Requiescence

Title: Requiescence – Part Two
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: Legolas/Elrohir
Summary: An archery contest in Lorien brings Elrohir to his knees, with disastrous results.
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 Eresse, dearest friend, blessed writer, and shrewdest critic. Happy Christmas, indeed.

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Requiescence – Part Two

Lothlorien, Year 783, Third Age

By the blare of an eloquent horn, they were announced.

Cool as a pride of ivory-pelted panthers, the archers of grand Greenwood marched down the high road, lined with burnished mallorn trunks bannered by totems of all the noble houses, towards the elven sanctuary at the heart of the Golden Wood. The White Lady and her Lord would be host to a contest of bows, a prize more coveted by the wood-elves than any other quest or glory. To this purpose, King Thranduil had granted attendance to any soldier who wished to participate, thus ensuring that, while his realm would be the least secure during that fractious month, its talent was the most abundantly represented and its triumph ensured by the presence of his youngest son, the Prince Legolas.

The seasoned eyes of the Galadhrim observed this pageant of young colts, decked in willowy greens and fawn beiges as if to enable their derision, with equal parts contempt and desire, as they were the most comely among the various contingents gathered there. Yet the aged warriors knew they were also among the most agile and acute, as such they would temper their lusting until the crown was won.

The Sons of Elrond had chosen to watch the parade from up high, though not out of any need to gaze imperiously down upon their minions. Rather, they would conceal their presence, as well as keep prying eyes from marking even their most bland expression, for all about the vale knew of their great friendship with the young woodland prince. Elrohir was particularly keen to shield himself from the rumor-mongers, who read what they pleased into his numerous visits to Greenwood and excelled in wrongful interpretations of his current shunning of his sometime lover, the brave warrior Orophin. The mostly male colony behaved like a bevy of fishwives when they had mind to; those that fancied him were jealous of his vow of abstinence, while those without bonded could only be satisfied by pontificating on their malicious conjectures. As such, Elrohir the guardian was dressed in full battle armor, ready to defend the flawless honor of one who had never so much as cast a saucy eye his way.

Which was not to say that his friendship with Legolas had not flourished throughout the years. They were, if ought, thick as thieves, as blood-sworn brothers; comrades not merely in arms, but in the ale hall, on the training field, at the banquet table, or before a court of nobles. When apart, they engaged in a lively correspondence, Legolas never failing to record a jest, a tromp, or a ruse in his diary, as he tended towards a quite mercurial nature. Yet he also did not fail to solicit Elrohir’s counsel on the requisite occasions, though his advice often regretfully arrived too long after its beckoning to be of use. That Legolas admired him was a given, that he was devoted to him could not be countered, that he adored him was unquestionable, but any who enjoyed their company would immediately recognize that the woodland prince did not bear his friend ought but the most fraternal of regards.

Elrohir wished his heart was so easily resolved. Though he was still ably and ardently pledged to his quest to silently serve Legolas until the end of his days, with every visit to Greenwood he’d grown more besotted with him. His brash and sprightly youngling had matured into an undaunted elf, of such giving character, impish wiles, elegant bearing, and shrewdly-wielded prowess that all in his realm revered him. Including the giddy gaggle of maidens that awaited him home from every patrol, that cheered him on at every duel, that flounced about the stables waiting for his return and that fainted after a dance at one of the festivals. Even the King himself had become somewhat bewildered over this silly response to the potent beauty of his youngest son, which had thankfully given Legolas an unlikely ally, though the prince was far too kind to be sharp or rude with them. Instead, he avoided them as best he could and sought his bed-partners elsewhere.

With the same ache that overcame him every time his mind mused upon Legolas’ carnal pursuits, Elrohir deliberately reminded himself that his friend’s appetite for the erotic still went unchallenged among his peers. True to her word, Nenuial had, through weeks of steamy sessions, fashioned him into a lover of considerable means, or so the serving maids of the Greenwood royals soon discovered, much to their apparent delight. Though hardly a wanton, Legolas relished the chance to relieve himself of the pressures of entitlement by taking a nubile lady to his bed, especially after a lengthy patrol, an endless oration before his Adar’s advisors, or if some conflict arose. In late adolescence, he had been known to frequent the servants’ quarters exclusively in the evenings, lured within seconds into the bedchamber of whatever maid spied him first. He was casually sought among them, for they by no means wanted to forgo his attentions by demonstrating the desperate fervor of his mob of giggle-headed worshippers, and they kept his secrets well; for both reasons he would oft linger among them until the wee hours, sated of his desires but enjoying the frankness of their conversation.

That he oft remarked to Elrohir that the commonality of their discussions recalled to him the ease of the elf-knight’s own counsel was a prick the feathery stuff of his pin-cushion heart received without cry of protest, nor proper recovery. Every time Legolas complained that these indulgences did much to assuage his nervousness, to relieve his tension, or to happy him companionable, but did naught else, he would examine and review every word of his grievance for the minutest shred of evidence that what he was missing was the love of a strapping male. There was never, there was none. Legolas had been, in recent years, anxious to be enthralled by a love relation, but this would inevitably be with some lithe ellyth whose beauty struck him cold. His was an elemental spirit, true, yet without much nuance in terms of romantic intent. As any prince of worth, he wished to be decently bound, to bear his mate much love, and to serve his people through his union. He oft resurrected the notion Elrohir had once advanced that he would seek his answering heart elsewhere than in Greenwood, for he knew this would greatly richen his realm; as such he routinely bemoaned that his Adar had not assigned him any diplomatic mission or errant commission since their journey to Imladris, all those centuries ago.

Elrohir was only too keenly aware that, upon his advent in Lorien, the lion’s-share of Legolas’ focus would be not merely on winning the contest, but on scouring the realm for a lady fair.

He feared the young prince would be gravely disappointed, though he himself was only too glad for the reprieve of lashes to his ailing spirit each flirtatious glance aloft would unwittingly fling at him. Lothlorien was an autumnal realm but leagues from the shadow-front. Any ladies about were inevitably bound, few as yet were widowed. These longtime warriors had seen battles galore, had grown their children, oft stood in rank with them. There had not been a birth in the Golden Wood since its foundation; indeed, it was said that the power of Nenya forbid it, in order to preserve the unwavering focus of its defenders. Few of the Greenwood warriors would do ought but quench their yearning with potent wine come revels, or perhaps be open enough to allow a sure touch to acquaint them with the delicacies of the ancients. He dared not even contemplate such a consequence for Legolas, who would instead bunker down nights with his twin confessors, taunting them at the Battle Game, prodding them for news from Imladris, and generally avoiding the lecherous glances that would no doubt assault him the instant he set foot in the vintner’s hall.

Such as those currently oozing over him as he rode, with a regal pride he affected only to intimidate his opponents, down the mallorn-laden path, shining as pure as the light of the Silmaril that nightly graced the heavens.

