Notes for this chapter and Additional Warning: A very sincere elvish spanking and a very conflicted Ranger. The hobbits and Boromir are thought of and mentioned, but they don’t appear in this chapter. It’s all Aragorn and Legolas.
He
was there in the shadow of a great boulder, sitting with such exquisite
stillness I did not notice him at first.
He was not smoking. Neither glow
of pipe cinders nor scent of leaf gave away his presence. Aragorn simply sat in the lonely dark,
looking out, denying himself even the small comfort of his pipe.
I
stood silently, watching him, feeling his private sorrow flow over me, mixing
with my own remorse for having waited so long.
I thought at first he had not seen me, but then, from the shadows, came
his low voice, his tone mild, even disinterested, the tone of a man
disconnected from all but the most necessary considerations, breathing, staying
alert, existing.
“What
do you want, Legolas?”
Cold. Distant.
Ah, my poor Estel. Moving from
the shadows, I crossed to a great flat stone closer to him where I sat down,
cross-legged, and said, “Frodo and Sam have returned.”
“Is
that what you came to tell me?”
I
ignored his abrupt question. “You need
to make more salve.”
As
I had hoped, that drew a weary grin from him.
“There are entirely too many spankings going on around here,” he said.
I
felt a thrill at his gentle remark, and I had to smile at the irony of his
words. “True,” I replied. “However, with four hobbits --”
“Ahh,
indeed.” He sighed. “At this rate I shall run out of supplies
long before we reach Lothlorien.”
“At
least Merry and Sam have managed to avoid anyone’s knee since leaving
Imladris.”
Aragorn
snorted. “We have a long way yet to
go. I feel they are biding their
time. Merry especially. Sam, however . . . .” Aragorn shook his head, gazing off
thoughfully. “Sam is not like the
others. He niether seeks attention nor
needs to be spanked for mischief. Merry
however . . . .” Aragorn sniffed a
grin.
I
grinned back. “Aye, his impishness runs
below the surface.”
“But
it is surely there. Several times I
have dealt with both he and his little cousin at the same time, for the same
mischief.”
Releasing
a soft chuckle, I said, “It is perhaps a matter of who leads who on, and who is
most likely to get caught.”
“Exactly,”
he chuckled himself. “Merry does get a
look in his eye though, and I know when he has been instigating something.”
“You
are right. We shall never reach ‘Lorien
‘ere you run out of supplies.”
“Ah,
well. Until then I shall have Sam keep
a lookout for more athelas.”
How
good it felt to talk quietly and lightly with him this way, how comforting and
familiar. But I had a purpose to
fulfill. After a moment of quiet, I
said, “Sam did well tonight.” He looked
at me silently, somber again. “He cared
for Frodo wonderfully.”
“He
always does.”
I
paused again, then said, “Forgive me, Estel.”
Aragorn
shot me a quick look of mild surprise.
“Forgive you for what?”
“For
having less sense and compassion than a sweet, gentle hobbit.”
He
sat up straighter, staring directly back at me. “You sound like Gandalf, speaking in riddles. What are you trying to say?”
“Frodo
and Sam were having a discussion earlier, and Sam became angry about something
Frodo said. He became so angry that he
started using a tone Frodo took exception to.
Sam was speaking to him as an equal, not as a servant.”
Aragorn
frowned. “Aye, but Legolas, surely you
know by now that the master-servant boundaries hold no sway over those
two. They are --”
“Aye. Like us.
They love each other beyond all constraints. So this was hard for them both.
Frodo became furious over Sam’s audacity, and our Ringbearer’s temper
gave way.”
Aragorn
nodded slowly, his gaze now a bit more discerning.
“Sam
was threatening Frodo’s formal position of authority, so Frodo struck back,
reminding Sam of his ‘place,’ demeaning him, and mistreating him as no good
master should.”
“Abusing
his power,” Aragorn murmured a sadness to his tone. “Ah, poor Frodo. And poor
Sam.”
I
paused, letting him think on this for a moment, then I said, “Aye, it was
awful, hearing the things Frodo said.
He clearly regretted saying them.
His eyes were full of both fury and remorse. Finally, he stormed off, ordering Sam to stay and think on his
behavior. Sam stood thinking for
several long moments before he followed Frodo, and you know the rest.”
Aragorn
nodded thoughtfully. Then he flashed me
a perceptive look. “And your point?”
“My
point is, Sam would not allow Frodo to suffer the guilt that would have surely
come to him following his ill-temper and abuse of power, nor would he allow
Frodo’s ill-treatment of him to go unanswered.
Sam had the wisdom and compassion to deal with his beloved Frodo at once
and spare him any suffering.”
“I
see.”
“And
so I ask your forgiveness, Estel, for having less wisdom and compassion than a
certain young gardener. I let you
suffer these past few days when I also should have taken care of the matter at
once.”
I
stood quickly. So did Aragorn. He was instantly alert, the warrior
challenged, understanding perfectly what I intended to do. We stood silently for a moment, gazing at
each other, each knowing the other too well for any surprises to lie before us.
“You
have misjudged me, sir,” he said.
Watching me with deceptive calm, he ambled away from the boulder to an
open area. Aye, cunning young
warrior. Do not block yourself in. “I appreciate your concern, but there is
nothing you need do here.”
