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: my unbounded gratitude to everyone who has voted for Feud at the MPA this year. You folks have done a tremendous kindness and made me one very nearly ecstatic fanfic writer! Galu le pain! [Blessing to you all!]

Chapter 72: Ithil'lî vi Talan? [Honeymoon in the Talan?]

The sturdy branches swayed and dipped, rocking up and back, swinging sideways left then right, right then left, uplifting towards the star-glazed bowl of menel where Ithil reigned supreme, a slender sickle of shimmering silver indulgently shedding his glory over the dark-shrouded forest. Indeed, Tilion was not exclusive and spread his wan glintery luminance over the valleys wrought by turbulent streams of rapids and narrows, indolent rivers wide and deep, over mountain crests and towers tall, even to the Falas and Aearon did the argent face of Ithil turn.

The gnarled, twisting limbs of the ancient oak shifted lower to gather in the scents of nocturne's bloomers and scurriers far beneath the old tree's bottom-most arms, filling all the air around it with the distinctive smell of wilderness. Mixing the diminished, frictional decibels of its stiff and woody skinned bones rubbing together with the occasional notes of startling beauty flung from the throats of dyrlin [nightingales], the resultant sound was as dreamy and relaxing as any lullaby. Moving in the gentle currents of Súlimo's breath, the twiggy fingers combed the breeze for every particle of summer's sweet passage among the stand of live oaks, gleaning these remnants of long warm days to harbour them amid its small leafed foliage that fell all year yet never departed.

And if Manwë was truly traversing the canopy of the Greenwood, last remaining component of Yavanna's ambitious design for the comfort and preservation of the Children of Iluvatar, he could not help but grin at the tableau presented by two of Eru's First-born.

Sprawled out, side-by-side, heads bent, touching forehead to forehead, hands entwined with fingers meshed together much like the net of branch-work supporting them, limper than the beards of moss donning the arms of the cedars far away in the black-water fen the pair indulged in absolutely carefree relaxation. Not long ago had they abandoned the clever intricacies and inventive positioning of bodies and limbs made possible by the indubitable Bench. It was Legolas who had discovered the comfortable hammock and coaxed Berenaur to join him there.

This was actually more a semisolid platform constructed of finely knotted hithlain. The pattern was so ancient no one recalled who had devised it, but everyone knew the symbols and motifs worked into the sturdy netting represented traditional desires of bonded elves for offspring, fair weather, abundant sustenance, and the sheltering love of friends and kinfolk for all the Ages to come. The mesh was anchored securely at six points to various appropriate branches sprouting form the ancient oak and rose and fell with every swell of wind that caressed the canopy. But above the hammock the tree allowed a fine clear space through which to see the velvet infinity of the sky and gaze upon the gifts of Varda

Over this talan of rope was laid a thick matt of river rushes, providing a clean scent of water lilies in calm blue pools and safeguarding toes from becoming entangled in the intricate web. Topping that was a purely luxurious quilted mattress of down and feathers ticked in dark red silk and embroidered in gold with delicate traceworks of leaves and vines, flowers and birds. Upon that a veritable plethora of cushions and pillows in all shapes and sizes was piled, and with these the Wood Elf had hastily constructed a cosy nest in which to recoup his strength and promote his lover's flagging vigour.

For the Noldo, it was a wholly unique experience that he found both exhilarating and faintly dizzying, for he could not banish the sense of disembodiment the height and the swaying motion imparted. He squeezed tightly to his lover's hand, comforted by the peaceful sighs and swift kisses meeting his cheek and lips. For the Tawarwaith, such a lofty haven was a familiar place and he sighed in utter bliss, for nothing more could any elf desire than the beauty of the woods under the mantle of Ithil's midnight robes and the company of a heart-mate alongside to share it.

Delicately, as if examining the fragile fringes of hoarfrost on meadow grass, the sensitive tips of appreciative fingers slipped over the smooth supple surface of warm bare skin. The feel of it was dissimilar to any other sensation and how to relate it to a previous experience escaped him. And that in itself was so inexplicable, for it was not the first time he had known the pleasure of naked flesh beneath his hands. Nor was this even his initial exploration of the inviting contours of his lover's body. Still, the concept would not be shaken with reason or with logic; never had he felt anything so exquisite in all his days.

