Just One Night (Part Three) Elrohir/Legolas; NC17

[jay-of-lasgalen.livejournal.com]

o-o-o

 

 

At the Mid Winter feast, Elrohir decided that his reaction to the kiss had been the result of the cold, or too much wine.  He felt no attraction for Legolas at all – and his flash of anger at Elladan’s words was just sibling rivalry, nothing more.   To add to his discomfort, Legolas again sat next to him during the meal, with question after question about other traditions of Imladris, and describing some of the rituals of Lasgalen. 

 

At length, Elrohir interrupted with a question of his own.  “I was rather surprised that you chose me for your coming of age celebration – an outsider.  Surely there were many in Lasgalen who would have been more than happy to oblige?”

 

“There were,”  Legolas agreed.  “Too many.  It was a difficult choice.  Most of my father’s councillors were vying for the opportunity – I felt like a piece of meat being bartered over in the marketplace at Esgaroth!   And they kept trying to curry favour with my father for the honour.”

 

“Surely Thranduil would not agree …”  Elrohir began, aghast.

 

“No!”  Legolas was scornful.  “Of course not.  He made it very clear to them that the choice was mine, and mine alone.  He told me to bide my time until I was sure, and make no hasty decisions.  But I realised what resentment and divisions it would cause if I favoured one over another.   Then, when you arrived, I saw my answer.”

 

“That sounds very pragmatic,”  Elrohir replied, obscurely disappointed.  “So it was more a practical, political reason, rather than my own charms?”

 

Legolas nodded.  “But for one thing I had not counted on.  I did not intend to fall in love with you.  Elrohir, I know you think me an infatuated child – but that does not change the way I feel.  I learned enough of you in that one night to lose my heart.”  He took a long gulp of wine.  “I know you do not feel the same way.   You have made it very clear, and I am sorry if I have embarrassed you.  I just …”  he paused, then shook his head, draining his cup.  “It does not matter.”

 

He stood, and turned towards Thranduil.  “Father, I think I will walk outside for a while before I go to bed.  I feel a little light-headed – I think I have taken too much wine.”

 

“Not as much as some!”  Thranduil responded, gesturing to the lower end of the hall.  Several warriors there – elves from Imladris and Lasgalen alike – were singing loud, bawdy songs, somewhat off key.  Elrohir glimpsed Calion among them, conducting the chorus with his cup.

 

Legolas glanced at them and grimaced.  “No. Probably not.  Goodnight.”

 

After he left, Elrohir considered what he had said.  He felt sorry for Legolas, and rather guilty – he seemed so despondent and miserable on what should have been a festive celebration.   Was he wrong?   Was he doing the right thing in denying the growing attraction he felt for Legolas?  Yet he was far too young, and all too soon he would leave Imladris to return home, and the chances were that he would never see Legolas again – or at least, not for many long years.    He had no desire now for a casual, chance-met lover, nor a fleeting bed warmer. 

 

No, it was better this way.  Legolas and his infatuation would soon be gone, and then he could get on with his life.  It was better this way.  It had to be.

 

The hall was quieter now, and the singers had fallen silent.  Calion had disappeared, and without their conductor the singers seemed to have lost interest.   Elrohir rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling oddly tense.

 

“Alone at last, brother?  Where is your shadow?”

 

Elrohir looked up and smiled.  “He went for a walk.  I think he was a little drunk.”

 

Elladan laughed.  “It is Mid Winter!  Of course he is.”  He sat down next to Elrohir and reached for another bottle.  “You look worried, little brother.  What is wrong?”

 

“I feel uneasy about something – but I do not know what.  Something feels wrong.”  He glanced around the hall, and the prickle of unease deepened.

 

“What is wrong,”  Elladan announced as he poured two brimming cups of wine, “is that we are both alone and sober tonight.   I had hoped Gildor would have arrived, but he must be delayed.”   He took a long drink from his cup.  “At least we can cure the second problem.”

 

Elrohir accepted the wine, a deep, rich red, pleasantly warmed.  The wine did nothing to dispel his disquiet though, and he drank again, still oddly troubled.  He sighed, knowing his main problem.  “El, am I doing the right thing?   I cannot decide if I am being noble, or making the biggest mistake of my life,”  he admitted. 

