Of Elbereth's Bounty

Title: Of Elbereth’s Bounty – Part 16
(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: Preparations are made for the cousins’ union.
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.
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.

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Author’s Note:

Phew! Here we are, at the end of an epic cycle. I never thought in a billion years it would go this far, but then life has a way of surprising and inspiring you. What has inspired me most is the wonderful feedback I’ve gotten for this piece, especially from Eresse, Keekercat, Kitty, Twilight, Jaylen, Anoriell, Deathangelgw, Sian, Karen, HHS, MR, cytheris, cami, and those who read but keep silent, though forgive me if I’ve forgotten anyone. Your words hearten me to no end and the work would certainly not exist without it.

The story, however, if you are indeed interested, is far from over. There are three Further Tales involving minor OMCs from this last part of the fiction, so if you liked even the supporting characters, I will be posting Cuthalion’s Tale, Ciryon’s Tale, and Rohrith’s Tale soon. There will then be an epilogue that will tie the whole series together, before I move back to cannon pairings and new alternative universes. Thank you again for being so devout and supportive, and I hope the ending satisfies.

Much love,
Gloromeien :D

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Of Elbereth’s Bounty

Part Sixteen

One year later

The night was as gentle as a gelding in the meadow, the air around breezy light for such a late summer’s eve. Elves of all tribes fluttered like hummingbirds about the ale hall, their flimsy robes, loose sheathes of hair, and tipsy attitudes coloring the flirty, rosy atmosphere. Scantily clad maids lounged by the reflecting pool, their dainty toes tippling the surface of the shallow, translucent waters, whose jaunty waves were scattered with lavender sprigs, amarinth petals, and calla lilies. Bands of roguish Laurelin builders lay shirtless about the cold hearth, displaying their considerable wares with the arrogance of the young, randy, and boastful, shooting wicked-eyed glances towards the maidens between rowdy hoists of their galleon goblets. Councilors of both Noldo and Sinda sway held court at the eight corner tables of the octagonal building, their minions ruddy with drink, their conversation both bullish and bawdy. Off-duty marchwardens guarded the wine vats as a dwarf might his mithril store, while the minstrels deftly kept up the merry mood with wood pipes, flutes, dueling lyres, and a magnificent harp, though it was deemed too humid yet for spirited dancing. Most were content to sprawl about with their friends, sipping a fine vintage and telling tall tales.

Such heady, nonchalant ambiance strongly reminded Echoriath of so many nights in Gondolen, late in their time there, when the guildhalls were aflood with eccentrics, pacifists, rabid-eyed philosophers who sought to both spiritually convert and to bodily conquer the Valinor-born ingénues that also abounded there. His efforts to erect a Laurelin settlement to the west had attracted some of the same nomads to the vale; though the hardy builders were most welcome, despite their rakishness, those with more piquant political leadings chafed the Sindar such that most were forced to camp on the outskirts, as Telperion itself was a secure stronghold of the Lord Elrond and they were not fool enough to dare Glorfindel’s tinder-hearted legion. This particular hall, in the grove between Sindar and Noldor districts, was renown for its diversity, equanimity, and also its revolutionary contingents.

The noble houses, however, had to promote harmony between elven peoples. Since their imminent binding would be a private, humble affair, their companions had chosen this hotbed location for their farewell to bachelorhood, in the thick of tribal tensions, jealous suitors, and those that would usurp their distinguished grandsire without a care. Echoriath was most grateful for the mildness of the night, though the gall of other singletons never ceased to astonish him. In keeping with tradition, available elves were allowed, on this night of revels, a final attempt to lure the prospective mates apart. Overt action was frowned upon, but likely lads and ladies might offer a drink, a dance, or a saucy kiss on the cheek. For the beloved one or his intended to refuse was considered a black omen on their future union, so both had to politely endure this ritual without protest, wry comment, or even the most innocuous riposte. Echoriath, resigned to the inevitability of this rather pathetic custom, had calmly accommodated the near incessant interruptions from both male and maid alike, his cheeks swollen crimson from their overindulgent culls and his companions well plied by the overabundance of drink in his cup.

Needless to say, if it were not for the equally voluminous flow of wine into his own deep-bellied goblet, Tathren would by now have emasculated many of the ellon and mortally insulted many of the ellyth. With each tap on Echo’s shoulder, Elostrion forced Tathren to take another longly draught, though the potent spirits did little to dull the flint in his simmering eyes. To Echoriath’s great chagrin, he would not even benefit from the rousing of his betrothed’s volatile Sinda blood, since they had vowed to abstain from relations for three - by now nearly endless – months before their binding rites, to ensure that night of nights would be the most rapturous of their enflamed history together.

The promise of that visceral, shining night, of the eternal mingling of their passions, bloods, souls prompted him to sit across from his beloved, the considerable diameter of their round table between them and their swordbrothers collected around. Cuthalion kept tight to his right flank, a steady hand ever-pressed to the small of his back. Though their fathers had most gratefully absented themselves, their company had come out in force: the twins Cirith and Rohros, blustery Thorontir, a love-tempered Glinfalas, goodly Elostrion, and even Mithbrethil, who had pledged vigilance over Tathren after such ample ablutions.

They had been feasted in the barracks before this outing, where even the tiny triplets had been present, terribly eager to spend some time among the adventurers and to celebrate along with their hallowed older brother. Already in their fifth year, they would begin exercises in the fall to heighten their speed, agility, and coordination, so Tathren thought even a fleeting glimpse of warrior culture might entice them. Echoriath doubted he would ever forget their saucer eyes and gaping mouths at the company’s unrestrained behavior, where curses flew, jibes grazed, and insinuations were at times hotly explicit. The trio had nevertheless survived with their innocence mostly intact, so gleeful at their unexpected admittance to the affair that they barely marked the adult tone.

Valar only knew how Elrohir and Legolas managed to sing them to sleep this night.

As yet another foolhardy ellon tipped Tathren’s head back and stole a ready kiss from his cheek, Echoriath – leagues away from outright jealousy – instead envied the elf’s good fortune in being able to suckle such deliciously flush skin. His beloved was dressed in softer hues than was his usual custom, fawn-colored suede breeches and a tight-fitting tunic of sea green. The silken sheathes of his luminous gold hair were caught by only the loosest of clasps, the wisps framing his face gave an effect at once delicate and devastating. Echoriath himself, by contrast, veritably oozed a feebly repressed sensuality, in maroon leather breeches that left naught of his virility to the imagination, high, leg-sculpting boots, and a lush, low-cut burgundy shirt cinched by a sable vest. His powers of seduction well matured in the last decade of their togetherness, he had wanted to seduce his beloved with the surety of one steeped in the secret lore of his heart, of Tathren’s private needs, key lures, most piquing preferences. Emboldened by his lover’s meticulous bed-play lessons over ten incomparable years, he wanted him to crave his touch as never before, to be sick with longing, to suffer his lust, to burn at the very mention of his name and to be nightly embroiled in braising, lascivious dreams of him.

He wanted his love-teacher to learn hotly well how thoroughly versed his keen student was, thanks to his tender care.

When first they’d greeted each other that eve, Tathren had barely been able to release him; indeed, his steel-fingered grip had scored welts into his hard biceps. Though he had not dared a kiss, as even a taste of those savory lips might shame him like an adolescent elfling but weeks before his majority, his hawk eyes repeatedly raked the length of him with predatory intent. Once at table, the golden elf had consumed an entire pitcher of wine without right pause or the rest of a true breath, but Echo knew it would take a fountain of spirits to permanently dampen Tathren’s desire, when so relentlessly provoked. He relished how skillfully he could now unravel his beloved, how despite the temptations about his unyielding sapphire eyes stayed fixed on him alone, whether stung by inadvertent jealousy, smoldering with unanswerable need, or beaming with sheer, immaculate love.

Though this night he amused himself with playing the provocateur, Echoriath was not even barely immune to Tathren’s burnished beauty. The wine did little to smite his own raving desire, nor did the cloying leather breeches. While he doubted his ability to stand without aid, his did not doubt the resulting friction would wrought his loins to full, aching potency; this alone kept him seated and swallowing back yet another round. As the evening wore on, his companions wore out all their planned distractions; if they did not act decisively, and soon, Tathren might before long pounce across the table and take him over its very top – which at this woozy-headed instant, he would more than ardently give in to. As desperately as Echoriath longed for his peerless touch, he was equally besotted by affection for him, as evidenced by the glowing amber eyes he now shone over him. Tathren’s own bejeweled gaze gratefully mated with his own; in truth, they were as drunk off the other’s loving regard as they were by the bucketfuls of wine they’d consumed.

