Title: "Ringspell" (Ch.1-29/WIP)
Author: arsenic
Beta: Jennifer.  The lovely listmommy at the lotr-slash yahoo group.
Pairing/s: A/L, (main) L/Thranduil, L/Sauron (sort of)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: RAPE, INCEST, VIOLENCE and (perhaps) X'ER DEATH
Summary: The Fellowship takes a detour into Mirkwood, where dark secrets are 
revealed about their Elven companion. 
Author's Notes: WIP  
Feedback: It keeps me going...
Disclaimer: X'ers property of Tolkien Estate etc... I'll return them when I've had 
my fun.

Chapter 1. 
A change of plans...

Night was falling over the waters of the Anduin. As the sun's last mournful rays 
sank silently into the earth, making way for the night, the company made camp on 
the western bank of the great river, sheltered by the eaves of Lorien. They had no 
fire, for fear of orcish patrols, but the moon was full, shining back off the swirling 
surface of the river like a thousand fallen stars and the cold could not dampen the 
spirit of the Fellowship, still glowing from their encounter with the beautiful Lady 
Galadriel. 

"Stop it, Pippin!" Merry squealed. 

"You did it to me first you little pip-squeak- " 

"Pippin! Merry!" Aragorn glanced up from his inspection of the blade Galadriel 
had presented him, to glare at the two with steel gray eyes. "Keep the noise down. 
We do not want to be heard from the other side of the river. " As usual, the man 
spoke very calmly and as usual his words were heeded without argument. People 
always listened to what Aragorn said. He, for one, rarely felt well qualified to say 
anything but he kept that to himself - it did him no harm to be listened to, after all. 

About to return to admiring the blade a movement at the edge of his vision caught 
Aragorns attention. Turning his head towards the river, he was greeted by the 
sight of the elf, Legolas wading into the night-lit water, fair hair and pale-golden 
flesh aglow in the darkness. The image was breathtaking. Aragorn watched 
shamelessly for a moment as the immortals' firm, round buttocks disappeared 
beneath the lapping water, leaving only the finely sculpted back exposed. Muscles 
rippled beneath the flawless skin as the elf first splashed water over his torso, then 
began to work a lather with scented elvish soap. 

Becoming aware of the tightness of his pants Aragorn tore his eyes away from the 
vision. He glanced guiltily around the camp. The hobbits were huddled together 
under a tree, whispering and giggling as they often did. Boromir sat aside from 
them, lost in his own thoughts and Gimli slept soundly, as evidenced by his 
trademark snore. Gandalf was nowhere to be seen, but that was not unusual. The 
wizard often wandered off after they made camp. Assured that no-one would 
notice, Aragorn let his eyes drift back to the river and the beautiful creature 
bathing there. 

Legolas had sunk almost beneath the surface, tilting back his head, to dip his 
golden hair into the water. Aragorn watched the elf float and drift for awhile, 
letting the swirling currents pull him deeper into the great river. He dived 
gracefully beneath the surface, sliding into the darkness and appearing again a 
moment later back near the place where he had entered the river. Seeming to have 
had enough, he made his way to the shore, glistening rivulets of water rolling 
down his skin as the Anduín relinquished its beautiful guest. 

Continuing to watch as the elf dried himself and began to dress, Aragorn was 
struck once again by the awesome beauty of his companion. Though he did not 
know Legolas particularly well it was not the first time the elf had gone naked in 
front of him. Legolas, like all elves, felt not the slightest bit ashamed of his body 
and, like all elves, he hated being dirty, so it stood to reason that he bathed at 
every opportunity, stripping down without so much as a passing thought for the 
people around him. Aragorn told himself he did not mind, but he was lying - it 
made him uncomfortable. 

Adopted by Elrond of Rivendell, Aragorn had grown up surrounded by elves, all 
of them beautiful and the one he loved was the most beautiful of them all but 
Legolas was different somehow. He was stunning for certain but the difference 
went far deeper than his appearance. It looked out from behind his eyes and it 
hung like mist in the air around him. Aragorn felt on edge when he looked at this 
elf. He could not control the heat in his loins or the flutter of his heart and though 
he would never have acted on his impulses, he felt, for the first time, the stirrings 
of temptation and disquiet settled into his heart. 

Legolas pulled on his soft leather pants, pausing to tie a quick knot in the lace and 
slipped into the silk shirt he wore beneath his tunic. Then he turned his head and 
looked Aragorn in the eyes. Deep-blue met steel-trey, as the elfs' gaze cut through 
the darkness, and seemed to see into Aragorns' very soul. The man was held for a 
moment, helpless to look away, until guilt broke the silent spell, and he smothered 
the spark of desire welling within his heart. 

Ashamed of his voyeurism, Aragorn lowered his eyes and stared resolutely at the 
ground, painfully aware that the elf was now approaching him on silent feet. 

"It is already cold." Legolas spoke gently, as he came to stand beside Aragorn, his 
melodic voice lending itself to the stillness of the night. "Winter will come early 
this year." The air stirred a little, as though confirming the elfs' prediction and 
sent a shiver through Aragorns' body. Not knowing how to answer and still 
embarrassed that the elf had caught him staring, Aragorn maintained his silence 
and his down-turned eyes, praying for the awkward moment to end. 

Ignoring his unspoken plea, Legolas knelt down beside him, lowering himself to 
the ground with the same innate grace with which he did everything. Looking up 
at him, Aragorn despaired to see that the elf had not finished dressing. His silk 
shirt, made wet by his soaked hair clung to him like a second skin, accentuating 
the angles of his lean torso. Determined to appear in control, Aragorn forced his 
wandering eyes to the elfs' beautiful face and looked again into the deep-blue 
sapphires. 

"I wanted to ask you something." Legolas saved him the burden of speech. "As 
you know Mirkwood is close, on the other side of the river and I thought I might 
send a message to my father." The elf paused and looked around, as though 
making sure no-one was listening. "I am afraid I came here without his 
knowledge." He admitted. Aragorn was surprised and slightly amused to hear 
such a thing. It was easy to forget that the noble warrior who fought by his side 
was, in fact, quite young for one of his kind and so, still subject to his father's 
will. He tried to imagine Legolas sneaking out of his bedroom window - it was 
not easy. 

"Why?" He asked of the elf. 

"My Lord cares little for the world of men. He meant not to answer Lord Elronds' 
call." Legolas shrugged. "I took a couple of guards and left in the night. I do not 
regret the decision, nor do I wish to return home but Ada will be less... irritated if 
I send him word, assure him of my well-being." Aragorn was dubious. As 
endearing as the young elf was, the progress of the quest should be determined by 
the ring-bearer, not by who wanted to send personal messages. Reading him like a 
book, Legolas pleaded his case. 

"It would only take one day. I could cross the river at dawn, leave a message with 
a hunter on the edge of the forest and be back here before sundown. I could run 
the whole way." He added. 

"There will be no need for that, Greenleaf." Gandalf’s voice came from close by 
and Man and elf looked up at the wizard in surprise. 

"We will all be going together. There are things I wish to discuss with the King of 
Mirkwood." Aragorn looked closely at the old man. 

"That will take weeks. Can we afford the delay?" He asked. 

"It will take more than a headlong charge into Mordor to win this war for us." The 
wizard replied, in a tone that explained everything. Aragorn looked back to 
Legolas, to gage the elfs' reaction to the news. The elf returned his look with a 
small, enigmatic smile, before getting to his feet and wandering back to where his 
tunic and cloak still lay. Though his eyes had remained unreadable, Aragorn had a 
sneaking suspicion his beautiful companion was not looking forward to a family 
reunion. 


Chapter 2. 
The old forest...

They rose at dawn the next morning, bleary-eyed and still tired from an 
uncomfortably cold night. Legolas, as usual, had kept watch over the company as 
they slept and now stood staring out across the river as the others gathered their 
blankets, still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Only Aragorn was fully awake, 
walking over to check that the boats were worthy of the crossing.   Of course his 
actions had nothing to do with the proximity of the quiet elf. With no fire to douse 
and little rubbish to clear, it was just a few minutes later when the Fellowship 
climbed into their elegant little boats and crossed the Anduín without incident. 

Once on the other side they headed west, towards the southern-most edge of the 
great forest of Mirkwood. The threat of encounter with orcs on the eastern shore 
was very real and the company hurried across the barren plain between the river 
and the wood, breathing an audible sigh of relief when they reached the perceived 
safety of the trees. 

However, when they stopped to catch their breath, fear crept once again into their 
hearts. Huge trees, gnarled and heavy with age loomed far overhead, their 
branches creaking ominously under the weight of their own foliage. The rising 
sun barely penetrated the thick canopy, sending only a few slanted rays of filtered 
light to the mossy forest floor. The air was dank and still, as though the door to 
some long forgotten tomb had been opened and the smell of damp earth and 
vegetation was thick in the atmosphere. Though not a breath of air moved near the 
ground, high above, the early-winter wind blew long, low whistles in the canopy. 
There was no other sound. 

Unconsciously, the Fellowship drew closer to each other, feeling suddenly small 
and vulnerable in the ancient forest. 

"Did He really live here?" Frodo asked of no-one in particular, failing to keep the 
uncertainty from his voice. 

"Who?" Pippin whispered. 

"Bilbo said Sauron lived here a long time ago." The ring-bearers' reply was barely 
audible. The hobbits drew a collective breath, as though they might actually 
scream, before Gandalf interjected. 

"Indeed." He proclaimed loudly, lifting the blanket of silence that covered them. 

"His home, the infamous fortress of Dol Guldur is quite close to here, in fact. We 
go this way." He pointed. The wizard continued to speak as he led them off in a 
vaguely easterly direction. 

"The elves of course, live as far away from here as they can, in the northern part 
of the forest. Their King, Thranduil, makes his home under a mountain beside the 
Forest River, in great halls carved out in the days when elves and dwarves worked 
side by side." 

The company moved on slowly, the task made difficult by the thick carpet of 
twisted tree roots laid on the forest floor. Only Legolas seemed comfortable with 
his surroundings, his step light and sure, though Aragorn noticed that the elf was 
not entirely at ease, glancing nervously about him and pausing often to peer into 
the dim light, as though searching for a threat. 

"Here we are." Gandalf stopped beside a tree, seemingly no different to any other 
around them. Craning his neck to look up the trunk of the tree, to where its 
blanket of leaves was almost lost in the misty heights, the Wizard let forth a 
powerful whistle, as though calling a herding-dog from a distance. An identical 
whistle came in reply and after a few moments an impossibly long rope-ladder 
fell from the sky. The company waited several minutes for the appearance of a 
somewhat raggedly dressed wood-elf who upon reaching the ground, immediately 
engaged Gandalf in whispered conversation in thickly-accented elvish. Feeling 
left out, the others waited quietly to the side while Gandalf and the stranger spoke 
at length. Impatience and curiosity overcoming him, Boromir spoke to Legolas. 

"Should that elf not have bowed to you?" He asked, in a manner that sounded 
offended. 

"Why?" Legolas looked at him. 

"You are the son of his king, are you not? Do your people not show you respect?" 
Legolas smiled, seeming amused. 

"Friend Boromir," He said, "That elf is a border scout. It is undoubtedly hundreds 
of years since he has been to the north. What makes you think he has any idea 
who I am?" Confusion creased Boromir's face. He obviously could not understand 
why Legolas did not walk over to the stranger and tell him who he was, to receive 
the respect due to him. Aragorn understood, Legolas did not care if a stranger 
bowed to him or not. Watching the interaction between Captain of Gondor and 
Prince of Mirkwood, Aragorn felt thankful, as he often did, for the elven part of 
him. 

Without warning Gandalf strode past the loitering group, heading off into the 
trees, changing course slightly to the north. 

"Come along, now." He called over his shoulder, "We have a ways to go yet 
before nightfall." The Fellowship trotted after him, stumbling often on the rough 
ground. When Aragorn caught up with the wizard and glanced behind him, the 
elven scout was gone and there was no telling his tree from any other. 

The hours dragged on slowly as they walked, the smaller members of the group 
tiring quickly with the effort of climbing over the many tangled tree roots. 
Legolas stepped up beside Aragorn. 

"This would be much easier with horses." He said. Aragorn nodded agreement. 
Though loathed to admit it, he too was feeling strained. 

"We should stop soon.” He suggested. “The hobbits need to rest." He raised his 
voice to be heard by Gandalf who walked ahead of them. "Perhaps we should 
consider stopping for a while." He called. Gandalf ignored him. 

It was some time later when the old man finally stopped and waited for the others 
to catch up. Though it was impossible to tell the time of day under the forest 
ceiling, it seemed to be getting imperceptibly dimmer and Aragorn guessed it to 
be almost dusk when they gathered together to sit through the night. 

There was nowhere really to make any sort of camp among the pillars of trees, so 
the company settled down as best they could on the damp earth, most choosing to 
lean against a tree rather than attempt to lay on the very uncomfortable-looking 
roots. Legolas stood, as usual, aside from the others, gazing into the distance, 
presumably thinking elvish thoughts. With nothing much else to do, Aragorn 
wandered over. 

"Are you happy to be going home?" He asked. The elf thought for a moment 
before answering. 

"Yes. And no." Aragorn looked closely at his companion, waiting for him to 
explain. 

"My father will be angry..." He seemed to want to continue, but the words trailed 
off and silence settled on them again. Aragorn stood quietly with Legolas for 
some time, hoping the elf would finish the thought he had begun. When it became 
clear that he would say nothing more, the Ranger reluctantly moved away, settling 
down against a nearby tree. He had enjoyed being near the elven prince and 
though conversation was proving difficult, the silence between them had not been 
uncomfortable. As one who appreciated silence, he resolved to spend more time 
with Legolas and to know him better before their journey came to end. 

Chapter 3. 
A night disturbed...

Aragorn awoke abruptly some hours before dawn and looking around, was 
surprised to see the rest of the company also sitting in their blankets, a stunned 
look upon each of their faces. His mind beginning to clear itself of sleep, he 
quickly realized he could not see Legolas anywhere. The ever-watchful elf never 
left the camp at night and Aragorn found himself fighting a sudden, irrational 
surge of panic. 

"Legolas." He called the elf softly, knowing his voice would travel far in the still 
night. He counted the seconds as he waited for a reply. After thirty he began to 
feel genuinely concerned and called out again, louder. Still, there was no 
response. Nearby, Gandalf matched Aragorns concern with grumpiness. 

