The Lost and the Hidden City | By : pip & BronxWench Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 2742 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
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Chapter Eighteen
Dinner was a blur of dishes and plates, and while he did not manage to match Glorfindel’s appetite, he came close, eating much more than usual before stumbling tiredly back to Glorfindel’s bed to sleep. In his weariness, he forgot about everything but rest, and he drifted off immediately in Glorfindel’s embrace, sleeping solidly until the morning.
Morning’s light brought him out of reverie, and he stirred cautiously, sure he was going to find himself a mass of aches and pains. He turned his head, intending to bury it in the warmth of Glorfindel’s shoulder, but all he found was cool linen over a plump goose down pillow.
His immediate reaction was alarm, fearing Glorfindel had suffered another nightmare, and he opened his eyes as he sat up. It took a moment to register his surroundings. He was in his own bed, in his own room, and he was alone. The next moment reminded him how foolish sudden movement could be, especially after one had indulged in swordplay and its inevitable aftermath, when the opponent was Glorfindel.
“Ai, Ilúvatar,” he groaned, his knees raised and his head dropping into his hands. He searched his memory of the previous night. He remembered going in to dinner, and eating, nearly as much as Glorfindel, if he was recalling things properly. He felt his cheeks grow warm. He remembered leaving with Glorfindel, who had indeed been merciful, and not filled his wine glass over and over. And he was quite certain he had fallen asleep, comfortably naked and wrapped in the safety of Glorfindel’s arms.
“Oh, he did not!” He lifted his head and looked around, but his clothing from dinner was nowhere in evidence. He ignored the protest from his thigh as he slid to the edge of the bed, his vivid imagination painting a picture of Glorfindel stalking through the halls, carrying his naked and unconscious form in those strong arms. It was not out of the question. He had been teasing Glorfindel, and his lover liked to win.
He found a robe and pulled it on. Glorfindel had indeed won, since he had intended to spend the night with the warrior, no matter what. If Glorfindel’s wrists prevented restraint, he was willing to take his chances. Apparently, Glorfindel had managed to get the last word, taking advantage of his exhaustion to carry him through the halls like a sack of potatoes. He decided he was indignant, and he fastened his robe before hurrying down the halls to Glorfindel’s room, heedless of his bare feet and tousled hair.
Gildor threw open the door to Glorfindel’s room without knocking, a word of accusation on his lips as he let it slam behind him, trying to keep in mind that he was annoyed at having his choices made for him.
“You…!” he managed before words failed him. Glorfindel was not quite asleep, but was dozing lightly on his side, facing the sunlight, his bulging arms wrapped around a couple of pillows. At the interruption, he opened his eyes and let the pillows go, turning over onto his back in a leisurely fashion. The morning sun always showed Glorfindel off, and Gildor was struck momentarily speechless.
“Thank the Valar you’re awake,” Glorfindel said with a ready smile. “I thought I might have to resort to reading!” He made a suggestive little sound that was sexier than it had any right to be. “Come here, to me,” he suggested, and Gildor felt his legs carrying him that way. It wasn’t as if he was going to admonish Glorfindel from the door, anyway.
Gildor threw the pillows aside, only then realising what they were meant to represent, and crawled to sit astride Glorfindel, shaking his head. He made a point to grab his lover’s wrists and press them down into the bed when Glorfindel would have touched him, perhaps held him close. “You put me to bed like a naughty elfling,” he accused at last, aghast.
The warrior only leaned up, capturing Gildor’s lips with his own. With an effort of will, Gildor twisted his head away. “What do you have to say for yourself?” he demanded.
“Good morning, meleth nín,” Glorfindel said, clearly happy. It was impossible to stand against one of Glorfindel’s good moods. Gildor felt his lips twitching upwards helplessly.
“I am quite serious,” he argued, but he was definitely grinning now. Glorfindel merely laughed, breaking free of Gildor’s grip easily and pulling him close.
