Sea Longing

SEA LONGING.

By Capella


Author's Note: Set in the aftermath of the War of the Ring, which takes place in the book 'Return of the King'.

The characters are not mine; we all know they belong to JRRT. No profit is made from these stories and no offence is intended.

The author welcomes feedback.

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SEA LONGING

During the day, the elf and the dwarf are inseparable. They walk through the camp, delighting in shared banter, comfortable in their mutual ‘otherness’ in this great mass of men. Their friends smile to see them, a strange pair and yet somehow so fitting together. Other men wonder about the nature of the love between them - the one so beauteous and elegant, a creature of the light, the other short and sturdy, a son of the earth itself. They have tales to tell, and songs to sing, and they are welcome at many a fireside. Through the long days of sunshine that follow the shadow’s fall they walk, and each holds secrets of grief in his heart, but together they find some peace.

The nights are another matter.

Legolas rises from the hard, makeshift bed in the still hours of earliest morning. Across the tent, Gimli snores peacefully, one hand behind his head and a smile playing on his lips. The elf regards him for a while, an answering grin on his face, and he wonders what sweet dreams are visiting his friend this night. It is some time since he himself has known such benediction; it seems that tonight will be no exception. Sighing almost inaudibly, the elf opens the canvas flap and steps out, wandering aimlessly into the night.

Even the trees of Ithilien seem able to offer him little comfort, of late. Such irony, he muses; that when the battle is won, and Sauron overthrown against all odds by the power of innocence itself, now is the time that his heart should fail him. He has known all along that success could only bring him sorrow, as the man he loves steps into his destiny as king, and leaves his past behind. It is many years since he accepted that this would happen, without bitterness. The fact that he expected it makes it no easier to bear.

Then there is the daily ache of the sea longing. True, there are moments when he forgets the gulls, when he is laughing with Gimli and the hobbits, or lying beneath the trees at midday listening to a minstrel’s song. But every time his thoughts falter, the haunting cry of the sea birds is there to fill his mind. The certainty that he will lose all that he holds dear in Middle Earth combines with his present grief at the sundering from his lover, and threatens to overwhelm him.

Yet tonight Legolas knowst tht there is something else troubling him. He finds that his footsteps are leading him towards the camp of the Dunedain and the tent of Elrond’s sons. A fond smile touches his lips as he realises why he craves their company. He has been too long parted from hwn kwn kin, and yearns for the music of an elven voice, the soft but energising touch of an elven hand.

He is disappointed, but not at all surprised, to sense no sign of life from the brothers’ tent. - No doubt they too walk in the night, finding peace of their own in a more private place. I will seek out their company tomorrow. –

Again he wanders, contemplating idly the beauty of the night sky. Lost in the naming of the constellations, a pastime which has always soothed him since he was a youngster, he hardly notices where his steps have taken him, until he stands before a large tent in an unfamiliar section of the camp. His eye is drawn down from the stars to the banner atop the marquee, striking in its simplicity under the bright moon. A white ship like a great swan rides a midnight blue background, a finely worked image that lifts, yet twists, his heart.

Suddenly he recalls a meeting in grimmer times on the paved str of of Minas Tirith – a lordly man, tall, and uncommonly fair; a moment of mutual surprise in the appraisal; courteous words exchanged while two pairs of eyes held a rather different conversation. Legolas believes that little in this world happens by chance. It is surely no accident that his feet have brought him to the camp of the prince of Dol Amroth.

He stands a while, gazing at the prince’s emblem, wondering how to proceed, for now that he is here he is loathe to turn away. In his mind he tries the flavour of the man’s name.

- Imrahil. -

Surely he did not speak, yet after the barest of pauses a man’s voice from inside the tent asks,

“Who is there?”

The elf speaks aloud this time, but softly, for it seems the whole camp sleeps, in weighty silence.

“ ‘Tis Legolas.” He offers no more, but waits.

“Come.” the voice responds; and Legolas pushes aside the tent flap and goes inside.

