“Psst!”

“What?”

“Put that book down! I want to show you something.”

Reluctantly, Erestor shoved the book he was reading under his pillow and swung his legs over the side of his bed. His bunkmate below was oft yanking him out of the barracks well after curfew either to run errands they should not be or to ‘show him something’. ‘Something’ could range from a new technique the warrior learned with his sword to a nest of quail eggs by the side of the road.

In some ways, Erestor enjoyed the fact that he was the one being dragged along on these mini-adventures. Of all of the others training to be soldiers of Gondolin, Glorfindel always picked him. Perhaps, Erestor reflected, it was because he was quite stealthy. Then again, he thought, all of them were Elves; they were ALL stealthy.

It had merely been luck of some sort that he had ended up on the higher of the joined beds. Actually, the first night, Erestor was on the bottom, but Glorfindel as it turned out was afraid of heights and had a rough time getting off of the coveted top bunk the next morning. They had swapped after breakfast. That had been over five years ago.

They were now in their final year of training, and though the curfew was still in place, at forty-nine years old, it was taken less seriously than if they had been first-year recruits. Therefore, they boldly walked through the mostly deserted streets until just before reaching the courtyard. “This way,” Glorfindel whispered to the archer.

They snuck from pillar to statue, closing in on the crown jewel of the courtyard – the grand fountain. As they came around it, still keeping their distance and staying hidden, soft moaning could be heard. Erestor peered around the marble carving he was behind, eyes widening considerably.

There, sitting on the edge of the fountain, was Lord Ecthelion. His legs were apart, and his hands gripped the ledge. He was leaning back, his hair, shoulders, and face being sprayed by the droplets that fell, and these had dripped down to dampen his clothing.

Knelt before him was Lord Egalmoth. His hands were gripping Ecthelion’s hips, his lips enclosed around the fountain lord’s thick shaft. He bobbed his head as he sucked on the head, then pulled back and used his hand to bring Ecthelion to climax.

“I guess that is why they call him Lord of the Fountain,” teased Glorfindel as Ecthelion’s essence spurted up many times over.

Erestor shook his head. “I am never going to equate ‘Heavenly Arch’ the same way ever again!”