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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.

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Chapter Three

They both froze as the sounds of rescue drew closer, shouting in response to the voices that called out to them. Legolas's mind was a whirl of guilt and confusion. The sound of the river had faded, drawn off further upstream to clear the cavern and allow their rescuers to enter.

Very soon, the first faint stirrings of light reached them, and Legolas looked at his father in fear. Thranduil was turned away from him. “Ada,” he said softly, his heart in his throat. Thranduil whipped around to face him as the light grew steadily brighter, and for a moment Legolas was silenced by the sharp look in his father's eyes. But he had to speak it. “Please do not dismiss me.”

“Put on your clothes at once, Legolas,” Thranduil said only, his voice a little too harsh, and reached in haste for his own, pulling on his leggings and his robe. “They are coming.”

Legolas obeyed, feeling more shame clad than he had when naked, as if by replacing his clothes he shed the joyful abandon he had known without them and put on several millennia of elvish custom, tradition, and propriety – all of which would forbid what he now desired to the depths of his heart. “Yes, Ada,” he said softly, and by the time the lanterns became visible beneath their shelter, he was fully dressed again, sitting apart from Thranduil, his head bowed.

Elves had crawled into the passage below to reach them, and now called up to be sure they had found whom they sought.

“Sire! Are you both all right?” The voice was full of concern, and Legolas wanted to say that they weren't all right. Not at all. But his father called back down, confident and assured as ever, as if nothing of note had taken place at all.

“Legolas will join you now,” Thranduil called, motioning for Legolas to jump down. “I require assistance. I am afraid I have a small sprain of the knee.”

Legolas descended and watched quietly, with some concern, as elves swarmed up the rope he had secured, managing to bring Thranduil down in a stretcher improvised from a blanket, then lifting him to carry between them. He lay at ease, in perfect comfort but for his leg – which had been badly twisted, scraped and bruised by the stones that fell upon him.

“Legolas freed me when I was trapped beneath the waters without hope,” Thranduil told them. “He is to be honoured for giving me the gift of my life.”

Once they had cleared the debris left in the main chamber, and had regained more solid ground, it was a simple matter for the party to make their way back to the palace proper. Though throughout the walk, Legolas felt afraid and constrained, longing to speak to his father over what had happened between them, remembering all of the things Thranduil had said to him in the height of his passion.

Also, he found himself constantly pulling his tunic down. It was much shorter than before because of the strips he had torn from it, and he bore more than a couple of curious glances from their rescuers. He looked down, and saw bruises on his skin. They could be from anything, but Legolas knew how they came to be - every single one.

“Have water heated for baths, and prepare a great feast,” Thranduil directed as he rode. “Tonight we will celebrate the lives of myself and my son, and mourn the death of Rosslaer, whom we found before the flood rose. I can only assume he was trapped there long ago, and his fate was less kind than that my son and I enjoy this day.”

The elves who had rescued them bowed, accepting the commands, and Legolas soon found himself separated from his ada, taken to his quarters, where washtubs were brought and filled with steaming water. He dismissed those who would have helped him bathe and undressed himself slowly, before a tall mirror, soberly examining his body.

It was a desperate dream, to imagine that his father had meant any of those things he had said, yet Legolas could not help wishing they were real. He found himself fingering each of the bruises and bite marks, remembering how each one had felt, remembering how pleasurable it had been.

More than anything, he found he wanted to repeat the experience in the light. To see his father’s face as they did it again, and again. His thoughts killed some time, until the water had cooled, and he bathed without enjoyment, knowing that if there was to be a feast, it would be a while before he could approach his father privately, as he would hold court over all of the proceedings.

He arose, patting himself dry with a linen towel, and went to his wardrobe, examining his feasting robes with a faint frown. Normally he cared not what he wore; the servants who tended his chamber brought an assortment of things and left them, while worn clothing disappeared, but he would select the first items that came to hand and wear them, uncaring.

Tonight… tonight that was not enough. Legolas frowned at his clothing, completely at a loss for what he might wear. He wished to look his best, so he might bring pride to his father… and perhaps more. If he wore something that fit him well, clinging to the line of rib and shoulder, would it not remind his ada of the pleasure they had shared? If he chose a robe that brought out the colour in his eyes, if he styled his hair in a more elegant fashion than if he planned to go out on patrol, shooting spiders? He picked up a jeweled coronet, looking at it with helpless surmise.