A rough bed lies empty to the side of the entrance, with packs and soldier’s paraphernalia around it. As the elf stands quite still, there is a movement behind the canvas sheet that divides the tent, and an oil lamp sputters into life. Without a word, the elf approaches.

“In here.” An unnecessary observation, but all the invitation Legolas needs.

Prince Imrahil lies among cushions on a simple bed, propped on one elbow and gazing steadily at his visitor. The sheets cover him to the waist, but above, he is naked. His chest is smooth and quite hairless, tanned golden brown and pleasingly lean yet muscled. Legolas notes this in an instant and forces his gaze to the man’s face. Angular planes and wide set grey-green eyes speak of his elven ancestry, but the thick, wavy, chestnut-coloured hair, bleached to a dark gold in places by the sun and sea, sets him apart.

“Your servant?” says the elf.

“Is with his fellows, no doubt happy in a drunken stupor until morning. I have no need of him.”

Legolas nods. The prince moves a cushion towards the end of the bed, and gestures towards it. With another nod, the elf sits, swiftly and elegantly.

“What brings you here, friend?” asks the man, softly.

Legolas considers for a moment before replying. He is not so certain of the answer himself, but speaks as honestly as he can.

“The night brought me no rest, so I wandered, and found myself beside your tent with no real purpose. I was contemplating your banner when it seems I disturbed you. I apologise for the intrusion.”

“Yet you called to me.”

The elf looks at him, searchingly. – I was not aware that I did so. -

The man’s eyes widen as he hears the words but sees the elf’s mouth, closed. “Oh . . .”

“It seems, good prince, that you have inherited a rare gift.”

“Indeed.” They are silent for a while, Imrahil pondering the implications of this discovery, Legolas simply stilling his thoughts for the moment.

After a while, the man asks, “What troubles you, Legolas, that you cannot sleep, even now that the world is safe?”

It seems to be a night for truths, so the elf tells him two parts of the whole. “It is long since I walked among my kin, and longer still since I left my home. I hunger for news of my father’s kingdom, and yearn for the company of my kind. Yet in truth, my longing for the sea is stronger still.”

Imrahil looks at him with pity. “It is calling you? Now?”

“Since I heard the gulls in Pelargir it has not left my mind or my heart, even though I have yet to look upon the waters themselves.”

“You have not seen the sea?” The man is astounded.

The elf shakes his head sadly, and the man has a sudden urge to ease his melancholy.

“Shall I tell you of it? Would it please you, or would it make matters worse?”

“It would please me, greatly.” His companion leans forwards, blue eyes intense.

So Imrahil sits up against the cushions, and speaks of the sea: its moods and its magic, its terrors and its torments, its song and its scent. He tells of the ferocity of white edged breakers in an autumn storm; of the broken, golden path to the West in a summer sunset; of the joy of diving through the surf in a bright spring morning. He speaks with the passion of one who has loved the sea all his life, but knows too well that its temperament is not always benign.

Legolas sits perfectly still, in rapt attention.

As the man’s eulogy draws to a close, it occurs to him that in spite of his fine words, the sight before him holds more magic and beauty than anything his coastal kingdom can offer. The elf’s eyes are glowing and his lips slightly parted, his hair pale golden in the lamplight. His face and hands seem to shine from within with a silvery light of their own. He is all poise, purity and strength, yet somehow touchingly vulnerable. The man wonders, trying with little success not to succumb to his awe, quite how the elf has come to be sitting on the edge of his bed.

Legolas shifts slightly, and says softly, “Thank you.”

As the other’s head moves, the lamplight catches a glint of tears in a blue eye, and Imrahil’s heart lurches. Without thinking, he reaches towards the elf, intending to place a comforting hand on his arm . . .

And stops, mid-movement, the agonising pain in his shoulder immobilising him for a second.

Instantly, the elf’s melancholy seems to vanish, and his look is all concern.

“You are wounded?”

