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by erobey

italics indicate thoughts

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter un-Beta'd

Adel Annon 'Lan

(Behind the White Door)

Of the journey to Othronn-en-Thranduil, what can be reported? Is there value in knowing the distress of the Greenwood to find for the first time since his birth their champion's inviolable feä inaccessible to them, his quick mind closed and silent, his battered heart locked away? Surely, the Tawarwaith had felt deprived of the comforting communion with the Great Wood while in the tomb-like darkness of the King's vaults and the claustrophobic confines of the escape tunnels, even more so during his imprisonment beneath the Central Mountains, but now he was remote in a more profound way. Indeed, Legolas had endured injury before, been insensible before, been ill to the brink of madness before, all within the bosom of his beloved wood, yet there was undeniably something different in this case. Tawar could not penetrate the ostensible glory of the white door. The trees ceased their foment and went still.



The Twins, veteran warriors against Shadow that they were, had attended to the wounded and dying innumerable times, nor was their skill in the healing arts lacking or less than that of their brother's, though none of them were as known for the art as their father. Barring Elrond, who was better qualified to have care of the failing Tawarwaith than Elladan and Elrohir? How beguiling to picture them on their chargers, flying through the towering bolls, capes billowing and hair flowing, faces set in unwavering resolve, eyes alight with purpose none could thwart, determined to save the fallen prince. See them race beneath the bare branches: Elrohir clutching the wounded elf close to his heart, Elladan guiding the way. How wonderful to think the distance could be crossed easily, cleanly, rapidly, and at the end would be Fearfaron waiting to receive his adopted child into his arms and Berenaur whose love alone was strong enough, surely, to heal the wild elf. 



The Central Mountains and Thranduil's stronghold are many leagues apart. It was a long road and not one to be finished in the passing of a day or a night, and too late the brothers realised their error in trying to carry him home on horseback.



It took a mere handful of hoof-beats to recognise the depth to which Ningloriel's child was removed from any reality the Twins could name, a bizarre pathology unlike other's they had seen. Legolas seemed dead one moment, the next came alive in the most horrendous signs of torment and trepidation either brother had witnessed in a patient. His agony and fear were real enough, no matter their delusional nature, yet he was no more aware of the sons of Elrond than of the Encircling Sea so far away from the mighty woods. His shouts and shrieks of furious denial were unnerving, but not so disheartening as the frantic, garbled, unfinished pleas for mercy, and these were not so undermining to the brothers as the undeniable evidence of the stricken ellon's state of arousal. 



They were forced to stop and dismount. Elrohir laid his burden down and crouched near, one hand lightly on Legolas' twitching shoulder, heart riven beyond tears, unable to banish from his mind the countless scenarios he'd concocted over the Ages, all wrought from his wish to rescue his wild, woodland half-brother. To see him now, like this, his suffering so raw, so egregious, so opposed to those optimistic fantasies left Elrohir no means of managing his sorrow and self-recrimination. As for Elladan, he did what he could to hide the memories assailing him of the last time he'd rescued someone from the captivity of Orcs, and suffered no less in his own dour and unrelenting way, refusing any blame, repudiating his brother's, and turning his rage upon their father. He observed all with apparent control, dispassionately, yet that word fails to indicate the depth of his shame or the rage coursing though him in silent fury. He refused to look away, even from the most repulsive displays, accepting his role as witness for this unparalleled abasement.



So they were when Aragorn caught them up, and seeing what transpired he cursed aloud. Legolas was consumed in unconscious and vain efforts to relieve the concupiscence afflicting him, writhing, convulsing, emitting noises so base he might have been mistaken for an orc. They had all stopped: the Twin brothers, the horses, the host of Wood Elves in the trees above, the Galadhrim, Talagan's warriors, the woodsmen; all but Legolas, who could not. They stood about awkwardly, mortified and cheerless voyeurs of this private and personal mauling, trying not to look at Legolas, unable to tear their eyes away. It was well this humiliation remained removed from the Tawarwaith's cognisance.



Aragorn once again interceded, thinking his greater experience treating Legolas' particular flaws would achieve results and at the least grant Legolas peace from the erotic phantasm, but none of the means he knew of reaching the archer worked. No call to duty or calamity could raise him to consciousness and no amount of manipulation provided the release he both fought against and struggled to conclude. This was the more unnerving to behold for the inescapable signals of absolute anguish and excruciation that accompanied the hallucination. Legolas suffered as surely as if he had never been removed from bondage. Watching his unabated passion, Greenwood's warriors turned grim and morose and many left him, unable to bear it though they had all seen the gruesome evidence of the evil in their midst time and time again beyond counting.



"What kind of sorcery is this?" Elrohir croaked, fighting the urge to vomit.



"The blackest," spat Elladan. In a sudden, unbridled rush of revulsion and despair, he flung himself to his knees beside the archer and grabbed his arms, forced him to cease the fruitless masturbation, shook him violently. "Legolas! Stop this; stop! Legolas, wake up!" He retreated just as rapidly when the stricken ellon moaned and twisted toward him, rubbed his rigid organ against his thigh. Elladan was up and away, hands tearing through his hair, face crimson in shame. "Valar!" 



"Sîdh," pleaded Aragorn, following. "He does not know what is happening; you mustn't condemn him."



"Nay, nay," groaned Elladan, unable to look at anyone, condemnation the last thought in his heart where Legolas was concerned. "I did not mean to incite him further." Ai Eru! What can bring one of Iluvatar's Children so low?



"You did not," assured the Man. "This has happened before, though I have never seen him in so deep a trance."



"It has nothing to do with you or any of us, Muindor," decided Elrohir. This is Melkor's dream realised, almost, but we have him now. We have him now. He stood and joined his brothers, set a firm hand on Elladan's shoulder. "We need Mithrandir."



"He had no success dispelling these dark dreams even before Legolas' capture," Aragorn admitted miserably. "If he could do nothing then, what can he achieve now?"



"There must be a means to free him!" Elladan insisted, turning a few tense strides away and back. He dared a glance at the aroused elf, took a step toward him, then another until all in a rush he was once more down in the duff beside him. He gathered Legolas close, held him gently, gritted his teeth against the erotic gyrations, hoping only to send what comfort he might past the barrier sealing the ailing prince from them, but found he could not remain removed and had to break away again. He ground out an obscene curse. "We cannot wait here longer."



"I cannot hold him either," admitted Elrohir. "At least, not without binding him tightly. That I have no wish to …"



"We will not bind him!" shouted Elladan. 



No sooner had he spoken than the climax of the horrific fantasy occurred. A harsh, jarring cry accompanied the ejaculation, a grotesque expression of despair and delight followed by ominous silence. They all started and stood staring a second or two, then Aragorn hastened to do what he could to stabilise his friend's condition, for the wounds were oozing and Legolas was once more in a death-like stupor. Haldir approached cautiously.



"I could send ahead and bring the wizard here," he offered quietly, nearly as fearful for Elladan's agitated mental state as the Tawarwaith's physical deterioration.



