Requiescence

Title: Requiescence – Prologue and Part One
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Pairing: The Golden Ones
Summary: One never does know what form of curious creature one might encounter when venturing out into the wild woods of foreign realms.
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: There will be some Het content to this story, but only on the way to slashier heights. Those squicked by such things be forewarned, as well as those who oppose the rambunctious sexual adventuring of a repressed young woodland prince (aka Legolas gets a bit slutty in his search for his identity). Others, rejoice! ;D
Feedback: Would be delightful.
Dedication: To Eresse, dearest friend, blessed writer, and shrewdest critic.

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Requiescence - Prologue

Rivendell Valley, Year 429, Third Age

By the crystalline ping of three merciless arrows shot through the humid forest air, he was saved.

The cave troll coughed up a bubbling bilge of inky violet blood, lurched into a prickly pine, then thumped dully to the ground, the aftershocks scaring a pair of shrieking squirrels up to the higher boughs of the oaks about. Elrohir, still panting from the visceral fight, from the ominous flashes of his own death that had lit in his mind’s eye when gawping up at the troll’s raised boulder-of-a-fist, carefully relaxed the rigid muscles of his right calf, then extricated his leg from beneath the shackling snarl of roots. The rather inspired maneuver of slicing across the monster’s ankles had perilously backfired, his flaying-knife missing by the most infinitesimal degree and his own leg being snared by the stoic tree. Though he was unsure of how Elladan had recovered so quickly from the troll’s blighting blow to scale up to the lower boughs and to fire so adroitly point-blank into the creature’s cranium, he was nevertheless mightily grateful.

Twas when he gazed up into the dense foliage of early summer that he first saw him.

Through a trick of the glaring sunlight, he nearly mistook him for an eagle, so feathery was his flaxen mane and so piercing were his diamond-sharp eyes. The purely eloquent regard and the pristinely angular features of a wood-elf observed him from up high, a flicker of wry amusement softening his intent countenance. His green and brown hunter’s garb was ably camouflaged by the abundant verdure of leaves, as was the quiver berthing those most incisive arrows; Elrohir had no doubt that his preternaturally skilled rescuer was allowing himself to be seen. Yet by the quick measure of his crouched form, he was barely a decade past elflinghood. Upon closer scrutiny, his bearing yet betrayed a maidenly litheness, while his wiry musculature spoke of immaturity.

Indeed, his pride at having felled such a vicious beast was nearly as vivid as his conflictive trepidation. By all evidence, he was not only a considerable distance aloft from his homeland, but also on his first journey beyond the confines of lush, lofty Greenwood. Whether said journey was purposeful or accidental, Elrohir could not fathom from even such a prying stare; only his wariness to descend was writ bold across his admittedly beautiful face. Though still of a tender age, perhaps a half-century before the vital blush of elven prime, the youngling had been bountifully blessed by a fine lineage. His comeliness would only richen as the ages swept past, until his fletched arrows would sunder foul heathens, disreputable foes, and love-wretched suitors alike. Yet the resilience in those bejeweled eyes told of unquenchable energies, of a sprightliness few of his peers could merit or match.

This was a youth of vigor and pluck, who was brave enough to charge into the fray to save a pair of strangers upon what amounted to hostile territory for him, defiant enough of his innate woodland discipline to string his bow in aid of a lesser race, and compassionate enough towards even unknown quantities to reveal himself to them. To linger long enough to assure himself that they were, indeed, safely held; for Elrohir keenly understood that in the wood-elf’s hesitation lay a misapprehension nearly as rash as his own in combating the cave troll. The twin Sons of Elrond were just then returning to Imladris from an espionage exercise in the mannish village of Hollin, down south. He was seized by a triumphant spark within, when it became clear that the gullible youngling had been fooled by their disguising dress.

He thought them men.

Offering a gracious smile up to his rescuer, Elrohir wondered what the woodland elf would do next. The youth appeared to be considering the very same, mildly confounding question as to whether to slip down to the forest floor and display himself in full, or whether to blend back in to the tittering leaves and fly stealthily back to his companions. He was further muddled by the sudden advent of Elladan, who briefly examined his brother for wounds before following his gaze up into the trees. He emitted a snort of surprise, but was appreciative enough of the delicacy of the circumstance not to comment outright; any experienced soldier could easily discern the greenling’s hot curiosity and frigid unease, a potentially explosive alchemy that adrenalized expectation and distempered desire.

Elrohir slowly bowed his head in an elaborate gesture of thankfulness, which prompted the wood-elf into yet another unanticipated reaction.

“Are you well?” he asked in a stilted, tremulous Westron.

Twas obvious he was still struggling to acclimate the diphthongs and curlicues of polished Sindarin to the guttural mumbles of the mannish tongue, which only further underlined his sheltered youth. Yet twas also indicative of a noble birth, both by the officious tone of his accent and by the fact that he was being taught the more formal structure of the language. The rubes of Barrowman’s Close would have barely made out a word of his brief address, to say naught of the southern herdsmen of Hollin.

“Aye, sterling,” Elrohir answered, with what he hoped was a welcoming smile. “We come from the southlands to unfamiliar terrain. We are most grateful for your protection. May a humble rogue offer his rescuer a flask of the wine we carry?”

The young elf’s pretty mouth made a pink, plump moue. By the dimming of those vibrant eyes, he had not understood more than a few, disparate words, but was far too proud to admit so.

“Take a safe road,” he haltingly advised. “To the west.”

After a bow of his own, he murmured an elvish blessing over them, then spend off through the trees. Yet even the quick eyes of the twins could not keep up with a wood-elf in his element. Elrohir lost track of him but seconds after his retreat, marveling nevertheless at how effortlessly the woodland sprite could race through the upper boughs. Indeed, he found himself pondering every aspect of the young interloper for hours after, even once they’d overtaken the mountain path once again. Elladan, reading his brother’s thoughts, had speculated that a Greenwood delegation was headed for Imladris, which the greenling had been allowed to accompany in order to gain him worldly experience. Elrohir could not counter his twin’s well-reflected notion, yet was later lost to consideration of what this might portend for their race, their father, and their homeland sanctuary. As well as for his very self, should he encounter the brash youth on a more level playing field, one that took no means to hide his entitlement as Prince of Imladris.

Of a sudden, he was quite charged with delicious, precocious anticipation.

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Part One

Imladris, Year 439, Third Age

Twas the third, and by far most wretched, look of sympathy from his Naneth that came painstakingly close to prompting some wildness in him.

Wildness for which he was only too ill-reputed back in his homeland, the great, resplendent forest aptly named the Greenwood, which was itself considered one of the most disciplined, conservative, yet roughshod of elven realms, largely due to the imperious rule of his Adar-King, whose occasional glance offered not a glimmer of sympathy, but only shrewd-eyed evaluation of his etiquette skills. Though Thranduil was currently boasting of his son’s prowess with a longbow, he failed to mention that Legolas’ talent was honed not through the restrictive efforts of his few, lesser teachers, but on his many, secret excursions beyond the boundaries of their compound. He had, of course, only caught him ‘in abscondia’ the one time. Yet the prince’s success in sneaking by the guards was outdone only by his survival instincts, when suddenly confronted by some snarling, saber-toothed beast, by a horde of grumbling brigands, or by a woodsman seeking recompense for his stolen wineskin through a duel.

