Greenleaf

Author's Notes: *sighs* And so it comes to an end. Sorry it took me so long to upload this, aff.net seemed to be down whenever I had time to do it before. Anyway, this is the last chapter of this particular story -- in which Thranduil gets to show exactly how much of a sick fuck he is. I am concidering a sequel to explain the reprecussions of certain actions, but I'm not sure yet. *grins* Though I've been talked into writing a short prequel to explain what's wrong with Thranduil, which will be called 'Under the Beech Tree'.

Thanks to everyone that stuck with this story, and I hope you enjoy. :)

Pairings: Thranduil/Legolas, Celeborn/Legolas, Haldir/Legolas, Galdor/Legolas, Elladan/Elrohir, Legolas/Arwen, and, of course, a little Legolas/Thranduil.
Warnings: A whole lot of fucking in. No. Non-con. Incest. Rape. Incest. Slash. Incest. Het. Did I mention the incest?
Website: http://www.sexystickman.com/ren/
Molly's Fanart for the story: http://www.sexystickman.com/ren/greenleafart.htm
Disclaimer: Own nothing, but this string.
Beta: Nethene


-Chapter V: Mirkwood-

As I kneel before the throne and tell my father of my success, that I have secured promises of aid from the three strongest elven realms, I can see the delight spark in his eyes. He is immensely pleased with me and wishes to show me his delight, later, when we can be alone. I feel a shiver run down my spine at the very thought. But for now he simply announces there will be a celebration held in my honor this evening and dismisses me to confer with his councilors.

I bow and extract myself from the throne room quickly to go in search of my siblings. There is little I have missed about this kingdom. I certainly did not miss our halls. I feel claustrophobic within their dark depths and hasten my steps upward toward the few gardens we keep protected by our magic.

Once this vast forest kingdom was called Greenwood the Great. Many of my father’s people still call it such, but most call it by another name. Mirkwood. A realm tainted by the darkness of the Enemy, where the elves have fled to underground tunnels, like the dwarves we so scorn. I find the name apt, though I would never tell my father so.

Reaching the surface I breathe easier and stretch my legs as I wander the garden paths under the natural light that filters through the leafy canopy above. Despite the horror that plagues my memory, I cannot help but love the gardens of my home. My hand tightens on my bow and I readjust the quiver on my back at the thought. The twin knives are hidden under my mantle, easily accessible. Though I love these paths I shall never again walk them unarmed.

There is a waterfall at the farthest southern reaches of this particular garden and I hasten there, nodding politely to those that greet me as I go. Nameless, faceless elves that have never aided me in the seemingly endless years of my plight and have earned no love from my broken heart. Strange that a Prince should feel such coldness for his own people.

My heart lifts a bit as I find the waterfall. The sound of the water soothes me as I remember long ago when my mother would gather my siblings and I here to teach us songs and histories. I almost smile as my keen eyes spot my siblings sitting on the rounded rocks beside the falls. My sister reading peacefully as my brother recites poetry in a loud voice, as if daring the spiders and dark creatures to come and silence him. I take time to burn this sight, this moment of serenity, into my memory. So that I might keep it with me should I ever relinquish myself to Mandos’ cold hands.

They notice my presence all to soon, rising to welcome me with open arms and merry words. My brother reaches me first and we clasp wrists, mirroring each other’s movements as we slap one another on the shoulder. He laughs and tells me my grip has much improved since we last met and I find myself actually smiling at the remark.

Before he can say more he is brushed aside and my sister gathers me into her arms, pressing a kiss to my forehead. I wince slightly as she jostles my still healing ribs and she pulls away quickly, looking me over and frowning. I explain I fell from my horse in Mithlond.

A lie. Not an omission. There are moments when my ability to spin stories from the air amazes even me. I have become all too practiced in the art of deception, explaining to my tutors and trainers the various reasons for my lateness and my bruises. It has never bothered me to lie to them; however, lying to my siblings is different. It cuts a little deeper each time I do it.

Even more so that they believe me every time.

