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They part by the river Glanduin - the border-river, southern boundary of Eregion that was, its dam broken again, its banks still strewn with debris. A fitting place for them: limits and partings. They have made their peace, Elves and Uruk, however tentative, and for however long it might hold - at least until their common enemy is defeated, Adar hopes. Now they part. Elrond fords the river with him, while his children march ahead.
‘Three years,’ says Adar. ‘Till you and I meet again.’
‘Till my king and yourself decide whether our alliance stands, or fails.’
Adar studies Elrond’s face: along his cheekbone, a scar that has not yet faded, given by one of Adar’s children, and above them weary, shadowed eyes. He will not meet Adar’s gaze. Still wary, then: and how could he not be? In recognition of their shared failures - their having been duped by the Enemy - they have agreed that neither side should ask for retribution, in the matter of Eregion at least. But there is Mordor: and there Ingaran Gil-galad has demanded - at Elrond’s urging, and Galadriel’s too, and Arondir’s, he who has climbed so swiftly in the king’s counsel - that the people of Tirharad be compensated for loss of land and life; and that they be left unharassed by Adar’s children. It will be no easy matter, keeping his children in check, now that they have been given a taste of victory, but for the sake of peace Adar has agreed. Elrond does not fully trust him, that much is plain, and Adar can scarcely blame him. But he has not demanded more; he has agreed to escort Adar south until Glanduin; he is here.
‘You will return,’ Elrond says.
‘If I live. The Enemy is still abroad, and who knows what plots he may yet be conceiving?’
‘Still, you will come.’
‘A request?’
‘A command,’ Elrond says. His voice is very soft, yet there is steel in it; when his eyes meet Adar’s at last, they are keen and Maia-bright, and Adar feels pierced by them.
Bending, he takes Elrond’s hand in his; presses a kiss to the knuckles of his left hand in mockery of fealty, lifts his head again with a wry smile. ‘Because you command it, then, scion of Melian.’ Elrond’s gaze is troubled now; he looks so very beautiful, uncertain, with the wind in his hair.
Riding south, Adar carries the memory of his face, the warmth of his hands in his, against his lips.
*
There is much to be done in Mordor: Adar is ever going to and fro, ensuring that his fractious brood does not erupt in fresh fighting, either amongst themselves or against their neighbours, meting out justice to those who do, appeasing quarrels. That work is needed less and less as time passes, although still often enough: they will always have rough and fierce tempers, he fears (and yet does he not love them for that also, the fierceness of their hearts, untempered even by centuries of enslavement?), but now that they have land of their own they have grown a little more at peace. But when they have peace there is toil to be done, so that the land they have claimed can be a fit habitation at last; halls to be delved and fields to be tilled. His children know little of such matters, but he teaches them and works alongside them, long hours beneath the smoky sky he has made. Hard as his labour is, it distracts him from thoughts of either past or future - of the torments of years gone by, of what this uncertain peace might bring - or might not, should it fail after all. From time to time there are reports of lone Elves travelling his lands, come to speak with the people of Tirharad-that-was, or to observe Mordor; he lets them go by unharmed, returns to his work.
But when his hands weary of the plough at last, and he rests, then he thinks - of Elrond. Again and again he returns to that parting by Glanduin, the river a bright line between them, as Elrond turned his horse around and rode swiftly north over the ford. Again he feels Elrond’s eyes on him. I will return, he thinks. Have I not said I would? In three years - two, now - and not before. And yet the summons still sears him, still calls him, a fiery tether binding him to the north, to the place where he is called. His lips, his fingertips smart with the memory of touch. Does Elrond know what he has done? Or is this the fey blood in him, binding as his foremother bound her husband in love beneath the stars?
Adar does not know. He lies on his cot, and burns.
*
Two more years elapse, and then - at last, at last - he rides north. The peace has held, for now, and by what miracle he knows not. His escort is small, a few sturdy warriors who have refused to let him go alone. But he dismisses them when Glanduin comes in sight, a silver ribbon, clean at last. Beyond it in the twilight the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil stand, a sight of shame from which he will not avert his eyes; he walks to the river alone.
