Another’s Guilt

Another’s Guilt by Númenora



Pairing: Aragorn/Legolas



Rating: PG this chapter



Summary: See chapter one.



Disclaimers: I am NOT Tolkien. All known characters are his and the names of most or all OCs are Tolkien’s as well.



Warnings: Remember, this is slash. A very AU Aragorn/Legolas Mpreg fiction. Major angst; un-betaed, all mistakes are mine o’ mine. Please read chapter one for full warnings.



A/N: This chapter is all about fleshing out minor characters and introducing characters who have only been mentioned so far: Namely the fathers Kings Arathorn and Thranduil and Aragorn’s stepmother Gilraen. We will be visiting Rivendell and Lothlórien again with an appearance of Erestor with Arwen; more will be learned about Haldir’s and Oropher’s friendship; and we will catch up with Faramir, Éomer and Boromir.



In chapter 5, I equated Númenórean age with what Tolkien once wrote about Elves (that Elves and Men develop physically at the same rate until maturity, but then Elven bodies slow down and stop aging physically (which contradicted what he had previously written in Laws and Customs). This does not work for me. My elves age differently. As Lord Marach stated to Aragorn, it takes full elves longer to age than mortals. Remember that Legolas at 700 is equal in age to a 16 or 17-yr-old mortal. This will explain Oropher’s ages mentioned this chapter.



I am introducing another original character (who is modeled after an OC in another one of my stories called *The Haunting*) and Gandalf will make a brief appearance, too. Now for the timeline of the happenings: The evening is approximately the same time as the one that Aragorn and Legolas spent at the White Falls in Rohan; the morning and afternoon hours coincide with A & L’s first day in Meduseld. No Aragorn and Legolas (sorry, ya’ll) although they will be the spoken of by almost all the folks in this chapter.



*Italics* denote thoughts and stressed words





Chapter 12



“Extenuations”







Minas Tirith



Light from the flames in the fireplace played across a long, thick, heavy strand of ebony hair, highlighting its bluish tints. Arathorn always marveled its softness, the scent of its original owner still clinging to it.



“How I miss you; how I still love you so very much. Twenty-one years and it still hurts.” The King buried his face in his hands, the tresses soaking up silent tears from cheerless blue-green eyes.



“Weeping over your Imladrian whore again, are you, husband?” Gilraen’s pretty face, marred by the bitterness and sorrow that were her constant companions, held no sympathy for the man she married.



“What do you want, woman? I’ve no desire to trade barbs or to argue with you this eve.” Arathorn’s tone was even and low, but the censure was clear.



That was the way it was between them; the way it had always been—at least since Aragorn was a small child. In his personal pain of lost love and feelings of betrayal, he failed to notice Gilraen’s sorrow and her hatred and resentment of his only son. It was only after Finduilas died, that he began to realize—Gilraen refusing to care for Aragorn. Even this knowledge did not allow him to blame her; that is, until a 7-year old Aragorn came to him and asked him who his mother was. The young boy told him that his stepmother said that he was part elf and that his true mother had not wanted him; it was after this, that his conflicts with her grew. First, it was heated arguments and open hostility (his resentment at having to marry her coming to the fore); but later, after King Arador died making him King and after Aragorn grew up, their interaction was reduced to Gilraen trying to punish him with her words and resentment and Arathorn ignoring her for the most part. Any guilt and compassion he felt for his not loving her dissolved when she took their discord and failed marriage and involved Aragorn in it—blaming the child for his (Arathorn’s) sins.



“Oh, please, Your Majesty—*forgive* me for intruding on your most private wallowing,” Gilraen mock sarcastically.



“You forget yourself, woman! I am still your King; and Queen or no, you are subject to my rule and not exempt from being tried for treason.”



She wore a derisive smile—pleased that she was able to elicit some emotion from him, not always being successful in this. “I do not fear retribution, Arathorn; and, I doubt that you will give me a forum to remind everyone that I am the wronged party in this.”



“The only true party wronged in this is Aragorn. No one will feel sympathy for you because of your ill treatment of my son!” Wiping a hand across his forehead, a headache forming, the King tried to calm himself. “Was there a reason you decided to grace me with your company?”



The coldness in his stare signaled Gilraen that his patience was gone; he would tolerate nothing more from her and she would get nothing more from him. “Since you made yourself unavailable this day, your Steward has had to handle the Affairs of State in your absence.”



“That is his duty as Steward—what of it?”