Thorontir, as wily as he was windy, at once recognized the perilous circumstance and moved ably towards distraction.

“The hour has grown late, gwador,” he announced to Tathren. “And we are sodden with our revels. Before we take a final swig and pledge again our undying allegiance, will you not, in these darkly hours when the moon is on high, regale us with a sultry tale or two from your much renown escapades of yore? And I mean not your adventures in the glittering caves, meldir.”

“Aye, Tathren,” Cirith smirked salaciously. “Oft have we heard told wildly amplified tales of your minority’s loss, or your seduction of the Gondor prince, but never from your own lips.”

“To speak of such dalliances with a bound elf courts the Valar’s displeasure,” Elostrion seconded. “Will you not appease our curiosity this once? The hall is emptying…”

Tathren bristled some at the suggestion, looked considerately towards Echoriath.

“I care not to slight my beloved,” he replied, with such brevity the entire company groaned, though Cuthalion did not join them. “Those tales are best left on another shore. In Aman, I have known but one dearly heart.”

“And if this heart is not offended by the conjuring of your romantic history?” Echoriath insisted. “But in fact quite curious himself, as he has been given only the barest sketch, the most vital facts of these scarlet encounters.” The table cheered his generosity, though Cuthalion yet glowered some, ever protective of his brother’s interests. Tathren, for his part, was rather impressed by his beloved’s confidence, though knew well he had no cause to fear any such tales, especially when balanced against a night’s worth of gropes from strange, covetous elves. “Indeed, if I myself cannot be put soundly to bed this night, perhaps in their emphatic recounting, you might do so to any lingering memory of your embroilment with these now elusive former lovers.”


“Well argued, young master,” Glinfalas shrewdly noted.

“Aye, you’d do well to mark his wisdom,” Rohros added snarkily. “And satisfy all our inquiring minds.”

Tathren grinned dryly at this, his manner easing: “Very well. Perhaps I’d best be myself appraised of the exaggerated versions you’ve somehow caught wind of. Where shall I begin, o my brothers?”

“With the loss of your innocence,” Elostrion dove right in. “I have heard that your Dunedain kin so worshipped your elven grace and so misunderstood the slow development of an elfling into maturity that they hired a small harem of courtesans to sate you, whilst you journeyed with them, and you thus met your majority years before your time.”

The table verily quaked with laughter at this preposterous hyperbole, none more than Tathren himself.

“Valar, how these gossipy whisperings do roar through the ages,” he quipped, before setting the matter straight. “In truth, it was agreed upon that, following my first majority, I might be allowed to visit my mother’s Dunedain clan for a few years, to better know the manly half of myself. My Nana, however, aged quicker than was supposed she would and could not wait another decade to rejoin her clan, so my fathers decided that this visitation should occur four years before my majority, while my mother could still travel without pain or injury.” Afraid that, in his intoxication, the memories of his naneth that came with the recounting of this tale might turn him maudlin, he halted a moment. The table, however, was rapt with interest, and their avid eyes urged him onwards. “I was, as any mature elf can attest of his own experience, at that time constantly aflame. By day, in the company of females, I fumbled to restrain my flash-point desires from embarrassing emergence; by night, I was besotted by scarlet dreams. Though I was attracted to both genders, I was too much of a warrior to allow any rogue thought of my swordbrothers to penetrate. I concentrated instead on the lovely ellyth of Imladris, who were thankfully as serene as they were untouchable. Among mankind, however… the scent of the women was maddening. There were few young men in the clan, but there was a bevy of fragrant, fair-faced girls, whose innocuous attentions left my loins in unrelenting agony. I experienced want such as never before, and to add to my troubles, they were only too brazen to constantly flirt, tease, or create the most shaming of situations. For months, I suffered their giddy torments, stealing away to the river every chance I could for some small measure of relief. Worse still, my Nana insisted I sleep near her, in the women’s tents, in case she felt poorly. Between keeping vigil over her and staving off my so very lusty dreams, I barely slept for the better part of a year.”

“If only we all could be so afflicted, gwador,” Cirith further taunted him, to the great amusement of the assembled company.

“I am no innocent myself, to be entirely fair,” Tathren remarked. “I have tormented my share, through the years. Yet verily, I believe this time is perhaps what swayed my more loving desires towards males.”

“Happily so,” Echoriath winked at him, then gestured for him to continue.

“Most happily,” Tathren agreed, but did not tarry on this point. “After some months of nomadic life, we came to their base camp, in the north, where most of my manly kin resided. I was thankfully given my own tent and occupied most of the day with my cousins. Yet… or so I was later told… the girls that had journeyed there with our pack were apparently engaged in a fierce competition over who could seduce me soonest.” Tathren ignored the snorts that sounded at this declaration, rather proud himself of the knowledge. “One night, a maid of their comely ranks snuck into my tent, woke me with the kisses I’d only ever dreamed of, and without yielding to my protests, bared herself. She slipped into my furs and made quick business of my night shirt. I was so roused by the merest stroke of her fingers over my skin that I could not in any mind deny her. When she understood that I was innocent, though surprised, she was quite tender with me, and returned for some nights after to teach me some basic skills. She soon, and rather carelessly, confessed of the competition. To my own great regret, I was too emboldened by this news of my comeliness and too eager to practice my new skills with all and sundry to learn of proper courtship, as well. Soon after she broke with me, having tired of one so green, I attempted a seduction of another sweetly maid on a feast night. I discovered then that I needed not even exert myself in their seduction; I only needed intimate that we might couple, kiss them some, and they were mine.” Tathren grew somber with the memory, though his friends were fascinated. “I treated some quite heartlessly, ignoring their advances once they’d been had. Twas not wise to give myself so liberally, and without an elder elf’s proper instruction. If I had the moment to do again, I would have chosen... another path… But that is the true, sordid tale of my Dunedain harem.”

“You had them all, then?” Thorontir grinned knowingly.

“Aye,” Tathren admitted, blushing despite himself. “I was, sadly, a wanton thing. Though shortly after my return to Ithilien, I lost my heart to a swordbrother, who did not return my affections and thereby learnt a proper lesson.”

“While we maid-lovers about are frothing with envy,” Rohros countered mirthfully. “Tyrant.”

“But what of the Crown Prince of Gondor?” his twin pressed on. “I have heard such weirded versions as to not bear recounting.”

Tathren’s smile dissipated at this particularly trenchant memory, as word had recently reached the vale that Eldarion was on his deathbed and his son had succeeded to the throne.

“Ask me what you will of the others,” Tathren responded, sharpened by sadness. “But my liaison with the prince remains rightly between us alone.”

Casting a solemn stare towards Echoriath for support, he found only a barely veiled anxiety in his amber eyes. He shut his own, to center himself, then let go the floodgates of his dammed heart and poured all his repressed feeling into the otherworld. He heard Echo gasp, swallow hard, and was answered by a wave of emotion so intense, so warming, that Tathren felt his cheeks flare from the after-fumes.

When he again looked upon his beloved, his eyes blazed.

“Did you love him, then?” Elostrion asked quietly. Tathren foist an angry glare upon him, but was tempered by his concern.

He answered honestly, “I know not.”

Soft eyes flickered back to Echoriath, who was by now lazing against his weary brother, drink having finally dulled his wits to drowsiness. Yet the heat that enveloped him, coursed within him, had not abated, but gentled to an ever constant, ethereal caress. Echo’s skin had grown radiant as starshine from these cosmic exertions, he appeared glutted by the affection that engulfed him. His heart-flow spoke what his lips could not, what was forbidden on such a night and even in such dear company.

“But there is none I love so well as that comely elf across the way,” Tathren amended, as Cuthalion made movements to extricate them from the table.

“Tis but your reflection you mark in my eyes, beauteous one,” Echoriath murmured, snuggling into Cuthalion’s tight hold. “Might I not embrace this golden vision, before it blurs and I find sleep?”

“Our next embrace will be upon our binding altar, Echo-nin,” Tathren cooed to him, as Cuthalion hoisted his twin to groggy feet. “But I will meet you ere in dreams.”

“In scarlet dreams, I’ll await you, melethron,” Echoriath vowed, waving tipsily to him. “Before the long-awaited altar of our binding. Be at peace.”

With a smile of thorough satisfaction, he sagged against Cuthalion and feel readily asleep.

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As a host of elves hovered about the edges of the Great Hall, aligning the seats with rapt precision, adorning the solemn pillars with garlands of regal-hued flowers, and polishing the vaulting statues of their forebears to a sterling sheen. Beneath the vaulting arch of the entrance, three pairs of sharp, obsidian eyes missed not a note of their father’s instruction, so eager were they to join the legion preparations for their elder brother’s binding rites.

