In the Chains of Honor: Shades of the Past
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-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
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Category:
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
18
Views:
2,789
Reviews:
15
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
In the Darkness, Two Beginnings: Chapter 6
In the Chains of Honor
Author: Tanesa Etaleshya, Email: tanesa_etaleshya@hotmail.com
Author’s Notes : Thank you for all the great reviews, please see the end of thhapthapter if you reviewed!
Part 1 In the Darkness, Two Beginnings…
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TA 2163
The Guards paid no more attention during their journey under the eaves of Mirkwood, and thereafter under the stars, to Legolas than an Orc would a fly. That first night and every night until they reached the river, the Guards camped around the Imladrian elves; the food they had brought was shared out to all but the golden elf who now sat outside, far outside, the camp alone. Legolas was isolated; he had become symbolically the outsider he had always been.
Glorfindel saw him within sight in one of the scattered copses of trees where they camped near the river, just half a day from the ford, saw only a glimmer of golden hair shimmering in the soft moonlight, and he slipped through the Mirkwood Guards in a direction that could not be interpreted as anywhere towards the lone elf. He had at least that much sense and presence of mind in consideration for the elven archer, so the Guards let him go, warning him not too venture far. He glared at the audacious elf who had dared to speak warning to him, an ancient, as if to an elfling who might wander off and he practically skewered the young, light brown-haired elf with sharp eyes and a mouth he would describe as wearing a permanent sneer, with his penetrating gaze but said nothing. Glorfindel’s very being spoke of reproach. They knew who he was. He was Glorfindel of Gondolin, the Balrog slayer, an elf who had died and traveled to the Halls of Awaiting and had returned to Arda to live again. The legends followed him, the few that were remembered so long. He let the weight of those legends seep into his being now, percolate in his wordless stare, and a smile almost slipped past his veneer of rebuke when the younger elf dropped his eyes and took a step backwards hastily. All knew of him, but few knew him. It was an aura of numinosity that he carefully maintained, and only those he could trust implicitly really knew him, and few indeed they were. Elrond was one of those few.
Elrond had noticed his interest in the elf prince and had said nothing but a warning voiced only with his eyes. He knew the elf would be trouble in the end; Glorfindel, too, could feel it, taste it, sense it in the air as he doubled back through a dense group of trees to where the elf sat against a tree staring up at the bright stars. He knew he would feel pain and misery ariefrief due to this Sindarin Elf-prince. He could feel the tenacious weight of it teasingly settling in on his old soul even now. Inwardly he cringed, outwardly he showed nothing but implacability. He did not know how he knew, how he could feel a shadow of the future, as he did not have the Sight, but he knew all the same and was powerless to stop himself despite the knowing. And he could not bar the question rising in his mind of how much joy could be had between them alongside the anguish? It was this hope that drove him forward even now, that forced him not to halt his steps and maintain the distance between them.
He watched the archer for a moment, the stars reflected into his eyes, the high lines of his cheekbones and the soft hollows beneath hovering above a strong, aquiline jaw. Golden blond hair like fine spider’s silk hung down over his shoulders and against the tree trunk, the light playing off the strands. His pale skin seemed to glow in the moonlight, not a mere reflection of the light, but he seemed to emit the light from within himself, even through the heavy, dark bruises marring the perfection of his skin. He stifled the anger at the harm done the elf as shown in those horridly dark marks. He steeled himself as he made a slight noise to alert the elf of his presence. The elf stiffened and before Glorfindel could blink the elf had his longves ves in his hands as he walked cautiously amongst the trees, hunting.
“Legolas, I would prefer to talk than bleed, if it be all the same to you.” He faced the elf with the knives as he stepped out of a deeper shadow to face him.
“Lord Glorfindel, forgive me, please,” the elf dropped to one knee, hand to his chest immediately upon sight of the elder blond elf lord. He rose and stood to attention much as he had done in the Hall of Audience, face forward unseeing eyes.
“Relax, Legolas. I stand less on formality than your people,” but the elf did not relax. Glorfindel shrugged and leaned haphazardly against a tree to watch the young elf who did not move even the smallest muscle as he stood there bathed in a stream of light breaking through the limbs above them. “At least will you look at me?”
Those oceans of eyes swung to face him and grew focused. Glorfindel could not be sure whether he should shiver at the frigid temperature of those eyes or swoon with the beauty lit by the light to appear like blue stars set into silvery white skin. He shook off the shiver and focused on those eyes. The fire in them had been long banked.
“Do you not want to know why I sought you out?”
“It is not my place to question you, my Lord.”
“Not your place?” Glorfindel acted puzzled, perhaps he was slightly, he was giving this elf special attentions and he was not responding as he would have liked him so to do, “You are amazing elves, you know? So stern and reserved, yet warm at the same time. Your ways are a mystery to us, however.” He stepped forward to stand in front of the elf whose gaze never faltered on his own, “Elrond would like to know what is going on. What is this ‘service’ you must perform for Imladris and why do you not sleep in the safety of the watch?”
“An ill omen am I. Five Imladrian souls were sent to Mandos under my protection. Five lives for which I owe thirty years in service each. Service entails whatever the one I serve desires. If my Lord Elrond requires me to serve the families of those elves lost, then I will serve them. Or I will serve Imladris and the House of Elrond. The choice made is none of my concern, and I will follow it without question. Forgive my apparent rudeness, my Lord, for refusing to share your camp. According to the terms laid down by the King, I may not sleep within the confines of your camp while we still remain east of the river. I must make my own way in the darkness of night. If I should fall then all debt would be paid and honor restored bringing no disgrace to either your party or that of the Greenwood, and I will trouble the wood I love no more. It matters not whether I serve or die to restore the honor I have lost, my Lord. This is the way it will be.” He sounded resigned, his voice soft like a light wind rushing through the evergreens above the vale of Rivendell.
At this, Glorfindel decided a change of tack would not be remiss and managed to push back his growing unease in order to do so, “Will you let me tend your wounds at least?” He glanced downwards at the archer’s favored leg, the cuts upon his hands visible in the moonlight where the cloth did not cover them. He reached up to touch that angelic face marred by cuts and bruises, but the prince shied away from the touch and hurried to speak.
