Greenleaf

Title: Greenleaf -
Chapter I: Greenwood

Author: Genesis Grey (helfireclub@hotmail.com)

Website: http://www.sexystickman.com/ren/

Pairings: Thranduil/Legolas (list to be added to in future chapters)

Disclaimer: Own nothing but this string.

Summary: See Legolas. See Legolas' father be a bastard.
See Legolas being an emissary to other elven realms. See Legolas get the
crap beat out of him and be sexually abused. See author run for cover as
Leggy fans kick her ass.

Warnings: Incest. Rape. Non-Con. Slash.

Beta: Nethene

Author's Notes: I said I would never write a Legolas fic. But I did.
However, it is primarily the poor boy being tormented. So I suppose it all
balances out. *grins* Feedback welcomed and appreciated.

-Chapter I:
Greenwood-

They say that rape will
kill an elf. That it causes their soul to slowly die from the degradation, the
humiliation they endured. But I have heard the elven lady, Celebrian, wife of
Lord Elrond of Imladris, who walke bea beauty among the Golden Wood and through
the valley paths, I have heard that she did not die after being violently
defiled by orcs. But instead passed to the Undying Lands to live her life to the
world’s end.

The thought gives
me hope.

As I lie here in
my father’s bed I can feel my spirit draining and drawing away from me, even
as I bid it to stay, plying it with promises that this cannot continue forever.
But then his body shifts against mine and I wonder if it can. At least the Lady
Celebrian was allowed to escape her attackers.

He is pressed
against me now, naked, an arm wrapped around my body in what many would think a
loving fashion. But the limb is nothing more than a shackle of flesh, bone and
blood, baring me from my freedom.

At times I dream
to throw off my fetters and run from my father’s bed, run as far away from
this forsaken kingdom as I can and find a place of safety and freedom. But I
know better than to try. Were I to run he would only follow. He would stop my
flight as he did the first time he touched me in a way that was more than
fatherly. Pinning me to the ground of the gardens and stripping me of every last
shred of dignity and clothing.

If any heard my
howling screams that fateful day they did not come to my rescue. Instead they
allowed my father to strike me again and again, beating my face bloody as my hip
ground into the stone path of the garden. He demanded I be silent as he forced
my shoulders hard to the rock of the trail, bruising and scraping them as he
undid his breeches.

I could only watch
in terror as his hard member sprung free of its confinement and he told me he
would find a better use for my mouth than screaming. Then he thrust into my
mouth, grabbing my hair to hold me motionless, as he told me that if I dared
bite he would cut my head from my shoulders. But, in those moments, what did I
care of my own head?

As he
felt my teeth graze his shaft he amended the threat, that it would not only be
my head, but that of my brother and sister as well. I could do nothing. He was
my father and he knew my weakness well. He forced me to pleasure him, releasing
my hair as I dutifully licked and sucked. My stomach reeled in disgust at the
taste, the feel of him in my mouth. When he finally reached his climax he pulled
away, spraying his seed all over my face as he laughed.

I thought it his
final humiliation for the night, but I was wrong.

He forced me to
clean him, licking the last of the cum from his flaccid penis and breeches
before hauling me to my feet by my hair and dragging me into the bushes. Then he
threw me against the trunk of a tree, wanting to know if I still defied him.
Though my voice said that I did not, he saw in my eyes that I still did and he
would have none of that.

He struck me
again, slapping me hard against the face, before he tied me at the base of the
tree with the shreds of my clothing. He punched me repeatedly and said he would
teach me to respect my elders as a child ought. Fingers scratched along my pale
unmarked sides, the nails drawing blood as tears began to form. He only laughed
at my pain.

Then my father, my
own father who was supposed to love me unconditionally for all time, unfastened
his belt and wrapped it around my neck and pulled it taut. I choked and gagged,
gasping for breath as I struggled to free myself of my bonds and stop him. But
it was no use. He laughed at the way my body reacted to the asphyxiation, how I
became aroused in spite of myself. He slapped my legs apart as if my body were
made simply for his amusement. Then again, perhaps it is.

I remember very
little of what else happened that night. I passed out from pain and lack of air,
though I do not think that deterred him from my punishment right away.

When I woke I was
in his chambers lying on my stomach as he tended to my wounds. He was very
gentle and spoke soothing words as he bound and cleaned the injuries he had
inflicted. But I hardly noticed. My body felt as if it had been torn apart from
the inside. And as my as my chest hurt from the scratches and repeated
pummeling, my face still bleeding slightly through the gauze as it was pressed
against the pillow, none of that came close to the pain that surged through my
backside. I can only imagine what kind of perverse acts he preformed on my
unconscious form.