"Nay, I don't know if he can survive another such episode and live," Aragorn sighed. "If his fading was halted by bonding with Erestor, it has begun anew at an accelerated pace. We cannot wait." Then he recalled his previous odyssey with Legolas and how they managed their return to safety. "The river," he said, a faint note of hope returning to his voice. 



Quickly he relayed the idea to his brothers and all turned about, Elrohir again taking charge of the Tawarwaith, and they retraced the path, coming not to the mountains themselves but to the rugged river disgorging from them. Not a single boat remained intact through the destruction of battle, every craft wrecked and ravaged, hewn and burnt. Seeing this, the Wood Elves came down from the trees, the solution obvious; a raft must be built, and great was their relief to have some positive task to perform. 



Elladan led them to the field of fallen oaks and together they dragged several sturdy trunks back to the banks of the frothing stream, bound them together even as Fearfaron had done so long ago, and onto this construction Elrohir carried Legolas. His brothers joined him and several warriors climbed aboard to provide navigation, using their spears to pole the stream and prevent the float from being dashed to pieces in the rapids. Again they set forth and in this manner succeeded in bringing Legolas home. He did not waken once nor stir in the least, not even when the snow-swollen current doused him with icy water and rammed the resilient logs into boulders and rocks along the way.



Few elves came forward to meet them. Gladhadithen was there; Fearfaron was there, the wizards, Erestor with Elrond holding him up, for the seneschal had not remained immune to the grief his mate endured and fading had snatched him with a vehemence reflective of the depth of his devotion to Pen-rhovan. And when the rude raft was poled in, no less a stevedore than Thranduil met and secured it to the dock, Celeborn his kinsman aiding in the task. Others who joined the homecoming, whether through remorse or grief or morbid curiosity, could but stare in disbelief at the motionless figure swathed in the drenched panther-skin cloak. Their welcome was more a paralysis of shock and fear, though word had passed ahead more quickly than the water flowed, for they had seen him whole and strong and noble so short a time ago and now that salubrious veneer was stripped away. 



A moment of tense and stifled expectancy arose, an irrational instant of prolonged denial; it was an illusion; it was not him but some other blighted soul; this could not be. How could he have come through all: rejection and defilement, Judgement and banishment and Chastisement, trial and then re-trial under public scrutiny and Thranduil's scorn, redeemed by Fearfaron's love, by love for his siblings and for a foreign Lord, accepted, healed, and reclaimed by his people and his father. All of that and more, he had surmounted every obstacle arising victorious only to be crushed, broken by Shadow?



Then Berenaur broke, collapsing in keening despair, unable to come near, unable to look upon what had been done to his mate, begging Námo for death, death and peace for them both. He had never seen Legolas like this, battered, torn, defeated. He'd had seen old scars and understood their origins; he'd seen minor wounds sutured and bandaged. But this? The brutal reality, the foul obscenity of corruption written in Pen-rhovan's bloody flesh and incised upon his diminished soul, this was an abomination he could not face. He did not hear Elladan's shouted words: "He lives, Erestor; he lives!" His mind retreated into oblivion and Elrond had to take him from the scene, enlisting Haldir's aid to carry him away. 



Fearfaron, eager to take charge of his adopted child, dared not touch him for fear of adding to his hurts. He took a faltering step and stopped, arms coming forward in tentative entreaty before falling away as Elrohir carried Legolas ashore. Meeting the carpenter's stricken eyes, red and raw and too terrified for tears, he tried to offer a reassuring smile. "It is true, he breathes. Come, your hold cannot hurt him more and he needs you now." The Hunter of Spirits took the limp body, cradling his son close in comforting strength and unbounded love tinged with both sorrow and joy. All the might of his heart he tried to bring into his muscles and bones that Legolas might sense this through their contact wherever skin met skin, that he would perceive, even in the depths of mindless madness that encased him, that he was home, home safe, safe and loved. 



Gladhadithen issued orders and Aragorn ran ahead to fulfil them, Mithrandir following while Radagast hurried off to the dispensary. Legolas was not taken inside his sire's fortress of stone, for his rescuers had agreed without a single word of debate that the subterranean rooms might provoke a false impression that he was still imprisoned. Fearfaron bore him away, a straggling procession shuffling along behind him, a chaotic line of distraught Wood Elves strewn along the path like beads of a broken necklace. They followed to the clearing and the talan built for his new life with Berenaur, but none dared move past the encircling ring of mighty oaks guarding the croft. On the perimeter they knelt and began exhorting the Powers for mercy. 



Thranduil was forgotten, left behind at the docks, but Celeborn bade him follow his son, glad to note the real anxiety and dismay in the king's eyes, signs that the heart of a father might yet awaken and learn to cherish the cast-off prince. The Lord of Lothlorien collected Haldir and his loyal warriors and returned to the stronghold to inform the Council of Elders and see to the kingdom's recovery in the aftermath of war.



In the Tawarwaith's talan, Gladhadithen and Aragorn toiled to heal him, the others alternately doing as the physicians bade them and keeping weary vigil beneath the tree. Only Fearfaron and Mithrandir never left his bedside, yet though the wizard poured a steady infusion of his glory into the ailing archer, nothing seemed to help. Gashes oozed and festered, broken bones refused to knit, internal hurts too abominable to name failed to seal up. The state of Legolas' soul was equally immune to treatment and he remained oblivious to his foster-father's loving entreaties, the wizards' incantations, or the unrelenting murmur of prayers and hymns permeating the air around him.



So the days passed, one upon another, while his friends dripped water and nourishing broth down his throat, cleaned the cuts and gashes, did all they knew to bring him back. He grew no worse, yet Legolas languished and did not heal, nor did he emerge from the inner-world that had become a new prison for mind and spirit.

~~Ephemeral impressions of desire upon his lips…~~

'You cannot escape…'



The words drifted across his hazy consciousness, soft as a sigh, gentle as a mother's touch, and Legolas awakened with a garbled cry of denial and fear, struggling to rise and fight, to defy the ghostly, gloating voice. He staggered and fell to his knees, gasping, fingers fumbling to find the focus of the fiery throbbing, touching a slick, raw point of bone protruding into the air where it ought not to be. The pain was too much and he puddled into a twitching heap, listening to his quiet groans and faint scraping noises that reminded him of mice scurrying near behind hollow, wooden walls. Amid the pulsing flares of misery, part of his mind found this amusing; he did not know from whence such a memory arose. Had he ever been in a house of wood?



'Nay, but I have.'



'Mithrandir.' 



The name flashed across his consciousness and he relaxed, letting the weariness and exhaustion consume his energy. He had escaped beyond the reach of the Wraith; all else would become clear in time. He was sharing the Istar's memories, safe within the wizard's essence.



'True enough, the Nazgûl shall not have you. You are mine.'



Again the words caressed him as soothingly as a lover's lips upon his cheek, but the contrast between their sound and their sense shocked him. His head jerked from the ground and his eyes opened, heart racing and every instinct demanding he flee. Heart and breath both stopped as he gazed upon the place, really seeing it now, and a sickening dizziness seized him as his fingers clawed at what should be the floor beneath him, vertigo and nausea making him shut his eyes at once; there was nothing there. 



