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*





Chapter 17.
The elven-king's table...

Aragorn dressed as quickly as he could manage, under the scrutiny of the two 
elves, hurrying his companions on, as he went.  The Ranger thought he knew 
enough, to know that keeping Thranduil waiting was probably not a good idea.  

Their guides, however, appeared not to share Aragorn's desire for haste, leading 
them slowly down the hall and up the stairs to level three of the Halls.  

When they reached the level on which the prince's chamber lay, they travelled 
only a third of the distance down the hall, and turned right through a closed door.  

The passage beyond appeared to be some sort of service route.  It was quite 
narrow and consisted solely of stairs, occasionally broken by a door set into the 
wall.  They travelled up the through the passage to the first level, without 
stopping.  

When they stepped through the door at the top, they found themselves standing in 
the hallway the bore the epic murals on the walls. Aragorn relaxed significantly; 
his need for a direct route out of the levels below, had been satisfied.

They headed down the hall, into the first great chamber, striding past the fountain  
without pause, and going out through the huge door in the wall to their right.  The 
hallway they found curved sharply to the right and then quite suddenly stopped.  
There were two huge, double-doors, facing each other at the end of the hall, both 
identical, heavily gilded in the golden theme that graced the top level of the elven-
king's home.

The company's guides halted and gestured towards the doors on the left.

"The Dining Hall lies through this door."  One of elves said.

"Where does that door go?"  Pippin asked, pointing to the one on their left.

"That door leads to the Hall of Kings."  The elf replied.  

"The what?"

"It's the throne-room."  Aragorn told him.  "Come on,"  He urged them, "Let's not 
keep the king waiting."  He reached out and, since the doors appeared to have no 
handle, pushed hard on the gilded wood.  

The doors swung open, with surprisingly little resistance and beyond, as their 
guides had promised, lay the Dining Hall.  

The chamber was four times the size of any other they had seen.  Simply a 
massive square, filled with row upon row of long tables, set in two columns, a 
path between them leading to the far end of the hall where, on a landing some 
four feet above the floor, lay the king's table.  

The chamber was filled to the brim with a sea of elven citizens, who sat at their 
tables, chatting easily while they awaited their meal, the words that issued from a 
thousand mouths filling the air with a steady buzz.  

The company made their way, somewhat nervously down the hall, towards the 
king and as they did, the tables of elves that they passed eased their chatter, 
watching the strangers.  Remarkably, there was very little in the way of reaction 
to their presence and Aragorn suspected the citizens of Mirkwood may have been 
warned about the appearance of their guests.  

As they neared the king's table, Aragorn saw that Gandalf sat beside Thranduil, on 
his left, and on the elven-king's right, sat his son.  On either side of Gandalf and 
Legolas, eight seats were empty, reserved for the king's guests.  The first to mount 
the stairs that led up to the landing, Aragorn went straight to the chair that sat 
beside the prince.

Feeling somewhat obliged to apologise for their tardiness, (the elves in the hall 
had obviously been waiting, for some time, to be fed) Aragorn hesitated before 
seating himself, addressing the elven-king with as much respect as he could 
muster.

"**Forgive us our lateness, your Majesty,**" He began, but Thranduil would 
have none of it, waving him to his seat with very little in the way of greeting.  
Feeling awkward in the unfamiliar social setting, Aragorn sat, relieved to have 
been excused from his speech.

"Good evening."  Legolas said, smiling.  Aragorn looked beside him, at the 
prince.  Legolas appeared to have changed clothes again, for the engagement.  

Trading his casual look for something a little more formal, the young elf was 
dressed now in a perfectly tailored robe of rich green, that hugged his slender 
form, like a glove.  

In the prince's hair had been woven several slender chains of silver, barely visible 
amongst the golden locks.  The look was quite elegant and, Aragorn thought as he 
watched the elf gaze out over his subjects, decidedly feminine, though there was 
no chance of confusing the prince's gender.  

Aragorn found himself staring again; the finely cut profile of the elf's face holding 
the Ranger's attention.  

He let his eyes wander over the vision, consciously remembering what he saw; the 
angle of the jaw, the finely sculpted nose, the long, dark lashes and soft, pink lips. 
If he hadn't thought so before, Aragorn now decided that Legolas was perfect.  

As though sensing the intensity of the Ranger's gaze, the elf turned his head, to 
look at him, curiously.

"Is everything alright, Aragorn?"  The prince asked, concern touching his flawless 
features.  

As he always did, when Legolas looked at him, Aragorn smiled.

"Yes,"  he said.  "everything is fine."  

Legolas smiled back at him, sweetly and as their eyes met, amongst the buzz and 
activity of the giant hall, the two friends shared something.  

It was not something tangible or specific; if asked, Aragorn would have been 
unable to describe it.  It was simply a warm feeling of friendship and familiarity, a 
silent declaration of fondness, that occurred without thought or presumption.  

It was comfortable, and pleasant and utterly pure.  

Aragorn's heart, full of love for the beautiful elven prince, began to flutter.

Somewhere in the hall, a loud bell was chimed, shattering the private moment and 
immediately, several dozen elves appeared through a series of doors in the side 
wall, each heavily laden, with huge platters of food.

Further down the table, Gimli laughed.

"Ah-ha!  Food!" The Dwarf triumphantly announced.  "Bring it on, my belly's 
been grumbling for hours now."  

The king's table was, unsurprisingly, served first and, as plate after heaped plate 
was set along the length of the table, Aragorn realised the full extent of his own 
hunger.  

The platters consisted mostly of heaps* of dark berries, from several different 
bushes, and all kinds of fruits; sliced, diced and in some cases left whole.  There 
was also a good deal of greenery, and piles of warm, soft bread, presented with 
with more kinds of cheese than Aragorn had known existed.  

One of the elves, came along and filled the elegant glass before Aragorn, with a 
dark red liquid, presumably wine.  Feeling decidedly uncomfortable, under the 
service of his hosts, Aragorn reached gratefully for the drink and had raised it 
almost to his lips, when Legolas gently touched his arm.

"Wait for a moment."  The prince said softly, to him.  

Aragorn replaced his glass on the table and looked around, realising with 
embarrassment that he had been the only one about to drink.  Even Gimli 
appeared to be patiently awaiting some signal to begin, perhaps given similar 
warning by the elf who sat beside him.  

Finally, the entire hall had been presented with its meal and when the elves who 
were serving disappeared, the noise died down considerably, and those on the 
tables below looked expectantly towards their king.  

Thranduil, who had observed the serving in silence, now stood, lifting his glass 
off the table and holding it out before him.  The others in the hall followed suit, 
the quiet hum of lowered voices becoming silent.  

"**My friends,**"  the king addressed his people, his strong voice easily filling 
the hall.  "**to  peace.**"  The hall rumbled with the sound of gentle thunder, as a 
thousand voices repeated the simple words, and then was silent again, as the 
citizens drank.  

The conversation struck-up where it had left off, as though there had been no 
interruption, joined now, with the sound of clinking plates and cutlery, as the 
elves began their meal.

"Where's the meat?"  Aragorn heard Gimli's voice, from the other end of the table.

Someone apparently told the Dwarf that there was no meat.

"What?!  What kind of person has guests for dinner and doesn't serve any meat?"

Several conversations ceased, as the elves shot uncomfortable glances in Gimli's 
direction. 

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged concerned looks.

"I mean, how am I supposed to eat this?  It's mostly grass."  

Everybody froze; Thranduil spoke.

"You are welcome to leave, if you wish."  The king said ominously.  Gimli, who 
sat on the other side of Gandalf, looked across the wizard, at Thranduil and took it 
upon himself to voice his complaint, directly to the king.

"Well, I don't mean to cause offence, your Majesty, but we're not rabbits."  The 
Dwarf explained.  "We should be eating rabbits.  I saw some nice-looking deer on 
the way in." 

"Gimli!"  Gandalf whispered harshly.  "Hold your tongue."   

Thranduil took a moment to reply, seemingly reigning in his irritation.

"If you truly wish to behave like an animal, friend Gimli, you can go down to the 
kennels and share the Wolves' dinner."  the king said, matter-of-factly.  "I believe 
they have are being served bear carcass, tonight."  

Not surprisingly, Gimli took offence.

"You'll not put me in with the dogs, you pompous son of a – argh!"  

"Be quiet, Gimli!"  Gandalf repeated, apparently stomping with some force, on 
the Dwarf's foot.  "You must forgive him, your Majesty, our friend is 
unaccustomed to the company of elves."  The old wizard explained.

"Indeed."  Thranduil seemed neither convinced or appeased.  Though nothing else 
was said on the matter, the atmosphere at the king's table was tense and 
conversation sparse, as the people around them continued their meals.  

Aragorn for one, was thoroughly enjoying the king's offerings, trying hard to 
appear civilised while he stuffed berries and fruit and warm bread into his mouth, 
washing it all down with copious amounts of the sweet, red wine.  

Invariably, as the man's glass was emptied, an elf who stood silently behind the 
table, reached over his shoulder and refilled it.  

He drank again.  

The glass was filled again.

A part of Aragorn's brain began warning him to slow down, but he could not hear 
it, over the rumbling of his stomach and the joyous celebration inside his mouth.  

"You found the baths alright?"  Legolas asked.  Aragorn tried to swallow, but his 
mouth was too full to allow the food easy passage.

He drank some wine, to help it down.

"Yes."  He replied to his friends' question.  "The water was remarkably warm."  
He commented.  Legolas nodded.

"It is taken from the springs to a chamber where it gets heated before it is sent to 
the baths.  I trust you enjoyed it, then?"  The prince asked.  

Aragorn's mouth was full of food, again. 

He washed it down.

"Oh, yes.  We just sat in there until the  -hic-  people came and got us."  

All of a sudden, Aragorn's meal threatened to return on him.  He took a deep 
breath, to settle it.  

He noticed his glass in front of him.

He drank.
 
Then, he ate.

Then, he drank some more.

Legolas appeared to give up on the conversation, allowing the Ranger to eat for a 
while, without interruption.  

Aragorn scraped clean his plate and promptly reached over and began to refill it.  
It seemed to him that the noise in the hall had increased significantly, and he 
almost asked the elves in the hall if they would mind being quiet.  The 
conversations around him were becoming hard to follow, the swiftly spoken 
elvish words beginning to run into each other, when they reached the Ranger's 
brain.  He gave up trying to listen, and concentrated instead, on the plate in front 
of him.  He looked down at his heap of food and had trouble deciding where to 
start.

He took a drink of wine, to clean his palate.  

He had ploughed through almost half of his second plate, when Legolas spoke to 
him again.

"Are you enjoying your meal?"  Aragorn's host asked, pleasantly.

Aragorn was half-way through a drink.

He nodded emphatically, as he struggled to swallow without spilling the liquid 
out of his mouth.

"Yes."  He finally got out.  "I've not eaten so much in years!"  He said, 
expansively before putting a large chunk of bread and some cheese in his mouth.  

Had he looked across at Legolas then, Aragorn might have noticed the mild 
amusement that crossed the elf's face, as he watched the Ranger chew, swallow, 
and drink some more wine.

"Take care to leave room for dessert."  The prince warned.

Aragorn had not considered the possibility of dessert.  He looked down at what 
remained on his plate and considered carefully the size of his stomach.

He drank some wine, to help him think.

He decided he would make room for dessert, if need be, and dove back into the 
fresh food in front of him.  He was just scraping up the last dregs from the 
emptied plate, when another bell chimed, and the elves who had served the food, 
returned to collect what was left.  Aragorn's glass was taken away from him, and 
he almost protested, before another glass replaced it.  He held up the new glass, 
meticulously inspecting it.  It seemed terribly small.

"What's this for?"  Aragorn asked, louder than he had intended.  

"Sína."  Legolas answered.  Aragorn grunted.

"What's that?"

"I believe your people would refer to it as 'the good stuff'."  The prince explained.  

"Ah."  Aragorn put the glass back down on the table and waited for it to be filled.  
Before it was, though, the second part of their meal was served.  

Aragorn did not know what the wobbly, white stuff on the plate set before him 
was, but instinct told him it was probably very tasty.  A small bowl filled with a 
thick, red substance was placed on the table beside his plate.  Following the 
prince's lead, Aragorn used a small spoon to pour some some of the red stuff over 
the white stuff.  

The preparation complete, he ploughed his spoon into the dessert.  

It wobbled.  

For reasons he could not explain, Aragorn found this extremely funny and though 
he tried valiantly to prevent it, a somewhat ridiculous sounding giggle escaped 
him.  The sound he had made also struck the Ranger as amusing, and he began to 
feel decidedly giddy, as he struggled to contain his laughter.  

Legolas looked at him, thorough confusion written on the elf's fine features.

"Are you alright?"  The prince asked, in his pretty voice.  Aragorn realised he was 
making something of a scene, and he swiftly rounded up his runaway humour, 
trying to regain his composure.

"Of course I'm alright."  The Ranger said, with some difficulty.  

Legolas eyed him closely for a moment.

"Would you like a glass of water?"  He asked.  

Almost simultaneously, the same elf who had poured the Ranger's wine, now 
filled his new glass with a clear liquid.  

Without pause for reflection, Aragorn lifted the glass.

"That is - " Legolas began.

He threw the contents down his throat.

" - not water."

Aragorn choked.  

The clear liquid in the glass had burned his throat and he struggled to breathe 
around the searing heat in his chest.  For a moment, he feared he had been 
poisoned.  He coughed violently and Legolas suggested that he take some dessert.  
He did so, and gradually the burning inside his body eased, as the Sína was 
diluted and helped down by the white stuff, which turned out, as per the Ranger's 
suspicion, to be very tasty.

His glass was refilled.

Aragorn ate about a third of his dessert before considering the Sína again.  He 
lifted the small glass and eyed it warily for a moment, considering his angle of 
attack.  He tried a tiny sip.  The liquid seemed to evaporate before it reached his 
throat.  He tried a bigger sip.  The stuff made it down this time but tasted terrible.  
Seeing only one way to deal with the situation, he tilted the glass back and braced 
himself.  The burning sensation came again, but did not seem so bad, now that 
Aragorn was prepared for it.  In fact, he now decided it was quite pleasant.  The 
elf behind them poured some more of the stuff.  

He drank it.

He looked down at his dessert and out of nowhere, his gut complained again, 
heaving dangerously as Aragorn took deep, laborious breaths.  A part of his brain 
told him he was drunk, in a tone that suggested it had warned him, that that might 
happen.  Aragorn paid little attention to it.  He cared not. 

What the Ranger did pay attention to though, was the persistent call of nature that 
was becoming louder and more urgent, by the minute.  He tried to count the 
number of drinks he had had.  He made it to three, when the memories of seeing 
his glass refilled began to overlap.

Sighing, Aragorn resigned himself to the facts;  yes, he was quite drunk and yes, 
he would have to ask someone for directions to the nearest privy.

He turned to Legolas, and, trying to be discreet, asked where he could go to 
relieve himself.  Alarmingly, the prince turned immediately to his father, and 
Aragorn feared the whole table was about to find out how badly he needed to pee.  

However, when Thranduil broke himself from his quiet conversation with 
Gandalf, Legolas spoke to him in little more than a whisper and asked, quite 
enigmatically if he could be excused.  Thranduil nodded imperceptibly, and 
Legolas rose and turned back to Aragorn.  

"Come,"  the prince said, "I will take you."  

Aragorn pushed back his chair, which ground loudly against the polished floor, 
causing several elves to look curiously in his direction.  He then struggled to 
follow Legolas' straight path out of the Dining Hall, painfully aware that everyone 
was looking at him.

He was, he admitted quietly to himself, somewhat unsteady on his feet, and the 
room heaved dangerously to and fro, before his eyes.

Once they had made it safely out of the Hall, and Legolas had pulled the doors 
closed, softly behind them, Aragorn was drowned in a sea of relief.  That was, he 
decided, the most socially awkward situation he had ever been in.  He followed 
Legolas down the hallway and into the first great chamber, where the elf quite 
suddenly stopped and looked at him.

"How badly do you need to go?"  He asked, frankly.  

Aragorn responded, he needed to go, very badly.  

Legolas pointed to the exit.

"Out there will be much faster than in here."  The prince said, with a tone that 
indicated he had taken that route himself, many times.  Aragorn whispered a 
heart-felt 'thank-you' and walked, as fast as he could without falling over, towards 
the forest, weaving a good deal, along the way.

He returned a minute later, much more relaxed, but still just as drunk and when 
Legolas suggested that they return to the Dining Hall, the Ranger was unable to 
hide his lack of enthusiasm.  Legolas smiled sweetly, and told him that it mattered 
little, if they returned or not, the meal was almost over.  

They stood in the Hall for a moment, neither with anything more to say and the 
silence threatened to become awkward until the prince, whose face Aragorn was 
having more and more trouble bringing into focus, headed off the discomfort.

"Shall we go downstairs?"  He asked.  "I have a bottle of Sína, in my room"  He 
offered temptingly.  

Aragorn succumbed, saying he would like very much, to go downstairs.

Legolas turned and headed off towards the central passage-way, and, his heart 
doing unexplained acrobatic manoeuvres in his chest, Aragorn followed.


*sigh* guess what happens next....

*1)That's 'heaps' as in 'piles', not 'heaps' as in 'lots'.  just thought i'd clear that up.
*2)Sína – the word I made up for elvish Vodka.


Chapter 18.
Temptation...

They made their way, slowly, down to the prince's chamber, the numerous stairs 
along the way almost proving too much for Aragorn, on several occasions.  He 
had, at one point had to grab hold of Legolas, to keep from falling and though the 
elf appeared un-phased by Aragorn's intoxicated state, it nonetheless bothered the 
Ranger immensely, that his noble friend should be watching him stumble around 
like the town drunk.  

It seemed the whole business of walking, particularly in a straight line, had 
become an unbearable ordeal and Aragorn almost fell over with relief, at the sight 
of the guard that kept watch outside his friend's bedroom door.

As the guard pulled out his key and unlocked the door, Aragorn took a moment to 
gather his thoughts, or what was left of them and regain his composure, as best he 
could.  This, would be his first chance to be truly alone with Legolas, since the 
incident at Dol Guldur.

It was an opportunity he would not let go to waste, no matter how drunk he was.

The door was pushed open, and Aragorn followed the beautiful prince into the 
chamber.

Aragorn watched, from just inside the entrance as Legolas walked away from 
him, towards his bed, his hands busy in front of him.  The elf turned and looked 
back at the Ranger, his pretty face unreadable.  His long, elegant fingers were 
working down his front, swiftly undoing the little, gold clasps that kept his robe 
wrapped tightly around his slender body.

"Close the door, will you?"

Aragorn pushed the doors closed behind him.

Before his eyes, the elf slipped out of his robe, shrugging it casually off his 
shoulders and letting it drop to the floor,  now in only his sinfully tight pants.

Aragorn's heart began to race.

The prince turned back to his bed, and reached over it, to pick something up.  It 
took Aragorn a moment to notice what it was, his eyes locked on the flawless 
profile of the creature and the way his pants hugged his glorious rear end, when 
he bent over.  Legolas straightened and turned again, in his direction and Aragorn 
noticed what he had picked up off the floor. It was the looser, pale blue robe he 
had earlier worn.

Aragorn's drunken heart sank as the elf slipped the robe over his delicate frame, 
leaving it untied but wrapping it around himself and holding it more or less 
closed, with his arms crossed in front of him.  Aragorn thought he looked quite 
cosy, wrapped up in the heavy fabric.

Legolas then floated across the floor, moving to a lounge that Aragorn had not 
previously noticed, in the far left corner of the room.  Before it, stood a low table; 
a clear glass bottle resting on its surface.  To Aragorn's eyes, the prince appeared 
to crawl onto, rather than sit down on the long couch, curled up at one end, with 
his legs tucked up beneath him.  He reached over and picked up the clear bottle 
from the table.  He looked incredibly comfortable and fixed his friendly gaze 
upon the Ranger.

"Are you going to join me, Aragorn?"  The elf's voice floated softly to him.  "Or 
shall I drink alone?"

Smiling, Aragorn went to join his friend.  