From upon his perch, Elrohir begged his heart to cease its pounding, his stomach to stifle its queasiness, and his knees to remain rigidly set. His longing was an acrid taste in his mouth, tempered only by the sink of his incisors into the soft flesh of his tongue. Yet he was no fluttery maid to be so affected by the mere sight of his beloved. His response was prompted entirely by a ferocious emotion repressed for so incredibly long. Like a caged warg, who gored himself even as he struggled to escape his bonds, his innards were thrashed pulpy even as they remained shackled with tension. He was yet again stricken by the futility of his quest, for he had anew begun to vent his frustration in spurts of visceral brutality. Thankfully, these were entirely aimed at orcs, beasts, or other shadowspawn, though a few brigands had suffered his wrath. He was unsure how long he could truly keep himself chained, or chaste. At times he had considered a quick, raucous bedding to subside him, but the thought of touching another so intimately repulsed him, as did even the comeliest suitors. Legolas held such a strangle-hold upon his heart that he could not even glean on another.

By turns, he felt himself selfish, mad, spelled, or witless, but then he had just to look to Elladan and he knew he was not alone in his sacred vigil. They were twinned in this as in naught else, this stupefying penchant for pining, as if the Valar had already decreed with whom they should be wed and had branded this to the very essence of their souls, so that once they encountered their one, there could be no other allowed even momentarily within.

Wretched in Legolas’ absence, he had been lately afflicted by lurid, impressionistic dreams, which caused such a scalding surge of his seed that he oft woke achingly stiff, yet soaked lubricious. To say naught of his scarlet imaginings when he deliberately brought himself forth, his salacious mind conjuring the most fevered of scenarios in which he repeatedly and unerringly seduced Legolas. When in Greenwood, he had oft feared that his roving spirit might reach out to haunt its golden prince, wafting scandalous thoughts into his vulnerable unconscious. Legolas had never even whispered of such a notion to him, so he had abandoned the thought, yet part of him also secretly hoped to rouse an unwitting curiosity in his love through such spectral means. Indeed, the elf-knight often eased himself into such a state in order to weaken his inhibitions, so he might do his worst in dreaming and thus amplify the power of his release. Yet the end, even of intensifying his pleasures, was to vent himself of his wrongful desires, of his misguided love.

He was yet unsure if he could truly weather the weeks to come. What he wanted most hotly was for Legolas to be free of any and every burden, even the imposing of his unbearable affections. He treasured him as no other, this rare pearl of the Greenwood wilds, so he would not fail to protect him, even from his own questionable designs. He loved him such that it bettered him, primed him, elevated him to previously unfathomable heights of nobility.

He had to strive, most of all, to remember that.

From upon his snowy steel, Legolas peered heavenward. Upon sight of him, the woodland prince’s crystalline eyes were lit iridescent; even in bold sunlight, their sparkle was exultant, immaculate. They shone with a feeling such as Elrohir had never known before, of a brother who was not kin, of a student he did not rightly mentor, of a companion as true as a mother’s love. Yet he was not brother, nor mentor, nor parent to this Greenwood child, but simply, purely dear. Twas all Elrohir could do not to vault over the rail and plunge to the forest ground below, if only to hasten the vice-clutch of arms around him, the rumble of laughter up the chest he squeezed, its warm skip over his shoulder.

Whether such a ruse would be met by greeting heralds, or prompt his grateful demise, he could not surely say.

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

Under the canopy of the broad mallorn leaves, the sun-blighting shade harbored a boreal humidity not uncommon to the Golden Wood in summertime. While the elves lounging about the green in diaphanous blouses and cotton trousers imbued the glade with an air of lazy tranquility, none mistook their casual dress for a serenity of occasion. Instead, all eyes were raptly locked on the practice ground, where a dozen randomly selected competitors warmed their travel-constricted muscles and plied their creaky bows. The moisture in the air was not conducive to the accomplishment of the more gymnastic shots, nor was the wetness particularly good for the accuracy of flints; as such, many fumbled for the poise, elegance, and fluidity that normally would be second-nature to them.

Sprawled across a particularly bushy patch of grass beneath the lone beech in the glade were the princes of Greenwood and of Imladris, bantering amiably as they observed the comical proceedings. His languorous stretch across the gentle slope allowed Elladan a perfect view of another, far more subtle contest: the battle of restrained affection between his brother and the woodland prince. While Legolas’ affable countenance belied the precision with which he studied his opponents’ antics, for he was dedicated to bringing such a valued prize back for his people, he was also not unaware of Elrohir’s proximity, though how deeply and physically this might affect him Elladan was loathe to define. Unlike his forlorn twin, he was not entirely convinced that Legolas was either oblivious to Elrohir’s softness for him or uninterested in pursuing a relation. While this was naught more than an impression, an intuition based on the nuances of the young prince’s cunning and esteemed character, he was also undecided as to whether such a relation would indeed be beneficial to his brother, and so kept his suspicions to himself for the present time. Yet there was no harm in stealthy examination.

Elrohir, for his part, basked in his friend’s closeness, in the aura of confidence he projected with ease, in nearly too discernable a fashion for comfort’s sake. The Galadhrim were too wise and too arrogant a group not to note the pregnant looks his twin routinely beamed upon the Prince of Greenwood under the guise of truest friendship. They were also far too covetous of Legolas to allow such a tight-hewn suitor to usurp their overture, though they best take care in how they approach him, for if they prove too fresh with him, they are libel to find themselves confronting two of the most lethal warriors in Arda, and one utterly consumed by wrath. Yet Elladan was too heartened by his brother’s ease of manner to entirely blame him for relishing this chance to dote upon Legolas some. Some nights he was so inconsolable in his hard, repressive state that the elf-warrior could feel the trenchant bite of his anguish from his own bedchamber. Elrohir was also so obsessively vigilant about keeping himself counseled, both before Legolas and in public, that he oft thought he merely understood his inner-workings too well not to read them upon his face, that others would miss what was glaring to his fraternal concern.

Legolas, however, was just as attuned as he to Elrohir’s moods, which did worry him some. While he sensed that the woodland prince may be slowly becoming more willing to expand his carnal horizons, there was no certainty that his sights would be set on his steadfast elf-knight, nor that he would act honorably towards him if they were. There was a great chance that, through ignorance or insecurity, Legolas might just sink the blade in deeper, though he would not purposefully do so. Yet Elrohir would be fatally wounded all the same. Courtship was such a precarious notion, little wonder he himself did not seek to satisfy his own heart. There were simply to many obstacles to cleanly hurdle over.

“Elbereth, but they are an unseemly lot,” Legolas shook his head sheepishly. “My drill master would rather have flayed them than seen them perform so pathetically. From where do they hail?”

“From Lindon,” Elrohir answered him, without even a glance towards the field. “Tis passing strange that a bit of moisture fouls them, when they come from the seaside.”

“Wait until two bells,” Elladan remarked. “Haldir and his brothers will be upon the course. They will give us a show!” Legolas nodded sagely, while Elrohir scoffed at their mention.

“Even they will be no match for our Greenwood gelding,” the elf-knight insisted. “Indeed, I have considered withdrawing from the competition altogether, so as not to be bested by some novice archer with too much seed to spend.”