Nothing. He was lying on emptiness, a vast, unending expanse of blank whiteness without dimension or shape, featureless, uniform, lacking any objects, lit with glaring, even light that had no source and made no shadows. He felt himself tumbling through it, twisting and turning as he plummeted, yet the sensation stopped in an instant, for there was no reference on which to fix his sight that would support the sense of falling. He lay still, struggling to calm his heart, letting the nothingness support his body.



'My love…'



A panicked wail filled the void around him and he shifted, trying to feel with his body where he was, what this place could be. The first impression terrified him, for it was as though he was still trapped in the oubliette, or rather its opposite, with the foul, black air changed into white, the crowding walls turned into infinite space. At least he was dry; there was no mixture of water and filth lapping against him, no stench, no Orcs.



'No Orcs.'



'Of course not. Rest, Legolas; I will return when you have regained some of your strength.'



Legolas shuddered, the mellifluous voice echoing in his mind, not sure anymore that this was his friend of former days, and decided he must not do as he was bid. He must resist. It was some trick of sorcery; he was still in the caves. He forced himself to rise, but his legs would not support him and jagged agony tore through his calf as the broken limb gave way. He crashed into oblivion as his battered body struck against the featureless, white floor.

 

~~…a hushed sibilation part worship, part entreaty…~~

"Do something, wizard," Thranduil ordered. "You saved him before; what stops you now?" 



The King of the Woodland Realm stood at the foot of the simple bed, heart still pounding, struggling against an overwhelming desire to retch, glad beyond all telling that the Tawarwaith was still and silent once more. Mere seconds ago he had been raving in madness, screaming as one terror struck, muttering incoherent words, clawing at the break in his leg as he tried to stand, wide blue eyes wild and sightless as they roved the talan. The healer had needed Aragorn's aid to hold him fast and even that had not been enough to prevent undoing the good work the two had only just completed. The festering lashes and lacerations were bleeding anew, the effluence vile and stinking of infection and putrefaction.



Thranduil had not stayed round the clock as Fearfaron and the others had done. He had other children who needed him, he reminded them, uncomfortable with the new compulsion to justify his actions where Legolas was concerned. He found that he wanted these people, essentially Legolas' family, to validate and excuse him, reassure him his reasons were indisputably right and proper. Gladhadithen and the carpenter had done that, declaring that Legolas would not want the young ones to miss their Adar, especially since their mother was removed from them. This support only made the King feel more guilty and he was sure he'd flushed crimson. 



He was even more disturbed by the emotional response experienced when Mithrandir bluntly told him his presence was not required, the tone just short of indicating he was in the way and the wizard would much prefer it if he went away and stayed away. He'd wanted to remind Mithrandir of his place by ordering him out of Greenwood, but Legolas needed the Istar and so Thranduil held his tongue, a first. Now, with the expected recovery unrealised, Thranduil was reconsidering the value of the wizard's regenerative power. 



"I am doing all I know to do," protested Mithrandir, sitting heavily on the bed beside the motionless patient, propping his head wearily atop his gnarled fists. His voice was weary and plaintive and his bushy brows were contracted in confused disbelief. Could the Powers be blocking his actions, angered by his interference in Legolas' life? Could this be proof that his selfish motives and secret desires were known? "This is the same procedure used before, but it is having no effect at all."



"Yes, we can all see that," snorted Thranduil. He crossed his arms over his chest and uncrossed them again, feeling the urge to pace about but unable to do so since the small room was filled with the Man, the healer, the carpenter, and the Istar. Below, the Twin Orc-slayers sat side by side on the embroidered settee, waiting. It would soon be time for them to relieve Aragorn and Gladhadithen. "Why isn't the treatment working?" demanded the King.



"If I knew I would adjust accordingly. He was able to absorb my strength before," Mithrandir's words died away and he shook his head, rubbing at his eyes. "I cannot reach him."



"There has to be a reason," insisted Thranduil. He forced himself to come closer, bent over his wounded son, extended his arm and gingerly touched the motionless chest, seeking any indication of life. A faint, sluggish vibration ran up through his hand and he exhaled a breath he did not realise he had suppressed. His arm fell away to his side as he straightened up, examining the wan countenance, eyes shuttered, mouth lax, naked body hidden beneath sheets stained with blood and pus. A peculiar constriction afflicted his heart, almost like pain, and he swallowed. 



My son, my first-born, Ningloriel's child and my own. He felt a surge of rage raise his pulse and set his temples throbbing, but he controlled it.Someone must pay for this. He thought of Elrond somewhere in the infirmary tending to Erestor. He thought of Meril sitting in her dank, dark cell.



"The truth is before us," Gladhadithen answered sadly, and found she could not go on, turning away to hide the tears she had been shedding regularly since Legolas' return.



"What truth? What is different this time?" Elladan called from below, his face peering up through the opening between the platforms.



"Indeed, an apt query," nodded Mithrandir. "Perhaps the answer to his remote state lies there, for he had changed much, and quickly, before his capture."



"I see no logic in this," complained Thranduil. "Why would change for the good make him inaccessible to Mithrandir now?"



"He is bound to Lord Erestor now," said Fearfaron and cast a challenging glare the wizard's way. Mithrandir ignored him and remained silent.



"I doubt that would make him reject Mithrandir's aid," argued Elladan.



"It wouldn't," Aragorn interjected. "Whatever locked his soul away is not the good he gathered to it before this nightmare. It is what happened there, in the caves. He has lost Lindalcon and probably had to watch as he was murdered."



"All true," agreed Gladhadithen, regaining her composure and professional demeanour, "but there is something more likely none has been willing to state openly, though Aragorn alludes to it faintly. It must be said now. As a healer, it is obvious to me what it is. He has been tortured cruelly, violated multiple times by beasts and by Wraiths. Who could endure it? Who would wish to live afterwards?"



"Others have, so might he," Elrohir objected, joining his brother, features pinched and stricken. "From all we have heard, he is stronger than most and…"



"Muindor, she is right," Aragorn interrupted gently. "We must face this honestly."



"There may be no means to salvage him," whispered Fearfaron, his face a stony caricature of the mild expression normally presented. He sighed deeply, the exhalation carrying with it his resigned acceptance. His head bowed low and he pressed his fist against his ribs above the yawning void opening within his heart. "He will find peace in Mandos. My first-born will meet him there. 'Ere long, I will follow."



"Rubbish!" spat Thranduil, disdain in his sneering lips and cold contempt in the glare he trained upon the Spirit-hunter. "He did not fade through all the horrors of the past, though he was used coarsely by one he loved. Maltahondo's abuse cut his soul to ribbons as no Orc's could do, for he feels nothing but hatred for Orcs. Weren't the corpsman's sexual attentions the same as rape? It was worse than rape, for his assailant made him believe he was the one at fault. He survived that and found enough spirit remaining to love again. Nay, he is not fading; this is something else. It must be."