Eyes closed as if monumentally exhausted and unwilling to accept the burdensome task of sight, he relied on his competent hands to show him this new terrain. The texture was not like silk or satin for there was a resilience and strength just below this temptingly yielding exterior. This sense of power, reminiscent of the might of elven-wrought steel, possessed a beauty reserved for creations sprung only from Eru's masterful artistry.

{Perfection. The harmonious union of physical vitality and ethereal elegance. Berenaur.}

The slender digits drifted a caress over toned stomach muscles, pulling a rippling little spasm of laughter from a ticklish zone just above the hip in the soft unguarded side. He smiled at the chuckle accompanying his massage of this sensitive region and continued his dreamy exploration. He let his fingers circle around the navel and slide along the faint nap of wispy down tracking a southerly course from its lower fold.

These hairs were exceedingly fine yet so black they could be seen even in low light, and the tantalising lineation could be detected by his fingertips as he swabbed against them, forcing the hairs backwards just for the pleasure of smoothing them down once more. He knew he had a similar trail, frail as cornsilk, observable only in full sun, equally dividing his abdomen thus. He freed his other hand and examined his stomach to feel out the differences and heard a sharp, abbreviated breath. Was his every move so carefully catalogued? He opened his eyes to verify this and smiled into Berenaur's expression of mesmerised lechery.

"Aye, let your touch linger, Pen-rhovan," the murmured command met his ears. Happy, Legolas' lids dropped down just shy of shut and he continued the tactile analysis.

Lower now, his fingers followed the silky track and grazed within the abundant growth of short, coiled strands defining the pelvis, lazily loitering to examine the wiry character of Berenaur's distinctive patch of black. The opposite hand delved into the corresponding thatch covering his crotch and he compared again. So dense, so compact, so unwilling to be uncurled was Berenaur's pelt, while his was longer, finer, combable. He sifted his fingers through and heard a low groan, felt a wet tongue against his neck, tilted his head to entice it to tarry.

He inhaled. The scent of Berenaur met his nostrils: instantly identifiable now, intoxicatingly erotic, {thrilling!}, sharply masculine bearing the organic overprint of fresh semen. A brief swell of powerless vulnerability arose in his soul. When the air he breathed turned brittle and biting in winter's stringent chill, would Berenaur's scent yet be borne upon it? Legolas squelched the sensation immediately, for he knew the answer and dared not allow it to ring through his mind.

Returning his attention to the roving progress of inquiring fingertips, he encountered the sticky seminal residue clumped within the convoluted ringlets and sighed softly, eagerly plunging his digits into the smear. Eyes half-revealed; Legolas carried the pungent extrusion to his lips and consumed the cooling gel, sucking greedily, silently. A single fretting note, long and low, slid from his soul and slipped out around his fingers, found its way unerringly to his lover's ears, conveyed a sense of deep contentment and unbearable yearning.

Propped up on one elbow to enhance his view, Erestor watched in lurid fascination, heard in escalating excitement, filled with tantalising anticipation. He snatched the fingers away, inserted his tongue in their place, delved and savoured with it, stroked its counterpart and devoured the sweetness of it. His hand cradled and lifted the golden head protectively, fingers infiltrating the flaxen tangles, tipped up the jaw and took possession. In contrast, the penetrating muscle was frantic, almost savage, in its endeavour to reach the depths of the Tawarwaith's being and sample his soul.

Legolas relented to the wild and ravening voracity of his lover's demanding, claiming, subjugating osculation, submitted unabashedly to his control, invited total domination.

Briefly brushing across the fullness of Berenaur's flushed cheek, Legolas' hand returned to its previous pursuit and found the semisolid source of the Noldo's bitter secretion. Gently palpating the long extremity, he lifted it from its rest upon the paired globes of virile potency hidden in the hairless sac. Legolas carefully increased the pressure of his grip, relishing the flush of heat as blood rushed to replenish the thickening flesh. He lowed against the tongue laving his palate; Berenaur's penis twitched and grew hard in his hold. Releasing the indurate pillar of hot blood and slippery skin, he hefted the fullness suddenly burdening the Noldo's heavy scrotum.

Their mouths disengaged under the force of the spasm that rocked Erestor upon receiving this stimulus and his burdened respiration mingled with Legolas' even as his eyes travelled down the length of the archer's svelte torso to see what those hands were up to. Pen-rhovan was simultaneously palming both sets of testicles, his and Berenaur's, features serenely contemplative, testing whether the volume of fluid each had managed to produce was yet sufficient. A look of pure mendicity glittered within the cobalt irises raised to Berenaur's. Legolas transferred one hand and encircled his cock, already straight and firm, with a loose-fisted grip and pulled, earnestly whining. The Noldo took it from him.

