Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

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
- 6
- 7
- 8
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Oropher/Elrond, Thranduil/Elrond, Legolas/Elrond, Elrond/Celebrían, Elrond/OFC
Warnings: Slash, het, graphic sex, bdsm, D/s, bondage, canonical character death
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. I do not own the elves within or middle earth. They belong to Tolkien, and I am just borrowing them for a short while. I make no money from this.
Summary: A fanciful, smutty take on what Elrond’s story might have been through the ages.

Author’s Note:

Thank you to my wonderful reviewers! Binky, lissa and cel. I hope you all enjoy this chapter :)

As it is impossible to add these to the text without interrupting my prose, some notes on dates:

Sauron attacks Gondor and captures Minas Ithil in II 3429, the Last Alliance is formed in II 3430 and the Battle of Dagorlad (where Oropher is killed) takes place in II 3434.

Chapter Six

III 140

Elrond fell into slumber slowly, as his memories brought a sense of peace and the slow passage of time. His mind and body tuned themselves to the gentle pace, and he sank into a deep reverie, his eyes opening as he lost consciousness.

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II 2250

After the strange scene he had been witness to, Elrond had been almost afraid to seek Thranduil out, certain that the Prince would sense that Elrond had seen him. But he gathered his courage for he sorely needed to know what had frightened Oropher, and found the Prince at dinner later that very evening.

Nimbrethil was with him at the table, and Elrond seated himself opposite them quietly, looking up to greet them both, willing his face to show no sign of his voyeurism.

“Good evening, Elrond,” Thranduil said deeply, and Nimbrethil smiled. Elrond was thankful that it wasn’t the malicious smile he had seen earlier that day. He nodded at them both, and directed a look of question at Thranduil.

“We need to speak.” For a moment his eyes skittered worriedly to Oropher, who didn’t seem to be missing his presence yet.

“Of course, but after dinner, Lord Elrond.” With a soft laugh, he turned to look at the lady. “See how impatient he is, lendeth nín?” Nimbrethil’s eyes darkened slightly as she gazed at her husband, and she licked her lips before replying.

“Yes.”

“There is nothing in the world that needs to be rushed, is there?” Elrond watched as Nimbrethil’s cheeks bloomed a delicate pink. Now the entire atmosphere seemed to be a negative version of what he had seen earlier, and though those around them were not paying attention, Elrond saw Thranduil’s hand disappear under the table as Nimbrethil caught her breath and he stood much too quickly.

“After dinner, then,” he said hastily with a curt nod, and then fled to the sound of their combined giggling. He hoped that they weren’t laughing at him.

He did finally manage to have his talk with Thranduil, but as it turned out the Prince knew only as much as he did. No more, no less. When Elrond asked about his plans for the caves, Thranduil said that it made sense, if they were to do as his father suggested, and become an unknown quantity. Troubled, Elrond let it be, and over the centuries he relaxed. Oropher regained his humour and playful nature, although he obstinately refused to speak of the events that led to the relocation of his Kingdom.

Their relationship waxed and waned over time, as these things will. The years of peace mingled into each other like the flavours of a good wine. Elrond saw no more strangeness in Thranduil and Nimbrethil, and as the years passed he told himself he must have imagined it in his fear for Oropher.

One thing remained an enigma though, and that was Oropher’s prediction. The centuries passed slowly, and every one of Oropher’s wishes that long ago day seemed to come true. The people of the Greenwood had fewer visitors from outside, until Elrond began to fear he was the only regular visitor left.

They had lived out in the open in Amon Lanc, now the people of the Greenwood were invisible unless you knew how to look. Theirs was no Caras Galadhon, bustling and unapologetic; instead they took to the trees to hide, their homes disguised so perfectly that an army could have marched on them and found no one to fight.

Oropher and Thranduil did indeed make a palace from the caves, although at Elrond’s request Oropher didn’t make him spend time there, and when he visited, they stayed in a flet in one of the tallest trees.

