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The Summoning	By : pip Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 2995 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien's world, Middle Earth, the Lord of the Rings or the characters from it. I make no money from this.

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The Summoning

It was a perfect day for a walk. Not that Elrond walked very often, as a rule. Since a child he'd been more studious than others. Even the brightest of days at Imladris might only find him relaxing with a book outside near the waterfalls, the gentle rush of water was a good accompaniment to concentration. But here in the woods of King Thranduil, he was far away from his books.

After seeing Arwen relinquish the life of the Eldar, he'd been sad and weary. She'd gone to the new King of men, willingly he knew but it didn't ease the pain of his grief. Arwen would pass away quickly, and she would not reappear in the West. How would he tell Celebrían?

Celeborn, seeing his melancholy, had extracted a promise from him to visit the newly named Eryn Lasgalen, and Elrond did not know why but he had agreed. Thranduil was a good host, very considerate, though he appeared overly concerned about the comfort of his appointed chambers. Was the food to his liking? Pouring strong wine that made him dizzy whenever he accepted, as if such would make him unlikely to notice the myriad little touches Thranduil tried to get away with. When he began taking to his room, Thranduil stopped pushing the Dorwinion on him.

Though he had put it off until spring, Elrond had seen the damage the wood had sustained on his journey to the palace. Perhaps it was just that which made Thranduil appreciative of his visit. Or maybe Thranduil was truly lonely, despite his library. Legolas too was spending time in Gondor and did not seem keen to return. At least they had that in common, though Legolas would not be lost to his father forever.

His thoughts made him weary, and instead of walking south to see again the areas ruined by fire, he turned his steps north, and walked in a circle around the entrance to the caves, hoping to find some measure of peace amongst the ancient trees. The rush of wind through the leaves did not sound at all like the waterfalls of Imadris. It sounded like the sea, and Elrond knew he would return to Imladris soon. But then, perhaps merely to make his final journey. Galadriel planned to go with him, and they would take the ring bearers. When he left here, he knew the sound of the sea would go with him, echoing in his ears until he left Middle Earth for good and took his leave of Círdan. The white ship was ready.

The sunlight was strong and golden through the boughs of the trees. The trees here were mature, but they were not like the grand and impressive mallorn in Lórien. Elrond paused, looking up, finding himself walking through a cultivated area of cherry blossom. They were in bloom, their pale pink flowers bursting on every branch and twig. They were beautiful. He could see the blue of the sky high above them. Beneath his feet the grass grew leafy and cool, the blades of it thick, dark green. He toed off his slippers and resumed walking barefoot, his thoughts less heavy.

Celebrían. Now he didn't wonder how he would tell her about Arwen. He envisaged their reunion, sighing in something like pleasure. For all of his foresight, he hadn't been entirely certain that it would ever be. Hadn't been certain he could ensure the safety of the havens in the West. Now it was done. All of it. Come home to me. He fancied he could hear her speaking it, and it created such a desperate longing in him, as if every single second he tarried was too long. Such a sweet yearning.

He paused at the first of the bluebells, dotted in the shade of the trees. The wood was becoming denser, cooler, darker, though sunshine still broke through here and there. The little drooping flowers were growing alongside the grass, tiny little spots of indigo and violet. And blue. He plucked one, noting the delicate white and lemon tipped stalks in the centre like the clapper of a bell, and shook it in a fancy – but it did not ring.

Elrond straightened up again, his chain of thought broken, and looked ahead, staring, his heart in his throat. Bluebells carpeted the woods for as far as the eye could see, weaving in and out of the trees. It seemed so wondrous and magical. When was the last time he'd walked in a bluebell wood? Elrond could not remember. The season was so short, just the blink of an eye, and he so often missed it.

