In Earendil's Light

Part Five

Middle Earth, Third Age, Year 2,555

As a sheer, pearlescent beam of Ithil’s pale cast broke through the cloud cover, Legolas raised his eyes to the patch of indigo sky. Above, nearly astride the moon, the dauntless silmaril rode the black heavens, thus reminding the young elf of his mother’s ever-presence, over him and always in his heart.

This past fortnight, there had been little room there for other than Imladris’ kindly elf-knight, though the prince’s heart had simply opened further to accommodate its growing population. Perhaps the memory of his mother’s grace had needed to retreat these last few days, that he may better focus on welcoming his promised one. Elrohir was, indeed, warmly welcome, so much so that Legolas could not bear the thought of his leave-taking. Yet two nights only stood between this moment and their parting, one of which would see them veiled in the gauze of intimacy: the rites of his begetting day.

Their consumption for na, as, as Elrohir would the following morn depart for lands unknown.

Legolas curled his legs into the seat of his armchair, eyes full with the cool gray moon. After their first, heady embrace on the archery field, Elrohir had each day devised a shared activity for them: hunting, sword-training, swimming, an evening stroll, or a round of gaming with their brotherse ele elf-knight, blessed with keen diplomacy, was also a knowing strategist, usurping the holdings of even the miserly Thranduil in the Battle Game. Legolas took a lesson from the prince’s every move, in sport or in earnest conversation, as Elrohir considered even the most casual of his questions of value. The young prince himself took time to ponder every insight, often returning with further, more complex inquiries, which Elrohir raptly engaged. Often as not, their hours together passed as sand through his fingers, not a moment waited upon or wasted.

At last, their talk would run its course, or Elrohir would regard him in such a way as to stun him silent, or he himself would become so ensorcelled by the darkling prince that he forgot himself. Regardless of circumstance, one would ease into the other’s embrace, into the lazy rhythm of tender, thrilling kisses. Although ever intent, during the peerless heat of these caresses Elrohir never surrendered as Legolas did. Though his stormy eyes often betrayed him, he nevertheless guarded the young prince’s chastity with ironclad vigilance, for which Legolas immeasurably esteemed him. At times.

His restless glare swept down from the heavens, landing on the window of the talan across the courtyard. Was it merely Serath’s black humor or one of Ada’s dull machinations that selected these all-too-visible chambers for Elrohir? There his betrothed now sat, sipping some strange copper liquid and conversing with the amiable Glorfindel, while Legolas was left to his own turgid devises on this night before his majority. He dug into the pocket of his robe, then extracted an small, empty bottle, laced with the barest traces of an unctuous amber salve. In one of their early, frank discussions of the realities of physical love, Elrohir – open to even the most intimate of inquiries - had detailed the ‘practical’ uses of self-pleasure and had gifted him the then-brimming bottle. Yet so ardent had been his explorations, not a stirring, loam-scented drop was left.

Reason enough, perhaps, to interrupt them? Reason enough to linger after Glorfindel had taken his leave, and take a night early what he had begged for and been denied that very afternoon, beneath the one, shading willow by the far gate?

Under the blessing light of his mother’s star above, Legolas knew his mind.

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

“You ought perhaps return for springtime,” Glorfindel noted, two fingers lifting his goblet from the side-table and resting the silver base on his lap. “There may yet be another binding. Haldir is mending swiftly, under Erestor’s care.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Elrohir smirked wryly. “But tell me, dear captain, how did the fearsome Galadhrim come to recover in Imladris, when the journey alone could prove perilous?”

Though the elf-knight meant the playful query in jest, Glorfindel’s cobalt eyes darkened considerably. “If he had not made the journey…” His sudden, blunt sobriety told the tale.

“He was not truly wounded, then?” Elrohir questioned, without trace of mirth.

“In his fea, meldir,” Glorfindel murmured. “In his soul.”

“And what of his father’s objections?” he inquired further. “Are they reconciled?”

“Perhaps, in time,” he sighed, suddenly reminded of his countless spars on the subject with his fellow guard-captain. “He cannot help but face it, now.” Elrohir nodded thoughtfully, took another gentle sip of miruvor. Their Sindar hosts had little appreciation for the sweet, fermented cider, so Glorfindel had been more than eager to share both his private store and a quiet moment with the young elf-knight.

Their negotiations in Mirkwood had been fraught, tumultuous, Thranduil often abandoning the table in a rage. The King’s rampant war-mongering among the Northern lands was threatening trade routes. Despite the obvious, imminent threat to the Mirkwood, the elders of both Lorien and Imladris felt that the elven people must stay the course. Though war would soon be upon them, the signs remained vague as to the nature of their charge, of their chance for survival. Mithrandir was only beginning to set his plan in motion; he challenged that some of the major players in the conflict were not even born. Elrond had not yet set his own mind to the proper course, Celebrian’s departure still heavy on him, but he knew the Gray Pilgrim’s way to be just. Galadriel, too, was decided. Only Thranduil remained – in this the most vital, and most deceitful, arm of their combined forces.

“And what maid would he have him bed?” Elrohir snorted bitterly, his blood up at the thought of Haldir lost to grief out of misplaced paternal devotion. “There are none as strong, as learned in the healing arts and as regarded among our people as Erestor!! None that are not already promised…”

“Your sister was promised,” Glorfindel countered pointedly. “I told Elrond the deception was folly, worthy of… well. Best not besmirch the name of our goodly host.”