 

“Do you really need me to tell you?  I think you know,”  Elladan replied softly.  “I think you are a fool.  I think you love him, even if you do not realise it.”

 

“Love him?  I … no, El!  How can I?  He is so much younger!”

 

“What difference does that make?”  Elladan protested.  “Glorfindel is a whole lifetime older than Erestor – do they care?  And Gildor,” –  he smiled at some private memory – “Gildor is far older than I am.  Are we wrong?”

 

“No, of course not.  But Legolas – he is just at the beginning of his life …”  Elrohir knew his protests sounded ridiculous, yet he was not ready to admit the alternative.

 

“And you are at the end?”  Elladan grinned.  “But Elrohir, you have to do this for the right reasons.  Because you love him, not because you feel sorry for him.  And …”  he broke off as someone blundered against the table where they sat.

 

One of Calion’s cronies stood unsteadily before them.  “You pardon, lords,”  he blurted.  “But I think there may be trouble.  Calion – he went out after Prince Legolas.  He said something about showing him who was best.”  He swayed, then added, “Legolas beat him in combat again yesterday.”

 

Elrohir’s odd twinge of foreboding exploded into full fledged alarm.  “El, wait here,”  he ordered.  “I may need you later.”  Pausing only to snatch a cloak from the rack by the door, Elrohir let himself out into the night.  He paused, trying to think where Legolas might go, then hurried towards the redwoods.

 

His guess had been right.  As he neared the grove, he heard Legolas; his voice low and angry.  “You are drunk, Calion – take your hands off me this instant!”

 

Calion sounded slurred.  “Don’t be like that – I’m only offering to keep you warm tonight!  Elr’hir doesn’t want you, and I can show you what you’re missing, pining for him.”

 

“No, Calion.   Do not be a fool.  Now leave me!”

 

Calion’s voice suddenly hardened.  “Am I not good enough for you?  Is that it?  I’ll show you who’s the better elf!”  There was a sudden flash as moonlight gleamed on the knife which had appeared in Calion’s hand.

 

Without stopping to think, Elrohir hurled himself across the grove of redwoods.  As he seized Calion by the scruff of the neck there was a blur of movement, a sharp cry of pain, and a spray of blood.  A chill went through him at the sound.  His heart pounding, he threw Calion to the ground, stamping on his wrist to disarm him.  His other foot pressed down on the back of Calion’s neck, pinning him to the floor.  Twisting, he turned to stare at the young prince in fear.  “Legolas!  Are you hurt?”

 

Legolas gave an abrupt shake of his head, his eyes glittering coldly.  He had wrested Calion’s knife away from him, and looked feral and dangerous.  “No.  I can deal with idiots like him – but thank you.”

 

Calion lay gasping, the side of his face, parchment pale, pressed against leaf-mould and pine needles.  One eye gazed up at Elrohir and Legolas in fear.  “He – he cut me!”  he gasped, pointing at a deep gash on the hand beneath Elrohir’s foot; then at his knife, which Legolas still held.  “He cut me!”

 

“Cut you?”  Elrohir echoed in fury.  “You are lucky he did not slit your throat!”  He shifted his weight on Calion’s neck, and pressed down on his injured hand a little harder.

 

Calion choked.  “Stop!”  he gasped. 

 

Elrohir gave him a single cold glance.  Calion stared at him, and his face turned a sickly green as he became very sober, very quickly.  He gave a low moan of terror and lay quite still.

 

Elrohir flung a silent call through the night, and in moments Elladan appeared with two guards.  Hoisting Calion to his feet, Elrohir pushed him towards the guards.  “Take him away,”  he said in disgust.  “Lock him in a cellar, and tell my father and Glorfindel.  They can decide what to do with him after the holiday.”  He turned to Legolas.  “We will turn him over to you and Thranduil if you wish.  You can take him back to Lasgalen and leave him to the spiders for all I care!”

 

Calion paled even further, and he whimpered.  “Please.  I meant no harm.  It was just a joke!”

 

“A joke?”  Elrohir hissed.  “To threaten a guest – an unarmed guest – with a knife?”  He pushed Calion again.  “Get him out of my sight!”

 

As the guards dragged an unresisting Calion away, Elladan remained.  “El?”  His tone was questioning as his gaze flicked to Legolas.

