Kindred Spirit by bailey  
baileymoyes@hotmail.com  
LOTR  
R  
Not my characters.  No profit to be made here.  
Non-consensual situation.  
Legolas, Aragorn  
Pre-Fellowship  
Legolas walks in shadow.  Aragorn has a torch.  They’re made for each other.  (Chapter 
two of the “Stardust and Gold” series that began with “Mad Season”.)  
 
    “Dunedain!” a silvery voice called from the tree branches over Aragorn’s head.  
    The Man reined in his horse, and waited for the lithe shape to drop to grass before him.  
    “Greetings Aiglos,” Aragorn said, “Is Lindir with you?”  
    “Nay, I watch alone.  This border is free of danger for the nonce.  I think we only set a 
sentry out of habit now.”  
    “A good habit,” Aragorn said, “What welcome may I expect at Thranduil’s court?”  
    A bright smile answered him.  “The warmest,” Aiglos answered, “You know the king 
holds you in great regard.  Not only because you be the heir of Isildur, but also for curing 
the Prince of his madness.  Did you think aught might have changed since last you 
visited?”  The slender Elf paused, and then smiled wider.  “You are joking with me!”  
    “A feeble attempt,” Aragorn admitted, “How does the Prince?”  
    The merry look evaporated from Aiglos’ fair face.  “I had hoped this news would wait 
until you reached the court,” he said, “We fear Legolas is lost to us.”  
    “This is grave news.  What has befallen?”  
    “I will ride with you,” Aiglos said, “My replacement is due, and I think the border will 
be safe for a few minutes.”  
    So saying, the Elf sprang lightly up behind the Ranger, and settled himself.  Aragorn 
took up the reins, and continued on to the court of Mirkwood.  
    “The Prince’s mad season ended just after your visit,” Aiglos said, in Aragorn’s ear.  
“He stopped going on raids, and Haldir returned to Lothlorien.  Legolas seemed well, if 
not so merry as in days past.”  Aiglos sighed, and then resumed speaking.  “The Prince 
spent much time alone, and would not speak of what troubled him.  His melancholy was 
grievous to see.  You did not know Legolas before these things happened.”  
    “Nay,” Aragorn said, “I had seen him once, but he was much with his mother’s people 
when he was younger, was he not?”  
    “Aye,” Aiglos answered, “Though it pained the king to be parted from his best-loved 
child, he wanted Legolas to know somewhat of his other kin.  Legolas went there for a 
short time after Haldir left.”  
    “But it did not soothe him,” Aragorn guessed.  
    “Nay, when he returned, his melancholy had become a brooding gloom.  He was 
listless, sitting for hours in one spot, only to rise, and move to a new one.  He would not 
speak at all, and he would meet no one’s eyes.  The wisest came to see the Prince, but 
they had no joy for the king.  Legolas would not talk to them, and they could not see his 
mind.  Some days ago, the Prince lay down, and has not risen.  He does not eat.  He does 
not move.  He barely seems to breathe.”  
    “These are sad, sad tidings,” Aragorn said, “Thranduil’s sorrow can only be guessed 
at.”  
    “Would you see the Prince?” Aiglos asked.  
    “If the king wishes it,” Aragorn said carefully.  The Ranger’s first instinct was to ride 
as quickly as possible to where the Prince lay.  However, he was mindful of courtesy 
when among Elfkind.  He must rein in his impulse to heal, until he had spoken with the 
King.  Sensing its rider’s mood, Aragorn’s horse quickened its pace.  
 
    After greeting King Thranduil, and obtaining his glad permission, Aragorn was 
conducted to the Prince’s rooms by an old friend.  
    “In here,” Lindir said softly, gesturing with one hand.  
    Aragorn passed through the exquisitely carved arch, and entered the room that was 
open to the air on two sides.  The Prince lay in repose, fully-dressed, on a mattress draped 
with a richly embroidered satin coverlet.  The sleeper’s hands were folded on his chest, 
which rose and fell almost imperceptibly.  The only other movement was the sporadic 
flutter of his eyelids.  
    “I thought he dreamed,” Lindir said, “But now I am not sure he is asleep.  
    “You have cared for him well,” Aragorn said, “Will you rest now?”  
    “I would rather stay near him,” Lindir answered, as the Ranger had known he would, 
“If it will not disturb you.”  