My sister tells me I have far too many accidents for one so graceful, but accepts the excuse as she ushers me toward the rocks so that we may all sit and talk. We talk of my travels and my sister asks for stories of Lothlorien and my brother of Mithlond. I gladly tell her of the beauty of the Golden Wood and him of the magnificent swanships constructed in the harbors, but as they push me for more details I become uncomfortable and change the subject.

I ask them for tales of their lives, as I have not seen them for many years. They arrived within the main city of our realm on the eve of my departure and we had little time to speak before I was sent forth to my whorish duties.

Quickly my voice is drowned from the conversation and I contentedly sit back and listen to the sounds of their sweet voices, highlighted by the bubbling of the waterfall. My brother talks of governing the western city and my sister recounts her erudition of the womanly arts along the northern borders. I cannot help but laugh every time my brother cuts in and tells my sister I do not want to hear such nonsense and she snaps back that his stories of governorship are twelve times drearier than her own.

My brother thinks it odd that I have never been fostered to one of the outer cities, as both he and my sister were. When he mentions as much my sister shushes him and says that I am the youngest, the last of our mother’s gifts to the world, it is only right that our father should wish to keep me close.

I feel ill as she speaks such words and swiftly excuse myself under the pretence of needing to change my clothes for the evening’s festivities. They are surprised by my sudden change of disposition, but do not mention it as they smile and say they will see me at tonight’s celebration.

I quickly walk away, feeling faint as my sister’s words. I want nothing more than to rebuff them, to explain how our father despises me over all others and torments me in ways that no elf or man or even dwarf should endure. But I do not. I fear they would not believe me and quickly go to inform our father of my supposed madness. Then he would either carry out his long ago threat or I would endure tortures that would make Morgoth himself ill. Neither is acceptable. I will fade with all the dignity I can manage, safe in the knowledge that my siblings know none of the horrors my father puts upon me.

As I enter my room I feel the fell chill of my father’s presence. Every instinct I have tells me I should run. But I enter instead, closing the door securely behind me.

My father is lounging on my bed, his tunic undone and leering at me with a harsh smirk on his face as his gaze rakes over me. I set my weapons aside, lovingly resting my bow in its place. I learned many times in my youth that all my martial skill is futile in fending off this attacker, it does nothing but increase his ardor.

He bids me to come closer and I hesitantly obey, crossing the room and wondering where that reserve I felt in Imladris has gone as I kneel down beside my own bed. I would have thought I had at least a day or so of defiance in me, where he would break me for the hundredth time and I would crawl back and lie at his feet. It is amazing how quickly I fall back into my role as his whore.

He reaches out and begins to stroke my hair, an almost loving gesture. When I was young I would hold to moments like these in the vain hope that he loved me, that he had realized how unjust the evils he had put upon me were, but he has disappointed me so many times that I squash that hope before it forms. He will never change. I know that. I can only bitterly wonder what could have made him so cruel to an elf he was supposed to love.

You have done well, little one, he says licking his lips as he toys with my hair, I have missed you greatly in your absence.

His words sicken me and it takes all my strength not to tell him I have relished every moment of his absence. Instead I thank him for the praise and say I must ready myself for the celebration he has promised, that I must bathe and dress. As soon as the words leave my mouth I realize my mistake, but it is too late to rescind what I have said.

My father grins and his eyes narrow appraisingly as they linger hotly upon my body and he says that he has missed joining me in the bath. I swallow hard at my mistake and hope I do not make another. I have already cost myself what little privacy I could have had before the celebration, and I am certain he has much planned for me afterwards. It is better not to compound such things. I would like to spend time with my siblings before they leave again, not limp around my room in loneliness, pleading some injury, as I wait for my lone visitor – the one who put me in such pain.

He rises from my bed and precedes me into my private bathing chamber. I follow, hoping against hope for an intervening knock on the door or that he will remember some minor task that needs attending. But I find my hope is in vain, as it always seems to be. I shut the door of the bath and find that he has already undressed and immersed himself in the large circular pool set into the stone floor.

My stomach twists and a small voice tells me to run away as I strip my traveling leathers from my body and fold them beside the wall. If I run this will be even more painful, and so I silence the voice. I turn to see my father looking over my nude form and smirking as he beckons me to join him. Slowly I slip into the warm water and begin scrubbing the sweat and dirt from my skin as my father watches.

