Deeper Waters

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DEEPER WATERS
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Chapter 8


“Shall we stop for a while? The horses must need to drink, and I am ready for something to eat.” Imrahil knew that Legolas could ride all day without thought of food or water. Man and horse, however, were made of mortal stuff.

Legolas brought his steed to a halt with a soft word in the strange language of the wood-elves. “This is a good place,” he said.

They dismounted and led the animals down to the water. The river was broad there, and calm; too shallow for swimming at its edges but deep enough to form still pools between the rocks. The horses drank thirstily while Imrahil bent to fill his waterskin and Legolas stood quietly by.

The silence between them was not uncomfortable, but none the less Imrahil was concerned. Glad as he was of the elf’s company on this journey, with all its staggering implications, he knew that the situation was not easy for Legolas and that his hidden thoughts were likely to be anxious ones. He wondered whether to ask his lover to share his musings but decided against it. In the moments between the murmured endearments and passionate cries of their reconciliation, there had been time for much serious discussion. If the elf had anything new to add now, he would speak in his own time. Perhaps there was another, more pleasurable way to help his lover.

As Legolas turned to guide the horses to the grassy area up the bank, Imrahil stretched, saying, “It is uncommonly hot for the time of year. I think I need to cool down a little before we eat.”

Imrahil caught Legolas’s glance but kept his own face straight. He took his time removing his tunic, standing with his back to the elf. Once the outer garment was laid carefully on the grass, he made a great play of pulling his shirt over his head, then strode easily down to the river’s edge.

Scanning the bank briefly Imrahil identified a large, nearly flat rock that stood only an inch or two proud of the water. Perfect. He knelt on the sun-warmed surface, and bent forward to rest on one elbow and forearm at the very edge of it. With his other hand he scooped water over his head and shoulders.

Imrahil did not need to look around to know that Legolas’s eyes were upon him; the elf’s gaze burned more intensely than the noonday sun on his back. He could imagine the picture he was making, bending over to the water in his tight riding breeches; he could see with equal clarity the expression on his lover’s normally impassive face. Grinning to himself he shifted his knees slightly further apart and leaned a little lower, briefly dipping his head below the surface. Gods, but it was cold.

After lingering a while to let the elf take a good look, he rose from his knees before their discomfort became something more permanent, stood straight, and tipped his head back to comb the fingers of both hands through his wet hair. Then he stretched again languidly, arms first raised, then circling back to his sides; and rotated his shoulders to flex the muscles of his chest and back. Finally, he spun on his heel and sauntered up the bank.

Legolas was sitting on a high boulder, watching him closely. Imrahil flashed him a smile in passing and headed for his pack, over by the horses. “Most refreshing,” he called over his shoulder.

“Imrahil!” The elf’s voice was enough to tell him that the diversionary ploy had been an absolute success. He turned to his lover. Legolas said no more, but the meaning of his gesture was clear.

The man arched an eyebrow deliberately, and began a slow approach. Seeing the lustful intent in Legolas’s eyes at rather closer quarters, he smirked. “Legolas! We still have far to ride!”

“Would you refuse me?” The words, and the way in which they were uttered, made Imrahil shiver in spite of the hot sun on his rapidly drying flesh. His lover’s coldly commanding tone, though rarely assumed, inevitably meant there were unspeakable pleasures to come. He might curse himself for this once backthe the saddle, but any later discomfort would be a price well worth paying.

“Would you allow me to do so?” he challenged the elf.

“Come here.”

In reality Imrahil had no intention of trying to resist. He walked up to the elf, and waited within arms’ reach.

“Closer. Here.” The long pale hands on his hips guided him until he stood astride Legolas’s thighs, his knees touching the boulder on which the elf sat. The hands travelled up to his chest and stroked slowly, firmly across the muscled f, th, then back down to the waist and around him, to grasp and knead his buttocks through the leather of his breeches.

“This rump of yours is so perfect; it is fairly begging to be plundered,” the elf said.

Imrahil exhaled sharply, abandoning his pretence of nonchalance. In response, Legolas bared his teeth in a vicious smile, and the man experienced a brief recollection of the terrifying figure the elf cut in battle.

