Rúmil sat on the cool marble bench with his head in his hands. His fingers were wet and slick with tears; his eyes, he imagined, must be red and bloodshot with incessant crying. It wasn't normally in his nature to fall victim to emotion like this, but then again, he didn't normally have to watch his life collapse into ruin around him.

He'd never left Lórien before, but Haldir had promised him that Imladris was a delightful place; the elves were somewhat serious and lordly at times, but always impeccably polite and courteous. The lifestyle, he promised, was as luxurious and sophisticated as in Lórien. Rúmil had been more than happy to accompany his elder brother on this trip.

The journey had been uneventful; on arrival, they had been greeted by Lord Elrond and several of his most trusted associates, as well as his twin sons and beautiful daughter. Rúmil had first laid eyes upon Arwen centuries ago when she was visiting Lórien with her now long-departed mother, Celebrían, and in that single moment he had understood perfectly what all the fuss was about. She truly was exquisite, every feature flawless. Her hair was a curtain of spun silk; her eyes lakes of liquid passion; her mouth the bud of a rose blossom, just about to spring open into full bloom.

But it had not been Arwen who had shaken his world and it left in ruins; not this time.

He drew in another shuddering breath, coughing as he inadvertently inhaled more tears. What was wrong with him?

Through his sobs, he suddenly heard a whisper of fabric just a couple of feet to his left. Someone had sat down on the bench beside him! He was irritated by this - he had spent ages prowling the gardens, seeking out a suitably private and secluded part of the Last Homely House's gardens where he could be alone with his misery. And now someone else was invading his space! "Go away!" he groaned bitterly through his fingers.

There was no response - his companion wouldn't leave.

Rúmil gazed up at the figure through wet fingers, his vision blurring with tears. His heart skipped a beat as he saw the curtain of dark hair...but no. He exhaled with mingled relief and disappointment, as he recognised the earnest, exotic features of Elrond's chief counsellor, Erestor. He scrubbed at his eyes. "What do you want?"

"I saw you come out here," the counsellor said, as if that explained everything. So far, Rúmil had not had the opportunity to meet Erestor properly and therefore had no idea of what to expect from him. Haldir, too, barely knew him, simply saying that Erestor came across as very quiet, dignified and conscientious - traits which probably hid a devious mind.

"So?"

"I come here too, sometimes, when I feel weighed down by a lot of emotion." Erestor had a strange, lilting accent, uncharacteristic of an Imladris elf. Rúmil couldn't place it at all - it reminded him of the Sindar from Mirkwood, only that seemed highly unlikely. He reminded himself that the advisor was probably many millennia old, and could have come from Aman for all he knew. "I thought maybe you'd like to unburden yourself."

"On you? I hardly know you." He couldn't understand why Erestor could possibly care what his problems were.

"All the better. I don't have a personal stake in this. Come, now, pen-neth, tears like that are usually caused by messy affairs of the heart. I don't expect you to give me a name, but you're welcome to tell me about what troubles you. I've found over the years that I've come to appreciate the value of talking." He shifted backwards a few inches, presumably a calculated move designed to put across the impression of being uninvasive. His dark eyes were soft and invited confidence.

Rúmil sighed. "You wouldn't want to hear about the mountain of misery which is supposed to be my love life."

"I'd like to hear about it a lot more than you think." Erestor spoke softly.

Rúmil chose not to attempt to interpret the cryptic comment, and instead asked, "You won't tell anyone?"

"I won't. I'm not considered to be a gossip."

"Thank you." He took a deep breath to calm himself, but still found himself stuttering as he started to speak. "It's...it's Faelon."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"He's...difficult. Go on."

"This is my first visit to Imladris. In fact, this is the first time I've ever left Lórien. Haldir thinks that I'm overwhelmed and it's making me emotional..."

"Hold on. You're starting the story in the middle. So you've found yourself drawn to Faelon?"

Rúmil nodded and sighed. "Is it that obvious?"

"It's not uncommon to feel that way about someone; I've seen it enough times. And I've known those feelings myself." Erestor's eyes were dark and unreadable, but his tone hinted at memories. "Tell me about you and Faelon."

"I first saw him standing there when we rode into Imladris, and it was as if everything else disappeared from around us. He's - " he swallowed. "He's beautiful. Like Eärendil in the autumn sky at dusk, he shone, and I couldn't look away from his light. Since then, I haven't been able to get him out of my thoughts. Honestly - I was writing up my notes from the meeting Haldir and I had with Lord Glorfindel, and I suddenly realised I'd written, ‘...remain in Imladris until Faelon is mine forever...'!" He blushed with embarrassment.

"Does he know about your feelings for him?"

Rúmil buried his head in his hands again, letting his hair fall forward to shield him from...Elbereth only knew what. "Yes," he whispered.

Erestor's strong, slender fingers closed around his wrists and pulled his hands back down. He met Rúmil's eyes reassuringly, "What happened?"

Rúmil chewed his lip uncertainly. "I...I approached him at the feast earlier. I told him that I found him intriguing and...and that I'd like to get to know him a little better. I asked him...I asked him if he'd like to join my brother and me by the hearth for miruvor..."

"Ah, yes, I remember seeing you two sitting together there. Haldir was speaking to Tellumiel, was he not?"

The younger elf nodded. "I didn't know you were there. Haldir said you didn't seem to like crowds."

A rather melancholy-looking smile touched Erestor's lips. "Oh, I was there. I left when the musicians came in, but I was present for the first part of the feast. It was after I had retired to my rooms that I saw you coming out here. But I'm side-tracking you - this is your story. Please continue."

Rúmil's eyes welled up again as he recalled his conversation with the dark-haired Imladris elf. "He looked at me as if...as if I was a rat someone had found in the storeroom." He sniffed, and hated himself for sounding so self-pitying. "And he said..." He broke eye contact, unable to focus his swimming eyes on Erestor's calm face, and once again sought refuge behind his hair. "He said that if I..."

Erestor reached out with two fingers, placing them gently under Rúmil's chin and tilting the younger elf's head up again. "Look at me. There's nothing to hide from here. Trying to retreat from your problems, hiding away like that - it won't make them disappear. They'll simply grow. The more you hide, the more you have to hide from, as your dread of the real issue increases out of all proportion. You should always meet your problems head-on, with a bold face. Say it again, but say it whilst looking at me."

The younger elf did as he was instructed. "He said that if I ever thought he would stoop so low as to lie with, or even be seen with, a Silvan elf, I must be even more ignorant and crass than most of my race." He was abruptly seized by the desire to throw himself upon Erestor - never mind that they'd never met before - and cry himself out in the elder elf's arms. But Erestor was chewing his lip somewhat uncomfortably, and made no move to reach out; in fact, as Rúmil's form shuddered with renewed sobs, he actually shifted away an almost imperceptible but significant inch. Clearly, he was not fond of even the idea of such unrestrained physical contact.

The counsellor moved hesitantly, but eventually extended a pale hand towards Rúmil and laid it gently on the distressed elf's shaking shoulder. Rúmil guessed from his tentative movements that this was an unusually familiar gesture from Erestor's point of view, and forced himself to return a reluctant smile. He wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve, an action which Erestor's expression hinted the elder elf disapproved of, and got hold of himself. "I had the same problem as you once," Erestor admitted softly, "The object of my desire was a Noldo, someone normally thought to be so far above me in station I effectively had no chance ever to be with him."

"You mean you're not a Noldo?" Rúmil was intrigued. He'd assumed that all the high-ranking elves of Elrond's household were of predominantly Noldorin blood.

"Not originally. But I have lived in Imladris for many years now."

"So what happened with this other elf?" Rúmil persisted, growing interested.

"We fell in love anyway, and our differences ceased to matter." This time, the smile on Erestor's face was blissful rather than sad. His gaze wandered dreamily to the sky, roaming the bluish vault which now darkened to indigo with approaching dusk. Eärendil shone down on them from just above the horizon, and his light was soon joined by other, fainter stars.

"Tell me how," the Lórien elf demanded, his eyes shining with mixed hope and desperation. Erestor did not answer; his gaze had now dropped to the ring he wore on the index finger of his left hand, an elegant piece styled of mithril flowers. "Erestor?" He tugged the counsellor's sleeve to gain his attention again.

"I apologise, Rúmil. I grew distracted. What were you saying?"

"I asked if you'd tell me how you managed to win his heart."

Erestor looked thoughtful. "I admit I'm still not entirely sure myself. I think it may be because...circumstances...forced him to acknowledge that heritage is utterly insignificant besides love. Also, Lord Elrond had the good sense to point out to him that we had far more in common that he had previously assumed."

"So do you think I should persuade Faelon to look beyond my background and see who I am underneath?"

"If you can achieve that, I believe it may be a good idea." His eyes lifted once more to the twilight sky. "Now, Rúmil - it grows dark. I suggest we retire inside before the light deserts us completely." Rúmil was very fond of the night sky; the diamond-studded constellations, Ithil's silver, dusty radiance. He could have watched it for hours yet. But he was not inclined to argue with the counsellor, and besides, Erestor was already heading towards the welcoming amber-coloured light pouring from the windows of the Last Homely House. With a regretful sigh, he turned to follow the elder elf .

---

Erestor's quill moved rhythmically over the surface of the crisp vellum as his eyes flicked between six-month-old inventory lists, more recent ones, and requisition receipts. So far, everything appeared to be accounted for. Then he noticed an inconsistency and frowned with irritation. His left hand reached for a sheet of clean parchment which lay in a stack on the corner of the desk, and he scribbled a note to have the matter investigated further. First, he would refer the matter to one of the elves working under him, and if they couldn't discover anything, he would see what he could find out on his own - he was nothing if not resourceful. If even that failed, he would ask Elrond to talk to the armoury master himself. The unexplained disappearance of four dozen arrows from the stores was hardly a devastating discrepancy, but Erestor liked everything to wrap up nicely, and in this case he was frustrated that it didn't.

Suddenly, and without warning, a pair of hands appeared, one on either side of his neck and started probing at the cramped muscles in his shoulders. Erestor instinctively tensed under the touch, pulling away, before reason kicked in and he recognised Glorfindel's sensitive, skilful fingers.

He turned, tucking several locks of his midnight hair behind his ear as he did so, and treated Glorfindel to a prickly glare. "You know I don't like it when you sneak up on me like that," he stated.

He instantly regretted his snappish words as his lover became utterly contrite and looked quite crestfallen. "I'm sorry, melamin, I forgot you..."

Erestor swallowed and closed his eyes briefly, before turning back to the inventory lists. A moment later, Glorfindel's arms encircled him affectionately, and he smiled and leaned into the embrace, feeling the warmth of his lover's body where it touched his back. Glorfindel leaned closer and kissed him on his jawbone, bringing a rosy flush to Erestor's cheeks. His lover's fingers now curled around his own, coaxing him up from the chair and pulling them over to the generous fire where two invitingly overstuffed armchairs had been positioned. "I'm sorry," Glorfindel said again.

Erestor shook his head. "No, it is I who should be apologising. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. Perhaps I should have my desk turned around so it faces the door." He felt one of his rare smiles of amusement spread across his face. "Then you would no longer have the advantage on me."

Glorfindel answered the smile with one of his own. "Perhaps you should instead spend less time at the desk. You work too hard, you know."

"Lord Elrond needs me to impose order upon the chaos of his study."

"You don't constantly have to prove your worth to him, or to anyone," Glorfindel countered easily, shaking his head; the argument was not a new one. "We all know how invaluable you are, and I, for one, would like to see you awake in the evenings rather than falling asleep before you even reach our rooms." His expression was resigned rather than angry, so Erestor did not bother with an especially sharp rejoinder.

"I'm awake enough for you now, aren't I?" he asked pointedly. Glorfindel knew full well that he was by no means falling asleep most evenings, and inclined his head in mild defeat. His eyes, though, spoke that he still suspected his lover was overworking himself. "Long day?" Looking to change the subject, Erestor had immediately taken note of his lover's thoughtful frown as Glorfindel shifted into a more comfortable position on the yielding velvet cushions.

The golden-haired warrior nodded. "I've been in conference with Rúmil and Haldir all morning, going over the latest reports of orc bands roaming the countryside. I think we're going to have to organise a joint patrol with Lórien and track down a particularly large group which has been causing problems around the south of Eregion." He shook his head in irritation. "And that will be another few dozen gone. It will make not a scrap of difference to their vast numbers overall."

"Is there a pattern to this band's activities?" Erestor asked, already analysing the information he'd just been given.

"Well, according to Rúmil..."

"Rúmil," the counsellor repeated meditatively, then diverged from the thread of the previous conversation completely. "What impression have you gained of him so far?"

Glorfindel raised a slender eyebrow at the unexpected question. "Why do you ask?" He received no more answer than an elegant shrug and the slightest hint of a smile. "Oh all right, have it your way, Lord Enigma. He seems to me to be, for the most part, much like his brother, and you've met Haldir. However, he comes across as being in some ways very different from Haldir. He is prepared to take chances, as is Haldir, but at the same time he does not share his elder brother's formidable self-confidence."

"Arrogance, you mean?" Erestor corrected, inclining his head.

"Well - yes. He seems rather more naive than his brother, presumably because he is younger and less experienced. But he has a quick and intelligent mind, and a sound understanding of strategy. I think, melamin, that you would find him very interesting."

Erestor dropped his eyes noncommittally, and made an ambiguous gesture with his hand.

"You're not going to tell me what you're up to, are you?" Glorfindel asked when his lover raised his head again. He pouted and tossed his head impatiently; Erestor admired the way the spun-gold tresses fell about his lover's perfect face. The counsellor answered with a slight shake of his head. "Then at least let me kiss you?" he asked. Erestor recognised with amusement his lover's favourite teasing-pleading expression.

"Only if afterwards, you resume that glorious massage," he replied. He allowed himself a brief and genuine smile as his lover rose gracefully from the chair and slid into his lap. Sighing with delight, he dug his fingers eagerly into Glorfindel's beautiful hair as the warm affectionate lips touched his.

Then the Elda perched on the arm of the chair and began once more to massage his lover's shoulders.

Erestor shut his eyes and tilted his head back until it touched Glorfindel's chest, feeling the tension oozing from his muscles under the busy fingers. He relaxed more and more with each movement of the golden-haired Elda's fingertips, and he lost himself completely to the sensation...

The fingers hesitated. Erestor opened his eyes and curiously looked over his shoulder at Glorfindel. He was smiling, and there was laughter in his fair face. "What is it?" Erestor enquired.

"You were purring," his lover answered, and adoringly played with a lock of dark hair. "I've never known you to purr before."

Erestor traced the outline of Glorfindel's lips with one slender finger, then taking both his lover's wrists in his grasp, gently guided the Elda's hands back to his shoulders. "Please? Keep giving me a reason to purr."

