Twilight Tales - An Ounce of Kindness

Chapter XXXIII

Imladris, lairë T.A. 1975

Legolas pulled his robe even more tightly around his body though the weather was scarcely cool enough to bother a Man, much less an Elf. The chill came from within. From the wellspring of his spirit. From the anxiety that resided in the depths of his being. So fraught were his feelings that he could not sleep and at last he slipped out of bed lest his tossing and turning disturb Elrohir. He thought that contemplating the stars might bring him a measure of calm and thus he donned his robe and stepped out onto the balcony of their apartment.



They shared Elrohir's suite when they were in Rivendell for it was spacious and well appointed and more than filled their needs. Furthermore, they oft retired to their cabin in the north of the vale for many weeks at a time. They had long ago shared their secret with the younger twin's family and all assiduously guarded their privacy by never venturing there when they were in residence in their haven or divulging its existence to anyone even in times of crisis. As such it was on Elladan and Galvreth that Elrond bestowed a many-chambered apartment in the Last Homely House's residential wing.



Legolas smiled as he thought of the past years' many joys. Following in his and Elrohir's footsteps, their brothers had also chosen to alternately abide together in their respective realms. Their periods of abiding did not always coincide for such were the exigencies of the times that lengthy separations even between Legolas and Elrohir were no longer avoidable. But they came together often enough to satisfy their respective needs to affirm their fraternal bonds and for this they were always grateful.



Now however was one of those times when they all had to part from each other. Elladan had just returned from Mirkwood the night before, called back to Imladris by his obligations as prince and soldier of the valley realm. Galvreth had remained behind, a like obligation perforce keeping him at his father and brethren's side. Legolas heaved a pensive breath. Obligations he and Elrohir would need to uphold as well. He glanced back at his recumbent love and protectiveness surged as it had since they had learned what duty demanded of them.



Tomorrow, at first light, he would return to Mirkwood and Elrohir would march north with his brother and the forces of Rivendell. There lay his worries. Peril they both faced but there was a difference. He would be returning to the possibility of strife and battle. Elrohir would be going forth to certain war.



The preceding winter, Arthedain had finally fallen to the Witch-king of Angmar. Fleeing before his enemies' onslaught, King Arvedui had taken refuge amongst the strange folk of the frozen wastes in the north. Salvation seemed at hand when Círdan sent a ship to rescue him. But fate was against the king and, fulfilling the destiny his very name had set for him, the ship foundered in the icy Bay of Forochel and Arvedui had indeed become the last king of the northern branch of Elendil's line.



Now word had reached Rivendell of the great fleet that had come from Gondor to give belated aid. Once more Elves and Men united to fight a common foe. Even as Glorfindel mustered the Imladrin forces, the ancient shipwright Círdan and Eärnur warrior son of Eärnil marched to Fornost to force battle upon the Witch-king. Círdan had indicated in his last communication that he did not think Imladris would reach Fornost in time to join them. But he asked that Glorfindel cut off all means of retreat by the enemy lest they gain the sanctuary of their fortress city of Carn Dûm. This would place the Rivendell army directly in danger's way for if they were caught between the retreating forces of Angmar and any reinforcements issuing from Carn Dûm, they could and most likely would be crushed.



Legolas shivered. For all his years and wisdom he could not suppress the apprehensions that plagued him whenever Elrohir faced peril. It was ridiculous to feel this way, he chided himself. He had encountered his own share of pain and danger and confronted death itself. The faint scars on his back and calves were stark testimony to this. But the truth of the matter was that it was not torment or death themselves that frightened the archer. It was separation from Elrohir that either circumstance might bring about that Legolas feared most.



The hell of pain he had endured. Complete oblivion he could abide. But being parted whether in body or mind from the one to whom his spirit was bound and being aware of it, that he could not bear. He could not imagine struggling against madness or despair without his Elf-knight to succor him or bide his time alone for centuries uncounted should either he or Elrohir pass into Mandos' custody. He knew he was of that breed of lovers who could not long survive unscathed the loss of their mates or ever know peace in the Halls of Awaiting until reunion bestowed it.