"Where did that damn elf go to?" He asked. No-one knew. "Legolas! Fool 
elflings, cannot keep their minds on one thing for one minute. Thank the Gods 
they do not often breed - Legolas!" The old wizard barked into the forest like an 
angry bear, startling a flock of birds in the canopy and causing them to flap and 
call wildly overhead. 

In a stunning moment of clarity, Aragorn realized that he had not seen a single 
wild creature since entering this ancient forest. Having just made that realization, 
he was instantly grateful for the proof that the wood was not in fact devoid of life. 

"Perhaps I should go look for him." The Ranger rose to his feet, strapping on his 
sword. It was a chance to be alone with the elf, if he found him. 

- Alone? - A guilty voice inside him asked. - Why? - 

- To talk... there is no harm in talking - 

- Ah - The guilty voice seemed satisfied, sinking back into a dark corner of 
Aragorns mind, awaiting its next chance to appear. 

"I will go with you." To Aragorns despair, Boromir was rising to his feet. 

"There is no cause for that." The Ranger snapped. "I am sure he is fine. He has 
just wandered off." He tried to keep his voice steady but for reasons he could not 
explain he desperately wanted to see Legolas now. The longing became more 
persistent as each second ticked by. He wanted to be with the elf, away from the 
others. Just the two of them. Now was his chance. 

-Why?- Aragorn could not hear the guilty voice, for the sound of his pulse 
thumping inside his head. 

"I am sure you are right, Aragorn, but if perchance our friend is hurt, it might not 
be wise for you to search for him alone." What was Boromir talking about? Our 
friend? Our friend? He and the elf had barely spoken two words to each other 
since meeting in Rivendell. Jealousy began to seep through the cracks of the 
Ranger's rational mind. 

"Just stay here with the others, Boromir." He said as calmly as he could manage. 
“It will only take a minute.” Without waiting for further argument, Aragorn 
turned on his heel and disappeared into the trees, leaving a slightly bewildered 
company behind him. 

When he was gone, Pippin spoke first. 

“Does anyone else think it strange that we're all suddenly awake, for no reason at 
all?” He asked. The others considered his question for a moment but only Gimli 
answered. 

“Must have been some noise.” Came his typically pragmatic reply. The hobbits 
nodded their agreement, but a sense of uncertainty hung over the camp and 
Gandalf was clearly unconvinced.

“I do not think there was any noise.” He said, almost to himself. “There rarely is, 
in this part of the wood.” As though acceding to his thoughts, silence settled over 
them again. 

“Well.” Gimli proclaimed loudly. “Whatever it was is gone now and I'm going 
back to bed.” With that, the Dwarf rolled over and almost immediately began 
snoring.

“Well, I don't see how anyone could sleep now.” Sam dragged himself out of his 
blankets and headed for the sack that contained their cooking utensils. “Who's 
hungry?” Four ravenous hobbits gleefully raised their hands and the company set 
about making a midnight meal.

Chapter 4. 
Alone, at last...

Aragorn strode recklessly into the darkness, paying no heed to his direction or 
surroundings. Twigs and low-lying branches whipped his face and clung to his 
clothes as he stumbled, unseeing through the thick vegetation. Unable to 
understand his own irrational desire to have Legolas all to himself, he stormed on 
blindly, adrenaline prohibiting coherent thought. He had in fact, all but forgotten 
why he was walking when, by pure luck, he stumbled upon a small clearing and 
in the pale-wash of moonlight, he saw the elf standing there. 

Aragorn stopped at the edge of the clearing, for some reason hoping to go 
unnoticed. Legolas stood in the center of the small space, facing away from the 
Ranger, in front of what seemed to be some sort of crude altar, carved from gray 
stone. The elf appeared to be unaware of his audience, reaching out and laying his 
hands carefully on the cold surface of the altar, as though contact would somehow 
change the thing. 

Slowly, Aragorn began to approach Legolas, desire to see the elf’s face 
overcoming his natural tendency towards caution. 

“Suilaid, Aragorn. Estelnon l dur hira le mai.”* The gentle voice drifted in 
musical tones through the clearing, settling on Aragorns ears like a well-written 
melody. 

“It does, my friend.” He drew closer to Legolas, close enough to smell the elf’s 
sweet scent. He looked down at the stone before them. It was small and low-set, 
reaching barely to his hip and obviously ancient, it’s sharp edges long worn-
down, by the wind and rain. In the moonlight, Aragorn could see that much of the 
top of the altar was discolored, darker than the stone of which it was made and 
where the darkness reached the edge, it spilled over and traced a path down the 
side. It looked a lot like blood. Despite himself, Aragorn wondered if his young 
companion's people had put the stone there – and what strange ritual might have 
taken place, in this deep, dark part of the forest. 

”What is this?” He asked his friend. Legolas sighed. His seeming reverence of the 
thing disappearing, he kicked at the base of the altar with the sole of his soft 
leather boot. 

”A memory, of a time almost forgotten.” Came his soft-spoken reply. “We were 
lost, in shadows that hid us from the world. The forest was darker then, and so 
too, those that dwelt within.” Legolas fell quiet then, as though caught-up in some 
distant memory. On impulse, Aragorn reached out and rested his hand on the elfs 
warm shoulder, his senses stirred by the rare touch. Legolas made no move to 
break the contact, even leaning back a little, against the man’s hand. Encouraged 
by the response, Aragorn chanced a gentle squeeze and was rewarded when the 
elf slowly turned to face him. 

Letting his hand drop back to his side, Aragorn almost gasped aloud at the sorrow 
that clouded his friend's beautiful face. The blue eyes were filled with tears, 
threatening to spill down pale cheeks, towards soft, trembling lips. 

”Legolas, my friend. Why are you so sad?” He asked, his heart full of concern. 
Legolas did not answer, but only gazed back at Aragorn, his face awash with 
some desperate, unspoken pain.

His heart caught in his throat, Aragorn tried to think. Failing that, he shifted closer 
to Legolas, till mere inches stood between them, no longer touching, but wanting 
to be nearer the sorrowful creature. Suddenly, as if the closeness had shattered 
some invisible shield, Legolas flung his arms around Aragorns neck, throwing his 
light body against the man and burying his face into his shoulder, overcome by 
deep, racking sobs. Stunned by the elfs sudden emotional display, Aragorn slowly 
slid his hands around the slim waist, until he held the creature firmly in his arms, 
delighting in the feel of the slight form pressed against his own. 

”Nien vá, Edhelneth.** You must not despair.” He tried to reassure Legolas, 
speaking softly to him, in mixed tongues, but his words had little effect on the 
violently trembling elf. Fearing he might be moved to tears himself, Aragorn 
gently pushed his friend back, to better see his tear-streaked face. 

”I cannot bear to see these tears.” The elf turned his head away, avoiding 
Aragorns gaze, but the Ranger was insistent, taking his face in his hands and 
forcing him to meet his eyes. “You must tell me what is wrong. Perhaps I can help 
you.” The elf looked at him, heartache shining out through his eyes. 

”Maquen vá, Aragorn.*** I cannot say.” Legolas struggled to hold back his tears, 
his bottom lip trembling, dangerously. He gave in and salt-water again ran, in 
rivers, down his cheeks. He hesitated for a moment, before collapsing back into 
Aragorns embrace, clinging to the front of the man’s tunic. Stunned by his 
friend’s emotional breakdown, Aragorn wrapped the crying elf tightly in his arms, 
whispering reassurances in his ear. 

Try as he might, Aragorn could not ignore the nature of the situation. His friend’s 
body was radiating warmth and the scent of elvish soap filled his nostrils. Those 
things were enticing, but the sounds of despair, coming from the elfs sweet 
mouth; hushed whimpers and heartfelt sighs, were what most roused the man’s 
desire. He shifted, uncomfortably, trying to keep Legolas from pressing into his 
raging erection, but the friction only excited him more and it was all he could do 
to stop from rubbing himself on the elf, like a savage. 

Though he struggled, valiantly to hide his arousal, there was soon no doubt that 
Legolas must have felt his hard shaft, pressing into his belly. Amazingly, the elf 
made no move to retreat from Aragorns manhood, continuing to push against him, 
snuggling deeper into the folds of his tunic. Aragorns heart leapt into his throat, 
hammering recklessly, threatening to choke him. 

Was the elf encouraging him? He let one of his hands drift down to the small of 
his friend’s back, gently feeling the beautiful curve of the elfs waist. 

Aragorn could not breathe. Fearing he would lose control, he closed his eyes and 
tried to think of his love, no doubt on her way to the Grey Havens now. The 
thought only served to make him lonely and he pushed his lady out of his mind 
again.

They stood there, for some time, locked in their embrace – elf and man made as 
one, by their solitude and their sorrow and, for that moment, there was nothing 
and no-one else in their world.

Slowly, Legolas’ weeping subsided and he pushed away from Aragorn, wiping 
his face with his hands in a very un-elf-like gesture. He avoided the Ranger’s 
eyes, seeming ashamed of his outburst.

“Forgive me.” He said, his voice unsteady. “You should not have seen such a 
display. I am sorry.” Aragorn tried not to pity the elf, sure that it would offend 
him to do so. Instead, he tried only to understand that even the strongest of spirits 
can sometimes falter.

“Do not beg forgiveness, my friend.” He said softly. “You have done no wrong.” 
Legolas seemed unconvinced, but threw the Ranger a grateful little smile as he 
continued to compose himself, straightening his clothes and tucking a few loose 
strands of hair behind his ear. Out of nowhere, the elf stifled a giggle, brushing 
the shoulder of Aragorn’s tunic.

“You are all wet.” He said, apologetically, wiping at the dampness without effect. 
The move brought a smile to Aragorn’s own lips and the embarrassed tension 
between them lifted, leaving only the comfortable feeling of friendship.

“Are you alright?” He asked the elf, softly. Legolas nodded, still sniffing. “Shall 
we go back to the others?” This time the elf shook his head prettily.

“Could we wait a little while longer?” He asked. Aragorn assented, secretly glad 
to prolong this private moment. Legolas sat back on the edge of the stone altar, 
reminding Aragorn of the existence of the strange object.

“Will you tell me what that is?” He asked. Legolas thought for a moment, before 
speaking.

“When the Dark Lord made our forest his home,” He said, “Many of my kind 
were at once frightened and seduced by his power. They wanted to learn the 
magic, forbidden by my father – to call on the darker forces of the world. So, they 
came south and worshiped Sauron as a god, thinking that he would favor them. 
He ignored them, of course, and inevitably, the tainted wilderness turned against 
them. Many were lost to rabid wolves or went mad, or simply disappeared in the 
night. Driven by fear, and corrupted by the shadow of Dol Guldur, they built these 
altars on which to sacrifice their young, hoping to win the Dark One’s approval.” 
The elf shrugged, a casual gesture, seemingly inconsistent with the gravity of his 
story. “It made no difference. None are left now and we do not know what 
happened to them. Some say He took them with him when he left, but I doubt 
there is any truth in such stories. Few even know where to find these relics and 
fewer still know their purpose.” Aragorn looked closely at his friend.

“You seem quite familiar with them.” He suggested. Legolas looked back at the 
Ranger, unflinching.

“One learns these things, in the company of one’s king.” He explained. Aragorn 
doubted that discourse with his father had led the elf to this tiny clearing, deep in 
the forest but he held his tongue. If Legolas wanted to be truthful, he would do so, 
in his own time. His friend stood, then and ended the conversation succinctly. 
“We should return to the others now." He said. "They will be missing us.”


* "Greetings Aragorn. I hope the night finds you well." 
** "Weep not, Elfling .
*** "Ask not, Estel.


Chapter 5.
Into the shadow…

There was little conversation, as Aragorn and Legolas made their way back to the 
camp, both man and elf preoccupied with their own thoughts. They found the rest 
of the Company sitting around a small fire, eating and discussing the benefits of 
various blends of pipe-weed, just as the light of day began to creep into the forest. 
From a distance, it seemed as though the little group had built an invisible wall of 
light and warmth around them, sheltering them from the dark and foreboding 
forest. The giggling and happy conversation ended abruptly and all eyes were on 
Aragorn and his elven companion as they approached the circle of friends. 
Gandalf was regarding Legolas with particular interest.

“Welcome back, Greenleaf. So nice of you to join us.” The old man said, his 
voice heavy with sarcasm. “I trust you enjoyed your little walk.” Legolas was not 
phased, brazenly returning the Wizard’s gaze as he took a place, standing at the 
edge of the group.

“Forgive my absence, Gandalf.” He said, mildly. “The Fellowship was not in any 
danger.” Gandalf grunted, obviously dissatisfied with the response.

“Really? And how, in your infinite wisdom, did you come to that conclusion?” He 
inquired. Legolas shrugged off the hostility.

“There is no danger here.” He said, in a tone that defied skepticism. “Not for us, 
at any rate.” He added. Gandalf continued to glare at Legolas and Aragorn 
wondered if he might be considering trying to spank the young elf. If that was the 
case, the old man obviously thought better of it. Instead, he rose to his feet.

“Well,” He said, “As long as we’re all up, we may as well get an early start.”

They walked long and hard that day, stopping for a few minutes, only when the 
hobbits could go no further. As they went, Aragorn wondered at Gandalf’s 
reasons for this trek into Mirkwood and though he trusted the old Wizard 
implicitly, the mystery surrounding their detour left him feeling uneasy. After 
many hours and many upward glances, searching for the sun, Aragorn determined 
that their course had swung around, almost 180 degrees, so that they were now 
heading West, deeper into the shadows of the forest. Concerned, he caught up 
with Gandalf, who never seemed to tire of leading the way. 

“Is the king not to the north of here?” He inquired. Gandalf spared him a sidelong 
glance and, as usual, he was cryptic in his reply.

“There are other places to go.” He said. “People to see.” Aragorn’s curiosity 
peaked.

“Who else must we see, besides the king?” He asked. 

“Not ‘we’,” The old man replied. “Him.” He motioned behind them and Aragorn 
knew who the old Wizard had meant, before looking. 

Legolas was walking amongst the hobbits, telling stories of history and magic and 
frightening them with detailed descriptions of the many varied monsters that 
inhabited his realm. 

“Who else must he see?” Aragorn asked, quietly. Gandalf grunted, seemingly fed 
up with the interrogation.

