To the south, beyond the mountains and the valleys, there lay the land of Gondor as a swathe upon the earth, and at its head, Minas Tirith, the city of the White Tower. It was here that the Lord Denethor stood in his guardianship, between the west that was the Sea, and the east that was the Nameless, and always watching, waiting, with dark and hooded eyes.

It was not a time when the weak were spared their fate by the hand of pity, or when the virtuous were rewarded with the riches that were their due. Status brought wealth, fear brought obedience, and cruelty brought power. Such was the way of things.

Now it so happened that this Denethor had a son, named Boromir, and the Captain General of his army. Boromir was in truth the pride of the old steward, as strong and as forward a youth as the wily father could ever hope to succeed him on the glittering seat of Minas Tirith, a man who would stretch the arm of Gondor beyond its widening borders. And the people praised him, for such was he: tall and handsome, his dark hair caught up in the wind as he rode, his commanding voice spurring the troops onwards, and then all enemies before him would fear the mighty sweep of his sword.

And Boromir felt that such praise was only his due. His manner was proud and lordly, for many hundreds of men obeyed his every decree, and his leadership ws never called into question. There was another son, the gentle Faramir, much beloved by his brother, but he could never supplant Boromir's place in the hearts of the people, nor in the heart of his father.

Now it can be that the weight of power on a young man's shoulders turns his mind to seek the pleasures of life, and so it was with Boromir. In the city of Minas Tirith, long fallen into a decadent excess, such temptations were everywhere for a wealthy and headstrong young noble. And so Denethor's son indulged in drinking all night with his fellows, in gambling away his gold, and taking those women that pleased him to his bed. But the nights he lay down with young soldiers and serving boys he kept close guarded, for this was a weakness that might invite censure from the people of Gondor, the very people who looked upon him as a hero.

Faramir feared something of his brother's faults, but the hot-tempered Boromir would have nothing of his interference, and angrily rebuked any attempt at reasoning. It was shame that led to such resentment, Faramir knew, and this saddened him all the more, for he had sometimes glimpsed a pain in his brother's eyes that spoke of the guilt festering in his heart. But any such feelings were pushed to the bottom of Boromir's mind, while there were banquets to attend and lovers to embrace. And so it might have carried on, had something not occurred to change his life forever.


One hazy autumn evening, the Lord Boromir was abroad in the countryside of Gondor, as was his wont. Whatever his failings, he had a child-like fondness for his birthplace that lent to him a true pleasure in strolling its byways and in feeling its fresh breeze on his face. As the light began to fail, there came upon him an old man on horseback, and cloaked all in the garb of a traveller. His face was shadowed by a wide brimmed hat. On seeing the young nobleman, the rider halted to call to him:

"Ah! Now, tell me boy, how far to the White Tower?"

Boromir turned to him.

"And what business might you have there, stranger?"

"My business is my own," replied the rider gruffly. "I wish only to know whether I may reach there before nightfall."

Boromir laughed. "I return there myself, sir. Perhaps if you follow me, you will come quicker to the end of your journey?"

The man lifted off his hat, as if to look at Boromir's face the closer, and in doing so he revealed a pair of bushy eyebrows over two very bright eyes.

"You go there yourself, you say? You are not, then – but yes – you are Boromir, son of Denethor?"

"I am."

The stranger did not bow or apologise for his earlier ignorance, as Boromir perhaps supposed he would. Instead, he lifted his eyebrows and muttered "How they do grow", before replacing his hat and taking up the reins.

"Come then, my lord. I shall follow." And with these words they set off.

It was dark as the two entered the last wall of the city and came to the great hall to stand before Denethor. As Boromir stepped forward, his father raised his hand and smiled wryly.

"There is no need, my son, for you to announce this man to me. He is already known." Boromir looked at the stranger in surprise. Again, the man took off his hat.

"I remain, Lord, always grateful for your warm welcome."

"And I remain grateful for your visits, Gandalf the Grey, though they come whenever the time should so suit you. What news, then, do you bring me this time? Something of worth, I hope."

"Of worth indeed. And I ask that you see it as such."

"That remains for myself to judge."

"Then mark these words. The lord of elvendom, Elrond the Wise, has called to Rivendell a council, where matters of great import are to be revealed. He has asked that you be present, for you may learn of many things that concern both you and your people. In one month, then, he awaits your arrival."

Denethor settled back in his chair.

"Elrond may make such summons as he pleases, and wait for all the kings and princes of Middle-Earth to do his bidding like dogs. But I am no lackey. Like as not, he has some business in which he needs my aid, and wishes to parley with me. But Gondor asks nothing of the elves, and will give nothing to them. Tell him those are my words."

The wizard had known that the stubborn will of the Steward might lead to such an answer, and yet he was vexed.

"Elrond's will is not to beg favours, my lord, but to give counsel. The invitation is held out for your good purpose, not his."

"Be that as it may, but still I shall not go. It is not my place to leave my lands on some elvish errand." He paused, and then seemed to reflect.

"But perhaps it does no good to offend. Hear me, then – my son Boromir shall go in my stead, and bring me back any news he deems worthy."

Gandalf did not take his eyes off Denethor's face.

"Very well then. Stay here, as you will, like an old spider in his web. I go now to the head of my order at Isengard, before I too must make for Rivendell." Without ceremony, he bowed and left, as if the swifter to quit himself of Denethor's presence. The steward himself turned to his firstborn with a dry smile.

"Well, my son, you must prepare yourself to journey come tomorrow." Boromir raised his eyebrows.

"It is truly your desire that I should go seek this Elrond?"

"It is. I am curious to see what these elves have to say. In words, at least, they do much; if in action we men have to bear the brunt of Mordor's wrath while they sit safe and idle."

"As you wish, sire. I will ride tomorrow."

When daybreak fell, a tall proud figure rode gallantly out of the city gates upon a dark stallion into the north. The winds blew full and fresh into Boromir's face as he galloped with speed, for these lands were all well known to him, and had been since the time of his childhood. He had always relished the outdoor life – it had a savage beauty which seemed to remind him of the stories of old that he loved: stories of battles long since fought, and men who had risen to glory through deeds of renown. If truth be told, the young nobleman had always envisioned his own name in the songs of the great, and thus he strove so that men might praise his boldness and daring in all ventures.

Boromir stopped to rest his horse now and again, where the pathways were sheltered and the going less clear. When darkness fell each night he would sleep in the open, beneath the stars, for the weather was mild and fresh; the quiet and solitude were a comfort to him now, for he had spent much of the last year in defence of the borders of his land, and had lived with all the noise and chaos of battle.

Fondly he would think of his brother, now left in command of the troops. Unlike his father and most of his people, he thought Faramir a far better man than himself, and he was certain that in time he would prove his worth. For his part, he knew that Faramir reverenced him as his elder, and had done so since their mother died young and left him to Boromir's care. He thought now of how eager he would have been to visit Rivendell and see the elves. Yet in his own mind, there was little curiosity or excitement. He had never before spoken to one of the fair folk, nor seen them in their own homelands, but to someone of such straightforward and frank approach, their knowledge and power held neither fear nor fascination. Boromir saw the world simply, and he knew his own place in it well. Thus he felt himself to be content, and he continued his journey at ease.

It was darkening as he came at last to Rivendell. Behind him the wide plains opened themselves to the sun as it sank red and blazing towards the earth. The sky was blushed with the soft fire of it last rays, as if the very air itself held on to the dying light. That night the breeze was mild and sweet in the land of the elves, and the scent of the dry grass rose up to meet the now weary traveller. All about him, he seemed to hear the sound of a thousand humming voices, as if the land had let forth strains of its own music, and he listened as he went on to the Last Homely House.

When he reached the stables where he tethered his horse, he could see that the lights from the house streamed like gold from the many windows. The trees gave off a heavy scent around the courtyard, and the leaves and blossom drifted off their boughs into a stone bowl full of water that stood at the entrance. Above it were carved two tall and dignified figures, which Boromir recognised as those of Earendil and Elwing. He passed into the main entrance, where he was met at the door.

"Your name, sir?"

"Boromir of Gondor," he said. The elf bowed his head and opened the doors, whereupon he was ushered into a vast hall with high ceilings, full of light and laughter. He looked around as he saw that the room bustled with elves, men and dwarves, sitting at long tables which groaned beneath the weight of fruit and flowers and jars of wine. In the corner, a band played merrily as other guests danced away the night. It was a sight indeed, for Boromir had spent the past days alone in the deserted forests and vales. He was a little bewildered by this crowd of people unknown to him, but glad to sit down and partake of a large and hearty supper. Quickly, several elves offered him food and welcome, while another assured him that he would tell Elrond of his arrival and yet another went to fetch the ale he called for. It was with pleasure that he kicked off his boots and sat down to rest in the warmth, and he was at leisure to look around him at the peoples who had gathered that night at the house of Rivendell.

If Boromir had tarried awhile at the stables, he may have seen another traveller alight there upon a horse later that night. The rider slipped from the saddle as lightly and as easily as a shadow, and moved with grace and silence to the stone figures that stood above the water bowl. He was cloaked in grey, tall and slender as a willow, yet as he bent his head to lift the water to his brow, it seemed that his hair gleamed like white gold beneath his hood. For some minutes he stood with his head bowed, murmuring the ancient elvish chants in gratitude for his safe passage. Then he turned and swiftly secured his steed, with many gentle words spoken in a strange and sweet sounding tongue.

By this time of night, the corridors and hallways lay almost deserted when the traveller entered the house of Elrond. There was no movement save the flickering of candlelight in the stone recesses, the flames shining gold into his long hair as the elf took off his hood.

As he did, a tall, dark figure crossed his path and startled, as if he did not believe his eyes.

"Legolas? Can it be you?" And he laughed in delight.

The fair-haired elf smiled as Elladan embraced him, saying: "It has been too long, friend, since I have seen you. I have been so long absent from this blessed place."

"Your presence here, Legolas, make it more blessed still. You are more beautiful than even I remembered. But come, you should not have entered so silently and without ceremony. Let me take you to my father, and you will receive the welcome that a prince deserves." So saying, he put his arm around his guest and led him to the banquet, from whence the sparkle of many lights and the riot of voices arose.

Boromir still sat quiet in his chair as he sipped his ale. Even to one such as he, born into the pomp and splendour of the court, the feast of Elrond was a sight of wonder. The music played spirited and fast, the cups overflowed with wine and the many-coloured sashes of the dancers swirled as they circled the long tables heaving with delicacies. As he looked, he saw Elrond seated at the head of the table, with his two sons and daughter in attendance, and beside them an elf with long fair hair.

It was with great wonder that Boromir beheld this guest, for he seemed in his eyes to shine with an unearthly beauty like a star fallen to the ground. His white skin was purest alabaster, unstained and untouched, and his eyes were mossy green, as if the lushest leaves of the forest had been reflected in those orbs. His delicate, high-cheekboned face was full of a wild and haunting passion that the man had never seen before. Boromir watched, rapt, as Legolas turned to Elrond and greeted him. The sunshine in his sweet voice rang in Boromir's ears as clear as a bell across the vast hall.

"Such a creature," he murmured below his breath, transfixed until the servant returned to fill his cup.

"Who is that elf yonder," asked Boromir, "whose beauty would shame Luthien herself?"

"That is Legolas, my lord, son of Thranduil king," replied the servant.

"He is the pride of Mirkwood."

"Ah., I should have known it. See how he holds his head, how he bears himself, as one of royal blood." Boromir paused a moment, before asking:

"Surely a youth so pleasing must have been promised to some great elven king?"

"That I do not know sir," replied the servant, and left. Boromir's eyes stayed upon the prince, who was talking to his fellows, and did not turn to see this one man sitting alone. It was a great pleasure for him to see again the friends he had known since childhood, now that he was approaching maturity in elven-years. Though in age he had far outlived any human upon the earth, his time in Mirkwood had been spent in preparation for royal duties and he had been sheltered from the world beyond his home. Thus it was that though his knowledge of lore was deep, and his skill with weapons formidable, still he had about him an innocence and simplicity that charmed all around him. To ride swift through the trees was his greatest delight, as he shared that joy which all elves took in the world around them. But as one trained to use his eyes and ears in battle, his glance fell onto others rather than himself, and of other men's stares he guessed little. He was helplessly innocent of his own loveliness.

Even now, dressed as he was in his simple green travelling clothes, he shone bright against the company around him. In his face, he showed the goodwill that came of spending his life amongst the friends and family who loved and cared for him. It was in peace he slept that night, while Boromir was left to brood restlessly the hours of dark.

Long days had passed since that night. Of the tale of the Ring, much has been spoken. It has been told how at the great council of Elrond, the one ring was revealed and its doom was sealed. The young lord of Gondor had seen it with his own eyes, and volunteered himself as part of the band that should carry it thence. Thus the fellowship began their slow and treacherous journey.

Many nights had gone, and still Boromir spent his hours perturbed. It seemed that no rest would come to him, though the heavens grew blacker, and the company about him breathed slow and silent. As they slept, he would lie on his back staring up at the sky, eyes open wide, and thoughts lodged deep in his skull.

The first thought that irked him was that there was no fool like an old fool. The rulings of the wise elders, so sure of their own merit and so closed to any other path, had piqued him much. By all that is holy, he thought, let me keep my judgements to myself when my hair is silvered. Let me not hold back the young and the strong when it is their time to move the workings of this world.

The second thought fell upon the ring itself. Only once had he seen it, and that once would return in his mind again and again. So simple it had sat upon the table of stone, like a gold circlet to sit upon the head of a king, and yet he seemed to have seen the world reflected in its band as if it could watch them all like an eye. Yes – exactly that – like an eye it had seemed, watching and waiting and never ceasing its steady gaze, not even when the dwarf's axe had shattered over its head and left it unscratched. It had sat squat and heavy like a dead creature, but still it watched them all, and in Boromir's mind it seemed to be burning like a brand.

He tried to shake the thoughts of the ring from his head, but whenever he succeeded, it seemed that he remembered how it hung upon the neck of the hobbit that lay not three feet from him. Almost to him the world seemed dulled and blurred at night, and only the ring would glow strong and sharp in their midst.

Almost, but not quite. For something else also troubled Boromir's thoughts, and this something at first he did not quite understand.

He was uneasy in the fellowship, that much he knew. From the first he had felt it, and to one who had been so comfortable among all the peoples he had commanded, it was a disconcerting state of affairs. In the beginning he believed he knew the cause. The ranger, Aragorn, had revealed himself at the council as the king that all had thought lost. It had been Aragorn, he was sure, that troubled him. Next to him, with his wise eyes and his gentle speech, he felt like a child in front of his master. His natural spirit and zeal seemed to dampen down in Aragorn's presence, and whatever he would propose, Boromir acquiesced.

And yet Boromir in truth had admiration for Aragorn's noble and candid leadership. The frank and the unadorned always agreed with his character. Perhaps, he thought, it was instead the wizard Gandalf that caused him this unease. He had some mistrust of his keen eyes and tremendous knowledge. More than once, he had answered him back and earnt a sharp rebuke, and now he amused the hobbits and Gimli by wry remarks about old men and their eccentric ways.

As for the good old dwarf and the four Halflings themselves, they had taken to Boromir well from the first. Like him, they felt somewhat out of place amongst the grand and the great, and like him, they enjoyed the simple pleasures of life. He would often entertain the hobbits, especially Merry and Pippin, teaching them swordfights and tricks, or telling them stories of the great cities he had known. He was fond of children, and the hobbits were like children in his eyes, lively and full of laughter even when the road was rough. He loved them well, for they were what they were without apology, and there was no affectation or pretence in their nature.

And last of all, there was the elf. He was an altogether different story. Cool in composure, and speaking rarely, he would stand upon the high rocks as tall and still as a statue carved from marble. Boromir could never read the expression in his large clear eyes, nor tell what passed through his mind. He stood his distance apart from the rest of the company, talking only to Gandalf and Aragorn, and he seemed to regard the others as not below his graces, but separate to them. His place was not among the humans of Gondor or the hobbits of the Shire. Indeed, the face that Boromir had thought so fair now seemed to anger him. Then, indeed, did Boromir realise the source of his disquiet – the elven warrior who was so proud and beautiful looked down on him with something like scorn.

He turned over on his sleeping mat, and rubbed his eyes. Perhaps it was too early to make such judgements about the company. He had not yet had a chance to talk to Legolas and learn of his character, for the elf had so far remained aloof. Tomorrow, he thought to himself, I will approach him. As he was pondering, again the thought of the ring as a bright gold loop entered his mind. It hung like the sun, suspended in the air. Restless and twitching, Boromir turned over again, and resigned himself to another sleepless night.

Frodo was happy to set off early the next morning, for he felt the fears of the journey ahead of them more acutely in the long night hours. But when they walked all together in the day, he would feel the comfort in knowing that these strong and fearless warriors were close by to defend him, and that Gandalf was there to lead them with all the knowledge and wisdom of his years.

Over the last few days, there had grown a trust and warmth in their companionship, which helped ease his mind. Aragorn was stern and spoke little, but his face softened into a smile from time to time, and Frodo thought that the ranger had a renewed steel in his eye since they had begun their new journey, as if he saw his destiny closer and clearer than he had ever done before. Gandalf, always a little irritable even at the best of times, would sometimes lose his temper with the younger hobbits, but Frodo could have no real fear of him. He knew that the wizard was there to help him when he needed it, and his trust in him was absolute.

The tall young man from Gondor, Boromir, was also a reassurance. He impressed the hobbits, for out of all the people they had seen, he seemed most like a warrior of old. He was strong and forthright, with a rugged and handsome face, and his tall and muscular frame was strong over the punishing distances. Indeed, they had been a little wary of him at first, for he had stared at their small statures with curiosity and not a little amusement. But it did not take long to discover that Boromir was gruff but kindly, and that he laughed easily, even at himself. For him they were grateful, especially Frodo, for he saw that the man kept a special eye on the two younger hobbits to make sure they were safe.

If there was any discordance, it was between the elf, Legolas, and the dwarf, Gimli. They did not really see eye to eye, with Gimli being crotchety and the elf rather disdainful. Frodo was himself rather in awe of Legolas, whom he remembered well from the time they had sat at the council of Elrond: a tall, strikingly beautiful figure who had spoken out in his own language. He looked as if he could be both gentle and deadly, and Frodo was shy of speaking to him. He was about to turn to Sam and ask him what he thought of their companions, when Aragorn stopped very suddenly and lifted his finger to his lips.

"What is it?" whispered Pippin under his breath.

"Will you look around for us, Legolas?" said the ranger, turning to the elf, who immediately walked to higher ground and scanned the landscape with his bright, keen eyes. Frodo nervously looked at his sword, but the edge was dull and plain, with no warning of nearby orcs. But Legolas came back to them swiftly with a nod and a gleam in his eye, his hand on his bow.

"Wargs," he said softly. "They are close. I do not know many, but I know their scent."

Aragorn sighed. "I thought as much. Look -" and here he gestured to the ground, where feathers and bones marked with teeth were strewn. "We must be very careful, and very quiet, and keep on the move."

But no sooner had he said this, then a low and horrible growl came from behind them, and in a rush of fur and snarling jaws, the wargs attacked.

The beasts numbered thirty at least, and they came at them all together like a roll of thunder. Frodo barely had time to cry out before he was knocked aside by the sheer force of the onslaught: he dived to shelter behind a rocky outcrop and watched in terror as hooked teeth met the clash of steel. Gandalf beat back the creatures with his staff and Aragorn brandished his sword high, as one by one his attackers fell writhing to the ground. The hobbits jumped nimbly from rock to rock, out of the reach of those snapping teeth, while Boromir cut them down with heavy sweeps, and everywhere was full of their jabbers, yelps and roars. In the noise and confusion, Frodo ran from here to there, desperate that everyone should remain safe. But he slipped and fell to the ground, and in the blink of an eye, a warg was upon him.

There he was, flat on his back, staring into a pair of glowing eyes as the creature slavered with anticipation. He could not breathe for fear and for the reek of the mangy fur. There could be no escape – he looked from left to right in a panic, but his muscles were so paralysed that he could not summon the strength to roll away, let alone scramble to his feet. He could not even force himself to scream, as the large head loomed above him and blocked out the light.

In an instant the warg howled with pain and surprise, and fell heavily to the ground beside him. Hot drops of its red blood spattered across Frodo's jacket. He was too sick with fear and shock to move until strong arms hoisted him up and dragged him away.

"You have had a lucky escape, young master!" said a clear voice, and he looked up to see Legolas fitting another arrow to his bow. His last had hit the warg in the back of the throat.

"Thankyou!" was all Frodo could manage. The elf merely nodded and smiled, and leapt once more to help the others.

Shivering from where he stood, Frodo watched him in battle with mounting wonder. Boromir may have been strong and powerful, and Aragorn fought with keen skill, but the elf had a fearless grace that made him utterly lethal. His sharp eyes hunted out the weakest spots of his enemy, and in a thrice, his slim fingers would hold another arrow taut to the bow and send it soaring to hit its target. So quick were his movements that the hobbit could barely see how he manipulated the weapon to such effect. And he was as light and lithe as a dancer, leaping high in the air and swinging his knife so effortlessly that it seemed haphazard: but every stroke would meet its mark. Wherever there was need for him, the elf would be there, his aim and motion never failing.

And then, from high in the sky above them, a shrill scream pierced the air. Even in the midst of the chaos, they looked up, and saw nine shrouded figures flying fast against the clouds.

"The black riders!" cried Merry. "They are in the sky!"

"They must have set these beasts upon us!" said Aragorn, furious, and it was with a sinking feeling that they all saw their progress tracked by those terrible spirits.

"Let them circle us, and send their dogs! We will show them how to fight," exclaimed Legolas, proud and bold as always. Indeed, it was almost as if the Nazgul heard his words and were angered by them, for now they swooped low and swift towards them, diving down at the company from all angles and bellowing their horrible cries. But they had underestimated the courage of these travellers: little by little, the wargs were beaten back, and the Black Riders, enraged with the failure of their ploy, retreated into the skies. It was not long before the chief of the wargs fell, and the survivors fled from them, their barks and howls finally fading into silence.

Sam flopped in exhaustion onto his back. He could have done with a mug of beer, or maybe several.

"What do you think they will do, Gandalf, now they have seen us?" asked Aragorn. He was talking, of course, about the Nazgul. They had struck more fear into him than any warg, no matter how sharp its teeth.

"Follow us, of course. There is nothing we can do about that. But let us keep on the move, now. I think our fighting spirit took them by surprise, and they will not return until much later."

The men cleaned their swords on the grass, while Legolas went from here to there to retrieve his arrows. Even the broken ones he took back, for he could fashion them anew into darts. And at every carcass, he would stop for a moment, and murmur some elvish words.

"What are you doing?" called Boromir, noticing this strange ritual. He did not answer until he had finished at the last one.

"Saying blessings for the departed."

"For the wargs?" He was incredulous. "I hope they rot."

The elf looked at him steadily.

"Every living thing deserves some respect, however vile. Sometimes I have to kill, but I do not destroy any creature gladly."

Boromir shrugged.

