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Feud	By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 27131 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 117
- 118
- 119
italics indicate thoughts

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter un-Beta'd

Erin Fen-en-Gûr (On the Threshold of Death)

The sounds of the skirmish reached him easily through the frail and frosted air. None could mistake the brutal growls and shouts of Black Speech, the crack and snap of breaking branches, the howls of agony and rage, the persistent, high-pitched zing of an elvish bow. Legolas paused a heartbeat or two and listened more intently, confirming his instinctive conclusion: there was only one bow singing.

Frantic, he burst into motion, racing through the trees to reach this lone combatant, for it could only be Lindalcon. Drawn by a stentorian rumble like distant thunder, he had turned in this direction, glad for a sign of the misguided elf at last, frightening though that signal was. Loud and clear he let loose a stream of notes particular to the song of the nightingale, modified to meet the demands of the King's troops. Lindalcon knew them all, could mimic each one perfectly, had probably learned them almost as quickly as he had learned to speak. He would know help was coming. He would climb higher, shift beyond range of the Orcs' weapons, escape back behind the borders of the Woodland Realm.

No answering call flew back to him and Legolas cursed under his breath, angry that he could not move faster, already panting with the effort this burst of speed cost.

Why does he not reply?

Of course, the youth was caught up in his first real battle; how likely was he to do anything better than remain alive? Yet, the strife was centred near the pits; if Lindalcon was in one of the flets above then there was no cause for worry. The Orcs would never reach him there, for the flets were high above where the branches could not bear their weight.

Unless he is not in the trees at all.

Panic broke free and gave Legolas an extra boost of adrenalin, certain now that Lindalcon had become a victim of the turned hardwoods, the vile traitors among Greenwood's population. Again he sent forth his call, adding a demand for an answer, any answer.

It came and Legolas' heart froze.

"No, ai no…" the whispered plea escaped his soul and his wild flight came to an abrupt halt.

Into the half-light he stared, a half shake of his head given in denial even as the elvish bow fell silent, replaced by the gruesome sound of sabres rending flesh and the Orcs' cries of malicious glee.

This day, warm with the filtered light of the morning sun, the hour still too near dawn to permit the steamy haze which blanketed the forest during summer, this day hearkened back more than three Ages to a time when Greenwood was truly great. Before the coming of Anor, before Ithil first brightened the night, its roots sank deep into the bosom of the earth, its branches stretched out to encompass all the eastern bank of Anduin from the craggy feet of the Grey Mountains to the desolate shores of the Sea of Rhun. Under the fair luminance of the Lamps of the Valar the forest grew and flourished, but in hatred Melkor destroyed those beacons and with the light extinguished the trees fell dormant. The Long Night began for Greenwood while in Aman the Two Trees gave to the Valar their Days of Bliss.

In slumber the forest dreamed beneath the stars, dreamed of the people who had come among the bolls and branches and found there solace and safety. The dream was filled with the song and speech of the Wood Elves, but Greenwood could but scarcely feel the presence of these ethereal beings who were destined to sing for them, to hear and translate the Music of green life, and strangely it was not the coming of the elves that unveiled the glory of the Great Wood, but the coming of Men and with them their Heralds: the Sun and the Moon.

Then was Tawar revealed to the silvans and they marvelled at the masterwork of Yavanna's hands, for now the trees awakened and joined their songs, though the voice of the forest was unlike any the elves had heard before. Tawar sang of a world the elves had not seen, of the First Verse of Iluvatar's Song, of light that once bathed Arda with colour and brilliance enough to make the stars unnecessary. Wonderful and strange was this to the silvans and impressed upon them the venerable estate of the forest which housed and protected them, and, because of the delight they felt in kinship with Tawar, they did not grieve for the lessening of the starlight.

Ancient, knowing, wise, and perilous was Greenwood then and still remained, diminished though it might be, but on this day, this golden summer's morn, the trees would fain sing of their beauty and majesty, their accord with the silvans, their sheltering protection and peaceful endurance. The quiet chorus of woodland life filled the air: leaves rustling with quiet authority, the strident bickering of black squirrels, the subdued warbling of birdsong, the subtle riffle and flap of feathers winging into flight. It would be a lazy, languid day, one to enjoy in carefree, leisurely pursuits. Yet life in Greenwood was never far removed from the unfortunate reality of the ever darkening world just beyond the borders of the fiercely guarded realm, and overprinting all these commonplace sounds arose another just as typical: the distinctive twang of a bowstring. A dull, resonating thwock invariably followed as the loosed arrow found its target.

"Too near the outer rim on that one," a voice admonished. "Adjust your stance and do not permit drawing the bow to alter your position."

"I put it in the outer rim on purpose," objected a second voice, "just to see if you were paying attention. You are not even watching."

"Oh, indeed? Such insolence will not be tolerated, Hîr neth (young Lord). A speed drill, if you please, twenty arrows in the centre before I cross the glade. Begin!"

The first speaker could not prevent the mirth from invading the tone in which he couched these stern words, nor did he intend to do so. A broad grin spread across his face as he strode through the meadow, marking the rapid pull, release, and resounding thud as the test progressed. His pupil did not fail; he never did and Maltahondo stood observing the clean, neat, tight arrangement of arrows spearing the heart of the target. He gave a brisk, satisfied nod.

"Well done, Hîr neth." (young Lord)

"Why must you call me that here? None can overhear us and you know I despise it. Why do you never call me Laiquassë anymore, Malthen?" Legolas followed and soon stood at his mentor's side. He waited expectantly for an answer, though the down-turned mouth indicated he held little hope it would satisfy his complaint.

