NEW MEMORIES

Glorfindel, flabbergasted and speechless, stared at Legolas, his wide-eyed gaze like that of a deer in the forest, frightened by the appearance of hunters with torches.

“I am leaving you, Glorfindel,” said Legolas, his tone firm. He grabbed for all his scattered articles of clothing and pulled them on. Glorfindel watched the Silvan dress, his admiration of Legolas’ lithe form causing him to feel the impending loss with acute horror. He remained unable to speak.

“Have you nothing to say to me, Glorfindel?” asked Legolas, pausing at the door, his hand upon the handle, his tone haughty, and his demeanor stately.

“Do not go, please Legolas,” Glorfindel managed to whisper.

“Those are not the words I have been waiting to hear,” said the Wood Elf, and went out, banging the door shut.

Legolas, his face set in a forbidding expression, his jaw alternately clenching and unclenching, stalked through the corridors. His innate sense of direction determined the correct route. His mind was preoccupied. He considered whether he should stay for the planned length of his visit, out of politeness to Lord Elrond and keeping to the established protocol, or whether he should give in to his sense of loathing at this moment, and flee Imladris altogether. He decided that for now, he would go back to his rooms and sulk for the rest of the day, then determine what best to do on the morrow.

Rounding a corner, Legolas almost bumped into Elladan, who was walking in the opposite direction.

“Ah, Legolas!” cried the son of Elrond. “I was on my way to Glorfindel’s rooms. Are you returning from there? Is he in, do you know?”

Bristling with indignation, Legolas said, “He is in, but he is indisposed.” Then he thought he would be bold and asked, his eyes glinting, “Why do you seek him?”

Elladan regarded Legolas with surprise. “Only to enquire if he would care to join me for some knife-play on the practice field,” the son of Elrond replied.

Legolas’ eyes shone with keen interest. “If you don’t mind a substitute for Lord Glorfindel, Master Elladan, I would love to engage in knife-play with you. I have missed doing any knife-wielding the past few weeks during my journey here, and am afraid my skills may have become somewhat rusty. My body feels tight and stiff as well.”

“By all means, yes. Please join me,” offered Elladan.

The two Elves turned and headed for the practice field, Elladan allowing Legolas to stop first at his rooms in order to pick up his weapons. When he emerged from the House and found his way to the common, he saw that Elrohir had joined his brother, and the two were talking together, standing by the fence that surrounded the grounds. Legolas almost changed his mind about taking part in the knife practice, but thought better of it. He thought his pent-up aggression might be better assuaged by engaging in some knife-play, and so he put on an expression of good cheer, determined to behave in a dignified manner so as to reflect well upon his house, and not cause any humiliation for his father, King Thranduil, whom he had come to love and respect since he had gotten to know him.

They began to practice, Legolas entering the playing field and divesting himself of his leather jerkin and boots. He took off his belt as well and dropped it onto the ground, where it caused a small cloud of dust to rise up and then disperse into the dry air.

“If you are playing barefoot, then I shall as well!” cried Elladan, and began to unbuckle his footwear.

“Don’t, brother!” Elrohir called from his position atop the fence. “You are not used to playing barefoot, and it may place you at a disadvantage.”

Elladan gave a derisive snort aimed at his twin and positioned himself about ten feet away from Legolas, facing him, slightly bent forward at the waist, with his feet spread. They were both right-handed, and each wielded a single knife. Each staring into the others’ eyes, they circled for a few seconds, neither making a move to attack. But then Legolas lunged suddenly, taking a tremendous swipe into the air only inches away from Elladan’s chest, with a wide sweep of his arm. His eyes glittered with aggression.

Elladan, not expecting the ferocity of the attack, jumped backward, stepping on an iron sharpening tool that someone had left on the ground, tripped over it, and fell, hitting the wall behind him with a heavy thud. Legolas, feeling badly and wanting to help Elladan immediately, reached forward in another sudden movement.

Elladan, mistaking this action for a second surprise attack—even though Legolas reached out with his empty hand—thrust out with the arm holding his long knife, and cut Legolas across the ribs on his left side. Elrohir cried out, “Ai! No!” and leapt down from the fence, running to the aid of their guest.

Legolas stood still. He was in shock, his arms held away from his sides, and he dropped his knife. Then he placed his right hand over the cut on his side, blood already starting to seep onto his shirt, staining it bright red in an ever-widening circle.

Elrohir reached him just as Elladan got to his feet. “Legolas, I am so sorry,” the fallen twin began to say.

“Never mind that now,” said Elrohir. “Let’s take a look at his wound.” He lifted Legolas’ shirt up and bade him raise his arms that he might pull it over his head.

“It was not your fault,” said Legolas through clenched teeth, “but it was kind of you to apologize.”

“This does not look good,” said Elrohir, examining the injury. He ran a finger along the cut line, noting the wound was about seven or eight inches long and gaping. The blood was flowing freely. Perspiration was forming upon Legolas’ well-muscled chest, which was rising and falling rapidly as his shallow breathing quickened.