"Well, each to their own." Privately he thought he might have gone round the bodies himself, but only to give each one another stab to make sure it was dead.

"You fought bravely, elf," he said after a while, as if to apologise. The courage and flair of the warrior had not escaped his eye, and he admired it instinctively. Legolas smiled in response.

"I have had practise," was all he would say.


Later on, as they made their way ever further east, he had cause to speak again. It happened that their path took them through a grove, and the elf breathed in the air deeply, looking at the leafy trees with clear approval. He turned to Aragorn beside him.

"You must be staunch-willed, to have travelled so far and wide. For years you have not seen your homeland, and lived in the forgotten places of the earth. But I have not been from my home for less than a month, and yet I yearn to be in Mirkwood again! Each wood and forest we pass through reminds me of my birthplace."

"You are a wood-elf, and it is only to be expected. You gain your strength and spirit from all that grows and blossoms. But we humans are different. We may be weaker than the elves in many ways, but we are resilient, and resourceful – and we can learn to live wherever we find ourselves."

"Yes, I see it. I have lived so long that I believed the knowledge of any human no better than a child's. And yet I am astounded at your world, and of how you live! I have much to learn. I wish now that my father had not kept me so close."

"He was thinking only of your safety, Legolas. It is not wise to let a prince out of your sight for long. Especially one such as you." He said it with a glint in his eye, and Legolas laughed, because he knew that Aragorn had heard the stories of his upbringing. He had been high-spirited as a young elfling, often landing in trouble and mischief, and it was no wonder that the king had been unwilling to let him go far.

"But I have grown up now," said Legolas. "I have learnt my royal duties, and I have followed the traditions of my House in all ways. Honoured as I am to be in my position, I would have liked to have seen more of the world, and to have had more freedom."

Aragorn nodded. He understood the feeling, and they both knew it. "But I thought that perhaps you might have made Rivendell your home," he said shrewdly. Legolas coloured immediately.

"Elladan is a wise and noble elf, and I was flattered by his proposal."

"But you decided not to be his consort, and take your place at his side?"

"It was many years ago, Aragorn. I was not ready for such a responsibility. Everything in good time." Aragorn nodded, accepting that Legolas did not wish to talk about it any more. Gandalf then called the ranger to the fore, and he left Legolas to ponder. The elf was uncomfortable talking about his private life, even to his friends. So many men had sought to make him their own, that his demeanour in front of them was often reserved and diffident, a contrast to his natural vivacity. Because he was embarrassed, he turned away for a moment, and it was then he saw Boromir behind them. The man had cut himself a stick as he went along, and he was lazily thwacking the trunks and branches as he passed.

"Don't do that," said Legolas, with a sharp note in his voice.

"Why not? They can't feel it," he replied, giving the next tree a hefty strike.

"Stop it. What do you want to do it for?"

"No reason," he shrugged. And indeed, there was no reason, but Boromir was a stubborn man, and if someone told him not do something, he was likely to do it anyway.

"You should have some respect for the things that grow around you."

His contemptuous air annoyed Boromir. The elf had been proud and disdainful from the beginning, and now he was telling the son of the steward of Gondor what he could and could not do. Boromir had been itching for a while to take him down a peg or two.

"I am sorry I do not share your respect for every living creature, but you would do well to show me some respect by not always strutting about so high-and mighty."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You seem to be more concerned with dead wargs and a few trees than you are with your fellow companions, that's all. Barely a word you've chosen to speak to me since we left Rivendell."

"What nonsense," said Legolas, and he was about to leave.

"I'll remember to apologise the next time I need to relieve myself against a tree, then, shall I?" called the man sarcastically.

The elf turned around and looked at him with disapproving eyes.

"You should not talk of such things so lightly. The trees of the earth have lived for many more years than you, man of Gondor. Their roots are deep. Mock them if you will, but do so out of my hearing."

"There are things in this world that I cherish greater than leaf or branch, elf. And I will speak in whoever's hearing I please."

Legolas shrugged.

"Then do so. But it is your own pride and folly."

He turned and walked away, following Aragorn along the path. Behind him, Boromir whispered in Gimli's ear:

"Look, there comes another copse ahead. I believe we should all go and embrace the trunks, to show how sorry we are."

The dwarf tried to hide his guffaws.

"And then you and I will make him a wreath of leaves as a gift."

"Oh no," said Boromir sternly. "That would never do. How could he wear it? It would spoil his lovely long hair."

They both started to laugh.

"He must wash and comb it each night like a woman, when we are all asleep!"

"He has no need. He never sits near the dirt, like the rest of us."

"These elves are all the same. They look down on us simple folk."

"And how can we blame them? When we are so rough and uncouth. The very smell of us must drive them to distraction."

"Ah, but he preens himself so that the men come panting after. Do they not say that about the elves?" said the dwarf knowledgeably.

"Say what? That no man can resist their temptations? Well, for myself I say this. He is a pretty little thing to be sure, but I will not decide until I see his body stripped bare."

"I can assure you, gentlemen," came a scornful voice, "that you will wait long for such a pleasure." They stopped laughing at once. Legolas had heard their words with his sharp eleven ears, and now he stood staring at Boromir defiantly.

"Is this how you talk in your palaces and at your banquets? I had thought better of a man in your position. But perhaps I should expect nothing more from a line that rules as if it were king, and yet has no royal blood."

This last comment rankled, and Boromir, ashamed at being caught out and at the same time furious at the insult, replied in a sudden blaze of anger.

"I want no royal blood, if it makes me as vain and haughty as you. You may think yourself better than all of us, because you are elfkind, and because you are a prince. But that means nothing, for all your airs and graces. You don't know anything about the world, or how people really live. You've never known true suffering, or seen your comrades fall in battle beside you. You're pitiful! You may be honoured in your own lands, but you know nothing of me."

"I know enough," came the immediate and furious retort. "Your name is not unheard of, even in Mirkwood. And let me tell you this – it does your reputation no great service."

Boromir stared at him open-mouthed. Legolas nodded grimly. "Your servant boys may fawn on you and lavish you with their attentions, but I am not one of them." With that, he turned and strode away.

He did not say another word to either Boromir or Gimli for the rest of the day. Indeed, he barely seemed to look in their direction. Some tense moments had passed between the dwarf and the elf in the previous weeks, but such antagonism was only to be expected between members of such different peoples. Boromir instinctively felt that his case was different, and that Legolas reserved for him a particular contempt.

It was this which made him uneasy when Gandalf asked him to go and find the elf that evening. They had stopped after many days of hard travel in a sheltered spot beside a wooded glade, and after so long in the heat of the sun, Legolas had dropped his pack and gone to bathe. The elf had smelt the fresh water of a shallow lake, though it was some minutes' walk into the woods, and mired with the grime of their long journey he had wasted no time in finding it. The others had made their camp, and settled down to nibble their provisions, or kick off their boots and rest their sore legs.

Boromir, meanwhile, was charged with preparing their dinner. It had not been hard to catch the rabbits that scampered nervously around the edges of the forest, and several now roasted on the spit, where he tended them carefully. As they came ready, he called the others.

"Is Legolas not with us?" asked Gandalf as he came up.

"No. There is a lake in the woods. He went to wash."

"Go fetch him, will you?"

It was said innocently enough, but Boromir felt that the wizard had somehow heard of their argument and wanted the two to be reconciled. Else why did his eyes twinkle so knowingly? But whichever way, he could not very well refuse to go. So reluctantly, he stood and went towards the woods, far from relishing the prospect of talking to Legolas on his own.

He made his way slowly, as if to kill the time, noting the scratching of small creatures in the undergrowth and the calls of the birds. But he had not gone far before he heard a new sound, a light voice that floated high in the air. He followed it, and came to the lake where Legolas sat. At first he did not understand where that pure, lovely sound came from, but then he realised. The elf was singing.

Perhaps he had already bathed, because he sat with his clothes on, trailing his slim legs in the water. His back was to Boromir, and he did not appear to have noticed the other's arrival. The young soldier said nothing, but stood and listened to the elf, as if suddenly entranced.

He had never heard anything quite like it. The voice was haunting and sweet, and it seemed to pulse through the forest as if it were part of the air around them. The song had words that he could not understand, but the melody ebbed and flowed like the sea, and the sea was what it must have talked of – vast, powerful, and beautiful in its strangeness. He did not know how long he stood and listened, but eventually the elf stopped, and got to his feet with a sigh. Now was the time when Boromir should have stepped forward, but he felt that he had intruded on something private and deep, and he was ashamed. So instead, he stole back quickly, and told himself he would wait awhile.

There he stood, in the shadows of the forest, with the elf's voice still ringing in his ears like words snatched from a dream. He brooded over it in his hiding place, wondering if the proud and composed warrior often sang out his heart so sweetly in his moments alone. It seemed yet another part of the nature of Legolas that Boromir could not quite understand.

But there was no more time for wondering, for as he waited, he was sure that he heard a small cry from the glade. It was not especially loud, but the tone of it was fearful and alarmed, and without delay he rushed back towards their camping place. So great was his hurry, for his keen instincts told him that something must be amiss, that he did not see the nine tall shadows which flitted close by through the tangled foliage. And so dim had the light become, that he passed through the faint greenish mist at his feet without noticing its menace.

Legolas, meanwhile, heard nothing. He lay out on his back beside the lake, in the shelter of a great willow, and slowly stretched out his long, graceful limbs. The elf felt at peace, for the water had been cool and refreshing, and the night air was clean and calm. To be amongst the trees again was a blessed joy to him, the smell of the woodland floor awakening his senses more than the finest foods or wine. He traced the stars in the sky, and murmured his thankful prayers to the Valar.

The surroundings were so soothing, that he thought he would sleep for a while before returning to the group. It did not occur to him how strange it was that he should feel such drowsiness. Elves could go without rest far longer than their human counterparts, and treasured their gift of watchfulness. But some power in the air was weaving its way through the forest, as strong and as subtle as fog, and it lulled Legolas to sleep with its poisonous tendrils. The magic was cruel, and strong, and alien to a place such as this. The woods knew it, and they tried in vain to warn the creature that loved them so dearly - the wind hissed through the undergrowth, the trees rattled their leaves, and the birds called out in distress, but around the elf, everything was silent, as if it had been blanked out. And still, the dark figures moved swiftly towards him, floating on the mists of their cunning enchantment, bearing down on him with no one standing in the way. But the elf was oblivious: in the darkening woods which shivered and trembled with horror, he lay sprawled upon his back, innocent and asleep.

Boromir had hurried back, and not a moment too late. As soon as he returned, sword in hand, the snarling face of a huge orc loomed in front of him, and he slashed it down with one stroke before plunging into the tumult.

"Boromir! To me!" came Aragorn's loud cry. He was battling the chief of the marauders, a hulking oaf of man-size. Boromir rushed to his aid, unable to gauge the number of their attackers, or how the others fared.

"What happened?" he cried out. Gimli growled behind him.

"The orcs were waiting for us, curse them! You weren't ten minutes gone when they took their chance," he muttered. "Good hit, Master Merry!"

The hobbit had just knocked down an assailant with his sword hilt.

"Gimli, you must back Aragorn – I will defend the hobbits," said Boromir, and ran to where the orcs encircled them.

"Thank goodness you turned up," said Pippin. "I was beginning to think we had got ourselves into a mess."

"You can thank me later, when I need my clothes washing," was the reply.

"Get behind me now!"

The orcs seemed intent on pushing them all apart, for then it would be easier to pick them off one by one. The struggle was now in earnest, and they were each so intent on every move, they forgot that one of their company was still alone in the woods.

Legolas was in a daze, his elvish senses blunted as if he were deep below water. His limbs were weighed down like bars of iron. He did not even question why he was unable to react to the sound and lights that seemed to move around him, as if from a great distance away. And then suddenly, there came a rustling, and a voice spoke loud and close beside his head: "What is this we have here?"

That voice was full of venom and a repulsive sense of glee. Legolas started and opened his eyes, and it was as if he had surfaced from a deep dive. No longer were his senses dull – he was alert and ready, and he could see and hear with a brightness so sharp it was almost painful. "Who are you?" he said hoarsely. But a fear in him took hold, for he knew who they were that had come across him. Tall and black hooded they stood around him, their ragged cloaks floating in a breeze of their own making. Nine figures he counted, circling his resting place, as they loomed above with faces cruel and terrifying. It seemed as if a ghostly light shone from their blank eyes, and the lips of their leader were twisted into a deathly smile.

"We are the Nazgul. We are the Nine Riders. We come by order of the Master." As he spoke, he leant close, so that Legolas could smell his breath which stank like rotting flesh. It seemed then that a red flame caught light in those eyes, and they travelled over the body of the elf.

"A prince, no less, my brothers," hissed the rider to his companions. "An elven prince, as beautiful as the moonlight on the sea." Legolas struggled to stand, but the Nazgul drew their blades together and raised them to his throat. The elf looked up with defiance in his eyes.

"Shame upon you and your cowardice! Is this the way of the great Ringwraiths, to steal upon their prey when it lies weaponless and defenceless? Fie on such dishonour!"

The air was full of the sound of a terrible laughter.

"See here my brothers!" said their chieftain, full of mirth, "see what form elven royalty takes when it is at the point of a sword! When he lies at our mercy, he asks that we spare him for honour and for nobility." The laughter stopped, and a heavy silence took hold. The face of the ringwraith darkened as he bent forward and growled beneath his breath: "We have no honour. We have no nobility. We know only destruction and death."

The elf looked into his burning eyes, and seemed to see no soul beyond them.

"Where are my fellows?" he whispered. The ringwraith smiled.

"Dead."

The lie fell heavy on his ears. But it was too harsh and too soon for grief – instead, anger welled up in Legolas's heart.

"You are monsters, and you shall be avenged, if not by me, than by others. Mark my words, your end will be near for the deeds you have done."

"And what, your highness, might be your own end?"

Legolas trembled in spite of himself, for he knew that outnumbered and without weapons or aid, his death might be very close. There could be no hope of mercy from creatures of such power and cruelty. Holding his head high, he pulled down his shirt and spoke out clear and defiant: "If it be your will to slay me here, then I give you my throat." Now he felt keenly the pain of his lost friends. "I would rather die with my comrades than be captured and ransomed by such loathsome wretches!"

But to his amazement, the Nazgul sheathed their swords and stared at him expectantly, as if they awaited something which he knew not.

"What, then, would you have of me?" he beseeched.

The leader of the Nine laughed high and shrill.

"Can you not guess, Prince of Mirkwood?" he said. There seemed to be a moment when time stood still. And then, to his horror, Legolas saw the lust in the face of the ringwraith as he licked his lips and spoke: "From the first moment I saw you, as I rode the skies, I desired but one thing from you." His voice dropped low. "I desired your body, Prince. I desired that you opened your lap to me and let me take my pleasure until my greed be sated."

"No," whispered Legolas.

"I hungered for you, Prince. I hungered to lie upon you, to feel how a creature so pure and chaste would feel below my lips." He reached out and stroked Legolas's face. His skin was rank with sweat and his breath panted heavily.

"You have inflamed me with such yearning, Prince, that if you be as tight as your virginity promises, I fear I will tear your tender flesh too deep in my passion."

"Let me go," said Legolas, though he could barely hear his own voice.

"You cannot do this. You cannot countenance so shameful a crime."

"If you do not lie still for me and let me take my fill, I will force myself upon you, and you will not have the strength to fight me."

"Do not do this," he pleaded, and a note of panic entered his voice.

"Please – I beg of you – it would destroy me . . ."

He knew that he would not be heard. He caught his breath as strong arms clamped him down on either side and struggled in vain when the chief of the Nazgul pressed his lips to his own mouth. It is over for me, he thought, and he tried to shut his mind away from his body as he begged Elbereth for deliverance.

The swords and shields of the attacking orcs lay scattered throughout the clearing. Frodo breathed hard and fast, the fear still with him. Where were the others? He had Merry and Pippin beside him, and Sam was leant against the trunk of a nearby tree, but of the rest there was neither sight nor sound. A terrible thought came to him, that in the chaos and furore of the battle, they might have forever lost sight of their friends. Hurriedly he stood up and began to call them.

"Frodo!" replied a familiar voice, and at that moment, it was three times more blessed. He saw Gandalf pick up his crushed hat as he came toward the hobbits.

"Thank goodness you are all safe," said the wizard. "Boromir, Aragorn and Gimli are looking for you. You are not hurt? Good, good. Come Sam, let us all go together."

Quickly they gathered together and followed Gandalf back to the campsite.

"But where is Legolas?" asked Frodo, still finding that he shook with cold or fear, he did not know which.

"He will return here too, I hope. We are fortunate to have those here who make short work of a group of marauders." He looked as Gimli cleaned the blade of his axe. "When he is back, we will carry on once again."

But Aragorn was walking around the edge of the forest, his eyes on the ground and a frown on his face, when he looked up.

"Gandalf, I do not think it would be wise for us to wait for him. Look at these marks on the ground. These are no orcs. They are of some other creatures, and they head for the lakeside!"

As he spoke, a shrill scream tore through the air, and the travellers looked up in terror as nine winged shadows took to the sky.

"Nazgul!" cried out Aragorn. "Gandalf, Boromir, Gimli! Come quickly! Let us find him, and hope he has escaped them!"

Without a moment's delay, they rushed into the forest and found no sign of the elf. By Aragorn's command, they each took to different directions, calling as they went.

Boromir's heart was full of fear. He still remembered how he had turned away from the elf and left him alone before the orcs had made their charge. The thought that he might have abandoned him to the mercies of the Nazgul spurred him on in his search.

"Legolas! Legolas!" He kept calling, when he heard a moan so soft that he thought at first it might be an illusion of his mind only. Then he came upon a figure, crushed and broken like a rag doll and barely moving.

Boromir stooped fearfully and reached out to lift away the long hair, but his heart was so pained by what he saw that he could not speak. Legolas lay half conscious on the ground, his clothes torn and soaked in his dark blood. His golden hair was tangled about a face so pale that Boromir thought that he must be dying. Aragorn found them a moment later and his face darkened when he saw the charred earth around them.

"They have been here," he said softly. "They must have caught him unawares."

"The brutes!" replied Boromir with wrath. "What have they done to him?" He took the injured elf into his arms and lifted him, but though did so with great care, Legolas cried out in pain.

"Hush, hush," said Boromir below his breath. "I will take him to Gandalf," he told Aragorn, who nodded and hurriedly began to search for herbs that would help heal the elf's wounds. It was with great gentleness that Boromir laid Legolas at the feet of the wizard, who without delay put his hand on his forehead and whispered words of an ancient chant. The elf's breath seemed to come more easily and his rigid, trembling body went limp. Gandalf, his brow furrowed deep, lifted off his shirt to see his wounds.

"He has been viciously beaten, even tortured. I believe that they left him for dead."

"But he will recover?" asked Boromir eagerly.

"I should say so, yes. There are some bones broken, but an elf will heal quickly. Although I fear he may be bleeding from injuries within his body, for these bruises and scratches alone could not have caused such damage in a warrior so strong . . ." As he was speaking, Gandalf was looking carefully over the body of Legolas, and suddenly he stopped and a cry fell from his lips.

"What is it?" cried Boromir in fear.

"Where is Aragorn?" asked the wizard. He stood as he saw the ranger return with leaves and roots in his arms.

"I am here, Gandalf. Come, let us soak and clean him of the blood. The orcs are scattered for now, and if we bind his wounds he will have time to rest and recover his strength. With these herbs he will heal well."

"Have you herbs for his soul then, Aragorn? For his body will recover, in time, but I fear that his mind may be lost."

"What can you mean?" asked Boromir, as he saw Gandalf's stern face, and Aragorn rushed to the fallen body.

"It cannot be that . . ."

"Yes, Aragorn. See here – it is the mark without a doubt."

Aragorn seemed to swear under his breath. Boromir craned his neck forward eagerly to see what Gandalf pointed to on the elf's throat. It seemed to him to be a mark or scar, a bite mark in shape, but livid white against the pale of his skin. He looked at Aragorn, whose head was bowed onto his breast.

"Tell me, Aragorn, what this mark means?" demanded Boromir.

Aragorn looked towards Gandalf with pain in his eyes. The wizard sighed deeply and then turned to Boromir.

"This bite is the mark of the Witch-King of Angmar, the leader of the Nine. A merciless creature, and a mighty one. No one has ever been known to withstand him, if it be his will. I should have guessed that having one such as Legolas with us, he might have been in danger – but it is too late now." He looked sadly at the body of the fair and slender elf.

"There is no doubt in my mind that Legolas has been ravished by him against his will."

Boromir stood unbelieving. Not an hour ago, he had seen Legolas lying serene and peaceful by the lake, and now he was on the bare ground, having been raped by a pitiless fiend.

"He has been taken by force?" he asked softly.

"I am afraid so." His face was bitter and angry. "It was a cowardly act, for I see now that they used bonds of enchantment to take him by surprise while we were distracted. I blame myself for not looking after him better."

"We are all of us to blame," said Aragorn heavily. "But blame will not cure his ills. Come. Let me speak to the others, and we will keep him warm for tonight. Clean his injuries, Boromir, and dress them. Give him water if he can take it. I will come back soon."

Boromir rubbed the elf's shoulder. Any disagreements between them were forgotten in his mind, for he felt a burning fury within him that seemed to make his throat tight. How could anyone have harmed such an artless creature? It was a foul crime.

"What did you mean, Gandalf," he asked, "when you said that his mind may be lost?"

Gandalf shook his head.

"You have heard, surely, that an elf's heart can be broken by grief? I fear that he may not have the will to survive this attack, although his body is healed."

Boromir did not know what to say to this. He looked for a long time at his fallen companion.

"He will survive," he said at last. "We will make sure of it."



That night was a cold and unhappy one. The hobbits sat huddled together, not daring to think about the unspeakable horror that had befallen one of their companions. Gimli, who had forever been the first to speak against the elf, was the most bitter and vocal in his condemnation of the cruelties of the ringwraiths. Despite his roughness, his heart was warm and true, and he was eager to deal out revenge with his axe. Boromir, for his part, sat close by Legolas and tended him. He wrapped his body in blankets and combed out his long hair, so that it fell like a golden curtain across his face. As the others slept, and the night grew dark, Boromir kept a lamp burning so that he might see any signs of distress in the elf's fair features.

It was very late when he suddenly realised he had been asleep. Looking at the wrapped figure on the ground, he saw that Legolas's eyes were open and aware. The elf did not seem to be moving.

"Legolas?" asked Boromir softly. There was no response.

"Do not fear, Legolas. You are safe now."

He looked more closely and caught his breath when he saw there were tears in the elf's wide green eyes. Gentleness was not the first quality of Boromir's nature, and he had lived his life as a man of war. He did not know what to say to comfort his injured companion, or how to put right the wrong that had been done. Hesitantly, he reached out and wiped away the tears with all the tenderness he could muster, and clumsily stroked his slender back.

"Hush, now," he murmured. "Do not weep."

He looked over his shoulder, as if to call Gandalf or one of the others. Never had he felt so helpless on his own. Bending forward, he said gruffly: "Let me bring you some water, or some food?"