“I shall give it some serious use.” The elf’s words were accompanied by a final squeeze to the rounded muscle. “Unclothe yourself.”

Imrahil took a step back and began to unfasten the ties at his waist, fingers fumbling under his lover’s steady scrutiny. His heart felt fit to burst through the walls of his chest, and his cock could surely be no harder. With some difficulty, he pulled his boots and breeches off, and flung them to one side as Legolas watched, unmoving. Straightening his back, he attempted to face the concentrated gaze with a little dignity.

Legolas did not bother to undress. He quickly pushed his leggings down over his thighs and sat back on the boulder. Hitching up his tunic and shirt, he brought to light his own erection, long and gleaming pale. Unconsciously, Imrahil licked his lips.

“Aye, in your mouth first,” said Legolas.

He fell to his knees at the elf’s feet and leaned forward, bracing his arms on the rock to either side of the slim hips. Taking in as much of the smooth flesh as he could, he began to lick and suck enthusiastically. Legolas brought both hands to Imrahil’s head to direct his movements, but pushed him away before long.

“There is oil in my pack,” the elf said, nodding towards the bundle on the ground a few yards away. “Bring it here.”

Breathing heavily Imrahil scrambled to his feet and went to search for the small vial. He offered it to Legolas, but his lover shook his head. “You know what to do.”

The man went down on his knees again and withdrew the cork with unsteady fingers. Pouring a pool of the fluid onto one palm, he put the vial down and rubbed his hands together. Then he reached for the elf’s cock and slowly worked over it, coating it completely with the glistening oil. Legolas remained silent. Imrahil looked up at him as he began a rhythmic stroking of the slick, firm organ between his hands. The elf sat quite still. Only the dark intensity of his stare betrayed his feelings.

Legolas grasped Imrahil’s wrist to stop his movement. “Get up,” he said, “Now turn around.” The man complied, standing with his back to his lover. Once again the elf’s hands drew him closer, and the legs between his pushed them apart, causing him to lower himself towards the hard flesh nudging at his rear. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to relax for the intrusion which was apparently soon to come.

Legolas kept one hand on Imrahil’s hip to guide him, whilst holding himself steady with the other. Wordlessly, he pushed the man’s legs yet further apart with his strong thighs. Imrahil, taken by surprise, was forced to rock back, and thus impaled himself suddenly, fully, on the elf’s waiting cock. He shouted at the pain, and panicked momentarily at the vulnerability of his situation. But once his lover started to move inside him, holding onto him with both hands now, lifting and settling his hips in time with the thrusts within, he forgot his initial dismay.

“Valar’s grace, what are you doing to me?” he cried, overcome by the depth of the sensations, magnified by both the unfamiliar position and the fact that the elf was taking him so forcefully, out in the open, in broad daylight.

“I should have thought you would know by now what I am doing,” came the cool reply. “I am fucking your lovely arse, my prince, and fucking it well. And I shall carry on until I hear you scream.”

“Never!” Imrahil gasped, defiant.

The elf’s hands moved from his hips and slid around him. Imrahil gasped again as he felt his buttocks being pulled apart,owinowing the next thrust to penetrate deeper still. He could not stop himself from crying out.

“You torture me! How will I take saddle again after this?” he yelled.

Legolas laughed. “You should have thought of that before you decided to tease me so blatantly.”

The elf moved a hand again, and this time curled it around the man’s desperate cock. Still his hips maintained their insistent motion, pounding into Imrahil from the rear. In spite of the man’s attempts to brace his hands against his thighs and regain some balance, gravity conspired against him, and he could do nothing to resist. Surely if this continued much longer, he would never walk again, let alone ride.

“You are a heartless brute,” he moaned happily.

“Ah yes, you bring out the very worst in me,” the elf moved his hand ruthlessly back and forth, drawing Imrahil perilously close to the edge, “and I love you for it.”

The words were Imrahil’s undoing. He cried his lover’s name for the whole of the South to hear, defiance forgotten. There was an explosion of pleasure somewhere inside him, and he came spectacularly hard, only vaguely aware of the elf’s triumphant laughter and the strong hands holding him firmly in place around the pulsing cock inside him.

