Title: Yours For A Song 8/9
Author: Hare (harefic@yahoo.com)
Fandom: Tolkien
Type: FCS
Characters: Erestor/Glorfindel
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Can I choose to proclaim, rather than disclaim? Hear ye, Hear ye--they are not mine!
Timeline: Present day is Imladris Third Age, years 1973-1975. All flashbacks are in Gondolin First Age, years 505-510.
Warning: AU, angst, sex, kink that some might consider non-con, h/c, romance, sap and cookies…though not necessarily in that order.
Beta: Chaotic_Binky and Erviniae…simply the best.
Dedication: To Chaotic_Binky, Erviniae, and Weepingnaiad…my own archipelago of lovelies (for no writer is an island) who keep my tiny pond of our fandom silly, fun, and refreshingly kinky.
Author's Note: Hello, my name is Hare and I am a hopeless romantic. Seriously, I have exploded the sap-o-meter on this one! You are thusly warned, and I am resolved of any consequences should you choose to read. I am grateful to whoever put together the Elf Fetish website and name generator. Special thanks to Svengalliedhare, my niece and poetess extraordinaire for the songs and poem found within but the eagles and swans are all mine! Though I didn’t plan it this story is connected in a vaguely cosmic parallel universe way to several of my other Erestor/Glorfindel tales. Caveat lector!
Summary: What happens when Erestor discovers his well ordered, fully planned life is nothing of the sort?


Chapter 8
Imladris, III 1975

Erestor sat quietly in a straight-back chair facing the open window. His eyes were shut tight and he concentrated on breathing. In and out, for hours he had repeated this mantra convincing himself he would not collapse into an emotional heap and weep the day away.

The lyre lay in his lap yet he could not bring himself to strum his fingers across the strings. Instead, his hands ran across its surface, memorizing every nuance of the instrument. Finely crafted from ink-black lebethron wood with solid gold trimming and polished to a brilliant shine, it still bore a faint mint smell for which lebethron was so famous. Its sound quality unknown but Erestor knew that it would be perfection for Glorfindel expected such in any piece he commissioned. As perfect as the inlaid markings that decorated the lyre; a golden bloom surrounded by musical notes.

Another gift from Glorfindel, but this one left for him in his office, in plain sight, and the first thing he saw upon entering for work early this morning. This present a second lucky token on of all days today, a day he had immediately dreaded upon waking for it followed his shameful performance at yesterday’s dance. The first, that he did not deserve, had already found him as counselor Berengardh waived off his pathetic attempts to apologize and dragged him to the kitchen for an early meal and pleasant conversation. Erestor came away even more devoted to Berengardh and more determined to see her desires fulfilled.

Glorfindel, too, was obviously not swayed by Erestor’s poor behavior as evidenced by this newest present, fresh on the heels of last night’s bold gift. Another memory of the desire Glorfindel insisted had never died. Love that he demanded Erestor admit, love that Glorfindel refused to allow Erestor to deny. And yet he found he could only think of Pengolodh and desperately wished his brother still resided close, for he needed his counsel.

A beam of warm light settled upon him and finally he opened his eyes. Anor blazed a brilliant red in the horizon as it sunk low on the brink of setting for the day. The music of life drifted in – elflings at play, songbirds chirping, the waterfalls of Imladris, laughter, and the unmistakable sound of singing as another Mereth Tui was well underway.

Hesitantly he smiled, released a shaky breath, and let his gaze drift down to the two lines of poetry that had accompanied this latest offering. And surely it was the last gift for the warriors left soon to battle the Witch-king. Glorfindel had assumed his natural role as leader and would be at the head of those who departed. Erestor squeezed his eyes shut once more. Could he allow Glorfindel to leave, again, when things remained unsettled between them? Could he survive if Glorfindel again fell in battle? Could he take another chance and trust that Glorfindel did indeed love him, and had loved him, even while purposefully staying away?

