Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Prince in Training	By : Pippychick_TAFKAB Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 24084 -:- 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
- 16
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- 18
Chapter Seventeen
Several days passed, and for Legolas things were full of peaceful bliss while he healed. His father kept his promise, allowing him rest, and a kind of gentle love that Legolas enjoyed as much as the games they played. Having never experienced either, all was new to him. He never did come to repent of what they did and how they began, and he was sure now that his father never would either.
When they did play, Legolas learnt more and more about how it worked. How his father could make him feel with just a look or a word, how it felt to accept a Master. It felt so good that Legolas could easily imagine his father hungering after the same sensations, and he looked forward to some unnamed point in the future when he could satisfy his ada’s wishes there too.
He did not return to the patrols, just as before, but spent his days organising their shift patterns. His evenings and nights were spend with his father, and he did not regret anything they did.
Sometimes, he visited the abandoned areas of the palace, though all of the dangerous passages had been sealed now. Some of the corridors led to old rooms full of abandoned furniture and weapons stores. Legolas found himself dawdling around there one afternoon, with no clear idea why, except that his work was done and he thought it too early to disturb his father. Likely, he was still giving audience. So he did not hear the footsteps behind him, since he was used to being alone when he wandered here.
“Who do I find spying out the innermost secrets of my realm?” Thranduil’s voice resonated beautifully in the hollow corridor, and the silky swish of his robes heralded his arrival as he rounded the nearest corner. “A lovely young ellon, surely too sweet-faced to be a traitor to his king.” He touched his fingertips against the wall, slowly gliding forward. “Why have you set your mind upon seeing the weapons stores, young one?” His eyes gleamed with half-masked merriment and more than a little heat.
Legolas smiled, entering into the playful fantasy. “Ah, sire, I lost my way and had no intent of coming here, I confess. But now that you are here, I am glad, for you can lead me back to the habitable portions of this place.”
“After I ensure myself of your loyalty.” Thranduil smiled on him, eyes sparkling. “What proof of devotion would you offer, pen neth bain?” He drew near, touching Legolas’s cheek with his fingertips. “Would you kneel before your king?”
“Indeed,” Legolas answered softly, inclining his head. “I would be glad to serve my king upon my knees.” He sank to them at once, leaving his lips parted in sweet invitation, his heart beating swiftly.
Thranduil advanced, lifting his chin and running his thumb over Legolas’s lips. “Your mouth would be sweet indeed,” he purred. “But perhaps I wish a greater devotion.”
Daring, Legolas darted his tongue out to flicker against the pad of his father’s thumb. “I will be glad to serve my king in any manner he should desire. I am his to do with as he will.” He sucked the thumb deeply into his mouth, licking and stroking it with his tongue.
“Against the wall,” Thranduil whispered, his voice thick with lust. Legolas obeyed, bracing his arms against the wall, his back to his father. Just hearing that tone in Thranduil’s voice set him aflame and made him shiver with wanting. Being here, in this public place-- visible to any who might wander past-- made it even more tantalising.
Thranduil stepped near, a hand on his waist, breath warm on his throat. He reached to unbuckle Legolas’s belt, jerking his breeches down with a rough motion, then his booted foot forced Legolas’s legs apart. Legolas gasped, his hard cock exposed to the cool air. Thranduil’s hand found it, closing around it firmly.
“You are eager, young one.” A bite stung at the join of throat and ear, just above his hidden collar. “I think you will enjoy this test of your devotion.”
“Yes, sire,” Legolas whispered, trembling as his father’s hands left him. He heard rustling, and the slick of an oiled hand on skin. He loved the many ways Thranduil took him, but of them all, this was his favorite: to take his ada deep inside his body, to know himself completely filled and possessed, to be fucked and used until he was helpless with it, then given release when he could finally bear no more of the brilliant pleasure.
“Be silent,” Thranduil ordered, his left hand sealing over Legolas’s mouth as his right guided him up to find the entrance. He poised there, giving Legolas a moment to relax.
He thrust inside without warning, a powerful stroke that lifted Legolas to the tips of his toes and made him cry out. This one would be hard and fast; he could feel it in the harsh heat of Thranduil’s breath against his throat and the power of his father’s strokes, each one pushing his hard cock against the cool stone wall. He grasped at the wall, trying to find a way to brace himself, but his hands slid against the smooth polished surface.
Then Thranduil turned him; a barrel stood in the corner, and Thranduil pushed him over it, his belly trapping his cock against the dusty wood. Legolas moaned as his ada’s next thrust took him in just the right spot; he thought he caught sight of motion out of the corner of his eye, but then his hair fell forward over his face and he could see almost nothing between the strands.
