Dark Journey

Title: Dark Journey - Part V

Author : Vaire@donnesys.comstyle='mso-bidi-font-size:13.5pt;font-weight:normal:p><:p>

Disclaimer, etc: See Part I

Warning: This is Legolas’ Dark
Journey. And this is probably the darkest part. Those of you who’ve read
Nightstar know that he does get what his heart desires and is extremely happy.
So, while this is very dark, there is light ahead – note where this ends and
place it in context with Nightstar. There. Does that soothe all those indignant
‘how could yous’ I’ve gotten?

Credit: As always, thanks to Lysan.
Hugs, m’dear.

Dark Journey - Part V

Third Age 2359

“What?” Oropher was incredulous. “After more than forty
coranar, you propose to release the whelp? Why not simply kill him and be done
with this farce?”

Thranduil rounded on his eldest son. “This is no farce, as
you would do well to learn. This is a game, a deadly game that I must play to
the end.”

“Then end it!” Oropher gestured angrily toward Legolas who
lay, as he often did, curled on the floor at the king’s feet. “Kill him and be
done with it! It defies sense. You have kept him all these coranar and used him
as a toy, but never have you bedded him or allowed another to do so. Neither
have you tortured him as is your pleasure. And now you release him? What was
the purpose—”

A sharp gesture from Thranduil cut Oropher off. “The
purpose is achieved. Obey my orders and prepare to depart just ere sunrise.”
Emerald eyes turned to Legolas and a hand moved to stroke his golden hair.
“There is a final story I must tell my little whore. He has paid a high price
for knowledge of it.”

#

“Where is that other knife?” Erestor muttered, pawing
through papers and books stacked precariously on the desk. “It was just— Ah!”
He slid the gleaming blade into its scabbard.

The door burst open and the twins catapulted into the
room. “Is it true?” Elladan demanded. “Has there been word—”

Erestor thrust a parchment toward them without looking and
continued placing items into a travel pack.

Seizing the proffered parchment, Elladan and Elrohir
scanned it together. Elrohir sharply sucked in his breath. Valar! Word of
Legolas after more than forty coranar of silence and wondering, but—

“This bears Thranduil’s seal. Can he be trusted?” Elladan
finished his brother’s thought.

“Absolutely not.”

Both twins eyed their father’s chief counselor warily.
“Then why are you packing?”

“Because I am going to Mirkwood. If there is even the
slightest chance that Legolas is alive, my oath to Amarie and my love of him
bind me to do all in my power to return him to safety.”

“But we still don’t know why he left!” Elladan protested.
“If he is there, what if it was his own idea to go to Mirkwood? You cannot risk
your safety in this manner. To go alone to Mirkwood is folly!”

Slinging his pack over one shoulder, Erestor calmly
addressed the two. “I am not traveling alone. Six guards from Glorfindel’s
finest scouting unit await me and, if you can ready yourselves, you also ride
with me. We leave in one hour.”

Grabbing Elladan’s tunic before he could ask any more
questions, Elrohir dragged him from the office and shoved him toward their
rooms. “Move! You can ask questions later. Erestor is right. I do not trust
Thranduil, but if there is any chance his missive is true, we must rescue our
brother.”

As the sound of Elrohir’s voice faded, Erestor reached out
a trembling hand and retrieved the parchment.

My Dear Elrond

I seem to have acquired something belonging to you for
which you have been searching quite assiduously. I refer, of course, to the
whelp Legolas. Several days after you receive this, I shall release him on the
western border of my realm. Finders, keepers. I have no further use for him,
but there are vile Atani, and orcs, and other dangers for a lone, unarmed elf.
I must congratulate you on raising such a sweet morsel. He has been most
accommodating.

The King of
Mirkwood’s personal seal was the only signature.

Was it truly from Thranduil? Was it anything more than a
lure to draw Erestor himself back within the vile creature’s reach? With Elrond
and Glorfindel away visiting Círdan, it would be well timed. Was Legolas truly
there? Was he still alive? What had happened to him in the forty-odd coranar
since his disappearance? All good questions, none of which would be answered
standing in his office. Shoving the parchment inside his tunic, he strode out
the door, heading for the stables.

#

Legolas watched the tall one leave—the one who came often.
He had a name, but it was too much trouble to remember it. Vaguely, Legolas
remembered he had a name also. Everything seemed a bit less hazy, gradually he
was remembering that there had been a before-time, something other than the
now-time he existed in, but what that time had been remained hidden behind the
curtains is mis mind.

“Come here, little whore.”

Dreamily, he looked at the king. The king he knew. He knew
his master. Willingly, he made his way to the bed and allowed Thranduil to
arrange him on the emerald cover. He lay on his back, his blonde hair spread
around him, his knees drawn up and spread, exposing him fully. The king’s eyes
raked over him. Hands adjusted his position so that it was more pleasing. Such
things no longer bothered Legolas. He existed to do as the king commanded. He
couldn’t remember why, but that no longer bothered him either. In fact, nothing
really bothered him any longer.

The king slicked his hand with oil and crawled onto the
bed to kneel between Legolas’ knees. Reaching to one side, he lifted a phallus
with a large flared head, carved from one huge emerald, and coated it with oil.
Legolas trembled. He knew that particular toy. It hurt. It was really too large
for his body to accept, but the king would force it into him. It would hurt,
but his release, if the king allowed him to come, would be sublime. He
squirmed, lifting his hips in mute supplication, anticipating the pain, eager
for it.

