Title: Through Bitter Chains (1/?)
Author: Rhysenn <rhysenn@singnet.com.sg>

Rating: R
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas
Category: AU, First-Time, Romance, Angst, Drama
Warnings: mild BDSM
Website: http://rhysenn.morethanart.org/lotr - there's a notify list where 
you can get an email each time I post updates to this story.

Summary: An Elvish slave learns much about the ways of Men -- who, above 
all else, desire power.

Story Notes: This is a semi-AU slave-fic.

The One Ring remains lost, perhaps, even forever; Sauron lies dormant, 
unable to return whilst his Ring of Power is hidden from him, although the 
whisper of his formless malice creeps across Middle-earth like an insidious 
shadow. There is discord and suspicion among the different folk of the 
land, and they have grown apart instead of being united. The races of Elves 
and Men have long been sundered, and have had no dealings with each other 
for many years.

Minas Tirith is the capital of the lands of Anórien, of the former realm of 
Gondor; it is a flourishing city, wealthy and of much profitable yield; but 
the people have fallen into greed and selfishness, forsaking the nobler 
ways in which their forefathers once lived. Men are much more like the 
ancient Romans that we now know of: sexuality is about rough passions and 
obsessive power plays. But yet, amidst corrupting desire there still lives 
in some the rare spirit of the nobility and love of the elder days.

Central Characters:
- Boromir has claimed the title of King of  Anórien, since the kingdom of 
Gondor had disintegrated into several smaller states due to internal strife 
and civil conflict; Faramir is the prince of the city.
- Aragorn, who is born of true yet forsakenn royalty, has returned to Minas 
Tirith after his wanderings in the wild, and now serves as chief steward of 
Boromir’s household.
- Gandalf is his trusted friend and counselllor; he is the only other who 
knows that Aragorn is the true royal heir, biding his time to reclaim his 
birthright and reunite the scattered peoples of Gondor to their former glory.
- Legolas is an Elf who had been captured bby hunters; a prize of great 
value, as this story shall tell.

And due to popular demand, the hobbits will make a cameo appearance in a 
later chapter.


Many thanks to Megan and Tyellas, my beta readers.


================================


Through Bitter Chains

Chapter One


Once a year, the hunters would stop along their route at Minas Tirith, and 
this was a much-anticipated arrival; they would often bring exotic and 
strange wares pillaged from far lands: from curiously-fragrant pipe-weed to 
silver-gold leaves that never wither, and made perfect adornment upon the 
finest of garments -- and, on occasion, live goods they would also bear. As 
indeed on this occasion.

Though the peoples of Minas Tirith transacted with these hunters from afar, 
they never quite welcomed them. Perhaps an old suspicion still lived in the 
subconscious of their minds, their better senses warning them against 
frequent dealings with such rough, uncultured folk. For although these 
strangers fashioned themselves as ‘hunters’, in truth they were not of the 
revered Dúnedain of the North, whose rare kind seemed to have disappeared, 
percolated into the very land that they knew so well -- no, these swarthy 
men were kin to the Easterlings, dangerous and treacherous. Even though Men 
now conducted business with them for reasons of profitable trade, they 
still far from trusted them; thus the hunters would not linger long, and in 
the brief period they stayed, both parties would gain some form of 
commercial benefit.

For Minas Tirith was rich, yet secluded from the other realms of 
Middle-earth; journeys from place to place were avoided, since along the 
high roads often lurked marauding bands, and it was no longer possible to 
traverse the lands and hope for a hospitable reception in foreign parts. 
Middle-earth was divided, fragmented into many different states and 
territories: each distrustful of the other, and content to roam within its 
own boundaries and venture little further; thus, missing out on the wonder 
and beauty that lived in distant corners of the land.

However, today, there was no need for the people of Minas Tirith to look 
far beyond their borders for hints of wonder and beauty from the distant 
horizon; the hunters brought these right to their gates, in their full 
splendour, great revealed and even greater, yet concealed. For this year, 
amidst the colourful and amazing array of other goods that they had gleaned 
on their travels, the hunters had a prized possession that they wished to 
sell, for a very high price: and just not to any bidder on the street. They 
wanted audience with King Boromir himself, to present their offer.

Boromir was mildly suspicious when his court messengers conveyed this to 
him; he rarely had dealings with these hunters, although he interfered not 
with his people’s choosing to do business with them. It was not to be 
denied that these hunters often peddled that which was much to be desired 
in Minas Tirith; trade in such varied and valuable items increased the 
status of Anórien among the other independent states in the realm of Gondor.

However, his curiosity was piqued; he saw no harm in conferring with the 
hunters, and so sent word that he would meet them, as requested. Shortly 
after noon he left his palace to descend to the gates of the White City, 
where the hunters would be waiting.

Faramir, his younger brother and prince of the city, accompanied him; as 
they strode through the streets the crowds hurriedly parted to let them 
pass, for they were both fair of face and grand of stature, and the people 
beheld them with great respect. Boromir was strong, skilled of weapon and 
equally swift of resolve; he took no wife, and delighted in the art of war; 
from that love of his also sprang his chief weakness: a tendency toward 
rash violence. Faramir, who was more learned in lore and music, often had 
to tactfully restrain his older brother, who could be vicious when provoked 
and would never suffer even the slightest affront to his pride.

There was already a large throng of people at the gates, engaged in 
negotiations and haggling over prices with the traders; however, all 
activity ceased the moment they saw that King Boromir and Prince Faramir 
had arrived, and the transactions in progress were put on hold as the 
hunters gathered forward to speak with the king. There were four of them in 
all; their leader was a stout man with bushy beard, and an unyielding look 
about him.

Unseen by all, a wizened old man materialised as if from nowhere, and stood 
at a distance, his wide-brimmed hat shading his eyes as he observed the 
proceedings; his keen, obscured gaze missed nothing. Few knew or saw much 
of him, save the occasional glimpse; for this elusive, bent figure dwelt 
usually in the palace, where he was on close terms with the steward of the 
household.

Presently, the leader of the hunters stepped forward, and bowed low before 
the king and prince.

“Good afternoon, my noble lords,” he said with exaggerated politeness; the 
crooked smile on his lips betrayed his true devious nature, and Boromir was 
not deceived.

“What would you desire to speak to me about?” he asked, his tone clipped 
and formal. “It is the middle of the day, and other matters of import also 
beckon.”

“Gracious you are, lord, for finding the time to speak with us lowly 
travelling traders,” the leader continued, although the glint in his eye 
remained. “I’m sure you will discover that your precious time spent here is 
far from wasted... indeed, you will find much pleasure ere our leave be taken.”

“That I will judge, when I have heard the matter,” Boromir said in a 
non-committal way.

“Is it not true, as rumours say,” the leader said slyly, “that in Minas 
Tirith and its surrounding country, slavery has been legalised and made a 
way of life amongst you?”

“Yes,” Boromir replied stiffly, after a brief hesitation. “Yet it is also 
the manner of the other states in the realm of Gondor, and this is a local 
statute that has little to do with the trade you deal in.” He allowed a 
tone of impatience to slip into his voice. “Now, what have you to say about 
your own matter? Speak swiftly, and I will give reply as I deem fit.”

“Very well; I will be brief and direct.” The leader turned and signalled to 
his companions, two of whom went at once to their caravan. They disappeared 
inside, drawing the flaps closed behind them; there followed some muffled 
noises from within.

The crowd waited in anticipation; a few minutes later their heads 
reappeared and they climbed out, although with some difficulty, as if they 
were dragging something heavy or reluctant. People craned their necks to 
catch a glimpse of the load that the two hunters were hauling out of the 
caravan -- perhaps a treasure chest, full of jewels and lost wonders? -- 
but they gasped when they finally saw what it was. It was more exquisite 
and beautiful than jewels, for it was living, and beyond wonders that many 
of them had ever imagined. Few had beheld another of its kind before; yet 
to all it was unmistakable what this creature was.

An Elf.

They all stared, fascinated by the elf’s wild, undefined beauty -- natural 
as the stars, and captivating as the Sea. It was clear that great effort 
had been taken by the hunters to preserve this prized possession in its 
prime condition; yet the elf had not escaped unscathed, perhaps having had 
to be subdued by force on several occasions prior. There was a fresh bruise 
flowering on his cheekbone, yet still it did not mar the delicate features 
set in the pale face; the elf’s eyes shone with a defiant light, a silver 
fire, as he twisted against the leather bands that held his arms behind his 
back, although to no avail. His blond hair fell in fine, slightly tousled 
locks upon his slim shoulders.

One of the hunters started to shove the elf forward, impatiently; but the 
other quickly hissed at him, and they both made a concerted effort to treat 
their prisoner less roughly. The elf’s ankles were shackled with chains 
that chafed his smooth skin raw. He wore a tunic of dark green, the raiment 
of folk who dwell in forests; it hid but flattered the slim body that lay 
beneath, and was torn in places to reveal pale bare skin. The elf wrenched 
violently away from the touch of the hunters each time they tried to urge 
him along; he rebuked them in his own tongue, which sounded melancholic and 
melodious like a lament of nature.

Boromir could not take his eyes away from the elf; he was entranced by his 
beauty, simple yet divine. He was suddenly overcome with the intense desire 
to have this prize for his own, whatever the cost. The sheer untamed appeal 
of the elf excited him, much like the thrill of embarking on war: a 
conquest that lay before him, which he had bent all his thought towards 
conquering and possessing. It was an instinctive emotion that arose within 
him: primal yet truthful, and singularly focused.

The leader of the hunters noticed Boromir’s unabashed hunger, and smiled; 
the king was not known for his subtlety or power in restraint. This boded 
well for the hunters; perhaps half the battle was already won.

“Behold!” the leader indicated the elf with a proud sweep of his hand. 
“This is a prize beyond the reckoning of gold and silver; one of the rarest 
and most beautiful species that walk the earth, a gem from the forests of 
Mirkwood in the vast lands beyond. We went forth and brought him hence, 
since we knew that he would bring you much pleasure, O king. A slave such 
as this you would likely never see again.”

“You chose well,” Boromir acknowledged curtly. “What would you ask for his 
price?”

“Only a trifle, my lord,” the leader said, his voice placating. “It is but 
a small thing, a token for a possession as priceless as this; the rest of 
its value consider a gift of goodwill from our peoples to yours. We ask 
only for the dwelling places that lie beyond the Anduin, on the farther 
shore that your city looks upon: the land of Ithilien.”

“You ask for Ithilien!” Boromir laughed sharply, and shook his head. “Then 
you do belittle the worth of the land, if you think that its length and 
breadth is worth an exchange for a single slave, even though he be an elf 
of Mirkwood. Much of the land is not populated, no doubt; yet it has rich 
resources of game for hunting and fishing, and we will not cast it aside so 
lightly. It is ours by territorial right, and its value is far greater than 
what you offer.”

Faramir, standing by Boromir’s side, nodded approvingly; however he cast a 
searching glance at his brother, as if sensing the urgent desire that raged 
within him, to have this elf as his own.

“Pardon I beg if I spoke contrary to my intention,” the leader said, still 
glib and smooth of tongue. “Rather we hold Ithilien in high regard. As a 
travelling folk we have wandered many leagues, homeless; above all, we wish 
to have a land to call our own. We greatly desire Ithilien, and it would be 
an honour to dwell at such proximity to your fine city. We have searched 
far and wide to find this gift to present to you, O King Boromir, and we 
wish it to find delight in your eyes -- for the elf is immortal, and his 
beauty will never fade. He would be a fine heirloom of your house for 
generations to come.”