“I am well, my Lord, they are but scratches and, of my leg, it has been set and bound and is healing already.” Legolas did not make movemove to break their eye contact, nor did he move forward to his former position, preferring to remain out of reach. He let the silence fall between them, and found that it was not as awkward as it could have been; the sounds of life around them continued undisturbed, as if the two of them were as much a part of it as the trees amongst which they stood.
“So you remain aloof until the river is reached? And once there, will you then find your rest outside the safety of the city?” Glorfindel pursued the former line of questioning in a soft tone, his fingers playing absently with the hem of his cloak, a faint smile dancing along his lips, trying to lighten the mood between them, but his effort was for naught as the younger elf continued speaking in the same tone of quiet but stern resignation, a tone that spoke of unquestionable fact.
“Once outside Greenwood Realm I am at the disposal and will of the Lord of Imladris to do as he sees fit, my Lord. Until the woodland Guards part company with you and return, I will show them the respect one such as I should show those who have not disgraced the uniform they wear. Here I shall remain, my Lord.” The elf’s voice had not faltered once. The steady, strong tone had not broken or fluctuated out of a devoid of emotion or feeling, only repetition of what should have been known.
Glorfindel heard his words and his heart sank for a moment. The elf was beautiful beyond description, and cold as the ice-cap forever topping Caradhras. Yet there was something there, in those eyes, a fire that sparked, flared, and nearly died from the strict restraint he exerted over all emotion behind that calm veneer. He had glimpsed it as the stars, reflected in his azure blue eyes, brought light to those cerulean depths. There was a warmth in the young elf that made his blood run hot, a gentleness tempered and brought to heel by the fierceness of the warrior he already knew. He admired this elf. Young though he was, he exhibited a graceful elegance and reserve only found amongst the eldest of their kind, a reserve brought about by grief and loss, and the inevitable changes wrought by time upon them and their world. He wondered what had caused this grim, yet stately detachment in this archer-prince, apart from the obvious of his father’s disapproval, to use a mild term. He knew the feeling creeping into his mind. The attraction was there, but there was something more than that. He smiled to himself, then let the smile leak out onto his face, one side raised higher than the other in a casual, half-smirking cheeky grin as he thought of the challenge the elf presented him with, a challenge he fully intended to win.
Legolas kept his face a mask of indifferencd did distance as the elf smiled at him. The elf lord had survived and healed from the poison of Dol Guldur with remarkable speed and grace. The elf Gondolin was certainly strong, and willful, if he was not too much deceived by the winning smile the older elf let grace his features, a smile that lit his whole being up with radiance Legolas could barely stand to look upon. Scorched he felt as he looked upon him, yet drawn further in. The elf lord was stunningly handsome, long flowing light blond hair, flaxen and smoothly radiant in the moonlight so that it looked like molten, white gold sliding back from his face in many braids interlaced and from there it flowed down over his shoulders, starlight making it gleam with a golden light. There was more curl to his hair than most elves and Legolas was intrigued by the playfulness that seemed so foreign to him and to elven kind, if the mischievous smile was any indication. Yet the elf still held the careful distance characteristic of the eldest of their kind, a distance kept and learned from long experience.
The moonlight reflected in his light blue eyes seemed to dance to some hidden music lilting through the Eldar’s soul. Legolas was intrigued to say the least, and embarrassed to feel so when he had not the right to think of himself as he was thinking now. He should not consider this as within the realm of possibility or within the scope of what his life would be. If he became close to this elf, it would not be for companionship, but for duty. He reminded himself of his position, berated himself silently; making a vow to himself that he would punish himself for his stray, disgraceful thoughts. He turned his thoughts inevitably back to the elf lord standing before him in the glory of the light of moon and stars. He studied him without appearing to; his broad shoulders, finely chiseled face characterized by a strong aquiline jaw, full lips, and finely pointed ears emerging from the molten cascade of his hair where it hung loose over his ears.
Legolas was accustomed to the standoffish nature of elves, the quiet distance they put between themselves and him, the careful silence they preserved in his presence. He was not familiarized with the audacity this Eldar seemed to exude. Glorfindel of Gondolin. Glorfindel. He spoke the name in his mind as if savoring the very sound of it. And the reality of who he was speaking with hit him: he was standing before the legend he and so many others like him had heard and read about. The fallen prince’s air of dignity born of sce wce was brought down with that cheeky, almost devious grin, but still he sensed power and age in the elf lord, mostly in his eyes. He radiated power and strength in Legolas’ mind. And age. Those eyes, as playful as they seemed to be, were old beyond the younger elf’s understanding. And he was drawn into their depths. Blue like the sky at dawn. In those eyes, light and dark streaks played together with the soft lavender promise of the coming day. The weight of his gaze was both light and immense and Legolas had difficulty maintaining the connection with those heavy orbs and was pained to think of the loss there as well, but he refused to disobey the order he had been given to look at the Eldar. Neither could he find it in himself to back down- he still had too much pride for that. He saw the great ages passing in those eyes, sensed the loneliness, the loss, the joy through the connection, no matter how temporary it was. He wanted to look away from the heavy weight, but he could not bring himself to do so. He wanted never to look away, but to lose himself in those dawn-painted eyes. And he realized suddenly that the legendary Elf was allowing him to see this deeply, and this begged the question ‘why?’ He somehow pushed the doubt and the surge of hope to the rear of his mind so as not to let the Eldar see it in his own eyes.
He schooled his features to belie nothing of the thoughts and feelings raging through his mind at the perverse notion of himself and the elf lord. Surely Glorfindel would not be so afflicted as I. The Balrog Slayer would not be so base. He offers no more than support against the King and at best friendship. It cannot be more. He chastised himself firmly. He soundlessly bit his ue tue to still his mind, tasting and concentrating on the coppery sweet taste of blood in his mouth until the elf lord bade him goodnight and slipped back the way he had come. Legolas watched from the cover of the trees as the elf lord walked back to Elrond’s side and sat. No, Legolas. No. You will bring no further disgrace to your family, father, Guards, or people. No more. No more thoughts. Concentrate on the pain, the pain.
