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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
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Author's Note: Sorry about the extended wait. Things have been simultaneously getting away from me, and getting on top of me. Damn things!

Chapter Forty-four
After that, each time they were all together, Elrond found himself bearing witness to more of their kisses. He became convinced that they were not indulging in this new behaviour privately. Instead it was as if his presence as a witness granted them licence to experiment with each other. Though it did not progress from kissing, they always broke apart from each other with a kind of reluctant tension, as of something only partially expressed and explored.
In his solitary moments, Elrond reflected on it, and came to the startling conclusion that if they chose to go further, then it would become merely part of what Celeborn had once described to him as a dance. Elrond found he much preferred the idea of a tapestry, threads woven together into a coherent whole. He recalled the series of coincidences that had shielded him from something he was not ready to face, and had to accept that not only were they both willing participants, but that it was permissible. Else they would surely be prevented. At least, that is what he hoped.
It would be useless trying to explain his reasoning, and so he said nothing, only observed. Except for that first time, he passed no judgement: it was not up to him to decide what was right or wrong for either of them, especially after this many centuries. That is not to say he encouraged them, merely tolerated it with guarded resignation.
Thranduil and Legolas stayed in Imladris for a long time. Long enough for the leaves to turn bronze and gold in the sun. Long enough even for Elrond to begin anticipating Celebrían's return; she said she would be home before winter. He lay with the King and the Prince each night and dreamed of his wife. Thranduil appeared content to rule his realm from afar: he began to answer missives and such daily, so that often in the morning Elrond would find himself in his study with Thranduil working on the other side of the large desk. It was almost like old times.
One day he happened to look up, only to find Thranduil staring at him openly. There was no cause to forbid it now, and yet Elrond frowned a little as the ElvenKing smiled.
“Why do you stare?” he asked.
With a satisfied sigh, Thranduil folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. He narrowed his eyes. “I am merely composing a fantasy,” he replied. Elrond looked down at the papers on his desk and tried to suppress his sudden urge to smile.
“Are you indeed?” Although he was no longer looking, Elrond found that he was aware of everything Thranduil did all the same. His breathing, his nearness, his regard.
For a while, he attempted to concentrate on the work set before him, some unimportant correspondence that he had undertaken with the nearby settlements of men. The words seemed to swim before his eyes as he felt Thranduil staring at him. At length, he looked up again, helpless.
“What do you want?” he asked with a silent sigh of surrender, already giving up on his task.
Thranduil twirled his pencil around in his fingers. He was no longer smiling, and for a moment Elrond feared he'd read of some bad news. “I think you should write me an essay on the nature of fate, Elrondlas.”
Elrond shook his head, but Thranduil continued. “Or better yet, I would have you write out a hundred times: I must not attempt to thwart my destiny.” This time Elrond covered his face with his hands so that Thranduil would not see the grin. He couldn't help it at all.
“No,” he replied, and then he heard Thranduil getting up from his place. Elrond dropped his hands and pushed his chair back as the King came to stand beside him, looming over him. How was it he managed to do this so easily? Elrond looked up, tilting his head back, then found his attention drawn to Thranduil's hand as he picked up a ruler from the desk.
“If you wilfully defy me, I will have you over the desk,” Thranduil said softly, running his fingertips over the straight edge of the ruler as if to examine it, and Elrond could not breathe. His heart was beating heavily in excitement and his hands trembled, yet he managed to pull a stack of fresh parchment before him and began the task hurriedly.
Behind him, Thranduil placed a hand on the desk at either side of him and leaned in, so that Elrond could feel a warm puff of breath right behind his ear as Thranduil watched what he did. “Tell me your fate,” he urged, and Elrond hesitated, the quill dropping a blot of ink onto the parchment.
“You should know what it is, if you are writing about it,” Thranduil said, and Elrond could feel his lips moving. Though it was only playful, Elrond could not help following the suggestion. He breathed in, eyes closed, the task, and their game, momentarily forgotten.
“I do not know it,” he replied, thinking ahead and sensing only some great purpose. “I cannot see so far ahead.” For a moment his mind brought an image of the men he had been writing to, then a vision of Osgiliath. He saw it abandoned, ruined, overrun by orcs, as it must be now. That couldn't be it. He was just confused by his work. He thought of his children, and saw Arwen. His love for her was so strong that quite suddenly it felt as though his heart was breaking, but that wasn't his fate either.
