Requiescence

Title: Requiescence – Part Five
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: Legolas/Elrohir
Summary: In a time of prolonged absence between them, tragedy strikes a cruel blow.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the pleasure of his estate and aim not for profit.
Feedback: Would be delightful.
Dedication: To Eresse, dearest friend, blessed writer, and shrewdest critic.

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

Requiescence – Part Five

Greenwood, Year 874, Third Age

As a clap of thunder quaked the sky, streaks of feral lightning, like the seething fangs of a warg, bit into the ground, scarring and scoring the fuming soil. Dauntless Virgor raced as if possessed between the shrieking trees, whose faint boughs flopped blindly about when they were not whipping back at his incisively focused master. A violent surge of rain pounded the flaps of his leather cloak, like the strike of a tam on the supple skin of a drum, as he heeled into the stallion’s sweat-sodden flanks, yet no amount of drenching would keep him from charging forth, not with the enclave of the King of Greenwood within the reach of a few hours ride.

His constant, relentless course had been set from a spare summons he had received upon his return to Imladris from the Havens, from his first glance at his beloved’s unstable, aching hand.

He had expected a herald in vaulting formal script, as well as a rushed recounting of the exultation felt by his princely love upon the begetting day of his younger brother. Though he should have known, from the haste in which the steward had delivered him the writ but seconds after his courtyard dismount to the explicit tension on his pinched face, that all was not aright, he was far too merry from a journey with two honeyed bondeds to truly absorb the severity of the scroll that had been presented to him. Indeed, he had even delayed its perusal until a private moment in his bedchamber could be stolen away from the brief chance for a replenishing bath his parents had granted him, before he indulged their invitation that the entire, newly expanded family dine in Erestor’s lush conservatory.

The moment would forever be etched in the forlorn recesses of his spirit, when he unfurled the parchment and learnt of its black contents.

Inden,

Though my own has been cleft in twain, I cherish yours above all. Please come at once. Nana is with Mandos. If I am to remain here, I need your strength. My brother is motherless, nameless, but born. Ada has gone mad. Greenwood is in terrible morning. We are weak, the Shadow will strike. Come soon, if you would keep me.

Gerich veleth nin,
Your Legolas

Not seconds after he had made a third, aghast sweep of the contents, he had heard his mother’s cries of anguish echoing down the halls, his Adar-Lord having received an official announcement from the Crown Prince of Greenwood, who was managing his stricken father’s affairs. The Lady of Imladris was heartfully close cousin to the fallen Queen, as such her grief was so fierce that Elrohir barely recognized her, when finally he managed to creep into his parents bedchamber. Yet when their desolate eyes met, a plan was hatched unspoken between them, in tribute to those they loved, those they would care for on their nascent, insurgent rescue mission. The elf-knight himself had rode out that very night, no need of sleep when none would rightly come; the following morn would see noble Glorfindel escort his Lady home to Lorien, where a miserable sister to the deceased queen awaited escort north. He had been astonished to discover from his mother that he and Legolas were actually related, through complex vines in a tangled family trellis; these and other inconsequential thoughts had comforted him in the long weeks of his journey, when only his steed required the briefest of stays from their furious advancement.

Two months had passed since that most befouled of dark days, since that somber gray hour when one elven flame had been snuffed by the lighting of another. While Elrohir was lounging about the taverns of Lindon, with Beregor as his avid companion and his able guide, learning of the hardy, roughshod ways of the shipwrights, his Legolas had been ghosting through each day, barely present except in service to the tiny brother who demanded so much of his perilously diminished spirit, or so the elf-knight had berated himself in his moments of self-repulsion, of scathing, of direst melancholy.

Glutted on their golden year of peace at Imladris, when they had been free to indulge their amorous inclinations at will, when their relation had flourished exceptionally well, he had thought nothing of allowing Legolas to return alone to his Greenwood home, even with the King still somewhat grouchy over their collusion with Glorfindel to keep his son justifiably out of his imperious reach, and he unable to do ought to vent his considerable wrath at the continued vitality of their relation except bluster in the wind. Perhaps the stingy monarch had been so incensed by the art of their agreeable defiance that he had finally given in to his Lady Wife’s griping and sired them another persnickety son. This, however, had done little to insult Legolas; if ought, he had been thrilled by the news. Indeed, he had at once heeded his naneth’s beckoning home, a feat which no amount of the King’s threats or hectoring could accomplish beforehand. Elrohir had been somewhat concerned over the manner of his beloved’s reception, but had been reassured by a quick, cheery note upon his advent at the Havens, the tone of which had been so awestruck at the wonder that was his overripe naneth that one could easily have mistaken him for the babe’s sire.

Elrohir refused himself the agony of lingering upon the thought of what absolute heartache that wretched day must have wrought of his beloved, when an impish spirit virtually abolished by the death of a dearly mother had to succor a wailing babe in her stead. For he knew that tormenting chore would have instinctively gone to his mercurial, indefatigable Legolas, who would never allow the child to be abandoned to exposure, as Lorindol had writ that their Adar-King had ordered upon sight of him pinky, pert, wailing, and most treacherously alive. Only Legolas had the strength to countermand such a sickly order, only his love and light could so openly defy his sire, with such righteous fire that even the tyrannical Thranduil might cower before him. Only the one who had so subtly wooed him could bear the daily burden of conjuring a twinkle in those desolate eyes, of feigning joviality in order to ensure his brother-babe’s ultimate survival.

Such was the fire of his beloved’s hallowed spirit, even gloomed by the mire of grief.

Yet Elrohir was himself too valorous a lover to allow his chosen one to wither himself away, unaided by his elders and exhausted by his station. He knew his support was essential, not only to the humble archer that was, but to the husband that would be, if he managed to defeat the blackness that threatened to swallow him whole. While Legolas’ soul was a vibrant force against sorrow’s insidious corrosions, he was hardly immune; especially if his ache went untended or his sufferance unabated. Indeed, Elrohir could not imagine a more exigent challenge to his undefeatable regard for his beloved. This experience would move them both, either closer together or further apart. If the former, then naught could break them forevermore; not the scheming of a jealous king nor the pithy grasp of the Shadow itself.

They would finally be free to bind, a thought that kept the elf-knight raging forth, towards a palace in mourning, a forest decrepit with grief for its lost queen, and a princely archer praying for even the slightest reprieve from his honor-bound captivity there.

As he blazed through the ivy-strewn gates, without a flinch from the glazed-eyed guards, he perceived a lithe, flaxen-haired figure awaiting him atop the palace steps. He lurched off the horse, then flew up the steps, only to face the ill-sallow countenance of Lasgaren, his eyes of a hollow cast and his frame thinned into a wraith. Yet the specter of gratitude haunted his wan features at the sight of the elf-knight, who he beckoned indoors with a listless sigh.

“My deepest sympathies, gwador,” Elrohir offered, abandoning decorum altogether to lay out his demands in a forthright tone. “Where is Legolas? I must see him at once.”

* * *

Even the impassioned tempest that battered against the thick, misted window panes did naught to disturb the homely scene within, though the murky green forest beyond cowered some as it bore the full blast of the heavenly wrath.

Many of the elves of Greenwood finally perceived the full force of their sovereign’s preternatural connection with the wilds about, for his ravaging sorrow had brought about such a rainy season as few had ever experienced in their woodland sanctuary. Thankfully, the first few centuries of this age had been a time of bounty, of such prosperity that only the damage incurred through the incessant flooding would truly prove troublesome for them. They had stores aplenty, enough even to provide aid to the manly town of Esgaroth to the south; for this endeavor the mortals should prostrate themselves before the crown prince, who had reserves of compassion, even in such a grave hour, that far surpassed those of his father. Indeed, all the residents of the Greenwood enclave prayed nightly for peace to return both to king and to land, if only for the continued sanity of their three valiant princes, who had assumed its government in the monarch’s stead.