I want nothing more than to relax in the comforts of the temperate water as it cleanses me. But the glint in my father’s eyes rob me of that enjoyment. He likes to watch me touch myself. It was one of the first games I learned to play well under his tutelage. I feel ill as I run my hands over my arms and shoulders, running a cloth over the expanse of my chest. I gnash my teeth as the cloth brushes the mark of the greenleaf and a thousand images run through my , al, all of which I push away. He groans and shifts as he watches me stroke the contours of my body in the way that I know excites him. I see his erection through the distortion of the water. It’s grotesque, yet I find the deformation to be more accurate than reality.

He makes a noise and nods his head, signaling he thinks my torso has been more than adequately washed. This is the part which I dread. When my hands go low and begin scrubbing my legs, my thighs, upward until I reach my flaccid length. I begin to touch myself, forcing myself to become aroused with both gentle and firm strokes, until my father rises from the water to sit on the side of the pool.

A slight sigh escapes my lips as he bids me to sit between his legs. I move as he directs, his erection pressed against my back as he makes a show of drying my torso with a towel as his hands move down my body. I bite my lower lip as his hand touches my semi-hard erection, coaxing me until I am hard, rubbing his thumb over my tip as he chuckles low in my ear. I try to forget that it is my father touching me, but even as I begin to weave such a spell he reminds me that I am his whore.

Anger sparks in my stomach and I wish to deny him what he wants. I clench my hands into fists at my side and squeeze my eyes shut, pleading with my body not to betray me into his hand. But my form shudders and shakes as he grips me tight. I arch against him as I am wracked by my climax, that brief respite of blinding white pleasure before he torments me again.

He laughs in my ear, a hostile and violent sound, as he berates me for soiling myself so soon after bathing. He tells me that if I am going to act like a child and make a mess, then I must be punished accordingly, and pulls me across his lap. He asks if I can remember the first time I lay like this before him as he rubs his hardening flesh against my belly for emphasis.

I give no answer as the hand comes down against my wet flesh, and I cannot help but let out a yelp of discomfort at the sting. I don’t have to look to know the sound makes him smile as his hand comes down on me fast and hard, in an uneven rhythm until I am squirming in his lap, rubbing against his growing erection. My struggle serves to arouse him more and only my pleading reminder that I must sit during the nearing celebration stops him.

He shoves me off his lap into the bath, and when I raise my head I fins les legs parted wide in a silent demand for pleasure. I stare at the column of flesh that I have come to know with disgusting familiarity as I move forward, stroking his inner thighs with my fingers as I lick his dripping tip. He tells me that he has missed this as tears sting my eyes and take him into my mouth.

The taste makes me sick as I move, cupping the sacs of flesh in my hands, my head bobbing up an down. I try to lose myself in the tempo of my actions and forget it is my father. Why I even attempt such things after all these centuries, I don’t know. But I always do, no matter how hopeless I know it to be.

I can feel him coming to his climax as he grabs hold of my hair, forcing himself deep down my throat, making certain I swallow every bit of his seed. He lets out a roar as the fluid gushes down my throat and his erection withers in my mouth. And I thank the Valar that it is over, if only for now.

I listen to the sound of his breath for a moment as he rises and tells me I have done well, that I did not spill any of his precious fluids. Then he dresses and goes to ready himself for the celebration, leaving me like some discarded toy – not a single thought for my well-being. That has always hurt me the most; I realize morbidly, that he simply does not care what he does to me. I am only a place for him to sate his lusts and anger.

I sink under the water. There is a strange comfort in being submerged in the warm liquid, a reminder of a place that I can no longer recall. It washes away the signs of my father’s touch and of my own weakness. For a moment I want nothing more than to lay at the bottom of the bath for the rest of my increasingly short life. But the need for air demands I surface and reminds me of my stubborn need to survive.

I rise from the bath and dry myself before mindlessly moving into my room to begin preparing for the celebration. My backside burns and I take a moment to apply a salve I smuggled from the healing ward in Mithlond. It is not right for a Prince to steal, but as a whore I almost feel it my obligation.

