Deeper Waters

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DEEPER WATERS
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Chapter 12


Imrahil lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

It was good stonework, solid and true, impressively vaulted and deeply shadowed in the light of the oil lamps. There was nothing in the unremarkable sight to justify his continued scrutiny, yet he found himself unable to close his eyes. What would be the point? There was little chance of sleeping, but he had not the heart to get out of bed and seek a book or some such distraction. He should have taken more wine with his dinner; perhaps that would have given him some peace.

Trying to banish the thoughts of Legolas from his mind, he began to count the stones in the great curved rib that stretched from the window to the door. The attempt proved to be useless. He had not reached thirty before he abandoned the census completely.

Asking the elf to join him in Minas Tirith had seemed such an obvious thing to do. When his lover had unexpectedly agreed, Imrahil’s joy had known no bounds. Before they had reached the city Legolas had quietly explained to him that intimacy between them might be difficult; with Aragorn so close, his presence in the elf’s mind would be strong, an unavoidable inhibiting influence. Imrahil had accepted the fact with grace, saying that he was no incontinent youth, and that his love for the elf went far beyond the merely physical.

What a fool he had been. One solitary night in the huge feather bed of the grandest guest chambers, Imrahil’s by right of his royal status, had been a trial. The second might well prove to be his undoing.

Last night Legolas had told him before they retired that he would not sleep, but planned to meditate under the stars. The prince had therefore not expected company; none the less, its absence had been keenly felt. This evening the elf had said nothing of his intentions, but after the meal had bidden him good night with a warm smile that caused Imrahil’s heart to contract painfully. And now he lay alone once more, desperately wondering where his lover might be, and what exactly was going through his mind.

It was not that he craved sexual contact, although the mere thought was enough to rouse his body to attention. Painful as it was to admit to himself, he knew that what he really needed from the elf was reassurance.

Since arriving at the palace he had watched Legolas carefully whenever he felt he would not be noticed doing so. His lover had maintained an exterior so calm, it hardly seemed natural, even for an elf. It was almost as if his physical being was present and performing its role to perfection, while his spirit was somewhere else entirely.

Imrahil had no doubt that beneath the placid surface Legolas was in considerable turmoil, trying to maintain his equilibrium in the presence of the two men who had laid claim to his heart. What was the outcome of that struggle? Was Aragorn’s influence so overwhelming that Imrahil had been temporarily forgotten? Was the elf perhaps regretting his rash statement of love for the prince, and realising that he had in fact overstated the truth? More pressingly, what had happened between Legolas and the king during their private interview this afternoon? The two had spent less than an hour closeted in Aragorn’s study, but to Imrahil it had seemed a lifetime. When Legolas had emerged alone, he had given no sign of what had passed. Even if there had been opportunity to do so, Imrahil would not have found the courage to ask.

Sighing as if his heart would break, Imrahil extricated himself from the tangle of sheets and got to his feet. As he walked around the room extinguishing the lamps he cursed himself under his breath, adding “He is not coming, and you knew it, you half-wit.” With the chamber in darkness he returned to the bed and shifted around in it restlessly, searching for a comfortable position but finding none. He resolved to stop behaving like a child and to try to get some sleep. Whether his body would obey his mind’s command was another matter.

For all his pessimism he must have dozed off, for he was not aware of the door opening and closing. It was only the sound of a soft voice speaking his name that woke him. Imrahil opened his eyes, confused, and peered about him. The faint illumination in the room did not come only from the shaft of moonlight slanting through the tall windows, but also from the motionless figure at the bedside. His pulse quickened at the sight.

“Legolas! You are here
“I
“I am sorry,” the elf said quietly, “It is late and I have disturbed you.” His tone was odd, distant somehow, fragile.

Imrahil, now fully awake, stared at him. “No, do not apologise! I am so happy to see you.”

“May I get in?”

“You do not need to ask!” replied the man vehemently, throwing back the covers and extending his arms.

Without further comment, and without pausing to undress, the elf lowered himself to the bed and slid across the mattress into Imrahil’s waiting embrace. Sensing that something was very wrong, Imrahil asked no questions, but smoothed a hand over his lover’s hair and murmured soft endearments. They lay in this fashion for what seemed to the man to be a very long time.

