In Earendil's Light

Part Four

Middle Earth, Third Age, Year 2,555

As they led their steeds through the looming brume, neither twin dared speak. The cotton-thick fog hung low between the densely grown tree trunks of the nascent Mirkwood. The hostile landscape deadened their usual pace, exposing them to the harsher elements of a haunted forest’s nightscape, as well as to the preying eyes of lurking shadowspawn. The onerous scent of decay permeated the cloying smog, as the two elf-warriors trudged their way through the moist sludge of the only path.

Even on the outskirts of Fangorn, the princes had never seen such trees: their trunks round and hardened as the ancient towers of Amon Sul, their bows as immovable as pillars of dwarven ore, their roots fat, yet gnarled as the fingers of the witches of Angmar. When Elrohir had cause to lead Virgor, his stallion, over a glade of fallen leaves, he’d cause to note that every one could serve bed bedroll. Even on this sliver of open path, not a beam of starlight could break through the double threat of branch-weave and murk.

As the party slogged forward, through another barely penetrable range of moss-leeched roots, the crisp sweeps of a scythe pierced through the static night. Further on, the noxious, near-choking fumes of recent bloodshed assaulted them, moments before they came upon the corpse-strewn remnants of a battlefield. Though veterans of countless charges, the twins had never seen such mutilation: eyes gouged with freshly-broken twigs, skulls cracked on branch knots, skin scored by a flurry of arrowheads, limbs similarly half-ripped from their joint, spores of green, oozing blood mixing with that of elven hue, everywhere, everywhere…

A massacre of goblins, with a few brave elves lost in the din.

In the distance, the rapturous lilt of an elven choir sounded. Part requiem, part lullaby, the beatific voices hovered just below the cloaking fog, luring the weary princes towards Thranduil’s stronghold. His brother but a formless shadow before him, the air a fugue of smoke and stench, Elrohir prayed the Sindar forces had lost precious few to these latest slayings.

*

Perched atop one of the few tree-stumps not mired in bloody grime, Legolas observed the proceedings with uncharacteristic quiet. Only with the most leaden reluctance, the result of his youngest son’s most relentless urgings and lightening-fast reasonings, had the Mirkwood king allowed him beyond the elf-city’s battlements. The father had had plentiful reservations, but the ruler’s wisdom had ultimately won out: how would his son be iron-willed in the face of true terror, if he’d never been exposed, even indirectly, to the trials of war? A deal had been struck; Legolas was never, even for the briefest of moments, to leave the sight of either of his elder brothers.

Moments after his arrival, any defiance of his father’s command proved unconscionable. At such a tender age, the sights before him instantly overwhelmed. The sturdy Sindar folk worked tirelessly to anoint the corpses of the fallen with wheylax and shroud them in leaf-weave, his brother Luinaelin a somber chief among them. Mithbrethil manned the left handle of a giant scythe, which barely bit, despite hours of effort, into the bark of a murk-rotted tree, where the goblins had held out for weeks, waiting. A small choir had been assembled to soothe the aged oak, easing it into death, but the weirded tree’s voiceless howls quaked through each and every elven heart.

Amidst this grief-burdened industry, Legolas sat, silent but rapt. How could Luinaelin, often so squeamish in pranks, corral his senses enough to calmly encase the bodies, the faces of some of his dearest friends, forever? How could Mithbrethil push on, with twice his normal strength, into the raw hide of the sapling he himself had planted, its anguished cries braising through his councilman’s chest? How could the gentle gardeners of their choir find voice among the ruins of their bravest archers?

Awed by their example, Legolas curled his legs beneath him and let their manner teach him well.

Suddenly, in the midst of carrying a stray arm, Luinaelin froze. He swiftly turned, stilled, then peered into the darkness beyond the blue light of the glowlamps. Legolas’ sharp eyes caught the faint twining of his brother’s lips, as he opened a palm towards the blackness. A stallion, burdened with unfamiliar armor and a healthy saddle-pack, trotted into sight. The steed was clearly not one of their own, yet Luinaelin soon patted her with overt fondness.

