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Summer Lightning	By : Celebdil Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 718 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
Shadow - deeper than a starless night - drifted at the edges of the wood, winding through branches like many serpents. Trees shivered in response to its malice, as it spread, flooding into the clearing in a silent, insidious tide. Within the heart of the darkness, there was a form; far taller than any Elf, faceless, but fully aware, which moved with cruel and beautiful grace towards them.
Elu struggled to hold to rational thought as instinct screamed at him to flee. With breathless caution he moved, placing himself in front of Celeborn, shielding him from the sight of evil. For it had not yet noticed them. The swirling, roiling blackness which cloaked it, shot through with streams of red like blood, spread towards them inexorably, but without urgency. It does not see us here.
Fighting his fear, Elu forced himself to be still, his hand on his kinsman�s arm warning the younger Elf to do the same.
'The Hunter,' Celeborn had called it, remembering legends out of Cuivienen. But it could be, be, for Melkor - whom the elves had known by that name - was imprisoned in Valinor. There could not be two. And the Hunter had seemed a great and terrible figure on horseback, in mockery of Orom�. This bore a vampire's form, though as much greater than the typical vampire as the eagles of Manw� are greater than the sparrows.
Shadow flowed more fully into the clearing, reaching out from the centre where the dark figure moved, cold as a new grave. Tendrils of blackness seeped across the soaked ground like mist, creeping closer, seeking, exploring, seeming to have a life of their own, an awareness which would warn their master of anything they touched.
Slowly, carefully, the elves drew back from the reaching fingers of darkness, deeper into the sheltering shade of trees and storm. They knew instinctively that they must not brush against so much as a ribbon of that flowing cloak. For if they did, the chill thing would become aware of them. Its unhurried drift would stop and its evil will focus on them, freezing blood, stopping breath. Death would follow. Or worse.
Elu's fingers tightened on the hilt of his knife. Oh, he thought he could put a name to this thing - this creature with the form of a blood-driven revenant, and the power of the greatest of the Maia.
Gorthaur.
It was almost worse. Where Melkor's desire was to destroy, Gorthaur's was to torture. His power might be less, but his intelligence and cruelty were greater than his master's. To be found by him, to be taken to his stronghold, forced into whatever fate awaited those elves stolen by the dark powers... I will not let it happen, Elu vowed, glad that he had but newly sharpened his knife. We will die first. I will make sure of it.
They could not escape, the camp was too far away, and they could not fight - stone knives against the might of a Maia? Gorthaur would crush them beneath his hand for the sheer joy of watching them in agony.
Celeborn will not suffer, the king told himself in a grief so profound it seemed unreal. A swift stroke to heart or throat and the youth would die before he had a chance to realise what had happened. Then Elu would use the knife on himself. It was only a matter of time.
A moment passed, as the two elves held their breath, awaiting discovery, tensed, fighting the miasma of terror which flowed from Gorthaur like his shadowy cloak. Elu, in his crouch before Celeborn, suddenly felt slender fingers lace with his and squeeze gently, as if to say that he knew. He knew what Elu planned. He understood, and would not struggle, accepting death as a gift from one he loved; his Lord and King. His lover.
At that thought, Elu�s spirit mourned. He had not feared, when he accepted this love - the future of pleasure and warmth so generously offered - that it would be taken from him in the next heartbeat. Now it would be for him to stop the breath which had so sweetly mingled with his own, to steal the warmth from the lithe form, and the light from the green eyes, to watch as Celeborn�s f�a was released from his body. Tears threatened, and he clenched his teeth. I will make it quick, I promise you, melethron.
But something was wrong... The darkness was passing, oozing beyond them towards the trees in the far side of the clearing. Why was it not searching, casting about for any elf unfortunate enough to be caught in this storm? It had been within inches of discovering them. Why had it let them slip?
In sudden, sinking horror, Elu realised what was happening. His throat closed as he saw that the Torturer did not search for one soul, or even a few. Gorthaur moved, silent and unstoppable, not wavering, nor seeking any other near his path, his goal now terrifyingly clear� His prey was the whole sleeping company of the Teleri - the frail tents, full of children.
This was no snatch of a few hapless souls, caught away from their kindred, helpless and alone. This time many hundreds would be taken. Elu saw now the trap Gorthaur had laid, involving Orom� himself, manipulating the very Valar to his own purposes.
