Of Elbereth's Bounty

Title: Of Elbereth’s Bounty – Part 8
(third in my unofficial series, after In Earendil’s Light and Under the Elen)
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: OMC/OMC, Legolas/Elrohir, references to Glorfindel/Elladan
Summary: The twins celebrate their 100th begetting day.
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.
Author’s Note: It does help to no end to have read both In Earendil’s Light and Under the Elen before this, as otherwise you might not recognize any of the characters. Hope you enjoy, and thanks for keeping to the path thus far!!
Feedback: Would be delightful.
Dedication: To the moderators of Library of Moria, Melethryn, Adult Fan Fiction.Net, and other sites oeir eir ilk for all their wonderful, tireless work and for keeping us up to our ears in fic.

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Of Elbereth’s Bounty

Part Eight

If the fire scalded, he would have swiftly withdrawn, like a hare from the fox’s fangs.

Yet this flame did not burn, but balmed; its ethereal source wafting, as sunlight over somnambulant meadows, heartening, as blanket folds on a winter’s night, not singeing, as the crack of a hearth. Though the flush length of his skin did, indeed, broil as if steam-cooked, though every clutch seared him and every thrust stoked, with every deeping penetration of Echoriath’s slow-burn lovemaking, the crowning flames of his immortal soul expanded like the petals of a dawning rose and further bloomed into rapture. When Echoriath made patient, painstaking love to him, as on this tippling spring morn, he felt his very heart growing, blossoming, veritably flourishing into the most gracious and lush of his organs.

Even swept up in his own concomitant thrall, Echoriath’s nurturing embrace accommodated his beloved’s every swoon, every writhe, the billow and cinch of their undulating bodies mirroring the melding of their soul flames. After nearly eight months of togetherness, of nightly joining in unrepentant ecstasy, the feeling that flowed between them was of such potency, the need to fuse their fires so obstinate in its stealthy urgings, that Tathren often feared they might inadvertently bind. When first arrived in Valinor, his grandsire had forewarned him that here, in the shade of Taniquetil, the Valar took ritual performance of love relations as an unspoken vow between two of their star children. Beneath the sacred eyes of Iluvatar himself, on the shores of his blessed realm, two of valorous intentions need not always literally pledge their love to be bound; already there had been several cases of green elves, in the first rush of known love, accidentally unifying their effulgent fea.

As Echoriath pushed his wrought tumescence into molten depths and their adoring gazes mated anew, a razing yet immaculate heat engulfed him, body and soul. The vulnerability of his position made the ultimate consummation doubly hard to resist, the luring bliss of oneness nearly inseparable, to his besotted senses, from the satiation of release. Every climax Echo roused from him, in these last weeks, had edged his corroding battlemenloseloser to collapse; every prod of his hips seemed to gouge a chunk from his resolve. Doting, voluptuous lips descended on his, culling from his mouth with undisguised reverence, such that Tathren could no longer stave off the feral flood of completion and subsequently unleashed himself. Eyes pregnant with worshipful contemplation watched his wicked end, then, with a sultry sigh, his lover finished within him.

Regret, and eventual relief, seized him, as the aura of the darkling elf’s fea dissipated into the otherworldly ether. His own waned such that he felt a biting chill, until Echoriath pressed hotly to him, soft lips dabbing his face with soothing kisses.

Only then did Tathren sense how he was weeping.

He sharply called his mind to the present, berated himself for worrying Echo with undoubtedly misinterpreted emotion. Whispering assurances into his neck, he allowed his giving lover to hold him, coddle him some; not that Tathren begrudged his sweet attentions. In two days, their allotted honey-time would take its own sojourn, perhaps end entirely, as Echoriath would celebrate his second majority and, the following afternoon, they would reveal themselves to each pair of fathers, in turn. Though the plotting of this vital maneuver had preoccupied them for some months, Tathren yet debated its potentially fractious outcome within himself. They had not meant to tarry their declaration so long, but Cuthalion had, on their journey back from the shore so many months ago, championed the merits of postponing until their second majority struck. Upon reflection, Echoriath himself felt this the most reasonable course of action, and Tathren was in no position to counter the wishes of the very heart he sought to protect.

His quicksilver cousin’s intuition had proved dearly accurate, as evidenced by their father’s strange reactions to the announcement of their co-habitation. Both sets of parents had sung a similar, grating tune: Elladan and Glorfindel had cited Echoriath’s need for independence, Legolas and Elrohir had wondered if their nephew might not regress some under too cloying care. Neither couple had denied them outright, but their frequent, unheralded visits in those first months bordered on unseemly. Cuthalion had assured them that none suspected the truth of their relationship, but they had nevertheless remained studiously vigilant. Tathren felt instivelyvely that, upon revelation, his own fathers would cause the most friction; even with Echo’s second majority passed, they would question his readiness for such an involved commitment. In truth, Tathren yet yet to discover the turn of phrase or keenly crafted argument that might convince them, though he was himself fervently convinced of their rightness, of their belonging together.

His dear one would know just how completely, upon the eve of the coming revels.

Said comely elf kissed him now, sweet as a honeycomb, then examined his face for signs of disquiet. As was his usual routine since the completion of their apartments, Echoriath had woken early to water and feed the budding flower beds of the various gardens he kept, then returned home to break fast with him. This morn, however, a chipped pot of jam had led Tathren to dump the preserve in a saucer. This caused the unmingled juices to rise and to spill over the brim, then over his hands, which Echo saucily took upon himself to lap clean, leading them to sloppy, lecherous kisses, a fumble over to the chaise-longue, and the meticulous seduction of his newly bare flesh. Despite repeated trials, Tathren found he could not be taken too lustily by an elf of Echoriath’s unparalleled breadth and length, lest he bruise to abundant bleeding. Echo, though a lover of implicit skill, eventually became so disturbed, and Tathren admittedly unwilling to suffer further essays, that his taking was from then on a languorous, sensual affair that stretched on for hours of passionate love-play. Neither elf came to mind this in the least, especially on such a radiant spring morn, in the splendorous common room of their home.

The morning, however, had drifted off and noon was now upon them. Muffled voices from the glass terrace announced Elladan, who, in an effort to spend more time with his busy sons, had lately taken to lunching with them every week o. Th. This, to Tathren’s chagrin, was just such a day. He crushed a kiss to his beloved’s pouting mouth, then sprung up, only belatedly remembering how thoroughly he’d just been pierced. No time, however, remained for aught but the furious fastening of Echoriath’s breech-laces and the straightening of his braids, as a knock sounded on the pane of the terrace door. Locks, once unknown to the elfkind of Valinor, had been a useful innovation in the apartment’s design, more than once saving them from the ruin of interruption.