Legolas tensed, disquiet creeping over him as an army of stealthy, poisonous feeflies. Something curious, vaguely unsettling drew near, though the young elf knew not if he possessed the wherewithal to face it down. He felt suddenly feral with longing, as if no drink, no bread, no endless swim, field-length race, or heady mountain climb could sate him. Was he bewitched by some heathen’s spell? Was Luinaelin? Nothing he had ever encountered had wrecked such havoc within him, not his first orc kill, not his thunderstorm patrols, not even the news of his mother’s passing. He clutched meekly at his bow, waiting-out this unreasonable torment with eyes stuck on his now-smiling brother.

Two elf-soldiers emerged from the forest deep, their origins unknown to the youngest Mirkwood prince.

Before long, Mithbrethil had joined in their welcome, as well as Aerthlen the Loremaster and Brilucith, their father’s chief council. Warm embraces were exchanged with all. Who were these oddly dark-haired elves, and from where did they hail? Legolas had seldom journeyed to other elven lays, and these too long ago to be properly recalled. Had he himself perhaps encountered them before? They were fearfully unfamiliar, yet stirred such troubles within him…

Mithbrethil beckoned him over. Legolas nodded ely,ely, then leapt down to the grass.

As he cautiously approached, he forced his rising discomfort aside, instead concentrating on the elves themselves. After clearing the labyrinth of goblin carcasses, the exactitude of their mirrored features came into view, thoroughly startling Legolas. The raven-haired elves were virtually indistinguishable; both possessed a regal quality, yet also a faint luxury to their undeniable beauty. Indeed, once close enough to truly absorb, the young elf found he could not pull his rabid eyes from them, so plentiful were their graces. Both, in their indivisible twinness, were equally attractive, but the one slightly to the ref thf the other… in his sage gray eyes loomed a keen, luring flame, which so culled Legolas that his brother had to clamp a hand on his shoulder to moor him to his side.

“Mae govannen, maltaren-nin,” the darkling elf greeted him. “My apologies for being so long away, but the troubles to the South have not slept these last unfavorable years.” His twin also bowed his greetings, but refrained from comment. Had he known him, as well? Who *was* this gallant elf?

“Legolas,” Luinaelin reproached him. “Do not tell me you have forgotten Imladris entire? You were so enamored of the Rivendell valley, Ada could hardly persuade you to leave with him!”

“Do you not recall the Sons of Elrond?” Mithbrethil echoed. “Many years have passed, but you took such glee in recounting your exploits upon your return. Surely, you’ve not forgotten Elladan and Elrohir?”

At the sounding of his betrothed’s name, Legolas gasped quite audibly. He planted his widened eyes firmly in the ground, his cheeks flaring. Though his elders’ affectionate laughter trilled around him, the young prince had no sharp rebuts for them, his mind plagued by an assault of long-denied memories. Horseplay on the banks of the Bruinen, tuck-ins at night in his first-very-own chamber, the merry feast following the binding ceremony, their final walk among the summer birches… the unexplained agony of their parting, Legolas too young to fully comprehend this jarring severance from one so dear. His promised mate, Ada had confessed years after. /Elrohir, Prince of Imladris./

The bent knuckles of tender fingers came under his chin, then lifted up for him to meet patient, glowing eyes.

“Plentiful are the Valar’s blessings in you, pen-neth,” Elrohir beamed at him. “How long until your majority?”

/Would he be bound so soon?/ Legolas feared. “But a fortnight, kind sir.”