“All night I dreamed of you coming here this morning,” Glorfindel said, interspersing his words with tender little kisses, nuzzling at Gildor’s neck. “Yes, I put you to bed. I tucked you in. Do you have any idea how you look in the moonlight?” Glorfindel groaned in want, pushing Gildor down his body slightly so that he could feel the warrior’s erection.
Gildor remained there, poised, in one single shining moment where he just had time to think that Glorfindel looked delectable in the sunlight before something very familiar happened to him; a sudden upset of his equilibrium that made him gasp, then he was looking up at Glorfindel instead. He sighed, deciding perhaps he might surrender… just for now.
“Good morning, Glorfindel,” he said, relenting.
“It has certainly gotten much better,” Glorfindel replied, smug. He could not help but laugh.
“I see you aren’t forsaking the morning routine.” He reached up to touch Glorfindel’s face, cherishing the sight of his lover, and more pleased than he would admit to have learned no nightmares had plagued Glorfindel’s reverie. “So, you must tell me how I look in the moonlight, since I obviously have no idea at all.”
“Only because I’m pleased to have you back where you belong,” Glorfindel countered, pressing his hips down to let him feel the heavy weight of his lover’s cock. “And before you blush and demur, I did wrap you in a warm blanket before I carried you to your bed. I really did not want anyone else seeing you like that, beautiful and innocent in my arms. You are mine, after all, and I am not one to share.”
He felt a lovely shiver of delight at the admission. If he was perfectly honest with himself, he relished Glorfindel’s occasional need to assert himself, to make sure everyone else knew he was taken. Valar knew he had eyes for no one but Glorfindel.
“I took you into your room, and pulled down the bedclothes so I could place you on the bed, and the moonlight was streaming in through the window just as I took away the blanket I’d used. Your skin was turned silver in the light, and your hair shone as though it were scattered through with stars. I do not think I have ever seen such beauty, not even in Valinor.” Glorfindel’s eyes were fixed on him, and he could not look away. “If I could trust myself, I would not have left you, but the thought of being lost in a dark dream, of laying hands on you in fear and anger? I could not bear it, melethron. And so I left you, tucked into your chaste bed, and dreamed of you like this, in the sunlight, in my bed.”
He could not speak for a long moment, unable to do more than caress the beloved face above him. The simple honesty of his lover’s words washed away anything but the love he felt for Glorfindel. “Are all warriors such poets at heart? I think Lord Elrond’s bards would all put away their instruments in surrender if they heard you.”
Glorfindel smiled. “I am no performer,” he declared. “If my words please you, then I am glad. But they are only for you.”
Gildor caught his breath as his lover rubbed up against him, dipping his head to drag his lips over Gildor’s ear. “Now will you give me what I dreamed?” Glorfindel asked.
“Again?” Gildor teased, though he felt as if he were floating on Glorfindel’s love. “After yesterday?” To his surprise, Glorfindel only chucked sensually.
“You want it just as much,” he said, moving his hips in such a way that Gildor moaned. “Do you think I don’t feel the evidence of your desire pressing against my thigh?”
Blushing, Gildor wriggled in Glorfindel’s grip. “Well, yes,” he admitted, “but I was so well used yesterday. And usually when we wake up together I can…” he trailed off, biting his lip when he saw the look Glorfindel gave him: amused and molten all at the same time. Glorfindel had never looked so much like a predator.
“Used well yesterday,” Glorfindel commented, then kissed his lips briefly. “You should be used well today. Then you will become accustomed to it, meleth nín.” He smiled. “And there is always later, when I win my prize in the arena.”
“Arena?” echoed Gildor, suddenly remembering that they were to spar again today. He felt completely overwhelmed by Glorfindel’s demands upon him, and patted the warrior’s arm in an attempt at reassurance.
“Believe me,” he said, daring to tease. “I will talk to Lord Elrond about recommencing your duties as soon as possible...” His voice grew faint again when he saw Glorfindel reach for the oil, and it suddenly felt as if there wasn’t enough air in the space between them. Something flipped lazily in his stomach, the proof of his own desire, and yet he resisted it. “But I ache,” he argued, his final ploy, “everywhere. You have no idea.”