Not a flicker of mischief, nor an impudent spark alighted their black pearl eyes, as Elrohir detailed the formation in which they would descend the center aisle, the cadence of their pace and the sprightliness of their steps. Not a giggle sounded throughout his explanation, not even when he suggested they enjoy the moment, be proud yet merry, as this was an unique occasion in their lives and they should relish this honorable task appointed to them. Though rather disturbed by a quiet such as he’d never witnessed between them in their five brief years of life, Elrohir was inwardly quite pleased that they appreciated the import of the ceremony; he did not doubt their solemnity now was tribute to their intense love for their brother, as their performance at the rites would be. His parent’s heart savored the proof that, in a little more than a year’s time, Tathren had become so beloved by them, their mentor, their guardian, and their guide.

Waiting on the outskirts of the hall, in hush admiration of the resplendent day outside, his own twin brother routinely snuck his bemused gaze away from the willow-swept path, to admire the sight of Elrohir in complicity with his three elfling sons. While there would be a milliard balmy summers to bask in; in a few swift seasons, the wilding triplets would be elflings no more, their soft, precious faces grown long and noble, as befitting those of Noldor heritage. One need only think on Elladan’s own twin sons to feel the impact of their family’s evolution. His more restrained brother was no doubt swollen with memories of the twin elflings he himself had reared – Echoriath’s darkling graces reflected by these tender ones – one of whom would, impossibly to a doting father’s mind, be wed on the morrow. The tremendous gladness, and small measure of grief, this evoked glistened in the elf-warrior’s keen silver eyes, though he himself would blame their brimming on the sparkle-sting of sun off the mithril gates.

Elrohir beckoned him forth for a trial run, as he would stand in place of Tathren for this rehearsal; the genuine article having refused to practice for the most hallowed day of his eternity. Elrohir had indulged him in this, as in most of his ideals, though knew well how a woozy night at the ale hall had contributed to his rather romantic resolution.

“In the part of the brave peredhil adventurer, Tathren Elrohirin Legolasion,” Elrohir declared officiously. “We have, ioneth, the most valiant warrior of the Imladrian force, Elladan Elrondion.” To his ongoing surprise, the three waved quite cutely at their uncle, but did not, as per usual, immediately pounce upon him. “Before the gates open, you may steal a quick word with your brother. This is your chance to bless him, my dear ones, and to wish him well. A most esteemed moment, pyn-neth, I advise you to carefully prepare yourselves.” The elflings nodded with a severity that could not help but tease a smirk from Elladan, their studious absorption of their father’s every point terribly endearing. “Take a chance to embrace him, then fall into position.”

Elladan squeezed each one with enviable ardor, as rare were the times these rambunctious three gave their affections so intently, then stood tall as they formed a triangle around him. As Tathren had but only two arms, it was decided than none would walk hand in hand with him, so as to prevent the first outright battle between the trio, though their was protest enough when this was explained to them. Elrohir had wisely delegated the chore to Tathren himself, who had taken charge with all the decisiveness and compassion of a true champion. A leisurely afternoon’s swim had ultimately done wonders to convince them, in addition to the promise of a private outing with each of the three in turn, after his honey-time by the shore. Each had already spoken with him at length of their chosen activity, he and Legolas would no doubt spend the greater part of a month listening patiently to revision upon revision of their elaborate plans.

The vow had, however, enlightened Elrohir as to a subtle shift in the triplets’ togetherness; they were not, as in earlier years, averse to spending some brief time apart, engaged in a manner entirely unique to that particular elfling’s personality. Both he and his mate had thereby resolved to themselves partake in individual outings with their sons, as a parental unit splurging on one specific child and in fatherly alone-time with a designated elfling. With the support of their extended family of too-promptly engaged guardians for the spare two, so as not to ruffle any tender feathers, the triplets would thus be encouraged to express their personal preferences and their distinct talents, as well as revel in their father’s singular attention for a short while.

In just the last while, Elrohir had taken Ciryon to his grandsire’s vast library for a quiet afternoon of reading and of conversation, over tea. Amidst the towering stacks of books, he’d discovered an elfling thirsty for lore, as well as for his wise father’s wealth of knowledge. Though he could not yet entirely formulate the questions that stirred within him, his normally timid little one had delighted in the opportunity to select books for bedtime reading with his brothers, to peruse the more indecipherably-titled volumes with a ready intellect at hand, and to wile away the hours as audience to his beloved Ada’s recounting. This private time had allowed Ciryon to display aspects to his character Elrohir had never even suspected; for the first time he felt himself anxious for his son to grow, so that they might fully partake of each other, in conversation, in debate. Other outings, such as fruit picking in the orchards with Brithor and a visit to the mines with Rohrith, had yielded similar treasures; he had not thought it possible for his love for them to deepen, but this beginning of intimacy, of friendship between them had trenched them even further into his heart.

Legolas, needless to say, was chomping at the bit for his own chance to indulge them, once their eldest was whisked away to the shore with his bonded.

A thought which refocused Elrohir on the task at hand. As the party wafted down the center aisle, his elflings gave their all. It was they who demanded another try, then another; all too conscious, suddenly, of their gangly, inattentive limbs. Though both Elladan and Elrohir, cautiously stifling their mirth, assured them that the crowd would enjoy them regardless, their tenacity was such that only Elrohir’s most eloquent description of the ceremony itself distracted them from their perfectionism. Elladan found their dedication all too charming, yet quite deftly collected them before the altar for the most sensitive portion of the rehearsal.

All four parents had thought the little ones had best be carefully forewarned of the blood rite that was to take place, as their proximity to the event would cause some concern. Elladan had gone so far as to procure the ceremonial dagger, the unsheathing of which widened their eyes considerably. As Elrohir calmly and intricately explicated the meaning of the gesture, he offered his open palm to his twin, who demonstrated how the hand would be cut. The elflings tensed some, but drunk this in as avidly as all their other lessons, so the elf-warrior proceeded to the more troublesome portion of the afternoon. Elrohir braced himself; his brother did indeed slit his hand, then sliced his own in turn. The elflings gasped at this sudden, startling gesture, but held fast against tears when they saw neither elf had even winced in pain. Snatching the binding cloth from within his tunic, Elladan then showed how the couple’s hands will be bound together, their bloods melded to signify the union of their bodies, in addition to their spirits. He was sure to cover how their feas would become luminescent, two golden auras forged into one white-hot effigy before their very eyes, which was their cue to quietly quit the altar and stand by with their fathers.

Three pairs of awe-filled eyes gaped at his final ruse, the unwrapping of their twined hands and the revelation to two pristinely healed palms. This strange evidence had unleashed a spatter of rabid queries: how could *their* hands heal if they are not bound? They are twins, Elrohir elucidated, bound forever in the womb. Will Tathren and Echo be brothers, then, by this rite? Nay, Elladan explained, they were not born together. They are marrying their feas out of romantic love, will live together eternally, not by design, but by personal choice. This last was a sticking point for some time, left unresolved by Rohrith’s typically daring inquiry: will our palms mend if we scratch and join them, as we are brothers? Elrohir’s pointed, disapproving stare accomplished what no amount of dissuasion could, the chastening of his most impish son.

Once their inquiries were suitably appeased, they cast off their dour faces and embraced their perspicacious infancy anew, only too eager to skip back up the aisle and race out into the lush gardens. Elladan wove a heartening arm around his soft-eyed twin.

“Fear not, gwanur-nin,” the elf-warrior reassured him. “There is time, yet, to embrace their elflinghood and enjoy their tender years.”

“Aye, there is,” Elrohir nodded, still somewhat resigned. “Too briefly had… but such a blessing.”

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With a rough intake of breath, Legolas cast eyes upon the most gallant, sure, and radiant elf in Aman that blessed day; a starchild of Eru if ever one was rendered, of Elbereth’s giving, gracious hand and Astaldo the Valiant’s hallowed potency, a perfect melding of elven elegance and of mannish might. Lionhearted. Adventurous. A lover. A survivor.

His ethereal son, the groom.

Tathren raised an anxious gaze up from fastening his swordbelt, as Legolas padded into his childhood bedchamber. His finery made and measured for the occasion, Tathren had chosen a formal uniform design for his binding day. Gold-dusted breeches of luxurious suede offset his mostly white attire: his ornate, intricately embroidered tunic, diaphanous shirt beneath, and sterling-bright boots. His cornsilk hair was woven in the fashion of Greenwood’s highest guard-captains, though he was crowned by a gold circlet of birch leaves, denoting his proper rank. He wore Oropher’s jewel-encrusted, ceremonial sword at his hip, which Mithbrethil had been only too proud to bequeath to him.