No one spoke, for while everyone might wish to believe Thranduil's logic, the evidence before them was difficult to ignore. Eyes glanced in fleeting hesitation upon the still figure in the bed, unwilling to rest long upon the ravaged ruin displayed there. Who could recover from such atrocities? None had ever done so, as far as any of them could recall. What would Legolas' soul be like if he did survive it? It entered every single mind, even Thranduil's, that death would be the more merciful end in a case so grim.



"Then why do we hesitate to do what he would want us to do?" murmured the King. He searched each face keenly, unable to hide the unspoken wish in his heart: for one of them to refute him, for someone to curse him for saying it. None spoke and every head turned aside.



"I cannot," Elladan announced. "I will not. Even if it is the merciful course of action and what he would beg of me, if he could."



"No more could I," admitted Elrohir. He covered his face and turned aside, sitting heavily upon the elegant little sofa.



"I am a healer; what you mention is abomination," scolded Gladhadithen.



"Aye," Aragorn nodded, adjusting the covering over his friend. "We can ease his suffering until the end."



"Can you?" barked Fearfaron, suddenly loud and livid in fury. "Tell yourself no more lies, mortal! Nothing you have done has granted him ease. You cannot end his life because he is your friend and you still hope."



"Perhaps," nodded Aragorn, going to the distraught ellon and clasping him tight at the shoulder. "I do hope, though I see no means to cure him this time."



"That is because it was not the skill of a healer that made him well before," stated Fearfaron. "It was Erestor who made him whole again."



"Nay, before the bonding I pulled him back from the brink of death twice," argued Mithrandir, standing to face the Tawarwaith's adopted father. He did not like the implications, for Legolas was so thoroughly closed against him; could this portend anything than the wild elf's full knowledge of the liberties the wizard had taken?



"I do not deny it, but I say to you that he had already begun to give over his heart to the Noldo Lord. The two had already been intimate and Legolas was responding." Fearfaron's face was transformed with eager optimism and his outlook was contagious.



"Where is that wretched law-son of mine?" bellowed Thranduil, leaping from the platform in such haste that he nearly flattened Elladan. Before anyone could temper this new conviction with caution, he was racing across the glade shouting at the Wood Elves in his way.

~~…a whisper of contact then a ghost of a draft: his name exhaled…~~

'Legolas. You cannot escape my love.'



The voice was calm and soothing, brimming with desire and throbbing with an overpowering undertone of virile possessiveness, yet so fully benevolent and harmonious no room remained for a sense of danger or feelings of indignation. The words were limned in real admiration, genuinely and justifiably proud of all he had done, of how hard he had worked to achieve his comrades' release from Wandering, of how deeply he loved his siblings and struggled to protect them. The syllables hovered, overtones sustained within his mind, a nearly tangible presence which gradually assumed shape and form, definitively male, perfectly designed to inflame his erotic predilection. 



The words ceased being sound, but the convictions generated by their persuasive tones remained and Legolas relished them, gathering this unlooked for love around him like a warm cloak, eagerly awaiting more, silently singing his response in kind. He had no wish to escape this love. Soon, soon the form would migrate from his interior thoughts and inhabit the space surrounding him, becoming real. Then he would feel them, the words, their shape and their form touching him lightly, then playfully, then passionately. Their dimensions would burgeon to massive proportions and then they would return within him, driven into his body in hard, brisk thrusts until the meaning filled him, shooting through him in a warm gush of heady seed and rising ecstasy.



Legolas sighed, shifting in restless impatience, and realised his eyes were shut. He kept them that way, preferring blindness to the immensity of the colourless abyss in which he lay, immersed in the fire coursing over his naked skin. It was not the searing heat of wrenching wounds; his injuries had closed and left him whole and unblemished. Even the old scars were gone, even that left by the dagger wound under his heart. He had realised this the last time he'd awakened in the strange place, knowing not by sight but by the touch of his hands as he caressed and teased his excited flesh. The sensation began and culminated in the thrumming apex of his unbearably full erection straining for release against the consistent, mobile pressure pumping up and down its length. He whispered a groan: 'My Love.'



No answer came, but he did not care one bit; he was going to come soon.



Too soon. 



He preferred to wait until the huge cock entered him and drove him to it. He wanted to feel the smooth, resilient heat of it fucking him, hammering at his most sensitive core, seeming to grow and stretch him, delving deeper with every thrust. He wanted to listen for the sound of his racing pulse and gasping breath, his decadent moans and sighs, the odd frictional scritching of his body slipping against the invisible floor. His lover made no sound at all, ever. He didn't care; it was too good to care and he wanted to postpone his release until all this transpired. He raised a hand and reached down to slow the relentless stimulation. Fingers grazed against warm skin, hairless and hard and… 



Scaly? 



His hand instinctively retracted, his eyes flew open, and he sat bolt upright, gazing down upon his groin, bellowing a shout of shocked disbelief at the sight of an immense, white snake slowly devouring his penis. It had red, unseeing eyes and its muscles worked, swallowing him, as its long, sinuous body writhed rhythmically over and between his legs. A whip-like forked tongue flickered over his concealed slit and Legolas shuddered, involuntarily flexing into the sensation. Then he gagged on bile at the depravity of this response and yanked the vile thing off him. The action sent him spiralling into delicious delirium as his seed streamed forth and his body fell back, prone and trembling in the colourless space. The beady, reptilian eyes smirked at him just before the creature exploded in the tightening grip of his fist, disintegrating and splattering him with a viscous smear of blood and semen.



His eyes closed against this defilement, shut out the glaring whiteness, welcomed the familiar serenity of black obliteration, and he remembered nothing.

 

~~I admit that I am selfish. I am seducing you.~~

Erestor stared at Thranduil in confusion, unable to process the words the King was shouting at him, focusing on the way the mighty Sindarin Lord's brows wrinkled and jumped with the force of his fury, first flattening then arching high, then contorting into undulating waves. It was strange, too, the colours sweeping over the wrathful countenance: ashen pallor blossoming with maroon patches at the cheeks that spread until the entire visage was nearly purple. And the mouth! What bizarre sounds he must be producing to account for the mobility on display, complete with flashes of bared, white teeth and a sticky spray of saliva.



"Erestor!"



He startled; that was his name and Thranduil was yelling it at the top of his lungs. What in Mordor did he mean by it? A sudden explosion of pain stunned him and he lost sight of the furious face for a moment when he shut his eyes. Before he could do more than give a plaintive grunt, another blow landed on the opposite cheek and a second voice became audible.



"Stop this! He cannot respond, Thranduil." It was Elrond, his words pleading and stricken. They were ignored.



"Erestor!" Thranduil bellowed, slapping the drugged councillor again.



"Enough! Can't you see? He is fading." Elrond physically grabbed the offending hand as it swung wide to strike again and instantly regretted it. The Sinda Lord snatched free and curled the hand into a fist which connected with Elrond's cheek in a loud clap, generating an flash of light and pain that rocked him to his knees. He was not there long. The force of the kick aimed at his ribs was sufficient to drive air form his lungs and curled him into a foetal ball.



