Dark Journey
Dark Journey - Part III
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Title: Dark Journey - Part I
Type: FPS
Author: Vairë (vaire@donnesys.com)
Rating: NC17
Pairings:
Erestor/Thranduil, Erestor/Lr, Lr, Legolas/Haldir/Syshae(OMC),
Legolas/Haldir/Syshae/Anaria(OFC), Thranduil/Sauron
Warning: non-con, abuse, usual
graphic NC-17 sex
Disclaimer: I worship at the JRRT altar. I
make no claim to any of the characters except Syshae. Lysan owns Anaria and the
Sundancers. I make no money from this, so don’t bother to sue—you’ll only get
hairballs the cat hacked up.
Summary:
Companion story to Nightstar. Read that first or you’ll be very confused from
part III on. This is Legolas’ story. It fills in some of the gaps in Nightstar
about what happened to him before and during that tale, and also adds some new
adventures for Legolas, Haldir, and Syshae.
Timeline: Begins with Legolas’
‘escape’ from his father when he was not quite thirty years old and ends nearly
three years after King Aragorn II Elessar’s death.
Notes: AU. I’ve obviously taken
liberties with Papa Tolkien’s world—such a messing with the twins’ birth date
and creating new characters.
Posting: Please ask first.
Feedback: Much appreciated. I enjoy discussing my stories
with others. All flames will be gleefully passed along to the dragons for their
fiery consumption.
Thanks: Many, many, many, many thanks to Lysan. Without
her asking me repeatedly, and poking my muse, and allowing me to use her
Sundancers, this wouldn’t have been written. Love your ideas! Thank you,
m’dear. You are a treasure. Hugs.
Dark Journey – Part III
Third Age 2314
Late morning sun shone, turning Lorien into a gold haze.
Legolas stared back a final time, his eyes filled with longing and no little
sadness and confusion. Lorien. Syshae. Haldir. A multitude of memories crowded
him, fragments of conversations and scenes: the three of them frolicking in the
pools of Caras Galadhon; Haldir, his silver eyes like molten mithril as he
cried out his release; Syshae, clad only in Ithil’s light, singing for them;
shared patrols along the borders, where both Haldir and Syshare rre revealed as
fierce, skilled warriors; Syshae, his exquisite features lit with ecstasy as
they took each other; Syshae, those same features etched with agony when he
learned Legolas’s true name.
A gentle touch on his arm startled him. He became aware
that tears streaked his cheeks. Orophin stood there, compassion in his gaze. A
horse stood beside him. Sudden anger heated Legolas’s blood. He didn’t want the
guardian’s pity or understanding. Not then. He had asked for understanding and
been rebuffed. As for pity—it was something he could never accept. He had done
no wrong, not intentionally. He vaulted to the horse’s back, anger warring with
guilt.
Orophin laid a hand on the stallion’s neck and looked up.
“Seek your answers of your father, prince.”
Without replying, Legolas urged the bay stallion forward,
away from Lorien, away from the shattered pieces of his life, his happiness,
and his heart. Too sunk in misery to care, he let the horse choose the path.
Dusk found them in a clearing beside a stream flowing eastward to join Anduin.
The stallion halted and snorted, jolting Legolas from his stupor. A quick look
around revealed no danger. Legolas realized he had no idea where they were. He
had ridden all day without seeing any of the country he passed through. The
thought that he had been so inattentive and vulnerable would normally have
terrified him, but he lacked the energy to care. Maybe it would be better if
orcs or men attacked and killed him. What did he have to live for? He was
banished from Lorien, denied even the possibility of seeing the two he loved
again, for Haldir and Syshae would not leave the Golden Wood. Why? Even given
the enmity between Lorien and Mirkwood, why did the revelation of his identity
cause such extreme reaction? The Galadhrim knew him, they knew he was not the
sort of monster his sire was. Why would Syshae recoil so violently? Why had he
not even been allowed to explain? The stallion snorted again, breaking into the
litany of endless, futile questions.
