Requiescence

Title: Requiescence – Part Six
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: Legolas/Elrohir
Summary: Our elf-knight returns from a lengthy mission to find his valley swelled with a host of unlikely guests.
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.

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Requiescence – Part Six

Imladris, Year 900, Third Age

A splatter of rays from the springtime sun dappled the path before him, as the esteemed elf-knight of Imladris meandered down to the stables in the hopes of luring Virgor out for a late morning ride through the lush valley wilds. Just days before the yearly blossom drop, Rivendell was currently at its daintiest, each bough bearing a lattice of delicate flower buds, each thatch of wood like a creampuff on the vaster landscape, indeed the lawns themselves were strewn with wreathes of petals in lively shades of pink, peach, and gold.

While the opulent elegance of such a fanciful phenomenon was not entirely lost on one of his gentler sensibilities, he was also rather glad to have slept through the past few days, as the frolicking of giggly, wine-sozzled maids about the gardens, skipping a decent distance ahead of their starry-eyed suitors, hardly chimed in tune with his harmonious notion of Imladris as a refuge for the world-weary and the shadow-scarred. Even the most noble sanctuary, of course, must allot a few festive days to celebrate the blither wonders of nature, but lately Elrohir felt himself out of sorts with their tipsy flirtations, as his own heart was both longly resolved and adamantly devout to one whose absence was only underlined by the frivolity of these casual lovers.

Twenty-five years of even regular correspondence with his faraway love barely nourished the souls of two so vital to each other as Legolas and Elrohir. While the archer had the benefit of embroilment in the task of rearing his precocious brother, the elf-knight was resigned to more treacherous chores, such as the espionage mission he had only just returned from, thankfully unscathed. Yet traveling in disguise through impoverished realms and trafficking undercover in the more garrulous northern towns wearied the hardiest of spirits, to say naught of the ill effects of such strain on one already dimmed by the distance between. Only his tenacious bond to his twin had convinced his betters that he should even be chosen for such an assignment. Glorfindel had been keenly against the notion, preferring their journeying to cease altogether whilst Elrohir remained unbound to his one. Erestor had been torn between the knowledge that Elladan would be weakened without his brother’s support, which normally would suggest that both forgo the exercise, and the pressing need for information from this region, as a powerful sorcerer was slowly increasing in tyrannical skill in the hills above Angmar.

Elrond, however, had ignored both their objections. As a twin himself, he would not be so foolish as to send one into danger without the other’s second. As a former warrior, he knew only too well how remedial such an engrossing mission could be to a soldier aching from unrelated cares. As a lover who had postponed his own union until the call of duty was dully appeased, he understood only too acutely how pining did the lonely heart no drop of good, nor would he have one of his most talented spies left to his own maudlin devices for nearly a century’s span. Most sage of all his reasons was the compelling sense of a ruler, who knew there was no certainty that, upon the dawning of Laurith’s, Legolas would be freed to bind himself to an elf who lived beyond the boundaries of his homeland realm. For these, and many motives unknown even to his eternal confidante, Celebrian, who herself had forcefully protested against the perilous commission, Elrond had allowed his sons to pass the arduous winter months among the mannish chieftains, though the instant Elrohir had returned he had commanded him into the Healing Halls and examined every inch of his altogether strapping form.

Fortunately, he had not sustained more than the usual riding scrapes. He dared not consider what foul elixirs his Adar might have ordered him to drink if he had returned unsound. Though the Lord was an elf ruled by logic, not overt emotion, Elrond had not been able to entirely conceal his rampant concern over the slight diminishment in the elf-knight’s energies over the last quarter-century. For an elf to love another as hotly as he did Legolas, any extended absence from such a potent source of affection would cause some dimming of his soul flame. While Elrohir was certainly not by any means fading, nor was he unable to perform the routine duties of a fit elven warrior, neither was he brimming with his usual vigor. If he was a bit more hungry at table, if he retired earlier than usual from revels, if he was more poignantly affected by chill, darkness, or even warm affections, than none of his swordbrothers took particular note. His intimates, however, were explicitly aware of the supplementary requirements of his elven flame; as such, they were careful to amplify the kindnesses they showered upon him. Twas also necessary to remain as casual as possible about these subtle generosities, for Elrohir was ever more likely to anger if he knew of them, which would only encourage further deterioration within.

Yet the elf-knight was only too cognizant of his own vulnerability through this timorous time for him: the famishment that would not abate, the cold he suddenly found so unseasonable, the near relentless need to languish in doting embrace of his brother, his sister, or either of his parents. As such, he schooled himself to be patient with any overtly fretful displays, though he was also quite adamant that he had not been crippled by this temporary affliction. He simply needed total and unfettered absorption in his daily activities, which should also be of varying levels of mental and of physical exertion. When their mission had been proposed, he had understood why Glorfindel had so vociferously objected and Erestor had been so strangely bewildered; in truth, he had harbored his own reservations, chief of which was that he might inadvertently endanger his twin. Still, a warrior’s pride had prevailed over a lover’s insecurity, though he had been glad enough to submit to his Adar’s enforced strictures upon his safe return.

After the meticulous examination, he had gorged himself on a veritable feast of delights prepared for him, then had fallen dead asleep on a divan but steps from the table. By the tuck of his sheets upon waking that morn, three days after that delectable meal, he knew that Elladan himself had carried him to his chamber and had perhaps even lain with him through the afternoons. Indeed, twas his brother who had greeted him but moments after his waking, a bath freshly poured and a tray of treats awaiting them both. Elrohir had been pleased to note the telltale scarlet smears on the elf-warrior’s neck, sign that his own days of rest had been plentiful with his mate’s potent adoration. Twas Elladan who had pointed him towards the stables, as a brisk ride always replenished his groggier senses, a remark with which the elf-knight could not help but concur.

Yet even now, he was not quite bright enough to stifle an insurgent yawn, though the few squealing maidens about would certainly keep him from lounging on the lawn. Perhaps he would simply doze away the morn in the hayloft, but this, he was sure, would only bring to mind his wicked memories of his many tumbles there, hardly conducive to a decent rest. While he did not shy from entertaining his lustier thoughts of Legolas, he preferred to vet his wanting in assured seclusion, as he occasionally became so desolate in the wake of his climax that he would binge on his many letters, which he stored in a chest by his bedside. Distraction, however, was ever better than glowering, so he was oft at pains to occupy himself at night, whether with rowdy friends in the Hall of Fire, in quiet consultation of the historical tomes he favored in the library, or in pious confession to his scintillating grandsire, at the helm of the silmaril ship that sailed through the stars he so liked to admire. The thought that sprightly Laurith was somewhere staring up at the imposing panoply was the greatest of comforts to him, though his family was more than abundantly indulgent.

Though twas with some sluggishness of step that he lumbered down into the stable yard, the sight of company settling their worn steeds within sprigged his spine with a sudden jolt. The honey-haired soldiers were conservatively dressed in sober forest tones, the verdant uniform of the Greenwood palace guards. Barely daring a hopeful smirk, he set gingerly forth to greet them, as he already spied a few familiars among their rather numerous ranks. The King himself had probably come, though there was no telling who else may, or may not, have joined him on the journey, for Greenwood was of late an increasingly treacherous realm to traverse. One who had so lately lost a wife would not be likely to chance the capture of any of his sons if he himself was venturing out of the kingdom, though Elrohir was far too thrilled by even the chance of seeing his beloved to discount any whim of the notoriously spotty King of Greenwood’s.

