A/N: For the story of Eluréd and Elurín, see The
Silmarillion, JRR Tolkien, pp 282-284
The Sons of Elrond
Now stood the sons of Elrond upon the howling heights of the Redhorn
Pass gazing out over the living schema of all Rhovanion below, marching
out for leagues and leagues to a Northern horizon hidden behind the
obfuscation of the Greenwood's dense curtain of wood and leaves.
The elevation of the treacherous thoroughfare rendered all but the wild
forest in reduced proportions.
There flowed Anduin, diminished to a sleek ribbon of shimmering gleam
flung down against the variegated mantle of verdure garbing the
lowlands, olive and tan, the customary colours of meadowed
fields. At the fingertips of Hithaeglir where the stony-souled
shoulders of the mountains were gently rounded into soft hills clad in
life-giving loam, crowded in the crux of the Great River and the
Nimrodel, clung the isolated weald of Mellyrn Taur [Mallorn
Forest]. From this vantage, the Golden Wood looked less the realm
of eternal elven dream that was Lorien and more a disenfranchised
legion, still a proud and fearsome army, forced back and amputated from
the body of its defences until, no further retreat possible, the
enchanted woods held what little glory remained in Arda against the
onslaught of a darkening future.
Directly across the thin strip of the river's flood plain spiked the
black spire of Dol Guldur, an obscene protrusion of Sauron's handiwork
amid the majestic might of Yavanna's oaks and beeches, aligned with
eerie precision to sight the approach to the High Pass. Identical
eyes of dauntless sable gazed upon the vile tower yet faltered not,
though surely the sense of malevolent appraisal returned upon the
Imladrian Lords was not imagined.
Elladan and Elrohir did not fear the minions of Melkor's apprentice;
they hunted them with predatory persistence.
Neither did the brothers, standing side by side firm upon the snow
cloaked stone, quail under the vicious temper of Caradhras. Drift
crystals spun through the sharp clarity of the thinned air, defining
the shape of the wind that swirled in gusts and shoved against the
twins in shearing down-drafts designed to loose them from the slender
slickness of the granitic path. Clasped about their shoulders,
fur-lined capes whipped out and around them, alternately furling and
uncurling upon their knees, hugging close upon them before fanning away
to snap and twitch in muffled, repudiating insolence at the breath of
Redhorn.
Shoulder to shoulder, proud and bold, tall in the manner of Tuor their
forebear, Elrohir and Elladan stood battle ready and armed for
combat. Mithril mail protected their hearts and their hungering
broadswords, too long starved for the taste of Orc, were belted at
their hips, Elladan's to his left and Elrohir's upon the right.
Now like unto their masters were these weapons. Even as the
brothers were born of the same seed so were these blades forged of the
same metal. Imbued with equal amounts of strength and power,
blessed with perfection in beauty and cogency, aglow with the light of
Aman yet harbouring an unquenchable thirst for squelching the essence
of the Enemy, the twin swords were unmatched upon Middle-earth except
in their opposing symmetries. Once whetted, their appetites
forever craved the scent of death, yearned for the sticky flow of
darkness spilling from black wounds, sought the absorption of minuscule
metallic components released from the scurrilous fountain upon their
steely edges to settle deep within hearts never sated.
Orthoron [Conqueror] was Elladan's blade while Elrohir's sword was
Daengeredir [Corpse Maker] and together they decreed retribution and
dealt vengeance upon the Shadow's soldiers.
Sable were their eyes and sable was their hair, and if black was the
colour of captured light then truly the brilliance of Illuin and Ormal
[Lamps of Aulë] must have been caught within the glossy tresses,
so richly resplendent was the sheen of vigour upon these lengthy
strands. Bound back with impeccable precision, the locks lay
heavily down the brothers' spines, three thick plaits preventing
grappling with the gusty hands of the mountain while two long tendrils
on either side, wrapped tight in tri-coloured ribbons of sea-blue,
foam-white, and ruddy earthen red, framed faces fair and set in grim
ferocity.
