Masks

MASKS

by Capella

Legolas must deal with his feelings for the two men in his life. A sequel to Seascapes and Sea Longing. You are advised to read those first.

The main characters belong to JRRT, as we know. No profit is made, no offence intended.

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MASKS


Legolas slides down from his horse and whispers for a moment in its ear. A final caress of the red-brown neck, and he turns from his steed to the waiting young elf-maid. He smiles and clasps her hand briefly, exchanging a few courteous words, before leaving the horse to her care and slipping silently into the forest of Ithilien.

He skirts the main encampment, avoiding the clearing where the bulk of his people will be sitting, laughing and singing as the meal is finished. Meluinen will be there, enjoying the last of the evening’s warmth before retiring to the fire-lit hall behind the grassy gathering space. Later, Legolas will seek him out and share with him such news of the day as affects them all. He will be glad of the company of his friend and second, but knows it is a pleasure that can wait. There are other things he needs to do first, and these must be done alone.

As he walks through the trees he glimpses cabins, simple dwellings carefully sited to give the occupants of each some privacy and peace. Down behind the hall, a group of tents houses the elves who have yet to build a more permanent home. It is a small community, and a young the they can afford to take their time.

His own house is higher up the wooded slope, to the rear of the settlement, in a glade between two ancient cedars. The modest wooden structure rests on stilts at the front to accommodate the sloping ground; branches overhang on each side the curve of its roof. From its windows, Legolas can look down the slope to the river, a sight that will never fail to stir his heart. There is nothing majestic about the elf-prince’s home, barely more than a single divided room as it is; but it serves him well, on those occasions when he needs more than a perch high in the trees, or a shady bank on which to rest. Perhaps King Thranduil would not approve of the lack of grandeur of his son’s abode, but even he would appreciate the clean, graceful lines of the structure, the airy light space within, and the natural beauty of its setting.

Legolas runs lightly up the wooden steps and into the cabin, shutting the door behind him with a twinge of guilty relief at having escaped the notice of his kin. Bow and quiver, carried from habit as much as necessity in these days of peace, he unslings and stows carefully in their place. Belt, tunic and boots are soon pulled off and laid on and beside the soft grey couch. Stretching gladly in his shirt and leggings, he walks through to the small room at the back where icy water, diverted from the mountain stream on the slopes above, trickles over the lip of a wide stone bowl and down through the drainage pipes to the river. He washes his hands and face, gasping at the cold shock to his skin, then returns to the main chamber to light the oil lamps.

The last two days have seemed like a long time to Legolas, and he can feel the strain of suppressed emotion in the muscles of his back. He had tried to prepare himself for this reaction well in advance of his trip, knowing that he would be seeing Aragorn for the first time in nearly a year. But nothing he could have done would have lessened the shock of passionate yearning he had felt at the sight of the king, so happy and relaxed, with Arwen at his side.

Anticipating his own painful response to Aragorn’s presence, he had at first thought to refuse Faramir’s invitation. Apart from any other considerations, he was unwilling to upset the lingering sense of contentment he had felt since returning from the coast. However, common sense told him that he would have to face his lost love sooner or later, and in the end, courtesy, and his undeniable desire to be near the king regardless of the psychological cost, overcame his dread. And so to Emyn Arnen he had ridden, bearing gifts of finely carved wood for Eowyn and the new baby.

It had been a pleasant enough gathering, and he had mingled easily with the other guests. Minstrels played and sang, good food was shared, fin fine wine flowed freely. He had traded fair words with Aragorn and Arwen themselves, and had kept his own feelings utterly concealed behind his mask of bland good humour. And all the while he had willed the pain in his heart to subside, without success.

Arwen is with child again. He sensed it as soon as she entered the room, although the evidence is yet to become visible to men’s eyes. As he thinks of it now, he tells himself to be happy for her, and above all for Aragorn. Fatherhood is so good for the man. With his children, he has at last discovered what it is to love unconditionally, entirely free from guilt. Legolas wonders briefly how he himself might have enjoyed such tenderness, but dismisses the thought from his mind. He made his choices years ago, and that door is forever closed to him now.

It was only this morning, as the guests gathered to break their fast, that Faramir handed the scroll to Legolas with an innocent apology.

“My uncle’s messenger arrived two days ago, but the matter slipped my mind last night in all the festivities. The prince tells me he greatly enjoyed your company in July.”

