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The Lost and the Hidden City	By : pip & BronxWench Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 2743 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: We do not own Middle Earth, any of Tolkien's world or characters. We make no money from this work of fanfiction.

Chapter List
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Chapter Eleven
The morning sun roused him from reverie, and he felt an unaccustomed chill. Glorfindel had moved apart from him, was laid on the edge of the bed with his back to Gildor, and his muscles were bunched with tension. He reached out his hand, propping himself up on his elbow.
“Glorfindel?” He was not able to keep the concern from his voice, and his fingers brushed the cold skin of his lover’s bicep. He was far too startled to even cry out when Glorfindel moved, pinning him beneath his greater weight, his wrists caught firmly over his head. But the heat in Glorfindel’s eyes was not passion, not this time, and now he did cry out.
The look in Glorfindel’s eyes suddenly switched to recognition and anguish. “Gildor? You cannot be here! I saw you escape! What evil brought you back?”
When he heard Glorfindel speak his name, Gildor had relaxed a little, but as Glorfindel suddenly rested his head on Gildor’s chest, there was an icy prickling all over his skin. He was still dreaming, Gildor realised.
“Meleth nín,” he said, as calmly as he could manage. “That day is gone. It is over. Please…”
Glorfindel lifted his head, glaring at him, his hand tightening where he held Gildor’s wrists so that the bones were almost crushed. It hurt, enough for Gildor to cry out loudly as tears sprung to his eyes.
“Over?” Glorfindel repeated, a smile on his lips that held no warmth. “Oh, I do not think so. Dragonspell,” he whispered, as if naming Gildor, looking deeply into his eyes. There was a desire in the warrior that did not make sense to Gildor, and he felt Glorfindel’s hard arousal against him. “So this is why they do not wake…”
Left with little choice, Gildor struggled helplessly, terrified that Glorfindel might break his wrists, afraid that Glorfindel might take him like this, still dreaming. Glorfindel’s free hand moved to encircle his neck in a loose hold, and Gildor panicked.
“Stop! No! Please! Glorfindel, wake up!” In his fear he was strong, and yet his struggles only made Glorfindel growl, that hand around his neck tightening until he could no longer shout.
“Evil distraction, you will not detain me,” Glorfindel growled, staring down as if he hated, and though Gildor knew it was a dream, it made his heart ache. Would Glorfindel kill him? His breath was a noisy wheezing in and out under Glorfindel’s hand. A little more and he would not be able to breathe. “I return to the battle,” Glorfindel insisted. “I fight!”
His mind raced. Struggle did no good, which left one option. Gildor forced himself to go limp, in the desperate hope his lover would come to his senses, or at the least, release his grip. His heart hammered in his chest like a trapped songbird.
“Then return,” he rasped out. “I cannot detain you.” He offered a silent prayer Glorfindel would accept those words, would release him and wake from this dreadful parody of reverie which bound him. Hot tears slid from the corners of his eyes, burning their way across his skin. If his gambit did not work, if Glorfindel only grew angrier…
It did not bear thinking. He simply would not allow Glorfindel to bear the weight of such a crime, if it meant defying Námo himself and demanding a return of his own. His resolution settled him somewhat, and he closed his eyes, hoping it would break whatever ensorcellment held Glorfindel in its thrall. “I will not fight you, warrior.”
It came as a surprise when he realised he felt no desire, when he noted his own arousal had fled under Glorfindel’s grasp. It was perhaps a crueller thing than Glorfindel’s words or actions, and fresh tears fell as his heart ached anew. Whatever desire still gripped Glorfindel, he felt none of it, and it hurt to look at that beloved face and feel such apprehension. He closed his eyes with a sob.
To his astonishment, Glorfindel suddenly let him go, though he was still trapped beneath the warrior’s bodyweight. He felt Glorfindel relax on top of him, Glorfindel’s lips warm against his ear as his lover nuzzled his hair. “Valar help me,” he whispered. “I cannot leave you, and I do not care if you are not real. I could not harm you. I will stay.”
Gildor trembled in sheer shock, his emotions wrung out so that he could hardly respond to this. But Glorfindel was still dreaming, and his declarations held a note of deep sadness and surrender. Gildor’s wrists were bruised and sore, but he brought his hands down to frame Glorfindel’s face, making him look up.
The tears were still in his eyes, and he blinked to clear his vision. “Whatever evil magic this is,” Glorfindel vowed, shaking his head. “I care not. I will sleep forever if I can but dream of you.”
