The Folly of Starlight 2. Interlude: Misunderstood by AC

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Thanks: to Emma for the beta.

Feedback: PLEASE!!!! elrond@ithilas.com

The Folly of Starlight series.
Playing a lion being led to a cage
I turn from surreal to seclusion
From love to disdain
From belief to delusion
From a thief to a beggar
From a god to God save me
How can I feel abandoned even when the world surrounds me
How can I bite the hand that feeds the strangers all around me
How can I know so many
Never really knowing anyone
If I seem superhuman
I have been
Misunderstood.

-- John Petrucci (Dream Theater), "Misunnderstood"



[Coire 28, the year 3434 of the Second Age of Middle-earth. The valley sanctuary of Imladris, known in the Common Tongue as Rivendell]

The comforting cloak of eventide wrapped itself firmly around the denizens of the valley, both those of long standing and those uneasily collected here in the urgency of the war which was to come -- far too swiftly. Both took pause this chilled evening to reflect upon all that was at stake should they fail in their appointed task of defeating the mighty army of Mordor. While their troops anonymously went about this solemn business among the tents of the leafless forest and the silent stone halls of the cliff-side hamlet, the leaders of the First Born and the Second shared one final, sumptuous meal in Lord Elrond's private dining room.

By tacit agreement, all talk of tactics was strictly forbidden. The conversation instead centered around romanticized reminiscences of glorious Numenor and beauteous Beleriand as they had once been, before each was crushed by the hand of war and cast forever into the unforgiving watery grave of Ulmo's stormy realm. Elrond listened with sorrowed spirits to Elendil's forlorn recounting of the loss of the Valar's island gift by those of his twin brother's line. The occasional glimmering sparks of recognition of his beloved brother's blood Elrond caught in Elendil haunted the Peredhil Lord. Over the passage of the past preparatory years he had come to respect and honor the King of the Edain as more than just long-flung kin, but as a truly gifted leader. It was certainly just that Elendil, son of Amandil, sat beside the High King of the Eldar this night, in the seat usually reserved for Elrond himself.

Daring a glance to his left, Elrond winced at the ever present storm-clouded scowl of Elendil's son, Isildur. This one would lead us to certain ruin, should his father fall in battle, he forlornly thought. Winging a silent prayer of hope for Elendil's continued good health to the Valar, Elrond eagerly set his eyes upon a vision far more fair, and beloved beyond measure. There, across the solidly square table, nearly close enough to touch if it were not for the necessity of decorum and restraint, sat his king, his lover, his life -- Gil-galad, the radiant starlight and hope for not only his kind, but that of all of Middle-earth.

Forsaking all outward signs of the battle which loomed before them like the sheerest cliff of the valley, Gil-galad dressed as a statesman of the highest magnitude, a king, not a general. The deep twilight of his ornately embroidered robes only accentuated the dark beauty of his features, the nobility of his high brow even further dignified by the diamond studded, golden fillet he seldom wore in these troubled times. His grayed sapphire eyes sparkled in the candlelight with flickering accents of hope, uncertainty, and above all else, the boundless love Elrond knew they shared without question, and without limits. Silently squirming in his own velvet robes of office, Elrond tried to shift away the mounting pressure which claimed his attention as well as much of his skin, the urgency of lustful needs of the flesh, and the soul, becoming an overwhelming and, at this moment, unwelcome distraction.

Pushing back his emptied glass of honey wine, Elendil rose from the table as if on cue, smiling with a radiant warmth both genuine and confident. "We leave at dawn's first light," he reminded them all most unnecessarily. "It is time my son and I take leave of your hospitality for the last time."

Gil-galad fluidly pushed up from his own seat and clasped his ally's forearm in the traditional manner. "Only for the last time before our victory, my friend."

Elendil nodded sagely, his smile brightening further, lifting some of the hardness of his years from his features. "Indeed. I shall hold you to that."

"It will be our honor to host a victory celebration without rival once Sauron has been defeated," Elrond offered, rising to his feet as he reached across the table to clasp the Edain King's arm in the same way.

"I look forward to that day with joy in my heart." Elendil trained his eyes on his still-seated, darkly brooding son, his expression obviously disapproving and warning.

With a sullen acquiescence of duty held without relish, Isildur gruffly pushed back from the table, his chair scraping loudly against the tiled floor under his weight in a most unmelodic way. "Victory will be ours," he too-confidently exclaimed, hesitating for a moment before extending his arm for Gil-galad's eager clasp. Retracting his arm more swiftly than was seemly, Isildur hesitated once more, then met the Herald's stare. Elrond's gaze trained on the insolent Edain prince with eyes dripping with obvious contempt and loathing. "I will have nothing less," Isildur bragged, roughly grasping Elrond's half-heartedly offered arm.

Elrond pulled out of the warrior salute like a victim of the rudest burns, discretely brushing his arm against the soft folds of his robe in attempt to clean the imagined stain from his flesh. A shudder of revulsion and loathing trembled through his being as he watched the father and son depart from the chamber, his reluctantly sworn promise to his king, his beloved, haunting him as the most grievous of burdens. "How better for him to find the wisdom of your calming influence than in your arms?" Elrond wiped a worry-wearied hand across his furrowed brow. I would rather bring him to wisdom with the point of my sword than a single taste of my flesh.

"By the Lady's grace, we are alone at last," a purred baritone interrupted, saving Elrond from his morose mental meanderings of what he feared would too soon come to pass. Closing his eyes, Elrond allowed his lover's arms and aura to envelop him utterly, savoring the sweet sensation of the other's solidity pressed firmly against his back.