I
remained silent, but a warm rush spread within me. Aragorn was adhering to our familiar ritual, our patterns
established long ago when he was a young adult. Yearning for redemption, he was more than willing to partake in
what he knew I had come to do. Within
the bold look he now fastened upon me lay a glimmering of genuine relief, and
an unspoken message, “thank you.”
Now,
on to our small ritual. Aragorn was a
man of reason, ever choosing council over force. He also stood no chance against what he knew I could unleash, so,
at present, reason was his only choice.
I
contemplated him. I need not move yet,
not yet. For now I would just
observe. I could have settled the
matter at once by forbidding the indulgence of this preliminary dance and
simply spanking him. How much simpler
that would have been to handle Aragorn as I had when he was a child!
But,
though elements of this remained the same between us, it was also more
complex. Aragorn’s adulthood needed to
be considered, and I was grateful that I figured out what to do, how to help
him all those years ago. I knew exactly
what Aragorn needed, and it began by holding to this course we had established
between us over time. He deserved
whatever measure of comfort our routine afforded him.
The
entire night lay before us. Plenty of
time. I was in no rush. And so I remained silent and watchful,
respecting his need, and finding him incredibly endearing in his vulnerable
state. Aragorn touched me in the
deepest way when he was like this, wringing from me an even deeper protectiveness
than usual. To be needed by him
resonated within my very core. Was
there anything better?
“I
have been troubled of late, it is true,” he went on. “I have perhaps been short with others. I handled Pippin badly today.
I know that. But allow that I am
dealing with what concerns me and my private thoughts and actions. So you need not trouble yourself on my
account.”
I
let him dig himself in deeper, and he did, prattling on about how he felt all
this was beginning to pass and how he had simply been adjusting to his new
responsibilities and other such pure nonsense.
No response was needed from me.
Indeed, what could I say to such ramblings? Aragorn himself did not believe most of what he was saying. He simply felt compelled to say something and there was really nothing he could say.
Suddenly
he quieted. He stood utterly still and
gazed at me, clearly understanding what was about to take place, knowing he
could do nothing to stop me, and yet still trying to fight off the inevitable.
“Legolas,
please. Say something.”
“What
would you have me say?”
“Anything. There is no need to resort to what I fear
you have in mind. Please, will you just
talk to me?”
I
sighed deeply. “We passed the time to
talk long ago, Ranger-child.”
He
flinched at the old name and flushed a little.
“No. It is never too late for
talk.”
“It
is. It was too late in the exact moment
when Boromir sided with me against you over that ridiculous soap and you lost
your temper with him,” I said.
“He
lost his temper with me first!”
I
fought back a laugh. Such a boyish
outcry. Aragorn flushed anew, plainly
noting his childish words. “Indeed he
did.” I tried to avoid sounding
indulgent, but I fear I failed.
“He
should not have interfered,” he grumbled.
“It was none of his concern.”
“True
enough. But that does not excuse the
fact that you did lose your temper, and you were in a position of power. And like Frodo today, you abused that power,
did you not?”
Another
little jab of humiliation. He felt it,
and he glared at me and pressed his lips together in a gesture of defiance,
still struggling to control the situation, refusing to believe that his fate
had already been decided.
“He
gave me no choice. He refused to let
the matter go.”
“There
is always a choice, but you gave up your power when you gave into your
temper. You knew that at once. You have anguished over it since. You know it now.”
“Aye,”
he muttered, his voice hollow. He
dropped his gaze. “True. I abused my power. I . . . I have suffered for it, Legolas.”
“I
know.”
He
glanced up, a stricken, beseeching look in his eyes. “Leave me to it, then.”
“Estel,”
I murmured tenderly. “I cannot.”
“Please. I shall deal with it as I must. I shall conquer it. I swear to you, I shall!”
“How?”
I asked. “By closing yourself in with
your darkness and letting it ravage you until there is little left of my
treasured Ranger-child? You forget,
young one, I know something of that self-imposed solitude. And you have never permitted me to remain
locked in that prison for long.”
“This
is different,” he insisted. “You close
yourself off in defiance. My purpose is
a noble one. When I have atoned
enough--”
“You
shall never atone enough, Estel. You
have always been too merciless with yourself. You are slipping further away
each day. I shall not allow this to
continue. Already I have tarried too
long.”
He
fumed at me for a moment, then, all at once, a hint of the boy within, small
and miserable and lost, flashed in his eyes.
He lowered his head again and shook it slightly, as if to clear it, his
mind plainly racing, forming a defense, any defense. Looking up again, he suddenly said, “I shall apologize to
Pippin. I shall make amends with him,
somehow get him to understand--”
“Pippin
does not need your apology, although you shall indeed make amends with
him. But his concern, the concern of
all right now, is for you and your anguish.
All that little one needs is Aragorn, the Ranger he knows and loves,
back amongst us. But you cannot find
that Ranger alone. You have tried,
valiantly, but it was too big a task for anyone. I stand accountable for adding to your burden by allowing you
time to fight this battle alone. I
lacked Sam’s simple wisdom, and I apologize again for what you have suffered
because of my folly, but it ends now.”
“Legolas,
please,” he said in a low, fervent voice.
“Do not do this. I-I ask you,
please. Do not.”
I
nodded at his sword and said, “Remove your weapon.”
