~~~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 were going to die, he wanted to 
know what killed him.  
    “I am a kind of dream,” the voice said, “The kind that causes babes to 
wake crying in wordless terror.  I am the chill in the air that presages 
winter and the death of living things.  I am a swarm of shadows reaching 
out of the night to cloak your soul in darkness, battening on your spirit like 
a creature that sustains itself on the blood of the living.”  
    “All that,” the Ranger said, “Then I need not feel shame at my defeat.”  
    “You will feel pain.  You will feel agony.  You will feel despair.”  
    A puff of air kissed Adun’s cheek, and an arrow appeared in the Orc’s 
eye-socket.  The thing’s head snapped back, even as a second shaft pierced 
its throat.  A third bolt took the beast high in the chest.  The next two split 
the monster’s kneecaps.  The Orc staggered, but did not lose its hold on 
the Ranger.  It directed its one-eyed gaze at the tunnel, as another arrow 
thumped home in its shoulder.  
    ‘At last, you have come to me, morsel.’  The Orc let Adun dangle from 
one claw, and raked the Ranger’s chest with the other, as it tossed him to 
the floor.  
    Legolas emerged from the shadow, his bow trained on the giant Orc.  
    ‘Ahhh.  One of the pale ones.  Blood looks so beautiful against white 
skin.  Come closer.’  
    Adun could not hear the silent voice, but he could feel the weight of the 
will that the monster directed at the Elf.  He could also feel blood running 
from the slashes in his chest, but the pain had not caught up with him yet.  
His mind was perfectly clear as he watched Legolas shudder like a fly-
plagued horse.  So slowly it was nearly imperceptible, the Elf lowered his 
bow.  
    ‘You will come to me, sweet one, and I will feast on the despair of an 
immortal.’  
    Legolas did not spare Adun a glance or a word.  He needed all his 
strength to focus on the internal battle he waged.  The ancient awareness 
that sat behind the small, piggish eyes of the Orc was much stronger than 
the Elf.  Legolas knew he could not hope to defeat it, only resist it long 
enough to get Adun and himself out of here.  He hoped he had 
incapacitated the host body enough to allow him to escape with the 
wounded Ranger.  
    ‘Closer, morsel.  I can almost taste your sweet agony.  Come.  I will not 
kill you like the mortals.  I will keep you, and feed off your exquisite 
suffering for many lives of Men.’  
    Legolas shook convulsively, and his bow dropped from nerveless 
fingers.  One foot slid forward, and then the other.  
    ‘Good.  Come to me.  I will fold you in darkness, and the concerns of 
this world will no longer trouble you, child of the Eldar.’  
    The mind of the Elf shrieked in its cell of bone, as Legolas hobbled 
forward in fits and starts, drawing ever nearer to danger.  He could no 
longer think coherently.  His spirit had curled around itself into a tight 
ball.  All he had was the will to resist.  
    Adun bit his lower lip, as the pain held in abeyance by shock announced 
itself firmly.  He wrapped his arms tighter across his chest, as the Elf’s 
boot nudged his side.  Adun looked up, and saw Legolas standing over 
him, head tilted up to the Orc.  
    The possessed creature reached out with a gory claw, and cupped the 
Elf’s chin.  As it turned the beautiful face from one side to the other, a 
gaping grin split the monster’s face nearly in half.  
    ‘Perfect.’  
    Legolas’ body jerked, as the evil will renewed its onslaught with 
redoubled force.  Darkness fell over the spirit of the Elf, smothering its 
silver flame.  Only a spark remained, like an ash-covered ember, glowing 
dully in the vast shadow.  Then the pain began.  
    Adun was trapped between the Elf and the Orc, his life trickling 
between his fingers.  He knew of no way he could help either the Elf or 
himself, and his mind was clouded with terrible images.  He saw a thing 
black as ink, with the attenuated limbs of an insect, as tall as two men.  
The nightmare figure loomed over the softly shining form of the Elf, and 
its claws clutched at Legolas’ shoulders.  The monster’s chitinous skull, 
fringed with prehensile barbels, lowered toward the Elf, and the black 
maw gaped as though to swallow its victim whole.  The Ranger screamed 
silently, squeezing his eyes tight shut, but the visions remained, and now 
he could feel the Elf’s anguish as the thing began to feed.  Coiling himself 
as small as possible, Adun tried to stop feeling.  
 
    Aragon padded down the stone corridor, sword drawn, alert for any 
signs of the rest of the troop of Rangers, the sturdy Dwarvish lantern 
lighting his steps.  He rounded a bend, and came into a chamber as long 
and high as a king’s hall.  A group of Men was huddled around an opening 
in the far wall.  
    Isildur’s heir moved quickly but cautiously across the cavern.  None of 
the Rangers turned at his approach, or gave other sign that they were 
aware of his presence.  With growing dread, Aragorn raised his light.  
    The three Rangers were frozen in place, swords in hand, their faces 
locked in expressions of dawning horror.  Though Aragorn could see their 
pale breath in the chill air, they did not answer to their names, or rouse 
when shaken.  
    “You are under some spell,” he said, wondering if they could see or 
hear.  “I do not know why I have been spared, but I will try to find the 
wielder of this evil sorcery, and free you.”  
    Aragorn thought he saw the gleam of hope in their eyes, but it might 
have been the flickering of the lantern.  Resolutely, he turned, and walked 
swiftly into the next cavern.  At the juncture of two wide tunnels, he found 
four more Rangers, immobile as the stone that surrounded them.  He 
repeated his vow to them, and hurried on.  
    As he moved deeper, the growth on the walls gave enough light that he 
was able to douse the lantern, and hang it from his belt.  He drew his dirk 
with his left hand, and continued.  His flesh roughened from the touch of 
the cold air and the dread that was growing in his mind.  Aragorn set his 
teeth, as his anxiety became a physical uneasiness.  The monster he sought 
could not be far away.  
 
    Adun drifted in and out of consciousness, bombarded by fragments of 
the hidden war being waged above him.  It was clear to the Ranger that the 
monster was winning.  The Elf stood fast, but he was no match for this 
foe.  Its inimical will held the Elf’s like a spider on a butterfly, adding 
thread after gossamer thread to its bindings until they were as strong as 
steel.  The Elf’s spirit had retreated as far as it could from the hunger that 
sought the ineffable essence of an immortal.  Adun knew that his life was 
slipping away from him one red drop at a time, but he found this slow 
death preferable to what Legolas endured.  
 
    Aragorn peered around the opening.  Legolas stood paralyzed, face to 
face with the monstrous Orc, his eyes locked with the thing’s malevolent 
gaze.  Adun lay on the floor in a distressingly large pool of red, his eyelids 
fluttering as though he dreamed.  Quiet as snow falling, Aragorn moved 
into the doorway without attracting any attention.  Sheathing his dirk, he 
took the hilt of his sword in both hands.  Moving around behind the Orc, 
Aragorn prepared to take its ugly head off.  
    “Aragorn,” Adun gasped, “No.  The Elf’s spirit is bound with the 
monster’s.”  
    Aragorn held his blade level, ready to strike, as he absorbed Adun’s 
words.  If he killed the Orc, he risked freeing Legolas’ spirit as well.  He 
knew he must slay the thing, but found he was unwilling to risk the Elf’s 
life.  He knew Legolas would not blame him.  If he could, the Elf would 
no doubt urge Aragorn to kill him.  Aragorn could not do it.  There had to 
be another way, if his fear-clouded mind could but think of it.  
    “Legolas,” he called out, “I am here, Legolas.  I have found you.  Adun 
still lives.  Come back, and help me take him out of this place.”  
    Aragorn’s words fell into a well of silence, echoing in his own ears.  It 
was plain that neither Legolas nor the monster had heard him.  The Ranger 
stooped, and swiftly pulled Adun a distance away from the immobile 
combatants.  Lifting the wounded man’s arms, Aragorn looked at the 
gashes inflicted by the filthy claws of the Orc.  Doing his best to calm his 
mind, he laid his hands over Adun’s chest, and tried to summon the 
healing power that sometimes came at need.  His palms grew warm, and 
he pressed them more firmly against the slashes.  The energy that the 
Elves had taught him flowed through all things used him as a conduit to 
enter the injured man.  Healing began instantly, and in moments, Adun’s 
blood ceased to flow.  Satisfied that Adun would mend, Aragorn bowed 
his head for a moment, to recover his equilibrium, and then raised it 
sharply.  That was why he had not been caught in the thing’s net, and 
paralyzed like the others.  It could sense those connected to the energy, 
and sought to draw them in, as it had done with Legolas.  
    Aragorn rose from Adun’s side, wrapping his fingers securely around 
the hilt of his sword.  Going to Legolas, he put his left hand on the Elf’s 
shoulder, and sought the link they had shared once, when he had called the 
Prince back from the Halls of Mandos.  The bond between them was 
strong, an all but tangible cord that the Ranger could follow easily.  
    ‘What is this place?’ Aragorn asked, as he looked around in wonder.  
    Legolas turned from the fountain to face the Man, framed by a screen of 
depthless green on green.  The Elf’s hair and skin glowed with a soft inner 
radiance, and his eyes were like windows on the vast sky.  A welcoming 
smile graced his lips, as he held out a hand to Aragorn.  
    The Man saw that the Elf was beautiful beyond aught he had ever 
thought fair, and he forgot the world outside this vision.  His fingers 
longed to touch the pale skin, and test its marmoreal perfection.  His entire 
body leaned toward the Elf as though yearning to meld with him.  
    ‘Melethron.’ Though it was not spoken aloud, the Elvish word 
resonated through every fiber of Aragorn’s being as though a golden bell 
had tolled in his soul.  With trembling hands, he cupped the fair face of his 
beloved, and bent his neck to bestow a kiss of pure love.  It was as natural 
as the subtly perfumed air he breathed, or the bright sun that hung 
overhead.  
    Aragorn closed his eyes.  The lips beneath his were as soft as petals, as 
cool as spring rain.  His arms went around the Elf, and he felt the lithe, 
lean-muscled body of a warrior, with the silk-smooth skin of a highborn 
maiden.  Aragorn buried his face in the graceful curve of neck and 
shoulder, inhaling the delicate, elusive scent unique to his love’s pale hair.  
    ‘We must be very careful,’ Legolas’ light voice said in Aragorn’s ear, 
‘It senses you, but it does not know if you are real, or a dream I am 
having.  It cannot perceive the link between us.’  
    Aragorn frowned.  What did his darling prate of?  It was a dream, to be 
sure, that they should be together thus, but why speak of it?  His lips 
sought the tender spot behind the pointed ear, as his embrace tightened.  
    ‘It would be so sweet,’ the Elf said sadly, ‘But we cannot stay here.’  
    ‘Aniron,’ Aragorn said simply.  
    ‘No more than I, but we do not choose.  We do what is necessary.’  
    ‘We cannot stay here?’  
    ‘It is not real,’ the Elf said kindly.  
    The mist cleared from Aragorn’s eyes.  ‘We are in a cave, and a 
monster strives to steal your soul.’  
    ‘Aye.  You led me from darkness once before, Estel.  Lead me out once 
more.’  
    ‘I hope I may remember the way.  I followed you in.’  
    ‘Take me up with you to the light,’ Legolas said, ‘I will continue to 
distract the evil one.  Just do not let go of my hand.’  
    Aragorn took the Elf’s cold fingers in his hand.  ‘I will take you out of 
here,” he promised.  
    Legolas nodded, his faith patent in his eyes as he looked at the Ranger.  
    Aragorn looked around at the blossoming trees and green swards that 
seemed to go on without end in all directions.  Then a splinter of light 
caught his eye, and he led the Elf toward it.  Legolas dragged at his arm, 
the Elf’s proud stride reduced to a shambling shuffle of lagging steps and 
bowed head.  
    ‘It knows I am trying to escape it,’ Legolas whispered, ‘We must go 
more quickly.’  
    Aragorn picked the Elf up in his arms, and moved purposefully toward 
the growing glimmer.  He could see an opening in the trees when Legolas 
cried out.  
    ‘What is it?’  
    ‘It is here,’ the Elf said in a leaden voice.  
    Aragorn dropped Legolas when the Elf’s teeth sank into his shoulder.  
He jumped backward, as Legolas sprang to his feet.  A sneer distorted the 
sweet curves of the Elf’s lips as he faced the Man.  
    ‘Mortal,’ he said, ‘You cannot defy me.  The Elf knows I cannot be 
tricked.’  
    Aragorn’s gaze was wide, and his breath came short and shallow, as he 
faced Legolas.  Something else looked back at him from the Elf’s eyes.  
Rather than recoiling, he lunged, throwing his arms around his friend.  
    ‘Legolas,’ he said desperately, ‘It cannot penetrate our bond.  It cannot 
come in unless you let it.  Turn your back on it, and run to me.’  
    After a long tense moment, the oily gleam left the Elf’s eyes, and 
Legolas’ soul shone from them again.  
    ‘Quickly,’ Legolas said, ‘It is delayed only.  We must not allow it to 
trap us here.  We might spend eternity lost between realms.’  
    Aragorn stored away the proud words he wanted to speak of the Elf’s 
courage and strength of will.  Taking Legolas’ hand, the Man drew him 
toward a nacreous glow that grew ever brighter as they approached.  
    ‘We must part here,’ Legolas said, as they reached the edge of the 
perfect forest.  ‘You must return to your shell, and I to mine.’  
    Aragorn was loath to relinquish the slim fingers.  ‘This will fade, will it 
not?’ he asked.  
    ‘Like a nightmare upon waking,’ the Elf answered, ‘Some memories 
were meant to be forgotten, and Adun needs you.’  
    Aragorn’s spirit slammed back into the armor of flesh that normally 
housed it, and his senses began reporting all at once.  Momentarily 
disoriented, he clutched at the Elf’s shoulder.  
    “Aragorn,” Legolas said, “Raise your sword.”  
    The Ranger brought his blade up, eyes searching for a foe.  
    “Cut off its limbs,” the Elf said, gesturing at the Orc, “The evil is not 
gone, merely driven off for a time.  We must make sure it does not have a 
whole host when it returns.”  
    Practical Aragorn saw the sense of this, though his mortal heart quailed 
at the thought of a collection of animated limbs stalking them.  Doggedly, 
he set to work, and soon reduced the hapless Orc to a stack of body parts.  
Turning his back on the gruesome kindling, he helped Legolas raise Adun 
from the floor.  When he made as though he would carry the other Ranger, 
the Elf forestalled him.  
     ‘Let me,” Legolas said, ‘You shall walk before us with your sword for 
you know the way.”  
    Aragorn smiled wryly at the Elf’s back.  “You are very sensible,” he 
said.  
    Of course, the Elf feigned not to hear the compliment, as he lifted Adun 
to his shoulder.  
    “He is already mending,” Legolas said, “This lightens my heart.  I 
feared we would find a lifeless husk on our return.  You have a great gift.”  
    “Come,” Aragorn said, “Let us leave this pit.”  
    With Legolas at his shoulder, carrying Adun, Aragorn led the way out.  
Before long, they met a party of bewildered Rangers gamely moving 
deeper into the tunnels.  Two of them took charge of Adun, as they joined 
Aragorn and the Elf.  
    “We have killed the rogue Orc,” Aragorn told Hyrun, when they met, 
“But I fear that the evil is still lurking in the darkness of these caves.”  
    “A watch will be kept,” Hyrun said.  
    Legolas nodded.  “Yes, watch well, but do not send Men in after this 
thing.  It will consume your spirit, and take your flesh as a mask for its 
blankness.”  
    Hyrun looked to Aragorn, who nodded once.  “Very well,” the captain 
said, “No one shall enter these caves, and nothing shall leave them.  Let us 
get Adun back to camp.”  
 
    Aragorn sat at Adun’s side, as the captain listened to the Ranger’s 
report.  When the tale had been recounted, Hyrun sat back with a 
contemplative frown pulling his dark brows together.  
    “You will vouch for this, Aragorn?” the captain asked.  
    “It happened as Adun says, and you have my account to add to it.  You 
may speak with Legolas whenever you wish.”  
    “That is the most astonishing part of the whole story,” Hyrun said, 
“That a creature that looks as fragile as frost that is melted with a single 
breath should prove to have such strength.  This Legolas looks as 
dangerous as a pretty baa-lamb in a spring meadow.”  
    “He may have the figure of a lamb, but he does the deeds of a lion,” 
Adun said, in a tone that brooked no dissent.  
    Aragorn smiled at the older Ranger’s quick defense of the Elf.  “I think 
Adun is tired now,” he said, “We should let him get some rest.”  
    “I need no rest,” Adun protested, “Why, I am near healed!”  
    “Nevertheless, you will rest,” Aragorn said firmly.  
    Grumbling half-heartedly, Adun settled himself in his blankets.  
Aragorn laid a hand on the wolf-gray hair for a moment before he rose, 
and joined the captain.  
    “Remarkable recovery,” Hyrun said blandly.  
    “He is very tough in the fiber,” Aragorn answered in kind.  
    “And the Elf.  How does he?”  
    “He will be well,” Aragorn said.  
    “Then get some rest yourself.  In the morning, we will ride west.”  
    Aragorn saluted, and went seeking the Elf.  
 
    “Legolas,” Aragorn called softly.  
    “Here.”  
    Aragorn climbed the steeply pitched rock face to the top, twice his own 
height above the stream.  The Elf sat looking westward, the low-lying rays 
of the setting sun kindling fire in his flaxen hair.  
    “If you would rather be alone,” the Ranger began.  
    “I would not have answered,” the Elf said.  
    Aragorn joined Legolas on his perch, and looked down.  On this side of 
the ridge, the slope dropped away hundreds of feet to the floor of the 
narrow valley, ribboned by countless small freshets.  Sitting on the jutting 
pier of stone, there was naught beneath their boots but air.  Aragorn was 
abruptly seized by the recurrent impulse to launch himself into space, and 
sail the currents of the wind.  
    “Such freedom,” the Elf said, “We have such freedom.”  
    Aragorn did not speak.  He remembered slaying the Orc, but the journey 
through the spirit world had evaporated from his memory.  He did not 
know that Legolas spoke with pity of the ancient thing in the caves that 
was both sheltered and trapped by the darkness.  It would never know the 
light, and was deserving of pity.  Aragorn would have disagreed, if he had 
remembered.  
    The wind stirred the silken skeins of the Elf’s hair, lifting it from his 
shoulders, setting it afloat around his fair face, and something stirred deep 
within Aragorn.  Something that unfurled in the Man’s soul at the sight of 
that pale banner calling him to some high destiny.  His mind strove to 
grasp the elusive images that fled fleet-footed through his memory, while 
his gaze dwelt on the Elf’s perfect face.  
    Legolas turned, and lifted an eyebrow at Aragorn’s expression.  
    “You have the oddest look on your face,” the Elf observed.  
    Aragorn blinked in the bright sunlight, the spell broken.  “I am an odd 
fellow, by all accounts,” he said, “You have said so yourself.”  
    Legolas inclined his head.  “I am glad we survived today,” he said 
simply.  
    Aragorn looked at the Elf with a wistful smile, a vague disappointment 
haunting his eyes.  “As long as we hold true,” he said, “No evil can touch 
us.”  
    “As long as we hold true,” Legolas repeated, meeting the Man’s eyes.  
    Aragorn put an arm around Legolas’ shoulders, and the Elf allowed it.  
They sat in companionable silence as the sky went from purest azure, to 
grainy pewter and, finally, diamond black.  They looked up at the stars in 
calm wonder, and the stars looked back at them.  
 
 
 
 
Stardust and Gold Part 4 -Lady Tiger by bailey  
Pre-Fellowship: Aragorn/Legolas  
Warning: Dark, non-con, sweet ending.  
baileymoyes@hotmail.com  
Our heroes are far afield, and run afoul of a dangerous predator.  
 
    “Captain.”  
    Djannis turned at the sound of the lady’s voice.  It was deep and throaty, 
putting him in mind of the contented sounds made by the big hunting cats 
of his native country.  Her eyes, above the veil she wore, were a vivid 
golden green, round and luminous as the moon.  He reminded himself that 
she was not for him.  He was her servant, only.  
    Lady Tsalomey looked down on the captain’s bowed head from her 
vantage in the saddle.  The opaque silk before her mouth fluttered as she 
spoke again.  
    “Why do we tarry here?” she asked, “The City is behind us, our ship 
lies before us, and I would be underway.”  
    “My lady,” Djannis said deferentially, “We wait for the man who will 
guide us through the wilderness that lies between us and the ship.”  
    “Who is this tardy fellow?” Tsalomey demanded to know.  
    “A Ranger, my lady.  He was highly recommended.”  
    “A Ranger,” she mused, “I have heard of these men.  I am curious to see 
if he matches the tales.  I hope my curiosity is soon satisfied, or I shall 
become quite cross.”  
    Djannis flinched before regaining control.  “I am certain that he will be 
here soon, my lady.  We are at the appointed meeting place, but we are 
somewhat early.”  
    Cumbered by the voluminous wrappings of silk and satin that swathed 
her lush figure, the lady dismounted with the captain’s assistance.  Taking 
his arm, she allowed him to escort her to the small stream that ran beside 
the trail and through a riven boulder.  She was gazing at the landmark, 
wondering how the great stone had come to be split when she heard one of 
the Haradrim troop call out.  
    Turning in the direction that the sentry was looking, Tsalomey got her 
first sight of their guide.  She reasoned that the weathered man in shabby 
hunting leathers was the Ranger, but her eyes were drawn to his 
companion.  Never had she seen such grace in a man, or hair that shone 
like moonlight in broad day.  When they came closer, she noted the 
delicately pointed ears revealed by the intricate braids at the creature’s 
temples.  He was not a Man at all, and she dismissed him from her regard, 
returning her attention to the other stranger.  
    It was plain that this Ranger had seen much in his life.  His handsome 
features bore the stamp of care and sorrow, and his scars told of many 
battles.  The hilt of his sword in its unornamented scabbard was well worn 
with use, and he carried himself with the quiet self-assurance of a skilled 
warrior.  More than that, he had an indisputable air of command that 
belied the frayed edges of his garments, the untended hair and beard, and 
the dirt that rimed his nails.  Tsalomey was a perceptive woman, and could 
see that this Man was more than he seemed.  
    Tsalomey decided that he did not live up to the image of the Rangers in 
tales, being less than two ells tall with no obvious traces of wolf in his 
ancestry, but he was very interesting.  He had depths to him that might be 
pleasant to explore, providing diversion on this journey.  She had never 
met anyone like him, and she was certain that he had never met anyone 
like her.  
    Smiling behind her veil, the lady left Captain Djannis to greet their 
guides.  She returned to her horse, and accepted the help of one of the 
Haradrim warriors.  Once more in the saddle, she let her eyes dwell on the 
newcomers, and allowed her mind to wander.  
    It seemed but moments to her before the captain was giving the order to 
march.  She saw the pale-haired one spring forward, and speed away down 
the track.  So he was a scout, Tsalomey was pleased to see.  It meant that 
the creature would often be out of sight ahead of them.  
 
    At twilight, the Ranger called a halt at a likely spot.  The Haradrim 
warriors removed their packs in unison, and began to set up camp with 
precise, well-coordinated teamwork.  Each had an assigned task, and 
performed it with brisk, neat efficiency.  It was like watching a hill of ants, 
as Legolas commented blandly to Aragorn.  
    The corners of Aragorn’s lips lifted in his gentle smile, and the Elf felt 
free to leave his side for a few moments.  Touching the Man briefly on the 
shoulder, Legolas tilted his head toward the forest.  Aragorn nodded, and 
the Elf hurried away in the fading light.  
    “I have not seen your companion’s like before,” Captain Djannis said, 
as he approached.  
    “I do not doubt it,” Aragorn answered, “His people have withdrawn into 
the fastnesses of the great woods, and seldom seek the company of Man.”  
    “Is he then one of the Fair Folk, as we call them in my tongue?”  
    “He is an Elf,” Aragorn said.  
    “Elf,” Djannis repeated, “Never did I think to see one of the Fair Folk.  
They are but a legend in my land.”  The captain stared at the spot where 
Legolas had disappeared into the trees.  “He is as beautiful as the tales 
say.”  
    “Not for naught do your people name them Fair,” Aragorn said wryly.  
    Djannis smiled.  “Indeed, but such fairness.  As I say, I have never seen 
his like.  He is more beautiful than the fairest maid I have ever beheld.  I 
have a wife, and have never looked on another man with aught but 
comradely affection, yet he stirs me.  Why should this be?”  
    “In him you see grace wed to power, a beauty that speaks to your soul 
as well as your eyes.  You are not mad, captain, it is the natural response 
of a Man who sees something precious just out of his grasp.  What you 
feel is a yearning for something you cannot name.”  
    “So you are a philosopher as well as a guide,” Djannis said lightly.  
    “I am a Healer,” Aragorn corrected.  
    “It seems that you have many skills,” said a vibrant voice.  
    “My lady,” Djannis said, as he turned, “I was just informing the Ranger 
of your invitation.”  
    “His acceptance is long in coming,” Tsalomey said silkily.  
    “Nay, madam,” Aragorn bowed, “I but tarry to see that the sentries are 
in place.”  
    “Very commendable,” she said, “But these men know their business.  
Now come, and share the evening meal with me.  I am curious about the 
Men of the North.”  
    “With pleasure, lady,” Aragorn said, with another bow.  
    This became a pattern in the days that followed.  They rose at dawn, and 
set out.  Aragorn led the column on a steady march through the 
wilderness, his eyes alert for Legolas’ trail signs.  At dusk, they made 
camp, and the Ranger dined with the Lady.  
    On the fifth night, when he rose to leave her tent, Tsalomey bade him 
stay a while longer.  Though he refused another dram, she poured wine for 
herself, and looked at him over the rim of the drinking horn.  
    “It is a hard life that you have chosen,” she said.  
    “Choice, Lady, is not a luxury that I have.”  
    “You are often alone, are you not?  Do you not become lonely?”  
    “Legolas is my companion,” Aragorn said.  
    “An Elf.  As well be alone as with an Elf.”  
    The Ranger smiled.  “Sometimes,” he agreed, “But Legolas has grown 
accustomed to the odd desire Men have for occasional conversation.”  
    Tsalomey’s full lips curved in an answering smile.  “I hope you have 
enjoyed our conversations,” she said, “It is a luxury for me to talk with a 
man without the veil between us.”  
    “An odd custom,” Aragorn said, “It is a shame to hide such beauty.”  
    Tsalomey’s vivid eyes fastened on the Ranger’s.  “You think me 
beautiful?”  
    “You know that you are beautiful, Lady.”  
    “Perhaps, but I did not know that I was beautiful to you.  I am glad of 
it.”  
    “Why should it matter to you what a mere Ranger thinks?”  
    “Because you are also pleasing in my sight,” she answered.  
    Aragorn drew back instinctively when Tsalomey’s head darted toward 
him.  Her soft laugh brought warmth to his cheeks, as he realized what she 
had meant to do.  
    “Not afraid of a kiss, are you?” she asked archly.  
    “The Lady has guessed rightly that I have long been away from 
civilized company.  I hardly know how to behave in the presence of one of 
her quality.”  
    “Then I will speak plainly.  Stay with me this night, and I will re-
acquaint you with women.”  