Thranduil chuckled. “A true whore.” He bent over Legolas
as if he would penetrate his own son, his weight holding Legolas’ thighs tight
against his chest. In one movement, he breached tnal nal ring and shoved the
emerald phallus deep into the willing body beneath him.

A keening sound tore from Legolas. He panted, struggling
to accept the pain. Not allowing time for adjustment, the king began to
withdraw the phallus and thrust it back in roughly. One after the other, the
king positioned Legolas’ hands behind his knees so that he would hold himself
exposed. Vaguely, Legolas knew his behavior was shameful, but humiliation and
pain were necessary components for him to achieve release. He craved them as
others craved love or wealth or glory. They formed the core of his being.
Writhing, crying aloud with pain and pleasure and need, he accepted everything
Thranduil did to him—and begged for more.

A curious expression on his face, the king watched until
Legolas begged to his satisfaction, then took him in hand and swiftly brought
his son to completion, smearing the sticky liquid across Legolas’ abdomen and
thighs. He continued to pound Legolas’ abused anal opening until streaks of
blood appeared. By that time, Legolas was crying and pleading for him to stop.

“Shhh. Be a good little whore and be quiet and I shall
tell you a tale.” Thranduil spoke soothingly and gathered Legolas in his arms,
leaving the emerald phallus embedded deep in the prince’s body. “You once asked
to hear this story.” Tenderly, he brushed sweat darkened locks back from
Legolas’ face. “It is a story you will remember all your life.”

Legolas gave a small contented sigh and wiggled—carefully,
to avoid further pain from the emerald still in his anus—into a more
comfortable position. He was relaxed in the aftermath of his orgasm, and the
times Thranduil held him with such care and concern were his favorite. He let
the clinging languor slide through his body, leaving him pliant and
half-dreaming as Thranduil began the story.

“As a young nér, I fell in love with a beautiful nís. I
adored her, and she returned my love. We were to bond when we were of an age
She was not a Wood-elf; her parents lived far away in Laurelindórenan, the Land
of the Valley of Singing Gold, and perforce returned there to dwell until some
time passed. I was loathe to let her go, but her mother, a meddlesome
sorceress, decreed it. Alas, I could not accompany her either, for duty bound
me to assist my sire in governing this realm.”

The king’s voice grew sad. “What cursed luck spawned that
separation! I had a younger brother—much loved, but headstrong. He desired to
see the world, or so he said, and our sire permitted it. Would that I had slain
him with my own hands rather than let him leave that day.” Thranduil’s voice
hardened. “Being always curious, my brother had studied under the tutelage of a
mysterious wizard for years. Unbeknownst to any, his stated desire to see more
of Middle-Earth was a ruse. He conceived a dark desire for my intended and did
seek her out in her home, where her mother, for unknown reason, welcomed him.
Between them, my brother and her mother attempted to sway my beautiful Aytalie
from me, but she managed to send word. I traveled in haste to my beloved’s side,
but brother and mother had twisted her love for me into loathing. I begged her.
I pleaded. I offered to swear any vow, do any deed, if she would but change her
heart, but she laughed in my face, and denied med cud cursed me. Cruel are the
Valar to hold such perfection out to me, then snatch it away in such a vicious
manner. My heart broke that day as I watched her go willing into my brother’s
arms. Love died and hatred replaced it—hatred for my brother, my beloved, and
her mother. I left the Golden Wood that day and have never returned. Nor have
any from that land—save one—set foot in my kingdom, for I do not allow it.”

Thranduil leaned to one side and picked up a goblet from a
small table. The movement caused the phallus to shift and Legolas whimpered,
raising hopeful eyes to the king. Due to its shape, it hurt when extracted, but
Legolas hoped it would be removed and he would he through with it for that
time.

“Not yet. “ Thranduil kissed Legolas’ forehead. “Drink
this.”

Metal pressed against his lips and Legolas saw that it was
his goblet, the special one that only he was allowed to drink from. Willingly,
he parted his lips and swallowed the contents. It wasn’t the drink the king
usually gave him. The viscous fluid left a sweet aftertaste and he liked his lips,
trying to get more of it.

Thranduil chuckled. “So eager. That is all you need,
little whore. Come, squirm for me. Show me you wish to hear the end of the
story.”

Though he knew it would cause him pain, Legolas squirmed
on the king’s lap. Thranduil ran his hands gently over his son’s torso, paying
particular attention to his nipples, which hardened with little effort. Small
cries of discomfort fell from Legolas’ lips as the phallus scraped inside him.
His head dropped back and he panted shallowly, his eyes half-closed.

“Enough.” Thranduil lifted Legolas’ head so that it rested
against his chest. Half-aroused, Legolas made a small sound of protest. “No.
The story must be told. You did request it.”

Settling back, Thranduil resumed the story. “Many coranar
passed with much bitterness between my brother and myself. Our sire disowned
him and he fled, leading a group of elves he managed to sway to his dark ways.
My former beloved accompanied him. In his madness, he assailed this realm and
was slain. Aytalie, she that I once loved, fled, but my scouts tracked her.
They brought her to me and forced her to kneel at my feet. The moment was
sweet, little whore. Very sweet. And I relished it.

“She begged for mercy and her freedom, but I granted
neither for my brother’s madness infected her. I could not allow her to go, for
she did not truly desire such. Her fëa longed for me still, as it ever had.
Once free of the sorcerous influenc Tyn Tynion, her mind would clear and she
would proclaim her devotion to me, but I had no intention of accepting her
back—another elf’s leavings. Surpassing deep had been my pain and grief, and I
vowed she should taste of the same bitter draught.”

