Seascapes

SEASCAPES

Chapter 9

Merenin propped himself up on one elbow to look down at his lovely wife. Lelneth’s face was rosily flushed, and the sweet colour spread down her neck and across her firm, ample breasts. She lay unashamed with her arms behind her head, gazing up at him with a smile so full of lazy satisfaction, it could almost be described as smug.

“Do you know, my love,” she said, laughter in her voice, “I do not believe I shall ever tire of this.”

He ran a hand over the gentle swell of her belly, and watched her eyelids half close in response.

“You may be the death of me yet,” he replied, “but I shall certainly die a happy man.”

His hand strayed lower, fingers pushing through the tight curls of hair to the softer flesh, still hot and slippery with their mingled fluids. Watching Lelneth’s face intently, he slid two fingers inside her, while his thumb sought her clitoris with the unerring ease of long practice. She gasped, closing her eyes and raising her knees slightly, losing herself in the irresistible rhythm of his touch.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” he said after a while, when her quickened breathing and the movement of her hips told him of her approaching climax, “and look at me.”

Her eyes opened slowly, and then wider still, as she came for the third time that morning, moaning and shuddering under her husband’s hand.

He slid his arm out from beneath him to lie full length at her side as she calmed. He kissed the soft skin of her shoulder, and blew gently over the dampness left by his mouth, watching at close range as the downy hairs rose on end. His heart ached with love for her.

“They would have to lay me to rest in a wooden box, before I could tire of you,” he whispered.

A little later he rose and called for warm water, before walking to the west-facing window.

“Another glorious day, love. Shall we ride out?” he asked.

“Perhaps. What are your father’s plans?” she responded.

“Oh, he will hear petitions all morning, and probably much of the afternoon. Half of Belfalas has chosen this week to seek his judgement and favour; I rather think their real purpose is to catch sight of the famous elven warrior.”

“Then we should ask Prince Legolas to ride with us. He will find little pleasure here under the circumstances, and would probably welcome the chance to escape the castle walls.”

Merenin turned to his wife and studied her expression of assumed innocence.

“In truth, I think you simply seek to enjoy his company yourself,” he said, teasingly.

“And would it prove such an onerous burden to you?” she asked, an arch smile on her lips.

This was not a line of questioning that Merenin wished to pursue, so he promptly changed the subject. “What about Celaeren?”

“What about him? I doubt very much that he would choose to come with us, even if you decided to ask him.”

“He can be charming enough.”

“Aye,” she said dryly, “so long as we ride out before lunch.”

She must have read his feelings on his face, for she softened almost immediately.

“I am sorry. He is your brother, and you love him. I understand that,” she said. “But I grow so tired of watching you and your father worrying about him, and trying to appease him, only to be disappointed every time.”

“I know, Lelneth. But what can we do? We can not give up on him because of this . . . this sickness he suffers from.” He turned back to the window and stared out despondently.

Lelneth’s soft footsteps crossed the floor quickly, and her arms pushed beneath his to meet around his chest. He leaned back slightly into the comforting warmth of her naked body against his, and sighed.

“Courage, husband,” she murmured. “I do not believe, even now, that it is a sickness beyond cure.”

Merenin shut his eyes and allowed himself to relax in his wife’s loving embrace for a moment, until the servant’s knock drew them apart once more.

The Great Hall was nearly empty by the time the couple descended to break their fast. Belgan informed Merenin that Prince Imrahil and his elven guest had already eaten, in a tone of such politeness that it could only indicate disapproval, although Merenin could not be sure whether he or his father were its object. Lelneth, when questioned, had no doubts about the matter.

“Your father, of course. Apart from Ancened and Celaeren, Belgan is the only one in the castle who has not been totally won over by Prince Legolas; and you know that in his eyes you can do no wrong.”

Celaeren, it seemed, had not appeared at the table. Merenin knew that this was not at all unusual, as his brother rarely ate before midday. Quite likely he was already in the training yard, punishing himself for last night’s excesses and swearing never to drink again. Merenin resolved to find him straight away after breakfast, and invite him to ride down the coast with them. He would seek out his brother and gauge his response, before deciding whether to approach the elf. Legolas would no doubt be easy to find, as he seemed to spend much of his time, when Imrahil was otherwise occupied, sitting on the beach and gazing silently out at the sea.

