Seascapes

SEASCAPES

Chapter 7

Warm hands stroking his thighs woke him, some time before daybreak. No sudden jolt into consciousness, this, but a slow, insistent pull drawing him gently from his dreamless rest into the reality of his pleasure. For a while he lay without thought as the hands, knowing and firm, caressed his hips and belly before returning to his thighs and lingering there.

When long fingers delved into the space between his legs, and brushed leisurely upwards to fondle the tender sac and the flesh behind, his unwitting response betrayed his wakefulness, and he finally opened his eyes.

The chamber lay in darkness, but for the faint glow emanating from his lover’s pale skin, and the shimmering fall of hair that partly covered Legolas’s face, as he bent in concentration to his task. Imrahil remained still, feeling himself harden and swell, the convulsive heat of desire building in his gut, as the elf’s hands continued their tantalising work. Palms slid across skin, now feather-light, now roughly dragging; fingers kneaded, nails gently scraped; maddening touches everywhere except his aching cock.

Just as he reached the point where he knew he could keep still and silent no longer, but must cry out for relief or reach to bring it himself, the elf bent lower, soft hair fell across him, and he felt the warm, moist tongue lick him once, slowly and deliberately, from base to tip. He groaned, shuddering with helpless lust, as Legolas raised his head once more, and spoke.

“Good morning, lover.” The voice alone was almost enough to make him come.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before replying.

“Our exertions must have adversely affected your mind, my lovely elf, if you are not aware that it is still night time.”

“I have retained some small measure of wit, my beautiful man, in spite of your proximity,” Legolas retorted briskly. “Dawn approaches and I should return to my chamber, but I would watch you lose yourself in pleasure once more before I go.”

“I cannot argue with such a proposition,” said Imrahil, with a dramatic sigh. “Therefore I must submit.”

Without warning, Legolas wrapped a hand around his cock and held it in a firm grip, causing Imrahil to gasp and arch his back.

“Oh, not yet,” the elf murmured, his tone dangerously smooth, “but you shall do so before long, I assure you.”

It was only later, when Legolas had silently closed the door of the chamber behind him, that Imrahil’s thoughts regained sufficient clarity for him to reflect on the wonderfully unpredictable nature of his lover. Each encounter, it seemed, brought something quite new, awakening responses that he could not have imagined lying dormant within him.

At times the elf would lie willing and compliant in his arms, his expressive blue eyes encouraging Imrahil to claim him forcefully, as on that first golden afternoon. Justfreqfrequently, however, Legolas would assume total control, leaving the man to abandon himself to rapture in the demanding warrior’s hands. On occasion their lovemaking was slow and sensuous, fuelled, it seemed, as much by the strength of their friendship as by the fires of their lust; while sometimes the burning need between them threatened to consume them both, and they fell upon each other in hungry pursuit of a rapid, violent climax.

Playful and intense, teasing and compassionate, earthy and mysterious; Legolas was all of these and so much more besides. To say that Imrahil was captivated by him would be to understate the truth.

His mind full of images of the elf, the prince fell into a light, fitful sleep, fragmented dreams of passion tormenting him in the absence of his lover. When he awoke the morning light was streaming through the window and the castle was coming alive. He was unsurprised to find that he was hard and needful once more, and release came quickly in his own hand, as he recalled Legolas’s exhaustive conquest of him in those moments before dawn.

Marvelling at his own capacity for lustful excess, Imrahil finally staggered from his bed, and called for a tub of fresh water to sluice his fevered skin.

After breakfast the prince, his mind once more on the business of the day, headed fos sts study. Legolas had been the very of of propriety at the table, and afterwards had tactfully excused himself, saying that he wished to meditate at the sea’s edge for a while. Merenin and Lelneth had apparently not yet emerged from their chambers. Imrahil smiled to himself to think that even two weeks of days spent apart, while his son took his place in the formalities of the court, must have been difficult for the besotted pair.

Faithful Heledir sat at the desk, a large pile of papers beside him. As the prince entered the room he looked up, and gave such a broad smile of approving welcome that Imrahil was momentarily quite taken aback. He greeted the secretary warmly and took his seat across from him as the man cleared his throat.

“Sire,” Heledir bowed his head respectfully. “It makes my heart happy to see you looking so well.”

Imrahil kept his expression neutral, in spite of his astonishment at the directness of this remark. He neither liked nor expected servility from his staff, but the shy, serious secretary had always adopted a manner both formal and deferential in his presence.

“Thank you, Heledir,” he said gravely. “Now, tell me what new matters await my perusal.”

The prince and his secretary were barely half way through the stack of documents when a confident knock at the study door announced his son’s arrival.

“Ah, Merenin,” Imrahil said, not needing to turn to know whose tread was crossing the stone floor. “I had hoped you would join us.”

He looked up as the younger man’s hand rested briefly on his shoulder, and smiled into the grey-green eyes that were so similar to his own. Merenin returned the smile.

“Father. I suppose you want me to explain all that took place in your absence?”