Perhaps the changes were easiest to see in the young family that Elrond had helped to rescue that long ago day when the people of Amon Lanc had fled at their King’s encouragement. The child he had named, Fêrvrand, grew to adulthood in the shade of the trees he was named for, entering training at a young age to become a great warrior.

There were large-scale enactments of battles that took Elrond’s breath away in their orchestration and magnitude. Try as he might, he couldn’t see the reason for them, and yet it became clear that Oropher was creating a mighty army, just as he had said he would. Thinking that Oropher knew the reason for it even if he didn’t was no comfort at all, and Elrond spent long amounts of time in Lothlórien in consultation with Galadriel as they both tried to see what Oropher was preparing for.

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III 140

In the morning, Elrond rose and waived breakfast before speaking with Erestor. His old friend was surprised, but managed not to show it as he bade Elrond to take as much time away from his work as he needed.

It felt strange to be free of any responsibility, and yet Elrond found his mind replaying the past for him constantly now. In the daytime he walked, sometimes alone, sometimes with Legolas. The son of his former lover was quiet and undemanding as a companion, and Elrond found that he didn’t mind at all sharing the days with him in comfortable silence.

His nights were spent alone in his bed, reliving warmer, more personal memories. Their love never deserted them, and over time Elrond came to consider his attempted breaking of the union so many years earlier a somewhat naïve enterprise. They needed each other, and no one resented their being together, least of all the one who should – Thranduil.

They were happy days, and Elrond drifted through them over the next week or so in wistful longing, remembering in the deep of the night how Oropher had looked, felt and tasted… Nothing could steal those times from him. They loved.

Eventually though, things were to change. It was the way of the world. Even at the time, Elrond felt it moving away from him, and it hurt. It began with something outside and far away; something that had more to do with him than Oropher…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
II 3319

Over a thousand years had passed since the people of the Greenwood abandoned Amon Lanc, and Elrond sat in Galadriel’s talan in shock and despair.

“The Valar will be swift in dealing with it,” Galadriel said sombrely. “I feel their righteous anger even now.” She shivered, and just seeing such a reaction from the Lady, usually so composed, made him suppress a shudder as well.

Al-Pharazôn, the King of Númenor, had sailed on Valinor with a fleet of ships that showed the strength of his mighty army, but that wouldn’t help him. Galadriel had seen this in the mirror and warned Elrond of it, but it didn’t ease the ache in his heart now that it had come to pass.

That the living descendent of Elros could come to such an end… it made his legacy into a worthless thing. Although there had been other rulers of that land over the centuries who had spurned the faithful, never had such a drastic course of action been dreamed up, and it could only end in destruction and disgrace.

“It is the influence of Sauron that has brought the King to this,” Galadriel pointed out. “When I attempt to see it, I hear his poisonous words, seeping in, wiping away the goodness that is left.” She shivered again. “No man could withstand such a thing. This is not about Númenor.”

“I cannot help it,” Elrond replied with a heavy sigh, feeling as though his heart must break. “Would Elros have made his decision thus if he could have foreseen the ending of his choice? To assail the Valar themselves –” Elrond stopped speaking in a choked whimper, feeling powerless and even insulted at the turn of events.

“Who can say?” Galadriel said softly, in obvious sympathy. “Would Elros have made his choice thus if he saw not only this, but also the ending of Sauron’s threat during the war you yourself fought in during the founding of Imladris? We would have lost then, and perhaps even now, the land over all Middle-earth would be covered by the blackness of Sauron’s reign.”

The sense of the Lady’s words couldn’t alleviate Elrond’s distress, and he shook his head in misery.

“Take some time, my friend. Walk in peace under the golden trees and try to take heart from what you know. Elros was a good King, and this doesn’t make him any less so.”

Elrond stood and gave a stiff, formal bow. “My Lady.” He turned away, and then added an afterthought. “Thank you.”

“I wish I could say it is my pleasure, but I gain no warmth in sharing such news with you, Lord Elrond.”