Elrond pivoted into the other's embrace, eagerly completing the secure circle of unbridled emotion and limitless devotion. Brushing his lips chastely against the other's, he sipped the briefest taste of the familiar and the tantalizing, his mouth finally dancing a hair's width away from what he considered the depths of the truly blessed lands. "How should we celebrate this momentary reprieve from the shackles of duty, my lord?" he breathlessly teased, his fingers tightly wound around thick plaits of the other's night-hued hair.

With the incipient rumble of a frustrated growl reverberating in his throat, Gil-galad clutched the sides of his lover's face with none-too-gentle fingers, forcing the teasing lips a safer distance away. His gaze purposefully danced across the stage of those elegant features, his mind's eye, along with his heart, memorizing each curve, every angle. For although he hoped beyond hope that the Alliance would find only success, there were no guarantees that he and his beloved would both live to savor the final victory. Lingering in the desperate attempt to create a faithful rendition of that cherished visage in his mind, Gil-galad exhaled loudly and then brusquely claimed those well-loved lips as his own. Feeling his very breath stolen from his chest, Elrond sighed into the comfort of the all-encompassing contact, allowing himself to become lost, and yet so very, utterly, and completely found....




The crafty King surprised his long-time lover by diverting their presumed path from that which led to their private bedchamber. The Lord of Imladris instead found himself, without explanation, on the familiar grassy banks along a small stone bridge tucked away in a surprisingly deserted corner of the valley. It was a well visited spot, a private sanctuary for the elven lovers, where they would pass the occasional stolen hour of leisure during warmer months in the comfort of conversation and the soothing spray of the tiny, babbling tributary of the Bruinen lapping at their bare feet. Elrond was even more surprised to find two others of their kind waiting, apparently expecting their arrival, the smiles upon their faces dashing any thoughts of a chance meeting. Cirdan had been among their midst since the first convening of the Council, and Glorfindel was only recently returned from yet another of his seemingly constant reconnaissance missions along the spine of the mighty mountains to their immediate east. Now both old and dear friends, and allies, stood in waiting, dressed in their finest robes.

Halting in the center of the small knoll, Elrond spun into the awaiting loose embrace, his face a perfect mirror of the uncertainty of his soul. "What manner of conspiracy have you brought me into?" he cautiously drawled, his keen gaze searching his lover's eyes for some semblance of explanation.

Gil-galad's lips twitched in a hint of a smile, then claimed the other's questioning lips in a brief, yet passion-driven kiss. "The only kind worthy of our friends, Nin-iaun. That of the heart." Noting the increasing depth of confusion creasing that beloved brow, the High King smiled without restraint. "I wish to right an egregious oversight we have perpetrated upon each other for the better part of this age." Pressing a lingering kiss into Elrond's forehead, the High King exhaled in a weighty sigh. "I only wish I had had the foresight to do this many, many rounds of Anar before now." His smile flickered broader, his fingers tenderly caressing the side of Elrond's curiosity crinkled features. "I wish to bind myself to you, as is the manner of our people. Not merely body to body, as we have done so sweetly, with such perfection, but heart to heart, faer to faer."

Feeling the shudder of joy and longing shimmy through the other's flesh, as it did his own, Gil-galad held Elrond closer, pressing his lips into the silken satin of his lover's hair. "We may share our bodies with others in the name of this Alliance," he whispered so softly that none but his beloved might hear, "But in Elbereth's name I swear I shall never share your heart with another. Not now, not even unto the end of Arda itself."

The shivers of perfect passion and devastating desire in Elrond's body increased unconsciously at the power and ardor in the king's voice. It thrilled him the same as it had the very first day they had met, after the War of the Jewels. It had been his awe of Gil-galad and those first incipient pangs of desire which had made his choice to remain of the Eldar so effortless, so natural. Had he been led to that decision by the Valar themselves, in their perfect foreknowledge of this very moment? "How in the Lady's name could such a travesty occur," he whispered huskily, "That I could bind myself to any other than you?"

"Indeed." Claiming a final kiss from those lips he held most dear of all, Gil-galad stepped back, his hands holding his beloved's their willing thrall. "Our friends have agreed to be our witnesses in this most solemn pledge."

"It is our honor," Glorfindel interjected, a smile brightening the gold-framed features of his face. Cirdan nodded most enthusiastically, reaching out to silently clasp Elrond's shoulder in an affectionate manner of support.

And so it was that the Last High King of the Noldor and the greatest Lord of the Sindar in all of Middle-earth pledged their hearts one to the other beneath the bejeweled canopy of the Lady's stars, a pledge unto the end of Arda itself, and beyond, they fervently hoped. In sign and token of their sacred union, Gil-galad gifted unto his mate, his bereth faeruin, an emblem to wear upon his armor when they departed for battle. The starry banner of the line of the Noldor, wrought in the finest mithril, was permanently affixed to the outline of a leaf of the vale over which Elrond reigned as lord.

The sovereign of the secret valley lamented aloud that he had no such gift to return to his mate, but his lament was instantly kissed away with urgent and earnest lips, and throaty laughter. "You have given me something far more precious and rare than any bauble of mere metal." Gathering his mate into his arms, Gil-galad brushed kisses upon every inch of that troubled visage. "You have reminded me why I truly fight these battles -- so that we may share the rest of this age, and all those to come, as one."




After marrying Gil-galad, Elrond hoped in vain that somehow he would be released from his oath to lie with Isildur in the name of the Alliance if the need arose. But as Elrond was loathe to learn, that was not to be, and the first night the elven lords consummated their passion as husbands was, most regretfully, their last.

But for the elder children of Iluvatar, marriage is not only of the body, but of the spirit, and transcends even the Halls of Mandos....
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