“Nay, Elrohir, you will do well!” Legolas exclaimed, upset that his friend would accept defeat so readily. “I cannot say for the Galadhrim, but there are none in my company who could top you. If ought, I had hoped that we three might trump them all!”

“Elladan will place well,” Elrohir noted, failing to appease the young prince. “Twill suit me to see you crowned together. I care not for personal glory, only that you deservedly triumph, gwador.”

“If victory comes at your expense, meldir, then perhaps I want none,” Legolas offered, but his impish smirk told otherwise.

“My, but the air is rank with martyrdom!” Elladan mocked them. Legolas laughed outright, but Elrohir gave a faint smile. “The grisly gray favors my brother’s temperance, but you, Prince of Greenwood, have never been known for your overabundance of humility where archery is concerned.”

“True enough,” Legolas conceded, his cheeks pricked with rose.

Elladan was of mind to be a slight bit persnickety, what with Elrohir veering on the maudlin. He knew of just the topic to liven things up. For all his fraternal regard for the woodland prince, he did love to tease him wretched.

“Indeed, tis a rather miserable state of affairs for our poorly opponents,” Elladan brightly opined. “For your victory will not only wound their redoubtable honor, but deny their lecherous hearts. A double injury! And this, in their very own homeland realm!”

“*Elladan*,” Legolas chuckled good-naturedly, gone scarlet. The elf-knight, however, was essaying a furious shade of brimstone red. “You, gwador, are precariously close to being denied my seconds.”

Elladan sniffed indignantly back at him, but was actually quite chuffed by his smart retort.

“I assure you, greenling,” he shot playfully back. “I need no seconds of yours to sate me. I was bedding in this vale before you were but a twinkle in Elbereth’s eye.”

“Then perhaps, O Wanton Sage, you might deign to advise me on the more commendable selections about,” Legolas invited him, with a more bashful smile.

“Alas, there are none so rare as to delight one of your refined palette, Legolas,” he sighed, with feigned resignation. “Verily, gwador, I regret that there is not an unbound maiden to be had in all the Golden Wood.”

Legolas drew a surprisingly deep breath, before replying: “I spoke not of maids. I know well enough how to hunt the wilds of that savage region. I was thinking of a more elusive form of beast.”

If the archer registered Elrohir’s stillness, his silently screaming constriction of muscle, then he gave no sign. Yet that he waited on some response from the elf-knight was evident to all but his thoroughly shocked brother.

After a moment, Legolas pressed them: “Will you not advise me, my friends? Surely two who have so fervently sung the praises of manly loving can offer a reasonable estimation of those about who might… might be kindly. Passionate. Instructive. Gentle. Giving… I seek only one of decency and skill.”

Twas then that Elrohir spoke, and tenderly as a lamb.

“Forgive us, Legolas, but we cannot conceal our astonishment,” he told him. “If we may pry some, what has prompted such a bold decision from you?”

The woodland prince considered his response, sinking inward before gazing up to meet Elrohir’s stormy eyes with calm, clear blues of his own.

“Interest, I suppose,” he confessed. “Curiosity, but not a childish one. In truth, I have always desired to experiment with my own gender, but Greenwood is too restrictive a place to do so. As you remarked upon one particularly critical occasion in my evolution, Elrohir, tis often best to dally outside of one’s homeland realm. I had no chance of doing so before, nor did I judge myself sufficiently experienced in the bed-arts to engage one so strong, so intense as a fellow warrior. Plainly said… I have come to tire of my maidenly exploits. I enjoy the release of such encounters, but little more. I long to…” He dropped off, obviously too embarrassed to explicitly detail his desires, especially in a forum so prone to interlopers. “I am not certain that I will find what I seek in the arms of a male. Perhaps I want only the blush of love, the balm of my forever one in whatever form they may take. Yet no heart was won through complacence! So I forge daringly ahead, over new ground.”

“You are a marvel, Legolas,” Elrohir complimented, finally allowing a soft glow to overcome his features. “I must give the matter some thought, but I resolve to offer you good counsel.”

“I, too, will think on a proper suitor,” Elladan confirmed, though wondering if he could somehow probe the younger elf without revealing his brother’s interest.

“I expected no less solidarity, my friends,” Legolas smiled warmly. “Indeed, I am heartened by your unfailing care.”

“Unfailing and everlasting,” Elrohir underlined, settling back into repose and letting his gaze drift out towards the field anew. Legolas’ eyes lingered upon him just a second too long to completely dissuade Elladan of his budding interest, though they soon dropped into his lap.

The restrained emotion upon his brother’s face, however, was unmistakable. Even one as unlearned in the ways of woe as Elladan recognized the descendant gloom of mourning upon those grim features. He resolved himself, then and there, to rouse his twin’s too-cautious heart from its self-imposed catatonia. Legolas had lain himself out before him as blatantly as if he’d stripped down and spread across his coverlet. Though he would not admit to more than curiosity, there had been a vital question in the archer’s eyes just now, one only the daring he spoke of could rightly answer. An eternal, elemental question, which ages of lovers had battled along with their own doubts, reservations, and insecurities.

‘Could this be love of a different tenor that what I had first imagined?’ the woodland prince had asked his childhood friend, in every way but the most needed.

Before duty parted them anew, Elladan would see that he had his twin’s most emphatic reply.

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

As a fourth and redundant chorus of ‘Cuthalion, the Silver Bow’ rang up to the swooning glow lamps, the cacophony of bellows, boasting, and indignant roars swelled to such a disagreeable volume that the mighty mallorns above ruffled their verdant plumage in upset. The sway and swagger of drunken warriors when they caroused was ever a precarious circumstance, even in such a strict and affable realm as his Greenwood home. Here in Lothlorien, even the most tempered revelry was made dangerously toxic by an atmosphere rife with undercurrents of brash flirtation and brawny sexuality. The Galadhrim were not merely comrades in arms, but lovers, lechers, and, worse of all, vanquished this day by the youngest of their competitors.

Elrohir’s premonition, as well as his own prowess on the archery ground, had proved deadly accurate. Legolas had blazed his way through the ranks until he had faced down the gifted Rumil that very afternoon. He had shot up his victory with incomparable ease, which did not sit entirely well with the famed Beregilion’s fellows. Those that did not currently spear him through with piercing icicle eyes harbored resentments of a far more primal tenor, for Legolas had systematically, though with ever-gracious politesse, refused every single one of their carnal overtures over the course of the three weeks he had sojourned there. In this, Elladan’s taunting portents had become a fretting reminder that had caused these courageous archers, and perhaps future allies, the double injury of winning their crown and scorning their beds.

Yet the more spirited among them remained undaunted in their pursuit of him. Much to the delight of the guardian princes that flanked him behind the long oakwood drinking table, every intermission between the raucous lays and soggy ballads sung out by the rowdy soldiers saw one brave soul stand uneasily to toast their comely victor, heralding his beauties as he would not dare praise the Lady herself. That this was commonly followed by yet another goblet of ‘their finest wine’ was some recompense to the vivid embarrassment that only deepened the colored upon Legolas’ cheeks. By late in the evening, he was fumbling for further phrases through which to thank them, but still subtly deny them, a fluency that was not aided by his own generous consumption of the rich, potent vintage.

