Disclaimer: No money, not mine.
Beta: Anarithilen - you have her to thank for this really as I was going in another direction entirely!
Warnings: Slash, explicit sexual acts. Implied violence.
Chapter 34: Yôzâira
Elrohir felt restless and excited at the same time yet he could not account for it. He had turned Barakhir loose to graze and wander a little amongst the Rohan horses, noting that the horse ridden by Legolas now grazed near Eomer's stallion. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands and determined that he would not think upon that.
Instead, he returned to the tents and hesitated. Elladan had pointedly ignored him for the whole ride to Minas Morgul and he could not sleep there now. Aragorn had urged him to join him in his tent but Elrohir thought he would rather sleep under the stars tonight if he could sleep at all for this strange excitement made him restless. He rubbed his fingers together against the confusion of sensations as he made his way between the tents and campfires, intending to join a sentry duty, perhaps in the old town itself, for he felt strangely drawn to it.
Perhaps it was the sight of Minas Ithil, now ruined, that had made him wary and sentimental. When the vanguard had drawn rein at the entrance to the once fair valley, Elrohir had looked upon the ruined city that had once been the splendour of Gondor, remembering it in its glory. How it had once sparkled and drawn the eye to its elegant towers in those long gone days, and the sweep of the curtain wall and arching bridge. Long, thin pennants had streamed in the wind, exaggerating the delicacy of the architecture.
But now, an ominous silence lurked in the valley that had once been the garden of Gondor. There were no trees. The great beeches and oaks had gone. Instead the empty road slid slid between two huge plinths where enormous gargoyles rested. He felt all the hair on his body rise in horror Surely they watched. Surely they would any moment, crack open one eye like a slit of fire and surely they would rise up, open their thin leathery wings and scream like the Nazguls' steeds...
But the city was dark and lifeless; for the Orcs and lesser creatures of Mordor that had dwelt there had been destroyed in battle, and the Nazgul were yet abroad. Yet the air of the valley was heavy with fear and enmity. *
Elrohir had noticed his brother glance upwards, skimming along the cliffs and he realised there was a stair cut into the rock face. He shuddered. Both of them knew where that stair led, to Cirith Ungol. The horror of it stayed with him even now, the clinging sticky ropes...Gandalf too stared at it and his face was filled with a desperate fear and hope.
Sudden prescience had gripped him then and he saw, as in a dream, three small shadows slowly, unbearably slowly, climbing the thin steps up and up, into the Shelob's Lair. The hair on his head rose in horror. Elrohir urged Barakhir towards Gandalf then, but Elladan was already there, hand stretched out and reaching for the wizards' sleeve. And his twin's cold hatred of Elrohir was like a shield around him and Elrohir could not approach.
But as they had ridden back along the broken road, he had felt the dark touch like a slide of steel against his mind. He had looked up suddenly to see the black dot high above and moving fast. It had circled above them and he knew. Nazgul.
'They follow us,' said a voice at his side. Gandalf. 'Spying. Perhaps too, they believe they have spies amongst us. And who knows. Perhaps they do.'
Gandalf had glanced sideways and Elrohir had bristled at the implication.
'No. I do not mean that you will betray us, Elrondion,' the wizard had said softly, not a gentle softness. His words held a warning. 'They do not trust you. But perhaps they believe you may yet keep faith with them? They believe you spoke the truth about the One, for it was also what they saw in Legolas' mind as they broke him. You must be wary, Elrondion. Either they will want to kill you most of all, or they may try to tempt you further. Either way you are not safe...But none of us are.' For a moment, Elrohir had glimpsed the brilliant presence of Olórin beneath the veneer that was Gandalf, but he was still unfazed, unimpressed. He had held Olórin's gaze unblinking until the wizard had sighed and said, 'I believe you have made an enemy of the Nazgul indeed, killing their lieutenant. But Sauron is unlike his servants. He will seek you out I think. He will want your power. And I do not trust that sword of yours...it has betrayed its master before.'
