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19 June 2010 | 5655 words
Title: The Letter
Codes: LOTR, F/G/A, Challenge story, R-ish,
Disclaimer: Tolkien rules this world. I merely sojourn there.
Feedback: Any and all will be answered. email@example.com or leave a comment below.
Written for the 2010 Midsummer Swap
Request by December: With Glorfindel and Aragorn. It begins like this. Glorfindel comes to Gondor for the wedding of A & A, and Faramir falls for him at once. Glorfindel does not mind in the least, but, being a friend of Aragorn he knows the King would give eyeteeth for a night with his steward, and he decides to share. So, when things get hot, G lets A take his place – without Faramir being aware of it (but maybe he is aware and only pretends not to be, you decide). It’s up to you how they manage the switching, the obvious solution being a play with blindfolding, but please feel free to come up with something else. After Glorfindel leaves Gondor, Aragorn notices that F is getting increasingly miserable, and thinks it’s because he is missing G and the mindblowing sex they had had. So, A is tortured by his conscience, and the question is to tell or not to tell. Valar, what would F think?!
What the king decides in the end and how it all turns out is absolutely up to you. Maybe a happy ending, maybe not, whatever, but I’d be pleased to have at least some drama and a bit of a shouting row in the process. As for Éowyn, you can fit in some explanation why F is going falling for other people while he is supposed to be in love with her, or just leave her out altogether, up to you as well.
I’d like it explicit, the highest rating you feel comfortable with. And I’d like the story based on book-verse, aka Faramir with black hair, grey eyes and some self-confidence.
King’s apartments, Minas Tirith, Gondor
He sat at his writing table idly watching as a candle guttered and another fluttered, casting a yellowish hue into the room as the flame dutifully worked its way down through the bands that measured the time. It was dark outside, the pale light of the sickle moon casting a dim illumination against the shadows. Beyond him on the walls of his chamber, the flickering light gave an eerie sense of companionship as shapes danced, forming and undoing on the smooth white surface.
Behind him, sprawling on the white sheets of their bed, Arwen, his wife slept alone. He had gotten up and pulled out the letter from his desk that had come in the diplomatic pouch earlier. Musing upon it, gathering his thoughts, he considered his reply even as he watched his wife. She was milky white in the glow of the candle, her arm exposed, a soft white shoulder. Her long thick black hair however obscured her lovely face. She was lost in sleep and he was lost in thought.
Reaching for a sheet of paper and a quill, dipping it idly into the ink, he paused a moment, memories and emotions coming into his mind. Calming himself, he focused and with a beautiful hand, he began to compose a reply.
My Dear Glorfindel,
I received your letter this morrow and was pleased that your journey to Imladris was uneventful. One can only hope such can be the case with every journey. The question that you posed to me about the matter at hand is futhermost in my mind this eve. I will consider your interest carefully and write more fully to you in a day or two.
Right now, I am still in thought as to the matter. Please give my warmest regards to Lord Elrond and his household. My heart lies partly in the valley you share and it will always be so. Until I can give more time to a decent response, I remain ever your servant,
Aragorn of Gondor, Rex
He looked at his short reply with a certain amount of dissatisfaction and sighed knowing it was all he could do presently. Others were involved and he was aware of his obligations and responsibilities to them. Tomorrow, when the day was underway and light filled his office he would write a more fulsome and complete response.
With a sense that he had a better grip on himself, he rose and with care snuffed the candle’s light. Walking through the dark room, he reached his bed and lay down pulling covers up around himself. His wife murmured and turned over, her back to him. He didn’t mind. His thoughts were elsewhere and the guilt he felt, small though it was, was something he didn’t want to dwell upon at that moment. He had other thoughts on his mind as he closed his eyes to sleep.
Days later, Imladris
Glorfindel sat in a chair, his elegant figure clad in understated but infinitely beautiful robes and tunic. He was lost in thought, a letter clasped in his hand. All around him people came and went but he didn’t see or hear them so deeply was he contemplating other things.
He found himself wandering through the images that came unbeckoned as he thought about the matter at hand, the events that had brought just a hint of discontent into his life. Discontent was a bad thing for Eldar such as himself with which to contend. Long-lived individuals did better cultivating peace and equinimity. It was better for the digestion.
Yet, here he was, Lord of great magnificence, etcetera and so forth caught on the twin prongs of regret and a middling sense of shame. Middling only in that it was wrong to be unthoughtful of others but he could be in his enthusiams and it was a flaw, his Persian flaw.
