Greenleaf

Author's Notes: I imagine this chapter will cause a great swell of disappointment, but for the story it needs to exist. Don't worry. There's enough abuse in the final chapter to make up for the sweetness of this one. Promise!

Pairings: Thranduil/Legolas, Celeborn/Legolas, Haldir/Legolas, Galdor/Legolas, Elladan/Elrohir, Legolas/Arwen
Warnings: A lot of fucking incest. Non-con. Incest. Rape. Incest. Slash. Incest. Het. Did I mention the incest?
Website: http://www.sexystickman.com/ren/
Disclaimer: Own nothing, but this string.
Beta: Nethene

-Chapter IV: Rivendell-



Lord Elrond is as good a host and healer as tales have said. He was kind enough to look over the wounds I sustained in the Grey Havens, asking neither about the origins of my injuries nor about the greenleaf scar, and now my ribs hardly pain me at all. Then he held a feast in honor of my arrival, introducing me to his children and other guests, before we retired to the Hall of Fire.

Never before have I seen such a display of elvendom than in that Hall. Songs were sung and maidens danced as the fire endlessly burned. It was as if I had entered one of my mother’s ancient tales and for a moment I found comfort in it all, believing in sweet touches and the famed kindness of the Eldar kind. And there is Elrond’s daughter, Arwen, who is as pleasant as she is lovely, to complete this wonderful illusion.

She has given me nothing but gentle ss ans and kind words as she tries to tempt me to dance with her and the other maidens and guests. I refused on account of my hurt ribs, but instead of driving her away she came to sit beside me and talk.

She reminds me of my mother. The way she takes my hand while telling her stories and strokes back my hair. Her touches make me shiver with want, and I momentarily imagine those slim fingers traveling over my skin as her lithe form is pressed against mine and we tumble in wanton pleasures. I sternly remind myself she is the treasured daughter of my host and tuck the thoughts to the back of my mind. I am no better than my father for having such carnal thoughts.

Arwen and I have been talking for a good while, of silly little things, like trees and travel. She laughs a lot, especially when we speak of horses, and I find it a pleasant sound. She is in the middle of telling me about the time she borrowed Glorfindel’s horse when her brothers approach. The famed Sons of Elrond.

She smiles and welcomes her brothers as I take a moment to truly look at them. I cannot imagine how two beings can look so alike. But there appears to be no difference from Elladan to Elrohir – identical gray eyes and waves of raven hair, even their dress is the same.

They greet me politely before looking to their sister. Apparently Lord Elrond is looking for his dear daughter. She pouts slightly, puffing out her luscious lower lip as she rises. One of her brothers playfully reprimands her for not being more obedient and tugs the tip of her ear. She laughs, swatting at him before turning to me and asking my forgiveness, promising she will finish the anecdote another time. I smile and nod as she flits away to find her father. I expect her brothers to follow, but they sit down beside me instead.

At first we are quiet until we find a topic we all know something about. Hunting. We talk about techniques of fighting orcs and wargs and other foul creatures that plague the free people of Middle-earth. I tell them of Mirkwood’s spider problem and they tell me of their travels with the mortal Dunedain. I find them to be as amiable as their sister, and, to my surprise, I realize I am enjoying myself for the first time in many centuries.

The evening ends too soon and I am shown back to my quarters, so that I might rest for my morning negotiations with Lord Elrond. It is not long before I find myself restless and unable to sleep. After many attempts to occupy myself I go to wander the corridors of the Last Homely House. In the back of my mind I remember the last time I traveled the lonely halls of a foreign realm. My ribs hurt at the very thought.

I enter a domed room and am surprised to find it seems to be dedicated to the Last Alliance. There is a mural of what I assume is Isildur cutting the Ring from Sauron’s hand. The spear of Gil-galad, Aiglos, is held in the hands of a stone representation of the Noldor King, and the shards of Narsil are strewn artistically across a silver platter. I marvel at the room a moment, few elves would glorify such a battle, but, then again, as I remember Elrond was distant kin to Numenorean royalty.