Elrohir could not help a brief chuckle, then laid a warm, easy hand on his shoulder. “Please, name me Elrohir. Merely a fortnight!! Then we may take some rest. Aye, I am glad of it, for we have seen little peace these last forty-some years, young Legolas.” At the voicing of his name, the princeling visibly shuddered. Elrohir, noting his unease, bent to whisper to him. “I come bearing a message from Lorien, pen-neth, not for your hand. Though I hope there may be time for us to spar. Your fluency with the bow is swift becoming legendary.” Legolas’ cheeks swelled further, the darkling elf’s mere presence causing unfamiliar and uncommonly intense feelings to spring forth. “Will you not escort us to your Adar?”

“It would please me greatly,” Legolas replied tentatively, not trusting even his own voice in the presence of the stirring Prince of Imladris.

When he turned about to guide them, Elrohir’s hand fell from his shoulder. Legolas felt he had never truly known cold, until that very moment.

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

“He has known little sorrow, in his short time,” Thranduil boasted, as they settled around the desk of his study. “His mother’s passing, surely, but he was not two years old when that calamity struck. This last attack has affected him deeply, though he is far too self-possessed to admit this… not unlike his father.” The elf-king’s laugh boomed through the closely-held room, almost toppling the twins’ sturdy ederwood armchairs. Elladan stifled a laugh of his own. “He burst in here, demanding he be allowed to fight, then later, demanding to help in the recovery of the fallen.”

“He is brave, and strong,” Elrohir commended. “This, he cannot hide.”

Thranduil paid his comments little mind, choosing a different tact. “I have followed your wishes to the letter, he had never felt the burden of your betrothal. Indeed, I have only recently reminded him, in passing. He has been, as per our agreement, free to roam. Though I hear little of such matters, I wonder if he’s thought of else but his training, as there are no maids even somewhat close to his age and the code of Mirkwood soldiers is rather strict on this matter. No elfling should abase himself with lovemaking before his majority, if he is to prove an obedient and clear-minded archer of Mirkwood. He is chaste as a springtime bud, you have my word of honor.”

At this, Elladan visibly cringed; imagining, no doubt, Elrond’s face in Thranduil’s stead and reeling from the shame this vision unconsciously provoked.

Elrohir, for his part, smiled fondly. “It was a happy coincidence, our journey North, nothing more. Though it pleases me to feast his majority, and to take some company with him. But I have no designs, at present, on strengthening our bond. He is still free.”

“But your arrival is most timely!” Thranduil interjected, easily dismissing Elrohir’s cautious diplomacy. “At the time of a Mirkwood elf’s majority, there is no feasting, no ceremony. He must simply find one to instruct him in the act of love. For one night, or forever, there is no quarrel with either circumstance. And you, his betrothed, resting here! I note the scent of opportunity…”

At this, Elrohir blanched white as Galadriel’s robes, oblivious to both Thranduil’s roar of approval and Elladan’s unguarded snickers.

“But, Majesty,” Elrohir coughed, his throat suddenly raw. His befuddled mind did knowknow which he longed for more, the golden prince allowed his freedom or writhing with pleasure beneath him. For an absent moment, both held their allures… /Aiya, this is madness!/ “Surely Legolas has another in mind…”

“Which other?!” Thranduil snorted, letting it be known his will was quite often rule in these parts. “The simpering Elostren, an ox-hearder? The ancient Bellanewen, with her dance of the five barrow-leaves? Those pansy-feet in the choir? Should I send for that renown swordsmith Haldir, or perhaps your Adar’s own emissary, the ageless guard-captain Glorfindel, newly arrived this very morn?”

With a strangled grunt, Elladan too paled to ghosting. Ever-cunning, he soon colored near-crimson with rage, eyeing Thranduil as he would a pack of drooling Wargs. “You would speak so callously of my husband, *majesty*?”

The Mirkwood King took his own turn at skin-whitening.

“I forget myself,” he awkwardly apologized. “The perils of age. And I, at your very binding!! Well, you will be heartened by this news. My servant, Serath, will later guide you to his talan.”