Cautiously sliding his latest cup over towards Elrohir, for he would not be able to stand if he continued at such a pace, he took the rare chance of this lull in the celebration to reflect over his time in the Golden Wood. Thoughts of the elf-knight loomed large over his recollections. Ever was his great friend the most genial of companions, the most attentive of confidants, and the most constant of supports. Though not even his valued peredhil twosome were aware of a nuance to his nervousness, the stakes for the Prince of Greenwood had truly never been higher. While he had not been derelict in his duties to the woodland realm, his Adar-King was beginning to chafe at his inattention to council matters. That quarrelling over food stores, barter goods, and the like held a nullity of interest for such a born warrior as Legolas made little difference to his supreme ruler. That the prince had not asked to be brought into such a burdensome house was of even less import to the incidental king. He had been threatening of late to confine Legolas to the Home Guard and to appoint him Chief of Household if he did not obey his simple attendance requests, so proof that he was an invaluable archer for the realm was absolutely vital to his continued service to his people.

Elrohir had been his titan throughout the competition, assuaging his doubts, accompanying him to exercise, and finding innovative ways to channel his uncharacteristic nervousness. While those princely cares did weight upon him, Legolas was even more wrought by the lack of tension release available to him in such a male-dominated realm. He may have suggested to his friends that he would sample the company of males upon his arrival in the vale, but none of the potential suitors they had presented him had so impressed themselves upon him that he had felt compelled to pursue them. The evolution of his desires had come about more organically, twas more of a general attuning to the fit and feral bodies about.

As he surreptitiously gazed about the vintner’s green, he felt the familiar tickle up his inner thighs, the sagging of his bollocks and the swimming of his innards that signaled he was in the presence of one – or, in this case, many – who tempted him. Far from desiring one particular ellon, he had rather been awakened to the sensuous aesthetics of virility; the juts and racks of male bone structure, the meat of sculpted muscle, the taut hide of skin, and the strut of hips bearing a considerable slab of phallus. The swarthy musk of males had also begun to lure him into fantasies of slick and sweat, though none was more viscerally rousing than the raw alchemy of rugged manliness and fecund elvishness than the scent that permeated his two peredhel friends.

To stretch, sprint, and spar with Elrohir in the early hours of dawn was both a useful outlet and an excruciating torment to him. Practical in that the exercise primed him perfectly for the day’s challenges. Yet to watch that powerful, sinuous body move through the air was the purest form of poetry Legolas had ever known before. The effect upon him had warned him away from any of the pretenders that the twins so kindly served up before him, for even those blessed ones could not command his senses as ruthlessly, yet unwittingly, as the ethereal Prince of Imladris.

Therein lied the rub. Elrohir was the noblest of elves, sworn to him as fellow and as spiritual brother. He would never dare a liaison with him, not when the consequences could be so dire as the smiting of their friendship, especially when Legolas could not promise him more than the most tentative of experiments. As such, the archer had initially resolved to dabble with another before undertaking such a foolhardy assault on the affections of his elf-knight. Yet the more prospects that were trotted before him like the most uxorious of show-horses, the more he inwardly begged to retreat into the solace of Elrohir’s hardy, if chastely meant, embrace. To dally even with these comely ones would be to conjure up yet another hollow release for their pleasure. He intuitively sensed that, with his darkling friend, the pleasures would be myriad, abundant, fiendishly sating and emphatically shared.

A shiver slithered up his spine when Elrohir rested a summoning hand upon the small of his back. The elf-knight regarded him with amusement shining in his eyes, but something more poignant, more hesitant lurked behind. Legolas instantly recalled his rather inappropriate and instinctive action that afternoon; the strange response it had elicited in his friend.

Elrohir, fresh from his own third place triumph of Elladan, had slipped into Legolas’ tent to check on the state of him. Still crowned by his silver laurel, his hair strewn with the pearly buds tossed by the crowd, he looked nothing more splendid than a groom on his binding day. Already concerned that the onlookers would not favor him whilst he was competing against Rumil, Legolas had been further frazzled by his friend’s lush features. His stare had been locked on this jubilant, enchanting creature as the elf-knight sought to calm him through gibes, compliments, and the usual practicality. Before Legolas had realized the impulsiveness of his own actions, he had launched himself into Elrohir’s steady arms and crushed him into a fierce hug. Fortunately, his friend had merely laughed off the awkwardness of the moment with a cunning jest at the archer’s expense, but had also curled his arms quite possessively around him and held him longer than was strictly necessary. Legolas had buried his face in that downy neck and murmured his misgivings, which had only prompted Elrohir to clench him with increased ardor. Neither had quite known what to say when finally he had slipped away, though Legolas had had to bite his lip to keep from ruining the moment by kissing him. The elf-knight had appeared nothing more than thoroughly and profoundly confused by the gesture; the woodland prince had abandoned him without comment to heed the call of the gaming steward.

Their reunion upon his victory had been buoyed by exultation, from which he had yet to entirely descend. Yet here he was, the conqueror, upon the vintner’s ground, amidst uproarious celebrations, before a throng of predators, gazing into the most penetrating eyes he had ever suffered upon him and idiotically wondering if they beckoned him into a kiss. Twas as if, luminous under the lamp glow, he was perceiving Elrohir for the first time as he was, or perhaps as he had prayed for him to be these last weeks; not merely friend, confessor, guardian, and braveheart, but a potential lover. The realization that this was his greatest wish, his most compelling desire, shocked him some. He implicitly felt that there were even more cavernous depths of emotion to explore within himself, which both terrified and delighted him. He could very well be in the early stages of the love he had so longed for, discovered in the unlikeliest, yet most obvious, of his amicable relations. Legolas was ever charged by the invitation to adventure, and a romantic journey was perhaps the greatest of these he might ever embark upon.

Yet where to begin? Typically, he was plagued by his ever-cloying innocence in these matters. He was only mildly comforted by the fact that Elrohir had long admitted to him that he had never truly loved before. Was it pompous of him to assume that he could attract such a hallowed heart as his elf-knight’s? Was it foolish to dismiss their friendship as the first stirrings of a burgeoning affection, as easily evolved into more effluent emotion, as recoverable with facility should their love relation fail? He reeled at all the leaps and bounds of intuition he had made within the life-span of a mere glance from his darkling friend, who was beginning to regard him as if he had jaundiced.

With a smile of feigned serenity, he wove an arm around his friend and cinched them closer.

“Do not say that you mean to retire,” Legolas playfully chided him. “Tis but gone nine bells.”

“Nay, I merely thought to fetch you some water to temper your rabid consumption of wine,” Elrohir clucked, then pet his golden mane with something more than mere fondness. “I know you of old, Prince of Greenwood. A few more cups and you will dance until sickly.”

“Yet there is no dancing to lure me forth,” Legolas reminded him, though had to admit he did feel somewhat sluggish. “And the wilds of warriors about are far too treacherous for me to venture out of our close circle. Though I might be persuaded to sing, if the tune is lively. Best fetch a trough, gwador.”