His eyes followed the lines of Elrohir's resplendent form. Sheltered in the Elf-knight's arms he never felt anything less than utterly safe. Molded against his body in passion, he would lose all sense of the world without while he was consumed by the joy within. Undone by his loving attention, he knew himself cherished beyond compare.



Unbidden an intense yearning for Elrohir came upon him and he quickly returned to their bed. Shedding his robe, he slid back in beside his mate and, with little preamble, began a scorching worship of his body though he had but thoroughly explored it just a few hours before. In their myriad centuries together he had come to know his Elf-knight in utmost intimacy and the pleasures to be gotten from it. Yet it never palled, neither sight nor taste nor feel of Elrohir's bountiful graces.



He felt Elrohir stir as he plied kisses to his mouth and neck, shoulders and chest. Heard his soft moan when he hungrily closed his lips around one nipple. He reached down to cup and fondle and stroke the Elf-knight until he felt him lengthen and thicken. He groaned as, with a slight tilt of his hips, their shafts rubbed against the other.



Thus Elrohir awakened to the delicious sensation of hot swollen flesh sliding with luxurious wantonness against his now hardened length. He gasped at that too exquisite friction and almost of their own volition his hips lifted and surged against Legolas' every thrust. He hissed his pleasure and stared dazedly into eyes so darkened with passion they seemed as the sea at its deepest in the midst of an ocean-spawned storm. Rapture flowed between them and their spirits reached out to touch each other.



Warned of his imminent spending by the nigh excruciating pressure in his groin, Legolas leaned down and sealed their mouths in hot-tongued abandon. Their muffled groans and shuddering frames and the splash of warm seed upon their bellies evinced the moment of their completions even as the rush of heat through their bodies marked the meeting of their spirits.



They lay in companionable silence afterward while they waited for their breathing to even and their heartbeats to slow. Legolas remained partially atop Elrohir, his fair head tucked into the crook of the younger twin's neck, his arm curled around his torso and his legs loosely tangled with the Elf-knight's long limbs. Elrohir studied his mate's face, pensive despite the blissful relief of bodily completion. He quickly discerned the source of his beloved's lingering unease. While he searched for words of comfort, he soothingly stroked his tousled hair, caressed his downy shoulder and smoothed his hand down his sleek back.



“I will ever be with you, my love,” he finally murmured. “You will feel my presence and I yours no matter how many leagues lie between us.”



Legolas lifted his head to look at him. His eyes glistened tellingly though his features appeared calm enough. “Still I loath parting from you,” he softly said. “My heart aches without cease and my spirit languishes when they are not balmed by your presence. Even for a glimpse of your face or a fleeting caress or the sound of your laughter do I yearn each and every day.”



Elrohir spread his fingers on the archer's cheek, enjoying the feel of the elegant bone structure beneath his palm, the utter silkiness of his flesh and the warmth of the flush under his luminous skin. “I feel thusly, too,” he whispered. “I rue each separation from you even when I know 'tis a necessity.”



Legolas sighed. “Ah, many are the times I have wished that we were but simple Elves of families of no great account,” he whispered. “Free to live and love as we desire.”



“Yet were we not who we are, we would not have met,” Elrohir gently pointed out. “Much less been betrothed and wed.”



Legolas dolefully nodded, unable to counter the observation. But then his eyes suddenly kindled with what Elrohir at once recognized as rebellion. The Elf-knight braced himself for whatever would come of his mercurial spouse's shift of mood.



“Why must I return to Mirkwood?” the archer flared. “'Tis just rumor that it will be assailed as well. Whereas your call to battle is rooted in dire certainty. I would do more good were I to ride with you and fight at your side.”



“And what if rumor proves to be truth?” Elrohir countered. “Could you forgive yourself should strife come to your home and you were not there to lend your strength?”