Erestor supposed he meant to pound the excited protrusion until Legolas screamed out in release but on glancing back into the indigo depths the expression within froze him. A strange light was there and the wild elf was nearly hyperventilating. He gave a peculiar cry and wriggled closer to the advisor, a look of confusion sweeping through his hazy gaze.

Erestor's pulse surged with something familiar that he could not quite define, as if he was about to climax yet the sensation was far more intense. His heart felt as though it had grown too large to be contained within his thorax. He pressed his lips around the open mouth and once again insistently plundered the interior, roof and tongue, teeth and gums and tonsils, everything was his. Yet all the while he protectively held the archer's cock, one leg overlying the lean muscular thigh, rocking his erection against the wild elf's hip.

The kiss ended abruptly as a scintillating blaze of comprehension opened Erestor's mind and he nearly passed out with the dizzying joy and giddy delight following in its wake. The sensation was familiar because he had certainly known it before, only less vehemently, less profound in its impact. His heart was seeking to join with Legolas', his feä foaming up like a geyser, seeking a point to break through the thick encrusting shield of defensive isolation protecting Pen-rhovan's soul, determined to discover a means to mingle with the Tawarwaith's.

"Pen-rhovan." Erestor gathered him up ecstatically, exuberantly, reverently, breath breaking with silent sobs, trying to contain tears wrought of the overabundant emotion channelling through his being. He could scarcely understand how, but did not doubt for a second longer that their spirits would be permanently welded when next their bodies united. {No wonder he is bewildered! He knows not what this is, yet his soul seeks mine as well else the urge within me could not be so strong.} "Pen-rhovan nîn!" he sighed into a hair-entangled ear.

Legolas shifted in this engrossing confinement, turning on his side, pressing the full extent of his body against Berenaur. Wrapping his arms around him, one at the neck the other claiming the waist, entwining his leg round the Noldo's, he rested his cheek upon the solid comfort of the advisor's broad, bare chest. Another of those desperately beseeching cries escaped despite efforts to retain it; he was simply having too much trouble breathing to fight it very hard. He felt Berenaur's warm clasp leave his aching organ and a sudden spike of fear shot through him.

"Nay!" he wailed without realising the denial was spoken and immediately the strong arms enfolded him tighter and squeezed, merging them as close as two beings could be without joining in sexual union. Legolas' spirit quieted.

How he loved this, needed this, revelled in the comforting pressure of skin against skin, body to body, perhaps even more than that other, shorter, more exhilarating confluence of their flesh. Legolas relaxed into the novel experience of complete trust, every nerve in every cell registering the total presence of Berenaur beside him. The sense of safety and belonging, of acceptance and respect, these he treasured and longed to extend until the end of days, for they completed his soul the way the advisor's hardened penis filled his body.

Legolas wanted that now, too; craved the ecstasy with the security, the union of hroa and the communion of feär, and exhaled another of those needful moans into his lover's ear. Almost hesitantly he shifted, rubbing their erections together, feeling heat and wetness crown his slit and ooze out.

"Please?" he softly pleaded and licked the hollow at the base of the Noldo's throat, dabbing his tongue down into the sweetly salty depression. "Please?"

Erestor rolled him over onto his back and covered him, staring down into the glimmering glazed glaucous orbs.

"Do not beg!" he commanded in nearly incensed tones that he instantly wished had never met air. The expression filling the archer's eyes transmitted the palpable fear of rejection hovering in Legolas' mind. Erestor knew the source of this vulnerability and watched as Legolas retreated within himself and turned his face away, eyes dropping shut.

"Nay, forgive me!" he whispered desperately and kissed the cheek and temple, the ear tip and down the long column of the slender neck. He could feel the heat of Legolas' sticky palms where he was grabbing tightly to the biceps of either arm, clinging to him in desperation, exuding a current of amorphous dread. {Fearful of being left or terrified to love? Both.} Erestor licked against the thumping pulse in the vital artery just beneath the skin, evidence of the increasing volatility of the Tawarwaith's emotions. The spot was already wine coloured and as tender as spring grass. The Noldo bit, careful not to break the surface but hard enough to incite a cry as Legolas squirmed beneath him.