That these favored sons had put aside their own cutting grief, had borne the flaying lashes of the most excruciating pain knowable to an elf in order to maintain the vitality of their pitiful sire’s kingdom only made the inhabitants more grateful for the royal couple’s fecundity, even if this was the inevitable cause of the queen’s death in childbirth. While the princes were yet untried in many of the duties they now routinely faced, the myriad councilors, advisors, chiefs, and captains were only too glad to opine on the best and the worst of their options. They themselves were also intrigued by the fresh perspectives the young ones brought to the running of the kingdom, especially in this time of mild crisis.

Lorindol, charged with the more governmental and militaristic aspects, had already proved to many of his elders that, if the king should indeed fail to regain his senses, he was a more than capable bearer of the crown, even if he had not yet aged a millennia. Lasgaren had concentrated his efforts on the economic aspects, from flood relief to the drenched harvest to hosting any sudden guests. He also received the advisement of his father’s medics, who had necessarily sequestered the sovereign in a talan to the easternmost reaches of the kingdom, though only the royals themselves were appraised of this. The estimable warrior Legolas, for his part, as renown for his mercury as he was for his effluent emotionality, had charged himself with the care – and, unfortunately, the protection – of his newest brother, a task which no other among the siblings could bear. Indeed, his brothers had so far proved so reluctant to frequent the youngest of their ranks that Legolas often had to leave him in the care of a trusted serving maid in order to attend the daily conference the princes arranged between them for every noontime meal. Yet he had begun to prove himself reluctant to continue this practice, as well as more scabrous in his insistence that his brothers come pay nightly visit to the child. Lorindol and Lasgaren, however, saw no more of each other than they did their third; as such, the House of Oropher remained, in tragedy’s wake, most perilously divided.

Yet within the candlelit bathing chamber on this turbulent night, humble domesticity reigned.

As the pert little one gurgled brightly in his basket, Legolas hauled in the boiling kettle from the hearth in the room beyond. With the intuitive precision of longtime practice, he poured just enough into the small basin to warm the waters, then tested the result on his delicate wrist. Satisfied, he lowered the palm-weave perch into the bath, sprinkled in some herbs to supple the sensitive skin of the babe, then went to fetch him. After his rank nappy had been wrapped in paraffin leaves, then promptly disposed of, he carefully immersed the wriggling child to the neck in the deeper waters so as to acclimate him to the dulcet temperature. He sat him in his perch, a device that supported him while Legolas washed more thoroughly, which also allowed them to maintain eye contact. New mothers, he had been told, found this contraption particularly effective with newborns who were still somewhat fretful of severing the connection between them for too lengthy a time.

As this babe had been so cruelly denied both the grace of his mother’s care and the remedial influence of his father’s presence, Legolas was only too keenly aware – as he had been since his brother’s birthing day – that the little one was entirely dependent on him for succor, for consolation, for the nourishment of his nascent soul flame. While the young archer, unaccustomed to such demands upon his spirit and not entirely mature enough to give as a true parent would, felt relentlessly drained by the pull upon him, he also could not abandon his brother as the cowardly others had. Thus, he daily dredged up his every reserve of mirth, of giving, and of softness for his needy brother, who by all accounts was thriving in his care. Indeed, Legolas found that focusing so intently on the more pleasant aspects of their life dispelled some of the gloom that perpetually shroud him, especially when in the rather adorable company of his lively charge. The little one was quite effortlessly gleeful, eager to learn of his surroundings and thrilled to twitter the day away in incomprehensible conversation with the heart that nurtured him. Once they had established their routine and the midwives had instructed the prince on the finer points of childcare, they went about their business in good cheer, even though said affairs were more or less relegated to eating, sleeping, bathing, and a brief hour in the afternoon for playing together. Yet Legolas strived to make every moment playful, content to chatter away his own anguish by telling his brother of their land and people, of the world about, and of all things dear to him.

Chief among these was the memory of his elf-knight, to whose incomparable feats of gallantry he now accorded his own salvation, as well as the sustenance of his baby brother. For without having known the depths of heart between he and his forever one, without having been flattered by his beloved’s abundant care and without having been livened by the light of his effulgent love, he would be utterly lost in his quest to keep his brother well. He would not know how to give so entirely of himself to another, nor how to feed off of the affinity between them. He would have surrendered himself long ago to the gutting grip of devastation, to the solemnity that still threatened to sap his strength nearly every day, to the despair that sagged within him like a boulder of tar, gouging about his insides. Yet he persevered; not only for the sake of the sprightly child before him, but also in tribute to his devout elf-knight, with whom he still hoped to pledge their forever.

If only Elrohir would heed his pleading summons and venture here soonest, for Legolas was not certain how long he could press on, without some blithe restoration from the heart of his most beloved one.

He forced a smile for the bouncy babe before him, then plucked a kiss from his forehead. The smile that tippled up at him was worth any swallowing of sadness to him, so he kicked up his courage and continued with his thorough scrub. In fact, bathing his brother was one of his most preferred pastimes, as even this simple gesture forged a bond of intimacy between them. He admired the pearly shine of the newborn’s lissome skin, as well as his lovely plumpness and his thin silk hair. He had never had close dealings with such a painfully small elfling before, so every day brought some new marvel for him; such as this very day, when his brother had managed to sing a few notes along with him. Twas in the solace of a lullaby that Legolas had found an eloquent outlet for his grief. He thought at times that the babe also benefited from singing out his rather basic sorrow, for he was, though merry enough, not unaware of the glaring absence of his primary caregiver, the ethereal naneth he had known in the womb. Indeed, the most trying nights had been those in which he would not quit his shrieking cries, wanting for the warmth that would be forever denied him. In the end, Legolas found he could do naught but sob along with him, in the solidarity of an agony shared.

The honor of naming his brother had also, by virtue of no other family member being able to bear the sight of him, fallen to Legolas. He was as yet still hesitant to intone the name he had chosen too regularly, fearing his father’s eventual reproach. Yet the Valar themselves had, as far as he could tell, blessed the child with a spark of their light upon the first utterance of this appellation, so perhaps he should be more forthright in its saying. Having never named a thing in his five hundred some years, not even his two horses, he had struggled to choose one in keeping with established traditions, as well as the spirit of his deceased mother. He had desperately wanted to select a name she would have approved of, even more hotly than he had desired to please his sire.

In the end, he had decided upon a masculine form of his naneth’s own name, and so Laurith Thranduilion had been declared a spirit of this land and a servant of the heavens above.

Tiny Laurith was, at present, being pat dry, then a salve would be applied to soft him, as a rash or other flare of skin all too easily incited in a babe of his paltry months. This was as a game to him and he wriggled about, patently delighted at his brother’s tickling touch. This, in turn, brought a tentative smile to Legolas’ slender lips; this was his favorite part of the entire process. He’d no doubt that, in time, this princely son would prove just as precocious as the last, especially if said last was the one who ultimately reared him. In his few private moments, Legolas was preparing himself for just such a challenge, the overwhelming yet quietly glorious task of growing his brother up hardy and hale. He felt implicitly that he must do this, that his Nana would want him to do so, to save Laurith from the stricter aspects of Greenwood and to teach him the varied spice of life, so that he might make his way bravely, nobly, and without regret.