Or so he was told.
A figure paused in the doorway, stemmed in their journey to go where they intended by his regal form and faraway gaze. Dark eyes scrutinized him warily. “You look vexed.”
Glorfindel started, staring up at his interrogator even as he moved his hand to shield the letter it clutched. “You startled me, brother.”
Erestor, Senechal of the Lord of the House, regarded his friend, companion and fellow ancient being of a long by-gone age. “You look like you got caught at something. Care to elucidate perhaps? I hear it is good for the soul.”
Glorfindel smiled slightly. “There is much that is good for you. Cod liver oil is good for you. But it does not make things more palatable, my friend. Confession is not in the cards at the moment.”
“So, who is it that you have discomfited. That is, who besides yourself?”
Glorfindel’s features changed slightly, a frown of hurt and surprise forming on his beautiful brow. “You wound me with your words.”
“Hm. I would think so if you would but deepen your frown just ought. Your ‘wound’ appears to be only skin deep.”
A big grin formed on Glorfindel’s lips, his beauty increasing from that mere upturn. “You are a pusillanimous sort of soul to impugn me and assume the worst, my dear Erestor. A most pusillanimous sort. You would also indicate that I am vain.”
Erestor stared at Glorfindel, weighing the accusation and then shrugged slightly. “You are without much vanity for such an accomplished sort but you do have that look about you, that look of meddling in no good.”
“Ah, I can live with that. Truth is a virtue.”
“Apply it to your problem then, brother,” Erestor said, moving to leave. He paused and looked back. “Bulls eye.”
Glorfindel watched him leave and smirked slightly. “Truly,” he whispered as he rose and folded the letter, placing it in a pocket of his robe. He walked away down the hall and up a flight of stairs. The room grew quiet once more.
Minas Tirith, Gondor
A warrior culture, a heroic society.
The images of a thousand battles, of dark nights huddled together around fires, of men at arms bearing the trail together, they crowded his mind. Men at arms were brothers in ways they could not be in any other endeavor. War made you close, it made differences unimportant and you knew from a glance, a shrug, a pause in a voice, its’ inflection, things about the other that could never be possible otherwise. The bonds forged in the crucible could not be broken.
Those who had no experience of such a life could never understand. There were volumes spoken in the merest of glances, profound elequance in the slightest of movement. Another could know you better than you knew yourself because they saw you at every turn, at every moment of triumph, at every depth of despair and followed you anyway. Shared pain, shared horror, shared fears, all of this was the outcome, the fruits of heroic companionship. No one else could know, not her especially.
She was his wife.
Her strength, her friendship, her companionship was of ineffible measure but of a different sort. It was not the same as the other. Neither world overlapped and never would they. One was of the court and the boudoir, the other bloody battlefields and long marches through the dark and the cold. She could never know fully what that meant, what it felt like, how it smelled. And he didn’t expect her ever to know.
It would be his life duty that she never know.
But the other played with his mind, his thoughts, ordering his priorities. The tug of it, the need for it never left him. It had been his way in the past, long ago when friendships and comfort were in short supply. Gathering around himself a company of kinfolk and comrades, he had built a loyal brotherhood that had sustained him in more than the usual ways. Companionship of all sorts had been a part of his life the way horses and swords were. Company in the arms of other men was second nature. One never knew when one would die. You loved your comrades and you protected them, giving blood and effort to defend them even as they followed and defended you.
Aragorn sighed, the vision of many a manly form coming unbidden from the ever stretching past, falling into view from those foggy reaches as he considered his plight now. Tall, they were always tall as he was. Dark men, dark hair and serious eyes, almost as serious as him. Well made, often marked with scars, they were his and always would be.
They filled his memory and they filled his court, men at arms willing to follow him to all ends. Many of them were men he had shared intimate moments with and they would keep his secrets as well as he did. Some of them were men who hadn’t but had crossed his mind as comely and suitable. Faramir of Gondor was one of them, the tall serious and confident second son of the last and mostly unlamented Steward of Gondor.
Aragorn sighed as he considered the evening when they all had come to celebrate the reunification of the old kingdom and the unity between Men and Elves. The greatest of the great had been there, including a dear and charming companion, the great Glorfindel. It had been wonderous to him to lay eyes on that fabled being once more and they shared a few glasses in the great hall. They caught up on friendship, events, companions, and gossip even as they jokingly rated the men and women that would come to pay their respects. Those who had settled here and there themselves to enjoy the festivities of such a gathering were also not immune to the delightful commentary of the Lord of the First Age.
