Title:  A Wedding Gift
Author:  Emma Keigh
E-mail:  emmakeigh@ithilas.com
Rating:  NC-17, m/m
Characters:  Legolas, Denethor, OMCs
Pairings:  Legolas/Denethor
Category:  Challenge, PWP
Status:  new, complete
Date:  15 February 2003
Archive:  Slashlords’ Fuh-Q-Fest Archive and where posted; elsewhere 
please ask first
Series:  none
Website:  http://www.ithilas.com/chezemma
Summary:  In TA 2976,Legolas attends the wedding of the son of 
Gondor’s Steward as Thranduil’s ambassador, and makes an unusual 
wedding gift.

Disclaimer:  The characters and melieux from The Lord of the Rings are 
the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema (AOL). 
I only play with them from time to time for my own amusement and 
without compensation. No harm; no foul; no profit.  Anything or anyone 
new, however, is mine (left-overs again!).  

Warning:  This story contains explicit scenes of sex between consenting 
adult males of different species.  If you are under age or don't care for this, 
LEAVE NOW. Beta-read by Nikki Memmott.  Thanks, merci beaucoup, 
tapadh leibh, gracias, danke, grazie, spazebo, arigato, obrigado.

Notes:  Slashlords’ Fuh-Q-Fest challenge.  Legolas/Denethor was 
considered “hard.”  Words in Elvish from the Sindarin Dictionary Project.

THE WEDDING GIFT
a Legolas/Denethor story
for Slashlords’ Fuh-Q-Fest
By Emma Keigh

Minas Tirith, 2976 of the Third Age.

The night air was warmer than Legolas was accustomed to in the spring, 
and he shifted the heavy, embroidered robe from one arm to the other.  He 
was quite comfortable in simple, Mirkwood-styled leggings and patterned 
silk tunic.  He’d omitted wearing his mithril circlet to this informal 
gathering, and he’d noticed that no horn hung at Denethor’s hip.

It had been intended that the men and Elves celebrate as equals, and no 
titles or honorifics had been used all evening.  Toasts had been drunk to 
the Steward, to the Steward’s only son, and to the Princess he was to wed 
in the morning.  More toasts were raised to the small party of Elves 
present, and to the Woodland King they represented.  Protests were voiced 
when the guest of honor rose to leave, though by that time the revelers 
were being entertained more by dancing girls and unending mugs of ale 
and cups of warmed wine.

“You forget, my friends,” Denethor said, his voice a bit too loud for the 
room, “I have many more years under my belt than any of you.”  He 
looked at the Elf-prince.  “Legolas will see me safely to my chambers, will 
you not, my new friend?”  He wavered slightly, though his voice was 
unslurred by the many cups of wine.

“Of course,” the Elf answered.  “Dortha, mellyn-nîn,” he said to his 
retainers.  “Stay and enjoy yourselves.”  Young Tuorion seemed to be 
entranced by the youth who kept their cups filled, and Beornwë obviously 
appreciated the dancers who flirted unabashedly with the blond elf.  An 
additional word from Legolas in their own language cautioned them both 
to be discreet.

Now, as Legolas accompanied Denethor along the winding main road, 
climbing back to the Citadel, he felt strangely compelled to address the 
man with all formality.  “Lord Denethor,” he said as they approached the 
long tunnel to the Citadel, “I am woefully ignorant of your customs.  
Those dances we saw — are they taught to all your women?”  The sinuous 
movements of the dances were blatantly sexual, and the close contact 
between the dancers and their audience was obviously meant to arouse.

Denethor’s laugh echoed loudly amid the stone walls of the buildings of 
the Sixth Level.  “Gods in Aman, no,” he answered.  “Though many of the 
men wish they were.”  He lowered his voice and asked.  “Do you Elves 
not have courtesans?”

“I am not familiar with that word in your tongue,” the Elf admitted.  He 
had learned the speech of men at Elrond’s court, where the Rangers lived 
more simply than their kin in the south.

“A woman of pleasure, whose favors can be purchased for a night — or 
even for an hour.”

Legolas felt himself blush, but a single, deeply inhaled breath cooled his 
face.  “Yes, there are courtesans,” the unfamiliar word tangled his tongue.  
“But they are far more discreet in public.”