When both had calmed, Legolas brought his legs together and helped Imrahil to stand. The man was hurting all over from the strain of the half-crouching, half-sitting position, and he knew he would feel sore inside for days, but nothing could suppress his grin. He turned into Legolas’s arms and they shared a long, passionate kiss.

“Forgive me. I was perhaps a little careless of your comfort,” the elf offered, when they paused to draw breath.

Imrahil thought he might injure himself further by laughing too hard. “You could say that,” he spluttered, “But although I might ache for a week, I will still love you for it.”

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Approaching the city in the evening sun, Imrahil contemplated the changes it had undergone in the two years since his last visit. To the North a whole section of wall had been added, and all across the skyline new roofs and spires had appeared. The prince smiled to see such evidence of growth. Faramir’s energy matched his vision, and under his active stewardship Emyn Arnen had sprung to life. It would never rival its neighbour, Minas Tirith, but would complement it well. His nephew’s city was a vibrant embodiment of the new Middle Earth, where different races no longer kept distant from each other, but met and mingled to share their trades and cultures.

“It is a fine sight,” Legolas broke into his thoughts, but followed their direction. “Faramir has achieved a great deal in a short time.”

“Aye, so he has. Yet he has taken on no airs as a result, an as as approachable as ever. People are drawn here by his reputation, as much as anything.”

“Your nephew is an exceptional man. I am fortunate to count him as a friend,” the elf replied.

They rode on quietly towards the gates, passing through the usual traffic found in the rural hinterland of a thriving city: carts, mules and horses, the occasional flock of animals, groups of men in farm-hands’ dress. Imrahil noted with delight that he and his elven companion drew little attention from the folk they passed, other than the wide eyed appraisal due to one so fair as Legolas. There were no disapproving stares, no muttered comments, only nods and cheerful greetings. This was a place where man and elf could ride side by side without censure. Would his own people ever be so accepting?

As they rode up to the gate, Imrahil’s reverie was broken by a loud sound of complaint from his own stomach, reminding him that he had eaten nothing but a lump of bread and some fruit since dawn.

Legolas turned to grin at him. “They will have sent word of our arrival from the watch towers. No doubt Faramir will already have ordered the feast to be served.”

Imrahil shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “I am more concerned that they heat water for a bath, to be honest. I need a long soak to ease these aching joints.”

“I must accept some responsibility for your discomfort,” the elf said, with the faintest ghost of ale. le. “Later this evening I shall come to you, and ease your pain.”

They shared an intense, long look, speaking without words, and Imrahil felt himself grow hard once again. “I shall expect you,” he said.

Faramir himself came out into the courtyard to greet the two travellers as they dismounted. A groom led the horses away and a page hurried up to take their packs as Ithilien’s prince descended the steps in front of the great door. It was clear he had not been sitting idly awaiting their arrival; from the state of his simple garments it would seem he had been out inspecting the building works in progress, or perhaps visiting the stables.

“Imrahil! I had hoped you would return today.” Despite the fact that his uncle had been gone less than two weeks, Faramir embraced him warmly, before turning to his companion. “This is a most pleasant surprise, Legolas! It is always a joy to see you.”

As he watched his nephew and his lover exchange greetings with the genuine affection and respect of old friends, Imrahil felt warmth steal through him.

At last Faramir stepped back, and looked from one to the other. “Your secretary – Heledir – where is he? I trust no harm has befallen him?”

“Indeed no,” said Imrahil. “He is busily engaged in sorting out Legolas’s library, and enjoying himself far too much for me to drag him away. He will ride directly to Minas Tirith next week.”

“Good. Now, are you hungry? I have called for food and wine, if you will join me in the Hall.”

Imrahil cleared his throat. “If you will forgive me, I feel somewhat travel-worn, and would bathe before I eat. But I should see my son first. Where is Celaeren?”

“Out riding, with his Lady,” said Faramir succinctly. In rnse nse to Imrahil’s narrow glance, he added, “Eowyn is with them, and two of your guards. It would be impossible to keep them apart; the best I can do is ensure they are chaperoned.”