Eventually Legolas raised his head from Imrahil’s shoulder and kissed his cheek gently. “I would have come to you sooner,” he said. “I waited until Aragorn was asleep.”

“You have been with him?” Imrahil spoke sharply, in spite of himself.

“No, of course not. But I do not . . . sense him so much when he sleeps. He was troubled tonight, and his distress bothered me. It is part of the bond.” Legolas spoke with sadness, and a weariness that Imrahil had never before encountered in him.

“I understand.” The man tightened his hold on the warm clothed body beside him.

“Can we . . . may I just lie beside you tonight, and feel you holding me, like this?”

Imrahil thought something within might burst as the painfully intense love welled up in him. Never could he have imagined that the elf would reveal such vulnerability. “Of course, my love,” he whispered. “Anything you want. I am here for you.”

There was little sleep to be had that night for Imrahil. At first he kept up his soft words of love and encouragement, holding the elf close yet with great care, as if he might be damaged by too forceful an embrace. After a while, however, it become obvious that Legolas was not going to speak of his woes, but was in fact asleep, or at least in the open-eyed trance that amongst elves passed for slumber. The man, aware of his lover’s exhaustion, feared to relax in case a sudden movement should rouse Legolas from his rest. If he could not ease the elf’s heart by talking the matter through, he could at least ensure that the beautiful creature in his arms felt secure and loved as he slept. His own needs were of little consequence by comparison.

Some bee before dawn, however, Imrahil’s weariness got the better of him and he closed his eyes, passing at once into dreams.

When he woke, the sounds of morning were drifting up from the city and sunlight was pouring through the East window. In the great bed, the tables had been turned; Legolas was now lying open-eyed, cradling Imrahil’s head to his shoulder. He met the man’s bleary eyes and smiled.

“Legolas, my love, are you well?” Imrahil asked, as full recollection of the night returned to him.

“I am now, sweet prince.” The elf touched the man’s lips with his own. “And I am sorry I came to you so distraught. It must have wounded you greatly.”

“Hardly,” Imrahil replied. “It would have been more distressing by far, had you stayed away. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I am not sure that there is much to be said.”

The man narrowed his eyes, but refrained from comment.

“I sense that you wish to know what passed between Aragorn and myself,” Legolas said gravely. “Do you really think that it is wise?”

“Absolutely.” Imrahil did not need to feign his certainty. “I assure you that my imagination will furnish an explanation that is far more painful than the truth, otherwise.”

The elf nodded, yet paused a while before speaking. Imrahil had the distinct impression that he was trying to frame a difficult tale into a form that would neither betray the one man nor hurt the other. When he eventually spoke, his words were carefully measured.

“We talked of the past, he and I. Aragorn feels great remorse for the fact that I was driven into making the bond by what he perceives as his weakness. In order to confront his guilt, it was necessary to relive some extremely painful memories. And before we could do that, he needed to vent his anger, express his jealousy, and be reassured that I love him still.”

Imrahil bit his lip for a moment. He had asked for the elf’s honesty; he could not resent it. “Of course,” he managed.

“It was not easy for either of us, but I think it has helped him. He talked to Arwen last night, and finally slept at peace.”

“Legolas,” the prince said slowly, “Do you know that whenever you talk of these matters, it is always Aragorn’s needs that seem to concern you. Do you never consider your own desires, your own well-being?”

The elf looked at him with surprise. “Of course! Would I be here, otherwise?”

“Well, there is that, but . . .”

“Imrahil, there is something you should understand about Aragorn, although I could never say it to anyone but you. I have seen him at his absolute weakest, and have touched the flaw in his soul. As a result, I will always be the stronger one, now as I was then.”

“You did not seem particularly strong, when you came to me last night.”

Legolas smiled seriously and raised a hand to the prince’s cheek. “That is becausth yth you, I do not need to be. You have enough strength of your own; you do not need me to find it for you.”

Imrahil felt as if he had been handed a great gift. He blinked, and stared into the elf’s deep blue eyes.

