Innocence
by Soledad

Disclaimer:
Not mine, all Tolkien's, except the typos and the weird gammar, so don't bother me!

Rating: NC-17. Definitely.

Warnings: explicit m/m interaction, dominance issues, hurt/comfort, major guilt trips. Not an easy lecture, so reading it is your own responsibility.

I want to thank Tyellas for the excellent suggestions that helped me to shape this draft. I followed them as well as I was able to. Any remaining mistakes are exclusively my own.

Author's notes:
This is a missing scene to Chapter 10: The South Haven. Basically, Gildor and Erestor try to settle their centuries-old issues and came to terms with their own ''survivor's guilt syndrome''. It's a dark, violent scene that slightly tends towards BDSM, though not overly so. This is the second draft of this scene. I tried to eradicate some of the grammar and factual mistakes I have made. I'm sure there still are a lot of them. I'll keep working on it.

Also, if you haven't read ''Innocence'', up to Chapter 10, the whole thing will probably make no sense for you, so don't bother. This story is posted here exclusively, because I didn't want to make the whole story too dark. It does have a plot and great significance for the rest of the story, of course, but reading it isn't an absolute necessity in order to understand the rest..

Missing Scene: Old Debts

After persuading Lindir to go to sleep, Erestor went out into the garden of Gildor's house to watch the fountain in the starlight. He was deeply shaken by their host's threat and tried to find some solitude to calm down ere he could think through his best solution for the whole situation. He had no doubt that Gildor would make good of his threat should he allow himself the slightest mistake considering Lindir, and that was soemthing he wanted to avoid at any price. He had already grown too fond of the youngling to lose him because of his own folly.

He spent mayhap half an hour in the starlit garden, probably even less, when he felt the presence of another person nearby. It was Gildor, still wearing his silver tunic, dark blue cloak thrown carelessly over one strong shoulder, long, golden hair gleaming in the darkness with a light almost of its own.

''Sooting, is it not?'', he asked quitely, nodding towards the musically blubbing water of the fountain. ''I, too, come her often to seek some peace of mind.'' Then he turned to Erestor and stared right into his face. ''Spending alone the first night of Autumn, Erestor? 'Tis unusual for an Elf of your age.''

'''Tis not so unusual for me'', Erestor replied. ''I do spend alone most of the festivals, even if at home.''

''Alone by choice or alone for the lack of offers?'', Gildor asked, leaving his guest uncomfortably uncertain whether he was jesting or not. Erestor frowned slightly.

''Would that be an offer, my Lord?'', he asked boldly, annoyed by the other's mind games. The Lord of Edhellond glared at him like a snake at the songbird it planned to have for dinner.

''I believe 'tis time that we settle our issues, son of Hargil.''

Alarm bells began to ring in Erestor's head immediately, for the sea-hued eyes of the Lord were cold and even a little cruel. 'Twas haunting that someone with almost identical features to Lindir's could raise so much fear in him. But again, Lindir would never hurt any one deliberately. While his ''uncle'' was very much able - and obviously quite willing - to inflict hurt upon others. Or upon Erestor, at least.

''What do you have in mind, my Lord?'', he asked, hoping that his voice would not tremble. He was not easily frightened - not usually -, but that cold and cruel little smile on Gildor's face made the hairs on his neck rise.

''I was thinking of a debt that still needs to be paid'', the Lord of Edhellond said softly - so softly that it sent cold shivers down Erestor's spine. ''You still owe me your life, Erestor, do you never forget that.''

''How could I?'', Erestor replied bitterly. ''You never fail to remind me. So, what would you have of me? Kill me in exchange for my undeserved survival while our Lord had to die?''

''Nay'', Gildor said, still in that incredibly soft voice, ''Celebrimbor would not want you dead. For some reason, he was rather fond of you, useless little rat as you were back then. Nay'', he added, with an odd gleam in his eye, ''I think I shall settle for your body. I hate to lie alone in a night like this.''

''You... what?'', Erestor, shocked, instinctively stepped back, but Gildor followed him, sliding an utterly seductive hand up his arm til it lay on his shoulder.

''You need not to play the innocent for me'', he said with the same cold smile. ''I know that you have taken male lovers before. You want to be freed from your debt, do you? Then share my bed tonight, and it shall be considered paid for.''

And ere the younger Elf could even think of an answer, Gildor grabbed the back of his head with his other hand and captured his lips in a bruising kiss. There was no gentleness in that kiss, in the demanding tongue that invaded Erestor's mouth ruthlessly. Gildor was making his point - and showing him who was in control. As simple as that.

