~~~Midnight diamonds stud my heavens, stardust and gold, westward 
burning like the jewels of a higher place, and the warm winds that 
embrace me, just as surely kiss your face, but these miss you nights are 
forever. ~~~  
 
Aragorn: The warmth of your smile like the light of the sun  
              Keeps me from the cold when darkness has come.  
Legolas:   Your fire draws me as the flame lures the moth,  
               As the moon pulls at the sea.  
               I go to my doom willingly.  
               I will burn, but never be cold.  
 
Stardust and Gold Part One: Mad Season  
baileymoyes@hotmail.com  
Legolas/Haldir foreshadowing of Legolas/Aragorn NC17  
Haldir leads a confused young Mirkwood Prince along dark paths.  A 
fledgling Ranger leads him back to the light.  
These characters are not mine; I but borrow their seeming for a time.  No 
income was generated in the writing of this fiction.  
Warning: Some non-con.  
Pre-Fellowship  
 
    Haldir smelled it long before he saw it.  The pervasive reek of rotting 
flesh freighted the pleasant breeze the way the cloud of crebain sullied the 
clear sky.  Almost, he whistled a signal to the band of Mirkwood Trackers 
spread out across the landscape, but then thought better of it.  If all he 
happened upon was a dead animal, he would look foolish for bringing 
them all in for a look.  No, he would do some more scouting first.  
Drawing his knives, Haldir moved forward.  
    The Marchwarden was a visitor to King Thranduil’s kingdom, and very 
aware that he represented Lothlorien while he was in Mirkwood 
Kingdom.  Therefore, when a party of young Trackers, which included 
Prince Legolas, went missing, Haldir volunteered to lend his skills to the 
search.  He had detected a well-concealed resentment from the other 
members of his team, but he ignored it, and concentrated on finding the 
lost Elves.  
    Haldir’s team was searching was near the border of a small community 
of Men who trapped animals for their fur.  He had been given the least 
desirable area nearest the settlement, and not, he suspected, by chance.  He 
quartered the forest stoically, expecting nothing, and had come across the 
tracks of unshod Orcs.  Any moment, he expected to see sign of their 
handiwork.  
    Haldir saw splashes of dried blood on the foliage, and steeled himself.  
Immortal warrior that he was, the Elf was still shaken by the carnage.  The 
bodies of the villagers were scattered about the small clearing.  They had 
been spitted, gutted, charred and hung from the branches of the trees, 
entire and in pieces.  One man had been tied between two bent saplings to 
be torn in half when the trees sprang back.  The naked bodies of two 
women were staked to the ground, their skulls smashed as though they had 
been slain in haste.  Among them were the bodies of several Orcs 
sprouting feathered shafts.  
    Then the Elf saw the bodies of the three Mirkwood archers that lay at 
the edge of the clearing.  They had been hacked down where they stood 
when they ran out of arrows.  By the signs, the party of Orcs had been 
large.  Though their stinking carcasses littered the trail that Haldir 
followed, the signs showed that at least four had been alive to pursue the 
surviving Trackers.  A short distance from the clearing, Haldir found what 
he reluctantly recognized as the pulped remains of two more Wood-Elves.  
That left one, and the Lorien Elf was certain that he would soon come 
upon the slashed corpse of the final member of the brave team.  
    However, the trail went on, veering toward the area being searched by 
another member of Haldir’s party.  He continued to follow the swathe of 
trampled foliage as the land rose, and thin soil gave way to bare rock.  The 
low-lying rays of the westering sun smote his eyes when he topped a low 
ridge, and he dropped his gaze.  
    “Ai,” Haldir cried out in shock.  
    The bodies of five large Orcs littered the rocky hollow, staring at the 
sky with empty eye sockets.  Their corpses gaped open, purple white 
entrails exposed to the light, the ground beneath them drenched in 
congealing black blood.  
    Haldir felt a puff of air against his cheek, and spun to face a figure out 
of nightmare.  The strange Wood-Elf was naked, black to the elbows with 
Orc blood, his pale hair stiff with it.  In one hand, he held an Orcish 
stabbing sword.  Haldir stopped staring, and jumped backward, as the 
blade came at him in a short, sweeping arc.  The Lorien Elf parried the 
next strike, and whirled aside.  Though his attacker’s delicate, high-planed 
features were obscured by spattered blood, Haldir saw the stamp of the 
royal house of Mirkwood.  
    “Prince Legolas,” he said, as he dodged a wickedly fast thrust, “King 
Thranduil sent me to find you.  I am not an Orc, but an Elf.  Look at me, 
Prince Legolas.”  
    Haldir continued to talk to the mad Elf, as he used all of his not 
inconsiderable skill to keep from being run through.  When Legolas broke 
through Haldir’s guard, and blooded him, the Lorien Elf lost his patience.  
Taking full advantage of the Prince’s inferior weapon and debilitated state, 
Haldir soon harried him into a corner.  Striking the Orc sword from 
Legolas’ hand, Haldir threw himself at the Prince.  
    When he felt himself pinned to the rock, Legolas bucked wildly, 
insensible to the danger of the bright knives Haldir wielded.  The Lorien 
Elf quickly dropped his blades, and took hold of the Prince’s wrists.  
    “I am no Orc,” Haldir said forcefully, “Look at me, Prince Legolas.  See 
me, and not the phantoms of your tortured mind.”  
    “I do not know you,” Legolas said flatly.  
    “Ah, of course, you do not.  I arrived at Mirkwood after you 
disappeared.  I am Haldir, Marchwarden of Lothlorien, and I am one of 
many searchers your father has sent out.”  
    “You are Haldir,” Legolas repeated the unfamiliar name, and then 
added, “You found me.”  
    “Yes, Prince.  I will signal the others, and soon you will be back at your 
father’s court.”  
    “No!”  
    Haldir bowed to the tone of command in the young Prince’s voice.  
“Then what do you wish to do, your highness?” he asked.  
    Legolas eyed the Lorien Elf.  The Prince had regained his senses, but he 
did not know if he could trust this stranger.  Unfortunately, he had little 
choice.  This Haldir had seen what he had seen, and Legolas would need 
the other Elf’s help.  
    “I want to pile this carrion in a heap, and set it afire.  Then I wish to 
leave without looking behind me, or speaking of what happened here.”  
    “Very well, your highness.”  Haldir inclined his head, and turned to 
choose the best spot for a pyre.  
    It was near dark by the time the bodies were piled, and set alight.  When 
the offal heap was well and truly burning, Legolas walked away without 
looking to see if Haldir followed.  
    Legolas’ return, alive and relatively unscathed was cause for celebration 
at the court of Thranduil.  Haldir was much honored for finding the king’s 
beloved youngest child, and was invited to stay as a guest in Mirkwood for 
as long as he wished.  Haldir accepted, for his own reasons, but it was 
some time before he saw the Prince again.  
 
    Haldir had been made free of the royal gardens, and often walked there 
at his leisure.  One morning, he woke earlier than usual, and went out to 
see the dew adorning the greenery like crystal beads on velvet brocade.  
As he rounded a screen of tended willow, he saw the one he most desired 
to see lying prone on the sward.  
    “Prince Legolas.  Forgive me if I intrude.”  
    Legolas looked up, and saw the only one whose company he might be 
able to bear.  The young Elf rolled over, his doublet dark with wet, and 
rose to his knees.  Spurning the hand, that Haldir held out, Legolas got to 
his feet like a deer that scents the hunter.  He stood poised for flight, but 
hesitated when the other Elf spoke.  
    “I have asked to visit you many times in the past days,” Haldir said, 
“But always I was told that you were not ready for company.  I rejoice to 
see you outside the confines of your father’s house.  I will hope it means 
that you are recovered.”  
    “I am well enough,” Legolas answered, with his eyes on the deeper 
forest beyond Haldir’s shoulder.  “Is your curiosity satisfied?”  
    “Not by half, but you seem indisposed to speech.”  
    The exquisite line of the Prince’s upper lip twisted in a bitter sneer.  
“Indisposed,” he repeated, “How courteous you are, Envoy of Lothlorien.  
Others are plainer in their speech, though they whisper it, thinking I do not 
hear.”  
    “And what do they say?”  
    “My father, the physicians, my friends all think me mad.  They would 
keep me here against my will, under guise of protecting me from my 
lunacy.”  
    “And where would you go?”  
    Legolas met Haldir’s eyes, his gaze as fierce as a hawk’s.  “Hunting 
Orcs,” he said.  
    “That seems a worthwhile pastime to me,” the Lorien Elf said, “Why 
does your father object?”  
    “He fears for me, it seems.  He would have me stay behind these green 
walls, and wait for danger to find me.  I would seek it out, and slay it 
before it comes near Mirkwood.”  
    “There is no lunacy in this,” Haldir said, “I will hunt with you, if you 
like.”  
    Legolas head came up sharply.  “You would defy King Thranduil’s 
will?”  
    “Only if you wish it, Prince.  After all, I may go home to the Golden 
Wood.  You must live with your father’s displeasure.”  
    “I must do something,” Legolas said, “There is in me such a need to 
cleave Orc-flesh and see black blood spilled that it gives me no peace by 
day or night.  My father says rest and mend, but I am well in body, and I 
cannot tarry here any longer, or I will go mad in truth.”  
    “Only tell me where we shall meet,” Haldir said, “And I will fetch my 
bow.”  
    “You would really go with me?”  
    “I can hardly let you go alone,” Haldir said, with a trace of a smile that 
faded at his next words.  “You need to do some killing.  Slaughtering Orcs 
will not heal your wound, but it will be soothing, I promise you.  
Vengeance serves to occupy the body while the spirit knits.”  
    “I am not aware of any need on your part to seek vengeance,” Legolas 
said.  
    “None exists.  However, it pleases me to kill Orcs.”  
    The shadowy figment of a dimple slowly appeared in Legolas’ cheek, 
and faded like a ghost at dawn, as the memory of how to smile tugged 
futilely at the corners of the Prince’s sculpted lips.  
    “Then fetch your bow,” Legolas said.  
 
    Legolas dropped his bow, and unsheathed his knives with the hiss of 
ripping silk.  He drew both blades across the throat of the first Orc to reach 
him, the sharp steel slicing through boiled leather and flesh with equal 
ease.  His next dozen heartbeats set the cadence for a lethal dance of 
glittering metal and agile limbs, as he leapt and slashed, spun and stabbed.  
He went through the howling, reeking horde of mutants with all the 
efficiency and remorse of a scythe through grain.  
    When his knives carved naught but air, Legolas whirled at the scrape of 
a boot on rock.  With a move nearly too fast to see, the pale blades swept 
toward the noise.  
   Fortunately, Haldir was also of Elfkind, with reflexes to match the 
Prince’s.  Bringing up his own knives, the Lorien Elf parried Legolas’ 
strike, flinging the Prince’s arms wide.  With a snap of his wrists, Haldir 
rapped Legolas’ elbows sharply with the pommels of his knives.  When 
Legolas’ weapons dropped from his nerveless fingers, Haldir let his fall, 
as well, and took hold of the furious Prince.  
    “You almost killed me,” Haldir said calmly.  
    “Let me go,” Legolas demanded.  
    “I dare not.”  
    “I am not mad.  You may release me.”  
    Haldir looked deep into Legolas’ eyes.  “I think I will keep hold of you 
for a while longer.”  
    Deftly, Haldir took both of Legolas’ wrists in one hand, and lashed 
them together with a leather thong.  
    “You dare bind me?”  
    “I deem it the safer course for now,” Haldir said, stepping back a short 
distance.  “When your blood has cooled, I will release you.”  
    “Release me, now.”  
    “You are not yourself, Legolas.”  
    Still in the grip of the eerie bloodlust that had possessed him while he 
slew the Orcs, Legolas lowered his head, and charged at Haldir.  The tall 
Elf swayed aside, and swept one of his long knives from the ground with 
the toe of his boot.  When Legolas spun on him, Haldir held the blade at 
the ready.  It did not deter the Prince.  Legolas lunged forward, his bound 
hands held before him, seeking to dive beneath the knife.  Haldir tossed 
the blade aside, and caught the Prince by the shoulders.  He pulled Legolas 
close as he toppled, and turned in mid-air, so the Prince struck the ground 
beneath him. Gripping Legolas’ throat just under the jaw, Haldir squeezed 
ruthlessly, until the young Elf went still.  
    Hoisting the Prince’s limp weight over one shoulder, Haldir walked to 
the stream.  He dropped Legolas into the bone chilling, thigh-deep water, 
and began scrubbing at the blood that covered the other Elf.  Legolas 
regained consciousness gasping for breath, and blowing water from his 
nose.  
    “I am cured, Haldir,” he said, “Let me go.”  
    The Lorien Elf cut the wet leather that bound Legolas’ wrists, and 
helped him up.  They stood facing one another with the icy water tugging 
at their legs, threatening their balance.  Legolas’ hair clung to his face, 
hanging in tendrils like albino seaweed.  The Prince shook his head 
irritably, shedding droplets of water, and fixed his cold gaze on Haldir.  
    “Never bind me again,” he said evenly.  
    “I will do as I think best,” Haldir answered, “You were a danger to me 
and to yourself.  You may be ready to die, Prince, but I am not.”  
    Haldir’s words shook Legolas, and the Prince was silent for a long 
moment.  The only sounds were the rush of the water, and Legolas’ harsh 
breathing.  
    “Forgive me if I put you in harm’s way,” the Prince said at last, “That 
was wrong.  I should not have attacked so large a party without more 
help.  And I do not wish for death.  I want to live so that I may kill more 
Orcs.”  
    It was Haldir’s turn to ponder in silence before he answered.  “I have 
pledged you my aid in your war, and I do not withdraw it.  However, I 
would be glad of more caution on your part.  As you so succinctly point 
out, if we are dead, we cannot kill Orcs.”  
    Legolas nodded his hearty agreement of the sentiment.  “I still need 
your help,” he said, dropping his voice until it could scarce be heard above 
the foaming waters, “You are the only one that I can . . .”  
    Haldir put a hand on the Prince’s soaked shoulder.  “Peace.  You have 
my help.  There is no need to ask it again.  We shall hunt Orcs, and we 
shall kill them until you have had enough.”  
    Legolas’ mask of ice cracked along fault lines of pain, and his eyes 
filled with unbidden tears.  In vain, he strove to master himself, but the 
demons that rode him were stronger than he.  His emotions were so close 
to the surface now, that he could not prevent them spilling over.  
    Haldir saw the Prince’s distress.  Though it was the wont of Elfkind to 
comfort with words of reason, the Lorien Elf consoled Legolas with his 
arms.  Embracing the Prince, Haldir held him until he no longer felt 
tremors coursing through the slender frame.  Gently, he led Legolas from 
the stream, and sought a place to make camp.  
    Haldir was worried as he went about starting a fire.  The Prince had 
spoken little about what had happened when Orcs captured him, but the 
Marchwarden was familiar with the depredations of the monsters.  Haldir 
profoundly wished that the Prince would confide in him so that the poison 
could be drawn from the festering wound.  
    For all his wishing, Haldir and Legolas went to their rest without 
exchanging words of any weight.  In the morning, they rose at first light, 
and took up the hunt once more.  
 
    Haldir ran the Orc through the throat, jumping fastidiously back from 
the spray of dark blood, and whirled to meet the next challenge.  
Dispatching a goblin that rose no higher than his waist, Haldir caught sight 
of Legolas, fighting the last two Orcs standing.  With no more foes before 
him, Haldir paused to admire the fierce beauty of an Elf roused for battle.  
