Shadows of Rivendell

Title: Shadows of Rivendell 3/5
Author: Genesis Grey (helfireclub@hotmail.com)
Pairings: Elladan/Elrohir, Elrond/Aragorn, Arwen/...
Rating: NC-17
Summary: What if the Ring had never left Rivendell?
Disclaimer: Own nothing. Wish I did, but don’t.
Warnings: Incest. Quasi-non-consensual situations. BDSM. Some het content.
Author’s Notes: Feedback always makes me happy. :) I really appreciate those who have taken time to comment about the story! Thanks always to Nethene and Rider for betaing.


Shadows of Rivendell - Chapter 3



Aragorn moaned as he opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. It wasn’s ows own room, he knew that much. He was pretty sure he was still in Rivendell. No other place had such beautiful architecture, even on the ceilings, and such soft, silky blankets, not to mention the most comfortable beds in all Middle-earth. Turning his head, he focused his eyes on the delicate crystal statue of a young female elf reaching out for a butterfly. It was sitting on a grand mahogany bookshelf. Arwen. He was in Elrond’s room then.

The light sound of a door caught his attention and he turned his head to watch the elven lord himsellk ilk in. He didn’t seem to notice that his foster son was awake. Aragorn watched him as he crossed the room, looking down at the floor as if he was ashamed of something. For the first time in his life, Aragorn noticed the lines in Elrond’s face. In the firelight they showed his great age, a weariness born of pain and loss, and a haunted look that spoke of unknown horrors.

“Father,” he managed to call out. His throat was dry and the word cracked as he spoke. But Elrond practically jumped when he heard it, looking up in alarm at his foster son, still curled up at the end of the bed. “Are you well?” Aragorn asked in concern, not fully registering the guilty look on Elrond’s face.

Elrond shut his eyes and let out a deep breath before he opened them again. “No, Estel, I am not well, but it is my own fault,” he answered.

“What’s wrong?” Aragorn asked, attempting to sit up. As he did, a wave of nausea overcame him and he let out a moan, collapsing back onto the bed and clutching his head, hoping for the dizziness to go away. Elrond was over him instantly, pulling his hands away and pressing slender fingers to his cheeks and forehead to check his temperature. “Father, something’s wrong,” he managed to whimper. He hadn’t felt this helpless in over sixty years. Panic began to well up in his gut as he felt an unknown shadow clawing at his dazed mind.

“My poor child,” Elrond crooned, gathering Aragorn in his arms and pulling him against his chest. He gently stroked the dark hair and Aragorn relaxed in the arms as the shadow seemed to pull away. There was safety and comfort there. “The sleeping draught I gave you may have been too powerful for a Man, even one of your heritage. I am sorry. It will wear off in time, but until it does I fear you will be dizzy and a bit sick as well as tired.”

Aragorn nodded, immediately wishing he hadn’t. He braced himself against his father’s chest to try and stop the room from spinning. He still didn’t understand why Elrond had drugged him. His father had said it was for his own protection. But protection against what? He was as well trained as any mortal could be; trained by both the Dunedain and the elves, not to mention the dozen other cultures he had trained under. He could ride a horse like one of the Rohirrm and even the dwarf Gimli had admitted he had a skill in axe throwing. He did not understand what it was that Elrond felt he needed protecting from. There were no guarantees of safety when he left Rivendell, but his foster father had never been so overprotective before.

He coughed from the dryness of his throat and managed to look up at Elrond. “Water?” he asked. There was the clink of the chain as he moved his leg and he looked down. He’d forgotten about the manacle around his ankle that kept him chained to the bed.

“Of course,” Elrond said, laying him back down and walking across the room to a pitcher of water and a set of five glasses, one for each of his children and himself. Aragorn shut his eyes in an attempt to stop the room from spinning. There was something desperately wrong, but his mind was so stuffy that it was impossible for him focus on any one thing for long enough to figure out what it was.

