Lindon Night

 By Tyellas

Summary: Plot? What plot? A raw young Elrohir has some lessons to learn in Lindon. Dedicated to Claudio.

Story Notes and Warnings: Rated NC-17, explicit slash.

Disclaimer: These characters and Middle-Earth are the copyright of the Tolkien estate and this fanfic is not meant to impose on that copyright or make a profit.

Thanks to my beta reader Aayesha.


It was Elladan’s night.

The noblest hall in Lindon was lit with cool blue elf-lamps and golden oil-burners. Inside the hall, nobles, warriors, and loremasters stood in orderly ranks, their elvish beauty and puissance at its peak. They were there to watch the young lord, son of Elrond, be formally welcomed to Lindon for a period of fosterage and elevated tutoring.

Elladan looked like one of them already. His sable hair flowed over his broad shoulders, down over the silver-grey cloak that matched his eyes. Despite his mere sixty years, somber Elladan, of mingled human and elvish blood, looked neither young nor old – until he stood before Círdan, the lord of Lindon’s haven.

Círdan overtopped Elladan by a head. His silver hair was bound in two cables that fell past his waist, and his face bore a neat silver beard, a sign of years nearly beyond count, among the Elves. Elladan’s speech of introduction seemed over-grave and stiff before Círdan’s sad, wise eyes and welcoming smile.

Elladan’s twin brother, Elrohir, was on the sidelines, arms folded sulkily beneath his cloak of blue. His truculence gave him glowering brows and a pouting mouth. The only time he smiled was when Círdan said, “No need to stand on ceremony with me, lad,” to Elladan. Apart from that, Elrohir glared around at the place that was alluring enough to draw his twin away from him for a full long-year, longer than they had both been alive.

In his resentment, Elrohir decided he did not like Lindon. Soon, he’d be on his way down the coast and up the river Anduin, to dwell in Lórien for his own stint of fosterage-and-elevated-tutoring. He had arrived in Lindon, with brother and parents, to find that his ship was leaving tomorrow. Not a moment too soon, he thought. To anchor itself against the allure of the calling sea, Lindon grounded itself in elvish traditions and history. Elrohir thought this made it stuffy, compared to Rivendell, and dull, compared to Bree. More, it was intimidating, to see his laughing mother Celebrían and his ever-exasperated father Elrond turned into gracious, decorous nobles – and to know he was supposed to be like that himself!

Elrohir thought fondly of Lórien. Lórien didn’t feel old; Lórien simply was. True, it was formal there. With his redoubtable grandparents Galadriel and Celeborn in charge, there was no doubt of that. But they carried the weight of authority alone. The folk of Lórien were free and easy, nomadic in the woods, egalitarian in their fighting troops, an uncomplicated folk. They liked their lords, they liked their woods, and if they were unwedded and liked you, you knew about it soon enough. Elrohir couldn’t wait to get back there and really pull his weight. And, on this visit there, everyone would agree that he was of age. He too was sixty now, though for his last sojourn in Lórien, as a young blood of forty-eight, he had been just as tall, well-favored, and lascivious. He was grateful to the handful of lovers who had not dismissed him as too young, and had every intention of teaching those who had said so a hot lesson.

A crisp round of elvish applause brought Elrohir back to the present. Elladan was taking his bow. Elrohir glowered. But, looking at the dais where the nobles of the hour stood, he thought of a way to get his swagger back, if what he had heard about the elves of Lindon was true. Yes, a most reliable - and rebellious – way.



Elrohir admired the high chamber where he lay in a canopied silver-gilt bed. He leaned up on one elbow, watching the long, sea-green brocade curtains ripple in the summer night’s breeze. Sitting up further, he could see out the grand windows, opening directly over the whispering waves in the firth of Lindon. One might, if one wished, dive from the balcony into the deepening water, at the risk of being swept out to sea.

Then, the silver bells hung on the door-latch rang. And Círdan strode in. The elf-man was a perfect match for the moon-flooded room. The light blended his grey and blue garb, pale skin, and silver hair into a sophisticated harmony of shades. Eagerly, he progressed to the windows and their balcony, and stood there for a long moment, until Elrohir could not stifle a chuckle. Círdan turned about and started. “Young man – Elrohir? What….perhaps you’ve the wrong room, lad. These are my chambers.”

Elrohir sat up straight. The bed-clothes slid away from his naked chest. “Oh, no, I don’t. Your windows take some trouble to climb through, being out over the Sea-cliff like this!” As Círdan stood astounded, Elrohir added, “I never did it with a fellow who had a beard before. And, well, I…” Círdan was looking at him like some sea creature that had landed between his opal-blue sheets. Elrohir twisted those sheets in his hands and bit his lip. Hearing his own words ring in the pale room, he knew himself foolish and out of place, and it was painful.

