Hîr o Meril Thaifn [Lord of Rose Pillars]

Hîr o Meril Thaifn

"The Lord of Rose
Pillars"

by erobey

Italics=thoughts

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.

Part Five: Home and Dry - Almost

Erestor sighed and stretched, wriggling his shoulders and pressing back
further into the
luxuriant, plush padding of the velvet upholstered sofa upon which he
was sprawled. Two extra cushions, lavishly embroidered by some elf's
nimble, gifted fingers and fringed all around with silken tassels,
supported his neck and bolstered his head. His long legs were draped
over the opposite end of the over-sized couch but even so his feet
stuck out a bit beyond the artfully curved and comfy armrest.

The Noldo sighed again, smiled complacently, and reached for an elegant
stemmed crystal goblet on the low table nearby, raised the glass,
filled with an intensely vibrant ruby coloured wine, to his lips and
sipped in a mouthful. He closed his eyes and savoured the cool, dry
sweetness, relishing the defining after-taste of honeysuckle that
clung to the fine vintage, before swallowing and setting the glass
back down.

It is truly good to be home, he thought and smiled. Meril
Thaifn [Rose Pillars] is so much better than the Last
Homely House.

"Ion! Yavanna's Toss! [Yavanna's Bush!] What are you doing in here?"
the voice emitting these exclamatory phrases was tinged in harried
disbelief and at sufficient volume to cause the noble Lord to jerk
bolt upright in startlement.

"Adar!" Erestor answered in equally irritated consternation. "Must you
slink
about the house? And I live here, remember? This is my home." He
glared at his father, an exact replication of his Nana's most searing
aspect of disapproving remonstrance, which Erestor had adopted as his
trademark expression in Imladris, adorning his features.

Dammand [Long Hammer] (Erestor's father) physically cowered beneath the
heat
contained in his son's blazing black eyes. Never had he been able to
brave that look whether presented by his wife-mate or his second born
child. He managed a shrug and a sheepish grin.

"I was not slinking, Erestor, I came to see what is taking you so long.
You went
to change clothing an hour ago. The wizard is asking for you."
The elder Noldo examined his youngest with intrigued bewilderment.

Dammand had been extremely surprised to learn of Erestor's return so
quickly, for the naturalist/artist seldom ended his jaunts among the
wilds before six months had passed, by which
time he would have used up his painting supplies and mapped every
inch of unknown terrain encountered. Whenever his son was away,
Dammand kept everything tidy, shooed away unexpected guests, watered
the plants, and went fishing in the ocean.

Which is pretty much what he did when Erestor was home, too. The
esteemed warrior
from Gondolin had died at Turgon's side, spent a short respite with
his cohorts in Námo's Halls, and had been reborn in the
Blessed Realm. Finding his wife also re-incarnated, Dammand decided
not to return to Middle-earth. Needless to say, he had been overjoyed
when his youngest made it to Aman without requiring any of those
steps. The proud father had virtually taken up permanent residence in
the east-facing suite of his son's stately manor, the one Erestor had
designed for himself.

Dammand was seldom in his own abode more than a few years worth of time
before heading back to Meril Thaifn [Rose Pillars], for his wife of
more than 10,000 years was very
involved in caring for the souls still separated from their hroa in
Mandos. Dammand got lonely. While Erestor's house was not exactly
known for excitement, the relaxed pace of life suited them both
well.

Thus, the senior Noldo was absolutely shocked when,
after scarcely a cycle of Ithil had elapsed, his son had abruptly
appeared out of empty space, seated in his favourite armchair,
half-dressed, half-dry, with a dwarven battle axe strapped to his
back while Olórin (Manwë's most renowned assistant and possibly
the Vala's offspring) strode
through the house carrying a half-dead elf in his arms. Dammand's
curiosity was beyond awakened; it was doing callisthenics and
preparing for a marathon of a story.

As if in answer to the thoughts of the noble ancient, a long low moan
of acute agony sounded
through the room.

"Erestor! Get in here!" Olórin's call rang out, mixing with the
next cry of misery.

"Excuse me, Ada; I must see to our guest," said the once chief
counsellor to Elrond's court as he hastened from the study.

"Yes, that is just what I want to talk about; a most interesting sort
of
visitor you have brought here, Sigiland [Long-knife, Erestor's
father-name]," Dammand remarked and ambled after his
son.