And with that thought and the departure of the Elf who had brought these torrid thoughts to life with a quiet smile and a gentle farewell of ‘Until we reach the river, then.’ The fallen prince had concentrated his thoughts upon the events of the three days following his arrival at the palace in the company of the Imladrian elves. It was not long before he sat heavily down, pressing his back up against a tree as the memories, recently made, surfaced and seemed as if reality had again seized hold of him to make him relive the awfulness he had endured. He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, the throbbing increased in his chest went ignored as his thoughts descended into the tumult of memory.
*~*~*
He had been waiting as was expected of him, and had been since he had made his unheard excuses from the dinner at which it seemed Elrond would not stop glancing in his direction, and would alert , if he were not careful, others to the fact that he was wounded. But now, there was one who would know, and would scarcely care. He stood from where he sat on the corner of the bed, walked to the small balcony out over-looking the forest. He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the forest fill his senses and there he remained, centering himself so that he could take the next step. He raised his face, the cool night breeze wafted across his face. He felt the first tendrils he che connection filter into him, and he welcomed it, letting it flow into him now, filling the empty hollowness inside him. He, once the connection was established, drew it in, listening to the plethora of voices unified into the song which him him some semblance of peace of mind and the strength to live. He stood there, swaying like one of the younger beeches in a summer wind, his hair picked up and moving with the quiet song, listening to the wood.
So absorbed was he that he did not notice the entrance of another. He heard not the footsteps as they approached, nor the voice that broke the silence within the room but did not penetrate the song flowing into the Sindar prince. It was not until he found himself hunched forward, breathing rapidly and deeply through the ache in his stomach that he realized the one he had been waiting for had arrived. He fell down to all fours when the elf towering above him kicked him in the ribs, drawing a hoarse cry from him as he felt the cuom tom the battle break open, Elrond’s careful stitches broken. He managed to speak before the elf could kick him again, “Please, forgive me, my Lord. I did not hear you enter.” He kept his gaze to the feet of the elf before him, the soft shoes he knew all too well. He crept forward, pressed his forehead to the toes of those shoes, smelling the familiar leather and dust, feeling the soft supple leather against his skin, causing a shudder to ripple through his frame coupled with the roiling explosion of nausea in his stomach. He swallowed, forced the rising bile in his throat down and managed to whisper his apology, “Forgive me, my Lord.”
“Get up.”
Legolas pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side and the sting of torn stitches. He stood stiffly, rigid before the other elf, staring past the elf, his hands behind his back as the other circled him, looking him up and down as if examining him for any fault, though his conclusion was foreordained, having been set to stone long ago. Legolas could not suppress fully the shudder that passed through him as the other touched his side where Elrond had removed the arrow the day before, “You, too, were injured then. I should have expected such stupid inadequacy of you this time as much as any other. I know not why I am surprised.” Mocking him with expected derision, the elder elf’s voice was condescending, laced with biting sarcasm. He stopped the touch and sat down on the bed behind Legolas, loosening his shirt in his apparent ease.
Legolas knew well what was expected of him and he acted accordingly, turning to face the other with placid compliance and began to strip himself of his clothes slowly, carefully, his actions deliberate and controlled, designed to elicit a response from the other, a response of pleasure though Legolas felt nothing but the vast emptiness inside as he fought to distance himself from his actions and the tumult in his stomach, the aching pain of dejection and grief deep within his chest, resonating through his soul. He retreated within himself, letting the song of the woods fill him again, though he broke the contact after only moments, fearing to contaminate that song with the screams, his screams whether vocalized or simply screams echoing in his mind, that he knew were to come. He used the song to center himself in the void, all sound became vaguely distant. He felt himself sinking to his knees before the other elf, felt the coldness of the stone floor on his knees, the biting sting of a sharp crack against one, and the gentle breeze wafting across his bare skin. The archer shivered as he forced his hands to make their way down the other’s clothed legs, coming to a halt on the soft suede shoes, which he unlaced and removed gently. He felt the silken cloth of the other’s leggings slide under his hands until he reached his waistband beneath the hem of his silken shirt. With practiced motions, the fallen prince drew his hands to the lacings, ran his hands over the increasing bulk still hidden. He swallowed hard as he leaned forward, nuzzled his face between the elf’s legs, the smell of arousal caused the bile to rise more threateningly in his throat. He forced it down as he loosened the laces, freeing the hardened member into the air.
The archer ran his cool, bow-calloused fingers over the heated shaft, over the vein on its underside, teasing the crown while the elf shuddered and groaned as Legolas replaced the taunting touch of his cool fingers with the heady warmth of his mouth. He wrapped his lips over his teeth, sucked gently upon the crown, swirling his tongue around the tiny slit, tasting the sickening first drops of fluid as they emerged. Nearly gagging on the taste he pushed his mind back into the void as a man holding on for life by digging his hopelessly scratched and torn fingers into any crack in the rock from which he hung precariously, as Legolas’ position was aptly described: precarious and perilous. He knew the consequences if he failed to please, and he sought to avoid it, even submitting to this heinous act was far better than the dark memories he had of prior failures.
He was brought back to the present when he felt hands twisted cruelly in his hair, pulling his head forward, forcing him to take the shaft deeper; he worked it into his mouth, sliding his tongue around its girth as he swallowed it deeper and reminding him of the knife blade upon which he walked. All through this he paid careful attention to the seemingly distant sounds of pleasure. He felt a shudder pass through the elder elf this time and before he knew it he was shoved roughly back, but found his momentum brought up short by the hand still imbedded in his hair. He could not bite back the soft cry as the movement tore at his wounds again. He felt the tickle of blood down his side, but he struggled still to get up as the hand pulled him up onto the bed. Once there he was briefly released and he crawled to the center of the bed and waited while the other elf shed his tunic and his shirt. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, laying back, distancing himself again.
