Part Five: Home and Dry - Almost
Erestor sighed and stretched, wriggling his shoulders and pressing back further into the luxuriant, plush padding of the velvet upholstered sofa upon which he was sprawled. Two extra cushions, lavishly embroidered by some elf's nimble, gifted fingers and fringed all around with silken tassels, supported his neck and bolstered his head. His long legs were draped over the opposite end of the over-sized couch but even so his feet stuck out a bit beyond the artfully curved and comfy armrest.
The Noldo sighed again, smiled complacently, and reached for an elegant stemmed crystal goblet on the low table nearby, raised the glass, filled with an intensely vibrant ruby coloured wine, to his lips and sipped in a mouthful. He closed his eyes and savoured the cool, dry sweetness, relishing the defining after-taste of honeysuckle that clung to the fine vintage, before swallowing and setting the glass back down.
It is truly good to be home, he thought and smiled. Meril Thaifn [Rose Pillars] is so much better than the Last Homely House.
"Ion! Yavanna's Toss! [Yavanna's Bush!] What are you doing in here?" the voice emitting these exclamatory phrases was tinged in harried disbelief and at sufficient volume to cause the noble Lord to jerk bolt upright in startlement.
"Adar!" Erestor answered in equally irritated consternation. "Must you slink about the house? And I live here, remember? This is my home." He glared at his father, an exact replication of his Nana's most searing aspect of disapproving remonstrance, which Erestor had adopted as his trademark expression in Imladris, adorning his features.
Dammand [Long Hammer] (Erestor's father) physically cowered beneath the heat contained in his son's blazing black eyes. Never had he been able to brave that look whether presented by his wife-mate or his second born child. He managed a shrug and a sheepish grin.
"I was not slinking, Erestor, I came to see what is taking you so long. You went to change clothing an hour ago. The wizard is asking for you." The elder Noldo examined his youngest with intrigued bewilderment.
Dammand had been extremely surprised to learn of Erestor's return so quickly, for the naturalist/artist seldom ended his jaunts among the wilds before six months had passed, by which time he would have used up his painting supplies and mapped every inch of unknown terrain encountered. Whenever his son was away, Dammand kept everything tidy, shooed away unexpected guests, watered the plants, and went fishing in the ocean.
Which is pretty much what he did when Erestor was home, too. The esteemed warrior from Gondolin had died at Turgon's side, spent a short respite with his cohorts in Námo's Halls, and had been reborn in the Blessed Realm. Finding his wife also re-incarnated, Dammand decided not to return to Middle-earth. Needless to say, he had been overjoyed when his youngest made it to Aman without requiring any of those steps. The proud father had virtually taken up permanent residence in the east-facing suite of his son's stately manor, the one Erestor had designed for himself.
Dammand was seldom in his own abode more than a few years worth of time before heading back to Meril Thaifn [Rose Pillars], for his wife of more than 10,000 years was very involved in caring for the souls still separated from their hroa in Mandos. Dammand got lonely. While Erestor's house was not exactly known for excitement, the relaxed pace of life suited them both well.
Thus, the senior Noldo was absolutely shocked when, after scarcely a cycle of Ithil had elapsed, his son had abruptly appeared out of empty space, seated in his favourite armchair, half-dressed, half-dry, with a dwarven battle axe strapped to his back while Olórin (Manwë's most renowned assistant and possibly the Vala's offspring) strode through the house carrying a half-dead elf in his arms. Dammand's curiosity was beyond awakened; it was doing callisthenics and preparing for a marathon of a story.
As if in answer to the thoughts of the noble ancient, a long low moan of acute agony sounded through the room.
"Erestor! Get in here!" Olórin's call rang out, mixing with the next cry of misery.
"Excuse me, Ada; I must see to our guest," said the once chief counsellor to Elrond's court as he hastened from the study.
"Yes, that is just what I want to talk about; a most interesting sort of visitor you have brought here, Sigiland [Long-knife, Erestor's father-name]," Dammand remarked and ambled after his son.