''Come with me!'', he then ordered, breaking the kiss and leading the younger Elf into his bedchamber, without even a look back to see if he was followed at all. Even years later, Erestor could not explain why he let himself be dragged along without resistance, without even as much as being touched. True, he had been without a lover for a long time, but Gildor certainly would have been his last choice.

Only that it was not his choice, really. He was chosen to pleasure the Lord of Edhellond this night, and judging by the strange mood Gildor was in, he had the gloomy feeling that the Prince might not be above forcing him if necessary. Of course, he could have tried to run, only to risk being hunted down in the most humiliating manner - or he could have scream for help and frighten Lindir out of his mind, which was the last thing he wanted to do to the shy youngling. And even so, the servants of Gildor's house would play deaf and mute, of that he was sure.

So, the best solution was to simply let it happen, even if Gildor would likely not go so far as forcing himself upon him. And if the Lord of Edhellond considered his willingness as appropriate payment for his debt, the better. He hated owing Gildor his life - a night (well, half a night, for the first half of it was over anyway) in his bed did not seem such high a price for his freedom.

''Do you remember the evening Celebrimbor and I visited your fater's workshop?'', Gildor murmured between hard, hungry kisses, entwining his fingers into the dark braids of Erestor's hair; given his urgency, it must have been too long for him as well. ''You were but a little elfling, hardly strong enough to wield that heavy hammer, made for grown Men. I thought you were ugly, all big eyes and the ears too long for that thin little face of yours. Though I must admit, you have grown up rather nicely, since then...''

He got a little distracted, his hands roaming all over Erestor's unresisting body. Erestor stood perfectly still, pondering absently over the fact that Gildor was actually not that much older than he - not in Elven terms, anyway(1). And yet, the Elf-Lord kept treating him as a child.

''Do you know what a special night that had been?'', Gildor asked, suddenly letting go of him. Erestor shook his head mutely. ''Twas the very night when he finally made me his'', Gildor whispered, his features starr with old pain. '' I had waited half an Age for that to happen, for him to take notice of me as more than the son of his old friend, and finally, it happened - and mere moons later, he was dead, murdered by slow torture. Two nights - that was all we had together. When I returned with Celeborn's troups to Ost-in-Edhil, the city was burnt to the ground... and he was dead.''

He started walking around the bedchamber with the inner unrest of a caged animal, his fists balled in barely controlled rage. Then he stopped abruptly, turned to Erestor again with burning eyes and grabbed his dark braids in a painfully tight grip again, as if he wanted to tear his head off with his bare hands.

''I was the one who found him in among the smoldering ruins of the House of the Mírdain... or what was left of him, who was more beautiful than the living fire in the depths of Khazad-dúm - a mutilated corpse, burnt almost beyonnd recognition. Did you know that Sauron blinded him with white-hot iron before he died? Quenched that undying flame in his eyes, in his fëa? And his hands, that had made things of such great power and beauty, that could touch one and awake a fire beyond imagination - they were crushed to bone splitters....''

His voice broke, and he let go of Erestor once more, fighting with his terrible memories for what must have been the thousandth of time - just as Erestor had relived his own nightmares again and again and again, without the hope of being freed from them. When he raised his head, though, his eyes went cold again like ice.

''Then we were driven out of Eregion and fled to Imladris. And when I got there, I had to found out that you - you of all people - have survived! That Elrond had found the time to rescue you, but never even looked for Celebrimbor. So, tell me, son of Hargil, how could I ever forgive you that you are alive and he is not?''

Strangely, for the first time in his life, Erestor at last could understand Gildor's bone-deep hatred towards him. It was born not from the haughtiness of a royal Prince as he had believed, but from the pain of an almost two thousand years old, festering wound; from the deep loss of a desperate love that could never be healed. And he also understood that against the memory of Celebrimbor Arwen never had a true chance. Gildor was soul-bound to his Lord, with a passion that ate him up from the inside, piece by piece, with every passing day. It was a marvel that he had not faded away from grief a long time ago. But again, the Princes of the House of Finwë were made of harder stuff than that.

''What should I do with you, son of Hargil, so that the mere sight of you would not tear my soul apart?'', Gildor murmured, his hands tightening in Erestor's hair with a despair that hurt both his head and his heart.

And Erestor made a decision - fully aware of the risks he was taking, for Gildor was clearly beyond reason in his grief. But for Celebrimbor's sake, whom he, too, had loved and admired as a child, out of compassion, and because he wanted to be free of that centuries-old debt, he answered quietly:

''Do with me as you wish, my Lord. I submit to you tonight - in every thing you might want from me.''