He sat beside the elf, his body turned towards him and as he did so, could not help 
but notice that there was no tension.  His heart did not hammer in his chest, there 
were no flutters of uncertainty or hesitation.  The distance between them seemed 
perfect, not so close as to be uncomfortable, but close enough that he could smell 
the subtle perfumes of forest trees and sun-drenched flowers that seemed to 
follow the elf wherever he went.  

Legolas pulled the stopper from the mouth of the clear bottle and held it out 
towards Aragorn, a wicked smile touching his lips.

"Do you want to go first, or shall I?"  

Aragorn hesitated, eyeing the bottle and its contents with suspicion.

"Go on."  Legolas prodded him.  "You only live once."  

There was no arguing with that, Aragorn decided and he reached out and took the 
bottle, holding it to his lips and saying a little inward prayer for his constitution, 
before he tipped his head back and swallowed what seemed to him, to be an awful 
lot of Sina.

He managed to hold back the cough that threatened to tear his throat into shreds, 
but could not stop the pained expression that crossed his face, as the alcohol 
burned a path down to his belly.  He looked at Legolas, who was watching him 
with mild amusement.

"Well?"  The prince asked.

"It is not so bad, once you get used to it."  The Ranger admitted.  "Does it have to 
taste so terrible though?"  

Legolas grinned.

"It is not supposed to taste good, Aragorn.  It is supposed to get you drunk."  He 
explained.  "Not an easy task, for an elf."  He added wryly, leaning over and 
taking the bottle from Aragorn's hand.  

The Ranger watched, thoroughly stunned, as Legolas tipped the bottle up and took 
three huge gulps of the wicked drink, apparently unaffected by the taste or the 
burning.  When he lowered the bottle from his moistened lips, he offered it 
straight back to Aragorn.

The Ranger was still recovering from his last taste of Sína but he took the bottle 
anyway,  not wanting to appear rude and also, though he would never have 
admitted it, secretly pleased to be sharing the drink in this manner.  It may have 
been just his imagination, but Aragorn could have sworn the taste of the elf's soft 
lips had lingered on the mouth of the bottle.

He took a drink and handed the Sína back to Legolas who accepted it eagerly.  It 
seemed the elf had little to say, in way of casual conversation and so Aragorn took 
the opportunity to broach a subject that had been bothering him for some time.

"May I ask you something, Legolas?"  He began, trying to indicate with his tone 
that the question would not be about the elf's favourite colour.

Legolas looked at him for a moment.

"Of course."  

Aragorn hesitated, trying to find words that would not make his question sound 
like an accusation.  He gave up, deciding that there was really only one way to 
ask.

"Did you truly kill your mother?"

The prince looked down at the bottle in his hands, his smile fading.  Though 
Legolas did not move, the air of relaxed ease around him evaporated and he 
closed in on himself visibly, as though wishing Aragorn was no longer in the 
room.  When he looked back up at the Ranger, his mask had been replaced, his 
face was unreadable.

In Aragorn's mind, the distance between them grew. 

Despairing, he silently wished he had never asked. 

"What difference does it make?"  The elf responded, his voice flat and somehow 
resigned, as though he had voiced that question a hundred times before.

Aragorn wanted to tell him that it made all the difference in the world, that he 
could not bring himself to believe that his friend was capable of such an act, that 
it would shatter his perfect vision, if Legolas had murdered the one who had given 
him life.  But he said none of these things, the distance he saw in the elf's eyes 
hurting his heart.

Though Legolas had not answered him, Aragorn knew.    

"You did."  He said, too shocked to mind his words.  "You murdered your own 
mother."

Legolas looked away, his brow furrowing slightly as he fought to maintain the 
barriers that protected him, from his own truths.

Then, another question occurred to Aragorn.

"Why?"  

The elf's mask fell and his barriers were utterly shattered.  Silently, without 
warning, Legolas began to weep.  The tears rolled down the elf's flawless cheeks 
like rain in Spring, and Aragorn's heart screamed for them to stop. 

"Please tell me why, Legolas."  Aragorn pleaded.  "There must be a reason."  

The prince looked at him, his eyes shining with unshed tears, lips softly 
trembling.

"Ada told me to."  Came his soft reply.  "He said he had to go and that when he 
did, she would kill me, if I did not -- "  Legolas stopped, taking several deep 
breaths as he struggled to control his weeping.  "**I did not want to.**"  He 
swore, his eyes pleading with Aragorn for belief, before he lowered his head and 
succumbed to the flood of tears.  

Aragorn watched helplessly as the elf he knew was swept away by sorrow, crying 
violently and without reserve, like a beaten child.  The young prince buried his 
face in his hands, curling up into a ball, trying to hide from his audience.  

Aragorn did not know what to do.  He felt awkward and uncomfortable, watching 
his friend weep, yet he hesitated to offer consolation; he could think of no words 
that would ease the elf's heartache.  Finally unable to bear it any longer, he shifted 
closer to the mournful prince and reached out to try to pull Legolas from the sea 
of his despair.  

"**I am so sorry, Legolas.**"  He offered, gently taking hold of the elf's upper 
arm, attempting to rouse him into coherence.  "**I should not have asked.**"  He 
pulled the elf gently towards him, and his heart fluttered a little, when Legolas 
crawled into his arms, burying his face against the Ranger's shoulder.  

Aragorn wrapped the elf, as tightly as he could into his embrace, stroking his hair 
and  whispering to him in his native tongue. 

"**You were right, mellon-nin.  It matters not.  It is far behind you, now.**"  The 
prince looked up at him, with child-like adoration in his eyes.  

Aragorn leaned his head down and kissed Legolas on the forehead; the sweet 
scent of the elf's hair, reminding him of that day when, deep beneath fortress of 
Dol Guldur, he had done the same.  But, there was no Ring here, no orb that 
glowed, no spell or enchantment.  It was only the two of them now, alone and 
together at last; the distance between them had been crossed.  

Through grief and sorrow, Aragorn had found the way to the elf's fragile, beating 
heart.  

"**Forgive me, for making you weep.**"  Aragorn asked and through tears that 
were slowly subsiding, Legolas smiled.  He pushed away, slightly, from the 
Ranger's tight embrace, and Aragorn let him go, relieved to see his friend return 
from the dark place that he had been.  

"**It is not your fault, Aragorn.**"  Legolas said softly, in a trembling voice.  
The pretty elf sniffed, and wiped at his face with the cuff of his robe.  "I cry too 
often, or so Ada tells me."  

Thranduil.  His friends' other father.  Though he had not done much to warrant it, 
Aragorn sincerely disliked the king of Mirkwood.  Something in the air changed, 
when he entered a room and it disturbed the Ranger greatly.  Nevertheless, he was 
not about to tell Legolas that his foster father's opinion meant very little; the 
young prince appeared to be quite the loyal son.  

"Perhaps your Ada does not understand your pain."  He offered.  Legolas shook 
his head, wiping away the last of his tears with his fingertips.  

"I think he is right.  My tears are but a childish habit I have yet to break."  
Looking down, the prince noticed the bottle of Sina, resting in his lap - it had 
apparently survived his outburst unscathed.   He lifted the bottle to his lips and 
tilted it back.  

Aragorn was astonished at the speed with which the elf's mood changed; barely 
minutes after what had seemed like a total breakdown, Legolas now appeared 
quite calm.  The prince lowered the bottle and passed it to the Ranger, gazing at 
him with an expression close to serenity, as the man drank from the bottle himself 
and handed it back.

For a while, no one said anything.  What the pretty elf was thinking as he gazed 
across at him, Aragorn could not say, but the quiet contemplation in Legolas' eyes 
was beginning to make him uncomfortable.  The silence grew louder as moments 
passed like minutes and unable to bear it any longer, Aragorn opened the only 
topic of conversation he could think of.

"May I ask you something else, Legolas?"  He began.  "You need not answer, if 
you do not wish.  I have no desire to upset you, I just cannot help but wonder - "  

"Ask, Aragorn."  The prince interjected.  "I will answer."    

"Will you tell me about your father?  Your real father,  I mean."  

Legolas did not respond and fearing the elf had misunderstood his intention, 
Aragorn rushed to defend his inquiry.

"Not about the Ring, or anything - "  Aragorn explained.  "Nothing like that.  I 
just – I want to know what he is like.  Or what he looks like.  Or what you 
remember of him.  I know you were quite young.  Do you remember much?"  

Slowly, imperceptibly, Legolas smiled.

"Of course." He said, quietly.  "I remember everything."  

Aragorn waited.  

"I remember, he spent all his time in the caverns, or in his room, sitting at his 
desk, writing."  

Aragorn remembered the desk, in the Dark Lords' chamber, the parchments 
scattered across its surface.  He tried to picture Sauron sitting there, quill in hand.  
Somehow, it seemed too simple a task, for the Enemy of Middle-Earth.  

"I used to go in there, so I could be with him.  He would sit me in his lap and tell 
me stories about the Valar and of things that happened when the world was not 
yet made.  I would curl up, in his arms and listen for hours, to the sound of his 
voice.  And when I fell asleep, he would lay me down in his bed and tuck the 
sheets up around me.  I remember waking, to the sound of lullabies..."

Aragorn listened, entranced, as Legolas spoke.  Surely, this could not be Sauron?  
The great and terrible Lord of Hate did not tell stories or sing songs.  There was 
no good, in the Death of the World.  Yet, the prince's eyes were sad and distant, as 
he told of cold nights in Winter spent curled up before the fireplace, wrapped in 
his father's heavy cloak and of days when Sauron indulged him in games of hide-
and-seek in the tunnels and caves beneath Dol Guldur.  He smiled wryly, as he 
admitted that he had not understood then, why his father always found him, no 
matter how well he hid.

"I remember that he was never angry.  He never raised his voice, or told me to go 
away.  He never hit me, or said anything to hurt me."  The elf looked closely at 
Aragorn.  "You see Sauron as a monster; a cruel and evil beast that must be 
stopped.  To me he was but a father.  I was loved by him, and cared for.  I never 
felt alone.  I did not know fear."

Legolas paused, seemingly caught up in his memories.  Thinking back over his 
friends' words, Aragorn could not help but guess at the full meaning of what he 
had said.

"Does Thranduil do those things?"  He asked gently.  "Does he hurt you?"  

Legolas sighed, a resigned and almost frustrated sound.

"I do not mean to presume."  Aragorn said quickly.  "Just... I have heard things."

The elf looked back up at him, his face an impassioned plea for understanding.

"Thranduil is not a bad person."  He said.  "He is only bitter.  The thing he loved 
most in this world was taken from him and I am a constant reminder of that; the 
bride that was stolen from him, the child that will never be his."  Legolas smiled 
sadly then, in his eyes shone a profound sorrow.  "My every breath is an offence 
to him.  I do not understand why he ever let me live at all."   

Suddenly, Aragorn recognised another emotion in his friends' dark eyes – guilt.  
Legolas felt guilty, for the simple fact of his existence.  

"You must not say such things, Legolas."  Aragorn reached out and rested his 
hand on the elf's warm shoulder.  "You have as much right to live as anyone.  You 
can no more change the circumstance of your birth than you could stop the sun 
from rising."  

Legolas looked uncomfortably around the room, shrugging off the Ranger's 
assurances.  Frustrated, Aragorn  shifted closer to the young elf, determined to 
convince the prince of his worth.  He lifted his hand from Legolas' shoulder, 
moving it to cup the elf's jaw.

"Look at me, Legolas."  The elf met his eyes.  "You deserve your life, more than 
most.  Anyone who would tell you otherwise is lying."  He paused, as he searched 
for words to offer the beautiful creature.

"This world would be a darker place, without you."  He finally said.  "For me, at 
least.  I walk a path that is hidden in shadows and I do not know where it will 
lead.  It frightens me.  All my life I have wished to be someone other than I am, 
that I could run and hide from whatever doom my forefathers had passed to me.

"But you, my friend – I see you, with aching eyes.  And you are like sunlight 
through the trees, dawn over snow-capped mountains."  Swept up in his desire to 
appease Legolas, Aragorn struggled with the words, hypnotised by the deep pools 
of the elf's eyes, gazing back at him, unblinking.  

"I need you, by my side, Legolas.  I see, in your eyes, the things that are good and 
pure in this world.  Beautiful things, worth fighting for.  You are a light in the 
darkness, mellon-nin.  Were you not by my side, I should have turned back, long 
ago."  Finally, the Ranger ran out of words, he could think of nothing more.  He 
waited for the prince to respond.

For a long time Legolas said nothing and his face gave no clue as to what he 
might have been thinking.  Then, slowly, the slightest hint of a smile graced the 
elf's fair features and almost without Aragorn's awareness, Legolas leaned in 
towards him.

"You are very kind, Aragorn, to say such things."  Legolas whispered.

The Ranger was about to protest, to tell the beautiful elf that it was not kindness 
that had fuelled his speech, but rather friendship and that the words he had spoken 
had been utter truth.  The prince gave him no chance though, as the last few 
inches between them disappeared and Legolas caught the man's lips in a long, 
gentle kiss.  

For a moment, Aragorn was too shocked to respond.  He had longed, ever since 
Dol Guldur, to taste the elf's sweet mouth again, but had never allowed himself to 
hope for it.  Now that he felt the soft, pink lips pressed once again against his 
own, he fell helplessly into a sea of sensation.  His heart hammered recklessly in 
his chest and as the blood rushed through his body like a flooded river he began to 
tremble.  Fire ignited in his belly and burned a sinful path, straight to his loins.  

Slowly, Legolas began to pull away, but this time Aragorn would not let him go.  

Willing his euphoric body into motion, he slid his arms around Legolas' waist, 
beneath the loose robe that hid so much of the elf's exquisite flesh from his eyes.  
He pulled Legolas to him, and the young prince slid into his lap, on his knees, his 
thighs spread wide around the Ranger's waist.  

The Sina fell, forgotten, to the floor. 

The kiss deepened as Legolas entwined his hands in Aragorn's dark hair and 
parted his soft lips, to moan pleasurably against the man's mouth.  The moist pink 
tip of the elf's tongue flicked out to lick teasingly at the Ranger's lips and Aragorn 
responded, pushing his tongue deep into the warm wetness of Legolas' mouth, 
eagerly tasting and exploring every inch, relishing the sweetness of the elf.  

His hands roamed unchecked over the supple, golden flesh beneath the robe, 
sliding down the elf's back to the tight, round buttocks, reaching around the slim 
waist and pulling Legolas down onto his lap, hard, striving to create contact 
between the elf and the straining erection that pulsed dangerously between his 
legs.  He let one of his hands slide around to Legolas' front, slipping the heavy 
material off the elf's shoulders, exposing the flawless skin, beneath.  

He broke himself from the kiss, looking down between them, pushing the elf 
away from him, desperate to look at the creature he was touching. But Legolas 
would have none of it, he held the Ranger's face in his hands and forced him to 
meet his mouth again, pulling the man's arms out from between them, to press his 
body back against him.  Aragorn relented, too drunk on lust and Sina to care if he 
got his way or not.  What did control matter, when Legolas was moaning so 
beautifully, for him?  

The elf finally released his mouth, driven by the need for breath but his lips were 
not idle, tracing a path of delicately delivered kisses along the man's jaw, nibbling 
gently on the lobe of his ear.  The kisses stopped and for a moment only the elf's 
warm breath caressed his ear.  The sensation was maddening.  

"I like the taste of you."  Legolas whispered.  Aragorn's erection throbbed 
painfully.  He grabbed Legolas' hips and pulled the elf down into him, unable to 
control his urge to thrust into the creature sitting in his lap.  Legolas leaned back a 
little and watched, as the Ranger strove to rub his straining sex against the elf's 
buttocks.  

Frustrated, Aragorn tore one of his hands away from the elf's tight arse, reaching 
around to tug at the knot in the lace of Legolas' soft leather pants, determined to 
strip the elf of his protective raiment.  But again, Legolas thwarted the Ranger's 
ambitions.  

"**Stop, Aragorn.**"  An elegant hand took hold of the man's, and pulled it away 
from the elf's crotch.  For a moment, the Ranger panicked, fearing he had gone 
too far.  Legolas smiled, wickedly at him then and laying both palms on Aragorn's 
chest, the elf pushed him gently back, laying him down and crawling over the top 
of the man, leaning down to occupy his mouth, once again.  

Aragorn's head was spinning, dangerously, testament to the all alcohol he had 
drunk, and through the lust and drink that clouded his mind he realised, 
despairing, that he would probably not remember this night very well, come 
morning.  

Legolas released his mouth and began biting and sucking on the man's throat, 
while his agile hands worked quickly at the ties and clasps that held Aragorn's 
tunic together.  

The Ranger closed his eyes, willing the room to stop spinning around him and as 
he felt cool air brush against his exposed stomach, he wondered vaguely, if 
Legolas had halted his advances because the elf wanted to top.  The thought sent a 
slight shiver of trepidation through the drunken Ranger.  He had been with men 
before, but only when there were no women to be had, and he had always played 
a dominant role in such affairs.  He had to admit, however, that right now, 
Legolas could have cut off his arm if he had wanted to.  Aragorn would gladly 
have let him.  He would have offered to sharpen the knife.

Without warning, a warm hand slid like silk down his stomach, over the waist of 
his pants, to rub against his yearning member.  Aragorn groaned at the hard 
contact, the friction burning the weeping head of his cock.  Unbidden, his hips 
thrust upward, begging for more.  The hand continued to rub, slowly, deliberately 
up and down the length of his straining shaft and Legolas began to slide himself 
down the Ranger's body, his tongue tracing a slick path to one of his nipples.  The 
elf paused there, taking a moment to lick and suck delicately on the hard nub, 
before continuing down to the Ranger's belly, leaving a tingling trail of gentle 
nips along Aragorn's flesh.  The hand on his sex faltered, as Legolas pulled the 
knot from the lace in Aragorn's pants with one easy motion, and then slid into the 
heat beneath the loosened fabric.  Aragorn's desperate erection jumped violently 
as the elf curled his long fingers around the shaft and slowly, with painful care, 
Legolas let his mouth wander around the man's stomach, inching ever closer to 
the Ranger's throbbing cock.  

Willing his eyes to open, Aragorn looked down his body, at the source of his 
delicious sensations.  Reaching down, he combed the pale, silken hair from 
around the elf's face, with his fingers, and groaned with depraved lust as he saw 
his cock in the creature's hand, the elf's soft, moist lips parted, the tongue licking 
at the sensitive flesh above his groin.  

"Ah, Legolas."  Aragorn moaned, barely capable of speech.  "Take me in your 
mouth."  

In mid-lick, the beautiful elf stopped and lifted his head, fixing Aragorn with 
dark, half-lidded eyes.  Below him, he continued to stroke the man's cock, slowly, 
languidly, spreading the pre-cum that dripped out over the head, with his thumb.  
Aragorn felt he must have been dreaming.

"Please."  Aragorn begged, driven beyond the capacity for thought.  "Please, suck 
me."

Legolas smiled, a wicked little smile, as the man pleaded for release.  The 
frustration was too much, and Aragorn twisted his hands through the elf's hair and 
pushed him, forcefully down to his waiting cock.  Legolas did not resist.   The 
beautiful elf parted his lips for the man, as Aragorn  pushed himself deep into the 
hot wetness of Legolas' mouth.  The elf took him to the hilt without protest, and 
wrapped his lips tightly around Aragorn's thick shaft, sucking hard and 
rhythmically on the length of his cock.  The sudden flood of sensation almost 
tipped Aragorn over the edge, and he loosened his grip on his lover's head, 
allowing the elf to come up for air.  Legolas lifted his head, letting the man's 
erection slide fully out of his mouth, and he held the shaft steady with one hand, 
gently stroking, as his mouth licked and sucked eagerly at the cum that seeped 
steadily from the throbbing tip.  

Aragorn watched, enthralled, struggling to keep his eyes open, as Legolas lapped 
at his seed.

"Do you like the taste of that?"  He asked of the prince, his lust-laden voice barely 
recognisable.  

"Yes, Ada."  The elf said, before sucking the length of the man's cock back into 
his pretty mouth, his tongue sliding luxuriously up and down the shaft. 

