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Prince in Training	By : Pippychick_TAFKAB Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 24084 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- Currently Reading : 2
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Chapter Eighteen
Legolas strode into the palace ahead of the returning jubilant patrol. All he wanted was to bathe, and he ordered hot water be brought to his room from a passing servant. Legolas was not exactly sure he had orc blood on him, but he could smell their filth lingering all the same, and wished to be free of it.
The battle with the orcs seemed to have driven away his grief, but it did not seem to have touched his anger, and when he walked into his room to find his father waiting for him there, he shook his head in annoyance and exasperation. He saw his father’s hands holding the collar he had flung away from him in a fury, and shook his head again.
“Don’t,” he said, before his father could speak, feeling a frown on his face. He did not meet his father’s eyes, did not want him to see the hurt he had caused. If this was a game, Legolas wanted no part of it. “You should leave. I intend to bathe, then return to my patrol,” he said, dismissive.
“Legolas…” his father said, and Legolas only sighed, eschewing his bed where his father sat to settle himself in a chair at his dresser to wait for the water. He determined not to speak, but then he couldn’t help it. He felt explosive and volatile.
“Why?” he demanded. “After all that I have given to you…” Legolas shook his head again, remembering all the games they had played, the countless humiliations, the pain of the punishments he had endured. “I suppose, thinking about it, I should not be surprised at this lack of consideration from you. I have invited it, I suppose. Though I must point out that everything I have done, I have done at your insistence and instruction. I placed my trust in you.”
With all my heart, he thought sadly, for he remembered also that he had enjoyed all of the games and punishments. The thought that indulging in them might have made it easy for his father to be so careless with him hurt terribly, yet he sensed he had only himself to blame for it.
At last he looked at his father, and Thranduil gazed steadily back. So much so that Legolas suddenly felt a flicker of shame, as if he were being needlessly petulant and dramatic.
“Erestor is –”
“I do not care!” Legolas cut in. “I don’t!” Though he was sure he was trying to convince himself. His heart hurt suddenly, and he dropped his head, his elbows resting on his knees as he tried to hide that hurt from his father. “What is he to me but a thief?” he asked quietly, aching. “And you? So easily stolen…” Legolas sobbed then, remembering the long night, all the stress of it so close, so real, so injurious.
Thranduil waited a moment. “Erestor,” he began, waiting, as if to see whether Legolas would make another outburst. “He is to me what I am to you,” he said simply, patiently.
Legolas did not see how that was meant to help, and his thoughts flew with a stab of pain to his father’s half-spoken promise that one day they might trade places. There would be no chance for that now. That place was taken, and none remained for Legolas.
“Then I wish you joy of him, since I am no longer required,” he said, deeply bitter, and refused to look to Thranduil. A servant tapped, and a group filed in carrying a washtub and heated water for his bath. “I am sure your… duties… are pressing. Leave me to my bath, and to my peace.”
Thranduil arose, and Legolas heard the sound of the engraved tag shifting upon its ring in the abandoned collar. His father waited until the last of the servants filed out before speaking. “I said, what I am to you.” Thranduil repeated, his voice taut with pain. “Not what I was. But perhaps I am wrong in this.”
Legolas could see the collar now, turning in his father’s fingers. “I would have spoken to you and explained, if I had been given warning of his arrival. I would have prepared you for this. But he came on me unawares, and I was commanded. Centuries have passed since I last knelt at his feet, but he is still--” he stopped. “Galion has done this,” he whispered suddenly. “It was he who saw. He means to protect you from me.”
All of this new information bothered Legolas, but he could not let go of the torture he had endured overnight. “Leave me,” he said again, more dispirited than before, with a shaky sigh. He ran a hand through his hair and waited, but his father did not move. Legolas finally looked to him.
“Do you mean to stay, and disregard my wishes?” he asked, astonished. His father did not move, nor did he speak. Legolas found himself at a loss. The water was steaming, cooling quickly, and he really did want to be rid of the stench of orc from him.
Shrugging, as if it mattered little, Legolas slowly undressed. He could feel his father’s eyes on him, but he would not look back. He kicked off his boots and unbuttoned his tunic, casting it aside with the undershirt he wore. He rolled his leggings down his legs and stepped out of them, before getting into the bath and lying back in it.
At last he spoke. “Galion called this… Erestor here?” Legolas queried.
“I believe so,” Thranduil replied. “He knew about us before I could confide in him.”
The hot water felt good. It eased his muscles, and with that his mind. Legolas sighed. “I was so miserable last night,” he said. “You had abandoned me. I stayed awake until the sunrise, tormented during every moment of the night. Did you enjoy it with him?”
Thranduil gave a mirthless laugh. It was so unlike him, Legolas turned his head to look. “Hardly.” He looked at Legolas so earnestly that it made his breath catch in his throat. “I spent every moment of that long night on my knees, explaining to my former Master why I was fucking my own son.”