    Aragorn met her eyes, and saw the truth of her desire there.  “I am 
sorry, Lady, but this is too much for a tattered Ranger.  You offer me a 
dragon’s hoard of riches, when all I deserve of you is a word of praise if I 
perform my task well.”  
    “I do not offer in gratitude,” Tsalomey said, “I desire to share my bed 
and my body with you.”  
    “I cannot.  I am pledged to another.”  
    The lady rose to her knees, fine silk sliding over her flesh, as she leaned 
over Aragorn.  He turned his head aside as her gown pooled about her 
waist, unveiling her smooth shoulders and the alluring curves of her full 
breasts.  
    “Am I not comely?” she purred, “Does this not please you?”  
    “You are very pleasing,” Aragorn said candidly, “But your charms are 
not for such as I.”  
    “Do you not understand?” she asked sharply, the winsome manner 
disappearing, “I am offering myself to you.  I do not care about the 
difference in our stations.  I want you.”  
    “I will not lie.  You tempt me, as you would tempt any man with senses, 
but I cannot, in all honor, accept the precious gift you hold out to me.”  
    Tsalomey’s lids drooped over her green-gold eyes, masking the flare of 
rage.  
    “Betrothed,” she said evenly, “I do not find it likely, Ranger.  You are a 
solitary man.  A wife is not for you.  However, I believe you when you say 
you are pledged to another.  I have marked how your eyes follow your 
secret desire when you think no one is watching, and seen the longing in 
your face.  If you want him, why do you not take him?”  
    Aragorn moved away from her.  “I should go.  I have upset you, and 
you are not yourself.”  
    “So courteous, Man of the North,” she sneered, “I’d wager your 
creature does not even know of your desire to plug his bunghole, if you 
are as polite with him.”  
    Aragorn drew back at her vulgarity.  “Now you strain my courtesy,” he 
said, as he rose.  
    “I have not given you my leave to go,” Tsalomey said coldly.  
    “I have asked for none,” Aragorn replied, as he walked away.  
 
    Legolas hurried down the back trail, eager to reach Aragorn, and tell 
him of the marvel ahead.  In his scouting, the Elf had entered a small 
cave.  It had quickly opened out into a cavern of some size.  The marvel 
was the stream that entered through a breach in the roof to fall twenty ells 
to the floor where it shattered into flying shards of liquid crystal.  Aragorn 
would want to see such a sight, and there was little time before the sun 
set.  By the time they returned, the low rays would turn the water to liquid 
rubies.  
    Legolas reached the place where the party should have halted, but saw 
no one.  They had been delayed by something, no doubt.  The Elf hardly 
slowed as he ran past his trail sign for camp.  A short while later, he heard 
the voices of Men ahead.  Whatever had been amiss had not delayed them 
for long.  
    He left the screen of the trees, entering a clearing dotted with a few 
boulders and several saplings.  The Haradrim sat at their ease on the sparse 
grass, with their weapons near to hand.  The lady stood beside her horse, 
as was her wont, but she looked different.  
    Gone were the flowing silks, and the muffling veil, replaced by vest and 
leggings of close-fitting leather.  Her thick sable hair tumbled free, half-
obscuring, half-revealing the upper arcs of her breasts.  Instead of a fan, 
she held a knife in one dainty hand.  
    “Well, here you are at last,” she said.  
    “Lady, where is Aragorn?” Legolas asked.  
    Tsalomey smiled at the Elf in a manner that caused Legolas to nock an 
arrow to his bow in one fluid motion.  
    “Bring the Ranger,” the Lady called out, no trace of fear in her voice.  
    Four men appeared from behind the rocks, half-carrying the struggling 
Ranger between them.  Aragorn’s hands were tied behind his back, and a 
gag was in his mouth.  Even thus restrained, he was difficult to hold.  Then 
his eyes met Legolas’, and he froze.  
    The Wood-Elf’s bow sang, and the man who was half-choking Aragorn 
flew back with an arrow in his eye.  Then another Haradrim warrior fell 
with a knife in his throat.  Legolas’ eyes flew to the woman.  She was 
holding a second knife poised to throw.  
    “That was by way of demonstrating my skill,” she said, “Ply your bow 
again, boy, and the Ranger dies.”  
    Legolas lowered the bow, and stood waiting for whatever she would say 
next.  
    “So you can think,” Tsalomey said, “Good.  This will not take as long.”  
    Curtly, she gestured for one of the Haradrim to remove Aragon’s gag.  
She no longer needed him quiet, and she looked forward to hearing his 
comments on the proceedings.  
    “Come with me, Elf,” she said.  
    Dragging his gaze from Aragorn’s, Legolas followed the woman a short 
distance to a stand of young trees.  Tsalomey beckoned to a pair of 
Haradrim.  Pointing out four saplings, she bade the warriors bind the Elf 
by wrists and ankles.  
    “Don’t let them bind you, Legolas,” Aragorn shouted, “Get away.”  
    Legolas glanced at the Ranger, and then knelt on the grass.  A few 
minutes later, he was securely spread-eagled.  
    “Why are you doing this?” Aragorn demanded of Tsalomey.  
    “We have reached our destination,” she said, “We only needed to be 
guided to this point.  Soon others will join us, and we will resume out 
journey.  We will go down to the sea, and take the ship that we know will 
be anchored there.”  
    “You are corsairs,” Aragorn said.  
    “Indeed, we are,” Captain Djannis said, as he walked out of the forest, 
“Among the most feared in all Harad.”  
    “And you are led by a woman?”  
    “Lady Tsalomey is more than just a woman,” Djannis said.  
    “That is enough,” the Lady commanded, “We have time to pass, and 
this Ranger and his companion have volunteered to entertain us.  Come, 
captain.  Have them bring the Ranger and bind him to a tree where he can 
see the Elf.”  
    “Yes, my lady,” Djannis said.  
    “What do you intend to do with us?” Aragorn asked, as Djannis finished 
binding him.  
    “I intend to do nothing,” Djannis said, “This sport is not to my taste.  
You should not have angered the Lady.  Try not to do so again.”  
    “Why are you so frightened of her?” Aragorn asked.  
    Djannis lowered his voice.  “She is a witch who has captured our souls.  
They are trapped in the jewel she wears around her neck.”  
    “Are you ready to entertain me?” Tsalomey said, as she stopped in front 
of the Ranger.  
    “I stand ready to serve you, Lady,” Djannis spoke quickly.  
    “And you shall, but in a different role this time.”  
    “What do you wish me to do, Lady?”  
    “You will take the Elf while the Ranger watches.”  
    “Lady,” Djannis said, “You know I do not . . .”  
    “Will you disobey me?” Tsalomey asked softly, her fingers toying with 
the jewel at her throat.  
    “No, Lady,” Djannis said quickly, “But I do not know if I can . . .”  
    Tsalomey laughed.  “I think you will warm to it once you begin, 
Captain.”  
    “Do not do this,” Aragorn said, as Djannis walked toward the staked 
Elf.  
    “Nothing you could say will change my will in this,” she warned.  
    “Why?  He has not harmed or offended you.”  
    “Ah, but you have.  I could punish you, but you would not suffer 
enough for my satisfaction.  I think that you love this creature, and so his 
torment will be agony for you.”  
    “Please, Lady,” Aragorn said, “Do not.”  
    “Your courtesy has returned,” she said brightly, as she turned to watch 
Djannis.  
    The captain had unlaced the Elf’s leggings, his distaste for his task 
evident.  Most of the Haradrim warriors moved closer when Djannis 
finally managed to bare Legolas’ lower half.  Several called out in their 
sibilant tongue, taunting the captive with crude compliments.  
    “Why do you wait?” Tsalomey called, “He makes no objections to your 
suit.”  
    “I apologize, Lady,” Aragorn said, “For any offense I have given, I 
offer full and humble apology.  I will say whatever you like, but do not do 
this.”  
    “You are very close to begging,” she said, “With a little more effort, I 
know that you can do it.”  
    “Please, Lady,” Aragorn begged, “Please.  You have the power to 
destroy him or to show mercy.  He is in your hands.  Please do not hurt 
him.”  
    Tsalomey shook her head.  “So, I was right.  You love him.  Good.  
Remember this sight the next time you are tempted to treat someone with 
arrogance and condescension.”  
    Captain Djannis knelt between the Elf’s long thighs with bowed head.  
He had taken himself in hand, but could not make his flesh rise.  With a 
grin, a swarthy warrior offered his services, and a ripple of amusement 
went through the watchers.  
    “You are failing me, captain,” Tsalomey said, as she walked toward 
Djannis.  
    “I am trying, my lady.”  
    Tsalomey bent and matter-of-factly took Djannis’ shaft in her gloved 
hand.  She smiled over his shoulder at Aragorn, as the stalk of flesh 
stiffened in her fist.  
    “Now you are ready for battle, my brave captain,” she said, as she 
stood.  
    Steeling himself, Djannis spat on his rod, and seated it at the Elf’s 
opening.  
    “Now,” Tsalomey said, “Take him.”  
    Djannis eased his hips forward, and Legolas’ teeth caught at his lower 
lip.  Every muscle in the Elf’s lithe body resisted the invasion, as the 
captain pressed steadily on.  At last, Djannis was sheathed, and let out a 
sigh of relief that he was still hard.  Then he was able to marvel at the 
narrowness of the hot, silk-lined scabbard that held his shaft so tightly.  He 
began to have hope that he would escape Tsalomey’s wrath.  
    Djannis thrust slowly at first, easing himself in and back out of the 
clenched aperture.  Soon, his mounting pleasure quickened his pace and 
the depth of his stroke.  
    “Make it stop, I beg you,” Aragorn said, as Legolas twisted in his 
bonds.  
    The Elf would not cry out, but his agony was betrayed by a trickle of 
blood from his bitten lower lip.  He tried to disregard what was happening 
to his body, and retreat into his mind, but he could not forget that 
Aragorn’s life stood forfeit.  
    “You see,” Tsalomey called to Djannis, “I told you that you would 
warm to it.  Tell me, Ranger, have you seen your Elf like this before?  
Have you seen him with his hair tumbled beneath him?  His limbs 
sprawled, his body open to you?  His features twisted in some emotion 
halfway between exquisite pain and terrible pleasure?  Have you seen this 
before?”  
    “Stop it,” Aragorn shouted, “Stop this evil.”  
    “Aragorn,” Legolas gasped, “Do not . . . do not . . . defy her.  Do . . . as 
she bids you.”  
    “I cannot.”  
    “Do you not . . . understand . . . that they will . . . kill you?”  
    “Do you not understand that this is killing me just as surely as a 
Haradrim scimitar?”  
    “You must be strong,” Legolas said.  
    “You must be quiet, Elf,” Tsalomey said, “Djannis, if the creature can 
talk, it is because you are not giving him a proper ride.”  
    A rough cheer went up from the Haradrim when the captain took hold 
of the Elf’s slim hips, and increased his tempo.  Legolas’ boots protected 
his ankles, but the leather thongs bit deeply into the flesh of the Elf’s 
wrists as his body was rudely jarred by the increasingly violent thrusts.  
    “Please,” Aragorn whispered.  
    The Ranger felt as though he were going mad.  His blood was boiling, 
but his belly was cold as ice.  He wanted to break his bonds, pull Djannis 
off of Legolas, and tear the Haradrim apart with his bare hands.  Another 
part of him, deeply buried, wanted to break his bonds, pull Djannis off of 
Legolas, tear the Haradrim apart with his bare hands, and take his place.  
Aragorn had not known he harbored such thoughts, and it shook him to his 
core.  
    “Now you may pleasure me,” Tsalomey said to Aragorn, as her fingers 
worked at his belt.  
    Aragorn’s face burned with shame when she found his arousal.  
    “I knew you were well armed, Ranger,” she purred, as she wrapped her 
fingers around the long shaft.  
    “I despise you,” Aragorn said.  
    Tsalomey laughed, as she knelt to take him in her mouth.  Aragorn 
clenched his teeth in helpless rage as his body betrayed him, rising to meet 
her tongue’s caress.  When he was hard as Dwarvish iron, she raised her 
head, and glanced at Captain Djannis.  
    “You may finish when it suits you, captain,” she said, “I think the others 
are getting impatient.”  
    “You would not,” Aragorn said, “You could not be so cruel.”  
    “Ah, but I am.  If only you had known that when you scorned me,” she 
said.  “Now you must pay the price, and the creature must pay with you.”  
    Tsalomey straddled Aragorn, and lowered herself onto his shaft.  
Grasping his shoulders, she raised herself, and then engulfed him again.  
Looking into his eyes, she rode him ruthlessly, raping him as surely as the 
captain ravished Legolas.  Aragorn met her carnivorous stare, with 
unwavering resolve.  She might use him for her pleasure, but he would 
take no pleasure in it.  This he promised her with his steadfast gaze.  
    Tsalomey gave the grim Ranger a brilliant grin.  “Ah, Aragorn, 
Aragorn.  Even unwilling, you give me greater pleasure than any man that 
has ever bestrode me.  Such a mast for the sail of my pleasure to unfurl 
against.”  
    Aragorn tried to look away from her flushed face, but they had bound 
him to prevent such a thing.  The ropes that ran across his neck and 
forehead grew greasy with sweat, but still he could not turn his head, only 
move his eyes to the side.  Unfortunately, when he did that, he could see 
Legolas’ travail.  
    Djannis gave a hoarse cry that made Tsalomey look over her shoulder at 
him.  The captain’s head was thrown back, his fingers digging into the 
flesh of the Elf’s thighs, hips thrusting frantically.  Abruptly, he lunged 
forward, burying himself deep in the clutching passage, emitting a long 
groan of fulfillment.  
    Legolas’ fingers tightened on the straps that bound him until the 
knuckles were white.  He held himself in utter stillness, convinced he 
could feel the Man’s seed spooling into him.  Somehow, this was worse 
than all the trespasses that had led up to it, as though his ravisher injected 
him with a measure of the poison of violence.  Legolas had fought his 
battle with bloodlust, and did not wish to be taken by the affliction again.  
    “Captain,” Tsalomey called, as she continued to pump herself on 
Aragorn’s shaft, “Do not be selfish.  If you have finished with the Elf, let 
another have him.”  
    Aragorn wrenched at the ropes that bound him to the tree but could not 
free himself.  His struggles only added to the lady’s pleasure.  He made a 
sound of wretched protest, as she took hold of the branches, planted the 
soles of her feet against the bark, and impaled herself fully.  
    “Ah, yes,” she cried, “You are magnificent.  I would give all my gold, if 
you would partner me willingly.  I wager you are a savage when roused.”  
    Aragorn closed his eyes so he would not have to see her sparkling eyes 
and flushed cheeks as she took her pleasure of him.  Her full breasts 
pressed against his face each time she pulled herself up, and he felt 
something small and hard amidst all that softness.  Among his tortured 
thoughts, a memory stood out.  
    Djannis gathered himself, and got to his knees, his wilted stalk sliding 
from the Elf’s ingress.  The rest of the Haradrim crowded close, jostling 
one another and talking excitedly.  Brusquely, the sated officer ordered 
them back.  Leaning over the tethered captive, Djannis spoke into the Elf’s 
ear.  
    “It was not my wish to do this.  If I could spare you further pain, I 
would.”  
    Legolas did not answer.  The captain could see no sign that the Elf had 
even heard his words.  With a queasiness growing in his belly, Djannis 
rose, and straightened his clothing.  The other Haradrim had quieted 
somewhat, and waited for the captain to reward one of them.  He hesitated 
for they were all brutes with little to choose between them, but he knew he 
must make a choice, or Tsalomey would make it for him.  At last, he 
pointed, and a warrior hurried forward to drop to his knees between the 
Elf’s thighs.  
    Tsalomey wriggled with delight as the Ranger’s scruffy beard abraded 
the tender flesh of her bosom.  She knew he would warm to her; they 
always did.  A pulse of bliss shot through her body as he buried his face 
between her firm breasts, and she felt his mouth on her skin.  
    Legolas braced himself for a new assault, as the warrior’s hardness 
bumped against his nether opening.  Djannis looked away from the 
helpless prisoner, and the grinning warrior slobbering in eagerness to 
skewer the Elf.  The attention of the rest of the troop was riveted on the 
imminent violation.  They watched avidly with shiny eyes, as the tip of the 
thick rod crossed the threshold, and the victim stiffened in reaction.  
    “Give him a measure of Southron steel,” one of the rapist’s fellows 
urged.  
    The fellow’s rejoinder was lost in Tsalomey’s cry of rage.  At their 
Mistress’ harsh shout, the troop turned as one to look at her.  The warrior 
assaulting Legolas jumped to his feet, his rigid length bobbing before 
him.  Djannis plucked up his courage, and spoke.  
    “Is aught amiss, lady?”  
    “Pull her off of me,” Aragorn said in an oddly muffled voice, “Captain 
Djannis, I hold your soul and the souls of your men in my mouth.”  
    Djannis froze for a long moment, and then walked to where his Mistress 
was climbing off of the bound Ranger.  The Lady’s face was a mask of 
cheated fury.  Her hand shot out, grasping Aragorn’s shaft, fingernails 
digging into sensitive flesh.  
    “Give it back!” she screamed.  
    “Captain,” Aragorn said around the jewel tucked into his cheek, 
“Unbind me, and you may have your soul back.”  
    “Do nothing,” Tsalomey said, “Or I will give you a lifetime of agony in 
an hour.”  
    Djannis’ struggle showed in his swarthy face.  He wished to be free of 
his Mistress, but the habit of obedience is a strong one.  Paralyzed by 
indecision, he did not move until Tsalomey drew a knife.  
    “Give me the jewel,” she said, “Or I will slash your throat.  If you 
swallow it, I will cut it from your belly.”  
    The lady laid the blade against the flesh of Aragorn’s throat and 
pressed.  Beads of red welled up, and resolved into a line of scarlet.  The 
Ranger could not prevent an involuntary gasp of pain as the sharpened 
steel bit deeper.  
    Then the woman’s wrist was taken in a grip of iron.  She cried out at the 
unexpected pain, as her arm was brutally twisted.  The knife fell from her 
nerveless fingers, as she was spun away from her victim.  She was now 
unarmed, but she was a Corsair, and did not need a weapon to kill her foe.  
Regaining her balance, she whirled, and struck out with a booted foot.  
    Legolas swayed to the side, and reached out to grasp her calf.  Shoving 
hard, he toppled her onto her backside.  Tsalomey struck the ground with 
bruising impact, and glared up at the Elf.  Legolas stood between her and 
Aragorn, poised for battle, bright blood running from the gouges in his 
wrists.  
    “Take him,” Tsalomey shrieked at Djannis.  
    Djannis was staring in disbelief at the dangling ends of the leather 
thongs where they had been snapped in two.  Slowly, his gaze focused on 
the woman.  
    “No,” he said, “I will not.  You have no power over me now.  Find 
another to do your bidding.”  
    Tsalomey leapt to her feet, and turned on the other warriors.  
    “Why do you stand as though asleep on your feet?  Take the Elf, and the 
captain as well.  We are needing a new captain, I am thinking.”  
    The Haradrim looked from their Mistress to the captain and then to the 
Elf.  They had not hindered the creature, but watched in shocked 
amazement as he had broken the leather straps with no regard for the 
damage he did to his own flesh.  Stunned, they had stood aside when the 
Elf rushed to the aid of the Ranger.  They had never witnessed such 
courage as these two had shown, and something in their blighted souls 
responded.  Not one moved to obey as Tsalomey continued to shout orders 
at them.  
    Djannis picked up the dropped knife, and cut the ropes that held 
Aragorn to the tree.  The Ranger staggered, and would have gone to his 
knees but for the strong arms of the Elf that bore him upright again.  
Seeing that none would do her bidding, Tsalomey launched herself at 
Legolas’ back in a fury.  The captain took her by the elbows, and dragged 
her away.  
    “Bind her securely,” Aragorn said, as he leaned on the Elf.  
    The Ranger’s eyes went to the Haradrim, but they seemed disinclined to 
interfere.  Their festive mood of a few moments ago had evaporated into a 
state of bewilderment.  They stood looking vaguely about as though 
unsettled to find themselves in the wilderness.  When Djannis called 
orders to them, they obeyed like sleepwalkers.  
    “She is bound and gagged, and her former slaves guard her well,” 
Djannis said, as he came to where Aragorn stood.  Of the Elf, there was no 
sign.  
    “You will see that she receives justice?” the Ranger asked.  
    “In full measure,” the captain said firmly, “When the rest of our crew 
arrives, I will lead them to the sea, and they will hear of her foul 
witchcraft.  Corsairs do not look kindly on magic, or those who wield it.”  
    “Then I do not need to hear what punishment will be meted out.  I am 
content that it will be equal to her crimes.”  
    “Our law demands repayment in kind,” Djannis said with a grim smile, 
“What she has done to you will be visited upon her.”  
    Aragorn’s head drooped, and his shoulders slumped as though he were 
weary beyond the power of rest to cure.  “You must never return here,” he 
said.  
    Djannis bowed as though to the emperor himself.  “The waters of your 
land shall never again be troubled by me, or any under my command.  My 
oath upon it.”  The captain made as though to leave, but lingered a 
moment longer.  “The Fair one,” he said diffidently, “Will he be well?”  
    Aragorn’s head came up sharply, and, for a moment, Captain Djannis 
found himself staring into an inferno of molten rage.  The Haradrim took 
an involuntary step backward, and kept his hands carefully away from his 
weapons.  The Ranger mastered his fury, and spoke in soft, measured 
phrases.  
    “You believed yourself in thrall to Tsalomey, and I should not hate one 
who had no choice, but I cannot forget the sound you made when you 
spent your seed, nor, I should imagine, can he.”  
    Djannis dropped his eyes, shame stealing his power of speech.  Bowing 
again, he turned away, only to stop.  Without looking back at the Ranger, 
he said the words forced out of him by fear.  
    “The jewel.  What have you done with it?”  
    The captain flinched when a small, bright object struck his boot, and 
flew into the grass.  He fell to his knees, and began combing the blades 
frantically with his fingers.  With a sharp cry of triumph, he held up a 
hand tangled with a chain of gold.  From it hung a dark red stone with an 
odd, oily sheen.  Djannis rose to his feet, and nearly turned to thank 
Aragorn, but he knew that the Ranger neither needed nor desired his 
thanks.  Anxious to put all of this behind him as quickly as possible, the 
captain ordered his troop to march on.  
    Aragorn slid down the bole of the tree, and stretched his legs out before 
him, as the Haradrim disappeared from sight.  He had no reason to trust 
the captain.  It was likely that the man would use the jewel to control his 
men.  Whatever happened, it was beyond the power of one Ranger to set it 
to rights, especially given his condition.  He must accept that he had done 
the best that he could, and that if it was not enough, why then, he must try 
harder the next time.  For there would be a next time, it was one of the few 
things of which Aragorn could be sure.  His heart weighted by the sorrows 
it had endured, and his mind darkened by the thoughts of sorrows yet to 
come, Isildur’s heir bowed his head and wept.  
    The sound of birdsong returned to the forest, and the sun shone hot on 
his tangled brown locks, as tears flowed down Aragorn’s cheeks.  His fists 
were clenched around tufts of grass, and his body shook with the effort of 
holding in a grief to vast to be contained by one Man.  It broke free, and 
racked his chest with great ragged sobs like the sound of a heart being torn 
in half.  
    A gentle hand alit on the top of Aragorn’s head.  Though the seasoned 
Ranger had heard no sound, nor felt even a breath of displaced air, the Elf 
was there, kneeling before him.  Aragorn raised his anguished face, and 
looked into Legolas’ eyes, fearing what he would see there, but the Elf’s 
eyes were soft with compassion.  
    “Come,” Legolas said, “We should be away from here.”  
    Aragorn rose numbly to his feet, as Legolas shouldered his quiver.  The 
Ranger picked up his pack, and looked to the Elf.  
    “Quickly, Aragorn,” Legolas urged, “To the river.”  
    Aragorn followed as the Elf led the way at a merciless pace.  Finally, 
they halted where the fast running stream deepened into a river.  The 
Ranger caught his breath while his companion divested himself of his 
garments, and plunged into the chill waters.  When Legolas emerged, he 
lay down on the bank with an arm over his eyes.  
    “You will feel better, mellon, if you wash her off your skin,” the Elf 
said.  
    The light voice was pitched to a soothing tone, somewhat lower than 
was its wont.  The deeper note was like a dark thorn snagged in silk floss, 
and had the opposite effect of that intended.  It belied the Elf’s calmness, 
whispering to Aragorn of the strain beneath such fine control.  He knew 
Legolas was capable of maintaining this pretense indefinitely, but he also 
knew what it would cost the Elf.  Moreover, he knew, no matter how 
much it hurt him, he could not offer comfort until it was asked for.  This is 
what it was to be an Elf-friend.  
    Legolas did not move when Aragorn rose, and went down to the water.  
As far as the Ranger could tell, the Elf was in the same position, when 
Aragorn returned.  Impulsively, the Ranger flung down beside his friend, 
and shook water from his hair, flinging droplets in every direction.  
    “Men,” Legolas said with mock-scorn, “Always announcing their 
presence.”  
    So that was how it was to be, Aragorn thought, even as he replied in 
kind.  “Elves, always pointing out the faults of others.”  
    Legolas rolled onto his stomach, and became engrossed in the tiny, 
fragile flowers of the moss cups inches from his eyes.  Aragon took 
advantage of the Elf’s preoccupation to check the slender body for 
obvious injuries.  Aside from bruises on his shoulders and buttocks, the 
only wounds the Ranger could see were the torn wrists.  The sight of the 
deeply abraded flesh, shockingly red against the pale skin, undid 
Aragorn’s resolve.  He could not see a wound without wanting to heal it.  
    Aragorn opened his pack with fingers that shook from the water’s chill, 
but they soon steadied as they went about their chosen work.  With a brisk 
air of competence and command that brooked no refusal, Aragorn knelt 
beside Legolas, and took the Elf’s arm in a gentle, but firm, grip.  Seeing 
that Legolas had already done a good job of cleaning the wound, Aragorn 
applied salve, and wrapped the wrist.  Working quickly and 
unselfconsciously, he finished with the first arm, and took up the other.  
    Legolas remained unmoving as Aragorn bound his wounds, making no 
sound of pain or protest.  When the Ranger sat back on his heels to check 
his handiwork, the Elf sat up, holding his forearms in front of his face.  
    “Good binding,” he approved, flexing his wrists, “Thank you.”  
    Aragorn nodded gravely, accepting the compliment as the Elf wished.  
It was not permitted that Aragorn mention the fact that Legolas had saved 
the Ranger’s life.  It was not always easy living with these proud Elves, 
but Aragorn made the effort gladly.  
    “You should be more careful,” he said, “If you have a need to break a 
leather strap, a knife is more suited than flesh.”  
    “One does not always have a knife to hand,” Legolas countered, with 
the ghost of a smile haunting the corners of his mouth.  
    “Why do I bother to bandy words with an Elf?” Aragorn wondered 
aloud.  
    “That is a great mystery to me also,” Legolas answered, “For you are so 
lamentably ill-equipped for the task.”  
    “You are nothing if not right, prince,” Aragorn said, “How is it you can 
bear the company of a plodding Man?”  
    “Another mystery.  Suffice it that I can bear your company.”  