Now back in Osgiliath, Elrohir paused thinking of the wizard's words. He knew that Gandalf had seen what it was that tempted him, and that angered him. Elrohir tightened his grip about dark Aícanaro. After all, it had been Gandalf who pressed Legolas for information after the Nazgul had encountered him on the walls of Minas Tirith, and Gandalf had hurt Legolas in his interrogation. It was Gandalf who had sent them both up the mountain, knowing it would, should lead to the woodelf's death...Yet he dared question Elrohir? He dared imply that Elrohir might yet betray them all?
No. He knew that was his guilt and anger speaking. For it was the wizard who had truly brought them both back down the mountain. And now, Gandalf protected Legolas from the pain, the screaming, agonised terror. But it would not last for long. It was clear to everyone that soon Legolas would remember and all of them trembled at the thought of what that might do to him.
Elrohir paused and looked up. He did not quite know what brought him climbing the wide stone steps into the old town square so he nodded at the sentries as he passed. They were at ease but alert and he felt the silent lands around them slept and were still.
He paused beneath a broken stone arch and lay his hand on the cold stones for a moment and breathed in. The air was cold and burned his throat a little in the early Spring night. An owl called, swooped over him once, and he turned to watch its ghostly flight.
He breathed in again. The scent of meadow grass drifted on the wind and he wondered at that for a moment and then turned into the wind, breathing in the fragrance, feeling a tug that drew him upwards. Trailing his fingers lightly against the cool stones, they snagged on a piece of cloth, torn from a green cloak such as the Rangers of Ithilien wore. He stared at it for a moment. A dark stain was on it and he thought it must be blood.
Shocked, Elrohir stepped back. Finding a solid wall at his back he leaned against it briefly. It was not the small piece of cloth that unnerved him, nor the dark stain upon it, but the sharp memory it evoked of a ranger telling the Nazgul of Frodo. And it was that which had led to Gandalf's decision to send Legolas to the Nazgul, and that had led in turn, to Elrohir's own plan, and his betrayal of Legolas.
He had proved himself unworthy over and over and over. He could never touch Legolas again. Never again would he hear his own song. He had to cut this tender new love away before it was too late. He had fooled himself into believing that he was perhaps not that twisted, depraved thing that he feared. Yet he reminded himself again and again that he was. He knew that. Beyond any doubt, he was worse than any orc. He had no one to blame but himself, and he would do his penance. He could do nothing to assuage his guilt about his mother, but he would guard Legolas from afar. And he checked his own resolve that, if necessary, he would find atonement in his own death.
He let his head drop onto his chest in absolute misery and pressed himself back into the wall. Cold stones against his back, cold starlight above and all was silent. The land waited, listened. Behind him, the camp was quiet, a snuffle of horses, a clatter as a nervous sentry dropped his sword. A voice floated over the night time air, complaining, another answering, and then both faded away.
And should Legolas find his way to Eomer's tent?
A thought insinuated itself, coiling around his misery...and he wondered for a moment.
No, he told himself. If he found Legolas making his way to Eomer's tent, he would allow it. But the jealous thought squeezed itself tightly around his heart then. He clenched his teeth and wondered how he could bear it.
Pushing himself off from the wall, he strode swiftly through the empty courtyard. Men had been busy, he thought, for the bodies had been removed. But an upturned cart was shoved against a wall and here an iron helm rusted in a dark corner unseen. He found narrow steep steps winding upwards to the parapet and unthinking, he climbed, two at a time, wanting to feel exhaustion, wanting his energy to leech from him into tiredness. He let his feet take him upwards where the air would be clearer, quieter.
But his fingertips prickled again and he found himself thinking again of Legolas. Obsessing, he told himself angrily. He shook his head as if he could rid himself of the thoughts and glanced up at the darkness ahead. The steps led to a tower, the roof had been torn away, the stones uneven and jagged. He leapt up the steps, fingertips prickling, nerves jangling.
And should he find his way to Eomer's tent?
The thought had become a voice, slid like steel between his noble intentions, and uncovered things he kept locked away in his heart; a depraved image of Legolas sprawled, lost in desire, his head back and long hair sweeping down his back, the painted swirls and emblems on his skin...
It will be Eomer whose mouth will be on him this time, not yours... the quiet voice wormed its way through his denial. No. He shook his head free of those insidious thoughts and rubbed his hands on his thighs for he felt his skin prickle like a fine needle was drawn lightly across it.
