Deeper Waters

_______________
DEEPER WATERS
_______________


Chapter 13

Father and son walked from the stable up through the great gate to the citadel, talking easily of inconsequential matters, their serious words already exchanged. Beyond the palace doors they parted, with laughter and a hearty embrace. Celaeren took the stairs two at a time, eager for hot water and a sight of his beloved, while Imrahil headed for the state rooms. It would be good to speak to Faramir now, with the afternoon’s conversation fresh in his mind. However, the guard outside the audience hall informed him that the king and his steward were still in discussion with the delegation from the North, so he turned instead to climb to his chambers.

At the junction of the corridors along which the guest accommodation lay he paused, but after a moment’s reflection, chose to return to his own rooms first. A change of clothing and a wash would do him no harm before he sought out his lover. Then he would be able to share his happiness at the turn in Celaeren’s fortunes, and the frank determination with which his son was facing his future.

A few minutes later he stood at the south window, looking out over the walled gardens as he tied the laces of his tunic. There below him was a sight that nearly stopped his breath. The gardens themselves, though small, were lovely; trees and flowers, in the full luscious splendour of late spring, glowed in the evening light. How different was this rich green space from the desolate courts of Denethor’s time! The beauty that moved his heart was, however, to be spied at the far end of the tiny lawn, in the person of the architect of many of these changes. There Legolas rested on a long bench, legs crossed before him, head bent to read the scroll in his hands. At his side, Meluinen reclined, hands behind head, his eyes fixed on the trees.

Imrahil could not help noting that Meluinen was not so fine-featured as Legolas, his frame slightly bulkier, his hair a more vivid yellow-gold. Side by side, however, the two elves presented a truly magnificent sight. How could any man fail to be drawn to such splendour?

As Imrahil watched, Legolas finished reading, and turned his face to his friend while he rolled and bound the parchment. Meluinen gazed at him fondly, but his expression changed as the elf-prince spoke, and he reached out to rest a hand on the other’s arm. The gesture was one of surprised concern, and it chilled Imrahil to the bone. What bad news had his lover received? Pulling his boots on hurriedly, he strode from the chamber to find out.

By the time he reached the gardens the moment seemed to have passed, and the two friends were sit rel relaxed, conversing easily. At Imrahil’s approach both turned, Meluinen with a formal gesture of greeting, Legolas with a look fit to melt the man’s soul. Imrahil nodded to both, hand on heart, and offered words of welcome to the new arrival.

“I have returned your secretary safely to you,” Meluinen said once the pleasantries were complete, a trace of amusement evident in his voice. “He is walking in the city, sho should be returning soon.”

“He is?” Imrahil was astonished. Heledir out walking, not sharpening his quills in his chamber and anxiously awaiting the prince’s return? How the man had changed!

“Prince Faramir spoke with him in your absence,” said Legolas, “And suggested that he enjoy the afternoon at leisure since you were likely to bne sne some time.”

“Quite right,” said Imrahil briskly. “We will not be many more days here, and there will be much business to attend to before we leave. We should all make the most of our time.”

“Indeed.” Legolas smiled sadly.

Seeing that his lover was in no hurry to mention the scroll, Imrahil gave it a pointed look. “You have received news,” he stated.

“Yes. It is from Gimli. Meluinen brought it with him. It carries sad news, I am afraid; the dwarf’s father is seriously ill.”

“Glóin is ill?”

“Yes. It is a great shock to my friend. His father is old, it is true, but he has proved to be exceptionally hale and hearty until very recently. This is unexpected.”

Imrahil stared at his lover, trying hard to feel appropriate sorrow at the news, rather than relief that it did not concern the elf too directly. He liked Gimli, gruff and honest as the dwarf was; it would be difficult not to do so. What was hard to understand was the nature of the friendship between the unlikely pair. Imrahil was well aware, however, that bonds formed during wartime had deep foundations. He knew better than to question the genuine love between Legolas and the dwarf.

Further discussion of Gimli and his father was prevented by Meluinen, who was facing the gate, calling out, “Welcome, friends!”

Imrahil turned to see who was entering the garden and felt his mouth fall open. Here was Heledir, as might be expected. But at his side, elegant and striking, wd Ved Velenda. A glance passed between two two and the elf-maiden’s hand very briefly brushed the man’s arm as she smiled into his eyes.

Velenda looked quite different from the brisk, business-like librarian she had appeared to be in Ithilien. In place of her customary tunic and leggings she wore a soft grey gown, and her hair, so dark yet glinting red in the sun, was flowing loose over her shoulders. She was a veritable feast for the eyes. No wonder that Heledir was fairly glowing with happiness. The signs were quite unmistakeable; this was a friendship which had moved on to become something greater.

Trying to suppress his amazement at his secretary’s good fortune, Imrahil greeted the pair warmly. Velenda replied serenely, but Heledir seemed to be struggling. A blush crept up his neck and coloured his cheeks as he mumbled appropriate words. These new developments were obviously as much of a surprise to him as to anyone; he had not yet learned to accept matters with calm good grace.

Taking pity on his secretary, Imrahil clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, sit with me, we have much to discuss.”

