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marshmellin · 21 days ago

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Star and Stone Ch. 7 | Where the Shadows Are 🔥

Silence did not seem to be what he sought. His voice was low. Eager. Hungry. “Would you—”

“If you start talking to me instead of touching me, I will muster whatever strength the Valar have left me with and scream.”

He blinked in momentary surprise, the second-guesses seeming to die on his tongue. But his eyes narrowed as he hiked one of her legs to his side, her skirt falling into a pool against her waist.

Rating: Explicit for smut between consenting partners (chapters tagged with 🔥). All other chapters PG-13/Teen for language and canon-typical violence

F FOR FIX IT: Gil-galad lives. Fluff and happy ending. Sort of a slow burn, but we'll get there. Gil-galad deserves a little smooch. He's going to get a lot more than a lil smooch. Repeat: Happily Ever After; everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. No beta, we die like Mirdania.

Ch. 1 of 12: Between the Mountains and the Sea

Ch. 2: Mirrored

Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

Ch. 6: Preparations

Ch. 7: Where the Shadows Are 🔥

Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

-> NEW >> Ch. 9: Wherever the Need is Greatest

Easiest to read and follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60597052

🔥 Here for the smut? Check out the Director's Cut with links to two one-shot Gil-ga-daddy fics 🔥

🔥Explicit content under the cut. S for Smut. We made it, crew!🔥

The glow of the hearth was subdued, the flicker of firelight barely reaching the tall shelves and scrolls that lined the walls of Gil-galad’s study. Elaniel stepped inside, her footsteps muffled by the thick rug beneath her boots. Gil-galad looked up from his desk, his expression softening as his gaze met hers.

“Elaniel, you did not need to visit so late,” he said, rising. His voice carried a weariness that he could not hide. He was still in his formal robes, draped in layers of gold brocade, crown still pinned into place but slightly askew.

Eyes flicking over him quickly, she noticed several things at once:

He’s still wearing full robes, so he has been in council with ambassadors all day. And likely has not ceased working since morning. That is a tall stack of paperwork. If war is so messy, why is there so much documentation? I doubt he’s had water, much less eaten. He’s broken, mmm, looks like two quills. How long has that crown been digging into his head? It is smaller than what he used to wear, yes, but it still must hurt.

Valar, he is tired.

Elaniel voiced none of these thoughts and instead simply said, “You sent a note for me. I assumed it was important.” Moving toward him, she unpinned her cloak and placed it over the chair that had become hers in front of the fireplace.

“It is important,” he admitted. “But it is not urgent. I didn’t mean to take your time tonight. I’ve heard you’ve been on worksite inspections all day.” He was clasping his hands in front of him, the fingers of one hand flexing tightly around his other hand. A tell of his, she had learned. Something he only did when he was anxious or uncertain.

“And you’ve been here,” she countered gently. “Shall we both agree to share the blame for overworking?”

Gil-galad crossed the room to join her, wrapping his arms gently around her in welcome. She popped up on her toes to kiss him hello, before walking toward the sideboard to pour two glasses of water.

Handing one to Gil-galad to drink, she surveyed the room.

“How has your week been,” she asked cautiously, taking in the scattered scrolls and books on every surface and chair.

Her drafting table seemed to be the only surface he had left untouched, which warmed her heart but did nothing to stop the alarm bells ringing in her mind. Typically, the clutter in their shared space was not his but hers; he was not a messy person by nature.

The study looked like a windstorm had passed through.

An almost embarrassed chuckle escaped him as he allowed his shoulders to slump. “It has been…difficult.”

“Ah, is your crown part of the important-but-not-urgent conversation you’d like to have?” she asked innocently, reaching out to brush a strand of hair over his ear. “Or can we proceed this evening without it? I find you are tall enough without the enchantment...”

Gil-galad’s brow furrowed and he looked up as though he could see the crown through his forehead. “I didn’t realize I was still wearing it,” he murmured.

“Mmm,” she hummed in reply, moving his shoulders to spin him around. He obeyed and tilted his head back so she could remove the crown and the two golden pins that held it in place. Setting it carefully on the desk, she reached up again to rake her fingers through his hair, nails gently scraping his scalp as she worked through a few small tangles. He sighed in gratitude before turning to face her again.

“Thank you,” he said with a smile — a spark of light through the weariness he showed.

“Of course,” she smiled in return. “I doubt it’s the most comfortable thing to wear.” He shook his head gently, looking over his shoulder toward the desk where the crown now sat. And his paperwork. He started to open his mouth, but she had learned his timing by now.

“The robe and cloak combination has to be heavy, too, certainly,” she prompted, tapping her nails against the intricate chest piece he wore. “How does this work? I can secure anything you’d like to stone or iron but this is witchcraft to me.”

Gil-galad’s focus shifted back and he paused from the change in topic. “Oh,” he murmured, lifting up a heavy clasp over his shoulder to show her. “It fastens here—“

“Ah!” She said in delight as she mimicked the motion over his other shoulder. The neck piece and cape fell to the floor in a heap behind him. The thud they made indicated the weight was not insignificant.

A small laugh as Gil-galad looked down at the velvet puddled at his feet. “It is more comfortable without it.”