He was in every possible way glorious, this goodly son of his; Legolas was speechless before him, though Tathren could not help a wry smirk at this, ever the mischievous Mirkwood elf.

“Come now, Ada, and be heartened,” Tathren greeted him, bashfully beckoning him forth. “See what an awkward elf you have sired? I cannot properly latch my boots! Say nothing of lashing my laces!”

Once in closer quarters, Legolas did indeed perceive that the stunning elf before him was held together by faith alone, such a muddle had he made of his fastenings. Indeed, Tathren trembled almost imperceptibly, though Legolas would never have believed he would be so unmoored by the prospect of binding with his ten-years beloved. Yet he sharply remembered the queasy flutters of his own binding day, so entirely had he convinced himself that Elrohir would see clear and break with him at the last second. Even after the hot loving of the previous weeks, he had not been able to entirely digest the fact of his good fortune, that a Son of Elrond – one of such moonlit comeliness, such unctuous heart – had been willing to bind eternally with him, a green, lastborn wood-elf. With a soft chuckle, he set about righting the tangled knots, as Tathren struggled not to quake outright. His son raptly observed himself in the looking glass, not out of arrogance, but with the acuteness of one so besotted even the most oblivious detail must be perfected, before he could present himself to his intended.

Legolas knew he should make some conversation to distract him, but it was all he could do to focus on the laces and keep himself constant, so affected was he by thoughts, memories, echoes of another age. Curiously, he found that the tenor of his son’s loving reminded him of none so much as Aragorn, another whose wedding laces he had so tenderly tied, so long ago. Sadness skewered him through at such a dear, dire remembrance; he could only cling to the hope that, somewhere in the heavens above, Aragorn and Arwen looked over them this day, approving of the manner in which his eternity played out, of the joyous occasions their own blazing love had stole from them. That Tathren himself had been willing to forgo this day, this joy, for the benefit of thousands of other hearts proved him their equal, worthy of a place in the pantheon of the greatest lovers of elf and of man kind.

Legolas himself had no regrets about his own choice, about his own potential sacrifice for sake of his son. Though a year had now passed, he often reminded himself of the reasoning that led him to his father’s tent that blackest of nights, the crystallization of certain ideas that had longly flitted about his mind, during Tathren’s eight year absence. He had privately come to the conclusion that, were it not for his son’s impending birth, he would not have survived the War of the Ring. Before departing on his quest, he had long believed that the Valar had gifted Elrohir to him in exchange for the time he would spend at Mandos, that they intended his love as an early prize for his later valor, for the laying down of his life to Sauron’s dark mischief. Legolas had been so startled by the initial knowledge of Tathren’s siring, because it caused a rift in this perceived design. He was not supposed to grapple for the last strains of his life, to protect himself as well as his fellowship, to cling to the sparest *hope* amidst the mire of Mordor; he had reaped of the bounty granted to him, of Elrohir’s undaunted heart. The tiny, helpless seed he had sown held such power that it anchored him to the world, perhaps even the one ripple in the flow of time that caused Sauron’s downfall; or so Legolas felt, at times, so revolutionary had this child’s potential been to his existence.

He had almost squandered this saving grace through sheer disbelief, secreting a generous share of his heart away lest Sauron himself return for it. When Thranduil had invaded, just as he was beginning to feel secure in their peacetime, he had known - *known* as only a father could – that his time of reckoning was upon him. His son, his anchor and his salvation, would not be gutted like a feast-day boar before their giving gods, not in his place. In allowing such a golden child to be sired in such a fateful time, the Valar had pacted with him, charged him with the protection of their herald, of his shining one.

He knew, then and now, of his true purpose. He had acted in accord with Iluvatar above, and had again been blessed with survival, with the chance to be present on this hallowed day.

The dressings tightly bound, Legolas again regarded the stirring elf before him, eyes ever marveling at his miraculous rendering. Tathren caught up his now quivering hand, smiled sympathetically.

“Ada, you must not weep *before* the rites,” Tathren softly chided him.

“How can I help but weep from the wonder of seeing you thus,” Legolas remarked. “My little willow sprouted into such a strong, gracious tree, of lush leaves and of sheltering boughs. I’ve no doubt you will prove the finest of husbands to your mate.”

“If my manner is kindly and my loving fine,” Tathren assured him. “It is only through the most sterling of examples. Your own, bonded to my other dearly father.” After a sigh, Tathren’s smile dimmed some; he seemed to ponder a rather weighty matter, clutching hard to Legolas’ arms. “Ada… before I begin to forge a new life with my beloved, I would set to rest a point of… of concern, in regards to… I know you will not like to speak of such things on this of all days, but I would bury this question of mine, once and for all. I swear I will not speak of it after, not for the balance of my years.”

“How now?” Legolas inquired, surprised by his sobriety. “Please, ioneth, speak freely of what you would. I would have no wound left unmended between us.”

“I have not been wounded, Ada,” Tathren quietly explained. “But uncommonly blessed. I would only… give thanks for this secret blessing. Acknowledge its existence, this once, and be allowed my gratitude.”

“I confess, your meaning eludes me,” Legolas pondered, as he led them over so they might perch on the edge of the bed. “Tell me of this… blessing.”

Tathren took a fortifying breath, gripping his father’s hands for seemingly unneeded courage.

“Ada, I…,” he haltingly began. “I know… nay, in truth, I have but longly suspected…” He paused to center himself, to choose a righteous tact. “I merely wish to express my… my intense and unyielding gratitude that this day, in striking particular, will indeed come to pass. I know not how you convinced him to quit the vale, without any prize to pacify him, but I know… it could not have been ought but you, Ada, who went to him. Who bargained with him and bought my life back. I know not how to thank you, and I know you think I have nothing to praise in this action, nor do I believe you will even satisfy me with acknowledgement of its truth, but regardless of all these obstacles, I cannot let Arien dip below the horizon – not on *this day* - without paying tribute to he who… who so selflessly and in the face of such personal cost…who gave me life in wartime, and then in peace gave me my life again.” Unable to keep back any longer, he seized Legolas by the arms and ardently kissed his cheek. “Gerich veleth nin, Ada.”

Rendered speechless by the currents of feeling that threatened to wash away the last vestiges of his self-control, Legolas could only crush this beautiful, heartbreaking son of his against him, revealing in this iron, emotional embrace what his humility yet denied him.

When at last he corralled himself into some semblance of possession, he confessed naught but his relentless admiration.

“Live long and well with your beloved,” Legolas whispered to him. “Love him well. Venture forth over these lands and take your glory, but ever with him by your side. If you would pay homage to your fathers’ care, that is how we will take our tributes, son of my heart. My dearest, most brave and lovely one.”

He felt his golden son sink further into his secure arms, cherished this fleeting moment of warmth between them, before relinquishing him to his beloved’s care.

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

As they came to stand before the altar, surrounded by concentric circles of brothers, foremothers, fathers, friends, and family intimates, a reverent hush came over the collected elves.

For him, there was none but the darkling elf before him, no other in the world of air or of ether. Swathed in robes of velvet midnight, his skin gleaming as an ocean pearl and his spills of ebony hair crowned by a mithril circlet, crafted as a round of silmarils, he was the most immaculate creature Tathren had ever gazed upon, a pure heart fashioned by the grace of the Lady herself.

His one. His Echoriath.

The swirls of gathered elves cinched closer, cocooning them in silken layers of solidarity, so that their final evolution might be born in this womb, in the care of their ancestors above and their contemporaries about. Tathren let this heartening vision fade into periphery, his keen focus solely on the golden eyes that ever balmed him in acute adoration. There could be no doubt as to the breadth and depths to which he was loved, nor the sterling honor of the heart he chose to bind with. Already he felt the first filaments of their sought-after connection snake around him, a dew break over his skin from the rapidly rising temperature, as if he stood at once before a blazing hearth and was himself its flaming source. The elves about began to gently sway to the solemn notes of their grandsire’s sung incantation, they billowed forth and aft as petals in a gale. Lulled into a heightened fugue by their rhythmic undulations, the air about took on a sultry texture, thick and heady, as gushes of unctuous heat poured into him. The sears and whips of sheer carnality were mingled in the rush, but overwhelmed by utter, indelible bliss. A righteous fire swelled up within him, his churning heart impossibly engorged with feeling. Echo’s incandescent golden eyes became a beacon, a boon, a healing bath for his solitary soul and a flaming sea that would sweep him eternally away.

Without thought or hesitation, he dove in.

