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Prince in Training	By : Pippychick_TAFKAB Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 24284 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: We do not own Tolkien's world, Middle Earth, Lord of the Rings or any of the characters. We make no money from this.

Chapter List
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Chapter Fourteen
When Legolas received permission from the healers to walk about the caverns – at least on a limited basis – the first place he went was to report to his father. Thranduil sat in the throne room, holding council with Tauriel, and greeted him with a nod.
“Sire,” Legolas said, bowing.
Thranduil smiled genuinely, his long fingers drumming on the arm of his throne. “It is good to see you walking freely in the palace again, ion nín,” he said warmly, his voice hinting of more heated activities. Or perhaps that was just his imagination?
“I will devise a severe penalty for the poachers,” he whispered as he looked on Legolas, as if to himself.
“Sire, your anger flatters me.” Legolas stepped forth, dutiful, keeping his tone deferential. “But I am now upon my feet again; I was not badly wounded. I would plead your favour in this: send for their leader and have him return, and together we will negotiate a punishment that will be administered to them by the lords of Gondor, through Gondor’s laws.”
Thranduil’s eyes held Legolas’s, expressionless, as he considered.
“Very well,” he said, but Legolas marked the tension and anger still within him. He would not wish to be Boromir of Gondor at this next negotiation.
The moment over, Tauriel cleared her throat to continue with what they had been discussing before Legolas interrupted them.
“The Silvans who live within the wood but not inside the cavern palace need protection from the predation of the spiders,” Tauriel said. “The vermin gain ground.”
“Bring their families to the palace and accommodation will be provided for them,” Thranduil offered. “As the spiders grow bolder, I cannot ensure their safety. When you are sound of limb again, Legolas, I need you out there. All those capable of fighting must join in the patrols.” His eyes flickered to Legolas, sober, and Legolas saw that even his ada intended to walk out and face them. He also knew his ada was reluctant to see him depart again to face battle. But a concerted effort might be enough to push them back. It had worked before.
He drew himself upright with pride in spite of his regret, knowing they would both face that battle – and do their duty by the Silvans Thranduil governed.
“Today I have been cleared to walk again,” he stepped forward, setting his closed hand against the opposite shoulder. “It will not be long before I can fight once more.”
“Very good,” Thranduil responded. “Tauriel, take your people and provide escort for all who would come to my halls. I will have Galion prepare rooms.” He dismissed the gathering with a flick of his fingertips, excluding Legolas from the dismissal by holding his gaze.
“My son, I would hear the healers’ words in full. Come. We will withdraw for our evening meal, and you can report as we eat.”
They were neither of them interested in food, and as soon as they were left alone, their meal was forgotten while their fingers fumbled to undress each other. Legolas laughed, and was almost immediately silenced by Thranduil’s lips, the undoing of his father’s buttons becoming even more of a challenge when his attention was so diverted.
Slowly, they made their way to the bed, Legolas taking tiny steps backwards, a trail of unwanted clothing spread out over the stone floor behind them.
Once there, Legolas divested himself of the last of his garments while his father’s lips teased him all over his upper body, little hints of teeth mixed among soft kisses that made his body burn already. But they had waited so long to be together again without any fear of interruption! Legolas had waited eagerly, knowing that at last he would know the perfection of his father inside him again. The very thought made his pulse race, and he lay down on the bed, on his front, legs slightly parted, ready for Thranduil to make use of his body.
To his surprise, his father did not begin to prepare him straight away, but placed a long, slim wooden box in his hand. Then it began, and Legolas closed his eyes as he felt the first of Thranduil’s fingers teasing inside him, his own hands opening the box he’d been given.
When he did open his eyes, he saw a slender strip of fine leather, and he knew exactly what it was. He didn’t need the silver disc on the front to tell him. It proclaimed his name, and Legolas moaned, feeling overwhelmed by the physical sensations and by the meaning of the collar he held in his hands. How was it his father could make him feel this way so easily?
His fingers caressed the leather while Thranduil caressed him, so deep now. Legolas gasped and moved into his father’s touch, his hardness beneath him as he moved, multiplying the pleasure.