“You are correct, mellon. ‘Tis time to stop.” He slid to
the ground and moved to stroke the horse’s nose. “I fear I am poor company and
foresee becoming no better.” The stallion shoved his nose against Legolas and
gently lipped at his tunic. Legolas sighed. “Not even your antics can cheer me,
though I thank you for trying. Go. Rest and eat. Since I have no destination,
and even less desire to find one, return when you will.” He pushed on the
stallion’s neck. With a final snort, the bay moved off toward the stream.
Legolas wandered back to the eave of the woods and, too
listless to even climb, collapsed on the ground, leaning back against the trunk
of a large oak. For a while, he watched the horse grazing in the clearing.
Food. The very thought of it turned his stomach. The bag of lembas that Orophin
had given him lay unopened on the ground beside him. Dusk deepened to dark and
stars began to shine. Sighing, he regretted that not even their beauty touched
him. How many times had he lain with Syshae and Haldir, staring up at their icy
splendor? Did his loves, at that moment, look up at the stars even as he did?
He couldn’t believe they did. He was trapped in a nightmare, some alternate
reality splintered off from Middle Earth. Nothing felt real except
pa
pain—that was piercingly clear. With a groan, he drew his knees up, wrapped his
arms around them, and rested his forehead on them. He gave in and let the
memories come.
Anor’s rising found him in the same position. Stiffly, he
rose to his feet and surveyed the area, aware of a vague disappointment that
orcs hadn’t slain in tin the night. The stallion stood nearby, one hind leg
resting on the tip of a roof as horses did when they slept. Squirrels and birds
chattered and squabbled in the branches, heard but unseen. A slight breeze
brought the scent of moss and wet earth and rocks from the stream, and rustled
leaves. Sunlight shone on the rich green grass. A beautiful day, full of
promise. Legolas grimaced. He would have preferred dark grey skies and rain to
match his dismal soul.
For two more nights and days, Legolas remained in the
clearing, not knowing why he stayed, but not caring enough to leave. The bay
stallion remained with him, occasionally wandering over and nuzzling him, as if
to offer comfort. Late afternoon on the third day found him walking back into
the woods to relieve himself. Perversely, even though he hadn’t eaten, his body
continued to function. He loathed it. The feel of his cock in his hand or his
body eliminating solid waste reminded him of the sensations he would never feel
again: the velvet tightness of his lovers, the hard columns of their erections
penetrating him. It wasn’t fair! he raged silently. Yes, he had lied, but for a
reason—a very good reason. Only no one seemed to care why he acted as he did.
No one cared for his trampled feelings. A flash of anger at Syshae coursed
through him. Why were the Sindon’s feelings more important than his? Because he
was thrice cursed, orc spawned Thranduil’s son, he wasn’t as important? Would
he never be free of the shadow of his sire?
Walking back to the clearing, Legolas alternated between
anger and apathy. He stepped from the trees and stopped in his tracks. He and
the stallion were no longer alone. Another elf stood beside the tree where his
weapons lay.
Erestor.
His savior. His destroyer. The elf who saved him from
Thranduil’s clutches, took him to safety in Imladris, raised and loved him. The
elf who shattered his happiness and ruined him life with so few words. Unable
to sort out his tangled emotions, he merely stood and gazed at Elrond’s dark
haired advisor.
“Legolas—”
“How did you come here?”
“I followed you. ‘Twas not difficult.”
“Why?”
Erestor spread his hands, palms up. “To tell you I was
sorry. I did not realize your deception. I came to see if I can do anything for
you.”
Anger was winning
in the battle of emotions inside Legolas. “Wasn’t ruining my life enough?” He
pushed past Erestor, picked up his weapons, and whistled for the bay stallion.
The horse trotted across the clearing toward him.
“No, Legolas. We must speak.” Erestor grabbed his arm and
spun him around. “I must understand this so I can help you.”
“I do not want your help,” Legolas hissed. “I never want
to see you again. You destroyed my world. Why did you not leave me in
Thranduil’s care? If you truly wish to help me, then be gone from my sight.”
“Nay, pen-neth. You are distraught and so you lash out,
but are you truly angry at me? Was it not your own deceit that led you to
this?”
Legolas erupted. He had done nothing! How dare Erestor
accuse him of being responsible? He had wanted only to be known for who he was
rather that who sired him. Who was Erestor to judge his actions? Erestor who
had ruined his life. With a snarl, he dropped his bow and pulled his knives
from their scabbards. He slashed at Erestor, but the older elf stepped nimbly
back and drew his own knives. Legolas followed, attacking viciously.