“ ‘Tis nothing, a slight strain, that is all.” He sinks back to the cushions, defeated.

“Perhaps I can help you? I am no healer, but my hands have some experience of dealing with such problems. I would dearly like to repay you for your kindness, and for disturbing your sleep.” There is warmth in the elf’s voice, and something that could almost be eagerness in his face.

Imrahil considers for a moment the prospect of the elf’s slender hands on his flesh, and attempts to suppress a shiver. Perhaps he should refuse, for fear of his own response. But the night is strange enough already, and his back muscles scream for relief.

“My healer gave me some oil for it,” he says rather diffidently, rummaging between cushions for the small bottle. “I would be grateful . . .”

Legolas smiles at him, and indicates that he should turn, and lie face down. The man is only too happy to comply, certain that his body will betray him if he is subjected to that smile again.

Legolas kneels at the man’s side and contemplates his back, smoothly tapered from shoulder to waist, fine skinned as an elf’s, begging to be touched. It is apparent to him that Imrahil is as naked below the sheets as he is above. He uncorks the bottle and breathes in deeply: rosemary, coriander and marjoram, - just such an oil as Aragorn once used to - he banishes the thought immediately, and empties his mind as well as he can, to concentrate on the massage.

Hands oiled and warmed, he starts with long strokes from waist to neck and off down the arms. The source of the man’s pain is obvious at once, but Legolas has to stretch to reach it well. A few more deep strokes with the heels of his hands, then the elf says smoothly,

“I could deal with the left shoulder far better if I was to kneel across you, but I do not wish to cause you discomfort.”

Imrahil swallows a groan and says, “Please. You have healing hands. I can feel the good they are doing already.”

Legolas takes his position, nimbly. He tries to keep some distance as he straddles the other’s hips, pulling the sheets taut across the man’s form as he does so, but contact is unavoidable. Although he tries to keep his focus on the work of his hands, he soon finds himself deliciously aroused by the situation. He thinks that he should probably stop, and collect his thoughts, but not until he has unravelled some of the tension in the man’s muscles….

Imrahil, faithfully married for thirty-two years, rarely even tempted and never before by a man, finds that he is having one of the most intensely erotic experiences of his life.

True, Legolas is working magic with his hands, with a warm, firm touch that would make Imrahil purr with contentment, were he not so distracted. Distracted by the gentle pressure of the elf’s thighs against his buttocks, and by Legolas’s own excitement, which is somehow transmitting itself to him, almost as if the elf were humming right inside his head. It is all he can do to stop himself wriggling, in an attempt to appease his straining erection, mercifully pressed down into the bed below. He wants this exquisite torment to last for ever, but he does not know how much longer he can stand it.

At last the elf’s fingers travel up the back and off down the arms one last time, and he gently moves himself away to the side of the bed. Imrahil remains exactly where he is, breathing deeply, striving for self control. Neither speaks. After a short time the man rolls over, to find the elf sitting very close, gazing down at him with flushed face and dark eyes, expression intense. Imrahil is certain his thumping heart is clearly audible to the other.

Wordlessly, Legolas moves his hand to the side of Imrahil’s face, smooth and beardless as his own. He strokes the hair back, and tucks it behind the man’s ear It is a delicate ear, topped, as the elf had half expected, with the faintest suggestion of a point. As long fingers glide from lobe to tip and the elf’s face assumes a dreamy look, Imrahil panics, opens his mouth, and speaks without thinking.

“I am married.” A foolish comment, which he regrets straight away.

Legolas does not laugh; his smile is serious. “Of course,” he replies, simply. “And I am bound to another, who is not free to return my love.”

Imrahil has to shut his eyes, overcome by the swiftness of the vision, of the tall man on horseback with the green gem at his breast. Suddenly he understands so much, so much that was strange before. He discovers that the thought of the elf’s sadness appals him, and also that his panic has left him. Opening his eyes once more, he reaches up and pulls the golden head down to his own.