Glorfindel obediently continued until Erestor felt himself beginning to fall asleep, then stroked the dark hair with long, smooth movements, bringing the counsellor back to awareness. The golden-haired warrior knelt in front of him, Erestor's hands trapped between his in the counsellor's lap. "Come to bed, melamin," Glorfindel said, "You can't stay here all night."

"You're right," Erestor agreed, stifling a yawn.

Glorfindel half-lifted his lover from the chair, drawing him into an eager embrace, cradling Erestor's head protectively on his shoulder. They remained that way for some moments, aware only of the closeness, and the rise and fall of the other's chest.

They were still holding hands when they entered the bedroom. Erestor appreciated the reassurance which came with the physical contact. Glorfindel reminded Erestor of how much he loved him several times a day, but the dark-haired counsellor still felt comforted by tangible gestures such as this one.

Erestor had - fairly recently - finally agreed to share Glorfindel's bed. His lover had been overjoyed when Erestor had said so, recognising it as a significant sign of total trust and commitment. The counsellor did not give trust easily, and Glorfindel delighted in the knowledge that he had penetrated Erestor's normally reserved front.

The golden-haired elf stripped off his outer robes, dropping them unceremoniously on the floor whilst Erestor fastidiously shook the creases from his own and hung them carefully in his wardrobe. But as Glorfindel was unbuttoning his shirt, he patted the pocket of his leggings. "I'm sorry, melethron, I forgot to tell you - Haldir handed me a note at the end of our meeting today. It's for you. I've been so preoccupied with these cursed patrol arrangements it slipped my mind completely." He handed the counsellor a folded sheet of parchment.

Erestor turned it over in his hands with interest before unfolding it and scanning the contents of the message written there. Then he smiled. Glorfindel narrowed his eyes and raised an eyebrow in question.

"It's not from Haldir," the dark-haired elf stated, "It's from Rúmil. He wants my help."

"Do I get to read it?"

Erestor frowned, then refolded the note with obsessive attention to getting the two halves exactly aligned, and shut it away in a drawer. "Maybe tomorrow."

---

Rúmil sat in the library, hoping that the note he'd received with his breakfast this morning wasn't just some silly prank of Haldir's. But the handwriting had not been his brother's; it had been neat and precise, as he would have expected from Erestor. The note had specified this time; he hoped Erestor would not be late.

Haldir had agreed to give Rúmil's message to Glorfindel yesterday only after Rúmil had offered to take Haldir's watches when they journeyed back to Lórien. He still hadn't been entirely sure his brother would hand over the note, so he'd only pretended to leave after the meeting and had hidden to check Haldir did as he'd promised.

Now he hoped that Glorfindel and Erestor were as close friends as Haldir seemed to think, from what his elder brother had been saying yesterday after observing the two at dinner.

His fears were unfounded. The counsellor appeared, exactly and precisely on time, as if Arda turned according to his instructions. He sat silently in the comfortable chair across from Rúmil, resting his chin idly on one hand, waiting for the young elf to speak. "Thank you for coming," he began uncertainly. Erestor nodded slightly in acknowledgement, but still said nothing.

"After last night, when you suggested I try to convince Faelon to give me a second glance, I started thinking..." Another nod. "I talked to Haldir yesterday, and he said that as far as he knew, Faelon was a scribe who worked for you..."

"Well, he's more like a personal aide, really. I'm training him to do more or less everything I do as part of the day-to-day running of Imladris. But your information wasn't far off."

"...yes, so I thought that since you'd know him, you'd be able to tell me a bit about him - what he likes, and dislikes, and that kind of thing." He looked at the elder elf for some kind of reaction, and was rewarded with an expression which betrayed no emotion.

"He is highly intelligent, and completes any tasks I set him to my satisfaction."

"He must be good, then," Rúmil remarked with an impish grin, remembering a comment Haldir had made last night about the counsellor's perfectionist attitude.

"And what might you mean by that?"

Rúmil wasn't sure whether the question was a challenge or a joke; with Erestor, it was hard to tell. He dropped his eyes and mumbled, "Nothing."

Erestor let it pass. "He wears a lot of dark blue and silver."

Unlike half the other elves in Imladris, Rúmil was tempted to say with a hint of sarcasm, but held his tongue.

"I've noticed that he sometimes wears a perfume scented with lilac and..." he narrowed his eyes, trying to identify the aroma from memory, "...rosemary."

"What about his personality?" Rúmil prompted. Faelon struck him as being an immensely complicated individual. He remembered how the dark-haired elf had laughed at the same points as he had when Glorfindel was telling jokes over dinner the previous night, and had reached for many of the dishes which Rúmil had also sampled. Yet his vocation was entirely different - Faelon was a scholar, Rúmil a marchwarden. Faelon seemed, to the casual observer, to be confident and self-assured, but Rúmil had seen the flash of self-doubt cross the other's features when he apparently took offence at an offhand remark made by one of the twins.

"As I said last night, he can be difficult. I know him on a professional rather than a personal basis, but I've learned that he can be extremely stubborn - as stubborn as I'm told I can be, in fact. He doesn't like being told he's wrong; he doesn't easily admit to mistakes. This could be where you'll encounter a problem. Having turned you away once, it's unlikely he'll take kindly to having his opinions of you rewritten." The counsellor shrugged elegantly. "But he will go to great lengths for people he cares about. I remember one occasion when I had reprimanded his brother, Melpomaen, for carelessness in his work, and Faelon came running in on me an hour later, and proceeded to give quite a tirade on why it wasn't Melpomaen's fault, and how it was unfair of me to rebuke him." The way Erestor's eyes narrowed as he spoke implied that he, on the other hand, did not think it unfair in spite of Faelon's protest. "He also comes from a very good, traditional family; he has a high opinion of his pedigree, as you've already found out, but equally he cares deeply for the individual members of his family."

"Anything else you think I should know?" the young elf asked.

"Like what?"

"Has he ever shown a preference for particular flowers or food? Does he keep any treasured possessions? Does he have favourite songs which he sings to himself sometimes? What does he do in his free time?"

Erestor held out his hands. "I honestly wouldn't know. As I said, I only know him well professionally. Sorry, Rúmil." He suddenly smiled - the first time Rúmil had seen him do so during the discussion. "I'll see what I can find out today, shall I? Will you be at dinner tonight?" Rúmil nodded. "I'll meet you then, and tell you if I've discovered anything. In the meantime, find yourself some nice clothes for tonight and make yourself look extra-special - not that you're not already a very attractive young elf, I might add."

"You think so?" Rúmil had never been so sure of himself. It was always Haldir and his other brother, Orophin, who received all the attention from potential sweethearts.

Erestor nodded slowly.

"I haven't really got any special clothes with me...I wasn't expecting to have to impress anyone."

"No? How long is it until you're due to meet with Glorfindel and Lord Elrond today?"

"Another hour, I think."

"Good. Then come with me. I don't think any of my clothes will fit, but I think Glorfindel must be about the same size as you, even if he's a little taller. And his dress sense is excellent. We're bound to find something for you."

"Really?" Rúmil couldn't suppress his hopeful smile. Glorfindel was the kind of Elda who drew all eyes when he walked into a room, and he'd already noticed the golden-haired warrior's taste in clothes. "Won't he mind?"

"Not if I'm with you."

"So he is that lover you were talking about the other night?"

Erestor started, his hand coming up to smooth his already immaculate hair. "That's between me and him - " he chewed his bottom lip ruefully " - and, I admit, half of Imladris. Yes, Rúmil, yes we are."

"Good morning, Faelon. I see that you are punctual as always. Elrond's given me the plans for the additional wing he wants to build on the Last Homely House, and I'd like you to look over them. We may have to negotiate with Mirkwood and Lórien for some of the materials." Faelon nodded and accepted the sheaf of papers which Erestor laid in his hands He took a seat at the nearest table in the large library and spread out the documents in the most practical arrangement.

"Anything else?" he asked, looking up when he realised Erestor hadn't moved.

"Yes. I need a scribe for a meeting with Elrond this afternoon. Can you do that?"

Faelon nodded. "What time?"

"Directly after midday meal."

"I won't be late." Erestor half-smiled in satisfaction.

"One more thing."

"Yes?"

"The inventory lists I set you to look over; I rechecked them yesterday afternoon. You overlooked the unexplained loss of nearly fifty arrows from the weapons stores."

Faelon swallowed uncomfortably. Erestor did not tolerate mistakes. The younger elf shook his head in denial. "But I looked over those lists four times! I'm sure I didn't miss anything." Erestor did not seem impressed by his protests. He realised he hadn't a chance of winning if it became an argument. "I'm sorry," he apologised. "I've been rather...distracted lately."

"Distracted?" Erestor repeated, one eyebrow raised disapprovingly. Faelon didn't answer the enquiry; he found it uncomfortable enough at times talking to Erestor about the impersonal business of the management of Imladris, never mind his own personal problems. He certainly wasn't about to explain to the sober counsellor that, in spite of his rejection of that irritating young Silvan elf, Rúmil's face would not stop invading his thoughts.

"Aye...I will try to concentrate better today."

Erestor nodded and, seemingly mollified, left the younger elf to work. He seated himself at a nearby table, opened the old book he was carrying, and picking up quill, began to write on a piece of parchment lying next to it.

Faelon got to work; the chief adviser had been quite correct. Some of the timber Elrond wanted would have to be transported in from Lórien, which would require elves to supervise - he could manage that himself - and in these troubled times, an armed escort would be needed. Glorfindel would not be pleased when Faelon put in that request. The golden-haired Elda was always ruing the fact that he hadn't more scouts to send out on patrol as it was.

"Are you hungry?" Erestor asked suddenly, his soft but clear voice interrupting Faelon's concentration. "I was just about to fetch some refreshments; I could get something for you as well if you'd like. "

Faelon glanced out of the window, and realised with surprise that he'd been working for well over an hour. He was a little taken aback by Erestor's offer; he thought the counsellor was annoyed with him because of the inventory lists, so wasn't expecting such thoughtfulness, but nonetheless he composed himself quickly. "Yes, please, if you are getting something. A cup of fruit tea would be welcome, and perhaps - " he decided to indulge the sudden craving " - sweet bread with berry jam."

Erestor raised an eyebrow but said nothing, only nodding slightly in acknowledgement, and with his usual understated grace, glided out of the room.

---

Erestor set off towards the kitchens at a brisk walk. As he passed the library, another raven-haired elf emerged through the double doors, running a hand through tousled locks. Catching sight of Erestor, he fell into step beside the chief advisor. "Good morning," he said, glancing outside and frowning at an angry-looking cloud which hung sullenly above the horizon. "Although I daresay it will not remain that way for much longer."

"You may be right, Melpomaen," Erestor answered. "But I imagine the library will remain dry however much it may rain, and I doubt you would find yourself lacking in things to do were you to remain there should the weather continue to deteriorate."

"The maps which you asked me to update?" the younger elf asked rhetorically. Erestor nodded. "They are nearly ready, I promise. And I'm glad they are. I've spent long enough on them."

"I would not ask you to do all of them, but you have a much better eye for detail than your younger brother."

Melpomaen grinned. "I hope you're finding just as much work to keep Faelon occupied."

Erestor responded with raised eyebrows. "I would not like to think that he was becoming bored." He abruptly stopped, and turned around, explaining quickly, "I was heading towards the kitchens, but as we were talking, I seem to have walked straight past them."

"The kitchens? That was where I was heading as well. I need some refreshment before I face those maps again. I bet they have ripe plums just waiting for me."

"Faelon asked me to fetch fruit tea, and...sweet bread with berry jam."

Melpomaen laughed. "Did he? Berry jam, indeed - I thought he'd have grown out of that by now. He always used to love blackberries when he was an elfling. He'd come back in after playing outside in summer sometimes, and he'd be stained head to foot in purple from eating every one he saw."

"I'm pleased he doesn't turn up in my study in that state," Erestor remarked dryly.

"Oh, you should have seen him! He ruined several perfectly good tunics that way. Eventually, he persuaded Nana to let him grow his own bramble plant in one of the flowerbeds, and he looked after it as he would a treasured pet. She used to wonder why he couldn't just get a pony or a hound like any other elfling. It was so invasive, within a year it had choked most of the other plants in the bed, but he didn't seem too worried."

"So he ended up with an entire bed full of brambles?"

"Well, no. He cleared a little space where he grew elanor. Lady Celebrían gave him a plant once when he was very young, and he kept it flowering constantly from then until he reached majority." Melpomaen realised he was starting to ramble now, and seemed surprised Erestor had not yet told him to stop. When they reached the kitchens, Melpomaen's bet proved correct - the plums looked deliciously ripe and he happily walked off with a large bowlful. Erestor had to wait whilst his request was seen to.

The kitchen staff did not waste time, and the advisor soon had a steaming cup of fruit tea and a platter laden with light sweet bread for Faelon. He also had some more information about his protégé which he could relay to Rúmil.

---

Faelon found his eyes straying yet again to the young Silvan elf sitting across from him. This was ridiculous! He wasn't attracted to Rúmil! The idea was about as likely as his falling for one of the Dunedain chieftains Lord Elrond fostered from time to time. He forced himself to concentrate on transcribing the discussion taking place. Erestor insisted on a full written record of all important meetings in Imladris. Even at less crucial councils, he'd bring a scribe to take notes of the main points. From time to time, he leaned across and murmured a few words to Faelon: "Put that Haldir looked displeased when Glorfindel suggested that," or, "Add a note about that - I'll have to check if that can be done." He complied, writing in quick shorthand which could be copied up neatly later.

This was the last stage of discussions, a relatively simple matter of cementing patrol plans already agreed between Lórien and Imladris, and for Elrond and Erestor to calculate how soon Imladris could provision a group of elves for a trip of this length. Erestor seemed confident that everything could be dealt with, but Faelon could tell Glorfindel was unhappy.

Eventually, the golden-haired warrior confided to those present what was troubling him. "This orc band we're dealing with seems to have assembled from many small groups which have been hanging around Eregion for a year or more. Word from the patrols is that now several similarly small groups of orcs have been sighted at various places along the Bruinen. At the moment, the power in Imladris is easily strong enough to deter them from attacking, but were they to gather together as the Eregion band have done, they may dare an assault. I'm not happy leaving Imladris more or less unguarded."

"There is no need to leave Imladris completely unguarded." Glorfindel whirled in surprise when Erestor spoke up.

"Excuse me?"

"You appear to have vastly overestimated the number of Imladris elves required on this patrol. Certainly, meeting the orcs sooner, as you suggest, in the south, would normally be more prudent. I agree that with Lórien archers, we have the advantage if we strike at them in forest. But were we to allow them longer to track eastwards towards the mountains, the terrain would allow us to eliminate the orc band without a direct confrontation."

"How?" Glorfindel demanded. His face had set into a hard mask. Clearly, he was unhappy with having his decision challenged.