Hastily, he mumbled, “I said that all wrong. I’m sorry. I’ll go.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, not only nude, but stripped of his usual pride when unclad. For once, he forgot that he was well-favored and well-equipped. Not experienced enough to notice that Círdan’s glance lingered, he bent to pick up his clothes.

Elrohir looked back up to find Círdan smiling wryly once more. “Not so hasty, lad.” Círdan stepped up and took his hand. Elrohir started at the unexpectedly warm touch.

“I simply wasn’t expecting such a visitor – and for such a reason,” Círdan said, looking down at Elrohir. “I am old bones; again, are you sure you aren’t in the wrong room?”

Elrohir took heart at not being scolded. His randy curiosity returned. “No, I wanted your room for certain. You are not married, so how can it be that you have no lover? I thought someone would have thrown me over your balcony by now!”

Círdan managed to look sad even as he laughed at Elrohir’s irrepressible mirth. “One who I loved before is dead." Elrohir gasped at this misfortune, awful to him. "Another…” Círdan looked out the window, at the shimmering sea. “Does not grudge me such nights as these.”

Elrohir wanted to puzzle this out, but he was distracted, trying to act seemly after learning of Círdan's past . To cover his nerves, he began to chatter again. “If you’d make your windows easier to get in, you wouldn’t be so surprised by – my hand – what are you doing?”

Círdan had slowly begun caressing the base of his wrist, silkily rubbing the ball of a thumb in the center of Elrohir’s palm. It was ticklish at first, then rousing. Círdan murmured, “It’s called ‘the receding wave.’” He put both of his wide, worn hands on Elrohir’s smooth shoulders. After warming the pale flesh with two even strokes, those wise hands knuckled in with a digging caress. “ This one is called ‘the gnawing surf.’ Do you sail?”

“Ah – mmmh – no.” Elrohir had closed his eyes, nearly rolling them back in his head as the deep kneading eased his tense neck.

“Then how do you get from place to place?” queried Círdan.

Elrohir’s eyes opened merrily as he smiled. “Oh, I ride. I love riding! Riding’s my favorite – ”

“Then you’ll do nicely.”

Elrohir opened his mouth to reply to this, just in time to receive Círdan’s kiss. His eyes widened to feel his lower face brushed by the silky prickle of beard, rubbing, alive, extending the kiss into this uniquely rough caress.

Círdan concluded the kiss with a press from his closed lips. “Well? Worth climbing in the window for?”

Elrohir inhaled. Círdan’s gaze caught him - deep, shining eyes, a true aqua-blue, beneath lids with some creases. He had only seen two others of his elvish kin with such creased eyes; his father and his brother. Striving to be graceful, Elrohir reached up to nudge Círdan’s robe off Círdan’s shoulders. “You went swimming in the sea today, didn’t you? I can taste it on your mouth. It’s nice.”

Did he undress Círdan, or did Círdan follow his own hands, so that his garments seemed to fall away? After Círdan’s beard and those different yet familiar eyes, Elrohir was disappointed that Círdan’s chest was as smooth as any other elf’s. Apart from his broad shoulders, Círdan was slim; Elrohir had the sense that his long thews had been stronger, once. From the front, his hips were out-and-out bony. Elrohir turned him about. “I want to see you – ah!” He smiled in genuine appreciation for Círdan’s back, the refuge of his maritime strength. Elrohir promptly grabbed the noble behind. “Muscles above and this below! Would that – ah – you don’t mind this, do you?” he asked, as Círdan turned about.

“No. But I, too, would like to see you.” Happily, Elrohir sprang back into a sparring stance. His grin grew a bit forced as Círdan stepped back and contemplated him – truly contemplated him.

“Very fair you are; I see the kindreds of eld in you. Would it please you if I began here?” He sank to his knees and stroked Elrohir’s cock.

Elrohir only inhaled, and set a hand on Círdan’s head, drawing him closer.

Círdan stood up again beneath the touch. He clasped Elrohir’s arm on his way up, and spent a moment contemplatively stroking the dusting of dark hair on Elrohir’s arms, then on his chest. Blushing, Elrohir began to apologize. But Círdan said, “Why should you apologize, if I do not? Let no-one diminish you for this. Make it part of who you are when you love.” And as gracefully as he had risen, Círdan knelt slowly again, kissing Elrohir’s chest on the way down. He kept his face close to Elrohir’s skin as he sank fully to his knees. Círdan was very gentle, and his breath was warm; but the beard’s caress against his thighs, and the soft sac of his scrotum, made Elrohir quiver and yelp. All this was before Círdan even took him fully in his mouth.

