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The shadow of suspicion looms.
Elrond finds Adar watching him as he turns away from Galadriel, dark eyes far too sharp for his liking, searching for a tremble he will never find. The tears in Elrond’s eyes were for Galadriel alone, glassiness giving way as soon as they part, the kiss ends and he smooths his mask. There can only be space for strategy now because Adar isn’t convinced. It’s clear that he knows something is off, suspicion clouding over the expression like a gathering storm.
Adar’s eyes flit behind him, settle on Galadriel, the bright light of her at Elrond’s back. The corner of his mouth tilts up. “I had not thought your friendship to be this flavour of sweetness.”
He knows her at least.
It’s in Adar’s eyes; his wry tone, the mocking bite of it an insult for Galadriel as much as for Elrond. That he’d have knowledge of her isn’t surprising, a Noldor who has seen the Trees and somehow that is perhaps the least of her, amongst their people Galadriel has more than earned her legend.
Elrond knows that Melian is legend too.
But he wonders how much Adar has learned of him, of Elrond Peredhel, if choosing to mention that ancient aspect of his heritage had been deliberate. It could easily be the only line he knows, could have been mentioned to show how far into him Adar has read, that he believes he sees who has made Elrond’s bloodline special. An insult of wisdom too, to command he search for it in generations past. There is almost no time for thought. Elrond needs to get his assessment right, he needs to sell this trick if he’s to avert the doom a poor one will bring on Galadriel.
Elrond needs the distraction to hold.
“Would you like a sweet farewell of your own?”
It’s out of his mouth before he’d even planned to say it.
And so Elrond’s course is decided, absurd as it may seem, impulsivity choosing this particular fork as the one to take. His gaze remains on Adar.
It’s too dangerous to look anywhere else, to give any indication that he’s anything but steady, to hesitate in the silence that follows his goad. Elrond can’t risk catching Vorohil’s eyes, is fairly certain that if he’d been surprised before then now his shock can be read by every other in the room. It’s shared, distracts from what cannot be allowed to take root in the silence, because Galadriel had told him to win.
Adar is no fool though.
The brows draw together in a frown, bemusement lingers, a smile still curving at his lips even as the taunt of amusement doesn’t reach his eyes. “You offer me that and not the ring?”
“You did call me beautiful,” Elrond points out, taking a single step forwards, no temptation to turn to check if the clasp of his armour is safely hidden in Galadriel’s hand. He handed it to her and so knows it is. “I must admit it an unexpected flattery.”
Every word pointed yet wreathed in softness, the goad must seem to be provoked, it vital that it not appear poised to shift attention. It must seem to spin from Adar’s surprise, from his taunt, must spin still more of it, from what now blossoms into a curiosity half incredulous. Elrond has proven unpredictable, it seems.
This time Adar is the one to take a step towards him, Vorohil sucks in a sharp breath and—
“So many would be protectors,” Adar says before a word is spoken, anger a beast he doesn’t bother to chain, as harsh a rebuke as when Galadriel had spoken to intervene. “I am surprised the Lady Galadriel has obeyed thus far. Is this another I must threaten into silence?”
Elrond must risk meeting Vorohil’s eyes.
He finds them slightly wide, the reaction muted and yet he knows him well enough to read the concern there. He ignores the orcs around them, addresses the elf directly. “It’s alright.” Then to Adar. “You would kill those you treat with?”
“I will if they speak out of turn.”
“No wonder we cannot come to terms,” Elrond says, and as it stands his voice sounds calm to his own ears. “Though at least we might still end this conversation somewhere civil.”
Elrond knows he sounds amused.
That might have been what does it, completing the sight Elrond knows he makes in his gleaming armour, the sight he knows he makes with his easy smile and soft, delicate curls. The sight he makes with eyes the grey of a clear evening, Melian’s eyes, shifting silver within the frame of dark eyelashes. Elrond’s calm is akin to a still unbothered lake, nothing neutral about it, because to Adar it might just inspire the irresistible urge to cast ripples across it. Elrond has spent this negotiation denying Adar what he wants, has met him with challenge after challenge, and the chance to make him bend is perfect bait.
It has this Adar prowling closer.
No one else moves.