The bay stallion snorted and tossed his head, backing
away. Erestor parried his blows, falling back, not returning the attack. Across
the clearing they moved, rage driving Legolas into a murderous frenzy. Again
and again, he slashed at Erestor. Each time, the counselor deftly avoided his
blades. At length, Legolas began to slow, lack of food and rest draining his
strength faster than normal. His attacks became less and less co-coordinated
until finally he collapsed onto his knees. Sweat soaked his tunic and leggings
and matted his hair. His chest heaved with the effort of trying to draw in
enough air. Knives slid from his hands.
“Ahh, pen-neth.” Erestor knelt beside him and spread his
arms wide. “I grieve to see you in such pain. To know that I played a part in
bringing you to this rends my fëa.”
As he had done many times after arriving in Imladris as a
young elfling, Legolas leaned into the offered embrace. Strong, familiar arms
closed around him. His eyes closed. Erestor remained silent, holding and
comforting Legolas as Anor slid from the sky and shadows spread from the west.
At last, Legolas stirred.
“Come, pen-neth. We need to set camp, and you,” Erestor sniffed,
“need to bathe.” Drained physically and emotionally, Legolas offered no
resistance as Erestor drew him to his feet, and guided him to the nearby
stream.
After bathing, washing his clothes out as best he could,
and spreading them on some bushes to dry, Legolas plodded back across the
clearing to where Erestor had started a small fire.
“Drink,” the counselor thrust a metal cup into Legolas’
hand.
Legolas recognized the smell. It was the broth the Lorien
elves made, then dried and carried with them as a powder. They reconstituted it
with water when traveling. That and lembas were standard fare when on the road
or on patrol. Patrol. How many border watches had he shared this same broth
with Haldir and Syshae? His stomach rebelled and he tried to hand the cup back.
“Nay. You must take some nourishment. From the look of
you, you have not done so since leaving Lorien.” Hearing the name of the place
where he wanted t wit with all his fëa voiced aloud, Legolas flinched. “Drink,”
Erestor insisted.
“It will not stay down.”
“Then I shall wait until you are too weak to resist, and I
shall spoon feed you like an elfling.”
Erestor’s expression was one Legolas knew well. He had
seen it often. It was the one that meant ‘you are acting like a spoiled
elfling, but I can be patient,’ the one that Legolas never won against. Giving
in with a sigh, he brought the cup to his lips, took a small taste, and forced
himself to swallow. He nearly gagged, but the liquid stayed down. Sip by sip,
he emptied the cup, shaking his head when Erestor offered more.
“Very well, pen-neth. Then tell me what occurred, for none
in Lorien would speak of the matter. I had understood you to be happy there
from your letter.”
Legolas didn’t want to talk about it. He truly didn’t, but
Erestor would pry it out of him anyway. He stared into the gathering night,
watching the shadowy shapes of their two horses. “Did Elladan and Elrohir not
tell you that, in order to be greeted as a friend rather than an enemy, I
decided not to use my true name, nor to claim my title?”
“They spoke no word of it to me. Doubtless they would
have, but they were away from Imladris when Elrond decided to send me to Lorien
to discuss certain matters.”
Warg farts and orc feces. Legolas was too tired and
heartsick to put much invective into his curses. If not for the twins damnable
obsession for hunting and killing orcs, they would have been at home, and so
warned Erestor about his ruse, and he would still be living in Lorien with the
two he loved. What had he done to cause the Valar to curse him so?
inevitable. He regarded Elrond as his father, but Erestor was his second
father. Legolas couldn’t deny his request for an explanation. “The first night
in Lorien, the Lord and Lady held a reception for the twins. It was there that
I first saw Syshae and Haldir…”
#
Third Age 2315
“Aiya! ‘tis good to be home.” Elladan slid from his
horse’s back, his boots sinking into the several inches of snow that covered
the courtyard of the Last Homely House. He handed the reins to a waiting groom
and turned to his brother, waiting for Elrohir to dismount. “A warm bath, a hot
meal, wine—”
“Danos, isn’t that a light in Legolas’ room?” Elrohir
asked a second groom.
