sm_5.htmlTEXTStMl^}:Ļ>¹i&¹˜¹»ƒ Shieldmates--Of Môriúl and Dreams

Year 3436, Year Two of the Siege of Barad-dûr

Isildur quirked one dark brow. "That tale might win you an alehouse woman, but I am a touch more skeptical."

Elrond laughed, even as his heart fluttered in his chest. Touch was the entire point. To have him so near... His body craved living warmth. His spirit ached for a comrade's compassion to wash away the malevolence that had seeped into the very bones of this land. Isildur could give him both--but it must be given. He could not demand, or take.

"For such hurts as these, I would normally need only the light of the Moon and stars, the peace of land that knew the care of my people..."

"Except this is Mordor," Isildur finished for him, "and you have none of these things." Very lightly, he touched the edge of the wound on Elrond's neck.

"I know you have a wife," Elrond said. "I am not asking you to dishonor her--"

"You are my shieldbrother," Isildur said firmly, cutting him off. "I have said I will tend you, and I shall. What do you need from me?"

Duty. Duty was a cold companion, but better than none. "Only lie beside me, for a môriúl." Elrond said hoping Isildur knew the word. Explanations would be awkward right now. "Touch me, if you will, and allow my touch. I know you are sworn to another, and I will not take advantage."

By way of answer, Isildur leaned down, touched Elrond's lips with his own. He had never kissed a bearded man before and found the experience strange, but not unpleasing. He sighed into Isildur's mouth. To have this much...felt like the land, stirring to life under the first spring rain. He wanted more.

He wove his fingers into Isildur's hair. The dark strands felt as thick and smooth as river grass. The texture was wholly different from that of his own kind, but it lured him on, inviting him to stroke his fingers through it. But the Man leaning above him made any movement awkward--any movement save those which brought Isildur into his arms.

The first embrace was a thing of hesitancy, with Isildur fearing to jostle his injuries. It grew warmer, with confidence and growing passion. The pain of his wounds dulled, replaced by the more familiar ache in his groin. If the sight of the Man's bare flesh could kindle the fires of longing, the freedom to touch--and the possibility of being touched in turn--sent it roaring to life.

Isildur broke away, face flushed, eyes blazing. It pleased him and shamed him to see proof of Isildur's arousal. Pleased him, in knowing he could kindle such a fire in the Man. Shamed him, that he sought to draw forth such desire from one he knew belonged to another.

"Do you plan to sleep sitting up?" Isildur stepped back, and held out his hands.

He could...but the blankets offered more comfort to them both. There wasn't quite room enough for two, but Isildur remedied that by shifting onto his side. Elrond's wounded arm protested any unnecessary movement, so he allowed Isildur to see to their comfort. Isildur drew the blankets up around them, his cloak making a very serviceable additional coverlet. For all of its heat during the day, Mordor froze the bones at night.

Elrond lay still, listening to the Man beside him breathe. After a time, he reached out, resting a hand against Isildur's chest. The lacings holding the garment closed had been loosened, and there was just enough room for him to slip his fingers through. He could feel the other's solid warmth, the swift beat of his heart.

Mortals did everything with speed, fierce and turbulent as a summer storm. Did they make love swiftly as well? I should not think on such things. Yet the evening's frank discussion had fanned his hopes alive again. There were ways, practices that could allow them to be together without dishonoring the Lady Tathar. A wasted exercise, unless he knew for certain whether or not Isildur gave him but a shieldbrother's duty. Hope is cruel, he thought.

He slipped into a waking dream clogged with layers of murky shadow. The agony of this tortured land clawed at his dream-self. It was like listening to a comrade's death-cries, yet being unable to give the mercy blow. This desecration was only one of Sauron's many crimes.

As if from a great distance, he could sense the dismal flickers of the cursed Ulari. Neither dead nor alive, in a world inhabited only by themselves and lesser wraiths, enslaved to the Dark Lord. Bound by the One, and the Nine Rings they bore.

With an effort, he turned his thoughts away. He must not think too much of the Dark Lord's spectral servants, lest he draw their notice here--and then their Master's. How could he find rest in this place where even the dead had no peace?

You dare to stand against the Dark Lord of Barad-dûr? came a whisper from the shadows. Do you truly believe such as he can be overthrown by a swarm of Elves and Men who fight each other with as much vigor as they do their enemy?

The sly taunt stung his pride. A Man defied the Great Enemy, of whom Sauron was but a mere servant. As my foremother Luthien the Fair and her beloved Beren fought, so I will fight--so *we* will fight. And the Darkness will have no claim on me!

The shadows slithered and stirred, moving with a sound like great snakes. Then he felt a rush of warmth and contentment, and knew Isildur kept watch over his rest.

"Sleep easy, Elrond," he heard Isildur say. "You need have no fears here."

Sleep, as mortals did... Slowly the dream cleared, moving into a deep twilight shadow. Had Isildur been Elven, he could have followed Elrond into the dream--but then, had he been Elven, he could not have provided Elrond with this sanctuary.

He fits well beside me, was his last clear thought, before truesleep swept him away.