Aragorn moaned, a feral, inhuman sound and he closed his eyes against the dirty 
pleasure the elf's voice had stirred in his loin.  What had he said?  Aragorn was 
too drunk to care.  He grabbed Legolas again by his hair and held the prince's 
head steady as he thrust his hips wantonly into the air, fucking the hot mouth with 
vicious abandon, too lost in his own rapture to consider the welfare of his lover.  

He struggled to control himself, but the elf had driven him to ecstasy, and he 
came swiftly and violently, flooding his lover's mouth with seed as his body 
wracked and convulsed with the force of his climax.  He loosened his hold on the 
pretty elf, as his orgasm subsided and Legolas sucked and licked lovingly at the 
tip of his cock, until the last drop of bitter seed had been spent.  

Aragorn lay unmoving for what seemed like hours, swimming in the blackness 
behind his eyes, languishing in sweet satisfaction.  He felt Legolas slinking back 
up his body, the elf's smooth skin gliding along the man's stomach like silk.  He 
felt warm breath against his ear.

"Was that good for you?"  Legolas whispered.

Dragging himself out of semi-consciousness, Aragorn raised his leaden eyelids 
and looked up at the prince.  Legolas hovered over him like a vision of sin.  His 
pale, golden hair, always so tidy and controlled, now fell around his flushed face 
in dishevelled locks.  His mouth was red and swollen, from the force of Aragorn's 
assault and the young elf licked at his wet lips with the tip of his tongue, gazing at 
the Ranger with dark, half-lidded eyes.   

Slowly, as though in a dream, Aragorn lifted his hand to touch the elf's face, 
brushing the long, unruly locks aside and touching his lover's moist, pink lips with 
the tip of his fingers.  

"This cannot be real."  The Ranger muttered, mostly to himself. 

Legolas smiled fondly and leaned down to kiss Aragorn sweetly on the mouth.  
With the elf's warm lips pressed back against his own, the taste of his sex 
lingering in Legolas' mouth, Aragorn sank back into the drunken euphoria that 
waited behind his closed eyes.  Sleep called gently to him from the darkness and 
unable to resist, he drifted blissfully into unconsciousness. 

Chapter 19.
Caught in the act...

Slowly, painfully, Aragorn opened his eyes.  

Looking around, it took him several moments to realise where he was:  Legolas' 
bedroom.  He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the large, soft couch on 
which he lay.  His head swam dangerously for a moment, as he came upright and 
he closed his eyes against the nausea in his stomach.  Somewhere, deep in his 
brain, a slow, dull throbbing began.  Idly, he scratched his chest.  It was then he 
realised his tunic and shirt hung open.  He opened his eyes and looked down.  On 
the floor, between his feet, lay a clear, glass bottle.  He reached down and picked 
it up, instantly recognising the few drops of clear liquid that remained in the bottle 
as Sina - the cause of all his woes.   Gradually, like the fragments of a dream, 
Aragorn began to piece together his memories of the night before.

He remembered quite clearly having dinner, in the Dining Hall.  He had left the 
meal early, with Legolas, though he could not remember why.  He had come 
down here to drink, that much was clear.   How had he wound up half dressed, on 
the lounge?  


"**Good morning, Aragorn.**"

Brought out of his reverie, Aragorn turned to see Legolas, floating across the 
room towards him, in his elegant hand he held a tall glass, filled with some 
vaguely green-looking liquid.  

The prince had obviously just bathed – his damp hair hung, unfettered about his 
face and he wore a long, pale shirt over clean pants.    The shirt was very thin, 
almost transparent and tied loosely down the front.  Like everything the elf wore, 
it wrapped beautifully around his body, drawing attention to the lines and angles 
of Legolas' finely sculpted form.  

 - He may as well have worn nothing at all. -  Aragorn's inner-voice mused.

Legolas stepped up to him and offered him the glass.  Aragorn took it, sniffing 
suspiciously at the contents.  It smelt something like rotten eggs.  He glanced up 
at Legolas, who looked slightly bemused, smiling down at him.

"Drink.  You will feel better for it."  

Aragorn considered his options.  He feared he might throw up, if he drank that 
green slop.  But then, he was sure to throw up any minute, if he refused.  
Grimacing, he pinched his nose and poured the rancid drink down his throat.  
Remarkably, his stomach did not protest, though the taste that remained in his 
mouth would have turned an orc off its dinner.

"Thank you."  He said, and handed the glass back to the prince, who walked away 
with it, placing it on a table near the door of the chamber.  Desperate to rinse his 
mouth, Aragorn reached for the Sina, tipping the bottle back and swishing the last 
of the alcohol around in his mouth, before swallowing.  The Sina burned his 
throat but it also killed the taste of the medicine, and by the time Legolas returned 
to him, he was beginning to feel almost human.

Legolas flopped down lazily on the couch beside him, resting one bare foot on the 
edge of the low table.  He looked incredibly relaxed, a feeling not shared by 
Aragorn, whose heart jumped apprehensively, when the elf settled his dark eyes 
upon him.  Though he could not remember exactly the events of the night before, 
there was something in the calm familiarity of Legolas' gaze that left no doubt in 
his mind – something had definitely happened.  Heat stirred between the Ranger's 
thighs, as he considered the possibilities.  

"Did you sleep well?"  Legolas was asking him.  "I tried to move you onto the bed 
but you were quite uncooperative."  

Aragorn did not answer.    In his mind swam images of sin, of passion.  Fantasies 
of warm flesh and sweat and unbridled lust were lived in his mind's eye, rushing 
into each other and overlapping.  The heat in his loin grew to an inferno.

"Are you alright, Aragorn?"  The prince was looking at him, inquisitively, waiting 
for him to respond.  The Ranger hesitated.  

"Legolas."  He began, carefully.  "Last night..."  He faltered, unsure how to 
continue.  "Did something – I mean, did we...?"  He stopped again, praying the elf 
would catch his meaning and spare him the embarrassment of the question.  

Legolas grinned at him, wickedly, like a child who had just lied and gotten away 
with it.

"Do you not remember?"  The elf asked, incredulously. 

Aragorn shook his head, no.

Legolas gazed at him fondly for a moment – and then he laughed out loud.  
Aragorn wanted to crawl under the lounge and die.  

"I am glad you find it so amusing."  He said, defensively.  Realising the Ranger's 
embarrassment, Legolas stifled his giggles, struggling to put on a straight face.   It 
appeared to be an almost impossible task.  

"Forgive me, Aragorn.  I do not mean to laugh."  Legolas sat up and leaned 
forward, in one fluid motion, his face hovering just inches from Aragorn's own.   
"But you are so utterly adorable, in the morning."  With that, the elf kissed him 
soundly on the lips; a simple, almost casual gesture that despite its seeming 
innocence, sent the Ranger's heart fluttering in his chest.  Legolas released his 
mouth but did not move away, reaching up to caress Aragorn's face with long 
fingers.  

"If it bothers you that you do not remember, I could show you."  Legolas let his 
fingers drift down to the Ranger's exposed chest, tracing delicate lines at first, 
before laying his palm flat against the warm flesh over the man's wildly beating 
heart.   A gentle smile touched the elf's lips, as he felt the runaway pulse in the 
man's chest.  

"It would be my pleasure, to do so."  Legolas purred and kissed Aragorn again.  

This kiss was nothing like the last.  The elf parted his lips and dove into the 
warmth of Aragorn's mouth, hungrily tasting the man, and without thought or 
hesitation Aragorn responded, losing himself in the passion of the prince's 
embrace.  

Legolas crawled over him, pushing Aragorn against the back of the lounge, 
climbing into his lap.  One hand held the Ranger's head, long fingers entwined in 
the man's dark hair,  the other slid, snake-like down the flesh of Aragorn's 
stomach, finding the lustful heat between his thighs.  

Legolas broke from the kiss, smiling knowingly at Aragorn, his eyes darkening 
with  desire.  

"Already, Estel?"  The elf asked softly.  "How quickly you respond."

Aragorn's yearning surged, as the prince uttered his elvish name and he threw 
caution to the wind, grabbing Legolas around the waist and throwing him down 
onto the lounge, covering the elf's luscious body with his own.  He slipped his 
hands up under the fine silk shirt the young prince wore, marvelling at the 
softness of the warm flesh beneath.  

Legolas sighed beautifully beneath his touch, the dark eyes fluttering closed as 
Aragorn  pinched gently on one of the elf's nipples, bringing the little nub to 
attention with carefully measured pain.  He leaned down and kissed his lover's 
neck, sucking hard on the soft, sensitive flesh, coaxing soft moans of pleasure 
from the elf's lips. 

"**Is he awake, yet?**"

"**I do not know, my Lord.**"

Legolas' whole body jumped, beneath Aragorn.  

"Estel, get up."  The prince whispered desperately, pushing the man away from 
him.  "Ada is here."  

For a moment Aragorn did not react.  The man found himself captivated by his 
lover's eyes; he had never before seen fear, in those dark blue pools.  

He was dragged back into reality by the sound of the heavy wooden door, being 
pushed open.  He crawled back off the young elf, standing and turning towards 
the sound.

Through the doorway, strode the king Mirkwood.  The king stopped, as soon as 
he laid eyes on Aragorn, standing perfectly still, staring, silently at him.  Aragorn 
bore Thranduil's stony gaze, for what seemed like several minutes before the 
king's eyes moved on, looking beyond him now.  Aragorn glanced over his 
shoulder.  Legolas walked past him, approaching the king swiftly, his eyes on the 
floor at his father's feet.  He stopped a couple of paces away from the intimidating 
figure of his king, bowing low.  

"**Ada.**"  The prince said by way of greeting.  He straightened and raised his 
eyes to meet Thranduil's.  Silently, Aragorn wondered if Thranduil saw the fear he 
had seen, in the young elf's eyes.  

The king glanced back over at Aragorn, disdain written all over his face.

"You, leave us."  He commanded.  

Aragorn hesitated.  For some reason, he did not want to leave.  It did not feel 
right, to do so.  Nevertheless, the king waited impatiently for him to go, and so he 
did, walking stiffly across the room to the open door, the whole way beneath 
Thranduil's harsh glare.
He crossed the threshold of the chamber and stepped out into the long hallway.  

The heavy door was slammed closed behind him.  

He stood there, for a moment, not really knowing what to do.  Finally, the irritated 
looks the guard outside the door kept throwing him worked, and he turned and 
headed along the hallway, in the direction of the stairs that would take him down, 
to the fourth level of the halls and the rest of his companions.

He tried hard not to think, as he walked, but he could not keep from wondering 
what was happening now, behind the prince's closed doors.  His chest tightened 
uncomfortably.

Was Legolas in trouble?  


Chapter 20,
Discipline...

**WARNING**
DARK chapter:  VIOLENCE and RAPE 

Legolas watched, in nervous silence as his king pushed the door closed behind the 
departing Ranger and turned to lay cold, unfeeling eyes upon him.  

"**Is there something you wish to tell me, Legolas?**"  Thranduil asked, his 
words tinged with poorly concealed malice.

Panic-stricken, Legolas hesitated, trying to bring his thoughts into order, 
searching for words that might curb his father's temper.

"**He... Aragorn... he stayed here, last night.**"  The prince began, fighting to 
keep the fear from his voice.  "**He was intoxicated.  I mean, really... falling 
over.  He came in for a drink and fell asleep on the lounge.  I tried to wake him 
but...**"  Legolas faltered, his words catching in his throat.  

Slowly, the corners of Thranduil's mouth turned up in pitiless amusement and the 
prince's heart sank as he realised the truth; there was no explanation he could 
offer that would soften his Lord's vengeful heart.   Thranduil had come only to 
satisfy his lust for violence - finding his son with Aragorn had been an unexpected 
bonus.  

Despairing, Legolas knew there would be no mercy for him, this day.

"**Do not think me stupid, boy.**"  Thranduil said deliberately, slowly 
advancing on the prince, hovering above him like a thunder cloud.  "**Who 
knows better than I, the sinful pleasures you stir between your sheets?**"  
Thranduil raised his hand and turned his child's face up to his own, forcing the 
prince to meet his eyes.  "**You reek of that mortal.**"  He said, twisting his face 
up in disgust.  "**I can smell his filth, all over you.**"  He shoved Legolas, hard 
and the prince stumbled back towards the centre of the room.  Thranduil followed, 
shoving the young elf again.  "**How dare you let that Dunadain lay hands on 
you?**"  Again the king drove Legolas back.  "**You dirty little harlot!**"  This 
time, Legolas landed hard against one of the pillars that supported the roof of the 
chamber, the force of the impact knocking the breath from his lungs.  

Thranduil bore down on the young elf, forcing him back, trapping him against the 
pillar.  With nowhere left to go, Legolas fixed his eyes on the ground at his feet 
and prayed silently for deliverance.  

"**Did you let him take you?  Hm?**"  

Legolas shuddered violently as he felt the king's hand press against his belly, 
sliding, snakelike along his torso, lifting the gauzy material of his shirt, grossly 
massaging the soft flesh beneath.  

"**Did you let him inside you?**"

Despite the hopelessness of the situation, Legolas tried, half-heartedly, to resist 
his foster father's advances, lifting his arms to fend off the unwanted contact, but 
Thranduil would not suffer defiance.

"**Answer me!**"  The king growled and one hand flew up, to land a massive 
blow against his child's face.  Legolas' head ricocheted off the stone behind him, 
reeling from the powerful hit.  His knees buckled and he would have fallen, were 
he not trapped between the pillar and the hulking form of his king.  He tasted 
blood.  Trying to avoid another attack, the prince forced his shaky voice into 
action.

"**No, Ada.  No.  I swear.**"  He said, knowing it would make no difference.

Grabbing Legolas roughly by the hair, Thranduil leaned his head down and 
breathed heavily into the prince's ear.

"**Liar.**"  He whispered.  

Legolas' fear surged to terror, at the quiet calm of his father's voice and he 
desperately renewed his futile struggles to escape.  

"**Please, Ada.  I would not lie to you.  Please, let me go.**"  He begged, to no 
avail.     

Thranduil was immovable, like a rock he stood,  his arms around the prince's 
body, laughing cruelly, at the child's attempts to free himself.  

Finally, Legolas gave up the fight, surrendering to his Lord's size and strength.  

"**Are you quite finished, boy?**"  Thranduil asked, jokingly, a broad smile on 
his face.    

The battle lost, the situation utterly hopeless, Legolas retreated behind the only 
defence he had.  He sank down into himself, hiding behind a wall of indifference 
that stood, like an impenetrable fortress, in his mind.  This he did easily, for it was 
not the first time he had run from Thranduil, in this manner.  Slowly, as had 
happened so many times before, his senses dulled, sight and sound fading to 
distant light and a quiet murmur, as Legolas wrapped himself up in thick folds of 
black despair.  

Through the darkness, Thranduil's voice reached him.

"**You will have to be punished.**"  His Lord said.  "**Go and get your 
whip.**"  

The king took a step back, to allow him passage and Legolas moved, unthinking, 
to the foot of his bed.  Reaching down between the end of the bed and the wooden 
chest, his fingers wrapped around the leather-bound hilt of a horse-whip.  The 
whip was a solid cane, around four feet in length and about the thickness of a 
man's thumb, at the hilt.  In truth, it was little more than a long, thin stick and it 
was, without question, Thranduil's preferred instrument of discipline.  

Shaking uncontrollably, Legolas returned to the centre of the room and his 
waiting father, clutching the cruel device tightly in his trembling hands.  

Thranduil held out his hand, expectantly.

"**Give it to me.**"  

Legolas tried to obey but he could not move.  He clung to the whip, white-
knuckled, as though his very life depended upon it.  Frustrated and impatient, 
Thranduil reached out and snatched the thing, tearing it from the prince's grasp.  
Legolas started at the sudden movement and several tears escaped his eyes, 
rolling unbidden down his cheeks, as his torment grew ever closer to realization.          

"**Stop that pathetic weeping!**"  Thranduil demanded and without warning, 
flicked the whip cruelly across the young elf's beautiful face.  Cringing against the 
stinging pain, Legolas wiped fruitlessly at his eyes, willing the tears to stop.  

"**Forgive me, Ada.**"  He tried to say, but Thranduil was not listening.  The 
king grabbed a fistful of silken hair and dragged the prince's head down towards 
the ground.

Helpless to resist, Legolas sank to his knees. 

He felt cold air on his skin, as his father pulled at the flimsy shirt that covered his 
body. The king released his hair, for a moment, to yank the material up over his 
head.  Before Legolas could take breath the whip came down hard across his 
back, the room filling with the sharp crack of the cane on his flesh.  

A small, distressed sound escaped his quivering lips, as the scourge touched him 
again and he flinched beneath its sting.                       

"**Silence.**"  Thranduil muttered,  grabbing the golden hair again, to hold 
Legolas still while he administered the flogging.   

Again and again the whip came down upon the young elf, each strike cutting thin, 
red welts into his sensitive flesh, until his body felt on fire with the pain.  Lost in 
utter misery, Legolas gave up even trying to support his own weight, hanging like 
one half-dead from his father's grasp, his body collapsed, limp beneath the 
incessant lash.  Though tears flowed, unchecked, down his face, the prince made 
no sound; it would serve him none and he could not be bothered.  

Slowly, as minutes passed and the thrashing went on, the whip began to mean less 
and less to the broken prince; his mind could no longer discern one source of hurt 
from another.  Eventually, the sharp, stinging pain in his back gave way to a 
steady, throbbing ache that got neither better nor worse as the chastisement 
continued.  His awareness began to drift, back into the safety of his inner-fortress.  
Finally, the tears slowed, then stopped altogether;  he could feel no more.

For how much longer his punishment had gone on, Legolas could not say.  He did 
not notice that the flogging had stopped until he felt himself being hauled bodily 
off the floor and carried, the room flashing past his tired, hurting eyes in a blur.  
He felt himself falling and panicked momentarily, fearing the inevitable landing.  
The fear eased at first, when his fall was broken by something soft but when he 
realised where he was, terror shook his body to the core.  

Scrambling to his hands and knees, Legolas lunged desperately for the edge of the 
bed, driven by pure, animal instinct to escape but Thranduil caught him around 
the waist, throwing the smaller elf onto his back, climbing over the top of him, 
smothering the young creature beneath his weight.  

Without waiting for Legolas to react, the king reached for the lace that held his 
son's pants tight, pulling the knot and grabbing the leather at the young elf's hips, 
yanking the protective garment down to his knees.  Desperately, the prince 
resisted, though he knew it to be hopeless.  Tears flooded from his eyes again as 
unbridled horror overcame him.  He fought and wept and pleaded with his Lord 
for mercy but his cries fell on deaf ears.

Thranduil did not care.  

The king pushed his son's legs up, exposing the vulnerable, secret part of Legolas' 
body.  He leaned heavily on the smaller elf, crushing his knees into his chest and 
Legolas struggled, as much for breath now as for freedom, pushing back weakly 
against his king, his own despairing sobs filling his awareness.  

"**Ada, no.  Please, stop Ada.  Please.**"  Legolas tried to scream the words but 
he was too weak and exhausted.  Instead, his supplication tumbled from his lips 
uncontrollably and was lost amongst his pitiful, dejected weeping.  

Thranduil spared a hand to his own tight leggings, pulling out his hard, eager 
member  quickly, positioning himself at the entrance of his child's wildly 
trembling body.  

Legolas jumped when he felt the proof of his Lord's intentions against his tight 
opening and terror fed him new strength, to thrash and struggle beneath 
Thranduil's oppressive weight.  Though it was a noble battle, his fighting did not 
save him.  

Without pause for preparation Thranduil impaled the young elf violently on his 
straining erection, pushing himself deep into his son's body, letting forth a low 
groan of satisfaction as he felt himself enveloped by the warmth inside.

Legolas screamed against the penetration, the sound forced out of him with his 
breath, as the king thrust hard, driving the offending organ up to the hilt inside 
him.  Above him, his Lord's face hovered, lips curled back in a savage, beastly 
snarl, unreserved hatred shining out from the pale-blue eyes.  