''Even if I want to hurt you?'', Gildor asked, with that strange gleam in his eyes again, that scared Erestor more than a little, but he would not back off now.

''If that is what you need to put your mind to peace, I shall take it from your hand'', he replied, steadying himself for a very hard night to come. He used to be a warrior, after all. He could take being hurt in the body. It was less painful than being hurt in the heart.

Gildor gave a sharp nod and puished him slightly towards the magnificent, four-posted bed, hung with richly-embroidered curtains.

''Good. Disrobe then and face that bedpost!'', he ordered, his voice now cold and dipassionate again. Erestor felt his throat suddenly tighten with fear, but there was no way out of this any more. He agreed to serve the tormented Elf-Lord's needs - all of them - for this one night, so now he had to keep up his side of the bargain.

Slowly, hesitantly, he shrugged off the heavy ceremonial robe he was wearing for the festival and laid it, carefully folded, over the back of a nearby chair. The cold perfection of his host made him painfully aware of the ragged scars that marred his own body. But then, Gildor had already seen the worse of them when he literally tore him from the jaws of the werewolves in that last battle upon Dagorlad. Compared to that, he looked almost comely now.

His undergown and leggings followed the robe, shoes toed off and placed under the chair, feeling those cold eyes upon himself all the time. Then he turned, as he was told, facing the bedpost, expecting that he would be in need of good leverage, soon.

He felt more than heard Gildor moving behind him with predatory grace, then the Lord of Edhellond faced him, holding several of those two-feet-long, leather thongs in his hands that the members of the Wandering Company used to secure their baggage on the pack animals when on the road. Gildor selected one of his liking, looped it around Erestor's wrists and fastened the thusly captured hands securely to the bedpost. Then he grabbed the ends of the remaining straps and bound them together in a tight knot, creating a very effective whip that way.

''I ask you one last time, son of Hargil'', he said in a low, silky-dangerous voice. ''Is it your choice to let me have my way with you tonight? To endure what ever I might inflict upon you and give me what ever I should desire?''

''Aye, my Lord, it is'', Erestor answered, bowing his head submissively, his voice more steady than his heart, in truth - and in the next moment the whip cracked down mercilessly.

It was a sharp, stinging pain that left a burning feeling behind; it felt like his skin had been torn open already, though 'twas not so, and he was sure that Gildor had not used full strength - that would probably make him bleed by the first lash. Still, it hurt badly (Erestor never being one who could find pain arousing - he had had too much of it during his life to enjoy it), and many more followed.

His hand steady with the whip just like it was with the sword or the bow, Gildor placed precise, neat lashes, tightly next to each former one, creating a pattern of multiple, thin red stripes on Erestor's back, from the nape of his neck all the way down to the back of his knees, careful not to break the skin or cause any serious damage, but inflicting a lot of pain.

Erestor tried to remain still, for he understood the pattern that was being created and knew that movig would only make things worse, breaking Gildor's rhytm and causing the lashes to miss their target and hit even more sensitive areas of his body. Nevertheless, 'twas difficult to keep his calm. Never had his parents raised a hand against him, and neither did Elrond or Fíriel(2). There was no reason to do so, for he had been a quiet and obedient child, then a quiet and restrained adult all his life, and the only people who had any groll against him personally were Gildor - and himself.

In this awkward position, kneeling naked before Gildor's feet and enduring his punishment, he realized with awe that indeed, he wanted to be punished, for having survived while his parents and sweet little siblings had to die such horrible deaths. That, in the heart of his hearts, he never forgave himself, either. That as much as it was liberating for Gildor to finally act on his grief and his anger, it also was liberating for himself to finally receive the punishment he always felt he would deserve.

The lashes became harder, more powerful with every new round, but still did not break his skin. Gildor's pale face became flushed and terrible in its cold beauty as he worked out his pent-up grief that had haunted him half an Age on his obedient and willing victim. Erestor bent forward slightly, grabbing bedpost with his tied-up hands, offering more of his vulnerable skin to the hard rain of whiplashes, his body getting more and more sensitive to the pain, while the frozen chunks of centuries-old guilt thawed up and were washed out of his heart. It was as if a heavy burden he had already forgotten he was carrying, had been rolled off of his chest, and he could breathe freely again.

After a while - he knew not how long it lasted, for he had lost count of time entirely -, Gildor threw the makeshift whip away, taking Erestor and in his arms, retracing every angry red strip he had created with his dry lips and wet tongue. Erestor groaned; it was so soothing, he would never believe that it would fell so good upon his abused skin. To his own surprise, he felt himself hardening under Gildor's ministrations. Mayhap it truly had been too long since any one touched him with longing.