Meluinen had apparently had a similar thought. He sprang to his feet and took his sister-in-law’s arm. “You must see this, Velenda,” he said, steering her towards the low arch that separated the lawned garden from the main court. As they stooped to pass through, their clear voices rang out with gentle laughter.

Legolas also rose from the bench, the scroll clutched in his hand. Over Heledir’s head his gaze met Imrahil’s. The elf’s deep blue eyes seemed to speak, but the man heard only one word: later. His groin tingled at the thought. With a sudden shock, he felt Legolas’s presence in his mind, and knew at once that he was not alone in his lust. The touch lasted only a second, but was enough to leave him gasping; surely his face was flushed as red as the secretary’s as he fought to maintain his composure.

“Sire?” Heledir’s voice was anxious.

“Aye, Heledir.” Imrahil watched from the corner of his eye as Legolas disappeared into the palace, and felt his breathing return to normal. “How was your journey here? Do you hate your horse once again?”

“No, My Lord, you were right.” The secretary managed a shy smile. “With practice it does become easier.”

“Good. Now, listen; there is much you should know about events of the past week.”

In fact, Imrahil found himself telling Heledir far more than was strictly necessary for him to know, had his role in the prince’s life been simply that of a secretary. True, he would learn the details over the course of time through various meetings and items of correspondence; there was no reason to keep anything back. But Imrahil realised that he was talking as much for the pleasure of it as for any real need. It was as easy to unburden himself to the stocky, serious man as it was realistic to expect a wise, sympathetic response. None of his other counsellors offered such a combination of intelligence, loyalty and compassion. Had their circumstances been different, Heledir would not be called a servant at all; he would simply be a friend.

Imrahil listened as Heledir summed up in a few well chosen words the political advantages of a match between Celaeren and a well-born lady of Rohan, then added his own congratulations at such happiness for the young prince. Warmth for the secretary flooded through him, and a resolution formed in his mind. By the gods, when they got back to Dol Amroth he would see that all was well in Heledir’s life, and offer him the advancement appropriate to one so close to the centre of royal affairs. It was a move, he suspected, that was long overdue.

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

The company was merry at dinner, for reasons that had nothing to do with the excellent wine. Celaeren and Rosalind touched not a dropile ile Imrahil, mindful of the pleasures to come, had his own reasons for choosing moderation. In spite of the literal sobriety, the talk at the high table was lively, and faces were glowing. And well they might be, as elves, women and men sat amongst those they loved.

Faramir and Meluinen did not have their wives with them, of course, but their long-standing friendship provided entertainment in its own right. To Imrahil’s surprise the golden elf had a sharp and somewhat earthy wit, which Faramir obviously knew of old, and thoroughly appreciated. The steward fed the questions and comments which encouraged Meluinen’s humour to shine, until all at the table were wiping their eyes with mirth.

“I would never have expected such comedy from an elf,” Imrahil muttered from the side of his mouth, as an anecdote about a talking bird came to an end, to be met by at least one cry of “No more, I beg you!”

Legolas, seated on the prince’s right, rolled his eyes. “You can imagine how my father despaired of our association,” he whispered. “Yet he is the truest of friends and a fine captain. For myself, I have always been grateful for his ‘bad influence’.”

The minstrels, responding to the mood of the diners, performed with gusto and received much hearty applause. None were discountenanced, therefore, when the queen suggested that the elves may wish to sing. Legolas was clearly about to demur, but Meluinen caught his eye and called something, inaudible to Imrahil, which changed the elf prince’s mind.

“Very well.” Legolas rose to his feet and joined his friend as they walked round the table to the musicians. After an animated discussion the lutenist rushed off to the side of the hall, only to reappear with a second instrument, rather larger than the one he had been playing. This he handed to Meluinen and a short tuning session followed. A page brought forth a chair; Meluinen sat and Legolas stood at his side, one hand on the chair back.

“Appropriately enough, a song of the spring,” the elf prince announced, when all were ready. He bowed slightly to the king and queen.

Meluinen was as fine a musician as he was a raconteur. The tune he began was fast and intricate, with a driving beat. Imrahil felt his foot begin to tap of its own accord; looking around the table he could see fingers drumming and heads nodding in time to the rhythm. After a few bars the lutenist caught the sense of the music and added a simple accompaniment. He was followed in short order by the singer, who had picked up a tambour as soon as the playing began.

Legolas let the musicians play together for a while and gain enough confidence to extemporise and embellish the main theme a little, then he began to sing.

The language was not Sindarin, so Imrahil could not follow the words. This was no great loss, however; the vibrant gaiety of the song still came through clearly. Legolas sang one verse, Meluinen the next, then together they took the chorus, with harmonies so sweet and ancient that they brought up gooseflesh on Imrahil’s arms. He felt his spirits lift and a wild joy fill his heart as the music coursed along. It was utterly exhilarating.

After several verses, Iil ril realised that Legolas was now singing the chorus in the common tongue:

All hail the gods of spring now,
The green buds bursting on the bough,
The earth so rich beneath the plough,
All hail the gods of spring!

Another repeat, a gesture of his hand, and the whole hall seemed to be singing with him. Imrahil could see to his delight that even Aragorn was grinning as if he had not a care in the world, and joining in with g spi spirit.

