Fic name: Under the Stars
Chapter name: 4. Facing the Consequences
Author: Shir'ann (Mearaigh@yahoo.com)
Pairing(s): Legolas/Aragorn,
Legolas/Elladan/Elrohir/Aragorn, Elrond/Glorfindel,
Elladan/Elrohir
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Legolas/Elladan/Elrohir/Aragorn foursome, and
other pairings. PWP
Disclaimer: None of the characters are owned by me.
*Sob*. They belong to a wonderful man named Tolkien,
who is very nearly god.
Warning: Incest inside!
Authors Note: Plot? What plot? There's no plot.
Really. Only smut. And lemon. But no plot!
A/N 2: This fic, as well as all my other fiction and
that of a few other authors, can now be found at my
Yahoo group, Elegiac.
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Elegiac/
Come and join! 

This fic is dedicated to Kaz, for all the amazing
artwork!


*******************************************************





4. Facing the Consequences

The first bright rays of the sun pierced majestically
through the thin veil of darkness and starlight that
still hung heavily over Rivendell as Legolas quietly
shut the door to his chambers behind him. The Elf
leaned his head against the roughly grained wood,
pressing a sharply pointed ear tightly alongside it to
listen for any sound of pursuit. His breathing was
heavy and uneven, and his heart beat erratically
against the cage of his chest. 
Hearing naught but the usual sounds of the arrived
morning as Imladris’ occupants awoke from their
nightly slumber, the blonde Elf sighed softly in
relief. He turned and sagged tiredly against the
ancient wood, leaning back against it and closing his
eyes as he willed his heart silently to calmness and
his turmoiled thoughts to rest.
Vivid flashes of memory played through the archer’s
head, wildly coloured and restlessly, unrelentingly
repetitive. The merest silent and slow intake of
breath that had first alerted the Elf to the presence
of Elrond in the clearing replayed a thousand times
enlarged, sounding as a rage-filled storm of wind to
Legolas’ mind. 
Again the stab of fear that lanced through his heart
made itself evident, the mere memory once more
spurring it to pounding loudly inside his chest. The
Elf frowned, commanding the errantly-willed muscle to
silence. 
The danger was long past, now. He had fled as soon as
it became evident; before it became a threat. As much
as the archer disliked cowardice, metering it akin to
the worst sins of mind or body, he grudgingly admitted
that it was at times necessary. 
It would not do for his father to be made wise of his
actions when away from Mirkwood, and Elrond would most
certainly let tell of his involvement in the matter.
No, Thranduil would not be able to make light of the
situation at all. Legolas had no wish to be on the
receiving end of his father’s somewhat considerable
temper.
Slowly, the calm collectedness of his normal self
descended on the Elf, the cool darkness of his
chambers somewhat soothing him into submission to
their tranquillity. He sighed softly, a near-silent
sound of relief that escaped quietly into the room.
Truly, the danger had now passed, and he was free once
more to return to calmness of mind and stillness of
heart. 
The Elf did not know what lay ahead in the far mists
of future times shrouded even to the ancient race of
his people from all prying eyes who would take harshly
from it the terrible knowledge that no living being
should bear, but one certainty stood forth from all
else; a sore red scar of doubt on the cool white
surface of sudden serenity that lay over the Elf’s
mind. The three names drifted aimlessly through his
head, asserting in his mind the surety of what he had
to do. 
Aragorn, Elladan, Elrohir. They would surely think him
in the wrong for his haste in coming away from the
Lord of Rivendell, and leaving them to bear alone the
brunt of his wrath. And Legolas could not deny it.
And yet, the fear of his father’s anger lay ten times
the burden on his heart, and gladly would he rather
face the fury of the brothers than be the sole focus
of the alternative. The Elf shuddered at the thought,
an old fear from his childhood again declaring itself
alive within his mind. The sign to ward off evil flew
like a beacon of hope from a quick, deft twisting of
Legolas’ fingers.  
Avert!