"Never beg," he repeatedly gently, the words ringing with compassionate insistence as he slowly rubbed against the prone form. "All that you need, everything you desire shall be yours. I am here now, I am here." He met the gaze of vibrant sapphire and the combination of expectant hesitancy therein moved him to taste the wild elf's lips again, only gentler, softer this time.

The Tawarwaith responded, lifting up into the tender touches, eyes closed to hide the confusion that nonetheless escaped with every trembling breath released, and his tension did not abate. The caress of warmth and desire ceased and he feared to know the reason though he could yet feel the comforting contact of his lover's body covering him. He fought against the desire to break into panic and tears; frightened to feel this without a coherent reason he could name.

"Legolas, I know you not," the quiet statement met his ears and in shock his lids lifted to find Berenaur studying him intently but without sign of remorse, regret, or rancour of any kind.

A sort of wonder transformed the advisor's ancient eyes as he searched the features beneath him, felt the shivering spasms rippling through strained muscles and hard flesh pressed against his own. Erestor could not account for such a concept, for he had bedded this elf several times already. {Why does it seem as if I have not tasted this delight before?} He concluded the cause must be the bond building between them, seeking to bridge the chasm of seclusion engulfing the Tawarwaith.

"You feel strange to be here with me?" Surely the archer's voice had never been so timid before.

"Nay, that is not it, Pen-rhovan; my heart feels you near and longs for complete understanding of everything that has brought you to me." He bent low to take the panting mouth, breathed in through his nostrils and gave the air thus captured to his love. Another of those torturous wails faintly trailed back into his lungs and he disengaged carefully. Legolas seemed close to either a volcanic release or a complete breakdown of his wits. {Or both.} "You need not fear; I see you, hear you; Valar! I feel you inside my soul!" This affirmation did not seem to ease the Wood Elf's distress but rather exacerbated it and Erestor's brows drew together in concern. {He is as terrified as an elfling with his first erection!}

Realisation swept upon Erestor with enough impact to make him startle. In all his youthful dreams and fantasies of his bonding night, Pen-rhovan's mate in this talan must have been Malthen. Now he was here with another and the loss had overtaken him. That and a fierce attack of guilty self-reproach for accepting someone other than his first love and for making Berenaur a substitute. {He hurts, yet fears to wound me by revealing this grief.} The Noldo's heart broke open and he clutched Legolas up against him tightly, rolling to his side to completely envelope the woebegone elf within his arms and legs as he dipped back and forth in a comforting rhythm. He felt close to desperation himself for a means to allay this suffering, at least regarding his place in it all.

"You are not bound to Malthen," he said, determined to convince his love, and felt the tremble of a swallowed sob jolt through Legolas.

Again doubt flittered across his conscious thoughts; his remedy was ineffectual. Perhaps if they ceased their union then the wild elf would be spared the remorse of betraying both his old and new lovers. {But Maltahondo would never bring Legolas here, has not even once envisioned such a thing occurring.} Erestor was sure of it, having looked into those hazel eyes and seen the guardsman's guilty infidelity. This was at the root of what Pen-rhovan could not bear to face. He had no wish to harm Legolas, yet the advisor's instinct prodded him not to stop, that this moment was of paramount importance to the archer though he might not be able to verbalise these concepts.

"I shall prove it to you, that what you dread is false. What I understand of you I find worthy; what I am ignorant of will be taught to me this night. I will learn and still will be here, Legolas. You shall be mine alone." He rolled his lover onto his back again and traced the rigid frowning creases above the worry-arched brows and soothed the tightness from the pale forehead, and Legolas closed his eyes with a gush of air from his heaving lungs.

Erestor kissed each covered eye delicately, enjoying the tickle of luxuriantly curled golden lashes against his lips and the sensation of the hidden oculi shifting beneath the feather-light pressure. The tactile blandishment continued across the fair features, pressing slow soft lips down the cheek to the clean line of the refined jaw. Like the Lord of Imladris before him, Erestor discovered the small imperfection in the rehealed bone and paused.

"We shall start here," he whispered and waited for Legolas to open his eyes. They darted to and fro between Erestor's, first right and then left, tormented and imploring; he did not understand. "What happened?" Erestor prompted gently.

Legolas swallowed, licked his lips and drew a slow breath before trying to answer, but could manage only a single word. "Erebor."

Erestor continued to soothe his thumb over the small hump of bone, lifting both brows to encourage more as he held the wild elf's gaze.