“He is not King. If you were ill or away from the city, there would be no concern; but, you are neither and your subjects worry. It has not been so very long since King Arador passed from Arda, his grief over your sister so very great. Your people draw parallels between you and he and Denethor cannot allay their fears. You should give up this yearly bout of self-pity over the loss of your great love affair with your Elven wh…” She broke off what she had planned to say, raising a hand in concession, not wanting to stray from her point for coming to see him.



“You have a Kingdom to look after, Your Majesty—people who need you. Let go of the past and give them your full attention.”



“I give to my people and I serve Gondor quite well; so if I need a day or two out of the year for me, that is my affair. Denethor and my Council of Advisors and ministers are very capable of seeing that Gondor does not perish in my absence. Your concern is duly noted. Now, leave me—I wish to be alone.” His tone was dismissive and it brooked no arguments, especially from Gilraen.



“As you wish, *Lord*.” Her words and curtsey were ironic and slightly mocking; however, he either did not notice or he simply had already dismissed her from his thoughts—the latter more likely.



As she left his sitting room, her façade slipped and the old hurt nearly overwhelmed Gilraen; but years of practice kept her from showing it to the guards outside of the King’s quarters and others that crossed her path.



Back inside, Arathorn allowed himself to grieve once more the loss of the only person he ever loved, the ebony lock of hair clutched to his breast as memories of the past besieged him. “This is all I have of you. No—that is not true; I have Aragorn. I wish you could know him. Perhaps, one day…”



~*~*~



Rivendell



Arwen stood in the courtyard near the gate, a faraway look upon her face. *Not* so very far away: A city of white stone with the beautiful spawn of Nimloth (the great White Tree of Númenor) standing guard before the citadel. She played there once as a child in a beautiful garden. Did Aragorn play there as gaily years ago? Did he find comfort—the comfort that comes only from home and love? Does he still?



“Could you have found those here among us?” Arwen asked of one who could not hear her.



“My lady?” Erestor’s beautiful dark eyes showed concern at the pain reflected on her pretty face. “Are you well, Lady Arwen?”



“I shall be—someday,” she answered with a bit of irony. “Please do not worry, my lord. I will be fine when I get to Lothlórien.”



“I am pleased that you changed your mind about going there. Your brothers should be there by now, having left days before your father left for Greenwood. Perhaps when the child is found, the celebration will go forward.”



“Child?” Her pale face lost all color of a sudden and she swayed, Erestor catching her before she could fall.



“Prince Legolas, my lady. Come, sit down here.” He led her to a stone bench, taking her cold hands into his warm ones. “What is it? Perchance I can help you.”



“Can you change the past, my lord? It has come back with a vengeance to haunt me.”



“You speak of the Gondoran Prince, Aragorn.”



“Legolas may be in his company; and Adar…” Her voice broke.



“Lord Elrond has agreed to act as liaison between Greenwood and Gondor—yes, I know. Your adar told me what has transpired,” he said sympathetically.



“My past sin demands a reckoning that I would escape if I could.”



“That is not wholly true, my lady. You could have gone to Valinor with your naneth, but you stayed here. That shows much courage.”



“You are kind to say so, but the truth is, I am not courageous at all. I did not accompany my mother because of Daernana Galadriel. She cannot go there and she made me promise to remain here. I also hoped to get Adar’s forgiveness for what I did. I have failed.”



“He may yet.” Erestor said hopefully for her sake, but without much conviction. .



“I do not believe so.” Arwen was defeated, tears flowing freely.



“Would you prefer to leave tomorrow? We can delay our departure for a few days.”



“No, my lord. Let us leave as planned; I could use my Daernaneth’s counsel for what is to come.” Her smiled was watery, tears still flowing.



Feeling steadier, she mounted her mare and the party of elves left the Last Homely House for the Golden Wood. Arwen had not been back there since Aragorn was sent away, so she felt some trepidation. However, she was determined to go; and, perhaps there will be chance for her to make amends somehow. Only time will tell.



~*~*~



Outpost 40



“Éomer, put me down,” Faramir tried to sound stern, but the unrepentant, charming smile gracing the 3rd Marshal’s handsome face made Faramir want to smile as well.



“I shall when we reach our destination and not a moment before!” Holding Faramir closely up in his arms (ever mindful of his injury), Éomer began whistling a jaunty tune as he made his way through the corridor that had led him to (and now away from) Faramir’s quarters. A few twists and turns later, Faramir became restless and a tiny bit perturbed.



“Éomer—this is not necessary,” he said through clinched teeth as the whistling grew louder.



A few rangers and Riders of Rohan smiled as the pair passed, especially the soldiers from Rohan. They were used to seeing such displays between members of the Princes Band, but they never tired of witnessing it.