“You will know soon enough.” He said. “Honestly, Aragorn, sometimes your 
curiosity rivals that of those fool Halflings.” Feeling chastised, Aragorn dropped 
back behind Gandalf, content for now, to follow the old man’s lead. 

As the hours passed, darkness crept up on them, like a thief and before anyone 
was truly aware, night had fallen and under the thick canopy of the forest, the 
darkness was absolute. Still, they kept on, almost every member of the Fellowship 
tripping and stumbling with almost every step. Eventually, the exhausted hobbits 
had to be carried through the blackness, Aragorn taking Frodo and Sam in his 
arms, while Boromir hefted Merry and Pippin onto his back. Blindness putting the 
Ranger on edge, Aragorn walked close beside Legolas, trusting the elf’s keen eyes 
and ears to alert them to danger. 

Finding the whole situation intolerable, he was about to step up and demand that 
Gandalf let them stop until dawn when, out of nowhere, a wide path opened up 
before them. A thin layer of mist, hovered above the ground and, thanks to the 
break in the canopy, starlight shone down upon the earth, illuminating the way 
with an eerie, soft light. The ground was more or less flat, even the longest and 
most industrious tree roots failing to cross the wide space and so, the hobbits now 
able to walk on their own bare feet, the Company made their way easily along the 
straight path. 

There were mumblings of curiosity coming from the rear of the group, as to 
where this strange road might lead, but Gandalf ignored them (as was becoming 
his habit), seemingly in a great hurry to reach their destination, wherever that may 
be. After some time, it became apparent that something very large and very dark 
was looming up in front of them, blocking more and more of the star-lit sky as 
they approached. 

“What is that up ahead?” Boromir asked.

“That,” Gandalf finally replied, “Is Dol Guldur. Formerly the home of the Dark 
Lord, abandoned, some 500 years ago, when Thranduil’s hunters came looking 
for him.” There were collective gasps from the Company.

“Well, what kind of crazy person wants to go there?” Pippin voiced the question 
on everyone’s minds.

“In the middle of the night, no less!” Pippin added.

Aragorn looked to Legolas, who stood silently, by his side. The young elf’s face 
was unreadable and he gazed, unblinking at the huge black structure before them. 
In the soft light it seemed to Aragorn that the faintest hint of a smile may have 
tugged at the corners of his friend’s mouth but the moment was fleeting and the 
Company moved on again, towards the fortress, accompanied by the ceaseless, 
sorrowful music of the wind in the tops of the trees.

“Fear not,” Gandalf had said. “There is no more danger in this place than in any 
other. The fortress is just that. A building made of stone, long empty.” 
Nevertheless, Aragorn felt uneasy, even afraid. He thought it was unwise to go 
into this foul place and was sure he felt the presence of unseen eyes, watching 
them from the impenetrable shadows. He took some comfort, in the presence of 
the elf, who showed no fear. Legolas strode confidently, almost eagerly towards 
Dol Guldur, his eyes gazing, staring, unflinching at the huge black walls that drew 
inexorably closer until, almost instantly, the Fellowship found themselves at the 
foot of the fortress. The walls climbed high, out of sight and stretched seemingly 
endlessly in either direction. 

They passed through a gap in the wall surrounding the body of the fortress, where 
once a huge, iron-bound gate had stood, now reduced to rubble, over which they 
carefully picked their way. Beyond the crumbling wall they found a large 
courtyard, dotted with the blackened remains of what was once a well manicured 
garden. A wide stone path leads towards the building and as they crossed the open 
space, Aragorn laid eyes on only the second form of wildlife he had seen in this 
old forest. Black spiders, almost invisible when still, huge and fat and countless in 
number scattered off the stone path, disturbed by the presence of the Company. 
They scurried into the darkness, their bodies rubbing against each other, making a 
sound like autumn leaves shaken by breeze. Pippin squealed - the sound bouncing 
off the black walls and echoing long in the still night.

“Hush now.” Gandalf rounded on the Halfling. “They run because they fear your 
giant feet, hobbit.” 

They made their way down the cleared path and mounted a flight of shallow 
stairs, up to the entrance of the fortress. They stopped on the stoop and looked, in 
awe at the giant wooden doors that now blocked their way. Craning his neck as 
far as it would go, Aragorn could barely make out the stone arch which bordered 
the top of the doors. He guessed that the doors had been creating by lashing 
halved tree trunks together and wondered at the force it would have taken to build 
such a thing. The company stood, looking around for a moment, Gandalf either 
unwilling or unable to open the huge doors. 

Then, perhaps on an impulse, Legolas stepped forward and laid the palm of his 
hand on the wood, giving the giant thing a gentle push. With a resounding clang 
and the slow, painful creak of thousand year old hinges, the doors opened.

Chapter 6.
Home, sweet home…

The inside of the fortress was massive.  A grand, sweeping staircase, carved from 
solid black rock descended into the huge antechamber, the ceiling of which was 
supported by row upon row of thick pillars, made of the same black stone, 
standing eternally at attention.  To either side of the stairs, doors stood taller than 
two men on end.  Four doors lined the left wall of the chamber, four on the right.  
The only disturbance in the foyer-like cavern was the sound of the Fellowship’s 
footfalls as they tentatively stepped beyond the threshold and entered Dol Guldur.  

“I don’t think we should be here.”  Frodo said, his voice quivering with fear.  As 
he spoke, so too the great hinges of the open doors let forth again, with their 
deafening squeal.  As one, the Company turned to face the portal - just in time to 
see the giant doors swing shut, with an ear-splitting boom.  Blackness enveloped 
the room for a moment and it suddenly seemed terribly cold in the old fort.  Then, 
unbidden, a thousand candles that lined the walls, circled the pillars and swept up 
the giant staircase sprang to life, sputtering briefly before settling to fill the ante-
chamber with a warm, almost welcoming light.  Aragorn’s trepidation got the best 
of him, in light of this seeming life in the fortress and he was no longer able to 
follow Gandalf blindly into this, the heart of the shadow of Mirkwood.  

“Why have you brought us here, Gandalf?”  He demanded.  “Good people have 
no business in a place such as this.”  The others, muted by fear, nodded their 
agreement.

“Have patience, my friend.”  Gandalf spoke calmly, trying to placate the Ranger, 
whose hand had not left the hilt of his sword for some time.  “All things may not 
be clear to you now but you will understand in time, that there are reasons for all 
that we do.”  Aragorn was not buying the Wizard’s words.

“I cannot accept that.”  He said.  “I want to know what we are doing here and I 
refuse to go further until you tell me.”  

“Apparently not all of us share your sentiment, Aragorn.”  Boromir pointed 
towards the back of the chamber, where Legolas stood before the last of the doors 
on the left wall, his hand on the large, iron handle.  As they watched, the young 
elf pushed the door open and without a backward glance, stepped through.  
Gandalf moved to follow.

“Come quickly, now.”  The old man said.  “We do not want to be left behind.”  
Aragorn’s hesitation fled his mind as concern for his friend took over and he 
hurried, along with the rest, toward the door Legolas had entered.  

Beyond the doorway lay a long, thin corridor, lit, as was the ante-chamber, by a 
multitude of candles, lining the walls.  Legolas was nowhere in sight.  They 
moved down the hallway cautiously, Aragorn leading in front of Gandalf, with 
Boromir taking up the rear, as was his custom.  After several minutes, they came 
to a junction, where the corridor went off in two directions, one left, and one 
right.  While the leftward hall was well-lit, the candles on the walls of the right 
corridor lay cold and long dead.  Aragorn hesitated at the intersection.

“Follow the light.”  Gandalf advised quietly from behind.  “Where the elf goes, 
Dol Guldur will light the way.”  Armed with this new knowledge, however 
disturbing, Aragorn hurried down the left hallway, turned right at another 
intersection, then left, then left again.  It soon became apparent that they were in a 
maze of crisscrossing halls and passageways and despite the aid of the candles; 
Aragorn found himself struggling to maintain a sense of direction.  

They traveled down several steep flights of stairs, no longer intersected by any 
other passage, before, abruptly, the path they were following ended, at another 
large door.  This portal was closed tight, but a crack of light shone beneath, 
indicating that this was the path their friend had taken.  Half-expecting the door to 
be locked, Aragorn reached out and was surprised when the door opened without 
protest.  

Inside, they found what looked to be a natural cavern beneath the fortress, carved 
out not by hammers and chisels, but by the inexorable force of water, over 
thousands of years.  A large lake flowed through the cave, emerging from beneath 
the wall closest to the door and disappearing around a curve.  Unlike the rest of 
Dol Guldur, this space was not lit by candles, but an eerie light shone, seemingly 
from the beneath the water.  The air was deathly cold.  

They skirted the edge of the underground river, making their way around the 
bend, to find their lost friend standing before a short pillar, on top of which sat a 
large, smooth, dark orb.  The object glowed and seemed to pulsate, as though it 
had a life of its own. 

“Ah!  There it is!”  Gandalf pushed past Aragorn, rushing towards Legolas and 
sweeping the orb into his possession, just as the young elf reached out towards it.  
Legolas' face distorted with anger and he glared at the Wizard, as though prepared 
to fight for the thing, but the passion fled as soon as Gandalf wrapped the orb up, 
in the ample folds of his cloak.  The old man looked at the elf for a moment, 
something akin to pity in his eyes, before turning and heading back the way they 
had come.  He glanced back over his shoulder.  Legolas hadn't moved.

“Come Legolas.”  He prompted, gently.  “There is nothing more for you here.”  
Reluctantly, the young elf took a step in their direction, his face clouded with 
sadness and the company moved slowly up the stairs, through the winding 
passages, back to the foyer of Dol Guldur.  

Though the front doors were still firmly closed, the open space of the 
antechamber was a welcome sight for the Fellowship, all of whom had felt keenly 
the claustrophobic nature of the narrow passages beneath.  They breathed deep the 
cool air and spread themselves around a little, enjoying their space.  Frodo sat 
down on the first step of the staircase, exhausted, fingering the ring that hung 
heavily from his neck.  Sam, ever concerned for his friend, sat next to him.  

“We have to stop.  Frodo needs to rest to rest for a bit.”  He said.  Aragorn nodded 
and turned to Gandalf.  

“Is it safe here?”  He asked.  

“Oh yes.”  Gandalf confirmed.  “We could probably find somewhere warmer 
though.”  

“There are rooms upstairs.”  The company turned their eyes to Legolas, who had 
spoken for the first time since entering the fortress. Gandalf motioned for the elf 
to go ahead.

“Lead the way.”  He said.  

Legolas mounted the stairs and led them through a series of large rooms, all of 
which contained little in the way of furniture, until stopping before a large set of 
double doors.  He pushed the doors open and, as usual, the room beyond was 
instantly lit, this time not only by candles; a large fireplace set into one of the 
walls had burst into life and the room was filled with a bright, cheery light.  
Looking around, Aragorn was shocked to see that this appeared to be the master 
bedroom of the fort and, unlike the rest, this room seemed to have once been lived 
in.  

In the middle of the large space sat several cushioned chairs and a luxurious 
lounge, set around a long, low table.  There were also several large wooden desks, 
presumably where the enemy had once sat and drawn his plans against the world.  
Amazingly, the surfaces were still covered with parchments, as though the owner 
had left in a great hurry.  At the far end, directly across from the entrance a huge 
bed, covered with layers of red and black satin stood on a landing some feet above 
the rest of the room, accessible by stairs that descended on all sides.  Satin and 
velvet in the same dark red and black was draped over every object and hung in 
thick, decadent folds from the walls and pillars, capturing the warmth of the fire.  
All in all, Aragorn decided, the room was quite comfortable and would serve 
them well.  

Almost immediately they entered the room, the company began to find places 
suitable for rest; all four hobbits fought for space on the lounge, while Gimli, 
Gandalf and Boromir all snuggled down comfortably into the cushioned chairs.  
Aragorn looked around and, loathed to lay his body down on what was obviously 
Suaron’s bed, decided to explore the fort, curiosity overcoming tiredness.  
On his way out he was pulled up by Legolas.

“Where are you going?”  The elf asked.    A strange air had come over the young 
warrior, there since they had first seen Dol Guldur at a distance and Aragorn was 
at once concerned and fascinated by it.  

“I thought I might look around a bit.”  Aragorn looked closely at his friend.  
“Would you care to join me?”  Legolas nodded and they headed slowly back 
towards the foyer.  They walked in silence, accompanied by the rhythmic clop of 
Aragorn’s boots on the stone floor.  When they reached the great antechamber, 
Legolas turned to the Ranger.

“Was there anything in particular you wanted to see?”  He asked.  Aragorn 
suggested he might like to see the view from the parapet, and Legolas led him to 
the left-hand door, closest the entrance.  They passed down several thin hallways 
and climbed innumerable stairs, candles lighting the way as they went, before 
coming out on the highest parapet of the keep.  As they stepped out into the cool 
night air, torches, set at intervals along the wall burst joyously into flame and this 
time Aragorn had to ask.  

“Why does it do that for you?”  Legolas gazed out over the roof of the forest.  
Silently.  It was all Aragorn could do to control his frustration and he ground his 
teeth audibly.  Legolas, unperturbed, maintained his muted vigil.  Aragorn 
decided to try a different approach.

“You know this place and it knows you.”  It was more an accusation than a 
question and he instantly regretted his tone.  Legolas however, was moved to 
respond.

“I have been here before.”  It was obvious that the young elf wanted the 
conversation to end there but Aragorn could not contain his interest

“When?”  He asked, and then thought of a more pertinent question.  “Why?”  
Legolas sighed quietly.  When he spoke, it was little more than a whisper.

“I want to tell you, Aragorn…”

“But?”

Legolas hesitated for what seemed an eternity.

“I am afraid.”  He finally said.

“Of what?”  

The elf turned and laid his beautiful eyes upon Aragorn, a move which never 
failed to stop the Ranger’s heart.  

“If I tell you what you want to know, you will no longer think me your friend.”  
Aragorn’s questioning was halted in its tracks.  He narrowed his eyes, 
contemplating the truth of the elf’s statement.  This was a possibility he had 
already considered; that this  noble prince might have some secret association 
with their enemy.  As long as it was only a suspicion, it could be pushed from his 
mind, discounted as paranoia; but should the lovely creature now confirm it, how 
would he react?  Was it true that he would no longer call Legolas ‘friend’?  

 - The friend of your enemy is your enemy - The voice in his mind advised.  His 
reverie was cut short; the elf had decided for him.  