“You are an imp,” Elrohir smirked, with unbound affection. “Incorrigible.” He smoothed such a tingling touch down Legolas’ back that he nearly purred in response. “They appear to have laid out some honeycakes. Would those suit you?”

“Aye, I’ve need of some sweetness,” Legolas remarked softly, but this had a brute, bracing effect on the elf-knight. He slipped away almost apologetically, not daring to glance back once he was rightly gone.

Legolas sighed heavily, stared absently out at the throng of revelers about. A multitude of pairs of eyes glared back at him, some menacing, some covetous, and some craven. Another celebratory goblet was plunked before him, fragrant with the enrapturing bouquet of rich Dorwinion vintage.

He had no choice but to drink, swift and deep, to fortify himself for the aching night ahead.

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

“As you have doubtlessly surmised by this late hour in our friendship,” Elrohir began, but was greeted by another trill of titters from his sozzled companion. “I was quite the terror in my late adolescence. Once upon a dulcet winter day, I was chasing a rather spirited maid through the southern woods, but was having no luck in trouncing her. She, the tart, was taunting me by exposing patches of her skin before she would dart off again; a kick of leg, a slip of neck, a puckered nipple, an entire breast if I was very close.” Despite himself, he licked his lips at the memory of that giddy afternoon. “Done with my pursuit, I feigned to stalk indoors, but at the stone steps she pounced upon me. A lift of skirt and a snip of laces, and I was within her. She especially liked the crunch of snow as I pounded her down onto the stairs, but liked much less when this was melted by our heat and her bottom was nearly stuck to them. Such would have, to be blunt, been rather inopportune.”

“Indeed,” Legolas snorted, his cheeks crimsoned from the many, many goblets of wine he’d consumed. “I have one better. My Adar’s throne.”

“I presume she bowed in servitude before your regal grace?” Elrohir snarked, downing a gulp from his own cup to dampen the images this notion sowed in his too fertile, far too sauced mind.

“Aye,” the archer proudly embellished. “Before I screwed her into those spongy cushions. We left a rather telling stain, but curiously this has never been remarked upon.”

“They can hardly trace the stench back to you,” the elf-knight wryly commented. “But have you never attempted anything more… mobile?”

“Mobile?!” Legolas retorted, wriggling up into a more steeply reclined position on the divan so as to better attend him.

“On a horse, perchance?” Elrohir taunted him. At his incredulous look, he pressed on with his tale. “An open plain, a gamely steed, and a nubile partner before you are all that’s required for some of the most erotic sensations I’ve ever hoped to experience. All one truly has to do is quietly mount one’s lover and kick the stallion into full gallop.”

“Valar, but you are a wicked one,” Legolas complimented, his throat suddenly too raw for eloquence. He grappled for his wine glass, took a generous draught.

When they had retreated to his suites from the crazed atmosphere of the still raging celebrations, Elrohir had expected them to recap the day’s gloried events. They had done so over a carafe of the Lord’s finest available vintage, which had proved so fine that they had proceeded to uncork another bottle, then a third. The sundering of an elf’s sobriety was a daunting quest indeed, but the electrically charged air between them had kept them downing quenching gulps and held them enthralled by the other’s excellent conversation. While the talk had segued to bawdy tales, as it was wont to do when the participants were so drunken, the inhibiting garments had been loosed, doffed, or in the case of Elrohir’s tunic, thrown off altogether, along with most of their sense of propriety.

Legolas was currently sprawled out over a considerable portion of the divan, the pillows, the table, and the elf-knight’s legs, his mane a loose cascade of flaxen waves and his shirt unbuttoned to his navel. He looked the picture of gaudy decadence, which set Elrohir’s skin itching such that only the potent wine could cure him. He could not quite keep his roving eyes from grazing down the sleek plain of his friend’s exposed chest, which was so raked with muscle that it might contort his tongue should it attempt to lap down the ivory slope. That such salacious thoughts were slowly impregnating his reason-stunted mind was troubling him less and less. In his blunted, sodden state, he came to wish only that Legolas would tire of his confining breeches, which were pulled so tight over his groin that he feared he might never recover from even the teasing outline of the gorgeous mounds beneath.

Though he did quarrel some with his lecherous mind for being so despicably craven, Legolas’ very languorous person was far too intoxicating for him to rightly resist the urges that had plagued him for so long, and so brutishly. What little poise he yet maintained was entirely due to the fact that their discussion was merely that; not an overture, beckoning, or invitation, but a conversation that was probably proving more remedial to the young prince than arousing. While the archer was not completely flaccid, twas doubtlessly the subject matter itself that swelled him some and not the presence of his devout friend beside him. Elrohir’s desire for the woodland elf fuelled his own growing rigidity, but he believed this was exclusive to him.

Any acknowledgement of a serious, mutual physical attraction between them, and there was no telling how wantonly he might behave.

Seemingly unaware of the considerable gap of silence, Legolas prodded him for further tales.

“Tell me more,” he giddily ordered him. “I like this frankness. You have never before spoken of your exploits. They intrigue me.”

“Why so?” Elrohir countered, intrigued himself. “I am but an elf as any other. A lover of skill, perhaps, but certainly not the most daring nor the most comely about.”

“You are such a sensual presence,” Legolas answered, his fluid blue eyes pouring over the elf-knight’s sinuous frame. “The way you prowl about, its scandalous. I cannot imagine why elves so seasoned as the Galadhrim would swoon over a pearl-faced youngling, such as I, when one of your feral elegance is among them. If we were not so well acquainted, if I had encountered you under similar circumstances to theirs, I would be at pains to seduce you – not some sunny-headed youth from strict Greenwood.” As the archer meandered on, Elrohir found he could not quite catch his breath. “The pleasures you must induce in your lovers without even a touch! I would love to observe you thus, tempting them, unraveling them, commanding them with your kindness and your explicit appreciation. How precious an experience your loving must be. How deliciously maddening…”

“What would you know of?” Elrohir choked out, stifling the warning that flared deep within. Possibly from his heart, but even that was pumping to a sultry tattoo.

As Legolas considered this, a familiar flint of mercury lit his eyes.

“To whom did you bequeath your innocence?” Legolas asked, not without delicacy. Despite his intoxication, he was well aware of the intimacy of the moment.

“To Haldir’s bonded, Yaniel, when she was but a maid about the vale,” Elrohir replied, with a wolfish smirk. “In a fit of spite at her Adar for arranging a loveless marriage, she agreed to bed me. While they were not yet betrothed, I had no scruples about insulting the Galadhrim, for he was as snide then as he is now. Though she was gentle with me, I could barely contain my ardor and spent far too quickly. Every time, to my great dismay! Fortunately, she liked to play about, and did not mind that I gave her no pleasure. In truth, she did fancy Haldir, but wanted him to earn his place through wooing. He did eventually, long after I and my insurgent member had returned to disappoint the maids of Imladris for centuries onward.”

Legolas was nearly hysterical at this recounting.

“And were the males more tactful?” he chuckled.

“Nay, I was merely more skilled at tempering myself by then,” Elrohir noted, smiling at the remembrance.