A sudden loud vibration of the coarse wooden door
against which the Elf lay made him jump in
startlement, a small gasp escaping from his lips.
Again the cursed rapid flurry of heartbeat started in
his chest, and he frowned at himself, breathing hard
once again. The strident knocking at the other side of
the door continued its rapid pace, and Legolas stood
back slightly to regard the door suspiciously. It
couldn’t be . . .
Could it?
Shaking his head roughly to rid him of the persistent
foolish thought, he strode forward to seize the handle
determinedly, willing all the dignity and arrogance
his royal upbringing had taught him to the fore. If
the Prince of Mirkwood was scared, naught would be the
wiser for it.
Pausing only slightly to collect himself fully and
wonder at the urgent knocking that had yet to cease,
the blonde archer grasped the elegantly crafted silver
handle and turned slowly.
Surprise washed over him as the door was thrown
backwards with such force and will that it rebounded
loudly from the wall to nearly close once more.
Legolas’ gaze was drawn down to the booted foot that
barred its way, but before his eyes could travel up
beyond the heavy frown that overlaid his features,
along the well-muscled leg and still up towards the
face of the owner, a pair of hands suddenly fell onto
his shoulders and pushed back roughly, causing the Elf
to fall backwards unbalanced, landing on his hands
with a painful jar.
The archer’s eyes whipped up to meet the face of the
intruder, all dignity forgotten as his mouth opened
angrily in silent vehemence; but then, as his gaze
reached its target and slowly took in the black
straggled hair and roughly bearded face, anger turned
to utter surprise, causing the Elf’s eyes to widen in
wonderment and his emotions to broil within his mind.
“Aragorn?” Confusion veiled his voice heavily as he
spoke, wonderment overshadowing the very timbre that
singled it out from other Elven tones.
The Elf had no time to register surprise. 
The Man moved with the speed of a being possessed. In
the space of a mere heartbeat he stood bent over
Legolas, and hefted the Elf into rough, uncaring hands
as if the blonde archer weighed no more than a
feather, throwing him back harshly against the wall.
In the blink of an eye Aragorn had placed a hand over
the Elf’s mouth, the other clutching a dagger tightly
to his throat.
Legolas dared not move, fearing beyond fear the danger
of the sharp blade so close to the hard beating pulse
of his heart as it was felt clearly, the throbbing
pulse and quick breaths lifting the dagger’s edge ever
so slightly, an inch for every beat.
Aragorn’s breath was hot and ragged on the Elf’s face
and neck, his hand warm on the archer’s mouth as he
loomed over Legolas, their chests pressing tightly
together with the closeness. Easy work indeed could
the Elf have made of ridding himself of the Man if
fear and the dagger and the human’s ever-present,
enigmatic aura of dominance had not combined to pin
him helplessly to the wall more effectively than any
arrow could make work of staying aught to any surface.
 “Well, well, well . . .” the Ranger breathed, “If it
isn’t the cowardly Prince of Mirkwood.”
Legolas swallowed, breathing heavily through his nose
as the heavy hand that fastened still over his mouth
tightened its grasp, unable to answer and perhaps
unwilling to had not there been this restraint. This
was not the same Aragorn from the night before, who
had been but a mere frightened young man to be taught
the ways of life by older and wiser beings. This was
not the youthful boy who had stared wide-eyed as
Legolas himself had taken without giving from him the
very virginity of his consciousness – in more ways
than one.
No, this was a Man – capable of any measure of the
ferocity that marked the mortal race for their severe
austerity, and he should be rightfully feared, and not
underestimated. 
The harshly hewn edge of the silver blade moved
slightly, a sharp stinging and swift cut that blazed a
small path of fire over the left side of the Elf’s
neck and left a diminutive trail of warm liquid to
track languidly down its side, cooling rapidly into a
sticky substance that pooled where it met the smooth
silk of the archer’s tunic. 
Legolas’ eyes flew up to meet Aragorn’s, a storm of
blue fear and doubt mixing for one dread-filled second
before the Elf could school them to silence as he
wished the swift thrashing of his heart from the
newly-arisen fear of this danger to the same end. 
