Feud

Feud
www.feud.shadowess.com
By erobey, robey61@yahoo.com
Beta'd by Sarah AK

Disclaimer: the recognised characters and settings used in this fiction were created by JRR Tolkien. The words, other characters, and ideas here surrounding them belong to erobey alone. No infringement is intended or monies earned through this work.

A/N: For the story of Eluréd and Elurín, see The Silmarillion, JRR Tolkien, pp 282-284

Chapter 56: The Sons of Elrond

Now stood sonssons of Elrond upon the howling heights of the Redhorn Pass gazing out over the living schema of all Rhovanion below, marching out for leagues and leagues to a Northern horizon hidden behind the obfuscation of the Greenwood's dense curtain of wood and leaves. The elevation of the treacherous thoroughfare rendered all but the wild forest in reduced proportions.

There flowed Anduin, diminished to a sleek ribbon of shimmering gleam flung down against the variegated mantf vef verdure garbing the lowlands, olive and tan, the customary colours of meadowed fields. At the fingertips of Hithaeglir where the stony-souled shoulders of the mountains were gently rounded into soft hills clad in life-giving loam, crowded in the crux of the Celebrant and the Nimrodel, clung the isolated weald of Mellyrn Taur [Mallorn Forest]. From this vantage, the Golden Wood looked less the realm of eternal elven dream that was Lorien and more a disenfranchised legion, still a proud and fearsome army, forced back and amputated from the body of its defences until, no further retreat possible, the enchanted woods held what little glory remained in Arda against the onslaught of a darkening future.

Directly across the thin strip of the river's flood plain spiked the black spire of Dol Guldur, an obscene protrusion of Sauron's handiwork amid the majestic might of Yavanna's oaks and beeches, aligned with eerie precision to sight the approach to the High Pass. Identical eyes of dauntless sable gazed upon the vile tower yet faltered not, though surely the sense of malevolent appraisal returned upon the Imladrian Lords was not imagined.

Elladan and Elrohir did not fear the minions of Melkor's apprentice; they hunted them with predatory persistence.

Neither did the brothers, standing side by side firm upon the snow cloaked stone, quail under the vicious temper of Caradhras. Drift crystals spun through the sharp clarity of the thinned air, defining the shape of the wind that swirled in gusts and shoved against the twins in shearing down-drafts designed to loose them from the slender slickness of the granitic path. Clasped about their shoulders, fur-lined capes whipped out and around them, alternately furling and uncurling upon their knees, hugging close upon them before fanning away to snap and twitch in muffled, repudiating insolence at the breath of Redhorn.

Shoulder to shoulder, proud and bold, tall in the manner of Tuor their forebear, Elrohir and Elladan stood battle ready and armed for combat. Mithril mail protected their hearts and their hungering broadswords, too long starved for the taste of Orc, were belted at their hips, Elladan's to his left and Elrohir's upon the right.

Now like unto their masters were these weapons. Even as the brothers were born of the same seed so were these blades forged of the same metal. Imbued with equal amounts of strength and power, blessed with perfection in beauty and cogency, aglow with the light of Aman yet harbouring an unquenchable thirst for squelching the essence of the Enemy, the twin swords were unmatched upon Middle-earth except in their opposing symmetries. Once whetted, their appetites forever craved the scent of death, yearned for the sticky flow of darkness spilling from black wounds, sought the absorption of minuscule metallic components released from the scurrilous fountain upon their steely edges to settle deep within hearts never sated.

Orthoron [Conqueror] was Elladan's blade while Elrohir's sword was Daengeredir [Corpse Maker] and together they decreed retribution and dealt vengeance upon the Shadow's soldiers.

Sable were their eyes and sable was their hair, and if black was the colour of captured light then truly the brilliance of Illuin and Ormal [Lamps of Aulë] must have been caught within the glossy tresses, so richly resplendent was the sheen of vigour upon these lengthy strands. Bound back with impeccable precision, the locks lay heavily down the brothers' spines, three thick plaits preventing grappling with the gusty hands of the mountain while two long tendrils on either side, wrapped tight in tri-coloured ribbons of sea-blue, foam-white, and ruddy earthen red, framed faces fair and set in grim ferocity.

In countenance and body were these two the mirror of each other, as was renowned among all elf-kind for the rarity of the occurrence. Yet Elladan and Elrohir favoured not their sire nor was their appearance similar to the looks of Celebrian their mother. It was said that the triple heritage of three races gave them a unique beauty and regal dignity not beheld upon Arda since Dior met his doom rather than surrender the Nauglamír to the sons of Feanaro.