Dammand was as tall as Erestor and of the same lanky, sinewy build with hair that had once been glossy ebony but which had turned a very attractive mithril-streaked bi-colour upon his 9,600th Begetting Anniversary (counted from his original conception since his parents had managed to make the second one occur on the same day). However, he had long Ages ago tired of fiddling with the thick, unruly locks and kept it cut short.
The old general never let a single strand grow longer than his shoulders and bound it all at the nape of his neck in a simple leather tie. Braids, he was wont to proclaim with authority to anyone close enough to hear, were only good for showing off. Having been mated, twice, to the same elleth for most of the 13,184 years of his two lives, Dammand felt he had little need to play the peacock any longer.
He followed his son's retreating figure into the hall, down the elegant, spiral, pink fossiliferous limestone stairway, across the grand, green-marble floored three-story foyer, traversed the columned veranda for which the estate was named, and finally reached the airy suite of rooms in which the originator of the distressed cries languished. Dammand paused in the doorway and quickly assessed the scene, correctly determining he would only be in the way. The odd thing, however, was that Erestor did not appear as ineffectual as the elder elda would have imagined his son to be in such a crisis. Erestor was no medic, after all.
Another extended groan escaped between the gasping breaths of the injured elf as the suffering creature thrashed against the tearing pain in his side and the Istar attempting to treat the wound. Stretched out upon the vast, plump down-stuffed mattress, Legolas fought against the sheets, the pillows, the quilt, and the hands striving to restrain his frantic, fevered flailing.
A sudden burst of energy planted his slender left foot solidly into the wizard's stomach with the full force of a trained silvan warrior accustomed to fending off Orcs, Wraiths, dire wolves, wargs and their riders, aberrant humans, and spiders of prodigious size. At the same time, the delirious patient rolled to the right, evading Erestor's clutching fingers, reached the end of the bed, failed to stop, and hit the floor hard.
A most pathetic howl of pain and frustration emerged from the elf as he tried to rise and found his legs would not support him. He crumpled onto the woven rug with a truly sickening thud and lay panting, too weak to move.
"Grab him!" commanded Olórin. The power of the Wood Elf's kick had landed him flat on his rear far from the bed where he sat hunched over, clutching his sore abdomen and sucking in huge gulps of air as he sought to regain his wind.
"Thranduilion, be calm!" called Erestor, advancing to the trembling patient, crouched to spring should the Wood Elf actually get on his feet and attempt to flee.
Wild and terrified lapis eyes roved the room, seeking the source of the voice as Legolas wheezed and coughed, still trying to get his legs under him. His moonlight coloured skin was shiny with perspiration and the single braid had come unwound, hanging loose down his naked back. The livid bruises and lashes were still apparent; healing seemed to have come to a standstill. The white gauze bandage had been removed and he was protectively shielding his injured side with an arm wrapped tight around his middle. His vision seemed to focus for a moment on the Noldo and his lips moved as though he wished to speak, but no sound other than the strained attempts at respiration emerged.
"All is well, remain still. I am here and so is Olórin. You are in my home, safe. Ringë cannot know to seek you here. Let us help you, young one," Erestor's tone was cajoling and mild as he slowly crept toward the prone warrior.
"Erestor?" the silvan managed to whisper and then collapsed into oblivion, lost in febrile dreams again.
"Hurry! Get him back on the bed!" ordered the Maia, fully recovered, as he whisked off his impressive navy-blue velvet, silver-embroidered, sequin-studded robe, now splotched with dark wet stains here and there, and threw it onto a nearby chair.
Erestor glared, Would I leave him on the floor? for he already had the injured elf in his arms, and soon set him down on the mattress.
"Olórin, why have you not sent for a healer? Surely the severity of the wound demands professional attention. His lung is punctured! Let me have my butler run over to Elrond's and fetch him back," he suggested.
"That is unnecessary and believe me Legolas would not appreciate it at all. I can tend him properly with your assistance. Just get those leggings off and for Manwë's sake shove some of these useless pillows out of the way!" Mithrandir groused as he rolled up the sleeves of his elegant white silk blouse, onto which the patient's blood had also seeped, and braided up the ends of his long beard, also tinged an unsightly red. He tucked the plaited chin hair under his shirt and looked up to find Erestor staring with a perturbed expression on his features. "What? Do you think it is enjoyable having someone of Legolas' strength yanking on this beard?"