Legolas snorted. “I would be but one Elf amongst many. What difference would my presence or the lack of it make? And I could strike a blow for my folk were I to go with you. I would fight against our common foe for love of them and their honor. But even more for love of you, Elrohir,” he added in a hushed voice. “I am also your shield-mate. Let me discharge my duty to the fullest.”



About to protest, Elrohir suddenly fell silent, his eyes glazing over as the talent that was both boon and bane to his family came over him. In his mind's eye, he saw a great and brutal battle unfold. A battle that was not that which he was about to embark on. He descried himself in the thick of the fighting with Elladan on one side. But on the other…



He and Legolas had fought together before. It was inevitable, mated as they were in every sense of that word. And as befitted their stations and their corresponding obligations, they had taken part in countless battles from light altercations to bloody skirmishes whether in the deeps of Mirkwood, on the plains of Eriador or up the slopes of the Misty Mountains. But never yet had they faced open war.



They were seasoned soldiers insofar as their long years and the number of fights they had fought. But an encounter involving scores of combatants was vastly different from a full-fledged conflict between whole armies of warriors numbering in the hundreds or even thousands. In this neither of them could claim experience. Yet if his vision were true, they would one day participate in a battle far more savage and soul-rending than this forthcoming one.



The question resonated in his mind. Would they be ready when that day came? On the heels of that thought came another. Legolas would not fall in this, his first great battle. He was destined for another far more crucial one. He recalled then what had been revealed to him prior to his betrothal to the archer. The portentous dream that had preceded Legolas' birth.



He felt Legolas' hand on his cheek, fingers spread to mirror his own gesture. The prince was gazing at him with concern and anxiety.



“What ails you, beloved?” Legolas queried. “Is it my wish? If it troubles you so I will not force it on you-”



“Nay, Legolas,” Elrohir quickly cut him off. “Your wish is not without merit or reason.” He ran his fingers tenderly over the archer's cheekbone. “If Father and Glorfindel permit it, I would be proud to have you at my side.”



Legolas stared at him, shocked that he should have gained Elrohir's acquiescence so swiftly. Elation followed an instant later and with a wide smile of relief he kissed Elrohir hard and joyously. Intuition told him that the Elf-knight had a reason for his capitulation. He would plumb him later for it. For now he was content to meld their bodies once more in reaffirmation of the eternal marriage of their hearts and spirits.

**********

Ettenmoors

True to Círdan's prognostications, the Witch-king let his pride rule him and came out of his stronghold to meet the allied army thinking to defeat them so soundly that rumor of their fall would sow terror in all who dared to oppose him. Instead, it was he and his army that suffered ignominious defeat and were forced to abandon Fornost. The Witch-king fled north with his remaining forces to his fortress city of Carn Dûm where he expected reinforcements to aid him. He did not reckon that the Elves might have foreseen his scheme and already moved to thwart them.



The reinforcements from Angmar blundered into the Rivendell army long ere the retreating remnants of the Witch-king's forces could rendezvous with them. Whether luck was with them or fate was on their side, the Elves did not pause to ponder. It was enough that they were not caught between the pincer forces of their foes. Glorfindel swiftly dealt with the surprised soldiers and not one returned to Carn Dûm to report the rout or escaped to warn the Witch-king of the Imladrin army's approach. Immediately, the Elves hastened westward to meet the retreating enemy.



Meanwhile, said enemy was overtaken by Eärnur and his cavalry in the Troll-fells ere they gained the Misty Mountains. Fighting broke out once more but, this time, the Witch-king had the advantage of numbers, a thing the impetuous Captain of Gondor failed to consider. Fortunately for the Men of the West, the Imladrin host arrived in time to stave off a calamitous turning of the tables. Glorfindel led the first charge and no enemy warrior whether Man or Orc could withstand the shock of his assault.