By the bank, a lone tent. Elrond has also come without escort; he sits by a small fire. This time it is Adar who crosses the ford.
For a long time they sit and stand, as the stars shine brighter and brighter in twilight and then night, and merely look on one another. Elrond wears no armour now, but only a quilted tunic and a stained traveller’s cloak, worn boots; the scar on his cheek has almost entirely faded. Adar drinks in his loveliness, that is - for all the accursed perfection of his memory - somehow brighter than he ever remembered.
Then he kneels by Elrond - close, too close. ‘I have returned,’ he says. ‘As I swore.’ Too late he remembers that he swore no oath, and yet - in his soul there is that searing bond. ‘Our alliance holds.’ Elrond’s eyes are so very bright, even in the dark; Adar can feel the heat of him, warmer somehow than the fire.
‘So you have,’ he says. ‘So it does.’
Then their mouths meet, although Adar does not remember moving. Suddenly Elrond is against him, and Adar embraces him, fiercely, wanting to feel all of him, a hand against the small of Elrond’s back and another at the nape of his neck, pulling him close enough to crush. They kiss, harsh and hungry, clumsy at times; Elrond sinks his head against the side of Adar’s neck and presses more kisses there, and then bites. Adar gasps, pulls at Elrond’s hair until he lifts his head again: ‘Were we not to have peace?’ he pants out, laughing. But Elrond, eyes burning and fey, merely surges against him to kiss his mouth. And they kiss again, kneeling up, pressing against one another, until Adar gets the advantage; he tips Elrond backwards until he lies on the sand, has him spread beneath him and unbearably lovely, hair a tangle of dark curls, eyes flashing, lips parted.
Elrond melts beneath him when Adar tears at his tunic and his breeches, baring him, and when Adar, doffing his own clothes, bends down to kiss him again; he lets their legs tangle, everything in him soft and pliant except for the hardness at his core meeting Adar’s, until - a feint, Adar understands too late, as Elrond suddenly twists and reverses their position. Now it is he who lies beneath Elrond, and he does not complain - not when Elrond nudges his thighs apart and sinks between them, as beautiful in triumph as he was in surrender.
Had he ever thought him a courtier, more suited to a scroll than a sword? But Elrond is both, and skilled in other ways. With a little salve he has Adar clenching around his fingers, panting, his hands seeking for purchase in the coarse sand of the bank. And then soon he is within Adar, hot and hard and driving himself ever deeper. With every thrust Adar burns, and with every touch he surrenders a little more. Perhaps this is peace after all, at long last, and he cannot resist it. His head rolls back, and he hears himself keen; with an almost impossible effort he raises his head again, wants to see Elrond above him, wants to see him as he drives himself ever into Adar, one hand grasping Adar’s hip almost to bruising, the other stroking him with every thrust - his eyes burning silver, pale skin flushed, beautiful beyond words. Adar cannot speak, cannot breathe, can only feel pleasure surging and at last taking him over the edge; when his head drops back at last, cradled now by Elrond’s palm, he feels Elrond surge against him once more - twice, thrice, and then spill within him with a sigh.
*
Elrond sleeps; Adar, boneless, exhausted, does not. Somehow the air in his lungs feels fresher, sweeter than before, and he takes great lungfuls of it, and it is cool against his skin; he cannot help but shiver, and now and again the memory of pleasure returns to him and makes him shudder. He feels - very open somehow, hollowed out. Not unpleasantly, but rather as if an ever-present ache - his tamped-down wrath, his memories - has been removed from him, as if the pleasure he has felt - and oh, but it was good - has cleansed him in some way. He feels unlike himself, and glad, and frightened for feeling so glad and so unlike himself.
In sleep Elrond is pliant against him, his head on Adar’s shoulder, hardly the wild creature that just took him. A dark curl is plastered with sweat against his brow, and grains of sand dot his cheekbones and his nose. Adar holds him close, and now and again runs his fingertips against his neck and collarbone and shoulder. Longing claws at his heart, for he knows not what. For Elrond to ever be here, be his. Of course it cannot be; this is Glanduin, the border-river.