At last the song came to an end with a mighty flourish from Meluinen and a roll on the tambour. Imrahil could almost hear the collective intake of breath before a tumult of applause began. The elves would not be persuaded to sing more, but thanked the musicians before returning to their places at the table.

“Wonderful,” Imrahil breathed as Legolas sat down. There was more to be said, but he felt certain he would commit a major indiscretion before the entire company if he were to go on.

“It is well none here but Velenda understand the Sylvan tongue,” Legolas replied with a wry smile. “It isong ong of the simple folk, and some of the verses are somewhat . . . explicit. Needless to say, it is Meluinen’s favourite.”

Imrahil raised an eyebrow. “It was quite enough to make the sap rise, as it was,” he whispered, and enjoyed the look of pure wickedness he received in return.

“Is there anyone here who wishes to follow that?” Faramir was asking the table at large.

“Velenda!” Meluinen called, leaning forward to grin at her.

“Hardly,” she protested, but her brother-in-law was not to be dissuaded. Eventually, bowing to the inevitable with grace, she rose and took her place before the table.

“I shall not sing,” she declared, “as it is not my strength. I shall give you, instead, a work of one of our greatest poets. My prince, at least, is familiar with Selarad of Lindon.” Here Velenda turned slightly and inclined her head to Legolas, a secretive smile playing on her lips.

Imrahil could only wonder at the relevance of the comment, as Legolas failed to contain his astonishment at the elf maiden’s words.

“This piece, too, is most appropriate,” Velenda continued, “as I find myself honoured to be in the presence of so many heroes of the Great War.”

She paused and cast her eyes down as silence fell in the hall. Then raising her head and extending one arm slightly, she began.

Imrahil had listened to many a bard in his time, reciting for the pleasure of the royal court, but he had never heard anything like this. Here was no thumping meter, no repetition of stock phrases, no standard tale of love or woe. The language was as subtle as the rhythm of the poem, and seemed to insinuate itself gradually into the heart until the listener sat helpless, spellbound by the power and beauty of the words.

On the surface the poem was a description of a great warrior, arming and going forth for battle. There were details of his armour, greaves, breast-plate and sword, and vivid images comparing the hero to noble beasts and forces of nature. His strength and valour were only matched by the dreadful sorrow in his heart that such mortal violence should be necessary in this world. So much the poet made clear.

Yet at the same time, without a single coarse word or dubious double meaning, the true nature of the piece shone through in its lingering descriptions of the sternly magnificent subject. It was a song of tragic love, deep, spiritual and enormously sensual.

Velenda spoke the words perfectly, the clarity and simplicity of her delivery allowing the poet’s own emotions to come to the fore. Rarely had Imrahil experienced anything so moving, nor indeed so subtly arousing. By the time the recitation came to nd, nd, his vision was blurred with tears, and it was a while before he realised that he was gripping Legolas’s hand under cover of the tablecloth. A glance at the elf was enough to show that he was similarly affected, his blue eyes wet as they gazed at some distant point, his face solemn. A slight additional pressure of Imrahil’s fingers seemed to bring him back, and he shifted in his seat, returning the prince’s weak smile before they drew their hands apart.

At length Velenda spoke into the stillness. “I am sorry; perhaps I should havosenosen something a little more cheerful.”

At once a murmur of dissent broke out.

“Most certainly not,” Aragorn said quietly, his voice making it obvious that he too had been deeply moved. “I doubt that many of us have heard words so beautiful before. Thank you, Velenda.” He nodded to the musicians, who had themselves been sitting stupefied by the performance. They took the cue, and after a momentary consultation, began a sweet, gentle melody as Velenda returned to her seat.

As the conversation around him regained its former momentum, Imrahil sat silent, musing on Velenda’s astonishing choice of poem and its power to affect him so strongly. Here he was, a man long married, who had not even contemplated lying with another male until Legolas had appeared in his life. And now he was so far gone that the words of an ancient poet telling of the physical love of one man for another were enough to turn his bones to jelly and his brain to a seething mass of desire. Was there any hope for him? Quite probably not, and besides, would he have it any other way? He turned to glance at Legolas, watching the movements of the elf’s elegant hand as he described the forms of Sindarin poetry to Rosalind. What would he not be prepared to do for the touch of those long slim fingers on his flesh?

Imrahil shuddered, and tried to think of something else. His mind, however, returned unerringly to the night ahead, and all ad pad planned for the elf. If he had been eager before, now he was mad for it, thanks to Velenda’s performance. He could only pray to the gods of spring, summer and winter that the meal would be over soon.

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

There had barely been time for Imrahil to prepare himself and the bedchamber, before the knock came at the door, and Legolas slid inside. He was surprised to see the elf so soon. What had happened to Aragorn’s distracting influence? Perhaps he would ask later, if the moment arose. But for now, there were rather more pressing matters to deal with.

“Imrahil.” The elf looked glorious, as ever, in the green and gold robe he had worn to dinner.

“Beautiful Legolas.” Imrahil waited as his lover walked towards him, stopping some three feet away. “I have something to ask of you.”

“Yes?”

“Will you do as I tell you tonight, submit to my desires?”

The elf’s eyes grew wide in the soft light of the oil lamps. “Willingly,” he said quietly. “You know that I trust you.”