    “Are you certain?” Aragorn asked, “Should I not be on my knees, in 
abject gratitude that an Elf would deign to notice me?”  
    Legolas’ brows rose.  “You are being foolish now,” he said, “After all, 
we are not at Mirkwood’s court, and need not be so formal as to kneel in 
my presence.”  
    A genuine smile lit Aragorn’s haggard face for a moment, and the Elf’s 
heart lightened.  Rising to his feet, Legolas donned his clothing, and tied 
his damp hair back.  Then the Elf turned his face to the wind, and closed 
his eyes.  
    Aragorn stood and gathered his pack.  He walked to stand behind 
Legolas, looking over the Elf’s shoulder.  
    “What is it you do not see?” he asked.  
    Legolas took a deep breath.  “The Haradrim,” he said, in a seeming non 
sequitur, “They believed that woman kept their souls in a stone.  Is that not 
odd?”  
    “They believed it,” Aragorn said softly, “So what difference?”  
    Legolas nodded, cringing away from the pain in Aragorn’s voice.  The 
Man was not fooled by the Elf’s facade.  Aragorn could sense wounds of 
the spirit, as well as those of the flesh, and he suffered if he could not heal 
them.  
    Legolas did not wish to talk of his ordeal.  He had no need.  What had 
been done to him had left no mark on his soul; it had only made him sad 
that he could still be driven to rage.  He should have conquered such 
madness by now.  He was not a child any longer.  
    Aragorn let his chin rest on Legolas’ shoulder, and the Elf sighed.  Why 
was it so hard for him to give the Man what he wanted?  Why could he not 
show Aragorn his frailty, and let the Man comfort him?  Was he, perhaps, 
not quite so mature as he believed?  
    “Aragorn,” Legolas said, so softly the Ranger was not sure at first if the 
Elf had actually spoken.  “Do not let your heart be troubled for me.  I am 
well.”  
    “Are you certain, mellon?” Aragorn’s hands rose to knead the tight 
shoulders.  
    “I do not lie, Aragorn.  I have faced this trial before, and I survived.  I 
shall do so again, for now, as then, I have your help for which I am 
thankful.” Legolas let the tension drain from his muscles, leaning back 
against the Man’s chest.  He had said all he must.  His friend would never 
know that Legolas had endured his ravishment by seeing Aragorn’s face 
on his violator.  
    The Elf felt the palpable wave of well being that radiated from this 
remarkable Man, and nestled closer.  Aragorn’s arms went around the 
slender frame in a warm embrace, and they stood thus for long moments.  
Then Legolas moved restlessly, and the Ranger let him go.  
    Legolas sprang away, and ran through the trees, daring Aragorn to catch 
him.  The Ranger stood a moment longer in thought, and then hurried after 
the Elf.  
    Aragorn was satisfied that Legolas had taken no permanent hurt from 
his ordeal, and was gladdened to see him mending so quickly.  Aragorn’s 
own wounds were another matter.  He would recover from the experience 
of being forced, but Lady Tsalomey had shown him a corner of his soul 
that never seen the light before, and it disturbed him.  He knew it would be 
a long time before he forgot the sight of Djannis spending himself between 
Legolas’ thighs.  It would be even longer before he was rid of the image of 
himself in Djannis’ place.  
    Ruthlessly, Aragon banished such thoughts, and ran after the glimmer 
of bright hair weaving among the smoke-dark trunks of the trees.  
 
 
Stardust and Gold Memory: A vignette from the time when the young 
Ranger and the Elven Tracker traveled together.  
Aragorn/Legolas  PG13  
(author’s note: This was a Christmas fic written for a friend housebound 
by a blizzard.  For those who care, it would came between part 4 and part 
5.)  
baileymoyes@hotmail.com  
 
 
 
    The blizzard had been raging all day, and showed no sign of lessening.  
The wind howled like damned souls outside the mountain cave, driving 
sheets of snow into the entrance, silting it closed with deep drifts.  Deep in 
the fissure, around several bends, the Man and the Elf had made camp.  
    Legolas had fallen asleep, pressed against the Man’s back, sharing his 
warmth.  He woke abruptly, aware that he was cold, and stretched out a 
hand.  He touched nothing where Aragorn should have been, and pushed 
his head from under their combined blankets.  His sharp eyes swept the 
gloom of the cave fruitlessly, and then he sensed the Ranger’s presence 
directly behind him.  
    Legolas rolled onto his side, and looked up at his companion.  “What 
are you doing?” he asked.  
    “I am standing watch,” Aragorn replied.  
    “Aragorn.  There can be nothing stirring in this storm.”  
    “Can you be so sure?”  
    “Yes, only a Man as stubborn as yourself would be awake, and even he 
would not be abroad in a blizzard.”  
    “I suppose you are right.”  
    “There is an old Wood-Elf saying. ‘When there is nothing to do, do 
nothing.’  Come back to the blankets, and rest.  Conserve your strength for 
when we must dig ourselves out.”  
    “I am not tired,” the Ranger said, “And I am doing nothing.”  
    “I am cold, Aragorn,” Legolas said bluntly.  
    Unable to refuse, the Ranger returned to the shared blankets.  Legolas 
lifted a corner, inviting him in, and Aragorn lay down next to his secret 
desire.  The Ranger cursed again the circumstances that drove him into 
such close proximity.  Once, he had been able to control his baser 
impulses, but it grew increasingly difficult.  Even though he was careful 
not to let his body touch the Elf’s, the elusive, alluring scent of Legolas’ 
hair filled his nostrils, leading his thoughts down strange paths.  
Determinedly, Aragorn took control of his wandering thoughts, and 
concentrated on the here and now.  
    Legolas had not been exaggerating his chill.  The Ranger could feel the 
shivers that coursed through the slender body.  Telling himself he did it 
only out of necessity, Aragorn’s arms went around the Elf, offering the 
heat of his body.  The Man stifled a groan, as Legolas nestled back against 
him, rubbing firm buttocks inadvertently against his groin.  Holding 
himself in stillness, Aragorn managed to keep his burgeoning arousal from 
pressing against the Elf’s backside.  In a few moments, the shivers 
stopped, and Legolas relaxed.  The Ranger let out the breath he’d been 
holding, and some of his tenseness dissipated.  He was starting to feel 
drowsy, when the Elf turned in his arms.  
    Legolas wrapped his arms around Aragorn, and blindly burrowed his 
face into the juncture of the Man’s neck and shoulder.  He murmured 
something in Sindarin that the Ranger didn’t catch, as he threw a leg over 
Aragorn’s hip.  
    “Are you awake?” the Man whispered.  
    An indeterminate mumble met his ears, and Aragorn resigned himself to 
several sleepless hours with a most uncomfortable stiffness in his lower 
half.  The indefinable scent of the Elf, composed of a sweetness like the 
perfume of apple blossoms, the freshness of wind blowing over snow and 
the sharpness of the air following a lightning strike, rose alluringly from 
Legolas’ skin.  Aragorn felt abruptly that he must move away, or he would 
commit an unforgivable act.  The Ranger shifted, eliciting an 
incomprehensible protest from the Elf.  Legolas’ arms tightened around 
the Man, and he pressed even closer to the delicious warmth radiating 
from mortal flesh.  
    “Mellon?” Aragon tried again.  
    “Aye, Aragorn?” Legolas murmured drowsily.  
    “Are you warm enough?”  
    “Mmmmmh.”  
    “Could you move a bit?”  
    “What?”  The Elf sounded a bit more awake.  
    “You are all but using me as a mattress,” Aragorn said, striving for a 
light tone.  
    Legolas stirred, and then abruptly drew back.  Even in the gloom, 
Aragorn saw the blush that stained the ivory cheeks with rose.  The 
Ranger hid a fond smile, simultaneously relieved and disappointed when 
Legolas was no longer touching him.  
    “I must beg your pardon,” Legolas said, bravely looking the Man in the 
eyes, “I did not mean to trespass so.”  
    “There is nothing to forgive,” Aragorn assured his friend, “I was just a 
bit uncomfortable.”  
    “And small wonder with my knee in your back,” the Elf said ruefully, 
“You should just push me away, mellon.”  
    And in what world would that be possible, the Ranger wondered, as he 
gazed on the flawless face so close to his.  Aragorn had to move but a 
little, and their lips would meet.  He knew that the Elf’s mouth would taste 
of spice and honey, as surely as he knew that the pale hair would be like 
satin under his palm.  Fearful that Legolas would see his unbefitting 
desires in his eyes, Aragorn turned onto his other side.  
    “Aragorn?”  
    “Mmmmh?”  
    “May I put my arms around you?”  
    “Mmmmh hmmmm.”  
    Aragorn didn’t mind at all, as long as there was no danger of the Elf 
becoming aware of his erection.  Having Legolas pressed against his back 
would be quite pleasant.  A slow smile spread over the Ranger’s face, as 
the archer’s arms went around his ribcage, and he felt warm breath on the 
back of his neck.  He could stay like this forever.  Perhaps this storm 
would blow eternal, and they would be trapped here for all time, frozen in 
their embrace.  This did not seem so terrible a fate to the Ranger.  He 
thought he might prefer it to any destiny that parted him from Legolas.  
They were bond-mates.  
 
The thought evoked the memory of how the bond was formed, how he had 
reclaimed the Elf from the shadows of madness, and shown him that love 
need not be bought with pain.  Once called up, the vision of himself and 
Legolas entwined in passionate embrace would not be banished.  Though 
they had joined but once, and that in the spirit world, Aragorn could not 
forget the feel of the Elf’s skin under his fingertips, the taste of the Elf’s 
mouth on his tongue, the heat of the Elf’s sheath around his rod.  The soft 
sounds of Legolas’ gasps and whimpers were never far from his ears, and 
he sometimes wept like a child when he remembered the overwhelming 
joy that had suffused and connected them, mind, spirit, and body when 
they achieved release together.  Every fiber of Aragorn’s being ached to 
know that perfect bliss again, but he could not, not with honor.  
 
Isildur’s Heir had lately made a practical decision, and spoke to Lord 
Elrond as concerned his daughter, Arwen, and Aragorn would not disgrace 
the Lady by betraying her trust.  Moreover, he would not take advantage 
of the fondness Legolas felt for him as bond-mate.  The Elf was all too 
susceptible to the Man’s touch through the link they shared.  He loved 
Legolas too much to exploit the Elf’s weakness for him.  
 
Aragorn’s thoughts were scattered when Legolas pressed closer, 
murmuring softly in his sleep.  One of the Elf’s hands slid from the 
Ranger’s waist to brush his thigh.  The soft lips moved against the 
sensitive skin of the Man’s neck, and a swift little shiver coursed down 
Aragorn’s spine.  By the sword that was broken!  The Ranger shifted as he 
grew hard again, and his staff dug into his belly.  Trapped by the Elf’s 
entangling limbs, and his own sense of honor, Aragorn was a tortured 
prisoner of passion, with no wish to be free.  However, he knew that he 
must or wreck the hopes of so many.  
 
Aragorn closed his eyes, shutting out the future, giving himself again to 
the luxury of being so close to his Elf.  He would sleep.  Perhaps the storm 
would be over when he woke, and they would continue their journey to 
Lothlorien.  Perhaps the Lady of the Golden Wood had hopeful words for 
him.  Aragorn grasped Legolas’ wrist, and brought the slim hand back up 
to his chest, and held it to his heart.  
 
 
 
Stardust and Gold: Part 5 - Heart-Brother by bailey  
Aragorn/Legolas  
Pre-Fellowship, no warnings  
Aragorn and Legolas first time  
baileymoyes@hotmail.com  
They are not mine, alas; I but borrow their seeming for a time.  Alackaday, 
no profit is gained from this scratchings.  
 
    “What troubles you, young mortal?”  
    Aragorn lifted his head at the sound of Lady Galadriel’s cool voice.  
Hastily, he swiped his sleeve across his eyes, and faced her.  
    “I but sought a few moments to . . . reflect, Lady.  It seems I have many 
decisions to make these days, and not all of them are pleasant.  I must 
leave here, but I do not wish to.”  
    Galadriel stopped beside the marble bench, but did not sit.  Shafts of 
late evening sunlight lanced through the golden net of sparse mallorn 
leaves, the low level rays kindling a pale nimbus around her fair head.  
She stood in regal stillness, her smooth features betraying nothing of her 
mood.  
    “Decisions are heavy things,” she agreed, “Like promises.”  
    Aragorn wondered at the meaning behind her words for Elves seldom 
spoke without purpose.  This was one of the many differences he had 
noticed since he had spent some time among those of his own race.  Being 
human, he could not help but make comparisons, and, overall, he much 
preferred the company of Elfkind.  
    “Though you were raised among the kindred, you are a Man, and 
different from us,” the Lady said, eerily echoing Aragorn’s thoughts, “Yet, 
you must know, heir of Isildur, that we hold you in great affection, and 
have much hope of you.”  
    “I thank you, Lady,” Aragorn said, “Though I sometimes feel I am not 
worthy of such regard.”  
    “You are much too young to know your worth,” Galadriel said, and 
Aragorn fancied he heard a note of amusement in her grave voice, “Why 
not let your elders decide that?”  
    “I know that you are giving me good advice for which I should be 
grateful, but my . . . doubts speak louder than your wisdom.”  
    “But are you not a Man of high lineage, son of kings, with a heritage 
rivaled by none of your race that now breathe?  Are you not doughty of 
arms, keen of eye and swift of foot?  Do you not own courage and power 
and honor?”  
    Aragorn bowed his head before such praise.  It stirred his blood and 
made him proud to be who he was: Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur’s 
heir, and heir to the throne of Gondor.  At the same time it frightened him, 
and for the same reason.  He shuddered at the thought that someday he 
must leave these havens of peace and beauty, and take up his place as a 
leader of Men.  Let it be long in coming, he prayed fervently.  
    “You fear the future,” the Lady said.  
    Aragorn sighed.  It was impossible to hide his feelings from his foster-
folk.  Why did he go through the charade of trying?  
    “Aye, Lady, I do.  I do not wish to ever leave Elvendom.”  
    “And yet someday you must,” she replied.  
    “Why?” he said impulsively, “Why may I not do as I wish?”  
    “Few may do that with honor,” she said, “But perhaps honor is not so 
important a thing to you.”  
    Aragorn’s eyes flew to hers.  “Lady?”  
    “When you return to Rivendell,” Galadriel said, “Will you then be 
honest with my grand-daughter?”  
    “Arwen?”  The Man’s gaze was perplexed.  
    “What other?” Galadriel said, “She is precious to me, and I would not 
see her hurt.”  
    “Nor would I, Lady,” Aragorn said firmly, “I love Arwen.  You must 
know that.”  
    Galadriel’s gaze, freighted with the weight of centuries, assessed the 
young human.  
    “Are you certain, Elessar, that it is Arwen that you love?”  
    “Lady, I know I am but a Man, and unworthy of her love.  It does not 
change how I feel.”  
    “I believe that you love Arwen, but it is the love of a brother for a 
sister.  You have deluded yourself that it is more for you can see that she 
loves you, and you would not hurt her anymore than I would.  This is 
noble of you, but it is not honorable.”  
    “You know that I have the utmost respect for you, Lady, but you are 
wrong.”  
    In an uncharacteristic gesture, the Lady of Light reached out, and laid a 
slender hand on the Man’s shoulder.  “If you will not be honest with 
Arwen,” she said, “At least be honest with yourself.”  
    “You must be plainer, Lady,” he said bravely, “Your words confound 
me.”  
    “Very well, then.  I know that when you close your eyes, you see a face 
for I see it also.  It is an Elvish face, but it is not Arwen’s.  It is the face of 
a warrior and a prince.  Can you deny it?”  
    Aragorn dropped his eyes, as if he feared she saw Legolas’ face 
reflected there.  
    “No,” he said, “You are wrong.”  
    “I am not.  Why do you deny it?  What shame is there in loving one 
such as he?  Is he not brave, noble and fair?”  
    “As fair as the light of Earindel,” Aragorn said miserably, “But I cannot 
love him.”  
    “Peace, Elessar.  Among Elfkind there is no bar to the love of one man 
for another.”  
    “Among Mankind there is,” Aragorn said bitterly.  
    “Ah.”  In the Lady’s sigh was infinite sadness and infinite regret.  “I am 
sorry.  I thought you had vowed to follow the ways of the Elves.  I must 
have been mistaken.”  
    A small point of light appeared in Aragorn’s mind, like the flame of a 
single candle in a vast cavern of endless night.  Galadriel’s words rang in 
his head.  Had he not been saying as much to himself, when she had come 
upon him?  He did reject the ways of Mankind, and embraced those of the 
Elves.  Therefore, why did he deny himself the joy and comfort he might 
find in the arms of Legolas?  
    Shyly, the heir of ancient kings raised his eyes to meet the Lady’s.  
“Why do you say these things to me?” he asked, “By right, you should be 
angered for Arwen’s sake.”  
    “Nay, Elessar.  Though Arwen is young, she is of Elfkind.  For all she 
believes that she loves you, and I doubt it not, she will understand.  Your 
dishonesty, she will not understand.  And who can say?  Perhaps this love 
for the son of Thranduil is a passion of your youth to be quickly burnt out 
by the intensity of its ardor.  In time, perhaps, you and Arwen will wed, 
and your offspring will unite the blood of Elves and Men once again.  
Until then, why not take such gifts as are offered?”  
    Aragorn slipped from the bench to drop to one knee before her.  “Thank 
you, Lady,” he said, with bowed head, “You have helped me with a 
weighty decision, indeed.”  
    Galadriel smiled down at the young human.  “I hope you will always 
feel free to unburden your heart to me,” she said.  
    Aragorn rose.  “I would count it an honor and a privilege, Lady.”  
    Bowing low, the heir of Isildur took his leave, and went to seek his 
companion.  
 
    “Aragorn,” Legolas turned in surprise. “You said farewell, and yet you 
are here.”  
    “Keen are the eyes of the Elves.”  
    Legolas’ winged brows drew down in consternation.  
    “Forgive me,” Aragorn said, “It was but a joke.”  
    “Forgive me.  I do not always recognize your jokes.”  
    “Legolas,” Aragorn began, before a lack of words equal to what he 
wished to say halted him.  
    The Elf stood silently, expectation in every line of his sleek frame.  
    Aragorn sighed, “Will you walk with me?”  
    Legolas fell in with Aragorn, their strides matching out of long habit, as 
the Man walked purposefully through the winter forest.  They did not 
speak until they reached a small glade.  True night was falling, and the 
Sun’s brother climbed the ladder of the stars, turning the Elf’s hair to 
gleaming quicksilver.  Aragorn turned to his friend, and was ambushed by 
the profligate riches the moonlight bestowed upon Legolas.  When he had 
caught his breath, he spoke as calmly as his racing heart allowed.  
    “You know in what regard I hold you.”  
    The Elf cocked his head curiously.  “I do.”  
    “I wish to be sure.  I do not want to make a misstep, and find you no 
longer walked beside me.”  
    “Ah, this is a Man thing,” Legolas said, “Say what you need to say.  I 
will not mock you.”  
    “It is no easy thing,” Aragorn said.  
    “How can I make it easier, my brother?”  
    “Do not speak, and do not look at me.”  Anxiety sharpened Aragorn’s 
voice.  
    Legolas frowned his incomprehension.  “I do not understand, but I will 
do as you ask.  
    Rather pointedly, the Elf turned away, and raised his eyes to the stars.  
    “I think I have loved you from the moment I saw you,” Aragorn said, 
“Though my mind was slow to see what my heart recognized at first 
sight.  No, don’t.  Don’t look at me, or I will quail.”  The Man waited until 
the Elf’s eyes turned away before he spoke again.  “I must know if you 
love me, too, or if I have deluded myself.  If my words and emotion are 
distasteful to you, you need not speak.  Just turn, and walk away, and I 
will let you go.  We will never talk of it again.  But it you have harbored 
the same feelings, know that I welcome them, and will no longer deny 
them in myself.”  
    There was a long interval of silence during which Aragorn died several 
deaths.  Then Legolas raised a slim hand, and pointed at a pair of stars.  
    “Do you see these twinned lights?” said the Elf’s light voice.  
    “Almost every night of my life,” Aragorn answered.  
    “They revolve around one another, eternally bound yet never touching.” 
Legolas dropped his eyes to regard the Man. “Is that not sad?”  
    “It is,” Aragorn agreed.  
    “I would not live my life so,” Legolas said.  
    “Nor would I,” said Aragorn.  
    “Then we are agreed.”  
    Aragorn met the Elf’s moon-silvered eyes.  “We are?”  
    “Aye, we will not live our lives alone within arms-length of comfort.  
We will take hold of it, embrace it, and take what joy we may of it.”  
    “Is this truly your wish?”  
    “Can you doubt it?” Legolas asked, “Have I not tried to show you in 
every way known to me that you hold my soul in your hands?”  
    “Even though I am of Mankind?”  
    “Even so,” Legolas affirmed, “Shall I tell what I find beautiful about 
you?”  
    Aragorn’s eyes answered for him.  
    “You think that your humanity makes you somehow unworthy, yet it is 
your struggle against your race’s baser instincts that I find so noble in 
you.  You make me believe that Mankind is worth the effort it takes to 
save you from yourselves.”  
    Aragorn tried to speak, but found that he could not force words past the 
tightness in his throat.  He reached out to the Elf, and Legolas stepped into 
the embrace.  Aragorn pulled the Elf’s lithe length tightly against him, 
holding on as though afraid he would be swept away if he let go.  Legolas’ 
breath was warm on his cheek when the Elf spoke.  
   “You love me.”  
   “With all I am, or ever hope to be.”  
   “Then fear not for Elves do not turn away love,” Legolas said, “Its purity 
cannot be tainted, and it is the greatest comfort we are offered on this 
Middle-Earth.  Earendil’s light would still be beautiful, though it were 
reflected in the polished steel of a weapon of war.”  
    Legolas’ words fell on Aragorn’s heart as surely as on his ears, giving 
him hope and absolution.  The Man breathed in the elusive, ineffable scent 
of the bright hair, grateful to be allowed the privilege of simply standing 
so close.  Without his consciously willing it, Aragon’s lips brushed the 
tender flesh of the Elf’s neck, and the slender body in his arms reacted.  
    “Forgive me, my friend,” Aragorn said, as he released the Elf, “I did not 
mean to trespass.”  
    Legolas’ gaze was as blue as the heart of a glacier, and in it, the Man 
could see the same implacable patience, serenity born of the knowledge 
that his kind would still be here long after Mankind had destroyed 
themselves.  Disconcerted, Aragorn dropped his eyes.  
    “What is wrong?” Legolas asked softly.  
    “I presumed too much.”  
    “Nay, it was but the brush of your beard.  I am unused to such, and it 
startled me.”  
    Aragorn’s insides twisted in shame for human crudeness.  The 
marmoreal perfection of the Elf’s skin should never be marred by anything 
so coarse as a Man’s whiskers.  How had he dared approach this gossamer 
and stardust creature with his lumpen roughness?  
    “I would feel it again,” Legolas said, “Now I know what to expect, I 
will not shy so awkwardly.”  
    “Awkward,” Aragorn blurted in surprise, “You could never be aught but 
graceful.  You are as beautiful as dawn mist rising from a silver lake.”  
    “Pretty words,” Legolas said, “But they are naught but air.  Think you I 
am beautiful?  Then use your mouth to tell me in other than empty 
phrases.”  
    This was too much provocation for the hot-blooded Man.  Taking the 
lovely face between his hands, Aragorn covered the perfect lips with his 
own.  It was a brief kiss, almost brotherly in its chasteness.  Despite his 
ardor, Aragorn would risk no more for now.  He drew back, and gazed on 
the face of his heart’s desire, faultless in its lofty geometry, luminous eyes 
veiled by long lashes, framed by hair like moonlight spun into silk.  
    Legolas’ eyes opened, and looked directly into the Man’s.  His fine 
brows drew together quizzically.  “Is this all there is to a mortal’s kiss?”  
    “I dare no more,” Aragorn said, “Men are different from Elves, and I . . 
.”  
    “Not so different,” Legolas interrupted, “We know desire, and the urge 
to couple.”  
    “I do not know if I can control myself, and I should die if I hurt you.”  
    The music of Elvish laughter lifted the Man’s heart.  “Now you show 
human arrogance, if you believe that you can hurt me,” Legolas said 
merrily. “I am only asking for another kiss.  I have never had one from a 
Man, and you have given me but a meager taste.  Come, let me drink my 
fill, and slake my curiosity.”  
    “If that is truly what you wish,” Aragorn said uncertainly.  
    “Is there a plainer way to ask?  Tell me, and I will do it.  Or, if you will 
not, let us cease this play, and return to being friends only.”  
    Aragorn crushed the Elf in his arms, blindly seeking the silken lips.  A 
surge of warmth suffused his body as Legolas’ lips parted for his tongue 
when it sought entry.  As he explored the soft sweetness of the Elf’s 
mouth, he carefully kept their lower bodies from touching.  His rising 
flesh threatened to burst the confines of his breeches like a sprung 
catapult, and, though Legolas seemed willing, Aragorn was yet 
embarrassed by his indelicate response.  When his senses had been heated 
near to the melting point, he broke the kiss, and, once again, let his eyes 
dwell on the lovely face so close to his.  
    “Ahhh.” Legolas gave a long sigh, his breath emerging as a silvery 
plume in the chill air, obscuring his high-planed features with an ethereal 
veil.  “So that is how Men kiss.”  
    “Even so,” Aragorn said, with feigned calm, “What think you?”  
    The tip of Legolas’ tongue circled his lips once, as if savoring some 
lingering, exotic flavor.  It was all that Aragorn could do to restrain 
himself from taking hold of the Elf, and repeating the gesture with his own 
tongue.  
    “I can taste you,” Legolas said.  
    “And what do I taste of?” Aragorn strove to maintain his light tone.  
    “Smoke and honey and salt.”  Legolas met Aragorn’s eyes, and the Man 
caught the glint of humor in that bright gaze.  “And of what do I taste?”  
    “Your mouth is the headiest vintage I have ever put to my lips,” 
Aragorn answered, “Anymore and my head will be reeling.”  
    “There are none here to mark your drunkenness,” the Elf said.  
    “Only you,” Aragorn contradicted, “Only the one whose regard is all to 
me.”  
    “I grow weary of coaxing you,” Legolas said, “If your love for me 
cannot overcome your reservations, then I begin to doubt its strength.”  
    Aragorn’s features tightened in pain.  That Legolas should question his 
love was worse than any shame he felt.  Closing his mind to the 
yammering doubts, he drew himself up to his full height.  
    Sensing the Man’s resolution, Legolas waited in anticipation.  This was 
uncharted territory for him, but the Elf did not fear it.  However, the 
pleasure he took in it was a most pleasant surprise.  Far from being 
repulsed, as Aragorn so obviously feared, Legolas was prepared, eager 
even, to feel the Man’s mouth and hands on his body.  
    When their lips met this time, it was with a mutual hunger that ignited a 
flame in both.  A sweet fire ran along their veins, setting them alight with 
a blazing need.  Aragorn’s mouth devoured the bittersweetness of the 
Elf’s, one fist tangled in the skeins of pale silk.  He cradled the delicate 
skull with his other hand, his thumb tracing the elegant line of a pointed 
ear.  