“Thank you, Legolas,” he said.

“For what? It is I who should be thanking you, surely.”

“For letting me love you.”

“Ah, Imrahil.” Legolas pulled the man towards him for a kiss. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

Imrahil understood that the elf was speaking of something beyond physical appearance. “You are one to speak of beauty,” he whispered, and returned the kiss with fervour.

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

Aragorn’s face was unreadable across the breakfast table, but he had the colour of one who had slept well. However grim yesterday’s confrontation with Legolas might have been, it had presumably brought him some peace. Once again Imrahil wondered what the dreadful truth at the core of the story could be, the crucial element that had been kept back from him and which explained how the bond had come to be necessary. However much Aragorn’s history with his elven lover might distress Imrahil, it could not be denied that the other man was decent, noble and every inch the king. He could not possibly have intended to bring such lasting grief and pain to Legolas.

The prince was roused from his reverie by Celaeren, speaking in an undertone close to his left ear.

“Has he given you any idea, Father, of what he intends to do for Rosalind?”

Imrahil frowned at his son’s lack of discretion, but reminded himself that the boy was in love, and the object of his affection in danger. “I know nothing more than you, Celaeren,” he said. “Try to have some patience, my son; he will not keep us waiting longer than necessary.”

Indeed Aragorn had no intention of prolonging the suspense. As the meal came to an end he requested that Rosalind and Celaeren come to his study in half an hour to discuss her future.

“By your leave, Rosalind, I suggest that Prince Imrahil and Prince Faramir join us,” he said, tactfully allowing the young woman the status so long denied her.

“Of course, my lord,” she replied, looking at the king with frank admiration. “I would expect them both to be present.”

“It is well.” Aragorn nodded, and the company rose.

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

The young lovers, emboldened after two nights at the palace, sat together on the long couch to the side of Aragorn’s desk. Rosalind held herself very still and upright, while Celaeren, gazing fixedly at the king with a serious expression, rested a protective hand on hers.

Faramir had chosen a chair on the other side of the room. He now sat back in it, relaxed but attentive, a slight smile on his lips. It was obvious that he knew rather more of the king’s plans than did either Imrahil or his son.

Imrahil himself sat in the middle of the room, watching the faces of each in turn. Legolas was not present to draw his eye; once again the elf had taken himself out into the gardens before the meeting began.

Seated behind the great desk, Aragorn surveyed the room before speaking. His eyes lingered first on Rosalind, anxious yet proud, then on Celaeren, full of fiery resolve at her side. The king’s glance passed over Imrahil to exchange a look of complicity with Faramir, the trusted steward. Finally the dark head swung back to gaze directly at Imrahil. The prince found himself held by the stormy grey intensity of Aragorn’s regard; he could not have turned his head aside if he had tried. The moment stretched out and something indefinable passed between them. Imrahil was reminded of the times when, as a boisterous child, he had been called to account for his deeds by his father. Now, as then, he felt that he had nowhere to hide; his deepest self was clearly visible to the other, his soul bared for scrutiny. It was not a comfortable feeling, but at least he could say that he sensed no antagonism or disapproval from the king, only a great, deep sadness.

The sorrowful eyes turned away from his and Aragorn cleared his throat discreetly. “I apologise, Rosalind,” he began, “for delaying my answer in this way. Yet once I explain my thoughts to you, my reasons will become apparent. I have looked for a solution to your dilemma which will guarantee your safety but also protect the honour of your family, and allow your brother to feel that he has not been slighted, either by myself or by King Éomer.

“After due consideration it seems clear that rather than seeking to end your engagement to Haleth directly, the appropriate course of action would be to offer something better in its place, something which Fréadren cold not possibly refuse. With all due respect to our friends from Belfalas,” here the king nodded slightly to Celaeren, “an alternative marriage proposal at this stage would not only be inappropriate, it would, as far as Fréadren is concerned, hold no advantage over the betrothal already in place. I venture that an alliance with a powerful lord of his own land is, for your brother, a far more worthwhile prospect than a union with the prince of a far distant coastal kingdom. The only other incentive we could offer would be a material gift. Unfortunately this would insult Fréadren; he could not possibly accept it with honour.