“We should get him to Father,” said Elladan.

“Father is not here,” said Elrohir. “He and Glorfindel have gone on an errand with Lindir.”

“Well, we must take him to the Healing Room,” said Elladan, “and then I will go to find Turaen.”

“Who is Turaen?” asked Legolas.

“He is a healer. Father’s helper,” said Elladan. “Turaen is skilled enough to bandage you properly so that you will not bleed to death, until Father returns and can have a proper look at you.” He gave Legolas a worried smile, his vain attempt at humor falling flat upon his own ears.

Legolas allowed the twins to help him, supporting his weight on either side, his arms draped over their shoulders, and they walked him into the Healing Room not far from the practice field. His wound was bleeding profusely, and he was becoming weak. With his gait unsteady, his legs not able to hold him up any longer, they managed to lead him to a bed and eased him down onto its clean surface. “Can you go quickly, Elrohir, to find Turaen?” asked Elladan, a look of worry creasing his brow.

When Elrohir had departed, Elladan glanced down at the stricken Mirkwood prince. The color had drained from his face, leaving it as pale as unpainted porcelain. “I cannot tell you how terrible I feel about this, Legolas,” Elladan said. His voice was plaintive, distressed. The son of Elrond looked about him at the silent room. There were no other occupants, and all twelve of the beds were in pristine condition, their white sheets tucked smoothly into place, the curtains that hung between each bed pulled back, the bedside tables each furnished exactly the same: with a water-pitcher that had been freshly filled that morning, a glass, a small white enameled basin, and a stack of clean white linen cloths.

Legolas licked his dry lips and looked up at Elladan. His eyes were glazed. “Please do not blame yourself,” he said thickly. He swallowed hard and patted Elladan’s arm, the touch of his hand as light as a leaf before it dropped limply beside him once again.

Elladan grabbed the pitcher of water and poured some into the basin and filled the glass. He sat beside Legolas and peeling the wadded-up, blood-soaked shirt away from his side, he looked at the wound. He could see that it was deep and in need of stitches. Legolas was losing a great deal of blood. Elladan took some dry linens and pressed them to the cut. “Here,” he said to the prince. “Hold this in place and put as much pressure on it as you can.” Then he held Legolas’ head propped on his arm and lifted the water glass to the prince’s dry lips. The Mirkwood Elf took a few sips of water and sighed, dropping his head back to lean heavily upon Elladan’s arm. He closed his eyes.

‘Where is that damned healer?’ thought Elladan, beginning to get worried. He set Legolas’ head down gently upon the flat pillow, got up and crossed to the doorway. Feeling much relieved, he could see Elrohir arriving with Turaen, a smallish Elf of Sindarin origin, with a benign, friendly countenance.

“Where is the patient?” the healer asked cheerfully, stepping over the threshold. Elladan gave him an exasperated glance and indicated the only occupant of the room.

“Ah,” said Turaen, and quickly made his way to the stricken Elf’s side. “Oh, my,” he clucked, peeling away the linen cloth that Legolas held against his ribs, removing the hand clutched tightly to the wound as Elladan had instructed him. It took some exertion from the healer to pry it off. The blood was soaking the bedsheets beneath Legolas, coursing from the gaping cut in bright red rivulets.

The twins stared in fascination at the profusion of blood, and at the pale skin of the archer, almost as white as the sheets upon which he lay. His flaxen hair was spread across the pillow, and the only clothing he wore, his pale grey breeches, seemed almost dark compared to the light color of the rest of him.

Turaen opened the drawer of the bedside stand and removed some suturing equipment: small forceps, a pair of scissor-like needle holders, and a tiny, curved silver needle with a string of catgut thread attached. He also took out a small vial of fluid and a glass-bottomed syringe.

“What is that for?” asked Legolas, his eyes having flown wide open at the shocking touch of cold water against the stinging throb of his wound. Elladan was washing the gaping cut, the enamel basin held against the prince’s ribs, catching the blood and water as he let the cool liquid squeezed from the cloth course over the wound and flow down into the bowl.

“It is a combination of antiseptic and desensitizer,” said Turaen. “Once I inject it into the wound, you will not feel so much pain from the stitching.”

“I can stand pain,” said Legolas, gritting his teeth.

“I have no doubt,” said the healer, and jabbed the needle directly into the gaping recess of the wound, injecting the fluid right into the cavity.

Legolas felt instant relief and sighed, relaxing his body with the welcome cessation of pain.

Turaen went to work and deftly closed the wound, stitching accurately and rapidly. “Look at that, Legolas,” said Elladan. “You have twenty-six stitches. That is quite a few.” The Mirkwood prince smiled up at him.

‘My goodness, but he is lovely,’ thought Elladan, staring at the stricken archer. ‘Glorfindel is a lucky Elf.’

Turaen told Legolas that he could return to his rooms and the wound should heal quickly. He needed to return in a week’s time for the stitches to be removed, unless he had any further problems with it. Legolas thanked him and the twins helped him back to his room and put him to bed.

