Another’s Guilt

Another’s Guilt by Númenora

Rating: NC-17 this chapter

Disclaimers and Summary: See chapter one.

Warnings: Remember, this is slash; AU, Mpreg. Un-betaed, all mistakes are mine.

Dreams denoted by [ ]

Thoughts and stressed words denoted by * *


Chapter Three

“Blame”

[‘*Higher, Ada, higher!’ A fit of childish laughter floated high up into the tree tops as tiny, pale arms wrapped securely around the neck of the Golden Elvenking as he scaled the ancient Mellyrn. ‘Patience my Little Leaf; your old ada is not as young as you.’ Thranduil said to his precious ion. ‘How old are you, ada?’ ‘As old as the stars!’ He answered, Legolas echoing him in their old game. Amber eyes watched them as they approached her position high above. The caramel colored feline looked fondly on the climbing pair, for she loved the smallest elf with the white-gold hair and shinning blue eyes. After all, he was very good to her—letting her have as much of his bed as she wanted, sleeping with her nose burrowed in his warm neck as he snuggled close and feeding her his fish under the table when his lovely mother wasn’t looking. She slinked down lower and came to sit next to the four-year-old elfling and his father as they sang beautifully, sun streaming through the large leaves. ‘Do you love me, Ada?’ ‘Yes, I love you, Legolas.’ ‘How much, Ada, how much?’ ‘More than life itself!’ Legolas said along with the King of Eryn Lasgalen for this, too was part of the game they played, but the love and sentiment were real.*]

Legolas smiled happily, still in dreams, memories soothing him. The King and Legolas spent nearly the entire day climbing trees, singing and playing, dining on pilfered treats from the kitchens while Palace guards kept a discrete distance and the throne in the Great hall sat empty, dozens of citizens and visitors lining the walls—petitions ignored and forgotten. The Prince slumbered on, troubles held at bay—at least for a while.

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The Prince from Gondor also dreamed, but his was not a dream of climbing trees and innocent play.

[*He tasted honey as he nipped and licked the smooth skin beneath his questing lips and fingers, the taut flesh warm and trembling. ‘Mmmm...sooo sweet,’ Aragorn groaned. ‘So very, very sweet!’ The body under him arched off the ground as his teeth bit down painfully and pleasurably on an erect nipple, dark and pink, his hands holding the figure close to his own tanned frame.

As he traveled from one peak to the other, slender hands grazed the sides of his face before running through the man’s dark, wavy hair, pulling his mouth closer to the toned chest. He suckled hard, ravishing the pebbled nub in his hot mouth, his fingers bruising as he fought to control the being in his arms and his rising passion that threatened to spiral out of control before he could claim the prize before him.

As the dúnadan released the peak, giving it one last swipe of his tongue, he moved up to capture perfect rose petal lips, parted and gasping. His tongue plunged deeply, forcing its way down the sweet throat; the delicate organ inside briefly fought the invasion, but was no match for the more experienced one determined to have its way. Sword-roughened hands carded through long silky tresses of pale gold, pulling the head back to gain further access as his tongue went impossibly deeper, nearly depriving the other of necessary air.

Smaller male hands cupped his face, pushing him slightly away, breathing hard. Denied this prize, the man moved on and latched his mouth to the fragrant neck beneath the fall of soft hair where the shoulder and neck met. His hands also moved on, caressing smooth, firm sides, down to finely muscled hips and thighs, pushing the limbs apart as he put himself between them, causing the body under him pause before its trembling began anew.

Aragorn’s strong hands hooked under perfectly formed knees, pushing them back, exposing the tender flesh of his new lover’s inner thighs and vulnerable nether region—nothing hidden from Gondorian’s view. His bearded face rubbed against the delicate skin, cheeks and chin lightly abrading before lips and tongue tasted the virgin flesh.

The scent of honey and warm cream assaulted his senses as his mouth nuzzled the elegant organs nestled between unblemished thighs, the pale shaft and hairless sacs a feast before the hungry male. Prince Aragorn had no trouble swallowing the slender column, firm and leaking. The slender body arched again, this time forcing the tumescence deeper as the warm cavern suckled roughly, drinking the fluid seeping from the inexperienced body, the rough tongue molding itself to the hard flesh as it reached its peak.