In countenance and body were these two the mirror of each other, as was
renowned among all elf-kind for the rarity of the occurrence. Yet
Elladan and Elrohir favoured not their sire nor was their appearance
similar to the looks of Celebrian their mother. It was said that
the triple heritage of three races gave them a unique beauty and regal
dignity not beheld upon Arda since Dior met his doom rather than
surrender the Nauglamír to the sons of Feanaro.
Great was the weight of that cursed history upon the sons of Elrond,
for the ancestor's of one branch in their noble lineage had slain the
kin of their forebears within the other, all for lust of the remnant of
living light of the Two Trees enslaved forever within the
Silmarils. And the curse was not through with the bloodline of
Finwë, for the darkness had stolen away the gentle brightness of
Celebrian such that no longer could the burden of life upon Arda be
borne and she had departed for Aman. Upon the day she sailed had the
brothers made their choice; they must in the end go over sea or forever
be parted from her.
Yet, not before the vile seep of Sauron's insalubrity was cleansed from
the lands, not until their insatiable swords had incised away all the
pestilential infestations of Melkor's blighted progeny.
There within plain view of their sharp sight sprouted the beacon of
evil from whence the Dark One broadcast his foul desolation over the
lands, and from there had come the poison that had robbed Elladan and
Elrohir of their mother. How many others of elf-kind had met a
similar end, or a worse one? What beleaguered souls from among
the woodland folk remained imprisoned there in the fuliginous vacuum of
the turret's dungeons? Were those piteous eldar, tortured and
twisted, maligned and marred, the source for the unending succession of
generation after generation of loathsome Orcs that plagued all the
peopled lands?
Such were the thoughts of Elrohir and his heart ached to know these
ponderings. Beside him Elladan shuddered in horror of this image
wrought in his brother's brain, for what one twin knew in his mind the
other understood simultaneously, and what the other experienced in
spirit his counterpart's soul felt in equal fullness. So complete
was the link between the two that seldom did words pass spoken between
them. Physically they mimicked this interior communion such that
never was one seen without the other close at hand and the gemini moved
through life with unison of purpose and predestined ardour to
accomplish the will of Eru and undo the corruption of Arda.
With precipitous synchrony the brothers turned from contemplation of
the compelling citadel and began their descent to the Dimril Dale and
the borders of Lorien. Behind them on the path their mounts
needed no orders to follow and stepped forward after their masters with
footfalls as silent upon the snowy carpet as the tread of the brothers'
elven boots.
Solid, strong, intelligent, and beautiful, the horses were worthy of
the First Born who had trained them up from spindle legged colts into
mature warriors in their own rights. Their coats gleamed in the
wan sunlight, richly brown in mahogany tones except for the broad
equine foreheads, each of which was starred with a single round dot of
pure white hair. No gear or tack adorned them, but upon their
sturdy legs were bound mithril gaiters, for the brothers would not
suffer the stallions to be lamed in battle, Orcs being notorious for
attacking horses' limbs to unseat the rider.
The present steeds represented the descendants of the twins' first war
horses, long dead for nearly an Age; their lineage documented one
hundred and twelve generations back along the stallions' male
bloodlines, according to the custom of the Noldor. Elladan's
mount was Nirmë [Act of Will] and Elrohir's charger was Namië
[Judgement] and the brave beasts were as eager as their masters to meet
the Orc hordes of Dol Guldur in combat.
Elrohir felt strongly the pull to confront the putrid powers
sequestered in the Dark Fortress, and Elladan's hand moved to rest upon
his brother's shoulder, drawing him back to the immediate task.
Always was it thus, Elrohir sought to hasten the completion of their
mission while Elladan supplied the rational caution their perilous
life's work demanded.