 

Elrohir gave a slight nod.  “Do not worry.”  He smiled.  “All will be well, I think.”

 

Elladan grinned, and slapped his twin on the shoulder.  “At last!  Then I will see you later.”  His grin widened.  “Or maybe not!”

 

Legolas frowned as Elladan left.  “What was that about?”

 

“Nothing.  Elladan was just reminding me that I am a fool.  Legolas – are you truly well?  I am so sorry …”

 

“Hush.  It is no fault of yours.”  Legolas dropped his gaze, glancing at Calion’s knife, which he still held.  He gave an exclamation of disgust and threw it to the ground.  “Why – why did you come out here?”

 

Elrohir moved a little closer.  “I came after you.  I was warned that Calion would cause trouble.”

 

Legolas raised his head and met Elrohir’s eyes.  “You were worried about me?”

 

“I realise it was unnecessary.  But when I saw his knife I did not stop to think.  I was terrified.  If he had harmed you …” 

 

Legolas took a step nearer.  “But he did not.”

 

“No …”  Elrohir raised his hand and cupped it around Legolas’s head, drawing him close.  “Legolas …”

 

Legolas leaned towards him.  “Yes …”

 

Their kiss was cold but very sweet.   Elrohir remembered the first time he had kissed Legolas, when a hesitant and apprehensive young prince had waited for him at the end of another long evening of feasting and celebration.  The hesitation was gone now, and Legolas responded to his kiss with all the passion that had been unleashed during that first unforgettable night.  A hand twisted in his hair, and another twined around his waist.  Elrohir noted idly that Legolas was a little taller now, and broader in the shoulder – and then he stopped thinking, and felt only the firm, lean body pressed against him, the lips beneath his, and the hands that caressed him with such confidence.

 

At last Legolas drew away.  He touched his fingers to Elrohir’s mouth, and caressed his face gently.  “Elrohir, why?”

 

Elrohir caught the caressing hand, kissing the palm, then pressing it to his cheek.  “Why?  Because I am a fool – and because I love you.  I know I should not.  I know you will soon be leaving, and it is not possible – but that is why I have been trying to resist the temptation of loving you.”  He turned his head, and kissed Legolas again.  “Alas, it is too late,”  he murmured.

 

Legolas stirred against him.  “It is not too late.  It is still Mid Winter – and the night is not over.”  His fingertips, icy cold, brushed against Elrohir’s ear; a delightful contrast to the warmth of his breath as he whispered,  “Will you celebrate Mid Winter with me?”

 

“Yes …”

 

They walked back to the house.  The stars glittered overhead, and ice-frosted grass beneath their feet sparkled in the reflected light.  The dining hall was nearly deserted, with only a few lingering couples still talking softly over linked fingers and empty cups.  The gently lilt of a ballad drifted from the hall of fire as Elrohir led the way up the stairs.

 

Opening the door to his rooms, he halted in surprise.  The fire, which he had left banked for the evening, blazed in the hearth.  Candles flickered on the mantel, on tables and bookshelves; beside the bed.  The curtains – which had been closed – had been drawn back to frame the stars. 

 

Legolas turned to gaze at him suspiciously.  “Were you expecting company?”

 

Elrohir gaped at the room, then smiled.  “Elladan.”

 

“What?”

 

“Elladan.  He did this.  I think he approves.  He told me I was being a fool!”  He drew Legolas further into the room, and pushed the door shut with his foot.  “He was right.”

 

A bottle of spiced wine had been placed before the fire, already hot to the touch.  Elrohir poured two goblets, and took a long sip before turning to Legolas.  He swallowed dryly, then let his heart speak.   “Legolas.  I have tried to deny the fact that I love you.  I tried to tell myself that you were too young, too inexperienced.  I tried to tell myself that you would soon leave, and my life would be my own again – but empty and lonely.”  He drew Legolas to him, threading his fingers through the loose, sun-gold hair, breathing in the scent of sunshine.  “I tried to tell myself that I do not want yet another casual bed-mate for just one night – and I do not; but Legolas, if that is all I can have of you – just one night and no more, then that will have to be enough.”

 

Legolas leaned against him, his breath soft and warm on Elrohir’s face.  “So what do you want?  What would you have of me, if you could?”