Even when he had seen it, the woods around Imladris were not like this. For long centuries these woods had endured. The cherry blossom was still dotted here and there, but here was oak and hawthorn, grown wild and ancient, their branches twisted as he looked up. Here an ash, taller than the rest, blocking out the light so that walking beneath it felt private and intimate. Elrond found himself leaning against a rowan tree in the dappled sunlight, it's purplish leaf buds no match for the carpet of blue at his feet.

It seemed almost as if he dipped his toes in the ocean, and Elrond again imagined meeting Celebrían on the shore, whispering her name, overcome by the beauty for long enough to forget himself. To forget where he was and imagine. Her kisses, the sweet curves of her body, so slender. The scent of her. Five hundred years melted away to nothing as he remembered his love; before her capture, when she had been mischievous and carefree. He smiled. When she had teased him to distraction, hiding his books and leaving him notes in his diaries and ledgers.

His hand drifted down, pressing at himself, and he was alone. Elrond opened his robe and took himself in hand, closing his eyes to aid him, seeing her small slender fingers wrapped around him, her eyes laughing, her shining silver hair drifting over his chest as she kissed him. Elrond moaned as he moved his hand over himself slowly, then faster, his breath taking up the rhythm of his own touch. The rhythm of his heart. Like the tide of the sea, back and forth, all joined together. Come home to me. How many more seconds must he drift and linger here, pushed and pulled around like flotsam when all he wanted was beyond the sea. He opened his eyes, staring out across the bluebells as if they would grant him a distant sight of her, and he saw Thranduil.

For a moment that seemed to stretch into forever, they stared at each other. Elrond's hand fell still, but he did not move it away. The King was stood in a clearing where sunlight fell to earth, the bluebells fading away from that spot to be replaced by little white daisies. His hair shone bright, and Elrond could not quite tell the look upon his face.

Thranduil stepped forward, into the shade, and he seemed wild and fey in his own wood. As magical as the trees and the flowers. Elrond saw that his crown was woven with bluebells and cherry blossom. They suited him, showing off the silver of his hair. He was regal and tall and very imposing. Elrond suddenly understood what he had been caught doing, and was embarrassed. More so when he realised he was still hard. He swallowed, hurriedly trying to conceal his erection beneath his robes.

“Shall I tell you some of the legends we keep about bluebells?” Thranduil queried, gliding closer. It was as if he walked on water. Elrond was completely entranced. In his palace, he never appeared like this. Almost... dangerous. There he was arrogant and long-limbed and beautiful. Here, he was the embodiment of every dark fairytale Elrond had ever heard. Thranduil tilted his head inquisitively.

“My apologies, King Thr –” he began, but then Thranduil was before him and stopped him speaking by placing a single finger against his lips. The King looked around with his eyes, as if the trees might be listening.

“They do say,” he whispered. “That those who pick bluebells will be taken to the land of faery. I wonder... was that your wish?” He took his finger away from Elrond's mouth, and raised his eyebrows slightly, awaiting a reply.

“Yes,” Elrond said, in the same quiet whisper, as if Thranduil could indeed grant it to him.

“But to do that,” Thranduil said confidentially, “you must depart across the sea. Isn't that right?”

Elrond shook his head, trying to break the spell, aware that his body was responding to Thranduil's nearness in a way it never had before during the long nights in the palace. “Don't,” he said, frowning at what he sensed was cruel teasing. Hurt, but still unbearably aroused. Thranduil's silver hair brushed against Elrond's neck as he leaned in, turning his head to speak into Elrond's ear.

“I have you now, Eärendilion,” he said. And then he gripped Elrond's hands. He had long, slender fingers. “Sit down on the grass with me, and I will show you something you have missed.”

“No!” Elrond said, and his voice carried in a way that made him cringe. He tempered his voice immediately. “I mean, I should go back. We should go back to the palace. I did not intend to give offence. I truly thought I was alone.”

“Sit,” suggested Thranduil, leaning in close again, so that Elrond could feel the curve of his lips against his cheek. The sensation of being pressed up against the trunk of the tree made him give in to Thranduil's wishes, sinking down beneath the rowan. Thranduil sat by his side, and threw out an arm to indicate the forest floor.