“Good.” Imrahil moved closer and took Legolas in his arms, kissing him lovingly and long. How easy it would be to become lost in that embrace, to forget that anything else existed.

As his head began to spin, Imrahil pulled away. He backed up to sit on the bed, watching approvingly as the elf stood still, waiting for his words.

“Unclothe yourself,” he said. “I wish to look at you, first.”

Legolas moved slowly, his hands lingering on his own body as the heavy silk fell from his shoulders. He laid the robe on a chair and stepped back into the middle of the room, smiling at Imrahil as he began to unfasten his leggings. The man worked to control his breathing as his lover’s body was gradually revealed. Words of the poem rang in his head as he looked at the immortal warrior before him. He must remain calm; he would make this worth the wait.

Keeping his loc locked with the elf’s, Imrahil stood and began to remove his own clothing. It did not take long, since he had been down to shirt and loosened breeches even before Legolas had arrived. Once he stood naked, he saw the elf start to move towards him, but shook his head. Standing to one side, he gestured to the bed.

“Lie in the centre, face down,” he said.

Legolas gave him a long, smouldering look that threatened to weaken his resolve and make him throw himself on his lover, all thoughts of restraint abandoned. ‘I will be strong,’ he chanted silently, as the elf obeyed him.

The flickering light of the lamps emphasised the smooth planes and curves of the beautiful figure before his eyes. It was a sight that would move a man of stone. Imrahil could hear the note of excitement in his own voice as he spoke.

“Raise your arms above your head, wrists together.”

Legolas slowly complied as Imrahil bent to retrieve the soft rope, noting as he did so how the movement of the elf’s arms realigned the muscles all down his back.

“Imrahil, you do not need to bind my hands. If you tell me to be still, I shall be still.” It was a weak protest, for form’s sake, perhaps.

“Ah yes, my love, but how much sweeter for you to be helpless, to give yourself over to me completely.” The man knotted the rope securely around the slender wrists, and leaned across to fix the other end to the central post of the headboard. “Bes, es, by the time I finish with you, I am not so sure you will be capable of remaining still.”

The breathy sigh told him that Legolas was more than happy to accept his situation. “What are you going to do?” asked the elf, in a voice muffled by the pillows.

“Some days ago I made a promise to you, one which for various reasons I have not yet kept.” Imrahil sat on the bed at his lover’s side and stroked the exquisite buttocks lightly. “You came to me in Dol Amroth because you took me to be a man of my word; I would not have you revise that opinion. So I intend to lick every inch of your body, slowly, until you beg me for your release. And then, when I truly believe that you can stand it no longer, I will take you, so hard that you might know how I feel when I look at you like this. I will hear you cry out at your climax as I spend myself inside you, and I will know that you are mine.”

It was a gamble to speak thus under Aragorn’s roof, as Imrahil well knew. But the elf’s shuddering response, his barely suppressed moan, was all he needed to know that his instincts had been correct. Lifting the soft mass of pale hair, he twisted it loosely into a coil and moved it to the side of the elf’s head, leaving the long neck quite bare. He shifted to kneel on the bed, and bent down to begin his campaign there, where the flesh was so tender.

The scent and taste of the elf was intoxicating, as ever. At first, Imrahil wondered if he would be able to control himself for long enough to act out his promise. But as he progressed, from the neck down over the raised shoulder blades, and up along each powerful arm in turn, he found that his fascination with the changing textures of the smooth, pliable skin as it stretched over muscle and sinew, and with the little noises and movements that Legolas made in response to his attentions, was enough to drive him on.

It would not be correct to say he was merely licking the elf, as his lips and teeth too joined in the exploration, gently covering, as he had said, every inch of the delicious flesh. From the arms he moved down the body, following the well-defined chain of the spine then returning to linger on the intricately muscled expanse to either side. Then on to the legs, where again he dallied, caressing each toe in turn, teasing the backs of the knees with wet tongue and gentle breaths until Legolas gasped and flexed his legs helplessly.

By the time he reached the top, to nibble his way along the crease where thigh met buttock, the elf was moaning softly, and shifting restlessly on the bed.

“Hush, my love,” said Imrahil, “We are not even half way there yet.” With his hands, he parted Legolas’s long legs, and knelt between them. Placing his palms on the firm, warm thighs, he felt a tremor of anticipation pass through his lover, and smiled. Leaning forward, he began to pay homage to the glorious swell of the elf’s buttocks and the enticing cleft between.

As his tongue swept down, over the tight opening and the sensitive area beyond, it occurred to Imrahil that in his younger days he could never have imagined doing this, let alone enjoying it. Yet even here the elf’s flesh was sweet, and the growing abandon with which he writhed on the bed, pushing back against Imrahil’s mouth and groaning unashamedly, made the experience urgently pleasurable.

Legolas must be every bit as hard as himself by now, and just as desperate for him to push coc cock in and bring this delirious torment to a rapid conclusion. Imrahil felt himself break out in a sweat at the thought.

That, however, was not the plan.

He gave a final firm tonguing to the elf’s balls as they lay heavy against the mattress, then pulled himself reluctantly away. “Now turn over,” he ordered.