"Split our forces, and harry their flanks. We can drive them into the Vale of Uialos. We already know full well that the pass into the valley has been in danger for some time of being blocked by a rockslide. Were we to seal the way after their host had entered, they would have to track thirty miles to get out at the other end, and all uphill."

"Then what?" Glorfindel asked in a disinterested voice. "We may be able to pick half of them off with arrows, but after that?"

"After that, of course, we divert one of the tributaries of the Glanduin to re-flood the valley's dry river bed." Erestor made it sound as if it was the most obvious course of action.

"That can't be done!" Haldir protested. Faelon had seen him following the debate between the two Imladris elves with great interest. But even the marchwarden had not been as mesmerised as Rúmil. Faelon was merely glad the pen-neth had stopped gawking at him.

"Well...actually, it can," Glorfindel admitted.

"The Bruinen can be flooded, if necessary, to repel intruders from the west," Elrond explained mildly. "There is no reason why it couldn't be done again elsewhere." He did not elaborate further.

"It would be incredibly difficult!" Glorfindel protested. "A straightforward confrontation in the forests would be far simpler, and the chances of success are high if we use the tree cover."

"But the number of elves required is too large," Erestor replied patiently. "And your plan is more risky."

"Your plan involves procrastinating for several days while the orcs go east. In that time, they will be joined by other groups, and cause more trouble."

"Better to take many all at once; it saves you from having to send out smaller patrols later to clean up the scattered groups." Neither elf was shouting; both were speaking in deceptively light and civil tones, which Faelon thought simply added to the latent discord between them.

"Why don't we gain additional backup from King Thranduil in Mirkwood?" Glorfindel suggested suddenly. "That way, a unit of my best fighters could be left behind to defend Imladris, and the Mirkwood elves could add to our numbers on the sortie. In fact, then it would be feasible to take out this second band amassing nearby after neutralising the first. Everyone would be happy."

"Perhaps in your idyllic imagination," Erestor responded caustically. "But in the real world, the odds of King Thranduil even replying to our requests for aid are about the same as the odds of a regiment of dwarves offering their assistance!"

"Gentlemen, please," Elrond said placatingly. "Perhaps it's time to call a recess. Let us consider the suggestions overnight, and see if a compromise can be reached by tomorrow. Then perhaps we can listen to what the envoy from Lórien thinks may be best, as well." He glanced meaningfully at Haldir and Rúmil. "We seem to have all but neglected them whilst we compared the perceived merits and problems of our schemes, when, after all, Lórien is as much a part of this matter as Imladris." The stress on ‘we' clearly implied that the only parties involved were the chief advisor and the golden-haired seneschal, and both had the courtesy to look contrite. Well, a bit, anyway. The way Erestor raised his eyebrow at Glorfindel before apologising mildly to the Silvan elves suggested he, at least, was still not happy.

---

"Erestor? Erestor?" Glorfindel peered into the bathroom to find Erestor running a brush through his long hair - which appeared to have gone an even darker shade of black now it was wet - in front of the mirror. The counsellor had thrown on a thin silk robe after bathing, and it clung to his damp skin, highlighting every line of his slender, well-defined body. Glorfindel allowed himself a moment to admire his lover's beauty before a wicked grin spread across his face.

He tiptoed towards the bathing pool, which was still full of tepid, lavender-scented water and, leaning down towards it, scooped some up in his hand and splashed it at Erestor.

The counsellor turned and regarded the golden-haired elf balefully. But to Glorfindel's amazement, rather than coming out with some scathing comment criticising his lover for being so juvenile, Erestor narrowed his eyes deviously. Glorfindel wasn't sure whether he was still angry about the argument they'd had in the council meeting earlier. He had already forgiven Erestor; how could he not, when Erestor was so adorable? But his lover was difficult to read, and had a long memory and a prickly temper.

Erestor suddenly leaned towards the pool and, without warning, splashed twice as much water back at Glorfindel. The golden-haired Elda did not react; he was utterly taken aback by the contrast between the playful action and the terribly solemn expression on Erestor's face. "I am unhappy with your behaviour today," the counsellor declared very calmly. "And I think you need to experience some discipline."

Glorfindel's eyes widened. He was unsure what Erestor's idea of discipline might prove to consist of; though he had always loved Elrond's three children dearly, he had been a strict tutor with them and never tolerated misbehaviour in his lessons.

With a movement far faster than any elf who was merely a scholar had any right to make, Erestor tripped Glorfindel, pushed him to the floor and began to tickle the golden-haired warrior along his stomach and flanks. Glorfindel bit his lip at first, not wanting to show his weakness - he'd faced a Balrog for Elbereth's sake, he shouldn't be incapacitated by a bit of tickling! - but when he started to choke on his suppressed giggles, he had no choice but to release them out loud. "Erestor, daro!" he protested.

"I don't know about that. What's in it for me? You're in trouble, remember." As he spoke, Erestor finally showed some mercy and eased up on the tickling. His face remained perfectly serious and composed.

"I'll dedicate this entire evening to your pleasure," Glorfindel tried, leaning upwards to capture Erestor's mouth with his, teasingly sucking the counsellor's lower lip. Whatever response Erestor might have made never formed.

Glorfindel ran his tongue possessively round the inside of Erestor's teeth, enjoying the sensation of his lover's wet hair where it fell across his cheek and shoulders.

Eventually, Erestor placed firm hands on Glorfindel's shoulders and pushed him back down to the floor. "I accept your terms. So, did you come in the bathroom only to watch me - for several minutes - or was there another reason?"

"I didn't realise you'd noticed I was there..." Erestor shook his head in disbelief.

"This time, I wasn't absorbed in work, was I? So?"

"Actually," Glorfindel grinned. "I was going to ask whether you knew anything about my wardrobe."

"What about it?" The question was so convincingly innocent, Glorfindel was almost taken in and was about to apologise for ever suspecting the counsellor. Then he saw a ghost of a smile whisper briefly across the rose-coloured lips, and knew he was being played with - again.

"Well, you see, you may or may not realise that my aquamarine robes, and that lovely silver tunic with the plum coloured trim - you know, the one you like - have mysteriously gone missing. Can you throw any light on the situation?"

"I'm sure they're in safe hands," Erestor answered noncommittally.

"Oh, melamin, you really are impossible. I think I indulge you too often." He frowned. "How do you think Lord Elrond would react if several sets of his best clothes mysteriously disappeared from his wardrobe, and his lover seemed to know rather more about it than he'd say?" Glorfindel realised that his attempt at scolding was somewhat reduced in its overall impact by the fact that he was currently lying on his back on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor, and was being pinned there very firmly by the very person who was supposed to be at the receiving end of the telling-off. On top of which, Erestor's robe had only been belted at the waist and was coming open above the satin sash to reveal a glorious expanse of milky, smooth skin. Glorfindel would have liked nothing better at that moment on to cover the perfect body with tender, adoring kisses and licks. He forced his desire under control. "Does this have something to do with that business with Rúmil?"

Erestor blinked innocently. Glorfindel could no longer resist those wide, beautiful eyes, and with a deft movement, wriggled out of the dark haired elf's restraint so he could place butterfly kisses on both of them. His fingers slid deep into the masses of wet hair, and he drew back, holding Erestor's head pinned between his hands. "Well?" the warrior demanded, trying to feign sternness.

"Well..." Erestor repeated. "...I might have borrowed one or two of your outfits..."

"Why?" Glorfindel was now far more curious than annoyed. Erestor's taste in clothes differed wildly from his; where Glorfindel selected shades of azure, saffron and crimson, Erestor would go for black, charcoal, deep maroon - or at best, muted pastels. And besides, few of the Glorfindel's clothes would even fit Erestor; the advisor was too slender across the waist and shoulders.

"Will you be available to join the rest of the Last Homely House at dinner tonight?" Erestor said sweetly. Glorfindel nodded, thinking that his lover had hardly given an answer, but resigned himself to Erestor's characteristic evasiveness. "Ah, good."

Glorfindel turned up to dinner discreetly holding hands with Erestor, their entwined fingers concealed by robes, wondering what in the name of the Valar his lover had been alluding to before. He had reached the conclusion that Erestor had, for some reason unknown to him, taken the clothing to lend to another elf; and he would have gambled anything on Arda that the elf in question was Rúmil. But the reason why remained just as obscure.

He was correct. The young Silvan elf looked truly dazzling; the aquamarine formal robes brought out the blue and green in Rúmil's eyes and made them sparkle like well-cut turquoises. His hair had been braided and twisted with great attention to detail, and served to accentuate his delicate features. If it weren't for Erestor, perhaps even Glorfindel might have been momentarily tempted by the Lórien scout.

He and Erestor took their customary places near Lord Elrond, and Glorfindel threw a casual glance at the gold cutlery in the hope that the implements would tell him something of what to expect food-wise tonight. They didn't; there was no soup spoon, hence tonight, no soup, but apart from that snippet of information, he could glean nothing. The knives and forks were all of generic design and could be used for a variety of dishes. He enjoyed this somewhat juvenile guessing game, anticipating the dishes of the evening, whether they were cheese, fish, roasts or casserole; he'd have another stab once the first course was served. For the moment, though, he'd just have to wait and see.

Erestor, typically, ate in silence; Glorfindel, typically, took to amusing himself by turning to Elrond and debating politics with the Half-Elven Lord. However, the golden-haired Elda was also keeping a discreet watch on Rúmil. The young Silvan elf seemed nervous and unsure of himself, and kept throwing glances at, of all people, Faelon. If the Imladris scholar noticed, he gave no obvious sign; but often when his gaze wandered in Rúmil's direction, he made an overt point of staring through the Lórien visitor.

Glorfindel caught Erestor gazing at a dish of steamed vegetables, and immediately passed it across; in return, his lover reached for the wine and refilled the golden-haired warrior's goblet. It was a fine but heady wine, and although Glorfindel was far from drunk, he thought he might appreciate some singing sometime soon.

---

Whatever explanation Erestor had given to Glorfindel to account for the disappearance of some of the seneschal's best robes, and their subsequent reappearance on Rúmil, it seemed to have mollified him. Glorfindel's face showed only curiosity and - for a fraction of a second, Rúmil was amazed to see - attraction, even if that had disappeared a moment later. He relaxed and began to enjoy the meal.

He soon discovered Faelon was watching him. Not overtly; whenever Rúmil's eyes crossed to the dark-haired elf, he was either staring at his plate or conversing soberly with one of the other counsellors sitting nearby. Rúmil didn't know whether to be pleased or uncomfortable, and ended up compromising and feeling a combination of both.

It was then that he saw that Faelon was sipping very sparingly at the wine. Not carefully, as an elf would do when making absolutely sure he did not accidentally become inebriated, but disapprovingly, as if he did not agree with the choice of vintage. Faelon seemed to have a good point; this wine could have benefited from being laid down another year or two. However, Glorfindel had just been complementing Lord Elrond with great enthusiasm on the selection; Faelon must have been reluctant to contradict the seneschal and risk offending his Lord. Rúmil chuckled to himself. He could see that, actually, the two elder elves were drinking a different wine altogether, a white, when he and Faelon were sipping a red. But as the goblets were inlaid mithril, Faelon, from where he was sitting, would not be able to see the contents. He was unaware that Glorfindel was loudly proclaiming the virtues of an entirely different wine to the one he was drinking.

"Tell me," Rúmil said to a servant as he laid another dish on the table. "Is this red wine Lord Elrond's selection, or that of his vintner?"

The servant was momentarily taken aback. "Lord Elrond personally recommended the white, sir, but I believe the vintners chose the red, on the advice of a note he received today."

"Curious. This wine is too young, you see, and does not complement some of these dishes."

The servant became flustered and apologetic, before Rúmil made a placating hand gesture. "It doesn't matter, no harm has been done. Could you just instead open several bottles of the batch we brought from Lórien? And send some to the elves over there - the ones wearing indigo." He pointed to the group around Faelon. "Say it comes highly recommended from Lothlórien, and you hope they find it more to their liking."

The servant ran off to do as instructed; Rúmil looked once more, longingly, at Faelon before returning to his food. As he did so, he made brief eye contact with Erestor. The counsellor had not spoken to anyone the entire meal, and did not now; nor did he smile. But Rúmil saw the sparkle in the dark eyes, and wondered how much of his conversation with the servant Erestor had ever heard, and how much the advisor knew about it all.

---

Faelon looked up in surprise when a servant appeared, hovering at his shoulder with an unopened bottle of wine. "I have been asked to open this for you," the elf explained. "It comes highly recommended from Lórien, and I hope you should find it preferable to that which you were drinking before."

Faelon was intrigued. Surely, the servants hadn't been watching him so closely as to realise he wasn't enjoying the first vintage? He had deliberately not made a display of his disapproval, as it would hardly do to slight Lord Elrond's competence as a host in front of guests - even if those guests probably wouldn't know a good wine if it was poured over their heads. But someone had ordered a better bottle for him, and he remembered from his last visit to Lórien that Lady Galadriel was personally fond of this one.

He thanked the servant and allowed a fresh crystal goblet to be half-filled with the drink. Holding it up to the light, he took in the rich colour, an intense burgundy like molten silk. The aroma was exquisite and complex, oak and river air, dark plums and warm earth. And the flavour was as exceptional as the scent had promised. Whoever ordered this for him knew their wine; it was a perfect accompaniment to the game dishes being served all around. He nodded his satisfaction to the servant. "Please pass my gratitude to whoever sent this," he instructed with a subtle smile which he'd picked up from Erestor.

The servant dashed off, heading for some elves further down the table. He leaned down to say something to one of the Silvan elves from Lórien -Rúmil, in fact - before disappearing from the room. The servant was busy tonight. Faelon wondered what Rúmil had wanted; he'd noticed the sardonic raising of the young elf's eyebrow as the servant spoke, and wanted to know more of the exchange which had taken place.

Lost in thought, it took nearly a minute before Faelon realised he was staring at Rúmil again, admiring the way his long locks shivered when he laughed and the way his eyes glittered. Faelon was quite sure he'd seen those robes before...the way the sheer surface reflected the play of a nearby candle flame as Bruinen reflected Arien's bright rays was distinctly familiar. He remembered in an instant. But what in the name of the Valar was Rúmil doing in Glorfindel's robes?

"What in the name of the Valar is Rúmil doing in Glorfindel's robes?" muttered Melpomaen into his brother's ear. Faelon jumped, shocked by their identical thought patterns, until he remembered that he'd been watching the Silvan elf so intently it was no surprise Melpomaen's attention had been drawn to him as well.

"Don't ask me," he answered curtly.

"It looks almost as if he's trying to impress someone," Melpomaen mused. "I wonder who the lucky one is... If he's got Glorfindel to co-operate with him on it, he must be keen. And I must say, I think I envy the object of his affection, just a little. He cleans up rather nicely, don't you think, brother?"

"It's the fact that he needs cleaning up at all which puts me off."