Legolas shook his head. The green eyes were dark and storm-ridden. "Try to get some sleep, then."

"I am so cold," whispered Legolas. "I can still see their faces – their eyes. . ."

Boromir felt sickened.

"They will not come again," he said. "Here." He gave the elf his blanket, but even then saw that Legolas trembled like a leaf.

"Perhaps you will be warmer if you lie beside me? Come, let me help you." He brought his arms around the elf's slender form and pressed him close to his own body so that he was warm and sheltered. Legolas looked surprised and unsure at this unexpected gesture.

"Come, can a soldier not offer comfort to his comrade?" asked Boromir.

Legolas nodded and rested his head on Boromir's shoulder, allowing himself to rest upon the larger man. A sudden burning heat flooded Boromir's face and chest as he felt the elf so close to his body, but he held back his emotions and lay still as Legolas fell deeply asleep. For once, in many days, he did not think about the ring, and it did not even enter his dreams as he, too, fell asleep.

In the days that followed, a change came over Boromir that they all noticed. Instead of his usual sullen and derisive manner, he became attentive and helpful, always willing to lend a hand to the others and never uttering one word of protest. The horror of the attack had sobered him, and the guilt that wracked him over leaving Legolas alone in the forest meant that the elf became his own special charge. Each night, they would lie down close to each other, and Boromir would put his arms around him in a gesture of brotherly comfort.

Indeed, Boromir treated him as if he were as helpless and as fragile as a babe, always making sure he was supported and protected from harm. His rough affection amused Legolas somewhat, for it made him smile to think how it looked to see the sturdy and serious soldier crouching in front of a warrior prince and feeding him soup. One evening, Boromir was helping him to dress when the elf began to laugh. The young lord looked at him in astonishment.

"What is so funny?"

"It is nothing," he said, but he continued to chuckle.

"What do you mean, nothing? If it were nothing, you would not laugh."

His obvious irritation only served to increase Legolas's mirth.

"It is only that I have caught sight of us both in the river."

"What of that?"

"But what a sight it is! A grown man helping an elf with his jacket and his belt, as if he were new born!"

"But you need to be helped."

"Yes – and now I will have to helped again, because I see that you have braided my hair wrongly!" He laughed again. "How strange it looks! Did you not see?"

Boromir looked at him, a little offended.

"I am sorry. I do not know much about putting up hair. I have never done it before."

Legolas smiled at him.

"You should not worry. I will leave it loose for now. I should be thanking you, for I have not laughed in many weeks."

Boromir shrugged and then smiled. "Well, if it amuses you so much, I will tie up your hair a different way every day."

"It is a handsome offer, but if you did so, I could never bear to be seen by another elf ever again!"

Boromir went along with Legolas, making light of the incident, but he could not help but be secretly embarrassed. In truth, as he had been helping him with his clothes, his eyes had been roving over his slim yet powerful body. The creamy white skin was warm wherever Boromir's large hands had rested on it, on his chest and on his shoulders, and he longed to be caressed by those soft lips. But whatever he felt, he said and did nothing, for the white scar on the elf's throat reminded him of how much Legolas had been through. There was a time and a place for love affairs, and this was certainly not it. Yet in a small way, he was pleased. The gentle and noble Legolas often hid his emotions from those around him, but Boromir had made him laugh out loud. That was something, after all.

The journey of the fellowship now took them to the depths of Moria, lair of the dwarves, for the path through the mountains had been closed to them. It was unwillingly that Boromir contemplated the long days ahead in such a dank and gloomy place, but there was no choice in the matter. As they began, he would stay behind Legolas at all times, so as to catch him if he should fall or stumble in the dim light across the broken stones. The elf's senses had been weakened since his assault, and his eyes were not so keen, his poise not so steady. Yet he never breathed a word of complaint or bitterness, and kept up with the others as well as he could.

One time, when they were about to stop and rest, he had fallen heavily on his knees, and let out a gasp of pain. Boromir had quickly stooped to help him to his feet.

"Are you hurt?" he cried out, concerned.

"No, no, I only missed the step. Thankyou. I should have been more careful."

The man brushed the dust off the elf as Legolas still clutched him for support, and waited until he got his breath back.

"Take it slowly. Your injuries are still healing. It is no wonder you are stiff and sore. I will change your dressings for you after you have eaten."

The affection and anxiety in his voice seemed to touch the elf, for Legolas suddenly turned to him and took his hand in a simple and lovely gesture that made Boromir catch his breath.

"Please, son of Gondor, forgive me if I was ever ill-mannered with you before. You have been very kind to me, and helped me greatly."

"Of course," said Boromir huskily, so overcome by the startling green eyes glowing radiantly at him that he could not say much more. Then he cleared his throat and said: "I must ask your forgiveness also, for I mocked you before. I am not used to the customs of the elven folk."

"And I had never been among men until this time, and so I was wary. In truth, I was told by my father that you were all alike: greedy and selfish, and seduced by power and lust."

Boromir was not as appalled as he might have been at this damning assessment. In fact, looking at the wild and regal beauty of the young elf before him, he understood perfectly why Thranduil would choose to warn his son about the lust of men.

"But now that I have known you, I see that it is not true. I would like to hear more about the race of men, and how they spend their days."

"Then let us be friends, and let any disputes between us be forgotten." So they clasped hands and sat down to eat together.

At Gandalf's request, the fellowship set off once more, but this time, Boromir and Legolas walked side by side. They spoke for many hours of their lives past, and of the lands from whence they came. In this way, Legolas learnt of the glory of the city of Minas Tirith, its seven gated tiers topped by a magnificent tower of white and pearl. He heard with delight the tales of Boromir's childhood at the feet of the mountains, in the wide open plains of Gondor. In turn, Boromir listened with wonder to the ways of the elves of Mirkwood, and their love of every tree that grew and every bird that sang in that strange and forbidden place. Legolas talked most warmly of the family that had nurtured him.

"My life was very happy. I always had my father and my brother to care for me, and I was sheltered from everything untoward." They were following the soft light that wavered from Gandalf's staff.

"You were fortunate, then."

"Yes, although I only see it now."

"But your mother?"

"My mother died a few weeks after my birth. I have no memory of her. I believe that spared me much pain – for my brother talks of her often. And the King tells me that I remind him of her each day."

"I lost my mother also."

Legolas looked at him with wide and gentle eyes.

"I am sorry. Do you miss her?"

"Always. I was a boy when she sickened, and I remember her wasting away over the months. I do not think my father ever fully recovered."

"But perhaps he takes comfort, like my own father, in the children he had by her."

Boromir lifted his eyebrows.

"I do not think so. I love him, to be sure; but he grows more and more withdrawn with each day, and sees me as a means to flatter his great name."

Legolas nodded.

"It is difficult to be the eldest in a family of repute. My brother has the weight of succession upon his shoulders. I have seen what a burden it can be, and how much he berates himself for his supposed failures. You, too, must feel the same strain."

"I do." He smiled suddenly. "Although, in all honesty, I have never admitted so before."

Legolas laughed.

"To always seem assured – that is half the task already done."

"I hope so. It is the half which I can do most easily, in any case."

They walked on for a while, until Legolas spoke again: "It is sorrowful to think how those who love each other are broken apart by sickness and death. I sometimes think that men must live with great fear and grief, for they know that one day all those that they care for will pass away."

"And so we envy your people, who may have lives everlasting. And yet, one day, all things must pass away. That is the way of the world. Perhaps my mother did not live long, but she was a good and kind woman who lived her life well."

"You are right – that is what matters most. As for me, I would break my immortality gladly if there was need." Boromir glanced at him in surprise, but the elf was not looking at him. He seemed thoughtful and reflective.

"For the Eldar called it the Gift of Men before they renamed it the Doom. And I believe they were right in the first, for I see what passion and courage there is amongst men, who treasure each of their days and who know how precious their short life is."

"So say our wise elders, that we should live to the full, for one day we shall die. But it can be a painful philosophy. So much suffering and cruelty in the world, and nothing for some of our people to look forward to. Is it not harsh for them to know that this little life is all they shall ever have, and that if they cannot make the best of it, they will fail? And it is more painful still, when they see the wealthy and well-born, filling their days with pleasures and indulgences."

"More reason, then," spoke Legolas, "for those of privilege to come to their aid."

"True. But there are miseries and humiliations that neither wealth nor luxury can ease." Legolas was silent, and Boromir suddenly turned to him.

"I am sorry! I did not mean to refer to – to what happened. Forgive me if I reminded you."

"It is no matter. Indeed, my friend, I could never forget, however many years pass. But I will learn to live my life again. It is all I can do."

Boromir reached out and put his hand gently on his shoulder.

"We are all here for you, Legolas. You have many friends that care for you, and you are precious to your brother and your father. We are so thankful that you have been strong enough to bear this."

"It is no question of strength. Whenever misfortune befalls any one of us, we can only do as best we can. But I thank you for your kindness. Without all of your help, I could not have borne it. Especially your help, Boromir."

Boromir flushed, but in the dim light it could not be seen. After a while, he said quietly: "How is it that you lived on after the Nazgul came? I was told that many a time an elf would die after such an attack."

Legolas seemed to look far off into the distance, as if he struggled to take his mind back to that time.

"I cannot say. I remember that when I lay, I felt as if I was floating away, like a ghost or spirit, but that I held onto my bodily form because I wished to live. I do not know why. Perhaps it would have been more honourable to choose to die."

"No! No, that is not right. It is more valiant to face such insults and overcome them, than to give up and die. You showed your strength and your defiance of those monsters when you chose to live your life – and you will live it well, and show everyone that you are still pure and noble, whatever has been done to you against your will."

Legolas sighed and shook his head.

"I can no longer think what is wrong, or what is right. It is too much for me. Please - let us not speak of it."

He had been resolutely silent about his ordeal, and this was the most he had said ever since the night of the attack. Boromir did not push him to say anymore. He was hurt that he could do so little to ease the elf's pain, but he respected his choice to keep his darkest moments to himself.

Some time later, they stopped again in a stone hall from which three passages ran. The weary travellers unrolled their bedding and settled down to sleep, for Gandalf could no longer remember which way they were to take. Boromir grumbled at the delay but in truth he was glad to rest, for none of them knew how long they had been walking. In Moria there was no day and no night, only darkness perpetual.

Legolas lay down close beside the tall man once more. Boromir watched him carefully as he stretched out on the floor, and in his mind there was a great debate. Even as the others closed their eyes and, one by one, fell asleep, still he turned restlessly. Could he tell Legolas of what he felt for him, or not? The prince was so proud that he feared his suit would be rejected, and such were the ways of the elves that he would never surrender to one night of sensual delight and no more.

He sighed into his mattress as he looked at the beauty of the sleeping figure, so pleasing in every way, a vision of ivory and gold. If only he could wrap his legs around that slender body, and moan his pleasure into those ears, he could rid himself of this yearning. The elf was so alluring, and so kindling to his desire – just like the ring itself, he thought. And surely that golden heirloom was his birthright, if it was anybody's. To put it in the hands of a common little hobbit was the worst kind of madness. No, he should be the one to keep it, and use it for the good of his long-suffering people. That was the only course which made any sense. And if he should have the ring, and take it when he pleased, why should he not take Legolas? He had courted many men before, and all had succumbed to his will.

Then he started at his own thoughts. Legolas was not like any other man. He felt ashamed of seeing the prince as no more than another conquest. Yet Boromir's heart had never truly loved before, and in truth, he did not know how to go about it. So he did what he did best whenever he had a problem that could not be resolved by any physical means: he ignored it and went to sleep, and hoped it would take care of itself.

But Legolas was not asleep.

He usually lay to rest, as all elvenfolk did, with his keen eyes open, while his spirit would wander the streams and pathways of his beloved woodland home. But that night, his open eyes were unglazed, and he stared up into the vastness of the dark. There were not even any stars to comfort him.

His soul was not flying swiftly past the birches and the elms, nor singing with the larks of the forest. It was with him where he lay, against the cold stone floor. And it was cold, to him as well. The passing of all weathers and all seasons had never discomfited before, but now he felt a chill which ached in his bones. He flinched in the gloom.

A prince, no less, my brothers. An elven prince.

The words came back to him, in that harsh, high voice. And I was always so proud, he thought to himself, to be of royal parentage and to have all the wisdom and delight of my kin. Now it seemed a curse, for it was an elven prince that the Nazgul had picked out as his prey, and an elven prince who had to bear the humiliation of the assault. He sometimes thought, with guilt, that it would have been better if he had bled to death by the lake. He was not afraid of death itself, and it would have spared him his disgrace.

And then he thought of the words of Boromir, so anxious for him and so sure. He found it strange how much he was comforted by the attentions of the burly soldier. Boromir had taken all his cares onto himself and stood at his side as if he could not fail. He had never been treated as something so fragile and precious, and as a warrior so powerful, he was surprised it did not irk him.

I leant on him as if he were my brother, he thought wryly. For Boromir seemed older than him, although he must be many years his junior - he had seen more, done more. He had hunted, and gone to war, and made merry, and taken lovers. Legolas felt a sudden wave of nausea at this, for his own body had been untouched until the day the Nazgul had taken him.

And however much the others tried to support him, he knew that they would never reach the core of fear and hurt that sat in his stomach. The memories of it would not be pushed out of his mind, and he could still see the gloating eyes of his attackers, and feel the wretchedness of how his legs had been pushed apart for the monster to mount him. Not one of his companions, however well they meant, would hear what he had heard when the laughter rang out as he began to bleed. Not one of them would hear the creature's gasps of delight at every thrust, or feel him biting their throat when his warm seed spilled forth. He twisted in the dark, the tears starting up in his eyes at the memory, but he brushed them fiercely away. Yet he would never be able to undo what had been done to him, or forget what he had said when they left him, beaten and bloodied on the ground: "Now live the rest of your life with my mark on you, so that all the world may know that a Prince let me rut him like the basest whore of Middle earth."

And they had gone, while he lay so shattered that he could not move or cry out, his blood pooling around him and his mouth and legs sticky from where he had been forced to take the creature's seed. The humiliation and dishonour of the act left him without any defences in his mind to help him heal. It would be a long, long time before he could ever sleep peacefully again.

A little of the weak dawn light came in through the cracks in the stone vault of Moria. Gandalf had his pipe in his mouth as he looked at the others asleep, and every now and again, smoke would billow out around his white beard. Aragorn was beside him, and the two were crouched together quietly, speaking in whispers.

"If you truly believe it can be done, then I will follow you. Never mind what others think or say. I trust your judgment alone."

Gandalf sighed wearily, and seemed to show his age.

"Well, that is something. But my judgement is based on hope only. We have a chance, to be sure, or I would never have let Frodo take the ring. But it is only a chance, after all."

"He is brave, and steadfast. With our help, we can make it yet."

"And when all is said and done, we have no choice. It is this, or nothing. That seems to make decisions easier, at any rate."

Aragorn leaned back. "I wonder how much he understands of the danger he is in."

"He has come to know more, little by little. But perhaps it has turned out better that he does not know too much. There is something about a hobbit's innocence, and good faith, that makes me relieved that it was he who took the ring, and no one else. It makes him safer, I think."

Aragorn nodded languidly, taking another deep breath from his pipe. "Although he is not the only one in danger from it," he commented quietly.

Gandalf looked at him straight in the face, his eyes glittering in the gloom. "Ah. So you have noticed it too, have you?"

"From the moment he looked at the ring, he was caught."

"Yes, yes, you are right. It doesn't surprise me much, I am ashamed to say. He is his father's son."

"A bold man, I think."

"And a headstrong one, and a stubborn one, and one who is used to always getting his own way." Aragorn only smiled to himself.

"I don't say that he is a bad man, Aragorn. But he worries me. He has a great yearning to prove his own worth, and despite all appearances, a great insecurity in his heart. The ring feeds on those weaknesses like a leech. Out of everyone here, I fear that he will be the first to be tempted."

"I will keep an eye on him. He may prove us wrong in the end, and let us hope that he does."

Gandalf looked to where Boromir lay asleep, his brow furrowed. "That is not all you need to keep an eye on him for, my friend."

Now it was Aragorn's turn to look at Gandalf closely. "So you have noticed that as well?" He shifted his position on the rock.

"I thought so myself."

"There is lust in his eyes, when he looks at Legolas. He tries to keep it hidden, but there is no doubt that he desires him."

"Can you blame him? Legolas is a worthy and noble elf. It is no surprise that he has awakened the man's interest."

"Maybe not, but it is a dangerous thing. It is not healthy to want what you cannot have." Aragorn's face became grim.

"That is what I was always told, when I wanted Arwen to marry me." Gandalf put a hand placatingly on his shoulder.

"Your case is different. You were brought up among the elves, and know their ways. And you have royal blood. But Thranduil has poor opinion of mortals, and he treasures his son like a jewel. Boromir should be warned that it is not his place to interfere, for it will only ruin Legolas's reputation. One night of diversion for that man's satisfaction is not worth damaging a prince's future prospects."

Aragorn remained unconvinced. "I think that Legolas is wise enough to make his own decisions regarding anything of that matter. But if it will ease your fears, I can talk to Boromir in private."

"Would you, Aragorn? He would listen if it came from you." The man lifted his eyebrows, not certain that Boromir would be pleased when he warned him off, but he nodded anyway.

"I am more worried about Legolas for other reasons. He is pale and weak, still. And his injuries have not healed as fast as I had hoped. An elf should have been back to fitness by now, but some power in those foul spirits has kept the wounds open and raw."

"He is shaken," replied the wizard. "It will take time. It was a dreadful misfortune, to befall someone so pure and blameless, and the recovery will be slow. Think of it: he is one of the Eldar, and he can scarcely comprehend the greed and cruelty of Men that leads them to such dreadful deeds. Has he spoken to you, about what happened that night?"

"No, he has said nothing. And I have not dared to ask him."

"Neither have I, Aragorn. Neither have I." And he shook his head thinking about it. There was a long pause, when Pippin's small voice suddenly piped up.

"Are you awake, then, you two? What are you gossiping about"

"Yes, Master Lazybones, we have been awake for hours," said Gandalf good-naturedly. "And never mind what we were 'gossiping' about, it has nothing to do with you."

"So have you found the right way for us?"

"Of course I have. What sort of question is that? Come along – let's get the others up." And in a few moments, they were off again, ever further into the darkness of Moria.

Boromir lay dreaming in the groves of Lothlorien. In his mind's eye he saw at first only darkness, and then a wreath of smoke and flame, tumbling unstoppably towards him, and he could hear a terrible screaming that echoed around him. His face was cold and drenched with sweat.

Where was he? The walls around him were made of stone, holding him in, trapping him. It was pitch black, except for that dreadful creature of menace now approaching him, its body a burning inferno. The Balrog. And then he knew – he was back in Moria, back where Gandalf had fallen. He saw the wizard standing small and white in his dream, his staff raised, and he wanted to cry out, to run and pull him back. But no sound came out of Boromir's throat. And he could not move – his legs were frozen.

How could he win? How could he possibly survive, that little figure standing alone against a mass of fire and wrath? He knew what would happen. He had to stop it. But he couldn't. With its last spiteful swing, the Balrog pulled Gandalf into the abyss, and the screaming in Boromir's head became louder and louder, until he felt he was gasping. And then everything went black.

For a moment he thought he had woken up, but then the dream flashed and changed. Now he saw that he was out in the open, at twilight, in a place he had never seen before. The air was soft and warm, and all was quiet. It was peaceful and soothing, and he stood there for some time. But every now and then, he would hear a strange noise, soft and rustling, which rose and then lulled. He moved forward, and saw that he was beside the Sea.

It was vast, wide and glitterinng beneath the moon and stars. He was awestruck by it, for it stretched beyond the realms of his mind. Why am I here? he thought. It is not my path to cross into the Undying Realms. Then a soft voice spoke beside him.

You are here for me, Boromir.

He looked around, and forgot to breathe. Legolas stood before him, dressed in a simple white tunic, his hair loose and flying in the sea breeze.

I am here to give myself to you, he said.

Boromir inhaled deeply and put his hands on the elf's shoulders.

I have been aching for you, he whispered, aching for you.

Legolas looked beautiful, even more so, if possible, in his dreams than in reality. His proud, high cheek-boned face and milky-white skin were clear even in the evening light, as if they glowed from within. Boromir leaned forward, and drew his face towards his own.

They kissed, for how long Boromir did not know, standing there beside the Sea. And then, he felt a white heat pooling within him, and he took the elf's hand, and brought it to his lips. Please, do not leave me, he begged. Give me what I crave. There was a pause, in which Legolas looked at him. And then he held out his other hand, and opened it to show him what lay on the palm.

Is this what you wanted? he asked.

There, in his hand, was the Ring. It seemed to rise up off his palm, and float in the air, shining and gleaming. And as Boromir looked at it, entranced, he felt as though the night had grown darker around them, and all that blazed brightly was that loop of gold. It turned slowly, the light radiant along its continuous band, and the sea was full of whispers. His reached out, and the gold was reflected in his wide eyes. His hand closed over the cold metal.

It is mine! he thought, and he had never felt so full of triumph.

I have it!

But in that moment, a piteous wail broke the silence, and he saw that Legolas had sunk to his feet, and his face was ashen grey. No! he cried out, trying to lift his stricken lover.

It is too late, whispered the elf. It is too late!

And then Boromir saw that the Sea itself was darkened and rough, and had begun to froth, as if it were boiling with anger or pain. He was on his knees, desperately trying to revive Legolas, who was now lifeless in his arms, and still the Sea rumbled and groaned before them. And then, before he could do anything, that vast expanse of water had lifted itself into a torrent of dark waves, and it fell upon them, engulfing them in its merciless jaws with a resounding crash.

Boromir woke up with a start. Something had just struck him across the face. He had his hand on his sword at once, thinking they were being attacked, but then realised that Legolas was thrashing and sobbing beside him in his sleep.

"Wake up!" he said, shaking his slim shoulders. "Wake up, Legolas!" The elf shuddered and looked around him, as if he did not know where they were.

"It's only me," said Boromir. "Are you alright?"

The elf nodded, wrapping his blanket around his pale arms. "I was having a nightmare," he said softly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It doesn't matter. I wasn't sleeping well myself." He was still shaken from his own strange dream. Now he looked at the quiet figure, and saw his eyes which stared so sadly and emptily into the darkness.

"Have you been weeping?" he asked.

Legolas brushed his eyes hastily with the back of his hand. "I was dreaming – I was dreaming of them again."

Boromir knew he was talking about the Nazgul. "They can't hurt you here," he said.

"But they can hurt me here," he replied, gesturing to his heart.

"Oh, Legolas," said Boromir, full of pity. "I am so sorry." Not knowing what else to say, he embraced the elf and held him. He felt him trembling against his breast, and knew that he was trying to stop himself from crying. After a few moments, Legolas was able to control himself, and he took himself out of Boromir's large arms with regained composure. "I should not trouble you like this."

"It is no trouble."

"Only that it haunts me so much. It has gone through my spirit, and everything I think of is touched by it. I do not know what I shall do."

"You will fight on, son of Thranduil, as you have done so far."