He
clenched his fists and looked down again.
He was shaking. My poor
Estel! I ached for him, this man I
loved more than my life, this splendid and extraordinary man, defenseless
against the inner and outer forces he could not battle. And yet, I knew he was about to try. Knowing he would fail, he was still about to
try. I could not help admiring such
obstinacy. Very well. I provided him one last push.
“Come
now,” I said in a patronizing tone. “Do
not fight me, little boy. You are
always sorry afterwards.”
Aragorn
cornered was a dangerous creature, and yet I knew he would never hurt me, just
as I would never willingly hurt him when I made him fight to get me over his
knee. A curious madness infected me in
those times. Fighting made absolutely
no sense. But it held great
appeal. It truly was madness, and I
watched it infect my beloved now as he moved methodically, removing his cloak,
unbuckling his belt, and laying aside his sword. He cast me one furiously glittering look before lowering his gaze
and keeping it downcast, his focus sharpening on what he needed to do, his mind
and muscles tightening.
I
understood Aragorn’s physical need to fight me, and I usually tolerated it,
allowing him some release. But I would
not withstand much tonight. His inner
frenzy had grown too intense. He could
end up hurting himself, and I could not allow that, but I would permit him a
bit of useless effort before getting down to business. I sighed and approached him.
After
a few minutes of indulging his lunges and blows and kicks and his hurling me
about, I concluded that enough was enough.
I tackled him from behind, wrapped my arms around him, hauled him off
his feet and carried him over to the flat rock. His arms, locked under mine, were useless, but I had to move fast
and keep dodging his head as he tried to buck backwards and break free. A few of his kicks connected, but within
seconds I had seated myself and wrestled him over my lap. Clamping one leg over his, and holding his
hands locked at the small of his back, I pressed down, leaned over, and just
held him perfectly immobile.
This
never failed to make Aragorn quickly frantic, being so easily handled, feeling
this level of my strength, and knowing that it was far beyond what he
remembered it being, far beyond what he imagined it could be. Knowing of elvish strength was one thing;
feeling it directed towards him was another.
He could not fight it, and for a warrior of Aragorn’s prowess, such a
thing was staggering.
In
truth, Aragorn was no more of a challenge for me than a hobbit would have been
for him. His flailing limbs were
bothersome, until I had fastened him down, but there had never been any chance
he would break free. His chest now
rested upon the stone and he was draped over my knee, both his legs held down
by mine, his body stationary. He was
suffering a dose of humiliation. The
fact that I had, at no time, been the least bit winded added to his
embarrassment. And the position itself
was dreadful.
Now
we would wait. Now it began.
He
trembled beneath me, breathing rapidly, furiously. He tried to writhe, tried to explode with enough force to move
anything but his head, but each time he was thwarted, and he ended up gasping
and even more agitated. And each time
he tried and failed, I reprimanded him, purring small childlike admonishments:
“Enough
fussing now, sweetling . . . shhhh, hush now . . . you shall only exhaust
yourself further . . . settle down, little boy . . . no more naughtiness . . .
behave yourself.” And on and on, a
constant hum of words.
It
sometimes took hours. And I would wait,
holding Aragorn down like this until he finally ceased his struggles. Aside from his inhuman stubbornness, the
length of his resistance revealed the depth of his pain. But there was no other way to handle him.
Without
this first step I had found that I could spank Aragorn until I could no longer
bear to do it, fearing for his backside.
Aragorn’s will was too strong.
No amount of spanking would force him to yield. He would become silent and wait me out,
suffering the endless spanks, his resentment building, the amount of pain or
the duration of the spanking making no difference. I was not so heartless as to continue, and we had gone through
some frustrating times together when he had matured into a young man until I
had finally found what I needed to do for him.
Aragorn’s
surrender had to take place in his mind.
He had to feel his helplessness against the inevitable. And so here, with me holding him down,
murmuring to him, patiently letting him fight until he could fight no longer,
here he could reach the place wherein a spanking would affect him.
Aragorn
was unable to break free of his inner anguish.
He was frightened. He longed to
be rescued from his guilt. So he needed
a stronger, immovable force to overpower that tormentor, someone to make him
accept the absolution he deserved.
He
could not seek out that rescue, though, no more than I could have sought it out
that night in our Ranger camp so many years ago when I had wanted more from
him. I had needed Aragorn to be that
immovable force for me that night, to know what I required, because I could not
voice it myself.
Complex
creatures we all were, seeking what we desire in many ways and for many
reasons: Pippin had been unable to
control his urge to fling swords, even though he knew it was dangerous, so he
had flung to excess until meeting his immovable force in Boromir who had given
him quite an incentive for never doing so again.
Back
in Imladris, Boromir had felt a rivalry with me that compelled him to seek more
attention from the immovable force of Aragorn and to further test their new
relationship by shouting an insulting remark about me being Lord Elrond’s
messenger boy. That night, Aragorn had
soundly obliged Boromir’s need.
I
had felt hurt and betrayed when finding out that Aragorn was disciplining
Boromir. Fearing I had lost Aragorn’s
attention and been replaced in his affections, I had withdrawn and turned surly
until re-encountering that familiar immovable force of my Ranger who had yanked
me over his knee and reassured me that nothing between us had changed.