“Not in Mirkwood, at the least,” Elrohir mused, still burnt. /Legolas must be possessed by his mother’s grace./

“Then you are eager to take your leave of the once-great Greenwood?” Glorfindel queried, all practiced wide-eyes and innocence.

“Mirkwood is vile,” Elrohir did not hesitate to an, di, disregarding the implicit taunt. “How such a blooming nation can survive the gloom… perhaps I do not justly credit Thranduil.”

“Does the nation bloom before your eyes?” the guard-captain teased outright. “Or merely its newest citizen?”

Elrohir grunted audibly, downed another mouthful. “I will have no peace, I see, if I do not answer you.”

“None at all,” Glorfindel admitted, his lips wickedly twined. “I am but… intrigued, by the playing out of this proposed union. You were both so young, when betrothed…”

“You contested the match.”

“I did.”

“Erestor has often remarked upon this,” Elrohir commented. The darkling elf turned inward, unsure of how best to play-out the presentation of the past week’s discoveries, and admitted delights, before his opposed guardian. Indeed, had he been told afore of the changes Legolas’ gracious, ever-curious company would incur in him, he would not have given the bearer of such prophetic news the least of credence. This, however, would hardly satisfy sharp Glorfindel, whose temerity had nearly broken Elladan but days ago. This knowledge, though presently put aside in the name of indulgence, also cautioned him.

Then, a knock at his chamber door.

Glorfindel, across from him, tensed visibly, thinking the intruder to be his humbled twin. Elladan, however, would not have bothered announce himself… but what other would join them at such a late hour? Perhaps there was further mischief from the looming Shadowspawn. Decided, Elrohir rose, then padded over to the door, careful to draw the curtain between reception area and entranceway.

Impatient, ethereal Legolas had already crept into the room.

“Here’s a most welcome intrusion,” Elrohir called to him, then slipped his arms around the slender frame. After smoothing the prince’s wrought brow with noisy, vigorous kisses, he bent to catch his soft mouth, drawing deeply. At their parting, Legolas sighed intently. “Did sleep prove elusive on your begetting-eve, meleth?”

“Somewhat,” Legolas noted mysteriously, peering over his shoulder. “May I join you?”

Elrohir blinked sagely in response, then led him on. With a wry wink at the guard-captain, he offered the young one the end of his lounging-chair. Legolas tentatively perched on the edge, shyly acknowledging Glorfindel, but, once Elrohir had extended himself behind, he leaned back onto his limber legs and gathered own own onto the rich vermilion cushion. Elrohir had instructed his green charge that, though propriety must always be observed in company, the true lover never shied, or was shamed, by tempered displays of affection. Thus, though a faint blush tinted his cheeks, Legolas gathered up Elrohir’s nearest hand and clasped it between his own.

“Are you troubled, pen-neth?” Glorfindel asked outright, himself troubled by the ease of this display.

“No,” the prince shrugged, taking comfort in Elrohir’s appraising gaze upon him. When he could find no other answer, he spied the miruvor. “What is this drink? Or is it a tonic?”

“Bittered cider, from the vineyards at Rivendell,” Elrohir explained. “Would you care for a sip?”

“A brief one,” Legolas replied, noting Glorfindel’s scowl. “To taste, only.” Elrohir rose from his reclining to hand him his glass, stroked a calming touch over his back. Miruvor, when first sampled, often soured the palate to choking.

Legolas, however, seemed immune to this, swishing the viscous cider over his tongue and swallowing without incident. His nose wrinkled in displeasure.

“Too thick,” he judged, as Elrohir lowered back to reclining, goblet in hand.

“An acquired taste,” the elf-knight chuckled softly, eyes alight as swift mercury. “Which you may yet, as with other things, grow to acquire.” Legolas raised a doubtful eyebrow, but demurred. “Tell us, maltaren-nin, if you will, and honestly so… Glorfindel earlier remarked that those so young as we should not be so laxly matched by our elders, before the bolder shades of our character have come forth. Do you feel yourself encumbered by our betrothal? Did you feel your freedom stifled, at the news?”

For a moment, Glorfindel seemed to growl beneath his breath at Elrohir’s impudence. Legolas wondered at his temper, thus staying his reply. Soon, however, the guard-captain himself beckoned. “Aye, pen-neth. Do tell.”

The young princeling paused to form his words with care, then responded with measured confidence.

“When first my Ada spoke of this alliance,” he confided. “I thought little of it, meaning that I never gave it mind. I did, at times, think on my majority, on my future binding, but only that there were none in Mirkwood I thought pleasing, or proper. I also thought… I knew that I do not favor… maids. This plight gave me weeks of concern, so in some ways news of my betrothal to a warrior… But then… suddenly, Elrohir and Elladan were arrived; indeed Elrohir himself was before me, and… I… I was afraid.” Elrohir squeezed the hands that held him, urging him to continue on. “At first, I feared that his manner would not befit the… his… his beauty. For I was… for he…”

“Aye,” Glorfindel acknowledged dully. “They are beautiful.”

“Aye,” Legolas parroted, still trying to suss out the reason for Glorfindel’s stale attitude. “But I needed not fear. He is kind of heart, learned and agile, gentle…” Legolas turned, then, to regard Elrohir with a stare of such outright passion that both were suitably ensnared.