When the graceful whirlwind of flying silk and flashing steel spun to a 
stop, both Orcs had fallen with throats slashed open.  Legolas stood still, 
his chest rising and falling perceptibly, as his eyes darted about in search 
of more meat for the carving.  Then his stare fell on Haldir, and his 
smoldering gaze locked on the other Elf’s eyes.  
    Haldir felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter wind.  He 
forced himself not to give ground as the hot-eyed Prince stalked toward 
him.  When Legolas stopped in front of him, Haldir could hear the lad’s 
breath whistling through his nostrils, and see the trembling of a body 
under tight rein.  
    “I want more,” Legolas said.  
    “They are all dead,” Haldir informed him unnecessarily.  
    Legolas’ fists clenched around the hilts of his knives, and the cold 
shiver coursed the length of Haldir’s spine again.  The Lorien Elf could 
see nothing of the young Prince of Mirkwood in the haunted eyes before 
him.  This was a creature of burning desire and boundless thirst for blood.  
This heat must somehow be quenched, as a swordsmith thrusts hot steel 
into water, lest the temper of a fine weapon be spoiled.  Unfortunately, 
there were no more Orcs to hand, and Haldir did not fancy sparring with 
Legolas in his present mood.  In the midst of these thoughts, the choice 
was taken from him.  Legolas cleaned and sheathed his blades with quick, 
economical motions, and pivoted on one heel.  In another moment, Haldir 
was chasing the Prince through the trees.  
    “Stop, Legolas!” he called, when he was close enough, “This is 
madness, running blindly through enemy territory seeking victims.  Please, 
I beg you.  Stop.  For my sake.”  
    Reluctance in every line of his elegant frame, Legolas halted, and 
waited for the other Elf.  
    “I cannot be still,” Legolas said harshly, “I am afraid what work my 
hands will find if I leave them idle.”  
    Haldir looked quickly about.  His Elvish senses could detect no other 
living beings but the natural denizens of these woods.  Divesting himself 
of bow and quiver, he went to the Prince.  Taking Legolas’ chin in his 
fingers, Haldir met his eyes.  In the blue depths, the red gleam of bloodlust 
still burned brightly.  The Lorien Elf deliberately summoned the fire that 
simmered in his own veins, and pulled the Prince close.  Legolas’ muscles 
thrummed with the need to slash, rend, and destroy.  Haldir felt his spirit 
rise in answer, and did not attempt to suppress it.  When Legolas moved 
fitfully in his embrace, Haldir spoke.  
    “Struggle, if you will, and I will give you surcease from your torment.”  
    “Haldir, no.  I do not want to hurt you,” Legolas said in a ragged voice.  
    “You cannot contain this rage for much longer.  It may keep you warm, 
but it will burn you hollow.  Come, let me give you such peace as may be 
found in exhaustion.”  
    Legolas cried out in wordless denial, and tried to break free of Haldir’s 
arms.  The Lorien Elf held on to the Prince, until they over-balanced.  
They broke apart as they struck the ground, and Legolas rolled quickly 
away.  Haldir rose to a crouch, and launched himself at the Prince.  They 
grappled across the forest floor, until Haldir’s greater experience finally 
told on his younger opponent.  
    Haldir pinned Legolas’ wrists to the ground above his head, and used 
his superior weight to keep the Prince down.  Legolas stared up at his 
captor defiantly, smutches of dirt on his lofty cheekbones, leaf mold in his 
pale hair, his sculpted lips parted, gasping for air.  Haldir bent his neck, 
and covered the Prince’s mouth with his own.  
    “What would you?” Legolas demanded, when Haldir relinquished his 
lips.  
    “I would have you spend your rage on me, rather than on yourself,” 
Haldir answered.  
    “I am not angry with you.”  
    “You will be,” Haldir promised.  
    Legolas turned his head, as Haldir’s lips sought his again.  He did not 
want this, and told the Lorien Elf, in words that were impossible to 
misunderstand.  Then Haldir’s mouth claimed the Wood-Elf’s, stopping 
Legolas’ protests with a silent, yet eloquent, tongue.  The Prince began to 
struggle in earnest, but Haldir had been expecting this.  
    The tall Elf kept a firm grip on Legolas’ wrists, and let his body move 
with the one it rested upon.  No matter how Legolas twisted, or turned, 
Haldir was with him.  The Lorien Elf‘s mouth remained fastened on the 
Prince’s until Legolas grew still beneath him. Abruptly, Haldir jerked his 
head back with a cry of surprise.  He looked down at his captive, blood 
from his bitten tongue trickling over his bottom lip.  
    “Am I mistaken, or are you not angry with me now?”  
    “Rapist,” Legolas spat.  
    “Only if you allow it,” Haldir said, “Perhaps you will overcome me.  
Either way, it will exhaust your madness.”  
    “It is good of you to make such a sacrifice,” Legolas said coldly.  
    “Nay, Prince,” Haldir said, “I assure you, it is my pleasure to be of 
service.”  
    Legolas stiffened as Haldir took his mouth again.  He could taste the 
other Elf’s blood as Haldir’s tongue laid siege to his lips.  Then he had a 
mouthful of it as his body betrayed him, and his lips parted in wanton 
invitation.  The bloodlust that set him alight flared back into life as 
something else.  Something just as hot, just as urgent, just as dark.  He 
continued to resist, but his body delighted in the way his flesh slid against 
Haldir’s well-muscled frame as the other Elf subdued him.  Though tears 
of fury stood in his eyes, Legolas welcomed the release that was building 
within him as they fought.  
    Haldir rode the lithe body beneath him, like a seasoned sailor on a 
pitching deck.  Wedging a knee between the long thighs, he pressed his 
groin tightly against the Prince’s.  He felt a shudder run the length of 
Legolas’ frame, as he moved rhythmically against him.  In another 
moment, the Prince was moving in concert, his attempts to buck his captor 
off meeting the forward thrust of Haldir’s hips.  
    “No,” Legolas gasped, as the friction built to a near intolerable peak.  
“No, do not do this to me.  I cannot bear it.”  
    Haldir stopped moving immediately, and released the Prince’s wrists.  
“As you wish,” he said, in a voice that shook with restrained passion.  
    “Let me up,” Legolas demanded, and Haldir rolled away from him.  
    The Prince of Mirkwood sat up, and wrapped his arms around his 
knees.  The Elf of Lorien knelt next to him, and waited for him to speak.  
    “I know what you were trying to do,” Legolas said, “I am not 
ungrateful, but . . .”  
    “You need not apologize, or explain to me,” Haldir said, “It saddens me 
that you will not allow yourself this release, but that is your decision.  I 
would never force you against your will.”  
    “Now you seek to lighten my mood.  You are very kind, Haldir of 
Lorien.”  
    “If you think me kind, why then, I am kind.”  
    “And it must seem to you that I scorn your kindness, but it is not so.  It 
is only that I cannot . . . cannot free myself.”  
    “I wish you would tell me what happened to all those dead Orcs I found 
you with.”  
    “If I did not tell my father, or my physicians, why should I tell you?”  
    “Because you know that you would not shock me, and I am not your 
father, or one of your friends who might pity you.  I am just a visitor who 
enjoys Orc hunting.”  
    Legolas stared at the other Elf for a long moment before he spoke.  “We 
came on the trailsigns of a large band of Wild Orc, and followed them to 
the border.  By the time we caught them, they had raided the village, 
killing most of the men, and carrying off captives to entertain them later.  
You know what we saw when we came upon their feast.”  
    Haldir nodded silently.  
    “Then I need not describe the battle and the flight, and for that I am 
thankful.  My brave comrades fell, one by one, until only I was left.  I fear 
they took too much care for my life, when they should have been guarding 
their own.  The surviving Orcs overcame me, but they did not kill me.  I 
was bound, and carried by them in turn, until they deemed they had 
reached a safe distance.  After they had rested, they began playing with 
me.”  
    “It is ever their delight to see another being suffer,” Haldir said softly.  
    “I was beaten, and kicked, and thrown about like a child’s ball.  They 
spoke to me also, telling me which bits of me they intended to cut off as 
soon as they tired of their present sport.  As it began to grow dark, they 
stopped to eat some of their stolen food.”  
    “But they were not through with you yet,” Haldir said, “What did they 
do next?”  
    Legolas dropped his eyes.  “They found new ways to hurt me.”  
    “They forced you,” Haldir said the words for him.  
    “I was bound,” Legolas said, “I could do nothing to stop it.”  
    “Of course you could not.”  
    “It was only one of them,” Legolas said, “The others watched while it 
took me.”  
    “It is of no more consequence than the beatings they gave you,” Haldir 
said.  
    “I can still feel its hot breath, its drool crawling down my neck, as it 
forced its way into me.  I told myself it meant nothing.  The Orc could 
only defile my earthly shell.  It could not touch me.”  
    “That is very true.”  
    “Is it?” Legolas inquired bitterly, “Or is that something we tell 
ourselves to keep from being driven mad by some insupportable horror we 
have endured?”  
    “But you can bear this, Prince.  You are strong.”  
    Legolas’ abrupt laughter startled Haldir.  
    “I cannot imagine what there is to be found amusing here,” he said.  
    “I am sure that you cannot, but now you have heard my confession.  
Was it what you thought to hear?”  
    “Precisely.  The habits of marauding Orcs are not unknown to me.  
There is no outrage too great for their evil natures.  And they are drawn to 
the scions of our royal houses.  The beast that attacked you sensed your 
ancient bloodline, and responded to it in the only way such a creature can.  
It tried to dominate you in every way known to it.  Their twisted spirits 
recognize that we are what they should be, and they hate us for the 
reminder.”  
    The Prince of Mirkwood shuddered, and then his head came up like a 
hound that hears the horn winding the call to the chase.  
    “What is it?” Haldir asked, and then his ears caught the almost 
imperceptible sounds of Elves discreetly announcing their approach.  
    Legolas stood with a cry of delight, as three young Elves strode out of 
the trees.  
    “Aiglos, Lindir, Maltalambe.”  
    “Hail Prince,” the three archers called as they hurried forward to 
embrace Legolas.  
    “What do you here?” Legolas asked.  
    “We have heard that you are killing all the Orcs, and are like to save 
none for us,” golden-haired Aiglos said merrily, “Therefore, we have 
defied our sires, and come to make you share the bounty with us.”  
    Lindir brushed back hair as dark as a raven’s wing, and eyed the Envoy 
of Lothlorien.  “We were certain you would need our help, Prince, poor 
marksman that you are, but had we known of your doughty companion, 
we might have saved ourselves the trouble.”  
    Maltalambe looked to Lindir in surprise.  “You knew the Marchwarden 
was with the Prince.  You were only just speaking of the king’s wrath with 
him.”  
    Aiglos rolled his dark eyes.  “This is what Lindir means when he tells 
you that sometimes you can be too honest.”  
    “It is hardly a surprise to me that I have angered King Thranduil,” 
Haldir said, “How did you find us?”  
    “We have been following the trail of your garbage,” Lindir said, “You 
have left a lot of bodies lying untidily about.”  
    “We have only begun,” Legolas said.  
    The Prince’s friends turned at the grimness in his voice, their fair faces 
troubled for a moment.  Then Aiglos spoke up.  
    “What do we wait for?  We saw sign of Orc at the Eastern ford.”  
    Legolas picked up his quiver, and slung it over his shoulder, as Haldir 
echoed him.  In moments, the glade was empty as the Elves sped into the 
trees.  
 
    Lindir leaned on his bow, and armed sweat from his brow.  He had 
never thought that he could tire of killing Orcs, but now he was weary 
unto death.  Since joining the Prince, the days were a never changing 
pattern of sleeping, eating, tracking and killing.  
    He heard a snatch of birdsong and looked up.  Maltalambe rose 
cautiously from the rocks across the defile looking for the signal that all 
was secure.  Lindir looked down at the portion of the canyon floor that 
Maltalambe could not see, and whistled back.  Aiglos moved from behind 
a boulder below Lindir, and made his way up to the sniper’s perch.  Lindir 
watched him come, but did not see him.  His mind was filled with images 
he could not banish.  
    He had watched Legolas and the Lorien Elf lead the Orcs into the trap, 
and then wade into the midst of those who’d survived the barrage of 
arrows.  In a few brutal minutes, the two warriors had reduced the goblins 
to something that looked as though it should be hanging over a cooking 
fire.  Lindir had not known that his friend and Prince was capable of such 
viciousness.  
    “That was over quickly,” Aiglos said as he reached his companion, “I 
could not see everything, as I did not have such a fine vantage as you, but 
I would say that the Envoy from Lothlorien has some skill with a blade.”  
    “That he does,” Lindir answered, “Come up, and you can see the 
evidence of his handiwork.”  
    Aiglos perched beside Lindir, and looked down on the patch of level 
ground, dotted with freestanding boulders.  He surveyed the abattoir, and 
shook his head in wonder.  
    “I held myself in readiness, should they signal for help, but I deem it 
was wiser that I stayed out of their way.”  
    Aiglos watched Legolas sling blood from his blades, and wipe them on 
Orc rags before sheathing them.  The Prince turned as the Lorien Elf 
joined him.  Aiglos could not see their lips moving; the two simply stood 
with gazes locked.  
    “What do you make of that?” Aiglos prodded Lindir.  
    Lindir looked down, and a crease appeared between his sea jade eyes.  
For some reason, he did not like Haldir’s proximity to Legolas, or the 
intense way they were looking at one another.  When the Lorien Elf 
grasped the Prince roughly by the shoulders, Lindir leapt to his feet.  
    Aiglos grabbed his friend’s elbow, and pulled him back.  Lindir turned 
in surprise.  
    “Why do you stop me?” he asked.  
    “Why do you wish to go down there?”  
    “Can you not see?  The Prince is being assaulted.”  
    “Is that what you see, Lindir?  Look again,” Aiglos said.  
    Reluctantly, Lindir did as his friend said.  At first, he was angry with 
Aiglos.  This Haldir held Legolas tightly, trapping the Prince’s arms at his 
sides.  Then Lindir marked how Legolas moved against his captor.  
Though the Prince seemed to resist, Lindir knew that Legolas was capable 
of greater efforts.  
    “Let us return to camp,” Lindir said as he turned away.  
 
    Lindir wrapped the remainder of his lembas in its leaf.  His appetite had 
deserted him of late.  He watched Maltalambe happily eating his rabbit 
stew, and then caught the eye of Aiglos, sitting opposite him.  The golden-
haired Elf smiled in a heartening manner, and Lindir’s gaze traveled on to 
the left.  He did not want to look to his right.  If he did, he would see 
Legolas and Haldir.  
    The last time Lindir’s eyes had inadvertently strayed in that direction, 
his cheeks had grown warm, and he had quickly looked away.  He might 
as well have looked his fill, since the image was graven on his mind.  The 
two were not entwined in some blatant display of impropriety.  Lindir 
might actually have preferred that, but they were not even touching.  
    Haldir lay supine in the grass, long legs stretched out and crossed before 
him, his weight supported on his elbows.  Legolas sat with his legs curled 
beneath him, hands folded on his thighs, leaning slightly forward.  Their 
gazes were locked in a stare that should have ignited the dry leaves around 
them.  
    The intensity of the passion held in check weighted the air until Lindir 
had difficulty drawing it into his lungs.  It was a palpable wave that 
distorted his vision, as though all he saw was reflected on the surface of a 
wind ruffled lake.  Dread of he knew not what rippled through him, 
tightening the flesh on his bones, and the moments crawled over his skin 
like insects.  He nearly cried out when Aiglos sat down beside him.  