    Aragorn let his hands slide over satin tresses, pushing aside the 
embroidered collar so his lips could gain access to the skin thus revealed.  
As he kissed the sensitive hollow of the Elf’s throat, Aragorn felt a shiver 
travel the length of the willowy body.  With trembling fingers made 
clumsy by desire, he worked the silver latches of Legolas’ tunic, and 
pushed the garment off the smooth shoulders.  
    Aragorn paused again to let his eyes delight in the wonder of Elvish 
flesh that drank in the light, and gave it back in a soft glow like the moon 
behind a cloud.  No longer content to caress that alluring smoothness with 
eyes alone, Aragorn let his hands glide across the indescribable softness.  
His fingers traced the winged collarbones, cupped the lean-muscled 
shoulders and trailed across the smooth chest.  
    “Is it permitted to speak?”  Legolas’ water-pure voice startled Aragorn 
from his near trance.  
    “I am near to losing the faculty of speech,” the Man said, “But I would 
fain hear yours.”  
    “My arms are cumbered,” Legolas said, “I would remove my tunic.”  
    “Let me,” Aragorn said.  
    Grasping the hem of the tunic, Aragorn pulled it over Legolas’ head.  
When he would have folded the rich garment, the Elf took it from his 
hands, and let it fall to the ground.  The sight of Legolas, bare to the waist, 
his pale hair tumbled on his shoulders, drew the Man as the siren sea 
draws the sailor.  Stepping close again, Aragorn enfolded the Elf in his 
arms.  
    “May I not see what lies beneath your clothing?” Legolas whispered.  
    Aragorn released the Elf, and whipped his deer-hide jerkin over his 
head in one quick motion.  He stood still, nervously awaiting appraisal of 
his sinewy hair-covered limbs, knowing in his heart that this exquisite 
creature must find them coarse and unattractive.  He flinched when cool 
fingers slid across his chest, running curiously through the hair growing 
there.  
    “So strange,” Legolas murmured, “And it grows elsewhere, does it 
not?”  
    “Aye,” Aragorn said, in a paroxysm of embarrassment.  
    “I would see,” the Elf said.  
    Slowly, Aragorn lifted his arms to reveal the dark hair that grew in the 
hollows.  In the next moment, he was laughing uncontrollably as Legolas’ 
fingers invaded his armpits.  He grasped both slender wrists, and pulled 
the Elf’s hands from his ticklish places.  Legolas’ gaze met his inquiringly, 
and Aragorn smiled to show that no offense had been given.  
    “I am sorry,” he said, “But that is one place I cannot abide being 
touched.”  
    “That is good to know, but for now, I promise I will keep my hands 
from beneath your arms.”  
    “Now you know my weakness,” Aragorn said, “Have you any of your 
own?”  
    “A newly discovered one,” Legolas replied, “It is a weakness for your 
touch.  Will you put your hands on me again?”  
    Such an invitation was not to be refused, and Aragorn’s fingers soon 
reveled in the warm velvet of the Elf’s skin, as his mouth laid claim to the 
silken lips.  When Legolas moaned softly, a bolt of sheer bliss charged 
every cell of the Ranger’s being, as lightning galvanizes the very particles 
of air through which it passes.  
    Aragorn’s hands traveled the length of the narrow back to the compact 
firmness beneath the close fitting leggings.  The Elf moaned again as 
Aragorn grasped his buttocks, pulling him closer, letting him feel the rigid 
length of a Man’s arousal.  To Aragorn’s naive surprise, he felt a hot 
hardness in Legolas’ breeches to rival his own.  As if to test the veracity of 
this proof of desire, Aragorn’s hand slid down the flat belly to the taut 
swell at the juncture of the Elf’s long legs.  
    Legolas made a strangled noise deep in his throat as the Man’s questing 
fingers squeezed tentatively at his most sensitive flesh.  With a convulsive 
movement, the Elf sprang back, and stood panting, staring wide-eyed at 
the Man who had such power over him.  
    “Forgive me,” Aragorn cried in dismay, “I warned you that I could not 
control myself.”  
    “Nay,” Legolas said breathlessly, “Do not blame yourself.  You did 
nothing untoward.  I was merely shocked by my response to your touch.  I 
did not know I could be so moved.”  
    “Then, you are not angry with me?”  
    “Angry?  With you?  My heart, how could that be?  I am a little 
frightened, but it will pass.”  
    “Frightened?” Aragorn said incredulously, “I have never seen you 
frightened, not even when facing a horde of orcs.”  
    “Orcs have no power over me,” Legolas said.  
    Aragorn understood.  “And I have none but what you grant me,” he 
said.  
    “Ah, Aragorn, if you but knew the feelings your touch rouses in me.  I 
have not the words to tell you of it.”  
    “You do not need them,” Aragorn said sincerely.  
    “Truly?  Does my touch set a fire in your flesh, as well?  Do you feel as 
though it will melt from your bones?  Are your thoughts shattered, and 
scattered like so much chaff in the wind?”  
    “All that and more,” Aragorn answered.  
    “Then we are lost for how can mere flesh sustain such passion?”  
    “Peace, Legolas.  It can, and will.  We will go more slowly.”  
    Legolas’ eyes appealed to the Man.  “You would not stop now,” he said 
uncertainly.  
    “Only if you wish it,” Aragorn replied, “For I confess, I am afire to 
continue.”  
    The Elf drew a long shuddering breath.  “Perhaps you are right, and we 
should proceed slowly.”  
    Aragorn smiled.  “I will take as long as you wish,” he said.  
    Legolas cocked his head, aware that there was a joke in the man’s 
words, but unable to fathom it.  
    Aragorn gently embraced the charmingly bewildered beauty, trailing 
soft kisses down the slender neck, fondling the satin skin with none of his 
former urgency.  Soon Legolas was moaning and trembling helplessly in 
the circle of the Man’s arms.  Aragorn stayed firmly in check, despite the 
fervor inspired by the sounds that the Elf made.  He schooled himself to 
patience, attending solicitously to Legolas’ pleasure, until he could stand it 
no longer.  
    “My love,” he breathed in delicate ear, “I am like to burst with my need 
for you.”  
    Legolas looked at him with dazed eyes, lips softly parted in ecstasy.  
“That will never do,” he said groggily, “I am ready for what comes next.”  
    Tenderly, Aragorn lowered Legolas to the grass, and leaned over him.  
His hands worked at the laces of the Elf’s leggings, and pushed them 
down.  With Legolas’ willing cooperation, Aragorn removed the last bar 
to intimacy.  
    “Be fair,” Legolas said, “You must show me your charms, as well.”  
    Aragorn swiftly divested himself of his boots and suede breeches.  
    “More hair,” the Elf observed.  
    Aragorn was beyond self-consciousness.  He stretched out beside 
Legolas, and bent his neck to take the wild honey mouth again.  Then he 
raised his head to gaze on the inexpressible beauty of Legolas’ naked 
body, seen entire for the first time.  Unable to refrain, he allowed his 
hands to roam the long, slender limbs, as muscular as his own, but 
infinitely smoother.  His caresses seemed random, but he had a goal, and 
reached it at last.  
    His scarred fingers wrapped around the sweetly curved, ivory-rose 
column of flesh that jutted, unobscured by hair, from below Legolas’ flat 
stomach.  He heard the Elf gasp, as he gently stroked the shaft of hot iron 
encased in velvet.  Long before either was ready, the stiffness in Aragorn’s 
fist twitched, and disgorged a pearly stream that broke apart into droplets 
that fell on them both.  Unwilling yet to relinquish his hold, Aragorn 
desultorily caressed the wilting stalk of the Elf’s desire.  
    “Ah, stop, I beg you,” Legolas whimpered, “I can stand no more.  I will 
surely burst into flame if you do not stop.”  
    Aragorn left off, and leaned over the Elf again.  To his dismay, 
opalescent tracks of wetness glimmered on Legolas’ cheeks.  
    “Why do you weep?” he asked anxiously.  
    “I have been pierced by joy,” Legolas answered, “Run through by a 
pleasure so great I could scarce endure it.”  
    Aragorn sighed in relief, and bent to kiss the tears from his beloved’s 
face.  
    “You have given me a great gift,” the Elf said, “What could I ever offer 
you that could hope to match it?”  
    “You need do nothing,” Aragorn said, “The privilege of loving you is 
enough for me.”  
    “That I cannot accept,” Legolas said, as he rose on one elbow, “You 
must give me the same right.”  
    Aragorn lay back, and let the Elf explore his body.  When the slim 
fingers closed around his manhood, he nearly gave up his seed before they 
even began to move.  
    “So hard and yet so soft,” Legolas marveled, “And such a nest you have 
made for it.  Nay, I do not sneer, lie back.  I let you look and feel your fill, 
and fair is fair.”  
    Aragorn gave up, and let the lovely Elf do as he would.  After a few 
moments of exquisite torture, Legolas spoke softly.  
    “Is there something else I might do to pleasure you, beloved?”  
    “There was certainly more I wished to do to you,” Aragorn answered 
thickly, “But you reached release before I knew you were ready.”  
    “What would you have done?”  
    Aragorn found it ridiculously hard to force the words past his lips.  “I 
would have . . . used my mouth on you,” he said.  
    “Thus?”  The Elf lowered his head.  
    Strands as fine as spider silk brushed Aragorn’s chest and stomach, and 
then he was engulfed in hot wetness.  It took all of his willpower not to fill 
Legolas’ mouth with seed as the cool lips slid down his burning shaft.  
Once, twice, thrice and Aragorn found himself clutching a double handful 
of pale hair, pulling the Elf away from his rigid member.  
    “Have I done it wrong?” Legolas asked in concern.  
    “Quite the opposite,” Aragorn panted, “It felt too good.”  
    “And how is that possible.  Is it not the object to achieve release, as you 
call it?”  
    Aragorn pulled Legolas close, and hugged him fiercely.  “Indeed it is, 
but not as quickly as possible.  I would draw out this pleasure for as long 
as you are willing.”  
    “Then the Sun is like to see us when She rises.”  
    “Let Her look,” Aragorn said, against the fragrant neck, “I care not as 
long as I may hold you.”  
    “But I wish to satisfy you,” Legolas protested, “If not with hand or 
mouth, then how?”  
    “Do you truly wish to know?”  
    “I wish to know why it is I must say everything twice.  I wish to please 
you.  Give me parchment, I will put it in writing, and sign my name at the 
bottom.”  
    “Softly,” Aragorn chuckled, “I will tell you.”  
    Gently, he eased the Elf onto his back in the grass once again.  Though 
it was difficult with those eyes staring so trustingly into his, Aragorn said 
what he must.  
    “I want to be inside you.”  
    Legolas hesitated almost imperceptibly before he spoke.  
    “Do you think me such a faint-heart as to retreat now?”  
    “Never, my love,” Aragon said softly, “I have never known anyone 
braver.”  
    Legolas’ sweet smile illuminated his face briefly.  “I have survived the 
axes of Dwarves, the swords of Men, and the truncheons of Orcs.  Why 
should I fear such a puny weapon as you brandish?”  
    “That was not your mood a moment ago,” Aragorn said, playfully, 
“There was dread in your voice, I swear it.”  
    “You misheard me,” the Elf answered in kind, “But that is the fault of 
your inferior mortal senses.”  
    “No doubt you are right,” Aragorn said.  
    “Then since we are in accord, why do you delay?”  
    Aragorn’s broad grin, warm as the sun, spread slowly across his face, 
bringing springtime to a handsome face too often set in the bleak, wintry 
lines of care.  He had not been imagining it.  The Elf was teasing him.  
The shared humor delighted and touched him far more than the most 
intimate of acts ever could for it showed far more clearly how close 
Legolas felt to him.  
    Still smiling, he put a hand beneath the Elf’s chin, and tilted the sweet 
face to catch the moonlight.  With a gesture more redolent of reverence 
than passion, Aragorn traced the heartbreaking curves of the sculpted lips 
with his forefinger, and kissed their upturned corners.  When he looked 
up, Legolas was staring gravely into his eyes.  
    “What should I do?” the Elf asked, “Should I turn over?”  
    “No,” Aragorn answered, “I want to see your face.  Stay as you are.  I 
only wish I had something to . . . make this easier for you.”  
    Legolas frowned inquiringly in the way that had always melted 
Aragorn’s heart.  
    “To make it easier to enter,” the Man said, glad his face was in shadow, 
and hoping the heat of his blush wasn’t sufficient to make him glow.  
    “Oh.”  
    Legolas sat up, and before Aragorn knew what the he was about, the Elf 
had taken the Man’s rigid length in a firm grip.  Matter-of-factly, Legolas 
bent over, and spat on the head of the shaft.  
    “Will that do?” he asked.  
    For answer, Aragorn pushed him back to the ground, and knelt between 
his thighs.  Seating his rod at the Elf’s portal, he guided it gently forward 
until the tip crossed the threshold.  The lean body beneath his tensed, and 
the blue eyes were focused on something in the middle distance.  
    Aragorn forged ahead.  He would prolong this moment if he could, 
savoring the first time Legolas accepted him into the hot velvet of his 
narrow scabbard.  However, he knew it would be kinder to let his lover get 
used to the intrusion all at once, rather than in small increments.  
    Legolas grunted indelicately as the long shaft slid home in him, and 
reached up to clutch at the Man’s broad shoulders.  They remained frozen 
that way for a long moment.  Then the pain that threatened to split the Elf 
in two became a tolerable pressure that gave way to a pleasurable fullness.  
    Aragon felt Legolas relax, and saw awareness return to his eyes.  Deftly 
he slipped his arms under the Elf’s knees, and lifted the well-muscled 
calves to rest on his shoulders.  Wrapping his hands around the slim hips, 
Aragorn withdrew half his length.  Looking into Legolas’ eyes, he thrust 
deliberately forward.  
    A look of beatific wonder transfigured the Elf’s supernal features.  “Ah, 
Aragorn,” he breathed, “I did not know.”  
    Greatly encouraged, Aragorn advanced and withdrew, eliciting gasps 
and moans that spurred him on.  His world had contracted to the feel of 
silken skin under his hands, the breathless voice that urged him on in 
Sindarin, and hot wetness that clutched at his manhood.  He could never 
desire more than this, as he rode the Elf’s elegant body in pursuit of his 
release.  
    It caught him instead, like lightning striking a tall tree, setting him 
alight from root to crown.  As his seed spooled out deep inside Legolas, he 
gathered the Elf into his arms.  He felt his lover shudder, and captured 
Legolas’ mouth, muffling the Elf’s incipient cry of fulfillment.  When the 
tide of bliss had ebbed, Aragorn moved as if to rise, but was pulled back 
into an ardent embrace.  
    “Not yet,” Legolas implored, “Hold me but a moment more.”  
    “Until the end of time,” Aragorn promised.  
    The Man realized his mistake immediately.  The Elf’s mood changed 
from joy to sorrow in the time it took his mortal beloved to utter those 
careless words.  
    “You cannot make such promises,” Legolas said.  
    “It seems I am always begging your pardon,” Aragorn answered, 
“Someone told me earlier that promises are heavy things, and so they are.  
I shall take greater care how I toss them around.  And I must be crushing 
you at the moment.”  
    When his attempt at humor drew no response, Aragorn raised himself, 
and rolled off of the Elf.  Because it was not possible to do otherwise, he 
smoothed the damp tendrils of hair back from Legolas’ brooding face.  
    “I am sorry,” he said softly.  
    Legolas turned to look at him at last.  “Sorry that you are mortal, or that 
I love you?”  
    “I am sorry I am mortal because you love me.”  
    “Why must this bitterness be mingled with the sweetest thing I have 
ever known?”  
    “I do not think that even the wisest can know that,” Aragorn replied, 
“But the Lady Galadriel lately advised me to take what gifts were strewn 
in my path, and that is what led me to seek you out.  Did you not then say 
that we should take what comfort we could?”  
    “I did, and I thank you for reminding me.  It is I who blights our joy 
with thoughts of things that have not yet come to pass, and never may.  It 
is my turn to beg your pardon, Elessar.”  
    “You are forgiven,” Aragorn said gravely, “For everything, forever.”  
    “As are you, brother-of-my-heart.”  
    Aragorn clasped Legolas’ forearm in wordless pledge.  His own arm 
was firmly grasped in return, and he felt whole for the first time in his 
life.  A stray thought of Arwen crossed his mind, and he felt no guilt.  
Elrond’s daughter would understand.  
    On the heels of this came the conviction that he must speak with Arwen 
as soon as possible.  He was now as eager to return to Rivendell as he had 
been reluctant before.  He would leave as planned, but now he would not 
have to travel alone.  However, being human, he must ask.  
    “Will you come with me to Rivendell?  There is a promise I must 
break.”  
    “To Rivendell,” Legolas vowed, “And wherever fate might take you.”  
    The Elf held to his pledge, following the Man to the House of Elrond, 
and the sorrow that awaited him there, and thence onto many adventures 
with the Ranger.  Though they would be parted by sacred obligations of 
honor to their respective destinies, they remained brothers-of -the-heart.  
Then one day, the future king of Gondor guided a young Hobbit, carrying 
a great burden, to Rivendell, and the Prince of Mirkwood had cause to 
remember his vow.  
 
 
 
 
 
Stardust and Gold: Part Six - Half a Wafer by bailey  
Aragorn/Legolas  
Rating: G  
Half a Wafer is a vignette that imagines a meeting between the two Elves 
who mean the most to a certain lone Ranger.  
baileymoyes@hotmail.com  
These characters are not mine, more’s the pity.  
Warning: None  
 
 
    She saw him before he saw her, and knew who he must be.  
    He stood motionless as the carved figurehead of a ship, lovely and 
fearless, the first thing to break the waves.  His profile was sharp and 
clean, like some pale luminous stone chiseled with a blade of 
incomparable edge.  Hair like starlight spun into silk fell in floating skeins 
to drape the shoulders of his forest green tunic and tumble halfway down 
his back.  Though he was still, the lithe lines of his elegant frame gave 
promise of the grace owned by the long limbs.  He was achingly beautiful, 
but she had known he would be.  The man would be drawn by that.  
    It was more than the comeliness bestowed upon all Elfkind; that would 
not be enough for the heir of Isildur.  This one had true beauty, the thing 
itself, which was more than just a pleasing countenance, and well-made 
limbs.  He had the carriage of some forest creature coaxed into the 
courtyard by your outstretched hand, poised to take flight at the slightest 
sign of danger.  He was of the wilds, and yet, the regal tilt of his chin, 
when he turned his head, whispered of an ancient lineage.  Arwen met the 
eyes of the Prince of Mirkwood, and inclined her head gracefully.  
    She had vowed she would not do this, and then found she could not 
forebear to speak to the one who held Aragorn’s heart, when the Man was 
away from Rivendell.  She had heard many tales of the adventures of the 
Ranger and the Wood-Elf, and Aragorn spoke of Legolas with the greatest 
affection.  Poor mortal, he did not know what he revealed to her by the 
very tone of his voice when he said the Prince’s name.  He was not even 
aware how much he loved this Legolas.  
    Arwen knew.  Her beloved was ever pulled toward that which was high 
and excellent for like calls to like, as her father had often pointed out to 
her.  This Legolas’ spirit must match the supernal perfection of its 
physical shell to have captivated Aragorn.  So . . . she would not even be 
able hate her rival.  
    “Lady Arwen,” the Prince of Mirkwood said, as he came away from the 
edge of the platform.  
    His voice was as cool and light as the first snowfall, mellifluous with 
the music of a deep forest accent.  The consonants were blunted, vowels 
flattened into the Elvish version of an aristocratic drawl.  On how many 
long nights had Aragorn sat watch with that wild honey voice pouring into 
his ear?  
    “You know me, Prince?”  
    “I was told that Elrond’s daughter was as lovely as the stars and the 
spaces between.  I see in your eyes the light of Earindil, in your voice I 
hear the music of Luthien.”  
    “You are a courteous guest, Prince.”  
    “As we are both royalty, perhaps you would call me Legolas, and I 
might call you Arwen.”  
    “That would please me,” Arwen said, “I have long desired to speak with 
you, Legolas.”  
    “How would a Tracker of Mirkwood interest the Princess of 
Rivendell?”  
    “Come now, Legolas.  You and I might have been betrothed but for 
circumstance.”  
    “More like you would have been hand-fasted to one of my older 
brothers,” he replied, “But you chose otherwise.”  
    “My heart chose,” Arwen said, “And I may not gainsay its will.”  
    “But you have not yet bound yourself to him.”  
    Arwen’s gaze flew to his at this bluntness of speech.  “Not yet,” she 
said, “My father . . .”  Her voice trailed off.  She had not come here to 
speak of the growing rift between her and her father.  
    “No, he is not bound to me,” she said, “If that is of comfort to you.”  
    “And why should it be?”  Legoas brows quirked upward in surprise.  
    “Come, Prince, let us pay one another the compliment of candor.”  
    “Lady, your words confuse me.”  
    Arwen sank gracefully to a bench, and, with a gesture, drew Legolas to 
sit beside her.  As she leaned toward him, she caught his scent, an elusive 
sweetness she sometimes smelled on Aragorn when he came to her after a 
long absence.  
    “You must know that Aragorn loves you,” she said.  
    “And I love him.  He is brave and noble, a good fighter and a Man 
worth following.”  
    Arwen smiled gently.  “You are brothers-in-arms, I understand, but you 
must know that his regard for you goes much deeper than comradely 
affection.”  
    “Aye, Lady,” Legolas sighed, “But he is not easy with it.”  
    “Yet, a large part of his heart is in your keeping.  I pray you take great 
care with it.”  
    “I shall.  Always.  May I say that you show great generosity of spirit, 
Lady?”  
    “I can afford to be gracious,” Arwen said, “He has a great heart; there is 
enough love for both of us there.”  
    “Many would not be so compassionate,” he persisted in his praise.  
    “Many do not have Elrond of Rivendell as an ever-present model of 
behavior,” she answered, “Once, as a child, I complained that I had to 
share my horse with a visitor’s child.  My father took up a lembas wafer, 
and broke it, giving half to me, and throwing the other half away.  He 
asked me which I would rather have, the half that was in my hand, or none 
at all?  I would rather have Aragorn in half of my life, than to live without 
him.”  
    “You must know that he loves you,” Legolas gave Arwen’s words back 
to her.  
    “It is pleasant to hear you say so,” she admitted, “But my time with him 
has not come.  His childhood was mine, his youth belongs to you, and you 
will return him to me as a man.  I do not grudge him this time of wildness, 
and you are the perfect companion for the journey he is on just now.  
Guard him well, Legolas of Mirkwood.  You shall answer to me for every 
scar.”  
    “I will keep in your good graces, Lady,” Legolas gravely, “And do not 
fear.  His life is more precious to me than my own.”  
    Arwen nodded, as though satisfied, her sable hair softly brushing the 
sweet curves of cheek, neck and bosom.  Her long fingers toyed absently 
with a radiant jewel that lay against her breast.  
    “A time may come,” she said slowly, “Mayhap already has, when he 
will not be able to resist the lure of your beauty.  That is between you and 
Aragorn.  You will make what choice you will when the time comes.  It 
will change nothing that is between Aragorn and I.  I have had my say.”  
    “Then here is mine, Lady Evenstar.  I walk beside Aragorn because 
there is no other place I would be.  He is a leader, not just of Men, but also 
of all Peoples.  I have never known a nobler spirit.”  
    “For all he is a Man?”  
    “Because he is a Man.  I find him noble for his struggle is the hardest.  
He must fight against his own human nature.”  
    “You see his beauty too,” Arwen said, “You understand why I love 
him.”  
    “I know not how others can be blind to his majesty,” Legolas said, “To 
me it shines forth like a thousand torches.”  
    “Like the Sun Herself,” Arwen agreed.  
    Legolas rose to his feet.  “If we are friends now, Lady, I should not tarry 
longer.”  
    Arwen placed her fingers on the hand he offered, and let him help her to 
rise.  He knew she did not need his assistance, but it pleased him to extend 
the courtesy, as it pleased her to accept it.  His fingers closed around hers 
for a brief moment, and something palpable passed between them.  A 
truce, and a pledge.  They would share Aragorn’s love, each keeping him 
safe for the other, and never revealing the arrangement to their beloved.  
    “We may divide him between us as we choose,” Legolas said softly, 
“But we know whom he truly loves, do we not, Lady?”  
    “Aye,” she said, “The folk of Middle-Earth.”  
    Legolas inclined his head.  “He is their shepherd, and his duty to them 
will always come before either of us.”  
    “As it should,” Arwen murmured.  
    “He gives so much to this ungrateful kingdom, which does not even 
know of his sacrifices, or that he even exists.  He gives his all to protect 
the people of Middle-Earth, and, somehow, he finds enough love for you 
and I.  I am very proud to be chosen for such regard.”  
 
    Aragorn hurried up the stairs in search of Legolas.  He reached the 
platform pointed out to him, and caught sight of the Mirkwood Elf talking 
to Arwen.  Legolas’ head was bent toward the Lady, and her face was 
turned charmingly up to him.  Her eyes glowed, and her petal-silk lips 
parted in an enigmatic smile, at whatever Legolas was telling her.  
    Aragorn’s heart staggered, and then settled into a faster rhythm.  A cold 
wash of dread chilled his stomach, and he swallowed hard against the taste 
of copper in the back of his throat.  They looked so perfect together, a 
marriage of Day and Night, uniting two Elvish royal lines.  They were the 
two finest beings Aragorn knew; why would they not see in one another 
what he saw in them?  Was it not natural that they would love one another 
on sight?  
    Seeing them like this made him wonder how he dared offer himself to 
either.  They deserved mates who were their equals, and he feared that he 
was seeing that ideal match.  He was dismayed, and yet a pure joy grew in 
his breast the longer he beheld the couple for it was not in his nature to be 
selfish or envious.  Perhaps, one day, he would play uncle to such perfect 
children as these two would produce.  
    Then Legolas caught sight of Aragorn, and the dawning light in the 
Prince’s eyes told Arwen who approached.  She turned her head, the same 
glow kindling in her eyes as she looked on her beloved.  Aragorn felt the 
radiance that emanated from the Elves, and realized in wonder that it was 
directed at him.  Basking in the luminous affection, he forgot his anxiety.  
He was the luckiest of Men to have such a Lady and such a Companion.  
    Aragorn strode forward to take Arwen’s hand, and bow over it.  He 
lifted his head to meet her eyes in silent promise, and then turned to the 
Prince of Mirkwood.  
    Legolas stood with head tilted to the side, his flawless face soft with 
some tender emotion in which joy was mingled with pain.  How right they 
are together, he thought.  Aragorn’s steadfast strength, Arwen’s quiet 
courage, his roughness and her grace, his fire and her serenity, their 
differences making for a perfect balance.  Then his reverie was broken by 
Aragorn’s voice.  
    “Come, Legolas,” the Man said, “Orcs have raided the border, and the 
trail grows cold.”  
    Arwen watched them hurry away from her: the tangle-haired, raw-
boned Man on whom care sat so heavily and the lovely, lethal Elf of the 
wild wood who had only one care.  She saw Aragorn clap a hand to 
Legolas’ shoulder, as he strode behind him down the spiral stair.  She 
noted the exquisite line of the warrior Elf’s neck as he looked over his 
shoulder to meet the Man’s eyes, and knew that Aragorn did as well.  