More than the tower called to the younger twin, for long had his
thoughts hovered near the wild lands and the savage eldar dwelling
hidden in xenophobic seclusion beyond the forbidding gloom of the
forest's eaves. Elrohir was first alerted to these folk when he
had been but an elfling under a mild punishment for a not too minor
offence.
Against Elladan's protests, he had released the contented, domestic
livestock of the Last Homely House from their well-kept pens into the
freedom of the open fields and orchards of Imladris, where the cattle
had done much damage to neighbours' crops and homesteads. After
securing the animals and apologising to every elf affected by the
liberation of Yavanna's lesser creations, he had been ordered to clean
and catalogue a long neglected stack of old scrolls and obscure books.
The real punishment, however, had been his separation from Elladan, who
had not been included in the consequent reprisals for the ill-conceived
return of the lowly beasts to their natural state nor allowed to
succour his brother through the dreary chore.
Elrohir had read more than he had worked, and had found an account of
the attack upon Menegroth by Celegorm and his brothers. Of all
the terrible deeds documented against the Noldor, the abandonment of
the twin sons of Dior made the strongest impact upon the impressionable
youth. Too close to his father's history, and thus his own, was
this sad legend and ever after Elrohir's heart wandered after the fate
of Elurín and Eluréd.
Even when full-grown and a seasoned warrior, the youngest of Elrond's
offspring sought out any hint or rumour relating to the time after the
fall of the Sindarin Realm in Beleriand. Only Elladan knew the
true extent of this obsession, and was perpetually redirecting his twin
away from the interior of Thranduil's Realm for Elrohir had convinced
himself that their great-uncles would be found among the Danwaith, or
at least knowledge of them discovered.
The ongoing attention Elrond had bestowed upon the Greenwood, or rather
upon one particular citizen thereof, only served to fuel the intensity
of his son's curiosity by giving him another possible relative to seek
out: the child of Ningloriel.
Elladan no longer attempted to deter or forestall his brother's mental
quandary over these elusive and ambiguous kinfolk. Such an
activity would be as futile as Elrohir's efforts to know the
truth. Moreover, there was nothing illogical or far-fetched about
the younger twin's reasoning and in fact Elladan agreed with his
brother's deductions.
If the accounts of the history-makers were true, then Elurín and
Eluréd had been seized and dragged away from the cooling bodies
of their parents even before the life-blood had ceased to gush from the
mortal wounds. Inspired by rage for the death of Celegorm, his
trusted servant, a female warrior reputed to be the Noldo's paramour,
commanded the action and lead the small group away into the heart of
the forest beyond the former bounds of Melian's protection. There
in the deep wilds were the young ones left, overwrought in grief and
terror, to starve or to fade or to become fodder for wolves.
Now Elrohir had often pointed out that these woods, while appearing to
the Noldor rugged and inhabited only by beasts and birds, were in fact
home to scattered groups of Green Elves. Surely these eldar must
have seen all that transpired and would never have left two elflings
defenceless and alone, especially knowing the identity of the pair, as
they must, for long years had Dior dwelt in Ossiriand and there his two
sons were born. Nay, the Sylvan elves would have gathered up the
orphans and escorted them over Ered Luin to be adopted among the
Danwaith of the Greenwood, there to abandon not their life and breath
but only the names that marked them as the heirs of Thingol, for word
spread that Maedhros was diligently searching for the twins.
It was a great tale, and Elrohir believed it wholly, and in his own
heart Elladan also hoped for this to be the completion of the history
of the sons of Dior. Yet there was no remedy for the mystery, for
the lands in which the search would take them were forbidden, by their
father as well as the Woodland King.
Faster than an eye can blink the entirety of Elrohir's lament against
the cruelty of fate and the obdurance of destiny flowered and was
collected instantly within Elladan's consciousness where he matched the
melancholy rage of his brother with equally vehement passion against
the darkness overshadowing their family. Within Elladan's spirit
arose the summation of their calling and the hope of freedom their work
promised and this image of noble sacrifice flowed back into his
brother's psyche to soothe the bitter emptiness in both their
souls. It comforted them to address the unchangeable doom of the
Silmaril's protectors in this way.
