Idylls of a King Forlorn

Title: Idylls of a King Forlorn, Part 1: Calen Lass
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: Legolas/Elrohir
Summary: In the fourth age, a mysterious stranger come to Minas Tirith, bearing ill news for King Elessar and his elven guards.
Rating: NC-17 for m/m slash, adult themes.
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at theasurasure of his estate aim aim not for profit.
Author’s Note: This is a tiny bit AU. Takes place during the reign of King Elessar; he has been on the throne for about 20 years at this point. The race of men has grown prosperous, though there are still remnants of the Shadow lurking about (as well as natural events that aren’t necessarily ‘evil’, just undomesticated, such as, oh, a troll. For all the ideas/depictions of elven grief and the ‘fading’, I am endlessly indebted to the excellent slashwriter Ilye, who’s work can be found in the Library of Moria. I was so moved by her own descriptions of these things that I had to give it a whirl myself, I hope she can forgive me the borrowing. I’ve made up a couple of characters: the darling Amaranthiel and the fallen Menethren. And the quote is from ‘Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Brownîng.
Dedication: To the Pirate King, for the months of inspiration and those rapturous curls, and to my favorite audience member/critic/cheerleader/kindred spirit/Welsh person, whom I’ll call the Lady Cariad.


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

‘The lilies of our lives may reassure
Their blossoms from their roots, accessible
Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer,
Growing straight, out of man’s reach, on the hill.’


Crouched between the jagged crags at the base of Emyn Arnen, the gray-cloaked interloper observed the sheer mountain slope unseen by the elf and the man-child scaling its surface. Such an uncommon sight for the hills of Minas Tirith, elfkind entrusted with the protection of a boy, but there they were, an elf as rugged many a ranger and a youth as lithe as the Eldar, ably grappling over the sleek, silver-flecked shards of the mountainside.

The observer’s slate-dull cloak, as well as his seasoned hunting skills, easily kept him from the man-child’s detection. The elf was another matter entirely. Though the pale peaks of his ears were plain enough against a long, gleaming cascade of obsidian hair, his was the body of a warrior. Tall, lean, as the elfkind, but his limbs and torso thick with meat, more befitting the horsemen of Rohan. Far from limiting his natural grace, his movements seemed enhanced by this added weight, his every motion whispering of untold might restrained. Indeed, even his dress was foreign to the Eldar. Though his quiver bore the markings of Imladris, he preferred a ranger’s leather tunic, chaps, boots, and the fat-bellied sword of the witch-realm in the mountains of Angmar; his shift and cloak the deep violet of Gondor’s most revered knights, the King’s guard. His angular face and hawkish regard still betrayed elven refinement, though his mouth was unnaturally full, his lips sinuous, scarlet.

As they neared the lower shelf of the slope, the elf-warrior paused, peerless, on the sheer edge, his burnished indigo eyes ruthlessly surveying the area. The interloper stilled, willing his breaths to deepen, his mind to quiet, the blood in his veins to lax. The elf stood, immovable, for several moments, then sprang onto the path as if a dancer in flight.

“Eldarion!!” he called to the man-child. “This way!!”

Before the youth could bother reply, the elf was over the next ridge. Though his voice had not yet turned, Eldarion could be heard to grumble, as he scampered up the last of the sheer face of the slope. At the sound of his naming, the hidden observer slightly raised the brim of his hood, his trenchant blue eyes taking closer stock of the struggling boy. The edges of his lips curved upwards appreciatively, half-smirk, half outright smile. /So this was Aragorn’s heir./

As the watcher shifted position to better observe the awkward young prince, a booming yawl resounded through the foothills. Before the kingling could even draw his sword, a horn-crowned cave troll, easily twenty times his size,relereled down towards him. The rloprloper leapt to his feet, then up onto a nearby rock, for better leverage should he need to intervene, touthouth’s elven protector now far out of range. /For one of such might, the elf is careless with such a precious charge./

Eldarion, surprisingly agile, slid under the troll, then darted through a nearby forest of stalactites, dangerous ground for the creature’s crude bulk. The cave troll lunged, again and again, but the prince’s slender frame sped away at the last second. /His maneuvers are deft,/ the gray-cloaked stranger noted, /and the creature will soon tire. But will it be soon enough?/

The cave troll’s anguished groans echoed through the cliffs and crags, their force crumbling both the sheer face of the mountainside and the peaks of the stalactites. Eldarion, his nerves fraying, swung at the troll’s bludgeoning arms with the practiced precision of an apprentice swordsman, but the creature’s brute force time and again won over. At last, with a reactionary swat of titanic impact, the prince’s lithe frame collided with its monstrous arm, spun, then smacked into the merciless, defacing rock of the shelf wall.

