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Slash and Yaoi Fiction
Title: Still Time
Author: Juxian Tang
E-mail: juxiantang@hotmail.com
Site: http://juxian.slashcity.net/
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Pairing: Thranduil/Legolas, very slight Legolas/Aragorn
Rating: R
Warning: incest
Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Contrelamontre water challenge. Written in 45 minutes. For Ecchipiro who asked me for the certain pairing and pointed me at this pic


His father's beauty is timeless. What is time for the one who has eternity at his disposal - for the one who is unchanged as millenniums go by? Water flows unceasingly but stays the same. A moment drips into moment as his father reaches to his face and brushes a strand of hair away from it.

"Come here, my child."

The hand cups his chin, bringing his face closer - to these eyes that reflect shadowy green of trees and moss and running jets of forest springs; to these lips that seem to be cut out of pale stone but are so soft by touch.

"Come to me, prince of Mirkwood."

It has always been like that. He remembers nothing else and, thus, nothing else has ever been, could be. Time is immense, the concept of it impossible to grasp. And every day is so similar to another that they slide together, indivisible like drops in a stream of water.

He doesn't know how time flows, a blink of his eyes sometimes the same as passing centuries. And where there is no past or future, no change or death, what is right or wrong here? There is the whole universe in the touch of his father's hand. The palm cradles his cheek - and he gives in to it, habitually, to the things that has always been and always will be.

His father. His father with the face of shattering beauty - looking no day older than him. His lover.

It should be like that, shouldn't it? He doesn't know any different.

His father is eternal. And he himself is just a little less than eternal. But there is nothing equal between them. He knows where his place is. Here, spreading his legs for his father, arching towards the touch of the cool fingers. He doesn't know any other life. Any other life does not exist.

His father touches him - just in the right way honed by thousands of years. Just in the right places - the places that make his body arch helplessly and shiver. It goes on and on, until he thinks his mind will snap - and his father's body pushes into his, strong hands wrap around his waist, mouth burning hot covering his nipples.

He rests in his father's arms after that, listening to the sounds of trees, and murmur of water, and soft jingle of mithril adornments.

His father is metal and water, unyielding and flowing, and there is nothing that would be denied him.

Sometimes he is allowed to go away; but he always comes back, and nothing changes here. Skin slides over skin in a timeless dance of closeness, of giving in, of belonging. For years. For centuries. Sometimes he thinks he doesn't know whether he dreams it all. Maybe he sleeps through his life, under the sound of running water, sleeps with his eyes opened. Sleeps even as his hands pull the bowstring and send an arrow to kill. Sleeps even as his body writhes in orgasm under his father's caress. He sleeps, and eternity goes by, reflecting in his father's fathomless eyes.

His body is trained by years and years to respond to the slightest touch, even as his mind wanders somewhere else. Somewhere else where the water doesn't sing but roar, where faces are not of ultimate perfection, where every day is a step closer to death and nothing is steady and knowable.

His father's eyes are mirrors where he sees his own face, untainted by time. He doesn't ask if it should be like this. It just is. He sleeps in his father's arms, in an immaculate prison of them.

And nothing changes.

He wakes up with a jolt - wakes up to a dark-haired man who is nothing but a child before his infinity but the memory of past generations burns behind his stubborn brow. There is nothing flowing about this man but everything harsh and fast like a slashing blade - except for his name that is like gentlest whisper and means so much.


Something in him starts aching, in the way he hasn't known before. An invisible thread connects him to the man, embroidered into his very heart. Calling back for him even when they are apart.

His father's hand touches him, raises his chin, serene eyes looking at him.

"There is smell of the outer world on your clothes, son. So, shed them."

Nothing changes. He slips to the bed where he belongs - and moments become days become years become eternity.

For the first time he is afraid.

His father's palm strokes his chest, pale eyes looking down at him, with no curiosity. He licks his lips that still feel the taste of his father's mouth and says:

"I love another."

Streams of water turn into ice in the beautiful eyes. The hand is gone, a cold place in its stead.

"Then leave."

Singing waters and jingling mithril. He listens to these sounds, his traveling cloak wrapped around him. His eyes are hot and prickling. He raises his head, blinking tears back under his eyelashes.

When his eyes are dry again, he shakes his head and walks away. And time comes alive.


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