“And what of tomorrow?” Glorfindel inquired roughly, after clearing his throat. “What do you know of the rites pushed upon you?”

Without breaking their stare, Legolas whispered: “If it were not he, it would be another. But I would not that it be other than he. I would not evermore share myself with other than… than you, Elrohir.”

As Legolas raised the darkling elf’s palm to his lips, Glorfindel wrenched his own hard stare away. The love they both so clearly felt, so newly, cleanly forged, would no doubt bear the begetting-night’s testing, perhaps even the test of time, such was its ardor. Yet its very fact challenged every notion he’d held on his own binding; that an elfling’s affections were not to be warped by politicking, or soothsaying, or even blinding lust. Could their grieving, overprotective fathers, in their blundering negotiations, have struck the perfect match? And what of his own frayed union?

As if privy to his very thoughts, Elrohir now turned preying, curdled eyes on him.

“What say you, brave captain, to this humble evidence?” he asked venomously, his true intentions in this pacifist’s banquet revealed. “Do you think him challenged? Naïve? Overwhelmed by indecision, inexperience, his father’s will? Do you feel him incapable of interpreting his own heart’s yearning? Or merely besotted by my esteemed beauty?”

“But I *am* besotted,” Legolas insisted, voice rich with merriment.

“Hush, meleth,” Elrohir instructed him, hawkishly observing Glorfindel’s discomfort.

“You have no right to challenge me,” the Noldor balked, chafing. “Nor is there quarrel between us, by your own words.”

“Words mean little in affairs of the heart,” Elrohir repliqued. “You know better than I, sage Glorfindel, that action speaks. And yours have been so injurious to my brother in all things under the blessed Valar, that I cannot let this pass without retort. I esteem your age, your experience, your position at Imladris’ court, Glorfindel. But I no longer honor you as friend and counsel.” With a drawn, weighted sigh, he withdrew the infliction of his wounded eyes. “Leave us.”

Unsteady, Glorfindel rose. He coughed, once, but made no rebuttal.

When the door shut behind him, Elrohir’s pained smile met the prince’s questioning eyes. “Forgive me, meleth, for making an example of you. I hope this does not sour things between us.”

“It matters not,” Legolas dismissed, more concerned by Elrohir’s cloying distress. He stretched out along the length of him, resting his head on his lank arm. “He has harmed Elladan?”

“He will not lie with him, though they are bound some forty year,” Elrohir elucidated, his distaste for the subject plain. “He believes him too… truly, I cannot see the reason of it. The trouble, I believe, lies not with Elladan at all, but with Glorfindel’s own deep-seeded fears.” Unwilling to linger on these troubles now that Legolas was near, Elrohir wove a tight embrace around him. “And you, maltaren-nin? Have you come to me, at last?”

“You waited on me, Elrohir?” Legolas queried, the picture of innocence. “How did you…?”

The elf-knight indulged in a wry laugh. “I merely thought you might… seek me out, after our late day, by the willow… I admit I hoped you would.”

“Did you… desire me, then?” Legolas asked, a definite archness to his lightened tone.

“I did,” Elrohir confessed. “I *do*.” He bent to his lips anew, drawing thickly from them. “It would be cruel to depart so soon, so rashly after only a night’s coupling. I could not conscience such behavior, not against the lure of two nights indulgence in your bed, lirimaer.”

Legolas, emboldened by this admission, met his sweet, waiting mouth in lieu of some overwrought reply.

*

As the hallowed light of the silmaril broke through the sinister, cloaking cloud-line above, a lecherous wind snaked through the windows of their talan and tongued thievishly at the flaming wicks of the lantern-scattered chambers. The two entwined elves stretched along the lounging-chair barely registered the dimming light, so intent was their amorous embrace. Only when Elrohir pulled back to shed the last of his burgundy tunic did the chill gusts braise him, sharp contrast to Legolas’ slick, baking skin.

He pecked briefly at the princeling’s lazy smile, then rose to shut out the wind.

Hours of rapt, generous kisses had lulled the young elf into a near-mesmeric state, Elrohir’s slow-culled warmth dissipating even the most vociferous tremor of anxiety. The blurred edges of his sculpted frame haloed by Earendil’s light, Legolas regarded his bold, beatific lover-to-be with unguarded reverence. He sank further into the stiff-brilled velour of the lounge cushion, his limbs airy-light, as if buoyed by the salty swells of a mineral bath. His skin, flush from brow to toe-tip, shone crystalline under the starlight. When Elrohir turned back to him, leaving the curtains fastened, Legolas caught the quicksilver streak of his irises amid the sweeps of night shade.

Soon those haunting eyes were upon him, as the darkling elf enveloped him anew. Elrohir smoothed his voluptuous lips across the dead-drop of his cheek, but would not take his mouth.

“You look a wanton, meleth,” he murmured salaciously. “Are you well at ease?”

“Very well,” Legolas responded.