"You must become accustomed to that title. Now that you are getting older, it is not proper for me to be so familiar. A nickname is fine for a little elfling, but not for a warrior in training. You are my charge, true enough, but I am more so your servant. You know this is so, Hîren." Maltahondo bowed low before his young student, smiling without being able to suppress the acrimony his station inspired.

"But I do not want you to be my servant," averred Legolas, dismayed to see the hard glint of rancour in his beloved guardsman's eyes. "There must be a way to change this. When I reach majority, I will have the Council of Elders release you from this unearned sentence. I will not have you obligated to me forever."

Maltahondo peered at the determined face before him calmly, for it was not the first time this promise had been spoken, and noted the firm resolve of the stubborn chin juxtaposed against the soft pleading of the bright blue eyes. Within them shone the light of empathy and indignant affront to have someone he so revered cast so low; within them shone the pure light of love. Legolas' mouth was set in a grim line that marred the perfection of supple ruby lips and the guardsman could not fail to observe how much his charge favoured Ningloriel. Every day Legolas grew more like her in appearance and yet held none of his mother's dubious qualities within his heart.

For that matter, he was nothing like Thranduil in that regard, either. A fact for which everyone in Greenwood could be thankful, the guardsman thought wryly.

At the volatile age of thirty-six, Legolas was an enigma. On the one hand he was innocent and trusting, ready to believe there was only good in those he loved, while at the same time he was cynical beyond his years, often making keenly observant remarks that exposed a knowledge of peoples' hypocrisy and hubris. He was caught between childhood and maturity as puberty began its relentless transformations, unable to hide the open adoration with which he favoured Maltahondo.

True, he had always worshipped his guardian and even now this devotion still presented the absolute confidence and awe with which a child beheld his father, but tinged by a new appreciation of a more visceral, carnal nature. That this was both confusing and frightening for him was equally obvious to Maltahondo. Legolas was completely incapable of speaking about it and the guardsman was not sure how to address the issue. He was not the henellon's adar, after all.

Even before the onset of adolescence, Legolas was conflicted, strong-willed and yet so uncertain, so needy for approval and acceptance, so desperate for love. He would set aside his opinions, discard his decisions, and capitulate at once if holding out seemed to threaten the accord between them. Maltahondo sighed and frowned; it was unnerving and not a small bit irritating to be in this position. Instilling the most basic anchors of identity and self-confidence, this was not part of his responsibilities and resentment against Ningloriel clouded his mind with blackness. Instantly the countenance before his responded, filling with apprehension. He settled his hand heavily upon the youth's shoulder and offered a tight, sardonic smile.

"Ah, Legolas, that is a noble thought and I do appreciate the sentiment behind it," he said mechanically. "You must know there is no recourse. A blood debt cannot be lifted save by a blood sacrifice. Would you prefer I slit my wrists in your honour?"

"What? Nay!" A harsh gasp and an expression of utter horror reordered the suddenly pale visage as Legolas shook his head, clasping the hand upon his shoulder as though he feared Maltahondo might really do this. "Please, Malthen, do not ever speak of such again!"

"Be at peace; I have no intention of leaving your service, Hîr neth," Malthen said, squeezing the fingers wrapped around his before releasing them. He moved away and began pulling the arrows free of the target. "Yet I need you to understand the futility of your desire. I am your servant and always shall be. I have accepted it and so must you."

"No, for we are more than lord and servant, are we not?" asked Legolas, voice quavering as he gave this query life with his breath. His heart fairly stopped when Malthen turned a cool, calculating gaze upon him but made no answer. Sudden heat suffused his cheeks as he blushed in embarrassed confusion. "We…we are friends, Malthen, are we not?" he reworded his question, panic blooming as his pulse began pounding wildly.

For several moments more Maltahondo considered Legolas, wondering whether to squelch this growing infatuation or leave it for Ningloriel to handle. It was imperative to establish some degree of separation between them without also seeming to reject the youth, and the guardsman had no idea how to achieve both goals. Ningloriel had been clear that Legolas was not to know of their relationship for fear that he would speak out and give away her secret. 'Selfish inu! She should trust her son or carry him along to Lorien. Then there would be no question in his mind of where my interest lies,' he thought in silent disgust.

"Malthen?"

Legolas was peering at him with abject dread and Maltahondo realised his bitter thoughts must be etched upon his features. Again he appraised the discredited prince, an ache stabbing at his heart to see in those blue eyes the expression he longed to find reflecting back at him from the mother's. So much the same, the two sets of azure orbs, yet hers were so unfeeling while her son's held nothing but the wish to please. Suddenly Maltahondo hadn't the heart to push him away and spontaneously reached out, gathering his ward close for a comforting embrace. Lean arms wrapped around him in turn and the golden head settled against his chest.

"Yes, we are more than friends, Laiquassë. I have known you since your birth and you will always be dear to me." Maltahondo smiled as all the tension drained from the frame leaning into him and a soft exhale of audible relief replied. Unconsciously he ran a hand through the silken mane and lifted a few strands to his nose, appreciating the scent and the texture, absorbing the love so freely offered. It should be like this when he held Ningloriel.

"I am glad to hear it," murmured Legolas, a soft shiver running through him. "You are dear to me, also."

He meant so much more, though, and Maltahondo feared Legolas might suddenly find the courage to announce his avowed love. Hastily the guardsman clapped the novice warrior on the back and stepped away, smiling in what he hoped was a fatherly manner.

"Then let us not be concerned over the basis for that accord."

