Of Elbereth's Bounty

Title: Of Elbereth’s Bounty
(third in my unofficial series, after In Earendil’s Light and Under the Elen)
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: OMC/OMC, Legolas/Elrohir, references to Glorfindel/Elladan
Summary: The family celebrates the return of its boldest young elves, mysteries are solved.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the pleasure of his estate and aim not for profit.
Author’s Note: It helps to no end to have read both In Earendil’s Light and Under the Elen before this, as otherwise you might not recognize any of the characters. Hope you enjoy, and thanks for keeping to the path thus far!!
Feedback: Would be delightful.
Dedication: To the moderators of Library of Moria, Melethryn, Adult Fan Fiction.Net, and other sites of their ilk for all their wonderful, tireless work and for keeping us up to our ears in fic.


A/N 2: ~~~ ~~~ mean that a character is reading part of a fictional story.

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Of Elbereth’s Bounty

Part Fourteen

Tathren woke, on this seventh day of midsummer, in a thatch of elflings.

The airy susurrations of their snortles and breaths harmonized with the gushes of late morning storm against the outer face of his talan, as whips of breeze snaked between the latched windows to puff the silky curtains. The day beyond shimmered a burnished silver through their diaphanous spill, not quite the maudlin gray of fall, not quite the sterling blue of a spring shower. Their morning swim would be preempted by the rain, though the thirsting forest would drink its fill and relish the humid atmosphere that would reign until sunset.

With a low, treacle-throated sigh, Tathren himself basked in the dusky, twilight scents that wafted about their bedchamber; a fragrant bushel of crisp, misty northern pines mingled in a rich musk with notes of heather, clove, and thistle down, his somnambulant brothers largely overwhelming the rousing smell of his beloved. In the wake of the overnight thunderstorm, Ciryon was yet burrowed in Echo’s vigilant embrace, with Brithor entrenched between the buttressing bodies of his elders. Rohrith, true to form, was sprawled across Tathren’s chest as if lounging on a beach, no lightening clash enough to curl him in for unwarranted comfort. The golden elf twined doting fingers into the spray of ebony hair, stealing a few moments of reverence before his sprightly ones awakened.

In the four months since their return to Telperion, he had grown patiently acquainted with the subtle differences between the wilding three. While at first their similarities wholly impressed, with time, their distinct natures had revealed themselves. Ciryon was a kindred spirit to his own adorably bashful Echoriath, introspective, timid, but voraciously curious once engaged. Indeed, Cuthalion often teased that Echo had acquired a true twin at last, as Ciryon shadowed him constantly, never intruding but always eager to understand the activity being undertaken. Echoriath, thankfully, did not mind in the least; he already spoke of what a keen apprentice his cousin would one day prove himself. Rohrith, by contrast, leapt before even the briefest glimpse of a look could be attempted. Of a more voluble tone, but no less enthusiastic than his modest twin, his eagerness to challenge himself was palpable. His tiny frame often quaked with the need to sprint, chase, or battle. Yet his imagination was no less bountiful. He could often be found with a stick-sword, bating unseen foes to quicken their demise, and with undaunted mettle he routinely spurred his brothers off to calamitous adventure. Brithor was the centering force that drew in these two polarities. A more amiable infant or grown elf Tathren had never known. Whatever talent he possessed had not yet distinguished itself; his chief characteristic was the ability to love, well and without condition. He forgave so easily his elders often wondered if he ever indeed felt any injury, always ready to offer a kiss, a smile, a hug, or any other affection that might help another endure. Tathren adored each of his darkling brothers, but Brithor was his pet, as happy to nest in the crook of his arm - though not shy of others as Ciryon - as to amble alongside him for miles of road – though not distracted by every skittering squirrel as Rohrith. Brithor enjoyed the company he kept, whether occupied in adventure or in quietude. The storm, however, had unnerved the elfling; he’d required the presence of both elders to succor him and was thus tucked snugly between them.

After but this brief quarter year of their togetherness, Tathren could not conceive of a life without his gamely brothers, nor the twinkly charms of his sister, even though his visitations with her were far less frequent. Twas he who proposed to give his fathers a few days respite from the constant charge of their brood by having the triplets over, though he had been surprised at their initial reluctance. Indeed, both his Adar had come to quit from them the day before, a rare occurrence of two accomplishing a task for one and just over the glade, at that. Though they would only keep the elflings for a handful of days, both fathers had gathered up their brood as if undertaking a two-month’s journey. Elrohir’s usually serene visage had been particularly shroud; though, once he’d pried himself away, the quicksilver eyes he turned on his husband and the sultry touch he’d skimmed along his back told of his ultimate gladness of this private time between them. With a sly wink to his Echo, he’d watched them meander through the high grass of the glade, their figures already molded into one loving whole.

He wondered if, on this drowsy morn, they even begrudged the rain.

While his fathers could spend the day away suckling each other, there were more urgent matters to which he himself must, unfortunately, eventually, attend. The storm would perhaps delay the ongoing negotiations between representatives of the Laurelin colonists and the Telperion council until early afternoon, but they could not be forgone entirely. Echoriath had presented his designs to the Sindar officials just days before, the explication of his plans would occupy them for some time, then, after a brief pause for the Laurelins to peruse the documents, he would be required to answer their no doubt ample queries as to schedule, expense, necessity, and alternatives. Tathren, as the designated liaison between the two peoples, must attend all meetings, though with the advent of his two Thranduillion uncles, this was no hardship. Luinaelin, the more familiar to him, had just a month before landed in from Arda. Legolas’ middle brother had no love for the northlands, so he sought to further his interests in a lordship of a colony here. Mithbrethil was the negotiator sent by Thranduil from Laurelin proper, as there was question both of some colonists’ eventual return and of the adequacy of the north settlement when they chose to do so. He had escorted the beatific Laurelith, who was not yet acquainted with her newly granddaughter.

Tathren had found himself in great demand these last weeks, what with bold uncles, doting grandmothers, and the quarrelsome Laurelins to appease. Though his Ada-Las would not entirely quit his brothers’ company during his restful time, Tathren was expected to be ever available to them and indeed was quite engaged by their familiar company. These were not the sage, self-contained elders of Imladris, but elves whose blood yet rushed with pure mercury, undiluted by position, notions of propriety, or ages passed. An eve in the ale hall with the former princes of Mirkwood was not to be missed, even the rubes of the frontier could not match them for wiles. When the defense of their people came into play, however, no amount of familiarity nor familial due swayed them; the pair was even more shrewd, sharp, and demanding of their efforts than the colonists themselves. Yet unlike the colonists, Mithbrethil and Luinaelin trusted their nephew’s honesty and goodwill, which had in a few short weeks pushed them ever closer to breaking ground. Construction could not adequately begin before the blanket of winter covered the vale, but Tathren had no doubt they would nevertheless be resolved to that commonly desired course.

In but a cycle of the moon, he would be tasked for the coming years, richened by the close residency of a Sindar uncle, blessed with a beauteous charge of siblings, and bound to his most beloved one. By Elbereth’s grace, his eternity was proving fine.

Once his Adar’s rejuvenation was complete and his uncles satisfied, he and Echo would escape to the seaside, to celebrate the ninth anniversary of their togetherness. Though present preoccupations did not tax his spirit, on this cozy morn he allowed anticipation to well up within him. In the first day of their tenth year, they would be bound. Their fathers had not yet consulted in depth as to the outplaying of the occasion, but they had resolved to the date. The year would shoot by like a hare past a fox den, but by Tathren’s estimation the time could not progress with swiftness enough, such did he long to be one with his forever mate. The shock of love that prompted the very pulse of his heart. His Echo.

He shifted in their cocoon of sheets to better regard his one in sweetly slumber, but instead an owlish pair of onyx eyes caught his own. Tathren poked his tongue out to bait his ponderous brother; a pink bud broke between petal lips in return, then a soft giggle trilled.