Lord Elrond trusted Glorfindel. Everyone who met Glorfindel seemed to trust him, all the counselors and officers, Lords Elrohir and Elladan, and many other elves that Erestor admired for their discerningly good judgment. His own memories trusted Glorfindel and they taunted him with their clarity. He absolutely wanted to trust him again. Desired it with an aching ferocity but he did not seem able to move beyond the pain; the hurt he felt at being abandoned.

He recalled the other lines of poetry from the previous gifts. Indeed he had run them through his head everyday since their arrivals, and now he had the final two lines that completed it.

“My heart swims in your brilliant colors as I recall questing lips soothing my aching hand…
And when you first embraced a timid ardor for your beloved and imperfect golden flower…

Yearning to trace every minute detail of your exquisite body, to once again be awakened…
Haunted by a rope that briefly tied us yet led to the rings that bind us forever…

Entrancing me with your persuasive harmonies, as you master this hopeful instrument…
Listening to the notes of possibilities that remain, as I am evermore - Yours for a song…”

Finally he allowed some of his bitter fears to wash out with the tears that streamed down his face. Erestor moved the lyre into playing position and softly strummed an old composition from a time long ago…

*flashback*
Gondolin, I 510

Erestor fidgeted with his tunic and pulled at the collar where it constricted his throat. He stepped back from the looking glass and admired his outfit. The hem of his tunic ended at the waist, and his tights were scandalously snug. His clothing sparkled with metallic threads of silver and gold woven through the bright blue, red and green pied cloth. The seamstress had followed his directions implicitly.

He moved out onto the balcony and into Anor’s direct beams. The rays glittered off the threads in a brilliant flash. This outfit was an excellent choice for next week’s dawn performance during the festival of Tarnin Austa. Erestor chuckled as he thought of his fellow minstrels and how outraged they would be when Anor rose, caught on his tunic, and blinded them as they sang!

Still snickering, he walked back into his quarters and carefully removed the outfit. After meticulously folding it, he covered it in thin paper and placed it in the back of his wardrobe. Erestor then curled up in bed, threw a light cover over himself, and thought through tonight’s show. Special was not quite the word he searched for to describe how he felt about this evening; for he performed at the House of the Golden Flower.

Erestor reached over and retrieved the contract from his bedside table. Written in Glorfindel’s pen it offered him generous compensation for a performance of three songs. It specified that they must be new and original compositions and must specifically include mention of all twelve houses of Gondolin. His benefactor preferred that they not be bawdy or overtly scandalous, though a thread of humor would be appreciated. And, in a more specific yet subtle demand, Glorfindel sincerely hoped and fervently wished that Erestor might be moved to include a love ballad.

He rolled his eyes. Already Erestor found it difficult to not spout poetry anytime he was near his love. And over the past five years, he had penned several hundred tunes of desire and want and need for Glorfindel. Surely one more would be complete melodrama. It turned out; however, that Erestor was a strict adherent of overindulgence, and had eagerly honored the contract and wrote the request. Although he would never reach the level of hopeless romantic as Glorfindel so fondly embraced, he intended to reciprocate when possible.

Almost too late he realized that time had flown from him and he surged upward with an annoyed *tsk* on his lips. This was new for him, these too frequent moments where he lazily reclined, twirled the golden ring on his index finger, and thought exclusively of Glorfindel. Days passed now where he accomplished nothing but ruminations on a life, in the near future, where he woke every morning next to his vibrant lover. It scared him a bit but excited him more.

He ran for the wardrobe and quickly donned the subdued honey-colored ensemble he knew Glorfindel preferred. Tonight he would forgo the ostentatious garb of bardic tradition in deference to his love’s partiality for simpler garments, except for his footwear. Those were covered with dangling bells that he needed as accompaniment for one of the tunes.

And then he hopped around the room and pulled on his jangling boots as he retrieved the music sheets and his lyre. Erestor stopped at the mirror and swiftly tied his hair back in a tail before he raced from his rooms, down the stairs, out the door, and across the Square to the House of the Golden Flower.