Halfway down the steep incline the brothers halted and gazed upon the
southernmost borders of Greenwood, for a figure on horseback emerged
into view, racing with all speed the steed could command toward the
safety of Mellyrn Taur. The rider, an elf dressed in the colours of
Thranduil's warriors, urged the weary animal on and drew farther into
the brown, desiccated plains dividing the enchanted realm from the
looming blackness of Mirkwood. Now his pursuers could be
discerned as well: Warg Riders, three in number, howling obscenities
and brandishing short stubby sabres encrusted with gore and rust.
Too far away to be of aid, Elladan and Elrohir froze, tensely
transfixed, and witnessed the deadly race. From above the rate of
progress appeared sluggish and slow, yet the twins knew the horse was
running with every ounce of endurance its muscles could supply.
Keen eyes allowed them to note the sweat-lathered flanks and flaring
nostrils of the steed and the calm demeanour of the Sylvan upon its
back. Together they judged the skill and speed of messenger and mount
sufficient and relaxed as the elf drew ever closer to the eaves of
Lorien.
The Wargs seemed tireless, driven by fear or demonic magic, and ran
with jaws slavering and fangs revealed, hungry and mad with it.
The equestrian paid no attention to the shouted threats or the low
gurgling growls of the beasts on his charger's heels. With
determined insistence he made for the Anduin, and steadily increased
the distance between them. The river was reached and the horse plunged
into the current while the Orcs halted abruptly amid a thick cascade of
arrow fire from among the tree-lined banks of the opposite shore.
Elrohir and Elladan smiled gloating grins to one another and continued
their journey eagerly; anxious to hear what news the Woodland courier
bore to the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood.
Not as fortunate was the Greenwood's rider sent to bear the King's
tidings of triumphant joy in the birth of the new Woodland prince to
Imladris. This messenger only made the trip alive due to the
loyalty and intelligence of the courageous charger, for the hapless elf
ran afoul of the remnant of the defeated legion from the Misty
Mountains returning to the stinking holes that served as abodes for the
vile servants of Sauron. Upon discovering the elda the Orcs gave
chase and, unlike their counterparts in the southern regions, these
beastly creations were armed with bows; one unleashed an arrow that
anchored into the rider's thigh.
Nearly unseated, the Sylvan warrior could only pray the barb was
untainted as she quickly armed and aimed her weapon, releasing whatever
served as souls for Orcs from the three persistent enemies crowding the
Dwarven Road. On the opposite slopes of the Mountains far
from the limit of the Sinda Lord's holdings, the messenger wrapped her
fingers through the mare's mane where it streamed from the horse's neck
and leaned in anguished distress upon the steed's heaving
shoulders. It would be a near thing, making the ford of the
Bruinen before her strength gave out, and she drove her fleet-footed
companion on. She dared not halt to tend the wound, for should
she pull it forth and it was poisoned, then the increased flow of blood
would move the venom more quickly through her veins.
The war-horse was of the sturdy stalwart breed raised among the trees,
not as tall of limb or as broad in breadth as their cousins adapted to
the plains of Rohan or those powerful chargers trained for combat
within the walls of Minas Tirith. The Woodland equines mimicked Eru's
fair Children of the Greenwood. Slight of frame and compactly
muscled, the Sylvan's mount was agile and swift, made for slipping
through the bolls and bracken with alacrity and stealth, and her coat
of glossy fur was splattered and dappled white upon brown in imitation
of patches of sunlight that crossed the forest floor upon Anor's trek
through the heaven's each day.
