Chapter Six
      
      Glorfindel turned his head to the left and gazed out the window at 
the predawn sky. He didn't move any more than that, preferring to feel 
Elladan pressed against him. The younger elf was still fast asleep, but even 
in his sleep he murmured snatches of song and gentle words to the Elda.
      
      The slave felt an urge to shudder and resisted it. He didn’t want to 
wake Elladan. But his mind had returned to yesterday, when Elrohir had 
come to him in the afternoon with a syringe and a deceitfully friendly 
smile.

***
      
      "I've found a way to cure Elladan," he announced upon marching 
into Glorfindel's small room.
      
      The Elda knew there was no way to "cure" Elladan until he was 
ready to be cured, but he said nothing. He had no freedom of speech with 
the second son of Elrond. All he could do was hope that whatever Elrohir's 
plan was, he, Glorfindel, wouldn't be hurt too badly as the younger elf 
struggled to achieve his ends.
      
      His hope had been in vain.
      
      "I'm going to drug you," Elrohir declared. "This potion will make 
you appear to be in danger of fading. Elladan will seek to keep you in this 
world, and he will give his soul completely over to that task. He'll be 
saved by 'saving' you."
      
      The terror that shot through Glorfindel at that moment made it 
almost impossible for him to stand still and he couldn't even ball his hands 
into fists or bite his lip because he didn't dare show fear. But he'd died 
once before and he remembered how painful that had been. And he'd seen 
other elves fade and knew how much they suffered before they were 
finally allowed to pass into Mandos' halls.
      
      Elrohir had advanced on him, and Glorfindel had to resist the 
savagely-stabbing urge to run. The dark-haired elf reached out and 
grasped Glorfindel's upper arm. "Come lay on the bed," he said, almost 
gently.
      
      Glorfindel was not fooled by that show of tenderness. Elrohir was 
going to get what he wanted; why was he bothering to feign kindness?
      
      He complied, laying down and staring up at Elrohir.
      
      "If this works," Elrohir said as he studied Glorfindel's arm, "Ada 
and I won't touch you again. Elladan will want you all to himself." He 
smiled sardonically. "You'll never bleed again, probably. That should 
please you." He found the spot he wanted, and positioned the needle. 
"Take a deep breath," he ordered.
      
      Glorfindel obeyed, and felt the sting of the needle. He waited, 
fearing what he might feel. The dizziness came almost at once and 
Glorfindel gasped as the room spun around him. A soft whimper escaped 
his lips as Elrohir withdrew the syringe.
      
      Elrohir patted his shoulder. "You're all right, Glorfindel; this will 
pass by morning." He bent over Glorfindel and met his eyes. "Listen to 
me. You will start hallucinating, and you'll see and hear terrible things. 
Don't restrain yourself; if something frightens you, feel free to scream."
      
      Darkness was gathering at the edges of Glorfindel's vision even as 
Elrohir spoke and, below Elrohir's voice, the slave heard strange scuffling 
noises, and then a muted roar. 'Balrog,' his mind identified at once, and he 
shivered.
      
      'There are no balrogs in Imladris...'
      
      The roar came again, closer this time, and Glorfindel groaned. His 
limbs felt heavy, and he realised, 'It's coming for me... I can't fight, can't 
run, can't move...' His chest constricted and he gulped the air around him. 
As he did, he smelled the sweet-rotten stench of decomposing flesh. And 
the roar was closer now. 'Please don't let him find me.' Glorfindel sobbed; 
he couldn't help it, even though he knew he might attract the thing's 
attention. His terror was all-consuming. 

***
      
      'It's too soon to know if Elrohir got what he wanted,' Glorfindel 
thought, 'but, for now, at least, Elladan has forgotten his own problems.'
      
      Not all of the effects of the drug had left him; he was still weak, 
and the dizziness hadn't completely dissipated. But at least he was no 
longer hearing the approach of death. 'I'll be weak for days, possibly 
longer; that's certainly enough time for Elladan's 'healing' to take place, if 
it can be achieved this way.' He very much doubted this, and he dreaded 
what Elrohir would come up with next if it didn't. 
      
      'I want it to work,' he decided. 'And not just so I’ll be safe. I hate 
seeing Elladan broken, and I'll do anything to save him.'
      
      A part of himself that he could not show to anyone, not even to 
Elladan, admitted that he wanted Elladan to live for at least one selfish 
purpose among all the other responsibility and service-driven reasons: 'I'm 
starting to fall in love with him.'

***
      
      “Come in, please,” Glorfindel called. He stood to meet whoever 
was entering his room. It was probably another slave, since most of the 
freeborns didn’t bother with such a nicety as knocking, but it was better to 
be safe than sorry.
      
      Absently, Glorfindel rubbed the side of his face where Elrond had 
broken his jaw the night before. It was almost healed now, of course, but it 
still ached. And the memory of Elrond’s face twisted with anger hurt even 
more.
      
      The door opened a little, and a dark-haired elfling slipped into the 
room. He kept his face hidden behind his long hair as he shut the door 
behind him.
      
      Glorfindel knew by the young elf’s steps who he was. “Master 
Elladan, are you all right?” he asked softly.
      
      The boy raised his head and brushed his hair out of his face. 
“Glorfy, I…” He shuddered strongly, and Glorfindel was grieved to see 
tears in Elladan’s beautiful, dark eyes.
      
      The blond opened his arms in invitation.
      
      Elladan ran to him, and clung there, his whole body shivering.
      
      Glorfindel, without thinking, picked Elladan up and took him to 
the bed in the corner. Even though Elladan was nearly sixteen, he was 
incredibly light, even for an elf.
      
      Glorfindel rocked Elladan and murmured soothing talk into his 
pointed ear. He mused, ‘I still think of this little one as a child, but he’s 
almost reached his majority. When that happens, there will be a new, 
handsome elf up for grabs by Erestor or Lindir or Galdor.’ He hugged 
Elladan more firmly to him. ‘I hope they’re gentle with you, Fair Elladan. 
You aren’t ready for the heartaches that await you.’
      
      As Elladan calmed, Glorfindel focused on him, casting his morose 
thoughts to the side. “Elladan?” he murmured. “Will you tell me what’s 
wrong?”
      
      Elladan sniffled. “Ada’s angry with me,” he whispered.
      
      “Aii, Master Elladan, I’m sure it’s not you-” Glorfindel tried to 
console.
      
      “Yes it is!” Elladan shouted, and he pulled away from Glorfindel a 
little, though he was still on the Elda’s lap. “I told him he should let you 
go! I told him you were bleeding last night and I didn’t want to see it 
anymore! I told him you should be free!” He stopped, and his breathing 
came in ragged gusts. “I…I want you to be one of us,” he admitted, his 
eyes cast down. “You’re too good to be a slave.” 
      
      ‘Not any more, I’m not,’ Glorfindel thought bitterly. ‘I’ve let 
myself sink to this level, and I’ll probably not rise again.’ And yet 
sometimes he felt that this was where he was supposed to be. He felt he 
had a purpose that went beyond being Elrond’s slave, and yet that purpose 
was tied up in his servitude.
      
      ‘At times like this, when his children come to me for help, or when 
Elrond needs my guidance, I can think that I’m doing the right thing by 
abiding here.’
      
      To Elladan, he said, “You have different views than your father, 
Elladan, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You’re only feeling your 
differences more strongly now because you’re very close to becoming an 
adult. You will learn a new level of respect for your father, and he will 
learn the same for you.” He smiled understandingly. “But these things will 
take time. Please be the patient, steadfast elf you’ve always been and all 
will be well.” 
      
      Elladan put his head on Glorfindel’s shoulder and hugged him. 
“Will he ever let you go, Glorfy?”
      
      “Maybe,” said Glorfindel, though he greatly doubted it. “But my 
freedom won’t be won by you. Do not fight with your father. Tell him that 
you disagree with him, but that you will do nothing against his wishes. 
That will calm him.”
      
      Elladan hugged him close. “Well…” he blushed. “You don’t ever 
have to worry about me using you like Ada does.”
      
      Glorfindel tried not to shudder at the surety he heard in the young 
voice. He knew, sure as the world was full of dark places, that someday 
Elladan would desire him, or want to experiment with him, and then all 
these tender times would be over. Glorfindel mourned that time, and 
prayed that it would be yet a few years before it arrived.
      
      He knew it wouldn’t be that long.

***
      
      ‘After their majority feast, they both came to find me… Elladan 
early in the evening, and his brother well after midnight.’ Glorfindel 
chuckled to himself. It was a bitter, lost sound. ‘I wish Elrohir could have 
found amusement somewhere else that night…’ He acknowledged the 
guilty feeling that came with this thought, knowing that he was somehow 
betraying Master Elrohir by thinking such a thing. But he didn’t recant it. 
The thought, after all, was honest.

***
      
      Glorfindel had retired early from the feast. Elrond had sent him 
away from his usual spot at his Lord’s side with these words: “Go and 
make yourself ready, Glorfindel. And do not fail me.”
      
      Now, Glorfindel sat in a simple pair of leggings (simple, yes, but 
tight-fitting and provocative) and a short, nearly-transparent, tunic. ‘I’m a 
whore. Well, now I look like one.’
      
      There came a tentative knock on his door. Glorfindel stood up, 
pulled down his tunic (it was uncomfortably short, to his way of thinking) 
and called, “Please come in.”
      
      The door creaked open, and Glorfindel was relieved to see Elladan 
enter. He was dressed in a midnight-blue robe which was open at the 
throat. Beneath it Glorfindel saw a white gold tunic. Elladan wore a silver 
circlet, a present from his father, on his fair brow. His eyes were dark 
pools of need, but tempering that need was the shadow of nervousness.
      
      Elladan cleared his throat. “Glorfindel,” he began formally, “my 
father said that I might gain my…” he blushed slightly “my experience 
with you.”
      
      “Aye,” Glorfindel returned, trying to hide his disappointment. 
Even though he’d known this day would come, he’d still prayed that 
Elladan wouldn’t come to him. He’d hoped to serve only Elrohir. He’d 
hoped, in short, to continue the trusting relationship he’d had with the 
older twin in the past.
      
      ‘I’ll never have that again,’ he mourned. ‘I’ll be his whore now.’ 
He swallowed an urge to cry, and let one thought stand for all the things 
that would be lost to him from now on: ‘He’ll never call me Glorfy again.’
      
      A gentle hand touched his shoulder, and Glorfindel jumped.
      
      Elladan’s eyes were worried now. “Glorfy? What’s wrong?” His 
blush reappeared, and it was deeper this time. “If you don’t want to be 
with me, I’ll understand.” He took a step back, letting his hand fall from 
Glorfindel’s shoulder.
      
      “Nay… no…. I didn’t mean…” Glorfindel reached out to comfort 
the elf he used to sing to sleep. His hand slid down Elladan’s arm and 
ended up grasping his long fingers. “Please, Elladan…”
      
      He shook his head. ‘This isn’t working. How do I explain-’
      
      “Glorfy, I promise I won’t hurt you,” Elladan said then, his face 
earnest, his eyes sincere, and yet a little unsure. But he squeezed 
Glorfindel’s hand and the Elda smiled at him.
      
      “I know you won’t, Elladan. I’m not afraid of that. You’re far too 
gentle to ever hurt me.”
      
      Elladan’s smile grew shy. “Will you teach me about making love, 
Glorfy? I promise I’ll be a good student.”
      
      ‘Should I tell him that this is far from ‘making love’? It’s closer to 
rape than anything else.’
      
      A thought whispered through his mind. ‘Elladan is so gentle… 
Might this not be pleasurable for both of us?’ 
      
      But he pushed the thought aside. Even if this time *was* 
pleasurable, the next probably wouldn’t be. ‘I must not hope for what I 
cannot have.’
      
      To Elladan, he said, “I’ll show you, Elladan, if that’s what you 
really want.”
      
      Part of him wondered, ‘Where’s Elrohir? When will he show up to 
lose his virginity?’
      
      Elladan reached up and touched his cheek. “Something’s bothering 
you, Glorfy. I can see it. Please tell me what’s wrong.”
      
      Glorfindel sighed. “It’s nothing important. I’m just…” He couldn’t 
think of an excuse that wouldn’t offend Elladan, so he fell silent and tried 
to smile reassuringly.
      
      “I’m a little scared,” Elladan confessed as he returned the half-
smile Glorfindel had achieved. “We could wait and do this another night, 
if you’d like.”
      
      “Nay, it is well. I want to lay with you.”
      
      Glorfindel froze. ‘How could I admit that? I’m just a vessel for his 
lust! I shouldn’t have said I wanted to be with him!’
      
      He added, after a moment, ‘Besides, I don’t want him. It was a lie.
      
      ‘Right?’
      
      Glorfindel shook himself. ‘Enough of this! Play the whore for him 
already! There’s nothing else you can do.’
      
      With this in mind, Glorfindel reached back and unfastened the clip 
that kept his hair away from his face.
      
      As his golden locks cascaded down, flowing around his shoulders, 
Elladan gasped. “Aii,” he breathed, “so beautiful.” He reached out 
tentatively and caressed the hair that had fallen over Glorfindel’s left ear. 
He brushed his fingers through it, savoring the warmth and thickness of it, 
and then nudged it aside. Now he could cup Glorfindel’s cheek in his 
hand. When he felt the smooth, glowing skin under his palm, he was 
undone. No more worries clouded his mind. All he knew was that he had 
to have this beauty. He had to make Glorfindel a part of him, at least for a 
little while.
      
      Glorfindel reached up and undid the lacing at his tunic’s throat. He 
pushed it open, exposing most of his chest to Elladan’s heated gaze.
      
      Elladan’s fingers roamed and he murmured to himself as he 
explored. “Soft!... Aii… gold… warm… so ready!” (He had come to 
Glorfindel’s nipples when he said this last.) He stroked them with his 
thumbs, and Glorfindel wondered how Elladan knew so much about 
foreplay.
      
      Then, as Elladan stepped close and tried, clumsily, to kiss him, 
Glorfindel realised that the younger elf didn’t know anything at all.
      
      Glorfindel brought up his hand behind Elladan’s neck, cupping it. 
He positioned them both carefully, and opened his mouth against 
Elladan’s.
      
      Elladan stopped for an instant, then thrust his tongue forward.
      
      Glorfindel tried to allow this, but Elladan’s sudden force was 
hurting him. “Master…” he croaked.
      
      Elladan drew back, and some of the burning coals in his eyes were 
put out. “Glorfy, please don’t call me that.” Then he tilted his head and 
asked, “What is it? What did I do wrong?”
      
      “It’s… foreplay’s not… forced. It’s slow, like a dance,” Glorfindel 
answered breathlessly.
      
      Elladan’s eyes widened, but then he chuckled. “If it’s a dance, I 
just stepped all over your toes, didn’t I?” He grinned.
      
      Glorfindel smiled back, relieved that Elladan wasn’t angry. “A 
little.”
      
      Elladan smiled more gently. “Then why don’t you lead, Glorfy?”
      
      Glorfindel’s elfhood throbbed at the suggestion, and the Elda 
blinked at this. ‘How long has it been since I’ve been willingly aroused?’
      
      At that moment, Glorfindel thought that maybe he could love 
Elladan, and he didn’t question the amazing idea. It simply felt true.
      
      Glorfindel took Elladan’s face in his hands and kissed him, first 
tenderly, then more heatedly as Elladan grew comfortable.
      
      Elladan was pressed against Glorfindel, and he started to rub his 
elfhood against the Elda’s thigh.
      
      Glorfindel smiled even as they continued to kiss, and one of his 
hands drifted down Elladan’s neck, stroking down his chest and belly. He 
left his hand resting just above Elladan’s straining member.
      
      Elladan moaned into his mouth. “Please, Glorfy… Please…. 
Lower…”
      
      “You need to get undressed first,” Glorfindel whispered. “I’ll help 
you.” Still kissing Elladan, Glorfindel used both hands to unfasten the 
clasp at the top of Elladan’s cloak. He pushed the material off Elladan’s 
shoulders, and it pooled behind his bare feet. 
      
      Pressing forward gently but firmly, Glorfindel brought their 
covered members into contact. They both moaned at the touch.
      
      “I’d remove your leggings and tunic if you’d let me,” Elladan 
murmured demurely.
      
      For no reason that he could understand, Glorfindel blushed. 
“Please.”
      
      Elladan led Glorfindel to the bed, and divested the elf before him 
with quick, fluid movements. Glorfindel allowed himself to be undressed, 
and he luxuriated in the soft caress of Elladan’s fingers against his skin. 
      
      Glorfindel thought dazedly, ‘I could love him for many reasons. 
And his dark beauty is only the least of these.’
      
      Soon, Glorfindel stood naked in front of Elladan, and the dark-
haired elf uttered a sigh of contentment. “Let me only take off my own 
clothes…” he murmured, as if to himself. “Then we’ll learn the next step.”
      
      With a glimmer of amusement in his eye, Glorfindel thought, ‘It 
almost sounds as though he’s talking to his elfhood.’ He repressed a laugh 
that came bubbling up out of his throat only just in time.
      
      But Elladan must have felt some change in his “partner’s” mood, 
for he looked up from his struggle with his leggings, and his eyes 
questioned him even as they sparkled with ready mirth. At last, Elladan 
was relaxed enough to be himself, and that self was made up of at least 
two parts laughter.
      
      Again, Glorfindel blushed.
      
      Elladan brought his fingers up and traced the blush from 
Glorfindel’s forehead to his cheek, then down past his chin to his neck. 
“You’re even more beautiful when you blush, Glorfy,” he confided, his 
eyes dipping downward shyly.
      
      Then, with a slight shake of his head, Elladan turned his attention 
back to his clothing.
      
      Glorfindel watched hungrily as more and more porcelain skin was 
revealed. He bit his lip to keep from crying out when he at last saw 
Elladan’s member. Shorter and more slender than his own, it reminded 
Glorfindel of a finely-fashioned sword of delicate mithril.
      
      Elladan raised his eyes when he was naked, and he grinned at the 
look on Glorfindel’s face. “Have you never seen a penis before?” he 
teased lightly.
      
      The Elda laughed breathlessly. “Aye… but none so…” He shook 
his head, lost for words.
      
      Elladan stepped forward and captured Glorfindel’s lips.
      
      ‘He learns quickly,’ Glorfindel thought distractedly as he fought 
not to thrust himself against the warm, silky creation that was Elladan’s 
thigh.
      
      Elladan folded his arms around Glorfindel and drew him close. 
“Will you show me what to do, Glorfy? I’ve lost the steps again.”
      
      Dragging himself away from the transfixing lure of that voice, 
Glorfindel gasped, “Aye.” He took Elladan by the hand and guided him to 
the bed. “There’s… there’s two ways to do this,” Glorfindel whispered 
when they were sitting side by side. “You can be in me, or I can be in 
you.” He hated the crudeness of his speech. He knew it wasn’t as simple 
as that. He longed to have Elladan inside him, completing him. Being 
inside the younger elf wouldn’t give him the same sense of unbounded 
joy.
      
      Elladan bit his lip. “Umm… I don’t know how to be in you, 
Glorfy…” He looked away. “But I’m afraid. I’m afraid that you might hurt 
me.”
      
      Shock threatened to close Glorfindel’s throat. “I’d… I’d never hurt 
you, Elladan. I swear it.” He reached out and turned Elladan’s chin 
towards him with the tips of his fingers. “Please, Elladan, understand that I 
would never hurt you.” He added, thinking that he might get his way after 
all, “Please go into me. Then you won’t be scared, and you’ll… feel so 
good.”
      
      “Really?” Elladan asked, his eyes wide and innocent.
      
      “Aye.”
      
      “What if I hurt you?”
      
      “You won’t,” Glorfindel responded, his confidence regained. He 
moved over on the bed and laid down, his legs spread. “Come to me, 
Elladan. I promise all will be well.”
      
      Elladan turned towards him, but for a moment longer he gazed at 
him, his brow furrowed, his eyes worried.
      
      Then, decisively, he turned and crawled to Glorfindel’s side. With 
Glorfindel guiding his movements with gentle hands, Elladan positioned 
himself between the blond’s long, beautiful thighs.
      
      “Show me what I must do, Glorfy.”
      
      Glorfindel reached out to his side and took the vial of oil from a 
tiny night table. He opened the vial and poured a little oil into his hand. 
Recorking the bottle, he set it aside, then rubbed his hands together until 
the oil warmed.
      
      As always happened when he was about to whore for someone, a 
hard shield of ice had descended around him. It protected him, kept him 
from being attached to the one who raped/made love to? him. And the 
shield also protected the rapist/lover? from having to hear his pledges of 
eternal love. 
      
      ‘Should I keep my shield up this time?’ Glorfindel was frightened 
by the thought that he might want to feel closer to Elladan than to others. 
‘I won’t lower it,’ he decided. ‘Too much could happen.’
      
      Coldly, then, Glorfindel rubbed Elladan’s penis with the slippery, 
scented oil. “You can go into me now.”
      
      Elladan stared at him for a moment, then positioned his penis at 
Glorfindel’s entrance. Then he pushed inside.
      
      Glorfindel spread his legs as far as they would go as Elladan’s 
hardness filled him. He concentrated, as he always did, on breathing 
slowly and deeply.
      
      But unlike those times with Elrond, when he could watch the elf 
above him calmly, he was unable to watch Elladan. His heart tightened 
when he saw Elladan plowing into him just like his father before him. And 
so, with Elladan, for the first time in all his years of whoring, Glorfindel 
closed his eyes. ‘The shield isn’t keeping out as much as it should,’ he 
thought dismally.
      
      Suddenly, pleasure blossomed, first in his penis, then his lower 
belly. Glorfindel couldn’t help himself; he thrust upwards. And that 
movement brought more pleasure. Glorfindel moaned.
      
      Elladan, too, had moaned, but then he asked, somewhat 
breathlessly, “Did that hurt, Glorfy?” He stopped thrusting and held 
himself above Glorfindel.
      
      At first, the Elda didn’t answer. Then he realised that Elladan had 
asked him a question. Cautiously, he opened his eyes. “What… what did 
you say?”
      
      “I asked if I hurt you,” Elladan answered, and now the worry was 
even more pronounced in his eyes. “Please, Glorfy, if I hurt you in any 
way-”
      
      ‘I could tell him that yes, he hurt me, and he’d stop,’ Glorfindel 
thought, stunned. ‘What power I have!’
      
      But it hadn’t hurt.
      
      It had felt wonderful.
      
      Maybe better, even, than when Elrond had been gentle with him.
      
      Glorfindel smiled weakly. “It felt so good,” he whispered.
      
      Elladan blushed, then began thrusting once more.
      
      Glorfindel was unable to think. The waves of pleasure tumbled his 
notions and worries about like dropped firewood. He gave himself over to 
the pleasure, thrusting, moaning… and keeping his eyes open. Not 
because he was supposed to, but because he wanted to watch the beautiful, 
kind elf above him come to his climax.
      
      Their rhythm intensified until they were both panting.
      
      Elladan came first, his back arching and a gasped cry escaping his 
lips.
      
      Glorfindel came an instant later, releasing all over his belly and 
Elladan’s as well.
      
      It had been Elladan’s cry as well as his movements that had taken 
Glorfindel over the edge.
      
      When he’d climaxed, Elladan had gasped, “Glorfindel.”

***
      
      Even as he thought on these things, Glorfindel knew it was 
impossible, but a part of him wanted to dream. 'I might never be his equal, 
but he's loving and gentle. He’d treat me well in bed, at least. I might even 
be spared the whip’s lash. And since he believes in only being with one 
partner for the rest of his life...' He uttered a sigh that was half full of 
wistful happiness and half full of melancholy. ‘Maybe he would choose to 
keep me, and just be with me.’
      
      He couldn’t lie to himself. ‘It would never happen.’
      
      ‘Of course, if Elladan fell in love with someone, he would stop 
touching me because of that very fact. He’d want to dedicate his whole 
being to his lover. I’d become an attendant instead of a whore,’ Glorfindel 
reflected, and he wasn’t sure if he was afraid or excited by this possibility.
      
      ‘If nothing else, being unable to touch him would stab very 
deeply.’ He thought clinically, trying to protect himself by restraining his 
emotions: ‘And all of my dreams would go up in smoke.’ The Elda felt the 
tears starting, despite his attempts to keep himself under control. He tried 
to stop them. 'Serves me right for dwelling on a hopeless situation. Didn't I 
learn how foolhardy that was centuries ago?'
      
      Elladan stirred in his sleep and his eyes focused. "Glorfy?"
      
      The blonde smiled weakly, mindful of his part in Elrohir's plan. 'I 
have to act afraid and weak... which isn't much of an act.’ 
      
      "Master..."
      
      Elladan's eyes lit up. "Aii, Glorfindel, I was so worried." He kissed 
Glorfindel's forehead and drew him closer. "Everything's all right now; it's 
morning, and you're not going to fade. Do you understand?"
      
      Glorfindel nodded slightly, making his expression unsure. "Yes, 
Master."
      
      Elladan sighed. "Please don't call me that."
      
      Glorfindel couldn't hide the genuine smile this drew from him. 
"Yes, Elladan."
      
      There was a soft sound from the other side of the room and, with 
difficulty, Glorfindel turned his head in that direction.
      
      Elladan spoke. "Good morning, Legolas."
      
      The elfling sat up and stretched. He smiled at them (his fear had 
retreated since the sun had risen) and stood up. "Good morning, Master 
Elladan."
      
      "Aiya, please just call me Elladan. I don't like the 'master' part." He 
indicated that Legolas should come sit on the bed, and the elf obeyed, 
snuggling into the warmth on Glorfindel’s other side. "Legolas stayed here 
last night," Elladan said to Glorfindel. "Do you remember him singing to 
you?"
      
      Glorfindel blushed slightly. "Aye, I remember. His sweet voice 
came to me in a dream, and chased some of the shadows away." He turned 
his deep blue eyes on Legolas. "Thank you, young one; I'm in your debt."
      
      There was a soft knock at the door then, and Elladan called, "Come 
in."
      
      Aragorn walked in, mindful of his usually-loud (at least for elves) 
steps. But when he saw that all seemed well, his face lost its concentrated, 
tentative look and he smiled. "Glorfindel. You're better."
      
      "I'm getting there, Master Estel."
      
      The Man turned his eyes on Legolas, who was bouncing excitedly 
on the bed. He knelt and opened his arms. Legolas leapt towards him and 
Aragorn swept the child into the air, twirling him around. "I missed you," 
he murmured into the golden hair.
      
      "I missed you, too," Legolas answered, hugging him.
      
      Aragorn kissed his forehead. "Were you fine here last night?
      
      Legolas hesitated. Should he tell his master how frightened he'd 
been?
      