Murmuring in agreement, Elaniel moved closer. “What about this?” she asked innocently, fingers skimming the edge of an elaborate wrapped belt around his waist. “I am uncomfortable just looking at it. This is why your posture is so straight, you could not bend if you wished.”

Can he even take this off without help?

Gil-galad raised an eyebrow as his hands settled around her hips, but he did nothing to stop her. She dug at the wrap around his waist. His face showed nothing of his thoughts, but something familiar glinted in his warm brown eyes. “One might think you are attempting to undress me, Elaniel.”

“One might be right,” she replied with a laugh and another playful tug at the intricately wrapped belt, pulling him so close their bodies aligned. “But not for the reason you hope. This is a ridiculous amount of clothing to drag around at moonrise. Ready yourself for sleep. Go,” Elaniel pushed again at his chest, moving him toward the door to his chambers.

He sighed and stood still, rendering her efforts to push him useless.

It’s like shoving a wall. I am not weak. Why is he so solid?

She didn’t stop trying, though, kneading her hands against him and muttering “go, go,” over and over. Rich laughter echoed through the room, and Gil-galad’s face finally blossomed with the joy she had worked so hard for.

“I have many more responsibilities to see to tonight before I prepare for sleep. Sit with me for a moment, instead?” he offered as a compromise. Gil-galad moved toward a low couch across from the hearth, gesturing for her to join him.

She pretended to consider, waving her hand at him. “Belt…wrap…painful thing off.”

A heavy sigh. “Belt off,” he agreed, deftly — and she could not for the life of her see how he did it so quickly — unwrapping the intricate belt to let it fall to the floor. He now remained in a much lighter outfit; a simple embroidered robe. He gave a muted sigh of relief and she wondered if he realized how much his crown and robes weighed him down.

They sat in silence, his arm wrapped around her shoulders as the crackle of the fire filled the room.

“I’ve thought about your recommendations for the latest worksite placement,” Gil-galad murmured after a long pause, his voice still laced with exhaustion.

Elaniel reached out, her hand resting on his leg. “There is nothing you could suggest tonight that I can change by morning. The work will wait.” She gave his knee a reassuring squeeze. “Also, I do not allow meddlers to comment on my worksites.”

He leaned back against the cushions, fatigue etched into his features despite the smile on his face. “I am a meddler, now? Quite the downgrade.”

“Either take up your apprentice seat on the stonemasons council or stay off my worksites. If you can’t shape stone, wood or iron, you’re a meddler,” she ended, her tone light.

Shifting slowly, he laid his head in her lap with a sigh, his long legs dangling off the other end of the sofa in an undignified — but endearing — way. Eyes slipping closed, he breathed out a laugh. “I could fare decently as a mason, given the education you’ve provided. Then again, I have heard the pay is terrible.”

Playing with the collar of his robe, she let her fingers graze his jaw. “Ah, but fear not! For I would not hire you. You don’t really have a craftsman’s build…”

Gil-galad opened one eye to peer up from her lap, a frown on his face.

Her voice turned to honey, a tone she only used for him. “You have the build of a warrior-king, morconinya. Much different, of course,” she smiled. “Masonry would be a complete waste of your strength. And your wardrobe.”

He gave an exaggerated nod, satisfied with her answer.

Elaniel threaded her fingers through his hair. The silky strands caught the firelight. “You should rest,” she said eventually, her voice barely a whisper.

“I am resting,” he murmured, his eyes still closed. He rolled his shoulders, settling against her. “You are far more comfortable than my chair.”

She laid a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through her fingers, watching the rise and fall of his breathing. Slowly, she stopped running her fingers through his hair, instead contenting herself with smoothing a few dark strands across her lap, mindful not to jostle him. He shifted slightly, his head falling towards her as sleep claimed him.

As she sat there, watching over him, she knew this was what she wanted for the rest of her long life — this quiet companionship, this space to be vulnerable. To lay down their burdens. The world outside might become darker, but here, in this room, none of it mattered. She would do everything she could to protect this future, for both of them.

She would sit up all night, watching over him, if it meant he could rest for one moment longer.

The council chamber hummed with anticipation as Elaniel took her seat at the large stone table, its surface strewn with maps and sketches. The air carried the familiar tang of ink and parchment, mingling with the crispness of Lindon’s sea breeze filtering through high windows. At the head of the table sat Gil-galad, his gaze steady.

Elrond sat to his right, his composed demeanor tinged with curiosity. Halion and Arminas were already discussing…well, who knows what, but there was a lot of gesturing involved. Ristarion leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed, radiating barely concealed disapproval.

Gil-galad’s voice broke the murmur of conversation. “We are here to determine the leadership and allocation of resources for the White Towers at Emyn Beraid and Amon Sûl’s fortifications. Both locations, each housing a palantír, will serve as guardians of communication across Middle-earth and a symbol of unity between Elves and Men.”

Elaniel studied the intricate map before her, noting the placement of the towers along the Gulf of Lhûn. Her focus sharpened as she imagined the soaring spires overlooking the sea. Beautiful. Majestic.