Standing in the corner, watching the crowd and on accasion watching them both was the Steward’s younger son. His presence was not lost and he didn’t pass without comment. Glorfindel eyed him across the room and smiled. “The younger son of Denethor has grown to be quite a handsome young man. I assume he tends some corner of your garden for you.”
“Ithilien,” Aragorn replied, sipping his wine. “He is a fine man, a man of letters and arms.”
“Well rounded,” Glorfindel replied nodding.
Aragorn snorted and Glorfindel smiled. “I meant mentally. You do lie well in the gutter for a King, my young friend.”
“Heavy lies the head that wears the crown,” Aragorn replied with a slight smile. “He is a most comely individual.”
“So it would seem,” Glorfindel replied, his eyes following Faramir as he stood looking around the room as if trying to find someone lost to him. Glorfindel’s eyes followed him until he turned and left the room.
The dance continued and they talked for much longer until they took their leave and made way to mingle with others.
Later that evening
The sky was very dark and the night air clean and cool. Faramir stood on the verandah outside of the main hall staring at the stars as he cleared his head. The sounds of the night were few as the rarified heights of the Kings House made the city noises seem far away. He closed his eyes and sighed, the perfume of the nearby gardens filling his senses.
“You are the Steward’s son.”
He startled and turned, his eyes meeting the direct gaze of the object of his earlier desire, his ancient and amused eyes filled with kindness and wisdom. “Yes,” he stammered before squaring his shoulders. “I am Faramir, son of Denethor, Last Steward of Gondor.”
“Ah,” Glorfindel said nodding. “You are here in the garden, walking… also?”
Faramir felt his cheeks burn just slightly, the idea that he had been found out making him feel like a child. He had been indeed following the Lord but he had thought himself completely skilled in concealment. Obviously not it would seem. “I … I love the moonlight.”
Glorfindel nodded, his eyes appraising the youngster before him. Tall and wellmade, a horse man most likely. It would be likely that he wielded as sword as well, most men of his stature did and thus one side of his body would be more powerful than the other. His hair was long, reaching toward his shoulders, thick, dark and wavy. Dark hair, red lips and pale skin, he was a beautiful young man. His gaze was level and his pride had recovered. Glorfindel could see it in the intelligent eyes and in the straightening of posture of the Steward’s son. “You are welcome to join me. I, too, like the moonlight.”
Faramir felt the flush return and willed himself to the dignity that normally informed him. Moving to join the elf, he matched strides and they continued forward. Glorfindel wore a tunic and trousers, boots and long robe open in the front. A belt of rich endornment encircled his waist and his hair was long, pulled back, golden and luminous. Faramir felt his desire rise again unbidden, gathering in his groin and he quashed it with a ruthless mental command.
“You are a man of few words, Faramir, son of Denethor.”
He smiled slightly. “As are you, Glorfindel, late of Imladris.”
“Late of Imladris, that is so,” Glorfindel replied, smiling and nodding toward the youngster. “I am a man of mysterious places, this I will acknowledge. Imladris is the place of late.”
Faramir chuckled. “I am honored to make the acquaintance of one so fabled as you, my Lord. I have heard much and marveled at all of it.”
“Ah, Mithrandir was your tutor perhaps?”
“Yes, he was,” Faramir said, smiling at the memory.
“Then you were well served in your education,” Glorfindel said pausing by a fountain. “Tell me about your education, Faramir of Gondor.”
Faramir turned, pausing, caught once more in the deep blue eyes of his companion. He swallowed slightly disconcerted that he could feel such a wavering of his usual confidence, the unexpectedly close proximity of the other daunting. The power of those eyes was compelling. “You asked what again, my Lord?” he found himself saying, his gaze unwavering from that of the tall elegant being before him. The moonlight seemed to halo Glorfindel’s figure and Faramir felt himself moving forward, his lips seeking those of his companion.
They met, softness and sweetness greeting and then strong hands enfolded Faramir, holding his ass cheeks in a firm grip. His own arms slipped around the shoulders of Glorfindel even as the elf pulled him even tighter against his own body. Faramir’s hands felt the soft silk of Glorfindel’s hair, a cascade of gold that shimmering in the moonlight. As quickly as they embraced, that quickly did the elf back off leaving Faramir gasping.