As he walked through the great courtyard towards the archway, Merenin could hear nothing to indicate that any training was in progress in the long walled space beyond. He was hardly surprised; in these days of peace the fair knights of Dol Amroth were happily settled on their rural estates, and the castle’s garrison had been reduced to a handful of guards, comfortable family men every one, who showed little inclination for such strenuous activity so soon after breakfast.

On the slim chance that he might yet find his brother, perhaps pausing to clean his sword or taking a swig from a skin of water, Merenin passed into the shade of the wide stone arch. Before he could emerge into the sun once more, he stopped short in astonishment. Celaeren was nowhere to be seen, but the yard was not deserted.

Prince Legolas crouched with his back to Merenin, hands moving swiftly about his work as he trimmed and fletched a long, silver-tipped arrow. A smallish bow lay on the ground beside him, and his quiver stood alongside. The elf was dressed in hunting leathers, green and brown, and his hair was pulled into braids and tied at the back of his head. As Merenin watched, he finished his task and dropped the arrow into the quiver, before leaping to his feet and slinging it across his shoulder, with the fluid confidence of one who has performed the same movement thousands of times before.

‘Many thousands of times,’ the man reflected.

Merenin could not bring himself to speak, to announce his presence, as the elf picked up his bow. He had yet to witness a demonstration of Legolas’s legendary battle skills, for to the best of his knowledge the elf had laid aside his weapons for the duration of his stay at the castle. It came to him with sudden certainty that there could be only one reason for him to take them up again now: Legolas would be leaving Dol Amroth soon.

Before he could fully examine his reaction to this revelation, Legolas began to shoot. Merenin gazed in stupefied silence as the elf loosed arrow after arrow from the singing bow, following each with the next so quickly, the man could not properly follow his movements. There were four targets at the far end of the yard, and Legolas aimed a single arrow at each in turn, left to right and back again, until finally his quiver was empty and a cluster of gold-fletched shafts marked the centre of each red circle.

The whole display had taken seconds.

As he watched Legolas cross the yard to collect his arrows, moving with his habitual feline grace, Merenin realised that he was holding his breath and that his skin was tingling. A curious feeling of queasy excitement rose in him.

‘I should not be watching this.’ The thought entered his mind and stayed there, as his heart began to beat far louder and faster than was right. He knew that the only course of action was to flee, to forget what he had seen and how the elf’s extraordinary speed and skill had stirred him, bringing undeniable confirmation of the suspicions of the last few days.

At the very moment when his body at last decided to obey his brain’s commands, and he turned to leave the yard, Legolas called his name and he knew he was lost.

“Prince Merenin.”

He spun round to see the elf walking towards him, a smile of welcome on his beautiful face.

“Prince Legolas, good morning,” Merenin said, then waited foolishly, since he did not know what else to say.

The elf stood a few feet away and regarded him calmly. “Do you come to train?” he enquired. “I would gladly fence with you a while, for your father assures me that your skill with the sword outstrips his own.”

“I am not sure if that is true,” replied Merenin, thinking fast.

The idea of entering into the strangely formal dance of swordplay with the graceful elf was enticing, to say the least; and for this very reason he knew he should back away. Yet he could hardly refuse Legolas’s suggestion without discourtesy to his father’s guest.

“But I should be honoured to join you,” he finished.

Together they entered the small armourer’s store that led off the side of the yard, Merenin acutely conscious of the spare, elegant figure treading so lightly at his side. He tried to concentrate on the weapons, and chose a long, fine sword which he proffered, hilt first, to Legolas.

“It surprises me, that you choose to travel without your own,” he said, needing to break the silence.

“My bow and knives serve me well enough.” The elf smiled, and accepted the weapon with a slight nod, before taking it out into the sunlight to inspect its blade and make a few experimental swings.

Merenin found one of his own swords, and grasped its familiar contours with relief. The weight of it in his hand comforted him, and focussed his mind on the challenge of meeting a swift and agile opponent, who would fight in unfamiliar style. Since boyhood Merenin had always excelled at swordplay above all other arts of combat; he determined that on this occasion he would retain his honour, come what may.

They began slowly, dancing around each other, each trying to find the measure of the other. It struck Merenin almost at once that they were of virtually the same height, but that his own shoulders were somewhat broader; the elf was undoubtedly quicker than him, but he may have the advantage of strength. He lunged, almost playfully, testing Legolas’s response. The parry came swiftly, as expected, but without undue force. Catching the elf’s eye, he realised that Legolas too was holding himself back. Merenin grinned, and saw the response on the other’s lips that signalled the start of a fight in earnest.