“Bearing all of this in mind, I suggest making a proposal of a rather different sort.” Aragorn smiled at Rosalind, who sat forward, clearly holding her breath. “With your agreement, Rosalind, I intend to write to your brother and request your attendance here at court in Minas Tirith, as companion to my wife and family. I will admit that I have an interest in your acceptance. My daughters are of an age when they need instruction in the arts of the sword, the bow and the horse; my children will not be raised as helpless maidens, their only skills those of the household. My wife and I have been discussing for some time the appointment of a tutor for this purpose. If all that I hear of your abilities is true, I can think of none more suited to the task than yourself, and having discussed the matter with Queen Arwen, I can say that she is in agreement.”

“Sire!” Rosalind’s face was a picture stonstonished happiness. “You honour me beyond belief!”

“Your brother might not see it that way,” said Aragorn wryly. “I shall not, of course, use the word ‘tutor’ in my correspondence with him. The term ‘Ladies’ Companion’ is, I believe, more appropriate to one of your station. You will be part of my household, and for the term of your attendance at court, you will be under my protection. Do you accept the idea in principle?”

“My lord.” The young woman bowed her head and touched her heart. “I am greatly honoured to do so.”

Imrahil sat back in his chair and crossed his legs at the heels. He could feel a grin forming on his face. Aragorn had indeed offered a perfect solution. Of all the proposals he could have chosen to place before Fréadren, none could carry such weight as this. For the presence of his sister to be requested at the king’s court was an enormous honour, one which would override any other considerations. For the time being, at least, the matter of the betrothal would surely be put to one side. There remained, of course, the question of Rosalind’s long-term future.

This thought had obviously occurred to Celaeren at the same time as his father.

“My lord,” said the young man, “What of Rosalind’s engagement, and my suit?”

“You have heard what I suggested,” Aragorn replied calmly. “I do not, at this stage, propose that any move be made to terminate the betrothal; it w be be far from politic to do so. I suggest that in the first instance, Rosalind is invited to court for one year. During this time it may be that her fiancé’s patience grows short; he himself may choose to bring the arrangement to an end. If not, towards the end of the year I shall invite Fréadren to Minas Tirith to visit his sister, and put the matter to him face to face. I imagine that by then his anger at Rosalind’s disappearance will have subsided; he will be in a more likely frame of mind to discuss terms.”

“But . . .” Celaeren began, just as Rosalind opened her mouth. She stared at him with wide eyes and nodded slightly, indicating that he should speak for the two of them. It was hardly necessary; surely everyone in the room knew what Celaeren was about to say. Imrahil wondered for a fraction of a second whether to intervene before his son could speak out of turn, but just as quickly decided that the young man should have his say.

“Sire, your offer to help Rosalind in this way is most gracious and generous. I have no doubt that she will serve you well, and be happy here in your household. But if the engagement is still in place, she . . . we will not . . .”

“She will not be in a position to accept your suit, no.” Aragorn’s attention was fixed on Celaeren, the gravity of his expression reflected in his voice. “I do not need to tell either of you that whilst under my protection, Rosalind’s honour will be as my own; propriety will be observed. If you think for a moment, you will see that this is the better way. True affection can afford to wait a while, and by following a less precipitous course, you may allow yourselves a more solid foundation for the future.”

To Imrahil’s dismay, Celaeren spoke again. “But Sire, a year?”

“At the end of that time, if Rosalind is still at court, and if matters proceed satisfactorily, I shall be happy to support your cause.” Aragorn spoke in general terms, but Imrahil, watching the man’s wise, knowing gaze on Celaeren, knew well what was meant. The engagement would be ended; the king would see to that. The real question was whether Celaeren could, in the course of the twelve months, show himself to be a worthy suitor. The prince was certain that Aragorn would have no qualms about preventing the match, should the young man fail to bring his problem under control.

Judging by the look on Celaeren’s face, he too had understood the king perfectly. “My lord.” The dark head bowed in reluctant acceptance.

Aragorn’s face softened a little. “You will of course be a welcome guest at my table, whenever your business should bring you here.”