Without another thought, the hooded figure let the first of a flurry of lethally accurate arrows fly. Gelatinous spews of green blood burst from the cave troll’s neck, as the creature roared his last and fell. The youth, bathed in sickly muck, was soon on his feet again, the interloper now at his side.

“I would have bested him, Uncle,” Eldarion squawked in frustration, momentarily blinded by the green goo. With a gentle chuckle, his cloaked savior offered him a handkerchief and was himself revealed. The prince gasped, grasped the hilt of his sword.

“I am no threat to you, pen-neth,” the stranger assured him. “I am pledged to your father, the King. Who should, if I may be so bold, chose the guards to his heir with greater care.”

“It was a test,” the yoreplreplied, rather testily, for one so young. The cloaked observer was instantly reminded of the boy’s father, and his more tempestuous nature in his youth. “I was to slay the cave troll.”

“But surely the intent was not for you to be slain, should you fail,” the interloper remarked. “Where is your guardian?”

“Seeking you out, I’ve no doubt,” the prince challenged, with undisguised ire. “His senses are keen.”

Before the hooded stranger could answer for himself, he jumped back, narrowly avoiding the incisive path of what was no doubt an arrow from the elf-warrior’s Imladrian quiver.

“Reveal yourself, stranger,” the guardian hissed, dropping down from the ledge above them. “That is no peasant’s son you trifle with.”

“Then perhaps you should take greater care with him,” the stranger snipped, only the glint of his crisp cobalt eyes visible through the cloak-hood’s shadow. “Son of Elrond.”

The elf-warrior’s eyes shone a warm violet when he recognized one of his kin. “What business does a Mirkwood elf have so far from the East Bight?”

“It is long since I lay in the fields of the Bight,” the archer sighed, lifting away the gray wool of his hood. “Though many a night past I have dreamt there, of snow-capped peaks and of misty marshes, and of Gondor’s gleaming white tower.”

It was Legolas.

Upon the revelation of the elf-prince, Elrohir was doubly struck. Though elven refinement kept the tremors ffacefaceface, the Eldar had never before remarked upon the archer’s silken grace. Years ago, they had fought together in the War of the Ring. Perhaps the threat of destruction was too near, or the stench of death too sickening, but Elrohir held little memory of Legolas beyond his fervent battle cries, the fatal sting of his arrows, the lethal slice of his twin slit-knives. The smirking, porcelain-carved creature before him had no place in such black, violent remembrances.

“Foe mee me, edhel,” Elrohir all but whispered. “I mistook you for another.”

“Is there a Mirkwood archer who would dare threaten the life of the heir of Gondor?” Legolas chided mirthfully. “I must speak on this with my father.”

Elrohir’s embarrant wnt was thankfully masked by the young prince’s confusion.

“Is you father a king?” Eldarion queried, now utterly befuddled by the day’s strange happenings. “Is this another of your brothers, Elrohir?”

“He is of my kin, mellon-nîn, and thus my brother-in-arms,” Elrohir replied, his eyes still locked on the Mirkwood prince’s wry expression. “And a great friend of your father’s. This is Legolas, son of Thranduil.”

The boy’s face beamed with nothing short of awe.

“You are the fearless Legolas!!” the bedazzled youth exclaimed, knees quivering as if to bow. Legolas swallowed his mirth deeply down, then laid a fond hand on the crown of the prince’s raven hair.

“And you are the picture of your mother, pen-neth,” Legolas noted with affection. “Aragorn’s pride must suffer greatly.” Legolas winked slyly at Elrohir,n ren rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “But come, I have urgent business with the King.”

“Your return will lighten his spirits, meldir,” Elrohir remarked, upon reflection, somewhat stupidly. “For these are burdensome times. The Queen has birthed yet another daughter, the delicate princess Amaranthiel.”

To his surprise, the archer’s face grew darker.

“My return, perhaps, may cheer him,” Legolas replied, a shadow falling over his soft features. “My news may not be such comfort.”

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

Though the feast before them befit the return of Arathorn from the grave, few of the company tasted a scrap of it, once Legolas began his tale. The Mirkwood prince himself had remarked on its opulence, decrying recent years of rabbit stew, dewberries, and lembas bread from his adventures in Fangorn forest, though he would only sip fitfully at his wine and swallow the occasional spoon of broth, for respite more than hunger.

