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Sounds of merriment saturated the usually somber palace, imbuing the chill stone with a warmth that was all too rarely felt. A grand feast was being held tonight in honor of all things joyful in the world. Elves danced, sang and laughed, their worries banished with music and good wine to haunt another day.
Thranduil looked upon his people with a smile gracing his face. If he were to display his feelings honestly he would be dancing and jesting with the best of them, but as king he must contain himself; this night was for the kingdom, not the king.
There was one, however, whom the joyous mood could not seem to touch: Legolas drank plenty of wine, but each glass seemed to fill him only with gloom. As he watched his son gaze morosely into his goblet, Thranduil could feel his own spirits sink in kind. As of late, Legolas had been unusually subdued, and despite his best efforts Thranduil had yet to determine the cause.
Legolas looked at him then, and a brief flicker of some other emotion crossed his face before he looked away again. Thranduil's attention thus snared, it no longer graced his people's merriment but fixed solely on his son.
Surreptitiously he watched Legolas. Every so often another elf would attempt to engage Legolas in some jest, but Legolas would simply smile weakly before turning back to his wine.
Not before his eyes would flit to Thranduil, however.
Thranduil was not alone in his worry, but he hoped he was the only one to notice this unsettling fixation. The more wine his son consumed, the more his eyes would stray to him. Thranduil had lived through three ages of this world – he knew what that look signified. He had once seen it on his wife's face.
It was thoroughly unnerving to see it on his son.
He took a slow sip of wine, and over the rim of his goblet he caught Legolas' gaze. He held it for a few heartbeats before Legolas averted his eyes, confession scrawled in red across his cheeks. Thranduil did not grant his son the mercy of relenting his stare, and Legolas grew ever more uncomfortable under his scrutiny, until finally he pushed his chair back with an unmannerly scrape, catching his foot on it's leg as he rushed off.
Thranduil summoned Galion to him with a glance.
“What would you require of me, my lord?” he said.
“Escort the prince to his chambers.”
“Yes, my lord,” he said with a bow, and went off to fulfill his duty.
Worried as he was about Legolas encountering some mishap on his drunken journey through the palace, Thranduil was more concerned to learn if Legolas' attentions would grace Galion similarly when bereft of his initial fixation.
Far too soon, however, Galion returned. Thranduil raised an eyebrow.
“Am I to believe you threw the prince over your shoulder and sprinted to his chambers like a wild deer on the fly?”
Galion lowered his eyes. “I am sorry, my lord, but Prince Legolas refuses to move from the corridor.”
“Well move him then,” Thranduil said. “That is why I had you escort him.”
Galion shifted his feet. “He is crying, my lord.”
Thranduil's eyebrows knitted together in concern. He stood, and without a word needed Galion led him out the dinning hall doors.
Thranduil halted in mid-step at the sight that met him. Legolas knelt on the stone floor, a fist pressed against his forehead and sounds more suited to a wounded animal than a prince of elves pouring from his trembling form as he tried to hold back his obvious anguish. He began to rock himself, and the memory of Legolas as a child rose in his mind so vividly Thranduil's earlier concerns were expelled in the face of his son's anguish.
Thranduil dismissed Galion and approached his child.
“Legolas...” He knelt and gently pried Legolas' fist away from his face, and with his fingers swept damp hair away from his eyes. “What is the matter, my son?”
“Ada...” he breathed, then he gazed up at him. “Ada, help me.” The grief subsuming Legolas snatched the breath from Thranduil's lungs.
“What is the matter?” he repeated more urgently. “Please, tell me.”
Legolas stared at him, despair thickening in his eyes, as though no hope was left to him. Concern clutched at Thranduil's heart as though it intended to crush it. So consumed was he by his son's grief that Thranduil didn't register his movement until Legolas had leaned in far too close and pressed his lips against his own.
Thranduil was still for a heartbeat, his mind taking a moment too long to process the gesture. The urge to push Legolas away seized him, but he contained himself. Legolas was in a fey mood, and in his son's youth this kiss was likely more innocent than his more experienced mind interpreted it. But when Legolas' lips began to move against his, that conviction became harder to hold on to.
Thranduil gently pushed Legolas back. His son was breathing heavily, and Thranduil must ask.
“What is this, Legolas?”
Legolas lowered his head. He grabbed onto Thranduil's robe and pressed his face into it with a strangled whimper. “I want– you, Ada. I– want you.”