Maltahondo's smile slipped and his heart gave an uncomfortable lurch, the sensation yanking him from the recollection before the scene's conclusion, something he much preferred, no matter the extreme nature of his current circumstances. Memory was a vicious companion and a more difficult one to handle than the unpleasant company in which he presently found himself. He nocked an arrow and marked his target, releasing the bolt with effortless precision and reaching back for another all in the same fluid motion. A low grunt of pain sounded as the Orc collapsed and died. Fortunately, this skill was ingrained to the point of instinct, honed by a lifetime of practice until he could aim and fire almost without conscious thought, much as his lungs drew air without needing to be told. Fortunate, for his mind was beset with memories of the past and it was all he could do to attend the task at hand.

A succession of images of the Tawarwaith invaded his thoughts and played through his dreams, sometimes creeping in subtly so that he found himself considering Legolas without ever realising he had changed focus; other times the phantasm materialised until the vision was so vivid he believed it was real. The impressions enveloped him whenever his sense of isolation and abandonment pressed hardest against his penitent heart, and that had become a constant. The memories were sequential beginning with the early years when Legolas idolised him and proceeding so that the current scenes approached the end of the elfling's troubled childhood. While those were excruciating to relive, the events following were filled with Maltahondo's dark, disturbed sadism and Legolas' tormented delight.

It was good to have something else to occupy his attention.

He paused and shot another arrow into the lumbering throng trailing him over the frozen ground below, purposely wounding an Orc, a cruel thing to do for now it would die slowly. The rest of the pack trampled right over their fallen comrade without pause. Maltahondo laughed and then the sound choked off; Tirn-en-Tawar would not approve. Determined not to mimic the brutality of the foes he hunted, refusing to waste his energy or his arrows, all Legolas' shots were aimed to kill as quickly as possible. The bow was a noble weapon requiring precision, finesse, and dedication to master. It should not, in the hands of the First-born, be reduced to an instrument of torture. The guardsman nodded to himself, chastened, resolving never to yield to his baser desires in future. A barrage of black missiles sped toward his position and he shifted quickly into the higher branches.
"Elo! You missed me again. Shall I come down closer and give you better odds?" he sang out in mocking tones, pleased at the uproar of swearing and cursing this elicited. "Follow me!" he jeered and came fully to the ground for three long strides, each one punctuated by the whine of ruffled air and the muffled thump of arrows streaking past his legs to plough into the earth. Before the Orcs could adjust their haphazard aim, he scrambled back up the trunk of another frigid beech. He did not need to look behind to know his order was obeyed and hastened his pace a bit for night fell fast in Rhîw. (Winter)

Legolas had done this, too, running the traps. How many times? Almost twenty years of it, enough to render the appalling practice into an art. It was dangerous and Malthen's first attempt had nearly cost him his life, for while an Orc's aim was generally poor, the number of arrows flying in his direction increased the chance of being struck down. In the last ten days, he had expanded the concept of a near miss and had now defined at least a dozen varieties of the fortuitous event, all delineated by the various sounds the arrows made in passing. Legolas' courage was fully appreciated after that run, not that he'd ever had any doubt regarding the outcast's fortitude.

Maltahondo of the Woodland Realm had seen and slain his share of Orcs over the course of his five-thousand and eleven years of life. Not so many, perhaps, as Talagan or Thranduil but enough to appreciate the traps designed by his former charge. That no one else in all of Greenwood's history had thought to try this method was not surprising for being the designated bait would not be a duty anyone was likely to choose voluntarily. This was a fact Maltahondo fully realised as he pondered how to extricate himself from his present dilemma. Bait was one thing, becoming fodder for their bloodlust was something else. He chewed at his lower lip and checked the number of arrows left: twenty. There were more waiting for him in the flet above the traps if he could get there intact.

It was Maltahondo's intent to impersonate the Tawarwaith and confuse the Orcs, drawing them away from the near regions of the borderlands back out into the wilds proper. If they believed him to be Legolas they would send word of it to their masters and all focus would shift to pursuit of the solitary elf. There was little else he could do to aid Legolas, for stripped of rank, authority, and citizenship, Maltahondo had nothing and no one to reply upon besides himself. Yet, unlike Legolas, he had secretly returned to the stronghold after his Judgement to procure weapons, foodstuffs, and warm clothing.

His shorn head hidden beneath a thick woollen cloak, he had his own bow in hand and not a hastily constructed substitute. His own knives were belted at his waist, voiding need to steal one from the dead Orcs, and his sturdiest boots protected his feet. His clothing consisted of the drab grey and brown tunic and leggings of thick, warm wool, the standard winter garb of Greenwood's warriors. Dried, cured meat and way-bread filled his pack as well as ample medicinal supplies in case of injury. Malthen was as well provisioned and prepared as he would be for any extended patrol and felt confident he could survive long enough to win not only Release for Valtamar and Andamaitë but expiation for his wrongs against Legolas.

If not, he could at least find the clean death he had exhorted Legolas to seek. The memory of that day haunted him and threatened to surface; he hastily suppressed it, considering instead for the fiftieth time at least where Lindalcon was likely to run for in that direction would Legolas head. The attempt to divert his thoughts failed when a quick, cutting gust of wind caught his hood and cast it back, raking through his close-cropped auburn hair. His fingers brushed the short, ragged strands as he snatched the hood back in place and he could not ban the scene this contact inspired: Ningloriel's final confrontation with her only son.

There he stood gaping at her, murmuring things that made no clear sense. Half naked, all the gruesome injuries laid down by Rochendil exposed, both of body and spirit, Legolas' condition was terrible to behold, but it was not that which had struck Malthen so forcefully. Slowly the distraught elf trailed after his mother, apologising, pleading as they drew near the caravan and it was then his eyes found the guardsman. They filled with confusion and betrayal, with denial and desperation and Malthen could not hold them. Hastily he looked down and found his sight focused on Legolas' feet, bare for what reason he could not fathom, and around the left ankle wound the braided copper-coloured strand of remembrance he'd left for Mithrandir to give the fallen archer.