After Echo stole a last embrace, Tathren hurried off to his bedchamber, in pressing need of a washcloth and decent raiment. Though they hardly paraded around the talan unclothed, he’d lost his shirt and sarong to his lover’s rabid hands; the embroidered cloth of his sarong was salvageable, but the shirt shards would be donated, as ever, to his grandmother’s patchwork quilts. In recompense, however, she might very well fashion him a new tunic, as barter was one of her greatest joys. Once groomed and attired as befits a warrior of his rank, he separately wrapped five sachets of gold coins in each of the shirt pieces, then carefully lowered them into the bottom of his quiver, mindful that they would not clink as he walked. He scavenged a bunch worth of broken arrows from the kindling by the hearth, shaved splintering ends off clean, then filled the last of the quiver, to properly conceal his monies. This afternoon would see the completion of an imperative and expensive errand, one even his gentle beloved could not know of. In this, he was aided even by their bodies’ complicity, as they frequented Echoriath’s bedchamber most nights, his own more of a closet and a storeroom than a resting place. Echo had virtually no cause to venture in; as such, Tathren had stealthily saved up his wares and amassed his considerable sum in barely six months time. In truth, he’d been squirreling away for a majority gift even before their relations; once found, selected, and cowered away, the adventurer had set sights on grander quarry.

Yet he’d wasted tenouenough in deliberation. Action beckoned.

First, however, came duty, and no little feint at dissimulation, of both father and too-lovely son. Packed, ‘armed’, and readied, Tathren sauntered back into the common room, where Elladan, Glorfindel, and Cuthalion were gathered at table, while Echoriath draped a cloth over some garments he apparently wished to conceal.

“Well met, uncles,” Tathren bowed in deference to them, not wanting to disturb their meal with an embrace. “Cousin.”

“Tathren,” Talion surreptitiously winked, to burn him. Which he did. Elladan, oblivious, nodded his greeting, mouth full of mead.

“Ah, well met, brave one,” Glorfindel smiled at him. “I saw some of your compatriots down at the fields, this morn. I wondered at your absence.”

“Echo has introduced me to the histories of Losgereth,” he answered warmly. “Twas a late hour before I could exorcise the details of those fiery battles. Dagor Bragollach. Nirnaeth Arrnoediad. I was veritably breath-stolen by his vivid recounting.”

“He exaggerates the cunning of Barahir at the Pass of Sirion,” Glorfindel remarked. “But, aye, his rendering of Hador is too acute. One of the most skilled warriors of the edain, even in such treacherous times. Thank the Valar his valiant son Galdor took up the charge, else Elrond and Elros may never have been begot, and I would be eternally poorer for it.” With a playful smile, he caught up his husband’s hand and kissed it soundly. “Indeed, the halo of his golden hair was such that he was oft rumored a peredhil of my very own siring. Who knows how the tides of fate may have turned, had that proven so.” Elladan chuckled softly at this, but the younger elves gaped in wonder.

“You *lived* those battles, Ada?” Cuthalion inquired, mindful of distressing his father, who too often fell prey to those vicious memories.

“I fought them, ioneth,” the golden elf informed him. “And not always on victory’s side.”

“So much you have yet to teach us, Ada,” Echoriath reflected, kissing his father’s crown from behind before taking his place at the table. Glorfindel, touched by the affection, squeezed his little one’s hand. “Perhaps you yourself should take up the quill.”

“He should indeed,” Elladan seconded, ever-proud os mas mate’s glorious renown.

Glorfindel, however, ignored this pointed remark, preferring to praise his sage youngest. “So tender still, but so wise of heart. Promise me, pen-neth, that you will always regard the world with some measure of awe, some interest, some fascination.”

“How could I fail to?” Echoriath answered him enthusiastically. “Even this blessed realm is so vast, so uncharted… indeed…” His eyes flicked, then, to Tathren, who leaned a moment against a nearby wall, knowing implicitly what subject was then to be broached. “Adar, I… I have a secret to impart to you. I hope you might be pleased.”

“A secret?” Elladan raised a brow, unamused by such light talk of deceit. “How now?”

Despite his obvious nervousness, Echoriath soldiered on with considerably more maturity than he might have, once upon a time.

“Since his return from adventuring,” he began. “Tathren and I have had an agreement… a trade, of sorts. A trade of knowledge, of talents. I have enlightened him on certain lore, recommending books and such, and he has… he has tutored me in the skills required to be a successful… an explorer. To go adventuring. I would… I would depart, with the company, when they next take leave.”

Rather than the expected protests, both fathers seemed deeply impressed with this turn of events.

“Echo,” Glorfindel was first to congratulate him. “But this is wondrous news. We are… certainly…”

“Shocked,” Elladan finished for him. Predictably, he was the more moved of the two, as well as the more considerate of his son’s readiness and well being. “Aye, this does come as… as some surprise, to say the least, but… there have been rumblings at Council of late.”

“They say ten more ships sail from the Havens at summer’s blooms,” Cuthalion related to them, with some resentment. “Thorontir pressed me on it yestereve, thinking I had heard news from my father, the *Lord*.”

“You may inform him that your father, the Lord, has no definite news,” Elladanckleckled at his grumpy son.

“Yet your less-informed father, the Balrog-slayer,” Glorfindel snorted. “Who was guard-captain to Lord Elrond of Imladris some five millennia, but who has not yet been cautioned by his ruling hand, in this, believes said grandsire of yorn will not wait long on action. Mark my words, the commission for new colonies will be announced within the month and the explorers well gone by midsummer.” His sterling blues eyes shone on Echoriath, as if in unspoken challenge. “The question is, will you, my brave one, be suitably prepared to accompany them?”

“He is already prepared, more than suitably,” Tathren replied, from behind. “And a welcome member of the company, by their word. The commission would most certainly be his, as would be the choice of whether to stay or go.”

Unable to completely mask his desolation, Echoriath turned to meet his steady eyes. “And you are sworn to stay. I had counted on… I had not thought the choice would come so quick upon me…”

“Peaceful times bring their own unforeseen trials,” Elladan noted gently, not encouraged by the manner in which Echoriath seemed to require his cousin’s accompaniment. Yet, he reminded himself, just a few short months ago, his son would not have willingly left Telperion, let alone the region entire, without a tam ofm of epic proportions, such was his fear. And would he himself, as parent, not be relieved at Tathren’s supportive presence on this first journey? “But if you speak of his pledge to my brother and his mate… I do not doubt they will see the import of such a task, if carefully weaned to the idea of your departure, Tathren.”