No, he said again, and grasped the cold stone wall for support, leaned against it to cool him. The cold seeped through his clothes to his skin and he drew a breath. If Legolas sought Eomer then he would live with it.
...But you fled before.
Yes. He had fled twice. Once in Aragorn's tent, and then again only hours before this when Legolas had stumbled and Eomer was there instantly. Elrohir felt again the jealous rage that flooded him so he thought he would kill the man...But he had resolved himself; the only way he could protect Legolas, Elrohir knew, was to watch him from afar. He would allow himself no comfort, no reward for his vigilance.
And when he remembers your violent lust, how you called him whore? How you betrayed him? How you led him to his doom?
Yes, he dreaded that moment, for it would come and soon.
And then, barely, he felt a breath of wind that came down from the mountains and carried the smell of snow. He paused, wondering if he heard an eagle cry, high above, and somewhere, deep within him, it resonated like someone had touched his heartstrings. His eyes half closed and he found himself turning towards the song, only half aware that it was this that had brought him here in the first place.
...Beloved, he said.
The other voice inside his thoughts hushed, crouched deep and waited.
Ahead of him a tower door hung on one hinge and above it, the tower itself was ruined, half the wall ripped away. He could see steps leading from one exposed floor to another. The stones were blackened. He had seen the power of Orthanc fire and was not surprised at the devastation. Winding his way upwards, he hardly knew that he traced the Song as it ran ahead, drawing him on like some siren through the ruined city, up towards the crumbled ramparts and the high tower that was silhouetted darkly against the night sky.
Above him the sky slowly darkened, and he paused on the ramparts to look out over the hundreds of tiny campfires scattered across the field where the host of the West slept. He could see the flickering where sentries walked slowly between the fires and heard the horses stamp and snuffle quietly in their sleep. He leaned his hands on the edge of the fortress wall and stared out at the mountains that edged Mordor. If he took the Gift of Men, he thought to himself, it would bring such relief. He could escape his immortal guilt, his useless longing for Legolas whom he did not deserve and who would not want him. He was no longer wanted by his brother...and who could blame him?
Elrohir looked up at the stars and searched as he aways did, for his ancestor. A deep sigh came from his bones and flesh. He was tired. Tired of the long life, the guilt, the dreadful crimes and blood on his hands. He felt steeped in it.
He found himself ascending the narrow, broken steps of the tower, pulled onwards as if by some invisible thread, barely aware that he followed a light green-gold thread that wound its way between the ruin and destruction, beneath the sounds of the world, more innate than breath itself. It drew him upwards, winding through the ruined tower. He followed the Song that was deeper than the world, through the crumbling, empty chambers until he emerged under the night sky.
There was no moon and only starlight. The raw prickling that had nagged him all night was still there, in the background but now he felt his skin tingle like someone stroked him with love, and Elrohir realised he had not felt so loved since...since...And the song wound about him, twined about him softly, like the arms of a lover. Then Elrohir saw him, standing on the walls, looking down. Wind blew through his long pale hair so it streamed back and the strong, beautiful face gazed out towards the west as if his heart were there.
For a moment Elrohir hesitated, for the lost yearning in his sea-green eyes was too strong and it could not be for him. No. It must be the Sea. Almost Elrohir turned away- but first he breathed in. Ah, that was the scent, the song. His beloved, meadow-grass and deep pools beneath the shade of ancient trees, forest streams rushing over granite boulders, through ferny glades and oh, his heart sang. He heard the cry of eagles again in his heart. He filled himself with the scent, the song, and eased back, intending to leave.
But Legolas turned and caught him in the long green eyes that seemed to have absorbed all the colour of the Sea. His smile dazzled and blazed in Elrohir's chest. And then stepping forwards and closer, Legolas tilted his head slightly to one side and, as if Elrohir were entirely expected, said, 'Why have you been avoiding me?'
Elrohir opened his mouth as if to speak but could not and turned away instead, and looked down. Legolas stepped closer again. 'You are avoiding me,' he said steadily. 'I do not know why.'