Great was the weight of that cursed history upon the sons of Elrond, for the ancestor's of one branc the their noble lineage had slain the kin of their forebears within the other, all for lust of the remnant of living light of the Two Trees enslaved forever within the Silmarils. And the curse was not through with the bloodline of Finwë, for the darkness had stolen away the gentle brightness of Celebrian such that no longer could the burden of life upon Arda be borne and she had departed for Aman. Upon the day she sailed had the brothers made their choice; they must in the end go over sea or forever be parted from her.

Yet, not before the vile seep of Sauron's insalubrity was cleansed from the lands, not until their insatiable swords had incised away all the pestilential infestations of Melkor's blighted progeny.

There within plain view of their sharp sight sprouted the beacon of evil from whence the Dark One broadcast his foul desolation over the lands, and from there had come the poison that had robbed Elladan and Elrohir of their mother. How many others of elf-kind had met a similar end, or a worse one? What beleaguered souls from among the woodland folk remained imprisoned there in the fuliginous vacuum of the turret's dungeons? Were those piteous eldar, tortured and twisted, maligned and marred, the source for the unending succession of generation after generation of loathsome Orcs that plagued all the peopled lands?

Such were the thoughts of Elrohir and his heart ached to know these ponderings. Beside him Elladan shuddered in horror of this image wrought in his brother's brain, for what one twin knew in his mind the other understood simultaneously, and what the other experienced in spirit his counterpart's soul felt in equal fullness. So complete was the link between the two that seldom did words pass spoken between them. Physically they mimicked this interior communion such that never was one seen without the other close at hand and the gemini moved through life with unison of purpose and predestined ardour to accomplish the will of Eru and undo the corruption of Arda.

With precipitous synchrony the brothers turned from contemplation of the compelling citadel and began their descent to the Dimril Dale and the borders of Lorien. Behind them on the path their mounts needed no orders to follow and stepped forward after their masters with footfalls as silent upon the snowy carpet as the tread of the brothers' elven boots.

Solid, strong, intelligent, and beautiful, the horses were worthy of the First Born who had trained them up from spindle legged colts into mature warriors in their own rights. Their coats gleamed in the wan sunlight, richly brown in mahogany tones except for the broad equine foreheads, each of which was starred with a single round dot of pure white hair. No gear or tack adorned them, but upon their sturdy legs were bound mithril gaiters, for the brothers would not suffer the stallions to be lamed in battle, Orcs being notorious for attacking horses' limbs to unseat the rider.

The present steeds represented the descendants of the twins' first war horses, long dead for nearly an Age; their lineage documented one hundred and twelve generations back along the stallions' male bloodlines, according to the custom of the Noldor. Elladan's mount was Nirmë [Act of Will] and Elrohir's charger was Namië [Judgement] and the brave beasts were as eager as their masters to meet the Orc hordes of Dol Guldur in combat.

Elrohir felt strongly the pull to confront the putrid powers sequred red in the Dark Fortress, and Elladan's hand moved to rest upon his brother's shoulder, drawing him back to the immediate task. Always was it thus, Elrohir sought to hasten the completion of their mission while Elladan supplied the rational caution their perilous life's work demanded.

More than the tower called to the younger twin, for long had his thoughoverovered near the wild lands and the savage eldar dwelling hidden in xenophobic seclusion beyond the forbidding gloom of the forest's eaves. Elrohir was first alerted to these folk when he had been but an elfling under a mild punishment for a not too minor offence.

Against Elladan's protests, he had released the contented, domestic livestock of the Last Homely House from their well-kept pens into the freedom of the open fields and orchards of Imladris, where the cattld dod done much damage to neighbours' crops and homesteads. After securing the animals and apologising to every elf affected by the liberation of Yavanna's lesser creations, he had been ordered to clean and catalogue a long neglected stack of old scrolls and obscure books.

The real punishment, however, had been his separation from Elladan, who had not been included in the consequent reprisals for the ill-conceived return of the lowly beasts to their natural state nor allowed to succour his brother through the dreary chore.

Elrohir had read more than he had worked, and had found an account of the attack upon Menegroth by Celegorm and his brothers. Of all the terrible deeds documented against the Noldor, the abandonment of the twin sons of Dior made the strongest impact upon the impressionable youth. Too close to his father's history, and thus his own, was this sad legend and ever after Elrohir's heart wandered after the fate of Elurín and Eluréd.