A hand touched him as an arm gently wrapped around his shoulders and propped intointo a sitting position. He managed to open his eyes as Elrond held the glass of water to his lips, tipping it slightly. Aragorn reached up to take control of the glass, though Elrond did not fully let go. He quickly gulped down the water despite the nausea that threatened to make him vomit it back up. When he was done he let go, glad his foster father had held onto the glass. Elrond laid him back down on the bed and stroked his hair soothingly and for a moment Aragorn just let go and relaxed. It was almost as if he was a child again. But then he remembered the haunted look on his father’s face when he entered the room. He looked up and gave Elrond a pitiable look.

“What’s wrong, father?” he asked again, managing to roll to his side without too much trouble. “You came in with such a wretched look on your face and you said it was your own fault, but I am sure that cannot be true.”

Elrond said nothing, log awg away even as he continued to stroke Aragorn’s dark locks. He let out a sigh and his hand stilled. “I have done something I am not proud of, my son,” he answered. “Though at the time it seemed like the correct course of action.”

“If it seemed right…” Aragorn began. “You are among the Wise, father, I’m sure it was the right thing to do even if it was unpleasant.”

Elrond was silent for a moment. “Even the Wise may descend into folly,” he replied as he curled a strand of Aragorn’s hair around his finger. “I have done so once before, when I did not force Isildur to destroy the Ring.” His eyes unfocused and Aragorn was surprised at the absolute anguish that crossed his features. “It should have been destroyed… but I allowed evil to survive because of foolish attachments.”

Aragorn shut his eyes. He could feel the strange dark shadow all around them, trying to take hold of him, but the darkness was as unable to grasp his mind as he was unable to focus his thoughts. He shook his head and the darkness dispersed as he looked up at Elrond who was still staring off into nothing and playing with his hair. “You could not have known what would happen,” he said. “You are not to blame. The call of the Ring is strong.”

The elven lord looked down at him. “Yes, it is strong,” he admitted darkly, his fingers running through Aragorn’s hair and slowly moving to caress the line of the strong jaw. “You are wise for your age, Estel,” he breathed as the human noticed the strange look in his father’s eyes. They were still distant, but there was a hunger in them now. It made him feel uncomfortable as the fingers began to stroke the hollow of his neck and collarbone.

“You remind me of Isildur,” Elrond said, and Aragorn jerked in dismay. That was his greatest fear, that he shared anything but blood with the man who had kept the Ring. His entire life he had striven to be better than that, not to give into dark temptation. And now he was being likened to the man. If his head had been any less cloudy, he was sure he woulde cre cried out in anguish. “Only in appearance,” Elrond said gently, as if he knew the torment his foster son was putting upon himself. “Not in temperament.”

A breath of relief escaped Aragorn’s lips and he forgot the discomfort of his foster father stoking his chest. “Do you know who Isildur reminded me of?” Elrond asked as his hands moved and pulled Aragorn ia sia sitting position with his back leaning against the elven lord’s chest. The fingers ran though his hair again, soothingly.

“Who?” Aragorn asked; between the dizziness, nausea, the inability to focus for more than a moment, and the strange feel of a dark shadow nearby, he was feeling very relaxed. Though a corner of his mind desperately wished he wasn’t naked, chained to his father’s bed, and drugged; but that part was drowned out by the sound of Elrond’s strong and melodic voice.

“My much-loved brother,” he answered, pressing his face against Aragorn’s head and inhaling the scent of his hair. “Isildur was more masculine than my brother, of course, even then the elven blood was thin. And my brother, my twin, never bore such a grim look on his face. But Isildur had his eyes, his thin bowed lips, the dark hair that curled just slightly when wet,” as he spoke his hands ran down over Aragorn’s chest.

A shudder ran through Aragorn’s body as his foster father touched him. He didn’t know why Elrond was talking to him in such soft tones and touching him in strange ways. He felt the sensations shoot through his body, confusing his muddied mind even more. It was uncomfortable and wrong, yet his body yearned for more.

Aragorn’s head lolled back on Elrond’s shoulder as his foster father’s hand stroked over his belly. It felt wonderfully soothing, the delicate hand caressing his firm stomach, tracing circles over the bellybutton as it dipped lower. The fingers playing with the dark hair between his legs, roving over his inner thighs. He let out a gasp and jerked violently as a single finger ran over the length of his growing erection. A low moan escaped his lips. He barely heard his father whisper: ‘I’m sorry’.

