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Faded Light: Book II	By : Laurin Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 11944 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Characters and places belong to JRR Tolkien and to his estate. I own only my OC's and twisted storylines.

Chapter List
- 31
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- 33
(For additional notes and disclaimers, please see top of Chapter 1.)
- Here’s the next one...enjoy, and please don’t forget to review... Sorry if the format on this looks a bit weird, I'm still having trouble with this new posting system. I'll fix it later, I just don't have time right now.
And Del, welcome back and thank you for your review, I hope you enjoyed Brazil. -

Chapter 32
Royal Favor

He had not slept well despite the King having uncommonly allowed himself the indulgence of spending the night in the courtesan's suite instead of the Royal apartments and the luxury of waking in his own bed, and had risen to an early breakfast and a bath while the King slept on.

The bath, he had lingered in for nearly an hour, the food for which he had asked still sat untouched.

He glanced again at the juicy, sweet fruits he was usually so fond of, and turned away, craving for nothing, which did not often happen except when he had conceived and liable to fall ill.

He wondered bleakly if he was finally fading. Certainly it was much too soon for another pregnancy. He had barely recovered from the last miscarriage.

Death would be a release, he thought. But what of Sararmel, if I go now…or when the King dies or at last wearies of me, and she must remain here?

I must hold on a little while yet...at least as far as Horondor.

It was just past dawn, as he sat at his dressing table, cluttered with the various oils, lotions, perfumes and other effects that were part of a pleasure thrall’s occupation, including a great many bracelets and other jewelry Javad had given him over the years.

He looked into the mirror again, as he rubbed a fragrant lotion over his skin, noting the dark reddish marks the King’s passion, still insatiable despite his physical decline, had left on his body last night...

He had not yet bothered to dress, knowing Javad might want him again when he awoke. He wore only a rather flimsy loincloth...perhaps out of some lingering bit of former modesty, he thought, frowning at the strange Elf who gazed back at him out of cold, weary eyes.

He had come to deeply hate that reflection...it was the image someone he no longer knew; a pale, blonde youth, staring back through those dead eyes...

Youth? He could almost have laughed at the word.

For an Elf, he was quite young, barely past half a millennium. But he had been robbed of his youth long ago, by many more despicable Men than he could remember or would ever want to, and no one would have imagined an Elven Prince in the thoroughly debauched whore who served in the Haradrim King’s bed.

He ran his fingers over the fair hair he had earlier combed through; it had become duller, he thought.

Like the empty blue eyes that gazed back at him from the other side of the mirror. Not that it mattered; none ever looked beyond a courtesan’s outward appearance. He was a comely body for Men’s amusement. So long as he could sate their lust, whether he still thought or felt anything was irrelevant.

Almost from the time he was taken, his hair had always been cut disgracefully short; though most of the time it was hidden beneath the harem slave’s veils now and Javad had allowed him to let it grow to just above his shoulders.

He remembered the day the slavers had first had it cut off...by then it had felt like no more than yet another shameful violation on his body; he remembered he had not even fought them as it was done, though he had wept bitterly in the darkness and aloneness of his cell afterwards...

Absently, he pulled three tablets from a tiny pillbox and reached over for a glass of water.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

I still know who I am, he whispered to himself, as he did every morning, like a silent prayer. I am Legolas Thranduilion, Prince and Warrior of Mirkwood.

My body may be bound to the pleasure of Men, but I will not forget who I am. I am Legolas, scion of the Royal line of Oropher...

After several moments, he opened his eyes again, gazing defiantly at the hated reflection...

One at a time, he swallowed down the drugs.

The pills did little to help him sleep, as they were meant to, but he had found, taken in a double dose, they left him wonderfully numb.

Numair could think what he wanted about the courtesan’s <I>bad habits</I> and his methods of coping or of not coping...but sometimes feeling nothing was a good thing, being numb had kept him sane, it had kept him from wanting to take a knife and flaying off every part of his own skin each time he had to let a Mortal Man have him while pretending he did not mind their touch...

It had kept him alive long enough to find a way to save his child at least...if everything worked out as it was supposed to...