“Are you still decided?” he questioned again, his charge’s continued comfort vital to the night’s playing-out. “Speak it now, if you would delay, for I will loose all reason at the sight of you unwound…”

Legolas gasped suddenly, as Elrohir cuffed his jaw-edge with the blunt of his teeth. Until then, the elf-knight’s patient ministrations had bathed him in a stream of sweet affection; now, the cunning thrall of eroticism beckoned, fierce and disorienting as the sea’s eventual call. Opulent, hazy want gripped him, firm as Elrohir’s hand dug in the soft of his inner-thigh. His brimming body longed to be rid of his loose shirt, his tight leggings… his cloying virginity. The steam-soak of Elrohir’s tongue down the length of his throat made his mind.

“May we move…?” he queried absently, all thoughts centered on the nimble unlacing of his collar, the busy fingertips that teased him there. “Your bed…”

“The chair does not please you?” Elrohir tarried his task, waiting on his answer. “Is there discomfort?”

“N-no,” Legolas stuttered, his inexperience staying him. “I merely thought it… more proper…?” Elrohir chuckled softly, unable to resist another kiss at such delicious indecision.

“What do you desire, maltaren-nin?” the darkling elf inquired, giving and gentle. “Tonight, I am at the service of your pleasure alone. We shall move to the bed, if you so wish. But before, tell me. What might I perform that would please you most?”

“I… I do not know,” Legolas replied, near-voiceless.

“What have you dreamed of?” Elrohir pressed on, tightening his hold on the raw princeling. “Surely you have dreamed of this…”

“Oh, aye,” Legolas agreed, finding his ease. “But I know not what might… be pleasing to us both. I would not your desires be forgotten.” A look of utter tenderness came over the elf-knight, so heartened that Legolas gained the courage to press on. “In my dreams, as you say, I… I long to please you, Elrohir. Always, I kneel before you and take… and, then, I lie back and you… I cannot speak of it, the mere thought is often my undoing! Only in your fulfillment… do I find my own.”

“By Elbereth, I will treasure you for all my days, Legolas,” he swore, swallowing down a wave of overt emotion that would surely sunder his delicate preparation of the young elf. “Come, meleth. Come to bed.”

Once they had unraveled their knotted limbs, both staggered to their feet, their muscles woozy, strange after such long lassitude. Hands dully clasped, cheeks rose with anticipation, Elrohir guided Legolas into the glow of his bedchamber, then stopped him before the foot of the open bed. He cupped the princeling’s budding face, his eyes shroud in itint sht shades of longing.

“Would you truly indulge my greatest desire, meleth?” he asked again, intent.

“Aye, Elrohir,” Legolas assented, slightly anxious at the desperation of his tone. “As you wish.”

“Remove your garments,” he ordered, almost beneath his breath. “Slowly, that I may…” His will made clear, he backed away, then sat tall on the indigo coverlet, eyes alight as mithril ore.

Legolas smirked faintly. The request was simple enough; Elrohir’s gaze ever-tender, welcoming. He unlaced the last of his collar, then thought better of it and sprung the clasp of his hair. The elf-knight’s throat contracted. He leaned back onto one splayed hand, his wired body on display, as was the ripe bulge in his riding breeches. The young prince’s breath quickened, as he unwound his braids, letting the coiled locks loose over his shoulders.

When their eyes locked, Elrohir nodded, urging him on. Legolas rid himself of his shirt, the motion flexing his taut pectorals, flaunting his rippled abdomen, and unveiling his own pillared endowment, which stretched the thin fabric of his leggings near to fraying. His breaths now came in short, ragged gasps, the air between them misting with tension. As the young elf struggled for control, Elrohir worked a steady hand over fro front of his breeches, the bulge expanding into a broad, ready shaft. His own hands quaking mercilessly, Legolas, as instructed, slowly peeled down his leggings and kicked them off.

He stood, bare and beautiful before the ravenous elf-knight.

A secret smile curving his lips, Elrohir beckoned him forward, while he tugged off his own constricting breeches. Nearly undone by this first sight of him, Legolas swayed, steadied himself on Elrohir’s solid shoulder. He doubled over, burying his face in the crown of sleek, ebony hair and inhaling the heavy ederwood musk that marked him. Playful a moment, seeking to put Legolas entirely at ease, the darkling elf nestled his nose into the down of the princeling’s stomach and flicked a wicked tongue-tip over the wispy cornsilk hairs. Legolas giggled, sighed; any residual worry turned vaporous and lithe. Thusly distracted, Elrohir took solid hold of the prince’s wild, giddy hips and bent to lap at the creamy head of his engorgement.

The resulting moan nearly deafened him.

Almost dizzying himself with rolling, affectionate chuckles, he lowered the legless beauty onto the bed, then knelt to begin his most sensual learning.

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

The sober revels ended, Glorfindel wafted down the spiral staircase as cloud-shade over an open plain, his black cloak billowing, wraith-like, behind him. His le fle features ironed flat by practiced diplomacy throughout the cantankerous meal, dominated, as ever, by Thranduil’s arrogance and eccentricities; they now sagged beneath the weight of his ever-fractious preoccupations: duty, promise, and the true nature of guardianship.