“I do not see it,” Elrond said, mercifully having missed the prescient reference to Arwen's choice, lost now as Thranduil's hands slid down his arms, taking the pen out of his hand. As he concentrated, he had another vision of the White City from afar, dwarfed by the brooding fiery darkness of Mordor to the east, growing stronger by the day, surely a version of some future! What could he do about such things? What was left to him to do? There was no army that could prevail against the darkness as they had once done so long ago.
A sudden image of the shards of Narsil, broken and useless, kept for eternity. The strength of men would fail utterly, and Middle Earth would fall under the thrall of the enemy while the last of the elves left. Elrond could not abide that thought! Surely such was not the will of Ilúvatar?
Thranduil's arms were around him now, and he closed his hands around them, wanting to keep the King close to him, to be brought back to the warmth, back to the moment where he could reason with this cold hopelessness. He was a son of Eärendil – he would not succumb to despair. “Do you not feel it?” Thranduil asked gently, as if aware of Elrond's thoughts. “You were always mine.”
Elrond shivered suddenly. How did Thranduil play into all those unformed visions? As he tried to sense it, a great fire appeared in front of him, as if Mordor itself were hiding the future from him. Another image of himself beside Oropher's body, only this time it wasn't Oropher, it was Thranduil. Elrond stood up suddenly, his eyes open now and clear. He turned, but the vision wasn't real. Here Thranduil was, alive and well in his grip. Only soon the King of Eryn Galen would wish to engage the enemy. He must not be permitted to do it! Elrond pulled him close before he could speak of his plans and forewarn Thranduil. Now was not the time, but he wondered about his own motives.
“Thranduil,” he said. His voice did not break, and his strength did not fail him. Elrond blinked. His thoughts still did not feel quite his own. The King peered over his shoulder to the desk and then sighed theatrically.
“You must show more dedication to the work I set you, lass nín,” Thranduil admonished, his tone playful. “Or how will you ever learn?”
Elrond only laughed and tried to break away from Thranduil's embrace, only to find himself held quite securely. He didn't fight it. Instead he let Thranduil rescue him from those disturbing impressions now. Just as Thranduil had always rescued him.
“Come away with me,” Thranduil suggested, his eyes sparkling with desire. “I tire of these ordinary matters.” Elrond leaned in deliberately.
“It is a wonder you get any work done at all, celebmîr nín,” Elrond teased, “or I.” And yet he did leave his work undone on the desk. There was always the afternoon.
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Many more days passed, and then, one night, when they were all together again, and the lamps had burned down low, Elrond saw the status quo between Thranduil and Legolas change. For once he wasn't in the middle. Instead it was Legolas, so beautiful, so beloved. They'd ended up with Thranduil reclined against the pillows in a half seated position, with Legolas laid back against his chest, his head on Thranduil's shoulder. Elrond himself was in front, with Legolas' legs over his shoulders.
It was a perfect angle like this, so that if he leaned back and looked down with his weight on his hands, he could watch himself sliding into Legolas' body, into that perfect clutching heat. For a minute or two he watched, turning his head occasionally to kiss the swell of Legolas' calf. He and his father were kissing again, Legolas' arms reaching back, tangling in his father's hair, leaving the front of his body open and exposed.
Elrond looked up, never ceasing in his movements, and saw Thranduil's hands curling around Legolas' ribs while they kissed. Then, as he watched, the King's palms slid forward and to the front of Legolas' chest. His fingers plucked at his son's nipples, and Legolas broke the kiss, his lips reddened and wet, his blue eyes shocked and dark with arousal and pleasure. That gaze dropped down, as if he could not quite believe what Thranduil was doing to him.
“Ada...” he moaned, and he threw his head back against Thranduil's shoulder, his eyes fixing on Elrond. He seemed to come apart between them, his body tightening around Elrond in unconscious little flutters.
There was a half smile on Thranduil's lips as he looked on Legolas. The love of a father for a son, yes, but something else too. One of his hands stopped tormenting Legolas' nipple and drifted down his body as if careless. Just the back of his fingertips sweeping over Legolas' skin until they dragged over the ridge of Legolas' swollen erection. The sharp edge of Thranduil's thumbnail scraped against Elrond's skin as he pushed forward. Legolas shuddered, and Elrond moaned as Thranduil dipped his head to murmur into his son's ear.
“You will accept me next,” he said, his eyes flicking to Elrond as if for permission, perhaps even reassurance. Legolas shivered while Elrond shook his head slightly.
“Yes, ada,” he said, obedient, turning his head to seek his father's lips again. Thranduil licked at his son's lips, nudging at them as Legolas opened his mouth to accept and moaned deeply. “Kiss me, ada,” he begged, and Thranduil obliged him then, closing his eyes.