    “You are troubled, “ Aiglos said in invitation.  
    “Do you not feel it?” Lindir mumbled wretchedly.  
    “Aye, I feel it,” Aiglos said, “But everyone is allowed one mad season.”  
    “I know that you are right, but why . . .”  
    “Why this Elf of Lorien?” Aiglos finished for him.  “Do not let it 
trouble you.  It does not mean that Haldir is braver, comelier, or wiser; it 
does not mean that he is better than another.  It only means that he was 
there when Legolas needed him.  Do you understand?”  
    “Will understanding make it easier to bear?”  
    “No, mellon, it will not.”  
    “As I thought,” Lindir sighed.  
    Lindir turned in time to see Haldir lean forward, and put his lips to 
Legolas’ ear.  Legolas shook his head, and Haldir caught the Prince’s 
earlobe in strong, white teeth.  The Lorien Elf rose, bringing Legolas to his 
feet as well.  With a hand on the nape of the Prince’s neck, Haldir guided 
hid companion toward the deeper shadows beneath the trees.  Lindir 
looked away, and met Aiglos’ eyes.  
    “I am going home tomorrow,” Lindir said, “Before I catch this 
sickness.”  
 
    Haldir turned at the soft sound on the path behind him.  “Legolas?” he 
said hopefully.  
    “Nay,” Maltalambe said, “Tis I.”  
    “Ah, the honest one,” Haldir said.  
    “I am more often called naive,” Maltalambe said, “But I thank you for 
the compliment.”  
    “I sense our meeting is not by chance,” Haldir said.  
    “It is not,” the Mirkwood Elf said, “I waited until you were alone so that 
I might talk with you.”  
    “Say what you came to say.”  
    “You are making a mistake with the Prince.”  
    “How so?” Haldir asked curiously.  
    “You seek to bind him to you with this secret you share, but you cannot 
own him this way.”  
    “You think I wish to own Legolas?”  
    “I know that you do.  You have already struck a bargain.  You give him 
surcease of pain, and you expect him to trade love for it.”  
    “We share a mutual passion,” Haldir said.  
    “Do you?  Then why will he not let you consummate that passion?”  
    “So, you waited until I was alone, did you?” Haldir said, “How long did 
you watch us?  Long enough to satisfy yourself?”  
    “You are as afflicted as he is,” Maltalambe said.  
    “You are afflicted, as well, with jealousy.”  
    “I could well envy you the love of one such as Prince Legolas,” 
Maltalambe said, “But I would not want what you have.”  
    “Because you have not felt it,” Haldir hissed.  
    Maltalambe looked up at the tall Elf.  “You do not know what I have 
felt, Elf of the Golden Wood.  I have been tracking Orcs since I was a 
child.  Raiders took my mother as she returned from a journey to her kin, 
and I led the Trackers who found her captors.  I have felt the blood-
ecstasy, and I know what it can lead to.  I know what you feel when it 
takes you, the uncontrollable urge to slay or to couple, with equal joy in 
either.”  
    “Very well, you have felt it,” Haldir said, “Since you understand, why 
do you trouble me with your speech?”  
    “Because Prince Legolas is my friend, and I hope that one day you will 
be my friend, as well.  That is unlikely to happen if you continue on your 
present path.”  
    “You are going to make a prophecy,” Haldir said resignedly.  
    “Aye, I am.  If you continue down this road, you will come to grief for 
it leads nowhere else.”  
    “Grief seems a distant prospect with the beautiful Prince of Mirkwood 
in my arms,” Haldir answered, “Perhaps it lies in my future, as you say, 
but for now he is mine.”  
    “Is he?  I do not think so.  You will never possess him, Haldir of 
Lothlorien.  You may hold his body, but you will never hold his heart.”  
    “And how do you know this?”  
    “Because I know him, Haldir, and you do not.  You know only this 
wounded, murderous creature you helped to shape.  This madness will 
pass, and he will remember himself.”  Maltalambe paused.  “He will 
remember you as well, Haldir.”  
    “I do nothing he does not wish me to,” Haldir said, “And when he tells 
me to stop, I stop, but not a moment before.”  
    “And that is your answer,” Maltalambe said, “As I expected.  I would 
not listen either, when my mad season came upon me.  If I had, my 
betrothed might still be alive.”  
    Haldir watched the slight figure of Maltalambe fade into the shadows.  
Deep-woods Elves!  They were a superstitious lot, seeing doom at every 
turn.  Had that provincial Elf really had the nerve to insinuate that Haldir 
was insane?  Ridiculous!  
    Haldir and Legolas made a superb team, their fighting styles perfectly 
complementary.  They never needed signals in battle; they instinctively 
took advantage of one another’s strengths, and guarded one another’s 
weaknesses.  Haldir always knew where Legolas’ body was in relationship 
to his, and knew that Legolas shared this perception.  Neither ever had to 
worry about clearing his line of sight before shooting his bow, or swinging 
his blade.  They were fearless, and, standing back-to-back, they could not 
be approached.  
    They shared the glory of triumph over great odds, the fierce joy of 
cleansing evil from the world, the pure passion of one holy warrior for 
another.  This was what the Prince’s friends wanted Haldir to give up.  Not 
without a fight, he vowed, as he returned to camp.  
 
    “Soon we must return to your father’s court, melethron,” Haldir said.  
    Legolas stirred restlessly, stretching his long limbs.  His arms were 
brought up short by the leather laces that lashed his wrists together.  He 
pulled harder, but the straps were securely tied to a smooth-barked 
sapling.  He was growing accustomed to such restraints, and knew how 
much pressure it took to draw blood.  
    “You have nothing to say?” Haldir asked.  
    “I have nothing to say.”  
    Haldir rose on one elbow, and reached out to stroke Legolas’ cheek.  “I 
understand, melethron.  You do not come to me for talk.”  
    Legolas turned his face aside, as Haldir’s lips sought his.  
    “The fire has left my blood,” Legolas said, “You may release me now.”  
    “You still burn,” Haldir said, as he caught hold of Legolas’ jaw, “And 
you are in no position to gainsay me, Prince.”  
    “This is no game, Haldir,” Legolas said, “Untie my hands.”  
    “Not yet.  I have spent my passion, but, as always, you will not let 
yourself find release.  I can bear your torment no longer.”  
    Legolas sucked in an audible breath as Haldir took him in hand.  The 
Lorien Elf buried his face in the curve of Legolas’ shoulder, as he stroked 
the rising crotch through the finespun wool of the green leggings.  
    “Do not,” Legolas groaned, as he felt Haldir’s teeth in the tender flesh 
of his neck.  “I do not want this.”  
    “You may not want this,” Haldir’s breath was warm on Legolas’ neck, 
“But you need it.”  
    Legolas gasped as Haldir’s tongue traced the upswept line of his ear.  
The Lorien Elf’s lips traced a line of fire across Legolas’ temple, and 
down his cheek to his mouth.  
    “No,” Legolas gasped, yanking at his bonds.  “Let me go.”  
    “I shall,” Haldir said, “But not at your command.  Choice had been 
taken from you, Prince.”  
    “Stop, please stop,” Legolas panted.  
    “I am stopping,” Haldir said, “But slowly.”  
    The Lorien Elf leaned over the Prince, looking into Legolas’ glazed 
eyes.  His nimble fingers continued to fondle the Prince’s hardness as he 
bent his head to capture the younger Elf’s mouth.  Legolas squirmed in 
helpless arousal as Haldir made free with his body.  Brooking no 
resistance, Haldir brought Legolas to release, muffling the Prince’s 
vehement protests with his mouth.  When the lithe body finally lay still 
beneath him, Haldir sat up.  
    “Will you let me go now?” Legolas asked calmly.  
    Haldir took up his knife, and reached for Legolas’ wrists.  His eyes 
tightened at the corners when he saw the red rivulets that ran down the 
lean-muscled forearms.  With a flick of his blade, Haldir cut the thongs, 
and the Prince of Mirkwood sat up.  
    “Why do you make me force you?” Haldir said, as he watched Legolas 
cradle his wrists.  
    “Why do you want to force me?”  
    “That is no answer.”  
    “It is the only answer.”  
    “I do not enjoy being mocked,” Haldir said.  
    “I do not mock you, Haldir.  I dare not anger you.  Only you can give 
me peace.”  
    “Because I love you, and I cannot watch you suffer.”  
    Legolas laughed shortly, and turned his face from Haldir.  “My 
suffering is all you see,” he said, “My pain, my rage, my lust.  How can 
you bear to look on me?”  
    Haldir wrapped his arms around Legolas.  “I would slay a hundred Orcs 
to look on you.  You are the most beautiful creature under the sun, 
melethron.”  
    “Do not name me so,” Legolas said, though he did not try to escape the 
embrace.  “What we do together has nothing to do with love.”  
    “You wound me,” Haldir said.  
    “I am honest with you.”  
    “Perhaps you should turn some of that pitiless honesty on yourself,” 
Haldir’s wounded feelings made him say, “And admit that you like what 
we do together.”  
    “No,” Legolas whispered, “It is not so.”  
    Haldir’s clever fingers kneaded the Prince’s neck and shoulders.  “It is 
so, and I would prove it to you again, if proof you require.”  
    Legolas felt Haldir’s lips on his nape, and the pressure of the sharp teeth 
behind them.  A mental image of those white teeth sinking into his flesh 
sent a hot pulse of liquid fire through his midsection.  The maroon 
bracelets of drying blood on his wrists mocked his denial of Haldir.  
    “You feel it,” Haldir breathed, “I know you do.  I have seen your eyes 
in the heat of battle, burning as brightly as a bolt of lightning.  I know the 
ecstasy that possesses you; I feel it as well.  I know that when the killing is 
done, the lust will linger, and you will turn to me to purge it from your 
flesh.  This I do gladly.  Is that not love?”  
    “Of a sort,” Legolas said, grudgingly, wishing Haldir would stop 
speaking.  For all his talk of honesty, Legolas did not wish to hear the 
truth.  He was abruptly weary beyond words.  “You are right,” he said, 
“We should return to Mirkwood.  
    “Ah,” Haldir sighed, “I see.  You think that you can leave this in the 
wilds.  When we reach Thranduil’s court you will avoid me.”  
    Legolas bowed his head.  “I think that I will have even more need of 
you at court for there will be no enemies to slay, but if I do not go home, 
my father will keep sending Trackers.  My friends will have made it back 
by now, and will have reported to the king.  I must go, and explain.”  
    “I do not think that your father will understand.”  
    “He will understand,” Legolas contradicted, “But he will not be 
pleased.”  
    “We have near rid the north border of wild Orc,” Haldir said, “That 
should please him.”  
    “At what price will be his answer,” Legolas predicted.  
    The Prince broke the circle of Haldir’s arms, and rose to his feet.  Haldir 
stood as well, and watched as Legolas turned his face to the stars.  The 
Lorien Elf kept his hands firmly at his sides, though the desire to touch his 
beloved’s moon-nacreous flesh was near overwhelming.  Placating 
himself with the thought that this exquisite creature would suffer no caress 
save his, Haldir looked up at the night sky.  
    “We are lost,” Legolas said so softly that Haldir almost missed his 
words.  
    “Not as long as we have the stars to guide us,” Haldir purposely 
misunderstood.  
    “And if they should tire of what they look down, and turn away from us 
in disgust?”  
    “Then I will follow the light in your eyes.”  
    “And it will lead you deeper into madness.”  
    “Then that is where I wish to go.”  
    “We will return to Mirkwood tomorrow,” Legolas said, to stop the 
pointless exchange.  
    “As you will, Prince,” Haldir answered.  
 
 
    “Estel,” Lindir said in surprise, “You are well come.”  
    “The uninvited guest oft proves the best company,” the Man quoted to 
the Mirkwood sentry.  
    “You wear the badge of a Ranger.”  
    “Aye.” Aragorn leaned close, lowering his voice to a whisper. “If you 
see him, do not tell him that I have it, or he will surely thrash me.”  
    “Your coming is like the rising of the Sun after a long night,” the Elf 
laughed, “Mae govannon, well come, indeed.”  
    “Are you lacking in sunshine, Lindir?  
    “I had forgotten how to smile until I heard your voice.”  
    “What shadow darkens the days of Lindir of the Green Realm?”  
    “You must be weary from your journey, Estel,” Lindir evaded, “And I 
keep you standing in the courtyard.  Come, you shall set down your 
burdens, and we shall raise a glass.”  
    “And hopefully learn why you have changed the subject.”  
    “Regretfully, that will be somewhat sooner, it appears,” Lindir said, as 
he caught sight of a party of Trackers ahead.  
    “Do you not wish to meet with them?” Aragorn asked, “Is that not 
Aiglos?”  
    “Aye, and Prince Legolas,” Lindir said, “The Elf beside him is called 
Haldir.”  
    “He has the air of Lothlorien about him,” Aragorn observed.  
    “I daresay you know Elfkind better than any mortal now living,” Lindir 
said, “He is indeed an Envoy from the Golden Wood.”  
    Lindir and Aragorn stopped to greet the Trackers who stood or sat at 
their ease under a tree with great spreading boughs.  Aiglos came forward 
to clasp Aragorn’s forearm, and Maltalambe saluted the new Ranger from 
his seat on the grass.  Haldir and Legolas were oblivious to the presence of 
the newcomers.  
    “My Prince,” Lindir said, “Estel of Imladris has come to visit.”  
    Legolas’ head rotated slowly on his neck until he was looking at 
Aragorn.  The Ranger shied from the unshielded fire in the Elf’s eyes, but 
it did not show in his face or his manner.  
    “Your highness,” he said, with a respectful inclination of his head.  
    The Prince of Mirkwood regarded the Man as though assessing his 
suitability as a trophy.  Then he returned his gaze to Haldir’s face, his eyes 
softening to the luminous blue of a summer twilight.  Haldir nodded to 
Aragorn.  
    “I am Haldir, Marchwarden of Lothlorien.  You are Aragorn, son of 
Arathorn?”  
    “I have that honor.”  
    “I have heard much about you, of course.  I am pleased to meet you.”  
    “I am pleased to meet one who has lived in the grace of the Lady of 
Light.”  
    Haldir inclined his head to the human.  “I have heard that you are a 
doughty warrior.”  
    “It is not my pleasure to fight, but I flatter myself that I have some skill 
at it.”  
    “You should come hunting with us,” Haldir said.  
    Aragorn was not deaf to the challenge in the tall Elf’s words, and he 
wondered at it.  He did not know this Haldir.  What reason did the Lorien 
Elf have to feel competitive?  
    “I should be glad to come hunting with you,” he said.  
    “You will have no chance of catching up, Dunedain,” Aiglos said, “Do 
not even try.”  
    “In what am I behind?” Aragorn asked.  
    “I have over a hundred now, but Haldir and Legolas are far ahead of 
me.  Lindir has less than sixty, so I suppose it is possible that you might 
rival him, if you are diligent.”  
    Aragorn looked inquiringly at Lindir.  
    “Orcs,” Lindir said, “They are telling you how many Orcs they have 
killed.”  
    “In their lives?”  
    “This winter,” Aiglos laughed.  
    “It sounds as though you are making war on Orcs,” Aragorn said.  
    “And so we are,” Haldir said, “You would not criticize us for that.”  
    “Of course not,” Aragorn said, “But I am surprised that King Thranduil 
would give permission for the Prince to go along.”  
    “His permission was not sought,” Lindir said.  
    “I am not a child, Lindir,” Legolas said.  
    “No, you only behave like one,” Lindir returned.  