Legolas wriggled delightfully in his hurry to obey despite the restriction on his arms. Imrahil stood and walked to the side of the bed in order to take in the sight of him, flushed and fully aroused, glorious in his nakedness. He looked for a moment in silent awe, then climbed back onto the mattress.

“What do you think of your hasty mortal now?” he asked, fingertips lightly circling on the taut belly.

“By the gods, Imrahil,” the elf breathed, “You undo me.”

“And that, my love, is exactly what I want.”

The man dipped his head to kiss the perfect lips once, briefly, before turning his attentions to the soft pale flesh of the elf’s inner arms. He did not rush, but sought out every neglected spot in a leisurely fashion which was clearly driving his lover to distraction.

“Imrahil.”

He raised his head from the delicate throat and looked into the deep blue eyes. “Yes?”

“Please.”

“I have told you how it is going to be,” Imrahil spoke calmly, although his need, by now, was no less than that of his lover, “and I have no intention of changing my plan. So I suggest you submit sweetly, if you do not wish me to make you wait even longer.”

The only reply was a despairing groan as Legolas closed his eyes.

Imrahil studied the sculpted definition of his lover’s torso before placing his mouth there. He had heard men mocking elves for their elegance and grace, suggesting that their long-haired beauty made them effeminate and weak. Only a complete fool could think such a thing. Here before him was a being of astonishing power, full of tightly controlled strength, both physical and mental. What a relief it must be to surrender that control to another, even for a short while, as Legolas was doing now.

His tongue found its way at last over the elf’s chest, carefully avoiding the nipples, around the belly and over the hips. The front of the legs deserved no less attention than bac back; he spent time there ensuring that no claim of neglect could be made. By the time he slid up the mattress once more to kiss his lover’s face, both were breathing hard, and the flush on Legolas’s cheeks had deepened.

He kissed the smooth clear brow, and ran his tongue from temple to temple across the bridge of the nose. Each eyelid he anointed; then the nose itself, the cheeks and chin. Finally he descended on the slightly opened mouth, and kissed Legolas for all he was worth, his tongue plunging into the incredible sweetness within. It was a kiss of searing intensity, all the more arousing for the fact that no other parts of their bodies were touching. Imrahil had little doubt that were it to continue much longer he, at least, could come from this contact alone.

He drew away once more and smiled down at the pleading eyes. “You are ready for me?” he could not resist asking.

“Gods, yes, Imrahil, you know it,” Legolas gasped. “Please do not make me wait any longer!”

“But there are some parts I have not yet visited,” the man laughed, and bent his head to onrk nrk nipple.

To his immense satisfaction the elf cried out as Imrahil’s lips closed and he sucked on the rapidly hardening flesh. Pulling his head back, he licked the point for a while, then blew across it. The cry had subsided to a succession of moans, music to his ears. As they increased in volume, he moved across to molest the other nipple in a similar fashion.

He soon had his reward.

“Imrahil! You will . . . finish me, if you carry on like that.”

A painful pulse of desire flooded his groin at the thought, but he maintained his resolve. “That would not do.”

At last he positioned himself between the elf’s readily parted legs and bent to the glorious treasures at their junction. Legolas’s cock was rigid and unusually darkened; the tip was slick with fluid. Imrahil licked it off delicately, savouring its unique flavour, then slid his mouth over the head and as far as he could go, barely touching, with the least possible pressure.

Legolas howled; there was no other word for it. “Please, Imrahil! If you want me to beg . . . finish it, please! Touch me . . . take me . . . anything, just finish it!”

How could he resist such a plea? In any case, the elf was obviously too close to completion to withstand much more of this torment. He gave the lovely cock a last series of licks, covering the whole of it from base to tip, then pulled away and reached for the jar of lotion at the bedside.

“I promised to take you hard,” he said, struggling to control his own voice, “Did you think I would not do it?”

This was no occasion for subtlety; they were both far beyond that. Once his own flesh was shiny with the sweet-smelling concoction, he wasted no time in raising the elf’s legs and hooking them over his shoulders, leaning over and sliding up the bed until he was in position. Legolas, murmuring almost inaudibly, had closed his eyes.

“Look at me!” Imrahil said. “Watch what I am doing to you!” He waited until he had the elf’s attention before grasping his own cock and pushing it slowly but surely home. They both gasped, Imrahil in delight at the heat, the tightness that never failed to thrill him.

Legolas shifted a little to allow him to push even deeper, and sighed, “Yes.”

The one word acted like a spur to Imrahil. Hard, he had said, and hard it would be. He thrust, slowly at first, but rapidly gathering speed. Every move was ecstasy, and every cry from Legolas threatened to take him over the edge too soon. He bit his lip, waiting for a signal from the elf.

When it came, it was not what he expected.

Legolas, obedient to the end, had not taken his eyes off Imrahil as the man plunged into him again and again. His lips were parted, and a look of something between anguish and bliss painted his features. But when the man shifted slightly and brought a hand forward to wrap it around the elf’s erection, the fair face cleared, and only rapture could be seen there. A few more thrusts, the enclosing hand working in rhythm, and the elf’s eyes widened.

“I love you, Imrahil,” he called out, to the man’s astonishment.

On the point of his own orgasm, Imrahil replied, “Then show me!”