“How much longer, Lord Marshal? I *am* capable of walking, you know?”



“You are not—at least not without help. You are still mending after all, dear Steward-prince.” The whistling resumed.



“I swear, between you and Boromir, I am liable to forget how to walk on my own altogether.” He tried frowning, but Éomer’s wink made him laugh. “Can you at least tell me if we are close?”



“Just through yonder door.” Faramir knew that that particular one led to a courtyard outside; this one had been turned into a garden (being at peace for many, many years), while the other one was still used to train would-be rangers and soldiers.



Once through the large door, and down a few steps, the beautiful garden came into full view, making the lovely red-haired diplomat gasp. Besides the well-tended grounds that was a marvel in so stark a place, there was a covered pavilion newly constructed, draped by gauzy white cloth; a comfortable chair (made for lounging) with fluffy pillows was flanked by a low table and a bench. Fruit, bread and cheese along with a flagon of sweet wine sat atop the table beside a vase of fragrant flowers from the many flowering bushes nearby.



“What is all of this?” Faramir said in delight.



“Lord Marach said that you can have something more substantial than soup and porridge. It is simple enough fare for you to digest while being a delight for your poor deprived palate.” Éomer explained.



“That explains the food, but what of the rest? This is marvelous! I do not know what to say.” Faramir shook his head in wonder.



“Well, you have rarely been out of doors since we arrived here, so I thought you would enjoy this. Lord Marach and Boromir approve—do you, dear Faramir? Do you like it?” Éomer was suddenly shy.



“Like it? I love this, Éomer, truly. Thank you, my lord.” Faramir’s radiant and happy face told Éomer all he needed to know.



“Then let us have at the food and wine—I’m starving!” The Rohirric Prince bounded up the two steps into the pavilion as if Faramir weighed nothing at all; he then sat the young Gondoran gently onto the fluffy pillows, placing a light blanket over his knees, before sitting down upon the bench across from Faramir.



“I think that the blanket is a bit much,” Faramir decided, lifting it up and off his legs. “It is late spring, nearly summer for Elbereth’s sake.”



Éomer retrieved it, placing it back again. “Boromir insisted that I keep you warm and comfortable, otherwise, he would not allow me to do any of this. I do not relish dealing with an irate big brother—especially yours!”



Faramir laughed, relenting. He knew his brother, and Éomer was very wise as Boromir was worse than a mother warg where his ‘Little One’ was concerned. “Very well, my friend, very well.”



The 3rd Marshal of the Riddermark passed Faramir a plate with grapes and strawberries. “If the grape seeds are too taxing, I shall have this apple peeled and sliced momentarily. Of course, there are plenty strawberries as well as bread and cheese. Take small bites of the cheese—better yet, forgo the cheese as it may—”



“Are you Boromir in disguise, perchance?” Faramir chuckled, interrupting Éomer’s stream of sentences, much like his sister Éowyn was wont to do.



“I am sorry—you inspire my overprotective nature. Boromir and I have that in common where you are concern.” Éomer became nervous, as this was as close as he had ever come to telling Faramir of his feelings. Covering quickly, he said, “Besides, Éowyn would kill me if I did not take good care of you for her.”



Faramir’s smile faltered before disappearing altogether. Seeing this, Éomer asked, “What is wrong, Fara—are you ill? I have rushed you too soon, overexerting you. Forgive me, please!”



“I am not overexerted, Éomer. I am fine, really; do not concern yourself.” Faramir grew quiet, nibbling a berry, but not tasting it.



“Then I have insulted you in some way; please tell me how to make amends.” Getting up, Éomer moved to kneel beside his secret love. Taking one of the Gondoran’s hands, he peered up into the beloved face. “Please talk to me?”



“Is that the purpose of all this and the care you’ve taken these past days?” He inquired, looking down at the half-nibbled fruit.



“The purpose? I do not understand.” Éomer was truly perplexed.



“I thought that your attentiveness was because you care for me.” Extraordinary violet eyes stared into concerned hazel ones. “But it was all on behalf of another. Big brothers!” The last was said in an attempt at a jest, but failed.



“Faramir...”



“It is alright, Éomer—I should not have read more into your behavior other than what was always there. We are as comrades—nothing more.” Pulling his hand away, Faramir tried to stand up. “I think perhaps it *was* too soon for any of this. I would like to go back inside now.”



Neither of them noticed Boromir beyond the garden, having come out to check on his brother. However, that changed when he saw Faramir’s unhappy face. “Little One—what is wrong?” The elder Steward-prince hurried to Faramir’s side.