The kiss is gentle, but there is nothing tentative about it. Legolas has a taste which is somehow indefinably green; like the leaves of some sweet herb, freshly crushed. His tongue is warm and playful, teasing Imrahil’s own, darting into the man’s mouth and back again, drawing him forward and causing him to tighten his hold on the elf’s neck. Imrahil is momentarily lost in delight, knowing that the elf’s sorrow is abating and his arousal building with every second that their mouths remain locked together.

At last the elf pulls back, and moves to straddle Imrahil once more, kneeling up and keeping some space between their bodies. Imrahil longs to grasp his hips and pull him down into more definite contact, but instead waits, breathing quickly. Legolas places his hands on the man’s chest and strokes with that same warm firmness, watching the path of his hands intently, smiling as Imrahil arches up into his touch. There are times, the man reflects, age age is a blessing; thirty years ago he would have spilled himself already with the pleasure of it.

Imrahil lifts an arm and tugs gently at the elf’s tunic. “I would touch your skin, as you have touched mine,” he says quietly.

The elf smiles broadly, and his hands leave the man’s nipples, where they have been circling slowly. Rapidly his fingers unfasten his tunic, and he shrugs it off, casts it to the side.

For a long moment, Imrahil forgets to move, content just to look at the beauty of the body before him. Legolas is smooth and flawless, like gently illuminated ivory, no, nothing so hard. His skin is silken soft, his shape slender, graceful yet strong, torso narrowing to prominent hips and, gods, the extent of his arousal evident, clearly outlined beneath the soft leather he still wears.

The man is transfixed.

“Imrahil.” A note of amusement is echoed in the arch of an eyebrow. “You would touch me?”

His hands slide up the slim white arms to the elf’s shoulders and back down the centre of his chest. If anything, the skin there is even smoother and softer than he had imagined. Fingers splay, teasingly, either side of the dark rose-pink nipples, down to the waist, to linger there, slipping inside the elf’s clothing, just enough to imply, without giving relief. Then back up his sides to his collar bones, and in again . . . and down, slowly, circling, drawing out the moment, the elf now breathing audibly and arching, twisting, wordlessly pleading. Imrahil finally takes pity on him and drags the flat of one hand over each nipple, agonisingly slowly; then pinches gently, each thumb and forefinger rolling the flesh back and forwards.

Legolas no longer cares about maintaining distance between them. His knees slide apart and his arms fall forwards as he brings his cock down onto Imrahil’s, the layers of leather and cotton between them doing little to conceal the heat and hardness of one from the other. He rotates his hips slowly as the man continues to torment his nipples, and his eyes begin to lose their focus.

Imrahil discovers that the sight of the elf rapidly losing control is likely to have the same effect on him. He is unwilling to end this so soon, so he takes his hands from the elf’s chest and holds him by the shoulders, pulling the other down on top of him. Blond hair falls across his face and shoulders as Legolas kisses him, forcefully this time, tongue pushing into his mouth in rhythm with the thrusts of the elf’s hips against his. Imrahil resigns himself to coming too soon, for surely it is inevitable… but the elf pulls back at the last moment, leaving the man gasping for air and for sheer wanting.

Legolas rolls off to the side and raises himself on an elbow, smiling down at him fondly, even as his other hand slips down over the man’s stomach to flick the sheet away from him at last. Imrahil feels himself blush as the elf slowly lets his eyes wander down, lingering on his lower body.

“My prince,” says Legolas, in a low musical voice full of seduction. “You are quite extraordinarily beautiful.”

Imrahil closes his eyes, and counts to five, slowly, in an attempt to calm himself, while Legolas moves at his side. He wonders if his heart will last the night, but decides that this would not be a bad way to die. On opening his eyes again, thoughts of calm are rapidly dispelled when he sees that the elf has managed to rid himself of the remainder of his clothing, and now lies beside him in all his glory.

Imrahil looks, and carries on looking.