“Echo *me* melef dis day, Tafren,” Ciryon taunted, though could not help but blush at his own jest.

“Indeed,” Tathren replied, with fake desolation. “Then who will love me, gwanur?”

“Brifor,” came the mirth-ripe retort.

“We are brothers!” he hushly protested. “Though I love all my pyn-neth dearly, we cannot love as melethryn do.”

“You love Echo… as Ada-Hir love Ada-Las?” Ciryon questioned him, knowing well the truth of this statement, but perhaps searching for affirmation of his understanding of elven relations.

As their circle of acquaintances had considerably expanded, the triplets had struggled, of late, to mark the distinctions between filial and romantic bonds. Where their elders were concerned, clarity reigned, but those of their nearby generation gave them trouble, no less when the matter of cousins who loved came into question. Ciryon was the scientist of the three, ever testing hypotheses and formulating theories based on observation of the world around him; yet another trait that branded him of Echo’s line by more than blood.

“Aye, I love him thusly,” Tathren acknowledged. “We will soon be bound, and may perhaps in centuries to come have elflings of our own.” Ciryon’s eyes widened considerably, then narrowed pensively to fit this information into the pattern he had formed. “Have I not shown you our rings?”

Mindful of Rohrith, Tathren tugged out the chain that never left his neck, which hung with the delicate mithril ring that signified their betrothal. Equally bedazzled by the jewel and awed by its import, Ciryon’s face grew contrite.

“Fogive, saes, Tafren,” he whispered, abashed. “Me no have Echo as melef.”

“Nay, he cannot be your meleth,” Tathren reassured him. “But he loves you dearly, as do I.” At this, Echoriath’s arms tightened around the darling little elf, whose face shone once again with cheer. “In fact, you have hit upon a matter of pressing concern, Cir-neth. During the rites of binding, an elf requires a brother to stand by his side. Cuthalion has long ago agreed to stand with Echo, but I had not thought to have a brother with me, as I before had none. But now… I have three!”

“Me stand, Tafren!!” Rohrith’s muffled cry reverberated against his chest.

“Tafren, *me* stand!!” Brithor chirped from between them, face raised up insistently.

“Tafren-gwanur ask to *me* stand,” Ciryon muttered, afraid his twins’ gusto had already won the day.

“I would have all three of you stand with me, pen-gwenin,” Tathren chuckled fondly, as Echoriath ruefully shook his head. “I only wished to inquire after your participation.”

In unanimous response, the raucous three charged him. Caught in a mire of tiny clutches and of squishy kisses, Tathren finally found himself ready to greet the dawn.

************************

Legolas rumbled out an unctuous purr, then stretched across the slick, sweaty plain of his lover’s chest as a flesh-glutted predator on the midday veldt. He traced a salacious tongue across his own lips, his incisors keen, the salty tang of mingled seeds still tantalizingly sharp. He was lulled into a dreamy quiescence by the lazy, flattering fingers that pet his golden mane, sweeping soothingly from unruly crown to the small of his elegant, sinuous back. The air was yet pregnant with moisture from the morning rain, the cloud of humidity around them pungent with the musky scent of their recent, rabid coupling.

A teapot and two fat-bellied cups had been cast aside, when their hours of by turns ecstatic and intent conversation had been for a time so saturated by feeling that they could naught but express these dizzying emotions by the carnal embrace of their bodies. Beneath the most secluded willow of their thicket, they’d flirted and fondled, caressed and leisurely undressed, each luxurious sweep of skin revealed to eyes hooded with lust, with adoration. Amidst the downy high grass, Legolas had savored every nip, lick, or lave of his elf-knight’s sensuous self. Whether nosing the sheer column of his neck, nibbling at a pert nipple, or suckling his wrought shaft, Legolas had found ample meat upon which to sate his roaring hunger, the culmination of his own forge-iron erection had come in the profound, slow-burn penetration of his mate’s singeing core.

Elrohir had thrashed wildly in his throes, so crude-tongued in his ardently vocal appreciation that Legolas had feared the security patrol might be summoned. Today, his cries did not need be stifled by a probing thumb lest sleeping elflings’ ears be pricked; he could scream his love through the forest haunts with a delicious vulgarity, in thrall he had verily relished this liberty. Their counterpoint debating and their uproarious opinions, in vital addition to their breathless passion pledges, had roused Elrohir to rare fever. Unlike the hasty, needful couplings of the last few years, he’d insisted upon extravagant amount of foreplay before his most visceral taking; Legolas had been inspired by the rawness of his need and had met these demands with naughty panache. With each release upon thunderous release that had seized them, fatigue had languidly descended, until they knew their nighttime efforts would be marred if they did not take some rest and a hearty meal’s refreshment.

An hour of sun haze remained them, however, so Legolas had crawled over his love drunk husband and sunk down into the pillow-plumpness of his muscular frame. Elrohir, said frame having been peerlessly worshipped for some time now, was more than glad to berth his beloved and stroke him into a dulcet reverie, as he plotted his own after-dinner strike on the unsuspecting archer.

Though the concept of a brief absence from their little ones had been most unwelcome on first utterance, Legolas now thought the notion so beneficial to he and his spouse that he would, at the end of their private time, suggest another such indulgence the following year, amidst the epicenter of planning their son’s binding. He had not, until this very moment, acknowledged how their fervent dedication to parenthood had stolen perhaps a too ample share of their intimate time. Since the blessed event of Tinuviel’s birth, Nenuial had not been able to host their triplets for even a night’s togetherness. This was no bother - he loved all his precious sons and would have them home every night – but their elflinghood, though treasured, did not lend itself to the ardent coupling of parents. Tathren’s rearing in Imladris had been a different affair, as there had been many in residence to occupy even their mercurial goldenrod while his fathers sneaked away for an afternoon. More often than not, their duties had indeed called them away; little wonder Tathren was an adventurer after his vagabond and nomadic childhood. With these precocious three, however, both fathers had retreated some from their responsibilities to devote themselves to full time rearing, yet another way in which Tathren and Echoriath’s return had aided them. Though his bond with his elf-knight was such that no amount of abstinence would truly affect them – the time of their lust-fever had been proof enough of that – Legolas nevertheless vowed, in the future, not to wane in its nourishment, through the occasional trysting afternoon with his star-kissed mate.

He sensed a listlessness sag Elrohir’s hold, his petting hand tucked around him. His eyelids drooped into a delicate landing, a rapturous sigh escaped his lips. He slept; ethereal in slumber as the silmaril itself against the black cast of the midnight sky. Legolas carefully slipped out of his embrace, then shifted aside to gather his gentle husband against him in the fashion he’d been held. Elrohir had energy enough to curl in, then went contentedly limp in the cradle of his arms.

Legolas took a chance to admire the lush, regal beauty the Valar had thought to award him, such comeliness the only proper conduit for such a glorious, gallant heart. He let the swell of love wash over him, let it drench him, fill the core of him with a blaze, as his Elrohir would that very night. The feeling, though matured through the centuries, had blessed every moment of his life from his earliest memories; not a day had passed without knowledge of this one who awaited, then later attended him. Whether a spark lurking amidst the very flow of his blood or a flush body fused to his form, Elrohir had always been a part of him.

For this, he knew himself both of highest privilege and of rare fortune, as evidenced by the troubled life his own eldest brother had long suffered through.

Mithbrethil’s return to the vale, along with Luinaelin’s provenance, had heralded a gentler age between the three brothers. Their solidarity was no longer necessitated by strife, but by mutual admiration and well-earned respect. They had come to enjoy each other again, whether carousing in the ale hall, debating issues of government, or exercising on the archery fields. The very boar that flavored the stew he and Elrohir would soon feast upon had been caught that morn, when his brothers had come to fetch him for quick hunt about the hinterlands. Twas during the skinning of carcasses that Mithbrethil had confessed himself, provoked as he was by their accidentally acute jesting and the events that occasioned for him on the previous eve.