*
When Elrond wakes, they walk - stumble - to the river. The water is cold, coming as it does from the Hithaeglir; it feels bracing against Adar’s limbs, and returns him to himself. Elrond retrieves a little soap from his tent; he perches on a rock and cleans Adar, who sits in the river. Adar surrenders to his touch again - his warm hands careful against Adar’s cold, scarred skin. Oh, but he could weep. He does not, merely bends his head, closes his eyes, lets Elrond runs his hands against his sides, his arms, his back; at Elrond’s bidding he lets himself tip backwards into the water, so Elrond can soap his hair as well, card his fingers in it until it is clean and loose. When he half opens his eyes again he is struck by Elrond’s gaze - intent, tender. Adar has not thought of how he might look in a long time - has considered his body a tool, superficially damaged perhaps but useful for all that. But under Elrond’s eyes he feels beautiful. Then it is he who cleanses Elrond, more swiftly now - for Elrond seems to mind the cold as he does not.
Afterwards they sit again on the sand. The fire has died down to embers, but is roused again by Adar; Elrond wraps himself in his cloak and a blanket from the tent. Tiny droplets dot his hair, a crown of stars, while his namesake whirls slowly above. Adar sits beside him.
‘I wonder at your having come without an escort,’ Adar says at last.
Elrond half shrugs. ‘I trusted you. Not that you would - but I suspected you would not harm me.’
‘Did your king? Galadriel?’
‘I convinced them I would be safe. We had had fair reports of what you are doing in Tir Harad.’
‘And you are persuasive enough.’
‘I can be.’ A tilt of the head, a smile, and Adar’s heart stutters in his chest. ‘Ever the courtier, as you yourself said of me.’
‘That and more. Will this go on, do you think?’
‘Our alliance?’ It is not all Adar meant. ‘Perhaps.’
Elrond lies back on the sand, and Adar joins him, lets Elrond pillow his head on his outstretched arm. He dips his fingers into those dark curls, combing them back from his brow, enjoying their silk-softness.
‘I was raised among the slayers of my kin. The sons of Fëanor, who had killed my grandsire and my grandmother and my uncles, and many of my people whose name I could not tell you. Did you know that?’ Adar did not. Elrond is very still under Adar’s touch, withdrawn in memory. ‘I should have hated them, and sometimes I did. Or do. But not always. And the sons of Fëanor died, or disappeared, but their followers… some have returned to Lindon after all. Some handfuls of them. They live quietly, and sometimes life is not easy for them… or for those whom they have harmed, and who have no desire to be faced with such memories, yet who wish neither to forgive nor to forget. There are quarrels. But we try. Even in Lindon we are not the innocent courtiers or unstained warriors you may think us.’
‘But you are Eldar, not Uruk.’
‘Aye.’ Elrond sighs. ‘Which may be worse. The followers of Fëanor were not driven by centuries of torment as your children were. But I know what you mean. The harms committed by yours - and mine - will not soon fade away. Nor will the memory of what the Enemy did to you and your children.’ He turns to face Adar; his gaze is very soft, and weary. ‘I do not know, Adar. I hope.’
Nor does Adar. But he leans closer, kisses him. Not in lust now, and yet - kisses him again and again.
*
They part again, by the river Glanduin. Elrond extracts no promise from him this time, makes no command. Perhaps he does not need to.
Three more years, then, and then seven. Years in which to try, perhaps fail, and try again. It has not been attempted before, and Adar doubts it will attempted after, should this fail. But if any two should try… Elrond, child of three kindreds already, seems fated for this, and he… he has not dared think much on his own doom, but perhaps, perhaps…
The wind whistles and wails in the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil. Deep they delved us, the stones cry, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone. Between Elrond and Adar Glanduin runs, silver-bright in the sunlight, west towards the sea and a land Adar will never see - but, oh, it runs. A river and a border, perhaps a path.