Dammand was as tall as Erestor and of the same lanky,
sinewy build with hair that had once been glossy ebony but which had
turned a very attractive mithril-streaked bi-colour upon his 9,600th
Begetting Anniversary (counted from his original conception
since his parents had managed to make the second one occur on the
same day). However, he had long Ages ago tired of fiddling with the
thick, unruly locks and kept it cut short.

The old general never let a single strand grow longer than his
shoulders and bound it
all at the nape of his neck in a simple leather tie. Braids, he was
wont to proclaim with authority to anyone close enough to hear, were
only good for showing off. Having been mated, twice, to the same
elleth for most of the 13,184 years of his two lives, Dammand felt he
had little need to play the peacock any longer.

He followed his son's retreating figure into the hall, down the
elegant, spiral,
pink fossiliferous limestone stairway, across the grand, green-marble
floored three-story foyer, traversed the columned veranda for which
the estate was named, and finally reached the airy suite of rooms in
which the originator of the distressed cries languished. Dammand
paused in the doorway and quickly assessed the scene, correctly
determining he would only be in the way. The odd thing, however, was
that Erestor did not appear as ineffectual as the elder elda would
have imagined his son to be in such a crisis. Erestor was no medic,
after all.

Another extended groan escaped between the gasping
breaths of the injured elf as the suffering creature thrashed against
the tearing pain in his side and the Istar attempting to treat the
wound. Stretched out upon the vast, plump down-stuffed mattress,
Legolas fought against the sheets, the pillows, the quilt, and the
hands striving to restrain his frantic, fevered flailing.

A sudden burst of energy planted his slender left foot solidly into the
wizard's stomach with the full force of a trained silvan warrior
accustomed to fending off Orcs, Wraiths, dire wolves, wargs and their
riders, aberrant humans, and spiders of prodigious size. At the same
time, the delirious patient rolled to the right, evading Erestor's
clutching fingers, reached the end of the bed, failed to stop, and
hit the floor hard.

A most pathetic howl of pain and frustration emerged from the elf as he
tried to rise and found his
legs would not support him. He crumpled onto the woven rug with a
truly sickening thud and lay panting, too weak to move.

"Grab him!" commanded Olórin. The power of the Wood Elf's kick
had landed him flat on his rear far from the bed where he sat hunched
over, clutching his sore abdomen and sucking in huge gulps of air as
he sought to regain his wind.

"Thranduilion, be calm!" called Erestor, advancing to the trembling
patient, crouched to
spring should the Wood Elf actually get on his feet and attempt to
flee.

Wild and terrified lapis eyes roved the room, seeking
the source of the voice as Legolas wheezed and coughed, still trying
to get his legs under him. His moonlight coloured skin was shiny with
perspiration and the single braid had come unwound, hanging loose
down his naked back. The livid bruises and lashes were still
apparent; healing seemed to have come to a standstill. The white
gauze bandage had been removed and he was protectively shielding his
injured side with an arm wrapped tight around his middle. His vision
seemed to focus for a moment on the Noldo and his lips moved as
though he wished to speak, but no sound other than the strained
attempts at respiration emerged.

"All is well, remain still. I am here and so is Olórin. You are
in my home, safe.
Ringë cannot know to seek you here. Let us help you, young one,"
Erestor's tone was cajoling and mild as he slowly crept toward the
prone warrior.

"Erestor?" the silvan managed to whisper and then collapsed into
oblivion, lost in febrile dreams again.

"Hurry! Get him back on the bed!" ordered the
Maia, fully recovered, as he whisked off his impressive navy-blue
velvet, silver-embroidered, sequin-studded robe, now splotched with
dark wet stains here and there, and threw it onto a nearby
chair.

Erestor glared, Would I leave him on the floor?
for he already had the injured elf in his arms, and soon set him down
on the mattress.

"Olórin, why have you not sent for a healer? Surely the severity
of the wound
demands professional attention. His lung is punctured! Let me have my
butler run over to Elrond's and fetch him back," he
suggested.