“Boromir,” Faramir was relieved to see his brother. “I am not well—please take me back to my room.”



Giving Éomer accusatory stare, green eyes promised retribution. “What did you do to him?”



“Éomer has done nothing, Boromir. I am...just tired.” Boromir checked for fever; Faramir was not warm, but his face was flushed and he seemed near tears.



Cupping his brother’s forlorn face in his large hands, Boromir kissed his younger brother gently on the lips, pulling him into a comforting hug; then with little effort, he swept Faramir up into his arms, carrying him back into the outpost, leaving Éomer to follow helplessly in their wake. When they had reached Faramir’s chambers, Boromir gently removed his brother’s boots and loosened his tunic; removing it, he helped Faramir under the covers, tucking him in, much as he has done over the years.



Éomer stood mutely just inside the door looking on, hating himself for upsetting Faramir. He now realized why Faramir became upset. Éomer never knew for sure how the young diplomat felt; whether he cared for Éomer or his sweet young sister. There was very little doubt now and he wanted to speak to Faramir as soon as they were alone. However, from the look of Boromir, that would not happen this day.



Pulling him outside, Boromir told Éomer, “I do not know what you said to Faramir (I will ask him later); but, I warn you—I will not have him hurt by you. I love you as a brother, but Faramir is my blood and the one I love most. He has seen too much pain in his young life and you will not add to that.”



“I did not mean to hurt him; in my nervousness, I misspoke, upsetting him. May I sit by his side to guard his rest? I promise not to disturb Faramir.”



“Why should I?” Boromir folded his arms across his broad chest, waiting.



“Because, I love him.” It was simply said, but heartfelt.



“Then, do you not think you should tell *him*?” Boromir appeared more relaxed, but he did not intend to let down his guard where Faramir was concerned.



“I do and I shall. *May* I sit with him? Please let me, my lord.”



“Very well; but if he asks you to leave, you will—understand?”



Nodding in the affirmative, Éomer was ushered in. When he sat down, they saw that Faramir had fallen asleep. Therefore, Éomer waited, watching over Faramir and Boromir waited, watching him; Éomer barely noticed. His life had just become complicated where Éowyn was concerned, but he was jubilant knowing that Faramir would soon know of Éomer‘s love for him.



~*~*~



Greenwood the Great



“May I help you, Aran-nín? Is there anything I can get for you?” A concerned servant asked of King Thranduil. She was the latest one, others having come before to no avail.



“Can you bring me my son?” He spared her a brief look (not unkind) before turning back towards the graves of his loved ones; his spouses Edrahil and Eärwen and his father Oropher.



“There is food and wine just there should you want them.” She paused before speaking again. “We worry, Your Majesty—you have not eaten this day or the day before.”



“I appreciate your concern and the others’ concern as well; I am not hungry. Please, go back and tell them that I am fine. I wish to be alone with my family.” His voice sounded as strong and as sure as ever, but the set of his shoulders and his posture bespoke of his sorrow.



The elleth did as she was bid, walking over to the other servants at the edge of the garden where King Thranduil’s beloved family rested. A shake of her dark head confirmed their fears. They had thought that the news that Prince Legolas yet lived would mean their King would once again be himself; this did not happen, however. His Little Leaf was among the Edain. The King’s hatred and distrust of these mortals went back centuries, having suffered much at their hands.



“I truly need your counsel, Edrahil my love. You were there for me when I lost Adar. And, dearest Eärwen, you saved me when my beloved Edrahil was taken from me by Men; our child is missing and I can feel his sadness. He is so much like you; you would be so very proud. Father, what am I to do? I want to march to Gondor and raise Minas Tirith to the ground to find my Legolas! However, I must be patient, Elrond tells me; so does my friend Celeborn. War is not the answer. I suppose this is a wise course, but I want my Little Leaf back here in my arms where he belongs and not out there among—*them*!



“When you are back with me, Greenleaf, I shall never allow you out of my sight again. Stay safe, ion-nín; I will get you back—I swear it!” The ancient elf (who looked not much older than his eldest son) felt better, his conviction strong.



Saying goodbye for now to his loved ones, King Thranduil returned to his palace to prepare for the coming of the Imladrian delegation.



~*~*~



The Golden Wood, Caras Galadon





“There you are, Penneth. I stopped by the talon to share morning meal with you; however, Arminas knew not where you were this morning. How fare you?” Haldir inquired of Oropher Thranduilion.



