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Greenleaf & Imladris 29 - Aduial: Soul of a Knight	By : MPB Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 6313 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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
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Chapter I: Sword-Mates

Ithilien, Gwirith FA 90

The idyllic silence of the Reunited Kingdom’s fairest province was shattered by the thundering hooves of the mounts of a company of Elven warriors. The colors and markings on their standard and raiment were not of Gondor or Ithilien but of fabled Imladris in the far north.

The raven-haired Elf who led them spurred his steed to even greater speed. Though his countenance betrayed nothing of the reasons that drove him thus, his eyes, a grey bordering on silver, were dark and focused with single-minded intent on some inner call. For that indeed was what drew him so swiftly and urgently across the length and breadth of the province.

Elrohir! Come to me!

Almost there, Legolas! Hold on!

With eerie precision he turned his horse abruptly down a shallow slope headed towards a vast glen obscured by trees and shrubs. His warriors followed him without question. They burst into the midst of a raging battle between fair Elven rangers and foul orckish raiders.

Though it was nearly a century since the fall of the Dark Lord, Sauron, the loathsome creatures he and his erstwhile master, the fallen Vala, Morgoth Bauglir, had bred in the Elder days still thrived in Middle-earth though their numbers were no longer as fearsome in the south as they had been when Mordor held sway over much of the region. Between the forces of the Prince of Ithilien and the warriors of the elven settlement of Eryn Gael, the Orcs had become less a deadly menace to the southern kingdom and more of an irritation in the manner of a gadfly. Of course, that did not in any way recompense either prince for the loss of lives amongst their people and they continued to battle on, their joint goal to finally cleanse Ithilien once and for all of the evil creatures.

Elrohir and his twin, Elladan, were of the same mind, oft joining the forces of Rivendell to the armies of northern Eryn Lasgalen, now ruled by Legolas’ eldest brother, Melthoron, and ably defended by his other sibling, Brethildor. The Misty Mountains were not as easy to rid of the Goblins what with the range’s multitude of tunnels and caves and other hiding places eminently suitable as lairs for Orcs to live and breed in. Nevertheless, that did not deter the northern elven realms in their quest to destroy as many of their enemies as possible. Besides, the brethren of Rivendell had never forsaken their vow to avenge their mother’s torment at the hands of Orcs. Nor had they forgotten the grief and loneliness, particularly that of their father, Elrond, that had followed in the wake of her premature departure for the Blessed Realm to seek healing and peace.

Lopping off the head of a Goblin with a clean sweep of his blade almost as soon as he arrived, Elrohir’s first instinct was to seek the silver-gold tresses of one single Elf. He soon spotted him, a lithe but deadly figure, cutting down his foes with seeming ease and effortless grace. Assured of the other Elf’s immediate well-being, he turned his attention to decimating the ranks of the enemy.

With the advent of the Imladrin reinforcements, the battle did not last much longer. While the Ithilien Elves had been holding their own against the Orcs, no one objected to a swifter denouement of any kind of fighting. Pride had no place in the matter of sparing as many lives as possible.

As soon as the skirmish came to an end, Elrohir dismounted and quickly approached the golden-haired Elf he had sought earlier. Legolas, youngest prince of the Woodland Realm of Greenwood and lord of Eryn Gael, was already overseeing the task of sorting the wounded from the dead, making sure along the way that any surviving orcs joined their slain fellows. The Elves showed no mercy to their vanquished foe, grim in the knowledge that they would be shown none or even worse should the situation be reversed. Sensing the approach of the warrior, the prince glanced up and beamed in welcome.

“You did not pass by Minas Tirith, did you?” he commented, noting the garb of the Elvenlord.

“Nay, I came straight from Imladris,” Elrohir answered. “I did not wish to waste time once I heard your reply to my call.”

“Strange that I can reach you in such instances despite the distance,” Legolas commented. “Yet it has never been my talent.”

The Elf-knight smiled. “Your urgency lends you the needed strength, ernil nîn”—my prince—he pointed out. He glanced around as the Elves began to drag the orc carcasses into a pile. “I am glad I returned at this time,” he commented.