    Instead of retorting, Legolas turned to Haldir.  The Lorien Elf pulled the 
Prince in front of him, and put his arms around Legolas’ chest, bestowing 
a kiss on the top of the flaxen head.  Legolas leaned back against Haldir, 
perfectly at ease within the circle of his arms.  
    Aragorn raised his eyebrows.  He knew that among the young of 
Elfkind such pairings were not unusual, but such overt affection was rarely 
displayed in public.  Aragorn realized that he was gaping, and looked up 
to meet Haldir’s sardonic gaze.  The Man abruptly looked away.  
    “Come, Aragorn,” Lindir said, seeing that Legolas would ignore him.  
“Let us find a bed for you.”  
    “Make it a warm one,” Haldir’s voice followed them, “And wake him 
early.  We leave at first light.”  
 
    Aragorn walked across the lawn, leaving dark footprints in the dewy 
grass.  He reached the appointed meeting place, and set his bundle on a 
marble bench.  
    “You are early.”  
    The Ranger spun toward the sound of the voice.  
    Prince Legolas leaned against the plinth of a graceful statue, his stillness 
so absolute that Aragorn had not seen him.  The Ranger was impressed.  
    “You are earlier,” he said.  
    “I am eager,” the Elf answered.  
    Aragorn nodded.  Lindir had told him of the Prince’s capture by Orcs.  
He could well understand the Elf’s fervor.  
    “Where have the Orcs we will hunt been raiding?” he asked.  
    “I do not know,” Legolas said, “And I do not care.  If I find Orcs, I kill 
them.”  
    “Do you tell me we are hunting them merely for sport?”  
    “Hardly a mere sport,” said Haldir’s mellifluous voice, “But you need 
not come, if you do not wish.  I am certain you can find other pursuits 
more befitting your mortal strength.”  
    Aiglos gave Haldir a disapproving look.  “The Dunedain has never 
faltered in the hunt,” he said, “Aragorn will come with us.”  
    “Where is Lindir?” Maltalambe asked.  
    “He did not wish to go,” Aragorn said, “He would rather guard the gates 
of Thranduil’s kingdom.”  
    “If we are all the party, why do we tarry?” Legolas asked, as he turned 
and hurried away.  
    The Prince bounded over terrain, Haldir at his heels, and the rest 
following.  Aragorn let his eyes dwell on the grace with which his 
companions moved through the trees.  His gaze lingered longest on the 
lithe form of Mirkwood’s Prince.  As they left the forest, Aragorn noted, 
with honest appreciation, how the sunlight gilded the lad’s pale hair and 
skin, sliding like translucent silk over the flawless face and supple limbs.  
    Aragorn had lived among Elves almost all his life, and his standards 
were high: for integrity, for courage, for comeliness.  He knew nothing yet 
of the Prince’s honor or his bravery, but it was plain that Legolas did not 
lack for beauty.  The Ranger pulled his eyes away, smiling at his fond 
weakness for all things Elvish.  As he looked up, his gaze met Haldir’s 
sardonic one, and then was caught by something over the Elf’s shoulder.  
    The Lorien Elf raised an eyebrow at the Ranger, and then threw himself 
flat at the change of expression on Aragorn’s face.  A goblin throwing-
hatchet rang on stone.  Legolas, Aiglos and Maltalambe nocked arrows, 
and let fly.  Heavy, leather-skinned bodies fell from the tops of boulders 
with guttural cries.  Aragorn’s sword leapt to his hand as a howling, 
swarm of brutes boiled out of the rocks and attacked.  
    For the next small eternity, Aragorn’s world narrowed to flailing, scaled 
limbs, shrieking, gaping maws, the flashing steel that kept them at bay, 
sprays of black blood.  He heard the unique, two-toned whistle of Elvish 
long knives behind him, and spun in time to see Prince Legolas decapitate 
the goblin that would have spitted Aragorn.  The heir of Isildur met the 
Elf’s eyes, and was ensnared by the swirling, antic glitter in the blue 
depths.  For a long moment, they stood frozen, heedless of the battle that 
raged around them.  Then the spell was broken as the Prince whirled to 
meet a new attack.  
    The Ranger called out a warning, but quick as he was, Legolas was 
quicker.  The Prince’s white knives slid into Maltalambe’s chest with 
sickening ease, and were withdrawn in an eye blink.  The young Wood-Elf 
looked at Legolas with a mildly puzzled frown as wetness spread across 
the front of his tunic.  Then he dropped to his knees, looking up at his 
friend in consternation, until he fell forward, and lay still.  Aragorn knelt 
beside the stricken Elf, but knew it was pointless.  Legolas had struck with 
the intention of killing.  
    Aiglos jostled Aragorn as he threw himself to the ground beside 
Maltalambe.  When Aiglos voice rose in a keening wail, the Ranger 
realized that he could no longer hear the din of battle.  Looking about, he 
saw that the Orcs had all been slain.  The only moving figure was Haldir, 
methodically checking the corpses for any signs of life.  
    Legolas stared blankly at Aiglos cradling Maltalambe’s lifeless body 
long enough for the Ranger’s heartbeat to return to a normal pace.  Then, 
without a word, the Prince turned, and walked away to join Haldir.  
    Aragorn went to Aiglos, and did what a Man could do to comfort the 
grief-stricken Elf.  He helped Aiglos build a cairn to protect Maltalambe’s 
body from scavengers, and sat with him as the light faded.  They mourned 
together in the Elvish manner until night had fallen, and still Legolas and 
Haldir had not returned to camp.  
    Isildur’s heir excused himself to walk the night forest alone, and think, 
as was his habit.  The wanton carnage and willful disregard for safety he 
had witnessed alarmed him greatly.  This was no disciplinary action, 
retaliating for ravages inflicted by rampaging Orcs.  This was a murder 
squad.  Aragorn had never seen an Elf show the slightest grief or remorse 
over a justified slaying, but these Elves dispatched their quarry with a 
macabre glee that disturbed the Man.  Even more disturbing was the lack 
of response to Maltalambe’s death.  
    Aragorn decided he’d had enough of the Trackers’ sport.  In the 
morning, he would make his apologies, and go back to Thranduil’s court, 
taking his unwelcome news with him.  Now he had resolved to leave this 
traveling troop of assassins, he felt he could return to camp.  
    Aragorn stopped short, calming his breath automatically so that it would 
not give him away.  He froze in place, eyes riveted on the moonlit sight 
that had transfixed him.  
    Slender ivory limbs splayed against rough bark that snagged webs of 
silken hair.  Haldir of Lorien held Prince Legolas captive against the bole 
of a large tree.  The taller Elf held both the Prince’s wrists in one hand, 
while his other grasped the slender jaw with bruising strength.  Aragorn 
was on the point of calling out, when Legolas’ eyes opened.  They were 
the eyes of a predator in heat, and he needed no help that Aragorn could 
give.  
    Disturbed, the Man silently withdrew, and took another route back to 
camp.  When he slept, lissome creatures with perfect faces and pale hair, 
cool skin and hot eyes haunted his dreams.  He woke in darkness, and 
began packing his bundle.  
    As Aragorn cinched shut his pack, he sensed a presence to his right.  
Looking up, he met the impassive gaze of Prince Legolas.  
    “You are leaving,” Legolas said.  
    “I have lost the taste for it,” Aragorn said frankly.  
    “I have heard that Men lack stomach.”  
    “This one has lost his for now,” Aragorn said, “Their is a fey air about 
you and your friends.”  
    “You fear we will lead you to your death?”  
    “I am sure of it.  You are too reckless.  You have no regard for your 
safety, or the safety of those around you.  Was not Maltalambe’s death 
enough?”  
    “If you are afraid, then go,” the Elf said, ignoring the mention of his 
slain friend, “We shall not miss your company, or your sword.”  
    Aragorn raised his brows.  “Are you angry with me, Prince?”  
    “You could not inspire such strong emotion in me,” Legolas answered.  
    “No, you save it all for your lover.”  
    Legolas’ eyes widened.  “Does that trouble you?”  
    Aragorn shrugged.  “I cast no aspersions, but I do wonder why you let 
him treat you so.”  
    “And you are to judge how I should be treated?”  
    “I know that one as lovely, noble and brave as you should be treated 
with reverence.  Haldir does not seem to agree.”  
    “What do you know of it, Man?”  
    “It is before my eyes every day.  You are not even a person to him.  
You are a drug that he cannot forego.”  
    “And what is he to me?” Legolas challenged.  
    “He is your punishment.”  
    Aragorn lifted his pack to his shoulder, and picked up his bow.  
    “Wait,” Legolas said, “I would talk more with you.”  
    “Why?  Surely, I am not saying anything that you wish to hear.”  
    “Perhaps not, but your words ring true, and I would hear more of them.”  
    “A Wood-Elf who is willing to listen to the opinions of a Man is a 
marvel I am loath to miss,” Aragorn answered.  
    “Then come,” Legolas said, “I would not have others hear our speech.”  
    The Elf led the Ranger to a spot where they could talk while keeping a 
watch on their sleeping companions.  His eyes on the moving water of the 
stream, Legolas spoke.  
    “I know that there is a darkness in what Haldir and I do together,” the 
Prince said, “But I do not wish to stop.”  
    “I think you do, or your would not be saying this to me.”  
    “I need him,” Legolas said baldly.  
    “No, Prince.   He has convinced you that you need him.”  
     “How do you know these things?”  
    “I have seen you together, through no desire of mine.  You may believe 
that Haldir loves you.  Haldir may even believe that he loves you, but it is 
not so.  You are both caught in a whirlwind, but you do not see it because 
you stand in the center of it.  Your sicknesses feed one off the other in a 
chain you must break in order to free yourself.”  
    “Without Haldir, what would I do when the rage comes on me?”  
    “What did you do before Haldir?”  
    “I was not so angry until after I met him,” Legolas said.  
    “I have heard from your father, and from your closest friends, how you 
were taken captive by a band of wild Orcs.  I have no doubt that there is 
much anger in you at Orcs, and if you wish to kill every Orc you see, I 
have no quarrel with that.  However, your rage should be diminishing, not 
growing stronger.  If you cannot see that it is Haldir that fuels the flames 
of your anger, then I cannot help you.”  
    “You are right.  I use Haldir to punish myself.”  
    “And why should you deserve such harsh punishment?”  
    “I tore two of them apart with my hands before I got hold of a weapon,” 
Legolas said.  
    “That is your crime?” Aragorn said incredulously.  
    “No, my sin is weakness.  They used me as they would, and I could not 
stop them.”  
    “That is not your fault, Prince.  Greater numbers may overcome the 
strongest.”  
    “You do not know what I was forced to do.”  
    “I do not need to know the details of your travail, I can guess them.  
You suffered greatly, that is clear.  Your body has mended, but your spirit 
has not.  Do you believe you must be punished simply for being a victim?”  
    Legolas dropped his head in an agony of shame.  The Ranger now knew 
everything that Legolas had confided in Haldir.  The Elf did not know if 
he could tell the rest or not.  It was too horrible to say aloud.  The words 
would profane the very breath he used to utter them.  
    Aragorn laid a hand over the Prince’s trembling fingers.  “Tell me,” he 
said softly, “Tell me what is worse than seeing those slaughtered 
villagers.  What is worse than seeing your companions slain?  What is 
worse than being carried off, beaten, and raped?  What happened that 
made you think that any of this was your fault?”  
    “It bound me, and took me,” Legolas whispered, “Hunched over my 
back, its bristles scraping my skin, its reeking breath hot on my neck.  I 
tried to put it all from my mind, to shut out the pain that was rending me 
asunder.  I was able to endure for a time.”  
    Aragorn sat in grave silence.  He heard the Elf swallow, saw the 
muscles move in the slender neck, and then a tear fell on the front of the 
dark green tunic.  
    “Then . . . then the monster did something unspeakable,” Legolas said, 
his eyes on the rushing water.  “It reached around, and took me in its 
claw.  It . . . did things.”  The Elf stopped again, and regained control of 
his voice.  “Can you imagine how I felt when my flesh warmed to its 
touch?  How I reviled myself when I spent my seed, as the beast pushed 
into me?  Is this not deserving of punishment?”  
    “Prince Legolas,” Aragorn said softly.  When the Elf would not turn, 
the Man moved closer until they were sitting knee to knee.  “Do not 
torture yourself.”  
    “I was weak.  I responded to its touch.”  
    “The body is weak, but you already know that.  You must answer only 
one question.  Did you ask for that touch?”  
    “No, but I reacted.”  
    “If your hand is burned, you pull it from the fire,” Aragorn said, “You 
cannot always control your body’s reactions.  You were exhausted, in 
agony.  How could you know what you were doing?  Be at peace, Prince.  
There is no shame in your actions.”  
    “You believe this?”  
    “I know it.  You did not enjoy being forced.”  
    “I never stopped fighting,” Legolas said softly.  
    “No, it is not in you to give up,” the Ranger said.  
    “Thank you,” Legolas said, as Aragorn rose, “I will ponder your 
words.”  
    “I hope they may be of help.  I will go now, and take the news of 
Maltalambe’s passing back to Mirkwood.  I hope we will meet again as 
friends, Prince Legolas.”  
    “Hope is a good thing, Estel,” the Elf said, looking up at the Man with 
tear bright eyes.  
    Aragorn gazed down on the lovely face that caught at his heart as well 
as at his eye.  Gently, he laid a hand on the pale hair before walking away.  
 
 
    “Dunedain!”  
    Aragorn’s shoulders tightened at the sound of the musical voice.  He 
was not afraid of Haldir, but he did not want to have this confrontation.  
He had said his farewells to the king, and was eager to leave the court of 
Mirkwood.  Reluctantly, he turned to face the tall Elf.  
    “I name you thief, Dunedain, and I will have satisfaction.”  
    “What do you imagine that I have stolen from you, Haldir of 
Lothlorien?”  
    “You know well what you have taken from me with your insidious 
speech.”  
    “I but counseled Prince Legolas on a matter that troubled him greatly.”  
    “It is none of your affair, Man.”  
    “I would agree with you but that the Prince asked for my advice.”  
    “You should not meddle in the business of your superiors, mortal.”  
    Aragorn’s shock did not show on his face.  He was aware that some 
Elves held Men in contempt, but they would never deign to let it show.  
    “Perhaps you are right,” the Ranger answered calmly, “But is it really 
me you are angry with, Haldir?  I think it were better you had this 
conversation with the Prince.”  
    “You know nothing,” Haldir said, stepping forward.  
    The two were chest to chest with not a knife’s-blade of daylight 
between them.  If Haldir had expected to intimidate the Man, he was 
doomed to disappointment.  Aragorn met the Elf’s cold gaze, and held it.  
    “I know that you are afflicted with the ancient madness that took your 
ancestors on the battlefield,” he said in a rapid undertone, “Even Gil-
Galad himself.”  
    The steady flame in Haldir’s eyes wavered.  “What do you speak of?” 
he said, still belligerent, but with a doubtful note in his voice.  
    “My foster-father once spoke of it to me,” Aragorn said, “I was reading 
a tome of ancient lore, and the Lord Elrond was moved to speak of the 
battle chronicled therein.  He told how terrible and magnificent were the 
warriors of that age.  They knew the sharpened senses and heightened 
emotions of the blood-ecstasy that made them so fearsome in battle.  Most 
Elves now living will never have to cut their way through vast numbers of 
enemies, or so I may hope, and will never be touched by this madness, but 
it lurks in your blood, waiting to burst free.”  
    “It is glorious,” Haldir breathed.  
