There was no knock prefacing Gildor’s entrance into Erestor’s room, where the councilor was sitting in his rocker strumming notes on a lap harp. The startled occupant set aside his instrument, but before he could stand, Gildor began to speak. “I found your actions today to be disturbing, to say the least. There was far too much familiarity shared between you and Glorfindel.”
Erestor had expected this confrontation from Gildor whenever the wanderer next returned to Rivendell, which happened to be two evenings prior. He knew that the customary first night spent exclusively with Glorfindel had been ruined for Gildor due to a previously planned game of cards which Gildor was invited to attend (yet rather sullenly declined). The second night seemed it would be a suitable replacement, until Glorfindel announced to Gildor (in Erestor’s presence) that he was much looking forward to a poetry reading that Erestor would be hosting in the library. Salt was ground into the wound when the warrior added that he was terribly busy all week, and perhaps his lover might find entertainment elsewhere for the next few days.
Erestor was unsure of Glorfindel’s whereabouts this evening, but he doubted them to include Gildor. He had been rather smug behind Glorfindel’s back (and in front of Gildor) when any such things were mentioned. In the two years that Gildor had been gone, much had changed in Rivendell, not the least of which was Glorfindel. Instead of merely stepping timidly into Sedryner studies, he had practically leaped in head-first. In fact, his first words to Gildor when they were reunited in the courtyard was a memorized passage from Sedrynerin version of Laws and Customs, which did not delight the Valabronwyn in the slightest.
“We are good friends, and have been for many years,” countered Erestor calmly.
Gildor snorted. “And all friends you know embrace when they say farewell for the night, and greet one another with touches that resemble caresses?”
“I would say you were mistaken, jealous, and perhaps a little paranoid, but of the three one is false.” Erestor planned his next words carefully. “Perhaps if you have so great an interest in Glorfindel, you might consider his wellbeing and not leave him unattended for such lengths that he nearly forgets your presence.”
The glare that followed might have caused lesser elves to flinch, but Erestor appeared immune to Gildor’s gaze. “Are you suggesting neglect on my part, or home wrecking on yours?”
“Call it what you will, but I think Glorfindel is making up his own mind for a change.”
“Do you?” Gildor’s mouth seemed drawn into a permanent frown. “Do you also remember an oath you once took?”
“Vaguely, an age ago. Much has changed.”
“So now in this age you break your promises? How unlike your kind,” said Gildor, his arms folded over his chest. “I thought your integrity was important to you.”
“It is. But so is my soul,” admitted Erestor, perhaps unwisely, as Gildor raised a brow. “It aches, and I know only one cure. Besides, it is obvious he is nothing more than one of many for you.”
“Go on then, if you really want everyone to know your past,” said Gildor with a shrug.
Erestor smirked. “Do you think I am afraid of you? There is nothing which you can prove now. He is dead, and all those who might have spoken of it are, too.”
“Yes, you made sure of that during the war,” interrupted Gildor before the sentence was finished. “But... I am still here, and I am the one you should be afraid of.”
“No one would ever believe you,” replied Erestor flippantly. “No proof, no witnesses, no credibility.”
Gildor smiled the frown away. “I thought you might say something stupid like that. I knew you would go back on your words. And your words are exactly what I made sure I had.” Gildor then withdrew a tattered book that had been tucked between his vest and loose fitting shirt. He lifted up in one hand and stared directly into Erestor’s eyes. “I suppose you forgot about this.”
Dumbfounded, Erestor recognized the item immediately. It was a journal he had thought lost during the last alliance, kept with him until he had been injured at the end of the war. He had lost track of it and thought it destroyed somehow or buried under the rubble of war. It was just out of grasp, unless he was to lunge for it. Blurbs and passages ran through his mind, and his heart raced as he recalled some of the more private entries made.