Legolas’ room was lavishly decorated in shades of green. The walls were hung with pastoral tapestries and the room’s many columns were draped with strands of vines bearing tiny candles. A light breeze blew the floor-length window curtains inward, causing the candlelight to flicker. Scattered rugs woven of grass covered the floor, which was tiled in warm clay.

The Mirkwood prince lay in his huge canopy bed and drifted between sleep and wakefulness. His thoughts turned to the time he had spent with Glorfindel when they had been traveling to the Havens of Lindon, trying to discover Lemberas’ origins. ‘That was the best time of my life,’ he thought sadly. ‘It meant everything to me, but it seems to have meant very little to him.’

Later that evening, the Mirkwood Elf was surprised by a knock on his door, and he tried to raise himself but was too weak to get up and open it. “Come in!” he cried. It was Turaen, who realized he had not given Legolas instructions on wound care, and had come to do so. He entered the room at Legolas’ bidding and sat down in a chair.

After having instructed the prince on how to keep the wound clean and open to the air to promote healing, he stared at Legolas with an expression of concern. “Forgive me for being bold,” he said, “but I notice that you look depressed, and I would like to offer my advice. I believe it will enable your emotions to heal as quickly as will your body.”

Legolas looked at Turaen suspiciously. “What is your meaning?” he asked.

“I know the story of Lord Glorfindel and yourself,” the healer said. A frown of displeasure appeared upon the prince’s face.

“Before you tell me to mind my own business, hear me out,” said Turaen. “You may as well forget about our heroic warrior, the Golden Elf who can do no wrong,” said Turaen with a curious, sarcastic bitterness. “You live far away in a remote realm,” he continued. “You do not know what goes on here. Lord Glorfindel may keep you as a tasty morsel to enjoy once in a while as a treat, but his main menu consists of one delectable dish named Elrohir.”

Legolas gasped and jumped out of bed. “I know not why you would be possessed of such malice after treating me so kindly early on, but please leave before I am forced to throw you out,” he said, seething with cold anger, despite wincing slightly from pain, his hand flying to the wound on his side.

“Do you not believe me?” asked Turaen, rising to his feet. “Master Elrohir spent last night in Lord Glorfindel’s bed. They were seen by several servants. They did not try to hide their union, even arriving at breakfast together this morning.”

“You lie!” cried Legolas. “Now get out!”

“I do not lie,” said Turaen, moving slowly to the door. “I am just as hurt as you are. I have loved Elrohir all of my life, and to know that he is Lord Glorfindel’s occasional lover has broken my heart. Why do you not ask the Balrog-slayer himself if it is true? I asked Elrohir, and he admitted that they slept together last night. You would do well to forget about your one-time lover,” said Turaen, as he made his way to the door. “And I shall try to forget I ever loved the son of Elrond.” He gave Legolas a look of regret as he let himself out.

Legolas sat down heavily upon his bed, his forehead creased with worry and nausea. After a few minutes he rose, and began to pack his belongings in his traveling satchel. He was interrupted by another knock at the door. Exasperated, he went to open it and was surprised to see that it was Elladan this time. “May I come in?” asked Elrohir’s twin.

Wordlessly, Legolas indicated to do so with a half-hearted sweep of his arm. “What are you doing?” asked Elladan, noticing the prince’s half-packed satchel and his weapons spread on top of his bed.

“I am getting ready to leave Imladris,” said Legolas, his tone flat.

“Why?” Elladan was shocked. “You cannot leave now, with a freshly stitched wound and after the blood loss you have sustained.”

Legolas said nothing.

“Why have you decided to go now?” asked Elladan.

Legolas stared hard at him. “Why are you here?” he asked. “To spew some more vitriol upon me about your brother and Glorfindel?”

“What?” cried Elladan. “What are you talking about? No, I came to see how you were feeling, and also to apologize again for what I have done to you. That I should have so severely wounded a prince from one of our few Elven kingdoms and a guest in our home, is of great embarrassment and shame to me. I am so sorry, Legolas.”

Legolas looked stricken with guilt. “Oh no, it is I who am sorry!” he cried. “What you did was an accident. You may be the one truly noble person I have spoken with today, and I have been unforgivably rude to you. Please forgive me.” He rubbed an agitated hand across his brow.

“Legolas, why are you so upset?” asked Elladan. “So upset that you would leave Imladris before you are healed?”

Legolas sighed and sat down on his bed. He swept aside his array of weapons and patted the coverlet next to him, inviting Elladan to sit down. He looked Elrond’s son full in the face with eyes wide, his expression one of placid resolve. “I may as well tell you the whole story,” he said. “If you have the time to listen.”

Elladan placed a comforting arm around Legolas’ shoulders. “I have the time,” he said.

Legolas then poured out the story of himself and Glorfindel, from when they first met upon the battle plain of Dagorlad until the present day when the prince had just discovered Glorfindel’s affair with Elrohir. He told Elrond’s son about his feelings for the golden warrior and how he had been disappointed.