For some minutes Legolas could only peer in bewilderment. Why was he being quizzed on this when it was of no importance? The real pertinence to Erebor had nothing to do with his painfully humiliating treatment but rather with the ruin his futile efforts had achieved. He looked away but Berenaur carefully caught his chin and turned his head forward again, demanding eye contact. He steeled himself, met the honest expression of compassion, and sighed.

"Talagan struck me down because I…"

The sentence went uncompleted as Erestor silenced the recriminations within a searing kiss that only relented when he had to breathe. Planting a string of hopping licks all along the afflicted jaw as he heaved in time with Legolas' lungs, Erestor shifted gently, rolling his penis, stiff and resilient, against his lover's.

"He had no right to wound you thus. He shall owe me retribution," he said calmly and briefly smiled to see Pen-rhovan's disbelieving amazement. Following the jaw to its join at the neck, Erestor let his nuzzling nose guide his lips to the collarbone. With a long wet solitary glide he passed his crimson tongue across the smooth disfiguration left from an episode he remembered well.

"And this one, it is my fault. Why did you do it, Pen-rhovan? After the way I treated you, why did you spare me?"

Legolas searched his thoughts; he had not considered the need to formulate a reason. He would not have left even Ailinyéro to suffer such a horrendous fate as capture by the Wraiths of Dol Guldur. His brow wrinkled in perplexed exasperation and he shrugged, blushing for not being able to define such a basic concept without sounding either condescending or vainglorious.

"I could not allow the Shadow-slaves such a victory."

"Nothing more? Why must you put it so, as if my welfare were meaningless to you? I do not believe you; nay, Pen-rhovan, you are avoiding much of the truth, the most important bit," said the noble survivor of Gondolin with a petulant timbre in his affronted tones.

"Ai! I did not mean to imply you held no value! Indeed, I found you worthy, for you defended me to your Lord, quite gallantly, too. Then you sought to dissuade him from his plotting. And before that you commended my efforts with the traps, even though you could not understand them." He nodded as he finished, for only when the words were spoken did he realise the verity in them. And then Legolas blushed further to comprehend that he had needed to explain the motives underlying this fundamental principle to himself! He was surprised to see a broad grin stretch across Berenaur's features accompanied by a lyrically light chuckle.

"Well spoken!" said the Imladrian advisor through smiling lips that saturated the other clavicle with warm compressions before returning to the symmetrical hollow between the two, there to dip in his tongue and scoop out the slightly saline dampness accumulating within. He thrilled to hear the hushed expression of contentment that issued from Pen-rhovan as the wild elf tipped his head back and ran a feathery sweep of his fingers through the advisor's hair.

Even better, Erestor sensed a lessening of the looming despair as the tension of passion replaced the strain of apprehension.

Erestor pulled back, using one arm to brace himself as he sidled lower. The motion produced a distinctively sensual sound particular to the slipping friction of warm, sweaty skin sliding against its equally damp and heated counterpart. The unhindered arm was busy directing his capable fingers to the point of a tantalising little promontory jutting from the rose-flushed chest. Fascinated, he watched the nub turn the colour of the deepest Dorwinion wine {but far sweeter to the palate!} and uplift in ripe invitation.

The Noldo Lord greedily sampled both, tweaking the skin and muscle under the breast between his fingers to make the tasting easier, plucking at the archer's nipples with lips and teeth, pressing the hard peaks down with thumb and tongue, pulling and rolling them until Legolas was bent in a rigid arc, trying to thrust his hips up and push Berenaur's mouth down all at the same time. An unending string of monosyllabic "oh's" eloquently proclaimed Legolas' delight in this treatment.

Erestor knew he was perilously close to the malignant soul-wound and scrupulously avoided it, as he had on every occasion that had allowed him this close to Legolas' sumptuous body. Instead, he scooted even lower and got to his knees. Leaning low, he secured his lips against the scar in the side, sucking briefly, and kissed it fervently as both hands encircled the wild elf's stiffly erect cock. He sat back on his heels and observed his lover's reactions, slowly squeezing the penis all but covered in his fists. The very tip, ruddy and slick, poked through the clasp and he quickly bent over to kiss that, too, flicking his curled tongue against the seeping orifice.

"Berenaur!"

Legolas endeavoured to flex his pelvis and provide some motion to enhance the enclosing heat of the tight grip but found Berenaur pushing back to hold him still. Then, reluctantly it seemed, the advisor removed one hand, exposing the upper half of the extremity, so the freed fingers could gently trace the contours of the ragged purple edges on Pen-rhovan's thigh.