The man was impossibly hard as he swallowed the last of the sweet nectar; he wanted—no—needed to find his release, too. Releasing the spent organ, he took the legs still held firmly in his grasp and forced them further apart, then draped each one over his shoulders. Taking his own swollen flesh in his hand, he rubbed his length with his emissions; parting the pale globes hovering above the grass-covered ground, he found the puckered entrance, hurriedly preparing it for him.

The young body froze when one finger and then another pushed inside his tight entrance, fear replacing desire at the unfamiliar probing. A soft frightened voice cried, ‘No!’ As the digits went deeper, scissoring the opening further.

‘Shhh, Lover; you are mine and I will have you,’ The Crowned Prince said possessively as he gazed into frightened sea-blue eyes, animal passion ruling his normally considerate nature. Aragorn could wait no longer. He placed the large head of his swollen member to the small opening, pushing inside his lover’s body.

As he went deeper, the tight passage contracted in pain, small hands pushing against his chest ineffectually trying to force him out. Stopping briefly, the man whispered soothing words of regret before kissing the gasping mouth, salty tears mingling with its naturally sweet taste as his hand moved between their bodies, stroking his lover’s fearful flesh, bringing it to arousal again.

As the body before him began thrusting in his fist and the kiss deepened, Aragorn resumed his forward motion, the hot tunnel impossibly tight until he breached the guardian ring of muscle, becoming fully sheathed in the tight heat. A pained whimper reached his ears before being followed by a grunt of pleasure as he hit the tiny bundle of nerves inside the untried channel. Wanting to hear the latter sound again, he aimed and struck the spot over and over again, the body rising to meet him thrust for thrust before screaming out, the blond finding his release for the second time.

The smaller frame bucked and writhe in pleasure, his entrance gripping the man almost painfully, milking the plunging shaft, undoing the Gondorian until he too reached his climax, hot fluids surrounding him inside the grasping body. He smiled, satisfied and sated; releasing the slender, pale thighs from his broad shoulders, Aragorn buried his nose in the silky hair of his dream lover, trembling when soft husky voice whispered ‘Melin chen, Herven-nin...’ (I love you, my Husband)*]

Aragorn jumped as a hand shook him awake. He looked around disoriented as he looked into Éomer’s apologetic hazel eyes. “I didn’t mean to startle you, but you wanted to be awaken after two hours. I also thought you might wish to eat some stew, Your Highness.”

“It is alright, My Lord. I...I was caught up in some dream.” The Prince’s body trembled as the dream fled, details escaping him, while the bliss remained. As the Rohirric Captain continued to stare concernedly, Aragorn swallowed nervously, praying that the erotic nature of his dream didn’t show on his face, cheeks slightly pink.

As he stood up, his friend handed him a bowl of delicious-smelling stew. “Thank you.” He smiled at Boromir who was taking small bites of food (Éomer threatened to force-feed him like a baby if he refused) before checking on his younger cousin; satisfied that he wasn’t worse, he eat his own meal, surprised at how hungry he was and how good the food tasted. As he eat the last of it and sipping some fresh water, he tried to retrieve his passionate dream to no avail—recalling only tight warmth and the taste of honey.

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The pleasant smell of simmering food pulled Legolas from his pleasant dreams, though he fought hard to remain in the comforting embrace of his adar. The call of his empty stomach and the noises from the real world won out over his heart’s true desire and he slowly became aware of his surroundings, cerulean blue eyes refocusing. With a silent cry of sorrow, he accepted the grim truth that what he’d hoped was a nightmare was his reality.

The edain surrounding Legolas went back and forth before and around him; some carrying out their various duties and others eating, passing bowls of food one to another. The starving immortal stared longingly at the large pot simmering over a fire a few feet away form him, pink tongue licking his dry lips unconsciously.

One of the Gondoran rangers saw him and moved over to the elf, offering him a bowl. The young man, no more than sixteen or so, blushed when he remembered that the prisoner was still bound, hand and feet and placed the food down before moving in back to untie the Prince’s hands.

Before he could however, one of the older men who stood guard over the wood-elf stopped him. “Walda, what are you about?! You haven’t been given leave to release the prisoner.” It was Girion, the Royal Guard who nearly executed Legolas the day before.

“Sergeant—I only meant to feed him. I...I noticed that he has not been given anything since we’ve been here, Sir.”

“You haven’t been given leave to *feed* him either!” Girion’s hateful stare raked over the Elda before turning on the young trainee in anger. “Step away from him—*now!*”

The younger Gondorian did as his superior ordered, though he didn’t understand, too young to have served with the rangers during Faramir’s time among them. He knew of and respected the Steward’s son, but even the vilest of prisoners were fed regardless of their crimes. “Sir, I do not understand; are we not to treat him as any other captive?”