“Oh, Glorfindel,” said Gildor, and his voice was rough. He was sure his neck was bruised and there was something wrong with his throat. “You only dream. Wake up and come back to me.”
“You urge me to wake?” Glorfindel asked, blinking, and his eyes slowly cleared of the dream. Almost immediately following that he looked Gildor over, clearly realising what he had done. He made to draw away, but Gildor held him fast, though it hurt his wrists to keep Glorfindel close to him.
“Do not,” he pleaded, his voice still hoarse. “Do not pull away from me. I do not know what held you, but we will face this together. I will not lose you, not now.”
“After this?” Glorfindel sounded impossibly weary, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I have hurt you. I have laid hands on you and hurt you. I said I would not do such a thing, and yet I have.”
Gildor shook his head, ignoring the pain from his bruised neck. “You did no such thing. I do not know why your reverie was subverted, what darkness pulls at you, but I will never lay this on you.” He swallowed, feeling a sob trying to rise despite it all. “You are not alone. I will stand by you, and we will seek advice from Lord Elrond.”
He watched the colour rise in Glorfindel’s pale cheeks, the way those eyes he loved darkened in sorrow. “We cannot pretend nothing occurred, but I know it was not your intention. I will not fear your touch, please believe me.”
He wondered if Glorfindel knew what he had said in that awful dream, the words so clear in Gildor’s heart. Would Glorfindel have chosen an endless sleep if it held dreams of him? It was almost too much to grasp, to think he had been so loved, and did not know it. Even more so, that he had loved this elf and said nothing for his own part.
“Rest beside me for a bit, meleth nín. Then we will bathe, and seek Lord Elrond’s counsel.” He dared to release his hold on Glorfindel, all but willing his lover to settle beside him. “Let us hold each other.”
Without a word, Glorfindel turned onto his back beside Gildor, and so he cuddled up close, one arm thrown over Glorfindel’s chest. As he did so, he could not miss the shadowing of a bruise forming around his wrist - and neither did Glorfindel.
The warrior’s fingertips brushed back and forth over Gildor’s forearm, as gentle a touch as Glorfindel had ever given him. The frown did not leave his face. “At the very least, Elrond will help with the pain I have caused you,” he said.
Gildor said nothing, but he found himself drifting pleasantly after the drama of what had occurred. The day seemed too serene, Glorfindel’s touch so gentle. The sunlight was warm on them through the window. Beside him, as they lay together, he felt Glorfindel relax somewhat. They should go and bathe late, when they were more likely to be alone.
“Did you mean it?” he asked at last, twisting his head to look up. Glorfindel stared back at him, sorrow was in his frown as he saw the marks he had left, and Gildor dropped his gaze. “Would a dream of me have defeated you then?”
“Yes,” Glorfindel said simply. All the time, he still continued with that light caress. “I faced the dragon, and it spoke before I could think to close my ears to it. And then there you were, beneath me, all I ever wanted.”
Gildor’s heart felt so full, despite everything.
“Have you thought that perhaps we were not meant to…” Glorfindel halted halfway through his sentence.
In one fluid movement, Gildor turned and pressed a kiss to Glorfindel’s lips. “I think we were meant to centuries ago,” he said. “No bad dream will convince me otherwise.”
He felt Glorfindel relax, felt those full lips curve into a ghost of a smile. “Well, then. Far be it from me to argue with you. We are meant to, and I will trust in that.” Glorfindel brushed a soft kiss over his lips. “Thank you.”
“For what?” He looked at his lover in genuine puzzlement.
“For not leaving. For not fearing this.” Glorfindel stroked his arm, back and forth, a feather of a caress. The hint of a smile had faded, he noted, and he knew Glorfindel was looking at his throat. “It is late enough, I think. The baths should be empty. We can find Elrond after, and then perhaps find a belated breakfast for you.” Glorfindel’s fingers rose to his neck, but fell away before he could touch.
His throat was tight, but it was grief for Glorfindel more than the bruising which caused it to ache. He could not imagine what it was costing his lover not to scream. The Valar knew, he wanted to scream himself, if it would not have hurt so much. Instead, he nodded, managing a small smile of his own. “That sounds like a good plan.”