Imrahil thought for a moment of the chaos that could so easily ensue if the young couple were left to themselves and matters got out of hand. He turned his eyes heavenward, thanking the gods that this ill-advised romance had occurred here, under the watchful, sensible gaze of his nephew.

“Is Alagaer with them?” he asked. His guard captain would no doubt have a different light to shed on events of the past week.

“Not today. I believe he is at the barracks.”

“Could you send someone for him? I will see him in my chambers.”

“Then you will join us at dinner, in two hours or so?” smiled Faramir. “Legolas, my steward is preparing the green chambers for you. Shall I send anything up?”

“Hot water for me also,” said the elf, lowering his lashes as Imrahil smirkedhim him over Faramir’s shoulder. Man and elf exchanged a sly knowing smile. Turning back to Faramir and seeing the expression on his face, Imrahil realised that his nephew had not only caught the look, but had gone a good way towards interpreting it. The younger man had the sharp eyes and quick wit of a ranger, coupled with his mother’s intuition. There was very little that passed him by.

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Imrahil recognised Alagaer’s purposeful tread before the knock came at the door.

“Come,” he called.

The stocky soldier smiled respectfully at his prince and made a smart salute.

“Sire.”

“Well, Alagaer, what news? How has all this mess come about?”

Alagaer flushed slightly at the implied accusation, but launched into his story without protest. He told of the young prince’s quiet behaviour for two days after his father’s departure, and of the trip to the White Tree on the third.

“Was he drinking heavily?” Imrahil had no need to evade the truth with his captain; the man had travelled with Celaeren many times in the past, and had rescued him from more than one drunken predicament.

“Only beer, as we’d agreed, and not too much of it. Once he met the boy, he slowed down.”

”The boy?”

Alagaer raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t know, Sire? The Lady Rosalind, she was dressed as a boy when he met her, and a pretty convincing one at that. We didn’t realise at first.”

Despite his exasperation, Imrahil was now thoroughly intrigued. What kind of a woman had his son found for himself? No blushing flower of a girl, it would seem. “Go on,” he urged.

The story that unfolded only served to increase his unwilling respect for the unknown maid. A feisty girl, full of courage and wit, skilled on a horse and handy in a fight; no wonder his son had become fascinated by her. His enjoyment of the tale came to an end, however, when Alagaer described the ugly scenes in the taverns two nights ago when Celaeren had sought to drown his anger in strong wine.

“And where were your men?” he demanded angrily.

“He gave us the slip, Sire,” the troubled soldier replied. “Rode out the West gate, but came back another way. I had not thought to watch all the gates, nor did I have the men for it.”

Imrahil sighed, and massaged his temples with his fingertips. “I know, it was not your fault. It is Celaeren himselfhoulhould ask for explanation.”

“He is here, my lord. Shall I send him to you? They were returning as I came up.”

“Aye, send him up.” The soldier saluted again. “And Alagaer, you have done what you can. Rest easy, and give your men a night off.”

“Thank you, Sire.” The captain turned on his heel and left the room.

Some minutes later Celaeren strode in with defiance written all over him, from his tight-knit brows to his straight-backed stance. Imrahil’s heart twisted with love at the sight, and he rose to embrace his son. He felt the other’s surprise at the display of warmth and inwardly sighed. How had they come to this?

“Well, Celaeren, sit down. You have much to tell me.”

Celaeren began reluctantly, but soon warmed to his tale. Imrahil found himself smiling at his son’s eager description of Rosalind, a more colourful version of the picture Alagaer had painted. There could be no doubt about it; the boy was truly infatuated. It was a joy to see him so animated after years of cynical disaffection; such a shame that the object of his desire was promised to another.

“She is doubtless a fine young woman, and I shall enjoy making her acquaintance,” Imrahil said carefully, when Celaeren had paused for his response. “Yet I am deeply concerned for you both; you have chosen a path which is at best difficult, perhaps impossible.”

“I have chosen nothing!” Celaeren retorted angrily, his passion so ey rey redirected. “We do not choose when or how love will strike us. You of all people should understand that!”