Aragorn looked down on him, his eyes cold and
emotionless as the deep caverns of the earth and
almost the same dark hue, and a smile fixed on his
face that reached no further than the corners of his
mouth as no other plain of his face was moved.
The Elf’s gaze flew desperately from one dark grey
piercing orb to the other, but still the hand stayed
its hard torment and the cold fear that pierced the
archer’s heart lifted not from its hold. 
A thousand sunsets or risings of the stars seemed to
pass in the time their stare remained locked on each
other and no sound but for two singular and yet wildly
different sets of breath coloured the air with every
second as Man and Elf stayed frozen in their intimate
embrace, and the only emotions in truth to be felt,
the seeming indifference of the human and the nagging
dread of the archer. 
 “Why did you run, Legolas?”
The Elf jumped slightly in startlement at the sudden
unexpected words, and then winced as the dagger
shifted once more at the unforeseen movement to cut
deeply and freshly into the open abrasion. 
The Man’s hands lifted from his throat and mouth,
leaving the Elf to gasp lightly in relief at the
blissful disappearance of the searing pain that was
the sharp blade, a mere breath of quiet reprieve as he
fell forward slightly, barely managing to salvage his
dignity and straighten before the human could see him
stumble. 
Aragorn’s eyes met his briefly, and the Elf had only a
second, a mere instant of doubt to realise, though not
react to, the startlingly clear danger as the Man’s
hand pulled back to form a tightly balled fist that
shoved forward harshly, contacting painfully with the
side of Legolas’ face in a movement somehow too fast
for even the archer’s sharp eyes to follow. 
The Elf stumbled back freely to strike the wall with
force, his back and neck and head snapping taught
against it with a dull thud to the effect of a million
starbursts veiling the archer’s sight and a black mist
descending over his mind as his eyes fell shut with
hope to lessen the wave of nausea that swept over him.

His hand flew up to cover the raw redness that settled
over his cheek, a stinging burn soothed only slightly
by the cool assurance of his slender palm. Somehow
managing to fight through the light-headedness that
overwhelmed him suddenly, the Elf opened his eyes
blearily to stare at the Ranger, who appeared somewhat
uncertain of form and wavering in position where he
stood as Legolas’ eyes struggled vaguely to focus.
“Answer me, Elf!” Aragorn’s voice was harsh, rising
for the first time beyond the soft dangerous whisper
it had held before. 
No thought would form in the disorientation that
obscured the Elf’s mind, and no words would be voiced
of their own free will. All that remained was for the
archer to stare hazily at the Ranger with fear in his
eyes and hopelessness in his features.
A sudden movement from the side registered faintly
within the dull blankness of the Elf’s mind before a
hard blow pounded into his stomach. Breath rushed out
of his lungs in a loud exhalation, and he bent
forwards beneath the force of the blow, clutching his
middle in pain with a loud groan.  
A soft laugh sounded in the air above the Elf’s
crouched form, devoid of any humour or mirth and
filled instead with a million shards of ice that cut
deeply and coldly into Legolas’ suddenly
over-sensitive ears. 
A hard fist collided excruciatingly with the other
side of his face, sending him downwards in a swift and
painful fall to land on his side on the coolly tiled
surface of the floor. He lay where he fell, unable to
move as a thousand different aches and bruises warred
with his stubborn pride, eyes tightly shut and mouth
turned down in pain.
A perfectly placed booted foot crashed into his chest,
a dull crack and shuddering gasp of ragged breath
broadcasting a sorely broken rib to the horrified ears
of the Elf. Surely the harsh outcry of hurt could not
belong to him?
Hands laid roughly on his shoulders turned him round
to lay on his stomach, the contusions and miserable
stinging tenderness there eliciting another groan from
the blonde archer’s mouth. Fingers twisted in his
hair, ripping his head up painfully as a knee was
thrust heavily onto the small of his back.