The golden elf stood in a clearing near a small stream. He turned at the sound of the Marchwarden’s voice. Instead of the optimism from the previous night after speaking with the Lord and Lady, the Greenwood Prince’s handsome face was once again showing worry and despair.



“Haldir—I am sorry I was not there to greet you. I could not rest, so I came here, hoping the lovely sounds of the stream, the creatures and the flora would ease my thoughts, helping to lull me into reverie. Instead, I have been here thinking of Legolas and Adar, wondering how they are faring. I spent part of the night making sure that ‘Minas was settled; and, now I am nearly depleted with nothing left to give—especially to myself. I have tried to be strong for ‘Minas and our people, but...” An anguished cry escaped before he could stop it.



Haldir had Oropher within his embrace before the other realized. The elder of Thranduil’s sons tried to pull away at first—the Heir of Greenwood should embody strength above all else. However, he was so tired of trying and gave into his sorrow, allowing his dear friend to comfort him.



“There is no one here save the two of us; no one to look after at the moment. Let me be for you what you have been for your sibling and everyone else.” The handsome Silvan elf held on tightly, but with great care as one would something precious.



“Thank you, Meldir-nín. I cannot express to you how very grateful I have been to have you with us—with me—these past weeks. Over the years, I have treasured our friendship, looking forward your wonderful letters; awaiting your visits with great anticipation.” Oropher brightened briefly to tease Haldir. “Your visits have been too infrequent of late—I may have to ask Lord Celeborn to lecture you about your inconstancy and neglect. He and Adar are kinsmen, you know—we Sindar are quite loyal.”



“No lectures from Lord Celeborn, I beg you! If I promise to do better, will you forgive me?” Haldir’s heart was cheered to hear the younger elf jest, his voice light-hearted for the moment.



“I will consider it, provided you give me a treat; or better yet—a present. I have not received many of those as of late, either.” Oropher’s head was still on Haldir’s shoulder, his breath ghosting warmly across the Marchwarden’s throat, the scent of vanilla encircling them as Haldir caressed the Prince’s soft hair.



Haldir adored Oropher and had from the first moment they met nine hundred-fifty years before. The handsome Silvan had accompanied Lord Celeborn, the Lady Galadriel, and their ward, the beautiful Lady Eärwen, to Greenwood the Great the first of spring that year. Haldir was 1200 years old then (nearly the same age as Oropher’s current age of 1300). Oropher had only been 350 years old.



When their party arrived in the courtyard of the Palace, the young Prince was standing behind the King, peeking from around the right sleeve of Thranduil’s grand robe. Were he mortal, he would have been a child of 8 years; a beautiful elfling with emerald-green eyes. The newly appointed warden assigned to protect Lady Eärwen in Eryn Galen was instantly enchanted by the shy Princeling.



As the months passed, Eärwen grew closer to King Thranduil and Oropher, spending much time with them. This meant that Haldir was spending nearly as much time in their presence as well, guarding his charge and getting to know Oropher who became quite fond of Haldir at the same time. When the time came for the party from Lothlórien to return home before winter arrived, there was great sadness to go around. Oropher cried to see them go and though he did not show it, Haldir knew in his heart that King Thranduil was unhappy to say goodbye to the lovely Eärwen.



The next spring saw the Royals from Greenwood the Great arriving in Caras Galadon. Visits between both realms became yearly events for the next ten years until finally, Thranduil asked Eärwen to become his Queen; she accepted and they wedded the following year in Eryn Galen. It was a marvelous event attended by elves throughout Middle-earth, including Círdan the great shipwright and Lord of Mithlond.



Haldir remained in Greenwood as Queen Eärwen’s personal guard for many years until just after Legolas was born. Oropher looked up to Haldir and Haldir was very fond of him, teaching him archery and swordplay. Understandably, the young adolescent Princeling developed a tremendous infatuation for the elder elf. At the age of 600 years, Oropher along with his parents and the elfling Arminas welcomed Legolas. The birth marked the end of Haldir’s stay in Greenwood.



On a visit to see the newest Prince, Lady Galadriel asked Haldir to return to Lothlórien to become the lead Marchwarden. He was honored and excited by the prospect; however, when he informed the Queen of Galadriel’s proposal, the devastation on Oropher’s beautiful young face nearly made him decline. It was only after Haldir promised to write to him often and to visit, as his duties would permit, that Oropher calmed, giving Haldir leave to officially accept the position.