Legolas nodded. “Aye, you were ever a force to contend with,” he said. “But I am glad you are back for reasons other than your fearsome skills.”

Elrohir smiled warmly at the prince. He reached out and clasped Legolas by the shoulder, his eyes seeking and catching the other’s gaze. Legolas returned the gesture, his own lips curling into an answering smile.

The look, the touch, the smile they exchanged spoke volumes of what they did not say aloud, evincing millennia of shared friendship, trials, grief, desire, heartbreak and love. In all of Middle-earth there was no union quite like theirs, bound on virtually every level possible to Elfkind. Together they were whole, complete, everything to each other. Friends and sworn kinsmen, allies and war-brothers, lovers and mates. Mere mortals might only see two warrior Elves of long standing friendship. But Edhil perceived the light of love and passion in their ageless eyes.

Elrohir regarded the heap of Orc corpses, grimaced at the sight of elven bodies being prepared for burial. Thank Elbereth there were only a few casualties on their side.

“Whither shall we go?” he queried briefly.

Legolas glanced up at the sky. The sun rode high as the morning progressed. He said, “I have sent scouts ahead to search for the Orcs’ current location. In the meantime, we will set up camp not far from here. I would have you look at the wounded, Elrohir.”

The Elf-knight acquiesced with a nod.

The Elves burned the carcasses of their foes then buried their fallen comrades. The morning was waning when they set off to make camp and await the scouts’ return.

Noon found them by a stream that cut through one of Ithilien’s tangled groves. There they washed away the gore and grime of battle and had their noonday meal. After a quick bite, Legolas retreated to the tent he now shared with Elrohir. The Elf-rider had gone to the stream to bathe after having his meal.

Clad in a simple shirt and long breeches, the prince sat on his pallet and saw to the business of restringing his bow and examining his arrows for damage. He was halfway through the task when a gust of cool air told him Elrohir had entered the tent. He glanced back at the Elf-warrior welcomingly. But for his breeches and boots, Elrohir was unclothed, his raven tresses and fair skin still damp from his bath.

“You certainly took your time,” Legolas said with a grin.

Elrorhir snorted. “The stench of Orc is no easy thing to dispel,” he pointed out.

“Aye,” the prince readily agreed. “Would that we could remove their stench from Middle-earth forever.”

“They spawn like flies,” Elrohir said. “I do not think we will ever be wholly rid of them. But their numbers are far less than they used to be and for that we should be thankful.”

“I suppose,” Legolas sighed. “But in truth, after their last incursion some twenty years ago, I’d hoped we had seen the last of them in Ithilien at least.”

Elrohir shook his head. “The Misty Mountains are not free of them either. Elladan and I had much to do this past winter, hunting them down. And your brothers have been busy, too, defending Eryn Lasgalen’s borders.” He suddenly smiled. “But take heart, Legolas. The Orcs have taken to harassing the Easterlings more frequently than they do our lands.”

Legolas chuckled. “That thought cheers me no end.” His quick mirth faded. “You are right, of course. They are not as numerous as they used to be. But they are still a menace to our people and our peace as well.” He let out his breath. “Will we ever have it, Elrohir?” he asked with some frustration. “True peace, I mean.”

“We will. But it takes time. And many times, we have to fight first in order to win peace.”

Legolas shook his head. “Mayhap we shall know it before Aragorn’s reign ends,” he said wistfully.

Elrohir paused then murmured, “Mayhap.”

The archer looked at him, surprised at his flat tone. “You do not sound too happy at the prospect,” he remarked.

Elrohir sank to his knees, returning his sword to its customary place by his pallet. “A warrior knows little of the ways of peace,” he admitted. “I sometimes wonder what will become of all of us should it finally come. Why think you the fiercest of the Galadhrim chose to remain? They would rather take their chances amidst the perils of Middle-earth than retire to the placid forests of Valinor.”

Legolas frowned slightly. He regarded the Elf-warrior curiously. “And you? Do you share their feeling? Will you forego the journey to the Blessed Realm?”

Elrohir glanced up, catching the slight trace of anxiety in Legolas’ voice. He shook his head adamantly.