To his never-ending surprise, Echoriath instantly devised a cunning remedy: “Might you not aid them in this regard, Ada? Smooth things over with Ada-Hir, if he takes badly to the notion?”

“We will both do what we may, ioneth-nin,” Glorfindel assured him, foisting a meaningful look at his hesitant husband. “I, for one, am terribly proud of your courage, in even speaking of such an undertaking.” Unable to control his revolting tongue, Elladan merely took rather tender hold of his son’s other arm.

Afraid his father might turn maudlin and aversely affect his brother, Cuthalion piped up: “Now, will you not show Tathren the magnificent raiment grandmother has fashioned for our begetting-day revels?” Though he saved his father’s face with the one hand, the slippery silver elf still managed to taunt with the other.

At Echo’s gasp of protest, Tathren shot Talion a stare that would singe stone.

“Nay,” the darkling elf objected, his tone too sharp by far. “I would that… that no other see it…”

“But we have all admired its finery, ioneth,” Elladan urged him. “Why not your cousin?”

“I would have some admiration left for my begetting day,” Echoriath covered weakly, then more convincingly. “If only for the strength to wear such… such a lovely thing…”

“And I have an errand that has yet waited too long,” Tathren announced, to rescue him. Praying, inwardly, that a seed had not been planted in all this idle talk. “Its purport for just such a begetting-eve.” He smirked mysteriously at both cousins in turn, to ward off the scent of favoritism, but there was only one who’s eyes sparked with curiosity.

“A gift?” Echoriath smiled enticingly, hoping to draw him out. “But surely we are too aged, now, for such pleasantries.”

“Speak for yourself,” Cuthalion repliqued, saving them in earnest this time. “If gifts are in the offering, I have need of hunting knife. My hilt is cracked.”

“Hunting knife?!” Tathren scoffed. “Save such easy charms for your starry-eyed maidens. I stalk more elusive prey than that.” He bowed again, sure now that his es’ es’ minds had been diverted, but unable to resist a final jibe at his cousin. “A shield, perhaps an arrow or two. No dwarves, alas, to solder something fine.”

With that, he swept away, his anxious heart thundering like a tempest.

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

When he returned with a steaming pot of tea, Elrohir spied his haloed mate on the sunlight divan, looking innocent as a lamb in the springtime splendor, and smirked salaciously.

As in questing days of old, he’d laid the trap with cunning precision. Legolas, however, knew all of his feints and ruses too well to be entirely convinced; there was as much chance that he’d been willingly caught as skillfully lured into the trap. Yet Elrohir’s advantage was in his psychological acuity; a trait at which, out of the wilds, he repeatedly, masterfully outwitted his too-noble husband. A diplomat’s reserve could prove deliciously useful, where seduction was concerned.

Though the clay teapot stung some, he held immovable position at the entranceway, poised and raptly observant. His devising had begurly rly that morn, when Legolas had informed him that his schedule was clear for the afternoon, would Elrohir not like to engage in some rousing debate? Arousal had, indeed, been the elf-knight’s principal thought on the matter. Though he knew how Legolas had come to enjoy the intellectual stimulation of their debates – as, let it be said, he well did – he also was not oblivious to the relentless efforts his beloved had made to accommodate his periods of fever, to assuage his pain, to richen their marital bonds, and to generally treat him in the most exceptionally loving manner. Elrohir, whenever possible, had banished whatever preoccupied him – be it physical or rational – and taken up the challenge on his own side.

His feverish tendencies had ebbed and flowed since the summer, as they took their time searching for, selecting, and eventually befriending a suitable mother for their child. They had yet, however, to even meet an elf they liked and admired, so Elrohir continued to consume the draught each morn, in times of high tide. Such as the present circumstance. His unquenchable desires had struck with a vengeance week last, which had the unfortunate effect of making some of their coupling more routine and himself desperately needful of strict attention. As such, Legolas was not so much neglected, as some of his more gentle preferences set aside.

Preferences Elrohir was determined that he not forgo completely, certainly not due to his own shortcomings.

With the draught in its full, noontime effect, he would not be able to take pleasure. Legolas’ body, however, was in no way so restricted, and so Elrohir’s elf-snare was, early that morn, laid out. When Legolas had come to call him to luncheon, he’d started, then attempted to surreptitiously/glaringly conceal the document he composed, with just enough of a blush to pique him. His husband had not been so foolish as to inquire as to its contents, though by the swiftness with which Elrohir had sprung up and the shivers that ran through him when he clutched Legolas’ arm – with just enough force to give him pause – the archer had essayed a glance back at the desk. Afterwards, as they wandered into the study for their debate, Elrohir had begged a moment to order his papers, using the old feint of concealing the most secret documents out in the open, which he knew Legolas was too-well readied for. Indeed, as he shuffled, flipped, and piled, those keen aquamarine eyes never lost sight of the telltale parchment.

The instant before he’d dropped it atop the highest pile, just as he’d predicted, the first telltale inquiry had come.

“Tell me, meleth,” Legolas had asked him, with such nonchalance his stealth-teacher would have wept from pride. Elrohir could have practically spoke the next words in time with him. “When I came upon you before… what manner of letter were you composing?”

“Why do you ask?” Elrohir had queried in return, with just enough hesitation to convince him of repressed anxiety. “Twas but a trifle.”

“You colored some,” he had noted, so casually Elrohir almost laughed aloud. “I fleetingly wondered what tedious matter of government might cause a diplomat of your esteem to… to blush. It is almost… unbelievable.”

Elrohir had worried some at that last remark, afraid he’d been found out, but the concern Legolas struggled to veil was too genuine to doubt. The elf-knight had schooled himself not to smirk, but he struggled in turn to stave it off now. Legolas had never expressed any overt jealously of another, but there had been moments when an expressive elf in their acquaintance had pushed too far beyond the boundaries for his liking and his eyes had reflected a cool, green lighntilntil the moment passed and the elf in question backed off, in fear of his own fertility. The thought of this faint possessive streak pricked Elrohir such that he bemoaned how he could not enjoy the fruits of his own devising, along with, or after, his deserving mate. Cursed draught.

Focusing on the manipulation at hand, he feigned at keeping yet another blush from his budding cheeks. Legolas was now doubly convinced of his sincerity.

“After our harsh winter,” he detailed bashfully. “The members of the Council have turned their minds to spring. There are a few matters for our immediate concern, but not enough to keep me occupied the day long. I… I have had, in my mind, for some time, to… to attempt to compose a verse or two. As I say, tis but a whim of mine…” In truth, Elrohir had for some months turned his hand to composition, of songs, poems, and prose works, and had well-hewn his pen. He was confident enough in his skill to craft some more personal work, in the manner of the celebrated bard of erotic fictions Ithimithiel, for both his and Legolas’ private enjoyment. It was one such a tale he bated his mate with, now. “…I am still somewhat green at the craft.”