Frodo
had felt humiliated, believing himself inept as a swordsman. The feeling of unworthiness is an especially
deep pain, so Frodo hungered for a demonstration of how much others valued him,
a show that he was still worthy. He had
challenged Boromir’s authority and run off, endangering himself by going too
far, and therefore met two immovable forces in the form of both Boromir and
myself. To Frodo’s dismay, and
satisfaction, we willingly showed him just how worthy he was.
Tonight,
Frodo had again felt embarrassed and angered by my disapproval. He had felt somewhat less than worthy, so he
had sought out proof of his worth by inviting the retribution of Sam, who was,
undoubtedly, the greatest immovable force Frodo would ever encounter.
But
such was what Frodo had needed tonight, and he had instinctively sought it,
without mindfulness of his inner purpose.
His heart knew what he had needed, and his actions followed his heart. Frodo had needed to be shown his worth by
one who loved him beyond measure. It
was what any of us who sought out attention in this way needed, a perfect
immovable force, bigger than we were, stronger, unyielding, and with only our
best interests at heart, one who would make us accept what we ourselves could
not ask for.
And
now, I was Aragorn’s immovable force. I
had been remiss and I had waited too long, but I would no longer wait, nor give
him a choice. In truth, Aragorn had
already made his choice, and then made it known by his actions.
He
did not need me to step in often, not to this deep a degree, but when he did,
he needed me desperately. This was
exactly what had to happen, and the only method I had discovered that worked. It was the most crucial part for him,
breaking him down to where he could do nothing but accept what was and
surrender over my knee.
At
first he would try to end his captivity by reasoning with me, to no avail. Then he became enraged and he would try to
prick my anger by insulting me, flinging language at me that rivaled Boromir’s
tirade, also to no avail. Physical
struggle was useless. He could do
nothing to remove me. I would keep him
like this for days if need be, although, thankfully, it had never come to that.
Eventually,
he would begin to accept that there was nothing he could do. Nothing.
And that acceptance always began with a long period of silence, followed
by Aragorn beginning to softly weep, utterly conquered, utterly humbled, unable
to do anything but cry in frustration and face the fact that he was, indeed,
completely powerless. I would never let
him up. I would never go away. I would never tire. I would never lose patience. He would never outlast me. He could neither move, fight, talk, nor do
anything to make me stop holding him down.
He could only surrender.
He
always reached that place, and he did now, but we had been at this a long
time. Hearing Aragorn cry, even softly
as now, was always wrenching at first, but I listened, letting him release his
tears for a few minutes while I looked up at the stars. It had taken him nearly three hours. But so be it. Now when I began spanking him he would feel each spank, much as a
hobbit would, with his mind accepting that he was helpless to stop me from
doing it, his yielding to it complete.
I
released his hands, smoothed the hair away from his face and kissed the side of
his cheek, then whispered, “Good, little one.
Very good. And now we have
business to attend to my Ranger-child.”
Groggy
from the long battle, he did nothing but shudder in response. I moved him gently, releasing his legs, and
lifting him fully over my lap to settle him over my thighs. He groaned, the shift making his rigid
muscles whimper. He had only tried to
fight me once at this point, as I had only fought him once by punching him when
he had thought me subdued. I had never
tried again, and neither had he. My
response at the time had been to simply hold him down for another full
hour. I had felt it was simple justice
for that little betrayal of trust.
When
I had him bottom up and in the perfect position, I pushed his clothing away,
unfastened his breeches, and lowered them.
I knew what that first waft of air on a bared backside felt like, so I
understood Aragorn’s tensing of his bottom.
It was, however, a very fine bottom.
I
ran my fingers over his muscular cheeks, smoothing my palm over the skin,
listening to his weeping purrs, knowing it was a good weeping. This, too, was part of our ritual, a tender
interlude we both cherished. I loved
when he did this to me, even knowing what was coming next, and I loved doing it
to him.
“My
poor Estel,” I murmured. “Poor, weary
Ranger-child. So haunted. So alone.
But no more. No more of this,
little boy. Time for it all to stop.”
I
raised my hand and brought it down firmly.
He flinched and hissed. “Aye,
the first one is a shock,” I said.
I
never said much when I started out spanking Aragorn. I wanted him to feel his spanking at first without distractions,
concentrate on what was happening to him, where he was, what this felt
like. I honored him with my best
efforts, although he might have preferred a little less honor.
I
did not like the fact that the actual spanking was hurting him. I felt certain that no one who was spanking
another enjoyed their subject’s cries.
But I knew that, while the discomfort was something he could not ignore,
it was a secondary consideration to him, as it was to me when I was being
spanked, as indeed I suspected it was for all and any of us who had been
disciplined this way. Aye, it hurt, and
indeed it was meant to, for that was what made it something to be avoided. A sore bottom could serve as a deterrent,
making one think twice about foolhardy acts, but the soreness was transitory,
and, for one such as Aragorn, it did not even hold the power to sway.
But
a spanking served many purposes, and the physical pain itself was nothing
compared to the anguish of indifference, or dismissal. It could not compare to the pain of guilt,
or remorse, or the desolation of being alone with one’s inner torment, bereft
of comfort or care. Were I inflicting
those hurtful things upon Aragorn, I would indeed feel badly.
But
although I knew this spanking was physically hurting him, it was also healing
him. He felt cared for and loved. He felt noticed. He felt that he mattered.