His fea surged, effulgent, and spurt forth with volcanic intent, as a hot wave of equally potent spirit engulfed him. He and Echo floated out of their scorching flesh, out of the gauzy hall, out of the current of time, stolen by the tide of their mutual feeling into the otherworld. There in that sacred, fluid plain, he ceased to be himself altogether, as their feas bled into one constant stream, one singeing flame, one impalpable essence. What he had been flowed into what they were, what they would be as one mated being poured back into their two exquisite vessels, both yet seized by a burning, near-unquenchable thirst for the bodily oneness that would be the final completion of their union.

Tathren was suddenly roused, from a rapt admiration of Echoriath’s ethereal loveliness, by the unlacing of their binding knot. He wrenched his eyes away long enough to mark that its silver length was flecked with their blood, the only evidence of the slice that had split his palm. He had not felt the dagger’s bite, nor even his hand being proffered forth. Echo was similarly startled by his unblemished skin, when Elrond tied the ribbon around his wrist to conserve it for their later loving.

With no little wonderment, he began to experience Echoriath’s emotional shifts as his own, as if his heart was influenced by the same forces and preoccupied by the same cares. He felt the spike of feeling when those eyes flittered over to Elladan, the swell of pride when they met Glorfindel, the tremulous but endearing connection when Cuthalion broke with tradition and squeezed tender at his twin’s arm. Tathren had been warned that this aspect only lasted-out the ritual’s completion, in their binding bed, but already he yearned for further hours of these compelling sensations, of this most intimate knowledge of his husband’s heart. The full knowledge of which he was made vitally aware, when Echoriath gazed upon him with incendiary eyes.

He felt the tremendous echo of his own heart’s swell within his enraptured beloved, the kiss that soon resulted smoldering, nearly sundering any feeble restraint that held them from completing their rites then and there. The ecstatic exclamation from their gathered familiars only served to further embroil them; only Elrond, who had experience enough of the ardor of newly bound elves, possessed the wherewithal to ease them gently apart and urge them to embrace their glowing families.

With a last, tender kiss to his forever mate, Tathren surrendered to the celebratory aspects of the day with an affable smile. He felt an euphoric peace, alive as never before.

His heart and home were now dearly, eternally kept within him.

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

They had all felt it, all fed from it as from a well in the desert. From the moment of their binding, the air simmered with it, blithe and intoxicating, each of them brimming with gentleness, caring, good cheer. Even now, as he looked back into the banquet hall to the long table, surrounded by his most beloved family, he could feel them basking in the pregnant air, ripe with such heady emotion as to render them all witless by night’s end.

Perhaps, he considered, this was the Valar’s ultimate intent.

Something unprecedented had occurred at the moment of Tathren and Echoriath’s binding; some overload in the higher plain or overspill from their melding. Every elf present soon found themselves rightly sodden with love, as if the normal strictures on intense feelings – which did keep the common elf sane, as one could not go about one’s affairs constantly afflicted by arduous affection, nor would said emotion be as special if one was perpetually subject to it – had been laxed to the point of ineffectuality.

Elrohir could not gaze upon his younglings without being seized by their beauty, upon his brother without the most strident surge of filial regard, upon his parents without an aching gratitude for their generosity in his rearing, to say nothing of the at once fiery and fearsomely devout love that welled up when he lay eyes on his luminous Legolas. He suspected Echoriath’s Maian wiles to be the cause, but wondered how the evening would play out. Already the table had been emphatically and entirely reduced to tears by five heartrending speeches in honor of the new couple. Unable to properly devour the sight of their beauteous mates or beloveds, they had instead feasted as if starved for a fortnight, tossing back rich mouthfuls of wine with abandon, gorging on fatted meats as if a lover’s inner thigh, savoring every juicy morsel as if the curve of a husband’s scarlet lip.

The children, thankfully, had not seemed to be overly affected, their merriment of the usual tenor, if not slightly tinged with fatigue. Their parents, however, had not been granted such a reprieve; in one tense moment, he had thought Legolas and Elrond might verily come to blows over the chance to curl their amiable Brithor into doting arms. He himself had been shamefully provoked by Nenuial nursing their ever-twinkling Tinuviel. Indeed, he’d escaped onto the balcony, for some useless, hazy air, to stop himself from objecting when Nenuial decided to retire. The children, thankfully, would rest with their mother and grandmother Laurelith this night, for he could not conscience exposing them to the raucous coitus in which he would soon be impelled to engage his deliciously wrought husband.

As the night had wore on, Tathren and Echoriath had struggled to keep their caresses chaste, their touches sober, their limbs from entwining too desperately. In witness to this strain, he had vividly recalled his own binding night; though at present he found he felt no different from that braising need for the claiming of his mate. In older times, an elven couple was allowed to complete the ritual in body but moments after its spiritual counterpart, to lessen the strain of the later feasting, but this practice had somehow gone out of favor. He admired his son his restraint; for if their loving could infuse the very air itself with heady, enthralling fumes, they must be suffering through some roaring fever for the sake of their family’s cheer. The Valar only knew how the vale would be infected, once they quit the feast and adventured forth, into ecstasy.

He only prayed he and Legolas were abed, with ample reserves of salve and without a stitch of cloth to hinder them.

As if summoned by his scarlet thoughts, the archer himself strode onto the balcony, with such a virile swagger Elrohir’s throat was immediately parched of moisture. Though he worried even the most fleeting of touches would be perilous to his own self-containment, he could not rightly keep from Legolas’ arms, whose lofty envelopment distracted him from any thought whatsoever.

“Elrohir,” he purred, as if claiming him by the mere utterance of his name. “You have abandoned me in a bed of lust-minded lovers, without my own comely mate to surreptitiously fondle.”

“The atmosphere was steaming up considerably,” Elrohir assented. “Has it come to a boil, at last?”

“Nay, but the cauldron bubbles hot,” Legolas rasped. “Tathren and Echo, to everyone’s astonishment, are by far the most restrained. Our children, gratefully, are long tucked away, else they may never recover from such a startling sight as their grandparents kissing with lingering indulgence. My brothers laze wantonly about the hearth, the golden manes of their mates spread unctuously about their laps. A conservative estimate of a dozen maids have called on Cuthalion and been dismissed, who himself twitches such in his seat that I fear he may very well snap the legs off. Even Erestor and Haldir are draped about each other as if already swathed in sodden sheets, while I will not dare describe the indecencies of Elladan and Glorfindel, as their mere conjuring may verily compel me to ravage you where we stand, melethron.”

“To say nothing of the woods around,” Elrohir added. “Do you mark the moans and keens emanating from the hollows, say nothing of the gardens below? Elves of all tribes have met with their beloveds in the forest deep, lured by the siren call of the one heart that beats within our son and his mate. They are groping and grinding under the starlight, in tribute to our married children, waiting to ride the aftershocks of their elemental joining. Have you ever felt such a thing, Legolas? Such… relentless passion. I fear it may very well drown us all.”

“I would drown in you, my beauty,” Legolas murmured, suckling his ear. “Let us bless our children and take our leave, Elrohir. I dare not fret over what may or may not come to pass; we are in the crucible of the Valar’s care, this night. They mean for us to know of their love through the reforging of our bond, and I, for one, need no divine excuse to besot myself with your loveliness.”

His spine sparked with delicious anticipation, Elrohir let his waking body convince his yet overcautious mind of his husband’s wisdom, in this. A night of fervent lovemaking should never be foregone, no matter what the impulse nor the consequences, of which he could not imagine there would be many, other than some creaking muscles, come morn.

“Well reasoned,” Elrohir smirked, rather wolfishly at that. “Come, then, my golden one. To bed with you! My desire will be caged no longer and I would ravage the whole of you with exacting care, this night.”

He peppered this proclamation with a bawdy kiss, then slunk back into the banquet hall, guiding his eager lover to table, to bed.

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

The breeze was salty sweet, coarse with sea spray even on such a balmy night. The ocean air had wafted inland for incalculable miles to wash over them in their most heated moments, cool those couples hidden in the woods beyond and the gardens below, as if come to worship.

Echoriath stood, bare, before the open window, its diaphanous blue curtains rippling like the surface of an unsettled pond. The Lord had honored them with a bedchamber in his own house, both to cater to their every whim and to offer them a ready sanctuary after their feasting. The room behind him was resplendent in amenities: a steaming bath, plumped bed, cupboard of spirits, night table of fragrant salves, satin robes sown by the doting Celebrian, and sarongs woven by Laurelith herself, as well as a veritable greenhouse full of lush blooms. Though he was grateful for these indulgences, this meticulous care, his mind was fixed on the flaxen-haired elf presently quarrelling with the latches of his boots. He himself had shed his robes in an instant - they were already hung in the wardrobe – and so chose to steal a tranquil moment in reverence of the night.