Boromir looked thoughtful; he was silent for a moment, and the stillness 
settled without a ripple over the entire assembly as they waited for him to 
make up his mind. Boromir’s restless eyes strayed towards the elf once 
more, and remained there; the elf looked back at him, and a fiery will 
burned in his eyes, unbroken still. But rather than being deterred, this 
aroused a sense of challenge in Boromir; he took a step forward.

“I shall inspect the gift, ere I give you my reply,” he said, not taking 
his eyes off the elf.

Faramir looked ill at ease, and he gave the hunters a dark look; he trusted 
them not, and had never been happy allowing them access to trade at the 
gates. But he could do nothing except watch Boromir walk towards the elf, 
who stood his ground.

Boromir neared the elf, who did not flinch even as he drew to a halt merely 
inches away; there was still a great fire that blazed in those silver-grey 
eyes, a fierce resentment at being called a ‘slave’ and traded casually for 
a plot of land. Even as he looked into the elf’s eyes Boromir hesitated to 
touch him, seeing clearly the explosiveness within this lithe being. 
However, courage and need bettered his wariness, and he reached forward to 
brush his hand lightly against the elf’s dirt-stained cheek. It was a 
tender movement, seemingly; although beneath it was a yearning insistence, 
which the elf evidently detected; he moved a step backwards, breaking contact.

A shadow of anger flitted across Boromir’s face; but a possessive 
determination triumphed, and he drew back calmly, a grim smile on his face 
as he turned to the leader, who was waiting eagerly for an answer.

“I will lease you the land of Ithilien for five years,” Boromir finally 
judged; and Faramir despaired, for he knew his brother had yielded to the 
temptation to barter their country’s land for what was clearly a personal 
pursuit. “For five years you may dwell there, you and your people; that 
shall be the price for this elf-slave.” He spoke the last word 
deliberately, and darkly relished the helpless rage in the elf’s eyes.

“Twelve years,” countered the leader, driving a hard bargain, playing on 
the controlled lust he sensed burning in the depths of the king.

“Seven years and that is my final offer,” Boromir said flatly; he may have 
yearned deeply for the prize offered, but he would not be taken advantage 
of by reason of weakness. He gave the elf a careless look that disguised 
the intensity of his true feelings, and turned to face the leader of the 
hunters. “This which you offer, though of high quality, cannot justify such 
an exorbitant price. Seven years, and no more.”

The leader consulted briefly with his companions; finally, they acquiesced, 
and the matter was sealed. The terms were swiftly agreed upon: the captured 
elf would be promptly handed over to Boromir (for the king did not trust 
the hunters to treat their captive decently any longer, once his usefulness 
in negotiating a deal was served); in return, they would receive the 
written deed giving them leave to roam and live in the deserted realm of 
Ithilien for seven years.

Boromir briskly gave instructions with regard to his new elf-slave.

“Take him back to the palace,” he told the guards, who stood by awaiting 
his word. “And there hand him over to the care of Aragorn, chief steward of 
my household. He will know what to do; just tell him that I want to see the 
new slave at the dinner feast tonight, and he will handle the rest of the 
arrangements.”

The elf gave his new master a long, measured look, as if trying to gauge 
the person that would rule his life henceforth; and if one wondered that 
the elf did not feel misery at his capture and sale into a bleak existence 
in servitude, one only had to look into his eyes to see the volumes of 
sadness that ached within his soul, which loved nature and beauty and freedom.

Boromir’s manner showed his complacent attitude, now that he had obtained 
what he wanted; he barely spared the elf a glance as he turned on his heel 
and departed, with Faramir by his side. The guards came near, and escorted 
the king’s new slave back to the palace; the elf shrugged away their 
restraining hands on his shoulder, his head still held high. Through it all 
he said not a word.

A distance down the road, Faramir fell into stride with Boromir.

“This is not altogether well, my brother,” Faramir advised. “It is a 
decision too rashly made; we should have taken counsel ere we gave the 
hunters any reply.”

“There was no need,” Boromir replied; he felt pleased with his afternoon’s 
acquisition. “For my mind was already made up; and now, the deal has 
already been sealed. I cannot go back on my word.”

“But do you really think it wise?” Faramir was troubled; he could not 
remain silent any longer. “Permitting slavery in our kingdom is one thing, 
but -- Elves are the Firstborn, and Men are the Followers. That is the way 
it has been decreed, ere the world begun. Are we not overstepping our 
boundaries by making an elf a slave of our household? It is contrary to the 
original purpose of the fair Kindred.”

“He is not a slave of the household,” Boromir answered. “He will be my 
personal slave, and will serve me alone. For I see it purposed that he was 
offered to *me*, and -- I do not conceal my heart from you, brother -- I 
deny not that I desired him, from when I first laid eyes on him.”

Faramir did not think it extraordinary that the elf was offered to Boromir, 
since he was the king; and, being kinder of heart, Faramir felt pity for 
the elf. Also, something about the feral desire that his brother had 
professed alarmed him, although he did not speak of it.

Instead he asked, “Could we not find some work suitable for him in the palace?”

Boromir looked at his brother with great surprise. “Faramir, would I have 
leased out the use of Ithilien to those barbarians, just to recruit another 
officer in the palace? I think not. Nay, it is the elf -- and his physical 
beauty -- that I have found great pleasure in.”

“You did not even ask his name,” Faramir pointed out.

“It does not matter,” Boromir said brazenly. “He is mine.”