Twas thus that his genial skills had been tested; primed into exceptional form by true, merciless danger, a visceral education no monotonous drilling nor elegance of form could match, which was not to say that these elements had no place in his training routine. These were simply other weapons in his arsenal, along with trenchant arrows and tensile bow, that serviced his innate capabilities, that he reached to in order to keep himself alive. Yet without the honest and encroaching threat of death, no warrior could believe himself truly prepared for the brutalities of warfare. As such, Legolas still regularly defied his Adar-King’s direct, furious, and adamant order by devising even more elusive methods for evading detection by the guards.

One manner of camouflage was to purposely get himself confined to his quarters. His Adar would oft be so infuriated with him that he would not be able to confront him until having succumbed to sleep’s cooling consolations, thus ensuring Legolas a night’s roam about the hinterlands. Yet the young prince did not court misbehavior per se – for twas ever best to remain in his Adar’s good graces for as long as possible – but somehow mischief always resulted from his love of mirth and of merriment. While most in the palace adored him for his rambunctious nature, such a pleasure after the dull elflinghoods of his dutiful eldest and of his scholarly middle brothers, rule weighed too heavily upon his Adar-King for him to always appreciate the persnickety jests of his youngest child. Thranduil thought him too reckless by far, impatient with his tutors and impudent by disposition. He was ever striving to impress upon Legolas a sense of the piety of his entitlement, the import of stricture, and the necessity of measure in all things.

Indeed, this very excursion to Imladris had begun as a diplomatic exercise for the young prince, the stakes of which were high indeed. Yet his Adar was too cunning a warrior not to understand implicitly the potential temptations and rewards for his son. The journey would nourish his adventurous spirit, but one of his amiable ease was also as likely to glut himself on the spoils of intrigue about. As such, Thranduil was ever there to chasten him, to tame him down, and to prove the benefits of moderation on an inter-racial stage. If Legolas embarrassed him before the High Elves of the Noldor, the consequences would be dire. The prince was only too aware of how polished his behavior need be, in order to win not only his father’s favor, but more freedom and more responsibility upon their return to Greenwood.

As such, he conjured up the deep, mysterious, yet grateful gray eyes of the mercenaries he had saved just that afternoon, then offered both his parents a winning smile.

Yet such a staid situation as the banquet he was presently forced to endure could do naught but chafe him, especially when such potential for animated conversation sizzled beneath the poised, politick countenances of the noble elves assembled there. Indeed, Legolas was all but burning with forge-poker questions to provoke his betters with. Though forgotten to the high born by virtue of being seated on the far side of his parents, he was nevertheless close enough to the action to draw some rousing tale of errantry during the Last Alliance out of Lord Elrond or some Noldor spin on ancient lore out of his chief advisor, Lord Erestor. There was also the small matter of a reborn legend seated but two spaces from him, but to whom he had given only the most timid of greetings; the very Balrog-slayer himself! Truly, this diplomatic mission was some imaginative method of his Adar’s to torment him!

The most crushing blow to his perspicacious intentions had come as Lord Elrond had beckoned them from the salon to table. In his only address directed at Legolas, he had made the excuses of his twin sons, who had not yet returned from a journey south. He had *so* wanted to meet, and hopefully befriend, the Sons of Elrond, if only to have some youthful companionship here in Imladris. Though the twins were over two-hundred years his senior, he was anxious to prove himself worthy of their regard, as he wished to learn amply from them. Even if his Adar-King preferred him a diplomat, he would do all in his power to fashion himself the most incisive warrior of this age. The tutelage of the peredhil twins was an essential aspect to this vision, yet one he would obviously have to forgo for the present time.

With a concealed sigh, he tucked into his rather slight bowl of fennel-spiced summer potage, which he would later be ashamed to realize was but the second of five exquisite courses. Perhaps he had more to learn of the mores of foreign realms than he had initially assumed.

When later the ominous strike of a supple-bellied drum interrupted the delicate strains of conversation around him and his rabbit-like appreciation of the colorful vegetable salad, he mistook the signal for the advent of yet another sumptuous dish. A thrill surged up his spine when the page announced the Sons of Elrond, though his own surprise could not rival the cry of relief that sounded from the Lady Celebrian, who stood with her husband to greet their children. The guests and nobles followed suit, though kept their curious gazes properly schooled, as the Lord and Lady hugged and fussed over their sons with abundant warmth. Legolas only caught a brief glimpse of the two raven-black heads before they were kissed and petted with effluent fondness; he found himself somewhat sourly reflecting that he had not been so caressed since elflinghood. Yet to his poorly-stifled excitement, the broad-shouldered brothers were ushered to seats directly opposite him, where the formal introductions were pronounced.

He was not allowed an earnest glance at their faces until both his parents had been bowed to, but the shock of those sharp, quicksilver eyes subsequently foist upon him nearly forced him to curse in belated recognition.

Twin pairs, no less, and both aimed pointedly at him, playfully daring him to loose face. My, but these were clever foes! For they were groomed to the hilt and betrayed no glint of haste, so they had planned his ambush most meticulously. He doubted they had recognized ought but his elven breed – as well as, doubtlessly, his precarious grasp of Westron – so perhaps he was not entirely without advantage. Yet for all their confrontational games, they were quite obvious as keen to decipher him as he was to earn their friendship; for he was more certain now that ever that he had to prove himself their worthy accomplice.

Despite his instant admiration, he did relish how they squirmed, when their Lord-Adar introduced him.

“You may be pleased to discover, my brave ones,” Elrond intoned in his typically mellifluous manner. “That the King is accompanied by his youngest son, the Prince Legolas of Greenwood.” With a twinkle in his eye, the Lord nodded towards the prince. “He has been most eager to make your acquaintance, so I am told.” Yet not Elbereth herself could have prepared him for what followed.

“I wonder at your acuity, Ada,” one of the twins countered, his eyes alight with purest mercury. “For upon our first meeting, the prince fled most discourteously before we could be properly introduced.”

A chorus of startled gasps echoed through the hall, though none more choked than that of the King of Greenwood. Legolas, for his part, could do naught but blush a flagrant crimson. As he struggled to recover himself before his father’s frigid stare, Elrond pacified the table with a calm inquiry.

“Honored guests, I fear there is some intricacy we are not yet appraised of,” he underlined, with an expectant eye aimed at his sons. “For certainly no child of mine would be so undignified as to accuse a prince of elfkind at their father’s table before even an exchange of names.”

“Our apologies, Prince Legolas,” the second brother pledged rather eloquently. He was evidently the softer of the two, though, upon some observation, they were as mirror images. Yet there was a kindness in these eyes that was not like the other, and though this strangely convinced him to seek out this one’s favor, the young prince knew he would later be at pains to tell them apart. “We mean only to pay tribute to the most heroic deed we witnessed this very afternoon.”