It was far more brutal not to mention bewildering than any sortie against a band of brigands or pack of Goblins, Elrohir decided as he hacked and gutted and slew. Not even their earlier repulsion of the Carn Dûm forces matched the confusion, noise and sheer savagery of a full-scale battle pitting hundreds upon hundreds against a like number on the other side. In the midst of the seething mass of warriors and warhorses, one could scarcely tell friend from foe save for the colors, armor and badges that distinguished a soldier's allegiance from another. For the first time, the Elf-knight fully understood the necessity of recognizing heraldic emblems and colors. Oft times it was the only way for a combatant to tell whether he was facing an allied soldier or an enemy.



Still he was no greenling in the battle-arts and learned these latest lessons rapidly and well. And such was his strength, skill and valor that his foes wavered before him and this gave heart to the soldiers under his command. A glance around told him the same was true of his brother and his mate. Elladan had speedily dispatched his opponent, a hulking mannish lieutenant, and now led his troop in decimating the aforementioned lieutenant's suddenly leaderless soldiers. And Legolas, taking to heart the responsibility of commanding warriors not of his realm, did not falter before the enemy but fought them with all the passion of his Silvan forebears and the skill of many centuries' worth of experience in dealing with such brutish foes.



Evading a swordsman's wild swing to his head, Elrohir drove his blade into the warrior's exposed side. Feeling the hairs on his nape rise, he ducked beneath the slicing arc of an axe and saw his erstwhile opponent's head topple off his shoulders. Yanking his sword out of the headless corpse, he twisted around on Uilos's back and rammed the blade into the neck of the shocked axe-wielder. The man toppled from his horse into a heap by his decapitated comrade.



Elrohir quickly sought his mate's slender form, ever conscious of Legolas' whereabouts even in the midst of peril. To his dismay, he saw the archer's horse had been slain from under him and that he now battled a half dozen soldiers on foot. An instant later, the Elf-knight espied the headlong plunge of a great Goblin through the press of soldiers behind Legolas, bloodied orkish scimitar raised to cleave the prince's back. With a cry, Elrohir tried to reach his spouse but combatants and horses alike blocked his way. In horror, he wondered if his vision had been false and whether in agreeing to let Legolas join him, he had condemned his beloved to a premature death.



The Orc was nearly upon Legolas. Desperately, Elrohir hurled a mental cry of warning at the archer. He saw Legolas tense and start to turn but he knew the prince would not be able to shield himself or evade the blow in time. Enraged, the Elf-knight all but rode down any who barred his way.



He saw Legolas' eyes widen as he realized his certain doom. Helplessly watched his spouse brace himself for the killing blow.



The blow halted in mid-arc when the Orc stumbled sideways, an arrow protruding from its meaty shoulder. Before it could recover itself, Legolas hewed off its sword arm then slashed its belly open.



Erohir quickly looked about, seeking the archer who had saved his mate's life. Amidst the carnage, across the dead and wounded, he spotted the bowman just as the bowman saw him. He stared at the latter in shock. But he could do no more than raise his sword in acknowledgement to the Elf before turning his attention once more to Legolas. The battle continued to rage around them and there was still fighting to be done.



'Twas Eärnur who nearly brought disaster upon the host of the West when he sought to meet the Witch-king in mortal combat. Only his horse's good sense saved him from ignoble doom, bearing him away from the field before he could engage that black-souled creature.



Even an Elf-lord as noble and forbearing as Glorfindel could not help his displeasure at such vainglorious tactics. An Elf might withstand the sorcery of what had after all once been a mere Man. But no mortal could possibly prevail over a creature unnaturally imbued with malign power unless he or she was destined for just such a fate. A moue of contempt registered for an instant on the captain's face ere he schooled his expression and wiped it clean of all emotion. With eerie calm, he urged snowy Asfaloth toward the Witch-king before the latter could rally his forces anew. Elven rider and steed raced across the dead-ridden plain, swift as the winds of a sudden storm and fell as the blizzards that ravaged the Hithaeglir's highest peaks.