Earlier, King Elessar had blessed him with the warmest of welcomes, clasping the reluctant elf tightly against him and murmuring gratitudes into the sharp peaks of his ears. Legolas had bore it graciously, Elrohir had noted, his not uncommon smirk of bemusement in ample evidence throughout the numerous salutations at court. With her fussy, darling Amaranthiel to occupy her, Queen Arwen had made her excuses, leaving Aragorn, Eldarion, and Elrohir to lunch with the new arrival.

Legolas remained jovial for much of the meal, as the King spoke fondly of the trials of his reign and the archer recounted tales of his years in the Glittering Caves. His traveling companion, the dwarf Gimli, had been called to the home of his great-great-granddaughter, who had born quadruplets and was shamefully short-handed. The thought of Gimli tending to his great-great-great-grandchildren carried their mirth through to the main course.

“You seek another companion, gwanur-nîn?” Aragouggeuggested, with a twinkle. “You have returned to force my abdication and claim me as your own?”

Legolas, indeed the entire company, laughed heartily.

“And what of your daughters?” the archer teased. “Who would protect their honor, in your absence?”

“I would!!” Eldarion exclaimed scornfully, to the amply great amusement of his elders.

“Indeed, you would, mellon-nîn,” Elrohir encouraged softly. “Once you have bested the cave troll.”

Elrohir was pleased to note that this last comment restored the glint to the archer’s aquamarine eyes, not seen since that morning’s encounter. He smiled, almost imperceptibly, across the table at Legolas, who swiftly averted his dimming gaze. A chill passed through the elf-warrior.

“Your absence has been felt, Legolas,” the King suddenly turned solemn. “You have strayed far too long. The babe that was born on your last visit is now almost grown.” Aragorn nodded towards Eldarion, who reeled in astonishment. “I hope you will tarry here awhile, meldir.”

Legolas fell silenis nis natural elven calm suddenly eerily distressing.

“You were correct in your presumption that I seek out your company, Evinyatar,” the archer began, with cautious deliberation. The formal address unsettled the King, who drew back in his seat, the set of his jaw taking on a regal solidity.

“Ai’nad in my power to grant is yours, Prince of Mirkwood,” Aragorn responded, his tone officious. “I will not fail you.”

“Ay, I know, gwanur.” Legolas bowed his head. “Forgive my formality, I simply…” He raised his eyes again, their color darkened to a deep midnight. “Upon my return from the Glittering Caves in Fangorn, I sojourned in the remains of Lothlorien. There, I received word from Mirkwood. Other than a few servants, my father and Menethren, his chief counsel, were all that remained of the wood-elves. A dragon struck the northern thatch of forest. It would have burned the entire wood to ash, had Menethren not rode out. The forest was saved from the dragon’s wrath… Menethren… he fell, Aragorn.”

As the Eldar fell, so did a deadening silence over the table.

“My Adar… my father is fading. Menethren was… *is*, perhaps closer to the bone, his melethron…his beloved. I am told he will not last out the month.”

“Can he not be bound to another, Legolas?” the King asked, with learned temperance.

“He refuses,” the prince acknowledges. “He wishes to pass on to the Halls of Mandos, to be reunited with Menethren who is slain. I cannot fault him such a wish.” Legolas took another dull sip of wine, more to wet his parched mouth than to savor its dry flavor. “I would not ask that you undertake such a journey, aran Gondor… but there is no one to sing for him. None but me to carry him to Imladris, to be shroud in the Eternal Flame. Adar was the King… Menethren a valiant warrior. They deserve their honor.”

“And they shall have it.”

It was as gentle a pronouncement as King Elessar had ever made, but its simplicity spoke volumes to the assembled company.

“I shall journey with you to Mirkwood, gwanur-nîn, fear not.” Aragorn met the archer’s wounded eyes with his own steady gaze. “Together we shall lament the fall of the green forest.”

“I shall join you, if you will,” Elrohir cautiously added. “It has been some years since I have seen Adar, Elladan, Imladris...”

Legolas allowed himself the faintest of smiles: “I would be glad of it, mellon-nîn. Your voice is of peculiar melody, if I recall.” Elrohir, startled by his praise, could only nod in deference.

“Eldarion, you shall accompany us, as well,” Aragorn decreed, dismissing the hushed tone of the proceedings and moving on to more practical matters. “Time you learnt to appreciate the many shades of ruling a kingdom.”

The young prince’s eyes, alight with wonder, were soon tempered by the thought of the journey’s sad purpose.