He had not anticipated it. The shock was nearly enough to send him hurtling off the bed. In an instant, his mind and body seemed to be filled with a pleasure not his own, pounding waves of ecstasy filling him to bursting point. The complex mixture of emotions beneath only served to heighten the sensation, propelling him at terrifying speed towards the inevitable end.

The screams must have come from his own mouth, for behind them he could hear Legolas, crying his name again and again, as they came together in spasms that seemed to last for hours.

When his mind returned to his body he realised he was sobbing, and his face was wet with tears as it lay on the elf’s chest. Filled with a sudden desperate need to feel Legolas’s arms around him, he scrambled up to untie the rope. His hands were shaking so much that he fumbled, cursing, before finally freeing his lover and sinking gratefully into his embrace.

“I love you, Legolas, gods, I love you so much,” he whispered, clutching the elf to him as if his life depended on it.

Legolas stroked his hair and nuzzled his neck soothingly. “I am here, my sweet prince,” he murmured.

As the feeling of melancholy subsided and his mind began to clear, Imrahil pulled back a little to peer at his lover. The elf’s face was once again serene, the smile sweetly inscrutable. Was there a telltale moisture in the corners of the eyes, or was the lamplight deceiving?

“Was I the only one so affected?” he asked.

“No,” Legolas kissed his cheek lightly. “You felt it, surely.”

“You told me, when I asked for it before, that we could not share . . . that.”

“Our circumstances have changed somewhat, have they not?” the elf replied gravely.

Imrahil considered all that had passed and listened to his singing heart before replying. “Yes, my love, they have. But here, of all places? I did not think that you could be so free.”

Legolas laughed a little. “You did a fine job of overcoming any remaining inhibitions, I must say. But the situation with Aragorn has also changed.”

“I have not yet told you what passed between us,” the man replied.

“You do not need to; I can sense it. The bond is still there, but he has let go, as far as he is able. It makes me sad, but it is also a great relief. I am more free now than I have been, and yet .”
”

Imrahil raised himself on an elbow. “What is it?”

“No matter. Now is not the time to discuss such things. I can see that you are tired; you should sleep. Shall I extinguish the lamps?”

“No, leave them. I would rather look at you.” The man knew from experience that there was no point in encouraging the elf to speak if he had decided otherwise. Atingting the fact, he dropped back to the pillow and pulled Legolas towards him. In the warmth of their entwined bodies it was not long before sleep claimed him.

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

Early morning light filled the chamber when Imrahil opened his eyes, coming swiftly to full consciousness with mind alert and humming with thoughts. At his side Legolas lay still; for a moment it seemed he might be sleeping, but a twitch of his lip in response to Imrahil’s scrutiny soon indicated otherwise.

“Good morning, my love,” the elf said lazily.

Imrahil’s heart leapt at the unfamiliar words. “It is indeed a good morning,” he replied.

“And we are not the only ones in the palace to feel that way, I should think. The Great Hall was fairly spilling over with happiness last night.”

“Aye, though my son still needs to learn some patience,” said Imrahil. Thinking back over the events of the previous day, he went on, “Tell me, what do you make of this friendship between Heledir and Velenda?”

“They are happy with it,” said Legolas, “What more is there to think? It is not entirely unexpected.”

“You thought this would happen?” Imrahil sat up and stared at his lover in astonishment.

“Why not? They have much in common.”

“He is very lucky.”

“So is she.” Legolas looked amused. “Your secretary might not have royal blood,” he stroked Imrahil’s thigh suggestively as he said the words, “but he is a good man, honest and wise. Velenda has long missed the company of a true scholar, as you know.”

“But . . .”

“Perhaps you would find it easier to accept if he was a great beauty, like yourself? I should imagine that Velenda sees something there that you do not. She is no fool.”

Imrahil felt himself flush, and changed the subject hastily. “Indeed not. And her performance last night was astonishing. Tell me about the poet – you were surprised when she mentioned his name.”

Legolas laughed. “Only because most of his works are far too . . . stirring, to be spoken in company.”

“I should like to read them,” Imrahil said, shivering at the thought that there were others of an even more erotic nature.

“And so you shall. I shall bring you copies of his books.”

Something about the way Legolas said this made Imrahil look at him sharply. “Bring them from where?” he asked.

“From Rivendell.” The elf sat up and gazed at him seriously. “Imrahil, I intend to travel North with Gimli when he goes to see his father. It would be well for me to visit my own kin, and I shall spend some time in the house of Elrond’s sons before I return. There are things I need to understand about this bond, and my eventual fate; and if the answers are to be found anywhere, they are in Rivendell.”

Imrahil felt as if he had swallowed a lump of lead. “When will you go?”

“It really depends on Gimli, but I imagine we shall set off before midsummer.”

“And how long will you be away?” His hopes of inviting Legolas to Dol Amroth in the autumn were apparently going to be dashed.

“The best part of a year, at least, since I cannot think that Gimli will wish to travel home in the winter. And I have half a mind to pass through the Shire, and see the hobbits again.”

“But it will be so long before I see you again!” the man blurted out, and added, “Why do you smile? Does it mean nothing to you?”

“I only thought how like your son you are.” Legolas took his hand and bent to kiss it. “My beful ful prince, I would gladly spend every day at your side, but we both know it is not to be. My friend needs me, and I have my own reasons for making this journey. A year is not so long.”