The humid air streamed like a waterfall over his skin, each gentle gush of wind wickedly teasing. The moist gusts carried with them moans, cries, keens, these aural pleasures like a bawdy chorus, singing in an unique and unforgettable voice of their love. Echoriath felt calm, centered as never before, imbued with a potential no other possessed within, to move, mark, and mate with his beloved as no other could. He would reap the bounty of his lifelong devotion, this night; all traces of anguish, envy, and the torment of isolation, of brilliance, banished forever. Lapsing into reverie, he played the most cherished images of their binding rites through his mind’s eye: the first sight of Tathren’s incomparable radiance, the glint of assurance in his avid gaze as he stepped onto the altar, how his face flushed when the first wave of heat assaulted him, its beatific glow after their melding.

Even now, in his serenity, he was nourished by their bond; able to summon the warmth of Tathren’s heart by the merest twine of his lips. At table, they had grinned as one, laughed as one, been concomitantly struck by some poignant anecdote and – more perilously – been tempted by the other’s incarnate presence with equal ferocity. They were, however, in no rush to quicken the proceedings, to thoughtlessly mate their bodies before fuelling their souls with unctuous affection. Though he presently displayed his rather sinuous frame for Tathren’s scrupulous perusal – hence the ongoing battle with his tunic laces – their coupling would not rightly commence until he was spared a moment for some tender troths the binding rites did not allow for.

Yet Echoriath was not entirely above speeding things along through smart, randy devising. He had observed that Tathren had loosed his breeches first, though had not yet dropped them down. Instead, a half-mast erection poked up between their spread flaps, not stiff enough to ache but needful enough to pose a considerable distraction, along with the temptingly naked husband before the window. Said husband, who relished the newly appellation as readily as he flexed his newly cinched ring finger, observed this gamely amusing sight in the pane’s reflection, then impishly chose to test the, ahem, effectuality of their esteemed wholeness. He dappled curious fingertips over his own puckered nipple, which caused Tathren to gasp sharply. Encouraged, Echoriath worried his nub to stinging hardness, then nimble fingers meandered over to the other, engaging in a similar assault. Before long, Tathren had ripped his own tunic off; though Echo, feeding off the sensations of his husband’s torment, gave up before they leapt upon each other.

He had no intention of loving Tathren with his yet unconquered boots on. As the golden elf bent restlessly to the task, Echoriath grew more daring. He gently palmed his own slow sprouting engorgement and raked the most innocuous of strokes along its swelling length. A familiar groan sounded from behind; in the mirror-pane, he watched with bemusement – and a hastily rising need – as Tathren rolled his hips in counterpoint with those agonizingly visceral strokes, his shaft turned a lecherous crimson. It was more difficult to stave off than he expected, as he was himself rightly roused, though his need was soon further stoked by the press of a firm, fully deployed body against his back. Covetous arms encircled him, as Tathren drank copiously from his crisp scented hair.

“My one,” the golden elf murmured, tightening the ready hold of his enveloping arms. “My Echo, my only one. I have often dreamt of this day, but somehow I could never rightly cast the sterling tenor of its spell upon me. I flame with love, but am warmed by your presence within; I desire you hotly, but am tempered by the endearing sight of my lovely, constant husband. My life’s mate. I am yours, bereth-nin, servant to your cares and resident in your heart.”

“As you are my way, melethron,” Echoriath vowed. “Even when you did not knowingly lead, I have followed: your example, your righteousness, your embrace of the world at large and of the myriad peoples within. Twas from you I learned graciousness, Tathren, kindness and civility. You whet my appetite for adventure, when I thought myself too poorly made to deserve such astounding experiences, and have guided me, guarded me, vigilantly and religiously, through every event of my life. I have worked for this moment, meleth-nin, my every task, every design, every creation in honor of your benevolence, crafted in hopes of deserving your eternal heart.” He turned within his arms, cupped his face to gaze upon his husband, his effort’s prize. “To feel you within me, to know you as no other can is a blessing beyond account… but I have always been yours. No other has moved me, meant to me, *owned* my heart as you. I wear the circlet of my father’s house, but I am crowned by the honor of your love and entitled only by the bond we forged this very day, bereth-nin. I love you. *Elbereth*, how I love you…”

He could not keep his lips from searing over his husband’s own, could not for another instant hold himself from backing him towards the bed. They were ruthlessly embroiled even before they fell upon its silken sheets, tumbling into a writhing mass of searching hands, twining legs, heaving chests, and pillaging mouths. Nipples were assaulted with feverish intent, necks suckled and buttocks kneaded, until both pelts of skin were blushed an impassioned scarlet. Each caress resounded within oneself, each sensual touch and bold maneuver felt as one’s own arousal. The fury of their loving was such that both quaked and shuddered as if in the thrall of spending, though they had not even yet begun to truly mate. Both wished this rowdy, rapturous foreplay could be drawn out for hours, but each shock of their members grazing together, each molten kiss and beat of their rabid pulse told of how desperately their bodies longed to unite.

Tathren, hoping to quell them some, elongated his strokes rather eloquently, until Echoriath purred like a cream-glutted cat. He caught a plump, ruddy lip between his own, then saucily tongued its voluptuous curve. Echoriath smiled dizzily at him, easing out of his embrace and lying languidly back, ready for and approving of his endgame. His golden eyes took on an almost innocent air, their admiring regard so suddenly pure, so lovely, that Tathren was reminded of their first night of loving. When Echo, with just such a gaze, had beckoned him on to a second taking. That clear, flawless stare had told his heart what his mind would only acknowledge weeks later; his cousin was hopelessly enamored with him, may even love him, so ardently that he had conserved his virginity until he alone might claim it. The first of so many gifts his precious one had bequeathed him, the latest and most cherished being their binding vow.

/Finally, I have paid him in kind,/ Tathren heartened himself with this thought. He bent down to snatch another kiss, before venturing to the night table to select a salve. During this strut, the taut cut of his buttocks and the feral sweep of his back did not go unappreciated by his husband, who flagrantly whistled his approbation, before giggling as precociously as the triplets. Upon his return with their favorite heather scent and the ceremonial dagger, Tathren knelt upon the bed and gathered Echo onto his lap.

Weaving lissome fingers through his loose sheathes of flaxen hair, Echoriath laved long, flirty kisses over his too-willing mouth, as Tathren positioned them for maximum pelvic friction. A groan rumbled over his lips, when he doused their laps with a generous slop of the salve, then worked the glutinous liquid over their turgid, tight-strung shafts. Echoriath rolled his strong, muscled hips into a grind matched by his tongue, their love-play now extended beyond any hope of propriety. His fea burned incandescently hot at the prospect of their joining, of the ultimate fulfillment of their bond and the transcendent pleasure this would evoke. Blood fled through his veins to vertiginous effect, his entire being shaking with the undiluted sensation of stimulation given and echoed within, of the effulgence of their blooming flames, of the revivifying of their shared fea.

The dagger scored into his palm, opening the invisible wound anew, then Tathren gripped their hands together and he was taken by the flood.

Echoriath bit into the kiss as he was pierced, tasting blood and lip and endless love, the unique and vital essence of his mate. He opened himself, heart to mouth to soul to sacred core, to be possessed by his husband, thoroughly claimed and utterly consumed, until the rapture overwhelmed his golden one and he spent deep within him. Echoriath felt the furious charge of his orgasm as if it was his own, but strangely was not finished by the doubly fierce release.

For him, the eruption blasted within; the strictures of his ethereal form melting fluid. Tathren was there with him, was in him, was one with him, his glorious being, his indelible love. Together they lingered on a cavernous sigh, then released a stream of potent, luxurious euphoria into the ether. While his physical body threw his lover over and mounted him in turn, the thrall of their soul’s pyrotechnic flame scorched the very air around them hot with lust, until each thrust pumped another blissful wave into the beyond, another intoxicating tide of ecstasy.

The roaring rush of emotion that poured from them kept on long after Echoriath was sundered by release and curled up with his husband in a languid embrace, whispering further troths until they were rested enough to love again.

Indeed, throughout the vale the elves of Telperion were besotted by a weird, wilding fever, which roused their senses such as rarely experienced outside of a lover’s bed and subsequently urged them to seek one out as soon as possible. The ale halls were soon thunderously cleared, as their patrons paired off with a likely prospect, as were the training fields, the gaming rooms, the guilds, forges, and forest walks not already staked out by those longtime lovers caught in carnal embrace. These last loved as if they’d never before lain with their dearly ones, so intently that they could not quit their beds, even as the dawn rose.