“The sea-call is strong in you. ‘Tis only your oath to Estel that keeps you here,” the twin replied. “But you will one day seek the western shores and I will go with you. For though I love this Middle-earth of ours, I would sooner forsake it than live an eternity without you.”

Legolas smiled brightly then, the twinge of anxiety dissipating with the Elf-knight’s heartfelt declaration.

“The sea-call is strong,” he conceded, “but your lure is much stronger, Aduial. Wherever you are is where I wish to be.”

The twilight eyes gleamed appreciatively and a small smile tugged at the edges of the twin’s sinuous lips. Feeling at ease once more, Legolas turned his attention back to his task.

He was reaching for another arrow when his wrist was caught in a strong grip. At the same time, he felt his hair drawn aside to bare the back of his neck. A prickle of anticipation skimmed over his skin just before warm lips pressed against his nape, suckling lazily at the smooth flesh. He gasped at the sensation, found himself leaning back into Elrohir.

The warrior had crept up to him and now knelt behind, his body molding closely to his back, his thighs on either side of the archer’s narrow hips. Legolas caught his breath as Elrohir snaked his arms around him, one encircling his shoulders, the other his waist, pulling him back into the snare of his embrace while he blessed the side of his neck with hungry kisses. The prince quivered as the twin’s questing lips moved upwards to nuzzle him behind his ear.

Trying to corral his rapidly scattering wits, Legolas attempted to reason with the Elf-rider. “We are in the middle of the camp,” he half-groaned. “They will hear us.”

Elrohir’s response was to nibble the delicate tip of one ear making the prince tremble even more violently. He was forced to brace himself by planting his palms on the Elf-warrior’s sinewy thighs on either side of him.

“Let them,” Elrohir murmured huskily.

Legolas closed his eyes, trying to marshal his thoughts into something coherent. He feared he was on the verge of spectacular failure.

“There-there may be Orcs lurking—nearby,” he rasped as Elrohir’s hand slid down from his waist to knead his inner thigh, his strokes dangerously near the juncture where leg met groin.

“I would not care if there were a hundred Orcs and a pack of Wargs outside our tent this very moment,” Elrohir purred as his other hand swiftly undid Legolas’ shirt.

“But – I don’t – we should not—”

“You protest overmuch for one who is so ready.” The hand on his thigh moved to grip him wickedly a little higher up. “So ripe.”

The prince shuddered needfully. Meanwhile, his shirt was pulled none too patiently off his shoulders and down his arms. He made one last stab at rationality.

“Elrohir, melethron”—lover—“can this not wait until after—after…” His weakly voiced plea faded into nothingness when the Elvenlord left a trail of fiery kisses across the tops of his now bared shoulders.

He felt the darkling Elf’s warm breath against his ear once more whilst roaming hands mapped his torso with excruciating attention to detail. Fingers lifted to cup his cheek, compelling him to turn his head and meet the other’s silvery gaze.

“It has been nigh a year since we last coupled, Calenlass,” Elrohir softly growled. “Nay, I will not be denied!”

He caught the archer’s lips in a voracious kiss, invaded his mouth, and plundered its honeyed recesses. Legolas abandoned reason and prudence in the wake of his Elf-knight’s sensual assault. He did not resist when he was borne down upon his pallet. Did not protest as the twin quickly stripped them both of their remaining clothes. Lucid thought neither formed nor registered. Not in the face of his impending ravishment.

In some things, surrender was much more rewarding than defiance. Elrohir wasted no time reclaiming him with hands and lips and tongue, his knowing attentions leaving Legolas aquiver with wanting and delight. Heated lips moved up the white column of his neck, down to the shallow cleft of his muscled chest, blessing the roseate nipples therein with sharp nips and balming laps that had the prince squealing and giggling most un-regally. Then onwards to the taut wash of his abdomen and the sensitive lines of his groin. Until finally, he felt himself swallowed whole into the warmth of the twin’s mouth.

The Elf-lord had the Elven prince at his mercy for in matters of a carnal nature, his skills were unparalleled save only perhaps for his like-minded brother, Elladan. Legolas was a most able student but even he had to admit that he was oft times hard pressed to keep up with Elrohir in daring and creativity. Even now he fought a losing battle to silence himself. It was almost impossible, what with that gifted mouth suckling him with maddening thoroughness.