Elrohir set his teeth for Legolas was close now and he could feel his warmth, smell his scent. His long, wheat-pale hair drifted on the wind and his green eyes were steady, holding fast to Elrohir's. He wanted him. He felt his length filling and lust pooled in his gut, in his loins. Legolas smiled with such tender devotion it took his breath.
'Rávëyon,' he said simply.
It humbled and aroused him
Legolas moved towards him, slowly and it struck Elrohir he approached like he would a wild animal that might bolt. 'I am tired of searching for you,' Legolas said, 'and so I listened to your song, sang it with you, and brought you to me.'
He had reached Elrohir now and his hand brushed against Elrohir's chest. Elrohir breathed in with difficulty, felt he would choke on the emotion that surged in his breast. He closed his eyes against the unbearable beauty of the elf before him, green eyes, the pale hair like the sweep of sea grass on the pale beaches of Lebinnin. Ah, Elrohir sighed. He was beautiful. Perfect. Strong. Stronger perhaps than Elrohir for he remembered the fight at Linhir and was aroused by it, the struggle, the bang of blood in his veins, pulsing against the other elf as they fought, the insolence and challenge. But there was no challenge or insolence now... Instead, there was a softness, hesitation, fear perhaps that still Elrohir might reject him...And Elrohir knew he should.
'You should not be here.' He spoke slowly, hesitantly himself. 'You should not tempt me so,' he said at last.
Legolas smiled then, slowly and with an expression of deep love in his long green eyes, so tender that Elrohir could not bear it. He let his hair slide over his shoulder deliberately provocative, and leaned towards Elrohir.
Breath catching, Elrohir stepped away. 'No,' he said helplessly.
Legolas smiled again, slow, so confident in his tenderness, and he reached for Elrohir, cupped his cheek.
'You should go. You should not...' the words stumbling from Elrohir's mouth, were unconvincing.
Legolas was close now, so close he felt his warmth, he leaned in and his eyes were steady, holding Elrohir's own gaze so he felt lost, utterly lost. Elrohir did not step away this time but he raised his hand helplessly, as if to ward Legolas away.
'Legolas...' he said and the word was wonderful in his mouth, his tongue ran over the syllables like he was kissing him, slow and long and deep. But he tried, struggled with his desire. 'Please...you should...you should run from me.' He swallowed. 'I am so unworthy.'
But Legolas spoke again. 'Rávëyon.' And this time, Elrohir knew he could not resist. He felt the long hand slide through his hair and he shivered with unbearable pleasure, he felt his length fill and strain against his breeches at that one touch and his blood leapt. The fingers touched his face lightly, and traced his lips and Elrohir parted them willingly, breathing, sighing at the desire it aroused in him.
'It is I should plead with you,' Legolas said and Elrohir did not know why he would think that. Legolas' hand cupped his cheek and brought them together gently so when his lips were met with a warm mouth and Legolas licked his mouth gently, it felt like fire. He was slowly, irresistibly pushed back against the wall and pinned, but it was a delightful pressure as the elf leaned against him, so his whole body was pressed against the wood elf. He felt the hard, flat chest against his, thigh against thigh, felt the hard length of the other elf pressing into his thigh and felt the other elf smile against his mouth.
'Rávëyon, do not deny me this one small pleasure when we are on the brink of battle. How I have wasted our brief time together.' And if it felt like a well worn phrase, if he knew it was something Legolas had said before, over and over in his seductions, Elrohir did not care.
He wanted Legolas like nothing before. A primal instinct took over and he stopped thinking. Raw prickling flickered over his nerves and fired up in his belly, and he felt a stirring of the dark lust, but this time, Legolas had approached him, stared at him with predatory lust that matched his own and he gripped the strong arms hard and found only curiosity and excitement in Legolas' eyes. And Elrohir thought that if the Nazgul hunted him nearby, he could fight them. And if it had become harder the closer they drew to Mordor, he could resist them.
