Gildor could see that his mother was not happy with her son, though the slight crease between her eyebrows was the only sign of her displeasure. The only sign of displeasure, in fact, which he ever gleaned from her facial expression. Despite his approaching maturity, he still did not know if this was to be ascribed to the innate harmony of her soul or to a remarkable display of outward restraint. In moments as these, her mind remained shut.

'Your father tells me,' she began, 'that you intend to go through the Sindarin Choosing Ceremony. Why do I have to hear this from him?'

Why do you think, mother? Because I thought he would mollify you, perhaps?

Useless, of course, and Gildor Inglorion rebuked himself for trying to hide behind his ada's back again. If he couldn't do better, he might just as well postpone the whole ceremony for another hundred years or so. 'A good question,' he admitted. 'I should have spoken to you both. So, you have objections, Mother?'

'This goes against the Laws and Customs of the Eldar,' Nenárie replied calmly. 'The union of the body means marriage, and free excercises in pleasure do not exist. Not even for the honourable purpose of instruction.'

Father is of a different opinion, her son wanted to say, but he managed to swallow the remark in time. This was his own battle. 'They do - among the Sindar and Noldor of Middle-earth. The Laws and Customs you mentioned are laws and customs of Valinor, a realm that is the peak of perfection - much like Mount Taniquetil itself, I suppose. A place where people unerringly find their true soulmates without the need for trial or the risk of error.' His mother was the one who used to say that even in the Blessed Realm, marriages could fail and love remain unrequited. 'But we are not in Valinor, and I would adapt to the wisdom won on this side of the Great Sea.'

The crease deepened. Gildor felt sorry for her, but he wanted this too badly to give in. Any argument short of being personal would do. 'Are you afraid I will name someone entirely unsuitable?' It had been his father's only reason to be reluctant. 'Tell me which of all possible choices you would deplore most, and -'

She was shaking her head. 'In matters such as these, there can be no bargaining. You choose whom you will, or not at all. If you will not restrain yourself, I will not restrain you, my son.'

Suddenly, Gildor saw the light from a gem spill through her clutched fingers. Golden rays, the colour of her hair and his. She was holding it for support; it was a jewel crafted in Valinor, a gift of the High King Arafinwë, her grandfather-in-law, and it had the property to warm in times of chill when roused by the need of the holder.

'But sometimes,' Nenárie added, 'I think your father and I should have returned home directly after the War of Wrath.'

So he was free - free to feel guilty and yet keep his neck stiff. His father merely dreaded that his son would have the cheek to name the High King at his Choosing Ceremony. Which, as Gildor had to admit to himself, he would not hesitate to do if he felt attracted to Gil-galad, instead of mainly to the King's braid, and the King's crown and the authority that went with it. As it was, he wondered if a less ambitious and more emotional choice would not serve him better. All the same...

Eventually Inglor would embrace his son's decision. He was too much like his own father, who adapted and acted as he thought best under any given circumstances. Many had called Finrod Felagund a fool for adopting mortal men and even dying for one of that short-lived breed, yet not a few of them sang hymns to the evening star, which would not sail the heavens but for him.

Deep in his heart, Gildor knew the comparison was inept and delusive. He was mainly curious, and, to be even more honest with himself, chasing sensation. Which was one of the reasons, perhaps the most important one, why his mother would never give in.

His parents would go West soon, he realised in a flash of insight, which he was level-headed enough not to call foresight.

But he would not.

He was sauntering across the courtyard, vaguely contemplating a ride with the wind in his hair and perhaps his brain, when his younger sister Aglareth accosted him.

'Will you go through with it?' she wanted to know, her cheeks slightly flushed.

He knew what lay behind: she would take her lead from him in this. Not because he was her shining example, but because she was more easily blown away by the displeasure of others, and liked to use him for an anchor.

'Yes. Most certainly,' Gildor said.

'I want to know all...' she began, but then corrected herself. 'I have to know how you felt, afterwards. Not what you felt, of course.' Her smile came close to being a smirk.

I'll make it sound embarrassing, then, he thought. To deter you, and spare Mother the sight of two children waving goodbye on the quays of Mithlond, instead of only one. But he knew he would eventually be honest with her. There were few things he loathed as much as insincerity.

'I may even tell you,' he replied. 'But on the other hand, my expression may be telling enough - and being female, you're different anyway. And now I'm going for a ride. Alone.'