From the gong of that heady midnight, for the length of a day, another night, and until the following morn, lovers neglected their chores, let their children sleep (which they strangely did for the entire length of time), and lingered in their beds, lazing in dew-eyed admiration when not writhing at the loins.

The newly bound couple’s nearest kin were the most brutally affected. Though no otherworldly encouragement was required for Elrohir and Legolas to forget the day in lovemaking, they coupled with a frequency and fervor unmatched in their centuries of marriage; no act tainted as in the throes of the execrable lust-fever of years before, but each session only serving to intensify their own peerless bond. Elladan and Glorfindel barely escaped the Lord’s house in time to spare their son an admittedly not uncommon, though shameless view of his elders, though were stuck under a graciously accommodating elm until sunrise, when the dearth of nubile, grunting younglings around them quenched them long enough to reach their talan. Cuthalion was the most acutely afflicted by his twin’s sensual power, his vow of celibacy pummeled beyond recognition when he took three rather giddy maids to bed for the duration of this lust-frenzy. None of the three were ever after heard to complain, not of his wantonness nor of their intense satisfaction. Mithbrethil and Aneandrel got frivolously lost in the denser part of the woods, emerging an entire week later clothed in naught but strategically placed leaves. Luinaelin and his mate were among the compound dozens to beget another child, while the Lord of Telperion himself could be heard, roaring just a few halls down from his blissful grandchildren, though his Lady was too demure to let her passionate cries ring so.

As the rosy dawn peaked over the horizon that first morn of their marriage, Tathren and Echo sunk into a warm, restoring bath, into the other’s exquisite arms. Though lusty keens yet breezed through the window and they were glad to so inspire the vale to such bawdy expressions, they held no cares save for each other, for the life’s journey they’d begun, for the eternity stretched out before them.

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

One Year Later

As a dozy twilight, of filmy blues, burnished gold, and lush indigoes, sunk behind the misty, distant treetops, a mewl of primeval force was wrenched from the ellyth beneath him. Fatty, mucous-thick fluid was buttered over her inner thighs, spattered with gelatinous clumps of blood, though the limber gams flexed with meaty muscle. Her bulbous stomach seized again and she shoved the mass forward with all her might, her clammy brow clenched in leonine exertion, entirely focused on the being’s imminent expulsion, into the known world and into her covetous arms.

Elrohir muttered a silent prayer of thanks that the beleaguered ellyth had already birthed two healthy, and rather darling, elflings, who waited so patiently for news of their newest sibling in the Hall of Fire, where they had gathered all the anxious families. The last maid he had aided, just an hour ago, was a first time mother; twas rather difficult to concentrate on the safe passage of the babe, when the naneth regarded one as a virgin elf might regard a rape-minded orc, terror writ across every sodden feature. If he had had more ample time to prepare her, perhaps he could have somehow lessened her fear, but by this time the Halls of Healing were averaging three births per hour. As there were only three medics to perform the deliveries, one attendant of his own pregnant wife, the strain was considerable. Say nothing of tasks appointed to Glorfindel, Haldir, Legolas, and Thorontir, that of calming their ash-faced bereths, corralling the gleeful children some already had, and guesstimating which babe would be the next to emerge.

Which this little rascal, a tiger-lunged boy, did presently. He was a warrior elf if ever Elrohir had laid eyes on one, batting his deliverer with angry feet, squirming raucously in his placenta-drenched hands and squalling at gale force. With a wry chuckle as he wove him into a heated blanket, Elrohir reminded himself, not for the first time this exhausting day, that the task at hand was in essence a most pleasant one, even if he wished he had more of a chance to coddle the babes he guided through their birth-throes. Cuthalion and Elladan had been more fortunate in this regard, as they had replaced some of the nurses awhile and had been allowed to bathe some of the infants, while their mothers finally slept.

There was, however, no rest to be had this historic day – or night by the ever-darkening window – as after nearly eighteen hours of relentless birthing, they had only accomplished half of their estimate yield. As he mopped his brow with a cool cloth, he rued the moment he’d foolishly allowed Tathren and Echoriath to vacation at the shore, on this their first anniversary as bond mates, if only so that they could witness firsthand the miracle their love had induced one year ago. Erestor had esteemed that fifty-three babes had been conceived in the thrall of the love spell, before he had chuckled quite heartily at their school’s assured future prosperity. Elrohir wondered if he was still so amused by the strange circumstance, as he was, for the moment, the only other healer skilled enough to tend to the bevy of mewling mothers.

They had lost their third healer a few hours earlier, when his own wife had begot him a stunning daughter with all the grace esteemed of her, though he would return after a brief respite. Elrohir had not yet quite absorbed, nor entirely acclimated himself, to the arrival of his new sister, young aunt to a quorum of nieces and nephews at the very hour of her birth. He remembered all too vividly the night his Adar had invited them home for a nightcap, in order to confess of her conception. He had never seen his Lord and father so sheepish, so weary, yet even amidst his bone-core fatigue, there had been a wolfish spark, a glint of quicksilver in the argent eyes he’d bequeathed his beloved twins. Every member of the High Council had spent the last weeks dealing with the fallout, both happy and unfortunate, of the love-cast – as most had taken to naming it, the least of which was the realization that a veritable legion of ellyth were with child. When his Ada broke his own joyous news, he and Elladan had not quite known how to assimilate this altogether shocking development, though Elrond had quite graciously understood why they were not thunderstruck with elation. He himself had taken almost a week to fully digest the actuality of their situation, since he – as they – was rather reluctant to have another replace Arwen in his hearts. Through the following months, as the brethren had watched their Nana ripen, Elrohir had constantly reviewed Legolas’ own excellent reasoning on the subject, which was that he may have easily had another sister in the years after Arwen’s own begetting and he would not begrudge her now if they had always known her. Elrohir judged that he and Elladan simply needed some time with this new one, to coddle her and to dote upon her, and all would right itself. His parents had certainly reconciled themselves quite thoroughly and had welcomed their new child with a jubilation that greatly comforted Elrohir, naming her Lalaith in honor of the peals of giggles with which she had first greeted them, newly emergent from the womb. Doubly lucky was the fact that this second sister took after their mother in her sterling grace; indeed she looked more Cuthalion’s sibling than his own, as he and his brother resembled Echoriath more closely than his own fraternal twin.

Such were the wonders of family lines, on glaring and humbling display in these Healing Halls.

His silver nephew himself strolled into the surgery, balancing a babe in each bough-arm. He had charged into his chores like a falcon into the fray, preparing a quarry of bassinets in the patient ward, clearing the Hall of Fire for the families, commissioning blankets, pillows, robes both wee and large from every seamstress in the vale far in advance, and himself residing over the feeding and coddling of the new elflings, where he could. The elation that permanently lit his features, during their long night and even more strenuous day, had never once dimmed; second only to Glorfindel and Elladan’s glowing pride at seeing him so tender, so avidly engaged. Erestor was already musing over which teaching position would best suit him, while his brother pontificated, in between emergencies, on what a wonderful father he would be. Elrohir had to agree that the elf had indeed discovered his true talent, as long evidenced by Miriel and Orinath’s blatant worship of him.

“Our tally has risen,” Cuthalion informed him, his enjoyment of this incredible day writ large across his ruddy face. “Twins for your bond-brother, Luinaelin.”

“Twins in a Sinda line?” Elrohir sighed, shaking his head in abject incomprehension. “Unfathomable.”

“I have observed little this day that complies with the strictures of fathomability,” Cuthalion remarked pointedly. “Would you not agree, Uncle?”

“Most emphatically,” Elrohir smirked, as he stroked the plump cheeks of his two sweetly nephews. They were cherubs, both. “Yet we must not tarry long in conversation, there will be time enough for introspection on the morrow. Who is next?”

“None, for the moment,” Cuthalion told him. “Grandsire has sent me to inform you of his return. There are only two naneth who look particularly wan, which he and Erestor are most capable of handling. The others are long from bursting, or so the midwives predict. A warm supper awaits in Erestor’s office, which the triplets helped Laurelith prepare, so I would advise you to scour the stew for gooseberries… Grandsire will summon you if there is trouble.”

“Summon me a few steps before trouble, hm?” Elrohir smiled outright, as his belly twinged in anticipation.

He’d not eaten since a hasty fast-breaking shortly after dawn, during their first brief reprieve, each of which seemed to thankfully center around mealtimes. Kissing both babes - and Cuthalion himself - on their downy brows, he hurried into the blissfully tranquil study and swiftly shut the door. He eyed the billowy sofa, its burgundy cushions so enticing, but knew he must sit properly and dine slowly to restore his energies, then perhaps he could indulge in a short nap.

