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The Summoning	By : pip Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 2995 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien's world, Middle Earth, the Lord of the Rings or the characters from it. I make no money from this.

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Letting Go...

The dreams began shortly after Gil-Galad had fallen, after Elrond had watched it happen, right in front of his eyes. He was held back, arms kept him still as the ElvenKing's body was pierced by Sauron's black sword, going limp as blood bubbled from between his lips.

Everything dulled for Elrond in that moment. The silver of the King's shield darkened and his hair lost its lustre, as if all life and light was drained from his dying form. Perhaps he disintegrated, Elrond could not be sure, but surely he seemed to deflate, to crumple. Elrond wondered if his fëa survived his death, and could not satisfy himself that it would. Would he be lost forever? It could not be so!

It seemed impossible. Gil-Galad should have prevailed, even though he was Sauron's first challenger. What could mere men hope to do that Gil-Galad could not? And yet he failed. He fell, like the star he was named for, his radiance burned out before he fell to earth. Slain so easily.

Other things took his attention after seeing that sight, for far too long, and yet he searched when he could, while he had the chance and the freedom after Isildur's defeat of Sauron. No sign of the King's remains were to be found. Not his body, his armour or even his shield. Even his famous lance was lost, the wood burned to ashes (and what were ashes in a land full of them?), the tip must be somewhere mixed in with the remnants of Sauron's armour, but though Elrond searched desperately he could not find even so much as that.

Glorfindel and Thranduil had drawn him away eventually, his hands blistered with heat and dirtied with ash, before his grief and madness could be seen by others. And it was a madness of grief. So deep it seemed fathomless. These companions that lasted with him through the ages were fewer and fewer. Was he to be left standing alone when they had all gone? With the darkness unbeaten, unvanquished? Would he stand alone between it and the havens, while those around him no longer knew or cared whence it came? Oh, it was in part a selfish thing, this grief. And yet he could not shake it.

Then the dreams. They began as he journeyed back, their march slow and sedate despite their victory. The men they had allied with fast outpaced them, eager to celebrate in their homelands. But the elves... they knew it was not over.

At first he was not confused or bothered by the dreams. While Elrond lay still in reverie, Gil-Galad haunted him. He dreamed of them being close in a way they never had been in reality. Not once had Elrond been with Gil-Galad sexually, yet he dreamed of the King's touch on him now, his kisses, the warmth of his perfect skin where it was not covered by his armour. The armour that was never found.

Elrond understood the nature of the dreams. They were not truly erotic, but a wish for the simple intimacy they had known: that of long acquaintance. His friend, his King, his elder. He awoke at the point of orgasm each time, tears wet on his face, the extreme between physical pleasure and anguish was unbearable, and he cried so often in the small hours before dawn. What could he have done?

The nature of the dreams changed so slowly Elrond was not truly alert to it until it was too late. And yet, what could he have done to prevent them, even if he had known? The Gil-Galad in his dreams began to display a kind of hunger, a seeking, as if it was his very fëa that came to Elrond at night, begging for a drop of the life of the Eldar. Elrond clutched to his dream lover, giving, yielding, coming as the visitor in his dreams drank of his essence with an unquenchable thirst, as if it would bring him back. And it was not enough.

The spectre began to make demands; begging, cajoling, threatening, until the night he dreamed of Gil-Galad with his spear, the tip of it against his neck as he came helplessly beneath the ElvenKing's touch, crying out into the darkness. He awoke from that one with his seed sticky on his own hand. That hand still gripping tight so that he groaned in pain and dismay around the choking lump in his throat, sorry that the nightmares were stealing his peace. He was far more regretful that they were stealing his natural grief. Would they continue until he could no longer remember his friend without recalling the atmosphere of them? Elrond let the tears come again at that, and he breathed an apology.

As the days advanced the dreams turned darker, more sour, as he dreamed of Gil-Galad using him in the most obscene of ways, the vengeance of his ghost directed at Elrond as he slept, restless, occasionally crying out. The dreams were no longer a soft intimacy of touch. Now his old friend used him in his sleep, fucked him, rutted in him like an animal, his hand around Elrond's throat to silence him, and yet every time Elrond awoke aroused. Sometimes he had come during the vision, as if he enjoyed it to be punished so, as if the grief that had consumed him was a secret treasure.