“Forget it, Aragorn.  It is of no importance.”  The finality of Legolas’ tone forbid 
further discussion and Aragorn stood quietly beside him, admiring star-filled sky 
and trying hard not to think.  He failed.

It seemed the more time he spent with Legolas, the more questions were raised 
about the quiet elf.  Even before the meeting at Rivendell, Aragorn had already 
known more about Mirkwood's prince than most.  He knew that he was about five 
hundred years old and that he was the sole heir to Thranduil's throne.  He also 
knew that there was some question as to his parentage; Thranduil's beautiful wife 
had been kidnapped and the king had thought her stolen by Sauron and brought to 
Dol Guldur.  When he came to retrieve her though, he returned not with his queen 
but with a small child.  Few believed that Thranduil, whose love for his bride was 
renowned in the land, would have fathered a child with another female and it was 
generally accepted that Legolas was an orphan, adopted because the king was 
without an heir.  Beyond that, the only thing known for certain was that Legolas 
was terribly mistreated by the one he called 'father' and his life under Thranduil's 
wing had been a constant struggle for acceptance and even survival.  

Aragorn came to a decision.  No matter what Legolas might say, he would still be 
his friend.  Nothing in this gentle, suffering creature's past could erase the feelings 
Aragorn harboured for him and infatuation aside, this elf had already saved his 
life and the lives of others in the Fellowship, more times than Aragorn could 
count.  The knowledge that he might not have seen another day, were it not for 
one who fought by his side obliterated all doubt and reservation and left room 
only for friendship and loyalty.  Mustering his courage, Aragorn asked the 
question that burned in his mind.

“Are you Sauron's child?”  

For a long time the elf did not move or speak and Aragorn feared he had made a 
terrible mistake.  Eventually, Legolas responded.

“Perhaps you should return to the others Aragorn.”  He said flatly.  Stunned, it 
took Aragorn a moment to realise he had just been callously dismissed.  Feeling 
put-out, he turned and without farewell, left the prince to his secrets.  

The whole way back to Sauron's room, Aragorn regretted, fiercely the accusation 
he had made.  He had thought Legolas would answer him gladly and now he felt 
stupid for it.  The elf had made it clear he did not want to discuss the matter and 
when pushed, had retreated swiftly into his shell.  The thought of awkward 
silences hanging between them again made Aragorn want to hit himself.  

Despondent, he returned to the huge bedroom and, finding the rest of the 
Fellowship fast asleep, he laid his blankets on the floor and succumbed to 
exhaustion.  


Chapter 7.
Ringspell ...

“It's gone!”

“What?”  

“The ring! It's gone!  Someone's taken it!”

Aragorn flew out of his blankets, sword half-drawn and ready for battle before he 
had even opened his eyes.  Scanning the room, he accounted for seven of his eight 
companions. 

“Where is the elf?”  Boromir voiced the Ranger's own concern.  

With everyone else cluttering around Frodo who looked ready to faint, or 
ridiculously searching under chairs and behind tables for the One Ring, Aragorn 
ran out of the room and headed for the last place he had seen Legolas.  He took 
the stairs three at a time and burst out onto the parapet like a whirlwind, his eyes 
burned by the bright light of day.  There was no sign of his friend.  His heart 
thumping at breakneck pace, he turned around and bolted back down the stairs.  

Had he time to think about it, Aragorn might have wondered whether it was 
concern for the quest that had urged him into such panic; or for Legolas, should 
he have taken the Ring, and what might happen to the beautiful elf if someone 
else found him first.  By the time he reached the ground floor, the Ranger had 
chosen his next course.  He ran, full tilt to the back of the great ante-chamber and 
through the door that led to the caverns beneath the fort.  

He stumbled several times on his way down the long flights of stairs to the cave 
and in his haste, almost fell headlong to the bottom.  He learnt his lesson, and 
tackled the thin path around the underground lake with considerably more 
caution.  He passed the pillar on which the dark, glowing orb had been found and 
followed the path carved by the water for another hundred yards.  There was still 
no sign of Legolas, except the candlelight that shone further downstream.  

He rounded another sharp curve and found himself in a huge, dimly-lit cavern.  In 
the centre of the room, behind a red, gossamer curtain, stood an enormous, 
canopied bed.  The sheer red drapes obscured his view, but Aragorn was sure he 
could see movement behind them and he approached, on trembling legs.  

He hesitated, his hand poised to pull back the curtain and he almost turned and ran 
from the cavern, back to the surface, to tell the Fellowship that he could not find 
Legolas or the Ring.  But a darker part of him fought the urge to retreat, 
demanding that he see the creature he knew lay so close.  Holding his breath, he 
drew back the curtain.

The sight which confronted him left him frozen, captivated, paralysed by fear and 
lust as they struggled for dominion over him.  Behind the curtain, clad only in his 
leather pants, slung low on his hips, the beautiful elf Legolas, lay writhing like a 
wanton whore on the bed, tangled in blood-red satin sheets.  Next to him on the 
bed, under the elf's delicate hand, lay the orb Gandalf had taken from the cavern 
behind them, and it was glowing hotly, pulsing with life.  Around the elf's long, 
graceful neck hung a silver chain and, held in the creature's soft, pink lips, the 
One Ring burned with red fire.  

The elf saw Aragorn, but did not still his writhing, continuing to toss and turn, 
panting heavily through his parted lips, his tongue tasting the One Ring.  And as 
he did so, he stared back at the breathless Ranger, his shining blue eyes piercing 
through Aragorn's own and, like on the banks of the Anduín that seemed so far 
away, Isuldur's heir feared the elven prince could see his soul and the secret, 
unspoken desires that lay hidden there.  Aragorn tried to swallow but his mouth 
was bone-dry.  

The elf that lay before him could not be the noble creature he had travelled with.  
It's free hand caressing it's own flesh, the eyes burning with lust, face slack with 
pleasure.  A small, pitiful sound escaped the moist lips and the Ring fell from the 
elf's mouth as it succumbed to rapture, arching it's back and rubbing itself 
indecently between leather-clad thighs.  The panting and moaning eased for a 
moment, before Legolas uttered something Aragorn could not quite make out.  He 
did not have to try though, as the lustful elf soon repeated the word, loud and 
clear.

“Ada...*”  

If possible, the orb by Legolas' side glowed even brighter with every sound that 
passed from that sweet mouth and likewise, the enchanted elf's pleasure 
heightened before Aragorn's eyes.  He knew he should be disgusted by what he 
what he seeing, but he revelled in the gaze of this noble prince, reduced to such a 
shameless display of  decadence and depravity.  Desperately, the elf called out 
again, his eyes shining with tears as he sought release.

“Leitho-nin Ada..*”

Thought became impossible for Aragorn, as the impassioned warrior uttered his 
pleas, deep blue eyes piercing the Ranger's heart and sending rivers of fire to his 
loin.  Driven by uncontrollable lust, Aragorn reached out towards Legolas, 
yearning to share in the heat that radiated from the elven flesh.  When his hand 
brushed the elf's skin, though, it was not pleasure he found.  

A bolt of burning white-light flashed before the Ranger's eyes, robbing him of his 
sight and he fell back, feeling as though he had just been struck hard in the face.  
He shook his head violently, trying to rid himself of the delirium which swept 
over him in violent waves, threatening to pull him into unconsciousness.  His 
hand felt on fire where he had touched the lusting elf and he closed his eyes 
against the pain.  

Before him shone a wall of red and yellow flame, writhing and roiling around a 
slit of absolute darkness.  The Great Eye, was fixed upon him.  Echoing through 
his consciousness like a thousand great and terrible voices, three words:  I see 
you.  

With a cry of pain and anger, he opened his burning eyes and slowly, out of 
blackness, the cavern and the bed and Legolas, still wallowing in ecstasy, faded 
into view.  The elf looked at him now.  Not through him as before, but directly at 
him, Aragorn, the man who had just touched his heated flesh and Legolas' eyes 
were filled with a new lust.  

The elf slid up onto his knees, rolling the glowing orb carelessly before him as he 
crawled, low and cat-like across the bed, towards the Ranger, eyes roaming 
hungrily over Aragorn's face and body, lingering dangerously on the throbbing, 
painful erection that filled his pants.  At the edge of the bed, Legolas stopped his 
advance, curling his legs up under his body and holding the orb with both hands 
in the space between his wide-spread thighs.  Aragorn gazed down at the alluring 
creature before him. 

On his knees, Legolas was still writhing, possessed by his unspent yearning and 
he looked longingly, through half-lidded eyes back at the man, licking his lips and 
moaning, breathlessly.  The orb between the elf's legs flared anew, and Legolas 
was again engulfed in pleasure, crying out as though mortally wounded, and 
removing one hand from the orb to rub himself viciously, desperate for friction.  
His head fell forward and Aragorn's view of the elf's exquisite face was obscured 
by the long lustrous hair that fell in golden waves before his eyes.  Frustrated and 
without thinking, Aragorn reached out, to push the elf's hair back from his face.

Again he was blinded by the white-light and pain hammered in his skull, but this 
time the Ranger had had enough.  He did not retreat from Legolas, but grabbed 
the elf by the upper arm, hauling the slender form from the bed and into his arms, 
with one fluid movement.  

The orb thumped to the ground, and the fire that burned inside it died, as it rolled 
lifelessly down the slope of the cave-floor, towards the pool of water in the centre 
of the room.  Legolas cried out again, the sound not one of pleasure, but of 
anguish, and he fought desperately to escape from Aragorn's tight embrace.  
Unable to break free, the elf then turned on his captor, striking him viciously in 
the face, and almost slipping from the Ranger's grasp.  

In an effort to protect himself, Aragorn grabbed the elf by both wrists, trying to 
pin his arms behind his back, but the young warrior was deceptively strong and 
struggled to great effect.  Realising he was losing the advantage, Aragorn threw 
all his weight against the elf's smaller body and sent them both crashing to the 
bed.  Legolas thrashed wildly beneath him but the Ranger had pure size in his 
favour and now easily pinned the elf's arms on either side of his head, and crushed 
the breath out of the young elf, leaving him weak and effectively helpless.

“Eteleht-nin* Aragorn!”  Legolas demanded fiercely.  

Seeing little reason to go on struggling with the elf (the orb would surely have 
fallen into the lake by now), Aragorn was about to comply when, looking down 
upon the beautiful form beneath him, he noticed the One Ring hanging from the 
creature's neck.  Momentarily releasing one of Legolas' wrists, he reached down, 
took hold of the silver chain at his friend's throat and snapped it, hurling the chain, 
and the Ring across the cavern.  Legolas renewed his attempts to escape but 
Aragorn's weight was still too much for the exhausted elf and he soon tired and 
surrendered, sinking down into the bed.  

Seeing that his captive had given up, Aragorn allowed himself to relax a little.  
His body still covering the elf, he settled his weight onto his elbows and gazed 
fondly down at the beautiful prince, relishing the view from this rare vantage 
point.  Legolas returned his look calmly, his breath returning to normal and his 
face, once again, the carefully constructed mask which he always wore, and 
behind which Aragorn could not see.  

“You should have told me, Legolas.”  Aragorn gently chided the elf, who 
suddenly looked very young, after the passion and violence of a moment ago.

“About Ada?”  Legolas' sweet voice returned.  Aragorn nodded.  His friend 
lowered his eyes, and Aragorn followed his gaze, to the jewel which hung around 
his own neck.

“Do you hate me now?”  Legolas asked, raising his eyes again to meet Aragorn's.  
“Now that you know what I am?”  Despite his best efforts, Aragorn smiled at the 
innocence of the question and the fact that, had he hated the elf, Legolas would 
probably have paid for his theft with his life.  

“No, mellon-nin.  I do not hate you.”  He assured the beautiful creature.  “How 
could I?”  

Swept up in some brotherly need to comfort Legolas, he ran his fingers through 
the pale, silken hair which framed his friend's face and leaned forward, to place a 
gentle kiss on the elf's forehead.  He lingered for longer than he had first intended, 
breathing the fresh, woodland scent of the prince's hair.  The kiss finally broken, 
he reluctantly lifted his head and hovered, inches from his companion's face.  The 
kiss had earned him a smile from the lovely elf and Aragorn's heart leapt with joy 
at the sight of it.

“You are very beautiful.”  

The elf's smile spilled into his eyes, lighting up his face and he laughed softly.

“Hannon-lei.*”  He said in his flawless voice and without warning, slid his hand 
behind Aragorn's neck, pulling the Ranger down and pressing his soft, moist lips 
gently against the man's own.  A startled sound escaped Aragorn's mouth before 
he could catch it, changing to a deep, guttural moan as the vibration it caused 
against the elf's lips electrified both their bodies, swiftly turning tenderness into 
carnality.  

The kiss deepened as Aragorn's tongue probed the soft lips for entry.  Legolas 
consented  eagerly, parting his lips and making pretty, covetous noises as Aragorn 
plunged his tongue into the elf's hot, wet mouth.  They tasted each other hungrily 
now, their passion-play stirring them into a frenzy and the elf began to rub 
himself against Aragorn's body, as wanton now as when it was his absent father 
who pleasured him, digging his fingers deep into the man's shoulders as he strove 
for more contact.  

“What is going on down here!?”  Gandalf's harsh voice cut through the couple's 
revelry like a knife and Aragorn raised his head and looked down at Legolas now, 
as though only just realising who it was that lay beneath him.  

“Aragorn?  Is that you?”  The old Wizard rounded the river-bend and entered the 
chamber just as the Ranger threw himself from the bed, backing up several paces 
and leaving Legolas where he lay, mild amusement registering on the elf's fine 
features.  

“Gandalf...” Aragorn searched for words, guilt driving him to find some sort of 
cover for the compromising position he had been found in.  The old man gave him 
no chance though, striding past him and grabbing Legolas by the arm, hauling 
him off the bed and rounding viciously on the young prince.

“Where is it?!”  Gandalf screamed in the elf's face.  “Where is the Ring, 
pheredil*?!  You will tell me or by the Gods -!”  He began to shake Legolas 
violently, words unable to contain his rage.  The elf made no move to defend 
himself, bowing his head in surrender and Aragorn feared for his friend's safety as 
Gandalf continued to shake and scream at Legolas.  

Looking around, Aragorn spotted the Ring, laying on the ground, where he had 
thrown it and he quickly retrieved it, holding it out in front of him by the chain 
like a spider hanging from a web.  

