Princes Three: Any Shelter

Imladris 2151 III

Elrond hid a smile as he watched the woodland king succumb to Erestor’s gentle but

insistent public seduction. Thranduil quickly fell under the spell of the advisor’s

quiet attention and light touches, his earlier unease fading in the comfortable

surroundings.

The crowd was large in the Hall of Fire, many elves joining the gathering simply to

catch a glimpse of the Mirkwood royal. “You are causing quite a stir, mellonen,”

Elrond remarked, his smile widening. “‘Tis a good thing you are spoken for, else I

should have a riot on my hands.”

Thranduil snorted good-naturedly, shifting closer to Erestor in his attempt to reach

the bottle of miruvor the three elves were sharing. “I cannot believe . . . ,” he

began, stopping to nod his thanks as the advisor poured more miruvor. “I cannot

believe that your people are so taken by my hair, híren, when they live daily with

Glorfindel and the Lady Celebrian.”

“‘Tis not the hair in this case, meldir,” Erestor explained, his indigo eyes

sparkling with mirth, “but what it crowns. The exotic King of Mirkwood is a figure of

legend among the younger elves of the valley.”

As the woodland king began to shake his head in disbelief, Elrond broke in

seriously. “‘Tis true, Thranduil. Anteruon is what, fifteen centuries?”

“Nearly sixteen,” the proud father agreed with the ghost of a smile.

“‘Twas several years before his begetting when you last visited Imladris,” the

peredhel pointed out. “Legolas came to us one winter as a young elfling, but you could

not leave Taur-na-Fuin to travel with him.”

“Has it truly been that long?” the golden elf mused in amazement.

“It has, indeed,” Erestor answered, smiling at his friend’s surprise. “Many of

those vying to see you are of an age with the gwanûn, or even younger. The rest are

elders who wish to see how Oropher’s son turned out in the end.”

Falling silent, the advisor tilted his head as though listening, then turned and

took Thranduil’s arm. “Glorfindel has returned from patrol, and he is going up to

bathe. Come along, mellonen. We will take up a tray, as he is sure to be hungry.”

Leaning closer, his breath tickling the woodland king’s ear, Erestor murmured, “Quite

hungry.”

************************************

Grey Mountains 2151 III

Legolas walked slowly back toward the camp, reluctant to face Elladan, yet eager to

have the meeting behind him. When he reached the tent site, the woodland prince

stopped in consternation, watching as the lightweight fabric was expertly folded and

packed away. “Where is ‘Dan?” he asked Tiriadon, looking around with a frown. “I must

speak with him ere we leave.”

“I am not sure,” the captain replied uneasily. “He headed for the stream.”

Looking intently at the golden elf, Tiriadon lowered his voice. “Is something amiss,

mellonen? I have never seen him so solemn, not even in the midst of battle. And his

face...his throat....’tis as though...as if....”

“‘Tis as if he were mauled. Say it and be done.” Casting a bleak look at his

captain, Legolas said hoarsely, “Aye, Tiri, something is amiss.”

The woodland prince hurried toward the shallow stream, his heart pounding in his

throat, and caught sight of Elladan almost immediately. The elder twin had obviously

bathed in the icy water. He stood tying his leggings, a sheen of moisture still

visible on his bare chest and arms, his raven dark hair tied back to reveal the full

extent of the past evening’s folly.

Legolas inhaled audibly as he came near enough to see the myriad of bruises, bites

and scrapes that marred the dark elf’s skin. Stopping several paces from his silent

lover, the prince found himself at a loss for words, and he started visibly when

Elladan addressed him without meeting his eyes. “Was there something you needed?”

“I...I...wanted to talk to you,” the golden elf said in a rush, taking an uncertain

step forward. “I know ‘tis little comfort, but I am sorry, melethen. So sorry.”

“You are right. It is little comfort,” the elder twin replied after a

moment, his voice carefully neutral. Raising clouded grey eyes, he met the pained

blue-green gaze. “But I know you meant no harm.”

“My intention matters little when my actions have hurt you so, ‘Dan,” Legolas said,

reaching toward his lover. The prince’s stomach knotted sickeningly as Elladan

stepped back, avoiding the impulsive touch. “Will you forgive me, el nín? Can

you forgive me?” he asked fearfully.

“I have already said that I know you meant no harm, Legolas,” the elder twin

answered. “Let us speak no more of it.”

“But we need to speak of it, “ the woodland prince began imploringly. “There must

be . . . ”

“We need to prepare for the journey,” Elladan interrupted, pulling on his tunic.

“There is much still to pack.”