"I do not know how long I can keep fighting."

"You are stronger than you think you are. You are a prince of Mirkwood." Legolas smiled with eyes downcast.

"You have always been strong for me, Boromir. I am glad you are here, especially since we have lost Gandalf." His lovely wide eyes were full of grief at the thought of the wizard's fate. Boromir, looking at him now, could not help but think of his dream with longing.

"If I ever come across the monster that used you so vilely, I will slit his throat," he said vehemently. But Legolas only looked at the ground, for nothing could undo what had been done, and even vengeance had no sweet taste for his tongue. It was almost dawn when they went back to sleep, both struggling with secrets and fears within themselves, and both minds troubled by emotions which they could not control.

Legolas was called before Galadriel the next morning. He stood respectfully with his head slightly bowed, for he knew how much she was held in esteem. But she rose up from her chair and took his face in her hands gently, with all the grace and affection that there was between elven peoples.

"Legolas. I am glad to meet you at last. Your brother talks so highly of you." She spoke in Sindarin, and her rich voice was queenly.

"It is an honour to be in Lothlorien. I only wish it had been in happier times."

"Yes, these are dark days. For you, young one, especially. I see it in you." She looked at him with such sympathy and warmth that, to his surprise, he felt tears start up in his eyes and was unable to reply.

"Come now. Do not be ashamed to weep. I know what has happened to you. I understand it."

He bit his lip and looked at the ground. "If you would not mind, my Lady, I wish that you do not speak of what your powers reveal to you to my father or my brother," he said. "It would break their hearts."

"The truth, prince, often finds a way of revealing itself. But be comforted. I called you here in private to offer you a vessel to pour your grief into, for you have none, and you have kept this secret from everyone – even those who have journeyed with you so far. Tell me. What do you plan to do?" Legolas shook his head helplessly.

"I do not know. Every night, I dream of him. His face, and his cruel eyes. When I think of how he used me, and how great was his delight to break my chastity, I feel as if I want to bury my knife in my own flesh."

"That is no answer," said Galadriel, and she was not alarmed by his words, but soothing. "That is no answer, and you know it."

Legolas nodded tearfully. "But what can I do? There seems to be no way out for me."

"Listen to my counsel. Your fate is inescapable, but see it not as fate. See it as a gift . . . a light that has come out of darkness. You know what I talk of, do you not?"

"Yes. I know. But it seems only a curse."

"You will think different when the time comes. But trust in those around you, who would love and support you. Do not be afraid of taking a hand when it reaches down to pull you up."

He took in a deep breath and wiped away his tears. "I will do what I can, my Lady," he said. "I will follow your wisdom, and trust in it."

"And remember this, also. The fellowship stands on a knife edge. Beware, Legolas. Keep your eyes sharp. Not all men have good intentions. You should not be too trusting. Beware."

He looked deep into her eyes and nodded. But his mind was elsewhere, still churning with the pain of what he had concealed from everyone around him.



"You seem fond of this place, as if it were once a home to you."

"A home? No, not exactly. But yes, I am fond of it."

Aragorn and Boromir were stretched out on the grass, waiting for Legolas above, in the shade of the great tree.

"It has happy memories for me," explained the ranger. "Does it not agree with you so much?"

Boromir fidgeted. "I don't like it. It's very . . .well. It's very elvish," he finished, somewhat uncomfortably. Aragorn only laughed.

"It is certainly that." He picked at the grass idly. "This was the place where Arwen and I made our vows," he said softly, almost to himself. There was a light in his eyes as if he could see the scene in front of him.

Boromir turned to him and his face was softened. "You are a lucky man, for her to make such a decision."

"I am, and I know it. It is a great sacrifice for her, and for Elrond." He paused, and then said, in a sterner tone: "Boromir, I do not mean to intrude, but listen to my counsel. Whatever your feelings for Legolas, he is not for you."

Boromir sat up instantly, and the colour fled from his face. But he endeavoured to appear unconcerned. "I don't know what you are talking about, Aragorn."

"Come on. You can barely tear your eyes from him."

Boromir was about to launch into his defence, and to deny any such thing, but the look on his companion's face was so shrewd that he knew there was no point. Instead, he let his breath out with a long sigh. "Is it so obvious?"

"To me it is. Although I do not believe that Legolas himself has noticed."

"No, he would not. He seems very innocent of such things."

"Well, most men look at him in the same way. Perhaps he is used to it." Boromir raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps." His face became tight and sullen. There were a few moments of silence, and then Aragorn spoke again:

"I do not think you have bad intentions, for you have cared for him like a true friend. Your loyalty and your attention have been admirable. But you are from two different worlds, Boromir. Although your family is noble, he is a prince of Mirkwood, and is far above you. I only say this candidly so that neither of you will be hurt. What can you hope for? That he will give up his immortality, his Princehood, his home, to live with you in Gondor? In the world of Men? Think about it, Boromir."

"I know, I know," he replied. "You have no need to remind me. I have been over it in my own mind enough times."

"But do you love him?" asked Aragorn. "Truly?"

Boromir looked at his hands. "I think I do," he admitted. "At first, I thought only of his beauty, and of what a prize he would be if he were by my side, and of how other men would envy me. I have believed I was in love many times before, and it was the same feeling." He thought guiltily of his past trysts, filled with the excitement and thrill of his own power, of making love to youths against the wall of a castle corridor, of the burning flames of passion and desire blown out in an instant and meaning nothing.

"But since he was attacked, he has been weaker, and vulnerable. For the first time in his life, I think, he has needed another person's help. I think it made him open up to me. He talks to me like his equal, like his friend. And that made me look past his beauty, and his pride, and see him as he was. It made me realise that he is loving, and brave, and kind. To see someone like that be treated so terribly – it made me angry, and it made me want to help him. And for once, I have done something good for a person without expecting anything in return. And so I think I have fallen in love with him." He shrugged, as if he were still a little puzzled by his own feelings. "Now I look at him differently. It does not matter to me that he is a great beauty, or a prince, or an elf. He is something more important than that. He is Legolas. And that is all I care about."

"Nevertheless," said Aragorn softly, "he still is a prince, and an elf. And you cannot get past that."

"I know. Only, he looks so young. And after what happened to him, he was so afraid, and so hurt. Instead of seeming like a great warrior elf, distant and remote, he seemed just like my younger brother. So you see, I had to take care of him. If my brother was weak, and hurt, and frightened, I would care for him in the same way. It was too easy for me to forget who Legolas is, because he looked so young and so scared." He sighed. "And now I don't know what to do."

Aragorn thought awhile, as he plucked some flowers and looked at them fondly. "I cannot say what he would think, if you were to reveal your feelings to him."

"But you would advise against it?"

"My mind says that I would. But I myself am engaged to an elf, and was told that I aimed too high. So I leave it up to you."

Boromir was about to ask him if he knew whether Legolas had a lover or not, when the elf himself came down to them from the tree.

"Where are the others?" he asked them.

"Asleep. The sun is hot for them. Is everything well?"

"Yes, yes."

"What did she want to talk to you for?" said Boromir curiously.

"Elvish things."

Boromir snorted. "You cannot escape so lightly. Maidens gossip all day, and then when we ask what they talk about, they laugh and say 'women's things'. So tell me honestly. Why did she call you up to her alone?"

"And I will reply just as honestly. I have no wish to tell you." He said it with a smile, but Boromir knew he was being firm, and he asked no more. He was troubled in his heart as well, for Lothlorien was indeed a strange place to him. The Lady of the Wood seemed to look at him as if she knew his eyes lingered on the elf, and his mind on the Ring. It made him feel uncomfortable and anxious, though there was no real reason why it should.

"I am becoming impatient after spending too long among elves," he told himself. "It is bad for my nerves." He would not have objected, of course, to spending more time with Legolas, who no longer seemed to count as someone different. But that was another problem altogether.

They left Lothlorien later that same day, and began their journey downriver. Boromir's mood was more and more sullen and morose, the further they went. He sighed and shifted restlessly around in the small boat, looking at Frodo with a strange intent. The hobbit noticed these glances now and again, and he could feel the man staring at him when he thought he was not looking. It made him uneasy. They went to land to spend the night, and as dawn broke, Frodo woke up before any of the others and walked around on his own.

Ever since Gandalf fell, he had been worried and unsure, and nothing seemed right or certain anymore. It was like a weight on his chest, this sudden responsibility, for now he had to make his own decisions.

"And how am I supposed to know what is right and what isn't?" he said to himself sadly. "I'm not anyone important." With these thoughts in his mind, he wandered further and further away from the group, not really knowing where he was going. He knew he had to go to Mordor and take the Ring with him, and the sooner he went, the better. It would be dangerous, and it would probably be best to go alone. He had taken his friends too far already. But knowing that and accepting it were two different things. At last, he sat down on a fallen tree trunk with a sigh. And just as he thought he would get up and go back, a tall shadow fell in front of him, and a familiar voice spoke behind him.

"Hello, Frodo."

He turned around, and saw Boromir standing there, waiting.


When Legolas woke up a few moments later, he saw that two people were missing at once. That one of them was Boromir was immediately apparent, for the man had never left his side before, and to have an empty space where once the soldier's body would have lain came as a sudden shock. He got up and walked with his small, light feet amongst the others, careful not to wake them, as silent as a shadow. Frodo was not there either.

He felt a shudder go down his spine and his chest tightened. For some reason, Frodo's absence gave him a sense of foreboding. Doubtless, Boromir was with him, but instead of comforting him, this made Legoals even more afraid.

"This cannot be right," he thought to himself. And he heard Galadriel's voice in his head:

Beware, Legolas. Keep your eyes sharp. Not all men have good intentions. You should not be too trusting. Beware.

He had always thought this meant he himself was in some danger, but what if the danger was for someone else? What if it were Frodo he should be looking out for?

He began to walk into the woods, thinking quickly. 'Not all men have good intentions'. He knew this all too well himself, but surely Boromir was to be trusted? He had never know someone to be so good a friend. He cared for him. Many things had changed since that day he had spoken out against him at the Council.

And then something hit him. The Council! Of course – he had forgotten what Boromir had said – he had forgotten how proud he had been of his country, and of how eager he had been to take the Ring to Gondor, of how he saw it as a gift to the Steward who would use it against the enemy and destroy him. His pace quickened, and the fear in his heart gripped tighter. How could he not have realised? The Ring had been near Boromir all the time. He would have been watching, waiting for his chance . . . .

The sound of shouts, and voices raised in anger, came to his ears. He was near a clearing, and he kept himself out of sight in the shadows.

He saw Boromir get to his feet, his face was white with fury. The hobbit cowered before him, clutching at the chain on his neck. The tall man towered over him, his voice loud and threatening. The elf's hand went to his mouth in horror and dismay.

"It is not yours save by lucky chance!" cried the man. "It could have been mine. It should have been mine! Give it to me!" Frodo leapt away from him and ran behind the fallen trunk, shaking with fear, but Boromir was many times stronger and faster than he was and he caught him by the shirt. The hobbit struggled desperately but the man pinned him to the ground and fought to tear the chain from his neck. He would have succeeded, but the elf sprang from his hiding place and pulled him off with a cry. Despite his slim build, Legolas had immense strength, and Boromir was forced to let loose his grip. Terrified and panic-stricken, Frodo turned on his heels and fled from the clearing.

"What are you doing?" screamed Boromir, turning to the elf, his face twisted with rage. Legolas was shocked. He had never seen the man so angry. "You fool! I almost had it!"

"It is not for you," said Legolas, trying to keep his voice calm, though he was breathing quickly. "You should not have tried to take it."

"What do you know? You know nothing!" he came towards him now, jabbing his finger at him. "You elves sit around in your pretty forests, talking and arguing, but you never get up and do anything while the world crumbles around you!"

"That is not true, Boromir. I am here, am I not?"

"You think I give a damn about what you do?" he retorted, and he seethed with resentment. "Why did you jump in and stop me? You had no right to interfere!"

"It was for your own good. The Ring is not yours."

"It IS mine!" And he was so choked with rage, that he swung his fist and struck Legolas hard across the face. He was a very strong man, and the blow knocked the elf to the ground. His head thudded heavily against the earth and gravel.

For a moment, there was silence, except for the sound of the his breathing as he lay on his back. Boromir stared at him, and a mist seemed to lift from his eyes as he saw a dark bruise blooming on the elf's cheekbone.

"Legolas!" he cried out softly. "What have I done?" Legolas caught his breath and got his feet, his head spinning, but Boromir stepped back from him in shame.

"I am so sorry," he whispered. "I don't know what came over me." He sat down and put his head in his hands.

"It's alright," said Legolas, and he touched the bruise gingerly, still reeling from the force of the blow. But the man had tears in his eyes.

"I don't know what I was thinking. Please forgive me. I never meant to raise my hand against you."

"It's alright, Boromir." He sat down next to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. "You were not in your right mind. Maybe you have not been for a while, but we did not notice it. You were under the spell of the Ring."

Boromir looked up in horror. "Frodo!" he cried. "I must have terrified him!"

"He will be alright. There was no great harm done."

"What will he think of me? I have driven him away. But I would never have willingly hurt him."

"We will go find him, and you will explain and apologise. Come now."

"No, no" he moaned. "If I am near it again – I do not know what I will do – it seems to have locked itself into my mind."

"You must learn to control yourself."

Boromir shook his head. "I am not strong, like you are. Not strong in my mind and spirit, I mean. I am used to getting my way, and I thought I could just take the Ring. I thought it would make people look up to me, and admire me."

"It would have done no such thing. And people look up to you as you are."

"But I do not deserve it. I deserve nothing."

"Do not speak so!"

"It is true. Look at how I have acted! I struck you. I am as bad as the Nazgul."

"No. You are not nearly as bad."

"Yes, yes I am." He was thinking painfully of how often he had been tempted to seduce the vulnerable elf beside him. "I have a high position, but it is an accident of birth. I have done things which are despicable."

"Where does all this come from?" said Legolas in dismay.

"I think about it, sometimes, in the middle of the night. I think of all the men who obey my commands, because I am lord of the city, and of all the lovers I have taken, just because I could. And I wonder if any of them really cared for me or knew me at all."

"Boromir, you cannot live with this guilt. It will destroy you. Look what it has done already – it has made you turn to the Ring for your salvation."

"And that would have destroyed me too. I see that now. But I rush into things without thinking, because I am a fool."

Legolas took his hand in his own. "Boromir, you are not a fool. We all make mistakes, and do things we regret. We must learn our lessons from them. And you are not worthless, either. You are a brave and kind man, and your men look up to you because they respect your leadership. When the time comes for you to take the Stewardship, you will be ready." Boromir squeezed his hand, but he did not reply. His eyes were still full of hurt.

"Look how you have taken care of me," said Legolas. "Look how you have helped me to recover from what I suffered."

"I did not do much," said Boromir mechanically.

"Yes, you did. Whenever I have stumbled, you have been there to catch me. You are a true comrade, and no one can say otherwise."

Boromir forced himself to smile, and turned to face him. "I am a fortunate man to have known you, Legolas Greenleaf. I have never met a creature more noble."

The elf inclined his head. Boromir sighed. He was exhausted. The mental strain he had been under for so long had lifted, but it left him utterly spent. He still had Legolas's hand in his lap, and he stroked in now, thinking of how dearly he loved him. Perhaps this was not the right time to say anything, but then there would never really be a right time. At least they were alone together. He sat up and took a deep breath. "Legolas?" he said, his voice hesitant.

The elf looked at him inquiringly.

"I – I wanted to ask you something. But I cannot be sure it will not offend you."

"We have been brothers-in-arms for many months, Boromir. I doubt that you could say much to cause me offence." He said it gently, and so lightly that Boromir knew he could not have guessed anything of his intentions.

"Well," he replied, his brow furrowing. "Well. I wanted to say that - " He stopped suddenly, and the elf also spun around, for a great thunderous roar had chimed from close by them.

"What was that?" he cried.

"Yrch!" exclaimed Legolas, and Boromir knew enough of elftongue at least to know he meant 'orcs'.

"The others!" he said at once. "They must have been seen!"

"Hurry, hurry!" said the elf, and immediately they ran together to their aid.

In the battle that followed, Boromir had no time to decide whether his interrupted speech was a matter of disappointment, or relief. Suffice it to say that the capture of the two younger hobbits, and the flight of Frodo and Sam, redoubled the guilt in his heart.

"I am to blame," he said heavily to Aragorn, after the last orcs were dispersed. "I acted foolishly, and now we may all regret it."

"You cannot blame yourself for Merry and Pippin, at least," broke in Gimli. "You were lucky to escape with your life." The dwarf stood stout and grim, his axe in hand, and it was clear that the loss of his two cheerful companions had stung him deeply. But he was right about Boromir. The man had fought valiantly and stood his ground far outnumbered, and it was only a hefty strike from Aragorn which had saved him at the last moment from death at the hands of the orc chieftain. He was heavily wounded, but more painful to him still was the thought that he had driven Frodo into danger. He sat now with his back to a tree, head in his hands. "What has been done is done," said Aragorn. "Whichever way, he would have to turn to Mordor eventually. If he was driven there sooner than we planned, so be it."

"But if he returns, he will never forgive me for letting his friends becoming orc-food."

"Do not give up hope so soon," said Legolas, as he resheathed his long knife. "They were not killed outright, but captured. Maybe the orcs have some purpose with them yet."

"I think the same," said Aragorn. "As long as we catch up with the orcs before they reach their destination, there is hope we will find them alive."

"And if they are not, more than one of those swine will feel my axe at their necks," muttered Gimli.

Boromir looked up at them wearily. Despite the pain of his injuries, and the guilt, and the restless tension that had plagued him ever since the beginning, he relished the thought of giving chase to those miserable beasts with his friends at his side.

"Well, then," he said, getting to his feet, and for the first time in ages the glimmer of a smile played on his lips. "What are we waiting for?

The chase was hard and long, until the four companions came at last to Rohan, land of the horsemen. There they found Gandalf again, to their great astonishment and awe, and sought refuge at the home of King Theoden. All this while, Boromir did not speak much to Legolas, unless it were to do with everyday matters and the tasks in hand. But he would steal longing glances at him, when he was not looking, and he saw that the elf's face seemed to grow paler and paler with each passing day. Nor did this go unnoticed by Aragorn and Gimli. Even the dwarf could see that Legolas's eyes had become dull, and his voice had lost its music, and it seemed that there was a sickness in his heart.

One night, it was cool and damp in the land of Rohan, and the travellers had stayed indoors. Legolas had excused himself from the company, as was often his will, for although he was now comfortable in the presence of men, still there were times when he wished to be alone with his thoughts. It should have been a happy time, now Gandalf was back, but much had passed which had been new and strange to him, and terrifying also, even to one so steadfast and bold. He would have been glad to take some counsel with his own kin, but for now he made do with solitude as he sat in his small room.

The moonlight came in dimly from a single window, but a fire burned warm in the grate and lit up the lodgings with its red flicker, where the elf's travelling things lay in the corner still unpacked. He did not get up to arrange them now, but sat motionless on the bed in deep thought. And his face wore an expression which did not suit its youth and nobility: an expression of weariness and great sorrow, which he had not shown before to the others. His eyes were glazed and unfocused when there came a knock upon the door, and immediately he snapped into full consciousness. "You may come in," he called, and his voice was as clear and as assured as it had ever been.

The door opened slowly to reveal Boromir, who looked in hesitantly. "I am not disturbing you, am I?"

Legolas shrugged gracefully and smiled. "As you see, I am not occupied."

Boromir nodded, and came and sat beside him on the bed. He looked at the elf with a slight frown. "You ate little this evening. I thought that perhaps you were unwell."

"No. I am quite well." There was a long pause. Then Legolas continued: "You did not wish to stay with the King and his men?"

"I was worried about you."

"But as you can see, you have no need to be."

Boromir looked at him. "Do I not?" he said.

Legolas shifted uncomfortably. "I only wished to be alone for a while. I have had little privacy these past months, and it has wearied me. Not that I could have asked for better company," he added hastily. There was another long silence, and the two of them sat watching the flames dance at their feet.

"I suppose, then," said Boromir at last, "that you desire me to leave? Since it seems there is something on your mind."

"Oh no – I did not mean to be discourteous. I have no such desire, if there was some weighty purpose to your visit."

At this, Boromir looked into his eyes. "There was," he said softly.

"There was?" reflected Legolas, puzzled.

There was no reply at first, but then the tall young man leant a little closer and whispered: "You are an extraordinarily beautiful creature, Prince Legolas."

He thought he would have been afraid to say those words, but in the firelight, with the prince beside him, they were so true and so heartfelt that they came easily to his tongue. Legolas parted his mouth in an expression of surprise, but his open lips were so tempting that Boromir gathered him in his arms and kissed him feverishly. There was no resistance – Legolas was as limp and motionless as if he had fainted into Boromir's lap, and he did not fight against the caress. To the man, the elf's lips tasted like the sweetest honey, and they were softer than he could have imagined. He could not help but sigh into his mouth, and the blood burnt in his veins. He kept on kissing him, possessively, not wanting to let go, as if by pouring his passion into his beloved he could somehow make him his own. And then he felt the heat within him become uncontrollable, and he began to fondle Legolas and unfasten his shirt. But a soft cry of protest came from the prince, who broke the kiss and turned his head away. "Please," whispered Boromir to him as he held him close, "do not be afraid. Lie with me tonight."

"No – I cannot!"

"Yes, yes. Come, lie with me – let me love you."

"No, Boromir!" He stood up, and now Boromir saw that the elf's face was flushed and full of self-loathing.

"Why? What is the matter?"

"How can you do this? How can you bear to touch me?"

"What do you mean?"

"After what has happened! Another man kissed these lips. Another man touched where you have touched. How can you do the same without feeling disgusted?"

"I have no shame in touching you. I beg your pardon, if I have reminded you of that time when you were so brutally assailed. But you cannot disgust me."

"Then maybe I disgust myself," he said softly, his eyes full of tears. "My body has been soiled by his foul hands. No one could truly love me, if they knew what you knew."

Boromir looked at him in astonishment: the most honourable and virtuous creature he had ever known, and yet consumed with self-hatred. He shook his head.

"You are wrong, Legolas. I will show you how much I love you. Listen to me, and I will tell you."

"No!" he said, and he was white with fear. "Sometimes, it is better to keep things locked away from others. It is better not to know."

Boromir fell to his knees and grasped the prince's hand, and the slim white fingers looked helplessly delicate against his own rough palm. "You must at least hear me. I will speak out my heart, whatever should be your reply." He gazed deep into the eyes of the elf. "I know that my birth is far below your own, and that the great kings do no suffer union between our peoples, and yet I would ask you this: if you give me your hand in marriage, I will honour you until my dying day." He spoke hoarsely, such was the fervour in his voice. Legolas turned away his head and closed his eyes as if in pain.

"Legolas? You are a prince, and a warrior, and I fear that I cannot be worthy of you. But you have stolen my heart, and have it in your keeping forevermore."

Legolas shook his head, as if to say that such a thing could never be.