“Very good, ion nín,” Thranduil said, referring to the way Legolas relaxed for his fingers. Soon, it was Thranduil’s cock there, pressing forward, and they both moaned at the same time. Thranduil began moving in and out almost immediately, his breath heavy with pleasure. Legolas closed his eyes, the leather forgotten in his hands as he relished his father fucking him, so deep, so satisfying.
When his father stopped, Legolas did not at first know why, until the collar was taken from his hands and placed around his neck, fastened deftly so that it was tight enough for him to feel against his skin. “Ada!” he exclaimed, having expected more ceremony than this.
“Now you are mine, Legolas,” he said shortly. “And I will claim you as such.” Legolas watched as his father pulled a length of delicate chain from under the bed, clipping it to the new collar around his neck and wrapping it around his hand so that Legolas could see, pulling upon it to draw Legolas up to his knees on the bed.
Then his father moved again, enough slack in the chain so that Legolas could hear it jingle, and every time it did, his body tightened, making his father moan in pleasure. Legolas could feel the leather circlet every time he drew breath to voice his pleasure, claimed above and below.
His head felt dizzy, spinning as if he were still feverish, and the breath he drew in his lungs seemed to do little good, his whole body growing weak, trembling with an overwhelming sense as if he were flying apart, losing himself in some great and sublime passion that burned him away and left him a shell, a puppet: his father’s plaything and toy, his pet… existing only to be fucked by that cock, only to bear that collar. He cried out softly, his arms giving way, but Thranduil was ready, holding him inside the cradle of his arms, the cool metal of the chain and the hot burn of being fucked the only sensations that remained beyond soaring bliss.
Legolas whimpered, pleading, and his father granted him the gift of pleasure, one hot hard hand stripping climax from him, then letting him subside gently against the mattress. He felt his ada’s long body warm and protective over him, and slowly became aware that Thranduil was tenderly licking tears from his face. He could not speak, only moan; his ada was still hard inside him, hips rocking very gently, giving him time to recover, but not freeing him.
“That’s it, ion nín, that’s it. You feel it, I know.” Thranduil sounded rich and exultant. “You feel what it is to be mine, to be owned, to be loved. I love you, my son. So much.” His voice was breathless even though he barely moved inside Legolas. “Beautiful,” Thranduil said, his voice husky. “Perfect.” He caught Legolas’s face in one long hand, turning him enough to claim his lips. Legolas moaned, drawing in the breath his ada fed him, barely able to make his eyes focus. “Mine,” Thranduil said softly, his voice heavy with steel, and thrust deep and hard, riding Legolas fiercely and forcing him deep into the bedding.
“Yes,” he sobbed. “Ada, yes, yes, please… yours!”
Legolas was not sure why he cried. Perhaps it was the awareness that his own sense of self was vanishing and dissipating, as if there was only room for Thranduil now, for what Thranduil wanted. Only his desires. It felt much too dangerous.
Everything they had done from the first moment of intent in the dark of the cave returned to him. All the things his father had said, all the punishments, all the pleasure. All of it coalesced together in him as his father continued to possess him, long and hard and deep. The sensation of fullness inside him made it clearer with every movement.
Every day you will beg for your pleasure at my hand, at the end of my cock as I fuck you… My virgin boy… I will own you, and I will do as I see fit without regard for your wishes… The things I will do with you, to you… Thank me, my son…
And then he knew why he cried. It was because he knew there was nothing Thranduil could do now that he would not accept, and he did not know if or when he would ever come back from this place. It was more than surrender. He felt himself unravelling, helpless to stop it even if he would.
I would see you, ion. I would see you come apart for me.
He had ever been his father’s son, his king’s subject. Lately, he had allowed himself to be dominated. But now he was mastered and he felt the breaking keenly. And so he cried, even as he felt Thranduil find release inside him, until he stilled, his body weight holding Legolas down, his hand on the leash attached to Legolas’s collar.
“Master,” Legolas whispered as Thranduil rolled away from him, hardly aware that he did it, asking for something.