Indeed, the sun had set twice before the ford was reached, and by the
dawn of the second morn the rider had lost consciousness and lay draped
upon the horse's neck. Then did the mare's step quicken yet
retained the unrivalled balance and soothing gait that somehow looked
more a dance of elegant display than the desperate run for help which
in truth it was. Under the faint gleam of Ithil's slender sickle in the
closing hours of the second night's passing, the charger scented water
and the unmistakable essence of horses bearing elf kind. As the
advent of Anor's return lit a band of brightness below the departing
black and diamond glimmer, three sentries rode forth from the banks
beyond the river and waded into the stream to guide the mare across.
The riders and their horses were all known one to another, for this
Sylvan was the assigned courier to the court of Imladris.
Friendship there was between these soldiers, nurtured by the common
ground of shared experience and long travail against the deepening
darkness accosting both sides of the dividing range of jagged
peaks. Once safe within the domain of Elrond's protection, the
warriors gently lifted the wounded messenger from her steed to rest in
the arms of the fastest among the three and straightaway he sped for
the Last Homely House and the healers there.
But the arrow point was dipped in toxins and so, ere Anor set a third
time, far from the comfort of homeland and kin, fell the only elven
casualty of Legolas' battle against the Orcs.
Of such events the Lord of Imladris must be advised, and so Glorfindel
knew, yet he hesitated to take the news to his esteemed
colleague. Elrond's manner had been strange of late.
Short of patience and quick to temper, the son of Eärendil spent
less than half his usual time with his council, delegating the cares of
state to Lindir and Gildor Inglorion. Little did he sleep, even
by the standards of elf-kind, and long hours he spent roaming the
manicured grounds of his peaceful haven, yet no ease could his troubled
mind and worried heart obtain within the sheltered valley. As
now, his attention strayed to remembrance of the month's worth of days
spent among the towering trees of the Woodland Realm in the company of
the feral son of his former lover.
Was it but one cycle of Ithil's waxing?
Legolas had become a constant presence in his thoughts and a burning
torment to his body as his loins longed for lunging completion within
the constricting channel between the lean and lanky shanks of the wild
elf.
How can it have been only once?
As on other days since his return, Elrond's restless mind directed his
steps to paths that would ensure his isolation from the rest of the
household. He stood upon the cliff overlooking the falls where
the Bruinen dived down into the hidden haven. Here the roar of
the turbulent cascade emulated the torrent of emotions flooding his
soul and the virulent flush of the western sky afire with the passing
of Anor mocked the heated, florid hardness within his groin. Not
since Gil-Galad had Elrond known a need so insatiable.
It was his father's uncle, heir of the noble line of Fingolfin, who
initiated Elrond into the illicit delights of carnal coupling with his
own sex. The affair with Ereinion had been his first and only
such relationship until the taking of the wild archer. More than
mere physical attraction had drawn him to the High King and Elrond's
heart had been compromised; the fabled warrior had been the herald's
first love.
The damage done to the younger son of Elwing upon the destruction of
Gil-Galad was nearly lethal. Only a deathbed vow to stay and
complete the route of Sauron's evil held Elrond's feä bound to
hroa and both to Middle-earth. That, and Vilya. Duty,
obligation, and honour became the scaffold upon which the Lord of
Imladris maintained a semblance of the majesty and might of the eldar
in the First and Second Ages in his hidden haven in the hollow between
the natural protection of the Loud Water and the mist mantled
mountains. The vale still sang with elven voices, but its
master's no longer joined the song.
And love he knew never again except as the gleam of pride for his
offspring and the comfort of comradeship with their mother.
Thus the noble Lore Master, revered healer, Keeper of Vilya, and
esteemed member of the Council of the Wise was stunned to discover the
stirring in his stymied heart that accompanied the stimulation of his
libido whenever his imagination was overtaken by the image of the
fallen archer. What to do about it he could not determine, and a
blinding panic attended every episode of daydreaming which featured the
Sylvan outcast.
Legolas!