''Did I hurt you badly?'', the Elf-Lord asked between kissing and licking his way along Erestor's spine, his voice somewhat less cold now... almost remorseful. Erestor shook his head, arching his back under the painful pleasure that wicked tongue gave him.

''You only gave me what I deserved'', he said.

That answer stopped Gildor for a moment, and he grabbed the younger Elf's jaw, turning his head to look him in the eyes.

''Ready for more?'', he asked. Erestor nodded simply. There was a strange understanding between the two of them - and now that they had crossed the line, he was ready for anything Gildor might have had in mind.

''You truly do have a lot of courage'', the Elf-Lord stated, stroking the red whip marks on the back of Erestor's thigh almost gently. ''I like that. Now, that you have given me your pain, you will give me your pleasure as well.''

''What ever your desire is, my Lord'', Erestor answered, though it was not really a question - and hissed immediately in pain, for Gildor slid a hand between his nether cheeks and without any warning thrust a long finger through the hidden entrance of his body. Dry.

He had never been taken dry before. The only one of his few lovers who liked a little rougher love play had been Elladan, but Elladan was genuinely fond of him and always took care that he was prepared and ready for taking. Now he understood that the flogging was a mere prelude to this night's trials, and that it would take some time - and probably a lot of pain for him - til Gildor would find his relief... a relief not so much for the burning heat in his groin but for the biting frost in his heart. The emptiness that no-one had been able to fill again. Not even Arwen Undómiel, fairest maiden of the Eldar on the face of Earth. 'Twas a constant pain, that only could be eased through the pain of an other. Mayhap through his pain Gildor finally could work out all that grief and hatred that froze his heart - or at least part of it.

Yet Gildor surprised him once again. Instead of taking his willing victim then and there, he untied Erestor's hands, nudged him closer to the bed with his booted foot (him still being fully cloted), and pressed his upper body down to the rough bedlinens, face down. Erestor remained still, though the reddened skin began to stretch painfully upon the whole of his back, and the urge to rub his almost painful hardness against the bed was nearly irresistible. The fact that he actually could take some pleasure from this experience amazed and frightened him at the same time.

The soft rushing of clothes told him that Gildor was undressing at last somewhere behind him, and soon, he felt the strong, finely-muscled body covering his, rubbing against his, enflaming new pain in every inch of his recently-abused skin. Then Gildor took the side of his hand and let it slide down from far back up Erestor's crease, down against his entrance, all the way til his root and back again, several times. The stroke of his hand was not gentle - a rough, urgent massage it was, letting Erestor know, who owned the most private parts of his body, at least tonight.

However, the brutal intrusion he was preparing for never came. Instead, he felt the strong, oil-slicked figners preparing him, roughly but thoroughly - Gildor obviously intended not to damage him seriously. Well, that was, at least, a relief - being unable to sit properly for weeks would have spoiled the rest of his time in the South.

The true magnitude of his future problems only became clear a moment later, when Gildor unexpectedly pulled him to his feet and threw him on the bed. He fell onto his abused back and thought the rough bedclothes would tear the enflamed skin off his body. The pain was so mind-numbing that he needed all his willpower not to cry out in agony. Sitting would clearly be less of a problem than lying on his back.

''I want to see your face while I take you'', Gildor said as an explanation, but he seemed not in a big hurry any more, in spite of the very hard proof of his obvious interest. He rolled onto the bed on Erestor's side and began to kiss him in the same needy, demanding fashion as he started the whole affair, while his hands roamed and teased and stimulated the younger Elf's body, til Erestor's front side was as much aflame with want and pelasure as his back was with pain. Gildor played him expertly and mercilessly, until his knees parted on their own, and he lay there wide open, offering himself in a silent plea.

Their coupling, when it finally came, was then fast and hard, almost brutal. Despite having been prepared properly, Erestor felt as if Gildor would split him in two - it hurt more than he had expected. A lot more. Elladan on his wildest was the soft kiss of a light breeze, compared to Gildor's frantic pounding. If he handled all his lovers thusly, small wonder that he was lonely.

Nay, Erestor reminded himself soberly. Gildor was not making love to him right now; he was burning out an old grief that could not be eased otherwise, mayhap forgetting even whose body he was using to find much-needed relief. And he had agreed to let him do so, himself. He might be sore for the next few days, but it mattered little. Elves healed fast. At least their bodies did. He only hoped that Gildor's fëa was not yet beyond healing. For though 'twas true that there was no lvoe lost between the two of them, no-one should have suffered thusly... and so long.