“What deed is this?” Thranduil snorted; ready to affect pride or indignation, as needed be. “And whence was my son fooling about the wilds, when his place was in our company’s ranks?”

“Yet we are most grateful for his ‘fooling about’,” the bolder twin responded, with no little pique. “We were on the cusp of being conquered by a fiendishly powerful cave troll, when out of the trees above shot arrows of such vicious acuity that we were spared from Mandos’ Halls. We did not know him for a prince when we spied him there, lurking about to ensure himself of our wellness, nor do I believe he knew us for elfkind, but we are indebted to him all the same.” Locking eyes with him, the flint-eyed peredhil spoke with plain earnestness. “Our thanks, Prince of Greenwood, for your vigilance.”

“And if we may entreat yet another service of you,” the soft one requested. “We would be most amenable to an archery lesson or two, if you could spare us a moment of your time here.”

“I would be more than honored, my Lords!” Legolas exclaimed, his ivory cheeks as ripe as peaches.

Before the Greenwood prince could by one trill of his spirited tongue shatter the fine surface of goodwill crusted over his father’s characteristic testiness, Elrond wisely intervened.

“Indeed, my Lady and I would be remiss in not voicing our own gratitude, Legolas,” he smiled at the youngling. “These two, though at times unruly, are most precious to us. That you have preserved them calls for a blessing, to you and yours. Be sure that I will sing one this night, beneath the light of the Silmaril, driven through the heavens above by Earendil, my noble sire and dearest father. For your bravery, he will shine upon you through all your days at Imladris.”

At this, Legolas found himself too stunned to speak. The King of Greenwood, thoroughly appeased by this deference from one who he hotly disproved of, looked as trussed and honeyed with pride as a slow-roasted pheasant. Twas he who found words of praise that his son heard only too rarely, at which the young prince had to struggle not to bleat like a babe in its cradle.

“Well done, Legolas,” Thranduil complimented him. “For this unparalleled deed, you have earned the liberty you love so well. You are freed of diplomatic duties for your time abroad, if it’s to be spent sparring with the princes. May you both be richened by your shared observances.”

With that, the elders turned back into their private circle, leaving the younger elves to converse among themselves.

Yet the true test of his politesse waited before him, as Legolas was pinned to his seat by two inquisitive spears of argent eyes. Their smirks were knowing, roguish, as if challenging him to speak of courtly matters, but doubtlessly at his own peril. The young prince found himself at a loss, as confused as he had been staring down at those two ‘men’, with whom he was so desperate to communicate and yet so fearful of conversing with, for he had not the tongues to address them coherently. He struggled to differentiate the sets of mithril eyes, one gentle as a coursing river, the other rippling with perspicacity at his unnerving. Which was the one he had saved? He could only pray that the kindest had been the one worthy of his aid.

“I fear you have bested me in more than trickery, my Lords,” Legolas bashfully remarked. “For I may be mistaken, but I did not hear you named. That is, if we may be informal between us.”

“For certes, Legolas,” the soft one assured him, so distinct in attitude that he did not think he would ever mistake them again. “I am Elrohir. This crude elf beside me is Elladan, my twin. You will mark him by the swagger in his step and the mad gleam in his eye, as well as, if you are more discerning, the length of silvered leather twined in his hair. My own is blue, for serenity of spirit.”

Elladan huffed at this: “And moroseness of countenance! Yet do not be fooled, Prince of Greenwood, by his humble manner. He is a tyrant on the checkered board and a wily imp at cards. Which is my rough way of inviting you to the Hall of Fire this evening, if you are not too wearied from your journey. Glorfindel, I know, would appreciate a second, for though none may ever strangle the truth from him, the esteemed slayer of Balrogs is somewhat hopeless at the Battle Game. He could use one of your stealth to improve him.”

“I confess, I could never resist such an enticing proposition,” Legolas demurred. “Yet I was hoping to take a stroll through the grounds. The landscape here is such as I have never seen before. By moonlight…”

“By Elbereth, he *is* a wood-elf, is he not?” Elladan snickered.

“Aye, and a sage one at that,” Elrohir deflected his twin’s impotent insult. “The valley is at her loveliest by moonlight. I would be most glad of a chance to admire the panoply of stars, once we have bested our two overzealous foes. Would you not prefer to partner with me, Legolas? Allow me the opportunity to inch towards repaying my debt to you?”

Legolas was overcome with both relief and pleasure at gentle Elrohir’s gesture. Not only would he be paired with the patient, intuitive elf for what portended to be a rousing round of the Battle Game – for he was by far more interested in challenging the Balrog-slayer than joining with him – but he had been revealed as the one who he had been fortunate enough to rescue. Meeting those soulful, sterling eyes across the table, Legolas did not know how he had confused him for another, even when that other was his identical twin. He was sure he would not forget those compelling eyes for the rest of his eternity.

“Whatever debt you feel is owed between us is hereby abolished, Elrohir,” Legolas whispered intently. “Though I would be most pleased to partner with you at revels. Indeed, I find I look forward to every activity that might engage me here in this golden valley. While I am… somewhat overwhelmed at the manner of my reception, I wish to embrace this place, your life, the ways of your people. Every aspect of this journey has been a wonder to me, yet I find I am only raring for more.”

“Then *welcome* to Imladris, Prince of Greenwood,” the gracious elf insisted. “Tis we who are most glad to foster you.”

As their eyes were lowered to the savory meats set before them, Legolas had the most peculiar sensation of having newly forged what would become a lifelong friendship.

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One Month Later

Beneath Anor raging with sear and blister from the summit of the sky, they were assembled. A canopy had been strung between two solemn oaks to shade the tittering ladies, while the lords stood aloft, their sleek manes glaring under the scorch of the midsummer sun. Thranduil, leonine as he prowled behind the line of Noldor nobles, could not help but by his simmering betray his concern; though whether this was for his son’s confidence or for his realm’s honor, none but his queen could rightly say. Elrond, by contrast, was the picture of patience, wisdom, and equanimity, though rippling beneath the placid surface were his own concerns for the young prince, should he fail to impress his daunting sire.

The Lord and Ladies of Imladris were gathered there to observe the sprightly youth’s rather abundant and innate talents. His Kingly Adar was there, as ever, to evaluate his potential.

From his vantage beneath the thatch of elms, Elrohir noted this distinction only too keenly. That Legolas was aware of the disparate intentions among his audience was unquestionable. Yet in his brash strides not a hint of tension could be found. If there was ought within, not only did he conceal it with more poise than either of the elder contingents could muster for all their years, but there could be no doubt that it fuelled him. Indeed, as Elrohir had come to learn through their routine sparring sessions, he thrived upon such dire straits, boldly and oftentimes recklessly raising the stakes of their interplay so that he was challenged into his deadliest form. The elf-knight doubted that even his inflated sire realized what a pureborn warrior the Valar had bequeathed him; Legolas’ gifts often put even Elladan to shame, though he would never admit such to his strident twin. Despite his own tenacious hold on calm, he had no doubt that his newfound friend would this day prove himself an archer blessed with immeasurable, preternatural talent.