Elrond looked down again, to where he and Legolas were joined, his erection sliding just so, in and out, and he suddenly bit his own lip, grunting in harsh pleasure as he spilt inside, pressing deep and hard, his body letting that tension go into Legolas, to leave evidence of his possession.
When he left Legolas' body, while the prince was recovering, Thranduil looked at him, holding out his hand for oil. Despite his earlier conclusions, Elrond said a silent prayer in his mind as he handed it over. For a moment he and Thranduil stared at each other, then the King looked at his son.
“Ion nín, I want you.” Legolas swallowed and nodded.
“Do it to me,” he said, his voice low and sultry. “Quickly. Before I change my mind.” Then he laughed when Thranduil swore, hurrying with the oil so that too much of it spilled over his hand. Even Elrond smiled as he looked on, no matter that Thranduil glared at him. It was amusing.
“You are a tease, Legolas!” Thranduil announced, as if he'd only just then realised it. Legolas grinned, completely at ease, and looked at Elrond meaningfully.
“Am I?” he asked, too innocently, bending one of his knees so that he could place the sole of his foot against Elrond's shoulder. Elrond grabbed his ankle and pushed it back, dipping his head to lick at the sole of that foot, from the heel to the sensitive skin beneath Legolas' toes.
Legolas giggled and tried to pull his foot free, jolting his father accidentally.
“Will you stop wriggling, Legolas!” Thranduil snapped, finally placing the oil down on the nightstand with a heavy hand before holding his son's hips to still him. The mood changed again as Legolas twisted his head to look into his father's eyes. Thranduil was pulling his son's body up further, one hand reaching between their bodies to guide himself.
“Sorry, Ada,” Legolas whispered, seeming thoroughly chastised, and then it must be happening, because his eyes fluttered closed as his body seemed to sink down, the lines of his face smoothing in a kind of ecstasy. “Ada...” he moaned. Elrond cradled the foot he still held as if it were a treasure, and pressed tiny tender kisses along Legolas' instep.
With one hand still reaching back, buried in Thranduil's silver locks, Legolas' other hand fell to his own erection, and he caressed himself slowly, his body rising and falling in tiny little movements as Thranduil got deeper.
There was a sudden suggestive move from Thranduil then, and Legolas' eyes opened again, latching onto Elrond in a kind of plea for understanding. “I think I shall die of pleasure!” he announced, and Thranduil smirked, doing it again so that Legolas almost swooned between them.
“That is impossible,” Elrond noted, his fingertips creeping up Legolas' shin. “Else I should have perished long ago when you begged me to take your innocence.”
Legolas smiled with his eyes closed. “I remember,” he sighed happily. “Was it very sweet, to take that from me?”
He was like living sin, Elrond was sure, and he found himself looking at Thranduil, who only continued to smirk, giving Legolas occasional jolts and thrusts of his hips which made him breathless, his mouth hanging open in lust and pleasure. His hand was barely moving.
Elrond moved back a little, to let Legolas lower his legs, seeing him fold his knees under himself so as to make the angle better. Thranduil groaned in ecstasy and Elrond flattened himself to the bed, moving Legolas' hand out of the way. “Not as sweet as this,” Elrond said, and licked over Legolas' erection, capturing that straining rod of flesh in his mouth when Legolas' lower body was nudged forward by Thranduil's next movement.
Thranduil chuckled. “Very good, lass nín,” he observed. “That should keep him quiet.” Thranduil began rocking Legolas forward into Elrond's mouth as he suckled. Legolas cried out loudly again and again between them. “Or perhaps not.”
“It is too much!” Legolas called out. “Please! Mercy!”
Trapped between the two of them, Legolas soon gave up making words, subsiding to a kind of keening. Elrond looked up, only to find Legolas looking down at him, watching, his prior playfulness extinguished, leaving him as a creature of sensation and desire. His eyes were half-lidded and stormy, spots of colour in his cheeks, his skin glistening with perspiration in the golden lamplight. Again Elrond bent to his task, and Legolas shivered in their combined grip as he climaxed with a broken sob of sensory overload.
Gladly, Elrond swallowed Legolas' essence, then moved back as Thranduil found the same end inside his son. The King pressed tender worshipful kisses over Legolas' neck and shoulders where he could reach, thanking and praising him in quiet whispers.
When they were all settled together and clean, a subdued Legolas between them, the prince sighed. “You have worn me out!” he declared, though he did not seem unhappy about it. Elrond brushed fingers over his chest, swirling them around lovingly, while Thranduil played with strands of Legolas' hair. They caught each other's gaze, and Thranduil was thinking of something, it was quite obvious.