When finally the soldiers spied him, their knowing smiles gave him even greater cause for hope; indeed, by the time they had quickly renewed their acquaintances and they all but shoved him down towards the stalls, he could barely conceal the tremors that wreaked him, such did he suffer his raucous anticipation. Yet he was not so overcome as to miss how neatly the revelation had been arranged. Such was the precision of the affair that he was sure Elladan had had a considerable hand in its timing. He made a note to genially upbraid his brother at the banquet table, then strode excitedly down the center aisle of the stables; where, *mysteriously*, not a soul dared to follow him.

Yet before he could stroll down to what was traditionally Tiren’s stall, a wilding cry of attack sounded from above, then a streak of gold shot down from the loft. Before he could register his own surprise, he found himself with an armful of cackling elfling, who barely took stock of his pallid astonishment before seizing him in a hug-assault. Elrohir could only match the manic squeeze with a more considered clinch of his own, swallowing his emotion down hard as he realized he was petting the flaxen head of one Laurith Thranduilion, grown into that perfect, touching, rabidly curious age of childhood where everything is wondrous.

“Legolas, he is come!!” he exclaimed, before sitting back to examine him more thoroughly, confident as only a dearly loved child could be that this relative stranger would keep hold of him. “You did not tell me that he looks just like Elladan!”

“Nor did he write to me of how beautifully you have grown,” Elrohir wryly informed him, in lieu of a formal greeting. “Mae govannen, lass dithen.”

“Hannon le, gwador,” Laurith grinned, stretching the bounds of his slender face as widely as possible. When Elrohir smiled in return, he all but wriggled with enthusiasm. “You are also far bigger than he has told me. Mighty, like a dogwood!”

“Though far less staid, I wager,” he jested. “While you, I observe, are just as incorrigible as your brother.”

Laurith giggled away the faint accusation of impropriety, preferring to scrabble down to the ground, latch himself to a free hand, then attempt to drag him forward.

“Come, Elrohir, we will fetch him together,” the elfling insisted, as he toddled behind. “He has been so eager to see you, he would not sleep! I tried to sing him lullabies, but then they made me sleepy, and suddenly morning had come… I think he tricked me. He likes it! But the stars may have helped him, because they were so bright on the plain! Are the stars bright here in Imladris? Legolas says that they are, and that we can watch them one night, and that your daeradar *is* a star, the brightest star in the heavens! Are you part star, Elrohir?”

The look of genuine, thoughtful enquiry on his cherubic face was so adorable, the elf-knight was distracted from the calm presence that had padded into the aisle from within the stall before them, a figure who regarded them with nothing less than abject reverence.

“His countenance is certainly starlit,” Legolas agreed, with eyes only for the sterling gaze that swiftly locked into his own. “And he is possessed of considerable shining majesty, would you not concur, pen-neth?”

“Like a dogwood,” Laurith repeated, too interested in the moving conversation the two lovers were silently engaged in to offer a more novel response.

“As one of the mearas, I might say,” Legolas worshipfully continued his felicitous appraisal. “His skin lustrous as their silky mane, his own hair sensuous as their velvety hide. His moves at once bold, noble, graceful, yet his spirit wild as the wind that whips through the Gap of Rohan and his heart as rich as the Mines of the Lonely Mountain. One would be fool indeed to cross such an elemental soul, though the greater foolishness would be to doubt its honor, its allegiance, its utter goodness and its unblemished love for all he holds dear.”

“And what of the one it holds most dear of all?” Elrohir playfully queried, but any could see by his face that he was desperate to crush the fine form of his love to him. “Will he not be properly welcomed back to the valley that cherishes him nearly as well as I, myself?”

Legolas needed no further beckoning into the wealth of his embrace, though, bless them, they struggled to remain suitably chaste before the youngling. They contented themselves, and unreasonably so, with a poignant clutch, with flush faces pressed tight together, both drinking amply of the other’s fragrant, familiar scent. If Elrohir soon broke away, twas only to stare longingly at that eloquent face, that spoke in the merest of blinks and of cringes of all the fervent feeling between them.

“Methinks he wants for you to kiss him,” Laurith chirped in encouragement, at which the lovers could not help but break into ferocious laughter.

Yet the promise of a kiss proved too enticing to properly distract them. Indeed, Elrohir was only too eager to cup his beloved’s cheek, to claim his lips with passion unbound, to demonstrate to the gaping elfling before them the full flourish of their romance. Though they kept their sultry tongues just barely tamed, they suckled their mouths a garish red, so lost to the rush of emotion surging between them that only a snort of too-recognizable arrogance forced them to part, blushing fiercely as they struggled to steady their heaving pants for air. They looked as sheepish as youths caught smooching in the larder, when they turned to acknowledge the King, though Elrohir did have the grace to bow, even if he could barely lax his hold around Legolas to do so.

When no reprimand came bellowing forth, the elf-knight was stunned; even more so when he marked the visible amusement that quirked the monarch’s twisty lips.

“Well met, Son of Elrond,” he nodded to Elrohir. “We are indeed pleased by the warmth of welcome we’ve been shown, though some may be more looked for than others.” Though typically quick of wit, the darkling prince could not fathom a reply, so shocked was he that the normally taciturn King had actually jested with them. “Yet true indulgence must wait, I fear, on a brief time of rest. Will you not help guide your sleepy Adar, Laurith, to his no doubt resplendent suites. I think you will find a chamber there, prepared by the shrewd advisor Erestor, that meets all the myriad needs of one of your considerable wiles.”

By this time, the elfling had been scooped into the prodigious arms of his Adar-King, who vainly sought to pry the little one’s attention away from his glowing brother.

“Will Legolas come too, Ada?” he queried, still awestruck by the softening of the older elf when caught in the light of his lover’s rapt regard.

“Methinks that Elrohir will see to Legolas’ rest,” Thranduil explained, his following instructions not without certain emphasis. “If indeed he can be entrusted to ensure that there is some true *rest* to be had this afternoon.”

“I am so charged, my Lord,” the elf-knight earnestly responded, eager to prove his worth to his potential bond-father. Legolas, however, could be seen to momentarily frown. “But surely the entire afternoon does not need to be spent abed! I would be most glad to lead a guided tour through the walks around the Homely House in the golden hour before evening, if you could spare us your princeling.”

“Aye, he could!” Laurith squeaked, before his father could even open his mouth.

“Then they will fetch you by four bells,” the King loftily agreed, winking at Legolas before taking his leave. “May the time between prove both tender and replenishing, ioneth.”

Thranduil could barely carry the little one away, so violently did he scramble to see out over his broad shoulder. Legolas, as well, was rather inclined to bury his face in the downy crook of his beloved’s neck, as Elrohir plucked thick, culling kisses from his temple.

“By Elbereth,” he hotly whispered, still reeling from his encounter with the transformed King. “If your Adar’s demeanor were not so agreeable, I would think him spelled by some dark power.”

“I would gladly tell you the toll of it,” Legolas murmured against his cheek. “Were my tongue not longing to engage in more leisurely pursuits.”

“In which I would most feverish indulge,” Elrohir acknowledged, a puritan tenor to his tone. “Once you have, indeed, rested some.”

“I find the gild of afterglow most restorative,” Legolas purred, as he plied his mouth with an utterly besotting kiss. “Might we not venture down to the riverside? The banks are lush with rosy petals, upon which I would have you most decadently spread. What say you?”

“I say…” Elrohir began, but was cut off by the assault of a sensuous tongue, which soon had him entirely mastered.

He was indeed lured inevitably down to the riverside, by a sylph of an elf so covetous of him, so craven for him, that resistance was deliciously futile.

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Twas the scorch of it that incensed him, the unctuous sink into that molten core that was at once so edifying and so emulsifying, the lustiest of carnalities and the loftiest of communions melded in one erotic act. The searing thrust within, the igniting pull without, the broil that singed his most sensate skin until he plunged back in, until he burned for their oneness, until he craved naught but dissolution into the blazing soul that berthed him. Twas far more sacred than any mere penetration, the immaculate conflagration that consumed them both when their spirits flamed as one.