Thranduil's stomach lurched. His ears rang in time with his heartbeat. He ran his tongue along his dry lips – he must say something, such words could not be left to hang in the air – and tasted salt. The unremarkable flavor made his stomach roil.
Legolas' hands began pawing at the fabric of his robe. “I can please you,” he said, his voice bordering on hysteric. “I can show you how good it would be.”
His fingers found the ties to his trousers.
“Legolas, stop this!” Thranduil hissed. He grabbed Legolas' wrists and pushed him so far away that Legolas had to bend backward slightly. He stared at his son in shock, searching for any hint that may explain this behavior, but he found nothing but his son's remorse.
Thranduil stood abruptly and pulled Legolas none too gently up with him.
“Come,” he demanded through gritted teeth, and dragged Legolas along to the prince's chambers.
Once they were in the privacy of a locked room, Thranduil released Legolas and took a steadying breath. The room was a palette of shadows and feverish light. Only a single sconce next to the door was lit, but Thranduil had no desire for more light with which to witness his son's lasciviousness.
“Legolas,” Thranduil said, all his millenia of experience put to use as he retained his calm facade. “Why do you think you would desire such a thing as...that?”
“I don't know,” Legolas said in a small, lost voice. Then he cried out: “I don't know!” He fell to his hands and knees and bowed his head in what may have been grief or supplication. In between sobs Legolas said, “I simply... want you. I want– I want you so badly, I c-can hardly look at you anymore without–“
He mercifully stopped before he could finish that thought, but Thranduil understood nonetheless; the implication slipped through his mind, trailing greasy tendrils along his spine and settling in the pit of his stomach, soiling him with the knowledge of his son's lust. He could feel his gorge rising, but he swallowed hard to keep his disgust down.
Suddenly Legolas latched onto his robes, and he looked up at him from his knees. “My king. I am willing– to serve you, in any manner you desire. Please, make use of me.”
The sincerity Thranduil beheld in his eyes sickened him. He said nothing.
Legolas begged. The candlelight lit his son's tears like melting stars as they crawled down his face, and Thranduil found he couldn't bear to look at them for long. His heart pounded against his rib cage, but despite it's effort his face burned with hollow heat, devoid of blood. He swallowed thickly and closed his ears and eyes to Legolas, cursing the darkness that had claimed his home and now his only son. Despair rose within him like some writhing, clawed thing that threatened to choke him as it struggled for an outlet, but he fought to keep it at bay, to shove it deep along with all emotion that might be inclined to force itself upon him at the moment. He simply could not accept it. Detachment was a merciful silence, but beneath his skin thrummed a richer descant, a constant rhythm present for so long he could not remember what life had been like without it: the urge to protect his son.
“...if I could– just once– then perhaps–”
“Do as you wish,” Thranduil said dully, staring at nothing, unaware if he interrupted or if his son had already stopped speaking. He turned his face to the shadowed ceiling above and backed numbly into the wall; he would need it's support.
Legolas was silent for a moment, perhaps stunned by the freely offered consent. The silence grew, and Thranduil allowed a small sprout of hope to squirm it's way into his chest, before –
A small, fragile voice, caught between shame and sickening gratitude. “Thank you, sire.” Too drunk – or perhaps too indifferent – to interpret body language or tone of voice. Thranduil jerked convulsively as Legolas' hands immediately attacked his trousers once again, but Legolas was too preoccupied with his endeavor to take notice. His drunken fingers fumbled with the laces, but Thranduil made no effort to assist him; he clenched his hands into fists in an effort to still their trembling.
All too soon Legolas managed to get his trousers open. Thranduil recoiled from the sudden cool air against his intimate parts – to display himself so before his son, the person he helped create, was enough to bring bile scorching up his throat.
The warmth of Legolas' hand immediately dispelled the chill from the air, but Thranduil found himself longing for that more sterile touch as such vile heat and pressure moved across his length. Legolas stroked him, slowly, reverentially, but Thranduil remained limp in his hand.
Legolas ran his tongue up his length then and Thranduil shuddered in revulsion at the sensation, but that obscenity was was only a prelude. A softer, more pliant warmth replaced the hand, dredging up centuries old memories he thought long laid to rest. Soft, welcoming lips parted to the unfamiliar scrape of teeth, then a slight tug as Legolas pulled off. Suddenly, the head of his length was engulfed. He was surrounded by heat and moisture, velvet soft skin and just the slightest hint of pressure.