The night air hung close and so hot it shimmered, and the stifling heat had Erestor continually pulling at his clothes. They clung to his sticky, wet skin. The fountains stirred up by strong winds had sprayed a thin layer of water all over him, and the lyre slipped in his grip. Irritated and grumbling he arrived at the rear entrance of the House.

As he scurried past the cacophonous kitchen, Maluthros called out and ran to greet him.

“Songmaster, a good eve!”

“Aye, Maluthros. But the winds blow erratically, and I fear my lyre has sustained damage from the fountain’s drizzle.”

She threw him a flannel and he vigorously wiped the instrument dry, and re-tuned it. An irritated *tsk* escaped him when he saw the state of the music sheets.

“These were meant to be a keepsake for Lord Glorfindel. A remembrance of the songs I penned specially for him. But look at them, Maluthros! They are ruined before I can even gift them.”

The cook took the papers from his hands and made a close inspection.

“Nay, see?” She held them out for his perusal. “The ink has not yet run. I can do no further harm if you leave them here. Let me place them near a warm stove to dry, and they will be deposited in his lordship’s quarters before you finish your performance.”

“You are Valar sent. Thank you, but why are you not in the Great Hall? Surely you cannot bear to miss my production as it is commissioned for your House.”

Maluthros eyed him strangely before she replied. “I will not be attending the show, but I know your audience will greatly appreciate your efforts. Mayhap later after you dine with our lord, and are replete from my culinary creations, you will be moved to a repeat performance.” She hesitated and a wicked grin lit up her face. “Or perhaps you will be otherwise engaged.”

She winked and cackled as she walked back into the kitchen and bellowed out orders to her staff.

Erestor smiled all the way to the Great Hall and skirted around to an entry near the rear of the dais. The area seemed exceedingly quiet, not the usual hustle and bustle he expected before a large show. Curious, he halted and turned towards a door that led to the main gallery of the Hall, but his movement was cut short by Limmae, the steward of Glorfindel’s House.

“Songmaster, welcome!” She rushed forward and pulled him into a warm embrace before stepping back and nodding her approval of his appearance. Limmae steered him away from the door and back towards his initial destination of the stage entry.

“We have been anticipating this day for weeks now.”

“Limmae, my lady. Thank you!” He leaned forward and whispered, “But it does seem the audience is extremely reserved for I cannot hear even a murmur of voices.”

“Oh nay, Songmaster. I do believe the excitement level of this evening’s audience will exceed your expectations. We have spoken of nothing but this event since you accepted the commission. If you would allow me to be so bold, I predict a wonderfully successful performance awaits you!”

“You have always been a great friend, Limmae, and a great believer in my talents.”

She threw her head back and laughed heartily. “Erestor, my friend, I have known you since you were an elfling toddling along after your eldest brother. And I remember well the awful screechings you once called singing. Surely, we prayed, the Valar would not allow it to continue but would nudge you to follow your lord Adar as a mariner. But you are stubborn and persisted. I am a believer, Erestor, because you toiled hard and continue to do so. And now you command a voice that has seduced multitudes, including my lord, and you make him exceedingly happy. Aye, your talents are to be admired.”

Erestor gasped at the leer that passed fleetingly over her face and marveled when she chuckled anew.

“Songmaster, forgive me, but surely you are not surprised at my comments. Your courting antics have been quite public and much commented upon.”

Limmae waived a dismissive hand through the air. “But enough of this idle chatter. You have an eager audience awaiting your performance. The stage and Hall are prepared to your specifications, but I will be right here if you require any further assistance.”

She placed a firm hand in the small of his back and with a gentle shove pushed him up the first step.

He turned to give her a suspicious glare. “Lord Glorfindel employs such an odd collection of assistants. Of which I consider you one. I will find out why you are behaving so strangely. You know I will!”