As the two brothers headed back towards the citadel, the wizened old man 
drew his grey cloak about him, and turned away; then he was gone. Moments 
later he was seen quickly slipping into the palace by the back doors; news 
of what he had witnessed he brought to Aragorn, steward of the household, 
whose duty it had been to remain behind in the palace whilst the king and 
prince were both absent.


~~~

[[ In the next chapter: The elf learns about his place in this strange city 
of Men; and we meet Aragorn, the steward of the house. ]]

Feedback: I'd love to hear it :)  <rhysenn@singnet.com.sg>

   


Title: Through Bitter Chains (2/?)
Author: Rhysenn <rhysenn@singnet.com.sg>

Rating: R
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas
Category: AU, First-Time, Romance, Angst, Drama
Warnings: mild BDSM
Website: http://rhysenn.morethanart.org/lotr - there's a notify list where 
you can get an email each time I post updates to this story.

Summary: The elf learns about his place in this strange city of Men; and we 
meet Aragorn, the steward of the house.

Story Notes: Please refer to the headings in Chapter One, or read
the notes at http://rhysenn.morethanart.org/lotr/tbc-notes.htm for
more detailed exposition of the situation and characters in this AU.

Additionally, the premise in this story that Aragorn lives in Minas Tirith 
serving as steward of the house is based on the canon fact in "Lord of the 
Rings", Appendix A: 'The Stewards', that Aragorn did indeed return to 
Gondor; his true identity remained concealed, and he went under the name of 
Thorongil, and served as a great captain of Ecthelion II.


================================


Through Bitter Chains

Chapter Two


“An Elf?” Aragorn repeated in amazement, after he heard the brief tale his 
old friend had to tell. “The king gave those barbarians leave to dwell in 
Ithilien, in exchange for an *Elf*?”

Gandalf tilted his head, looking thoughtfully at Aragorn from under his 
bushy eyebrows. “You seem astounded that an Elf would warrant an exchange 
such as the lease of Ithilien.”

“No,” Aragorn replied. “Rather, I am astounded that the king would trade 
with those travelling marauders; especially when the possession in question 
is an Elf, and the price is permission of foreign claim over land that is 
rightfully ours.” In his voice flashed a deep hatred for the ‘hunters’, as 
they called themselves -- for Aragorn himself was one of the true Dúnedain 
of the North, and he loathed any association with such cruel, ruthless 
pillagers. He frowned, and then asked, “But how came they to overpower an 
elf? For although it has been long since I walked among those fair folk, I 
know that they are deft and nimble, skilled in self-defence at the least.”

“That I know not, either,” Gandalf admitted. “I too was surprised, for as 
far as I have knowledge, Elves rarely move about alone, as among their 
kindred they find solidarity and strength. Perhaps this one was caught 
unawares; they bore him a great distance, for in the forests of Mirkwood 
they waylaid him.”

Aragorn’s brow furrowed. “Do you approve, Gandalf?” he asked simply.

Gandalf sighed. “An Elf, above all kindred, should not be reckoned so 
lightly; and his freedom is naught for anyone else to barter for personal 
gain.”

“I think likewise,” Aragorn agreed. “It is one thing to command a slave of 
one’s own race; but it is altogether different to strive to control another 
kind that has preceded us in the grand scheme of life.”

“I fear it is more complicated than that.” Gandalf’s eyes clouded with 
storm. “My heart misgives that King Boromir’s interest in the elf goes 
beyond what meets the eye.”

Before Aragorn could ask Gandalf to elaborate, the side doors to the palace 
opened, and in marched the guards; between them was a slender figure, 
upright and proud despite the slight slump of the shoulders, weighed with 
fatigue. The chains bound about his ankles clinked on the marble floor as 
the elf moved, graceful even while restrained, although he walked with a 
perceptible limp; he did not resist the guidance of the guards, yet he 
would not endure being physically led.

Aragorn’s eyes settled on the elf as the guards drew to a halt; the elf 
looked straight back at him, prevailing dignity evident in his unflinching 
gaze. He stood silently before Aragorn with the chains pooled around his 
feet, and his arms still bound behind his back.

“King Boromir bade us tell you to ready this slave ere the dinner feast 
this evening,” one of the guards formally told Aragorn. “He is an Elf, and 
the king only just purchased him from the hunters; they warn you to be 
careful, for they say this slave is not obedient or willing to be commanded.”

“As few free people ever are,” Aragorn commented succinctly; Gandalf shot 
him a quelling look. Aragorn nodded towards the guard. “Very well. I will 
take him from here; you are dismissed.”

The guard bowed. “We commit him to your care, my lord.” They left the elf’s 
side, and exited the hall.

Aragorn barely noticed the guards’ departure; he was too absorbed in 
studying the elf. He had always been fond of elves, as one would love a 
strain of tender childhood memory. It had been a long time since he dwelt 
with the elves, or had any dealings with them; seeing this elf rekindled 
his affection for the fair kindred, and Aragorn had to consciously remind 
himself that this elf was not a guest of the house, but rather a slave.

Aragorn was accustomed to overseeing slaves that worked in the palace; ever 
since slavery had been legalised in Minas Tirith, the taking of slaves by 
the wealthy was common, and had become a sign of affluence. But this elf 
was different from any other slave he had dealt with. There was something 
special about him -- perhaps it was his unwavering dignity in the face of 
subjugation, or the way he still wore his freedom like a protective cloak 
around himself, even when he had been cruelly sold for a tenure of soil. Or 
maybe it was something else, altogether.

Finally, Aragorn spoke.

“What is your name?” he asked. “The name you formerly went by.”

“My name is Legolas Greenleaf,” the elf answered; his voice was strong and 
mellifluous. “And it still remains my name, as will always be.”

“That may not be so,” Aragorn told him, frankly. “For in time the king may 
change your name to one that pleases him, and that shall be your new name.”

“I will answer to none other name than my own,” the elf promptly replied in 
a tone of implicit defiance.

“It is not your choice.” Aragorn said firmly; he masked his own misgivings 
about the situation, and wore a stern face that demanded respect and 
obedience. “The king owns you now, and you have no say in matters even 
pertaining to yourself. That you would do well to understand, and get 
accustomed to.” Through it all Aragorn never spoke the word ‘slave’.

“Legolas is the name my father bestowed upon me, ere I was born.” The elf 
raised his eyes to level Aragorn’s, and in them there was no fear or 
hesitance. “I may have been taken far away from my homeland and brought 
here against my will, but I will never cast aside my heritage -- most 
precious of which is my own name.”

The elf’s words struck a deep chord within Aragorn; he was without a reply 
for a long moment, lost in his own poignant memories of the meaning of 
lineage and patrimony. When he looked once again upon the elf standing 
before him, there was a different light in Aragorn’s eyes: softer, as if 
born of a new understanding.

“Very well,” he said. “Legolas shall be your name, unless the king says 
otherwise.”

Aragorn expected Legolas to thank him, for this was an uncommon show of 
consideration towards a slave; but the elf made no answer except for his 
even gaze. Aragorn waited a moment, and then resumed speaking; there were 
matters at hand that needed tending, and he pushed the unbidden memories of 
the past to the fringes of his mind. Briskly he laid down the standard 
rules of the household, which Legolas had to abide by; the elf listened, 
and then bowed his head in silent acknowledgement.

“The afternoon swiftly wears away,” Aragorn concluded, “and the king 
desires to see you at the grand dinner feast this evening. You look tired; 
you must have travelled many leagues with little rest. When did you depart 
from Mirkwood?”

A look of supreme astonishment crossed Legolas’s face.

“How knew you that I am from Mirkwood?” he asked, an innocent eagerness in 
his voice like one who in a foreign country hears the song of his own land; 
for Legolas knew the guards had not mentioned his origin to Aragorn, and he 
had not perceived that Gandalf, who was standing by unobtrusively, had been 
among the crowd earlier.

Aragorn gave Legolas an appraising look; it became clear to him now that he 
could recognise the elf’s origin, even had Gandalf not told him before.

“Your raiment,” he answered. “It is of the Wood-elves, who dwell far north 
beneath the trees of Mirkwood; and your accent and manner of speech are 
distinctly Sindarin.”

“You are acquainted with our folk?” Legolas asked boldly, once more 
breaking the rule that slaves never ask questions, and only speak when they 
are first spoken to. Had there been guards in the hall with them, Aragorn 
would have had to rebuke the elf; but something moved him now to let it 
pass, since they were alone save for Gandalf. Instead, he even gave answer 
to Legolas’s question.

“I have been in your land, many years ago,” Aragorn told him. “And I have 
heard tales of the gladness that lived beneath the oak and beech of 
Greenwood the Great, ere the darkness fell upon that forest -- a time when 
the shade under the branches gave only relief and no fear to those who 
passed through...” he broke off, extricating himself from memories once 
again; he found Legolas gazing at him with rapt attention, and there was a 
shimmer of forgotten joy in the elf’s bright eyes as he heard the fair 
recollections of his homeland.

“But that is no more.” Aragorn forced himself to regain his distant 
composure; he realised that he had already said too much of what he felt. 
“The darkness has settled upon the land; days of light and beauty have long 
passed.”

The tentative spark in Legolas’s eyes wavered at Aragorn’s cold withdrawal; 
the elf dropped his gaze to the floor, and said no more.

Aragorn made a concerted effort to return to his task. “You have not yet 
answered my question, Legolas: when were you brought hence from your dwelling?”

“I do not know.” Legolas’s voice was soft, almost painfully so. “I cannot 
remember, for they often emptied vials of foul concoctions down my throat 
to subdue me. I drifted in and out of consciousness, and I am not certain 
how many days or nights have since passed. I have eaten little, and my head 
aches.”

“You will be fed, and clothed with fresh garments.” Aragorn felt a twinge 
of sympathy for Legolas; not pity, for the elf was too proud for that. 
“Then you may rest to regain your strength before the feast.”

“Perhaps it would also be well to remove his bonds, if he gives his word 
not to struggle with you or attempt flight.” Gandalf’s calm voice now 
spoke, and both Aragorn and Legolas turned towards him. There was a brief 
flicker of gratitude in Legolas’s eyes as he looked at Gandalf.

Aragorn turned his attention to Legolas’s chains. True enough, they were 
cruel and too tight for comfort, and bit into the soft flesh encircling the 
elf’s ankles. He resolved to free Legolas from them; but first, he needed 
assurance that it would not be folly to do so.

“If I rid you of your bonds,” he addressed Legolas, who listened 
attentively, “do you promise not to tussle with me, or hazard escape the 
moment you are liberated?”

“I give my word,” Legolas answered decisively, as if the word of a slave 
still held worth, other than in his own eyes.

Aragorn approached him, drawing out his sword as he went; Legolas watched 
the blade with keen eyes, but did not recoil. Going around him, Aragorn 
laid a palm on Legolas’s hands to steady them, and deftly sliced the 
leather bands with an upward flick of the sword. The bands fell in shreds 
to the floor, and Legolas rubbed his wrists ruefully. Then Aragorn knelt to 
inspect the chains -- they were thick and sturdy, but the locks that 
secured them were not. With a sharp strike of his sword he broke each lock 
to pieces, yet did not cause excessive pain to Legolas on impact. Carefully 
he removed the chains, and saw that the flesh beneath was reddened and sore.

Aragorn straightened; as he stepped back, he caught the elf’s soft voice, 
on the wings of a barely audible whisper: “Thank you.”

He nodded, and signalled for Legolas to follow him; and Legolas did, 
without having to be told again. Aragorn bade farewell to Gandalf, and his 
old friend went forth from the hall. Aragorn would probably not see him for 
the rest of the day, since Gandalf never attended feasts with the officials 
of Minas Tirith. But Gandalf always had a knack of appearing just when he 
was needed, at precisely the right time.

Presently Aragorn brought Legolas into the bath house -- as with the rest 
of the palace it was a grand chamber, lit with candles white as ivory, 
which never seemed to burn down. Inside, it was separated into two areas: 
on the right were the cubicles for the officials, and each held a bath tub 
carved out of a block of solid black marble veined with pearl, ornately 
decorated with designs etched in gold. A curtain that looked delicate and 
translucent as thin silk, yet was made of waterproof material, could be 
drawn around the tub.

On the left were the smaller cubicles meant for servants: the tubs were 
small and plain, with no surrounding curtain, and the baths did not have 
the luxury of hot water. Aragorn turned to Legolas, and beckoned him 
towards one of those cubicles. Legolas hesitated briefly, and then in a 
respectful manner requested that he be allowed to bathe alone.

This was not the traditional way with new slaves: they were not permitted 
to bathe unassisted, perhaps in fear that they might, in their wild 
desperation, attempt to drown themselves in the tub. Aragorn vacillated 
within himself for a few moments, but finally he gave in to Legolas’s request.

Aragorn was surprised to find himself slightly disappointed as he withdrew 
to give Legolas some privacy, although he lingered just without, waiting. 
Against the flickering candlelight that played across the smooth wet walls 
of the bath house, he could see the silhouette of Legolas’s naked form. The 
elf was tall and slender, his arms and legs defined and lean; Aragorn saw 
that he was very beautiful.

Servants were called to bring new garments for Legolas; since King Boromir 
wanted the elf to attend the feast, Aragorn judged that he should be 
arrayed in a proper manner befitting a public appearance. Shortly later 
Legolas emerged, and Aragorn had to fight to contain his amazement -- for 
although Legolas had been attractive clad in his stained, dark green 
raiment of Mirkwood, now dressed in finer robes he looked stunning.

Legolas wore a simple tunic of pale-white -- it would have been modest, 
except that it was too short on him; and because he was too slim, it was 
suggestively loose, sliding about his lean shoulders. The collar stood 
apart, revealing his graceful neck. Legolas wore tight-fitting black 
leggings that reached down to his ankles, hiding his injuries; and the way 
these enhanced his legs pushed the boundaries of decency. Aragorn wondered 
if he had chosen robes too splendid for the elf to wear -- but he soon 
realised that it was Legolas who added beauty to the fabrics that arrayed 
him, and not vice versa.

Moreover, slaves were never called to be in attendance at feasts; this was 
the first time he had been given such instructions, and Aragorn wanted to 
make sure Legolas was aptly attired for the occasion. He cast a brief 
thought as to why the king had issued this order; but then, cutting a 
sidelong glance at Legolas, he understood perfectly well why Boromir had 
decided to claim him to dwell in Minas Tirith. And Legolas was an Elf -- 
they were a rare sight those days in the South.

Even now it had almost slipped Aragorn’s mind that Legolas was actually a 
slave, for the elf’s manner and gait were cultured and dignified. Aragorn 
set him in no bonds, although he did not give Legolas a belt to gird around 
his waist, as was the custom to array guests of the king’s feast with.

Afterwards Aragorn had some food brought before Legolas, who seemed weak 
from hunger. It was quail’s meat -- more special than the usual fare, since 
it was part of leftover samples from the spread for the feast. However, 
when the elf saw the dish set before him, he looked dismayed and shook his 
head.

“I cannot eat this,” he told Aragorn earnestly. “In the forests of Mirkwood 
birds are our friends, especially those who roost in the branches of the 
trees and do us no harm. The flesh of friendly birds we do not eat; and the 
meat of evil birds we do not touch. That is our way of life.”

Aragorn now realised the folly of his kindness towards Legolas -- for it 
now seemed that Legolas had become comfortable in his presence, and treated 
him more as an equal than a superior. In Minas Tirith slaves were not 
accorded such luxury of choice; and as far as Aragorn could see Legolas was 
clearly a ‘slave’, though he was loath to use that term. Such behaviour 
could not be tolerated -- it would be interpreted as impudence, and an 
insolent slave would be punished until he learnt his lesson.

“And this is *our* way of life,” Aragorn said firmly, pushing the plate of 
quail’s meat in front of Legolas, who regarded it with revulsion. “You 
would do well to forget your old way of life, Legolas, because that is 
past. It does not matter if you accept it, or not -- you will have to live 
with it.”

“No,” Legolas said in a whisper; his eyes hazed over with pain and sadness. 
“I do not wish to live like this.”

“You cannot speak in such a manner!” Aragorn hissed fiercely, standing up 
with an abruptness that startled even Legolas, who looked up at him with 
eyes that shone liquid silver. “Do you not understand? You will suffer 
greatly if you do not relinquish this stubborn attitude of yours! Do not 
speak that way in front of me again!”

Legolas looked thoroughly stunned, and subsided; he said nothing for a long 
while. Aragorn gazed at him, and wondered how he had allowed himself to 
develop a certain kind of affection for this elf-slave -- he finally 
admitted to himself that was what Legolas truly was -- in such a short span 
of time.

Finally, Legolas spoke; his voice was quiet, subdued. “I never saw you 
before, when you walked the paths of Mirkwood.”

Aragorn gave him a slanted look. “Perhaps you did, but could not recognise 
that it was me.”

“Nay,” Legolas said with a small shrug. “We would have noticed you without 
delay; for Men move recklessly when sometimes there is need for stealth. 
The rustle of the grasses as they pass through often gives them away.” He 
paused. “Perhaps you will allow me to speak some advice: if you run with a 
purpose ahead of you, the surer it will be that you will reach your 
destination. Warriors are sometimes aimless, and lack purpose; that is 
their undoing.”

“I gave you no permission to speak your advice, yet you proceeded without 
my leave.” Aragorn said severely. “Pay close attention, Legolas: for I will 
give you some counsel, too.”

“What will your counsel be?” Legolas asked.

“This,” Aragorn said, as he rose to his feet; the time for the dinner feast 
was drawing near. Following his lead, Legolas stood up as well. Aragorn 
turned to face him, and continued, “Do not ask any questions -- some things 