The non-occasion of a Sindarin begetting-day meal, though sparse of mirth, had been rife with unspoken meaning for the guard-captain, as if deliberately designed as life-lesson. Oblivious, or perhaps well-fami, wi, with his father’s pomposity, the golden flower of Mirkwood’s cold hollows had, on that humorless evening, acquitted himself beyond compare. Perched blithely at the King’s right hand, the prince wore the newly-ornate crown of his majority as if he’d been bequeathed his father’s throne. Staid, gracious, and ever-curious, Legolas had welcomed even the most obscurely titled well-ers ers with infectious kindness, yet never detracted from Thranduil’s self-important spectacle of doddering might. Instead, the poised elf demurred from the more treacherous strains of conversation, only nodding indulgently at his family’s bold instructions for the coming night’s intimacy. That pri prince was already thoroughly versed in such intimacies, Glorfindel held no doubt. With a mere glance in gallant Elrohir’s direction, his newfound experience was exposed, though none of Mirkwood-birth seemed to mark this, only Glorfindel himself.

Adding further to his shame was the evidence of similar conclusions written, like a death-warrant, across Elladan’s hush face. Moments before the final service, the elf-warrior had voicelessly excused himself, then retreated down a passage unknown to the fraught guard-captain. A chain of echoing reactions followed: Elrohir tensed, but was stayed by his ever-diplomatic nature, Legolas became concerned at Elrohir’s unspoken distress, Luinaelin and Mithbrethil helplessly watched the drama unfold and prayed to Elbereth that Thranduil took no notice. Glorfindel himself had no choice but to linger on, but yet wondered what good could come of following his troubled husband. Another disagreement? A duel? Elladan had always been more sensibility than much-needed sense.

Yet secretly, as he’d scoped the tableau of veiled foreboding before him, a subtle flaw in his diamond-clear beliefs on the matter began to torment him. By the time he’d at last seen fit to politely withdraw, his beleaguered mind raged with agonizing deliberation. Had he been wrong to flee Imladris centuries ago, under pretence of protecting his dear charge’s virtue? Would Elladan have thusly flourished, had Glorfindel deflowered him? Elrond, surely, would never have consented to such a formative act… yet Elrond himself had approved their binding years later. His Lord and age-old friend was noble, indeed, but he would rather Glorfindel fade in grief than Elladan be bound to one he did not love. And what of this supposed, yet never proclaimed, love? Did Elladan truly esteem him above all others, or did he merely act, himself in keen distress, on his grief-stricken father’s preference of suitor? For his part, Glorfindel knew not if he truly loved Elladan as an elf loves another, or if his spiked blood ruled its house-heart. Perhaps this knowledge would ever remain elusive.

These bleak suspicions confounded him, as he swept into the small alcove that served as library. He knew of but one that could be resolved to his own satisfaction. With some brief research, he might beg an hour of sleep from his roughshod mind. There, tucked into both a cushion-less armchair and the very volume he sought, lurked Elladan; a carafe of the turgid, violet Mirkwood wine near-emptied on the way-table beside him.

The book lay across his folded legs; his gray eyes stared out, into nothingness. His lips, thick and purple, were stained by the potent draught, whose effects Glorfindel had witnessed too often to himself dare sample: near-instantaneous intoxication, ungainliness, and, if consumed in sufficient quantities, hallucinations. The dwarven soothsayers used the violent liquor to provoke visions, though Glorfindel doubted Elladan had this intent. If ever his charge needed his protection, judging by the half-drunk goblet and near-drained carafe, it would be now.

Suddenly, Elladan recoiled into his seat, as if taunted by some unseen specter. He winced, his senses assaulted by a braising, phantom cry, then struggled to quell the shivers quaking through him.

“Not yet,” he screeched, with tremulous authority. “You will not have me!!” !!” He leapt from his seat, book thrown into the invisible creature’s face, then stumbled into the way-table. He caught sight of the still night beyond and, like a trapped bird weighted by drink, he staggered to the window, bashing his forehead on the merciless glass. The impact seemed to break his treacherous imaginings, but did little to pillow the hard blow of the floor.

“Elladan!” Glorfindel shouted, despite himself. He flew to the prince’s side, unable to longer bear the piteous sight.

At first, the elf-warrior seemed not to know him or other, his eyes rolling wild, unfocused. Glorfindel caught his clawing hands, stayed them, all the while cooing hushed reassurances. After some brief consolation, the guard-captain manato hto hold his drooping head to examine him. To his relief, he found few traces of redness. He would not bruise, and thus be reminded of this indignity for weeks to come. Glorfindel knew how closely the brave elf-warrior held his reputation, how tenaciously his self-regard; neither would be served by the knowing of this incident.

Satisfied, he aided his now drowsy charge to his wobbly feet and set about guiding him to his chambers. Elladan sank readily against him, his leaden head collapsed on his guardian’s shoulder and his loose body pressed tightly to him. Ruled by a near-manic consternation, Glorfindel needed not work hard to dismiss the faint yearning this contact stirred. The violet spirits forgotten, he lurched them cautiously down the corridor, not wanting to rouse the threadbare morality of Thranduil’s attention. As they made their way through the birchwood gables, however, Elladan’s sense began to fitfully rouse.

“Did I best them?” he asked, unable to stifle the worry from his tone. “Have they gone?”

“Who pursued you, pen-neth?” Glorfindel questioned softly.

“Vengeance,” he mused, unable to follow. “They sought vengeance… but it will be mine, I have sworn it! Before they have me, before I’m done… but the temptation! I cannot see the line. The line dims, fades, between vengeance and corruption…”

“Who is corrupt, then?” the guard-captain inquired, his concern mounting.