Limmae just smiled back at him innocent and bright. He scowled and stomped up the remaining stars to the side-wing of the dais, his mini-tantrum deflated by the gay tinkling of the bells on his boots.

The consummate professional, he took in a slow deep breath, wiped all concerns from his mind, and concentrated on the list of tunes he would perform. First the lively ‘March of the Mad Hare”, which he considered only a thinly veiled statement of their King’s infamous antics. The bells on his boots combined with many well-planned and purposefully erratic movements figured prominently in this song. The second, a more solemn piece, followed a theme wherein he included all the best attributes each House offered their great city. This had been exceedingly difficult to write considering the vile feelings he had towards the leaders of two Houses. Still, for Glorfindel’s sake and the commission, he remained optimistic yet had somberly titled it ‘Duodecuple’. And finally ‘Snow on the Flower’ named for his and Glorfindel’s House allegiances and penned specifically as a tribute to Glorfindel’s romantic leanings. Something Erestor greatly appreciated even though he felt entirely unworthy and was unable to match in reciprocity. This song would be his meager offering to the love that pulsed strong and vibrant between them.

With a final cleansing breath, Erestor positioned the lyre on his left hip and shook both legs to herald his entrance onto center stage. He proceeded forward while strumming progressive semitones building on a modified diatonic scale for dramatic presentation. The bells kept a perfect four-four time and undermined the tense chords with a hint of mischief.

Once he had marched to center stage he turned to face his audience. Only his experience at performing kept him from dropping the instrument, though he could not utter a single vocal note, and he knew he stared slack jawed at the scene before him.

The Great Hall of the House of the Golden Flower had undergone a complete transformation since the last time he had seen it. It was brilliantly lit with thousands of candles, which were dropped into colored glasses. Some glowed subdued and some so bright he had to turn his eyes from them. A mild sweet fragrance permeated the room, and he identified it as iris, a rare and hard to grow flower at the height of Gondolin. The sheer audacity of the combined effect awed him, and surely this feat had taken months to coordinate.

But the walls took his breath away. Once painted a pale unimaginative yellow they were now alive with murals depicting a variety of scenes. The room exploded with busy color and made it difficult to decide where to rest one’s gaze. He ran his eyes around the Hall and cataloged the different paintings. Sleek otters frolicked in a sky-blue river that gurgled through a wooded area bright with yellow and orange and gold autumnal leaves. Male musk deer with wide and vicious racks intertwined in a dance for mating rights. Eagles, proud and secure, soared and dove through dark menacing clouds that poured rain onto the scene below, which pictured furry kelvar, like hares and squirrels and foxes who raced through a meadow in search of cover. On and on the scenes seemed to never end, and he knew it would take years to investigate the detail in every mural.

He looked up to the ceiling and gasped. Great chandeliers of candles had been hoisted upward, secured and illuminated the entire vaulting. A riot of huge painted musical notes frolicked overhead. Outlined with shimmering gems they cast rhythmic shadows with every flicker of the numerous candles, as if they composed their own music.

Still playing the same notes over and over he finally allowed his gaze to roam the audience. Joy surged through him swift and electrifying like a lightning bolt strike. A smile finally found his face, and he grinned like a fool at his audience of one. His stomach flipped and roiled at the sight of his captivating love. Glorfindel, dressed in black from head to toe, sat front and center, his left ankle rested on his right knee and his arms were spread wide on the back of the divan. No other chairs, no other elves occupied the theater. They were alone.

He ceased his monotonous performance and stared at his lover. With that meeting of the eyes, the connection between them deepened, and enclosed them as if everything else had disappeared. Glorfindel had an odd expression on his face but his eyes were wide and hopeful, yet a seemingly menacing and predatory posture radiated from him. Finally, he tipped his head slightly and his hair sparkled in the erratically dancing light of the candles.

Erestor’s breath caught, he gulped loudly and brought his lyre upwards in front of his hardening shaft. Not knowing what else to do, he decided the show must continue. Glorfindel seemed to desire it, and indeed Erestor was unsure he could even hold a conversation at this moment.