“He isn’t just any other captive—” The dark-haired sergeant was cut off as the Crowned Prince stood before them, having been alerted by another ranger who worried that things would escalate as they nearly did the previous day.

Both humans bowed respectfully as Aragorn approached. “Gentlemen—may I ask what is going on here?” The Prince waited for one of them to speak, the youngest eager to, but knowing that his subordinate position required him to yield to Girion; plus he was in awe of the King’s only son. “Speak up.”

“My Prince,” Girion began. “Young Walda here overstepped his position and took it upon himself to untie the elf—”

Aragorn’s eyes flew to the ranger-in-training in anger, not letting the older man finish before he questioned the boy coldly. “Do you court treason, boy? Just what were you planning?”

“Your Highness, I would never do such a thing! I only meant to give the elf food as we would any prisoner.” The boy was nervous and fidgeted as he pointed at the bowl sitting next to Legolas—who was looking fearfully at the man Aragorn, remembering his own knife pressed to the elf’s throat. “Please, My Lord; you must believe me.”

“Girion, is this true?” Aragorn calmed somewhat.

“Aye, My Prince; but I informed Walda that he didn’t have leave to do either.” Girion threw another displeased look towards the youngster who was looking down in shame before the Gondoran Prince.

“While I understand your wish to care for the prisoner, you put yourself and others in danger. This elf may look harmless, but he is not! You should never unbind a captive unaided. You are in training and a subordinate; always gain permission before doing anything that does not fall within your normal duties. Initiative is greatly appreciated, but you made an error in judgment in this instance. Who is your mentor?”

“Eärendil, Prince Aragorn,” The properly contrite boy continued to stare at his feet.

“Inform him of what transpired here and tell him that he is to assign a proper sanction for you and to instruct you in the chain of command. I suggest that you study hard as it may save your life or the lives of your comrades in the future.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Walda bowed respectfully and went off to find his mentor.

“Sergeant, untie the prisoner. Although our young friend erred, he is correct in one instance; all Gondoran prisoners are treated humanely no matter how unworthy.” Aragorn drew his dagger as Girion none-too-gently untied the blond’s wrists.

When Legolas’ cold, numb blood-deprived hands were freed, he cried out in pain as the blood flowed back in. As much as the man hated this elf that nearly killed his kinsman, the healer in him couldn’t ignore a living being in pain. “What ails you elf,” He asked harshly.

The Elven Prince was afraid to answer as he looked into the malevolent face of the human Prince. “Speak now or never—I haven’t all day to waste on you!”

As he made to stand, Legolas spoke timidly in Sindarin, not used to the volatile natures of these edain and not trusting his knowledge of Westron. “I hurt, Ernilen (My Prince).”

Aragorn looked at the elf grimly before willing himself to assume the necessary dispassion. “Show me where,” He inquired

When Elven captive brought forth his unbound wrists, Aragorn breathed in sharply as he saw the dried and fresh blood (Faramir’s and the elf’s own) on the pale hands and wrists before him. The outraged kinsman warred with the compassionate physician and, though he asked a nearby ranger to fetch his healer’s bag with the necessary tools and herbs, the enraged was dominating his emotions.

The ranger brought over the satchel and a bowl of clean water and rough soap used by the soldiers in the wild and handed it to Aragorn who indicated to the wood-elf that he should soak, then wash his hands, not willing to touch him until necessary. Taking a cloth, he handed that to the elf, too, to dry off; then he uncorked a jar of slave and rubbed a generous amount of the medicinal cream on the raw wounds on both wrists. After wrapping bandages around the slender limbs, the man asked Legolas if there were any other injuries, thinking that Faramir would have defended himself well before being felled by the Elda.

Legolas pointed to his ribcage. “It pains me—I hurt them when I fell (Legolas meaning when he went over the cliff and Aragorn thinking when he knocked the elf to the ground). When the man placed his hands to the area, the elf flinched, prompting him to ask the elf to lift off his tunic.

When blond had trouble taking off the garment, the man helped, then indicated that he should unbutton his shirt as well. Aragorn checked the immortal back and forth, examining the bruised flesh, becoming uncomfortable without knowing why. “Lean back so that I may wrap your ribs.” He unrolled a large amount of cloth that he pulled from his pack; after this, he rubbed some of the medicinal cream on the tender areas, his fingers moving efficiently, eager to finish this task so he could get away from his new patient.