Oh. Legolas swallowed. Thranduil continued: “I ran out of reasons at some point in the early morning. And then I was berated for it.”
That seemed a mild enough punishment, hardly as sore as the grief Legolas had endured. “Oh,” he said, unimpressed.
“Afterward I took my punishment.” Thranduil swallowed hard, and this at last drew Legolas’s eyes to his father’s face. Thranduil met his eyes steadily, a fierce glow in his look. “I did not flinch or cry out or plead for him to stop. I let him continue until he had spent his will to beat me. I would not ask mercy or forgiveness. I did not repent my actions.” He rose and let his robe fall, then unfastened his tunic and turned. It dropped as well, and Legolas gasped, surging upward so violently water sluiced out of the tub as he stepped out of it.
His father bore the strikes of a savage whipping up and down his back, criss-crossed welts like nothing Legolas had ever seen. Fury rose in a red cloud before his eyes.
“I will kill him--!”
“No!” Thranduil turned back to him, savage and swift. “You will not. He tests us, my son. He tests our resolve and our care for one another.” He picked up the collar once more, turning it in his fingers. “He would not let me speak to you at first; he wished to see how you would react in your jealousy.” Thranduil straightened himself, moving with a faint hint of reluctance that betrayed his pain. “Let us dress, then go together and show him your trophies, my son.” His voice warmed with pride. “You have done well.”
The collar dangled, just within reach.
Swallowing hard, somehow more frightened now than he had ever been, Legolas reached, let his fingers brush the leather… and took it.
He replaced the collar around his neck, and felt the spell that it wove surround him once more. Without really meaning to, he leaned forward, winding his arms around his father’s neck.
“Legolas,” Thranduil said, amused now despite the heavy nature of their conversation. “You are wet through!” And yet he felt his father’s arms close around his naked body, holding him close. “Mmm…”
“Kiss me, ada?” he asked, tilting his head back, but his father did not. At least, not straightaway.
“I want you to remember, ion nín. I want you to be sure of me. I would dare ruin, condemnation, even unto the barring of my entry to the blessed realm in the west for you. Do you think that I would so carelessly throw you aside? Truly?”
Frowning, Legolas knew the words his father spoke were sensible. He had overreacted. Hadn’t he been assured time and again that this was more than the games they played? More than the pleasure they gave each other? “I am sorry, ada,” he said, chastened.
“I do not want you to be sorry,” Thranduil replied, then smiled a little. “I want you to give me the benefit of the doubt, no matter what may come. Will you do that for me?”
“I will give you that,” Legolas said, “if you kiss me.”
Thranduil laughed and gave in to his wishes. But Legolas was quite sure they were his father’s wishes too. It felt so good, and Legolas was relieved, just to be close, to be together again. Legolas knew his father was right, and he resolved to be stronger than this. More than Erestor would likely come to try and put space between them.
When he was dry and dressed in fresh clothing, they left the room together and headed to face Erestor.
*****
The Imladris elf was impassive when confronted by orc trophies, to Legolas’s faint dismay. He inspected the bits carefully, turning over swords, helms, scattered pieces of armor in search of minute details Legolas would think unimportant.
“I wish to see the bodies of these orcs,” he announced when he had finished. “There may be more telling artefacts with them.” He raised his calm gaze to Legolas. “Prince Legolas, perhaps you would care to escort me to the site of the battle. It is my intent to make your closer acquaintance, and your guidance would serve both purposes admirably.”
“Erestor is a loremaster, and has served for millennia as the archivist of Elrond,” Thranduil explained quietly, sensing Legolas’s resistance to the idea. “It may be he can read much from their gear where we can tell nothing.” And Thranduil wished Legolas to speak with Erestor, obviously; perhaps even to strike up a friendship with him.
That was unlikely.
“The forest is perilous,” Legolas warned. A librarian? He had no patience to shepherd a soft and pampered scholar whose clearest idea of battle seemed to be whipping an opponent without arms or armor, one who raised no hand or word in self defense!
“I made my way through its perils once without your supervision.” Mild but immediate, the words carried a firm authority that made them feel more critical than they seemed upon the surface.
“It takes but one mistake to fall to the spiders.” Legolas shrugged. “But if you will go, then I will escort you.”
“I will go.” Erestor gave him a clear gaze, unintimidated. “I am not in the habit of making errors.”
Legolas raised a brow at him, matching cool for cool. “That should serve you well.” He resolved nevertheless to have his knives and bow ready to protect the librarian, lest his father be grieved by losing him.
Legolas’s mood was not improved when he had to wait for Erestor to change into something more appropriate for roaming through the forest. He tapped his foot impatiently and sighed, until at last Erestor appeared, dressed very much like Legolas himself. He frowned at that, but led the way outside anyway. Thranduil accompanied them that far, but then they were alone.