With the leonine might of his renown ancestry, he fought back wave after wave of surging ecstasy within him, the magma scald that sought his most eruptive undoing. Even as the blistering pleasure mounted, he slowed his sheathing pace, so as to savor every moment of their sensuous mating. Elrohir’s whining keens became the most uxorious purrs imaginable, a rumble of contentment so profound that he could feel the reverberations around his entrenched shaft. Boldly staving off what promised to be a merciless end for them both, they luxuriated in the effluence of love coursing between them, in the preternatural rapture of two primal flames burning as one. Wholeness achieved, they longly lingered there, both headily aware of the desperate need to commingle their ethereal essences forevermore.

He had woke spooned to the decadent slope of his elf-knight’s backside, his beloved mewling softly in the tight cage of his arms, slumbering still but doubtlessly dreaming of their raunchy revels on the previous night, when their bed-play had been just that, giddy quick and delightfully rowdy. The silken length of that feral form had proved irresistible to him; the delectable peak of ear that his tongue would lick rosy, the veil of velvet hair for his face to burrow in, the shoulders he could splatter with suckling kisses, the slick of back that would slide across his chest, the limber legs he would shackle in his own, and the taut buttocks that already nested his inflaming groin. Such a leisurely position was made for the heartfelt loving of drowsy mornings, when the gauzy drapes of sun billowed around the bed and baking skin yet simmered with somnambulant yearning. Sensitive areas were in such easy reach that they were all but made for plundering, necks could be supped on to distraction, to say naught of the succulent lips only a gentle shift away. A chest once undulating in sleep was all but raring to be stroked and teased, to say naught of the engorgement wrought oozing from those scarlet dreams.

Twas little wonder that Legolas had soon found himself throbbing in time with his sultry one, mastering him with the explicit tenderness only a truehearted lover could wield over one so potent as the elf-knight.

Yet the already tenacious twine of straining limbs and of driving shaft that he had entangled them in slowly began to fray, as thread after thread of the bind that temporarily knit their souls snapped free, as nicks of deliriously unraveling pleasure became slits, then cuts, then stabs of such impassioned force, they could barely contain themselves. Wilded by flares of the most blissful feeling he had ever known, Legolas could do naught but spear, feverishly, relentlessly, into his beloved, as Elrohir quaked with the seismic jolts that had already forced him to a roaring completion. With a saucy curse of his own, Legolas spent fierce, nearly crushing the very bones of his arms as he rode out the last of his ecstasy.

They lay knotted tight, hands clasped in a meaningful fist over Elrohir’s thundering heart, as the licks and laps of the fire-tongues of passion cooled to a glowing cinder. Twas as if they were the bud of a blooming flower, the butterfly nestled hot in its cocoon, content to huddle there in security, in the sanctity of an amorous embrace. The honeyed sweetness of afterglow was the most elemental nourishment to their ardent flames, which parted with greater, and more gutting, reluctance than either had ever felt before. This, in addition to the signs of spirit-waning that Legolas had perceived in his darkling love the previous day, were proof aplenty that the surety of their eventual binding must be resolved with no little urgency.

Though Elrohir had denied any exhausting of his energies when questioned directly, if only from eagerness to spend the night tumbling his all-too-willing prince, Legolas had not been deceived. No elf of his beloved’s usual vigor sought to nap after but a joyous tussle on the riverbanks, especially one who had slept through the past three days. Even the archer, though somewhat fatigued from his journey, had been too excited by the prospect of touring the vale with his little wood-imp to sneak in a brief repose. Elladan had later confirmed to him that his twin had indeed been enfeebled of late by the distance between them, a condition which he had also concluded would not persist once they were bound. Nor could he be entirely cured by even this much-needed visit, though he would be replenished for a time after Legolas’ departure. Yet only their eternal vows would restore him, a remedy for which they both must wait for far too many years to set the woodland prince at ease with the choices he had made prior to their venturing here. That he foresaw only further weakening for his dearest one made him cling all the more forcefully to him, for he could instantly dismiss the untruth he had been told, but he could not forgive his own accidental part in his future mate’s current suffering.

As if implicitly sensing his distress, Elrohir quite gallantly sought to distract him.

“What dreams I envisioned whilst berthed in the sanctuary of your arms, melethen,” he murmured, throat still raspy from his earlier moans. He deftly turned about without ever loosening their cinch, if ought working his own into the tight weave around them. He sipped a sweetly kiss from his plush lips, then buried his brow between the pillow and his cheek. “My mind has not painted such an elaborate canvass since my time in Greenwood.”

“What colors did you perceive there, lovely one?” Legolas inquired, between nips at his elegant collarbone.

“A forest of deep, earthy greens, as in the southlands,” Elrohir recounted. “Lush as the Greenwood in her finest hour, but with trees tall as the colossal mallorns of Lorien. We were racing through them, just you and I, our hearts thrumming with their heady song. They sang to us with such primacy, twas as if we’d grown them ourselves, as if we’d nurtured them for decades on, championed them through the trials of desiccation, the threat of utter devastation!”

“Are we clothed?” Legolas smuttily insinuated, hoping to veer his beloved away from such dark thoughts.

“Certainly not,” Elrohir snickered, concentrating on the more salacious aspects of the tale. “Indeed, there is a sense of liberation such as I have never felt before. We fly like sparrows from bough to bough, then suddenly dive into the void. Tis then that the winding river comes into view, before we segue into the rush, then swim through the rapids as if blessed with gills! When finally we alight upon the bank, your kiss is so luscious that it’s nearly enough to crest me then and there… our loving is tempestuous, and vivid, and of such potent thrall that I cannot sense where you end and I begin. Indeed, for a time, there ceased to be a *you* or an *I*, *we* simply are.”

“Perhaps we are bound,” Legolas considered. “Is this a dream, or perhaps more of a premonition? Have you experienced spots of foresight before, Elrohir?”

“Nay, never before,” the elf-knight answered, though was struck by the acuity of his comments. “Tis perhaps possible only now that I have truly embraced elfkind. Nevertheless, there were some… rather fantastical elements to my envisioning. Twas in vital part a dream.”

“Such as?” Legolas queried teasingly, marking his elusiveness.

“Merely some… distortions,” Elrohir sheepishly underlined. “Some elements that were far beyond the bounds of reality.” He hastened towards safer ground, as the archer eyed him suspiciously. “Indeed, twas the most bucolic landscape I have ever seen before. Elves of all races known to Arda inhabited there, Noldor intermarried with Sindar, Galadhrim courting ladies from as far as Lindon… there was even a dwarf!”

“A dwarf?” Legolas chuckled, understanding his earlier talk of distortion. “Please do not suggest that the dwarf, or indeed any of these myriad tribes of elves, had cause to observe us coupling!”

“Nay, the others come in later,” Elrohir explained. “Tis a newly nascent colony of some sort. There is a market, but the town that will be is still under construction. We take a stroll through the area. They must all be aware of our entitlement, for every one of the inhabitants bows to us in the formal fashion. We know them all by name and greet them warmly. Eventually, we come to the base of a resplendent tree; indeed, the most majestic I have ever seen in all my centuries! There is a small tent at its base, one of Gondorian mantle, but I know at one that it is ours. In a bizarre turn, I feel nearly as much for the tent as I do for my own bedchamber here in Imladris, except that it is our shelter, our home, and so it is even more dear to me. I sense even that the tent has housed us on some occasion of incredible monument, tis perhaps an emblem of our struggles, perhaps even of our survival.” For an instant, his comely visage cringed with emotion, as if readily experiencing events that would not transpire for millennia on. Legolas nearly broke his concentration, as he was growing fearful, but also fascinated by what had to be an omen of times to come. “Yet these thoughts do not linger. As we look over this place that is ours, this tree, in that settlement, in that unfamiliar forest, there are no longer any burdens that claim us. No allegiance. No pains to bear through. No duties to cleave us apart. The time is ours to use as we would, and we are raring to relish it. The though of it was so affecting, I nearly feared the knowing of it!” With brimming eyes, he gazed upon him; his look so soft with love that Legolas indeed wanted to live in that moment forever. “Do you think such a time is possible for us, melethron? Do you believe we may, one day, be so freed?”