To be just, Legolas had also been astounded by Luinaelin’s momentous, unexpected arrival on their shores a month earlier. His brother had not even been a-courting during the years after the War of the Ring, so devoted was he to the settlement of their people in Ithilien and its governance. Yet he had descended the ship with a beauteous mate – of peredhil heritage no less, half Ithilien, half of the principality of Dol Amroth – and two children, with a third’s imminent advent thrilling to parents, son, and daughter alike. Upon sight of this resplendent brood of Luinaelin’s, added to the recent introduction to his own sparkling Tinuviel, Legolas had first remarked the shadow that suddenly shroud his brother’s noble, aquiline face.

A subsequent discussion with Elrohir had focused his thoughts on the matter. As crown prince of Mirkwood, the pressure to marry well was immense, of an overwhelming intensity for one so dedicated to proper and righteous behavior as Mithbrethil. Little wonder that neither of his brothers had even turned their thoughts to mating until after the War’s end. Legolas did not doubt that he would have chosen similarly, if not for Thranduil’s lucky bargaining with Elrond and the untimely passing of two beloved wives. The thought had haunted him for several days, as well as another saddening notion. While Luinaelin had evidently evolved enough to find his bliss, the archer had never known Mithbrethil, who was an entire millennia his senior, to have had more than the most fleeting and superfluous dalliance with another. He could not even be said to have had a lover, let alone a longtime companion; his duties to Mirkwood were always foremost in his concern. They occupied the stoic, often testy elf to distraction – only in the company of fellow soldiers, in questing or on guard, had Legolas seen him truly relaxed; this only after a major action, when the enemy had been slaughtered into oblivion and security was assured. His time in Laurelin had apparently not proved any more fruitful, nor had Mithbrethil, on his last visit, seemed inclined to alter the situation. He had, apparently, resigned himself to eternal solitude; though by his grave visage at witnessing Luinaelin’s newfound joy, his millennia of loneliness had eviscerated any hope of resolve.

Yet this elf was of softer character than the imposing elder brother that had once so intimidated him. Their naneth’s return from Mandos had gentled him towards his brothers, the hurdles of an eternal life, even Thranduil himself. When their king had declared he would return to govern Laurelin, he wagered Mithbrethil’s relief was palpable; though of most valiant character, the crown had never sat well upon him. The brother he remembered loved nothing more than the thought of building a talan, trenching a well, damming a river to produce an essential tributary. In this, Mithbrethil secretly coveted Echoriath’s teaching, which had no doubt caused Thranduil to send him as delegate to their negotiations. Their father seemed more inclined, on this new frontier, to indulge his son’s passion for such things; perhaps they had finally come to a new level of understanding, though Legolas was loathe to accord Thranduil any compliments in any regard.

By Mithbrethil’s telling that morn, his own tenacity and stubbornness had forced their father’s hand. *This* was the brother he remembered fondly well: strident, demanding, grind-nosed, honorable… but alone despite the subtle replenishing of his inner stores.

Before Legolas had dared to suggest - not a remedy, but perhaps some ideas of how to expand his circle of acquaintances – Mithbrethil had admitted that there was one that, after so many frigid years, had affected him. Indeed, she had begun by infuriating him as no other creature in Arda or Aman. One of the few female Galadhren, the ellyth in question from her first step onto Laurelin soil had objected to his every move. In the time before their naneth’s release, he had, off Rumil’s advisement, named her to the guard, only to revoke her commission but two years later, as she countermanded nearly every order he gave. As a builder, she was quarrelsome; as a tree-shearer, too finicky. She had no head for government nor council, as she argued from her heart and took even the most offhand taunt as a challenge. She had proved an able instructor to the younglings, until several of the fathers demanded proof of her skill, at which contest she bested them all and caused a veritable riot. Mithbrethil had had no choice but to command her along with the colonists, though she had protested this with such vehemence she had accidentally broke his arm in three places, when their will-battle had eventually come to blows.

Naturally, Legolas soon intuited that his brother was sickly in love with her, though he had wondered if Mithbrethil himself had acknowledged this.

Indeed, Legolas and Elrohir both knew her well. Perhaps chastened by Mithbrethil’s injury, which had convinced her to sail for Telperion, she had been naught but a brave, goodly force in the vale. She had worked tirelessly, in those first, fractious nights, to set up camp and ensure her people were well fed. She had carried child after child to the homes in which they would foster for the first week, her consoling, rallying words of infinite comfort to them. Even one as meticulous as Erestor wanted her for an archery instructor and a dormitory mistress in the school he was planning. She was perhaps not made for the brash Laurelin frontier, where males overwhelmed the populace and ignorant ones at that, but she was more than worthy of considerable regard, romantic or naught.

Though Legolas had not know at the time, Mithbrethil had encountered her again at a Telperion ale hall, just nights ago, though he well remembered the brawl their blunt words had ignited. He had not himself witnessed their initial argument, though she had many friends among the more flint-tempered element of their vale and they no doubt viciously defended her honor. Legolas had thought it strange that his brother had immediately fled the scene; he had assumed he’d been unexpectedly called away by their mother. A few days later, he and Elrohir had just exited a Council meeting, when they’d come upon Mithbrethil and an unidentifiable ellyth embracing furiously in Elrond’s small orchard (they had, of course, sought to do the same, but left well enough alone).

He had never seen his brother so vulnerable as that very morn, when he confessed of his regard, his desire to court her, how they had somehow gone from sworn enemies to secret lovers in but three nights time. Mithbrethil was baffled by the emotions that even then nearly moved him to tears, that made his heart swell with anguish at the thought of taking leave of her and fired his loins to such blistering need he would seek her out that very afternoon. Twas then that Legolas had been struck dumb by realization, of such a damning fact that he almost despaired for his mule-headed, iron-hearted people.

His brother did not know how to love.

Legolas himself had never known ought but love, from an unknown force until Elrohir presented himself upon his majority. Mithbrethil had not experienced any form of love before - save the familial - not the infatuations that sprang from physical desire, not romantic yearnings, and certainly not the clarion knell of another’s soul. There had been no time to even imagine a future mate for himself, merely the proper alliance, the most beneficial match for his father’s kingdom. Every suggestion he or Luinaelin made to resolve the logistical problems of his brother’s situation was met with obstacles seemingly insurmountable to Mithbrethil himself; that he was terrified of these feelings as nothing ever before soon became glaringly apparent. Legolas could only pray that she was obstinate enough to so besiege his senses, he would have no choice but to give in to her. The process had already begun, if the crimson culls that streaked his lower neck were any indication. Legolas had advised him as well as he could, given that he had never truly fought himself in order to love Elrohir, and vowed his continued support. Luinaelin’s words had had a more powerful effect, as he himself had experienced a similar resistance to his mate’s initial wooing.

Regardless of the outcome for his brother, Legolas had been reminded yet again of the priceless value of Elrohir’s love and how fortunate he was to have been so longly blessed by their bountiful union. He could only wish as much for Mithbrethil, wither with his current she-elf or with another intended.

“What dark thoughts could so worry your brow, melethron?” Elrohir suddenly queried, argent eyes peering inquisitively upwards. “And after such blissful love-play?”

“Do not think one furrowed brow has quenched my desire for you, my gifted one,” Legolas smirked, but reflection yet clouded his eyes. “I thought but on Mithbrethil’s plight. On the struggle ahead for him and… on my good fortune, in being taught to love by such as you, Elrohir-nin. I fear if we had not been promised, then Mirkwood might have bittered me beyond repair.”

“Do you judge your brother beyond repair, Legolas?” he asked, surprised and mildly disconcerted.

“Nay, I judge him a stubborn elf,” Legolas amended. “His character was forged in Mirkwood, but is not ruled by it. His choice in lovers – or specifically to not longly indulge in one particular lover’s care – have led him here as much as my father’s ignoble demands of his crown prince. Yet the peak he seeks to conquer is high indeed, and perilous at that. I fear he will have to entirely refashion himself, if he is to be a doting mate to Aneandrel.”