The two friends wrote letters to the other; and Haldir would send gifts as well to Oropher. Then, every few years, Haldir kept his word and visited Greenwood the Great, spending most of his time with the young Heir-apparent; Oropher came to Lothlórien with his mother as well, accompanying the Marchwarden on some of his patrols. However, in later years as Oropher grew up, becoming a great warrior and protector of his Homeland, Haldir’s and the Prince’s visits grew fewer and fewer. The letters and their friendship, however, continued and suffered no lessening over the 950 years of their acquaintance.



That beautiful relationship allowed Oropher to defer to Haldir, letting the troubled Prince accept his comfort. “I will shower you with treats and gifts—as many as you desire, Dearest One.”



“You shall be sorry you said that, Meldir- nín—take it back before it is too late.” Oropher’s hands unconsciously stroked Haldir’s strong back, holding onto him as if he feared the Silvan would vanish.



“Nay, Pen-vuil—I will not. I plan to spoil you until I see you smiling again.” Haldir reluctantly pulled back enough to look into emerald-green eyes, a pale hand caressing a soft, rose-tinged cheek. “I shall see you happy once more, even if it means that *I* personally ride into Minas Tirith to bring our Greenleaf back to us.”



The Sinda laughed at the grand proclamation. “I believe that you would.” Then more seriously, “As much as it would make me happy to have Legolas here with me, I will not risk losing you to those mortals, too. Adar and Lord Elrond will find a way to bring him home.” It was Oropher’s turn to touch Haldir’s face, both hands cupping it lovingly. “But, if you were to go to Gondor, I would go with you to keep my eyes upon you.”



Haldir caught his breath, the look in the Prince’s beautiful eyes catching him off his guard. “Oropher, what are you saying? I mean—never mind, Penneth. Never mind.” The lead warden stepped further back, taking Oropher’s hands into his own, squeezing them briefly before letting go.



Oropher watched the play of emotions on the Silvan’s handsome face. “I am sorry, Haldir. I have distressed you; I did not mean it. I would die before deliberately doing so.”



“You have done noting for which you need be sorry. I took your jesting seriously. I had forgotten your delightful sense of humor.”



“T’was not all in jest, ‘Dir. Those humans are treacherous and I would not see you in peril. My family has lost too many loved-ones to lose you, too. You mean the world to me.”



“Thank you, Oro’—I am fond of you as well.”



“T’is more than fondness—do you not know that?”



“More? I think, perhaps, we should not speak further. Come, let us break our fast; then you should rest.” Haldir took one of the Prince’s hands intending to lead him back to his and Arminas’ talon; but the young Sindarin Prince’s next declaration brought him to a halt.



“I love you, ‘Dir, with all my heart. I have forever, it seems. I should have spoken of it before, but it never seemed the best time. Per...perhaps, I feared what you would say; that our friendship would suffer. However, being separated from Little Leaf and fearing the worse has shown me that I cannot afford to leave my feelings unspoken to those I care for.



“I have been beside myself with worry and anger for allowing Legolas out of my sight; for not telling him how much I love him. I have not told him nearly enough over the years. That is why I am telling you how much I love you and not just as my friend. I would spend my life with you—here in Arda and in Valinor.”



The love shining forth from Oropher threatened to overwhelm Haldir. He never dared hope that this beautiful elf cared for him more than one friend would another. This just could not be. Haldir had to put a halt to this situation.



“You are distraught and do not know what you are saying, Oro.’ This troubled time with which we are dealing has your emotions running free. I will not hold you to any of this. Come, Penneth; we will join ‘Minas for morning meal,” Haldir said somewhat desperately.



“If you do not feel the same for me, Haldir—I understand. Just, please do not belittle my affections for you. I will not speak of it again if that is what you wish. Just know that I am sincere.” Oropher turned away, posture and mood once again as when Haldir found him.



“I could never belittle you, Oropher. I adore you and have done from the very first. You were a delightful elfling and you have grown into a remarkable ellon. You merit someone better than I. I am too old for you and much too common; I am not of noble birth.



“My mother was a simple elf-maid and although my father was a great warrior and warden here, he had no grand title bestow upon me or my muindeir. Your life’s mate will be noble—a Lord or Prince, Lady or Princess. You must see this.”



“There are none better than you, Haldir! Nobility comes in many forms. No grand Lord, Lady, Prince or Princess could replace you in my affections!” This was the first time Oropher ever raised his voice in anger to Haldir and he felt like shaking the elder elf.



Then he calmed, deciding on a different course. First, they would bring Legolas home whole and hale. Then, afterwards, he would show Haldir how much he was loved. Oropher had always been able to get what he wanted—even as an elfling. He was never manipulative or deceitful about it; just very determined. Now he was very determined to have Haldir. Being immortal was an advantage after all; and if it took an eternity, Oropher knew that he would succeed.