“I am grateful for your… kindness,” Elladan all but whispered, the reality of the situation hitting home. “I long to…” /What? Wring his neck?/

“As for the present matter,” Thranduil would not be distracted. “I cannot conscience another instructing my son in the bedding arts, when his very betrothed sleeps near. I have given him the freedom agreed upon, and on your parting, he will have it again. But now you must concede to my demands, if we are truly contracted in this, Son of Elrond. Be gentle with him, but be firm.”

Elrohir sighed, seeing no way out of this abomination. /If only my desires matched my will, in this./

“You have my word, Thranduil King,” Elrohir confirmed mirthlessly. “I will give him his majority.”

From his seat, Elladan felt relief sweep over him. His twin, in his justified anxiety, did not recognize the opportunity before him, the one he himself spoke of years ago, to fashion the lover of his choice. Elladan did not doubt for the briefest of seconds that Elrohir would prove the most gentle, tender, and considerate lover the young prince may ever have. His charms were as well renown in the Rivendell valley as his diplomatic skills; Elladan was sure Legolas was not the first elf his brother had introduced to the love act. Still, the elf-warrior understood his true concern: that a love act does not automatically lead to real loving. /Would that I had had such a chance with my own beloved. Perhaps things would not have soured so…/

When they were once again in their own counsel, Elladan resolved to mention this potent fact to his noble twin.

*

Later, after Mithbrethil had finished his tour of the compound, the twins finally stole a minute for themselves. He had left them by the Hall of Armor, which housed a collection of weaponry unparalleled in Arda. Elladan paid special attention to the ancient crossbows, fat-bellied swords, and serrated daggers that hung about, each bearing their county’s coat of arms. Elrohir, still reeling from their meeting with the eccentric elf-king, followed close behind.

“Curious, is it not,” Elrohir remarked with a playful smirk. “That their library is the size of Erestor’s closet, but the armory is in its own separate talan.”

“Perhaps in Mirkwood,” Elladan argued, with a wryness of his own. “Lore and letters help little, when the siege is so fierce, and so constant.”

Elrohir frowned at this, but conceded the point. “Well reasoned, gwanur.”

“I have been known, when the occasion arises, to be reasonable,” Elladan grinned in response.

“Hardly,” Elrohir snorted, and received a swat for his obstinacy. “Perhaps we should speak on it with Glorfindel.” The elf-knight felt the air chill at the mention of his twin’s scorned husband.

Elladan, however, betrayed no anger at his brother’s stealth attack. He halted before a spear of such enormity neither elf could imagine one able to bear its weight, let alone launch it. The head was coarsely smelt, to incur the greatest damage, with welts to keep in extra pools of poison; the base ornately carved with yasbrinth blooms. The spear of Glorfindel the Balrog-Slayer, at Gondolin.

“You have led us here,” Elrohir noted, wondering at his troubled twin’s intent.

“Aye,” Elladan acknowledged. “I knew Thranduil kept it, but I have never known the cause. Such precious bounty, to be entrusted to one so… hostile, in his regard for his Noldor brothers. Glorfindel is so often sent to Mirkwood… He bartered the peace between our peoples. He brought word, to Ada, of your proposed betrothal with Legolas…”

Elrohir himself grew cold at this implication, turning to his brother in his shock. “You do not think…?”

“I do not *think*, gwanur,” Elladan murmured, the gravity now weighing him. “As I have said, I, too, have some powers of reasoning. Of deduction. When there is such evidence…”

Elrohir sighed, the long day’s sights and discoveries threatening to overwhelm him. First, the slaughter of the Mirkwood guard, then Thranduil’s crazed manipulations, now this black news for Elladan… Over their now forty-five years of questing, Elrohir had become the guard-captain’s reluctant champion, urging his brother to put aside past differences and at the very least reveal the depth of his feelings to him. Their fleeing after the binding-night had done no bit of good: Glorfindel had not chased after them, Elladan would not waver on this issue, and neither had spoken since that ominous morn. Yet, no matter how many legions of orcs he slew or Warg-packs he skinned, Elladan could not exorcise the memory of Glorfindel’s betrayal. He lived it now as if he’d never left Imladris, viscerally, continuously, without relief or respite.