"That is unnecessary and believe me Legolas
would not appreciate it at all. I can tend him properly with your
assistance. Just get those leggings off and for Manwë's sake
shove some of these useless pillows out of the way!" Mithrandir
groused as he rolled up the sleeves of his elegant white silk blouse,
onto which the patient's blood had also seeped, and braided up the
ends of his long beard, also tinged an unsightly red. He tucked the
plaited chin hair under his shirt and looked up to find Erestor
staring with a perturbed expression on his features.
"What? Do you think it is enjoyable having someone of Legolas' strength
yanking
on this beard?"

"Of course not, I was not referring to that at all. I was wondering
what is the point in removing his pants. The wound is in his side; you
already have it exposed. Just do
what needs to be done; he told me there is a small lump of lead lodged
in his lung."

"Do not be so dense; naturally I can access the puncture. The bullet
has already been extracted; what do you think I have been doing while
you bathed and donned
pyjamas? The surgery is what initiated that desperate attempt to
escape. Legolas believes he is still imprisoned and undergoing
torture. He is burning up with fever and we need to cool him down.
Rather difficult to sponge him off with half his body encased in snug
black leather."

A little dismayed to be taken to task by the wizard, Erestor did as he
was asked without further argument, though he could not really see why
the wizard could not do it
himself. He was, however, glad that Legolas was unconscious as this
sort of vulnerability was not to his liking at all.

"Why would he object to Elrond's help?" asked Dammand from just
beyond the threshold, mystified by the reference to incarceration and
maltreatment. Such terminology was not required in the Undying Lands
for there was no war, no threat of evil, no remnant of Melkor's
putrid hatefulness. Observing Legolas' injuries, however, he
recognised the nature of the trauma and the kind of instruments used
to produce it.

"Dammand of Gondolin," The Maia turned and stood tall, fixing him with
a fearsome glower from under his voluminous snowy brows as he uttered
the syllables in the rolling
accents of the mighty among Aman's citizens. To his chagrin, the old
warrior merely chuckled.

"Aye, it is me, Olórin. What are you going around in that sorry
old broken down body for?" he asked through his giggles. "And do answer
the first question
first, if you please. No wizard's vague indeterminate deliberately
confusing inscrutable replies, either."

"Very well. I can answer both queries quite succinctly: it is none of
your
business."

"Oh, really! Erestor, are you going to allow this overrated parlour
magician to speak to me with such blatant disrespect?"

"Adar, please! He talks to everyone like that and you know it. Now I
could use your help,"
Erestor rejoined in irritation as he peeled the leggings off the
senseless ellon's limp form.

Legolas' legs, he noted with appreciation, were long and muscular and
where they attached to his
torso was a most pleasingly supple round rear end. Having observed
the elf in complete exposure before, Erestor could still not resist
an additional inspection of the well-formed relaxed genitalia. In his
efforts to re-situate the Wood Elf's unending limbs, he managed the
briefest brush of his fingertips against the silky, warm skin of the
soft, slender penis.

"I do not doubt that," scoffed Dammand. "How long has it been since
last you had an elf so willing to let you…"

"Ada!" Erestor shouted at Dammand and growled coldly at the Istar's
throaty laugh.
He felt badly for Legolas, recalling how hard he had tried to keep
himself covered during the aftermath of Ringë's attack, and
actually positioned himself to block his father's view of the
silvan's male extremities. "Do not be so crude! I need you to go
tell Galion to prepare another bath."

"Very well," the elder Noldo snickered upon observing his son's
protective stance
but also rather resented having his chance to ogle the attractive
elf's much-lauded lower half barred. "I suppose you are right,
unconsciousness does not necessarily denote consent. Too bad, he is
quite lovely." Dammand gave his thoroughly scandalised youngest
a rather smug grin and winked before turning to seek out the
valet.

Now this butler named Galion was the very same elf long
affiliated to the House of Oropher and the Woodland stronghold of
Thranduil. The steward was a venerable ellon alive since the
Awakening who had for nearly all of his extremely long life dwelled
amid the Wood Elves in the mighty forest of Greenwood east of the
Misty Mountains. Galion had served Oropher and his sons as rather
more of a caretaker, advisor, and bodyguard than a simple house
servant. Yet as soon as the butler's ship docked in the Blessed
Realm, he decamped from the former King's entourage.