are better left unanswered. For your pride will be your undoing.”

“You do not understand,” Legolas said, and there was a desperate intensity 
in his eyes as he looked at Aragorn. “I have lost everything that has 
meaning in my life -- my home, my happiness, my freedom. My pride is all I 
have.”

“And you possess it to your own ruin,” Aragorn said; with a sweeping turn 
he strode towards the feasting hall. Legolas paused a moment, and then 
followed him. The plate of quail’s meat remained on the table, untouched.


~~

[[ In the next chapter: The grand dinner feast takes place, and Legolas is 
brought before King Boromir -- will pride beget a fall? ]]


Feedback: I'd love to hear it :)

* Please leave a review at the "Through Bitter Chains" message board:
http://www.quicktopic.com/12/H/GSbCBakBx6Drn

* or email me at <rhysenn@singnet.com.sg>



Title: Through Bitter Chains (3/?)
Author: Rhysenn <rhysenn@singnet.com.sg>

Rating: R
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas
Category: AU, First-Time, Romance, Angst, Drama
Warnings: mild BDSM
Website: http://rhysenn.morethanart.org/lotr - there's a notify list where 
you can get an email each time I post updates to this story.

Summary: The grand dinner feast takes place, and Legolas is brought before 
King Boromir -- will pride beget a fall?

Story Notes: Please refer to the headings in Chapter One, or read
the notes at http://rhysenn.morethanart.org/lotr/tbc-notes.htm for
more detailed exposition of the situation and characters in this AU.


================================


Through Bitter Chains

Chapter Three


The Spring Feast was a grand and elaborate event, which the kitchen 
servants began preparations for several days in advance. It was held 
annually in Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasting: a large sprawling floor 
built upon a pavilion, edged by white carved pillars that upheld the 
cavernous ceilings above. Today, it was bedecked in colours of verdant 
green and sparkling silver for the occasion.

The high officials of the palace had their place at the exclusive Velvet 
Table, situated upon a broad elevated dais laid with a fine purple carpet, 
where the king himself would dine. The other grandees at the feast were 
prominent guild masters and merchants of Minas Tirith; almost all in 
attendance were male. Apart from the wine and fine food, there would also 
be live entertainment -- some of the performances tended to be very 
sensual, and as the evening passed, excesses in drink would also loosen 
inhibitions; for most of the guests, the night would usually culminate in 
sexual gratification of some kind.

Legolas was brought into Merethrond unshackled, for he was a slave, not a 
prisoner. Everyone present watched Legolas with avid eyes -- most had not 
seen elves in a long time, and murmured comments were made about the beauty 
of King Boromir’s new slave. But no one dared lay a hand on Legolas, as he 
belonged to the king.

Faramir was already there. Aragorn had a seat at the Velvet Table; after 
instructing Legolas to stand aside by a pillar to await the king’s arrival, 
he settled down next to the prince, for they were great friends. Faramir 
regarded the elf with troubled interest; he spoke to Aragorn in a low voice.

“My brother has set his heart on that elf,” Faramir said. “I am sure you 
have heard about the leasing of Ithilien for seven years, as the 
acquisition price of the elf. Truth be told I counselled against it -- but 
to no avail, for Boromir desires him greatly.”

There was something in Faramir’s remarks and tone that struck a cold nerve 
within Aragorn; he liked not the sound of them, and the foreboding he had 
from the start grew deeper. Gandalf’s ominous words echoed in his mind: 
//My heart misgives that King Boromir’s interest in the elf goes beyond 
what meets the eye.//

“The reason for the king’s delight in the elf is plain to see,” Aragorn 
said, although he was careful not to reveal his suspicion. “For he is 
beautiful; and being an Elf, likely very talented and skilled in many ways.”

“Well, perhaps he will also be adept in what the king desires him for,” 
Faramir replied, casting another glance at Legolas; the elf was gazing off 
into the distance, not seeming to notice the intense scrutiny he was under, 
from almost every eye in the hall. Faramir turned back to Aragorn, and 
resumed, “I would not be so uneasy, had he not been an Elf. But... well, I 
suppose every effort must still be made to fulfil the king’s wishes. So I 
shall hold my peace. My brother has laboured hard for Minas Tirith; he 
deserves some reprieve.”

“Do you imply,” Aragorn could no longer withhold his burning question, 
“that the king wishes the elf to be his -- *personal* slave? And to -- 
serve him, in any manner he might ask?”

Faramir nodded. “Have you not heard the rumour that has been spreading like 
wildfire among all the court officials? They have talked of naught else all 
afternoon, and even now the entire city must be aroused in curiosity. But 
-- oh, little wonder that you have not heaard -- you have been tending to 
the elf since he arrived, preparing him for the feast. You have done well, 
and I am sure my brother will be greatly pleased -- the elf looks splendid.”

“Legolas.” Aragorn said shortly. “His name is Legolas.”

“A fair name for one of his kindred,” Faramir said; Aragorn silently agreed 
with him as he gazed at the elf, who stood quietly where he had been 
instructed. Legolas looked like a living statue of marble, carved and 
kindled by the hands of the gods themselves. “It is regrettable that he 
cannot dwell here as a resident of Minas Tirith; but my brother has made it 
eminently clear that he sought the prized possession solely as his own to 
enjoy.”

“With the payment of the lands of our people?” Aragorn said obliquely; even 
as he spoke a painful twinge awoke inside him, twisting deeply.

“I did not wish this to come to pass,” Faramir answered. “You know, better 
than anyone else, how I was grieved when the law permitting slavery in our 
realm was enacted. But then, as now, I remain powerless to overrule the 
king’s decision. My brother is stubborn and strong-willed -- he knows what 
he wants, and he will stop at naught to get it.”

As they were speaking, King Boromir entered the hall. He was dressed in the 
finest royal robes, and he looked magnificent. The gathered guests rose, 
and with a gesture of his hand Boromir bade them all join him; everyone 
settled down into their places.

Boromir’s eyes swept across the hall; but he missed Legolas, who was 
standing partially concealed behind the pillar. He turned to Aragorn and 
asked, “Where is the elf-slave of mine?”

Aragorn gritted his teeth as he stood. “He is waiting by the pillar, lord.” 
He surmised that Boromir meant no real malice by referring to Legolas as 
‘slave’, but only spoke with careless insensitivity; however Aragorn could 
see the dark fire in Legolas’s eyes, and knew that the elf greatly resented it.

“Bring him forth to me,” came the command.

Aragorn went over to Legolas, and escorted him towards Boromir; Legolas 
walked with graceful strides, his unwillingness imperceptible in his light 
steps as he drew closer to stand before the king. Then Aragorn left his 
side, and Legolas stood alone.

Boromir regarded Legolas with languid satisfaction; he let his gaze slide 
up and down the slender body before him, a prelude to what was his to touch 
and bend to his will as he pleased. The entire assembly watched in fascination.

Finally Boromir rose to his feet, and addressed the guests; as he spoke, he 
laid his hand possessively on Legolas’s shoulder, drawing him near.

“Here I present before you a jewel from lands afar,” he said, his voice 
proud and sonorous, “brought to our gates as a prize to be held within the 
realm of Anórien, aye, even kept within the palaces of Minas Tirith. He is 
an Elf from the distant forests of Mirkwood, where he must have been among 
the fairest of creation that walked there under moon and starlight.

“For a price worthy of his exquisiteness he was bought, and henceforth I 
alone will he be obliged to serve. By day he shall work as I please, and he 
will dwell in my chambers at night. He will feast by my side, and not as 
one of the servants.”

Boromir let his hand slide down Legolas’s body to rest on the small of his 
back; the elf stiffened, yet mustered enough self-control not to react. 
Boromir did not sense the tenseness in the body next to him, and he 
continued, “Let it be known in all the city that this elf is my possession! 
I am now his master, and exclusive and faithful he shall be; and his name 
shall be called --”

“My lord,” Aragorn said as he stood up abruptly, interrupting the king’s 
speech; Boromir turned to look at him questioningly. “Pardon me; but the 
elf’s rightful name is Legolas. And perhaps it would please you to name him 
such -- it is a beautiful name, meaning ‘green leaf’ in the Elvish tongue. 
For he is indeed slender and rare as a mallorn leaf, and evergreen in his 
youth.”

Aragorn sat down; he felt an odd heat burning on his cheeks, and when he 
looked up again, he saw that Legolas’s eyes were fixed on him, filled with 
a new light of wonder.

Boromir was greatly pleased with Aragorn’s suggestion. “Very well! He shall 
be called Legolas by all in this realm. Perhaps he will be comforted by the 
use of his familiar name.”

There was applause from the guests as Boromir sat down, and Legolas was 
given a lower seat by his side; the food was served without further ado. 
Legolas was given a portion of whatever dishes his master partook. He ate 
swiftly, yet seemed preoccupied, caught in a deep thought that only he 
knew. Boromir barely spoke to him, engaging instead in conversation with 
his officials; Aragorn joined in the talk at occasional points, although he 
was on the whole distracted.

The soup for the evening was brought: it was a delicacy, rich and fragrant, 
and was served only to the king and those dining at the Velvet Table, while 
the other guests received another variety of stew. Legolas watched with a 
deepening frown as the servant ladled out the soup; when he was given his 
portion, he examined it closely, and for the first time that evening he spoke.

“May I inquire what soup this is?” he said quietly, looking across the 
table to Aragorn; he spoke so softly that no one else noticed him.

“It is a speciality of the culinary masters of Minas Tirith,” Aragorn 
answered. “It has been double-boiled with the swallow’s nest and eggs, 
which are known to do much for one’s physical health.”

“Among other things!” Another official quipped; laughter rippled through 
the company.

Legolas’s jaw dropped, and he looked utterly shocked. He stared at the 
soup, revolted, and seemed on the verge of pushing the bowl away from him, 
a clear symbol of rejection of a dish so highly valued; but he looked up, 
and caught Aragorn’s eye again. The steward was watching him intently, and 
his warning gaze spoke volumes; it stayed Legolas’s hand.

“This is *our* way of life, Legolas,” Aragorn said meaningfully, in a low 
but intense voice that could barely be discerned above the din; but he knew 
that Legolas heard him. “Down your pride, together with that soup.”

Aragorn saw that the elf was undergoing a great internal struggle -- the 
turmoil of his natural instincts against his better judgement. Finally, 
Legolas bowed his head, and spoon by spoon choked the entire bowl of 
agonising soup down his throat, clearly forcing himself not to gag each 
time he gulped; when he finally set down the empty bowl, Legolas looked 
like he was going to be sick.

Following the meal, Boromir beckoned Legolas to his side on the couch as 
the performances started; there was enthusiastic applause and catcalls at 
the dancers. Wine glasses were drained, and refilled; as the night grew 
deeper, the laughter from the grandees at the feast grew louder, more 
raucous, and their faces became flushed with the heat of intoxication in 
their veins.

Aroused by the sensual movements of the performers and the wine he had 
consumed, Boromir leaned in; with one strong hand he turned Legolas’s face 
towards him, and kissed the elf’s lips, gently at first, then more 
insistently. Legolas did not move; he let Boromir kiss him, although he did 
not return the affection. However, he was forced to concede when Boromir’s 
tongue pried his lips apart and slid into his mouth. Now both of Boromir’s 
hands were holding his head still so that he could not turn aside; the kiss 
was firm and dominant, as if marking a territory.

But all the while that Boromir kissed him Legolas’s eyes were on Aragorn; 
their eyes met briefly, before Aragorn quickly looked away. Legolas dropped 
his gaze sorrowfully; then he became aware that the king had begun to undo 
the fastenings on his tunic.

Legolas froze, his entire body going rigid as a detached horror flooded 
through him. Boromir’s mouth was still upon his, and the kisses grew 
fiercer, more passionate. But when Boromir slid his hand inside his parted 
tunic and began to caress the bare skin that lay beneath, Legolas could not 
endure any longer -- with a soft gasp he jerked back, his eyes wild with 
fear and a trapped desperation.

“Please, lord,” Legolas whispered, shaking his head pleadingly. “Do not use 
me in this manner. It is not the way with my people.”

There was a shocked murmur from the officials around the table, who had 
been watching the king’s advances upon his slave with great interest; 
Aragorn’s head snapped up in horrified disbelief. Boromir looked startled 
beyond words as he stared at the elf, who edged away from him -- rage 
quickly flooded in to replace incredulity.

“Please,” Legolas repeated fervently; and if Boromir were not so enraged, 
maddened by his hurt pride and dark lust, he would have been moved by some 
inherent sympathy. But now, his dark eyes were aflame with wrath as he 
regarded Legolas. The king was keenly aware that all his court officials 
were observing his every move, and it angered him greatly that they 
witnessed the elf’s defiance towards him -- for the sake of his own 
dignity, it could not go unpunished.

Boromir drew back his right hand and struck Legolas hard across his face. 
The impact sent the elf reeling, as he slipped from the edge of the couch 
and fell to the floor. Everyone at the Velvet Table stared, too stunned to 
react; word of the king’s fury rippled quickly through the rest of the 
guests, and all eyes turned expectantly toward the elevated dais.

Aragorn clenched his teeth, forcing himself to hold his silence. He gripped 
the sides of his chair tightly with both hands as he watched Legolas 
struggle into an upright position. Blood flowed from a cut on the elf’s 
lower lip, and flecks of red stained the white collar of his tunic, which 
was half-unfastened down the front.

Now Boromir seized Legolas by his arm, and dragged him to his feet; he 
turned and flung the elf down onto the couch again. Legolas put up little 
resistance; he still looked dazed from the blow, and the strength sapped 
from him through his long journey from the North had probably not been 
recovered.

“Perhaps you have not yet sufficiently learned the meaning of being my 
slave, Legolas,” Boromir said harshly, advancing towards him; the elf 
recoiled instinctively. “Well listen now, and remember once and for all -- 
it means that you will do *exactly* as I wish, without question or protest. 
Do you understand?”

“I will carry out your bidding,” Legolas said, his voice surprisingly 
strong and clear. “But I petition you to take no more from me than my 
service for your city.”

Boromir gave a mirthless smile. “You insult the officials of my court who 
are reclining around this table, foolish elf,” he said coldly. “They are 
talented and shrewd men who serve me and the peoples of Minas Tirith with 
their wisdom and skill -- how dare a slave request the same as the honoured 
members of my council?”

Boromir leaned in, and Legolas flinched in anticipation of another blow; 
but it never fell. He slowly raised his gaze to look at Boromir -- 
uncertainty and helplessness blazed in his bright elven eyes, which still 
did not yield.

“You, Legolas, are my *personal* slave,” Boromir continued; his voice was 
pierced with steel. “And your place is to serve me *personally*, in any 
manner that I demand.”

“My lord,” Legolas whispered, desperately, “It is not--”

“And you will call me Master.” Boromir’s voice was merciless, filled with 
thinly controlled anger.

Legolas saw that it was hopeless; he bowed his head in silent defeat. 
Boromir looked satisfied, and took the elf by the wrist and pulled him to 
his feet. With his fingers he wiped the drying blood away from Legolas’s 
lip in an oddly tender gesture, and then he bent forward and kissed Legolas 
hard on the mouth. The elf did not move; but as Boromir’s hands began to 
ease the tunic off his shoulders, Legolas shuddered and broke the lip-lock. 
He turned his face away from the king -- he could not bear to look at 
anyone now, least of all Aragorn.

“Please... master,” Legolas said softly, hoping in a last attempt to avert 
what was to come. “Please do not do this -- I beg of you.”

Boromir took a step backwards; his face was flushed with wine and fury and 
lust, and he regarded Legolas with an intense and terrible expression in 
his eyes.

“This slave still needs to be trained, it seems -- perhaps he should be 
taught to beg for other things.” Boromir looked grim as he nodded at his 
guards, who stood by awaiting orders. “Take him to my chambers without 
delay; I shall deal with him privately, and spare our guests the 
tediousness of his defiance.”

Aragorn saw the look of utter desolation on Legolas’s face as the guards 
took hold of him, and escorted him from Merethrond. He also saw the way 
Boromir’s hard eyes followed the slender elf, coldly calculating the 
punishment for his slave’s disgraceful behaviour in front of his guests.

Faramir, seated beside him, said nothing; but a sidelong glance at the 
prince told Aragorn that the king’s younger brother did not approve of what 
he had witnessed. Nevertheless, with Boromir in such a dangerous, volatile 
mood, even Faramir did not dare contradict him -- for they all knew that 
the king could be swiftly provoked, and in the heat of his anger he was 
fearsome indeed.

After lingering briefly, Boromir took leave to attend to ‘other matters’; 
he assured the guests that he would return soon, and encouraged them to 
continue their merrymaking without him. It was customary for such feasts to 
last even until dawn; the celebrations would still be in full swing several 
hours later.

Aragorn watched the king depart, and a feeling of distinct unease churned 
in his stomach, like a knife being slowly twisted. Shortly thereafter he 
too excused himself, and exited the hall.

He went outside alone, into the open courtyard. As he looked up at the 
stars in the heavens, they reminded him of the silver brightness of 
Legolas’s eyes, filled a light that radiated from within: living beauty 
blazing strong yet remote, as if out of great depths of time, fathomless 
and eternal.

He knew that he bore part of the blame. He had not helped Legolas get 
accustomed to life as a slave in Minas Tirith; he had only succeeded in 
making the elf forget, for a little while, the stark truth of who he now 
was. And although it had been gentle and comforting for Legolas in those 
moments, like the sweet intoxication of wine -- now it would be twice as 
bitter to swallow, as the brutal truth sank doubly deep.

Aragorn felt a hollow ache within him. He lowered his eyes, and gazed upon 
the stars no more; for they brought him a sadness that gnawed deep in his 
heart, and troubled his soul.