Elrond nodded thoughtfully. “Amon Sûl is strategically vital. But its current structure is vulnerable. It was built centuries ago for signaling, not to withstand a siege.”

“Elendil suggests repurposing it entirely,” Gil-galad continued. “Reinforced walls, stone foundations, a keep at its heart. He even proposes diverting masons from Annúminas.”

Elaniel tilted her head, her expression contemplative. “The stones of Amon Sûl are sturdy but uneven. If we begin reinforcing without understanding their weaknesses, the weight of additional structures could cause fractures.”

Gil-galad glanced at her, his curiosity piqued. “You’ve studied its foundation?”

She nodded. “When I first arrived in Lindon to determine fortification sites. Amon Sûl’s base is old—crafted by those who prioritized speed over longevity. It has weathered.”

“We just carved Imladris from bare rock,” Halion added thoughtfully. “We can build Amon Sûl. Clear lines of sight, an opportunity to show strength. The fortifications are the kind of work my team is best equipped for. Master Elaniel, do you object?”

Elaniel nodded in agreement. “I agree. My team is more accustomed to watchtower construction than open fortification. With your leave, Master Halion, my teams will develop plans for the White Towers.”

“Aye,” Halion nodded and they both turned to Gil-galad, who inclined his head in approval. Halion continued, “we could map for structural weaknesses and propose solutions for Amon Sûl within the week. It would delay our start, but we will save resources.”

Gil-galad’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Elendil will not like delays, but he is pragmatic. We will begin immediately.”

As the meeting wore on, Elrond brought up logistical concerns. “If we divert masons from Annúminas, what is to become of their fortification projects?”

Gil-galad nodded, his fingers tracing the map. “We cannot strip one city to bolster another. I will write to Elendil to suggest using local labor where possible. Arnor has skilled workers, even if they lack the training of our craftsmen.”

Elaniel leaned forward. “With respect, local workers could learn from Lindon’s masons. It could strengthen ties between Arnor and Lindon.”

Elrond glanced at her and nodded quickly. “An exchange of skills and culture is also a gesture of trust.”

Gil-galad considered this, his expression thoughtful. “Elendil often speaks of fostering bonds between his people and ours, to correct the rift between us. Master Halion, your thoughts?”

Halion held back a sigh – he does not like visitors on his worksites, either – but nodded. “It would be valuable to train them, for us both.”

Ristarion leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “A moment, please,“ he called out, his tone sharp.

The room fell silent, save for the faint creak of Halion shifting his stance. Elaniel fought the urge to roll her eyes.

Yes, heconna? We are all eager to hear your uninformed opinion on the matter.

Ristarion leaned forward, his voice gaining a pointed edge. “So I am sure I understand: we are discussing how to best divide our precious resources to create two new fortifications — Emyn Beriad and Amon Sûl — to help this…Man and his sons house their palantirí?”

Has he been asleep or….

“Yes,” Gil-galad replied evenly.

“And these seven palantirí, powerful artifacts vital to communication during this time of war, are all to remain entrusted to Men?”

Gil-galad stared at Ristarion. “The seeing-stones belong to these Men. They are not ours to distribute.”

“The seeing-stones were made by the Eldar. These Men use our wisdom to protect their people when no Sindar are afforded such trust. Or power.” His eyes flicked to Elaniel. “Well. Most Sindar are not given such power. Some have sway.”

She could hear the voices of all her foremothers, back to Enelyë herself, telling her to punch the man in the face.

Elves may be immortal, but their noses broke just as easily as Men’s.

Gil-galad pulled Ristarion’s focus back. “If you have a concern to share, I would ask that you speak plainly, Lord Ristarion.”

Ristarion spread his hands in mock surrender. “I only raise concerns that others share but lack the courage to voice. Surely, transparency is what we all value, High King?”

“We do,” Gil-galad said gently. Dangerously so. “Please, share what you have heard. I would have no secrets between any of us tasked with the safety of our people.”

“I dare not, High King,” Ristation continued in an innocent tone, as though being asked to break an Oath. “Many speak to me, and I am known for highlighting their concerns with discretion. I bring these concerns to this council – to you, High King – as I have done in the past, because there are those around this table with the same questions who fear to name them.”

“And those questions are?” Gil-galad prompted again, like an elder speaking to a particularly unruly child.

“We seem to be giving much to Men — our craftsmanship, our resources, our wisdom, our power — to help them flourish. What do they offer in return?”

Elrond tried to interject. Elaniel almost smiled at the effort. The younger elf had truly tried.

Valar, bless him.

“Bodies,” Gil-galad replied loudly, throwing down the scroll in his hands, all restraint gone, his volume rising with each sentence. “They offer us bodies, Ristarion. If every elf in every realm in Middle Earth picked up a sword tomorrow, we would yet fall far short of the numbers needed to defeat Sauron. The Men offer us soldiers to wield swords against orcs. They offer to risk their brief lives to stand with us, despite not knowing their fates after death. For that offered sacrifice alone, I will build as many towers and fortifications as they ask of me.”

Gil-galad’s sharp gaze flicked over the council and he took a steadying breath. Elaniel could see a muscle working in his jaw, open anger on his face. The most expressive she had ever seen him in public. And he was known for being very expressive in public.