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Elrond tried to speak again, his voice deep and husky with suppressed emotion. “I know.” Elrond felt a desperate need to be with Oropher, and to have his lover soothe the terrible heartache. He would, Elrond was sure.

“Does Oropher still prepare?” she asked quietly, as if she had been reading his mind.

“Yes. And still no one knows what for.” The question had plagued him too over the years, and this piece of news didn’t bode well. Elrond hoped it had nothing to do with the actions of Al-Pharazôn.

He made his way down to the ground quickly, and once there he leaned against the smooth bark of the tree for a moment, closing his eyes in grief.

“Lord Elrond?” He opened his eyes at the sound of that light enquiry, hoping his distress did not show too clearly. He didn’t want to cause any shadow to fall on the one who stood before him.

Celebrían had grown into a beautiful maiden, a match for Galadriel herself with her silver hair and melodious voice. Despite the news Galadriel had given him, he felt himself smile willingly at the Lady’s daughter as she held out her hand to him in friendship.

Grasping it, he kissed the back of Celebrían’s hand and stood up straight. “Will you walk with me?” he asked softly, certain that if he could withstand any company apart from Oropher’s, then it would be hers.

“Of course!” she exclaimed, and they fell into step beside each other in silence.

As a child, she had annoyed and infuriated him, but as an adult she had mellowed somewhat, and what was left never failed to make Elrond’s heart light and his worries seem like mere trifles.

As they walked he found himself telling her of his fears, this young girl who should be spared such things, and yet he felt no guilt. She listened to him, occasionally interjecting with some piece of advice that didn’t match her youth and inexperience.

She teased him occasionally, and yet he didn’t mind it, feeling a little of her playfulness himself as they walked further, the exercise freeing his mind and soul of melancholy.

“I must go to King Oropher,” he announced at last, and at Celebrían’s uncharacteristic silence, he turned to look at her. She grasped his hands in hers and smiled at him in the sunlight, so beautiful and blessed that Elrond drew in a breath as though the sight of her made him remember that he lived.

“I will wait for you,” Celebrían said tenderly, and Elrond laughed, shaking his head. She didn’t take it to heart though, and her perfect confidence reminded him so much of Galadriel that he felt his heart beat heavily as though she was making a prediction.

Freeing his hands from hers, he looked away. “You shouldn’t. There are many matches you could make here. I cannot be yours.” As he spoke he wondered at his own sense of regret, but then he thought of Oropher and there was no contest between them. “I am sorry.”

She laughed, her evident joy such a contrast to Elrond’s regret that he began to feel it was out of place, and he smiled too, allowing her light-hearted attitude to infect him once more as he pulled her into a gentle embrace of friendship.

“If you have not agreed to marry when I return, I shall expect a good reason.”

“You and your reason,” Celebrían chastised lightly, making Elrond laugh again as she leaned against him. It felt right and good, but it wasn’t to be, and Elrond extricated himself from her embrace to kiss her hand again in farewell, telling her to thank her mother and father for their hospitality.

He sought out his horse and rode for Greenwood that very day, his weighty thoughts returning to him the further away he got from Celebrían. By the time he stood before Oropher days later, feeling his lover’s arms close around him in joy at his unexpected visit, he was melancholy and almost inconsolable again.

Once more he told the story Galadriel had told him, although now he confided the vision of reprisal the Lady of the Wood had seen in her mirror, surmising that by now it must have come to pass, and Númenor was no longer in existence.

“Glory can never be dimmed by such things,” Oropher said at last. “We who live to see the rise and fall of Kingdoms know that most of all. Do not fear that this will lend itself to Elros’ memory, meleth nín. I would feel it an insult too, and so would all who remember, for it would be a lie.”

Elrond allowed Oropher to comfort him, giving himself to his lover in gladness of spirit and love, finding something in his arms that he hadn’t found with Celebrían. He found lasting peace.