“We set out at dawn,” Aragorn announced with finality, turning to Legolas one last time. A twinge of satisfaction could not help but spark his drawn features. “We ride again, my brother.”

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

The court minstrels strummed a blithe, lilting Edhellondrian melody, the strains as vaporous as sea foam, when Arwen swept onto the terrace of the White Tower of Gondor, Amaranthiel nestled tight against her heart, finally at rest. Though rose-red embers still floated above the horizon, the evening’s celebrations were already waning, the courtiers well aware of the trials of the journey to come and many preparations yet to be attended to.

Most of the Gondorian nobles had retired; the King, however, was sequestered beneath the eastern turret by his councilmen, who had noteiveeived the news of his imminent departure well. Legolas, the cause of all this – celebration and inquisition both – kept vigil close by, though weary, instinctively protective of his adanellyn.

Her brother loomed by the hearth-fire; his reflective eyes aglow with lilac flames, but his ears, she well knew, scouting for signs of unrest among the councilmen. Elrohir loved, and was beloved, of man and elfkind both - his years with the Rangers proof enough of the duality of his nature – but though he was often champion of edain bravery among the Eldar, he knew their weakness cut just as deep. Even in times of peace, the most elvellyn among the edain could prove treacherous, where the safety of their King was concerned.

Arwen doubted not of his safety on this journey, simply of his peace of mind. Estel had attended his share of Eldar memorials, but this demise of the Greenwood of Thranduil would leave its black mark on every member of the company. Her one comfort was the presence of her father and the gentle Glorfindel, at Imladris, who wouaterater to both the ritual and the spiritual needs of the mourners. /Perhaps, if Amanranthiel proves of sweet a disposition as her sisters, I shall join them at Rivendell./

Her infant daughter now heavy with slumber, Arwen took a seat by the hearth-fire, her concern for Elrohir’s spirit even more acute than her frettings over her husband’s. Her brother’s regard for the Mirkwood prince was unmistakable to one who knew him so intimately; the elf-warrior’s attention had scarcely wavered for an instant from the fair calenlass, since his unexpected arrival. /He is too long in the world of men,/ Arwen reflected, as her brother blessed her with fond regard. /Though he is pledged to Estel, he longs for elvellyn company./

“Another little treasure,” Elrohir murmured, as he bent over to kiss his dormant niece’s brow. “I expect she will be grown some, when I return.”

“Shel bel be bright as a jewel,” Arwen remarked playfully. “She will still sparkle at the sight of you, nîn bellas.” Elrohir seemed not to hear, his cautious gaze drifting once more towards the east turret. “And you, gwanur? Will you have grown some upon your return?”

A smile threatened her brother’s stern lips, but they held tight.

“I marvel at his resolve, sellath,” Elrohir commented solemnly. “To watch your father fade, to know the kingdom you would rule will soon vanish without a trace, your legacy smote in dragon’s fire… your homeland abandoned…”

“I have not known you to be so melancholy, Elrohir,” Arwen chided delicately. “The time of the Eldar in Middle-Earth is ending, the few that remain… there will come a time when you, too, will long for Valinor. Estel is all that keeps you.”

“This is my home, Arwen,” Elrohir snapped, unthinking. “Do you think yourself the only edhel in Middle-Earth who would forgo an eternity in Valinor for love of this land and her true people?”

Arwen smiled softly to herself, her brother’s resolve both intent and admirable. She would not press him further, her tone again turning mischievous.

“Are you certain it is the edain Gondor who enthrall you, gwanur-nîn?” she teased. “Your attentions seem fixed on…others.” Elrohir could not keep the sheepish grin from curling his sinuous lips. “He is weary, and morose. Estel is skilled at shifting his council’s concerns towards his own. Perhaps the prince’s mind would be eased by a turn in the garden?”

“Perhaps,” her brother replied enigmatically. After further long moments entranced by the firelight, the elf-warrior bowed his head. “I would ask a service of you, sellath.”

“Ai’nad, gwanur-nîn.”

“The journey will be long,” Elrohir began, his voice barely more than a swift exhalation. “Our bond, uncertain. I would take Rites with him, before the morn. It will ease his pain.”

“Of what Rites do you speak, Elrohir?” Arwen’s face darkened, in deep confusion. She was well aware of the customs of elfkind and had never heard tell of any Rites.