"Perhaps." Melpomaen tilted his head thoughtfully. "Still...you were looking."

"Oh, come off it." Faelon cursed himself for sounding so defensive. "I was admiring the statue over there."

"The one that's been there for the last four hundred years?"

"Melpomaen." The name was spoken with a mild but unmistakable warning.

"Suit yourself." The elder brother returned to his food, leaving Faelon to his thoughts. He sipped the wine again, appreciatively. Next time the servant who had delivered it walked past, he beckoned the elf over.

"Did you pass on my thanks?" he asked without preamble.

"Of course, sir. I relayed your message as soon as you gave it to me."

"But you went to speak to Rúmil."

"Yes, sir." The servant was well-trained enough not to look smug, but his polite smile was perhaps just a little too polite.

At first Faelon didn't recognise the chief advisor hurrying down the hallway, as only Erestor's eyes were visible above the enormous pile of books he was carrying. "Do you want a hand there?" he asked courteously, pointing to the stack.

Erestor considered for a moment then accepted the offer. "I'm taking them to Rúmil's chambers - I found him in the library earlier, and he asked me if I knew whether Lord Elrond had a complete set of Daeron's early compositions."

Faelon knew that Elrond, but they were kept in the Master of Imladris's personal study. A complete set of the works was now a rare and valuable asset. "I had some time," Erestor continued, "so I thought I'd deliver the books personally, as a favour to a guest." It was surprising in itself that Rúmil would be asking about such highbrow literary works. Or perhaps, considering the business with the wine last night, not so surprising. Faelon was beginning to feel that the Lórien envoy might be worthy of further attention.

He took the top six volumes from Erestor's arms, momentarily taken aback with their not insignificant weight, and followed the counsellor towards the guest quarters. It was a glorious day, with a refreshing and good-natured breeze to offset the warm sunlight, yet Faelon was not in the best of moods. Melpomaen had been teasing him about Rúmil, again, until Faelon had practically had to escort his older brother from the room. The worst thing was, he was starting to doubt himself whether or not the other Elda had a point.

Erestor somehow managed to balance his books on one arm in order to free up one hand to knock on Rúmil's door, then entered. The Silvan elf was not alone; he was in the middle of a chess game with his brother, and when Faelon glanced at the board, it was obvious from the numbers of pieces remaining that Haldir was losing.

"I've brought the books you asked for," Erestor said brightly. "Where would you like me to put them?" Rúmil did not look up from the board, but indicated a nearby table, and the counsellor complied. Faelon saw that if he were to add his own to those Erestor had placed on the small table, it would result in a dangerously unstable column, so hesitated.

"Is there somewhere less precarious where I can leave these?" he asked the room in general.

Rúmil's head shot up with a small gasp. "F...Faelon? I wasn't expecting you."

"I was merely assisting Erestor with these books," he returned stiffly.

"Oh, yes, of course." A flush rose in the young elf's cheeks; his distraction caused him to make a bad move in the game.

"Check," Haldir declared lightly, placing one of his ebony pieces with a carefree air.

Rúmil regained his concentration and captured his brother's offending piece, at the same time putting Haldir in check in turn. The elder brother groaned. Erestor casually moved to Haldir's side and whispered something to the Silvan elf. The marchwarden's defeated expression became a calculating smirk. "Perhaps..." he breathed, and made his move.

Rúmil's eyes grew wide as he watched Haldir remove his queen from the board. "But..." His response was desperate and sacrificial, but protected his king.

Erestor made another suggestion to Haldir which, judging by the smile on the marchwarden's face, he liked. The strategy was highly unorthodox and both Rúmil and Faelon frowned. "That was rather risky," the younger elf commented, and took another of his brother's pieces.

"Not so," said Haldir coolly. He made his answer. "Check again."

Rúmil's eyebrows drew together to form a single line above his nose, and Erestor's eyes gleamed with triumph. Sighing obviously, Faelon pulled up a padded stool beside the younger brother. "Two on one is hardly a fair match, is it?" he said. "I suppose I'll lend my aid." He intentionally put a facetious note in his voice, but Rúmil evidently interpreted it as mocking.

He gave a look of disgust which was of a standard with one of Faelon's own. "I don't need your help." But he was clearly discouraged by Erestor's cunning strategy.

"He's a wicked one for quiet moves," Faelon advised, ignoring the younger elf's refusal. He knew from experience, having played the chief advisor often enough, generally when Glorfindel got sick of being beaten.

"Then he'll set me up to lose that rook, won't he?" Rúmil murmured back, so softly it only carried to Faelon's ears, and took his brother's last-but-one pawn

The counsellor gave a brief but scornful smile and turned once more to Haldir. The Silvan elf looked at him aghast. "Surely it would be better to..." Erestor shook his head.

"That's what they expect you to do," he argued reasonably.

"If it suits you. But it's your fault if this doesn't work." The move Haldir made had nothing to do with trying to capture Rúmil's pivotal rook.

Rúmil dealt Faelon a suspicious glance. "You said..."

Faelon gestured for the young elf to come to the window at the other side of the room, affording them a small amount of privacy to talk. "I said he liked quiet moves," he whispered. "You said he'd go for the rook." Rúmil glanced across at the chief advisor. Erestor was completely ignoring the two younger elves, seemingly absorbed in straightening ornaments on a nearby shelf. "Listen to me," Faelon continued in an undertone. "He's as cunning as any double-dealing Dwarf or Man and a good deal more subtle. You won't beat him by trying to anticipate him. I know. I've tried."

"Then what should I do?" Rúmil demanded, trying to sound challenging but actually looking rather helpless.

"Play like you've never played before," he replied. "Use your instincts. Treat it like a real pitched battle. And remember, Elrond wouldn't have chosen him as chief counsellor if he wasn't a brilliant strategist." He glanced back over at the game board, where the other two elves were once more conferring. "Come, I'll show you. I'll play the next couple of moves, and then you can take over."

With immense joint effort, the two managed to stave off Erestor and Haldir's inevitable victory for a good two hours, at which point Haldir came out with some unusual strokes of inspiration of his own, and managed a checkmate with only four of his own pieces remaining. Faelon suddenly realised the time and, thinking of the amount of work he still had to do, excused himself. Haldir pleaded hunger and went to get a bath and something to eat.

Erestor and Rúmil were left alone in the room. "Thank you for the books," the Silvan elf tried weakly.

"It was no problem. In fact, it resulted in an intriguing diversion, don't you think?" The younger elf nodded agreement. "And you managed to get Faelon not only to pay attention to you, but to co-operate with you for some time."

"No," Rúmil corrected. "You did that. You set the whole thing up from the moment you started giving Haldir tips."

"I may have started it, but you persuaded Faelon to ally with you. He isn't naturally as soft-hearted as, say, Glorfindel, you know. He didn't help you out of pure pity. He saw you had some real talent at the game and recognised that, with some guidance, you had the potential either to beat Haldir and me, or make us fight for the victory. I could see he was impressed by your ability - that's why his advice was so vague and general rather than specific."

"I impressed him? That's impossible. He thinks of me in much the same way as he thinks of Men - not very intelligent and something of an embarrassment to be around." Erestor was shaking his head.

"I suspect that wine episode of yours got him thinking, and along with your reading preferences, it seems have convinced him to re-evaluate you."

"Yes - about the wine episode. You looked very knowing at dinner. Did you have something to do with that?"

"I might have."

"You did!" Rúmil laughed incredulously. "You set it up so we got an inferior wine!"

"I might have," the counsellor repeated.

Rúmil rolled his eyes. "I'll find out," he threatened.

Erestor didn't seem especially intimidated. "I hope you enjoy the books."

"I am certain that I shall. But you know you didn't have to bring all of them. I only really wanted the first three."

"If I brought only the first three, would Faelon have offered to help carry them?"

"Oh. I see."

"Lord Glorfindel?" The golden-haired seneschal turned from rechecking his weapons for the fifth time at the sound of his name.

"Yes, Rúmil?"

"Do you know where Lord Erestor can be found?"

"Right now?" The younger elf nodded. "Probably in Lord Elrond's study, dealing with work which could quite happily wait until next month, next year, or sometime after Arda is broken and remade. If the door's ajar, you can go straight in; if it's shut he'll be talking to Elrond and they won't appreciate the disturbance, so you'd have to wait. Is it something I can help with?"

"I doubt it," Rúmil replied. Not unless you're in on this whole plot. "But thank you for offering."

"I offer out of concern, I assure you," the Elda answered with a sly grin. "Erestor doesn't always take kindly to having his work interrupted, even if he's not doing something you or I would count as important. Although you may be lucky - he does seem to have a soft spot for you."

"Aiya - Erestor hasn't yet had to live and work with Rúmil for a couple of millennia," Haldir, who was walking past, added facetiously. "If he had, maybe he'd think differently."

"I'm not that bad!"

Haldir assumed a whining voice. "Oh, Haldir, we haven't seen any orcs for three days! I'm bored! Oh, Haldir, Orophin's eaten twice his ration of lembas! Oh, Haldir, I don't like this talan; it's lumpy and so uncomfortable! Aye, brother, of course you're not that bad."

Rúmil swatted his elder brother. Glorfindel interceded before the argument stopped being playful. "I think you'd better stop now. I have enough problems with those Peredhel twins, without having to cope with you two as well! And this sortie's going to take some time." The two Silvan elves fell into line without further protest at the rebuke from their elder, Rúmil glancing around anxiously to ensure Faelon was nowhere nearby to witness him being treated like an elfling. But of course, he wouldn't be. What would a scholar want near the weapons stores?

So when he passed Faelon in the hallway literally ten seconds later, he was distinctly perplexed. The Noldorin elf was clutching a sheaf of papers and striding purposefully towards the weapons stores which Rúmil had just left. He did not react to the Silvan elf in any way. Rúmil's heart sank, but he willed himself to believe that Faelon was simply preoccupied with some important matter of administration relating to the outgoing patrol. He remained unconvinced.

---

Faelon didn't have to visit the stores in person; he could just have easily sent a message down there to the elf in charge, asking for a list of everything in there at the moment. He still hadn't found out where those arrows had gone.

But some curious urge caused him to head down there himself, and he reacted with bemused displeasure when passing Rúmil in the hallway gave him a mildly uplifting sensation. This was ridiculous. Just because the Silvan elf could play chess and read Daeron's ballads didn't suddenly make him interesting. And worse was the fact that Faelon had actually stopped, turned, and found himself admiring the sway of the marchwarden's slender hips as he disappeared off on whatever business he was attending to.

---

Rúmil found the door to Elrond's study slightly open so, following Glorfindel's advice, entered. Erestor was not seated at the desk, but stood by the bookcase leafing through a well-kept volume on Second Age history. He gazed at the intruder over the edge of the pages through inscrutable eyes. "Is there something you want?"

Rúmil suddenly felt very silly. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, and finally blurted out, "I'm leaving in just a few hours, and Faelon's still not showing any interest in me!" His shoulders slumped miserably. "What can I do?"

Erestor sighed heavily. "You leave tomorrow morning, correct?"

"At dawn."

"I told you Faelon was difficult. There's still a chance, but you can't expect an instant response. It's more of a medium-term tactic; you'll have to wait to see results."

"All right." He would have agreed to anything if it allowed him to cling to the strand of hope which insisted Faelon might still accept him.

"You need to find out when Faelon's begetting day is. You could try talking to Melpomaen. No-one else I've asked seems to know. It's not as if, on one specific day every year without fail, he undergoes any noticeable personality change, so I'm certain it's not that he's trying to forget his begetting day for whatever reason; presumably he just hasn't thought to tell anyone else the date. Then drop a message off at the kitchens, and tell them that on that date, they are to prepare a special surprise for him from you. What that surprise is, I'll leave to your imagination - after all, it is you who is courting him, not me. Remember what I told you before?"

"He loves blackberries, and his favourite flower is elanor. I can manage all that..."

Erestor held up a hand. "I'm not finished yet. Faelon, at the moment, has a small but annoying problem which he's supposed to solve, but his success so far has been...well, non-existent." He described how the inventory and requisition lists over the last six months failed to match up, how nearly fifty arrows had gone missing from the stores. "If you could track them down, he - and I - would be very grateful."

"Have you asked the twins? Perhaps they decided to hold an archery contest, or maybe they've been sneaking out on midnight orc-slaying patrols." He'd got to know the Peredhil slightly over the course of his stay, and was now well aware of their impulsive natures. But Erestor shook his head.

"That was the first thing I thought of. They knew nothing about it."

"And you think I'll be able to solve this?"

"I trust your resourcefulness."

---

Rúmil had left his message in the kitchens, feeling very pleased with himself and quite sure that Faelon wouldn't be able to deny his thoughtfulness. But moving on to the second problem, he remained stumped, and it was getting on towards early evening. He had a matter of hours to solve a problem which had been vexing Faelon for days.

He wearily made his way back to his rooms, envisioning the welcome sight of a steaming bath and the soft sheets of his bed. He needed them to help him forget about his troubles. Erestor thought he was so great, but what did he know...?

As he passed the library, he overheard voices, one of them raised and getting more and more heated by the moment. The other, he identified as Glorfindel's; the seneschal sounded patient yet bored, as if they had been arguing in circles for some time. "Tellumiel, no, and again, no. You are not accompanying the party south. I'm not risking it."

"You think I'm incapable!" she shot back. Rúmil, aware he was committing something of an indiscretion, pressed his ear to the door so as to be able to hear the exchange properly. He knew full well why Tellumiel wanted to come; ever since he and Haldir had come to Imladris, the elfmaid had been besotted with his brother. Haldir revelled in the attention, saying she'd been like this with him for years. Rúmil thought she was being very childish, especially the way she glared at anyone else who even so much as asked Haldir for a dance at feasts, and especially at those who were accepted.

"No, I think you're inexperienced. You're untested in battle, and I don't know how you'll react. I have no idea of your capabilities, so I'd be likely to put you in danger by assigning you inappropriate tasks. If you're really serious about becoming a patrol rider, I can arrange for you to go out with one of the regular border patrols sometime. Then, if you find yourself out of your depth or you're confronted with a new situation, backup is close at hand and not so much will ride on the outcome of your decisions." He paused. "You know, I had an almost identical conversation with the twins when they were about your age."

"You never object to their patrols!"

A groan. "I did at the time. Elrond and I agreed to make them wait. I'm doing the same now with you. But Tellumiel, you are not going on this patrol. It's too late to start making plans for additional riders now, anyway."

"So you're saying no?" The young elfmaid sounded desperately disappointed.

"For now, yes, I am saying no. In future, maybe I'll change my mind. Now, if you'll excuse me, I still have preparations to attend to." Rúmil moved away from the door so as not to look suspicious, and affected ignorance of the exchange as the seneschal left the library. "Oh, hello, Rúmil. Have you any idea what's got into Tellumiel today? She's suddenly started acting as if her inclusion is essential to the successful completion of our patrol. She even claims to have been practising her archery in secret over the last year!"