Retreating into the songs helped him regain his composure and he played his heart out for Glorfindel, who clapped politely at the conclusion of each tune. And at the end, he rose for an ovation and extended his right hand indicating that Erestor should join him.

Eagerly, Erestor hopped from the dais and into his embrace. Glorfindel raised a finger to trace the outline of his lips and Erestor chased it with his teeth. But the finger was quickly followed by Glorfindel’s mouth, which settled on his in a gentle, sweet kiss.

“Perfect,” whispered Glorfindel and then he twined his fingers amongst Erestor’s and walked him toward the exit.

They strolled in silence and nodded to all those who greeted them along the way. And they continued in this way even through their dinner. Idle chat was replaced by touches and smiles, content to let the surprises of the evening settle between them and secure enough that long silences were comfortable and even welcomed.

When dessert concluded they moved to a deep cushioned reclining divan hidden in the corner of Glorfindel’s bedroom. Glorfindel reached around and loosed Erestor’s hair from its tail and Erestor in turn removed the clasp from Glorfindel’s. The hair fastener was a gift from Erestor and it gleamed in his hand. He had chosen a stylized fish symbol for the clasp, to honor not only his ada’s status but also their first encounter at the river. He was not naturally as romantically demonstrative or prone to gift-giving, but Erestor tried to change that with each passing day as Glorfindel’s affection seemed to know no bounds. And his life now centered on pleasing the one who held his heart.

Glorfindel did not remain long on the divan. He ran his hands through Erestor’s hair, followed by his nose, before he left a kiss on his forehead. Glorfindel then rose and disappeared into another room. When he returned, his once empty hands were now full.

He solemnly presented the lute to Erestor. Awed and shaking, Erestor examined the exquisite gift. The wood shone pure white in its polished state, and the smallish pear-shaped body was fitted to perfection. Embedded within the wood appeared to be a cluster of golden flowers. He moved next to the fretted neck, which he closely appraised. There was a medium sized sliver of something golden there, but he could not identify it more clearly. He turned the lute sideways and whistled his amazement. The head was bent at a precise right angle away from the fingerboard and it was intricately decorated with gold trim.

Quickly he tuned his new instrument and played a silly ditty he knew to be a favorite of Glorfindel’s, though he did not sing the words. He was too choked with emotion to even contemplate speaking.

When the song ended, Glorfindel removed the lute from Erestor’s hands and transferred it to his lap. He then knelt between Erestor’s knees and pointed to the blooms embedded within the lute’s body.

“The flowers were dropped directly from Laurelin. They fell in clusters every autumn, but few were lucky enough to catch them, for if they touched the ground they dissolved into shimmering dew. My ada caught this bunch.”

Glorfindel then pointed to the golden sliver in the fretboard. “And this is an actual piece of Laurelin’s wood. How my ada came upon this he would never say but he passed these both to me for luck. And I now gift them to you, my love, and my life. Hold this lute close to you at all times, and I know you will be safe. For I could not survive if any harm befell you.”

Erestor sat stunned and he shook so violently the lute threatened to fall to the floor. Glorfindel quickly rescued the instrument and placed it on the divan. He gently took hold of Erestor’s hands, kissed them, and spoke further.

“No matter what comes, always remember my love for you is never ending. That I am forever yours.” He smiled softly before he continued, “For a song.”

*end flashback*

A sharp knock pulled him from his musings.

Erestor quickly swiped away the tears and shouted. “Come!”

The door opened and Elrohir stepped in with an apologetic look upon his face and a pitcher of goat’s milk in his hand.

“They would not be denied, Erestor,” he canted his head to the side.

Following him through the door were Melpomaen who carried three drinking glasses and Faelon who carefully balanced a plate stacked high with brightly decorated cookies.