Remaining for some weeks, Elrond let the terrible event pass into memory, coming to terms with it in his mind. In fact, he stayed long enough to observe a change in Oropher, and that pained him. He and Thranduil met and consulted about the King’s sudden interest in the progress of the army. It made them nervous, although the Kingdom remained in a state of acceptance as they listened to Oropher’s speeches about victory over their enemies. Most still remembered what had driven their flight so long ago; even so, Oropher was probably the only one who could maintain such a sense of loyalty in his subjects.

But things were changing, and only a year after the terrible downfall of Elros’ former Kingdom, new cities and realms of men were founded and built. Gondor was founded, along with the impressive fortification of Isengard. The city of Minas Ithil was built to overlook the land of Mordor, and the world began to shift.

As these things occurred, Oropher grew more and more zealous in his preparation, and over the next century the army of Greenwood became so large and powerful that Elrond doubted anyone he told would believe in it. Only to Galadriel and Gil-Galad did Elrond confide his knowledge of the secret army, and that at Oropher’s approval.

When Sauron attacked Minas Ithil, Oropher seemed at fever pitch, and it was with him acting as a spur in the background that the Last Alliance was formed. Mainly made up of elves and men, the decision was made to march on Mordor, and by the time the armies of Lindon had joined them, travelling across from the far west of Middle-earth, they were a force to be reckoned with. At last Elrond thought he knew what Oropher had seen in the mirror, and the King’s relief when he was confronted with it made he and Thranduil certain they were right.

Four long years had passed from the formation of the Last Alliance to bring them all here. Not in all the history of Middle-earth had so many been gathered together in a common cause. Before daybreak they came together as one, the leaders of each part of the alliance. An historic meeting it was. Present were himself and Glorfindel of Gondolin (now of Imladris), Oropher and Thranduil, High King Gil-Galad and his chosen Captain. Celeborn was here with a silver-haired archer called Haldir, and though the Lady was absent, all felt her presence in the mysterious depths of the Lórien elves’ silver eyes. But besides the elves there were others. Leading the meeting with Gil-Galad as an equal partner was the King of Gondor, Elendil. His sons Isildur and Anárion were present also, as the last survivors of the calamity that befell Númenor at the folly of Al-Pharazôn.

Representation came from the dwarves courtesy of their current King, Durin the third, grandson of Durin the Deathless. From Khazad-Dûm had come an army of fierce fighters, who despite their small stature, promised death to their enemies. Still, the dwarves were mostly mysterious, and Durin stayed silent throughout the historic meeting before dawn that day.

Elrond noticed that Oropher too seemed distant and unwilling to contribute much to the discussion. It occurred to Elrond that he had never seen Oropher in battle, although he knew Oropher had fought with them when he himself first ventured east of Lindon to found Imladris, and reasoned that he was readying himself for the challenge ahead.

Everyone reacted differently to the approaching battle, and yet by the time the first grey tendrils of light appeared to show the heavy clouds over the plain, everyone had fallen silent. Outside the tent, there wasn’t a sound but the occasional clank of armour or sharpening of steel. It was a hushed awakening that morn, if indeed anyone had slept, and as the members of the Alliance shook hands and embraced each other and left to gather their armies, it was with a grim sense of purpose and a steadfast loyalty to each other.

Sadness there was too, for all knew that there would be losses – heavy losses – and yet it didn’t weaken their resolve. A great deal of respect rested on everyone that day, and Elrond felt certain he would never see such a thing again. Of course in time he would; one day he would host a meeting in which representatives of all free peoples attended. But he knew nothing of that, and so this day was the one day when they came together. This day was the day when they would have to win, regardless of who lost their lives.

Dawn was fully upon them by the time they each reached their positions. Formations that had been studied, practised and agreed long beforehand were formed quickly and with little fuss. Before them the gates spewed forth blackness and hate, long lines of orcs and uruk hai, the occasional troll. Men there were too on that side, and yet the armies of Gondor did not quail. Dwarves there were against them, still Durin’s people did not falter. Only the elves would not be fighting their own kin that day, but none called the loyalty of their comrades into question.

