Chapter 40

"ENOUGH!"

In an instant Thranduil was on his feet, his sons hand caught and held in a vice like grip with one of his own as he pulled it from his chest, ripping the silk fabric in his ferocity. The single word he had shouted reverberated around the room, tearing everyone from the almost trancelike state they had been held in by the unbelievable scene and as one they moved towards the dais, but Legolas was faster than them all.

"Hold!" The prince commanded as with one movement he had turned the king's grip against him, pulling the taller elf into his arms whilst a slender dagger had appeared in his left hand and now lay, glinting against the side of Thranduil's neck. "Drop your weapons."

All movement within the room ceased, all eyes were turned to the tableau in front of the great throne.

"Do as he says." Thranduil's voice was quiet and calm, as if he were merely passing the time of day and bows, knives and swords were all reluctantly placed on the floor under Legolas' watchful gaze.

"Good." Duathion smiled in satisfaction, darkened eyes raking the company. "It is good that you see reason."

The tension within the room became almost palpable and Aragorn felt he could hardly breathe as he looked at the pair before the throne, willing the scene to disappear, praying that it was all just a horrible nightmare that he would soon wake from. How could this be the happy, carefree, loving elf he had known for so much of his life, whom he had followed round Imladris as a child, intrigued by the strange, wild, elf his brothers called friend. The one who had taught him to climb the trees, higher and faster than any other human would dare, who had gifted him with his first bow and taught him to use it, the one who had shared adventures and stood at his back so many times as they had fought, their bond of friendship having become so strong that each was prepared to lay down their own life for the other. This was not that elf. He shook his head and stared. No, this was not that elf. Legolas had gone, he knew not where and this stranger was left in his place. As he watched Thranduil's left fingers flexed slightly, once, twice, then the tell-tale glint of metal showed as a slender blade gradually slid down the palm before his hand curled around a hidden hilt and Aragorn's heart almost stopped. 'Please', he found himself begging to the Valar, 'please let the real Legolas return before it is too late'.

Duathion felt his blood begin to sing as he watched the small group lay their arms down before him and his grip on the knife momentarily tightened as his breath hitched. To hold such power in his hand was a heady feeling. His body thrilled at the thought and he pressed himself closer to the muscular form held in his grip, feeling its tension and warmth. This was even better than his master had said it would be. He sighed, then purred out softly.

"There is no need for us to fight."

Without thought his hips flexed slightly, causing a tingle of heat to run down his spine from the friction.

"We can stay safe here, within these walls." His voice became soft and silky as he continued. "What care we of those outside, let them have their battles, their wars. Let them fight and kill and die for nothing."

He resisted the urge to slowly roll his hips forwards again, craving the sensation yet remembering the reason he was here. There would be plenty of time for enjoyment once his master arrived.

"We will endure."

"For what, Legolas?" Thranduil's cool voice broke into his son's silken words. "What good will endurance do if the world without fails?"

Duathion suddenly found his arms empty as the king bent, twisted and spun away in one elegant movement and he marveled at the power within the tall figure now holding a long, slender knife in one outstretched hand before him.

"What good will it do for us to fail with it." He spat back as he jumped up onto the throne, drawing his own long knife from its scabbard. "And that name died long ago, when you forsook me, Adar."

Jumping from the throne, up and backwards to place it between him and the oncoming group of elves who had leapt for their own weapons as soon as the king was free, his eyes scanned the area, automatically calculating his plan of attack.

"I will not allow the darkness to invade our home. Ion nin" Thranduil stalked closer, his eyes fixed intently upon those of his son. "If we stand together…"

"The darkness is already here, Oropherion." Duathion found himself pinned by the king's gaze. "It has been closing in for years." He backed up, feeling the cool stone of the wall behind him as he saw the small group of wood elves close in behind Thranduil.

"Hold!"

Thranduil's command rang out a second too late and his face blanched as he watched Legolas twist, barely avoiding the arrow that had sped towards him from somewhere at the back of the room.

"Hold!" He called again as the clatter of wood upon stone told the tale of a miss and the bolt bounced off the wall to land at his own feet.

The momentary silence that followed was loud enough to waken the dead then Thranduil took a deep breath and deliberately turned his back on his son, trusting to his own instincts to let him know of any untoward movement Legolas may make.

"Lay down your arms!" He addressed the group now closely ranged about him. "And leave us. Now!"

Hesitantly the elves began to move backwards towards the door, lowering their bows and knives yet reluctant to release them completely, even if this was their kings wish. At the back of the hall Aragorn watched with his heart in his mouth. It had been Elrohir's arrow that had come so close to ending the situation and although he had not aimed to kill, the picture of his brother firing upon his closest friend would be one that would haunt him for a very long time.

"Galion." Thranduil's voice rang out again. "See that the doors are secured behind them, no one is to enter or leave until I give the order." His eyes bored into the butler demanding obeisance before he added firmly, "Whatever happens."

Galion withheld his gaze for a moment and Aragorn thought he was about to protest before he saw the elf give a slight nod, his shoulders slumping in defeat as he turned to follow the loath silvans. A large wooden bar that the young man had never noticed before was fixed vertically beside the portal and as the last of the patrol finally exited Galion now swung this down into place with a loud clunk. There followed the rattle of a key ring and the scrape of metal upon metal as the bar was padlocked in position. The air within the room suddenly seemed to close in and thicken as a sense of dread settled over them all. Aragorn clutched the hilt of the sword he still held between calloused fingers harder and wondered how on Arda this nightmare was going to end.