At least, when it comes to frustration.

“My decision is final and I will not repeat it. Council dismissed. Ristarion, you will stay to discuss this matter with me.”

Noldor anger, indeed. Are you sure you’re a descendent of Finarfin and not Fëanor, morconinya?

Elaniel stood, gathering her papers. As she moved toward the door, Ristarion stepped into her path, his smirk firmly in place. She met his gaze evenly and spoke quietly, for his ears alone, in accented Sindarin.

I bear ill news, ‘friend.’ He will win.

Ristarion’s expression darkened, but she didn’t wait for a response. The hallway beyond the chamber was filled with light, and as she walked into it, she felt her resolve burn brighter.

And then she felt Elrond yank her by the arm through the doorway to Gil-galad’s study.

Elrond shut the study door behind them with deliberate care, turning to face Elaniel with a measured expression.

Elaniel stood near the desk, her hand idly brushing against the edge as she gathered her thoughts. “He’s trying to make me a weapon against him,” she began, her voice low but firm. “Ristarion wants to use me to weaken Gil-galad's authority. To sow doubt—not just about me, but about his leadership.”

Elrond crossed the room, leaning casually against a shelf but watching her intently. “You are correct. Ristarion is not merely targeting you; he has now moved to dividing fragile relationships between the Sindarin and Noldor realms. if he can frame his arguments in a way that appears to question your suitability, particularly as a Sindarin woman, he believes it will resonate with those who are uncertain. And by provoking him…”

Elaniel exhaled sharply, her fingers curling against the polished wood. “And by provoking him, I risk proving him right.”

Which is why he wrangled me in here.

She turned back to Elrond, a flicker of resolve returning to her eyes. “But we must find ways to shield Gil-galad from Ristarion’s attacks, certainly? He cannot spend all his energy countering political intrigue when there are greater battles to fight.”

Elrond’s expression grew thoughtful, his fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the shelf. “Perhaps we can divert Ristarion’s attention. Give him something else to focus on, something that feels like a victory to him but ultimately serves our purposes.”

Before Elaniel could respond, the door to the study opened, and Gil-galad entered. He carried a scroll in one hand, which he smacked down on the table with a decisive gesture.

“Well,” he said, his tone dry, “Predictably, that conversation was unnecessarily difficult and accomplished nothing.”

Elaniel rose from her chair, her eyes narrowing slightly. “What did he say?”

“He insists that Oropher and Amdir demand a palantír each to formally join the alliance and promise their warriors,” Gil-galad said, dropping into a chair with a sigh. “He paints it as a non-negotiable point.”

“A palantír!” Elaniel and Elrond exclaimed in near-unison, both shocked at the request.

Gil-galad nodded in quiet agreement, holding up his fingers. “Two.”

“It is odd that such a significant demand would come solely through Ristarion.” Elrond leaned forward, his tone thoughtful but unconvinced. “If the demand is genuine — and the probability is high it is not — Ristarion’s interference might be undermining direct communication.”

“I am surprised to hear Sindar lords are interested in any object made by Fëanor, to be blunt.” Elaniel folded her arms, staring into the flames. “Seven stones,” she murmured. “And none for any elven realms? It’s not difficult to see why that would breed resentment.”

Gil-galad turned thoughtful. “On its face, I agree. But we do not own the stones to sway how they are used. While Elendil’s stewardship of seven is…surprising, to share them with any other realms would be his choice alone. I suspect he will not agree lightly.”

“And seeing-stones can be dangerous,” Elrond admitted, his tone grave. “They reveal truths and can be used for communication, yes. But they also show half-truths, shadows. A mind untrained can be misled—or worse, fully manipulated by a powerful mind using a paired stone. It is not something every lord with a realm should have access to.”

Elaniel’s thoughts churned. “And yet you trust Elendil with this power?”

“Implicitly,” Gil-galad said without hesitation. “Elendil is wise and unambitious. He seeks no dominion, only unity and safety for his people.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the crackle of the fire the only sound. Elaniel spoke carefully, her gaze steady on Gil-galad. “What if you were to meet Oropher head on? Travel to Greenwood and speak with him face-to-face.”

Elrond shifted in his seat, his brow furrowing. “Direct confrontation might backfire. Oropher is known for his pride. An uninvited visit could be seen as an affront, as though we doubt their intentions and wish to watch them.”

Elaniel felt a surge of conviction. “The stakes are too high for miscommunication or formal dinners or emissaries. If Oropher and Amdír truly demand palantirí to join the alliance, you deserve to hear it from them directly, king to king. And if they do not, they should be told their names were used to demand them, king to king.”

Elrond looked between them, giving a small shrug. “It is a calculated risk. If nothing else, it would demonstrate your commitment to hearing their concerns.”

Gil-galad met her gaze, a flicker of approval in his eyes. “Indeed. I will make plans to go to Greenwood and speak with Oropher directly.”

Elaniel shielded her eyes from the setting sun as she gazed up at the towering structure. The stones gleamed, freshly cut and fit together with the precision her teams had worked hard to master.

