Title:  Idylls of a King Forlorn, Part 1: Calen Lass
Author: Gloromeien  
Email: andromeda_strayn@hotmail.com
Pairing: Legolas/Elrohir 
Summary: In the fourth age, a mysterious stranger come to Minas Tirith, bearing ill news 
for King Elessar and his elven guards.   
Rating: NC-17 for m/m slash, adult themes.
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, the 
granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the pleasure of his estate and aim not 
for profit. 
Author's Note: This is a tiny bit AU, though I prefer to think of it as un-documented (as it 
*is*, my research was thorough), rather than a complete distortion of cannon. Takes place 
during the reign of King Elessar; he has been on the throne for about 20 years at this 
point. The race of men has grown prosperous, though there are still remnants of the 
Shadow lurking about (as well as natural events that aren't necessarily 'evil', just 
undomesticated, such as, oh, a troll. For all the ideas/depictions of elven grief and the 
'fading', I am endlessly indebted to the excellent slashwriter Ilye, who's work can be 
found in the Library of Moria. I was so moved by her own descriptions of these things 
that I had to give it a whirl myself, I hope she can forgive me the borrowing. I've made up 
a couple of characters: the darling Amaranthiel and the fallen Menethren. And the quote 
is from 'Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Brownîng. Dedication: To the 
Pirate King, for the months of inspiration and those rapturous curls, and to my favorite 
audience member/critic/cheerleader/kindred spirit/Welsh person, whom I'll call the Lady 
Cariad.  
 
 
***************  

'The lilies of our lives may reassure
Their blossoms from their roots, accessible
Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer,
Growing straight, out of man's reach, on the hill.'
 

Crouched between the jagged crags at the base of Emyn Arnen, the gray-cloaked 
interloper observed the sheer mountain slope unseen by the elf and the man-child scaling 
its surface. Such an uncommon sight for the hills of Minas Tirith, elfkind entrusted with 
the protection of a boy, but there they were, an elf as rugged many a ranger and a youth 
as lithe as the Eldar, ably grappling over the sleek, silver-flecked shards of the 
mountainside. 

The observer's slate-dull cloak, as well as his seasoned hunting skills, easily kept him 
from the man-child's detection. The elf was another matter entirely. Though the pale 
peaks of his ears were plain enough against a long, gleaming cascade of obsidian hair, his 
was the body of a warrior. Tall, lean, as the elfkind, but his limbs and torso thick with 
meat, more befitting the horsemen of Rohan. Far from limiting his natural grace, his 
movements seemed enhanced by this added weight, his every motion whispering of 
untold might restrained. Indeed, even his dress was foreign to the Eldar. Though his 
quiver bore the markings of Imladris, he preferred a ranger's leather tunic, chaps, boots, 
and the fat-bellied sword of the witch-realm in the mountains of Angmar; his shift and 
cloak the deep violet of Gondor's most revered knights, the King's guard. His angular 
face and hawkish regard still betrayed elven refinement, though his mouth was 
unnaturally full, his lips sinuous, scarlet. 

As they neared the lower shelf of the slope, the elf-warrior paused, peerless, on the sheer 
edge, his burnished indigo eyes ruthlessly surveying the area. The interloper stilled, 
willing his breaths to deepen, his mind to quiet, the blood in his veins to lax. The elf 
stood, immovable, for several moments, then sprang onto the path as if a dancer in flight. 

"Eldarion!!" he called to the man-child. "This way!!" 

Before the youth could bother reply, the elf was over the next ridge. Though his voice 
had not yet turned, Eldarion could be heard to grumble, as he scampered up the last of the 
sheer face of the slope. At the sound of his naming, the hidden observer slightly raised 
the brim of his hood, his trenchant blue eyes taking closer stock of the struggling boy. 
The edges of his lips curved upwards appreciatively, half-smirk, half outright smile. So 
this was Aragorn's heir. 

As the watcher shifted position to better observe the awkward young prince, a booming 
yawl resounded through the foothills. Before the kingling could even draw his sword, a 
horn-crowned cave troll, easily twenty times his size, barreled down towards him. The 
interloper leapt to his feet, then up onto a nearby rock, for better leverage should he need 
to intervene, the youth's elven protector now far out of range. For one of such might, the 
elf is careless with such a precious charge.  

Eldarion, surprisingly agile, slid under the troll, then darted through a nearby forest of 
stalactites, dangerous ground for the creature's crude bulk. The cave troll lunged, again 
and again, but the prince's slender frame sped away at the last second. His maneuvers are 
deft, the gray-cloaked stranger noted, and the creature will soon tire. But will it be soon 
enough?

The cave troll's anguished groans echoed through the cliffs and crags, their force 
crumbling both the sheer face of the mountainside and the peaks of the stalactites. 
Eldarion, his nerves fraying, swung at the troll's bludgeoning arms with the practiced 
precision of an apprentice swordsman, but the creature's brute force time and again won 
over. At last, with a reactionary swat of titanic impact, the prince's lithe frame collided 
with its monstrous arm, spun, then smacked into the merciless, defacing rock of the shelf 
wall. 

Without another thought, the hooded figure let the first of a flurry of lethally accurate 
arrows fly. Gelatinous spews of green blood burst from the cave troll's neck, as the 
creature roared his last and fell. The youth, bathed in sickly muck, was soon on his feet 
again, the interloper now at his side. 

"I would have bested him, Uncle," Eldarion squawked in frustration, momentarily 
blinded by the green goo. With a gentle chuckle, his cloaked savior offered him a 
handkerchief and was himself revealed. The prince gasped, grasped the hilt of his sword. 

"I am no threat to you, pen-neth," the stranger assured him. "I am pledged to your father, 
the King. Who should, if I may be so bold, chose the guards to his heir with greater care."

"It was a test," the youth replied, rather testily, for one so young. The cloaked observer 
was instantly reminded of the boy's father, and his more tempestuous nature in his youth. 
"I was to slay the cave troll."

"But surely the intent was not for you to be slain, should you fail," the interloper 
remarked. "Where is your guardian?"

"Seeking you out, I've no doubt," the prince challenged, with undisguised ire. "His senses 
are keen."

Before the hooded stranger could answer for himself, he jumped back, narrowly avoiding 
the incisive path of what was no doubt an arrow from the elf-warrior's Imladrian quiver. 

"Reveal yourself, stranger," the guardian hissed, dropping down from the ledge above 
them. "That is no peasant's son you trifle with."

"Then perhaps you should take greater care with him," the stranger snipped, only the glint 
of his crisp cobalt eyes visible through the cloak-hood's shadow. "Son of Elrond."

The elf-warrior's eyes shone a warm violet when he recognized one of his kin. "What 
business does a Mirkwood elf have so far from the East Bight?" 

"It is long since I lay in the fields of the Bight," the archer sighed, lifting away the gray 
wool of his hood. "Though many a night past I have dreamt there, of snow-capped peaks 
and of misty marshes, and of Gondor's gleaming white tower." 

It was Legolas.

Upon the revelation of the elf-prince, Elrohir was doubly struck. Though elven 
refinement kept the tremors from his face, the Eldar had never before remarked upon the 
archer's silken grace. Years ago, they had fought together in the War of the Ring. Perhaps 
the threat of destruction was too near, or the stench of death too sickenîng, but Elrohir 
held little memory of Legolas beyond his fervent battle cries, the fatal sting of his arrows, 
the lethal slice of his twin slit-knives. The smirking, porcelain-carved creature before him 
had no place in such black, violent remembrances. 

"Forgive me, edhel," Elrohir all but whispered. "I mistook you for another."

"Is there a Mirkwood archer who would dare threaten the life of the heir of Gondor?" 
Legolas chided mirthfully. "I must speak on this with my father."

Elrohir's embarrassment was thankfully masked by the young prince's confusion. 

"Is you father a king?" Eldarion queried, now utterly befuddled by the day's strange 
happenings. "Is this another of your brothers, Elrohir?"

"He is of my kin, mellon-nîn, and thus my brother-in-arms," Elrohir replied, his eyes still 
locked on the Mirkwood prince's wry expression. "And a great friend of your father's. 
This is Legolas, son of Thranduil." 

The boy's face beamed with nothing short of awe.

"You are the fearless Legolas!!" the bedazzled youth exclaimed, knees quivering as if to 
bow. Legolas swallowed his mirth deeply down, then laid a fond hand on the crown of 
the prince's raven hair. 

"And you are the picture of your mother, pen-neth," Legolas noted with affection. 
"Aragorn's pride must suffer greatly." Legolas winked slyly at Elrohir, then rested his 
hand on the boy's shoulder. "But come, I have urgent business with the King."

"Your return will lighten his spirits, meldir," Elrohir remarked, upon reflection, 
somewhat stupidly. "For these are burdensome times. The Queen has birthed yet another 
daughter, the delicate princess Amaranthiel."

To his surprise, the archer's face grew darker.

"My return, perhaps, may cheer him," Legolas replied, a shadow falling over his soft 
features. "My news may not be such comfort."

			*		*		*

Though the feast before them befit the return of Arathorn from the grave, few of the 
company tasted a scrap of it, once Legolas began his tale. The Mirkwood prince himself 
had remarked on its opulence, decrying recent years of rabbit stew, dewberries, and 
lembas bread from his adventures in Fangorn forest, though he would only sip fitfully at 
his wine and swallow the occasional spoon of broth, for respite more than hunger. 

Earlier, King Elessar had blessed him with the warmest of welcomes, clasping the 
reluctant elf tightly against him and murmuring gratitudes into the sharp peaks of his 
ears. Legolas had bore it graciously, Elrohir had noted, his not uncommon smirk of 
bemusement in ample evidence throughout the numerous salutations at court. With her 
fussy, darling Amaranthiel to occupy her, Queen Arwen had made her excuses, leaving 
Aragorn, Eldarion, and Elrohir to lunch with the new arrival. 

Legolas remained jovial for much of the meal, as the King spoke fondly of the trials of 
his reign and the archer recounted tales of his years in the Glittering Caves. His traveling 
companion, the dwarf Gimli, had been called to the home of his great-great-
granddaughter, who had born quadruplets and was shamefully short-handed. The thought 
of Gimli tending to his great-great-great-grandchildren carried their mirth through to the 
main course.