"Maids, honestly - there's no logic to them," Rúmil agreed, then paused. "Practising her archery?" The pieces clicked into place. He was halfway down the hallway before he'd taken another breath, leaving a bemused Glorfindel staring after him.

"It's not just maids who have no logic," the golden-haired warrior sighed to himself, shaking his head. "It's youngsters. All of them."

---

Rúmil stopped outside the study, realising he couldn't just charge in there, proclaiming that he had the answers to all Faelon's problems. How was he to approach the subject? An idea tentatively formed in his mind, and he ran back to the weapons stores, to return a few minutes later clutching a slender arrow fletched with pure white feathers. This would require a little prevarication, but he thought he'd get away with it, assuming Faelon was really just a scholar and not a scout.

He took a deep breath and knocked. Faelon's voice from inside called for him to enter. The Noldorin elf looked up curiously as Rúmil stepped over the threshold, and his expression hardened. "What could you possibly want?" he asked tetchily.

"I discovered my arrows were running short - Haldir and I had a run-in with a small group of angry Dunlendings on the way here and it used up a lot of arrows." That part, at least, was true. "So I went to collect more from the stores and found they were almost out of these, the kind I use." He held up the arrow he'd brought. Faelon had better not notice that it was far too short and light to be any use with Rúmil's tall Lórien bow... It was, however, a perfect size and weight for a less experienced elf still accustoming himself - or equally herself - to the weight of a proper longbow. "The weapons master said you had all the inventory lists at the moment, so I should come to you to find out if there are any more around anywhere."

Faelon frowned, and swallowed. "Unfortunately, there aren't..."

Rúmil timed his interruption so perfectly as to look natural. "But I've been asking around, and I found out Tellumiel keeps two whole quivers full!"

"Does she?" The spark of triumph in Faelon's eyes was unmistakable. "What does she want with arrows?"

"I wondered that, too. Until I heard she's been practising her archery skills in secret so she'd be able to prove to Lord Glorfindel that she's good enough to join his patrols."

Faelon's expression alternated relief and satisfaction. Yet his ingrained Imladris manners prevailed. "Rúmil - you've just solved a problem which has been bothering me for some time. I have to admit I owe you." He dropped his voice and actually smiled in a conspiratorial fashion. "If you hadn't come to me today, I imagine Erestor would be throwing me in the Bruinen a few days from now for failing to explain why the stores don't have as many arrows as they're supposed to."

Rúmil returned the smile. "Just promise me you won't be too harsh on Tellumiel. She might have caused you all this trouble, but she was just being a silly young elfmaid who wanted to impress someone." The parallel struck him at that moment; he and Tellumiel were both striving towards that same goal. He just hoped he would have more success than she'd had.

Rúmil was amused to discover that Glorfindel had evidently seen the merit in Erestor's strategy for dealing with the orcs and, instead of heading southwest, the group rode almost due south. Lord Elrond had been in contact with Lady Galadriel and she had promised to send more elves from Lórien, who would travel with due haste through Nanduhirion and past Caradhras - at this time of year, an elven company could travel that route if they were well-equipped and provisioned.

They would meet in the foothills of the Misty Mountains and, from there, track down the orcs and deal with them. Rúmil rode tirelessly. After the sojourn in Imladris, however brief it had been, he was glad to be free to move through the bright, expansive woodlands and gallop across endless open plains. On the journey to Imladris, he'd been nervous when he and Haldir had first emerged from the tree cover and had set off across the exposed moorland. It had taken most of the first day before he'd got over the initial sense of agoraphobia and learned to appreciate the wild beauty of open spaces. And within two days, they'd found a special place in his heart. He knew he'd now always love listening to the wind whistling through the heather, watching lapwings performing elaborate aerial acrobatics high above his head, gazing out across leagues and leagues of undulating purple-green land. Yes, as a Silvan elf of Lórien his soul would always reside among the towering mellyrn in the Golden Wood, but now he also understood that trees were not the only beauty to be found in Middle-Earth.

Glorfindel's laughter carried on the breeze as Asfaloth fearlessly leaped over a wide brook. For a while they could forget the gravity of the quest and enjoy the journey. If only Faelon was here, with them, instead of sitting hunched over some book in Elrond's library. But that wasn't fair -Faelon had chosen his path and, if he genuinely enjoyed his books, which he seemed to, Rúmil had no right to impose his own preferences on the Noldorin scholar.


Some months later

Faelon awoke to the sound of the dawn chorus, with warm, pale light falling across his face. Today would be a good day. He'd been left in charge of translating some historical records from Gondor and translation was one of his favourite tasks. As a result, he was feeling very pleasantly disposed towards the world.

He was halfway to being dressed before he realised that today was also his begetting day. And it was then that he spied the cake. It was enormous, three-tiered, decorated with pinkish-purple icing and fresh blackberries. Blackberries - his favourite. But who on Arda had sent this? He crossed the room to examine the cake more closely.

The lower tier also had tiny white bramble flowers arranged around the edge; the overall effect was very pretty, and clearly much time and effort had gone into it. A small card rested against the engraved silver tray on which the cake was presented. Faelon picked it up, turning it over in his hands and noting the gold-embossed lettering and decorative borders. He read the message aloud:

"Best wishes on your begetting day. I hope you enjoy yourself. Rúmil."

Rúmil!? How had he found out? Nonetheless, the gesture was touching - and when he cut a generous slice of the cake for breakfast a few minutes later, he discovered it to be very good indeed. It had a sweet and fruity jam filling which oozed out everywhere and made his fingers sticky. This was no token gesture.

But this was just the first surprise. When he entered the study where his translations awaited, he found it festooned with garlands of flowers. More bramble briars, of a strange thornless variety, wreathed the door, and little posies of...of elanor stood at each corner of the desk. The scent was it exquisite. And a second card, on top of the other papers, said, "Thinking of you."

He sent down, shaking his head. Rúmil had left Imladris months ago. The Silvan elf must have arranged all of this before his departure - what had caused him to be so thoughtful? Such an elaborate set-up suggested this was more than just a passing crush. Sighing, Faelon pushed the matter from his mind and got to work.

The day got better; Erestor was unusually mellow all morning and professed satisfaction with the fruit of the younger elf's labours. What a glorious day this was turning out to be! The chief adviser even added that, if Faelon wanted to finish early, the remaining work could wait. "Go for walk, enjoy the day. The woods are beautiful at this time of year."

Melpomaen, on the hand, was his usual self - and had completely forgotten his brother's begetting day. Faelon didn't bother reminding him - the last thing he wanted was a frantic fuss being made over him and for Melpomaen to attempt to obtain a decent gift on short notice. So he settled for enjoying the good food at dinner and joining Melpomaen in trying to coax Lord Elrond to sing for them. The Peredhel eventually relented, and performed some popular ballads in his deep, rich voice. Some other elves also offered to provide music and the Hall of Fire was a lively place that evening.

As they headed back to their rooms, Melpomaen cleared his throat nervously. "Faelon?"

"Yes?"

"It was your begetting day today, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"I forgot. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry, brother. You know I haven't been bothered about it since I was an elfling."

"Yes, but it's nice when someone remembers."

"Yes, Melpomaen, it is." He smiled distractedly.

"It's odd that I should forget - do you remember that Silvan elf who was here a few months ago?"

"Haldir?" Faelon asked, deliberately avoiding mentioning Rúmil if he could.

"No, the younger one - Rúmil. He got talking to me the night before he left on the patrol. It was very odd. He acted as though he just wanted to make casual small-talk, but I noticed after a few minutes he kept steering the conversation towards me and my family. And especially you. And at one point he had me telling him the dates of all our begetting days - mine, yours, our parents' - even some of our cousins! You'd think after that, I'd be able to remember, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," Faelon agreed, without really listening. "Yes, you would."

---

Faelon had a short-term relationship with one of Glorfindel's scouts during the subsequent months, a good-natured elf who served along the northern borders. But he broke it off after only a brief time, when it occurred to him that unconsciously or otherwise, he'd chosen an elf who reminded him strikingly of Rúmil, both physically and in character.

Increasingly during the day, he found himself staring at the large map of Lórien pinned to the wall of the study and wondering what was going on in the Golden Wood. Was Rúmil still thinking about him? And why did he, a Noldorin elf living hundreds of miles away in Imladris, care?

"Faelon, you are persistently distracted and this transcript of yesterday's meeting is full of mistakes. One of the junior scribes could have done a better job. You're supposed to save me time, not make me waste more double-checking every document you submit to me." Erestor glared at him across the desk.

"I'm sorry. I've got a lot on my mind."

"Faelon, there are more orcs around every day. The shadow deepens all the time. Everyone in Middle-Earth has a lot on their mind with that kind of threat hanging over us."

Faelon, abashed, realised the counsellor had a good point. Here he was, angsting over his love life - and when had Rúmil begun to count as his ‘love life' anyway? - when there were so many evil creatures making trouble all around. "You're right. My work has been substandard lately. I'll make up for it - that, and more - I promise."

"Not good enough," Erestor snapped impatiently. Then he paused, and narrowed his eyes enigmatically. "I think you need a change of scenery. As you are aware, Lord Elrond is sending me on a diplomatic mission to Lórien in six days." Faelon actually looked down at his stomach when he felt it flutter as Erestor said the word ‘Lórien'.

"Of course." He'd come alarmingly close to approaching the chief advisor and asking if he might be permitted to accompany him on the trip, before reason had won out and it had occurred to him just how desperate that made him look.

"I want you to come with me. I could use an assistant, and it will provide you with an opportunity to prove that in spite of your recent performance, you are still an excellent scribe, an accurate translator and a gifted administrator."

"I'm...really?" Erestor's curt nod made the compliments seem more like accusations. "I'd be honoured to accompany you. Who else is coming?"

"Glorfindel had volunteered to escort us himself. I think he will also assign some of his scouts to us - perhaps Tellumiel, that youngster he's been training recently." Faelon frowned as he thought back to the elfmaid's exploits. It had emerged that she'd been sneaking out to practise archery for several weeks before the Lórien envoy had arrived, succeeding in avoiding being seen by any Imladris's residents the entire time. Thinking of Tellumiel reminded him of Rúmil all over again. "There will be plenty of work for you in Lórien, so you will be busy. I won't tolerate inefficiency."

"I will be a model of efficiency," Faelon assured him. He meant it - the more quickly he got through whatever tasks Erestor had in mind for him, the more time he would have to explore Lórien, and perhaps run across a certain Silvan elf in the process...

---

"This is not the best route," Erestor declared, drawing back the hood of his cloak as their horses retreated under the trees away from the torrents of rain. It was as if Ulmo had decided to relocate all Arda's oceans to the sky, without considering a way of keeping them there.

"It's the shortest," Glorfindel replied. He slung his cloak over the saddle-pommel and nonchalantly shook the water from the tips of his hair.

"Not if we have to stand around in this copse for the next hour waiting for the rains to stop."

"We don't. The track ahead is gritty and free-draining - if we go carefully, we can make good time even in this weather. And after a mile, it meets a ridge which offers some shelter."

"Going via the forest would have been a far better idea," Erestor said, refusing to give in so easily.

Glorfindel sidled up to the chief advisor until the two horses' shoulders were touching, and brushed his lover's cheek with two fingers. "You'll dry off, melamin. And you'll thank me for this when we reach Lórien nearly a day sooner." Erestor didn't look convinced. "You've hardly left Imladris in the last half a century, melme. Leave the route-planning decisions to me." He'd almost been tempted to give in to Erestor earlier and take the longer, drier route through the trees, purely for the sake of spending more time with his beloved, but instead concluded that it would be far more rewarding to press on, and instead be together in a comfortable talan in Lórien

He addressed the whole party, which besides him and Erestor consisted of Faelon and two armed scouts. "Let's have a brief stop here, and carry on in a short while." He would have said, "and carry on when the rain eases off," but suspected the odds of that happening any time soon were extremely low.

As soon as Erestor dismounted he seized his lover's hand and steered him towards a large oak tree growing nearby. There, he sat down on the moist, springy moss, pulling Erestor down with him, encouraging the counsellor to lean against him. Trapped between the rough tree trunk and a wet Erestor, he was perfectly content. His hands felt their way to the fastening on his lover's cloak and he removed it, squeezing as much water out of it as he could, watching the drops bounce as they hit the earth beside them. The hood had kept most of Erestor's hair dry, but the ends, where they'd escaped from under the rim, were damp and tangled. He used a dry corner of his own cloak to towel-dry them, smoothed them into place with the rest of the raven mane. His own hair went wavy when it got wet, but Erestor's hung perfectly straight, no matter what. Yet another contrast between them, he supposed.

Faelon was looking, if it was possible, even more miserable than Erestor. Elven cloaks might be waterproof, but he still gave the appearance of being utterly bedraggled. It was daft, really - when the soft, warm rain fell in Imladris, no-one objected, and, in fact, almost everyone enjoyed it. Elflings would run barefoot on the grass, and even older, supposedly more dignified elves would stand out in the downpour, water trickling down their faces, singing joyful songs to the restless skies. Yet if the weather ever had the audacity to interrupt a journey, or arrive without due warning...

Glorfindel smiled and beckoned Faelon over; the younger elf clearly wanted some company, but was reluctant to intrude upon the lovers' private moment. He seated himself a short distance away and pulled out a flask of miruvor. "Do you want some?" he offered, holding it out.

The elder elves refused politely, and Faelon took a few sips before putting it away again. They rested for a few minutes before Erestor stood up and approached his horse again. Opening one of the saddlebags, he produced a clean, dry cloak.

Glorfindel shook his head. Erestor hadn't mentioned he had a second riding cloak when the golden-haired Elda had been wringing out the first one earlier. Trust him to be awkward. Trust him to be well-prepared. Glorfindel supposed it wasn't really a surprise, considering he knew how much his lover hated travelling in wet clothes.

Faelon glanced somewhat longingly at the thick, dry fabric; and when Erestor shook out a third cloak, even Glorfindel was amazed. "So you have changes of clothes for Lórien, food for the journey, paper, ink, quill pens, sand and everything else you'll need once you're there, plus a seemingly inexhaustible supply of riding cloaks, all packed into those tiny bags?" he asked.

Erestor nodded. "It's just a matter of packing carefully."

"Even careful packing can't make bags bigger on the inside than the outside," Glorfindel muttered.

He was glad he didn't mind the rain nearly as much as the two scholars. "You know, we could break here and stop overnight," he suggested, as he watched Erestor steel himself to brave the weather outside. "There's only a couple of hours of daylight left."

"Even the trees here don't keep all the water away," was the scornful reply. "We are going to get wet, whatever we do, and I daresay we shall remain that way until we reach Lórien. The sooner we leave, the sooner we'll arrive somewhere civilised." Erestor shrugged the cloak closer around his slender shoulders and mounted up again.