      Before he could decide, Aragorn answered his own question, "It 
was a hard night for you; I can see that. You're not quite ready to be on 
your own outside the camp." He hugged Legolas closer for a moment, 
then set him down. "I'll not make that mistake again." He turned towards 
the bed, looking at Elladan questioningly.
      
      Elladan smiled. "Legolas was very brave last night.”
      
      When Aragorn nodded towards Glorfindel, who was still snuggled 
against Elladan, the son of Elrond added, “Glorfindel will heal now; the 
danger has passed. I'll tend him, don't worry." He stroked Glorfindel's hair 
as he spoke. "You can go back to your Rangers without fear."
      
      Aragorn nodded. "Aye," he said softly as he studied the two of 
them. He took in Glorfindel's contented expression and Elladan's gently-
moving hand, and wondered at the tenderness he saw between them. But 
he let it go. There were other things on his mind. "We'll be riding back 
after I say good-bye to Ada and Elrohir." He came to the bed and knelt, 
taking Elladan's hand. "Take care, Brother; I love you."
      
      "I love you, too," Elladan answered, but as he spoke his eyes didn’t 
leave the elf in his arms.
      
      Aragorn rose, again choosing not to ask or even dwell on what he 
saw. "Be well, Glorfindel; Rivendell would lose a great treasure if you left 
us."
      
      This penetrated Glorfindel's delightful fog, and he gaped at 
Aragorn for an instant before getting control of himself. "Th-thank you," 
he whispered.
      
      Aragorn turned to go, but then glanced down at Legolas. "Do you 
have something to say to them, Legolas?"
      
      The elfling asked shyly, "Can I ask you a question, M- Elladan?"
      
      Aragorn was well aware of Elladan's aversion to being called 
master, so he barely noticed Legolas's words; his mind was on the next 
task: making up with Elrohir before he left. There was no telling when he 
would return to Imladris.
      
      "Of course, Legolas."
      
      'I'll have to swallow my pride and hide my anger,' the Ranger 
thought. 'Only then will we-'
      
      "Are you going to marry Glorfindel?"
      
      Aragorn stared at Legolas in shock. "Legolas-" he began to 
admonish.
      
      Elladan cut him off. "It's all right, Estel; I said he could ask." 
      
      Despite the calmness of his tone, Aragorn saw the deep shock in 
his brother's eyes, and for a long time, Elladan didn't continue. 
      
      At last, he answered, his voice quiet, "I cannot marry him, Legolas; 
he's... well, we're not equal." He hated himself the instant the words were 
out of his mouth, 'but,' he reminded himself, 'this elfling needs to learn.' 
He didn't dare look at Glorfindel in his shame.
      
      Legolas looked down at the floor. "Oh," he whispered, 
disappointed.
      
      Elladan wanted to take the child in his arms and whisper, "But 
maybe I'll marry him anyway," but he couldn't. Instead, he murmured, "I'll 
see you soon, Estel; safe travel."
      
      Aragorn nodded, glad for the excuse to leave. He picked up 
Legolas and carried him from the room, wanting to get away as quickly as 
possible. But he'd already decided not to be mad at Legolas; the young elf 
had suffered enough embarrassment already.
      
      In Glorfindel's room, Elladan worried at his lower lip with his 
teeth; he still couldn't look at Glorfindel.
      
      "It was an innocent question," Glorfindel attempted meekly, even 
as he grieved. ‘Elladan doesn’t think of us as equals… even if he doesn’t 
want to be called ‘master’ he still thinks we’re different.’ Again, the tears 
threatened to overwhelm him. He was less successful in repressing them 
this time. A single, crystalline tear trickled down his cheek.
      
      But beyond and below his own needs and his pain was the longing 
to help Elladan. Desperately, he wanted Elladan to lose that slightly-
frightened look. He added, quaveringly, "He's too young to understand-"
      
      "He understood that I love you," Elladan breathed. "He's not too 
young."
      
      Glorfindel felt his dizziness increase and he closed his eyes, 
hoping it would fade. "Please, Elladan, don't play with me like that..." he 
moaned as his heart threatened to break. 
      
      Elladan touched Glorfindel's cheek and turned the Elda's face 
towards him. "Open your eyes, Glorfy; please." Glorfindel didn't obey, 
and tears were now streaming down his cheeks, wetting Elladan's fingers. 
"Please, Glorfy; for me?"
      
      Glorfindel took in a shaky breath, and forced his eyes open. 
Elladan's dark eyes were darker still with love and passion.
      
      "Glorfindel, I love you."
      
      His breath hitched in his throat, but he swallowed past it. "Elladan, 
we can't!" he croaked. "We're-I'm-You're-" His tears were coming faster 
now, almost a torrent.
      
      Elladan put his finger on Glorfindel's lips. "We can. You do love 
me; I can see it in your eyes, and I love you." He removed his finger and 
replaced it with his lips. Pulling back half an inch, he entreated, "Tell me 
the truth, Glorfindel; I need to hear it."
      
      The Elda had frozen when Elladan kissed him, but as the elf had 
drawn back to speak, he recovered his wits enough to answer, "I love you, 
Elladan.”

Chapter Seven
      
      Aragorn sheltered Legolas from the steady, soaking rain with his 
cloak. True, the rain posed no danger to the elf- in fact, Aragorn was in 
more danger because he might get sick- but the Ranger didn't see it that 
way. He saw Legolas as a child to be protected, and nothing would 
convince him otherwise.
      
      Hearing Legolas speak of the potential love between a freeborn 
and a slave had made Aragorn feel slightly unsettled and tense. But these 
uncomfortable feelings had dissipated quickly. Aragorn had been grateful 
to let them go. When he relaxed, and now that they were on their way 
back home, Legolas chattered and sang constantly. He told Aragorn all 
about the night before, even singing the song back to the astonished 
Ranger, who hadn't thought Legolas was listening to the words, just the 
soothing tone.
      
      "Elladan took good care of Glorfindel," Legolas finished. He didn't 
ask again about marriage between the two, but instead asked Aragorn 
when he would be going back to Rivendell.
      
      "Not for a while," Aragorn answered. "It may be years before I 
stop in my elven home again. Why do you ask? Did you like it there?"
      
      Legolas hesitated.
      
      "Please be honest," Aragorn invited, reading Legolas's reluctance 
for what it was.
      
      "The night felt... scary," Legolas said at last. "It wasn't like at 
home."
      
      Aragorn nodded. "True enough. I want you to know something 
though, Legolas. At least part of what you were sensing was Glorfindel's 
spirit trying to leave Middle-Earth." He tightened his arms around the 
child as Legolas shivered slightly. "The rest of what you felt were the 
different emotions in the House of Elrond, as well as the silence that 
dwells there, just under the music and the dancing. There's silence behind 
everything in this world, but it's easier to hear in some places. You've 
never heard it in the Ranger camp, which is probably why it frightened 
you. Maybe you've never heard it in your life." He kissed the top of 
Legolas' head. "This silence is the silence of time, Legolas; time moves on 
whether we fill it with joy, sadness or anger. When you hear the silence, 
you're hearing time with nothing tangible to fill it."
      
      "I don't like the silence," Legolas whispered, and he shivered 
again.
      
      Aragorn chastised himself for scaring Legolas. "It's something 
you'll get used to. It's not a bad thing; only different."
      
      "Why isn't there silence with the Dunedain?"
      
      Aragorn chuckled. "That's simple: there's no silence because must 
of us in the camp are noisy, boisterous men." He laughed harder. "We 
even breathe loudly much of the time. Lord Elrond's house is more prone 
to silence because it's filled with elves."
      
      'Aye, that's all true, but that's not the real reason,' Aragorn admitted 
to himself. 'Any folk that come to stay in the Last Homely House soon 
pale and sicken, in mind and spirit if not in body. It's almost as if their 
essential elven souls departed, and the land cannot give them back that 
part of themselves.' He shook his head. 'Maybe that's why Elladan was 
broken so completely by the men who raped him. In his soul, he knew 
nothing could ever heal him.'
      
      Legolas considered his master's words for a while, unaware that 
Aragorn's thoughts had turned dark. But he was silent for so long that 
Aragorn thought he might have slipped into reverie or even fallen asleep. 
Suddenly, though, Legolas announced, "I like living with men better." 
And he snuggled back against Aragorn.
      
      The man's heart glowed, and as his depressing thoughts fled, he 
murmured into Legolas's hair, "I like living with you, too, my little one."

***
      
      All in all, Aragorn was glad he'd put Legolas to bed and had come 
to talk to Malacai, Mordecai and Halbarad alone. Not that he would have 
brought Legolas with him to this meeting in any case, but he would have 
let Legolas spend time with Saru. As it turned out, Saru was being 
guarded- very possessively, in fact- by Kehydi.
      
      The four men met in Halbarad's tent. Aragorn sat cross-legged on 
the bed. The sheets had been washed; Halbarad had been made to do this 
by Annaleh, who couldn't stand the thought of the man lying on them and 
perhaps fantasizing about the child he'd raped. The other three sat in a 
semicircle in front of him, with Halbarad caught between the brothers.
      
      The brothers didn't speak much, knowing that their reason for 
being there was to bear witness to Aragorn's words so that he could not be 
accused of being unduly easy or harsh towards Halbarad.
      
      "I know what you did, and why," Aragorn stated after Halbarad 
and Malacai had each given him their version of the story. Normally, 
Aragorn would also have asked Saru for his point of view, but he knew the 
boy was far too shaken to speak of the attack. "Now what I want to know 
is how you will make amends for this transgression."
      
      Halbarad answered at once, having had time to think about this all 
day, "I offer to make a formal apology to Malacai, and to his wife, and 
buy them another slave, or, if they don't wish that, I will do whatever is 
required of me."
      
      'I should have never raped him in the daytime; his presence was 
missed too soon... or at least I should have gagged him.'
      
      Aragorn nodded. "Malacai, as you do not want to replace Saru, 
what do you require?"
      
      Malacai spoke up at once. "I want your word, Halbarad, sworn in 
front of Aragorn, that you will leave Saru alone. You will swear to stop 
bullying him, and you will further swear to keep your distance from him 
unless you have a specific order from either myself, my wife, or Aragorn."
      
      Halbarad felt his stomach twist with fury. How dare this man tell 
him where he could go or what he could do? But he concealed his 
feelings, knowing he wouldn't get out of here until he swore. Then he 
remembered something. He was going to have to look Aragorn in the eye 
when he swore. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He resisted the 
urge to brush it away, not wanting to give any visible signs of his stress. 'I 
can do this,' he coached himself. 'I can do this. I must do this.' He steeled 
himself and stared right into Aragorn's eyes, pledging that he would do all 
that Malacai had asked.
      
      Aragorn nodded, satisfied.
      
      Malacai nodded, accepting the pledge.
      
      The four of them stood, and the chief led the brothers out of the 
tent.
      
      When they were gone, Halbarad closed his eyes, picturing Saru's 
naked bottom and his tight hole. He sucked in his breath, then let it out 
slowly. Tonight, he would have to find release. For now, though, he had 
chores to do. It was almost sunset and he was expected to help some of the 
others hunt. This calmed his hardness a little, and he fetched his weapons 
and left the tent.
      
      'Someday, Saru, I'll have you again... but not this day.'

***
      
      "Elrohir, please understand..." Elladan began.
      
      "You're freeborn, and he's a slave! What am I supposed to 
understand?"
      
      "Glorfindel was born free in his first life," Elladan objected 
quietly. He resisted his usual urge to just bow to Elrohir's will. This was 
too important; he couldn't back down. "And I love him, Elrohir. Slave or 
free, I love him. I can't change that."
      
      Elladan took a steadying breath, and released it. It had taken more 
strength than he'd thought to speak to his brother, and Elladan felt a 
sudden pang as he remembered how he and Elrohir had been able to talk 
about anything.
      
      Elrohir shrugged. "If you think you love him, Ada and I will give 
you sole claim to him.”
      
      Elladan gazed sadly at his brother. 'Yes we could talk, but that was 
before Nana left... and before I was attacked. I feel like a little child now.' 
He sighed. 'I hate the feeling but what else can I do? I've lost the will to 
challenge him.'
      
      Elrohir went on, gaining steam, “He can be your personal-"
      
      "This is different," Elladan interrupted, not wanting to hear Elrohir 
say the word 'whore'.
      
      'I just argued with him,’ Elladan thought with more than a little 
amazement. He blinked, and asked himself, ‘Didn't I?’
      
      ‘Yes,’ he decided. ‘I definitely did.’ He felt an urge to apologize 
and yet his heart swelled with pride. ‘I am strong enough to heal, even in 
Ada’s house.’
      
      After a moment, he mused, somewhat sarcastically, ‘And Imladris 
didn't fall down around our ears. Maybe... maybe I could urge Ada to free 
Glorfy.'
      
      He took another deep breath. ‘But let me try to convince Elrohir 
first. If he’s on my side, it will be easier to talk to Ada.’
      
      "I want to be bound to Glorfindel, the way Ada and Nana were. I 
want him to be protected from being sold; I want him to be safe with me."
      
      His brother was silent for a long moment. Elladan didn't know it, 
but Elrohir was struggling not to laugh and cheer. His plan had worked! A 
little too well, yes, but the point was that it had worked. Elladan had 
forgotten about his own pain. His ability to argue with Elrohir proved that 
he was already stronger. Still, there were limits, and Elrohir knew it, just 
as Elladan did. 'It's my job to show that those rules still apply,' the twin 
thought. He knew Elladan had come to him because he was afraid to go to 
their father with his confessions of love. 'Love! For a slave!' Elrohir fought 
down a fresh urge to laugh. 
      
      "Elladan, I'll tell you what. We can talk to Ada and see if he'll sign 
over Glorfindel to you alone. Then he'd never be sold, would he? You 
couldn't free him, because of the uproar and turmoil that would cause, but 
he would be completely under your protection. What do you say?"
      
      Elladan stared at his brother for a long time. He was crushed by his 
brother's words, even though he had half-expected them. He whispered, 
defeated, "That's not enough, but it will have to do for now. Maybe in 
time...." He looked at Elrohir hopefully.
      
      Elrohir nodded indulgently. "Yes," he agreed, hiding his smile, 
"maybe someday Rivendell will be ready for Glorfindel's freedom. When 
that day comes, you can free him and marry him." He added 
magnanimously, "I'll be your best man, and I'll treat Glorfindel like an 
equal."
      
      Elladan nodded, surprised by Elrohir's generosity. "Thank you," he 
murmured before leaving his brother's room.
      
      Part of him was hopeful. After all, if Elrohir could really talk about 
marriage without becoming enraged, there had to be hope, right?
      
      Again, he sighed. ‘It's only wishful thinking.’ He went back to his 
room, where his light waited. Where Glorfindel waited.
      
      Elrohir waited until Elladan was out of earshot, then he collapsed 
on his bed, laughing hysterically. "Glorfindel...f-f-free...." He snorted. 
"The day that happens, I'll kiss an orc."


Title: Legolas' Gift
 
Authors: Estel Baggins (macfal1219@comcast.net) and Elfbean 
(elfbean@aol.com)
Authors' note: This is being posted in multi-chapter parts, so even though 
this is part eight, it is the third posting. Sorry about the confusion!


Chapter Eight

      Kehydi leapt from the high branch, landing a little clumsily in front 
of his father.
      
      Malacai praised, "A good take-off; well balanced and sure." Then 
he turned to Legolas, Saru and the rest of the class of eight-to-ten year old 
Rangers and slaves. Among the Dunedain, all, be they slave or free, 
learned the same skills, because in battle every hand was needed. 
"Critique, please."
      
      Neshta shook his head. "You landed funny."
      
      "Define ‘funny,’" Malacai commanded.
      
      "Um... uh..."
      
      "Someone help him, please."
      
      Legolas's hand shot into the air. The slaves had to raise their hands 
and wait to be called on instead of calling out answers, but Malacai (and 
the other teachers as well) valued their answers just as much as those 
made by others.
      
      "Legolas," Malacai invited.
      
      "Master Kehydi's landing wasn't as balanced as his start. If he’d 
kept his legs together when he jumped, with his knees bent a little, he'd be 
able to end as he started."
      
      Malacai nodded, pleased. "Excellent, Legolas. Would you like to 
demonstrate?"
      
      Legolas bounded forward, leapt up to catch the lowest branch, and 
scaled the tree in record time. He balanced for an instant on the branch, 
leapt, and landed lightly and perfectly in front of Malacai.
      
      There was a stunned silence, then Saru cheered. "Legolas, that was 
great!"
      
      The rest of the class stared at the red-headed slave, some 
malevolently. It was not his place to call out, even to his friend. In his 
excitement, Saru had temporarily conquered his fear of people. But now, 
as they glared at him, he bowed his head and bit his lip, fearing 
punishment.
      
      Kehydi took a step towards Stenva, his fist raised. Stenva was 
nearly snarling at Saru, and Kehydi felt the need to wipe that look of smug 
distain off the other freeborn’s face. In the years since Saru had been 
attacked, Kehydi's need to protect Saru had grown by leaps and bounds.
      
      Malacai smoothed the tension away, his voice startling Kehydi into 
backing down. "Excellent job, Legolas. Saru, you're up."
      
      As the two friends passed, Legolas squeezed Saru's shoulder and 
offered him a grateful, happy smile. Saru went to the tree with an easier 
heart. He climbed, not so smoothly or quickly as Legolas had, but 
efficiently enough, and stood on the branch. He paused an instant, 
picturing Legolas's perfect posture and stance, then leapt. He came down 
on both feet steadily, though he had to hop a little to release the extra 
energy from the jump.
      
      Legolas grinned. Of all the men, Saru's jump was the best so far.
      
      Malacai nodded. "Well thought out, well executed, good 
compensation for the left over momentum. How could he have avoided 
having to hop?"
      
      Legolas raised his hand at once, but Malacai, wanting to be fair to 
his students, called on Cein.
      
      "He could keep his head from swelling so big, then he wouldn't be 
thrown off balance," Cein replied mock-seriously.
      
      The Ranger children roared with laughter. Even some of the slaves 
laughed- though softly. Again, Kehydi raised his fist, and this time his 
knuckles were white.
      
      Legolas balled his own hands into fists but reminded himself, 'I 
don't need a punishment right now. They're only words.'
      
      Malacai barked, "Cein, that's enough. Answer correctly or go back 
to your father's tent."
      
      Cein hid his smile. "He should have bent his knees more."
      
      Malacai grunted his acceptance of this answer, and Saru was 
allowed to take his spot beside Legolas. The class continued.
      
      At the end of class, Malacai said, "Cein, Kehydi, Saru, I wish to 
speak with you." He took Saru aside first, out of the hearing of the other 
two. "Saru, what did you do wrong today?" he asked calmly.
      
      "I was loud without permission," Saru whispered.
      
      Malacai nodded. "I know Legolas did an excellent job, but please 
restrain yourself in the future. Do you understand?"
      
      "Yes, Master."
      
      Malacai put his hand on Saru's shoulder and squeezed gently. 
"Saru, we all make mistakes." He smiled kindly. "You'll learn; I promise."
      
      Saru relaxed- a tiny bit.
      
      "Now go and help my lady with dinner."
      
      "Yes, Master." Saru jogged away.
      
      "Cein!" Malacai called.
      
      The boy swaggered towards him. "I'm not in trouble for picking on 
a slave, am I?” He sneered. “He's hardly my equal."
      
      "No,” Malacai snapped, “you're in trouble for disrupting my class. 
If you disrupt it again, I'll be forced to discipline you. Do you 
understand?"
      
      Cein schooled his features into a serious look and answered tightly, 
"Yes, sir."
      
      Malacai didn't care for the boy's cocky air, but let it go. "Go 
home." He turned his attention to Kehydi, who had been shuffling his feet 
nervously. Malacai walked to his side and asked quietly, "And what did 
you do?"
      
      "I let my temper run away again," Kehydi whispered in shame.
      
      Malacai nodded. "If I hadn't been there to distract you, what would 
have happened?"
      
      "I would have hurt one of my brothers."
      
      "Exactly." Malacai began to walk towards home and Kehydi fell 
into step beside him. "Kehydi, please understand. Legolas and Saru are 
property, and even though they are your friends as well, they are still 
slaves. Let their masters deal with laughter about them." He squatted down 
suddenly and his son looked at him. "Some day, you'll be Saru's master. 
Then you can protect and shelter him as much as you think necessary. For 
now, though, let me take care of him. All right?"
      
      Kehydi nodded. "Yes, Father."

***
      
      Aragorn felt Legolas's tension when the boy came into the tent, 
and he at once left off the bow he was stringing. "Come sit by me, 
Legolas," he invited.
      
      The ten-year old elfling sat down and stared at his hands.
      
      "Do you want to tell me what happened?"
      
      "I don't like it when the others pick on Saru," Legolas responded at 
once. "He made a mistake- told me I did a good job with my jump- and 
they all looked at him like he was an orc or something."
      
      The bitterness in his voice, stronger each time he spoke of some 
injustice, troubled Aragorn. He said carefully, "Their actions aren't right, 
Legolas, but please remember this: you and Saru are slaves, and different 
rules apply to you."
      
      "But we're not dirt!" Legolas exclaimed. Then he added, "Master 
Aragorn, I'm sorry- I didn't mean to yell."
      
      "I know," Aragorn answered, anxious to find out what was on 
Legolas's mind. "Please explain your words."
      
      Legolas met his gaze unflinchingly. "We're property, yes, but like a 
horse is property. You protect Roheryn from abuse, don't you?"
      
      Aragorn nodded.
      
      "Well, this is abuse, too, even though it's only with words. It hurts 
just as much, and destroys the progress Saru has made." He shook his 
head. "He begins to believe in himself as a competent slave. I want him to 
keep thinking like that." He sighed, and finished softly, "I like it when he's 
happy."
      
      Aragorn filed away that bit of information. Legolas' friendship 
with Saru was growing by leaps and bounds, and the Ranger was more 
than willing to encourage it. After all, he'd worried that Legolas might be 
ignored or shunned by the other slaves because he was an elf. To some 
extent, that was true, but Legolas didn't seem to seek any other friends 
besides Saru.
      
      'And me? Does he think of me as a friend even as he calls me 
master?' Aragorn pushed this uncomfortable thought away.
      
      "Is he still hurt do you think?" Aragorn asked. "Do you want to go 
see him?"
      
      Legolas shook his head. "Master Malacai and Master Kehydi are 
helping him," he said with certainty.
      
      Aragorn nodded and returned to his bow. "What are you going to 
do now?" he asked, his attention back with the string.
      
      "May I continue my sewing?" Legolas asked, and suddenly his 
voice was quite shy. His 'sewing' was a project he'd started last summer (it 
now being early spring) and he sought every opportunity to work on it.
      
      Aragorn smiled and looked up at him. "Of course. Would you like 
me to leave so you can work in secrecy?"
      
      Legolas blushed a little, but answered boldly, "If you don't mind."
      
      Aragorn's smile broadened. "Nay, I don't mind." He grabbed up his 
tools, the string and bow, and left quickly, grinning to himself. Whatever 
Legolas was making, the elf kept it hidden from everyone- Aragorn, Saru 
and all others. The Ranger couldn't decide who the present was for- 
perhaps it was for him- but it made him smile when he thought of Legolas’ 
secret. He liked the fact that Legolas asked permission to keep harmless, 
tiny things to himself. ‘He trusts me not to pry,’ Aragorn thought 
comfortably. He allowed Legolas a little privacy with a free heart. 
      
      Legolas took out the carefully-folded cloak and held it up, 
admiring it. The leaves made of green thread intertwined with the signs of 
Aragorn's coming kingship: seven stones and seven stars and one white 
tree. He'd learned about Aragorn's proclaimed road from Annaleh, who 
told stories about the Dunedain to the children on cold winter nights.
      
      He laid the cloak across his knees and began to fill in the last star, 
which he had outlined already in the silver-colored thread he'd learned to 
make. One reason this cloak had taken so long was because Legolas 
wanted to know how to do every step. He learned how to make thread, 
how to dye it, then how to make and dye the cloth he would need. He even 
learned how to make needles out of small animal bones.
      
      He worked steadily for an hour, filling in the star. At last, knowing 
it was done, he took gold-colored thread (made of the petals of the 
goldenrod that grew all around the camp) and began to stitch Aragorn's 
three names along the bottom edge of the cloak:
      
      Aragorn son of Arathorn	Estel foster son of Elrond	Strider 
Dunadan
      
      'He'll be called other names throughout his life, ' Legolas thought 
as he finished the last few letters. He didn’t know that this was the gift of 
elven foresight, but accepted his knowing as fact without question. 
'There's room on the bottom for all his names.'
      
      He folded the cloak away again as he heard footsteps outside the 
tent.
      
      "Legolas?" called Saru.
      
      The elf answered, "Come in."
      
      Saru slipped inside, and his eyes were twinkling. "Come and see 
Master Aragorn!" he cried excitedly.
      
      Legolas followed him outside, and stopped only a few paces 
outside the tent, laughter bubbling up inside him.

      Aragorn, dressed like an orc, was practicing maneuvers with some 
of the oldest Ranger children- the ones who were almost men and women. 
He menaced each of them in turn. Each young Ranger had to defend him 
or herself. Some of them were quite good, but others, Legolas could see, 
were going to need more practice. He felt a little bad for these few, 
because Aragorn wouldn't be running this test again for two years, so these 
few would have to wait to be called men and women of the Dunedain. 
And not all those that failed the test were girls, nor were all those that 
passed boys.
      
      This was the second to last in a series of tests Aragorn had been 
conducting for three weeks. Everything else until now had involved 
knowledge, strategy, basic living skills (all had to know how to cook, 
clean, sew and hunt) and diplomacy. Now they had to fight Aragorn in the 
guise of an orc, then as a man. They didn't necessarily have to win, but 
they did have to trick him, slow him down or escape so that they could 
fight another day.
      
      As the last "child" stepped back- she was a girl with long, blonde-
brown hair tied back out of her way- Aragorn removed his mask and the 
gloves that served him as thick-fingered orc hands. "Well done, Saran," he 
said to her. He turned his gaze on the rest of the waiting students. 
"Tomorrow will be your final test. I'll see you at dawn by the river." He 
bowed to them- formality was a big part of these tests- and walked 
towards his tent, where Legolas and Saru still stood. They made as if to 
step aside, but Aragorn asked, "What do you think of them, Saru? Are 
they ready?"
      
      Taken off guard at being so addressed, Saru swallowed, shifted a 
little from foot to foot, then answered, "I think some of them are ready to 
become adults, Master, but not all."
      
      "What about Saran?" Aragorn asked.
      
      Saru nodded. "Yes. She's both quick enough and intelligent in the 
ways of battle."
      
      "Aye, I agree." He looked at the two boys thoughtfully. "Malacai 
tells me you both are excelling in his basic balance class. Are you ready to 
start actually training with a weapon now?"
      