When asked why he had elected to accept employment with the noble Noldo
of
the House of Eärendil, Galion tactfully stated that he preferred
Erestor's charming ocean side villa to Thranduil's new, forbiddingly
austere and dark mountain fortress. His wife Tulus [Poplar] (long
suffering nanny to the Woodland Realm's royal family), however, added
that she was quite fed up with all the bickering and arguing that
went on between the constituents of the former King's relatives.
Besides, Thranduil was a cheap son of a warg rider and never paid her
a bonus in over five millennia of service.

Upon discovering that their critically ill house guest was their
favourite Wood Elf
prince, both Galion and Tulus shifted into an energetic level of
expectant joy not displayed since the wedding of Thranduil's eldest
daughter to Rumil of Lothlorien. In fact, they were hovering just
outside the bedroom door right along with Dammand, heard everything,
and hastened into the small bathing chamber attached to the suite to
make as relaxing and therapeutic a bath as they knew how to
draw.

But to everyone's amazement, Erestor would not allow
them or anyone else to assist in caring for Legolas. He ordered them
all to leave and tended the feverish warrior himself. He could not
bear to have Legolas awaken from his tormenting illness to discover
strangers hovering over him, sluicing his naked body with lukewarm
bathwater. The fact that the Noldo was certainly more of an outsider
to Thranduilion than his nanny and his Adar's butler was completely
irrelevant. Even Mithrandir had spent more time in the Wood Elf's
company than Erestor, for that matter. It made no difference; the
Noldo had shared a harrowing experience with the injured elf and felt
a keen sense of responsibility for his recovery.

Besides, he found he was reluctant to share with the others the
intimate
familiarity bathing the nude silvan would grant him.

Employed at the task of nursing the former member of the Fellowship for
the
entirety of the breaking day, Erestor quickly found that there was
nothing erotic in caring for the invalid. Legolas was beautifully
formed, but his distress was severe and the degree to which he had
been harmed was alarming. Erestor had never observed wounds like this
except in times of war and the ellon's loss of reason was even more
terrifying. Legolas fought him with all the strength he was able to
muster, which thankfully was manageable.

Even so, the Noldo's fine silk lounge wear was soon more soaked than
his travelling
clothes had been after swimming across the pool at the falls. By the
third bath, Erestor had stripped to his undergarments and tied all
his hair back, fully appreciating Mithrandir's earlier concerns over
the beard, to prevent Legolas from pulling it out in his frantic
efforts to fend off imaginary foes. By the fifth bath, Erestor's
compassionate fingers had catalogued every welt and weal on the Wood
Elf's body.

Galion had to prepare seven baths, in actuality, for the poison-induced
ague was stubborn. An hour past annûn, the fever at last broke
and Erestor could finally relax, confident
his guest would pull through. With Legolas asleep and securely tucked
into the soft bed, the noble Elf Lord trudged back to his own rooms.
He drew on a dry pair of loose green striped pyjama pants and a
matching robe, not bothering with the top that completed the
ensemble. Barefoot and weary, he silently advanced down the hall to
his study, looking forward to savouring another glass of wine, where
the elves assembled in the room nearly gave him apoplexy.

Not all the elves, of course, for he was familiar enough with his
father's appearance and even the sight of Galion and Tulus ensconced
on the sofa sampling his finest vintage was not uncommon. No, it was
the remaining occupant that very nearly stopped the former
seneschal's heart.

As it turned out, this was not an elf at all. It was Olórin in
his preferred physical
representation.

Erestor had not beheld Mithrandir in this particular body, for the two
had never exactly been cronies even during the wizard's years on Arda,
where this persona was not
revealed, and once back in Aman the Maia was always off somewhere
mixed up in projects designed by Manwë. The Blessed Realm was
truly a huge region consisting of three continents plus their
associated seas, and while Erestor sought out regions of wilderness
Olórin tended to turn up in more civilised areas. Removed from
the common menace of the One Ring, their lives no longer
intersected.

In fact, Erestor had not seen Gandalf since he was Gandalf. That is to
say, at the send-off in Mithlond when Elrond, Galadriel, Glorfindel,
the Istar, and the Ring-bearer had all sailed
away to Aman.

 Nay, that is wrong; I saw him at Elrond and Celebrian's
8,962nd
bonding anniversary, just over a
century ago. He was just regular old Mithrandir then, too, shooting
off fireworks and getting drunk with Thranduilion,
Erestor corrected himself.