He wondered if his letter would indeed reach Feredir and what would happen then, if the day came when he actually had to face his brother...? and a sudden apprehension took hold of his insides for a moment, and he had the mad impulse of trying to get his letter back from Orophin before he and his brothers were on their way out of Harad...

He pushed down his fears as nonsense and reached up to begin binding his hair; for a second his gaze darted down the dresser to where Mena’s poison sat in a bottom drawer, before he closed his eyes again, not daring to think of what he must do when he was in Horondor.

When he opened them again, he saw Javad watching him.

“Leave it like that for now, Altan Min,” he heard, as Javad moved from the bed. “It’s lovely that way.”

The King stood behind the Elf for a moment running his fingers through the soft, golden tresses. “You are so beautiful in the early morning,” he said, bending down to kiss the back of a white shoulder.

“My king...” he said as meekly as he could, closing his eyes and praying this was the right time.

“Yes?”

“I...I have a request to make...My Lord...if I may...”

“What is it?” asked the Man, pushing the youth's hair aside to kiss his neck.

“Go on,” he pressed when the slave seemed to hesitate.

“You so rarely ask for anything though you must know there is little that I could deny you,” he said, watching the youth in the mirror as his lips moved just below his left ear, “that whatever it is, I give you my word, if it is within my power, I will try to grant it...”

“...My Lord,” said the slave and lowered his eyes diffidently, “you have always treated me better than one such as I should expect...I would be an ingrate to ask for more...

“...but this is about Sararmel?”

“Tell me?” said the Man, as he returned to nibbling slowly on the slave's neck, his hands coming around his body, as he continued to kiss his way over his shoulder blades.

“As you know, My King,” he began, trying to choose the right words, though he had been rehearsing this conversation in his head for weeks, “Princess Satareh has been looking for a new apprentice for the armory, before returning to Horondor.

“I have spoken of this with Her Ladyship...she wished for me to ask My King’s consent...”

“You wish Saterah to take Mel as an apprentice.” The King looked up again, sounding surprised.

“She a bright, daring child, My King...too much so I fear. She needs discipline, and perhaps the Princess can do better for her than Amanyar or I...

“If my request is wrong, forgive me,” he said, his eyes still on the floor beside his suddenly restless feet. “I’ll not ask it again.”

“It is not wrong.

“But if I agree to what you ask, you will not see the child often, perhaps not for years,” said the King.

“Saterah spends most of her time in Horondor and rarely comes across the desert.”

“I know, My King. But perhaps it is time...to let go...if My Lord will permit this.”

Javad made a noncommittal sound, as he moved to sit beside the slave on the bench, tilting his chin, until the slave’s lips were close enough to claim, his fingers stroking his face in an unusually tender way, as he moved over his jaw and down the white throat and his other hand made its way down the courtesan’s side and stopped on his hip, fingers tracing little circles over the delicate flesh there...

"I received some rather startling news last night not long before we retired," said the King after a minute, abruptly changing the subject and pulling back slightly, as he watched for the Elf’s reaction.

“The gossip will spread quickly. But at this hour perhaps you have not yet heard of it...

“That Arya was found murdered last night?”

“Last night?” the slave repeated, his face betraying nothing. “How?”

“They found him in some alley just before midnight. And that new whore Mehan fancies is missing. It’s believed the Elf killed his master and fled.

“They found a knife in him...I’ll decline to mention precisely where...” he said tactfully.

“Oh...” was all the Elf said, again dropping his gaze, demurely.

“...it was an unusually brutal slaying,” added the King. “Not the kind common bandits usually commit...

“...but the Elf will be caught soon enough. And if he had help, whoever it was will regret it. There is little chance they managed to get out of the city, and they can’t hide for long in it.”

“Maybe it was someone else,” said the slave, in a low tone. “There are many who would have gladly spilt Arya’s cruel blood.”

“It is true, but vengeful killings by the slave class can hardly be tolerated. Even of someone as odious as Arya,” said the King.

The slave closed his eyes again and turned his head a little, as the King’s lips once more found the side of his neck...the wave of panic he had felt earlier returning in the wake of Javad’s news, along with a new fear that he might be suspected, which he had not considered while he was in the midst of helping the Lorien brothers, all of it together making itself into a tight knot in his chest and in his stomach...