Legolas’ hands searched the floor pleadingly for hold
or handle to grasp to gift him perhaps with the
blessing of leverage to rid himself of his quandary,
but to no avail. Despair clouded all other emotion as
the Elf’s questing hands were captured and brought
behind him to be tied somehow securely and
one-handedly at his back. The human then let slip the
tightly bound wrists to fall dully against the
archer’s spine, the sharp edge of the dagger coming
forward once more to make its presence known at
Legolas’ throat.
“Now, Elf. Why did you run?” The Man’s voice returned
to its previous dangerous whisper, and again Legolas
found himself unable to reply. The hand threaded
through his hair twisted sharply and painfully,
eliciting another cry from the Elf’s lips. The cloud
of pain that hung heavily over his mind parted like
water before the force of the archer’s fury and
self-hatred. No pride was left to salvage, no royal
dignity to save.
And yet the Elf was trapped beneath the sorely felt
burden of the Man, caught within the mortal’s snare as
surely as one of the small white deer that were the
favoured prey of Rivendell’s hunters.  
Suddenly the pressure-point of agony that was the
sharp knife disappeared and the weight of the Ranger
lifted off his back as Aragorn rose beside him,
pulling the Elf up viciously by the hair to stumble
weakly to his feet. The Man’s head fell forward,
leaning in to nearly touch the sharply pointed tip of
the archer’s ear to whisper softly into it, the gentle
breath stirring the blonde wisps of hair that covered
it slightly and causing the strands to tickle the lobe
with their movement.
“Fine. If you will not answer freely, then I will find
a way to force you to.”
A small whimper escaped the Elf’s lips, at the same
time a meter of his pain and too the searing hatred
that burned inside him for both himself and the human.

The brightly shining morning sun fell merrily upon the
carven wood of a table and chairs that graced all the
guestrooms of Imladris, the bowl of fruit and pitcher
of water seeming oddly out of place there and in
strong contrast to the dark fear that covered the
Elf’s mind as his eyes trailed over them. 
The Ranger, still twining a firm hold of blonde hair
around the fingers of a hand, strode towards them
quickly, dragging the archer painfully behind him.
Legolas stumbled forward weakly, tied hands depriving
him of all balance, though at least some small measure
of grace remained intact even in the ungainly stagger.

A chair brought no resistance to Aragorn’s swiftly
reaching hand that brought it from its resting place
to swing to face them both with a dull scraping on the
preciously tiled floors. The Elf felt himself being
swung forward and thrown down roughly to land with a
painful jar to his back on the hard surface of the
chair, and a sharp hiss escaped his lips to colour the
air, his eyes sagging shut once more to face the
peaceful dark. 
The rough hand twisted out of his hair, jarring back
painfully to rip free, and taking more than one strand
of gold with it from the Elf’s scalp. Legolas’ head
fell forward, his breathing laboured and heavy. Dimly
he could feel hands on his ankles, and his eyes opened
slightly to find the Man binding them taught to the
legs of the chair with strong cords that appeared as
if by magic in the Ranger’s hands.
In the next moment Aragorn was seated across the
archer’s lap, the Man’s long legs straddling the Elf’s
thighs comfortably and heavily though Legolas knew not
when nor by what means he had got there. 
The Elf stared up at the Ranger in confusion, his
hands behind twisting in their confines and his legs
shifting weakly in their bindings. Aragorn smiled at
him, a mere twisting of the Man’s lips that became a
sneer in the cold gaze his eyes wrought on the archer.
The Ranger leaned forward slowly, until his face was a
hair’s breadth away from the Elf’s and his breath fell
close and mingled warmly with the other. His gaze
bored into the archer, a steely and cold stare that
seemed to see right through him and inside, uncovering
all the anger and pain and yet fear that resided
within Legolas’ heart.
“Well, Elf? Will you not speak now?”
The Man gave no chance for his question to be
answered. In a single instant the small distance that
separated the human’s being from the Elf’s, Aragorn’s
lips pressed to his tightly, lingering warmly over the
archer’s mouth in a long kiss. Surprise left all other
feeling and emotion to flee, flooding the Elf
completely and causing his eyes to fly open wide,
staring in shock at the closed gaze of the Man. 