He did not see the ropes as his wrists were bound above his head harshly; neither did he fight it as he was rolled over onto his front, his legs splayed and bound to the bedposts below in a similar fashion. He ignored the rough bite of the rope, focused his consciousness on the void inside him when he felt hands on his back, his sides, his hips, his thighs, clammy hands, rough hands not the hands of a lover upon his beloved, but hands of possession. Legolas trembled as the hands slid between his thighs and ventured towards the end target of the other, but he knew it would not be over so easy, and so he waited. It was not long before he felt the first burning sting of the flat wooden paddle on the tender skin on the back of his thighs. The elder elf worked his way from his thighs, up to the soft globes of his ass. The archer writhed as the hand grabbed a handful of hair again and pulled his head back painfully, the paddle working hier uer until his skin was red and raw, burning.
The elf abandoned the paddle, tossing it aside to clatter on the stone floor, and Legolas felt another more than familiar implement slide upward along his thighs, shocking him with its coldness as the elf forced the iron bar inside him. He instinctively reacted, trying to pull away, but the hand in his hair held him firm, as did his bonds. He felt the metal move inside him, a precursor to the heated shaft that would replace it, but this, for now, caused him enough pain to clear his worries about the other for now as the elf rammed it in and out of him, no attempt at pleasure for the younger elf. He gripped the ropes around his wrists and held on as the elder elf replaced the now-warmed rod with his own engorged rod, plunging into the young elf with the same palpable silence, a silence only broken by the harsh cry that slipped through the fallen prince’s lips at the brutally forceful and dry penetration.
Once the initial agony subsided, Legolas allowed himself to relax slightly, finding solace in the emptiness again, forcing the sensations around him to fade once more into the distance. Even the detachment he fostered then did not protect him from the agony, nor did it save him from the ignominious stain the very act left upon him anew each and every time he was forced to succumb. He felt the familiar sting in his eyes and he fought to control the tears, and brought them to heel before more than one had slipped down over his cheek, but he could not hold back the quaking sobs wracking his body by the time the elf mounting him came to the pinnacle of his dominance with vicious speed and vigor, drawing another, albeit softer cry from the archer as the elder exploded within him, letting loose seedseed. Legolas felt the caustic fluid burn him, scour him from within and he finally relaxed completely when the other pulled out, letting his head drop without further ado. The archer, within the cocoon of muffled silence brought about by the pronounced level of his detachment, heard the other dress rapidly, Legolas’ own attention focused on controlling his outward façade. The prince did not make any noticeable reaction when he felt the bonds tightened until he was spread so that he could not move. He remained mindful only of his own breathing, the pain in his side, the burning pain of his rear, and the reiterated humiliation of having been so used. He only allowed himself to cry when he heard the sound of the door closing followed quickly by the sound of the lock turning. He was alone, but then when was he not?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Fourth Age
He stood up, stretching his weary muscles with the simplest movements. Too long had he had been sitting, unmoving, swamped in memory long past, too distant to really feel as if it had truly happened, and therefore feeling to him now as if it were more akin to a story long faded into the realm of myth. He stood, holding himself up against the rough walls, raw fingers trying to slip into cracks or grooves to gain some kind of purchase with which he could hoist himself up onto his unwilling legs, legs newly mended, but still terribly sore. He gasped as he came to his feet at last, every nerve in his legs screaming at him to cease his uprightness while every muscle in the rest of him cried out in joy at the release from the torment of sitting as he had been for what seemed like years and years.
He let his eyes roam around the darkness, knowing it was hopeless, instead letting his fingers run over the rock encasing him as a guide to both his direction and his balance. He traced his fingers over well-known and well-traveled cracks, dips and pits in the rock, felt the grooves of the toolmarks as if they had not been there the day before, the week before, the year before. He knew very well they had been, each land and groove well- known to him. He sighed into the silent dark, listening to the creak of his joints from their lack of use.
He longed for the caress of sunlight, moonlight, and starlight. A descendant of the Forsaken was he, a Sindar descended from Elwë and Melian the Maiar, who begat a people who knew not the Light of the Two Trees and lived ever under the starlight alone during the Eldest of Days. To Varda they were indebted for she had crafted from the dew of Telperion more stars once she had learned of the coming of the Firstborn to the darkness of the Hither Lands, and thereafter Elves were called in their own tongue by Oromë who led the Vanyar and the Noldor across the sea as the Eldar, the people of the stars. He longed most of alr thr the comfort of starlight, the connection it gave him to all those who came before, those who fell, and those who turned to the West at long last. He longed for the caress of the softly radiant light of the stars, yet he knew deep within him that it would be no comfort to him, nothing could comfort him any longer, so long parted from life, love and the shattered pieces of the dreams he had dared to hope for unto his own fall, made all the more agonizing for heigheights from which he had fallen, the heights to which he had dared climb. He, a fallen, disgraced Elf, had dared to hope and had paid for it in more than blood.
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To Be Continued…
Author’s Notes: I would like to take a moment to thank all those who have given me such good reviews! It imbues in me a desire to continue and to do my best to keep you all interested- so Thank You! To Calenharn Elflover, I have only recently begun reading Feud by narcolinde and wish to say that no similarity was intended. To you and to Jasmine, I foresee many possible endings, so you will just have to ‘stay tuned’ to find out just where the story ends. Does it end with our dear elf imprisoned in his dark cell, or is he freed to breathe once again the free air and to feel the warm embrace of his lover? Hmmm, I just cannot say at this time, and if I did you would all probably throw something at me for ruining it. God it drives mereadread reviews that analyze, and even quote me! I love it!
As to the plea for more, I can assure you there is more, but it will be well-spaced as I do spend some time (as if I have nothing better to do) on the chapters (can I say perfectionist?) and it is coming into spring and the busy season for the business at which I work plus I am taking a class at University for the fun of it while I prepare for Grad School. Anyway, I will do my utmost not to fail all you illustrious readers just as Legolas for Elrond and Glorfindel, his illustrious and alluring friend. Laughing I am- God I am in a strange mood tonight! I apologize for my rambling, and I hope you enjoyed this newest installment, Thank You!