“Here Gandalf.”  He had to try several times to get the old man's attention, but as 
soon as he did and the Wizard saw that the Ring was safe, he let go of Legolas, 
seemingly forgetting instantly that the elf was even in the room.  

“What about the Seeing Stone?”  

Aragorn did not understand.

“The orb!  The black orb - where is that?”

“It fell in the lake.”  Aragorn told him.  Gandalf seemed more than a little irritated 
to have lost the mysterious stone but told Aragorn that it mattered not, for the 
danger had past.  He turned back to Legolas, who stood silently behind him.

“Come on, then.”  He said briskly.  “We will get this horrid thing back to the one 
meant to carry it and then, little elf, I will deal with you.”  Legolas avoided the 
Wizard's gaze as though it would turn him to stone and nodded, meekly.  In 
awkward silence, Wizard, man and elf, left the cavern and made their way back to 
the surface.  


*Ada – Father
*Leithonin – Release me
*Eteleht-nin – Let me go (actually translates more like: Let me out)
*Hannon-lei – Thank you 
*Pheredil – Half-elf (i think... close enough anyway...)


Chapter 8.
My enemy ...

When they returned to the great bedroom, they found only the hobbits there; 
Boromir and Gimli presumably searching the fort. Aragorn handed the Ring to 
Frodo without prompting, glad to be rid of the vile thing and turned to Gandalf, to 
observe what he felt sure would be an interesting conversation between the old 
Wizard and the young prince.  
Amazingly, Gandalf said nothing until the return of Boromir and Gimli, when he 
bid the company to sit down, and called a meeting, of sorts.  

The first person he turned to was Aragorn, bidding him to recount the events in 
the cavern.  Aragorn nearly panicked, and swiftly began constructing a heavily 
abridged version of the story, leaving several glaring omissions and even telling a 
couple of blatant lies.  

He decided from the outset that he would tell the company that Legolas had given 
up the Ring willingly and, when telling that the elf had had the stone as well, 
neglected to mention the pleasure that his friend had been fed, through the 
glowing orb.  At no point, did he say that Legolas was Sauron's son.  When he 
was finished, he looked at Gandalf and waited for a reaction.  There was no doubt 
that the Wizard knew his story was mostly fabrication, but Aragorn felt he had to 
at least try to put Legolas in the best possible light.    
The others in the room were already looking at the young elf with barely 
concealed suspicion.  To Aragorn's relief, Gandalf did not question his tale, but 
the meeting was not yet over.  

The Wizard then turned to Legolas and Aragorn realised, with horror, that the elf 
would be forced to make his own confessions and the Ranger feared that the 
others would not be so understanding as he.

“I think you had better tell everyone exactly what is going on, Greenleaf.”  
Gandalf said.  

“Oh, please do.”  Boromir added, his voice tinged with malice.  Aragorn looked 
closely at the Captain of Gondor; if anyone would hate the elf for his heritage, it 
would be him.

Legolas hesitated to speak, his eyes flickering around the room, scanning the 
faces of the people he had come to think of friends.  When he finally did speak, he 
stared at his feet and the words were barely audible.

“Sauron is my father.”  He confessed, visibly sinking into himself, as the mask he 
wore so well, began to crumble.

Aragorn looked around.  Shock swept across the faces of his companions, and he 
watched, his heart sinking, as, one after the other, the expressions turned from 
surprise to outrage.

“WHAT!?”  

The word was repeated endlessly around the room, some members of the 
Fellowship rising to the their feet and advancing on Legolas, demanding 
explanation.  Concerned, Aragorn edged closer to his friend, prepared to defend 
the elf, whom he considered innocent of crime, if he must.  Before it came to that, 
much of the group's attention turned to Gandalf.

“You knew about this.”  Boromir accused the old man.  “You knew and you 
should have told us.  We come all this way, we follow you as sheep follow the 
shepherd, to discover only now, that the enemy walks amongst us!”  He pointed 
theatrically at Legolas, who had not moved  since making his declaration.  His 
words clearly stung the elf deeply and Aragorn took action to head-off Boromir's 
train of thought.

“Legolas is not our enemy, Boromir.”  He said.  “He cannot choose his parents 
any more than you or I.”  Boromir glared at him, but it was Gimli who argued.

“Blood runs thick, Aragorn.”  The Dwarf said in his guttural voice. “If that, there 
is Sauron's kid, that makes him enemy enough for me.”  The Dwarf pointed his 
axe ominously at Legolas.  The elf, who had not yet looked up, stood stock-still, 
listening as one-by-one, his friends turned against him.  Only Frodo had yet to 
speak out against Legolas; the Ring-bearer sat silently in his chair, seemingly 
overwhelmed by the growing hostility around him.  

“What is that supposed to mean?”  Aragorn asked of Gimli.  He was answered by 
Boromir.

“That elf - or whatever it is – can't keep travelling with us.  Who knows what 
secrets it has already told its master.”  The man said and suddenly drew his sword.  

“I say, we take care of it right now and be on our way.”  Gimli seconded 
Boromir's notion.  The hobbits, who had joined in taunting the young elf with his 
past, suddenly fell silent, as tension tightened in the room and the threat of 
violence drew ever closer.

“This is insane!”  Aragorn protested.  “Legolas has pledged his life to this quest, 
as we all have.  You cannot kill someone because you do not like their parents – it 
is cold-blooded murder!”

“Sauron does not hesitate to kill the children of his enemies!”  Boromir countered, 
working himself into homicidal excitement.

Aragorn looked to Gandalf to control the situation and the Wizard did so, in fine 
form.  

“Oh, enough of this nonsense!  Really!”  He berated the group, in his most 
condescending tone.  “You are all behaving like orcs!  Put that away, Boromir, 
before you hurt somebody.”  He did not even spare the Gondorian(?) warrior a 
second glance before he rounded on Gimli.  “And that is quite enough out of you, 
too, Dwarf.”  He laid heavy emphasis on Gimli's race.  “It would be wise for you 
to remember, in whose home you now stand.”  Gimli lowered his axe, somewhat 
reluctantly.  

The Wizard now turned to Legolas and he spoke with remarkable gentleness.  

“Do not look so frightened, Legolas.  No harm will come to you.”  Legolas looked 
up to meet the old man's gaze, uncertainty written all over his pretty face.  “You 
understand, why they react the way they do.”  Legolas nodded slightly.  “And in 
time, they will understand that you are more than just your father's son.”  Whether 
this last part was meant for Legolas or was said for the benefit of the Fellowship 
was unclear, but the tension in the room lifted considerably, as Gandalf spoke.  

“Now,”  the old Wizard said.  “let us all sit down, and I will tell you the whole 
story.”


Chapter 9.
Pheredil*...

“Thousands of years ago,”  Gandalf began.  “Mirkwood was not the dark place it 
is now, though the realm has always been shrouded in magic and mystery.  Even 
when all the world was in turmoil, this forest was removed from it all, protected 
by the magic of Gods and Elven-kings of the past.   That was, until the old king 
died without an heir and revolution erupted amongst the Sindar.  

Countless lives were lost in the violence that followed and, for a time, the forest 
was rendered defenceless against the outside world, the fight for the throne 
drawing sentries from their posts and Magii from their towers.  

It was in this time, when war reigned in the realm, that the Enemy crept into the 
woods, bringing with him malicious spirits, that brought death and destruction to 
all they encountered, and the Shadow, that followed wherever he went and 
befouled the very air.     Finally, after many years, a new king rose to power; 
Thranduil, who was Silvan by descent, one of the last of his kind to walk this 
Middle-Earth.  This new king took a Sindarin bride, and it is said, -”

“What was her name?”

“Anastriana.”

“Oh.”  

“As I was saying...”  Gandalf looked around, the way a school teacher looks at 
unruly students, making sure they were paying attention.  And he continued...

“Thranduil took a Sindarin bride, and it is said, as it often is of queens of the past, 
that she was the most beautiful of all the Sindar, but this was not why he chose 
her.  Thranduil and Anastriana were desperately in love and deliriously happy 
together.  But, for reasons the healers could not discern, they were unable to have 
children,. It was the only flaw in an otherwise perfect marriage,  but it was enough 
to tear them apart.

Thranduil's advisers counselled him to leave Anastriana and take another wife, to 
secure the future of his line.  Thranduil refused, and the knowledge that he would 
never have a son sent him into a deep melancholy.   He withdrew into his 
underground palace, refusing to see anyone, and there he would remain, for many 
years to come.

For the next few decades the day-to-day running of his realm was handled by 
Anastriana, who was, by the way, a good deal more kind in her rule than her 
husband and much loved by her subjects.  In fact, so complete was the king's 
retreat from public view, that despite the assurances of his advisers, the people of 
Mirkwood began to wonder if they're Silvan ruler even lived.  

Life went on in this manner, quite peacefully in fact, for many years.  Until one 
day, out of nowhere, the peace was shattered.   Kehlios, Thranduil's most trusted 
Hunter and the only person to speak directly to the king for some years, advised 
that the queen had gone out on her horse two days prior, and had not returned.  
Thranduil flew into a violent rage at the news, demanding that every Hunter be 
sent into the wild, to find his beloved bride.

The Hunters left, and they searched every inch of the forest and did not find her.  
They expanded their search, venturing far beyond the borders of their realm, 
driven on, long after they had given up hope, by the anguished screams of their 
sorrowful king.  Years passed, and finally the Hunters gave up their search and 
returned to the king with the news that his wife could not be found.  But 
Thranduil would not believe them.

He gathered his Hunters – several thousand in number, and saw light of day for 
the first time in more than a hundred years, as he led the march to Dol Guldur; the 
only place left in all his realm, where he might find his long lost bride.”  

Gandalf stopped and looked around the room.  Spotting a dark brown bottle 
resting on a shelf on the wall, the old man got up out of his chair, and wandered 
over.  He picked up the bottle and pulled the stopper loose, pausing to cautiously 
sniff the contents, before gulping down several mouthfuls. 

“Did he find her?”  Pippin asked.  

“Oh, he found her alright.”  The Wizard said as he resumed his seat.  “He found 
her on the floor of the ante-chamber, in a pool of blood.”

Several gasps escaped his audience.

“It was horror enough, to see his love's lifeless form, but Thranduil's torment did 
not end, there.  You see, crouching over the body of his queen, bloodied knife in 
his shaking hand, was a small child, no more than five years old, weeping and 
crying out for his father.”  

All eyes turned to Legolas.  

“They searched high and low for sign of Sauron, but the fortress was empty, save 
the boy and the body.”  Gandalf continued.  “Now there was no doubt that 
Anastriana was the child's mother, and that her son had been her murderer, and 
evidence would suggest it was indeed Sauron who had fathered the child, but, 
despite these things, Thranduil kept the boy alive and claimed him as his own, 
perhaps to preserve the memory of his lost beloved.  

It was the beginning of the return of normality to Mirkwood.  The king returned to 
his throne and again took up the rule of his realm, and now he had a son by his 
side, an heir to his kingdom, a child he could call his own.”  

It took a moment for Aragorn to realise, the old man had finished speaking.  
When he did, he felt profoundly unsatisfied.  

“Is that it?”  He asked of the Wizard. 

Gandalf looked at him mildly. 

“The rest is immaterial.”  He said.  

Gimli grunted.

“That's all well and good, Gandalf, but it doesn't tell us what we should do with 
our thieving, little spy, here.”   

“What we do, is nothing, Gimli.  There are reasons for the existence of all things.  
Legolas is indeed, something of a rare breed on this earth; a pheredil - though the 
term is most often used to describe those whose parents are elven and mortal.  
Sauron is a Maia, a lesser race of the Ainur.”

“What does that mean?”  Boromir asked.

“It means our young prince has the potential to be a powerful ally, especially 
when Thranduil finally breathes his last.  That aside, he is good in a fight, and this 
Fellowship needs all the help it can get.  Now, there will be no more of these... 
incidents,”  The old man reassured them.  “It was the orb that called our friend to 
the shadows, and the foul thing is gone now.  I would rather keep the child in my 
sight, through the uncertainty of this war, than rid the world of such a unique 
creature.”  

Aragorn thought it more than a little rude, to talk about the elf, as though he were 
not in the room, but when he looked at Legolas he saw no sign of distress; the 
young prince apparently happy that someone was prepared to speak on his behalf.  
It also seemed, as Gandalf continued to answer the Fellowship's questions, that 
the old Wizard was doing a very good job of turning their friend's heritage into a 
subject for academic discussion, rather than a reason for distrust.  By the time the 
conversation was ended, all were, if not happy, at least prepared to accept that 
Legolas would still be a part of their quest, despite the recent revelations about 
him.  

Then, without further adieu, the Wizard told them it was time to move on again, 
claiming they had lingered long enough, in the shadows of the past.  

It was time to deal with the present – and visit the king of Mirkwood.  

*Pheredil – Half-elf

Chapter 10.
The Herd...
(or: Wood-elves r so cool...)

It was mid-afternoon, when the company again passed through the wall of Dol 
Guldur, no one willing to suggest that they stay another night in the old, dark fort.  
They walked briskly down the wide path that led away from Sauron's old home 
and it was not until they had left the building far behind them, that they began to 
relax.  No one spoke much, and the tension was thick between them, as the 
Fellowship wrestled with the facts about their elven companion.  Aragorn stayed 
close by Legolas, eager to reassure the young prince, and the rest, that he still had 
a friend.  Though he did not speak, the elf did throw the Ranger a grateful little 
smile, when he stepped up beside him.

Travel became difficult again, once the path they followed abruptly came to an 
end, and it was not long before the company had to stop, night falling in the forest 
the way it always did, swiftly, and without warning.  It was a nervous night, that 
began with Gimli firmly stating that he would not sleep, under the watch of 'that 
spy'.  Aragorn immediately jumped to his friend's defence, but Gandalf would 
have none of it, declaring that if Gimli did not want to sleep, he could keep watch 
himself.  Gimli agreed, spending the night propped up against the tree, snoring 
loudly, under the watchful eye of the silent prince.  

Though Aragorn desperately wanted to speak with Legolas, he did not want 
anyone to think he was keeping an eye on the elf, so he deliberately removed his 
sword (though he laid it close beside him) and wrapped himself up in his blankets.  
But, he could not sleep, and like so many of his companions, he tossed and turned 
restlessly and felt like he had not rested at all, when light crept silently back into 
the forest.  