“Oh, no,” said Elladan. “I am sure that is not the case, and that Turaen was mistaken somehow. I am sure that Elrohir and Glorfindel are not at all involved with each other.”

“I would like to believe that you are the one honest person that I can trust in Imladris,” said Legolas. “Are you telling me the truth?”

Elladan looked at him closely. “Well,” he said, hesitating. “It is true that Elrohir and Glorfindel were involved many years ago. But it was not a serious love affair, and they have long since parted. But I do not know the reason for my brother to have slept with Glorfindel last night.”

“Oh, I do,” said Legolas. “Elrohir is devastatingly attractive. There is no Elf alive who would not wish your twin to warm his bed at night.” Shocked by his own words, Legolas clapped a hand over his mouth.

Elladan stared at the prince with an expression of surprise. Finally, he said, “Oh,” and cleared his throat.

Legolas blushed, his cheeks turning pink in his otherwise pale face. “I should not have said that,” he remarked.

Elladan shifted his position on the bed. “I think you should stay, Legolas,” he said, changing the subject. “Please think more upon it. I shall go and speak to my brother, and I think it would be a good idea if he and I went away for a while. You and Glorfindel need to talk seriously. I believe that you each have profound feelings for the other which you need to resolve.”

Legolas stared at Elrond’s son and moved closer beside him. “No, please don’t go, Elladan,” said the prince, and leaned his face toward him. The prince pressed his lips upon Elladan’s and kissed him hard, bestowing as much passion and excitement as he could muster upon the soft, full lips of Elrohir’s twin.

Elladan drew back in shock. “No, Legolas,” he said. “Do not do this.”

“Why? Are you not feeling that you would like to kiss me?” whispered Legolas, caressing Elladan’s shoulder with a sensuous hand.

“Oh Gods, yes,” Elladan whispered back, trembling and touching the side of Legolas’ face. “But our feelings are not genuine. This is merely an attraction between two people who feel lust for each other. We can appreciate each other’s beauty, and share pity between us, but it is not love that we feel, and for us to make love would be wrong. I know from what you have told me that you love Glorfindel. I cannot let you do this, as much as the idea of lying with you is most tempting to me.”

Legolas sighed and drew back. “I was right about one thing,” he said.

“What is that?” asked Elladan.

“You are the most noble Elf that I know in Imladris,” said Legolas, giving him his most dazzling smile.

Elladan smiled back, and patted Legolas’ knee. Then he rose. “I shall leave you now,” he said. “And go to speak with my brother. If Glorfindel and Father have returned, I shall send the Balrog-slayer to speak with you. I think the two of you need to talk through this whole business between you.”

Legolas smiled sadly and nodded, and Elladan left the room.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


A few days later and still recovering from his wound, Legolas packed his belongings, slipped quietly out and tiptoed down the corridor upon silent feet. On his pillow he had left a sheet of parchment, a note for Elladan, asking him to make Legolas’ apologies to Elrond. Giving the stablehand on night duty a gold coin after eliciting a promise that he would not divulge a word to anyone that the prince from Mirkwood had come to get his horse, he quickly saddled his mare. He then left Rivendell, urging his white steed into a gentle trot toward the way home. He looked back once at the Homely House and then slipped, silent as a sylph, into the shadows beyond the big gates.

He followed the Anduin along the flood plain for many days, keeping to the trees at night and sleeping among their limbs and branches. He had long to ponder upon the incongruity of love, and its many elements, and what it meant for Elves. All the long years of their lives, it was difficult for two Elvish lovers to stay together when their lives sometimes did not fit with each other in an even flowing like that of the river. ‘The river flows in one direction always,’ he thought, after following the Anduin for day after day of monotonous sameness. ‘But the lives of Elves do not. I suppose I should be happy and thankful that Glorfindel and I shared the time that we did, when he first found me and he and I were of the same innocence. Well,’ he thought ruefully, ‘maybe not the same, but we were both innocents.’ He sighed at the recollection. ‘Perhaps I should not fault him for succumbing to temptation. The sons of Elrond are comely indeed, and pleasant company as well. If Elladan had not been so noble I may have fallen into the draw of his charm myself.’

Legolas was shaken out of his reverie by a sudden rustling noise. He looked over his shoulder. He was traveling through a wooded area on the edge of the plain, east of the Misty Mountains. He had not yet come to the mountain pass that would take him through the rocky range to the other side and hence homeward. He had been traveling for many days without trouble, and thought that perhaps he had crossed paths with a hunter or trapper. Ever wary, even though these were relatively peaceful times, Legolas leapt from his horse’s back into the trees, sending the animal away to find its own shelter, and hiding himself among the tree’s leaves and branches. He peered toward the source of the noise. Even though there had not been many Orcs about for hundreds of years, they still existed, roaming about the lands in small bands, and one had to be wary. Orcs had killed Isildur, after all, only five hundred years ago, therefore one could not be complacent and assume that to travel about safely was always going to be possible.