Now suddenly it was Elrohir who flipped Legolas; it was Elrohir who leaned against Legolas, pressing him into the rock, and pushing his tongue as deeply as he could, wanting to fill his mouth, wanting to plunge into the warm mouth that so willingly opened for him, sucked him in, pressing, pushing back. Strong arms came up around him then and pulled him closer and he felt a swelling of wild lust at his strong, masculine beauty- the broad shoulders, lean hips. And around him, the blood banging in his ears changed and all he could hear was song as it soared into the mountains over the pristine snow and he felt he was the eagle itself, hawkish eyes scanning the snow, hunting for the elf who ran lightly over sand and snow, watching him, hunting him, but joyously so he could stoop, plunge downwards, talons outstretched and raking into the elf's strong, powerful body, wrestle him to the ground and strip him bare.
His fingers found their way between the laces and buttons and he fumbled like an inexperienced boy. He almost growled in frustration when he felt the elf smile against his mouth again and Legolas' own hands expertly released Elrohir from every lace and button and he felt the cloak slide and pool at his feet, his shirt shoved open and whipped over his head. Legolas unbuckled his sword more carefully though and rested it against the outer wall, a little way from them, as though he did not want to touch it and the belt loosely curled and seemed to slither down over the battlements.
Elrohir's skin prickled and nerves jangled and he thought the eagle screamed, a thin high pitched scream of a hawk hunting, but it sounded wrong somehow...but he could not think for he felt the air against the skin of his thighs and blessedly he felt his shaft in the coolness of the air and it made it even hotter.
He kicked his clothes away and realised he was naked and Legolas still clothed. It put him in a different role with Legolas the predator. He grabbed the elf's tunic and shoved him hard against the rock again, pressing himself against him and when Legolas hands came up to help him, he felt enraged, engorged, furious, aroused. He knew what he wanted. He wanted Legolas sprawled beneath him in disgraceful abandon, wantonly subdued and Elrohir himself to be plunging into him. Suddenly bare skin rubbed against his own, caught almost uncomfortably, but the irritation served to inflame him more. He gripped Legolas hard and unresisting.
Legolas pushed Elrohir away briefly, and his lust flared.
The woodelf's long hair lifted on the breeze and he caught it in his own hand, pulled it over one shoulder. With the other hand he unbuckled his own belt and cast it aside, holding Elrohir's gaze. Elrohir could only stare, breathless as Legolas shrugged out of his tunic and threw it away from him, pulled his shirt over his head and cast it after this tunic. Then he sank on his knees before Elrohir, splayed his thighs wide and looked up, challenging him in spite of his submissive position. His nipples pebbled in the cool air and the painted dragon slid over his shoulder, and plunged beneath the waistband of his breeches...
Elrohir thought he had never seen anything so charged, so erotic as that strong warrior kneeling, yielding before him, and he wanted to keep the moment forever in anticipation, in yearning, in erotic denial but he could not. In spite of the cold air brushing his naked skin, he felt heat charging along his length and knew Legolas had only to touch him and he would explode. The elf laughed teasingly and lifted a finger hovering just above Elrohir's straining, desperate shaft.
'Yield to me,' he said. And in the teasing smile and the defiant gaze, Elrohir suddenly wanted to force him, to wrestle him down and plunge into him. Legolas licked his lips long and slow and Elrohir stared in fascination, his skin shivering, his cock bobbed in excitement and Legolas laughed then. 'Yield,' he repeated.
Elrohir looked down and a shudder rippled along his spine and his nerves jangled horribly. He thought he heard the eagle's hunting cry and wanted to rake his talons into the elf's flesh and rend him in his lust. He lunged forwards and grabbed Legolas long hair, wrapped it round his fist and dragged the elf's head back.
'No. It is you who will yield,' he said and felt a rill of dark lust at the slight hesitation in Legolas' eyes. 'But I think that you will not.' He realised his teeth were clenched hard together as he spoke. He had expected to think of Celebrián, the suffocating caves and stench of Orc...But he did not. There was only Legolas.
His hand tightened in Legolas' hair and the elf winced slightly and gasped, reaching up a hand as if in protest. With that small gesture of resistance, desire surged and flooded through Elrohir, a furious lust. Suddenly he pulled Legolas forwards and shoved him against his length and the elf's mouth opened with no hesitation now, seeming to acquiesce, and smiling, willingly, took him in his mouth.