"Of course not, I was not referring to that at all. I was wondering what is the point in removing his pants. The wound is in his side; you already have it exposed. Just do what needs to be done; he told me there is a small lump of lead lodged in his lung."
"Do not be so dense; naturally I can access the puncture. The bullet has already been extracted; what do you think I have been doing while you bathed and donned pyjamas? The surgery is what initiated that desperate attempt to escape. Legolas believes he is still imprisoned and undergoing torture. He is burning up with fever and we need to cool him down. Rather difficult to sponge him off with half his body encased in snug black leather."
A little dismayed to be taken to task by the wizard, Erestor did as he was asked without further argument, though he could not really see why the wizard could not do it himself. He was, however, glad that Legolas was unconscious as this sort of vulnerability was not to his liking at all.
"Why would he object to Elrond's help?" asked Dammand from just beyond the threshold, mystified by the reference to incarceration and maltreatment. Such terminology was not required in the Undying Lands for there was no war, no threat of evil, no remnant of Melkor's putrid hatefulness. Observing Legolas' injuries, however, he recognised the nature of the trauma and the kind of instruments used to produce it.
"Dammand of Gondolin," The Maia turned and stood tall, fixing him with a fearsome glower from under his voluminous snowy brows as he uttered the syllables in the rolling accents of the mighty among Aman's citizens. To his chagrin, the old warrior merely chuckled.
"Aye, it is me, Olórin. What are you going around in that sorry old broken down body for?" he asked through his giggles. "And do answer the first question first, if you please. No wizard's vague indeterminate deliberately confusing inscrutable replies, either."
"Very well. I can answer both queries quite succinctly: it is none of your business."
"Oh, really! Erestor, are you going to allow this overrated parlour magician to speak to me with such blatant disrespect?"
"Adar, please! He talks to everyone like that and you know it. Now I could use your help," Erestor rejoined in irritation as he peeled the leggings off the senseless ellon's limp form.
Legolas' legs, he noted with appreciation, were long and muscular and where they attached to his torso was a most pleasingly supple round rear end. Having observed the elf in complete exposure before, Erestor could still not resist an additional inspection of the well-formed relaxed genitalia. In his efforts to re-situate the Wood Elf's unending limbs, he managed the briefest brush of his fingertips against the silky, warm skin of the soft, slender penis.
"I do not doubt that," scoffed Dammand. "How long has it been since last you had an elf so willing to let you…"
"Ada!" Erestor shouted at Dammand and growled coldly at the Istar's throaty laugh. He felt badly for Legolas, recalling how hard he had tried to keep himself covered during the aftermath of Ringë's attack, and actually positioned himself to block his father's view of the silvan's male extremities. "Do not be so crude! I need you to go tell Galion to prepare another bath."
"Very well," the elder Noldo snickered upon observing his son's protective stance but also rather resented having his chance to ogle the attractive elf's much-lauded lower half barred. "I suppose you are right, unconsciousness does not necessarily denote consent. Too bad, he is quite lovely." Dammand gave his thoroughly scandalised youngest a rather smug grin and winked before turning to seek out the valet.
Now this butler named Galion was the very same elf long affiliated to the House of Oropher and the Woodland stronghold of Thranduil. The steward was a venerable ellon alive since the Awakening who had for nearly all of his extremely long life dwelled amid the Wood Elves in the mighty forest of Greenwood east of the Misty Mountains. Galion had served Oropher and his sons as rather more of a caretaker, advisor, and bodyguard than a simple house servant. Yet as soon as the butler's ship docked in the Blessed Realm, he decamped from the former King's entourage.
When asked why he had elected to accept employment with the noble Noldo of the House of Eärendil, Galion tactfully stated that he preferred Erestor's charming ocean side villa to Thranduil's new, forbiddingly austere and dark mountain fortress. His wife Tulus [Poplar] (long suffering nanny to the Woodland Realm's royal family), however, added that she was quite fed up with all the bickering and arguing that went on between the constituents of the former King's relatives. Besides, Thranduil was a cheap son of a warg rider and never paid her a bonus in over five millennia of service.
