Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

The Teacher	By : pip Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 14764 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- 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
- 18
- 19
- 20
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Oropher/Elrond, Thranduil/Elrond, Legolas/Elrond, Elrond/Celebrían, Elrond/OFC
Warnings: Slash, het, graphic sex, bdsm, D/s, bondage, canonical character death
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. I do not own the elves within or middle earth. They belong to Tolkien, and I am just borrowing them for a short while. I make no money from this.
Summary: A fanciful, smutty take on what Elrond's story might have been through the ages.

Author's Note: Ok, well, I am afraid that at some point there has to be plot. This is one of those times. Also, there is some difficult subject matter in this chapter with regard to Elrond's grief. Oropher made a choice, and unfortunately, I know the effect of that kind of choice all too well. If you are affected yourself or interested, I would suggest you search the internet for 'reflection y Docherty' since no one has ever put it so poignantly. (I am not the author, though I would be happy with one small iota of their talent)

Also, there are now dates on my chapters and where the POV slips in time.

Chapter Eighteen

II 3434

"Seven!" Elrond gasped from his place on the bed, where he was secured, face down to take the punishment that was due at Nimbrethil's insistence. And such a punishment! These games that Thranduil and Nimbrethil played were far beyond his own experience.

Almost, he had expected something from his days of old, with Oropher in Lindon. A light-hearted thing that would be over in minutes and not truly last, but this would last. The whip struck him again and a red line of agony was laid fresh over the others. It was not truly so cruel, but it felt so to know Thranduil was doing it, and Elrond whimpered submissively. This was not even the newer domination of the cane which Thranduil had showed him during the great battle. It was absolute and beyond anything he could have chosen, given millennia he would not have willingly volunteered to indulge in this.

"Eight!" he cried out. Forgotten was the war they left behind. Even the loss of his one great love that had endured the last two ages was relegated to somewhere in the back of his mind. All Elrond had room for was the idea of Thranduil's clemency. He did, after all, know Thranduil's desires. Behind him he heard Thranduil and Nimbrethil exchange whispered words, and he shivered, wanting to beg for it to be over. After all, why shouldn't he?

"Please, meleth nín, stop," he asked, and though he could not see, he knew Thranduil was astonished at the address. So was Elrond, and he did not quite know if he meant it.

As if in answer, beside his face on the bed, the whip was laid out, the thin leather bare inches from his lips. "Kiss the whip as if it were my hand," Thranduil murmured, close to his ear, and Elrond sobbed. He did as he was instructed, however, and his lips touched the supple strip of leather that was already damp with his own blood. "I desire you so much, little leaf," Thranduil confessed, one hand resting on Elrond's lower back.

"Then have me," Elrond said back, stunned that his plea had been so easily accepted, forgetting for a moment that there was another element to all of this, and that she was not so easily seduced. Turning his head to try and see, he only caught a glimpse of the King's long silver hair.

"Two more and I will. They will be easy for you," Thranduil promised darkly. "Beg for it, Elrond," he said, and as the whip fell again, Elrond did just that.

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The time he spent with them passed in a sensual blur for Elrond, that first punishment the only real test of his acceptance in the end. It had taken a couple of days to heal, but after that he had obeyed her without question, understanding what it was that she gave to them. Then too soon, it was time to return to what had now become a siege at the border to Sauron's land. A message had been brought to time their arrival at the front with that of Glorfindel and the refreshed contingent from Imladris.

Not all of his time in Thranduil's caves had been spent playing games however. During his time in the woodland realm he had studied the small library in the room he had been given, and discovered many more of Oropher's secret thoughts and hopes, his dreams and nightmares. Perhaps it was to be that he lost his life at Dagorlad. Especially later on, there was a melancholy note in his words that pained Elrond to hear. The carefree tone lessened, even in his ordinary journal entries, to be replaced by an unspoken grief; the departure of his wife Authiriel. His own character was fading, in private, and Elrond began to understand that the King would soon have sailed to the west even if he had survived. There was a longing in his words that Elrond thought he understood. But of course he didn't understand it at all, and wouldn't until he had known such a loss of his own...