“So what did you think of their dances?”

“They seem very talented,” the Elf-prince said diplomatically.  “Your men 
seemed quite taken with them.  As did mine.”

Denethor laughed again in the empty tunnel and he clapped the Elf on the 
shoulder, not removing his hand as they found themselves on the top level 
of the tiered city.

They passed the door guards of the Steward’s residence without challenge 
and Denethor lead Legolas to apartments on the upper level in the rear of 
the building.

“I have lived all my life in this room,” Denethor said as he opened the 
door.  He lit a taper from the corridor’s wall sconce and used it to light a 
candelabra that stood just inside the door.  The large room was bathed in 
the flickering glow, and Denethor left Legolas at the doorway as he lit a 
dozen more candles.

It was a warrior’s room, Legolas saw, weapons both displayed and stored.  
In the place of honor over the hearth hung the legendary Horn of Gondor, 
its metal fittings gleaming in the candlelight.  A rack held a half-dozen 
swords, some longer, some broader, each blade well oiled and glistening, 
and a large, round shield leaned against tall shelves filled with books and 
scrolls.  Maps covered the surface of the only table, and the wooden chair 
was draped with a hauberk of mail.  Legolas draped his unneeded robe 
over the metal shirt.

The stone floor was covered with a faded carpet, paths worn from door to 
bed and hearth.  The bed was large, suited to a man of Denethor’s size, 
and was dressed with only a plain coverlet and a thin pillow.  No fire was 
laid, as the season was warm, and Denethor flung open latticed doors to a 
small terrace that overlooked a private garden.  The room smelled of 
sandalwood and leather, and the open doors admitted the scent of greenery 
and night-blooming flowers.

Legolas let the door close behind him, and joined Denethor at the terrace 
doors.  “The room suits you, Denethor.  I would know you lived here even 
in your absence.”

“But it will not suit a bride,” Denethor mused.  He turned to Legolas and 
placed a hand on the Elf’s shoulder.  “Tomorrow I leave this room forever, 
to dwell with my wife.  This will become a nursery again, in time.”

“Then it will again be the home of warriors,” Legolas stated, returning the 
gesture.  “For sons of your loins will surely follow your lead.”

Denethor’s eyes unfocused for a moment, then he said, “I know it will.  
Two brothers will share this room as they grow, but only one will leave it 
for a bride’s bower.”

Legolas grasped the man’s other shoulder and looked deeply into the 
glazed eyes.  “You have the Sight?” he asked.  He knew Elves with the 
Sight, those who knew what the future held, but he had never heard of a 
man with the Gift.  The signs of Denethor’s mortality were obvious.  His 
dark hair was grey at the temples, and he shaved his beard, alone of all the 
men Legolas had met in Gondor.  Tiny lines radiated from the outside 
corners of his eyes, and deeper ones were beginning to show between nose 
and mouth, and between his eyebrows.  Denethor was not a young man, 
but already of middle age, and he was taking a woman twenty years his 
junior to wife.

Denethor breathed deeply and blinked, clearing his gaze.  “At times,” he 
said, “I am so cursed.”  He held the Elf’s gaze for a long moment.  He 
opened his mouth to speak but no words came.  He closed him mouth and 
cleared his throat, then lowered his eyes.  “No,” he muttered to himself, 
shaking his head, “I cannot ask…”

Long fingers touched the man’s chin, the prickly stubble a new sensation, 
and raised the green eyes to his own.  “What would you ask of me?”

Denethor turned away, pulling out of the Elf’s grasp.  “I have long heard 
tales of your kind,” he said hesitatingly.  He moved barely an arm’s length 
away and stopped, his back still to the waiting Elf.

Legolas kept silent, uncertain of the direction of his host’s thoughts.  He 
smelled arousal on the man, but it could have been from watching the 
dancers in the tavern, or a side effect of his vision.

“It is said you lie with each other,” Denethor whispered, “without regard 
to gender.”