Upon discovering that their critically ill house guest was their favourite Wood Elf prince, both Galion and Tulus shifted into an energetic level of expectant joy not displayed since the wedding of Thranduil's eldest daughter to Rumil of Lothlorien. In fact, they were hovering just outside the bedroom door right along with Dammand, heard everything, and hastened into the small bathing chamber attached to the suite to make as relaxing and therapeutic a bath as they knew how to draw.
But to everyone's amazement, Erestor would not allow them or anyone else to assist in caring for Legolas. He ordered them all to leave and tended the feverish warrior himself. He could not bear to have Legolas awaken from his tormenting illness to discover strangers hovering over him, sluicing his naked body with lukewarm bathwater. The fact that the Noldo was certainly more of an outsider to Thranduilion than his nanny and his Adar's butler was completely irrelevant. Even Mithrandir had spent more time in the Wood Elf's company than Erestor, for that matter. It made no difference; the Noldo had shared a harrowing experience with the injured elf and felt a keen sense of responsibility for his recovery.
Besides, he found he was reluctant to share with the others the intimate familiarity bathing the nude silvan would grant him.
Employed at the task of nursing the former member of the Fellowship for the entirety of the breaking day, Erestor quickly found that there was nothing erotic in caring for the invalid. Legolas was beautifully formed, but his distress was severe and the degree to which he had been harmed was alarming. Erestor had never observed wounds like this except in times of war and the ellon's loss of reason was even more terrifying. Legolas fought him with all the strength he was able to muster, which thankfully was manageable.
Even so, the Noldo's fine silk lounge wear was soon more soaked than his travelling clothes had been after swimming across the pool at the falls. By the third bath, Erestor had stripped to his undergarments and tied all his hair back, fully appreciating Mithrandir's earlier concerns over the beard, to prevent Legolas from pulling it out in his frantic efforts to fend off imaginary foes. By the fifth bath, Erestor's compassionate fingers had catalogued every welt and weal on the Wood Elf's body.
Galion had to prepare seven baths, in actuality, for the poison-induced ague was stubborn. An hour past annûn, the fever at last broke and Erestor could finally relax, confident his guest would pull through. With Legolas asleep and securely tucked into the soft bed, the noble Elf Lord trudged back to his own rooms. He drew on a dry pair of loose green striped pyjama pants and a matching robe, not bothering with the top that completed the ensemble. Barefoot and weary, he silently advanced down the hall to his study, looking forward to savouring another glass of wine, where the elves assembled in the room nearly gave him apoplexy.
Not all the elves, of course, for he was familiar enough with his father's appearance and even the sight of Galion and Tulus ensconced on the sofa sampling his finest vintage was not uncommon. No, it was the remaining occupant that very nearly stopped the former seneschal's heart.
As it turned out, this was not an elf at all. It was Olórin in his preferred physical representation.
Erestor had not beheld Mithrandir in this particular body, for the two had never exactly been cronies even during the wizard's years on Arda, where this persona was not revealed, and once back in Aman the Maia was always off somewhere mixed up in projects designed by Manwë. The Blessed Realm was truly a huge region consisting of three continents plus their associated seas, and while Erestor sought out regions of wilderness Olórin tended to turn up in more civilised areas. Removed from the common menace of the One Ring, their lives no longer intersected.
In fact, Erestor had not seen Gandalf since he was Gandalf. That is to say, at the send-off in Mithlond when Elrond, Galadriel, Glorfindel, the Istar, and the Ring-bearer had all sailed away to Aman.
Nay, that is wrong; I saw him at Elrond and Celebrian's 8,962nd bonding anniversary, just over a century ago. He was just regular old Mithrandir then, too, shooting off fireworks and getting drunk with Thranduilion, Erestor corrected himself.