Aglareth pulled a face, marring her glorious, golden beauty.

On his way to the stables, Gildor set himself to face the most difficult question of all. At a Choosing Ceremony, you have to chose someone, and he still had not made up his mind.

***

The High King Gil-galad's castle rose high above the town of Forlindon. The upper half was built on the hilltop, the lower half was hewn from the rock itself, and the water of the stream providing the castle with water cascaded downhill through an elaborate arch carved into the rock face. The Singers' Hall was in the upper half. It had high, oblong windows bordering on the terrace to the South, which overlooked the Gulf of Lune. As the weather was mild, they were open today, lending the southern facade the appearance of a gallery, but they could be closed with transparent panes descending from the arches; only Celebrimbor son of Curufin knew the secret of this.

The Hall had no furniture whatsoever, save the beautifully-carved, low wooden banks running around along the walls, where people were supposed to sit and listen to the singers’ performance.* It was lit by lamps that were attuned to the intensity of the light and glowed ever more brightly as the day waned into twilight and night.** In this Hall, Gildor Inglorion's Choosing Ceremony would take place.

Elrond arrived early, as usual. He liked to watch others enter instead of being watched, and he was doing so from a corner beside the row of windows, where he could overlook both the hall as well as the terrace and the Gulf beyond. The corner on the other end of the 'gallery' was occupied by Sirnil, the High King's chief minstrel, who was playing a soft melody on his harp. It reminded Elrond of water rippling gently over pebbles in a stream.

But those were memories he

He had to admit that he was curious. There were persistent rumours concerning a sharp disagreement between Gildor Inglorion and his parents, or to be more precise, his rather strict mother. Nenárie was said to have brought along a private copy of Laws and Customs of the Eldar when she followed Inglor to Middle-earth at the onset of the War of Wrath. Elrond had read it, and copied it to have it available for reference, and though it contained ideas he did not share he understood why Gildor's mother would object to her son's wish. He was less sure about Gildor's own motives. Not a desire to adapt; he would rather have the world adapt to him, and only if that should turn out to be impossible he would settle for merely leaving a mark on it, Elrond Half-Elven supposed.

He thought of his own choice less than a hundred years ago. After some deliberating he had chosen Fíriel, the High-King's former lover, a woman marred by history whom few thought beautiful. But he had known beforehand this was not about beauty, or about being bedazzled or enchanted, but about learning, about the willingness to give, and the capacity to take.

For one brief moment, he had wanted to name Gil-galad. But he had shied back from the stir this would cause, loath as he was to draw too much attention to himself. Not that the King would mind being chosen. On the contrary. Normally, Gil-galad had to be careful in his courting, for he always ran the risk that people would respond to his authority rather than to his person. Therefore, Elrond was convinced that the King would happily consent to be the object of someone else's choice every once in a while. But nobody ever dared go so far. Not until now.

He saw Celebrimbor enter the Hall, alone, apparently wrapped in thought. What kind of lover would the grandson of Fëanor make? Elrond wondered briefly, but he was sure he did not really want to find out. Perhaps Gildor did. On the other hand, Celebrimbor was one of the few capable of refusing, feeling more at ease with inanimate objects than with people. No one in his right mind would choose him unless they had an excellent reason to think Celebrimbor would accept.

More and more people came in; he saw several Falathrim from the Havens, including Galdor, but tonight, Cirdan was not among them***. He noticed the arrival of Gildor's father Inglor, with his daughter Aglareth (who wore a look of maidenly shyness Elrond did not find wholly believable), but without his wife. And he spotted his distant and daunting kinswoman Galadriel, though not her Sindarin husband. And then it was Gildor's turn to enter.

For some reason, the subject of tonight's Ceremony managed to draw attention without making a sound. Of course, people had been waiting for him, but nevertheless the effect was interesting; faces turned, and some conversations stopped - though not all. Elrond, ensconced in his corner, tried to study the whip-like body, the angular face with the high cheekbones and the thick mane with the colour of molten gold**** as if he were a stranger who saw the youth for the first time. Whoever it was Gildor would decide to name tonight, his chosen one would have no trouble finding him attractive.