This sudden change in demeanour at once woke both
suspicion and derision to the fore of the archer’s
mind. Through the thin veil of arid soreness in his
body, the Elf managed to formulate a thought at last
of opposition. Struggling weakly still at his bonds,
he tried to pull his head away, turning it to the side
and apart from the Ranger’s questing mouth to stare
angrily at the floor beside him. Dryness prevented
speech from escaping his throat, giving leave to the
Elf’s steely glare when the Man placed a hand on his
bruised cheek and turned his head roughly to look at
him. 
Aragorn frowned deeply, the crease beginning between
his eyes and spreading up his forehead like a wild
fire until it disappeared between ragged strands of
black hair, marring the normal smoothness of mortal
flesh. Then the Ranger leaned forward slowly, as if
the air had suddenly become thick and dense, his
breathing unexpectedly loud and heavy. Unable to pull
away by some hidden force that held him captive to the
human’s features, Legolas’ eyes slipped shut as the
Man’s mouth came to rest on them, gently and slowly
kissing each with a affection that could almost be
described as reverence. Hands threaded through his
hair, gently this time and taking care not to further
pain the already impaired tenderness.
When the human pulled away, a slow breath and dead
silence after followed as neither Elf nor Man dared
make any further move for fear of breaking perhaps the
crystal perfect moment they were captured in. 
Legolas’ eyes would not obey his command to open,
remaining in their closeted aloofness in favour of the
blissful dark that befriended them. And then a warm
mouth covered his once more, slowly now without the
near urgency from before. A long moment passed as
neither made to move further, frozen as ice in the
light of the new morning. 
And then Aragorn took the Elf’s lower lip between his,
gently sucking at it and running the barest light
teeth over its edge. 
Desire took over all at once. The Elf cursed himself
for ten times a fool as his body responded
gratuitously to the soft mouth, his lips staring to
move against it out of their own will and a warm heat
flooding his lower half to pool once more in the
hardening bulge beneath his leggings. 
How long they were locked as this the Elf could not
tell, unable to discern where the Man’s body ended
exactly and his began, and slowly but growingly
consumed by a burning need to touch the human once
more, to be one with him in ways that went deeper than
thought or emotion or feeling. 
A wetness of heat slid over his lips as the Ranger’s
tongue begged entrance to Legolas’ mouth, and not a
moment of doubt or hesitation halted the Elf in
complying, greedily accepting the warmness and sucking
gently but firmly until a conquering moan was drawn
from deep within the Man’s throat. The Elf’s struggles
against the tight bondage that held him ceased finally
in the desire that inflamed him, feeling a
satisfactory hardening rise firmly where the Ranger
pressed against his lower half.
And then Aragorn was gone, departing from the Elf’s
mouth stealthily and gently to leave Legolas staring
after him longingly, a frown decorating his brow. The
Man smiled at him, a sincere and warm gesture of peace
and perhaps love that surprised the archer mildly in
its contrast with the feral look of dominance from
before.
The Ranger’s head dropped down and to the side, and
warm lips latched onto the burning cut that the dagger
had left, trailing kisses there slowly until the Elf
felt all pain disappear within the tender touch. His
head fell back to give Aragorn greater leave and
access to reach every sensitive fold of muscle and
skin upon his neck and his eyes sagged shut again in
pleasure. The Man’s lips worked a gentle magic on his
skin, the very tip of his tongue escaping the warm,
sensitive lips to connect briefly and repeatedly with
the streak of dried blood that marred the whiteness of
the Elf until all the substance was gone, disappeared
for the pleasure of the Ranger’s sense of taste. 
Aragorn shifted slightly over the archer’s thighs,
moving back the barest of inches as to lean forward
more easily. His hands came up to rest on the Elf’s
chest, one still clutching the dagger that lay heavily
on the folds of rumpled green material that covered
the archer’s form, and his head moved to the other
side of Legolas’ neck, nipping lightly at the
sensitive skin and progressing towards the
dramatically pointed ear. A languid moan escaped the
Elf’s lips – wordless testimony of his final surrender
to the Man’s talent. 