A sound distracts me from the surroundings and the painful reminder in my ribs makes me dive for cover behind Gil-galad’s statue. I peek out and find two elves, locked in a passionate embrace, have entered the room. I let out a sigh and sink into my hiding place. I will have to wait until they are finished be I e I can leave, otherwise it will look as though I am spying. I give a second look out of morbid curiosity and my heart nearly stops in shock as I recognize them.

Elladan and Elrohir. The twin sons of Elrond.

I try to convince myself I am witnessing something else. That they are sparring, practicing their close quarters combat. But it is clear the touches are that of lovers as they kiss, their tongues melding together as they fall to a bench beside Narsil, and they peel the tunics from one another’s body. I am unable to look away as one bows his head and begins to do something I am quite familiar with.

Even with elven eyes I cannot see exactly what is happening. But I know. His tongue is flicking out over the tip of the stiff member as his brother moans. Hands are caressing the thighs, thumbs teasing the sacks of flesh as the tongue begins to lick up and down the hard shaft. His brother moves, shifts, and he takes him into the warm confines of his mouth. The dark head bobs up and down. I can imagine the taste in my own mouth I know what is happening across the room so well.

But where the hands laced in my hair would be violent and demanding, the hands in the dark hair are gentle and coaxing. Hips shift and the moans become louder and louder until there is a cry of release and the hips buck forward. Whichever twin had lowered his head looks up and they share smiles. They laugh as the cum drips from one mouth and is licked away by the other before they kiss again, hands caressing bare shoulders and chests.

I can hear low voices whispering words of love and promises of forever. They laugh again. A low chuckle of mirth as they decide this place is too open and they should have waited until they reached their rooms. They do not want someone to happen upon them after all. I flush with shame as they rise, collecting their clothes, and leave, still locked in one another’s embrace.

My mind reels at what I have seen as I lean against the base of the statue that obscured me from their sight. Never before have I truly witnessed such a thing. At once I am disgusted by the incest of two such close kin, especially those that bare the same face. Such a thing is against the laws of our people. And that they take pleasure in it and whisper lies of love makes me feel as if I will be sick and defile Lord Elrond’s splendid hall.

Still, in the same moment, I am also jealous that in their damnation they have a measure of peace that I will never be allowed to know. I have never wished to go to my father’s bed, yet my sin is the same as the sons of Elrond. But they still smile and laugh, where I do not even remember how to do such things.

So dazed am I by the flood of confused emotions that I almost do not notice the approaching footsteps. I scramble to hide myself again, but my foot catches and I only manage to fall upon the floor. I look up as I land on my back, just in time to find Elrond’set det daughter Arwen looking down at me, dressed only in her night shift.

She smiles gently at me and offers me a hand as she asks what I am doing hiding behind the High King’s statue. My mind races for an explanation that does not include my voyeuristic view of her brothers’ sickening sin. I finally manage to say that I was looking for a quiet place to think.

She gives me a look and I know that she does not quite believe me, but will say nothing more. I sigh as she strokes a strand of hair from my face and tells me she was looking for me. That surprises me and I am certain my face shows it because she smiles reassuringly and tells me that she was worried for my condition. I start to tell her my ribs are healing well, thanks to her father, but she shakes her head and cuts me off.

Her hand touches my face and forces me to look in her eyes. As soon as our eyes meet she frowns, gently caressing my cheek. I ask her what is wrong and she shakes her head, saying my eyes are just like her mother’s before she sailed to Valinor.

It takes me a moment to realize her mother would have been the Lady Celebrian, the elf whose story has sustained me all these long years. I am shaken to my core even as Arwen takes my hand and leads me from the domed room toward the famous gardens of Imladris. She asks if I will confide in her as we walk. I want to tell her that I do not understand what she means, but I cannot lie to one that reminds me so much of the gentle hands and the gentle voice I shall never know again.

I tell her that I have suffered a great deal over the centuries, but do not elaborate how. We walk in silence for a time as I admire the beauty of the spruce and pine trees, a variety we do not get in Mirkwood, before she speaks again.

She tells me there is good in the world, just as there is evil. That one must find kindness to combat the cruelty, and harbor that kindness in ones heart as a lone lantern against the pain and degradation time brings. I bite my tongue to keep from asking her what she could possibly know of pain and degradation, and before I can think of anything else to say she asks if I find her attractive.