“I pray so, moren vain,” Legolas whispered, too overcome by this rare glimpse of his earnestness to say more. “I nightly pray so.” After recovering himself some, he grazed tickling fingers down the side of his face. “Though I fear there are no dwarves in my orisons.”

“Pity, that,” Elrohir deadpanned, then plucked another kiss from him, before shifting the subject of their discussion to far less stable ground. “Tell me, when must we part again?”

With a blustery sigh that nearly rivaled Thranduil’s windiness, Legolas flicked his eyes momentarily aloft. Elrohir, however, would have the truth of him, and so gingerly pinched his bottom to compel him to speak.

“A three-month shall we stay here,” Legolas confessed, to his glaring dismay. “But tis not as dire as it seems. The royal tutor is to consult with your Loremaster in regards to Laurith’s further instruction. It is intended that, after his majority rings, my brother will foster some years under Erestor’s fine tutelage.”

“Wonderful!” Elrohir exclaimed, looking genuinely elated. “Indeed, I cannot say what thrills me more, the thought of the little one benefiting from our estimable Loremaster’s attentions or the stunning change that has overcome your Adar to allow him to do so.”

“Yet there is even more astonishment to be revealed,” Legolas pursued. “Ada came to such an incredible conclusion when he understood that none in Greenwood could properly instruct one of Laurith’s considerable intellectual gifts. Indeed, Ada’s aim is to have him become the first Loremaster of the Silvan elves. He will receive basic training as an archer, no more.” In light of Elrohir’s gaping maw, the archer pressed on with his revelations. “Lasgaren, also, has benefited some from Ada’s new perspective. He is no longer required to serve with the guard. He has continued the tasks appointed to him when Ada was ill – as master of house, as chief of barter and stores, and he has even been allowed to establish an artisans guild, of which he is both a proud member and a founding patron.”

“Why did you not write me of these… these *marvels*,” Elrohir kindly chided him, though not without the requisite caresses. “Twould have heartened me to know of your brothers’ contentment, as it foreshadows our own. Is Lorindol similarly well?”

“Lorindol, alas, is less mended than we three youngsters,” Legolas admitted, with a pained frown. “There was never question of his changing office, for he feels he was born to serve the realm as its guard-captain. Yet this duty allowed him to remain close to our home, and so he was most depended on our naneth’s support and regard. Even before her passing, he longed for a mate’s care to welcome him home at night; he does so vociferously now. He is so very lonely, but neither Lasgaren nor I quite know what we can do to ease him. Matchmaking is hardly our forte, nor would we truly know whom to encourage him towards. He does not confide in us.”

“Twas thus when Elladan pined for Erestor,” Elrohir sympathized, hardly in a position to advise him himself. “I could hardly confront the Loremaster with the truth of his favor… Yet perhaps we can consult one far more learned in such affairs. An audience with my Naneth might prove fruitful, if only to acquire some means of consoling him.”

“Astute as always, melethen,” Legolas nodded, impressed by his fastidiousness. “Tis perhaps the opportune moment, then, to inform you of my Adar’s own solicitation of your gentle ear. He would take appointment with you after noontime meal tomorrow, if this is amenable.”

Elrohir was not startled so much as intrigued: “Why so?”

“Mine is not to decipher the wily ways of a woodland king,” Legolas precociously demurred.

“Which leads me to suspect you of mischief,” the elf-knight playfully countered. “My equally wily woodland prince.”

“Nay,” Legolas giggled, as his more sensitive clefts were assaulted by prying fingers. “By Elbereth, Elrohir, I am honest! I know not what he wishes to discuss with you!”

“Yet you have an inkling,” Elrohir accused, pouncing atop him and wriggling their bodies quite defiantly together. “Tell me of your conclusions, or I will ride you raw this instant, my wood-elf!”

“Tis hardly reason for me to confess myself!” Legolas insisted, though they were far more bent on wrestling than on coupling.

Indeed, just as the archer was on the brink of toppling his feisty lover over, a brisk knock sounded at their door. Locking Legolas into a rather solid hold, Elrohir called for the solicitor’s identity. Yet he released his prisoner the instant the tiny voice trilled through the thick oak, as both scrambled to clean themselves before bidding the eager elfling enter. Yet by the time the elf-knight called him in, they were tussling anew, though thankfully on pristine sheets, their still bare bodies slippery from their quick wash.

Even one as mercurial as Laurith did not know quite what to make of his grappling elders, who grunted and growled so ardently that he leaned against the shut door and observed them with no little confusion.

“Legolas?” he hesitantly queried. “Are you there? Ada said that you would not be in your chambers, and then he said not to disturb you until later, but it’s gone eleven bells and soon it will be noontime meal and Ada is still in council and… and I thought you might be sickly. You never… you never sleep so long.”

One of the most fortunate aspects of Laurith’s cleverness was the rampant earnestness that came with it. He may comprehend the intricate motives for some of the great battles of ages past, but he was yet innocent enough to admit to any foolishness, of thought or of action, that he committed. Legolas allowed himself to be conquered, with a triumphant crow from his beloved, then easily shoved him to the side so that his brother could see him. Still chuckling hardily, Elrohir reclined back into the pillows, ready to welcome the downy elfling into their bed.

“Come lie with us awhile,” Legolas beckoned to the little one. With a squeal of delight, Laurith raced towards the bed, crawled up its drooping coverlet, then happily wiggled in between them. While he curled in to his brother’s chest, he was just as content when Elrohir laced a protective arm around them both, snug as a pea in a pod between the two he instinctively sensed were as parents to him, even if his elfling mind did not remember the many morns they had, indeed, cuddled this sprightly babe between them in his first two years. “Do you not recall when we spoke of how I would be slumbering in Elrohir’s bed, lass dithen?”

“Aye, for he is your meleth,” Laurith chirped out his lesson. “You need the warmth of his flame.” He squirmed over to face the elf-knight, who beamed woozily at them both, such was his contentment. “Do you miss Legolas when he is gone? He misses you! He speaks of you all the time, nearly every day I have noted. He has told me of the lore of your tribe, of the Noldor, whenever we would pass the mural in the western hall of the Battle of Dagorlad. He says that you are a peredhil, and that you had a choice whether to be of elfkind or not, and that you chose the elves because of him! And whenever we dress in blue he says that is the color that looks finest on you. And when we visit the armory, he shows me the sword that is like yours. And then when we look at the stars, he always points out the Mariner, and tells me the tale. I know he thinks on you even when he does not tell me, for he gets a look in his eyes that is faraway, and now that I am here, I know where he goes in his thoughts.”

“As mine are oft in Greenwood,” Elrohir quietly replied. “For I too long for his companionship and his care.”

“Why do you not reside in Greenwood, then?” Laurith asked, with the simple reasoning of the innocent.

“I am not a prince of that realm,” Elrohir humbly responded. “My duties, alas, are elsewhere. As your brother’s duties are at home, with you. Though there may come a time when I reside in Greenwood. Not in permanence, but when the climate permits.”

“When you are bonded?” Laurith followed, with the bright eyes of the truly inquisitive. The elf-knight could already see how the child would cotton to Erestor’s methodical ways. Yet his subsequent query was fringed with worry, for instinctive logic had brought him to the reasonable, but quite unpalatable, notion that if Elrohir would on occasion reside in Greenwood, then his beloved brother would no doubt adapt to a similar residential pattern. “When will that be?”