Apparently, no one had thought it important to tell him about this
particular manifestation of the
Maia's essence. Erestor just gaped, for he might as well have been
looking in a mirror, so uncanny was the likeness.

"It is entirely coincidental, I assure you," the wizard was already
declaiming, a winning smile on his handsome face. "I chose this
form long before you were ever born."

"But how, why?" is all Erestor could manage, taking in the flowing
blue-black locks worn loose around sveltely muscled shoulders, the
imposingly tall frame, the superbly toned, virile physique swathed in
a fine silk robe of midnight blue over form hugging leggings of
creamy white and a watery blue short tunic (which incidentally were
his own), infinite coal-coloured eyes, elegant aquiline nose, and
smirky maroon lips quirked up in a sardonic grin above a firm
masculine chin.

"Oh come now, he is not exactly the same," argued Dammand. "I can tell
the difference quite easily. It is not as if the likeness is identical."

"Aye, Erestor is not as tall," said Galion.

"Nor as lean and well-formed," added his wife. "And his eyes lack that
fiery heat."

"And Olórin exudes an air of authority you have never…" Dammand
did not know when to stop.

"Ada!" snapped Erestor in aggravation. "I
quite comprehend the variations, thank you." His tone was icier
then the frozen wastes of Helcaraxë and silenced all the
insensitive comments.

He was flustered beyond rational thought. The only identifiable emotion
going through his beleaguered
mind was disappointment that Legolas found this physical form
uncomfortable to be around, since it was essentially his. It
depressed him so much that he flung himself into his armchair with an
unhidden glower of supreme annoyance and a voluble
curse.

"Nestegi!"

"Sigiland! That is hardly appropriate language in front of a
distinguished servant of
the Valar and a venerable Lady of the Greenwood," scolded
Dammand.

Both Galion and Tulus snickered in amusement over this but made no
further comments upon observing their employer's state of irritation.

For a long silent moment, Erestor trained his disturbingly cold and
menacing Look at them each in turn and then passed this chilling glare
of doom over the small group in
general.

"Out. The lot of you, leave now," ordered
the Lord of Meril Thaifn. He had endured a very exhausting couple of
days and was not in the mood for any more jokes or shocking
revelations, especially if they came at his expense.

For a moment the elves and the wizard just stared at him as if they had
not
heard correctly, convinced he had not truly meant for them to go. But
Erestor was quite serious and stood, drawing himself up as tall as he
was able to in order to match the Maia's stature, and pointed to the
door, brows arched and mouth grimly set.

With disgruntled mumbles and many a speculative glance, the Istar and
the elves
exited, agreeing to reconvene in Dammand's rooms to continue their
discussion of the peculiar circumstances fate had visited upon the
normally amicable Noldo and the rakish hell-cat, Legolas
Thranduilion.

Once they were gone, Erestor sighed and poured
himself that glass of his favourite vintage he had so been
anticipating, intending to relax on the sofa as before. Yet though he
was tired he could not find an easy position to rest and the flavour
of the wine was less pleasing than normal. He shifted about and
changed orientation, switching head and feet, but it did no good. He
could not get the wizard's comment out of his mind.

Rein! [Shit!] Why should it matter? Legolas is nothing to me; it is
well
he finds me so displeasing. He is completely without morals and if
the gossips are correct has allowed anyone who wished it access to
his body.

Erestor got up, setting the unfinished goblet down on the table, and
roamed around the room. It was beyond frustrating that chance had
thrown him in Thranduilion's path. This
youngest son of the Wood Elves' former King was precisely the sort of
trouble the Noldo made certain to avoid. Even one public appearance
in the silvan's company would have the rumour mills in a frenzy of
speculation. When it became known that he had brought the dissipated
elf home, his respectable reputation would be ruined.

If I do not get him out of here, before two Sun Rounds I will be on
the
List.

The List was an infamous catalogue, compiled monthly by Lindir of Cebir
Fain, naming all the elves
Legolas had taken to his bed over the ensuing time and how long each
affair had lasted, arranged according to the reliability of the
source and the likelihood that the silvan would choose said elves.