So it was with surprise and a little outrage that he felt Elrohir release him just when he was teetering on the edge of completion.

“Elrohir!” he seethed, his voice rough with frustration. “You cannot leave me thus!”

Elrohir grinned wickedly. “Patience, ernilen”—my prince—he crooned. “I do not intend to.”

With disquieting deliberateness, he straddled Legolas much to the fair-haired Elf’s consternation. And then, with heart-stopping audacity, he slowly sheathed his prince to the hilt.

Legolas could not hold back the hoarse cry that fled his lips as he was gloved within velvet heat. It was totally unexpected and he was so close to breaking. But the Elf-rider gave him no time to adjust to their reversed roles and proceeded to live up to his name and more besides. Completion came to the prince in a blinding starburst of sheer sensation that left him shaking within and without. He fell back limply upon the pallet, completely and profoundly drained.

Outside, the scouts had returned from their mission earlier than anticipated. Their captain, a warrior maid formerly of Lórien, met with them.

“The Orcs are camped less than two leagues from here,” the lead scout reported.

“Good,” the elleth—Elf-maid—approved. “Prince Legolas will be pleased to hear this.” But she made no move to approach his tent.

“Why do you hesitate?” another scout asked, bemused. “He needs to know this at once.”

“I shall tell him later. This can wait.”

“But—”

“Later,” the captain repeated more forcefully. The scouts stared at her in surprise and puzzlement. She took pity on them and simply said, “Lord Elrohir is with him.”

Comprehension settled on the other Elves’ faces in an instant. Despite their understandable tension, indulgent grins graced their comely features.

“You are right,” the lead scout agreed. “This can wait.”

Within the tent, Legolas opened his eyes when he felt Elrohir move off him to kneel between his legs. One look at the warrior’s body told him the twin had not yet had his pleasure.

“You – you have not—” he exhaustedly whispered, raising himself on his elbows and reaching out to touch the other

Elrohir shook his head, caught him by the wrist and firmly pushed him back down. “Nay, meleth nîn”—my love—he cooed. “I am not done with you yet.”

“You aren’t?” Legolas quavered with wide-eyed apprehension.

Goosebumps arose along his arms as the twin chuckled huskily, his argent eyes glinting ominously in the dim light. Before he could guess what Elrohir had in mind, the Elf-lord made his move.

Grinning roguishly, without any warning whatsoever, he lifted the archer’s hips and summarily entered him with one smooth thrust. At the same time, he quickly clamped a hand over Legolas’ mouth, stifling his strangled cry.

Legolas felt his body surging back to life. There was something incredibly erotic about being taken this way when he was too spent to do more than submit to the warrior’s desire. Soon, his body thrummed and hummed with rekindled pleasure as Elrohir impaled him again and again. He could not quite believe it.

Elrohir saw the shock and incredulity in Legolas’ eyes; watched as they were rapidly displaced by pure, unbridled passion. It only served to inflame him further. Nothing pleased him more than to educe that utterly rapt, all-encompassing look of undiluted lust in his bereth’s fair countenance. It drove him wild, heated his blood, made his heart sing, heightened his senses nearly as effectively as actual physical contact.

His delving turned almost brutal as the desire to wholly possess, to claim complete ownership of his Greenleaf overcame him. He clasped and stroked the prince’s reawakened length vigorously; caressed, bit, sucked his throat, shoulders and chest, leaving crimson stains upon the white skin. A twelve-month was simply too long a period to be parted by league upon league of Middle-earth terrain from one so beloved and desired.

The effects of his near violent ministrations were cataclysmic to say the least. The tension in their bodies swiftly built up to a near-unbearable level, heightening as their feelings surged between them along the affirming channel of their binding. Before long, neither Elf could fully suppress his impassioned gasps and feral moans. Desperate not to scandalize the warriors outside any more than they undoubtedly already were, Legolas grasped Elrohir by the nape and hauled the darkling Elf to him so that their mouths melded together with singeing ardor.

The Elf-knight swallowed his keening groan as he came to satisfaction anew and he, in turn, smothered Elrohir’s as he, too, reached completion, spending himself deep within the archer’s core. Afterwards, with raven and wheaten locks mingling in glorious confusion and lean limbs wantonly entwined, they drifted in and out of the sweet haze that oft followed in the wake of raging passion.