“If he has lain with her, as you earlier said,” Elrohir considered. “He will not be able to part from her, no matter what his commitments are. Once an elven soul has commingled with the flame of its mate, greater forces overtake rational thought. Your brother is unused to such dominant emotion, feels shamed by his easy acquiescence. Yet he will soon enough adjust to how love overpowers one’s will. This was but the first night of his sundering; he is green. But he will not quit our vale for a two-month. After lying in her arms for such a time and finding his heart there… you may very well have both your brothers in close residence.”

“Aye, that would hearten me,” Legolas agreed, a smile dawning on his fair features. “As have your words, melethron.”

“Enough to lure you to our table, my beauty?” Elrohir grinned wolfishly at him, suddenly ravenous for supper, seduction, and succulent wood-elf. “To our bed?”

“To table forthwith,” Legolas chuckled fondly. “I have not, as others, indulged in a late afternoon nap.”

“My poor, beleaguered husband,” Elrohir cooed teasingly, but nevertheless lapped at his earlobe. “Come, child of Mirkwood. Let my love refashion *you* anew.”

The elf-knight plucked a kiss from his bawdy lips, before grappling to his feet and offering his mate a hand. As they strolled towards their own homely house, bare, free, he locked arms with his twilight husband, with the one who had so roused his heart, so peerlessly kept it, who owned it all and very well.

************************

Peals upon peals of giggles bubbling behind, they shot through the long grass fields west of Telperion like an arrow off their renown Ada-Las’ precision bow. They bounded, fleet-footed, through the splendorous meadow; Rohrith at the jutting tip of the fletch with Ciryon and Brithor at his flanks, swishing to and fro. The blunt sun of midsummer glared across the lawn, reflected off of flapping sheathes of otherwise sheer ebony hair. Fresh from the river and energized to distraction by their morning swim, the triplets gleefully raced ahead of their guardians, who lolled indulgently behind.

Tathren and Echoriath were loathe to pick up their pace as they sauntered through the balmy glade, hands leisurely clasped and shoulders keeping close counsel. Though the inexhaustible three had insisted on bedding-down with them the last three nights of storm, the couple had funneled their excess emotion into these quiet, affectionate gestures, which heartened them both. As their togetherness was no longer a thinly veiled secret to the peoples of Telperion, in public they could now caress liberally, show evidence of their shared emotion, and occasionally overreact to the coveting of a beloved’s attentions, as any doting lover would. Though their timely destination was a forum on the leadership of the Laurelin colony - to which they would act as silent observers on behalf of the Lord of Telperion - Arien above was yet too bold for haste through such high blades, which folded elegantly back to part for them.

No such courtesy was paid their sprightly threesome, whose raven manes swooped up above the stalks, every few gallops, to mark their progress forth. As they neared the collection of expansive tents that served as town hall, nursery, canteen, and healing station, the elflings fell into migrant formation and crowed their arrival to Thalarien, Luinaelin’s mate, who braided their daughter Lindoriel’s hair. The gangly young ellyth had already seen fifteen season cycles turn, but keeping the triplets, even for a few swift hours, would undoubtedly prove the making of her mettle. The trio circled furiously around them, sounded a squeaky war cry, then launched a full-on assault of ecstatic, cacophonous wrassling upon their unsuspecting cousin. Thalarien had barely released her daughter’s honey-hued braids in time, before the ellyth was toppled off her stool and tumbled into a pile of giddy elflings.

The bemused naneth tisked audibly, but could not entirely banish a smile.

“You did not rightly believe, my newly aunt,” Tathren teased, in lieu of greeting. “That her pristine tunic would survive the afternoon, did you?”

“Nay,” the knowing mother sighed. “Yet I had prayed for rain.”

“In my recent experience,” Echoriath noted wryly. “Grass stains are much easier to expunge than berry jam. Perhaps the sun is a blessing to your stores of lye, if not your seamstress’ handiwork.”

“Indeed,” she smirked, but regarded the merry bunch with terrible fondness. She foist kindly eyes upon their guardians, this pair of elflings she once knew now soon headed for the binding altar. Yet she could, after her own fashion, be just as caustic as they. “You two are brave, flaunting your romance before a pack of frothing Sindar nobles.”

“I see no wolfhounds- er, *wood-elves* in our midst, at present,” Echoriath winked at her. “Regardless, in our dealings with either tribe, we intend to herald a time of peace, cooperation, commingling… passions run wild and voraciously amok.”

“His tongue is emboldened by your care, nephew,” she repliqued, though her eyes shone with mirth.

“So many have oft remarked, these lately months,” Tathren snarked dryly, but nipped a kiss from Echoriath’s temple. He waved vigorously to his brothers as they skipped away, with Lindoriel in tow, towards the lush boughs of the lonely oak amidst the scorched fields, to which six sturdy swings had been affixed. “They will not venture far, I trust?”

“Lindoriel has never been past the stream,” she assured him. “She is a child of Arda. She knows only too well the consequences of straying too far away from our camp.” Tathren nodded, assuaged by this reasoning. “Aneandrel was late to rise, this morn, but she will be along shortly to mind them.”

Several leagues beyond the oak, a faint streak of water sliced through the land. Even the gamesome triplets were grown enough not to sprint passed the boundaries of their realm, though their legendary enthusiasm was also known to wholly distract them from common sense. Yet Tathren feared more for the civility of his Sindar tribe, faced with such a fateful choice as theirs, this day. Indeed, their options were perhaps too plentiful to be borne without argument. First, whether to live as one people or to divide into sects – one bent on return to Laurelin, one wishing to establish roots here, east of Telperion.

If such an essential split came to pass, how would the camps be separated, for whom would they build, what would the aims of either populace be, and, inherent to any such decision, to whom would they pledge allegiance and in what form of government? Luinaelin clearly represented the faction preferred by most elves of the late third and early fourth ages, the foundation of a Sindar village here in Telperion, under a benevolent lordship. Older mates of mostly absent frontiersmen from earlier ages preferred to return north after a time, to Laurelin, to their rebuilt homes, and ultimately to Thranduil’s kingship. Tathren held little hope that the colony would remain whole, though this eventuality was possessed of its own strange wisdom. Three potent questions yet preoccupied him: where would those loyal to Laurelin abide for the time being, would they allow Telperion builders – Noldor builders - to go north to aid them, and with which group would his uncle Mithbrethil align himself?

For the first time since taking on his diplomatic charge, Tathren questioned his own ability to mediate such proceedings. Though he would not be called upon for a formal speech, the younger colonists – those hoping to found a new village - had come to trust his judgment, as blindly as the buffoons of the early Gondolen council had come to value Echoriath’s. They admired his esteemed heritage (child as he was of two of Arda’s three noble elven houses), his peredhil bloodline, his survival instincts, and his courage in journeying straits. Most of all, they admired the daring of his betrothal to a Noldor cousin, a son of Elrond’s own line. The legend of his foremother’s prophecy had spread like wildfire through their ranks; upon their return from establishing a veritable shrine – though a working, thriving one – to ancient Gondolin, the whispered rumors of their secret, Valar-blessed powers were loud enough to deafen an istar. In their reverent eyes, Tathren was a fallback to the heroes of the first age, a king in his learning years, *their* future king. If Luinaelin’s lordship was approved by their champion, then son of Thranduil or no, they would follow him until the time was right to welcome Illuvatar’s own intended for their rule.

Tathren himself, though not entirely ignorant of this commotion among his peers, neither let his own choices be influenced by their at times disturbingly intense regard, nor approved of their mythologizing of his relationship with Echoriath, as their greatest achievements were yet before them. He longed but for an expedient and reasonable resolution, though he knew both factions were fired as though for a incipient battle. Such was the way of the mercurial Sindar.