The salve works its magic almost instantly as I don my finest clothing and brush my hair straight, tying it back in a simple braid. I look in the mirror, checking my appearance and cursing the looks that are my mother’s gift. I am far too tempting in my pale blue tunic and gray leggings. My father will be most amorous afterwards. I turn and begin wandering the room as I wait for Saelbeth to arrive and escort me, not daring to sit on my abused backside yet, and for the first time I really notice how little I have in my room.

My weapons and two books are the only things that truly belong to me. The furniture and the decorations were assigned to me and represent my father’s preference. Fitting since he spends so much time in my room I think with a pained laugh as I glare at the black and green curtains that surround my bed.

A sudden anger overtakes me as I stare at the black and green fabric that has born silent witness to my nightly humiliation, that has hidden me and muffled my cries for help. With a yell I hurdle forward and tear them down, growling like a mad beast as I rend them to shreds with my hands and my teeth.

I am shaking uncontrollably in a nest of fabric strips when Saelbeth comes to knock on my door. Only centuries of acting like the spoiled Prince of Mirkwood calms my nerves and keeps me from leaping to my feet, throwing open the door and throttling my father’s herald.

It is not his fault the King is a cruel monster.

I shove the shreds of the curtain under my bed and dust the threads from my tunic. My father will be upset when he realizes they are missing. And while I really do not care about his feelings any longer, I do not wish to compound what he already has planned for me. I make my way to the door and fake a smile as I greet Saelbeth and let him lead me to the main hall.

The entire court applauds as I am announced and shown to my seat. My father’s councilors give me copious amounts of praise. I smile thankfully as I sit beside my sister. She smiles and tells me that she is proud of my accomplishments, patting me on the shoulder and stroking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. And for the first time I think of how much she is like our mother.

As the Crown Prince my her her sits beside our father. I watch as they joke and laugh between moments of praising my success and addressing the court. My father barely touches my brother, the occasional brush of shoulders, nothing more. It heartens me to see the lack of physical affection. It means he had not turned to my brother during my absence.

The evening continues with a grand feast and many speeches about my prowess in battle and skill as an emissary. It is very hard not to let out a bitter laugh when they speak – and I wonder what they would say if they knew how I secured the support of other elven realms. I wonder how they would compliment me in their speeches then, if they would applaud the way I spread my legs for a marchwarden and praise my endurance for the beating I took in Mithlond. I wonder if they would clap for me if they knew I was a whore, or if they would line up outside my chambers to see how talented I truly was.

My sister rises with a giddy giggle, drawing me from my dark thoughts as she pats my shoulders and asks if I would dance with her. I blink and realize that music has begun to play and the servants are clearing the dishes. The speeches are over.

Without waiting for an answer she pulls me from my chair and takes me onto the main floor. We dance, spinning around the floor and I find myself laughing whenever she tries to lead. It reminds me of when we were children and our mother was teaching us to dance. My sister always led the steps of our dance and I would happily follow, no matter how many times our mother told us it should be the other way around.

Eventually my brother cannot help but step in, fully intending to show us both how dancing is properly done. I try hard not to laugh as he and my sister fight to lead. It ends with a sharp kick to my brother’s shin and a bright grin on my sister’s face.

The celebration proceeds and I dance with the eligible maidens of Mirkwood, my sister pulling me off to the side every once in a while to tell me the gossip she has heard about each and every one of them. Finally I take my leave, thanking all the attending court and explaining that I am in need of rest after many long days of traveling as well as the wondrous festivities.

I exit as quickly as possible to take my reprieve and steel my reserve. My father will not be able to leave so soon, as he is presiding over the gala. He will have to wait l hal half the court has adjourned to their rooms before he can follow me to mine.

The door to my chambers creaks as I enter and I glance around before securely closing it behind me. There is a kind of relief at not seeing the curtains around my bed, though I know my relief will be short lived.

I undress as I move toward my bed and lie down, ready for my tormenter’s arrival. I want my father’s visit to end as soon as possible, though I know from the parting look he gave me that I will not be walking tomorrow.