Imrahil had no wish to engage in a discussion of his own affairs, so he ignored the tone of the comment. “And even supposing her brother can be persuaded to release her from her betrothal, what will you offer her, my son?” he asked quietly.

“Marriage, of course, and a fair life in Dol Amroth.” Celaeren stared at him.

“And are you truly in a position to make such an offer?”

“You think I am not fit to marry her because of my drinking,” the younger man stated bitterly.

“Is it not a fair consideration?” His son could have no idea how it pained him to have to say it.

It seemed that Celaeren would lose his temper; the rage was evident in his eyes. But after staring at his father silently for a long moment, he exhaled and let his shoulders slump. His voice was sorrowful, resigned. “Father, I know I have made a mess of my life, and have let this thing control me. But until now, I have never had a reason to fight it, never had something to move towards as I crawl away from the wreckage. Well, now I have that reason. Rosalind knows who and what I am; and knowing that, she wants me still, as I want her. I will not fail her, I will make her happy. Do not try to deny me this chance.”

Moved to the core of his heart, Imrahil spoke gently. “It mot bot be for me to decide in the end, my son. But I believe that you mean what you say, and that you truly hope to change. Let me meet your lady tonight, over dinner and talk of lighter matters. Tomorrow we shall sit and discuss what is to be done.”

He stood, and waited for Celaeren to do the same. Once again he embraced his son, and this time he felt the younger man relax against him. “You may think my words harsh, Celaeren, but in truth my heart would sing for you. I only hope a solution can be found.”

“We must find it,” his son replied.

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

At last the tub stood steaming and ready, and Imrahil peeled off his travel-stained clothes. Every limb, every joint seemed to complain as he struggled out of tunic and leggings, throwing them carelessly on the bed. He still had some forty minutes before dinner; enough to soak awhile and perhaps undo the worst of the damage. He stretched, and crossed the room towards the bath.

The sound of a gentle knock at the door stopped him short. Was a man to find no peace? Cursing under his breath, he wrapped a towel around his middle and called, “Yes?” in a suitably irritated tone.

His annoyance evaporated at once as Legolas slid into the room, closing and bolting the door noiselessly behind him.

The elf-prince was radiant in a pale green silk shirt with golden embroidery at the neck and hem. His hair was intricately braided, and his face serene. Imrahil could only gaze at him, stunned anew at his lover’s beauty.

Legolas smiled a wicked smile, and began to unbutton his fine shirt.

“What are you . . .” Imrahil began.

“Faramir relishes informality,” replied the elf, “but even he might look askance were his guests to come to the dinner table with their clothes dripping wet.” The shirt was placed carefully on the bed, and Legolas, glorious in his forest green leggings and boots, strode towards Imrahil. Before he could speak or move, his towel was whisked away, and a firm hand on his backside was guiding him towards the bath.

The elf whirled him round at the edge of the tub and held the man close as he kissed him. Imrahil thought his knees might give way, so passionate and all-consuming was the embrace. He clung to his lover and let himself drift until Legolas pulled away. They looked at each other solemnly for a moment, then the elf smiled once more and Imrahil wondered if it was possible for a man to die of happiness.

A hand slid down his back and patted him gently on the behind. “Now, my prince,” said Legolas, “into the water with you.”

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Throughout the dinner Imrahil observed Rosalind as closely as he could without causing her discomfort. He found her to be very much as described: a tall, slender woman who looked no older than her nineteen years, and whose bearing and demeanour spoke of noble birth. She would never be a beauty, but her bright gold hair and piercing blue eyes were certainly striking. She spoke with grave self assurance to Imrahil himself, but when she turned to talk to Celaeren an entirely different manner emerged. It was quite apparent that his son’s feelings were returned in equal measure; the two of them looked well together.

As he had promised his son, Imrahil directed the talk to neutral subjects, trying to put Rosalind at ease. Faramir had clearly been struck by the same idea, for he had brought musicians to entertain the guests after the meal. The evening passed pleasantly without mention of the young lovers’ plight, and by the time the last note of song died away it was time for the company to retire.