Utterly heartbroken, the young elf tried to reach through his legs, to clutch at the 
front of his father's clothes, but he could not.  He tried to hold onto Thranduil's 
arms but his hands slipped from the smooth material that covered them.  He 
wanted desperately, to beg for an end to the torment but his mouth would not 
form the words.  Lost and wretched in his pain and humiliation, all Legolas could 
do, was close his eyes and wait for the sickening ordeal to be over.

Thranduil growled and moaned endlessly, as he fucked the boy, mercilessly 
ramming into the tight, young body beneath him, again and again, with incredible 
force.  He placed one hand on each of the prince's shoulder's, to better hold him 
steady, against the onslaught.  

Though it seemed, to Legolas, an Age of the Earth, it was but a few short minutes 
before Thranduil exploded inside the warmth of his victim, his lust roused more 
for the desolate weeping of his ward, than for the act of the rape itself.   

With his seed spent, the king lingered for a moment, inside the young prince, 
watching with perverse satisfaction, as the boy continued to cry.  He took hold of 
the prince's jaw, holding Legolas' head steady and leaned down, first kissing the 
young elf on the mouth, and then spitting obscenely on the pretty face.  

Content, Thranduil crawled back off his young charge and stood beside the bed, 
slipping his softening member back into his pants.  He watched with amusement, 
as Legolas rolled to his side, writhing around on the bed, in pain and inconsolable 
despair.   He thought about saying something, some delicious parting blow, with 
which he could leave his child. In the end, the king of Mirkwood only laughed, 
before turning and striding calmly to the door, leaving the boy where he was, 
clutching at his pants and uttering pathetic little noises, while he rolled around 
like a whore in his sheets.

**********

Legolas did not hear his father leave; he was aware only of his own sorrow.  His 
body trembled uncontrollably, and the searing pain in his back was equalled only 
by the thumping, wrenching hurt in his gut.  Through his suffering, he reached 
down and tried to pull up his pants, desperate to salvage some small sense of 
dignity.  But he had no strength, his fingers would not even grasp the material 
properly.  He sank even deeper into despair, his heart clenching violently in his 
chest.  

Wallowing, luxuriously in his heart-ache, the young prince slipped past the 
threshold of what his spirit could endure and he retreated to the world behind his 
elven eyes, drifting into a deep and troubled sleep even as his last tears fell.




Chapter 21.
(Untitled)
or: One of those 'between events' chapter's that are hard to name...

Making it to the bottom of the steep stairs, Aragorn found Frodo, Sam and Gimli 
lounging casually, in the first of the many rooms located on the fourth floor of 
Mirkwood's subterranean city.  His companions eyed him closely when he 
appeared in the doorway and the Ranger suddenly realised what he must have 
looked like, his dark hair a tangled mess around his face, his clothes crumpled and 
dishevelled, hanging open at the front.  Shifting, uncomfortably beneath his 
friend's critical gaze, Aragorn made a half-hearted attempt to straighten himself 
up but the lingering remains of his hangover prevented him from caring too much 
about his untidy appearance.

"Good morning."  Sam greeted him, pleasantly.  The hobbit's cheery disposition 
contradicted fiercely with how Aragorn was feeling and he threw his companion a 
withering look.

"You and Legolas left, in quite a hurry, last night."  Gimli observed.  

Aragorn glared at the dwarf.

"I had to pee."  He declared.  He had remembered that, on his journey from the 
prince's chamber.  That, among other things.  

Gimli nodded theatrically, feigning agreement.

"Sure, you did."  

Sighing heavily, Aragorn struggled to maintain his composure, tempted to tell the 
dwarf to mind his own business.  Instead, he inquired as to the whereabouts of the 
rest of the Fellowship.

"Merry and Pippin have gone exploring, with Boromir."  Frodo told him.  "And 
Gandalf went to see the elven-king."    

Aragorn grunted.

"Well, I doubt he found him.  Thranduil was with Legolas, when I left."  He said.  
Long silence followed his statement and it dawned on the Ranger's clouded brain 
that he had all but admitted to spending the night with the young prince.  
Frustrated, he tried to change the subject, asking if his friends had had breakfast.

"Hours ago."  Sam informed him.  "It's almost lunchtime."  

Aragorn sighed again.  This day was promising to be full of aggravation.  
Vaguely, he considered going back to bed.  He decided against it; he wanted to 
see Legolas again, before the day was out and logic told him he would probably 
find the elf at the midday meal.   

"I have to go bathe."  He mumbled to his companions, wandering down the 
passage to the room where he had left his weapons and grabbing the thick, freshly 
cleaned and folded towel that rested on the end of his bed, before making his way 
to the huge bath chamber at the end of the hall.

Aragorn almost died with relief, when he eased his tired body into the hot water, 
sinking slowly down until only his head remained above the surface.  He set about 
washing himself quickly, before settling down to soak his aching bones.  As he 
languished in the warm water, his mind drifted inevitably back to Legolas, and the 
perilous state of his relationship with the young elven prince.  

He knew what had happened between them.  By now, he had remembered 
everything; the drinking, the weeping – and that Legolas had pleasured him.  
Though his loin stirred wonderfully at the memory, the Ranger now found himself 
struggling violently with his conscience and for more than one reason.  

Yes, his lady was gone from his life and had sailed away, never to return, but he 
still loved her.  More than that, he knew that her love for him had not died with 
their separation.  What would she say, if she knew?  A part of him wondered if he 
should really care; she had left him, after all.  Nevertheless, deep inside him, guilt 
began to eat at the edges of his soul.  He reminded himself endlessly that it was 
the prince, who had been the aggressor, that he had only been too drunk and tired 
to resist but these excuses did little to ease his remorse.  He could not lie to 
himself; he had wanted the elf, had dreamed of such an encounter between them – 
and when it had come, he had enjoyed it immensely.  There was however, 
another, perhaps more urgent matter for his tired, confused brain to wrestle with.  

Legolas, was but little more than five hundred years old.  Aragorn was no stranger 
to the ways of elves and though he tried desperately to avoid it, the fact remained 
that in the eyes of the Sindar, their prince was a child.  

This, to Aragorn, seemed a far greater crime than that which he had committed 
against his love; that he desired one considered too young for carnal pleasures.  
Logic came to his defence, though it offered little comfort.  He had not actually 
taken the elf, therefore, in theory, the prince's chastity remained in tact.  Also, 
their encounter the night before had obviously not been his friend's first 
experience; Legolas had approached their lovemaking with almost alarming 
composure and he had known well, the methods with which to drive his lover to 
ecstasy.  No, it had definitely not been his first time and Aragorn found this 
realisation, coupled with the prince's youth, to be profoundly disturbing.  While 
Aragorn might, himself, have at least some small claim to ignorance, in defence 
of his morally questionable behaviour, no citizen of Mirkwood could possibly 
justify touching the king's under-age son.  

Nevertheless, Legolas appeared perfectly capable of making his own decisions 
and despite his relative youth, Aragorn thought the elf adult enough to do 
whatever he pleased.  Though this helped him come to terms with his own part in 
the transgressions of the night before, it did little to ease his concern for his 
friend, who he knew would now be dealing with the consequences of their 
actions.  

"Aragorn!"  Sam called to him from the entrance to the bath-chamber, stirring him 
from his reverie.  "This elf came by, to say lunch is ready, in the dining hall."  

Aragorn told the hobbit to go ahead with the others, he would follow shortly.  
Sam shrugged and disappeared back through the portal and Aragorn dragged 
himself reluctantly from the warm bath and began to dress.  

As he followed the hobbit's path out of the chamber, the Ranger came to a 
decision.  He would stop, at Legolas' door, on the way to upstairs.  If Thranduil 
was still there, he had a legitimate excuse, to be picking up his friend on the way 
to lunch.  If however,  the king had left, he and the prince could talk.  

***********

"I fell."  

Legolas practised his response to the inevitable interrogation.  As he did so, he 
gazed, forlornly at his marred reflection.  Across his face ran a dull, red welt, 
where the tip of Thranduil's whip had touched his skin.  Below the thin line, a 
significant bruise had blossomed along his jaw, spreading across his cheek, close 
to his ear; testament to the force of his father's strike.  

The prince sighed, gently.  Though his face would heal quickly, Legolas knew the 
marks would be visible at least until the next day and while his excuse would 
serve to silence those of his people with the audacity to ask what had happened to 
him, Aragorn and the Fellowship would not be so easily satisfied.  The thought of 
being pushed into confession, by the Ranger's seemingly passionate concern for 
him, sent shudders of trepidation through his body.  Aragorn had already managed 
to drag from him several of his darkest, most closely guarded secrets but Legolas 
could not suffer the thought of his noble friend finding out how utterly he was 
enslaved to his king.  The Ranger would pity him and Legolas found pity to be 
humiliating and quite intolerable.  He resolved to avoid his friends until his 
wounds had faded.    

The prince bathed and dressed, slowly, treating his body with painstaking care.  
He considered sending for a healer, to see to the wounds on his back but decided 
against it; he had suffered worse, in the past.  Despite his brave front, the young 
elf flinched at the sting, when the material of his silk shirt contacted his red, raw 
flesh.   He took time to comb his hair, deciding to leave it hanging loosely around 
his face, the better to conceal his injuries.  

Feeling as decent and dignified as was possible, the prince lingered for a little 
while, wondering what to do next.  It was, of course, not the first time he had been 
restrained to his room, either by choice or by the order of his often disgruntled 
father.  Nevertheless, the time he had spent roaming freely under the sky with the 
Fellowship had given him a taste for the world above Thranduil's halls and he 
now fought a sudden urge to run outside and breathe fresh air.  

Then, as though on cue, voices were heard outside the chamber and the door 
opened, the guard stepping half-way through the portal and politely informing 
him that his 'mortal friend' was requesting a word.  

Legolas sighed, a part of him had known the Ranger would return.

"**Very well.**" He relented, unable to turn the man away.  "**Let him in.**"

  


Chapter 22.
On thin ice...

Aragorn stepped past the guard and back into the increasingly familiar darkness of 
Legolas' room.  Inside, he found the prince, standing in the centre of the floor, 
gazing across at him, somewhat expectantly.  Down the left side of the elf's 
exquisite face ran a dark, nasty looking blemish, painfully obvious against the 
elf's pale, flawless skin.  

Instantly the Ranger opened his mouth, to ask what had happened but a second 
look into his friend's dark eyes stayed his tongue.  There was really no point in 
asking, he already knew what had happened, after all.  Thranduil had hit the boy.  
Now Legolas waited, defiance in his eyes, to tell Aragorn that his father had 
beaten him.  Fearing for his friend's pride the Ranger tried a different, less 
confronting approach.

"I thought we might go up to lunch together."  He offered, by way of greeting.  

Legolas shook his head, his brow furrowing slightly, perhaps in irritation or 
confusion, Aragorn could not tell which.    

"Thank you, Aragorn but I am not hungry."  The prince declined, in a small voice.

The Ranger nodded, he understood.  Though the elf could easily have lived for a 
week or more on what he had eaten the previous night, it did not take a genius to 
realise that Legolas did not want to be seen.  Despite his own violently protesting 
stomach, Aragorn lingered near the doorway, not entirely sure Legolas wanted 
him there but loathed to remove himself from the elf's presence.  

Seconds ticked by and inevitably, the silence became uncomfortable.

"Was there something else?"  Legolas asked, his tone suggesting strongly that he 
wanted to be left alone.  Ignoring the veiled dismissal, Aragorn pushed on.  

"How went it with your father, this morning?"  He asked, trying to sound casual.  

Legolas hesitated, casting his dark eyes to the floor.

"**How do you think it went?**"  The prince returned, his guard strengthening a 
little, under the Ranger's  attention.   The elf's tone was challenging, even hostile 
and Aragorn was stunned by it.

"Is everything alright?"  He asked, watching closely for the elf's reaction.  Legolas 
raised his eyes to look defiantly at the Ranger.

"Yes."  The elf lied.  "Everything is fine."  Aragorn held back a sigh of 
resignation.     Though he could understood the elf's reluctance to admit that 
something was wrong, a part of him felt put-out, even offended, that after all that 
had happened between them, Legolas would not let him in.  

"You are a terrible liar.”  He noted.  

Legolas shifted uncomfortably. 

"What would you have me say?”  He asked, in his beautiful voice.

At this Aragorn could only shrug, unsure whether the elf actually expected him to 
answer.

Seeming frustrated, Legolas turned his back on the Ranger, wandering across the 
floor towards the lounge.  Aragorn followed, slowly, a step at a time.  He felt 
unwelcome, but he could not bring himself to leave.  In front of him, the elf sank 
down onto the lounge, settling himself with infinite grace, on the soft cushions.  
Aragorn hovered for a moment beside the couch, waiting for Legolas to invite 
him to sit but the elf ignored him, resolutely avoiding the man's eyes.  

"Should I leave?"  The man asked, unable to bear the discomfort any longer.  He 
waited for what seemed an eternity but Legolas did not answer.  Finally, Aragorn 
turned to go, despairing that his friend seemed to want nothing to do with him.  

He reached the door of the chamber much too soon and when he passed back into 
the corridor and the guard pulled the door closed behind him Aragorn almost 
wept.  He had not believed the elf would actually watch him leave, had thought 
that Legolas would call him back and ask him to stay.  He could almost hear his 
friend's sweet voice, in his head;

"Forgive me, Estel.  I am not myself.  Please, do not go."

But no such call had come. Legolas had been distant and withdrawn, utterly 
unapproachable. A part of Aragorn wondered if the elf wanted to end their 
friendship or if perhaps Thranduil was the cause of the sudden distance between 
them.  Whatever the case, Legolas had swiftly and completely shut the Ranger 
out.  

Despondent, Aragorn relented to the incessant call of his stomach and headed off, 
in the direction of the Dining Hall.


Chapter 23.
The Library of Mirkwood...

"Aragorn!"  Gandalf's voice rang out in the great atrium of Thranduil's halls like 
cracking thunder, causing the local citizenry to abandon their light chatter and 
turn to stare curiously at the old Wizard, as he rushed across the polished floors, 
grey robes swirling dramatically about him.  Sighing, Aragorn stopped and turned 
also, silently resenting Gandalf for waylaying him in his quest for food.  

"There you are!"  The old man triumphantly announced, as he approached the 
disgruntled Ranger.

"Gandalf."  Aragorn greeted his friend who, rather than halting before him 
continued straight past, motioning for him to follow.  At a loss, Aragorn 
complied.

"I thought I might see if the King is anywhere around."  Gandalf spoke as they 
walked.   "The old fool was notably absent at lunch."  The old man stopped 
abruptly and eyed Aragorn closely for a moment.  "Where on Middle-Earth have 
you been, anyway?  I've not seen you since yesterday."  

- Lunch? - Aragorn's inner voice begged.  He struggled to ignore it, vaguely 
aware that Gandalf had asked him a question.

"What?"

"Oh well, it is not important."  The old Wizard continued.  "What is important is 
that that idiot Thranduil can be made to see reason and soon.  We cannot wait 
around here indefinitely, the Ring must be taken to Gondor.  You may as well 
come along.  Even if it does not help us, it cannot hurt you to be privy to such 
things."  The old man stopped again, peering at Aragorn with ageless eyes.  
"There is every chance in the world that you will find yourself dealing with 
Thranduil again, during your life time."   

They passed through the giant doors in the left hand wall of the foyer and began a 
trek down a wide corridor, not dissimilar in appearance to that which led to the 
Dining Hall.  

"Where exactly are we going?"  Aragorn asked.

"To the library.  It is where Thranduil spends most of his time."  Gandalf 
explained.  "Not that it has done much to improve him.  I suspect it has made him 
worse. "  The old man added, as they turned left through another golden doorway.  
"People who read, often tend to consider themselves wise.  It makes for terrible 
company."  

They came to the end of the short hallway they had entered and paused before a 
pair of heavy, closed doors.

"Now, be careful what you say."  Gandalf warned, in a low voice.  "The secrets of 
our quest he already knows but he has an awful temper and delights in executions, 
so do not offend him."

With that the old Wizard pushed open the doors.

Mirkwood's library was not terribly different from any other that Aragorn had 
seen, except in terms of it's sheer size.  It was impossible to tell exactly how big 
the room was because the view was completely blocked by a thick maze of 
bookshelves that stood twice Aragorn's height.  Large square pillars supported the 
roof of the massive hall and also served as walls against which more books and 
scrolls and crumbling parchment could be stacked.  

The other notable quality of this library, compared to others, was that it was 
remarkably well lit and there was absolutely no dust or dampness in the air.  
While many of the texts appeared ancient and in quite a state of disrepair, they 
also seemed to be well looked after by their current curators.  It occurred to 
Aragorn as he followed Gandalf through the maze of shelves, that a dry room 
under the ground was probably a very good place to keep books safe.  
Nevertheless, a part of him felt it somewhat unfair, that so much knowledge 
should be hoarded in this impenetrable fortress, in an unfriendly realm, unseen by 
so many generations of his people.  It seemed to Aragorn, to be a terrible waste.  

As they continued through the library, the mumble of soft voices reached the 
Ranger's ears and he and Gandalf stepped beyond the end of a row of 
bookshelves, into a large, open space.  Seated at a large wooden table, was the 
infamous King of Mirkwood, deep in conversation with Kehlios, the Hunter who 
had greeted them on the bank of the Forest River.  

Gandalf and Aragorn stopped a few feet short of the table, waiting respectfully to 
be noticed.  While Kehlios glanced occasionally in their direction, as he spoke, 
Thranduil seemed prepared to ignore his guests completely.  Now, Aragorn was 
an honourable man, who knew that eaves-dropping was impolite but because 
when his ears heard voices his brain instinctively listened, he could not help but 
catch pieces of the conversation.

"**...three more, in this last week.**"  Kehlios was saying to his King.

"**It is their own fault, if they wander too far.**"  Thranduil replied.  

Kehlios seemed agitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"**That is precisely the point, your Majesty, they are not wandering.  They are 
being dragged from their posts and slaughtered, in the night.  Something must be 
done - **"

Gandalf cleared his throat, loudly.  Kehlios looked over at him, Thranduil did not.  

"**We have weathered such aggression before.  The beasts will retreat to the 
mountains, when the sun returns.**"  He said.

Kehlios looked long and hard at his monarch.

"**With all due respect, your Majesty.  I fear a very long Winter lies ahead of us. 
The Shadows are deeper this year and they grow ever closer to our sanctuary.  
Who is to say when next we will see the sun?**"  The Hunter spoke softly but the 
weight of his words hang heavily in the air.    "**Or if at all?**"

"Kehlios is right, your Majesty."  Gandalf interrupted.  "This may be your last 
chance to cleanse the deep regions of your forest, for a very long time.  
Particularly if you insist on hiding here, while Sauron conquers the world around 
you."  

Thranduil finally acknowledged Gandalf's presence, slowly turning his head, to 
look up at the Wizard with cold, hard eyes.

"I will tell you once more, Istari*;  Mirkwood will have no part in your war.**"

"It is not I that have made this war, your Majesty.  The Enemy is gathering his 
forces, as we speak.  Gondor and Rohan will fall like the leaves of Autumn and 
there will be nothing then between this wood and an army of the Dark One's 
minions."

"Sauron has no interest in the conquest of Mirkwood, he never has.  Why should 
we invite his animosity?"  

"If you truly believe that Sauron will destroy all the nations of this Earth but 
yours, you are even more deluded than I thought."  Gandalf replied.  "Look, the 
war against Mordor aside, your forest is a breeding ground for the Enemy's spies.  
Will you not at least see to them?"  

"For the sake of your hopeless cause?"  Thranduil inquired.

"For the sake of your people, Thranduil."  Gandalf said.  "This war will come to 
Mirkwood, sooner or later and you will have a hard time holding your borders 
against a tide of Orcs while Goblins and Mountain Trolls are picking your 
Hunters off from behind your lines."  He pointed out.  "Besides that, your people 
are dying.  Have you no love left for your realm, for your subjects?"  The old 
Wizard paused, inching closer to the Silvan elf, his bright blue eyes shining with 
intensity.  "The beasts of Mirkwood are symptoms of disease, Thranduil.  Your 
forest is infected.  The Darkness will only continue to spread.  You know this.  
Gather some Hunters, send them into the mountains.  Exterminate the vermin 
hiding there."