As his gaze drifted beyond the majestic oak - his low-hung boughs ripe with elflings – beyond the amber plain, beyond the sun-dappled stream to the far bank of foreign, lawless land, he spied, to his consternation, a riders’ camp, with barely enough canvass to shelter five elves. Had some of the more hotheaded Laurelins moved out of the bounds of Elrond’s protection? Were some of the elder males visiting from the frontier? Upon further inspection, the tents were of indistinct colors, as if their allegiance had been hastily and poorly painted over. Must they now contend with outlaws? Brigands? Brutal rebel factions? Insurgents?

Echo, intuiting his grave concern, wove a steady arm around him. His eyes were alight, attempting to identify the riders lurking beyond. When he started, Tathren turned to read his pallid features; whatever disturbances he had gleaned from his otherworldly search writ large across his face. He sighed warily, undecided as to action, and drew close to his love.

To Tathren’s unspoken question, he nevertheless replied: “I know not. Merely… they will not harm us, nor in body, nor in person. Yet there is a darkness… ominous, but not evil. I have not felt its like on the shores of Aman. I am reminded of-“ He wrenched around to spy the advent of his Adar. He squeezed Tathren’s forearms, to hearten him. “Your brothers will be well protected, fear not. Grandsire has sent reinforcements.”

“Suilad, Echo, Tathren,” Glorfindel announced them, as Elladan hugged both warmly in turn. “I hope you have come well armed?”

“Have you, uncle?” Tathren inquired, at once relieved and somewhat unmoored by the sudden appearance of the Balrog-slayer himself.

“Aye, pen-neth,” the golden elf smirked, slapping his bond-son heartily on the back. “With the sagacity of the reborn and the charms of a hallowed one.”

“Do not ply those charms too liberally, bereth,” Elladan chided good-naturedly. “Else you will be mightily chastened, come nightfall.” Sobering, he addressed the younger elves. “Ada sensed trouble brewing, but in what form he could not say. I have come to escort the little ones to the Lord’s House. Your grandmothers were rather riled that you did not request their services to begin with, but agreed that this time spent with their beloved grandsons would be remedy enough for your injury. That, and your presence at the evening meal.”

“We had not thought to stray,” Echoriath commented, though Tathren’s manner had stiffened considerably.

“I am glad you are here to keep them, Ada-Dan,” he generously thanked his uncle. “I wish only that I could accompany you.”

“Ah, but history awaits us, Tathren,” Glorfindel winked at him, before ushering them towards the main tent.

Three impish elflings were already racing towards their uncle; Tathren waved fondly to them, before letting Echoriath tug him along.

***

As Glorfindel held the flap aloft, a haze of humid, angry air enveloped them. Under the raging noontime sun, the tent offered little respite from the hothead summertime heat, its canvass moist in places and its cool bamboo poles dripping with condensation. That the entire populace of the colony was packed beneath or that the sanctity of the proceedings did not lend to ventilation, seemed only to amplify their discomfort, which did not bode well for the clarity of judgments nor the ease of resolution. The elves were seated in circular form around a modest stage where some of Echoriath’s design models were displayed, two aisles bisecting their ranks. Mithbrethil and Luinaelin sat in the front row, before their supporters and beside each other; a throng of elders were gathered on the opposing side. The buzzing crowd hushed to pin-drop silence, when Glorfindel drifted stealthily into their midst and positioned himself in neutral territory; the quiet was deafening when Tathren and Echoriath slipped in beside him. Tathren’s Sindar uncles smiled in gentle salutation, their tense faces enlivened somewhat by the weight of Glorfindel’s presence, which in itself would cool some of the more flagrant heads among them.

Meldior, the chosen conciliator, stepped onto the stage.

“Ample time has passed for reflection,” he began. “The time has come for action. The first resolution before us will guide the remainder of the proceedings.” He turned to the elder faction, seated to his left. “Wise ones, will you be resolved to cement your homes in Telperion and be counted in the Sinda village?”

/So their division is done,/ Tathren grumbled inwardly. Echoriath took up his hand between his own, the twin heat of his palms like the promise of tomorrow. Not a sound was choked from the imperious elders, as their spokeswoman blithely rose. /Though they will be tempered, with Belariel as their voice. They would not blunder into these negotiations, which means they would lure the young ones back north. Valar, but they are shrewd!/

“Nay,” Belariel dissented, with such poise that none could help commend her. “We are resolved to remain but a five-year, then return north, to our rightful homes. We ask no more of our Noldor hosts than a share in their resources and a field to make our camp. Indeed, if this meadow is soon to be improved upon, then we will gladly remove ourselves across the stream.”

A spark of foreboding flashed within him, soon kindling a small fire of mounting unease. His uncles also felt the strangeness, their stance sharpened, their manner curt. Some menace approached the collective, so swiftly he could not get a true mark on the feeling this other aroused within him.

“Young ones,” the conciliator continued. “Will you be resolved to join with your kindred and soon return to the northern realm?”

To Tathren’s consternation, Luinaelin himself rose to address them. His uncle had not been entirely forthright with him, yestereve at mealtime. The younger faction had met with him in secret; he was already lord to them. He glanced over at Echo, who met his anxious eyes with consolation, with fluid tenderness. Tathren reminded himself that, no matter what the Laurelin’s resolved, his heart was bound to another tribe and so were his cares.

“Nay, we will not return,” Luinaelin vouched for his supporters, with lordly grace. “We wish those born of ages long passed strength and honor in the rearing of their tempestuous northern land; indeed, we will gladly assist them in any required capacity, as they have taught us well and are blessed among us. But we of younger years could not forgo the chance to found a colony of our own, in harmony with our Noldor brothers and in particular accord with the noble House of Elrond. Any who wish to remain with us are welcome, though both paths offer their own brutal challenges.” He glanced down at Mithbrethil for a breathless moment, then pursued an entirely different tact. “Challenges my brother and I have faced over and again, first when the Mirkwood descended, then in the establishment of Ithilien, in Arda. Yet in this emergent realm, there will be no official lord. A council of advisors will be convened by appointment, until after the residences have been erected and the village self-sufficient. The aid and opinion of those gifted the wisdom of several millennia would be esteemed beyond compare. I have come to assure you that there is a place for old and young in our humble village, though mark me when I declare there is no place for blame, prejudice, or the ire of ages long past.”

“And what of the ire of this age, lordling?” a voice boomed from the far corner, as an elf of inestimable, feral majesty strut towards the stage.

The younger faction gasped and gaped in unison, though the elders were not a whit rattled by the stunning entrance; indeed, the spokeswoman lowered graciously into her seat, deferring to this intruder. Tathren was confounded by his uncle’s reaction: though Mithbrethil stood up defiantly to meet this elf head on, Luinaelin struggled to swallow back the bile that so acidly, obviously singed up the walls of his throat, as if he would spit in the impressive elf’s piercing indigo eyes. Echo looked as confused as he, but Glorfindel had flushed considerably and palmed the hilt of his broadsword. He wondered if he should alert his fathers, but did not want to cause them undue distress.

The identity of this brash elf was yet unknown to him, though he was of a burnished, leonine beauty Tathren had never before seen in an elda of any line; his skin of the gold of laurels, his mane like whips of lightening, his sapphire eyes cut hard as a diamond. A cloak of royal blue swept behind him like a thunder clap, his tunic minimally adorned with a host of entwined allegiances, so tightly, though exceptionally, embroidered that Tathren could not distinguish them. His heavy boots appeared mithril-tipped; they grounded a body of predatory force, of feline grace and of imposing musculature. He was in every way dominant, of his surroundings, of those among, of his own regal countenance and of his every sniff of emotion; one sensed that to oppose him was to risk having one’s sight scratched blind, then gouged out by a swipe of his mighty paw. Tathren found he could do naught but watch on, muttering a silent prayer for the protection of his two uncles.