All watched in awe when the Noldorin captain was suddenly swathed in white otherworldly fire. The enemy host fell back in apprehension before his fearsome charge. The Witch-king's mirth was silenced as he realized that here was one he could not cow with fear; that this Elf possessed power and strength beyond his present ability to defeat. With a curse, he dug his spurs into the heaving flanks of his black horse and fled the field into the mists of the gathering dusk, leaving his army to fend for itself. Bereft of their leader, the enemy soldiers soon scattered and fled or threw down their weapons and surrendered.

**********

Legolas surveyed the corpse littered field, astonished at the suddenness with which the battle had come to a close. He stooped to wipe the blood off his long knife on the tattered remains of some poor soul's cloak. A hand landed on his shoulder and he looked up into Elrohir's grave countenance. He swiftly intuited that his mate was struggling with guilt due to his overly close brush with death.



He straightened and curled an arm around the Elf-knight in a soothing hug. “Do not blame yourself, melethen”-my love-he whispered. “You could not have foreseen all that might come to pass. And in any case, your vision proved true. I live and so do you. We are indeed destined for some greater cause than this.”



Elrohir nodded and held the archer tightly a while longer. At length they parted lest they gave the Men of Gondor cause to wonder about them. They turned their attention once more to the recent field of battle.



All about, the search for the wounded amongst the dead had ensued. Elves and Men alike held torches aloft as they turned over bodies, pulling the injured from under piles of corpses or identifying the deceased. Legolas grimaced in disgust when he espied some human soldiers helping themselves to what spoils they came across - weapons of quality, war ornaments and pouches of coins.



“Have they no shame?” he snarled. “They are worse than the carrion beasts who only prey on the dead to feed themselves.”



“It has ever been the way of Men save amongst the Edain,” Elrohir answered. “'Tis those of lesser blood who perpetrate these foul deeds. You can tell them by their stature or rather the lack of it.”



“And they are also not as noble of countenance or bearing,” Legolas observed, remembering the Men of the North Kingdom who had visited the Wood-elves' Mirkwood realm. He nodded in Eärnur's direction. The Man was pointedly avoiding Glorfindel. The Elven captain had prevented his human counterpart from pursuing the Witch-king, informing him that it was not he who was fated to best him. Eärnur had taken umbrage at what he perceived as a refusal to allow him to salve his pride, slighted as it was to his misguided way of thinking. “If he is Gondor's hope, I fear the kingship shall not long survive in that realm either,” the archer remarked.



“I have to agree with you,” Elrohir said. “Yet though Arthedain is no more, Arvedui left a son and Aranarth bears the blood of the kings of old.”



“But Gondor repudiated his father's claim,” Legolas pointed out.



“A political ploy,” Elrohir countered. “And still it does not negate his right to Gondor's throne for he is an heir of Isildur. Verily though a thousand generations of Men should live and die, that right will never diminish.”



Legolas could not gainsay his reasoning and so said nothing. But of a sudden Elrohir's eyes gleamed brightly and he gripped Legolas' arm. Pulling the startled archer along, he eagerly said, “Come!”



They strode toward a contingent of Elves whose armor and colors were neither Imladrin nor of Lindon. Legolas regarded the group with puzzlement until one of them turned around as they neared, pulling off his helm to reveal golden hair. The prince scowled and came to a halt, forcing Elrohir to stop as well.



“Why so eager to greet Gildor Inglorion?” he demanded, his voice edged with suspicion. To his annoyance, Elrohir chuckled.



“All these centuries and still you suspect me of harboring some hidden affection for him?” he teasingly chastened the archer. “Wherefore all the evidence of my regard for you and only you, beloved?”



Legolas had begun to bridle at his first words but subsided with the last. Realizing the absurdity of his reaction, he sighed and said, “Forgive me. That was uncalled for.”