The elf shifted uncomfortable and avoided looking back at
the looming bulk of the House. “Ai, my lord.”
“And?” Elrohir prompted as he dropped to the ground. “When
did he arrive?” Danos hastily grabbed the reins and started toward the stables.
“What? Danos—”
“I don’t think you’re going to get an answer, brother mine.”
“What in the name of Elbereth is going on here? Legolas
was in Lorien happily entranced with Syshae and Haldir. Why would he return?
And why did Danos react so strangely? He seemed almost afraid.”
Slinging his equipment over his shoulder, Elladan started
for the stleadleading to the main entrance. “Let’s go find out. It will be good
to see Legolas again. I, for one, want to hear about his relationship with our
two favorite Galadhrim. They were—” He stopped suddenly and Elrohir ran into
him.
“Warg farts! What are you doing? Why—”
Elladan turned and seized his brothers arm in a vice grip.
“Legolas. Syshae and Haldir. Why would he return so soon? Unless…”
“Valar! Unless they uncovered his pretense. But, even if
they did, it has been well over two coronar. Surely, they would understand, for
they know him for himself now. Moved!” he shoved Elladan forward. “Let us
discover the answer.”
The twins stopped long enough to deposit their weapons in
their rooms, but not long enough to change from their travel worn garments
before heading to Legolas’ quarters, which lay a short distance down the hall
from their own. They paused, listening, but heard only silence.
Elrohir, ever the more impatient, knocked on the heavy
wooden door. “Legolas!” Silence. He knocked again. “Legolas! Let us in,
brother.” Silence. With a puzzled look at Elladan, he reached out and tried the
handle. It turned easily and they stepped into the room.
At first, it appeared deserted, but just as Elrohir made
to go into the sleeping chamber, Elladan tugged on his tunic sleeve poi pointed
toward the fireplace where a fire snapped and crackled. Two bare feet and
ankles thrust toward the blaze, the high back of a chair hiding the rest of the
body. They moved to stand before the chair.
Legolas sat there, slumped down, his head resting a good
ways below the top of the back. A goblet and half empty bottle of wine sat on a
small table to one side. He had obviously not bothered to change since coming
indoors, and his garments were as muddy and damp as the twins’ own. His
normally sparkling sapphire eyes were dull, staring into the flames. His left
hand held one of his knives. The blade rested across the right palm, fingers
curled tightly around it. The hilt of the other blade showed beneath one thigh.
The twins looked at each other, worry evident in both sets
of grey eyes. “Legolas?” Elladan ventured quietly. “Mellon? What troubles you?”
Silence stretched so long they thought the blonde prince
wasn’t going to respond, then, finally, “Go away.” The words were almost
inaudible.
“Legolas—”
The grip on the knife blade tightened. Blood oozed from
between fingers. “Go away.” The words were slightly more forceful.
“Wha wro wrong, brother mine? Why have you returned?”
Elrohir jd ind in. Elladan tried to gesture him to silence, but he rushed on.
“What of Syshae and Haldir? Are you no longer lovers? Do they not—”
With a strangled cry, Legolas sprang from the chair. The
bloody knife arced toward Elrohir as Legolas grabbed the other. Springing back,
the twins reached for their own weapons, then realized they lay in their rooms.
Cursing, still not understanding Legolas’ depression or his sudden rage, they
moved apart, flanking the blonde.
“Legolas—”
“Get out.” The words were a venomous hiss. Legolas’ eyes
glittered with feverish brightness. He tried to move sideways toward a corner,
but Elladan blocked his way. Legolas slashed at him, but the twin dodged back.
“You do not truly wish to hurt me, brother mine. Let me
help you as I ever have.” Legolas’ fevered gaze locked on Elladan. “Allow me—”
Elrohir, taking advantage of Legolas’ distraction lunged
forward, but had to dive to the floor and roll to avoid a wicked slash of the
second knife. Legolas started after him, but Elladan threw the wine bottle at
him, distracting him and allowing Elrohir to regain his feet. Elrohir ripped
the cover from the bed and lashed out with corner of it like a whip, wrapping
around one of Legolas’ wrists and knives. He jerked hard on it, pulling the
enraged blonde off balance. Legolas screamed in fury. At the same instant,
Elladan grabbed Legolas’ other wrist, twisting viciously until the slighter elf
dropped that knife. Between them, the twins wrestled Legolas to his knees, both
arms behind him, and pinned him between them. Although he struggled frantically,
they held him firmly in place.