And I could not feel badly for giving him that, even when he needed it
delivered in this way. I understood
it. The times I remember feeling the
greatest bliss and harmony were the times after Aragorn had spanked me, then
held me, and comforted me, and told me all was well now, and I was beloved of
him. There were no words, Westron,
Sindarin, or Quenya to describe it, and what a privilege I now had to give the
same to him.
He
was crying in earnest now, and ready to hear me, but I allowed myself just a
little more silence to feel that sweet flow of memory wash over me, the
familiar warmth that came from spanking Aragorn. When I had him like this, over my knee and under my hand, I felt
at peace. When he was like this, I
could keep him safe, controlled, subject to my care, submissive to me. How comforting a feeling that was. These were dangerous times and the world
Aragorn moved in was full of constant peril, and he was, compared to those of
my kind, so fragile, so heartbreakingly mortal.
But
here, reduced to this level, he was completely mine, safe, and under my
command. Even though his bottom was
glowing, and he was tensing and quivering with each spank, and his legs kept
stiffening involuntarily, Aragorn was in the safest of places.
Of
course the feeling was a fleeting luxury, as indeed it needed to be, for I
could never control Aragorn’s life, nor would I choose to. A cage of protection was yet a cage, killing
the cherished creature within. But here,
in this brief moment, I let that feeling tingle within me for one trembling
breath longer, and then I indulged it no further. I willingly released it, knowing that the very definition of
loving any creature, Aragorn especially, was first respecting their
freedom.
Aragorn’s
sobs had become more desperate, his splendid cheeks quite red and hot, and it
was time to stand up to the torments that had driven him to this state.
“I
am very proud of you, sweetling,” I said, still spanking steadily. “So well behaved.” I waited.
His
voice was low and hushed and becoming raw from crying, but he responded as he
had learned to do over time.
“T-thank-thank y-you.”
I
smiled softly. His ‘thank you’ said
much. It told me that we were, at last,
where we needed to be.
Aragorn
had to lose himself in this for it to help him. He had to be forced to this place by first feeling his
helplessness, then believe that there was no escaping it unless he yielded to
me. Aragorn was not thanking me for his
discipline, or for finally taking him in hand.
We were not there yet.
Aragorn
was simply being courteous. I
complimented him; he replied by politely saying ‘thank you.’ He knew our routine, and he was obeying our
established mode of ritualized speech.
I would say certain things, or ask certain questions, and he would
answer in the same basic way he always had and was expected to again. It was, essentially, all he was capable of
at the moment, and from his responses I learned many things: his degree of submission, how he was doing,
where he was, and if he was still feeling safe inside.
When
Aragorn felt safe, he released himself into my arms, unquestioningly obedient,
and we could move on to more difficult matters. So this little ritual was reassuring to us both. I knew that he felt safe, and Aragorn, who
was now chaotic inside, had something solid and sturdy to latch on to. He recognized the exchange and knew how to
respond, which was comforting, and he also felt that he was being ‘good’ when
he answered correctly.
“You
are welcome, lirnir dithen,” I said
tenderly. There was no condescension in
my voice, no attempt to deride him by calling him ‘little Ranger’ in
Sindarin. There was just love. Aragorn could hear that now and know that he
had no choice but to accept it. He knew
his part in the talk we were about to have, and he seemed more than ready to
begin.
***********
I
always wished I could go numb, but I never had. No relief. Just feeling,
soreness, stinging, burning, so much of it, vast waves of it, washing over my
backside.
I
wanted to be good. I wanted to lie
still, answer him, behave. Listen for
his words, remember my answers, be good.
But the spanking . . . so much . . . it just . . . just . . . it hurt!
It
was awful. So huge and awful. His spanking ripped through me. Every part of me. It curled into my stomach, down my legs, up my back, melting my
muscles. My arms quivered, shook, as
they always did at this point . . . hard to keep bracing myself up on my
elbows, and I finally collapsed, lying flat, tremors vibrating through me. And Legolas kept spanking me. And I lay and shed tears, my face wet,
strands of hair clinging to my cheeks, covering my eyes. I just wept, because that was all Legolas
allowed, all I could do.
Time
stopped. Was this what it was like for
others? Did time stand still for
them? When I spanked them, was it like
this? No. This had to be something bigger, something elvish. Some unfair elvish advantage in spanking,
like their advantage of elvish strength.
I did not do this to others. I
could not. Not like this. Well . . . at least not to the little
ones.
I
ground my teeth and clenched my fists and it was still awful, still going on,
still happening. Legolas was still
there, still spanking, each moment blending into the next swat. I wanted to slither out of my skin, escape
somehow, anyhow. I wriggled my bottom
as if trying to slide away, escape the next swat, unable to stop squirming, my
legs jerking of their own accord.
But,
peculiar though it was, I was safe. I
was. This was Legolas. My Legolas.
He would never hurt me. His
spanking hurt, oh how it hurt, but my Legolas would never damage me. He knew me.
He was watching . . . my beloved would never let anything happen to
me. He listened. He paid close attention to me. So I was safe, everlastingly safe over my
beloved’s knee. But oh, plague of a
tireless elf!