“I do not wish to intrude upon your leisure time,” Legolas had rather diplomatically phrased his request, which Elrohir had not for a moment doubted would come next. “But might a doting husband ever be allowed to read some of this fine work.”

“You have not read a word,” Elrohir had whispered.” How can you judge it fine?” Before Legolas could answer with the usual assurances, he had jumped in. “And before you tediously say that the verses stem from my pen and therefore cannot be aught but fine, please know that the tale is not yet complete, or even near polished enough for consumption. If my work is to be enjoyed by one so dear as you, Legolas, I would have it be readied.”

“And when the tales are readied, might I enjoy them?” Legolas had asked with such soft affection, Elrohir knew he had him wholly snared.

“For certes, melethron,” he’d agreed with exquisite tremulousness, as if to placate him.

Legolas had smiled softly, his admiration too plain. Elrohir had pretended to be provoked, and had muttered some excuses about fetching the tea. He’d barely swept from the room, when he heard the rustle of fresh-cut parchment.

His avid-eyed husband now displayed a scarlet flush of his own, as he devoured the hot-blooded tale. At the end of a particularly affecting paragraph, Legolas leaned back into the cushions and adjusted his hips in a gesture only a longtime lover could discern; the deliberate bulging of material at the front of his breeches to conceal his budding erection. Though somewhere in the back of his mind, Legolas must be warning himself of his husband’s incipient return, the weaving of the tawdry tale was such that he could not tare his eyes away, though with every passing phrase his nerves sparked, his arousal quickened. He was soon veritably sprawled back over the divan, no amount of loose material able to hide the hefty shaft that prodded up, testing the stretch capacity of the cloth to its limits.

Elrohir, pleased to distraction, was ready to pounce.

Instead, however, he slinked across the floor, deposited the teapot on the waytable, and eased onto the divan without even a waft of air fluttering the pages. He lingered, motionless, beside his husband awhile, observing the minutiae of his absorption. Truly, he’d never dreamed he’d be this enthralled. The structure of the tale itself was of little complexity; it was the detail and meticulous description of the loving, he expected, that wooed so rapaciously. That the playing out of the characters’ coupling was vaguely reminiscent of one of their more prolonged and cherished sessions of love-play, complete with Legolas’ most timidly requested acts, doubtlessly improved his fascination triple-fold.

And, my, but he was summarily engrossed! Legolas’ pink lips were parted but a fraction, his tongue, a slip of berry red, perched on the bottom edge of his teeth. His breath came fitfully, in a string of hush, airy gasps, his chest rising and falling in greater frequency with each sultry paragraph. He lay lazily, but was wound tight, shaken, every moment or so, by tremors of mounting sensation. The hand that did not clasp the parchment sheets was set on his abdomen, fingers inching towards his groin, only to be reluctantly eased away to turn another page. He swallowed, suddenly, then cleared his throat. His eyes shut in a vain attempt to restrain himself, to behave honorably and replace his husband’s work on the desk, but his mind could not ignore the images painted there by such suggestive words, the molten recollections the tale remembered him. He essayed a few, restorative inhalations, but some fiendish remnants of Elrohir’s innate musk had mixed with the static air of the study and the battle was lost before even begun.

Only when his eyes flew open and plunged back into the pages, did he notice the hand tucked into his thigh, poised to palm the engorgement he should be trying to soften. Plump, ready lips bent to tease under his ear, suckle his neck, Legolas thought he might find glorious end at the mere ghosting of tongue over his leaf-shaped lobe. The stealthy hand batted his own away, exposed his navel, and began to brush slow, merciless circles over the wisps of down there.

“Forgive me, melethron,” the archer begged, though he desperate wanted to keen ‘touch me’, instead. “I know it is unfinished… that you forbade me…”

“The lone unfinished thing in my perception, beauteous one,” Elrohir purred against his throat. “Is *you*.” The elf-knight plucked the breech-laces open as nimbly as a virtuoso at the violin, then snuck his hand within and gripped his wrought love.

Legolas cried out, so enflamed was he.

As that too talented mouth liberally maimed his open collar, he bleat: “Saes, Elrohir, it is not remotely just that I… let me take… my own… as you cannot… ah, *Elbereth*!!”

A particularly skilled stroke had him arching up into the darkling elf’s hand, though he fought yet to stay his wanton hips, to not insult his presently impotent beloved. Elrohir set a daunting rhythm, one even Legolas could not extricate himself from, not that any honest part of him desired to, excepting his rapidly fading reason. Elrohir kissed him, once, hotly, then gestured towards his manuscript.

“My gift to you this day, maltaren-nin,” he murmured sweetly. “You have indulged my wares a hundred fold these last months, Legolas. Indulge yourself, melethron. Read on.”

With a heartened smile, Legolas gave in to his husband’s seductions and took up the page. Once further engaged, the archer’s cheeks near incendiary and his incandescent eyes hooked in, Elrohir surreptitiously lowered himself to his knees, Legolas’ breeches in turn, then lapped tauntingly at his slick, swollen length. The golden elf threw his head back as his entire body writhed, a desperate moan breaking from deep within. He struggled to keep the parchment aright, to control his chest-quaking pants as he was licked, laved, and feverishly fondled, his husband deploying every weapon in his vast, learned arsenal to thoroughly undo him.

When Elrohir finally took him whole, he dropped the weighty pages in a flurry, his vision blurred by the pulses of visceral, raging ecstasy that coursed through him. Though the tale itself might ignite the very pages on which it was written, it little compared to the hazy sight of his darkling husband sucking him with abandon, so devoted to his sensuous task was he that Legolas could not imagine he derived no pleasure from it. Sundered in the quick by a last bolt of pure carnality, Legolas thrust up, howled, and blast into his mouth; his release so raising, so blazing, that he shivered with aftershocks for long minutes after.

As Elrohir crawled up to cuddle with him, Legolas buried himself in the cushions, in his mate’s balming heat.

“*Valar*, Elrohir,” he rasped, woozy to the point of disorientation. The pull of fatigue leadened every strained muscle of his limber frame, but he did, after all that, yet desire to converse with his mate.

“Sleep awhile, meleth,” Elrohir whispered to him. “Replenish yourself, and dream of our bodies entwined. We will debate some upon your waking.”

Already Legolas began to droop against him, when he groggily inquired: “Are there more tales such as… as that lovely one…? Might we… enjoy them… *together*…?”

“Many more,” Elrohir assured him, caressing his sweaty brow with implicit tenderness. “Rest, Legolas.”