“Then you will fall to me all the sooner,” Glorfindel replied. Gildor felt the first oil-covered finger teasing at him, and his traitorous body relaxed, welcoming it. “Isn’t that what you want too?”
He thought about it for a brief moment, between thrusts of that thick finger. Glorfindel was quite right. He did want it, and he wanted it the way he had not done yesterday. He wanted to be taken right then and there in the arena, freshly defeated, Glorfindel’s prize in all ways possible. If anyone happened upon them, it was the will of the Valar, and he would not question it.
“What I want is to win, at least once.” He decided he was not going to admit the truth, not out loud. HIs treacherous body was doing all the talking for him anyway. He pressed his hips upward, seeking more of Glorfindel’s finger, as wanton as any courtesan.
“You will need to learn to wield your sword,” came the answer, followed by a rich chuckle. He felt hot, and breathless, lost in a war between his need and his pride. “You have great spirit, but you are far too easily distracted, and you must improve your strength and your stamina.”
This last pronouncement was accompanied by a second finger, and he gasped, writhing beneath the warrior as if to escape the sudden influx of sensation. It was a feeble protest, and his head fell back as he keened in raw need. “I have not fought from need since we left Aman, at least not more than a handful of times. I am out of practice.”
“All the more reason for us to spar, bain nín. I do not want to worry about you. You will thank me one day.” Glorfindel’s smirk was unspeakably smug, he concluded, and he glared up at the warrior.
“More like the guard will thank me for taking the thrashing they might have endured otherwise.” He let himself go limp. “But if needs be, we’ll fight. In the meantime, I am going to let you do all the work, wicked elf, while I conserve my strength.”
Glorfindel hummed in approval. “Good decision,” he noted, while his fingers continued to rub slowly against Gildor’s inner muscles. He sighed, still partly sore from the day before, but he could not seem to resent Glorfindel’s touch, especially not when it would precede his lovemaking.
The reminder of the day before made him moan loudly when Glorfindel pressed those fingers inside him. It was not painful, not as such, but it rather added to his pleasure in an entirely new way.
“My Dúlinnor,” Glorfindel murmured. “Tame to my touch. So much so you fly back to me in the morning.” Gildor felt the familiar blush creeping into his cheeks as Glorfindel spoke that way, but said nothing. He could not keep the moans in as Glorfindel gave him a few fabulous shallow thrusts, easing slowly deeper.
“Let me in further, melethron,” Glorfindel said then. “Lift this leg for me.” And he grasped Gildor’s thigh, gently, but it still made Gildor whimper in sudden pain. For a few moments, he had forgotten all the aches and pains which accompanied him in wakefulness that morning, and the bruise.
“Ai! That hurts!” Gildor complained, pulled out of the submissive mood that had descended upon him. He blinked his eyes open, and Glorfindel stilled, hushing him while he inspected Gildor’s leg.
“It is merely a light bruise,” Glorfindel said at last. “I did not hit you too hard there. You have spent too long in that library of yours. Your body has forgotten what it is to really live.”
Gildor bristled, feeling angry, though the worst thing was that Glorfindel believed himself. He’d been completely aware of what he was doing during their duelling. Gildor had not pushed the warrior far enough to make him lose control. And yet… what right had Glorfindel to decide how much pain was too much?
“I choose my own life, and I like the library,” Gildor muttered darkly, and pushed hard against Glorfindel’s chest, suddenly no longer in the mood to humour the warrior. “Stop.”
Glorfindel chuckled and ignored him, pressing his fingers in again. He pushed again, harder this time.
“You do not listen well,” he grumbled, and did his best to pull away from his lover’s questing fingers. “The mood has flown. I think I will go and bathe now.”
“Do not be silly,” Glorfindel said, and there was a bit of an edge to his tone. “You are overreacting, and it is not amusing.” He used his weight to pin Gildor in place.