    Arwen knew that Aragorn would someday feel the need to possess that 
beauty, as was the way of Men, and she found that it did not change her 
love for him.  Let him find what solace and pleasure were to be had in the 
arms of the Prince, if that were his fate.  So long as Legolas brought him 
home safe to her, she did not begrudge his half of the wafer.  
    She turned from the stair, tall Lady of Rivendell, the most beautiful of 
this Age, daughter of the most ancient of bloodlines, gathered her velvet 
skirts and went to resume the tedious business of waiting.  
 
 
Stardust and Gold: Chapter 7 - A Better World Than This by bailey  
The Ranger and the Elf are brought together again in Fellowship after 
years apart.  
No warnings.  
baileymoyes@hotmail.com  
~Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell. ~  
 
    Boromir shook water from his hair, and waded from the river.  He 
donned his clothing, but gathered up his armor to carry.  He was freshly 
clean, and could not bear to cover himself with the heavy chain mail and 
thick leather just yet.  He strolled through the trees, spurning the 
comfortable footpath lined with graceful statuary.  Let the silken folk of 
Rivendell take the easy way.  Boromir was a Man, and a Man of Gondor 
besides.  
    His long strides brought him to a place he’d not yet been.  A garden of 
stone it seemed with marble walls and benches, the one place he’d seen 
here not choked with greenery.  Then he recognized the lone statue of a 
mortal woman for what it was: a monument to the dead.  It seemed an odd 
thing to find here, since the Elves believed that the body was just a shell 
for the eternal spirit.  His curiosity was roused, but he could not read the 
writing carved there, and soon moved on.  
    As he neared an arched opening in the wall, for once his steps not 
announced by the crackling of leaves underfoot, he heard the voice of the 
one who claimed to be Isildur’s heir.  Boromir nearly charged through the 
gate to confront the upstart, but a baser impulse made him pause.  
Drawing near to the wall, he followed it until he could see around it.  
    Aragorn, son of Arathorn stood in conversation with an Elf that 
Boromir recognized from the council as the Prince of Mirkwood.  As the 
Gondorian watched the Man placed both hands on the Elf’s slender 
shoulders.  The pleading look in Aragorn’s eyes offended Boromir.  Why 
should one who laid claim to the throne of Gondor ask aught of an Elf?  
Even if that Elf were royalty, as their kind counted such things.  
    Then Boromir raised his brows as Aragorn leaned forward to cover the 
Elf’s lips with his own.  Legolas did not protest, but neither did he 
anything to encourage the Man.  The lissome creature merely stood in 
graceful acquiescence until the kiss ended.  Boromir was surprised, but 
almost he could understand Aragorn’s impulse.  The Mirkwood Elf was 
fair, as fair as a shield-maiden of Rohan, with a fierce beauty that defied a 
strong Man to tame it.   Boromir could well understand the itch to answer 
such a challenge.  As Aragorn spoke, Boromir knew that in all honor he 
should go, but remained rooted to the spot.  
    “Once you welcomed my kiss,” the Ranger said.  
    “Your kiss is not unwelcome, it is only untimely,” Legolas answered.  
    “All things seem untimely now,” Aragorn sighed.  
    “Nay, do not,” Legolas touched the Man’s hand. “Let us not speak of 
the Shadow now.”  
    “When will we speak of it?  When it covers all lands?”  
    “Why are you angry?  I have pledged to come on this quest, and I will 
do all I can to see the Ring destroyed, though it cost me my life.”  
    “May it never befall,” Aragorn said quickly, as if the words were a 
charm to ward off bad luck, “And I am not angry, not at you.  I am . . .” 
The heir of Isildur paused, as though his next words had become stuck in 
his throat.  When he spoke again, his voice was lighter.  “I am foolish,” he 
said, “But I have ever lived my life in hope.  It is too long a habit for me to 
put by.”  
    “How can you speak of long habits?” Legolas replied, “You have not 
enough years to make such claims.  Though, tis true, you are older now 
than when we met.”  
    “But no wiser, you would seem to say by your manner.”  
    “No more cautious, I would say.  Men rush headlong into danger when 
they allow their emotions to drive them.”  
    “Are you then dangerous to me?”  
    Elven eyes met the eyes of the Man in a stare that Boromir measured in 
heartbeats.  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . . The Gondorian was 
on the verge of shouting, leaping from hiding, tossing a pebble, anything 
to break the freighted tension, when Aragorn finally moved.  
    The heir of ancient kings dropped to one knee on the leaf mold, looking 
up at the Elf.  “Forgive me,” Aragorn murmured, “I have no right to say 
these things to you.  No right to expect the grace you showed in my 
younger days.  The sight of you after so long, so perfect and unchanged 
has made me forget my dignity and myself.  Say we may be friends, and I 
will never again importune you thus.”  
    “Do not, oh, do not go on your knees to me,” Legolas said in dismay, 
“We are friends, and always shall be.  You mistake me, if you think any 
other.”  
    Aragorn stayed where he was.  “Then why will you not,” he began.  
    “I am not the one who is bound to Arwen,” the Elf interrupted in a 
fierce whisper.  
    The Man’s head dropped to his chest.  When he looked up again, he 
seemed surprised that Legolas was still there.  “You know that I must 
marry one day,” he said, “A king will have need of heirs, and that you 
cannot give me.  I must take a wife, and I have promised myself that she 
will be of Elfkind.  That I cannot conceive of binding my life to a mortal is 
your fault.”  
    Legolas drew a sharp breath, audible in the stillness, and Aragorn 
reached for his hand.  The Elf let the Man enfold his slender fingers 
between sword-callused palms.  
    “You allowed me such liberties,” Aragorn said softly, so softly Boromir 
had to strain to hear the words, “Such joy, such heady delight, to join with 
one so perfect, so full of grace, who melds all the beauty and tenderness of 
a woman with the courage and strength of a warrior.  And you are 
surprised that I love you?  That I still want you?  Nay, the fire you kindled 
has left its embers in my very soul.”  
    To Boromir’s astonishment, tears spilled from the Elf’s bright eyes, and 
spilled over the lofty planes of his downcast face.  He watched Aragorn 
rise quickly, with an expression of alarm on his weathered features, and 
guessed that, though Elves could weep, it was seldom.  
    Aragorn caught hold of both Legolas’ hands, but the Elf pulled them 
away in a convulsive movement.  The Man help up his hands palm out, in 
a gesture of peace, and helplessly watched the tears slide down that 
flawless face.  
    “I am sorry,” he said, “It seems I can do naught but cause you sorrow.  I 
wish you would let me comfort you, but you will not.  It is better I go, and 
you return home to Mirkwood.  How can I accomplish the task set before 
me with a divided heart?”  
    “Aragorn,” the Elf gasped.  
    Boromir saw a shudder pass through Aragorn’s body at the sound of his 
name in the Elf’s mouth.  The Gondorian saw all the signs of a Man 
holding himself ruthlessly in check, marking how the corners of Aragorn’s 
eyes tightened, how his hands curled into fists.  Boromir knew that this 
dam was not far from breaking, and found he was eager to witness the 
calamity.  It gave him pleasure to discover weakness in this overweening 
Ranger.  Seeing Aragorn broken by his desire for a creature that wasn’t 
even human gladdened Boromir’s mistrustful heart.  
    The heir of Isildur still stood with his hands hovering inches from 
Legolas’ body, afraid to touch the Elf, and aching to do so.  He might have 
stood that way until he crumbled to dust, if Legolas had not spoken again.  
    “Aragorn,” the Elf whispered brokenly, “Melethron.”  
    Aragorn’s arms went around Legolas, pulling the lithe length tightly to 
him.  Gently, his hand cupped the back of the fragile skull, and pressed the 
wet face to his shoulder.  Holding the Elf close, he stroked the silken hair 
consolingly.  
    “Again, I ask forgiveness,” Aragorn said, “I did not know that it would 
be as difficult for you as it was for me.  I thought only of myself, and of 
my pain.  I fear I am very human.”  
    “And I fear that is why I love you,” Legolas said, in a voice thick with 
sorrow.  
    “You love me,” Aragorn marveled, “And I make you this vow.  From 
this day, the knowledge that you love me will be enough.  Never again 
will I ask to see proofs.”  
    The Elf lifted his regal head from the hollow of the Man’s neck.  “Do 
not make such promises.  Vows such as this are the sort that twist Men 
into distorted forms of their true selves.  Say only that you will try, and I 
will be content.”  
    “Then, I will try, but I will be honest.  It will be torture for me to see 
you every day, and know that I may not touch you with aught but my 
eyes.”  
    “Think you that I am less tormented?  Now, let me go.”  
    Aragorn released the Elf, yet Legolas did not move away from him.  
The Elf still stood within the half-circle of the Man’s spread arms like 
some wild creature kept in a cage for so long that it fears freedom.  
    “Think me cruel, if you like,” Legolas said, “But I cannot go without a 
kiss of farewell.”  
    Aragorn needed no urging.  He took the lovely, sorrowing face between 
his hands, and bent his neck to kiss the perfect lips offered up to him.  Of 
old habit, his hands slipped down the slender column of the Elf’s neck to 
grasp the lean-muscled shoulders.  Legolas’ lips parted beneath Aragorn’s, 
and the Man’s tongue eagerly accepted the tacit invitation.  Aragorn’s 
arms went around the Elf’s slim waist, claiming everything within their 
circle as his.  The Elf’s arms twined around the Man’s neck as the kiss 
went on, his long white fingers tangled in dark hair.  
    Boromir dropped his eyes, confused by the sudden warmth that radiated 
from his center to suffuse his entire body before it faded.  When he looked 
again, the two had parted.  The Man stood like a child bereft, his eyes full 
of bewildered pain.  The Elf might have been one of the elegant, alabaster 
statues that his kind strewed about the landscape.  There was no trace of 
softness in either his posture, or his visage when he spoke.  
    “Farewell, melethron.  When next we meet it will be as the Prince of 
Mirkwood and the future King of Gondor, united only by a vow made to 
one who bears the heaviest of burdens.  May our sorrows be lost in this 
greater one and in our devotion to the Fellowship’s quest.”  
    “If you say it must be so, then it must,” Aragorn answered, “I will 
school myself to the manner of a boon-companion, and never let my eyes 
linger on you with aught but brotherly love.”  With a single, swift step, 
Aragorn was a breath away from the Elf.  He leaned forward, and his lips 
moved against one elegantly upswept ear.  “I will do this, but you will 
know how I truly feel,” he said.  Stepping quickly away, Aragorn spun, 
and hurried off.  
    Legolas stared after the Man for long moments, his marmoreal features 
unreadable.  As soon as Aragorn was lost to sight among the trees, the Elf 
collapsed onto the stone seat like a string-cut puppet.  His eyes were wide 
and unfocused, as though the spirit that animated them had withdrawn.  
Slowly, they filled and overflowed with silent tears that coursed down the 
precise geometry of his face to drip unheeded from his chin.  
    Boromir watched a dark spot spread on the front of the Elf’s tunic as it 
was absorbed into the supple suede.  For a moment, he felt queasy, as 
though he looked on some monstrous atrocity.  That such perfection 
should be marred by sorrow was a grievous wrong that called out to one of 
high honor and great heart to put it right.  Boromir of Gondor was such a 
one.  
    Leaving his armor beside the wall, Boromir stepped through the gate as 
though he were walking for pleasure.  He feigned a start on seeing the Elf, 
and stopped beside the ornately carved bench.  
    “Prince Legolas,” Boromir began, when the Elf raised his face and met 
the Man’s eyes.  
    Whatever Boromir might have said was forgotten.  That the sufferer 
before him was of another race was forgotten.  That he stood in of 
Imladris because of the dire peril that was about to engulf Middle-Earth 
was forgotten.  In the dark blue depths of the Elf’s wounded eyes was 
something that drew Men like Boromir, something that stirred a hunter’s 
blood.  Boldly, he took hold of Legolas’ jaw, and tilted the Elf’s head 
from one side to the other, as though appraising its worth as a trophy.  
When the Elf jerked his head back, the man grinned good-naturedly.  
    “Your pardon, prince.  I was so amazed that I forgot myself.  So, Elves 
weep.  I am glad to know it.  It makes your kind seem a little less strange 
to me.”  
    “We weep when we have cause.  Men weep for the smallest of 
reasons.”  
    “Not all Men,” Boromir said, as he sat, “We are to be companions on 
this benighted quest, and it would be best if you did not judge us all the 
same.  If Aragorn is all you know of Men, you have much to learn.”  
    The Elf’s delicate brows quirked up.  “The way you say Aragorn’s 
name,” he began.  
    “He is your friend,” Boromir interrupted, “I understand, but you must 
admit, he hardly conjures up the memory of Isildur or Elendil.  He is not 
much to look at, withal.”  
    Distracted from his bleak thoughts, Legolas looked incredulously at the 
Gondorian.  
    Boromir remembered that superior look of refined disbelief from the 
council.  He also remembered the haughty manner in which the Elf had 
informed him of Aragorn’s identity, and reminded him that Isildur’s heir 
was also heir to the throne of Gondor.  
    “You admire Aragorn,” Boromir said, “Why?”  
    “I know him,” Legolas answered.  
    “Yes, and why should that be?  Is it not strange that an Elf should 
befriend a Man?  I am curious.”  
    “Elves are curious as well but we do not need to take a thing apart to 
appreciate it.”  
    “I am rebuked,” Boromir said, “I but thought to divert you with aimless 
prattle.”  
    “Do I need diversion?”  
    Boromir fixed the Elf with his penetrating gaze.  “Elves weep when 
they’ve cause, or so I have heard,” he said, “I thought to help you forget 
for a brief time.”  
    “Then you deserve my thanks and not my scorn,” Legolas said, “It was 
ill chance that brought you here when I am so contrary.”  
    “Tis nothing, there can be no offense where none is intended.”  Boromir 
answered the Elf’s courtesy with the fine manners bequeathed him by his 
mother.  “I but offer comfort, if comfort is desired.”  
    Legolas let his gaze dwell frankly on Boromir’s handsome face, his sea 
blue eyes and antique-gold hair, before his eyes traveled on, taking in the 
tall well-muscled frame with its long limbs, broad shoulders and narrow 
hips.  The Man was well favored for his kind, with an air of regal 
command that drew the Elf.  This Man had never doubted himself.  Here 
was one high of heart as Isildur himself, and Legolas was indeed in need 
of comfort.  Why should he spurn this offer?  
    “I thank you for your kind words,” Legolas said, “And I would be 
pleased if you would sit with me a while, and talk with me.”  
    “I will, but first I will dry those eyes.”  Matter-of-factly, the big Man 
used the tail of his under-tunic to wipe Legolas’ face.  “That is more like,” 
he said, “I care not for the sight of tears.”  
    Inexplicably, the Man’s brusque gesture undid all of Legolas’ careful 
control.  No sooner were his cheeks dried, than he wet them again.  
    “This will never do,” Boromir chided, “All my work undone.”  
    Legolas turned his head away, and stared down at the fallen leaves.  He 
was surprised when Boromir’s strong arms enfolded him from behind, 
pulling him gently back against the warrior’s chest.  The Elf did not resist, 
allowing the human to proffer the solace of an embrace.  Boromir’s arms 
held him securely, mutely promising protection from harm.  The 
Gondorian’s scent, a mingling of smoke, leather and musky mortal sweat, 
was poignantly familiar.  It was easier than Legolas might have imagined, 
relaxing and leaning on the Man’s strength for a little while.  
    Boromir rested his chin on Legolas’ shoulder, and inhaled the ineffable 
fragrance of Elven flesh.  It was a scent that was no scent at all, but called 
to mind crystal springs, apple blossom and the passage of lightning 
through moisture-laden air.  ‘Have a care,’ said the oft-ignored small voice 
in Boromir’s mind, ‘Here is something beyond your ken.’  
    “Tis odd to me,” Boromir said, his breath stirring fine tendrils of pale 
hair, “That I should find you so comely.  You are no woman.  You are not 
even human.  Yet, were I honest, I must say that you stir me to thoughts 
that would no doubt give offense if uttered aloud.”  
    “I have often been praised for my beauty,” Legolas said, “I wonder that 
it is remarked upon when we are surrounded by beauty on every side.”  
    “Well,” Boromir chuckled softly, “There is beauty, and there is beauty.”  
    “Aragorn would also have it so,” Legolas said softly, “Is that a Man 
thing?”  
    “Listen well, prince.  Perhaps Elves can look upon the wonders of this 
world, and appreciate them from a distance, but Men cannot.  There are 
some men who cannot look on beauty without needing to possess it.  I do 
not say that this is good or evil, only that it is so.  When they see 
something high and excellent, they must pursue it, take it into their hands, 
and lay claim to it.”  
    “The sort of Men that become Kings,” the Elf guessed.  
    Boromir nodded, his beard a rough reminder against the sensitive flesh 
of the Elf’s neck.  “Does that help you to understand?” he asked.  
    Legolas shook his head slightly.  “I will never understand, though I am 
a warrior and a tracker.  Elves hunt prey, not trophies.”  
    “And very fierce you are seemingly, for all that you are a creatures spun 
from air and stardust.  I am no scholar like my brother, but I have read the 
annals of the great wars.  The courage of no race is praised more than that 
of Elfkind.  I look forward to seeing you fight, pretty one.”  
    “I fear me you shall, and sooner than any of us would wish,” the Elf 
answered.  
    “I am rebuked again, but I flatter myself that your tears have stopped for 
a while.  Is it not so?”  
    The Elf turned in the circle of the Man’s arms, and Boromir found 
himself face to face with the prince.  He saw that Legolas’ cheeks were 
devoid of wetness, and he saw how fine the skin was, even viewed from so 
close a vantage.  The urge to test its smoothness was well nigh irresistible, 
but he was a Man of Gondor.   He contented himself with a brush of his 
lips against the Elf’s forehead, as he released him.  
    “You see,” Boromir said, “Men are not so cruel as you would have us.”  
    “It is not your cruelty I deplore, but your weakness.  Men will put aside 
their high ideals for what they desire.  Even Isildur could not destroy the 
Ring when he had the chance.”  
    Boromir touched a forefinger to Legolas’ cheek.  “If this were a 
different world, a better world than this, I would prove the strength of a 
Man’s desire to you.  But I am as I am, and, however beautiful you are, 
you are not what I desire.”  Boromir’s finger traced the alien line of the 
Elf’s ear, and let his hand drop onto Legolas’ shoulder.  “We shall be 
companions, prince, and I do not doubt me that songs will be sung of our 
Fellowship.”  
    Legolas’ hand came up to clasp the Gondorian’s wrist.  “I hope only 
that we may accomplish our task and live to hear songs of any kind.  Now 
that Gondor has joined us, I have more hope that it may be so.  
    Boromir dipped his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, and 
stood.  He turned and left, unmindful of the armor that he would have to 
return for some time later.  He passed by the opening to the stone garden 
without guessing that another had found his erstwhile hiding place.  
    The Ranger’s eyes coldly tracked the tall Gondorian, as Boromir strode 
by like the Lord of the Earth.  Aragorn wished to go after the proud Man, 
and demand an explanation for the tender exchange he had witnessed.  
However, he would not wish Boromir or Legolas to know that he had been 
spying on them.  
    Was it possible that the supremely self-assured son of the Steward of 
Gondor was the reason that Legolas had turned Aragorn away with such 
finality?  Was golden-haired Boromir the source of the Elf’s newfound 
resolve?  And what right did a betrothed Man have to ask these questions?  
Aragorn had made his choice, for the good of his future kingdom, for a 
crown he did not wish to wear.  Why should he grudge Legolas the 
measure of comfort he might find in another’s arms?  
    Reluctantly, Aragorn turned away from the sight of Legolas, standing 
upright, his flawless face turned to the shafts of late autumn sunlight that 
pierced the foliage.  The Elf’s hands hung loose at his sides, and his eyes 
were closed to the chatoyant light that picked argent splinters from his 
raveled braids.  Aragorn left him there alone, the brother-of-his-heart, and 
went seeking Arwen.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Stardust and Gold: Chapter 8 - Embers and Ash by bailey  
Fellowship NC17 - Legolas is troubled by an old complaint.  Haldir has a 
cure.  
baileymoyes@hotmail.com  
~ Fountain of sorrow, fountain of light, you’ve heard the hollow sound of 
your own steps in flight. ~  
 
    Boromir sought out Legolas when the Company stopped to let Gandalf 
get his bearings.  The warrior from Gondor reached to help the Elf, who 
was shrugging out of his pack and quiver.  
    “My thanks, “ Legolas said, although he had needed no help.  
    “It is I who wish to thank you,” Boromir said gruffly, “If not for your 
quickness at the broken stair, I would have left my bones in this pit.”  
    “Mae govannen,” Legolas said, “Any of us would have done the same.  
I was closest.”  
    Boromir smiled in spite of the grimness of their situation.  “They might 
have wished to do the same, but I doubt me that Merry or Pippin could 
have pulled me back from that drop.”  
    The ghost of a smile haunted the corners of the Elf’s mouth, and 
Boromir felt a surge of pride that he had lightened Legolas’ mood if only 
for a moment.  
    “Do you think the wizard knows where he’s going?” the Gondorian 
asked.  
    “I do not know, but I trust in his wisdom,” the Elf answered, “I wish . . 
.”  
    “What?”  Greatly daring, Boromir laid a gloved hand on Legolas’ 
shoulder.  
    The sympathetic touch nearly undid the Elf’s composure.  He had 
walked too long in darkness.  He needed to see the sun and stars, to feel 
the clean wind on his face.  Moreover, there was an oppressive dread that 
weighed down his spirit, a sense of something terrible lurking in the 
depths of this Dwarven labyrinth.  It took most of his willpower just to put 
one foot in front of the other.  
    As naturally as he would have comforted his younger brother, Boromir 
drew the Elf into his arms.  He could feel Legolas’ reluctance to unbend, 
but ignored it.  The Man simply held him close, trying to impart a measure 
of security.  After too brief a time, the Elf stepped out of the warm circle 
of the Gondorian’s embrace.  
    “Please excuse me,” Legolas said, “I must be alone for a time.”  
    “I do not think it best,” Boromir said, “But I am not your master, and he 
who is has too little regard for your welfare.”  
    “Your words are not welcome,” Legolas said, “Please excuse me.”  
    Aragorn turned from helping Sam start a fire in this inhospitable place, 
and saw Legolas hurry away from Boromir.  The Elf looked upset, and the 
Gondorian stared after him in a manner that set off alarm bells in 
Aragorn’s head.  Seeing that Sam had things well in hand, the Ranger 
walked away in the direction that the Elf had taken.  
    “We should not walk alone here,” Aragorn said, when he caught up 
with Legolas.  
    “It has never been my wish to walk alone,” Legolas replied, with what, 
for him, amounted to petulance, “But it seems to be my fate, nonetheless.”  
    The Elf’s words struck their mark.  Aragorn absorbed the blow, and 
spoke again.  “I deserve that, I suppose, but will you not come back with 
me?  Sam is making tea.”  
    “I cannot be among the Company just now.”  
    Aragorn stood in silence for a moment, his capable hands clenching 
helplessly at his sides.  He longed to take Legolas in his arms, and banish 
whatever saddened the Elf, but he no longer had that privilege.  Any 
affectionate gesture on his part would surely be misinterpreted.  Yet, he 
could not make himself turn, and walk away.  
    “I am frightened,” Aragorn said.  
    Legolas finally turned to look him in the face.  The expression on the 
Elf’s lovely features caught at the Ranger’s heart, and he had to drop his 
eyes to hide the fire that must surely shine forth like the Cracks of Doom.  
    “I fear that this task is beyond my strength,” Aragorn said, to cover the 
pounding of his heart, which must surely be audible in the bottomless 
silence of Moria.  
    “Then it is beyond the strength of any,” Legolas answered.  
    “We are so far from anything good and beautiful,” the Ranger said, “I 
do not know if we shall ever . . .”  
    Legolas started forward, as the Man’s voice broke on a sob.  Without 
thought, the Elf offered the solace that the Man had taught him to crave.  
Wrapping his arms around Isildur’s Heir, Legolas laid his cheek against 
Aragorn’s bearded jaw, and held him tightly.  
    Aragorn was near to swooning with relief.  This was where he belonged 
his heart told him with every beat.  The very blood in his veins flowed 
more quickly, and the air he drew into his lungs seemed somehow 
cleaner.  While Legolas held him, the world outside the Elf’s arms had no 
meaning, could not possibly harm him.  Without his consciously willing it, 
the Ranger’s hand came up to stroke the pale tresses that flowed down the 
narrow back.  Lulled by the once-familiar scent and feel of the slender 
body in his arms, Aragorn’s lips moved against the satin textured skin of 
Legolas’ neck.  The Ranger’s embrace tightened, and his mouth sought the 
alluring point of a delicately upswept ear.  
    “Nay,” Legolas whispered, as he pushed away, “This is not what I 
meant.”  
    Still beguiled, lost in a phantom Mirkwood, the Ranger held on to the 
Elf possessively.  Cradling Legolas’ skull in one large hand, Aragorn 
sought the sweet lips.  
    “Stop!” Legolas said, “I do not want this.”  
    Still, Aragorn did not hear.  His ears were filled with the birdsong of the 
forest deeps.  His mouth covered the Elf’s, muffling Legolas’ protests.  
    “Aragorn, no, please do not,” Legolas cried, when the kiss ended.  
    The note of desperation in his beloved’s voice shook the Ranger from 
his trance.  Awareness returned, and with it, the knowledge of what he had 
almost done.  Horrified, he moved back from the Elf, an expression of 
deep remorse on his handsome face.  
    “What have I done?” he cried, “I am sorry, mellon.  Please forgive me.”  
    Legolas merely stared at the Ranger, an unreadable look on his visage.  
He did not speak, either to excuse or rebuke.  He just stood there, wide-
eyed and breathless.  
    “Legolas?” Aragorn said tentatively.  
    “Ai!” the Elf wailed without warning, “Something comes!  We must 
find Gandalf!”  
    Without another word, Aragorn turned and dashed back the way he had 
come followed by the Elf.  The others were gathered in a tight group 
around the wizard.  
    “What new devilry is this?” Boromir asked.  
 
    “Haldir,” Aragorn greeted the tall Elf who barred the Company’s way.  
    “Dunedain?”  Haldir put down his bow.  “You are far afield.”  
    “Far afield indeed,” Aragorn said, “We have need of refuge.”  
    “The borders of the Golden Wood are closed,” Haldir said, “To all.”  
    “We bring grave news to the Lord and Lady,” Aragorn said, “You must 
let us pass.”  
    “I might give you permission, Dunedain, but what of your 
companions?  I cannot . . .”  
    Haldir’s words trailed off, as Legolas came from the rear to stand beside 
the Ranger.  
    “Prince Legolas,” Haldir said, when he recovered his voice, “I am glad 
to see you again.”  
    Legolas nodded noncommittally.  “You look well, Haldir, but why do 
we stand talking here?  We must speak with Lord Celeborn and Lady 
Galadriel.”  
    “I would let you pass, of course,” Haldir said, “And Isildur’s Heir, but 
the others are unknown to me, and we are not so trusting as we once 
were.”  