Thranduil grew silent for a minute. A drowsy Legolas
looked up questioningly. “Yes, I will tell you the end, for it is that which
you asked for. As she dwelt in the dungeons beneath us, Aytalie grew large with
child—my brother’s spawn—and she bore a son. I ensured that none helped her;
she birthed it alone, in the darkness. For long hours, I stood outside the
cell, listening to her screams of agony and pleas for help. And they were music
to my ears. It was her just reward fofusifusing me and taking my brother to her
bed. My child would have been born in the royal chamber, attended by the best
healers.

“I took the child from her and gave it to a servant to
suckle and raise until it should be old enough for my purposes. I returned to
the dungeon and made sure Aytalie knew of my plans for the whelp. Oh, she
begged me for mercy then, as I explained how I would use him. She said he was a
fëa-healer, a gift to the Firstborn, that she knew this from a dream sent by
the Valar.” Thranduil snorted. “A gift. I gave her a gift. I mounted her then
and there, seeking to fill her womb with my own seed, and I continued to mount
her, as I felt the urge, until she died there in the cell’s darkness. Every cry
of pain and protest was sweet to me; I drank them like the finest wine.

“And the whelp. He grew to be fair nd cnd compare and
serviced me for more than four centuries. Physical touch caused him pain, and I
saw that many touched him. My cock touched him, as it has not you.” Thranduil
bent his head so that his lips rushed Legolas’ ear as he spoke. “I fucked him
until he bled, until his voice was gone from screaming, leaving him nothing
with which to ber mer mercy. I had my cock in his mouth, and in his ass, and
against every inch of his body. I put a leash on him and paraded him naked
through the Halls, and sat him at my feet when I held court. I kept him at my
feet under the dinner table so that he could suck my cock whenever I desired.
Often, I would pull him from under the table, bend him over it, and fuck him
whilst everyone watched. There is no way in which I did not have him. In every
scream, every pain wracked cry, each whimper or moan, I heard his mother’s
voice, and it was sweet. You came here to discover the truth of Syshae and so
you have. My sex slave. That is what your beloved Syshae was here. A whore. A
toy for my amusement.” He lifted his head.

Legolas looked back at him with confused, sleepy eyes.

“Sleep now, iôn nin. It will all make sense.”

#

What would they find on the borders of Mirkwood? The
question played ceaselessly in Erestor’s mind, as it had since their departure
from Imladris. Would Legolas be there? Was he still alive in Middle-Earth?
Where had he been for the past forty coranar? Surely not in Mirkwood. Valar!
not that.

“You are troubled.”

Erestor answered without bothering to look at Elladan. “As
are you.”

“Do you truly believe there is a chance? We never found a
trace of Legolas.”

“There is always a chance—until the hröa is broken or the
fëa flees. Even then there is hope, the possibility of a miracle.” Erestor
sighed. “But I do not trust Thranduil. That elf will do nothing unless he gains
from it. Kindness and honor are not in him. If Legolas is indeed there, I fear
what we might find.”

Elladan’s roan snorted as a deer bolted across the track
and the prince laid calming hand on the muscular neck. “What might we find that
you fear?”

“I know not, but still I fear. I have dealt with Thranduil
and the memory is not pleasant.” Erestor raised a hand to forestall further
questions. “Nay, I will not speak of iuffiuffice to say that I shall never be
free of the horror, but the price was well paid for what it bought.” Privately,
Erestor prayed to the Valar that he would not be forced to buy Legolas’ freedom
with his body again, knowing that if it were the only way he would submit to
Thranduil again.

#

Dropping gracefully into a chair, Oropher gauged his father’s
mood. The king appeared relaxed, one green clad leg thrown over the chair arm,
right hand holding a goblet loosely, crown tossed carelessly aside. Good. Sober
and relaxed. Maybe he could pry some answers from his normally close-mouthed
father. Thranduil was used to giving orders, not explaining them.

The king stirred, straightening up and turning the full
weight of his emerald gaze on Oropher. A shiver lanced through the prince. His
father exuded a sensual, mesmeric effect that Oropher was no more immune to
than others. Of course, he was also intimately familiar with the darker side of
that magnetism.

“All is done?”

“Yes, my king. The whelp is at the western edge of the
wood.”

“Tied?”

“As you ordered, my king. He is within sight of the eave
of the wood. I left him lembas and a skin of water. You are…”

A golden eyebrow arched. “I am what?”

“Forgive me, my king—”

Thranduil waved negligently. “Let us dispense with the ‘my
king.’ I tire of groveling courtiers and would have my own blood speak freely.”

“As you command.” Oropher inclined his head slightly,
knowing better than to take the king at his word. He chose his words carefully.
What he wanted to ask was if Thranduil had lost his mind completely, but
instead he prudently settled for more temperate words. “Are you certain of this
plan involving the whelp? Your treatment of him seems uncharacteristically…
mild.”

Thranduil threw his head back and laughed. “Mild? What I
did to him was perhaps the most vicious thing I have ever done to an elf.”

“Forgive me, but I do not understand. You did not torture
him—” A raised hand stayed further words.

