Feud

Title: Feud
Author: Nárcolindë, robey61@yahoo.com
Pairing: Legolas/Elrond
Rating: NC17 overall
Warnings: AU, OOC, Elrond is very OOC
Disclaimer: Characters, events and locations recognizable from the works of JRR Tolkien are the property of his estate. This story is intended for enjoyment, not profit.

Summary: Who'll stop the rain?

Thanks to: All the loyal readers who enjoy this story, most especially reviewers!
My absolutely fantastic new beta, Sarah, whose careful scrutiny and insight improves the quality of this story immensely!

A/N: The italics did not show up on my screen, assuming same for all. Thus, {words} denotes first person thoughts.

Chapter 20: Aniron isto; úcíriel le ross? [I want to know; have you never seen the rain?]

Erestor, formerly Rusciphant now re-christened Berenaur, squatted in unbearable discomfort in the unceasing sheets of liquid misery that poured over him, and contemplated his plight.

{Rain. Bloody vicious rain. Did it never end? Has every bloody drop of water in the Great Sea evaporated only to be precipitated right herer thr this dismal bloody forest?}

{Ah, but this is not a forest; no, this is a malignancy festering on the soul of Arda, a cyst of the Void welling up on Yavanna's visage, threatening to spew its poisonous and infectious evil in an ever widening, water borne epidemic! Of course it must rain half the bloody year in Mirkwood and broil in a sweltering inferno the rest of it! These are but the symptoms of the disease! Normal seasonal variations have no defense against the insidious sickness that is Mirkwood!}

He had already removed everything but his leggings, his clothing having swelled to twice its normal weight as the overabundant moisture was absorbed. His pack was drowning, veritably stewing in a soup of dissolved or waterlogged supplies. He was certain his maps and journal were ruined, no doubt reduced to a thoroughly congealed mass of sticky ink blotched fibers by now. The other pack was equally clammy and viscid. Medicinal herbs were rendered ineffective, their potency leached away into the forest's acidic soil. Bandaging was now merely a mass of pulpy cotton good only for sponging away dirt or blood and absolutely useless for binding wounds.

The Noldo's mental grousing halted as he thought he caught the sound of an animal's howl. Erestor poked his toe into the heap of garments and goods piled on the platform, uncovering his weapons, and reached for his hunting knife and sword, to be safe.

{Of course,} he resumed his internal dialog, {it will no doubt be the case that Mirkwood Orcs love to hunt in the rain, prefer the slogging muddy tracks, aim their bows better in the grey half-dark of the cloud shrouded skies! I expect to hear them any moment now, only, oh yes, the bloody pounding rain damps out all the sounds for miles around! When they do arrive, my sodden arrows will fly off in wild arcs, unbalanced by the sorbed water in fletfletching. That is, if the bow will even draw with its string so completely permeated!}

He dared not move from the high, narrow flet after observing his companion's near catastrophic misstep on the water-slicked boughs earlier. He would not be able to go in search of food as long as the storm persisted. Erestor's mood ran to acerbic sarcasm as the rain drummed upon his pate.

{When the lembas runs out I will starve while the rain graciously gives me plenty of water to prolong my demise! I will die in the Shadow's Lair, having fallen and fractured all of my bones while trying to descend to seek sustenance, for orcs will come upon me in my helplessness. No one will ever know what has become of me! Penbara and Penraeg will never even find my lovely body to hold a proper commemoration!}

{And for what purpose am I trapped in this Ulunn-infested [Monster], Nazgul-ravaged, Orc-plagued, Eru-condemned, and blighted land? Have I been lured by the anticipation of fornicating with a very forbidden and luscious bit of Nandorin arse? Enamoured by the romance of danger the Outcast Kin-slayer conjures in my brain? Tempted by the exotic allure of that primitive, savage, thack ack Tawarwaith living here?}

Erestor sighed amid his mental haranguing. He had to admit that was all true. He was growing s jus just thinking about the blatantly tantalizing elf. He repositioned himself and adjusted the drenched and clinging leather leggings.

