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Twilight Tales - Sacred Bond	By : MPB Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 12116 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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
- 1-Advent
- 2-Bridging
- 3-Pledges
- 4-Serendipity
- 5-Deepening
- 6-Request
- 7-Bedfellows
- 8-Liaison
- 9-Catalyst
- 10-Tidings
- 11-Profession
- 12-Rift
- 13-Seeking
- 14-Confluence
- 15-Oneness
- 16-Assignation
- 17-Covenant
- 18-Gambit
- 19-Recovery
- 20-Bond
- 7
- 8
- 9
Chapter VIII: Liaison

Imladris, tuilë TA 2509

The rays of the emerging dawn sun shimmered through the gossamer draperies of the windows and balcony doors to light the nearby wide four-poster bed. They caressed the slender form of the fair Elf who graced it so beauteously with his mere presence. Such comeliness was not lost on his companion whose pewter eyes appreciatively roamed the length and breadth of his body.

The sweetness of Legolas’ features in repose belied the hidden strength of his warrior’s frame. Elrohir’s gaze followed the hard slopes of the archer’s shoulders, swathed in the silver and gold of Legolas’ silken mane, as they gave way to the gently curving plain of his withy back then arced slightly into the smooth hillocks of his taut bottom before branching into the lines of his long, limber legs. His gaze returned to the prince’s bottom and the cleft therein. His lips curled into a smile at the knowledge of the snug and wondrous heat that was to be had once sheathed between those tempting curves.

He knew this body so very well. Was the only one who knew it that well.

More than three hundred years had passed since he’d given Legolas his first bed-lessons. In that time, relations between the Silvan Elves of the green wood and the Elda of the hidden vale had improved to the point of flourishing. Thranduil’s people remained cautious as ever with all other folk including the denizens of Esgaroth and Dale with whom they often bartered. But not with Imladris. Not any more.

With such amicable accord established between their respective realms, Elrohir and Legolas’ singular relationship had strengthened even further. So constant and passionate was their liaison that it had initially been mistaken for a burgeoning romance between friends and there had been expectations of the announcement of a betrothal before long.

But that assumption was proven quite false when Legolas was seen to keep company with others though never for long and certainly without the intense regard he had for Elrohir. Couple this with the fact that it was upon the advice of Elrohir himself that Legolas had tested his mettle and skill with other partners, then their relationship could not be misconstrued as a love affair. But if not that, what was it? It was a question many asked but none ever dared broach to either Elf, not even members of their own families.

In all these, only one thing was of any surety. Legolas had taken Elrohir’s counsel to heart and allowed none the privilege of partaking as wholly of his graces as the Elf-knight had and continued to do.

That counsel had served him well. No longer was he approached with less than noble intent by any Elf for fear of one of his scathing rebukes. The youngest prince of Mirkwood was the hunter, never the prey. The instigator, never a mere accomplice.

Only in Elrohir’s bed did he cast off that iron control and let himself be succored or ravished as his needs dictated. In Elrohir’s arms he knew complete safety, his dignity secured and his pride tenderly guarded.

The last was not a matter to be taken lightly. Legolas’ pride was second to none. It spurred him to excel in every endeavor he undertook. Which was why, despite his relative youth, he was now a warrior of such great repute as to have surpassed his brother Denilos in the battle-arts. It was just as well that he was not ambitious for power other than that which was already his, but dutifully accepted whatever his king-father assigned to him. Else he might have competed with Denilos for the right to command Mirkwood’s defenses. Or become a formidable contender for the position of Thranduil’s foremost counsellor, a rank Gilfaron held as Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm.

No, Legolas held no such lofty ambitions for himself. But it was his pride nonetheless that held him to his choices whatever they may be. Whether sagely thought out or impulsively foolhardy, he did not swerve from his path once he had set his mind to it. And it was also his pride that made him loath being bested by anybody on the fields of war or in the privacy of his bedchamber.

Small wonder that he refused to let down his guard even after three centuries and the bold cowing of those who’d earlier thought to master him.

Elrohir’s eyes softened as they regarded the peace and innocence of the archer’s slumbering countenance. He gently stroked a downy cheek then tucked wayward strands of mithril and gold behind a peaked ear. He allowed his hand to travel down the archer’s back, barely ghosting over his supple flesh before alighting on his bottom. Again, the awareness that to him alone had Legolas entrusted his full surrender moved him and he caressed the firm mounds affectionately.

The prince had come to Rivendell for a late spring’s visit, something he treated himself to whenever the chance presented itself, which was not as often as he liked. Legolas had never ceased to revel in the valley’s multitude of attractions not least of which was the Elf-knight whose bed he eagerly warmed. Whenever he could set aside his many duties as prince and soldier, he would travel to Imladris and sojourn there for a lengthy spell. And for good reason.