“As for you,” he breathes at last, “I have no words to describe your splendour.”

He pushes himself up to his knees and leans his head down to the elf’s shoulder. Slowly, he begins to make his way down the magnificent body, kissing, licking and gently biting the silver-white skin, delighting in the moans and shudders he is causing. Finally he pauses, hands on the elf’s thighs, face close to his glorious erection. Even here, the elf’s skin is paler, finer than the man’s. He had never before imagined that a cock could be so . . . beautiful. He waits a moment, contemplating what he is about to do, then gently brings his lips down on the underside, and kisses his way to the tip.

Legolas shudders, and rakes the fingers of both hands through Imrahil’s hair to clutch his head. The man stops moving as once again it seems he knows the other’s mind, and the nature of it takes him by surprise.

Suddenly, Imrahil is aware of what it is that the elf really wants, and why he could never ask for it in words. He can feel the desperate desire for release and for comfort, but also the underpinning of guilt and fear – something to do with the elf’s complex status, bound and yet free. Legolas does not want to be worshipped by a gentle, tentative lover. He needs to be taken wholeheartedly by another, who will not allow him the luxury of wondering whether it is right.

Imrahil is painfully sure that he can give the elf what he needs, in spite of his own history as a tender and considerate lover of women. A wild excitement rises in him at the thought of this beautiful creature helpless beneath him. It seems that Legolas senses his lust; the hands in his hair start to shake, and he feels the other’s passion building.

The man rises and slides himself along the bed to lie at the elf’s side, partially on top of him. His hands twine in the blond hair and his mouth seeks the other’s ear. His tongue traces its outline and flicks into its depths before he breathes into it, in a low growl: “Don’t worry, lovely one. I will have you before the night is out.”

Legolas gasps, and clutches at Imrahil with desperate hands. But the man rises to his knees again and moves the elf’s arms, onea tia time, forcing them back to the pillows behind his head. One of the man’s hands then takes both elven wrists in a strong grip, while the other moves roughly down the pale chest, thumb dragging slowly across the nipples, nails over the stomach. The elf’s eyes are wide and his mouth open. He does not tear his gaze from Imrahil’s as the man finally reaches his cock and takes it in his hand, grasping firmly, giving two, three, four hard strokes as the elf writhes in hopeless bliss.

The power of it is intoxicating. With every move he feels the elf’s pleasure building and the humming in his head grows louder. Yet still he wants to delay it, still he wants something more. A cruel smile curves Imrahil’s lips as he releases the elf’s cock just in time, and hears him groan in despair. He wants to hear the elf plead.

Feather-light touches up and down his aching cock, and gentle squeezes to the sac below, bring tears of need to Legolas’s eyes. He can stand it no longer. - Imrahil! Please, I cannot bear it! - Then aloud, “Please, Imrahil, I beg you, release me, I need . . . ”

“Need what, sweet prince?” the man still strokes lightly, “Tell me.”

The elf struggles against the man’s restraining hand, tries in vain to increase the pressure on his cock by raising his hips, then falls back, defeated.

“I need to come, Imrahil. Let me come, please.” Never has his voice sounded more beautiful.

“Then do it now,” the man whispers hoarsely.

A firm grip; three swift, determined strokes and the elf does indeed come, hard, spasm after spasm wracking his whole body, hot white liquid covering the man’s hand and arcing onto the elf’s own belly and chest.

Imrahil releases Legolas’s hands as the elf’s wild movements reduce to occasional shudders. He cradles the elf’s head with one arm and brings his own wet, sticky hand to his mouth, eyes still locked to the other’s. Slowly he licks the salty fluid from his thumb and first finger while the elf watches, then offers the other fingers to Legolas, who wordlessly takes one, then the second and third into his mouth, sucking hungrily. This sensual gesture is almost enough to finish Imrahil there and then, but some hint of sadness in the elf’s eyes makes him wait for his own release.