“They are well on their way,” Alenya said, her voice laced with admiration. She stood beside Elaniel, her posture relaxed but her sharp gaze flicking to every corner of the tower and its surroundings. “The walls look strong enough to withstand a ravisher. Though I wouldn’t bet on those gates around the village yet.”

Elaniel followed her gaze and frowned. The wooden gates hung slightly off-center, the metal hinges not yet properly secured. “We’ll need to reinforce those hinges,” she murmured. “I can speak with the blacksmith before we head back to Lindon.”

Alenya smirked, leaning on her spear. “You’ll have to hurry. I hear the blacksmith is the kind to vanish into the pub after midday and refuse to come out.”

Elaniel laughed. “Understood.” She turned back to the village, watching as children darted between cottages and smoke curled lazily from chimneys. The scene was peaceful.

As new construction sites were built — far away from the walls of Lindon and Imladris — it made sense to plan villages nearby for the workers and their families. These villages often merged with the fortifications once they were finalized, becoming centers of trade on oft-traveled routes with stationed soldiers for protection.

“I think it’s beautiful here,” Elaniel said with a sigh. The sight made her miss worksites from long ago, friends made during a few weeks of hard work building something sturdy. “Almost enough to tempt a woman to give up soldiering, eh?”

Before Alenya could reply, a faint sound reached their ears—a distant rumble. Both women turned toward the forest.

“Did you hear that?” Elaniel asked, her voice tight.

Alenya’s expression darkened. “Yes. And I don’t think it’s thunder.”

The rumble grew louder, accompanied by the faint sound of guttural cries. The villagers began to notice, their movements slowing as they turned toward the treeline.

“Elaniel, get back to the village,” Alenya ordered, her spear already in hand.

Elaniel’s heart leaped into her throat. She grabbed the hilt of her sword, her grip tightening as the first orc ran out of the tree line, weapon raised. By her count, eight - maybe ten - orcs. A raiding band.

“I will not leave you,” Elaniel said firmly, unsheathing the short sword she carried.

“I did not. ask.” Alenya’s tone was sharp, but there was no time for argument. “Get the villagers inside!”

Elaniel turned to the nearest group of villagers, herding them toward the gates. “To the walls! Go, now!” she called, her voice cutting through the rising panic. They obeyed, scrambling toward the gates as Alenya held her ground.

A few scattered orcs came closer toward them, their cries echoing through the air.

Elaniel’s sword clashed against the first orc’s blade, the force of the blow reverberating up her arm. She grit her teeth and pushed back, trying desperately to remember the techniques she had practiced but never had to use in earnest. The creature’s twisted sword sliced her left bicep and she winced in pain. Blood flooded through her sleeve, drenching her in a warmth that cooled quickly in the twilight air. She could taste a metallic tang in her mouth as she managed to bring her sword around to strike the orc, sending him stumbling back.

Alenya fought beside her, her movements swift and precise. Her spear darted like a snake, finding gaps in the orcs’ armor. “Keep moving back!” she shouted.

Elaniel barely had time to process the chaos around her — the blood dripping down her fingers to leave splatters on the stone, the screaming as people headed for the gates, the grunts as orcs began slaughtering livestock — when a scream pierced the air. She turned to see a child hiding underneath a heavy cart near one of the cottages.

Her heart clenched. Without thinking, she broke away.

The cart was heavy, its edges splintered, and it was clear it had rested with its load for many weeks through rain. The child, still a youngling, was sobbing, his hands clutching at the dirt. He was begging for his ada.

“It’s okay,” Elaniel said, kneeling beside him. “I’ll get you out.”

She tried reaching for him first, encouraging him to come toward her, but the fear in his eyes told her she would lose that fight. She wedged her shoulder beneath the edge of the cart, straining against its weight. Pain shot through her as she pushed, but the cart barely budged.

“Elaniel, go!” Alenya shouted, her tone desperate.

“I can’t leave him!” Elaniel yelled back, her voice breaking.

The cart shifted slightly, but not enough. The child’s cries grew louder as the clash of metal drew nearer. A shadow loomed over her, and Elaniel looked up to see an orc raising its blade. Her heart stopped, eyes flicking to the hilt of the sword she dropped.

She would never reach it in time.

The orc’s blade never fell.

Alenya’s spear struck true, and the creature collapsed with a guttural cry, falling forward next to her. Alenya stumbled near, her breathing ragged as she grabbed the haft of her spear to pull it from the orc’s back. “Get the boy,” she said, her voice tight with pain. Blood dripped from a slash on her cheek, and her left arm hung at an odd angle. “Go,” she said, her voice softer now. “Please. I’ll hold them off.”

It felt like time slowed. For an eternity, all Elaniel could see was the determination on every line of Alenya’s face.

They did not speak, but both understood.

Elaniel braced herself against the cart again, making it move back just enough for her to reach the terrified child. She cradled him against her chest, her arm screaming in protest. “It’s okay,” she whispered as she ran toward the village gates, willing herself not to look back. The gates were closing, but she slipped inside just in time.

She turned to see Alenya retreating, her movements slower now but still determined. Two large orcs pressed closer, but her spear had a long reach. A volley of arrows from the village guards rained down, driving them back and felling at least one. Alenya stumbled through the gates, and they slammed shut behind her.