“You are… my very heart… Elrohir-nin,” he mumbled his last, then heavied in his husband’s vigilant arms.

“As you are mine, melethron,” the elf-knight vowed, as he settled into their embrace.

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

Midway through the feast, the Hall of Fire on his grandsire’s resplendent estate was a veritable hive of activity. Black and yellow haired elves of the two noblest houses buzzed so vivaciously among the varnished, honey-toned tables, a dwarf might be forgiven for mistaking them a swarm of pollen-soused bees. The wax-paper banners that adorned the flying buttresses were hung too close to the chandeliers, in places; their drippings glazed down the red wed walls like sap down a tree trunk. Glow-lights, torches, and elegant candelabra imbued both the hall and the gardens beyond with a fairyland splendor, though nearhe ehe entire, pixie populace of Telperion had gathered to celebrate the lordlings’ hundredth begetting-day.

Adding to the frazzled, frivolous atmosphere were the many singletons flaunting their wares to the newly mature princes, their companions, or any other becoming elf that might pique their fancy. The Sons of Elrond and their mates were hardly the only elves to find themselves idle and offspring-less when the peacetime came. The westward passing of the elder generations had caused an unprecedented wave of reunions, bindings, and begetting such as Valinor had never suffered before. While new elflings were born almost weekly, those conceived in the first major wave were now grown to true majority and eager to establish their own lines of succession.

Cuthalion himself was not ignorant to the advantages his esteemed heritage blessed him with, among the dulcet maids of Telperion. Having quit his grandsire’s table to frequent his adventurer fellows, he was only too willing to be lured away to dancing by some bold-hearted beauty. He would have his pick of skirts for the revels of early morn, though he would be more discerning than on his first majority. Having born witness these long months to his brother’s thoroughly besotting romance with his bravehearted cousin, he had often cause to ponder his own restless pursuits, only, once tumbled, to forget their softer merits and move on to the next rabid chase. His behavior, while not unusual in these times of relentless flirtation and overabundant selection, bordered on unseemly for one of such a lofty house. Though desire ever-reigned his waking thoughts, he would forgo outright lust for the gentilities of a love-affair. In, he, he already had an emerald-eyed, tawny-maned, thoroughly ravishing slip of an elf-maid in mind.

The trick of it was to remain aloof and let her come to him, as all, inevitably, did.

If the object of his bashful brother’s own secret affections were not so glaringly obvious to his unveiled eyes, Cuthalion might even be envious of him. His graciousness did him no favors this spirited eve, as a veritable legion of maids and males alike sought his videvided attention. Much to the never-ending amusement of the adventurers’ table, Echoriath could not sit but a moment, nor take more than a sip of mead, before another apple-cheeked suitor, sodden with wine and sexy-eyed, begged a dance. The awkward elf had spent nearly the entire evening in the hands of lonelyhearts, honing his admittedly paltry dancing abilities and stuttering out passable conversation. His infallible honor was a bane this sultry night; he felt, as per tradition, that he could not dare refuse, if politely beckoned. His current, brief respite was pleaded of a sunny maid by Thorontir, ever protective of the youngest of his charges, who judged by Echoriath’s sallow countenance that one so unaccustomed to vigorous revelry should take nourishment before the assault began anew.

To his infinite credit, Tathren had kept counsel rather gallantly, as his beloved was flattered, manhandled, and pried away from the sanctuary of their table. He bristled some, though imperceptibly, when a dashing ellon would present himself, but to the maids he gave no evidence of response or displeasure, even chuckling when a particularly lively lass elbowed-in to their rowdy conversation. He was smartly seated across the table from Echor, as, as any proximity threatened to reveal them; they had been, over the last month, perilously forgetful of their own secrecy, almost unconsciously drawn together when in company, such was their bliss. Indeed, when Echo finally took a breath of ease, the strain of distance was most apparent on his woeful face. He forsook Tathren’s guileless eyes, thankfully angled away from their parents’ view, deliberately seeking out other cares. His burnished eyes drifted over to the royal table, where their fathers, their uncles, and even their grandparents were tucked together in various stages of casual affection. He forced a smile when Elladan marked him, but to Cuthalion the feeling evoked within him was plain enough.

His cousin, however, could not decently conceal his appreciation of Echoriath’s lush countenance for any great length of time. His covetous eyes never longly left the willowy elf, rather divinely dressed in a midnight blue tunic with gold embroidery, dark hose, and dauntingly high boots. His clasped raven hair was treated with flaxweed, its lustrous sheen crowned by a mithril circlet that had once belonged to their grandsire’s mortal brother, Elros. From the moment his beaming eyes had taken in this vision, Tathren’s love had been writ, in epic form, across his own comely features, so awed had he been by his heart’s treasure.

Cuthalion himself, if he could be so brazen, was no less becomingly attired in a violet hue with lilac trimmings, having been gifted Elrond’s own majority circlet by his teary-eyed grandmother. A lock of her silver hair twined his own; he had vowed, then, that his binding-mate would be no less ethereal, no less sweetly, than the blithe Celebrian herself.

Even one as swollen a, ho, however, had to admit that the true beauty of the night was Tathren himself. Clad in velour trousers, a leather vestment polished slick as obsidian, a black silk shirt of salacious cut, and steel-tipped boots of formidable craft, his blonde hair blazed like a pyre, the sheathes that spilled down his back as lithe as ‘scaped nix nix feathers. Echoriath must have tore his gaze away for pure modesty’s sake, as Tathren, poised with studied quietude on his stool, was no lessn ann an effigy of smoldering sensuality. Even Cuthalion himself thought him irresistible.

A thought then pricked him. Perhaps the moment to indulge his own curiosity had come, at last. Ever had he forbid him the the knowledge of what his brethren so ardently adored: his bedding at the hands of an ellon. Cuthalion had no designs on Tathren himself, of course, but there were many other, delectable charmers present, some so renown of skill that even one so green as he – and rare was the day that he could be judged an innocent in the loving arts – might be confident of pleasure. He had bedded long before his first majority, why not play the traditionalist on this second and be introduced to an aspect of physical love he’d little experience of?

As he scouted the milling throngs for a suitably tempting distraction, his grandsire called him over with a quiet gesture. The fever on the dance floor had heightened considerably in the last hour; Cuthalion was sure the elders would soon spirit their mates away for more private celebrations, so he quickly slipped over to their goblet-strewn table. Upon further observation, the company was rather excellently merry. His own proud fathers were deep in their cups, almost indecently curled into Gindeindel’s high-backed chair. Celebrian was languorously draped over her throne-like seat, her tired feet ably massaged by her doting mate. Cuthalion had rarely seen his grandparents so unguarded; this simple, telling intimacy suited them. Elrohir and Legolas were almost desperately close, though not yet wholly entwined. Legolas leaned down, every now and again, to caress his husband’s cheek, crown, or peaked ear. The elders were, however, far too silent on the whole, which led Cuthalion to guess some mischief abounded.