“From Dol Amroth?” Celaeren blurted out. Rosalind, tight-lipped at his side, turned to him with warning in her eyes.

Imrahil sat forward to speak, thinking to cut in before his son could say something inappropriate in the king’s hearing, but Faramir pre-empted him.

“Celaeren, take heart,” said the steward kindly. “Nobody is trying to put obstacles in your path. You know that there is a place for you at court in Emyn Arnen; with your father’s permission I should be happy for you to take it, for some or all of the year to come.”

Imrahil could hardly credit that the offer should come from Faramir without his own planned suggestion. Nothing could be better for his son. Away from Dol Amroth, away from the group of dissolute, cynical types that Celaeren had called friends, the young man actually stood a chance of fighting his addiction. And with Rosalind near enough to keep his mind on the eventual prize, his likelihood of success must be even greater.

“Father?”

The prince smiled warmly at his son. “With my blessing, Celaeren,” he said. “You can serve Belfalas well there, especially now as our trading interests with the East are growing.”

“Then I thank you, cousin, and look forward to accepting your kind offer.”

Faramir nodded to Celaeren, then turned to meet Imrahil’s gaze. There was no need for words between them to express Imrahil’s gratitude and his nephew’s concerned assurance. There would be time enough later to thank the steward for lifting such an enormous load from his mind.

Rising from behind the desk, Aragorn indicated that the meeting was at an end. “Rosalind, if you wait for me in the hall, in a few minutes I shall take you to meet the children. Arwen is with them; the two of you can discuss at length the details of your role. I am afraid I shall not be able to join you for long as I have a delegation from the North to meet with this morning. Prince Imrahil, if you please?”

Surprised, the prince stood by his chair as the others left the room, Faramir with his arm around Celaeren’s shoulder.

“Please, sit down.”

Imrahil mirrored the king’s motion and sank back into the chair. Unsuret wat was expected of him, he coughed behind his hand before speaking. “My lord . . .”

Aragorn gestured him to silence. “Imrahil, please, we are comrades of old. You can dispense with such formality.”

“As you wish, Elessar . . .” the prince tried to ignore his sense of unreality at addressing the king thus, in these circumstances. He could not quite bring himself to use the older, familiar name. “You have my heartfelt thanks for intervening osalosalind’s behalf in this way. I was quite at a loss to help her.”

“It is easy to sympathise with her plight,” Aragorn said, his eyes seemingly focussing on a point somewhere over Imrahil’s shoulder. “But my motives are not entirely altruistic. Faramir assures me I would be lucky to find a woman more skilled than she, on horseback or with the sword.”

“I cannot vouch for her fighting skills,” replied Imrahil, “But I have seen her ride, and she is a true child of Rohan. Your daughters will be lucky to learn from her.”

“Indeed. As for Celaeren, I can do no more at this stage.” Here was the crux of the matter; the king’s attention had returned to Imrahil in full.

“You have done enough,” said Imrahil frankly. “It is up to him now, to bring his life under control once more. He understood perfectly well what you were telling him.”

“I have seen too many families brought to ruin by men’s folly, fuelled by wine,” said Aragsadlsadly. “I will not allow it to happen to one whom I have taken under my protection.”

“You are right; he must free himself before he can make a future for himself with Rosalind. It is well that he hears this from you; a father’s counsel is more easily ignored.”

“The brother will give up the other engagement without protest, I think,” Aragorn tapped a finger thoughtfully on the desktop, “if he is the kind of man I believe he is. A hint of preferment, a royal match; he would be hard put to refuse such a proposal if it is made in the right way.”

“Let us hope you are right. In any case, yoe gee generous indeed, to offer such hope to my son.”

Aragorn shifted slightly in his chair, leaning a little towards Imrahil. The prince held his breath as he watched the grey eyes grow dark, the noble face deeply serious. In the heavy silence, he sensed the gathering of the king’s mystical power, and behind it something else. With growing anxiety he recognised it as a faint yet distinct shadow of menace.

“For the sake of Dol Amroth’s friendship.” Aragorn’s voice was low. “Our alliance means much to me, and I would not have it disturbed.”