~~~

[[ In the next chapter:  Boromir asserts his authority, and Aragorn 
struggles with feelings that he cannot ignore. ]]


Feedback: I'd love to hear it :)

* Please leave a review at the "Through Bitter Chains" message board:
http://www.quicktopic.com/12/H/575Ryu2NMhX

* or email me at <rhysenn@singnet.com.sg> 


Title: Through Bitter Chains (4/?)
Author: Rhysenn <rhysenn@singnet.com.sg>

Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas
Category: AU, First-Time, Romance, Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort
WARNINGS: BDSM, a graphic sex scene of dubious consent
Website: http://rhysenn.morethanart.org/lotr - there's a notify list 
where you can get an email each time I post updates to this story.

Summary: Boromir asserts his authority, and Aragorn struggles with 
feelings 
that he cannot ignore.

Story Notes: Please refer to the headings in Chapter One, or read
the notes at http://rhysenn.morethanart.org/lotr/tbc-notes.htm for
more detailed exposition of the situation and characters in this AU.


================================


Through Bitter Chains

Chapter Four


The king's quarters were lavishly decorated. Fine tapestries hung from 
the wood-panelled walls of his grand study, although Legolas was led past 
them with such speed that he could not clearly discern the scenes they each 
depicted. But he knew most of them were tributes to momentous scenes of 
battle, the proud and bitter history of Men laid out across the walls, 
immortalised in the corridor of Time.

Legolas felt a sickened sense of dread as he caught sight of the bed. 
It was large and fitted with expensive white linen sheets, and covers 
woven of the finest wool. The posts at each corner were wrought of copper, 
engraved with decorative runes that he could not recognise.

Legolas looked around him in desperation and misery, and it was not 
claustrophobia but a different kind of wild fear that set in. The 
magnificent furnishings of the bedchamber meant nothing to him -- it 
was like being locked up in a prison with walls of gold.

He had heard many rumours of the ways of Men: how they delighted in 
warfare and the domination of their own kind, and how men who kept thralls 
often took the women of the conquered to wife by force. Legolas knew 
perfectly well what the king -- his *master* -- wanted from him. Now, his only 
fear was the ordeal he had to endure before the night would be over. How 
could the night bring such cruelty, when the stars of Elbereth shone brightly 
above in all their silver beauty?

He heard the sharp echo of Boromir's resolute strides drawing closer, 
growing louder like a knell of doom. Legolas's heartbeat quickened, and 
he swallowed hard. He had never felt so trapped in his entire life -- 
there had always been some hidden path that led away to safety, or the 
comforting sound of an elven voice nearby. But now there was nothing, except the 
metallic clang of the bolts being slid aside as the door opened.

Boromir entered the chamber, and he immediately saw Legolas lingering 
near the bed; a smile lifted the sides of his proud mouth, and in his eyes 
there blazed a fire of intense longing. The door shut behind him with 
finality. The moment of resounding silence that ensued strung the atmosphere with 
a cold harshness.

He drew closer to Legolas, who stood still, his slender body rigid as a 
winter-frozen tree. The king's eyes savoured the vision of living 
beauty before him; although they also perceived the elf's silent defiance, and 
resolved to break it.

"Undress," he commanded sternly, and took a step backwards to watch.

Legolas regarded him with resentful dignity; but with a despairing 
glance at the bolted door, he knew that he had no chance for escape. He had no 
other choice but to obey. With quavering hands he unfastened the front 
of his tunic and gracefully shrugged it off his shoulders, laying it 
neatly by the side. Then, with greater effort, he slid the black leggings down 
his thighs.

Boromir watched with hungry eyes as the elf removed every stitch of 
garment, and finally stood naked before him. The dim firelight played 
across the contours of Legolas's body: glimmering on the smooth skin of 
his long, slender legs, defining the proud uprightness of his shoulders, 
turning his blond hair gold like the sunset, kindling in his bright, 
fiery eyes.

"You are beautiful." Boromir was unable to contain the passion within 
him as he strode closer, and took Legolas in his arms.

He kissed the elf fiercely, allowing his hands to roam freely over the 
pale, silky skin; Legolas held his breath and did not move a muscle, 
willing himself to remain still. He relaxed momentarily only when the 
king pulled away to undress, but he knew that it was just a brief respite.

"Why do you keep silent?" Boromir turned back to Legolas after he had 
stripped off his own robes. "Do you not hear my words of praise for 
you?"

An inscrutable expression shimmered in the elf's eyes.

"How can you say that I am beautiful, when you do not know me?" Legolas 
spoke in a careful, measured voice. "My outward appearance pleases you; 
but while that may be counted attractiveness, it is not beauty." He paused. 
"One cannot judge beauty in the absence of knowledge -- or love."

Anger flashed like sudden lightning in Boromir's eyes, perhaps provoked 
by the insinuation in Legolas's words that he lacked the kinder, more 
refined qualities. He stalked forward, seized Legolas by the shoulders and 
roughly shoved him backwards onto the bed.

"You speak with insolence yet, elf," Boromir's voice bore a dangerous 
tone, as he leaned closer, trapping Legolas's face in his hand. "Your 
reckless arrogance will do you great disservice. Why do you still resist me?"

"I know what you desire of me." There was a tortured acceptance in 
Legolas's voice. "But it is not our custom to enter into a... physical 
bond, with another that one hardly knows. Please do not force me."

Boromir remained unmoved by Legolas's plea; the sight of the elf lying 
naked on his bed was enough to drive out the last vestige of sound 
reason. "It is also not the custom among Men who own slaves to allow them to 
attend dinner feasts, unless for the purpose of pleasuring the guests. It is 
clear that you do not appreciate the special treatment you have received. 
Perhaps you need a more literal form of training to impress upon you that you 
are bonded to carry out my bidding."