“That is hardly necessary; I trust your judgement entirely. However, this,” he waved a scroll bearing the seal of Pinnath Gelin, “requires some thought. Did you speak to the messenger? Did he elaborate?”

For a while father and son pored over the papers together. As ever, Imrahil found himself enjoying Merenin’s ready wit and perceptive comments. His son’s merry personality concealed a mind as sharp as a newly honed s whe when it came to political intrigue and diplomatic initiative. It occurred to him that with Merenin to act as regent, there was really no reason why he could not travel from the city more often. A trip to Ithilien in the spring was, after all, looking more attractive by the day.

As the last document was handed to Heledir for filing, Merenin turned towards Imrahil and looked him squarely in the eye.

“Now, by your leave, Father, I would talk with you alone.” he said.

Imrahil did not need to wonder what the subject of the talk would be. Since childhood, Merenin had found it hard to col anl anything of import from him; whether because of some inherited elven trait in their thoughts, or simply due to the normal human closeness of father and son, he could not say. He had been well aware of the cause of Merenin’s unease at dinner the night before, but had not attempted to broach the issue, knowing that his son would come to him in time. Whatever faults he may have, Merenin was not afraid to face difficult facts.

“Heledir, you have worked hard enough this morning,” said the prince. “Go now, and spend the afternoon at leisure; enjoy the sun on your face for a change.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Heledir, with a deep bow. “I may do just that.”

The two men watched as the door closed behind the departing secretary.

“The change in him is most uncanny.” said Imrahil thoughtfully. “Did you not mark it?”

“The same could be said of you, Father,” responded Merenin in a wry tone.

Imrahil was impressed; his son was wasting no time in coming to the point. He stood, moved from the desk to one of the more comfortable chairs, and gestured to Merenin to do the same. Once they sat facing each other, he spoke.

“And that, I assume, is the reason you wished to speak with me?”

Merenin nodded. “You are happy.” It was a simple statement of fact, with no trace of query.

“Happier than I have been for some time, yes.”

“Because of Legolas.”

Imrahil stared at his son, reading the tension and emotion on his face. It was a while before he answered.

“Yes, and because of the insight he has given me into my life,” he said at last.

After another pause, Merenin continued,

“Do you love him?”

Imrahil had expected this question. In spite of the fact that he had deliberately avoided asking himself the same thing a hundred times in the past two weeks, he had at least given the matter enough thought to have prepared an answer for his son.

“There are many shades of love, Merenin,” he said, with a slight sigh. “Legolas is noble and wise, strong and fair; it would be nigh imibleible not to love him, in some fashion.”

“I think you are evadmy qmy question, Father,” replied his son. “You understand my meaning.”

“Then let me give you the answer you seek, in spite of your unwillingness to ask directly. He has not replaced your mother in my affections, nor will he ever do so, you need have no fear of that. When I gave my heart to her, it was a lifetime commitment.”

Imrahil did not speak of the promise he had made to his wife on her deathbed: to carry on living life to the full, and to allow himself to love again when the time came. Glantathar had never shied from the knowledge that her husband would likely outlive her by decades, and had told him many times that the thought of him suffering alone for another seventy years was far harder to bear than the prospect of him finding peace in the arms of another. She could not have expected this particular turn of events, but he did not believe that she would have been wholly dismayed by it.

Not for the first time, Merenin’s next words came strangely close to his father’s thoughts.

“Mother was nothing if not generous,” he said slowly. “I do not suppose that she would begrudge you some happiness now.”

“I realise how difficult it must be for you to accept this,” Imrahil said. “It came as surprise enough to me.”

Merenin turned his face from his father’s gaze at these words, and Imrahil heard a note of warning in his mind. His son’s discomfort was unmistakeable, but there was an emotion intertwined with it that he could not place; and it worried him.

“Does he love you?” Merenin asked.

Did Legolas love him? Another questioat tat the prince had anticipated, but one which was not so easily answered. That the elf liked and respected him was beyond doubt, and his affection was freely given. But what could love mean to such a one as he, bound for eternity in spirit to another man? He had not asked, nor did he expect Legolas to volunteer such information. Indeed, in their quiet moments of peace at the waterside, he had come to realise that it did not matter what this gift was called; it was a thing of the present, to be taken and enjoyed, without the stifling burden of question and anxiety.

“I do not know,” he said, deciding on complete honesty. “We have not discussed the subject.”

Father and son stared at each other for a long moment.

“I would not have you hurt,” said Merenin at last.

Imrahil smiled. “You need have no fear on that score,” he said. “I have few illusions about this friendship and Legolas is an honourable soul. My trust in him is absolute.”

His son nodded. “That, at leastcan can understand,” he conceded.

The younger man walked across to the window and gazed out at the sea before posing his next question. “Does he intend to stay here?” he asked tentatively, then turned sharply at Imrahil’s sudden laughter.

“Gods, no!” said the prince. “I am not about to install him as my consort, if that is what you mean.”

Merenin’s irritation was obvious in his reply. “I meant no such thing! I only wondered . . .”