“What is it, celebmîr nín?” Elrond asked, wondering if the king regretted now what he had done. He should have known better: Thranduil didn't entertain regret, and he never had. He merely raised an eyebrow, then looked at Legolas with such love Elrond felt humbled. Thranduil sighed.
“Nimbrethil is going to kill me for this,” he said softly, and between them Legolas proved he was still awake because he laughed tiredly.
“Naneth will punish you,” Legolas said, and he sounded so childlike when he said it. That impression only lasted until he spoke again, his voice deep with adult amusement. “And you will enjoy it, ada.” Thranduil's eyes widened in surprise as he looked upon his son, and now Elrond laughed.
Thranduil's gaze switched to Elrond so quickly he almost jumped. “I don't know why you are laughing, Elrondlas,” he said, then smiled with his customary arrogance. “She's going to kill you too for allowing it.” Well, that was a sobering thought! Elrond gulped.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Celebrían arrived home, Thranduil and Legolas were still at Imladris. If they wished to take the mountain pass before winter, they would leave soon, Elrond knew, and yet they were stood outside with him to greet the returning party from Lothlórien. She’d surprised him by being on time, since usually she came back early and Elrond had grown to expect it. Contrary was her soul, but he loved her so much it was merely another game to them. The party from Lórien was much larger than the group which had set out, and Elrond wondered at that as Celebrían embraced him, but then he recognised one or two of the elves and raised an eyebrow.
“Have you brought the whole company?” Elrond asked in disbelief, and Celebrían nodded.
“We have been working on something,” she said mysteriously, then tapped his nose when he drew in a breath to speak. “No more questions!”
At last, her attention turned to Thranduil and Legolas, and she curtsied before them with a light laugh before embracing Legolas. Immediately the two began gossiping in secretive excited whispers, and she dragged Legolas over to meet the dancers she had brought home with her.
“She is more beautiful every time I meet her,” Thranduil remarked. “Else my memory is too poor to do such perfection justice.”
Elrond waited. It seemed Celebrían and Legolas were quite, quite busy. They were surrounded by the dance troupe who were holding up Legolas’ arms as if they’d never seen limbs before and chattering about costumes. Elrond shook his head.
“The dancers have discovered your son,” he murmured to Thranduil. “I sense that very soon, he will become one of them.” As he watched, the twins rode up and dismounted, joining in the throng with Legolas, also chattering excitedly. Clearly there was some kind of conspiracy between the lot of them. It had probably all been done with the aid of letters. Elrond looked forward to seeing what it was all about.
Then, as if it were a dream, another rider appeared on a white horse, cloaked and hooded. Elrond stepped forward, feeling overjoyed. Time seemed to slow as she neared him, just as it had for her mother so long ago. She threw back her hood and beside him Thranduil gasped. Arwen Undómiel was renowned for her beauty. The fairest in all of Arda, perhaps. But then Elrond was not impartial at all in this. It was likely an exaggeration, but to him, she was perfect. He opened his arms as she dismounted and hurried to him.
“Iell nín,” Elrond said softly, catching her up in his embrace.
“Ada!” she said, fitting into his arms as perfectly now as she had when she was a child. The softness of her cheek was pressed to his shoulder and neck as he held her close. Elrond tightened his arms and twirled her around as they laughed together.
“Arwen,” he said, happy. So much was within his power, and Elrond renewed his unspoken vow: that nothing should harm Arwen. No bitterness or loss would darken her – his light. She must shine for all eternity like the star she was named for.
When he finally put her down she noticed Thranduil and curtsied immediately. Thranduil was clearly pleased to make her acquaintance. They'd never met during all of Thranduil's visits. “My lady,” Thranduil said, and bowed deeply as she stood up straight. Arwen's lips parted in surprise as the King took her hand to kiss it, and she gave Elrond a sidelong glance, as if uncertain.
“Is he flirting?” she asked, mischievous, and Elrond felt his lips twitch.
“Probably,” Elrond replied, pressing his hands together and inclining his head slightly. “It is his default position,” he explained, ignoring Thranduil's sudden glare as he stood tall again. Recovering quickly, Thranduil graced Arwen with an arrogant look.
“You are welcome,” he said pointedly, displeased. Arwen laughed and darted forward to kiss his cheek, then turned her full attention to Elrond.“You are not part of the travelling show?” he asked, gesturing at the group, and Arwen grimaced.