They were not, even after ages passed and wars unleashed, entirely sobered of their wiles.

Cuthalion plunked himself down and regarded them drolly, his quicksilver eyes searching out their no doubt mercury-induced intent. Even when Elrond’s imperious eyes pinned him, he did not doubt his reasoning.

“Tell me, young one,” Elrond inquired, with a Lord’s lofty tone. The resulting titters were far too gleeful for his liking. “Would you ever give a lie to your forefathers?”

“Or foremother,” Celebrian almost yawned, so relaxed was she.

“Nay,” Cuthalion pledged hesitantly. “In no dire instance or grievous circumstance would I even think on such an… an insult to you, grandsire. Nor my numerous Adar.” “Tha“That is well,” Glorfindel judged, his lips struggling to keep straight.

“And will serve us well,” Eir sir smirked wryly, as Legolas, seemingly unimpressed by their gameliness, found the soft of his husband’s neck and settled there awhile.

“We must confess, ioneth, to some hurt,” Elladan recounted, his own mouth tippling on the edge of mirth. “Your brother is a gentle elf, for certes, and as such has kept his bed-business a private affair. There is honor in this that you yourself might take note of, dear one. Yet he has loved with some worthy elf for months, now, and not even on the occasion of his hundredth begetting day does he see fit to introduce his sires to such a one! We are… rather disheartened, by the stricture of these measures.”

“Ada, this is hardly the moment for revelation,” Cuthalion insisted. “Before the entire colony? Even I could not b suc such a bold move.”

“Nevertheless,” Elrond took up the slack. “We are verily insulted by his secrecy, Talion. As such, we have taken it upon ourselves to raptly observe his actions, this night, and therefore ferret out the identity of this one we are so… so grateful to.”

“For his caring rds rds such a sweet one as our Echo,” Glorfindel seconded. “For his gallantry and honor.”

“Yet this does not excuse the fact that you have schemed without my brother’s knowing!!” Cuthalion protested, unimpressed with his elders. “Or his allowance. Indeed, he would be scandalized by your behavior, wounded far more gravely than his groping attempts at privacy havrt trt the lot of you.”

“Now, now, my dear one,” Celebrian tempered him. “We only wish to share in your brother’s joy. To welcome this elf among us with proper care, as we would hope to greet any love of our beloved grandchildren. Curiosity may have consumed the better part of our reason, true, but we engage ourselves in playful banter, nin ind, no more.”

“Indeed, we got on this trail by another, of equally ignoble merit,” Elrohir chuckled at himself. “Tathren also keeps his lover away. Though, by my estimation, we have made a daring guess of that one’s identity.”

“And the resulting wager dully set,” Elladan noted, his voice sharp with the challenge.

/You would know your error by the light of his eyes,/ Cuthalion mused inwardly, but outwardly refused comment.

“But you, my brave one, are the lynchpin,” Glorfindel informed him. “By your own statements this eve, you most certainly know the identity of both elves in question.” Cuthalion gasped at the betrayal he insinuated, but his father stayed him. “We ask not for answers, Talion, fear not. Merely… a clue.”

“A…clue?” the silver elf considered, rather befuddled by what reply would honor both his allegiances.

“Aye,” Elrond expounded, again taking on a lordly manner. “A riddle of your skilled devising, so as not to deliver an untruth to either fore-…fore-eldar or brethren.”

With a harrowed sigh, Cuthalion long debated his fiendish predicament. If ever a lie was warranted, this was the case. Yet he was an elf of honor; the intentions of his elders, while equal parts misguided and inebriated, came from the heart. Could he not, with no little cunning, serve both masters, perhaps even easing the way for the impending revelation? In truth, he wondered at how they had not guessed themselves, so glaring was the answer in ligf thf their reasoning.

“Very well,” he finally announced, with considerable mischief himself. “I will say but this, and you must be satisfied.”

“Agreed,” the table sang, each coupled parted some and perched forward to best take in the clue.

Cuthalion drew a bating breath, then replied: “The answer you seek is a matter of perspective, so simple it has been overlooked for months. I, myself, fell prey to this devising, and even when revealed to me, I would not have believed were it not for the evidence quite literally before my eyes. Merely shift your age-held view aloft, and you will see it clearly.”

“But that is no help at all!” Glorfindel griped.

“We have turned the matter over a thousand times since dinner,” Elrohir grumbled. “There is not an elf in the hall we have not looked on exactingly.”

“I will say no more,” Cuthalion ended mysteriously, swallowing a smirk of his own. “But will alas leave you, to myself reap of the bounty here assembled.” With a pompous bow, he rose. “Till the morrow’s luncheon, then, Adar?”

“Indeed,” Elladan glowered, then grinned at his own theatrics. “Enjoy your revels, dearest one.”

Before Cuthalion could depart, a cry of pain broke through the hall.

All eyes darted to the dance floor, where an imposing, though shamelessly drunken elf pawed at his flummoxed brother, who fought uselessly to free himself from the ogre’s caging arms. The gracious elf had been taking a step with a saucy Sindar maid – of Cuthalion’s buxom type – when this lecherous other had seized him for his own. All at the elder’s table were instantly on their feet, but stayed clenched with anxiety as the adventurers invaded the floor. His companions could aught but catch Echoriath and hold the crowd back, as Tathren jabbed the elf’s arms with such ferocity that some after thought they’d heard the bones crack, then slammed the unsightly creature to the floor and pricked a dagger-tip to his throat. The last vestiges of his self-control kept him from stabbing the blade in, though most would judge the pierce of his eyes by far the more trenchant of the two. After a pregnant moment, the elf spluttered an apology, to which Tathren launched him at the waiting Cirhith and Rohros, who dragged him brutishly out. The gaping assembly parted to accommodate them, as the music struck up again, the master of ceremonies eager to smooth over this interruption.

By this time Echoriath was enclosed in Tathren’s arms, the golden elf making poor show of concealing his emotions. He did, however, have care to glance towards the table, where a soft look reassured their elders to their timid one’s well being. When Tathren led him to his seat, a communal sigh of relief sounded from his forefathers (and foremother), who returned to their own, oblivious to any deeper shading to their grandson’s adamant behavior.

Indeed, Cuthalion had more than just cause to contemplate the recesses and resourcefulness of denial, when Glorfindel assured his mate: “His cousin will hearten him. See? Already they take leave to stroll in the gardens and replenish themselves with some fresh, vital air.”