“No, I did not. He will do that himself, and thus it will
be infinitely more effective.” Thranduil paused and ordered his thoughts.
“Physical pain ceases, wounds heal, even scars are often the teachers of
wisdom. There is dignity in resisting, a warrior’s pride. You may violate
another’s body, but not their fëa. That, they may lock away from you and you
will never touch it. Hröa break, but still you fail.”

Puzzling over the words, Oropher decided he still didn’t
have enough information to understand. “But what you did to the whelp didn’t
involve that. And you seem well pleased, as if you have won a victory.”

“For good reason. I have won a major victory. Legolas
surrendered his fëa to me willingly. There is no drug, no drink, no deed that
will erase that shame. When the sleeping draught I gave him wears off and he
wakes, he will be lucid. It is one of the best things about the drug I kept pli plied with—it wears off nearly immediately once it is no longer ingested. He
will remember everything—each perverse act, every humiliation, every
degradation. Our little prince will remember how he begged, how he eagerly
complied with every command, how he enjoyed it all. Theill ill be no escape
from his own memories and condemnation. Most of all, he knows of his lover’s
history, how the elf he gave his heart to is no more than a common whore, well
used and discarded. There will be no self-esteem left, no respect, no pride.
There will be only a shell of tortured emotions. And thus Legolas will be
rendered neuter, more than broken, and safely removed from interfering in
future events. So may prophecy and foresight be changed.”

#

Warmth on his skin. The smell of soil. Shifting light
against his eyelids. Where was he? Legolas forced his eyes open. He lay on his
side on the ground in the woods. What woods? Where? How had he gotten there?
His memory was foggy and he desperately sought answers. What did he remember?
He rolled onto his back. Pain radiated through his buttocks, bringing answers
with it.

Thranduil. His feeble attempt to play spy. Being
discovered. The myriad humiliations heaped on him. His own willing
participation in degrading scenes. Bile rose in his throat. He managed to roll
onto his hands and knees before his stomach emptied itself. Agonizing pain shot
through his buttocks. He knew what it was—Thranduil’s favorite emerald phallus.
For some reason, the king had him taken out into the wood—at least he assumed
he was still in Mirkwood—but had left him naked with that unspeakable thing
inside him. And Legolas would have to take it out himself.

He trembled with anger and disgust. It was the lowest
moment of his life. He was naked, smeared with dirt and body fluids, kneeling
at an unknown location on the forest floor, with an oversized phallus crammed
up his ass, and… He felt his throat. And yes, wearing a collar tied to a tree
in the manner of the Atani and their tame dogs.

Shame flooded him. Thranduil was right. He was a whore.
No, he wasn’t that good. Whores usually got paid for their services. He was a
slut who had willingly let himself be used in any number of degrading ways. How
long had it been? He had no idea, but he remembered many acts of depravity. He
caught himself reviewing them in his mind and turned off the mental images.

Sitting back on his heels brought a fresh wave of pain
from his buttocks. He gasped and gritted his teeth. It would get worse.
Humiliated, Legolas reached between his legs, carefully avoiding his flaccid,
sticky cock, and inserted his fingers into his asshole, searching for the base
of the phallus. He found it easily enough and started to draw the tormenting
object out. With no reason to keep quiet, cries of pain fell unheeded as, bit
by bit, he pulled it from his body until only the head remained inside. He
paused, knowing the agony that would ensue from the tight ring of his asshole
stretching enough to accommodate its girth. Taking several quick breaths, he
tried to force his body to relax, and jerked sharply. A scream tore from his
throat and tears sprang into his eyes as it slipped free.

Pain still radiated from his buttocks, but the source of
it was gone. Legolas looked down at the disgusting object. He wanted to throw
it deep into the woods, but he lacked the energy or commitment. Breathing took
all his concentration. Opening his hand, he let it drop to the dirt. He managed
to raise a trembling hand and unfasten the collar from around his neck. That,
too, he let fall. Too tired and weary, in both hröa and fëa, to care, Legolas
crawled a few feet away and curled up under a tree with low-hanging limbs.

#

“The western
border of Mirkwood—and no sign of Legolas.” Elrohir stated the obvious.

Erestor narrowed his eyes. True, there was no Legolas, but
neither was there any other elf. Not even the border guards appeared to
challenge them. What was Thranduil up to? “Split up. Don’t enter too deeply
into the wood, but let’s make certain whether this is a ruse. Use caution. I do
not trust this silence, nor do I trust the king.”

Within moments, the elves had dismounted and disappeared
into the shadows beneath the great trees. Elladan tossed Erestor a jaunty
salute and grinned before he and Elrohir started south. Erestor shook his head,
despairing of Elladan ever being serious. He himself headed north along the
eave of the wood. Within an hour, he found a small clearing that showed signs
of occupation. A leather strap tied around the bole of an elm caught his eye
first. Following its length, he squatted and lifted an attached leather collar.
A knot formed in his stomach. It was the same collar he had worn at Thranduil’s
command on that long ago night.

Any doubt vanished. Legolas was, or at least had been,
there. What had he endured at his father’s hands? What had it done to him?
Erestor searched the remainder of the clearing. When he found the emerald
phallus, streaked with dried blood, his gorge rose. Hiding the distasteful item
in the pouch slung over one shoulder, he walked a circle, looking for signs of
passage. On the north side, he found the track. It was faint, no more than a
few broken twigs and a scuffmark in the soil, but enough. Legolas was in
trouble; no elf would leave that much of a trail otherwise. Much as he wanted
to pursue the trail immediately, Erestor turned back to where they left the
horses. The others would return. Then they would go after the elf he felt sure
was Legolas.