In the suffocating quiet of Legolas’ humble preparation, Elrohir marveled at how swiftly the young prince had endeared himself to him. Not a day since his advent had passed that they had not conversed, strolled, jested, dueled, or jaunted about together, a companion so constant that he was surpassed only by Elladan. Their temperaments meshed, but did not mirror, yet this never impeded their mutual enjoyment. Perhaps twas merely the shock, or the intrigue, of the new, but he found Legolas’ tales of his Greenwood exploits endlessly fascinating, while the recounting of his own to such a rapt listener was quite flattering in itself. He had never met a youngling so eager to absorb every last scrap of knowledge he could impart or the world at large could teach him. He was no snob to intellect, just preferred to bloody his hands. After so many years of condescension and of haughtiness from some of his more pious teachers, Elrohir was himself inspired by the way Legolas looked to him and his brother for guidance, never too shy nor too proud to ask for some enlightenment. Best of all was their common state of entitlement. Even when in Lorien, the brethren never met with any who had experienced cares unique to their princely state. Legolas, however, had not only endured such trials, but could also put his own troubles in perspective to those of his elder brothers. As such, they had been almost instantly complicit; neither he nor Elladan foresaw a weakening of their friendship in the years to come.

Twas with fraternal apprehension that he regarded him now, a lank, lithe figure lone on the archery course. The targets had been pushed back to amplify the distance, as the fletches of his arrows had been brightly colored to mark the hits more pointedly. His quiver was bulging from overabundance, the edges of his flints stretching the leather into pregnant bellies around the bottom. Elrohir inwardly fretted that he had packed the quiver too tight – a glaring mark of overconfidence – but then remembered that he had thought the same when first they had rallied against each other. Needless to add that he had been rightly bested, so conspicuously that he had not a chance to check the quiver afterwards. After some flexing, more for dramatic flair than by necessity, Legolas positioned himself at the designated chalk line.

The collective audience held its breath, though there was hardly any need.

Before their lungs had even a chance to ache, he emptied his quiver, flint after biting flint piercing the center of the target. Yet few of the assembled, perhaps save Glorfindel, Thranduil, and the twins, were keen enough to notice the incomparable fluidity of his form, so rapt were they upon the relentless stream of arrows loosed from that siren bow. When he pried his quarry from the tightly packed straw, the phosphorous fletches blazed like an incandescent bouquet under the blinding sun. Clutching them, Legolas, still of soft, immature face, looked as innocent as an elfling who had been playing in the garden. As he fetched another ready quiver, he offered the fletch-flowers to his Nana, whose cheeks glowed like the pinker feather tones. When he strode back into place, a definite swagger could be detected in his step, which even gawking Thranduil was far too concentrated to notice. Yet the young prince had cause enough to try on a hint of confidence.

That was, after all, but the overture.

The finest archer in their guard would now shoot up arrows, which Legolas would ignite with his own flaming stems. Then, he would astonish them further with his stunning gymnastic ability, striking moving targets as he, in turn, raced through an obstacle course. The last challenge would be the most spectacular of all, as horde of their guards – all steeled with armor and the archer himself possessed of blunt-headed arrows – would chase him through a small copse of trees; he would be required to mortally wound them all before any sword could come within range of striking him.

Elrohir had seen him prevail at each of these at least a dozen times previously, so, once confident of Legolas’ ease, he relaxed against the spongy trunk of the elm to enjoy the show, relishing as his princely friend would doubtlessly do later the gasps of the thoroughly entertained audience. Thranduil, for his part, was rather endlessly agog; hopefully he would consider visiting his training fields more often after this sundering surprise, as well as promoting Legolas to a suitable position on the Greenwood guard.

Elladan, as ever beside him, was cackling with delight at the King’s every strangled gargle of shock, for he had butt heads with Thranduil on a few occasions by now and had no love for the pompous ruler. He had also been more reluctant to outwardly embrace Legolas as a bosom friend, but this was mostly due to his teasing nature. He could never disparage one he cared for too dearly – save perhaps Elrohir himself – for witness the reverential way in which he treated Erestor. As such, he preferred to aggravate Legolas as one irritates a younger brother. The Greenwood prince recognized the affection underlying his taunts and gave fiercely in return, though Elrohir could sometimes do without the bickering this brought on; good-natured as it may be, such quarrels had the potential to turn hurtful, especially among those not yet terribly well acquainted. Yet he was used to such backhanded endearments by now, and so had ceased to worry that a rift would be torn between Legolas and Elladan. Besides, they enjoyed conspiring against him too well to ever dwell in petty argumentation.

As squires rushed to extinguish the ring of fire Legolas’ flaming arrows had meticulously formed around the target, he felt a fond slap upon his back.

“I fear that after such a display, I may well have to compliment him,” Elladan sighed, with palpable reluctance. “The imp has outdone himself, this day.”

“Sure as any hunter, he has earned himself bountiful respect,” Elrohir agreed, swelling with emotion despite himself. “I feel, strangely, as if he were our own brother!”

“Any can see that he is dear to you,” Elladan remarked, with uncommon caution of tone. “I daresay he is most anxious to please you, for he keeps glancing over to assure himself that you have been comforted by his success. Indeed, as he warmed his muscles at practice this morn, he joked that he was more fretful over your ease than his own performance!”

“Which only underlines how anxious he truly was,” Elrohir countered, slightly ruffled by his comment. “Better to think of pleasing me, who supports him unconditionally, than his blustery sire, who never met a compliment he couldn’t subtly undermine.”

Elladan went quiet for a spell, then ventured delicately forth into uncharted, perchance perilous territory.

“You cannot deny that your bond was almost instantaneous,” Elladan suggested. “I have never seen you take to another as you took to him.”

“He proved his worth in saving me,” Elrohir curtly answered. “And proves it every day more, with his sweetness and his constancy. I’ve no doubt we will be great friends.”

“Some might observe that you *are* great friends,” Elladan insisted.

“Aye, we are,” Elrohir retorted, too shrewd not to wonder at his brother’s implications. “What of it? Are Sinda and Noldor not meant to be friends? Can a full-blood elf and a peredhel not be allies? The ancient quarrels have passed, Elladan. Thranduil is here, whether he will admit such to himself or no, to stitch a new understanding between the three elven realms. To knit us close so that we might be one blanket of solidarity over the conflagrant fires of Mordor.”

“I speak not of future woes,” Elladan told him, with a softness rarely heard in his words. “But of current cares. Such as your growing regard for the Prince of Greenwood.”

“As a *brother*,” Elrohir all but growled, though this did nothing to convince his twin of ought but his disingenuousness.

“Do not deny him, Elrohir, not to me,” Elladan volleyed back as gently as he could. “Your eyes betray you every time he appears before us in formal dress. He is a beauty, a jewel of the realm-”

“-and I would not tarnish him with lechery!” Elrohir fumed. “I imagine you have not failed to remark his innocence, in your exacting observance of our interaction. He is untouched, and I would that he remained so until his return to Greenwood.”