"You have been my comrade in arms," tried Boromir again. "As a brother you have been to me. But you must know that any man who looked upon you must desire you. I am as any other man, Legolas, but I will care for you like no other, if you would consent to lie in my bed."

Legolas turned sadly towards him and put both hands on Boromir's shoulders. "You have been a dear friend to me, and I would never willingly cause you pain, but I cannot accept your offer." He looked with shining eyes into Boromir's face.

"Please do not think that all your kindness to me has not been valued. It has – and I thank you for it."

There was silence. Boromir turned away. He felt curiously flat, as if all the words and thoughts within him, now let go, had left him hollow. "You have then, as I thought, some other lover to whom you owe your loyalty?"

"No," he replied softly, unable to lie.

"Then why do you turn me away?" demanded Boromir with bitterness.

"Do not speak so! I owe you my very life, Boromir, for I might have wasted away with grief these past months, had you not been by my side. But there are reasons for my reply, which I cannot now explain. You must be satisfied with my answer, and ask no more of me. Please, Boromir, do not ask any more." He stifled the sob in his throat, and Boromir took him in his arms.

"I would give my life for you, if you would accept my love. What are you to other men? Nothing but a beautiful plaything, an adornment for them to parade. That will never be what you are to me."

But Legolas tore himself from Boromir's embrace and turned away from him. "I will leave this place tomorrow morn. I should have left earlier for my home, many days ago."

"What is this? Why do you run away? I would never hurt you, Legolas. I could never cause you harm."

"You would harm both of us, Boromir, without knowing that you did. I will say no more," he said, resolute. "It is enough. You have my answer, and you must be content."

Boromir saw the blaze of determination in his eyes. It provoked an utterance that he would never have spoken, had his heart not been so bitterly disappointed.

"Go, then! Go and seduce some other poor fool and play him with your wiles. Small wonder the Lord of the Nazgul used you as nothing more than his whore."

No sooner had he closed his mouth he repented his words. But it had been done. The colour drained out of Legolas's face, leaving it ashen pale. He did not speak, and fled from the room, leaving Boromir wretched and alone.

The morning dawned foggy and chill, with the sun no more than a pale sphere of light in the misty air. Aragorn stood on a high grass verge, his boots sunk deep into the damp soil, listening to the birdsong of the early hours. Every now and then, he looked to the house, where Legolas stood at the entrance and prepared his horse. They did not speak to each other as he continued to load his packs.

After a while, the ranger came slowly down towards the elf. "You truly mean to leave?" he asked in a low voice.

Legolas pursed his lips and carried on his work, as if he did not wish to reply. A moment later, he nodded. Aragorn sighed, and helped him load the last of the baggage.

"What has he said to you?" he asked suddenly. "Last night – you spoke not a word to each other at supper."

"It does not matter now."

"Would it not be better to settle your quarrel, than to leave so sudden and so secret?"

"Perhaps. But I should have left long before."

Aragorn looked at him with curiosity. "Legolas? You would tell me, would you not, if something were amiss? I have feared that you have not been well, these past few weeks."

Legolas laughed at him lightly, although the sound seemed forced. "All is well, my friend. Be assured, I will be more than content once I have reached my homeland."

Aragorn nodded, knowing that he must be satisfied with this answer. All the same, it seemed wrong to him that the departure should be so abrupt. He knew that this might in all likelihood be the longest that Legolas had ever been away from home, and yet he had misgivings about allowing him to return on his own.

Finally, it seemed, the elf was ready to leave. He mounted his horse and wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. "Farewell, Aragorn! Good fortune be with you! Take strength from those around you, for I know that you shall be victorious."

"Farewell, Legolas! I thank you, my friend, for the help that you have given us. We could not have travelled so far without your aid. Go safely now, and may you live in peace."

Legolas clasped his hand and then swung around as he prepared to make for Mirkwood. But before he had taken hold of the reins, Boromir came running from the house crying out his name.

"Wait! Legolas, please wait!"

At first it seemed that Legolas would ignore his cries and spur on his horse. But something held him back, and hesitantly, he let his hand fall. Boromir came up to him breathlessly, his face pale and unhappy. "Legolas, how could you think of leaving, without a word of goodbye?

Please forgive me, for I spoke rashly the other night. I would be wretched forevermore if you had left this morning and I had known nothing of it. You cannot go so silently, and think that I would not miss you!"

Legolas struggled to keep his icy composure. "I am sorry. I thought it would be easier for both of us, but I see it was the wrong thing to do. Come. Give me your hand. I forgive you freely, and I would have done so, even had you not asked."

Boromir looked at him desperately. "But you would still go? It may be that I will never see your face again."

"It may be so. But let us hope that one day, when victory is ours, we will perhaps cross paths."

Boromir shook his head and smiled. "How could I bear to see you, if you were on another man's arm?"

"Come, Boromir. Do not let such bitterness destroy our friendship. Forget the painful words that have been spoken in the past."

"I cannot forget. I have loved you." Legolas trembled.

"You must learn not to love me. You must think upon the battles ahead, and how you shall overcome your foes. And then you will return to your home, and to your father and brother, and the people will laud you beyond your dreams. And then you must look to the affairs of stewardship, and take a wife, and have children of your own. You must go back and live your own life, Boromir, and be happy."

Boromir stepped back and bowed his head in silence, but Legolas leaned down and put his hand upon his shoulder.

"I pray for your happiness, Boromir, and wish that your life is prosperous and content. Blessings be upon your head! It is well deserved."

"It is only because of you. I have done many things in my life that I am ashamed of, and only your good soul made me want to be kind and to better myself. May the winds speed you safely to your home, and take this as remembrance of our friendship." With this, he stood on tiptoe and kissed the elf's forehead. Legolas embraced him and then took hold of the reins.

"Farewell, Boromir! Farewell!" He turned and galloped off into the distance, as swift as a shadow on the wind. As he left the house of Rohan further and further away, he allowed himself to break down at last. Boromir stood watching the distant figure for many moments, and it pained him that not once did Legolas turn around and look at him again. But it was only because the elf wept, and he could not bear another to see his tears.

Several days had passed since Legolas had begun his homeward journey. He made steady progress, riding day and night when his horse was able, and eating little. But one night, it happened that as he approached a wood beside the river, a dreadful pain gnawed in his stomach. At first he tried not to think on it, for it passed some moments later. But as he continued, the pain would return, and with it a feeling of faintness.

Determined not to be delayed on his journey, he did not stop to rest. Several hours later, the pain came back very sudden, and this time it did not fade away. Instead, it worried at him insistently and made him sick and dizzy. Yearning for some respite, he breathed in the cool air deeply, and yet he knew in his heart why he ailed in this way. Please no, he thought as the pain became even stronger. He gripped the reins tighter but his skin was white and clammy with sweat.

It was no more than a few leagues to Mirkwood, surely; he thought that he would struggle and make it before nightfall. Yet the horse had only gone a few yards before the elf slipped and came off the saddle. Now he was bent double with agony and stumbled towards the riverside, the sweat dripping down his back and his legs. The horse whinnied and paced up and down as his rider fell again to the ground in pain, and crawled as best he could towards the cool water to wash his face. It could not be this, he thought to himself in desperation. He had been praying that he would reach Mirkwood and be able to speak to his brother before the first signs appeared. But it had been too late and now he was stranded, alone, with no one near. He lay on the ground, panting, and then he cried out as he saw that his leggings were seeped in blood. There was no choice for him but to stay by the river bank, and he bit on his sleeve as the waves of pain continued. So it was that Legolas lay alone as he gave birth to his first child, fathered upon him against his will by the Nazgul. Such was his suffering that he swooned as he delivered the infant, and remained insensible when the babe gave its first cries.



The sun had come higher in the sky as Boromir sat looking towards the horizon, a mug of tea in his hands. It was only a half hour since he had watched his only love ride away and leave him alone, and it felt to him like tasting a sweet nectar for only a moment, to have it snatched away again from his lips. Now the bitterness was sharp. He drummed his hand absently on the table, thinking of that gentle pale face, and of the scent of him when he kissed his forehead. He was angry now, at himself, for letting him go – he should have caught hold of him, begged him, anything – anything just to let him hold Legolas close to him and kiss his lips again. But it was all too late now.

"I am sorry, Boromir," said a quiet voice. Boromir looked up to see Aragorn, who sat down beside him.

"Sorry for what?" he shrugged.

"For what you go through. It is never easy, loving an elf." He said it with such compassion and understanding that Boromir sighed.

"No, it is not," he replied after a moment. "But at least Arwen returns your love, though your courtship has been troubled. At least you know that she will think of you always – she must be thinking of you now, even as we speak."

"I hope so." He could not help but smile for a moment at the thought, and then his face was grave once more "He has refused you, then, outright?" Boromir laughed bitterly. "He has, and he has done so in no uncertain terms. I was told it could never be. And perhaps he is right."

"You must not take it to heart. It does not mean that he has no care for you. He has had many suitors, but not even the best of them has won him yet, for his brother will allow no engagement."

"Is that so?"

"It is. And perhaps Legolas does not accept anyone now, before he has the chance to seek his brother's approval. Why, even Elladan himself, son of Elrond, sought his hand, and was refused. Imagine how it rankled! He will be highest among the elves, in time, and Thranduil leapt at the chance to arrange such an advantageous match, but the brother held the marriage back. This was many years ago, and he feared that Legolas was too young, and too green, for him to be wed."

"And does Legolas himself have no say in any of this?"

"He is royalty. Of course he has no say."

Boromir nodded, and thought on his words a while. He looked up again with a weary face. "It may be as you say, but if his family's judgement was all that stood in the way of our marriage, he would have told me so. He would have confessed his love, but explained that his duties prevented the union."

"Then what were his reasons?"

"That is just it – he would give me none. He asked that I did not press him, for he could not explain them. And all I can conclude from that, Aragorn, is that he cannot love me, and wished to spare my feelings by not telling me so plainly."

"He may have been taken by surprise. It is a great sacrifice, for an elf to wed a mortal. He may have been overwhelmed and have thought it safer to refuse."

"I do not think so. He was very clear on the point. Too clear, as far as my pride was concerned."

Aragorn paused and looked at the man in front of him for a few moments, and saw how dejected and hurt he was. He felt moved to comfort him, because he himself had known the rocky path towards love, and he did not want another to suffer as he had. And also, there was a suspicion in his mind, for he had known Legolas for many years, and the way he had acted had been brusque and uncharacteristic. It was not like him to leave so suddenly, with no proper explanation. No, it was clear to Aragorn that something was not right, or that there was something troubling the elf, although what that was he did not know. "Well, Boromir. There is only one way to find out if he loves you or not."

"And what is that?"

"You know what it is. You must find him, and ask him again. I can see that your feelings are true, and there is no reason why you should let him go. Follow him! He left barely an hour ago. Follow him, and ask him once more, and leave only when he has given you a full answer. You deserve that much. He may say yes, or he may say no, but at least you will understand why."

Boromir shook his head. "He will say no again. I spilled out my heart before, to no avail. It will be no different."

"How can you tell? What are you going to do, sit here and forget him for the rest of your days?"

"No!"

"Then do as I say. Everyone should have a second chance." Boromir looked out once more, across the plains, to where the mist rose in the distance.

"You are right," he said, a note of determination entering his voice. "I should never have let him go. But maybe I will have him back." So saying, he stood and called for his horse, and hurriedly began to pack his baggage. His motions were jittery and tense, for now that he saw even the slightest possibility of success, he was anxious to reach Legolas a soon as he could. Within moments, all was ready, and he was on his horse with the reins in his hands.

"Farewell, Aragorn! I will return as soon as I can, or else send word. And thank you for your counsel. May it be proved true!"

"Farewell, Boromir. And good luck!" With that, the horse was off at a gallop, and Boromir turned to wave goodbye as the figure of Aragorn grew smaller and smaller. Eventually, he could see him no more, and he looked ahead of him, to follow the elf's trail. The marks of horse's hooves were fresh, and he had little difficulty. Legolas could not be all that far in advance, and sooner or later, Boromir would catch up with him. And then they would see.

"Oh, Elbereth," he muttered to himself under his breath. "I hope I am doing the right thing."

For days he rode, and still he saw no sign of the elf. The ground was soft, for he was following the bend of the river, and at no point did he doubt that this was the way Legolas had passed. But just when he was sure that he would be in his sights, another empty vista would open before his eyes. It was frustrating, and Boromir's nerves were highly strung with the possibility of seeing his love again, and of what his reaction might be. Dare he hope against hope that this time, his answer would be different? At first, flushed with Aragorn's reassurance, he had been confident. But now, after hours on the road alone, with nothing but his fears to grate at him, he was not so sure.

It was then that he heard a strange sound, like the cry of a wild animal, but yet not so. Slowing down, he looked all about him carefully, and his hand was at his sword hilt. Ahead, the river came to a wide and shallow bend, where the water flowed more slowly. A grove of trees stood some way from the bank, and it was these that Boromir kept watch on, for he knew that there were unknown beasts in the woodlands that might be a danger to him. Yet nothing stirred among them, and for a moment he relaxed, until he heard that strange wailing sound again. Curious and a little fearful, he made his way forward at a steady trot.

"Oh, by all my gods!"

There on the ground before him lay a golden haired figure, blood-stained and unconscious. At first, he had felt like a knife had gone through his heart, because he thought that Legolas must be dead – but then, he had seen his chest rise and fall, and he knew that his worst fears were unwarranted. Beside him, small and wriggling, was a baby new-born. It was his cries which had caught Boromir's attention. And in a flash, his mind had pieced together the puzzle, and there could be no doubt about what had happened, or what it meant.

"Legolas! Legolas, can you hear me?" he cried out, but the elf was motionless and insensible. Boromir himself felt almost as stupefied. He could see with his own eyes what had happened, and he could understand perfectly well how it had come about, but he still could not bring himself to believe it. And then came the horrible thought - that Legolas must have known all along – that Legolas had kept the pregnancy secret from all of them, and would never have told him if he hadn't found out like this.

"The wretch, the poor wretch!" he thought aloud. "Why on Middle-earth did he say nothing?"

But it had been done. Boromir knew that the baby at his feet was the son of the Lord of the Nazgul, and, although he regretted this to his dying day, his first thought was to dash out its skull against a rock. But it was so weak, and so helpless, that he could never have done so. And yet, what could he do? He must attend to Legolas, for he had clearly been weakened by the birth, but the child was his priority: it was raw and exposed out in the open, and any manner of creature might come up and devour it. He would have to take it and keep it safe for now.

At first, when he stooped to pick it up, he shuddered with revulsion, but then he saw the child's round dimpled face and bright eyes and his heart melted. As he lifted the tiny baby, it giggled and cooed at him, and he could not help but smooth back its soft dark hair with one broad finger. Carefully he began to wash it in the stream. It seemed to enjoy the rush of water around it, and laughed with pleasure. Even in the midst of such a situation, Boromir smiled with it. He dried it out on the grass, and wrapped it carefully in some clothes from his pack.

"Take it away from me," said a hoarse voice suddenly behind him. Boromir startled, not so much because the elf was now sitting up and aware, but because of the bitterness in his voice. Legolas was not even looking towards them.

"Why did you never say anything?" he replied, ignoring the demand.

"Take it away," he repeated, still turning his back. "Throw it in the river."

"Legolas!" He came forward and tried to hand him the child, but the elf moved his head so that he could not see the baby.

"Legolas, please!" Boromir stared at his pale face in dismay.

Suddenly, the elf began to sob. His shoulders shook as he buried his head in his hands, and the long hair covered his face. "I cannot look at it, Boromir. I cannot. It is his. How can I – how can I?"

Boromir lifted back his hair and crouched in front of him. "It is no fault of this child's. It was conceived in cruelty and shame, and it was born alone in the world. Will you abandon it too?"

There was no answer. "Will you, Legolas? A child is a gift. Will you turn it away?"

Legolas looked up at last. The baby gurgled and reached out to him, and he took it in his arms and wept. "My poor son," he whispered.

"He is not poor. He is blessed, to have such a parent." Legolas kissed the boy's forehead tenderly, his tears falling on him, but shook his head.

"How can anyone accept him, when they know what blood flows in his veins? They will cast him out, and shun him. It were better he died."

"Can you let him drown or starve, then? Look at him."

"You know I cannot! I can do nothing but love him. So many times, I thought of cutting myself open so that I would miscarry – but I could not bring myself to, because I knew I would love him so dearly. I knew that even if he were spurned and despised, I would stand by him, and be with him always."

"Then love him, Legolas," said Boromir gently, and embraced him. They sat for a while, as Legolas cried on his shoulder and caressed the child in his arms.

"You should have told us," said Boromir, full of hurt. "How long have you known?"

"Since the beginning. That is why I lived, even after such dishonour was done to my body. I knew that I nourished another within me. But only Galadriel saw what had happened."

Boromir shook his head and groaned. "And you kept it to yourself, all this time? You carried on fighting, and put yourself in danger?"

"I do not carry a child like a woman. It did not hamper me."

"That is not the argument, Legolas! You keep everything safe and secret within you, so that to others you are cold and hard as ice! And yet, you suffer all your trials alone. Why can you not open your heart to any other – why will you not let me help you? When you were raped, you hid your grief as best you could, so that we would not be over troubled. You were injured, but you made the best of it, and you marched despite the pain. And now, now this!"

Legolas made no reply, but sat in silence. Boromir continued in a gentler voice: "Had we known, we would have taken you to your father at once."

"I fear that even he will never open his arms to this child," said Legolas.

"How can he? But see how sweetly and how innocently he looks up at us now, knowing nothing of his rank parentage! Will my love be enough to save him from his tainted blood? It tears my heart in two, Boromir, to have such joy for my firstborn, and to have such abhorrence for how he was fathered!"

Boromir could think of little comfort to offer. Instead, he looked closer at the baby that Legolas clasped tight to his breast. The child was helplessly loveable in his tiny form, so small that his elven parent had showed no signs of his carriage. His soft hair was dark but his open eyes were a familiar green, the same sparkling orbs that seemed to be windows into a forest where the sunlight fell dappled. Although he did not possess the strange beauty of his father, he had a face full of good nature and warmth.

"Your son seems to be pleased, at any rate," said Boromir, watching how the babe cooed and laughed. "Come, Legolas. Are you hurt much? Let me bathe you, and keep you warm. I have some broth I can heat in my flask, and I will get you blankets, and you can rest more comfortably."

So saying, he guided Legolas to the shelter of the trees further in from the riverbank, and lit a fire to warm up some water in a shallow basin. The elf seemed half in a daze, and let Boromir wash him, and sat passively as the man wrapped both him and his son in heavy rugs. Night had well and truly fallen by this time, and the two of them sat huddled together beneath the elms in front of the fire.

Legolas was lost in his son's face, stroking him tenderly and whispering to him in his own language. He had never felt so strong an urge to protect someone, for the child had become in an instant the most precious thing to him in the world. So innocent was the baby in his arms that he could barely believe that his father was a creature so merciless and wicked. He sighed deeply and turned to his companion.

"You came back then, to find me?"

The man nodded. "I could not let you go. I had to see you once more. But I little thought that this would be what I found." He looked at the baby, and said quietly:

"Is this why you refused me? You knew that you carried another man's child."

Legolas wrung his hands. It was piteous to see distress in a warrior so courageous and self-possessed.

"I am so sorry, Boromir. I could not have dragged you down with me, into shame and disrepute. But this is the way the fates have turned. I will not grieve any more for what has happened. Only I must keep it secret. I can tell no one of his true father, not even my son himself, for it will destroy him. But I will be there to care for him whenever he needs me."

Boromir looked at the determination in his weary face. "But what if you were not alone?" he asked.

Legolas turned to him, not understanding. "What if I made my offer again? If I asked you once more to be my husband, what would you say?"

He looked at him as if he did not believe his words. "You could not be willing to wed me, knowing that this child is not your own."

"You are wrong. You thought I would not marry you because you had been assaulted, but that is not true. And you think I will not marry you because of your son, but that is not true either. I love you, Legolas. And I will love him, as well."

The elf was confused and overwhelmed by Boromir's words, and he looked at the ground in hesitation. The man took his hand and spoke to him gently.

"Think of it. If you go back now to your father, how will you explain to him the birth of this child? If his true blood is discovered, he will be cast out. If you lie, and say he is the son of a commoner, born out of wedlock, then his name will never be respected. So tell him this: tell him I am the father, and he will know me as a man of high rank. And I will wed you, and take this babe and treat him as my own. He will have all the privilege of good birth, and none of the malicious rumours of tainted parentage will stain his name. He will be steward of Gondor at my death, and rule the greatest city of men, rather than wander the earth in exile."

Legolas did not reply immediately after Boromir's speech. He looked a while into his son's eyes and thought on his future. There was no doubting the truth, that if no one came forward as the father of the child, the slur on his name would last forevermore. He would struggle to make his way in the world. But if he was brought up as a man of Gondor, he would grow up secure and carefree, and live contentedly. Legolas knew that this child's happiness was all that he desired. He could not bear for him to know the sickening truth, and have to live with the taunts of others, rejected by both men and elves.

And yet, there was a reason why he had rejected the marriage offer once before. In truth, he did not know if he loved Boromir. How did a person tell if they loved another or no? An elf's love was eternal and undying, as strong as the earth and as deep as the Sea. Was he prepared to take Boromir as his lord and his love, and honour him with his body and his soul's devotion? He did not know. But this much he was sure of: the man beside him was kind, and loyal, and although he had his weaknesses, his heart was true. Above all, Legolas knew that he would treasure his son as if he were his own. So he turned to him, and said: "Do you truly mean what you say? Your people might despise you for marrying a male elf, and you would die knowing that your heir was not of your own blood."

"I do mean what I say." He held the elf's chin gently in his hand. There was a pause before he answered.

"Then so be it. If you wish to take me as your husband, I will accept you, Boromir of Gondor."

With those few words, Boromir felt a warm joy fill his heart, and he embraced the elf, and made his vows.

"Then I bind you to me in troth, Legolas Greenleaf. You will be a jewel amongst the people of our city," he promised, "and have all that you could ever desire. I will spare nothing for you, nor refuse you any gift. You will be honoured beyond any prince of Middle-Earth."

"I bind myself to you in turn, but I have no need for such extravagance," replied Legolas, smiling as if he were suddenly shy. "I ask only for your goodwill to my son, and your oath that he will come to no harm at any man's hands."

"That is assured," said Boromir, "for he will be as my own." He took the baby tenderly and kissed his forehead. "He will never want for anything, as long as I live."

Legolas looked at Boromir with the child, and was touched by how lovingly he held him.

"Then you should name him," he said, "for he will carry on your line." The man was surprised at the honour.

"I will call him Anarion ('treasured')," he said proudly, "for he was born into this world unwanted, but now he is here, he will be treasured and beloved by both of us."

Legolas nodded. "It is a good name." He took back his son. "Come, little Anarion. It is time to sleep."

And then he began to sing, in that lovely and unearthly voice that lulled the babe to rest, and blew like a summer breeze through the green forests. Boromir fell under the spell of the haunting melody, and his eyelids felt heavy. His last thoughts were blissful and content, as he dropped to sleep: he would bring a family with him back to Gondor, and the golden-haired angel beside him was his own at last.