    “I will vouch for them,” Legolas said.  
    Haldir raised his chin.  “Even the Dwarf?”  
    “Aye, even the Dwarf, whose name is Gimli, son of Gloin.”  
    Haldir cocked an eyebrow at the prince of Mirkwood’s tone.  “Very 
well,” the sentinel said, at last, “I will escort you to Caras Galadhon 
myself, and, if I have done wrong, I will accept blame.”  
 
 
    “Forgive me, if I intrude, Prince,” Haldir said, as he approached.  
    Legolas lifted his head from his arms, and regarded the other Elf 
gravely.  
    “I know your heart is heavy with grief for Mithrandir,” Haldir said, 
“Will you walk with me?  I wish to show you something that may lighten 
your thoughts for a few moments.”  
    Haldir brought them to an observation platform, high in the branches of 
a mallorn colossus.  Below they could see the lights of Lothlorien, and the 
Golden Wood spread out like a queen’s cloak.  Haldir stood back, and 
watched the prince look down in wonder.  
    “It is beautiful,” Legolas said.  
    “Not more beautiful than you,” Haldir answered.  
    Legolas turned to face the Lorien Elf.  
    “Do I give offense?” Haldir asked.  
    “That remains to be seen.”  
    “May I speak plainly?”  
    “If you must.”  
    Haldir was taken aback by what, by Elvish standards, was extreme 
rudeness on the part of the prince of Mirkwood.  No Elf would admit to 
such lack of interest in another’s words.  It was an arrogant and hurtful 
attitude that sat ill with Elvish courtesy.  Though shocked, Haldir was 
driven to say the words he had carried in his heart for so long.  
    “I have wished on each sunrise that I might see you again,” Haldir said, 
“And on each star, as it climbed from the well of night.  I have long 
brooded on our parting, and I would change it, if I could.  Lacking that 
power, I can only hope that you will listen, and forgive me.”  
    “It is done, Haldir,” Legolas said, “I have healed, and I hope you have, 
as well.”  
    Haldir looked deep into the Wood-Elf’s eyes.  “If you have healed, I am 
glad for you, but forgive me if I find it difficult to believe.”  
    “I care not what you believe, Elf of the Golden Wood.”  
    Again, Haldir was given pause by the prince’s bad manners.  The 
Lorien Elf could only assume that the appalling directness was a result of 
too much time in the company of Men.  
    “I sought you more than once in the past years, but never could I catch 
up to you,” Haldir said, “You have traveled far at the Ranger’s side.”  
    “I will travel farther yet,” Legolas answered shortly.  
    “To your greater sorrow.” Haldir was finally provoked to reply in kind.  
    “I will not deny it,” Legolas said, “You have the right of it.  Does that 
please you?”  
    “Of course not.  I have never wished to see you hurt.”  
    An odd smile quirked one corner of the Wood-Elf’s sculpted lips.  
“That is not how I remember it, Haldir.”  
    “I wanted nothing more than to love you,” Haldir said.  
    “Is this really the talk you wanted to have?” Legolas asked, “Because, I 
tell you truly, I do not wish to speak of that time, but, if I cannot avoid it, I 
will speak very plainly.”  
    “That sounds like a challenge.”  
    “Then you have not changed at all,” Legolas said, “You are still mad.”  
    “Mad?” Haldir mocked the prince’s tone, “Is that really the sort of word 
you want to bandy about?  Because, I tell you truly, you know as much of 
the subject as I.”  
    “I am cured,” Legolas said, “Aragorn led me from the shadows where 
you still linger.”  
    “The Man,” Haldir said, “He stole your heart from me, and he keeps it 
still.”  
    Legolas looked back out over the Golden Wood, shining softly in the 
twilight.  “You never had my heart,” he said softly.  
    Haldir’s fine features froze.  “You loved me,” he contradicted, “As I 
loved you.”  
    “No, Haldir.  What we shared was not love.  Is it possible that you have 
forgotten how it was between us?”  
    “I remember how I felt,” Haldir said, “Do you?”  
    Legolas shivered, though the night air was mild.  “Aye.  I remember,” 
he said.  
    “Maybe you did not love me,” the Lorien Elf said, “But you cannot tell 
me that I did not love you.”  
    “It was a sickness that infected us both,” Legolas answered.  
    “I know of that.  I spoke to the Lord and Lady when I returned from 
Mirkwood.  Lord Elrond told the Ranger the truth about this blood 
ecstasy.  I am cured of that, but I am not cured of you.”  
    Legolas hearkened to the change in the proud Elf’s voice, and modified 
his sharp reply.  
    “Then I am sorry for I cannot return your regard.”  
    “Because of the Man.”  
    “I love him, Haldir.”  
    “But he is not of Elfkind, and he does not understand you,” Haldir said, 
“He does not know what you need.”  
    “And what is it that I need?”  
    “You want to be overthrown, to be mastered, overwhelmed by the 
passion of one as strong as yourself.  You cannot surrender, and so, you 
must be taken.”  
    “It does not matter for Aragorn and I are not lovers.”  
    “You lie, prince.  It is in every glance he gives you, in the way you 
stand too close to him.  I can see it in . . . Elbereth!  You do not even 
realize that you are so transparent.”  
    “Nay, I did not.”  
    “Legolas.  If you love him, why are you not lovers?”  Haldir asked the 
obvious question.  
    “He has promised himself to Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond.”  
    “So it is true.”  
    “A king must have heirs,” Legolas said.  
    Haldir raised an eyebrow at the bitterness in the Wood-Elf’s voice.  
    “Does he not love her?  T’were ill-done to woo the Lady Evenstar 
falsely.”  
    “He loves her well enough,” Legolas said, “Aragorn cannot be false.  It 
is not in his nature.”  
    “He loves you both?”  
    “He has said so,” Legolas replied, “It does not matter.  He is bound to 
Arwen.”  
    “While you remain bound to him.”  
    “You see much, Haldir.”  
    “I love you.  Your pain is my pain.”  
    “Would you ease my pain?”  
    “If it were in my power,” Haldir replied, “I think that it is not.”  
    “Then, will you give me what I need?”  
    Haldir looked sharply at the prince.  
    “I cannot ask more plainly,” Legolas said softly, “For it is not in my 
nature.”  
    Haldir pondered for half a heartbeat before sweeping Legolas into his 
arms.  Praying he had not misunderstood, the Lorien Elf sought the 
prince’s lips with his own, and claimed them in no uncertain manner.  His 
tongue laid siege to Legolas’ mouth until the silken lips parted for him.  
    When Legolas made to push him away, Haldir tightened his arms 
around the Wood-Elf’s lithe frame.  Relinquishing the intoxicating lips, 
the Lorien Elf gave his attention to Legolas’ ears.  In a few moments, 
Legolas was moaning as Haldir sucked the points of his ears while 
fondling his buttocks.  Haldir pulled the other Elf’s groin firmly against 
his, and moved his pelvis insistently against Legolas’ stiffening staff.  
    “Wait,” Legolas said breathlessly.  He was aroused, but frightened.  He 
could feel the wicked heat banked in his veins awaiting the smallest spark 
to combust into wildfire.  He did not know if he could come back from 
another season in hell.  
    Haldir paid no heed to Legolas’ admonition.  He bit down on a delicate 
ear tip, while his fingers busied themselves at the Wood-Elf’s crotch.  
    When it become apparent that Haldir was not listening, Legolas 
struggled in earnest.  The prince was strong, but the Lorien Elf matched 
him.  Twist and thrash as he might, Legolas could not escape Haldir’s 
arms.  
    “Softly,” Haldir said, “We can grapple if you like, but would it not be 
more pleasant for you to accept my gift without protest?  I will concede 
that you do this against your will, if it makes it easier for you.”  
    “I am afraid,” Legolas admitted.  
    Haldir loosened his hold on the other Elf.  “Do you fear that the 
madness will return?”  
    “I can feel it trying to break free.  Your touch calls to it.”  
    “I will not let it have you,” Haldir promised, “I know what cause you 
have to distrust me, but I vow to you that I am free of the ancient curse in 
a way that you clearly are not.  The Ranger may have brought you from 
the shadow, but part of that darkness came with you.”  
    Legolas’ head dropped to Haldir’s shoulder.  “I am so tired,” he 
whispered.  
    Haldir stroked the silken hair, as pale as his own, but with an even finer 
texture.  He could feel the weight of this precious one’s pain and 
exhaustion like a boulder on his chest, crushing his heart.  His jealousy of 
Aragorn evaporated for it was clear that neither Legolas nor the Ranger 
had any joy of their ill-starred passion.  
    “Hush,” Haldir whispered in the other Elf’s ear.  “You have been strong 
for long enough.  Tonight, for a brief time, you may lay down your arms 
with honor.  Cease fighting, Legolas, and surrender to me.  I will bring 
you peace.”  
    Legolas raised his head, and his eyes met Haldir’s in mute appeal.  The 
Lorien Elf tightened his embrace, his heart torn between delight at getting 
its fondest wish, and the bitterly sharp presentiment that it would never 
happen again.  
    Legolas remembered something the daughter of Elrond had once said to 
him in the days when they shared the Man, before she asserted her claim.  
“Half of the wafer is better than an empty stomach,” the Wood-Elf said 
softly.  
    “Aye,” Haldir agreed, “I would rather have the memory of this night 
with all its attendant sorrow, than to regret my lost chance until the end of 
time.”  
    Legolas clung to the Lorien Elf, as Haldir took him as he craved to be 
taken.  When Haldir mounted, Legolas submitted without protest.  The 
prince’s tears could not douse the fire that kindled in his eyes, as he was 
thoroughly ravished.  
    The Lorien Elf paused at the brink to look into the lovely, transfigured 
face of his heart’s desire.  Though he and Legolas had been lovers, they 
had never shared this ultimate expression of joining.  Unable to wait any 
longer, Haldir forged ahead, pierced by the bittersweet emotion that he 
could not put a name to, as surely as he impaled Legolas with his staff.  
    Pinning the Wood-Elf’s wrists to wood of the platform, Haldir thrust 
into him gently but insistently.  When Legolas began to move in concert 
with his ravisher, Haldir varied his stroke, taking his cues from the sounds 
the prince made.  When the soft moans increased in pitch, the Lorien Elf 
took a sensitive ear point between his lips, sucking and biting, as he thrust 
deeply.  The prince writhed beneath Haldir, wrapping his long legs around 
the Lorien Elf’s hips, snugging their pelvises firmly together.  Haldir kept 
hold of Legolas’ wrists, and stroked the tight passage with his full length.  
The Wood-Elf’s moans became helpless whimpers and gasps for breath as 
Haldir’s slender staff rubbed relentlessly against the susceptible spot 
inside Legolas.  
    Haldir relinquished an ear tip to whisper ardently.  “Free yourself, 
Legolas Greenleaf.  Surrender completely, and let the fire in your flesh 
pass to me.  I will take you up into the light of bliss, and burn away the 
shadow chains that bind your spirit.”  
    Legolas abandoned pride, courtesy, and conscious thought.  He opened 
himself to Haldir, body and soul, as his release merged with the other 
Elf’s.  Both were engulfed in an inferno that annihilated the last vestiges 
of the madness they had once shared.  The flames died, and the ashes blew 
away in a cool, cleansing breeze.  
    Haldir opened his eyes reluctantly, as the prince stirred restlessly in his 
arms.  “Not yet,” he crooned, “Let me hold you but a moment longer.”  
    Legolas settled back, taking Haldir’s weight, feeling the sated rod 
shrink within his stretched vessel.  As promised, the Lorien Elf had 
dissolved the fetters of fear that bound the prince’s spirit.  Legolas no 
longer dreaded that the madness of the blood ecstasy would be sparked 
without warning.  He was confident that he could control his rage if it 
reappeared.  
    “Thank you, Haldir,” he murmured.  
    Haldir bent his neck, and kissed the Wood-Elf’s warm, damp forehead.  
“Are you at peace, beautiful one?  Are you free?”  
    “I fear me I shall never be free,” Legolas answered, “But you have 
given me a break in the battle, and renewed my strength.”  
    “And tomorrow you will leave here at his heels.”  
    “Please, Haldir, do not.  The Company’s way is fraught with peril.  I do 
not know if I shall ever see you, or any of this, ever again.  Let us not part 
as we did before.  I would rather remember the sweet look on your face as 
you entered me, as if you passed through the gate of some springtime 
garden.  Let me take that memory of you on this dark journey.”  
    “When have I ever been able to deny you aught, prince?”  
    The tall Elf rose, and pulled Legolas to his feet.  They said no long 
farewells, but looked deep into one another’s eyes for several moments 
before embracing fiercely.  Without a word, they broke apart, and Legolas 
walked away.  Haldir stared out over the nighttime forest, while the prince 
descended the long spiral stair to the ground.  
 
    The next morning, the Fellowship prepared to depart from Lothlorien, 
after receiving gifts of the Galadhrim.  Aragorn turned from loading his 
pack in the boat, and saw Haldir approaching.  The handsome Elf was 
smiling so joyfully that the Ranger turned to see whom he greeted.  The 
Man’s heart froze when Legolas breezed by him, and was gathered into 
Haldir’s arms.  Aragorn did not want to see, but he could not tear his gaze 
away.  
    The two Elves looked long into one another’s eyes, dreaming smiles on 
their sculpted lips.  The Ranger’s heart ached at the sight of such 
profligate beauty, and at the knowledge that he would never again have 
the right to touch Legolas that way.  When a hand fell on his shoulder, 
Aragorn nearly jumped.  
    “Fond farewells,” Boromir remarked wryly.  
    “Haldir and Legolas know one another of old,” Aragorn answered.  
    “I did not know that Elves were so affectionate,” the Gondorian went 
on, “You must know more about them than any Man alive.  Would you 
say that was typical?”  
    Aragorn feigned incomprehension.  “Of what do you speak?”  
    Boromir grinned.  “Our fair companion, of course.  He seems quite fond 
of that haughty border guard.”  
    “I have told you that they are friends.”  
    “If you say so, Ranger.  I have friends, but I do not kiss them like that.”  
    Aragorn’s head spun around, but Haldir and Legolas were walking arm 
in arm along the riverbank.  The Ranger turned back to see Boromir’s 
smirk.  The Gondorian’s smug smile broadened at Aragorn’s scowl.  
    “It was only a jest,” Boromir said, “Save your dark looks for the Uruk-
Hai.”  
    “Perhaps no one has informed you,” Aragorn said, “But jests are 
generally expected to be amusing.  Perhaps you should not attempt them.  
You’ve not got the wit for it, I deem.”  
    Boromir nearly laughed aloud.  It was so easy to bait the Ranger it 
almost wasn’t sporting.  You could be sure you’d get a rise out of him 
simply by mentioning the Elf.  
 
    “I did not mean to come here,” Haldir said, as he stopped beside a tree 
that dropped golden leaves into the water.  
    “I do not mind,” Legolas replied, “I am truly healed, Haldir, and I bear 
you no ill will for the past.  I hope you bear none for me.”  
    Haldir smiled ruefully.  “You were an innocent,” he said, “I knew what 
I was doing.  However, I did not expect to be swept up in the madness.  I 
am glad we may be friends.”  
    “It gladdens my heart, as well.”  
    Haldir took Legolas’ hand and brought it to his heart.  “If you ever have 
need of my help, prince of Mirkwood, you shall have it.  Remember, when 
you are far from here that my love walks with you into every dark place.”  
    Legolas leaned his forehead against Haldir’s, and stroked the other Elf’s 
silvery hair.  “It is a great gift you give me, and I shall be proud to carry it 
with me.”  
    Haldir raised his head, and caught sight of Aragorn over Legolas’ 
shoulder.  The Elf’s eyes met the Man’s for a long moment, and then 
Haldir looked back at Legolas.  Taking the Wood-Elf’s face in his hands, 
Lorien’s warden spoke gravely.  
    “You know that Isildur’s Heir loves you, but do you know how much?”  
    “Aye,” Legolas said miserably, “And it is no more than I love him.”  
    “I am sorry,” Haldir said, “You will not believe it, but I understand your 
pain.”  
    The Lorien Elf grasped Legolas by the shoulders.  “Do not let regret 
sour your spirit, prince.  I know that you are honorable, none better, but 
there is no honor in denying love.  I cannot tell you your road, but I would 
beseech you to think on your decision to deprive yourself of such love as I 
see in Aragorn’s eyes when he looks at you.  Do not make me envy 
something hollow.”  
    The prince of Mirkwood placed a chaste kiss on the lips of the 
Marchwarden, and walked away.  He helped the rest of the Company stow 
their supplies, and gentled Gimli into their boat.  They cast off, and 
Legolas plied his oar automatically.  His eyes were on the tangled brown 
locks of the Man in the boat ahead.  He was cured of the blood ecstasy, but 
his ignoble passion for Aragorn still burned.  
 
Stardust and Gold: Chapter 9 - No Better World Than What We Make by 
bailey  
Fellowship: Legolas/Boromir NC17  
The Elf and the Man of Gondor succumb to the need for close company.  
 
~The heart asks pleasure first, and then surcease from pain. ~  
 
   Aragorn surveyed his small company, and was satisfied that, if they 
were not exactly comfortable, they were sheltered and safe for the 
moment.  His eyes went first to Frodo, sitting between Merry and Pippin 
under the skirts of the firs that acted as windbreak.  In the lee of the giant 
evergreens, they were shielded from the raw wind blowing over the river.  
The Ranger watched Sam heat water, and bring a mug of tea to Frodo, 
before brewing more for the rest of his companions.  Aragorn smiled to 
see the gentle good care that Samwise took of his master, a hobbit who 
held the fate of all in his small hand.  Gimli glanced up as the Ranger’s 
eye fell on him, and the Dwarf held up a tobacco pouch in invitation.  
Aragorn shook his head slightly, his gaze moving on, checking for 
anything that might need doing before he could allow himself to relax.  
Legolas, he did not seek for the Elf had chosen to stand sentry while the 
others thawed their bones.  Aragorn would not let himself dwell on that 
just now, he had noticed something amiss.  His eyes swept the hollow 
again, but he was not mistaken.  The large well-fleshed form of the 
warrior from Gondor was not easy to overlook.  Boromir was not among 
the company.  A thread of apprehension brushed his nerves, but the 
Ranger dismissed his uneasiness as baseless.  The Gondorian was no 
doubt relieving himself in private, or performing some other equally 
innocuous task, like gathering more firewood.  
 
    Boromir stopped, and looked about.  He had tracked the Elf for a short 
distance before all trail sign disappeared on stony ground.  Peering at the 
rock in the failing light, he had finally been able to discern a few lighter 
spots in the lichen that might have been the scuffmarks of the Elf’s soft 
boots.  After a few steps, the trail stopped at a jutting section of the bluff 
that projected several feet into the river.  Boromir turned to walk back to 
camp when he heard a soft whistle from above.  
    The Gondorian looked up, and a gloved hand gestured to him.  
Following the signal, Boromir found a ledge in the rock wall.  There was a 
long narrow cavity behind it, large enough to shelter several men.  Though 
the wind blew around the opening, a jog in the throat of the miniature cave 
kept out all but the harshest blasts.  
    The Elf sat just inside the entrance, his bow on his lap, his bright eyes 
focused on the trail below.  Several arrows lay to hand on the stone floor 
next to a leather water bag.  As Boromir crouched beside him, Legolas 
offered the water.  
    “I have no need,” the Gondorian said politely, “I’d not have found you, 
had you not signaled.”  
    Legolas accepted the compliment in silence.  
    “A very good spot,” Boromir continued,” The enemy must perforce 
travel single file here.  You would be able to pick them off, one at a time.”  
    When the Elf did not reply, the Man dispensed with idle chatter.  
    “I comforted you once in Rivendell,” he said.  
    “I remember.”  
    “Forgive me, if I trespass, but you would seem in need of comfort once 
more.”  
    “My heart is sore,” Legolas said candidly.  
    “It is a grim task we have been given,” the Gondorian said, “The 
dangers and hardships of our quest will only increase as we approach 
Mordor.  I do not think that the Little Ones will survive it.  Since Gandalf 
was lost, the heart has gone out of the company, and the Ranger that leads 
us-“  
    “Is leading as best he knows how,” Legolas interrupted.  
    “You defended him at Rivendell,” Boromir said, “You defend him still.  
Why?”  
    “He is a good man,” the Elf said, “His like has not walked Middle-Earth 
for ages.  You do not know him, Man of Gondor.”  
    “I have seen him,” Boromir said, “I will say that he is a good fighter, 
but I do not think that he should lead the company.  Gandalf was panicked 
when bade the Ranger take us on to Mordor.”  
    “You think you saw Gandalf panic?”  
    Boromir heard the suggestion of a smile in the light voice, but when he 
looked, the Elf’s visage was impassive.  
    “He was quite old,” Boromir excused the wizard, “Perhaps not the best 
choice to lead an expedition such as this.”  
    The current of cool humor Boromir had heard in the Elf’s voice nearly 
bubbled to the surface when Legolas replied.  
    “Gandalf was ancient,” he said, “Aragorn is a mere Ranger, the Hobbits 
are children, the Dwarf . . . you hardly acknowledge the Dwarf.  I wonder 
whom you think should be leading us.”  
    “Think you I am boasting, if you will,” Boromir said, “But I have been 
leading men since I could hold a sword.  I have been groomed as leader of 
Gondor since my birth.  I may not be as wise as Gandalf, or as woods-
crafty as the Ranger, but I know how to keep something safe from harm.” 
Boromir paused. “Perhaps it is all I know,” he finished.  
    “It is a noble thing to protect that which needs our strength.  Where 
would you lead us, Boromir of Gondor?”  
    “I would lead you to Gondor, as you well know.  I would have the Ring 
of the Enemy behind the high walls of the White City.  You would find 
welcome in the Hall of Denethor.  My father has studied the high lore, and 
keeps the ancient ways.  He would be honored to host Elvish royalty.  And 
Faramir . . . My brother would be . . .” The light died in Boromir’s face, 
and he stopped talking.  
    Legolas waited to see if the Man would speak further of his anguish.  It 
was plain to the Elf that there was some rift between the Gondorian’s 
father and brother, and that it pained Boromir that he could not bridge it.  
The same emotion, or its close kin, often afflicted Aragorn in the deep 
watches of the night, and sometimes he would speak of it to the silent Elf.  
However, Boromir was a different sort of Man than Isildur’s heir.  
    “I did not come to talk of Gondor,” Boromir said firmly, “But to ease 
your distress, if it be in my power.”  
    “That is kind of you,” Legolas said, “Beneath your mistrust is a 
generous heart.”  
    “Then tell me what troubles you, other than losing our wizard in that 
benighted hole, and being led away farther and farther from safety by a 
ragged Ranger, while we are stalked by the creatures of Orthanc and 
Mordor.”  
    “A friend broke a promise,” the Elf said gravely.  
    “Aragorn,” Boromir said with certainty.  
 
    Aragorn’s head came up, and his sharp gaze swept the camp.  The 
Hobbits huddled over their steaming mugs, sitting in an inward-facing 
ring.  Gimli picked gravel from the treads of his sturdy boots with a belt 
knife.  Boromir had not returned, but Aragorn did not fear for the doughty 
Gondorian yet.  
    Dismissing the twinge of anxiety that had alerted him, Aragorn sank 
back into his brooding thoughts.  He had made a vow, and he had broken 
it.  Guilt and shame for the frailty of mortal resolve smote him, and 
blackened his mood.  His strength had failed him in Moria.  The heavy 
dark, and the pervasive air of dread had driven him to speak words he had 
no right to utter.  His need for the wholesome brightness of Imladris made 
him clutch at the only piece of that grace and beauty within his reach.  
    A mailed fist squeezed Aragorn’s heart when he pictured Legolas’ 
flawless face as it turned from him in loathing at his weakness.  The Elf 
had not since mentioned the Man’s lapse, but Aragorn could feel his 
scorn.  The Ranger must find words to clear the way between them.  
    “Gimli,” Aragorn called softly, “I will go take second watch.  Guard 
well the Hobbits until Legolas returns.”  
    The Dwarf nodded, and refrained from asking about Boromir.  If 
Aragorn did not consider the Gondorian’s absence significant, Gimli 
would not waste words on it.  
    Aragorn set off along the riverbank, and soon struck Boromir’s trail.  
He followed the tracks, wondering why the Gondorian would seek out the 
Elf.  Though the noble and learned of Gondor held Elfkind in esteem, 
Aragorn would not have put the fiercely proud warrior among their 
number.  
    The Ranger quickly found the place where Boromir left the path, and 
followed the trail that the Gondorian had attempted to obscure into the 
rocks.  His eyes found the shadow of the ledge, and he whistled a signal.  
Legolas whistled back, and Aragorn climbed up.  
    Though he had followed the Gondorian’s tracks, it still made Aragorn 
feel odd to see Boromir sitting there next to Legolas.  The irrational notion 
that Boromir had no right to be there flashed through the Ranger’s mind.  
    “Good even to you, Legolas, and to you Boromir,” Aragorn said, as he 
crouched in the entrance to the small cave.  
    “And to you,” Boromir answered, “Is there trouble?”  
    “Nay, I but came to relieve the sentry,” Aragorn answered.  
    “Boromir has volunteered to take the second watch,” the Elf said, “I 
will stay a while, and pass some of the time with him.”  
    “As you wish,” Aragorn said neutrally, “I will go then.  I do not like 
leaving the Hobbits so unguarded for long.”  
    Legolas perceived the slight rebuke in the Ranger’s mild tone, but he 
did not respond to it.  He turned, and allowed his gaze to linger on 
Boromir’s golden hair and sharp, wolf-handsome features.  The Gondorian 
was nothing like Aragorn, and yet he was.  
    “Sidh utulie, mellon,” Legolas said to Aragorn, as the Man backed 
away.  
    Aragorn paused.  “I am glad to know it,” the Ranger said, “It lightens 
my heart that you are no longer angry.”  
    “And I am sorry that you thought I was angry,” Legolas said.  
    Aragorn’s eyes told the Elf that there were more words he would speak, 
but for the presence of the Gondorian.  For the first time in his life, the 
prince of Mirkwood could not meet another’s gaze.  Legolas dropped his 
eyes to the bow across his lap.  
    Aragorn left the shelter of the niche.  As he stood, he glanced back, and 
saw Boromir’s hand cover the Elf’s where it clutched the pale wood of the 
long bow.  Aragorn’s brow furrowed at the tenderness implicit in the 
simple gesture.  Sympathy was not a trait the Ranger expected from such a 
proud, unyielding warrior as Boromir.  Feeling he had been uncharitable 
in his assessment of the Gondorian, Aragorn went quickly down the rock 
face, and returned to camp.  
 
    “He does not even bother to hide it,” Boromir said.  
    “He cannot,” Legolas said, “He is too honest a soul”  
    Boromir snorted.  “I saw him importune you in that kind, when we met 
in Rivendell.  I have a name for his honesty.  I call it lust.”  
    “It does not surprise me that you saw lust when you watched us.  What 
is in your own mind, you see in the actions of others.”  
    “Nay.  This Ranger has a weakness for your kind.  I saw how his eyes 
followed the daughter of Lord Elrond.  And I saw the glances she gave 
him in return.  It would appear that Elves have their own weakness for 
certain Men.”  