Even when full-grown and a seasoned warrior, the youngest of Elrond's offspring sought out any hint or rumour relating to the time after the fall of the Sindarin Realm in Beleriand. Only Elladan knew the true extent of this obsession, and was perpetually redirecting his twin away from the interior of Thranduil's Realm for Elrohir had convinced himself that their great-uncles would be found among the Danwaith, or at least knowledge of them discovered.

The ongoing attention Elrond had bestowed the the Greenwood, or rather upon one particular citizen thereof, only served to fuel the intensity of his son's curiosity by giving him another possible relative to seek out: the child of Ningloriel.

Elladan no longer attempted to deter or forestall his brother's mental quandary over these elusive and ambiguous kinfolk. Such an activity would be as futile as Elrohir's efforts to know the truth. Moreover, there was nothing illogical or far-fetched about the younger twin's reasoning and in fact Elladan agreed with his brother's deductions.

If the accounts of the history-makers were true, then Elurín and Eluréd had been seized and dragged away from the cooling bodies of their parents even before the life-blood had ceased to gush from the mortal wounds. Inspired by rage for the death of Celegorm, his trusted servant, a female warrior reputed to be the Noldo's paramour, commanded the action and lead the small group away into the heart of the forest beyond the former bounds of Melian's protection. There in the deep wilds were the young ones left, overwrought in grief and terror, to starve or to fade or to become fodder for wolves.

Now Elrohir had often pointed out that these woods, while appearing to the Noldor rugged and inhabited only by beasts and birds, were in fact home to scattered groups of Green Elves. Surely these eldar must have seen all that transpired and would nevave ave left two elflings defenceless and alone, especially knowing the identity of the pair, as they must, for long years had Dior dwelt in Ossiriand and there his two sons were born. Nay, the Sylvan elves would have gathered up the orphans and escorted them over Ered Luin to be adopted among the Danwaith of the Greenwood, there to abandon not their life and breath but only the names that marked them as the heirs of Thingol, for word spread that Maedhros was diligently searg fog for the twins.

It was a great tale, and Elrohir believed it wholly, and in his own heart Elladan also hoped for this to be the completion of the history of the sons of Dior. Yet there was no remedy for the mystery, for the lands in which the search would take them were forbidden, by their father as well as the Woodland King.

Faster than an eye can blink the entirety of Elrohir's lament against the cruelty of fate and the obdurance of destiny flowered and was collected instantly within Elladan's consciousness where he matched the melancholy rage of his brother with equally vehement passion against the darkness overshadowing their family. Within Elladan's spirit arose the summation ofir cir calling and the hope of freedom their work promised and this image of noble sacrifice flowed back into his brother's psyche to soothe the bitter emptiness in both their souls. It comforted them to address the unchangeable doom of the Silmaril's protectors in this way.

Halfway down the steep incline the brothers halted and gazed upon the southernmost borders of Greenwood, for a figure on horseback emerged into view, racing with all speed the steed could command toward the safety of Mellyrn Taur. The rider, an elf dressed in the colours of Thranduil's warriors, urged the weary animal on and drew farther into the brown, desiccated plains dividing the enchanted realm from the looming blackness of Mirkwood. Now his pursuers could be discerned as well: Warg Riders, three in number, howling obscenities and brandishing short stubby sabres encrusted with gore and rust.

Too far away to be of aid, Elladan and Elrohir froze, tensely transfixed, and witnessed the deadly race. From above the rate of progress appeared sluggish and slow, yet the twins knew the horse was running with every ounce of endurance its muscles could supply. Keen eyes allowed them to note the sweat-lathered flanks and flaring nostrils of the steed and the calm demeanour of the Sylvan upon its back. Together they judged the skill and speed of messenger and mount sufficient and relaxed as the elf drew ever closer to the eaves of Lorien.

The Wargs seemed tireless, driven by fear or demonic magic, and ran with jaws slavering and fangs revealed, hungry and mad with it. The equestrian paid no attention to the shouted threats or the low gurgling growls of the beasts on his charger's heels. With determined insistence he made for the Anduin, and steadily increased the distance between them. The river was reached and the horse plunged into the current while the Orcs halted abruptly amid a thick cascade of arrow fire from among the tree-lined banks of the opposite shore.

Elrohir and Elladan smiled gloating grins to one another and continued their journey eagerly; anxious to hear what news the Woodland courier bore to the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood.