Imrahil thought carefully before replying slowly, “It is of even greater importance to me. I will do everything in my power to preserve it.”

“Besides,” the king said quietly, “Where genuine love exists, who am I to stand in its way?”

Imrahil could feel a flush heating his neck, but forced himself to keep his eyes on Aragorn’s intense, expressive face. He wanted to respond, but could think of nothing appropriate to say.

“Our interests are not dissimilar,” continued Aragorn. “In fact, I would go so far as to say that we have much in common, you and I.”

“So we do.” The prince found his voice. “And I trust that you know that while I live I would do anything to protect our . . . mutual concerns.”

The slight nod told him that he had judged the matter correctly. He could not expect Aragorn to give his explicit blessing, nor for him to say aloud, ‘Treat him well, or I shall see your head severed from your body,’ but there could be no doubt of the true subject of their discussion.

Their guarded words were apparently enough to say thy the king, for he pulled his chair back and stood, then waited for Imrahil to do the same. Their eyes remained locked together as Aragorn walked around the desk to stand before Imrahil. There he paused, before suddenly grasping the prince’s shoulder in the firm warrior’s gesture of solidarity.

“I wish you well, you and your son,” the king announced solemnly.

Imrahil swallowed hard, and lifted his hand to return the embrace. “You will never have cause to doubt your faith in us,” he said. “May you live long, rejoicing in the loveyouryour family and all your people.”

There was nothing more to be said, so they walked silently to the door. Imrahil felt that his feet might be gliding through the air an inch above the flagstones, so exultant was he in his heart.

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

As he strode along the corridor to the bedchamber, a touch on his arm brought Imrahil to a halt. He spun round to find Legolas close behind him, smiling enigmatically.

“Why are you . . ?” he began.

The grip on his arm tightened, turned him about and propelled him forwards on his original path. “Shush,” thf saf said in an undertone. “Into your room.”

Imrahil was astonished to find himself almost dragged across the threshold. Legolas did not turn, but kicked the heavy door shut without a glance. A continuation of the same movement brought the elf up close to him, a hand behind his head, another in the small of his back, the long body pressed against his. He had no time to voice his surprise or delight; his lover’s mouth sought his and crushed against his lips in a kiss so passionate as to be almost violent.

Gasping for breath, the man pulled his head away at last. The blood was roaring in his veins and pounding behind his ears, but his mind was slow to catch up. “Legolas, what . . ?”

“I have been thinking of you all morning,” the elf said, “and it seemed to me to be time to replace thoughts with deeds.”

With that, he brought his hands to the front of Imrahil’s shirt and started work on the fastenings.

“I only came up here tangeange my boots,” said the prince. “Celaeren is expecting me at the stables.”

“Then he can wait.”

As cool hands parted the linen and rested on the flesh beneath, only to be followed by a hot, demanding mouth, Imrahil found he could offer no further protest. He staggered back to lean against the wall, las las following his movement without breaking the contact between them. There the man gave himself over to the sensation of lips, tongue and teeth grazing his skin, setting him aflame, causing his heart to race furiously and shudders to wrack his body.

Before long the elf dropped to his knees. Grasping Imrahil’s hips firmly to keep him still, he set to work on the ties of the man’s breeches with his mouth. The intermittent, almost accidental pressure on his cock as Legolas went about his task was nearly enough to finish Imrahil; the sight of the blond head pressed against his crotch was too much to take in. He closed his eyes and breathed hard, his fingers scrabbling at the stonework for purchase as his legs threatened to give way.

After an age of torment, Imrahil felt his breeches being pushed firmly down over his hips, then suddenly all contact ceased. He blinked and looked down to see Legolas staring at him, eyes dark with passion, a knowing smile on his lips. Very slowly, the elf raised one hand, then the other, and began to stroke the man’s cock lightly, only his fingertips touching the aching, overheated length.

It was impossible to remain silent. The groan that escaped Imrahil seemed to issue from his soul. In response, Legolas tightened one hand around the man’s cock, his thumb circling around its tip, while the other palm moved to cup his balls, gently squeezing and rolling the flesh.