“You carry your concerns and your duty like armour,” Thranduil said. “Concerns you may have. What duty have you now? Rest a while with me and look.”

Elrond did so, and again the bluebells surprised him. When he'd seen the spread of them before, stood upright, they'd seemed like a sapphire mist beneath the trees. Now he was on their level and they were truly a sea, beautiful rolling waves of indigo, lilac and cobalt spreading out before his eyes into infinity.

“Listen,” said Thranduil, fingers stroking his hair, and Elrond opened his ears, hearing again the rush of the breeze in the leaves, just like waves on the shore. He closed his eyes as Thranduil's fingertips alighted on his ear, becoming aware of the call of the birds in the branches.

“Breathe,” came the next instruction, and Elrond pulled in a breath that filled his lungs, a deep breath filled with the scent of the bluebells, like grass and water and life. They were woodland and wet stone with a faint sweetness. Their scent was unlike any other flower. So delicate, so easy. He felt himself relax.

“Lean back,” said the voice, and Elrond obeyed until he was laid on his back on the carpet of blooms. It was just an illusion. These flowers weren't the sea, and the lulling whisper of the trees wasn't the sound of the surf. The perfume wasn't hers, and the silver hair of the King wasn't Celebrían against his chest, hand reaching inside his robes to continue what he had begun himself.

“Thranduil...” he said, his voice pleading, wishing it was real, wanting it to be so. Warm fingers wrapped around him, and he moaned.

“Let yourself dream, Elrond,” he said, so wickedly persuasive, as irresistible as his touch. “You study too much, and dream too little.”

Elrond looked down, his body lifting up into Thranduil's touch, and he saw the crown, listing to one side of the King's head. He put out his hands and lifted it away. Thranduil looked up at him.

“There is another legend,” he said, his smile sharp. “That those who wear bluebells must tell the truth.” His hand squeezed pleasurably, and Elrond moaned again, the crown rolling away from his opened hand to rest on the ground beside them as he closed his eyes, his head falling back onto the grass.

“Will you lie to me now then, that you are free of them?” he asked as Thranduil left his erection alone and began to expose the front of his body, undoing buttons and laces.

“No, Elrond,” he said, concentrating on the task. “I will be quite honest. I want to fuck you.”

Gasping, Elrond surged up into a sitting position, the seductive dream withdrawn, and it hurt. “I should have known,” he said, bitter, feeling the fool for being seduced so easily, pulling his clothing together as if it were his dignity. Thranduil only laughed, rolling onto his back in the midst of the purple flowers.

“You should be ashamed,” Elrond noted, watching him. He seemed so carefree, so easy, so much like her in his soul. In his colouring even.

“Should I? To what end?” Thranduil asked astutely, as if he knew what Elrond saw in him. “Are you ashamed? Will you run inside... and to what? You will miss her just as surely inside the palace as here in the wood with me,” he promised. “Stay. You weren't averse to pleasure before I found you alone here.”

Elrond looked back at the way he had come, and he knew Thranduil was right. There was no solace for him anywhere in Middle Earth. There was no comfort to be found, no softness here. Everything was hard-edged and cold. Beside him, he sensed movement, and he sneaked a look. Thranduil was undressing, and Elrond watched despite himself, for the King was beautiful.

“I mean you no harm, Elrond Peredhel,” he said softly, the same lilting otherworldiness in his tone now as had been at the beginning. He had cast his clothes aside, and now he was naked and completely unashamed. Some wild untamed creature of the wood, his hand on himself stroking. Elrond let his eyes drift down and licked his lips.

Suddenly Thranduil sat up, and then, looking deep into Elrond's eyes, Thranduil pushed the robes from his shoulders. Since his clothing was already open at the front, he was bare chested as he freed his arms from the folds of material. Thranduil lie back down and looked at him as if drinking in the sight, resuming the slow stroking of his own cock.