The harshness of life in Mirkwood had never truly relented. More so now that the malignant power behind Dol Guldur was returned and strange creatures intermittently roamed the plains around the great forest. Their bloodcurdling shrieks were enough to near frighten the faint of heart to death.

Each time Legolas and his brothers took their turns defending the borders of the Woodland Realm, they risked life and limb. Their sister Tuilinniel had been widowed when her mate was slain in a brutal encounter with orcs attempting to pass the kingdom’s southern bounds.

Thranduil had taken steps since to safeguard the womenfolk and young of his realm, sending many to the relative security of the Grey Havens. In the last hundred years or so alone, at least half of the refugees had chosen to leave Middle-earth and seek permanent refuge in Valinor, Legolas’ two sisters amongst them along with Celebrethil’s husband and children.

This exodus might well have fatally diminished the Woodland Realm were it not for the stubborn resolve of its remaining folk. Fortunately, fertility and normal birthing had been restored during the centuries of the Watchful Peace and the Wood-elves had managed to keep their population tenable.

But it was dangerous to step beyond their borders now unless one travelled with a fully armed escort. Legolas always came to Rivendell accompanied by no less than a half-dozen strapping woodland soldiers armed to the teeth. On several occasions, his father had tried to forbid his journeys to the vale but eventually always gave in to his stubborn youngest’s arguments.

Legolas would not forego a single opportunity to visit Imladris if he could help it. He needed his increasingly infrequent sojourns in the valley. Such interludes of serenity in his perilous existence invigorated him and nourished his oft-drained spirit and he would return to Mirkwood much heartened and more than ready to shoulder his responsibilities anon.

“I am not so sore that you should restrain yourself, Elrohir.”

Elrohir came out of his musings and looked into fully lucid sapphire eyes. They sparkled with mirth at his obvious startlement. He shook his head.

“How long have you been awake?” he inquired.

Legolas grinned, rubbing his cheek lazily against the silky fabric of his pillow. “Long enough to grow impatient for you to make a move,” he quipped.

Elrohir smirked. “I do not care for insensible partners,” he pointed out. “But now that you are roused…”

He gripped Legolas by the waist and, rolling on his back, pulled the archer atop him. Legolas moaned in delight as he was hungrily kissed while the Elf-knight’s fingers lustfully roved his body. Gasping from the pleasure coursing through him, the prince raised himself slightly without breaking their lips’ embrace to settle astride Elrohir’s thighs. He reached between their bodies to grasp their thrumming lengths in both hands and stroked them together, enjoying the feel of the heated columns betwixt his palms. Soon they were both on the verge of completion.

Legolas ceased his maddening caresses and crept up a little higher. Elrohir reached up to cup his face and catch his gaze.

“I rode you quite hardily last night,” he murmured. “I am more than willing to be used thusly this morn, ernilen.”—my prince.

Legolas smiled but shook his head. Leaning down to steal kisses from the Elf-knight, he softly said, “I am not ready for that, melethron.”— lover. “Not yet.”

Elrohir sought to persuade him no more. He held Legolas’ hips and eased him down onto his seed-slick shaft. Legolas gasped in sheer bliss as he was pierced then groaned in ecstasy when he was filled nigh to bursting. Elrohir marveled as always at his enjoyment of this invasion of his body. But then Legolas enjoyed every aspect of bed-play and enthusiastically explored the ways and means by which to extract the greatest pleasure from a coupling.

But not if it required him to take Elrohir.

Others would have deemed it strange had they been cognizant of this considering that the archer was known for his proclivity for dominance. Yet if Elrohir was the only ellon to ever breach the youngest woodland prince, so too was the Elf-knight the only lover Legolas had declined to conquer.

The archer’s reverence for his bed-tutor precluded indulging in such an act. Legolas may have had the temerity to importune Elrohir into bedding him. But to bed the younger twin in turn was another thing entirely. Elrohir had not only been his best friend; he was also millennia older than him, had been his teacher in everything from the more scholarly and artistic pursuits to his grueling training as a warrior, and had mentored him through many of the more difficult stages in his life.

Legolas could not conceive of having one who had guided him since infancy now lie beneath him, spread himself for him and let him spill his seed within him. It simply seemed so improper.

Elrohir did not think it improper at all. But neither did he press the issue. Admittedly, he had been surprised to discover this uncharacteristic puritanical streak in his normally adventurous friend. But he did not wish to force Legolas into doing something he had not yet come to terms with. Some day the archer would relinquish this particular inhibition but Elrohir wanted it to come to him naturally.