“Why did you tire of maidens, if I may be bold?” Legolas pursued.

“Indeed, you are far too presumptuous this night,” Elrohir teased. “Yet I will satisfy you regardless. I cannot say that I tired of maids, I merely came to understand that I favored males. An acquaintance of mine revealed his admiration and invited me to learn in his bed. As I was unattached, I agreed, not knowing that therein I would discover a far more powerful sensation than any I had experienced before. You might say I found myself, there.”

“But how do they compare, maids and males?” Legolas interjected. “Why is the same act more accomplished by a male partner, if the act is indeed the same? Surely pleasure is pleasure. The difference is not necessarily in the one performing the act, but in your emotion towards that lover.”

“You may have very well answered your own query,” Elrohir snickered good-humoredly.

“But I have not!” Legolas quietly protested. “If you claim that you have loved your partners, but not felt a romantic attachment towards them, then… why should it matter whether you bed with a male or a female?”

“I cannot say,” Elrohir whispered, considering his reasoning for himself. “Yet it does. I feel innately that it does.”

After a long, shuddery breath for sustenance, Legolas assayed: “Then… what pleases you most? How do your male lovers loosen you, tempt you in? What do they perform that plies you, maddens you, wrecks you through?” Stealthily, he drew closer, his open, earnest eyes imploring Elrohir to convince him of the worth of the path that he would soon undertake.

“Tis not one act that affects me on every occasion,” Elrohir explained. “But the overall artfulness of their loving.” Gathering his courage, mesmerized by that compelling gaze, he spoke with honesty, with fever. “I often find my greatest pleasure comes in being… overpowered. When they seduce me, when they enchant me, when they command my senses and… and…”

He gasped as a hand smoothed up his inner thigh, was stunned to see that he was fully, colossally erect, his breeches strained near to fraying. A hot mouth bit at his neck; he moaned aloud, grabbing the supple wrist and dragging the hand up to grip his heavy bulge. The friction of his shaft against the fabric as he was brazenly fondled was incensing, such that he could do naught but pant wildly, erratically.

“I wish to see you,” Legolas pleaded with him. “I wish to bare you.” He tore off his laces and shoved his breeches down, his rabid eyes smoldering at the sight of Elrohir’s viciously red erection. “By Elbereth, you are… majestic!” His fingers were trembling even as they curled around him, the clamp eliciting a growl of deep satisfaction from the young prince.

Through the haze of this carnal connection, Elrohir realized that Legolas required not just his leering, but also his guidance. With every sensuous stroke the archer’s face became all the more intent, until the darkling elf feared he would do something perhaps quite marvelous, but also quite rash for one so newly resolved to such pursuits. He slunk a flattering hand down that too luring chest, then encouraged him to lay back into the pillows. With barely concealed relish, he cupped Legolas rather flagrantly, the feel of his fat bollocks and mighty shaft as impressive as it was enticing. The sensate youth writhed delectably at this first, gorgeous contact, the heat stabbing up from his groin murdering any fear still lurking about the shadows of utterly besotted mind.

His nimble archer’s fingers flew into a frenzy of unfastening, as Elrohir brushed his own through those lovely golden locks, then, when eyes aching with want summoned his attention, his hunger roared through him, voracious, devouring. The hard-swollen slab of shaft revealed to him spiced his tongue with prickles so succulent did it appear, pink as the rare center of a roast and glistening with filmy glaze. Legolas was shuddering beside him, far too overwrought to do ought but rasp out pained after pained breath. He was afraid, but also eager, most especially aching to be pleasured. In desperation, he grappled for the elf-knight’s hand and shoved it back in place, his own fumbling about for a proper hold on the darkling elf’s oozing engorgement.

Elrohir certainly could not deny him, yet he had something more elemental in mind for their loving.

With a kindly look at his wrecked love, he knelt before him. Legolas’ expressive eyes went wide, but fluttered as busy as a hummingbird’s wings at the first, emulsifying lap at his shaft. He melted back into the pillows, his boneless legs parting in welcome to the mouth that assaulted him, sipping and supping with impassioned vigor. He knit his fingers into the straight sheathes of ebony hair, inviting him to essay a more fervent suck; soon he was braying raggedly, cursing him, blessing him, anything to prolong the excruciating pleasure. His spending was a viscous treat, a thrash of hip so thrilling that his entire throat was coated with savory cream.

By the time he’d wrenched out his own sobbing orgasm, Legolas was painfully sweet in slumber, the potent alcohol busy cleansing his memory of this glorious encounter. Elrohir had only effort enough to gather him up in his arms and to stagger over to the bed, where he collapsed them both into a lazy tangle of limbs.

He would unravel his dizzy thoughts come morning, when he had sense enough to suffer the scathing guilt that was surely to come.

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

With a purr of such resplendent decadence that even the most humble lion would be tinted sickly envious, Legolas woke to a foreign bed.

Dapples and splashes of coppery sun trickled through the skylight above, tickled wavy patterns across his exposed back. The sheets swathed about him were of premiere silk weave, as if he was rolled in the petals of a lily. The feather-plush pillow nested about his head seemed to massage the very skin of his scalp, as such twas little wonder that the effect of rousing was so sublime. Indeed, the syrupy course of his blood honeyed the length of his prone body so languid that he feared he might never summon the effort to properly rise, though at present such was a rather high price for abandoning such a gorgeous feeling in favor of the harsh world about. For a considerable while, he basked to an egregious degree in the musky, fecund scent that every slip of cloth around was imbued with. Only once his senses were thoroughly besotted with the rich fragrance did he come to recognize its bearer; the esteemed elf-knight of Imladris.

Twas then that the sepia-hued events of the previous night congealed into bold, pulchritudinous image. A roguish smile came over his fair features; indeed, lit him quite luminously from within. He wrenched himself up into a seated position, then tossed off the covers, eagerly examining himself for signs of carnal indulgence. He was thrilled to find an abundance, not merely on his chest and thighs, but on his navel, buttocks, and dormant member. As he grappled onto his feet and staggered over to the wardrobe, he felt newly drunk with pleasure. Elrohir, his most gentle and giving friend, had deigned to love with him. Indeed, he had verily pounced upon him! Infected by the most exultant burst of feeling he had ever thought to know – by far trumping even the glory of his archery win – Legolas tore on the first robe he could seize and set out to find his dear friend, all the while scrabbling to recall the incendiary details of just what had transpired between them.

By the time he reached the foyer, he had pieced back together his scraps of memory, these still somewhat soaked by the revolting amount of drink he had consumed. As he darted around the hallway corner, just inches before self-revelation, the stirring slap of foreboding struck. He stopped cold, then slunk back a few paces.

Elrohir had not been in bed with him when he awoke, nor had he been in the bathing chamber. Indeed, other than the fiendishly luring scent of the sheets, there was no proof that the elf-knight had slept in complicity with him at all, excepting the wonderfully baked feeling that tingled over Legolas’ sensate skin. While this made him sure that Elrohir had held him, and quite hotly through the night, why had he fled? Would he charge into the foyer to discover himself alone? Would he be smacked back into reality by his friend’s coarseness, distance, incredulity at the foolishness of their actions? Had he blundered so spectacularly in the thrall of intoxication – both alcoholic and otherwise – that he’d brought about the ruin of their closeness, of the intuitive complicity they’d shared since his adolescence? That he could foresee such a reaction from Elrohir gave him even greater pause.