Immediately his hot mouth closed over Elrohir and he felt the charging, speeding, churning in his balls. Heat sped through him. He felt Legolas begin to pull away, no longer so compliant, but he held him fast by his hair and forced his mouth down hard. Legolas pulled his head back, tried to pull away again but Elrohir held him hard, hard over his exploding, pulsing shaft....Suddenly, Elrohir threw his head back and his body convulsed....jerked and...a soaring ecstasy took him, wiped everything from his mind. Fist grinding Legolas' head against him, he jerked and bucked in ecstasy....He convulsed suddenly and went rigid, head thrown back and mouth open... and he thought he heard a triumphant chanting of dark voices, chanting violence and lust...and the liquid desire spurting from him.
His body shuddered in its final throws of arousal and slowly, slowly, his fist unclenched and he felt Legolas pull away, but the long hair remained caught in Elrohir's fingers and he stared, feeling strange dislocation.
Legolas was leaning away, spitting and wiping his mouth. The smell of Elrohir was everywhere and his hands with smeared and sticky.
Elrohir did not move.
Legolas turned then and looked up at him. 'I should apologise,' Legolas said.
Elrohir merely looked down on him, cold, colder than he expected somehow. He turned away slightly, feeling despair, feeling something slide through his thoughts, reptilian, repulsive and fascinating.
'It is something I have never liked and I do not wish for you to be offended...' Legolas held up his hand to be pulled to his feet, and when Elrohir made no move he let it drop back down, but disappointment crossed his face fleetingly.
'No.' Elrohir heard his voice as if from a long way away, and he forced himself to speak when he wanted instead to watch the darkness slide through him. 'I made you... I forced you to...' He came to a halt, and struggled to focus on what was happening, to ignore the insistent pressure on his thoughts. He knew then it had been the Nazgul that made him do this...they were above.
Strange shaped clouds were scudding, blocking out the stars...like dark wings outstretched high above and moving fast, whirling, swirling around too high to be seen, to far to be felt surely...He thought he should be gone, take Legolas with him back to the camp, safe. It was his vow to keep Legolas safe and here he was.
A coldness spread through his limbs, made him heavy and slow. He felt for the weight of Aícanaro against his thigh and remembered his nakedness, that Legolas had carefully unbuckled him and set his sword aside. He wanted to hold the hilt, feel the weight in his hand but he could not move.
The other elf was brushing off his breeches, and Elrohir could see he was still aroused, could smell him. 'You were carried away,' Legolas was saying and Elrohir saw a stain on his breeches.
Ah, you were carried away then too. How is it you are so undone by this elf when you have starved yourself in contrition all these long years? Your Yôzâira. You deny your own violent nature. Do you think Death will be enough to purge you? Nothing will ever be enough.
The voice insinuated itself, coiled about him, twined about his guilt and horror.
'You did not force me. It was hardly rape!' Legolas was laughing now, as if it meant nothing!
Legolas began to scramble to his feet but Elrohir, almost unwilling, almost as if it were not he that moved, put his hot hand that smelled of sex on Legolas' head, and stopped him.
'No. Not rape. For you were willing...But if you had not been?' He felt the cold words in his mouth but they were not his words. As if another spoke through him. Cold seeped into his bones and there was the metallic taste in his mouth, like iron. A sensation like fine needles drawn over his skin.
It had been easy to hold Legolas down, to force him, gagging, shoving himself blindly down his throat. And now Legolas remained where he had been pressed. He was subdued, thought Elrohir and brought his gaze back to the wood elf before him, still kneeling, he knew he could have gone further, could have lost himself in violent lust - as he had almost once before. Images slowly insinuated into his thoughts...the darkness closed around him. Here was safe. No one would see what he might do...a glow from torches flickering, licking over bare skin, painted skin, sliding over hard muscle, long lean limbs, hands twisting, straining at bonds, hair burnished by the flames... He recalled the moment he had pulled Legolas' head back and forced him to pleasure him, the erotic charge, the power and he suddenly wanted more, to bury himself, to pound into Legolas' body, to punish him, to take him, to...
But Legolas frowned slightly and shook his head. 'Why do we speak of rape? You could not do such a thing. I know.'
Elrohir let his head drop to his chest. He did not move, fought to be still. Darkness wound about his soul and like the dark clouds above him now that stretched out like wings to obliterate the stars, he felt slowly, slowly, overcome.