Did
he think it did not hurt? Should I cry
out louder, or more? Yell like
Pippin? No, Legolas could not want
that. Loudness never seemed to mattered
to him. Besides, I chose not to do
that. I may be in a very bad position
here, but I yet had a shred of pride.
And
of course he knew how it hurt. He had
been spanked often enough to know. I
may not have some unfair elvish strength when paddling him, but I served him
well nonetheless. Oh, yes, he knew how
it hurt. Each swat burned . . . more
and more . . . growing . . . every cracking, searing swat. I longed to reach back and cover my bottom,
or struggle free, or make him stop.
Oh,
I could writhe and wriggle, kick a little, as I was now. He let me, but not much, only so much as
suited him, and it never helped.
Nothing helped . . . no escape. . . just more spanks and more and more,
and . . . and the soreness slicing into me, stealing my breath. No reaching back, either. That he would not allow. He spanked faster if I tried covering my
scorched bottom, so no, nonono reaching back.
No let up. Just spank after
white-hot spank. And all I could do was
cry and hope he stopped soon. He had to
stop soon!
I
would try to leave, go away in my head, stop feeling his spanks, squeeze my
eyes shut and fill my mind with pictures, thoughts. If I could not make him stop, I would leave. And so I did. I was no longer here.
This was not happening. No, no,
no, I was not here. Think Estel,
think. Recite something in Quenya. Aye, fill my mind, close off to feeling.
And
yet, he knew when I closed my mind to him.
He knew. Everlasting, irksome
elf. Legolas never said so, but I swear
he always knew. He never spanked
harder, or went faster, just the same steady, awful, moving, piercing
swats. But he would start talking,
demanding my response, making me stay with him . . . so I had to be here, be
good, listen and answer; there were answers I had to give.
“Now
that you are behaving so well, what are we going to do next, Lirnir-hên nin?” Legolas asked.
Lirnir-hên nin. My Ranger-child. But I was
not a child! I was a grown-up! No, an . . . an adult. Yes, an adult. I was a grown-up, adult Ranger.
But
I knew all my answers, and Legolas was waiting, and he would not stop spanking,
so I had to respond, just like always, like I had learned to do every time,
ever since Legolas had first begun this with me. And my answers helped somehow.
It felt good to answer right.
My
bottom hurt so much, and I was so tired, so very tired, and Legolas, he just
never got tired, this relentless elf, this always strong, always awake, always
spanking, always talking, always patient, always watching, always listening,
always endlessly there elf. And right now, I suppose, I was indeed his
Ranger-child. I always was, always had
been. And right now there was nothing I
could do to stop him. I could only
answer as he was expecting me to, and so I did because . . . because it did
feel good to answer right.
“W-We
are g-going to-to tal-talk now.”
“Very
good, little boy. And why must we have
a talk now?”
I
was often tempted to give the wrong answer here, just to make him angry and
just to show that I did not care if he got angry and just because there were
plenty of smart answers to this question; ‘Because
you say we have to have a talk now . . . Because you are bored and want to have
a conversation . . . Because you have been spanking me for so long you have
forgotten why you started . . . ” and a few others I had tried in the past
and been very sorry I did. I found that
I cared a great deal if he got angry.
But
Legolas never really got angry
angry. He never lost his temper with me
at any time. But he seemed to come
inside of me and take charge. Legolas
got . . . bigger when he did
this. He became a very big, very
powerful elf. He was unbelievably
strong. Like now, with his endless
spanking arm never stopping . . . paddling down so sharply and with perfect
elvish aim.
I
could not gall him, and though it would have seemed unwise to want to do that
when I was in this position, I often did indeed want to gall him. Still, I could not, because it seemed that
Legolas grew more patience the minute he locked me over his knee. I would never been able to outlast him. His arm never tired. His will never faltered. And he would not stop spanking me. And it seemed very unfair.
So
if I misbehaved with what he called ‘inappropriate impertinence,’ he became . .
. he became almost sad, and sometimes a little amused and sad. But not so sad that he forgave my
sauciness. He would paddle harder for a
few swats, and when he asked his question again, I would always be happy to
respond as he wished. One time he had
said: “Your answers tell me much. I then know how far we have yet to go.” I was in no shape right now to go any
farther, or to give him any answer
other than what he expected. I wanted
to answer right, show him I knew how to answer right. It felt good to answer right.
“B-Because
w-we need to underst-stand each other.”
“How
wise of you, Estel. It is very
important that we understand each other right now, is it not?”
“Aye!” Oh please, Legolas, please.
“Tell
me then. Why are you being spanked?”
Another
perfect opening for ‘inappropriate impertinence.’ But, again, I had no wish right now to make this last
longer. Sometimes, though, as his
questions got harder, I got the answers wrong, not because I was trying to be
bad, but because I was often so confused at this point, my thinking slow, and I
could not find the right reply. But
Legolas would know when I was lost, and he always helped me. I thought I had the right answer now,
though.
“Because
I-I put soap in your mouth, and-and in Boromir-mir’s mouth?”
I
heard only the sound his spanks and my constant ragged crying and low
explosions of breath with each blow.
Not the right answer. He was
letting me think.
“Take
your time, my sweet Ranger-child,” he said with soft patience. “Remember what happened that day. Think back on what you felt.”
Oh! Yes!
“I lost m-my tem-temper.”
“Better. Very good, little one!”