The door crashed open. Two guards and Glorfindel, alerted
by the scream, rushed in with weapons drawn. Swiftly taking in the tableau,
Glorfindel ordered one guard to fetch Elrond and the other to take station
outside and allow no other to enter. Closing the door, he crossed to room.
Legolas ceased struggling and went limp in the twins’
hold. Shudders wracked his body and tears wet Elrohir’s tunic where Legolas’
cheek rested against it.
Glorfindel knelt and gently stroked the tangled blonde
hair. “Shhh, pen-neth. It was time. You must grieve.”
Elladan opened his mouth to speak, but Glorfindel shook
his head. They remained as they were, silent, kneeling on the floor around
Legolas, supporting and comforting him, until Elrond arrived.
Quickly discerning there were no physical injuries, Elrond
coaxed Legolas to breathe of a vial he opened. After two breaths, Elrond
restoppered via vial. Distraught, tear filled, sapphire eyes blinked sleepily
and then closed. Legolas’ breathing evened out and his weight sagged back
against Elladan.
“Glorfindel,” Elrond instructed softly, “get these wet
garments off him. Get him cleaned up and in bed.” Elrohir offered to help, but
Elrond raked a scathing glance over both twins. “It appears the two of you have
done enough for one evening. Besides you are as filthy as he.”
Before the twins could protest their innocence, the door
opened again and Erestor hurried in, his normally imperturbable features lined
with worry. Without a word, he helped Glorfindel strip Legolas, wash as much
mud from him as they could, and comb his tangled hair. When the prince was
tucked in bed, Erestor pulled a chair close and planted himself as if he had no
intention of ever moving again. He took a slender hand in his own and stroked
Legolas’ brow tenderly. “Aiya! ion nin. That you bear such pain grieves me.”
“What in the name of the Valar is wrong with him?” Elrohir
could remain silent no longer. “Did they find out—”
Elrond turned and surveyed his sons frostily. “My office.”
His voice was as chilly as his eyes, and he gestured toward the door. “After
you clean up,” he added.
#
Darkness beyond dark. A fetid, cloying smelldeatdeath and
decay that seeped into his very pores. Unintelligible whispers that nonetheless
spoke of endless hatred. Thranduil shuddered. Nay! The remnant of his conscious
mind screamed in denial. He would not submit to this vile usage again! He was
Thranduil. Son of Oropher. King of Mirkwood and the Silvan Elves. He bowed to
no elf, or man, or…creature of the dark. He willed his feet to stop, to turn
and flee back up the earthen tunnel that delved deep beneath the abandoned
fortress of Dol Guldur—back to safety and sunlight and sanity.
Laughter rang soundlessly in his mind. <Pathetic elf!
Think you to possess the will to disobey me now? I have owned you since first
you heeded my call.>
Nay! The sane remnant of his mind screamed again. Not
again! He would not believe this time! He would know the outcome, the
treachery, the never ending, unchanging outcome. He would avoid it. He would—
Thranduil stepped into a wondrous glade filled with the
scent of niphredil, carpeted by lush grass, and surrounded by young mallorn
trees, their golden leaves rustling in a light breeze. A stream sparkled
beneath the branches, and the water’s music rippled like the finest harpist.
Two figures stood on the far side of the glade, their hands entwined as they
stared into each other’s eyes. Aytalie. Himself. His beloved. His own much
younger self.
into all all space, trying to deny the sight. Saes, nay! Not again, it sobbed.
He tried to move, to make some sound, but like every time, he was frozen in
place. Unable to leave or even close his eyes, he watched yet again as the events
that started his descent into torment played out.
Aytalie’s honeyed voice. “’Tis not meant for us to be, for
I love another.”
His own voice filled with desperation. “Nay! My foul
brother bewibewitched you. Long has he been under the cursed wizards’ spell.