Elrond doesn’t back away. Anticipation thick in the air, suffocating in this grim tent, though what Adar’s ‘children’ think of this Elrond doesn’t know. He wastes no time on it, will get more of a measure of who he's so impulsively offered a kiss, the black leather armour undoubtably worn but age hasn’t eroded strength. The corrupted elf is scarred but that doesn’t mean there can’t be beauty. Elrond finds it still in the long dark hair, the jaw, the lips, the cruelty beneath the skin what saps at that not the torment inflicted upon it. What hollows him out, perhaps what left him deathly pale, a husk abandoned by light.
It’s a fate that makes Elrond’s blood run cold, how Morgoth transformed him to this.
What name was his before it burned away?
Who can know.
Adar stops, so close Elrond can map the pattern of each scar, the raised wound of what looks like a burn across one side of his face. For a moment he towers over him, then the illusion shatters, they are of a height after all, a hand coming up to cup Elrond’s cheek. The skin is like ice, settles bold, cannot be mistaken for hesitation even before Adar’s fingers meet his skin. Elrond doesn’t know if it’s light he seeks, if he is compelled by what has been torn out of him, only that Adar spreads the fingers of his hand to touch as much as he can. It’s a touch to smother Elrond’s jaw, to skim the skin of his throat.
He’s the sort who takes then.
Adar smiles.
“Your High King allowed you to negotiate for him, and yet you will return empty handed.” Adar’s murmur is intimate, soft with scorn, the taunt a glitter in cold eyes. “How well you repay his trust.”
Elrond says nothing.
He doesn’t flinch either, doesn’t push the hand away, holds Adar’s dark eyed gaze with the same subtle amusement that had been in his voice.
If Adar thinks this is a bluff he will find the truth when he fails to call him on it.
Adar’s eyes narrow.
The head does not lean closer but nonetheless there is movement, the thumb of this mutilated elf brushing curiously along the line of Elrond’s cheekbone. He does not resist, tilts his head obediently towards that cold hand, watches satisfaction find its way to Adar’s otherwise implacable face. The eyes covet, reveal a yearning unsatisfied, though the other hand rests gauntleted at his side. Still for now, but Elrond will need to keep an eye on it lest it go a wandering in search of a ring.
He has just played a similar trick himself and has no desire to fall prey to it.
“Well,” Elrond says with calm expectation. “Is the beauty of my foremother to your liking? Or will you cut into a vein to see if a drop of her wisdom can be found here after all?”
Adar chuckles. “Such barbs in your words, yet how pliant you are in my grasp. It has been some time since I’ve had such beauty within reach and willing to be so generous.”
There’s a question in that, scepticism still—are you willing?
Elrond ignores the insinuation. “Is that why you’re willing to be gentle?”
The thumb pauses.
Adar’s eyes go dark, he contemplates, then once again continues to softly trace the line of Elrond’s cheekbone. “No. Your skin is so soft, Commander Elrond, and while it would be a pity not to see how well it takes a cut, we were speaking of civility. Blood can be spilled later, though you refuse my offer you are still my guest. On the field though…”
“I believe you may have competition for first blood.” Elrond says wryly, still refusing to glance at the orcs surrounding them.
“No.” Adar is certain. “I will not.”
And with that—the words that so easily form a warning, that will follow Elrond into battle—he does lean in, presses his lips against Elrond’s own.
It starts surprisingly sweet, remains so for a mere moment before it sharpens to something rough, as the hunger in Adar’s eyes begins to feast. Elrond wonders how long it’s been since last Adar shared a kiss. It’s left him this hungry, this starved, so eager to touch when given the chance. The hand slides from Elrond’s cheek to his hair; tangles in it, sinks deep into the curls, holds there for a moment just to savour.
Then Adar winds the strands around cold fingers and uses a fraction of his strength to pull.
It startles out a gasp, a sound that is thankfully lost as Elrond is coaxed into opening his mouth, going easy because the point of this was never to resist. He lets Adar slip between his parted lips for a taste, allows himself to be moved, for his head to fall back when he feels another sharp tug on his hair. It’s, well, it’s thorough is what it is; far more than just a taste, as groping as the hand learning the shape of his curls, as greedy as the gauntlet rising to cup his untouched cheek. There is the suggestion of teeth, sharp points grazing his lips, metal grazing his jaw, reminders of Adar’s promise to spill blood.
They are not so abused now, will emerge unbitten, but Elrond still feels the bruise of the kiss swell across his mouth.
His lips are blooming red with un-spilled blood.
It’s less in every way than what he shared with Galadriel, no history between him and Adar, no love, yet heat sparks and kindles anyway. That was a kiss for sorrow, but desire makes a difference, might just sell this as the distraction Elrond needs it to be.