His
approval flowed over me, warm and comforting, building something stronger
within, coaxing back a little of myself.
I wanted more.
“I-I
am be-being sp-sp--” The words kept
catching in my throat, but he would not stop; I had to get them out. “--b-being spanked because I-I lost my
temp-per.”
“Yes,
indeed. Very good, Estel! How wise you are. You did indeed lose your temper,” he said, his voice
soothing. “There is more, though. What happened next, sweetling?”
He
was slowing his spanks now, letting me think, and it helped. He was in no way finished with me, but this
slowing helped. I could think better,
remember more, and concentrate, the throbbing heat in my bottom sharpening my
focus to a finer point. And now, with
my mind clearing, it was even harder, not because I did not know the answers,
but because I did.
“I
abused my-my power. I-I got angry.”
“Ah. So you did.”
“I
was t-too rough. I was so mad . . . I
s-should not have done that . . . it was w-wrong of m-me . . . .”
I
buried my face in my arms and began crying to myself, remembering everything
too well now, too clearly, how out of control I had been, Boromir’s shocked
expression, my anger exploding beyond my ability to stop it, and Legolas, so
calm and understanding, far more so than I deserved . . . .
And
now the rest came flowing in too, the concerned looks of the others flashing in
my mind, my withdrawal over the past few days, turning away from kind words and
choosing to isolate myself . . . and my treatment of Pippin earlier! Oh, Pip!
Oh poor little hobbit!
I
knew very well what I had done to him today, how I should have disciplined him
at once, after his first infraction.
Legolas would have likely been saved the need of being lowered over the
cliff if I had. After that I had caught
a glimpse of Pippin’s shattered expression, seen the questioning amazement, in
his eyes. Yet, I had walked away! I had wounded him, ignoring every screaming
urge within me to go back and deal with him, be the Strider he knew, the man
they all knew. A horrible sensation
bubbled and rose within me like a thick, oozing blackness. How could I have done such a hurtful thing
to the little one, left him like that?
How?
I
had done it because I had selfishly wanted to feel worse, wanted to invite more
darkness. Ever since that wretched soap
incident, my world had closed in more and more, grown bleaker and lonelier, and
I had slipped further away from any kind of feeling, anything that would touch
me and maybe let some of that old Aragorn back in.
And
now I wanted to just lie there forever, let Legolas spank me forever. But in the next instant my breath caught in
my throat because . . . because he had stopped! Legolas had stopped. I was alone with this, no hand cracking
across my hot skin, no comforting next swat, painful and deserved, and I was
too weary to explode into rebellious action.
I just lay there, quietly crying, my backside burning and a fresh, raw
fire scorching my insides. I heard him
calling.
“Estel.”
I
opened my eyes a slit.
“Estel.”
“Aye?”
“You
know I shall not continue if you leave.
Stay with me, beloved.”
“Le-Leg’las,”
I grated, barely able to whisper, hardly able to draw a clear breath. “Leg’las, please . . . please . . . hurts .
. . hurts to think . . . .”
“I
know,” he said, his voice full of compassion.
“It hurts to remember. But we
must, lest these orc-ish thoughts continue to poison you. I shall not leave my cherished love to
suffer those orcs any longer. So let us
face them together. You are not alone,
Estel. I am here. And you know you cannot hide from me. I shall not allow it. So come now, my brave little Ranger, and we
shall take them on as we ever have. Are
you with me?”
I
raised my head and nodded once.
“Ah,
that’s it. Good. Such courage! Very good. You are not
permitted to slip away like that, are you?”
“No.”
He
waited.
“F-Forgive
me.”
“Of
course, sweetling brat. Where were we?”
I
cried out as his hand swatted down again.
Amazing how a brief interlude made the next spank so much worse. He continued, and I struggled now to focus,
do what had to be done, what I could no longer avoid, what Legolas would not
let me avoid.
“I
got a-angry,” I said, forcing my voice to steady through my gasps and cries,
forcing my breath to regulate and my mind to clear, not an easy task when my
behind was blazing, but the challenge of it struck a determined note within me. “I got angry and I-I took that an-anger out
on you, and on B-Boromir. I abused my
p-power.”
“Like
Frodo did tonight.”
I
paused to think for a moment . . . something Frodo had said flashing through my
head, his wide eyes gazing up at me . . . “We
are alike, you and I.”
“Estel.”
I
winced under an especially hard spank.
“OW! Aye! L-Like Frodo!”
“Frodo
became angry with Sam because he hates Sam’s interfering and because his
servant was being a nuisance.”
“No!” I blinked, knowing what Legolas was doing,
yet falling right into step with him regardless. “No.”
“Ah,
then perhaps he became angry because Sam challenged his authority.”
“N-No. I mean, yes . . . yes, b-but that cannot be
. . . that does not feel like the only reason.” I thought more deeply.
“He got angry be-because . . . I don’t know why he got angry.”
Legolas
paused again and rested his hand on my throbbing behind. I would have been grateful for the break,
but I knew he would soon start again and it would be most unpleasant.
“Ah,
indeed. I did not tell you a part of
this story,” he said. “Frodo came to me
with an idea, and I soundly refused him, because it was foolish and dangerous,
and I --”
“What
idea?” I interrupted, instantly alarmed.
Frodo and a dangerous idea? A
very hard swat made me yelp and remember my manners. “OW! Sorry! S-Sorry.”