Elrond's reason swayed to extremes, on the one tilt decreeing an
exorcism of the robust hallucinations and a return to the sober-minded
stability for which the Noldo Lord was known. Yet in its next
contraction his heart surged boldly, demanding its right to know the
fullness of love's promise hinted at in the person of the Woodland
warrior. For Legolas had offered Elrond something not even
Gil-Galad had supplied: compassionate acceptance.
Neither did it escape the Imladrian's excited comprehension that
Legolas would submit willingly, completely, and beg to be taken if
denied this subjugation.
That the High King had been fair beyond measure among the members of
the House of Finwë was indisputable and the orphan of the Mariner
and his elven wife had been easily smitten and enthralled by the
magnetic appeal of the powerful ruler. But the coupling of the
pair had never resulted in anything less than Elrond's surrender to the
Noldo King's zealous penetration. However, during their
passionate liaison, no complaints had the herald against the delights
their joining brought him.
But the Last Alliance was broken when Isildur sealed his fate and that
of all the free peoples, dooming his line and suffering death under the
ring-bound might of the very enemy he had felled. Too many were
sacrificed to secure this galling defeat within the glory of victory,
Gil-Galad among the brightest and most valorous of the Star Children
killed that day. When the burying and the burning were done then
did Elrond find his desire, for male or female, had died as well, and
the needs of the flesh faded to dormancy in the bitter gloom of his
sorrow and grief.
Later, when the newness of the tragic loss and the sharpness of his
agony had dulled, friends and kin gently reminded the leader of
Lindon's refugees of the importance of continuing the lineage of his
forebears, and Elrond had half-heartedly agreed to an alliance by
marriage. Upon that scene of impending matrimony broke the
maelstrom that was the fiery feä of Ningloriel, flaunting her
beauty and her profligate lust to rekindle the flame of lascivious
craving in the neglected hroa of the new Noldo Lord.
Astounding was the contrast between the two females, for Celebrian was
refined without hauteur and noble beyond the need of outward signs,
coolly calm no matter the situation, assured of her place and her
future. Where Celebrian was imbued with gentle strength, an
elegant hind darting through the well-worn paths of the world she
commanded, Ningloriel was a tigress, stalking with eyes burning in
ravenous hunger for any means to secure another morsel of power and
prestige. Celebrian negotiated and compromised, Ningloriel
devoured what she desired.
That both had traded any meaningful commitment for the sake of kindred
and homeland was a similarity of circumstance that would have kept them
friends for life had the situation developed differently.
Yet the elven ladies, as radically different as were their
personalities, exhibited startling accord in their attitudes
surrounding sexual resources. Access to their carnal charms was a
gift, a precious privilege to be savoured and nurtured. If Elrond
failed to appreciate and properly attend to each one's distinct
demands, the concession would be revoked, for there were many others
who would not be loath to acquiesce to the ladies' needs.
Until Legolas, none of this had seemed burdensome nor had anything
specific been found wanting in the physical aspects of Elrond's union
with either of the females sharing his life. He had enjoyed their
bodies and they his, each finding release and satisfaction for their
cupidity that never touched upon their souls. None of them
invested an ounce of emotional attachment in the other nor harboured
any illusions of being so cherished.
Legolas, wanton and wild, beautiful and powerful, compassionate and
giving. Strange, within the one are blended the qualities that
singly each of the other three possessed.
Vastly different was the archer's training concerning sexual
gratification, for he was conditioned to seek completion only after
enduring lengthy torment of spirit and body, held on the brink of
escalating ecstasy by the application of pain, compelled to submit to
whatever humiliation his partner desired to secure his own
pleasure. And this Legolas required, nay demanded, to a degree
Elrond had never observed firsthand before. The fallen archer
deemed it normal and right to find release in this manner, and so
strong was the desire to be possessed that Legolas would allow any
cruelty, every punishment.
And if he is misused or abused in receipt of such pleasures then
such
is his due when he has chosen to partake in the act.
Legolas granted access to his body not as a gift to be cherished but as
a treasure to be plundered and despoiled solely for the exhilarating
sensation of power and control such degradation granted, both to
himself and his partner.