A youth without knowing the kindness of your mother’s regard was sentence enough to any child. If Legolas could, through his care, spare him further harshness, then he would not fail to honor his naneth’s most essential wish for the son she would only know in the Blessed Realm.

After allowing Laurith a few moments to enjoy the dew of humidity on his bare skin, he clothed the babe in a downy night shift and scooped him into his arms. He was soon drowsy enough from the milk he had earlier consumed that Legolas could lay him down in his fireside cradle, though the elfling kept hawkish eye upon him as he tossed more logs upon the hearth and stoked the flames roaring. He would not dare tuck him in until he had finally set off upon the dream path, but he himself shivered as he set the room aright, his spindly limbs creaking with chill. Legolas did not need appraise himself in a looking glass to know that he was poorly pale, gaunt in face, muscles thinned, and skin cinching around the bone. He ate serviceably, all that his weak stomach could take without sickening. If his bed had been neglected, twas for Laurith’s sake, as he must keep a constant vigil over the sweetly elfling as he slept, in order to soothe him of any dark dreams. Legolas himself could barely nap without his still glowering mind conjuring some black imagining, as such he found the tranquility of an armchair by the fire and a hot blanket much more suitable than his huge, empty bed. He cooed to his brother as he settled himself there, glad to find him sinking calmly into a heavy slumber.

He was himself so woozy from his trying day that he did not hear the crack of the opening door, nor the careful approach of the clack of all too familiar boots.

Yet the gasp that the intruder sounded was sharp enough to pierce his groggy reverie, then the surprise of his elf-knight standing above him shocked him through. Indeed, he was so sundered by the sight of his beloved that he could not rally his muscles into any show of force; he could barely slide to the edge of his seat so paralyzing was the surge of relief through him. He reached meekly up to beckon him forth, for the promise of those coddling arms around him nearly made him weep for want of them, but he suddenly was weeping, and wheezing, and coughing, and then sobbing out wild torrents of pain, as Elrohir cradled him close. Locked in that supporting hold, he wailed out his heart’s bleakest anguish, until finally the storm had passed. He was left sucking back fierce draughts of air, shivering still, but enveloped in such heady warmth that he could do naught but cuddle in all the closer.

Even when he had calmed sufficiently to speak, still they remained heartfully silent, content in their tight embrace, in staring into the flickering firelight. Legolas could not think what a sight he made to his one, whose silver eyes had mirrored nothing less that searing shame at having left him to wither so. Yet he was sure Elrohir also noted the cleanliness of the bedchamber, all the elfling amenities housed there, as well as the fragrant scent of aloe wafting from the bath. One look at Laurith told the tale of how well he had been cared for, a realization that sparked a flame of pride within the somber prince, who suddenly could not wait to tell his beloved all of what had transpired there. Despite this impulse, he did not yet trust his voice enough to engage in their reunion, if ought he was far too hotly berthed in his elf-knight’s arms to bother with recounting just then.

A kiss so replete with affection graced his brow, such that he was compelled to look up, if only to receive one on his eager lips. That he then did so made him smile more earnestly than he had done in months. The lovely play of tongues that resulted urged him into a fully seated position upon his beloved’s lap; when their kiss broke, he gave chase, only to be indulged anew.

“Miren,” Elrohir murmured between peerlessly giving culls on his mouth. “Inden, Legolas-nin.”

At such a doting appellation, his tongue suddenly burned to speak, so he slowly slipped out of their succoring kiss.

“As you are mine, melethron,” Legolas swore to him. “Twas the beacon of your heart that lead me on towards the light, these last weeks, that kept me sane. I love you for this inspiration, for your generous instruction and for your artful care. I love you for your most sterling illumination within me, for I have shone this very light on one abandoned by his incandescent mother and so spared him his black fate. I love you for saving me, again and again, from sorrow by the merest glimmer of your memory. I love everything you are, for I am made whole by your heart alone.” He sealed his troth with such a kiss that they were both rendered breathless in its wake.

“Then I and my heart must set about your proper nourishment,” Elrohir gently teased, pinching his hip to remark upon its emaciation. “Yet I fear your slenderness was not entirely engendered by my absence.”

The gaze of those shimmering eyes grew tremulous.

“Am I so very thin?” Legolas wondered, as if daring him to deny the rightful answer.

“You are made rapturously beautiful by your very survival of these tragic circumstance,” Elrohir reminded him. “But aye, you are dangerously in need of spoiling, with uncommon indulgence. Fortunately, I am here to provide, and in abundance. I swear to glut you, melethen, before long.”

“You are the dearest creature around,” Legolas complimented, then could not resist another of those amply nurturing kisses. “I knew your advent would liven me. How I wanted for you, my brave one, how I begged the gods to bring you swiftly here!”

“I *am* here, inden,” Elrohir underlined. “We will secure the little one together, defend him if needs be and spirit him away, if all else fails. Yet I will not so abase myself to flight, unless we have no choice but to do so. I am resolved to inhabiting here long as need be to see you both safely held, prosperous, and content.”

“Your coming has made me madly content,” Legolas insisted, though Elrohir did wonder at the unabated fervor of his words, as if he would abscond back to Imladris if the archer did not laurel him in the highest praise.

The elf-knight, however, had mind for other mischief, once his beloved was suitably plied kittenish with affection. There would be time later for more intimate conversation about woes, cares, and concerns.

“Might I not become acquainted with the lately sprite to brighten your father’s house?” Elrohir drolly inquired. “Who’s this that twinkles at us from amidst his swaddling bed?”

With a start, Legolas snapped out of his hot admiration of his darkling love’s comeliness and hurried to gather up the babe from his cradle, nevertheless careful not to disturb the sleepy gauze that softened his rosy face. Yet he could not help but be affected by the reverence with which Elrohir accepted the child into the midst of their embrace, petting his fuzzy head and humming tenderly to him. Laurith found his berth between them all too enticing; soon, he was lost to heavy sleep anew, one minuscule fist clenching the elf-knight’s tunic and the other entrenched in his elder brother’s shirt. Fortunately, there was yet space enough on that broad shoulder for Legolas to lay his own swoony head down; he suddenly felt but seconds from fading into a lengthy fugue.

“Laurith, I have named him,” he muttered, as his muscles melted into a listless mush and he relaxed into the cradle of his beloved’s arms.

“A fine name, for one who so resembles your naneth,” the elf-knight whispered. “Even more so that you yourself, melethen, who still retain a spark of Oropher’s impishness. This one, however, is immaculate as your late mother, and perhaps given an overabundance of her renown capriciousness. Yet this cheery attitude will serve you both well, I believe.” Though he recognized that Legolas was on the brink of a prolonged, remedial slumber that might stretch on for days hence, he still desired to warn him of their still journeying guests, so as to blunt the sting of their arrival upon his waking. “Indeed, I feel that Greenwood’s renewal is imminent, for I am not the only traveler this realm will receive in the coming weeks. Glorfindel will escort a party up from Lorien, to aid in the rearing of your tiny brother as well as the healing of your father’s spirit. Indeed, the White Lady herself may very well be on her way north, along with my own Naneth and your aunt Nenariel.”

A crease formed on the prince’s brow, yet twas all the protest he could muster.

“They will not take him,” he grumbled, cinching his arms around them both. “I am charged to his care.”

“Nay, they seek not to steal away your right, miren,” Elrohir assured him. “Merely to guide you along this unfamiliar path.” He added another reassurance as an afterthought. “I will remain, as well. I will tend you both strong, melethron.”