“But why?” Elladan challenged him directly, but not with fire. “He trusts you as no other, has ever been comforted by your presence and calmed by your counsel. Who better to introduce him to the art of love, if only to spare him from awkward fumbling about the serving maids back home?”

“Tis precisely for this that I must take exception to your rather repulsive arguments,” Elrohir grumbled. “Firstly, the mores of Greenwood are not those of our home. From what I understand, an elf there must remain untouched until his hundredth year, and then there is hardly a celebration held to mark the occasion. Any relations, whether with male or female, must be undertaken in secret, and from what little the King’s guards have told me, I understand that most inter-male relations are of highest secrecy. None would dare touch a prince, even *if* he were inclined to such pleasures. They fear the King’s wrath, not to mention desire that the royal family be bountiful. The Son of Oropher has not been on the throne so long that his subjects have forgotten their previous ruler. They would that all the princes bind and reproduce, which brings me to the third, most pressing issue. I have not the slightest notion of Legolas enjoying the company of males.”

“Ridiculous!” Elladan interjected. “You yourself did not deign to seek out males until your hundred and seventieth year, nearly double Legolas’ current age. And why? Out of fear of your own desires, out of fear of compromising your position as prince and potential guard-captain. You could help Legolas overcome any such reservation, be gracious in his courtships – stealthy as they must be – and accomplished in bed-play. Besides, awakening him to certain options in Imladris does not necessarily assume he will carry these over to Greenwood. He may dally with you here, and then feel confident in wooing maids when he returns home.”

“I have no business interfering with his carnal affairs,” Elrohir snapped, tired of this preposterous line of conversation. “He has never requested that I do so, nor has he displayed even the fleetest sign of desire for me.”

“I will not dare attempt to convince you on the latter score,” Elladan snarked. “For you would pummel me and therefore distract Legolas. However, if you indeed perceive yourself as a brotherly presence, then of course he would welcome you introducing such a bashful subject. You have come to know Legolas well as I. He is bold in many things, true, but he is timid in society. It would not surprise me to learn that he is conflicted within about his desires, of his choice of first lover and of how to go about selecting this tenderheart. Think of how confused we were at his age, already lying with companions of ours and yet still utterly mystified as to the ways of the flesh. We had each other to turn to, Elrohir. Legolas has no one. Even if you did not care to indulge yourself, twould perhaps be commendable that you draw him out on the subject, if only to assure yourself that he will not do something rash, and thus injurious to his confidence in that regard. You are forever comparing us for our strident ways. Do you not recall how I came to be relieved of my virginity?”

“Valar save him such a fate,” Elrohir swore, suddenly compelled by his brother’s acute arguments. “Aye, perhaps there is some wisdom in inquiring after his comfort. But he is not alone, as you say. He has brothers. He has childhood friends. I will prod delicately, but if I am denied, then it will remain so. I am glad to advise him, nothing more.” He sighed longly, still somewhat frazzled by this sudden development, but resolved to better the situation. Yet he had reserved some harsher words for his twin and made no bones about speaking them. “Regardless, I care not for your insinuations, Elladan. Not only do I await the return of my lover from perils unknown, but you would have me eternally enamored of an elf I have known for but a month’s time. I am hardly so free with my heart’s dearest care, especially when in vigil after another. I do not know which burns me more, that you would think me so base as to let my eyes wander in Ithandir’s absence or that you believe my fated one to be an unformed adolescent.”

Elladan was almost sick at his brother’s words. He hastened to amend himself.

“Elrohir, I only thought of your heart’s keeping,” he entreated him. “If one of Legolas’ worth were to claim it, then nothing would please me more. I meant no slight to Ithandir, I know he is constant to you and a giving lover besides; nor on your excellent character. Forgive me if I misspoke in my ardor.”

The wounded elf-knight, however, was not done with him.

“Tis perhaps your own reluctance to reveal yourself to Erestor that warps your view of others,” he persisted, though without his earlier rancor. “If I may offer some advisement of my own, seek not to match others when you yourself are lonely. No heart was ever won through hesitation, toren. I, too, think on your keeping, and it saddens me that you will not be bold. For I can think of no worthier heart than Erestor’s to succor yours.”

With that, Elrohir leapt to his feet, so as to seek out the refuge of standing at his father’s arm, so as to retreat from a confession he was sorely unprepared to make, even to his own hurt, yet caring twin.

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

The balmy night was nearly bright as day, such was the luster of the panoply of stars strewn above the Rivendell valley. From the vantage of the upper mountain ledge, which awestruck Legolas currently peered over, the slithering river took on the scaly sheen of a serpent, the lush forest was a blanket of luxurious indigo velour, and the bell-roofed residences that encircled Imladris were like lanterns posed upon the hillside. Not even the cacophonous cascade could be heard at this daunting elevation, where he and Elrohir had set up camp after an arduous day hiking over crags, trails, and hidden gulches; to be confronted, at the peak of their exhausting efforts, with the escalation of a sheer, sharp face, the only way to reach the purported natural majesty of the shelf above.

When Elrohir had finally hoisted him over the corroded cliffside, a wash of gratitude had overcome him. The copse of plush pines was a sight to behold for one bred amongst birches, dogwoods, and stately beeches, the perfect retreat for a wood-elf on excursion. The cave beyond had held equal fascination, not only for its virginal stores of rare minerals, but also the novel creatures lurking within: winged warm-bloods called ‘bats’, felines with the most incisive fangs he had ever seen, and, upon the highest peak, a nest of eagles. Yet despite their predatory instincts, these beasts were under the valley’s spell of wonderment; as such, they proved astonishingly amenable to the presence of elves. Legolas had not believed he could be any more entranced with this resplendent valley, nor could he have been more appreciative of the attention its favorite son glutted upon him.

He plunked himself down but inches from the dead-drop edge, not quite brave enough to let his legs dangle over, yet still rather bold for one who, until the last few months, had never scaled anything more steep than a garden wall. As he admired the somnolent landscape, he relished the creaks and aches that still tormented his muscles whilst in repose. Even for one of his youthful vigor, this day had been a full-on assault; to his energies, to his spirits, to his sense of balance, at times to his pride and most often to his sureties. While he had been only too keen to flaunt his combat abilities before the Noldor nobles, he had discovered, through the incredible influence of Elrohir’s friendship, that he took such talents for granted, that all aspects of his character required exercise, nourishment, and soulful exploration. The elf-knight daily challenged him to deserve his regard, to deepen his appreciation for the uniqueness of this foreign land - not arrogantly, but through his ineffable goodwill towards all. Legolas had never encountered anyone who demanded so much of him, yet who rewarded him so generously with his time and his attention.

In truth, he had begun to regard him as something of a mentor.