      Legolas exclaimed at once, "Yes! Yes!" He was delighted. Most 
children didn't get to start with a weapon until they were eleven. He 
danced from one foot to the other. His joy was doubled by the secret 
knowledge that Aragorn had asked him once before to take up weapons 
study, but Legolas had wanted to stay back with Saru to protect and 
support him. Now they could move forward as one.
      
      "Saru, Malacai wishes me to see you jump, just to make sure I'm 
satisfied, but if that goes well, you and Legolas can both start tomorrow."
      
      Saru's eyes shone, but he restrained himself from showing too 
much of his joy, remembering what had happened earlier that day. "Yes, 
Master."
      
      Aragorn nodded. "Let us go now, then; I'd see you jump before it 
gets too dark to see." He led them to a tree, not the one they'd jumped 
from that morning, but one nearer the camp. The lowest branch was a little 
higher off the ground than that of the tree they'd practiced on, but Saru 
didn't seem daunted. He climbed carefully but quickly, balanced on the 
branch, remembered all that happened that morning, and jumped.
      
      He landed lightly, perfectly, in front of Aragorn.
      
      The chief nodded. "Aye, you're ready. I'll see you both tomorrow 
an hour before down. You'll start training with Aaron tomorrow." He 
walked towards the fire, but Legolas held back to whisper, "We're going to 
learn to fight!"
      
      Saru grinned, and breathed, "What if we pass through the fighting 
so quickly that we're adults by the time we're twelve?"
      
      Legolas laughed. "Never happen."
      
      "I can dream, though," Saru murmured.
      
      "Aye, you can," answered a deeper voice.
      
      Both slaves looked up, slightly startled. But it was only Malacai, 
striding towards them, his face lit with pride. He swept Saru into his arms- 
a habit he hadn't quite been able to drop, and one he could continue with 
ease because Saru was so light- and kissed his mouth. Saru responded, 
putting his arms around his master's neck and turning his head to deepen 
the kiss.
      
      Legolas gaped for an instant, but then shut his mouth with an 
audible snap. 
      
      The two were completely oblivious to him. Malacai turned in a 
circle, swaying and still kissing the boy in that deep and searching way. 
"Oh, Saru," Malacai muttered when he'd at last drawn a little away, "I'm 
so very proud." And still carrying the boy, he walked towards his tent, 
leaving Legolas to stare in shock after them.
      
      When they'd passed out of his sight, Legolas made his way in a 
daze towards the fire, subconsciously seeking Aragorn. He found his 
master listening to a small group, under the direction of Sarahe, Malacai's 
mother-in-law, singing a short song in Elvish. The music brought Legolas 
out of himself a little, and he stood still for a moment, listening, letting the 
music come inside him.
      
      When the song ended, Aragorn smiled and praised, "Your singing 
is improving every day. Thank you for that beautiful melody."
      
      The young ones- about six, Legolas thought- glowed, and then 
drifted away. Aragorn caught Sarahe's eye, and the two of them stood 
talking in low voices.
      
      Legolas felt his discomfort coming back as he watched them. He 
closed his eyes, but an image of Saru and Malacai filled his mind, and he 
quickly opened his eyes again.
      
      Aragorn broke away from Sarahe; he'd spotted Legolas and the 
distressed look on the young elf's face. He came to Legolas and hunkered 
down in front of him. "Legolas?" he asked gently. "What's wrong?"
      
      Legolas glanced around. He didn't want to talk about Malacai here 
where everyone could hear him. "Um... can we talk alone for a minute?"
      
      "Of course." Aragorn stood and led the way back to the tent. When 
they were inside, Aragorn gestured for Legolas to come sit on the bed with 
him. He waited patiently, his hands lying non-threateningly on his knees.
      
      For a frightening moment, Legolas thought he would lose his 
nerve. But he knew Aragorn very well by now, knew that his master 
wouldn't yell at him or hurt him. He ventured, "I saw Saru and Master 
Malacai kissing."
      
      Aragorn's eyes widened slightly. He knew of Malacai's growing 
desire for the slave (he knew also of Malacai's failed attempt several years 
ago), so kissing was only natural. Saru was almost nine years old- it was 
past the time when most masters started touching and kissing their slaves. 
'Then again, I haven't done anything with Legolas,' he thought wryly. 
      
      "Does this bother you?" he asked Legolas.
      
      The elf hesitated. "Yes," he said at last after he'd sorted out his 
feelings. "Isn't Saru too young to be kissed like adults kiss?"
      
      'Here comes another lesson,' Aragorn thought. 
      
      "Legolas, slaves live by a different set of rules than freeborns do. 
Many rules are the same, like passing fighting tests to reach adulthood. 
But slaves are slaves, and because of that, they must follow a separate set 
of rules."
      
      "Like what?" Legolas asked.
      
      "You already know some of them. One is having to raise your hand 
in a class and waiting to be called on."
      
      Legolas nodded. "Are there a lot of others?"
      
      Aragorn smiled sadly. "There are many. Most haven't affected you 
yet. For example, when you're grown, and if you wanted to marry, you 
couldn't marry a freeborn." He thought of the rest of the rules- how he, 
Aragorn, could prevent Legolas from marrying anyone, and how he could 
make Legolas marry someone he thought was best. But Aragorn didn't tell 
the elfling about that. "Another rule that's different is when a slave is 
ready to be touched and kissed in a sexual way. Among most of the people 
of Middle-Earth, it's all right to lie with a slave- in intercourse- when that 
slave is three or four years old. The Dunedain believe that slaves can be 
touched as early as seven years old, but that they shouldn't be lain with 
until they are sixteen. That way, the slave is grown up enough to 
understand what's happening to them and, because they're grown, they can 
enjoy the experience." He was starting to feel very uncomfortable, but he 
hid it as well as he could.
      
      "So it's okay for Master Malacai to kiss Saru because he's a slave?" 
Legolas asked.
      
      Aragorn nodded. "Exactly."
      
      "Will you start kissing me soon?" Legolas asked.
      
      Aragorn's breath caught in his throat. He coughed. "Well... you 
see... Legolas...." He swallowed and started again. "I haven't decided if I 
will ever touch you like that, or kiss you, or have intercourse with you."
      
      "Why wouldn't you?" Legolas asked. Then he looked down at his 
hands. "Is it because I'm an elf?"
      
      "No!" Aragorn exclaimed, and he lifted Legolas's chin so that their 
eyes met. "I've been with Glorfindel; it has nothing to do with what you 
are. It's just... well, I once had a slave that I had intercourse with- several, 
actually- but I'm in no hurry to replace them." He swallowed, trying to get 
rid of the tightness in his throat. "Legolas... Many slaves serve their 
masters sexually, but I don't know if you will or not." And because he was 
prompted to be honest, he added, "You mean too much to me for me to 
treat you lightly, to have intercourse with you unless you're ready and 
willing and..." He stumbled to a halt, not knowing what else to say.
      
      Legolas distracted him for a moment. "Does Saru like being 
kissed?"
      
      His master considered that. 'If I was a good master, I would tell 
him that the feelings of a slave don't matter. Except Legolas's feelings 
matter- to me, at least.' 
      
      "When you saw him, did he seem to be enjoying himself? You and 
I both know Saru can't hide what he feels: if he's afraid, you know it, and 
if he's enjoying something, you know it. So answer that question for 
yourself." His tone was crisper, flatter than he liked, but Aragorn allowed 
his reply to stand as it was.
      
      Legolas thought for a long time. "I think he liked it," he said softly. 
"He put his arms around Master Malacai's neck and..." He wasn't sure how 
to say it "moved into the kiss."
      
      Aragorn relaxed. He'd been slightly afraid that Saru might show a 
tiny sliver of fear, and Legolas would pick up on it. "Well then, Saru was 
definitely enjoying himself."
      
      "Does kissing feel good?"
      
      Aragorn suppressed a groan. 'There's no way I'm going to get out 
of this easily, is there?' And because he'd always answered Legolas' 
questions before, he could hardly discipline the elf for asking too many 
now. 'Besides, I don't think I could ever severely discipline him. I could 
never raise a hand to him, let alone a belt or worse.' 
      
      "Usually, yes. If it didn't, would Malacai be doing it?"
      
      "Can we try it?" Legolas asked, blushing slightly.
      
      "I-I..." Aragorn stilled his restless tongue. An idea had just come to 
him. ‘If I introduce him to some of it now, maybe he could be ready when 
he’s sixteen.’
      
      But another part of him, the part that wanted, more than anything, 
to protect Legolas, objected, ‘No! This isn’t the time!’ And, after a pause, 
‘It will never be the right time. He’s more than a slave.’
      
      Yet, when Aragorn looked at Legolas, he needed to kiss him. And 
he prayed that it wasn’t only lust that drove him.
      
      ‘Can I introduce it? Can I kiss him?’
      
      ‘I have thought of kissing him before… but never seriously.’
      
      ‘What if I hurt him?’
      
      ‘I want to be the one to introduce him to kissing. And maybe, if we 
kiss, he’ll understand things a little better. It’s worth a try.’
      
      That second voice, the one that insisted on protecting Legolas from 
everything sexual, tried to yell in protest, but Aragorn ignored it.
      
      He took Legolas' hand in his and drew the elf closer. He tilted 
Legolas' chin up as he had a moment ago, and lowered his lips to capture 
the rosy ones before him. He almost gasped at their softness, and at the 
faint sweetness of their taste, but he held himself in check, not wanting to 
frighten Legolas.
      
      Legolas moved a little closer, and turned his head as he'd seen Saru 
do. Their lips fit more firmly together, and Aragorn couldn't stop what he 
did next. His tongue slipped out and stroked Legolas's lower lip. The elf 
froze for an instant, then put out his tiny tongue to touch Aragorn's larger 
one.
      
      For uncounted minutes, they sat just that way, exploring carefully, 
learning. At last, Aragorn drew back. "Do you like it?" he asked somewhat 
breathlessly.
      
      Legolas's eyes were closed, and he was licking his lips. "Yes," he 
said at last. "It felt a little strange at first, but..." His green eyes opened and 
flashed with a child's innocence. "I do like it."
      
      Aragorn smiled, relieved and happy. "I'm glad," he whispered, 
drawing Legolas close again.
      
      Legolas sought his mouth, but Aragorn said, laughingly, "We don't 
have to kiss all the time, you know."
      
      "But... I want to try again."
      
      The Ranger's heart swelled with some strong emotion- 
protectiveness, he tried to tell himself- for the elfling before him, but all he 
said was, "It's late; we should go to bed." But he couldn't resist smiling 
and adding, "We can do a little more exploring before we sleep."
Chapter Nine
      Legolas came out of his reverie and snuggled closer to Aragorn. 
The Man murmured in his sleep and drew Legolas against him, kissing the 
elf’s forehead. Legolas smiled against Aragorn’s shoulder. He cast his 
senses outside their tent, hearing the savage wind that roared about 
outside. He didn’t feel the cold, but knew it was probably frigid outside. ‘I 
should get up and get the fire started,’ he thought. He slipped out from 
between Aragorn’s arm and his side, leaving the Man asleep in the bed. 
He knelt by the rock-ring, brushed away the ashes from last night’s fire 
and blew on the embers to start the fire. When it was going nicely, he 
added kindling to give it strength, then sat back on his heels to regard his 
handiwork. Yes, this would warm the tent in no time. Keeping an eye on 
the cheery flames, he went to the side of the bed, found his clothes, and 
dressed swiftly. Then he stretched his thirteen-year old body, imitating 
what Aragorn did almost every morning. Though he himself felt no 
stiffness in his muscles, Legolas enjoyed parroting his master’s 
movements.
      Aragorn stirred and rolled over in his sleep, his hand reaching out 
for Legolas automatically. The elf tiptoed close and took the hand, 
murmuring in Elvish, “Sleep, Master. It is but barely dawn.”
      But Aragorn’s eyes opened, and he was instantly and completely 
awake. “Good morning,” he said clearly, sitting up and drawing Legolas 
towards him. As they had been doing every morning for years, the two 
kissed lightly, then Legolas drew back. “You should get dressed first. It’s 
cold out here.” He brought Aragorn his clothes, and the Ranger dressed 
swiftly. As he was lacing up his shirt, Aragorn asked, “Will you slip out 
and find Malacai for me? He was keeping watch last night, so he should 
be on the southern border of the camp.”
      Aragorn still sat for a moment after Legolas had gone out, 
contemplating what he now must do. Sighing, resigned, he rose and set 
about the task of packing. ‘If I’m ready to go, he won’t have to watch me 
preparing. That will hurt him more.’ Into his bag went leggings, tunics, his 
herb-bag (filled in the fall, but containing enough medicines to last him for 
a good long while, he hoped, since athelas did not grow as readily in the 
South) and two extra knives. His other weapons he would carry with him, 
as well as a bedroll and a warm cloak. 
      ‘I don’t dare take Legolas with me; it’s too dangerous in Rohan for 
a beauty such as he, to say nothing of the predators he would face in 
Gondor.’ People from both these kingdoms were likely to try and claim 
Legolas for their own, wanting to use his beauty and body for their 
pleasure. Aragorn would not allow that. Legolas, was, after all, still a 
virgin, ‘but even if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t let anyone else touch him.’
      ‘But,’ he had to admit, ‘I wish I could take him with me. Twenty 
years is too long to be gone without any connection to my people… 
without any chance to hold Legolas.’
      Angry with himself for the tears that were gathering at the corners 
of his eyes, Aragorn shoved his last clothes into his bag and stood. ‘I will 
not cry for the loneliness I am about to endure. I knew this would come 
some day… I will be strong, like my father… even though he never left 
the Dunedain. I see my road plainly: it will end in Gondor, on the throne; I 
must learn about these people if I am ever to befriend and lead them.’ But 
the tears were trickling down his cheeks now, and Aragorn scrubbed at 
them, not wanting Legolas to catch him this way.
      There was a sound at the tent flap, and Aragorn looked up to see 
Malacai slip inside.
      His second-in-command took one look at his chief and stepped 
closer, opening his arms. Aragorn hesitated, but Malacai muttered, 
sounding both frustrated and tolerant, “Strider, please,” and Aragorn gave 
in, letting his friend hold him.
      “We’re going to miss you, Aragorn,” Malacai whispered.
      “Aye,” Aragorn said around a tightness in his throat, “and I’m 
going to miss you, too. This is like when I left Rivendell, except then I had 
the urge to leave and discover my lineage and what it meant out in the 
wide world. Now I only long to stay with my family.” He laughed, a 
sound with no humor or warmth in it. “I’ve turned selfish in my old age.”
      “You’re only forty-five, my friend; you’re far from old. And if 
there’s a selfish bone in your body, I’m a servant of the Dark Lord. You’re 
only thinking that you’ll miss us as much as we’ll miss you.” He gave 
Aragorn an extra-hard squeeze. “There’s no selfishness in human feelings, 
Aragorn; please believe that.”
      Aragorn smiled sadly. “Thank you, Malacai; I needed your 
reassurance.” He pulled away a little, but his second kept his hand on the 
younger man’s shoulder.
      The man spoke flatly, directly, as was his style. “Aragorn, are you 
sure you can leave Legolas here? He’s going to miss you terribly. And if 
you take him, you’ll find yourself comforted more than you can imagine.”
      Aragorn shook his head. “I’m sure. I won’t let him get hurt. 
Besides, he would miss Saru if I took him with me.”
      “If you’re worried about Saru, don’t be. He and Kehydi are 
becoming quite close; he’d survive without Legolas for a while. And as 
for Legolas, he needs you more than he needs Saru.”
      The Ranger sighed. “In any case, I wish him to be safe.”
      “Couldn’t you protect him?”
      “I can’t be with him always. Besides, the Rohirrim and Gondorians 
would not understand why I am so protective of a slave.” He smiled 
wryly. “You must admit that some of the Dunedain don’t even understand 
that.”
      “Legolas can protect himself; tell all that ask that he is your son- 
then they’d leave him be.”
      “He looks nothing like me!” Aragorn cried, laughing at Malacai’s 
determination.
      “They’d still believe it because of the way Legolas treats you.”
      “And what would you have him call me? Father? Nay, Malacai, it 
will not work.”
      Malacai sighed. “Aragorn, he will pine for you. You are his 
strength. And even young elves can die from grief; it does not only happen 
to elves that fall in love. It happens also to children. Do you think Legolas 
could live for twenty years without you?”
      The Ranger hesitated, finally made to see what could befall 
Legolas. “I had not considered that,” he conceded. “Perhaps I should take 
him… but there is still the fact that he would be in danger.”
      “Call him your slave and leave it at that. Tell them that Legolas has 
your permission to defend himself- and you know he can do as much.”
      “Maybe…” Aragorn nodded. “I’ll think on it one more day, and 
then decide. Thank you for your counsel.” He chuckled. “And to think I 
was only calling you in here to ask you to watch out for him while I’m 
gone.”
      “It’s my job to give you the advice you don’t want or expect,” 
Malacai answered. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be your second.”
      Aragorn nodded. “Aye, ‘tis true.” He grasped Malacai’s upper 
arms, silently thanking him. “Let’s go outside and see if there is any hope 
of breakfast beyond dried bread and melted snow.”
***
      The day passed too quickly for Aragorn’s liking, and before he 
knew it, the sun was setting. Sighing, the Ranger walked into his tent and 
stared at his packed bag. He’d managed to keep Legolas out of the tent all 
day, and thus ignorant of the fact that he, Aragorn, might be leaving alone.
      ‘Have I really any choice?’ he thought at last. ‘If I leave him here, 
he may die; if I take him with me, I can protect him from that fate, though 
another, more sinister one, may befall him. No, I really have no choice.’ 
His mind made up, Aragorn set about packing Legolas’s bag, and in ten 
minutes he was ready to go. ‘We’ll leave in the morning.’ With everything 
decided, Aragorn left his tent to find Legolas.
      He found Legolas by the fire, talking to Saru while the two of them 
mended clothes- their own and their masters’ as well. The two of them 
could have sought the comparative warmth of a tent, but since the wind 
had died, the air wasn’t very chill, and they seemed to prefer to be alone 
together.
      Aragorn saw them sitting close together, and wanted to rethink his 
decision. But now he knew that Legolas needed him, and he sighed. This 
would be a growing experience for his little elf.
      Legolas heard him long before he’d reached the fireside, and 
looked up, smiling.
      Aragorn sat down beside his slave and returned the smile, but his 
eyes were sad. “Legolas, I’m going away tomorrow. I’m going to Rohan. I 
may be gone for twenty years.... and if you'd like to, I want you to come 
with me." As soon as the words were out, he groaned inwardly; his mouth 
had betrayed him again! He had just offered Legolas, a slave, the choice of 
staying.
      Saru gasped and looked from Aragorn to Legolas. He didn’t want 
Legolas to leave him… but he also felt very guilty for his selfishness.
      Legolas squeezed Saru’s had distractedly, but his eyes were fixed 
on his master. “Can I stay if I want to?” he asked at once, as if the idea of 
going somewhere far away frightened him.
      Aragorn felt his heart sink. “Aye, Legolas,” he said, trying to hide 
his disappointment. “It’s your choice.” The man rose, thinking to return to 
his tent and unpack Legolas’s bag, but Legolas’s voice stopped him, and 
he glanced around.
      “Master?”
      Legolas wasn’t looking at him, not at first. He was looking at Saru, 
and silent message passed between them.
      Saru shivered and dropped his eyes, but his expression was 
resigned.
      At last, Legolas looked at Aragorn. “I want to go with you, 
Master.”
      Aragorn’s eyes burned with grateful tears- he hid these expertly- 
and he squatted in front of Legolas. “Are you sure, Legolas?”
      “I-I don’t want to be without you,” Legolas whispered, moving 
towards Aragorn.
      The Ranger lifted the elfling into his arms and held him close. He 
started to walk towards his tent once again, but Legolas suddenly 
struggled and Aragorn looked at him in surprise. “Legolas? What is it?”
      “Are we leaving now?”
      “No; we’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
      “Can I stay out here with Saru for a little while?” Legolas asked 
shyly.
      Aragorn set him down. “Of course.” He watched Legolas walk 
back to the fire, and the two slaves reached for each other, holding hands 
under the frigid stars. He left them there and went into his tent.
***
      Saru did his best to swallow his fear. “Legolas, I’ll miss you,” he 
whispered.
      Legolas didn’t answer, but squeezed Saru’s hands tighter, staring 
into his friend’s large, brown eyes.
      The silence stretched between them, but wasn’t uncomfortable for 
all its length. They knew each other perfectly by now; there was barely 
need for words.
      They sat like that until the moon set, and the fire had almost 
burned out.
      “You should get some sleep,” Saru said with difficulty.
      Legolas leaned closer and kissed Saru’s forehead in blessing, as 
the Dunedain did. “You’ll be all right,” he murmured. “Just stay close to 
Kehydi.”
      “I know.” Saru was glad that it was too dark for Legolas to see his 
tears.
      But Legolas reached up and touched Saru’s face; if he hadn’t seen 
the tears, he’d sensed them. “Saru…”
      The younger child shook his head. “I’ll be fine, Legolas; stay near 
Master Aragorn. I’ve heard Rohan is dangerous.”
      “I will.” Legolas moved still closer, and the two of them embraced. 
“I’ll be back, Saru,” the elf whispered. “Be here when I do.”
      “I will,” Saru promised. He paused, then added, “Legolas… I love 
you, Brother.”
      Legolas felt his own tears starting and was unable to stop them. “I 
love you, too.”
Chapter Ten
      Legolas’s first conscious thought when he and Aragorn rode 
through the Gap of Rohan two and a half months later was: ‘I’ve never 
seen so many beautiful horses!’ His elven heart danced with joy, and his 
own young stallion, Northern Light (or Kendell, in Elvish), whickered a 
greeting to the strange horses who ran in a herd across their path, kicking 
up their heels at the joy of spring, which seemed to have already taken up 
residence in the wide, lush, green plains.
      Aragorn smiled at his young elf, and stroked Roheryn’s mane as 
the stallion scented the air, watching the horses, but too conditioned by 
long years with his rider in the North to call to them as the younger 
stallion did. “Welcome to Rohan, land of the horse-lords,” the Ranger said 
to Legolas. “These are a people proud of their long history and deep 
traditions.”
      Legolas tore his eyes away from the horses for a moment to ask, 
“Have you been here before?”
      “Aye, but only once, and twas very briefly.”
      “Will we meet Gandalf here?”
      Aragorn smiled at Legolas’s hopeful expression, but shook his 
head. “I doubt it. The Grey Pilgrim only stopped by long enough to drop 
me a message that it was time to pursue this next part of my education; 
he’s probably still in the North, spending time with the hobbits he loves so 
much.” He pressed his spurless heels into Roheryn’s side, and urged, 
“Let’s go. If we keep this pace, we’ll make it before sunset.”
      The two galloped across the plains, with the sinking sun on their 
right hand side, casting beautiful, golden rays across the grass, turning it 
into emerald fire.
      “There it is!” Aragorn called an hour later. “The Golden Hall- 
Meduseld, home of Thengel King.”
      Legolas looked south and little west, and saw the golden thatch of 
Thengel King’s roof, but instead of feeling Aragorn’s overflowing joy, he 
felt a tiny sliver of apprehension creep into his heart. He’d enjoyed riding 
across Middle-Earth with Aragorn, and now that the journey was almost 
over, Legolas missed the long days of riding, side by side; and the nights, 
before they slept, when the two of them would kiss and touch under a 
million stars. Legolas had started to feel the first stirrings in his body as 
Aragorn touched his back through his tunic and rubbed his shoulders, and 
he longed to feel them again, wondering where they would lead.
      Then, with a smile, he remembered a night almost two months 
past, when he’d finally gotten up the courage to present Aragorn with his 
gift.
      “Aii, Legolas, it’s beautiful,” Aragorn had whispered, holding the 
finished cloak up to the light of the setting sun. He ran his fingers over 
every inch of it, tracing the names with his fingertips, wondering at the 
skill that had gone into this. “It’s so beautiful,” he repeated, his voice a 
mere whisper. “How did you do this?” He shook his head. “How long 
have you been working on this?” he amended.
      Legolas told him everything, his eyes focused on Aragorn’s 
smiling face as the man continued to rejoice in the elegant gift. As 
Aragorn gazed at it, Legolas requested, “Please put it on. I want to see 
what it looks like on you.”
      His master donned the cloak and turned so Legolas could see how 
it flowed and billowed. The elf cried happily, “It fits!”
      Aragorn turned to him, bent and kissed him. “Thank you, 
Legolas,” he whispered, his eyes full of joy. “No man has ever received so 
precious a gift.”
            Legolas had blushed, not trusting himself to speak.
      Back in Rohan, Aragorn slowed Roheryn to a walk so that they 
approached the Golden Hall slowly, looking less threatening. But when 
they were just outside the gates, a man rode towards them, his blond hair 
streaming out behind him. He held a spear at his side, and his sword was 
sheathed at his waist, but he didn’t seem to be tense or worried about 
them. He hailed, “Welcome to Rohan, strangers! Who might you be?”
      Aragorn drew Roheryn to a stop before the man and made a half-
bow from his seated position. “I am from the North, and I seek a place 
among the soldiers of Rohan. I have a wish to learn of the noble Rohirrim, 
and to serve your king, of whom I have heard amazing things.”
      
       “You speak well, man of the North. To your request it is not 
within my power to consent, but perhaps I will put in a good word with 
Thengel King. I am Eomund, Third Marshall of the Mark, and if you will 
come with me, your horses will be tended and you may speak with the 
king yourself.”
      