He moved back, and retrieved a soft black leather sash from a wardrobe; 
Legolas eyed it with alarm as Boromir drew near once more.

"Kneel on the bed," Boromir instructed. "And lean forward, so your 
hands are wrapped around the right bed-post."

Legolas slowly complied. Boromir proceeded to bind the sash tightly 
around the elf's wrists several times, tying them securely to the bedpost. It 
was an awkward position for Legolas -- he was forced to lean his weight 
forward, and the sash cut tighter around his wrists as he moved. The 
flickering candlelight danced across the glazed skin of his exposed 
back; his knees sank into the soft mattress, which dipped as Boromir climbed 
onto the bed.

Boromir spread Legolas's legs apart, and moved in between them. A jar 
of oil stood on the table next to the bed; Legolas heard Boromir open the 
jar, and he tensed as he felt the king's fingers push inside of him, slick 
with oil.

"Please," Legolas whispered desperately. His face flushed in 
mortification at the intimate invasion: insistent fingers probed deeply, stretching 
him. "Please, do not..."

"I wish to know you now," Boromir murmured in his ear, as he withdrew 
his hand and shifted closer. "Do not struggle, and it will go better."

Boromir slid himself into the elf with a single smooth thrust. Legolas 
gasped in pain, and gritted his teeth as he forced himself not to dwell 
on the searing sensation that consumed him whole, like stabs of a knife. 
He closed his eyes, and a dizzy spectrum of colour streaked behind his 
closed lids -- crimson, dissolving into black.

Then Boromir did a strange thing. He suddenly stopped moving, and held 
perfectly still, completely sheathed inside the trembling body beneath 
him. Then one of his hands went around Legolas's waist, and grasped the elf 
firmly between his legs. Boromir began to stroke him, and with 
satisfaction he felt the flesh caught in his palm grow hard.

Legolas quivered helplessly -- his hands were tied, and he was trapped 
between the shaft lodged deep inside him and the hand that now kindled 
his own arousal. He was unable to restrain the way his body was reacting to 
Boromir's ministrations; he shuddered as Boromir's hand coaxed him 
further, and to his own horror, Legolas found himself automatically pushing 
forward against the delicious friction of the king's cupped palm around him.

Boromir smiled, and relished the way Legolas was responding to him. His 
fingers artfully worked faster, drawing the elf towards completion, and 
he felt Legolas shake uncontrollably under his hands, wracked with the raw 
sensation that burned both ways. Then, as he held the elf on the very 
brink of climax, Boromir claimed him once more.

He drove himself deeper, eliciting a choked cry from Legolas. He began 
to ride the elf with slow deliberate strokes; then with a tightening of 
his hand, Boromir finally granted him release. With a ragged sob Legolas 
came, and his body shook with the explosion of pain twisted with hateful 
pleasure. Brimming with dark ecstasy, Boromir gripped Legolas's waist 
and pulled the elf back against him, one last time. Legolas took him over 
the edge, and with hard, sharp breaths he poured himself out into the elf's 
body.

When Boromir finally withdrew and released him, Legolas's limbs were 
crying out from the awkward position they had been confined in -- but more 
than that, the humiliation of his own shameful pleasure tore his spirit to 
shreds. He closed his eyes; he was vaguely aware of Boromir loosening 
the leather belt tying his hands to the bedpost. He crumpled to the floor, 
and covered his face with his hands.

"I will return to the feast now. You will remain here, and you may rest 
for the night." Boromir briskly got dressed, and then turned back to 
Legolas; his gaze slid over the naked, shivering body of the elf, and his 
expression softened slightly. "Arrangements will be made for a set of sleeping 
robes for you."

The elf gave no answer, and kept his head lowered; Boromir watched him 
with a sharp glint in his eye. "Do you hear me, Legolas, or have you not yet 
learned your lesson?"

"Yes," Legolas said in a broken whisper. "I have heard your words."

"Then answer when you are spoken to!" Boromir said harshly. "Have you 
so swiftly forgotten that you are to call me Master? And where is your 
gratitude for the luxury of new robes for you to sleep in?"

"Thank you, master." Legolas's voice was soft and hollow.

"Good." Boromir was satisfied. "Perhaps you will soon see that a life 
in thrall is not as dire as you would think it to be -- after all, you 
have just amply demonstrated how you have found great pleasure even whilst 
being dominated by me."

Legolas remained silent, and kept his eyes downcast. Boromir gave the 
elf an appraising look, and then took a few steps forward. He reached down, 
and Legolas flinched at his touch; but Boromir took his arm firmly and 
pulled him to his feet.

"You are beautiful," Boromir said once more, in a low, husky voice, as 
he stroked Legolas's face with one hand, touching the bruise on his 
cheekbone that was not of his doing. Then he kissed the elf fully on the mouth, 
his manner hard and possessive; Legolas parted his lips to allow entry to 
Boromir's searching tongue, but otherwise did not move.

Boromir drew back with a frown, noticing Legolas's lack of 
responsiveness. "You cannot deny that you derived your enjoyment
just now. Why do you still refuse to serve me willingly?"

"Pain does much to dull willingness." Legolas answered quietly, raising 
his eyes to level Boromir's; there was still some spirit left in them, 
however crushed and wretched.

"Yes." An unnamed emotion flitted across the king's face. "But pain 
also does much to help remembrance -- and I know that you shall never forget 
this night."

With that, Boromir swept out of the bedchamber; the bolt was shot home. 
Legolas waited until the footsteps faded away into cold silence, before 
he allowed the bitter tears to fall. He slumped back against the wall and 
slid to the floor, a body beautiful and broken.


~ ~ ~


Aragorn hurried along the corridors, heading toward the king's 
bedchamber. He had been issued orders from Boromir to clothe Legolas in sleeping 
garments, and ensure that the elf was securely locked into the room. 
His haste, however, was not owing to a desire to carry out the king's 
instructions swiftly; something else burned within him, mingled dread 
and nxiety.

He spoke briefly to the guard outside the bedchamber, and was permitted 
entry. Opening the door cautiously, Aragorn looked inside -- he 
immediately saw Legolas huddled on the floor, a forlorn prisoner in his cavernous 
cell.

The elf seemed startled to see him, and sprang to his feet, backing 
away. But Aragorn could see that he moved slowly, slightly bent over, as if 
from some internal ache. There was a wild terror in Legolas's eyes even 
though he seemed to recognise Aragorn, and he edged away, until he was backed 
up against the far wall.

Aragorn opened his mouth, wanting to reassure the elf; but as his eyes 
swept over Legolas's exposed body, slender and beautiful, something 
else speared through him, like a poisoned dart. And at that very moment he 
could see why Boromir was overcome with such great desire for the elf --
and a new, dark temptation crept through Aragorn's veins as he drank up the 
titillating sight of Legolas standing naked in front of him: golden-blond 
hair and silver-pale skin, glistening and moist and smooth as silk...

//No one would know.//

The primal voice inside Aragorn's head dominated his thoughts as he 
walked closer to Legolas, each step slow and measured. The elf was cornered, 
and completely at his mercy. The king had returned to the feast, and all 
the other palace officials were merry-making. The guard stationed outside 
would not hear a single sound, or enter the king's chambers without 
permission.

If he wanted, he could have Legolas for himself. He held a high place 
in the household; even if Legolas dared to speak up afterwards, the king 
would never believe a slave's word over his own steward's. This was the 
perfect opportunity -- and no one would ever know.

Legolas seemed to read the dark emotion hidden in Aragorn's eyes; he 
recoiled further. Retreating into a corner, he snatched up his white 
tunic that lay near his feet, and wrapped it around his waist, salvaging some 
of his decency. When his eyes met Aragorn's, they were filled with fear 
and hopelessness.

"What would you ask of me?" Legolas spoke in a quavering voice, frayed 
with distinct bitterness. "Do you wish for me to please you, as well?"

Aragorn's vision blurred slightly: for a moment he saw only the colour 
of bare skin, of flesh laid before him, ready for the taking. The quiet 
defiance in Legolas's words ignited a flame within him, and he strode 
forward, trapping Legolas against the wall.

"Do you taunt me, Legolas?" Aragorn asked; the heated passion in his 
tone surprised even himself. "Or are *you* asking me for something?"

"No!" Legolas answered immediately, a desperate plea in his voice. He 
looked at Aragorn, plainly scared, utterly helpless; his voice dropped 
to a broken whisper. "No, please... I was not taunting you. Please do 
not..."

"Do not what?" As Aragorn spoke, he met the elf's harrowed, 
tear-shimmering gaze.

Looking into Legolas's eyes, which were haunted with sadness and 
unfathomable pain, struck a deep chord within Aragorn. His vision 
cleared, and the sudden desire evaporated as quickly as it had flared up; now he 
saw only Legolas's fragile, tainted beauty, and the ravaged soul that ached 
beneath. An overwhelming sense of sympathy and remorse washed through 
him.

"I am not going to hurt you," Aragorn said quietly.

Legolas opened his eyes, and looked at Aragorn in amazement. He said 
nothing, but the relief and gratitude in his gaze spoke volumes.

Aragorn stepped backwards, away from Legolas. He was appalled at 
himself for thinking of Legolas in that manner, even briefly; it was like a 
swift glimpse into a dark mirror of cruelty, an ominous reminder that he, 
too, was human.

With growing dismay he surveyed the damage that had been wrought upon 
the elf's body. Crescent-shaped red marks on Legolas's waist told of cruel 
fingernails digging deep; and to Aragorn's horror, he saw traces of 
blood staining Legolas's inner thighs. Besides the fact that elf-flesh was 
silkier and more easily bruised, the penetration must have been 
forceful enough to break skin. Aragorn tried not to think about what had 
befallen Legolas in the heated moments just past -- but the images still rose in 
his mind, unbidden. He picked up a blanket from nearby, and draped it over 
Legolas's shoulders, covering him, and gestured for him to sit down on 
the bed. The elf moved as if he was trying to stifle the pain with each 
step he took; yet his walk was still torturously graceful.

Aragorn left the king's chambers to retrieve some healing salve and 
athelas leaves, which he kept in his own quarters. He also gave instructions 
for a set of new garments to be brought. This time, Aragorn specified robes 
of dark green -- for he perceived that to dress Legolas in white would be 
a subtle mockery.

Aragorn returned with a basin of water and a cloth for Legolas to clean 
himself. The elf carefully scrubbed away the uncleanness that clung to 
his body, and then quickly dressed in the new garments. The robes hung 
loosely on his slim frame; he settled down, sitting gingerly on the edge of the 
bed. He watched Aragorn mix the salve with crushed leaves of athelas; 
finally, he spoke.

"How did you know the meaning of my name?" Legolas asked.

Aragorn looked up. "I understand the Elvish tongue," he answered 
shortly, but elaborated no further. He brought the salve to Legolas, and gently 
smoothed it on the elf's wrists, which had been abraded by the leather 
bands that the hunters had bound him with.

"I wish that athelas could also heal the wounds of the soul," Legolas 
said quietly. "Alas, that is not so."

Aragorn paused, and looked deeply into Legolas's eyes. "You are 
suffering greatly in spirit."

"Yes." Legolas whispered; the word left his lips like a lone snowflake 
falling to the ground.

Aragorn frowned slightly; he remembered something he had learned 
before, of the nature of elves: that they would die if they were raped.

"But it is said that your kindred will perish if they are... violated." 
Aragorn halted, and watched Legolas's reaction carefully. "I feared 
that the king did not know this about your race, for it is not the 
understood way with ours. I am relieved, to some extent, that you still live."