“Tis you alone who linger on injuries so old and frail they would turn to dust in the wind,” Luinaelin affronted him. “Should you finally unseal your dungeon-heart and cast wide its iron shutters to allow some fresh air within.”

“There are many here who would judge my cares most timely indeed,” the elf remarked, suavely mocking his opponent. “Those you seek to win over, with equanimity they do not value as one so louche as you, ioneth.”

Tathren was struck as if by cave troll’s club. Dazed by the force of realization, he stared, astounded, at the intrusive elf, rallying the cyclone of rebellious emotions churning within him. / I should have guessed. I should have known…/ Though he had quietly begun to quake, Echoriath’s strong, encouraging arms soon enveloped him as surreptitiously as he could manage; even Glorfindel, rapt on the proceedings, pressed a supportive touch to the small of his back. Tathren felt sick with want of recognition, felt the burn of vengeance, but he manfully attuned himself back to the battle of wills before him.

His time of reckoning approached with daunting speed. He would say his peace soon enough.

“Have you come, then, to kit-out your court?” Luinaelin retorted, unswayed by his mockery. “Take what fellows you would, so long as they go willingly. None who would reside here have quarrel with those that go north. Indeed, we are most willing to aid in this endeavor.”

“And keep our younglings for your own replenishment?” Thranduil bellowed. “Thieve the very lifesource of the Sindar from its elders, who can no longer so thoughtlessly reproduce, and mix our blood with other races, other tribes, until we up north are ancient, uncivilized, isolated mercenaries condemned to an eternity against the wilds. I think not.” A roar of support erupted from the elder collective; the king took center stage. “Who are you, my foolish, usurping princeling, to snatch those still under my rule? Heat your own kingdom off the embers of the very blaze of a realm smote by your insurrection?”

If Tathren shook now, it was but to stifle his seething, so loathsome did he find his grandsire’s conversation. Echoriath’s arms had become shackles around him, so fearful was his beloved that Tathren would drawn undue attention to himself before the proper time. For, despite his reservations, despite his overwhelming dread of the consequences of revelation, he did believe the time was ripe for some stunning form of revolution.

Perhaps he himself believed in the myth.

“If you speak of Mirkwood,” Luinaelin reminded him. “Twas the spiders who smote your blaze with their lurid webbing. You merely held them aloft, until mankind could smite the Shadow.”

“If you speak of Laurelin,” Mithbrethil interjected. “She was mine ere you sailed for Aman, though I gladly cede her to you. I would have no dead elflings on my conscience, not in the Blessed Realm.”

“You are not valiant enough to bear such a burden,” Thranduil scoffed. “Nor the calamities that tarnish a golden reign. You seek to be gracious where grit is required, you seek to skip through the meadows above rotted soil. Elflings die when war is upon us, elves will be injured in the establishment of a new realm. These are the cares and burdens of a king; and he alone must bear them for the good of his kindly people. You would form a *council*, to succor you through the troubled times, because you are of such flimsy mettle as to flee the frontier when it most requires one of your brawn! And why?! For love!!” With a flourish of afterthought, the king snorted. “I will not forget the impudence of the one to whom I would have bequeathed my crown. With every sniveling word, you prove yourself no son worthy of my house.”

With a curse beneath his breath, Tathren could hold his tongue no longer.

“Who among gentle elfkind would abase themselves to be so worthy?” he countered, rising to full, resplendent height.

The king glared ferociously at him; but despite his gall, the buttery color slowly drained from his cheeks when he fully marked the features of the elf that opposed him. Tathren quietly exited his row, standing instead within the first few steps of the aisle, but well apace of the stage. In truth, he had no right to speak; none in terms of rank or import. Only injury forgave him, an injury few present knew ought of. This would be, if the time came, if the need presented itself, his masterstroke.

“Legolas…” Thranduil whispered, though in the stale silence the word was perfectly audible to all.

Tathren smiled mirthlessly, stepped in from the shade. He curiously found that none spoke up to correct the misbegotten king. With his best Elrohirian countenance of reason and of evenhandedness, he proceeded to make his case before them, ever offstage.

“With every blustering breath you have winded over us,” Tathren commenced. “You have spoke naught but fraction, compliance, command. We should look upon the fraternity of the Noldor as deceptive, reject their compassionate example, isolate ourselves from all other tribes of elfkind and breed a pure Sindar race. Twas as if Sauron had never fell, in your conversation; that we are not all the children of Eru, fashioned of starlight and beholden to Illuvatar above for guidance, prosperity, wholeness. We young ones seek to divide from you, true, but we are resolved to peace if so divided; indeed, tis your faction that would provoke this separation. We would live in prosperity, here, and welcome you to our bounty. The hardships of Arda are finished for us. You yourselves won the day, ripped victory from the Shadow’s claw. Why are you so married to conflict? So devoted to challenges of such excruciating endurance that elflings must give their lives for their accomplishment?”

“No elfling has given its life under my rule for sport alone,” Thranduil fiercely rebuked him. “None that the Shadow itself did not rip from its mother’s breast!!”

“I would not speak so rashly among kindred, *grandsire*,” Tathren cautioned him with a cinder-tongue. “I will not stave off from venting the secrets of your kingly house, not even before such an esteemed audience.”

Thranduil staggered back, thoroughly affected by the revealed identity of the glorious elf before him; an elf who kept him in dagger-sharp sights and at last stepped onto the stage.

“Those who have been reborn will tell you,” Tathren pressed on. “The Valar above want naught but peace among elfkind. Twas for this they created the Blessed Realm, for harmony among all the tribes of Aman. You elders are free to go as you please, none would name you of ought but of peerless valor for charging the frontier. But mark me well in this: any who deny their elf-kin, be him Noldor or be she Sinda, openly defies the will of the Valar and courts the Shadow’s return. Go north if you will, but let that realm be one of peace and of welcome to all of elfkind: Sinda, Noldo, half-breeds, and the like. Else the Valar above will answer you, when you come courting their favors. And you, king, will answer to my grandmother’s wrath – to speak of love’s enslavement - for we all well know by whose grace runs the House of Thranduil.”

Luinaelin and Mithbrethil could not help but snicker at this, though Thranduil had yet to recover from the shock of seeing his grandson, alive and so very beauteously rendered in his father’s image.

“You are rash to speak of the Valar’s cares, young one,” came a voice from among the elders.

“Know you not of the prophecy?” Tathren smirked wryly, relishing just a bare trace of impudence in his tone. “I am their champion.” The chorus of cheers that rung out after this declaration gave him considerable pause. Echo, however, was almost wrecked with suppressed laughter. “I hope you choose well, my dearly Sinda folk. No matter which path lures you, I am one with you.”

With a bow of such elegant deference, none could help but be spellbound, Tathren stepped down from the stage. Echoriath awaited him there, so ruddy with pride Tathren could have kissed him senseless, were he not so eager to be gone from this madness. He winked a quick farewell at his uncles, then linked arms with his darkling love, leading him out into the meadow.

When they had almost reached the high grass, a whistle beckoned their attention anew. Thinking the sound from Glorfindel, they halted to await him. To their astonishment, the Mirkwood king himself was soon but paces from them.

“You, there!” he called. “Legolasion!” He stopped several strides short of them, noting with rancor how they were so affectionately woven together. Though the king did not loose any of his imperiousness, he was somewhat softened from before. “My apologies… I know not your given name.”

“I am Tathren,” he warily introduced himself. “This is my betrothed, Echoriath Elladanion.”

A flicker of disapproval flinted his eyes, though Thranduil knew better than to give voice to his opinion.

“I have heard of your endeavors, in the southlands,” he instead commented. “You have grown into quite a commanding elf, if you can be judged by that display of wiles.”