"You seek another companion, gwanur-nîn?" Aragorn suggested, with a twinkle. "You 
have returned to force my abdication and claim me as your own?"

Legolas, indeed the entire company, laughed heartily.

"And what of your daughters?" the archer teased. "Who would protect their honor, in 
your absence?"

"I would!!" Eldarion exclaimed scornfully, to the amply great amusement of his elders.

"Indeed, you would, mellon-nîn," Elrohir encouraged softly. "Once you have bested the 
cave troll."

Elrohir was pleased to note that this last comment restored the glint to the archer's 
aquamarine eyes, not seen since that morning's encounter. He smiled, almost 
imperceptibly, across the table at Legolas, who swiftly averted his dimming gaze. A chill 
passed through the elf-warrior. 

"Your absence has been felt, Legolas," the King suddenly turned solemn. "You have 
strayed far too long. The babe that was born on your last visit is now almost grown." 
Aragorn nodded towards Eldarion, who reeled in astonishment. "I hope you will tarry 
here awhile, meldir."

Legolas fell silent, his natural elven calm suddenly eerily distressing. 

"You were correct in your presumption that I seek out your company, Evinyatar," the 
archer began, with cautious deliberation. The formal address unsettled the King, who 
drew back in his seat, the set of his jaw taking on a regal solidity. 

"Ai'nad in my power to grant is yours, Prince of Mirkwood," Aragorn responded, his tone 
officious. "I will not fail you."

"Ay, I know, gwanur." Legolas bowed his head. "Forgive my formality, I simply…" He 
raised his eyes again, their color darkened to a deep midnight. "Upon my return from the 
Glittering Caves in Fangorn, I sojourned in the remains of Lothlorien. There, I received 
word from Mirkwood. Other than a few servants, my father and Menethren, his chief 
counsel, were all that remained of the wood-elves. A dragon struck the northern thatch of 
forest. It would have burned the entire wood to ash, had Menethren not rode out. The 
forest was saved from the dragon's wrath… Menethren… he fell, Aragorn." 

As the Eldar fell, so did a deadening silence over the table.

"My Adar… my father is fading. Menethren was… *is*, perhaps closer to the bone, his 
melethron…his beloved. I am told he will not last out the month."

"Can he not be bound to another, Legolas?" the King asked, with learned temperance. 

"He refuses," the prince acknowledges. "He wishes to pass on to the Halls of Mandos, to 
be reunited with Menethren who is slain. I cannot fault him such a wish." Legolas took 
another dull sip of wine, more to wet his parched mouth than to savor its dry flavor. "I 
would not ask that you undertake such a journey, aran Gondor… but there is no one to 
sing for him. None but me to carry him to Imladris, to be shroud in the Eternal Flame. 
Adar was the King… Menethren a valiant warrior. They deserve their honor."

"And they shall have it." 

It was as gentle a pronouncement as King Elessar had ever made, but its simplicity spoke 
volumes to the assembled company. 

"I shall journey with you to Mirkwood, gwanur-nîn, fear not." Aragorn met the archer's 
wounded eyes with his own steady gaze. "Together we shall lament the fall of the green 
forest."

"I shall join you, if you will," Elrohir cautiously added. "It has been some years since I 
have seen Adar, Elladan, Imladris..."

Legolas allowed himself the faintest of smiles: "I would be glad of it, mellon-nîn. Your 
voice is of peculiar melody, if I recall." Elrohir, startled by his praise, could only nod in 
deference.

"Eldarion, you shall accompany us, as well," Aragorn decreed, dismissing the hushed 
tone of the proceedings and moving on to more practical matters. "Time you learnt to 
appreciate the many shades of ruling a kingdom." 

The young prince's eyes, alight with wonder, were soon tempered by the thought of the 
journey's sad purpose. 

"We set out at dawn," Aragorn announced with finality, turning to Legolas one last time. 
A twinge of satisfaction could not help but spark his drawn features. "We ride again, my 
brother."

				*		*		*

The court minstrels strummed a blithe, lilting Edhellondrian melody, the strains as 
vaporous as sea foam, when Arwen swept onto the terrace of the White Tower of 
Gondor, Amaranthiel nestled tight against her heart, finally at rest. Though rose-red 
embers still floated above the horizon, the evening's celebrations were already waning, 
the courtiers well aware of the trials of the journey to come and many preparations yet to 
be attended to. 

Most of the Gondorian nobles had retired; the King, however, was sequestered beneath 
the eastern turret by his councilmen, who had not received the news of his imminent 
departure well. Legolas, the cause of all this – celebration and inquisition both – kept 
vigil close by, though weary, instinctively protective of his adanellyn.

Her brother loomed by the hearth-fire; his reflective eyes aglow with lilac flames, but his 
ears, she well knew, scouting for signs of unrest among the councilmen. Elrohir loved, 
and was beloved, of man and elfkind both - his years with the Rangers proof enough of 
the duality of his nature – but though he was often champion of edain bravery among the 
Eldar, he knew their weakness cut just as deep. Even in times of peace, the most elvellyn 
among the edain could prove treacherous, where the safety of their King was concerned. 

Arwen doubted not of his safety on this journey, simply of his peace of mind. Estel had 
attended his share of Eldar memorials, but this demise of the Greenwood of Thranduil 
would leave its black mark on every member of the company. Her one comfort was the 
presence of her father and the gentle Glorfindel, at Imladris, who would cater to both the 
ritual and the spiritual needs of the mourners. Perhaps, if Amanranthiel proves of sweet a 
disposition as her sisters, I shall join them at Rivendell. 

Her infant daughter now heavy with slumber, Arwen took a seat by the hearth-fire, her 
concern for Elrohir's spirit even more acute than her frettings over her husband's. Her 
brother's regard for the Mirkwood prince was unmistakable to one who knew him so 
intimately; the elf-warrior's attention had scarcely wavered for an instant from the fair 
calenlass, since his unexpected arrival. He is too long in the world of men, Arwen 
reflected, as her brother blessed her with fond regard. Though he is pledged to Estel, he 
longs for elvellyn company. 

"Another little treasure," Elrohir murmured, as he bent over to kiss his dormant niece's 
brow. "I 
expect she will be grown some, when I return."

"She will be bright as a jewel," Arwen remarked playfully. "She will still sparkle at the 
sight of you, nîn bellas." Elrohir seemed not to hear, his cautious gaze drifting once more 
towards the east turret. "And you, gwanur? Will you have grown some upon your 
return?"

A smile threatened her brother's stern lips, but they held tight. 

"I marvel at his resolve, sebellath," Elrohir commented solemnly. "To watch your father 
fade, to know the kingdom you would rule will soon vanish without a trace, your legacy 
smote in dragon's fire… your homeland abandoned…"

"I have not known you to be so melancholy, Elrohir," Arwen chided delicately. "The time 
of the Eldar in Middle-Earth is ending, the few that remain… there will come a time 
when you, too, will long for Valinor. Estel is all that keeps you."

"This is my home, Arwen," Elrohir snapped, unthinking. "Do you think yourself the only 
edhel in Middle-Earth who would forgo an eternity in Valinor for love of this land and 
her true people?"

Arwen smiled softly to herself, her brother's resolve both intent and admirable. She 
would not press him further, her tone again turning mischievous.

"Are you certain it is the edain Gondor who enthrall you, gwanur-nîn?" she teased. "Your 
attentions seem fixed on…others." Elrohir could not keep the sheepish grin from curling 
his sinuous lips. "He is weary, and morose. Estel is skilled at shifting his council's 
concerns towards his own. Perhaps the prince's mind would be eased by a turn in the 
garden?"

"Perhaps," her brother replied enigmatically. After further long moments entranced by the 
firelight, the elf-warrior bowed his head. "I would ask a service of you, sebellath."

"Ai'nad, gwanur-nîn."

"The journey will be long," Elrohir began, his voice barely more than a swift exhalation. 
"Our bond, uncertain. I would take Rites with him, before the morn. It will ease his pain."

"Of what Rites do you speak, Elrohir?" Arwen's face darkened, in deep confusion. She 
was well aware of the customs of elfkind and had never heard tell of any Rites. 

"Among the warriors of our kind…" he haltingly explained. "The warrior's passion on the 
battlefield can overtake him, as well as… during the Rites of love. Often, in the history of 
our people, warring tribes came together of necessity, to fight a stronger foe, a greater 
menace. The chieftains of these tribes must reconcile their own difference, must build a 
common trust, in order to ally themselves fully. Thus, on the eve of battle, they would 
enact the Rites of love, giving their body's pledge to the other. It became custom, over 
time, when embarking on a journey, or a quest… or during the quest, to renew the pledge, 
to comfort an ailing comrade… It is custom. To set the mind, and the body, to the task at 
hand, and not… but the request must be formally made. By a third party." 

"And you ask me to…?" Arwen swallowed a definite giggle.

"He is a hallowed warrior," Elrohir quickly added. "The request need not be… elaborate. 
He will know of what you speak." 

After some inner-deliberation, Arwen rose to her feet, bending gingerly over to kiss her 
brother's flushed brow. With lithe, measured steps, the Queen tread calmly in the 
direction of the east turret, her rich, crimson gowns wafting in her wake. 

Elrohir watched her float across the terrace, his hawk-eyes rapt, anxious.

Though he had been observing the siblings' conversation for some time, Legolas greeted 
the Queen with a warm, unknowing smile. His senses ever-attuned to the moods, the 
tones, and the postures of the surrounding company, as any cunning fighter's should be, 
Legolas was as conscious of the peredhil's veiled scrutiny as he was of the councilmen's 
scorn, the fiddle player's growing fatigue, and the slumbering princess' dulcet dreams. As 
Arwen approached him, he relaxed his guard, the dull ache returning to his shoulders and 
his back creaking unmercifully. I need rest, he remarked inwardly, not for the first time 
that evening. Perhaps Valinor beckons after all. 

Much as Mandos lured him, he would not leave while Aragorn's light still shone. His 
tired eyes flicked from Arwen to Elrohir. So many wait-out the King's lifetime. 

"The battle rages on, mellon-nîn?" Arwen queried, now at his side. 