“I am!!” Elladan bleated, his voice laced with sorrow. “They know it, know my heart is hardened, brittle… they await its breaking. Await my fall… tempt me, always, draw me further down with their lies… but I know it, I know it well. They do not lie.”

“But tell me, pen-neth,” Glorfindel urged anew. “Who are these tormentors?”

“They do not die, the black riders,” Elladan forewarned him. “Only flame may distract them, and this but for a time… only flame…”

They had reached the guest quarters; Glorfindel swiftly shut the door behind them and cradled the lugubrious prince fully into his arms, hoping to fan his eternal flame with his warmth. In their beleaguered passage, the guardian had sensed – in his blood, in his very bones – a dimming of the young peredhel’s spirit. He knew not if the toxic drink or these black hauntings caused this, but he knew well enough to immediately proceed to treatment, regardless of the price he himself might have to pay. Thankfully, his enveloping presence seemed to calm Elladan, who gave in to his fatigue and allowed his eyes to droop shut.

Thinking that sleep had overtaken him, Glorfindel gathered them both onto the bed, resting himself against the backboard and Elladan against him, so as not to become forgetful in his lassitude. Still, the baking heat of his charge’s weight did cause some of his baser instincts to stir, but so faint that the Noldor dared to indulge the wisps of longing teasing his languorous limbs. They lay, so joined, for some considerable time, before Elladan’s hot breath breezed across his collar.

“Glorfindel,” he rasped in recognition. “How did we come to be…?”

“Hush, pen-neth,” his guardian soothed him. “Rest, now.” Nevertheless, Elladan attempted to stir, but his wrecked body had other plans. He groaned, a tone halfway between pain and deep pleasure, and sank further into their embrace.

“The boarders are breeched,” he mused, straining for coherency. “We must call the guard… Elrohir and Legolas must fly, we must save them…”

“You have drunk, Elladan,” Glorfindel chided, though amused by this misplaced display of valor. “There is no danger.”

“No danger?!” he exclaimed, braising his parched throat in the process. “The Nazgul are upon us!”

“Sleep now, meleth,” Glorfindel whispered. “All is well.” He bent, unthinking, to silence him with a gentle kiss. He would have told him of his ravings, would have comforted him further, but the flickers of his desire suddenly burned to an indauntable intensity and he could naught but deepen these sensuous caresses.

Intoxicated still, by drink and now by luminous Glorfindel, Elladan opened willingly to him, drawing at the ardent, wanting tongue that met his own. He sank down onto the coarse Mirkwood beddings, pulling the besotted elf over him, the spread of his taut, muscled frame blanketing him with well-needed heat. He gave himself to this sweet consolation, his drunken mind offering not a hint of objection.

Glorfindel, for his part, was consumed by the surge of his own eternal flame, as he eased over of the ripe young body beneath him. Too long had he denied himself this pleasure, too long had he locked his passion away. As he suckled the pale, loam-scented skin of Elladan’s neck, he felt the young elf’s potency swell and was nearly undone by its meeting his own, primed shaft. With cunning strokes through his leather breeches, he brought Elladan to fullness. Trembling, needful fingers soon yanked them down to his knees, as Glorfindel crawled doo clo claim him. Hungry, so blindingly hungry for another, more visceral taste of him, he lapped vigorously at the thick, scarlet length, then swallowed him whole. Still boneless, Elladan could only entwine soft, grateful fingers through the tousled blonde locks of his hair, as his husband’s fevered mouth made up the necessary friction.

With a moan of sheer, wanton gratitude, Elladan found his rapturous release. Moments later, sleep struck.

Glorfindel, mouth full of gorgeous, salty cream, savored the viscous texture awhile, then swallowed the tart essence down. He had not so drained a lover since before Elladan was born… and just such sharp reasoning instantly soured him. Wit With eyes of blunt, startling clarity, he came back into himself, the shame of his near-abusive actions thoroughly sickening him. He shook, then, unable to restrain a disgusted sob, but, with the force of character that slew the fiery Balrog, the former Lord Glorfindel of Gondolin rallied. He lowered his eyes from Elladan’s flush radiance, withdrew from the bed. Mechanically, he stripped the sleep-heavy elf of his garments, tucked him in, careful to turn him on his side, as he preferred in his infancy. He stopped to recollect himself, a tall glass of water and a leftover cranapple ridding him of the luring taste of sweet Elladan.

Only then did he allow his eyes to take him in, his tranquil, slumbering charge. His husband in name. He seared the memory of this horrific error, of this spit-worthy weakness into his perilously frail mind, then turned away. He removed himself from the room, left the talan, down the tree-wound stairs, to the stable-keep.

He mounted his fair steed, rode as far and as fast as the horse would take him away.

To where he could do no further harm.

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

Gold Arien shone over the Mirkwood forest, fearless, glaring, crowned by the haloed tree-tops, her bold rays banishing the last of the goblin gloom. Refracted through the stained-glass skylight overhead, the peerless light colored the pale canvass of the sleeping elves’ skin. Rich amber, callow azure, soft sea green, and the dark jade of waybrush leaves played over their undulating chests, as they stole these last, precious moments of rest.