“Among the warriors of our kind…” he haltingly explained. “The warrior’s passion on the battlefield can overtake him, as well as… during the Rites of love. Often, in the history of our people, warring tribes came together of necessity, to fight a stronger foe, a greater menace. The chieftains of these tribes must reconcile their own difference, must build a common trust, in order to ally themselves fully. Thus, on the eve of battle, they would enact the Rites of love, giving their body’s pledge to the other. It became custom, over time, when embarking on a journey, or a quest… or during the quest, to renew the pledge, to comfort an ailing comrade… It is custom. To set the mind, and the body, to the task at hand, and not… but the request must be formally made. By a third party.”

“And you ask me to…?” Arwen swallowed a definite giggle.

“He is a hallowed warrior,” Elrohir quickly added. “The request need not be… elaborate. He will know of what you speak.”

After some inner-deliberation, Arwen rose to her feet, bending gingerly over to kiss her brother’s flushed brow. With lithe, measured steps, the Queen tread calmly in the direction of the east turret, her rich, crimson gowns wafting in her wake.

Elrohir watched her float across the terrace, his hawk-eyes rapt, anxious.

Though he had been observing the siblings’ conversation for some time, Legolas greeted the Queen with a warm, unknowing smile. His senses ever-attuned to the moods, the tones, and the postures of the surrounding company, as any cunning fighter’s should be, Legolas was as conscious of the peredhil’s veiled scrutiny as he was of the councilmen’s scorn, the fiddle player’s growing fatigue, and the slumbering princess’ dulcet dreams. As Arwen approached him, he relaxed his guard, the dull ache returning to his shoulders and his back creaking unmercifully. / I need rest,/ he remarked inwardly, not for the first time that evening. /Perhaps Valinor beckons after all./

Much as Mandos lured him, he would not leave while Aragorn’s light still shone. His tired eyes flicked from Arwen to Elrohir. /So many wait-out the King’s lifetime./

“The battle rages on, mellon-nîn?” Arwen queried, now at his side.

“I fear it will last out the night,” Legolas almost groaned. “You would think he was their lover. Were it not for all the children you’ve born him…” This last restored the twinkle to the archer’s chill cerulean eyes. Arwen chuckled fondly.

“Indeed, my husband is a potent menace in every aspect of his kingdom,” Arwen smirked, some might even say wickedly, at her kinsman. “By which I am reminded to beseech you to keep him well, Prince of Mirkwood. There may well be another prince or princess to coddle upon his return.”

At this wondrous news, Legolas laughed outright, which drew the deeply-creased frowns of several councilors.

“I will keep him well, meldir, fear not,” Legolas quietly assured her, the mirth all but drained from his face.

“You are weary, Legolas,” Arwen cooed, with grave concern. “Will you not take some rest? Elrohir has bade me ask if you will claim a warrior’s right, and take Rites with him.” Legolas regarded her, just then, with a mixture of surprise and peculiar intent. “There is a bath in his chamber, and…”

“Elrohir would take Rites with me?” Legolas seemed to consider more than ask, growing pensive. His gaze crept over to the fireside, but the peredhil was gone. To his chambers, no doubt. /Such confidence./

Despite his exhaustion, the archer found his journey-worn body bristled, sparking in anticipation of a night’s indulgence with the dark, rogueish elf-warrior. Not since the Quest for the Ring had Legolas lain with another, and never before out of any deep affection, simply need. Indeed, a warrior’s Rites, in these peaceful times, were a rare luxury; a ritual the archer had only experienced once before. The memory of that scarlet evening, coupled with his body’s insistent approval of such needed indulgence, swayed his mind. Added to the fact that it would be Elrohir’s burden, as the initiator, to please /him…/

“If you will excuse me, mellon-nîn,” Legolas bowed politely, as Arwen swallowed yet another mischievous smile. “I believe my fatigue has finally caught up with me.”

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

As he padded surreptitiously down the winding halls that led to the royal bedchambers, Legolas struggled to quell his body’s growing anticipation. Thoughts of the elf-warrior’s raven beauty, of his swordsman’s bulk and his archer’s grace, of his edain roughness and his edhil luminosity, clouded the prince’s already weighted mind. As he searched, distractedly, for the Imladrian’s door, his skin simmered, restless, his tongue sponged his mouth ruthlessly dry, and his loins tensed to aching. Legolas feared that one brief touch of the Eldar’s lips to his skin would be his undoing. / It has been far, far too long…/

At last recognizing the elven blessing inscribed on the arching door-frame, Legolas paused before the peredhil’s chambers, a small slip of his mind still concerned that Elrohir had invoked the warriror’s Rites. Why had he not simply approached him? Why such formality? They had fought in the War of the Ring together, was that not proof enough of their allegiance? The situation did not sit right with the archer, but he would broach the topic at a later time. At present, he found he could no longer ignore the gnawing, wanting throb at the center of his being.