Thranduil considered this for a moment, gazing up at Gandalf, his face 
unreadable.

"I care little, in truth, who lives or dies.  You must know that, by now.  I will do 
this for you, Gandalf and on one condition."  

"Which is?"

"You will not mention Mordor again, in my presence.  I have given you my 
answer and whether you like it or not, you will accept it.  **Go and send for the 
boy.**"  The King ordered, seemingly to no one in particular.  Aragorn jumped in 
surprise, when an elf, robed in dark brown, suddenly bowed and floated, silent as 
a grave, across the floor and into the corridors of books.  Aragorn stared, in 
wonder, after the figure.  He had not even seen the elf standing there, against the 
bookshelf.  He held back a frustrated sigh, he had too often been caught unaware, 
of late.   The Ranger's attention then drew back to Thranduil and his Hunter, who 
were speaking again as though their visitors were not in the room.  

"...**three or four thousand, at the most.**"

Thranduil sighed, heavily.

"**That still means sounding the horns, dragging every soul in the forest back 
here.**"    He said, seeming profoundly disappointed.

"**I will order the call, as soon as we are done here, your Majesty.  We should 
have the numbers we need before tomorrow morning.**"  

"**Fine.  I assume you already have a plan of attack?**"  The King prompted.

Kehlios nodded.

"**There is little to plan, in all honesty.  We will approach the mountains from 
the East, there is a pass there, which allows access to the inner valleys, it is there 
that I suspect we will find most of our enemies.**"  The Hunter shrugged.  "**I 
do not foresee any kind of organized resistance. It should simply be a matter of 
running them down.**"

"**Very well,**"  Thranduil consented.  "**You know what needs to be done.  
Have the Hunters moving by dawn.  The boy is going with you, you will take 
your orders from him, exceptional circumstances not withstanding.**"  

"**As you wish, your Majesty.**"  

"**Go now.**"  Thranduil abruptly dismissed the Hunter, who bowed 
respectfully to his King, before turning to leave.  

"Legolas is going on the Hunt?"  Gandalf asked, after a moment of silence.

Thranduil looked at the old man, as though wondering why he was still there.

"Yes."  

Aragorn's interest peaked at the mention of his friend's name.  

Gandalf paused for a moment, as though carefully choosing his words.

"Forgive me, your Majesty but I had hoped to be on the way to Mordor, 
tomorrow."  The old man said, suggestively.

"So?"  Thranduil apparently had little patience for suggestion.

"So, I suspect your son would prefer to join us than go traipsing  around the 
mountains, looking for monsters."  

The King nodded, thoughtfully, as though listening seriously to the old man's 
complaint.  Then he eradicated that notion with his reply.

"What my son cares to do is of no interest to me.  If it bothers you, Gandalf, to 
leave without him, then I suggest you wait until his return."

"You will permit him to leave with us, then?"  Gandalf asked, seeming to jump on 
the opportunity to secure the young prince's place in their Fellowship.  It was, 
Aragorn thought, quite touching.

Thranduil grunted, in an undignified fashion.

"What does it matter?  It seems he goes where he likes, anyway."  He sighed then, 
in resignation. "Yes, he can go with you but not until his task is completed.  The 
boy takes off for months, now he is back, he can at least do something useful 
before he leaves again."  

Aragorn smiled, Legolas would be coming with them.  It was something he had 
worried about, since learning that the prince had run away, to join them in 
Rivendell.  Suddenly, Thranduil did not seem such an awful person.  He was 
strict, certainly and somewhat unpleasant to have to talk to but Aragorn thought, 
he was not entirely unreasonable.

Though the real conversation appeared to be over, Gandalf and the King of 
Mirkwood continued to talk, mostly about things that had happened during their 
previous encounters.  Aragorn lingered in the library, wandering amongst the 
bookshelves, making a show of browsing through the texts as though looking for 
something to read.  What he was really doing, was waiting for Legolas to arrive.  

He had been left terribly disappointed, after his visit with the prince that morning.  
In fact, if he had been forced to put a name to what he felt, he might have said he 
was heart-broken.  Legolas had seemed so close to him, the night before and so 
completely at ease with their intimacy.  Yet, after just a short time apart, the elf 
had suddenly behaved as though their lovemaking had been a dream, or a mistake.

- It was a mistake. - Aragorn's inner voice informed.  *But Aragorn could not 
accept that, he had felt drawn to Legolas since the day they met.  If their night 
together had been a mistake, he decided, it was one he would be happy to repeat.

"Ada."

Aragorn started at the sound of Legolas' voice drifting softly through the library.  
He immediately made his way back to the table where the King sat, taking care to 
continue his feigned inspection of the texts on the shelf beside him as he went, 
trying to appear uninterested in the presence of the prince.

He listened intently to the interaction between father and son, perhaps hoping for 
some sort of insight into their relationship.  He heard nothing of the sort, however.  
Thranduil told Legolas, in very few words what he was to do and Legolas 
promised to fulfil his King's wishes.  Gandalf observed, in silence.  The 
conversation had been short and to the point and neither Legolas nor his father 
had made any offering in the way of personal contact.  

When Legolas was dismissed, Aragorn turned and headed casually back into the 
bookshelves, quickly skirting the edge of the room, once out of sight and 
managing, with almost flawless timing, to catch his friend at the entrance.

“May I walk with you?"  He asked, hoping against hope that Legolas would 
consent.  The young elf gazed at him, with dark eyes before nodding slightly.

"Of course, Aragorn." * 


*Istari - Wizard.

*(A.N) Sorry for starting sentences with 'But'.  It's a crime, I know and one I'm 
often guilty of.  Thought I should just say that once.

*(A.N)  Not a very moving chappy, I know but one that precipitates plot 
development. (something I was getting a little worried about)


Chapter 24.
Reconciled...

"I wanted to apologize," Aragorn offered, as they made their way slowly, towards 
the main hall. "If I said or did anything to upset you this morning. It was not my 
intention." 

Legolas glanced at him, gentle melancholy smouldering behind the elf's dark 
eyes. The bruise on his cheek, Aragorn noticed, had already faded significantly.

"It is I who must beg your forgiveness, mellon-nin." He said, quietly. "I was out 
of sorts." 

Legolas offered the Ranger a tentative smile, which Aragorn readily returned. On 
the inside, he leapt joyously into the air. The simple ease with which the tension 
between them had been lifted made him supremely happy.

They emerged into the foyer of Thranduil's halls and it slowly dawned on Aragorn 
that it was growing steadily darker inside the complex and the air was rapidly 
becoming cold. As they crossed the hall he glanced over to the entrance. The 
doors were closed. Aragorn felt a sudden tinge of claustrophobia, not something 
he usually suffered from.

"Why are the doors closed?" He asked of Legolas.

"It is probably raining outside." The elf answered.

Feeling somewhat stupid, Aragorn neglected to comment further.

They continued to walk in silence for a while, Legolas seemed lost in his own 
thoughts and Aragorn was content not to disturb him, satisfied as he was that their 
friendship was in no danger and pleased to share in the prince's company once 
more.

"So, you are going on this Hunt tomorrow." Aragorn finally said, satisfying a 
keen urge to interact with his companion.

Legolas nodded, sighing gently.

"I hate these things."

"You have done this before, then?." 

"Yes, many times." Legolas replied. "The forest must be managed. We have
always cleared the lands to the South, every ten years or so but Ada has been 
somewhat reluctant to order the task done, of late."

They pulled up outside the prince's chamber and stood, looking at each other 
uncomfortably, as the guard unlocked the heavy door. 

"Well," Aragorn said, as the door was opened. "I guess you have things to do..."

Legolas shook his head, prettily.

"Not really. I should probably speak to Kehlios at some point but that will not 
take long." 

Both man and elf seemed to hesitate for a very long time, neither wishing to be 
apart from the other, both struggling with their own doubts.

Finally, after an eternity, Legolas spoke.

"Did you want to come inside?" He asked, his voice dropping to little more than a 
whisper.

Aragorn did not answer, there was no need. His heart thumping, he followed the 
elf into the darkness beyond the door.


Chapter 25.
Once more, with feeling...


It was not that he wanted the man, sexually. Not really. Legolas had never really 
wanted anyone that way. It was a desire he had never fully understood, the need 
to dominate, possess. 

He was sure that Aragorn wanted him, though. He felt the Ranger's eyes upon him 
as he made his way over to the lounge, recognized the intensity in his friend's 
stare, as he sat down and watched the man draw closer. 

There was something different about this one, this quiet, reserved Ranger who had 
so quickly befriended him. He felt safe with Aragorn, secure. 

"Drink?" Legolas offered, as Aragorn sat down beside him.

The Ranger grimaced, when a bottle of Sina appeared from beneath the low table 
in front of them, prompting a smile from the young elf.

"Too much for you, Aragorn?" He teased. 

Immediately, Aragorn snatched the bottle from his grasp and Legolas could not 
help but laugh at the predictable nature of his dark, brooding companion. He 
watched in silence, as his friend bravely drank. 

There was no denying that he was drawn to Aragorn. He wanted very much to be 
close to the man yet he was hesitant to continue this strange relationship. It 
seemed wrong to do so and perilous. He feared it would lead them both into 
Shadow. 

Regardless, he would still seduce Aragorn tonight. 

He was not sure why, but he would do it. 

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

"Here, take this back before I kill myself with it." Aragorn pleaded.  The elf 
laughed sweetly, taking the bottle from the Ranger's hand. 

"What an interesting notion." Legolas observed and drank fully a third of the 
liquid. Aragorn watched this, bewildered. 

"One which you should consider." The Ranger retorted. "You drink far more than 
can be healthy." Legolas lowered the bottle and threw the man a dangerous look.

"So say you, Estel, who just last night lay passed out in this very spot." 

Aragorn merely smiled. He had not forgotten.

Out of nowhere, a strange sound, like that of a trumpet heard from a distance 
poured into the room. It rang steadily, holding a single, powerful note, for several 
moments until another, this one significantly closer, joined it. Soon, a third 
trumpet sounded, its voice raised harmoniously alongside the others.  

Aragorn looked inquisitively at his companion.

"You may want to cover your ears." The elf warned.

Aragorn was about to reply that it really was not very loud but the words were lost 
when a fourth instrument sang, this one so powerful it seemed to be coming from 
just outside the room.

The peal of the horns blended seamlessly into a chord that bounced around 
painfully inside Aragorn's ears, drilling a path straight into his brain. The room 
shook and shuddered violently and Aragorn actually began to fear that the 
chamber might cave in around them. He clapped his hands to either side of his 
head, in an effort to block the overwhelming noise.  

Eventually, one by one, the horns were silenced, their echoes resonating through 
the underground complex like the lingering aftershocks of an earthquake. When 
the sound finally stopped altogether, it left behind a peculiar sense of emptiness, 
as suddenly the dark room seemed deathly quiet.

"Was that what I think it was?" Aragorn asked, in an effort to fill the air.

"They are calling the Hunters home." Legolas confirmed. 

Suddenly, the elf stood and strode soundlessly across the room to speak to the 
guard outside the door. He promptly returned, his pale green robe flowing 
gracefully about him.

"I should speak with Kehlios before I get too drunk." Legolas answered the 
Ranger's curious expression. "And before he becomes too busy." 

"Oh." Aragorn nodded. For some reason this pending interruption frustrated him. 
He did not want to share the prince's attention with another. He knew, of course, 
that he was being ridiculous, but he still could not repel the jealousy that moved in 
around his heart.

Both man and elf were silent for a long time then, and in the quiet of the chamber, 
deep beneath the mountain Aragorn thought he heard the soothing sound of heavy 
rain, infinitely distant, drifting into the cool air. 

Legolas sat quietly beside him, fidgeting with the bottle in his hands and 
appeared, several times, to be about to say something but at the last moment, held 
his tongue.  

This of course drove Aragorn wild with curiosity but he resisted the temptation to 
ask what the elf had meant to say.  Somehow, the young prince seemed more 
beautiful, in contemplative silence. Dark eyes and lips wet with Sina reflected 
what little light there was in the room and inevitably, Aragorn was transfixed by 
it.

In truth, the Ranger had to look hard to see his companion clearly.  What little 
light filtered through the tunnels from above was all but trapped in the carvings 
that covered the prince's walls and only a dim, gray luster escaped from beneath 
the thick wooden vines. The walls glowed eerily, and the shadows were deep and 
impenetrable. 

"Must it be so dark in here?" The Ranger asked. "I can barely see you."

It seemed a long time before the elf answered.

"Does that bother you?" He quietly asked.

"Yes." The Ranger admitted.

"Why?"

Aragorn was dumbstruck. He actually began to stutter, as he wrestled with the 
question. What, exactly did the elf want him to say? Only one answer came 
immediately to mind.

"I want to see you." Aragorn cringed, silently berating himself. He had sounded 
like a school-boy, in a changing room.   Mortified, he waited for Legolas to laugh 
but laugh the elf did not.* At least, not to Aragorn's knowledge; his foolishness 
was met only with long silence. After what seemed like minutes of discomfort, 
the elf finally spoke.

"I was glad that you came." 

"What?" Aragorn asked, startled by the strange announcement. His mind raced to 
interpret what the elf had said. He considered the possibilities, and began to blush, 
fiercely.

"This morning." Legolas explained, quietly. "I was glad that you came."

Suddenly, the door of the room rattled and opened, and the ever-present guard 
stepped inside. Aragorn breathed a heavy sigh of relief, which he was sure 
Legolas must have heard. 

"**Forgive the interruption, my Prince.**" The guard apologized.
"**Kehlios is here.**" 

Legolas smiled. In the deceptive light, it reminded Aragorn of the way a cat might 
smile at an oblivious rodent, patiently awaiting the perfect time to strike.

"Of course." The prince said, placidly. "Hannon le."

The guard bowed, respectfully and held the door open for the Master of the Hunt.

The first to enter, however, was not Kehlios but a large, gray wolf that slinked 
past the two elves and trotted directly across the floor to sit by the prince's feet. 
Aragorn watched this, with some trepidation.

He heard Kehlios approach the back of the chamber, which was in itself a little 
odd, given that elves were usually unnervingly quiet. He did not, however look up 
to greet the Hunter, engaged as he was, in an epic struggle to maintain his 
composure, in the company of the very large wolf.

"Friend of yours?" He asked, as casually as he could manage.

"Yes." Legolas smiled, idly scratching the top of the wolf's head, as he spoke. "He 
is called Sadron."* The introduction did little to ease Aragorn's anxiety. He had 
never felt comfortable around wolves, having most often seen them as pairs of 
glowing eyes that peered at him from the trees, in the dead of night. Though he 
did not exactly fear them, he did have a healthy respect for any animal that might 
consider him prey and he found himself watching the wolf nervously, unable to 
look away. Sadron returned the Ranger's stare, bright, yellow eyes gazing, 
serenely back at him.

"**It has been pining for you, terribly.**" Kehlios noted, as he  stopped in front 
of the lounge.

"Of course he has." The prince agreed, continuing to pet the animal.  "You keep 
him locked up, with all the others."

"It is but a wolf, my Prince." The Hunter said, pointedly.

Legolas threw the older elf a dangerous glare but did not answer.

"Does it bite?" Aragorn asked, not looking away from the large, silver mass that 
lay at his companion’s feet.

"He." Legolas pointed out.

"Does he bite?"

"Of course not." Legolas berated him. "Do not be ridiculous, Aragorn."

Kehlios chuckled, discreetly.

"Not people, at any rate." He corrected his prince.

"Well, not lately." Legolas added, almost as an afterthought. 

Kehlios laughed again and Aragorn could not shake the impression that the two 
were sharing some sort of private joke. 

"Has he bitten people before?" He asked, after some hesitation.

Sensing his friend's discomfort, Legolas reined in his humor and smiled, gently.

"Fear not, Estel. Sadron is one of the Thandraugin."* The prince explained. "They 
hunt with us." 

"Oh." Realizing that Sadron was but one of many wolves kept by the elves of 
Mirkwood, Aragorn's wariness eased, slightly.

"**Would it kill you to light a candle, your Highness?**" Kehlios suddenly 
asked. "It is black as Sauron's heart, in here."

"**I like it this way.**" The prince replied.

Kehlios grunted, in a somewhat disapproving fashion. 

"Shall we talk about tomorrow?" Legolas smoothly deflected the older elf's 
attention.

Aragorn listened, as the two spoke of the impending Hunt. They discussed such 
necessary details as the rounding up of horses, the outfitting of the Hunters and 
the manner in which they would approach the battles ahead of them. Perhaps 
inevitably, as the conversation wore on, Aragorn began to lose interest. His eyes 
struggled to keep focus in the twilight and so the Ranger found himself staring 
into Sadron's glowing eyes, drifting slowly into reverie, to the sound of elvish 
voices.

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

At dawn, through a strange and somehow foreign world he wandered. 

He knew neither where he was going, nor where he was. It occurred to him that 
this must be the meaning of the words 'utterly and irrevocably lost'. He walked by 
a river, whose clear waters flowed swiftly over a bed of rock and pebble. On the 
shore stood great, ancient trees that towered above him, silent and unmoving like 
sentries at their posts, standing guard over the water. The air was full of the smells 
of battle, smoke and dirt and cut flesh, yet there was no sound and no other 
evidence of bloodshed.  


Nothing moved, and the forest was eerily quiet, in the soft morning light. 

Aragorn could not say how for how long he walked. His surroundings never 
changed, and he did not grow weary. Time and distance became meaningless.

Out of nowhere, the distant sound of galloping hooves reached his ears.
Aragorn stopped and looked around for the source of the noise. It was impossible 
to see more than a few meters into the thick forest. He stood, watching and 
listening, as the sound grew steadily louder and then, out of nowhere, a dark, 
bloodied war-horse exploded from the trees, it's heaving sides and bit covered 
with foam, ears pinned back tightly against its head. The horse almost knocked 
Aragorn from his feet as it passed, in full flight and plunged recklessly into the 
river, leaving a maelstrom of churning water in its wake. The horse swam clear 
across the fast moving water and disappeared into the trees on the far bank. 

Aragorn did not notice this; something had caught his eye, where the horse had 
entered the river. 

There was a swirl of rich green, in the water. 

He moved closer, curiosity overpowering the warning bell that sounded in his 
head.

Step by step, he approached the river and more and more of what floated there 
came into view. Amongst the mass of dark and light green that drifted about like 
thick river weed, long strands of pale silk waved gently with the current, glowing, 
silver and gold, in the morning sun.

Aragorn's heart began to pound.

He stepped closer again and found himself suddenly waist deep, in the water. 

He reached out his hand and touched -


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

"Estel?" 

A sweet voice called to him from the blackness and a warm hand gently squeezed 
his shoulder. 

"Estel, wake up." 

The Ranger opened his eyes and found himself face to face with a sweetly smiling 
elvish prince. It took him a moment to remember where he was and he looked 
around curiously. 

"Kehlios has gone." Legolas explained. "I am sorry if you were terribly bored."

Realizing that he had fallen asleep in front of the prince and his captain was an 
unpleasant experience for Aragorn. He looked sheepishly at his host, apology in 
his eyes.

"Forgive me." He mumbled, straightening himself as best he could. "I must have 
been tired." 

Legolas' smile spilled into his eyes.

"Of course you were." The prince graciously agreed. "Drink?"

Aragorn eyed the bottle that was offered warily. 

"Perhaps I had better not." He refused. "I seem to be suffering for it." 

Legolas shrugged, taking a drink himself.

"I understand." The prince assured him. "You do not wish to be hung-over for the 
Hunt, tomorrow." 

Aragorn looked inquisitively at his companion.

"The Hunt?" He asked.

"Yes." Legolas confirmed. "You are going to join us, are you not?" 

"I was not sure I was invited." The Ranger admitted.

Once again, Legolas smiled. It was a sight to which Aragorn was slowly 
becoming accustomed.

"Nonsense." The elf said, dismissing his doubts. "You are always invited, Estel."

Aragorn's heart glowed. 

"Now," Legolas said matter of factly. "Are you going to kiss me, or not?"

Aragorn's heart began to thump violently in his chest. 
"What?"

Either oblivious to, or perhaps enjoying the Ranger's discomfort, Legolas fought 
to control laughter.