***
      That night, Legolas stretched out on his bed, staring up at the 
wooden roof above him. These were the soldier barracks, where he and 
Aragorn had been given quarters, but the beds weren’t big enough for both 
of them to share one. Thengel King had accepted them both into his 
service after seeing their skill on horseback and with swords (though 
Legolas was better at knives and bow, since these were the weapons he’d 
chosen three years ago). Aragorn was granted a place in one of the patrols, 
but Legolas’s job was slightly different. When Thengel King witnessed 
the uncanny way Legolas was able to ride any steed he was put on, the elf 
was asked to train horses to carry other men. Legolas was a little worried 
about being away from Aragorn, but since he would be mostly with horses 
instead of surrounded by men who, though seemingly nice, just weren’t 
the Dunedain, he decided not to worry overly much.
      There was a sound of soft footfalls (the Rohirrim seemed loud to 
his ears, after the crafty movements of many of the Rangers) and Legolas 
turned his head, his sharp eyes piercing the dark. Aragorn was making his 
way towards his own bed, which was next to Legolas’. The man ignored 
his bed for the moment, however, and came to kneel beside Legolas. “Are 
you well?” he whispered in Elvish.
      “Yes, Master.”
      Aragorn kissed his forehead. “I’ll be going out first thing in the 
morning. Do you know where you’re to report to?”
      “I must go to the stables on the eastern side of the Golden Hall. 
There I will find horses that need to be taught.”
      Aragorn chuckled softly. “You don’t sound afraid,” he noted.
      “I’m not,” Legolas answered. “I have never seen so many beautiful 
horses.” Then he blushed. “Not that your horses aren’t beautiful, but-”
      “They aren’t the most stunning of creatures,” Aragorn answered. 
“They’re hardy, strong and sure-footed, but lack the sleek coats you’ve 
been seeing all day.”
      Legolas nodded, relieved that Aragorn wasn’t offended. “Do you 
think Roheryn and Kendell will be embarrassed?” he asked half-seriously.
      “Nay; Roheryn is already turning the heads of quite a few mares. 
And as for Kendell, well, he’s a young stallion full of strength and-” he 
laughed again, “substance. He’ll find plenty to do here.” Aragorn bent 
over Legolas and kissed him, this time on the mouth. “You’d better sleep, 
Little One; it’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”
      Legolas asked before he could stop himself, “Can I have another 
kiss?”
      Aragorn put his arms around Legolas and drew him close, kissing 
him softly at first, then more heatedly as the kiss grew longer. “All you 
need to do is ask,” he murmured as he rose to his feet. He tousled 
Legolas’s hair. “Sleep well, Legolas; I’ll see you at the evening meal. Do 
you remember what I told you?”
      “Yes, Master. I must be polite, and yet, if someone threatens me, 
not be afraid to defend myself.”
      “You’re a good elf, Legolas.” Aragorn kissed his forehead, then 
went to his bed and seemed to fall asleep at once.
      But Legolas lay awake for a little while longer, thinking again of 
the cloak he’d given Aragorn. His master had explained that he couldn’t 
wear the cloak while they were in Rohan or Gondor, since none must 
know who he really was, and Legolas had readily agreed, though he’d 
been disappointed.
      Legolas wondered, ‘What will they call him here? Surely he won’t 
be ‘man of the North’ for long! And when they give him his new name, 
I’ll need to put Master Aragorn’s new name on the hem of the cloak.’ 
Smiling, he decided, ‘I’ll look for some more gold thread. That way, when 
they give him his new name, I’ll be ready.’ Legolas slipped happily into 
his reverie.
***
      Saru curled into Malacai’s embrace. The two of them were alone 
today. Malacai had taken him on a three-day hunting trip. Or that was 
what he’d said, but they hadn’t done any hunting yet. Instead, Malacai had 
started introducing Saru slowly to the touches of a man’s gentle hands. 
This time, he moved in steps, never pushing Saru beyond where he was 
confident to go. Somehow, Saru’s trust in him was even stronger now than 
it had been when he was very young, maybe because Malacai had rescued 
him from Halbarad, or maybe because he was alone now, and if he didn’t 
trust Malacai, he would be truly lost. Legolas was gone, and how could he 
trust Kehydi if he didn’t trust his father?
      Malacai kissed Saru’s cheek, his jaw and his neck. Saru arched, 
exposing more of his skin to his master’s questing lips.  “Do you like 
this?” Malacai whispered, his breath ghosting over skin that was still wet 
from his tongue.
      “Yes, Master,” Saru answered slightly breathlessly.
      Malacai thought as his mouth continued its journey downward, 
‘There are some that are meant to be slaves, and some that are meant to be 
free, but I’m still amazed that Iluvatar is able to know the difference. He 
gives the soul of a servant into a slave-child, and the soul of a warrior into 
the heart of a freeborn. Thank you, Iluvatar, for sending me this gentle 
soul. I promise I’ll treat him with all the tenderness I know.’
      Saru moaned suddenly, and pushed his hardening penis against 
Malacai’s thigh.
      The Ranger’s pious thoughts flew away like clouds driven by a 
strong wind. “Saru,” he husked, and he reached down, stroking the slave’s 
leg, and then his erection.
      Saru moved against him, gasping. ‘It always hurt before, when 
they touched me. This is… different.’ He snuggled closer, truly happy for 
the first time since Legolas had left four months ago. ‘Will he want to be 
in me?’ That still frightened him a little, ‘but,’ he told himself firmly, ‘I’m 
twelve now. I’m lucky he hasn’t been in me before. And maybe it won’t 
hurt… Maybe he’ll continue to be this gentle.’ 
      “Master…”
      “Can I touch you a little more?” Malacai asked softly, his breath 
coming more quickly.
      Saru nodded against his chest, and Malacai began to stroke him 
faster and more firmly. “Let me know if anything feels wrong,” the 
Ranger reminded him.
      “Yes, Master.”
***
      “Does it hurt?” Elrond taunted. He shoved his way into the Elda’s 
tight entrance again.
      “Yes, my Lord,” Glorfindel gasped, his eyes filling with tears.
      “Are you going to tell Elladan?”
      “No, my Lord.”
      “Good. And why not?”
      “Because he wants to know that I’m safe, that he’s protecting me.” 
      Glorfindel was starting to feel faint. ‘I think I might pass out soon. 
Good. I don’t want to feel this anymore…’ He thought of Elladan’s 
loving, wonderful eyes, and his tears came a little faster. ‘If only we were 
really married. If only what Elladan promised could really happen.’ He 
shivered as Elrond drove into him again. ‘Elladan, if only I could tell you.’
      No. He never could. Elladan was healed, back to his strong self. If 
he discovered that elves, as well as some men, were willing to rape the one 
he loved- which was the same as raping him, all knew that was how 
Elladan thought- he would surely snap again, and maybe this time no one 
would be able to bring him back.
      ‘I’ll protect you until I die, my Elladan,’ Glorfindel vowed, and 
this knowledge gave him the strength to endure Elrond’s frequent visits, 
and Elrohir’s occasional ones… and even Arwen’s rare needs.
      At last, Elrond finished, and he drew away from Glorfindel. “Dress 
and take yourself off to the baths,” he said, after checking to make sure 
that the slave wasn’t bleeding. “Be here tomorrow night.”
      “Please, my Lord…”
      “What?” Elrond demanded.
      “Elladan and I were going to go riding tomorrow evening.”
      Elrond grunted. “Fine. When you get back, and Elladan is done 
with you, come to me.”
      “Yes, my Lord,” Glorfindel whimpered. When Elrond was gone, 
he allowed himself to weep for a few minutes. He hated it when Elrond 
talked like that, as though he was still Elladan’s whore.
      Shaking off his grief, Glorfindel dressed and went to the baths, not 
wanting Elladan to see how sweaty and hurt he was.
      In the bathhouse, he came upon the twins, who had returned from 
their morning ride early. Glorfindel had asked Elladan if he could stay and 
work in their garden, and Elladan, smiling kindly, had answered, “You 
never need to ask, my love. I’ll be back by late afternoon, and then we can 
walk by the river.” He knew this was one of Glorfindel’s favorite places to 
walk, and never missed the opportunity to bring him there so they could 
share the cool water together.
      Glorfindel considered leaving, but then Elladan caught sight of 
him. His eyes widened when he saw Glorfindel’s expression. He jumped 
out of the water, not caring that he was naked, and rushed to his lover. 
“Melamin, what’s wrong?”
      Glorfindel fell back on a lie he’d used maybe eight months ago. “I 
had a nightmare.” He smiled weakly at Elladan. “I went out running to 
forget about it, but it has stuck with me a little.”
      Elladan enfolded Glorfindel into his arms. “Aii, my dear 
Glorfindel, I should have stayed here with you.”
      “Nay, my love; I was well when you left. It was only a fleeting 
dream. I’ll be all right.”
      Elladan turned to guide him to the baths. “Come, I’ll help you 
wash up.” Then he looked towards the water, and saw Elrohir dressing at 
its edge. “Elrohir, you don’t have to go,” he began.
      Elrohir shook his head. “I’m clean. Besides, I want you and 
Glorfindel to have time together.” He nodded to Glorfindel, smiled at his 
brother, and was gone.
      ‘Sometimes, Master Elrohir, I hate you,’ Glorfindel thought. The 
second son of Elrond was entirely too crafty and too smug for Glorfindel’s 
taste.
      He could never allow any of this to show on his face. It would hurt 
Elladan.
      Elladan helped Glorfindel undress, and eased the older elf into the 
water. Without asking if he should, Elladan took a sponge, put soap on it, 
and began to massage his lover’s back, scrubbing away the sweat, and 
hopefully, the fear. He murmured soft words of encouragement and love 
as he worked, but at first, they did no good.
      Glorfindel’s mind had gone back to Elrond’s words from that 
morning. “Come to me when your master is gone, whore. I am in need of 
you.” Though he’d said something similar many times, it still hurt 
Glorfindel. As he thought of those words, and others, angry tears trickled 
down his cheeks.
      ‘Yes, command me, Lord Elrond! Command the Whore of 
Imladris!’
      Elladan’s hand shook a little as he continued to cover his love with 
suds. “Aii, Glorfindel, my love, what is wrong?” He sounded shaken and a 
little afraid.
      Glorfindel chastened himself for hurting Elladan. ‘It’s not his fault 
that his father and brother are bastards.’ The Elda remembered his first 
life, when he’d been a free elf, and knew that once he’d dared to voice 
such thoughts. But under Elrond’s dubious mastery, he’d found himself, 
until very recently, even afraid to think such things. It was a small victory, 
if only in his own mind, that he could entertain angry thoughts without 
feeling the attendant guilt.
      To his lover, Glorfindel said, “I’m sorry, Elladan… It was a very 
bad dream.”
      Elladan was now washing away the suds, but his voice sounded 
even more frightened. “Glorfindel, why would you dream something so 
terrible now? All has been well with us for three years… hasn’t it?”
      “Aye, my love; all is well. It’s only memories that come back to 
haunt me occasionally.” He looked over his shoulder and smiled sadly. 
“There are some memories that will take a long time to fade, I fear.” He 
caught Elladan’s hand as it was still absently rubbing his shoulder, and 
now love swelled his heart so that his smile was broader and very gentle. 
“But with you beside me, my Elladan, they fade more each day, and for 
that I will always be grateful.” This last sentence was true as far as it went: 
the pain inflicted on him almost daily by Elrond or Elrohir faded every 
time he was able to be near Elladan. His pain was made so much more 
bearable than he could have ever hoped that Glorfindel didn’t know how 
he’d survived for so long without Elladan’s love.
      Elladan moved closer, and kissed Glorfindel’s cheek. “I love you.” 
The shadow passed from his face, and he chuckled. “Now turn back 
around so I can finish here.”
      Glorfindel glowed as he obeyed. “I love you, too, my Elladan,” he 
whispered.
      “Aye; I’m yours,” Elladan mumbled affectionately as he washed 
off the rest of the suds. “Now, let’s do your hair, and then we can take that 
walk I promised this morning.”
      Glorfindel leaned back as Elladan tugged gently on his hair and 
relaxed. Elladan washed his hair often. He seemed to take an animal 
pleasure in the simple act, in fact, and Glorfindel took a similar pleasure in 
letting Elladan take care of him.
      With his hands buried in Glorfindel’s hair as he scrubbed away the 
shampoo, Elladan groaned softly, “Glorfindel, do you know how 
entrancing you look like this?”
      Glorfindel shifted a little, and felt Elladan’s hardness under his 
back, and he felt his own member hardening. He laughed. “I don’t want 
sex in the water, Elladan; wait until we’re under the trees, then you can 
bury your sword hilt-deep in its sheath.”
      Elladan moaned and his member throbbed. “Nay,” he growled, 
“you’ll be inside me this day. I long to be taken by you, Golden Beauty.”
      Glorfindel’s breath caught in his throat. He swallowed past it and 
purred, “Is that what you want, my Elladan? Then I suppose I’ll have to 
give it to you; I could never refuse you.”
      Elladan laughed and went back to rinsing Glorfindel’s hair. “If you 
don’t stop, Glorfy, I’m going to come right here and now, all in your hair. 
And while it may be an excellent conditioner, it would be some time 
before I could remove it. In that time, you would grow very impatient, I 
think.”
      He thrust up playfully, and Glorfindel reached back, swatting the 
dark-haired elf’s arm blindly.
      Elladan’s laughter rang in the bath house.
      Glorfindel felt his sorrow wanting to steal over him again. He 
knew how fragile his relationship with Elladan really was. Not that his 
lover would ever leave him… at least, not of his own free will. ‘But 
Elrond is Lord here. He could force us apart.’
      But he pushed his worries away for the time being, determined to 
just enjoy Elladan’s company, as long as it might last. After all, there was 
nothing else he could do.
      
Chapter Eleven
      Legolas tossed his long, golden hair out of his eyes and shouted, 
“Come for me, if you dare!”
      Aragorn smiled. “You are very bold, Legolas; perhaps too bold.” 
But he didn’t leap at once. After all, Legolas was the one challenging him 
for the right to fight in battle, and go on border patrol, not the other way 
around. It was up to the elf to prove himself.
      Legolas trod forth, his eyes flashing. Two years they’d been in 
Rohan, but in that time, Legolas’ prowess with bow and knife had grown 
by leaps and bounds.
      Legolas leapt, his knives- practice knives, since he didn’t want to 
hurt Aragorn- seeking the man’s flesh. But Aragorn blocked his first 
attempt, his second, his third… but not his fourth. Legolas scored a hit on 
Aragorn’s shoulder, then danced away as Aragorn brought down his 
practice-sword in an arc that would have effectively cloven Legolas’ skull 
if the man had been using a real blade.
      Legolas opened his mouth to taunt, but then a darting blow 
knocked the knife from his left hand. Now with only one knife, Legolas 
jumped back to reassess his situation.
      Aragorn didn’t chasten him; he knew Legolas would learn from 
that little slip. He simply smiled and waited for Legolas to advance again.
      “Thorongil!”
      The soldier turned, holding up his hand to halt Legolas- only to 
have the sword knocked from his hand. The practice-knife was at his 
throat, and Legolas laughed, “Surrender.”
      In spite of himself, Aragorn laughed. “I yield,” he said, but his 
eyes were on Haman as his fellow soldier ran towards him.
      “There is a grey-cloaked man- a wizard, some say- waiting in the 
Golden Hall for you,” Haman informed him when they were close enough 
for quieter words.
      Aragorn blinked. ‘Gandalf? What is Gandalf doing here in broad 
daylight? And why didn’t he simply wait for me to be alone? He’s found 
me that way easily enough before.’ His heart speeding up, Aragorn 
realized, ‘This must be important.’ He handed his practice sword to 
Legolas. “Return the weapons to the armory, please, then come and join 
us.”
      Legolas took the sword. “Yes, Master.” As he started towards the 
armory, he wondered, ‘With a grey cloak, perhaps it is Gandalf… I want 
to meet him.’ He’d been told about the wizard by Aragorn, but he didn’t 
know very much still, and he longed to meet the famous Grey Pilgrim.
***
      Gandalf was grimmer than Aragorn had ever seen him, and the 
Ranger felt his heart grow heavy with fear. He pushed past it resolutely 
and was able to keep his face untroubled, but his mind reeled. ‘To come 
here when I still have eight years left… has something happened to my 
Dunedain or to Rivendell?’
      The two of them were alone in a small room off the main hall, and 
they sat on either side of a fire. Neither of them sat comfortably.
      “Aragorn, there is trouble in Gondor. You are needed now. 
Ecthelion can still be saved from the madness that runs through his city, 
but he needs you to show him the way. It’s time for you to go to Gondor. 
Perhaps you can come here again, but not until all is well in the White 
City.”
      Aragorn took this in. And in spite of the danger to what would one 
day be his city, he was relieved to know that his Rangers and his family 
were all right. Or at least nothing shattering had befallen them. “What 
trouble is in the city?”
      “Ecthelion’s son may easily come under the Shadow. You must 
save him, if you can, and help his father as well.”
      “It isn’t time for me to become king, is it?” Aragorn asked with 
more than a little bit of trepidation.
      Gandalf smiled kindly, knowing Aragorn’s heart, and 
understanding it. Here was a man who would never be driven to command 
for the sake of power; he would only command to save. “No, it is not yet 
time. That time is still a few decades in the future.”
      Aragorn relaxed. “I’ll go.”
            There was a knock on the door, and the two looked up. “Come in,” 
Aragorn called.
            Legolas entered, his eyes going immediately to Gandalf. He closed 
the door behind him and moved to Aragorn’s side, sitting at his feet, but 
his eyes were still focused on the wizard.
      Aragorn placed his hand on Legolas’s hair. “Gandalf, this is 
Legolas. Legolas, meet the Grey Pilgrim.”
      Gandalf nodded to the servant, and wondered how such a beautiful, 
free creature had come to serve. But that wasn’t his concern. He didn’t 
agree with slavery, but he knew Aragorn had never hurt any of his slaves, 
and so this boy was in better hands with the Chief of the Rangers than he 
would be with many other men. “I’m glad to meet you, Legolas,” he said, 
and smiled.
      Legolas’s eyes danced. “I’ve heard so much about you, 
Mithrandir,” he whispered in awe. “I’m happy to meet you at last.”
      Gandalf’s _expression changed: suddenly, his eyes darkened, as if 
with understanding and sorrow. He looked at Aragorn, and said plainly, 
not bothering to hide his words from the young elf before him- ‘not so 
young; he’s maybe fifteen or so’—“You must watch out for Legolas while 
you are in Gondor. He will be greatly desired. Here in Rohan, your claim 
on him was respected, but there it will be seen as an interesting fact, 
perhaps even a challenge to the men who will crave him.” He glanced at 
Legolas again, then said firmly, making sure that Aragorn was looking 
right into his eyes, “And by the Valar, don’t tell any that he’s a virgin.”
      Legolas and Aragorn both gaped at him; Aragorn recovered first, 
though with difficulty. “Will it do me any good to ask how you know 
that?”
      “No,” Gandalf answered curtly. “Just know this: an elf that loses 
his virginity to someone he doesn’t love is almost like handing him or her 
a death sentence.”
      Aragorn thought of Elladan for a moment, then pushed that 
thought away. Surely Elladan hadn’t been a virgin- he’d survived, after all, 
hadn’t he?
      ‘But maybe that’s why Elrohir was so worried about him.’
      Knowing he couldn’t confirm or deny these thoughts, Aragorn set 
them aside and focused back on Gandalf. “Should I… change Legolas’s… 
sexual state?” He couldn’t believe how uncomfortable he felt just saying 
those words. ‘How would it be if I actually had to do that? I can’t even say 
the words without feeling tense!’
      Legolas looked from his master to Gandalf. He understood 
Aragorn’s suggestion (and felt the faint stirring in his groin) but part of 
him didn’t want to understand it. He remembered Saru telling him about 
Halbarad’s attack, and this frightened him, though he was too curious by 
nature to be paralyzed by any secondary tale of rape, no matter how 
terrifying it might sound.
      Gandalf considered this. “Yes,” he said at last, “perhaps it would 
be best.” He studied Aragorn for a moment. “As long as you are willing to 
be gentle with him.”
      Aragorn opened his mouth to speak; he was offended. But then he 
changed his mind and hid his anger. “I’ll always be gentle with him,” he 
said instead.
      The wizard nodded and stood. “Then I’ll leave you to explain 
things to Thengel. He likes you, and will let you go if you explain that I 
requested that you go to Gondor. I want you on the road to Gondor before 
the new moon.”
      That was three days away, as Aragorn well knew, and so the man 
nodded, accepting. ‘Maybe we’ll even leave tomorrow morning,’ he 
thought, ‘if, that is, I can bring myself to take Legolas’s virginity.’ He 
mentally shook himself. ‘I shouldn’t think of it as taking anything from 
him; I need to persuade him to give it to me, so that he feels secure and 
strong and sure of himself. If I frightened him, it might be akin to 
Malacai’s troubles with Saru. I would rather almost anything than hurt 
Legolas.’ Again, his heart filled with that feeling that he thought- 
somewhat self-deceitfully- was protectiveness for his property.
      Gandalf left then, after touching Legolas’s head in blessing and 
smiling reassuring at Aragorn.
***
      The two of them were alone in the tent Aragorn had made for those 
times when he had ridden out with the Rohirrim and they would camp on 
the open plains. This time, the skin of the tent was of a smallish buffalo-
like creature that shared the plains with the horse-lords.
      As in all things, Aragorn had made the tent with the idea that it 
might come in handy for things other than camping with his patrol-mates, 
and indeed it had. One night, Eomund had sought him out in it, offering 
Aragorn the opportunity to lie with him. Both men had understood it 
would be only one night, in all likelihood, and both accepted it as such. 
Eomund had taken the lead, as was his right in Rohan, since he outranked 
Aragorn, and the Ranger had given himself willingly, even though things 
were different among his own people. Among the Dunedain, it was not 
unusual for one man of lesser rank to take a man of greater rank. And in 
the morning, the one would easily follow the other.
      In fact, he and Malacai had lain together frequently when Aragorn 
had first joined the Rangers. He’d needed comfort during those first 
months of strangeness and learning, and Malacai had taken and helped 
him as only he could. But in the day, Malacai still called him “Chief” and 
never tried to lord it over his commander, despite what happened in the 
night.
      Aragorn took Legolas in his arms, kissing him as he often had in 
the past, but there was now a tension between them that could not be 
ignored. At last, Aragorn drew back and said softly, “Legolas, we don’t 
have to do this tonight- or at all- if you’re afraid.”
      Legolas answered candidly, “I’m afraid, Master, but so are you. 
We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. I’ll be all right.”
      Aragorn stared at him in shock for a long moment, then he 
murmured, “Aii, Legolas, you are amazing. How can you know me so 
well?”
      “I’ve been following you for almost ten years,” Legolas answered. 
“How could I not know you inside and out? That’s part of my job, isn’t 
it?”
      He startled a chuckle, an appreciative one, out of Aragorn. “Aye, it 
is, as it is my job to protect and know you.”
      Legolas swallowed. “So know me in the sexual sense. If 
Mithrandir thinks we should do that, then we should. His advice should 
never be taken lightly.”
      Aragorn considered Legolas’s words, and then nodded. “Yes, 
you’re right.” He moved closer and made as if to kiss Legolas. But then he 
pulled back as an idea flitted through his mind. He suggested, “If we admit 
why we’re afraid, it might help to dispel some of those feelings.” He sat 
up, and Legolas moved close to him, putting his head on Aragorn’s 
shoulder and leaning against him with his eyes closed.
      “I’m afraid because I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve never actually 
been with someone who is a virgin,” Aragorn said at last, seeing that he 
would have to be the first one to speak. ‘Besides, I shouldn’t always count 
on him to be the one to rescue us from uncomfortable silences.’
      “How many people have you been with?” Legolas blushed a little, 
knowing his question was impertinent, but he felt a sudden need to know. 
Was his master very experienced?  “How many were men?”
      Aragorn considered the questions, wondering how much Legolas 
needed to know, and, even more important, how much he deserved to 
know. ‘As a slave, he deserves no information from me… but I ceased 
thinking of him as just a slave a very long time ago.’
      “I’ve been with eight men in my lifetime,” he said, hoping this 
didn’t sound like boasting. “My first experience was with Glorfindel.” He 
didn’t know why he told this, only that he felt he should.
      Legolas tensed slightly. “Did you hurt him?”
      Aragorn shook his head, not offended by Legolas’s direct question. 
After what he’d seen in Rivendell all those years ago, the elf had a perfect 
right to ask. “Nay; I didn’t know how to hurt when I was young. I came to 
Glorfindel and asked him to teach me the ways of intercourse.”
      He smiled reminiscently. “At first, he was reluctant, knowing that I 
was fourteen, and thus not an adult yet in my father’s eyes, but my father 
learned about my want, and gave his permission, saying he would rather 
that I learn from Glorfindel than from anyone else in Rivendell.” 
      Seeing the disbelief in Legolas’s eyes, Aragorn hurried to defend 
his foster father. “Elrond was much different in those days- he was gentler, 
especially towards Glorfindel. But this was before he endured much 
heartache when his wife left Middle-Earth and his sons began to journey 
with the Dunedain in their desire to destroy all orcs.”
      He smiled again, this time sadly. “He was kind to Glorfindel, for 
the most part, only occasionally hurting him. And… Glorfindel was 
happier, more radiant and alive than you saw him.” He shook his head. “In 
any case, he was my first. He took me, ever so gently and pleasurably, and 
then I took him, clumsily, but as well as I could. I laid with him many 
times over the next six years before I left Rivendell, learning as I went. 
And even though, gradually, I learned that sex could be used as a weapon 
and a release of anger, my relationship with Glorfindel was built on 
mutual trust and respect- as much as I could have for him, knowing… 
never mind.” Aragorn cleared his throat. “Suffice it to say that Glorfindel 
taught me to be gentle, and yet how to give the greatest physical pleasure a 
man or woman can ever feel in their lives.”
      He paused. “Do you want me to continue?”
      Legolas was gazing up at him raptly. “Yes. I want to know 
everything.”
      Aragorn smiled, feeling both surprised and slightly gratified. 
“When I became Aragorn instead of Estel, Malacai taught me the further 
pleasures of having a man in control. He never hurt me, and yet he was 
firmer than Glorfindel had been, and rougher, though not in an unpleasant 
way.”
      He paused, pondering his next words. “The last six I’ve been with 
were all slaves, some my own and others that were loaned to me.” He 
didn’t feel like discussing any of them. Compared to Legolas, they were 
less than dirt.
      Legolas considered all of this, then said, “I’m afraid because I 
don’t want to be hurt like Saru was.”
      “There will be marked differences between your first sexual 
experience and his,” Aragorn said at once, his voice gentle. He desperately 
needed to reassure Legolas. It hurt him that Legolas was afraid of him, 
even though he understood Legolas’ reasons. “Saru was raped by a man 
that cared nothing for him. I will initiate you into a pleasurable lifestyle 
using all the kindness I know. Also, Saru is different to you: he fears the 
world. I do not think you will ever be like that.”
      His hand had come up of its own accord and was rubbing Legolas’ 
back. “I will teach you the pleasure of intercourse, Legolas; you will never 
have to fear it again.”
      Legolas snuggled against him. “Please,” he whispered, “make love 
to me.”
      Aragorn blanched. The elf knew not what he asked. “Where- 
where did you hear that phrase?” he nearly croaked.
      Legolas looked up at him. “Master Malacai said it once to his 
wife.”
      Aragorn closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. ‘I want to tell 
Legolas…’ he grimaced inwardly ‘or teach him that there is no love 
between us.’
      Putting his discomfort and surprise to one side, Aragorn tilted 
Legolas’ head up and kissed him deeply, drawing both of their minds 
away from questions towards new discoveries.
      Changing his position, Aragorn laid Legolas down in the tent, 
cradling the elf’s head in his palm as he bent over him, intensifying the 
kiss. His other hand began a slow quest downward, starting at the crown 
of Legolas’ head and slipping down the front of his body. He played with 
the ends of Legolas’ hair, then touched his delicately-pointed ears.
      Beneath him, Legolas gasped and wriggled.
      Aragorn smiled against Legolas’ mouth while his fingers continued 
their exploration. He massaged Legolas’ neck, then his shoulder. Next, his 
fingers dipped into the blue-green tunic, feeling the softness and warmth 
of flesh that had been mostly secret to him. He longed to taste it, but 
couldn’t quite take himself away from the pleasure of Legolas’ mouth.
      Legolas arched up, and Aragorn’s fingers slipped over one 
hardening nipple.
      ‘I need to get his tunic off,’ Aragorn thought. He pulled a little 
away from Legolas, removing his hand from beneath the material, and 
pulled off his own tunic. ‘Legolas will feel better, maybe, if he sees that 
I’m willing to undress for him first.’
      Legolas sat up and copied his master’s movements, then, when he 
was bare-chested, he resumed his earlier pose. He gazed up at Aragorn, 
and smiled. He’d seen Aragorn naked- plenty of times, in fact- but he’d 
never thought of the skin that was revealed to him. Now, though, he 
studied the downy hair and the rippling muscles with interest, knowing 
that he was going to lie with this strong man. ‘Be gentle with me,’ he 
thought, but even as this crossed his mind, he knew Aragorn would be just 
that.
      Aragorn’s thumbs brushed over the brown nipples, and he licked 
his lips. Now that the elf before him was bare to the waist, he couldn’t 
restrain himself. He bent and licked at the nipples that teased him with 
their beauty.
      He moved up to suckle at Legolas’ neck, and then down again, 
towards Legolas’ navel. He left a shining trail with his tongue.
      Again, Legolas wriggled, and this time he let out a breathy laugh.
      Aragorn chuckled. “Do you like this?” he whispered, his breath 
ghostly across Legolas’ flat stomach.
      “Ye-yes,” Legolas answered, still laughing. Then, as Aragorn 
continued to kiss him, his hips thrust up of their own accord and his next 
breath came out in a moan.
      ‘Aii,’ Aragorn thought as his penis hardened in excitement, ‘you’ll 
be the end of me, Legolas.’ He sat up and began to hastily unfasten his 
britches.
      Legolas started to do the same, but Aragorn caught his hand, 
leaving his own pants half-undone. “Please, Legolas, let me do that.”
      Seeing Legolas’s curious look, he explained, “It’s part of the 
enjoyment.”
      “Can I help you with yours, then?”
      His penis throbbed again and Aragorn answered, a trifle huskily, 
“Aye, you can.”
      Legolas’ expert fingers unlaced Aragorn’s britches the rest of the 
way and, as Aragorn moved to a kneeling position, drew them down over 
his hips. But when Aragorn’s penis had been released, Legolas froze, his 
eyes wide and his hands moving back to rest on his own thighs.
      Aragorn looked down at him, concerned, and yet his eyes were 
hooded as he fought the feelings surging through him. “Legolas?” he 
prompted, his voice barely audible.
      “It’s so big,” Legolas answered, unable to take his eyes from 
Aragorn’s manhood. And although there was fear in his voice, there was 
excitement also.
      Aragorn was surprised to find himself blushing. When was the last 
time any of his partners had made him blush? ‘Not since Glorfindel,’ he 
decided, his amazement deepening. ‘Or perhaps Malacai.’
      Legolas smiled. “Please take off my leggings.” He looked down, 
flushing prettily. “They feel very tight.”
      Aragorn’s eyes sparkled as he obliged, his hands moving, swift but 
sure, and always gentle. When he saw Legolas’ treasure, he sat back on his 
heels and gazed with open need and more than a little tenderness. ‘Such a 
jewel! To have kept this hidden for so long…’ When Legolas had been 
very young, Aragorn had sometimes bathed him. That had ceased when 
Legolas turned seven, and now he had grown up before the Ranger’s eyes.
      “Legolas,” he gasped, “you’re stunning.”
      Legolas’ blush deepened, but all he did was smile.
      Aragorn moved forward and took Legolas into his arms. He laid on 
his back so that Legolas was above him, and kissed Legolas until they 
were both breathless. His manhood was pressed against Legolas’ hip, and 
the elf’s own shaft was rubbing his stomach. Aragorn thought he was 
going to die or explode from need.
      Then Legolas shifted, and their members touched. Both of them 
froze, shocked at the strength of the pleasure shooting through them, and 
then Legolas began rotating his hips, gasping and whimpering far back in 
his throat.
      Aragorn gave Legolas one last kiss, then asked, “Do you want to 
be in me, Legolas?” He craved nothing more than to bury himself in the 
warm, silky heat of the elf above him, but he knew from experience that 
the best way to relax Legolas would be to let him feel the greatest pleasure 
first. Besides, hard as he was now, he might well hurt Legolas, and that he 
could not allow. He would not even let that have a chance of happening. 
And so he gazed up at Legolas and waited for his answer.
      The elf licked his lips, and then whispered, “Can I?”
      “Yes, Legolas, yes.” Aragorn smiled, sanely, he hoped, though he 
felt randy and nearly crazy-dangerous with desire. He spread his legs and 
helped Legolas to arrange himself between them.
      Legolas moved forward, rubbing against Aragorn’s backside, and 
both of them moaned. But then Legolas stopped, and his eyes grew wide. 
“What if I hurt you?” He looked very unsure of himself… and too young 
to be here, doing this.
      Aragorn tried to look past that image. “You won’t hurt me, 
Legolas. I’m well-stretched.” He blushed again, though not so brightly as 
before. “If you’re worried, I can get some lubricant.” But he didn’t really 
want to move. All he wanted was for Legolas to be inside him, to fill him 
with his sweet seed.
      When Legolas still looked nervous, Aragorn got a hold of his 
raging need. Then he drew Legolas forward, ever so gently, and kissed 
him. “Please don’t be afraid, Legolas. There’s really very little chance of 
you hurting me. I’ve been taken by men clumsier than you could ever be.” 
He smiled kindly. “Please trust me, lo- Legolas.”
      ‘What was that? What was I going to say?’
      But Aragorn’s questions were forgotten as Legolas, reassured, took 
his elfhood in his hand, found Aragorn’s entrance, and pushed in 
smoothly.
      He didn’t know he was supposed to pause, to allow Aragorn time 
to get used to his length, but it didn’t matter. The Ranger was indeed well-
stretched, so that all he felt was a brief discomfort not strong enough to be 
called pain. Then Legolas began, instinctively, to move in and out, 
breathing in time with his movements.
      Aragorn moaned, and urged Legolas on by putting his hands on 
Legolas’ backside and pushing him forward firmly.
      As Legolas got the idea, moving more quickly with each passing 
second, he brushed, though he couldn’t have known it, Aragorn’s secret 
gland. The Ranger groaned loudly, squeezing his eyes shut at the intensity 
of the feeling. His member began to weep its pearly liquid.
      Soon, they were moving as one, Aragorn thrusting towards 
Legolas as the blond thrust forward. Their dance culminated in a series of 
short, jabbing movements, and then Legolas came, hot and pleasant, deep 
inside Aragorn.
      The man followed an instant later as Legolas rode out his orgasm.
      Then Legolas collapsed on top of Aragorn, not feeling the sticky 
stuff on his belly as he snuggled against Aragorn’s chest.
      Aragorn brought his arms up and around Legolas, hugging him. He 
rolled onto his side and as he kissed the top of Legolas’s head, still 
gasping, he felt Legolas slip out of him. He already missed the feeling of 
Legolas being buried within him. None of his slaves had ever been in him 
before, believing that they were being presumptuous. And until now, 
Aragorn would have agreed with them. Of course no slave should be 
inside his master; it just wasn’t done.
      But he’d been making exceptions in Legolas’ case since he’d met 
the elf, and he knew he would continue doing so.
      With difficulty, he found his voice. “Legolas?”
      The elf moved even closer. “Yes?”
      “Did you like that?”
      Legolas sat up abruptly, and his eyes flashed, though without 
anger. “What do you think?” he demanded.
      Aragorn laughed. “Aye, it was a stupid question.” He caught 
Legolas’ hand. “Will you forgive me and lay back down?”
      But Legolas grinned. “No. I think we need to clean up.” He 
pointed at Aragorn’s stomach, then at his own. Then he stood, retrieved 
Aragorn’s waterskin and returned. Without waiting to ask if he should, 
Legolas poured the cold liquid over Aragorn’s belly.
      The Ranger gasped and cried, “That’s cold!”
      Legolas’ eyes laughed at him. “But aren’t you a strong Ranger who 
can endure any hardship?”
      Aragorn snorted, and tried to grab the waterskin from Legolas.
      But the elf jumped back. “I’ll do it myself, thank you.” And he 
stepped a little further away from Aragorn, poured the water over himself, 
shivered a little, then smiled. “There. All clean.”
      Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. Now will you come back to 
me?”
      Grinning wickedly, the elf answered, “Indeed.” Legolas set the 
waterskin away, then came and curled up next to Aragorn. The Man 
grabbed for the folded blanket nearby and drew it over their naked bodies. 
He was lying on his back, and Legolas moved close, using Aragorn’s 
shoulder as a pillow and resting his leg across Aragorn’s thighs.
      Aragorn inhaled the sweet smell of Legolas’s hair and murmured, 
“Now you need never fear sex again.”
      Legolas didn’t answer; he’d already passed into reverie.
      Before he followed Legolas, Aragorn had a disturbing thought: as 
helpful as his submission to Legolas’ member no doubt was, Legolas still 
was a virgin as far as his entrance was concerned.
      ‘Ah, well,’ Aragorn thought as he started to drift. ‘At least now 
he’s not intimidated. He’ll be all right, I’m sure. After all, he’s never let 
fear keep him from anything.” And with that comforting thought, Aragorn 
let the darkness take him.
Chapter Twelve
      