Here was the excuse Thranduil needed and he unleashed the pent rage and frustration building since the second trial of Erebor. It felt good to finally have the real culprit in his hands, the one who had designed Legolas' fall from favour and incited the enmity betwixt Ningloriel and the King beyond repair. He kicked the mighty Lord of Imladris repeatedly, shouting curses and condemnations, punctuating his blows with "Eärendil's Shame!" and "Slave to Vilya!", not noticing that his opponent did not fight back. A feeble, frantic palpation against his back finally reached him and he paused, glaring over his shoulder to find Erestor there trying to stop him. The words he was speaking finally made it through the red haze of Thranduil's anger and he peered at the councillor keenly.



"I punished him. I punished him already; have you forgot?" Erestor said again, seeing he now had the monarch's attention.



"No, I have not, but your right to seek redress does not circumvent mine," Thranduil growled. He hefted Elrond and threw him against the wall with sufficient force to crack the plaster and momentarily stun the Elven Lord. He crumpled on the floor and there wisely decided to remain and recover what remained of his dignity and strength, since he was beyond the King's reach. "So, not fading after all?" Thranduil queried his Ion'waeth (son-by-bond) in sarcastic tones. "Indeed, how can you be since Legolas is not?"



"He is not?" Erestor was astonished and stared, slack-jawed and foggy-eyed, not sure he was hearing correctly. He felt weak and watery as though he'd been dosed with a potent soporific. He plopped onto the mattress and sat blinking up at the intimidating ellon. "Not fading?"



"Nay, it is something else. Erestor of Imladris, you coward, you reprehensible reject from Gondolin and Mithlond, what are you doing hiding here in this sickroom?" Thranduil screamed at the vapid, expressionless face. He grasped the seneschal at the biceps and shook him violently. "Awaken, you useless waste of skin and bone! Legolas needs you!"



A jolt of feeling shot through Erestor then, a tearing affliction of loss and love and fear and despair. "Legolas," he wheezed, the sound faint as a kitten's mew. Absently, he raised a trembling hand to his burning cheek and focused on the King standing in rigid anticipation beside him. "Thranduil," he mumbled thickly and licked his lips, swallowed, and looked about in befuddlement. "Legolas! Where?"



"He is in the clearing, there in the talan made for you both, trapped in some hellish mental landscape of torture and confusion and anguished lust. He is there while you are here, quietly resting as you await a call from Námo that will never come!" Thranduil bent closer and closer with every word until he could see droplets of spit striking the seneschal's skin.



"Stop, please," Elrond pleaded faintly from his spot on the floor, glad to observe his cousin's responsiveness though he could not say he approved the King's harsh methods. "Give him room to breathe and gather his senses."



"No, I have not such a luxury to spare him, or say rather that my son has it not," Thranduil retorted, glaring at the Noldorin Lord huddled against the wall, seeing the dark brows arch high, watching guilt slither through the grey irises. He sneered, nodding acknowledgement. "Aye, my son. My first-born son, Legolas, whom you stole from me, peredhel. I have not forgot you." The King raised an accusing finger and aimed it at the cowering Noldo, turning from the bed and advancing on his enemy until he towered above him. "Pray," he hissed, "pray, if you think any Vala will still hear you. Pray that he lives and comes through this sane and whole, restored to the proper place that is his by right."



"King Thranduil," Erestor's mind cleared, he found his voice, and found that he was sitting on the edge of his bed clad in a night shirt and nothing else, his soul beset with both anxious yearning and forlorn desponsency. "Forget him. Take me to Legolas."



Thranduil had to help him stand and dress, doing so with surprising compassion and a firm but gentle touch that almost made Erestor collapse. What could inspire this consideration save the gravest of circumstances? Legolas must be far gone, indeed, for the King to be so reduced to dependence on an outsider to correct the ills surrounding his cursed House. Erestor faltered, thinking this, and met enquiring green eyes, the panic there astonishing to see. He could not hide his shock and the King sniffed, a self-deprecating noise.



"What would you? He is my first-born child whatever else may be true. If I was blind to the truth before, I see it clearly now. I see him as he is, who he is: a noble heir of Oropher unjustly deprecated. I have embraced that fact with all its implications intact; now I will act as it is in my nature to do: to defend my own against any enemies, any harm, any dangers; to redress any wrongs visited upon those that are of my blood. This should not surprise anyone who knows anything of me." 



"I see," Erestor said, recalling Thranduil's efforts during the Last Alliance. He had fought valiantly and never left his father's side, yet the fate of his brothers was surely not indicative of strong family ties. "I am only wondering what has wrought this abrupt change."



"It has not been sudden," Thranduil denied, cutting a swift glance at Elrond's kinsman. They were moving slowly through the corridor and Thranduil remained silent a moment, thinking on this. Some things he could barely admit to himself and was not about to share with Erestor of Imladris, law-son or not. 



None of what had happened was Legolas' fault, true enough, for he was innocent, a dupe used to satisfy a twisted mind's cruel hunger to manipulate and ruin what was good and enviable in others' lives. Yet neither, Thranduil believed, was any blame his. What husband, presented the evidence sent by Elrond, would come to a different conclusion? What ellon could accept another's offspring as his own? Culpability lay solely with the Lord of Imladris and his mistress, Ningloriel. Learning he had been deceived into rejecting his own flesh and blood, a son of whom he could be justly proud, this had been even more humiliating than the cuckolding. Legolas remained a living reminder of Thranduil's defeats and failures.



Even so, he had softened since these revelations first broke upon him. He no longer despised Legolas, yet he could not manage to love him, stubborn and contrary and confrontational as the disinherited prince was. He began to identify with Legolas only when faced with a far greater betrayal than any Ningloriel may have committed. Meril's treachery even made Elrond's offences look like child's play. In her hands lay three warrior's deaths, her own husband Valtamar among them. At her feet must be placed Lindalcon's destruction, her first-born child created only to be used to usurp Legolas' title and position. To her cunning mind must credit be given for designing Legolas' intended death through the Trials of Release. Thranduil wondered how he could have come to love her so and a queasy shudder ran through him, reliving their mutual joy in married union, their shared delight in the births of the little prince and princess.



He directed his thoughts away from Meril quickly, preferring to remember instead the invasive presence of his brothers' disembodied souls possessing him. He had fought them wildly, realising too late that he was in their power by virtue of his acknowledgement of Legolas. Admitting he had wronged the Tawarwaith, even if only to his own heart, had given them the lever required. The remorse he felt was genuine and this was the potent ingredient required for ensnaring a soul; through guilt over Oropher's death had he captured his brothers so long ago. Had they not defied Thranduil regarding the enchanted armour, their father would have been spared. Had Thranduil not spurned Ningloriel's innocent child, all the harm that befell Legolas could have been prevented. 



How gleeful the spectral princes' triumph while threatening to shred Thranduil's spirit and disburse it! Even more gloating was their description of having their brother's fe¨ cast into the melted metal of the gates, therein to be frozen alongside the abhorrent soul inhabiting Caranthir's dagger. He would never see his children again with living eyes until time ended and the world changed. Finding himself powerless to dispute their right to avenge their nephew, Thranduil had begged as never before, certain Taurant and Gwilwileth would perish with both parents removed from them. Cold despair overwhelmed him when they retorted the little ones would never notice the difference, not caring who inhabited their father's body as long as they were loved and cared for. He knew it to be true and realisation almost broke him.