"I fear it will last out the night," Legolas almost groaned. "You would think he was their 
lover. Were it not for all the children you've born him…" This last restored the twinkle to 
the archer's chill cerulean eyes. Arwen chuckled fondly. 

"Indeed, my husband is a potent menace in every aspect of his kingdom," Arwen 
smirked, some might even say wickedly, at her kinsman. "By which I am reminded to 
beseech you to keep him well, Prince of Mirkwood. There may well be another prince or 
princess to coddle upon his return."

At this wondrous news, Legolas laughed outright, which drew the deeply-creased frowns 
of several councilors. 

"I will keep him well, melduir, fear not," Legolas quietly assured her, the mirth all but 
drained from his face. 

"You are weary, Legolas," Arwen cooed, with grave concern. "Will you not take some 
rest? Elrohir has bade me ask if you will claim a warrior's right, and take Rites with him." 
Legolas regarded her, just then, with a mixture of surprise and peculiar intent. "There is a 
bath in his chamber, and…"         

"Elrohir would take Rites with me?" Legolas seemed to consider more than ask, growing 
pensive. His gaze crept over to the fireside, but the peredhil was gone. To his chambers, 
no doubt. Such confidence.

Despite his exhaustion, the archer found his journey-worn body bristled, sparking in 
anticipation of a night's indulgence with the dark, rogueish elf-warrior. Not since the 
Quest for the Ring had Legolas lain with another, and never before out of any deep 
affection, simply need. Indeed, a warrior's Rites, in these peaceful times, were a rare 
luxury; a ritual the archer had only experienced once before. The memory of that scarlet 
evening, coupled with his body's insistent approval of such needed indulgence, swayed 
his mind. Added to the fact that it would be Elrohir's burden, as the initiator, to please 
him…

"If you will excuse me, mellon-nîn," Legolas bowed politely, as Arwen swallowed yet 
another mischievous smile. "I believe my fatigue has finally caught up with me."

				*		*		*

As he padded surreptitiously down the winding halls that led to the royal bedchambers, 
Legolas struggled to quell his body's growing anticipation. Thoughts of the elf-warrior's 
raven beauty, of his swordsman's bulk and his archer's grace, of his edain roughness and 
his edhil luminosity, clouded the prince's already weighted mind. As he searched, 
distractedly, for the Imladrian's door, his skin simmered, restless, his tongue sponged his 
mouth ruthlessly dry, and his loins tensed to aching. Legolas feared that one brief touch 
of the Eldar's lips to his skin would be his undoing. It has been far, far too long…    

At last recognizing the elven blessing inscribed on the arching door-frame, Legolas 
paused before the peredhil's chambers, a small slip of his mind still concerned that 
Elrohir had invoked the warriror's Rites. Why had he not simply approached him? Why 
such formality? They had fought in the War of the Ring together, was that not proof 
enough of their allegiance? The situation did not sit right with the archer, but he would 
broach the topic at a later time. At present, he found he could no longer ignore the 
gnawing, wanting throb at the center of his being. 

His sword, as they say, was at the ready.  

Before he could raise a hand to knock, a voice inside bade him enter. As he made his way 
into the heart of the rooms, Legolas was enveloped by the voluptuous scents of the 
Imladrian baths: cinderlocke, pealshell, and rich vergammon flower. As he loosened the 
laces of his tunic, he recalled the long night he'd lingered at the baths, with Boromir, 
soaking in the fuming swirls, drinking miruvor, and praising the coming renewal of 
Gondor's White Tower. If only the brave 
adan could be here to witness it's current glory… 

"Suilad, elmellyn." Elrohir's welcome broke through the prince's sensory meanderings; 
his bare, beckoning torso silenced any lingering doubts as to the rightness of these Rites. 
Legolas stroked his gaze appreciatively, deliberately, over the elf-warrior's sculpted 
frame, the tightly-knotted, diaphanous sarong wound around his slim waist the only 
attempt at modesty. His pearlescent black hair hung in loose, wanton waves over his 
shoulders, the tips licking at the delicate wisps of hair circling his purple nipples, proof of 
his half-edain heritage. His ripe, violet eyes shone out, unrestrained, as fierce and 
mesmerizing as the elen above. 

Legolas was breathless. 

"Put yourself at ease, calenlass-nîn," Elrohir murmured, as he advanced towards him. 
"Give no thought to your troubles. I will soothe what ails you." The peredhil's thick, 
calloused fingers caressed the length of his face, as he leaned in for a first, tentative kiss. 

With firm purpose, Legolas placed a warm hand at the center of Elrohir's chest. 

"You claim a warrior's right, gwanur-nîn," Legolas reminded him. "We cannot embrace 
as lovers." 

Elrohir's face softened, whispering lightly: "And who is here to know, melethron? I 
would give you every pleasure…"

"Forgive me, mellon-nîn, but I would not lead you falsely," Legolas cooed, fearful that 
the prince might chafe at his words. "A warrior's Rites I am here to claim. I cannot… I 
will not lay claim to the rule of your heart." Elrohir seemed to accept this, exhaling with 
little difficulty.

"It is I who must ask your forgiveness, elmellyn," the elf-warrior beseeched him. "I 
mistook… it is forgotten. Please… your bath is drawn. Do not forgo such well-deserved 
ministrations for my assumptions…"

"Aye, indeed, I shall not," the prince assured him, taking hold of his hands, beckoning 
them to disrobe him.  With a grateful, affectionate glance, Elrohir obliged.

Despite his earlier pledge, the full sight of the golden Eldar's lissome, crystalline beauty 
deeply affected the Imladrian prince. The muslin wash of his skin, the fine craft of his 
shoulders, the sensuous slope of his navel, which, once Elrohir shed his riding chaps, 
revealed a shaft of such tongue-leadening potency as the darkling elf had not thought 
possible. Nevertheless, he momentarily stifled his own desire, guiding Legolas into the 
molten depths of the bathwater. 

With eager, nimble fingers, Elrohir undid the tight weaving of his braids, then wove his 
hands through the archer's flaxen hair, massaging the scalp. Legolas sighed, sinking in, 
his features laxing into blissful serenity. As Elrohir's silken touch moved down his neck 
to his shoulders, Legolas leaned his golden crown back against the Eldar's chest and 
softly began to sing.

It was unlike any elven song Elrohir had heard before, almost decadent in its richness, the 
prince's opulent, eloquent voice as thick as a mouthful of cream. The effect was viscerally 
sensual; the languorous rhythms seeped through his senses, starting a slow burn over his 
skin, searing down his spine, and singeing into every cell of his being. The raven-haired 
elf swooned despite himself, caught in the rapture of the archer's song. 

With able, knowing arms, Legolas divested him of the sarong and lured him into the 
balming waters, crawling over him, stroking the entire, incendiary length of their bodies 
together. Soon, his velvet touch seemed everywhere at once, over his legs, down his 
arms, up his back, across the heaving plain of his chest, through the sleek waves of his 
sodden hair, that slow, seductive song ever beckoning. 

With his own fierce, guttural moan, he succumbed to the archer's passion. 




To Be Continued… 



A/N (con't): I'm not going to add a lexicon for the Sindarin words… I think the context is 
clear enough, in most cases. If there are any questions, then feel free to email me (or do 
your own research, it's fascinating!!). Miruvor is, of course, a restorative drink made at 
Rivendell (or so they tell me), the rest of the herbs mentioned are made-up.  




Title:  Idylls of a King Forlorn, Part 2: Namar
Author: Gloromeien  
Email: andromeda_strayn@hotmail.com 
Summary: Memories evoked for two members of this makeshift 
fellowship, as they arrive at Mirkwood.   
Rating: R for m/m slash, adult themes.
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien 
the Wise, the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the 
pleasure of his estate and aim not for profit. 
Author’s Note: This is a tiny bit AU, though I prefer to think of it as un-
documented (as it *is*, my research was thorough), rather than a complete 
distortion of cannon. Takes place during the reign of King Elessar; he has 
been on the throne for about 20 years at this point. The race of men has 
grown prosperous, though there are still remnants of the Shadow lurking 
about (as well as natural events that aren’t necessarily ‘evil’, just 
undomesticated, such as, oh, a troll). For all the ideas/depictions of elven 
grief and the ‘fading’, I am endlessly indebted to the excellent slashwriter 
Ilye, who’s work can be found in the Library of Moria. I also would like to 
thank Tyellas, at www.ansereg.com, for her excellent summary of all 
things Elrohir and Elladan, as well as her own amazing fic. I was so 
moved by both these writers that I had to give it a whirl myself, I hope 
they can forgive me any minor concept-borrowing. Menethren, however, 
is a character of my own devising. Quote from ‘Sonnets from the 
Portuguese’ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. All Elvish quotes, at the end. 
Dedication: Once again, to the Pirate King and the Lady Cariad.  
 
 
***************  

“Let the world’s sharpness, like a clasping knife,
Shut in upon itself and do no harm
In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm,
And let us hear no sound of human strife
After the click of the shutting.”

The path was worn, the dirt scattered at the edges, entire lengths densely 
covered with spills of autumn leaves, but Aragorn had tread it too often to 
mistake his way. Even twenty years on, the day he’d first set eyes on the 
Argonath, the day Boromir fell, razed through his mind like a flaming 
arrow at the Helm.

As the curled tip of the wide-bellied canoe bit into his collarbone, the King 
gazed up at the relics of ages past, his kin, and silently wondered, not for 
the first time, if they would have chosen as fatefully as he, had they born 
his burdens. Though at times his destiny seemed not of his own choosing, 
but that of some bittersweet hand, he could not fault the Valar’s hallowed 
guidance; if they could have been said to guide him, a man. Perhaps I fell 
under the great light of the Evenstar.

Collapsing the canoe on the hilltop, they halted their portage for the night. 
Preferring the sanctuary of the trees, the King left his companions to raise 
the camp. Memories of this place clasped him tightly. He wandered up 
onto a forgotten king’s mighty sandal, a part of him ever mindful of the 
elves’ progression below, and his son’s protection. 

Hours – yet mere moments – later, a cry pricked sharply through his 
solemn reverie. His agile glare plunged down to the campground, where 
Legolas fired ripe, oozing frogberries at a livid Eldarion, fresh from a 
swim in the river. The prince, chest dripping with splotches of purple gore, 
devised swift revenge, pummeling the archer with several fistfuls of 
limestone pebbles. The battle escalated, but the King turned his eyes away, 
glad that Legolas still found some merriment despite the gray purpose of 
their journey.