“Not until you are grown,” Elrohir assured him, though he himself grew solemn. “But you must not fret over such things, pen-neth. Instead, you must look forward to the great adventures we will have while you reside here, in my resplendent valley. I will teach you of all the wondrous thrills that I taught Legolas, in his youthful years.”

“Perhaps not *all* the wondrous thrills you taught me of,” Legolas admonished him, with a downright wicked smirk. “You would not steal my Elrohir away from me, would you, pen-toren?”

“Nay, I will not steal him,” Laurith shook his head, with such earnestness that they both enjoyed a soft chuckle. “But may I perhaps borrow him awhile?”

“Indeed, you may,” Legolas agreed, with mock severity. Yet his seriousness was genuine just moments later, when he implored a favor of his little brother. “But you must promise to take great care of him, if I am not able to join you here. To love him as you love me, else he will be mighty lonely.”

“Aye, I will smother him in hugs!” Laurith giggled, reminding him of their private game. “But will you not be lonely also?”

“With Ada planning my day?” the archer heavily considered, which drew out both their sympathies. “I assure you, I will not be able to spare a breath to sigh with!”

The mention of his sovereign father flared a memory in the little one’s iridescent eyes, enough to launch him down another speedy path of storytelling.

“Ada took me to the library this morning, Legolas!” he cried, a twitter with ebullience such as the elf-knight had never seen before from an elfling who had toured through dusty stacks of books. “Lord Erestor was there with *his* brother, Beregor, and they told me all about the library and the history and the lore. At first I was uncertain, because the Master cannot hear me, but Beregor told him what I said so it was fine.”

“Lord Erestor is quite capable of making himself understood, when he chooses,” Elrohir advised him, with no little bemusement. The elfling, however, was undeterred by this sage counsel.

“We went all around everywhere!” he enthused. “Even out into the gardens, which Beregor says are the loveliest anywhere. The Lady was there with an ellyth, who I thought was the Lady Evenstar, but she was not! She is their sister come from Lindon, and she is the same age as me!”

“Aye, they spoke of Serinde at evening meal,” Legolas informed him. “Do you not recall? She has a talent for embroidery and a love of gardening, so she has come to learn both these skills from the Lady Celebrian.”

“I will learn of the flowers, too!” Laurith trilled, his glee infectious. “The Lady teaches in the morn, when Erestor is occupied with his duties, so I will go to the gardens. Then she says that we can play together – Serinde and me, not the Lady – until the Master is ready for me in the afternoons. She says there is much to learn of the flowers and trees and shrubs, that there is even some logic to their growing. I think I will like it very much, and everything is so beautiful! I said to Ada when he came to fetch me that we should have gardens, too, and he said that if I learn well, we can take some seeds and saplings back to Greenwood with us, and I can be in charge of making a garden in the new palace. Will you help me, Legolas? The trees like you so much!”

“Indeed, I would be most thrilled to do so,” the archer grinned, obviously enchanted with his brother’s new preoccupation. “I am also quite glad that you have found a companion, here. I feared you might suffer some among us stuffy old adults.”

“Nay, I would not suffer,” he replied, so reasonably that they once again fought to stifle their laughter. “But I do like her! She, too, likes reading and games, and she says she will have Beregor teach me to fish!”

“The summer does hold considerable promise for one and all,” Elrohir remarked, a languid smile seasoning his noble features. “We best not tarry abed for much longer, melethen, else all the excitement may very well pass us by.”

“Tis certainly reason enough to rise, this picturesque morn,” Legolas chimed in. “Though lazing about does have its… possibilities.”

Beneath the covers, he surreptitiously gave his beloved’s firm buttocks a rough clench, a smirk of considerable wickedness quirking his lips. Elrohir spared him a wink of subtle encouragement, then stretched himself out with a rumbling groan.

“But there is a river!” Laurith meanwhile protested, oblivious to the stench of innuendo about. “For swimming! And we must feed the horses! And Lord Elladan says he wants to see how well I shoot! And you swore that I could watch you spar today! And Ada says that you will take me to the outlook over the cascade!”

Before he could gripe further, Legolas clamped a hand over his twittery mouth.

“This is your scholar?” Elrohir drolly opined.

“My apologies,” Legolas smirked. “He is suffused with an overabundance of curiosity at the best of times. I fear all this potential discovery is wilding him even further.” With a kiss dropped to his brother’s sunny crown, he stroked a calming hand down his middle. “In due time, lass dithen, will you explore the valley’s riches. Yet one cannot absorb her finery whist zipping blindly through her walks. First, my melethen and I will bathe away this sleep-sweat that wretches us. Then, we will take noontime meal. Once we are properly readied for the day, will we hear a brief summary of which activities excite you most. We must plan our summer here with great care, toren, if we are to wring every drop of juice from this ripe valley.”

After a rabidly eager nod of acknowledgement from the youngling, Legolas glanced over at his beloved. Ruddied even from this brief interaction with the little one, Elrohir appeared mightily restored from the pallid creature who had greeted them the previous afternoon. The archer knew that his loving, while the primary cause for this remedying, was certainly not the only factor to affect one so oft attuned to his environment as the elf-knight. That he relished the chance to explore his valley anew with his elfling friend was wonderfully obvious to his lover’s doting eye, for which the woodland prince could naught but find him preciously endearing in his own right.

The summer would indeed be a magical, and heartening, season for them all.

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

Stuffed as a foul bird for the harvest feast or glutted as a swine fatted for the slaughter, no matter how hyperbolic the description, Elrohir doubted he had ever dined on such an abundant spread as they had this exquisite afternoon.

With Anor on high, the south lawn was patched with blankets of the most delicate pastel colors, upon which strapping lords and willowy ladies leisurely reclined. His Naneth had organized a picnic luncheon in honor of a no more lofty occasion than a tribute to the brilliant sunshine, the richly pigmented verdure, and the fecund scent of a thriving valley on the tipsy breeze. As he had dozed away the last of the morn, the two Greenwood princes had snatched the most plentiful basket of honeyed treats and of savory delicacies from the kitchens, in order to sate the rather voracious appetite the elf-knight had so suddenly developed; a result, no doubt, of the timely advent of a certain wood-elf at the Homely House. He had, quite shamelessly, devoured every scrap of nourishment set before him, though both Legolas and Laurith enabled him in this, only too relieved by both his famishment and its appeasement. He had not, however, been too enthralled in his generous consumption to forgo supping on his lover’s luscious mouth, which had nurtured and quenched him between draughts of rosy summer wine.

After Laurith had sped off to join the elflings frolicking about the lush glade, he had found himself with a lap full of flaxen hair, as Legolas had thought his meaty thighs the finest of pillows for his drowsy head. The elf-knight, faced with a mane of the silkiest locks he had ever laced his fingers through to pet and to play with, had been more than pleased to indulge him. Indeed, his contentment had been such that tears had briefly swelled his sight fluid, the sun’s sparkle suddenly a piercing glare. Yet they had been in the midst of a rare, miracle day, so he had swallowed back the momentary poignancy and, instead, murmured a prayer of gratitude for such tender blessings as the sight of his beloved curled up in a catnap before him. He had been more than content to languish there, digesting both the serene atmosphere and the peace within, for the better part of the afternoon, but fate had never been much of a servant to complacence.

Before he had been able to shift them into a less revealing position, a shadow had blocked his view of the sun; though the fiery halo that had singed a crown of rays around the King of Greenwood’s head had blazed bright enough to light even the dankest tunnels in the Moria deep.