That Legolas had not only kept it but worn it in this way, as a lover would, had burrowed deep into the guardsman's psyche, a hard kernel of truth he could not, or would not, confront and there remained until their next reunion. In front of Thranduil, the full Council, and what seemed half the populace, the Tawarwaith dug that little knot of guilty shame out and unfurled it. Not to condemn him with it, to accuse or punish, but to understand, to comprehend what made him so impossible to love. The answer was not something Malthen could reveal to himself, not then, but there was no suppressing it now. The truth was ugly, a deformed and mutated abomination of what had once been pure and good, much like an Orc's nature was a perverse reflection of the First-born. The truth was it had both pleased him to have Legolas and galled him for Ningloriel to condone it.
She held his heart and new it, delighted in it, teased and mocked him for it. How many times had he threatened to seek a true mate and marry her only to be laughed at and encouraged to do so? Ningloriel loved to remind him that no matter what he chose to do, he was bound to her and must obey. Should she require his services, he must comply. More than that, his sole purpose in life was to please her. Had he imagined taking her son as his lover would ignite jealousy in her cold heart? Perhaps, but nothing so concrete crystallised in his thoughts, then or now; whatever truth was in that notion was a faint, secondary one. His stricken soul supplied the primary motive: Maltahondo turned the festering animosity of his rejected heart against the impressionable henellon entrusted to his care. To punish her, he would ruin him.

This he did, utterly, and then compounded that sin many times over.

After the first time, it became ever easier for where once his heart had held only tenderness, now it was mired in bitter spite. He would deny Legolas the love he so desperately needed even as he had been denied. He would debase him and teach him that his only purpose in life was to serve his guardian's needs, no matter how depraved or excruciating. Not only did he refuse to give Legolas the kind of love expected of a suitor, he retracted the paternal regard with which he had formerly favoured the fatherless prince. When his conscience chanced to consider the devastation into which this must have plunged the youth, he countered such thoughts by reminding himself that he had been given leave to take Legolas by Ningloriel. Thus responsibility passed from his shoulders and Maltahondo delighted in fostering the belief that what was lacking in their relationship was Legolas' fault.

"Ai! Malthen!" Harsh gasps followed and a reedy wail ended in an abrupt cry of anguish. "Saes! Nin úgwedhi!" (Please! Unbind me!)

Maltahondo watched in salacious fascination and pulled the rope tighter, heart skipping as Legolas strained against the tension and braced against the headbord, shifting to get his feet under him, lifting his hips up and forward in a futile effort to relieve the pressure upon his genitals, for the end of the cord was knotted snugly around root and balls. He could go no further, being tied to the posts of the bed at the wrists and dared not thrash for fear of tearing the tender skin of the rigid organ. His whole body trembled, buttocks raised as far as he could manage, head lolling between his outstretched arms, lungs struggling for breath, nipples dark and distended on the heaving chest. Malthen secured the rope and scuttled forward, laving each maroon bud with tender sucking kisses that had Legolas moaning in wanton need.

"Not yet. Have I not told you before about this?" Maltahondo complained, eyeing the glistening red skin as he spoke. He blew across it and thrilled to see the shudder that ran through the lithe body in his thrall. "You are not to come in here to my rooms and masturbate. I will see to you as is necessary and while I indulge your decadent craving, yet I refuse to encourage it."

"Saes, saes! I won't do it again."

Malthen snorted his disbelief and tweaked the inflamed tip of the slender cock, smiling when Legolas squealed in both protest and delight. "For such a bald lie, further punishment is required."

"Nay!" Legolas cried, franticly shifting in his awkward position, lifting his head to seek his guardsman's eyes. "I will speak truth."

"Go on."

"I came here hoping you would find me thus," the words spilled out quickly. "I knew you had returned for I overheard the messenger. Truly, I do not come in your rooms otherwise."

"Oh? I do believe you, Laiquassë, and yet I wonder; where then do you come?" Malthen chuckled at his crude joke and reached out to trail a finger down the engorged organ, raising a gasping cry and a potent thrust of the youth's hips.

"The meadow," Legolas said breathlessly. "Saes, si úgwedhi nin." (Please, now unbind me.)

"Nay, for you have not answered for either the indiscretion or the lie. Punishment, Legolas, is all you have earned by this blatant seduction."

"What…what will you do to me?" The words were breathless and stinted, choked with fear and excitement.

"What is the worst I could do?" demanded Maltahondo cruelly and smirked as Legolas' features contorted in dread.

"No, please, I will obey from now on only do not deny me! It has been months! My only solace is to come here and pretend you…" The excuses ceased, cut short by an agonised shout as one hand took his balls in a crushing grip and the other did the same to a tender nipple.

"Silence!" hissed Malthen. "Now have you spoken truth. You do come in here and spend upon my sheets, wallowing in your deviant desires. I do not care to hear of your perverted fantasies. Do you want this grotesque obsession of yours to be found out? Likely, one of the servants has already overheard your groaning and discovered your secret. What were you thinking, writhing on my bed, pleasuring yourself thus? Anyone might come through the door and see you this way. Is that what you want? Are you trying to invite public humiliation?"

"Nay!"

"Do you know what will happen to me if this is revealed? I assure you, it would ruin me. Do you want that?"

"No, never! Saes, free me; I suffer," croaked the stricken elf but instead of loosening the ropes Malthen bent low and licked across the glans of his cock.