“Your ministrations have kept him well,” Aragorn remarked, in lieu of a 
welcome, to the Eldar lurking in the woods nearby, not doubt seeking his 
counsel. Elrohir cursed to himself, then sprang up the foot, to join him. 

“He is not one for grief,” the elf-warrior dismissed, swooping down beside 
the King with all the elegance of his kind. “He holds much regard for his 
father, for his choice, but in the manner of a soldier for his general’s 
bravery in the day’s battle.”

Aragorn nodded, judging this wisdom profound. 

“Legolas is the soul of mischief, of valor, and loyal to a fault,” the King 
observed. “I would not cross him lightly. Yet his heart is… cold. I have 
seen him pursued all his life by elf-maids, by my kinswomen, and by 
elvellyn of all stations. He hath lain with them for sport, at times, he hath 
befriended most who pined for him… but he hath never loved.”

“What?” Elrohir started, unsettled by this revelation. “Never loved 
another?”

“His spark is too bright to kindle a single flame,” Aragorn argued. He 
turned his slate-blue eyes away from the shore, up to the blushing horizon. 
“On this very shore, I knew him… while my kinsman betrayed us… while 
he lay dying…”

At this, the elf-warrior vehemently shook his head. In the looming 
twilight, shadows creased his angular features. 

“Boromir died bravely,” Elrohir insisted. “And rightly, Aragorn. He was 
tempted by the Ring. He would not have let the hobbits be. He would have 
burdened you further.”

“His death is my burden,” Aragorn mused.

“You have restored his city to glory,” his foster-brother assured him. 
“Boromir did not die in vain.” The King seemed to accept this, the ache in 
his eyes rescinding. He thrust a steady, leaden gaze upon the Eldar. 

“I have known him,” he cautioned. “Known his sweetness. Known the 
fever of his song. It envelops you, ensnares you, and you cannot resist. 
You are well to comfort him, for comfort is dearly needed, but do not 
mistake restoration for reverence. So few of your gentle kind remain in 
these lands. I would not see another fade. Certainly not one so beloved, 
mellon-nîn.”       

At that, Elrohir snorted proudly, but betrayed a creeping sorrow. 

“I would not fade for love of him,” the elf-warrior declared, with false-
timbered bluster.

The King nodded once, chastely, his solemn stare again finding the shore; 
the yellowed patch, at the forest’s edge, where Boromir had lain. 

He shut his eyes, resolutely, attempting to forget the past, to dismiss the 
ghost of the future…

				*		*		*

Their hunger sated by a fine roast quintail hen with the requisite crushed 
frogberry glaze, the King and the two princes tucked up by the fire with 
the bitter Ithilien mead and tales of journeys long ended. To the Mirkwood 
elf’s astonishment, Aragorn had never fully recounted to his son of their 
months in the Fellowship of the Ring, nor his pursuit and capture of the 
creature Gollum. 

Polishing both their weapons and the last of the mead, the two warriors 
began the sprawling tale. Their voices lifted to embellish certain passages, 
fell hush to further enthrall the young prince. Fondly, they mimicked old 
friends, which often had them laughing, complicit, at some private 
remembrance. Eldarion devoured every last detail, rapt, occasionally 
glazing with awe at his father, as if he’d transformed into another being 
entirely. He knew of Estel, beloved to his mother, Elessar, King of 
Gondor, and Evinyatar, the renewer. Aragorn the man had often eluded 
him, however, and as for the valiant Strider, the Ranger… he struggled to 
perceive the remnants of this rogue’s cunning in his father’s just, noble 
ways. 

Elrohir had early made his excuses, preferring to steal a private moment in 
the tent he shared with his elf-brother. Like Eldarion, the trek to 
Mirkwood had uncovered many mystifying secrets for the darkling elf. 
These troubled him. Unlike his twin, Elladan, loremaster of Imladris, who 
took to brooding more often than not, Elrohir typically favored action over 
deep reflection. To his mind, few were the trials that could not be 
overcome with a sword, with a decree, or with a ceremony of some 
mystical nature. Elladan often chided him for ignoring the nuance of elven 
existence; for this reason, perhaps, he preferred the cruder ways of man-
kind. Yet, on the foot of his forbears, Aragorn had proven himself as 
deeply shaded as an elf-lord… 

With a patient hand, Elrohir struck the wind-chime, then lit the frayed 
wick of his stick of ederwood essence. The musk-rich, gauzy smoke soon 
wafted around him, as he assumed the  position of worship before his 
makeshift altar. He exhaled longly, voiding his lungs of his life’s breath, 
courting favor with the Valar. He prayed to those ethereal ones, for the 
light of knowledge to guide his path, for the strength of a steady hand, for 
wisdom in a vital choice. 

The thick, gossamer fumes eased him into a fugue. Time passed in 
vaporous drips, balming, replenishing the confounded recesses of his 
consciousness. He gave himself to the languorous rhythm, all thoughts of 
archers, fading kings, and bereaved warriors dissipating into the void 
around him. 

A chill wind washed over his back, the ederwood smoke sucked out into 
the bitter, riverside night. With cautious movements, Elrohir snuffed out 
the essence stick, struck the chime. His prayer-heavy frame stretched out 
along the top of his bedroll, his head drunkenly sluggish. It was often this 
way, if he surrendered himself entirely to worship; in truth, the light, 
mesmerized feeling pleased him. 

It was several moments before he realized Legolas had entered with the 
wind.

“Are you well, mellon-nîn?” the archer inquired, frowning slightly. “You 
move as though chained to the ground. You consumed little at supper, 
though the quintail was fine…”

“I have sung to the Valar,” Elrohir murmured. He struggled to fully open 
his eyes, to show Legolas the fading glow of the higher state shimmering 
therein. 

The Prince of Mirkwood knelt beside him, placing a tense palm against his 
cheek and indeed seeing the lilac blooms of his eyes. Satisfied that his 
companion was of good health, he rose to shed his boots, tunic, leggings… 
then shivered violently at the sting of the bitter air. 

“You are cold? Come, I will warm you,” Elrohir beckoned, still somewhat 
dazed. His oft-translucent skin was flushed a deep rose, the meditative 
state of the Eldar almost womb-like, for some. 

Legolas could not resist. Without hesitation, he slipped into the prince’s 
embrace, resting his golden head against Elrohir’s warm chest. With a 
long, relaxed sigh, the darkling elf extended his arm over the length of the 
prince’s back. 

Despite the comfort of this stolen moment, Elrohir’s senses sharpened 
anew. 

“You are weary, meldir?” 

“I am well,” the archer assured him, though his tone lacked conviction. 
“The young prince never seems to tire. You are well-matched.”

“Aye, he is spirited,” Elrohir smiled fondly. “Much like his mother, in our 
youth.”

Legolas thought on this. He added: “It is a grave pity he does not more 
resemble the King. When his soul passes… this world will have indeed… 
lost.”

“Think not on such darkness, mellon-nîn,” the elf-warrior cooed. “There 
will be legions to mourn him. We will find solace together.”  At the 
archer’s continued silence, Elrohir ventured further. “Though I am ever 
thankful an elf cannot fade for love of man-kind. Our people would be 
decimated.” 

Legolas allowed himself a smirk, at this, but his eyes held fast to 
solemnity. 

“It is Aragorn you love, then,” Elrohir cut to the quick. “I knew one so fair 
would not leave his heart to decay.” 

At this, the archer laughed outright.

“Love Aragorn?! Surely you gest!!” The Mirkwood prince raised his head 
to meet the son of Elrond’s cool, indigo eyes with mirth-brimming blues. 
Still, he soon tempered. “The aran Gondor is as true to me as the brother 
of my heart, for certes, and as such I love him dearly… these are not 
romantic pledges. They are those of a warrior to his king, of one brother to 
another, not… but I protest too much. You will think me besotted with 
him.”

“Nay, I do not,” the Imladrian prince reassured him. “I know well the 
devotion of which you speak. I merely wondered… what illustrious soul 
could have, in the past, won such a valiant heart as yours.” 

Legolas again fell silent, though his glare spiked out to lock with Elrohir’s 
own. “Why do you ask this?”

“The King claims you have never loved. I could not believe it so.”

The archer shrugged, softened. His cheek returned to the small of the elf-
warrior’s now tepid chest, his answer trickled across the paled skin. 

“I never saw the need of it,” he hushedly began. “It brings only pain, or 
uncertainty, or grief. I am not made for such things. I longed for the 
world… but never for another with such passion that I would forsake my 
freedom, my adventuring… it strikes to the heart of me, the calling from 
Valinor. I would not leave Middle-Earth. I am content with these lands to 
travel, with my friends among her peoples… “ Legolas grew restless, 
eager to dismiss the topic. “And you, elmellyn?”

“Seldom through my years have I loved,” Elrohir admitted. “But well. 
Yes, dearly well. An elf-maid, in my youth… but she proved intemperate, 
marrying another during my absence. I was all-too easily consoled by a 
fearsome Galadrim. A horseman of the Rohan, in the last age, and before, 
a noble son of Osgilliath. They are well-sung, in my orisons.” The elf-
warrior grew somber, his own thoughts clouded by doubt. “I pray Elbereth 
it will favor me again, before Elladan and I must chose our fate.”

“Your Fate?” Legolas queried intently. “Which is this?”

“We are not true Eldar, as you know,” the peredhil explained, his features 
severe. “We have little time, after Estel’s passing, to chose between 
passing to Valinor and remaining in Middle-Earth to die a mortal. If my 
Adar remains to mourn our sister, perhaps we shall see the autumn of 
Eldarion’s rule… but his thoughts are turning to the sea. Valinor beckons 
him.”

“Cursed place,” Legolas almost spit, curling further into the elf-warrior’s 
solid frame. “We are of one mind, mellon-nîn. I would that we could ride 
the wilds together, without end.” Then, with less venom. “You would 
make a fine companion.” 

“Better than the dwarf?” Elrohir teased, but could not shake the frost 
seeping through his veins, the thought of forsaking centuries at the 
archer’s side for the placid meadows of Valinor sickening his soul. 