From the first, Elrohir had committed himself to a rather burdensome mission, which was to expose his young friend to people, activities, and places unknown. In pursuit of such a lofty goal, their summer had been lively. They had hunted bison with whistling javelins through the high grasslands of Rhudaur. They had ventured down to Barrowman’s Close for market day, so that Legolas could learn the ways of the mannish barter economy. They had spent the afternoon at the soot-blackened smith’s, so that the woodland prince might better appreciate the trades that were so essential to elven society. Best of all for the rambunctious youth, they had rallied and wrestled with a rabble of brawny farmhands from the villages aloft of the valley, who had taught him the more basic defense of pummeling fists, bone-cracking kicks, and the blighting head-butt. Fortunately, his Adar-King had only grunted with reluctant approval when he had presented himself, bruised and bloodied, at the evening meal, with grumbled thanks to Elrohir for introducing his son to the cruder ways of fighting.

This latest endurance test had been, in Legolas’ estimation, even more empowering, as he could not recall the last time his muscles had been worn so raw, yet his spirits soared up with the eagles overhead. Though he would eventually embrace the dream path and the draught of sleep as if a sensuous lover, he could not yet relinquish to this slumber’s conquest, not when there were such climes to gaze rapturously upon. He had never imagined his months in Imladris would have ripened him so. He had never thought to know such a wealth of friendship as that with which he had been blessed with here. As he quietly took stock of the experiences that defined his still young life, he found there was but one remaining that could move him more profoundly than any he had already surpassed. Twould be a litmus moment in his growth-cycle, one which, for one so sheltered as he, was fraught with mystery, suspicion, and the peril of spirit-dimming embarrassment. As such, he had resolved to consult the one most renown for honesty, the one who had advised him beautifully on countless other affairs of far less elemental import.

He would gather his courage up from every extremity of his being, and solicit Elrohir’s incomparable counsel.

Twas meet, then, that the elf-knight drifted into his peripheral vision as if emerging from a mist of fog, though Legolas soon gathered that he had been sitting there for some while, similarly enamored of the velvet depths of night. The sting of hot clay singed his fingers, then he realized he was cradling a steamy cup of herbal tea. The bitter, honeyed taste in his mouth confirmed that he had already drawn out several sips. Was he so overwrought by his troubles? So absorbed by what amounted to petty cares in the grand scheme of his life’s playing out as to blunt all but the starry firmament? With a faint blush, he found warmth in the savory tea and consolation in Elrohir’s silvery eyes, which invited his intimate confidence out to suffer their lengthy debate. Hardied by the drink and heartened by his friend’s genteel concern, he could do naught but voice his cares.

“I would be remiss, gwador,” Legolas began by retreating into formalities. “If I regretted to note how honored I am that you have shared this spare and thorny paradise with me. By troth, I never thought to find such a peaceful place beyond the bounds of Greenwood, but this lovely, lonely shelf might just come to rival the stillness of her most verdant glades.”

“I am glad of it,” he demurred. “I admit, it has been a great treat for me to experience the thrills of my valley’s wilds anew through your eyes. I look forward to impressing the grandeur of your own woods upon you, when I come to venture there. Surely you will guide me?”

“How soon can you come?!” Legolas asked, his face alight with anticipation in the sterling dark.

“I may consider a visit for your hundredth year,” Elrohir told him. “I hear it is quite a momentous occasion for a Sinda youth.”

“Tis the supposed advent of adulthood,” Legolas confirmed. “Though in my Adar’s court I fear such an honor is earned only through centuries of servitude.”

“Ah, the trials of a Greenwood prince!” Elrohir genially mocked him. “Such burdens you bear! Such impudence you endure!”

“Aye, indeed,” Legolas snorted wryly. “What did my brothers do without a hallowed Noldor prince to advise them?”

“Surely they wept for shame,” Elrohir further jested. “Then, once resolved to their fate, furiously bedded the entire crop of attendant serving maids until they could vet their future queen from the throng of rabid maiden about them, as ravenous for entitlement as a rut upon the throne.” When Legolas groaned forlornly at this appraisal, the elf-knight knew that he’d struck deep, so sheathed his more trenchant remark in favor of listening to his charge’s moans of exasperation. “My sympathies, gwador, if you find yourself similarly beset.”

“Most impossibly beset!” Legolas bleated, as baffled by their conniving motives as by the elusive solution to his troubles. “I cannot take a simple stroll through the garden – my Naneth’s private, interior garden – without being overtaken by some simpering girl, or her hawkish Nana, or even her prodding Daerdaneth! Tis misery for me to be civil to them, but this I must at all costs, for otherwise they will assume me to be pining for their daughter. Lorindol and Lasgaren are *still* weekly refusing some usurping challenge to their own, well-established love relations, some through our very own Adar! Surely, one so poised and clever as you, Elrohir, has some remedy for this wretched affliction?”

Yet to his dismay, the elf-knight merely chuckled rather too amiably for his comfort.

“Aye, you must suffer the brunt of it,” Elrohir commented. “For though you seem rather determined to mar the beauty of your countenance, you are nevertheless uncommonly fair, even among the Sindar goldenrods. Your brothers must do their best to thrust you in the spotlight whenever possible, so as to deflect attention. Little wonder you are so wretchedly afflicted.”

“Are you mocking me?” Legolas timorously inquired, having expected a slight bit more sympathy from his friend.

“Nay, certainly not,” Elrohir assured him. “I am merely stressing the myriad reasons why your troubles will not cease until you are well and truly bound.” The princeling’s cry of protest was so despairing, the darkling elf could not help but pat him affectionately on the back. “I’m afraid the only defense is the broadening of your experience, so that you may be better equipped to ferret out the one that will indeed win your heart. If, that is, she is to be found among the maids of Greenwood. I would wager one of your adventuresome nature, to the great dismay of the Sinda aristocracy, may very well find in his forever mate one who also ensures an alliance between two realms.”

“I concede that my thoughts had been running along such a outbound path,” Legolas confessed.

“I suspected as much,” Elrohir nodded sagely. “I myself oft feel the instinctual tug of such outside attractions. Twas perhaps for this that I chose my first bed-partner from the blond immaculates of Lorien.” Legolas started at the acuity of this notion, clearly ready to hear more. “As twin princes, even of such a sedate realm, Elladan and I were rather relentlessly sought after. For one of barely a half-century, the pressure was of titanic weight. We could not bear it. We vowed we would not succumb. We convinced our Adar that we must celebrate our majority with our extended kin, and so suggested a sojourn in Lorien. Though we were hardly less coveted there, our considerable selection proved far more courtly of manner, with an added grace of distance afterwards. We learn to love, then we left - yet primed with the knowledge of how, and whom, to seduce. We have made our own minds thereafter, and all about the valley know that pressing us will bring naught but an empty bed.”

Legolas grew treacherously quiet, as he processed all that had been so casually revealed to him.

After an extended, tremulous sigh, he whispered: “You know, I suppose, that I am…”

“Aye,” Elrohir softly acknowledged. “Tis no shame, Legolas. We were all innocent once, and we all remember such a fractious, emotional time explicitly well.” To encourage him, the elf-knight crept into rather precarious terrain. “Is there one about that has perhaps… inspired you? I might inquire after her willingness, if you like.”