Apparently, no one had thought it important to tell him about this particular manifestation of the Maia's essence. Erestor just gaped, for he might as well have been looking in a mirror, so uncanny was the likeness.
"It is entirely coincidental, I assure you," the wizard was already declaiming, a winning smile on his handsome face. "I chose this form long before you were ever born."
"But how, why?" is all Erestor could manage, taking in the flowing blue-black locks worn loose around sveltely muscled shoulders, the imposingly tall frame, the superbly toned, virile physique swathed in a fine silk robe of midnight blue over form hugging leggings of creamy white and a watery blue short tunic (which incidentally were his own), infinite coal-coloured eyes, elegant aquiline nose, and smirky maroon lips quirked up in a sardonic grin above a firm masculine chin.
"Oh come now, he is not exactly the same," argued Dammand. "I can tell the difference quite easily. It is not as if the likeness is identical."
"Aye, Erestor is not as tall," said Galion.
"Nor as lean and well-formed," added his wife. "And his eyes lack that fiery heat."
"And Olórin exudes an air of authority you have never…" Dammand did not know when to stop.
"Ada!" snapped Erestor in aggravation. "I quite comprehend the variations, thank you." His tone was icier then the frozen wastes of Helcaraxë and silenced all the insensitive comments.
He was flustered beyond rational thought. The only identifiable emotion going through his beleaguered mind was disappointment that Legolas found this physical form uncomfortable to be around, since it was essentially his. It depressed him so much that he flung himself into his armchair with an unhidden glower of supreme annoyance and a voluble curse.
"Nestegi!"
"Sigiland! That is hardly appropriate language in front of a distinguished servant of the Valar and a venerable Lady of the Greenwood," scolded Dammand.
Both Galion and Tulus snickered in amusement over this but made no further comments upon observing their employer's state of irritation.
For a long silent moment, Erestor trained his disturbingly cold and menacing Look at them each in turn and then passed this chilling glare of doom over the small group in general.
"Out. The lot of you, leave now," ordered the Lord of Meril Thaifn. He had endured a very exhausting couple of days and was not in the mood for any more jokes or shocking revelations, especially if they came at his expense.
For a moment the elves and the wizard just stared at him as if they had not heard correctly, convinced he had not truly meant for them to go. But Erestor was quite serious and stood, drawing himself up as tall as he was able to in order to match the Maia's stature, and pointed to the door, brows arched and mouth grimly set.
With disgruntled mumbles and many a speculative glance, the Istar and the elves exited, agreeing to reconvene in Dammand's rooms to continue their discussion of the peculiar circumstances fate had visited upon the normally amicable Noldo and the rakish hell-cat, Legolas Thranduilion.
Once they were gone, Erestor sighed and poured himself that glass of his favourite vintage he had so been anticipating, intending to relax on the sofa as before. Yet though he was tired he could not find an easy position to rest and the flavour of the wine was less pleasing than normal. He shifted about and changed orientation, switching head and feet, but it did no good. He could not get the wizard's comment out of his mind.
Rein! [Shit!] Why should it matter? Legolas is nothing to me; it is well he finds me so displeasing. He is completely without morals and if the gossips are correct has allowed anyone who wished it access to his body.
Erestor got up, setting the unfinished goblet down on the table, and roamed around the room. It was beyond frustrating that chance had thrown him in Thranduilion's path. This youngest son of the Wood Elves' former King was precisely the sort of trouble the Noldo made certain to avoid. Even one public appearance in the silvan's company would have the rumour mills in a frenzy of speculation. When it became known that he had brought the dissipated elf home, his respectable reputation would be ruined.
If I do not get him out of here, before two Sun Rounds I will be on the List.
The List was an infamous catalogue, compiled monthly by Lindir of Cebir Fain, naming all the elves Legolas had taken to his bed over the ensuing time and how long each affair had lasted, arranged according to the reliability of the source and the likelihood that the silvan would choose said elves.
Yet the harder Erestor tried to convince himself that he was offended by this unwanted notoriety about to disrupt his life, the more insistently his memories betrayed him. The phantom sensations of holding Legolas close, lying next to him in the cave, gently supporting the abused body as the silvan squirmed in the throes of his elevated temperature, learning every curve and angle while washing down the heated flesh, bombarded his internal arguments and defeated his denial.