Unable to control himself, Legolas bucked hard toward the sensation and the cord jerked his penis roughly. He tried to bite back the shout of pain but a low warbling whimper escaped his throat. Before he could recover, a hot, wet tongue traced his length and then the head of the shaft was enveloped in sucking heat. No sooner had the guardsman started this exquisite torture than a finger pushed persistently against his anus and he was breached. Lost to all reason, he could only howl, suspended by the ropes, thighs burning with the effort to keep his position stable. The finger became two and jabbed at him repeatedly and all he could feel was gathering anticipation that soon it would be replaced with his guardsman's thick organ. As quickly as it all began, both the intrusion and the oral stimulation ended. He exhaled a plaintive groan.

"Please."

"I have duties to attend; it is only an hour since I crossed the borders," said Malthen, his tone dismissive. "My report must be delivered to Talagan else he will come to seek me out. Do you want him to find you here, like this?" He flicked the ruddy cock.

"Do not leave me now," pleaded Legolas, panting. With effort he lifted his head again. "What of your duties to me?"

"Insolent henellon! Dare you speak so?" snarled Malthen and struck a stinging blow against the engorged penis. "So you feel ready to command me?" Again he favoured the tender testes with vicious compression, pulling as he let go. There was blood staining the rope now. Legolas outcry was underlain with dark desire and he shivered in his bonds, begging forgiveness even as he denied the charge, even as he tried to lift his abused organ up for more. "I will leave you to contemplate the risk you have taken; a risk that threatens me and places my reputation, my very freedom, in jeopardy. Small love have you for me to incriminate me in your vile lust."

"Nay, I meant not that, never that," wept Legolas, for tears wetted his cheeks as he shook his head in denial. "I just want you; I need you. How can that be vile?"

"You are male, as am I. Is this the pairing Eru designed? Look about you; there are no couples like us in Greenwood, or if so they are concealed for the same reason. Even the animals do not indulge such base passions. Do not be mistaken, no hunger have I for hard male flesh. Soft, round breasts and a warm, wet slit are my delight. For love of you, I accept your corrupt nature and even grant the release you crave. All I demand in return is discretion, Legolas, and yet how often have I come home to find you here, blatantly petting and caressing yourself?"

"How else can I bear it when you go?" sobbed Legolas. "Why must you go? Others can accompany her; I need you here with me. I need you Malthen," the fretting tone gave way to prurient yearning. "Fuck me, then, and see to your duties," he challenged, eyes alight with hope and hunger.

Malthen smiled and fisted the swollen shaft, stroking vigourously as Legolas bucked and trembled and moaned in his hand. "I will see to my duties and then perhaps fuck you later after the evening meal. You will have to do your penance first and then confer restitution by sucking me dry. Agreed?" Of course, the rejected prince could do nothing else, bound as he was, yet Malthen knew that even without the ropes Legolas would do as ordered.

They both knew it. Legolas licked his lips and nodded, unable to speak while he was being so deliciously mauled. When granted, his orgasm would be phenomenal. He exhaled a long sigh when Malthen stopped and rose form the bed, turning away to gather toiletries for a bath.

"Good. I will bring your food when I return, but do not look for me soon nor hope to share the whole of the night here. I am expected by Ningloriel at Ithil Lant (Moon Fall) for her reading time." He paused and glanced back at the demeaning position in which he'd placed Legolas, feeling pity for the youth even as he relished the debasement to which he was thus reduced. Would that he could do this very thing to Ningloriel.

The thought made him hard and his eyes blazed as they met Legolas'. On impulse, he dropped everything and returned to the bed, undoing his leggings and exposing his cock as he approached, roughly grabbing the leg closest and using it to twist the prince over on his side, ignoring the grunt of misery this evoked. Without a word he bored into the tight, dry hole and sheathed himself, barely acknowledging Legolas' gasp of discomfort and exaltation, barely pausing before heaving into powerful lunges, the pleasure found in his captive's tormented cries of ecstatic misery too enthralling. He spilled quickly and once done spared but a moment to regain his breath before pulling out. He settled a resounding slap on the firm arse as he turned Legolas over and planted a chaste kiss on the flushed face.

"That will have to hold you for a time," he said. "I shall presume some demonstration of gratitude." This demand voiced in spite of the fact that he had tendered no comfort in kind. Legolas' eyes were closed tight and his mouth set hard, but he gave a swift nod in ascent. Malthen smiled and gathered the pillows from the floor where they'd long ago fallen, stuffing them under the lifted arse and quivering thighs. With that minute gesture of compassion, he left for the bathing room.

Maltahondo dodged right with only seconds to spare as a loud whoosh followed the passage of a black arrow so close to his face he felt the brush of the fletching as it shot behind him. With no small surprise he halted; the arrow had come from somewhere ahead. Lost in his memories, he had failed to notice the advancing horde and found that he was hurtling toward a large knot of Orcish soldiers tramping inward from the eastern eaves of the forest. His purposely noisy race through the trees, meant to beckon his pursuing prey, had caught their attention and now they joined the hunt, as yet unaware of their fellows tracking the elf from behind.

The guardsman breathed out a low curse and adjusted his direction, desperate to escape what had all the makings of a nasty ambush while still achieving his goal. Up into the fragile, frozen, twiggy limbs of the canopy he climbed, needing the height to evade the arrows suddenly assailing him. There he paused, heart racing from the nearness of his escape and the complete oblivion to his surroundings the mirage had caused, and promptly fell to considering the past anew.