“We are like men in that, my friend,” Legolas answered.  He moved to 
stand directly behind the man.  Again he placed his hands on the broad 
shoulders, feeling the tense muscles beneath the tunic and jerkin.  “Some 
prefer one sex over the other; others are less restricted in their tastes.”  He 
brought his mouth but a thumb’s width from the man’s head and 
continued, his breath caressing the strangely rounded ear.  “As for myself, 
I care not for maids in that way.”  He touched the edge of Denethor’s ear 
with the tip of his nose, nuzzling gently along the curve.  “Is this what you 
would ask of me?”

The man’s nod was nearly imperceptible, but the strong scent of arousal 
that surged from his every pore was not.  He turned, and before he could 
speak, Legolas pressed a kiss to his mouth.  It was a gentle, inviting kiss, 
and the Elf drew away after a handful of heartbeats.

“You need not ask, Denethor,” Legolas said softly.  “Let this be my own 
gift to you.”  Nimble fingers unlaced the leather jerkin and pulled it over 
the broad shoulders, then unfastened the brooch at the collar of the man’s 
tunic.  Denethor’s chest heaved beneath the Elf’s hands, and Legolas 
smiled at the effect his touch had on the man.  As he slid the tunic over 
Denethor’s shoulders, baring the  body beneath it, they kissed again with a 
hunger that surprised both of them.

Denethor’s response was immediate.  He returned the kiss, opening his 
mouth to the Elf’s questing tongue.  He lifted his arms to encircle the 
slender form of the Elf, and pulled their bodies together, moaning deep in 
his throat.

Legolas felt the heat of the man’s body through his own clothing, then 
raised his hands to toy with Denethor’s hair.  He combed the dark strands 
with his fingers, and continued his exploration of the man’s mouth.  They 
were of a height, and though Denethor was half again the Elf’s bulk, 
Legolas was the stronger.  He let himself be held, and soon the crushing 
embrace eased as the man’s hands roamed over the Elf’s back in long, 
slow strokes from shoulder to hip and back, then one hand sought lower 
still, cupping the curving flesh.

Denethor’s embrace and musky scent intoxicated him even more than the 
wine, and Legolas yearned to be rid of his clothes.  He ran his hands along 
Denethor’s shoulders and arms, and leading him by the hand, moved to the 
bedside.  “We shall be more comfortable here, I think.”  The Elf-prince 
stood still while the fastenings of his tunic were opened and the man 
glided his hands across the exposed skin before the silk floated to the 
floor.  He stretched his head back as the dark head bent to kiss the joining 
of his neck and shoulder, and he sighed when teeth and tongue grazed 
along the taut tendon of his neck.

“Sit,” the Elf managed to say between panting breaths, and he knelt at 
Denethor’s feet to remove the heavy leather boots.  He lifted one bared 
foot, nuzzling along the arch, nipping the ankle.  Denethor moaned as he 
lay back, and Legolas ran his hands up the outside of the man’s legs, the 
loose cut of the trousers snug now at the crotch, the bulge of his erection 
straining the fabric.  His own leggings were as tight, the soft cloth 
stretching to accommodate him, but still restricting.  Before rising he 
pulled off his own soft-soled boots.

The softly curling hair on Denethor’s chest and abdomen fascinated him.  
Legolas had never lain with a mortal man before, and he enjoyed the 
tickling sensation as each strand brushed against his nose and chin while 
he nuzzled the broad chest and flat belly, his fingers working loose the 
thick, leather belt that held Denethor’s trousers to his hips.

With a final tug the leather gave up its hold on itself, and the long strap 
slid through the knot.  The buckle itself was not difficult to release, 
followed by the buttons that secured the opening in the front of the 
trousers.  Legolas hummed, a sense of accomplishment joining the 
growing passion he felt for Denethor.  The man was so much more sensual 
than the Elf had expected, and so willing to show his feelings, at least 
here, behind closed doors.  Once loosened, he pulled the trousers to the 
man’s knees in one motion, revealing and releasing the erect organ.

“Ai!” Legolas exclaimed.  “The stories of manhood I have heard are true.”  
His eye measured the length and thickness of the straining erection, and 
gauged the weight of the hanging sac.  No Elf was so endowed, but he 
knew his body would accommodate this new lover.