Two days later, the guard riding point returned. His
features were tight, tension in every line of his body. Erestor tensed in response.
The guard gestured for them to dismount then led them to the top of a bank. A
stream ran along the bottom and crouched in the chill water was an elf—a naked,
skinny elf, scrubbing at his body frantically with sand from the streambed.

Legolas.

Gesturing for the others to remain still, Erestor stepped
forward. “Legolas.”

The scrubbing motion ceased.

“Legolas, ‘tis Erestor.”

Legolas sat in the water, drawing his knees up anrapprapping his arms around them. His head dropped forward, hair forming a curtain
around him. He drew in upon himself.

Wincing at the chill, Erestor stepped into the stream.
“Come. You are safe now. We will return to Imladris.” He drew Legolas up and
hugged him, cringing at the thinness of the young elf. He saw a water skin and
a second pouch that hopefully contained lembas lying on the bank. Thranduil’s
generosity. “Legolas, come, you are safe. I will keep you safe.” Over and over
he repeated reassurances as he guided the bedraggled elf toward the others—and
refuge in Imladris from his sire’s abuse once again.

#

“What were you thinking?” Elrond demanded.

Legolas shut his eyes tightly, swallowed hard, and wished
the elf lord would leave.

“Open your eyes. You will not hide from me.”

No reprieve. Legolas sighed and complied. Elrond’s tone of
voice was one he hadn’t heard in years—not since he was an elfling in trouble.
There was no arguing with that tone, and no excuses, and no evasions. Saes, he
prayed, make him leave. I cannot speak
of this to him. It is too humiliating.

“Legolas, iôn nin, speak to me.”

The sound of the endearment Thranduil used so recently
caused Legolas to flinch, almost as if Elrond had struck him.

“What is this?” Elrond seated himself on the edge of the
bed and stroked Legolas’ cheek. “You are my son and my patient. Accept my love
and help. Speak to me. You must lance this festering inside you and drain the
poison from your fëa lest it curdle your life.”

Pleading sapphire eyes looked at Elrond.

“I love you and would do much for you, but I will not
allow this to go unaddressed. I doubt not it will be unpleasant—both the
telling and the hearing—but it must be done.”

The door of the healing chamber opened and Erestor stepped
inside. He had bathed and changed after their journey. Legolas turned his
pleading gaze on his second father.

Erestor steeled his resolve. He remembered his own
experience at Thranduil’s hands. Had he spoken of it eer, yearyears of pain,
for both himself and Lindir, could have been avoided. As much as he understood
Legolas’ feelings and wanted to protect him, the young elf needed to root out
the memories. Talking was a good first step. “I am sorry, dear one, but you
must speak of what happened. You have not uttered a sound since we found you
and I have not insisted. Now we are back in Imladris and it is time. Tell us.
Why did you leave and how did you come to be in Mirkwood?”

Shame flooded Legolas. Elrond. Erestor. His fathers in all
but blood. He wanted their approval and admiration. What would they think of
him when they discovered the things he had done and those he allowed Thranduil
to do to him? He couldn’t bear to see disappointment and revulsion, or worse
yet pity, in their eyes, so he closed his own. He was loathsome, a despicable
excuse for an elf. No other would have allowed Thranduil’s abuse, no other
would have participated willingly. Images of some of the things he’d done
surfaced. And he had to confess all to the two who had raised him to be brave and
honorable.

“Orophin’s words haunted me.” His voice was hoarse with
disuse and he cleared his throat. A cup pressed to his lips and he drank. “He
told me to seek…to seek my answers of my…father. When I left…when I was no
longer…when Syshae ran…”

“”Tis alright. We remember.” Elrond reassured him.

“That night…the feast…everyone celebrating…happy…and I
desired to be happy again. I knew the only way to reclaim my loves was
to…discover the root of their rejection of me, so I resolved to go to Mirkwood
to learn the truth of my…sire.”

Why did you not come to me? Erestor wondered silently. We
would have discovered a way to obtain this knowledge. You need never have gone
to that vile place! Sitting down on the opposite side of the bed from Elrond,
he took Legolas’ other hand. Legolas knew those supportive, loving grips would
fade as he continued, but at that moment he needed them as surely as he needed
air.

“I posed as a minstrel. For two weeks all was well, but I
discovenothnothing. Then, a young nís professed to know of an old tale
involving the king and an exotic, dark-haired nér. It was foolish, but I wanted
that knowledge so badly. I had to have it. I could return to Lorien, to…Syshae,
to Haldir.” The sound of his beloveds’ names nearly undid him. No matter how repulsed
and disgusted Elrond and Erestor were, his lovers’ reaction would be worse.
After the degrading things he had allowed, truly they would never take him
back. And what had beone one to Syshae, what he must have thought on learning
Legolas’ true identity…He stifled a sob. He could not dwell on that now. That
was his most private agony, not to be shared. “I went to an old room, long
unused, and there my…the king revealed himself. He claimed to have been aware
of my identity since I passed beneath the eave of Mirkwood.”

“’Tis possible. There are many enchantments woven in that
wood—not all woven by the elves,” Erestor said.

Eyes still tightly closed, Legolas felt himself blush
again. The bad part was coming. Haring off on his own to Mirkwood was folly and
would surely draw punishment, but what followed… “He seemed…normal. Not evil at
all.”

Erestor’s breath hissed in sharply. He was familiar with
how deceptively charming Thranduil could be.