His sword, as they say, was at the ready.

Before he could raise a hand to knock, a voice inside bade him enter. As he made his way into the heart of the rooms, Legolas was enveloped by the voluptuous scents of the Imladrian baths: cinderlocke, pealshell, and rich vergammon flower. As he loosened the laces of his tunic, he recalled the long night he’d lingered at the baths, with Boromir, soaking in the fuming swirls, drinking miruvor, and praising the coming renewal of Gondor’s White Tower. If only the brave adan could be here to witness it’s current glory…

“Suilad, elmellyn.” Elrohir’s welcome broke through the prince’s sensory meanderings; his bare, beckoning torso silenced any lingering doubts as to the rightness of these Rites. Legolas stroked his gaze appreciatively, deliberately, over the elf-warrior’s sculpted frame, the tightly-knotted, diaphanous sarong wound around his slim waist the only attempt at modesty. His pearlescent black hair hung in loose, wanton waves over his shoulders, the tips licking at the delicate wisps of hair circling his purple nipples, proofhis his half-edain heritage. His ripe, violet eyes shone out, unrestrained, as fierce and mesmerizing as the elen above.

Legolas was breathless.

“Put yourself at ease, calenlass-nîn,” Elrohir murmured, as he advanced towards him. “Give no thought to your troubles. I will soothe what ails you.” The peredhil’s thick, calloused fingers caressed the length of his face, as he leaned in for a first, tentative kiss.

With firm purpose, Legolas placed a warm hand at the center of Elrohir’s chest.

“You claim a warrior’s right, gwanur-nîn,” Legolas reminded him. “We cannot embrace as lovers.”

Elrohir’s face softened, whispering lightly: “And who is here to know, melethron? I would give you every pleasure…”

“Forgive me, mellon-nîn, but I would not lead you falsely,” Legolas cooed, fearful that the prince might chafe at his words. “A warrior’s Rites I am here to claim. I cannot… I will not lay claim to the rule of your heart.” Elrohir seemed to accept this, exhaling with little difficulty.

“It is I who must ask your forgiveness, elmellyn,” the elf-warrior beseeched him. “I mistook… it is forgotten. Please… your bath is drawn. Do not forgo such well-deserved ministrations for my assumptions…”

“Aye, indeed, I shall not,” the prince assured him, taking hold of his hands, beckoning them to disrobe him. With a grateful, affectionate glance, Elrohir obliged.

Despite his earlier pledge, the full sight of the golden Eldar’s lissome, crystalline beauty deeply affected the Imladrian prince. The muslin wash of his skin, the fine craft of his shoulders, the sensuous slope of his navel, which, once Elrohir shed his riding chaps, revealed a shaft of such tongue-leadening potency as the darkling elf had not thought possible. Nevertheless, he momentarily stifled his own desire, guiding Legolas into the molten depths of the bathwater.

With eager, nimble fingers, Elrohir undid the tight weaving of his braids, then wove his hands through the archer’s flaxen hair, massaging the scalp. Legolas sighed, sinking in, his features laxing into blissful serenity. As Elrohir’s silken touch moved down his neck to his shoulders, Legolas leaned his golden crown back against the Eldar’s chest and softly began to sing.

It was unlike any elven song Elrohir had heard before, almost decadent in its richness, the prince’s opulent, eloquent voice as thick as a mouthful of cream. The effect was viscerally sensual; the languorous rhythms seeped through his senses, starting a slow burn over his skin, searing down his spine, and singeing into every cell of his being. The raven-haired elf swooned despite himself, caught in the rapture of arc archer’s song.

With able, knowing arms, Legolas divested him of the sarong and lured him into the balming waters, crawling over him, stroking the entire, incendiary length of their bodies together. Soon, his velvet touch seemed everywhere at once, over his legs, down his arms, up his back, across the heaving plain of his chest, through the sleek waves of his sodden hair, that slow, seductive song ever beckoning.

With his own fierce, guttural moan, he succumbed to the archer’s pan. n.


To Be Continued…


A/N: I decided to repost this fic in the general forum, which had the unfortunate side-effect of deleting the reviews, but thanks to both Eresse and Kimeki for taking the time to post such niceties, you made my day and I’m quite sorry they are gone. =/