The last to enter was the King, announced by a gong. The next gong beat would mark the beginning of the Ceremony. However, instead of giving the sign Gil-galad scanned the hall, seeming to count faces, and walked over to. Would the absence of Gildor's mother be a problem? Elrond wondered.

'His mother's objections are heartfelt,' someone who seemed to read his thought spoke softly beside him. Elrond recognized Glorfindel's voice even before he turned his head to look at the older Elf-lord, who must have entered by the terrace. 'But she is too wise to stop him. If her presence were required, Nenárie would be here.'

'How well do you know her?' asked Elrond, genuinely curious.

'Well enough,' Glorfindel replied mysteriously, just before the gong rang out again.

The first part of the ceremony went by smoothly. If Inglor harboured any lingering reservations concerning the propriety of the custom, he never showed it when he led his son before the High King. With a twinge of envy Elrond thought of his own Chosing Ceremony. His kinsman Celeborn had acted the father part, as by an ironic twist of fate a child with two fathers had lost both of them: Eärendil sailed the heavens, while Maglor wandered along the seashores, lost and doomed.

After the King had declared Gildor to be of age, it was Galadriel who braided his hair into an adult fashion, just as she had done for Elrond. He remembered vividly how his own hair had chosen that particular occasion to assert its independence and slip from the braider's increasingly impatient grasp. Galadriel had not been happy, for she loathed to appear clumsy. Gildor's hair, though, proved more cooperative, and before long he was ready for the second part of the ceremony.

Sirnil the minstrel, who loved his role as the Master of Ceremonies, stepped forward again and sang: 'Gildor Inglorion, 'tis the time-honoured custom of the Elves of these Hither Shores that every young one who has reached adulthood choose someone who would teach them the ways of loving. Hast thou made thy Choice?'

Gildor's gaze swept the hall as if he owned it before he spoke the response: 'Indeed I have, Master Sirnil.'

'Then name us the one of thy Choice.'

Again, Gildor let his eyes roam. They alighted on Gil-galad, lingering briefly, but just as Elrond thought: he will actually do it! they passed on to Celebrimbor, who received about the same amount of attention before Gildor's eyes traveled on. For all the world, it looked as if his words to Sirnil were beside the truth, as if he had not yet made his choice. Elrond bent forward, ever more curious. The next moment he froze.

'For my first time,' Gildor said, loud and clear, 'I have chosen Elrond Peredhel.'

***

Elrond? It was the last name Gil-galad had expected to hear. Elrond's assets were many, but being an older and more experienced lover was not one of them. If he had shared a bed with more than one or two male lovers since he came of age, the King would be highly surprised. And Elrond was Gildor's senior by fifty years, at most.

His astonishment was shared by many, to judge by the buzz arising in the hall and the number of raised eyebrows. The Peredhel's expression was more than merely astonished. As far as Gil-galad recalled no one had ever refused the honour of being chosen; it was hard to imagine a greater insult to someone newly come of age. But this could well be the first time, for it was only too obvious that Elrond was thoroughly dismayed by Gildor's choice.

As I am, Gil-galad admitted to himself.

The question was, whether Elrond Half-Elven was prepared to create a major scandal by saying no, and thereby forcing Gildor to make a new choice.

When the silence threatened to become oppressive the King gave tonight's Master of Ceremonies a small nudge. Sirnil blinked but regained his composure fast enough to ask the crucial question: 'Do you accept?'

Elrond rose, wiping his hands on his robe. He stared at Gildor, his gaze unwavering, and suddenly the younger Elf seemed to become aware of the questionable character of his choice, for a look of uncertainty crossed his fair face. Elrond opened his mouth.

'I do,' he said, his voice remarkably composed. A collective sigh swept through the hall, reminding of the wind stirring the rushes of Lake Alphrim*****. No one - with the possible exception of Galadriel, who eyed him pensively - noticed that the King's personal sigh was not one of released tension.

When Elrond reached out his hand to Gildor, Gil-galad looked away - straight into a face that seemed to mirror his own unhappiness: that of Celebrimbor, son of Curufin. The sight was slightly disturbing, so he turned his head again, to see Elrond and Gildor step onto the terrace. So they would leave by the path leading down from the castle, all the way to the small cove that so many couples favoured for their trysts?

Suddenly, he blinked. Who was that cloaked figure in the shadows at the end of the terrace, watching the two pass by and causing Gildor to freeze for more than just a fleeting moment?