Having moved too far from Elrohir in his sleep, Legolas shivered, awoke. Strained, unfamiliar muscles winged within him, his backside particularly ride-raw. Nestling back into his elf-knight’s listless arms, he relished this new, emblematic agony as small price for both the peredhel’s loving and his own much-wanted majority. The pain, at any rate, was far outweighed by the previous night’s abundant pleasures, the recent memory of which Legolas allowed to drift through his lazy mind. These half-remembered sensations coursed through him anew, rousing the young elf’s ever-ready desire.

Here was Elrohir, laid out before him like a feast on midsummer night: lissome neck stretched elegant for his devouring; dark thatches of hair grown wild across the plane of his chest, mowed sparse over his strung abdomen; legs tossed carelessly open; sinuous arms plump with muscle; strange, bracken-guarded hollows of his underarms black, mysterious. Legolas hardly knew where to begin, so eager was he for exploration, for sensation. Wandering fingers searched across these fleshy clefts, sweeps, crevices, soon followed by grazing lips and a moist, nimble tongue. As deft as any true journeyman, Legolas left no patch of skin dry, no nipple unmolested, nor even the most densely packed nerve unprovoked.

By the time Elrohir wafted iwakewakefulness, he found himself breathless with need. His body primed by Legolas’ keen ministrations, he hotly met the young prince’s ripe, waiting mouth. Merciful fingers coiled around his blunt erection, rough, knowing strokes wasted no time in bringing him, in a blind instant, to wrecked completion. The orgasm ripped across his still dormant body like a whip, braising his woozy frame with stripes of zealous pleasure. The charge was stealthy, sure, his utter undoing. As the torrents of feeling ebbed to a light, lingering thrall, Elrohir was unsure of how this unparalleled rousing had come to pass.

Unable to suppress a heady giggle, Legolas traced the edge of his pointed ear with an able tongue. “Good morn, melethron. How was your rest?”

“Uneventful,” Elrohir remarked, still wondering at the potency of the princeling’s skill. “And you, maltaren? Do your limbs ache some?”

“Some,” Legolas admitted, moving to meet his tender gaze. “I proudly bear the pain of your passions, lirimaer.” A smirk twined his lips. “I hope one day, you may experience a similarly… delicious ache.”

“One day,” Elrohir promised, attempting to mask his eagerness. “After our binding, when you are grown.”

At this gentle reminder, Legolas scowled. The truth of the day’s reckoning, the sounds of preparation beyond the talan, the scorch of sunlight across his back, all these at once encroached upon him, sundering his mirth. He swallowed back his curses, laid his head on Elrohir’s broad chest, over his heart.

“Will you not linger here awhile?” he queried, his playfulness forced. “Another month, perhaps, or two? You might teach me to string a longbow with horsehair, improve my broadsword skills. We could soon hunt quintail, the season’s upon us…”

“I must go, melethron,” Elrohir laid bare, hoping to soften the blow with a kiss to his fair crown. “I am sworn to Elladan, to my kin.”

“Elladan might stay, too,” he dismissed these objections with mounting desperation. “Glorfindel will remain another sixmonth, perhaps they can resolve…?”

“Lord Celeborn awaits our return,” the elf-knight argued, without the benefit of his own conviction. He had grown to esteem Legolas such as never before; no other elf had claimed his heart with such ardor, such impenetrable hold. He knew, without promises exchanged or burdensome politicks, that he loved him. That they would come to love each other, he and the elf his mercurial princeling would become.

In time. The only lesson that remained him.

Legolas had fallen silent, as sorrow’s daggers struck, as if he could sense the peredhel’s arguments before they were bespoke. Elrohir gathered him tightly close, cocooning them in the coarse sheets, but the proud elf would not give in to sadness. He met his fate with the newborn strength of his majority.

“I would be bound to you, Elrohir,” he declared. “This very day, if you would. My father would consent. He himself suggested it to me, last evening.”

Elrohir sighed longly, collecting his thoughts. “I wish for nothing more, truly, meleth. You are indeed… a rare pearl. Adventurous. Skilled. Joyful. You will come to wisdom, I have no doubt. And I confess… I confess I have never felt such a love, never before. It strikes… to the core. The heart of my oneness. You are, some say and I dearly concur, an archer of unparalleled skill.” Legolas laughed, once, at this, but returned to solemnity. “Wisdom will indeed come, maltaren-nin, but you alone must undertake this journey. I cannot help it, cannot guide you along, else our bonding might prove too frail to last out eternity. You must be first, and always, for yourself. When you come to this knowledge, when you know I speak true, then you may come to me, join me, and we will be joined. Bound. Forever.”

For endless moments, Legolas lay silent, neither harkening to, nor withdrawing from, Elrohir’s steady arms around him.

“Do you mark me, Legolas?” Elrohir questioned at last, no longer able to bear the stillness.

“Aye, meleth,” he whispered, then shut his parched eyes. “May we linger here, awhile?”

“We need not rise until noon,” Elrohir replied, himself grateful for the request. “I had foreseen it.”

“Hannon le, meleth,” Legolas answered softly, as he sank further in to his dearest one.

**********************************
adanadan woke with a jolt.

He discovered himself in his bed and quite naked; he knew not how, nor what complicit events had transpired since he quit the begetting-day meal the previous evening. He scoured his dull memory: blank. The bed itself was empty, save for him, save for the slight, intangible odor of yasbrinth flower. No doubt his own store of salve, as his groin displayed unmistakable signs of vigorous self-abuse. Not a trace in the surrounding chambers seemed worth noting, only there, across the floor, not a shadow but… a black cloak.