    “Sit, and be easy,” Aragorn said, putting a hand of the Elf’s shoulder.  
    Suddenly, all of Lindir’s exhaustion dropped on him at once.  He fell into a seat near 
the bed, and slumped wearily.  
    Aragorn knelt, and took up one of the Prince’s cold hands.  Warming the stiff fingers 
between his palms, the Ranger gazed on his patient’s closed face.  He was unused to 
seeing an Elf with eyes closed, and the sight was oddly disturbing.  Quashing the 
distracting thoughts, Aragorn reached out to the spirit of the oblivious Prince.  
    The grey veils of the Otherworld were heavier than usual.  Aragorn could not see the 
silver flame of the Elf’s spirit, and had no beacon to guide him to the Prince.  The thought 
that Legolas’ soul might be wandering lost through this featureless void, spurred him to 
greater efforts.  
    “Aragorn!  Dunedain!”  
    “Who calls?”  
    “It is Lindir.  Are you well?”  
    Aragorn looked about, and realized he was lying on the floor with Lindir bending 
anxiously over him.  To his left he could see the skirt of a richly embroidered coverlet, 
and remembered where he was, and what he had been doing.  
    “Thank you, Lindir,” he said, as he rose, “I think I had lost the way back from the 
Otherworld.  How long was I unconscious?”  
    “You were never unconscious,” Lindir said, “Your eyes were open, and you spoke.”  
    “What did I say?” Aragorn asked, as he poured a cup of water, and drank.  
    “You called out to the Prince, but it did not seem to me that he answered you.  Then 
you dropped his hand, and fell to the floor.”  
    “It is glad I am that you were here,” Aragorn said, “The Prince is far away from us.  I 
should not have tried to reach him with so little preparation.  I must rest for a little time, 
and then I will call Legolas home.”  
    “Take some food and drink,” Lindir said, pouring more water for the Ranger, and 
gesturing to a table laid with platters.  
    Aragorn ate somewhat to restore his strength, and then would have lain on the rush-
carpeted marble of the floor.  Lindir offered to have a pallet brought in, and, when the 
Man refused, insisted that Aragorn lie down on the bed.  
    Aragorn sat gingerly on the mattress, and removed his boots.  Carefully, he swung his 
long legs up, and settled back against the banked pillows.  Legolas did not move, or show 
by any other sign that he was aware of the Ranger’s presence.  
    Lindir watched until the Man’s eyelids stayed down.  Rising silently, the Elf took up 
his cloak, and passed outside to renew his spirit among the green things.  
    Aragorn opened his eyes, and smiled at the pretty Elf-child in the doorway.  Early 
morning sunlight made an argent nimbus of the little boy’s pale hair, but his face was in 
shadow.   Though he could not see the child’s expression, the Ranger could see by his 
posture that the boy was downcast and uneasy about something.  Perhaps the unexpected 
sight of a mortal worried him.  
    “I will not harm you,” Aragorn said gently, “I am a visitor here.  Would you like to 
come in, and have a look at the Prince?”  
    The Elf-child moved farther into the room, and the Man was struck by the singular 
sweetness of the little boy’s face.  The child moved to the opposite side of the bed, and 
looked gravely down at Legolas.  
    “It makes you sad to see the Prince so ill?” Aragorn asked.  
    The boy looked up into the Ranger’s kind gaze.  “I am being sent away,” he said.  
    “Oh, and where are you going?”  
    “To visit the kin of my mother.”  
    “Why would this make you so unhappy?”  
    “They cannot fool me,” the little boy said, “I am not being sent for a visit.  I am being 
sent away because they do not want me here.”  
    “I am certain that is not true,” Aragorn said, “Who would not want a fine boy like 
you?”  
    “My father.  He never comes to see me, and he is always sending me somewhere.”  
    Aragorn’s heart ached for the child who so patently believed that what he was saying 
was the truth.  The Ranger was sure the boy had misunderstood something he had 
overheard, or was too young to appreciate that adults did not always have as much time 
as they would like.  He drew breath to soothe the child, but the words went unspoken.  
The boy’s eyes grew wide, and he cringed as a shadow fell through the doorway.  
    “It is my brother,” the child said, “If he finds me, he will torment me.”  