Elrohir exhaled measuredly, then once again took up the guard-captain’s gauntlet.

“There is some evidence,” he began. “But of little consequence if Glorfindel himself has not confessed to it.”

“You think he would confess it?!” Elladan grunted, his blood instantly up.

“Perhaps there is nothing to confess,” Elrohir suggested, at his own peril. “Perhaps near fifty years of an empty bed have given him cause to repent.”

“Forgiveness will take another fifty,” Elladan grumbled mercilessly. “Fifty and five hundred more.”

“A small price,” Glorfindel announced himself, emerging from around a far corner. “For such hurt as I have caused you, Elladan.”

Both startled twins recoiled immediately, Elrohir moving protectively in front of Elladan. They both, on a deeper instinct, bowed in deference, so astonished at his appearance that they forgot themselves grown, or familiar. Glorfindel took no pleasure in their awkwardness; indeed, where a build-up of hope had lingered, sadness now reigned at seeing his two former charges shrink from him as they would from an enemy. He had so longed to be reconciled with them, but the reality of that process would seem to prove equally painful.

Unsure of how to begin, he opened his arms.

“Please, my dear ones,” he explained. “I did not mean to surprise. I encountered Mithbrethil in the corridor, and he informed me of your arrival here. I wanted only to… resolve our differences, or, at the least, call a truce for the time being.”

Elrohir glanced over at his beleaguered twin, whose chest heaved with unrestrained emotion. Perhaps the reconciliation he had wished for would not be so long awaited.

“I have no quarrel with you, Glorfindel,” he stated calmly. “I honor you as my tutor and guardian, as always. I hope we will have occasion to converse, as in older times, during our stay.” He turned back again to study Elladan, who looked on Glorfindel as if a tormenting ghost, or vengeful spirit, then made a quick decision. “Our way has been rife with conflict. I am weary. I shall retire to my chamber.” He bowed again, not waiting for approval. He then faced his twin outright, nodding to indicate his availability, if later necessary. The elf-warrior did not acknowledge him, but Elrohir knew he had understood.

After his twin had departed, Elladan felt curiously more at ease, similar to the calm that descended upon him before battle. Even the most innocent skirmish was a test of wills, which combatant had the stamina to outlahe ohe other, mentally more than physically. He had long prepared himself for this raw encounter, more so than any other fight he had engaged in; moreover, Elladan saw no possibility for his own defeat. He had already lost everything.

He straightened his posture, fixing his husband’s pale visage in his sights and peering down his perfectly aquiline nose at him. He waited for the overture.

“It is shameful, on my part, that coincidence reunites us,” Glorfindel admitted. “I have not kept my promise… the very one that kept me from you-… from your bed. To protect you.” Elladan did not move an inch, his face a mask of arrogant indifference. “I know you do not feel the need of my protection.”

“What I feel, o mighty Balrog-slayer, has never seemed to be of much concern,” Elladan snipped.

“That isn’t so,” Glorfindel declared, sounding hollow even to himself. “Elladan…”

Elladan visibly rolled his eyes, unimpressed with this scattershot display. “What is it you wish to tell me, Glorfindel? That you are sorry I’ve been hurt? I care not. That you have trysted in my absence and now know only my heart will satisfy you? Prove it. Come with me, to my bed, with words of love, and prove yourself my husband, and then I will hear of apologies, and regrets, and weakness. Then I will truly have what you are, for I will know that I am loved as a husband, not the elfling you will not put out of mind.” The elf-warrior marched up to him, his sly, inviting eyes boring imperiously down. “Will you come, then?”

“*Elladan*,” Glorfindel mused. “Would that every quarrel be so carelessly resolved.”

“That’s excrement,” he dismissed. “Your answer, please.”

“Forty-five years, we’ve been apart!” Glorfindel exclaimed, his manner chafing. “Have you nothing else to say but come to bed? Is this your all-purpose resolution for conflict off the battlefield, denigrate and conquer?”