It had taken all of Thranduil's iron nerve to turn his back on what he still thought of as his son, what he hoped was still his son but it had to be done. There was only one way he could see to get them all out of this and he was determined to see it through to whatever end. After watching Galion seal the only publicly known entrance to the throne room he allowed himself a moment to breathe, resolutely refusing to allow his eyes to wander to the floor seeking reassurance from the carving on the steps of the dais, in particular the whirl of leaves marking the pressure point to the secret passageway only he and one other now knew existed. He prayed now that this other had lost its memory along with the others his captivity seemed to have purged from his mind. If Legolas remembered the bolt hole, designed and built long ago for his families use should the fortress ever be invaded, all would well and truly be lost. Majestic and strong, Thranduil pulled himself up to his fullest height and turned back to face his son.

The pair stood facing each other without moving for what seemed like an eternity in the now silent room, all eyes fixed upon them in dreadful anticipation. It was Thranduil who moved first, taking a small step towards his son he extended his right hand in an unspoken gesture for amity, wishing with all his heart that Legolas would place his own within its tender grip but to no avail. For a few moments the young elf remained motionless, his face set with a mocking smile, then slowly his own hand raised and the long knife in its grip began to twirl between pale, slender fingers. Thranduil sighed inwardly, he had known deep within that it would not work but he had had to try. There would be no easy way out. He kept his eyes upon his sons face, ignoring the now whirling blade, a good warrior did not watch the weapon, it would be the eyes of an opponent which gave the tell-tale signs needed to understand which way they would move.

Duathion felt the familiar surge of energy and life that rushed throughout his body at the beginning of battle and drew on it with relish. The knife became an extension of his arm and as it spun, almost of its own accord, he felt his blood begin to sing in his veins. The time for talk was over. He would claim this kingdom in blood and in this way send a message to all its inhabitants. They would either bow to his rule or follow this arrogant, cold, creature they called king to their graves. The knife stilled and he raised it vertically before his face in salute before settling himself into a battle ready stance, one foot before the other, his weight distributed evenly, his knife held out before him in his right hand, his left arm stretched behind him in counterbalance. He cocked his head slightly, raising an eyebrow in silent challenge and waited to see how the king would respond.

It seemed the very room held its breath. All was still and silent, the onlookers transfixed by the pair upon the dais as if held in place by some dark spell. Tension built as father and son each waited for the other to make the first move, then just when the atmosphere had grown almost painfully unnerving it began.

It was the younger elf that made the first move, lunging forwards with a slight shift of weight from back to front foot, testing the reflexes of his opponent. As expected, the clumsy move was easily avoided by the simple expedient of the king leaning to the right, his blade remaining loosely held at his left side. There followed a few more such moves, the younger elf trying out various novice forms of attack, the older turning and twisting his body languidly, allowing the others blade to just slip past but without raising his own at all. A smile licked at the corner of Legolas' lips, the king's face remained perfectly impassive. They stilled, each weighing up the other, waiting for several heartbeats until suddenly, with the ring of metal upon metal each brought their long knife to bear upon the other and the fight began in earnest.

Aragorn had often watched elves spar during his years growing up in Imladris and had always enjoyed the spectacle. The grace and speed with which they flowed from one form to the next, twisting, turning and leaping had always had him mesmerized, especially when it was two warriors of exceptional skill and ability like his brothers, or Glorfindel and Master Elrond and part of him found the present match no less agreeable to survey now. Having fought alongside Legolas he had witnessed his speed and agility on many occasion but he had never before seen Thranduil wield a weapon and as much as his heart quailed to see father and son in such a position he could not help but marvel at the king's prowess. Legolas was the slighter, faster, more aggressive of the pair, constantly twisting and turning, trying to find a way past his father's defenses, almost showy in the way he flourished his blade whereas the king kept his movements to a minimum, with languid flicks of his long knife and sidesteps that pulled his son off balance, making him seem to move almost in slow motion as Legolas danced around him.

They fought on, moving up and down the dais until finally settling on the stone floor with Galion shouting to give them room to move as the pace picked up and the clash of metal upon metal came faster and faster. Even if any had dared oppose the kings will and attempt to come between them they would have found it almost impossible to tell which was which in the whirling tornado of fury they had become.

Duathion had never felt so alive and so exquisitely aroused. His whole body tingled and with each thrust, each parry, his pleasure grew. Finally, here was a worthy opponent. One that would make the fight last, drawing out the thrill, bringing him to new heights of bliss. So good as for it to almost be a shame that he would have to kill him in the end. He felt a surge of desire shoot through him as the sharp edge of the king's blade kissed his left forearm, leaving the sting of a scarlet ribbon in its wake and his breath caught for a moment. Oh yes. It felt so good. He laughed, twisted and thrust his blade out once more, delighting in the feel of flesh separating as it drew its own line in the pale, taught skin across his opponent's abdomen then leaped away, avoiding the retaliatory swing, before bringing his own blade to bear once more. As the speed of their battle increased the tension within his body grew, and he began to throb with need. It became an exquisite torture as nerve endings became overly sensitive and every movement brought forth a pulse of blissful agony. He fought on, longing to prolong the pleasure yet crying out to find release. He knew he could not hold out much longer. His breath was coming in ragged pants now and as he licked overly dry lips he saw his chance and struck at the neck so invitingly exposed in a move calculated to end the fight both within and without. It was not meant to be. From out of nowhere his blade was met by another and as he stood in confusion and thwarted need his eyes were caught and held by a pair of such intense depth that he could not wrest them free and suddenly he was falling into a void and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

A/N

So here we finally have the coming together of King and Prince. I think you all knew it was going to come to this. Not that it is over yet of course...

I hope the changing perspectives were not too confusing.

I would dearly love to know how you all feel it is going, or indeed how it will end (Although that bit is already written). I do appreciate constructive criticism.

This chapters shout out goes to Obsidianglasses. I'm glad that you at least are still here Mellon. :)