    “Climb up here,” Aragorn said, “I will not let him take you.”  
    The blond boy scrambled onto the bed, and under the protective arm of the Ranger.  
Aragorn watched the door, peripherally aware of the child’s wholesome scent and the 
sweet weight that nestled against his side.  This is what it was to be a father, responsible 
for a life smaller and more fragile than your own.  He watched the doorway, absently 
stroking the silky hair, and the shadow disappeared in one blink of his eye.  He looked 
down at the boy, and saw that he had fallen asleep.  Wrapped in the warmth of the child’s 
trust, lulled by the even breaths, Aragorn drifted back into slumber.  
    When he woke again, the Elf-child had gone.  Aragorn rose carefully, and went to the 
balustrade on the other side of the room.  Leaning on the pale wood of the carved railing, 
the Ranger looked out over the garden, though most mortals would not recognize the 
glade as something that was carefully tended.  
    Movement caught Aragorn’s eyes, and he turned to watch a tall Elf in the garb of a 
Tracker stride from the trees.  Behind him came hurrying a stripling in rich clothing, his 
frame coltish, yet possessed of an elegant grace that belied the angularity of his form.  
    “Mahir,” the lad called, “Please stop.”  
    Aragorn saw the shadow that passed across the older Elf’s face, as the youth caught up 
with him.  The Tracker stopped, his expression impassive, and waited for the boy to 
speak.  
    “Lindir says you are transferring to the North.  I cannot believe you would go with so 
brief a farewell.  Are we not friends?”  
    “We are friends,” Mahir said, in a voice like sun-warmed honey, “Therefore, I would 
not draw out my leave-taking.”  
    “You told me nothing of these plans.  If not for Lindir, I would have thought you were 
returning in a few weeks.”  
    “I will not,” Mahir admitted, “I will be gone for much longer.  Forgive me for not 
telling you, but adults do not always remember to include children in their plans.”  
    Aragorn saw the stricken look in the lad’s eyes, and was angry with this Mahir for 
being so callous.  It was plain that the youth idolized the archer, and the words had 
wounded him deeply.  Then the Ranger saw the pain in Mahir’s eyes, and realized the Elf 
had forced himself to speak as he had.  For some reason, the archer was compelled to 
distance himself from the boy.  
    “I am sorry,” Mahir said, “But you have other friends.  In the turning of a few seasons, 
my name will sound strange to you, and you will have trouble recalling the color of my 
hair.”  
    The youth’s anguish turned to outrage at this charge.  “Your hair is the color of the 
shadows under the ferns as night is falling.  I could never forget that.  I could never forget 
you.  Am I to believe that you could forget me?”  
    Mahir’s long fingers stirred the pale tendrils that framed the boy’s flawless face.  
“Yes,” he lied, “Mirkwood is a place where I stopped for some seasons.  You are a boy 
with a great gift for archery to whom I passed on some of my knowledge.  I hope you will 
continue to practice.  You have an eye and speed such as I have seldom seen.  It would be 
a shame to waste that talent.”  
    The boy shook his head in disbelief.  “You are lying,” he said, “Why would you lie to 
me?”  
    “Farewell,” Mahir said, and walked away.  
    “Wait!” the boy cried out, but the archer did not stop this time.  
    The youth did not follow the other Elf, as Aragorn expected.  He stood rooted to spot, 
staring at the trees where his friend had disappeared.  
    “What did I do?” he asked softly.  
    When the boy’s gaze came to rest on him, Aragorn stepped back, as though to hide.  
    “What did I do?” the boy repeated.  
    “You did nothing,” Aragorn found himself saying, “He had to go.  He was not leaving 
you.”  
    “Why did he say those hurtful things?”  
    “This will seem strange, but he did it to make your parting less painful.”  
    “That is not logical.”  
    “I know.  He hoped to make you angry at him, so you would not miss him so much.”  
    “That was foolish, and I still do not understand why he must leave.”  
    “Perhaps the heart of Mirkwood is too tame for him.”  
    “Nay.  He was tired of the borders.  He is happy here,” the boy paused.  “The only one 
who is not happy is my father.  He hates Mahir.”  
    Aragorn remembered the soft look in Mahir’s dark eyes when they gazed on the fair 
youth.  If the boy’s father had seen such a look, he might well be uneasy.  Elves were 
doting parents, and this lad was scarcely more than a child.  