    “I do not doubt it,” Aragorn said, “But it comes at a great price.  Those 
ancient warriors soon grew to crave the sensations that transformed them 
in battle.  You are no fool, Haldir, you can imagine what happened to 
them.”  
    “They sought greater and greater peril until they found their deaths.”  
    “The fortunate ones,” Aragorn agreed, “Some lost the ability to 
distinguish friend from foe, and slew their own kin in their madness.  
These wretches were often brought to their senses by the act of murder, 
and lived with the guilt for the rest of their lives.”  
    “I do crave it,” Haldir said.  
    “You must resist it,” Aragorn said, putting a hand on Haldir’s shoulder, 
“It is the only cure.”  
    Haldir was briefly annoyed that the Man had touched him, but then 
admitted that the feeling was not unpleasant.  A warmth radiated outward 
from the spot where Aragorn’s hand rested, slowly suffusing Haldir’s 
flesh.  The Lorien Elf recalled that the mortal was said to be a Healer, and 
began to believe that the Valar might have blessed a mortal with the 
precious gift.  
    “Be at peace, Haldir,” Aragorn said, “Give Legolas his freedom, and 
find your own.”  
    The Elf’s head came up sharply, and the silver grey eyes went steely in 
sudden suspicion.  
    “How fondly your tongue wraps around his name,” Haldir observed.  
    Aragorn hesitated before he answered.  Had his voice changed when he 
spoke the Prince’s name?  He could not say for sure.  He was very fond of 
Elves, and when he was among them, he sometimes forgot to curb his eyes 
or his tongue.  
    “It is your madness that speaks now,” the Ranger said, “You have a 
great trial before you, but I know you will defeat it.”  
    “You also have a great trial before you when we meet again, 
Dunedain,” Haldir said, “It is unfortunate that I wear no weapon, or I 
would bid you draw your blade.”  
    “I have no sword.”  Aragorn stepped back, and held his arms away from 
his sides, his hands turned innocently palm upward.  
    Haldir stared at the Ranger.  Such was the Man’s aura of majesty and 
confidence that the Elf had imagined a weapon where there was none.  
    “My blade waits in its scabbard at the saddlebow of my horse,” Aragorn 
said, “I do not like to keep him waiting.  Fare you well, Haldir.  I hope 
when next we meet, I will not have to face your challenge.”  
    Aragorn strode away to where his mount waited.  Swinging up to the 
saddle, he rode for the borders of the Green Realm.  He saluted the 
sentries he passed, but his mind was occupied, and he did not stop to 
exchange words.  He wondered how the young Prince was enduring the 
ordeal that so tested Haldir.  His instincts told him that Legolas was 
strong, and would overcome his affliction, but he also sensed a thread of 
weakness, like the line along which a jewel may be fractured, enhancing 
its beauty, or shattering it all to pieces.  
    Aragorn touched heels to his horse’s flanks, and gave the animal its 
head.  He was overdue in meeting his comrades, and needed to make some 
speed.  The Ranger’s mind left off musing over the fate of Prince Legolas, 
and concerned itself with the tasks lying before him.  However, he 
promised himself that he would return to Mirkwood, as soon as may be.  
 
 
Stardust and Gold: Part Two - Kindred Spirit by bailey  
baileymoyes@hotmail.com  
LOTR Aragorn/Legolas  
Not my characters.  No profit to be made here.  
Non-consensual situation.  
Pre-Fellowship  
Legolas walks in shadow.  Aragorn has a torch.  They’re made for each 
other.  
 
    “Dunedain!” a silvery voice called from the tree branches over 
Aragorn’s head.  
    The Man reined in his horse, and waited for the lithe shape to drop to 
grass before him.  
    “Greetings Aiglos,” Aragorn said, “Is Lindir with you?”  
    “Nay, I watch alone.  This border is free of danger for the nonce.  I 
think we only set a sentry out of habit now.”  
    “A good habit,” Aragorn said, “What welcome may I expect at 
Thranduil’s court?”  
    A bright smile answered him.  “The warmest,” Aiglos answered, “You 
know the king holds you in great regard.  Not only because you be the heir 
of Isildur, but also for curing the Prince of his madness.  Did you think 
aught might have changed since last you visited?”  The slender Elf paused, 
and then smiled wider.  “You are joking with me!”  
    “A feeble attempt,” Aragorn admitted, “How does the Prince?”  
    The merry look evaporated from Aiglos’ fair face.  “I had hoped this 
news would wait until you reached the court,” he said, “We fear Legolas is 
lost to us.”  
    “This is grave news.  What has befallen?”  
    “I will ride with you,” Aiglos said, “My replacement is due, and I think 
the border will be safe for a few minutes.”  
    So saying, the Elf sprang lightly up behind the Ranger, and settled 
himself.  Aragorn took up the reins, and continued on to the court of 
Mirkwood.  
    “The Prince’s mad season ended just after your visit,” Aiglos said, in 
Aragorn’s ear.  “He stopped going on raids, and Haldir returned to 
Lothlorien.  Legolas seemed well, if not so merry as in days past.”  Aiglos 
sighed, and then resumed speaking.  “The Prince spent much time alone, 
and would not speak of what troubled him.  His melancholy was grievous 
to see.  You did not know Legolas before these things happened.”  
    “Nay,” Aragorn said, “I had seen him once, but he was much with his 
mother’s people when he was younger, was he not?”  
    “Aye,” Aiglos answered, “Though it pained the king to be parted from 
his best-loved child, he wanted Legolas to know somewhat of his other 
kin.  Legolas went there for a short time after Haldir left.”  
    “But it did not soothe him,” Aragorn guessed.  
    “Nay, when he returned, his melancholy had become a brooding 
gloom.  He was listless, sitting for hours in one spot, only to rise, and 
move to a new one.  He would not speak at all, and he would meet no 
one’s eyes.  The wisest came to see the Prince, but they had no joy for the 
king.  Legolas would not talk to them, and they could not see his mind.  
Some days ago, the Prince lay down, and has not risen.  He does not eat.  
He does not move.  He barely seems to breathe.”  
    “These are sad, sad tidings,” Aragorn said, “Thranduil’s sorrow can 
only be guessed at.”  
    “Would you see the Prince?” Aiglos asked.  
    “If the king wishes it,” Aragorn said carefully.  The Ranger’s first 
instinct was to ride as quickly as possible to where the Prince lay.  
However, he was mindful of courtesy when among Elfkind.  He must rein 
in his impulse to heal, until he had spoken with the King.  Sensing its 
rider’s mood, Aragorn’s horse quickened its pace.  
 
    After greeting King Thranduil, and obtaining his glad permission, 
Aragorn was conducted to the Prince’s rooms by an old friend.  
    “In here,” Lindir said softly, gesturing with one hand.  
    Aragorn passed through the exquisitely carved arch, and entered the 
room that was open to the air on two sides.  The Prince lay in repose, 
fully-dressed, on a mattress draped with a richly embroidered satin 
coverlet.  The sleeper’s hands were folded on his chest, which rose and 
fell almost imperceptibly.  The only other movement was the sporadic 
flutter of his eyelids.  
    “I thought he dreamed,” Lindir said, “But now I am not sure he is 
asleep.  
    “You have cared for him well,” Aragorn said, “Will you rest now?”  
    “I would rather stay near him,” Lindir answered, as the Ranger had 
known he would, “If it will not disturb you.”  
    “Sit, and be easy,” Aragorn said, putting a hand of the Elf’s shoulder.  
    Suddenly, all of Lindir’s exhaustion dropped on him at once.  He fell 
into a seat near the bed, and slumped wearily.  
    Aragorn knelt, and took up one of the Prince’s cold hands.  Warming 
the stiff fingers between his palms, the Ranger gazed on his patient’s 
closed face.  He was unused to seeing an Elf with eyes closed, and the 
sight was oddly disturbing.  Quashing the distracting thoughts, Aragorn 
reached out to the spirit of the oblivious Prince.  
    The grey veils of the Otherworld were heavier than usual.  Aragorn 
could not see the silver flame of the Elf’s spirit, and had no beacon to 
guide him to the Prince.  The thought that Legolas’ soul might be 
wandering lost through this featureless void, spurred him to greater efforts.  
    “Aragorn!  Dunedain!”  
    “Who calls?”  
    “It is Lindir.  Are you well?”  
    Aragorn looked about, and realized he was lying on the floor with 
Lindir bending anxiously over him.  To his left he could see the skirt of a 
richly embroidered coverlet, and remembered where he was, and what he 
had been doing.  
    “Thank you, Lindir,” he said, as he rose, “I think I had lost the way 
back from the Otherworld.  How long was I unconscious?”  
    “You were never unconscious,” Lindir said, “Your eyes were open, and 
you spoke.”  
    “What did I say?” Aragorn asked, as he poured a cup of water, and 
drank.  
    “You called out to the Prince, but it did not seem to me that he 
answered you.  Then you dropped his hand, and fell to the floor.”  
    “It is glad I am that you were here,” Aragorn said, “The Prince is far 
away from us.  I should not have tried to reach him with so little 
preparation.  I must rest for a little time, and then I will call Legolas 
home.”  
    “Take some food and drink,” Lindir said, pouring more water for the 
Ranger, and gesturing to a table laid with platters.  
    Aragorn ate somewhat to restore his strength, and then would have lain 
on the rush-carpeted marble of the floor.  Lindir offered to have a pallet 
brought in, and, when the Man refused, insisted that Aragorn lie down on 
the bed.  
    Aragorn sat gingerly on the mattress, and removed his boots.  Carefully, 
he swung his long legs up, and settled back against the banked pillows.  
Legolas did not move, or show by any other sign that he was aware of the 
Ranger’s presence.  
    Lindir watched until the Man’s eyelids stayed down.  Rising silently, 
the Elf took up his cloak, and passed outside to renew his spirit among the 
green things.  
    Aragorn opened his eyes, and smiled at the pretty Elf-child in the 
doorway.  Early morning sunlight made an argent nimbus of the little 
boy’s pale hair, but his face was in shadow.   Though he could not see the 
child’s expression, the Ranger could see by his posture that the boy was 
downcast and uneasy about something.  Perhaps the unexpected sight of a 
mortal worried him.  
    “I will not harm you,” Aragorn said gently, “I am a visitor here.  Would 
you like to come in, and have a look at the Prince?”  
    The Elf-child moved farther into the room, and the Man was struck by 
the singular sweetness of the little boy’s face.  The child moved to the 
opposite side of the bed, and looked gravely down at Legolas.  
    “It makes you sad to see the Prince so ill?” Aragorn asked.  
    The boy looked up into the Ranger’s kind gaze.  “I am being sent 
away,” he said.  
    “Oh, and where are you going?”  
    “To visit the kin of my mother.”  
    “Why would this make you so unhappy?”  
    “They cannot fool me,” the little boy said, “I am not being sent for a 
visit.  I am being sent away because they do not want me here.”  
    “I am certain that is not true,” Aragorn said, “Who would not want a 
fine boy like you?”  
    “My father.  He never comes to see me, and he is always sending me 
somewhere.”  
    Aragorn’s heart ached for the child who so patently believed that what 
he was saying was the truth.  The Ranger was sure the boy had 
misunderstood something he had overheard, or was too young to 
appreciate that adults did not always have as much time as they would 
like.  He drew breath to soothe the child, but the words went unspoken.  
The boy’s eyes grew wide, and he cringed as a shadow fell through the 
doorway.  
    “It is my brother,” the child said, “If he finds me, he will torment me.”  
    “Climb up here,” Aragorn said, “I will not let him take you.”  
    The blond boy scrambled onto the bed, and under the protective arm of 
the Ranger.  Aragorn watched the door, peripherally aware of the child’s 
wholesome scent and the sweet weight that nestled against his side.  This 
is what it was to be a father, responsible for a life smaller and more fragile 
than your own.  He watched the doorway, absently stroking the silky hair, 
and the shadow disappeared in one blink of his eye.  He looked down at 
the boy, and saw that he had fallen asleep.  Wrapped in the warmth of the 
child’s trust, lulled by the even breaths, Aragorn drifted back into slumber.  
    When he woke again, the Elf-child had gone.  Aragorn rose carefully, 
and went to the balustrade on the other side of the room.  Leaning on the 
pale wood of the carved railing, the Ranger looked out over the garden, 
though most mortals would not recognize the glade as something that was 
carefully tended.  
    Movement caught Aragorn’s eyes, and he turned to watch a tall Elf in 
the garb of a Tracker stride from the trees.  Behind him came hurrying a 
stripling in rich clothing, his frame coltish, yet possessed of an elegant 
grace that belied the angularity of his form.  
    “Mahir,” the lad called, “Please stop.”  
    Aragorn saw the shadow that passed across the older Elf’s face, as the 
youth caught up with him.  The Tracker stopped, his expression impassive, 
and waited for the boy to speak.  
    “Lindir says you are transferring to the North.  I cannot believe you 
would go with so brief a farewell.  Are we not friends?”  
    “We are friends,” Mahir said, in a voice like sun-warmed honey, 
“Therefore, I would not draw out my leave-taking.”  
    “You told me nothing of these plans.  If not for Lindir, I would have 
thought you were returning in a few weeks.”  
    “I will not,” Mahir admitted, “I will be gone for much longer.  Forgive 
me for not telling you, but adults do not always remember to include 
children in their plans.”  
    Aragorn saw the stricken look in the lad’s eyes, and was angry with this 
Mahir for being so callous.  It was plain that the youth idolized the archer, 
and the words had wounded him deeply.  Then the Ranger saw the pain in 
Mahir’s eyes, and realized the Elf had forced himself to speak as he had.  
For some reason, the archer was compelled to distance himself from the 
boy.  
    “I am sorry,” Mahir said, “But you have other friends.  In the turning of 
a few seasons, my name will sound strange to you, and you will have 
trouble recalling the color of my hair.”  
    The youth’s anguish turned to outrage at this charge.  “Your hair is the 
color of the shadows under the ferns as night is falling.  I could never 
forget that.  I could never forget you.  Am I to believe that you could 
forget me?”  
    Mahir’s long fingers stirred the pale tendrils that framed the boy’s 
flawless face.  “Yes,” he lied, “Mirkwood is a place where I stopped for 
some seasons.  You are a boy with a great gift for archery to whom I 
passed on some of my knowledge.  I hope you will continue to practice.  
You have an eye and speed such as I have seldom seen.  It would be a 
shame to waste that talent.”  
    The boy shook his head in disbelief.  “You are lying,” he said, “Why 
would you lie to me?”  
    “Farewell,” Mahir said, and walked away.  
    “Wait!” the boy cried out, but the archer did not stop this time.  
    The youth did not follow the other Elf, as Aragorn expected.  He stood 
rooted to spot, staring at the trees where his friend had disappeared.  
    “What did I do?” he asked softly.  
    When the boy’s gaze came to rest on him, Aragorn stepped back, as 
though to hide.  
    “What did I do?” the boy repeated.  
    “You did nothing,” Aragorn found himself saying, “He had to go.  He 
was not leaving you.”  
    “Why did he say those hurtful things?”  
    “This will seem strange, but he did it to make your parting less painful.”  
    “That is not logical.”  
    “I know.  He hoped to make you angry at him, so you would not miss 
him so much.”  
    “That was foolish, and I still do not understand why he must leave.”  
    “Perhaps the heart of Mirkwood is too tame for him.”  
    “Nay.  He was tired of the borders.  He is happy here,” the boy paused.  
“The only one who is not happy is my father.  He hates Mahir.”  