In the morning, they set out again, tempers considerably worse than the day 
before.  By the time they stopped for lunch, they were almost at each others 
throats.  “We cannot go on like this Gandalf.”  Boromir complained.  “The 
hobbits can barely walk on this mess.”  He kicked at a tree root.

“I hate to say it, but Boromir is right.”  Aragorn agreed.    “We either need to find 
a path or ease off the pace a little, or we will never make it as far as the river.”

“I could find us some horses.”  They turned to Legolas, who had been silent, since 
the meeting the day before.  Boromir threw the elf a withering look.

“Why did you not say so before?”  He asked.  Legolas shrugged.  

“We were not so close to the eastern edge of the forest before.  Mounted Hunters 
are far more lethal than those on foot, but there is little grass in the forest to feed 
their mounts, so many of my people's horses graze the fields to the east of here.”  
He explained.  “Most are quite easily ridden.”

“Most?”  Gimli asked.  The Dwarf had never been comfortable on the back of an 
animal.  Legolas smiled down at him.

“Fear not, Gimli.”  He said.  “I will choose gentle mounts for us.”  

Gimli still looked unconvinced, but Gandalf agreed that horses would not only 
make the trip easier, but also save them a great deal of time.  They made a sharp 
turn to the right, and in just a few short hours, broke through the eastern wall of 
the forest, to find themselves looking out over an endless plain, that stretched out 
as far as the eye could see.  The blanket of grass was mostly brown in colour, dull 
and unhealthy looking but, despite the seemingly meagre food supply, thousands 
of horses dotted the landscape, some frolicking in the distance, most with their 
heads down, grazing.  The herd was massive, scattered in some places, and in 
others, a heaving mass of dark flesh, undulating across the plain.  Aragorn had 
never seen so many horses, in his life.

“Well,” Gandalf said, impatiently.  “Let's have a look at them.”

Raising his long fingers to his lips, Legolas let forth a powerful, ear-splitting 
whistle; a series of short, sharp crescendos.  As one, several thousand heads were 
raised, ears pricked in their direction.  Then, the mass of horses began to move 
towards them, slowly at first, then faster, urged on by another loud whistle.  
Wonder turned to fear, as the wild horses charged across the plain, their hooves 
filling the air with the sound of thunder, the ground shaking beneath them.

Aragorn looked nervously at Legolas, who was gazing down at the oncoming 
stampede, something like self-satisfaction on his exquisite face.

“Will they stop?”  Aragorn asked.  Legolas smiled.

“Of course.”  The elf said, sounding totally convinced.  

The herd drew inexorably closer, galloping at full speed now, pushed on by sheer 
momentum and it seemed that those in the front could not possibly stop in time.  
Unconsciously, the company backed up towards the tree-line, some almost 
breaking and running for the nearest tree.  At what seemed to be the last possible 
moment, (as Legolas would be reminded often, in the days to come) the elf raised 
his hand toward the leaders of the herd and spoke to them, in elvish, raising his 
voice to be heard above the stampede.  

What he said to the horses was unclear, but it seemed the mere sound of his voice 
was enough to bring the animals to a grinding halt before him.  The horses in the 
front row almost slid over the top of the elven prince several times, pushing back 
with all their strength, as the rear of the herd ploughed into them and for several 
minutes the wall of horse-flesh surged and retreated like the tide.  At last, the herd 
settled and began milling around the edge of the forest, some of the horses now 
making their way to the front, to greet the elf who had called them, and these 
Legolas spoke to fondly before gently leading them into the forest, away from 
their herd.  

“We will choose mounts from these.”  The elf explained to his companions, and 
returned to the edge of the trees, to move the rest back out onto the field.  

When he returned, he set about a thorough inspection of the horses he had cut 
from the herd, checking each hoof and mouth for soundness, and immediately 
sending many on their way, dissatisfied with either their age or their health.  
When he had finished, ten horses remained and the elf pronounced them all fit for 
the journey ahead.  

“So who gets to ride which horse?”  Sam asked.  Legolas looked appraisingly at 
the hobbits for a moment, then gave the same look to their assembled steeds 
before shrugging his shoulders.  

“Only one way to find out.”  He replied and approached one of the horses, a small 
chestnut, reaching out and stroking its neck as he came to stand beside it.  The 
horse barely acknowledged his presence, completely at ease under the elf's 
ministrations.  Then, without warning, Legolas took hold of a fistful of the horses 
mane, and gracefully leapt onto the animals back.  

The horse started, skittering sideways over the treacherous forest floor, and it 
became instantly apparent why these particular horses were ridden by the Hunters 
of Mirkwood.  They were not particularly large specimens, small in stature and 
fine-boned.  But they were incredibly agile, and moved with fast, fluid grace, 
never seeming to have all four hooves on the ground at once.  The little chestnut 
soon calmed, under the elf's weight and he trotted it around in tight circles for a 
few moments, reminding the animal what it felt like to be ridden.  By the time he 
was done, the horse was as placid as Bill had been, and Legolas told them it 
would be suitable for any one of them to ride.  

He repeated this procedure with each of the remaining horses, most proving as 
quiet as the first, while some obviously had more spirit than the others.  By the 
time they had decided which animals to take and which to send back to the herd, 
night had fallen, and the company decided to sleep there, at the edge of the forest 
and set out on their new steeds in the first light of morning; they would travel on 
the plain, and follow the tree-line north, to the Forest River.  

It was dangerous territory, Gandalf had said, beyond the borders of Mirkwood, 
but everyone agreed it was worth the risk, to so greatly shorten the length of their 
journey.


Chapter 11.
Run to the North...

The Fellowship rose the next morning somewhat anxious about their new method 
of transport.   While most of the group had ridden before, (even the hobbits rode 
on the backs of their cart-ponies quite often) none except Gandalf and Legolas 
seemed to have had any particular experience riding without saddles and bridles.  

Everyone was mounted, more or less without incident, most requiring a boost 
from Legolas to climb aboard.  Merry sat behind Gandalf, on one of the larger 
horses, while Boromir doubled with Gimli, and Aragorn took Frodo on his dark, 
calm steed.  Sam claimed that he could ride perfectly well, and offered to take 
Pippin with him on the quiet, little chestnut.  

The only one to ride alone was the elf, who (perhaps deliberately) chose the 
fieriest, most difficult horse of the lot for himself and laughed at the looks on his 
companions faces, when he asked if anyone would like to ride with him.  With 
everyone aboard they set off, walking at first, while Legolas gave them pointers 
about riding without reins.  'Use your legs' and 'Hang on' became the catch-
phrases of the morning and by the time sun reached its zenith in the sky, everyone 
felt relatively confident in their new roles as riders.

They stopped for lunch, pulling back behind the curtain of trees for safety and 
having a cold meal of cheese and lembas.  When finished, they did not linger, 
climbing back aboard their mounts and heading back out onto the plain.  

“Right.”  Gandalf said.  “I think we ought to pick up the pace a bit.”  

With that, he kicked his horse into a gallop and, helpless to stop even if they had 
wanted to, the Fellowship followed suit, their mounts eager to run and content to 
follow the horse in front.  They made incredible time this way, the trees flying 
past in a blur on their left and, to the right, they passed the herd, joined on 
occasion, by free horses, who ran beside them, whinnying playfully as the 
company sped on.  

Amazingly, there were only two falls on that first day if riding.  One, when Gimli 
slipped awkwardly, right out from behind Boromir, and the other when Sam, who 
had made some noise about his riding ability, failed to stop his runaway chestnut, 
leaving behind Pippin who, remarkably, turned out the far better rider of the two.  
By the time the company stopped for rest that evening, they had covered more 
than half the length of the forest, the horses proving their worth, despite their 
small stature.  

When the sun rose the next morning, the river Celduin, as the elves called it, was 
clearly visible in the middle distance.  They would follow the Celduin into the 
woods that day, Gandalf told them, explaining that it intersected the Forest River, 
by the shores of which, Thranduil's people would be found.

A sense of excitement rippled through the company, as they urged their horses 
into the shallow waters of the Celduin, the thick vegetation surrounding the river 
prohibiting travel along its shores.   The Wood-elves of Mirkwood were perhaps 
the most mysterious of all the peoples of Middle-Earth; their borders long closed 
and the aura of tainted magic that hung over the forest successfully deterring 
travellers, for as long as history could remember.  

The journey down the river was quite pleasant, the woods on either side of them a 
far cry from the cold and dark of the South.  Though there was little difference in 
the vegetation;  the trees had thinned out a little, and there seemed to be less 
dampness in the air;  the real changes were far more profound.  Birds flew and 
called cheerfully overhead, and flashes of brown hide seen between the trees 
could have been fleeting deer.  Occasionally, rabbits were spotted, startled by the 
Fellowship's presence and darting away from the river.  Most evident, was the 
change in the air.  The sun drew dappled patterns under the trees, and a fresh 
breeze blew through this part of the forest.  

The fear of monsters and evil spirits was evaporated, beneath the warm sunshine, 
to the sound of the water, swirling around their horses hooves.  

The Fellowship left the Celduin at about midday, cutting north-west, to bypass the 
intersection of the two rivers, and promptly arrived at the southern bank of the 
Forest River, at about mid-afternoon.  They forded across the water, considerably 
deeper than that of the Celduin, and made it safely to the other side, where they 
were met by almost a dozen elves, all dressed in green tunics and brown cloaks, 
some pointing very nasty looking arrows in the Fellowship's direction.

“Ah,  Suilaid*(A.N).”  Gandalf said, smiling at the elves , who looked 
unimpressed, to say the least.  One elf stepped forward, presumably the leader of 
the group, and, ignoring completely the presence of the others, stopped and 
bowed low, before Legolas, his hand over his heart.

“**My Prince,**”  The Hunter said, in deep, reverent tones.  “**The forest 
rejoices in your return.**”  

Legolas smiled fondly at the gesture, inclining his head in a manner undoubtedly 
practised daily, since becoming the prince of these noble people.

“Hannon-lei, Kehlios”  He returned.  “It is good to be home.”  *(A.N.2)

*(Suilaid – greetings)

A.N.1:  read “**dialogue enclosed in asterisks**” as elvish.  I'll write common 
words in elvish and others for dramatic effect, but translating every line would be 
a hassle for me and for you.

A.N.2:  several events have been omitted from this section of the fic.  i was just in 
too much hurry to get to Thranduil. (so i could start beating Leggy up)


Chapter 12.
Homecoming... 

“**I beg your forgiveness, Highness, but I can allow your friends to go no 
further.**” Kehlios told his prince, before turning to the Fellowship and speaking 
fluently in the common-tongue.  

“You are trespassing.”  He told them flatly.  “The king commands that you leave 
his realm immediately.  He also wishes to remind you, Gandalf the Grey, that you 
have been told, on several occasions, never to return to this forest.  Should you 
choose to ignore this order, you will be duly punished, by imprisonment or 
execution.”  Several bows creaked ominously, as the Hunters awaited their order.

“**Lower your weapons!**”  Legolas demanded of the warriors.  They did so, 
but looked nervously at their Captain, obviously expecting conflicting 
instructions.  

Aragorn glanced over at Legolas, thoroughly stunned.  He had never before heard 
Legolas speak with such forcefulness and the sudden display of authority forced 
the Ranger to adjust his opinion of the young elven prince.  

“**I will not have my companions threatened, Kehlios**”  The prince said 
quietly, to the Hunter.  “**It is vital that Gandalf speak to my father, and I intend 
to see that he does.**”  Kehlios looked about to retort, but Legolas gave him no 
opportunity.  

“You may protest if you like.”  The elf said, in the tongue of men.  “I will be sure 
to tell Ada that you did so, when we arrive.”    With that said, he turned to 
Gandalf.  

“Shall we go, then?”

They travelled at an easy trot, along the many paths and trails that criss-crossed 
this part of the forest, Thranduil's Hunters spreading themselves around the 
Fellowship, escorting prince and trespassers alike to the Halls of their king.  As 
time passed, they began to see more and more Wood-elves, dressed in green and 
brown, going about their daily business, and the citizens of Mirkwood stopped, 
and openly stared at the passing strangers, suspicion and even hatred, written 
plainly on their faces.  

Aragorn began to feel unwelcome.

“Now I know why no-one ever comes here.”  Pippin whispered to Frodo.  

“Quiet, hobbits.”  Gandalf advised.  “You must watch carefully your words and 
your actions.  These are not the elves of Rivendell, or Lorien.” He explained.  “A 
wrong word can have serious consequences for us all.”  The Wizard looked up 
ahead, at Legolas, who rode in front, speaking quietly in elvish, with one of the 
Hunters.  

“Listen carefully now,”  The old Wizard whispered, conspiratorially.  “There are 
things that it would be unwise to mention, in the presence of these elves.  First, 
you must make no mention of the Ring or our quest.  Though Thranduil almost 
certainly knows what we carry, there is no need to advertise it here.  Many of 
these elves are as greedy for power as the average man, and quite willing to resort 
to violence, to get what they desire.  They are also notoriously short tempered.  
Second,”  Gandalf glanced around again, making sure no-one was listening.  
“You may see... unpleasantness, on the part of the king.  You must say nothing 
about the king or his son, for that matter, to anyone you may meet here.  There is 
much these elves do not discuss and with good reason; Thranduil rules with 
something of an iron fist.”  

If he did not already, Aragorn now began to doubt the wisdom of this trip to see 
the elven-king.  They were, he suspected,  about to knock, uninvited, on the front 
door of a tyrant.  

Without warning the path they followed grew into a wide road.  The surface 
appeared to have once been paved with grey stones, but neglect and the passage 
of time had all but obliterated the road, tree roots tearing up the paving in places 
and allowing grass and weed to grow through the cracks,  while elsewhere, the 
stones disappeared beneath a thick layer of soil.  Posted at regular intervals along 
the edge of the road, stood vaguely rectangular stone pillars, no more than four 
feet high, on top of which rested metal pots, filled with slow-burning oil that 
floated flames over the rims of the containers, as if by magic.  

Aragorn could not help but notice that the entire place appeared to be in a state of 
terrible disrepair.  Around them, amongst the trees, stood several huge stone 
towers, all with their sides crumbling and covered with moss and mildew.  Over 
to the right, a hundred yards or so away, one tower had completely collapsed, and 
the rubble remained as a huge, grass covered mound that quite completely ruined 
the landscape.  Several fallen trees lay, rotting, in the same manner, along the 
edge of the road and other trees were blackened and charred; standing, skeleton-
like victims of fire.  At first sight, Aragorn had assumed the damage had simply 
occurred over time, but he now began to wonder if it had been some ancient battle 
that had so scarred the home of the Wood-elves.