“I went to his chambers. He claimed to know what I was
after and promised to tell me, but said it was a source of great pain for him
and that he must know more of my reasons for asking. It sounded reasonable…he
was charming…it…”

A handokedoked Legolas’ hair. Elrond. “The king can be
believable and persuasive. There is no blame to you.”

Legolas shook his head. No! He was to blame! He had
allowed… Oh Valar! the things he had allowed. “We began to speak. He seemed
interested in me, asking many questions. Though I ate and drank nothing,
gradually a strange feeling overcame me: lethargic, disoriented, aroused,
erotic. I knew it was not real, but I cared not. I do not know how it was
done—”

“Did you touch anything?”

Legolas shook his head. “Only the chair.” He nearly
retched, remembering the obscene things he had done in that chair.

“Were the arms wood or metal?”

“Aye, wood.”

“Dagnir fëa. Soul bane. A derivative of nightshade and a
powerful sexual stimulant,” Elrond stated. “It takes away one’s will and
creates an irresistible hunger for sexual release. It can be adsorbed through
the skin. In this case, most likely the chair arms were painted with it.
Whenever you sat in the chair, you took in more of it.”

Remembering how Thranduil had insisted on his sitting in
that chair every morning and evening to eat, Legolas shuddered. How could he
have been so foolish?

“’Tis not your fault, Legolas.” Erestor attempted to
reassure him. “The king—”

“Nay! I did…I allowed…enjoyed…I begged for him to…”
Haltingly, the story of Legolas’ behavior spilled out: the public shows, the
degrading acts, the humiliation of begging for more. Once the story started,
there seemed no way to turn it off. Words flowed as Legolas admitted how he had
hungered and done anything for more sexual gratification.

When Legolas wound down, he tried to draw away. Elrond and
Erestor refused to allow it.

“Nay, ‘tis not your fault. The guilt lies with the one who
drugged you and used you. It matters not how many coranar—”

Fear lanced through Legolas. Years? Valar! how long had
his vileness lasted? He himself had no idea. Time was not a concept that the
drug allowed. “How many?”

Elrond and Erestor looked at each other. Elrond nodded.

“Forty-two,” Erestor replied.

Legolas’ head snapped up and his eyes widened in
disbelief. Forty-two? He had been his sire’s willing plaything for forty-two
coranar? He had lost forty-two coranar of his life in a haze of degrading sex?
No! A high keening sound filled the room and tears spilled down Legolas’
cheeks. Forty-two. No. Saes, no. His body was numb. His thoughts whirled with
scenes of his reunion with Haldir and Syshae—and their absolute rejection of
him because of his vile acts. The tears flowed faster. Strong arms pulled him
forward and wrapped him in an embrace. Another warm body molded to his back and
hugged him.

Erestor and Elrond sat patiently, holding the elf they
loved as a son as the storm of his grief flooded out. Long after Anor slipped
from the sky, an exhausted Legolas slipped into dreams. Elrond opened the door
and beckoned the waiting elves. Elladan and Elrohir entered the room, expressions
concerned.

“He dreams. The telling was brutal for him. Stay close to
him. Hold hands. Reassuring physical contact and comfort will help. He is very
fragile mentally and emotionally. If he wakes, say nothing to distrhim.him.
Most especially avoid all mention of relationships, lovers, or sex.”

Elrond’s last instruction raised eyebrows, but both twins
nodded. Their father would share if and when he deemed it appropriate.

“Come, Erestor. We have done all we can for now. He needs
rest and we need miruvor.”

#

Third Age 2359 – 9 months after Legolas’ return to
Imladris

When Legolas woke, shadows still lay heavy beneath the
trees as Anor began its journey into the sky. His belly growled, reminding him
of the need for food. Briefly, he considered giving up and letting his fëa pass
to the Halls of Mandos. What point was there in remaining? He was nothing. Less
than nothing, as the marks on his body proved. Tentatively, he tried to move
and managed only a groan. Misery—physical and mental. He shivered, wondering if
he could manage to crawl far enough to reach the Bruinen and end his life in
its falls. A shadow fell over him.

“You are late for practice—again.”

Glorfindel. And he didn’t sound amused. Could things get
any worse? Legolas tried again to move. That time he made it to his hands and
knees, albeit with severaifleifled screams.

Hands reached down and lifted Legolas to his feet. He
wobbled and would have fallen without Glorfindel’s support. Evidently, things
could get worse.

“I have spoken to Madhren.”

Much worse.

“There will be no more sessions, no more whips or floggers
or collars,” Glorfindel unfastened the collar from Legolas’ neck and flung it
to one side. “No more clamps or bondage or cock restraints or canes. ‘Tis time
to quit wallowing in self-pity.”

Much, much worse.

Anger flared in Legolas. Who was Glorfindel to tell him
what to do? Who was he to judge Legolas’ sexual preferences and presume to
order the cessation of them?

“One who remembers your expressive features from your
virgin night. One who shall see your eyes sparkle with hope and anticipation
and excitement as they did then.”

The anger died; ineffable sadness replaced it. The elf of
whom Glorfindel spoke no longer existed and the elf that did exist in that same
body was…loathsome. Legolas swayed and Glorfindel caught him. Gently, the Elda
turned him and guided him away from the clearing in the forest.

“Come, lirimaer, you need a healer. Madhren was too
exuberant last night.”

Legolas flinched, embarrassed that Glorfindel obviously
knew about what he did with Madhren, or rather what he allowed Madhren to do to
him.