Legolas took the letter with a nod and a murmur of thanks, trying to avoid Aragorn’s gaze as he did so. But the strange force linking them is stronger than his will, and inevitably, their eyes met across the table. In that instant, he felt the shock of returning knowledge of the other, and knew full well that the man sensed it too. Should he be glad that twelve years on the king, whose beautiful wife expects the third royal child, is still capable of such hurt on his account? Aragorn may have tried to hide it, but even without the connection between them, Legolas could have seen clearly on his face the certain knowledge of what had taken place in Dol Amroth, the jealousy and the pain. The elf turned his head away quickly, and did not look again.

Imrahil’s letter, unopened, now rests in Legolas’s hand as he draws back the heavy curtain and moves to sit on the bed. He longs to unroll it, to devour the words of love he expects to find within, but as yet he cannot do so. Imrahil deserves better from him than a head crowded with thoughts of Aragorn. Legolas wishes to clear his mind before he reads what the prince has to say, and he knows only one way to do this.

Cross-legged on the bed, he puts the scroll to one side and closes his eyes, hands resting lightly on knees. At once, Aragorn’s face appears in his mind, the look of remorseful jealousy clouding the king’s features as he pictures the elf in the arms of another man. Legolas is aware that he must deal with this; he cannot ignore Aragorn’s reaction, nor can he allow himself to feel guilty for causing it. He must simply accept, and acknowledge that the time will come when Aragorn, generous and loving as he is, will be glad that his one-time lover has found some brief contentment elsewhere. It is easy to form the thought, but harder to feel it in his heart, for his first instinct is to give in to his guilt, and resolve to cause the king no such distress in future.

Yet the scroll awaits him, and Legolas knows that he is not willing to put it aside, even for Aragorn’s sake.

At last the turmoil in his mind subsides, and he feels his balance returning. In the still calm state induced by his meditations, all he has to do is listen, and it is there. His breathing slows and takes on the rhythm of the sound he hears in his head, the eternal, irresistible, ebb and surge of the sea. He gives in to it willingly, letting himself lose his sorrow and guilt in its depths, until his mind is clear and emptied, and his heart once more at peace.

And so at last Legolas deems himself ready to open the letter, and to read his lover’s words.

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To Legolas, Prince of the Greenwood and Ithilien, from Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth and Belfalas.

Greetings this eleventh day of October, in the tenth year of the Fourth Age.

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After the formal opening, the prince abandons the Westron language and writes in Sindarin. Legolas smiles to see the flowing round hand, so subtly unlike that of an elf. He wonders if Imrahil has chosen to write thus in order to conceal his words from the eyes of other men, should harm befall his messenger.

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My love,

I cannot begin to describe the joy your letter has brought me. You write exactly as you speak, and in every phrase I can hear the music of your voice. When we stood at the castle gate and you promised to write to me, it was as if a weight was lifted from my heart. Now I know that my bed may be a lonely place without you, but with such sweet comforts to look forward to, it is a loneliness that can readily be borne.

I trust that this letter finds you well, and that your work in Ithilien progresses apace. It will be a fair day indeed when I may look upon your home with my own eyes, and see for myself the beauty you have wrought there.

Faramir will no doubt recount to me all that took place at his celebration for Eowyn and the baby. I am sorry indeed, on his account and yours, not to have been present; but as ever a man must look to his duties in his own realm first. I can only hope that it was a enjoyable occasion for you, and that past griefs did not intrude too forcefully.

Here in Dol Amroth life continues in its time-worn paths. Daily, it seems, there is some petty dispute that requires my intervention. The weekly audience is less frantic now that the famous elf-prince is no longer in residence, but my people keep me busy enough. In addition, at present we entertain my kin from Anfalas, who are much exercised over issues of fishing rights in our neighbouring coastal waters.

Merenin and his lady seem to be more in love than ever these days. In fact, I wonder whether my son has married a sorceress, so bewitched does he seem to be by Lelneth. He is as foolish in her presence as a newly married man; I remember your words on the subject, and I am happy for him. Of course, I cannot deny that I sympathise with his condition rather better now, for you have reminded me how it feels to be in the grip of such enchantment.

Of Celaeren, the news is mixed. He is as fond of the wine as ever, and still chooses to spend most of his evenings in the city’s taverns. However, he and I have fallen into the routine of training together of an early morning, with sword, lance or bow. This has afforded us the time to talk openly, and I feel that the rift between us begins to mend. On those days when Merenin can drag himself from his wife’s bed he joins us, and I know once more a father’s simple pride in the skills of his sons.