The question surprises me and I stop in my tracks. I look at her as she turns and faces me, an inquisitive expression on her beautiful features. She cocks her head to the side and asks again. Finally I answer with a diplomatic reply that she is a beautiful elf, possibly even more lovely than her famed foremother. She smiles at this and I think I have pleased her with my response, then she asks another question. One that surprises me even more.

She asks if I want her.

My eyes widen and I pull my hand free of hers. I have never been assaulted by a maiden before and I would prefer to keep it that way. She seems to see the fear in my eyes and apologizes for being so forthright. She says she only wished to give me comfort, if I would take it. I stare at her and wonder what kind of game she is playing. But when I look in her gentle eyes I see no malice, only genuine concern and caring.

Swallowing hard I tell her of my thoughts in the Hall of Fire. How I imagined her hands upon my body as we moved together. To my surprise this does not repulse her. In fact it seems to please her. I do not even know what happens between us in the next few moments, I am too caught up in the beauty of her eyes, and then we are kissing and her eyes close as her fingers caress the line of my jaw.

I am clumsy in this and follow her lead. Our tongues tumble against each other as her hands drop, moving over my body and undoing my clothes, unfastening my tunic and baring my chest to allow her hands exploration. My hands do the same, though with far less practice and dexterity as I try to undo the laces of her shift. It loosens and falls off one shoulder, as if it would be stripped from her body in the lightest breeze. She pulls back and presses her fingers against my lips as she gives me a coy smile.

She slowly kneels before me as she smiles seductively, undoing my breeches. I have always wondered how this looked from the other perspective, and now that I understand why my father forces me to bow before the throne so often. I feel myself become hard to see one so beautiful bowing before me, as if to worship that which she will soon expose. Her thin shift hides little and from my vantage I can see smooth white skin of her supple breasts heaving as my erection is let free.

I feel a sudden shame at having myself exposed, and it takes all my strength not to run away. Her hands move over my hips as she kisses the tip of my member and I gasp. Never before has someone pleasured me in this way. She giggles at my reaction and rubs her cheek against my hardness before licking along one side, her fingers traveling over the other.

She continues to tease me like this for a while, until I am unable to stand and stumble back to lean against one of the mighty evergreens. At last she takes me within her mouth and I can’t help but be surprised that a lady of her caliber would do such a thing. She works on me with mouth and fingers and my body nearly melts to her tender touches as I feel myself become harder.

I am moaning when she stops and I feel a cold chill as she releases me from her mouth. She looks up and asks if she should finish me off or if I would enter her for release. I stare at her in confusion, uncertain of what to say as she grins and lies back on the grassy ground, pulling up her shift and spreading her legs as she holds out her arms to me.

I kneel down and position myself between her legs, unsure exactly how I am to proceed. I have never been with a female before, nor have I ever been on top. She guides me and speaks words of comfort, telling me I am in complete control, that I can do whatever I wish and she will allow it. She kisses my neck and touches every part of my chest and arms with her slender fingers, just as I imagined she would. Even when those fingers slip over the greenleaf I do not mind; I can only think of how she smells sweet, like lavender.

She guides me within her body with coaxing words and soothing sounds. Momentary panic overcomes me and I ask her about lubricant, as the marchwarden asked me in Lorien. But she assures me she will be fine with a kiss, and at the taste of those tender lips I let her channel me into the sweet embrace of a woman.

The rhythm of our music begins slowly, shy at first as she continues to kiss and reassure me, her hands showing mine where to touch. Her arms. Her breasts. Her sides. Her stomach. Her face. In a courageous moment I peel away her shift and lay a kiss to her bosom. She giggles at the touch and I think she is mocking me, but then I see the smile on her face, and I am filled with daring enough to let my tongue tease her, my teeth graze the nipple.

Our tempo begins to hasten as her hands move over my chest and arms, working under my open tunic to stroke my back. She pants and moans in perfect harmony with our movements as my hands move over her hips and thighs, my inhibition seeming to have left me for now.