Yet the harder Erestor tried to convince himself that he was
offended by this unwanted notoriety about to disrupt his life, the
more insistently his memories betrayed him. The phantom sensations of
holding Legolas close, lying next to him in the cave, gently
supporting the abused body as the silvan squirmed in the throes of
his elevated temperature, learning every curve and angle while
washing down the heated flesh, bombarded his internal arguments and
defeated his denial.

Erestor sighed and rubbed his eyes in resignation; his lustful desire
had been awakened, even the archer's scent was alluring. And given the
silvan's dissatisfaction over
Olórin's alternate corporeal form, it was a hunger the son of
Dammand would never satisfy.

Is that why he was struggling to conceal himself? To prevent
attracting my unwanted
attentions?

Erestor emitted a disgruntled snort and exited his suite, wandering
back down to the first level to enjoy the cool sea breeze wafting
through the open veranda. He continued
across the smooth, marble tiles of the columned porch until he
reached the long open windows of the Wood Elf's bedroom and entered.
He paused there, just over the sill where sheer gauze curtains
trailed against the polished pine wood floor, ballooning in the
drifting breath of the ocean. He was not even aware of how long he
stood, letting his thoughts wander over the various situations in
which he had encountered the Wood Elf in the past, just watching
Legolas sleep.

Then a small mumbled phrase, too low and
garbled to be understood, met his ears and the patient twitched.
Erestor was at the bedside in an instant, soothing the troubled dream
away with comforting reassurances, settling the disordered covers
back into place, smiling when Legolas' eyes briefly opened to meet
his. And though logic warned that Legolas was not aware of his
surroundings or whom he was with, Erestor's heart told him the
expression in those bottomless blue eyes was not one of disapproval
or dislike.

The Noldo's smile remained; he sat on the edge of
the mattress and stayed put throughout the night, determined to
prevent any more unpleasant recollections of Ringë from
disrupting Legolas' healing. The pale glow of minuial [dawn] warned
that Arien was about to emerge and cast lengthy lines of vibrant
orange light over the flat horizon. Erestor recalled he had not eaten
anything since the hurried mouthfuls of lembas and dried fruit
consumed on the flight from the cave. Arising after a noisy complaint
from his neglected stomach, he quietly left the sickroom, intent on
preparing tea and a light breakfast for himself and his guest.
Legolas had not taken nourishment in at least two days, and the Noldo
wondered how long it had been since his last real meal.

The
preparations did not take overly long, though he had to argue with
Tulus over the type of tea suitable for her Brannonlas Dithen [Little
Leaf-Lord]. Just as he was passing through the suite's sitting room,
movement out on the porch caught his eye. Erestor halted in surprise,
for Legolas was stumbling toward a small group of chairs and lounges
set just outside his windows, meant for guests to enjoy the brisk
morning air and the glory of minuial [sunrise].

Thranduil's
youngest had found and donned a short silk robe that reached to mid
thigh; it hung loose and flapped about him as he had not bothered to
tie it shut. He was panting with the effort to make it to a
comfortable, cushioned chaise where he collapsed more than sat down.
The silvan managed to drag one leg up onto the seat and leaned back
with a groan, eyes wrinkled shut and one hand pressed to his injured
side. He heaved a great sigh and lay still, unaware in his
debilitating fatigue that he was being watched.

Erestor was
frozen, overcome with an intense sensation of deja vu. He was
positive he had witnessed nearly the identical scene not long ago. A
second of pondering revealed the memory: it had been at Cebir Fain
only twenty years past or less. He had been visiting Elrond's family
for Arwen's Memorial Day and Legolas had been there as well.

The
Noldo remembered his disgust upon witnessing the silvan's emergence
from his rooms. Legolas had appeared just as under dressed,
wearing only an open shirt that exposed everything that should be
private, staggering as if suffering from the after effects of too
much drink, hair all awry, looking like he had been sexually mauled
by multiple partners for days without rest. The Noldo had assumed
this was the case, for such was the forest warrior's reputation, and
he felt it entirely inappropriate to behave so on the sombre occasion
of Arwen's Day, and in her parents' house. He had said something like
that, in fact, just loud enough to make sure he was heard.

When
Legolas had realised he was not alone on the patio he had startled,
surprised to find the seneschal's disapproving glare raking his form.
He had stared blankly a moment or two then hastily attempted to
gather the garment over his nakedness. Finally he had grinned
ruefully and confirmed the Noldo's hypothesis: 'You are right, of
course, Lord Erestor. Glorfindel and Galdor were a bit rough with me,
I am afraid. Please, I beg you will not mention this to Elrond and
his Lady during their time of Remembrance.'