    “There are those of your race who show true nobility,” Legolas said, 
“Them we honor, and hold in great affection.”  
    “Am I a noble man?”  
    “There is that in you which is noble, Boromir of Gondor.”  
    “High praise, indeed,” the Man said wryly.  
    “You did not come here for my praise, did you?”  
    “After what we have gone through, after what I have seen you do, I 
begin to think that your good opinion might be a thing worth having.”  
    “High praise, indeed,” the Elf said blandly.  
    “That almost sounded like a joke,” Boromir said, “Do Elves joke?”  
    “I had occasion to take up the practice in my youth,” Legolas said.  
    “I took up a custom in my youth,” Boromir said, “But I fell out of the 
practice.  Just now, however, I feel I could take it up again.”  
    “Tell me,” the Elf invited.  He was glad that they had stopped speaking 
of Aragorn.  Boromir lost no opportunity to disparage the heir of Isildur, 
and his words roused Legolas to an unbecoming anger.  
    “I was sent away from my home to be trained as a soldier,” Boromir 
said, “I was fourteen, but I was not frightened.  I looked forward to living 
in a barracks, and sparring with real weapons, learning to fight the 
Enemy.  We lived in a large camp, a hundred cadets in five barracks, all 
competing to be the best.”  
    The inner corners of Legolas’ brows quirked upward, “It sounds very . . 
. human,” he said.  
    “My shield-brother was a lad called Berehil.  We sparred together, ate 
together, and shared our blankets when winter came.  We bound each 
other’s wounds and . . .”  
    “You loved him,” Legolas said, summarizing all that Boromir would 
have said.  
    “Aye, I think so.  It is sure I would have given my life for him.”  
    “But he gave his for you,” Legolas said, informed by the echo of deep 
grief in the Man’s voice.  
    “That is another tale,” Boromir said, “I was speaking of something 
Berehil and I shared when served together as new-minted Guards of Minas 
Tirith.  Our closeness became more than comradely, more than brotherly.”  
    “I know of what you speak,” Legolas said, “Such pairings are not 
uncommon among the young of Elfkind.”  
    “Then this will not surprise you,” Boromir said, as he took the Elf’s jaw 
in one large hand, and leaned toward him.  
    Legolas sat unmoving as a stone, and Boromir stopped a breath away 
from the perfect lips.  
    “Do not,” Legolas whispered.  
    “I must,” the Man replied, “The moment I saw you, I knew I must tame 
you to my hand.  I told you once that in another world I would show you a 
Man’s passion.”  
    “A better world, you said.”  
    “There is no better world than what we make,” Boromir answered.  
    Legolas drew back as the Man’s lips touched his.  Boromir held the 
narrow jaw in an iron grip, as his tongue laid siege to the Elf’s mouth.  
Legolas struggled, pitting his agile strength against the Gondorian’s size 
and power.  The Elf might have overcome his opponent had his body not 
betrayed him.  It longed for the caress of hard hands, the kiss of bearded 
lips, the contradictory freedom of being possessed.  Legolas’ will was 
strong, but his flesh remembered the solace that physical pleasure could 
bring, the peace after the storm.  
    “Be still, pretty creature,” Boromir said, “Or do not, as it pleases you.  I 
will have you, willing or no.”  
    Legolas lay pinned beneath the tall Man, his pulse racing.  He thought 
he had conquered this craving, but Aragorn had approached him in Moria, 
offering that which Legolas desired most, offering it freely, far from the 
eyes of any who might censure them, offering what had once been as 
much a part of Legolas as the air he pulled into his lungs.  Legolas was not 
angry with the Ranger for breaking his vow.  He was angry with himself 
for being tempted to forget honor, just this once.   Haldir had drawn the 
poison of madness from him in Lorien, but Haldir could not take away the 
yearning for what could never be.  
    “Your skin is like the white roses in the gardens of the Tower,” Boromir 
murmured, against the Elf’s fragrant neck.  “Will you not surrender, and 
let me enjoy you?  We may pretend for a few moments that we are in a 
garden far away from here.”  
    “I have not seen Minas Tirith,” the Elf said.  
    “Then another garden,” Boromir said, surprised that Legolas spoke so 
calmly.  
    “Another garden,” the Elf agreed, as he suddenly threw his gathered 
strength at the Gondorian.  
    Boromir was taken off guard, and it was several lively moments before 
he subdued the supple Elf.  
    “Will you still fight me?”  
    “You must take me, if you desire me,” Legolas said, and watched the 
fierce joy flare in the Man’s eyes.  
    “You are strong,” Boromir said, “But I am stronger.  You will cry 
mercy.”  
    “Your challenge has been issued,” Legolas said, “Why do you waste 
time with words?”  
    Boromir claimed the Elf’s mouth with a force that would not be 
gainsaid.  The wrestling aroused the Gondorian, but when Legolas’ lips 
parted for his tongue, his shaft suddenly felt as long as his broad sword 
and fashioned of the same material.  With the ease born of long practice, 
Boromir reached under all the layers of his clothing and mail, and freed 
his straining staff.  When the Elf’s slender fingers closed around the rigid 
length, Boromir forgot all about the cold.  
    Without relinquishing the sweet mouth, Boromir worked at Legolas’ 
breeches until he could slide them over the Elf’s slim hips.  Without a 
trace of self-consciousness, the big man spat in his hand, and rubbed it 
over the head of his shaft.  With a hand against Legolas’ chest, Boromir 
held the Elf to the ground, as he rose to his knees.  Grasping his staff, the 
Gondorian pressed the tip against the tender portal.  
    Boromir looked into the Elf’s eyes as he crossed the threshold, watching 
the supernal blue darken as his hardness filled the passage.  When he was 
sheathed, Boromir drew back a bit, watching the Elf’s dewy gaze cloud 
with a complicated emotion.  It was impossible to tell if Legolas were 
about to smile or break into tears.  
    “Softly,” Boromir whispered, “Get used to the feel of me in the saddle, 
pretty one.  We are just going for a ride in the garden.”  
    Boromir rocked his hips, pushing back into the Elf with a smooth 
motion.  One of Legolas’ hands flew out, and fell on the cache of arrows.  
His fingers closed around a limber shaft, knuckles whitening with the 
force of his grip.  He clutched the arrow as Boromir took him with the 
sure, regular strokes of a soldier beating march time on his shield with the 
hilt of his sword.  
    Boromir was like Aragorn, and yet unlike.  Both were endowed with the 
scepters of kings, and had a care for their partner’s pleasure as well as 
their own.  However, Boromir enjoyed Legolas unselfconsciously, without 
a trace of hesitation, reveling in the flesh under his hands, taking what he 
would with innocent greed.  Aragorn always asked, in words or touch, 
before taking what he wanted.  Always, there was a stain of guilt to tinge 
the sweet with bitterness, like a whorl of ink spreading through clear 
water.  Always, with Aragorn, Legolas could sense passion kept in check, 
whereas Boromir held back nothing.  Legolas needed to be overwhelmed, 
to have his senses filled until there was no room for anything but the feel 
of callused hands on his skin, and the hot hardness that drove relentlessly 
into him, seeking release.  
    Legolas moaned deep in his throat, and Boromir slowed his pace.  The 
Gondorian put a hand beneath the Elf’s pointed chin, and waited for him 
to open his eyes.  
    “Stay with me, beauty,” the Man said, “We are nearly there, but not 
yet.”  
    Boromir let one hand settle to span the slender neck, and reached down 
with the other.  His scarred hand found the Elf’s arousal, and a lupine grin 
brightened his face.  Gently at first, and then with more confidence, the 
Man stroked the velvet-encased steel of Legolas’ quickening flesh.  The 
Elf’s moans grew louder, and higher in pitch, as Boromir resumed his 
advance and retreat strategy for conquering this citadel.  
    “Ai! Boromir,” Legolas gasped, as the joy he’d not really expected to 
feel began to build in successively stronger, overlapping waves.  
    The Elf’s breathless voice, and pleasure-glazed eyes spurred the Man to 
greater efforts.  Boromir withdrew nearly his full length before charging 
back to bury himself deep within the hot wetness that dragged at his shaft 
as if unwilling to lose it.  The Gondorian was no stranger to the mysteries 
of the flesh, but he had never felt aught that approached the beatific bliss 
of possessing this cool-fleshed, moon-haired creature.  He could not have 
said for certain if he was in a cold cave or in a summer garden.  The world 
might have crumbled to dust around him without his noticing.  The waves 
of bliss that washed through him were building to a tidal wave that 
threatened to sweep him away.  
    Legolas shivered as the Man burrowed his bearded face into the curve 
of his neck.  He felt Boromir’s lips on his skin, and then the sharpness of 
teeth.  The Elf cried out as the warrior nipped at tender flesh, working his 
way up to the sensitive spot at the hinge of Legolas’ jaw.  The Elf writhed 
beneath the Man’s weight as Boromir’s tongue traced the line of one 
upswept ear, while his hips moved in subtle circles.  
    “By all my fathers,” the Man groaned, “Does this feel as good to you?”  
    “Seas,” Legolas repeated, until his voice dissolved into small gasps and 
moans.  
    Boromir grasped the Elf’s wrists, and pinned them to the stone floor.  
He captured Legolas’ mouth, muffling the soft cries, as his rod pumped 
the narrow ingress.  Fully sheathed, Boromir let more of his weight settle 
on the slender body beneath him.  He moved his shaft almost 
imperceptibly, stirring the vessel that hugged it so tightly, the fabric of his 
surcoat rubbing insistently against Legolas’ rigid length.  He was 
rewarded as the Elf began to whimper and toss his head, the pale silk of 
his hair flowing across the rock like molten mithril.  
    “Now for it, beauty,” Boromir said, “We are nearly there.  Can you see 
the gate?”  
    Legolas cried out as the Man put force behind the next thrust, rocking 
the Elf’s entire body.  As Boromir slammed home in him, again and again, 
Legolas’ pleasure crested to a peak, lifting him up and out of his body.  
    The Gondorian felt his partner stiffen, and knew the Elf was at the cusp 
of ecstasy.  He savored the moment, glorying in the knowledge that he had 
done this; his prowess had brought this lovely creature to helpless ecstasy.  
He did not expect the surge of bliss that crashed into him, and triggered 
his own release.  As their pleasure miraculously merged, Boromir was 
connected, through the Elf, to the pure force that pervaded all things.  For 
the first time, since becoming a fledged warrior, Boromir lost control.  
    In three powerful thrusts, he lodged himself as far as possible into the 
yielding vise of flesh.  With the sharp sound of an arrow shaft snapping in 
two, a powerful riptide pulled Elf and Man under, inundating them with 
pleasure, drowning them in a warm sea, and casting them up to lie 
exhausted, and gasping for breath like the beached survivors of a tempest.  
    Boromir relaxed, releasing his crushing grip on the Elf’s wrists, stroking 
the tumbled hair, as he basked in the aftermath.  As the tide of bliss ebbed, 
rational thought returned.  Boromir realized with wonder that this quick, 
graceless tumble, nearly fully-clothed, and in the freezing air of a cave in 
the wilds was the most sublime experience of his life.  For as long as the 
act endured, he was transported to another, better world, and an echo of its 
dulcet brightness resonated in his flesh and in his mind.  He knew that 
when all other encounters of this kind had faded from his memory, the 
Elf’s delicate strength and bittersweet surrender would still catch at his 
heart.  The vision of softly glowing skin and depthless eyes would haunt 
him like the faint note of a horn winding in the hills, calling him on to he 
knew not what.  He would never be free of the vague craving for a grace 
beyond that granted to mortals.  Yet, he would not exchange the memory 
of these few moments for food, weapon or surcease of pain.  He would 
hold it close to his hostage heart, guarding it as jealously as his honor.  
    Legolas moved restlessly, and Boromir took the cue.  Reluctantly, he 
raised up on his elbows, his wilted stalk sliding from blessed warmth into 
the frigid air.  The Elf made a small sound, of relief or disappointment, 
Boromir could not say.  The Man had been bold enough before, but now 
he shied from meeting Legolas’ eyes, unwilling that the Elf should see that 
this had meant aught more than a release of pent-up tension.  Hastily, he 
tucked himself away, and averted his gaze as Legolas performed small, 
necessary tasks, cleaning himself, and drawing up his leggings.  When the 
Elf began rebraiding his tangled hair, a formless but growing uneasiness 
drove Boromir to fill the silence.  
    “A fine pair of sentries we make,” he said, “You could have marched an 
army of Uruk-Hai past us while we were engaged.”  
    “Once I would have deemed your words an insult, but I have learned to 
recognize the jokes of Men,” Legolas said, without looking at the 
Gondorian, “I have even learned to distinguish between jokes which mask 
affection, or anger, or praise.  I would take your words at praise.  Have I 
guessed well?”  
    Boromir did not speak for a moment.  Of all the things he might have 
expected the Elf would say, he had not imagined this.  
    “Aye,” he answered, his uneasiness replaced by curiosity, “Twas 
praise.  You made me forget there was a world outside of your . . .”  
    “I should return the compliment,” Legolas interrupted, “What would be 
appropriate?  Do I praise the weapon, or the skill with which it is 
wielded?”  
    “What would you say to the Ranger?” Boromir asked, with honest 
interest.  
    “You assume I have lain with Aragorn?”  
    “Of course, you have,” Boromir answered with a good-natured smile, 
“For all I mistrust his right to rule Gondor, Aragorn is a lordly man.  He 
would feel the need to claim you, and you worship him.  It was inevitable 
that he would make you his in every way known to him, and that you 
would submit willingly.”  
    Legolas’ face did not change.  His slim fingers continued to wrap the 
end of a braid.  There was no outward sign of his dismay at hearing the 
truth spoken aloud.  
    “You speak of the past,” he said calmly, “Aragorn is betrothed to 
Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond, grand-daughter of Galadriel, fairest 
of a fair line.”  
    “I have seen her,” Boromir said, “She is lovely, almost as beautiful as 
you.”  
    One corner of the Elf’s lips turned up.  “You are courteous, Boromir of 
Gondor, you are gallant and valiant, and whatever your reasons for 
coming to me, you have lightened my darkness for an hour.”  
    “You did not answer me,” Boromir said, “What would you have said to 
Aragorn?”  
    Boromir flinched when the Elf’s hand shot toward him, and smiled in 
embarrassment when Legolas did naught but grip his shoulder.  To the 
Gondorian’s surprise, Legolas smiled back.  Not the enigmatic or 
bittersweet Elvish versions of the expression that the Man was familiar 
with, but an honest smile.  
    “It was good, melethron,” Legolas said.  
    “Were those words for Aragorn or for me?”  
    “Who deserves them?”  
    “I will take it as a compliment,” Boromir decided.  
    “I should return to camp now,” Legolas stood.  
    Boromir nodded.  “Legolas,” he said, as the Elf turned from him.  
    Legolas stopped, but did not look at the Man.  
    “We will never be like this again, will we?” Boromir asked.  
    “Who can say?” the Elf answered, “Farewell, Man of Gondor.”  
    Boromir watched the Elf walk away without a backward glance.  The 
next day they reached the Falls of Rauros.  
 
 
Stardust and Gold: Chapter 10 - A Wind through the Trees  
Fellowship PG13 character death  
Boromir gives Legolas some advice about Aragorn.  
 
~There came a wind like a bugle . . . ~  
 
    “Legolas, may I speak with you aside?”  
    The Elf finished tying off the boat, and followed the Ranger a short 
distance from the rest of the Company.  Not until the trees did shield them 
did Aragorn speak again.  
    “I am worried,” the Ranger said, “Celeborn warned me that we were 
being tracked, and I fear he was right.”  
    “Aye, I feel it, too.  Something shadows us.”  
    “There is another matter,” Aragorn said, “I am worried about Boromir.  
He has grown strange in the past few days.”  
    “What do you fear?”  
    “I fear that he will try to take the Ring, and carry it to Gondor, to his 
father.”  
    “That has been much in his mind,” Legolas agreed, “But we cannot say 
what he will or will not do with any certainty.  We must trust him, yet be 
alert.”  
    “I find it harder and harder to trust this Man of Gondor.”  
    “What has he done beyond defend the Hobbits, and speak his mind 
boldly?”  
    “’Tis true, he is a mighty warrior, and a kingly man, but a man may do 
ill in the service of his duty, excusing his wrong because his cause is just.”  
    “You believe Boromir to be of this sort?”  
    Aragorn passed a hand over his eyes.  “I should not speak thus.  I 
cannot see into Boromir’s heart.  Yet, I fear me . . .”  
    Legolas kept his hands at his sides, and moved no closer to the Ranger, 
though he longed to comfort his friend.  Aragorn had a monumental task 
to accomplish, and the fear of failure fell most heavily on him for he had 
the most to lose.  Boromir might feel that the welfare of all Gondor was in 
his hands, but Aragorn held himself accountable for the fate of all the 
Peoples of Middle-Earth.  It hurt Legolas to see the Ranger being crushed 
between his sense of duty and the impossible mission with which he had 
been charged.  The Elf wanted to embrace the Man, but he would not.  
    “It may be that you are right,” Legolas said, “Boromir has made it plain 
that he thinks it folly to destroy the Ring.”  
    “And that he wishes to take it to Denethor.”  
    “Aye, and Boromir is one to take what he wants.”  
    Aragorn’s eyes flicked up to meet the Elf’s gaze.  “You have been much 
in his company of late.  Has he said anything . . .”  The Ranger’s voice 
trailed off.  If Boromir had said anything untoward, Legolas would already 
have reported it.  “I miss the guidance of Gandalf more with each passing 
moment,” Aragorn sighed.  
    Again, the Elf had to control an un-Elvish impulse to touch the Man 
who had taught him the peace and pleasure to be found in the physical 
realm.  He was honest with himself, and admitted that the contact would 
be as much for his benefit as for Aragorn’s.  What had this mortal done to 
him?  How did this Man hold such sway over Legolas’ very soul?  
    “What is it?” the Ranger asked sharply, at the Elf’s change of 
expression, “Are we in danger?”  
    “Nay, not for the moment.  It is but the dread of that which follows us 
that discomforts me.”  
    “Are you certain?”  
    Aragorn’s hand shot out.  He pulled the collar away from Legolas’ 
neck, and stared at the marks there.  They were fading, but the imprint of 
teeth still stood out starkly against the ivory skin.  When Aragorn raised 
his eyes, Legolas gazed calmly back at him.  
    “Boromir,” the Ranger stated.  
    Legolas saw no need to reply to this.  
    “Why?” Aragorn asked.  
    Legolas thought that the answer was obvious, but spoke anyway 
because it was plain that the Man needed to hear something.  
    “I have walked in darkness for many days.  Boromir sought to hearten 
me.”  
    “And were you . . . heartened?”  
    Again, the Elf let his eyes answer for him.  A spear of pain pierced his 
heart at the hurt he saw in Aragorn’s face, but he did not relent.  This is 
how it must be.  To show softness now would negate all his effort, and he 
would have to start over again.  
    “How?” Aragorn began.  His throat tightened, and it was a moment 
before he could finish the question.  “How could you?”  
    “It was very cold,” Legolas deliberately misunderstood, “And the rock 
was hard, but we managed.”  
    Aragorn’s stricken look made the Elf regret his words, but better the 
Ranger should think him callous, than hope for what could not be.  
Ruthlessly, Legolas suppressed the urge to tell the Man that he was joking, 
and found more words sharp as knives to sever the last cords that bound 
them together.  
    “Boromir is a Man of mighty deeds on the battlefield and in the 
bedchamber.  He made me forget where I was, even who I was, at times.  
He took me like . . .”  
    “Stop,” Aragorn cried out, “I wish to hear no more.”  
    Legolas tried for a look of mild surprise.  “Forgive me,” he said, “I did 
not know my words would be offensive.”  
    “I am sorry,” the Ranger said, “I’ve no right to feel anger, jealousy or 
envy.  You’ve every right to seek what company you will, and Boromir is 
. . .”  
    Aragorn could not finish his brave speech.  He nodded to the Elf, and 
walked away before his composure deserted him completely.  
    Legolas watched Aragorn go, his heart ripping free of his rib cage to 
follow.  The Elf let it go, knowing it was not really his.  It belonged to the 
Ranger, as it always had.  
 
    “A powerful lot of water,” Gimli said, by way of announcing his 
presence, as he approached the Elf.  “Too much water.  It has gotten into 
my dreams at night.”  
    Legolas had heard the Dwarf coming up behind him some time ago, and 
had resisted the impulse to disappear.  Elf and Dwarf had lived cheek by 
jowl for months, each having witnessed ample proofs of the other’s 
courage and devotion to the quest.  Grudging admiration had become a 
wary fondness.  
    “Though mighty, Anduin is as nothing beside the Sea,” Legolas said.  
    “Then I never wish to see this Sea,” Gimli stated firmly, as he stated all 
things.  
    “Who can know where this quest will take us?”  
    The Dwarf nodded solemnly, squinting his eyes against the brightness 
of the late afternoon sun on the water.  He could see nothing moving on 
the far bank, but the feeling of being watched did not go away.  
    “We shall see more combat soon, or I’m a goblin,” Gimli said.  
    Legolas smiled faintly.  The Dwarven burr of Gimli’s rich voice was 
pleasant now to his ears, and the Dwarf’s practice of colorfully speaking 
his mind, whatever the company, was more endearing than annoying.  
    “I fear you are right, Gimli,” Legolas said, “We are being stalked.”  
    “Aragorn knows it, as well.  He is as moody as a Troll with tooth-ache.”  
    “His burden is heavy.”  
    “Aye.  I would not wish for leadership of such a mission as this.”  
    “Aragorn was born to lead.  It is his destiny.” the Elf said, his eyes on 
the slender birches that danced with the rising wind on the other side of 
the river.  
    Gimli shoved his thumbs into his belt, and rocked on his heels, joining 
the Elf in his compulsive surveillance of the far shore.  The Dwarf could 
see the faith of the company crumbling day by day.  The Hobbits were still 
reeling from Gandalf’s loss.  The Gondorian was consumed with Ring.  
Aragorn was stretched as tautly as one of the Elf’s bowstrings.  And the 
Elf . . . the Elf was hard to read.  
    Gimli was not blind to the tension between Legolas and their leader.  He 
was aware, through talk at Rivendell and the evidence of his own senses, 
that Elf and Man had a long friendship.  He was also aware that it was 
under some sort of strain.  Dwarves did not hold in their feelings, but it 
was not so with Elves, and Gimli had waited long before speaking.  He 
opened his mouth, but closed it again, when he heard footsteps.  
    Boromir stopped beside them, greeting the Elf with a smile, nodding at 
the Dwarf in curt acknowledgement of his presence.  The Gondorian stood 
next to Legolas, and looked out across the water.  
    “I feel eyes upon us,” Boromir said, “Why will they not attack, and put 
an end to this cursed waiting?”  
    Gimli cocked an eye at the big Man.  “I would not back down from a 
fight, but I would not seek one in the Company’s present mood.”  
    “This spot has a fey air,” Boromir said, “I would leave it soon.”  
    “At dawn you will have your wish,” Legolas said.  
    “And not before?” the Man said, in a tone that pricked Gimli’s ears.  
    Boromir put a hand on the Elf’s elbow, and pulled gently.  Legolas 
turned, and met the Man’s eyes squarely.  
    “Come,” Boromir said, “Walk with me beside the river.  Master Dwarf 
will excuse us.”  
    Gimli cleared his throat, disturbed by something in the Gondorian’s 
manner.  Boromir behaved as though he had every right to touch the Elf, a 
license rarely granted those of other Races.  Though Gimli could not have 
said why, other than his own mistrust, Boromir’s hand on Legolas should 
bother him so.  If the Elf found it offensive, he was well able to correct the 
situation without a Dwarf’s help.  
    “You need not go,” Gimli said, “I am returning to camp.”  
    The Dwarf almost blushed when the Elf’s gaze met his.  Galadriel had 
ruined him.  He could not look at an Elf now without seeing the shining 
being behind their eyes.  And, strangest of all, he knew that when they 
looked at him, they saw the same light.  
    “You do not have to go,” Legolas said, “Unless you wish it.”  
    “Someone has to help Aragorn contain the Hobbits,” the Dward said 
with bluff gruffness, “Merry and Pippin are a handful.”  
    So saying, Gimli departed along the riverbank.  He looked back once, 
when he reached the cover of a stand of saplings.  He saw Boromir lift a 
bright wing of hair away from the Elf’s neck, and stoop to place a kiss 
there.  The Dwarf turned hurriedly, and bustled back to camp.  When 
Aragorn wondered aloud where Boromir might be, Gimli held his tongue.  
 
    “What would you?” Legolas said, pulling his head back as the Man’s 
lips sought his.  
    “Surely that is plain.” Boromir smiled, as he tried again to capture the 
Elf’s mouth.  
    “Do not,” Legolas said.  
    The Man chuckled, and tightened his embrace.  “Do not worry,” he 
said, “I have not forgotten your preference.  I, too, enjoy a bit of rough 
play beforehand.”  
    “I am not playing.”  
    “Not yet, you are not, but your flesh will soon warm to me.”  
    Boromir pressed the Elf’s lithe length firmly against him, letting 
Legolas feel his arousal.  Hungrily, he put his mouth to the smooth flesh of 
Legolas’ neck, using tongue, lips and teeth on the sensitive skin.  
    “Stop, Boromir.  I do not wish to lay with you.”  
    “Why not?” the Man breathed into a delicately pointed ear.  
    “That does not matter.  Let me go.”  
    “Give me a reason,” Boromir said playfully.  
    “I will kill you, if you do not release me.”  
    Boromir looked into the Elf’s eyes.  “You are sincere,” he said with 
surprise.  
    “I could give you many reasons why I do not choose to do this now,” 
Legolas answered, “I could tell you that the dread in my mind has made 
me ill with foreboding.  I could tell you it is the custom of my people 
never to join twice with one who is not a potential mate.  I could tell you 
that my heart belongs to another, or I could say that the light had changed 
and the grass is now the wrong color green for lying upon.  Any or all of 
these things might be true, but the real reason is that I do not want to, and 
you must accept that.”  
    “Must I?”  
    “Aye, for you are a man of honor,” the Elf said confidently.  
    Boromir eased his grip on Legolas, and let his head drop to the Elf’s 
shoulder.  
    “Forgive me,” he said, “Despite how I may seem, it is not in my nature 
to take what is not offered.”  
    Legolas leaned his head against the man’s bearded cheek, and stroked 
the tangled red gold hair.  “I can see that,” he said softly.  
    Boromir clasped the Elf tightly again, with no overt intent.  Legolas’ 
touch was cool and soothing, and Boromir wished it would never go 
away.  His eyes stung, and he closed them against the fall of tears.  It was 
just a farewell; he’d said plenty of those in his time.  
    “Are you certain you will not let me pleasure you?” he asked lightly, 
“After all, it might be our last chance.”  
    “I will not deny that the thought of you possessing me so masterfully 
turns my blood to fire,” Legolas said, “But I do not feel it right.”  
    “You are cruel to use such words,” Boromir said, “If you could but see 
the image in my mind.”  
    “I do not need to.  It is in my mind, also.”  
    “Will you not yield to me then?” the Man could not refrain from saying.  
    “Nay, Boromir, I will not.”  
    “It is the Ranger,” Boromir said with certainty, “He holds your heart in 
his hand, and he is careless of it.”  