When last the king had spoken with Orom�, the Vala had been puzzled and concerned. Evil had, for a time, drawn off, he said, and was at work on some unknown labour in the North. It was this he returned to Valinor to discuss with the other Powers. "I do not lightly leave your people alone," he had said, "But while evil gathers in the North you should be safe enough here for a time."
Now Elu realised that whatever had recalled Orom� to Valinor, whatever design of Gorthaur�s had caused Manw� to call a counsel, it had been a ruse; the Torturer's true intent was here, with the elves.
His mind raced. Did he move now he would be seen and slain. But if he did not, all chance to warn his people would be gone, and the Cruel One would come upon the unsuspecting Elves like a ravening wolf, taking those he wished, killing the others. The ground would run red with the blood of Elu's slaughtered kin, and Gorthaur would glut his vampire form with stolen life.
How to warn them? What chance was there to get to the camp first - in time enough to sound the horn of Orom�, time enough for the Valar's great horse to bear him back? Creeping darkness spread wide through the forest. Gorthaur would know, as soon as he stood. He would be stopped. And yet� And yet he would not calmly accept this fate for his people. He would not!
He barely felt Celeborn�s fingers slide from his as his mind raced along possible avenues of escape and he formed and discarded a dozen plans to warn his people. There must be a way�.
Overhead, the storm still shrieked its fury. Wind whipped the tendrils of shadow spread over the clearing into ragged shreds, like a torn black cloak which flapped in the screaming violence of the storm. The noise was maddening, though as yet, the rain did not return, leaving the wind to howl its passion into the night alone.
The darkness was almost across the clearing now, yet still the black tide lapped about them, surrounding them with its welling evil. Elu�s fingers again tightened on the knife, and he half-turned to assure himself of Celeborn�s position when the time came�
But Celeborn was gone.
Despite the danger, Elu gasped. On the ground, where the prince had lain propped against the tree, lay the bandage which had been bound tightly over the deep shoulder wound. Near it, the soaked ground was wet with a darker stain. His heart stopped in horror. He looked up, frantically searching, trying not to curse as fate was taken out of his hands.
He noticed first that there was a gap in the surrounding tide of drifting shadow, a slight opening through which one who moved with swift precision could slip. And there was blood - just as in his imaginings - blood on the ground. An uneven trail of it ran in a thin stream from where Celeborn had lain, straight through the gap. Away from the camp.
Awful realisation gripped Elu. I taught him too well. He recalled the night he had been discussing Valinor with his brothers - trying to explain the nature and limitations of the Maia. Celeborn, only recently having come of age, had sat next to his grandfather in silence, saying little, but listening intently, features grave and intent as he had absorbed all that he had heard, storing it for future reference.
"They may put on or discard their fana - their forms - as we change our clothing," Thingol had said, "But still they chose them with great care. The form has its own demands and at times can overrule the will of the one who wears it. Many dolphins - so Ulmo has said - who now chase in heedless joy through the waves were once servants of his, who have forgotten what they are because of the shape they chose to wear; who became what they wished to seem."
He had little thought when he spoke with such reverence that he had been handing his kinsman a weapon to use against the greatest Maia of them all. For Gorthaur wore the fana of a vampire - as exquisitely sensitive to the scent, and as unable to resist the lure of spilled blood as a gliding shark.
Knowing this, Celeborn must have unbound his wound, torn it open, until the blood ran down to his fingers, splashed onto the grass, and he had gone, laying a trail that would lead the monster away from his folk. Even as Elu watched, stomach heaving in revulsion and terror, a tendril of darkness moved over the bright spoor. It halted, and like an inquisitive animal, nosed again ovee ble blood, testing, tasting. Elu saw it ripple with discovery, saw the knowledge pass along the undulating ribbon of shadow, into the very heart of the darkness itself.
Gorthaur stopped. Elu could sense the Maia's attention like a cold breath against his soul. It shifted, its focus pulled aside by base obsession, as the body asserted its wants - the sweet, primal call of filling the mouth with blood, of escape from death, for just one moment. Having fought a similar battle himself, and lost, Elu could have pitied it - but that pity would have been wasted on one so cruel.
Slowly, reluctantly, the darkness shifted, distracted, no longer singular in its purpose. Moving a fraction at a time, it turned, searching, diminishing. As the awe-inspiring power and dark majesty of Gorthaur�s evil will was stripped from him he was reduced to a creature of addicted, hungry malice, bound into creeping, seeking need. Overwhelmed at last by the lusts of its ill-chosen form.