“You
shall not interrupt me again, little boy.
It does not matter what his idea was.
I am betraying his confidence enough in simply telling you he had it. I thwarted his scheme at once, and he did
not like that. He was embarrassed and
angry, but he had to accept it. Then,
for some reason surpassing understanding, Frodo confessed the matter to Sam.”
I
sucked a sharp breath. “But . . . .”
“Aye?”
“Leg’las
. . . Frodo . . . F-Frodo would know what would h-happen if he told S-Sam. Would he not?”
“Indeed. I feel certain Frodo did know, my clever
Estel.” I heard the smile in his
voice. “Sam reacted as you would
expect, as I feel Frodo hoped he would.
So our Ringbearer was once again, in a sense, running into those woods,
was he not? Asking Sam to follow him
and deal with him?”
“Aye.” I focused straight ahead, thoughts firing
quickly, and Legolas was saying those thoughts just as I was thinking them, as
if reading them in my mind:
“But
Frodo could never directly ask this of Sam.
He would never ask for help or discipline, especially when he felt so
confused and cross and out of control.”
A
small sob escaped me. “N-No.”
“No. But why, sweetling? Why did Frodo feel he needed attention at
all? Why did he run into those woods as
he had before? What made him tell Sam
this when he knew how Sam was likely to react?”
He
resumed his swats, and I cried out again, surprised, and certainly dismayed,
but this was our procedure, so I knew to expect it. Now, however, I also focused on what Legolas had said. Frodo had run from Boromir’s relentless
training session out of defiance and embarrassment and frustration. All of those things had hit him again with
this thwarted scheme of his, plus the power of the Ring which was no doubt
affecting him. It all made sense. I saw it clearly. I did not wait to be asked, knowing Legolas was expecting an
answer as soon as I had it, and knowing that he would follow my meaning, so out
it all spilled in a mess of jumbled images and thoughts.
“Frodo
was angry because he was f-frustrated in his scheme. He-He was told something he did not want to hear, just as Boromir
kept telling him to practice, and he-he was embarrassed because he could not
fight well, and he was afraid Sam thought less of him for his foolish scheme,
and he was already smarting because he felt you thought less of him, as he
thought everyone else thought less of him because he could not fight well, even
though they did not think less of him, as I am sure you did not.”
“No,
I did not think less of him, little one,” Legolas said, chuckling softly. “But, like another I know, our Frodo is
stubborn, so I had to clearly state how foolhardy his idea was. I also told him that would not be sitting
comfortably if he pressed the matter further.
So what happened to Frodo when Sam reacted with his expected anger and
concern and bluster?”
I
did not answer. I stared off ahead of
me, seeing nothing, a thunderbolt of understanding crashing into me. I barely felt the spanks raining down
harder, barely heard Legolas call my name several times, and then finally I
shuddered and choked out an answer, now crying again.
“F-Frodo
lost control of his temper, because he-he felt hurt and embarrassed and be-betrayed.”
Legolas
slowed and lightened his spanks and murmured, “Why did he feel betrayed,
beloved?”
“Be-Because
he thought that S-Sam agreed with y-you and not with him. He did not like that.”
“True,
I am sure he did not like that.”
“H-He
thought Sam was showing disloyalty.”
“Was
Sam showing disloyalty?”
“N-No!”
“Did
Sam think less of him, sweetling?”
“No!”
“What
did Sam and I really think? What did we
both show Frodo by opposing him?”
“You-You
both love him! You showed your l-love
by-by—saying no.”
“Do
you think Frodo really and truly thought Sam was being disloyal, deep in his
heart?”
“Noooo.”
Legolas
kept spanking steadily and I held on to that physical anchor, squeezing my
fists tightly, feeling his never-ending application of attention and care, his
tireless devotion. He let me lay
weeping and taking his spanking, and then he finally slowed again and I heard
his soft voice:
“Estel,
was Boromir showing disloyalty by opposing you and defending me?” I could do nothing but shake my head, but he
accepted it.
“Were
you embarrassed by his protests?”
“Aye.”
“Frustrated?”
I
nodded, unable to speak.
“Why,
little boy?”
A
few choking sobs burst out before I could answer. “B-Because he was r-right.”
“He
was right? Then you should have let it
all go, what you had told me I had coming to me, and what you had said that you
intended to do?”
I
hesitated, confused. “I-I . . . no, no,
I h-had to-to--”
“You
had to follow through, did you not?”
I
nodded.
“So,
was Boromir right?”
So
hard to think this through. “He-He was
wrong to-to interfere.”
“Aye,
he was. I told him so, and he agreed
and regretted his actions, Estel.”
I
opened my sore eyes, listening, remembering how Boromir and Legolas had both
tried to talk to me that night, when I would not listen.
“But
you felt hurt by his words, and frustrated, and embarrassed. You really did not like having to use that
soap, but you had said you would, and you felt you had to do it. And to have Boromir opposing you so
aggressively, this man who adored you, your ‘little fledgling,’ it must have
felt dreadful, sweetling, as dreadful as Frodo felt when his loyal Sam
challenged him, siding with me.”
“AYE!”
“Your
temper grew. Fast. Almost out of control, was it not, little
one? Frightening. And it was not making sense.”
“AYE!”