“My beautiful prince of men,” the elf said, “You are nothing short of magnificent.”

“Gods!” Imrahil shouted, thrusting his hips as a wave of desire overcame him. Legolas’s head moved forward to meet him, mouth open. Pleasure coursed through the man as he found himself enveloped in moist warmth, whilst both clever elven hands continued to tease and caress.

At first Legolas merely toyed with him, rol his his cock from side to side with a firm, playful tongue, then drawing away to leave him quite exposed, untouched but for delicate licks and kisses around his slick, shiny tip. It was almost unbearable. Before long his hands moved to the back of the elf’s head in an attempt to gain some control.

Legolas laughed, but none the less took pity on him. The pressure of his lips around Imrahil’s flesh increased, and he started to move back and forth, sucking and releasing, his tongue now working in earnest. The man began to rock in rhythm with his lover’s movements, moaning and sighing with the sheer bliss of it. As Legolas increased his pace, the man knew he could not possibly last long.

“Legolas. . . my love . . . I cannot . . .”

The elf pulled back to speak, gazing up at Imrahil with wide eyes. “Ah, but you can, Imrahil, you can give me what I want, right now. Do not make me wait.”

This was hardly a demand that Imrahil could refuse. As Legolas bent towards him once more and slid those fine lips down the length of his cock, he felt his whole body tensing for release. He shouted again as he came, incoherent exclamations bursting from him with each wrenching pulse of hot fluid.

Afterwards, he could do nothing but stand shaking against the wall, fingers tangled in his lover’s braids, breath coming in ragged gasps. Legolas held him gently in his mouth until he settled and regained the ability to speak.

“You are unbelievable,” the man said at last.

The elf sat back, pausing to place a final kiss on the tip of Imrahil’s softening cock as the prince loosed his grip on the tousled blond hair. “And you are glorious,” heliedlied.

The prince watched Legolas slowly lick his lips and smile up at him with such warmth and satisfaction, he felt tears start in his eyes. What had he done to be blessed with the attentions of such a lovero tho the end of his days he would never comprehend it, but at least he understood what he should do to give thanks.

“Come, get up,” he said, extending a hand to the elf. “Lie down with me and let me return the favour.”

Legolas stood, but shook his head, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Your son will be growing impatient,” he said.

“But you . . .”

“I shall not find my release until I come to you later tonight,” the elf murmured into his ear. “Will you make it worth the wait?”

“Worth the wait? Valar, Legolas, what do you think? And how do you expect me to concentrate on my son’s concerns with such a challenge on my mind?”

“Oh, I have good reason to trust in your powers of recovery.” Legolas drew away from him, grinning. “Just do not wear yourself out with too much hard riding.”

Imrahil let out a snort of laughter and swatted the elf’s backside. “You are utterly wicked,” he said. “And if I did not have to be somewhere else . . .”

“I know.” Suddenly serious once more, Legolas melted into his arms and kissed him sweetly. “Go now, and we shall continue this later.”

“Oh, we shall. Indeed we shall,” Imrahil growled, his face pressed into the elf’s soft neck, his hands roaming across his lover’s firm muscled back. “And I shall take you thoroughly, deeply, as you deserve . . . Gods! I am hard again already, just thinking of it.”

“But you have other things to think of now,” said Legolas primly, pulling away once more.

“Yes.” Reluctantly, Imrahil gave the elf’s buttocks a final squeeze before directing han hands to the rather less exciting task of fastening his clothes. Striding to the long mirror, he shook his head and ran the fingers of both hands through his hair.

“It will have to do.” He grinned ruefully at Legolas and opened the door.

“It will do,” the elf smirked, and slipped out into the corridor. Silently, he was gone.

Imrahil took a deep breath, composing himself to face the world. Here was a chance to talk some sense while Celaeren was in a most receptive mood. The preoccupation with Legolas must not be allowed to get in the way; it was time to focus on family matters. He shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them and raised his head proudly. His mind clear, he closed the door firmly behind him and set off for the stables to meet his son.

To be continued...

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Author's note: One more chapter to go, which is already finished and with the beta reader. Apologies for the delay in posting this one; real life got in the way.