He shrank to near nothingness and remained quiescent within himself, aware of them acting in his name and person, and considered if perhaps this was best after all. Hadn't he justly earned such a punishment? He had not designed the various afflictions to which Legolas had been subjected, but he had played his part with gusto and become blinded by bitterness. Perhaps he was not fit to bring up Greenwood's next rulers. He stirred and changed his plea, asking now only to be permitted a means to remain near them as they grew to adulthood as they were meant to do. He asked to share the living body they had usurped.



The fiery battle at the Forest Gate forced the spectres to leave him, but they did so willingly, affirming his humbler attitude and encouraging his desire to defend their homeland. Though freed of their presence, their influence remained and Thranduil came forth from his fortress with his spirit rejuvenated and his heart uplifted. He found his respect and admiration for Legolas greater for having shared his brothers' combined sense of pride and protective kinship. They saw in their nephew much that was like their father, and through them Thranduil could deny it no longer. It was also undeniable that his subjects and his warriors approved him taking the Tawarwaith's cause as a battle cry. It felt right to receive him as his own; perhaps doing so would prevent his burden from passing to Taurant and Gwilwileth, and the Wood Elves believed it just, too. Reclaiming his rejected son suddenly become advantageous in every regard.



With victory achieved and his foes routed, Thranduil returned and sought his brothers in the vaults, made his peace with them, striking a bargain that nearly crushed him but left him free to raise his younger children and attempt repairing the honour of the one he'd rejected. The idea of this formidable warrior-prince, tried and true and undeniably dedicated to the children and to Greenwood was soothing to Thranduil's sore heart. He had lost much and would lose still more; he could not afford to lightly cast Legolas aside knowing he was rightly his to claim. Having decided all this and gained Celeborn's enthusiastic support, Thranduil was unwilling to give up now, no matter the severity of the injuries or the depth of depravity to which the Tawarwaith had been subjected.



Yet, none of this was for Erestor's ears. Thranduil shook his head and gave a little tug at the arm he held, propelling the seneschal carefully forward. "We waste time he may not have," he admonished quietly.



Outside the infirmary, the day was grey and heavy with rain, a slow, cold soaking precipitation almost thick enough to be sleet. Erestor shivered and curled in upon himself as Thranduil propped him against the door jam and walked out into the weather, calling for a horse which was prepared and waiting. Talagan, draped in a hooded cape that glistened with a green, wet sheen, brought it to the door. He inspected the Noldo briefly, his expression inscrutable, and handed over a cloak to his lord, unfurling one and settling it about him even as Thranduil turned and did the same for Erestor. They put him on the horse and Talagan trudged away back to the stronghold without a word, crossing a courtyard empty of all but the leaden rain, a desolate, muddy expanse of avoidance none wished to acknowledge or traverse, silent but for the monotonous, indifferent splatter falling from the grizzled sky.



Then Erestor felt eyes upon him and turned to spy Elrond outlined in silhouette against the yellow light spilling from the infirmary door. His hand raised, part benediction and part farewell, then dropped heavily to his side, and Erestor was struck by an impression of finality in the gesture. Suddenly Thranduil swung up behind him and urged the horse into a swift, smooth canter and the urgency driving him radiated from his body in great, spiking flares that pierced and infected Erestor. He found his heart hammering, wished the animal would go more quickly though the distance was not truly much to cover.



"You love him?" the words were spoken softly, close to his ear, but had sufficient impact to make Erestor gasp aloud. It was all the answer Thranduil needed. "Then save him. By your own words, he did as much for you."



Before Erestor could summon any assurances to speak, they were there. A throng surrounded the ring of oaks, soaked and miserably cold, huddled under cloaks and blankets in knots of sodden and morose despondency, a sea of wan, white, staring faces wide-eyed in communal despair. Silently they shuffled aside to let them pass, never ceasing the murmur of pleas to Powers they little trusted to hear them, closing behind again to make a barrier to shield their champion from darkness. But they all knew; the darkness was already within.



Elladan met them at the base of the tree and spoke to Erestor. "It is not as bad to see, mellon, as it was at the docks, but he is no better. Mithrandir has had no success waking him. If you cannot face it…"



"He will do more than that," Thranduil threatened.



"I am not here because of your menacing orders," snapped Erestor, frowning as he was helped down, ashamed of this weakness he could not manage to surmount. "I'm here for Legolas. He is my mate and this is my place, whatever fate decrees." 



Then he lifted his eyes and looked up into the branches; the silken shades were drawn all round the sturdy platforms even as they had been since the talan was built. Light leaked from it, narrow golden slivers that blinked and winked, piercing the gloomy grey curtain of rain and transforming the endless drops into translucent gems of silver clarity not unlike the dewy tears let fall from Telperion's last blossoms. Erestor raised his face to the highest level; the cold, wet beads drummed upon his cheeks and ran down his neck. A curtain parted and a head filled the space revealed: Fearfaron, his features lost in the halo augmenting his subdued aura, but Erestor knew it was him. The taut screen snapped back and in the same instant the seneschal grappled the hanging ladder, glad for Elrohir's strength reaching down to heave him through the gaping hatch.



The little sitting room was crowded and with Thranduil and Elladan pushing through behind him it was almost impossible to breathe in the small space: The Twins, the Woodland King, Aragorn, Mithrandir, Gladhadithen, Fearfaron, and himself. For all the press of so many people, Erestor had the impression of someone missing and at once the fair face of Lindalcon rose in his thoughts. It was the first time he perceived the young warrior's absence and he knew with certainty the ellon was dead. 



"Ai Valar, that bright young one," he mourned, finding his eyes on Elrohir, who dropped his head and shook it sadly. "Gone," whispered the seneschal. Did Legolas know? His gaze sought the carpenter's. "Has he been conscious at all?"



"No, he is caught in a form of reverie, deep and detached; he does not hear or sense us, trapped a lurid dreamscape both dangerous and debasing. You know of what I speak; you have seen this," said Fearfaron bitterly.



"I have," Erestor replied, but even so he did not understand, not truly, for what he had observed he had himself induced in Legolas that night in the forest when first they were thrown together. Nay, not by chance; we hunted him down.



"The usual methods of rousing him are useless," added Aragorn. "This is like no dream he has ever experienced before."



"My connection to him is closed," added Mithrandir sombrely before the seneschal could ask. "It is some kind of sorcery I have not encountered before."



"You must try to enter the dream with him," Fearfaron said, "and hopefully the reality of your physical presence will overcome the spell." At this pronouncement an oppressive silence enveloped them, every face and every thought bent upon Erestor so that there could be no doubt what this simple statement truly meant. The carpenter took a step closer and settled a gripped his law-son's arm. "You must."