“To you, maybe not. I am only a hasty mortal, I do not have the blessing of time on my side.”

“You will survive it. When there are messengers to bund,und, I shall write to you; and wherever I am, you know that you have my love.”

“I do?” The words were out before Imrahil could stop them. He cursed himself silently for his childish sulkiness.

Legolas was not annoyed by the petulant question, but smiled sympathetically at the man. “How shall I prove it to you?” he asked, and the smile became a grin. Before Imrahil could comment, the elf was kneeling astride his thigheanieaning in, pressing their bodies together, and kissing him with a passion that could not be denied. A slight shift of the hips sent fire shooting through his groin and banished the despondent thoughts from his mind.

“I am yours, remember?” the elf whispered in his ear.

Imrahil groaned, and produced a grin of his own to show that he did not speak from insecurity. “Then show me,” he said.

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

Imrahil was sitting at the big oak table when Heledir knocked at the bedchamber door, exactly half an hour after breakfast, as requested. The prince smiled to himself. Love may have put stars in the man’s eyes, but it had not interfered with his sense of duty.

“Come,” he called.

The secretary was carrying his writing case. After greeting Imrahil politely, he set it down at the far end of the table and began to open it. The prince gestured with one hand.

“There is no need, my friend. I have not asked you here for formal business; I simply wish to talk to you.”

“My Lord?” Heledir hovered uncertainly.

“So sit down, please.”

The secretary sat and regarded him with dark, serious eyes. Imrahil gazed back at him and felt a momentary stab of regret for all that might have been.

“You have enjoyed this trip, I think?” he began.

“Indeed, Sire, it has been a most unique experience.”

“And has brought with it unexpected pleasures of friendship,” said Imrahil, determined not to be put off by the other man’s embarrassment. “And of course, scholarly opportunity. I am happy for you.”

“Th – thank you, My Lord,” Heledir stuttered in his confusion. He had clearly not expected the talk to concern himself so personally.

“In the light of it all, I have a proposition to make to you.”

“My Lord?”

“You have served me well all these years, Heledir, and you shall always have my gratitude. But now, if you wish it, I am prepared to let you go. There is a position for you in Emyn Arnen, should you choose to take it, as counsellor to Prince Faramir on matters concerning coastal trade. I am certain that you would soon find your duties extending far beyond that; a man of your skills and qualities will always be valuable to a wise leader. You will be well provided for, and you will be within a day’s journey of both Ithilien and Minas Tirith, so that you may pursue your, ah, scholarly concerns uninterrupted.”

Heledir sat motionless throughout this speech, his eyes fixed on Imrahil’s face. But as the prince finished speaking, his head dropped; he appeared to be studying the table. There was a long pause.

“Heledir?”

When the secretary looked up at him, Imrahil was discomforted ee tee the glint of tears in his eyes.

“My Lord, I do not know what to say.” His voice was thick.

Imrahil had a sudden unpleasant thought. “Do not think that I let you go easily, my friend,” he said. “It is precisely because I hold you in such high regard that I would see you happy.”

“And for that I thank you, Sire.” Heledir wiped his hand across his eyes before continuing. “You overwhelm me with your kindness. But if you will still have me, I would not choose to leave Dol Amroth.”

“I cannot think why not!” Imrahil was astounded.

“It is all I have ever known, and it matters to me. You matter to me, My Lord; I have never doubted that I will live out my life in your service, and be proud to do so.” Heledir spoke more firmly, fast regaining his composure.

It was Imrahil’s turn to swallow around a lump in his throat. “You honour me, Heledir,” he said gently, “and I am lucky to have such a man in my employ. But think what you are turning down. Is she not important too?”

The secretary looked long at him, and it seemed that in that moment something between them changed.

“May I speak openly, Sire?” Heledir asked.

”Always, my friend.” Imrahil smiled encouragingly. Who else did the man have to confide in, after all?

“Velenda is not in love with me,” the secretary said, “and that is as it should be. She is fond of me, of course, and we have a friendship which I hope will endure. We will share the work on our history through letters and occasional visits, and when we meet, I trust that we will spend happy times together. But can you imagine how it would be if I gave up all that I know to be nearer to her? How long would her fondness last if my occasional visits became a regular occurrence? How long before she realised that she is far too good for me and that I am nothing but a poor man to be pitied? I would not have that happen.”

”Surely you misjudge Velenda,” said Imrahil, amazed by the man’s openness. “Elves are not inconstant; she would not hurt you.”

“No, I am sure that she never would. She would take care of me and my feelings, but she could never return them. I have no wish to become a fool through the love I bear for her. It is better that I understand that now, and continue with my own life, my dignity intact. I hope I shall still see Velenda, by your leave, when you next visit Ithilien.”

“Of course! And she may well choose to accompany Prince Legolas when he next comes to Belfalas; she will also be welcome to visit alone, or with any of her kin, as she wishes.”

“Thank you Sire. Then my answer, if you accept it, is that I shall stay with you.”

Imrahil felt a sudden wash of shame as he recalled his conversation with Legolas in the early hours of the morning. How wrong he had been.