Not as fortunate was the Greenwood's rider sent to bear the King's tidings of triumphant joy in the birth of the new Woodland prince to Imladris. This messenger only made the trip alive due to the loyalty and intelligence of the courageous charger, for the hapless elf ran afoul of the remnant of the defeated legion from the Misty Mountains returning to the stinking holes that served as abodes for the vile servants of Sauron. Upon discovering the elda the Orcs gave chase and, unlike their counterparts in the southern regions, these beastly creations were armed with bows; one unleashed an arrow that anchored into the rider's thigh.

Nearly unseated, the Sylvan warrior could only pray the barb was untainted as she quickly armed and aimed her weapon, releasing whatever served as souls for Orcs from the three persistent enemies crowding the Dwarven Road. On the opposite slopes of the Mountains far from the limit of the Sinda Lord's holdings, the messenger wrapped her fingers through the mare's mane where it streamed from the horse's neck and leaned in anguished distress upon the steed's heaving shoulders. It would be a near thing, making the ford of the Bruinen before her strength gave out, and she drove her fleet-footed companion on. She dared not halt to tend the wound, for should she pull it forth and it was poisoned, then the increased flow of blood would move the venom more quickly through her veins.

The war-horse was of the sturdy stalwart breed raised among the trees, not as tall of limb or as broad in dth dth as their cousins adapted to the plains of Rohan or those powerful chargers trained for combat within the walls of Minas Tirith. The Woodland equines mimicked Eru's fair Children of the Greenwood. Slight of frame and compactly muscled, the Sylvan's mount was agile and swift, made for slipping through the bolls and bracken with alacrity and stealth, and her coat of glossy fur was splattered and dappled white upon brown in imitation of patches of sunlight that crossed the forest floor upon Anor's trek through the heaven's each day.

Indeed, the sun had set twice before the ford was reached, and by the dawn of the second morn the ridad lad lost consciousness and lay draped upon the horse's neck. Then did the mare's step quicken yet retained the unrivalled balance and soothing gait that somehow looked more a dance of elegant display than the desperate run for help which in truth it was. Under the faint gleam of Ithil's slender sickle in the closing hours of the second night's passing, the charger scented water and the unmistakable essence of horses bearing elf kind. As the advent of Anor's return lit a band of brightness below the departing black and diamond glimmer, three sentries rode forth from the banks beyond the river and waded into the stream to guide the mare across.

The riders and their horses were all known one to another, for this Sylvan was the assigned courier to the court of Imladris. Friendship there was between these soldiers, nurtured by the common ground of shared experience and long travail against the deepening darkness accosting both sides of the dividing range of jagged peaks. Once safe within the domain of Elrond's protection, the warriors gently lifted the wounded messenger from her steed to rest in the arms of the fastest among the three and straightaway he sped for the Last Homely House and the healers there.

But the arrow point was dipped in toxins and so, ere Anor set a third time, far from the comfort of homeland and kin, fell the only elven casualty of Legolas' battle against the Orcs.

Of such events the Lord of Imladris must be advised, and so Glorfindel knew, yet he hesitated to take the news to his esteemed colleague. Elrond's manner had been strange of late.

Short of patience and quick to temper, the son of Eärendil spent less than half his usual time with his council, delegating the cares of state to Lindir and Gildor Inglorion. Little did he sleep, even by the standards of elf-kind, and long hours he spent roaming the manicured grounds of his peaceful haven, yet no ease could his troubled mind and worried heart obtain within the sheltered valley. As now, his attention strayed to remembrance of the month's worth of days spent among the towering trees of the Woodland Realm in the company of the feral son of his former lover.

{Was it but one cycle of Ithil's waxing?}

Legolas had become a constant presence in his thoughts and a burning torment to his body as his loins longed for lunging completion within the constricting channel between the lean and lanky shanks of the wild elf.

{How can it have been only once?}

As on other days since his return, Elrond's restless mind directed his steps to paths that would ensure his isolation from the rest of the household. He stood upon the cliff overlooking the falls where the Bruinen dived down into the hidden haven. Here the roar of the turbulent cascade emulated the torrent of emotions flooding his soul and the virulent flush of the western sky afire with the passing of Anor mocked the heated, florid hardness within his groin. Not since Gil-Galad had Elrond known a need so insatiable.