If any nobleman should enter the land of Gondor, and deign to visit its chief city of Minas Tirith, he would first pay his respects at the palace of the King. There he would come before the monarch and his beautiful queen in all the splendour of their court, and be received with the hospitality for which they were famed. And if, on his stay, he should be present for the Royal Councils, there he would meet the Steward of Gondor, Boromir son of Denethor. It had been five years since the War of the Ring had come to its end, and victory had been secured against the forces of darkness. In those five years, Gondor had once again become a place of peace and plenty. Boromir now took his rightful place at the Court of Minas Tirith.

He was a tall, broad shouldered man, clear grey eyes still shining with bold determination, although the years had added some lines to his handsome face. He spent many an evening at the King's table, for the two had become loyal comrades since he had won such renown for his valour in the battles of the Ring.

At his side sat a grave and beautiful figure, who drew the eyes like a candle flame on a dark night. Though the lamps burned bright in the halls of Minas Tirith, none burned as bright as the face of the Consort of the Steward. A strange and wonderful sight he was, to all who came there, for he was among the fairest of elvenkind, and had been a Prince in his own right, before his marriage took him far from his homeland. He possessed a noble bearing and regal countenance, and the beauty of his wild green eyes was framed by the gold of his flowing hair. And a fitting companion he made to the Steward, who was raven-haired and proud and fierce of glance. This was Legolas of Mirkwood, trusted by all as the foremost advisor of the Steward and loyal friend of the King.

Since the death of his father Denethor, the sceptre of the Stewardship had passed into Boromir's hands. Aragorn went so far as to strengthen his role beyond ceremonial duty, and entrusted to him the law and order of the state: for the King was a wise man, and he guessed rightly that the heated energy and stubborn resolve of Boromir was best channelled into this difficult and sometimes dangerous task. It was indeed a role that Boromir relished. He was given a company of almost one hundered, and he led them with vigour and courage against the villains and law-breakers of Minas Tirith. His name soon became feared by them on the the streets of the city, and he quickly won the respect of those he commanded.

His men wondered at him, so forceful and staunch-willed in his public duties, yet so tender and loving with his consort and his child. No one could miss the devotion of their leader for his lover from faraway lands - indeed, whenever he made some small slip, or overlooked some task, they would laugh and say he that he must be doting on his elf again. He lavished Legolas with gifts and favours, the same Legolas who had always wandered his forest home wearing the simplest of garments and with hair unadorned. Now the elf appeared at court in the finest raiment, as befitted the consort of the Steward, jewels sparkling at his hair and wrists - and he had in his possession armour and breastplate of polished silver which gleamed like white fire in the sun.

Legolas had found his place at his husband's side, aiding him in his duties, for he was possessed of great courage and had gained a deep understanding of the minds of men. It was Legolas above all others that Boromir turned to when in need, for through his husband's advice the right path could be sought. But he was also known for his compassion and generosity, for the poverty and injustice he saw every day in the world of men moved his gentle heart, and he was beloved by all who were wretched, outcast and miserable as their spokesperson and benefactor.

Five years had passed since the two had made their vows to each other, and it was now approaching winter in Minas Tirith. It was the season of festivity for the elves, and in a few days' time, his brother and father and a host of their royal company would be visiting the city. This yearly pilgrimage brought great comfort to Legolas, and he found delight in singing the old elven songs of his youth and dancing to the sweet music of elven instruments once again. It was wondrous for the men of the city to behold the ceremonials of the Steward's consort, as the company of Mirkwood elves spent night after night in celebration, feasting and gaeity. His child Anarion always looked forward to this season, expecting as he did a week's worth of gifts from his indulgent uncle and grandfather. For his human father, the visit was less welcome. Boromir was aware of a distinct lack of warmth between himself and his husband's family, though they always spoke to him civilly. Every year, they descended upon Legolas with presents and stories of Mirkwood and baskets of elven food, as if to to say: "Our poor Legolas! We pity him, caught as he is in this place of crude and vulgar men, bound to a human lord who deserves him not. Let us try and make him forget his ill fortune, and he will remember he is an elf again." And Legolas himself barely noticed Boromir's presence, immersed as he was among his own kind, leaving the man full of guilt for taking the elf away from the people he loved and the life that had been laid out for him.

He remembered well the fear and anxiety he had endured on visiting Mirkwood for the first time, after Legolas had accepted his proposal. He had been almost certain that he would face the wrath of the King of Mirkwood, that Thranduil would not suffer to let Legolas become a mortal to be bound in marriage to a human, and that he would realise the truth behind his son's decision. But Thranduil, in fact, was not of the same kind as Elrond or Galadriel. Those were High Elven, and would have seen through any deception at once. The King of Mirkwood, on the other hand, had no power to tell what had happened to Legolas, or know the true father of Anarion: his concerns were mainly with his kingdom, its safety and its wealth. And it was his younger son that he prized above all, for through Legolas he believed the key to Mirkwood's power would be forged.

It was only as the years passed that Thranduil realised how true this might be. For the prince grew tall and stately, and his figure matured, and he lost that childish awkwardness of gait. No elf in Mirkwood had ever known anyone to be as beautiful, as gracious, and as loved by all, as Prince Legolas Greenleaf. And his father saw that it was so. Soon, kings and statesmen from all over Middle Earth came to the palace, each brought by tales of the Prince's nobility, and asked Thranduil for his hand. But he never accepted. None were good enough. He had his eyes on one prize alone.

At last the time came when matters of court took Elladan, son of Elrond, to Mirkwood on an errand. There he found that the little elfling he had once known had grown into a creature who snared his heart. In an instant, he had made up his mind to make Legolas his consort. And when he let this be known, Thranduil rubbed his hands in glee, for he had been waiting to ally his house with that of Elrond for many years, and multiply his power through the glory of such a union.

But at that moment, the brother of Legolas stepped forward and said:

"There will be no engagement. My brother has not yet reached his maturity, and is too young to be wed."

Thranduil had turned to his eldest son and heir in astonishment. He could not let such a chance slip between his fingers. Elladan, too, was nonplussed.

"He is young, to be sure," he said, "but he is ripe enough to bear children."

"Maybe so. But I will not be moved. There will be no engagement."

The king and Elladan wrangled with him for many hours, using all manner of pleas and arguments. But the brother had a stubborn will, and refused to authorise the marriage, which by law required his sanction as the guardian and keeper of Legolas. In doing so, he earnt the displeasure of his father for several ill-tempered months, and lost the friendship of the sons of Elrond. But this did not appear to over-trouble him.

Boromir well remembered his first meeting with the brother of Legolas, and had been loath to any meeting since. It had been the evening after their engagement, and they had ridden direct to Mirkwood. His beloved elf was still weak from childbirth, and he had gently taken him down from their horse, supporting him beneath his slim shoulders.

"Let me go in and speak to them alone," said Legolas quietly. "It will be easier that way."

Boromir saw the determination in his eyes. "Very well. You have your story ready?"

"Yes. But I am afraid, Boromir. I have never lied to my family before. I have always opened my heart to them."

Boromir put his baby into the elf's arms. Anarion was fast asleep and clutching the clothes they had wrapped him in with his little fist.

"They will be ashamed of me," continued Legolas. "They will think I lost all sense of decorum and virtue, to lie with a man and have his child out of wedlock."

"But they love you. They will not cast you out, I am sure of it."

"My father will not, no. He is very kind hearted. Angry and shouting one minute, and loving and contrite the next. But my brother - my brother is very strict. He does not like humans."

Boromir laughed, despite the trials they had been through in the last week.

"Since I will be his brother-in-law, he will have to get used to us. Come, now. Go speak to your family. I will wait for you, my love."

Breathing in deeply, Legolas approached the royal rooms with Anarion held tightly against him. Boromir smiled encouragingly at him when he looked over his shoulder. Then he opened the door, entered, and let it close with a snap.

It was a long, long wait in the corridor outside, watching the shadows moving where the lamplight from other rooms was cast onto the wall in front of him. Every moment he was waiting for sounds of surprise and anger, but there came none, only the murmur of low voices for many minutes. At last he heard a movement, and looked up to see a tall figure at the door. It was an elf with dark blonde hair and a severe face, and a slight resemblance told Boromir that this must be the elder brother of Legolas. This was as well, for the elf did not introduce himself, only stared at him with an unfathomable look.

"Come take a walk with me," he said, and gestured Boromir to follow him into a large, dimly lit hallway. The man nodded and their slow footsteps echoed loudly on the smooth stone floor as they walked together in silence. The brother did not look at him again, but Boromir looked at the brother, and he was surprised by how weary and tired his face was. It was as if he had lost the ever-youthful beauty of his race. Determined that relations be civil between them, he began:

"I understand that this is all a surprise to you, Prince. Let me first thank you for wanting to speak with me, and be assured that . .."

The elf, who was named Thorongil, fixed him with a sharp eye.

"How did you come to win my brother's hand?" he interrupted brusquely, as if he had not listened to Boromir's speech at all. "You are not at all what I imagined he would choose."

Boromir took a deep breath, for he had been expecting a hostile reception. He endeavoured to keep his voice steady as he explained:

"Legolas and I were comrades, and have been through many battles and adventures together. Little by little our affection grew, and when I made so bold as to ask for his hand, he accepted."

"You are lying," came the reply. "You loved him, of course. Everybody does. But he would not be moved by you."

Boromir was a little taken aback by the certainty in the brother's voice, but he shook his head.

"Nevertheless, the fact is that he did accept me. If you want his reasons, you must ask him yourself."

The brother smiled, but it was a very grim smile.

"His reasons, I imagine, you took good care of. It is lucky for you he bore your child. He will have to marry you now, for his reputation's sake."

"It is not like that at all," began Boromir.

"Then what was it like?" he countered. "How you seduced him I do not know, but you did, and now you have won him for the rest of his life. You are either very cunning, or very fortunate. Do you know how many elves have hoped to have him for their own?"

"But he chose me, of his own free will, out of all those others. Surely that means something to you?"

"I doubt you are worthy of the choice," was the cold reply. Then he seemed to reflect for a moment while he regarded the man. "I love my brother dearly," he said in a quieter tone. "I have even offended Elladan, the son of Elrond, because Legolas did not love him and asked me in private to speak out against his arranged marriage. I was happy to do so - without my intrusion, he would have had no choice but to wed him." His gaze was levelled directly at Boromir, like an unspoken challenge. "I may speak out again, if you should fail him, and if your vows to him prove false."

"I am not so weak," said Boromir, with a dark fire in his eyes.

"Men are weak," replied the brother, with a finality that brooked no dissent. "Their thoughts and desires are like leaves falling in the wind. Nothing binds them strong and true. They follow what best pleases them, never mind what hurt they cause to others. Can I have your word that you will honour Legolas as he deserves?"

"I swear to you, he will never suffer anything as long as I live."

Thorongil raised an eyebrow and appeared less than impressed.

"I doubt that you could swear such a thing. Swear that you will do your best by him, that you will never try and cause him harm, if you will. But our lives lie unforeseen, and we know not how our luck will change. You cannot protect him from everyone, or everything. And no more can I," he added, as an afterthought.

Boromir turned to him, and thought again how tired and lined his face looked. He was stung by the sense that Thorongil lacked any faith in him.

"I intend to hold true to my vows," he replied quietly. "If by my power I can do anything to relieve his pain or grant his happiness, I will do it. There are many fears and evils in the world, to be sure, but from now on I will be the shield that stands between them and your brother."

Thorongil looked at him directly for a long while, as if to judge the truth of his words. Then he sighed.

"So be it. I place him in your hands, then. Though it is not what I would have chosen."

"Begging your pardon, but it is not your place to choose." Boromir thought Thorongil might be angry at these words, but he only shrugged.

"No, perhaps it is not. I only want his happiness, after all. And if you are what makes him happy, it will have to do."

With such a reception was Boromir welcomed into his husband's family.

The marriage was a quiet affair, and Thorongil paid all expenses, much to Boromir's surprise. The stern, grudging expression on the elven prince's face never softened, but he had the ceremony arranged without delay and was present with the king as a second witness. Thranduil was broken hearted to see his younger son lost, but he smiled and fussed over him so that no one would realise the extent of his distress.

The evening of the wedding, he had taken Boromir aside and asked him:

"What are your plans? Will you reside in Mirkwood for a while? You are to be newly married, and deserve some time in peace with each other."

Boromir shook his head.

"We cannot stay, your highness. We are honour-bound to return to Minas Tirith and join Aragorn in the defence of Middle-Earth."

Thranduil smiled sadly.

"I was afraid that you would say so. I had hoped to spend more time with my first grandson. But if you must go, you must go. Only it is hard for me, to see my own child begin a new life far from me, and to know that I will never see him again if the forces of Sauron prevail."

"I am sorry. But our land is at war, as you well know. And if we do nothing, we will all perish. Let us hope instead that we shall have the victory, and you will be able to come and see your son and grandchild whenever you should so wish."

"Let us hope that indeed. Although, Boromir, it does not soothe the pain this union has caused me. For Legolas will become mortal, when he is bound to you. And when I set sail over the Sea, I will leave him forever."

Boromir did not know what to say to this, for he felt the grief of Thranduil, who knew he had to let his son go and could not imagine living in a world without him.

The king could not hold back his tears on the day of the marriage itself, although Thorongil's face was inscrutable. Boromir himself could barely contain a feeling of nervous excitement, which tightened his chest and set all his nerves alight. The ceremony took place in a large forest clearing in the late evening, and the boughs of the surrounding trees were bent heavy with tiny oil lamps which glittered and sparkled in the darkness like thousands of stars. It was a moment the man never forgot, for the mixture of anticipation and anxiety made his head swim, and the dark, heavy atmosphere of the trees encircled him, and he felt as if he were in a dream. Then, escorted by his attendants, his betrothed walked towards him. The elf wore trailing robes of silver-green satin, embroidered at the sleeves with mithril thread. There was no circlet upon his head, for he was renouncing his royal status, but his braids were woven with blossoming vines. He and his companions were all barefoot.

They made their vows of marriage there and then, in front of the small company. And as Legolas spoke the final words, and swore to honour his human lord until death, he knelt to touch the man's feet in accordance with tradition. But Boromir bent and brought him up, for he felt this would be more courteous in front of the elves. Then, they all raised their voices in song to bless the new couple, and wish them happiness in their lives together.

Legolas had not felt like feasting or dancing after the wedding was over. He made his excuses to Boromir and said he would meet him in his rooms after he had bathed their son and put him to bed. But when he went up slowly to the chamber that had been prepared for them, Boromir was not there. So he sat before the large mirror glass and waited alone.

He still wore his wedding robes, but his hair now hung loose about his shoulders. Slowly, he picked up a comb and drew it back with long, pensive strokes. Reflected before him was a small, pale face with large, troubled eyes. Behind him was a double bed, draped with dark velvet and satin, and it seemed to gape open like a hole to swallow him.

"I chose this with my eyes open," he said softly to himself. "I must go through with what I promised."

He stared into the glass for a long time, before he heard the sound of his husband approaching. Boromir came and sat behind him and rested his head on the elf's shoulder.

"You have been very quiet tonight, my love," he said. "Are you well?"

"I am well," he replied. "It is strange being back home, when so many things have changed, that is all."

"Yes, it is strange. I never dreamt that one day I would be be bound in marriage to one such as yourself. My beautiful Legolas! My own at last."

Legolas smiled diffidently and bent his head.

"I am glad you are happy," he said.

"Happier than I could have ever believed I might be." He drew the silken raiment down to bare the elf's alabaster shoulder, and bent his lips to the warm skin.

"I have been waiting for this night," he said, as he kissed Legolas upon his shoulder and collarbone. "I have longed for the time when you became mine entirely."

They stood together and Boromir guided him to the bed with his hands, his veins pounding with blood. But as he lifted aside the elf's tunic, his husband's body went rigid. Legolas drew his breath in sharply and clutched at the white scar on his throat as if it burned him.

"What is it?" asked Boromir, as Legolas stared at the floor, his hand pressed over the ugly bite-mark that marred his otherwise flawless skin. "Nothing," he said, shaking. "It is nothing, only . . . memories."

Boromir drew back.

"Legolas," he said gently, "if you wish to rest tonight, then do so. You have had a very long and tiring day. Go to sleep, I will not mind."

Legolas looked up, about to answer. But then he stopped himself. For he understood that Boromir was offering him an escape from what he dreaded. He wanted to say yes. The heavy draperies and sombre colours of the room seemed to suffocate him, and he fought a terrible fear of anyone gaining knowledge of him beyond what he could control. But he knew that if he agreed, he would never summon up the strength to face his fears again. He would break the promise he had made, to be a true husband to this man. So he shook his head.

"No, it is alright. I will lie with you tonight, as I said I would."

Boromir smiled.

"Then kiss me," he said, and embraced him upon the bed. "I will not hurt you," he promised.

He made love to Legolas very gently, sighing with pleasure, and then gathered him close.

"May the Valar bless you," he whispered in his ear. It was peaceful, and silent, and the well of joy in his heart overflowed. He slept, as the perfume of the elf's body suffused the warm night air.

The next months were tumultuous with change and doubt, for in a short span of time, battles were won and lost, hundreds of lives were sacrificed, and terrors unimaginable were faced. Yet Minas Tirith, and with it, the whole of Middle-Earth, at last came from the darkness into light. The eagles soared over the battlements in triumph, and Aragorn was crowned as King.

After the heat of war had passed, and the world saw a new spring, Boromir and his consort had time to reflect on the upheavals of their lives. They had been at the forefront of the fighting, and seen many good men fall beside them. They had rejoiced at the victory, and at the coronation and marriage of the King, and had bidden farewell to the hobbits, Gandalf and Gimli, whom they loved so well. Boromir had lost his father to suicide and madness, and gained a sister-and-law in the shape of his brother's new wife, the beautiful Eowyn. Legolas had left Mirkwood forever, and come to make a new life as an elf in the land of Men.

So many changes, and the day of their marriage now seemed like a distant memory. For Boromir, it was a welcome homecoming, but for Legolas it was time to start from the beginning. He wandered through new home uncertainly. The stone walls and tall turrets were not like the dense forests he was used to, and the wealth and splendour of the city was a different beauty from the simplicity of Nature. At first, he spoke the local tongue with halting phrases and performed any public task hesitantly, waiting to see how others behaved at the table or during ceremonials, before he too followed. For he found their ways very different from what he had learned in Mirkwood.

But Legolas learned quickly, as with all things. He would be forever grateful to Faramir, for out of all the friends and family of either partner, he was the only one to express any joy at the union. At their first meeting he was taken aback, to be sure, when Boromir returned after long months away to present his shy and lovely consort on his arm, but then he embraced the elf warmly, and called him brother, and told him that he could not wish more happiness for them both. He was the first to show Legolas around Gondor, and endeavour to make him welcome. And soon, it was if the elf had been born a man of Minas Tirith. He found friends in the city, and spoke their language like a native, and dressed like them and ate the local fare. This was much to the chagrin of Thorongil, who thought it unbecoming. But there was no mistaking the elf's origins - even at the market in the midst of the crowded street, the beauty and grace of his exquisite face shone out like the sun, and people turned their heads to see him go by.

"I am surprised at you, Boromir," Faramir said to his brother, when they spoke alone together, soon after he had first returned. "Of all that should happen while you were away, I never expected this. How did it come to be?"

Boromir did not like to lie to his brother. They had always been close. But he was not able to reveal the full story of his courtship with Legolas, for he had sworn to keep it secret. So he smiled and said:

"Surprised at what? That I have chosen to marry at last? Or that an elf of royal blood is my husband?"

"Both, if truth be told. But I am glad, because I have never seen you so happy. You cherish him, that is clear."

The older man smiled again.

"I feared at one time that I might never find someone to call my own. You know, as well as I do, how my past affairs fell to pieces, through my own selfishness and folly. But he is my good angel, and makes me a better man. He and Anarion are the most precious things to me in all the world."

"I hope that you look after them as well as they deserve," said Faramir gravely. He loved his brother, but he knew his faults as well.

"I will," said Boromir earnestly, "I have learned my lesson. This time, I do not want to make a mistake, and ruin what the Valar have given me. I love them too much for that."

Faramir embraced him.

"You will be a wonderful father and husband, I know it," he reassured. "And you need not worry or fear anything, only come to me and I will always stand by you."

"Thank you, Faramir," he replied.

"Although, it may not be the same with everyone," said Faramir thoughtfully. "You know that some people are displeased? They do not like what you have done."

"Let them say what they want," said Boromir sharply. "I know that they reject this marriage, and call him a foreigner, and my son illegitimate. But I will not stand for it. If they dare insult him in front of me, they will not escape punishment."

"Ignore them. Live your own life. Legolas and Anarion should be your only concern now."

Boromir rubbed his brother's hair playfully.

"Yes, since you do not need looking after any more, little brother! How grown up you seem now. You have made me very proud. I think that you and Eowyn suit each other very well."

Faramir was pleased. "To our consorts," said Boromir, and, laughing, they both raised their glasses.

But what of little Anarion, the boy who was to all eyes the child of the Steward of Gondor, and grandson to a King? How would he manage, growing up as he did at the feet of the White mountains, and caught between the worlds of elves and Men? It was as well that Anarion was a blithe and carefree soul, for he managed very well indeed.

As an infant, he had been effortlessly endearing. Thorongil, who would frown even when the sun was shining, cooed and fussed over him without the slightest hesitation. Thranduil would carry him out onto the balcony and point out to him the trees and the birds in elvish. And his aunt Eowyn could never resist giving him a little pinch, for soon he became a very podgy baby boy.

"He grows like an oak!" Legolas would exclaim, as his son giggled and spooned more sticky syrup, his favourite treat, into his mouth.

"He has a good appetite, that's all," Boromir replied lightly. "It will keep him healthy." Boromir was rather proud of his fat and cheerful son. It pleased him that he looked most un-elvish, with his slightly curly dark hair and his round, sweet face. As he began to walk and talk, everyone commented on the resemblance to his human father, and elves visiting Legolas for the first time could not hide their surprise at the great, strapping child he had borne.

Legolas himself cherished his son so much that sometimes he thought his heart would burst with love. He could hear no sweeter sound than Anarion's laughter, which was loud and deep and came from his belly, and was heard often ringing throughout their home. Neither could he fail to be amused at the sight of Boromir pacing from one important council to another with long, marching strides, while a little dumpy figure trotted at high speed beside him, determined to keep up, all the time chattering in an excited voice. Invariably, Boromir would be forced to take him up onto his shoulders, and he would sit there proud as a king on his throne, his short legs sticking out into the air like two fat sausages. Anarion probably had a vague sense that his father's work was important, but it was clearly nowhere near as important as his duty to entertain him. "Horsie!" was his favourite command, and they would spend hours laughing together as Boromir crawled around on all fours, with Anarion beaming on his back. Despite repeatedly grumbling that his son was getting heavier and heavier, and that soon he would get too old for these sort of games, Legolas knew that Boromir enjoyed their play as much as Anarion. This was in no small part due to the regard in which the little boy held his father.