Come away with me, beloved. I shall keep you safe from him. I love you,
Aytalie. I would have none other for eternity.” Thranduil dropped to one knee.
“I will swear whatever oath you ask, do whatever deed you demand. I am consumed
with you, my lady—your beauty, your scent, your touch, the sweet sound of your
voice. Without these, I have no desire to live.”
The sane remnant of Thranduil cried, recognizing the words
he had spoken to Aytalie centuries before. Why must he relive this again?
“Nay, Thranduil. Your words are fair, but I see only the
prison of Nan Elmoth that Eöl offered Ar-Feiniel. I see the truth of your
desire in your eyes, but I see no love, only a need to possess what your
brother holds. My heart is not mine to give; Tynion already holds it.”
The sane remnant screamed in soundless fury. How he had
wanted to hear her heart was his! How he still hungered to hear that!
Aytalie made to turn away from Thranduil, but he seized
her hand, his features twisting into a snarl. “Am I not good enough for you?”
Roughly he hauled her against him. “Because I am the second son? He is not the
first either, Princess of Lorien. He shall bring you no crown, only grief and
death untimely. He—”
A third figure appeared as if conjured from thin air.
Tynion. His sword point was at Thranduil’s throat. “Release her.”
Thranduil laughed, his eyes never leaving Aytalie. “A
Kinslayer? You see, lady, what you profess to love.”
A knifepoint pressed into Thranduil’s groin. “’Tis the nér
I do love—Tynion.” Aytalie increased the pressure. “Release me, and begone from
Lorien. Make haste, for assuredly I shall inform the Guardians to see that you
have left.”
“And when you come to Greenwood?” Thranduil sneered.
“Shall I have the woodland guards deny you entrance?”
“You do not rule in Greenwood,” Tynion answered calmly.
“As my bonded, she is under my protection—and that of the king.”
“That too, may change, brother.” Thranduil stalked into
the surrounding forest.
Aytalie turned to Tynion with a brilliant smile.
“Beloved.” Her arms went around him…
The sane remnant of Thranduil howled and raged and cried
at the cruel mirror of the truth. How many times had he been forced to watch
that scene? A hundred? A thousand? The bitter pain and humiliation burned as
cruelly as the first time, and the rage was just as overwhelming.
The blackness returned.
#
Bathed and clad in clean garments, the twins entered
Elrond’s study cautiously. Their father sat behind his desk rather than in one
of the many chairs scattered about, an indication that the upcoming discussion
was to be formal. Glorfindel sat to the right of the desk, ramrod straight
rather than half-slouched in his chair. Another bad sign. Neither acknowledged
the twins’ entry. Several interminable minutes passed in silence while Elrond
continued to peruse some papers on his desk and Glorfindel studied the titles
of the books lining the walls.
At last, the Lord of Rivendell looked up. He studied his
sons as intently as he had the papers, then gestured them to two straight-back
chairs standing before the desk. They didn’t have to communicate with each
other to know the upcoming interview wasn’t going to be pleasant.
“I had thought, my Lord Glorfindel, that my sons were full
grown elves, that they were trained and responsible. I had thought, in fact,
that you and Erestor did a good job in instructing them. It appears I was
mistaken.” Elrond’s gaze never left the twins as he delivered the words.
“It would appear so, my Lord. I, too, had thought them
mature and responsible, but it appears I have failed your trust in me.”
“What—” Elrohir started, causing Elladan to wince. Nothing
could have enticed him to speak under the circumstances.
“Three months ago,” Elrond interrupted, “I sent Erestor to
Lorien. When he returned, a very distraught Legolas accompanied him. It seems
my youngest son presented himself falsely, lying about his true identity—with
the knowledge and assistance of his older brothers.”
Earlier fear confirmed, Elladan closed his eyes. Valar!
Why had he gone along with Legolas’ insane plan. The truth was bound to out; he
had known it. Why hadn’t he argued against it more strongly? Why hadn’t he
refused to go along with it?
“Unaware of the deception being perpetrated, Erestor
greeted Legolas by his true name in the presence of Lord Celeborn and Lady
Galadriel.”
And Haldir and Syshae, Elladan added silently. Valar! It
was worse than he had feared. Revelation of the truth was bad enough, but
unexpected and in public…
“Needless to say, the news was less than well received.”