He did not really believe this outcast elf could be of any service to Imladris; Elrond was mistaken this time. Just as he had been about the mother.

{Legolas certainly does favor his mother;} Erestor mused. {In fact, Elrond is probably interested not so much to recruit the fallen prince as to fuck him. With Ningloriel gone, there is a hole left in my Lord's life. Or rather, there is not a hole.}

Erestor lightly and repetitively bounced the back of his head against the tree trunk as he sat, thoroughly bored, irritated, agitated, and frustrated.

{Why did I agree to the division of the spoils as Elrond dictated? Why must it be Elrond who debauches the Wood Elf? Why, oh why, have I doomed myself to unbearable longing and lusting for the creature and only the satisfaction of my own hand as I watch the Lord of Imladris spending himself deep inside the supple and sensual body of the young Tawarwaith? If I even get the opportunity to watch! Doubtful, after that little indiscretion earlier.}

He had beheld the two elves among the trees as they cautiously moved away from his flet, surprised that Legolas had led his friend further into the woods. Yet, the rain was so opaque they might not be far away at all. In either case, they had soon vanished from his sight. That seemed hours ago but he could not tell; dawn could be fast approaching and he might never know it in this environment. However, he felt no concern for his comrade; he was armed while the aboriginal elf was not. No, Erestor envied him.

He recalled how easy it had been for Elrond to overcome the smaller elf. No doubt that was due more to the depth of his fatigue and the length of his privation in this reeking, rotting land than any weakness of his nature. Yes, he was an extraordinarily resistant creature, from what he had thus far observed. {What had that been like,} he wondered, {for my esteemed colleague? What had Elrond felt, lying in full-body contact with the half-dressed elf writhing underneath him?} Legolas had still been aroused; Erestor was sure of it. He groaned in dismal discomfiture, shifting on the soaked wooden floor and displacing a handful of water that had pooled in his lap. He watched as the small wave crested across the slats and gushed over the edge, joining the rest of the flood far below.

{By Ulmo's balls, will this deluge never end?}

Another eerie cry filtered through the perpetual monotony of the rushing rain and Erestor sat up sharply. That had sounded distinctly like a name, his name. It came again, louder, and now he was sure of it. There, that was a different voice now, and a different name: Legolas, and Valar something or other. There was no mistaking it; those were the calls of the elves in the throes of their passionate coupling.

Erestor was furious and crawled to the edge of the flet, trying to peer through the watery barrier to learn where they were. The yelling was increasing in both volume and frequency, yet the raindrops seemed to be diffracting the sounds and sending false echoes from counter directions, and he still could not tell where to look. They had to be near in order to be heard above this din, yet he could make out nothing beyond indistinguishably wet, dun-colored, and dripping leaves and branches. He cursed under his breath; those two were mating madly and he was not even able to catch so much as a distant and blurry glimpse! It was beyond unfair!

Legolas' long-drawn soulful shout of satisfaction as he emptied his testes and his lungs wafted through the liquefied aid lid lingered before drifting away, dissipating into the torrent, seeping into the very earth, then resurging throughout the woods, penetrating by slow diffusion the essence of the trees. The beech bearing Erestor's talan seemed to stretch, flexing its sturdy limbs and he stilled, forgetting his carping complaints as the entire environment luxuriated in the archer's long-desired release.

Elrond's resonating response boomed out moments later and was as languidly stolen away into the rain, and Erestor had a brief yet radiant image burst upon his mind of Legolas held close in comfort and contentment against the body of the Lord of Imladris. They lay together chest-to-chest, the young one's crown tucked under the legend's chin, their arms encircled ribs that held safe their ts bts beating one rhythm together, their legs entwined at knees and ankles.