Author: Tanesa Etaleshya, Email: tanesa_etaleshya@hotmail.com
Author’s Notes : Thank you for all the great reviews, please see the end of thhapthapter if you reviewed!
Part 1 In the Darkness, Two Beginnings…
TA 2163
The Guards paid no more attention during their journey under the eaves of Mirkwood, and thereafter under the stars, to Legolas than an Orc would a fly. That first night and every night until they reached the river, the Guards camped around the Imladrian elves; the food they had brought was shared out to all but the golden elf who now sat outside, far outside, the camp alone. Legolas was isolated; he had become symbolically the outsider he had always been.
Glorfindel saw him within sight in one of the scattered copses of trees where they camped near the river, just half a day from the ford, saw only a glimmer of golden hair shimmering in the soft moonlight, and he slipped through the Mirkwood Guards in a direction that could not be interpreted as anywhere towards the lone elf. He had at least that much sense and presence of mind in consideration for the elven archer, so the Guards let him go, warning him not too venture far. He glared at the audacious elf who had dared to speak warning to him, an ancient, as if to an elfling who might wander off and he practically skewered the young, light brown-haired elf with sharp eyes and a mouth he would describe as wearing a permanent sneer, with his penetrating gaze but said nothing. Glorfindel’s very being spoke of reproach. They knew who he was. He was Glorfindel of Gondolin, the Balrog slayer, an elf who had died and traveled to the Halls of Awaiting and had returned to Arda to live again. The legends followed him, the few that were remembered so long. He let the weight of those legends seep into his being now, percolate in his wordless stare, and a smile almost slipped past his veneer of rebuke when the younger elf dropped his eyes and took a step backwards hastily. All knew of him, but few knew him. It was an aura of numinosity that he carefully maintained, and only those he could trust implicitly really knew him, and few indeed they were. Elrond was one of those few.
Elrond had noticed his interest in the elf prince and had said nothing but a warning voiced only with his eyes. He knew the elf would be trouble in the end; Glorfindel, too, could feel it, taste it, sense it in the air as he doubled back through a dense group of trees to where the elf sat against a tree staring up at the bright stars. He knew he would feel pain and misery ariefrief due to this Sindarin Elf-prince. He could feel the tenacious weight of it teasingly settling in on his old soul even now. Inwardly he cringed, outwardly he showed nothing but implacability. He did not know how he knew, how he could feel a shadow of the future, as he did not have the Sight, but he knew all the same and was powerless to stop himself despite the knowing. And he could not bar the question rising in his mind of how much joy could be had between them alongside the anguish? It was this hope that drove him forward even now, that forced him not to halt his steps and maintain the distance between them.
He watched the archer for a moment, the stars reflected into his eyes, the high lines of his cheekbones and the soft hollows beneath hovering above a strong, aquiline jaw. Golden blond hair like fine spider’s silk hung down over his shoulders and against the tree trunk, the light playing off the strands. His pale skin seemed to glow in the moonlight, not a mere reflection of the light, but he seemed to emit the light from within himself, even through the heavy, dark bruises marring the perfection of his skin. He stifled the anger at the harm done the elf as shown in those horridly dark marks. He steeled himself as he made a slight noise to alert the elf of his presence. The elf stiffened and before Glorfindel could blink the elf had his longves ves in his hands as he walked cautiously amongst the trees, hunting.
“Legolas, I would prefer to talk than bleed, if it be all the same to you.” He faced the elf with the knives as he stepped out of a deeper shadow to face him.
“Lord Glorfindel, forgive me, please,” the elf dropped to one knee, hand to his chest immediately upon sight of the elder blond elf lord. He rose and stood to attention much as he had done in the Hall of Audience, face forward unseeing eyes.
“Relax, Legolas. I stand less on formality than your people,” but the elf did not relax. Glorfindel shrugged and leaned haphazardly against a tree to watch the young elf who did not move even the smallest muscle as he stood there bathed in a stream of light breaking through the limbs above them. “At least will you look at me?”
Those oceans of eyes swung to face him and grew focused. Glorfindel could not be sure whether he should shiver at the frigid temperature of those eyes or swoon with the beauty lit by the light to appear like blue stars set into silvery white skin. He shook off the shiver and focused on those eyes. The fire in them had been long banked.
“Do you not want to know why I sought you out?”
“It is not my place to question you, my Lord.”
“Not your place?” Glorfindel acted puzzled, perhaps he was slightly, he was giving this elf special attentions and he was not responding as he would have liked him so to do, “You are amazing elves, you know? So stern and reserved, yet warm at the same time. Your ways are a mystery to us, however.” He stepped forward to stand in front of the elf whose gaze never faltered on his own, “Elrond would like to know what is going on. What is this ‘service’ you must perform for Imladris and why do you not sleep in the safety of the watch?”
“An ill omen am I. Five Imladrian souls were sent to Mandos under my protection. Five lives for which I owe thirty years in service each. Service entails whatever the one I serve desires. If my Lord Elrond requires me to serve the families of those elves lost, then I will serve them. Or I will serve Imladris and the House of Elrond. The choice made is none of my concern, and I will follow it without question. Forgive my apparent rudeness, my Lord, for refusing to share your camp. According to the terms laid down by the King, I may not sleep within the confines of your camp while we still remain east of the river. I must make my own way in the darkness of night. If I should fall then all debt would be paid and honor restored bringing no disgrace to either your party or that of the Greenwood, and I will trouble the wood I love no more. It matters not whether I serve or die to restore the honor I have lost, my Lord. This is the way it will be.” He sounded resigned, his voice soft like a light wind rushing through the evergreens above the vale of Rivendell.
At this, Glorfindel decided a change of tack would not be remiss and managed to push back his growing unease in order to do so, “Will you let me tend your wounds at least?” He glanced downwards at the archer’s favored leg, the cuts upon his hands visible in the moonlight where the cloth did not cover them. He reached up to touch that angelic face marred by cuts and bruises, but the prince shied away from the touch and hurried to speak.