Thranduil slipped the tips of two fingers into the collar and gave it a gentle tug. “Yes, my son,” he purred, and drew Legolas gently into his arms. “You are here, meleth. I have you. It is well.” He nuzzled against Legolas’s neck – but with tenderness and care, not desire, and his hands slid warmly over Legolas’s’ body, warm and solid, helping him find himself again – re-grounding him within his hröa.
“You have given me everything I asked, everything I hoped.” He nuzzled Legolas’s ear. “I knew you had this in you… That you were strong enough to be this, if you wished, and yet be the Prince of Eryn Galen. Legolas,” he whispered, as if naming him were an incantation, bringing him back. “My son and heir.”
And it helped; it did, solidifying the trembling soul inside him, giving him strength to draw breath once more, helping his trembling recede until he felt himself real again, a thing of breath and blood separate from his ada, but linked to him always through the bonds of blood, the bonds of love, and desire… and the slender leather and metal tether of the leash and collar – the leash, which still rested in Thranduil’s palm.
They slept then, and at points during the night Legolas awoke, his hand reaching up to touch the collar he wore in a mixture of wonder and very definite pleasure.
When the morning proper arrived, Legolas was not woken by the feel of his father claiming him. He had become so used to it that he felt slightly cheated, yet his father was quiet and pensive. When he noticed Legolas was awake, he spoke.
“I have to admit to something I did while you were abed, ion nín.” He paused. “Your words in the audience chamber have made me think, but I am not ashamed of my actions.”
“What is it?” Legolas asked, frowning, wondering what his ada could have done. Obviously it was something to do with the poachers. Thranduil was silent for a moment longer, then he gave an account of what he did, and Legolas listened in silence...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thranduil did not have many prison cells. They were so rarely needed. Occasionally an orc would reside in one for interrogation, but those instances were few and far between. Really, there was no need for them at all, but Thranduil had them because he should. He was a king, and this was his palace.
Now, in a change from time immemorial, all the cells were full. He strode slowly past them, peering into each one as his guards halted with him. The poachers were here, as were the Gondorian men they had traded with. Legolas had done very well indeed to capture both parties. Thranduil was pleased.
As he paused to look into one cell, a hand shot out from between the bars, and a pleading voice begged pardon. Thranduil stepped quickly back before the dirty hand could touch his robe. The men were little more than vermin.
The last cell had one lone occupant: the man, Edwen. The man he and Legolas had both dreamed about; he was also the archer whose arrow had injured Legolas so grievously as to suspend Thranduil’s pleasure. Considering the overcrowding, it was a spacious cell to be occupied by just one prisoner, but Thranduil required space. He did not wish to be any closer to this miserable human than he had to be.
He gestured for the cell to be unlocked, then stooped slightly to enter, taking up a place opposite the pile of straw which had been provided for the man to sleep upon.
The man watched him cautiously, white-faced, his back against the farthest wall. He kept his spine upright, but his hands shook, and his tongue flickered out to lick his lips, a sure sign of nerves.
He was not as tall as some Numenoreans; possibly his blood was mingled with lesser men’s. Thranduil stared at him until he glanced aside in desperation, sweating, swallowing hard. His whole air of bravado was so thin Thranduil could have shattered it with silence alone, yet he would not dignify the man with more of his time than he must, for Legolas awaited, and Thranduil would go to sit by his bedside as quickly as he could.
“I require a written confession – if you are capable of writing – and a signature. I will take it before your betters and demand reparations. You have single-handedly sabotaged relations between your land and my realm, poacher.” Thranduil smiled, fire in his eyes, and gestured to his guards. “Now you may leave us, and the man and I will speak privately about his choice to shoot my son.”
The guards withdrew, leaving Thranduil and the man quite alone. Thranduil waited, his lip curling in distaste, for the man to say something.
“I c-can write, your majesty,” Edwen stammered quietly, his head bowed now, not even daring to look up.