He shifts, and lies at Legolas’s side, turning the elf towards him and enfolding him in his arms. Tears now fill the blue eyes, and Imrahil knows without doubt that the elf is troubled by thoughts of Aragorn. For a moment the man watches helplessly, feeling the elf’s pain, but inspiration comes to him before long, and he speaks.

“When it is time, beautiful one,” he says softly, “Come to me in Dol Amroth and I will show you the sea.”

At these words Legolas becomes quite still, and his pain takes on a different colour.

“We will wade through the surf as the sun rises behind the mountains, and float on our backs through the waves, laughing at the midday sky. I will sail with you to a secret cove where the breakers crash on treacherous rocks and between the rocks lies a hidden beach. There I will strip you naked and push you down to the warm sand and claim you, Legolas, take you, make you mine, while the roar of the sea fills your head and cleanses your heart . . .”

The elf’s hands are upon him now, stroking his chest, his hips, his thighs and taking his cock between them, drawing it to its full length, even as Legolas brings his lips to Imrahil’s for a long, sweet, passionate kiss.

“I will come to you, my lord,” he says, “But I can not wait. Take me now, I beg you.”

So Imrahil once again rises to his knees and positions himself between the slender white thighs. Maybe Legolas is communicating some knowledge to him, or maybe instinct guides him; it matters not, for the result is sweet. He reaches for the small bottle before raising the elf’s legs over his chest and leaning into him, staring into his eyes. Oil on his palms, he smoothes his hands along his erection, then hooks one thumb behind the elf’s knee, raising him further. The other hand guides his cock into position and then slowly, but firmly, he pushes his way inside the elf’s body, heat rushing through him as he experiences for the first time the tightness and thrilling pain.

Legolas is breathing rapidly through parted lips as the man hurts him, fills him, takes him without apology. He tries to relax as the familiar sense of panic and vulnerability wells up in him. Shifting his hips slightly, he groans as the cock inside him touches the most sensitive place. Imrahil does not flinch, does not enquire if the elf is hurt, and Legolas briefly loves him for it. The man simply withdraws slightly, only to thrust slowly back in with maddening restraint. This does not last long, however. Four or five slow moves, and Imrahil’s own passion overtakes him. The thrusts become faster, harder, more unrelenting, and the elf knows that he could not now stop the man if he tried. His own erection is growing fast, but he abandons himself to the man’s authority and neither asks for his own release, nor attempts to bring it himself.

Yet Imrahil must sense Legolas’s need even as he approaches his own peak, for one hand reaches between them, grasping the elf’s cock once again, dragging on it hard, too hard, as he slams himself into the willing body beneath him.

Imrahil no longer cares about the elf’s comfort or enjoyment, so absorbed is he in the sensations coursing through him. Never has he felt such intense painful pleasure, such need, such power. He holds the elf’s beautiful cock in an unyielding grip as one final push takes him to the brink and holds him there . . . then every nerve screams as Imrahil opens his eyes and looks down at the elf who is crying his name, as his muscles clench around the man’s cock and they come together, tumbling down, down into oblivion.

It is some time before Imrahil opens his eyes. Without being conscious of the fact, he has withdrawn and rolled over, for he now lies on his back with the elf curled into his side, one leg and arm draped across the man’s body. Legolas gazes at him, his face inscrutable once more. Imrahil wants to tell the elf something, but finds that he has no words.

With a smile, Legolas begins to sing, very softly.

Imrahil knows few words of the elvish language, but soon finds that he can understand the meaning of the song if he shuts his eyes and lets his mind wander.

Legolas sings of the wide sea and the path to the West, of the fair isle where it is always spring and the trees are green and gold. He sings of the white towers, fountains and gardens of the cities of his people, of his loved ones who await, the long days of peaceful sunshine, the nights of story and of song, the yearning of his heart for Eressea.

Imrahil opens his eyes with sure as he he realises that the elf is now singing in his own tongue.