Erestor looked at Elrohir who placed the container on his desk and then shrugged his shoulders. He clearly had no idea why the elflings wanted to come here.

The plate of cookies was deposited on his desk along with the glasses and then each twin came around and stood in front of him.

Melpomaen turned to Elrohir. “You will leave now, Uncle. Thank you.”

Elrohir raised an eyebrow to Erestor then bent in a low bow. “If it pleases my young lord nephews, Chief Counselor.”

Erestor turned from the departing form of Elrohir to confront his two little problems, whom he had not seen much over the last year. They appeared more mature, possibly even more serious. And obviously here on a weighty mission for they were voluntarily missing out on the celebration. He cared for them dearly, but truly at this moment he desired nothing more than to be alone for further contemplation.

“Melpomaen, Faelon, my lords. Unfortunately I do not have the time --.”

Faelon thrust a finger to his own chest and yelled, “I am Lonny!”

His brother followed suit. “And I am Figgy! You never call us by our real names unless you are angry with us!” His mouth drooped down into a frown. “Do you hate us now, Erestor? You never come to see us and you don’t read to us anymore and you don’t say anything to anyone and no one even says ‘Hi!’ to you anymore.”

“Hate you? Never! What would give you that idea?”

Faelon stepped toward him. “You don’t smile anymore either.”

He then lifted a hand and started ticking off names with each finger. “Ada and Nana and Uncle Elrohir and Aunt Arwen are sad every time they look at you. So are Grandada Elrond and Grandnana Celebrían and everyone who looks at you is sad. Even that elf without hair and the funny hand is sad and he looks at you a lot. I am sad right now looking at you and so is Figgy. Why are you so sad all the time?”

Melpomaen moved to his brother’s side and thrust a cookie towards Erestor.

“Your silly is lost, Erestor. And we miss it, everyone misses it, and we think you miss it too? But we can help you get it back because you told us how!”

“My silly…?” Erestor looked at the cookie Melpomaen waived in front of his face and gasped. His throw away comment all those months ago. They had not forgotten.

The sting of further tears blurred his vision as he reached down and gathered the twins into a fierce hug. They squealed with laughter when he lifted them to his lap and with a big push he scooted the chair back to his desk.

“Aye! My valiant Lords Figgy and Lonny have come to my rescue. It IS time for my silly to return. And you did remember even though I had not. Thank you. Thank you for reminding me!”

He squeezed them again and surreptitiously wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his robe before he poured milk into the glasses and served the cookies.

After their bellies were filled, the twins spent hours with him and questioned him about every aspect of his life for this last year. Amazed at their insight, it appeared their young eyes and ears had missed nothing.

They had deduced a solid connection between him and Glorfindel. Though they did not actually understand the relationship, they knew Glorfindel was important and quizzed him incessantly. It took all his skill to deflect them from the ultimate truth and even then he could feel their questioning, suspicious eyes lingering upon him.

The twins clung to Erestor during their interrogation, and if he so much as let his mouth fall into a neutral position one of them would jump to his feet and begin some impromptu frenetic routine or dance. When Lonny attempted to sing ‘Mewlips Bones’ (a tune Erestor had penned thousands of years before), he fell to the floor in such hysterics it took both of them to assist him back into a chair. Erestor had never seen the twins attempt such comedy, so stoic was their usual demeanor. Nor could he recall the last time he had laughed so long or so hard and his stomach ached from it, as well as being overfull with cookies.

Not deterred even by fatigue, the twins had insisted on following him to his quarters and when Lady Aevar arrived and thought to intercede, they fastened onto Erestor and sent her away.

His little protectors now lay together fast asleep on his couch; their heads rested on his lap, as he stroked their soft hair. Their distended, cookie-stuffed bellies jiggled with every snore that ripped through the silence.

Erestor traced the grin still upon his lips, for it would not leave. Such small beings with such an important message, and such a blessing in his life.

It was time to approach Glorfindel, and he had just enough time before the soldiers left to battle at Fornost.