My sweet Lothiriel I miss still, but her letters assure me that she is happy at Eomer’s side, and most pleased with you for making good your promise.

I do not suppose that I will ever know exactly what took place between you and Heledir in the summer. Whatever it was, it has left the man changed. Where once he had to be cajoled into uttering the most basic of opinions, he now quite regularly offers observations, and even advice, of his own accord. What is more, he is proving to be a most useful counsellor, for he has the perception and wisdom of one who has spent years both reading widely and listening quietly to those around him. I can thus delight in his increased confidence both for his sake, and for my own.

As for me, barely a night passes that I do not dream of you, my lovely elf, your smooth warm body pressed against mine between the silken sheets of my bed. When I wake, I lie with my eyes closed and for a moment I imagine that I can smell your sweet green scent, hear the soft cadence of your voice as it whispers delicious suggestions in my ear, and feel the touch of your skilful fingers on my willing flesh, as you taunt me into such prolonged ecstatic agony, I fear to lose my senses completely.

How I long to move my lips over the magnificence of your body once more, to take you in my mouth and taste the bittersweet flavour of your passion. I long to feel your heat and strength inside me, or hear you cry out your delight as I claim you as my own once again. Even as I write the words, my body responds, and I fear I shall have to lay my quill aside and take matters into my own hands. It has become a familiar task these last few weeks, though hardly an unwelcome one, as I wake each morning hard and yearning, thoughts of you in my mind.

I shall not attempt to tell you just how much I want you, Legolas. I can only hope that next time we are together my deeds will convince you of the depth of my desire, should my words continue to let me down.

I rowed out to the fishing platform last night, and slepere,ere, although the night was cold. I drank a glass of wine and toasted our friendship, before I lay down in my blankets and let the sea’s motion take me. The air was quite still and the swell gentle, but it was enough to remind me of the magic of our last night, and how you let me feel what the sea means to you. It is as awesome as ever; we had the first of the storms last week and I went down to the beach to watch the breakers crashing on the rocks. I marvelled at its vast unceasing power, and thought, as ever, of you.

I may choose to write of the desires of the body, but I trust you know that you mean more to me than just that. I miss the ease of our conversation, your honesty and clear-sightedness, your wisdom and humour, the joy you find in the simplest of pleasures. I had not thought to know such love a second time in my life, and though we are apart I count myself lucky to have found it, and you. Do not fear that love has destroyed my reason, however; I would not have my fervour cause you anxiety. I understand and respect the limits to your afion ion for me, but I would have you know that in spite of it all, you have given me much, and made me a happy man indeed.

I have written to Faramir and accepted his invitation to Emyn Arnen in the spring. I do not know how we might arrange it, but I can only hope that I may spend some time with you then. I will come to you on your terms, in friendship first if that is all you feel able to accept when we meet in your lands. But know that I will long to hold you in my arms and ease the lonely grief of your nights, to let you set aside your self control for a while, and lose yourself instead in the pleasure of our embrace.

Until we meet again, then, I remain above all your friend,

Imrahil.

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Legolas holds the letter to his lips and breathes deeply, as if trying to sense Imrahil’s scent on the parchment. He blinks, and wipes moisture from his eyes with the back of one hand, moved by his lover’s words.

How lucky he is to have found Imrahil. Passionate and fair, the man loves with joy and intensity as instinctive as his own. As bed partners, they are indeed well matched. But the connection between them goes deeper than that. Imrahil is wise and experienced, strong in spirit. He has given his heart in love before, and knows what it is to feel the pain of loss. He shoulders his own responsibilities willingly, and understands Legolas’s position without the need for difficult, hurtful explanation. With him, the elf feels safe; confident that he can, as Imrahil so astutely writes, set aside his mask of composure, and allow his soul to breathe.

It has struck Legolas before now that the prince of Belfalas has much in common with Aragorn, and the irony of this is not lost on him. However, there is in Imrahil a playful, reckless streak that laughs in the face of convention in a way the king could not countenance. Legolas finds it both startling and exhilarating, and knows that this alone would draw him back to Dol Amroth and into his lover’s arms.