Elladan recoiled into the headboard, his stomach swooning like a trireme amidst the rapids. He’d drunk that ghastly dwarf-wine – this he *knew* - curse their wretched, beard-clad maids, curse their corned toes. As fair Arien glared through the skylight – for certes no friend of Shadowspawn – Elladan crawled off the coverlet, over to the wash-basin, then voided the entirety of his insides in a gush of bile-laced, violet gunk. He shrunk back onto the floor, laying his burning cheek on the cool, coral-hued tile. He unconsciously tugged over the nearby cloak and wrapped himself in its rich, velvet folds. Velvet. A formal cloak, not the crude, bristled fabric the black riders wore, and certainly not smelling so of yasbrinth… Though his skull pulsed like hearth-roasting quintail meat, Elladan could not mistake this confounding sign. /Glorfindel./

Chastely tucked-in by his ever-watcher; scolded as an overly-precocious elfling, he’d no doubt. /Not as a husband, no. Never such respect, not for he./

Elladan curled further into the cloak, waiting out his nausea. His thoughts ignored this foul reminder, instead turning to Elrohir. Cautiously, he released hold of present qualms, descended into himself, into the otherworld only they sd. Hd. He sensed pea peace Elrohir had found in the princeling’s arms, the rush of their recent coupling and the well of violent feeling gathered at his core. His kindly twin had at last tapped the love within him; this consoled him greatly. His dear brother had steadied him in his time of need; this day, he would do so for Elrohir.

For the meantime, Elladan took shelter in the womb of their contentment, hoping to shut out tulliulling, lucid darkness, which ever-threatened to breech the perimeter of his own tenuously held heart.

*

Later, he stood calmly at his somber twin’s side, before Thranduil King, his court, and this pale cast of Legolas. Both lovers had retreated into staid formality, but their brimming eyes told the lonely tale.

The Mirkwood court bowed with resolution, few other than the princeling dissatisfied at their leave-taking. Sindarin pride reigned with Thranduil, their fractious relations with Mirthbrethil and Luinaelin ample sign of his influence, though might was in rare evidence in the King himself. Throughout the fortnight sojourn as tiattiations had continued to flounder, only a visit from Celeborn himself might prevent the dissolution of their alliance. This seemed to little mark Elrohir and Legolas, thouhey hey would pay the highest price, if the Lorien Lord failed in his dealings. Glorfindel himself had taken his leave that very night for Imladris, no doubt to persuade their Lord father of a visit north.

Elladan dared not wonder what other cause precipitated his hurried flight.

With an imperious snort, Thranduil turnn hin his heel, left, his elder sons and bevy of advisors following suit behind. Legolas’ incandescent eyes stayed locked on Elrohir, impervious to his father’s rude retreat. Elladan cleared his throat, stepped forward.

“I would be honored, Legolas of Mirkwood,” he proclaimed. “If you would accept a… a small gift.” The princeling’s ever-live curiosity was piqued. He wrenched his eyes away from the disbelieving elf-knight, who himself raised a questing brow at his twin’s strangeness.

“A gift?!” Legolas exclaimed. His now-sparkling eyes flicked over Elrohir, as if requesting permission. Elrohir shrugged, himself confused. “I welcome any treasure you might bestow upon me, Prince Elladan, but… what have I done to warrant such…?”

“A most accomplished task, to be sure, meldir,” Elladan explained. “You cap captured the heart of the fairest son of Elrond.” Elrohir himself chuckled fondly at his brother’s mischievous ways. Legolas, for his part, blushed a ferocious scarlet. “You guard its gentle keeping, and so, having been its protector for many years, I pass on to you the…necessary weaponry, to properly defend an organ of such delicate nature.”

He fetched a fine leather scabbard from his riding pack, unlaced its bindings, and withdrew two long, trenchant war-knives, their smooth ivory hilts engraved in the manner of the seafarers of Sirion. Legolas was entranced by these sharp twin orc-slayers, but Elrohir long knew of their stealth. Still, he wondered at Elladan’s intent.

“These belonged to virtuous Earendil,” Elladan told. “Passed to him on his majority by his Ada. He passed them on to our own dear Lord Elrond, who gave them to me on the occasion of my binding. But I have not the need, as I prefer the broadsword of men and the bow of our people. But you, fair archer, might find use of theo pro protect that tender heart in your keeping. To protect your own, for later use.”

“Elladan,” the princeling swiftly objected. “They are for those of your kin, I cannot-“

“You will soon be of my kin, pen-gwanur,” he insisted. “And certainly neither I nor Elrohir will bear an heir.” The twins indulged their mirthfulness, but Legolas remained decidedly sober. He stared at the argent, glinting knives, an eof tof their quicksilver flint in his eyes.

“I am… most honored, Son of Elrond,” he finally accepted, as Elladan sheathed the slit-knives and gifted him their full scabbard. Legolas tucked them to his chest, then bowed in deference. “I swear to keep both treasures entrusted to my care with… unwavering vigilance.”

“I’ve no doubt of this,” Elladan beamed at the bashful elf. “Pen-gwanur.” He left to mount his steed, as the lovers bid their farewells.

End of Part Five