“Ada, we did not intend…” Elrohir withered under his
father’s glare.
“You know full well that I regard Legolas to be my son, no
less than the two of you.” Elrond paused and both twins nodded. “The three of
you represent Imladris with your every action. You represent me. What you did,
in that capacity, was to enter another Elven realm and, knowingly and
intentionally, lie to its rulers, who just happen to be your grandparents.”
Elladan winced. Put that way it sounded bad, but they
really hadn’t meant it that way.
“Did an orc command your wits? What in the name of Aman
were you thinking?” Elrond’s voice was still calm, but there was no mistaking
his fury—another bad sign. He pointed to Elladan. “Elrohir is often impetuous,
but I do not expect this sort of behavior from you. Tell me—without
embroidery—what possessed you to undertake this insanity.”
From the corner of his eye, Elladan saw Elrohir look at
him with panicked eyes. He took a deep breath. As tempted as he was to try and
throw all the blame on Legolas—after all, it had been the blonde’s idea—Elladan
knew that was neither fair nor the truth. No, it hadn’t been their idea, but
neither he nor Elrohir tried very hard to dissuade Legolas. And Elladan
understood what prompted the idea. He had seen the frightened elfling that
arrived from Mirkwood, watched him grow and come of age, seen the demons
Legolas overcame. Well did he know how much Legolas loathed his sire, and he
also thought it unfair that Legolas should be judged merely by his blood.
Elladan also remembered the joy Legolas found in Lorien with Syshae and Haldir.
Never had he seen his foster brother so complete or happy.
And that, in the end, is what he told Elrond.
“So, your excuse is that is wasn’t your idea, you just
went along with it. You believe this absolves you of responsibility?”
“Ada!” Elrohir protested. “It wasn’t our idea! Legolas
came up with it. We only—”
The flat of Elrond’s hand slammed down on the desk,
causing everyone in the room to jump. “You only knowingly lied to the rulers of
another Elven realm. You are my sons. You will learn to act as such, or you
will spend a very long time in the most remote, boring, backwater, human
infested places I can find. Do I make myself clear?”
Both Elrohir and Elladan nodded.
“My only regret,” Elrond continued, “is that I can’t send
you there now!” He stood and strode from the room, closing the door firmly.
Glorfindel rose, crossed his arms over his chest, and
leaned back against the front of Elrond’s desk. “My prize pupils.” He sounded
profoundly disappointed and Elladan quailed. Elrond’s fury was bad enough, but
to cause Glorfindel shame… Both twins had worked so hard to win his
approbation. “Your father may have chosen to defer your punishment. I, however,
can make your lives miserable here and now. Later, when the time comes, I can
also find some very undesirable places to post you.”
Inwardly, Elrohir groaned. Glorfindel was more than
capable of making good on his threats, as both twins knew from experience.
“The stables need cleaning—not just mucking out, but a
thorough cleaning. Strip all the stalls and scrub them thoroughly. When you are
done, the spare armor and weapons in the armory need cleaning, honing, and
polishing. After that, I will find other tasks for you.” Glorfindel rose to
leave.
Elladan gathered his courage. After all, he and Elrohir
weren’t the primary culprits. “Legolas?”
The blonde Elda paused. “Do you not think the suffering he
has brought on himself is far worse than any Elrond or I could devise?”
#
A breeze. Familiar woodland scents. Groaning, Thranduil
rolled over onto his stomach. Valar! but he hurt all over. Where was he? He
blinked, the leaf littered floor of the wood slowly coming into focus. The back
of his skull threatened to explode with every breath and he concentrated on not
retching. He was the King of Mirkwood. He vaguely remembered riding out alone,
but why? How had he come to be lying naked on the forest floor? What had
happened to him? Groggily, he ht tht to remember.
“Come now, my fine golden toy.”
Thranduil froze. That unctuous voice. Memory rushed back.