“Elrohir is waiting for you in the Healing House,”
Glorfindel continued without hesitation. “He will see to your injuries. I will
excuse you from practice today, but tomorrow you will be on time. You can
expect no further tolerances or special treatment.”

They had reached the entrance to the House and suddenly
Legolas realized he was naked. His cheeks heated with embarrassment had had
walked halfway across the valley, listening to Glorfindel, and not noticed.
Everyone could see the marks on his body and know what he had allowed the night
before.

Glorfindel noted the blush with relief. Good. If Legolas
was embarrassed at having his old tutor find him in such a condition and at the
thought of other elves seeing him, he was not too far gone. There was still the
core of the elf he once was to build on. “We will speak further this night.”
With a nod, Glorfindel walked away.

For a moment, Legolas toyed with the idea of fleeing but
he knew it would be a futile effort. Glorfindel was undoubtedly waiting, just
out of sight, to insure he followed instructions. Or Elrohir lurked just inside
the door. With a sigh, he pushed open the door, steeling himself for the
revulsion that Elrohir would undoubtedly display.

Two hours later, his wounds tended and clad in a loose
robe, Legolas stood in the middle of his room, staring dumbfounded at the young
nís who cleaned that wing of the House. “He did what?” He’d already asked the
question—and received an answer—but in lieu of inspiration, repetition seemed a
good idea.

Swallowing hard, she looked ready to flee. “He said
to…that all your things…that they…his quarters, my lord.”

“Lord Glorfindel?”

She nodded.

“Lord Glorfindel ordered my things moved to his qurs?”rs?”

Another nod. “He left…that, my lord” she offered, pointing
toward a parchment folded and propped on the mantel. Legolas looked in the
indicated direction. The nís fled. Three angry strides carried Legolas to the
fireplace.

As you have proven incapable of looking after yourself, I
have appointed myself your keeper. There is no appeal to this decision. You
will be in my quarters when I arrive there after practice.

G

Rather than stoking his anger, the note calmed Legolas.
Commands, he understood. He craved someone defining his life, taking away the
need to make choices. Someone to dominate him. Without that, he felt lost and
afraid. But Glorfindel… Glorfindel did not play t gam games. The times he
bedded Legolas, he had been passionate, aye, but tender and loving. There had
been no rough play, no pain. Words came back to him, Glorfindel’s words of
greeting on his virgin night. ‘Tonight I am not a warrior set on mastering
or dominating you. Although you may learn to enjoy that later’ Could the
blonde enjoy being sexually dominant? Did he enjoy submission? Is that what he
wanted from Legolas? Had he broken the relationship with Madhren to have
Legolas to himself? The prince shivered with delight. To belong to Glorfindel…
As quickly as his bruised body allowed, he headed for his new quarters.

Night fell before Legolas heard Glorfindel approach.
Quickly, he stripped off the robe he had been given in the Healing House,
walked halfway to the door, knelt, and bowed his head. The door opened and
Glorfindel entered.

“Nay, lirimaer. This is not why I have brought you here.”
Gently, Glorfindel raised Legolas from his kneeling position and lifted his
chin, forcing the prince to meet his eyes. “You are here to heal, to regain
your independence.”

Confused. Legolas stared at his old tutor. What was
Glorfindel saying? That he didn’t want Legolas? Despair rose, threatening to
drown him. His body shivered and drooped, held upright only by Glorfindel’s
strength.

#

“Tis done! ‘Tis
done! The cries rang in Thranduil’s semi-conscious awareness. I swear
‘tis done!

A dark, irresistible presence brushed against his mind and
he cried aloud in fear, thrashing on the great, royal bed. Laughter, filled
with dark promises, poured over him.

“He is truly broken? Another thinks not—that you were too
lenient to finish the work.”

Something like a sleek furred cats paw stroked the length
of his body. Remembering the agony that silken soft limb could cause, Thranduil
strove desperately to rise from the half-sleep of dreams. The paw continued to
caress him, until suddenly wickedly sharp claws unsheathed and cupped his
scrotum. The feared King of Mirkwood froze. The tiny part of him that was aware
registered tears sliding down his cheeks, the trembling of his body, the stink
of fear that rolled off him. Ages old instinct to pray to the Valar rose in
him, but he crushed it. Should he dare to speak their names, their retribution
would be far worse. Too late. Too late. It was all too late. It—

The claws closed just enough to put pressure on him. Another
velvet furred paw landed beside his hip.

No. No. No. He chanted against what would come next.

Hot breath on his groin. The rasp of a wet tongue scouring
his flesh.

His tears increased, trailing downward in a steady stream.

cat’s mouth closed over hi cock.

Unable to stop his reaction, his hips jerked back, trying
to get away. He felt the warm trickle of blood from his cock where the great
teeth grazed it.

The same dark laughter filled his ears. ”You know what she
wants, my toy. Blood and seed. Give them to her. Fuck that wonderful, hot
mouth. Fuck it until you find pleasure in your subjugation, in being used. Show
me the truth of your words.”

The great cat’s tongue swirled around his flaccid cock. A low
growl of displeasure rumbled through her throat.

“Come, my toy. She grows impatient. Soon she will take
what she desires.”

Desperately, Thranduil forced his body to respond. As his
cock grew and hardened, the cat’s growl changed to a happy rumble. Her rough
tongue scraped skin raw and her teeth sliced cuts, both of which bled, but
still he thrust. And thrust. And thrust. Until, with a keening cry, his seed
burst forth and the cat lapped it up. As the trembling in his body eased,
Thranduil managed to gasp a few words. “Done…my master. Done. My…youngest
son…is broken.”