Erestor sighed and rubbed his eyes in resignation; his lustful desire had been awakened, even the archer's scent was alluring. And given the silvan's dissatisfaction over Olórin's alternate corporeal form, it was a hunger the son of Dammand would never satisfy.
Is that why he was struggling to conceal himself? To prevent attracting my unwanted attentions?
Erestor emitted a disgruntled snort and exited his suite, wandering back down to the first level to enjoy the cool sea breeze wafting through the open veranda. He continued across the smooth, marble tiles of the columned porch until he reached the long open windows of the Wood Elf's bedroom and entered. He paused there, just over the sill where sheer gauze curtains trailed against the polished pine wood floor, ballooning in the drifting breath of the ocean. He was not even aware of how long he stood, letting his thoughts wander over the various situations in which he had encountered the Wood Elf in the past, just watching Legolas sleep.
Then a small mumbled phrase, too low and garbled to be understood, met his ears and the patient twitched. Erestor was at the bedside in an instant, soothing the troubled dream away with comforting reassurances, settling the disordered covers back into place, smiling when Legolas' eyes briefly opened to meet his. And though logic warned that Legolas was not aware of his surroundings or whom he was with, Erestor's heart told him the expression in those bottomless blue eyes was not one of disapproval or dislike.
The Noldo's smile remained; he sat on the edge of the mattress and stayed put throughout the night, determined to prevent any more unpleasant recollections of Ringë from disrupting Legolas' healing. The pale glow of minuial [dawn] warned that Arien was about to emerge and cast lengthy lines of vibrant orange light over the flat horizon. Erestor recalled he had not eaten anything since the hurried mouthfuls of lembas and dried fruit consumed on the flight from the cave. Arising after a noisy complaint from his neglected stomach, he quietly left the sickroom, intent on preparing tea and a light breakfast for himself and his guest. Legolas had not taken nourishment in at least two days, and the Noldo wondered how long it had been since his last real meal.
The preparations did not take overly long, though he had to argue with Tulus over the type of tea suitable for her Brannonlas Dithen [Little Leaf-Lord]. Just as he was passing through the suite's sitting room, movement out on the porch caught his eye. Erestor halted in surprise, for Legolas was stumbling toward a small group of chairs and lounges set just outside his windows, meant for guests to enjoy the brisk morning air and the glory of minuial [sunrise].
Thranduil's youngest had found and donned a short silk robe that reached to mid thigh; it hung loose and flapped about him as he had not bothered to tie it shut. He was panting with the effort to make it to a comfortable, cushioned chaise where he collapsed more than sat down. The silvan managed to drag one leg up onto the seat and leaned back with a groan, eyes wrinkled shut and one hand pressed to his injured side. He heaved a great sigh and lay still, unaware in his debilitating fatigue that he was being watched.
Erestor was frozen, overcome with an intense sensation of deja vu. He was positive he had witnessed nearly the identical scene not long ago. A second of pondering revealed the memory: it had been at Cebir Fain only twenty years past or less. He had been visiting Elrond's family for Arwen's Memorial Day and Legolas had been there as well.
The Noldo remembered his disgust upon witnessing the silvan's emergence from his rooms. Legolas had appeared just as under dressed, wearing only an open shirt that exposed everything that should be private, staggering as if suffering from the after effects of too much drink, hair all awry, looking like he had been sexually mauled by multiple partners for days without rest. The Noldo had assumed this was the case, for such was the forest warrior's reputation, and he felt it entirely inappropriate to behave so on the sombre occasion of Arwen's Day, and in her parents' house. He had said something like that, in fact, just loud enough to make sure he was heard.
When Legolas had realised he was not alone on the patio he had startled, surprised to find the seneschal's disapproving glare raking his form. He had stared blankly a moment or two then hastily attempted to gather the garment over his nakedness. Finally he had grinned ruefully and confirmed the Noldo's hypothesis: 'You are right, of course, Lord Erestor. Glorfindel and Galdor were a bit rough with me, I am afraid. Please, I beg you will not mention this to Elrond and his Lady during their time of Remembrance.'