“I am well, my Lord, they are but scratches and, of my leg, it has been set and bound and is healing already.” Legolas did not make movemove to break their eye contact, nor did he move forward to his former position, preferring to remain out of reach. He let the silence fall between them, and found that it was not as awkward as it could have been; the sounds of life around them continued undisturbed, as if the two of them were as much a part of it as the trees amongst which they stood.
“So you remain aloof until the river is reached? And once there, will you then find your rest outside the safety of the city?” Glorfindel pursued the former line of questioning in a soft tone, his fingers playing absently with the hem of his cloak, a faint smile dancing along his lips, trying to lighten the mood between them, but his effort was for naught as the younger elf continued speaking in the same tone of quiet but stern resignation, a tone that spoke of unquestionable fact.
“Once outside Greenwood Realm I am at the disposal and will of the Lord of Imladris to do as he sees fit, my Lord. Until the woodland Guards part company with you and return, I will show them the respect one such as I should show those who have not disgraced the uniform they wear. Here I shall remain, my Lord.” The elf’s voice had not faltered once. The steady, strong tone had not broken or fluctuated out of a devoid of emotion or feeling, only repetition of what should have been known.
Glorfindel heard his words and his heart sank for a moment. The elf was beautiful beyond description, and cold as the ice-cap forever topping Caradhras. Yet there was something there, in those eyes, a fire that sparked, flared, and nearly died from the strict restraint he exerted over all emotion behind that calm veneer. He had glimpsed it as the stars, reflected in his azure blue eyes, brought light to those cerulean depths. There was a warmth in the young elf that made his blood run hot, a gentleness tempered and brought to heel by the fierceness of the warrior he already knew. He admired this elf. Young though he was, he exhibited a graceful elegance and reserve only found amongst the eldest of their kind, a reserve brought about by grief and loss, and the inevitable changes wrought by time upon them and their world. He wondered what had caused this grim, yet stately detachment in this archer-prince, apart from the obvious of his father’s disapproval, to use a mild term. He knew the feeling creeping into his mind. The attraction was there, but there was something more than that. He smiled to himself, then let the smile leak out onto his face, one side raised higher than the other in a casual, half-smirking cheeky grin as he thought of the challenge the elf presented him with, a challenge he fully intended to win.
Legolas kept his face a mask of indifferencd did distance as the elf smiled at him. The elf lord had survived and healed from the poison of Dol Guldur with remarkable speed and grace. The elf Gondolin was certainly strong, and willful, if he was not too much deceived by the winning smile the older elf let grace his features, a smile that lit his whole being up with radiance Legolas could barely stand to look upon. Scorched he felt as he looked upon him, yet drawn further in. The elf lord was stunningly handsome, long flowing light blond hair, flaxen and smoothly radiant in the moonlight so that it looked like molten, white gold sliding back from his face in many braids interlaced and from there it flowed down over his shoulders, starlight making it gleam with a golden light. There was more curl to his hair than most elves and Legolas was intrigued by the playfulness that seemed so foreign to him and to elven kind, if the mischievous smile was any indication. Yet the elf still held the careful distance characteristic of the eldest of their kind, a distance kept and learned from long experience.
The moonlight reflected in his light blue eyes seemed to dance to some hidden music lilting through the Eldar’s soul. Legolas was intrigued to say the least, and embarrassed to feel so when he had not the right to think of himself as he was thinking now. He should not consider this as within the realm of possibility or within the scope of what his life would be. If he became close to this elf, it would not be for companionship, but for duty. He reminded himself of his position, berated himself silently; making a vow to himself that he would punish himself for his stray, disgraceful thoughts. He turned his thoughts inevitably back to the elf lord standing before him in the glory of the light of moon and stars. He studied him without appearing to; his broad shoulders, finely chiseled face characterized by a strong aquiline jaw, full lips, and finely pointed ears emerging from the molten cascade of his hair where it hung loose over his ears.
Legolas was accustomed to the standoffish nature of elves, the quiet distance they put between themselves and him, the careful silence they preserved in his presence. He was not familiarized with the audacity this Eldar seemed to exude. Glorfindel of Gondolin. Glorfindel. He spoke the name in his mind as if savoring the very sound of it. And the reality of who he was speaking with hit him: he was standing before the legend he and so many others like him had heard and read about. The fallen prince’s air of dignity born of sce wce was brought down with that cheeky, almost devious grin, but still he sensed power and age in the elf lord, mostly in his eyes. He radiated power and strength in Legolas’ mind. And age. Those eyes, as playful as they seemed to be, were old beyond the younger elf’s understanding. And he was drawn into their depths. Blue like the sky at dawn. In those eyes, light and dark streaks played together with the soft lavender promise of the coming day. The weight of his gaze was both light and immense and Legolas had difficulty maintaining the connection with those heavy orbs and was pained to think of the loss there as well, but he refused to disobey the order he had been given to look at the Eldar. Neither could he find it in himself to back down- he still had too much pride for that. He saw the great ages passing in those eyes, sensed the loneliness, the loss, the joy through the connection, no matter how temporary it was. He wanted to look away from the heavy weight, but he could not bring himself to do so. He wanted never to look away, but to lose himself in those dawn-painted eyes. And he realized suddenly that the legendary Elf was allowing him to see this deeply, and this begged the question ‘why?’ He somehow pushed the doubt and the surge of hope to the rear of his mind so as not to let the Eldar see it in his own eyes.
He schooled his features to belie nothing of the thoughts and feelings raging through his mind at the perverse notion of himself and the elf lord. Surely Glorfindel would not be so afflicted as I. The Balrog Slayer would not be so base. He offers no more than support against the King and at best friendship. It cannot be more. He chastised himself firmly. He soundlessly bit his ue tue to still his mind, tasting and concentrating on the coppery sweet taste of blood in his mouth until the elf lord bade him goodnight and slipped back the way he had come. Legolas watched from the cover of the trees as the elf lord walked back to Elrond’s side and sat. No, Legolas. No. You will bring no further disgrace to your family, father, Guards, or people. No more. No more thoughts. Concentrate on the pain, the pain.