It was all so wrong and he wondered at his ability to twist it into right. He had enjoyed that post-coital bath, limp in leisurely and languid relaxation, knowing Legolas was in agony on the bed, his anus burning and perhaps bleeding, his stiff organ throbbing relentlessly. The quick satisfaction of his carnal hungers left him sated and triumphant, pleased to know there would be more later, an easy way to drive out the frustration of dealing with Talagan's haughty disdain and Ningloriel's dismissive, mocking possession. Legolas was a ready vessel for all his anger and jealousy, willing to be debased so to promote Malthen's ego.

It was as he had promised; they were much more than servant and master, or rather, their roles had reversed and Maltahondo possessed the fair young elf completely. Legolas had willingly made it so, yet nothing in his innocent heart could have imagined such wholesale perversion of his love. He had been taught, skilfully and brutally, that his desire was a decadent abomination and never was any pupil more adept, more eager to please, to earn at last the love he so needed.

I did love him once, properly and proudly.

Legolas was the nearest Maltahondo had come to a child of his own and he had squandered that gift, one that in the elfling's early years had given him great joy. Trading the respect and responsibility engendered by the child's trusting love for the resentful, lustful, cruel delights of the flesh had not been planned, yet it had happened all the same and Malthen never once looked back, came to consider it his just due. Not until Fearfaron's blistering rebuke had he faced the magnitude of his offence; by then it was too late to rectify the damage. Alone with nothing but these memories and his conscience, Maltahondo could not escape realisation of what he had forfeited and the loss left him emptier than he had felt upon watching Ningloriel's ship slip beyond the horizon.

I still love him and he has never ceased to love me. Valar willing, I will be made worthy of that devotion and reclaim the role of mentor and elder brother.

Well he knew, the only way to atone was to fulfil the blood debt at last. Maltahondo fully expected to perish before the change of the seasons.

The guardsman heaved a heavy sigh and watched his pursuers catching up to him. This was not how he intended to end things. He meant to provide aid to Legolas, to prevent him from falling into danger while chasing after the foolish son of Valtamar. He could see it was not to be. He would end here, unable to do more than ensure the demise of this mere handful of enemies, failing again in his duty, failing the trust and love and confidence bestowed upon him by that strange and fragile enigma that was Legolas. He suddenly found himself wishing he had the lock of golden hair he'd taken on the day of Judgement, sorrowful and ashamed that he could not even recall when he had lost it or what circumstances surrounded the loss.

If I had it now, I would bind it about my ankle, Laiquassë, as I should have done then, as I should have done the day I broke your tender body and forever warped your trusting heart.

His spirit quailed even as the thought blazed through his mind. That was not the answer; that was not the path of right and good. He should have put a stop to it; he should have explained to the boy what he was feeling and why, reassured him that love was not to a commodity to purchase with his body, guided him through the overwhelming changes as he matured, introduced him to someone trustworthy and honourable to teach him the ways of sex between males. He should have promised to love him always; he should have accepted the role of surrogate father and treasured it, exalted in it. No longer did he curse Ningloriel for her selfishness, for now he could so clearly recognise his own.

So be it. If there is nothing left to give him than my life's blood, I will do it well. May Námo release me whole and clean again some day.

Thus resolved, the guardsman slipped silently through the upper reaches of the elven pathways and drew apart from his enemies. He paused to reconsider his strategy, working his way close enough to the new band to make an accurate count of their numbers. It was not encouraging. There were at least fifty reinforcements of that breed of demon particular to the maze of caves riddling the heart of Hithaeglir. Born in darkness, these beasts would easily spot him in the fading winter light if he was not careful. Most daunting of all was the chilling truth that there were far too many to be disposed of within the traps. Killing them all would not be possible, not with every arrow in his quiver, not with every arrow stored on the high platforms. Yet he did not lose hope but merely considered how to retain his advantage. Carefully he worked his way higher and stilled, hoping the two groups would clash and remedy the situation without his intervention.
The best course was to run the traps, replenish his arrows, and race for the borders where he knew Talagan's forces were massing. There the enraged remainder of the combined troops would find themselves outnumbered and would either retreat or be utterly destroyed. The guardsman smiled; it was an excellent plan and sure to fulfil his objectives if he could but signal Talagan of his true intent.

At that moment the two armies spotted one another, but instead of the usual outburst of confusion and infighting, the reinforcements from Hithaeglir deferred to the Orcs from Dol Guldur. In mere minutes they were in accord; something Malthen had never seen happen in all his long years on Arda. They began to fan out and scan the limbs above them, searching for their quarry, certain he must be near. A chill ran through Maltahondo and he moved with all the stealth he could muster into the next tree, desperate to slip between the encroaching arms of the ambuscade, sick with the sense of being the prey instead of the predator. Cold, creeping dread oozed into his heart and the image of two black-cloaked shadows of evil and death filled his mind. There could be no doubt the Wraiths were behind this consolidated effort. It seemed his subterfuge had worked too well; the Orcs were convinced they had the true quarry and had sent word back to their masters.

Before he could recover from that surprise, he was spotted and a raucous cry went up as a hail of arrows streamed ineffectually through the lower branches, bouncing and snapping, blocked and broken by the tangle of frozen limbs. Even in the silent slumber of hibernation, Greenwood protected her own. Maltahondo grinned as their frustration made itself known; they could do little but follow along beneath him.

"Is there a problem?" he sneered. "Let me settle it: all of you are doomed to die." He set off at once amid their strident shouts and bellows, moving with greater speed but remaining just on the edge of their visual range. Blithely, agilely he leaped from tree to tree, ran along the interwoven branches, following the pathway every warrior in Greenwood knew. The trap field was within sight and he rejoiced, glancing back to make sure they were still with him, though he could not help but hear their land-ravaging stampede. It was thus with complete shock that he jumped to the next branch and felt the wood give way beneath the pressure of his landing.