Despite their many differences - elves, men, dwarves and others coalesced as a single entity, their ranks swelling as they readied themselves for the charge. Shouts rang out up and down the lines, as nameless captains pulled together the threads of resistance, shouting of honour and glory as the sun’s red light shone through a sudden break in the cloud. It gleamed like blood on the dew of the grass before them as if in terrible premonition.

Elrond himself echoed Glorfindel’s rousing words as he brought forth the righteous anger of his army, giving them the only gift he could on this day – that of fury.

Like a well-oiled machine the armies came together, ready to strike at the cancer of the enemy before them, but then there was an unrehearsed movement to the far left of him. Oropher – his silver hair gleaming bronze in the sunlight – bade his army to charge too early. He showed no sign of nerves or fear as he turned his horse to ride forward with them, his sword held high in challenge as the roar of the army that he had built and prepared for this moment joined him in his rush forward.

It took all he possessed not to follow Oropher’s lead, but Elrond joined with his companions in urging his own forces to hold back, knowing that their success still depended on them moving in concert lest they hurt each other. Orders were shouted up and down the line, the timing was given as a countdown, and then one by one the armies of Gil-Galad, Celeborn, Durin and himself began to rush forward, painstakingly ordered in legions to give each other room to manoeuvre.

When he could spare the time, Elrond looked for Oropher and his contingent, seeing the silver clash with the black far away in front of him. They were alone, like a single star in the inky blackness of the night sky, and Elrond urged his warriors on alongside Glorfindel into the fray, knowing with a sickening certainty that many had already paid for Oropher’s impatience with their lives.

Strangely enough, that made him look for Thranduil, and he saw the Prince down the line, far away from him. It seemed that he might be looking in Elrond’s direction, but perhaps not. All that mattered was that he and his company had held back too, following the part that was allotted to them as his father had not.

There was little time to think after that, because they were closer, the blackness still spilling from the gates of the dark land like a sea of pitch, ready to consume those who dared to strike against them. Sauron too had been prepared for this moment, and in that Elrond saw a terrible parallel. He had one more moment of heartache for his beloved Oropher before the battle took all of his attention, and he fought valiantly, only retreating several hours later with his troops to let fresh arms take the fore. They fell back slowly, still fighting with the enemy though the intensity was less, and when there were bouts of inactivity, Elrond received a message that chilled his heart.

Leaving his men on the field, he strode back to their camp quickly, astonished at how far they had already come. They had beaten back Sauron’s forces so far that it was a long walk for Elrond, sword in hand, occasionally stopping to finish off an orc or a troll that lay writhing on the ground.

At last he reached his destination. Not his own camp, but Oropher’s.

Quietly, Elrond entered the King’s tent. He still gripped his sword in his hand, and now he let it go, the congealed blood sticky enough to keep it to his palm for a moment before it fell dully onto the mud floor. He unbuckled his sword belt and threw it to the side carelessly as if it disgusted him. The slain and the fallen littered the battlefield outside. No one had time to attend to the bodies. But this one… He gazed on Oropher’s still form for a full two minutes before falling to his knees at the side of the bed.

His forehead rested against the King’s hip, and without thinking too much he grasped Oropher’s cold hand, bloodying it, rubbing it a little as if he would restore the warmth, as if Oropher had simply been out in the cold too long.

When that didn’t work, Elrond kissed the back of Oropher’s hand. He had seen many things. He had seen death at work, and war, and Sauron. But now – now it felt personal, and he knew that the one left out in the cold was not Oropher, but himself.

For the first time since his brother had chosen certain death over immortality with him, he shed tears. Quietly, likely unnoticeable, given that his face couldn’t be seen, even if there had been someone watching over him.

“How can I follow you, meleth nín?” he asked in a bewildered and heartbroken voice, pausing to sob once, his entire body shaking with the effort it took him not to simply give in. “How can I follow you this time?”

He leaned back to rest on his heels, bringing Oropher’s hand up to his face, holding the dead King’s palm against his cheek. Hesitantly, his gaze moved over Oropher’s body to look at his blue eyes, unfocused in a reverie he would never awake from, and at that Elrond gave up fighting.