It was done, he thought, Rumil and his brothers were on their way out of Harad and his letter was on its way to Feredir...even if he had really wanted to, it could not now be detained...

And Arya was dead; he almost smiled as the fact began to truly register in his mind...he only hoped that the fear and excitement going on in his insides would not be too obvious or that the King would at least mistake them for the Elf’s own fervor...

It was a wicked whim, and he forced back the smile that wanted to go along with it, but it occurred to him he might just celebrate his former master’s bloody demise this morning by permitting himself a small amount of the pleasure in the King’s bed that he never did...

The wretched mood he had been in when he woke seemed to be rapidly dispelling...he could not remember the last time he felt this good.

“I must soon make a journey to Horondor,” Javad was saying. “And I want you to accompany me this time.”

“If it is my King’s wish,” he said.

“I intended it so before, but now I would not wish you and Sararmel parted without a proper farewell.

“If you truly wish your daughter to become Saterah’s apprentice, I will speak with my niece."

“Thank you, My Lord,” said the courtesan. “You are as always, most generous.”

“Now,” said Javad running his tongue over the tip of a delicate Elven ear, who could feel his lord’s growing desire, “I’ve more interesting matters in mind before breakfast. And let us speak no more of children or murdered merchants this morning.”

The youth felt himself shudder a little at the irreverence of practically screwing on Arya’s grave; but he couldn’t seem to care; he really was feeling uncommonly good now.

And, sacrilegious though it may be, there was nothing that could have made him not rejoice to know about Arya’s end...he could certainly put on a very good performance and even take some rare pleasure for himself...even while he pictured Arya’s eternal torment in whatever was Men’s equivalent of the hereafter...

“Come back to bed,” said the Man, taking his slight shudder for desire and kissing his lips gently again, which Dafi let himself respond to a little more keenly than was necessary.

And he could tell from the feel of the King’s body that he approved of his obligingly good mood...

Though he always made sure to leave his lord no cause for complaint, he knew Javad was always pleased when he seemed more than just compliant and participated a bit more enthusiastically...

The King took his slave’s hand, pulling their bodies together as he stood and drew the Elf to his feet, and slowly stroked his face, “and afterwards, we’ll have a hot bath drawn...”

==============

The Man was becoming impatient. This new errand of Esarulir’s had seemed simple enough, but he had spent almost a week stalking the Palace grounds and had yet to see the boy completely alone whenever he came outdoors.

The Dark Elf Lord had warned him not to let himself be seen, which became more likely the longer he skulked around the Palace.

Kebu knew well what would happen if he was caught of course...the Elves of Mirkwood did not take lightly to Men trespassing so far into their territory; little more than fifteen years ago, the King’s Advisor...Ruthlagor was his name, had had several of his men, (fool enough to be captured), put to death...

Not that a single one of them was worth much, but the fact still irked him. And the fact that one of the dastardly fools had decided to unburden his conscience before dying, about that battle and the lost Prince. So Kebu had no doubt what his own fate would be, if he ended up in an Elf dungeon, and they thought he had anything to do with that old misdeed...

Still -- he licked his lower and smiled lasciviously and shifted his position, his leggings growing tighter at the thought of the beautiful, unspoiled, or as good as unspoiled, youth he had enjoyed all those years ago -- it was a memory he still took great pleasure in...he couldn’t deny there had been certain benefits in the past to serving the Elf Lord...

After awhile, he finally watched his prey and one of his self-appointed guardians, who he had learned was the Elvenking’s daughter-in-law, and the other blond Elfling he had often seen at her side, come through the garden...

There was also a second Elf-woman with them who Kebu did not know. She was even more striking than the first, her long blond hair elegantly braided and from her rich-looking gown and the circlet on her forehead, he guessed she must be some high up member of the Royal family...maybe she was even the King’s own sister. Which would make her wife to that very same Royal Advisor who’d executed his men, Kebu thought spitefully.

All four were walking away from the grounds together, the two Elleths deep in their conversation.

Stealthily, he began to follow the small group at a distance, looking for his chance...

TBC...

Translations:
Thranduilion / Son of Thranduil
Altan Min / (Invented Haradrim word) My beautiful one
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Faded Light: Book II