With a snort of exasperation, Cuthalion rolled his eyes, then left to indulge in some adventuring of his own.

***

As he laxed his hold on Elrohir, who was presently entrenched in an avid debate with Elladan over a parent’s chore to espouse peacetime morals in their children’s teaching, Legolas still brimmed with repressed adrenaline.

A warrior’s instincts were not easily unlearned, no matter what they imparted to their elflings. Not even a long draught of ale could temper him, his fingers slipping almost comically to the hilt of his concealed knife, only to be pulled away again by slowly dawning reason. He was yet wrung with the leonine energy of a hunter, a predator, poised but merciless. While the others dared not cluck their displeasure at Tathren’s cruel tactics – the result being too necessary to broach any real objection - Legolas bit back his overflow of pride at the potent elf his son had proved himself. Tathren rarely made show of the raw, Silvan blood that coursed through his veins, but tonight’s sharp protection of his cousin would have pleased, Legolas begrudgingly admitted to himself, even the notoriously harsh Thranduil. Though the archer was glad his son had never known the guilt, and thrill, of orc-slaying, his reaction time was deadly keen, a fact the adventurer’s father could find some measure of relief in.

Earlier that evening, when their son clopped down from his apartments to join their party, Elrohir had gripped his arm in wonderment. Tathren took after his sire in his views on finery; even at formal gatherings, he was a humble elf at heart. Nature had adorned him well enough with radiance, he hardly needed compliment his visage with frippery. The tenacity of the growing love between Tathren and this unknown elf of his had been weightily brought home to Legolas, however, upon first sight of his son’s feral, almost wanton beauty; he had not known whether to glow with pride or reproach such a brazen display of sexuality. Only the modesty he evidenced in his carriage, his too-apparent discomfiture with his own enhancement, had convinced him to keep his tongue. That, and Elrohir’s too acute mentioning of past occasions when he himself had gone against his element and dressed to stealthily seduce.

Yet never had he been more overwhelmed by the majesty of the child he had sired. If he accomplished naught else of worth in his long eternity, he had inadvertently made this beauteous, kindly, bravehearted one, and was somehow blessed with his worshipful regard.

Legolas was suddenly seized by a near choking desire to praise the son from whom he had so recently been estranged, to take hold of his arms and tell him of his pride, as they walk through the somnambulant gardens of his grandsire’s estate. Echoriath, surely, was long swept away by fretfretful lover – why else would they have so neatly escaped the hall, but to meet him in secret? He doubted Tathren would quit the feast without a word of courage to them, so why not quicken this assurance, allowing him and his own lover to take solace in the other’s arms. Indeed, with his own wrecked body still so charged, he would bid Tathren a brief goodnight and himself sneak Elrohir away for some spirited loving.

With a telling clasp to his husband’s gesticulating arm, he took temporary leave.

Despite the impending spring, the night was crisp, the moon but an emaciated crescent above them. The stark cast of starlight gave the gardens what little illumination there was; the petals, leaves, and trees about him shimmered with frosty brilliance. Though the shadows were as hollows in their blackness, as thieved swatches of a land quilted by cold, the air itself was comfortably warm, perfect for the pairs of lovers no doubt hidden at that very moment in the ghostly wood. Legolas gave heated thought to his own past escapades in the twilight forest, to his twilight husband most of all, then pressed on.

He came upon them secreted under the bridge’s arch, the reflection off the greenhouse behind haloing their forms. Legolas slid behind a sturdy oak to observe them awhile, careful not to intrude on what might be a tense moment for the yet bashful elf. Echoriath still trembled with aftershocks fros vis violent encounter, though for the moment he backed away from Tathren’s consolation.

“I am well, tathrelasse,” he rasped harshly, as if to convince himself. “I am not some skittish maid. I have known such… such a lusting touch. You know well I am no innocent.”

“But only ever meant in earnest, my tender one,” Tathren insisted, clearly overwhelmed with concern at the young elf’s demeanor. “As I said before, any elf would have been shook by such a selfish act. If it was indeed accomplished, one might fade from the violation. None would fault you for admitting to weakness or to symptoms of grief.”

“Elves can… can *fade*… from violation?” Echoriath seemed to strive to convince himself, holding himself against the cold only he felt.

“Many did, during the kinslayings,” Tathren related to him. “Some fought so tenaciously, they became orcs.”

“Orcs!!” Echoriath bleated, the safety of Tathren’s arms al irr irresistible, now.

“Would you not let me warm you some, Echo?” the golden elf beckoned him, offering his embrace. “I long to succor you. Will you not allow me such a… a privilege?”

/Chivalrous to a fault/, Legolas reflected, with even more pride. Yet the response made the archer prick up his ears, disbelieving that such strangeness had indeed been uttered by the young one.

“But you will not love with me!” Echoriath mused forlornly. “Though it be none other than my hundredth begetting-day and I would take comfort with none other than you, meleth.”

Tathren’s reply was ever the more unusual, the more disquieting.

“id nid not that we would forgo loving entirely, melethron,” Tathren clarified, inching closer. “Merely that I would stay our loving awhile. If only to assure my ragged heart that you are, indeed, both whole, and mine alone. That my touch will please you, that you will revel, as always, in our bed-play.” Legolas found he suddenly required the full support of the tree. “Besides, did I not promise a… a private gift, for your precious eyes alone?”

Echoriath gasped at this further temptation, he had forgotten this promise and that very second forgot his reluctance to be enveloped by his beloved. For long, vital moments Tathren held him close, soothing his tremoway way and whispering of his constant love. Echoriath soon curled into his arms as if veritably hanging off him, the only impetus to loosen them the softing of his cousin’s lips on his brow. When he lifted his face to meet the gentle, familiar kiss, Legolas felt his knees bucket. As the darkling elf was leaned against the stone wall and caressed with mounting ardor, the disbelieving father gaped openly, yet unable to reconcile the sight before him with any scrap or measure of propriety.

The fact, however, remained. This fact, this unpalatable, incredulous, shrieking circumstance affronted him so severely, he couo nao naught but retreat, his first in centuries of soldiering. He staggered blindly back to the table without thought to the ruckus he might create over the dewy grass; his mind wrestling so with reaction, reason, and baleful acceptance that all in the company glared wonderingly at him. Even his brute father would be proud at his imperceptible rallying, at the steeling of his features into a comely smile. In the privacy of their home, he would not keep the knowledge from Elrohir, but he could not trouble Elladan, Glorfindel, nor loyal Elrond, not until he had consulted with his mate as to the best course of action.