Legolas stayed in the tree for many minutes without hearing further noise, nor spying anyone or anything. He whistled softly for his horse and soon he saw it coming through the trees toward him at a slow canter. Suddenly a volley of thick black arrows shot out from some bushes to Legolas’ right, and embedded themselves in the horse’s neck and side. The hapless animal grunted helplessly, and fell, thrashing about in agony upon the forest floor. In a moment it was dead. Legolas reached back for his own arrows when an unfortunate accident occurred. Due to his reminiscences and wandering thoughts of late, and the uneventful monotony of his journey thus far, Legolas had not fastened his quiver securely, and he knocked it free from his shoulders. It fell to the ground, breaking some of the branches with a loud rustle of leaves and a clatter of spilled arrows.

That accident had secured his fate, for now the Orcs knew exactly where he was. They poured out of the surrounding shrubbery, shouting and brandishing their crude swords. Two of them ran to pick up his quiver and arrows and began fighting over them, followed by two more who peered up into the tree, trying to locate the being who dropped them, their evil, ugly faces like masks of black terror. They screamed at each other in their halting, guttural black speech, of which Legolas could understand only a few words. He unsheathed his long knife.

The Orcs beneath the tree were joined by several others. The remainder of the group of two dozen had gone to retrieve his fallen horse, and they dragged her carcass into a clearing. Then they set to work building a fire, and some of them began to strip chunks of flesh from the mare’s flanks, which they piled near the fire. Some of the Orcs began fighting among themselves over choice pieces of meat; whether to eat them raw immediately, or wait until they could be cooked.

The Orcs below Legolas’ tree began to arm themselves with their crude bows and aimed them upward toward him. “Come down,” one of them hissed in his black tongue, “or we will shoot you.”

Feeling that he would be overpowered and surely killed otherwise if he did not comply, Legolas dropped to the ground, landing lightly upon his feet.

“An Elf!” cried one of the Orcs, and stared at him in fear and wonder.

Legolas brandished his long knife, and assessed the predicament in which he found himself. He was ridiculously outnumbered. There were at least twenty of the creatures. He could have defeated half of them easily, but only if he were armed with the advantage of surprise, his arrows, and his long knife. Two of those three conditions were no longer available to him, and he sighed heavily, realizing that his doom was probably upon him.

“Drop it, Elf,” said the largest of the Orcs, probably their leader, and nodded his head roughly toward the knife in Legolas’ hand.

Legolas did so, deciding that to capitulate and remain as calm and aloof as possible might arouse their curiosity and perhaps they wouldn’t kill him right away. That would give him time to think of how he might escape. The knife, his last weapon of defence against them, fell to the ground with a clatter as he released it from his grip. The Orcs closed in upon him.

He was grappled on two sides by cruelly rough hands like claws. The loathsome creatures pushed him back against the trunk of the tree and evil, sharp-nailed hands began to paw at him, mauling first his face and hair and then his clothes and his body. They all came to examine him, peering at him in wonder, poking their long nails into his eyes and ears, and leaving scratches upon his smooth skin. Their breath was foul in his fair nostrils.

‘I wonder if they know that the first of their kind came from such beings as me,’ he thought, unable to decipher most of their grunts and questions as they mumbled them harshly to each other.

They brought out thick ropes made from vines and lashed him to the tree. Then they stripped off his clothing and tossed it into the fire. They brought forth sticks and prodded at his pale flesh with them. One of them had the idea to light the tips of the sticks in the fire and poke him with the hot ends. They had noticed the wound on his left side and the fading scar on his right, curiously poked at these with their charred, filthy sticks and their fingers.

Legolas’ mind reeled in shock and horror. He gritted his teeth and put up with their torment and their primitive way of branding him. He vowed that he would not cry out or acknowledge the pain they inflicted.

When they had tired of their game, not receiving any response from the Elf, they sat about the fire and ate the horsemeat they had cut from his butchered mare. He supposed they would eat him next when they ran out of his mare’s meat. Surprisingly, after they had eaten they all lay down to sleep, and after a long series of grunts, burps and other guttural, grating noises, the Orcs became silent as they slept, leaving Legolas languishing against the tree, still bound to it with the strong, indestructible vines. He struggled against their hold for a while, finally having to endure the night, long and miserable, and when the dawn arose, he noticed the gathering of many carrion birds in the sky above.

‘They have come for my mare,’ he thought in delirium, gazing upward into the orange sky, ‘and I suppose for me as well. However, I doubt that I shall die as peacefully or as quickly as she did.’ He allowed a few tears to escape while his captors were still asleep and could not see his suffering. ‘Oh, Glorfindel,’ he thought. ‘How different my fate would have been with you by my side. How beautiful were the days we spent together in these same lands, so long ago.’