Legolas waited, watching the handsome adan as he tended his injuries; his wrists barely hurt and his ribcage was feeling better, though he still ached. When the man had finished anointing his chest and back with the colorless ointment, he reached around the elf to start wrapping the bandage to bind him so that the bones would have the best chance to mend.

Aragorn froze as the as honey and warm cream assaulted his senses, his eyes flying up to stare into the sea-blue eyes of the stunning elf under him. He backed away as if stung, blue-green eyes wide and confused.

Concerned that the elf had done something, Girion pulled his dagger, ready to defend his Prince. Aragorn caught the movement and waved him back, convincing himself that he was merely over-tired, having gotten only a few hours rest. Regaining his composure, he quickly wrapped the prisoner and instructed the guard to bind the elf with his hands forwards to allow his ribs time to heal properly.

Handing Legolas the now-cold bowl of stew, the Gondoran Prince left to go check on Faramir. Throwing one final glance over his shoulder at the blond, Aragorn frowned deeply. His hostility towards the elf grew—both for his known crime and for something unnamed offence that the dúnadan couldn’t define.

The bewilderment followed him all the day—just at the back of his consciousness, his eyes moving often to the elf’s position. He was so tired and weary, but he dared not sleep again for Faramir needed him—*at least* that is what he let himself believe.

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Oropher and his contingent of Mirkwood elves returned to the base camp. He located his brother Arminas who was sitting near their campfire, his face bleak with worry. No one had found any sign of Legolas since the very first day that he disappeared during the battle with the Yrchs; and this was the fourth night that the young Prince had been on his own—provided that he still lived.

When the fighting was done, Arminas had returned to the tree where he’d sent Legolas, but was unable to see him and the young one never answered his repeated calls. It was then that one of the Silvans told both brothers that he’d seen the Sindar fighting on the ground near a fallen elf, but he lost sight of him when he himself was engaged by two orcs. A frantic search began in earnest and all available wood-elves who weren’t seriously injured or tending them set about locating their lost Prince.

After the immediate area was searched, they moved out in all directions, leaving no place unexplored. When Oropher’s personal guard found a ripped piece of green cloth snagged on a bush, he called out to the King’s sons, the three of them discovering a cliff nearby. Fearing the worse, but not giving up, a plan was quickly formulated to send a group to explore the gorge.

It took hours and all had nearly despaired until Legolas’ broken bow and a few scattered arrows were found. When one pearl-handled long knife was discovered just before nightfall, Thranduil’s sons were relieved, now convinced that their tôr dithen (younger brother) was indeed alive for no body or significant amount of blood was found. They all were cheered by this belief for the first two days, but by the third day, fear returned; and now, here they were waiting for the other search groups to report in, hoping against hope that Legolas would be among them.

“Has the group assigned to contact Lothlórien returned yet?” Oropher asked his brother who stared dully into the fire before him. Looking closer at the elf, the eldest asked him again, but knelt down next to Arminas when he remained silent except for the soft keening noises he uttered. “Arminas, Muindor-nin (my Brother)—you need to calm yourself; Legolas will need us at our best when we find him.”

“*If* we find him,” Came out as a sob followed closely by copious tears flowing from emerald-green eyes. “It is my fault...it is *all* my fault! I convinced Ada to let him come; I went to him and told him that Legolas would be fine—that he could defend himself if needed and that *I* would personally see to it that he’s safe. *Safe,*” He laughed humorlessly. “Adar trusted me and took me at my word and now I’ve failed him and Little Leaf.”

Oropher held his brother close as the tears continued to fall. “We both were to look after him; Ada trusted me, too, but we can not give up. Legolas is still alive—I know it in my heart and you must believe, also.” As he rocked the younger Thranduilion, a large group of elves entered the camp.

As the Crowned Prince of Mirkwood looked up over the shoulder of the sobbing elf, he stared into the handsome face of an old friend. Smiling, he said in a relieved voice, “Haldir—Thank Elbereth that you’ve come!”

TBC

Please review

A/N: I’d like to thank all of you out there who have been reading and reviewing—your kind words mean so much. To those anonymous reviewers (or ones without emails listed) who have not received a response at the archive’s site, please check at my main LJ. Also, to those of you who have been reading ‘Revelations,’ the final chapter is half finished—I don’t want to rush it, so it will take a bit longer. Our Boys deserve the best send-off.