The scene was infused with and emitted a poignant sensation of the joy of the woods in the delight of their champion. Unbidden, a whisper as of new leaves rustling in a subtle breeze formed words within Erestor's mind: Dagnir-en-môr, Vín Maethor, Harthad-en-Taur, Legolas. [Bane of the Darkness, Our Warrior, Hope of the Forest, Greenleaf] The vision burned away in seconds leaving a sweet and smoky perfume within the air, reminiscent of some rare and fragile orchids that bloomed but once a century at the breaking of the dawn.

And as he was feeling this, for thought was too concrete a construction for the visual expressions of the Greenwood's soul, the rain ceased and the light brightened around him. It truly was dawn, and Erestor realized with amazement that he no longer felt burdened or downhearted, but instead was refreshed and rejuvenated, as though he had slept in the deepest comfort in his own bed in Imladris.

He turned automatically to his right and gazed into the trees, knowing now where they were and yet not in any great hurry to disturb them. He found himself smiling and cocked his head with a small laugh as he set about sorting and shaking out the clothing and the packs, adding the last few drops of the storm to the soil below. He was pleased as his inventory progressed and he found most of the lembas still dry in itsy pay packaging and the apples still crisp. His journal, too, had sustained little damage, having been wrapped inside a spare undershirt, while his maps he had wisely bound within an oiled cloth, as was his custom to do on any journey, and had never been in harm's way at all. Erestor's lips formed a wry smile as he recalled his own foolishness just a short time past.

He spread out all the clothing to dry, noting with interest a pair of soft black leggings and a contrasting tunic of a sha shade much like the color of Ningloriel's eyes. These he found within Elrond's pack, in addition to the Lord's own spare clothing, and were of a size too small for his stature. Erestor snorted; Elrond had not revealed he had brought gifts for the fallen prince! The seneschal dumped out all the contents of the second pack and rifled through Elrond's personal items without conscience. He lifted a brow in incredulous wonder as he found two more presents. Thest wst was a worthy souvenir; a magnificent and very ancient dagger made by Celebrimbror himself, marked with runes of power and potent spells upon the blade. The other was an ornament of mithril that appeared to be a ring made for no finger, for it had a peculiar clasp that opened out into a fine needle-like extension. Erestor had once seen such worn by an elf maid through the very flesh of the most sensitive part of her ear's tip. He laughed aloud at the mental image of the feral elf wearing such a thing; Elrond would not be offering this trinket to that pen-rhovan, he sincerely hoped!

While he was thus occupied the forest had come to life, bustling with the sounds and colors of vibrant and vocal birds and small, scurrying four-footers. The call of a songbird right next to his cheek seized Erestor's attention and he turned from the mundane examination of the Elf Lord's version of love tokens. His abrupt movement startled the bright blue avian and it shot across to a neighboring limb with two rapid snaps of its lapis wings and Erestor's eye traveled with it. He caught his breath as he gazed upon the woods.

Vision dazzling lances of golden sunlight pierced the canopy in a random array of slanting shards. The contrast between the shadowy leaf-shielded woods and the illuminated columns of Anar's glory was startling and underscored the sacred solemnity of the forest; both living sanctuary and ancient, venerable power at once, its roof ado in in living banners and buttressed with colonnaded radiance. Within the narrow aura of each luminous pillar, the colors of the elysian trees shone forth in a palette of greens that ranged from the softest mossy sage to the most luxuriant aqua-tinged fir to the glossiest emerald of summer-leafed maples. Gone was the dull lead-grey monochrome of rain blown wooden husks, replaced with an indescribable diversity of bark and bole in chestnut browns, mellowed sienna hues, silvery greys mottled white, and gleaming near-ebony richness. The whole of Mirkwood glistened in its storm-recovered grandeur, transcending the encroachment of darkening evil and defying the accursed name used by Men.

Erestor felt transported beyond himself, his comprehension enlightened by the incarnate spirit woven within every root and sprig as the dancing pattern of ethereal splendor disclosed the hidden majesty of the forest. He realized this must be the Greenwood as it had looked in the First Age of Anar when it was still connected to Lothlorien and Fangorn. The jaded and cynical seneschal stood up and looked out with eyes somehow new and unspoiled despite long age, lost in entranced veneration. His soul swelled in joyous amazement and he felt he understood some small inkling of Legolas' communion with Tawar.