This new verse tells of a grey ship sailing down the great river to the sea, then following the coast to where a bright city sits on a hillside overlooking the shore. The lonely figure at the prow gazes up to the palace where once lived a noble prince of men, and there is love in his heart. He utters a farewell before turning his face to the West at last.

The man is moved beyond words by the beauty of the elf’s voice and the tenderness of his vision. He lies still, holding the warm body close and silently trying to speak into Legolas’s eyes; yet what he is saying, he does not clearly know.

After a while, the elf gently moves himself away. Rising to his feet, he shakes his hair behind his back and silently slips beyond the canvas curtain. Imrahil experiences a moment of searing disappointment, until he notices the elf’s clothes at the side of the bed, and hears small noises in the outer tent.

Legolas returns, with a pitcher, bowl and towels. Kneeling beside Imrahil, he proceeds to wash him gently, wiping away the evidence of their passion with hands that are sure and soft. Once the man is clean, he sits back on his heels and washes his own body with the same thorough care.

Imrahil finds the sight of the elf touching himself so intimately utterly arousing, his his cock rises to full hardness once more. He feels suddenly shy, and unsure what to do about it.

Legolas is not at all dismayed by the sight of the man’s erection, and it seems that he has no doubt what to do. Deliberately placing the bowl and towels at the side of the bed, he kneels astride the man once again, this time across his legs, looking up at Imrahil’s face with a satisfied smile.

As he watches the elf bend towards him, tantalisingly slowly, Imrahil feels his cock pulsing and twitching in anticipation. But Legolas has no plans for his swift release, and instead teases him, hot breath and soft kisses, rapid flicks of the tongue, soft strokes of fingertips and golden hair. Now it is Imrahil who moans and whimpers his lover’s name, the great captain of men reduced to a mass of nerve ends and need.

No longer shy, the man’s hands push through the elf’s hair and meet behind his head, trying to pull him down to give him some peace. But the elf is strong, stronger than his looks suggest, and he resists with a laugh, sitting up and fixing Imrahil with a challenging stare.

“In my own time, good prince. Fear not, I shall give you release, when I am ready.”

Imrahil needs no restraint, for he is hopelessly captivated by the elf’s words. His arms fall back to his sides and he submits to the pleasure of the other’s mouth. Legolas shows him no pity, but draws him to the brink and lets him back down over and again, until the man wonders if his sanity or his arteries will fail him first.

At last his pride deserts him and he begs, shamelessly, as the elf begged earlier.

The bright blue eyes gaze at him, and even with his mouth so full Legolas manages a smile. A maddening vibration starts all along Imrahil’s length as the elf begins to hum, a sensation like no other that the man has ever known. It does not last long, however, for hands and mouth work together to bring him rapidly to a second shattering climax, the elf sucking every last drop from him and leaving him weak beyond belief.

Finally, Legolas lies beside him and whispers in his ear, stroking his face and hair.

“Thank you, Imrahil, for letting me rest at last.”

“Ah, Legolas,” says the man, “You are so… beautiful,” he finishes lamely, wanting to speak of love, but knowing he cannot. Instead, he holds the elf, and hopes that he knows Imrahil’s feelings, as Imrahil can sense his.

Soon it seems that they can no longer ignore the growing light of morning, and the elf rises from the bed to dress, swiftly and efficiently. He pauses to stoop and kiss the man’s forehead, and is gone.

Imrahil lies open-eyed, reliving the night’s events and trying to memorise every word, every touch, every sensation. He must remember it all. For surely, a man cannot be blessed with such a night twice in his life.

Legolas walks back to his tent with an easy step. Silently he slips through the opening and into his bed, with hardly a glance at the dwarf. There is a scent on the elf which is not Aragorn’s, and Gimli knows with sudden and inexplicable certainty where he has been. Feigning sleep, he rolls over and turns his back to his companion, for he fears that his anguish may show in his face.

But his fear is needless, for Legolas has already slipped into dreams, a smile on his face and the roar of the sea filling his heart.