“I will braid your hair, if you like,” Legolas offered hesitantly, as they started

back toward the rest of the camp.

“‘Tis kind of you, but you need not trouble yourself,” the dark elf said formally,

turning away before the prince could protest. “Elrohir will do it.”

****************************************

Imladris 2151 III

Thranduil smiled as the sounds of an impromptu water fight spilled from the open

bathing chamber door. His anxiety much relieved by Erestor’s warmth and Elrond’s

cordial, the woodland king slipped off his formal tunic and boots before settling in

one of the comfortably overstuffed chairs to wait.

A waterlogged wail was abruptly silenced, replaced by a kiss-smothered chuckle, and

Thranduil found himself suddenly a bit melancholy. Though he had taken lovers since

his queen’s death, the woodland king had not allowed himself to become close to any one

bedmate. He could offer naught but pleasure, for his soul was bound, and he feared

forming an attachment that might end in pain for an unwary partner.

More than anything, he missed the daily interaction with his queen- the teasing,

talking and cuddling that were so much a part of a strong bond. Thranduil sighed and

reached up to unbind his tightly woven braids, only to have his hands pushed aside.

“Let me do that, mellonen,” Erestor insisted, leaning down to brush a soft kiss over

the other’s mouth. His nimble fingers flying, the advisor soon had his hands full of

silken strands. “Your hair is paler than ‘Findel’s,” the dark elf announced with

interest, smoothing the waves left by the binding. “‘Tis more like
sunlight than gold.”

“Is that a fault or a blessing, then?” Thranduil asked teasingly, his spirits

brightened unaccountably by the simple attention.

“A blessing, definitely,” Erestor replied with a smirk. “I shall know who has been

shedding on my pillow.” Releasing his friend’s hair, he added, “Go on into the bathing

chamber. Glorfindel likes company, save when he is in a foul mood. I will lay out our

robes to warm.”

Though Thranduil entered the bathing chamber uncertainly, he was quickly put at ease

by Glorfindel’s cheerful manner and obvious delight at his company. The Balrog-slayer

kept up a continuous stream of banter as he stepped from the tub and toweled himself

dry, mercifully ignoring the woodland king’s covetous stare.

A half-hour’s passing found all three elves sprawled on the heavy rug in naught but

robes, quickly polishing off the last of the cheese and fruit from the seneschal’s

dinner tray. Stretching lazily, Glorfindel turned his sapphire gaze on their guest.

“Have you given thought to how you would have us begin this night?”

Drawing a deep breath, Thranduil noted idly that miruvor really did help. He

was only vaguely discomfitted by the frank question. “I would have Erestor choose,”

the Mirkwood royal responded readily. As the advisor began to protest, he raised one

hand in a plea for silence. “Please, mellonen,” he said, touching the dark elf’s arm.

“‘Twould assuage the last of my guilt.”

Arching one ebony eyebrow at Glorfindel, who shrugged agreeably, Erestor turned a

contemplative gaze on the woodland king before rising gracefully. “I believe I shall

enjoy this greatly,” he purred, extending a hand to Thranduil. “And I will make sure

that you do, also.”

The woodland king accepted the offered hand, his glance flickering between his two

companions. Some communication to which he was oblivious had passed between the bonded

pair, of that he was sure. Fighting a flash of unease, Thranduil allowed himself to be

led to the pillow-strewn bed.

Erestor urged his companion to sit, meeting the wary emerald eyes with concern. “We

would not harm you, mellonen,” he said soberly, unbelting his robe. “I would

not harm you, nor distress you. A word, and all will cease.”

“Aye,” Thranduil breathed before speech failed him momentarily, his attention

completely captured by the sensual slide of blood-red silk over pale flesh. The robe

slid unheeded to the floor, revealing a lightly muscled form, the translucent skin

warmed by the glow of candlelight. Enormous eyes of an indigo so deep as to seem black

met his own with no hint of reticence. Obsidian-dark hair spilled unbound down the

advisor’s back, the ends just brushing the tops of his thighs.

“Do I please you, then, pen vain?” Erestor asked impishly, amusement glimmering in

his arresting eyes. “Or has distaste stolen your voice?”

“Not distaste,” Thranduil managed, as his robe joined the other on the floor, and

then he was borne down onto the soft mattress by surprisingly strong arms, his mouth

thoroughly explored by an invading tongue. All anxiety fled before the hands and mouth

that expertly plied his body, tugging and suckling at his pierced nipples, blazing a

trail of wet fire across his chest and abdomen, stroking him quickly to full hardness.