“I have said I want you to stop.” He heard the edge in his own voice, and so did Glorfindel. “You say my body has forgotten what it is like to live, but I did not choose the life of a warrior. I chose my path. I chose to be a mapmaker.” He wriggled and growled when he could not work himself free.
“You chose the easy life.” Glorfindel sat back, and now he was frowning. “Is this because I hit you? Are you become so soft, in your peaceful valley?”
“Yes, I chose the easy life.” He scrambled back to the head of the bed, pulling his knees up defensively. “We are at peace, or had you missed that? Is this not what peace is for? Living easy? Would you say this to Lord Elrond?”
Glorfindel blinked. “He is a warrior, as well as a healer. I have heard tales of his prowess in battle.”
“But he lives easy now himself.” Gildor glared over his knees at the blond warrior. “You, on the other hand, cannot ever live easy. Everything needs to be a contest, and you must win at all costs. No, it’s not a very big bruise, but it does hurt, and I don’t particularly like being hurt, or mocked when I am. So let me make it easy. I concede. You win. Are you satisfied?”
To his surprise, Glorfindel did not seem chastised, nor yet did he seem ignorant. Instead, he seemed surprised, and Gildor rolled his eyes heavenward. Is this what it had come to? Had he created this monster by giving in to Glorfindel so frequently that now the role was so established he was not even expected to know his own mind?
“I am sorry,” Glorfindel said at last. “I did not mean to scorn your choices.” He looked down, and despite himself Gildor felt something in him give a little. “I suppose I just assumed… it does not matter.”
“Oh, it does,” Gildor replied, not willing to let Glorfindel get away with this. It was important, and he sensed it clearly. “It matters. If there is something you wish to say, you had better air it now.”
Glorfindel looked up, and he was proud, unapologetic. “All right,” he said. “You know I wanted you before, when we were in Gondolin. Did you never think why?”
Gildor shrugged, unimpressed. What had this to do with anything?
“I loved you because you were different. You had passion, and haven’t you even realised it was partly because of your endeavour that the refugees from Gondolin had an escape route? It was you who mapped it.”
Gildor shook his head slightly. “You,” Glorfindel breathed. “You knew the pursuit of your immortality as well as any of us. Your daring was extraordinary. Those early years in Gondolin when the country round about was still dangerous. Yet you were out there as often as the warriors, tracking distances, marking the countryside where orcs still roamed. I recognised your dedication. I admired it.”
This little speech sank in only slowly, and still Gildor could not account for Glorfindel’s behaviour over the last day or so. Glorfindel sighed, and it was a thing he so rarely did it made Gildor look to him in surprise.
“You made me remember, as soon as we were together. And I was so proud to have you at last, because in your own way you are fearless, and a hero. And when you readied yourself to face me yesterday…” Here, Glorfindel actually blushed, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I did what I did yesterday, and I compared you to Lord Elrond because I did not wish to insult you. Yes, I knew I would win, but in my sheer infatuation with you I assumed you capable of anything. Even facing me, when I have dedicated myself to being unbeatable.”
He looked at Glorfindel, colour high on those magnificent cheekbones, and he found himself without words for a long moment. He looked down at his knees, and then back up at Glorfindel. “You assumed me capable of anything? You think me fearless?” He would not--could not think of himself as a hero. That was something for elves like Glorfindel, and Lord Elrond. He merely did what he did best, and that was in the library.
“If I told you how many times I have been afraid, you would think differently.” He sighed a little, his arms loosening their grip on his shins. “I make my maps because I can remember what I see, the small details of it all, how the land rises and falls, the path of a stream and the borders of a wood. It becomes orderly on parchment, nothing to fear any more, and clear for others so they can see what I hold in my mind. The shape of a place.”
And now he moved, dared to reach out to touch Glorfindel’s cheek. “The shape of what I hold most dear. I know your lines, the planes and peaks, the ridges of muscle and the feel of your golden pelt when I rest my head on your broad chest. I know I am safe in your arms, even if I grumble about it sometimes.”