“I would not bear judgment by the likes of you,” Tathren replied calmly. “If you had had your way, I would not have grown at all, and if I hold any gift of command, such talents are a tribute to my fearless fathers; who kept me safe, nurtured me with the blithest of care, and would have me live with them despite the grievous injury my shameful begetting caused them. Shame I held close for the first hundred years of my immortality, until I came to know the unblemished love of another and recognized that shame as yours alone, Thranduil king.”

“I will swallow the blame for my misjudgments, as any true king would,” he impressed upon him. “So long as I might also reap of the bounty I have sown. I am camped beyond the borders of this realm, attendant to your grandmother’s leisurely visitation. Would you not, perhaps, take a turn with me tomorrow? Or a meal, here in the camp, under the protection of your elf-brothers? I would discuss some matters with you.”

“I would not dare so injure my father,” Tathren snipped, shocked by his gall. Echoriath’s arm tightened around him; his beloved clearly distressed by the idea of Tathren alone with this tyrant, even under the watchful eyes of his uncles. “When he knows of this conversation, it will take all of my Ada-Hir’s hallowed diplomacy to stay him from confronting you. And as I have yet to witness any change of heart in regards to the mating of other races, nor their fellowship, in your black opinion… I must decline.”

“Come sway me, then, with your wit and reason,” Thranduil challenged him. “Prove yourself my better, in this.”

“I need not prove it,” Tathren snapped back, exasperated by him. “I am no plotter of elfling murders. Your tragedy, grandsire, is that you know not even what resplendent bounty your unwitting loins have wrought.” He turned swiftly to go, but then thought better of a closing remark. “If you but breech the tree line and penetrate the forest, I will have a slew of grog-drunk Noldor seafarers bandy with your nethers. Keep away from my father and my family.”

Before the king could growl out a scathing reply, they both turned on their heels and strolled gracefully away; tucked, as ever, in an easy, loving hold.