“I never want to hear the word 'extend' ever again!” she said, loudly enough for her mother to hear. Elrond laughed inwardly. It was a creditable impression. Then she sighed and smiled. “Though there is much knowledge in the elves of Lórien, I have dreamed of being back with you in your study, ada. I am certain your filing system has fallen to pieces without me!”
Elrond smiled, and then Legolas returned to them. His eyes were bright with excitement, and he gifted Elrond and Arwen with a nod before taking Thranduil's hand and pulling him away, no doubt to confide in him. It seemed they would be waiting some time for Celebrían. Elrond took Arwen's arm to lead her into the last homely house.
“All is not doomed without you, pen faen,” he reassured her. “After all, I have Erestor to aid me.”
“But he will have arranged things how he likes them!” she exclaimed in dismay. Elrond caught her eye, and she smirked. “I shall have to spend many hours at work in your study putting it all right again.”
“How terrible, iell nín,” he said, playing along. “I will have sustenance brought there for you.” So they continued as they went inside to catch up with each other. Thranduil and Legolas remained scarce, so that at some point later that day, Elrond found himself at a loose end while Arwen went to unpack her belongings...
By the time he found Celebrían by herself so that he could greet her properly, it was much later in the day and the light outside was fading. She was in the Hall of Fire, alone except for a couple of practising minstrels who clearly didn’t mind providing her with an accompaniment. Elrond wondered at the quiet and emptiness of the hall, but then all thoughts flew out of his head as he watched her; Celebrían was dancing.
If there were any sights in Middle Earth that Elrond would never tire of seeing, then one of them was Celebrían’s dancing. When Arda was unmade and the immortality of the elves was over at last, when they were allowed to move on along with the fëar of men and other mortals, Elrond was sure he would not have seen enough. Her slender body made graceful curves and lines, bending into seemingly impossible positions at the behest of the music, all of it seamless and fluid.
She had not seen him. Lost in the expression of the music, she danced in the middle of the floor with her eyes closed, the light from the permanently lit fire casting her skin and flowing dress in tones of gold and rose. One of the musicians saw him and stumbled over a phrase on the harp, but Elrond shook his head and waved his hand to indicate that they should continue.
Slowly, never taking his eyes from Celebrían, Elrond circled her space on the floor, cleared of furniture. He drew forward little by little until she was certain to encounter him, and when she did, he rested his hands on her waist.
“Will you run from me?” he murmured, because their game hadn’t changed in all of the years, and it was still as fresh and new as when they were first together. Admittedly, they had invented many more games between them since.
“No running,” Celebrían whispered in his ear, slightly breathless from the balletic exercise. Her eyes were bright and her skin flushed as she faced him. Without warning, she dropped her body back, necessitating Elrond to hold her hips tightly lest she fall. When she realised he held her, she arched her spine and relaxed her knees, bending backwards until her hair brushed the floor. Elrond smiled, looking down on her, then tightened his fingers as a sign for her to come back up.
She straightened slowly, then jumped upwards against him, only to slide down his body in a lingering fashion. When they were face-to-face again they stared into each other's eyes. The connecting moment seemed to last, though it must have been only a fraction of a second before Celebrían turned around in his embrace, throwing her head back onto his shoulder as her arms reached behind his neck, fingers interlacing. Her body undulated against his, teasing, and Elrond's hands slipped down, splayed over the front of her hips. His lips grazed her ear as he bent his head, and he inhaled deliberately, taking in the scent of her perfume.
She raised her right leg, straightening it as his fingers followed the line of it until he was holding her toes. It seemed impossible, yet she span around again to face him, and her ankle hooked on his shoulder as she wrapped her other leg around his waist. Elrond held her weight, and turned slowly, laughing a little. She always made it easy for him to do this. Yet he had seen her put such trust in some partners it took his breath away.
Her legs moved outwards and lowered gracefully to the floor one by one, until it seemed she stood on her tiptoes, but she was holding onto his shoulders, her weight there. “Walk backwards,” she whispered softly. Elrond did so, his hands on her waist as her toes slid over the polished wood as if he dragged her. Her body was a stiff straight line.
At last he swung her up into his arms, and she pressed her face into his shoulder, the silver fall of her hair over his arm. The music stopped, and Elrond took her away from the floor, out of the Hall of Fire to their rooms. He had missed her very much.

To be continued...

Author's Note: Thank you for reading. Please leave a little comment, for the muses. I will reply :)

Translations:
lass nín – my leaf
celebmîr nín – my silver treasure
naneth – mother
ada – dad/father
pen faen – radiant one
fëar – spirits/souls
iell nín – my daughter
ion nín – my son
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The Teacher