There was not really time to grieve, but Elrond had to begin anyway. His heart hovered between pity, sorrow, guilt and anger as he considered what had happened. The choice was not his in this either and he found himself reading over Oropher's secret journals again and again when he was alone, struggling to find some acceptance in himself, and there was none. In vain he tried to reason against the crushing sense of guilt. What could he have done to prevent it? What should he have done? How could he have let Oropher get away with not telling him about the vision in Galadriel's mirror? How could he have missed Oropher's growing despair? They had been the closest of lovers.

His own faults in this were so numerous that Elrond found himself in tears that prevented him reading any further, dashing them from his eyes while he said aloud over and over that he was sorry, that he should have been there more often. What was there in Imladris that could not survive without him? Why had he let the visits slip so that a century would pass before he appeared in Oropher's woods again? He yearned for those moments of quiet between them, when they were together and warm in the cradle of the trees, when confessions were so close they would have been his if only he had insisted on them. But Oropher was not there to hear him. He spoke his regrets into the silence, and it gave him nothing back.

The black feeling inside him remained, an empty desolate place in his soul where Oropher had once played, and often he found himself with his hands pressed there as though he suffered a mortal wound. The pain felt like one inside, twisting and writhing until he felt sickened with it.

Of course, he had known grief before many times. Elrond had endured in middle earth for longer than most. There were many who had become lost to him, including his own twin brother. But while practice made anything else easier, the same could not be said of mourning. No amount of his own reason could soothe him.

In his darker moments of despair and loneliness, Elrond searched the journals for answers to his questions. Why hadn't Oropher confided in him? Why hadn't he told Elrond of the longing? Why had he kept such misery and cold knowledge of fate to himself when it was clearly too much to live with alone? He was angry until it occurred to him that perhaps he had not been approachable enough, and then he was back to guilt again. Still, there was no answer and no reassurance, because Oropher was gone and he couldn't be questioned. It was too late.

Despite the oddity of the reassurance he was finding with Thranduil, and sometimes with Nimbrethil, Elrond spent long periods of time alone. He did not tell Thranduil of the journals, as a mercy, and to save him the same endless plague of questions. How could they help Thranduil now? Nimbrethil would help him; Elrond had no doubt of that.

Truth be told, after over a week of this, and of Thranduil and Nimbrethil's games, he rather thought he might be looking forward to the simplistic discipline of a military command and the black and white of battle. He knelt before her on that last day, along with her husband, listening to the orders she gave to the King, and then she laid a hand on his head.

"Elrond," she said, and he closed his eyes. He had known the pleasure her body could provide so many times, and still he wanted her. "You will return to Imladris after your next visit to the front." Elrond looked up with a word of refusal on his lips, ready to beg if necessary. Don't dismiss me, he thought desperately. What was there for him without this? Thranduil had been quite right to show it to him. And what was there for him without the small respite he had found in that little library? They were still Oropher's words, and they comforted him, even if they tormented his soul.

"Then you will return to us," she said, a kind of tenderness in her eyes that made Elrond smile in relief. Her eyes flickered to Thranduil for an instant, who was kneeling, head bowed, and so he missed the depth of her love and worry. Elrond saw it, and he nodded at once, understanding what she asked though he knew it was not a demand for she didn't speak it. Look after him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When they returned to the encampment outside the black gates, the mood was still joyous at their previous victory. All now knew that the retreat was not planned, and that the evil hid in Mordor rather than plotted in it. Shouts of happy reunion sprang up here and there as friends welcomed each other, but their entry into the dark land would come at a greater cost that any of them suspected.