      Denethor paced, his hands balled into fists as he recalled the 
exchange he’d heard an hour ago between his father and the dirty creature 
out of Rohan. “Or so he said. He doesn’t look like any horse-lord I’ve ever 
heard of,” Denethor muttered. “He looked more like a cur than a man. And 
as for the beauty…”
      
      Yes, the beauty beside him was something else, wasn’t he? 
Tapering limbs, soft cheeks, dazzling eyes, and sun-kissed hair were just 
the things Denethor had been able to see with a glance. ‘What might he 
look like without those clothes?’
      
      But then his mind swerved back to the conversation he’d 
witnessed, and he forgot the beauty for a little while in his fury.

***Flashback***
      
      He had been standing beside his father’s chair and speaking to him 
of his longing to be wed to the woman he’d chosen. She was angelic and 
absolutely perfect in every way. Her manner was demure, and her mind 
filled only, as a woman’s mind should be filled, with charities and 
decorating and the idea of having ten sons.
      
      His father had said, as he always did, “Denethor, soon you will 
wed her, but not yet. I wish for you to learn more about Gondor before 
you seek to learn the heart of a woman.”
      
      Trust his father to be poetic when he was raging with lust! ‘Love. I 
must call it love to his face, or he’ll never allow the marriage,’ Denethor 
reminded himself.
      
      Then there had been a knock on the large door at the end of the 
hall, and a page had stuck his curly head in. “Lord Ecthelion, there is a 
man from Rohan here to see you. He begs admittance.”
      
      “Let him enter,” Ecthelion returned. When the page was gone, he 
said quietly to Denethor, “We will continue this discussion later. For now, 
watch and learn how to receive messengers from other kingdoms.”
      
      The doors were pushed open and a man dressed in a green cloak, 
held back with a clasp so that his shirt of some rough, brown, material, 
could be seen, stepped in. His eyes were grey, piercing, but Denethor 
ignored that. This was the moment when he got his glance at the beauty 
that walked beside the man.
      
      Then the man stopped, turned to the beauty and whispered 
something. The beauty turned and left the room.
      
      The man approached the chair of the Steward with his hands held 
where Denethor and his father could see them, and his eyes were candid. 
He stopped in front of the chair, knelt, and said in a quiet yet somehow 
ringing baritone, “I am Thorongil, soldier of Rohan. I have come to beg 
service in your fair city, Lord Ecthelion. I wish to serve faithfully the 
Steward of the White City.”
      
      From inside his cloak, the man drew a small piece of cloth. This he 
unfolded reverently and held it out to Ecthelion for his inspection. It was 
the seal of Thengel King.
      
      Ecthelion looked at it, then handed it back. There was absolutely 
no way to read the expression on his face. Denethor had to admit this was 
something he had never quite managed- all his people knew how he 
thought if they cared to give him more than a passing glance.
      
      “Why do you seek to serve in a city which you have not entered 
until this day?” Ecthelion asked.
      
      “I am not of Rohan. You have probably assumed as much.” He 
smiled a little, but it was an honest smile, not ingratiating or servile. 
      
      These other two were the types of smiles Denethor was used to 
seeing on people that approached his father or himself. It galled him that 
he could not read this man any better than he could read his father.
      
      “I am from the North, and I was drawn south by the glory of both 
your realms.”
      
      “What is your father’s name?” Ecthelion asked.
      
      ‘A good question,’ Denethor conceded, and he watched the 
intruder shrewdly. ‘We’ll know what his history is by that. Thorongil, 
even though it’s a Rohan-name, may not be his real name. There’s no help 
there.’
      
      “My father is Malacai, son of Mordecai.”
      
      ‘Both Gondorian names,’ Denethor thought with a rush of anger. 
‘Does he think to claim parentage in both kingdoms?’ His fury drove him 
to speak, even though this was considered rude. “If you were born in the 
North, how can your father be of Gondor, and why were you given a 
Rohirrim name?”
      
      “My people are a traveling sort,” the man answered, and his smile 
came back. “We enjoy the nomadic life, you might say.”
      
      ‘Might I?’ Denethor thought acidly. ‘Thank you for giving me 
permission to think such a thing!’
      
      The stranger continued. “But I was given the name Thorongil by 
Eomund, Third Marshall of the Mark.”
      
      Ecthelion did not rebuke his son for speaking out of turn. If he 
would (and he did, later, after this was all over) he would not do it in front 
of someone of lower rank.
      
      “I will send word to Thengel King and learn of your service to 
him,” he decided. “Until then, you will serve the lowest office in my 
army.” He met the grey eyes calmly, assessing him.
      
      The intruder bowed. “Thank you, my Lord.” He didn’t add 
anything else, and this, too, surprised and angered Denethor. Most men 
would have groveled, pledged themselves in everlasting servitude to the 
lord before them.
      
      His father asked, “Who was the man that came in with you?”
      
      “His name is Legolas, and he is an elf rather than a man. He is my 
slave, bound to me by vows and by over a decade of loyal, constant 
service.”
      
      Ecthelion nodded, prepared to dismiss him.
      
      “Please, my lord, may I add one thing?”
      
      The Lord of Gondor nodded. “Yes, Thorongil, you may.”
      
      “Legolas has my permission to defend himself.”
      
      There was a brief pause, and then Ecthelion asked, “Do you expect 
him to be attacked?”
      
      “Are you implying we’re barbarians?” Denethor fumed.
      
      The interloper looked at him for only the second time during the 
meeting, and he said, “Nay, I only tell you this because I know some 
slaves are told never to fight back. I only wish to issue the warning so that 
no men are taken by surprise.”
      
      Ecthelion nodded. “I understand. You are dismissed. A servant will 
find you a room. Tomorrow morning, someone will come for you. Do you 
wish your slave to fight also? He can be given a position with you.”
      
      The man blinked, and for the first time he seemed surprised. “Yes, 
my Lord,” he said after moment, “I would be very grateful if you would 
allow that.”
      
      Ecthelion didn’t answer, and after bowing the man left.
***End Flashback***
      
      ‘Who does that upstart wanderer from the North think he is?’ 
Denethor hadn’t stopped pacing, and his nails were digging into his palms 
hard enough to leave little half moons in his flesh. ‘Why does he think we 
need his services? Doesn’t he know we’re the Stewards of Gondor? We’ll 
be here long after he and his ‘nomadic people’ are so much dust in under 
our feet.’
      
      The thought of stepping on that impertinent man’s face made 
Denethor smile. ‘No, better yet: I would love to piss on his dying body, 
turning the dirt under him to mud.’ He grinned viciously. ‘That would be 
perfect.’
      
      He mused aloud, struck by a sudden, very pleasant idea, “If I killed 
him, then that beauty could be mine.” He scoffed at the idea that any slave 
could defend himself. After all, they weren’t really taught to do so. Who in 
his right mind would teach a slave the proper way to fight? If he did that, 
the slave would find it easier to rebel. By the White Tree, it was akin to 
teaching a woman to fight!

***
      
      Legolas rose the next morning, stretching luxuriously. He and his 
master had been given a very small room along a corridor that opened on 
to seemingly a hundred such rooms. There was only one window, and it 
was high and small, but at least it let a ray of daylight in.
      
      He glanced at Aragorn, and saw that the Man was awake also and 
gazing at him with hooded eyes. “Good morning, my sleeping lord,” 
Legolas teased. “Can I assist you?”
      
      Aragorn chuckled as he sat up. “Nay, I think I must rise as well.” 
He favored Legolas with a wolfish smile. “Besides, shouldn’t I be asking 
you if I can help you?”
      
      Legolas blushed at the raw sexual power in Aragorn’s voice. It had 
been four days since they’d had sex, and Legolas found himself wondering 
when they would be able to have it again. He’d enjoyed it. Legolas still 
thought of intercourse as making love, though he didn’t make the mistake 
of saying as much to Aragorn. Obviously, the choice of words had 
bothered his master.
      
      When they were both dressed and ready, Aragorn moved towards 
the door. But before he reached it, he turned and gazed at Legolas, 
assessing him. “Legolas…” He shook his head. “Never mind.” ‘I’ll never 
ask him if he’s ready for this…. If he’s ready to face an entire city of new, 
possibly frightening, men. How could he not be? And besides, even if he 
isn’t, he’ll learn quickly enough.’
      
      He’d been thinking about Legolas’ nervousness when he was left 
alone in Rivendell. ‘But he was young then. Besides, he was alone 
sometimes in Rohan and he handled it just fine. Why am I worrying about 
him when I already know he’ll be fine?’
      
      But he knew the answer to that: ‘It’s a feeling. An instinct. This 
city is crawling with fear and lust and hatred as a dog unwashed is 
crawling with fleas. Gandalf was right about this place: there’s something 
very wrong in Gondor.’
      
      Shaking his head, Aragorn realised that he couldn’t do anything 
about it at the moment. He contented himself with, “Watch your back 
while you’re here, Legolas.”

***
      
      Legolas couldn’t feel his skin prickle. That was a man’s feeling 
and as much as he mimicked Aragorn’s movement, he was no man. But he 
could sense evil’s oily hands and nearly feel its reeking breath on the back 
of his neck. Evil lurked in Gondor, and whenever Legolas had a moment 
to think on it, and to look for it, he did so. Even when he was occupied 
with something else, the watchfulness he’s learned from the Dunedain 
coiled in the back of his mind, ready to spring.
      
      Such was his state of mind as he stood on the outer wall, under the 
leadership of a noble-faced, iron-willed guardsman. Aragorn’s warning 
had been playing through his mind all day as he fetched water, watched 
over the wall towards the east, and did a hundred small chores for the men 
who outranked him. Most of them, despite Aragorn’s warning, barely 
seemed to notice him at all. They ordered him about when they needed 
something. But none of them watched him with baleful or lustful eyes.
      
      ‘Noble are most of the men of Gondor,’ Legolas thought. ‘There is 
something evil here, and Master Aragorn is right to feel it, and right to 
worry, but not everyone here has been contaminated by whatever it is.’
      
      Suddenly, a shadow swept over his heart, and Legolas turned from 
the wall to see where it had come from. His sense told him its source was 
very close to him, and as he turned, his eyes fell on Denethor, son of the 
Steward of Gondor.
      
      Even though Legolas had seen the man only from a distance, he 
was sure it was the same one. No other man, except the Steward himself, 
could be dressed so finely. Nor, Legolas doubted, could any man walk 
about with such an exalted, cocky, half-enraged expression. He’d never 
thought that all those emotions could reside on one face at the same time, 
but all these he did see.
      
      As Legolas watched him, Denethor stopped walking. He seemed to 
realize he was being watched (surely everyone watched when he walked 
by) and yet he didn’t look around. He stood stock-still, and a frown 
crossed his features.
      
      “My Lord? Do you need something, sir?” The man (Bern was his 
name, Captain of the Eastern Wall Defenses) approached Denethor, but 
hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure if he had the right to do so.
      
      ‘He intimidates a lot of people, doesn’t he?’ Legolas asked 
himself, and he answered almost at once, ‘Yes, he does, but my master 
and I are not included among his devotees or fearing admirers.’
      
      Denethor didn’t even look at the man who’d spoken to him. “I 
want to know when the walls are going to be scrubbed.”
      
      “My Lord?”
      
      “The walls! The walls!” Denethor reached out, still without 
looking, grabbed the man’s collar, and dragged him so that they were face-
to-face. “When will they be scrubbed? They don’t shine as they should.” 
He thrust the guard away.
      
      “My-my Lord, I’ll see to it at once.” He swallowed. “Do you mean 
all the walls, my Lord? The ones outside as well as inside the city?”
      
      “If I didn’t, I would have told you as much,” Denethor snapped. 
“See to it that you find sure-footed men to take buckets and sponges down 
with them. We wouldn’t want anyone to fall.” He stalked away, leaving 
Bern staring after him in shock.
      
      Legolas turned back to the east so that he couldn’t be accused of 
not minding his post. Truth be told, all the other guards along the outer 
wall had been staring at Lord Denethor, and most of these, too, had 
returned to their watches. ‘But I am the newest guard,’ Legolas thought, 
‘so I may be under the most scrutiny.’ This was how it had been in Rohan. 
He and his master had been watched as though they were dogs near a 
chicken coop. ‘They should be trustworthy but one never knows’ was how 
the Rohirrim seemed to think. And because he didn’t know precisely the 
attitudes of the men of Gondor, it behooved Legolas to be careful in his 
looks, actions and words.
      
      For the rest of his watch, Legolas considered the sensation he’d 
gotten. Had it come from Denethor? It seemed likely. ‘But I have only had 
limited experience with my elven sixth sense. I cannot be sure if it was 
him. Maybe it was only something else.’
      
      He added, after a moment, ‘And even if it came from him, maybe 
he was just feeling angry about the walls, and I felt that as evil.’
      
      This didn’t seem right, though. There had been many times when 
the Rangers were angry and Legolas had never felt a cloud of evil coming 
from them.
      
      ‘But the Dunedain are usually angry for good reasons, like when 
orcs have been spotted and they must fight, or when dangerous men are 
harassing the Shire. Theirs is more of a righteous anger, if there is such a 
thing. Denethor’s seems like a’ he struggled for the right word ‘petty 
anger.’

***
      
      When his watch was at last over, Legolas headed straight for the 
room he shared with his master. He wanted to discuss his thoughts with 
Aragorn. Maybe his master knew more about what sort of man Denethor 
was. After all, he’d spoken with the son of the Steward, and he, too, was a 
man. 
      
      But when he reached the room, he found it empty. Unsure of what 
to do, or where his master might be, Legolas took off his armor, which 
he’d been given that morning. He put on light leggings and a thin tunic 
and went to sit under the window. He watched the sun set from there, and 
waited patiently for Aragorn.
      
      At last, as the first stars came out, the door opened and Aragorn 
entered. He walked heavily, tiredly, as if he’d had a hard day. And 
because he was chief of the Dunedain it was very difficult to make him 
tired enough to drag his feet.
      
      Legolas stood at once and went to him, seeing that his face was 
troubled. He didn’t speak, but closed the door behind his master, then took 
his hand and pulled him gently but firmly to the bed. But before Legolas 
could make him sit, Aragorn pulled away and sat instead by the window in 
the straight-backed wooden chair.
      
      Legolas didn’t argue with this. Instead, when Aragorn was sitting 
down, the elf took a good look at his master. Aragorn’s clothes were 
spattered with muck, and Legolas detected the smell of manure on him. 
His hair hung in his face, which wasn’t unusual, but there was something 
sticky in it, and Legolas realized that this was the manure he’d smelled. 
The Ranger’s boots were encrusted with more of the stuff, and his hands, 
too, were filthy.
      
      “You need a bath,” Legolas announced.
      
      Aragorn was staring past him. His face hadn’t lost that troubled 
look. If anything, in fact, it had deepened.
      
      Legolas hesitated, then took his master’s hand. He felt the gunk on 
it and thought of pulling away but resisted. Obviously, his master needed 
him. “Master?” he asked.
      
      Aragorn blinked, and focused on Legolas. “Hello, Legolas,” he 
said, and he relaxed enough to smile ruefully. “I’m quite a sight, aren’t I?”
      
      Legolas nodded. “You just need a bath.”
      
      Aragorn shook his head. “I’m not allowed to have one. I was 
ordered not to bathe until the stalls are mucked out.”
      
      ‘That explains the manure,’ Legolas thought.
      
      “Maybe then you could do them tonight?” he suggested.
      
      Again, Aragorn shook his head, and now his smile was strained. “I 
was informed that no work of that type is done after sunset and that if I 
was discovered in the stables before sunrise it would be assumed that I 
was trying to steal a horse and I would be placed in the stocks for five 
days.”
      
      “Can’t you at least…” Legolas trailed off and pointed at Aragorn’s 
hair.
      
      “Nay,” said Aragorn tonelessly. “I was ordered to remain as I am.”
      
      “How did you get manure in your hair?” Legolas asked. He didn’t 
remove his hand from Aragorn’s, but sat on the floor at his feet, gazing up 
at him. Now the worry was coming into his own eyes.
      
      “Another of the grooms was getting rid of a forkful of manure and 
didn’t see me standing there.” He sighed. “Though why anyone would be 
throwing manure back into a stall is beyond me.”
      
      Legolas stared at him, shocked and hurt on his master’s behalf. 
“He was trying to humiliate you,” he whispered, his voice distressed.
      
      “Aye.” Aragorn looked up at Legolas’ face, and was caught by the 
sadness he saw there. He squeezed Legolas’ hand to make the elf look at 
him. “Legolas, don’t let it bother you. Teasing is a normal thing among 
men.”
      
      “That’s more than teasing!” Legolas cried, outrage making his 
hands shake. “When the Rangers tease they never hurt or offend! They 
never-”
      
      “Legolas,” admonished Aragorn more harshly than was his wont.
      
      The elf fell silent, and after a brief pause he realized what he’d 
done wrong. Aragorn had told him not to mention the Rangers at all while 
they were in Rohan or Gondor. “But especially in Gondor,” Aragorn had 
told him as they rode through the empty lands south and east of Rivendell. 
“It is in Gondor that the books of lore are kept.”
      