He recovered easily, snatching another limb and using it to vault through the open space created and secure a perch in an adjacent tree. He paused, finding his heart pounding, terrified that this was one of the poisoned trees of which Legolas had warned. Still, he doubted this for he had not heard of traitors so near to the pits. It could only be coincidence; a rotted branch indistinguishable from healthy ones with summer's leaves gone and his attention focused elsewhere. Satisfied, he calmed his nerves and inhaled a deep breath, scorching his lungs with the stinging cold. Now he must wait for them to come closer but not too close or he would lose the advantage of the pits. Cautiously he edged lower in the limbs and peered at the advancing glamhoth.

The creatures chased right after him just as they always did, unable to resist the lure. Really, Malthen could not comprehend how they never seemed to recall that the traps were near. Perhaps they simply forgot all in their desire to kill an elf, but in any case there was no better way for a lone warrior to snuff out so many at one time. Malthen was pleased to count at least ten pierced and dying in the bottom of the pits and about that same number expiring on the frozen ground all around. The remainder, however, hung back, growling and grumbling and impatient, yet they stayed.

Maltahondo frowned, disliking this change in behaviour greatly. They should all have come barrelling through the clearing; he should be picking them off with ease just now. Instead, they stalled there just beyond the riddled ground and waited.

For what?

He would not waste time considering it, climbing lower in hopes of luring them in. A few fell for it, bellowing and arming their bows as they lunged forward. Yet they dodged the open pits and this success inspired the rest. Soon the entire remaining company was storming the trap fields, leaping the openings and firing haphazardly into the trees even as a small number went around, hoping to catch the elf from behind.

Just barely did Maltahondo elude that attempt and found himself running in earnest now, slipping from tree to tree high above their heads, moving steadily toward the borders. He never expected what happened next, for he was nearly at the verge of the Forest Road. He made a tremendous leap across a break in the trees, noting as he sailed over that the loss was new, the tree had been destroyed by Orcish axes. Instinct sent alarms blaring through his thoughts too late; he landed in the next tree only to feel the mighty trunk sway, an unearthly creaking and groaning running through the bark and limbs under his feet. The slumbering oak was going down. Desperately he made to jump from the falling giant's arms and found the next tree just as unstable. It was younger and thinner and it fell more quickly; in mere seconds Maltahondo found himself trapped between the two, a leg wedged painfully beneath the smaller tree's trunk and one of the elder's heavy limbs.

The leg was broken, crushed in fact, of that there could be no doubt. As best he could, Maltahondo ignored the pain of it and assessed his situation, expecting the horde of Orcs to swarm over him any moment. He still had his bow and quiver, but the number of arrows was now a paltry seven. While he had indeed grabbed another bundle from the flet above the pits, that he had not held to. The precious bolts were scattered somewhere beneath the wreckage of the fallen trees.

Silence followed the crashing crescendo of the rending wood and then a new sound invaded the dwindling day. Laughter, cruel and mocking and triumphant, rang out amid numerous curses and taunts in Black Speech. A rain of arrows pelted him and he was pierced in the shoulder, a bad wound for an archer to bear. Hastily he yanked it out, fearing poison, and then took out two of the foul beasts, unable to stifle the strident groan the effort to draw the weapon extracted. He paused, panting and grim, but no fire was returned. Bewildered, he wondered what was holding them back. Soon enough he knew, for the crawling dread and a wreaking, foul odour assaulted him, making him retch and tremble. More laughter came from the Orcs surrounding him.

"Who doomed? Who die?" a guttural attempt at Sindarin drifted through the air but the speaker remained beyond his diminished range. "Masters come, break Tree Lord now."

The Orcs began an unholy noise, clashing their swords together in triumph, dancing a horrible gambol of war, shouting insults and crying out aloud. Even so they held their ground, refusing to draw nearer, and Malthen did not imagine it was from fear of him.
He vomited again, understanding all too well as Lindalcon's chilling words came back to him. The beasts believed he was Legolas and the Wraiths were coming to take him to Dol Guldur, just as the child had foretold. This would not be, though he take his own life. Such, however, was not honourable, would not fulfil the blood debt. His life must be spent in sacrifice for another's, not wasted to save himself from torment. Desperate, he did the only thing he could, taking his dagger and hacking at the ruined leg, the shaft of an arrow clenched in his jaws to muffle the screams.

It was hopeless. The first blow raised a horrific cry and he knew in the centre of the swirling agony that he could not achieve this thing. He would not escape them. There was neither time until the Wraiths arrived nor strength within his arm to saw the limb from his body, not with a meagre dirk, not compressed between the fallen trees as he was. Shivering and sweating, he grappled with the entwining limbs, trying to snap the smaller ones and give his arm greater room to swing the blade. He was bleeding profusely now and a new terror presented itself.

The Orcs smelled the flow and raised a furious protest, for should they fail to deliver the prize, their lives were forfeit. Then arose the familiar sound of discord as the troops fought one another so to determine which group should take the blame for the debacle. Which ever band was victorious might yet escape the wrath of their masters by claiming to have punished the failure of the others.

Malthen almost smiled, or believed he did, mind wandering in shadowy places warmed by rich red hues, content now to die here with the expiring trees. He gave thought to them, for they were used in this cruel game against their better nature and like him would pay for the loss of life with their own. Cut to the quick, the two had been dying for days while the Wraiths worked their plot. He pressed a hand and his forehead to the ancient one and silently a prayer went out for the loss of such an elder, forgiveness for the hurt done him.