When he eventually entered the banquet hall, he was met by glances of admiration as he passed through the doors. He did not care for those, and never had. As his father usually wore a dark pewter, he had chosen something in a lighter silver, had braided his hair so that it reflected his status as Prince instead of warrior, and had placed the coronet on top, with sapphires that matched his eyes.

Slowly, he made his way to the dais upon which his father’s table rested, and his own seat, set slightly lower than Thranduil’s. As was usual, he bowed to his father and took his place, hardly daring to look at him. Was he pleased? Did he note the particular care and attention Legolas had taken?

Thranduil’s eyes passed over him without expression, and his father reached to take up his cup of wine, lifting it in toast. “Sit by my side, ion nín; you have earned this privilege today.” He drank deeply, turning to the courtier on his left, and resumed his talk of the understory – giving instructions to seal the dangerous passages so no more elves might be lost there.

Legolas sat, and he made himself eat, though the food had so little taste to him it might have been ashes. In spite of his pride of place, he was forlorn; Thranduil seemed to have no more use for him than to command him to sit. He spoke with all but Legolas, sparkling with graceful courtesy, and though the wine flowed freely into his goblet, he seemed to feel it not at all. His grace was spoiled only by the stiffness of his leg, which lay outstretched beside him, wrapped in supporting bandages, a rare mark of vulnerability for the proud elvenking.

“More wine, my Prince?” said a sudden voice nearby, and Legolas was startled out of his study of his father. He held out his goblet without thinking, drinking the full cup almost in one go. It felt good as it settled in him, calmed him, made him able to bear the endless dancing and entertainment. Would the court never tire of eating? Of celebrating? Their mood was lost on Legolas completely.

Often, he would not stay for these events, escaping as soon as he reasonably could. And yet, he felt a strange desire to see this through, wondering if when all was done, he might get a chance to speak with his father privately. His cup was filled again; an attentive servant had been posted to ensure he was not without wine, and he drank until the sharp relief of his misery seemed to dim. Until the voices around him softened. Until he didn’t notice the slow passage of time.

“Will you sit here until the lanterns burn themselves out, prince Legolas?” A soft voice drew him out of what was suspiciously like reverie; it was Galion, sent to care for a last few lingering guests, and he looked on Legolas with the fond eyes of an old friend – one with whom Legolas had shared many a draught of strong wine, one who knew he had indulged himself too much this night. Thranduil had departed, Legolas realized, and all who remained were himself, some servants, and a few murmuring couples. “Shall I send for someone to help you to your room, my lord?”

“That won’t be needed,” Legolas arose, a thread of anger flickering through him. His father had departed without giving him so much as a word! He would not tolerate this neglect, this… this cowardice! He rose, swaying a little, and set his jaw, staring past Galion without seeing the shambles of the tables and their emptied platters of fruits and game. Oh, yes. He knew what he would do.

Legolas set down the goblet on a nearby table and departed the hall, feeling abandoned and angry. The walls seemed determined to mock him too, moving around like that. He slid the palm of his hand over the stones as he passed, making his way to his father’s private suite.

When he stood before the familiar door he raised his hand as if to knock, but then he lowered it without doing so. Did his father deserve such consideration? What consideration had he shown to Legolas, leaving him there in doubt and unhappiness? All alone, for surely he had noticed Legolas did not speak. Surely he had noticed something? With another flash of anger, Legolas grasped the handle and simply flung open the door, stepping inside without a single moment of hesitation.

The room within was dimly lit, and Thranduil sat slouched at his dressing table, more wine in a goblet, which he held cradled in his hand. His chin touched his chest, and he looked up at Legolas without moving, his eyes blazing in his face, gleaming in the light of the single candle.

The sight froze Legolas, and all the words of anger, all the accusations, all the recriminations fled from his mind. He could only let the door swing shut behind him as he fell to his knees.

“I have come to plead with you, my king: allow me the honour of warming your bed this night, and I will give you any pleasure you wish.” He crept forward until he could set his palm upon Thranduil’s foot, his fingers trembling, and bent his head to kiss the leather of his ada’s boot.

Above him, he heard his father sigh, and he swallowed in doubt.

“Legolas,” Thranduil said, some kind of sad distance in his voice.