With a soft sigh of approval, Legolas relinquished his rather tenuous hold on consciousness altogether, heartened by the securing presence of his vigilant elf-knight.

* * *

Two Months Later

That Legolas was excruciatingly torn between two of the more powerful influences in his still considerably young life was in blatant evidence to all around. Yet the regal elves gathered on the slope of green at the westward side of the palace ignored him with the grace and the poise of those born to a noble house.

That the most impassioned prince of the royal house still harbored some pricking resentment towards those estimable ladies who sought but to enhance his child rearing capabilities was well known among the general populace, as there had been the occasional, public display of ingratitude. With his normally ebullient temperament not yet entirely restored by the full blush of physical wellness, Legolas was prone to cranky moods if his patience was tested by a mild, well-meant deception or he perceived a slight to his caring effort previous to the ladies’ ascendance north. In these trying times on them all, his renown impudence oft became outright stubbornness, especially where the sanctity of his youngest brother was concerned.

Yet twas his own behavior that bore the most rigorous scrutiny from his innate sense of honor. Elrohir had had to tame him down from numerous fits of self-berating, as well as stir him up from wallowing in what he perceived to be the mire of his shortcomings as an admirable example and an effective parent to his swaddling charge. To say naught of how he savaged himself in the calmer hours that followed the rare occasions when he raised his voice to the elf-knight. Indeed, Elrohir’s expert diplomatic skills had never been so explicitly employed as in the soothing of his grieving love, though in truth he had expected far worse from one so afflicted as he. Legolas was not one to be caged, even in a trap of his own devising, so twas little wonder that he oft bristled or bit at those who he thought would shackle him to convention. Yet as his strength had returned, so had the thrilling energy of his convictions; once whole again Elrohir was sure he would resume his habitual persona of an inspired force to be reckoned with.

The road to wellness, however, was pebbled with disparate spills of stone, many of which were large enough to trip him up.

On this unseasonably dulcet night, the weather-beaten denizens of the Greenwood enclave had gathered to enjoy a concert on the palace lawn, in celebration of the oddly elevated temperatures that lavished the realm with a late autumn splendor. Elrohir suspected that his sorceress grandmother may have cast a spell or two upon the lately thunderstruck vale, if only to enliven the dampened spirits of its people after such a dismal summer. If indeed she had, he cared not. To see the wood-elves dance and skip in time to the folksy tunes had been a treat, as well as an especially apt introduction to their sprightly new prince, who had giggled his way through the bedazzling festivities and who was thereby universally revered by all upon first sight of the little blonde immaculate.

Elrohir had never seen Legolas so proud as when he had propped the babe up on his lap to receive their well-wishers. His beloved had been just as touched by their elaborate tributes, to both his dearly missed parents. By the beads of moisture that had routinely threatened to spill over his ruddy cheeks, the event he had initially barked at had become an unexpected reconnection with the people he purported to defend; he had keenly felt their support, their conviction that the Greenwood would triumph against adversity, and their faith that the royal family would be restored to their former might. Yet they also had ample praise for those foreign dignitaries who had come to their sovereign’s aid, most notably the esteemed elf-knight of Imladris, who had become a welcomed and expected present at their prince’s side. The elder residents were not too shy to offer Legolas their sterling opinions of Elrohir’s worth, both as a friend of the realm and as a potential mate for him. A Lay had even been sung in their honor, the shocking dedication of which had made Legolas blush such as his lover had never quite witnessed before in polite company, where he preferred to affect good-natured nonchalance.

Indeed, so highly was the proposed alliance between their royal families thought of, that many had the audacity to ask Elrohir outright when they would announce a formal betrothal. Ever on guard against insulting one of a different race, the elf-knight would only chuckle somewhat roguishly at the suggestion, dismissing the notion as inappropriate to this year of mourning with a spark of complicity in his eye, which insinuated that he would not wait long after that grave period to make his intentions known. For his part, he was simply glad that the night was such a success, that the hardy woodland folk overcame even the most sundering adversity to communally revel in the blessings they had received, even in this bleak year.

Yet as the festivities had waned, he had begun to long for a more private audience with his beloved one, who was also tiring of the constant attention foist upon them. As the midnight hour drew near, he had suggested a midnight swim to Legolas, who had been far too preoccupied with his fraternal duties of late to indulge his elf-knight in other than their solitary evening walks, often accompanied by a certain, restless sprite. This, however, would require his prince to leave the little one in his aunt’s care for the night, not to mention amidst a crowd of what appeared to be well-wishers, but who no doubt concealed more than a few of his father’s loyals, who sought to protect their sovereign’s interests as adamantly as Legolas might chose to defend his right to frequent the favored son of a distant realm. His elder brothers had also conveniently chosen to abstain from the festivities, which was a politick reason given for their well-established fury at even the thought of such a staid affair when their mother was not a sixmonth on the pyre. While Lorindol had been sympathetic to the realm’s need for some sign of its eventual resurgence, Lasgaren had glowered through the week, challenging Legolas on his every comment in their private sessions and cursing the advent of the ‘Lorien Witch’ with her ‘Half-Breed Grandchild’. Only an ancient advisor’s intervention had prevented all-out war between the siblings, though it had taken Elrohir’s most strenuous efforts, as well as a miserable apology from Lasgaren, to convince Legolas not to bolt with the babe that very night.

In light of these ever-weighting pressures, Elrohir well understood his beloved’s reluctance to depart, even if he desperately wished to steal Legolas away from the crushing strain awhile, to let the natural world cleanse his beleaguered spirit. He was even amenable to carting Laurith along with them, though this would entail one of them remaining on the shore at all times, to say naught of how cranky the babe would be if he did not sleep the night. Yet Elrohir trusted that his prince understood every nuance to the troubling circumstance, which was what had halted him on the edge of the tapestry spread out beneath their chairs, glancing back at Laurith to once again ensure himself of his safety even as he clasped tightly to his elf-knight’s constant grip. The eyes he eventually ripped away from watch over his brother were wide with bewilderment, though also tinged with sincere apology to his compassionate beloved.

“We may remain, if you would,” Elrohir graciously offered, though knowing as he did so that this would only guilt Legolas all the more, even if his intentions were pure. “Tomorrow will be just as fair, and Laurith will not be so exposed.”

“Nay,” Legolas answered, his lips settling into a determined line as he motioned them towards the enchanting woods beyond. “Too many nights of late have seen you sacrifice for the sake of my peace of mind. No matter how questionable or ridiculous my objections, you honor me. I have been spoilt by your care. Yet your forbearance has not gone unnoticed, and so we will press on to the river.”

“I would not venture there merely for my own enjoyment,” Elrohir countered, pausing their progress to inquire the truth of his lover’s melancholy eyes. “If you would rather retire, Legolas, we need not take leave of our familiars. If you would rather be tucked by the fireside, I would not drag you into the wilds!”

“Hush,” Legolas tempered him, stopping his protests with a tender kiss. “I cannot think of a more perfect distraction than a swim by moonlight. The winter freeze will come sooner than naught and we will be forcibly shut in by the cold. I am only too eager to dive into the rush, and with my preferred companion, no less! Come, I will race you!”