“Nay, there is none,” Legolas admitted. “In truth, I have been so involved by our adventures that for the first time in months I have not thought on… on my predicament. On my… my… my need.”

“Tis strong?” Elrohir queried with utmost delicacy.

“Painfully so,” Legolas confirmed. “Before my advent here… I could think on little else, when not armed with bow or knife.”

“Tis little wonder,” the darkling elf remarked. “You are nearly thirty years past reckoning. Only in Greenwood are young elves expected to counsel themselves for so long. All other realms uphold the custom that majority comes in the fiftieth year. When I think on how I lusted through the time you are now forced to remain pure… I admire how you have born it, gwador. Exceptionally so, if I may say.” This elicited a fond smile, though the woodland prince was yet rather bashful.

“Tell me,” he hesitantly asked. “Is there one you know of who might… One with discretion, for certes, and perhaps some experience in such matters. A maid of some years, if there are any left about? Gentle. Sweetly. Somewhat fair, if possible, but kindness is of greater import. I would treat her most reverently, I swear. Indeed, we need not rush into… I will be here for some months still…”

“I know of just the lady,” Elrohir promised him, at which revelation Legolas looked as if he might collapse with relief. “I cannot vouch for her willingness to bed you, for she is rather discerning, but she certainly would be amenable to introducing you to the more sensual appreciation of both the female form and your very own, for one must know how one wishes to be loved before one can love another with skill. She is employed as a masseuse at the mineral baths, so she is well accustomed to plying both the male and female form. She will serve you well on this account, but it will be up to you to woo her, should you chose to. And, aye, she is exquisitely fair.”

“You are the finest of all companions, Elrohir, for guiding me thus,” Legolas beamed, then launched himself at him, crushing him into the most giddy embrace the elf-knight had ever experienced. The archer’s lithe frame was veritably thrumming with joy, with relief.

“If ought, I am envious,” Elrohir conceded. “She is a rare pearl, and as such befitting of one of your pure qualities, gwador.”

A thought struck Legolas then, that he was fearful, yet compelled, to voice.

“Forgive my impudence, my friend,” he stuttered. “But have you…?”

“Do not be foolish,” he was chided. “I would never suggest one that I had myself bedded. Nor, to answer your following inquiry, would I enforce upon you one that had suffered the gropes of my dear brother.”

“Is there one in all the valley?” Legolas taunted him, his impishness wholeheartedly returned. “I have this image of Elladan, perhaps wrongly, as a voracious lover.”

“Yet his heart has long been set,” Elrohir revealed. “Upon one who is unfortunately too distracted, at present, to mark him, and who has a doting lover besides. Elladan is far more constant than perhaps you give him credit for. He dallied about only for a decade or so after our majority, then enjoyed a series of rather intent relationships. Never for terribly long, but they were most sincere. His current pining might rival that of the Greenwood maidens you griped about, much to my own dismay. Yet I fear I can do naught to persuade him to distract himself with another paramour.” His frustration at this state of affairs was all too plain, even to one of Legolas’ inexperience. “Tis I who have been far more… wanton, in my calm and measured way, though my present – if absent – lover has been my lengthiest relation.”

“Do tell,” Legolas prompted him, eager to hear of what he had been waiting for since the start of their conversation.

“I was not callous, nor fleet-hearted,” Elrohir explained. “I simply bedded with the understanding that parting came with the dawn. I did not seek out an extended relationship, merely a quick indulgence. Most found this arrangement to their taste, and if one did not, then I did not frequent them. Twas only in the last hundred years or so that I have enjoyed more committed partnerships, though I cannot say that I have ever known what I judge could be an everlasting love. Ithandir is well aware of this. We both fancy, at present, a more regular arrangement, but are both aware that it could end at any time. Neither of us, I think, would be very hurt, as we have agreed that there will be no betrayal. We will speak earnestly, then break.”

Elrohir was surprised to discover that Legolas had gone pale as the ghostly moon above.

“I-… Ith-…Ithandir?” he murmured, trembling such that Elrohir feared he would crumble before him. “Y-your… your lover…” He took a deep, cleansing breath, swearing to himself that he had misheard. “I s-seem to… I fear that I h-have… perhaps…”

“Nay, you heard me well enough,” Elrohir confirmed, gently but firmly. “My lover is male.”

Miraculously, Legolas managed to clamp his mouth shut before he made a comment that defied stupidity.

“Ellon can love amongst themselves,” Elrohir elaborated. “Just as ellyth sometimes do between them. These bonds are no lesser nor any greater than those between ellon and ellyth. They are of elfkind and are sanctified by the Valar. Indeed, it shocks me some that you have never heard of such a practice, as the captain of your Adar’s guard is quite obviously husband to his chief marksman. It appears Greenwood is, as reputed, rather cursed by pathological discretion.”

Even as Legolas reeled at his frankness, his keen mind vaulted ahead to acceptance. He’d had enough of being the youngest, the innocent, the rube. He would learn to acclimate himself to the world about even if such visceral knowledge was the ruin of him.

“What is it like?” he bluntly asked, long past artful misdirection. “Loving with males?”

“Glorious as one might imagine the physical loving of two valiant warriors to be,” Elrohir proudly replied. “My experiences with males have far surpassed any with maidens, though there are many who would vow otherwise among our guard, as there are many who seek solace in the arms of their comrades. Indeed, tis the best method of avoiding the princely woes you just now groaned over.”

“Does your Adar not grieve for the sons you will not grant him?” Legolas inquired, though even as he spoke the phrase he knew how ridiculous it sounded.

“He would grieve more if I chose to be of mankind,” Elrohir answered him, the idea of injuring his father so vivid on his solemn face. “He would rather have his own sons than sons of ours.”

Legolas may have been green, but he knew well enough of the fateful choice of the peredhel. Indeed, he was feeling quite overwhelmed, as well as somewhat bewildered, by the considerable crop of information about his own people’s mores and customs that he’d harvested from the fertile mind of his dear friend. While he did not wish himself to be any place else in Arda entire, he was yet a few scraps of space from his ultimate sanctuary. Suddenly sluggish with fatigue, he crawled over to Elrohir, then leaned a weary head upon his shoulder. The elf-knight laughed deep in his throat, but fondly, and wove a supportive arm around him.

“I fear my conversation has worn you some, lass dithen,” he smirked, then gave him an affectionate squeeze.

“Nay, tis my body that’s grown heavy,” Legolas conceded, his tone sweet as an elfling. “My heart is ever lightened by your trust and your care, gwador.”

“As mine is by your confidence, this eve,” Elrohir underlined to him. “Never fear to confess even your deepest aches to me, Legolas. Ever will I strive to relieve them.”

“Then I must confess that I am but moments from sleep,” Legolas muttered, seconds before he drifted off towards the path of dreams.