At present, his stomach felt burdened with a mithril trove worthy of the dwarves that mined there, for he was strolling alongside the regent he would have as his bond-father through the western orchards, long past the bushy line of poplars that ably prohibited the flight of sound onto the dulcet lawn that spread down from the noble house. Twas not that he feared he would come to any harm, for he was of far hardier stuff than even the most valiant of suitors. Nor was one of his considerable eloquence unable to forward such winningly acute arguments to the King that he would fail to convince him of his earnestness in regards to the doting care of Legolas’ beautiful heart. He was simply wary of swearing himself to whatever trials Thranduil might entertain demanding of him without consulting the respected opinion of his esteemed parents and his devout twin.

He was equally unwilling to upset the delicate balance that the Queen’s death had appeared to restore in terms of the royal family’s interrelations. While he could behave as stridently as he wished, Legolas would nevertheless suffer for any impudence he might display whilst declaring their love sacrosanct; that was, out of the bounds of Thranduil’s far-reaching rule. The King fancied himself the supreme sovereign of all and sundry in his realm, to say naught of the new little son he would battle fiendishly to protect. Elrohir could not imagine the desiccating effect upon his beloved if his Adar was to deny him contact with Laurith, as such he could make no bold declarations of exclusive ownership of his prince’s heart.

If the King was resolved to force their quitting of one another, the elf-knight would be at first mostly disabled, then, through later developments, powerless against such a unilateral decision; the only promise left him of later years, once Laurith had fully grown. As such, the precariousness of his position unnerved him, as well as the brittleness of his emotional state under such crude scrutiny. For he did not mistake Thranduil’s casual appreciation of the apple blossoms for anything less than an attempt at gradual disarmament, though he was relieved that the regent’s tactics remained so overt. Still, he was both a warrior of stealth and a diplomat of cunning, as well as rather undaunted in his pursuit of the hand of his Greenwood prince. He must remember that Legolas was already won, that no real consent was required by the Valar, who had already affirmed the wealth of the prospective union.

Yet as they settled into a meandering pace, he fought to rally his energies and his wits to the momentous occasion. Even a verbal spar with the crafty King of Greenwood was a duel akin to vanquishing the most wicked of shadow-fiends, as such victory was never assured. To wit, Thranduil wrenched a barely mature apple from the nearest bough, then crunched out a considerable, yet not undignified, bite. As his teeth tore the soft flesh apart, he sucked back the sour juice, barely a quirk of his lips in disapproval of the overwhelming brine of the taste. Elrohir recalled his preference for the bitter Haradin coffee, then swallowed back the wave of nausea that swam through him at the memory of his untimely consumption of the brew, at the King’s behest, once upon a formal commission.

“Nearly there,” Thranduil remarked, after some appreciation of the sharp flavor that infused his palette with a delectable sting. “The summer looks to be kind to them, but not until they’ve bourn through the crisp of autumn will their skin be tough enough to preserve the sweetness within. If the weather does not turn, the harvest will be abundant.”

Elrohir could not help but wonder if he was truly speaking of apples, such was the weight of his tone.

“Yet one might say that they have already survived quite a tumult,” he similarly considered the lot of the jubilant red fruit. “Spring is not the dainty season most would claim it. Blustery spells abound, to say naught of the ferocious storms that dispel the winter. Hundreds of buds are withered on the branch, even if the tree does eventually prove plentiful in the blush of summer.”

“Even the blithe season brings its share of woes,” the King pointedly offered in return. “The scouring of nibbling creatures, the scorch of a roaring sun, the potential for infestation at every turn… you speak quite true. Tis a veritable wonder we reap any bounty at all, what with the forces that oppose what is a essential to the natural cycle of the land’s renewal. Only the hardiest blooms, I suppose, will ever bear ripe fruit.”

“Tis by this reasoning that clever gardeners graft together prize stock,” Elrohir wryly noted. “Their orchards flourish as a result, and the people of their lands are grateful for their sustenance. Tis a tribute to Elbereth herself that our trees, here in Imladris, sag under the weight of her splendor. We are growers, here, nurturers in our primal element; committed to the vitality of the land and the prosperity of all she shelters. I myself am beholden to my betters, who gifted me with the ideal that rules this Homely House, this valley wild far more ably than its sage Lord: to focus my every choice and action on the creation of a sanctuary, in fervent opposition of the Shadow at large and in solemn reverence of those who strive for its abolishment from this middle-earth.”

With a windy sigh, the pensive King quit his metaphor.

“Yet which of these, in your mind, is the most urgent pursuit?” he questioned him. “The rallying of a visceral opposition to the Shadow’s insidious forces or the pursuit of loftier ideals? We have been gifted this brief season of relative peace, yet orcish spears seek to pierce all too easily through the flimsy skin of the bubble that preserves us. The southern Greenwood is in a rapid decay; in a mere century we will no longer be able to venture there unarmed. To the north, a Witch King stirs; we suspect him allied to the Dark Lord. Even the noblest of the men I have thus far encountered appear to lead but a paltry force of brigands and malcontents. Little glory portends in the future foundation of an alliance of elves and men, the last stole my father and my ruler from me. So I ask you, Prince of Imladris, where does your allegiance lie?” He veered around to foist adamantine eyes upon him, impressing him with all the weight of an elf who possessed true dominion. “Would you abscond with Greenwood’s most hallowed champion just to see your hearts sworn? Would you leave your beloved’s homeland vulnerable for fulfillment’s sake? If war was upon us, would you cling him to your side and have him forsake his rightful duty, leading the forest front? What say you to this charge, elf-knight? Would your union be immune to such necessary sacrifices, or would you entreat him to remain forever by your side?”

“I say, my allegiance is with our eternity,” Elrohir stood fast, but also meticulously considered his following statements. “I swear that, if we are bound, Legolas would be free to serve Greenwood in whatsoever manner he saw fit, for he is an elf of valor who can choose his battles for himself. Yet if he casts his lot elsewhere, then I will second him. Regardless, I have my own duties here and I would see them honored, as I would expect my bonded to honor his own, wherever he felt them to be. I ask only that we might initially arrange a schedule amenable to all parties, parents, or kingdoms involved, and that we be welcomed, as a couple, in whichever elven realm we might reside. I am sensitive as any to the omens that plague us, of the Shadow’s future rise and of the eventual imminence of a great war. When such a dark hour is upon us, my bonded and I will judge where to mount the best defense, whether together or apart. Though I would not like to see him fall, the promise of Valinor is ever upon the horizon, no matter how bleak the years between.” Straightening his bearing to pronounce his final appeal, the elf-knight was a vision of preternatural grace. “My Lord, no elf who claims to love your son as purely and wholly as I do would ever wish for the fracture of your royal house, nor the downfall of your reign, nor the blighting of your land. I seek to bind our realms through the marriage of two worthy princes in blissful, glorious love. That we might swear ourselves regardless of your will is not a slight upon you, but a virtue of the love that we would, through our vows, prove everlasting. Yet while your disapproval would not impede us, nor would we prefer to proceed without your blessing. Legolas and I cherish our families as ardently as we do each other, and we are resolved to do well by one and all.”

The Greenwood King absorbed this with the solemnity the speech deserved, then carefully constructed his response.