The baths were blessedly empty, and they washed quickly, without any of the usual lingering in the warm water. Gildor chose a tunic with a higher neck, one that would hide the bruising on his throat from anyone they met, which earned him a wan smile from Glorfindel. He reached out to take his lover’s hand as they went in search of Elrond.
They found the Lord of Imladris in his office, already at work. He seemed mildly surprised to see them both, but invited them in, pouring them each a cup of some herbal tea that he was drinking. Immediately, Gildor felt soothed, the infusion calming him and making him relax in his seat.
“I almost hesitate to ask,” Elrond said, perceptive. “But hardly anyone comes to me without cause, and I can see that both of you are concerned about something. Who will speak?” His gaze moved from one to the other of them slowly.
Elrond had been his friend for so many years, Gildor longed to say it, but this was really about Glorfindel, not himself, and so he looked expectantly at his lover. He sensed Glorfindel’s dread, and he reached out a hand to his, squeezing slightly to encourage him and lend him courage. Strange that Glorfindel should need courage, but in this moment he did. Gildor was aware Elrond didn’t miss this either, but he stayed silent.
“I have been dreaming of late,” Glorfindel said at last, placing his cup and saucer on the edge of the desk before him. “These dreams, I do not choose them. It is as though some evil thing had taken my hand in reverie, and led me back…” Glorfindel drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “They draw me back to Gondolin.”
“I see,” said Elrond, and he leaned forward. Perhaps he meant to ask a question, for he drew in a breath, but then Glorfindel forestalled him.
“That is not the worst of it,” Glorfindel noted, his voice dark. “I cannot wake from them by my own will. And this morning, I…” He looked at Gildor, and nodded. “Show him, meleth nín, if you be willing.”
He saw the faintest lift of Elrond’s brow at Glorfindel’s words, a lift most would not even have noted. He had spent far too much time with Elrond to not know even the faintest signs of concern, or exasperation, or even anger, those few times it had been warranted. This was concern, that of a friend as well as a healer, and acknowledgement of the bond between Gildor and Glorfindel.
“Of course I am willing, meleth nín.” There, let Elrond see it was reciprocal, that he loved Glorfindel and cared not who knew it. He reached up to open the neck of his tunic, letting his sleeves fall back from his bruised wrists. He met Elrond’s eyes resolutely. “He did not know it was me. He believed me an enemy, but even then, he was not dishonourable.”
Elrond’s fingers were cool against his throat, the healer’s very touch soothing. He lifted his chin obediently, and turned his head to try and meet Glorfindel’s eyes, to offer his lover all the reassurance he could. “It is more bruised, I think, than anything.”
“I appreciate your advice on healing, Master Cartographer, yet I think I will trust my own counsel in this.” Elrond’s voice was dry, but held no rebuke. He finished his examination of Gildor’s throat, and then took his wrists in those cool hands, turning them slowly.
At last, Elrond sat back. He sighed. “It is remarkable that despite your strength, Glorfindel, you have caused no further damage than bruising.” At his words they all relaxed a little. “I very much doubt Gildor will be capable of work for several days,” he continued, shaking his head when Gildor opened his mouth to protest.
“I have a preparation you should use on those bruises, which should see to them quickly enough.”
“Thank you, Lord Elrond,” said Gildor, smiling despite it all. Elrond nodded, then turned to Glorfindel.
“And now to explore the more serious malady of your dreams.” He tilted his head, almost in apology. “You have them only at night?”
Glorfindel looked surprised that this should be Elrond’s first question, but then Gildor saw the reasoning behind it, and after a moment or two, so did Glorfindel.
“I would not endanger the valley!” he said, shocked.
“Not of your own will, no,” Elrond said slowly, “but you understand why I have to ask. These ‘evil things’ which drag you away... You talk as if they exist outside of your own will, and the evidence of their influence is here, before us.” Gildor looked down suddenly.
“I have them only at night,” Glorfindel replied at last, chastened. “I am sorry.”
Elrond nodded, his expression grave. “Can you think of anything which might cause such visitations?” He held a hand up to forestall Gildor, and he subsided, his heart hammering in his chest. “What would make you vulnerable during your reverie, to allow an outside influence to direct your memories, and prevent you from waking?”
He looked at Glorfindel, a rush of something hot flooding him. He could not put a name to it, this feeling. Was it their activities which triggered these nightmares? He could not remember anything the first time which would have been unusual. He trembled a little with relief; he had not triggered this in his lover. He twisted his fingers together in his lap, until Elrond reached over to still them.