Erestor stared from face to face, incredulous. They wanted him to make love to Legolas while Pen-rhovan was dreaming of his days with Malthen or worse, his torment by the Wraith, and this while they watched? "You cannot be serious. I am not going to play the part of his rapist."



"Of course not!" Thranduil thundered and just stopped himself from swatting the seneschal's head.



"You are to play the role of loving husband," snapped Aragorn.



"I trust that is something you can do," added Mithrandir caustically.



"Enough," said Elrohir. "Erestor did not cause this and he must not be berated for his fears."



"I am not afraid," insisted the distraught husband. "I cannot abide him thinking I would want to hurt him, much less like this."



"It will not be like that," promised Fearfaron. "Your love and your bond will provide the antithesis for whatever magic has ensnared him."



"Is he right?" Erestor turned to Mithrandir, but the wizard could do no more than offer a half-hearted shrug. Erestor was stunned to see how careworn and shrivelled the Istar looked, more an old man than ever he had seemed before.



"We have tried everything else," added Fearfaron. "Even if it fails, you must attempt it."



"Not with this audience, I won't," Erestor snorted and shoved his way past them to the landing which led to the next level. "Get them out of here," he threw the order over his shoulder and struggled to pull himself up, panting as he slid off into Elrohir's arms, unable to draw even one leg up over the rim of the upper ledge. He groaned, embarrassed and furious, and made to shake off the helping hands. "Leave me be!"



"Fine," Elrohir was equally abashed but did not step aside until Fearfaron took his place. He and Elladan descended to the clearing, catching Aragorn's eye and silently ordering him along. Gladhadithen tugged at Mithrandir's robe and reluctantly the wizard allowed himself to be led away. Thranduil and Fearfaron remained.



"Out," Erestor demanded, pointing at the imposing Sindarin monarch. Thranduil opened his mouth to retort, but the stricken expression in the seneschal's eyes prohibited any rebuke. Indeed, Erestor alone had right to be in this talan and he bowed his head in acknowledgment as he quietly ducked through the trap door, pulling it to behind him. The thud as the boards connected preceded a reedy wail from the platform above; Fearfaron and Erestor both startled, eyes meeting in gloomy dread. "I don't know if I can," the seneschal whispered. Abruptly, a spine rattling shriek assaulted their ears and a ponderous rapping and pounding against the wooden boards followed.



The carpenter shoved his law-son over the edge and leaped up after him, repeating the manoeuvre for Legolas was on the uppermost platform. They found him jerking in grotesque spasms, heels and elbows beating the floor as he struggled mightily against some unseen foe, hands clawing at his neck, the noises emitted from his throat those of strangulation. Even as they watched, it ended as suddenly as it began, the ailing ellon limp and still once more. Seconds passed and the two stood frozen, unable to move as though fearful any action might precipitate another fit. Then a tremendous, rasping intake of air moved the Tawarwaith's chest and they understood he had only just resumed respiration.



"Elbereth, spare him," groaned Fearfaron. He knelt at the bed and found Erestor beside him, the expression on the seneschal's face indicative of revulsion and horror as his sight tracked over the many marks of abuse. "Help me," the spirit-hunter ordered, disturbed by this reaction and unable to hide it.



"Of course, but what…I just…I didn't think…" Erestor stammered, desperate to explain. "Fearfaron, I fear to touch him much less anything else."



The carpenter heaved an exasperated sigh and shook his head. "Nothing we do can affect him, for good or ill it seems. He has not worsened; he has not improved. Somehow, this foul magic keeps him in stasis; so the healers assure me and Mithrandir concurs. Still, we have to clean the wounds, or try to, and force water down his throat, or he will die from wasting. This is our gravest fear now and I admit that I am desperate, for how long can his strength last?"



"Aye," Erestor whispered and together they did what they could to make him clean and keep him from dying of thirst. The seneschal found the answer for his weak condition lay before him, for if Legolas was not fading he was dying nonetheless. He gathered the stricken ellon into his arms and quietly began to weep. He could not become aroused by the broken body before him and felt guilt seize his heart. "Pen-rhovan, can you hear me? Please, open your eyes." There was no response and he softly stroked the shorn head, wincing at an unhealed gash where a knife had cut too close. This, he thought, must be how he'd looked at the Judgement. His eyes lifted to find Fearfaron watching him. "He does not deserve this."



"No, but it has happened, so why waste talk lamenting it now?" he remarked irritably. "He is still your mate and you must try, Erestor. Do you not love him still? He was willing to do this for you and suffered terribly for it. After that, when he could not wake you, he went seeking death and tried to force Thranduil to deal it to him. I do not want you to succumb to the same misery should you fail. I have another idea if he does not waken after you join with him."



"What is it?"



"I will dunk him briefly in the Enchanted River. Then he will forget all this and awaken in due time."



They sat staring at one another in pained silence for several seconds, each realising fully the result of such a course. The seneschal did not doubt the carpenter would do as he said and knew he'd been told to frighten him into action. Then Erestor impulsively grabbed his mate's hand, the one bearing the bonding band, and as the rings touched one another a dark red spark flared between them. Legolas twitched, crying out weakly, and for an instant his eyes opened and fixed on Erestor's, pleading and frightened, then fell shut anew as a tremor ran through his body.



"Valar!" Fearfaron exclaimed. "What was that?"



"This is not Analdir's ring," announced Erestor, eyeing it closely and warily. He noticed now how deeply it bit into the skin, how the finger looked almost burnt around the edges of the metal, how an almost palpable sense of evil lifted from it. "This is not the bonding ring I gave him." Without hesitation, he laid Legolas down and began at once trying to work the counterfeit loose, but it was too tight. He recalled the spell that had fit Analdir's ring to Pen-rhovan's finger on the day they renewed their bond and lifted furious eyes to the carpenter. "Get Mithrandir."

~~I do wish I could bind you to me so…~~

'Submit.'



The words mote his mind and brought him to consciousness with a sharp cry. He covered his ears but the sound was inside his head, not outside, and it rolled back and forth, now louder, now softer, repeating like an echo, first diminishing then strengthening as no echo ever did. "No!" he shouted and was stunned to hear his own voice reduced to a scratchy whisper. But the word evaporated, leaving behind it menace interlaced with devotion. He felt hungry, thirsty, and nauseous all at once and groaned, rolling to his side and rocking himself lightly, arms wrapped round his middle, eyes closed.



'You cannot escape.'



The voice was a coy whisper, a breathy sigh exhaled over the tip of his ear, and he jerked away, sitting up to identify his tormenter at last, but there was no one there. There was never anyone there, though once he had surprised a pair of hard, dark, hunter's eyes glaring at him through the eternal white. They had disappeared instantly, a faint expression of intrigued approval passing through them ere they did. He tried to recall when that had happened, then wondered if it had happened at all. A painful contraction rippled through his stomach and he rubbed his belly, unable to recall when he had last eaten anything. Immediately his thirst became unbearable and his tongue seemed to swell within his mouth. He must find water.