“Aye, perhaps,” Legolas laughed, though there was little mirth in its 
timbre. “Certainly less quarrelsome…”      

				*		*		*

The forest howled. The cracked, gutted trunks spiked up, around them, 
cindered black as granite shards. Those that had not yet fallen hung limp, 
compliant over their gnarled roots, their branches abruptly severed, the 
bark stripped to the bone, clumps of blood-red sap clotted around the 
wounds. The jaundiced patches of grass, amid the ash-field of the forest 
ground, stood, stagnant, in the fetid air, oblivious to the stench of 
petroleum and of decay. 

Legolas lurched through the last of his cherished Mirkwood, his vision 
blurred, sodden. He could not hear his footsteps for the din of nature’s 
tortured wails; his tears gratefully blinding him to the bird skeletons, 
flower shreds, and occasional horse carcasses rotting in the firebeast’s foul 
mulch. Aragorn walked mere steps behind him, ever-mindful of the 
elvellyn’s hold on his composure, while Eldarion and Elrohir clutched one 
to the other, both equally determined, equally forlorn. 

Despite his intense distress, a virile, voracious anger kept Legolas at the 
helm of this black fellowship, though he mourned his dear-held forest, he 
would not allow the fire-breather’s destruction to torch his resolve. 
Blotting a coarse sleeve over his eyes, he strode on, relentless, through the 
smoke-hung hollows of the forest’s remains, ever-vigilant. 

Suddenly, warning stabbed through his spine. Before he could give his 
fears voice, Elrohir had drawn his witch-sword, Anduil’s feral glint 
flashed behind him, and the kingling’s new bow was strung tight. 

The Warg-pack was on them before they could breathe in.  

After witnessing the ravaging of his homeland, Legolas found relief in the 
slice of his arrows, as they put out eyes, pierced tender hide, and 
punctured fur-thick throats into a bloody spew. He blazed through the mire 
of hack and slash like a bolt of lightening, chasing down one particularly 
rabid creature as he vaulted off a tree trunk, claws spread, to maul 
Eldarion. The archer shot true, twice, thrice, in the neck, then sprung his 
silver knives in one fleet motion and mercilessly gutted the beast. The 
youth gaped at his playmate’s ferocity, but there was little time to spare. 

The Wargs seemed to come from every direction, their broken bodies soon 
piling up with the other remains, the parched grass-blades adrift in the 
dark crimson rivers. The King and his son dammed the flow from the East, 
a golden head amid the carnage to the North, while a darkling menace 
slaughtered fervently to the West. To the South, the cerulean crags of the 
Mirkwood Mountains loomed large, as foreboding as they were impassive. 

At last, the charge of Wargs weakened, the North-come horde lessening 
(or the deadly archer’s reputation spreading). Aragorn and Eldarion caught 
up with two of the more cunning devils to his right, Legolas instead turned 
his attention to Elrohir, at his left. Though his sword was mighty, the elf-
warrior’s blows missed as often as they struck, the Eldar visibly struggling 
to mark his target. While the edain brethren were still going strong, the 
steadfast edhel could not catch his breath.  This angered him enough to 
force a feral burst of precision, soon ebbing into self-defense. 

A chill passed over Legolas’ heart, but he did not let it linger. Instead, he 
shot off a flurry of rapacious blades, the Wargs surrounding Elrohir soon a 
clump of blood-slick fur at his feet. His fury spent, Legolas trudged over 
to his kinsman and slung a weary arm over his shoulders. 

“The trees… their weeping…” Elrohir remarked, quick to justify his 
fatigue. “They haunted me… I could not block them out.” He stopped to 
catch his breath, ever-conscious of his poor showing. “I thank you, 
calenlass, for your-“

“There is no need,” Legolas assured him, a frisson jutting down his spine 
at the Eldar’s defensiveness. “I would have fallen many times over, had 
your sharp eyes not found me in distress at the gates of Mordor, gwanur-
nin.” 

The darkling elf’s warm, violet eyes met his in gratitude, but Legolas’ 
gaze could not let his half-truth shine through to comfort him. Instead, 
they grew wanting. 

“We will take Rites, at my father’s house,” Legolas whispered salaciously, 
hoping to distract the Eldar from his growing distress. “You shall favor me 
then.” 

“With all the skill in my power,” Elrohir replied with a flick of his tongue, 
though his body cringed at the thought of further exertion. 

“Come, elvellyn!!” Aragorn called over to them. “ We go East. The dark 
does not wait!!”

				*		*		*

Night had long fallen when the journeymen stole up the torch-lit steps of 
Thranduil’s tree-top refuge. Menethren’s valor had saved the giant wood-
oaks that sheltered the Sindarin tribe, though none remained in the thatch 
of bow-houses but the fading King, a few servants, and one unexpected 
guest. 

“Mae govannen, gwanur-nin,” Elladan declared, as he swept both his twin 
and his foster brother into his arms. Eldarion, bedazzled anew, could not 
rip his eyes from the be-gowned Eldar, an exact replica of Elrohir with the 
exception of his tranquil, gray eyes, his learned demeanor, and his 
loremaster’s frame. Though once a strength equal to the elf-warrior’s, long 
years in the libraries of Imladris had refined his once meat-thick limbs into 
a more elven sleekness, unlike Elrohir, who remained a potent mixture of 
elf and of man. 

Elladan moved serenely through the newly-met company, over to the 
Mirkwood prince. Legolas’ eyes remained stricken, as before, their earlier 
ferocity snuffed by the dank halls of his home. The haunts of his 
childhood were now truly haunted, empty of their devout, welcoming 
population, harkening for the return of those that had forsaken them. Guilt 
striking to his core, he gripped the Eldar’s outstretched hands with 
undisguised despair. 

“Mae govannen, calenlass,” Elladan stated, bowing solemnly. “I fear he is 
not long of this world. He waits, I believe, but for your return.” 

Legolas nodded, squeezing his hands as if to draw strength from them, 
then straightened his posture, chin bravely up. Without another second’s 
pause, he strode forth, to the front of the company, and marched evenly 
through the halls, to his father’s rooms. The others quickly followed, at the 
ready. 

Aragorn, never one to dismiss unforeseen events, fell back to Elladan’s 
side. 

“Please, do not mistake my intent,” he began his inquisition. “But how is it 
that you come to be in Mirkwood?”   

Elladan smiled softly, as if wondering what had taken the King so long to 
ask. “It is a curiosity, this twinship I share. Even at such distance, if 
Elrohir feels something acutely… I sensed only an urgent need of my 
presence in the Green Wood. I knew not what had befallen, nor does my 
father, as yet. I discovered the King’s grave plight upon my arrival.” 

Aragorn accepted this, clasping a warm hand to his foster-brother’s 
shoulder. “I am glad of your company. Your wisdom is well needed. The 
road has been… a trial.” 

“I doubt it not,” Elladan replied, casting cautious eyes towards the rest of 
their severe companions. Despite the urgency of the situation, he stopped 
the King, letting the others push on. “Tell me true, Estel. Is my brother 
well?” 

Aragorn swallowed hard. It was not the time for such confidences, but 
Elladan’s interruption of their sworn charge spoke volumes of the gravity 
of his concern in this matter.

“I cannot say for certain,” Aragorn insisted. “But he is not… as he ever 
was.”

“Do you suspect a cause?”

“Have you felt… something… when this twinness overtakes you…?”

Elladan sighed mightily, but did not hasten to reply. “I, too, am not certain 
of the cause of these... troubles. It is not sickness. I feel he is somehow… 
diminished? I am unsure. I can say only that his spirit… the spirit of his 
self, inside me, of our oneness… at times… it grows cold, Estel.”

The King’s features grew increasingly resigned, but he would not 
comment on the matter further. 

“We tarry too long,” he compelled him. “We shall speak on this later.”

By this time, Legolas stood under the arched entrance to his father’s 
chamber, face steeled, teeth grit, but legs cemented in place. Elladan 
rushed to catch up, sweeping past the Mirkwood prince, through the 
mighty doors, and into the room itself, leaving no time for second-glances. 
Eldarion, trembling, fell back against his father, but Elrohir stepped 
valiantly forward, taking his kinsman by the arm and leading him, with 
small, measured steps, through the black threshold. 

At first sight of him, Legolas swayed, almost imperceptibly, but the elf-
warrior held fast to him.

The once-golden King of the Mirkwood realm lay across the bed, like the 
flayed skins of a burst spore, mute, gaunt, skeletal. His anemic bones 
tented the stretched wax of his skin at the joints; what little flesh that 
remained pooled at the bottom of his limbs, like turned, globulous gelatin. 
His hair, the grimy white of mud-clumped snow, clung to his skull-cap 
scalp in natty, knotted patches, his elven crown like tinfoil. The rich-
silked, cobalt splendor of his robes only underlined his rotted pallor, 
though their presence offered the onlookers a piercing reminder of the 
import of their decorum. 

Legolas, quaking almost imperceptibly, eyes glistening, slipped out of 
Elrohir’s grasp and strode boldly over to the bed. He knelt at Thranduil’s 
side, only then perceiving the tremulously faint signs of life still in the 
ancient King. 

“Ada,” Legolas whispered, barely able to find his breath. “I am returned.”

To everyone’s surprise, Thranduil’s black eyes widened, wandering over 
to take in his son’s troubled face. With inestimable effort, he lay a 
creaking hand over the prince’s. 

“Melethron…” 

“Eglerio le, Thranduil, Adar-nin,” Legolas intoned, his voice growing 
stronger. “Hiro le hîdh ab `wanath.“

“Be at peace, nin ind,” Thranduil comforted him. “Do not let my passing 
harness the wild spirit I have loved so well. Claim your freedom, nin 
bellas. Find your path through the green woods of this world. What news 
of the Glittering Caves? What of their beauty?”

“I have known it well, Ada,” Legolas responded. “Ten years I dwelt 
there.”

“And the aran Gondor? Is he well?”

“He is here to mourn you,” his son revealed. “He is here to see you home.” 

“And your brothers? Are they near?”

“They await you at Mandos,” Legolas reminded him, the hand over his 
turning to ice. “Rest now, Ada.”