It was his father's uncle, heir of the noble line of Fingolfin, who initiated Elrond into the illicit delights of carnal coupling with his own sex. The affair with Ereinion had been his first and only such relationship until the taking of the wild archer. More than mere physical attraction had drawn him to the High King and Elrond's heart had been compromised; the fabled warrior had been the herald's first love.

The damage done to the younger son of Elwing upon the destruction of Gil-Galad was nearly lethal. Only a deathbed vow to stay and complete the route of Sauron's evil held Elrond's feä bound to hroa and both to Middle-earth. That, and Vilya. Duty, obligation, and honour became the scaffold upon which the Lord of Imladris maintained a semblance of the majesty and might of the eldar in the First and Second Ages in his hidden haven in the hollow between the natural protection of the Loud Water and the mist mantled mountains. The vale still sang with elven voices, but its master's no longer joined the song.

And love he knew never again except as the gleam of pride for his offspring and the comfort of comradeship with their mother.

Thus the noble Lore Master, revered healer, Keeper of Vilya, and esteemed member of the Council of the Wise was stunned to discover the stirring in his stymied heart that accompanied the stimulation of his libido whenever his imagination was overtaken by the image of the fallen archer. What to do about it he could not determine, and a blinding panic attended every episode of daydreaming which featured the Sylvan outcast.

{Legolas!}

Elrond's reason swayed to extremes, on the one tilt decreeing an exorcism of the robust hallucinations and a return to the sober-minded stability for which the Noldo Lord was known. Yet in its next contraction his heart surged boldly, demanding its right to know the fullness ove've's promise hinted at in the person of the Woodland warrior. For Legolas had offered Elrond something not even Gil-Galad had supplied: compassionate acceptance.

Neither did it escape the Imladrian's excited comprehension that Legolas would submit willingly, completely, and beg to be taken if denied this subjugation.

That the High King had been fair beyond measure among the members of the House of Finwë was indisputable and the orphan of the Mariner and his elven wife had been easily smitten and enthralled by the magnetic appeal of the powerful ruler. But the coupling of the pair had never resulted in anything less than Elrond's surrender to the Noldo King's zealous penetration. However, during their passionate liaison, no complaints had the herald against the delights their joining brought him.

But the Last Alliance was broken when Isildur sealed his fate and that of all the free peoples, dooming his line and suffering death under the ring-bound might of the very enemy he had felled. Too many were sacrificed to secure this galling defeat within the glory of victory, Gil-Galad among the brightest and most valorous of the Star Children killed that day. When the burying and the burning were done then did Elrond find his desire, for male or female, had died as well, and the needs of the flesh faded to dormancy in the bitter gloom of his sorrow and grief.

Later, when the newness of the tragic loss and the sharpness of his agony had dulled, friends and kin gently reminded the leader of Lindon's refugees of the importance of continuing the lineage of his forebears, and Elrond had half-heartedly agreed to an alliance by marriage. Upon that scene of impending matrimony broke the maelstrom that was the fiery feä of Ningloriel, flaunting her beauty and her profligate lust to rekindle the flame of lascivious craving in the neglected hroa of the new Noldo Lord.

Astounding was the contrast between the two females, for Celebrian was refined without hauteur and noble beyond the need of outward signs, coolly calm no matter the situation, assured of her place and her future. Where Celebrian was imbued with gentle strength, an elegant hind darting through the well-worn paths of the world she commanded, Ningloriel was a tigress, stalking with eyes burning in ravenous hunger for any means to secure another morsel of power and prestige. Celebrian negotiated and compromised, Ningloriel devoured what she desired.

That both had traded any meaningful commitment for the sake of kindred and homeland was a similarity of circumstance that would have kept them friends for life had the situation developed differently.

Yet the elven ladies, as radically different as were their personalities, exhibited startling accord in their attitudes surrounding sexual resources. Access to their carnal charms was a gift, a precious privilege to be savoured and nurtured. If Elrond failed to appreciate and properly attend to each one's distinct demands, the concession would be revoked, for there were many others who would not be loath to acquiesce to the ladies' needs.

Until Legolas, none of this had seemed burdensome nor had anything specific been found wanting in the physical aspects of Elrond's union with either of the females sharing his life. He had enjoyed their bodies and they his, each finding release and satisfaction for their cupidity that never touched upon their souls. None of them invested an ounce of emotional attachment in the other nor harboured any illusions of being so cherished.