    “Fathers are often unreasonable,” he said, “But they act from love.”  
    The Elf-lad looked dubiously at the Ranger.  
    “Do not be troubled,” Aragorn said, “Mahir loves you, and did not wish to leave you.  
Your father loves you, and I am sure many others do as well.”  
    “No.  They leave me, or send me away.”  
    “If it is true now, which I doubt, it will not always be so.”  
    “How do you know this?”  
    “Because there is a light in you that will someday outshine even the fairness of your 
face.  Folk will be drawn by it.”  
    “Someday,” the boy said bleakly, and Aragorn heard the tears kept at bay by a brave 
effort.  
    The Ranger went into the garden, and approached the solitary figure.  Gently, he took, 
the young Elf in his arms, out-waiting the initial stiffness.  Elves were unused to touching 
strangers, but Aragorn believed in the restorative power of such comfort.  He held the lad 
securely, silently promising protection from hurt, offering a pillar on which to lean.  
    The boy wept, profusely but silently, against the Man’s chest.  Then he raised his head, 
and gazed up with tear-dewed eyes.  
    “Thank you,” he mumbled, as he stepped back.  
    Aragorn let him go, not surprised when the youth walked quickly away from him 
without another word.  Elves rarely lost control, never in front of mortals.  The Man 
could easily imagine the lad’s mortification at his lapse.  Smiling, the Ranger went back 
into the Prince’s room, and walked to the bed.  Wondering what was keeping Lindir, he 
lay down again.  
    Feeling chilled, Aragorn reached for the soft wool blanket Lindir had tossed on the end 
of the bed.  His fingers touched nothing but bare rock, and his eyes flew open.  The sky 
above was dark with storm clouds and the coming night.  A flickering at the edge of his 
vision was a fire, over which hung several pieces of meat on a makeshift spit.  He came 
fully awake when his eyes puzzled out the strange shapes as roasting human limbs.  
    “Do not move.  They will hear you,” a voice whispered.  
    Aragorn rolled his head to the right.  A young Elf in the rags of a Tracker’s uniform 
lay in the firelight, a few feet away from the Ranger.  The Tracker’s face was hidden by a 
fall of pale hair, but the blood that ran from the gouges inflicted by his bindings was plain 
enough.  
    “Who are they?” Aragorn asked.  
    “Wild Yrch.  Five of them.”  
    The Ranger’s heart fell.  He had no weapon.  He could not hope to defeat five Orcs.  
    “You cannot help me,” the Elf echoed his thoughts, “But I hope you will not leave 
me.”  
    “Never,” Aragorn whispered vehemently, “I will find a way to free you.”  
    “I tell you, you cannot.”  
    Aragorn nearly gave himself away when a brawny, bristle-covered arm came into his 
view, and the Elf was snatched off the ground.  The Ranger eased onto his stomach, and 
peered around the boulder that so fortuitously hid him from the Orcs.  His blood boiled as 
he watched the brutes send the Elf careening from hand to hand, dealing out punches, 
kicks and bites before shoving him to the next monster.  Abruptly, Aragorn dropped his 
head, clenching his fists until the overwhelming need to attack the Orcs passed.  
    When Aragorn was able to look again, the Elf’s ankles had been bound to either end of 
a stout cudgel.  An Orc grasped the Tracker’s arms in cruel grip, while the largest of their 
number forced the prisoner to his knees.  When the big Orc knelt behind the Elf, Aragorn 
began to move around the rock.  He was stopped in his tracks when he met the Tracker’s 
eyes, and recognized Legolas.  The message the Elf wished to convey was clear.  Aragorn 
eased back into concealment, and held the Prince’s gaze throughout the ordeal.  
    The Orc leader exposed its gnarled root, and called out something that made the others 
hoot with lunatic laughter.  The Orc by the fire came over, and smeared a handful of fat 
between the Elf’s buttocks.  Black claws gripped slim white hips, punching red holes in 
the delicate skin.  The Elf refused to cry out, which, predictably, made the beasts 
determined to force a scream from him.  The Tracker’s teeth clamped down on his lower 
lip as the rough tip of the wart-covered shaft rasped against sensitive skin, and then 
rammed forward.  