And Celeborn had made himself its lure, its prize, the one thing which could sate its desire.
It had his scent now. Elu watched, nausea threatening to choke him, as the creature bent to the ground. He heard, through a sudden lull in the howling gale, a quiet lapping sound. It turned its head, and its eyes were the colour of gore.
Elu tensed to move. Though his heart was sickened and his soul rebelled, he would not go after his young lover. He would do what they both knew he must - take this offered chance to save his people. Heart breaking, but steady in purpose, Elu waited, and as soon as the creature was intent on its trail of elven blood, he moved silently into the howling storm, running swiftly for the unsuspecting Teleri camp.
***
Celeborn stumbled on the rain-slick ground. His breath came in panting, terrified sobs as he pushed through the dense undergrowth. Thorns clutched at him. His chest burned with every ragged breath he drew.
But these hurts were as nothing compared to the fire in his shoulder. Did it still bleed? Stopping for an instant he held a hand to the wound, dug his fingers in, opening it further, not caring that the agony made him scream. Doubtless his cries would prove another lure to the thing that followed.
But still the bright flow lessened as his body sought to save itself - blood seeped under his fingertips, rather than welling. He could not afford to have his pursuer turn back, so he scooped a sharp stone from the ground and sawed its edges against the cut, deepening it. Immediately, he felt a warm rush over his hand and his head spun with dizziness as the blood ran freely once more from the widened wound. He had to keep Gorthaur after him, following the drugging scent of Elvish agony.
Pain bloomed behind his eyes like a black rose. He knew he could have fallen into it and be lost. Instead he filled his mind with thoughts of another warmth spilling over his hand, another dampness hot and filled with the essence of life; the gift of Elu�s body, the evidence of his love and desire. Celeborn held it in his heart as a talisman against the terror and agony of this night, against the certainty of his own death.
Deeper into the forest, he forced his faltering steps onward. Dimly, he could hear a noise above the storm, a deep rushing sound, and he recalled the great river the elves had forded the day before. Knowing he could not reach it before the evil that tracked him fell upon him, still he lurched on, heart labouring as his body spent itself, forced to pause frequently, leaning against the comforting bulk of tree trunks as his ears strained for the sound of following death.
Elu had returned to warn their people. Of that he was gladly sure. His King was no foolish hero to put his people in needless peril for his own glory. Still, it would have been nice to be able to entertain the fantasy of rescue. Once Gorthaur caught him - and the Maia would catch him, for he was greater even in his diminishment than Celeborn, even had Celeborn not been half-slain by exertion and bloodloss - death would not be swift. He drew a shuddering breath at the thought, trying instead to focus on the hope that Elu could reach the elven camp in time; rouse the warriors and blow the horn-call of Orom�.
As though his hope had summoned it, a high, pure note rang out, echoing and re-echoing among the trees, calling into the night. Orom� would hear it, Celeborn knew, and would come swiftly. His people would be safe, none lost to the overwhelming terror of the Torturer.
None but himself.
As the last golden notes faded, and the brightness left in their wake dimmed, there came a shuffling, hissing sound, close behind him. The creature came. Chained by its own body, pursuing a goal which made it ignore the ruin of its carefully laid ambush, it followed a trail of base need - of Elvish blood, scented and sweetened with pain and fear.
As the pursuit drew closer, dizziness threatened to overwhelm Celeborn. He staggered, and fear waned with his strength. He knew not what form death would take, and likely he would be unconscious when it did stoop on him, but even if he were not, even if it was agonising and lingering, still he would hold to the kedgeedge that his people would live.
Elu would live.
It was worth this. Even if it had been to save Thingol alone, still it would have been worth it.
His mouth was still full of the taste of Elu's skin. He could still feel the king's glorious surrender in the primal wildness of the storm, the cries of helpless yielding; the sobbing breath and desperation with which Elu had thrust into Celeborn�s hand, giving himself completely to the younger elf. Driven to pleading cries as Celeborn had taken him over the edge into searing, soaring ecstasy, his hands had clutched at Celeborn as though at something wondrous, irreplaceable, as his body convulsed with pleasure. If I have only that, to hold against the horror of what is to come, it is enough. And more.