Consternation filled him and Faramir stepped forward, taking Glorfindel’s head into his hands. He pressed his lips and together they kissed before Faramir broke it off. Glorfindel stepped backward, watching the younger man with a bemused wariness. “Ah, you like control do you?”
“Yes,” Faramir said, smiling as he clenched and unclenched his hands.
“You are a bold one,” Glorfindel replied, gathering himself for the game at hand as a group of ladies approached, exchanged pleasantries with both men and then left them alone again. Turning, he stepped away, walking off with the smallest of smiles in a backward glance at the younger man.
Faramir paused, glancing all around himself and then followed, determined to have more and best one of the greatest beings ever to dwell under the sky.
Aragorn sat at table, his wife on one side and all of his companions of court intersperced with the greatness of Elvenhood from other lands sharing dinner. Glittering would hardly do justice to the moment, his queen making the room a shimmering and luminous monument to the glory that was Gondor and to her own people. The afternoon had been warm and incredibly good fun as the participants in the celebration had caught up on the news, shared old friendships and made new ones.
Faramir and his court were here from Ithilien. Éomer and the Rohirrim were present as were royal persons from the Belfalas and other lands of consequence. Among the Elves were the greatest of the great, Elrond of Imladris, Celeborn of Lothlorien and Glorfindel, slayer of Balrogs and confidante and intimate of the gods. It was perfect.
It also renewed the pang he had had for many a year over the comely beauty of some of his male companions. It was odd that he could feel such a desire when it was clear that he had all that a man could desire in the wife at his side and the children that came of his union with her. But there was a side of him that was not available to her, a side as vivid and as in need of fulfilment as any other in his personality. He dreamed and mused but nothing more came from it.
That is, nothing more until now.
Aragorn watched Faramir as he watched others, his gaze continually returning to Glorfindel. He could not blame the younger man. Glorfindel had beauty, power, age, wisdom and great charisma. You would have to be dead not to find him comely and worthy of more than the idle fantasy. It was clear to him that Faramir felt the same way. He knew. He had seen that look before. In other times, in other places, he had that look himself.
Faramir was talking to other people, half watching Glorfindel as the great man rose from the table and turned to move to the double doors, ostensibly to catch the air in the verandah gardens beyond. As he exited, Faramir noticed and detached himself from the group within which he had been with most of the night. He crossed the room and slipped out leaving Aragorn to wonder what the night could mean. He made a simple oath to slip out later and find out what was amiss. Settling back into the conversation, he considered the evening to come.
Later that same evening
He had left the party, pleading fatigue and the desire to write letters due to leave in the morning and so wending his way back to his private apartments, he found himself standing in the darkened room illuminated only by what moonlight made its way through the doors leading outside to the verandah and gardens beyond. The room was still and he turned, catching his reflection in the great mirror that hung on the wall of his apartments.
He had it. He stared at the reflection in the mirror, the face that was his. It was handsome and fine, a face of a man of destiny who had lived a full and often difficult life in service to the vision of his ancestors and to those who depended upon him. Often, peering into rivers for refreshment, Aragorn had seen the yearning on his face and he wondered how agile were the minds of others in espying what was actually on his mind. In the end, he usually had his moment with his intended. However, he hoped that his pokerface could conceal what he didn’t want others to know too easily.
Now, he wasn’t so sure. It was clear that Faramir wanted Glorfindel, Glorfindel was amused and perhaps willing to accommodate Faramir and Aragorn had once again the stabbing pang of jealously he always felt when the object of his desire desired another. It was always so. He sighed and turned, looking at the bed that would remain empty for hours as Arwen communed with her family, catching up on things he could only imagine.
Moving toward the patio doors that opened onto the long veranda that circled the private apartments connecting others to his own, he walked off silently in search of company. As he passed rooms, he saw people gathered drinking and talking, their laughter drifting outside. He paused for a moment feeling uplifted but continued until he came to the end of the veranda. A chuckle caught his attention and he turned, more than aware that shadow concealed him.
A room was occupied; two people were sitting together on the edge of the large bed, one of them in a slight state of undress, his companion’s hand resting on his bare shoulder possessively. The other was smiling, whispering into the ear of the first and the one listening was Glorfindel. His face was radiant, his smile broad and he listened to his companion as a confidence was given. Glorfindel snickered, sitting back and regarding the other, then he leaned forward and kissed him on the lips gripping his lover by the neck, fingers threading through dark silky hair. It was a man, this was clear from the broad shoulders and drape of shirt half off a pale shoulder and he was giving back as good as Glorfindel was giving.