Though resolved to embrace life with a vengeance, Legolas was all too aware of the potential debacles his natural impulsiveness could provoke, especially in one so genteel in manner, so considered in thought as Elrohir. While these confrontational aspects of their personalities had never clashed outright, they had also never attempted to engage them with other intents than friendship. He was not so dull of wit as to fail to recognize that the relational troubles he had suffered through in the past stemmed from his brashness of temper, from the hops, leaps, and bounds of his ever-vaulting spirit. Many entanglements had been severed outright by parties who grew impatient with his independent ways and his impudent assumptions. Yet here was the most valued companion he had ever known, already escaped from his arms, when they had not even conversed on the subject of their potential togetherness!

With a long, cleansing sigh, Legolas focused his energies towards absorbing, then amending, the situation he was about to enter, no matter how bleak. He could not chance the slightest error. Though he had only recently begun to imagine himself paired with his precious friend, he now realized that any such relation had no hope of coming to ripeness if he sped up the natural evolution of their intimacy. Elrohir, ever conscious of the need to protect his greenling, was far more prone to denying himself in favor of Legolas’ sanctity than to indulging his baser instincts for such a selfish purpose. The Greenwood prince not only had to convince his newfound beloved of the veracity and the worth of his suit, but he had to combat each and every one of Elrohir’s myriad reservations to do so, not to mention the excoriating guilt the elf-knight must be gutting himself with. Such a feat would not be accomplished through blunt flattery, nor a blatant display of hunger, but through a meticulously schemed plan of wooing. Strategy had never been one of Legolas’ towering strengths, but then the stakes had never been so daunting before. Indeed, prior to any concrete conclusions, he had best ascertain the gravity of the circumstances he had so blissfully awakened to.

With the purest of elvish stealth, he peered into the common room. Fortunately without stumbling out of his concealment, he gaped at the achingly domestic sight that welcomed him. A bountiful table was set for fast-breaking, with such stuffs as befitting the highest of royals, yet Legolas did not for a moment doubt that the elf-knight himself had done the preparation. Any trace of their groping upon the divan had been scrubbed, tucked, and plumped away. Legolas recalled an anecdote on the neglected chores of Elrohir’s childhood, when he observed the polished boots by the grate. Indeed, it seemed as if everything of metal make within reach had been vigorously silvered, from the utensils to the chair frames to the bubbling cauldron itself. Twas glaringly evident that the elf-knight was in the throes of full blown caretaker mode, which was ever proportionate to the level of shame that rotted him through.

Legolas cursed himself for such abysmally obtuse behavior the night before, then sought out the broody face of his friend. Elrohir loomed in the glow of the cindering hearth, waiting on the kettle’s boil. His stillness was unnerving. His stare bore out into unfathomable vastness, over such a dour emotional landscape that Legolas instantly wanted to strangle some consolation into him. Yet despite the grave construction of his countenance, his skin was of uncommon luster and his eyes were flinted with sparkle. Even a Prince of Greenwood was not so unlearned in elvish ways as to fail to mark how their loving had nourished the darkling elf’s flame, how the experience itself – though perhaps not its consequences – had warmed him through. While such effulgence could have been evoked merely by the act itself, for Elrohir was emerging back into the realm of physicality after a prolonged absence, Legolas could not help but be heartened. If he was gentle with him, if he slowly immersed them in the depths of feeling he knew were pooled within him and found their source in Elrohir’s longtime care, then they could very well be on the cusp of a phenomenal relation. Yet steering them down the right causeway was of essence.

As ever, Legolas keenly felt his innocence in the worldly ways of love relations. Though of incomparable valor and of colossal honor, Elrohir was surprisingly brittle, as well as self-protective where romance was concerned. His was a precious, fragile heart; replete with consorts and companions, yet constrained from loftier indulgences. The woodland prince was all too aware of the disparity between the elf-knight’s noble delicacy and his own strident fervor. If Elrohir was already so affected by the tides of their tipsy relationship that his flame ebbed or flowed by the ease of feeling between them, then his suit was a precarious one indeed. Yet one so bravely hewn as Legolas did not whimper away from a challenge, especially the most vital of his young life. He would learn to master whatever art would give him claim over the heart of his exquisite elf-knight, no matter how contortedly he would have to curb his own unwieldy impulses.

After a pregnant moment’s consideration of his opening gambit, he stepped quietly into the room.

At the first wisp of movement, Elrohir snapped to attention. He raptly examined Legolas for any signs of distress as the archer strode towards him, then offered him a sheepish smile. The Greenwood prince could not recall ever seeing the elf-knight color so vividly before, not even when caught out on some acute mischief, yet he did so now; such that he bowed his head slightly, but his cheeks flamed all the more. Twas thus that he invited Legolas into close proximity, even welcomed the loose entwinement of their arms.

“How do you fare?” the darkling elf murmured, not entirely able to keep his lingering eyes from admiring the archer’s radiance.

Legolas, however, made little of this, to the point of pretending he took no notice.

“Very well, indeed,” he answered with soft affection. “Twas a most enlightening eve, if I may say.”

“Pleasantly so?” Elrohir inquired, more tremulously than he must have meant.

“Aye,” Legolas acknowledged with an opulent smile. “A lovely night altogether.” He snatched up his stray hand, then looked honestly into those liquid silver eyes. “My thanks, gwador.” At the darkling elf’s sigh of dismay, he clicked his tongue. “Do not for another second think on begging my forgiveness, Elrohir. Whether you perceive me thus or no, I am an elf of years. I believe I can enjoy a night of pleasure without withering before you.”

Elrohir reddened even further, but twas not of the same tenor as before.

“I thought only of our friendship,” he insisted demurely. “We were so drenched with drink night last… I could not be certain…”

“Then *be certain*,” Legolas underlined. “At my assurance. At my word of honor. No misuse of my body would bring about ought but the seeking of some palpable explanation and the eventual remedying of whatever might have strained us, not that we did not both deserve a bit of using yestereve. If you were needful, then I was glad to relieve you, for I cannot say that I was not at the very least curious of what might come about should we engage in a brief flirtation.”

“Twas far more than a brief flirtation,” Elrohir weightily remarked.

“Twas *needed*,” Legolas pressed him. “Needed by us both. Yet regardless of cause or intent, we two are friends, sworn and soldered. Naught will irrevocably break us, not if I have any will left in me. Even death would be but a temporary respite. We are bound in brotherhood, Elrohir. We are vowed, through complicity, through care. If that is the only love I will ever grace upon you, then know yourself forever blessed.”

Legolas could not gauge the impact of this profession upon the darkling elf, save to note that he did assay a slight, though warm, smile.

“Ever have you been the source of countless blessings, gwador,” Elrohir accepted, then casually slunk out of his hold. With a half-measured smirk, he hooked in one of the archer’s arms, then gestured towards the table. “Come, then, to fast-breaking. Such friends as we must be shrewd with the little time that remains us.”