    Aragorn lost contact with the Elf’s eyes only once during the assault when the Ranger 
leaned over, and retched involuntarily.  He quickly mastered himself, and resumed his 
vigil.  
    The pack of brutes had gathered close around the rape, drool running from the corners 
of their slack lips.  They urged their leader on with coarse grunts and bellows of crude 
laughter.  The big Orc plowed into the Elf with no regard for the tender flesh it was 
rending.  The sight of blood on its knurled rod excited it to new heights of arousal.  
    Leaning over its victim, the Orc sank its fangs into the slender neck.  It growled, and 
the beast holding the Elf’s wrists jumped back to avoid a slashing talon.  The big Orc 
forced the Elf’s head to the ground, and thrust brutally.  Still, the prisoner would not cry 
out, which did not please the Orc.  With a sly gleam in its red-rimmed eyes, the monster 
reached around the Elf, and wrapped its huge claw around the shrinking groin.  
    Aragorn had to look away as the monster finally wrung a sound from the brave 
Tracker.  When the Elf cried out again in utter despair, the Ranger could not keep his 
silent vow.  He rose to his feet, and ran at the Orcs.  Their surprise allowed Aragorn time 
to reach the leader, and rip out its throat with stiffened fingers.  It fell off of the Elf, black 
blood fountaining from its torn neck, and the others lunged for the Ranger.  
    As Aragorn spun away, the Elf pulled against his bonds, disregarding the damage he 
did to his flesh.  The leather parted with an audible pop, and the Tracker bent to untie his 
ankles.  The Ranger did his best to elude the Orcs until he could dodge his way to the 
fire.  As he had hoped, the beasts’ belongings lay strewn about.  Snatching up a pitted 
sword, he turned to face the Orcs.  As he attacked, the Elf joined the fray, using the same 
technique Aragorn had to slash the tough hides of the Orcs with his bare hands.  Then the 
Tracker got hold of a blade, and, in a matter of moments, he and the Ranger had 
dispatched the pack of wild Orcs.  
    “That is all of them, Legolas” Aragorn said.  
    “Nay,” said the red-spattered apparition.  “There is one devil left.”  
    “That is most unkind,” said a voice of silk and steel.  
    “Haldir,” Aragorn said, as the Elf appeared behind Legolas.  
    Haldir gripped the Prince by the hair, and lowered his face to a gory shoulder.  The 
Lorien Elf licked black blood from Legolas’ neck, as he raised his eyes to meet 
Aragorn’s.  
    “Bitter,” Haldir said, with a smile, “I know where to find sweeter.”  
    Haldir’s teeth sank into the Prince’s neck, and Aragorn started toward them.  
    “You cannot have him, shade of Haldir,” the Ranger said, “You are not real.  I will not 
lose this pure soul to the demons that haunt his tortured mind.”  
    “He chooses me,” Haldir’s seeming said, “There is naught you can do.  You are no 
more real than I am.”  
    “You are mistaken,” the Ranger said, as he pulled Haldir away from Legolas.  
    The wraith of Haldir cried out as the Healer’s hands fell on it.  “Would you take my 
place, Elessar?” the creature spat.  
    “If that is what I must do, I will do it,” Aragorn answered, “Begone, figment.”  
    Haldir’s image faded, and the Ranger caught the Prince as Legolas fell.  
    “I have got you,” Aragorn said, “And I will not leave you.”  
    “Release me from my torment,” Legolas begged.  
    This is the spirit world, Aragorn told himself, what happens here is an illusion.  He told 
this to himself many times, but knew it was not true.  What happened in the intangible 
world reverberated in the physical realm, and the Ranger feared the consequences of his 
actions.  However, it was impossible for him to stand idle when a soul was in distress.  
    “How may I give you surcease of pain?” Aragorn asked.  
    The Ranger was rocked to his core when Legolas’ lips closed over his in a ravenous 
kiss.  He had spoken bravely to Haldir’s revenant, but could he take the Marchwarden’s 
place in this dark dance?  Then the Elf’s tongue moved against his, and Aragorn had his 
answer.  The Man tightened his arms around the slender frame, and returned the kiss with 
equal fire.  His hands rose to cradle the delicate skull, thumbs caressing the sensitive ears, 
as he pressed Legolas against a boulder.  The Elf’s fingers dug into the Man’s back, as 
Aragorn reached between them to unfasten both their leggings.  Legolas hooked a leg 
around the Ranger’s hip, grasped Aragorn’s hot hardness, and seated it at his opening.  