“Please do not say what we shared is of little consequence,” Legolas blurted, unable to help it, looking up at last. His father put the goblet he held down on the dressing table. He looked suddenly forbidding, the way he must have done in the dark, and Legolas had no breath, no thought.

“Legolas, you have no idea of consequence. Yet you come here, following instructions I gave you. Very well! Get up, and take off those contrivances,” he said, nodding at his clothing. “And, if you please me, you may indeed warm my bed, since you beg so prettily for it.”

Legolas stood, his heart pounding hard, and began to unfasten his tunic. Was he to make a tease of removing his clothing, or was he expected to hurry? His hands trembled as his father rose and drew near, slowly pacing a circle around him.

“If we are to do this,” Thranduil said slowly, “there are many things you must understand. It must happen only inside these chambers. You will give no sign elsewhere, nor will I. We will be cold and distant in public.” He paused, staring fiercely into Legolas’s eyes. “You will not be favoured with special privilege, and you must strive always to obey and please me. You will be mine in all ways; I will own you, and I will do as I see fit without regard for your wishes. You may end it at any time, with a word, but once you do so, there will be no returning.”

He paced again. “What we have done is a shameful thing bordering upon a crime. If we are not totally discreet, I will be condemned by all elves in Middle Earth; perhaps I will be cast into exile. Should you show the slightest hint of betraying me, I will end the affair at once.” He stopped, lifting Legolas’s chin. “Do you understand the trust I would be required to place in you? Are you worthy?”

Legolas stood mute, his father’s fingers on his chin, his tunic hanging from his shoulders. A mere shrug would see it fall to the floor. He had drunk too much strong wine, he knew that now, and despite everything he was still desperately hurt and confused. Thranduil’s harsh words and commands swam around in his head, as meaningless to him as the events in the banqueting hall.

An answer was required of him, but Legolas did not know what to say. Everything Thranduil said sounded like a threat, and Legolas had not been prepared for it at all. He felt a painful lump in his throat, because he loved his father. Not merely in the way they had loved when they had been bereft of hope, but in the way a son should love a father. And also the way a subject should love a fair and just king. It seemed to Legolas that he could confide in no-one, and he had come here to find his father, but found a stranger in his place instead. Had he saved his ada’s life only to lose him because of what they had done in the dark?

“Ada…?” He said uncertainly, his voice heavy with tears because above all Thranduil had not just fucked him in that place. He had taken Legolas’s virginity, and he needed something more than this cold negotiation. He needed his father, and he moved forward despite the forbidding hold Thranduil had on his chin, sliding his hands around his father’s neck and pressing the side of his face against his father’s shoulder in a wordless plea for comfort, or reassurance, or love. Anything. “I hurt,” Legolas told him, feeling desolate.

Thranduil stood very still for a long moment, and it seemed nothing about him changed – then he held his son away and his eyes slowly filled with anguish such as Legolas had never seen. “I should be exiled,” Thranduil finally said, voice low. “Sent to Orodruin and made to leap into the Sammath Naur, for what I have done. My son…” He reached a hesitant hand to caress Legolas’s cheek, pressing Legolas against him, and kissed his brow with trembling lips. “You were so afraid, and I wanted badly to take the fear from you. I wanted to touch you. You are beautiful, so much so I could not resist it. Such a purity I have despoiled…”

Legolas would have protested, if words remained to him, but Thranduil’s lids closed and his dark lashes lay against his cheeks, his shining eyes shielded for a long moment. “You are deep in your cups and that is my fault as well; no decision so terrible should be made thus. Come, my son – I will care for you.” He took Legolas gently by the hand and drew him forward, undressing him very tenderly – with no hint of the predator in him now, only Legolas’s beloved ada, limping slightly, as fragile suddenly as he was fair – and gently laid Legolas to rest among the sheets of his own bed, covering him up with them. “It has been a frightening day for you. For us both. Rest now and I will watch over you, and when you wake we will talk of this again, young one.” He laid his hand over his heart, and Legolas saw that the shine in his eyes was the glimmer of tears, giving the lie to all his coldness.

Then his father’s weight settled on the bed as Thranduil sat by his side and laid a hand on his chest, stroking lightly to send him to sleep, just as he had done when Legolas was a child and his naneth had passed.
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Prince in Training