    Aragorn remembered the soft look in Mahir’s dark eyes when they 
gazed on the fair youth.  If the boy’s father had seen such a look, he might 
well be uneasy.  Elves were doting parents, and this lad was scarcely more 
than a child.  
    “Fathers are often unreasonable,” he said, “But they act from love.”  
    The Elf-lad looked dubiously at the Ranger.  
    “Do not be troubled,” Aragorn said, “Mahir loves you, and did not wish 
to leave you.  Your father loves you, and I am sure many others do as 
well.”  
    “No.  They leave me, or send me away.”  
    “If it is true now, which I doubt, it will not always be so.”  
    “How do you know this?”  
    “Because there is a light in you that will someday outshine even the 
fairness of your face.  Folk will be drawn by it.”  
    “Someday,” the boy said bleakly, and Aragorn heard the tears kept at 
bay by a brave effort.  
    The Ranger went into the garden, and approached the solitary figure.  
Gently, he took, the young Elf in his arms, out-waiting the initial 
stiffness.  Elves were unused to touching strangers, but Aragorn believed 
in the restorative power of such comfort.  He held the lad securely, silently 
promising protection from hurt, offering a pillar on which to lean.  
    The boy wept, profusely but silently, against the Man’s chest.  Then he 
raised his head, and gazed up with tear-dewed eyes.  
    “Thank you,” he mumbled, as he stepped back.  
    Aragorn let him go, not surprised when the youth walked quickly away 
from him without another word.  Elves rarely lost control, never in front of 
mortals.  The Man could easily imagine the lad’s mortification at his 
lapse.  Smiling, the Ranger went back into the Prince’s room, and walked 
to the bed.  Wondering what was keeping Lindir, he lay down again.  
    Feeling chilled, Aragorn reached for the soft wool blanket Lindir had 
tossed on the end of the bed.  His fingers touched nothing but bare rock, 
and his eyes flew open.  The sky above was dark with storm clouds and 
the coming night.  A flickering at the edge of his vision was a fire, over 
which hung several pieces of meat on a makeshift spit.  He came fully 
awake when his eyes puzzled out the strange shapes as roasting human 
limbs.  
    “Do not move.  They will hear you,” a voice whispered.  
    Aragorn rolled his head to the right.  A young Elf in the rags of a 
Tracker’s uniform lay in the firelight, a few feet away from the Ranger.  
The Tracker’s face was hidden by a fall of pale hair, but the blood that ran 
from the gouges inflicted by his bindings was plain enough.  
    “Who are they?” Aragorn asked.  
    “Wild Yrch.  Five of them.”  
    The Ranger’s heart fell.  He had no weapon.  He could not hope to 
defeat five Orcs.  
    “You cannot help me,” the Elf echoed his thoughts, “But I hope you 
will not leave me.”  
    “Never,” Aragorn whispered vehemently, “I will find a way to free 
you.”  
    “I tell you, you cannot.”  
    Aragorn nearly gave himself away when a brawny, bristle-covered arm 
came into his view, and the Elf was snatched off the ground.  The Ranger 
eased onto his stomach, and peered around the boulder that so fortuitously 
hid him from the Orcs.  His blood boiled as he watched the brutes send the 
Elf careening from hand to hand, dealing out punches, kicks and bites 
before shoving him to the next monster.  Abruptly, Aragorn dropped his 
head, clenching his fists until the overwhelming need to attack the Orcs 
passed.  
    When Aragorn was able to look again, the Elf’s ankles had been bound 
to either end of a stout cudgel.  An Orc grasped the Tracker’s arms in cruel 
grip, while the largest of their number forced the prisoner to his knees.  
When the big Orc knelt behind the Elf, Aragorn began to move around the 
rock.  He was stopped in his tracks when he met the Tracker’s eyes, and 
recognized Legolas.  The message the Elf wished to convey was clear.  
Aragorn eased back into concealment, and held the Prince’s gaze 
throughout the ordeal.  
    The Orc leader exposed its gnarled root, and called out something that 
made the others hoot with lunatic laughter.  The Orc by the fire came over, 
and smeared a handful of fat between the Elf’s buttocks.  Black claws 
gripped slim white hips, punching red holes in the delicate skin.  The Elf 
refused to cry out, which, predictably, made the beasts determined to force 
a scream from him.  The Tracker’s teeth clamped down on his lower lip as 
the rough tip of the wart-covered shaft rasped against sensitive skin, and 
then rammed forward.  
    Aragorn lost contact with the Elf’s eyes only once during the assault 
when the Ranger leaned over, and retched involuntarily.  He quickly 
mastered himself, and resumed his vigil.  
    The pack of brutes had gathered close around the rape, drool running 
from the corners of their slack lips.  They urged their leader on with coarse 
grunts and bellows of crude laughter.  The big Orc plowed into the Elf 
with no regard for the tender flesh it was rending.  The sight of blood on 
its knurled rod excited it to new heights of arousal.  
    Leaning over its victim, the Orc sank its fangs into the slender neck.  It 
growled, and the beast holding the Elf’s wrists jumped back to avoid a 
slashing talon.  The big Orc forced the Elf’s head to the ground, and thrust 
brutally.  Still, the prisoner would not cry out, which did not please the 
Orc.  With a sly gleam in its red-rimmed eyes, the monster reached around 
the Elf, and wrapped its huge claw around the shrinking groin.  
    Aragorn had to look away as the monster finally wrung a sound from 
the brave Tracker.  When the Elf cried out again in utter despair, the 
Ranger could not keep his silent vow.  He rose to his feet, and ran at the 
Orcs.  Their surprise allowed Aragorn time to reach the leader, and rip out 
its throat with stiffened fingers.  It fell off of the Elf, black blood 
fountaining from its torn neck, and the others lunged for the Ranger.  
    As Aragorn spun away, the Elf pulled against his bonds, disregarding 
the damage he did to his flesh.  The leather parted with an audible pop, 
and the Tracker bent to untie his ankles.  The Ranger did his best to elude 
the Orcs until he could dodge his way to the fire.  As he had hoped, the 
beasts’ belongings lay strewn about.  Snatching up a pitted sword, he 
turned to face the Orcs.  As he attacked, the Elf joined the fray, using the 
same technique Aragorn had to slash the tough hides of the Orcs with his 
bare hands.  Then the Tracker got hold of a blade, and, in a matter of 
moments, he and the Ranger had dispatched the pack of wild Orcs.  
    “That is all of them, Legolas,” Aragorn said.  
    “Nay,” said the red-spattered apparition.  “There is one devil left.”  
    “That is most unkind,” said a voice of silk and steel.  
    “Haldir,” Aragorn said, as the Elf appeared behind Legolas.  
    Haldir gripped the Prince by the hair, and lowered his face to a gory 
shoulder.  The Lorien Elf licked black blood from Legolas’ neck, as he 
raised his eyes to meet Aragorn’s.  
    “Bitter,” Haldir said, with a smile, “I know where to find sweeter.”  
    Haldir’s teeth sank into the Prince’s neck, and Aragorn started toward 
them.  
    “You cannot have him, shade of Haldir,” the Ranger said, “You are not 
real.  I will not lose this pure soul to the demons that haunt his tortured 
mind.”  
    “He chooses me,” Haldir’s seeming said, “There is naught you can do.  
You are no more real than I am.”  
    “You are mistaken,” the Ranger said, as he pulled Haldir away from 
Legolas.  
    The wraith of Haldir cried out as the Healer’s hands fell on it.  “Would 
you take my place, Elessar?” the creature spat.  
    “If that is what I must do, I will do it,” Aragorn answered, “Begone, 
figment.”  
    Haldir’s image faded, and the Ranger caught the Prince as Legolas fell.  
    “I have got you,” Aragorn said, “And I will not leave you.”  
    “Release me from my torment,” Legolas begged.  
    This is the spirit world, Aragorn told himself, what happens here is an 
illusion.  He told this to himself many times, but knew it was not true.  
What happened in the intangible world reverberated in the physical realm, 
and the Ranger feared the consequences of his actions.  However, it was 
impossible for him to stand idle when a soul was in distress.  
    “How may I give you surcease of pain?” Aragorn asked.  
    The Ranger was rocked to his core when Legolas’ lips closed over his 
in a ravenous kiss.  He had spoken bravely to Haldir’s revenant, but could 
he take the Marchwarden’s place in this dark dance?  Then the Elf’s 
tongue moved against his, and Aragorn had his answer.  The Man 
tightened his arms around the slender frame, and returned the kiss with 
equal fire.  His hands rose to cradle the delicate skull, thumbs caressing 
the sensitive ears, as he pressed Legolas against a boulder.  The Elf’s 
fingers dug into the Man’s back, as Aragorn reached between them to 
unfasten both their leggings.  Legolas hooked a leg around the Ranger’s 
hip, grasped Aragorn’s hot hardness, and seated it at his opening.  With no 
further ado, and little finesse, the Man pushed, driving his rod into the 
unlubricated passage.  The Elf screamed as he was penetrated, but 
clutched Aragorn to him with a strength that would not be denied.  
Fighting to keep from losing himself in the madness, the Ranger paused, 
his staff lodged deep within the Prince.  
    “It does not have to be about pain,” he whispered in one elegantly 
upswept ear, “Softly, mellon, let me take your suffering from you.  It does 
not have to be whipped from your body.  You’ve done naught you need be 
punished for.  You deserve love, and I shall give it to you.  Do you hear 
me, melme nin?”  
    Legolas shivered at the endearment, and Aragorn wondered at himself 
for uttering it.  Then the Elf melted against him, and the Ranger put aside 
his thoughts to concentrate on healing this precious one.  Almost 
imperceptibly, Aragorn moved in Legolas’ sheath, each delicate thrust 
sending waves of pleasure rippling through both.  In a few moments, the 
Elf picked up the Ranger’s rhythm, moving his hips in concert with 
Aragorn’s subtle stroke.  Aragorn met Legolas’ eyes, pleased to see that 
the shadows had fled the celestial blue.  He leaned in, and took the Elf’s 
lips in a deep, slow kiss that triggered Legolas’ release.  The Ranger’s 
tongue moved in the Elf’s mouth, as his rod slid in the tight scabbard, and, 
to his surprise, he came powerfully, snugly ensconced in the sweetest 
place he’d ever known.  He relinquished the sweet mouth to put his lips to 
the pointed ear, and whisper of his love.  
    The carnage-strewn rockscape wavered, and dissolved.  Around 
Aragorn were the formless mists of the realm between.  His arms were 
empty.  
    “Legolas,” he called.  
    “I am here.”  The Elf stepped from the veils of translucent silver-grey, 
as whole and perfect as he was meant to be.  
    “Come,” Aragorn said, holding out his hand.  
    “You offer me your hand?”  
    “I do,” the Ranger said gravely, “I will honor the bond of the life I 
reclaim.”  Somehow, Aragorn had always known that he would bind 
himself to an Elf.  Before his eyes rose the beautiful face of the daughter 
of Elrond, his foster-sister, Arwen Undomiel, as she had looked at his 
departure from Rivendell.  He thought he had seen the yearning there that 
he knew was in his own eyes.  However, she did not speak, and he dared 
not.  Aragorn did not wish to be alone, and the son of Thranduil was a 
meet companion.  
    “Will you come with me?” Aragorn asked.  
    “Lead me from this place,” Legolas said, taking the Man’s hand, “I 
have been too long alone.”  
 
    Lindir paused in the doorway at a sound he had not heard in far too 
long.  Then his face brightened in a smile, and he hurried into the 
bedchamber.  Prince Legolas sat on the balcony railing, laughing at 
something the Dunedain had said or done.  Lindir’s nose prickled, and his 
eyelids grew warm with tears of joy.  Aragorn had called the Prince home, 
and Legolas was merrier than ever Lindir had seen him.  
    “This is a glad meeting,” Lindir said.  
    Legolas jumped down from the balustrade, and Aragorn’s hand moved 
instinctively to steady the Prince.  Legolas wrapped his fingers around the 
Ranger’s for a moment, before he hurried forward to embrace Lindir.  
    “King Thranduil will be overjoyed to hear this news,” Lindir smiled.  
    “Then you may give it to him, mellon,” Legolas smiled back.  “I will 
stay, and rest, as my doctor advises.”  
    “Thank you, Aragorn,” Lindir said, inclining his head in the Elvish 
manner, “I shall tell the King what part you had in bringing the Prince 
back to us.”  
    “I but accompanied him on the journey,” Aragorn said, “He came back 
by his own strength.”  
    “That is but a half-truth,” Legolas chided gently.  
    Aragorn embraced the Prince, as Lindir hurried away to take the glad 
tidings to the King.  The Elf held still for several moments before he 
began to fidget, and Aragorn released him.  The Ranger was not anxious 
because Legolas had left his arms.  He knew the Elf would never truly 
leave him again.  Neither need ever be alone.  
 
 
Stardust and Gold Part 3 - In the Figure of a Lamb by bailey  
baileymoyes@hotmail.com  
Not my characters, alas.  I make no profit from them, alackaday.  
No warnings.  
Pre-Fellowship  
An early adventure of our lone Ranger, and his faithful companion.  
 
    “Aragorn will come to us soon,” Adun said to his fellow Ranger.  
    Raen pushed the hood back from his face, and squinted up at the 
westering sun.  “I hope you are right, my brother.  He has been fostered 
for many years among Elfkind.  It is time his people became acquainted 
with him.  
    “Aye.  Tis a pity he is known only to a handful of Rangers.  However, 
once he is here, he will win them, as he won us.  I would follow him into 
Sauron’s sitting-room.”  
    “As would I,” Raen answered, “Whether or not he ever wears a crown, 
Aragorn is our king.”  
    “What could keep him so long now he has reached his majority?” Adun 
asked rhetorically.  
    Raen answered anyway, glad of a chance to tease his shield-brother.  
“Hyrun would have it that it is the daughter of Elrond that keeps Aragorn 
in Rivendell.”  
    “Arwen,” Adun said knowingly, “Called the Evenstar by her people.  If 
the tales of her beauty are true, she would be reason enough to linger in 
Imladris.”  
    “To be sure,” Raen said, amused, as always, by Adun’s insistence on 
using the old names, “And who could fault him for tarrying?”  
    “None here present,” said a vibrant voice.  
    Both sentries leaped to their feet, hands reaching blindly for the swords 
at their sides.  They drew their weapons, but both realized who the speaker 
was at the same moment, and lowered their blades.  
    “Aragorn!” Raen called out.  
    Aragorn stepped from the forest, much closer than the two Rangers had 
expected.  Their surprise was doubled when they saw that he had a 
companion.  
    “Well met, Aragorn,” Adun greeted the returning Ranger while his eyes 
followed the Elf, “You have been too long away.”  
    “Aye,” Raen grinned, “Anytime you are away is too long a time.”  
    “I am happy to be back among you,” Aragorn said, returning Raen’s 
one-armed embrace, “Do you think you might put away your sword now?”  
    Raen complied, the smile never leaving his face.  
    “You have brought one of the Galadhrim with you,” Adun said.  
    Aragorn clapped a hand to Legolas’ shoulder, and the Elf controlled his 
flinch.  The Man liked to touch him; he would grow accustomed to it.  
    “He is Legolas,” Aragorn said, “Son of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood.”  
    “I thought you must be royalty,” Adun addressed Legolas, “Well met, 
Legolas, son of Thranduil.”  
    Legolas met Adun’s eyes, and then his gaze flicked to Aragorn.  
    Aragorn smiled.  “This is Adun, and this is Raen,” he said simply.  
    “Adun and Raen,” the Elf repeated, in a voice like the first snowfall, “I 
am honored to meet you.”  