"My Papa fought in the great War of the Ring, and he was the bravest, and the strongest, and the tallest man there!" he announced proudly to his friends. And though none of them really knew what the War of the Ring was, or any of the men who had fought in it, they would all open their eyes round and wide, and nod their heads, and agree with Anarion that his Papa was indeed the best man living.

But though it seemed that this small family, brought together by misfortune and misery, had succeeded in finding happiness, it could not be so easy. For the years passed, and the seasons changed, and the man and elf busied themselves with their everyday lives - yet still, something was missing. Legolas had no second child. He had been certain that he would have a son or daughter by Boromir to join his firstborn, but it was not so. Boromir, too, had expected that sooner or later he would be surrounded by the large family he had always dreamed of. But as time went by, and still there was no sign, they came to accept that this might never be. Legolas felt ashamed in his heart, to fail in his duty as a husband, and his barrenness was the cause of an unspoken sadness between them both. As for Anarion, he noticed nothing amiss. For he adored both his parents so ardently - how could they, in his innocent mind, do anything other than adore each other?

It was midwinter, and Legolas stood out on the balcony of the White Tower, his hair caught up around his face in the wind and his tunic of pale blue silk flowing free around him. The sun had just risen in the sky, and the land of Gondor was spread out like a carpet below. He loved to stand here, to feel the sunlight on his face and the wind in his hair, for it made him feel close to all that he held dear.

A padding of footsteps behind him made him turn around, and a little child ran to him and grasped his legs.

"Ada!" he cried excitedly. "Grandfather is here!"

"What?" said the elf, lifting his son into his arms. "He is here already?"

"Yes, yes, I have seen him and uncle. They have just come now! Come on, let's wake up Papa."

He scrambled down, ran to their rooms and threw himself onto the bed, where Boromir lay sleepily.

"Papa, papa!" said Anarion. "Wake up, they are here!"

Legolas laughed as Boromir rubbed his eyes and frowned.

"How is it you can talk so much so early in the morning?" he said. "Come here, you rascal!" And he seized Anarion round the middle and tickled his belly. The child squealed and rolled over.

"That is to teach you not to trouble your papa for no good reason," said Boromir, mock-sternly, once Anarion had got his breath back.

"Now, then, what is all the commotion?"

"Grandfather and uncle are here," said Anarion, his large green eyes open wide. "I have seen them. Let's go down!"

"Hmm," replied Boromir. "They have come early." He did not sound over pleased.

"I will greet them, my lord," said Legolas, eager to see his family. "Come down when you are ready."

Boromir took his time in getting dressed, for he was in no great hurry to spend time with his in-laws. When he descended at last, he found Anarion ensconced on his grandfather's lap and Thorongil speaking to Legolas in Sindarin. Although his son could speak the elvish language well, Boromir had never learned more than a few words. He had no need - he was quite sure that any elf talking to Legolas would be complaining about his human husband.

"Welcome, your highness," he said to Thranduil.

"Thank you, Boromir. Are you well?"

"Yes, very well. Good morning, Thorongil."

"Good morning," he replied politely.

"Have you had a safe journey?"

"Yes, we thought we would come ahead of the others since the going was clear," said Thranduil. "I wanted to spend some more time with this little one," he said, and ruffled Anarion's dark hair.

"There is a big cake in the kitchen," the little boy informed him. "It is for the feast. I am going to eat it all!"

"All of it? You a very greedy. And you will feel ill afterwards."

Anarion did not think so. "I like cake," he said. "I can eat lots."

Thorongil stood and lifted him up, as Boromir sat down.

"You are growing bigger and bigger, every time I see you," he said. "And Legolas looks thinner than ever. Are you eating well? You look so pale."

Boromir suppressed a groan. Every time they visited, they thought Legolas looked thinner, as if his husband chose deliberately to starve him.

"We have brought lots of good food, anyway. All of your favourites."

"Suram?" asked Anarion hopefully, referring to an elvish sweetbread.

"Yes, suram as well. And we have a special gift for you too."

"Oh, where is it?"

Thranduil rummaged in a large pack.

"Well, now, what have I got? What do I think you would like best?"

"I would like a horse," said Anarion seriously.

Thranduil laughed.

"Well, another time, perhaps. When you are a little older. But here is your gift," and he knelt and handed Anarion a gilded spinning top, of elvish make, so that it hummed a tune like a bird and glowed with a golden light when it spun. The child's face shone.

"It is my best present ever," he said (although he said this about most presents, being quite easily pleased.) "Thankyou!" He hugged his grandfather and ran off to play with his toy, while Thranduil shook his head.

"A horse, indeed," he smiled, and turned to Boromir. "He will be soldier, I suppose, just like his father."

"He will have to learn more of the Eldar before he can do anything of the sort," broke in Thorongil, before Boromir could speak. "These Men think life is nothing but battles and war. An elf knows he must become wise and learned in tradition before he is a true warrior."

"He will study when he is older, Thorongil," said Legolas lightly, preventing any response from his husband. "Now, come let me show to your rooms."

He took them on a tour of their quarters, pointing out the sights of the city that could be seen from the windows, and telling them what changes there had been since their last visit. He showed them the gardens and forests that Boromir had planted for him, so that he might enjoy the smell of woodland air and the company of the birds and trees, even within the bounds of the city walls. Faramir and Eowyn came to meet them, and they took lunch together outdoors, while Anarion ran around in the crisp air and played with his little cousins.

Throughout, Thorongil sniped about Boromir and how he chose to take care of his husband and bring up his son. The man ignored him for the most part, since he was used to such comments. But the feast that night was scarcely any better. The rest of the Mirkwood party had arrived, and with the food itself, no one could find fault, for the kitchens had outdone themselves in their efforts to serve dishes in the elvish style. But thought Thranduil made some attempt to be friendly to his son-in-law, Thorongil could not refrain from criticising him.

Boromir complained to Legolas when they were alone that evening.

"You would be his friend, if you only tried," said Legolas. "You and he are just the same - both very stubborn."

Boromir was insulted by the suggestion that he and Thorongil were in any way alike.

"How is it that he is so ill-humoured and aloof? You bring sunshine into any room you walk into, while he is like a thundercloud."

Legolas looked uncomfortable.

"Please, my Lord," he said gently, "he is a good man, in truth he is. He was married once, many, many years ago, but the poor elf maiden died of illness, and I do not think he has yet recovered from the blow. I have tried to comfort him, and I hope that one day he might find someone else to share his life with. I know that he seems severe, but he always means well."

"I see," said Boromir thoughtfully. "That is the problem, is it? Well, there are many lovely elf-maidens among your company. I will simply find him one to suit and make him happily married again."

"Boromir!" exclaimed Legolas. "It is not a joke. He will be mortified."

"I was not joking," said Boromir firmly. "To be frank, I am tired of his censure, and if a maiden is what it takes to end his complaints, then that is what I will find him."

On the last evening of the Mirkwood company's stay, a celebratory banquet had been arranged. A huge table, laid with gold dishes and glimmering crystal, stood in the centre of the great hall, which had been decorated with candlelight and silver ornaments. The crowd was dressed in its finest raiment and a group of them in one corner played music on elvish instruments. As they cleared their plates, the laughter and the noise growing ever louder, Faramir nudged his brother with a smile on his face.

"Look at Thorongil!" he said in a low voice. "Have you ever seen him more uncomfortable?"

Boromir turned to see his brother-in-law blushing as he spoke to a beautiful elf-woman. It seemed as though he was trying to make excuses to sit down on his own.

"Ah, yes," said Boromir, pleased. "I asked her to go and talk to him. She is pretty, don't you think?"

"What?" said Faramir in surprise. "You asked her? Why?"

"Well, he is so very shy. I thought it might make him more sociable."

"Boromir," said Faramir sternly, "you are not trying to arrange some sort of courtship, are you?"

"No," said Boromir, but it was less than convincing.

"I don't believe it," said his brother. "I thought you and he were at loggerheads."

"We are, but a romance might distract him from forever pointing out my lesser qualities. That is what I am hoping, anyway."

Faramir rolled his eyes.

"Look!" said Boromir triumphantly, "they are dancing now!" And indeed, the elf woman had pulled Thorongil to his feet and was dancing with him around the room. Thorongil was trying to smile but kept looking over his shoulder as if were hoping the music would stop soon.

"I think they look very well as a couple, don't you?" said Boromir to his brother, who did not trouble to reply.

In a corner, Legolas was talking to one of his elven friends. The gossip of Mirkwood had been exhausted, and the conversation had turned to the troubles Legolas had experienced in Minas Tirith.

"I know of this," said his friend. "Men have their own ways, and think very differently to us."

"Yes, they think that a man who lies with another man is base and pitiable, and has no honour. But I will not stand to see him denigrated in my presence. He has defended me when I have been disrespected at court, and I will do the same for him. But that is not the worst of it. They pass judgement on my son as well."

"What could they possibly say against him?" she asked.

"What could they not say?" he countered. "They call him half-breed, mongrel. They say he was conceived on a bed of shame."

"No!"

"Yes. He is young now, and it does not affect him. But when he is older, he will have to face these insults himself."

He turned at that point, for Boromir had approached him and held him round the waist.

"Are you going to sit and talk all night, or will you dance with me?" he said playfully.

Legolas laughed and joined him in the centre of the hall. He was light on his feet, as were all elves, and danced with tremendous grace. The wine continued to flow, and the music carried on long into the night.

The time came at last for the elves to make their departures. Legolas embraced his father and brother tightly, and promised to write to them, and tell them how Anarion was doing. Thorongil shook Boromir's hand solemnly and told him to look after his younger brother, as he always did. As he waved them away, Legolas had tears in his eyes. He missed them deeply in the months that followed.

For a while, everything carried on as before. Aragorn had received troubling news of unrest in the south, and has sent envoys to help settle the skirmishes, but elsewhere, all was peaceful.

And Legolas dared feel hope in his heart, for the summer air was soft and pleasant, and the nights full of song and music, and better still, better than any of his rich silver furs or glimmering gold bracelets, better than his newly carved bows with their sharply-turned arrows, was moment when he at long last felt the flutter of a child beneath his heart.

He was sitting in his garden, enjoying the evening in the open, when he stood up suddenly. And there it came again, he was sure of it: his face flushed with pleasure and he clenched his fist against his belly, over the life he sensed within.

"The Valar have listened to my prayers," he said softly to himself. "They have seen how I have struggled to serve my Lord, and they have blessed me with a child of his own blood to relieve our sadness." He went then and there into the house, determined to tell Boromir the joyful news immediately.

But when he entered their room, Boromir was not there. Perhaps he still had business to attend to. It was of no great consequence -Legolas sat down on their bed, eagerly awaiting his husband's return, barely able to contain his delight and relief at finally being able to offer him what he had always desired. How he would laugh and clap his hands when he heard!

He sat and waited for almost an hour, half impatient, half brimming with anticipation. Eventually there were footsteps outside the door, and Boromir appeared. Legolas's initial smile of welcome faded a little when he saw that his husband's face was heavily flushed.

"Have you been waiting for me, my love?" Boromir asked, moving towards him, his words a little slurred.

"Yes. Where have you been?" He was even more disconcerted when he smelt the wine on Boromir's breath.

"Oh, there were some events to celebrate, and the evening ran a little long," came the reply.

"I see." The smile had disappeared. His lips were set tightly together.

"But I'm here now. How is my lovely husband?" he said grinning, and he reached out for him unsteadily.

"I am well. And I have some news for you."

"Some news?"

"Yes! My lord, it is what we have been hoping for. I am carrying your child. It is a son, I think."

Boromir was overjoyed, as Legolas had known he would be. "This is good news indeed! You are an angel, three times blessed. Come now, come kiss me," he said, as he drew the elf into an embrace. Legolas should have been pleased, but he flinched at the close contact.

"You have been drinking too much, my Lord"

"Only a few glasses. Only one or two."

"A lot more than that, I think."

"Well, what does it matter? Should I not enjoy myself? I am wealthy, and I have a beautiful husband, and I will be a father. Should I not enjoy them all?"

Legolas sighed. "I am tired now. Perhaps I will retire." But the excess of wine had put other things in Boromir's mind.

"Lie down for me, then," he said huskily. He kissed Legolas on the mouth. "Take off your clothes."

"Not tonight, my Lord," he replied, uncomfortable. "It has been a very long day."

"For me as well. And I would like to stretch my weary limbs by lying upon my husband." He kissed the elf's white throat, his breath heavy.

"Please, not tonight." He made as if to push Boromir away.

"Don't be foolish," said the man. "I want you tonight. I want you moaning when I move deep inside you."

"No," said Legolas under his breath, and he panicked. The lust with which the whispered words were spoken had unleashed a torrent of horrifying memories. When Boromir leaned towards him again, he beat him away with his hands.

"What's the matter with you?" said Boromir, shocked. Legolas did not reply.

"You have been very cold lately. Every time I come to bed, you turn away from me."

"I - I have been tired, that's all."

"Tired? I have been hearing every excuse. If something is wrong, tell me."

"Nothing is wrong."

"Isn't it? If you do not tell me, Legolas, how can I fix it?"

Legolas turned on him, his face flushed with anger.

"That is how you see everything! If there is a problem, it must be fixed. If there is trouble, all you have to do is get up and do something about it. You do not realise how many things there are in this world that cannot be fixed. You do not realise how much pain there is that can never be undone, never."

The man was taken aback.

"You are upset. I only wanted to find some way to comfort you."

"Some things are beyond comfort," said the elf bitterly. "Some things, we have no strength for."

"Nonsense. We are strong enough for anything. We love each other."

Legolas looked at him and bit his lip, then sat on the bed.

"Boromir," he said, and his voice was terribly strained. "You know that is not true, though you try to pretend it is so."

Boromir looked as if someone had struck him in the face.

"What are you saying?"

"I am saying that I did not marry you because I loved you. I married you because I was afraid for my son, because I was ashamed of what people would say if they knew how I had been dishonoured." Legolas knew that he had gone too far, but in some ways it was a blessed relief to have out in the open what had for so long been left unsaid. "I am sorry, but it is the truth."

He thought that the man before him would argue or shout. But Boromir's large frame seemed to crumple, as if beneath the surface his core was tired and fragile.

"I see," he said, after a long pause. "I had no wish to make you unhappy, Legolas. I am sorry for it." He paused, then spoke the next words as if they cost him great effort. "If you wish this marriage to be dissolved, so be it."

"No," the elf replied immediately, looking distressed. "I made my decision, and I will keep to it. You have given my son a good life, and in return I hope that I will give you children of your own line. You have been a good father to him, Boromir. I will not take that away from you." He bowed his head, and did not look at him, for it pained him to hurt the man he had bound himself to.

Boromir sighed deeply. "Well, then." He sat down beside Legolas. "But we will manage, will we not, my love? I know that you long for your home and your people, and I know that things have been . . . have been difficult between us. But we are friends, we can live well enough together, can we not?"

"Yes," replied Legolas, although his voice sounded faraway. "Yes, of course we can."

Boromir felt as if he wanted to reach out and take the elf's hand, and he wanted to let the tears that stung his eyes to flow. But he did neither.

"For Anarion's sake, at least," he said quietly.

"For Anarion's sake," repeated his husband.

After that night, they could barely look each other in the eye. Such were their duties that it was no hard task to keep themselves in separate company, and whenever they were bound to appear in concert, it was always in the presence of others. On those occasions that they did find themselves alone together, they would make hollow conversation on matters of state or local policy. But those times were few. When night fell, one or the other would come to bed late to find his partner already asleep, or at least feigning to be so.

They had greater cause than ever to be occupied when Aragorn left for the south. The rumbles of discontent had grown louder, and the king had decided that the time had come for him to see things with his own eyes. So he had departed, and taken with him a party of soldiers, leaving the temporary charge of the city to his steward. Boromir threw himself into the running of Minas Tirith with great dedication, if only because it distracted him from the burden that weighed heavily on his heart.

"I do not know what to do," he confided to his brother one day. "How can I put things right, Faramir?"

"You are over anxious, surely. Every partnership has its ups and downs, its joys and discords."

"No, no, you did not see his face." He was distressed, for he could not explain the full truth to his brother. He could not reveal his knowledge, that Legolas had settled for him, not out of love, but out of necessity. "I fear he may leave me."

"Boromir, it will be alright. He loves you, I am sure of it."

You are wrong, thought Boromir. He does not. Aloud, he said despairingly:

"I do not deserve him. He is too good for me, he always was. I should have known better than to give myself such false hopes."

"Do not be foolish. He is carrying your child. He has already borne you a son. You are bound together, and you must find a way through this. Boromir, are you listening? You must not give up."

"I don't want to. But he will not speak to me. He has not lain with me in months."

"Keep trying. Is he not worth fighting for? How is it that you can be so stubborn and forthright in every other sphere, but fall to pieces with self-doubt in this? Men fear and respect your word when you speak in public. You have led armies to fight on your command, armies who did not flee because you told them to hold fast. And yet, when you upset your lover, you admit defeat and would relinquish any chance of the happiness you have always longed for. Here he comes, now. Speak to him."

Legolas and Eowyn had entered the room.

"The council is starting soon," said Eowyn. "You should go to the halls, if you wish to be present, my Lord."

"Yes, let us go," said Faramir, but Legolas shook his head.

"I will sit out, this time. I am a little tired."

"Nonsense," said Eowyn. "You have to be there. You are consort to the Steward. Don't worry about Anarion, I will look after him. He will keep the children company in the garden," she said, referring to her own son and baby daughter.

"I will see you there," said Faramir, looking meaningfully at Boromir and taking his wife by the arm, so that he could leave the two alone together.

They stood uncomfortably for a while.

"Well," said Boromir. "It should be quiet enough at court today. We will finish early, I think."

Legolas nodded distractedly.

"Perhaps," he tried again, "if we do not go on too late, we can leave Anarion with his aunt and uncle and have a meal for just the two of us. It would be pleasant to eat outside tonight, don't you think?"

Legolas shrugged. "We will see. I have some work to attend to."

Boromir, his heart breaking, tried to look into the elf's eyes, but Legolas was staring at the ground.

"Alright, then," he sighed. "Another time, maybe. Come, we will be late."

They went silently to court, and took their places on the raised dais at the head of the hall. Faramir was already there, sitting in his chair on one side of the room. He caught Boromir's eye, and his expression clearly inquired into how things had gone. Boromir gave the slightest shake of his head, and then quickly turned away.

The court assembled, and soon proceedings began. Boromir was happy enough to take over the duties of the King, although he was not a man for long conversations and endless discussion, and would not have enjoyed the role had it been his permanently. He was impatient, and preferred a plan of action. But he was impressed at how eloquently Legolas spoke at court, and with such authority. The years of training for princehood had not been lost on the elf, and those that had doubted his abilities were soon silenced. Boromir could not help but wonder how other men must envy him, to have such a beautiful and noble creature at his side. If only they knew, he thought to himself sadly.

The hours passed, and all had gone well. As Boromir had predicted, the meeting was coming to an early close. He had just asked if there were any other matters to be discussed, to which the answer was no, and had been about to call a close to court, when a shout went up from the floor.

"Wait!" called the voice. Faramir had gotten to his feet. "Legolas! He is not well!"

The Steward turned to his side and saw that Legolas had gone rigid in his seat. His face was very white and covered with a sheen of cold sweat. Boromir turned to touch his shoulder, but his hand froze in midair and he cried out, for he saw then that the elf's robes and chair were soaked with blood. With a gasp, Legolas slumped over and would have fallen to the floor, had not Boromir caught him in his arms.

"Quick!" he cried, horrified. "Get help!"

Faramir was dispatched in an instant as the elf continued to bleed. He returned with the healer, who bent down immediately to tend to the stricken figure. But Boromir clutched at his husband tightly, for the eyes rolled up in Legolas's head and he began to jerk and twitch uncontrollably, as if possessed.

"What is happening?" he cried. "What is wrong?"

"Stand back everyone, please!" said the healer, for a crowd of anxious courtiers surrounded them. He then unscrewed a vial and, with great difficulty, poured a colourless tincture down the elf's throat. The seizure appeared to pass. Boromir breathed sharply.

"Legolas! Legolas, can you hear me, my dear?" Legolas moved and sighed, but he appeared drowsy.

"Legolas! It is I, Boromir. I am with you, my dear." Legolas opened his eyes and a shudder went through him. He bent his head towards his husband and murmured his name softly.

"He has lost much blood," muttered the healer, who was gently feeling the elf's abdomen. A moment later, he stopped and pressed his lips together grimly.

"Pardon me, sir," he said, and he looked unwilling to speak. "It is as I feared. The child is lost."

A dead weight fell on Boromir's heart. He squeezed his husband's hand.

"Do you speak the truth?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"I am sorry. He has miscarried. His body has rejected the child."

"No," came a moan, and Legolas began to weep. "No, no."

Faramir looked at them sadly as they held each other.

"I am so sorry, my lord," whispered the elf, as he buried his head against Boromir's shoulder. "Please forgive me. Forgive me for losing your son."

Boromir cradled him and brushed the tears from his dark green eyes.

"It is alright, my dear, it is alright. " He appeared to be trying to comfort himself as well as his distraught husband. "We are both young. We can try again. We will have another child." Legolas sobbed and shook his head.

"It is all my fault. I have failed you."

"No, no."

"Yes. The Valar punish me for my sins. I longed for this child, and now our unborn son is dead."

"Such misfortunes happen, my love. They are part of our lives, and we must learn to bear them."

But Legolas was inconsolable.

"We will have to take him to his chamber," said the healer. "His body has suffered a sore trial. I have herbs to help him, but he must be confined to bed for the next few weeks."

And so Boromir lifted his husband and carried him upstairs to his rooms. He hushed him and tried to make him sleep, but it was no use. Night came and went, but the elf lay wide awake, the tears running from his eyes.

Anarion had been very much disturbed by his ada's sudden illness. He was not used to seeing his parents helpless or overcome in any way. For the past week, he had spent most of his time sitting in Legolas's chamber, eating, talking, or reading, and he became upset whenever anyone tried to make him leave. He wanted to be able to see his ada all the time, as if he were afraid that something else would happen to him. After Legolas regained some of his strength, he was finally able to persuade his son that everything would be well, and that he should go outdoors. Anarion had been reluctant at first, but a morning spent with his friends on the hillsides outside the city had soon lifted his spirits, and for now he seemed to have forgotten his worries. After lunch he had hugged his parents briefly and run back again to rejoin his playmates for the afternoon.

Boromir also took the opportunity to leave his husband's bedside and breathe in the fresh air. He decided to clean out the stables and feed the horses, for the physical labour would clear his mind, and he would rather be among those gentle beasts than in the company of other people. The loss of his unborn child still grieved him, and now and then he needed his moments alone.

It was not only for himself that he felt pain, but for his husband. He had seen Legolas struggle in his recovery after the attack of the Nazgul, and it had been his most fervent wish that the elf never underwent such an ordeal ever again. Yet now here they were, with their marriage breaking down, and the unborn child that might have brought them together had been sloughed away from the elf's body in a mess of blood. As he raked over the straw despondently, he thought of how hard he had fought to defend his union with Legolas against the censure of others. It seemed that it had all been for nothing. But although he might have despaired, he had a staunch heart.