The forgotten trousers fell to the floor with the weight of the belt and 
buckle, and Denethor pulled his feet loose.  A long sigh escaped 
Denethor’s lips, and Legolas placed soft, nipping kisses at the base of his 
throat.

“You tease too much, Elf-prince,” he said, his voice hoarse and panting, 
his hands on the golden-skinned shoulders.

“And you too little.”  He swung a leg over Denethor’s hips, the lacings of 
his leggings in easy reach, his erection causing a significant bulge in the 
soft cloth.

A feral gleam flashed in Denethor’s eyes as his large hands skimmed over 
the Elf’s smooth chest and along his flanks, then tightly gripped the flesh 
just above the hips.  Lifting his head from the bed he nuzzled the flat 
belly, tonguing the delicately indented navel.  He growled deep in his 
throat, then took the leggings’ laces in his teeth and pulled them loose.  
Roughly he pushed the garment down only far enough to reveal the root of 
the Elf’s member and slid his hands to the back, grasping the firm 
buttocks.  With his face pressed to the Elf’s groin, kneading his rear 
cheeks, Denethor worked the erection free of the confining garment.

Falling forward onto his hands, Legolas thrust himself into Denethor’s 
mouth, and was held there by the strong hands on his backside.  They 
rolled to one side, then Denethor loomed over the reclining Elf, sliding his 
mouth up and down on the turgid shaft while Legolas moaned with each 
move.  His long legs were still constrained by his half-removed garment, 
and he squirmed under Denethor's touch to be rid of them completely.

The Elf gasped for breath, passion rising in him.  The man’s mouth was 
hot, the lips, teeth, and tongue all working over his organ.  He felt the cool 
air on the dampened shaft when Denethor pulled back, holding the 
sensitive head still in his mouth, flicking the point of his tongue across the 
tip, and the Elf knew he was not far from losing control.  He would have 
cried out when Denethor released him but for the quickly applied noose 
about the base of his organ.  Using the thong from his leggings, the man 
stopped his release.

“I have you now, Elf,” Denethor said, his voice thick and heavy.  “Your 
pleasure will only come when I have had all I wish of you.”  Naked, the 
man rose from the bed and jerked Legolas’s leggings down, leaving them 
bunched around his ankles.  He lifted one slender foot over the other and 
pushed, turning the Elf so he lay face down on the bed.

The sudden change of position forced Legolas to cry out as his erection 
was crushed between his body and the surface of the bed.  He pulled his 
hands out from under himself and levered his hips up, releasing some of 
the pressure.  Before he could turn himself again, Denethor shoved the 
Elf’s legs up under him, raising his rear, exposing his most intimate 
regions.

“You needn’t restrain me, Denethor,” Legolas said, thinking it best not to 
struggle any further.  The thong around his genitals felt even tighter as 
more blood was pumped into the dangling organs.  “It will be much more 
pleasurable if I can…” he gasped for breath again, and continued, 
“…cooperate.”

“I do not require your cooperation, Elf,” Denethor growled.  “I take what I 
want.”

Legolas closed his eyes and let his head sink back to the bed.  He knew 
there were many who needed to dominate during lovemaking, who had no 
pleasure except in the total submission of their partner.  “Then take me as 
you will.”  He took a deep breath and willed himself to relax.

Denethor’s throaty laugh filled the chamber.  “Oh, I shall, Legolas.  I 
shall.”

Large hands grasped his hips, and Legolas felt the heat of the man’s body 
behind him.  Denethor’s throbbing manhood lay in the cleft of his rear 
cheeks, and the man’s hair-covered torso leaned over his back.  Hot breath 
crossed his ear.  “Turn your head, Elf.”  A fist in his hair forced his 
obedience.

Denethor pressed a hard kiss to Legolas’s mouth, the Elf’s head craned 
back to the point of pain.  The man’s tongue reached deeply, nearly 
gagging him.  Legolas tried to be as passive as he could, but the throbbing 
in his groin and the slick tongue in his mouth inflamed him even more, 
and he returned the kiss in kind.

“Ah, you like a little roughness, my pretty?”  Denethor nuzzled the Elf’s 
neck, pushing aside the long blond hair and nipping the smooth skin.