The questing mouth came to rest finally on the gently
curving lobe, making no further move but to lie there,
immobile. The temperate breath that escaped the Man’s
lips tickled a path down the archer’s sensitive skin,
making him shiver lightly at the odd sensation. He
turned his head slightly to regard the Ranger,
frowning disapprovingly at the apparent lack of
further movement. 
Aragorn did not meet his gaze, smiling secretively
instead into the blonde tresses of hair that fell
genially across the Elf’s shoulders. The hand that
held the dagger still and had rested on Legolas’ chest
disappeared then, and the Elf had only a bare second
to register wonder at the stirring before the human
leaned back, shifting yet further over his thighs
until a good distance separated the aching hardness
between the Elf’s thighs from the Man’s. 
The Ranger’s face gave nothing away as he stared down
at the blonde archer, his eyes regarding the Elf with
no more than thinly veiled interest. Legolas’ frown
deepened, confused at this new turn of events. The
heavy weight of the Man settled comfortably into the
Elf, ignoring the disapproving stare and instead
bringing his free hand up to trail across the archer’s
jaw, lightly tracing the tender swelling of flesh that
still stung from his own less than gentle admonitions.
Legolas regarded the Man with suspicion, refusing to
let the sensation exert control over his emotion.
And then the other hand came forth, brought up from
where it rested beside the Ranger’s legs and holding
the sharply hewn dagger tightly, as if to make it one
almost with the fist it was clutched in. 
The Elf’s sharp eyes were drawn inexorably to the
movement as the glinting blade came up slowly, slowly,
to be pointed finally over the delicate strings that
held his tunic taught and kept his form hidden from
prying eyes. A small point of pressure forced down on
his chest, a sharp stinging prick as the very point of
the dagger pressed to the material, and through it to
reach the pale area of skin at the Elf’s collarbone. 
The archer’s breath quickened a pace, a faster beating
of his heart racing ahead of the sudden doubt at the
Ranger’s motives that clouded his mind. A warning
sounded loudly in his mind, a caution that beat as
drums in togetherness with the rhythm set within his
chest, a sharp contrast to the wanting need of his
body made evident between his legs. His eyes were
fixed to only the glint of morning sunlight as it fell
across the sharp blade, unable to move from it by some
morbid sense of fascination perhaps at the thought of
what that same blade might yet wreak upon him, all the
various wounds it could inflict running avidly through
the archer’s mind as he watched.
The pinpoint of pain that was the dagger moved down an
inch, scraping along the thin material of the Elf’s
tunic to snag in the drawstrings that held it
together, and moving down almost painfully slowly,
inch by inch, but with a strength of pressure and
shrewd measure of sharpness that finally, inexorably,
snapped the leather binding as it was stretched to the
extremity of its length.
Gradually, at a pace that seemed no more than
leisurely to the human but was indeed an astute
torture to Legolas’ mind, the dagger was drawn
downwards, until finally and seemingly hours later
though no more than a few half-shadows of the sun
could have passed, the Elf’s tunic fell open, freed
from its formal bindings by the skilled hand of the
human straddling his thighs. 
The archer’s eyes whipped up to Aragorn, a small gasp
of breath sounding from his lips at the sudden need
for air as he realised he had been holding his breath.
The human smiled down at him, noticing perhaps the
barest hint of a fear in the Elf’s eyes, and letting
his own conquering triumph at the recognition reflect
in his.
A sharp point of pain on the bared skin of his chest
brought the Elf’s eyes down to stare openly at the
blade, still held tightly within the vice-like grasp
of the Man, now pressed at its point to the Elf’s
collarbone. It lifted with the skin, rising and
falling with every quick breath that passed the
archer’s lips. Trying desperately to calm the rapid
beating of his heart, Legolas only looked at the knife
in trepidation, wondering if he should fear the
closeness of the blade to his life source yet feeling
an aversion to, hoping beyond hope that indeed the Man
would not make true his unsaid promise and draw back
his threat.