Elaniel ran to her in time to see Alenya give her a weak smile. “Told you,” she said, breathing raggedly. “Told you I’d hold them off.”

“I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t,” Alenya interrupted, her voice hardened. “You did what you had to do. So did I. That is the way of things for us, ohtarwen.” She reached out, grabbing Elaniel’s uninjured forearm in a tight grip – a warrior’s grip.

Elaniel nodded, tears pricking at her eyes, her throat growing tight.

And tighter.

And as she fell to the dirt, all she could think was:

Am I fainting?

Fuck.

Gil-galad paused in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the light from the hall. “You’re supposed to be resting,” he said, his voice low but warm as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The room was dimly lit, a small lantern on the table next to her.

“I am resting,” Elaniel replied softly. “Mostly. Why are you here?”

His gaze softened as he crossed the room, pulling a stool close to the bed. “Because you are next door to my rooms and I heard you stir. The healers brought you to the palace from the village,” he said, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “You were unconscious.”

“Ah, so my wound is that dire, hm? Not the most unfortunate place to die, really,” she laughed, glancing exaggeratedly around the room.

He did not laugh in return. If anything, his frown deepened.

Not in the mood for humor, it would seem.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “A scratch, truly.” Elaniel lifted her arm to show him the bandage, her wound already nearly healed. Elves were hardy beings.

Gil-galad arched a brow, his face leaving no room for argument. “I spoke with the healers. The term they prefer to use is gash. Acquired at the same time as your dislocated shoulder. They said you were quite fortunate the blade did not strike an artery. Particularly because the blade was poisoned.”

“Yet now I am —“

“Again, to your great fortune, a healer nearby was aware of the signs and provided you and Alenya care until you could be brought here.” His voice rose, frustration blossoming across his face. He seemed to have barely – barely – restrained himself from raising his finger or his voice at her. She saw his hands twitch and he clasped them in his lap, one clenching the other.

Ah.

He is afraid.

“I am tempted to shutter the entire project and bring the workers and their families back to Lindon immediately. Clearly there are too many hazards in the area and no gift for Men is worth the risk to my people.” The anger drained from his voice quickly, leaving weariness in its place. “Or you.”

She wanted to tease him, to tell him that his phrasing made it sound as though she was not one of his people. Or to take the tone of a master stonemason and explain why one orc encounter is not nearly enough of a threat to pause a project of this import. Or to offer some of the many ways the worksites could be made safer.

But he was not speaking to her as a king.

So instead, she sighed, her smile fading. “I am safe now. I did not mean to worry you.”

“I know you did not,” he replied. He took her hand in his, careful not to disturb her arm. “Unfortunately, your intent does not make much difference. I will worry regardless.”

For a long time, they sat in silence. She could feel the anger fade from him. The concern was there, still; she could feel it in his hands after he unclenched his own to hold hers. But the intensity of his feelings shifted from bright flames to warm embers. He calmed as he brushed his thumb over her knuckles.

Elaniel found herself leaning up to meet him, their faces close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin. She raised her hand to his cheek, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“I am likely to do it again,” she warned, mischief in her eyes.

A flicker of frustration crossed his face, but he softened almost immediately, his hand coming up to cover hers, pressing it gently to his cheek. “I am high king, despite how infrequently you remember,” he murmured. A hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “I could command it.”

She smiled in return. “I’m likely to ignore your command, as well.” A pause before her voice turned teasing. “And on either account, you are the high king of the Noldor, where as I, a Sindar woman, may not recognize your claim–”

He laughed loudly, his mood lifted. “We will argue later, and I will win. Until then – ”

A knock at the door interrupted them, and a healer stepped in to check Elaniel’s bandages. Gil-galad stood and moved aside respectfully, his hands clasped as he watched the healer work.

After a few moments, a few “yes or no” inquiries, the header stepped back. She seemed satisfied. “Your wounds are well on their way to healing. I foresee no problems, and I intend to release you tomorrow morning. However,” she added, giving Gil-galad a pointed look, “you need to keep your weight off your arm and rest.”

Elaniel murmured her thanks as the healer left, stifling a laugh. Once they were alone again, Gil-galad closed the door and flipped the lock — she noticed that specifically and raised an eyebrow. He crossed the room and sat back down, regarding Elaniel with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“You heard the healer,” he said. “One more night of rest.”

“I am not tired and I feel well enough,” she protested, worried the weariness in her voice would betray her.

Stay.

Gil-galad smiled and shook his head. Without a word, he kicked off his boots and removed his cloak. He slid onto the bed beside her, careful not to jostle her.

He settled against the pillows and gently pulled her toward his chest. Elaniel relaxed against him, her head resting just beneath his chin. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat calmed her.

“This is hardly appropriate behavior,” she murmured as she shimmied into place against him, sighing contentedly. “Improper. Unethical. Disgraceful. Rumors everywhere in your court.”

“I will risk the scandal,” he said lightly, his hand tracing soothing circles on her back. “I may as well live the life I’m accused of having. Sleep, Elaniel.”

“I’m not sure I can go back to sleep, now that you are here…” she trailed off, biting her lip in what she hoped was a subtle play at being coy.