Haldir’s blue eyes narrowed as Oropher’s disposition changed. *This cannot be good*, he thought. The Prince was stubborn and he could be very strong-minded; this is what made him a great warrior. These traits (which he inherited from his adar) are, also, what will help make him an excellent King someday.



“Forgive me, Haldir. I *am* quite hungry and very tired as you say. I am ready to break my fast—will you join me?” He smiled charmingly as he took Haldir’s hand. “Thank you for coming to find me; I feel much better.”



“I am glad, Dear One. We will look in on Arminas and have some food. Then you will rest, Your Highness.” The Marchwarden followed Oropher a bit uneasily, not liking or trusting the sweet smile Oropher wore.



The last time he wore such a smile, he had charmed Haldir into helping him convince his parents he was old enough to have his first taste of Miruvóre. Well, Haldir could be just as strong-willed as his young friend. *Well, Oro’—I will not be so easily charmed this time. You will marry someone closer to your station and I will see to it that you find happiness with him or her for this is what I want most*. At least that is what he told himself. This should have put his mind at ease, but it did not; and he was unsure just why—refusing to look any closer.



~*~*~



Minas Tirith



(The following day...)



King Arathorn signed the petition Lord Denethor brought for him to approve, placing it on the stack of other parchments that had needed his attention. He had been mulling over the documents for most of the day. The work was tedious, but it kept his mind occupied and off of ghosts of the past. If only they were ghosts, then he could move on. The memories were all too real and alive in his mind and heart. He allowed himself a moment to remember before he went back to his task.



A knock at the door interrupted his concentration. “Yes?”



He did not look up as his clerk entered, bringing him some tea on a tray with bread, meat and cheese. The young scholar often repeated this ritual whenever Gondor’s ruler entrenched himself in his office, missing lunch.



“Food, Sire.” The young scholar set the tray down on a wide, low table in the office’s sitting area near the fireplace. It was late spring, but rooms in the Citadel were often chilled, even during midday; so Belthil stoked the logs, making them blaze alive, warming the place more.



“Please take it away, my lord—I am not hungry,” Arathorn II told his clerk.



“It seems we have this discussion much too often, Your Majesty. Would you prefer tea or some wine?”



“I would prefer that you do as I ask. If you entertained that notion just once, you will realize that we need not repeat ourselves in useless discussions.” The King had not once lifted up his dark head, his handsome face frowning, trying in vain to make sense of the invoice before him while trying in vain to make his assistant do as he was told. While the first task was obtainable, the other was doom to failure.



“That is true, Sire; however, you would go hungry and your mood would sour and the White City would run in fear.” Belthil’s voice was dire in tone and his lovely face showed mock gravity.



Looking up finally, the dúnadan ruler narrowed his eyes. “You are this close to getting a hand across your backside!” He held up a hand, his thumb and forefinger measuring out barely and inch between them.



“Promise?” Amber-colored eyes twinkled impishly.



“Not now, young man—I have work to finish.” Arathorn smiled in spite of himself at Belthil. Then just as quickly, his smile vanished. His fondness for the beautiful brunet was always tinged with guilt as he berated himself for taking Belthil to his bed.



The scholar was barely older than Boromir—a child really. Belthil did not agree. Although he came to King Arathorn untouched in the ways of the flesh, he was wise beyond his years. A brilliant scholar who had studied and excelled in Gondoran law, he was chosen from dozens of hopefuls to be the personal assistant to the King of Gondor; some who had taught him at the Academy of Middle-earth Studies in Dol Amroth. Both of Belthil’s parents and his maternal grandfather were scholars, their elven heritage giving them minds sharper than most. Belthil, however, was even more gifted than they.



One-quarter elf; his mother was a peredhel who chose mortality after falling in love with the young man’s father, a Dúnedain whose great-great grandfather had been one-eight elf. Belthil took after his mother, who was part Noldor originally from Mithlond. He was every bit as fair as the Eldar with long, straight hair the deepest shade of midnight and eyes the color of fine mead. He was tall, slender, and quite lovely and despite his efforts, King Arathorn became attracted to him, eventually taking him as a lover. As much as he was fond of Belthil, Arathorn knew that he could never love him as he deserved to be loved--wherein laid his guilt.