Losing the last of his patience with this cursed diplomacy, Elladan launched himself forward and dug a brute fist into the chest of his tunic.

“are are no judge of mercy, Balrog-slayer,” he snarled. He tempered a moment, but did not release him, his mithril eyes shimmering with sorrow. “Would you know of my misery? Of night upon night of self-abasement? Am I not wise enough, strong enough, fair enough, did I not learn my lessons well? Am I so coarse, so loathsome a creature that mine own husband will not lie with me? I have known the Shadow’s black urgings, so tempting in my nights of lust that I near gave myself to them. Do you not know how the Nazgul came to being? Have you not heard their wretched cries? The black riders gallop through my very dreams, taunting me, tormenting me!” For that breathless moment, he indeed seemed the nightmare-plagued child of years passed. “Where were you, husband, that should keep them from my dreams? Where were you whose love should fill me so completely that not a drop of their hate could pour in?” Recovering himself, he threw him back, dingding, at once, and demanding again. “That is the toll of it. Now. *Will. You. Come*?

His eyes alight with the all-too-keen knowledge of this insight, Glorfindel could not falter.

“I cannot, meleth.”

Elladan nodded, once, then seemed to shrink into himself. After he bowed in deference, he continued his path through the armory, as if not a moment of their meeting had transpired.


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

Alone, possibly for the first time in years, on the archery grounds, Legolas aimed, drew, and fired.

Another day, another hit.

Despite their age, experience, and unquestioned prowess, few of the other soldiers could match his skill. His Nena had claimed him born under a special star, the brightest in the heavens. Before her death, she’d often recounted the tale of mighty Earendil and his claiming of the silmaril, which nightly shone above. At the least, it had shone when the Mirkwood was not plagued by goblin smog. Without this timely star to guide him, Legolas had felt abruptly severed from his mother’s watchful eyes; he had often imagined her at the prow of the Foam-flower beside valiant Earendil, her patient, guarding gaze beaming down through the silmaril’s ethereal glow.

The sky had been covered by cloud ever since the Shadow’s raid, since the night of the arrival of the princes of Imladris. Legolas had not slept soundly, or felt truly well, from then on.

He knew of no word to name his troubles, nor way to right them. When kind Elrohir was near, his body burned with a heat no fire could match, causing him to fidget, fumble, disgrace himself to a level of embarrassment he had never known before, his head light yet heavy all at once. He spilled his drink, near-choked on a timid mouthful, and rambled on aimlessly until even he himself knew not the matter that launched him off. Elrohir bore it all with infinite poise and compassion, which shamed him all the more. The elf-knight had come North to know him in his maturity, but Legolas could not evidence a wit of it, despite his most ardent longings.

And to speak of longing! The young prince had never known so many, or these of such vociferous demand, in all his – admittedly few – years. Longing to be close to Elrohir, to sit at his side in discussion, or lay beside him in contemplation of the lazy night, to feel an approving glance across a banqtabltable, or battlefield, or bathing hall. Longing to touch… no, he could not linger on this, the most unsettling of all his warped emotions. Soldiers did not touch one another as Legolas longed to touch Elrohir, and what would such a heralded warrior think of the mere contemplation of such an act? Though he had not even laids ons on the darkling elf for over two days, Legolas lowered his bow, his fingers mercilessly trembling.

When the moon was gone, the dreams had come. Thick, enveloping dreams such as he’d never experienced before, full of baying wolves, bogs of unctuous mud, dank caves wretched with blasts of steam that licked salaciously over him and roused every pore of his skin. He would wake, groggy, sticky, no more rested than if he’d run straight from Mirkwood to Imladris proper, his stomach and his inner-thighs swollen tender, his… well. He had heard of such… problems occurring as an elf reached his majority, but hadn’t even the vaguest clue of how - or, for that matter, whether at all - to broach the subject with his brother or friends.