I come to him
willingly now, but it is no less rape than that night in the gardens. I do not
want him to touch me, to use me, to abuse me. But if I do not I fear for the
safety of my siblings as well as for my own life. Over the years I have come to
understand that my father is a man of his word; and I do not doubt that threat
in the garden still holds true to this very day.

Most would laugh
if I told them the things he does to me. They think my father a compassionate
and benevolent being, gentle and wise to all those he meets. He seems kind to
those that do not know his dark secret, and they think me the favored child when
they see the way he laughs at my stories and lovingly hugs me in court.

But they are
wrong.

I am the most
hated of his brood.

Why else would he
do such things to me?

He wakes now and I
shut my eyes to pretend I am asleep. But my body betrays me as it always seems
to; it becomes tense and my breath comes in panicked pants of fear. He lets out
a low chuckle and I know he will take me now, despite having repeatedly indulged
himself earlier in the evening.

His hand is soft as he
lifts his arm and begins to stroke down my body. A soothing gesture, but I know
better than to think it will last. Before I can even ready myself he has thrown
me on to my back, parting my legs with his knee and admiring me with that
sadistic look in his eyes as he ties my hands over my head.

After the first
time, when I began to come to his chamber freely, he did not strike me any
longer. Only ordering me to share his bed and pleasure him when he became
aroused. I was to be his willing partner no matter what filthy thing he asked of
me. And, to my shame, I was. But that is not enough any more. Now my father
needs pain, my pain.

Pain,
he repeats as he always does when pulling the dagger from the nightstand, pain
makes the pleasure more intense.

I bite my tongue rather
than tell him I take no pleasure in anything he does to me. But I know it is not
my pleasure he thinks of as he runs the flat of the blade over my neck and I
shiver with fear until it reaches my chest. The smooth steel feels like cold
fire as it caresses my body, and I dread when it will bite and draw first blood.

I do not wait long.

The first cut is half way
down my chest. The metal seems to sing as it parts my flesh, forming a wouthatthat no other will ever see. My lips press together to hide the shriek of pain.
No one will come to my rescue even if they hear me calling for help, crying out
in pain. But over the years my screams have become music to my father’s ears,
and I will not let him have complete control over me. It is my silent protest,
as it were.

Slowly the blade works its
magic and I feel the dribble of blood down my side. Sometimes I can forget where
I am when he does this. I imagine I have been captured by orcs, by the Dark Lord
himself, and am being tortured. But then he brings my attention back with a slap
or thrust inside me. I am forced to remember it is my father doing this, and the
hurt doubles.

I whimper despite myself
and I know my father is pleased.

I know not how much time
passes before the dagger is cast aside and he admires his handiwork. His fingers
trace the design he has carved in the flesh over my ribs and he smiles cruelly.
A greenleaf. He has marked me as his own. I feel a shiver as I realize this is
one scar he will not heal when he is done with me.

He slaps my thighs hard as
he demands that I part them. Obediently I obey, like some pet doing tricks for
his master. My father laughs at my hard member as he curls a hand around it and
roughly begins to stroke it in painful, jerking motions. He tells me that he
knows I enjoy this, that the proof is in his hand, and he punctuates the
statement with a squeeze that nearly makes me weep. I want to tell him that my
body abandoned me for him long ago, that it shows him what he wishes in the
hopes he will stop. I want to tell him that my mind still rebels and defies him,
but I cannot. I am afraid and I am weary to my very soul.

I make no sound as I cum in
his hand. A brief wave of pain/pleasure washes over me, but I cannot enjoy it. I
know what happens next. My father raises my legs, hooking the knees over his
shoulders as he plunges mercilessly into me.

It still hurts every time
he does this, despite the centuries of abuse. I can ignore the rest of his
treatment to some extent, but I always feel that first violent push as he enters
me. It always makes me want to cry, and reminds me there is no hope. I will be
his whore until the day I finally allow myself to perish from my grief.

He thrusts in and out of me
rhythmically. My body has long gone numb from the pain and I only truly notice
when his movements become erratic and he reaches his climax. He lets out a grunt
and spills his seed inside me as he collapses atop of me. Moans fill my ears as
he lazily kisses my neck before having enough strength to prop himself up and
kiss my lips.

I kiss him back with all
the passion he expects, and I wonder if he knew that passion is of hatred, not
love. I wonder if he would care if he knew. He unties my hands and rolls off as
the room falls into a blissful silence.

As I lie here, praying to
the Valar that he will just let me rest for the night, he tells me that I am to
go as an emissary to all the known elven realms and ensure their support in the
coming darkness. He tells me that I am to do whatever it takes to
guarantee their support. For the first time in many centuries he leaves me to my
misery, but my blood runs cold as I think of my new duty. It is nothing more
than my father raping me through other elves.