“Relax, Erestor. Sit down.” The second command was given quite sternly, and Gildor opened the book as Erestor dumbly settled back into the rocking chair. “Time for a little bedtime story. Oh, here we have one of my favorites. ‘I love to watch him sleeping. He rests so peacefully, though sometimes it scares me because he is so still I flash back to seeing him dead. More than once I have woken him on the false accusation I have heard something, just to be sure Mandos has not snatched him away. If only my fears could be quelled by keeping him safely in my arms through the night, I could feel his breathing, the beat of his heart, and sleep well.’” Gildor looked to be sure that Erestor appeared suitably mortified, then flipped back to another entry. “ ‘This morning he came to my room to discuss battle strategy. He had been up all night speaking to Elrond, so he had showered before coming to see me. He wore only pants, and from what looks I dared, nothing else beneath them, and certainly nothing else that I could see. His skin looks so soft, I desire to touch it, first with hands, then lips, then... my mind hazes to a place I should not dare go. He brought breakfast. We happened to pass closely as he entered, and I indulgently inhaled his scent as he slid by. I felt like an adolescent barely beyond his majority. A voice in my head tortured me the entire time, teasing me with ways I could end the conversation and get him into my bed. So many things I think of doing with him – all the things I thought to do to Naro.’”
Erestor’s skin, normally darkened from the sun, had paled considerably since Gildor brought the book out. He barely breathed, mind racing, still contemplating how to obtain the damnable book, but it was not even his hidden sexual yearnings that turned his stomach, as it was the part that was read next.
“ ‘I have spent countless nights in the darkness, staring absently at the ceiling and out the window into the night wondering who my father really is. I want so badly to believe it is Orome. I hope with all my heart that it is. But Orome only declared it when it best suited him, and not with the sincerity I would expect of a father. To contrast, M. did so at the worst possible juncture, and with no possible gain. I still wonder, and if it is true, does he hate me now for what has happened to him, or should I hate him for what he put me through. It certainly would explain my temper.’ “
Gildor closed the book with a snap. “It was a very good idea for you to abbreviate his name in this section, just in case this book fell into the wrong hands. So many names that begin with M. But you seem to lack consistency, because you call him by his full name – well, the one your ‘Naro’ gave him – twice later.”
No reply seemed suitable, so Erestor said nothing, and did nothing. He did nothing to hide the shock, shame, and pain so evident in his expression. “You bastard,” was all he finally managed in a harsh, whispered voice.
Gildor tucked the book safely away again, and stepped forward. He bowed at the waist and wrapped his hands around Erestor’s wrists, fingertips touching the wood of the chair as he hissed into Erestor’s ear, “Likewise... but at least my mother knew who was fucking her.” He straightened up, the frown back in place, hands still squeezing Erestor’s wrists tightly. “You might be older and think yourself wiser, but no one could surpass my father in intelligence, and only he ever managed to best me.”
The older elf looked at the bulge against Gildor’s vest, the perfectly squared off outline of the lost journal. Erestor could smell the paper, ink, and leather. His fingers twitched, but Gildor held him firmly. “Do you know what else my father and I have in common?”
Erestor refused to shake his head or even to look up to acknowledge Gildor.
“We both adore the Vanyarin race. Beautiful creatures. Lovely, lovely creatures, far surpassing the divinity of the Noldor. Their women are delicate... perfect... they flow as they move. Even I can appreciate that. Their men... charming... gorgeous... so handsome, even the most devoted husbands will admit to their wives that they have a certain allure to even the most happily married. And all that glorious, long, silky golden hair.” Gildor bent his head down again so that he could speak directly into Erestor’s ear. It placed the journal closer, pressing purposely against Erestor, separated by the fabric of Gildor’s vest and Erestor’s loose robe. “Do you know what I like to do with him? I like to get him up on his hands and knees and ride him from behind. Then I like to grab that hair and pull him back by it.” Gildor chuckled darkly. “Sometimes when I have nothing else to use, I clean myself with it, or release right into it. Because I can. Because he lets me.” Gildor paused. “Because he is mine.” The last word was growled. “Bought and paid, in full. Remember that.”
Gildor let go of his hold on Erestor and stepped back swiftly. “Insurance of that investment,” he said as he patted his breast where the journal was tucked away. “Interesting. I never expected to reduce you to tears, but if that is what it takes, so be it.”
Erestor sucked in his breath, only now realizing himself that his cheeks were wet and his sight blurred. He opened his mouth with intention to insult, but it died on his lips as a sob emerged instead.
“How pathetic.” Gildor turned and walked to the door. He looked over his shoulder one final time. “You do know what mine and not yours means, right? It means you stay here alone, while I drag him out of whatever happy horseshit gathering he thought he was going to this evening so that I can take him back to his room and fuck him senseless while you sit here weeping and wishing you could.”
As an added insult, Gildor left the door wide open as he left, forcing Erestor to shakily leave his chair. He continued to shudder as he shut the door and locked it before collapsing onto his bed, feeling like a distraught and hopeless shell.