******************************

~~~‘Unhand me!’ the prince snarled, though every one of his keen senses was affected by the grip that snared his wrist. In a motion nearly imperceptible for its swiftness, he was pinned to the cold stone wall by a body fuming with heat. Eyes black as brimstone bore into him, seemed to understand the lava-scorch that singed through his veins at the presumptuous elf’s proximity better than he. The marchwarden moved in closer - not a ghost between them – and when the prince’s free hand flew up to strike him, he found himself mercilessly overpowered, both wrists pinioned above his head like a hare on a spit. He was trapped by this vile foreigner, vulnerable to the myriad perversions he was renown for; the villain wasted no time in slamming his muscular frame against him and biting a wretched kiss into his lips.
A jolt of pleasure stung through his traitorous body at this mistreatment, his elfhood spiked like a dagger into the marchwarden’s side. Though his cheeks burned with shame and he wrenched his face away, the prince found himself suddenly strung tight with need, a need such as he’d never experienced before. He wanted the defiant marchwarden to do his best to subdue him, wanted the fight, wanted to be forced… He kicked out a leg that was brutally shoved back, the pain blunt as his wrought shaft. Horror struck him, chill and deep, such as one of his standing had never known.
He could do naught but give in.~~~

With a long sigh of satisfaction, Elrohir stabbed his quill into its dried apple and reclined back into his distinguished armchair. Rare had been the day, since his triplets were begot, that he could indulge his creative streak – and then he’d felt pressured to fill the demand for his sought after children’s prose. The pass-time that had originated in the exploration of baser instincts had blossomed into a second career, though the rearing of his brood and the tales these trials inspired took precedence over his smuttier inclinations.

Legolas, though immensely proud of his husband’s literary achievements (archived in the vaulted libraries of Vinyamar as he was), had had to forgo the more personalized, erotic endeavors of Elrohir’s ever-expanding cannon. While his earlier tales still quite effectively kindled his mate’s libido, the parchment was becoming worn from overuse, the stories themselves rote. After such nights as they had shared this last while, Elrohir was once again fired with ideas of how to insidiously ravish his dearly lover, so Legolas had more than agreeably made himself scarce that morn and bequeathed Elrohir a solitary afternoon with his quill.

The results had been rather fruitful. In his time of authorial abstinence, Elrohir had nevertheless had occasion to reflect on the impetus for his lover’s preferences. Any decent writer implicitly understood the motivation of his characters. While Legolas was not actually personified in his fictions, Elrohir had begun to attune himself to the particular carnal acts requested and the moods that provoked them. Once a certain, though extremely complex and oftentimes irregular, pattern had established itself in his mind, he had pursued several deliberate tests; the results of which, he had reasoned, would make him both an evocative writer and a better lover. His initial works had opened a portal of entry into Legolas’ fantasy life, a profound and intensely private realm in which scenarios often played out that the archer would not dare request of his mate, nor even particularly enjoy in their bed-play.

Elrohir was currently embroiled in the fabrication of just such a story, a brute retelling of their own courtship upon Legolas’ first majority, in which a young prince is forcefully seduced by a marchwarden from a foreign realm. Though in the reality of their loving Legolas would only allow himself to be taken passionately, lubriciously, and in complete equality, the fantasies he’d confided to his longtime lover were often tinged with acts of cruelty and of dominance he’d witnessed in his fellow soldiers, especially of mankind, during the War of the Ring. If Elrohir ever attempted to perform any such imposing acts on his mate, he’d surely come close to being throttled, but through his pen he could stimulate these unconscious urges and later reap of the salacious bounty they yielded. Even if Legolas could only bring himself to review such provocative material on solitary nights, when Elrohir was dutifully occupied elsewhere, the elf-knight would still have a hand, if indirectly, in his mate’s pleasure, which was gratifying for them both. Elrohir had come to understand that one of the true delicacies of an eternity of love-play was the exploration of another’s myriad desires, indulgences, and secret fetishes, a well of uncharted depths and constant replenishment.

When again prepared to conjure the fifth and final act of the proud prince’s ravishment, Elrohir took up his quill. Only a few sentences into his tale, he sensed a presence at the open doorway and flicked his curious eyes aft. Legolas, reclined against the frame, watched him intently, his expression at once pensive, intrigued, and subtly mischievous. An enigmatic smile played across his lips when their eyes met; he strut into the study as a panther marks the boundaries of its lair. He surveyed the piles of parchment scattered across the desk, the three empty inkpots, the hollow-bellied carafe of water, and the cloth still clotted with his abundant spurts of cream.

The task of a smut-teller was neither puritan nor chaste.

With a wryly peaked brow, Legolas noted: “I hope you haven’t spent all your energies in writing.”

“I had quite an abundance of energies to spend,” Elrohir smirked. “After such inspired nights as you have lately shown me, maltaren-nin.” When once he might have blushed, Legolas instead shone luminous in light of this praise, exposing how eagerly his incandescent eyes anticipated the perusal of those sultry sheets of parchment. “Yet fear not. I harbor much enthusiasm for the night to come, and have imagined many a saucy act to inflict upon you, my beauty.”

“Tis you who are lush in graces, melethron,” Legolas complimented, moving stealthily towards the desk. “Hair loose and luring over your shoulders as you scribble with such intensity, worrying over each word selection as you would the manner of my rousing… savoring the fine craft of each sentence as you might the aftershocks of our kiss…” He fingered the leaves of paper distractedly, his glassy gaze sweeping the desk again, then settling on Elrohir’s own mercurial eyes. “Might I not… perhaps… are there no tales, possibly… complete?”

“Nay, they are yet unfinished,” Elrohir informed him, nipping the tip of his tongue on the half-truth. A few of the early drafts of another tale would surely tide Legolas over, but the elf-knight was not one to forgo a chance to arouse his husband in person. He had spent most of the day indulging Legolas’ fantasies, he would take this opportunity to indulge his own. One, in scarlet particular, came readily to mind. “But I have come to this description of my protagonist and find my creative juices somewhat… dried out. I require further *inspiration*.”

He left the taunt to lie between them, his eyes both shrewd and darkly keen.

***

“How may I be of service to you?” Legolas asked, his eagerness palpable.

He moved towards Elrohir’s chair, but the elf-knight stayed him before the desk. A shiver writhed up the archer’s spine; after centuries of loving Elrohir, he knew very well what would soon be requested of him. The length of his skin was suddenly electric, as he struggled to keep council under his husband’s preying eyes. The act of baring himself was just slightly within his sexual boundaries. There had been moments when he’d relished displaying himself, there had been others when he’d felt awkward under the gaze of such overt leering. He knew he chafed at the idea of being overpowered, even with such delightful intentions in mind, but he could not help the tremors that often shook him as he peeled off the layers.

In the performance of this simple act, he was an elfling again, green and crude as on the night of his deflowering. On that long ago eve, he’d been so needful that he’d have let himself be whipped for Elrohir’s pleasure, but in the years between that time and their reunion he had fought to make himself worthy – nay, the equal – to his elf-knight in skill. His chief fear in that time – that he could never do so, never be as caring or as accomplished as his beloved – would take hold of him with the reprisal of this most honest act of submission. The elfling that still lurked inside would possess him anew and the mature elf he was would be… shamed.

Shame, need, love, fear; these forces would overwhelm him, entice him, ply him to Elrohir’s will and wreck him within. There had been times, nights, afternoons, when he’d refused his husband outright, his mood too sharp for overt manipulation. Elrohir’s stare had softened some, probably in consideration of whether the amount of distress caused his beloved was worth such a casual request. Surely there were other means by which the elf-knight might be inspired, though none, Legolas acknowledged, as particularly tasty to him as this favored one. An appreciative gaze stroked up the length of him, taking in his limber legs, lank hips, a slender-sculpted torso, and the bulging biceps of his folded arms.

With a harsh intake of breath, Legolas realized that his groin had begun to evidence a similar bulge; his inner protests somewhat mooted by his emergent arousal. He fingered the laces of his tunic, glanced at Elrohir again. By his tender eyes, his elf-knight had decided against voicing such an unwelcome desire; they flicked down, scouring the desktop for a draft that might console his mate’s too-obvious distress. That Elrohir could guess at his reluctance without its utterance, that he knew Legolas so implicitly as to quickly move to appease him, to put his desires before his own, made his mind in his husband’s favor.

His tunic was tossed aside before Elrohir could even look upwards, though he lingered awhile to allow his beloved time enough to enjoy his treat. Molten mithril eyes darkened considerably at the sight of taut pectorals, his wash of abdomen, diaphanous ivory skin stretched over lean muscle. The elfling emergent in an alternative fashion, Legolas gamely popped off his boots and unbound his flaxen hair, letting the gossamer sheathes spill over his broad, bony shoulders. His husband’s flattering gasp further fired him, though he regretted not being able to view the prodding results of his enticements. Before he could pluck open the first bind of his breeches, Elrohir beckoned him forth.

“Saes, meleth,” the elf-knight rasped, barely able to control his halting breaths. He shoved a stack of parchment aside, patted the space. “I must perform a closer examination, if I am to properly…describe…” Legolas perched on the edge of the desk and displayed himself rather wantonly, emboldened by his husband’s scorching regard. Under Elrohir’s reverent silver eyes, he felt audacious, cherished… adored. “Your magnificence.”

“But is the character as comely as I?” he queried teasingly. Even one as coveted as he could not name himself magnificent.

“He bears a certain resemblance,” Elrohir admitted, that sizzling stare raking the length of him anew. “Though no stroke of my humble quill could properly render one such as you, with skin so immaculate, a face so noble, of such virile…” Said endowment now stretched his breeches to fraying, that look alone perhaps enough to undo him entirely.

Yet a wood-elf was a more cunning seducer.

“Indeed, I am glad of such a chance to discuss this art of yours, bereth-nin,” Legolas insisted. “Though you engage me beyond compare, I fear there *are* certain passages that… lack in authenticity.” As he nattered on, he lazily unbound his breech laces, to the delight and obsession of Elrohir’s devouring eyes. “I am aware, of course, that you are an author and not an anatomist, my dearest one… however. Do not tell me that in all your years of bed-play you have never taken note of certain anatomical realities, often quite literally thrust in your face.” He chuckled softly as he bared himself, slithering out of his breeches and foisting up his erection for intimate perusal.

“Beautiful,” his husband whispered, which did prick his cheeks a little.

Elrohir’s eyes blazed with a desperate longing, but when he reached to caress the daunting shaft, his fingers were batted away.

“Nay,” Legolas chided him, gesturing towards the blank parchment. “*Write*.”

A hiss was barely swallowed back, but the elf-knight did indeed take pen-sword in hand. He scribbled furiously, possibly too eager to compose ought but lust-addled, curse-spattered gibberish, but Legolas appreciated his feint nevertheless. His insistence kept his mate properly distracted, so effectively that until the archer rose, slipped into the seat behind him, and curled his own covetous arms around his lithe frame, Elrohir was yet diligently scrawling away. He paused when his nipples were roughly pinched, the tip of his teardrop ear precociously nibbled, but Legolas would not continue lest his efforts were being fully documented.

Elrohir fought to string coherent sentences together, as his husband swept his hair aside and hotly suckled his neck. Thumbs worried his raucously hard nubs until the darkling elf growled in frustration, his own frothing member still sealed in by the tight wrap of his sarong. Legolas deftly slacked the material around his waist, opened the front, but used the frond to further incense him, brushing the velvety material up the inside of his shuddering thighs. Elrohir nearly snapped the quill in twain when Legolas pressed a ready shaft to his entrance, working the sensate, puckered contour with his slick head.

“*Write*!!” Legolas snarled, as he slowly breached him.

He savored the long, deadly-patient penetration, infusing the glutinous tunnel with incendiary heat. His breaths came in fitful pants, the sensual constriction and the unctuous damp conspiring to entirely madden him. Elrohir’s art was no better served, as by this time his lover had gouged two balls of parchment out of the page, his clenched, sodden fists emulsifying any ink that might remain. He eased his want-glutted husband backwards and draped his needful body over himself, as he set his hips to a giving, rapturous rhythm. After the first initial thrusts, Elrohir saw through the fugue of sensation clear enough to take his own emphatic part in the proceedings, his spine flexing as a serpent’s scales before impaling himself anew, each deep stab eliciting an ecstatic moan. The darkling elf reared like a stallion as he was ridden, so wilded by fever that Legolas could only grip into the chair and fight to stave off eruption.

A cry ripped from the elf-knight’s throat before he could even consider release, his lap, legs, and a considerable section of the parchment spattered with hot splashes of seed. Legolas could do naught but let the flood of fire overtake him, their passion writ in thick, creamy streaks across the page. Elrohir sank against him, boneless, shivering violently after spending so voluminously.

Legolas gathered him into a close embrace and fed him plump, adoring kisses. He knew not what act of their coupling had so overwhelmed him, but Elrohir was fearfully raw, clinging quite forcefully to him and still trembling yet. He kissed his archer with anxious fervor, desperately, relentlessly, until Legolas cupped his love-ruddy face and forced his gaze upon him.

“Your eyes,” Elrohir answered, before the inevitable question could be posed. “I need to see your eyes. I need to see how… how you love me.” He mated their mouths anew, his taste sharp with unquenched need. “Show me again, maltaren-nin, by the hearthfire. Let your eyes blacken with desire, your face beam with peerless radiance as you claim me for your own. Show me your love, Legolas.”

“Eternally, melethron,” Legolas swore, as he lifted his husband fully into his steady arms. He marveled at how, after centuries of loving, he had never marked that Elrohir disliked such a common position. He was sure that, spooned in their sultry bed, he would perhaps be more amenable to such a taking, but Legolas was somewhat relieved nonetheless that his lover was not entirely unaffected by certain situations, circumstances, plays of power.

That he loved him enough to admit his predilections and confess that which affected him poorly.

End of Part Fourteen