Now observing similar behaviour that might be interpreted as indication of licentious excess, did he not know better, Erestor was no longer certain he believed Legolas' explanation. Mayhap this was not the first time Legolas had been involved in trouble of such a dangerous sort. He tried to remember if there had been any obvious signs of abuse on the silvan's body then, but nothing definite arose in his thoughts. Erestor set the tea-tray down determined to learn the truth, but before he could take another step a familiar figure appeared from beyond the gardens, hastening across the lawn at a pace just shy of running.
Elrohir. Quickly he scanned the yard and the rest of the porch, expecting to see Elladan, and scowled a worried frown. Where one was the other must also be, and the Noldo liked to have both in his sights at all times whenever they chanced to show up at Meril Thaifn.
Which the have only done twice in nearly a thousand years, he abruptly realised, but his wonder at this was immediately resolved for Elrohir was moving directly toward Legolas' position. How in bloody Mordor did they find out he is here? His attention was captured by the unfolding interaction, however, and he put the riddle aside for the moment. Elrohir was on his knees beside the chaise, the archer's hand clasped between his, an expression of fearful concern etched upon his fine features.
"Legolas? Ai Valar! I just heard. Let me see," his voice rang with dismay and worry.
"It is all right, Elrohir. I am…"
"Do not say it!" the younger twin warned with a steely glare. Gently he opened out the loose garment to inspect the damage and sucked in a shocked gasp of a breath. "Oh, Legolas! This is too much, mellonen. [my friend]"
"Nothing I am unable to handle."
"Nay, things have got out of hand. Legolas, you look as if you were beaten nearly to death." Elrohir was tenderly inspecting various ghastly bruises and lacerations, sadly shaking his head as his hands moved over the younger elf's body.
"I can manage, Elrohir."
But the Peredhel clearly did not agree, carefully elevating his friend's chin to better view the unmistakable marks left by strangling hands. His accusing eyes met the archer's and Legolas flushed and looked away. Elrohir's fingers trailed over the bandage and continued down, sorrowful grey gaze noting every injury, great and small. He lifted the one leg still resting on the floor and stretched the limb out upon the chaise, simultaneously scooting Legolas' rump over with his other hand so he could perch on the side of the lounge. As if he was brushing a hair from the Wood Elf's face, Elrohir fondled the flaccid genitals and elicited a soft sigh from Legolas.
Erestor tensed. That was entirely unnecessary and completely unethical, considering the depleted state of the suffering silvan.
"Would you like me to comb your hair, Legolas?" Elrohir asked, voice low in smooth sultry tones. His fingertips played with the sensitive head of the archer's penis, now significantly less relaxed, and rolled back the velvety foreskin. "I will make you feel better, promise," he whispered and leaned forward to nuzzle against the delicate point of a florid ear.
"Sounds lovely, mellonen, but I am not really up to it," Legolas responded in a wavering voice even as his cock saluted.
That was sufficient for Erestor; Legolas had clearly declined the proposition yet Elrohir persisted in casually caressing the Wood Elf's swelling shaft and tickling the tender, heavy testes within their smooth-skinned pocket. The Lord of Meril Thaifn darted out through the open archway, eyes ablaze with indignant fury to see Elrohir taking such liberties of an elf in so dire a condition of ill health. He reached out to snatch him off the chaise even as both elves looked up in surprise, but Erestor's hand never connected with the younger twin.
"You brute!" the words were little more than an articulate growl and accompanied the slamming thud of the Noldo's back striking one of the pink limestone columns as hands grabbed, lifted, and flung him from his path. "What is wrong with you? How could you?" The hands belonged to Elladan and he was using them to grapple the former seneschal by the lapels of the loose robe, intending to shake him but instead merely tearing the delicate fabric.
Then Elrohir was on his feet attempting to calm his brother even as Legolas bounded from the chaise and insinuated his person between the quarrelling Noldor. He pressed the palm of his hand firmly against Elladan's chest and pushed back.