We move in time to the pulsing beat of the hearts inside our chests and I am struck with an epiphany. This is the lovemaking I have heard so many speak of. The fable I thought to exist only in lays and tales from across the sea.

With my father it has always been sex and fucking, hard and fast and painful and bloody. Pain for pleasure. I thought that was all there was to the desires of the flesh, even when Lord Celeborn tried to show me different I would not believe. I thought it a lie, a cruel trick. But this act is a pleasure for me, and by the look on her face, for her as well.

Shrieks of joy erupt from our lips to end our dance, as I feel my body tremble with release and my seed leaves me. The world is a splash of white on black and everything fades to gray as I collapse, panting and sweaty, upon my host’s daughter.

We lie in a huddled mess on the forest floor as we try to catch our breath, the evidence of our activities spattered between our legs. She recovers first, pulling her shift down to cover her body as she helps me back into my trousers. For once I do not mind the stickiness between my thighs.

She pulls close to me, spooning against my form and I am comforted by the closeness of her body. Where my father’s form is hard and angular, reeking of untold violence, hers is soft and cd, ld, lulling me into a calm I have rarely known. Her hand strokes over my still bare chest, bidding me not to fasten my tunic just yet and exciting the butterflies in my stomach. But the contentment is short lived as her fingers again flitter over my ribcage and touch the sole blemish on my otherwise perfect form.

I wait with bated breath, and to my horror she asks about the scar. The greenleaf. A panic fills my mind as I strive for an ansthatthat is neither the truth nor a lie. I can hardly tell her that my father cruelly marked me as his own during an act incestuous of carnal aggression. But I will not lie to one that has been so kind to me either.

Fortunately another story comes to mind. One that I had all but forgotten. Arwen smiles and lays her head on my chest as I tell the tale. I tell her about the days of my childhood when my mother and I would play in the gardens, a childish game where I would hide and she would find me. She would laugh as she picked me up, swinging me in the air before sitting on one of the many stone benches and settling me in her lap. She would call me her little Greenleaf as she nuzzled my cheek.

Arwen laughs as she cuddles closer to me and begins to drift off to a resting state. She tells me I paint a lovely image of the time in the garden and asks if that is why I chose my name to be such when I reached my majority. My eyes close as I whisper her answer. My name was chosen in honor of my mother, despite the face she was not there to celebrate my majority with me. I explain that the Greenleaf was the emblem of her house. Even as the words leave my mouth I learn to despise my father anew.

Since the days of Oropher, my grandfather, the mark of Greenwood’s Kingship has always been the Beech tree. I touch the scar upon my chest and run my fingers over the ragged edges of the raised flesh.

This marking was not his to give.

By the time Arwen and I rise and make it back to the Last Homely Home it is morning. She kisses me and thanks me, telling me to return when I will, that she will be waiting most anxiously. I have barely enough time to wash and dress before Lord Elrond comes to meet with me and talk of alliances. I can hardly look in his eyes after dallying with his daughter so. My toes curl as I imagine him somehow catching Arwen’s sent on me and casting me into the raging river he cont.
.

It does not help that his twin sons are with us as well. The sight of them makes me ill. Their unclean presence makes my skin itch. But how much better am I? I try to forget the scene I never should have been privy to in the first place and focus on how kind they were to me the night before. I think of how many things we have in common, hunting and tracking, the joy of protecting our loved ones from the dark creatures of the world. In lig light I can almost manage to befriend them.

The negotiations go well, despite my nervousness. The Lord of Imladris has little trouble agreeing to give other elves aid. One of the twins claps me on the shoulder and compliments me on my diplomatic skills after their father leaves, and to my credit I neither wince nor pull away.

I only see Arwen once more, when she comes to bid me farewell. There are other elves around and so I cannot thank her for what she has given me, but as she tucks a fallen leaf into the binding of my braid, I wonder if she knows anyway.

Lord Elrond sends me off with kind words of a safe trime, me, uneventful and without word of orcs. I nod and thank him cordially, running a hand over my ribs and bowing my head slightly. And as I ready to spur my horse out of the gates he smiles slightly and tells me he hopes I will come and visit again, since it appears his children have become quite fond of me.

To be Concluded...