“Wise words for one yet so green,” Thranduil slowly replied. “So innocent before the aches this land you revere can so cruelly inflict. Yet I certainly would not wish a blemished heart upon my bright Legolas, nor one of lesser valor than yours, my young gallant. Indeed, despite my reservations, I find you eminently worthy of both his hand and his heart, if only these treasures were mine to gift you. That he has done so esteems him, our royal house, and our willful people, for if they had any sway over my mind you would have been bound before you last left Greenwood. Against all odds, a Son of Earendil has won the favor of the Silvan tribe, to whom they would bestow the most prized possession of our realm: her greatest champion. If only my own kindly Naneth were here to see you bound…” Lost to remembrance a short while, the King roused himself when a newly energized Elrohir coughed politely. “Regardless, if tis my blessing that you covet, then you have earned the grace. Yet tis beyond my powers, or so I’ve been most bluntly reminded these last weeks, to assure you a betrothal. That you must beseech from the object of your wild affections… though, if I may, I would spare a word to remind you that your sires, while understandably secondary in your thoughts, would both be delighted to participate in the planning of such a heartening affair, especially since I expect there will be some debate over which realm hosts the ceremony and the subsequent celebration. For surely you will not so insult those you claim to cherish by denying us the chance to attend such a sacred rite?”

Elrohir might have been mistaken, but he could have sworn a tremor of amusement quirked the regent’s lips after his final question was posed.

With a blush, the elf-knight answered forthright: “I fear I am not at liberty to provide any conclusive notions… though I will play fierce champion to your cause, as I am of similar mind.”

“I believe if any can sway the will of my most impish son,” the King closed their discussion, with a sprightly wink of his own. “Tis you, dear Elrohir.”

With a majestic bow, he continued along the orchard path at a relaxed pace, yet brisk enough to give the elf-knight leave to return to the picnic lawn. Elrohir smiled as he watched him stroll away, thinking that there could be some fruitful complicity between them, in later years.

***

As he emerged onto the hot-baked green, his fluttery mind imagining what a sultry night he would have, he was accosted by a lightening streak of shimmering blonde, which struck his legs before he’d even noticed the bolt of child blazing towards him. The force of impact toppled him to the ground, then he was summarily pounced upon, an all-too-familiar chuckle resounding in the distance as he struggled to focus his dizzy senses. He peered up into the sparkling blue eyes of a wood-elfling, who beamed so maniacally at him he was instantly sure some mischief was about.

“Elrohir!” Laurith trilled, at such pitch that even wolves would cower away. “I am charged with a message for you. I have come to deliver it! Can you guess who it is from?”

“I wager he seeks another sort of deliverance at present, pen-neth,” Elladan quipped from above them, then gently pried off the excited elfling with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Do not forget, he has just done battle with a King of considerable might. Give him a moment, will you, to lick his wounds?”

“Did Ada hurt you?” Laurith gasped, his enthusiasm momentarily quelled.

With a sharp look at his brother, Elrohir assured the little one: “Nay, he did nothing of the sort. Indeed, our conversation was quite… instructive. Our walk, also, was pleasant. Your Ada munched on apples.”

“And *you* begged for the continued effulgence of your soul flame,” Elladan snarked, his tongue hardly chastened by the child’s presence. “How quaint.”

“*Nay*,” the elf-knight denied a second time, his tone promising future torment for his twin.

Yet before he could color their discussion with lighter shades, Laurith whispered to him: “Lord Elladan does not much like Ada, Elrohir. He thinks him grouchy. I see what he means, sometimes! But I think he is used to the old Ada my brothers tell me of, where *this* Ada is all new. Legolas says that I have made him so, though I do not know how. I have just been growing, like any elf… maybe he likes us better when we are small? But I think he will like me still when I am older. He likes Legolas, even though they fight sometimes. Lorindol, too. Lasgaren he says ‘gives him trouble’, but I will not be that way! I will make him a garden, and a library, and all sorts of good things.”

“That you will, lass dithen,” Elrohir smiled, as he scooped him up in his arms. “But I reckon that no matter what feats you may or may not accomplish, your Adar will esteem you nonetheless. He loves all his sons, even those who occasionally give him trouble. If he quarrels with them, you will come to understand as you grow that this is because he loves them so, and cannot always keep sorrow or hurt from affecting them. You will find all Adars are the same in this, including my own.”

“Your Ada is very wise!” Laurith proclaimed, with a jaw-breaking grin. “Master Erestor is also. Is he an Ada?”

“Not at present,” Elladan replied, with a hint of mystery to his tone. “Yet one can never tell what the future might bring.”

Elrohir rolled his eyes, not daring to envision what form of reckless parent his brother might prove himself.

“Tell me, sweetling, what is your message?” Elrohir prompted the young one.

“I had forgot!” he exclaimed, then raced on to relay it. “Legolas says that we are to occupy you for the rest of the afternoon. We are going to the training fields, Elrohir! But we have to promise not to tire you too much. He made Lord Elladan swear on the flame of his melethron that he would deliver you to your bedchamber at six bells, where Lady Arwen will await you.” Oblivious to the dismayed sigh the elf-knight exhaled at the thought of his sister’s overly-attentive primping that eve, he prattled on. “At seven bells, you are to venture down to where the cascade splashes into the Loudwater. He says that he will meet you by the rock steps on the eastern side.”

His message done, the elfling smiled proudly at him, though this ill-concealed his rabid desire to ask after what would then transpire there, for he was sure, by his softened face, that the darkling elf had some idea of what he would later encounter at the falls.

“Thank you, lass dithen, for your excellent delivery,” Elrohir gratefully responded. “An afternoon of swordplay would be most agreeable.”

“As well as a worthy distraction, if you can be lured out of your daydreams,” Elladan teased. “The relentless prick of a broadsword will do well to wake you. Legolas, no doubt, had this in mind when he devised the preoccupation.”

“I think it best if I play willing pawn to my beloved’s myriad plots,” the elf-knight coyly remarked. “His wily, scheming mind has yet to disappoint.”

By the conclusion of this exchange, their elfling was fit to burst from the incomprehensible insinuations darting about.

“But what will you do there?!” he demanded, his little face flush with consternation. “Will you bind yourselves? If you do, I wish to come! You cannot bind all alone, we must all be there to watch! To give you our love!”

He was further riled by the fond chuckles that met his fervor, though he was somewhat appeased by the kiss Elrohir planted on his temple.

“Fret not, lass dithen, we will not bind ourselves,” the elf-knight swore to him. “I am not as willful as my brother, in these sacred matters.” This resulted in a delightful scowl from Elladan, at which his brother winked in promise of further vengeance. “Yet I fear I cannot properly reply to your query, for I know not what Legolas has planned. I think we will merely dine, and converse, and probably kiss a great deal… if any resolutions are taken, we will inform you post haste come morn.”

“You best do so,” the elfling impishly charged him. “I am, as Legolas says, a force to be reckoned with.”

Though he was further put out by the guffaws that then resulted, he hastened them towards the training field, for he would make them pay for their mischief through exertion. Elrohir, for his part, threw a fond arm over his twin’s broad shoulders, feeling suddenly magnanimous in his affections.

Only Elbereth knew how loving he would be soon after the glorious night to come.

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

Beneath the gauzy mauve sky of summer twilight, Legolas awaited the advent of his beloved, his twittering nerves soothed by the surge and spill of the Loudwater into the frothy basin below. Perched on the stair of boulders that lead from the verdant banks into the cove behind, he just evaded the billows of mist that wafted up from the crashing water. The night air undulated with a sultry warmth that suited the lush environment, the cosseting humidity perfect, he esteemed, for lovemaking.

Even the verdant glades of Greenwood could not emulate such a boreal climate, which invited lovers to romp about the natural world, free of both the constraints of officious society and, even more precious to him, the restrictions of an elaborate raiment. Twas on these bawdy nights that he most cherished the haunts and splendors of Imladris, where a romantic atmosphere was quite effortlessly conjured by even one so oft impatient as he. A characteristic which was slowly overtaking him, just then, as he peered deep into the surrounding woods for a glimpse of his elf-knight come.