They part and Elrond is fairly sure the ruffle in his composure can be seen.
In truth he’s slightly dazed, can guess at the wild tousle Adar has made of his curls, takes a single heaving breath before it evens out. He’d known he’d need to give him a ripple or two, doesn’t need to act that part out so much as give in to it, easy enough when remembering the orcs still watching this. It is easier still with the armoured thumb now dragging across his lower lip, confirmed when Adar takes one look at his face and chuckles.
Elrond thinks he hears the orcs laughing too.
The jeering still quieter than expected, respectful to their father, only doing so when amusement follows his leave. The orcs go silent when Adar does, still watch—just as Vorohil, as Galadriel—how Adar holds him still with his gauntleted thumb now nearly in Elrond’s mouth. He can almost taste the tang of metal on his tongue.
Adar’s tone is soft and pleased. “You bruise easy.”
It adds to the humiliation but a little embarrassment is more than worth it to sell the lie.
He lets it take hold of him just like the black clad body pressing close. Adar is one long line of muscle against his armour, still so very intimate, still bringing a chill that sinks past it to his bones. Elrond does not try to step out of Adar’s grasp, allows his calm to remain shaken, the stillness of a lake disturbed by a pebble tossed into it.
Elrond keeps rippling under Adar’s gaze.
The tips of fingers graze his throat, hold there so the thumb can rest on his lips. “First blood will wait till our battle, Commander. Unless a kiss is what it takes to make you see reason, to stop this stubborn farce and hand me the ring.”
The very suggestion is laughable. “No.”
The ghost of Elrond’s breath exhales across the gauntleted pad of Adar’s thumb. It doesn’t provoke a shiver, keeps him close instead, seems to remind the shadow of want within him that he has something to sate it still in his grasp.
Adar chuckles and kisses him again.
Elrond allows it.
“You do taste sweet,” Adar observes—perhaps not so thorough a tasting after all if he still thinks Elrond the delicate courtier, an untested youth—a sure sign that for all he knows Elrond is of Melian’s blood in truth Adar knows very little of him at all. “Though not with the sorrow of a farewell. I think you’d prefer not to see my face again than offer me that, and yet you will. I will bring Galadriel’s head to where we will meet on the field of battle, I will see how well you wield a sword, and I will take the ring you attempt so boldly to deny me.”
It’s quite the promise.
Adar murmurs it across Elrond’s lips as if speaking to a lover. He says it soft, almost gentle, a malice in the words themselves not the lilting tone that speaks them.
“While there are elves within Eregion I will defend it,” Elrond makes a promise of his own; here in front of Galadriel, in front of Vorohil, in front of Adar’s children. “The shadow Sauron casts is not so long as to smother all light. I will not let fear of him make false justification for their sacrifice. I will not forsake them. I will not let that city fall.”
Adar’s smile is cruel.
A twist and Elrond remembers one hand still grips a fistful of his hair. The eyes are blue, in the dim light they glitter black. “You will—I will put you on your knees and make you watch it burn.”
I’ll kneel right now if you let her go, Elrond thinks.
But Adar is far too confident to exchange the legendary Galadriel for a half-elf he is certain he can defeat. Maiar blood or no. Elrond knows the inevitability of a battle is the only reason Adar hasn’t already taken Nenya from his corpse, because regardless of whether Elrond lives or not it is certain that there will be orcish blood spilled in this siege. A deal will only deliver the ring faster, no kiss ever distraction enough to allow Elrond to slip Nenya to Galadriel without being seen. Adar watches him as the silence stretches, loosens his grip on Elrond’s hair, begins to smile even wider. “Fear not, Commander, their sacrifice will free us all.”
Adar thinks he’s won.
He thinks he’s rendered Elrond speechless at last.
He thinks he’s revealed what’s underneath. The weakness perhaps, the soft courtier, so sure he knows the most of suffering, so sure the greatest pains have been dealt to his own flesh. Elrond does not deny that may well be true. There is real love for the orcs, for his children—Elrond can admire that, can respect it, does and wishes it could sway Adar to reason—but his only remedy is vengeance. He will refuse every offer to ally against Sauron even when it means shedding orc blood.
“Is that what you’ll tell your children when you send them to die?” Elrond says quietly.
Is it sacrifice when you aren’t the one paying?
There is grief within Elrond too.