      Contrite, Legolas met his master’s eyes and said softly, sincerely, 
“I’m sorry, Master. I forgot for a moment.”
      
      Aragorn nodded, and smiled understandingly. “I know, Legolas. 
Please remember that we are in disguise here. It’s natural to forget caution 
when you’re angry, but that’s the time when you most have to remember 
it.”
      
      Legolas nodded. “I will.”
      
      Now Aragorn’s smile turned a little sad. “I know their teasing was 
more than that, but if I call it teasing instead of malice I can look at it 
without too much anger.” He snorted softly. “It’s one of the mind-games 
men play on themselves in order to keep the peace, both with others and 
within their own hearts.”
      
      Now seemed as good a time as any to bring up what he’d heard, 
and so Legolas spoke of Denethor’s words. He didn’t give any opinion of 
them, which was due, in no small part, to the fact that he wasn’t sure what 
to think.
      
      Aragorn listened in silence, and his face, so guarded when he was 
around strangers, was completely open to Legolas’ scrutiny.
      
      ‘This news bothers him,’ Legolas thought, and he felt his heart 
sink. If his master was worried, then he had more cause for concern than 
he thought.
      
      Aragorn was silent for a long time after Legolas had finished, and 
that concerned look deepened. But then, suddenly, his eyes cleared, and he 
said firmly, “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it. We can’t yet 
influence Lord Ecthelion’s decisions. And this sounds as though Denethor 
made this decree on his own.” He had been talking to himself, seemingly, 
but now he said, directing his words to Legolas, “I think Denethor has 
discovered that he can make work if he chooses, and all have to obey him. 
I don’t know why he wants men to go out and sponge off the walls, but 
I’m sure it’s not to make them look better.” He smiled wryly, and there 
was more than a touch of cynicism in his voice when he spoke again. 
“Whatever he wants, I’m sure it’s not for the good of Gondor. It may be 
for his own good, and probably is, but if the city benefits that will be an 
unanticipated bonus.”
      
       “Do you think he’s evil?” Legolas asked after a moment.
      
      Aragorn considered that. It was a question he might have expected 
from Aaron, or even Annaleh. He was impressed that Legolas was asking 
the question instead of just assuming a man was either all good or all evil. 
‘He’s becoming more of an adult every day,’ Aragorn thought, and that 
pleased him.
      
      To Legolas, he spoke candidly. “I don’t know yet if he’s evil, 
Legolas. The more likely answer is that he is making some self-centered, 
bad decisions. That’s a good thing.” 
      
      He paused, and thought, ‘I’ll test his reasoning ability a little 
more.’
      
      “Why do you think it’s good, Legolas?”
      
      The elf was silent for a long time, but at last he answered, “If he’s 
only making bad choices, then maybe he can be taught.”
      
      “Excellent!” Aragorn applauded. Then he lowered his voice so that 
Legolas’ sensitive ears could just barely hear him. “We’re here to prepare 
Gondor for my eventual return to the throne. That means I must try to 
reach every one of my people. I can’t afford to lose even one of them.”
      
      Legolas nodded, released Aragorn’s hand, rose and bowed in the 
style of Gondor. He’d seen it only twice that day, but he learned quickly. 
“I’ll help you any way I can,” he declared with the solemnity of a sworn 
oath.
      
      “Aye, Legolas, I know you will,” his master whispered. “And if I 
was in a better state, I would make you a knight of Gondor right now.”
      
      The contented look fled his face after a moment, however, and he 
said, “Unfortunately, right now I must sleep. There will be a lot of work 
tomorrow, I think.”
      
      Legolas said firmly, “Then come lay down. It’s late.” He made as 
if to take Aragorn’s hand again, but the Ranger shook his head.
      
      “Nay, Legolas. I’ll sleep here on the floor. I don’t want to dirty the 
bed. You, too, need your sleep.”
      
      “I need less sleep than you do,” Legolas argued.
      
      Aragorn sighed, but he wasn’t angry. It pleased him, in a small, yet 
important way, to know that Legolas argued with him freely. “True 
enough, but you are still under my care, and so what I say goes. Get to 
bed. I’ll be fine here.”
      
      Legolas walked across the room, but when he reached the bed, he 
plucked off the pillow and one of the blankets. He turned, offering these to 
Aragorn. “Use them,” he said in a no-nonsense tone of voice.
      
      Aragorn thought about asserting his authority, but the very sight of 
the pillow had started him yawning, so he took the preferred items, made 
his “bed” on the floor, and curled on his side.
      
      Legolas sat on the edge of the bed until he heard his master’s 
breathing deepen and even out. When he was sure Aragorn was asleep, he 
pulled his knees up to his chin, rested his chin on them, and thought hard.
      
      He was starting to strongly dislike Gondor… and Denethor 
especially.
      
      Aragorn was right: he was becoming an adult. But his growth 
wasn’t just limited to wisdom. Legolas, slave since the age of five, was 
finally learning to hate.
      
Chapter Thirteen
      
      The order came down to Aragorn a little after noon. The Ranger 
was still mucking out the stalls, but only because, seemingly, during the 
night every horse in Gondor had decided to increase excretions tenfold. 
When Aragorn lifted the first shovelful, however, he felt how dry (and 
thus, slightly less heavy) some of the manure was. This shit, in short, was 
at least two days old.
      
      He chose to laugh rather than rant, and thus got through the 
morning, all the time thinking on what Legolas had said about Denethor.
      
      ‘If I’m going to help Gondor, I don’t think it will be done from the 
stables.’
      
      “You, Scruffy!”
      
      This, then, was his new nickname. He’d wondered how long it 
would take the grooms to give him one. ‘Well, one more name for Legolas 
to sew.’ He turned and nodded, waiting to see what was needed. Part of 
him expected to be hit with another shovel-load of shit.
      
      Instead, the groom announced, “Go take a bath. The Lord 
Denethor wants to see you at the entrance to the East Tower.”
      
      Aragorn thrust the shovel into the shin-deep manure and left it 
standing.
      
      But as he was passing the groom, the man said, “Don’t get too 
cocky, my friend. You’ll be back here in the morning. Until then, I 
wouldn’t dream of touching your work.”
      
      ‘You wouldn’t dream of lifting a finger, either,’ Aragorn thought 
acidly.

***
      
      Less than half an hour later, Aragorn arrived at the East Tower. 
Denethor was sitting outside on a chair piled high with pillows while two 
slaves kept the flies away from him. Spring it might be, back North, but 
here it felt like the middle of summer.
      
      “You took your time,” Denethor noted snidely. “I like a man who 
thinks himself above the Lords of Gondor. It gives me a chance to teach 
him the truth.” He smiled, but the expression gave no warmth to his face.
      
      There was nothing Aragorn could say to that, so he kept silent.
      
      “Come here.”
      
      Aragorn stepped closer warily, though he kept his face calm.
      
      “You’ve been doing wonders with the stables, I hear. Well, now 
you’re going to do another task. I want you to help wash the walls of the 
White City.”
      
      Because he’d already heard of this insane project, Aragorn didn’t 
gape. Still, he was thrown a little off balance by this request. He gathered 
himself quickly and answered tonelessly, “Yes, my Lord.”
      
      “Go to the top of this tower, and there you’ll find all that you 
need.” Denethor rose. “And I trust this tower will look better by evening.” 
He marched away, followed by his slaves.
      
      As they passed, one of them gave Aragorn a sympathetic look.
      
      The Ranger didn’t see it: he was already on his way up the stairs. 
‘A task soonest begun is soonest done,’ he thought, drawing from 
something his ada had said often to his procrastinating foster son.
      
      At the top of the tower, Aragorn saw the ropes hanging over the 
wall. He saw the bucket, filled with soapy water and the sponge. Two men 
were standing by the wall, and they looked at him questioningly. He 
stepped towards them, then looked over the wall. Just below the ledge, on 
the outside of the wall, was a narrow wooden scaffolding. ‘This is what I 
am to do then,’ Aragorn thought dismally. ‘I’ll sit on that thing, they’ll 
lower me, and I’ll scrub. But I’ll only be able to get this part of the wall. 
We’ll have to go up and down all day.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll not be back in the 
stables tomorrow, or for a month after, if this is the case.’ He glanced 
around, saw that were were no other ropes and scaffolds, and groaned. 
‘Valar,’ he prayed, ‘help me to be strong, and to show these men what a 
Ranger of the North is made of.’
      
      He stepped to the wall, jumped up to its top, and tested the 
scaffolding with one booted foot. It seemed sturdy enough, and so he 
turned around, his back to the inglorious view of Mordor’s distant 
darkness, and sat on the wooden platform. “Hand me the bucket and 
sponge, please,” he said once he was poised on the scaffold.
      
      One of the men brought him what he’d asked, and Aragorn began 
the laborious, dangerous task of scrubbing the outer walls of Minas Tirith.

***
      
      By the time the sun was setting, Aragorn had made it down to the 
base of the tower once, and had started on a new bit of the wall back up at 
the top. There was a pulley that worked the scaffolding, so that Aragorn 
could work this himself. He began to enjoy the feeling of being in the 
open air, despite the danger. ‘I’ve been in trees as high as this,’ he mused 
as he scrubbed.
      
      The scaffolding groaned unpleasantly.
      
      ‘Still,’ he admitted as his heart danced a blessedly brief, but 
monstrous jig, ‘this is a little less steady than an ageless Rivendell tree. 
And there are no elves to catch me or heal me if I fall.’
      
      As his heart settled, he chuckled at that last, for of course there was 
an elf here. And he was becoming quite the healer. Legolas learned 
anything and everything with the speed of a soaring eagle. His quick mind 
continually surprised and delighted Aragorn.
      
      And sometimes, in the dark and stillness of night, the man forgot 
that the elf beside him was a slave at all.
      
      The rope creaked.
      
      “I’ve been hearing it all up and down this wall. You’d think I’d be 
used to it by now,” Aragorn grumbled.
      
      But had he been hearing the rope’s noises? ‘No,’ he realised, and 
his heart began its dance again. ‘Wait. I’ve been listening to the creaking 
of the board. The ropes themselves haven’t made any noise until now.’
      
      The board beneath him creaked once more…
      
      … and with that scant warning, the boundary between Aragorn and 
the world fifty feet or more below fell away.

***
      
      Legolas approached the restive stallion slowly, one hand lifted 
slightly. His green eyes were a study in kindness embodied, and his voice 
was like a mare’s soft breathing in a young colt’s ear. He spoke in Elvish, 
knowing this to be a language that calmed both men and beasts.
      
      “Be still, handsome one. I am only wishing to take the bit from 
your mouth. Will you let me help you? I think so. I am Legolas, of the 
Dunedain. I could never hurt you. And when you are freed of that terrible 
bit, I’ll see to it that you dine on oats and sweet hay.” Murmuring in this 
way, Legolas moved his hand up to stroke, gently but confidently, along 
the stallion’s muscular neck.
      
      The horse shuddered and blew through his nose. But he’d stopped 
trying to back away.
      
      “Ai, I know it pains you. Let me remove it, and all will be well. I’ll 
give you what I’ve promised, and a good brushing besides. Then I’ll take 
you for a ride out under the free sun, and you’ll taste the air outside these 
walls for a while.”
      
      These were presumptuous claims to make, perhaps, considering 
that Legolas had only been a servant of the Lord of Gondor for two days, 
but he spoke confidently nonetheless. If all he’d seen was true, then the 
grooms would let him exercise the stallion, just to keep him calm.
      
      Talking and stroking, Legolas eased the bit from the stallion’s 
mouth. “There,” he breathed. “That’s better, isn’t it?”
      
      The stallion whickered and Legolas laughed. “I’m glad you agree.”
      
      He remained by the horse for several more minutes, speaking 
nonsense into his ears. The stallion had calmed; his head rested on 
Legolas’ shoulder.
      
      Excited babble suddenly exploded outside the stable, and Legolas 
turned his head in that direction. He couldn’t see anything because of the 
way the building had been constructed. He heard a woman gasp, “Won’t 
he fall?”
      
      “The Lord Denethor wouldn’t send one of his people up if it 
wasn’t safe,” a man assured her.
      
      The name of the Steward’s son made Legolas’ blood boil, but he 
tried, at least for the moment, to ignore it. Instead, his expression calm and 
his eyes cool, Legolas stepped out of the stable.
	
      Everyone in the small crowd around him was staring upward and 
towards the East Tower. Legolas followed their gaze.

	His heart leapt into his throat when he saw Aragorn on the flimsy 
scaffold-board. His master’s back was to him, so he couldn’t see his face, 
but he read the tension in Aragorn’s shoulders. ‘He doesn’t like being up 
there,’ Legolas thought as his skin crawled. ‘I don’t blame him. A weaker, 
thinner bit of wood I’ve never-’

	He stopped there, for his eyes, drifting upwards a little more, found 
a frayed place in the rope seven feet or so over his master’s head.

	Legolas’ body was in motion before his mind even understood 
what he must do. Leaping up, Legolas caught hold of the overhang on the 
stable. He swung up onto the stable’s roof. His quiver (which he’d 
retained after giving his word that he would use no arrow) bounced on his 
back as if to let him know that it, too, was ready. He readied his bow and 
fitted an arrow to the string. The arrow was launched, and in an instant, it 
had imbedded itself in a wooden brace that ran for five feet in each 
direction about three man-heights below where Aragorn dangled.

	Without pausing to see if his arrow had hit its mark, Legolas shot 
three more in quick succession. While the last one was still quivering, one 
of the ropes attached to the board-scaffold snapped, and Aragorn fell.

***	
      
      When the rope snapped, the first thing to plummet towards the 
ground was the bucket of water Aragorn had balanced on the board beside 
him. The sponge followed after. Aragorn had grasped desperately for the 
other rope, and now he hung, legs dangling, wrists, arms and shoulders 
already screaming from the sudden strain. Doggedly, he ignored the 
flagstones below him. If he fell from this height, he’d have an instant to 
contemplate death before it came, and then he would never see his 
Rangers or his brothers again.
      
      The knowledge that he might die without giving Middle-Earth an 
heir flitted through his mind, but he discarded it. Resolutely, he began to 
climb.
      
      The rope creaked sickeningly, and Aragorn sensed that it was 
about to break. Throttling down his panic, he climbed faster.

*** 
      
      “Master!” Legolas shouted in alarm. Why was his master climbing 
up the rope? Hadn’t he heard the arrows hit below him? Didn’t he 
understand what they were for?
      
      Putting his hands to his mouth so the sound of his voice would 
carry a little further, Legolas took a breath and trumpeted, “Master 
Aragorn, just drop! You’ll catch the arrows!”
      
      His master didn’t look around or release the rope. And now 
Legolas could see the place ten feet above his master’s head where the 
second rope was fraying.
      
      Abandoning all protocol, he roared, “Dunadan! Drop! Now!”
      
      The effect was immediate. Aragorn released his grip on the rope, 
and plunged. His boots broke two of the arrows as he slammed into the 
shafts, but he caught hold of the other two, and came to a sudden, surely 
painful, stop.
      
      Above him, the rope he’d been clinging to broke at last and drifted 
down past him. Aragorn didn’t acknowledge it.
      
      Legolas again grasped his bow, and now he sent more arrows into 
the wood, so close to the others that if Aragorn had moved (not that he 
could) he might have lost a finger or two. Aragorn could now hold two 
arrow-shafts in each hand.
      
      ‘Now that he’s secure, what are you going to do?’ Legolas 
demanded of himself.
      
      He knew. Hastily, he slipped his bow into its place on his back for 
a moment, then he took rope and tied it to yet another arrow. This one, 
too, he shot, and it sailed true, imbedding itself in the solid wooden brace. 
The rope dangled down like a tail.
      
      Aragorn wasted no time. He grasped the rope firmly in his left 
hand, then put his right under his left. With his feet against the wall, he 
began to make his way carefully yet quickly to the ground.
      
      Legolas jumped down from the stable roof and ran towards his 
master. The crowd parted willingly enough for him (in truth, most of them 
could do little but go where he shoved them) and soon he was standing 
below his master as Aragorn scaled down the last dozen feet.
      
      When he was three feet off the ground, Aragorn dropped and 
landed lightly beside Legolas.
      
      The crowd came to life, cheering and stomping.
      
      Aragorn ignored all this. His eyes shining with gratitude and his 
face relaxing at last as the stress fell away, he scooped Legolas into his 
arms and whirled around, hugging the elf to him.
      
      “Aii, my Legolas,” he breathed after he’d set the elf on his feet 
once more, “you saved my life.” He drew Legolas closer. “Thank you, 
Legolas. Thank you.”  
      
      Legolas grinned up at him, and then snuggled against his chest. He 
couldn’t speak. All he wanted to do was hold Aragorn and be held in turn.
      
      He’d forgotten about everyone around them until a voice called, 
“Make way! Make way for the son of the Steward! Make way!”
      
      Legolas’ head snapped up and he tried to wriggle out of Aragorn’s 
embrace. His eyes flashed as he remembered what the man outside the 
stable had said. “The Lord Denethor wouldn’t send one of his people up if 
it wasn’t safe.”
      
      Legolas thought acidly, ‘Yes, he would. He would certainly send 
Master Aragorn up there. He doesn’t value anyone’s life but his own.’  
      
      The Steward swept around the corner, and a long train of 
counselors and bootlickers. He stopped in front of Aragorn and glared at 
him.
      
      The Ranger bowed, as he was supposed to, and gestured for 
Legolas to do the same.
      
      But Legolas was still furious, and he refused to follow his master’s 
lead.

***
      
      Denethor stared at the beauty before him, and his penis jumped a 
little.
      
      Suddenly, anger filled him as he realised the elf wasn’t showing 
him respect, and he snapped, “Bow before royalty, you insolent swine!”
      
      The man from out of the North, the one he’d tried to kill, grabbed 
the elf’s arm and dragged him to his side. “Legolas, bow,” he commanded 
tersely.

	Denethor spoke then, before Legolas could obey. Denethor wasn’t 
sure even an order from his master was enough to make the elf show 
respect. ‘If I was his master, I could teach him the proper way to greet 
royalty.’
	
      “Elf, you will be punished for your insolence,” he decreed.

	“I’ve already been punished,” Legolas countered, his eyes 
darkening with fury. “You tried to kill Master A- Thorongil. I’m only 
giving you something to punish me for. Better that than think you were 
trying to kill him for no reason at all.”

***

	Aragorn put his hand over Legolas’ mouth. He could have done it 
before, but he’d been so amazed and pleasantly surprised by Legolas’ flow 
of words that he hadn’t bothered to stop him. “I’ll discipline him, my 
Lord,” he said to Denethor, hating himself for giving such respect to a 
weasel.

	‘But it can’t be helped,’ he thought regretfully. ‘There will come a 
time when I can speak to him as he needs to be spoken to, but that time is 
not now.’

	Denethor’s face reddened. “I will punish him, for it is to me that he 
rendered the offense!” He stepped forward, his fists clenching and 
unclenching.

***
      
      Aragorn was given an unlovely view of the man’s flaring nostrils. 
With difficultly, he schooled his features into a calm, yet respectful, mask. 
“My Lord Denethor, who better than his master to know what discipline 
an elf can take? For, as you surely know, my Lord, elves are not like men 
in many ways. They are stronger in areas like archery, but a single stroke 
from a whip can strip an elf’s flesh down to the bone. Legolas will be 
disciplined, but I beg you to let me use the force I believe is necessary.”
      
      “And what would you do?” Denethor sneered. “Give him a six 
course meal?”
      
      “By your leave, my Lord, I would take Legolas and cut his hair. 
An elf that is disobedient is almost always vain as well. Surely that is the 
case with Legolas. If I cut his hair, he will be shamed and will remember 
who his master is, and who his Lord is, also.”
      
      Aragorn waited, trying not to show how anxious he was for 
Denethor’s reply. ‘We’ll leave Gondor if we have to. I won’t let him lay a 
hand on Legolas.’
      
      But that was a crazy thought. Wasn’t it? What man would give up 
a step towards his destiny for little more than a whore?
      
      ‘He is no whore. He is Legolas. And if I must leave in order to 
protect him, I will. Let Gondor fend for itself a little longer. Surely 
Denethor is beyond my reach.’
      
      He refused to think of Ecthelion, who had struck him as strong, yet 
willing to listen and consider.
      
      With an obvious effort (obvious, that was, to Aragorn and Legolas) 
Denethor composed himself. He said flatly to Aragorn, “I want to see what 
you have done to his hair on the morrow.” He turned to go, but before he 
rounded the corner, he glanced back over his shoulder. “You may go back 
to your job of yesterday,” he called to Aragorn. Or perhaps he taunted.

	‘But for now, we can go,’ Aragorn finished silently.
      
      He turned to Legolas when the Steward’s son had passed around 
the corner. The elf was gazing up at him, and the anger had left his face. 
He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were calm.
      
      Aragorn touched his shoulder, and whispered, “Let’s go.”

Chapter Fourteen

      ‘I have to tell him now,’ Legolas thought miserably.
      
      He’d been dreading this confession all the way from the foot of the 
East Tower.
      
      ‘If I don’t tell him, someone else might say something. Or worse. 
They might do something.
      
      He shivered. They- meaning Denethor, probably- would either 
banish Master Aragorn from Gondor, or try to kill him.
      
      Anger blazed in Legolas suddenly, and he grimaced. ‘Denethor 
already tried to kill him.’
      
      Then fear replaced anger as he thought, ‘Did he already know? 
Does he know Master Aragorn will supplant him some day?’ He knew 
instinctively that his master wouldn’t come to the throne in Echthellion’s 
lifetime.
      
      ‘And,’ he asked, his heart sinking, ‘if he is trying to kill my master, 
how can I stop him? I can’t defend my master all the time. I’m not even 
with him much of the time.’
      
      ‘This is the way to start,’ some corner f his mind whispered. ‘Tell 
him your mistake, and then tell him your suspicions. He’ll listen to you. 
Has he ever hurt you for making a mistake?’
      
      ‘No,’ Legolas admitted, ‘but I never revealed his path to the throne 
before, either.’
      
      Swallowing, Legolas steeled himself. They had reached their 
room, and Aragorn led the way inside. He seemed lost in his own 
thoughts, and Legolas wondered if he should wait awhile.
      
      ‘Nay. That’s the coward’s way out. I’ll not dishonor myself.’
      
      But that choice of words distracted him for a moment, and briefly 
he remembered when he’d heard another said nearly the same words.
      
///Flashback///
      
      “We could chop wood in the village,” Aaron offered. His face and 
voice said plainly that he wanted to be no man’s servant, but he would do 
anything to find the missing Dunadan.
      
      Aragorn sat, cross-legged, on his pallet. Mordecai and Aaron sat 
before him. With them, also, was Melchelai, father of Malacai and 
Mordecai. The older man’s eyes were dark with rage and thinly-covered 
worry. His eldest son had been missing for three days, and no trace of him 
could be found.
      
      Legolas had sat in the tent, off to one side, unnoticed. Beside him, 
also invisible to the worried men, was Saru. The two held hands and 
listened to the men debate. The boys watched the evening shadows change 
the faces before them. Neither liked what the dark did to the four familiar 
faces.
      
      “Aye, and where would that get us?” Mordecai snapped. Normally 
unflappable, Mordecai’s inner strength had been steadily chipped away by 
the stress.
      
      “If we were trusted, or at least seen as day-laborers, we might hear 
useful gossip,” Aragorn answered. His eyes were closed, and his voice 
was little more than the rumble of thunder in the distance.
      
      Aaron opened his mouth, but Aragorn held up a hand. “Wait, 
Aaron. Just wait.”
      
      The young Ranger closed his mouth. This was his first council 
since his brother had died, and he endeavored to fill his brother’s large and 
weighty shoes.
      
      He didn’t bother to wonder how Aragorn had known he was about 
to speak. He looked at Aragorn as very close to all-powerful, and certainly 
all-knowing. As far as he knew, there was no weakness in his chief.
      
      “We’ll go to Bree, Melchelai, Legolas and I,” Aragorn said at last.
      
      ‘Why am I going?’ Legolas wondered. And when he glanced at 
Saru, he saw the same question in his friend’s eyes.
      
      “We’ll do some discreet asking, and some even more discreet 
spying,” Aragorn resumed. “My guess is that Malacai is still relatively 
nearby. My heart tells me he lives, and that he is fighting something.”
      
      “An enemy?” Mordecai blurted. His hands balled into fists.
      
      “Or a disease or even a deep wound,” Aragorn answered calmly.
      
      Legolas tightened his hold on Saru’s hand. The younger boy 
squeezed back, and his knuckles were white.
      
      Aragorn looked to his second-in-command. “Melchelai, tell me 
what Malacai said to you three days ago.”
      
      The man had repeated the words twice already, but he did so again 
without hesitation. “‘Father, I want to know if the rumors are true. I’ll go 
to Bree, and see if Gandalf has indeed been spotted. If so, he must come 
here.’ My son glowed with pride, and added, ‘He must meet our Strider, 
the Hope of Men. I’ll be gone but a few hours.’”
      
      “And he went East?” Aragorn asked.
      
      “Aye.”
      
      “To avoid the orc-raiders which have been coming out of 
Mirkwood.”
      
      “Aye.”
      
      “We’ll start in Bree,” Aragorn repeated. “But Aaron, along with 
Hananleh and Breshta, will walk the trail from here to Bree two times. The 
first time, look for sign. Make sure to account for every track on or near 
the path. If you can’t do that, memorize where it is, and tell me about it. 
The second time, listen to the trees and the earth. See what story they tell. 
After that second walk, join us in Bree, where you’ll give your report.”
      
      Mordecai exclaimed as soon as Aragorn had fallen silent, “What 
about me? I have to help you look for Malacai! I’m a good tracker- one of 
your best! How can you afford to leave me here?”
      
      The chief met the other man’s gaze. “I need someone to lead the 
Dunedain while I’m gone,” Aragorn answered quietly. He held 
Mordecai’s gaze until the other Ranger nodded sadly, showing he 
understood and accepted his duty.
      
      His eyes stated plainly that he didn’t like it, however.
      
      Aragorn dismissed the others after another minute or so of swift 
planning. Saru followed Mordecai out. He’d stuck to the brother of his 
master since Malacai left. Beside the younger yet taller son of Melchelai 
he looked even smaller and more lost than usual.
      
      When the others were gone, Aragorn called Legolas to him. “We 
have played hide-and-seek many times, Legolas. Do you remember when 
we played in the gardens of Imladris?”
      
      Legolas nodded.
      
      “I’m going to need your tracking skills,” Aragorn said bluntly. 
“But even more than that, I need your ability to become almost invisible. 
This may be a dangerous assignment for you, but I know you’re ready.” 
He stood and put his hands on Legolas’ shoulders. “You’ve proven 
yourself time and again in play. Now prove yourself in this mission.”
      