Stunned by this sudden glimpse at his renown impishness, Elrohir was waylaid for a few, gaping paces, as he watched his golden one streak into the woods. Startling himself into action, he gave chase quite ecstatically, especially when he was blindsided by a flying tunic. No match for one of pure elven speed, even if Legolas had not entirely recovered from his recent emaciation, he contented himself with gathering the boots, belt, hose, and even circlet discarded by the fleeing prince, quickly shedding his own raiment once he’d reached the riverbanks. A shimmer of pearlescent skin beneath the tipsy surface of the water was the only sign of his nymph-like beloved until he shot out of a frothy swell, the gossamer sheen of his hair like a stream of starlight down his sinuous back. The Greenwood prince, though still painfully slight, was sculpted with clean, cut muscle, a body that while not brimming in the prime of health was still incomparably fine. He swirled around, then beckoned for Elrohir to follow him as he swished towards the shallows by the ridge of rock.

Without a second thought, the elf-knight plunged into the deep, bent on some raucous carousing. Legolas had spent most of the paltry training time he wedged into his daily routine refining his archery skill, as he had not yet meat enough to spar with one as brawny as his peredhil love. As such, Elrohir had been denied one of the many, deceptively innocent forms of foreplay they quite ardently engaged in, which he would be sure to remedy this night by tussling with favorite partner in a far less perilous environment, the cushy climes of the water. Indeed, no sooner had he swam up to those limber legs than he wrenched them from the sand, emerging from the inky depths with an dripping archer astride his shoulders. He wasted not a moment to gloating, but instead tossed him off in an elegant arc; even the resulting splash might be considered dainty. Legolas spurt out of the water with a wilding battle-cry, soon the two were wrestling about the river as gamely as two elflings, cackling just as emphatically with glee at an accomplished throw or hold.

By the time the fiendish grabs of their horseplay became the sizzling pinches of two flirtatious lovers, they were tucked up on the shelf in a small cove in the rock ridge, both snickering at their increasingly daring assaults. Elrohir was careful to keep his touches light, more casual than caressing, though he was quite thrilled to note the gradual revelation of Legolas’ lately forgotten wicked streak. Indeed, the archer had been so invigorated by their exertions that he suggested swimming over to the far side of the ridge, to a flat stone they had often sunned themselves upon in the loftier days of their early courtship. As the moved through the velvety waters, Elrohir fought to quell his rising sense of anticipation, schooling himself not to expect too much from one still so often cowed by sudden spells of grief.

That they had not coupled since his advent in Greenwood would come as no surprise to any student of agony, which blighted the libido as oft as it famished one severely struck for blither intimacies. Such had been the case with Legolas. While his prince sought his kiss like the quench of water to a parched throat and lounged for long hours in the tight tangle of his embrace, not once had Elrohir woken to an elf brimming for a sensuous bedding. He was not fool enough to press him, nor had he truly known what to expect of his lover in the wake of such a gutting sorrow, so he had deferred to Legolas’ every reference or indication, of which there had been none.

Thankfully, his Adar had advised him of the disparate reactions that grief could engender in one so beset as his beloved. The Lord had not shied away from instruction in these more delicate affairs, explaining that Legolas would most probably either tend towards relentless coupling in order to inspire any sense of warm feeling within himself or abstain altogether, as the very thought of such gluttonous sensations temporarily repulsed him. Indeed, his father had elaborated that he may very well display both tendencies, in time, and so had forewarned of the hazards of both, as well as counseled him on how to steer their relationship back towards a more even progress. In the past months, Elrohir had often referred back to that excellent advice in moments of personal frustration, whether incited by his own need to console Legolas in this way or his irritation at the archer’s attempts to deliberately misbehave, whence they were engaged in a more domestic dispute, in order to indirectly incur his ire – and so dull the passion they never even alluded to. These ruses had been so glaringly simplistic, as well as pointedly convenient, that he was cautious in his confrontation of them; yet he did not fail to call him out on his dubious intentions, whilst maintaining the unspoken vow of silence in regards to their physical relationship.
Early on, Elrohir had swore to himself that he would let Legolas broach the subject in his own time, which he was sure must eventually come. Yet he had also promised himself that, if by the winter solstice Legolas had not made any overture, then he would offer his own gentle reassurances that the archer was still hotly desired, but that Elrohir understood the fragility of his emotions and would not push him into such an arduous act until he was emotionally prepared. He would also, however, thoroughly question him on his own thoughts, in order to assure himself that their abstinence was not troubling his love in some unsuspected manner. Legolas’ ease with him was his principle concern; carnalities could be resumed at any time in the future, comfortably and heartfully.

With this resolution in mind, he lifted himself up onto the flat without a glance of appreciation at Legolas’ agile form, then lay himself out along a gentle incline to worship the panoply of stars. As the invitation was implicit in his ease, the prince was only too glad to curl against him, pillowing his head on a taut pectoral and weaving a lax arm around his waist. He wanted to be held, though loosely, so Elrohir latched him in with a long arm supporting his slender back. They basked in the companionable silence, two elves at one with the elements around them.

Elrohir nearly twitched awake, when Legolas’ melodious tenor broke through the quiescence.

“Tis not that I no longer desire you, melethen,” he whispered, as if intuiting his very thoughts. His voice was laced with such shame that the elf-knight instantly regretted not broaching the subject earlier. “Nor that I am not aware of how strenuously you have schooled yourself, these last weeks.”

“I care only for your comfort, Legolas,” Elrohir immediately informed him, cinching his hold on his love. “If for whatever reason you prefer to abstain, for the present time, then I am only too ready to provide you with whatever form of affection you require, whenever you may require it. If I must say again that I cherish and adore you, melethron, then I shall rise you every morn with a song in tribute to your graces-”

“Yet I am not so dim as to miss the fact that you would rather be roused by my mouth’s more sultry talents,” Legolas tersely insisted, dismissing his coddling in favor of cruel reality.

He shucked off the arm that held him, then propped himself up on his elbow. Elrohir would have given any sum demanded of him to blunt the spike of those piercing eyes.

“If you are insinuating that I only frequent you for your ample charms,” he chided, but softy so. “Then I take grave offense. If I had wanted a bed-treat, then I would have plucked you in the prime of adolescence.”

Legolas huffed a heavy sigh, then shut his eyes.

“I meant only that… that I am not ignorant of your simmering,” the prince simpered, anxious over his earlier testiness. “I know how valiantly you have strived to temper your desire, but also I know you too well not to realize how you must struggle to master yourself in our morning bed, how you must occasionally sneak off – though the Lady herself must know when, for you are ever by my side – to pleasure yourself in secret. I merely speak of it to acknowledge how appreciative I have been of these unseen efforts and how… how sorry I am not to yet be able to… appease you thus.”

“Though I am grateful for your words, melethen,” Elrohir thanked him. “I seek not mere appeasement, but the shared enjoyment of our bodies. The loving revels we ever have relished together, as a mutually impassioned couple. Until you resume your craving of such intimacies, in my mind there is naught to forgive.” Needful even of some tame affections himself, the elf-knight stroked a soothing hand through his beloved’s sheathes of flaxen hair. “Yet I do worry some over this guilt you harbor, in whatever form suffices. If you require some reassurance that I will not abandon you, sweet one, then have it. I am here, inden, permanently with you.”

“I know it,” Legolas murmured, allowing the gentlest of knuckles to graze over his cheek. “Tis merely that… I have tried to rouse myself, Elrohir, truly I have! I lie in your arms some morns, so aware of your body that has accidentally slid above me, so lured by the hot breaths steaming my neck to distraction… but I cannot produce a response! My loins are numb, my phallus a flaccid mockery of a shaft…”

“You are still recovering from a massive trauma, melethen,” Elrohir emphasized, fluttering kisses over his shoulders. “Your flame is yet enfeebled by grief, to say naught of the colossal responsibilities laid so carelessly upon you. Once the tumult has stabilized some, I’ve no doubt we’ll resume our relations as ardently as before. But if you do not yet care to resume them, then to force yourself will only prolong your frustration. As you have said, I can see to my own needs well enough. Focus yourself on your recovery, on caring for our little imp, and all will right itself.”