What he knows will never show on skin. The twin Elrond lost is gone, does not wait for him across the sea, and far above a star shines brightest every night. Elrond must trust that somewhere still there flies a bird he has never seen. No shadows took Eärendil and Elwing, no cruel Dark Lord, no easy place for blame when Elrond did not lose them to the Enemy. Instead to a war amongst kin, to love and sacrifice; to choice, always choice…does Adar know you can lose to the sea, the sky?
Elrond does.
Because Melian’s grey eyes are Elrond’s too.
Carried as an heirloom, passed down like one, but Melian’s beauty isn’t all that haunts – can Adar spy what else crafted Elrond’s face? The lineage he named is but one casket in the mausoleum of Elrond’s features, is Elros, is Lúthien, is a tomb he visits every time he looks in the mirror. His own face holds pain, holds joy, remains the closest he can get to his kin. There he finds shades of the dead and lost, and then when evening comes so does the brightest star to bathe him in light—
Elrond stands under it alone.
“Such sorrow in your eyes,” Adar says; his own are barbed, the pain there a blade. A scar to match what disfigures his pale face. “Not for my children though. Will you weep for them? Will you sing for them, Elrond?”
He’s still so close.
It jolts Elrond from his thoughts, where he’d somehow drifted, back to where large hands cup his cheeks with possessive tenderness. Now Adar’s tried it he seems to prefer to converse like this, looming, and Elrond can’t be distracted while giving him such an intimate view of his face. There is sorrow indeed, but the true test is done, the choice already made. It seems his bloodline is destined for that, for choices like this, where either way something is lost.
He made a sacrifice here too.
In refusing to exchange the ring for Galadriel.
The cold of the gauntlet, the cold of flesh, holding him gently as if despite the pain in Adar’s eyes there is indeed a form of solace here. It’s touch unknown to Elrond. Does it remind Adar of home? Adar’s eyes might have searched for Melian, the echo of her song might have first enticed, traces of power drawing that first taunt but what he’s found instead is something else. Is it enticing enough? Elrond swallows, deliberate.
He watches Adar follow the motion of his throat and thinks aha.
“I will take my leave.” Elrond says coolly.
The curiosity digs like a hook, suspicion swapped for interest. The smile is still cruel. “So dismissive of your host?”
“I offered a sweet farewell, did I not?” Elrond jerks his head back from Adar’s grip, from the fingers creeping to toy with the curls at the nape of his neck, steps back, steps around him towards the exit to the tent. “Do not overstep your bounds.”
Adar crowds back into his space.
The slow saunter of a predator. The bait is taken again, Adar wants to touch, whether solace or not Elrond compels past a first taste. Except this time Adar rests a hand heavy on his shoulder, noses along the line of his cheek, follows the curve of his ear, lips seeking the arch and Elrond feels himself stiffen.
Entirely instinctive.
He startles enough to accidentally meet Vorohil’s eyes.
He finds him standing still in gleaming armour the kind of his own. Elrond is unsurprised to find Vorohil tense, eyes narrowed in anger, as if wanting to rip Adar’s hands away for daring to touch him. Elrond’s gaze blunders into the orcs around them, then almost flicks towards Galadriel before he stop himselfs, because what she must think of him—
Elrond forces himself to settle.
A kiss is a kiss, this far more intimate, a touch that traces skin so sensitive it sends sparks shooting down his spine in a shock of pleasure. It’s a mistake to flinch so, Adar laughs again, softly, then for a moment all is slow, lingering kisses lavished in abundance. Elrond’s feels his eyelids try to flutter shut, refuses to be distracted, remembers to track the hands and is relieved they do not roam, thinks of the ring, of Galadriel’s life. He squirms because it’s expected, because submission tastes sweetest after a struggle, then holds himself still as teeth nip at the pointed tip of his ear and only just manages to hold back his gasp.
Elrond can’t ignore it though.
It fights to force its way out of his mouth—ruthlessly suppressed because Elrond will not moan in a filthy war tent surrounded by orcs—but he can’t ignore it. He can’t ignore it any more than he can the words whispered so only he can hear.
“Defend the city then, my beautiful little peredhel.” Adar says. “And know I will be there to see how lovely you break when you fail.”
If Adar thinks Elrond will give him an easy victory then he’s a fool.
For every elf cut down in the land outside Ost-in-Edhil's walls it will taste far more a share of orc blood. And even if it really is hopeless—no reinforcements, no hope at all—then Elrond will still fight, still defend, but it just so happens that he does have hope.
He knows they will not face the coming battle alone.
Elrond knows Durin is coming.