The tree felt him. Cut off from its kind it connected with him, seared him with its sorrow and its last spark of spirit and Maltahondo was shocked to recognise thought within it. A tumbled morass of pain and horror, he wondered if this was one of Thranduil's captive ghosts. Whether wholly tree or partly elf, it possessed him, insinuated itself within his heart and there pummelled his psyche again and again in warning. He could see in the way the spirit of the oak had seen; he knew what was happening and his soul grew dense and frigid just like the sap in the slumbering hardwoods. The Wraiths were converging upon his location from the south and from the east another moved just as surely toward him.

Legolas.

Then Malthen comprehended the truth; he was indeed the bait and not the prize, never the predator. The Wraiths had used him to lure in the Tawarwaith, who would not stand by while one of his own was thus beset. Most likely, Legolas would think it was Lindalcon under attack. He would come with all speed and little caution to save his heart-brother. He would be captured and taken to the Black Tower, there to endure the torments of the Nazgûl until death claimed him.

"Nay!" Maltahondo cried aloud, his voice reinforced by equal fervour from the spirit within him. Yet he was helpless to avert this, his lifeblood draining slowly over the frozen ground, the heat of it thawing the rich earth so that the scent of the vital fluid and the loamy soil filled his nostrils with a heady, sweet and sickly scent. Ineffectually he pawed at the branches hugging him and pressed on the pulsing gush welling form the stab wound in his thigh.

Useless, I am doomed. Yet he must not permit Legolas to be captured. With clumsy hands he armed his bow and fired into the Orcs, missing and never realising it as he reached for another arrow. He must kill them before Legolas arrived. The clear call of a nightingale reached him through the strange roaring noise that was quickly drowning out his other senses. He tried to reply and found his slack and gaping lips would not obey.

"Always I am leaving you," Maltahondo mumbled, grief overwhelming him.

He fumbled with the bow, loosing another wild shot that by chance struck one of the advancing Orcs, for they were coming. He fired again and never felt the black arrow that pierced his chest in turn. Again the call whistled down to him and just as the horde reached him, he sent out his answer, shouting into the lowering twilight.

"A trap, Laiquassë, run! Forgive…"

And that was all, for the Orcs were upon him.

Long Legolas waited there amid the trees. Night came and passed away, brittle, cold, and sharp, as memories assailed him, daggers in his soul and heart. A day passed and yet he stayed unmoving, clinging to the unfeeling oak high above the forest floor. Tears froze upon his lashes and he longed for the old knife, the one Malthen had given him as a gift so long ago. He did not want to go on and face what he knew was there, so near he could smell the acrid tang of black demon serum, the clean, sweet scent of burst bark and freshly rent wood, and over all the cloying perfume of spent elvish blood.

The Wraiths never bothered to draw near, realising their ambush was unmasked, and the surviving Orcs skulked away in haste, grateful to have escaped their masters' rage for once, but not before they unleashed their outrage on the elf who had so cleverly foiled their hopes. They severed head from neck and then beat the proud face into mush with their clubs, bone and matter pulverised amid the matted auburn strands. They ripped out the arms and cut off the hands that drew the killing bow. They gutted the torso and yanked out entrails and organs, some to feed on and some to throw in maddened blasphemy into the limbs of the fallen trees. The heart they pinned to the shattered trunk with the elf's own dagger.

Sometime in the second night, snow began to fall. Huge, white flakes whirled circling down through the silent canopy. The storm was heavy, blotting out the trees in the thick, coursing blizzard, yet brief and finished before dawn. Even so, the flurry laid down a pure and spotless shroud atop the felled trees and the faithless guardian. It was fitting and right, for who would any deny that his last actions at least rendered his blighted soul redeemable? Thus, when Legolas at last drew courage and came there, nothing was there to see save the hallowed mantle of Nienna's tears turned crystalline and bright by Manwë's holy breath.

He climbed high in the trees, piercing the canopy, snow clotted limbs and endless sky his only audience, and there sang a dirge of sorrow and loss, rejoicing even through the pain for his beloved guardsman was released from the ancient blood debt at last. When he was done, he was loathe to leave and at the same time sickened to stay and so for a time he could not move. Dearly did he regret casting aside that woven copper strand of remembrance, but even greater was his horror to try and claim another. Finally, he drew deeply of the icy air and rubbed at his face and looked a last time upon the blanketed ground, committing the location to memory and vowing in silence to return and make it a place or serenity and peace. Then, recalling his quest to find Lindalcon, he made his farewells and left.

"Namarië, Malthen, mellonen, gwadoren, melethronen. Aderthannem; aderthannem. Alnad dartha díhena."

(Farewell, Malthen, my friend, my brother, my beloved. We will be reunited; we will be reunited. Nothing remains to forgive.)

TBC

NOTES: There is not much I can say about this except that it was twice the length and contained many more remembrances of Legolas and Malthen through the years. I decided it was too much. Perhaps some other time those early days will be revealed. At any rate, Maltahondo has paid his debt, or at least earned the right to beg the long pergatory of Mandos. I hope it satisfies those who needed to see him suffer for what he did to Legolas, and simultaneously I hope everyone can see that his sins are immense and it may be Ages before he is permitted freedom from Námo's Halls. Who can say what penance the Vala may exact? In some ways, I just do not feel he should even have had this opportunity, but I know Legolas would want him salvaged. He would want Malthen back, renewed to his former honour as he was in Warrior Child.

Beyond that the chapter is mostly a comparison of how the two handled Judgement, and how the Judgement dealt with each of them.

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Feud

Erin Fen-en-Gûr (On the Threshold of Death)