“This is it.”  Gandalf mumbled, and Aragorn tore himself from his appraisal of the 
woods, to look ahead, down the road.  

Before them, the road disappeared, ploughing head-long into the foot of a 
mountain, the peak of which  could be seen towering above the forest.  The 
entrance to the underground was bordered by a high stone arch, inscribed with 
ancient elvish text, in a dialect that Aragorn could not have read, even if he had 
been close enough to see it clearly.  Before the huge portal, surrounded by 
faceless others, stood a solitary figure, robed in rich folds of dark green velvet.  
As the Fellowship neared the opening, the figure came slowly into better focus 
and Aragorn saw that the elf wore a crown of gold and mithril, delicately woven 
in artful braids through the fall of silver locks that framed his face. 

Thranduil, the Silvan king of Mirkwood, stood before them.


Chapter 13.
Welcome...

Still some fifteen or twenty metres away from the entrance to the halls, Kehlios 
halted them, and he and Legolas dismounted from their horses.  The Captain gave 
his Hunters an order in elvish, and the Fellowship was told to wait, as he and the 
prince crossed the short distance that remained, to stand before their king.  

Kehlios lingered behind Legolas as the prince approached his father, gracefully 
sinking to his knees before the king, his head bowed and his hand over his heart.  
It was, Aragorn thought, a beautiful display of utter submission.

“Aran-nin*”

The king smiled down at his dutiful child, something close to sympathy in his 
piercing, blue eyes.

“Legolas, réd-nin.*”  Thranduil's voice was strong and clear, the powerful tone of 
one who was the master of all he surveyed.  Aragorn recognised immediately, 
why the Silvan elf was accepted as the leader of these Sindar.  He was quite 
simply, the sort of person you did not dare to question.

Slowly, Legolas rose to his feet, raising his head to look into his father's eyes.

Thranduil was, Aragorn noticed, a full head taller than his foster-child and looked 
a good deal more solid than the young prince.  Having just realised this, it 
immediately came to the Ranger's attention that though Thranduil towered above 
most of the Sindar, Legolas was in fact, of a significantly lighter build than his 
people and looked somewhat out of place, amongst the powerful Hunters of 
Mirkwood.  A part of Aragorn wondered whether Legolas had not yet finished 
growing, or if his delicate form was the result of his unique parentage.  

Without warning and with lightning speed, the king raised his hand, striking 
Legolas powerfully across the face, with his open palm.  To his credit, the young 
prince stood his ground, though shaken by the blow, and looked again into his 
father's eyes, unflinching.

“**Did I not forbid you to go to Rivendell?!**”  The king demanded of Legolas.  
The young prince bore his father's harsh gaze only a moment longer, before 
bowing his head in surrender.

“**Yes, Ada.**”  

Thranduil struck the young elf again, harder this time, causing Legolas to stumble 
backwards.

“**How dare you defy me, you worthless little snake!?**”  The king raised his 
hand to strike again, and Aragorn could stand it, no longer.

“Wait!”  He called to the king, who looked past his child, to fix his eyes on the 
Fellowship, as though he had just noticed their presence.

“Be silent, mortal!”  Thranduil commanded, his tone a clear indication of his 
feelings towards men.  The king then advanced on the company, having noticed 
someone he wished to speak to.

“YOU!”  He yelled, pointing his jewelled finger at Gandalf.  He stopped just a 
few feet away from Aragorn, and the Ranger realised that the elven-king was a 
good deal more intimidating when viewed from up-close, the sheer power the elf 
possessed enshrouding him in an almost tangible aura.  It made Aragorn want to 
back away, though pride would not have allowed him to do so.  

“I seem to recall,”  The king was saying to Gandalf, his common-tongue thick 
with old-elvish accent.  “That you left in quite a hurry, the last time you were 
here.”  Thranduil glared ominously at the wizard, but Gandalf appeared 
unperturbed.

“Indeed, your Majesty.”  He replied.  “I made very good time, that day.  I must 
say, those Hunter's you sent did rush me along a bit.”  Aragorn watched the 
interaction closely, Gandalf seemed to be playing with the elven-king, and the 
Ranger doubted the wisdom of such a move.  Thranduil, however, seemed willing 
to play.

“Oh, yes.  Whatever happened to them, if you do not mind my asking?”  
Thranduil asked, almost casually.  Gandalf made faint, apologetic noises, 
avoiding the king's steady gaze.

“Ah, I'm afraid they were involved in a bit of an accident, your Majesty.”  He 
mumbled.  “Terrible business, really.”  He added.  “Very nasty.”  The wizard's 
words trailed off, as every trace off humour fled Thranduil's face, and the elven-
king leaned in close, to speak slowly and deliberately.

“You will pay, for those lives, Wizard.  I will carve their names into your flesh, 
myself.”  

Gandalf nodded, slowly.

“Yes, your Majesty, I do not doubt it.”  He said, matter-of-factly.  “But, in light of 
recent events, you may want to postpone that intention, hm?”  He lowered his 
voice.  “You know of what I speak.”  

Thranduil eyed the wizard critically for a moment, before responding.

“I am aware of the troubles of the world beyond my borders.”  He declared.  
“What I do not know, is why you have chosen to bring the danger here.”

Gandalf looked around at their huge audience.  Hundreds of elves stood silently, 
listening to every word that was uttered.

“I must speak with you, your Majesty.”  Gandalf muttered.  “Some-place quiet.”

Thranduil paused, considering the wizard's request for what seemed like several 
minutes, before finally inclining his head, in assent.  

“In light of recent events,”  He said, deliberately. “You and your... friends...”  He 
eyed the rest of the Fellowship with barely concealed distaste,  “are free to come 
and go, as you wish.”
  
“Legolas!”  He barked over his shoulder.  Legolas approached obediently.  

“Yes, Ada?”  He asked, his voice a brilliant display of willingness to please.

“**Find rooms for your friends.**”  The young prince bowed his head in 
compliance and turned to the Fellowship.  “**And Legolas ...**”  

“Yes, Ada?”

“**See that you bathe before dinner.  You stink of that rabble.**”  

“Yes, Ada.”

Aragorn filed the insult away, for future reference, silently promising himself that 
he would one day bring the self-important elven-king down a notch or two, if it 
was the last thing he did.

“This way.”  Legolas said pleasantly, and turned to lead them, through the dark 
opening in the mountain, into the great halls that he called his home.


*Aran-nin – My Lord  

*Réd-nin – My child. ( Réd also means 'heir', which is why i chose it from the 
half-dozen or so translations i found for 'child'. )


Chapter 14.
The Great Halls...

It took a moment for Aragorn's eyes to adjust to the dim light.  He blinked several 
times, trying to rid himself of the bright wall behind his eyes, and the dark spots 
in front of them.  When finally, his vision returned, he saw the first of many 
wonders, to be found beneath the mountain.

The hall into which they entered, was not unlike that of Dol Guldur, in terms of its 
size and structure, but that was where the similarities ended. Where Dol Guldur 
had been unadorned and run-down, this place was an image of immeasurable 
wealth and power; a testament to the glory of days past.  Every surface of the 
great hall was gilded in gold and mithril, every object encrusted with jewels and 
shimmering stones.  The floor on which they walked, appeared to have been tiled 
with countless millions of tiny, dark rubies, little more than shards, laid down in 
thick layers, and polished into perfect smoothness.   

Several large, double-doors were spaced along the far wall. There was also one, 
set in the middle of the wall to the right, and one to the left. All the doors were 
swung wide open, a welcoming sight.  Also welcome, was the pulse of life under 
the mountain; elves were wandering in and out of the large doors and several 
groups of a half-dozen or so, loitered around the hall, engaged in cheerful, casual 
conversation.  

Pillars supported the roof of the giant hall, though more slender than those in the 
ante-chamber of Sauron's fortress, and far fewer in number.  In the centre of the 
space, stood a fountain, fed by an underground spring.  

Now, it must be said, that this was not a fountain such as would be found in any 
garden in Minas Tirith, or even in Rivendell or 'Lorien;  the fountain was made 
completely of shining, pure mithril, reflecting light into the water and painting 
dancing ripples on the walls.  The metal had been sculpted into a huge statue, 
several times taller than Aragorn.  
It depicted a fierce elven-warrior, bare-chested, astride a prancing steed, with bow 
drawn, arrow pointed towards the sky.  Perched magnificently on the shaft of the 
Hunter's arrow, a clawed foot wrapped around the arrow-head, sat a giant bird of 
prey, it's wings spread gloriously about it's noble head, ready to take flight.  
Behind and to the side of the Hunter and his familiars, stood an enormous mithril 
tree, it's branches hanging low to dip delicate metal leaves into the fountain. 
Water must have been fed to the top of the mithril tree, as it dripped gentle 
droplets of artificial rain down on the Hunter, causing the room to be filled with 
shimmering reflection.  It was an exquisitely crafted, delicate thing, the size and 
beauty of which Aragorn had never before seen. 

“That,”  Boromir said  “is truly magnificent.”  Aragorn nodded mutely.

“How long did it take to make that thing?”  Pippin asked.  

Legolas said he did not know, it had been there for much longer than he had lived.  

“It must be worth a fortune.”  Boromir whispered.  Aragorn threw the Captain of 
Gondor an irritated glance.  It was, he thought, terribly inappropriate to think of 
putting a price on the beautiful work of art.  

They lingered there, awestruck, for a few more moments, before Legolas moved 
them along, leading them past the fountain and out through one of double doors at 
the far end of the hall.  

On the other side, it became apparent that all three huge doorways in the back 
wall of the first hall, led to another directly behind it.  This was longer and more 
narrow that the chamber they had just left, and it's sides were lined with many 
doors, some open, some closed.  It was obviously the central passageway, at least 
of this level, and as they passed down the long hall, several dozen elves were 
seen, striding up and down the ruby floor, going about their business.  The 
Fellowship barely noticed them though, driven to distraction by huge murals that 
graced every inch of the walls.  

The paintings were stunningly vivid, the paint swathed over the stone in thick, 
decadent layers, and they were incredibly detailed in their depiction of the great 
conflicts of history.  In one giant picture, Elves and Men were entrenched in gory 
battle against an endless tide of orcs that poured from the Black Gates of Mordor.  
In another, the Wood-elves did battle amongst themselves, a vicious, blood-thirsty 
struggle for power against a backdrop of a burning forest.  At the far end of the 
hall, where there was no door, an entire wall was devoted to the earth-rending 
struggle of the Gods against Melkor, the Enemy of the World, who appeared in 
the shape of a great black cloud, that spewed forth flame and lightning, roiling 
over the faceless, skeleton-like figures of his Maian generals.  One of them, 
Aragorn knew, was Sauron.

“Through here, Aragorn.”  

Aragorn looked for the source of the words.  Legolas and the others stood in one 
of the doorways on the left wall, waiting for him.  Amazingly, Aragorn only then 
realised, that their group was not complete.

“Where is Gandalf?”  He asked, looking up and the hall, for sign of the old 
wizard.

He looked back to Legolas, who gazed back at him with mild amusement.

“Gandalf left.”  The pretty elf explained.  “With Ada.  While you were admiring 
the fountain.”  He added.  

Aragorn felt a sudden urge to kick himself.  It was unlike him, to be so easily 
distracted, and he promised himself he would not allow it to happen again. 

“Where did they go?”  

Legolas shrugged, he did not know.

“To Ada's library, I would guess.”  

Aragorn still felt unsatisfied; he had no idea where Thranduil's library was, and 
the inability to find Gandalf, should he need to, made him edgy.  Nevertheless, 
everyone else appeared more than happy to let the old man disappear, and so, 
sighing, Aragorn followed his friends through the open door.

The door had led them to a relatively small hallway, though still wide and tall 
enough to allow the passage of a Mamuk, should one choose to go there. It 
stretched out for about fifty meters before turning into a wide, steep flight of 
stairs.  They began the trek down to the next level of Thranduil's underground 
palace and it was here that Aragorn first noticed a large gap that ran along the top 
edge of the wall, between it and the roof.  Wandering to the other side of the 
stairs, he found a similar space.  The gaps were about four inches wide and cut 
perfectly along the entire length of the hall.  Through them, light poured down 
into the passage and Aragorn marvelled at the ingenious light source.  He asked 
Legolas about it, but the elf gave only a brief description, as though the light had 
never been of particular interest to him.  

“The walls are all several feet thick, but mostly hollow.” The prince explained, 
“The light is fed by a system of mirrors from holes bored into the sides of the 
mountain.”  Legolas shrugged.  “It works well enough.  But then, I have never 
been given the task of climbing into one of those holes, to clean the mirror.”  

Aragorn began to scoff, before he realised the elf was being serious. 

“The bore-holes are placed out in the open, to allow the most sunlight.  It is not 
uncommon for dirt and rain to make it inside.  Of course, nothing ever makes it 
down far enough down to come out through the walls, but if a mirror becomes 
dirty, we all go without light until someone wipes it.”  

They continued down the stairs seemingly for ever, before finally stepping out of 
a door, and into another huge, long hall.  This room was noticeably plainer than 
those of the first level, though still well-built and spotlessly clean.  They travelled 
across the open space and immediately entered another door, that led to another 
set of stairs.  

They moved down to the next level.  

On arriving, the company found themselves at an intersection, where three 
hallways met the foot of the stairs.  Legolas led them to the right and they 
followed the long straight passage for several hundred meters, passing 
innumerable closed doors as they went.

Eventually they came to a halt before a large double-door, it's solid, wooden 
surface, ornately carved into a wall of vines that twisted around thin lattice.  As 
with everything Aragorn had seen under the mountain, the door was beautiful.  

Standing outside the doors was a Hunter, dressed in deep red and with a large, 
nasty looking knife at his hip.  On seeing Legolas, the guard bowed low, greeting 
his prince in elvish, before taking a long key that hung from his belt, and 
unlocking the doors, pushing them open and standing back, to allow entry. 


Chapter 15.
The prince's chamber...

Legolas entered the room first, pausing to glance around before striding to across 
the floor towards the far wall.  About to follow him had been the Fellowship, until 
they realised with something akin to embarrassment, that this was in fact, the 
prince's bed-chamber, though the term hardly did justice to the size of the room.  
Halfway across the space, Legolas stopped, apparently just noticing that his 
friends had not followed.  He turned, and looked back at them, as they peered 
around the room, through the doorway.