 

“I want someone I can share my heart and soul with, not just my bed.  You, if I could have you.”  He sighed.  “It will not be long, I know.  But I will take what time we have.”

 

Warm, soft lips caressed his neck, smiling gently.  “And I would have you, Elrohir; tonight and every other night; for as long as we can.”  Legolas smiled again.  “Longer than you may think.  The warriors who will be staying for further training?  I asked my father.  He agreed that I can remain here when he returns to Lasgalen if I wish.”

 

Joy soared through Elrohir at the words.  His fears that he would be left alone in two short weeks vanished – they had six months, a year, maybe more.  Smiling, he slid his hands around Legolas’s waist.  “Do you remember the first time?” he whispered softly.

 

Legolas nodded.  “You kissed me,”  he breathed.

 

“Yes.  Like this.”  As he had before, Elrohir kissed Legolas on the brow, his eyelids, his nose, and finally his mouth.

 

“Yes,”  Legolas whispered at last.  He drew a deep breath. “And then you did this,”  he continued.  He trailed his fingers down the side of Elrohir’s face, his neck, and around to the hollow of his throat.   He released the silver clasp that fastened Elrohir’s tunic, and pushed it back off his shoulders, then his mouth replaced his questing fingers.

 

Elrohir shivered as cool lips caressed his heated skin.  “You have become very good at this,”  he whispered hoarsely. 

 

“I remember,”  Legolas said simply.  “I remember every touch of yours, every caress.  You made me feel things I had never felt before, never believed possible.”

 

“And I would do it again,”  Elrohir murmured.  He unfastened the laces on the front of Legolas’s shirt and slid his hands inside, exploring the soft skin within.  “After so long – it will feel much like the first time again,”  he warned, leaning forward to kiss his young lover once more.

 

Legolas twisted his hands into his hair, pulling him closer.    “I hope so,”  he whispered, his eyes sparkling with laughter.  “I do hope so.”  He took a step backwards, towards the bed, but Elrohir stayed him.

 

“No.  The bed is too far away.  Stay here.”  He sank down onto the furs before the fire, pulling Legolas with him.  “This is what I want.  You.  Here.  Now.”

 

Legolas wound sinuous hands around Elrohir’s neck and into his hair.  “Good,”  he breathed.  “Because that is what I want, too.”

 

“Then relax,”  Elrohir instructed him, as he had so long before.  “Relax, and let me teach you …”

 

As he reached out blindly to put the empty goblet down on the hearth, his hand brushed against another small bottle – a phial of sandalwood-scented oil.  He flushed a little as he realised how very well Elladan knew him. 

 

He slid easily into the tight heat, and Legolas gave a low moan of pleasure.  “Yes,”  he whispered.  “At last.  I have waited so long for this.”  He continued to thread his fingers through Elrohir’s hair, and Elrohir shivered at the touch which he had always found intensely sensual and erotic.

 

“Too long.   I am a fool – but no longer. My eyes have been opened.”   He moved with slow, gentle strokes, penetrating deeper each time, until Legolas gasped with each thrust.  Hands tightened in a painful grip in his hair, driving Elrohir near the edge.

 

He began to stroke Legolas in time with his thrusts, until Legolas arched beneath him, moaning and almost incoherent.  “Yes – more – E – El – Elrohir – ai!”  As he shuddered and gasped, Elrohir gave a hard, deep thrust, then another, groaning as he reached his own completion and filled the pliant body beneath him with his seed, before collapsing against Legolas with a long sigh of bliss.

 

 

o-o-o

 

 

Later, Elrohir lay sleepy and content with Legolas in his arms, enjoying the comforting weight as Legolas rested his head on his shoulder.  Turning his head, he kissed Legolas lightly.  “Was that worth waiting twenty years for?” he murmured.

 

“Twenty-two years, five months, and twenty-four days,” Legolas corrected with a smile.  “I have not forgotten, Elrohir.  I love you.”

 

Elrohir gave a sigh of pure contentment as he held Legolas close, and kissed him again.  “I know.  I love you too.”

 

He blew out the last candle, and fell asleep with Legolas in his arms, as the flickering firelight bathed them in its warm glow.

 

 

 

The End