Glorfindel realised that the chief advisor's action had prompted the two guards to prepare for departure as well, which was vaguely irritating as he was meant to be in charge of the party for the duration of the journey. "Check the horses' legs for any cuts or grazes," he called across to them. "They've all stumbled in the mud at some point over the last few hours."

The scouts' horses were not hurt, but Faelon found a small wound on the heel of his mare's forefoot. "It looks as if her hind hoof struck her fore pastern when she slipped on that slope just before noon," Glorfindel concluded thoughtfully. He applied some salve from his medical supplies, and examined the cut for any sign of infection. "I'd prefer to bandage it, but with the mud and the rain, it'd be off in a matter of minutes. Keep an eye on it, and tell me if she seems to be suffering any discomfort."

Asfaloth, who seemed to find the scholars' misery as amusing as Glorfindel did, trotted over to the Elda of his own accord, and nudged him in the shoulder. "You want to get going?" he asked the stallion lightly. "Very well then." At the golden warrior's command, the party emerged once more into the rain and headed westwards along the stony path.

---

The downpour continued, and they rode close to the cliff, clinging to the small amount of shelter it provided. The horses skidded in the mud with increasing frequency, so all five elves were relieved when the earth at the cliff's foot gave way once more to free-draining rocky ground and gravel. The horses disliked the rough surface, but the footing was better as the ground was level and firm.

Glorfindel had been correct when he'd promised the cliff would shelter them somewhat; the wind was blowing from the mountains to the northwest, and they were protected from the worst as they passed along the track which ran at the base of the southeast-facing overhang. Still, everyone had to squint against the rain and almost shout to be heard above the noise of hooves, the bells on the headstalls, the rain on the rocks and the gusts of air which swirled and whistled through cracks in the cliff face. Glorfindel hummed to himself, still apparently unperturbed by the weather, occasionally shaking water droplets from his hair as a hound will shake itself off after swimming in a river. He chatted amicably with the guards and his fair skin seemed to glow in the fading light as water droplets ran over his forehead and cheeks. Erestor, by comparison, became quieter and quieter, seldom initiating conversation and retreating further into the confines of his hood.

Faelon concluded that he may as well make the best of the situation; he was now so wet, he couldn't see any way in which he could become any wetter, and stopped worrying about it. Instead, he observed the surroundings. He began to appreciate the obscure beauty of the dripping landscape, marvelling at the way Arda seemed to revive under menel's moist touch. The vegetation smelled pleasantly wet and fresh and, after the long period of dry weather, wilted plants breathed once more and swelled with new life. As the evening drew in, and the persistent rain lessened slightly, nimble bats could be discerned flitting against the darkening sky, whilst rustling in nearby bushes hinted of other nocturnal comings and goings.

His reverie was cruelly broken by a cluster of rocks tumbling down from above and Asfaloth's irritated snort as the stallion jumped sideways to avoid getting hit. Glorfindel backed his mount up, both to escape the heavy chunks of stone and to get a good look at what was going on. The other five riders followed suit, putting a good thirty feet of open land between them and whatever had taken a disliking to their presence. "Yrch," Erestor and Glorfindel spat at the same time.

Sure enough, savage orc faces leered at them from the top of the cliff. There was a harsh grating noise of heavy objects being moved, and several huge boulders suddenly appeared up there as well. "Get back! Get back out of range!" Glorfindel yelled to the others as he pressed Asfaloth into a controlled gallop, wary of the terrain when visibility was generally so poor. He only pulled up when there was no chance that the boulders which the orcs were rolling off the cliff-edge would be able to reach them.

Faelon glanced back as he halted near the golden-haired warrior, only to discover that the orcs, seemingly not content with anything less than a kill, were now swarming down the cliff face, finding far more handholds and footholds than there had any right to be. "They're pursuing!" he warned the seneschal.

Glorfindel didn't answer, but Asfaloth sprang forwards under him once more and, half-turning in the saddle, he waved for the others to follow. The ground disappeared under the horses' hooves as they tried to put breathing distance between them and the orcs, but as she veered sharply to avoid a rock partly hidden by ferns, Faelon's horse stumbled and broke into an unsteady trot, favouring the already injured foreleg. Glorfindel, hearing the younger elf's shrill curse, slowed as well. He let Faelon catch him up and, without losing his seat or altering Asfaloth's stride, somehow lit a torch and held it up so the light would illuminate the other horse's lame leg. "Bleeding," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "Thank the Valar for the horses' speed - we still have time." Erestor and the guards fell into stride alongside them a moment later; the counsellor frowned as he saw the injury.

"There's a river ahead," he said. "It's wide, and deep - except for a narrow ford. Do you know it?" he asked Glorfindel. The seneschal nodded. "If we can get across without them following us to the ford, it could take them hours to find another way across - enough time for us to reach Lórien's borders. "

"As I recall, you have to push through a lot of thick scrub to reach that ford," Glorfindel said, the spitting torch flame throwing odd patterns of light and shadow across his patrician features. "You and Faelon have all the important documents. You two ride on. We'll buy you time; we'll catch you up later. "

"Melethron..." Faelon raised an eyebrow at the offhanded way Erestor used the endearment. He knew about Erestor's relationship with the golden Elda, but Elrond's chief adviser seldom used such an intimate address to his lover in public. "If you're staying behind, I'm not leaving you."

"We can handle it," Glorfindel answered confidently. "The papers need to reach Lórien."

"I can transfer mine across to Faelon. Four of us stand a better chance than three against all those orcs." As he spoke, he drew a long, thin knife from his robes and carved an experimental arc through the air.

"Someone has to go with Faelon to show him the way, " Glorfindel countered, seemingly unimpressed by the skill with which the scholar handled the blade. "You have time if you go now. You must reach Lórien. Go!" As if to emphasise his point, he directed an urgent, "Noro lim!" at Erestor's horse and, stringing his bow, promptly issued the same command to Faelon's mount. "Trust her; she'll get you there!" he shouted at the younger elf's back. "She'll gallop on a lame leg if it'll save her life!"

Faelon felt guilty for leaving Glorfindel and the guards to face the orcs alone, even if it was only a smallish band. But, he realised as he tried to sit lightly, attempting to ignore his horse's bobbing head and uneven steps, he was no warrior and would most likely just prove a liability. And the documents he carried, triple-wrapped in waterproof cloth, had to reach the Lord and Lady of the Wood. The diagrams, reports and contracts contained within the sealed packages could not simply be relayed by Elrond Far-Speaking with Galadriel or Celeborn.

He followed Erestor, who seemed to have a very exact idea of where he was going, keeping the counsellor's bay mare always in sight. Erestor led him into a patch of dense thornbushes, bracken and thick shrubbery, further hindering his lame mount's progress. He whispered words of encouragement to her, begging for more speed; he could almost smell the orcs behind them. He earnestly prayed Glorfindel and his men were distracting enough of them.

The twigs all seemed to be trying to grab him, tugging at his cloak and leggings, overhanging branches snagging his hair and pulling his braids apart. A thick bough appeared at the same level as his head, thudding into his skull and causing him to inhale raggedly in pain. The night was no longer starless, as several were bursting before his eyes. He rubbed his head and felt torn skin and sticky blood.

Then the ground dropped sharply away and his horse skidded down a muddy slope to land with a splash in water up to her fetlocks. "Keep in a straight line," Erestor's voice drifted to him in the semi-darkness. "Don't falter, as the water runs deep both sides of the causeway. Ride straight -and hurry!"

Faelon glanced at the water, which looked black in the twilight, and saw that the surface was smooth and calm; it was indeed a deep river, and probably had a strong current as well. But his logic informed him that if Erestor called from ahead, the advisor had crossed the river safely, and therefore the ford really did exist and was passable. He urged his mount forwards. Should Lady Uinen decide she still held a grudge against Noldorin elves now... But the causeway dropped no lower, and his mare picked her way carefully to the far bank. He sighed with relief as the water gave way to solid ground again, but before he could reflect further, Erestor's voice was coaxing them onwards again.

---

Glorfindel was not fond of night encounters, especially when orcs were involved. They were truly creatures of darkness, with better night sight even then elves'. At least he could locate them by sound - and, to some extent, smell. They were not the most stealthy of creatures, especially in lands like this, where all the plants and animals despised them, and would make no attempt to ease their passage.

Fortunately, the odds were not bad; the elven company were only outnumbered sixteen to three; or sixteen to six if he counted the horses, who would loyally aid their riders wherever they could.

They peppered the oncoming orcs with arrows, but soon had to abandon their bows when the orcs got too close for arrows to be properly effective any longer. As a Noldorin elf and a former captain of Gondolin, Glorfindel's weapon of choice was the sword rather than the bow anyway, so he was all too glad to sling the long, slender arc of wood across his back and draw his blade instead. The battlecry that leaped from his lips was a name familiar to every elf in Imladris, and most in Middle Earth - an elf who had once been Glorfindel's closest friend. "Ecthelion!"(1)

Sharp teeth sank into his shin, and he cut downwards, cleaving an ugly skull in two. On the upstroke, he twisted and opened up the ribcage of another hideous creature who was trying to sneak up on him from behind. A third fell to the ground, gurgling wetly and coughing up bloody froth, when Asfaloth lashed out with a powerful hind hoof. Arrows sang in delight; one of the scouts had repositioned himself so he could shoot at the orcs again; the slim bolts sliced first through the damp air and slanting raindrops, then through orc-flesh. The fight was over quickly.

"I suppose we ought to do something with the corpses," Glorfindel remarked, wiping his sword off on a clump of grass. He was largely unhurt; his only concern was the bite on his leg, which could well be poisoned from those disgusting yellow fangs. He'd better clean it up before they moved on. His companions were both covered with a fair amount of blood, but he could smell even at this distance that it was not their own. One of the elves was favouring his right side a little, but made no complaint; nothing urgent, then.

He was more than grateful for the rainstorm now, as it served to cleanse him of much of the sense of contamination which clung to every square inch of his skin. He avoided touching the bodies if possible, gingerly kicking them into an irreverent pile to one side of the track. It would take a wizard to get this soaking wet mound ablaze...

When they left the battleground, the corpses were certainly not ablaze -they smouldered sullenly, sending great plumes of hissing black smoke spiralling up in reeking columns into the night. Glorfindel buried his nose in the collar of his cloak and curled his lip in revulsion. Extending all his senses forwards instead, he felt for the aura of light and power which signalled that they neared the welcome borders of the Golden Wood. He smiled faintly; it wasn't far now, thank the Valar. Asfaloth knew they were nearly there, too, and quickened his pace.

---

"Daro!" Two Silvan marchwardens dropped from the trees, arrows pointed squarely at Faelon's chest. Looking ahead, he saw Erestor had been similarly challenged.

"I'm a member of the envoy from Imladris," he said hastily, stressing ‘Imladris'. "I believe we are expected?"

The arrows were lowered a few inches, but the bowstrings remained taut. "You're injured, and your horse is lame," the leader commented coolly.

Faelon dabbed at his forehead self-consciously with an already stained sleeve. "She stumbled; we've had to flee a band of orcs in a hurry."

"Only one band? An uneventful journey here, then." A trace of wry humour crept into the elf's voice. "At least we begin to see proof that the joint venture of six months ago was successful. Come; you were right, you are expected. You may refresh yourselves at our company's talan tonight, and we shall escort you to see the Lord and Lady tomorrow."

"Is it far?" Faelon asked, worried about his mare's heaving flanks. He dismounted and ran a concerned hand down her arching neck.

"The company's main talan is another hour's walk from here; but our captain, Haldir, won't be there. He's challenged his brother to a poetry contest to pass the hours until their watches begin and they've commandeered a smaller talan further to the east for tonight." The mild envy which tinged the elf's voice hinted that he, too, would sooner be among their company than out here this night.

Faelon felt a flame of hope igniting and growing within him. "Haldir is your captain?"

"You know him? Aiya, but he was in Imladris a short time ago, was he not?"

"Aye, with his brother, Rúmil." Faelon heard how his voice cracked as he pronounced the name.

"Faelon, what are you doing?" Erestor wound his way though the trees towards the younger elf, leading his horse by the bridle and looking thoroughly exasperated. "It's long past sunset, we're wet, tired and hungry, your horse is lame, and you can think of no better pursuit than making small talk with the local marchwardens? "

"Faelon?!" exclaimed the Silvan elf, jerking his head up and grinning like a cheeky elfling. "You're the one he's been pining for this entire time!"

"The one who's been pining for?!" Faelon demanded.

"Rúmil, of course." Faelon was going to urge the marchwarden to elaborate, but a delicate cough from Erestor's direction effectively communicated the advisor's impatience with the conversation. The Lórien elf took the hint and, gesturing for the visitors to follow him, set off deliberately, picking the best paths between trees with such dispatch Faelon had to increase his own speed to keep up. After a few paces, the marchwarden remembered the visitors were unfamiliar with the woods and turned back sheepishly to check he hadn't lost his wards already. "Seems as though his taste wasn't as bad as I thought, after all," he commented appreciatively, eyeing the Noldorin scholar critically.

Faelon's eyes widened in astonishment and renewed hope, just as he saw Erestor shaking his head wearily. He looked questioningly at the elder elf, but Erestor only rolled his eyes and sighed. But Faelon was falling behind his escort again and, in his haste to catch-up, missed the devious and self-satisfied grin which then spread slowly across Erestor's face as he watched his dark-haired protégé hurry through the trees with a freshly optimistic spring in his step.

A curse hissed through Faelon's teeth. He'd been walking along in a distracted but rather pleasant state of introspection, the stinging of the graze his head forgotten among the swirl of hopeful thoughts, and had somehow succeeded in losing his escort altogether. He'd have to go back until he picked up their tracks, then catch up with them again. Of course, there were a few problems with that. He couldn't be sure he'd gone in a straight line since they'd parted ways, he couldn't recognise individual mellyrn well enough to be sure he was truly retracing his steps, and trained marchwardens wouldn't be easy to track, even for an experienced scout like Glorfindel or one of the twins, never mind a normally sedentary scholar like him.

He leaned wearily on his mare's shoulder. This was typical of his luck. If something had to happen, it would happen to him. The rain was penetrating the canopy of leaves and soaking through the rips in his cloak. A sigh escaped him. His horse whickered sympathetically, and nuzzled his shoulder. He forced a smile, then dug around in the saddlebags and found a handful of oats for her. She accepted the offering graciously, but her cheerfulness seemed as superficial as his smile. She was resting her foreleg to keep the weight off it and, when he ran a hand over it, he could feel heat and swelling. There was a lot of bruising and probably some infection.