{Legolas, wanton and wild, beautiful and powerful, compassionate and giving. Strange, within the one are blended the qualities that singly each of the other three possessed.}

Vastly different was the archer's training concerning sexual gratification, for he was conditioned to seek completion only after enduring lengthy torment of spirit and body, held on the brink of escalating ecstasy by the application of pain, compelled to submit to whatever humiliation his partner desired to secure his own pleasure. And this Legolas required, nay demanded, to a degree Elrond had never observed firsthand before. The fallen archer deemed it normal and right to find release in this manner, and so strong was the desire to be possessed that Legolas would allow any cruelty, every punishment.

{And if he is misused or abused in receipt of such pleasures then such is his due when he has chosen to partake in the act.}

Legolas granted access to his body not as a gift to be cherished but as a treasure to be plundered and despoiled solely for the exhilarating sensation of power and control such degradation granted, both to himself and his partner.

Before encountering this perspective of sexual depravity, Elrond would never have considered himself amenable to such practices. Certainly he had never wanted to hurt Celebrian, and while the desire to take Gil-Galad had definitely manifested itself in dream and fantasy, never would he have thought to accomplish this through force. Ningloriel, however, was a case apart. Often had the Lord of Imladris imagined wringing her erotically slender, elegant throat while in the throes of their passion, achieving his ejaculation at the instant the light of her mind fled from her flashing blue eyes.

He hated her for that, for making him a killer even if only within his imagination. He despised her for refusing to do without Maltahondo, for making it impossible to do without her insistent and lusty sex, for leaving him so easily while he still yearned for her body.

And so Elrond felt that he had a certain right to claim Legolas for his own. It was his due for all the long years of self-denial and deprivation he had endured, for bearing the demands of family, duty, and honour at the expense of his own fulfilment, for tolerating the cruelty of Ningloriel's self-centred outlook and selfish retreat from the wreck of her marriage.

{I will have Legolas, his body and his heart, and both I will break utterly just for the pleasure such destruction will garner!}

With a bone-jolting shiver Elrond roused himself from such vile introspection, horrified both to have entertained such black desires and to yet remain aroused in the aftermath of this demented meditation. He shouted his fury over his inability to control this obscene obsession, a stream of curses against the Valar and Eru and Legolas poured into the deafening clamour of the river pounding the rocks below even as his hands hurriedly unveiled his intransigent cock and began pumping it brutally. He leaned back upon the boulders amid the spray of the cataract's descent and reached into the pocket of his opened robes to retrieve the stolen memento from his initial acquisition of the feral warrior.

Elrond wrapped the long, ropy lock around his penis, gasping at the sensation of Legolas' hair upon his sensitive flesh, and began pulling and squeezing again, pivoting and rocking his pelvis, shoving his cock through the tightening grip. He closed his eyes and imagined the roughly wound strand passing over his shaft was the scarred interior of the younger elf, and thrust harder. He envisioned the archer on his back beneath him, long limbs hooked over the Noldo's shoulders, writhing against the pain of being torn by Elrond's excessive girth drilling deeper with every heave.

Lost in the fantasy, Elrond heard Legolas pleading for more. He felt him struggling to push back, hands scuffing frantically upon the shalely ground to secure support and allow an increase in the depth of the bruising impalement. The wild elf spurted his essence shouting Elrond's name, while the Elf Lord's heavy testicles rubbed against the archer's yielding arse each time he forced his swelling member back inside the vice-like confinement. This phantom sensation raised a savage shout from his gut as Elrond spent himself violently, waves of euphoric elation washing through nerve and sinew as the strongly scented fountain of warm semen issued forth and oozed over his clenching fist.

Pulse hammering and breath ragged, bathed more in sweat than the mist of the waterfall, Elrond's delight rapidly diminished as his penis deflated, and in disgust he cursed Legolas' existence once more, flinging his hand through the air to rid his fingers of the sticky evidence of his futile attraction. This was as close as he would ever get to fucking the wild elf again, and Elrond was overcome simultaneously with rage for the deprivation and self-loathing for succumbing to so base an inclination.

Yet as he knelt by the streaming water to cleanse himself he took care to rinse away the smear of seed from the keepsake he harboured and returned it to its secure confinement within his robes once more.

The Lord of Imladris found his feet and straightened up, adjusting his clothing back to resume his usual appearance of refined dignity and turned to leave. He found the pathway blocked by the presence of his Master at Arms. The expression upon the Vanyarin warrior's features turned Elrond's countenance crimson with unbearable shame; Glorfindel had witnessed his unseemly act of masturbation.

Tbc