He often hoped some urgent business would call the twins away, thus ending his discomfort. He also lived in terror that, with his wishing, this might actually come to pass, and Elrohir would be gone. Legolas raised his bow anew, fired off a quiver’s worth of rounds, hitting every target before him at dead center.

At the peal of a praiseful whistle, the princeling whipped around. There stood Elrohir, dully impressed.

“Your father’s heralds ring hollow in the face of your talent,” Elrohir complimented. Legolas smiled, deeply affected by this one proof of his agility, before he reminded himself he would not be able to best it now. Elrohir strolled casually up to his side, unsheathing his own bow. “May I?”

“Please,” the young elf replied, his desire to observe the elf-knight’s skill momentarily overwhelming the tremors that had begun.

Elrohir surveyed the field with a hawkish glare, mentally tallying the number of arrows spent and the marks struck. His smirk betrayed a glint of teeth. He winked knowingly at Legolas, then shot off a constant, consistently elegant stream, until each and every arrow-blade had been dug out and usurped, replaced by one of his own. The darkling elf paused to appraise his work, then smiled outright.

Legolas, in total, utter awe, couldn’t speak.

“Come,” Elrohir beckoned, gesturing him towards the shaded base of a nearby elm. “I would seek your counsel.”

His head still stuck on the archery field, the young prince ambled dully after him, not noting the change of scenery until they were well-settled beneath the tree. As he turned, then, to meet Elrohir’s welcoming eyes, the world seemed to fade out of view. Curiously, he felt none of his earlier awkwardness, though the heat that suffused his dreams began to flow rapidly through him, to dizzying effect. He laid back on the tree trunk, content to while the day away in contemplation of the Imladrian prince’s mithril eyes. /Aiya, they *are* of mithril hue! Had I remarked on that before? I have never been… so close./

“Tell me, Legolas,” Elrohir began. “Are you anxious for your majority? Do you welcome it, or does it… I can’t imagine much of anything worries you, but…?”

“It is but the beginning of my journey,” the young prince responded. “I have another fifty years to reach my true majority, and become an elf of proper responsibility. I have so many guardians… I do not doubt my road will be lessened, if not eased, by their counsel.”

“You are blessed, in this regard,” he noted.

“Aye, I know it,” Legolas admitted, wondering at the other’s intent. He dared not ask it, not wishing to offend the prince with impudence.

“And what do you know…” Elrohir halted a moment, unsure of how to breech this particularly sensitive topic. /Well, if we are to soon share intimacy, then we must quicken our relations somewhat./ “…of the rites that take place, on the night of an elf’s first majority?”

At this, the heat rose, unbidden, to Legolas’ cheeks. His busy aquamarine eyes dipped resolutely into his lap; he swiftly clasped his quivering fingers together, though there was no hiding them from Elrohir. Until that moment, Legolas had given little to no thought to the occurrence of said rites, as no elf of Mirkwood caught even the barest glimmer of his interest in that regard. They were all old, too learned or too dull. He wanted someone with passion, someone… it sk hik him, then, the purpose of these questions, and even as he fiercely desired to bury his flaming, woozy head in the ground, he began to evidence the very unmentionable result of a night’s tousled dreams. He fidgeted in his seat to loose the fall of his tunic, but still could not bring himself to answer this very patient, very kindly inquiry.

Elrohir recognized this bashfulness for what it was, as well as the need beneath.

“Your father has spoken to you of our betrothal?” he asked anew, with utmost gentility.

“Aye,” came the near-voiceless reply.

“On the day of our promising,” he explained. “My Ada required of yours one immovable stipulation, before he would agree to our proposed binding. That we would be free to explore, to indulge in other lovers, should either of us be tempted, before our joining. I believe readily in that right, Legolas, know this of me. If there is another with which you wish to perform the rite of first majority… or any other you wish to… couple with, at any time, then I give my most profound consent.”