With a grunt of begrudging acceptance, Legolas nodded at the wisdom of his words.

“Still, I would be amiable to sating your own desire,” he offered, attempting a playfulness that did not a whit disguise his solemnity. “Perhaps if you used me some-“

“I love you, Legolas,” Elrohir pledged, then sealed his troth with a kiss to the bleary-eyed archer’s mouth. “I would rather spoon out my own entrails than use you thus, so be warned of the lengths I will go to assure myself of your earnestness when you do, at last, fire with need.” Fearing that they would merely play this scene out ad nauseum, the elf-knight sought to cleverly distract his beloved from his melancholy with an admission of his own. “Indeed, I have gift that might hearten you such that this conversation may be for naught.”

“A gift?” Legolas dubiously queried, perusing the length of his very bare person. An inquisitive smirk twisted his lips, tempting him into a wolfish smile as he wondered where such a thing might be hid. “Surely you jest. Or shall we swim back to shore, then?”

“Ah, so eager is he to have his prize, that he will not even be appraised of the stakes,” Elrohir teased, which received him a pinch to the side. “The gift is one I should have bequeathed long ago, one I have unjustly denied one so deserving as you, though you have never asked for it by name, and one I have subsequently fretted over to an incredible degree, though idiotically so! Tis here before you now, not left upon the shore nor secreted away in our bedchamber. Indeed, I am patently astonished that you have not ever remarked upon it before, now that you are relatively clear-headed.”

“But you are just as before!!” Legolas exclaimed, rather cross with himself for not noticing some obvious chance in his beloved. “Your hair just as ebony in its silkiness, your eyes just as eloquent in their argent urge, your frame just as sensuous as ever before, your skin just as radiant…”

“Radiant, you say?” Elrohir smirked giddily. “How so?”

He was doubly pleased when Legolas flushed a fierce red.

“As luminous as any elf’s,” he blustered. “Though of an ethereal beauty all your very own. You hardly require further proof of your own loveliness, Elrohir.”

“Nay, but there was once but middling evidence of my *elvishness* within,” the elf-knight remarked, with a faint blush of his own. “Whereas currently…”

Of a sudden, Legolas perceived the change. For a long while, he gawked in stupefaction, as much over the impact of the revelation as over his own dim-wittedness in not noting the subtle, yet profound transformation within his beloved one. His eternal beloved, now more than ever before.

He did not feel the tears streaming down his face, until Elrohir himself leaned in to kiss them away.

“Tis the most remarkable gift I have ever received,” he bleat, then was enveloped anew by those tireless arms. “Our eternity, sworn true.”

“I will cherish you, my most beloved one, through all the ages of this earth,” Elrohir vowed, as he settled them back into a languid embrace. “Be consoled by the knowledge that our forever is assured, let the promise of our never-ending togetherness expel all the sadness from your grayed, grieving heart. I will love you, my Legolas, forevermore.”

Even as Legolas fell into a pleasant reverie, Elrohir sensed the surge of purest hope within him.

* * *

Greenwood, Year 875, Third Age

As Elrohir bade a final farewell to their guests at the entrance to the homely receiving room that adjoined to their bedchamber, Legolas carried a still twittering Laurith into his nursery.

The canopy of stars shimmering above the palace battlements, set in the regal indigo sky of late winter when Anor was increasingly early to rise, only heightened the babe’s restlessness, as he was ever one to revere their ethereal aloofness when he could. As such, Legolas hastened into the rocking chair by the window, then cradled his brother tight in hopes that his body’s warmth would lull his rapt elfling into drowsiness. Alas, the magical stars above only served to spell him further; soon he was chirping a sweet tribute to their cool majesty. Yet Legolas could only himself admire this sprightly innocent, this effervescent spirit so forlornly bequeathed to him, who in only nine brief months of life held the entire realm in the palm of his tiny hand. The elder prince himself was no less ensorcelled by his bright-eyed charge, and so joined him in song.

Their winter had been, while not utterly blissful, uneventful. No one was more grateful for this reprieve than Legolas himself, who had more or less sequestered himself in his beloved’s heartful company and devoted himself to the nurture of his ebullient youngling. After their dismal summer and tempestuous autumn, the royal family had had no choice but to force recuperation through this bleak season, when they went into virtual hibernation within the palace walls. Fortunately, they had their extended relations to cleave to, as well as a plethora of feminine presences to depend on for guidance and for solace. Once Legolas had finally centered himself enough to allow another to occasionally share his rearing chores, he had found his aunt Nenariel’s experience quite a boon. Lasgaren had similarly benefited from the counsel of Lady Celebrian, who had been mistress to hundreds of servants throughout the ages and had mastered the art of the delicately phrased request.

Glorfindel’s powers were such that he seconded two fronts, aiding Lorindol at the helm of the woodland guard and the Lady Galadriel in harnessing Thranduil’s considerable vociferousness. Indeed, their efforts with the King, while calamitous and wearying in their own right, had been astounding. His moments of lucidity were growing more frequent by the day; soon, they felt, he would be ready to receive his sons for short visits. They would, through the coming months, proceed to steep him slowly in recollection; in the blithe season to come they would encourage him to stroll through his favored haunts, to reacquaint himself with the forest that moved within him. As Legolas was still doubtful of his reaction towards Laurith, they had communally decided that he would be the final revelation, one that would not be embarked upon until the White Lady could assure the archer of his brother’s certain safety. Even more adamant on this point of contention was the elf-knight, who regularly challenged his grandmother in her suppositions and her theories, ever vigilant over what reigned supreme in his giving heart: the sanctity of his dear beloved.

Indeed, Legolas, though an elf of estimable spirit and prowess, could not have asked for a more devout champion than his Elrohir, who daily proved his worth, his care, and his compassion in a myriad of fashions; from the humbly effected tasks like clearing their fast-breaking dishes to more elaborate affections, such as steadily appeasing the tensions between the three eldest brothers of this noble house. The latter had been accomplished with such keen intuition as to the resentments they kept within and such clever knowledge of the emotionality they inwardly harbored, that Legolas had not thought he could ever love him with greater intensity that the quiescent night when, against all odds, the elf-knight had prevailed over their suffocating misgivings about their newly brother.

He had laid out his trap with the expertise of any cunning hunter; spare in design, but ably camouflaged.

On what had proved to be the coldest night in a century, Lorindol had been roused from one of his few eves of decent sleep to attend three mannish soldiers from Esgaroth, who had come begging a barrel of lantern fuel. The haggard crown prince, still assaulted by grave dreams of his mother’s passing, had given in to their request, but had been needlessly sharp with them, a fact that more than one advisor had remarked upon the following morn. That night, when sleepless, Lorindol had stumbled upon an impromptu game of cards between Glorfindel and Elrohir, who wiled away the frigid night before the roaring hearth of the king’s study, easily the best heated room in the entire palace. Lasgaren had snuck in soon after, riled to simpering from a terrible nightmare. Despite their initial indignation over playing a ‘mortal’ game with the ‘base’ notion of stakes, they were so desperate for some warmth and some company that they heeded Elrohir’s invitation, then were rather impressed by his insight that to negotiate with men, one must first understand the logic with which they dared and staved.