    “It does not concern you, but I would not have you think ill of Aragorn 
on my account,” Legolas said, “We were lovers once, but we always knew 
his destiny would require him to marry.  I rejoiced when he grew to love 
his foster-sister for they are well-matched.”  
    “Of course they are.  They were raised by the same father.”  
    “It is hard for him, Boromir.  Once his love is given, he will not take it 
back, and he feels the same need to seek comfort as you or I.  And I would 
give it to him, but for the dishonor.”  
    Boromir looked into the Elf’s eyes, and conquered his jealousy of the 
Ranger.  Taking a deep breath, he did what he could to ease Legolas’ 
anguish, as the Elf had eased his loneliness.  
    “Imagine that you are the one left behind,” Boromir said, “Would you 
want Aragorn to have the comfort of one who cares for him, or would you 
have him suffer this misery alone?”  
    Legolas frowned.  “I can find no fault in your logic, yet it seems wrong 
somehow.”  
    “I have no other wisdom for you.  Will you let me hold you a while 
yet?”  
    For answer, Legolas rested his head against the Man’s chest.  Boromir 
held the Elf in a warm embrace, his cheek resting on top of the pale head, 
breathing deeply of the wholesome, sun-warmed scent of the silky hair.  
Legolas could hear the beating of the Man’s strong heart, as constant and 
comforting as waves breaking on the shore.  For several long moments, 
Elf and Man were lulled into a blessed peace.  Then, the growing fear that 
had haunted Legolas for days came suddenly into bloom.  
    “What is wrong?” Boromir asked, as the Elf wrenched from his arms.  
    “Danger is near,” Legolas answered, “Go you, and gather the Hobbits.  
They are wandering the wood.”  
    Boromir nodded shortly.  “I saw them go with a warning not to stray 
far.  I shall find them, never fear.”  
    “I do fear,” Legolas said, as he turned away.  
    “Then go you, and find Aragorn,” Boromir said.  
    The Elf glanced back at the Man, and Boromir wished he could call 
back his last words.  However, it was too late.  He saw the wounded look 
in Legolas’ eyes before the Elf sprang away like a hunted deer.  Boromir 
cursed himself, as he went after the Hobbits, and vowed to beg Legolas’ 
forgiveness when he returned to camp.  
 
    “Boromir,” Aragorn called, “Where is Legolas?”  
    “Seeking you, even as I am seeking the Little Ones.”  
    “Good,” the Ranger approved, “Continue to search uphill, and I will go 
along the bank.  Gimli will signal us, if the Hobbits return to camp.  It was 
foolish of you to let them wander on their own.”  
    “I am not the only Man here capable of foolish acts,” Boromir returned.  
    “I take your meaning,” Aragorn said, “But it is not the time for this.”  
    “And thus ends all discussion,” Boromir said mockingly, “For Isildur’s 
Heir has spoken.”  
    “Very well then,” the Ranger said, “It is plain you have words to say to 
me.  Say them, and be brief as you may.”  
    “I will speak plainly, then.”  
    “When have you ever done else?”  
    Boromir bared his teeth in a lupine expression.  “You are leading us to 
our doom.  I can see that you are a Man much burdened with sorrow and 
regret.  That is not your fault; it is but an accident of birth.  You should not 
have been further burdened with this duty.  It is too great a task for you.  
There is no shame in admitting that a thing is beyond your strength, but it 
is rankest folly to let your pride condemn this quest to failure.  Now, you 
know my mind.”  
    “Your opinions were already quite plain,” Aragorn said evenly, “And 
that is all they are, opinions.  Gandalf charged me to see that the Ring was 
destroyed, and that I shall do.  I know you wish to take the Ring to your 
father in Minas Tirith, but it were better for this mission if you put that 
notion from your mind, and keep the oath you swore at the Council of 
Elrond.”  
    Boromir ready temper flared.  “You call me oath-breaker?”  
    “If you have a better name for it, you must tell me,” Aragorn said, 
coolly.  
    “Fool!  Your stubbornness will doom all of Mankind, all of Middle-
Earth.”  
    “If that is how you choose to see it, so be it.  I have no more time to 
waste on you.  If you find the Hobbits, bring them to camp, and gather 
firewood, as well.”  
    “You are right, Ranger, that I swore an oath to take the Ringbearer to 
Mordor.  For that reason, I will let your words pass for now.  Someday, 
there will be a reckoning, and I will make you regret your lordly tone with 
me.”  
    “Until then,” Aragorn said equably, and then walked away down slope.  
    Boromir continued uphill, his eyes and ears alert for any sign of the 
Hobbits, while his thoughts dwelt upon his encounter with the Ranger.  
Increasingly, it seemed to Boromir, that their course was not only 
irrational, but also willfully steered into failure by those blind to the 
realities of their situation.  It was obvious now that, unless he did 
something to stop it, the Ring would be back in Sauron’s hands before 
long.  Boromir’s thoughts were dark, as he stooped to pick up a dry 
branch.  As he straightened up, he saw Frodo ahead of him.  
 
    “Where have you been?” Aragorn demanded of Legolas.  
    “I sought peace among the trees for a short while.  I felt a shadow fall 
over me, and I went to scout along our back trail.  Where are the 
Hobbits?”  
    “Sam is the only one here,” the Ranger said sternly.  
    “I will find them,” Legolas said.  
    “No,” Aragorn said, “Do not leave the camp.  I will go.”  
    “Gimli is here,” the Elf said, “I should search, as well.”  
    “You will stay here,” Aragorn said firmly, “Boromir is already looking 
for them.  I would not want you meeting him by chance, and seeking more 
peace.”  
    Gimli glanced sharply at the Ranger.  He had never heard Aragorn 
speak in such a manner.  The Dwarf did not take the Man’s meaning, but 
he could sense that the words were designed to wound.  Gimli was not 
surprised to see the Elf’s face stiffen into the courteous mask his Race 
used to hide their emotions.  
    “That was unworthy,” Legolas said, “But the shadow in my mind still 
grows.  Let me come with you to guard your back.”  
    “You saw nothing on your reconnaissance, and I am only going to the 
ruins at the top of this slope.  From there, I will be able to see a distance.”  
    “Please, mellon,” Legolas said.  
    Aragorn turned without a word, and walked up the incline.  In a few 
moments, he was lost to sight among the trees.  
    “Aragorn has been downhearted of late,” Gimli said, “Tis no wonder 
he’s moody.”  
    Legolas looked curiously at the Dwarf.  
    “I’m sure he didn’t mean t’be so hard on you, lad,” Gimli continued, 
“The Quest weighs heavy on Aragorn for he had more at stake than most.”  
    The Elf shook his head.  “No, Gimli, for the lives of all Peoples of 
Middle-Earth are at stake.  We each stand to lose our very souls.”  
    Gimli puffed on his pipe, squinting up at Legolas.  “You’re as 
downhearted an Elf as I’ve ever seen,” he said, “Gandalf’s loss has cast a 
shade over all our spirits.”  
    “Orcs,” Legolas abruptly shouted, and leapt away up the slope.  
    Gimli followed, unlimbering his ax as he ran after the Elf.  In another 
moment, he, too, heard the ringing of steel on steel.  
 
    Legolas stopped in his tracks at the sight of Aragorn weeping over 
Boromir’s arrow-riddled body.  He heard Gimli groan in dismay in behind 
him, but he paid no heed to the Dwarf.  He stood very still, his spirit 
quelled, as though he were in some primeval wood between rows of trees 
like great columns supporting a blue vault.  A mighty wind had rushed 
through the branches, and now was gone, leaving the entire forest world in 
hushed stillness.  
    Aragorn got wearily to his feet.  His vision was blurred with tears, and 
he staggered when his foot turned on a mossy rock.  A hand under his 
elbow bore him up, and he turned to look into the Elf’s eyes.  
    “He was the bravest Man I have ever known,” the Ranger said softly.  
    “The lure of the Ring was too strong for him,” Legolas answered.  
    “It is no easy thing for a mortal to resist, and he regained his honor 
before the end.”  
    “I am glad for I deemed him a worthy Man, and would remember him 
so.”  
    “Legolas,” Aragorn began, but could not find the words he needed.  
    The Man was surprised, but grateful, when the Elf pulled him into an 
embrace.  For the next little while, Aragorn was able to forget his cares in 
the once-familiar comfort of Legolas’ arms.  
    “How I have missed you,” Aragorn said, “Sometimes, when I am 
standing watch, feeling terribly alone in the darkness, I close my eyes for a 
few moments, and picture you in as much detail as possible.  I imagine 
that when I open my eyes you will be standing there holding out your arms 
to me, but, of course, you never are.  How I have longed for you, mellon 
nin.”  
    “No more than I have longed for you, melethron,” Legolas said, “But I 
will end both our torment.  I will make a better world for us.”  
    Aragorn looked at the Elf in mingled hope and disbelief.  
    “We will speak more of it later,” Legolas said, “Now, we must honor 
Boromir.”  
 
    Legolas watched Aragorn push the boat out into the current, and give 
Boromir’s body to the Anduin.  The Ranger waded back to shore, and the 
three remaining Companions watched the boat until it was taken by 
Rauros.  Then, with grim resolve, they set off after the Uruk-Hai.  
 
 
 
Stardust and Gold: Chapter 11 - Wellspring by bailey  
A/L Fellowship no warnings.  
baileymoyes@hotmail.com  
~Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul. ~  
 
    “You have strange companions, Ranger,” Eomer said.  
    “To your eyes, maybe, but they are the truest, bravest comrades a Man 
could hope for,” Aragron replied.  
    “I meant no offense,” said the Rider, “I am unused to seeing those of 
different Races united in friendship.  Come, teach me better.  I have heard 
Dwarves are the hardiest of all Peoples.  Is this true?”  
    “Aye.  Gimli may not run as fast as a Man, but he would outlast me, in 
the end.”  
    Eomer nodded.  “And your other companion.  Never have I see one so 
fair, and, yet, he has the bearing of a mighty warrior.”  
    “There is no fiercer foe than a roused Elf,” Aragorn said, “Fortunately, 
they are People of peace, and not easily provoked to fight.”  
    “He drew on me quickly enough when I threatened the Dwarf,” Eomer 
reminded.  
    Aragorn smiled.  “Tis a wondrous thing,” he said, “But these two have 
declared a truce in the long enmity between Dwarves and Elfkind.”  
    “Most wondrous,” Eomer agreed, “I wish you would come to Edoras 
with me, but, if you must needs finish your hunt, at least share our fire this 
night.  In the morning, I will lend you horses.”  
    “I thank you,” Aragorn said, “Belike you are right.  My heart bids me 
press on, but I dread what I will find.”  
    “I am sorry,” Eomer said, “I wish my tale were different, but we left 
none alive.”  
    “Then we will pass a few hours with you, and be on our way at first 
light.”  
    Eomer inclined his head.  “I would be honored to host you at Meduseld 
with a great feast, but all I can offer is a bowl of stew and a place at the 
fire.”  
    “I am honored,” the Ranger said, “Mighty in arms are the folk of Eorl, 
but also in courtesy to a stranger.  I will inform my companions that we 
will stay awhile.”  
 
    “Gimli,” Aragorn said, as he approached the Dwarf, “We will rest, and 
take evenmeal with the Riders.  Eomer, son of Eomund, is an honorable 
Man, and welcomes us at his fire.  Hold a moment!”  
    Gimli paused in his dash toward food.  
    “Where is Legolas?” the Ranger asked.  
    “The Elf walked up into the rocks,” Gimli pointed up the slope, 
scattered with boulders as large as houses.  
    “Thank you, Gimli,” Aragorn said, as he hurried away.  
 
    “Legolas,” Aragorn called softly, knowing that Elvish ears would hear 
his call.  He did not know, however, if Legolas would answer.  They had 
had no chance to speak since the Hobbits had been taken, and Aragorn 
sensed that his friend was deeply troubled.  The Ranger was relieved when 
Legolas called back.  
    Aragorn found the Elf leaning against a great pier of rock that thrust up 
from the thin cover of green, like a knee through threadbare trousers.  
Legolas was looking at the stars, as was Elfkind’s wont.  He did not turn 
his head as the Ranger joined him, but continued gazing at the diamond-
blue points of light so far above.  
    “We will rest here a few hours,” Aragorn said, “Will you come and take 
some food?”  
    “I have no need of food just now,” Legolas said softly.  
    Aragorn looked more closely at his friend, and saw the glimmer of 
wetness on the Elf’s smooth cheeks.  Those of Elfkind seldom shed tears, 
and the Ranger was alarmed to see Legolas weeping.  He ruthlessly curbed 
the impulse to gather the Elf in his arms, and spoke.  
    “What saddens you, mellon?”  
    “Have I not enough cause to weep?”  
    “Assuredly, but . . . “ Aragorn faltered, and then continued with bleak 
honesty, “I cannot bear your tears.  I feel as though an Orc has thrust an 
iron fist into my chest, and crushed my heart.  I wish to take away your 
pain, and dry your eyes, but that is not permitted me.  I must watch you 
suffer in silence.”  
    “No so silent,” Legolas said.  
    Aragorn looked sharply at the Elf.  Legolas’ last words had almost 
sounded like teasing.  “I’m sorry,” the Ranger said.  
    “For what do you apologize?”  
    “For everything,” Aragorn said, and then the words spilled out of him in 
a rush, “I am sorry for teaching you to love a Man.  I am sorry you were 
drawn into this doomed quest by your love for me.  I am sorry I have led 
us so far astray with my bad judgment.  I am sorry I broke my promise to 
you.  I am sorry I caused the death of Boromir.  I -.”  
    “Aragorn, stop!” Legolas interrupted, “These things were no fault of 
yours.”  
    “Of course, they are,” the Man disagreed, “Had I been stronger, cannier, 
faster . . .”  
    “You have no equal,” the Elf said, “None could have led us better.”  
    “I wish to give you solace, and you comfort me,” the Ranger said, “It 
was ever thus, was it not?”  
    “Nay.  You healed me first.  I owe you my life and my sanity.”  
    “You owe me nothing,” Aragorn said.  
    Legolas turned at the bitter edge to the Man’s voice.  The thought that 
Aragorn would despair was unbearable to the Elf.  Isildur’s Heir had 
always been a wellspring of hope no matter what personal burdens he 
bore.  Now Aragorn’s neck was bent, and his head hung heavy.  He did 
not look as though he could go another step forward.  
    “Estel?” Legolas called the Ranger by his childhood name.  
    “I cannot see my way,” Aragorn whispered hoarsely.  
    When the Man raised his face, the Elf saw the glitter of tears in his 
eyes.  Pain like an arrow thumping home in his chest stole Legolas’ 
breath, and made him reach reflexively for Aragorn.  Putting a hand on the 
Ranger’s shoulder, Legolas moved closer, and pointed at the western 
verge of the star field.  
    “Do you see those two stars so close together?” he asked.  
    “Aye, I remember them.  They circle one another, never meeting.”  
    “Never touching.  I told you once I did not wish to live my life so,” the 
Elf paused, “And yet I have for many years now.”  
    “And for that, I am also sorry,” Aragorn said, “When you first pointed 
out those brother-stars to me, I vowed to be always at your side.”  
    “None can know the future,” Legolas said, “Not even the Lady of Light 
can say for certain what will come to pass.  When you made your vow, 
you were sincere.  You did not know what your destiny would require of 
you.”  
    “I should have guessed,” Aragorn answered.  
    “How, melethron?” the Elf asked softly.  
    Aragorn turned his head, and looked into the fathomless eyes so close to 
his.  “Do you call me lover again?” he inquired with wonder.  
    “My heart has always named you so,” Legolas answered.  
    “I thought that . . . did you not . . . it seemed-,” Aragorn stammered.  
The Ranger stopped, at the Elf’s look of confusion, and gathered his 
thoughts before speaking again.  
    “I thought Boromir had taken my place in your heart.”  
    Legolas’ change of expression would have been comical in other 
circumstances.  “You believed this?” he said incredulously.  
    “I saw it,” Aragorn said, “In the way you looked at him.  And in the 
way you allowed him to touch you.  Shall I tell you of how I burned with 
jealousy to see his hand on you?”  
    “Stop,” Legolas said, “I shared my body with Boromir, and he gave me 
the gift of forgetfulness for a space of time.  Because he was the sort of 
Man that he was, he could not then forbear to touch me.  For all he was a 
stern Man and a proud one, he craved the reassurance of another’s warmth 
as much as any of us.”  
    Aragorn dropped his eyes, unable to look at Legolas, and say what he 
must to clear his conscience.  “I am not worthy of you.  I never was.  I am 
only a Man, flawed by pride, jealousy and anger.  If you knew what I had 
imagined during my turns on watch, you would walk away in disgust.  
And now, here I am, envious of the dead.”  
    “You need not envy Boromir, melethron,” Legolas said, “You have my 
love, and he never did.  He had my compassion and my body, but that is 
all.”  
    “That is much,” the Man said, “To how many mortals is it given to have 
the tender regard of one of Elfkind.”  
    “I know only one,” Legolas said, and this time Aragorn was sure the Elf 
was teasing.  
    “I wish,” the Ranger began, and then trailed off with the futile words 
unspoken.  
    Legolas moved to face Aragorn, blocking the Man’s sight of those two 
stars forever bound in their hopeless pursuit of one another.  “You will 
always have my love, Aragorn,” he said solemnly, “Whatever befalls.  
You have my compassion, as well.  And should you wish the comfort of 
my body, it is yours for the asking.”  
    It was a long moment before Aragorn could speak.  His first thought 
was to throw his arms around the Elf, and pull him close, but he refrained.  
Never again would the Ranger presume on this remarkable being’s 
generosity.  He could not think what to say in answer, and then the right 
words came to him.  
    “Would you hold me?” he asked.  
    Aragorn sighed as Legolas’ arms went around him, and he enfolded the 
Elf’s slender length.  The Man let his forehead drop to the Elf’s shoulder, 
and closed his eyes in grateful relief.  This was what had been missing 
from his life; the hole in his soul was now filled again.  
    “What changed your resolve, beloved?” Aragorn asked softly.  
    “Haldir tried to counsel me, but it was Boromir that I listened to.  I will 
not tell you what he said to me, but he made me see that it was only my 
pride, and not honor, that kept me from you.  It may not be that I can ease 
your suffering, but you will not bear your pain alone.  This I vow, as I 
vowed once before.  Naught shall part us from this hour.”  
    Aragorn hugged the Elf fiercely, his throat so tight he could not force 
his words out.  He strove to put all he wished to say into the kiss he could 
not refrain from taking.  His ardor was met with equal fire, and, when the 
kiss ended, both Elf and Man were left breathless.  Aragorn looked into 
Legolas’ eyes, and waited for a sign.  
    “I cannot,” Legolas said, “Not yet.  I grieve still for Boromir, and the 
thought of the Hobbits in the hands of Orcs darkens my mind.  But hold 
me, and I will be content.”  
    “As will I,” Aragorn said, “I have your love, and that is a treasure 
beyond price.”  
 
Stardust and Gold Chapter 12: Fountain of Light by bailey  
NC17 Aragorn/Legolas  
In the darkest hour is the light of hope rekindled.  
 
    “Fangorn,” Gimli groused, “I never thought I’d wish myself back 
aboard a boat, but I’d prefer it to this gloom.  I can scarce breathe the air, 
it’s so thick.”  
    A faint smile touched the Elf’s lips, but he forbore to mention the 
stifling atmosphere of Moria.  
    “We will camp here,” the Ranger said, “I do not think we will find a 
better spot before nightfall.”  
    “Night in this place,” the Dwarf snorted, “It could hardly be any 
darker.”  
    “I think you will find you are mistaken in that, Master Dwarf,” Aragorn 
said wearily.  
    The wood-crafty Ranger managed a small fire despite the pervasive 
damp.  The remnant of the Company ate a meager meal in silence, 
unwilling to disturb the murky air with their voices.  Gimli did the sensible 
thing, bidding his companions good night, and rolling up in his blanket.  In 
no time at all, Dwarven snores sawed their way past the muffling hood.  
    Aragorn glanced at Legolas with a good-natured smile.  The Elf raised 
on eyebrow slightly, and pointed with his chin to the forest shadows.  At 
the Ranger’s baffled look, Legolas rose to his feet like a fountain rising 
from a pool, and held out his hand.  Aragorn quickly stood, and followed 
the Elf away from the circle of firelight.  
    “What is it?” Aragorn asked, unwilling to risk a misunderstanding.  
    “I did not wish to disturb the Dwarf’s sweet repose.”  
    The Ranger caught the hint of humor in the Elf’s etched glass voice, and 
responded to it gladly.  “Aye, such a delicate creature has need of his 
rest.”  
    Legolas smiled then, and Aragorn’s heart stumbled in its regular beat 
before resuming at a faster pace.  The Elf’s smile faded, replaced by 
another expression, a look the Ranger remembered well for it figured 
prominently in his dreams.  It was a look Aragorn had not thought to see 
illuminating Legolas’ fair face again.  The Elf’s fathomless eyes were soft 
as melted morning glories, and his exquisitely curved lips were parted as 
though he sighed with longing.  It was a look Legolas had been wont to 
favor the Ranger with in days past, and Aragorn barely restrained himself 
from sweeping the Elf into his arms.  However, Isildur’s Heir had vowed 
that if he were taken back into grace, they would proceed at the pace set 
by Legolas.  
    “Did you have aught that you wished to say?” Aragorn asked, and was 
surprised when Legolas dropped his eyes.  
    “Nay.  I but thought . . .” The Elf’s voice trailed off in uncharacteristic 
shyness.  
    Aragorn did not presume, but he hoped he knew what Legolas was 
trying to convey.  Kindly, he smoothed the way for the proud Elf.  
    “Did you think that I might need the comfort of your arms?” the Ranger 
asked.  
    “Do you?”  
    “Always, mellon nin.  May I hold you now?”  
    Aragorn was stunned by the speed with which the Elf was in his arms, 
nestled against his chest, clinging to his neck.  He spared a scant moment 
for surprise, and then kissed the lips turned invitingly up to his.  The 
Ranger claimed the Elf’s soft mouth, retaking the citadel that had 
surrendered to him once, long ago.  Since then, Legolas had built his 
battlements high, and they had stood against every subsequent siege and 
sally.  He was a fortress that would not be breached, but could only be 
taken if the gates were opened from within.  
    When the kiss ended, Aragorn looked into the starfield of Legolas’ eyes 
with wonder.  “I will not complain,” the Ranger said breathlessly, “But I 
do not understand this eagerness.”  
    Legolas laughed quietly.  “I do not understand it either, but I feel such 
an unlooked for joy welling up within me that I am like to burst.  Do you 
not feel it?”  
    “Of course, I do,” Aragorn answered, “I have you in my arms.”  
    “There is such a stirring in my breast,” the Elf said, “I feel as though 
something wonderful is on the verge of revealing itself.”  
    “And I feel as though it already has,” the Ranger said, as he raised a 
hand to the Elf’s smooth cheek.  
    Legolas sighed, as Aragorn’s thumb caressed the contours of his lips.  
    “Will you lay with me this night?” the Ranger asked, his eyes shining 
with the yearning he felt for this brave, beautiful being.  “May I give you 
joy, and take joy in the giving?”  
    Legolas smiled at the formal language in which the Ranger couched his 
request.  “Would you woo me, son of Gondor?”  
    “I would,” Aragorn answered gravely, “Once I walked in the grace of 
your love, but it was born of misfortune.  We were bound together when I 
called you back from the spirit realm.  You had no choice but to love the 
one who reclaimed your soul.  Nay, melethron, do not speak, but let me 
finish.  I have oft presumed upon your love.  I have taken full measure of 
it, while returning no more than half.  I do not know what will happen 
when our journey is over, but -.”  
    Whatever Aragorn would have pledged was lost when Legolas’ lips met 
his demandingly.   The Man abandoned words, finding a better use for his 
tongue.  His scarred hands moved from the Elf’s face, across his 
shoulders, and down his back, reveling in the freedom granted him.  
Legolas held the Ranger tightly, pressing his lithe length to the Man’s 
hardness.  
    “This is become a rapid courtship,” the Elf said drolly, when the Ranger 
relinquished his mouth.  Then Legolas’ lips parted in a gasp, when 
Aragorn licked the curve of an upswept ear.  The indrawn breath became a 
soft moan as the Man drew the ear point into his mouth, and sucked 
gently.  
    His passion fanned by the small sounds the Elf made, the Ranger 
grasped Legolas’ slim hips, and pressed their groins firmly together.  He 
was rewarded by the shiver that traveled the length of the slender body in 
his arms.  Subtly, Aragorn moved his hips, letting his hardness slide 
against the answering surge in the Elf’s leggings.  
    “I fear I am becoming too excited,” the Ranger said in a delicate ear.  
    “Aragorn the Overhasty,” Legolas breathed.  
    Isildur’s Heir smiled at the Elf’s idea of a joke.  “I am in earnest, melme 
nin.  Your beauty and your willingness are strong arguments against my 
resolve to proceed cautiously.”  
    “Then be reckless for once in your life,” Legolas replied.  
    Reaching up, the Elf deftly unraveled the intricate braids at his temples.  
As though the loosening of those rippled tresses freed something within 
him, Legolas put a bold hand on Aragorn’s arousal, and squeezed.  The 
Ranger took the Elf’s lovely face between his hands, tangling his callused 
fingers in the strands of unbound silk.  Aragorn’s lips sought Legolas’, and 
the Man’s tongue gave promise and preview of what his sword would do 
in the Elf’s scabbard.  Legolas’ cool fingers slid inside the Ranger’s 
waistband, and took hold of the curved hardness, as perfectly fitted to his 
palm as his bow.  
    Aragorn groaned as slim fingers slowly stroked his rigid flesh.  The 
Ranger fondled the Elf’s sensitive ears, while his tongue ravished the soft 
mouth.  He felt his release mount inside him like a breeze building into a 
whirlwind.  He was in danger of being swept away at any moment.  
    “Stop,” the Ranger whispered hoarsely, “I am too near the brink.”  
    “I will not let you fall,” Legolas said, “Do not be afraid.  Let yourself go 
over the edge.  Fly, Aragorn, fly free.”  
    Legolas’ fingers moved in a new way, at a different tempo, and the Man 
clutched at the silken reins of moon bright hair.  Aragorn threw his head 
back, his eyes tight shut, breath emerging as a white plume in the chill air.  
Bright sparks swirled behind his eyelids, and through every fiber of his 
being.  He was as light as down, as clear as crystal.  He was as hollow as a 
reed in a flood, filling with a joy as pure as spring water.  
    Aragorn felt Legolas lips on his throat, and his pleasure crested.  He 
was lifted up to the pinnacle of desire, and bravely let go.  He plunged 
downward at an exhilarating speed, and then a winged being of light was 
bearing him up.  The Ranger felt his spirit entwine and merge with the 
Elf’s as it had done once, long ago.  He was complete, and felt his own 
wings unfurl from his shoulder blades, spreading wide to catch the rising 
wind.  For a brief eternity, Aragorn soared above his body and his 
burdens.  Then he was brought back to Middle Earth in brilliant flash of 
argent light.  As from a great distance, the Ranger heard the Elf cry out in 
rapture.  
    “Mithrandir!”