    “We do not often see Elves in the North,” Raen said, “And only from a 
distance.”  
    “You shall see much of this one,” Aragorn said, “Legolas will bide with 
us for a while.”  
    Rangers are not easily taken unaware, but the sentries had difficulty 
masking their surprise at Aragorn’s casual revelation.  Then Adun broke 
the silence.  
    “Your bow will be welcome on patrol, Legolas,” he said, “I doubt not 
that you are skilled with it.”  
    “He is a marvel,” Aragorn said decisively, “And you will have 
opportunity to learn it, but now we will go on to the camp for we have 
traveled far today.”  
    “Go on as you are until you reach water.  We are camped upstream,” 
Raen said.  
    Aragorn nodded his thanks.  His fingers grazed the Elf’s elbow, and 
they sprang away through the trees.  
    Raen turned to look at Adun, brows raised in silent inquiry.  Adun 
shook his head slightly as his gaze returned to the spot where Aragorn and 
Legolas had disappeared.  
    “A Prince of Mirkwood,” Raen said provocatively.  
    Adun took the bait.  “I knew he was of high lineage as soon as I saw 
him.  All Elves are fair, but the most ancient bloodlines have a lofty sort of 
beauty, flawless features that would be forbidding but for the sweetness of 
expression.”  
    “You are a bard, Adun,” Raen teased.  
    “I am a seeker of Lore,” Adun said, “Unlike others that believe mastery 
of arms is sufficient.”  
    “Who are these barbarians of which you speak?” Raen glanced about as 
though expecting to see Wild Men lurking in the undergrowth.  
    Adun ignored Raen’s facetious remark.  “Why do you think the Elf 
came here?” he asked.  
    “If you have knowledge of the workings of the Elvish mind, I pray you, 
enlighten me.”  
    “I have not heard Aragorn speak of this Legolas before, and yet he 
seemed well-acquainted with the Prince,” Adun said.  
    “Aragorn has visited Mirkwood before,” Raen said.  
    “Of that I knew.  Why would he not therefore say, ‘Look you, Raen and 
Adun, I have been to Mirkwood and I met the King’s son called Legolas.’  
Eh?  Why would he not mention it?”  
    “Aragorn is less free in his speech these days,” Raen said.  
    “Aye, tis true,” Adun sighed, “His time with the Elves makes him 
melancholy.”  
    “Nay.  They lighten his heart.  Perhaps that is why he brought Legolas 
here.”  
    “Did you hear Aragorn’s voice when he spoke the Prince’s name?” 
Adun said, as though he had not heard his shield-brother.  “Such regard 
for one he can only have known for a short time.”  
    “Aragorn reveres the Elves.  You know this, Adun.  You revere the 
Galadhrim, as you call them.”  
    “I respect them,” Adun corrected, “And I have admiration for their 
sense of honor.  It is a bit different than the honor of Men, more . . . 
practical.”  
    “How very illuminating,” Raen said, “But I doubt me it was Legolas’ 
honor that first pulled Aragorn to him.  For you are right, I see a bond 
between them, as well.  I would hazard that Aragorn met Legolas at a time 
when the king’s son was in need of healing.”  
    “Aye.  Aragorn would not refuse a soul in need.  But what solace would 
an Elf ask of a Man?”  
    “Aragorn has great power to heal.  You have seen this.”  
    “I have felt it,” Adun said, “Did you mark how close he stood to the 
Elf?  How he could not refrain from touching him?”  
    “I said I saw a bond between them.  How did you imagine that I 
recognized it?”  
    “I do not impugn your powers of observation,” Adun said, “I but make 
one of my own.”  
    “And shall make many more, no doubt.”  
    This time Adun ignored the lure to badinage.  “No doubt.  For I think 
this Prince of the Wild wood will be cause of much interest in the coming 
days.”  
    “Save us from interesting days,” Raen said fervently, as though the 
words were a charm to ward off evil.  
    “May it be,” Adun answered.  
 
    “You believe this to be its lair?” Aragorn said.  His voice held no 
skepticism, only a request for confirmation.  
    “Aye.” Adun leaned over Aragorn’s shoulder, as he spoke.  “Look at 
the bones around the entrance, and the height of the marks.”  
    Aragorn nodded.  He had already noted the scattered bones of large 
animals, tumbled carelessly down the incline in front of the cave.  The 
sides, and the ceiling, of the entrance were blackened with greasy smudges 
where the thing rubbed against the rock on its way in and out.  
    “I wish someone had seen it,” Aragorn said, “Perhaps I should have 
talked to the child’s mother.”  
    “She saw nothing,” Adun said, “It was dark, and the child was snatched 
through an open window.  A glimpse of a giant claw is all she 
remembers.”  
    Aragorn drew back behind the rocks.  “I do not hold out much hope for 
the child,” he said.  
    “I prepared the mother as best as I could,” Adun said, “And I promised 
her we would kill the beast.”  
    “And we shall,” Aragorn said, “Let us join Legolas and Raen.”  
 
    “I tell you I heard a child call out,” Raen said.  
    “I heard nothing,” Legolas said.  
    “It came from that cleft.  I will go closer.”  
    “I heard nothing,” Legolas repeated, “We should wait for the others.”  
    “Are you coming with me?” Raen asked.  
    Legolas did not think it was a good idea, and was trying to think of a 
polite way to tell the Man, when Raen moved away.  The Elf sprang after 
the Ranger as he nimbly navigated the gauntlet of freestanding boulders 
and slippery shale.  They reached the rock wall, and Raen began to make 
his way nearer to the dark, narrow opening.  
    “There!  You must have heard that,” Raen said, as he moved forward.  
    Legolas drew breath to call out to Raen to stop, but the words never left 
his mouth.  
    ‘I smell you, Exile.’  
    A fell voice echoed in the Elf’s mind, a malevolent voice so ancient that 
the weight of its years threatened to smother the spirit.  Legolas froze, 
pressed against the stone, afraid to move lest he attract the presence, as 
well as the attention, of the speaker.  
    ‘I have not had one of your kind in long and long.  Come to me, child of 
the Eldar.’  
    A shiver ran the length of Legolas’ body.  A shadow fell on him, 
sinking into his skin, polluting his blood, and spreading poison to every 
particle of his being.  He stood paralyzed, and watched the Ranger slip 
into the crack in the rock.  He knew Raen went to his death, but he could 
not move.  
    ‘Come, sweet one,’ the voice spoke again,  ‘Why do you not come?  I 
know you hear my call.’  
    Legolas shuddered uncontrollably, as sweat broke out on his cold skin.  
The will of the lurker in the dark was strong, and it had conquered the 
spirits of Elves before.  It was subtle rather than brutish, and though he 
resisted with all his strength, Legolas found himself being dragged 
inexorably forward.  
    ‘Ah, you have sent a morsel ahead to whet my appetite.’  
    Legolas flinched as Raen cried out in mortal agony.  He must go into 
the cave.  He must help the Ranger.  Every muscle in the Elf’s body stood 
out in stark relief as he struggled with his dread.  
    ‘He did not last long enough.  Come to me.  You cannot refuse.’  
    “Legolas!”  
    Aragorn’s voice broke the spell of the evil in the cave.  
    “Raen,” Legolas said hoarsely.  
    Aragorn’s eyes went immediately to the dark slash in the rock face.  In 
the next instant, he was moving toward it, sword drawn.  Legolas lunged 
at the Man, and caught him by the elbow.  
    “No,” the Elf gasped, “Do not.”  
    Aragorn looked at Legolas in concern.  Never had he seen an Elf in 
such a state.  Legolas’ eyes were wide, the pupils reduced to pinpoints.  
His breathing was labored, and shivers chased one another across his 
flesh.  
    “What distresses you?” Aragorn asked.  
    “He’s scared out of his wits,” Adun said.  
    The idea of Legolas afraid was so unlikely that Aragorn took another 
look at the Elf.  Now, he saw the signs of extreme terror for what they 
were.  
    “What is it?” Aragorn asked, “What could frighten you so badly?”  
    Legolas drew a deep breath, and forced his tongue to move.  “I know 
not what it is but that it is old, older than my father, older than Lady 
Galadriel, maybe older than this mountain, and it is evil.”  The Elf 
dropped his eyes.  “I warned Raen not to go in, but he imagined he heard a 
child.  He ran inside before I could tell him it was a lure.  I heard him cry 
out, and I fear he is dead.”  
    “You fear!” Adun said, “Why did you not go with him?”  
    Legolas swallowed, and raised his head to face the Men.  “I could not,” 
he whispered.  
    “You let Raen go to his death alone?” Adun said angrily, “Why did you 
bring this coward here, Aragorn?”  
    “Legolas is no craven,” Aragorn said, but his eyes met the Elf’s 
doubtfully.  
    “Why are we standing here?” Adun grated, “If Raen is dead, let us 
recover his body.”  
    “No,” Legolas cried out, “Do not go in there.  You will be slain as 
well.”  
    “Then we will die with our comrade,” Adun said, “It may not be the 
way of the Elves, but Men do not leave their loved ones behind, alive or 
dead.”  
    “Aragorn, no,” Legolas said urgently, “You must not enter the 
darkness.  That is its domain.  If you go in, you will not come out again as 
Aragorn.”  
    The Elf stood close enough for Aragorn to feel the tremors that still 
coursed through his body.  He met Legolas’ eyes again, looking long into 
the fathomless depths.  Then he turned to Adun.  
    “We will not enter the cave now,” he said, “We will wait until Legolas 
tells us it is safe.”  
    Adun stared at Aragorn.  “You mean not to go after Raen?”  
    “I believe that Raen is beyond our help, and that the thing that killed 
him is beyond our strength.  When it has withdrawn, we will bring Raen 
out of the darkness, and do him honor.”  
    “I never thought I would see this,” Adun hissed, “A Ranger afraid to 
face a foe.”  
    “A Ranger must be wise as well as brave,” Aragorn answered calmly, 
“It would do Raen no good for us to waste our lives.”  
    “At least he would have company,” Adun said bitterly, as he turned 
from Aragorn.  
    “Adun, you will not go in there,” Aragorn said in a tone of 
unmistakable command.  
    “As you will,” Adun mumbled as he walked a short distance away.  
    “I am sorry,” Legolas whispered miserably.  
    Aragorn gripped the Elf’s shoulder hearteningly.  “It is not your fault,” 
he said.  
    “I could do nothing against its power,” the Elf said, “It was in my 
mind.  It . . . saw me, and I felt its thoughts.  It gloated over what it would 
do once I was in its claws.”  
    Legolas shuddered violently, and abruptly bent double.  Aragorn 
gathered a handful of the Elf’s pale hair, but Legolas only retched dryly a 
few times, before straightening up again.  His eyes were bright with 
unshed tears as he looked helplessly at the Man.  Aragorn put his arms 
around the slender body, and held the Elf for a few moments.  
    “It is all right,” Aragorn murmured, “You did nothing wrong.  There are 
some evils beyond what we can bear.”  
    Legolas dropped his head to the Man’s shoulder, as if shutting out the 
sights of this world.  Aragorn tightened his embrace, promising comfort 
and protection from harm.  He caught Adun’s disgusted look, and gazed 
mildly back over the top of the Elf’s head.  He was sorry for Adun’s loss, 
a loss to the whole troop, but it was beyond mending.  Adun would soon 
come to understand, but Aragorn knew the tall Ranger would be difficult 
for a time.  
    After several moments, Aragorn felt the body in his arms begin to 
relax.  He released the Elf, peering anxiously at his face.  The unfocused 
look was gone; the Legolas he knew looked back from the summer 
twilight eyes.  
    “It has moved deeper into the ground,” Legolas said.  
    “Is it safe to go in?” Aragorn asked, not wishing to misunderstand.  
    “Safe?  I know not, but it is far below us now.”  
    “Adun,” Aragorn called, “Come.”  
    Adun moved toward the opening in the rock.  Aragon looked 
inquiringly at the Elf, but Legolas hung back.  
    “I cannot,” Legolas said wretchedly, “Forgive me, mellon.”  
    “There is nothing to forgive,” Aragorn said, “Guard our backs until we 
return.”  
    Legolas had never felt so low in his life as he did at the moment 
Aragorn’s form passed from the sunlight into the shadow of the cave.  
Every part of him clamored to follow that brave, upright figure going 
willingly into danger to recover the remains of a comrade.  However, 
something in the deepest recesses of his mind kept him rooted to the spot.  
He knew that if he entered the lair of the devil in the dark, that he would 
not emerge again as Legolas Greenleaf.  
 
    When Aragorn and Adun carried the meager, cloak-wrapped remains of 
Raen into camp, there was a rapid, rising storm of questions that ceased 
abruptly when the Captain strode into their midst.  
    Captain Hyrun dispersed the small crowd, and spoke quietly with 
Aragorn and Adun, while Legolas stood to the side.  Hyrun glanced once 
at the Elf in response to Adun’s angry gesture, but the captain’s face was 
composed.  After hearing the story of Raen’s death from the Rangers, 
Hyrun beckoned to Legolas.  With a few short questions, Hyrun was 
satisfied that he had the truth of the matter.  He ordered the two Men and 
the Elf to join the others, who were taking the evening meal.  Hyrun then 
detailed two Rangers to take away Raen’s remains to be prepared for an 
honorable burial among kin.  
 
    The somber mood of the camp did not lift as night drew on.  Aragorn 
walked past men whose faces were downcast with sorrow and dark with 
anger.  He knew the cause of both, and sought Adun to further explain the 
decision not to enter the cave right away.  He was unable to find Adun, but 
encountered the Captain near the picket line of horses.  Hyrun detained the 
young Ranger to speak further of Raen’s death.  Aragorn answered in as 
much detail as possible, but his need to find Adun distracted him.  
    Hyrun attributed Aragorn’s wandering eyes and momentary lapses in 
hearing to his grief over a companion’s passing, and resolved not to keep 
the boy long.  The Captain was still getting used to the fact that the heir of 
Isildur was under his command.  
    Aragorn reminded himself of his duty, and tried not to fidget, as the 
captain asked another question.  His eyes made another circuit of the 
campfire, while he answered, but Adun was not there.  
 
    “It is not easy to speak with you alone,” Adun said, as he approached 
the Elf.  
    Legolas lifted his chin, and met the Man’s eyes, as Adun stopped before 
him.  “We are alone now,” he said.  
    “I have not come to berate you with your fault.  You failed Raen, and 
now he is dead.  That cannot be changed,” the Ranger said calmly, 
“However, I do not have to let it happen again without attempting to 
prevent it.  You should go, Elf.  Go back to your trees and birdsong, 
before you cause the death of another of my brothers.  That is all I wish to 
say.”  
    Legolas stood in stony silence, as the Man turned from him.  As Adun 
walked away, the Elf called softly after him.  
    “I am sorry,” Legolas said.  
    “Save your apologies for Aragorn,” Adun said without turning, “Raen 
was my shield-brother, but he was kin to Aragorn’s mother.”  
    If Adun had been the sort who did such things, he would have looked 
back to see the effect of his words. However, he was not, and so did not 
see the utter dismay that reshaped the Elf’s sculpted features.  Adun was 
not the kind of man who enjoyed the suffering of others.  He simply 
wanted a potential danger removed, and had determined that this was the 
quickest method.  Having loosed his shot, the Ranger left the Elf alone.  
 
    “Adun,” Aragorn called, as the other Ranger entered the campfire’s 
circle of light, “I have been looking for you.”  
    “You have found me,” Adun said non-committally.  
    “I would speak with you.”  