As a result, they now routinely entertained his brothers at the gaming table in his receiving room, easing them with casual banter and plying them with potent drink. They had soon mellowed such that Elrohir had again arranged the subtle intervention of a certain sprite they had been persistently avoiding, to the extent that they would not for more than the seconds it took to excuse themselves tarry in a room that their youngest brother had been brought into. Yet with considerable stakes in their card-hands, they could hardly protest when Nenariel ushered a lively Laurith in to bid Legolas goodnight. The archer, for his part in the ruse, had made great show of spoiling the babe with affection, such that they were soon singing a familiar tune from all of their elflinghoods, one their Naneth had been particularly fond of. Lorindol, while brashly retreating over to the window, had upset the table. Lasgaren, to Legolas’ thorough shock, had wept openly, then seized the two of them in such an embrace that he had nearly scarred their supple skin with his ardor. After a soft word from Elrohir, Lorindol had crept back over to them, but looked so defeated by the sight of them that he had had to be beckoned forth. Needless to say, once they had recovered themselves, Laurith had spent the rest of the night being passed between his greedy brothers, who had vowed to routinely spare some private time for him, and so they had in the following weeks.

This coup had been only one of the many emotional triumphs Elrohir had devised to lighten Legolas’ sorrowful heart. Indeed, his elf-knight had been dedication embodied, as if he was an emissary from the Lady herself to restore his vigor and his vitality. From the sanctuary of his arms, Legolas nightly sung to the gods of his beloved’s valorous feats, but also prayed that he might eventually be worthy of them.

Throughout his time of need, Elrohir had lavished him with the most explicit care imaginable, yet Legolas still had not healed enough to rouse himself from that wretched numbness in his nethers. While he woke daily famished for more courtly affections, which his beloved was only too willing to glut him with, even hours of petting and groping could not produce even the faintest sensation within his once insatiable loins. Even eavesdropping at the bathing chamber door, upon the rare hour when he returned from his duties to discover Elrohir had shut himself within, striving as he could to stifle his more climactic moans, which ironically named no other than the one who he was consistently denied, proved paltry ignition for his soggy libido. As he had grown increasingly frustrated with his own incapacity, he had more fervently pressed the elf-knight to give in to what measure of relief he could provide, what pleasures he could provoke in him. Yet Elrohir had remained steadfast against this unsightly imploring, patiently arguing that he would not sink to prostituting Legolas for the sake of a quick spurt; however satisfying such release might be at the climactic moment, he knew he would never forgive himself for abasing him thus. Instead, he all but ruined his archer with kittenish affections in private, then proved in public so constant in his support that not an inhabitant of the realm did not adore him.

Indeed, the residents of the Greenwood enclave had all but adopted the couple as their very own, so proud were they of the loving example the two princes demonstrated to youths and to elders alike. With the love story of their hallowed sovereign having been so tragically severed short, the Silvan people were all too eager to embrace another romantic emblem among their royals. They quickly latched on to the promise of an impending alliance between their upstart third prince and the sage grandson of the mariner, as they looked towards a peaceful future, between both elfkind and all the races of Arda. Mindful of the encroaching Shadow, the talents of these two warriors, as well as the considerable force of their combined efforts on the war front, only made a match between them more divined, in their superstitious view.

Yet what had sealed their fate as a golden couple had been Elrohir’s sterling deportment, from his tender consolation of their royals in their time of greatest need to his gifted diplomacy with every Greenwood elf he encountered. Indeed, whenever Legolas had some strange cause to be momentarily away from his elf-knight beyond the palace walls, or even sometimes within, there was no end to those who would advise him, after beckoning him to a quiet corner, that he should swear himself to the Noldor prince soonest; that he has found a mate of considerable worth in him and that he should not tempt fate by delaying the soldering of their bond.

While Legolas was warmed by these well-wishers, he was only too aware of how precarious their circumstance still was, especially where the will of his Adar-King was concerned. If they bound themselves without his explicit approval, Thranduil would consider such an insult a literal act of treason; they hardly had the liberty that Erestor and Elladan had enjoyed. Though the goodwill of his people gave him no end of hope, the minions held no sway with his Adar if the King did not think even infinitesimally well of the proposed union. Indeed, there was no telling what manner of misbegotten objections his brutish father might wreak upon the unsuspecting couple, once his sense was reclaimed. Tragedy might have made a tyrant of him.

This, however, was all the more reason for Legolas to relish Elrohir while he still could, for the day would inevitably come when they were parted anew, though Lord Elrond had graciously given over both his son and his lady wife for yet another turn of the seasons. Yet even for all the wealth of time allotted them, he did not waste a moment in the daily course of life about the palace to bask in the constant flow of love between them; but, as the air began to whisper with the promise of springtime rejuvenation, his thoughts had veered towards the breathtaking rush of carnality they could only experience together.

That very morn, as Elrohir had paraded his fine sculpted body quite brazenly around their bedroom in search of his laundered breeches, Legolas had thought he had felt a faint simmer of sensation within. As he had reclined against the plenty of pillows, still loathe to greet the day, he had noted a distinct prickle in his thighs and navel, but had been too bashful to overtly explore himself beneath his elf-knight’s already so covetous observation; for though he had resolved to let the wealth of time heal his melancholy lover, Elrohir certainly could not rightly stop his eyes from their random appraisals of his lithe form, especially when said form had been so languidly sprawled across their bed. A disruptive servant had then come to summon him to his brother’s side, thereby smiting any chance of self-inflammation during his ablutions.

While still somewhat dubious of his tumescent capabilities, Legolas currently reflected upon the potential consequences of a brief assay, once the elfling dozing in his arms was properly tucked into his cradle. A bath before bed would not be uncharacteristic for him, though twould be chancy to thoroughly convince Elrohir of his need for a solitary soak without his gallant thinking him upset by some casual comment of their guests’. As he lowered his sweetly Laurith down, he wondered if they should perhaps explore together, but quickly dismissed the notion. He did not want to taunt Elrohir with the thought of coupling, only to later disappoint him. Legolas did not think that either he or the elf-knight could truly weather such an attempt without some distress, which he, for one, did not want to openly covet. Indeed, perhaps a tranquil evening was the best choice for all.

Yet when he segued through the nursery curtain into their bedchamber proper, he was so struck by the moving sight before him that he swiftly reconsidered his abstinent resolution anew.

A hardy fire crackled in the hearth, as every aspect of the room was gilded by its glow. Before the fire, two armchairs waited on opposing sides of a waytable, on which was set a Battle Game board, its monochromatic soldiers fallen straight into ranks and rows. From the burgundy bowels of a carafe had been poured two goblets of wine, one of which was being sipped by an elf lost to the pages of an ancient tome, an elf whose countenance was possessed of such a lush nobility that Legolas could not help but be bedazzled anew by his dark beauty. With picturesque serenity, his elf-knight would attend him; would engage him in endearing conversation and would pamper him with heady affections as he had every night of this long winter, without complaint. Indeed, twas no great tax upon either of them to be in the other’s most treasured company, for, if they had their dearest wish, they would be so cursed forevermore.

Yet, on this night, such endless serenity did not suffice him. Legolas, in essence, was an elf of spirit, of strident nature, which had slept too long through the ravages of sorrow. As he stood watching his kindly, patient beloved, he felt the pump of his blood speed up; the telltale rush through his veins that spoke of his imminent arousal. Indeed, a tentative rigidity creaked up his thighs, enough to compel him to sneak behind the elf-knight’s chair, so as not to reveal his intentions earlier than necessary. Neither could he entirely surprise one of Elrohir’s renown stealth, as such his entrance was subtly remarked upon by the dull shutting of his book.