“You are an exceptional man, Heledir,” he said firmly, “and Velenda is lucky to have your friendship. If matters change between you, as well they might, this opportunity will not be closed to you. In the meantime, it is I who am fortunate that you choose to return to Dol Amroth and continue your excellent work there.”

“Is there nothing that needs to be done now, Sire?” Heledir gestured towards the writing case, his face reddening again at the prince’s praise.

“Nothing so urgent that it need spoil such a beautiful morning as this one. I, of course, must see Faramir and tell him that his loss is my gain. I hardly think he needs that in writing.” Imrahil grinned. “But first, I believe our elven friends are waiting for us in the gardens. Will you join me?”

“With pleasure, My Lord.” Heledir picked up his case and bowed his head graciously.

“Leave the case. You can collect it later.” Imrahil placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Come, we should make the most of our time here.”

The two exchanged a smile of pure understanding. Heledir dropped the case on the table, and side by side, they walked to the door.

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

On the morning of the elves’ departure Imrahil and Legolas walked together in the deserted gardens. There was little to be added to all that had been said during the long night of passionate farewells, and Imrahil, physically sated but emotionally somewhat numb, half feared to speak lest he say too much. As they sank down onto the stone bench beneath a spreading Jacaranda tree, it was Legolas who broke the silence.

“I could have remained here for one more day,” he said, brushing his fingers over the back of Imrahil’s wrist.

“No, love, it is right that you should be home for Tuillin’s feast day. I would be leaving with you, had the accursed envoys from Lamedon chosen a different time for their visit. As it is, I shall be locked in meetings all day, no doubt.”

“Perhaps, then, it is better this way,” the elf said gently.

“Aye, and better to say our goodbyes in peace, rather than half way along the road under the eyes of all the company.” Imrahil tried hard to believe in his own words, in spite of the heavy ache in his gut at the thought of his lover’s departure.

They talked intermittently of meaningless things for a while, until Legolas peered up at the sun and sighed.

“It is nearly time,” he said.

Imrahil, gazing into the elf’s eyes, gave in to his fears. “You will not forget that you have promised to write to me?” he asked, horribly aware of the note of pleading in his voice.

“Of course not,” Legolas smiled, “And in turn, all I ask of you is that you do not doubt me.”

“How could I?” The man was indignant. “It is not that, it is just . . .”

“I know . . . and likewise, I shall miss you greatly.” Legolas raised a hand to touch Imrahil’s cheek, while the other delved inside his own tunic and retrieved a small scroll, bound with a ribbon of green and gold. “This is for you,” he said.

Imrahil took the scroll with a hand that was not quite steady, and looked questioningly at Legolas.

“By all means, open it now,” the elf went on.

The flowing script was unmistakeably the work of Legolas himself, although the ink was an unfamiliar purple. Imrahil felt his eyes brim as he read the first lines:

For Imrahil, true friend, beautiful lover, dear to my heart
Until we are together again.

‘The Warrior Arms for Battle’
by Selarad of Lindon

“You knew the poem?” he said in surprise.

“No, I had not heard it before. Now you know how Velenda and I occupied ourselves while you met with the king and his steward yesterday morning.”

“Legolas, I have no words to thank you,” Imrahil said, trying hard to refrain from weeping openly.

“Then do not search for them; we do not need them. Come . . .” the elf stood, and waited for Imrahil to do the same. They embraced, and indeed in silence said all that was needed. At length they regretfully pulled apart.

“Now it truly is time; they will be waiting,” Legolas said.

The man nodded, no longer trusting his voice.

Imrahil was deeply thankful that Aragorn was not there to witness the final parting. The king and his steward, having business to attend to, had already made their farewells. Only Heledir, Rosalind and Celaeren had gathered before the stables, the young couple standing to one side discreetly while Velenda and Heledir talked quietly together.

As Imrahil and Legolas approached, Meluinen emerged from the stable with the three horses. He lifted his pack and bow from the pile by the door, and smiled across at Velenda. She nodded slightly, then leaned to kiss Heledir softly before following her kinsman’s lead.

Imrahil turned to look at Legolas. “Farewell, then, my friend,” he managed, aware of his son’s eyes upon him. The elf placed a hand on his shoulder, and spoke softly for his ears only.

“This is not an ending, my love,” he said, smiling. At once Imrahil felt again the rush of feeling, heady, melancholy love, as the elf opened heart and mind to him. He stood a little straighter and returned his lover’s gesture, fingers gripping the green-clad arm firmly.

“I know it,” he said, in a stronger voice.

Somehow he maintained his composure as he bade a warm goodbye to Velenda and Meluinen. He watched through clear eyes as the elves leapt lightly onto their steeds and walked them down across the cobbles, until a bend in the street took them out of sight. Only then did he turn to his companions, to find that Celaeren and Rosalind had already slipped away, leaving Heledir alone at his side.

A glance at the man showed that he, although moist-eyed, was bearing up well, standing straight and solemn as he looked back at the prince. If the secretary could succeed in putting a brave face on it, Imrahil would most certainly do no less.

“We shall survive,” he said, throwing propriety to the winds.

Heledir gave him a strangely wise smile. “I am trying hard to remember, Sire, that we are blessed among men.”

Imrahil laughed through the welling tears. “You are right, Heledir,” he said. “So very, very right.”


******************** END ********************