After what seemed a painful eternity, Gildor went overt the edge at last, shaking violently in the clutches of his relief as well as from the deep sobs that finally broke free from his breast, collapsing upon Erestor's battered body, while the younger Elf stroked his hair with trembling hands, whispering mindless words of comfort in his ear. Strange it seemed to him that he would be the one to give comfort, after all that just had happened - but even more strangely - he was in peace.

It took Gildor a long time til he recovered from his emotional turmoil enough to disengage himself from Erestor and survey the damage he had caused.

''At least I made you not bleed'', he murmured, ''but you will hurt badly for some days. Thank you for doing this for me.''

''Nay'', Erestor replied quietly. ''I needed this as much as you did... for other reasons, surely, but still... Besides, any one of your own people would have gladly done the same.''

''That might be so'', Gildor agreed, ''but I could never hurt one of them the way I hurt you. I am their Lord, their protector... it would go against my very being.''

''So, the fact that you have hated me for the last two thousand years, made it easier?'', Erestor said with a mirthless laugh. ''How convenient. May I ask... do you still hate me?''

''I cannot say that I like you'', Gildor admitted bluntly, ''and mayhap never will. But with your help, I was able to burn ot that mindless hatred from my heart. Consider yourself free. Your debt is fully paid.''

''You are generous, my Lord'', Erestor tried to shift position and winced with pain as the bedlinens rubbed on his reddened skin. ''A little pain in exchange for having saved my life...''

'''Twas more than that'', Gildor answered soberly; ''you saved my sanity. I was too far gone in my grief and hatred to keep it under control any longer. You took great risks, you know. Had the madness of grief overwhelmed me, you could have died tonight.''

''I was aware of that, my Lord'', said Erestor, ''but I wanted to be peace between the two of us. In honour of the memory of our Lord Celebrimbor, whom the love and loyalty of my parents belonged til the very end. And for Lindir's sake, so that he should never need to choose between here and Imladris.''

''You know that I cannot take my word back'', warned Gildor, kissing a red whip mark on Erestor's shoulder absently. ''If you let the boy be harmed, I shall take him from you. 'Twas no idle threat.''

''I know'', Erestor sighed, ''but believe me, my Lord, I shall rather die ere I let any harm come near him.''

''You can be certain that you will die, should he be harmed'', Gildor replied seriously, though it hindered him not in nibbling gently on the sensitive tip of one ear. Erestor shivered, feeling his limbs meld to goo - his right ear was particularly... responsive for such stimulations.

''I would... would like to know what you are doing... and why?'', he murmured, his breath becoming ragged again.

''Why, the night is not over yet'', laughed Gildor, ''and even though you might be a little sore in certain areas, there are many, many other things we still can do. There is only one Autumn Festival in every loa, after all.''

''You want me to stay?'', Erestor asked, slightly bewildered. ''Why? You not even like me, as you just stated!''

''I might change my mind about that part'', said Gildor with a shrug, ''should you give me the chance. Besides, I want no-one to have only memories of pain from the first night of Autumn. 'Tis supposed to be a festival of joy.''

Erestor considered the offer for a moment. He could stay and let Gildor make him forget some of the painful things he had been put through earlier... or he could return to the guest chamber, in his empty bed and spend the remaining hours of the night awake, alone with his pain. 'Twas not such a hard choice, really.

''So be it'', he said softly. ''I shall gave you that chance, my Lord.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) In my interpretation Gildor Inglorion was born somewhen during the War of Wrath, also shortly before the end of the Third Age, while Erestor was born in Eregion, somewhen before 1200 (Second Age) - I haven't decided on a concrete year yet, but he was considered a child by the fall of Ost-in-Edhil (1697, Second Age).
Now, by all respect towards the Great Maker, I simply don't buy his theory that Elves, who are considered to live thousands of years, would reach their maturity at a mere 50. I consider it an individual process, bot physically and mentally, and a much slower one, considering the amount of knowledge they have to gather, in order to simply be able to live in their own society. For the more sophisticated Noldor it might take even more than for the simple Silvan folk, and the higher the status of an individual Elf might be, the longer the process takes. So, an elfling of a few hundred years can, in my opinion, still be considered a child - or, in Celebrimbor's case, as he was able to wield such a heavy hammer and allowed to work in the workshop of his father, an adolescent.
(2) Who helped the as-then unwed Elrond to raise the orphaned Erestor.

My inspiration for Gildor (hope it shows up)

Originally a Fingolfin picture I took for my favourite arrogant, proud and tormented Elf-Lord

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