With no further ado, and little finesse, the Man pushed, driving his rod into the 
unlubricated passage.  The Elf screamed as he was penetrated, but clutched Aragorn to 
him with a strength that would not be denied.  Fighting to keep from losing himself in the 
madness, the Ranger paused, his staff lodge deep within the Prince.  
    “It does not have to be about pain,” he whispered in one elegantly upswept ear, 
“Softly, mellon, let me take your suffering from you.  It does not have to be whipped 
from your body.  You’ve done naught you need be punished for.  You deserve love, and I 
shall give it to you.  Do you hear me, melme nin?”  
    Legolas shivered at the endearment, and Aragorn wondered at himself for uttering it.  
Then the Elf melted against him, and the Ranger put aside his thoughts to concentrate on 
healing this precious one.  Almost imperceptibly, Aragorn moved in Legolas’ sheath, 
each delicate thrust sending waves of pleasure rippling through both.  In a few moments, 
the Elf picked up the Ranger’s rhythm, moving his hips in concert with Aragorn’s subtle 
stroke.  Aragorn met Legolas’ eyes, pleased to see that the shadows had fled the celestial 
blue.  He leaned in, and took the Elf’s lips in a deep, slow kiss that triggered Legolas’ 
release.  The Ranger’s tongue moved in the Elf’s mouth, as his rod slid in the tight 
scabbard, and, to his surprise, he came powerfully, snugly ensconced in the sweetest 
place he’d ever known.  He relinquished the sweet mouth to put his lips to the pointed 
ear, and whisper of his love.  
    The carnage-strewn rockscape wavered, and dissolved.  Around Aragorn were the 
formless mists of the realm between.  His arms were empty.  
    “Legolas,” he called.  
    “I am here.”  The Elf stepped from the veils of translucent silver-grey, as whole and 
perfect as he was meant to be.  
    “Come,” Aragorn said, holding out his hand.  
    “You offer me your hand?”  
    “I do,” the Ranger said gravely, “I will honor the bond of the life I reclaim.”  
Somehow, Aragorn had always known that he would bind himself to an Elf.  Before his 
eyes rose the beautiful face of the daughter of Elrond, his foster-sister, Arwen Undomiel, 
as she had looked at his departure from Rivendell.  He thought he had seen the yearning 
there that he knew was in his own eyes.  However, she did not speak, and he dared not.  
Aragorn did not wish to be alone, and the son of Thranduil was a meet companion.  
    “Will you come with me?” Aragorn asked.  
    “Lead me from this place,” Legolas said, taking the Man’s hand, “I have been too long 
alone.”  
 
    Lindir paused in the doorway at a sound he had not heard in far too long.  Then his 
face brightened in a smile, and he hurried into the bedchamber.  Prince Legolas sat on the 
balcony railing, laughing at something the Dunedain had said or done.  Lindir’s nose 
prickled, and his eyelids grew warm with tears of joy.  Aragorn had called the Prince 
home, and Legolas was merrier than ever Lindir had seen him.  
    “This is a glad meeting,” Lindir said.  
    Legolas jumped down from the balustrade, and Aragorn’s hand moved instinctively to 
steady the Prince.  Legolas wrapped his fingers around the Ranger’s for a moment, before 
he hurried forward to embrace Lindir.  
    “King Thranduil will be overjoyed to hear this news,” Lindir smiled.  
    “Then you may give it to him, mellon,” Legolas smiled back.  “I will stay, and rest, as 
my doctor advises.”  
    “Thank you, Aragorn,” Lindir said, inclining his head in the Elvish manner, “I shall tell 
the King what part you had in bringing the Prince back to us.”  
    “I but accompanied him on the journey,” Aragorn said, “He came back by his own 
strength.”  
    “That is but a half-truth,” Legolas chided gently.  
    Aragorn embraced the Prince, as Lindir hurried away to take the glad tidings to the 
King.  The Elf held still for several moments before he began to fidget, and Aragorn 
released him.  The Ranger was not anxious because Legolas had left his arms.  He knew 
the Elf would never truly leave him again.  Neither need ever be alone.