When he saw Inglor's face, Gil-galad knew the answer. So Gildor's mother had come, after all, shrouded in sorrow and rejection.

***

'Why did you have to choose me?' Elrond demanded to know, while they descended the steep path to the cove at the foot of the rocks. 'We are not even friends.'

'But what does this have to do with friendship? said Gildor. 'Is it not about experience in the ways of the flesh? Pleasure. Is that not the point of it?'

'I wish I could believe that,' Elrond said. 'But I cannot. If you truly take me to be your experienced older lover, I am not sure whether to feel flattered or misjudged. If you do not, I may decide to feel annoyed. So let me repeat it. Why me?'

They halted, about halfway down. Elrond sensed he was on the right track, convinced as he was that Gildor had not made his definite choice until he actually spoke the name.

The son of Inglor opened his mouth, shut it and opened it again. Elrond expected yet another evasive answer, a quip, an ambiguous remark. To his surprise, however, the face of his would-be lover turned deadly serious.

'You are beautiful,' he said. 'You are the great-grandson of Lúthien Tinúviel, and even though I never saw her, I can begin to imagine what she was like when I look at you, Elrond Peredhel. You are mysterious. A strain of mortality runs through you, even though you chose to be named among the Eldar. But you also have a foremother whose flesh was but a raiment worn freely, and not of necessity. You have a twin brother who chose the Gift of Ilúvatar and will pass beyond the circles of this world. And I tell you,' and Gildor stepped closer and laid his hands on Elrond's shoulders, 'that the mystery pulls stronger and more insistently than the beauty. I am insatiably curious. I want to know all there is to know, see all there is to see and seek all there is to find. If my eyes could pierce the veil of the heavens and the surface of the sea and the rock beneath our feet, I would look beyond the stars, into the depths of the ocean and into the heart of the earth. They cannot, but you can show me a glimpse of it all.'

His face was close to Elrond's, a fair face, strong, sharp, with bright eyes and a finely sculpted mouth. But it was, indeed, a face that seemed to want something.

'It seems that you want to know the entire Music of the Ainur and a little more,' Elrond said, 'but if you seek it in me, you would to well to remember that my house has been a home of sorrows from childhood on. My life is marred like Arda. Seek me, and what you may find in the end is sorrow.'

'Yet I cannot imagine that sorrow is all you have to give,' Gildor replied too quickly.

'Perhaps not, but it will be part of the package.'

'Nonetheless it is you I want tonight, not someone else. Suffering is a part of passion.'

Where had he picked up that one? 'Are you sure that you did not merely want to do the unexpected?' And wishing he could return to the castle, Elrond resumed his downward climb.

The younger Elf hurried to join him, but discovering that the path was too narrow for two people to walk abreast, he pushed past Elrond to take the lead. 'If that were so, would it preclude the rest of what I said?' he countered.

Elrond suppressed a sigh. He was none too eager to be Gildor's key to the mysteries of Eä; even being used as a provocation or simply a means to draw attention seemed better. Such things were eventually forgotten, and they not include the risk of disappointment and failure.

'It would not,' he answered finally. Taking a few quick steps to catch up with Gildor he put an arm around his shoulder. This enabled them to go side by side after all, and perhaps it would bring them more closely together in another sense as well.

After what seemed a remarkable long pause, given his earlier statement about wanting him, the younger Elf copied his gesture. Elrond was surprised to find that their joined descent had nothing awkward, as is sometimes the case when two people walking in this manner fail to find a rhythm, because the size of their legs or the way they move does not match.

'Is this a suitable place?' Gildor asked when they reached the rock-sheltered cove with its small, sandy beach.

Elrond was slightly amused. 'I cannot imagine that anyone will deliberately stalk us.' He turned to face his pupil - only to notice that despite the semblance of intimacy during their descent, Gildor was looking uneasy - as if the pose he had assumed until now suddenly became too difficult to maintain.

This would require surety of touch, Elrond realised. The question was, whether he was up to the task, for he felt more nervous than during his own First Time.

***

'Are you not supposed to kiss me now?' Gildor broke the silence on the beech before it could become too oppressive.

'If that is what you want,' Elrond said, but instead of waiting for a reaction he stepped closer. While one of his arms encircled Gildor's waist, the other went up, the hand first tracing the outline of an ear, then stroking his hair, and finally pressing against the back of his head to bring their mouths together.