“Well done, my pet,” Sauron’s shadow presence purred. “And
you shall have your reward—your favorite dream.”

Thranduil wanted to scream denial, but he was already
falling deeper into the dream state thanks to Sauron’s command.

Thranduil stepped into a wondrous glade filled with the
scent of niphredil, carpeted by lush grass, and surrounded by young mallorn
tr the 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…

#

“Come.” Glorfindel guided him to a sofa and helped him
into his discarded robe. “I would enjoy you greeting me, but not on your knees.
We are equals, warriors, and as such we will proceed.”

“But, I thought…” Legolas dropped his eyes to the floor,
too embarrassed to admit he wanted Glorfindel to take ownership of him and
supply those things that satisfied his darkest needs.

“You thought what?” Glorfindel forced his chin up,
ensuring their eyes met.

“That…that…” Blood rushed into Legolas’ cs.

Glorfindel tilted his head to one side. “You thought I
intended to continue as Madhren did with you—or did you hope?”

Aiya! Warg farts and orc feces this was embarrassing! And
there was no escaping Glorfindel’s questions. Legolas knew that all too well
from growing up partially under the Elda’s supervision. He took a deep breath.
“I want…wanted…you to…master me. There! It was done! Now Glorfindouldould
reject him and he could leave and find somewhere…

“Nay.” Glorfindel shook his chin for emphasis. “You are
not leaving,” he continued as if reading Legolas’ mind. “I do not reject you
and I desire you in many ways. Let us begin with friendship, for friends care
for and protect one another, they push one another, and they speak the
truth—even when it is not pleasant. Friends lean on each other and trust and do
not judge. They are brothers of the fëa.”

Tears stung Legolas’ eyes. Friends. How wonderful it
sounded. But the things he had willingly done…all the humiliating, degrading
acts… He was no longer worthy of friendship, especially from an elf such as
Glorfindel. “I would much like that, but it cannot be. What I have done is
unforgivable.”

“You seem much caught up in not forgiving yourself,
pen-neth. You have wronged none other and so owe no other and so must expect no
forgiveness from another. You are a worthy elf, whom I have seen grow from an
elfling. Ai, you acted foolishly at times.” Glorfindel smiled impishly, “Mayhap
sometime I shall tell you tales of some of Elrond’s past indiscretions, or
Erestor’s, or others’.”

A tiny bud of hope began to unfurl in Legolas’ chest. “Or
yours?”

Glorfindel sighed exaggeratedly. “Or mine—but those will
be dear bought.” He opened his arms.me, me, pen-neth.”

Still hesitant, Legolas stepped closer. Glorfindel’s arms
wrapped around him and he breathed deeply, inhaling the remembered scent of the
outdoors underlaid with the after-practice scent of arms and sweat. “You even
smell good when you sweat.”

That earned him a chuckle from the Elda. “Very nice, but
it will get you out of nothing. I am going to bathe. I see you have not touched
the cold dinner I ordered. Eat and then I will join you in bed.”

Hesitant sapphire eyes surveyed to large bed. A brief
memory of hesitancy on his virgin night flashed through Legolas’ mind. “The
same bed but no sex?”

“Yes. You are going to learn there is much more to
share—caring, comfort, companionship.”

But not sex, Legolas thought bleakly. No whips or ties.
None of the delicious pain he craved. He glanced quickly at the door.

“Go ahead, pen-neth. I suppose we must have the inevitable
attempt to escape me before you realize the futility. We might as well get it
over with.”

Escape Glorfindel. Legolas didn’t kid himself. That would
last exactly as long as Glorfindel allowed it to. But he would, one day. He
didn’t want to be in the Elda’s control, especially after that high-handed
note. He looked back to Glorfindel who stood, nude, arms crossed, relaxed,
waiting for Legolas to make a decision. Or did he?

#

Third Age 3019

“Travel well, iôn nin.” Elrond unashamedly pulled Legolas
forward and hugged him.

“I will ada-Elrond.” Legolas returned the hug then turned
to embrace. “Ada-Erestor, I will make you proud.”

“You always haven non non. Amarie would also be proud.
Valar protect you.”

Erestor’s words made him blush. as uas unusual to see the
normally reserved elf so open in his praise. Legolas turned to Glorfindel. He
went to clasp forearms in the way of warriors, but Glorfindel wrapped him up in
a hug.

“Well, pen-neth, the time has arrived for your great
test.” Legolas scowled at the ‘pen-neth’, but Glorfindel acted like he hadn’t
seen it. The Elda lowered his voice. “You are ready, lover. Fear not to dare—or
to dream.”

Puzzled by the last words, Legolas stepped back. The
others waited in the courtyard. It was indeed time.

Unable to look back, Legolas donned to calm, guarded
expression that other races found cold, and stepped outside. He quickly turned
for the gate. The others fell in around him: two men, a dwarf, four hobbits,
one wizard.

“What in the name of the Valar have we done?”

“Given Middle-Earth a chance, Erestor.” Elrond clasped his
advisor’s shoulder. “Given us all a chance.”

Glorfindel stood silent, less concerned about the
Ringbearer’s Quest than about Legolas. Remain safe, my companion, that you
find those your dreams seek.

pen-enth – young one

coranar - ‘sun round’, year

iôn nin – my son