And then the blade moved downwards, dragging almost
painfully along the pale flesh that covered the Elf’s
chest to leave a startlingly white, thin trail of
pressure in its wake. Unhurriedly, it traced languid
patterns upon his upper body, not quite harsh in its
rendering of thinly stretched lines over the skin but
not yet gentle in its torment. 
The Man’s other hand moved from the Elf’s cheek to
caress the side of his face, tilting it upwards gently
to face the Ranger. Legolas’ eyes followed the path of
Aragorn’s chest, neck and face to come finally to rest
on mortal eyes, grey orbs of youth that held yet not
the knowledge of centuries that marked all immortals
with its passing. The Ranger spoke not, yet let show
in his face emotions clearer than words as he leaned
forward to capture the Elf’s lips in his. 
Legolas’ eyes closed before the onslaught of emotion
this action awoke within him, revelling in the freedom
of surrender he found in the Man’s arms as he
responded greedily to the kiss. 
Still the dagger remained moving, less sure now of its
path but not decreasing in steadiness, moving ever
downward in slow, small circles and snaking patterns,
until it reached the over-sensitive skin directly
above the Elf’s hardened flesh. A shiver of
electricity jarred through Legolas, but the human
remained latched to his mouth, preventing the archer
effectively from escape or resistance.
A sudden hard pull of the blade left a sharp searing
pain on the archer’s abdomen, and his eyes flew open
at the shock, a sound of protest escaping from deep
within his throat. Aragorn merely pressed down harder
upon the Elf’s lips, his tongue entering Legolas’
mouth to take possession of it roughly and almost
painfully as harsh lips bruised his and a less than
gentle hand gripped his face tightly.
The silver knife jarred down sharply, cutting a thin
line of red into the archer’s pale flesh and ripping
the taught leather bindings of his leggings open, much
alike to the human’s rendering of his tunic but far
less tender. An outcry of pain sounded into the Man’s
mouth as a thick veil of red blurred the Elf’s sight,
an agony pooling in his lower half as the warm blood
that escaped it seeped into the thick material of his
leggings. Just barely did the blade miss the most
sensitive part of the archer, but barely was by far
enough.
Aragorn’s mouth left his, the Ranger coming up finally
but refusing to meet the Elf’s disapproving glare as
Legolas gasped for air. Breaking through the thin veil
of dark and red haze that yet refused to lift, the
archer wet his lips with the tip of his tongue,
wincing at the bruised tenderness, and looked up the
Man. The Ranger stared down at where the dagger now
lifted slowly the opened flaps from the front of the
leggings. The Elf struggled faintly against the bonds
holding his hands, but strength had fled and left him
a weakling innocent in the hands of a predator. 
Embarrassment and anger at himself clouded the Elf’s
mind as his erection was freed from its confines,
rising an acute informant of his obvious arousal to
stare boldly at the morning. The Ranger smiled, a
small and reticent twisting of his lips that belied no
more than pleasure at the state of the being at his
mercy.
A hand closed warmly around the pulsing length that
rose between Legolas’ thighs, sending a jolt of
flashing electricity through his entire body as he
felt himself become more firm within the Ranger’s
grasp. Aragorn’s head came up finally to stare deeply
at the Elf, his eyes boring into the archer almost
hurtfully before he spoke at last. 
“Tell me you surrender,”
Legolas’ face clouded in a frown as anger and a
measure of confusion once more bewildered his mind. He
was forced to swallow once to allow the dryness in his
throat to pass along with the passionate haze of
pleasure that overshadowed his thoughts before he was
able to answer. “Surrender to what?”
His voice was dry and cracked, and sounded
horrifyingly tired and old and spent to his ears. The
human smiled, and the hand tightened around his
throbbing length, sending almost painful new waves of
ecstasy to shock through his body.
“Surrender to me and me only. Surrender to my touch,
my thought – surrender to all that is mortal.