And with that thought and the departure of the Elf who had brought these torrid thoughts to life with a quiet smile and a gentle farewell of ‘Until we reach the river, then.’ The fallen prince had concentrated his thoughts upon the events of the three days following his arrival at the palace in the company of the Imladrian elves. It was not long before he sat heavily down, pressing his back up against a tree as the memories, recently made, surfaced and seemed as if reality had again seized hold of him to make him relive the awfulness he had endured. He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, the throbbing increased in his chest went ignored as his thoughts descended into the tumult of memory.
He had been waiting as was expected of him, and had been since he had made his unheard excuses from the dinner at which it seemed Elrond would not stop glancing in his direction, and would alert , if he were not careful, others to the fact that he was wounded. But now, there was one who would know, and would scarcely care. He stood from where he sat on the corner of the bed, walked to the small balcony out over-looking the forest. He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the forest fill his senses and there he remained, centering himself so that he could take the next step. He raised his face, the cool night breeze wafted across his face. He felt the first tendrils he che connection filter into him, and he welcomed it, letting it flow into him now, filling the empty hollowness inside him. He, once the connection was established, drew it in, listening to the plethora of voices unified into the song which him him some semblance of peace of mind and the strength to live. He stood there, swaying like one of the younger beeches in a summer wind, his hair picked up and moving with the quiet song, listening to the wood.
So absorbed was he that he did not notice the entrance of another. He heard not the footsteps as they approached, nor the voice that broke the silence within the room but did not penetrate the song flowing into the Sindar prince. It was not until he found himself hunched forward, breathing rapidly and deeply through the ache in his stomach that he realized the one he had been waiting for had arrived. He fell down to all fours when the elf towering above him kicked him in the ribs, drawing a hoarse cry from him as he felt the cuom tom the battle break open, Elrond’s careful stitches broken. He managed to speak before the elf could kick him again, “Please, forgive me, my Lord. I did not hear you enter.” He kept his gaze to the feet of the elf before him, the soft shoes he knew all too well. He crept forward, pressed his forehead to the toes of those shoes, smelling the familiar leather and dust, feeling the soft supple leather against his skin, causing a shudder to ripple through his frame coupled with the roiling explosion of nausea in his stomach. He swallowed, forced the rising bile in his throat down and managed to whisper his apology, “Forgive me, my Lord.”
“Get up.”
Legolas pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side and the sting of torn stitches. He stood stiffly, rigid before the other elf, staring past the elf, his hands behind his back as the other circled him, looking him up and down as if examining him for any fault, though his conclusion was foreordained, having been set to stone long ago. Legolas could not suppress fully the shudder that passed through him as the other touched his side where Elrond had removed the arrow the day before, “You, too, were injured then. I should have expected such stupid inadequacy of you this time as much as any other. I know not why I am surprised.” Mocking him with expected derision, the elder elf’s voice was condescending, laced with biting sarcasm. He stopped the touch and sat down on the bed behind Legolas, loosening his shirt in his apparent ease.
Legolas knew well what was expected of him and he acted accordingly, turning to face the other with placid compliance and began to strip himself of his clothes slowly, carefully, his actions deliberate and controlled, designed to elicit a response from the other, a response of pleasure though Legolas felt nothing but the vast emptiness inside as he fought to distance himself from his actions and the tumult in his stomach, the aching pain of dejection and grief deep within his chest, resonating through his soul. He retreated within himself, letting the song of the woods fill him again, though he broke the contact after only moments, fearing to contaminate that song with the screams, his screams whether vocalized or simply screams echoing in his mind, that he knew were to come. He used the song to center himself in the void, all sound became vaguely distant. He felt himself sinking to his knees before the other elf, felt the coldness of the stone floor on his knees, the biting sting of a sharp crack against one, and the gentle breeze wafting across his bare skin. The archer shivered as he forced his hands to make their way down the other’s clothed legs, coming to a halt on the soft suede shoes, which he unlaced and removed gently. He felt the silken cloth of the other’s leggings slide under his hands until he reached his waistband beneath the hem of his silken shirt. With practiced motions, the fallen prince drew his hands to the lacings, ran his hands over the increasing bulk still hidden. He swallowed hard as he leaned forward, nuzzled his face between the elf’s legs, the smell of arousal caused the bile to rise more threateningly in his throat. He forced it down as he loosened the laces, freeing the hardened member into the air.
The archer ran his cool, bow-calloused fingers over the heated shaft, over the vein on its underside, teasing the crown while the elf shuddered and groaned as Legolas replaced the taunting touch of his cool fingers with the heady warmth of his mouth. He wrapped his lips over his teeth, sucked gently upon the crown, swirling his tongue around the tiny slit, tasting the sickening first drops of fluid as they emerged. Nearly gagging on the taste he pushed his mind back into the void as a man holding on for life by digging his hopelessly scratched and torn fingers into any crack in the rock from which he hung precariously, as Legolas’ position was aptly described: precarious and perilous. He knew the consequences if he failed to please, and he sought to avoid it, even submitting to this heinous act was far better than the dark memories he had of prior failures.
He was brought back to the present when he felt hands twisted cruelly in his hair, pulling his head forward, forcing him to take the shaft deeper; he worked it into his mouth, sliding his tongue around its girth as he swallowed it deeper and reminding him of the knife blade upon which he walked. All through this he paid careful attention to the seemingly distant sounds of pleasure. He felt a shudder pass through the elder elf this time and before he knew it he was shoved roughly back, but found his momentum brought up short by the hand still imbedded in his hair. He could not bite back the soft cry as the movement tore at his wounds again. He felt the tickle of blood down his side, but he struggled still to get up as the hand pulled him up onto the bed. Once there he was briefly released and he crawled to the center of the bed and waited while the other elf shed his tunic and his shirt. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, laying back, distancing himself again.