Thoughts of Glorfindel were interrupted by the waking of the Orcs. One by one, the foul creatures rose and became alert to their surroundings. Their leader waddled over to Legolas to determine if the Elf were dead or alive. He poked at the Elf’s body in several places, examining it, and sidling up next to him, comparing it to his own. Legolas had not been given any food or drink since his capture the day before, and a wave of nausea passed through him with every unwelcome touch of the Orc’s clawed hand. At one point the foul being pressed up against him in a hideous mockery of a couple making love, and Legolas passed out from the stench of the creature and the horror such proximity caused him to feel.

His fainting was merciful, for he was thus not aware of what the Orcs planned to do to him. They untied him from the tree and let his pale, limp body fall to the ground to lie helpless upon the leaves and twigs that carpeted the ground. Then they began to remove their armor and their few scraps of rags that they wore for clothing, and they began to fight each other for position, with the leader having to push back a couple of usurpers who wished to be first in line to have their way with the Elf.

At that moment, three Elf-warriors on horseback suddenly crashed into the clearing, causing the startled Orcs to scatter. The three warriors made short work of slaughtering all the unarmed and unclothed Orcs, who had been caught by surprise before they could commence with their foul plan to rape and possibly murder the unconscious prince of Mirkwood. The furious, terrifying Balrog-slayer who bore down upon them, mounted atop his fiery white stallion, his golden hair billowing behind him like a halo, had no problem dispensing with half of the Orcs himself, cutting them down with glee where he found them. He took the leader, who had been caught in the act of kneeling over Legolas’ prone form, and hung him by the neck from a sturdy tree branch, cutting him down at the end by severing his head from his shoulders with a quick slice of his terrible and mighty sword.

Elladan and Elrohir, who came riding behind Glorfindel, took care of the rest, sparing them no mercy, as all the Orcs were slain in a relatively short period of time by the Elves with no injuries sustained by themselves whatsoever. Glorfindel picked up the limp, cold form of his beloved Legolas, and covering him with his own cloak, sat him upon his stallion Asfaloth, and sat behind him, keeping him warm by pressing his own body against the prince’s back, one strong arm held securely around the stricken Elf’s waist. Glorfindel made his way as quickly as possible back to Imladris without stopping, arriving in a few days’ time. Elladan and Elrohir followed with Legolas’ quiver and bow, knife, and the bridle from his dead horse that they had retrieved to give to him later, when he was recovered.

Once back in the safe confines of Imladris, Glorfindel carried Legolas to his own room rather than the healer’s. Elrond himself saw to the care of the patient, with Glorfindel by his side every second of the time. When his beloved prince awoke, Glorfindel was seated beside him on the bed, holding his small, pale hand in his large, tanned one. Legolas’ blue eyes opened and his gaze sought through a maze of film for Glorfindel. When his vision cleared, and he clearly saw the warrior bending over him with a look of love mixed with concern upon his normally strong face, he smiled his bright, dazzling smile.

Legolas felt truly happy in this moment for the first time in many years. He did not need Glorfindel to speak to him in words, for he could tell by the look in the warrior’s eyes and the smoothing of every line in his face that Glorfindel loved him utterly, and that he would do so forever. “Glorfindel,” he whispered, “can you forgive—“, and was cut off by the sudden but tender pressing of Glorfindel’s lips upon his own. He reached out to wrap his hands around the warrior’s neck, and returned the kiss with as much fervor as he could muster, for he was still weak.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


A few weeks later, Glorfindel walked hand-in-hand with Legolas among the trees of the valley, hidden from view of the House and surrounding buildings by the tall willows and their hanging branches. When they came to a small pond in the dappled sunlight, sitting like a sapphire jewel among the emerald-green of the surrounding lawns, Glorfindel sighed. “What a beautiful spot,” he remarked. They stopped and admired the beauty of the area. Legolas wandered to a grove of trees.

“Yes it is lovely here,” said Legolas, the serenity of his voice masking the turmoil within him. He and Glorfindel had not made love since the golden warrior rescued him from his awful trial among the Orcs where once he had spurned the Golden Elf from becoming his lover because of his feelings of betrayal, he wished now to cement their bond, longing for Glorfindel’s touches with every fiber of his body. “I think this would make a fine location for a lovers’ tryst.” He stopped next to a rowan tree and picked a perfectly-shaped leaf from one of its branches.

Glorfindel turned abruptly to stare at Legolas, who stood smiling, twirling the leaf in his hand by the stem, tracing an arc with one pointed toe upon the pristine surface of the lawn. “What did you say?” the warrior asked in surprise.

“Would you make love to me, Glorfindel?” asked Legolas. He smiled sweetly, his lips full and inviting. His blue eyes sparkled in his porcelain face.