Without warning, Legolas scaled one of the trees and began following the forest path via the canopy. He did not look to see if Erestor followed him, and yet when he looked around, the librarian was right next to him. Well, that was surprising!
Determined not to be put out, Legolas made quick headway, testing Erestor’s speed, and here at last he had the satisfaction of waiting for him several times.
“You are slow,” Legolas noted.
“Climbing trees is not part of my usual occupation. That is true,” Erestor admitted. “You are quite agile, limber and athletic.” He looked upward mildly, then leaped to catch a branch, flipping once and coming up on his feet in the next tree.
Legolas joined him, thinking wryly that the other elf had more than made his point.
“You are a fine physical specimen. It is little wonder Thranduil desires you.”
Legolas blinked to hear it spoken of so casually, then bristled at the implication. “I am desired for more than my body.”
“Are you so sure of that?”
Legolas did not hesitate. “Yes. I am.”
“What does Thranduil desire in you?”
That question gave Legolas more pause than he liked to admit. “My loyalty. My love. My service. My companionship. My desire. My,” he hesitated, then continued, defiant. “My willing submission.”
“I gather you have not always been willing.”
Legolas looked askance at him, leaping to catch a branch of his own. “I am Thranduilion.” HIs voice was very dry. “Was my father a lapdog to you?”
Before Erestor could answer, Legolas spotted something ahead in the branches of the trees that the librarian would not, even if he was the greatest outdoorsman at Imladris. There were very definitely no spiders there. In fact, their complete absence seemed strange.
“Down!” Legolas ordered, and made his way nimbly to the forest floor without even looking to see if Erestor followed his advice.
He heard the Noldo land lightly behind him as he was nocking an arrow to his bow. He listened intently. A forest was never completely silent. The breeze could make any number of noises as it passed through the leaves that might sound significant to someone without knowledge and experience. Small animals could sound larger than they were. Spiders were an absence of sound, an absence of everything.
Legolas turned quickly and let the arrow fly, drawing another one as a pained screech came from the undergrowth. He eyed Erestor.
“Let us hope you were right about your inability to make mistakes,” he said, just a hint of sarcasm in his words.
“I never said I was unable. Merely unwilling.” The silky scrape of a blade drawn from a sheath accompanied the words.
The spiders came forward in a rush-- easily a dozen of them. Legolas winced, shooting as quickly as he might. He managed to dispatch four before he was forced to draw his knives. He and the librarian might be in trouble indeed--
Except that Erestor moved like a cat, and showed no squeamishness or fear. He drove his blade through a spider’s mouth, wrenched it out, and took another in the eye. Legolas too spun and danced, hacking off legs and kicking the creatures from the branches to shatter upon the ground. Off-balance and injured, few had the presence of mind to save themselves with their silks.
“Avoid the--” Legolas started to shout warning as a spider turned on them, its spinnerets ejecting web in a swift stream. He was not entirely displeased to see Erestor caught in the stuff, but he sliced through it nonetheless and stamped hard on the thing’s branch, sending it plunging into the undergrowth.
The next wave of spiders were more cautious, held off by the flash of steel. “They will wait until reinforcements arrive,” Legolas warned, and flung himself from the same branch from which spiders had fallen.
He saw Erestor falling beside him as he somersaulted, and with mingled relief and gratification found the librarian standing next to him on a branch some levels down. Legolas drew his bow and shot again, sending a spider tumbling.
“Your left,” Erestor barked, and his blade shot past Legolas, landing in a spider’s eye with a sickening squelch just before its jaws could close on Legolas’s arm. “Aim for the ones above. I’ll handle these.”
In a matter of moments it was done; nearly twenty spiders lay dead or dying in their webs and on the forest floor. Erestor’s face was half-obscured by sticky web, and it was tangled in his hair, but his eyes shone with a bright light and his blade was coated with ichor. As were Legolas’s knives.
“I will retrieve my arrows.” Legolas climbed, wondering how long it would take the other elf to discover how hard it would prove to get spider silk out of his hair.
He found the majority of his spent shafts and put them in his quiver for later cleaning, then descended again to Erestor, who stood watch against the bole of the tree, blade clean once more but still drawn.
“And what do you desire of your father?” Erestor asked him, as calmly as if their conversation had never been interrupted.
Legolas considered, and he thought of his father. Of his beauty, of the things he had learned and the games they played, the hope that they might someday change places. He thought of the line between the father and the lover. He thought of the king. “Everything,” he replied simply.
Erestor gave him a sharp look, but he did not acknowledge it. He swept his arm out to the clearing in front of them. A sickly smell of burning flesh came from it, where he and his comrades had set a controlled fire to rid the forest of the orcs rather than pollute it with their decaying flesh. “There you have it,” he said. “Look where you will.”