He felt guilty; she was doing her best, in spite of her injury, while he, uninjured aside from the superficial wound on his forehead, was worrying about getting lost within the best-guarded borders in Middle Earth. "We'd better find somewhere to sleep," he said to her. She raised her head, apparently listening and scenting the air, before she turned to the east and set off at a stiff walk. "This way?" he asked thoughtfully. Elven horses had an excellent sense of direction, so she could well lead him straight to Cerin Amroth. He walked beside her, one hand resting on her withers; he may have lost the others, but he wouldn't lose her. "To think I once called Rúmil ignorant and crass - he wouldn't have ended up in situation like this, would he?"

---

"Rúmil, when was the last time you wrote a poem which wasn't about love?" Haldir asked, sounding bored, as the younger Galdhrim finished speaking. "Honestly, brother, you should get over him. He clearly isn't interested in you, or you would have heard from him."

The younger elf knew he looked dismayed by his brother's words, but answered boldly, "I'm not ready to lose hope yet! I knew Faelon was more than just a crush from the outset, and I'm prepared to wait if it means that at the end I get a chance at a real relationship, not just one of those roll-from-one-side-of-the-bed-to-the-other-and-cry-out-somewhere-in-the-middle kind of flings you seem so fond of!" He collapsed on to a low stool nearby and sank his head into his hands. "I just wonder how long I have to be alone before that," he admitted after a long pause. Haldir curled his lip, but reached over and patted his younger brother's shoulder.

After a while, Rúmil stood again and wandered out of the room. The adjoining room was open to the night, and felt peaceful; he sat down and dangled his feet over the edge of the talan, swinging them back and forth as if he were an elfling once more.

He gazed sadly out upon the forest, thinking it looked so empty this evening. The stars shone down serenely from above, but below, all was still. Or so it seemed, until his keen eyes picked out signs of movement on the ground underneath the talan. It was one of Haldir's border guards, running through the trees and looking extremely flustered.

"What's going on?" he called down.

Haldir came out at the sound of his brother's shouting. "Is everything all right?" He spotted the guard. "You know it's my night off," he remarked drily to the elf, who had stopped directly under the tree.

"I'm sorry, sir. We have something of a situation."

"Really?" There was a note of sarcasm in his voice. Rúmil knew Haldir had been looking forward to the first night off in ages. The borders had been lively recently, and it was only in the last couple of months that things had started to settle down enough for the guards to breathe a little.

"A party's arrived from Imladris. We were escorting them to Cerin Amroth, but one of them has gone missing."

"Elbereth Gilthoniel! All right, I'm coming down," Haldir replied. Rúmil followed, concerned. "Who've you lost?"

The marchwarden glanced nervously at Rúmil. "He said his name was Faelon..."

He was given no opportunity to say anything more. "Where did you last see him? How long ago?" Rúmil could almost see Eru's hand moving fates around, like pieces on a great chessboard. This news was too well-timed to be just chance.

"About a four miles west of here, perhaps an hour ago." The guard offered a brief description of the route the escort had been taking. "I've ordered the border guards to search for him, but we were in a small group, and I couldn't spare more than a handful."

Rúmil was back into the talan so quickly his feet hardly touched the rope, snatching up his bow, the first quiver of arrows he could find and a spare cloak. "I'm going to find him," he declared as he reached ground level once more. The determination in his voice came as a surprise even to him.

Haldir didn't argue; he knew his brother was as good a marchwarden as any, and had enough sense not to start a vain debate over whether or not it was wise. He simply said, "Be careful," squeezing Rúmil's arm before the younger Galadhrim turned and set off into the wood.

---

His ears were tuned to pick up the slightest sounds of movement - a cracking twig, a rustle of leaves which didn't match the breeze. His eyes searched the darkness for an shadows which didn't quite fit. Every sense was directed towards a single goal: Faelon.

However, so far he'd not had any luck. In over two hours of searching in unrelenting rain, he had not yet picked up Faelon's trail, and so had given up with that strategy and was instead making his way towards where the guard said the Imladris elf had last been seen. The rain dripped from the leaves of the mellyrn. His footsteps added a steady, soft counterpoint. Taking his tempo from these noises, he began to recite his latest poem once more:

At the end of every night Will come the golden dawn At the end of every winter Comes springtime bright and warm

But all he could think of was Faelon out there, alone, lost, possibly hurt, probably tired, wet and worried. He quickened his pace, knowing he'd hit the escort's trail in no more than a few minutes. After some minutes, he found what he'd been hoping to see - a small disturbance in the leaf litter, revealing the soil underneath. Someone had passed this way. With this positive omen spurring him on, he looked even more carefully, squinting into the darkness for any clue that he was still heading the right way. More signs appeared: a trampled sapling, a long brown hair from a horse's mane or tail, hoof-prints in the soft ground. He found himself continuing to speak the words of the poem under his breath, his naturally musical voice giving them a tuneful resonance.

And so at the end of my loneliness I trust I'll find my heart But right now he feels so far away Why must we be apart?

Just as he was about to commence with the next stanza, he was interrupted by a snuffling noise, the sound of a wet, tired horse exhaling wearily. It was followed by a small voice in the damp darkness. "Hello?"

The speaker was unmistakably elven. Rúmil's heart fluttered. He broke into a run, heading towards the source of the sound. "Faelon?" He stopped at the top of a gentle slope which led down to a wooded dell where he sometimes used to play when he was younger.

An elf was leaning against a tree below, his other hand resting on the withers of a chestnut mare. His shoulders were hunched and he looked about as miserable as it was possible for an elf to be. "Faelon?" Rúmil called out again. The elf seemed to rouse himself and stared up at the marchwarden, taking a moment to locate him among all the shadows. "Thank Elbereth someone's here. I thought I'd be wandering around here all night," he said with a weak attempt at humour.

"As if I'd let that happen," Rúmil stated emphatically, descending into the dell.

The elf was so bedraggled, tired-looking and generally dishevelled, dark braids coming undone, wispy bits of hair sticking out everywhere, twigs and leaves in his clothes and several scratches on his face and hands, Rúmil was barely able to recognise him as an elf at all, let alone give him a name. His face was smeared with dirt, and some blood, although the wound just below his hairline did not look serious. But then Faelon's eyes locked with his, and he knew he'd found what he'd been looking for.

He almost ran at the lost elf, encircling his poor, exhausted beloved with supportive arms, cocooning him in the soft folds of the cloak he'd been carrying. Faelon rested his head on the marchwarden's chest, accepting the warmth and comfort offered, allowing himself to be guided to a moss-covered rock then pulled on to Rúmil's lap as the Galadhrim seated himself on the makeshift stool. When he spoke again, it was in a husky whisper, brittle with emotion and weariness. "Rúmil?" he asked.

"It's me," Rúmil answered, realising Faelon had only just recognised him. "What have you been up to?"

"There was an escort with us...but I got lost...I decided to follow my horse, and find some shelter, and then I ended up here. I was losing hope; I thought maybe she was mistaken in picking this direction, but then I heard a voice. Someone was reciting poetry." he shook his head in confusion, then a soft smile touched his lips. "It was lovely."

Rúmil answered with a smile of his own. "It's not far to our talan - at least so long as you don't get lost again. If you and your mare can manage that much, there are clean, dry clothes and a very soft, inviting bed waiting for you."

"Sounds wonderful," Faelon said.

"And I'll see to that cut as well," Rúmil informed the Noldo, indicating Faelon's forehead. "Do you feel ready to go now?" Faelon nodded and rose slowly to his feet. Rúmil slid an arm around his waist in case his charge faltered, and pointed out the way to shelter.

---

It seemed to be taking forever to reach the talan. Neither the elf nor the horse made any complaint, but Rúmil could tell the mare was in pain, and Faelon had quite clearly had enough of wandering around in this stormy night.

"But tell me," the Noldo said suddenly, breaking the silence between them, "That poem you were reciting - I'd never heard it before. Who wrote it? And who were they writing about?"

Rúmil looked as Faelon's drawn face, shadowed eyes, straggling hair, and thought his heart would break. He seemed so dejected tonight. And in that moment, Rúmil abandoned all caution, reservation and probably all good sense and, turning Faelon in his arms, pressed his lips possessively over the other elf's. He tasted of rain. It was not at all unpleasant. "I wrote it, lirimaer, you silly, dishevelled thing - and I was writing it for you!"

He was totally unprepared for the exultantly incredulous look in Faelon's big, limpid eyes. "Really?" he asked. "You really meant all that?"

"Of course I did. Why else would I go traipsing through the wood on my night off looking for a mud-caked Noldo with no sense of direction."

Faelon shook his head, then laid it on Rúmil's shoulder. For the first time, the Galadhrim realised Faelon was slightly shorter then him. "But you sounded so sincere," the scholar murmured. "I'd always thought you were just a silly infatuated elfling."

Rúmil smiled ruefully, and affectionately brushed Faelon's cheek with his fingers. "Maybe I was - at first. But the more I saw of you, the more strongly I felt. If it had remained as just infatuation, then after all these months I would surely have moved on. But luckily for you, I suppose, I haven't."

He saw the light ahead - the amber-yellow lamplight coming from the comfortable talan he'd left so many hours ago, and pointed it out to his companion. The sight gave Faelon new energy, and it wasn't too long before they were looking up at the wooden flet. "Haldir?"

"Any luck?" said the voice from above.

"Let the ladder down, and you can see for yourself!"

But Faelon lay a hand on Rúmil's arm to stay him. "You really meant it, didn't you?" There was so much emotion in his face, Rúmil couldn't begin to identify it all.

"Yes," he said, realising he was repeating himself, but not really caring so long as Faelon understood the extent of his feelings. "I really meant it."

"Elbereth!" Haldir interrupted, dropping to the forest floor. "Is that really an elf?" He held out a flask of miruvor, which Faelon accepted and sipped at cautiously. It seemed to bring some colour back into his cheeks, and for that Rúmil was grateful.

"I told you I'd find him," he answered with a trace of smugness. He turned back to Faelon and regarded the bedraggled elf tenderly. "I care about you. When I heard you were lost, I couldn't rest until I knew you were safe."

"It's not as if you've been thinking about anyone else for the last six months..."

"Haldir, can I finish please?" The elder Galadhrim pouted at the rebuke from his younger brother, but Rúmil had decided it was time to take the plunge. He held Faelon's gaze for several long moments, trying to discern what was going on in the stormy depths of those beautiful eyes, then began, more tentatively than he'd intended. "Faelon, I know I've propositioned you once before, and that time you refused me, but..."

"But possibly for the first time in my life, I'll willingly admit I made a mistake," the Noldo replied, sounding alive for the first time since Rúmil had found him in the dell. "Rúmil, I underestimated you most unfairly back in Imladris. I didn't give you a chance to show your good qualities to me. You had every right to hate me for my rudeness...yet you became more friendly and caring towards me with each passing day, even when you only met coldness in return. And tonight - well, if it weren't for you, I'd still be lost, alone and ready to give up. This time, I should be the initiator." He took a deep breath, steadying himself with a hand on the trunk of the tree. "I apologise for my attitude before, and Rúmil, if you can find it in you to give me a second chance, I'd love to have the opportunity to become better acquainted with the only elf in all of Middle Earth who can remember my begetting day."

Rúmil enveloped the Noldorin elf in an elated embrace, burying his face in the ruffled locks, allowing them to absorb his hot tears of joy. After waiting for so long, finally Faelon had come around to him! "Faelon, melme, of course I accept your offer - and there is nothing to forgive." He ran his finger along the Imladris elf's jawline, sliding up one ear and gently playing with the pointed tip. "I've been falling in love with you, even while we've been apart, and I'm enjoying every moment of you. Come though, melme, promises and offers aside, I'm neglecting your current condition entirely. Let's bathe that injury, and get you to bed."

"Is there room for two?" Faelon suggested, a mischievous sparkle appearing in his eye. Rúmil was pleased that he was reviving a little, and helped his beloved ascend the rope ladder. Haldir made a noise which could have been a cough or a laugh, then made some remark about needing to attend to Faelon's horse and deliver a message, and remained below. But the muttered comment he made as the other two emerged into the talan reached both sets of ears:

"Isn't it ironic that after all these months of silence, suddenly he wants to push the relationship to new heights in a single evening..."

"All right then," Faelon admitted reluctantly. "I suppose I don't really have the energy for that tonight. But I almost lost you once, and I don't ever want to push you away again. Would you mind so very much if I asked if you would lie beside me as I sleep tonight? It has been...an eventful trip, and I would like to wake up knowing I'm safe and not alone."

Rúmil held his new lover tightly and promised that he would sleep with Faelon in his arms every night from now until the end of Arda, if that was necessary.

Faelon fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Rúmil watched him fondly for some minutes, loving the softness of the Noldo's features as they relaxed in peaceful slumber, the newly-found love sparkling in the vacant brown eyes.

He wriggled out of his shirt and leggings, kicking them off the edge of the small bed, and pulled the covers over both of them. With one hand, he happily caressed Faelon's hair, staring adoringly at the pretty little nose, long eyelashes and skin the colour of whipped cream. Even asleep, a smile curved upwards on the sculpted lips.

He pressed a kiss on to the dark-haired elf's forehead, below the dressing he'd secured over the graze - which, he'd been relieved to see, was not serious. "Sleep well, melethron. I'll be here when morning comes."

A happy grunt came from Faelon, and he wriggled close into the Galadhrim's arms. "Hmmm..." he purred. "Rúmil..."

When Haldir poked his head into the bedroom an hour later, he found the two lovers lying so close their noses touched, identical expressions of contentment gracing their fair features.

---

Erestor watched his Galadhrim escort pace and curse, as he had been doing almost constantly for the last hour. "I can't believe he lost us!"

"It was dark, he was tired, and he's not used to these woods," the advisor replied, somewhat impatiently. "He'll be safe within the borders; his hurt looked superficial. You've sent out guards to search for him and you've alerted Haldir. You said Rúmil was looking for him and you know he's an excellent tracker. What else can you do?"

"There must be something. I should have realised he wasn't with us as soon as we became separated."

"But you didn't. So this is the situation as it stands. You've done what you can, now for Elbereth's sake, please stop that pacing and get some rest." As if to prove the counsellor's point, the Galadhrim yawned suddenly. "Glorfindel and the others from Imladris will be here soon. Why don't you go and lie down and I'll get some tea ready for them?"

The Silvan elf nodded reluctantly and pointed to a cupboard in one corner. "You'll find what you need in there." Rubbing his eyes, he went into the adjoining bedroom.

Erestor rifled through the contents - honestly, had anyone tidied in here properly since the dawn of the Third Age? Eventually, he found a pot and several sachets of herbs, which he identified by scent as fennel and peppermint. He started to prepare a refreshing infusion.

Glorfindel did not come. The tea brewed, then sat, then cooled. He filled the pot with fresh water, then set it to boil again, this time more slowly. Glorfindel still did not come.