"These I know of, also. Here are the hurts you took for Mithrandir and Aragorn. A black arrow through your side, a saw-toothed spear penetrating the thigh from back to front. I already have the story committed to memory and such deeds should be memorialised by song.

"I can see it all playing out, Pen-rhovan, just as if I had been there! Tawar has shown me the evil ambuscade of the wicked trees and the betraying limbs that cast you down. How desperate was that fight, hand to hand against so many! All the while, your blood spilled, and 'twas that which saved you!

"Coating the bark of the same tree as you struggled to get back into the heights, the filth of Dol Guldur was driven out as the vital fluid was absorbed into the beech's pith. The tree helped you then, did it not? Many branches found their way to strike and dislodge the swarming orcs, and as soon as you were safely in another's wooden arms, the whole great thing groaned and cracked and fell, crushing the foul beasts and blocking the way.

"Thus, I forgive the tree; by virtue of its extreme sacrifice was it redeemed, claimed within the larger spirit of the forest as it met its remorseful end on your behalf."

Legolas was shocked, for he had not described these events to anyone, not even Fearfaron, for he saw no reason to cause his friends concern over what was past. He could not but believe the advisor; Tawar was allowing the vision's realisation within his lover's mind. He stared at Berenaur, unable to answer any of it. A slight movement of the Noldo's wrist wrested Legolas' attention back to his current situation as a sudden vibration of cupidity worked up from his entrapped member.

The Tawarwaith could scarcely tear his eyes from the sight of the advisor's hand holding his cock up, motionless, confined and secure. He felt the other hand softly smooth down the inside of the healed thigh and pull, opening his legs a bit wider. Berenaur cupped his sac and palpated the testes within, and Legolas groaned, reaching down to provide his own stimulation. The Noldo prevented this, leaving the balls to take the elegant fingers and kiss them.

Legolas complained stridently and pivoted his hips up off the comfortable feather down mattress. But at that Berenaur relinquished acquisition of the throbbing penis and crawled back to lie beside his lover once more. Legolas shuddered and turned to him, burrowing against his chest; and Erestor welcomed him into a close embrace, placing a very light kiss upon one ear tip.

"Berenaur," he murmured and tentatively returned the caress, kissing Berenaur's breastbone.

Erestor was sorely tempted to allow the wild elf to expand his attentions but even as he shivered under the warm contact of the supple lips his hands continued to press against the marred skin covering Legolas' back. The strangely leathery feel of the criss-crossed layers of scars made the Noldo's heart skip in discomfort.

The other marks, those had been easy ones to worship, being permanent reminders of the strength and nobility inherent in Legolas' character. They reached the wild elf's spirit but were healing and fading. Some day in the future these would barely be noticeable. The blemishes remaining, however, were the remnants of wounds inflicted under the punishment of Judgement. The scars hid hurts still festering, infecting the former prince with their poison, darkening his feä and hastening his diminishment.

"Aye, the Judgement, now we approach the heart of the matter," he whispered his thoughts aloud and cautiously unwrapped his arms and legs from around his lover's body. He could see the worry and confusion flooding back into the limitless blue and hastened to reassure Legolas. "Be easy in your mind and let me finish this, Pen-rhovan. You have trusted me this far; I swear I will not abandon you."

He climbed over Legolas' supine form so that he was facing the unpleasant souvenirs of the chastisement and swept all the golden tresses over the elf's left shoulder, which he stooped to kiss quickly. Gently and firmly he began to massage the marked flesh, sighing as Legolas tensed under his hands instead of relaxing. Erestor was not sure he was ready to hear this story but still his intuition prompted him to pursue this course and draw out the truth from the wild elf.

"Never have you spoken of this, have you, even to your foster-father?" He whispered and traced his fingers over several of the overlapping ripples. He felt Legolas shudder, head giving a short negation, and try to turn over. "Nay, do not hide them from me. You need to speak of this. It is important, Legolas; please," he implored.

"I need to forget about it!" hissed Legolas, angry and hurt. Why would Berenaur want him to reveal this shame?

"And can you do that?" Erestor gently asked, all the while kneading and smoothing the marred skin and the strong muscles beneath it. And that gave him an idea. "These marks are only on the surface; beneath the body remains strong and capable. Yet, the injury that hurt most goes unseen and has not been treated much less healed. These scars are but the external expression of the real damage, rendering silent testimony to the punishment of your mind and heart. You must talk to me about the dagger and the whip."

tbc.