“Lie with me,” he said, his voice low and hypnotic. Elrond sighed but obliged him, feeling that he didn't understand this game despite all of his years and all he had known. Whatever it was Thranduil was playing with him. And yet... it called to him. As surely as she did, but Thranduil was not beyond his reach. He was here, available and willing.

He kicked his breeches free of his legs as they kissed, mouths hot and lips soft amid the flowers. A stronger wind rushed through the leaves like a sigh, a fluttering of pink blossom falling around them. Thranduil's body was so hard, like his, and yet it welcomed him nevertheless. Their legs and arms tangled around each other as Thranduil threw his head back, laughing, while Elrond nuzzled at his neck, suddenly hungry for the taste of his skin.

“We grant your wish here,” Elrond said, aware of it, knowing it. He hadn't been blind to the way Thranduil acted each time they met over the last century or so, but he had been able to ignore it. He'd even ignored the numerous seduction attempts during his visit. And now this.

“Would you deny it me?” Thranduil questioned. “I would grant yours, if I could. If only the legends of the bluebells were true.” The thought of how close he had come to fulfilling it was a secret Elrond would keep. He couldn't know of Elrond's dreams. Perhaps there was something to the myth, after all.

The King turned them until they were laid on their side, Thranduil's body tucked behind his, the hot length of his cock nestled in the crease of Elrond's buttocks. A hand reached around to touch him at last, and Elrond knew Thranduil would not stop now until he was done, pumping him relentlessly, making him moan and writhe.

“Sometimes,” Thranduil told him, “they do ring like bells. Then we gather for a feast in the woods. If you ring them, we must appear.” Elrond shivered. “Mortals cannot hear them. I wonder if you would hear the sound they make and be summoned, peredhil that you are.”

Those words were the end of him, and he came with a cry, opening his eyes in time to see the white of his issue spill over the blue flowers and green grass. It was somehow obscene, and he relaxed with a groan.

“Now I will take my due,” Thranduil said darkly, and Elrond merely rolled over onto his front, making the King sigh in satisfaction. “Very good,” he said, pleased.

He would have what he wanted – Elrond would not deny him a wish. He made it his wish too. He laid his head on his crossed arms below him and spread his legs as an invitation. Thranduil's fingers opened him, spreading something inside him to make the way easier. His fingers were warm and dextrous, slipping in and out. Elrond relaxed further at his touch, and then the moment was upon him. He moaned as he was claimed by the King of Eryn Lasgalen, surely the last lover he would take before he met with Celebrían again.

So as to make it count, Elrond moved in tandem with Thranduil, tightening his body at the same pace as Thranduil favoured, drawing moans and harsh whispers from him until he came, losing the tempo suddenly as all the bluebells seemed to ring at once, that gentle sound pulling at his soul.

“I hear them!” Elrond gasped as the chiming pulled him away from his place on the grass, as if he was late for something. “I do!”

“I hear them!” he said, sitting up in bed. Disoriented, he shook his head. He was in the room given to him at Thranduil's palace. The ringing. It was still there. Outside his door, a bell sounded. A wake up call.

“Thank you!” he called out loudly, and the elf went away, to wake some other servant or guest. Elrond relaxed back on his pillows and thought of Thranduil. Thought of the dream, which might well be a wish. Whose? Perhaps after all that didn't really matter, though it was strange. He wasn't in the habit of granting wishes, and it felt good. The idea of it distracted him from his grief, and he got out of bed before his sadness could weigh him down, almost eager.

Carefully, he bathed and dressed in the same clothing he remembered from the dream. He made sure as he went out into the sunshine to tell Thranduil's butler that he was going for a walk in the woods behind the palace and that he should let Thranduil know at once.

The King would follow him. It was much more certain than trying to summon him with a silent bluebell. That part was just a dream, and Elrond had studied long enough to know: if you wanted something, you had to make it happen.

~ finis ~
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The Summoning