Legolas considered this a moment, somewhat surprised by the turn of events. Had he displeased him? Perhaps his ungainly fumblings had turned his stomach, perhaps he no longer wished to be promised to such an unsightly, unmannered weakling? Ada would roast him alive for this misstep… or worse, force them to marry, when Elrohir did not want…

Unbidden, his eyes moistened, but Legolas held fast. He must have proof of this displeasure, before committing an even more embarrassing blunder. But how to phrase it?

“D-do you… do you no longer wish to….?” Legolas stammered.

Elrohir blinked, surprised at the young prince’s desperate tone.

“I do not wish to pressure you, maltaren-nin,” he answered with extreme care. “But I would… It would be my greatest pleasure to guide you, in this. If that is what *you* desire.”

“Aye,” Legolas sighed, his chest heaving with relief. “V-very much so…”

He chanced to lift his eyes, just then, to meet those stunning mithril orbs. Elrohir, unbeknownst to him, had come quite close, so much so that Legolas could feel his breath on his neck. His gaze had grown pensive, as if in contemplation of some righteous profundity. After tucking a stray hair behind the princeling’s ear, a soft smile crept over Elrohir’s full mouth, so close Legolas found he could not quite catch his quickening breath.

“So beautiful,” Elrohir whispered, cupping a hand over the edge of his jaw and turning his face towards him. “Have they praised your beauty, Legolas, these hearty Sindar folk? Perhaps overpraised it? Sung it in tunes, choirs, dirges, anything to sing of your shimmering graces?” His flush deepened at this unwarranted praise, but Legolas found he could not look away. Elrohir brought his lips to the princeling’s temple, continuing to whisper his hot breath against now-baking skin. “Do you even know of your beauty, meleth? Do you know there is none in all of elfdom to match your immaculate rendering?”

Legolas shook in earnest now, the darkling elf’s words bringing the heat that coursed through him to a slow-boil. Though his limbs felt light as if their bones were liquid, he circled his arms around Elrohir’s solid middle, as much to steady his furious head as to tighten their embrace. Then, as if he had strayed into one of his infernal dreams, Elrohir brushed a first, tremulous kiss over his lips.

Legolas swooned, opened his mouth to him, the near-blindsiding rush of feeling causing him to sink further into Elrohir’s arms. He abandoned every bit of shame, or awkwardness, or anxiety, now safely held by the knowledge that his elf-knight kept him, would teach him, would love him.

For Legolas had found the words, had named the feeling at last.

Gently, Elr wit withdrew, breaking their deeper kiss with airy, teasing flutterings over his cheeks, his nose, his brow. The elder elf leaned back against the tree, allowing Legolas to rest his spinning head on his shoulder, curl up to him. As long as the younger elf appeared untroubled, he felt no need to speak. Legolas, for his part, relished this lovely intimacy, still reeling from the waves of unbound feeling sweeping through him. He felt, all at once, not a lick of shame and deeply, intensely curious as to what, if anything, came next. What else could their bodies do in such harmony of spirit? What other pleasures awaited? Legolas had never considered any of these matters before. Feeling centered enough to look upon the tender prince, he eased open his eyes, only to be treated to a view down the length of the elf-knight’s sinuous frame. There, atop his legs, he noticed a similar…

“Elrohir?” he queried, with infectious curiosity.

“Aye, meleth,” came the rasping reply. Elrohir knew he must hold his true desires until the night of Legolas’ majority, but, at the moment, the task seemed insurmountable.

“May I ask you something… that perhaps I should know… but that I do not?”

“Always, maltaren-nin. You must promise me this.”

The heartened young prince dully forswore: “I will. I promise.”

“Very well,” Elrohir smiled at him, unable to resist twisting a lock of his flaxen hair through his nimble fingers. “Your question?”

Legolas grinned sheepishly, then soldiered on. “Why does….?”

The innocence, and unexpected charm, of the eventual inquiry was enough to put off even the most raging desire, as, indeed, it did.

End of Part Four