Again there was the meeting, but there was only one plan and so the technicalities were discussed and brought forward. Great battering rams were made and put into place before it began in earnest. It began with the cover of elven archers shooting those orcs and goblins foolish enough to peek above the great gates to pick off their besiegers. The gates were breached eventually, and the combined forces of men and elves rushed inside the bottle-neck, picked off by the enemy so easily at first.

But soon the enemy forces were pushed back into Mordor, and the assault commenced. They marched for the Barad-dûr as if they celebrated victory already, until they came to the valley known as Udûn where so many lost their lives. After that their forces were too few to win into the tower itself, and so they set up camp and made war from outside, while their numbers steadily dwindled.

Elrond and his companions were there more often than not, with short periods of time away from the front to grieve the loss of friends and to carry home news. For six long years life was a weary cycle of war, loss, and grief, with only the respite he found in Thranduil's arms to make it bearable, and in Elrond's heart he began to have the same standing as his father. They were forced into close proximity for long periods of time, and so it was perhaps inevitable that they should love one another.

With a sense of misplaced responsibility, Elrond strove to keep the full magnitude of his grief over Oropher's passing from Thranduil at first, until the months passed, then a year, and at last his silence was in vain. They shared so much more than the illusion of control in the depth of night, pressed close together, dependent on one another for nearly everything. They shared their grief, and at last Elrond found some slight solace. He was aware that Thranduil found peace in their sharing too, and that settled him.

Never would he have chosen this. Elrond sometimes considered that as he and Thranduil slept together, finding comfort in each other that shouldn't really be right. But it was. Elrond thought to thank Thranduil for it once, and the King had asked him if he wanted to reverse their positions. Too stunned to accept, the idea had preyed on Elrond's mind until the night he found himself with Thranduil at his beck and call while he wrote in a journal, the blond warrior on his knees beside Elrond's chair within the tent.

Elrond did not demand from Thranduil what the King took from him, and he found himself at last sat back in his chair, his fingers playing with Thranduil's blond hair at his knee.

"You ignore my desire on purpose," Thranduil said with a sigh of longing, calling his attention to it. Elrond hushed him, but did nothing, fearing that the delicate love - yes, it was love - between them might wither if he went so far as that. After all, he had known Thranduil as a youngster. It did not seem right somehow.

There was silence between them for a moment, and then: "You are doing it on purpose... aren't you?" Elrond opened his eyes again to find Thranduil looking at him in such earnest entreaty that his heart skipped.

"Yes, of course," he said softly, lying, making it about the games that they played instead of what it was. Elrond hid behind that because did not want to hurt Thranduil, but he could not take him either. At the very least, he could save him from knowing the cruelty of rejection.

He hesitated to spend time in Lothlórien, except for once to share the moment of Oropher's passing with Galadriel and Celeborn. In truth he had unanswered questions about Celebrían after his experience with Nimbrethil and knew that he was certain to pursue her. But pursue her whilst the war raged, and the love in his heart was deployed elsewhere? Impossible. Yet the questions about her remained and grew in his mind.

Anarion, who had before led a small contingent of men from Gondor, now brought forward the entire army, and their numbers swelled, though not in such a way as they could break into the tower. Then, in the sixth year, Anarion was slain, and as if in answer to this disaster and the endless siege, Sauron himself strode outside the tower, killing so easily that it began to seem the war would never be won, alliance or no.

II 3441

At long last a challenge was set forth which Sauron accepted; to meet in battle with two champions. One from the elves, and one from the world of men. Gil-galad with his spear was to be the elven warrior, and King Elendil from the race of men was to be their chosen. The dark lord agreed to this, and on the slopes of Mount Doom, they faced each other.