He stood carefully, wobbling on unsteady limbs, wondering that he could do so, vaguely recalling there was something wrong with his leg. It did not grieve him, though, and so he tentatively took a step forward, then another. The floor, white, solid, and continuous, supported him. A low, drifting haze of white smoke or vapour boiled lazily round his ankles, cold like the stone in the vaults.



What is this place?



He wondered if he was dreaming; yet no reverie's landscape had ever been so empty. He listened and heard silence; sniffed and smelled only his own odour, reached out and pushed against a vacuum. He could detect his presence, nothing more. He kept moving, a strange sensation of immobility accompanying each step as the seamless, featureless emptiness provided no reference points to indicate progress. He swallowed with difficulty and drew a heavy breath, feeling an unnatural weight to the air around him. He raised a hand to his throat and coughed, gagging, struggling with every inhalation. Just as he believed he would pass out, the sensation cleared and he breathed freely, deeply, shutting his eyes in grateful relief.



A light brush of fingers drifted over his buttocks and he leaped away, a cry upon his lips, whirling about to face his assailant; no one was there. Slowly he revolved, straining his senses to his limits, but detected nothing.



"Show yourself!" he shouted, his voice muffled and distorted as though he was underwater. 



A deep-throated laugh resounded around him. Arms wrapped round his chest, a body pressed against his back, its long hard cock shoved into the cleft of his arse. He jumped away and slammed into something solid, the corner of a white, formless wall, and fell back upon the colourless floor with a whimper.



'Submit, my love.'



The voice buffeted him from all directions as before, confounding his thoughts and draining strength from his limbs. "No," his lips formed the negation, but no sound came forth.



Hands touched him, coddled his balls, pulled at his nipples, tweaked his ear's tips. In vain he twitched and twisted to evade the invisible fingers, but wherever he moved, they were waiting there for him. The unseen body draped its weight atop him as an acrid breath caressed his face and lips claimed his mouth. Legolas struggled futilely to get free, fists flailing through the void and striking nothing, knees trapped beneath the persistent weight. The tongue lapped at his clenched teeth and he denied it entry past them. Piercing, icy agony shot through his breast, knife or fire he could not tell, and he screamed; the tongue entered and the punishment ceased. The wet muscle probed and explored him fully and in the aftermath of the furious pain he trembled, moaning as the kiss deepened, moving against the solid erection pressed against his groin, feeling his ardour rise and encouraging it.



"Legolas!" 



He jerked and went rigidly still; the kiss ended and the spectral lover left him. He was alone again and lay staring at the blank expanse of the white void panting, trying to pinpoint that voice. He knew it and wanted desperately to find its source, for he was sure it came from outside this place. He wanted to call out, to shout that he was here, here in this strange pit of empty nothing…this cloud world, but his mouth would not co-operate and he felt himself slipping, the solid floor dissolving like quicksand beneath him, burying him in suffocating white oblivion. He tried to scream but consciousness deserted him and Legolas remembered nothing.



'You cannot escape my love.'



He was alert instantly, heart racing and lungs straining, terror coursing through his veins with every pulse. The voice was filled with red filth, with death and hatred, with corruption and desecration. The offal of a thousand rotting corpses could not be more vile. He turned aside and propped himself up on an elbow, vomiting in noisy heaves, his hair pooling all round him on the floor. The thin rivulets of acidic bile meandered toward his hands and he moved so not to touch the egestion. A startled incoherent noise escaped him as his gaze focused on his fingers, a cry part astonishment and part hacking cough. He sat up and held his hands before him, gazing at nails curled over into long, yellowed claws, at knuckles bulbous and gnarled.



"What in Mordor?" he croaked and gasped at the frail sound emitted, the voice of a relic with thin, brittle vocal chords. 



His eyes tracked from the twisted talons to legs reduced to emaciated sticks, wasted and fragile as an ancient's, the knob-kneed legs of someone who had not walked more than a few shambling steps in ages of time. He was decrepit and decaying like a mortal, older than the Elder in the woodsmen's village. He shook his head and the motion carried his attention to a great swath of dull, dry grey and golden hair, yards and yards of it spread all round him. He touched his sunken stomach with the nails and shuddered. How long had he been captive here? "Nay, nay." But he could remember nothing of how he came to be in the strange place and panic gripped his heart. "Is this Mandos?"



Laughter flowed into his ear, melodious, inviting, but it made him cringe. 'It is time, Legolas. You cannot escape my love. Submit.'



"No! Who are you?" he demanded, struggling to his feet, turning in a circle. No one was there.



"Legolas!" 



The frantic voice yelled his name and instantly the years dropped from his frame and he was healthy and young again. "Here!" he shouted back, trusting that voice; it came from somewhere beyond the colourless void. He started to run. "I am here!" A burning sensation began to worry his hand, but he ignored it, fleeing, desperate to escape, longing to hear that voice call to him again. He ploughed into an invisible barrier at full speed and staggered backward. His leg erupted in raging excruciation and buckled, bringing him down with a sharp cry. Before he could gather his wits the presence returned, heavy, paralysing, and he felt the heat of an erect penis throbbing against his belly. 



'Submit.'"



"No!"



He beat at the unseen body with his fists but one hand caught fire and he screamed. His captor laughed, the sound cruel and gloating; the sharp black eyes winked open and aimed their malice upon his naked soul. Someone grabbed the burning hand and pulled it away, bore down upon it with a sharp tool, sawed at it. A whisper of garbled words reached him, holy words or demonic incantations he could not tell. Spasms rocked him but he could not draw air sufficient to scream anymore. The glittering eyes glared and a word of power froze him. Hands parted his legs wide.



"Daro!"



Fingernails dug into his hips and he looked up, suddenly seeing his captor fully. A brutal mouth leered; a long fall of white and jet hair fell from a high white brow and brushed over his abdomen; a hard cock split him open, and the wizard's hand worked his erection, only the hand was a white snake swallowing his shaft.



"Pen-rhovan!" 



The name dropped upon him like an avalanche, a mountain collapsing in a hail of boulders tearing away the unblemished white void, a thunderous fulmination of black smog and orange flame replete with the stink of burning flesh and the excruciating sensation of being skinned alive. He was being rent asunder body and soul and welcomed it; the wizard winked out of existence; the unclean lust dissipated, and the colourless void ripped open.

~~There is a grace about you, Pen-rhovan…~~

He found his eyes trained upon a face he knew and loved, tear-stained and pale; his heart broke to see the anguish and sorrow there. He wanted to lift his hand and brush away those tears but it was held fast. Confused, he turned and saw the bloody, pulpy mass of flesh and bone atop the sheets.



"Berenaur," he whispered, and then his eyes closed.



TBC

---

NOTE: OK, he's still alive. Everybody OK with what happened and who trapped him behind that white door? Let me know if not and I'll expound in the next instalment.



This chapter is dedicated to Shadowess and the Legolas in Chains group she started so long ago. Feud debuted there and I'll always be grateful to her for giving me a place to post my first ever fan-fiction, this dark tale of angst and torment. Some of you were there at the beginning and I guess it seemed this tale would never end. It should be clear now that it will, and soon. My thanks to those who have given me friendship, support, and encouragement through all these years.