Now observing
similar behaviour that might be interpreted as indication of
licentious excess, did he not know better, Erestor was no longer
certain he believed Legolas' explanation. Mayhap this was not the
first time Legolas had been involved in trouble of such a dangerous
sort. He tried to remember if there had been any obvious signs of
abuse on the silvan's body then, but nothing definite arose in his
thoughts. Erestor set the tea-tray down determined to learn the
truth, but before he could take another step a familiar figure
appeared from beyond the gardens, hastening across the lawn at a pace
just shy of running.

Elrohir.
Quickly he scanned the yard and the rest of the porch, expecting to
see Elladan, and scowled a worried frown. Where one was the other
must also be, and the Noldo liked to have both in his sights at all
times whenever they chanced to show up at Meril Thaifn.

Which
the have only done twice in nearly a thousand years, he abruptly realised, but his wonder at this was
immediately resolved for Elrohir was moving directly toward Legolas'
position. How in bloody Mordor did they find out he is
here? His attention was captured by the unfolding
interaction, however, and he put the riddle aside for the moment.
Elrohir was on his knees beside the chaise, the archer's hand clasped
between his, an expression of fearful concern etched upon his fine
features.

"Legolas? Ai Valar! I just heard. Let me see,"
his voice rang with dismay and worry.

"It is all right,
Elrohir. I am…"

"Do not say it!" the
younger twin warned with a steely glare. Gently he opened out the
loose garment to inspect the damage and sucked in a shocked gasp of a
breath. "Oh, Legolas! This is too much, mellonen. [my
friend]"

"Nothing I am unable to handle."

"Nay,
things have got out of hand. Legolas, you look as if you were beaten
nearly to death." Elrohir was tenderly inspecting various
ghastly bruises and lacerations, sadly shaking his head as his hands
moved over the younger elf's body.

"I can manage,
Elrohir."

But the Peredhel clearly did not agree,
carefully elevating his friend's chin to better view the unmistakable
marks left by strangling hands. His accusing eyes met the archer's
and Legolas flushed and looked away. Elrohir's fingers trailed over
the bandage and continued down, sorrowful grey gaze noting every
injury, great and small. He lifted the one leg still resting on the
floor and stretched the limb out upon the chaise, simultaneously
scooting Legolas' rump over with his other hand so he could perch on
the side of the lounge. As if he was brushing a hair from the Wood
Elf's face, Elrohir fondled the flaccid genitals and elicited a soft
sigh from Legolas.

Erestor tensed. That was entirely
unnecessary and completely unethical, considering the depleted state
of the suffering silvan.

"Would you like me to comb your
hair, Legolas?" Elrohir asked, voice low in smooth sultry tones.
His fingertips played with the sensitive head of the archer's penis,
now significantly less relaxed, and rolled back the velvety foreskin.
"I will make you feel better, promise," he whispered and
leaned forward to nuzzle against the delicate point of a florid
ear.

"Sounds lovely, mellonen, but I am not really up to
it," Legolas responded in a wavering voice even as his cock
saluted.

That was sufficient for Erestor; Legolas had clearly
declined the proposition yet Elrohir persisted in casually caressing
the Wood Elf's swelling shaft and tickling the tender, heavy testes
within their smooth-skinned pocket. The Lord of Meril Thaifn darted
out through the open archway, eyes ablaze with indignant fury to see
Elrohir taking such liberties of an elf in so dire a condition of ill
health. He reached out to snatch him off the chaise even as both
elves looked up in surprise, but Erestor's hand never connected with
the younger twin.

"You brute!" the words were little
more than an articulate growl and accompanied the slamming thud of
the Noldo's back striking one of the pink limestone columns as hands
grabbed, lifted, and flung him from his path. "What is wrong
with you? How could you?" The hands belonged to Elladan and he
was using them to grapple the former seneschal by the lapels of the
loose robe, intending to shake him but instead merely tearing the
delicate fabric.

Then Elrohir was on his feet attempting to
calm his brother even as Legolas bounded from the chaise and
insinuated his person between the quarrelling Noldor. He pressed the
palm of his hand firmly against Elladan's chest and pushed
back.