Though Elrohir was well roused and hard, Círdan took him in deep without pause or choke, and held him. Círdan lifted his tongue slightly against the swollen shaft, pressing it against the soft folds of his throat. He even managed to flickeringly tongue the base of Elrohir’s prick while keeping the head of it down his throat.

Elrohir was bewitched, his palms sweating, taking notes in his mind. Aloud, he said roughly, “You’re marvelous….”

“But I have done little yet,” murmured Círdan. And he began to suck in earnest.

After three minutes of Círdan’s experienced attentions, Elrohir was near speechless with the desire to spend. He forced himself to mumble a warning (one of his few previous lovers had scolded him hard for failing to do so, and, worse, never returned to his arms). Forewarned, Círdan drew away. Immediately, Elrohir wrapped his hand around his shaft fast and said, through gritted teeth, “If you don’t like it, that’s all right, I can finish like this –“

Círdan looked up and smiled. “Finish? Who said we were finished? Would you have more of me?”

For Elrohir, it was no moment for subtlety. “You mean, do I want to fuck?”

This stableman’s argot shattered Círdan’s composure. He scrambled up and sat on the rumpled bed to stammer, “I – you – Valar, lad. Language!”

Elrohir heard the rebuke, but saw, too, Círdan’s face flush, the warmth spreading down to his chest, and the twist of his hips. Even Círdan’s hands jerked involuntarily, so that his crimson ring caught the light more brightly. Sure as a hound at hunt’s end, Elrohir pounced onto the bed and dragged him down. With his hands on Círdan’s shoulders, staring at the mouth reddened amidst the silver beard, he spat out some locks of his own dark hair and said, “I should answer your question. Yes, I want to fuck. Do you want to fuck me? Or shall I fuck you?”

Pinned in place by his hands and thighs, Círdan stiffened and frowned. “By Ulmo, your tongue is more salt than that of any of my sailors. We all like a dash of it, whether we ask for it or no. But you tell me: can one have too much salt?”

Elrohir felt remorse at once, for taking things too far. Backtracking, he caressed Círdan clumsily and said, “I understand. Forgive me. I’m bad at talking, even when I’m dressed. You rouse me so! One of us must…have…the other, or I shall burst like a…a wineskin in the sun.” He proved this by arcing his hips so that the tip of his erect phallus brushed Círdan, ever so slightly.

At the delicate, moist touch, Círdan exhaled. His body relaxing into desire again, he slipped to one side and turned over. “When one asks so gently, I cannot deny my guest what he would have. Come; be my guest even more.” Círdan angled himself invitingly, yet with the same dignity his offer carried.

Elrohir scanned his hands over Círdan’s strong, lean back, stroking down to his arse, just as if he was getting a horse ready to be examined. The skin was firm and velvety, nearly downy along the arse-crack. When Elrohir lay along Círdan’s full length with his own body, his standing prick slotted neatly there. The downiness turned to a prickle, similar to the caress of Círdan’s beard, as Elrohir began to rock his hips, enjoying sliding there.

Encouraging, Círdan murmured, “You’re a fine strong weight. Virile as a warrior, by your measure. Did you bring oil?”

Barely able to speak, Elrohir managed, “Yes, let me just…” He had done so, but he had planned it poorly; he had to leave the supple, promising body on the bed to scramble in his laid-aside clothes. Then, there was his frenzy of fumbling as he picked open the elaborately sealed glass phial, which had seemed like a good idea when he bought it from that pedlar. Finally, he flung himself back onto the bed and breathed in Círdan’s salty warmth, to caress him until they were both roused once more. It took Elrohir little time. With restrained haste, he lay atop Círdan as he had before, then used the oil and his body’s weight to work his cock into the arse that had tempted him. And when he had done so, he was shaken to his lusty young core.

Círdan had not said aught of how he had been, with his other lovers. But, taking him, Elrohir could tell - someone had known Círdan this way before. Someone had taken him, plumbed him, loved him many a time, so that his body relaxed into it as a pleasure known. The channel that he penetrated was firm, but not tension-tight. He was welcome. Elrohir stammered appreciatively, “Ai, Valar! You are made for this having. I won’t pain you too long –”

“Pain me?” Círdan gasped. “This is my pleasure. Now that you are within me, I would have you please me all night. Go on – do what you will - fuck me – and feel that I speak true.” At the forbidden word, some muscles clenched deep inside him, making him virgin-narrow for an instant.