"I will make it work between us," he told himself firmly. "He is precious to me, and he has given me Anarion, and I will do everything I can to make him happy."

His reverie was broken by the sounds of shouts and cries somewhere near him. He looked up and saw a group of children running in all directions, not in the spirit of play, but in some alarm or distress. As he was about to approach them, they saw him and came running down towards him, crying out.

"Sir! Sir, please!"

"What is the matter, child? You look pale as a spirit."

"It's Anarion, sir! Please, come quickly!"

Boromir felt his throat tighten, although why he should be so afraid he did not know.

"Why? What has happened?"

But the small boy only gasped and shook his head, as if he could not explain.

"What has happened? Anybody?" There was silence from the usually boisterous crowd. Boromir looked at the terrified faces around him, and recognised one child as the gardener's daughter, a plucky and sensible little girl if he remembered rightly.

"Brega, tell me now. I will not scold, I promise. Tell me if Anarion is in trouble."

"I don't know, sir," she said softly, her voice little more than a whisper. "A man came. A man on a great horse. He told Anarion to follow him into the woods."

Boromir now began walking alongside the children, back to the fields where they played, and with every moment, he walked faster and faster. "A man? What man?"

"I don't know. I never saw him before."

"And then?"

"And then we were afraid, and we told him not to go, but he would not listen. I think - I think he has gone with him!"

"Oh, he was horrible!" cried another child suddenly, choking back a sob. "We knew it was wrong to go with him, we knew we had to run away!"

A strange sense of panic fluttered around in Boromir's heart, for he did not know what could have frightened these children so much that they should have abandoned their playmate to find him.

"Did he have a weapon? A sword?"

"No, no."

"Did Anarion cry out? Or ask you to help him?"

"No, we tried to keep him back, but he wanted to go. They went within the trees where we could not see."

Boromir was striding at full pace now, and many of the smaller children had been left behind. The older ones hurried with him, but were no less perturbed.

"Please, sir, please hurry! Come quickly!" they said, and the dread in their faces drew itself into black imaginings in Boromir's mind. He saw his son kidnapped, or killed, and clearer than all these dull fears was the thought that he, the boy's father, had not been there to help him. He remembered the promise he had made Legolas on the night of his proposal. If their child came to any harm, his husband would never forgive him.

"Where was he last?" he asked fretfully, coming at last to the open fields beside the woods.

"Just down here. Anarion? Anarion, are you there?" The others joined in, calling for him by name. There was no reply. Boromir strode forwards and shouted with the full force of his lungs.

"Anarion! Anarion!"

A few moments later, a familiar voice chirped in reply.

"Is that you, Papa? Why are you shouting for me?" Anarion had been sitting a little way out of sight in the long grass. Now he got up and went towards them, putting something small away in his pocket. Boromir rushed to him and swept him into his arms.

"Oh, you are alright! Thank the Valar!" Anarion managed to pull himself out of the embrace, a slightly puzzled expression on his face.

"What's the matter, Papa? Of course I am alright." And indeed, when Boromir looked at him, his son was as carefree and cheerful as ever. Anarion noticed his friends, crowding nervously in the background.

"There you are!" he cried. "I was wondering where you had gone. Why did you all run away?"

They looked at each other, shamefaced.

"We were frightened. That man . . . I don't know, but when I saw him I thought my blood had frozen cold."

"Oh. But he did me no harm at all."

"Where is he now, Anarion?" asked Boromir.

"He has gone now. He left that way," he pointed.

"And why did he take you to the woods?"

"He said he had something important to talk to me about." Anarion did not seem to find it strange that men on horseback should request to speak to him about important matters. Boromir crouched beside him.

"Did he know you?"

"I think he must have done." The boy clambered up into his father's lap and began to frown and pick at blades of grass. "But I did not know him. I could not see his face."

"Why not?"

"He had a black hood on. He was dressed all in black. His horse was black too."

A shiver seemed to go round the other children as they remembered the strange man's apparel, but Anarion did not notice. Boromir struggled to maintain his composure. A black rider, on a black horse! But it was impossible. It could not be.

"What did he say to you?"

"I can't remember. Lots of things."

"What sort of things, Anarion?"

"Well, he asked me who my parents were. I told him that my father was Steward to the King. Then he asked me if I had an elven parent as well. I told him yes. Then he said was my elven father from Mirkwood, and I told him yes he does come from Mirkwood, where my uncle and my grandpa live."

Boromir was quiet for a moment. Anarion was looking at him with innocent large eyes, and it was clear that whatever had terrified his playmates had left him untouched. Boromir could not quite explain it.

"It is getting dark, children," he said at last, standing up. "Come, I will take you all home." Anarion climbed onto his back. "Can I sit with Ada?" he asked.

"Yes, we will go see him now. But Anarion?"

"Yes?"

"Do not tell him about this man you saw today. It will only worry him, and he has not been very well. And do not go talking to strangers on your own again, it is not safe."

"Yes, Papa."

"Do you promise?"

He frowned, but nodded.

"Good."

They went up to Legolas's bedchamber together, where a soft candlelight burned in the lamps. The elf was wrapped in layers of warm coverlets, for his face and hands were pale and cold to the touch, and his breathing was heavy and laboured. Every bone felt so weak, every muscle ached with pain. It was strange, but his sickness made him even more beautiful to look at. The clammy moisture of his skin caused his face to glow in the dim light, and his dark green eyes were limpid and bright. Boromir's breath halted when he saw him as he lay, so helpless and so lovely.

"Ada, it is me!" came the cry, and Anarion rushed to his side to hold him. Smiling weakly, Legolas leaned over and kissed his forehead.

"Come here, my little one," he said. Boromir lifted the child onto the bed so that he could curl up beside his ada. He sat down himself beside his husband.

"How are you?" he said softly.

"A little better, I think. The healer has given me a tonic to ease the pain." He ruffled a hand through Anarion's hair.

"Have you been a good boy?" he asked him. "You have not been giving your papa any trouble, I hope?"

"No more than usual," smiled Boromir. "Come, I will ask for supper to be brought for all of us."

So they ate together by the bedside, as Legolas propped himself up on his pillow and took a bowl of clear broth. Anarion told them all about his day - which games he had played, which races he had run, which trees he had climbed, and which creatures he had seen. He showed them where he had fallen and cut his knee with great pride, for he was hoping to one day have as many scars across his body as his papa did. And as usual, he had some gifts for his ada. Eagerly he put into the elf's outstretched hands a bright petal, a delicate leaf skeleton and a broken piece of blue eggshell.

"Thank you, Anarion. I will keep them by my bedside, so I can think of you until I am better."

"I will get you more tomorrow," he promised. "But please get well soon, Ada. Papa is very sad without you."

"Is he now?" said Legolas softly.

"He is," said Boromir ardently, and kissed his husband's cheek. "But it is bedtime for you, little one. Up you get," and he hoisted Anarion up into his arms. "Kiss your ada and say goodnight."

The little boy leant over and kissed Legolas, but as he did so, a small pebble-like something slipped out of his pocket and onto the bedspread. He reached out with his plump fist to take it back, but Legolas was quicker.

"What is this, Anarion?" he said mildly, holding it up to the light. Anarion said nothing. His ada's tone suddenly changed.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, and he sounded startled. Boromir leaned over to look. The elf was clutching a small gold pendant inlaid with rubies. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, and it was in the shape of a Red Eye.

Anarion looked to his papa, for he had promised not to say anything about the visitor on horseback.

"Anarion, answer me!" cried Legolas. "Where did you find this?"

"Did he give this to you?" asked Boromir sternly.

"Who?" said the elf.

"A man came and spoke to Anarion this evening. I did not want to worry you about it."

"A man? What man? What is this all about?" Legolas looked from one to the other in distress.

"It was for my birthday, he said," admitted the boy, reaching out to take it back. "I told him that he had the wrong day, but he just laughed and said it did not matter."

The colour drained from Legolas's face. He looked at Boromir in desperation.

"Never mind, Anarion," said the man. "To bed now. Come on."

"Can I have it back, please?" he asked, holding out his hand. Legolas hesitated, but Boromir took the little pendant and gave it to the boy. "Let him take it. It is nothing, Legolas. Only a trinket." He carried Anarion upstairs to his bed, but his mind was elsewhere. To ensure that others believed their son had been born after his parents were married, they celebrated his birthday in March. But that was not the true date of his birth. The true date, as he and Legolas both knew, was this very day. How anyone could have known, Boromir did not dare think about. When he returned, Legolas's hands were writhing with agitation.

"Tell me everything, Boromir," he said immediately, and Boromir had no choice but to reluctantly tell him what had happened. When he had finished, the elf's eyes looked dull and glazed.

"It is him," he whispered. "It must be him. He has come to take my child back."

"Impossible," said Boromir firmly. "He was destroyed. It cannot be."

"He was thought destroyed many times, and yet returned," said Legolas, and he leaned back on his pillow, barely daring to breathe. "By the Valar, if it is he, I do not think I could endure it."

"Legolas, you fear the worst. More likely someone intends to frighten us both, and they have dressed as the witch-king, and given Anarion a sign of Sauron, to play some kind of foolish game."

Legolas was staring at the patterns on his bedspread. Unconsciously, his hand had moved to the ugly bite mark at his throat.

"Whoever it was, it can only mean one thing," he said at last. "Somebody knows. Somebody has found out."

Boromir took a deep breath and nodded. "But I do not see how," he said. "Even if someone guessed that he was not my son by blood, no one knows of your attack by the Nazgul except the rest of the fellowship. And they would never betray that secret."

"It does not matter. However it happened, the fact is that someone knows the truth."

"My guess is that they will try and blackmail us over it. But there is not much we can do but wait and see." The elf did not seem to be listening. He was lost in despair, and when he spoke his voice was dull.

"I had believed for all these years that I was safe. Now I will be looking over my shoulder at every turn. I will not sleep for fear of the truth becoming known."

Boromir considered this for a while.

"Have you ever thought," he began cautiously, "of relieving this burden yourself? I know we always said that Anarion should never know of the man who fathered him. But perhaps, if our families were to know, they would not be so overcome. They might be a support to you, Legolas. They have stood by you through your marriage, have they not? And who is to say - maybe when he is of age, Anarion himself should be told the truth, and learn to accept it. Better from us, than from malicious gossip. Is that not so?"

Legolas turned his wide, clear eyes on him, and Boromir could see his own face reflected there.

"But he is so happy as he is," he said sadly. "I know why you speak as you do, only I do not know if I could bring myself to explain it all to him." He reached out and clutched Boromir's large, weatherbeaten hand in his own and squeezed it.

"Please look after him for me, at least. Please, don't let anyone else hurt him."

"I won't," he replied, and he meant it.

There was still no word from Aragorn in the months that followed, and no reappearance of the mysterious stranger. But Legolas had recovered enough in his body to leave his chambers and ride outdoors again. The fresh air seemed to revive him more than any potion or tincture, and soon there was colour in his cheeks once more. But with his new-found vigour, he began to keep a closer eye than ever on his son, and it became ever more a burden on his mind. He had always worried about Anarion, for he knew only too well the nature of his true father. Every time he watched the little boy play, or eat, or sit at his lessons, he seemed to be looking for signs of the malevolence that might sleep in his soul. So far, he reassured himself that his beloved son was all that was good and kind. But sometimes, a stubborn, headstrong nature emerged in the boy, and he could not help but notice how strong and large he was becoming. Legolas did not know if he was only imagining things in his fixation. But there was no doubt that Anarion was growing ever more boisterous, and his ada saw with apprehension how eager he was to win at his games, so much so that he would even knock over the smaller children in his excitement. The elf tried to tell himself that there was no malice in the child's behaviour. Anarion was disobedient, and mischevious at times, but never cruel. Yet he still woke in the dead of night with a cold sweat on his face, wondering whether he might grow to be just like his father.

No, he would say to himself, and look at the boy beside him, peacefully asleep. That will never happen. He is such a good son.

But he is only a child still, said a small voice in his head. He is not yet a man.

One afternoon, he took Anarion with him to visit Faramir and Eowyn in Ithilien. It had been the child's idea - he had been clamouring to visit his two cousins. As the eldest, he was idolised by Faramir's son and daughter, and they rushed to see him as soon as he arrived.

"Be careful, Anarion," chastised Legolas, as his son picked up Faramir's tiny, fair haired girl and swung her around in delight. "Remember, she is only a baby. No rough games, do you understand?"

"Yes, ada," promised Anarion, and the three of them went off to go hunting around the house.

"And how are you, Legolas?" asked Eowyn, when they had sat down later to refreshments.

"Better, thank you."

Eowyn sat beside him and put her hand on his shoulder.

"You are looking well, thank Elbereth. We were so worried about you."

He nodded, and then suddenly his head fell into his hands. Eowyn put her arm around him.

"Oh, Legolas. It has been hard on you. I am so sorry about your child."

He shook his head. "It has been eating away at me," he whispered. "I don't know what to do."

"It will take time," said Faramir softly. "The wounds are still raw."

"It is more than that. Faramir, I have said some terrible things to my husband, and I regret them so much. There is a gulf between us that we cannot breach. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he will not share his grief with me, lest it make him look weak - and it is the same for me."

Faramir nodded gravely. "I know that there have been difficulties for you. He has spoken to me of them."

"Why, what has happened?" asked Eowyn. "What did you say to him?"

"I told him that I was unhappy, living here with him. I believe I made him feel that he had failed to be a good enough husband."

Faramir looked at him.

"And are you unhappy, Legolas?" he asked at last.

"Sometimes," admitted the elf quietly. "But it is not his fault." He could not fully explain to them why he succumbed at times to bouts of melancholy and despair - he could not reveal to them how he had been raped, and how Anarion had been born as a consequence. It seemed strange to him, that Anarion was the living proof of all the hurt and anguish that sapped away at his happiness with Boromir, and at the same time, he was the only thing that held them together. "I do love Boromir, very dearly," he said, "but I fear at times that our marriage will not survive. There is too much of a strain on us."

"I know you love him, Legolas, and he loves you as well, do not doubt it. You did not know him as a youth, as I did - he was reckless and selfish. But since he married you, he has changed. He wants nothing but the best for you and Anarion. Please, Legolas, go back and talk to him. Whatever mistakes he has made, he can put them right."

"I wil not abandon him., Faramir, for our son's sake. But I do not think we can be happy together. It was too much of a hope, that things would work out, coming from such different worlds as we do." He looked sadly at his brother-in-law. "I did not want it to end this way, but it has."

Eowyn shook her head. "You are wrong," she said. "You judge too hastily. By rights, you think, you should have been married to an elven king. By rights, you should be living as a prince among your own people. This is what you think, do you not?" she asked. Legolas was surprised at her words, for she had guessed near the truth. Many nights he spent awake, wondering whether he had made the wrong decision on the night of his son's birth, and whether he had chosen the right path in the turmoil of his mind.

"You should forget those fears and those thoughts. They will destroy you. Look at the man you love, and open your heart to him. Do not clutch at dreams, at false imaginings of what might have been."

"But how can I not?" cried the elf. "This was not the destiny I was born to. I was not supposed to become consort to a human, or take a mortal life, or leave my homeland. I was not supposed to be called a whore by men whose worth falls far below my own. I was not supposed to lose my child, and have little hope of ever having another."

Eowyn took his hand.

"Whether it was destined or not, this is the path your life has taken. And I have learned myself that despairing of your life as not what it was supposed to be brings no happiness to anyone. It is so easy to want what we do not have. If I had held on to the hopes I possessed - and my husband will forgive me for saying so - I would still be yearning to be Queen on the throne of Gondor. But it was a false hope. I do not think of it now, for it would have made me resentful and bitter. I look at what I have instead, and I realise how happy and blessed I am with my own family."

This silenced Legolas. He looked out of the window, and saw that it had become dark.

"Come, Anarion," he called. "We must be getting home now."

"Already?" said the child, wandering back into the room. "Can't we stay a bit longer?"

"No, it is getting very late. Say goodbye to your aunt and uncle."

He did so, and Legolas also took his leave, hugging them tightly.

"Thankyou," he said to them under his breath. "Take care, now. Come visit us soon." They nodded, and kissed their nephew once more.

He was lost in thought as he rode back with Anarion sat in front of him. By the time they arrived at home, his son was already asleep, and he tucked him up carefully in bed. When he came down again, the candlelight was burning in Boromir's office. His husband was at his desk, and turned and looked at him in surprise.

"Are you still working?" said Legolas.

"Yes. Where have you been?"

"I was in Ithilien."

"Oh. Is everyone well?"

"Yes, very well. I thought I would just go and visit. Anarion wanted to see his cousins."

"Oh, I see. Is he asleep?"

"Yes, he is in bed."

Boromir paused, awkwardly. He picked up his quill again.

"Well, I have some reports to finish. Have you eaten? There is food in the kitchen, if you like."

Legolas did not reply. He hovered by the door, unsure of whether to stay or leave. There was silence for a few moments.

"I think I will retire as well," said Legolas at last. He turned to go. But Boromir cried out suddenly and stopped him.

"Legolas, my love," he said, his voice full of hurt. "I cannot bear this coldness between us. It is killing me. Please, sit down and talk with me at least."

The elf approached him, but his hand was at his mouth and he shook his head.

"We can be happy together, I know we can," implored Boromir. "Please. You must give it a chance, that's all. That is all I ask."

To his astonishment, Legolas sank to his knees and laid his head down in his lap, weeping.

"Please, forgive me for being so ungrateful my Lord," he sobbed. "I have been so foolish, to think I missed something when it was right before my eyes." He looked up at Boromir and covered his face with soft kisses.

"I could not live without you," he whispered. "Can you leave behind our troubles, and let me love you and honour you as I should have done from the beginning?"

Boromir looked at the sorrow and regret in his wide green eyes. To his surprise, his own eyes were softened with tears.

"Do not cry now - you have suffered enough And there is nothing for me to forgive." He bent down and kissed the top of the elf's head. "I am a very lucky man to have you as my husband, and I could ask for nothing more."

He too, knelt down on the floor and cupped the elf's chin in his hands.

"I love you very much, Legolas. I hope you know that."

"I do," he whispered. "You are all the world to me." They sat holding each other for a while, rocking gently back and forth. Finally, Legolas dried his eyes and they rose to their feet. The elf brought Boromir's head down towards his own and kissed his lips lovingly. The man had him in a tight embrace, and lifted him into his arms, kissing him passionately all the while. Then he carried him to their bed, and laid him there, and draped himself over him.

Legolas found great pleasure in the sensation of his husband's heavy body lying on him. As they loosed their clothes, he eased his position so that Boromir could mount him. They made love as if they were hungry for each other, and then Legolas sank against his husband's side, glistening with perspiration. Boromir stroked his hair fondly.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered. "Like an angel."

Legolas put his golden head on Boromir's broad chest.

"I love you," he said softly. "Hold me."

They drew up the covers, and fell asleep in each other's arms.

Legolas awoke in the early hours of the morning, before first light. He shifted gently away from Boromir, who slept peacefully, and touched his jaw with the back of his hand. He smiled to see him looking so restful.

But his own thoughts were in turmoil. He should have felt the burden lift, having reconciled himself to his husband, but in truth his fear over his son plagued him still. Though he could believe, when Boromir held him in his strong arms, that nothing and nobody could hurt them, afterwards he thought again of how Anarion might one day fall prey to the cruel blood in his veins. Again and again this thought resurfaced, waking him in the dead of night, as it had done ever since the day of his son's birth. And now, with the gift of the Red Eye from a mysterious stranger, the creeping dread in his heart grew ever stronger.

Silently, as only an elf could, he rose and wrapped his body in a fine silken robe. Boromir did not stir as he crept out of their room and took a walk down the dark corridors. Whenever he woke and could not find sleep again, he would walk like this around their quarters, and later return once he was calmed. Like a luminous spectre, he floated along in the darkness, and finally he reached a small room which looked out onto his gardens and his forest. He often stood here at the window, staring at the world outside while the dawn broke. But tonight, he left the curtains drawn, and sat down in the dim light.

Free to dwell on the nightmares that haunted him, Legolas sighed and buried his head in his hands. He sat like this for a long while, barely moving. When he looked up at last, his eyes were dry of tears, but there was a desolation in his face which spoke of what he now endured.

"I can do nothing now," he murmured to himself. "It is no longer in my hands." With a deep breath, he stood up.

He was about to leave when he thought he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye, which startled him. Turning around, he saw that the covers on a table had been hastily put back, and that something glinted beneath them. The strange gleam, as of something watching him, attracted his attention. He went towards it without thinking, like a puppet pulled on a string, and pulled back the heavy cloth.

Beneath it was a solid black sphere, its surface shining dully in the light. It was dark and heavy, but within its heart there seemed to be a glow or flame, swirling with hidden colours and shapes.

"A Palantir," breathed Legolas. "I have not seen one for many years."

He did not cover it and walk away. Something deep within the Seeing Stone beckoned to him, teased him, begged him to look longer and further into its black depths. His mind locked into the very centre of the Palantir, and slowly, tentatively, his hands reached out to touch it. If his mind had not been so fevered, if his spirit had not been so tried these past days, he might have stopped himself and reconsidered. But it was too late. He grasped the Palantir.

At once, it was as if the black stone had become a globe of the world, and he had been pulled remorsely within it. Everywhere was dark and huge and empty, but for the countless whisperings around him. He turned and looked up and down fretfully but could see nothing, only hear the voices talking to him, but they all spoke together and blurred into one, and he could not understand what they told him.

Then, it was as if he soared in the sky and saw the land spread out far below him. The image cleared and sharpened, like he was falling down towards the ground. A light suddenly flamed out and the merged voices were blown apart by the sound of screams and cries. To his horror, Legolas saw before him the image of a huge ravine that stretched into infinite darkness. And deep within it, clutching to the sheer cliff-face, was Boromir, his beloved Boromir, bitterly wounded and crying for help. He was weak and bloodied, and so far had he to climb that he would never find the strength to reach safety. Legolas tried to open his mouth and speak, but no sound came out. He was transfixed. Boromir, with pain and anguish in his face, turned and cried:

"No! Please don't shoot!"

And now Legolas saw that a figure stood on the other edge of the ravine, a tall figure with a long bow held taut and an arrow aimed direct at his struggling husband. The elf was breathless with terror, to see Boromir so helpless in the line of fire, for surely the arrow would send him plunging to his death below.

He will kill him! he thought desperately. There is no escape!

And he pleaded in his heart that something would happen, that someone would save him, but it was not so. The image grew brighter and painfully sharp, and he could see the fear in Boromir's face, and then he saw the archer bend his arm and loose his arrow with a savage strength, and he screamed as he finally beheld the archer's face and the steely determination of his eyes.

The image went dark and he found himself back in the room. The Palantir was cold and dull. But his breath did not slow, and he could think of nothing else that night. For he recognised the face of the archer, though it had changed and matured - the face of his husband's murderer, the face that had looked so terrifying in its resolve. It had been none other than the face of his own son.