"Never mind." He told the man, coyly and drank from the Sina bottle. 

Aragorn frowned. Never mind? The elf was obviously laughing at him and the 
Ranger found it more than a little humiliating. His discomfort swiftly turned to 
anger.

"Why would you say such a thing?" He demanded of the elf. "For amusement?" 

The prince's smile slowly faded, though he appeared un-phased, in the face of 
Aragorn's wrath. He seemed to observe the man's anger, as a man observes the 
behavior of wild animals that squabble over scraps of food. Finally, the beautiful 
smile returned and this time it was not mocking, but tinged with sadness.

"No." Legolas denied. 

Aragorn struggled to comprehend. 

"You were laughing..." He began, 

"It was the look on your face, Estel." Legolas explained, the elf's smile returning 
despite his best efforts to control it. "Your mouth was wide open." He appended. 
"As though I had asked you to cut off a limb." 

Aragorn was torn between emotions, an uncomfortable position in which he was 
finding himself more and more often. He felt embarrassed and awkward, after the 
misunderstanding that had occurred between them, and now, suddenly, it dawned 
on him that Legolas had been serious in his request. Though he desperately 
wanted to accede to the elf's wish, he hesitated to do so, the possibility of another 
uncomfortable situation more than he could bare.

"I do not understand you, Legolas." He finally admitted. "I have tried, since first 
we met. Nothing you do makes sense to me."

The moment the words had left his mouth Aragorn regretted what he had said. 
The smile that graced the elf's features faltered, and Legolas sighed as he looked 
away, as though to hide his sorrow. For a long time the elf did not speak, and 
Aragorn died a little, to know that he had again brought his friend to the edge of 
despair. 

"Is it necessary," the prince asked, "for you to understand?"

Aragorn thought about this for a moment. He had to admit that he found the elf's 
mysterious nature to be quite endearing. And constant wondering what was 
happening inside his friend's head did ensure that he was never bored. 

"I only want to know you."

Legolas shifted closer to Aragorn and seemed to gather his thoughts before he 
spoke.

Aragorn waited.

"I have never felt this way before." Legolas said, whispered words tumbling from 
his lips like fearful confession. "When I am with you..." The elf hesitated, 
struggling to find the words to express himself. Finally, he seemed to abandon his 
approach and begin again. "It is not normal for me, to desire. It is not... 
appropriate." He said. "Yet I long for you, Estel. I want you so badly, it hurts. To 
be closer to you." 

"I dream of you, when I sleep." He quietly admitted. "I dream of us. And when I 
wake you are my only thought, my only desire." The young elf stopped then, 
choking on the words, unable to continue. He sat, quietly, waiting for the Ranger's 
reaction.

If someone had asked Aragorn then, what his name was, he probably would not 
have known. Thought had abandoned him. He could not have said how long he 
sat there, staring blankly into the dark eyes of his vulnerable friend. He only knew 
that once again, Legolas had ensnared him, captured his heart with that searing 
gaze. It was a temptation he was powerless to resist.

Aragorn leaned forward and touched the prince's lips gently with his own. The 
softness of the flesh was almost familiar to him now and he lingered, basking in 
the perfection of it. To his astonishment, Legolas neither encouraged, nor 
hindered the Ranger's advance, but received the kiss passively. Aragorn lingered, 
for a moment longer, waiting for the elf to react. Finally, he drew back a little, to 
better see his friend's eyes. Legolas gazed silently back at him, through unshed 
tears and with such unfettered adoration that Aragorn almost wept at sight of it.  
Only once before had he seen such unbridled affection; in the eyes of Arwen, his 
love, now so far away. 

Sliding his arms around the elf's waist, Aragorn pulled Legolas to him and held 
him tightly for a moment, wondering yet again at how completely enthralled he 
was to this dark prince. Legolas melted willingly into the man's embrace, burying 
his face against the Ranger's warm neck.

"Le aníron,* Estel. Understand that." The words were a plea, at once desperate 
and despairing. Aragorn's heart ached with empathy and he kissed the young 
prince again, this time without restraint. He pushed his tongue deep into the elf's 
mouth and a soft moan escaped him, as he tasted the familiar sweetness of 
Legolas. 

Now the elf responded, welcoming Aragorn's intrusion, sucking hungrily on the 
man's tongue, even as his elegant hands worked at the knots that held his lover's 
shirt closed. Aragorn jumped, when a hand brushed against his belly. Legolas 
pushed away from him and pushed the shirt off his shoulders, admiring the firm, 
tanned flesh beneath. Aragorn watched the dark eyes roam over his body, 
accompanied by the soft caress of warm hands. What was it about this elf that 
enchanted him so? He did not know and for now, he did not care. He could think 
of nothing but getting closer to Legolas.

"Legolas." He whispered. Legolas seemed not to notice. Reaching up, Aragorn 
touched the elf's face with his fingers. 

"Legolas." He repeated. The prince lifted his eyes and dark blue met steel-gray. 
Aragorn's heart and hands trembled, beneath the prince's steady gaze. In the quiet 
and the dark of the chamber, so far from Gondor and from Rivendell, from 
Mordor and the crumbling world above, they were utterly alone, together.
 
"Take me to your bed." 

Something changed in Legolas then. It was not in the elf's appearance or his 
manner, it was in his eyes. Some sweet contentment perhaps, that had not been 
there before. Whatever it was made Aragorn's heart flutter. 

A soft, warm hand slipped into the Ranger's own and Legolas stood, and led him 
silently across the fur-covered floor. Before the bed the elf stopped and turned, 
bestowing a gentle, reassuring smile upon his lover. As Aragorn struggled to 
control his racing heart, it occurred to him that Legolas seemed very relaxed, 
given the circumstances. 

Letting go of Aragorn's hand, the elf stepped forward, closing the space between 
them and touched his lips delicately to the man's own, the tips of his fingers 
tracing soft lines along the man's jaw. The kiss was simple and sweet, and it 
ended much too quickly for Aragorn's liking. He tried to catch the elf's mouth 
again but Legolas gently and silently refused him, putting his fingers against the 
man's lips. 

Confused, Aragorn waited.

Slowly, with immeasurable grace, Legolas lowered himself to his knees before 
the Ranger.

Aragorn's heart leapt into his throat as memory of the night before flooded into 
his mind. He remembered the elf's hands between his thighs, the wet, hot mouth 
wrapped around him, and his knees began to tremble.
 
Legolas gazed up at him, a knowing smile touching his fine features before he 
reached down and began untying the Ranger's boots. Looking down at the elf, 
whose face he could no longer see, Aragorn could not help thinking that it was 
somehow wrong, for this young prince to be on his knees before him, tending him 
in such a way. It seemed a servants task. He wondered, as he lifted his right foot, 
how many times Thranduil had seen his son from this angle. He lifted his left 
foot, and wondered if Thranduil enjoyed the sight as much as he did. 

When Aragorn finally stood barefooted, before him, Legolas raised himself up on 
his knees, his hands sliding up the man's legs, to the lace of his pants. As though 
dreaming Aragorn watched, as the young prince pulled the knot loose, hooked his 
fingers under the waistband, and slowly pulled the pants down. Aragorn's 
erection, freed from its confinement, leapt upright and he groaned with the 
release. 

Eager to please, Legolas wrapped his hand around the thick shaft, and put his lips 
to the already weeping head. Aragorn jumped at the sudden contact and his hand 
reflexively went down to hold the elf's head steady, as he pushed himself deep 
into his lover's mouth. Legolas accepted the man's aggression without complaint, 
taking Aragorn to the hilt in his mouth, sucking hungrily on the thick member that 
pushed against the back of his throat, threatening to choke him. 

It was all Aragorn could do to remain standing, as the elf worked on him, letting a 
long-fingered hand drift between the Ranger's legs to tickle and tug gently at his 
balls*, while keeping a slow luxurious rhythm with his mouth, sliding his tongue 
along the shaft of the man's cock as though it tasted of honey. 

The Ranger's eyes fluttered closed, as the pleasure began to overcome him.

"Wait, Legolas. Stop." He begged, pulling the elf's head up by the hold he had on 
his silken hair. Legolas rose to his feet, to be met with fierce passion, as Aragorn 
kissed him, deeply. At taste of himself the Ranger moaned into the elf's mouth, 
the vibration stirring the latent fire that smoldered in his belly. He could wait no 
longer for release.

Taking hold of Legolas by his upper-arms, Aragorn turned and pushed the smaller 
male down onto the bed, quickly following, to cover the elf's body with his own. 
He kissed Legolas again, trying to undo the clasps at the front of the elf's robe. 
Legolas giggled through their kiss at the Ranger's attempts to undress him, finally 
lending a helping hand. Aragorn impatiently pushed the robe open as he went, his 
raging erection pulsing anew, as flawless, pale flesh was slowly exposed. 

He roamed greedily over every visible inch of the elf's skin, relishing in the feel 
of the soft flesh beneath his calloused hands. He ground himself hard against the 
prince's thighs, his body aching for contact.

He reached down between them with one hand and tried, through his fervor, to 
untie the elf's pants. After a few moments struggling with the seemingly simple 
task, Aragorn broke the kiss and sat up on his knees, to better see. He looked 
down at the young elf that lay beneath him, waiting. Legolas gazed back at him 
through half-lidded eyes, dark with lust. As the Ranger watched, the tip of a wet, 
pink tongue flicked out and licked the elf's lips. Aragorn's already straining 
member throbbed painfully as he finally realized - Legolas would be his tonight. 

He pulled at the lace, and the knot came undone. Wasting no time on sentiment, 
Aragorn tugged at the elf's pants, leaning back to pull them down over the prince's 
bare feet so that his elf lay naked before him. Struck with a sudden urge to 
explore, he took his time climbing back up along the elf's body, letting his hands 
wander freely over the pale flesh, as he went. He followed his caresses with 
kisses, placed lovingly on the elf's ivory thighs, the firm flesh of his stomach. He 
wrapped his hand around Legolas' hard member, eliciting a gentle sigh, as he 
slowly stroked the elf's so far neglected sex. 
Encouraged by his lover's response, Aragorn lay down again over the elf's svelte 
form, catching Legolas' mouth in a long, fevered kiss. Legolas wrapped his arms 
around the man, striving for more contact, lifting his hips to meet the Ranger's 
attentions, moaning into their kiss, as Aragorn fanned his desires. 
Thus they wrestled for a time, locked in their embrace, rubbing against each other, 
without restraint. Finally, for want of air, Legolas broke the kiss, turning his head 
to side, drawing deep, ragged breaths, as pleasure swelled inside him.

"Estel." The prince uttered, through his euphoria. "Please, take me. I cannot bear 
to wait." 

Aragorn's heart pounded, the throbbing in his groin intensifying almost to pain, 
with the imminence of consummation. He vaguely considered rolling the prince 
onto his stomach to make the act easier, but almost instantly the thought occurred 
to him, he dismissed it. He wanted to see his lover.  He reached behind him and 
lifted the elf's legs. The young warrior was quite flexible, and it took little effort 
to push the elf's knees up to his chest, exposing the secret entrance to Legolas' 
body. 

On impulse, he put two fingertips to the prince's lips, eager to see Legolas 
wanton, as he had been in Dol Guldur. He was not disappointed. The elf licked 
and kissed, making sweet little sounds of contentment, as he sucked the Ranger's 
fingers, his pink tongue sliding in and out of his hot mouth, wetting the digits till 
they dripped. Aragorn watched, enthralled, as Legolas made a meal of his fingers. 

Finally, the need to enter his lover's body became unbearable, and he withdrew 
his fingers from the elf's mouth, swiftly replacing them with his tongue, as he 
leaned down and kissed Legolas again. He put his fingers to the elf's hole, not yet 
penetrating, but stroking and pressing against the puckered opening, coaxing the 
tight entrance to relax. His lover moaned and whined under his ministrations, the 
elf's face flushed with passion. 

Slowly, he pushed the tip of one finger inside, soon joining it with the second. 
Legolas bucked and writhed beneath him, as he began to tease and stretch the elf's 
passage, searching with his fingers for his lover's hidden spot. He pushed as deep 
as he could into the hot tunnel, wriggling his fingers inside the elf's body, 
listening, enthralled, as Legolas whimpered his pleasure. He touched his lover's 
sweet spot and was rewarded when the elf cried out, his hips thrusting violently, 
even as the Ranger pulled his fingers from the passage, and replaced it with his 
eager member, pressing the weeping head hard against the elf's moistened portal. 
Legolas quivered with anticipation, trying to spread his thighs further, to allow the 
man unfettered access. 

Aragorn struggled to control himself, as he slowly pushed himself into his elf's 
body, the tight rim clenching around his hard desire. With painstaking care he 
persisted, until finally Legolas' hold loosened and he groaned with satisfaction, as 
he sheathed himself fully in the elf's heat. With great control he paused, to let his 
lover acclimatize to the feeling of being filled. But the elf would not wait, his 
fingers clawed at the Ranger's back, digging into his shoulders, and Legolas 
pleaded for more.

"Move, Estel." He begged. "Please." 

Blindly, Aragorn obeyed. He tried to go slowly at first, withdrawing almost 
completely from his lover's body, to push steadily back inside, but the slow pace 
seemed to frustrate the young elf, and Aragorn found himself straining to 
maintain it. 

After three or four long, sensual strokes the Ranger's patience snapped and he 
withdrew again, this time thrusting hard and fast into the tight passage. Legolas 
cried out as if injured, the sound stirring the man's baser passions, driving 
Aragorn to ride his lover with vicious abandon. His pace quickened, as he 
slammed into the elf's heat again and again. The force of his thrusts began 
pushing the young elf away from him, until finally Legolas had to put his hand 
against the wall above his head, to counter the Ranger's assault. 

It wasn't enough. 

Frustrated by the unbearable need to climax Aragorn sat back on his knees, 
putting some distance between him and his lover, allowing himself more space to 
maneuver. He shifted his angle, holding the elf's legs for leverage and thrust into 
the hot passage. The impact knocked the breath from his elf's lungs and as 
Legolas moaned and writhed on his member, Aragorn realized he had found his 
lover's sweet spot. Over and over he pounded into the elf's body, delighting in 
every cry and moan that issued from Legolas' mouth, watching with relish as his 
lover's head tossed from side to side, the dark eyes disappearing behind long 
lashes, as Aragorn stroked his core with every thrust. 

"Ah, yes." The elf panted, barely capable of speech. "More, Estel." 

Aragorn complied, as best he could, but the sound of his name on the elf's tongue 
left him weak at the knees. With each thrust he felt the end draw closer. 

He fought to control himself, to ease back, to do something that would slow his 
ascent. But it was hopeless. The Ranger's vision swam dangerously, and beneath 
him, he sensed his lover was also nearing his climax, the elf's breath came in 
ragged gasps, his face flushed and slack with pleasure. 

Before Aragorn's eyes, Legolas slid one hand down the front of his body, 
wrapping his fingers around his own straining lust, stroking himself with reckless 
inhibition, seemingly lost in his sexual ecstasy. It was more than Aragorn could 
bear.

With a final, exhaustive effort he spent his seed inside the elf's body, his back 
arching under the force of his orgasm. His lover swiftly followed, the hot liquid 
splattering across his stomach, as Legolas succumbed to rapture.

Utterly weakened by his efforts, Aragorn flopped down onto the mattress beside 
his lover. He looked across at Legolas, who gazed up at the ceiling through half-
lidded eyes, a contented expression on his fine face. In that sweet, fleeting 
moment of clarity that follows sexual release, Aragorn had an epiphany. 
"I think I may be falling in love with you, Legolas." He whispered his thought. 

The elf smiled, turning his head to meet the Ranger's adoring eyes. 

"Say that again." He asked, eyes shining in the darkness.

"Le melon.*" Aragorn repeated, without hesitation. 

Legolas sighed, rolling over to rest his head lightly on Aragorn's shoulder, 
draping his arm across the man's chest. It was a simple act, yet one which made 
Aragorn profoundly happy.

Spent and contented, the Hope of the World closed his eyes; sleep called to him 
softly, from the shadows and he had no will to fight it. 

Tomorrow was another day, and with it came the promise of the Hunt.

*****************
*Sadron - loyal
*Thandraugi (n) - shield wolves. I think just the 'i' at the end makes a plural. I put 
the 'n' there coz it makes the word sound better.  Writer's prerogative. 
BTW - the name translations came from arwen-undomiel.com, now I'll  never be 
stuck for a name again! *g*
*Le aníron. - I need you. (I've seen 'anír' translated as both 'need' and 'wish'. I 
picked one.)
*Le melon - I love you. 

Chapter 26.
Before the Storm...

The first thing Aragorn noticed, as he slid back into consciousness was the sound 
of singing.  A sweet elvish melody, in a light, clear voice. Before he had even 
opened his eyes Aragorn smiled.  He loved to hear Legolas sing.

The second thing the Ranger noticed, when he finally did open his eyes, was the 
wolf, Sadron, curled up next to him on the huge bed, staring at him intently, with 
yellow eyes.  Aragorn frowned.  It was not exactly what he had hoped to see when 
he woke.

"Go away."  He told the animal, with more conviction than he really felt.  Almost 
seeming offended Sadron leapt nimbly off the huge bed and trotted across the 
floor, straight to Legolas' bathroom, nosing the unlocked door and slipping 
silently into the chamber.  

Aragorn stared after the animal for a long time, his still tired eyes drawn to the 
candlelight that shone through the partially open door, tinting gold the tiny drops 
of steam that drifted out near the floor.  He heard Legolas greet the wolf, before 
returning to his song. Aragorn sighed, letting his eyes fall closed, and his mind 
drift back to the night before. 

Unlike their previous encounter, the memory of this night was fresh and clear and 
flooded back to him with almost tangible clarity; the way Legolas had looked in 
the darkness, the feel of the elf's flesh against his own, the sound of his voice and 
the taste of his mouth.  Mostly he remembered the searing heat, the overwhelming 
feeling of being wrapped up, enveloped inside his lover's body.  It had been 
everything Aragorn had dreamed - and so much more.  

Aside from his physical attraction to the elf, Aragorn had liked Legolas from the 
moment they had met and he considered himself blessed to call the young prince 
his friend.  His intensely emotional reaction to making love with the elf however 
had caught him entirely by surprise.  He had done the deed with friends before but 
had felt no differently about them the next morning.  Now, in the quiet before 
dawn, tangled in silk sheets and with the scent of lust lingering on his body he 
realized he could no longer deny the strength of his feelings for Legolas.  

Was it love?  He was not entirely sure.  He had only truly loved once before and 
then it had been simple, uncomplicated, easy.  Arwen passed, inevitably through 
his thoughts and a sharp pang of guilt disturbed his reverie.  He pushed it quickly 
aside; he would allow nothing to spoil this morning.  His lover waited just beyond 
his sight, and for the first time in a long time, everything was perfect.

He got up, pulling the silk sheet around his waist; for some reason despite their 
intimacy, the Ranger still felt a need to uphold some vague sense of propriety.  On 
bare feet, he strode across the floor to the partially open doorway.  He hesitated 
before going in, nerves that affirmed the depth of the Ranger's infatuation 
momentarily shaking his confidence.  He took a deep breath, pulled the door all 
the way open, and stepped inside the candle-lit chamber.

The chamber was quite large, something that failed to surprise Aragorn on this 
occasion, and rectangular in shape.  Fully half the space was devoted to the huge 
bath, three sides of which were formed by the walls that surrounded it.  Set into 
the opposite wall was a glass mirror which, unbelievably spanned the entire 
length of the wall, intercepted at waist height from the floor by a long table of 
dark, polished stone.  Sitting by the bath, was the shaggy, gray form of Sadron, 
the wolf's tongue lolling out of its mouth as it gazed up at him.  Sitting in the bath, 
and gazing at him with an uncannily similar expression, was Legolas.  Aragorn 
smiled.  The elf's wet hair clung to his face and shoulders, his cheeks flushed pink 
with the heat of the water.  He looked adorable. 

"Good morning."  The prince greeted him happily, sliding through the water to 
the edge of the bath and fixing the Ranger with his intoxicating smile. 

"Good morning."  Aragorn returned.