He staggered again, shocked as he fell forward, not into more thorns, but into open space. In his weakness, above the roaring of his own blood in his ears and the shrieking of the storm, Celeborn had misjudged how close to the river he actually was. Pain pulsing through his body in sickening waves, he stumbled forward, saw it foaming white in the darkness of the night, already swollen by the torrential rain of the storm.
Fear came upon him like a blow from without - like the strike of a mighty weapon. It mattered not that there was no true echo of it in his heart, still it crushed him, like the hammer of the underworld. I am not afraid, he told himself, I am not. But a will other than his own stopped him, turned him, reluctant, sickened and fascinated, to face the thing that emerged from the trees behind him.
It no longer shuffled along the ground. Some measure of control Gorthaur had found over himself, and now he stood tall, cloaked in nightshade. His eyes gleamed chill, but his dripping mouth was crimson, and it smiled in cruel enjoyment, for if his plans had been ruined, now, at least he would have revenge in full.
One look at the river had been enough to tell Celeborn he would not survive a fall into its foaming, churning depths. The river spirits had been stirred by the storm into an angry mass of hissing foam and dangerous undercurrents. If he did not drown, he likely would be killed as he struck his head on one of the rocks that lay on the bed of the deep water.
And in truth, it sat ill with him to throw his life away, out of fear. He would rather die fighting. .Searching the ground near him, he looked for something, anything with which to he could attack the hideous thing. Its will was bent on him now - commanding him to look at it. With all his stubborness he resisted. He would look when he was ready, not before. Until then, his warrior�s soul demanded that there must be a weapon with which he could at least strike at the abomination. Perhaps he could, even now, injure Gorthaur, do him some harm. His pride demanded it, his courage bore the impulse out.
But there was nothing. No branch lay near his feet, no rock was near at hand.
Gorthaur laughed at his searching. Yet the laugh was hollow to Celeborn�s ears; almost disappointed, full of fury. The Cruel One wanted him to cringe, to beg for life and at the end, for de It It knew that it had had to compel the terror Celeborn now felt, that the young warrior before it felt in truth nothing of the kind. Rage seethed in the cold eyes, breath hissed between sharp teeth as the great vampire glided forward, close now, exuding malice, radiating desire to break the elf who stood proudly before it.
Celeborn stood quiet, standing as straight as pain and dizziness would allow. He lifted his head, staring straight at the Maia, and his expression was one of disdain. In that moment, caught on the cusp of death, he was unaware that his beauty was such that Gorthaur felt it as physical pain - an unwelcome rebuke and reminder of what he himself had once been. Gorthaur's hatred grew.
But to Celeborn's fading mind came only an image of Elu, strong and loving. It was, no doubt, the last image he would ever see. And he was glad, thinking of the proud tilt of Elu�s head, the warlike beauty, the smile, dazzling in its brightness; the grey eyes, filled with a light of marvellous trees, which Celeborn now would never see. One final time, he admired the silver-steel hair, falling over wide shoulders, the tall, strongly muscled body, the long, powerful legs as the king stood straight and tall between Celeborn and his tormentor.
Feeling rather than seeing Gorthaur step closer, Celeborn smiled faintly. Three more steps and it would be on him. But he cared not. He was dying, and Elu was here. That was all that mattered.
He drew a deep breath, his smile a fair, sweet thing, as the hooked iron claws slid from beneath the vampire's cloak, and Gorthaur hesitated between the body's desire to drink, and the spirit's desire to marr and ruin such sickening innocence. Normally, they cowered, whimpering in fear. This one did not, and the Maia's hatred almost choked him as he stalked closer.
In Celeborn�s mind, Elu raised his knife, the dim light gleamed down the length of the stone blade.
Stone. He had long lost the feeling in his fingers but when he clenched them he could dimly guess the cut and seep of blood as the edges of the stone he had picked up earlier bit into his flesh. He nodded slightly to himself. Sharp enough.
He would wait until Gorthaur was another step closer, then he would cut the Maia's throat.
The mere attempt, he knew, would be utter folly - he could scarcely move, and his sight was failing. He would fall into Gorthaur's grasp as spent and powerless as an autumn leaf. But he would try. With his last breath he would try.
In his mind, Elu�s lips brushed his own.
Melethron, the king whispered.
I hear you, my beloved Lord, Celeborn whispered back. Farewell.
***
- 5
- 6
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Summer Lightning