Glorfindel crossed the lawn in two steps and gathered Legolas into his arms. He tried to be gentle, but could not help but crush the prince’s mouth beneath his own. His hands fumbled with the clasps on Legolas’ elegant brocade robe, and he tore it off. Beneath was a thin silken tunic, and his hands roamed over the slender curves of the younger Elf’s waist and hips before he pulled this up and over the prince’s head and discarded it on top of the robe. When Glorfindel dropped to his knees and untied his soft doeskin leggings, he let them fall to the prince’s ankles. Large hands stroked Legolas’ thighs and belly. His lips caressed the beautiful length of the prince’s arousal, tenderly enveloping it in his mouth and then letting it slip from his lips so that he might take his lover in his arms and carry him to the water. He supported the prince’s buttocks with a strong hand while he pulled the leggings off completely, then lifted Legolas and carried him to the pond’s edge, where he sat him down. Legolas splashed his feet happily in the water, kicking ripples out toward the centre, while waiting for Glorfindel to disrobe as quickly as he could.

The Balrog-slayer quickly divested himself of his clothing and stood nude and magnificent before Legolas. His skin was smooth with the sheen of satin, and was tanned a deep, golden color, set off by his gloriously thick mane of golden hair. His piercing blue-grey eyes shone with undeniable love for Legolas, as he gazed longingly at his beloved prince from Mirkwood.

“Ah, Glorfindel, what a sight you are,” said Legolas. “Come to me,” and he stood, opened his arms wide, his erection springing forth with his gesture of welcome. Glorfindel strode to clasp the smaller Elf to his body, claiming the prince’s lips in a furious kiss, their fierce arousals brushing against each other, sending them both into a blazing spiral of passion. Still embracing, they dropped to their knees, their groins grinding together in their lust, their lips bruising each others’. Glorfindel cupped one of Legolas’ buttocks in his large hand, squeezing its firm flesh in an eager grasp as he pressed against his lover. Gasping, he broke the kiss and lay down on his back, letting Legolas bend and take his huge, throbbing cock into his tender mouth, sucking it with sweet lips until Glorfindel wanted to scream. One hand clutched the grass, tearing out handfuls of the green blades, while the other wound itself in Legolas’ flaxen locks.

When the prince raised his face from Glorfindel’s glistening arousal, he looked at the golden warrior with lust in his blue eyes and whispered, “I want you to take me now, Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel, breathing rapidly, got to his feet and retrieved a vial of scented massage oil from his robes. Turning to Legolas, he placed his hands under the younger Elf’s arms and lifted him. “Let us find a comfortable place where I can make love to you, my sweet beloved,” said the warrior. His appearance showed calmness, yet he was excited internally. Taking his lover’s hand, he led him into the water. He bade Legolas lie down upon the soft soil of the pond’s edge on his stomach, the bottom half of his legs lying in the water.

Glorfindel, cupping the vial in one hand, caressed the smaller Elf’s pale back, buttocks and legs with gentle strokes. His hand slowed when he reached the soft flesh of Legolas’ buttocks, his long fingers teasing the cleft between them, sending shivers through the prince’s body. He uncorked the vial and poured a bit of the shimmering liquid into the crevice between Legolas’ cheeks. With one large thumb Glorfindel spread it into the deep space, taking care to be gentle when his digit entered the tight passage. With extreme tenderness, the Balrog-slayer, his breathing hard, inserted another finger, carefully scissoring Legolas’ passage open.

“How does that feel, my love? Am I hurting you?” Glorfindel asked, leaning forward to nibble the tip of his lover’s ear. Legolas squealed and shivered with pleasure.

“No, it feels wonderful,” he whispered.

Glorfindel’s free hand gently caressing Legolas’ back and shoulders, he whispered tender endearments to his lover, his lips brushing the surface of the prince’s shoulder, electrifying the younger Elf’s skin with every word and touch.

Legolas moaned when he felt the penetration of Glorfindel’s fingers moving deeper, and he ached with impatient longing to feel the Balrog-slayer’s magnificent cock inside his tight passage. “Please, please, Glorfindel,” he mewled. “Please take me now.”

“I will take you, my sweet,” whispered the golden Elf. “I will take you deeply and powerfully, as one who loves you.” And he moved his powerful body over top of the younger Elf’s, positioning his rigid cock to dangle above the sweet opening to the prince’s passage, and he slowly, carefully entered its smooth depths.

Legolas yelped at the initial breach, and then sighed, his lithe body shuddering beneath Glorfindel’s as the warrior lowered his powerful, muscular form down upon the petal-soft skin of his lover, his huge cock pushing gently into the firm flesh of the prince.

With his strong hands held against Legolas’ belly, he raised the prince’s hips slightly, and began to rock back and forth against the smooth-cheeked backside, thrusting gently but deeply into his warm depths. Legolas sighed and moaned, his body writhing beneath the warrior’s.

“Ai, Gods!” Glorfindel cried, as his thrusts became stronger, and he dropped his head, his thick hair falling over Legolas’ back. Legolas moaned at the contrast of the soft, warm hair caressing his skin, and the feeling of being filled by Glorfindel’s rigid thickness.

“I am coming!” Glorfindel cried, his thrusts more rapid. Legolas cried out as his bundle of nerves was pricked over and over by his lover’s hardness, and his vision turned to red-hot fire. He screamed as Glorfindel came, sending jets of hot fluid spurting into the prince’s cavity. “Ai!” cried Glorfindel. “Gods! Legolas!”