Thranduil's breathing was a ragged, shredded thing: fragments of his soul ripped from his body and thrown into the air like ghosts. It was far too familiar. Heat began to leech into his flesh, and despite his best efforts he could feel himself grow rigid in his son's mouth. With every shiver of arousal he was being dragged further down from his pedestal, and all his attempts to cling to it were exposed as pretension before his horrified eyes. How foolish he had been, to think he could remain unaffected while Legolas had his way with him.
Legolas began to move upon him in small motions that had Thranduil biting the inside of his mouth. The harder he became the lower Legolas sank, until his whole cock was shoved down his throat. The scorching heat of his son's body gripping him rent a cry from him, a desperate, wretched thing Thranduil could no easier hold within than spilling blood from a wound. Legolas moaned, wholly misinterpreting the cause of such a noise. The sound rattled unpleasantly (pleasurably) down his cock. Legolas swallowed a couple times, more likely a thing of reflex than skill, and Thranduil fought against (reveled in) the jolts that lanced through his body.
Legolas pulled off, sucking as he went as though loath to relinquish his prize, and Thranduil had to bite down on his tongue to keep from uttering some damning sound. Legolas swirled his tongue around his head and under his foreskin, exploring his father with not a thought to spare for the torment (ecstasy) he was inflicting, before sucking his cock back down his throat. He soon picked up something of a rhythm, and Thranduil couldn't quite keep his silence anymore.
The room had grown too hot. He couldn't get enough air. His hands itched to grab onto Legolas' head, to shove himself deeper within the burning chasm of his body, but he kept them resolutely stiff at his sides, fingers searching the stone wall for some crevice to anchor himself to.
Legolas' mouth popped off his cock. “Ada,” he whined.
Thranduil clenched his fists against the rough stone. Through gritted teeth he said, “I can't.”
“Ada,” Legolas begged. “Ada, please...” He pressed his face into his robes again, and Thranduil felt his son's hardness as it rubbed against his leg. Legolas moaned softly, uttering his name, and Thranduil's ears cringed at the sound. Legolas started moving against him in erratic thrusts, perverse sounds spilling from his lips again and again. Thranduil looked down at his son and instantly regretted it: his face was pressed into his abdomen, his hips rolling against him, and he looked so depraved in that moment Thranduil wondered if it was really his son that was rutting against his leg like a beast in heat. Legolas yanked on his robes and turned his face upward with such a debauched sound Thranduil's ears heated, and such a look of delirious pleasure that Thranduil had to look way.
He stared at the sconce burning low by the door, and forced his whole mind to focus on it. The rest of the world narrowed and diminished until it all fit within that flickering little flame. The stunted candle was all that existed; he was bodyless, unknowing, suspended in sweet emptiness.
Then Legolas screamed, and Thranduil was wrenched back to reality by his son's orgasm.
He had spent himself in his trousers, Thranduil noted dully. Legolas sagged, still hanging onto his robes, eyes shut and breathing hard. Thranduil quickly tucked his half hard cock back into his trousers, not bothering to wipe the saliva away, and re-positioned his clothing. Legolas was listing slightly to the side, and Thranduil watched him sink lower until he lost his grip and collapsed to the floor. His fingers curled into the hem of his robe. A tear slipped from beneath his dark lashes.
“'M sorry, ada...” Thranduil's heart grew impossibly heavier at his son's heartbroken words. As he watched, Legolas' breathing evened out, and he fell into the undeniable clutches of sleep with his eyes yet closed.
Thranduil stared at the ruin of his son for a long, unknowable amount of time. A decision was coalescing in his head with no assistance from him.
His mind empty, Thranduil gathered Legolas in his arms. He weighed more than he ought, was Thranduil's first coherent thought, but another thought quickly followed: his son was no longer a child, and he hadn't been for a very long time. He stumbled over that knowledge, but regained his stability and pushed his thoughts away for the time being; they were not helpful. He laid Legolas gently on the bed and stared blankly at him for a few moments. He turned and retrieved a wet cloth, and cleaned the mess Legolas made of himself, the first time he had deliberately touched his son that night. When he was finished, he placed the soiled cloth in the wash basin and pulled the blanket over him.
For a long while, Thranduil stood above Legolas, watching his son's peaceful face. With his eyes closed, he could almost be dead. Thranduil pushed the thought away. He placed a kiss on his forehead, brushed the hair off his face, and, before closing the door to his room, snuffed out the guttering candle.