Stay.

Stay stay stay with me.

Gil-galad tilted his head down to look at her. She saw amusement play across his features. Mild annoyance that she was not going to simply listen to him and fall asleep as she should. And something else.

She saw the moment she won.

“I wonder…” Slowly, he leaned forward and pulled her into a deep kiss. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic as warmth spread low in her belly. A broad hand settled on the curve of her waist; his thumb lazily moved in circles over her hip.

“Would you like help falling asleep?” he asked softly, something low and smoky in his voice. Heat lanced through her. She could smell the salt air on his skin. She wanted to taste him, to lick where his neck met his shoulder and work her way to his ear and back down his chest…

“Ereinion...” Her voice was pleading, but far off, as though she didn’t know what she was asking for.

A lie. We both know exactly what I want.

Gil-galad kissed her again, his fingers skimming down the side of her body, drawing small sounds of pleasure from the back of her throat as she began to thrum for him. She had learned she was, well, noisy when they kissed, to her false shame and to his thorough delight.

Moaning softly, she stretched into the growing warmth she felt between her legs, her hips rolling of their own accord as she flattened her body against his. She resisted the urge to hook her leg over his waist and pull him closer. But only just.

“Ereinion,” she murmured more insistently, moving against him more purposefully now.

Slowly, Gil-galad walked his fingers against her thigh, inch by inch, pulling the hem of her dress toward her waist, fingertips brushing softly against her skin. His hand came to rest on her waist once again, her skirt hiked up, legs mostly exposed. His head tilted, eyes firmly fixed on hers as he waited patiently.

For her approval, for her blessing, for her command…

The heat in her core grew. She stretched into him again, rolling against the hardness she could feel growing against her thigh. A silent invitation.

Silence did not seem to be what he sought.

His voice was low. Eager. Hungry. “Would you—”

“If you start talking to me instead of touching me, I will muster whatever strength the Valar have left me with and scream.”

He blinked in momentary surprise, the second-guesses seeming to die on his tongue. But his eyes narrowed as he hiked one of her legs to his side, her skirt falling into a pool against her waist. She gasped at the sudden movement, at the vulnerability of being so exposed against him. At the friction against her core.

“But what if my goal is to make you scream? Surely you would not let me win so easily.” Her cheeks flushed red and he laughed, soft and low.

“Efficient,” he murmured at her lack of underwear, fingers trailing down the crease of her thigh. She broke out in goosebumps at the sensation, looking at him through half-lidded eyes. Lust thrummed through her.

Effortlessly, he rolled, placing her gently on her back under him, planting a well-muscled thigh between her legs. He hovered over her on his forearms, and she craned up to kiss him again. Long brown hair fell in curtains around their faces, blocking out the rest of the world.

Elaniel bucked, his thigh providing the pressure she desperately sought. She wasn’t fully in control of the motion and that fact clearly thrilled him. She started panting softly as her body found a rhythm against him. Her hands snaked down his stomach to palm the length of him as he rutted against her hand, kissing her frantically. She sat up, ignoring the twinge in her shoulder to wrap her arms around his neck, but he groaned and pulled back.

Her eyes fluttered open, confusion on her brow, as she dropped her hands.

“You are supposed to be resting your arm, not leaning on it. And…” A faint blush rose to his cheeks, his voice so low she could barely hear him despite the keenness of elven ears. “I wish to learn which sensations you find pleasurable.”

Her eyes glinted. “If helpful, I know which sensations I will enjoy.”

All of them. Any of them. Pick. Just touch me.

He gently guided her back down to the bed and began kissing her again. Down her neck, her collarbone, her sternum, earning more noises from her as he did so.

“Mm, indeed,“ he nodded, pretending to look thoughtful, his brow furrowing as he kissed his way softly down her body, hands roving anywhere his lips did not. “You would know. Therefore, it would seem I need to learn. Hands-on experience. You’ve always been a patient and thorough instructor.”

He tugged at the neckline of her dress, gently freeing her breasts as he murmured appreciatively, fingers trailing across her exposed skin. She broke out in goosebumps again at the sensation, whimpering for him as he took one of her nipples in his mouth.

Still, despite the ache building between her legs — and the fact that she would beg for him, right now, in any way he asked her to — she managed to tease him. “If this is how you would like to spend your evening, I am happy to indulge you.”

“Thank you for the learning opportunity,” he replied innocently, stilling for a moment above her. She flushed again, suddenly shy – and keenly aware she was bared to him while he was fully dressed. She gazed up at him, biting her lip, and tugged at the hem of his tunic.

Too much clothing. Let me see you.

Seeming to understand, he straightened above her to undo his belt and tunic, ripping the tunic over his head in one smooth motion to drop it to the floor. His skin almost glowed in the firelight and she drank in the sight of him, broad shoulders, firm muscles, and gods, his arms.

He stared at her with the same appreciation, hungry brown eyes seeming to memorize every line and curve of her. Finally, he leaned down and shifted her legs above his shoulders gently, a hand wrapping around her thigh to hold her in place. Kissing his way down her legs, his head dipped between her knees. He nuzzled deeper, opening her legs more until his nose was almost buried in her curls. Her body writhed slowly, straining to reach him, desperate for contact.