During the day as they all marched he endured the concerned looks of Glorfindel, and especially Thranduil, but he did not speak of his pain. He could not. They would not understand, not even Glorfindel. He would not share it. Must not.

At night, alone in his tent, Elrond began to anticipate the encounters. Since there was to be no escape from them, he encouraged them, undressing at night and lying back with one hand on his cock and the other pulling his own belt tight around his neck. Whether he fell into reverie or he lost consciousness, Elrond couldn't be certain any longer. All that mattered was that he met with his nemesis, as if it was an appointment he must keep...

He pulled on the belt until his vision darkened, his other hand on his erection as all the world fell still around him. Elrond closed his eyes as an aid to his mind, bringing Gil-Galad back once more, seeing him there. Ahh... He felt dizzy, the lack of oxygen increasing his pleasure so that he felt he was drowning in bliss. He could not breathe, he must surrender! And then it was back.

“You make this easy for me, Peredhel,” Gil-Galad said, his weight pushing Elrond down onto his back, but the metal of his armour was cold against Elrond's skin. So impersonal as Gil-Galad forced his way inside, making Elrond struggle beneath that and the hands around his neck. His body twitched and wriggled helplessly as Gil-Galad laughed, his breath hot, his face lined in cold cruelty.

All there was in the world was the space between Gil-Galad's thrusts inside him. There was no pain, only a kind of floating pleasure as everything dimmed, as he gave in, the world fading.

The hands loosened a little, then waited, just long enough for Elrond fall in favour of life as he had long ago, when he'd chosen his fate, pulling in a slight, wheezing breath. “Forgive me!” he whispered, his voice hoarse with restriction, and at last the ElvenKing smiled down at him with a hint of living warmth.

“Meldir nín...” he said, his voice no longer cold and empty. “Let me go... please...”

Elrond shook his head, but the hands were loose around him and he could breathe again, and speak. “Let you go,” he echoed, and now it was his own voice that was hollow, desolate with grief. “Let you go?” he asked, as if it was an impossible task. Maybe Gil-Galad should ask him to move a mountain. He would have done, had he time, had he been allowed to. He would have found his friend's body and carried him away from that place. And then he knew why he dreamed, and why the tone of them had darkened. He looked up, and saw only his friend. Do you survive? He wanted to ask, but knew there could be no answer here.

Elrond blinked away his tears and reached up to touch that face, finally trusting in hope. “Until we meet again, Aran nín, farewell.” Gil-Galad smiled then, and he shone so brightly Elrond had to close his eyes against it. Such radiance. When he opened them again, the dream was over.

Elrond found himself looking up at Thranduil in the semi-darkness, touching his face, the light of the full moon shining through the canvas of the tent, so bright it must be a mirror of the sun.

“I am not going anywhere,” Thranduil said archly, in response to Elrond's sleepy farewell and the touch on his face, his brows drawing together as he finished unhooking the belt from around Elrond's neck. “And neither are you. What is this?” he asked, holding it up in his hand, although he stared down at Elrond as if he knew very well. He didn't, of course.

Elrond could not speak, but he patted Thranduil's arm to reassure him as his lungs pulled in air that burned in his throat. He coughed slightly.

“Oh, no, you don't,” Thranduil murmured, pushing Elrond's hand away before lying down next to him. It seemed he was settling for the rest of the night. Elrond wasn't certain if he was relieved or annoyed at Thranduil's assumption.

“You should have told me you wanted pleasure,” he said, pulling Elrond close, as if there could be no argument. “I would have bothered you throughout the journey.”

“I wasn't...” Elrond began, then thought better of explaining. He shook his head, and clutched at Thranduil, his body warm and alive, his heartbeat so loud it was almost deafening. Elrond sighed, and it came out as a moan as it caught in his ravaged throat.

“I shouldn't have left you alone,” Thranduil said, more forgiving, his lips placing kisses on Elrond everywhere he could reach as they embraced each other. “But I thought you might need the space.” He paused. “Forgive me.”

Elrond smiled as the relief won. “Don't let me go,” he whispered, almost pleading, and he knew exactly the puzzled look Thranduil must be gracing him with as he pressed his face close to Thranduil's neck and kissed him there. “Stay.”

Thranduil stayed. The new ElvenKing could take some commands, after all.

~ finis ~
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The Summoning