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

Twas upon the most opulent twilight in memory that Elrohir found himself longing for the grays and indigoes of winter dark through which to steal back from the southern farms, so as none might mark his tousled appearance and his ragged garments. As the peachy sun had sank into a rosy sea of sky and dusky clouds were laurelled by the gossamer fringe of its rays, he had slammed, gouged, and gnawed his way to a brutish victory over far inferior opponents. Yet the sultry climes of a midsummer evening did nothing to abate the fierce course of mannish ferocity through his veins.

Despite the frantic reasoning of his compassionate elven mind, the awakening of his baser instincts had significantly reduced this pacifying influence over his mortal traits, which, in their aching, sought but to maim, to pummel, to release in fervor what they could not in passion. Twas as if some fell beast had overtaken him from the instant he had delivered Legolas into Nenuial’s explicitly capable hands, from the second she had lured the young prince into the cozy confines of her tapestry-laden talan and had left him thrumming with sudden distemper on the doorstep. Elrohir had had no choice but to charge through the forest, to call out the feeble-witted farmhands only too willing to engage him, to meet their every punch and jab with an agile blow of triple their force. Had he halted but a moment to rally his more elvish traits towards centering himself, he would have perhaps spared them some of their more violet, violent bruises, yet even this could not have helped the fact that they all, as a rabid group, charged him in idiotic unison.

As he had pried himself out of the mottle, Elrohir had come back to himself. While he had been itching as ever to batter some wily upstart senseless, he had been lucid enough to recognize that he should extract himself from such perilous surroundings before further bloodshed ensued. In that wrought moment, he had been crazed with hurt, with such unbearable emotion that he had fled back to the dulcet wilds of Imladris, unknowing of his intended destination but determined to vent himself of that gutting pain. He charged through the forest as if possessed by the spirit of an avenging buck, seeking the hunter that had shot down himself and his doe. When he came to the ebullient waves of the Loudwater, he plunged himself into the river with the arcing élan of a springing salmon, swam the swerving length of the valley basin at breakneck speed, then lurched up onto the banks by the woodland path, his raiment sopping, a mass of raven hair veiling his anguished face. He felt sick, wretched with self-disgust, though still he would not acknowledge to himself the cause of this mad spell of his, the giving act that had inspired a hundred scrapes and gashes.

He lay back on the cool, soft grass, then gazed up at the emergent moon. Lunacy, indeed, though he could hardly blame pale Ithil for his rage. The fault’s inception lay in his keeping of his true emotions from his inquiring brother, its development embedded in possibly the most earnest conversation he had even enjoyed with an adolescent elf, and its spectacularly foolish climax was still playing out upon this chill, cushy shore. Yet twas his own heart that was the most belied, in deluding itself that it could survive Legolas’ deflowering by another’s sensuous touch unscathed, in believing that within its own dank chambers there was not a drop of romantic affection for the greenling prince. Indeed, he found himself hard-pressed not to think himself the one betrayed by cruel fate, who roused in him such emotions as he had previously thought impossible then aimed them towards one whose predilections opposed his own. Bitterness snaked through his clenched, shaking extremities as he imagined the deft ministrations the young goldenrod was currently experiencing, his nubile body a primed servant to her every, expert touch.

Indeed, he could not keep such mood-curdling thoughts from souring his resolve to keep away. He knew the ensorcelling powers of her hands all too well, had known by the gleam in her emerald eyes that she would relish the chance to bedazzle the pearl-prince with all her myriad favors. For who, upon spying beauteous, innocent Legolas, would not be tempted to seduce him?

By now, he would be honeyed with richly scented oils, his every muscle save the most rigid, pressing one tendered into gorgeous languor. Yet one of his youth, energies, and hatred of embarrassment would still be inwardly fretting over the fat prong of erection mashed into the mattress beneath him, praying that she slipped away to the bathing chamber so that he might conceal his braising stiffness beneath the ample drape of a robe before she found him out. He would panic when she made to turn him on his back, eliciting a muffled yet discernable whimper, before her throaty chuckle would strive to put him at ease. She would remind him in her effortlessly flirtatious way that she was there to relieve all of his tensions, then, with a snarling, desirous smirk, would go about explaining the sensitive points and the vulnerable swells of the male organ, all the while teasing him breathless. By the time she chose to slick him with salve, he would be lost to the intensity of his mounting pleasure, until a shockingly vicious climax would make him entirely her own – at least for the few subsequent hours.

The second phase of the lesson, embarked upon once he had been petted into a gaudy ease, would be her own arousal. She would lead her fugue-headed, tipsy charge into the satiny heart of her boudoir, where she would bare herself before his gawking eyes. As a sprightly youth, he would be pronged immediately, but she would dismiss his need for imminent satisfaction as sign of his immaturity and so he would, not without difficulty, refocus his attentions on the decadent promise of her body. Patiently, she would illuminate him as to the supple clefts, silken sweeps, and moist hollows of the curvaceous female form, then perhaps invite him to sup on her skin, ably guiding him from plush lips to thigh soft, before still denying him ultimate satisfaction. She would ask him, then, with a girlishness that would only flatter him further, if he would deign to gift her with his most precious innocence, if he would dedicate himself that night both to her pleasure and to the relentless pursuit of their mutual satiation thereafter.

Elrohir did not know by what force in Arda or in hallowed Aman an elf of youth and ardor could think to deny her, so he miserably assumed that they were currently embroiled in some raw carnality or other, Legolas promising every god in the heavens that he would vow himself eternally to their cares if he could only hold off spending for a few thrusts more and Nenuial wishing that some supernatural deity would intervene so that they might be twined thusly for the rest of her years. For, despite the newness of the experience, Elrohir did not doubt that Legolas would prove both a skilled and an intoxicating lover, even if at present he could not outlast the lonely warble of a nightingale.

He cursed himself for delivering such a priceless treasure into the hands of a covetous, delectable other, who would no doubt excite him so that he would be leashed between her legs for the remainder of his visit there. He berated himself for forgoing what would have been possible the most soulful pleasure of his existence, as well as the greatest challenge to his own artful ways of love. Most of all, he gladly suffered through his own inanity, his churlishness, brutishness, and blatant stupidity, for ignoring the siren call of his heart.

No longer.

Elrohir would seek absolution by any means necessary, for he had been, previous to this heartache, a gallant beyond compare. He would be the most dedicated of friends to Legolas, the most attentive of confidants, the most sterling of examples, and the most blithe of counsels. He would not hide his inner cares from his beloved brother, but would revel in their solidarity even as they both pined themselves away. Best of all, he would break off any relation that did not move him as potently as did his woodland prince. He had been blindsided by the insurgent emotions that had overwhelmed him at their meeting and throughout their befriending, but he would not be ruled by the weak-mindedness they sought to provoke within him. He would amend relations with the farmers, would welcome any confessions the youth might seek to make following this impassioned night, and would behave with peerless honor through every moment of their togetherness.

He was, after all, elf-knight not merely in name, but also by repute. Legolas admired him as such, and he deserved nothing less than the wisdoms of such a valiant. All that remained was for Elrohir to become him.

The Elf-Knight of Imladris was thusly charged with his greatest, and most compelling, quest.


End of Part One