Thranduil groaned, speeding his thrusts, and Legolas could not think any longer, all rational sense flying apart under the maddening assault on his prostate.
“Ada,” he moaned, the word muffled by the hand that covered his mouth. A draft drifted over his skin, as if a door had opened, but Thranduil did not slow his punishing strokes. Legolas could sense him nearing his climax, and tightened his body, loving the way Thranduil uttered a helpless cry deep in his throat, the way his hands tightened and his pace quickened, then halted abruptly as his hips jerked and he spent deep inside.
Legolas heard a sound then, the thump of a door, and he twisted his head away.
“Someone was here,” he gasped, arousal all but forgotten in a sudden surge of fear for his ada.
Thranduil straightened slowly and arranged his clothing; Legolas could tell he struggled for composure behind his cool façade.
Legolas himself pulled up his breeches and tidied his tunic, making himself presentable again before going to investigate. He stood very still, looking down upon the prints of a servant’s heavy boots marring the dusty floor at the nearest corner.
Thranduil joined him, gazing over his shoulder.
“It will be well, ion nín.” Thranduil promised softly, but when Legolas reached to clasp his father’s hand, he found it cold with tension.
Though his father had reassured him, clearly Thranduil was concerned. The near-public displays of their liaison stopped over the next week or so. Nothing appeared to be amiss except for that. There were no strange looks, except sometimes from Galion, who did not appear minded to voice his doubts.
Legolas’s leg healed fully, and the scar even began to fade a little. Every day it was a little fainter, and the games he and his father played became as demanding as before. New roleplays were enacted with the collar, and sometimes while he was working with Tauriel on the tasks set for the patrols, Legolas even forgot that it was there. Until the evening, of course.
The palace had been bustling and busy while they provided shelter to those who were threatened by the spiders, and there were new arrivals quite often, so the elf who came to visit his father almost completely escaped his attention. Would have done, really, if not for his hair. His hair was a deep ebony colour that Legolas saw from afar, but he thought no more of it until that evening when he opened his father’s door and strode in.
Legolas was not prepared to find a stranger here, not in a place that was theirs, and he was lost for words, his hand falling away from his buttons where he had already reached to begin undoing them.
“Legolas,” said Thranduil, his smile reassuring. “Come in.” He indicated a chair at his table where his father and the stranger with the raven locks had been sat drinking before his arrival.
“Legolas, this is Erestor, lately Chief Counsellor in Imladris.” They looked at each other, and the dark-haired elf’s gaze was knowing and unsurprised. Almost grim. “Erestor, this is my son, Legolas.”
They shook hands, and Erestor had a firm grip. Legolas sat heavily while his father poured him a glass of the wine they shared. What now? he wondered. What was this about? And why was Erestor here in his father’s room in the evening? Had they not spoken already upon the business that brought Erestor here?
“Le nathlam hí,” he ventured.
Erestor inclined his head as royally as Thranduil might have done himself, but did not speak directly to Legolas. “Your son resembles his grandfather,” he noted, as if he were not entirely pleased about it.
“Yes, Sir.”
Legolas tried to restrain his reaction to the unexpected honorific, aware that the unfamiliar elf’s dark eyes studied him intensely, watching for it and measuring him with relentless precision. What did this mean? He could not tell. He lifted his wine to his lips, but did not drink, wanting to keep his wits perfectly clear. His ada glanced at him wryly as if to say it was not drugged, but Legolas set the cup away with polite decision.
“We are always glad to see our distant kindred from other lands.” He thought it impolite to ask what business brought the stranger here. If he wished to tell, he would do so. Legolas rather thought he would not; he had a harsh look about him, as of one who did not easily trust, and who was difficult to satisfy. He did not much like the elf already.
“Are you?” This time a cold smile touched the elf’s lips, and Legolas understood he had been caught in a falsehood and judged for it. He did not return the smile, glancing involuntarily toward his ada.
“Sire, the guard reports three dozen spiders slain to the south, and the pathways there are now cleared of webs. Tauriel has brought all of our people from that quarter and they have been lodged as you directed.” That report would be adequate excuse for him to have come here tonight. “I regret intruding upon your private counsels.” He rose, leaving the wine, and laid his fist atop his heart, giving his ada a courtly bow. “Abarad,” he said, and inclined the bow very slightly toward their guest, more out of respect for his father as the elf’s host than out of genuine hospitality.
Once he was out in the hall, he hesitated, trying to ease the disquiet in his heart. Who was this cold and haughty Noldorin elf, that Thranduil gave him such a respectful address?