As suddenly as the transfiguration had occurred it diminished and departed. A remnant cloud of the night's storm passing somewhere overhead occluded the brilliant beams and he was once more in Mirkwood. Erestor drew in a deep and stabilizing breath as he sought to ground himself; he had not felt awe since his elfling years.

With the lingering sensation of beatification upon him, he knelt to organize the contents of the packs, separating each item to allow as much air to circulate as possible and speed the drying process. Satisfied he had done all that was needed to restore their possessions to their former condition; Erestor drew out his comb and sat back again. Carefully he worked through the lush and lengthy onyx filaments, coaxing out the lustre and sheen he was so proud of until not a snag remained and the mane was dry, bound back again in a mithril clasp. He thought of how he might pass his time and instantly retrieved his journal, a slender quill, and his bottle of blue-black ink, for there was much he wanted to document of his recent adventures. He settled against the tree's trunk.

He recorded his memories and observations in neat and careful characters, each precisely the same size as the next, each line of text equidistant from those above and below it. His words were skillfully chosen yet allowed neither excessive nor unnecessary embellishment, yielding an account perhaps a little dry in comparison to the true experience. But Erestor had an artistic flair, and he often added quick drawings to illustrate his prose on the facing leaves of the leather bound account. His gifted hands imbued his pictures with much of the raw emotion the journey had thus far exacted.

He was sketching the trees around his flet, attempting to capture that sense of uplifted glory and strength that had stirred him so, when he heard the sound of feet upon the branches, and looked to his right. The Lord of Imladris was making slow but steady progress, barefooted, along the limbs still wet and hazardous to those unaccustomed to such pathways. Erestor capped his ink and closed the book, standing to meet his Lord with arms akimbo and a disgruntled expression upon his features.

"So! You recalled I still exist! Or, more likely, you got hungry and remembered where you left your pack! And what of the Wood Elf?" he spoke his reproachful greeting in Quenya, as they had agreed all their conversations must be, voicing high words for low thoughts. Elrond stepped gratefully onto the flet, glancing down to the floor of the forest as he did so, and then faced his old friend. He took in the sodden leggings and the bootless feet, the immaculately coifed hair and scowling brow, and Elrond could not help but laugh.

"What a sight you are, Erestor! No one in Imladris would recognize you; you have gone native, my friend!" he managed to state before laughing again. Erestor glared and looked the Elf Lord up and down.

"Then we are a pair! You look the worse, for you have not even tended your hair! And at least I do not reek of certain bodily excretions!" he said with icy hauteur. "Some of which are not your own, I might point out! Honestly, Elrond, with all the water that has assailed us, could you not find enough to wash up? I believe you are boasting, and it is not flattering to your character!"

Elrond had the good graces to be dismayed if not to blush; he had really not thought about it and had not intended to offend his friend.

"Erestor, that is not true! I was in a hurry to return so we may speak before he wakes nothing more! Do not be angry; we agreed this way was best," he said and Erestor was but minimally mollified. It was he after all who had been left alone in the rain while his Lord had enjoyed the pleasures of new flesh.

"Perhaps, but maybe not for my best. Have you any idea what it is like to hear your name shouted in impassioned ecstasy while being nowhere near the orator? The least you could have done was grant me the opportunity to observe the activity!" he fumed. Elrond smiled and placed a placating hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I am sorry for that, but it did work. He believes most of it, and what he doubts is not what I have said but what I have held back. As for the rest," Elrond shrugged, "I was not entirely in control of events! He is very demanding and will have things as he chooses! You are unlikely to be honored with any visual stimulus; he does not like you!" Erestor raised his brows as he momentarily contemplated what sorts of things the wild elf might demand, but his complaints were not yet done.

"I have had time to think on this, Elrond, and it would have worked as well if he actually was with me rather than merely believing this to be so! Remind me again, logically, why the good of our realm depends on you being the one to bed the fallen prince?"