Legolas peered lazily at his mate, awed by what had just passed between them.

“You never cease to amaze me,” he murmured.

Elrohir grinned back languorously. “Is that a complaint?”

“Nay,” the prince smiled back. “Only a fool would complain about your considerable skills in the bedchamber. And any other place you should choose to sate your lust,” he added with a shake of his head.

Elrohir chuckled. “Routine makes for tedium. I intend to spend eternity discovering every which way to pleasure your most enticing body.”

“Not to mention boggle my already addled mind,” Legolas retorted, his cheeks displaying a veritable riot of reds. “And everyone else who hears us,” he groaned as realization struck him. “I wager we will be the foremost topic of interest over the campfires tonight!”

“What of it?” Elrohir drawled.

“I do not enjoy having my private life dissected for the entertainment of others,” Legolas growled, sitting up and reaching for his clothes. “Besides, ‘tis embarrassing to have everyone know how we spent the afternoon.”

“Legolas, we are bound,” Elrohir pointed out. “‘Tis normal for us to couple.” He grinned again as the prince’s blushes refused to fade away. “Ai, you may be the finest archer in all Middle-earth, a warrior of great name and stature and a prince of Elves without peer yet here you are – undone by something as primal and natural as the act of love.” He, too, sat up and began to dress.

Legolas sighed. “I know you think me prudish but ‘twas never my way to be so open in public about this. I was taught to be discreet, to keep such things out of sight or earshot of others. As were my father’s people.”

Elrohir leaned over and kissed him gently. “I know, Calenlass. But you forget, most of the warriors with us right now are lusty Galadhrim. Believe me when I say that not only did they most likely approve of what we have just done but may even now be seeking partners of their own to while away the rest of the day.”

At Legolas’ wide-eyed stare he laughed. “You stayed for two weeks in the Golden Wood during the Quest. Surely you noticed how untroubled the Lórien Elves were by such things. After all, their homes were fair and cozy but they were not built to muffle sound.”

Legolas’ blushes returned. “Ah, so you did notice,” Elrohir grinned. “And did you spend the nights there with your face perpetually awash in scarlet?”

The prince groaned. “Gimli and I debated that,” he admitted. “He called us the most licentious race in all of Arda. And in truth, after observing the Galadhrim, I was hard-pressed to gainsay him. But he was so insulting, I ended up defending all of Elfkind instead as well as I could.”

Elrohir guffawed. “Poor Gimli. I still recall his expression during our binding Rites. He must have felt hopelessly beleaguered surrounded by a ‘passel of confounded Elves’.”

This time Legolas joined in the mirth as he remembered his Dwarf friend’s discomfiture. “Aye, he vowed he would never let himself be trapped in such a situation again. He will probably keep his oath, too, until such time that we should issue another invitation requesting his august presence.”

He started as he heard his captain discreetly call to him from outside. Rising, he quickly exited the tent and met with the warrior elleth who apprised him of the scouts’ discoveries. As she was concluding her report, Elrohir emerged from the tent, fully dressed and armed. Legolas raised an amused eyebrow.

“I see you anticipated my call to battle,” he remarked.

“Of course,” the Elvenlord replied. “What other reason would there be for us to be interrupted?”

At the suggestive choice of words by the twin, the slightest hint of color stained the prince’s cheeks and the lips of the she-captain twitched suspiciously. Struggling for some dignity and composure, Legolas elucidated: “The scouts located the Orc encampment just two leagues northeast of here. We should come upon them by this evening but I fear we will have no time for rest this night.”

Elrohir smirked. “As to that, I am already more than well rested, melethron.”

With a smug smile, he sauntered away leaving Legolas to blush a nice shade of crimson all over again while the captain struggled heroically but not too successfully to conceal a knowing grin.

*******************

Glossary:

Gwirith - Sindarin for April

Edhil - Elves

Aduial - Twilight

Calenlass - Greenleaf

bereth - spouse

To be continued….
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Greenleaf & Imladris 29 - Aduial: Soul of a Knight