Elrohir dared an affectionate stroke of his knuckles down the archer's cheek. It was dark and there was little chance of the mannish soldiers noting his gesture.



“I am not offended. 'Tis part of who you are and I would not have you otherwise.” He took Legolas' hand once more and led him toward the company. “But rest your heart, my prince, 'tis not Gildor I seek but your savior.”



“My savior?”



“He whose arrow kept that brute from killing you. My gratitude knows no bounds and I would have him know it forthwith.”



Gildor hailed them as soon as they came within hearing distance. He came forward to meet them. “You are both well?” he asked in concern, placing his hands on their shoulders and swiftly appraising their haleness. “And Elladan? Where is he?”



“We are well, Gildor,” Elrohir said. “Elladan is helping the healers. As I will soon do. But first there is one amongst you I would thank.” His keen eyes quickly found his quarry.



Gildor smiled and nodded. He looked back and at once his folk parted ranks to make way for an Elf who had held back all this while.



Legolas' shocked gasp was clearly audible when he laid eyes on one who had not graced the halls of his father's palace for centuries. The archer could only stare in disbelief as Nimaras hesitantly approached.



He was changed both in appearance and demeanor. His raiment and armor was distinctly High-elven though he bore the weapons of a woodland Elf. He was sturdier than ever, toughened by a life of incessant journeying and oft far afield. But his comportment was strangest of all to any who had last beheld him at the onset of his exile. He still bore himself with the pride of a Silvan Elf of noble heritage. But there was naught left of the arrogant swagger of his belligerent youth or the condescension with which he once regarded any he deemed below him. And from the looks of affection and approbation bestowed on him by Gildor's people, it was clear that he had long earned their esteem.



He unexpectedly dropped down on one knee before Elrohir. Keeping his tawny head bowed, he said, “I pray you will at last forgive me for my transgression against you.”



Elrohir pulled him to his feet and warmly declared: “If I had not forgiven you yet, I do so now and thank you with all my heart besides. As does Legolas.”



They both looked at the archer, Nimaras' gaze entreating and Elrohir's encouraging. Unable to speak, Legolas held out his arms to his brother. Nimaras hurried into them.



For the longest while, they held each other tightly with affection that was as profound and bracing as it was unfamiliar. Finally they drew apart and appraised each other in the manner of kin reunited after a long and grievous separation.



“You are grown strong and tall,” Nimaras murmured. “And passing fair as was long foreseen.” He swallowed hard. “How - how does Father fare?” he asked, his voice laced with longing. “And our brothers?”



“He thrives as do we all. But he has never ceased to miss you, muindor.”-brother.



“I am glad he is well. I have missed him, too. I have missed all of you.” Suddenly he began to weep. Legolas caught him once more in a snug embrace.



“Weep no more, Nimaras,” he soothingly said. “You will soon see them. And we shall be a family again.”



“Can you truly forgive me, tôr neth?”-younger brother-Nimaras whispered against his shoulder. “I caused you such hurt and none of it deserved.”



Legolas shushed him. ''Tis done and over with. I am only so pleased to have my brother at last.” He pulled away and smiled joyfully at Nimaras. “Besides, you saved my life,” he reminded him. “You must love me after all!”



Nimaras laughed with like felicity in the midst of his tears.

**********

When the Imladrin army departed the Ettenmoors before dawn the following day, its ranks were little diminished and indeed were swelled by the folk of the Wandering Companies who would sojourn a while in Rivendell. But perhaps the most welcome addition to their numbers was the Elf who was brother-by-marriage to the twin sons of the valley realm's lord. No gladder sight could there be than that of kin united after more centuries than any cared to tally. And this the Elves counted as great a victory as that won in the Troll-fells, that in that battle's wake, long sundered ties should be mended and a broken family made whole once more.



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

Glossary:

Lairë - Quenya for summer

Edain - Men of the Three Houses of Elf-friends in the First Age from whom the Dùnedain or Men of the West are descended



To be continued…