But Legolas, unaware of his dark thoughts, suddenly caught Elrohir's other hand and kissed it. Elrohir stared at him, stunned. Looking up at him with laughing, warm eyes, Legolas leaned back, shook his head free of Elrohir's restraint and said, 'I wanted you. I want you still.'
Legolas still knelt before him, and he could see the elf's pupils dilated and excited, smelled the desire that charged the air.
He reminded Elrohir of summer meadows and shady forests where the streams ran bubbling over slate and granite...and the darkness that had almost overwhelmed him, slunk down, flattened and hid. Elrohir stared. Believing himself freed from the cold pervasive darkness, he marvelled that the love he felt for Legolas burst from him like a song. He let his hand that had held Legolas down, turn and stroke instead his long silk hair and Legolas rested his head against his hand with such trust
'I have satisfied you but you will not give me pleasure or release?' Legolas asked, a teasing smile on his lips.
Elrohir stared at him; he saw the flushed cheekbones, the full mouth, warm. He imagined it around him as it had been only moments ago. The hard chest that had pressed against him and the strong arms that had pulled him in deeper. And he had come so close to...
Elrohir closed his eyes, struggling but those wanton images sprawled across his dreams and he felt himself rise and swell and lust pooled in his groin again and he swelled and pulsed and wanted, oh, he wanted...
'No!' he said suddenly, discovering again his resolve. 'You do not understand. I will destroy you.' He pushed Legolas away and stepped back, hardening his heart.
Legolas scrambled to his feet. His own desire, unspent, pressed against his breeches and he rubbed it unselfconsciously. 'You flatter yourself, Noldor,' he said but there was a fire in his eyes.
'No. You do not understand,' Elrohir protested once again.
Legolas came close to him now, and Elrohir remembered, absurdly, that Glorfindel had always said the elves of Mirkwood were more dangerous. Legolas was lithe, but strong. He stood close to Elrohir now, so close his breath was warm on his cheek and he leaned in again but this time caught his hand on the back on Elrohir's neck.
'Why do you deny me?' Legolas demanded and his face was close to Elrohir's so he could see the shadows of his lashes against his cheek, feel the slide of muscle beneath his skin. Elrohir did not fight back, did not pull away. He deserved to be reviled. 'A moment ago you were holding me down and now you deny me?' Legolas caught Elrohir's head in his hands and gazed at him for a moment. The long green eyes pierced him, struck him to his heart.
'I...do not want you,' Elrohir clenched his teeth and squeezed shut his eyes so he would not see the hurt.
There was a silence for a moment and all Elrohir could hear was the bang of blood in his veins, feel the swelling lust and crushing despair of his unworthiness. He waited for Legolas to throw him away.
Instead, a light laugh and Legolas ran his long, elegant hand through Elrohir's hair. 'Fool,' he said tenderly as if he understood everything. 'Of course you do. Feel how much you don't want me.' He brushed his hand against Elrohir's erection and Elrohir heard himself groan. Then Legolas kissed him, hard, unyielding, passionate. His tongue pushed and swirled and penetrated Elrohir.
Elrohir tried to raise his hands to push him off but Legolas quickly turned him so his face was pushed against the stone then. 'You press me and then deny me. You take your pleasure and then resist? You deny only yourself.' Elrohir felt a warm wet tongue trail along his neck and to his ear and he trembled, pressing himself hard against the stone wall...pushing his own arousal against Elrohir's naked body, murmuring into his ear, brushing his nipples. 'Yield to me.' And this time, Elrohir melted. He could no longer resist and if it meant that Legolas hated him forever, he would have anyway.
'Yôzâira.' he said. Ah, the word eased between his lips unbidden, unwanted.
And Legolas froze. Still pressed against Elrohir's naked body. He did not move. Barely breathed.
'You should have not called me that,' he whispered. 'That is not your word.'
Elrohir opened his eyes wide and felt the raw prickling that had never gone, only faded into the background under his desire. He felt the sneer and malice against his mind once more and knew they had been here all along, watching, waiting for him to fall...and he had.