Thranduil sniffed, then immediately wished he hadn’t; the cell stank of sour fear and urine. “Give me one reason why I should not demand your life as payment for your actions,” he said, his voice low in a mixture of disgust and menace.
The man’s gasp in the confined space was so loud Thranduil smiled. At length, he looked up. “I did not mean to harm anyone,” he said. “Least of all the Prince!”
“That is not a reason,” Thranduil observed. “The next words from your lips had better be the ones that save your life.”
“Please,” the man said, suddenly raising his voice. “I have children of my own!”
“Then it is too late to prevent you from breeding,” Thranduil said, deathly dry. “How regrettable.”
He set his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You are in my lands, in my palace, in my dungeon. Were you to die, none would ever learn what happened to you, man of Gondor. Your life, as a poacher, is worth little. It is a bargaining chip, no more. I could trade you for an acre of trees, and all would be forgotten.” He drew his sword, the metal making a silky sound as it left the scabbard.
The man fell to his knees, tears streaming from his eyes. “Please! Elves are not cruel. You will not do this.” He sounded none too convinced, though, and Thranduil lifted his sword, examining its edge. It was fine, polished and honed so keen it would divide silk dropped atop the blade.
“I am no Noldorin.” He smiled of a sudden – the Noldor were held in such esteem by the men of Gondor, and yet they were in Thranduil’s view the cruelest of elves. “I rule the Silvans, and we have little use for the diplomacy you put your faith in, archer.”
The man blubbered. There were no two ways about it. But he was not a warrior of men, nor even a noble. He was a weak and inconsequential scavenger. Nevertheless, Thranduil shook his head. “Face your fate with dignity!” he said scornfully. “Show the strength of your race, if such exists!”
Advancing on him, Thranduil noted that he made some attempt to straighten his posture instead of grovelling on the straw covered stone floor, though he stayed on his knees.
“Turn to the wall. Stay kneeling. Put your hands on your head to await my sentence,” Thranduil instructed, his voice like ice. He watched as the man struggled to obey on trembling limbs, a torrent of Westron falling from his lips as he begged pardon and forgiveness.
Behind Edwen, where he could not see, Thranduil smiled. “Even now, my son, the Crown Prince of the realm, and in all ways your better, lies abed, gravely injured. Justice will be served now. Remain still.”
The man could not, trembling and cringing and trying to look over his shoulder, sidling away from Thranduil on his knees, still pleading. Thranduil sighed, impatient, and advanced until the man was trapped, pinned in a corner and unable to flee further.
Thranduil swung his blade through the air, slicing it with a hiss, and the man pressed his belly to the wall, whimpering. A tell-tale scent rose in the air, and Thranduil observed the darkening of the man’s trousers, smirking a little to himself.
“Coward,” he whispered, and drove his blade in, neatly piercing the man’s thigh where the arrow had entered Legolas. He judged it to a nicety, giving a similar wound, running the blade all the way through the muscle without severing the large veins that would bleed the man dry.
The man screamed, weeping, and fell to his side, clutching at his leg and trying to roll himself up like a wood louse. As if that would help him, should Thranduil choose to strike again!
He wiped his blade on the man’s sleeve and slid it back into its sheath. “Justice is served – for my son. The justice of your people will have to wait. I will ensure that it is exacted in full measure, to avenge each animal that wrongfully died at the hands of you and your men.” Thranduil stared down at him with contempt. “I will send a healer to bandage your leg, but you will have to look to your own clothing.”
After a moment spent watching the man trying to writhe away from his feet, Thranduil rolled his eyes. He sighed inwardly. He would need to bathe after this. Yet he reached down and dragged the man back up to his knees, staring into his eyes.
“Thank me for my mercy,” he demanded. “Else I shall withdraw it.”
“Thank you, majesty!” the man responded immediately. “Thank you for having mercy upon me, King Thranduil!”
At that Thranduil dropped him quickly, resisting the urge to wipe his hands on his robe, and exited the cell. He gave instructions for a healer to be sent there, and a hot bath to be sent to his rooms. He would not attend Legolas smelling of this man’s filth!

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Prince in Training