Aragorn felt a pang and stepped back farther into the shadows, meaning to leave but drawn to the look of intense savoir affaire on the face of Glorfindel. He was seducing his companion with an effortless ease that was entrancing, knowing that he could have what was before him without question. The other, a tall man with the tattoos of Gondor running down one arm was laughing slightly and then lay back, his hair falling away to reveal his handsome face. It was Faramir, Aragorn noted as a throb of desire pierced his body, pooling in his groin. Moving even farther back, he turned, determined to watch what was to come even as he wished it were he and not the elf that was the aggressor.
Glorfindel stood, shrugging his robe off his own broad and pale shoulders, the tattoos and scars of a thousand battles ever so pale on his skin. His tunic had slipped away with his robe and he stood over Faramir like a triumphant warrior over his fallen opponent. Faramir’s face stilled as a needy look of want formed on his handsome features and he clutched the coverlet of the bed in his hands.
No one spoke, they merely took each other in and then Glorfindel turned and snuffed out with his fingers the candle that had been, with the fireplace, the only illumination in the room. Light silhouetted Glorfindel as he stood silently, his breathing deepening as he considered the feast before him. He took his time removing his belt and let it fall. Faramir lay immobile watching his every move. Glorfindel stepped forward, crouching over Faramir, his weight born on one knee, which he planted on the bed. Reaching down, he gripped Faramir’s belt and tugged it. Faramir’s hands feverishly pulled at it and it came apart, falling to either side of his body.
Faramir gasped as Glorfindel stood up again and then knelt slowly, his own eyes never leaving the young man’s face. Gripping Faramir’s thighs, Glorfindel pressed his face against Faramir’s groin, rubbing, then rose silently, staring at the younger man while he groaned and writhed. Smiling, he then looked up, gazing into the shadows beyond the room.
Aragorn, taken by surprise stepped even farther back until he could go no further. He held his breath and willed himself to move away but he couldn’t. He felt trapped as in aspic and there was no leaving now. He just hoped he was silent and still enough that the sharp eyes of the great lord would not see him where he was. Yet he knew that was a hope that had little substance. Glorfindel’s very existence over the course of his long and fabled life owed a great deal to his acute vision and Aragorn knew that he had likely given himself away anyway. He felt a churning sense of embarassment; shame and irritation build up as he waited for Glorfindel to return to the task before him.
Imladris, later on
“You appear to be distracted,” Elrond said, considering the distant expression on the face of his companion.
Glorfindel sighed. “You read me like a book,” he said, smiling.
“A very baudy and exciting book,” Elrond said, his smile slowly forming on his lips. “You are the companion volume to my own less exciting but equally fulsome tome.”
Glorfindel snorted. “As if your story was any less intriguing.”
“You have been quiet since our return. Do you wish to unburden yourself?” Elrond asked kindly.
Glorfindel sighed and shrugged slightly. “Not as yet, my brother. I have much musing to do concerning a matter of no consequence to you.”
“I will be available,” Elrond said, rising and walking to the door. He paused and then continued.
Glorfindel wondered how much Elrond knew already and considered confession. Elrond wanted confession. Erestor wanted confession. What was it with men of similar lettered names seeking his inner most details he wondered as a vision of his problem seeped into his mind unbidden. He sighed and closed his eyes to review once again what seemed sensible at the time, goaded on with drink and too much good disposition, but now threatened to be a problem unforseen. He sighed and closed his eys again…
Glorfindel moved, propping himself up on one elbow as he stared through the darkness at the figure beyond. He could see him, smell him and from the familiarity of that knew it was Estel. He smiled slightly, detecting almost instantly the reason for his being there in obscurity. For a moment he felt a some small irritation and then a sense of amusement that generally led to no good thing happening. Leaning down, he whispered slightly, telling Faramir to close his eyes. Long lashes fluttered slightly as Faramir obeyed and with a soft kiss on softer lips, Glorfindel rose. Faramir’s eyes opened and were gently closed by Glorfindel’s fingers. “Keep your eyes closed. Trust me,” he whispered.