Legolas could have crowed at the crease of regret that momentarily shroud the elf-knight’s staid features. Instead, he let himself by guided forth, towards a future brimming with unspoken promise.

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

A slash of steel sped by his ear, another grazed swiftly by his throat. He ducked, spun, then jabbed at the limber elf before him, who all too easily deflected his punt. Their blades shrieked as they came together, a piercing slide followed by ping after ping, the dainty sounds belying the intensity of such close combat. Suddenly, his opponent swooped up over a branch, only to barely scrape over the edge of his sword with his boots as he whipped back around, even the batter of his powerful legs no match for the elf-knight’s precisely angled lunge. He summersaulted midair, then landed with nary a squish, so light was he on his feet. They played on, hissing taunts as elegantly as they landed forceless blows, for their fight was as much an exercise in form as it was a vigorous exertion.

As ever when he challenged one so sharp as Legolas, Elrohir was at peak prowess. Rallying with his woodland friend was one of the purest experiences of his elven life, for, though locked in combat, they were both so intent that they seemed to flow as one, whether fore or aft with the surge of tide. Twas a transcendent, almost preternatural dance they engaged in, one as essential and elemental to him as breathing, riding, or loving. Indeed, despite his best intentions, he could not deny the thrill of the erotic charge that such a primal connection provoked within him, which was perhaps why he was so eager each morn to be lured down to the training ground by a far-too-sprightly wood-elf.

The days since their accidental encounter on the night of Legolas’ triumph had passed so genially, so charmingly, that he had not had a single moment to wallow in regret over what might not have been. The young archer had proved himself a timeless friend, such as he had professed himself. That speech had been the conclusion of any debate between them; Legolas had pressed on as ever with their fraternity, jovially, endearingly, and loyally. Indeed, they had enjoyed what was perhaps the finest week they had ever spent in the other’s company. Each morn, they would spar until listless, then they would lurch down to the river to bathe. Elladan would find them for the midday meal and some leisurely occupation would be planned for their afternoon. Evening would see them at a more populated table, either jesting with Legolas’ Greenwood guard or invited by the Lady Galadriel into her halls.

Elrohir had thought that nights would be the most precarious of moments between them, but such tensions proved needless. Legolas would eagerly suggest some form of amusement, be it gaming, musical, or solitary, which would engross them until drowsiness encroached. Not a whiff of temptation sizzled through the hardy hugs with which he would bid him goodnight, nor did he quaff at administering the requisite dose of brotherly affection throughout their busy days. The woodland prince had acquitted himself as honorably as he had sworn to do, with every gallant gesture convincing Elrohir of his friendly regard and of his explicit care.

This doting concern - indeed, their every communal activity – had only had the unfortunate effect of deepening the elf-knight’s unrequited love for his constant companion. Each chance he had felt he had of some brief respite, such as lazing upon a fertile riverbank or gazing casually across the banquet table, would only result in a further surge of peerless emotion within him. Yet even as he suffered silently through these love-flares, he became increasingly reluctant to stifle them. The fact was, he enjoyed this undaunted side of himself; that his love was so bountiful, so effluent, that it was a force greater than his considerable will. To bask, even surreptitiously, in his love for the Greenwood prince was to be eased, to be warmed, to experience a state of such inner serenity that he had become greedy for this blissful response. He had at last befriended his passion as intimately as he had his actual friend, which he could not help but feel was strangely beneficial to him.

Yet this loving, he knew well, was infinitely enabled by the archer’s continued presence. The late of this very morn would see him ride for Greenwood, a truth with which Elrohir found he could not so easily reconcile. Indeed, whenever he even thought on what would come after their usual spar and swim, he immediately banished such bleakness from his mind. When he had finally embraced the potent feelings within him, he had ignored the obvious conclusion that the enhancement of his love would eventually lead to the amplifying of his pain.

At present, even as he parried and thrust, he could only fix on what was left unsaid, what remained perilously inconclusive between them. Had he accepted Legolas’ reasoning too readily, that fateful morn? Should he have pressed him to elucidate his feelings towards the act of carnality that he had committed upon him? Should he have probed deeper for the essence of what led Legolas to allow his body to be used for another’s pleasure? *Had* Legolas felt pleasure in the act? Had he responded how he believed Elrohir had wanted the following morn, but truly desired to pursue their erotic excursions? Would he have shown interest, in time, in involving themselves in a physical relation? Could they have done so and preserved the friendship that he so ardently swore himself to? Could Elrohir have survived such an affair with his heart and soul intact? Better yet, could Legolas have indulged himself with a forever friend and still remained impartial to the emotion between them?

His mind reeled so from these fathomless, impossible, and downright ridiculous assumptions that it was several minutes before he realized that he had dropped his sword in the formal gesture of surrender. That he had fallen to his knees, that he was shaking, that he was heaving for breath.

Upon some landscape so remote from his present consciousness that he barely registered its existence, a sword clanked to the ground. Boots shuffled about indecisively for a short, pregnant while, then they clumped over to his side. Suddenly, startlingly, he was wrenched up to his feet. He was tugged into the most implacable embrace he had ever known, as consoling as it was involving. Elrohir could do naught but cling to him, as helpless as any child ever in his care, yet nearly crushing the slim bones of his lithe frame into the dust from which they were fashioned. Legolas brushed strokes of barely suppressed wildness down the length of his hair, down his broad back, each one implicit with a most eloquent meaning.

“How I will miss you,” Elrohir bleated, almost redundant given the fraught emotion of their bruising hug. “How I will want for you, gwador.”

There was a glint of scorn in the prince’s crystalline eyes at such a careless appellation, but this was soon replaced by shine so rapt, so bedazzling, that Elrohir nearly withered under its incandescence.

“Hush,” Legolas soothed him, petting the sides of his face with peerless delicacy.

After a heady exhalation of sweet, fragrant breath, he pressed skittish lips to Elrohir’s own. The spark between them was such that the elf-knight could do naught but gasp at its singe, but Legolas was only further enthralled, catching up his plump bottom lip and plying it with swipes of tongue, which dizzied him such that he could only melt into the soft smolder of the caress. Sips and suckles to his lovely mouth made him weak with woozy affection. Too soon those sensuous lips broke away, along with the promise of a hasty, if hotly craved, seduction.

“You will know my letters by the scarlet seal,” he promised, his breath a shivery ghost over his lips. “They will speak of pleasantries, but will be embedded with secret meaning. Know them for what they are, for what troths I cannot dare commit to their amber parchment, for what has remained unspoken between us these last, miraculous days, for what has newly bloomed in the rich soil of my heart.”

With that, he slipped away, a poignant yet desolate look upon his tender face.

“Be patient, moren vain, be true beyond this fleeting farewell,” Legolas whispered. “We will be reunited, before long, and then no force in Arda will keep me from you.”

Once he’d drifted off into the forest wilds, Elrohir collapsed among the roots of the burnished mallorn behind him, so drunk with love he feared he might never sober.

End of Part Two