Here Elrond allowed himself a small knowing grin; there was an easy answer. Erestor liked to pretend to be a sexual dilettante; sampling his lovers briefly and laconically while returning nothing of his heart or mind, yet it was false. The seneschal preferred the young because of their willingness to allow him to talk out his frustrations and exasperations of daily life in the service of his Lord, as much as for the thrill of divesting them of their virginity. Erestor loved to gossip as a sort of after-sport to his lovemaking.

"It would be impossible for this to work if you became his lover simply because you would quickly loosen your tongue and unwittingly reveal our purpose here!" Elrond said. Erestor's eyes opened wide as his lips followed suit and he was struck dumb a moment, so great was his outrage.

"That is just preposterous! I cannot think why you would call me a betrayer! I would never do such a thing; not the vilest and most anguishing tortures could force me to turn against our realm!" he shouted, deeply wounded, and brushed away his Lord's hand from his shoulder.

"Nay, that is not what I think! It is not that you would betray our people but that you would come to trust that one," he said with a brief twist of his head in the direction from which he had come. "Indeed, I feel myself that I could tell him everything I suspect and he would assist us willingly! I almost did not follow through, Erestor! I almost gave him my true identity!"

Erestor held the Elven Lord's gaze a moment then looked away, considering these words. It was disturbing to hear and he wondered what it was about the wild creature that could produce this affect on them, remembering the vivid mental scenes and emotions they had both experienced since encountering the Wood Elf. He worried suddenly that the creature knew all their thoughts and plans, then discarded that. If this was so, Legolas would either have killed them himself or allowed the Orcs to have them.

He exhaled a discontented breath and remained silent. Elrond had not truly answered his question at all, for his reasoning was faulty. Erestor enjoyed his open discourse with his partners, but this was only because they were of his own lands and people. He was not loose of tongue even when within the safe embrace his Lorien lovers, and never did he discuss Elrond's concerns about the Woodland Realm, regardless of who he was with. His Lord knew this; the whole argument had merely been a distraction to turn the seneschal's mind away from the real issue at hand.

Erestor set his jaw as he gritted his teeth; the affront stung his dignity and he would force an honest admission from Elrond's lips. It was the price he would demand for both his wounded pride and his sacrifice of what had obviously been extremely pleasurable. He had played the part of the lecherous rogue perfectly, driving the overwrought Wood Elf straight into Elrond's embrace, and he would have that acknowledged, as well as the reason for it. He waited and did not bother to look at Elrond, turning instead to put away his journal, quill, and ink. He heard Elrond's shift in position and watched as he moved over to the packs and extracted a wafer of lembas. Elrond sat against the tree's bole and looked up to meet his confidant's gaze.

"I apologize, I did not mean to call into question your integrity! If I had no confidence in your honor I would not have you beside me!" he said but Erestor's expression indicated it was not enough.

"Alright!" Elrond threw his lembas down in vexation. "We both know it is true; I wanted things this way for personal reasons! I confess to you my hatred for Thranduil and his folk has not lessened in all this time since that horrendous day! And you were there to see it, too, Erestor! In trying to salvage the foolish pre-emptive attack the Sindar made before the gates of Mordor, Gil-Galad was lost! There, I have said it; does that please you? And, if I enjoyed it, what of that? I will enjoy it even more when I have cleaned him of my semen and his blood, and sent the cloth by messenger to Thranduil!"

Erestor stood aghast, for that was a level of coldness he had not imagined his old friend would know. He wondered if this was the nature of the evidence Thranduil had finally used against Ningloriel.

And he realized Elrond was right. It could never work with himself as the lover. This sort of joining was not one in which he would engage, indeed, such a coupling was for him unthinkable. He could not himself hold the young Wood Elf to account for events that occurred long before his birth. He could not retain both the ice of hatred and the fire of passion within his soul, together. While Erestor would have gladly used the feral elf's body for pleasure he never would do so for the sake of such bitter vengeance.

Tbc