“I will not rest until you have answered me, nin ind,” Thranduil insisted, 
his in-bred need to rule overtaking him. Legolas almost smiled. “Han bâd 
lin, melethron.”

“Dolen i vâd o nin, Ada.”

“Si peliannen i vâd na dail lîn. Si boe u-dhannathach, nin bellas,” 
Thranduil instructed, with learned patience.”You know of which I speak, 
Legolas.”

Caught suddenly in a wave of sorrow, the prince gripped his father’s hand. 
The Mirkwood king’s choked, rasping cough shook his entire being, 
rattling the joints as if shaken by a mighty tremor. Legolas clung to him, 
through the pain, then stroked a calming touch over his withered head. 

 “I would not keep you further,” the prince solemnly ventured. “I Aear cân 
le ‘Namar’. I chair gwannar na Mandos. Si bado, no círar. Gerich veleth 
nîn, Ada.”

“Gerich veleth nin, Legolas,” Thranduil pledged, even as his black eyes 
caught their last glimmer of the world. His heavy lids closed shut, their 
last sight the golden brilliance of his son and heir. 

Legolas opened his mouth, to sing for him, but his voice was lost. Not a 
whisper, not a sound, not a moan could he utter, such was his sorrow. His 
brave, unwavering eyes gave in to his grief, the tears spilling over his 
desolate face, his sallow cheeks. 

“*Ada*,” he cried, bowing his head to the King’s frigid hand, still clasped 
tightly in his own. 

The company was frozen, bereft. They watched the faithful prince grieve 
for his father, grappling to keep hold, the sight helplessly overwhelming. 
Aragorn knelt, to pay tribute to the King’s passing, Eldarion quickly 
followed suit, as did Elladan. 

Elrohir, however, trod noiselessly over to the sobbing prince’s side, laying 
two steady, tender hands on his quaking shoulders. With a whispered 
prayer to the Valar, he softly began to sing a hallowed hymn of mourning. 
Elladan soon followed his brother, joining him in song. Aragorn and 
Eldarion stood at attention, immovable, honoring their Eldar brethren.

After several moments, Legolas found his voice, his strength anew. 

He sang more beautifully than ever before. 



To be continued… 



Elvish phrases:

Eglerio le, Thranduil, Adar-nin.  Glorify him, Thranduil, my father.

Hiro le hîdh ab `wanath.  May you find peace after death.

Han bâd lin, melethron.  This is your path, beloved.

Dolen i vâd o nin, Ada.  My path is hidden from me, Father. 

Si peliannen i vâd na dail lîn. Si boe ú-dhannathach, nin bellas.  It is 
already laid before your feet. You cannot falter now, my strength.

I Aear cân le «Namar». I chair gwannar na Mandos. Si bado, no círar. 
Gerich veleth nîn, Ada.  The Sea calls you “Farewell”. The ship is 
leaving for Mandos. Go now, before it is too late. You have my love, 
Father.

Gerich veleth nin, Legolas.  You have my love, Legolas.

Ada Father

Nin ind  My heart

Nin bellas  My strength



Title:  Idylls of a King Forlorn, Part 3: Faeg
Author: Gloromeien  
Email: andromeda_strayn@hotmail.com 
Pairing: Legolas / Elrohir
Summary: In the stark landscape of Mirkwood, Legolas is confronted.   
Rating: NC-17 for m/m slash, adult themes.
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, 
the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the pleasure of his estate 
and aim not for profit. 
Author’s Note: This is a tiny bit AU, though I prefer to think of it as un-
documented (as it *is*, my research was thorough), rather than a complete 
distortion of cannon. Takes place during the reign of King Elessar; he has been 
on the throne for about 20 years at this point. For all the ideas/depictions of elven 
grief and the ‘fading’, I am endlessly indebted to the excellent slashwriter Ilye, 
who’s work can be found in the Library of Moria. I was so moved by her own 
descriptions of these things that I had to give it a whirl myself, I hope she can 
forgive me the borrowing. All quotes from ‘Sonnets from the Portuguese’ by 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. All elvish quotes, at the end. 
Dedication: Once again, to the Pirate King and the Lady Cariad.  
 
 
***************  

Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed,
And rend the garment of my life, in brief,
By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,
Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief. 

His cool, cerulean eyes swept over the view of the black bow-houses, the 
sagging branches, the cinder-scarred earth far below his high-bourn 
balcony, the moon-less night that surrounded him.  

The ruins of his kingdom. 

Clothed in nothing but sweat, saliva, and the slick wash of the peredhil’s 
seed, spent thickly across the puckering skin of his abdomen, Legolas 
met the callow midnight with craven eyes. Despite Elrohir’s eager 
compliance to every perversion of his dark needs, despite hours of 
burning deep into his war-brother with brutal, un-balmed thrusts, a 
parasitic restlessness bit into the seams of his spine. 

In the room behind, the Imladrian prince lay cocooned in slow-drying 
sheets, laced, Legolas forced himself to be reminded, with his own blood. 
The dull, musty breeze encrusted similar stains to the archer’s own 
swollen thighs, his legs and his loins well-brazed by their roughness. He 
could not bring himself to regret what had passed between them, nor did 
he believe Elrohir to be sunk in else but a peaceful slumber; still, the ease 
with which he’d overtaken his companion, so often gentled by their Rites, 
had shaken him. I claim the Rites of mourning, yet it is he who cleaves. 
And I, in turn, punish. 

As suddenly as a spooked stallion, Legolas reared his head, the flaxen 
waves of his loose hair rippling behind like a banner. He crept stealthily 
back into his chamber. He collected the elf-warrior’s fallen sarong from 
the hide before the hearth, expertly wrapping the plush indigo velour 
around his solid waistline. His slender hipbones pushed up, over the 
woven edge, as he padded carefully to the bed. For several moments, he 
stood observing the somnambulant elf for any signs of distress, then 
slowly bent over him to suckle, rather sweetly, at the nape of his neck. A 
warming hand brushed tenderly over the body he had rode so well, 
assuring the Mirkwood prince that the lax form was tucked-in tight. 

Sure in this, he left him. 

The hollow gloom of the archways and the stairwells failed to disquiet one 
so familiar with their elegant geometry. Many nights had the prince stolen 
down these very passageways, a blithe streak oft mistaken for moonlight, 
in the early years of his adolescent escapades, to rendezvous with, or to 
expertly avoid, a covetous admirer. A fortnight since his father’s passing, 
this thought brought the first smile to his sinuous lips in that mournful 
span of time. The momentary urge to return to his chamber and rouse his 
sated bedfellow with a thick-tongued penitent’s kiss threatened, but he 
held to his path. 

The kitchens beckoned mercilessly. 

A solitary candle flickered in the heart of the massive wooden carving 
table. In the fire-bricked hearths hung pregnant pewter cauldrons, the 
walls adorned with glinting racks of huge copper pots, quicksilver knives, 
lava-black ladles, and trunk-fat spits. To his raucous stomach’s relief, he 
found a veritable midnight feast laid out for him: spitting-hot soup, fresh 
breads, cold meats, dwarf-churned cheese (a distinct preference over 
those Shire curds the halflings chomp so gleefully), and a veritable trough 
of mead. 

Before he could praise Elbereth for his culinary fortune, however, a hand 
rested on his shoulder. 

“Mae govannen, mellon-nîn,” Aragorn greeted him wryly, an arched 
eyebrow silently remarking on the elf’s wanton appearance. “I see your 
hunger has returned.” 

“Indeed, it has,” Legolas replied, with an ambiguity of meaning, as he cast 
his eyes once more over the awaiting meal. “Could I bear upon your 
grace to share your supper?”

“With pleasure.” The King gestured him towards a place at the table. 

As his friend watched on, his slate-blue eyes amused, benevolent, 
protective, the archer devoured every last morsel of the hearty meal, 
more nourishment in this one sitting than he had consumed in a month’s 
time. Aragorn chose to sip leisurely at his soup, relieved at the progress 
his bereaved friend was showing, both in his brazenly immodest 
appearance and in his zestful, near-relentless appetite. Perhaps, at last, 
he is mended. 

After Legolas wiped the last of the mead-froth from his mouth, the King 
allowed himself a booming chuckle. The elf smirked, bashful, and laid a 
firm hand over the adan’s own. 

“My thanks for every breath of your kindness. It has consoled me well.”

“I have missed your company these last days,” Aragorn generously 
stated. “I have been pained to see you so… solemn.” Legolas nodded, 
thoughts of the past fortnight’s shadows dulling the gleam of his fair 
features. “Yet you have admirably bested the trials of grief.”

“Bested them, yes,” the prince conceded. “But they are not yet 
conquered.” Trembling, he withdrew his silken palm, sinking further into 
the hard wood of his seat. “Let us speak of light matters. The Queen tells 
me she is yet again with child.”

The King let out a helpless mewl, then settled his face into a fond, 
mischievous smile.

“*Indeed*,” he mused. “She made no note of it before our departure.” He 
considered this a moment, then laughed at himself. “But I am glad of it. 
Another treasure. We are blessed.” 

“With potency, some may say,” the archer teased. 

“Aye, I will not counter you,” the King gladly accepted the ruse. “Though I 
will allow that it is the quality of our love that proves our family 
so…peopled. When one is enthralled in such raptures as ours, every 
chance to make that blissful connection is… crucial. Indispensable. 
Essential.”

At this, the prince fell pensive. “Your love… is an example to us all.”

Aragorn smirked ruefully. “What do you know of love? In this, your heart 
is chaste as a Shire-ling on the eve of her wedding day.”   

“Aye,” he faintly responded, his earlier spark now smote entirely. “I am not 
fit for it.”

With a hawkish glare, the King steadily observed his elf-brother, noting 
both his tone of dissatisfaction and his implied self-berating. The heathen 
seeds of Thranduil’s demise had grown, weaving taut, sickly vines over 
the prince’s celebrin spirit. Aragorn folded his fingers together, in a 
gesture of self-restraint, and laid them on his lap. All may not yet be lost.

“Mellon-nîn,” he began. “I would not burden you further in such a 
sorrowful time. However… a matter has arisen of which both Elladan and 
I myself feel you must be appraised, without delay.” 