Legolas stopped one of the off-duty guards as he passed. “Will you honour me with a favour?”
“Yes, my prince.” The response was earnest and immediate.
“Watch this hallway and tell me when Erestor of Imladris departs my ada’s chambers. Be discreet.”
“Yes, Prince Legolas.”
Legolas meant to come to his ada and question him when Erestor departed…. If he did so. Somehow, he began to doubt the stranger would emerge. Legolas felt his lips tighten with displeasure. He liked that intuition even less than he liked the Noldo’s haughty manner.
All through the long night he waited for word that never came. Legolas did not doubt the guard had followed his instructions, and though at times as the hours passed he had the notion to check upon him, Legolas did not. Such would be unseemly.
He waited until the lamps in his room burned low. Outside the birds would be singing and the sky lightening, but to no avail, and by that time Legolas had passed through displeasure to anger, humiliation, and finally abject misery. He felt every passing moment slipping away keenly. Each minute was another wasted, where he would not be able to claim his father’s company before the next day began.
His mind turned to what his father and this Erestor were doing together, and he could come up with only one conclusion. It hurt him terribly, until he vowed he did not care, that he would not care, that he must break!
Then, eventually, when there was no time left for them, Legolas cried useless tears at his father’s seeming rejection, and slipped into an exhausted - almost grieved - sleep, fingering the collar that was around his neck.
He was awoken by a dreadful loud rapping at his door, and he blinked blearily, having awoken alone and remembering the reason for it almost instantly. He felt a lump in his throat, and swallowed around it. The knocking did not stop.
“Enter!” he called, and Galion peered around the edge of the door, walking in to shut it behind him.
“My Prince, the Captain of the Guard asked me to check upon you. You are very late this morning.”
Legolas sighed. He had no wish to work. “Tell Tauriel I feel indisposed. She will do without me today.”
“Of course,” Galion said, bowing. “Do you require anything to be brought to you? Water for washing? Breakfast, perhaps?”
“I require nothing, thank you, Galion,” Legolas said. Or at least, nothing Galion could provide. He left, and Legolas felt heartsick, curling around one of his pillows and sobbing. Surely his father knew how this would make him feel? He must! And now it was too late to even have words with him about it. Legolas was reminded forcefully of the first night after the cave incident, when his ada had seemed to ignore him.
Finally, in a fit of resentment and pique, he undid the collar and threw it across the room before falling back into a restless light sleep.
The next time he woke the tapping was softer, but equally annoying. Without waiting for an answer, Tauriel put her head through the door. “What is wrong?” She came to him calmly, with the easy insolence of a retainer so well established as to have become family. “You can’t possibly be ill. You don’t smell of wine… you’ve had a spat with your lover, haven’t you?”
Legolas scowled at her, turning his back.
“There’s nothing to be gained sulking abed the whole day long.” She set a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Get up and come with me; show your faithless friend what a prince of the wood is made of. Don’t let anyone have this much influence over you, Legolas-- or at least, don’t let it show. A patrol of orcs has passed our western border. The battle will do you good.”
Orcs? Legolas half-turned to face her. “Why are orcs abroad in the wood?” Her words goaded him; he pictured Erestor turning that smug, superior look of contempt upon him again for lying abed, desolate and in despair, weeping like an adolescent. It drove him to sit up, and he gritted his teeth. The time for weeping was done; Tauriel was right. He was a prince, and he would not indulge himself in such misery.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Tauriel tossed him a tunic. It was a low-collared one, and that decided Legolas. He arose, bitterly, and splashed his face, then dressed and went out with her, not bothering to consult the healers or leave a message for his father. The collar he left lying on the floor.
The orcs looked to have come from the west; they had the livery of mountain orcs. Perhaps they were tracking the Noldo, who had come alone, like a fool. They would have thought him easy prey, and had they moved faster, they would have been right. Legolas almost wished they had caught Erestor before he found his destination, but now that they were upon his lands, he would show them no mercy.
Tauriel was right. It felt good to be out in the wood again, and better to battle the orc-band, who were more difficult prey than spiders, fighting back with strategy and intelligence that was nonetheless doomed.
“Take trophies,” Legolas decreed when the last orc fell, stretching out his shoulders. He had sat idle too long. “We will present them to--” he almost hung fire, unable to say the words. “His majesty,” he said smoothly, instead. He had never thought to call his father such when they lay abed; now it would suffice.

To be continued...

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ellon: male elf
pen neth bain: beautiful young one
ada: father, dad, daddy
ion nín: my son
Le nathlam hí: We welcome you here
Abarad: Until tomorrow
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Prince in Training