The s and and intensity of their contest increased, yet paradoxically each move, for Merenin, became clearer, held in its own distinct moment in time. He knew this feeling of old, the strange joy of combat, the narrowing of his concentration until nothing existed but himself, his opponent, and the clash of metal between them. There was a peculiar symmetry to their movements, a sinuous lightness to their dance, quite unlike the heavy-handed aggression of a bout with the men of the guards, with whom he usually trained.

If Legolas had not stopped the contest, Merenin could not have said how it would end, for the two were indeed well matched. The elf lifted his blade and stepped back with a small motion of his head to signal a pause. Merenin dropped his sword-arm to his side and nodded, unable to keep the smile from his face. He was breathing hard, and his blood pulsed rich with life.

“Your father spoke the truth,” said Legolas, evenly, as if he had known no exertion. “You are a fine swordsman. And strange, for you fight like an elf, and yet not so. It is long since I have had the pleasure of meeting such an opponent.”

“The pleasure, and honour, is mine,” replied the man, as courtesy demanded.

They smiled at each other for a second, but then the elf’s eyes looked over Merenin’s shoulder, and the blond head bowed slightly.

“Good morning, Prince Celaeren,” Legolas said.

Merenin turned to find his brother leaning on the stone of the archway, watching the two of them with an unfathomable expression.

“Celaeren, good morning,” he echoed the elf, trying not to feel disappointed.

Celaeren walked slowly towards them.

“Good morning Merenin. Prince Legolas.” His voice was cool, non-committal. “My brother is still standing, I see. Did he acquit himself well?”

“Well, indeed,” Legolas replied, equally smoothly. “I would not wish to have Prince Merenin as an enemy.”

“A great compliment, coming from such a warrior as yourself.”

Something in his brother’s tone made it clear that this was not the simple courtesy it appeared to be. Suddenly tense, Merenin placed his sword on the stone bench by the armoury door, and turned to Celaeren. Legolas likewise laid his sword down, and stood at Merenin’s side.

As Celaeren approached, he did not look at his brother at all, but stared openly at the elf. From the corner of his eye Merenin could see that Legolas appeared quite unconcerned, although a knot of anxiety was growing in his own chest, as the moment drew on.

Standing before the elf, Celaeren spoke. “Perhaps you would do me the honour, Prince Legolas, of allowing me to prove myself as my brother has done.” The words were harmless enough, but Merenin could sense the danger behind them.

“You would fence with me?” Legolas asked.

“Nay, I am no master with the sword. My skill is in unarmed combat.”

For a moment there was silence; and Merenin’s mind raced. That Celaeren should challenge Legolas thus was not beyond the bounds of courtesy, as they stood in the training ground and Merenin was there to see fair play. However, he knew that his brother’s request came not from a simple desire to prove himself, in good spirit, against a famous warrior. Behind his suggestion lurked a well of emotion, resentment and envy at least. Merenin could not be sure what other feelings his brother harboured towards the elf, since he had not attempted to discuss the matter with Celaeren, knowing too well how difficult the conversation might turn out to be.

“Will you accept my challenge?” Celaeren’s tone was lighter now, almost insolent. The implication was clear; it would be hard for Legolas to refuse with honour. Yet refuse he did.

“I would prefer not to do so.” The elf spoke quietly, no trace of emotion in his voice.

“May I ask why? Is such a lowly diversion beneath the dignity of your people?”

Merenin opened his mouth to speak at this, but stopped and shut it again when Legolas half turned and looked at him. If the elf had spoken the words, his command could not have been clearer.

Turning back to Celaeren, the elf said, “Not by any means; I myself enjoy the sport. Yet I sense that sport is not what you seek with me, and I would rather you spoke your mind.”

There was a long silence. Merenin noticed his brother’s hands form fists at his sides. He badly wanted to intervene, but somehow, it seemed that he was frozen on the spot.

“And if I force the issue, what then?” Celaeren’s voice was icy.

This was too much. “Celaeren! You cannot…” Merenin stepped towards his brother, but Legolas’s hand on his shoulder stopped him once again.

“Forgive me, Prince Merenin. I believe it is me your brother wishes to speak to.” The elf spoke gently, and his hand applied the faintest of pressure. Even in the anxiety of the moment warmth flooded through Merenin at the touch. Stunned, he found he could not demur when Legolas said, “Please, sit, and let us finish this.”