'They are here,' Legolas whispered so quietly he barely heard. 'They are here for you,' Legolas' voice broke a little and Elrohir held himself ready now, for the magic that Gandalf had stroked across the elf's mind would not withstand this confrontation, he was sure. He felt Legolas ease back, shivering violently, stepping away from him then and stooping to the ground, reaching for his knives.
Elrohir looked about and saw where Legolas had so carefully rested Aícanaro. He heard their thin sneer, and a voice uncurled in his mind, inside him.
....Fool! Only I understand you. How weak and starved you are. How unresisting. Look at you. You forced him. You will always force him. You cannot do anything else...Give into it. He wants you to. He did not run. He wanted more...Give into me...With me, all will be well...'
Legolas stood with a long white knife in each hand, breathing hard and fast now but still did not raise his voice above the quietest whisper. 'Rávëyon! My lord! They will devour you... Run! Run. I will stay and hold them...' Legolas whirled round. His eyes were dilated and terrified and he elbowed Elrohir away.
'Run! Go now! They come. They come but I will hold them!'
He shoved Elrohir hard, towards the steps that led back down from the walls. But a swoosh of air from huge leathery wings overhead and a thin scream pierced his ears. Elrohir stumbled back and fell hard against the stone ground, all the air was pushed from his lungs and he gasped helplessly.
From where he lay helpless, he saw Legolas leap lightly upon the crumbling wall and turn defiantly towards the Nazgul's huge winged beast. Terror was in his eyes and Elrohir could see the barely repressed scream beginning to tear its way out of him. His long pale gold hair was caught in a sudden uprush of wind and the painted dragon on his naked torso seemed to writhe. 'Come then foul ones! I will kill you all!' Poised high on the crumbling wall, he brandished his knives and defied them, the scream that burst from him a challenge.
Suddenly, from the air above, a jagged-winged shape plunged past Elrohir and crashed against the wall, tearing stones from it as it swooped past. Just at the moment it plunged, Legolas leapt from one crumbling edge to another, and then paused tauntingly for a second upon a parapet. The creature screamed and wheeled beyond the ruined walls, its serrated wings spread wide like a huge bat. Its black shrouded rider raised a cold blade above its head, and from below were sudden cries. An alarm sounded, a horn splitting the night.
Elrohir struggled to his feet, still gasping, clutching his chest for all the breath had been knocked out of him in that fall. He stumbled to where Legolas had so carefully laid Aícanaro, and clutched at the sheath but the sword slid from his grasp, went slithering across the stone. Legolas was poised, shouting defiance upon the parapet. The Nazgul, clinging to the withers of the fell beast, raised its own cold blade and pointed it at the elf.
Instantly, Legolas clutched at his chest in agony, his shouted defiance turned to panting gasps and he folded over. The winged basilisk scythed its wings and tore through the air, opening its talons above Legolas. Elrohir cried out, stumbling forwards and Legolas looked up briefly, catching Elrohir's breathless gaze as he was obscured from sight by the beast's huge leathery wings that swept against the parapet. Loose stones crumbled and fell, and the thin parapet crumbled, crashed away into darkness. A rain of arrows shot through the air.
The creature screamed again and crashed headlong into the wall, skittering in its flight and sliding on the stone floor, crashing into the walls. It limped and held out its wing briefly, shaking its head. The Nazgul clinging to its withers raised its gauntlet and the creature lifted its head heavily and gathered its huge hindquarters beneath it and leapt into the sky. Its thin leathery wings flapped slowly and it listed slightly, climbing higher, spiraling like a hawk. Black blood hissed on the ground near Elrohir and he stared at it in horror. Then he looked about him for Legolas. There was no sign of him.
'We were nine...' a whisper trailed in the wind. 'We were nine...we will be nine again...'
- ROTK. The Black Gate Opens.
- Yôzâira – gift of longing (a word used in the ancient tongue of Men who became the Nazgul)
Any errors are mine as I changed a few more things after Anar had beta'd but I really wanted to get this out before I go off on holiday for a few weeks.
Now- that is especially for Debbie and Candy, etc who have been reminding me about needing a sex scene. So there you are. And unless I get loads more reviews than the last two chapters, I won't write anymore and you will never find out what has happened to our favourite elf!
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.