Heady with lust, Elrohir started hammering the body beneath him. Between words and sensation, it took all Elrohir’s self-control not to release in one orgasmic gush. Yet a part of his mind – the small voice of reason that kept him watching for both his horse and himself during a ride – hearkened to what Círdan had said. He felt Círdan’s skin glow, was gripped by his arse-channel clenching, then, when he changed his angle somewhat, released when Círdan relaxed deep inside. He saw the lord of Lindon curl his hands tight into the pillow-linens and turn a flushed, ecstatic face in profile. The sea-scent was gone from him, replaced by the richness of a male given over to lust, on the edge of release – and then the rousing musk of a male who had achieved it.

In his joy, Círdan's entire body tensed. For an instant, Elrohir was still, then he seized the moment to reach his own pleasure. As he thrust, a tremendous warmth, caressing and prickling, seemed to flow up from his knees and fill him. Crimson light flashed behind his closed eyelids. Elrohir took three powerful strokes to empty himself fully, shouting out each time.

Starry-eyed, Elrohir withdrew and melted beside Círdan. They lay together for some moments. Elrohir became aware that it was pleasant to not have to stuff himself back into his clothes after an assignation, lest he and his lover be reprimanded. Something deep within him was soothed after one as high and mysterious as Círdan had welcomed his desires, even at their crudest – even seemed to anticipate them. He felt the stirrings of a new, more passive desire, the wish to not leave that bed, ever; to stay with this lover who made everything simple, an approving refuge from…Skilled at burying his own shadows deep beneath mirth and mischief, Elrohir did not complete that thought.

Instead, he murmured, “I never had it like that before – with someone who likes everything, as much as I do.” Elrohir looked at Círdan tranquil beside him, and stroked one silver cable of his hair. “It is very sad that the one you loved before is dead…I could change things. Not go to Lórien. Study here. You’ve got warriors here, surely?”

“Elrohir.” Círdan turned as he lay, and cupped a hand over Elrohir’s heart. Their eyes met. In the deep gaze of this Elvish elder, Elrohir felt himself plumbed and profoundly known. For an instant, he was lapped by Círdan’s appreciation, but it also withdrew, like a foamy wave enveloped back into the deeps. Círdan’s renewed smile, creasing his eyes, dimmed the power of his gaze so that they were once more two fellows in a bed. “There are two loves I sense in you; for your kin, and for life and lustiness itself. It is not me you loved this night, but these things through me. I am glad you came to warm me with them. All I ask, son of Arda, is that you are not heedless of their fire.”

Awe made Elrohir as inarticulate as lust. “Thank you. Um. My lord.” Well aware that his offer had been refused, but not sure if this meant he was dismissed, Elrohir stood up. Outside the sheets, the room’s sea-airs were cold. “I ought to go, I suppose. If I’m going to Lindon tomorrow.”

Círdan said, “A pity, when you are only here for one night. It’s a long cold climb back out that window, is it not?”

Elrohir’s easy smile returned. “And you were so warm…especially with the beard. I truly like your beard. Can I fuck you again?”

“Valar, lad. Again?” Elrohir saw him shift under the sheets, another writhe of desire bound up with embarrassed pride. Elrohir bounded back onto the bed, just as Círdan began to laugh.



Elrohir said his last farewells on the docks the next day. He had said goodbye to Elladan at the loremasters’ scriptorium, where his twin would be studying. On the docks, all was excitement as the sailors got ready to catch the tide.

His mother Celebrían was still his mother. “Ha ha! Look at those gulls quarreling there, over that sailor’s scraps. Oh, goodness. Do look, darling, I want to see you smile before I go.”

His father Elrond was still his father. “When you board to sail, sit beneath the sailcloth on the ship’s deck, you’re looking flushed and wind-blown already. Show due respect to Galadriel and Celeborn. And don’t forget what I said about avoiding wagers and horse-racing. You’ve plenty of other things to do well and be proud of.”

And Círdan… Círdan was once again deep as the waters he sailed. Círdan looked at Elrohir, lively in the morning sun, and said only, “Young men.” Then he tilted his head back, laughing like one of his sea-bells. Elrohir grinned in returned mirth, and waited for him to say something more intimate. But all he did was to declare, “Fare you well, son of Arda!” and walk off, chuckling.

Between the night and the morning, Elrohir was deeply touched. He spent the calm voyage by sea and river thinking more than was his wont. And upon his arrival in Lórien, it took him an entire three days to make a move towards seducing someone new.

Please do not reproduce or repost this story without permission from the author.

Feedback or comments on this story are welcome - email Tyellas here.



Click here to send feedback.


For more slash stories with these characters, see the Slash Fiction page.