“I know, I am sorry, Merenin. But can you imagine Ancened’s face?”

He was pleased to see his son manage a smile at that.

“Legolas has his responsibilities in Ithilien, and I must think of my land and my people, for all I have taken leave of my duties these past weeks. It will not be long before he returns to his kin, and life will continue as normal. This is a moment out of time, an interlude, if you like.”

He spoke lightly, but could not suppress a feeling of melancholy at the sound of his own words. There could be no doubt about the eventual outcome of this affair, it was true; the only question was how long they had left together.

It was clear from the set of Merenin’s shoulders that the news was something of a relief to him. His face and voice, however, held concern.

“It will not be easy for you,” he observed.

“I have faced worse trials,” Imrahil said, gently.

Returning to his seat, Merenin brought the conversation round to the subject they so often tried to avoid.

“How do you think my brother will respond to your friendship with Legolas?” he asked grimly. “I do not foresee it being easy for him to accept.”

“Probably not,” replied the prince, “But accept it he must, for I will not hide it from him.”

“Have you told Legolas about Celaeren?”

“Of course.” There had been time enough for such talk during those long two weeks, even with the distraction of bodily pleasure clo close at hand. There were few subjects they had not covered in some form or another; and Imrahil had found it soothing to talk to the wise and kindly elf about his fears for his younger son.

“Elves are great healers, are they not?” Merenin asked. “Is there anything he can suggest to help?”

“I am afraid that Legolas is no expert in the healing arts, and besides, Celaeren’s malady is not known amongst elven kind. They are fond of ale and wine, and it is not unheard of for an elf to become foolish through drink, but it seems they do not experience the compulsion that afflicts your brother.” Imrahil spoke sadly; the same hopeful thought had occurred to him, and Legolas’s response had been a disappointment.

“He did offer the observation that this is firstly a sickness of the spirit, and that the clue to his cure lies there.”

“We both know that to be true,” said Merenin. “But how to begin when he resists all offers of kindness? You have tried so much, and I . . . ”

“How many times have we spoken thus?” said Imrahil wearily. “You know it is not your fault; you cannot carry guilt for the sheer accident of your birthright.”

“I know that, father, yet his grievance cannot but affect me.”

“I understand, Merenin, for I feel it too; yet we must believe that in the end love will be stronger than bitterness.”

They sat for a time in silence, while Imrahil recalled the elf’s further words on the subject. When he had suggested that there was one who might be able to help, Imrahil had at first rejected the notion as ridiculous. The King of Gondor had, after all, a thousand more pressing concerns to deal with. Legolas, however, had been insistent.

‘You are a friend and a noble comrade; you stood at his side in the hour of need. He cares for you and would willingly offer you help. And though he wears the mantle of a great king, Aragorn will always have thul oul of a skilled and gentealeealer. Well does he know the ways and failings of men; if anyone can help Celaeren, it is he.’

The passion in the elf’s tone, as he had spoken thus of his true love, had threatened to break Imrahil’s heart, even as he had stored the words away to ponder them later. He had wondered briefly if his own voice held such vivid emotion when he talked of Glantathar.

Thinking back on the conversation now, the prince found himself nursing the faintest spark of hope. If he did ride to Ithilien and Gondor in the spring, he could at least ask Aragorn’s advice. The peace was holding fast and nights in Minas Tirith were long and full of good cheer; there would be ample time for honest talk with the wise and compassionate king. Maybe nothing would come of it, but at least Imrahil would not be too proud to ask. If he had learned nothing else from Legolas in these few glorious days, he had come to understand that he gained nothing by holding his cares fast to his heart; if fate – or the gods - had blessed him with such extraordinary friends, perhaps it was time for him to use the gift more fruitfully.

For now, however, there remained his older son, who had overcome his own unease to face his father and set matters to rights between them.

Imrahil stood and Merenin did likewise. Smiling, father and son embraced, with almost palpable relief. His hands on Merenin’s shoulders, the prince stood back.

“My son, you are ever a joy to me,” he said. “And I thank you for coming here this morning to speak of these things. Your open heart does you credit. I am sorry for your discomfort, but hope you will find it within you to understand.”

“Give credit where it is due, Father,” Merenin replied with a grin. “I would not have found it so easy to accept had my wife not taught me some sense.”

Imrahil laughed. “You are a lucky man, indeed,” he said. “I do not have to tell you to cherish her.”

“No, thank you, my lord,” said Merenin, making a deep bow that mimicked Heledir’s with disturbing accuracy. “And by your leave, I may go now to do just that.”

As his son left the study, Imrahil reflected on all that had been left unsaid between them. Perhaps it was better this way, with Merenin’s acceptance and understanding tacitly implied rather than made explicit. He had the distinct impression, however, that there was rather more to it than that.

‘No matter,’ he thought, moving to the door to summon Neledhen, ‘No doubt all will become clear eventually. It is only a question of time.’

With that he went into the bedchamber to change his clothes, before venturing down to the beach to find his lover.