Watching Erestor, Legolas had to hold back a sigh. The dark-haired elf poked through the jumble at the site. Dirty blankets, rusty swords, rope and bits of chainmail. Then, at one point, he squatted down, standing again with a rectangular object covered in dirty grey cloth. A book, Legolas realised.
The Noldo uncovered it, barely able to conceal his excitement. “It is written in the Black Speech,” he said, hurrying over to show it. “It is a corrupted form of Valerian.”
Legolas was completely unimpressed. “It was being carried by orcs,” he said. “It probably contains their orders so they didn’t forget.”
Shaking his head, Erestor pointed to what looked like the beginning of a sentence. He opened his mouth.
“You will not speak that darkness here in our woods,” Legolas said icily, every inch the crown prince. “You will not speak it anywhere in our realm.”
“As I was preparing to say,” Erestor gave him a dry glare, “It is a book of children’s stories. From what I can see at a swift glance, they are not dissimilar from the tales we elves tell our own infants. This may yield credence to the lore that says orcs were made from elves; moreover, if I can locate analogues in the archive, it will help us date when this atrocity occurred.”
Legolas gave him a look, wondering if he sounded like this all the time, or if he only did it to annoy.
“Further, it indicates its owner was either a young orc or an orc with children of its own, and provides insight into the likelihood that orcs feel affection for their offspring. Not to mention the existence of literacy within the clans…!” He tucked the book away carefully in his pocket, though Legolas made a face at seeing him handle the filthy thing.
“Aside from that, these were Misty Mountain orcs. They came from clans near the High Pass. They have followed me far.” He glanced at Legolas. “Though I knew that before we came out. I wished to speak with you.”
So here they were, touching upon the real reason for this little jaunt. “And have you spoken your fill?”
“I have barely begun.” Erestor gazed at him, a faint quirk of his mouth indicating unexpected humor. “Your father submits to me. You submit to your father. This presents a problem. Theoretically you are then submissive to me, but in practice you are not.”
Legolas raised a brow, unspeaking.
“There are far more disturbing problems posed by your relationship than that. Thranduil took you to his bed without recourse to moral standard, against custom and law. That is a great problem in itself. However, I judge the two of you have communicated your expectations adequately to one another. And there is potential for heartbreak in any relationship, though it would be greatly intensified in this one if it occurs, as numerous types of relationship are invested in your bond. I am encouraged that you seem so highly functional even in the face of pain and jealousy.”
Legolas remembered his father warning that Erestor intended to test them.
“Will you tell other elves of our choice? I will not call it a transgression.” Legolas lifted his chin, proud.
“It is not my business to satisfy others’ desire for gossip and rumour,” Erestor snapped, insulted. Legolas found himself quite satisfied with that reaction.
“My only concern is for your father. He is mine. I will not be so remiss as to see him tempted to ruin by –” Erestor stopped short, actually appearing to rein himself in.
“By what?” Legolas demanded coldly, folding his arms.
“It does not matter. My thoughts on your situation have changed.” Erestor smiled, though there was no humour in it. “Despite your clear enmity towards me.”
Legolas shook his head, remembering the night he had spent, knowing it had been engineered by Erestor for no reason other than to gauge his reaction.
“If you could be hurt in such a way,” Legolas said, sighing. “If I had hurt you like that, without speaking more than two words to you…. I dare you to feel anything else…. You could have asked me. Did you know we spend our nights together? Did you even bother to find that out? We are not casual with each other.”
Erestor took a step forward. Legolas did not move, but he bristled when the other elf placed hands on his upper arms. “We will talk upon our return, Prince Legolas,” he said slowly. “For now, do not let your dislike of me disarm you.”
“Do not touch me,” Legolas warned, his voice deepening so that he reminded himself of his father. “I have seen what you did to ada.” At the same time, he recognised what Erestor meant, and he tried to compose himself a little.
“Your father expected no less of me. We shall make that the first thing we discuss, if you are still willing when we get back.” As he spoke he released Legolas from his touch, backing away, giving him space. Legolas nodded tightly.
“Very well. Have you seen everything you wanted here?” He glanced around at the clearing. All for a book! Legolas rolled his eyes.
“I have.” Erestor drew himself up with a polite economy of motion. “Lead on.”
Legolas did, and though he remained on high alert, they passed no more foes on their return to Thranduil’s halls. Erestor appeared fresh, little fatigued, despite their fray with the spiders. Legolas gave him no assistance or advice as he disappeared to change and wash for dinner-- and was disappointed to see the elf apparently prevailed upon the servants to assist him in cleansing spider silk from his hair, as he appeared pristine and shining to the evening meal.

Authors' Note: Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment. TAFKAB and I are both on vacation tomorrow, so we might be slow answering, but we will reply (eventually) here: http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/62499-prince-in-training-review-responses/
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Prince in Training