Then the hands left him and he let out a whimper as he was laid back on the bed and Elrond stood up. Aragorn tried to move, unsure of what was happening. Briefly he wondered if this was some strange test his father was putting him to. His head swirled at the thought and he wished the sleeping draught would wear off. He was so tired.

The bed shifted and Aragorn managed to focus long enough to watch in bewilderment as Elrond sat beside him again. There was a strange look on his foster father’s face and if Aragorn had not known better he would have thought the elven lord to be on the verge of tears. Suddenly he felt the hands on him again, stroking down his sides, over his hips and thighs. They touched his legs, parting them and bending them upward at the knees. The chain clattered noisily as his legs were moved and positioned, an eerie reminder of his captivity.

The delicate fingers moved over the skin of his inner thighs again and he closed his eyes with a moan. It was a sublime feeling, like nothing he’d ever experienced before. The strange shadow pulled at him again, demanding and tempting him with a voice that was deep and seductive. But what it wanted and what it offered he could not understand through the drugged haze of his mind; the shadow withdrew in defeat.

A shocked sound escaped his lips and what few thoughts of the shadow he had focused on quickly disappeared as he felt the odd and exotic touch of a tongue on the delicate skin of his thigh. The warm wetness traced gently where the fingers had been, slowly moving closer and closer to his hard member. Then it was gone and Aragorn managed to open his eyes and look down. Elrond was staring up at him with a tormented expression on his face. When their eyes met he immediately averted his eyes, turning them downward, bowing his head as if giving into some invisible master.

Aragorn opened his mouth to again ask his father what was wrong, but a tender kiss was pressed to the tip of his erection and the last remnants of coherent thought left his mind. The tongue flicked out and he let out a low moan. There was something wrong. He knew that. His father was not supposed to do such things to him and he feared the shadow was to blame. But it felt so wonderful and his mind felt so muffled that he could do nothing but be in the moment and enjoy it.

The tongue moved over his length, seeming to taste every bit of it as the fingers moved teasingly in the tongue’s wake. Aragorn moaned as he began to pant, arching his back and attempting to thrust his hips upward in instinctive need. But the fingers left him and unexpectedly strong hands were pinning him into place as surely as the manacle and chain kept him by the bed. He let out an anxious cry as his body trembled with need and his fists clenched the covers of the bed. He’d never experienced such sweet pain before.

Then he was enveloped within the warmth of Elrond’s mouth. He arched his back and let out a guttural groan of ecstasy as the mouth and tongue moved up and down over his erection, clouding his mind in a haze that was far more pleasurable than the dizziness and nausea the sleeping draught had brought. He panted with bliss as the pace was quickened. He managed to focus long enough to look down at the sight of the elven lord’s head bobbing rhythmically. The dark hair flowed elegantly, wisps sticking to the sweat of Aragorn’s thighs. Letting out another moan he caught sight of the half-elven’s face and a glimpse of the sparkly wetness in his eyes and on his cheeks. He felt warm drops like tears strike his thigh. Was Elrond crying?

Aragorn dismissed the thought quickly. His father did not cry.

Suddenly a sensation shook his entire body and he arched upward, thrusting his hips despite the attempts of the hands to keep him still. A feeling of release and fulfillment coursed through him and the world became a sky of starry white flame. Heeameeamed and it was a peculiar sound even in his own ears. It was not a sound of pain, but of pleasure, and it echoed around the room a moment before fading away.

He panted heavily as he collapsed back onto the bed, feeling drained and yet completely satisfied. Elrond sat up, his dark hair a curtain that masked his face as he turned away, not allowing Aragorn to look upon him. Aragorn watched as his father walked shakily across the room. He wanted to call out to the elven lord, but the dizziness had returned in full force, and it seemed he could do nothing other than pant and watch.

Elrond sat on the window seat and buried his face in his hands and Aragorn frowned. He yearned to rise and comfort his father, but he was too exhausted to do so; even ifwerewere able to move there was still the matter of being chained to the bed. He sighed and closed his eyes. The effects of the sleeping draught were beginning to take hold again, now that he was too spent to resist it. As he fell into dreams he could not help but reflect on the fact his foster father had chained him to the bed and pleasured him. The elven lord was acting quite strange.