She was already aching for him, wetness running down her leg. She whimpered again — a last resort. Cheating, and she knew it.

Gil-galad laughed and his hot breath fanned against her, causing another spike of desire. She almost glared at him for it. He paused to press more kisses into her skin, so close to her. So close…Elaniel swallowed, holding her breath, waiting to feel him, to feel anything. Every muscle was taut, straining for his touch. She thought she would shatter.

This time, her whimper turned icy, frustrated, and she tilted her hips up to chase him.

“Stubborn,” Gil-galad chided teasingly. His warm tongue suddenly found her, swirling softly against her clit. He brought her body closer, dragging her hips up and burying his face against her to lick her open. Giving her the friction she desperately craved.

Elaniel inhaled sharply, her hand flying to his hair. She forced herself to hold back the wild feeling thrumming through her, to not grab him, ride against him, pull him up…

He hummed against her as her hips jutted again, her body begging for more, faster, harder.

He lifted his head — she huffed at the loss of his tongue — and brought up his hand, locking eyes with her. He put two of his fingers in his mouth, wetting them without looking away from her, the thumb of his other hand still swirling lazily around her clit. He paused, waiting again for her approval.

Her eyes closed again and she murmured “yes, yes, yes,” like a melody.

He glowed under her praise, his own eyes closing as he slid a broad finger into her— oh. so. slowly. Achingly slow. She had to stop herself from chasing his hand, to let him take his time.

He added another finger, teasing her again slowly, his knuckles brushing against the inside of her thighs as he sank into her, She stifled a moan and clenched around his fingers, the aching growing deeper within her.

Softly, he started murmuring praises as he maintained a steady rhythm into her, pressing kisses inside her thighs. His voice was hoarse with want as he told her how wet and warm she was, how beautiful she was, how much he loved her, how he thinks of her — only her — when he touches himself, how he always finished with her name on his lips, how she tasted like honey and he had known she would.

Another white-hot flash bolted through her as he found some…hidden…spot…. inside her with his fingertips and firmly stroked it. She inhaled sharply, seeing white, clawing at the bedsheets. Her thighs almost snapped shut against his arm, and he used his free hand to gently tap her hip, asking her to spread legs apart again.

As soon as she did for him, his head dipped, tongue twisting into her again, wet and hot and silky. His hand joined his tongue again and mercifully he kept a steady pace this time, fingers curling upward again as his mouth moved over her. Soft hair brushed against her legs, adding to the ocean of sensations she was drowning in.

She clawed at his forearms, his shoulders, clinging to him, holding him in place as she finally came, heat cresting over her. She sang for him without thought to how loud she was — shuddering as the hot, swollen ache inside her turned into silken relief around his fingers, coaxing her through each wave until she lay panting. Her muscles trembled from the strain and release, heart hammering in her chest.

Her mind slowly floated back into her body, a tingle coursing through her, every nerve overstimulated and simmering and satisfied.

Gil-galad reverently moved her legs to rest on the bed, arranging her limbs with a very self-satisfied grin plastered on his face. She felt him crawl up next to her, his weight shifting her slightly. He faced her and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to his chest, still mindful of her wrapped arm. He sighed as she sank against him. “And now, perhaps you will sleep.”

Even in her blissful, half-asleep state, she could not stop herself. “High King, I urgently request your counsel. I have been lied to.”

Gil-galad chuckled as he arranged the blankets around them both, ensuring she was covered and warm. “Your king is at your command. What manner of lie have you been told, my Lady?”

She nuzzled into his chest, her eyes drifting closed as she took in the scent of him, his heartbeat still thudding. “That was not the work of an unlearned elf,” she teased. “Far too good. Experienced,” she mumbled in an accusatory tone, gently poking a finger into his shoulder.

A small, light laugh. “No, not experienced. But…perhaps I learned from a book, mmm?” he whispered in a conspiratorial tone, drawing a sleepy laugh from her.

“If that was the attempt of a novice, then I am most eager to help you master your craft…”

He shushed her gently. “Sleep. Tell me when you wake.”

As she drifted off, his hand lingering on hers, she felt a sense of peace wash over her. She knew he would stay by her side.

They will face tomorrow together.

Author’s Notes:

Regarding the laws and customs of the Eldar: How I am skirting it.

A.K.A How Elves Get Down

Many a writer out there *waves arms broadly* working with elves in Tolkien’s universe may feel the need to write them as a pretty straight-laced race of beings: no open lust, no sex outside marriage, unbreakable oaths. These are aspects aligned with the way Tolkien portrays elves, and so many fics featuring some of our faves will pair elves with OCs who are their betrothed or intended or spouse – a relationship that fits within the provided framework of elven marriages. Sometimes writers will make some complex (and cool!) rationales to allow this character to enter a relationship that way with x character despite abc reason.

Love these fics. LOVE THEM. Give me all the betrothal and intended and sneakylink hijinks you can. ….but don’t keep these lovely people sexually repressed unless you want to.

I will have a separate post on this that I'll come back and link, but my big work-around is "The document says bodily union. Define that for me."