Forcibly I push the thoughts of dread and trepidation from my mind, contenting myself with the memory of the sweet smell of Arwen’s skin, the touch of her hands, and the wonders of her kiss. My body stirs to life at the thoughts, and possibly for the first time in my life I consider manipulating myself as I envision her body against mine, to relieve those wondrous moments once more.

But my solitude is interrupted far sooner than I had expected. The door wailing as a dark shadow that has little to do with the Enemy in the East falls over me. I tense and bite my lip as I hear the familiar rustle of his clothes falling to the floor and the bed shifts under his added weight. He purrs as he strokes my body, pressing his chest against my back, his erection pulsing against my backside.

I try desperately not to shudder as his hand caresses my side with even gentle strokes and he leans close to whisper in my ear. I block the words out, nodding to humor him until he speaks the words that chill me to the very bone: You look so much like your mother when I have you like this.

My elbow lashes out and strikes him across the face before my anger is even fully realized, and suddenly I am crouched defensively at the end of the bed. It takes a moment for me to realize the low, threatening growl that seems to reverberate through the room is emanating from me as my father clutches his face.

He roars in anger as I scream back that he cannot speak of my mother in such a way. He launches himself towards me and I barely avoid him as I jump off the bed, kicking the nearest chair at him as he lunges toward me again. This time he catches me across the face, and I can feel a welt begin to form at the scratch left by his ring. I duck under the second blow he attempts and ram my shoulder into his stomach.

The blow is not half as effective as I hop hoped and only causes him to ste bae backwards a few steps. But it’s enough that I try to make a grab for my knives, failing as he latches on to my braid and spins me around. He slams me against the wall and all the wind is knocked from my lungs as he then slams me against the table; bending me over it and pinning me in place, twisting my arms behind my back as he kicks my legs apart. I feel his sneer just as hotly as I feely his arousal pressed threateningly against me and I try to struggle away. But he jerks my arms upward and I scream, for a moment sure that he has broken them both.

The pain subsides only enough that I can hear his words as he tells me that he will speak of my mother how ever he wishes. He punctuates his words by thrusting inside of me and I scream in spite of myself, the violation more painful than ever before. His movements are slow and meticulous, ensuring he has the utmost pleasure and I the utmost agony.

My hands and arms are nothing but pins and needles as my father yanks and sends painful chills coursing through them, applying his weight as he moves within my body. I let out a choked sob as I blink back tears and he laughs, driving himself deep inside me as he begins to speak.

He asks if I know why he chose this table to put in my room, and when I give no response, he tells me. He explains that I was conceived on this very table in a position much like the one I am in now. He paints a picture with his words of my mother’s skirts bunched around her waist, her arm held behind her back as she sobs and pleads for him to stop. I feel ill and my heart threatens to stop as he says that he had her in such ways often, that just like me he is certain she enjoyed the treatment, no matter how much she denied it.

He tells me that I was the only thing that kept her alive, that she loved me so much she did not wish to leave me. He laughs that it is poetic how she faded, and I am assaulted by the horrified expression upon my mother’s face when she found me and my father. Tears slip down my face and I bang my head against the table, trying to struggle, but I can no longer feel my arms and is all I am capable of is flopping around.

The pitiful desperation delights my father as he quickens his rhythm, his movements made more fluid by the blood that drips down my thighs. The scant lubrication does nothing to ease my pain as he skewers me harder and deeper until he finally climaxes. nt tnt to crawl away from my body as he spill his seed inside me, mixing with my blood and trailing down my thighs. He continues to thrust at my body as his length withers away.

The room echoes with the sound of his panting and my quiet sobs. He releases my arms and steps away as I slump to the floor, staring up at him with a tear stained face as I have not done since I was a child. He sneers and kicks me in disgust before smirking and telling me that my tight body brings him to release far quicker than my mother’s ever did. I let out a strangled sound, unable to speak as he turns and walks away to lounge on my bed – to decide if he will use me again tonight.

I curl into a ball, feeling slowly returning to my arms and hands as I clutch my knees to my chest and endure visions of my mother bent over the table looming above me, visions of her sobbing as my father forces himself upon her again and again. It is a travesty worthy of Aredhel and Eol.