No! Dear Valar! Not again. His mind reeled—desire and loathing warring. There
was no spell clouding his mind this time yet he was powerless to flee, or to
attack. He remained frozen, staring at the ground. He had no need to look; he
knew all too well what he would see. How many times over the centuries had he
seen the same cursed figure? The mark under his right arm, near to his heart,
began to burn. As always, he gritted his teeth, fighting his inevitable
surrender. And surrender it would be, for there could be no other outcome. The
Maia’s power was too great and his control over Thranduil’s fëa too
long-ingrained and complete. In the end, he would submit as he always did but,
as ever, he fought.
Dark laughter. “Ai, struggle, my fine Elven toy. It gives
me great pleasure to see you try and resist me, even though you know it to be
futile.”
The words inflamed Thranduil. Unfortunately, as much as
they inflamed his rage, they inflamed his shameful desire to submit to the
power in them. Some dark, loathsome part of his fëa longed for the dominance
they offered, cried out to submit, to be ruled, to be dominated and controlled.
His shame. His darkest shame from the time he was just shy of his majority and
a general in Oropher’s army had taken his innocence. Oropher had discovered the
nature of the relationship, killed the general, and left Thranduil behind when
he marched to the Last alliance. Unworthy. Perverted. Unclean. Sick. Defiled.
How many more words had Oropher hurled at his middle son at their last meeting?
And he had been correct, Thranduil acknowledged for, even now, even knowing the
vile one who spoke, desire stirred in his loins—the same dark, unspeakable
desire to be mastered.
Shame coursed through Thranduil like molten lava, but his
struggles lessened. Tears streaked his cheeks. He felt his cock harden as the
voice gloated over what it would do to him, over the obscene acts it would
force him to perform before it released him this time.
“Come, little elf toy. Crawl to me on your knees.”
The mark on his side flared hotter. Thranduil moaned and
shook his head, some last shred of sanity fighting the command of his dark
master>
>
More dark laughter. “Fight, weak one. Fight your master.
It inflames my desire. I already possess your fëa, and again I shall claim that
luscious body. I shall spill my seed in you, but only after you beg for it. I
shall mark you again, and you shall ask me to do so.”
Tears clouded Thranduil’s eyes. The times the Maia called
him were the moments he lived for and the worst memories of his life. He was
powerless to resist the other’s call. Had been since the mark was placed on his
body after Oropher marched to the Last Alliance and he had been sunk in black
despair. In his youth and folly, he had called on anyone, anything, to help
him—and that call had been answered. Half-mad with shame and worry for his
father and brothers, he had made the most hideous bargain of his life. The Maia
who answered his call had claimed him, marked him, and Thranduil’s will had not
been his own since. He loathed the Maia, yet perversely, he lived for these
encounters when the dark one called to him, for only then did he receive what
he truly craved—submission.
“Come, my toy. Crawl to me. ‘Tis time to service your
master.”
Weakly, Thranduil rolled to one side and then to his hands
and knees.
“Look upon me, my golden toy.”
And Thranduil looked. He raised his head and looked.
Sauron. The ‘S’ mark under his arm flared in agony—pain that he craved as he
needed air to breathe.
“Crawl to me.”
Thranduil crawled…
Yet again the darkness faded away. A breeze. Familiar
woodland scents. Groaning, Thranduil rolled over onto his stomach. Valar! but
he hurt all over. Where was he? He blinked, the leaf littered floor of the wood
slowly coming into focus. The back of his skull threatened to explode with
every breath and he concentrated on not retching was was the King of Mirkwood.
How had he come to be lying naked on the forest floor? What had happened to
him? Groggily, he sought to remember.
Sauron. The cursed Maia. In a moment of lucidity,
Thranduil knew what was happening to him. Shame, self-loathing, and the
constant perversion of the repeated loss of Aytalie were driving him mad. He
grasped the precious reality and held tight, knowing that it wouldn’t last. Too
soon, the marker her his arm would begin to burn and he would again be the
thing he loathed. And that was the cruelest part of Sauron’s control of him—to
allow him the occasional knowledge of the beast he had become. Going insane and
being aware of it at times. The constant reminder of his insanity, of Sauron’s
control of his fëa, the momentary knowledge of his hideous crimes—Aytalie,
Legolas, Amarië, Syshae, Tynion. So many, so many.
The mark under Thranduil’s arm began to burn. Nay! Saes
nay! Valar protect me! But there was no reply, only the burning that slowly
consumed his fëa once again…