Glorfindel lay for a moment beside Legolas, spent and breathing deeply, enjoying the sensation of having fulfilled his dream. He closed his eyes and clasped Legolas’ hand, raising it to his lips. “I love you so much,” he said.

Legolas leaned against Glorfindel and stroked his chest, the golden warrior shuddering with pleasure at every pass of his lover’s tender fingers.

“I love you too, with all my heart, Glorfindel,” he whispered. “I knew that you would come to me,” and he pressed his own aching arousal against his warrior’s thigh. “I want to take you as you took me,” he said, grasping Glorfindel’s chin and turning his face so he could look into the warrior’s eyes. “I want that bond between us.”

“Then you shall have it, my little one,” said Glorfindel, reaching down between them to give the prince’s member a few loving strokes. He searched for the vial of oil and bade his whimpering lover to get on his knees. He poured some of the liquid into his palm and began to slide it onto Legolas’ smooth shaft, caressing the lovely member with gentle, loving touches as he did so.

Then Glorfindel positioned himself on his hands and knees, presenting his muscular backside to Legolas. The young prince placed his hands on Glorfindel’s hips and pressed his cock against the cleft. Then he remembered to use his fingers first, and he oiled them, and inserted two at once into the warrior’s opening. He was surprised at how tight it was, and Glorfindel moaned and clutched at his own newly burgeoning erection as Legolas’ fingers opened him wide.

The prince pointed his member at Glorfindel’s opening and pushed its length slowly into the warm passage. He groaned, his fingers digging into Glorfindel’s hips as he breached the warrior’s walls. Glorfindel moaned as Legolas’ thrusts went deeper, and his tender spot was touched over and over by the prince’s sweet stiffness. Then Legolas came in a rush of blinding passion, spending his seed with a lusty cry of, “Ai! Glorfindel!”

Glorfindel groaned and while remaining propped on one hand and both knees, with the other stroking his newly-sprung erection, he brought himself to a second completion, spilling his fluids onto the grass in a pearly stream. Then the two lovers swam and cleaned themselves in the water.

Exhausted and spent, the two happy lovers lay side by side, naked in the sun, Legolas’ head resting against Glorfindel’s shoulder, his gentle fingers tracing patterns along the Balrog-slayer’s side.

“Will you come to live with me here, where we can be together forever?” asked Glorfindel, his voice soft, a dreamy look softening his handsome features.

“I would love to live here in this valley with you,” said Legolas, “but I have left unfinished tasks at home. And there is still much I must learn about my past.”

“Do you regret that your memory has never returned?” asked Glorfindel.

“No,” replied Legolas, treating Glorfindel to a glimpse of his dazzling smile. “For I would rather have only new memories of you to grace my thoughts.”

Glorfindel sighed and took Legolas’ hands in his. “I will always stay by your side from now on to protect you,” he said. “Wherever you may travel.”

When the sun set, bringing the glorious day to an end, the two lovers dressed themselves, and hand-in-hand, returned to Elrond’s House.

THE END

Author's Notes: In HoME, Volume 12: “The Peoples of Middle-earth”, Chapter XII: ‘Last Writings’ is a section on Glorfindel. It states that these were the last words J.R.R. Tolkien had written on the subject of Glorfindel and it was in the last year of his life, in November 1972. There are two versions on how Glorfindel came to Middle-earth after being resurrected, and Tolkien does state that Glorfindel was indeed brought back to life by Manwë. Here are some points from Version One of Glorfindel’s history that I felt were pertinent to this story. These start on P. 377 of my version of HoME.

- He would be a suitable companion for Olórin.
- This would explain the air of special power and sanctity that surrounds him – note how the Witch-king flies from him, although all others could not induce their horses to face him (Return of the King, p. 331).
- He is a powerful figure and almost ‘angelic’ because he has returned to the primitive innocence of the First-born and lived among those Elves who never rebelled and was in the company of the Maiar for ages.

In Version Two of the Glorfindel story, these are the points I found to be pertinent:

- While Glorfindel might have come with Olórin, it is more likely that he was sent in the crisis of the Second Age when Sauron invaded Eriador.
- It was to assist Elrond, and he played a notable and heroic part in the war.
- His spiritual power had been enhanced by his self-sacrifice.

For this story, I have surmised that Glorfindel did come to Middle-earth with Olórin in the Year 1000 of the Second Age, and did possess the innocence of the First-born Elves. He was taken to Imladris where he lived and served Elrond, and went with him to fight Sauron in the Battle of the Last Alliance, where my tale begins.

For Legolas: I took the information that his name is Telerian from P. 36 of HoME, Volume 12, the HarperCollins paperback edition. It says:

“The Elvish names that appear in this book are mainly of Noldorin form; but some are Lemberin [> Telerian], of which the chief are [added: Thranduil,] Legolas, Lórien, Caras Galadon, Nimrodel, Amroth…”