Seeing the familiar emotion clouding this Liege’s face, the beautiful scholar came to his side. Cupping Arathorn’s bearded cheeks, Belthil implored, “Please, Majesty—do not berate yourself like this. I am no victim, nor am I sorry for our association. I do not expect any more than you can give to me; and what you give is enough.” Perfect rose-tinged lips smiled before taking Arathorn’s lips in a kiss, deepening it when the King pulled him down onto his lap.



Breaking the kiss after some moments, the King’s smile was back. “Association? Is that what we have, Divine One?”



“I would not presume, Sire, to call it more. I am but a humble scholar,” Belthil laughed.



“Humble. I like that; especially when you humble yourself on those rather shapely knees of yours.” Rubbing a pale, flawless cheek with his large tanned hand, Arathorn gently kissed the other one. “What would I do without you, sweet Belthil?”



“Fortunately for you, my handsome Sire, you do not have to ponder that; for I plan to be at your side for as long as you wish.” Their kissing resumed and it was some moments before either realized they were no longer alone.



Preparing to reproach the intruder whom he figured was his Steward or even his Queen, the High King Arathorn II was more than surprised to see a grey-clad figure standing just inside the door to his office.



“Mithrandir! I did not know you were coming. You should have sent word and I could have prepared a proper greeting for you.” The King was genuinely happy to see his old friend and first mentor.



“Forgive my unannounced visit, Your Majesty; it could not be helped.” Gandalf’s voice and face were grave and he seemed even a little bit anxious.



Gently lifting Belthil from off his lap, Arathorn stood up and crossed over to where the Maia stood. “Come, Old Friend—sit down. Belthil, get Mithrandir some wine.” Taking a seat across from him, the King spoke again. “What brings you here and what has you so out of sorts?”



Taking a sip of wine, Gandalf thanked the young clerk before staring at Gondor’s young King. “I’m afraid that I do not bear glad tidings, Sire.”



Becoming frightened of a sudden, Arathorn instantly knew that this news involved Aragorn. “My son? Please, tell me.”



In a statement both ironic and understated, Gandalf said, “I am afraid that the child has gotten himself into a bit of trouble.”



TBC



Please review



Elven Phrase Glossary:



Imladrian — Citizen of Imladris, the Elvish name for Elrond's refuge in the western glens of the Misty Mountains. Also called Rivendell.

Nimloth — a gift to the Men of Númenor from the Elves of the Undying Lands; it was a seedling of a tree named Celeborn which grew on the island of Tol Eressëa.

Tol Eressëa — The Lonely Isle of the Elves of Aman, on which Ulmo brought the Elves to Valinor long ages before the rising of the Sun and Moon, and on which many still dwell within sight of the Undying Lands of Aman.

Valinor — home to the Valar and the eventual home to all elves. Also called the Undying Lands of Aman.

Valar — Powers of Arda or the Powers of the World. The name given to the fourteen powerful spirits who took physical form and entered Arda to give order to the world and combat the evils of Melkor.

Naneth — Mother

Adar — Father (formal)

Ada — Father (familiar) or Daddy

Daernana — Grandmother (familiar)

Daernaneth — Grandmother (formal)

Aran-nín — My King

Edain — Elvish for all Men; however, the name was originally given by the Elves to the Three Houses of Men (Númenóreans). The singular form is Adan.



• Three Houses of Men — In the order in which they came to Beleriand during the War, were:



A.The House of Bëor

B.The House of Haleth (the Haladin)

C.The House of Hador (the descendants of Marach [not the OMC here] and his people)



Penneth — Young one.

Meldir-nín — My dear friend (male)

Eryn Galen — Greenwood’s other name before the Sauron’s Darkness to came there; literally means green wood.



Círdan — a great shipwright and mariner of the Elves; he was the Lord of Mithlond.

Mithlond — Grey Havens

Pen-vuil – Dear one

Muindeir — Brothers (actual). Plural of muindor (brother)

Miruvóre or Miruvor — a warm and fragrant clear cordial of the Elves.

Riders of Rohan/the Mark — commonly used and refer specifically to their mounted soldiers.

Belthil — 'Divine radiance.'

Mead — sweet wine of fermented honey.

Peredhel — Half-elf or half-elven

Noldor — (Meaning those with knowledge) The division of the Elves that followed Finwë as their lord; accounted the greatest of the Elves in matters of lore and craft.

Mithrandir — name the Elves called Gandalf.

Maia — singular form of Maiar (spirits who helped and served the Valar).



Elvish definitions, names and terms taken from the Silmarillion, from the reference book *Tolkien’s World From A to Z, The Complete Guide to Middle-earth* by Robert Foster and from *The Encyclopedia of Arda*. A very few are taken from fandom authors (not authenticated).