There is, he reflects, another significant difference between the two. When he lies with Imrahil, no fantasy is out of bounds, yet however wicked they are with each other their love-making remains strangely innocent, an honest, straightforwpurspursuit of pleasure. Legolas understands all too well why this is so; quite simply, the prince loves and desires him wholeheartedly and happily, without a shred of guilt. This is something he has never known with Aragorn. Even when they first embraced in Rivendell, the man was full of doubts, and over the years his fears have coloured every moment of their time together.

It is so sad that he is not able to return Imrahil’s love more completely. If his heart was his own to command, who knows what heights of happiness they could scale together. Legolas does not dwell on such speculation, knowing that it is quite fruitless. The decision to bind his spirit to Aragorn’s was his alone to make, and one that he will never regret, although it means that he cannot now give to Imrahil all that the man deserves. And yet, in a way, it matters little. There is a great depth of understanding and respect between the elf and the fair mortal prince; each will take what he can from the relationship with gratitude and pleasure, and Legolas is utterly sure that neither will knowingly hurt the other. Their loving friendship can be a blessing and support to them both, without intruding on the fabric of their lives.

Nonetheless, the thought of Imrahil here in Ithilien both excites and disturbs the elf, in equal measure. Away from the numbing influence of the sea, he is uncertain how he will manage to banish thoughts of the one man from his mind while he lies in the arms of the other. Surely it would be better to keep his distance than to risk hurting Imrahil inadvertently? Yet if the prince was to appear here before him, could he, in all honesty, turn the man away?

Legolas sighs, picturing Imrahil standing in the archway, drawing the curtain aside and looking down at the elf on the wide, inviting bed. He thinks of those grey-green eyes, lit with unashamed lust, and the smile of knowing anticipation on the handsome, angular face. He imagines himself, his gaze travelling up the tall, well-formed body, fully aware of the delights hidden beneath the man’s elegantly simple clothes, and he knows without doubt that he will be quite unable to resist.

Whatever spark of unrestrained sensuality resides in Imrahil, it has found an answering echo in Legolas, one which he is unwilling to suppress. If by choosing to accept it, he is defying the Valar and the fate of endless yearning ordained for him, so be it. Let Imrahil come here; he will return his lover’s tight embrace and set aside his heart’s grief in their mutual celebration of pure bodily pleasure. It is a thing of beauty in itself, and as such the elf cannot truly believe it to be wrong.

With a smile, he unrolls the parchment and reads once more the prince’s words of love and lust. Picturing Imrahil turning from the writing to attend to his body’s needs, Legolas is unsurprised to find himself similarly agitated. He puts the letter to one side again, lies back on the bed, and unfastens his shirt slowly, recalling how the man disrobed rather more hastily under his watchful gaze, on that last evening together.

The vision of Imrahil standing before him then, golden brown and glorious, naked and erect, is only one of the wealth of images he has at his disposal, stored for eternity in his vivid elven memory. It is sufficient for him now as he pushes his leggings down over his hips and wraps his hand around his rapidly stiffening cock. He takes his time, allowing his pleasure to build gradually as he moves to a lazy rhythm, dwelling on the details of the scene in his mind.

His climax, when it comes, is a moment of uncomplicated physical bliss, untainted by any thought of his cares. Even the underlying knowledge of the sea is absent as he sighs his lover’s name. It seems that he can almost taste Imrahil’s flavour on his tongue, as the heady delight ripples through him.

Afterwards, Legolas washes in the cold spring water before returning to the chamber to eye himself in the mirror on the wall. He cannot quite eradicate a small, satisfied grin, at the thought that once again, thanks to Imrahil, he has overcome his weary sadness and remembered what it is to enjoy life. He already knows how he will repay the favour. Using all his powers of invention, he will write Imrahil such a letter, the man will not sleep for a week, so aroused will he be by its contents.

The elf in the mirror smiles broadly at the thought, and assumes a frankly evil expression. It does not last for long, however, and as he fastens the final clasp of his tunic, the face he sees is once more that of Prince Legolas, fair and serene, every inch the strong and dutiful leader of the elves of Ithilien.

And so he finally leaves the cabin and makes for the gathering hall, where Meluinen and others of his friends and kin will be so glad to see him. In spite of the strange paths down which his life has travelled in the past few years, the legacy of his upbringing remains with him. Kind and perceptive his people may be, but Legolas is certain that his demeanour will not allow any of them to guess the complex secrets of his heart.