Peace, thank Elbereth, was momentarily his.

He sunk into the rather comfortable armchair behind the desk and took a long whiff of his meal, meticulously prepared by his tender, considerate ones. Even such a simple tray of foods was evidence of their reverent regard for him. The jam pot was one they had painted together, one rainy afternoon when Echoriath had delivered some malformed pottery for them to decorate; its flaws and striking colors only made him cherish it more. They had clearly instructed Laurelith that he preferred mulberry jam with his honeycakes, no radishes in his salad, an amarinth bloom to enliven the tray. In their lately obsession with artistry, they had even included a drawing, which a merry note indicated each had contributed a part to, also wishing he and Legolas well. With characteristic impudence, the drawing was a silent plea for them to begin archery lessons, as it depicted their extended family with bows raised towards a common target; even Tinuviel, in Nenuial’s arms, had her own tiny quiver. Elrohir derived as much pleasure from this gift as he did satisfaction from the gorgeous meal, which was, sad to say, too quickly devoured for true appreciation.

After a long, cleansing sigh, he curled up on the sofa, stealing yet another chance to admire his sons’ picture. Laying the parchment aside, he reflected on all the joy this momentous day had brought to the vale, all the families united, all the little ones to cherish. A new generation begot for the peacetime, of mixed race and of meaningful heritage, the best argument yet that elven society would thrive in Aman for ages to come. If the challenges of this current age were all so sublime, his eternity would indeed be thoroughly enjoyable.

Already other, longtime couples were considering their own additions; Elladan and Glorfindel among them. His twin had wanted a daughter something awful since Tinuviel’s birth, though Elrohir judged he might have to put aside his plans awhile, until their sister had aged some. His own grandchildren would come along eventually, though Tathren had sworn they would not even think on a child until at least a few centuries had passed and they had made their mark on the realm by constructing a vale of their own, further down the shore.

His eldest son was a constant source of pride to both his parents. In husbandry, Tathren was incomparable, save for Elrohir’s own vigilant mate, though their son did evidently take after the long line of devoted Greenwood nobles in his care and counsel of his mate. Even Thranduil, a current aberration in the trend, was once a husband sans pareil, having imparted this trait early to his three sons, each now so contentedly bound.

These musings made Elrohir think on his Legolas; he wondered what despairing father-to-be presently occupied him.

Relaxing further into the downy cushions, he fondly remembered their own scarlet time a year ago, caught in the fugue of the love-cast. After checking in on their slumbering babes, they had raced each other home, giddy with the night’s promise and seething with energy to expend. His fatherly pride had transformed into a need to dominate, to reduce his mate to the most malleable of lovers and to ride him to a blinding ecstasy. Legolas had given himself more candidly than ever before, all his barriers collapsed, his will at the mercy of Elrohir’s every whim. The elf-knight had, as was expected, treated him very kindly indeed, as Legolas was his dearest of all treasures. Their transcendent lovemaking in those early hours had reduced Legolas to quaking sobs and ardent troths by dawn’s brake, though it was their leisurely, sunrise stroll through the willow thicket, bare as was their custom, that loosed his tongue.

Elrohir had listened to his confession with rapt attention, though had been more concerned with its concealment’s effects on Legolas than on his own injury, of which there was none. He had been a warrior, a strategist, and was no great fool. When one’s husband returned in the early hours with inexplicable scars upon his neck, a cunning mate might not immediately press the issue, but nevertheless take time to recognize the un-admitted truth in his own heart. Though he had somehow, strangely, not felt Legolas’ departure from their bed that black, thundering night, as soon as he’d later woken to an empty bed, he’d feared the worst. He knew his husband’s nature better than any, there had been only one conclusion to derive from the immovable facts. When he’d found him there, black as a raven by the fire, he’d known both that they’d won the day and that the loss of his father plagued him still, as no other. What good would have come from admitting this in the face of his gallant’s lie? Twas Legolas’ charge to unburden himself, to give himself credit for the performance of such a sacrifice.

When Tathren had confronted him that afternoon, as Elrohir learnt in his confession, he had known he had misjudged the situation and had begged his husband’s forgiveness. He had only wanted to protect their son, to pay for his future on Thranduil’s inexcusable terms; as if Elrohir could not have reckoned why he would act thusly. The elf-knight had then made his own confession, of his suspicions, of his long-past forgiveness, of his admiration of yet another example of his mate’s inestimable valor. He had kissed him deeply, purely, given himself upon the high grass, so that all might be right with them anew. They had lingered there for some time, naked, loving, sharing such sensual passions that he had never wanted the day to end.

If only the love-cast could afflict them every year. Though, in truth, he and Legolas often boldly attempted to rouse it anew…

To his surprise, the golden elf in question presently slipped through the study doors, slinking over to the sofa with a tender smile on his face.

“And here I thought you arm-deep in some bloody womb,” he teased, as Elrohir sat to lure him into his arms. The gambit worked a treat, as Legolas soon enveloped him, easing his mate’s heavy head onto his shoulder.

“Not a breech among them,” he commented, after a yawn. “Indeed, other than a few first time nerves, there has been no great trouble. The Valar watch over us, this day. These are, more than any, children of Elbereth’s bounty.”

“Beauteous they are, indeed,” Legolas seconded. “I have just seen your sister. By Eru, she is a jewel! Like a drop of pure mithril ore, shimmering and sprightly.”

“Have you seen your brother’s twins?” Elrohir asked him, beaming. “Handsome as only Sinda sons can be, hardy as an oak even in elflinghood and hale as Greenwood in its prime.” He nuzzled the slender neck before him, his husband’s charms as innocently seductive as ever. “Nearly as comely as their uncle, my esteemed mate, though nowhere near as radiant.”

“They are of Oropher’s line, then?” Legolas inquired, though he was far more attuned to the quickening of Elrohir’s breaths.

“Aye,” the darkling elf whispered, before sneaking up to catch his waiting mouth in a slow, sensuous kiss.

Legolas’ smile broadened even as he embraced his husband; though they could not conscience intimacy in such a place, he was nevertheless glad to infuse Elrohir with some sustaining affection. His only regret was that they had spent the greater portion of the glorious day apart, unable to gasp in unison at its astounding events, clasp the other’s hand in secret complicity, be partnered in activity as they were in love. Deep, relentless, and immaculate love.

“Have I remarked, of late, on how your dedication inspires one and all, my beauty?” Legolas purred against his throat, where his eager lips had trailed down to and where hotly engaged in suckling. “A peerless example to our sons, a teacher to so many in the vale, my own gentle and giving instructor in the loving arts, in the art of love, in endless and never-ending things throughout the years… you are my very heart, star-rider.”

Elrohir blushed faintly at the intensity of this praise, found his husband’s soft mouth again.

“My Legolas,” he beamed, breaking off to regarded him with palpable adoration. “What manner of speech or turn of phrase will finally convince you of your inestimable valor, to this vale, to our children, to my heart and to our love? Need I remind you by whose action it is that we can cherish this day, and every day after, in peace? Who won back our son’s very life, ready as ever to sacrifice his own, the highest price of our happiness, to see our child survive?” Legolas sighed, reluctant as ever to take credit for his foolhardy action. Elrohir, seeing he would not budge him in this, instead proffered the parchment for his perusal. “If you will not take my word, then take some solace from this charming gift from our dear ones. Do you not mark, master archer, what activity lures them to distraction? Whom do you think they seek to emulate in these imaginings, they who have never seen me take ought but sword to arm?”

Legolas laughed quite emphatically, when he laid a studious gaze on the drawing, then snuggled in with Elrohir to further appreciate its hidden message.

“I see the crafting of some tiny bows may be in hasty order,” he observed, with no little pride. “Haldir and Rumil speak of similar proddings among their wilding ones. Perhaps the time has come to commence some light training, acclimate them to stance, hold, aim… though I pray these skills will be employed only in their leisure time.”

“As do I, melethron,” Elrohir hushly agreed. He replaced his head in the crook of Legolas’ neck, content to bask in his husband’s unparalleled warmth. “We have known such dark times, my brave one, that I never dared hope such an age as this might be upon us. Though it too has had its troubles, on days such as this, I cannot help but believe that it was our love, coupled with our valor and our skills, that saw us through. Our bond is, above all, Elbereth’s greatest blessing.”

Legolas’ concurrence rumbled through his chest, as he folded his elf-knight ever close.


End of Part Sixteen

***Brief epilogue will be added after Further Tales have been posted***