A groan of unrestrained pleasure escaped the woodland king’s lips as a gossamer

light touch brushed his groin and his arousal was engulfed in a warm mouth, beset by

teeth and tongue. Groans and whimpers increased in volume as fingers slick with some

unknown fluid pressed into his body, stroking him from within. A fierce pressure

began building low in Thranduil’s belly, and he tugged urgently at the silken hair that

was spread over his trembling body. “Wait,” he gasped, “I cannot . . . I will . . . ”

Erestor raised his head to look at his nearly incoherent victim. “Aye, you will,”

he agreed with a grin before lowering his head to swallow his lover’s weeping length,

his fingers moving to deftly flip and twist the gold nipple rings.

Thranduil arched off the bed, biting his own hand to muffle the howl that burst from

his chest as he spilled into the caressing warmth. Shuddering in the aftermath of his

climax, the woodland king weakly returned offered kisses, moaning at the taste of his

own seed on Erestor’s tongue.

The dark elf buried his face in golden tresses, nipping sharply at one flushed ear.

“Now we will play,” he announced silkily, causing goose bumps to crawl over Thranduil’s

body. Lifting his head to meet the satiated emerald gaze, he continued, “I would take

you, if you will let me, melethen.”

Not trusting himself to speak, the wood-elf nodded, offering no resistence as firm

hands urged him to elbows and knees, his flushed face cradled in the rumpled coverlet

at the foot of the bed. Then his hips were caught in a sure grip and he was mounted

without preamble. There was but a moment’s respite before Thranduil felt his body

lifted, and he settled fully onto the impaling flesh with a whimper, his back pressed

snugly to Erestor’s chest.

“Are you well?” the dark elf breathed, his hands moving soothingly over his lover’s

skin.

“Aye,” Thranduil sighed, the practiced touches quickly reawakening his desire. As

the word left his mouth, a warm fist folded around his filling shaft and sharp teeth

sank into his shoulder. “Watch him, then, pen vain,” Erestor ordered, his tongue

easing the sting of his teeth.

Raising his eyes obediently, the woodland king was unable to suppress a yearning

groan, or still the tremor that ran through his body.

Glorfindel stood near the foot of the bed, his blue robe open to reveal a powerfully

muscled body, golden hair hanging in sensual disarray over his broad shoulders. As

Thranduil stared with rapt attention, the seneschal ran one strong hand over his own

chest, stopping to lazily tweak a pebbled nipple.

The woodland king licked his dry lips as the robe fell away, and the wandering hand

moved lower on Glorfindel’s shimmering body, sliding easily across the sweat damp skin.

Sapphire eyes dilated with desire met Thranduil’s astonished gaze, and a sultry smile

spread across the Balrog-slayer’s fair face. “Do you like it?” he murmured, shuddering

as his hand continued its descent, cupping and kneading his tight sac.

“I do,” Thranduil answered hoarsely, rocking instinctively into Erestor’s grasp,

drawing a satisfied chuckle from the dark elf. The wood-elf watched breathlessly as

Glorfindel continued his exhibition, somewhat surprised that watching another pleasure

himself should be so arousing.

At last one large hand closed around the seneschal’s straining erection, and a groan

of relief escaped all three elves as he began to stroke in earnest, his hand moving

rapidly, as thigh and buttock muscles began to clench rhythmically.

Thranduil’s head fell back, his eyes closing in anticipation as the hand moving on

his aching length drew him nearer and nearer to release. He was taken unaware when

Glorfindel’s mouth closed over his arousal and the seneschal’s fierce grip steadied him

against brutal thrusts from below. Eyes flying open in shock, the woodland king watched

the golden head move once . . . twice, then he was wailing without thought or reason,

his body trembling in a violent release that left him limp and dazed.

Caught in a complacent fog, Thranduil was only idly aware of Erestor’s climax a

heartbeat later, or the hot rush of fluid that dappled his thighs as Glorfindel spilled

at the same instant. Long moments passed before he stirred to find himself snugly

cradled between his lovers.

Turning his head to meet the seneschal’s brilliant blue gaze, then the dark elf’s

soft indigo eyes, the woodland king drew a deep breath. “‘Twas amazing,” he said,

pleasure warring with exhaustion in his voice. “Amazing.”

Glorfindel chuckled, the affectionate sound sending a wave of warmth through

Thranduil’s body. “And it has only begun,” the Balrog-slayer promised with a grin.

TBC...

Elvish translations:

mellonen - my friend

híren - my lord

meldir - friend (male)

Taur-na-Fuin - Mirkwood (wood of nightshade)

gwanûn - twins

melethen - my love

el nín - my star

pen vain - beautiful one