“You can come in, if you like.” Legolas said, as he turned and continued to cross 
the room.  Tentatively, like children who somewhere they were not supposed to 
be, his friends stepped inside.

“Do close the door, behind you.”  The prince added, over his shoulder.  He picked 
up what looked like several pieces of clothing and a towel, from his bed and 
proceeded to make his way across the floor, from right to left, heading for a large 
door in the side wall.  

“You must forgive the delay,”  He said apologetically, as he went.  “but your 
rooms are a good way further down the hall and I am honestly desperate for a 
bath.”  

Aragorn smiled.  

- This, - his inner-voice commented, dryly, - is typical. -

“Make yourselves at home.”  Legolas said, pleasantly.  “I will only be a moment.”  
With that, he disappeared through the side-door, closing it softly behind him.

With the owner of the premises safely out of sight, the Fellowship relaxed 
considerably and immediately set about following the prince's instructions, 
meandering around the chamber and, as Pippin diplomatically put it, 'taking a 
look around'.  

Aragorn called it 'rifling through someone else's belongings', a far less pleasant, 
but entirely more accurate description of their activities, and it was something he 
considered wrong.  So, he stood, somewhat stubbornly, near the entrance, 
meticulously inspecting the thick fur rug beneath his feet, the making of which, 
Aragorn suspected, had involved a large number of bears.  Inevitably though, as 
the minutes wore on and Legolas did not return, the naturally inquisitive Ranger 
could not help but begin to 'look around' himself.

The first thing Aragorn noticed, when he allowed his eyes to wander around the 
room, was that being the heir to Thranduil's throne came with some impressive 
benefits.  

The chamber was slightly rectangular in shape and at least half the size of the first 
hall that they had entered*(A.N).  The stone walls had been artfully covered with 
a solid, floor to ceiling, wooden carving, not unlike that of the doors, complete 
with intricately detailed wooden vines and leaves, that gathered in the corners of 
the room, almost as if they had grown there.  

The decorations on the walls had effectively closed off the gap that provided light 
to the chamber, and the room was quite dark; though a good number of candles 
were spread about the place, they all lay cold and dead, testament to the long 
absence of the rooms' inhabitant.

Three slender pillars graced the chamber, set in a more or less triangular pattern 
around the centre of the room and intricate wooden vines also wove their way 
delicately around them, the carved artwork thick near the floor and thinning out 
and fading away at about head-height.  

In the corner directly on Aragorn's left stood a large bookshelf, brimming with 
elvish texts bound in soft leather, their titles printed elegantly down their spines.  
Aragorn browsed the books, finding several texts that he recognised from Elrond's 
library at Rivendell.  However, a great majority of the texts were unfamiliar, and 
some of the titles were in a language he could not read.

Next to the bookshelf, on the wall adjoining his friend's bathroom, was a sturdy 
wooden desk, upon which sat several ink-wells, and a small stack of parchments.  
Trying to be subtle, he moved closer to the desk and cast his eyes downward, 
instantly recognising the patterns of lines and markings on the parchment, as 
music.  Intrigued by this revelation, Aragorn picked up the parchments and began 
rifling through them, stunned at the complexity of the music his friend had 
written. 

Legolas often sang songs for the Fellowship, during the quiet nights they spent 
under the stars and the young elf had an exquisite voice; a clear, ringing contralto, 
which floated through the air, like the whispering of the wind, calming beasts and 
the hearts of Men, alike.  Aragorn had, however, never considered the possibility 
that his friend might be a composer, and as he read the music, written in flawless 
elven hand, he desperately longed to hear it.

“I don't think you should be doing that.”  Frodo's disapproving voice reached the 
Ranger's ears.  

Brought out of his reverie, Aragorn caught himself rifling.  He swiftly returned 
the parchments to their rightful place, taking care to put the correct page on the 
top of the pile, before turning to see what it was Frodo had been talking about.

In the far right corner of the room, stood a large bed, its solid base adorned with 
the same wooden creepers as the other furniture in the room.

The theme gave Aragorn the impression that the vines were growing over 
everything that touched the walls – or perhaps, that the furniture had somehow 
escaped from the wall of vines, Aragorn could not decide which.

At the foot of the bed, sat a large, wooden chest, the heavy lid resting on the floor 
beside it and, in front of the chest, knelt two hobbits; a Took and a Brandybuck.  
They appeared to be doing their very best to empty the chest of its contents, 
observed, at a respectful distance, by a disapproving Frodo and Sam.

"Merry!  Pippin!"  Aragorn said harshly.  "Get out of there, for pity's sake."  He 
began to storm across the room, towards the two, and the looks on Frodo and 
Sam's faces turned from disapproval, to amused satisfaction.

"Now you're in for it."  Sam warned his kinsmen.

Merry and Pippin began scooping armfuls of clothing and trinkets off the floor 
around them, shoving them back into the container in a futile attempt to undo 
what they had done before Aragorn reached them.  They needn't have bothered, 
since Aragorn had barely walked three paces when the door in the wall beside him 
opened, and Legolas stepped out.  

Aragorn stopped and looked at his friend, about to apologize for the behavior of 
the hobbits but, as the Ranger laid eyes on the vision before him, his words ran 
dry and all he could do was stare.

Legolas had discarded his utilitarian, traveling clothes in favor of a more 
comfortable and infinitely more elegant attire and had made the transition 
seamlessly from warrior, to prince.

The dark, leather pants he wore were similar to those from which he had changed, 
but his green, woolen tunic had been replaced by a long, loose-fitting, robe, in a 
pale shade of blue, graced with subtle silver embroidery on the hem and cuffs.  
The robe appeared to made of a heavy velvet, and was, Aragorn thought, just 
slightly too big for the young prince, its hem gathering slightly on the floor 
around the elf's bare feet, the cuffs hanging almost beyond his hands, allowing 
only his slender fingers to peek out from under the fabric.  

The robe hung open at the front and beneath it Legolas was naked to the waist, the 
clean, golden flesh of his taut stomach clearly visible, muscles rippling ever so 
slightly, even as the elf breathed.*(A.N.2)   

Legolas had also changed his hair, letting go the braids that had previously kept it 
under tight control and pinning that which would have fallen before his eyes 
loosely behind the delicate tips of his ears, allowing his mane of golden silk to fall 
in thick, lustrous waves over his shoulders and cascade down his back.  

The new look was finished with a delicate chain of gold and mithril, entwined 
around the elf's slender hips. It was the creature's only decoration, and more, 
Aragorn thought, than was needed, as he gazed at the simple, elegant perfection 
that was Legolas. 

"Is something the matter?"

Aragorn started.  The vision had spoken.  He realized with embarrassment that he 
had been staring and immediately the Ranger's eyes flickered around the room, 
searching for a place where they could safely rest.  He noticed with some relief, 
that Merry and Pippin had replaced the lid on the chest at the end of Legolas' bed, 
presumably while he had been staring at the prince.  Gathering his thoughts, 
Aragorn carefully returned his wandering to the elf's exquisite face.

"No, nothing."  He replied to his friend's question.  "Are you ready?"  

Legolas nodded prettily, saying that he was and leading Aragorn back to the door 
of his chamber, the others following close behind.

*(A.N.1) I wanted to say ...”at least the size of an average house.”... but then I 
realized the only houses I had seen in the movies had been little more than hovels 
(in Edoras) and one bedroom, second-story apartments (in Minas Tirith).  What I 
MEANT was the average three bedroom, open-plan home in suburbia, with a 
rumpus room and double lock-up garage.  So it wasn't a good description. But it 
makes a much better sentence. sh*t i dribbled again....   that must be annoying for 
you *grin*.


Chapter 16.
The bath...

The company stepped back out into the relative brightness of the hallway and 
turned left, to continue down the seemingly endless passage, towards the 
Fellowship's lodgings; the guard at the door giving his prince a nod, as they 
passed and locking the doors behind them. 

The hallway made a sharp right and then turned into a flight of stairs.  They began 
the steep descent to the next level and as they did, Aragorn began to wonder just 
how far down they were going.  He had heard there were dungeons beneath 
Thranduil's halls and in a distant corner of the Ranger's brain, alarms were 
sounding; there was no fast way out of this place, no route of escape - if 
something bad happened down here, there was a good chance that the world on 
the surface would never hear about it.

Without warning the hallway levelled out and the elegant prince halted and turned 
to face them.

"You may sleep in any of the rooms on this level that you wish."  He said, in his 
musical voice.

"Are we the only ones down here?"  Sam asked.

"On this level, yes."  The prince replied.  "I am afraid the chambers are a good 
deal smaller than those upstairs."  He added, apologetically.  

Curious, Aragorn opened the door that was closest to them.  Peering inside, he 
saw that the chamber was less than half the size of his friend's room, and only 
scantly furnished; a decent sized bed with woollen blankets, a table and some 
chairs, a large keg, filled with fresh water.  The room had a distinctly utilitarian 
feel and Aragorn suspected the other chambers in the hall would look very much 
the same.

"Who are these rooms meant for?"  He asked.

"Hunters."  Legolas answered.  "Well, citizens, really."  He corrected.  "When 
Mirkwood goes to war, the population are called to the Halls, to protect those that 
cannot fight and to gather together those that can."  The prince smiled wryly.  "It 
is hard to make war, when you have no idea the whereabouts of your army."

"You have no garrison, here?"  Aragorn asked.

"There are several hundred Hunters living on the second level, but they are really 
just guards."  Legolas shrugged.  "Our armies wander the forest, like the rest of 
us, when the realm is at peace.  And we have been at peace for a long time, now."  

Aragorn nodded, though it seemed somewhat unwise to him, to let your soldiers 
wander off when the fighting stopped.  Then, it occurred to him that feeding 
people down here would be a logistical nightmare, and with that in mind, he asked 
Legolas how many rooms there were.  

"The halls can support around twenty thousand, for a week or two, while the army 
gathers.  Most then move on, to fight."  

Aragorn started violently.  Twenty thousand was a significant number of people, 
particularly if most of them were fighters.  Somewhere in his brain, something 
clicked; Mirkwood would make a powerful ally.

"There are baths at the end of this hallway, which you are welcome to use."  Their 
host said pleasantly.  "Unfortunately there is no-one on this level to attend you, so 
if you need anything you will have to go back upstairs.  I will send someone down 
to see that you are comfortable and fetch you for dinner, in a couple of hours."

Aragorn began to suspect that the elf had better things to do than stand around 
chatting with the company, and an irrational part of him became decidedly 
jealous.

"Dinner!  Good!  I'm starving."  Gimli proclaimed.  

Legolas graced the Dwarf with one of his sweet smiles, before excusing himself 
and heading back up the stairs, to attend to whatever pressing business awaited 
him.

Left to their own devices, the company stood in the hallway, not quite knowing 
what to do with themselves.  There was little to discuss in the matter of sleeping 
arrangements; further inspection confirming that the rooms in the hall were, 
indeed, all the same and so, they decided to make their way down the long 
passage, to find the baths that Legolas had promised awaited them.

They discovered, on arriving, that when Legolas had said 'baths', he had meant, 'a 
lake'.  At the far end of the hall, past several intersections, lay a large chamber, the 
floor of which had been hollowed out and filled with water, Aragorn assumed, 
from the same underground springs that fed the fountain on the first level.  It was 
a remarkable feat of engineering, something Aragorn was becoming accustomed 
to seeing, in this massive underground complex.  

Without doubt, the most interesting thing about the artificial lake, was the 
temperature of the water.  Dipping his hairy toes gingerly into the pool, Pippin 
happily announced that the water was quite warm.

"It's lovely!"  Merry agreed, after further testing and without further hesitation, 
the company began stripping themselves of their dirty, travel-worn clothes, the 
prospect of a warm bath more than any of them had hoped for.

They lingered in the bath for quite some time; the hobbits gleefully playing a 
game of tag in the water, Gimli resting his feet on the edge of the pool and 
floating, face up, apparently fast asleep.  Boromir sat in one of the corners, 
brooding as he so often had, since their encounter with the Lady Galadriel.  At 
one point, two elves, dressed in light-green robes entered the chamber and 
removed the Fellowship's clothing, returning with the items, clean and neatly 
folded, some time later.  

Aragorn noticed none of this.  He was thinking, of Legolas.

The young prince appeared to have breathed a visible sigh of relief, when they 
had entered the mountain he called home, the mask of reserve he wore slipping 
thoughtlessly from his face, allowing a flood of emotion to register on the elf's 
exquisite features.  

Aragorn had watched, enthralled, as Legolas slipped effortlessly into his role of 
child-prince, floating across the polished floors in his bare feet, smiling prettily at 
the slightest provocation and speaking more in the half-hour they had been there, 
than he had during the entire trip from Rivendell.

It was a sight that at once pleased and confused Aragorn.  He had been told that 
Legolas was mistreated by his adoptive parent, yet, while he had thought 
Thranduil's reprimand at the entrance to the halls had been harsh and probably 
unnecessary, it had not been extreme.  Legolas had, after all, taken off for 
Rivendell, against his father's will.  

Whatever the relationship between king and prince however, it could not be 
denied that Legolas was happy to be home, and this caused Aragorn to breathe his 
own relieved sigh.  The Ranger had been terribly concerned for his friend, since 
the incident at Dol Guldur, and his inability to speak to the elf, alone since that 
day, had served to double that concern.  

Seeing Legolas smile had obliterated his fears for the elf's well-being and Aragorn 
was also quietly hoping, that the change in his friend would relax the interaction 
between them.  He had not forgotten his decision to get to know the young prince 
and it seemed the more he did, the more fascinated he was by the beautiful and 
mysterious creature.

"My Lords."  

Slowly, Aragorn opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the soft voice.  
Two elven females stood near the entrance to the baths, holding several thick 
woollen towels and looking expectantly in the Fellowship's direction.  Though 
they said nothing more, Aragorn got the distinct impression they were expecting 
the company to vacate the premises immediately.  Climbing out of the pool, 
Aragorn took one of the towels offered to him, the rest of the company following 
suit.

"His majesty invites you to join him for dinner."  One of the pretty elves said, in a 
tone that turned an invitation into a command.  "He awaits you, in the Dining 
Hall."

"Now?"  Boromir asked.  The elf looked at the man as though he were stupid.

"Yes, now."  

... And another chapter bites the dust! *grin*





Ch