***

He heard the roar of the sea at his back, the wailing cry of sea-birds. Looking up, he saw a pristine blue sky, the dark shapes of the gulls whirling overhead. Anduine, he thought, unsure of how he knew this from just a patch of open sky.

Before him, he could see wide expanses of green, small hills rolling up to meet the mountains. It does resemble Imladris, he thought. But Imladris never sang with the full-throated roar of the sea...

As soon as the realization came, the image faded. For a time, he drifted in a peaceful mortal twilight, buffered from the ravaged land by the layers of Isildur's dreams.

Another image began to take shape around him. A mountain loomed up, skirted with green. He could make out the pale ribbon that was the climbing road, winding up to the summit. Elrond felt his heart twist.

Meneltarma...the Holy Mountain.

He had climbed that road exactly once in his life, on his return from the City of Kings. The Sanctuary of Manwe had stood atop that mountain, a place of deep silence and profound peace. It had been an ideal place to take a grief that ran deeper than words.

In the south-east lay the Valley of Tombs, where his brother had been laid to rest on a bed of gold. Elros' son had followed after him, then his grandson, all through the line, until the Ursurper had wrest the scepter from Miriel. Lost, now. All of this is gone. Númenor the beloved is no more.

The grief that swept through him was not his own. He hoped the lost slept peacefully in Uinen's keeping. A sharp stab of envy, for the peace of the dead, cradled in their beloved land...

A swift wind sprang up, heavy with salt. It scattered the images, leaving him again in a peaceful quiet. Elrond clung to that quiet, and let it carry him through the night.

***

He came out of sleep as if rising from deep water. Isildur's arm was a warm, heavy weight across his abdomen. He caught the hint of movement, minute sounds that only another Elf could make. A muted jingle supplied a clue to identity. He opened his eyes in time to see the tent flap fall soundlessly back into place as his squire departed. He could trust Erestor's discretion, but knew the younger Elf would have questions for him later. Cautiously, Elrond flexed his free arm, finding the injury healed enough for careful use. He tried to move without waking the Man, but Isildur started awake despite his efforts.

The Man stared at him in confusion, memory not quite keeping pace with his waking mind.

"It is past dawn," Elrond said, unnecessarily.

Isildur blinked and looked around, trying to place himself. The Man propped himself up on his elbow and passed a hand over his face. Does he regret this? he wondered.

"How is your arm?" Isildur asked, looking up at him.

"Well enough," Elrond answered. Reaching up, he unwound the bandage around his throat. "These, as well."

Isildur cast a dubious eye on the claw marks, then made a non-committal noise. "They are sealed at least."

Isildur rolled to his feet and stretched, easing muscles that had stiffened from lying so long on the ground. Elrond allowed himself an appreciative stare. Isildur straightened his clothes, doing up the laces that had come loose. Elrond looked away, and busied himself with straightening the blankets. Not that he needed to worry about inspection, but neatness was part of his nature. He picked up Isildur's cloak, and turned to hand it back to the Man.

Isildur looked worn, bruise-like smudges under his eyes. He cupped his hand against the side of Isildur's face, urging the Man to look at him. For the first time, he saw the other's weariness, the sad eyes that would not quite meet his.

"What disturbs you?" he asked.

"I dreamt of Númenor," Isildur said.

I know, he almost said, but restrained the words at the last moment. Isildur might not welcome the news that Elrond had walked so freely in his dreams.

"Elenna is lost," Elrond said, trying to give back some of the hope and comfort he'd been given, "but her sons and daughters still hold her pride and strength. The Enemy feared you before--and you continue to justify that fear."

Isildur's lips twisted in a slight, pained smile. "The Enemy tried to destroy us--and came near to succeeding."

"But he did not," Elrond said. "And now we are here. Twice, the Men of Númenor have put Sauron to flight. Now, he has nowhere left to run."

"And we have nothing left to lose," Isildur said, his eyes focused on some inner landscape.

"Shieldbrother," he began, then hesitated. May I come to you again? he wanted to ask. Things expressed in the safe shadows of a môriúl had no place in the bright light of day. The longings must be locked away again. He could not expect such generosity twice.

Isildur came back to the present with a small start. Resolve dawned in Isildur's eyes, his only warning before the Man drew him in for a rough kiss. Duty alone could not so heat his touch, Elrond thought, dizzied.

"Elendur will be searching for me," Isildur said when they broke apart, his voice a touch uneven. He made no move to draw away.

"And I..." He was reluctant to end this moment of sweetness. The war lay just a step beyond these woven walls, yet here, for a moment, he could forget. More, he could dare to hope.

"I have my duty," Elrond said at last.

"And it will come calling for you, sooner than late," Isildur said, giving a wry smile.

They stepped out into the noise and bustle of the camp. Isildur touched his arm in brief farewell, then started out in search of his son or his father. No words were spoken between them--but none were needed. If Isildur noticed the speculative glances aimed his way, he gave no sign.


môriúl: 'Night Embers. Poetic term for non-penetrative sex between unpledged lovers.

Ulari: Ringwraiths. 'Nazgul' is Black Speech.

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