Gildor had been cheating, to a certain degree. He had been kissed before, even more than once, and he thought he knew what to expect.

He was wrong. If the others had been dallying, Elrond was most certainly not. His lips and tongue claimed all they could of Gildor's mouth, and Gildor felt the rest of himself being pulled along, irresistibly - and unresisting. First he felt a tingle, from the soles of his feet to the roots of his hair, then he felt his limbs go weak and his spine melt, and all the while a slow tension built in his groin. How long it lasted he was unable to tell, but there was a moment when all he wanted was to sink bonelessly to the beach with Elrond and let their bodies dissolve into sand to be washed out by the slow, mild tide of the Gulf.

Or did he?

Suddenly, Elrond ended the kiss. 'Is something wrong?' he asked softly.

'What makes you think so?' Gildor gasped.

'You stiffened.'

'I did not...' Gildor began, until he realised it was true. 'I guess I did. Never mind. Go on, please.'

Elrond shook his head. He let go of Gildor. 'You say that you want mystery, that you want to fathom the depths of Eä - yet you seem unable to surrender to another child of Arda, who is after all but a tiny part of the universe.'

Gildor was taken aback. He had not expected Elrond to demand surrender. Gil-galad, yes. Celebrimbor, not unlikely. But Elrond?

'How can I guide you, unless you are prepared to go all the way?' the Half-Elven went on.

'Please, will you try again?' Gildor asked. He began to wonder if he was not getting rather more than he had bargained for.

Elrond eyed him gravely, but his next words seemed to belie his expression. 'You bet! I will not acknowledge defeat so easily.'

Unable to help himself, Gildor chuckled - and was swept into Elrond's embrace again. This time, they did end up on the beach, and in the mean time they had somehow rid themselves, or each other, of their clothes. Everything appeared to be going as it should now, for Elrond did not call a halt. But as they lay down beside him and the hand of his chosen one came to rest lightly on his hip, Gildor found himself on edge again. He did not understand. He wanted this badly, nor had Elrond's kisses and touches failed to arouse him. And still...

He closed his eyes in dismay and he murmured: 'I feel terribly nervous.'

Elrond removed his hand. 'Are you afraid it will hurt to be taken?'

'I do not fear pain,' Gildor replied immediately, at the same time realising how defiant he sounded. 'I assure you that is not the problem,' he added, more softly and in all sincerity. He stared up at the moon. It was not quite full, and it seemed to pull a face at him. Why not just get up, dress and leave? He had made a hideous mistake.

However, as he raised himself tentatively on an elbow, Elrond gently pushed him down. 'Please, stay.' He pulled Gildor closer. 'You say you do not fear pain. But I think you do fear something. That your mother is right about the Laws and Customs of the Eldar. That somehow, you will find yourself bound to me if we join our bodies tonight. And you do not want to be bound to anyone yet.' His lips briefly touched Gildor's. 'Do you think I want it? But we can never be sure what the results of our deeds are. We do not know the Music as a whole, only the notes we produce at any particular moment. But that must not stop us from sounding.'

Gildor found himself touching Elrond's hair, which obviously had a life of its own, for his braids seemed to be undoing themselves. He realised that part of what Elrond said was true: he was afraid. Not of being bound, but of being touched. Glimpsing an abstract mystery was not dangerous. Glimpsing another child of Ilúvatar was. And Elrond definitely chose to be the latter.

And he began to understand. The bond his mother was so anxious about could never be someting that established itself. It was established by the people on either end, but sometimes one side ended in a void. That was the risk you ran.

He felt Elrond's hand stroke his back, soothingly, as if he were an animal that needed to be calmed.

'I think,' he said, 'that I do fear pain after all. But I also think I am willing to face it now.'

'I do not plan to hurt you,' Elrond said, deliberately interpreting his words litterally. 'I will let you take me.'

***

Gil-galad could not help himself, or so he told the watchdog inside him who warned him not to follow Elrond and Gildor. When he thought no one was paying attention he slipped out, crossed the terrace and began to make his way down the path leading to the Gulf.

He knew he ought to be ashamed of himself. And he knew he ought to protect himself against the pain it would cause to watch Elrond make love to someone else. If he had known beforehand that Gildor Inglorion would choose Elrond, of all people, he would have defied his own rule and approached the son of Eärendil, his very own star, to declare him his love, claim him, and take him to his bed.