My fingers still feel as thought they are pincushions as they happen over the carved leaf in my chest. I shudder as I wonder if he did the same to her. If her made my mother hate the emblem of her family, if he made it a symbol of her shame. The mere thought angers me and I clench my hands into fists as I raise my head to look upon my father.

He is awake, but his eyes are closed as he rests on my bed, lying languidly on his side – blood and cum covering his flaccid penis and a light bruise forming over his cheekbone where I struck. I glare at him with all the rage that is in my heart and wonder how he would endure such torment, if he would cling to life or fade like a proper elf should. Not that he has ever been a proper elf.

I try to stand, uncertain at what I plan to do, but knowing I must pay him back for all that my mother and I have suffered at his hand. My legs give way and I fall to the floor, too weak from the abuse I have just taken. I pant miserably as I try again, only to slip and roll partway under my bed. Something brushes against my leg and I wince, certain he has decided upon a way to use me again, but I find it is merely the shreds of the curtains.

I reach out and begin toying with the black and green scraps, idly wrapping the longer shreds around my hand as I get up the strength to stand. In the back of my mind I can feel and idea forming, but it is so terrible that I do not even realize what I am thinking until I stumble to my feet, torn cloth in hand, and assault my father.

My father always lets his guard down when he believes he has broken me anew; and that, combined with my skill as a warrior, allows me to bind his hands and feet before he can stop me. He lets out a shout of anger and I quickly gag him, almost hoping he chokes as I tie the fabric painfully in place. I toss him onto his stomach and straddle him as I come to realize what I have planned for my father. To violate him and show him how it feels to have one that is supposed to love you unconditionally force themselves upon you in the most vicious of ways.

I freeze in horror as the thought fully forms, and it sickens me to realize that my mind has actually come to think like his. But as he twists and writhes beneath me, the bonds cutting into his skin, desperate to be free – I find myself aroused. Not solely by his struggle, but by the thought I may actually be able to pay him back for the nightmare he has made of my life. The very image of him suffering as I have makes me harder than even thouthoughts of Arwen’s sweet touches.

The tears fall from my eyes as I tell him that it hurts less if he relaxes, even as I force him onto his knees, his face buried in the pillows. He tries to struggle away, but I hold him in place, sucking in sobs of physical and emotional agony as his shrieks are muffled by both gag and pillow. And with the final thought that he is my tormenter, not my father, I thrust into him.

His body shudders and clenches as I tear into him. I bite my lip hard, blood dribbling down my chin as I bury myself fully within his body. He tries to pull away from me, but I hold his hips in place as I begin to move. I feel sick as I look to see my length covered in blood, even as I shove it back into the confines of his body. A couple more thrusts and he’s docile, not moving and only wretched, muffled sounds can be heard.

I choke on my own vois I s I finish it, unable to continue, even as my mind tells me I ought to carve the greenleaf into him. That I ought to mark him as my property now. I move quickly and find my release, but I take no pleasure nor vindication as I fill my tormenter. I merely shake as I pull away and realize that we now match in our attire of blood and cum.

He falls to the bed with pained sounds as he gathers himself into a ball as well as he can with his hands and feet bound. I move as far away from him as I can, curling in upon myself at the end of the bed, sobs wracking my body as I weep. My father looks at me with wide, horrified eyes. The eyes I have borne for so many long years.

I want to apologize, but my voice is gone.

And so we stare at one another, my eyes swollen with tears and his wide and unblinking. I can see everything in his eyes now. This is not the first time he has been victimized in such a way, and I wonder where his garden was. Through the tears I can see that he will not come to me again. He is as afraid of me now as I have always been of him. His wide eyes grant me the victory I have always wanted. Freedom from his torment. To be a whore no longer. That it is over, at long last, it is over.

I bite my lip again as the dark part of my minstersters that we have not done enough. That he deserves to suffer more. That I should remove the gag and see how he likes hot flesh being rammed down his throat or being tortured with too large phallic objects or the million other injustices that he has forced upon me.

I let out a shuddering breath even as I sneer, and it terrifies me that I am truly my father’s son.

Fin.