    Adun nodded and followed Aragorn a short distance from the fire.  
    “I know you are aggrieved,” Aragorn said, “You know I grieve, as well, 
but it is not meet that you should spread such talk as you have.”  
    “Would you forbid me to speak the truth?”  
    “I would have you hold your tongue when you have naught worthy to 
say.”  
    Adun drew back before the other man’s natural majesty.  “I will do as 
you bid me, heir of Isildur, but I tell you that you are so bespelled you 
cannot see past the Elf’s pretty eyes.”  
    “You must speak more plainly,” Aragorn said in a carefully neutral 
voice.  
    “It is nothing to me,” Adun said, “But if you had to bring one of the 
Galadhrim here, why did you not choose a warrior and shield-brother 
rather than a silk and porcelain consort.”  
    “That was plain,” Aragorn acknowledged grimly, “Now let me return 
the courtesy.  Though untrue, your words are not the insult you imagine 
them to be.  Legolas may be wrought of seafoam and moonlight, and 
would, I grant you, be an alluring lover, but he is also the deadliest fighter 
I have ever seen.”  
    “It did not avail Raen.”  
    “Forgive me, Adun, I loved Raen, but he was impetuous.  He should not 
have gone into the cave alone.”  
    “He would not have been alone if . . .”  
    “He should have heeded Legolas’ warning,” Aragorn interrupted, “If 
Legolas had gone in, we would have carried two bodies back to camp.  If 
we had ever found them.”  
    “We do not know that it happened as the Elf says.”  
    “I know,” Aragorn said, “Legolas does not lie.”  
    Adun looked closely at the younger Ranger.  “I have known you longer 
than most, Aragorn,” he said, “I guarded you from the cradle.  I was 
among those who escorted Gilraen safely to the court of Imladris.  I was 
one of the few privileged to know of your existence, and see you grow to 
manhood, albeit from a distance.  I had the training of you as a Ranger 
when you came of suitable age.  I thought I had seen you in all moods, but 
this one is strange to me.  You begin to make me think you are more Elf 
than Man now.”  
    “I am of the Dunedain,” Aragorn said, with a slight lift of his chin.  
    Adun could not help but feel a flush of pride at the regal fire in the lad’s 
eyes, but he must speak his mind.  “Then you will not mind some advice.  
There is talk amongst the Rangers, and it started before Raen’s death.  
Some say that you have taken on Elvish customs that have no place here.  
You may do as you will, but if you have a care for the good will of this 
troop, you will send the Elf away.”  
    “You say this, of all people?” Aragorn was incredulous.  
    “Perhaps you wish me to be even plainer?  It is one thing to find 
surcease of loneliness for an hour in a comrade’s arms, it is quite another 
to lose your heart and will in a bond with a Galadhrim.”  
    “We share a bond, but he is not my bondmate,” Aragorn said evenly, 
“Though I would not shun him.  I would deem you to have few enough 
troubles if your minds have idle time to dwell on such things as who 
shares my blankets.”  
    “You are young, Aragorn, and the young are granted much leeway, but 
you must be mindful that you are the descendant of Isildur and heir to 
Gondor.”  
    “I cannot forget it,” Aragorn said, in a rare display of temper, “I am 
reminded of it at every turn. I have not taken a free breath since Elrond 
told me who and what I was.  Everything I have done since that day has 
been in service to a dream held by the remnants of a proud but nearly 
forgotten people.  You know I have dedicated myself to preserving our 
way of life, and you would take me to task for the companion I have 
chosen?”  
    “It is the worthiness of your chosen companion that I question,” Adun 
answered, “He is fair beyond any fair my eyes have seen, and he is a 
Prince, but is he the one to guard your back?”  
    “You have not seen him fight.”  
    “Nay, but I wish to.”  
    “That is an unchancy wish, Adun.  I hope you do not have cause to 
regret it.”  
    “I do not say these things to hurt you, Aragorn,” Adun said, “I am 
concerned for you.”  
    Aragorn dropped his eyes.  “I know,” he said softly, “But you cannot 
choose what is right for me as you did when I was a stripling.  On a time, 
you knew every detail of my life for you had the ordering of it.  Now, 
there is much you are not privy to.  You do not know what cause I have to 
befriend Legolas, and I will not tell you of it until the memory has dulled 
somewhat.  But you know me, Adun.  You had a hand in the shaping of 
me.  Would I choose an unworthy companion?”  
    “I would say no, but he is an Elf, imbued with the magic of his Race.”  
    “Aye, he has magic,” Aragorn agreed, “But only the minds of the weak 
may be clouded by it.  The magic you would seem to envy by your tone is 
as much a curse to them as a blessing.  They are connected to the pure 
power that dwells in everything living, but the radiance of their spirits is a 
beacon for all manner of evil.”  
    “That would not seem to recommend an Elf as a companion,” Adun 
said, and Aragorn was glad to hear a note of humor in the Man’s voice.  
    “We will find this monster, and kill it,” Aragorn said, “Are you with 
me?”  
    “If you go, what else would I do but follow you,” Adun said wearily.  
    Aragorn noted how the firelight picked out splinters of silver in Adun’s 
dark beard.  He reached out, and grasped the other man’s forearm.  
    “You do me much honor,” Isildur’s heir said gravely.  
    “I not only believe you to be my liege,” Adun said, gripping Aragorn’s 
arm in turn, “But a good man as well.  We will avenge Raen.”  
    “And you will stop speaking ill of Legolas to the others?”  
    “I will speak the truth,” Adun said, “But only if ordered to.  Will that 
content you?”  
    “Only by half, but I will not scorn it.  Good even, Adun.  We will wake 
early.”  
    Adun nodded grimly.  “Good even, my Prince.  I hope you know I 
speak only out of concern for the lives of the men in this patrol, yours 
above all.”  
    “I do know.  Be at peace.”   Aragorn turned and walked away to seek 
his blankets.  
    Adun watched Aragorn move away from him.  The young Ranger was a 
well-knit man with the stamp of the line of Elendil in his features, and the 
light of majesty in his eyes.  He was the hope of his people, and Adun 
vowed that he would allow no harm to come to the heir of Gondor’s 
throne simply because he had ignored the warning signs of danger.  
 
    “Legolas,” Aragorn called out softly, as he approached the campsite he 
had chosen.  
    “I am here,” the Elf’s etched crystal voice called back.  
    “I have spoken with Adun,” Aragorn said, “He has more understanding 
now.”  
    The Elf didn’t answer, but that was not uncommon.  Aragorn often 
found himself talking for several minutes at a time while Legolas listened 
in rapt silence.  
    “The Rangers will go in the morning, and kill the thing in the cave.  
You should not go.  If this evil has power over your mind, you might 
prove a danger . . .”  
    “You will not go without me,” Legolas interrupted.  
    “I think it would be better if . . .”  
    “You think I am still frightened, and you would shield me.  Thank you, 
but it is . . . unnecessary.”  
    “Very well then,” Aragorn said, “We will rise early.”  
    “My knives are sharp,” Legolas said, “I whetted them while I waited for 
you.”  
    “You are very practical,” Aragorn said.  
    “Mortals seem to be very fond of giving and receiving compliments.”  
    “Go to sleep, Legolas.”  
    “I am asleep,” the Elf answered.  
    Aragorn rolled himself in his blankets, wishing he knew for certain 
whether or not Legolas was joking.  It was very hard to tell when the Elf 
was displaying dry humor or just being literal, as was Elfkind’s wont.  
Isildur’s heir decided it didn’t matter, as he fell asleep with a smile on his 
lips.  
 
 
    “There it is,” Adun said almost soundlessly.  
    Aragorn peered through the leaves, and saw random movement.  Then 
the thing entered the clearing, and he got a good look at it, before it 
reached the cave entrance.  At nearly three meters tall, it was the biggest 
Orc Aragorn had ever seen.  Fangs like tusks pushed out of its gash of a 
mouth, scoring raw grooves in its muzzle.  Its long arms hung to its knees, 
ending in talons crusted with dried blood.  Tufts of stiff hair grew in a 
stripe down its neck and back, and sprouted from its shoulders, obviously 
the source of the greasy stripes at the opening of the cave.  
    “No,” Legolas breathed in Aragorn’s ear.  “That is not the being that 
assaulted my mind.”  
    “It lives in the cave,” Aragorn said reasonably.  
    “Aye, but the Yrch is not the evil I sense lurking in the darkness.”  
    “Are we going to signal the others?” Adun asked.  
    Aragorn nodded.  “Let us bring the beast to bay, and rid the folk 
hereabout of its menace.”  
    Adun whistled to the captain, and received a signal in return.  “We go,” 
he said.  
    The huge Orc had disappeared from sight into the fissure.  Adun looked 
to Aragorn, and the young Ranger nodded toward the dark entrance.  Adun 
grinned, and crept away through the undergrowth.  In moments, the 
Ranger had reached a boulder beside the cave.  
    “Are you ready?” Aragorn asked the Elf.  
    Legolas nodded, and followed the man up the slope.  
 
    Adun walked in front, a half-shuttered lantern in one hand and his 
sword in the other.  Aragorn came next, with a sword in either hand, a 
long blade in his right hand, a stabbing dirk in his left.  Legolas had drawn 
one of his long knives, and held it at the ready.  The Elf’s other hand 
rested lightly on Aragorn’s back, the touch betraying the depth of his 
anxiety.  
    They made their way stealthily through a short reeking tunnel that 
abruptly opened out into a space twice as high and an unguessed distance 
longer.  The two Rangers and the Elf made their way across the chamber 
along the left hand wall and found another tunnel leading downward.  
Aragorn signaled, and Adun led them into the tube of rock.  
    “We are moving east,” Aragorn whispered.  
    Adun nodded.  “If we continue east, we should encounter the captain 
and his team.”  
    Aragorn nodded.  The Rangers were entering the cave system in teams 
of three and four through every known entrance.  They would converge on 
the monster, and slay it.  
    Adun opened the lantern’s shutter a shade wider as he turned to look 
over his shoulder.  
    “I wager we find the devil first,” he said.  
    The lantern’s light ran up the wall to the ceiling as it swung violently in 
Adun’s hand before flying free to crash on the stone floor.  It was of 
Dwarvish make and did not break, but kept shining brightly.  It gave 
enough light for Adun’s companions to see the thing that snatched him up 
in its claws, and fled down the side tunnel.  Without exchanging a word or 
a glance, Man and Elf ran after the giant Orc.  Their chase ended abruptly 
when the thing yanked a rock from the wall in passing, and a great mass 
rumbled into place, blocking the path.  A small hole in the center, near the 
top, allowed them to see the dim silhouette of the Orc, and the Man 
thrown over its shoulder.  
    “Did you not sense it?” Aragorn demanded of Legolas.  
    “Did you not smell it?” the Elf returned.  
    “You are right,” Aragorn said, “I should have smelled it.  The reek of 
rotting meat is all around but it should have grown stronger as the thing 
approached.”  
    “We are being played with,” the Elf said, “We have entered the lurker’s 
domain, and fallen under its power.”  
    Aragorn looked sharply at the Elf.  “Can we not fight it?”  
    “If we are very, very strong.”  
    “Then we must be very, very strong,” Aragorn said.  His fingers circled 
the Elf’s wrist, feeling the old scars that were fast fading from Elvish 
flesh.  “We should fetch the lantern, and see what may be done about this 
wall.”  
    The lantern was brought, and the stone portcullis examined.  They could 
see no way to cause it to move, nor could even the blade of an Elvish knife 
be passed between the rocks, except for the narrow aperture at the top.  
    “We must go back, and discover a way around this obstacle,” Aragorn 
said.  
    “I could fit through that hole,” Legolas said.  
    “It is far too small.”  
    “Not if I remove my weapons and most of my clothing.”  
    “Then I will do it.”  
    The Elf cocked an eyebrow at the Man.  “You would never fit,” he said.  
    Aragorn conceded, and stood in idle frustration as the Elf divested 
himself of nearly everything but his courage.  Legolas stood looking up at 
the slot for a long moment, and then looked to Aragorn.  
    “IT is beyond the wall,” he said through stiff lips.  
    “You can sense it now?”  
    “Aye,” the Elf gasped, “It knows the beast is bringing fresh meat.  Its 
will is bent thither.”  
    Aragorn nodded.  “If it can manipulate the mind of an Elf, it can, no 
doubt, control an Orc easily enough.  Come, Legolas.  We will seek 
another way.”  
    The Elf shook his head.  “I should go now, while it concentrates on 
guiding the Yrch.”  Legolas took a deep breath, and leaped for the 
opening.  His fingers gripped the edge, and then Aragorn’s hand under the 
sole of his foot, made it easy to pull himself up.  The Ranger lifted the 
Elf’s foot to his shoulder, and Legolas hooked his elbows over the ledge.  
Pushing one arm through the gap, with the other flat at his side, the Elf 
wriggled forward.  With the loss of a few minutes, and square inches of 
skin, Legolas was more than halfway through.  He hung his head, letting 
gravity and his weight aid in the process.  With a final push from Aragorn, 
Legolas tumbled to the tunnel floor.  
    “Legolas?”  
    “I am well,” the Elf said, “Go, and find another way around.  I will find 
Adun.”  
    “Legolas?”  
    “I know, mellon,” Legolas said, “I bid you be cautious, as well.”  
    Aragorn pushed the Elf’s clothing and weapons through the slot.  Then 
he reluctantly turned, and ran back down the tunnel, seeking another path.  
    Legolas donned his gear, and stood peering into the darkness that was 
as twilight gloom to his Elvish eyes.  He could feel the oppressive, 
crushing malice of the evil thing like a steady wind blowing against him, 
hindering his forward progress.  Swallowing the acrid fluid that rose in the 
back of his throat, the Elf walked stiffly forward.  
 
    Adun bit his lip to stop himself from screaming as the Orc sought a 
better grip, and its claws punched holes in his flesh.  The chamber they 
were passing through was patched with phosphorescent fungus that 
glowed an unwholesome greenish-white.  The farther they went, the 
thicker the growth became, until it gave enough light to see by.  The 
Ranger was glad, until he saw what awaited him.  
 
    Aragorn made his way back to the cave’s main entrance, and ran to the 
cleft Raen had entered to find his doom.  The young Ranger walked 
sideways through the fissure until it expanded.  He noted the signs of three 
others having passed this way recently, and hurried after them.  
 
    Legolas had no trouble finding the lair of the lurker.  He walked toward 
the source of the dark waves that washed through his mind leaving despair 
in their wake.  His limbs trembled, unwilling to take him closer to certain 
death, but he put one foot in front of the other, each step a battle won.  He 
passed the glowing, wet-fleshed fungus without glancing aside at it, all his 
will bent on shuffling forward.  He sensed he was very close.  The evil 
presence was a palpable thing that ebbed and flowed like the black breath 
of a ghoul against the Elf’s skin.  
    Legolas bent involuntarily, and bile, mixed with the water he’d drunk 
earlier, spattered the stone floor.  Wiping his mouth on the back of his 
glove, the Elf fought the next spasm of retching, and slid the bow from his 
shoulder.  Nocking an arrow, Legolas crept forward.  
 
    Adun stared in horror at the animated collection of body parts that 
suddenly dropped to the floor in a heap.  Then the voice that had issued 
from the crudely assembled human puzzle came now from the mouth of 
the Orc that restrained the Ranger.  
    “Your will is strong, mortal,” the reedy voice said, “But I wish this 
misbegotten mongrel had taken the child of the Eldar, as I ordered.”  
    “What are you?” Adun asked.  If he