Besides, he had no cause for complaint. Legolas was most adept at pleasuring both of them. As he proved once again this morning.

As they lay together in the pleasant haze of rapture, Legolas contentedly nestled his golden head on Elrohir’s shoulder. “I wish I did not have to leave just yet,” he murmured, planting a kiss on said shoulder.

Elrohir idly asked: “Is it imperative for you to return this week?”

Legolas sighed. “Aye, it is,” he said. “Denilos has been on border duty since winter. I need to relieve him and his men lest they fail from weariness.”

Elrohir caressed his hair, slipping his fingers through the fine shining strands. “I only pray the Powers will keep you when you take his place, Legolas,” he said.

The archer’s answering smile was impish. Legolas’ spirit might occasionally falter but it was never truly vanquished. “Spare some pity for the poor vermin who will encounter my steel,” he cheekily declared.

Elrohir smiled back, his pride in the prince’s courage and skill apparent in his eyes. “I can feel no pity but only scorn for any foolish enough to test your patience,” he retorted.

Legolas subsided into his arms again with a snort of laughter. Nuzzling Elrohir’s neck, he lazily queried: “Are you still going to Lothlórien this summer?”

“Aye.”

“Your parents must be eager to see Arwen again.”

“They are. And they are looking forward to wintering in the Golden Wood as well. Adar especially enjoys sojourning there with Naneth. There is something about Lórien that brings deep healing to the heart and spirit. Even more than here in Imladris.”

Legolas nodded thoughtfully. “Mmm, so you have told me before,” he said. “I envy you, Elrohir. I wonder if I will ever visit Lórien. Even when you describe it, it still seems more like a myth than a real place to me.”

Elrohir pressed his lips to the prince’s temple. “Mayhap you will get the chance some day,” he said. “I only hope ‘twill not be out of dire need that you will seek out my grandparents’ realm.”

Whatever else he thought to say was stifled by one of Legolas’ dizzying kisses. And minutes after, there was no room for thought as rapture had its ways once more with both of them.

*******

Lady Celebrían left for the Golden Wood a month after Legolas’ departure. But neither her husband nor sons were with her. A frightful skirmish with outlaws on the northeastern boundary of Rivendell called the twins away to aid Glorfindel. Impatient to be reunited with the daughter she had not seen in eight years, their mother had decided to push through with the journey as scheduled. Elrond, as much healer as Elf-lord, had waited for the brethren’s return, mindful of the inevitable injuries that were always the outcome of such violent encounters. Thus, it was only after four days that they were able to set out in her wake.

They travelled steadily and swiftly and soon came to the foothills of Caradhras. They set up camp the night before their ascent. They would not stop to encamp again until they had crested the mountain and traversed the Redhorn Pass. With luck, they might even catch up with Celebrían ere she and her escort came to Lothlórien.

Early the next day, they followed the mountain trail, their elven steeds deftly picking their way up the steep path. They had reached the last plateau before the long and sheer climb to the pass when they came upon the unexpected.

Three Elves struggled down the path on foot. Not a one was not grievously wounded. Elrond and the twins stared in dismay. They were of the escort that had accompanied Celebrían.

Elrond was off his horse in an instant, running to meet them, the brethren not far behind him. “What has happened?” he demanded hoarsely as he neared the warriors. “Where is my wife?”

The least battered of the three settled his barely conscious comrade on the soft grass before rising to his feet to face Elrond. The third sank down on a low boulder, head bowed, spent beyond bearing.

“Orcs ambushed us in the pass,” the first warrior explained wearily. “They have taken her. Ai, forgive us, my lord! We failed you!”

He swayed even while he spoke and fell in a swoon into Elrond’s arms as he finished relating what had passed. The Elvenlord shared a look of shock and horror with his sons. Laying the warrior down gently, Elrond made to rise, his hand already grasping the hilt of his sword, blazing eyes lifted to the peaks above them.

“Nay, Father,” Elladan said grimly. He gestured to the foundered soldiers. “You must stay here and see to their injuries else they might perish from want of care.”

“Aye, Elladan and I will go after Nana”—Mama—Elrohir concurred. Seeing his father’s frustration, he clasped Elrond’s shoulder tightly. “We will bring her home, Ada”—Papa—he firmly said. “We swear.”

Elrond, mouth tight with barely suppressed rage and mounting dread for his lady, could only nod his assent. He silently watched his sons vault onto their steeds and race up the climbing trail. Again, his eyes lifted to the towering peaks above. The suddenly treacherous peaks of cruel Caradhras.

**************

Glossary:

tuilë – Quenya for spring

Adar – Father

Naneth – Mother

ellon – male elf

To be continued…
- 7
- 8
- 9
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Twilight Tales - Sacred Bond