Erestor watched the pot moodily and the water began to bubble (watched pots may not boil for anyone else but, under Erestor's stony gaze, no pot would ever be audacious enough to disobey). He threw some herbs in, then suddenly looked up, sensing he was not alone. The Galadhrim had come back, dressed only in an undershirt and leggings. "I couldn't sleep," he apologised. "I feel so guilty - I was responsible for him."

"Tea?" Erestor asked indifferently. He was familiar with the self-punishment the marchwarden was experiencing now - it was a natural reaction to such an unfortunate event, after all. It was also incredibly dull to have to put up with such recriminations when he'd known so many others to go through the same process before.

The Galadhrim held up a hand in refusal. "Does he have the skill to look after himself in the open overnight?"

The advisor shrugged. "He has some basic survival training and he's not stupid - he'll manage. Especially if he stays close to the mare. She may not be rideable after that trip, but I know that horse. She won't let him down. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she led him directly to help."

Seemingly encouraged by the other elf's words, the marchwarden nodded. He'd dropped to sit cross-legged on the wooden floor, his head resting lightly against the wall behind.

But Erestor's concerns lay with a different elf. Despite his confident words earlier, he worried about his lover. "I hope Glorfindel and the others dealt with those orcs all right," he mused. "He should have let me stay and help."

It was the Galadhrim's turn to offer reassurance. "He's the Balrog Slayer. We've been told stories about him since we were elflings and, even if they're exaggerated, Glorfindel's no ordinary Elda." He grinned. "A mere band of orcs won't be anything he can't handle. And you and Faelon had to make sure these documents got to the Lord and Lady; Faelon would never have got across the ford without you leading him."

They said nothing for some time, draining cups of tea and leaving the remainder to simmer lightly. The flavour would probably be somewhat unorthodox by the end, but Erestor realised he would soon be able to keep time just by counting how many rounds of tea he'd brewed and then discarded.

After a period of time which may have been fifteen minutes or two hours, the Galadhrim rose and went to peer our of the window. "There's a small party coming through the woods a little way away," he declared with raised eyebrows as he returned to his place on the floor. "They all look unhurt. And I spotted Haldir approaching from the other direction."

"Haldir? I thought you said he was off-duty this evening."

"He is. That's why I'm surprised."

The marchwarden was the first to arrive, sticking his head up through the talan entrance, grinning at the counsellor and frowning at the Galadhrim. Once all of him was inside, and he'd appropriated a stool, he explained himself, sipping at the tea his subordinate had pressed into his hands in a futile attempt at a peace-offering. "So, any luck with your mislaid Noldo?" he asked the Silvan elf pointedly.

"Well, sir, I..."

"You'll be pleased to know that he's now accounted for, despite your inattentiveness. Make sure this never happens again on your watch, or the only thing I'll let you escort is mice out of the granaries. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Haldir winked at Erestor. "Faelon and Rúmil are currently snuggled up together like a lifebonded pair. Very cosy."

"Just as it should be," Erestor agreed, returning the smile.

At that moment a golden head and a beautiful face popped up into the talan. Glorfindel flicked back the stray locks from his face in what he presumably (and, Erestor secretly decided, quite justifiably) thought was a dashing manner. "I think a certain other pair of elves might want to be thinking about adopting the same position themselves, for remains of the night," he suggested, approaching Erestor. "What is your counsel on this matter, o wise one?"

Erestor kissed two fingers and touched them to Glorfindel's lips with a playful (for him) smile. He felt heat rise in his cheeks; as usual, his lover's unabashed openness had caused him to blush. "My counsel is that no self-respecting elf would agree to snuggle with you until you remove those repulsive garments from your person." He indicated the Elda's shirt, leggings and cloak, all splattered with orc-blood. "My counsel - probably in vain - is also that you refrain from proclaiming such ideas so overtly in front of such an extensive and interested audience." He pointed now to the two Galadhrim, who were hiding sniggers, and the Imladris guards who had entered behind their captain, who now stood with eyebrows raised with amusement. "However, I am forced to admit that your suggestion is very, very appealing." He leaned forwards so his lips almost touched Glorfindel's ear, and whispered, "Were you to draw yourself a bath now, once you were satisfactorily clean, I think I would be inclined to join you. Then perhaps we could find ourselves a nice, soft mattress somewhere, which I'm sure you'd prefer to this rather small wooden chair, which was clearly never designed for multiple occupants."

Glorfindel blinked innocently and tugged at Erestor's ear in a gentle, affectionate gesture. "We could snuggle on a midden and I'd relish every moment simply because you were close."

Erestor shook his head. "Melme, you are truly beyond hope."

Translations: melme - love










Part 8


Faelon was happy. Everything was wonderful. Rúmil was more amazing than he'd thought it possible for one individual to be; he was generous, caring, sensitive and intelligent, interesting and amusing... Faelon was always thinking of more complimentary adjectives that could be applied to his new lover.

And as an added bonus, his work was progressing well. The documents they had brought to discuss with the Lord and Lady had been met with full approval. Celeborn had shown some interest in becoming discreetly involved in one of Imladris's existing trade arrangements with a settlement of Men in the north, whilst Erestor was surprisingly enthusiastic about information Galadriel had obtained from...somewhere that a complete set of early Third-Age annals had been discovered in Gondor which, apparently, were stubbornly resisting the scholars' attempts to translate them.

He was actually regretting the fact that he would be returning to Imladris within the month - in between successful talks with Celeborn and Galadriel, walking in the woods with a certain Galadhrim and having that same Galadhrim curled up in his arms each evening, he was having more fun than he recalled having in a millennium.

The feast scheduled for tonight promised to be a lively affair and Rúmil had talked him into attending. He smiled to himself as he put the finishing touches to his braids and checked his robes were all straight. He was looking forward to the evening - what was there not to look forward to?

Although he was far too proud to admit it, he was both incredibly grateful to Erestor for deciding he wasn't working well enough and brining him on this trip, and secretly glad he'd got lost and been given a chance to discover Rúmil's sincerity. He had sorely underestimated the Galadhrim once, but he promised himself that he would never do so again.

---

"Come on, Erestor!" Rúmil approached the counsellor wearing a dazzling smile and a leading Faelon by the hand. Erestor held up his own hand in polite refusal.

Now Faelon joined in with his new lover's plea. "Yes, come on, Erestor! You never dance..."

"Exactly. I never dance, " Erestor countered with a firm shake of his head.

Rúmil grasped Erestor's fingers with his free hand and tugged gently; the older elf instinctively pulled away. The Galadhrim's eyes were pleading. "Come on. You'll enjoy it once you're out there. This is one of my favourite pieces of music!"

Faelon laid a staying hand on the young elf's arm. He addressed the counsellor with a small smile playing on his lips. "What if I bring Glorfindel over?" He stood on tiptoe and waved towards the table behind Erestor, on which a buffet had been laid out. He beckoned Glorfindel over; the Elda arrived with at least twenty cherries in one hand and a slice of cake in the other. He offered both to his lover, but Erestor declined them as well.

"You wanted me?" Glorfindel asked, popping another cherry into his mouth. Erestor wondered what he intended to do with the stone once he'd finished; the golden-haired Elda did not seem to have thought to collect a bowl before answering Faelon's summons.

Faelon nodded. "We're trying to persuade Erestor to dance, and we were hoping he'd relent if you would." Glorfindel responded with a raised eyebrow, laying his hand almost protectively on Erestor's shoulder.

"Do you want to?" he asked his lover simply.

Light as elves may be on their nimble feet the wooden floor resonated rhythmically as they executed the steps to the current dance. Laughing faces were everywhere he looked; some eyes were swimming with love, such as those of the sweet young couple in one corner who were so absorbed in one another, they'd just carelessly crashed into a table. Others were alive with amusement and joy. Haldir was dancing with an elfmaid in an absurdly overplayed genteel fashion which was making the maiden blush as some of her other admirers watched jealously. One of the guards who had accompanied the party from Imladris appeared to be engaging a local marchwarden in competition over who could dance more seductively, one which the Lórien elf was winning by several miles. Erestor observed all this - and yes, he was almost tempted to join in. But then his customary self-consciousness resurfaced, and he shrank from the dance floor into Glorfindel's strong, reassuring arms. The golden-haired Elda rubbed his back in gentle circles.

Erestor shook his head at the two younger elves. "Maybe later. Not now."

Rúmil's shoulders slumped in defeat. But his face brightens as he turned his attentions to Glorfindel. "What about you?"

Glorfindel's fine, pale eyebrows drew together. "I don't know. Erestor's said he doesn't want to, and I don't think it would be quite the same without him."

"Do you want to?" Erestor asked, echoing the words which moments before had been addressed to him. The look of longing that his beautiful beloved threw at the cavorting couples said it all, and Erestor gave the gilded elf a gentle push in that direction. "Enjoy yourself. I'm sure those two will find you an agreeable partner." Indeed, Rúmil was already presenting Glorfindel with a pretty elf-maiden, who fluttered long, curling eyelashes at him before curling a slender arm around his waist and leading him into the throng.

Erestor watched in silence. He delighted in seeing Glorfindel's strong, supple body move in harmony with his partner's; feet landing with perfectly precision on every step, golden hair flying up like a gilt fan when he whirled her around. Why had it taken Erestor so long to admit his desire for that radiant warrior? Why had he ever held back? Fear, his thoughts informed him. Fear of getting hurt, getting used, being rejected. Had any of those things happened to him, he was certain his spirit would have broken. He would have retreated from his emotions and never let another see them ever again.

But when he looked into Glorfindel's sparkling eyes he saw only love and security, kindness and adoration. Those two precious jewels were worth more to him than any treasure in Middle Earth, and he would happily gaze upon them a thousand times a day. Aiya, Glorfindel...my Glorfindel...is it possible for one being to hold so much love for another? Even when that other is you? Sometimes, the love he felt was so intense he was certain it must set his whole form shining with emotion for all to see. The first time he'd felt that, he'd been confused and a little frightened, unable to identify what was happening to him. But then he'd realised.

For the first time in his life, he was no longer lonely.

---

Ithil outlined everything in a pale silver-blue; the trees, the stylised arbours and trellises on the telain, the elegant architecture of Lórien's central refuge. Overhead, the silken sky was embroidered with a million brilliant-cut diamonds. All the feast's guests had now returned to their rooms, and servants flitted from lantern to lantern extinguishing the amber flames. Erestor turned his back on the stunning scene and smiled at Glorfindel, who was draining a cup of hot tea, having drunk just slightly more than was strictly wise over the course of the festivities.

It took a few moments before the golden Elda noticed the intense scrutiny to which he was being subjected. When he raised his head and met Erestor's eyes, he treated his lover to a puzzled look, replacing the cup on its carefully-painted porcelain saucer. "What is it, melamin?" he enquired.

"I'm ready to dance now. Will you come?"

"Now? You realise it's hours past midnight. All the other guests and even the musicians will have gone to bed..." He broke off, evidently recognising some emotion flickering in Erestor's eyes, and caught the dark-haired counsellor's hands in his. "Of course, melamin. I'd love to. As long as you promise it'll be you, and only you, who I get to dance with," he added teasingly.

"I promise," Erestor said solemnly, entwining his fingers with Glorfindel's and fitting himself comfortably against the Elda's side.

The two forms, both tall and comely, but one dark and one pale, glided between the telain like ghosts, their outlines softened by the moonlight. They ascended the stairway to the Great Talan as if it were no more than a gently inclined, perfectly smooth ramp, and never once did they break the contact between them. Erestor attuned his senses to every nuance of Glorfindel's form, every small movement of his eyes or body; he even felt the Elda's heartbeat when he pressed close into his lover's possessive embrace.

They both hesitated at the same moment as they entered the largest room in the Great Talan. The banqueting hall, just a few hours before as colourful as a meadow in spring, was now empty, deserted - and yet even more beautiful than it had been before. Ithil's light left ever detail shimmering as if it were made of pure mithril, darkening to pewter where pillars formed from tree branches cast long, dignified shadows across the floor.

But when Erestor turned to his beloved, he saw that one thing was not mithril. Glorfindel was a sculpture of brilliant gold, a vision of radiance harking back to the days when the Two Trees still lent their gentle illumination to Arda. He could have been Laurelin itself, waxing under Telperion's delicate light.

Erestor had always known on some level that there was something special about Glorfindel, but tonight he recognised and understood it properly for the first time. This being had dwelt in Valinor, had entered the Halls of Mandos and returned. He had stood before one of Morgoth's Balrogs and shown no fear, and by slaying it at the expense of his own life, allowed hundreds of others to live. That nobility and generosity which personified Glorfindel kindled a glorious inner light within him, and it shone outwards for any to see who were prepared to look.

Glorfindel stepped into the centre of the great chamber and the golden aura seemed to linger in the air for a moment even after he had passed. His arms were extended in invitation to join him.

Erestor threw himself into those arms, as he had done so many times before, capturing Glorfindel's lips in a passionate kiss, inhaling the sweet scent of his dearest love, detecting the subtle flavour of honey and wine. Glorfindel, too, pressed close, seemingly needing the closeness just as much as Erestor did. For a few moments, they just stood there, lips still touching, barely even breathing, just enjoying everything about one another, but then Erestor decided it was time for the dance to begin.

His feet drew patterns on the floor, patterns they had not practised for many a long year, which he'd feared he may have forgotten, but which returned of their own accord now, heedless of the lack of music.

Glorfindel joined his partner. His movements matched Erestor's, taking their tempo from the dark-haired elf's own heartbeat. His hips swayed gently as he danced, his hands resting lightly on his lover's slim waist, the ankle-length formal robes he wore swirling around his feet, a river of magical fire.

The harmony was perfect, the bliss total. Each elf knew instinctively how the other would next move and willingly blended with it. Midnight hair and golden lifted on the currents of air created by the two dancers, chasing each other playfully in never-ending circles.

Without pausing in his steps, Erestor leaned in and kissed the smooth column of Glorfindel's neck, lapping briefly at the pulse he felt under his tongue. "I love you," he declared, realising this genuinely was the first time he'd ever put that feeling into words. He had always been afraid before...but now there was nothing to fear. Together, they were two parts of a single, greater whole, he and Glorfindel, drawing strength and completeness from each other.

He reached out with his hand, trailing his fingers across Glorfindel's face, and as they moved into a column of moonlight he saw, to his amazement and delight , the fiery path of a shooting star reflected in Glorfindel's eyes. Did even Elbereth confer her blessing on them? How he gloried as those cherished words, words which grew more lovely each time they were spoken, fell freely and wholeheartedly from Glorfindel's lips. "I love you too, Erestor, melamin, more than anything."

"Ilyamenie," Erestor whispered.

"Ilyamenie," Glorfindel agreed.

Then Erestor closed his eyes and drew, if it were possible, even nearer to Glorfindel, letting his heart soar upon the tide of the only music there would ever be for him. It was the only music that mattered - the music of their souls. The music of their love.