Surrender to me and I shall let you pass in freedom,
and never again plague you with your cowardice.
Surrender, and admit your mistake in the matter, and
surrender to my revenge.”
Legolas felt rage rise in him, a tide of steely pride
and refusal. “And if I do not?”
The human’s smile disappeared to be replaced by a
glower as soft and dangerous as his voice. “Would you
rather surrender to Elrond and my brothers whom you
have so wrongfully betrayed?”
Legolas met the angry frown with a glare of his own,
refusing to grace the air with the speech of answer
and instead letting his silence speak loudly for him.
Aragorn shook his head.
“And so Elven pride will again overrule the righteous
anger of mortality,” His voice held anger and chagrin
and sorrow, registered in mild surprise over the
thundering of Legolas’ heart within his own ears. The
hand upon is aching length twisted sharply, sending a
blade of pain to rasp through the Elf’s body. A harsh
outcry escaped his lips as he tried in vain to seal
all feeling behind the studied coldness that marked
his race. And then the hand was gone, to be replaced
by the achingly cold steel of the torturous silver
dagger upon his Elfhood.
The archer froze, fear for himself and his precious
pride stalling all movement into submission as the
blade trailed slowly up his length. A severe amount of
dark pleasure mingled confusedly with the pain from
the cold steel, mixing to form a unique sensation that
sent shivers racing up his spine to conform finally
into a loud moan from his mouth. The Ranger’s soft
voice, when he spoke, set off an odd contrast to the
melodic sound.
“Do you surrender?”
Legolas barely managed to shake his head as once more
the question set a motion of refusal to rake his
thoughts. “Never,” The word escaped between gasps and
loud, heavy breaths laden with the brunt of the Elf’s
intense pleasure.
The blade turned slightly so that he flat of its edge
lay coldly along the length of the archer’s tight
arousal. Rubbing freely along the hardness, it moved
around and to the underside, so that the very tip of
the sharply pointed edge rested against twin globes
stretched taught and heavy with passion. Legolas
gasped, all thought and further emotion fleeing to the
farthest corners of his mind as the pinprick of
pressure started moving in small circles there,
scraping roughly against the sacs and to a degree of
more pleasure than the Elf could coherently handle.
Strangled sounds of passion escaped the archer’s
throat, though their meaning was lost upon all who
heard them.
He could not live through the amount of arousal that
now ruled his body – never before in all his long
years had the Elf experienced such vast amounts of
pleasure. “Aaa– aiii!”
Ragged gasps now escaped his throat and his heart
seemed to pound right through the confines of his
ribcage and out to the freedom of the dawn.
A soft laugh coloured the air from the Man’s lips. “Do
you surrender?”
Once more the question was thrown into the coldness of
the morning air, but this time the Elf did not think
he could survive his own refusal. Guilt flooded his
mind and coloured his cheeks and embarrassed red, but
at once was swept away by the intense bliss created by
the blade as his head nodded forward wilfully and a
single word amid the stifled moans and cries of
passion escaped from his lips.
“Yes.”
The Man leaned forward, the dagger never ceasing its
movement. “What did you say?”
“Yes!” Legolas pleaded through clenched teeth. “I
surrender.”
The human smiled at him coldly. “Then surrender you
shall.” 
And then he was gone. Astonishment and utter horror
clouded the Elf’s mind as his eyes flew open and
searched frantically and desperately for the Man, but
Aragorn was gone, disappeared without sound or trace
into the new morning. All pride forgotten, the archer
moaned loudly in despair. His arousal ached for
release as never before, and he was bound tightly and
expertly in a way he could not possibly escape.
Total grief clouded the Elf’s heart at the realisation
that he would not find release and freedom from his
fiercely demanding body, and unwittingly a tear of
frustration slid down his cheek. Cursing himself and
the human in all the ways he knew how, the Elf cried
freely, releasing a shout of rage into the quiet room.
Aragorn was gone.
He had found his revenge – and it would be imprinted
upon the Elf’s memory for the rest of his life.