"Yes; but perhaps there can be found flaws in the fundaments of 
nature," Legolas said, his voice heartbreakingly soft. "You have heard truly: 
when we are taken against our will, we will die. Yet maybe your king knew 
this too well..." he trailed off; a shadow of pain fell across his face. 
"For even the forced derivation of pleasure annuls the premise of assault. 
And thus, I still live." The elf fell silent; he bowed his head, and said 
no more.

A terrible realisation dawned on Aragorn as Legolas's words sank in. 
Now he understood the truth of the matter -- and it was more devastating than 
he could have imagined. For it was out of mercy that elves were allowed to 
let their spirits flee their bodies as an escape from a life in torment; 
but Legolas had forfeited this. If ever possible, it was worse than the 
fate of the Ringwraiths, who were cursed to be neither living nor dead; but 
now, Legolas was doomed to live with the brutal memory of the violation he 
had suffered.

They spoke no further words as Aragorn finished dressing Legolas's 
wounds; yet in the silence there was some comfort, which Legolas could feel 
even though it was not articulated. The touch of Aragorn's hands on his skin 
was tender and careful, and Legolas closed his eyes -- in the tumult of raw 
emotions, both healing and hurtful, a single tear escaped, and coursed 
down his face.

The sudden light caress of Aragorn's fingers against his cheek made 
Legolas's eyes flash open, startled. Leaning closer to him, Aragorn 
gently brushed away the tear, leaving a moist silver mark glistening on 
Legolas's cheek.

"There may still come a healing yet, if you do not let go of hope," 
Aragorn said gently. "Perhaps one day, you will find the athelas for your 
soul."

"In the darkness, it is hard to seek what is so rare and elusive," 
Legolas whispered back, his voice choked.

"Yet perhaps you need not look far for comfort." Aragorn straightened, 
and looked at Legolas pensively. "Maybe the weed of healing grows hidden at 
your very feet."