“This is my gift to you.  You may take it however you wish.”  It wouldn’t 
do to let Denethor know this was just as pleasurable to the Elf-prince as 
more tender lovemaking.  He would let the man have his way — that 
would be his true gift.

The man’s hands moved again, and Legolas felt warm oil drizzled across 
his entrance.  Blunt fingers roughly rubbed the oil into the tender skin 
before a single digit was thrust deeply into the Elf’s body.  He could feel 
the intruding finger twist, and gasped when it touched his prostate.  An 
oil-slickened hand grasped his swollen member, sliding from base to 
crown as the thick finger pumped in and out, each stroke aimed at the 
hidden gland.  One finger was replaced by two, stretching the Elf’s 
opening.

Legolas closed his eyes again, and breathed as evenly as he could, letting 
the sensations wash over him, shutting out the little discomforts, focusing, 
as well as he could, on the pleasures that came from Denethor’s actions.  
He sucked on his lower lip, thinking his silence would be more satisfying 
to Denethor than any cries of pleasure.

The hot tip of Denethor’s organ pushed against his prepared entrance, and 
with one thrust, the man sheathed himself in the Elf’s waiting body.

Legolas felt as though he had been impaled on a rod of red-hot steel that 
reached to his very center.  Rough sex was not new to him, both giving 
and  receiving, but this was more than he’d ever taken, more than he’d 
ever dreamed of.  

“Tight,” Denethor cried, pulling back and thrusting again, “Eru’s balls, 
you’re tight as a virgin boy!”

The pounding was unlike any Legolas had known.  He thought at first 
Denethor would split him in two, but as wave after wave of pleasure 
surged though him, he lost all regard for himself.  He ground his hips 
back, taking even more of the man into himself, pushed forward, pressing 
his engorged organ through the circle of Denethor’s fist.

Sitting back on his haunches, the man pulled Legolas with him.  One arm 
wrapped around the Elf’s chest, holding firm, fingers splayed across both 
nipples at once.  Denethor continued his rhythmic thrusting, his hips 
lifting the two of them, and without warning released the leather thong.

Shouting wordlessly, Legolas spent himself, the stream of his essence 
fountaining forcefully, his body contracting with each pulse.  Heat filled 
him as Denethor reached his climax, and together they fell across the bed 
and into oblivion.

***

“You must rise, Prince Legolas.”

Blue eyes snapped open, and the Elf-prince immediately pulled himself to 
sit up.  Still on Denethor’s bed, his host stood halfway across the room, 
belting a dressing gown around his otherwise naked body.  The Elf swung 
his long legs over the edge of the bed and stood, steeling himself for to the 
aftereffects of their coupling.  When standing brought only aching and not 
sharp pains he breathed again, certain no extreme harm had been done.

“Denethor….”

The bridegroom-to-be looked away and drank deeply from the pewter 
goblet he held.  “It is near dawn.”

Legolas gathered his clothing and donned it, settling the heavy robe over it 
all.  

“I am about to take as wife a woman I have never met, whose face has 
ever been veiled to me,” Denethor mused while Legolas dressed.  “Would 
you wish me well?”

Understanding filled the Elf-prince’s mind.  “This was the last time you 
would lie with a man — a male,” he guessed, and smiled to himself when 
Denethor nodded.

“Though we bind with our shield brothers, once wed, we serve alone.”  
The hearty voice that had filled the chamber the night before was deep and 
low.

“Why me, then, and not your bond-mate?”  Legolas took the cup from 
Denethor and sipped the warmed wine.

“Faragil was killed in a skirmish two months back.”  

Legolas placed his hand on his heart and bowed his head.  “My 
condolences.”  He gave the cup back to Denethor and softly kissed his 
lips.  “May you come to love your wife as much.”  Without another word 
the Elf turned away to return to his own rooms.

“I will treasure your gift, Elf-prince,” the Steward’s heir whispered before 
the door closed.

Alone in the dimly lit corridor, Legolas smiled.

The End

Note:
Dortha, mellyn-nîn = Stay, my friends


© 2003 Emma Keigh
3,474 words
9
wip.doc
Last printed 2/11/2003 3:20 AM