Faramir relaxed, his eyes closed and as Glorfindel looked around, he found a sash from a curtain. Pulling it free, he chuckled and turned, kneeling over his lover. Slipping it under Faramir’s head, tutting his eyes to close again, Glorfindel gently but firmly tied it over the younger man’s face. With a gentle brush of his hand over Faramir’s chest, he whispered softly to him. “Lay still.”
Turning, walking without a sound, Glorfindel stepped out of the room and reached into the shadow, taking Aragorn’s arm. Pulling him closely behind him, he reached the room again and the quiet yet expectant figure of Faramir lying on the bed. Aragorn, his face flushed with embarassment stared at Glorfindel and Glorfindel, his face filled with an amused grin, stared back. Then Glorfindel took his robe in hand and bowed slightly, turning and walking from the room.
Aragorn watched him go and felt a moment of panic, which disappeared when he turned and looked down at Faramir. He stared at the younger man and then shook his head, a slow smile filling his handsome face. With haste and little care, he removed his tunic and with a silent prayer to the kind hearts of ancient beings, lowered himself to partake of the bounty laid out before him.
Gondor, later on
My dear Glorfindel,
I am writing to tell you that I am still consumed with great surprise at the delightful interlude that you allowed me to enjoy and enjoy it I did. You have shown yourself to be a man of selflessness and I wish to thank you as best I can with words inadequate to convey my sentiment.
The evening ended with sleep, during which I slipped away, not nearly as quietly as you but with much trepidation as you can imagine. The days to follow however had filled me with a sense of guilt that is hard to quantify as it seems our mutual friend has found himself saddened by the lack of affectionate company that he assumes you supplied.
My conscience plagues me, even as I was plied with wine and good humor that night, as well I know that you and our mutual friend were as well. Celebrations break down barriers and with enough wine and good cheer, what seems sensible and even desirable sometimes comes acropper when sobriety and reality finally arrive. I wish no offense or harm to anyone yet I have caused it and find myself on the horns of my own dilemma, waffling this way and that over how to make amends. I am open to suggestion as among the wise there are only one or two as equal as you.
With great hope and much affection,
Aragorn of Gondor, Rex
He sealed the letter, making his mark on the wax with the signet ring of his ancestors, the one that bestowed the rule of law into his hands. He leaned back and closed his eyes, the images of that moment coming into his mind. Pale skin over long muscles, muscles made smooth by years on horseback, strong arms that could wield bow or sword, they gripped him as they dueled together, working out on each other’s bodies the pentup lust that had fueled their secret passions.
Neither man was meek in bed, neither man wanted to give up to the other any notion of dominance and so the throes of their moment was one of will and body combining to make such a gripping climax as he had never experienced with another. The coarseness of his own gutteral cries he had never heard before but he had never ridden a horse so untamed and so willing to put up a fight. Slickness against slickness, feral need pitted against feral need, the tumble and movement burned away layers of civilized adornment brought about by peacetime and cultivation. Between the two of them, it was a battlefield and they conducted themselves with all the fervor and ambition of real war and then they lay spent, neither winning, neither conceding.
Aragorn had gotten up and fled into the night leaving Faramir to his own devices. That part of the bargain had not been worked out and even though he had found delight untold in the moment, he was not prepared to see reality as it might display itself if his partner removed his blindfold too quickly. It was a coward’s out but he took it like a lifeline, returning to his apartment and reality as it actually was.
The next day the parties all departed and even though Faramir and Glorfindel had a tender moment of conversation together as he readied himself to ride away with the other elves, there was no time to observe and decide that perhaps the previous night and the present moment didn’t add up. As troubled and wistful as Faramir was to see Glorfindel leave, that was how relieved Aragorn was to see him go. What he didn’t expect however was how that regret would linger in Faramir. Giving him pain was never a wish nor goal.
Aragorn sighed and wondered what he could add to his letter and decided nothing more could be committed to paper. It was Glorfindel’s job to respond. So with a weariness that irked him somewhat, Aragorn slipped his letter into the diplomatic pouch destined to leave for the Eldar lands the next day.
To Be Continued
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Reader note: Due to house stuff and a wedding, I have barely made the deadline with this story. I will finish it and post it to the archives shortly when the pressure of deadlines and such is passed. I am sorry for this inconvenience but I will be working on it in a couple of days. I hope this story reads through well. I have done my best to proof it before delivery. I missed the last fest due to unforseen circumstances and I have tried not to do that again. Thank you in advance. –the Management J
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