For Imrahil, this stage of the evening came not a moment too soon. In spite of his concern for Celaeren and Rosalind and the desire to know her better, his body was dictating other priorities. Over-worked muscles ached to stretch and rest, and every part of him longed for the intoxicating touch of his lover. Thirty minutes in the hot water under the elf’s hands had been bliss, but could never be enough. His heart thudded with anticipation as he bade his son good night and headed for his chambers.

The prince had shed his clothing and stretched himself out face down in the bed by the time he heard the door open and close, and the bolts being drawn. He lay deliberately still, luxuriating in the knowledge of what was to come.

“I see you are ready for me,” Legolas suddenly murmured close to his ear. A second later, he felt a kiss being planted between his shoulder blades, and the sweep of the elf’s tongue along the line of his spine. In his overwrought state, this contact alone was almost enough to undo him.

“You are aching still? I have brought something to help you.”

Imrahil heard the unmistakeable sound of a cork being withdrawn from a bottle, and the familiar herbal smell reached his nostrils almost at once. The rush of memory it evoked was so vivid, he had to shut his eyes and breathe deeply to stop his head spinning. Meanwhile the elf’s warm, oiled hands began to rub his back with long, firm strokes, causing Imrahil to groan with delight. “Do you remember?” he ventured.

“Our first night together?” replied Legolas, “Aye, every detail, as if it were yesterday.”

“I knew I could love you, even then,” said the man.

In response Legolas parted Imrahil’s hair and bent to kiss the back of his neck, before using his thumbs to work the muscles there. Further conversation rapidly became irrelevant, as the man relaxed and breathed deeply, transported beyond himself by the skilful massage.

The elf lingered on every part of Imrahil’s back and legs before asking him to turn over. The man drowsily complied, and opened his eyes to see a grin on Legolas’s face and an elegant eyebrow raised. “Now here is something different from that first time,” said the elf, running the backs of his fingers down Imrahil’s chest and belly to circle his sleeping cock. “Are you too tired for me, my sweet prince?”

“Not if you touch me like that . . . ahhh . . . Legolas . . .”

The man peered blearily up at his lover. Legolas was naked – how did that happen? – and clearly quite fully aroused. Tired or no, the sight of him and the skill of his busily working hands were enough to coax Imrahil into the same state.

The elf ran an oiled thumb over the tip of Imrahil’s growing erection, while the other hand toyed with the man’s balls. Imrahil moaned at the touch. “I would have to be worse than tired to resist you,” he gasped.

“Still, you need not exert yourself,” Legolas said, “Just relax, and enjoy this.”

Straddling his mortal lover, the elf shifted himself until their cocks were aligned and touching, then used two hands to grasp and stroke both at once. Imrahil watched, mesmerised, as the slow rhythmic movements built in speed and intensity, calling forth an answering swell of pleasure in the man’s body.

“Do not hold yourself back,” breathed Legolas at last, emphasising his words with a delicious rocking of his hips, “I am ready for you.”

“Ohh . . .”

“Yes, that’s right, come with me . . .”

Imrahil could only obey his lover’s command, undone by the elf’s hands for the third time that day.

Legolas lay at his side afterwards, gently rubbing their mingled fluids into the man’s chest and belly. “Now I have an excuse to bathe you again in the morning,” he murmured.

“You need no excuse.” Imrahil caught the elf’s wrist and brought the hand to his lips, kissing each finger in turn. “You know you can have your way with me, as you like.”

“Dangerous words, indeed.” But Legolas simply drew closer, resting his head on the man’s shoulder.

Imrahil stroked the golden hair. “What do you think of her?” he asked a moment later, as his mind returned to the events of the day.

“A bright spirit, though troubled. If this matter can be resolved, she would be good for him,” the elf replied. “But do not dwell on it now; there will be time enough tomorrow. You should sleep.”

“You are right. Goodnight, my wicked elf.”

“Sleep well, my beautiful man.”

Exhausted as he was, it was some time before Imrahil closed his eyes and let his dreams overtake him. His thoughts returned again and again to Celaeren’s heated words, and he recognised the truth behind them. He could not deny his son the right to feel such bliss as he himself had been granted with Legolas. The situation might seem irredeemable, but if Rosalind was the key to Celaeren’s happiness, then a solution to the problem must indeed be found.

To be continued…