While the prospect of a dialogue between his peerlessly noble suitor and his admittedly excitable sire had not overly unnerved him when it was originally proposed to him, he found that, now that the hour of revelation was upon him, he was strangely fretful. Perhaps Elrohir’s subtle waning these last years had made him anxious, perhaps his father’s renown orneriness gave him cause to cluck; regardless, his skin prickled with tension, with anticipation, with need of his lover’s consoling caresses and with want of his arousing strokes. He had dug out the humble betrothal rings his Greenwood smiths had fashioned him dozens of times during his preparations, wary of admiring their craftsmanship too ardently, lest they be stored away for another quarter century, but also requiring their silent assurance that the evening would be as transcendent as he hoped. Yet despite his doubtless apprehension, he was also fired with excitement, over oaths that would secure their togetherness forevermore and promises sown that night which would eventually bear indescribable bounty. Vows whose aftershocks could unite disparate tribes of their people, bind a wayward peredhel to the eternal life of elfkind, and build a hardy, fortified foundation of joy before the future trials of Shadow.

At the faintest rustle through the shrubbery beyond, he sprung to his feet.

The decadent vision that strode out from the murky forest walks distempered his breaths such that he was nearly gasping by the time he reached the banks, though Legolas was far too aware of his own attributes, as well as their affect upon his reverent beloved, not to pose like an idol atop the rocks for his deliberate perusal. His hips wrapped by a diaphanous sarong of silvery tulle, he wore not another stitch on his person, though his skin had been honeyed by seasoning oil and his muscles outlined by sleek swipes of the varnish. His gossamer hair slunk down around his shoulders in satiny waves, crowning a sinuous body adorned with war-totems on the arms, chest, and back. His nipples were flecked with silver leaf, while his lips were treated with rose oil. His iridescent eyes, however, flared like starbursts so opulently and so excellently were they decorated; he appeared an ethereal descendant of doves and eagles, a sharp hunter of delicate mien.

By contrast, the elf-knight was more in the guise of a virile nymph, a lithe demigod of woodland hollows who disseminates his fairy dust throughout a barren realm. His brawny, sculpted form was pearled opalescent by glistening salve. His ritual marks on his torso were of intricate design, nearly engraved into his pristine skin in epicene lines of violet, indigo, and crimson ink. His silver eyes were exotically lined, which gave them a feral gleam akin to the kohl-blacked glare of a Corsair warrior, though they were transfixed on Legolas and fluid with keen desire. He wore bed-trousers of luxurious velour, whose drape about his taut thighs, snug groin, and firm buttocks was so debauched, the archer’s throat grew parched with every predatory stalk of his primed form.

After but fleeting moments of rapt appreciation, they made for each other, too eager for their scarlet evening to commence to bother with niceties. Legolas gripped his beloved’s hand with sure possessiveness, as he escorted him behind the liquid curtain of the falls, into the candlelit cavern he had so dotingly prepared for him. A tray of simple culinary treats awaited them, along with several chilled bottles of coppery miruvor, but these were but trifles beside the bed of sensuous furs that all but begged to caress their lissome bodies.

Twas when Elrohir stepped forward to bask in the casually intimate atmosphere created in tribute to their languorous love that Legolas perceived the elaborate tattooing of his back, where a classic poem of elven lore had been transcribed in the most detailed antiquated script he had ever seen. That he would read such piercing words as he sheathed himself in his beloved, that his devout mind would be stimulated by thoughts of their sacred love as their bodies melded in molten communion nearly incensed him then and there, enough to have him rip off the flimsy fabric that covered him and press himself to his elf-knight’s bare backside, those touching, potent words blotted by the sheet of his chest, bled into the grain of his skin.

The answer to the question that had wrought him for months was there explicitly writ, in the language of the ancients, that only confirmed the inevitability of their fated, eternal bond.

A sudden passion seized him, such that he smoothed a sizzling touch over his lover’s chest, supped liberally upon his neck and shoulders, until the darkling elf turned his face towards his incendiary kiss. His cheek was held fast by a clutching hand, as a claiming arm cinched him into the archer’s fervent hold, though the elf-knight was quite easy within the owning embrace. Despite his initial intensity, Legolas was content to languish in their sweet, saucy caresses, plying Elrohir’s smoldering mouth with licks and laps of his wily tongue.

“Elbereth, but you are delectable, this eve,” he purred, as he plucked at the bottom of his petal lips. “I would melt with you, melethen. Savor you as my own one.”

“Aye, *savor* as richly as you would,” Elrohir groaned, as fricative knuckles stroked up his strung navel. “Ravish me, wood-elf, until I am braying for the sense with which to sing out your glorious name.” Yet the elf-knight was not so undone, nor so enfeebled by need, that he did not stake some command in the revels to come. He clamped a bold grip over that teasing hand, then together they cupped his flagrant erection, so that Legolas could feel the full, fiery potency of his own unsmitable passion for him. “Be forewarned, my burnished beauty, that my wickedness will not sleep through the night. In the embers of our upsurge, I will awaken, ravenous for a sink into the silken sear of you, and I, too, will thrill you with the immolating diligence of my sensual care.”

“I can barely speak for the want of it, Elrohir,” Legolas panted, so lusty he was nearly beyond forbearance.

Indeed, he was currently entrenched in that cushy crease, slicking its length with beads of his unctuous cream. Yet the verses inscribed on his lover’s back were just as rousing to him, so he smeared his plump lips over every vaulting line as he descended, until there was naught but pillowy buttock on which to suck. He laved over that puckered ring with feverish abandon; such shudders quaked through the elf-knight that he nearly collapsed upon him, but Legolas was relentless, voracious for this primal taste of him. Yet not even the mighty muscle of his mannish legs could long support such visceral ministrations, and so he was guided down onto the prince’s lap, the first jolts of ecstasy stoked by a flirtatious touch as the archer reached for the salve. He glanced back to watch Legolas anoint himself, too boneless from the pleasure to accomplish the task, only to be further enflamed by the generous pour of oil that soon dripped from his fierce engorgement.

The scorch of initial penetration became a vicious conflagration with each emulsifying thrust. Legolas was indeed bent on adoring him from within, each slow spear was its own elegy of enduring love. The bliss of it was excruciating, as nourishing as the course of his hot blood, as vital to him as the pulse of his aching heart, as elemental as the brute burst of seed that came with his primordial end. Yet Legolas still was not done with him, but merely spread him across the furs and mounted him anew, steaming hazy troths across his enchanted face as he elaborately explicated the glorious thrall of mating with him. Worshipful eyes hopelessly enamored of him, the gilded prince fulfilled his promise to savor him most thoroughly, until the elf-knight felt not another drop of sweat could be spared to this endlessly sensual encounter.

Legolas’ end came quietly, but in thundering throes, which rumbled through him for long moments after. Yet he suffered these tremors only mere seconds before pushing his strained, streaming body up into a straddle, then shamelessly impaling himself upon his stunned elf-knight. His cries for deliverance from his solitary existence, for the fusion of their eternal flames as they surged and spent moved Elrohir to crush him into a violent embrace, which was met by one of such fervor that his back was nearly scraped raw of script.

They kissed tenderly as the rapture seeped away, then sunk back into the downy furs, both silenced by the overwhelming force of their sexual communion. Neither could rightly imagine the ferocity of what might flow between them on their binding night; indeed, both were perhaps mildly thankful that they had another twenty-some years to acclimate themselves to the experience’s wilding potential.

Before they curled into their normal tangle of locked limbs and dewy eyes, Legolas reached for the silk pouch he had tucked beneath their bed. Elrohir went luminous at the sight of the two identical mithril bands engraved with a twining pattern of leaves and of stars, though was far too eager to see the ring adorn his finger to linger long in admiration. He was even more awed once he had slid Legolas’ on, his eyes glistening as he brought the blithe hand to his lips.

They sealed their betrothal with an impassioned kiss, the future blistering in its brightness.


End of Part Six