"Nay, it was not him!" he said
urgently.

Erestor was still stunned by the impact with the
pillar and the abrupt appearance of the elder twin but could not deny
he was intensely gratified by the speed with which Legolas had come
to his defence. Instinctively, his arms closed around the unsteady
body, one hand wrapped across the chest as the other hand rested
against the archer's flat, hard belly. He felt Legolas shiver and
lean back against him.

"It was not Erestor. He saved my
life, Elladan. He is taking care of me." Legolas assured the
elder of the brothers.

Elladan flashed Legolas a swift,
worried glance before returning his scathing sneer of undisguised
disgust upon his former mentor, relaxing only slightly under his
brother's insistent pleas to desist from violence and the silvan's
obvious comfort with their host's proximity.

"You are
sure you wish to defend him, Cuthenin [True-bow]?" the elder
twin asked with grim distaste. "I would gladly teach him where
the boundaries lie in such activities."

"Muindor
[Brother], do not interfere," counselled Elrohir, "Legolas
is not a child. He knows his own limits."

"It is not
his knowledge I dispute," snarled Elladan.

Legolas
groaned in a combination of frustrated dismay and genuine discomfort,
for he really was not well enough to be on his feet so
soon.

"Please, Elladan; Lord Erestor would never hurt me
thus. He is not the one responsible."

"Indeed, how
could you even allow that idea to enter your thoughts?" demanded
Erestor in affronted indignation. "When have I ever indulged in
that sort of sordidly perverted bed play?"

"We have
not heard anything regarding your sexual habits, Erestor, for you are
quite secretive in nature. Who can say what you like to do to your
partners?" Elrohir remarked. "If you caused even of those
mark…"

"Peace!" snapped Legolas, so
tense he was trembling, so angry his pale cheeks were streaked in
garish crimson. "I have already told you that I am in Lord
Erestor's debt, not his bed! How can you accuse him of such
baseness?"

The twins seemed unconvinced and remained
where they were, watching as their father's cousin gently rubbed his
palms over the battered elf's navel and nipple.

Erestor meant
to soothe his defender, feeling the rising outrage in Legolas' rigid
body, but then his middle finger caught on the Wood Elf's belly
button and that distracted him. He pushed into it without thinking
and felt the ripple that ran through the archer's body, heard the
deep intake of his breath. He watched Legolas' hand come up and trip
across his forearm, encouraging the massaging fingers that were
slowly kneading the rising bud gracing the firm pectoral muscle.

Erestor let his thumb test the responsiveness of the small maroon
point, just flicking across it. Both his cock and his heart jumped in
answer to the sharp gasp of surprise that left Legolas' throat as his
head dropped back against the Noldo's shoulder. Erestor's other hand
spread out over the firm abdomen, middle finger wriggling inside the
small depression as his last digit stretched down and came to rest on
something warm and slick. He circled his finger in the slippery heat
and with a jolt realised he was stimulating the tiny slit in the long
proud column of the silvan's erection.

Legolas moaned wantonly
and pressed his face against Erestor's neck, inhaling the enticing
scent, dabbing the tip of his tongue there for a tantalising taste,
using his free hand to coax the Noldo's other fingers to join that
probing pinky.

Elladan and Elrohir were gawking in rapacious
prurience, eyes locked on the former seneschal's hand and the
archer's dripping cock. Elrohir made a soft little whining groan and
opened out Elladan's fist, guiding it down to his groin.

That
awakened Erestor's sense of reality instantly and he flushed in
embarrassment, simultaneously snatching away his roving appendages
and sliding from his supportive stance behind the Wood Elf.

Legolas
reeled and caught onto the pillar to regain his balance, not
expecting this outcome, and immediately understood the situation:
Erestor would sooner be bitten by a warg than touch him thusly. The
acutely painful realisation lent him the power to race from the
humiliating predicament and he shoved through the barrier of the
twins grasping fingers as they tried to halt him. Just inside his
bedroom, his foot slipped on the curtains and he tripped, landing
with a low, dolorous exclamation of defeat.

All three elves
turned to assist Legolas, but then Elladan stopped and seized
Erestor's arm to hold him back.

"Nay. Let Elrohir see to
him; you and I must talk."

TBC.