Legolas dropped his gaze, and said nothing. But Aragorn knew not the 
power of his comfort -- for it was in his gentle words of hope that Legolas 
found the strength to endure, and the will to carry on.


~~~

{References made to 'Laws and Customs Among the Eldar', footnote 5; 
published in the book "Morgoth's Ring: The First Part of the Later 
Silmarillion", edited by Christopher Tolkien. This tells of how Elves 
die when they are raped: "For this was wholly against their nature, and one 
so forced would have rejected bodily life."}


[[ In the next chapter: Aragorn confides in Gandalf; and Boromir has 
something else to bestow upon his elf-slave. ]]


Feedback: I'd love to hear it :)

* Please leave a review at the "Through Bitter Chains" message board:
http://www.quicktopic.com/12/H/e7x2HTBuPWgiQ

* or email me at <rhysenn@singnet.com.sg> 


Title: Through Bitter Chains (5/?)
Author: Rhysenn <rhysenn@singnet.com.sg>

Rating: R
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas
Category: AU, First-Time, Romance, Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: mild BDSM
Website: http://rhysenn.morethanart.org/lotr

Summary: Aragorn confides in Gandalf; and Boromir has something else to 
bestow upon his elf-slave.

Story Notes: Please refer to the headings in Chapter One, or read
the notes at http://rhysenn.morethanart.org/lotr/tbc-notes.htm for
more detailed exposition of the situation and characters in this AU.


================================


Through Bitter Chains

Chapter Five


The next morning, Gandalf sat in the steward’s quarters, listening attentively to 
Aragorn’s account of the eventful Spring Feast the night before. More than all 
else, Aragorn spoke of Legolas, and the humiliation and cruelty that the elf had 
endured at the hands of King Boromir.

“It seems wrong -- to me at least -- that King Boromir should take an 
Elf, one of the First Kindred, to be a personal slave to his own lust,” 
Aragorn said hotly, as he paced back and forth. “I do not rebel against the king’s 
judgement; but in this case, I refuse to favour it.”

“It would be best if you kept your opinions to yourself,” Gandalf advised, 
“for you can do nothing; lest your words against the king reach his ears, and 
portend more trouble both for you and Legolas.” He paused, and shook his head 
ruefully. “Spring Feast was yesterday, you say? April the sixth?”

“Yes,” Aragorn replied curiously. “Is that of any significance?”

“Indeed it is,” Gandalf answered gravely. “It made the festivities doubly cruel 
for the elf -- for the sixth day of April marks the Elves’ New 
Year, a tradition that has long faded in the memory of Men in Gondor, but 
which the elves always hold dear in their hearts.”

Aragorn looked shocked, then dismayed; there were several layers of emotion 
filtering through his expression.

“Of course,” he said in a low voice, sounding appalled at himself. “The 
Elves’ New Year falls on the sixth of April. How could I have forgotten? In 
Rivendell it was always celebrated grandly. The fountains were lit with the 
sparkling lights of stars, and petals adorned the pathways; the waterfalls gave 
forth mists of silver, which wafted like curtains of silk around the pavilion...” 
Aragorn suddenly stopped, as if the tide of awakening memories were too much 
to take; he bowed his head slightly, and looked worn and sad.

“Many years have passed since you shared in the merriment and joy of the 
elves,” Gandalf said gently. “You have wandered far and wide in the years that 
lie between then and now -- you must not feel guilty for letting a tradition that is 
not your own slip from your mind. As long as you do not forget it altogether.”

“It has been a long time,” Aragorn said, his voice almost a whisper. 
“Yet Rivendell is still like a place crystallised in my mind, its beauty written in 
my heart. There lies the only place I have ever called my home, and it holds 
every beautiful memory of my days of youth.” He paused. “Tell me, 
Gandalf -- when did you last ride through Imladris, and how fares 
Master Elrond and his household?”

“Elrond and his people still live in peace; fragile, yet enduring.” 
Gandalf appeared thoughtful, and there was a kindly light in his eyes as he 
looked directly at Aragorn. “He asks often of you, as a father would want to hear 
news of his son -- but he knows the burden you have to carry alone, and has 
faith that you will walk the right path. I last spoke with him about six months 
ago, when I made a detour to Rivendell to help an old friend make some travel 
arrangements.”

Something else occurred to Aragorn.

“Have you passed through Mirkwood in recent years?” he asked. “You did not 
seem to recognise Legolas when you first saw him; and neither did he appear to 
know you.”

Gandalf shook his head. “No, I have often passed by Mirkwood, but I have not 
entered it in many years. King Thranduil holds the fort against stirring evil in his 
woodland country, and the Wood-elves prefer to remain on their own, and 
welcome few visitors. Only rarely do I encounter one of Thranduil’s messengers 
to Rivendell, or Lórien -- but I have never seen Legolas before.”

There was a brief silence; then Aragorn spoke pensively. “What think you of 
Legolas, Gandalf?”

“Ah,” Gandalf said, with a knowing look in his eye. “But it matters not 
-- for I do not dwell permanently in this  city, although I reside here often to 
share your company. It only matters what *you* think.”

“I think he is beautiful,” Aragorn admitted to his old friend. “A beauty that goes 
beyond physical attractiveness, of which he has no lack -- but he also has a light 
within him that shines forth and enchants everything he does: the way he speaks, 
the look in his eyes, the movement of his hands.”

“You seem smitten with the elf,” Gandalf observed neutrally.

Aragorn opened his mouth to protest, but found that words failed him. 
He halted, and forced himself to confront the true reason why he had been 
feeling miserable ever since Legolas had been taken away from the feast last 
night, and why the gnawing sensation that seemed to penetrate his bones was 
suddenly made sharper at the mere mention of the elf.

“Smitten is the wrong word,” he finally said. “But there is certainly something 
about Legolas that I feel... drawn towards. Perhaps it is the nurtured calling of 
my upbringing, even though I have carelessly allowed memory to lapse -- 
Legolas reminds me all over again how fair and graceful his kindred are, and 
how they love nature and see so much beauty in life.”

“Watch yourself, Aragorn,” Gandalf warned. “It is one thing to appreciate 
beauty, even of spirit; but entirely another to let your gaze linger upon one who 
belongs to someone else, and can never be yours to have.”

“It is an irony,” Aragorn said softly; then he added wryly, “Every life needs 
one.”

“And from such ironies spring bitterness and pain that will never cease to follow 
you,” Gandalf said solemnly; he regarded Aragorn with keen concern. 
“Be strong, Aragorn -- do not let it break you down.”


~ ~ ~


Boromir gave Legolas leave to wander within the boundaries of the palace 
during daylight hours. Legolas was eager to leave the bedchamber; he wanted to 
get away from the sleepless agony that room brought, and seek solace and much 
needed rest in a quiet place by himself.

But Legolas soon found that this was as impossible as finding mercy at 
Boromir’s hands.

As he walked in the courtyards, he was well aware of the officials’ watching 
him pass by; and the way some of them looked at him made Legolas’s skin 
crawl. Having witnessed the way Boromir had treated him during the 
Spring Feast, the officials of the palace knew all too well the services that 
Legolas was expected to provide -- and although they did not dare to lay a hand 
on him, leering and mocking words were free for all.

“Lost your way, elf?” A man in uniform suddenly stepped into his path, 
blocking his way. He gave Legolas a sneering smile. “I could show you to the 
bedchambers.”

Legolas backed away from him, alarmed, but another two officials joined the 
first, cornering him.

“Yes, Bregor,” laughed one of them, letting his eyes run lasciviously over 
Legolas’s body. “You are in line for a promotion soon, are you not? Perhaps you 
could ask the king for a night with this lovely elf instead.”He reached out, as if 
wanting to stroke the elf’s face.

Legolas flinched away. “Do not touch me!”

“Oh?” Bregor arched an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. He stepped closer to 
Legolas, hemming him in. “Do you speak to him with such insolence? 
You have a great deal of foolish courage, slave.”

Legolas looked around wildly, but the three men had surrounded him; he could 
not slither away. He flattened himself against the wall that he was backed up 
against, and bit his lip in helpless despair.

“Look at him,” Bregor mocked. “He stands so willingly -- were he not the king’s 
bedslave, I reckon that he would allow all three of us to take our turn with him 
right here, up against the wall. Such a pretty whore.”

“I wonder if King Boromir will tire of him soon,” the third official mused, 
casting the others a knowing look. “When he does, we could ask the king to lend 
him to us. I’m sure that we could teach this elf a thing or two.”

“Yes, I have heard that it can even be more enjoyable to lie with a male elf than 
a woman of our own kind,” Bregor added, relishing the look of caged fear in 
Legolas’s eyes. “For their skin is smooth like silk, and their flesh soft and 
tender, as well as deliciously tight.” They all roared with laughter.

“Leave him alone, Bregor.”

Bregor turned, mildly startled; he saw Aragorn standing behind him. He gave 
the steward a superficial smile. “Ah, Aragorn -- good day to you.”

“The king will not be pleased if he sees you treat Legolas in this manner,” 
Aragorn said, fixing Bregor with a hard gaze; he glanced at Legolas, and saw the 
immense relief on his face.

“We were just giving him a personal welcome to our city,” Bregor replied 
breezily. “And as steward of the household, you should be informed that this elf-
slave just spoke to us with blatant disrespect. He must be punished.”

“I will deal with him from here,” Aragorn replied steadily. “I am sure that other 
more important duties must now demand your attention.”

Bregor’s eyes flashed, but he had nothing to retort. “Verily so,” he said shortly, 
as he and his companions turned and strode off.

Aragorn watched the departure of the three officials with narrowed eyes, and 
then he turned back to Legolas, who was trembling as he leaned against the 
wall; the elf looked very shaken.

“You have to be careful,” Aragorn told him. “Do not wander to quiet corners of 
the palace on your own. It is not safe.”

“But I do not want to remain in the king’s chambers during the day,” 
Legolas answered; there was a pained sadness in his clear eyes. “Where then 
shall I go?”

Aragorn considered for a moment, before he said, “There is a couch in my 
quarters where you can rest without being disturbed by anyone else in the 
palace. Do you want to go there?”

Legolas hesitated briefly, and then nodded. He followed Aragorn to his quarters; 
they were spacious, although much more modest than the king’s chambers. The 
main door opened into a broad study, with a waxed oak table and matching 
armchair. A couch cushioned in dark blue velvet sat across from the table, and a 
softly woven rug was laid between. Away to the left, an open archway led into 
the inner chamber, where the steward slept.

Legolas sat down on the edge of the couch. He felt a fleeting fear shiver through 
him as Aragorn shut the doors behind them -- he had developed a deep dread of 
enclosed rooms, and being alone with a Man in his chambers naturally sent a 
chill through him. His mind was still reeling from the mocking words that the 
three palace officials had hurled at him: Lovely elf. Pretty whore. We could 
teach him a thing or two...

“Ignore them, Legolas.” Aragorn’s voice was even.

Legolas looked at him. “How did things come to be this way?” he asked softly. 
“Where power is derived only through another’s humiliation, and one has no 
qualms about taking the belonging of his fellow kind. Is this the race that you 
pledge your allegiance to?”

“It is not a choice.” A husky tremor quivered through Aragorn’s voice. 
“I owe loyalty to my own kind -- and even though they have fallen to decadence, 
I will not cease to hope.”

Legolas tilted his head thoughtfully. “I have heard an old saying: To hope for 
what you can never have is a wound that will be healed only in death.”

Aragorn levelled Legolas’s gaze. “Then I will die trying.”


~ ~ ~


In the days that followed, Legolas frequently sought out Aragorn’s company; it 
was the only time that brought him comfort and some measure of happiness. But 
they never once spoke of what went on in the king’s bedchamber at night. Since 
Aragorn had been entrusted with the duty of seeing to the elf’s well-being, the 
king saw nothing more to Legolas’s time spent with the steward of his house.

Boromir did, however, notice the lingering glances and suggestive leers that 
Legolas received from the other men in the palace each time he passed by. The 
king was proud of his beautiful possession; but he was not pleased at the 
unwanted attention Legolas attracted from his court officials. 
Since no one had actually laid a hand on his slave, there was little else he could 
do about it. But to dissuade his courtiers from ideas above their station, Boromir 
resolved to mark the elf as his in an unequivocal way.

And so Boromir called for a brief assembly in the courtyard of the king’s house; 
all the palace officials were gathered. The king called Legolas to his side, and 
then turned to address his court.

“I have a gift for my slave,” Boromir announced; Legolas showed no 
expression, and kept his eyes to the floor. Boromir drew out a box from under 
the table. Opening it, he carefully removed what lay inside, and then held it up 
for the assembly to see.

It was a collar. About an inch wide, it was wrought of fine gold, which shone 
brilliantly in the sunlight. Words were engraved along the outer rim: Legolas’s 
name, identifying him as property of Boromir son of Denethor, King of Anorién. 
Many coloured jewels were set along the outer band in the spaces between the 
words; they glinted like star-eyes. There was a lock on the back of the collar, 
where the two halves snapped together.

Boromir signalled for Legolas to come near to him, and he slipped the collar 
around the elf’s neck. The lock clicked shut, and the collar was a good fit -- it 
was not loose, and held firmly around Legolas’s neck, but yet not so tight that it 
marked his flesh.

Aragorn could not believe his eyes. A slave collar? This was rare even in 
Minas Tirith; and the fine quality of the collar only made the mockery of it all 
the more stark.

“It is a perfect fit.” Boromir stepped back and surveyed Legolas with approval. 
“A fine adornment for one so fair -- and a fair warning to all to keep their hands 
off my property.” There was a titter of apprehensive laughter in response, 
although the audience perceived that Boromir was serious.

“And as for you,” Boromir now turned to Legolas, and a flicker of intense 
emotion crossed his face. “Know the worth of your beauty and the pleasure you 
bring me -- for no slave in this land has ever received such an expensive gift. 
But let this also be a reminder of whom you belong to.”

Legolas remained silent, and kept his eyes downcast.

“Do you hear my words?” Boromir repeated meaningfully, an ominous tone 
creeping into his voice.

“Yes... master.” Legolas’s voice was strained.

“Very well.” Boromir was satisfied. The king reached for Legolas once more 
-- fingering the silky locks of his hair,  he drew the elf closer, and kissed him 
hard on the mouth.

Aragorn found himself unable to look away. There was a sharp ache twisting 
inside him, thorns bound around his heart piercing deep as he watched 
Legolas allow the king to ravish him. Aragorn reminded himself that it was for 
the best that Legolas yielded; but the thought did not ease him.

After the officials left the court and Legolas had been dismissed, 
Faramir remained. He had a slight frown on his face, and he leaned in to speak 
to his older brother; Aragorn, who was standing just next to them, could hear the 
conversation.

“A collar, Boromir?” Faramir asked, with a shake of his head. “Is it necessary to 
label him in such a manner, even if he is yours?”

“It is a warning to anyone who might be bold enough to lay his hand on the elf,” 
Boromir replied. “And Legolas should now realise that it is fruitless to resist any 
futher. I have broken his stubbornness.”

“That you certainly have,” Faramir answered in a reproving tone. “And you 
have also broken his spirit.”

//Broken, yes -- but not ruined,// Aragorn thought to himself grimly. 
// Not yet. //


~ ~ ~


Legolas wore a deep grey tunic when he came into Aragorn’s quarters the next 
day. Aragorn glanced up, and thought that the dark fabric brought out the fair 
colour of Legolas’s hair; although his skin seemed pale next to the over-rich 
gold of the collar around his neck.

The elf settled down on the couch, sitting perfectly still, with a unique posture 
that made him look both poised and relaxed at the same time. 
There was a hollow bleakness in his eyes, which still bore the mark of the night 
even during the merciful day. His gaze presently fell on Aragorn’s bow, which 
was standing propped against the far wall; and a light returned to his eyes.

“May I inspect your bow?” Legolas asked, a rare eagerness in his voice.

Aragorn hesitated for a moment; a bow was a weapon, and no steward would, in 
his right mind, allow a slave to lay hold of it. But there was no quiver of arrows 
lying nearby; Aragorn reasoned that there was little danger in letting the elf 
touch the bow.

Legolas quickly noticed Aragorn’s hesitance. “Do not worry,” he said swiftly. “I 
do not wish to cause you any harm -- and there are no arrows around. But I have 
great love for archery, and the wood-turning of your bow is of high quality. 
Only the bowstring is too loose; for a taut string gives the arrow a steadier path.”

“Ah, yes,” Aragorn said with a small smile; he relented, and gestured that 
Legolas could pick up the bow. “You are from Mirkwood; the most skilled of 
elven archers hail from that region.”

“I had a reputation among my kinsfolk in Mirkwood for arrows that always met 
their target,” Legolas answered, with a note of pride in his voice; he carefully 
lifted the bow, relishing the feel of it in his hands.

“That is fine praise,” Aragorn said, nodding. “Given your talent, you must have 
been one of the best archers in King Thranduil’s service.”

“Yes.” Legolas hesitated, and his voice faltered briefly before he softly added, “I 
am also his son.”

Aragorn’s jaw dropped. “What did you just say?”

“Thranduil is my father,” Legolas said quietly. “I am his youngest son.”

There was a heartbeat of silence.

“You are a prince of Mirkwood?” Aragorn stared at Legolas incredulously. 
“Why did you never speak of this before?”

“What use would that have served?” Legolas raised his eyes to 
Aragorn’s; they were filled with pain and frustration. “If I had told my captors 
that I was of royal blood, they would only have demanded a higher price for me. 
And I did not wish to cheapen the worth of my lineage by using it to negotiate 
with those cruel folk -- at any rate, my freedom was already beyond my 
control.”

Aragorn’s brow furrowed, and he was profoundly puzzled -- for, unknown to 
Legolas, there had already been deep concern over the possibility of 
Elves coming down south to Minas Tirith to war with them, and reclaim their 
kin who had been taken captive. Boromir had shrewdly forseen this, and had 
posted hidden guards and sent out scouts to gather news of any such attack 
drawing near to their city. But no alarm had been raised in the past two weeks.

“But if you are Thranduil’s son,” Aragorn continued, with a small frown. 
“Then why has he not sent forth the hosts of Mirkwood to find you, even 
searching to the corners of Middle-earth and leaving no stone unturned, if that 
was what it took to get you back?”

“You speak truly,” Legolas said; the shadow of anguish in his eyes darkened, 
and his voice grew more bitter. “My father would stop at nothing to rescue me -- 
if only he knew that I was captured.”

“He does not know you are missing?” Aragorn asked, astounded.

“No, he does not.” Legolas’s voice wavered, but he forced himself to keep 
speaking in an even tone, although it still trembled slightly. “For my father had 
given me leave to travel to Fangorn to explore the truth in the songs that are 
sung of that ancient woodland. Although he was reluctant to let me go by 
myself, I went forth alone; I had intended to take the pass through the Mountains 
of Mirkwood, and strike the Old Forest Road -- but I was waylaid in the valley, 
and outnumbered.” He halted, and there was great sadness in his eyes. “Even 
now I think my father still assumes that I am on a journey -- and since Fangorn 
is a great distance away, he will not expect me back home for several months.”

“So this is the truth of the matter,” Aragorn mused, his brow furrowed 
thoughtfully. “I often wondered how your disappearance evaded your kinsfolk’s 
notice for so long.”

“I rue the day I set out on my own, against my father’s better advice,” 
Legolas said quietly. “I enjoyed the solitude, because when I journey through 
uncharted lands alone, my senses are heightened in the peaceful quiet all 
around.” He paused, and lowered his eyes sorrowfully. “I sought adventure -- 
but now I only wish for deliverance.”

“Deliverance?” Aragorn said, and shook his head. “The king has gone to great 
lengths to ensure that you will remain here -- guards watch the route along the 
Anduin, and sentinels are stationed constantly at the Great Gate. 
All other ways that you might fare to escape through the City Wall are bolted, 
and only a few high officials of the court hold a set of keys to them. Minas Tirith 
is not called ‘The Tower of Guard’ for no reason.”

“You need not warn me,” Legolas said bitterly. “Your king frequently reminds 
me of the dire consequences of escape.”

Aragorn noticed that Legolas always spoke of his master as ‘*your* king’ -- as 
if in his eyes Boromir were too despicable even to be conferred a general title of 
‘the king’, with the oblique respect inherent in that form of reference. There was 
little to wonder at in this subtle insult, a slave’s last defiance. Aragorn was often 
quietly shocked to see the red marks of cruel handprints on Legolas’s wrists and 
arms, and he did not even want to think of the bruises that the elf’s clothes 
concealed. Boromir was a man of war -- he was not known for his gentleness, or 
restraint.

The elf said no more. Holding the bow in his hands, he seemed as if he were 
caught in a distant and beautifully sad memory of his homeland, of the life he 
once had; Aragorn did not disturb him. As if walking in a dream, Legolas went 
over to the couch and sat down, letting his fingers run lovingly over the carved 
wood contours of the bow on his lap. The colourful jewels on the collar around 
his neck glinted like a harsh rainbow in the morning sun.


~ ~ ~

[In the next chapter: Legolas learns the meaning of tenderness, and 
Aragorn learns what it means to love.]


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