"Did you sleep well?"

Aragorn looked fondly at his companion.  Legolas had a habit of being 
particularly cheerful in the early hours of the morning - a tendency not shared by 
the Ranger, though he did find the young elf's enthusiasm to be somewhat 
contagious.

"I slept very well, thank you."

Legolas grinned, suddenly producing a thick cloth from beneath the water. 

"Will you wash my back?"  He asked, holding out the dripping cloth. 

Smiling, Aragorn moved to obey, stepping up and taking the cloth from the elf's 
hand.  He was about to sit down on the edge of the bath, when Legolas pushed 
himself away from the edge, drifting clear across to the wall at the other end, 
leaving only a swirl of water where he had been.  Aragorn froze, momentarily 
dumbfounded, actually wondering what his friend was doing.

"Come here and do it."  The elf coaxed him, gazing seductively up at him through 
long, dark lashes.  Aragorn grinned as realization suddenly dawned upon him.  
Propriety be damned, he thought, dropping the sheet on the damp floor and 
climbing into the steaming tub. 

The heat was almost scalding at first but Aragorn paid it no heed, wading directly 
to his waiting elf.  The water, which reached waist-height where he had entered it, 
steadily deepened towards the back of the room, until only his shoulders remained 
dry.  Legolas smiled invitingly as he approached, reaching out and taking the 
Ranger's hand as he drew near, and meeting the man with a gentle kiss.  Aragorn 
slid his arms around the elf's waist, pulling his lover's supple body against his 
own, sighing against Legolas' mouth.  The contact between their bodies was 
frictionless and the elf's flesh was silk against the Ranger's wandering hands. 

"Did you want me to wash your back, or not?"  Aragorn asked gently, when the 
elf released his lips.

Legolas nodded, smiling and, without warning wrapped his arms tightly around 
the Ranger's neck, kissing him soundly on the cheek as he did his best to choke 
the man.  Pleasantly stunned, Aragorn returned his lover's embrace, trying hard 
not to cough against the elf's tight grip.

"Okay, then."  Legolas suddenly released him; taking the man's hand and leading 
him back out to shallower water.  He took a bar of scented elvish soap from a 
ledge against one of the walls and handed it and the cloth to the Ranger, before 
turning his back on the man without a second glance, facing the wall and reaching 
back to pull his soaked hair over one shoulder.

Suddenly presented with a stunning view of the elf's back, it took Aragorn a 
second to remember what he was supposed to be doing.  This was partly because 
water was lapping temptingly at the curve of Legolas' lower back, and partly 
because the once flawless, pale skin before him was now criss-crossed with 
countless thin, pink lines, barely visible to the eye, but there nonetheless.

It took little in the way of deduction to figure out what had left the marks on his 
lover's flesh and the thought of Legolas bent beneath a lash sent him wild with 
anger.  Discipline was one thing - Aragorn himself had been on the receiving end 
of more than one solid back-hand in his youth, most often delivered by a 
disapproving Lord Elrond but to take a whip to a child's back was another thing 
altogether and of all people, Aragorn thought, Legolas deserved it the least. 

"Is something the matter?"  The elf asked, over his shoulder.

Aragorn held his tongue.  There would be time to speak of such things later.  For 
now he did not want to upset Legolas, he only wanted to please him. 

"No."  He lied, working a quick lather of soap in the cloth.  He reached up and 
rubbed the cloth across the elf's shoulders, watching as little, white bubbles ran in 
rivers down Legolas' back to pool around the prince's waist.  Then, with infinite 
care he began to clean the marred flesh in long, gentle strokes.  Legolas sighed 
contentedly, resting his forehead against the wall, relaxing under the man's 
attention.  Pleased by his lover's response, Aragorn moved closer behind the elf, 
leaning into whisper into the delicately pointed ear. 

"Have I told you, you are beautiful?"  He asked. 

Legolas giggled softly at the question, leaning back against Aragorn, his soapy 
back slick against the Ranger's chest.

"You have, Estel."  He answered, reaching back and wrapping the man's arms 
around him like a blanket.

"Have I told you, today?"  Aragorn amended.

Again the elf laughed, the sound music to the Ranger's ears.

"Today?  I do not think so."

Smiling, Aragorn turned Legolas to face him, cupping the young elf's face in his 
hands, placing several wet, forceful kisses upon his cheeks.

"Beautiful,"  he said between kisses, "does you no justice, Prince.  You are 
flawless.  You are divine."

Another giggle escaped his lover's mouth.

"You go too far, Estel." 

Aragorn loosened his hold on his captive, leaning back a little to better see his 
elf's eyes.  Legolas was smiling, a little nervously Aragorn thought, his dark eyes 
flickering about the room, almost seeming embarrassed by the man's declarations.  
That was fine with Aragorn, the elf had made him squirm plenty of times.  
Reaching up, he pushed a lock of damp hair back from Legolas' face, wiping 
away, with his thumb the trail of moisture it had left on the elf's cheek.

"You are ambrosia.*"  He said, leaning in to kiss his companions wet lips, 
lingering against the soft flesh.  "I love you."

The elf's nervousness disappeared, overpowered by the Ranger's affection and 
Legolas smiled, happiness shining in his eyes.

"And I love you, Estel."  The prince returned in his musical voice.  "As I love the 
sun and the air that I breathe." 

Beyond words, Aragorn kissed Legolas again, deeper this time, moved to worship 
his beloved elf.  Legolas returned the kiss with almost euphoric delight, wrapping 
his arms around the Ranger's neck and leaning heavily against him, reveling as he 
often did, in the pure, latent strength of the man's body.  

They stayed this way for some time, lingering in the luscious sensuality of their 
embrace.  Like virgins at play they explored each other; tasting and touching, 
unhurried and uninhibited, their bodies made slick with soap.  Aragorn's already 
throbbing erection pressed firmly into the elf's belly and Legolas' body responded 
eagerly.  Yet, neither made any move to advance their courtship, both seemingly 
content just to be close to each other, in the quiet hours before dawn. 

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Legolas pulled out of the love-play, 
reminding the Ranger somewhat reluctantly that there was little time for such 
things this morning, as the Hunt would soon begin.  The elf's conscientious 
interruption did little to halt their frolicking though, as they set about rinsing the 
soap off each other's bodies, prolonging the carefree moment for as long as they 
could.  

When there was no more excuse for remaining in the water they turned their 
attention to drying themselves.  This began in the bath chamber but the combined 
puddles of water dripping from their bodies quickly became perilous on the 
smooth, stone floor and they moved the process out to the bedroom, where they 
meticulously wiped each other down, from head to toe, Aragorn eliciting several 
uncontrollable giggles from his companion, as he made sure not a drop of 
moisture remained between the prince's toes.  

Out of nowhere, a horn sounded.  It was one of those that had summoned the 
Hunters to the mountain and it blasted two short, powerful notes before again 
falling silent.

"We should get ready."  Legolas told his lover, gently.  Aragorn sighed, pulling 
the elf into a warm embrace.  He did not want this morning to end.  Legolas 
kissed his cheek, lovingly, sharing the Ranger's reluctance to return to the real 
world.  Moved almost to tears by the simple joy he had found in his young prince, 
Aragorn caught the elf's mouth, the kiss impassioned and demanding response.  
Legolas complied, sucking the Ranger's tongue into the warmth of his mouth and 
pressing his body firmly against the man's, and his hard sex betrayed his yearning.  
Suddenly struck with inspiration, Aragorn broke from the kiss.

"How long do we have before we must go?"  He asked, as the elf nuzzled 
stubbornly into his neck. 

Legolas shrugged, surreptitiously rubbing his body against the Ranger, stirring the 
man's own lustful heat.

"How long do you need?"

Aragorn grinned, his face flushing pink, under the elf's wanton caress.

"Not very long." 


* - Just in case u're not familiar, ambrosia means "something with an especially 
sweet flavour or fragrance."  It’s from Greek mythology and was the food of the 
gods, thought to confer immortality to those who consumed it.  Fountain of youth 
stuff.  I know, there's no Greek gods in M-E but frankly I don't care.  Every other 
word in the English language has its roots somewhere in Greek or Latin or 
whatever anyway. And I luv that word. It's so sexy as a descriptive term.... 
ambrosia.... :)


Chapter 27.
The Gathering...

It was some time later when Aragorn and Legolas finally made it to the surface, 
detouring along the way, to collect the Ranger's weapons from the floor below.  
There had been something of an awkward moment when they were forced to 
inform their companions of their departure and though Aragorn had been 
genuinely saddened to leave the Fellowship behind, he was also secretly glad to 
have the elf more or less to himself for a couple of days.  Legolas seemed a 
different person, in the company of the Fellowship; a consequence of pride, 
Aragorn thought, coupled with the natural tendency of elves to fall quiet in the 
presence of outsiders.

The two emerged on the top level of Thranduil's halls, the wolf Sadron trotting 
placidly at their heels as they made their way down the corridor and into the great 
ante-chamber, where hundreds upon hundreds of elven soldiers were gathered, 
preparing for the impending journey.  The atmosphere of the great hall was not as 
it was when Aragorn and his companions had arrived just two days prior; without 
the sun to set the giant central fountain to sparkling across the walls the chamber 
seemed ominously dark and  uninviting.  The people had changed too, a fact 
impossible to ignore.  There was no calm, quiet reserve in these people now; the 
pulse of the wood-elves had quickened, as the promise of battle drew close and 
Aragorn found the mounting tension to be highly contagious.    

The hall was alive with the sounds of voices, of scraping metal and creaking 
leather as the Hunters inspected their weapons and armor.  Elves came and went, 
rushing here and there; most looked like ordinary citizens, dressed in green and 
wearing light leather armor.  This seemed fundamentally wrong to Aragorn, who 
was a strong believer in professional soldiery.  What also seemed wrong to 
Aragorn, was the percentage of females amongst the Hunters.  While he had 
nothing but respect for the fairer sex, women in the army was something he had 
simply never seen before and it did not sit well with him.  

On inspection, he was forced to admit, however, that for an army composed of 
people who lived a more or less nomadic existence, they were very well armed 
and looked quite capable of taking care of themselves.

Scattered amongst the citizenry, Aragorn also noticed a strong contingent of 
Thranduil's royal guards, instantly recognizable by their rich, dark red cloaks.  
These strode purposefully about the hall, barking commands at their comrades 
and bringing the mass of people into order; a task for which, Aragorn suspected, 
the force had been created.

Aragorn and Legolas made their way swiftly across the blood-red floor, towards 
the door to the outside world and it occurred to Aragorn that he had not seen the 
sun for quite some time.  Profoundly happy to be going outside, the Ranger 
struggled to control his disappointment when, carried along by a slowly flowing 
tide of elves, he passed out of the mountain, and into the pouring rain.  

In the open space outside the entrance to the halls, literally thousands of Hunters 
were waiting, alongside thousands of horses to depart.  Aragorn sighed, 
miserably.  He had never seen rain such as this.  With no canopy to soften the 
downpour, the air was thick with water that pelted the top of Aragorn's head like 
little stones.  Though the air was lit with an eery glow, the source of which was 
unnervingly mysterious, it was impossible to see clearly for more than a few feet 
through the sheeting rain.  Squinting his eyes against the onslaught, he glanced up 
at the leaden sky.  It hung low, and heavy, as if threatening to crush the Hunters 
under it's weight.  There was no way to tell the time.  

Aragorn sincerely wished he had stayed in bed.

"Aragorn!"  

He glanced in the direction of the sound.  Amongst the mass of people and horses, 
he spotted Legolas standing by a large, gray mount, motioning for Aragorn to join 
him.  He made his way across the outgoing tide of Hunters, instantly 
understanding why the elves had paved the path leading up their mountain, 
though he wished they had taken more care to maintain the road, as he 
simultaneously slipped through mud and stumbled over uplifted stones.  His mood 
soured considerably, in the full minute it took him to travel twenty feet.  

"You may ride Arbellason, if you wish."  Legolas told him, handing him the reins 
of the fully tacked horse.  "He is strong and fast."  The prince said, fondly 
stroking the animals neck.  "My father's horse, Belsulion is his sire."  He added, 
as though Aragorn should care.  

The Ranger nodded, though he was not really paying much attention to the 
prince's words; he was transfixed by the elf's appearance.  He had watched 
Legolas dress that morning, but somehow the effect of the elf's clothes was 
entirely different when wet.  He wore no armor, but for his bracers, and a thin 
mithril shirt which had astounded Aragorn simply for the fact that Legolas owned 
one.  Over it he had pulled on a simple, pale silk shirt and a heavy, dark green 
robe which Aragorn had immediately informed him would be totally unsuitable 
for battle, particularly if the elf ever had to get off his horse.  Legolas had waved 
his practicality aside without concern, reminding the Ranger that he had done this 
sort of thing before and stating quite firmly that he would wear whatever he 
wished.  The robe came equipped with a hood, which Legolas had neglected to 
raise.   

The result was undeniably alluring.  The rain soaked the elf's hair, poured down 
his face, catching in his eyelashes and dripping delicately onto his cheeks.  His 
clothes were also soaked through, as were Aragorn's, after only a minute or two 
out in the open.  Unlike Aragorn though, the elf seemed overjoyed to be soaking 
wet, happily declaring out of nowhere that there was nothing quite like the feel of 
nature on one's face.  Aragorn grimaced.  It was going to be a long day.

Just then Kehlios appeared out of the misty night, to speak into the prince's ear.  
The Hunter's voice was drowned, along with any other sound, amongst the roar of 
steadily falling rain and when Legolas nodded and the Hunter moved on, Aragorn 
had no idea what had been said.  

"Well,"  Legolas said, in a business-like fashion.  "We should be heading off, I 
guess."  With that the prince made to walk away from him, perhaps to find his 
own horse.  But Aragorn did not let him go, reaching out and taking the elf's arm, 
as he passed.  He had meant nothing by the act, in retrospect Aragorn decided it 
had been more an instinctive desire to keep the elf's company than anything else 
but it seemed to make Legolas very uncomfortable.  

"What?"  He demanded, in response to the Ranger's action.  

A little stunned, Aragorn merely shrugged.

"Nothing, really."  He said, truthfully.  Then he smiled, deciding it would be 
terribly remiss if he wasted the opportunity to speak.  "I just love you."  He 
declared, quite smoothly he thought.

To his despair, Legolas did not return the sentiment, instead throwing him a look 
of intense exasperation.  The elf pulled his arm free, stepping back from the 
Ranger, looking nervously about him.

"Do not say such things, Aragorn."  The prince ordered, quietly, avoiding the 
Ranger's eyes.  Then he left, Sadron trotting at his heels, Aragorn too shocked to 
stop him a second time.  Feeling more than a little rejected the Ranger turned to 
Arbellason.

"Well, you heard him."  He told the animal, pulling the reins up over the horse's 
head, slipping his foot in the metal stirrup and swinging himself up onto the 
stallion's back.  "We should be heading off."


*************
Arbellason - Noble Strength
Belsulion - Strong Wind


Chapter 28,
Charge...

Some few minutes later, several horns were sounded, swiftly followed by 
repeated shouts and barked orders, bringing the congregation to readiness.  When 
all the Hunters were safely atop their mounts the noise in the area lulled 
significantly, silence prevented only by the steady pouring of the rain.  Out of the 
crowd, Legolas suddenly appeared, atop a light, bay mare.  The elf graced him 
with a subtle smile of almost sneaky proportions before speaking.

"Will you ride with me, Aragorn?"  The prince requested, almost forced to shout 
to be heard above the incessant drumming water.  

Aragorn returned the elf's smile two fold, instantly forgiving Legolas his earlier 
abruptness.  His friend had a duty to perform, after all.

"I would be honoured, your Highness."  He replied, respectfully inclining his head 
to the young prince.

Legolas' smile morphed into a grin and the elf nudged his mare onwards, leading 
the man through the mass of wet horses and riders, to the head of the pack, where 
Kehlios was awaiting the order to begin.

There was nothing in the way of show or speech to rally the Hunters into action, 
giving Aragorn the distinct impression that these elves considered it no great ask 
to ride out into battle, in the pouring rain.  After a brief word with his prince, 
Kehlios turned to the royal guard by his side who, in turn, raised an ivory horn to 
his lips and blasted a triplet of powerful, melodic notes into the air.  Several other 
horns took up the call, and with a unified shout of excitement and blood-lust, the 
Hunters spurred their mounts.  Three thousand horses leapt into motion, instantly 
churning the earth beneath their hooves, as they jostled and pushed for position 
amongst the herd, their heads held high above the sea of horseflesh, their nostrils 
flaring wildly.

It was a charge beyond the bounds of Aragorn's experience; a giant, heaving mass 
of muscle driving headlong, without order or reserve; and there was little beauty 
in it, that the Ranger could see.  Mud splattered across the horses and riders alike, 
turning everything to a dirty, dull brown.  The animals eyes were wild and they 
squealed and snorted like monsters, several were already bleeding from cuts 
sustained in the mad run.  At the front of the charge, Aragorn considered himself 
lucky.  He dared not even glance behind, at the unstoppable tide that swept after 
him.  Leaning low in his saddle the Ranger held on, struggling to keep his eyes 
open against the driving rain.  He looked down at the ground that sped past them 
in a dark, wet blur.  At Arbellason's side ran a gray wolf that snapped periodically 
at the horse's heels, lusting for the smell and taste of the kill.  

It turned out that Arbellason was in fact a fast horse and solidly built as the prince 
had said, for which Aragorn was eternally thankful as he held on, white knuckled, 
to fistfuls of the animal's mane, helpless to do any more as they were swept along 
in the frantic, pounding rush of hooves.  It occurred to the Ranger, not ten seconds 
after they had started, that a single misstep on the treacherous terrain would have 
devastating consequences for both horse and rider and he silently prayed that 
Arbellason's agility would not fail.  

After what could have been hours or minutes, Aragorn could not tell, the head of 
the pack turned left, leaving the wide path and plunging headlong into thick of the 
forest.  Receiving no signal from his somewhat distraught and overwhelmed rider, 
Arbellason followed, almost throwing Aragorn as the animal slipped and 
stumbled around the corner, struggling to find footing in the slick mud.  

If Aragorn had thought the frantic pace of the journey perilous before, it now 
seemed to be suicidal.  The rain had eased somewhat, under the cover of the trees 
but that did little to help Aragorn - he was relying solely on his mount to find his 
way through the dark forest.  

Leaves and twigs whipped at the Ranger's face and body and Aragorn tried to lean 
lower in the saddle, fearing that a low-lying branch could wipe him clean off the 
horse's back.  The tree roots that covered the ground tried to trip them at every 
step and the horse stumbled almost constantly, at one point falling forward onto 
it's knees.  For a split second Aragorn had feared the horse would not recover, 
acutely aware of the stampede following closely behind them.  But Arbellason did 
not fall.  The horse squealed as though injured and carried forward by momentum, 
it scrambled desperately, along the ground.  One hoof found solid footing and the 
horse righted itself.  The whole affair had taken seconds.  When it was over, it 
took Aragorn a moment to realize he was still alive.

With the wind and the rain eased by the vegetation Aragorn forced himself to look 
up ahead.  There was little to see.  Dimly he could make out the shadowy forms of 
those that led the charge, flitting like ghosts between the trees.  He tried to look 
for Legolas but could not tell one silhouette from another.  Logic told him the elf 
was up there, riding with Kehlios.  

Out of nowhere a rider appeared close beside him - too close.  The horse pushed 
into them and Arbellason ricocheted off the other animal, slamming sideways 
against a tree.  The horse recovered without missing a stride, but Aragorn's leg 
had hit the solid tree trunk with unbelievable force and the pain elicited a cry from 
the Ranger, as images of shattered bones and men who walked with crutches 
flashed past his eyes.  

Deciding he had had more than enough of feeling lost and out of control, Aragorn 
kicked Arbellason's sides, for the first time urging the horse on.  Like a wound 
spring the young stallion exploded, doubling its efforts.  The wet reins slid 
through the Ranger's hands as Arbellason stretched out, lengthening his stride, his 
belly low to the ground.  Instantly they began to gain on the riders ahead, the trees 
flying past them as blurred flashes of light and dark.  The horse seemed to 
stumble less at this speed, something for which Aragorn had hoped but which he 
had not truly expected.   