The prince’s dagger-keen stare sprang up to meet the King’s own. “What 
matter is this?”

Aragorn withheld his reply a moment, his eventual words explicitly 
cautious. “The day of the Warg attack in the woods, the day we arrived 
here, did you not note a… a weakening of Elrohir’s skills. After the battle, 
he seemed disoriented, short of breath… when even my son was not.”

“The woods affected him deeply.” Legolas leapt to his defense. “It is the 
nature of our kind. I, too, heard their cries, but it compelled me into fury. 
Elrohir… felt the woods differently than I. It was no weakness, Aragorn.”

“There have been other moments,” Aragorn gently insisted. “Other… 
signs.” 

Legolas turned his face away, shut his eyes. The weight of his gorgings 
forged to lead in the bowels of his being, their bilious fumes swelling, 
searing in his throat. With far too capable ease, his mind marked the sum 
of a dozen fell moments, where the archer had excused away the half-
elven’s fatigue and inaccuracy with a callow thought to his mixed 
heritage. 

“He fades, gwanur-nîn,” Aragorn murmured, but firmly. The warrior 
reached across the table, gripping a solid, steady hand over the archer’s 
own. “Elladan, in his twinness, has felt its grip. He’s felt the chill pass 
through his heart, when you… when you have denied his brother, these 
few weeks past…”

“I mourned my father!!” Legolas cried suddenly; whether from anger or 
sorrow, Aragorn could not know. “I *grieved*, as an elf truly grieves, for an 
ageless, honorable love. Not one so quickly found, born out of… foolish 
reverie.”

“Do you judge Elrohir’s heart foolish?” Aragorn growled, his temper rising. 
“Easily conquered?”

Legolas bowed his head. The calloused skin of his fingers, his branded 
thighs, the purpled backs of his forceful legs, and the blood-crusted scars 
across his shoulder blades, hidden by his sheath of hair, bore witness to 
the elf-warrior’s ravishing, at his willfully ignorant hands.   

“I *do* judge it so if he fades for love of one so… so hollow and base as 
myself.” 

“*Legolas*…” The King’s shoulders sank, his anger extinguished by such 
dispirited words. 

Sensing his friend’s coming argument, Legolas quickly added: “I speak 
right, Aragorn. One who’s heart is cold, as mine, can never be worthy of 
the devotion of such… such a valiant, tender soul. I know myself. I 
know… my ways.” The archer swallowed back another corrosive mouthful 
of bile, the memory of grayed, pleading eyes in his doorway, of gut-core 
wails at the *height* of their meeting, of an iron hand clamped over the 
elf-warrior’s throat nearly besting him. He held fast. 
    
“I cannot save him,” he decreed, in a strangled whisper. 

Aragorn rose to full imposition, his face shroud in blackness. 

“Then break with him,” he near-commanded, his chest heaving with 
barely-kept rage. “With Elrond’s care, and his twin brother’s strength, 
there may still be a chance to save him. He may not be… without hope.” 

This, above all else, brought new color to the prince’s ashen cheeks. 

“He may be saved?!” Legolas asked, desperation and relief mingling 
within. 

“He may,” the King replied, with a fierce solemnity. “He may die. Over 
years of relentless agony and the soul’s fiendish torments. As your father 
did, forlorn King of Mirkwood. Forsaking Valinor, the gift of eternity, and 
the Middle-Earth you both cherish so well.” Aragorn lifted his head to the 
light, his noble breadth as imposing as the tower of Barad-dûr. “His 
valiant, tender heart burnt to cinder. As did your green wood, under 
dragon’s breath, son of Thranduil.”

With that, the King kicked back his chair, leaving Legolas to stew. 

				*		*		*  

Elrohir shivered, once, then stirred. 

The dawn had risen, wan and weary over the fog-plagued haunts of this 
hollowed Mirkwood. From the cloying sheets of its prince’s bed, the elf-
warrior’s drowsy gaze could barely perceive the sugary peaks of the 
mountains to the south, their pale cast whitewashed into the cool, static 
morning haze. His body’s length felt similarly vapid, as if he’d dueled to 
ravaging the evening past, yet the wounds, once struck, balmed and 
mended by unseen, gracious hands. 

Before Elrohir had occasion to examine himself, Legolas returned. 
Though he had not bothered to cleanse himself of the remains of their 
coupling, the prince’s manner betrayed no evidence of the previous 
night’s ardor. The burnished orbs of his cerulean eyes hung low, glazed 
and mirthless. He shed the sagging sarong without care, though his mind 
was clearly engaged in some further sorrowful contemplation, most which 
Elrohir had thought charred to dust in their passion. 

Despite his obvious preoccupation, the archer deposited a tray on the 
bed-table: a steaming pitcher of cream, a bowl of fortifying oats speckled 
with dried berries and fresh apple shards, a cup of herbal tea, and 
cimmeg root for seasoning. When he turned to his bedfellow, his face 
resumed a mask of studied calm. Even in life, he shields and wields with 
a warrior’s poise.

Legolas perched on the edge of the bed, ably mixing their breakfast. The 
elf-warrior tucked a tight grip into the seam of his thigh.        

“Have you taken your rest, my brave one?”

“Some,” came the murky reply. 

“I have been gluttonous with sleep,” Elrohir smirked wryly. He curled up to 
the prince’s flexed leg with a panther’s feral grace, his flint-eyes darkened 
a cool indigo, darting perilously down the length of his bare chest. “I am 
hungry for… the day.” 

The archer rose with a start, when the rough texture of the peredhil’s 
salmon pink tongue lapped over the taut skin of his kneecap. Despite his 
reactionary skills, his lap was summarily doused with thick, warm cream. 
Though Legolas stood, aghast, glaring, the Imladrian prince was soon 
beside himself with laughter. 

The archer’s rage and shame burned as hot as his resulting arousal. 

“Come, maltaren-nîn,” Elrohir beckoned, his mirth quenched by the flood 
of desire. “You are betrayed, and burning. Let me-“ The archer snatched 
his hand away in a fierce, crushing grip.

“Do you think me so base? So wanton?” Legolas seethed, his eyes 
ablaze. “I had gone twenty years without another’s touch.”

“And you wither at mine,” Elrohir retorted, emboldened by this challenge. 
His steadfast warrior’s heart suddenly buckled, heaved, pumping icy 
swells through his veins. Headstrong, he kept on. “You have suffered 
greatly these last months, calenlass, and for that I will forgive this 
insolence. But it is ungracious to spit in the face of one who just this last 
night bore the dagger’s edge of your need without grievance, with nary a 
cry in protest.” 

Fingers of searing frost clamped around his throat, choking off these last 
few words. Elrohir bit down tight, desperate to suck back his dry, 
wheezing coughs, but this prideful struggle only wrought the salty sting of 
tears. 

Before he could strike-out in protest, he was shroud in the soothing heat 
of the prince’s arms. 

“Edhored, mellon-nîn. Im faeg. Im faeg.” Legolas repeatedly murmured 
into his tousled hair, fearful, mauling hands rediscovering their form in his 
bruises. “Tolo dan na ngalad.”

As the Imladrian prince’s breaths grew long and full, both of the Eldar 
fought to remain centered. For several tense moments, Legolas held his 
ailing elf-brother, ever-conscious of the healing effects of his iron-lock 
grip. Elrohir, for his part, felt his body surge with energy, enough to flip the 
archer onto his back and jab the butter knife to the soft of his slender 
throat. 

The menace of this thought alone chastened him. 

What has become of me? Both men demanded of themselves. 

Elrohir wrenched himself away, sprang to his feet. Still, he remained at 
the bedside. He heard Legolas gather the sheets, wipe the remnants of 
the now-cold cream away. A cup was raised, tea haltingly sipped. A dull 
lethargy few would mistake for calm seeped through him. 

“In the spirit of our Rites, gwanur-nîn,” the Mirkwood prince dared to 
whisper. “May I charge you with a most… exceptional task?” When the 
elf-warrior hesitated, Legolas pressed cautiously on. “Are you still sworn 
to aid me in this journey?”

“I am,” smacked the reply. 

“I am glad of it,” Legolas added, before confronting the meat of the 
matter. “I would that your father be warned in advance of our coming. Of 
the nature, if you will, of our grave purpose. The fellowship is set to depart 
under cover of night. I ask that you ride out, this very hour, for Imladris, 
and bear message to your father. Your brother and I have both composed 
letters, for your charge.” He heard the archer rise, at last, and come 
towards him. “You will reach Imladris vital days before our arrival, if you 
ride swiftly. As I know you can.” 

Brashly, the elf-warrior turned on his heel, the sheer force of his hawkish 
stare striking true. 

“You would be rid of me.”

“I would your father be warned of such black tidings.”

“And who will bear the black yearnings of your heart while I am gone?” 
Elrohir retorted. “My brother? The King? The young prince?”

“I will bear them alone,” Legolas countered, but without his typical bite. 
“As always.”

This last slashed through the elf-warrior as quick and as deep as the 
blade of an Uruk-hai, though he bravely bore the brunt of it. 

“I am charged,” he stated firmly, bowing his head. “I will ride within the 
hour.” 

Legolas, his guilt gutting him through, raised his head to lock eyes with 
his elf-brother.

“But mark this, maltaren-nîn, for rare is the day I am so lamely 
overthrown,” Elrohir continued. “No matter the nature of the battle, or the 
other’s fearsome size…”

His eyes, black as midnight, slit into the archer’s own.

“You will never stand alone.”



To be continued…       



A/N: Elvish phrases

Edhored, mellon-nîn. Im faeg. Im faeg. Forgive me, my friend. I am 
weak. I am weak.

Tolo dan na ngalad. Come back into the light.

Maltaren-nîn. My golden prince.       



Title:  Idylls of a King Forlorn, Part 4: Eglerio
Author: Gloromeien  
Email: andromeda_strayn@hotmail.com 
Pairing: Legolas / Elrohir
Summary: Elrond weighs in on the sorry state of affairs.  
Rating: R for m/m slash, adult themes.
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien 
the Wise, the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the 
pleasure of his estate and aim not for profit. 
Author’s Note: This is a tiny bit AU, though I prefer to think of it as un-
documented (as it *is*, my research was thorough), rather than a complete 
distortion of cannon. Takes place during the reign of King Elessar; he has 
been on the throne for about 20 years at this point. All quotes from 
‘Sonnets from the Portuguese’ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. All elvish 
quotes, at the end. 
Dedication: Once again, to the Pirate King and the Lady Cariad.  
 
