest to take effect, but it has a tendency to cause headaches and restlessness if used too regularly or if combined with strong drink."
He hesitated, then flipped a page. "Lavender oil is very effective in inducing sleep, and is therefore used quite widely."
"Yes, I have heard of it."
Melpomaen seemed to grow uncomfortable. "When used in excessive quantities, however, its effect may be... stronger than was originally intended," he said, glancing up warily.
Celebrían had to keep her eyes from flying open in surprise as she realized the nature of his concerns. "He's afraid I want to obtain a draught that will cause harm !" she thought, both with shock and not a small measure of amusement. "I wonder who he fears would be the target of the potion. Himself, perhaps? Or my husband ?"
Melpomaen's next question confirmed Celebrían's suspicions. "Is it for yourself, my Lady? I mean, is the person in question male or female?"
Celebrían paused for a moment, then, watching for a reaction, said simply, "The draught is for Elrond."
Melpomaen blanched. "Is he not well?" he asked, his voice louder all of a sudden, all shyness gone from his demeanour.
"He is well enough; I have simply noticed that he has been tired lately. I thought to help."
" But he is a healer! Surely, if he needed a draught prepared, he could do so himself--"
"Sometimes healers are slowest to look after their own concerns."
A look of understanding flitted across Melpomaen's face and, for a moment, Celebrían had the impression that he regarded her not as someone to be feared, but as a co-conspirator. Then the timidity returned to his eyes. "I see what you mean. I think I know exactly what you seek."
He flipped a few more pages, then pointed to another drawing. "Sweet Balm would be ideal, in my opinion. It is mild and takes a healer's skill to prepare if the desired properties are to be achieved, but it works well and has no unwanted side effects." He closed the book and placed it back in its slot, then looked at her again, his expression helpful. "I could sort and mix the flowers for you, if you like. That way the quality of the draught would be assured, and Lord Elrond would get the rest he needs."
Celebrían inclined her head with a smile, and followed Melpomaen into the adjoining room. She had noticed the gentleness and care with which he pronounced Elrond's name, and so was not surprised to see his hands take as much care with the measuring, chopping and sorting. Every imperfection was carefully picked out from among the tiny flowers, and then the painstakingly weighed portions were placed in little cloth bags and tied with ribbons.
"You take pride in your work, I see," she said.
Melpomaen did not look up, focused as he was on his task. "If something is worth doing, it is worth doing well. Especially if it is a medical matter," he said, tying a ribbon around the last herbal sachet. "If someone is counting on the potion I prepare to ease their pain or restlessness, then I am honour-bound to be diligent."
He looked up then, and smiled, his eyes meeting hers unhesitatingly. His face was open, without guile, and Celebrían could sense that, just then, he was not thinking of her as a rival or a hateful obstacle to getting what he wanted. She could even guess at the images that filled his mind: dark hair spilling over a linen-covered pillow; grey eyes vacant from sleep; a beloved face, peaceful and at rest.
She took the herbs from him, her hand brushing his briefly. "Thank you, Melpomaen," she said, then turned away. Lost in thought, she walked toward the exit and pulled back the curtain. It wasn't until the afternoon sun shone over her head once again that she realized she had actually spoken his name out loud for the first time.
Notes:
I took a few liberties when describing the properties of the various herbal remedies listed in this chapter, and so Melpomaen's lecture on ways of treating insomnia should in no way be taken as valid naturopathic advice! ;) While it is true that Valerian, when taken too frequently, will have the opposite effect (headache, restlessness), I know nothing about its interaction with alcohol. Lavender oil should not be ingested, as it is toxic; it is meant primarily for external use. Sweet Balm (also known as Lemon Balm or Melissa) -- a personal favourite -- is indeed mild, although it is probably no harder to prepare than any other herb. It makes a very nice, soothing tea, and is sold in teabags.
Send Maggie feedback
Visit Maggie's website
The characters belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema. No profit is being made by the authors or the archivist and no disrespect is intented.
Do not post this work elsewhere without the author's consent.