“You will not do your wrists any good, Gildor. Do you wish a longer respite from your maps?”
He felt the heat rise to his cheeks, and he looked into his lap. “Of course not, Lord Elrond. I am just…”
“You have every right to be concerned for your lover’s wellbeing. It speaks much of the love between you.” Elrond sat back, and returned his attention to Glorfindel. “Is there anything at all, any notion? No matter how small a detail, it might help.”
Glorfindel sighed heavily, and did not look Gildor’s way. “Elrond, I can not think of anything, but I must tell you: when these dreams end, they stay with me. This morning when I awoke and saw what I had done, for several minutes afterwards, I had doubts that I had actually awoken.” He ran a hand through his hair. “If this makes me unfit for duty, then it makes me unfit. Now, with a little distance from waking up, I feel strongly that I am reliving these things for a reason. There is something I have missed. Some detail. Something the dreams want me to pay attention to.”
Gildor felt such sympathy then, because he knew the exact context of the dream Glorfindel had, and he understood where that doubt came from. Glorfindel had awoken with him, the very thing the dream had tempted him with.
At last, Elrond spoke. “In mortals such dreams are common,” he observed. “If these are the dreams which haunt you, then I hope they will be of shorter duration in an elf.” After a moment, he continued. “You are not unfit for duty, but I urge you to take some time. In fact, I insist. While there is peace, there is no need among the recruits so urgent they cannot continue without you.”
Glorfindel nodded, accepting the verdict immediately. “I shall let you know if there are more of them,” the warrior said gravely, his glance flitting sideways to Gildor.
Elrond cleared his throat. “I understand you have found each other, and even with these dreams I am aware it is not my business, but…” Here, Elrond looked at Gildor. “I have been your friend for many centuries, Gildor. Do either of you feel that, for as long as these violent dreams are present, it might be better to retire separately?”
“No!” Both of them spoke at the same time, in unison, and Elrond appeared startled, then relaxed back into his chair. Gildor smiled. “It is out of the question,” he said firmly.
Elrond merely waited, and Gildor did not let him wait for long.
“I told you, he was never dishonourable. I am not afraid, and I will not leave his side when he needs me most.” He looked over at Glorfindel, and smiled. “If it helps, I can offer my own observations, in the event of another dream.”
“It is Gildor who wakes me. I would fear being trapped in the dream for much longer without his help.” Glorfindel reached out and stroked Gildor’s forearm through the sleeve of his tunic. “I do not think I am capable of doing him serious harm, despite this morning’s events. Even in that state, I felt nothing but love for Gildor.”
“I will not seek to dissuade you.” Elrond stood. “Allow me to bring you some of the preparation for your bruises, Gildor. Glorfindel, I am relying on your judgement. I will expect you to come to me at once if there is another occurrence. In fact, I would prefer it. The fresher the incident is in your mind, the more detail we may glean from it.”
Gildor turned the small pot of ointment over in his hands, after Lord Elrond had fetched it from his workroom. He looked over at Glorfindel as they walked toward the kitchens. There was so much he wanted to ask, and yet the words stuck in his throat.
Despite his pensive mood, Glorfindel managed to put away quite a lot at breakfast, as usual, while Gildor settled for a little yoghurt with honey, and some warm oatmeal. When they were finished, Gildor still felt as though the mood from their awakening lingered.
“This is no dream,” he said to Glorfindel. “Or if it is, then it is mine.”
He rested a hand on his lover’s arm, meaning to reassure him. When the warrior looked at him, there was something so vulnerable in his expression. “You will stay with me?” Glorfindel asked, and Gildor nodded.
“Of course. I do not want you to awaken from those dreams and be all alone.” The thought of it was so awful it made him shudder. At last, Glorfindel smiled.
“Our days are free,” Glorfindel said. “I did not expect that to be the result of asking Lord Elrond for advice.” The smile became a grin. “And I believe you owe me some sights.”
Gildor suddenly laughed, feeling the weight over him evaporate. As strange as it seemed, he warmed to the idea of dragging Glorfindel all over Imladris. A day spent hiking would be good for them both; the fresh air, the change of surroundings.
“I hope you are not averse to climbing,” Gildor said then, having decided. They went to change for walking out, and Gildor applied the ointment carefully with Glorfindel’s help, though they did not speak of that morning.

To be continued...

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The Lost and the Hidden City