He sank down slowly onto the stone bench and watched as Celaeren and Legolas faced each other, the elf staring unblinkingly into his brother’s eyes.

“Well?” said Celaeren.

“I do not advise it,” Legolas said, mildly.

In a sudden flash of movement Celaeren’s fist came up and swung at Legolas’s jaw. But the connection was never made, for the elf moved faster still, and held the man’s wrist firmly, a few inches from his face. The bright blue eyes did not stray from Celaeren’s for an instant.

“It is no solution.” Oddly, the elf’s tone now seemed almost kindly.

After a long pause, Merenin saw his brother’s body relax, and his arm became limp in the elf’s grasp. Still holding on, Legolas allowed Celaeren’s arm to fall; even then he did not remove his hand, but left his fingers loosely linked around man’man’s wrist. Celaeren stood as if mesmerised for a moment, then shook his head.

“Do you ever tire of being so damned perfect?” he said angrily.

Unexpectedly, the elf laughed, a genuine sound of amusement, dispelling some of the tension of the moment. “If you come to Ithilien,” he said, “I shall introduce you to my friend the dwarf. He will have much to say of the perfection of elves.”

Celaeren was not to be mollified so easily, but when he spoke his voice seemed weary.

“Why did you come here?” he asked.

He seemed not to notice that Legolas still held his wrist. Merenin, on the other hand, could not forget it; his eyes drawn time and again to the sight, as he wondered what it would feel like to have the elf’s fingers resting thus on his own skin.

“To look at the sea, and to visit a friend,” Legolas said, without rancour.

“A friend? You speak lightly of my father, while you toy with his affections, before returning to your own kind. Is it a passing whim for you? To spend a moment of time with a mortal man, filling his head with dreams of eternity, knowing that he will die and you will not?” CelaCelaeren finally dropped his head, tearing his eyes away from the elf’s unflinching gaze.

“Is that the root of your anger?” Legolas replied softly, his voice so full of anguish that Merenin knew even Celaeren must hear it, and know it to be real. “You think that I do not care, and that death does not touch me? You understand so little of my heart. And yet I will admit that I do not understand you. You fear your mortal end so terribly, but you turn away from life, filling your soul with bitterness and sorrow, pushing away those who love you and seeking out your own destruction daily. How can that be a solution to your pain?”

All the fire seemed to have gone from his brother as he slowly raised his head again to look at Legolas. “What solution is there? Tell me, Elf.” His voice was little more than a whisper. Merenin felt a draining sadness pass through him at his brother’s words, which held no hint of mockery now. He watched as the elf moved his hand, sliding it up from his brother’s wrist to grip the flesh of his lower arm gently.

“I do not know, Celaeren,” he said, “But I do know this. All your anger, all your hurt, will not bring your mother back; nor will it change the circumstances of your life. Is it not time to let it go? If a solution exists, it is inside yourself, and it is there you must seek; yet you have no need to feel that you are alone. Do not be afraid to turn to those who would help you in your quest.”

Merenin could not say how long the silence lasted. His brother and Legolas stood quite unmoving, eyes still locked together. That something strange was happening between them he had no doubt; what it was, he could not begin to imagine. He sat miserably on the bench, ashamed of his overwhelming desire to be the one so thoroughly at the centre of the elf’s attention.

At last Legolas took his hand from Celaeren’s arm and stepped back with a sigh. It seemed that the spell was broken, for Celaeren shook his head again, turned away wordlessly, and stood looking up at the sky, running a hand through his hair.

Legolas looked at Merenin and smiled, but the man saw that his eyes were full of grief. He had no words to offer, so he waited for the elf to speak.

“I thank you for your indulgence this morning, Prince Merenin,” said Legolas, “and I hope it will not be the last time that we may draw our swords together. Now, by your leave . . .”

Merenin nodded, and sat silently watching as Legolas picked up his bow and quiver, turned, and left the yard without so much as a glance at Celaeren.

He half expected his brother to follow the elf’s lead, and to leave him there without a word of explaon oon of what had passed. Celaeren’s sense of pride was strong, and it could not have been easy for him to have been bested by the elf in such a way. If, indeed, that was what had happened. Merenin quite honestly did not know.