Letting out the grief was a terrible but blessed thing. He knew that many had died this day, and had died yesterday, and would die tomorrow. But this here and now – Oropher – this was his grief, and his friend, and his lover that lie still and cold and silent.

After a few minutes of the most wrenching, desolate sobbing, he finally noticed he was not alone. His eyes were cast down, and he saw the boots of the one who stood close, watching him in his misery. Through tear-blurred eyes, Elrond followed the boots to the leggings, and further up, until he encountered Thranduil looking at his father.

Suddenly, the elf’s green eyes switched to look down at him, and Elrond took in a shuddering breath, raising the hand that wasn’t clutching at Oropher to his face to wipe away the tears.

Thranduil did not seem overly emotional. Indeed, gently he took Oropher’s hand from Elrond and laid it by his father’s side once more, before turning fully to regard Elrond who still knelt by his feet like a loyal subject.

“The battle will continue, peredhil,” he said with certainty, calm and peace in his eyes. “Let his death make you wrathful and hungry for it. Let it make you require to kill his murderers. The time for grief will come when it is all over and we stand victorious.”

The words were so practical and sensible that Elrond laughed bitterly. How could he look upon his dead father and say such things? How could he pretend that it didn’t hurt? Oropher… Tears filled his eyes again, remembering their long lives, and he shook his head. “I cannot… I don’t want to be here without him.”

It was true that their closeness was a fickle thing, and that they might never even see each other for decades or centuries at a time, but in the unfolding of their relationship, it hadn’t mattered, and now it really was over – forever.

“Lord Elrond,” Thranduil began, frowning slightly. “You are needed. You cannot simply give in to this. What is expected of me is also expected of you. Do not let them down.”

Looking into Thranduil’s eyes, he saw how the Prince had become a King. In one instant the role had become his, and Elrond would not have been surprised to know that Thranduil had been trained and prepared for it. He thought of all the elves that came here with him, under his command, and he shook his head. What did any of it matter anymore when the enemy could take everything they cared about? “I don’t care. They are not us.”

Thranduil’s mouth compressed into a thin line, and Elrond looked away, instead gazing at his former lover again. “I see,” he announced presently. “You need a leader too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kiss my feet. Promise me your allegiance.” Elrond looked sharply to Thranduil again, and he almost laughed. Because when he looked at Thranduil this time, he saw an elfling he had taught to write the tengwar, a youth he and Oropher had taught to use a sword, a Prince that he had advised on matters of love.

“I will not!” he said, almost in scorn, shaking his head at the foolishness of it.

But then he faltered, because, again, he also saw the new King, he saw how much of Oropher’s charisma Thranduil had inherited. Perhaps it was not the same warm quality in him, but it was there nevertheless, and Elrond knew he would not fail to lead his people. He was an elf who would use Oropher’s death to win the war. Cold and deliberate, yes… but compelling.

“Oh, yes, you will,” Thranduil promised darkly, and Elrond felt a hand on the back of his head, pressing his face down to the floor, “because I demand it.”

“You… demand…” Elrond swallowed, all thoughts of Oropher gone from his head as he saw the shine of Thranduil’s boots getting closer and closer to his lips. At once he remembered that long ago day, when he had observed Thranduil kissing Nimbrethil’s feet, and he imagined Thranduil’s cold smile above him, a match for hers surely. He tried to struggle, half-heartedly, but it was no use, and by the time his lips were pressed against the dark leather, he had already given in.

“Give me your allegiance,” Thranduil stated calmly, his voice like a balm to Elrond’s upset mind.

“I…” he began, taking his lips away from the King’s boot for a moment. “I vow to serve you,” he whispered in awe, “my King.”

To be continued…

Translations:
lendeth nín – my sweet
meleth nín – my love

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading, I hope you are enjoying it. Please review, or email me: pip@pippychick.net
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The Teacher