"Nay, it was not him!" he said urgently.
Erestor was still stunned by the impact with the pillar and the abrupt appearance of the elder twin but could not deny he was intensely gratified by the speed with which Legolas had come to his defence. Instinctively, his arms closed around the unsteady body, one hand wrapped across the chest as the other hand rested against the archer's flat, hard belly. He felt Legolas shiver and lean back against him.
"It was not Erestor. He saved my life, Elladan. He is taking care of me." Legolas assured the elder of the brothers.
Elladan flashed Legolas a swift, worried glance before returning his scathing sneer of undisguised disgust upon his former mentor, relaxing only slightly under his brother's insistent pleas to desist from violence and the silvan's obvious comfort with their host's proximity.
"You are sure you wish to defend him, Cuthenin [True-bow]?" the elder twin asked with grim distaste. "I would gladly teach him where the boundaries lie in such activities."
"Muindor [Brother], do not interfere," counselled Elrohir, "Legolas is not a child. He knows his own limits."
"It is not his knowledge I dispute," snarled Elladan.
Legolas groaned in a combination of frustrated dismay and genuine discomfort, for he really was not well enough to be on his feet so soon.
"Please, Elladan; Lord Erestor would never hurt me thus. He is not the one responsible."
"Indeed, how could you even allow that idea to enter your thoughts?" demanded Erestor in affronted indignation. "When have I ever indulged in that sort of sordidly perverted bed play?"
"We have not heard anything regarding your sexual habits, Erestor, for you are quite secretive in nature. Who can say what you like to do to your partners?" Elrohir remarked. "If you caused even of those mark…"
"Peace!" snapped Legolas, so tense he was trembling, so angry his pale cheeks were streaked in garish crimson. "I have already told you that I am in Lord Erestor's debt, not his bed! How can you accuse him of such baseness?"
The twins seemed unconvinced and remained where they were, watching as their father's cousin gently rubbed his palms over the battered elf's navel and nipple.
Erestor meant to soothe his defender, feeling the rising outrage in Legolas' rigid body, but then his middle finger caught on the Wood Elf's belly button and that distracted him. He pushed into it without thinking and felt the ripple that ran through the archer's body, heard the deep intake of his breath. He watched Legolas' hand come up and trip across his forearm, encouraging the massaging fingers that were slowly kneading the rising bud gracing the firm pectoral muscle.
Erestor let his thumb test the responsiveness of the small maroon point, just flicking across it. Both his cock and his heart jumped in answer to the sharp gasp of surprise that left Legolas' throat as his head dropped back against the Noldo's shoulder. Erestor's other hand spread out over the firm abdomen, middle finger wriggling inside the small depression as his last digit stretched down and came to rest on something warm and slick. He circled his finger in the slippery heat and with a jolt realised he was stimulating the tiny slit in the long proud column of the silvan's erection.
Legolas moaned wantonly and pressed his face against Erestor's neck, inhaling the enticing scent, dabbing the tip of his tongue there for a tantalising taste, using his free hand to coax the Noldo's other fingers to join that probing pinky.
Elladan and Elrohir were gawking in rapacious prurience, eyes locked on the former seneschal's hand and the archer's dripping cock. Elrohir made a soft little whining groan and opened out Elladan's fist, guiding it down to his groin.
That awakened Erestor's sense of reality instantly and he flushed in embarrassment, simultaneously snatching away his roving appendages and sliding from his supportive stance behind the Wood Elf.
Legolas reeled and caught onto the pillar to regain his balance, not expecting this outcome, and immediately understood the situation: Erestor would sooner be bitten by a warg than touch him thusly. The acutely painful realisation lent him the power to race from the humiliating predicament and he shoved through the barrier of the twins grasping fingers as they tried to halt him. Just inside his bedroom, his foot slipped on the curtains and he tripped, landing with a low, dolorous exclamation of defeat.
All three elves turned to assist Legolas, but then Elladan stopped and seized Erestor's arm to hold him back.
"Nay. Let Elrohir see to him; you and I must talk."
TBC