He wondered, with considerable horror, if he was elf enough to effect it. If their powerful, elemental son he had earlier praised so pridefully was by now forever lost to them.

***

Distracted by the hot kisses repeatedly culled from his reddened mouth, his darkling lover failed to remark the cozy improvements he’d made to the greenhouse alcove; indeed, that they were even leaning against the inside of the entranceway. So involved was he with twining arms, probing tongues, and needful clutches - his earlier assault evaporated into the steam of longing that burned off them – that even the pungent smell of mulch just beyond the door had not penetrated his rapt senses, though the compost had recently been moved outside, unbeknownst to the master gardener.

Easing out of their embrace to soak in the sight of his exquisite beloved in the full bloom of majority, Tathren claspeose ose rugged planter’s fingers and lead him along the path. Echoriath followed, giddy as ever when ripe with want, until they came before the alcove and his breath left him. The slip of a cot had been replaced by a silk-sheeted mattress, flowering with gold, copper, and navy cushions. Drapes lithe as rose petals tented over the space, which glowed with the effulgent flames of a dozen flute-stemmed candles. Amenities galore adorned the discreet waytable: a bowl of fruit, a carafe of miruvor complete with willow-leaf goblets, a loin-stirring selection of salves, oils, creams. With an ebullient exclamation, and to Tathren’s gape-jawed astonishment, Echoriath skipped towards the alcove, doffed his boots, and plunged into the sinking center of the bed. After some horseplay, he lay amidst the bountiful satin like a king among courtiers, crossing his arms beneath his head and leering at his bemused beloved.

“I shall take you in this blessing of a bed, meleth,” he unabashedly grinned. “Twice, at the least.”

“What if I were to take you, lirimaer?” Tathren countered fondly.

“You shall,” he decided, testing the bounce of the mattress with a wicked glint. “Thrice.”

“Thrice?” he chuckled, perching on the edge. He gazed down at him with such reverence, Echo feared he would turn maudlin. He had not mistaken the fury with which Tathren had bore down on his assailant, the fever both heartened and harried him in turn. To be so loved was daunting, indeed, to be forever worthy of such a love…

“Indeed,” Echoriath playfully informed him. “Once with your turgid maleness, then with your mouth, then… again with your maleness, lest I think of some other appendage that might entice.”

“A foot, perchance?” Tathren teased him. “A toe?”

“Perchance,” the darkling elf beamed anew, then lay his head in his lap. “Do you love me, tathrelasse?”

“With every breath in my being, my Echo,” he swore.

“Then give me my gift!!” he trilled, hopping into a seating position.

His golden eyes glittered like galleons in the candlelight, such a wealth of knowledge they guarded. As he gazed into that open, honest face, Tathren again pondered how he could have only lately come to love this becalming spirit, this centrifugal heart of such steadying influence that he never again wanted to stray from their common path. The pretenders to such a hallowed throne bothered him little in light of the greater challenges before them: their impending revelation, their relative youth, their concomitant ambitions, and the stoking of their forever fire. Longly had he quarreled with himself over the timeliness of such an action as was about to be undertaken, not least when, but an hour before, he was crouched under a bridge begging his beloved to allow his succor. When he had held his fright-ravaged lover before the spitting hearth and stared back at a table of steely fathers, their blanched countenances like specters amid the din. What terrors would their faces betray, upon the morrow, when they learned of their relations, of his intentions towards this darkling fair?

When Echoriath tugged impatiently at his hands, he roused himself.

“But from where will this newly offering emerge?” he asked, with impish anticipation. “I have groped you well enough to know there is at present no bump or hardness on your person, Tathren. Later, perhaps…” He gingerly pinched his thigh, which indeed sent a jolt to his groin.

“In your ardor, you have missed it,” he insisted, but stayed further objections with a flutter of a kiss. “Hush, now. I would tell you of this… this offering, I would make you.”

Drawing in a centering breath, Tathren gathered him into an easy, but affectionate hold. When their eyes locked, he knew his course to be unwavering, at once unique and eternal among their kin. That there was only one sea to sail, that the tide flowed to the beat of their constant hearts.

“Echo,” he commenced, with a piercing sincerity. “In my few years of life, I have always wandered, seeking destiny away from hearth, home, and my learned family. If I had been born in the prime of a different age, I would have been an elf of Greenwood the Great, my Sindar blood ever urges me forth, deeper in, further away. I never thought to find an anchor so close to this, our third and final homely house; I thought to drift, like a reed in the rapids, from settlement to barren land, not building as you, but forging my own path through this splendorous, unwieldy world of ours. Yet in you, whom I have ever unwittingly esteemed and regarded with fraternal affection, I have found the very rudder of this tesesseessel, this boat that threatens to capsize at the breeziest notion of establishment, of settlement. I cannot commit myself to haunting this vale until tnd ond of my days; I am sworn to people, not to places. Ever in unbreakable trust, ever in most immaculate honor, and it is thus that I would swear myself to you, from whom I have no intention of ever being parted.” He fiddled, for an instant, beneath his vest, concealing a tiny velvet pouch within his broad archer’s hand. Though he shivered some, Echoriath was mesmerized by his comeliness, but the conviction with which he declared himself. “I would roam the far reaches of this land, but ever with you at my side. You may be twinned to another, but at your birth I believe our hearts were made glorious whole, cleft in twain in our youth only to reunite the moment we embraced in the orchard. Let it be said, now and forever: I love you. I have never so cherished another soul. You are the very essence of my life’s blood, the very scarlet that singes through my veins and keeps my heart racing. I want us to stroll through immortality as we strolled along our beloved shore, graciously, wisely, and with ever-supporting arms. I am yours, my flame would burn with yours, burn with our soldered love… my most genial and endearing Echoriath, cousin, heart’s brother, lover and friend: would you join this adoring heart in a pledge to be bound?”

To owlish, but luminous eyes were revealed two mithril bands, a tangle of willow leaves stopped thrice by cobapple blooms. Both were laced with simple pewter chains, to wear around the neck until the formal family betrothal. Sundered by shock, Echoriath found he could not speak, though there was no doubt as to his answer, as to his heart’s favor. Instead, he took up the longer chain. Tathren bowed his head. He soon laid the links around his lissome neck, the ring on his chest. He held the jewel like a timid bird in his palm, as Tathren had once held his trembling frame and coddled him, so many nights ago. He closed his fingers around the band, then met his questing eyes anew.

“Eternally, I would be yours, my giving, golden one,” he vowed, then fought to allay his joyous tears as his neck was similarly adorned.

They melded then, hands, mouths, bodies, and spirits, waiting on the fusing of their ecstatic soul flames.


End of Part Eight