He did not see the ropes as his wrists were bound above his head harshly; neither did he fight it as he was rolled over onto his front, his legs splayed and bound to the bedposts below in a similar fashion. He ignored the rough bite of the rope, focused his consciousness on the void inside him when he felt hands on his back, his sides, his hips, his thighs, clammy hands, rough hands not the hands of a lover upon his beloved, but hands of possession. Legolas trembled as the hands slid between his thighs and ventured towards the end target of the other, but he knew it would not be over so easy, and so he waited. It was not long before he felt the first burning sting of the flat wooden paddle on the tender skin on the back of his thighs. The elder elf worked his way from his thighs, up to the soft globes of his ass. The archer writhed as the hand grabbed a handful of hair again and pulled his head back painfully, the paddle working hier uer until his skin was red and raw, burning.
The elf abandoned the paddle, tossing it aside to clatter on the stone floor, and Legolas felt another more than familiar implement slide upward along his thighs, shocking him with its coldness as the elf forced the iron bar inside him. He instinctively reacted, trying to pull away, but the hand in his hair held him firm, as did his bonds. He felt the metal move inside him, a precursor to the heated shaft that would replace it, but this, for now, caused him enough pain to clear his worries about the other for now as the elf rammed it in and out of him, no attempt at pleasure for the younger elf. He gripped the ropes around his wrists and held on as the elder elf replaced the now-warmed rod with his own engorged rod, plunging into the young elf with the same palpable silence, a silence only broken by the harsh cry that slipped through the fallen prince’s lips at the brutally forceful and dry penetration.
Once the initial agony subsided, Legolas allowed himself to relax slightly, finding solace in the emptiness again, forcing the sensations around him to fade once more into the distance. Even the detachment he fostered then did not protect him from the agony, nor did it save him from the ignominious stain the very act left upon him anew each and every time he was forced to succumb. He felt the familiar sting in his eyes and he fought to control the tears, and brought them to heel before more than one had slipped down over his cheek, but he could not hold back the quaking sobs wracking his body by the time the elf mounting him came to the pinnacle of his dominance with vicious speed and vigor, drawing another, albeit softer cry from the archer as the elder exploded within him, letting loose seedseed. Legolas felt the caustic fluid burn him, scour him from within and he finally relaxed completely when the other pulled out, letting his head drop without further ado. The archer, within the cocoon of muffled silence brought about by the pronounced level of his detachment, heard the other dress rapidly, Legolas’ own attention focused on controlling his outward façade. The prince did not make any noticeable reaction when he felt the bonds tightened until he was spread so that he could not move. He remained mindful only of his own breathing, the pain in his side, the burning pain of his rear, and the reiterated humiliation of having been so used. He only allowed himself to cry when he heard the sound of the door closing followed quickly by the sound of the lock turning. He was alone, but then when was he not?
Fourth Age
He stood up, stretching his weary muscles with the simplest movements. Too long had he had been sitting, unmoving, swamped in memory long past, too distant to really feel as if it had truly happened, and therefore feeling to him now as if it were more akin to a story long faded into the realm of myth. He stood, holding himself up against the rough walls, raw fingers trying to slip into cracks or grooves to gain some kind of purchase with which he could hoist himself up onto his unwilling legs, legs newly mended, but still terribly sore. He gasped as he came to his feet at last, every nerve in his legs screaming at him to cease his uprightness while every muscle in the rest of him cried out in joy at the release from the torment of sitting as he had been for what seemed like years and years.
He let his eyes roam around the darkness, knowing it was hopeless, instead letting his fingers run over the rock encasing him as a guide to both his direction and his balance. He traced his fingers over well-known and well-traveled cracks, dips and pits in the rock, felt the grooves of the toolmarks as if they had not been there the day before, the week before, the year before. He knew very well they had been, each land and groove well- known to him. He sighed into the silent dark, listening to the creak of his joints from their lack of use.
He longed for the caress of sunlight, moonlight, and starlight. A descendant of the Forsaken was he, a Sindar descended from Elwë and Melian the Maiar, who begat a people who knew not the Light of the Two Trees and lived ever under the starlight alone during the Eldest of Days. To Varda they were indebted for she had crafted from the dew of Telperion more stars once she had learned of the coming of the Firstborn to the darkness of the Hither Lands, and thereafter Elves were called in their own tongue by Oromë who led the Vanyar and the Noldor across the sea as the Eldar, the people of the stars. He longed most of alr thr the comfort of starlight, the connection it gave him to all those who came before, those who fell, and those who turned to the West at long last. He longed for the caress of the softly radiant light of the stars, yet he knew deep within him that it would be no comfort to him, nothing could comfort him any longer, so long parted from life, love and the shattered pieces of the dreams he had dared to hope for unto his own fall, made all the more agonizing for heigheights from which he had fallen, the heights to which he had dared climb. He, a fallen, disgraced Elf, had dared to hope and had paid for it in more than blood.
To Be Continued…
Author’s Notes: I would like to take a moment to thank all those who have given me such good reviews! It imbues in me a desire to continue and to do my best to keep you all interested- so Thank You! To Calenharn Elflover, I have only recently begun reading Feud by narcolinde and wish to say that no similarity was intended. To you and to Jasmine, I foresee many possible endings, so you will just have to ‘stay tuned’ to find out just where the story ends. Does it end with our dear elf imprisoned in his dark cell, or is he freed to breathe once again the free air and to feel the warm embrace of his lover? Hmmm, I just cannot say at this time, and if I did you would all probably throw something at me for ruining it. God it drives mereadread reviews that analyze, and even quote me! I love it!
As to the plea for more, I can assure you there is more, but it will be well-spaced as I do spend some time (as if I have nothing better to do) on the chapters (can I say perfectionist?) and it is coming into spring and the busy season for the business at which I work plus I am taking a class at University for the fun of it while I prepare for Grad School. Anyway, I will do my utmost not to fail all you illustrious readers just as Legolas for Elrond and Glorfindel, his illustrious and alluring friend. Laughing I am- God I am in a strange mood tonight! I apologize for my rambling, and I hope you enjoyed this newest installment, Thank You!