      He made sure Legolas was meeting his eyes when he spoke again. 
“Much rests on your ability to hear and see what most people think a slave 
does not.” The man took in a deep breath. “My Legolas, I am going to 
have to dress you in rags. You look more like a Dunadan-child as you are 
now. And I may have to bind your hands. If you are seen as submissive 
and frightened, so much the better. But a rope around your hands might 
help to convince the folk of Bree that you are indeed my slave, with not 
much in the way of a will of your own.”
      
      He studied Legolas in silence for a moment, then asked, “Do you 
understand all that I’ve said? Ask any questions now. There most likely 
won’t be another chance.”
      
      “Master, I have none,” the eleven-year old responded stoutly. “I’ll 
do all that you ask, and I’ll not rest until Master Malacai is safe again.” 
Legolas stood straight and thrust out his chest. His eyes were somber, and 
he obviously meant to convince Aragorn of his dedication.
      
      For a moment, Aragorn’s face was unreadable. Then he murmured, 
“Aye, my Legolas, I know you will.” He tilted Legolas’ head up and 
kissed his brow. “Come now. We must find your costume.”

***
      
      When the two Rangers and the slave reached Bree that evening, 
Aragorn at once sent Legolas off to the bar. “To get drinks,” Aragorn said 
aloud, but he tipped Legolas a wink, and the elf knew he was really being 
sent on the first part of his mission.
      
      He approached the bar, doing his best to look scared and a little 
confused. He mused that it wasn’t hard for him to appear frightened. The 
sight, sound and smell of so many drunk and half-drunken men made his 
skin prickle. ‘I feel like I’m walking into a warg’s den,’ he reflected.
      
      Someone bumped into him, and Legolas let out a squeak of fright 
that was only half-planned. The man hurried on his way, not seeming to 
notice that he’d almost run the elf down, but Legolas followed him with 
his eyes. The man seated himself with two others in a shadowy corner.
      
      ‘This room seems to be nothing but shadowy corners,’ Legolas 
complained silently. He turned his gaze back towards the bar, but listened 
as the man who had just seated himself spoke in hushed tones to the other 
two. Legolas sat down at a little table off to one side, one that was meant 
for hobbits.
      
      “He’s waking up.”
      
      “‘Bout time, too,” a second man grumbled. “Why’d y’ have to hit 
him s’hard, Wennel?”
      
      “He was gettin’ on my nerves,” the third man answered sourly. 
“How was I supposed to know that sword was so sharp?”
      
      “It’s a damned Ranger sword- of course it’s sharp you fool!” 
snapped the second man.
      
      “He didn’t look like no Ranger I ever seen.”
      
      “That’s cuz he was in disguise,” muttered the second man.
      
      The first man sighed. “Look. Doesn’t matter who made the 
mistake, or who thought what. We’ll get this Ranger-filth to work with us. 
He’ll steal for us, and-”
      
      “If we let him go, Jard, he’ll not come back,” Wennel moaned.
      
      “He’ll come,” Jard crowed. “We’ll capture us some little urchin. 
We threaten to kill him, the Ranger’ll do what we ask.”
      
      “Where are we going to find a urchin?” the second man asked.
      
      “There’s lots of ‘em in Bree.” Wennel laughed. “We just have to 
steal the right one. It’ll have to be one that none’ll miss.”
      
      Legolas’ heart was beating very fast. ‘They have Master Malacai. 
Valar knows where, or how they caught him, but they have him.’ Panic 
threatened to drown him, but Legolas fought past it.
      
      ‘What do I do?’
      
      His heart racing, his head buzzing with a thousand thoughts, 
Legolas for a moment sat still as a stone.
      
      At last, like a bit of driftwood being thrust up onto the bank of a 
raging river, one thing the men had said caught Legolas’ attention. ‘They 
need a child to hurt…’ He shivered. ‘But maybe they wouldn’t hurt me. 
They might only threaten me. Surely Master Malacai wouldn’t let 
anything happen to me.’
      
      In that instant, Legolas knew what he had to do. ‘And scared or 
not, I have to do it. I’m not worthy of being Master’s slave if I don’t.’
      
      But now he had a new problem. How could he make the men 
choose him over all the other children in Bree? ‘What if they don’t like 
elves?’
      
      He stood and ran back to the table. Aragorn didn’t look up at him, 
but gestured with one hand, discreetly. Legolas stood beside his chair and 
whispered all that he’d heard.
      
      Aragorn muttered, his lips barely moving, “I’ll make you a good 
target. You’ll be kicked out of this pub- by me. I’ll make an excuse. 
They’ll take you to Malacai. We’ll follow. Pretend not to know Malacai, 
and show all the fear you can. Will you do this?”
      
      His voice quavering, Legolas answered, “Aye.” What else could he 
say? His master sounded so sure.
      
      Without another word, Aragorn rounded on him. “What do you 
mean you lost them? How can you lose twenty gold pieces?”
      
      Legolas fell back a step. “Master, I-I-”
      
      “Don’t lie to me!” Aragorn snarled. “I’ve had all I can take of 
you!” He grabbed Legolas’ upper arm and dragged him towards the door. 
“Damned whore! If I ever see you again, the worms will have joy of you!” 
He yanked Legolas to the door of the Prancing Pony and thrust him 
outside. 

	Legolas stood out in the darkness. He was stunned. The fact that he 
hadn’t done anything with money, and Aragorn knew it, didn’t change the 
fact that his master had yelled at him. Oh, he knew it was all show-
      
      ‘But knowing in my head is different than knowing in my heart.’ 
Legolas shivered. He hated it when his master was angry at anyone. ‘Even 
if it’s only pretend-anger, I hate it. I don’t want him to yell at me ever 
again.’
      
      “Are you all right, Little Friend?” a gruff voice asked.
      
      Legolas jumped. Why hadn’t he heard the man approaching?
      
      ‘Because I was lost in my own thoughts, that’s why. Now, stand up 
and be a Ranger! Make Master Aragorn proud.’
      
      ‘But I’m not a Ranger. He just yelled at me-’
      
      ‘And you’ve heard him yell at Master Malacai, at Halbarad, at 
Master Aaron. He doesn’t yell often, or meaninglessly, but he does yell at 
his Rangers.’
      
      Legolas swallowed, and cast his eyes down. “Yes, sir.”
      
      “It looks like you’re lost.” The man touched Legolas’ chin and 
tilted his head up. “Are you?”
      
      His breath reeked of decay and ale. Legolas resisted the urge to 
back away. Instead, he let his eyes swim with tears, and let a few fall.
      
      ‘There. I’ll cry a little and feel better.’
      
      But crying had never helped him before, and Legolas wouldn’t 
fool himself. Aragorn had taught him long ago that honesty with oneself 
as well as the world at large was essential for a happy, fulfilling life.
      
      “I’m lost,” Legolas whispered. It was the man, Wennel, from the 
inn, but Legolas felt no attendant triumph when he realized this. He felt 
only a deepening terror. What if they had killed Master Malacai, and he, 
Legolas, was doomed to be their slave? He remembered the few stories 
Saru had told about his days before the Rangers, and shivered. ‘Please, 
Master Aragorn, please come find me. Soon!’
      
      The man took Legolas’ hand. “Come. I’ll help you, Little Friend.”
      
      Legolas could do nothing but obey. He followed Wennel through 
the streets towards the edge of the village. They were walking south along 
the man road, and Legolas dreaded what would happen if they left the 
village.
      
      ‘Is Master Aragorn following yet? What if he’s still waiting for 
one of the other two to leave the table? What if they can’t track me?’ His 
tears began to flow again, and Legolas was powerless to stop them.
      
      “Oh, Little Friend, everything will be all right.” Wennel squeezed 
his hand.
      
      To Legolas, it was as though the man were tightening a noose 
around his neck. He’d seen one man hung- No. This was not the time to 
think about that. Legolas bit his lip and tried to keep his weeping silent.
      
      At the second to last house, Wennel turned to walk up the path. He 
guided Legolas with a gentle but firm hand and Legolas though, ‘As soon 
as we enter the house, all this gentleness will stop. He’ll have what he 
wants.’
      
      But Wennel’s grip didn’t change as they climbed the porch nor as 
they entered the front door. He guided Legolas down a narrow hallway to 
a room in the back. In the doorway, he paused, and tightened his hand ever 
so slightly on Legolas’ shoulder to keep him from walking forward. 
      
      Legolas’ eyes were drawn at once to the far wall. Malacai was tied 
there by a rope that looked very strong. ‘Of course it’s strong,’ Legolas 
thought sarcastically, ‘that’s Master Malacai’s own rope!’
      
      Malacai was awake, but his face was ashen, except for a livid 
bruise on his right cheek and another on his right temple.
      
      ‘Whoever hit him is left-handed,’ Legolas thought, then wondered 
how he could be thinking so calmly.
      
      ‘I have no choice,’ he realized. ‘If I’m not calm- or if I show that I 
know him at all- this is going to fail. We have to stall, somehow, until 
Master Aragorn comes.’
      
      With this new knowledge, Legolas’ courage was bolstered, if only 
a little.
      
      Wennel closed the door behind him. “Ranger-filth, this is my little 
friend. He’s decided to make sure you do all we say. He-”
      
      The door opened behind him, and Wennel jumped a little. But it 
was only the other two, and he relaxed.
      
      “You forgot t’ lock the door,” Jard snapped.
      
      “I was waiting for you-”
      
      “You know we both have keys,” the other snarled.
      
      “Pud, I got him here, didn’t I? Do you expect me to remember 
everything?”
      
      “Rangers’ll come here soon enough, looking for him,” Jard 
answered. “I ‘spect you to remember more than your name and your dick.”
      
      Wennel turned red. “Look, I-”
      
      “Enough,” said Jard, waving his hand. “Let’s get goin’.” He 
walked towards Malacai. “I’m going to untie you, and you’re going to do 
everything we say.” He spoke slowly, as if Malacai were stupid. He 
started to reach for the first knot.
      
      “Wait!” Pud cried. “We should test it, y’know. We need t’ known 
if’n he’ll do what we say.”
      
      Jard nodded. He put his hand on the wall above Malacai’s head, 
and lifted one booted foot. “Lick my boots, Filth, or we’ll kill the urchin.”
      
      Malacai didn’t answer.
      
      “Come on, Ranger, we ain’t got all day!” cried Wennel.
      
      Malacai looked the man right in the eye, and spat at him. “Your 
father, if he had any honor at all, must be groaning in his grave.”
      
      A new wave of fear washed over Legolas. Malacai sounded awful: 
his voice was hoarse and slurred. Worse yet, when he was done speaking, 
he fell into a fit of wracking coughs. He coughed until he was gasping for 
air, but at last the fit faded. He hung in his bonds, trying to breath 
normally again.
      
      Jard strode to a table in one corner of the room, and picked up a 
coiled whip. “I’ll beat him,” he growled, pointing the whip at Legolas.
      
      “You strike him-” Malacai wheezed- “once, he’ll be dead. He’s an 
elf and-” he coughed- “and they can’t stand a single lash.”
      
      Wennel snatched the whip from Jard. “Then we’ll beat you!” He 
lifted the whip high. “Beg me, Dirt! Beg me, Shit! Beg me not t’ hit you!”
      
      Malacai’s breathing was worse than ever, but he managed to reply, 
“That’s the coward’s way, not mine. I’ll not dishonor my people.” 
      
      Before Legolas could do anything- even if he’d known what he 
could do- Wennel struck Malacai in the face with the whip. He struck him 
six times, and each time the whip fell, Legolas’ stomach tightened.
      
      Malacai did not scream.
      
      The door shattered inward. Legolas and Jard still stood before it, 
and thus they were propelled forward. Legolas wriggled out of Jard’s 
weakened grasp, and ran to Malacai. He didn’t care if his actions were 
suspect. He needed to know if Master Malacai was still alive.
      
      Melchelai was the first in the room. He had battered the door down 
with his shoulder, and he allowed his momentum to carry him inside. His 
face was almost black with fury, and the scream that accompanied his 
entrance froze Legolas’ blood.
      
      Wennel reacted with a deadly speed the other two were lacking. 
Despite his whining, he had a savage streak of self-preservation, and this 
emboldened him in the face of the howling demon. He brought the whip 
back and swung it through the air.
      
      “No!”
      
      Legolas watched in horror as his master, having followed at 
Melchelai’s heels, tried to shove his second-in-command out of the way.
      
      The whip cracked.
      
      The two Dunedain fell.
      
      A silence louder than a scream descended over the room.
      
      Then Melchelai uttered a gurgling moan.
      
      Heedless to his own danger, Aragorn shifted so that he could turn 
the man over in his arms.
      
      The whip had made a cut down Melchelai’s face.
      
      But the worse damage was to his left eye. This was completely 
gone, and Legolas thought he could see the white gleam of bone. He 
turned away and buried his head against Malacai’s heaving chest.
      
      A part of him registered that Malacai was indeed alive, and also 
awake. Legolas began to sob.
      
      Aragorn was speaking softly in the Common Speech, but his words 
carried at least to Legolas’ ears. “Melchelai, my strong Melchelai. Pass, 
my second. Pass in peace.”
      
      ‘It’s only a little cut!’ Legolas wanted to scream.
      
      But then Malacai’s breathing grew even more harsh, and Legolas 
knew that his master had to speak Melchelai’s Passing Rites.
      
      The sickening gurgle that had become Melchelai’s breathing grew 
a little louder, and he tried to speak. “Malc…Malc…”
      
      “I’m here, Father.” Legolas felt Malacai’s muscles tighten as he 
fought to keep the wheeze out of his voice.
      
      “Safe?” Melchelai asked. He coughed harshly.
      
      Legolas thought, ‘They are father and son. They are both dying the 
same way.’ He couldn’t cry. His whole body felt wrung out.
      
      “Yes. I love you. Mordecai loves you. We’ll see you again. I 
promise.”
      
      “l…lo….”
      
      Melchelai’s words faded. His breathing hitched, then stopped.
      
      Legolas peeked back at his master. Aragorn’s shoulder was 
obscuring Melchelai’s face, for which Legolas was very grateful.
      
      The Chief of the Dunedain stood, leaving the body of his second 
resting on the floor. He drew his sword.
      
      The three men hadn’t moved. They had been either too stupid or 
too afraid to do so. They tried to back away as Aragorn approached, but 
there was nowhere they could go.
      
      “Legolas, turn to me,” Malacai rasped.
      
      Legolas obeyed, and again buried his face in Malacai’s chest. For 
good measure, he squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears.
      
      But it wasn’t enough. He still heard the wet then dry sound of 
Aragorn’s sword hitting the neck of the first man. Desperate not to hear 
that again, Legolas screamed. He would do anything to keep from hearing 
that sound again.
      
      A hand fell on his shoulder an eternity later. When he stopped 
screaming, he realized the sounds were over. He didn’t open his eyes, but 
whispered, “Master?”
      
      Aragorn picked him up and hugged him. “It’s all right now, Little 
One.”
      
      ‘Little Friend,’ Legolas thought, and shivered.
      
      Aragorn rocked him. “It’s over now.”
      
///End Flashback///
      
      ‘No wonder I remember Master Malacai’s words so well,’ Legolas 
thought morosely. ‘That was the first time I saw or heard death.’
      
      The things that happened after that- the coming of Aaron and the 
others, Melchelai’s pyre, the coming of Malacai into his father’s office- 
were all faint memories in Legolas’ mind. They were more like shadows 
than anything.
      
      Legolas swallowed. ‘But I will remember Master Malacai’s words 
and face my mistake.’
      
      He turned his eyes on Aragorn, who was sitting on the bed, his 
eyes open, but distant. A frown darkened his features, making him look 
more like a living rock than a man. Legolas shivered.
      
      “Master Aragorn?” he ventured.
      
      At once, Aragorn’s eyes became aware again, and he glanced up at 
Legolas. He raised an eyebrow in question. There was no way to read the 
expression in his eyes.
      
      Legolas stepped closer to the bed and knelt before Aragorn in a 
position of submissiveness. He bit his lip. “I said your name today. Out in 
the courtyard in front of the stables. I yelled to you, but you didn’t hear 
me.”
      
      “I know.”
      
      The coldness in Aragorn’s voice made Legolas cringe, and for long 
moments, he couldn’t speak. His lungs seemed suddenly weak and 
shrunken. His chest hurt as he struggled to take in air.
      
      “You were not heard, at least by any that I saw. None of their faces 
registered that they understood what the name meant.” Aragorn’s hands 
had tightened on the edges of the bed. “But you were very foolish, 
Legolas. I thought you had better sense.”
      
      Legolas whimpered. He couldn’t help it. How many years had it 
been since his master had scolded him so harshly? He couldn’t remember 
the last time, or if it had ever happened at all. He wanted to whisper that it 
had been a mistake, that he was sorry, that he would never do it again. But 
Aragorn would respect him even less if he sniveled, so he took his 
punishment.
      
      “But one of them might tell Denethor, or Ecthelion, and then I will 
be in danger.” He fell silent, and Legolas feared what he would say next.
      
      Then a gentle hand fell on his shoulder, and Aragorn bade him in a 
softer tone, “Legolas, look at me.”
      
      Reluctantly, the elf raised his head.
      
      Shockingly, Aragorn was smiling, albeit a sad smile. “Legolas, 
you’ll never make this mistake again, I’m sure.”
      
      Legolas shook his head emphatically, but didn’t yet dare to speak.
      
      Aragorn kissed Legolas’ cheek, then his lips. “All is forgiven, 
Legolas.” His smile lost some of its sorrow. “I’m very proud of you for 
admitting your mistake. You showed much courage in that single act.” He 
kissed Legolas again. “Thank you.”
      
      Legolas wanted to let it end there; he didn’t want to confront 
Aragorn after being so thoroughly absolved. But now that his fear for 
himself was gone, his fear for his master came rolling back.
      
      “Master Aragorn?” he asked hesitantly.
      
      Aragorn smiled affectionately at him. “Yes, my Legolas?”
      
      ‘He looks too young when he smiles like that,’ Legolas thought 
distractedly. Then he mentally slapped himself. ‘Stop your daydreaming! 
That won’t help him!’
      
      “Master, I think Denethor is trying to kill you.”
      
      Aragorn’s smile became less affectionate. It turned sad once more, 
and had a wry edge to it. “Aye, I know he is.” He paused, as if considering 
whether he should say something, but let it pass.
      
      ‘My fears are, after all, unfounded,’ Aragorn assured himself.
      
      To Legolas, he said, “And even if I am being a little prejudiced- 
which is possible- he certainly hates me enough to make our time here 
very uncomfortable.”
      
      Just like Aragorn’s shocking smile, Legolas was stunned by his 
master’s words. All he could do at first was sit at Aragorn’s feet and 
breathe. No thought passed through his mind.
      
      “The Dunedain know our enemies, Legolas,” Aragorn whispered. 
“Whether they be in Mordor, Harad, Gondor, or the camp, we know our 
enemies.”
      
      ‘Or in the camp…’ Legolas thought of Halbarad. He wondered if a 
man that was an enemy to him was also his master’s enemy. He knew it 
certainly worked the other way around.
      
      ‘But I’m a slave,’ he reminded himself. ‘Not every rule is the same 
for both of us. In fact,’ and here he had to hide a bitter smile, ‘if I was any 
man’s slave but Aragorn’s, there would be no rules that are true for both 
of us.’
      
      He wanted to cast his mind back, to check and see if he and his 
master had many rules in common, but then Aragorn was speaking again.
      