Glancing down he saw that the wolf who had earlier been following them had not 
fallen behind, in fact, the animal flitted dangerously about the horse's legs as they 
ran, stirred to greater excitement by Arbellason's sudden burst of speed.  

He looked up again in time to see the riders ahead pulling up severely just in front 
of him.  Aragorn hauled on his reins, struggling to the pull Arbellason's head up 
and slow the animal's wild run.  The horse could not have stopped in time, but 
that turned out to be immaterial. The other riders had swung sharply to the right 
and disappeared down into a deep gully.  Arbellason followed, again allowing his 
rider to focus his attention on staying in the saddle.  It was not an easy task.  The 
descent to the gully floor was almost vertical and the horse slid and stumbled to 
the bottom at breakneck speed.  A pitifully small stream trickled along the ground 
at the bottom and Arbellason leapt enthusiastically over the water before 
scrambling up the sheer face of the other side.  

They reached the top and sped off again, closer now to the lead but still chasing.  
Vaguely, Aragorn began to wonder when they would stop, or at least, when they 
would find their enemy.  Arbellason's sides heaved and despite the cool air sweat 
was beginning to foam on the horse's flanks.  Moreover, Aragorn was exhausted, 
he had not ridden in such a manner before, taught as he was to always treat horses 
with care, lest he find himself walking home.  

They rode on this way, in a more or less South-easterly direction for some time 
and the sun finally rose behind the dark clouds, shedding at least some light on the 
forest, though rain still fell heavily upon the already sodden ground.  Looking up 
Aragorn saw, with some relief, that the Hunt leaders had stopped, at the foot of a 
steep ascent, presumably the Mountains of Mirkwood.  As he approached, 
attempting with some difficulty to appear calm and in control, one of the Hunters 
blew a long note on his horn and Aragorn heard the sound repeated several times 
behind him.  He pulled up just short of the small group, where he was instantly 
greeted by an ecstatic young prince.

"You fell behind Estel!"  The elf proclaimed joyously, beaming from ear to ear, as 
though Aragorn might not have noticed.

"Indeed."  The Ranger replied, somewhat sourly.

Legolas smirked.

"It is not too difficult for you?"  The prince asked, feigning concern.  

Slightly off-put by the presence of Kehlios and several unimpressed looking royal 
guards, Aragorn failed to come up with a response, merely shrugging off his 
companion's jibes.

The rest of the Hunter's began to arrive, a trickle at first, followed swiftly by the 
others who arrived in a sudden rush of horses.  There was some pushing and 
shoving as those at the back struggled to stop in time, but a thunderous shout from 
Kehlios settled the restless congregation momentarily.  

Legolas whispered in the Hunter's ear, before trotting back towards Aragorn. 

"You might like a head start, this time."  The elf remarked, as he passed, heading 
East, along the base of the mountain.

Aragorn grunted. 

"**Half with me, half with the Prince!**"  Kehlios was shouting behind them.  
"**No veren!  And fear not the Shadow!**" 

With that the riders kicked their horses back into action, the group splitting down 
the middle and heading in opposite directions around the mountains. Their 
approach sounded like the roar of a waterfall to Aragorn.  He urged Arbellason 
forward, to catch Legolas who had already flown into a gallop in front of him.  He 
was surprised when the horse responded eagerly, drawing another burst of energy 
from a seemingly bottomless reserve.  Legolas hung back a little, to facilitate a 
quick catch-up and then the two moved on, at full speed, letting their horses race 
each other to the battle.  Half of the Hunt filed into a column after them, following 
the thin open trail between the flat ground and the mountain.  

The path curved sharply to the left, and they began to move into the hills, 
following a series of gullies and trenches that snaked between the tall mountains.  
It was tough going.  There were fewer trees on the steep slopes but the ground 
was rocky and unstable and the smaller, deeper gullies were often thick with low 
vegetation.  

Despite the difficulties, Aragorn found the ride less unpleasant with his joyful 
companion by his side and in time the Ranger actually began to enjoy the reckless 
journey, urging Arbellason to run faster and even jostling a little with Legolas, for 
position.  The young elf's horse was obviously capable of more speed but Legolas 
kept the animal close beside Arbellason, seeming to enjoy their play immensely.  

Then, without warning, all play ceased.  

Several wolves running with the Hunters suddenly took off up the hill beside 
them at incredible speed.  They flew up the steep ascent, their bellies skimming 
along the wet, rocky ground, hot on the trail of their prey.  Without hesitation 
Legolas wheeled his horse around and followed them, apparently oblivious to the 
danger.  Not about to be left behind a second time, Aragorn took a deep breath 
and pointed Arbellason at the almost sheer slope.  

It was not as difficult as one might have imagined.  The horse performed 
admirably, actually managing to jump several fallen tree branches, as it scrambled 
sideways along the muddy hillside.  

Ahead of them, the wolves brought something down; a dark mass, almost the size 
of a small horse.  Aragorn could not see their prey clearly, for the wolves were 
rabid with blood-lust and they piled onto their unfortunate victim, leaping and 
tearing at the thing.  He heard the beast squeal; a feral, wild sound that turned the 
Ranger's blood cold.

Distracted as he was, by the gruesome kill before him, Aragorn did not notice the 
beasts hiding in the trees above him.  Blindly he galloped on after Legolas, 
ducking beneath a low-lying branch.  As he did so, a monster leapt onto his back.  
Arbellason's back swayed beneath the weight and the horse might have fallen, had 
Aragorn and his unwelcome guest not slid sideways out of the saddle.  

Air gushed violently from Aragorn's lungs as he landed heavily on the rocky 
ground, rolling several times down the steep slope, the beast still clinging to his 
back.  The thing had long, thin, human-like arms, tipped with claws, several 
inches in length and it ripped and tore at the Ranger's head and shoulders, gouging 
deep, vicious cuts into the man's flesh.  The monster was not as heavy as it 
appeared and struggling to his knees Aragorn reached behind him and managed to 
pull the leathery, hairless creature up over his head, throwing it onto the ground in 
front of him.  

The thing wriggled grossly on the ground for a moment, bringing it's long, skinny 
legs underneath its body and squatting down in front of the Ranger.  Eye to eye 
with the creature, Aragorn's courage almost failed.  The thing seemed vaguely elf-
like, at least in the face, with high set cheekbones and a long angular look.  That 
was as far as any comparison with the immortals could go however.  The rest of 
the thing reminded Aragorn more of a goblin or some kind of orc, though it was 
of a lighter build and far more agile than the latter.  

Without doubt the one characteristic that would remain firmly implanted in 
Aragorn's mind for years to come, was the creature's eyes.  They were black eyes, 
the same size and shape as a man's but they had no whites.  They were not large 
pupils or eyes half-closed, they were eyes without whites.  Entirely.  Aragorn 
gazed into them, at his own reflection, transfixed.  They looked like round, 
smooth black orbs set into the creature's head; blind and lifeless.   

Without warning the monster leapt at him, claws outstretched, it's mouth wide 
open, displaying several rows of dirty, saw-like teeth.  Still on the ground, 
Aragorn tried to back-pedal, falling flat onto his back.  Instinctively, his hands 
went up to shield his face, as the creature landed on his chest, knocking the breath 
from him a second time.  
  
Suddenly, the monster squealed, the same blood-curdling scream that Aragorn 
had heard before, and slumped heavily forward, a golden-feathered arrow 
protruding the beast's side.  Rolling the thing off him and getting back to his feet, 
Aragorn looked up and saw Legolas cantering towards him, Arbellason in tow.  

Riders began to rush past them, as Aragorn swung up into his saddle, throwing his 
friend a grateful smile.  Legolas grinned back, looking slightly amused, before 
heading off again.  

What followed was less a battle than it was an extermination.  The Hunters 
scattered themselves along the mountain side, still moving at an impressive pace, 
shooting the monsters down out of the trees with their arrows and flushing them 
from their hiding places in the underbrush.  The living and the dead alike were 
ground into the muddy earth by the charging horses, and everywhere could be 
seen and heard, the Thandraugin, feasting gluttonously on the flesh of fallen 
monsters, their muzzles dripping black with sour blood.    

On and on the Hunter's went, cutting down countless thousands of the ugly 
creatures.  Other unwholesome beasts were found in the shadowy groves of trees 
and deep creek-beds and these were all killed indiscriminately, the elves shooting 
at almost anything that moved.  

Despite what he considered to be his own admirable sensibilities, Aragorn found 
the Hunter's enthusiasm for the killing to be contagious and soon his sword 
dripped the black life-blood of many foul creatures.  He took to the elves' method 
of hunting like a duck to water, galloping headlong into thick, dark bushes and 
slicing his blade clean through anything that got in it's way.  Arbellason trampled 
several monsters that had escaped the Ranger's swinging blade, sometimes 
crashing into them with his chest before running them over.  The horse seemed 
unstoppable and Aragorn's blade whistled through the air again and again, as they 
made their way around the hill, deeper into the mountains.  

The rain eased significantly, as hours passed and had become little more than a 
steady drizzle by the time Aragorn spotted several Hunters coming towards him 
from the opposite direction.  As he glanced at the sky to pinpoint the position of 
the sun, it occurred to Aragorn that they had cleaned the mountain from one side 
to the other, in less than half a day. 

Spotting Legolas close by, in conversation with Kehlios, he nudged his tired 
mount forward.  On his approach, the Master of the Hunt eyed Aragorn with 
barely veiled disapproval.  Though Aragorn had never cared much for other's 
opinions of him, in the back of his mind he wondered at the peculiar nature of the 
hostility he found here, in Legolas' homeland.  

While Thranduil obviously harboured a deep and uncompromising dislike for 
mortals, the reactions of his subjects were somehow different.  While the elves 
were not aggressive towards him, neither were they friendly.  It seemed to 
Aragorn, almost as though his presence concerned them more than it angered 
them, that they would feel safer, if he was not in their forest.  Aragorn found this 
to be quite upsetting.  

His instant and deeply felt friendship with Legolas had sparked an interest in 
these people and he had been terribly disappointed when he realized he was not 
welcome.  He made a note to himself to mention the subject to Legolas, certain 
that the prince would help him gain acceptance among these strange Sindar.  

"We will stop here, to rest the horses." Legolas informed the Ranger, when he 
pulled up beside him.  

Aragorn nodded, as pleased to rest himself as he was to rest his horse.  

The small army settled itself in the very little valley between the mountain they 
had just covered and the junction of two other mountains that yet lay ahead of 
them.  They spent a good deal of time tending to their horses, something that 
assuaged Aragorn's earlier concerns.  Then the elves relaxed for the most part, 
though they did not so much rest as celebrate, the mountains filling with the 
sound of happy elvish voices, cheerfully exchanging highly exaggerated stories 
and arguing heatedly about who had made the most kills.  Bowstrings sung almost 
constantly at the opposing hills, picking off monsters in the distance.  With 
Arbellason resting comfortably, Aragorn wandered around the congregation, 
looking for Legolas.

He found his young lover, bent over, close to the ground, meticulously inspecting 
his horse's feet for stones.  Aragorn thought the prince looked very appealing, 
from that angle.

"Do not even think about it, Aragorn."  Legolas said, reading the Ranger's mind 
like a children's book.

Aragorn smiled.

"Think about what?"  He asked, his voice a symphony of innocence.

Releasing his horse's hoof, Legolas straightened and turned to throw the Ranger a 
look, which spoke volumes.  Aragorn decided that it would be wiser to change the 
subject than to test the prince's temper.

"How long will we be staying here?"  He asked.

Legolas shrugged.  

"That depends."  He said, as though that was answer enough.  

"Depends on what?"  Aragorn pushed; concerned that the army's leader might not 
have a plan.

The prince sighed.

"Well," he said. "In an hour or two we will send scouts into the inner valleys to 
discover the real numbers of the enemy.  If necessary we will move out together 
at mid-afternoon and do another heavy run like this morning, then camp in the 
valley on the other side.  If possible though, I would prefer to stay here and send 
smaller parties in to Hunt the region a piece at a time.  That way we can rotate the 
horses and no one has to be on duty for the whole day."  

Aragorn considered this and eventually had to admit that the prince's reasoning 
was sound, silently berating himself for his concerns.  Legolas had, after all, done 
this sort of thing before.  Now, it seemed, there was nothing to do but wait.

"So..."  He began, suddenly feeling a little awkward, standing with the prince, 
amongst the crowd of Sindar.

The slightest smile touched Legolas' mouth.  He understood.

"I thought I might backtrack around the hill and look for stragglers."  The prince 
declared.  "Some of the wretches invariably escape, in the confusion."  

Aragorn almost sighed outwardly, with relief.

"I will join you."  

Legolas turned and led the Ranger, on foot, through the Hunters and back out onto 
the hillside.  

The ever-present Sadron, followed close behind.

----------
No veren, - Be bold,


Chapter 29.
The beginning of the end...

They were not the only ones wandering about the hillside, picking off the 
occasional stray enemy and collecting arrows from the sometimes still twitching 
bodies of those who had fallen in the attack.  Around them could be seen scattered 
groups of golden-haired Hunters, and grey wolves that gorged themselves on the 
dark bodies of their kills. The elves seemed restless, their blood stirred by the 
sudden flurry of bloodshed and left smouldering in the abrupt quiet that had 
followed.  The sounds of raised voices and singing arrows echoed around the 
mountains and there were even some skirmishes amongst the Hunters, as they 
bickered and boasted over their kills.

Aragorn observed these exchanges with increasing unease.  The enthusiasm with 
which the Sindar had leapt into this genocide had shocked him.  It seemed to him 
that the elves of Mirkwood were enjoying their sport entirely too much.  They had 
changed somehow, at a fundamental level; their eyes shone with a new intensity 
and when they spoke they were abrupt, even hostile towards each other.  They felt 
no pity towards their vastly out-classed enemy, even seeming to revel in the 
violence of it all.  

The whole situation disturbed Aragorn deeply; in his experience, this was not the 
nature of elves.

He took some comfort in the company of Legolas, though even the young prince 
seemed affected, by the savagery of the Hunt.  It was not so great or obvious a 
change as had occurred in the elf's kin but it was there nonetheless, looking out at 
Aragorn from behind those dark eyes.  

Though he tried to ignore it, he could not shake the feeling there was someone 
else in there, watching him.

The hairs stirred at the nape of his neck.

- Stop it, fool. -  His inner voice warned.   - It is but the rain and the darkened sky 
that haunts you, nothing more. -

He tried to think of something else.

"What exactly are these things?"  He asked of Legolas,  as the elf bent down and 
tugged at the protruding shaft of an arrow, lodged deep in the chest of one the 
creatures.  

"Merolei.*"  

The arrow pulled free with a wet sucking noise. The smell was awful.  Legolas 
gave the missile a little shake, to dislodge a piece of flesh that had clung to the 
mithril arrow-head before adding it to his steadily filling quiver.  "They live in 
caves,  beneath these mountains when the air is warm and the sun, shining.  They 
venture out only at night."  The prince explained, as they wandered through the 
steady drizzle to another dark, stinking body.  "Except, of course, in Winter."  The 
elf added, kicking the mangled, arrow-free monster at their feet in the manner of a 
disappointed child.  

Aragorn wrinkled his nose in disgust, as the scent of the disturbed body wafted 
into his face.  

"They smell awful."  He remarked, clearly stating the obvious.

Legolas flashed the Ranger his trademark smile before moving on; Sadron was 
sniffing around the body of another fallen Merol.

"Why do you do this?"  Aragorn finally asked as they walked, searching for 
answers to the behaviour of those around them.  "Why must you kill them all?"

Legolas peered at him closely, the corners of his mouth turning in a wry smile.

"Do you think us vicious, Aragorn?"  The prince asked.  

Aragorn hesitated, searching for words which would not offend.

"I am merely curious"  he finally replied, "as to the reason for this slaughter."  

Legolas halted.

"You think there is no reason."  He surmised.  "But I assure you, there is.  
Without management the Merolei would spread from these mountains,  overrun 
the forest.  They prey on all life; deer, wolves, rabbits, bears.  Elves."  He said 
pointedly.  "They would kill you, if they had the chance.  It is the nature of the 
world, that one must kill or be killed.  Surely you must know this, Aragorn."  

Aragorn did know.  But it did not explain the strange look in the elf's eyes.

"Do you enjoy it?"  He could not help but ask.

Legolas stared at him for a long time and Aragorn returned his gaze, fascinated, 
watching the young prince think.  He could almost hear the elf repeating the 
question in his head.  

Do I enjoy this?

Finally, Legolas nodded.

"Yes."  He replied, honestly.  

Aragorn was genuinely surprised.  

"Why?"  He asked.  "It is not the nature of your people."  

"You know nothing of my people."  Legolas countered.

Aragorn did not know what to say.  He went with what he thought was a safe 
option.

"Forgive me, if I caused offence."  

Legolas shook his head, seeming exasperated by the man's apology.

"It is not about that, Aragorn."  He told the Ranger. "I care not what you think of 
me."

Aragorn's heart sank.

"I care not what you think about my people, or our ways."  The elf continued, 
calmly, driving the knife deeper into the man's chest.  "Judge us savage, if you 
wish.  That you would do so is but proof that we were right to isolate ourselves 
from your world."

Legolas paused, perhaps considering his next words, perhaps awaiting a response.

None was forthcoming.  Aragorn was speechless.

"You will never understand us."  The elf concluded.  "You cannot."

The words were a final blow for Aragorn.  He almost wept.

Legolas turned to walk away  and the site of his lover's back shattered the man's 
heart.

"Legolas."   He tried to sound calm, but fear was beginning to creep into him; fear 
that Legolas might not love him, fear that the elf was right, that he would never 
understand, no matter how desperately he wished he could.

The prince stopped and turned and when their eyes met again, hidden deep 
amongst the shadows of the elf's soul, Aragorn thought he saw sadness.

"What is it, meleth-nin?" 

For a long time, Legolas was silent and with each passing moment Aragorn's fear 
grew deeper and more urgent.  

He began to hope that the prince would not answer.  

"What are we doing, Estel?"  The elf's voice was laden with sorrow and in a 
terrible instant, Aragorn knew what was coming.  "You and I... we cannot be 
together."  

Aragorn felt faint.  He did not understand.   Had Legolas not embraced him just 
that morning? 

"...as I love the sun and the air that I breathe..."  

Was that not what the elf had said?  

"I love you, Legolas."  

It was his only argument, all he could think of that might save him from the heart-
break that threatened to swallow him whole.

It was not enough.

"You love Arwen."  Legolas corrected him, the young prince's voice cracking 
with the words.  

Aragorn's mind raced.  Was there no way to stop this? 

He breathed deep, trying to settle himself; it would do no good to break down 
now.

"What you say is true."  He admitted.  "I love her."  

Before his eyes, the young prince's heart broke.  

"But it does not mean that I cannot love you.  There is room enough in one heart 
for two loves."  

The elf smiled but there was no joy in it.  It was knowledge, acceptance.  It was 
quiet surrender.  Slowly, he shook his head.

"No, Estel."  He said, his sweet voice little more than a whisper.  "Please 
understand."  His voice cracked and though his tears were hidden, lost in the rain 
that still dripped slowly from the sky, Aragorn knew his lover wept.   "I cannot..."  
The elf tried visibly to regain control, he struggled to speak.  

In the end, he could not.  

Without another word, Legolas left Aragorn where he stood, shocked, despairing, 
suddenly alone.  

The Ranger could not bring himself to stop the elf a second time - it hurt too 
much and there was nothing left to say.

He tried not to weep.  He fought the tears with all that he had but grief 
overwhelmed him.  His legs buckled and Aragorn knelt on the sodden ground.  
Succumbing to his anguish, he bowed his head and cried.

It had been in his grasp.  The beautiful prince of Mirkwood had been so close, and 
as suddenly as Legolas had entered the Ranger's heart, he had left it.

Lost in dejection, oblivious to those around him, Aragorn cried out his lament.

Arwen had abandoned him.

And Legolas would never be his.

************
*Merolei - Just a name for the things. Made it up. 

--TBC--