Before encountering this perspective of sexual depravity, Elrond would
never have considered himself amenable to such practices.
Certainly he had never wanted to hurt Celebrian, and while the desire
to take Gil-Galad had definitely manifested itself in dream and
fantasy, never would he have thought to accomplish this through
force. Ningloriel, however, was a case apart. Often had the
Lord of Imladris imagined wringing her erotically slender, elegant
throat while in the throes of their passion, achieving his ejaculation
at the instant the light of her mind fled from her flashing blue eyes.
He hated her for that, for making him a killer even if only within his
imagination. He despised her for refusing to do without Maltahondo, for
making it impossible to do without her insistent and lusty sex, for
leaving him so easily while he still yearned for her body.
And so Elrond felt that he had a certain right to claim Legolas for his
own. It was his due for all the long years of self-denial and
deprivation he had endured, for bearing the demands of family, duty,
and honour at the expense of his own fulfilment, for tolerating the
cruelty of Ningloriel's self-centred outlook and selfish retreat from
the wreck of her marriage.
I will have Legolas, his body and his heart, and both I will break
utterly just for the pleasure such destruction will garner!
With a bone-jolting shiver Elrond roused himself from such vile
introspection, horrified both to have entertained such black desires
and to yet remain aroused in the aftermath of this demented meditation.
He shouted his fury over his inability to control this obscene
obsession, a stream of curses against the Valar and Eru and Legolas
poured into the deafening clamour of the river pounding the rocks below
even as his hands hurriedly unveiled his intransigent cock and began
pumping it brutally. He leaned back upon the boulders amid the
spray of the cataract's descent and reached into the pocket of his
opened robes to retrieve the stolen memento from his initial
acquisition of the feral warrior.
Elrond wrapped the long, ropy lock around his penis, gasping at the
sensation of Legolas' hair upon his sensitive flesh, and began pulling
and squeezing again, pivoting and rocking his pelvis, shoving his cock
through the tightening grip. He closed his eyes and imagined the
roughly wound strand passing over his shaft was the scarred interior of
the younger elf, and thrust harder. He envisioned the archer on
his back beneath him, long limbs hooked over the Noldo's shoulders,
writhing against the pain of being torn by Elrond's excessive girth
drilling deeper with every heave.
Lost in the fantasy, Elrond heard Legolas pleading for more. He
felt him struggling to push back, hands scuffing frantically upon the
shalely ground to secure support and allow an increase in the depth of
the bruising impalement. The wild elf spurted his essence shouting
Elrond's name, while the Elf Lord's heavy testicles rubbed against the
archer's yielding arse each time he forced his swelling member back
inside the vice-like confinement. This phantom sensation raised a
savage shout from his gut as Elrond spent himself violently, waves of
euphoric elation washing through nerve and sinew as the strongly
scented fountain of warm semen issued forth and oozed over his
clenching fist.
Pulse hammering and breath ragged, bathed more in sweat than the mist
of the waterfall, Elrond's delight rapidly diminished as his penis
deflated, and in disgust he cursed Legolas' existence once more,
flinging his hand through the air to rid his fingers of the sticky
evidence of his futile attraction. This was as close as he would
ever get to fucking the wild elf again, and Elrond was overcome
simultaneously with rage for the deprivation and self-loathing for
succumbing to so base an inclination.
Yet as he knelt by the streaming water to cleanse himself he took care
to rinse away the smear of seed from the keepsake he harboured and
returned it to its secure confinement within his robes once more.
The Lord of Imladris found his feet and straightened up, adjusting his
clothing back to resume his usual appearance of refined dignity and
turned to leave. He found the pathway blocked by the presence of
his Master at Arms. The expression upon the Vanyarin warrior's
features turned Elrond's countenance crimson with unbearable shame;
Glorfindel had witnessed his unseemly act of masturbation.
Tbc
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