Ten steps further down he admitted this was nonsense. If he did such a thing he would never be wholly sure of Elrond's feelings for him, even if Elrond would seem willing or eager.

'Damn who, or what?' said a voice closely behind him. Turning, Gil-galad looked into the face of Celebrimbor, son of Curufin. Where had he come from? He was supposed to notice when someone came sneaking up behind him! Too preoccupied for his own good.

'Where are you going?' he asked, too sharply.

His assessment had been correct, then, Gil-galad thought: Celebrimbor, too, deplored Gildor's choice. 'Why?' he asked.

Instead of answering Celebrimbor merely asked: 'And you?'

It was not the King's habit to prevaricate. 'To torture myself by watching them. You?'

'Misery loves company,' the son of Curufin told him.

Gil-galad halted, frowning, wondering briefly why Celebrimbor should take an interest in Elrond - until the truth dawned on him.

'All right,' he said. 'Let us suffer together, then.'

Celebrimbor smiled mirthlessly, and they continued their downward course.

They halted about fifty feet above the cove, on a ledge full of last year's leaves. Down on the moonlit beach, Gildor and Elrond were doing what they were supposed to do, Gil-galad saw, and he was filled with equal measures of shame, jealousy and excitement. For a moment, he considered chastising himself and retracing his steps. Instead, he sat down to peer through the bristling bushes. Celebrimbor followed his example.

They watched for a while. Celebrimbor, too, seemed to have trouble getting his breath under control. When Gil-galad turned his head he was met by the other's stare.

After a while Celebrimbor said: 'I wonder if three feet nine would be enough?'

'Three feet nine?'

'The width of this ledge,' Celebrimbor explained. 'I know such things without having to use a measuring rod.'

'It will do, I think.' Gil-galad almost laughed aloud, recognizing this for the invitation it was. Not the one he had been hoping and waiting for, these last few years. But sometimes, wishes fulfilled themselves in weird ways of their own. He did not really want Celebrimbor. But as the sentiment or rather the lack of any sentiment was mutual, nothing kept them from seeking mutual release. That Celebrimbor, always aloof, would seek it with him was a little surprising. But he had no intention of questioning it tonight. 'Yes, it is definitely wide enough,' he added.

His Midsummernight companion laid a hand on Gil-galad's thigh, and they turned towards each other.

***

'So now you know,' Elrond said, combing through Gildor's long tresses with his fingers and starting to divide them into strands. In a way, it was a relief they had to rebraid each other's hair and could not sit face to face.

'Yes,' Gildor replied softly. He realised how generous Elrond had been, for he had hurt him, and was no love between them of the kind that could mitigate the pain. Here was a brush with sorrow he had not expected: having to endure another's endurance, both of the body, and of the soul.

'Yes?'

'Do you regret not refusing me when I chose you?'

For a moment, Elrond's hands ceased their work. 'Did you find what you sought? Did you see that glimpse of Everything you were looking for? Hear a little more of the Music than the note that is you?'

When Gildor remained silent he added: 'Do not hesitate to say no, merely because you feel sorry for me.'

'But I did see it, and hear it,' Gildor said truthfully. He had, though he had no longer been looking for it. Or perhaps because he had not looked for it. 'And I was right, for I found it in you. But you were right, too.'

'About what?'

'About the sorrow at the end of it.'

Elrond began to braid Gildor's hair, very carefully, as if he was afraid it would hurt if he pulled just a little to hard. And strange as it seemed Gildor could feel him smile, though he could not see his face. He also felt it was not a triumphant or even a satisfied smile. 'I would rather have been wrong about that,' he replied after a while.

'If anyone was wrong, it was my mother,' Gildor said. 'Her precious Laws do not allow for shortcomings and mistakes.'

'Still, she was at the Ceremony, even though she did remain on the terrace. You may not have looked at her, but I did. She knows about shortcomings, I think.'

He felt not at all comfortable. 'You have not answered my question yet.'

'I regret nothing,' Elrond said. 'Though I may change my mind if you do not braid my hair properly. Yours is finished.'

'I like challenges.' Gildor rose and knelt behind Elrond. It was a challenge, he saw, but one he was up to.