To his surprise, Celaeren did not leave, but dropped to the bench beside him with a sigh. Merenin looked at his face and saw no anger there. If anything, his brother’s face wore a look of resignation. Tentatively, he reached out a hand and placed it on Celaeren’s arm, expecting a rebuff which did not come. Celaeren looked at him with a rueful smile.

“It is useless, is it not?” he said.

Merenin frowned, trying to decide on the meaning of his brother’s words.

“I want so much to hate him, but I cannot. It would be pointless, like hating the sea, or the sky. He is not what I thought.”

Merenin understood. “Indeed not. Yet he is here.”

“With Father,” Celaeren said. “How can this have happened?”

“I do not know,” said Merenin, and looked at his brother closely. “It truly disturbs you.”

“How can it not?” his brother replied. “It is hardly a natural state of affairs.”

“Do you refer to the fact that he is male, or the fact that he is not of our kind?”

“I think it is the latter that worries me more,” Celaeren said. “We both know that love between men is not uncommon, though most would be more discreet.”

Merenin thought back to the day his father had arrived at the castle with his hair neatly braided, and nodded his agreement.

“There is a reason why our races have lived long apart. I can see naught but unhappiness coming of it in the long term,” Celaeren said. He paused, then added, “Yet I know the elf genuinely cares for Father, in some fashion.”

“You do?”

His brother spoke slowly, as if trying to make sense of the words himself. “I felt it, Merenin, do not ask me how. But I felt his affection for Father, and his grief at the thought of his passing. He mourns cousin Boromir still; and there were other things too, such sadness, I could not say what caused it all. And I had thought him impassive, unfeeling . . . ”

Merenin tried to absorb all this. “What happened here, Brother?” he said at last.

“How could I explain it? It was as you saw. I tried to hit him and he stopped me, and then he . . . touched me, somehow, and let me touch him, our spirits – I cannot make it clearer, for I do not know.”

“Did he speak in your mind? I have heard that elves can do that.”

“No, nothing so definite; it was more like a . . . a wash of feeling. All that pain, but joy, too; he is full of emotion, though he appears to be so cold.”

It had never occurred to Merenin to think Legolas cold, for he did not confuse the elf’s composure with a lack of feeling beneath. However he kept this to himself, happy that Celaeren was talking so openly to him. There was something about his brother’s manner that reminded him of the way they once used to be, before bitterness and grief had intruded on their happy relationship. He suddenly felt the need to share a confidence of his own.

“When I realised that Father and Legolas were . . . close, I could not accept it at first,” he said.

“Yet you are not unmoved by him, yourself.” It was a statement of fact, not a query. Merenin stared at his brother, shocked by his words.

“Oh come now,” said Celaeren. “I may be a drunkard, but I am not a complete fool, and I have known you all my life. Do you think I cannot see it?”

Merenin stared at the ground. “I will not lie to you, Brother,” he said unhappily. “I am shamed by my response to him. I would willingly die before doing anything to hurt or dishonour my wife.”

“I do not doubt it,” said Celaeren. “There is a clear boundary between unwanted feelings and deliberate action; you are not the one who lacks self control. And I do not think you need to be ashamed, for I am quite sure that three quarters of the men in the castle feel the same way.”

“But not you,” stated Merenin baldly.

“No, not me. He unnerves me, though I can see that he is extraordinarily fair.” His voice dropped and his face told of his concern as he went on, “Have you spoken to Lelneth of it?”

“How could I do so?” retorted Merenin, sharply.

“It may be for the best. I should not be surprised if she realises already, as there is little that passes her by. If that is so, you would be better to be honest. She is wise; she will not judge you.”

They sat for a while, Celaeren wrapped in his own thoughts, Merenin reflecting on the truth of his brother’s words.

“It is well that the elf is leaving soon,” said Merenin at last, “even though Father will grieve at his parting. Were he to stay longer, I fear he would make fools of us all.”

“Aye, I believe you are right.” Ceen sen smiled at him and Merenin made a rapid decision.

“Will you ride with me today, Celaeren?” he asked, “Just you and me, down the coast, as we did when we were young?”

“I should be glad to do so, Brother.” The warmth in his voice matched that of his smile. “The stables, in half an hour?”

Merenin nodded, feeling a surge of hope in his breast. Lelneth would understand the sudden change in plans, he felt sure, although there was not time enough to explain it all to her now. He clasped his brother’s shoulder briefly as he stood, and took up the swords to return them to the store. When he came back out into the yard, he found Celaeren waiting for him, and they walked back through the archway side by side.