      “Remain on your guard, as you would if we two were in the forest 
alone in a known orc-haunt. I’ll do the same. There’s little more we can 
do. Ecthelion must be helped. Gondor must be saved.”
Chapter Fifteen
      ‘How old am I?’ Saru wondered as he followed Kehydi through 
the darkness to their favorite safe-spot: an ancient, dead tree a little 
distance from the camp. Here was one of the few places where they could 
be alone. He was a little worried to realize that he couldn’t answer right 
away.
      ‘Time passes strangely here,’ he thought. He had been eleven- 
nearly twelve- when Legolas left for Rohan. ‘That was two years ago. Or 
was it three?’
      He shook his head. He knew he could always ask Kehydi, but he 
didn’t want to sound as frightened or confused as he felt. Kehydi could 
always make him feel safe, but that didn’t mean Saru wanted to seem 
perpetually weak to his lover.
      The hand holding his tightened slightly and Saru came out of his 
thoughts quickly. He looked up at Kehydi in the moonlight. The familiar, 
dark eyes, so beautiful to him, gazed at him curiously. But there was a 
touch of worry in them as well. It was as if Kehydi always thought Saru 
had just been raped, instead of that ‘event’ having happened what felt like 
a lifetime ago.
      “Are you all right?” Kehydi’s voice had changed a year ago, 
deepening, strengthening. He sounded older than his fifteen ‘or is it 
sixteen?’ years. 
      ‘He sounds more like his father every day,’ Saru thought with a 
pang of guilt and fear. For what they did now, while not precisely against 
Malacai’s spoken orders, was certainly against his unspoken ones. It was 
against the unspoken laws of all the Dunedain. Maybe of all Middle-Earth. 
Oh, Kehydi could take him, use him, and no one would care…
      ‘But our love is wrong, at least according to the freeborns.’ Saru 
sighed. ‘And part of me feels that it’s wrong, too.’
      And yet, despite his thoughts, Saru could do little more than feel 
grateful for the love he’d found with Kehydi.
      “Yes,” he said to Kehydi.
      “You look tired,” Kehydi said, and he drew Saru closer.
      Saru smelled the good, strong smell of his lover; earth, sweat, 
wood-smoke and deerskin. He buried his nose in Kehydi’s hair, as he did 
whenever he got the chance, and felt Kehydi relax against him. “I’m fine,” 
he murmured into the brown locks.
      “Aye, I know. I just-” Kehydi sighed and began to rub Saru’s back. 
He turned his head slightly and whispered into the shell of Saru’s ear, “I 
love you.”
      Saru smiled in the moonlight. “I love you, too.”
      After another moment standing like that (and with thoughts of 
possible discovery in both their minds) Kehydi pulled back and took 
Saru’s hand. They finished their stealthy journey to the tree.
      When they were in the branches, hidden from the world below by 
early fall’s diminishing leaves, Kehydi took Saru’s face in his hands, and 
kissed him.
      Saru kissed back, hungrily, almost desperately, and soon both of 
them were gasping for breath.
      Kehydi’s fingers came up and started to undo the lacings of Saru’s 
tunic.
      Saru gasped. “Please, not up here. It’s cold.”
      Kehydi nodded and stopped his fingers. He knew what Saru was 
saying without words: it was dangerous here. Maybe they could go a little 
further into the woods- “Do we have time tonight? When are you 
expected?”
      “Before dawn,” Saru answered.
      Kehydi sighed. “As always.” He kissed Saru again, more chastely 
this time. He had learned how to calm his emotions in a hurry. As a child, 
his anger and passion had caused endless brawls. Now that he had Saru to 
look out for, Kehydi had learned very quickly how to control himself.
      His parents often commented on how adult he was becoming.
      ‘Yes, I am an adult,’ Kehydi thought. ‘And someday I’ll be adult 
enough- old enough- to ask my father for permission to marry Saru.’
      The fact that this was not allowed among the Dunedain didn’t enter 
his mind.
      The fact that marrying Saru might be doing the slave a disservice 
never entered his mind, either. 
      Why should either of these do so? He was young, he was strong, 
and he was in love.
      “We’ll go back,” he decided. But as he made to start the climb 
down, Saru caught his hand.
      “Wait. Please.”
      Kehydi looked up at him.
      “One more kiss?” Saru asked shyly.
      One kiss turned into two, and two into two dozen.
      In the darkest hour before dawn, the two boys- or men- crept back 
to their tent through the chilly dew.
***
      Legolas kept his vigil well. He was crouched behind a large pillar 
in the main hall of Gondor. Aragorn had placed him there an hour ago, 
asking Legolas to listen to all that was said.
      “You may hear something I don’t,” he’d said, his eyes intense. “I 
need another set of ears- good ears- to listen to the tone of Lord 
Ecthelion’s voice.”
      In the throne room, Ecthelion spoke. “You speak very boldly for a 
common soldier out of Rohan,” he noted. “How do you come by all this 
knowledge you speak of?”
      “I have ridden in other lands before I served in Rohan, Lord,” 
Aragorn answered calmly. “I have joined forces with many sorts of men. 
The only thing all of them had in common was their opposition to the 
Shadow in the East.”
      This was something of an exaggeration, and Legolas grinned at his 
master’s choice of words. Yes, those that Aragorn had fought with were 
enemies of the Dark Lord, and yes, they were from diverse places. But the 
only ‘men’ he’d ever fought beside were the Dunedain. The others had all 
been elves or dwarves from various places. He had even fought alongside 
the Beornings once, but these were not men, either.
      ‘If you knew my master’s allies, you would cease to trust him,’ 
Legolas thought a trifle smugly. ‘He has ridden with people that you 
would consider very strange indeed.’ 
      It had been two days since Denethor’s attempt on Aragorn’s life- 
what the people of Gondor were calling ‘a terrible accident.’ It had taken 
Aragorn this long to win a private audience with the Steward.
      Aragorn had spoken briefly to Legolas before he went to speak 
with Ecthelion. “I didn’t understand what the shadow was that was thrown 
over Gondor when we first came here. The city looked healthy, though 
emptier than it should be. I know now: Denethor casts the shadow over his 
father and over the Gondorian people. Doubtless, this shadow comes 
originally from the East, but Denethor is very close to making it his own.” 
      Words from the throne room interrupted his daydreaming. “And 
you think that experience would help Gondor?” Ecthelion asked.
      “Yes, my Lord.”
      “Has it not occurred to you that I bring substantial experience with 
me?”
      “Yes, Lord, I know. But is it not the quest of every wise man to 
seek more knowledge?”
      Ecthelion nodded. “I will grant you that, though your flattery will 
not get you very far here.”
      “If you were not a wise ruler, Lord, I’d not be here,” Aragorn 
answered plainly. “What would be the use?”
      “But a wise man can discern what potential knowledge will be 
helpful, and what will be just chatter. Can you explain…”
      And around and around. Legolas listened to his master’s tone as 
much as to Ecthelion’s. ‘The Steward does not trust him, and yet he wants 
to trust him,’ Legolas realised. ‘He likes Master Aragorn. He wants to 
know what a man outside his circle knows about the world.’
      But as he listened to Aragorn’s tone, he heard sincerity, even 
though he knew his master was stretching the truth in some places. ‘I 
didn’t know he could lie so well,’ Legolas thought with a mixture of pride 
and unease. The pride came from the fact that his master was taking on a 
man who could have his head chopped off, but was instead listening to 
him.
      The unease was a little more complicated, but Legolas was able to 
understand it in this way: ‘If he’s lying now, when he sounds as if he’s 
telling the truth, has he ever lied to me? To the Rangers?’
      He wanted to discount this, and he felt guilty for thinking it at all, 
but now the thought was in his mind, and he couldn’t shake it loose.
      ‘Will I now be doomed to evaluate and mistrust him from this 
moment on?’
      Legolas feared that the answer was yes, and tears welled in his 
eyes. He brushed at them hastily, determined to hide his new knowledge 
from his master.
      Then a hand fell on his shoulder, and Legolas inhaled sharply in 
surprise. His mouth contorted into a little O. A cloth smelling of 
something strong and vaguely unpleasant was pressed over his mouth and 
nose. As his eyes rolled up to the whites, Legolas struggled to make the 
Dunedain whistle of alarm.
Chapter Sixteen
      The meeting with Ecthelion had gone well. Not only had the man 
heard what Aragorn had to say, but he had listened to it as well. He hadn’t 
interrupted, even when Aragorn told about the dark creatures of 
Mirkwood. ‘Those creatures must have seemed like something out of a 
legend,’ Aragorn thought as he left the throne room. ‘It’s a credit to his 
good judgment that he listened.’
      They had held their unusual council- one where the underling did 
more talking than the lord- for a little over three hours. That was all the 
time Ecthelion could spare, but Aragorn felt quite sure that the Steward 
understood much more about the world than he had at the start of their 
council.
      He meandered back towards his room, half-expecting to see 
Legolas along the way, but not really worrying. Legolas had been 
scheduled to run a few of the Steward’s new horses. Perhaps he’d already 
gone to do that, deciding to talk to his master after dark, when neither of 
them would be missed.
      ‘It’s funny that we were both told we would serve in the guard 
here. We’ve both seen a little work on watch, but mostly we’ve been 
mucking out stalls, tending horses and scrubbing walls. If that’s real guard 
duty, I’m a dwarf.’
      Aragorn’s own duties wouldn’t come until much later that 
afternoon, when he was to escort Denethor’s future wife to a dress-fitting. 
‘A page’s duty, but maybe I will learn a little more about Denethor from 
his lady. If they are in love, as I’ve heard, surely she’ll want to talk about 
her dashing lord.’ Aragorn’s mouth twisted sardonically, and several 
different words with which to replace ‘dashing’ occurred to him.
      Then he cursed. ‘I’m a fool. How often have I urged my Dunedain 
not to think only acid-thoughts about their enemies, lest they be blinded?’ 
He sighed. ‘Too many times. And here I am, setting that same trap for 
myself.’ He grimaced at himself. ‘Strider, you’re a fool, worthy of that 
ignorant name.’
      ‘I’m becoming bitter. And a bitter man wears blinders. I’ll not 
willingly do the Enemy’s work.’
      Casting aside his dislike for Denethor, Aragorn resumed his walk, 
thinking, ‘I’ll go to the kitchens and make myself useful. Mayhap I’ll learn 
a few new dishes to take back home.’
***
      The elf was amazingly light, and Denethor thought, ‘I must have 
more of these creatures! Easy to capture, easier to carry, and probably an 
easy rape on top of it all! Why haven’t I met one of these before? Well, 
when I become the Steward, I’ll invite elves here for a special banquet. 
Then, when they’re all lulled with drink and good food, I’ll make each and 
every one of them a whore. Men are good whores, after their fashion, but I 
think elves would be ideal in every way.’
      He carried Legolas through the halls towards the master bedroom 
he used. None of the servants he passed even glanced at the elf, preferring 
to look anywhere but directly at their Lord, and that, too, made Denethor 
happy. His servants knew what they were, and knew how to act towards a 
man of such a high rank.
      ‘Someday soon I’ll teach that upstart, Thorongil, to follow their 
example. But until then, I’ll make use of his slave.’
      He shifted Legolas over his shoulder once he’d reached his room 
so he could open the door. The elf was light, yes, but tall, and Denethor 
found it a little difficult to balance the elf there. As quickly as he could, 
Denethor carried his captive through the doorway.
      He dumped Legolas unceremoniously on the large, luxurious bed, 
then turned back to close and lock the door. With this done, he moved 
back towards the bed.
***
      There is a connection that exists between many elves, and 
sometimes between men and elves. Aragorn knew of the connection. 
Elrohir had felt it as a stabbing pain in his mind and heart at the very 
moment Elladan was raped, But this wasn~{!/~}t unusual. After all, he 
and Elladan were brothers, twin brothers, and elves as well. It happened 
less frequently among men, and usually among brothers or very close 
friends. This was the case with Aragorn and Malacai. The chief of the 
Dunedain had felt it as a certainty that Malacai was alive all those years 
ago when the son of his second-in-command had gone missing. It 
happened occasionally even between lovers. 
      As far as anyone knew (and this included Mithrandir, in all his 
wisdom) it had never happened between a slave and his master.
      At least, it hadn’t happened until the late morning of the day 
Aragorn gained his audience with Ecthelion.
      That was the day Legolas fem.
***
      The first thing Legolas saw upon waking was the grey curtain that 
hung between his eyes and the outside world. He reached up a clumsy-
feeling hand and tried to bat it away. Not only would it not be moved, but 
he couldn’t even feel it to move it. ‘But it must be very close to my face,’ 
he thought dazedly. ‘I can’t even see my hand very w-’
      His hand was snatched suddenly, and Legolas gasped as pain ran 
down from his wrist to his shoulder. Then his arm was shoved downwards 
and he felt something icy-cold close over his wrist.
      A voice that seemed to be issuing from a deep cave commanded, 
“Don’t move.”
      ‘Can’t move,’ Legolas thought with a queer sort of calm 
detachedness. ‘There’s an icicle pinning my arm down.’
      “You’re an obedient whore,” the far-off, echoing voice continued 
almost conversationally.
      ‘Whore?’ Legolas knew, even in this weakened, grey state, that he 
was no whore. ‘Is Glorfindel here? Why are we back in Rivendell? Is that 
Elrond’s voice?’
      Then as his other wrist was seized and pinned down by a second 
icicle, Legolas felt the hands that must belong to the voice. He realized, 
‘Those aren’t an elf’s hands.’ After a moment, he added, ‘And they’re not 
Master Aragorn’s.’ Then, after another pause, he realised, ‘There aren’t 
any other men in Rivendell besides Master Aragorn. Even the Rangers 
don’t go there very often. And that hand is too soft to be a Ranger-hand.’ 
Finally, his mind came up with this astonishing fact: ‘I’m not in 
Rivendell.’
      That brought this question: Who was the voice calling him a 
whore, then? 
      In this laborious, drug-induced way, Legolas began to understand 
that he was in danger.
      He struggled to speak. But at first, all he could manage was a rush 
of air.
      He’d wanted to ask a whole string of questions, beginning with: 
Where am I? He couldn’t manage something so complicated. He tried for 
a single sentence: Who are you? This, too, failed him, and so he settled on 
a single word as fear began to sweep through him.
      “Master…”
      “That’s right, whore, I’m your master,” the voice responded. It 
sounded quite pleased with itself. It also sounded closer, as if it had 
stepped out of the cave and into the open. But it still was distant, maybe in 
the next room.
      ‘No!’ Legolas wanted to cry. ‘You’re not Master Aragorn! I want 
Master Aragorn! I want Master’
      His lips formed the name, but his mind, confused or not, 
surrounded by grayness or not, remembered the recently-learned lesson, 
and he changed the word just in time.
      “Thorongil,” he rasped.  
      Pain exploded on the side of his face and, for a moment, the 
grayness around him changed to red in his left eye. As he struggled to 
understand what had happened, the voice was speaking again.
      “Thorongil is dead. You are mine now.” And then a hand grabbed 
him by the chin, and Legolas felt dull pain there. “You will not speak his 
name again.” The pressure on his chin increased. “Do I make myself 
clear?”
      ‘As a slime-crusted fen,’ Legolas thought in Aaron’s voice.
      He had to be sarcastic.
      He would not allow himself to hear what his captor had stated so 
coldly.
      He would not allow himself to consider the possibility that his 
master
      (that Aragorn)
      was dead.
      HE WOULD NOT.
      The pain came again, and now Legolas was lucid enough to realize 
that he’d been slapped. “Do I make myself clear?” the man raved.
      “Yes,” Legolas managed with a mouth that felt very dry.
      “Good.” The man was pleased with himself again.
      The grayness was clearing, but Legolas kept his face 
expressionless. He didn’t want his captor to know that he was starting to 
regain his strength. It was a Dunedain trick, and using it made Legolas 
wish desperately for Aragorn.
      ‘But if he knows I’m getting strong again, he’ll be careful,’ he 
thought coldly in Aragorn’s voice. ‘If I have any hope of escape, it’s in 
subterfuge.’
      Of course, his captor might be over-cautious anyway, and all this 
might be for naught. ‘But I’ll not pass by the road ‘til it’s at least been 
tried.’
      (He didn’t bother to think of where this phrase had come from. He 
knew it was one of the Rangers, but didn’t know which one.)
      His fear was growing.
      The fog in front of his eyes thinned at last, and then Legolas had to 
fight not to scream.
      Part of it was fear, of course, but most of that scream was borne of 
rage. ‘Denethor again! Will he never learn?’
      And now, what his captor had said slipped through Legolas’ 
defenses.
      It was easy to believe that Aragorn was dead when Legolas saw the 
laughing, snarling face of the hated man above him.
      Tears filled his eyes, and he was unable to hold them back.
      ‘So much for my mask,’ he thought in the back of his mind as the 
tears flowed.
      Denethor’s soft, unmanly hands lifted Legolas’ tunic, and that put 
an end to Legolas’ retrospective, if distracted, thoughts. He struggled, first 
one way, then the other. But the restraints held him fast.
      He felt a moan clawing its way up from the back of his throat, but 
repressed it.
      Denethor produced a knife from his belt, and carefully cut away 
Legolas’ shirt. The elf held perfectly still, not wanting to be cut by the 
sharp, gleaming blade.
      “You’re a smart whore,” Denethor murmured, his eyes laughing, 
as though he’d read Legolas’ thoughts in his expression. Perhaps he had. 
Denethor found it needful to be a judge of people, both slave and freeborn. 
      The reminder that he couldn’t take the dirt from the North apart so 
easily made his hand move a little faster. He gave Legolas a shallow cut 
just above his leggings, and the elf gasped, flinching as far away from the 
blade as he could.
      Denethor swore. He slapped Legolas. “Hold still,” he commanded.
      Within a minute, Denethor had cut away Legolas’ leggings and 
thrown them to one side. He served the elf’s underwear the same 
treatment. Now he gazed hungrily at the beauty revealed to him.
      The tan skin of Legolas’ chest and legs reminded Denethor of a 
female slave he’d raped once… But there was nothing feminine about the 
elf’s flat, muscular stomach, his hard nipples (hard because he was 
frightened and shivering in his fear) and the dusting of golden hair that 
grew around the base of the most beautiful penis Denethor had ever seen.
      ‘I have to touch it!’ his mind shouted. ‘More! I have to taste it!’ 
Denethor knelt on the bed between Legolas’ spread legs. His hands went 
to Legolas’ hips, to hold the elf still, and his head dipped down.
            Legolas could only watch in mute horror as his member was 
engulfed by Denethor’s terrible, wet heat. Tears were again trickling down 
his cheeks, and his mind sobbed, ‘Master Aragorn… Aragorn… please, 
Master, help me…’ But no sound escaped him. It was as if his mouth had 
been sealed, and nothing would open it again.
      Denethor moaned as the taste of his whore ran over his tongue. He 
closed his eyes, savoring it- and an image of Thorongil intruded on his 
peace. He swore, bit down, and Legolas screamed.
      Now Denethor’s mouth was filled with the taste of elven blood, 
which was a little sweeter than that of a man, and the Steward’s son didn’t 
find the taste unpleasant at all. He bent closer and licked Legolas’ 
member, and at the insides of his thighs, where the blood had spilled.
      Legolas’ screams had ceased, but only because he didn’t have 
enough breath to make them. His shock and horror had closed his mouth 
again. He bit down hard on his lips, and now he could taste his blood. 
Only soft moans slipped past his bloody lips.
      Denethor sat back, but instead of a look of satisfaction on his face, 
he looked angry and little frightened.
      Legolas stared at him uncomprehendingly.
      The image of Thorongil wouldn’t leave his mind. It had been a 
pretty lie to tell. He’d enjoyed saying that Thorongil was dead… but it 
wasn’t true. Orcs rot the man, it wasn’t true! Nor, a tiny part of his mind 
whispered, would it ever be true. That was what had caused him to hurt his 
prize. But now he was even more enraged, because he’d wanted to be 
gentle with his whore. He liked making them moan in pleasure before they 
screamed with pain. Now Thorongil had ruined that for him as well.
      ‘I’ll still rape the elf,’ a stubborn part of his mind insisted. ‘Then 
I’ll find a way to be free of Thorongil.’
      But when he glanced down at his member, he knew that he might 
have trouble making iron at the forge. He swore again, and, because he 
was there to be slapped, Denethor dealt Legolas a hard blow in the elf’s 
unprotected ribs.
      Legolas wheezed and moaned.
      Denethor heard the dry snap of the elf’s bone, and his member 
came back to life. “Perhaps I’ll be able to do this after all,” he crowed.
      Legolas stared up at him, and his eyes were large and swimming 
with tears.
      ‘No dewy-eyed maid, this,’ Denethor thought, and he grinned 
wolfishly. ‘This is a strapping, frightened little boy, and I’ll have my 
pleasure in him this day.’ He grasped Legolas’ hips once again and lifted 
him up a little.
      Legolas sobbed as his broken rib was jostled.
      Denethor saw the tight hole before him, and almost spilled right 
then. But by taking several deep breaths, he was able to get himself under 
control. He positioned himself and thrust in.
***
            Aragorn was heading towards the gardens to help one of the 
kitchen-girls pick a few spices for the evening meal when he felt the stab 
in his mind. It felt as if it came from right behind his eyes, but he knew 
enough to realize that it wasn’t a physical pain. He turned his eyes back 
towards the citadel, and when his mind said, ‘Yes, that direction,’ he took 
off running.
***
      Legolas knew the pain was coming, but he wasn’t prepared for the 
shocking cold that ran through him when Denethor penetrated his body. It 
was like being raped by an icicle. A sharp, jagged icicle. His body started 
to twist away, but Legolas stopped himself, knowing it would hurt even 
more if he moved.
      Then the darkness came. It was a frigid darkness. Like the pain 
between his legs, the darkness also stabbed and froze and twisted inside 
him. Legolas wanted to scream, because he could see things in that 
darkness.
      And he could hear them as well. They were gnashing their teeth, 
waiting to feast on him.
      The icicle between his legs had run up through his stomach now.
      ‘Aragorn!’ he screamed. ‘Aragorn! Aragorn! Ara-’
      Then a face swam in front of his dimming eyes and, to Legolas’ 
dying mind, it seemed to be the face of Glorfindel.
      ‘Come to the Halls of Mandos,’ the blond called. He held out a 
hand. ‘I’ll take you. You’ll be well there. I promise.’ He smiled 
reassuringly.
      The icicle was fading. It wasn’t disappearing because it was 
melting, but because Legolas was drifting away towards the kind elf 
before him.
      ‘Will I see Aragorn there?’ he asked hopefully.
      ‘No. Aragorn is not dead.’
      Now the face changed, and Legolas realized it wasn’t Glorfindel at 
all, or even a male elf. The female blonde before him smiled, but her smile 
was so different from Glorfindel’s that Legolas couldn’t understand how 
he’d mistaken it.
      ‘Come, Legolas. Leave the pain of the world behind. Come to a 
place of eternal peace.’
      ‘But.. but…’
      ‘But what?’ she asked softly, and Legolas felt the lure of her 
promise.
      ‘But… It wouldn’t be peace without Aragorn!’ he finished, and he 
felt his chest hitch as he sobbed. The pain of that movement was strangely 
reassuring; it was muted, but it was still there. He wasn’t dead yet. Dying, 
yes, but not quite dead.
      A sound of distant thunder filled his mind, but the female voice 
was still speaking to him, and Legolas didn’t pay attention. All he could 
do was listen to her. The promise of freedom from pain tempted him.
***
      Aragorn didn’t question his instincts. As a Dunadan, he knew that 
sometimes the difference between triumph and defeat was whether or not 
he trusted his instincts.
      So when he sensed Legolas behind a door in the citadel, he didn’t 
hesitate. He slammed into it shoulder-first, knowing it would be locked.
      It was, and it took him several more hard shoves before the door 
began to give way.
      ‘By the time I get in there, Legolas could be dead,’ Aragorn 
thought grimly. He didn’t let the thought frighten him, but instead allowed 
it to anger and strengthen him.
      The door first creaked, then shrieked, then splintered. Aragorn 
shoved his way into the room, ignoring the way the wood dug at his 
shoulder and his left hand as he struggled against it. He would have 
several splinters later that needed to removed, but the Rangers were used 
to such things. 
      The room before him was shadowy, being lit by no natural light. 
There were windows, but these were covered by heavy brocade curtains. 
Only a single candle, guttering out its last breath on the night table to the 
left of the enormous bed, lit the room. Hence, the figure on the bed, who, 
amazingly, hadn’t moved when he heard the door crash inward, was cast 
in shadow.
      This mattered little to Aragorn. He’d fought orcs in the pitch-
blackness of the caves not far to the east of Mirkwood. The man before 
him (he suspected it was Denethor, but didn’t pause to verify this) was less 
challenging than the twenty or so orcs he’d faced.
      As this thought flitted through his mind, the man turned with a 
grace and speed with which Aragorn would have accredited a Dunadan. 
But when he saw the snarl on his enemy’s face, he thought, ‘He’s more 
wolf than man.’
      Aragorn saw the knife that the man hurled, and moved. There was 
a sudden stick of fire in his hand, and it was as if he hadn’t unsheathed his 
sword, but rather that it had leapt into his hand to deflect the attack.
      The man was now on his feet, staggering a little. He had a sword 
now, and he faced Aragorn squarely. Aragorn could see the man’s tool 
hanging between his legs, and the Ranger thought, ‘I caught him. I caught 
him in the act of…’
            His mind wanted to pursue that, wanted to insist that he, Aragorn, 
worry about the figure chained to the bed. ‘But if I do that, I die.’ Aragorn 
readied himself for the attack.
       “Thorongil,” his enemy rasped, and Aragorn knew he’d been right 
to suspect Denethor. The man’s mouth dropped open in a predator’s grin. 
“Come to join your whore?”
      ‘My…’ Aragorn felt red rage descending over him, and fought it.
      ‘I can’t help Legolas right now. Let me deal with this lunatic.’
      ‘Be mindful, Aragorn,’ he heard in Elrond’s voice- Elrond as he 
had been when Aragorn was called Estel. ‘This is a battle between two 
stations. You aren’t king yet.’
      Yes. That was true. If he hurt Denethor badly (or if Denethor 
decided to make it look bad) Aragorn knew his life was forfeit. All that 
he’d accomplished with Ecthelion that morning would go for naught.
      Aragorn raised his left hand, palm out. “My Lord Denethor,” he 
said quietly, “I didn’t know it was you. Forgive my entrance, but my slave 
was missing. If you had wished to borrow him, why did you not ask me?”
      ‘Then, at least, I would have been prepared,’ Aragorn thought 
acidly.
      Denethor spat at him. “Filth, I can take whatever comes into my 
city.”
      Legolas moaned then, and maybe it was this that loosed Aragorn’s 
tongue. “It is not your city, but the city of the kings, the city of the Heirs 
of Isildur,” he rebuked, and though his voice was calm and controlled, 
hardly louder than a whisper, the tone of command in it was unmistakable.
      “They will never return!” Denethor roared, and he leapt at 
Aragorn.
      It was good for Denethor that he leapt. If he hadn’t, he might have 
had time to think on the change in Aragorn’s voice. That would have 
undone him, not with fear, but with anger. He would have attacked 
without reserve, and Aragorn would have killed him as surely as summer 
follows spring and winter brings death to the forests.
      It was good for Aragorn that Denethor leapt. If he hadn’t, the 
Dunadan might have doomed himself with his words. In short, it had been 
on his tongue to proclaim himself king of Gondor.
      He wasn’t ready for that. Much still had to pass before he could be.
      They met, blade to blade, and Aragorn fell back a step. Then he 
found his balance and shoved forward.
      But Denethor was too firmly planted. He’d only fought a dozen 
times (almost all of these with Guards of the Citadel) but his fury leant 
him strength and speed.
      None of this availed him when Aragorn hit him in the belly with 
his left fist. Denethor staggered, gasping.
      Aragorn didn’t thrust to kill. He simply thrust to disarm the man 
before him. He cut upwards, catching Denethor’s blade just above the hilt, 
where the blade began. There was a screech of metal, and then the weapon 
flew from Denethor’s weakened grasp.
      Aragorn shoved past him, so that he was now between Denethor 
and Legolas.
      Denethor straightened, cursing. But his curses came out in gusts as 
he panted. “Fucking… dirty… rat-shit… Enemy’s whore!”
      Aragorn raised his sword, and at the same time kicked Denethor’s 
sword under the bed. “Get out,” he snapped. “Get out before I make you.”
      Denethor hesitated, weighed his options, looked at the blade in 
Aragorn’s hand… and got out.
      Aragorn turned at once to Legolas, but he laid his sword close to 
hand, just in case Denethor came back.
      When he saw Legolas’ eyes, the blood froze in his veins.
///Flashback///
            Estel, twelve years old, heard the staccato, agitated clattering of 
hooves, and he left off his books.
      “Master Estel-” Glorfindel called, but only half-heartedly. He, too, 
was rising from his desk, his eyes anxious.
      Estel pelted to the window that overlooked the courtyard, and 
stared down, hoping against hope that it was Elrohir returning with 
Elladan.
      When he spied his brothers, he felt a sudden urge to retch.
      Sucking in his breath, he ran towards the door to the study (which 
Glorfindel held open for him before following in his wake) and then down 
the corridor. When he reached the steps that led down to the front doors, 
he took them two at a time.
      What he’d seen swam before his eyes.
      Elrohir had been swinging off his chestnut stallion, but his 
dismount had lacked its usual grace. He’d been using both hands to steady 
Elladan, who was slumped forward in the saddle, his usually-silky hair 
hanging over his face in matted clumps.
      Estel hadn’t been able to see anything else, but that brief look had 
told him all he needed to know. His brother Elladan was badly hurt.
      ‘Ada’s and Elrohir’s worse fears have happened,’ he thought as he 
barged through the front door and leapt down the four steps to the 
courtyard.
      Elrohir looked up as Estel rushed towards him. He didn’t seem to 
know who he was looking at. “Get Elrond,” he snapped.
      Estel skidded to a half at the chestnut’s side and stared up at 
Elladan. His brother was covered in blood; it was running down his legs 
even as he watched.
      He was too shocked to even register that Elrohir was speaking to 
him. Only in later years would he remember all that had passed out in the 
courtyard. “Get Elrond, Valar curse you!” Elrohir screamed, and Estel was 
frightened to hear that strong voice break with grief.
      “He’s on his way, Lord,” said a voice from the doorway, and Estel 
glanced around to see Glorfindel standing there. The Elda was shockingly 
pale. “He’s only retrieving his healing herbs.”
      Elrohir seemed both to hear and not hear him. He was struggling to 
ease Elladan off the saddle, but he couldn’t get a good hold on his brother.
      Elladan didn’t even moan in pain, and that silence made Estel want 
to cry. Was Elladan dead? He certainly looked dead.
      Glorfindel passed close to Estel and, without asking if he should, 
he helped Elrohir ease Elladan from the saddle.
      Thus Estel was staring directly into Elladan’s eyes as the eldest son 
of Elrond was lowered to the ground. They were open, dead eyes, filled 
with darkness.
      Estel screamed.
///End Flashback///
      Legolas’ eyes held a cast so near Elladan’s on that terrible day that 
Aragorn almost screamed again. But thirty-plus, hard years had passed 
since that day, and Estel was lost in Aragorn’s past. Strider, hard and 
fierce, had taken his place.
      He took Legolas’ hands. He had to draw his elf back to life while 
there was still time. “Legolas,” he called. “Come back, Legolas. Come 
back to the light. Turn from darkness, Legolas. Come towards me.” 
      ‘If only I had athelas!’
      He did, he realised, but there was no water to boil it in.
      No matter.
      Aragorn opened his herb-purse one-handed, his other fingers still 
clutching Legolas’ shockingly cold hand. He brought out the leaves, 
knowing them by touch and by their scent. He put these in his mouth and 
chewed until they began to leak. Then, still trusting his intuition, for he 
hadn’t actually seen Denethor rape Legolas, he put his sticky fingers 
between Legolas’ legs and healed him as well as could. All the while, he 
called to Legolas, urging him, begging him, encouraging him.
***
      The female’s voice was lulling Legolas to sleep, but suddenly he 
heard another voice. It was far away, indistinct, and he almost discounted 
it.
      Then he heard the voice say, “Aragorn… Legolas, I’m here…. 
Aragorn… Come back, Leg…”
      The rest was lost, but Legolas turned towards it anyway.
      ‘Do you wish to go?’ the gentle female voice asked.
      ‘Aragorn…’ Legolas didn’t even answer her. His heart swelled as 
he struggled towards that voice. ‘Just keep talking,’ he prayed. ‘If you 
don’t, I won’t be able to get back.’
      “Come back, Legolas. I need you to come back. It is Aragorn that 
calls you. Listen to my voice. Answer my call. Answer me as you always 
have.”
      The man’s voice, though further away, seemed more real to 
Legolas than the female voice, and he struggled more fiercely towards it.
      The pain began to overtake him as he struggled closer, but he 
wouldn’t let it stop him. ‘I need to see Aragorn… I need Aragorn… I 
need-’
      “Aragorn,” he whispered.
      “Yes! Yes, Legolas, it’s me. You’re all right now.”
      Even as he lay, being burned alive by the pain between his legs, 
the pain that sank rusty, metal teeth into his belly, that pain began to ebb. 
He could feel Aragorn’s rough hand, slick with athelas, touching him 
there, healing him.
      “Stay, Legolas. Stay, I beg. You’re going to be fine.”
      Aragorn’s voice sounded strange. Choked, almost. Suddenly wary, 
Legolas opened his eyes. He saw the shining trails of Aragorn’s tears.
      “Master…. Aragorn….”
      Aragorn smiled at him, and his eyes were filled with joy. “Aii, 
Legolas, you scared me. Everything’s all right now. You’re safe now. I 
promise. I promise.” He bent forward, and kissed Legolas’ forehead in the 
Dunedain blessing. “You’re safe now.” And in that moment, he 
completely forgot that Legolas was not one of his Rangers.