To Elrond and to those around him it seemed that an eternity of battles had been fought to get to this one shining moment, and he was sure that Gil-Galad must prevail. All of them cheered him on - their champion - even Elrond. Fear in their hearts but hope that this might be the end of all wars. So many had been lost to gain this chance, so many friends and lovers gone that Elrond considered himself lucky not to have failed in his unspoken promise to Nimbrethil. He considered himself lucky to be alive himself. With Morgoth and Sauron gone, darkness would surely perish, and they would all be able to rest in peace, in the knowledge that the haven of Valinor could never be threatened. So much had transpired, and would on this day of days, but of all of them, a few stark moments stood out in unforgiving clarity that never dimmed in all of his remaining time in middle earth.

Gil-galad fought bravely, and for so long that the fighting which had stopped for this sight resumed. Elrond found himself again busy with sword and bow as Gil-galad's fight against Sauron continued. Then, at last, Sauron plucked Gil-galad from the ground and held him aloft. Elrond cried out and rushed forward, only the quick thinking and strength of Thranduil and Glorfindel keeping him from running headlong into certain death. Gil-galad was one of his oldest friends in a world which had seen far too many of them fall or sail to the west.

He watched as Gil-galad burned from the inside out, as if the life of the eldar that existed within him were in revolt at the touch of Sauron on his body. The famous spear, red with blood where it had met success against even Sauron's armour was dropped from fingers already disintegrating into ash, and Elrond cried out.

"Stay, aníra-nín!" a voice near his ear said desperately, and Elrond looked at Thranduil without recognition for a second, finally giving a tight nod as Elendil took up his allotted place and fell to the enemy so easily. But then the man Isildur managed what Elrond could not and rushed to his father's side. More in terror than design he snatched his father's broken sword and lashed out in fear and desperate vengeance as Sauron reached for him to end it.

For the first, last and only time Elrond saw the ring as a weakness. The broken blade severed the ring from Sauron's hand, where it tumbled end over end to fall to the rocky ground with a dull and heavy thud that was felt throughout the land of Mordor. With that the dark lord himself was defeated. His giant form crumbled where he stood, until his armour fell to the ground in bits and pieces. To the north east, the great obsidian tower began to fall, and the orcs and goblins, leaderless, scattered in a thousand different directions without their master to guide and order them.

Isildur had taken up the ring of the enemy, what had proved to be his one weakness, and Elrond led him quickly inside the volcano where it could be destroyed forever. Sauron's shadow put to rout for good; all of their losses had been for this, and Elrond didn't even have the heart to count them off in his mind as he stood looking down into the boiling lava, then turned his gaze on Isildur, and the ring.

"Destroy it! Throw it into the depths!" he urged, certain after all they had lost and sacrificed that Isildur would do just that and make it a victory. He believed it despite the warning in his heart that nothing was so easy. After a moment he felt the hesitation from Isildur rather than saw it, and called his name, desperation making him almost plead as the King Elendil's son backed away from the terrible fire, something cunning and possessive in his eyes.

"No. It's mine," he said. "My own." My precious, Elrond's mind supplied in a horrific flash of foresight and foreboding that left him in silent despair as Isildur turned and walked away, looking at the ring in his cupped palm.

So it had come to this. All was meaningless and ash and loss as they left the dark lands of Mordor, less a war now than a slaughter of orcs and goblins as they travelled through. The men around him were jubilant, though the elves were more sedate and there were reservations in their ranks. One or two of them looked to him with a question in their eyes, and to these Elrond shook his head.

Thranduil travelled with him, first to Lothlórien so as to give the news to Galadriel along with her returned warriors and then they parted for a short while. Thranduil had his own business with the dwarves, while he went on to Imladris to speak with Erestor. He left Glorfindel there when Thranduil caught up with him and journeyed back to Mirkwood, with the truth that they both knew but did not speak to each other weighing heavy on their hearts. The ring survived, and so too then did Sauron survive the war. There would be another when the men they fought with had died and their descendants were left to face the battle anew. But he and Glorfindel and Thranduil; they would live to see the Barad-dûr rebuilt, the armies of darkness would again threaten the lands of middle earth, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

To be continued...

Author's Note: Thank you for reading; I hope you are enjoying it.
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The Teacher