An unexpected frisson shot down his back, however, when Legolas gathered up the spill of his hair, then made to unwind his braids.

“Would you not relax some, by firelight, melethen?” the archer queried, as he secretly caressed the wavy sheathes of hair that cascaded through his fingers. “Surely we’ve no need of formalities between us.”

“I was hoping you would indulge me,” Elrohir rumbled a reply, though twas hardly an honest one. “I confess I was defeated by the intricacy of the weave.”

“Did your Nana set it for you?” Legolas teased, in part to damped his own rising sadness at the thought.

“Aye, after my bath,” Elrohir chuckled at the memory. “Methinks she aches some for my Adar.”

“If not for the elfling she once doted upon,” Legolas remarked.

“Indeed,” Elrohir breathily exhaled, as the archer had begun to stroke his nimble fingers through the loose lengths of ebony hair.

Elrohir leaned back into the intimate touch as it moved down to tickle his ears and to work the strained muscles of his neck. By the time Legolas lowered himself into a straddle upon his lap, his shirt was sagging down to his elbows, as strong hands massaged their way over his shoulders, down his broad back, then came forward to knead up his torso. He lazed back into the firm cushions of his armchair as masterful thumbs worried all the tension out of his abdominals, eyelids drooped in utter contentment and a tippling smile on his lips. When fanned fingers smoothed over his chest, he sighed airily, not a whit of shame in the soft laugh which acknowledged the swell that tented his breeches.

“If I were to succumb to my more manly impulses,” he purred, which nearly emulsified the archer’s insides. “I would wager you are attempting a seduction, my wood-elf.”

“Would I be so bold, after such prolonged abstinence?” Legolas feigned an objection, while fondling him through the worn leather of his trousers. “One of my delicate temperament?”

“One of your legendary wiles?” Elrohir smirked, then straightened himself so that their groins pressed firmly together. “You’d best be keener if you truly seek to deceive.”

Though brusque, the gesture was not without its concern, for he quite obviously sought evidence of dual stiffness between them. While he was not utterly dismayed, he was also not completely convinced by the thick kisses Legolas sought to distract him with. Yet he engaged him with fervor, supping of his sweet taste with a passion too long caged within. That the prince was fiercely wanted was only too plain, that his elf-knight was slowly loosening the restrictions he had imposed upon himself as testament to his gallantry was the purest of temptations to him.

“What I seek, moren vain,” Legolas panted against his cheek. “Is your most explicit and erotic undoing.”

Seconds after a fiery look flinted in those silver eyes, a feral grip seized his skull and an incendiary kiss scorched his mouth, such that there remained no question as to whether he could achieve full, aching erection. Elrohir snickered as he teethed his lips apart, then lapped hotly in with his tiger tongue. His skin sizzled as eager hands sped up under his tunic, seeking out every swatch of skin they could paw scarlet. They staggered to their feet so that they could scrap their cloying garments, so that they could tumble down before the hearth and scrabble about the luxurious furs lain there, each fighting to overturn the other, to claim dominance for this first, rabid breaching. Yet victory was ever delayed by their need to sip and to suck at lips smeared red, at necks gored purple, at shoulders gnawed, at nipples laved, at chins nicked by scraping incisors.

They cried out giddy taunts as they jostled about, the occasional squeal of protest piercing through the raspy rhythm of moans. Quite naturally, their hips locked into a grind of mounting intensity, as both lovers forgot their more elaborate designs and concentrated on heightening the gorgeous friction between them. Yet Legolas’ inner balance was still too unstable to bear such a fevered pound for long; he broke on a sob as orgasm wrecked him. His eruption possessed him quite thoroughly, for he shook and shivered in bleating ecstasy for long moments after.

Before Elrohir could even think to kiss him calm, he caught his darkling love between his thighs, those bejeweled eyes, though sparkling with unshed tears, begging him to be bold. Any protest was stopped by irresistibly eloquent kisses, implicit with need of the most primal succoring possible between two truehearted lovers. Only the molten surge of two commingling souls could soft his mournful one this night, only in this tender, reverent consummation could he be consoled. The elf-knight was not one to ignore such naked need in his beloved’s eyes, nor could he righteously miss this chance to pour all of his smoldering affection into his poorly one, to sear him lustrous, to shine him luminous from within.

Rolling beneath him, he urged his love up into the saddle, the liberty of which gave Legolas some grateful breathing room. The play of firelight on his pearly features was so lovely that he could not help but gaze at him awhile. He did not quit this ardent admiration even as he sheathed himself; indeed, they were both so entranced that they barely moved for long moments after. Only when the flush of constraint crept up Legolas’ neck did he begin his unctuous ministrations, unraveling twine after twine of the prince’s spine, until he was arching up in elegant, nearly epic thrall.

Tears burst forth in confluence with the elf-knight’s ferocious end, the hot streams dripping down his prince’s cheeks as scalding as the surge within. Legolas was a wreck of gasps and cries as he collapsed upon him, though he was pushing out of the tangle of his embrace soon enough to claim his adoring kisses.

In but a short while after, Elrohir was cradling his exhausted love against him as he carried his slumbering prince to their bed, where he cocooned them in the silky sheets until they could emerge, at dawn’s light; their love sworn and their passion renewed by the purifying singe of flesh on flesh.

* * *

Greenwood, Year 876, Third Age

The call of duty was never an entirely joyous one to heed.

If one did not admit some fear of the path ahead, then even the most gifted warrior must admit defeat before his steed broke from his canter into full gallop upon the open road. Even welcome adventures had their perils, feats of daring, potential for disaster, yet the truly audacious heart thrived not only on conquest or vanquishing, but on the mastering of inner strength innate to the accomplishment of these hallowed glories.

As Legolas watched the White Lady’s escort drift into the murky southward climes of his Great Greenwood Forest, he reflected upon the nature of heroism. Certainly one who lead armies and bludgeoned foes, who devised intricate strategic feints and who trudged for months upon a lonesome quest deserved his laurels well. Yet over the last while, he had learnt that a champion need not take up sword to serve his kingdom well, to honor those who poured all their faith in him and who swore their allegiance to his name alone. He had been instructed, by the most eloquent tutor of all, in the giving arts; which, though oft unheralded, were by far more strenuous to master.

With weapons such as compassion, devotion, tolerance, and generosity in his diverse arsenal, Legolas was now equipped to embark upon the most demanding quest of his still young elven life.

On the morrow, he would wake, for the first time in eighteen grueling but terribly enlightening months, to an empty bed. Yet a trill from the adjoining nursery would soon rouse him from any rut of depression he might wallow in, for there was a kingdom to prosper, a family to rally, and, most dearly of all, a brother to grow. Though his personal fulfillment would wait out the overwhelming import of this vital duty, twas not without some regret that he currently gazed off into the distance, eyes transfixed on the specter of a silhouette that had long disappeared into the wilding woods. When they would meet again, he could not rightly say, for there was a century’s worth of rearing to dedicated himself to and the shadowy forest was not likely to cease its slow decay. He knew only that their ballad lacked the essential verse, that of the lovers’ everlasting union.

As a sprightly cry of upset summoned him back behind the palace gates, he spared himself a moment for a last southward glance.

In silent acceptance of the empty view, he turned valiantly back, to heed duty’s toddler call.

End of Part Five