Glorfindel’s hand closed over his, the strong fingers gentle. “Every time you push past your limits, yes, I think you fearless. It is why I say you are capable of anything, because you prove it to me every day.” His colour deepened. “I ask much of you. I know this. I show you your limits, and I push you to expand them, and you do. You do it with such extraordinary grace, I am almost breathless. I have never known anyone who is more fearless.”
He swallowed, looking up at the blond warrior. “I am sometimes most afraid when you push me past my limits. I fear losing myself in those moments.”
Glorfindel nodded slowly. “But I will never let you be lost, not again, not now. I have remembered you, and I will not leave you again. I cannot promise not to push you, or test your patience. I think I was made to do that.”
Gildor sighed again, and all at once, he felt desire return. Before he let himself be addled by the sheer vitality that was his lover, he looked deep into the warrior’s eyes. “We will spar, one round. This time, let us agree in advance you will best me, but before you do, you will teach me.”
“Will I get a prize?” Glorfindel dared a smirk, and he could not help smiling back.
“Do I look foolish enough to say no?”
Glorfindel only smiled more broadly, pushing Gildor back into the softness of the bed. “Of course, I’d like a taste of what I would be getting,” Glorfindel suggested, and Gildor could not help giggling. Then he sighed in a long suffering way, overacting on purpose.
“A taste is what you say, but you intend to feast until we are late for breakfast,” Gildor said, somehow completely unsurprised when Glorfindel got straight back to preparing him.
“Hmm…” Glorfindel replied, distracted, and Gildor felt the fingers withdraw, then held his breath as Glorfindel’s cock breached him. “Am I testing your patience now?”
There was too much pleasure, Gildor was sure. “Oh, not yet,” he said on a moan. “Keep going.”
He clung to Glorfindel as the warrior set a hard, steady pace, voicing little moans of pleasure into Gildor’s ear.
“I think I should call you, ambalë,” he gasped, teasing. “And hope your guards know the difference.” Glorfindel altered his vocalisations to little growls and Gildor tried hard to avoid laughing, since that would constrict him around Glorfindel, and it paid to be relaxed when Glorfindel was actually inside him.
He could not quite manage it though, and breathed an apology when Glorfindel had to stop for a moment. Gildor blinked and looked up at Glorfindel, seeing his golden hair, but it only managed to get a smirk from him. “Am I testing your patience?” he queried, cheeky, knowing very well what it did.
Glorfindel actually shuddered atop him, his eyes dark and stormy blue. “Don’t tease me like that,” he managed. “I cannot help it!” Then he began moving again, this time harder. Gildor cried out, and yet he could not help loving that he inspired this reaction in Glorfindel. He did not resist at all, but let himself go limp and pliant, only tensing a little when he felt himself climax helplessly in the face of Glorfindel’s ravishing of his body.
When Glorfindel came too some moments later, everything felt right between them again, although he was sure he would still feel this later on when Glorfindel claimed his “prize” for winning their duel.
They took a few moments to lay wrapped in each other, sharing the peace of the morning, before they headed off for a bath and breakfast. Gildor was surprised his appetite was still larger than usual. That he ate heartily did not go unnoticed by the Lord of Imladris, although Elrond kept his own counsel on the matter. Glorfindel merely plied him with choice treats, and refilled his tea as needed.
Sated, they adjourned back to Glorfindel’s room to dress for sparring, and Gildor had a momentary bit of trepidation as he fastened his leather armour. He had set his terms to Glorfindel, but he could not recall if the warrior had agreed to them. He snuck a glance at the blond elf, magnificent even in simple leather, and reminded himself this was Glorfindel, after all. He would be pushed to his limits, yes, but not beyond them. Never that, because above all else, he was loved.
To be continued...
Authors' Note: Thank you for reading – we hope you enjoyed this chapter. Why not leave a word or two? We will respond :)
Translations:
meleth nín – my love
melethron – lover
bain nín – my beauty
Dúlinnor – nightingale
ambalë – small yellow bird
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