 
***************  

‘I did not wrong myself so, but I placed 
A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float
‘Neath masters hands, from instruments defaced,-
And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.’ 

With gray eyes as hard as forged hearthstone and a scowl creased as deep 
as the bark of Fangorn forest, Elrond peered across the Imladrian valley at 
the procession edging along the eastern ridge. Their blithe, reverent voices 
had announced them hours before; Rivendell’s well-selected acoustic 
position, among the foothills of the Misty Mountains, shepherding their 
glorified tones through the house of the High Elven.          

Sage Glorfindel ever by his side, Elrond had observed the gaining progress 
of the mourners for the larger part of the morning. The immaculate verse 
and tremulous beauty of elven funeral dirges, though sorrowful, had ever 
captivated him. Though he knew the days to come would be long, and the 
road to true serenity burdensome, he drew what solace he could from both 
the strength of Glorfindel’s tender arms and the grave magnificence of the 
hallowed voices: his grandson’s unsullied soprano, the archer’s ravaged 
alto, his son’s lush tenor, and the King’s wearied bass. 

As the golden balm of sunlight spread over the valley’s scope, the 
fellowship crept along the path to the grand stone archway of Imladris. 
When the singing was of such intensity as to wring tears from the cobalt 
eyes of his fierce, beloved Glorfindel, Elrond began his descent to the 
courtyard. 

There, his keen stare had occasion to observe the slow-moving procession 
unseen. Momentarily distracted by his eloquent grandson’s resemblance to 
the Lady Evenstar, he was nevertheless quick to note Estel’s well-guarded 
frustration, as well as his Elladan’s barely-veiled concern. The Mirkwood 
prince, however, bore the brunt of his cruel glare. 

Merely hours before, their rest had been disrupted by the arrival of his 
second son; or rather, a horse carrying a ghostly pale, feverish, near-
delirious shell of what had formerly been his brash, foreboding Elrohir, 
endlessly bleating his own miserable dirge. 

/Calenlass, maltaren-nin, calenlass…/

Even from such foliage-shroud vantage, Elrond saw the Mirkwood 
prince’s shame clear as the flow of the Bruinen below. For one so fearless, 
he, too, was much altered by a different grief, his stance couched, his skin 
waxen, his eyes, normally the soul of mischief, haunted. Though his letter 
had detailed the saga of his son’s unraveling, they spoke little of the tale 
the archer’s own face told: starvation, flagellation, bereavement of such 
intensity as to easily vanquish even the most stalwart of elven hearts. 
Whereas, before their arrival, Elrond had thought the prince fit to be 
flayed alive; upon witnessing the state of his despair, the High Eldar knew 
he had judged him too harshly. 

The realization did little to quell the rages of a father’s heart. 

With Glorfindel steadfast at his side, Elrond tread down, into the 
courtyard.

“Mae govannen,” he solemnly welcomed them. Before any formal 
greetings could be heard, his grandson flew into his arms. 

“Ada!!” Eldarion exclaimed with undisguised glee. Elrond clung to the 
bristling youth, his weathered face softening. 

“Eldarion!!” The King swiftly reprimanded. “Is this the courtesy you show 
the Lord of Imladris?”

“Welcome, pen-neth,” Elrond murmured to the youth, who dutifully 
ignored his father and gazed with unblemished awe into the worn eyes of 
his elder. Elrond, too-easily recalling the regal blue twinkle of a similarly 
disobedient, angelic child, soon tempered him. “There is no need of 
courtesy here, melethron-nîn. This is your home.” 

Elrond reluctantly passed his daughter’s son off to Glorfindel, opening his 
mighty arms to embrace his foster son. 

“Suilad, Estel-nîn,” Elrond sung heartily. “I fear we will need your 
renewing strength, before long. These are dark days.”

“Indeed, father,” Aragorn sighed, his look telling the tale of their journey’s 
trials. 

After a passing greeting to Elladan, who left to ride the casket into 
sanctuary at the Last Homely House, Elrond turned to the last of their 
company. 

“Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion,” he decreed, perhaps more 
incisively than even he intended. 

`Lord Elrond,” Legolas intoned with difficulty. The eyes that met the High 
Elf’s were purpled with pernicious anxiety. 

“I have received your correspondence,” Elrond continued. “And bring 
news from the High Council. The King of Mirkwood shall be sheathed in 
the Eternal Flame at the coming dawn, and the matter of the Green Wood 
will be heard a week hence.”

“I am grateful for the Council’s regard in this matter,” Legolas thanked 
him dully. “And may I ask… after the messenger…?”

Elrond cleared his throat, the memory of his fading son’s appearance still 
closely held. 

“Yes,” Aragorn questioned outright. “How fares Elrohir? Elladan held… 
some concern.”

“He arrived but hours ago,” Elrond began. 

“Hours?!” Aragorn pounced, shooting a glare at his elf-brother. “But with 
his speed, he should have bested us by three days time, at the least!!” 

“Aye,” Elrond rasped, his voice abandoning him. He forced resolve. “I am 
astonished that he was not lost entirely. He arrived… frayed, incensed… 
raving, even… I fear it will not be long, if another is not found…”  

At this pronouncement, Legolas could visibly be seen to wither. 

“Ada,” Aragorn implored him, the finality of the situation taking hold. “Is 
there nothing to be done?”  

Elrond bowed his head, too proud to have his foster son witness his 
acceptance of defeat. 

“I know of no remedy, Estel, that can mend a broken heart.” 

With that, Elrond swiftly turned to lead the journeymen into his home. 
Eager for further news of Elrohir, the King followed him.

Legolas, with heavy conscience, followed thereafter. 

				*		*		*

The yellow tongues of the Eternal Flame lapped over the edges of the 
casket of fine carved Mirkwood oak, as the dawn blushed through the 
willow branches that surrounded the clearing at Imladris. The flames 
melted through the cherrywine stain, charring the scenes of Silvan victory, 
of the hallowed Valar, and of the King’s own woodland realm engraved 
within. Circled around the raging pyre, the assembled elves chanted 
piously, their low-sung hymns reverberating through the billowing leaves 
around them. 

Legolas, steady, near-entranced, stood at the head of the blaze, Aragorn 
close at his side. He stood, unmoving, as the logs crumbled to ash, as the 
walls of the casket collapsed, as his father’s flesh was sucked from his 
very bones by the all-consuming flames, those then melted to coal-black 
dust. He stood as his kinsmen sung of the days of ages past, of elves felled 
by the fading grief, of loves lost and won again, of ageless eternity in the 
Hall of Mandos, the Havens in the Western sea, of Valinor. 

He lifted his eyes but once, on instinct, to stare through the flames, the 
smoke, at the shadowed path leading up to the Last Homely House. There, 
a figure he at first mistook for the very ghost of his father awaited him, the 
hushed indigo of his eyes beckoning, their cast pale, but striking deep. The 
peredhil loomed, shroud in the violets and blues of a warrior’s ceremonial 
garb, the sheen of his long, wild hair as black as the coal-cinder. 

The prince of Mirkwood raised his eyes but once, when the haunting 
figure began to sing. 

It was a song unlike any other the assembled elves had heard before, lush, 
longing, as if Elbereth herself had given it voice. Even as the figure 
descended into the clearing, his every movement hung as if by the weight 
of a dozen stone pillars, he sang true, with sweeping breaths of bleak, 
reverent devastation. The figure joined the circle; the prince lowered his 
gaze into the thick of the crackling pyre. 

The elven warriors grieved for the fallen king. 

				*		*		*     

“I am well, Ada!!” Elrohir bellowed, overturning the bowl of broth, the 
fresh washing, and a fine silver carafe with one fail swoop of his walking-
stick. “I will not be held in this… this *dungeon* a day longer!!” 

His mouth soured into a scowl, the prince lumbered over to the oval eye of 
the window and peered down into the valley below. There, Erestor 
prepared the horses for a hunting party, Glorfindel and Aragorn took a 
leisurely stroll, and Eldarion made his way to the archery fields, struggling 
with his new bow, a gift from his presently bemused grandfather. 

“True, your progress has been remarkable,” Elrond argued, with practiced 
diplomacy. “But you are not yet fully recovered. The slightest upset could 
arrest this current remission, which may–“

“I must see him, Ada,” Elrohir cut straight to the heart. “Any progress I 
have made will be for naught should I wither at the least sight of him.”

“You are still too weak, my elf-knight,” Elrond noted, a tremor of fear 
creeping into his voice. His son may have been plagued by feverish 
delirium at the time, but the Lord of Imladris recalled all too vividly the 
long nights he’d spent nursing him as best he knew how, helpless to 
soothe the body that shook to breaking at the slightest breeze, that shrank 
painfully away from even the softest touch. “So named for the iron will 
that proved necessary to survive your very birth into this world!! I have 
born witness time and again to your valor, nin bellas, but should the grief 
strike you anew…”

Elrohir turned himself from the pastoral splendor of the view, sighed. His 
tempered gaze rested on the wearied face of his learned father, the usual 
elven tranquility of his features now scored with barely-disguised agony. 
Elrond’s gray eyes were flecked with five separate hues of silver; a sure 
sign of the sea’s maiden call. 

With bitter irony, the elf-warrior noted that his father was only being kept 
from sailing West by the High Council deliberations over the Mirkwood 
prince’s destiny, and perhaps his own grave plight. While he recognized 
the inherent dangers in seeing Legolas again, what his father could not- 
could never- know was that his death-hour pledge to the Mirkwood prince 
was the only thing that kept him well. 

Mere days before, as the peerless light of the great Halls of Mandos 
cradled him from above, he’d heard the elven chorus around Thranduil’s 
pyre. In the very moment of his passing, as his own eternal flame was but 
a fuming pile of cinder, he was blessed with a moment of lucidity. Hours 
praying to the Valar had taught him to forage for these stolen moments. 
His devout practices helped him cling to his Middle-Earth, grasp hold, 
once again, of the sage elven life, and force his spirit to rise, like the 
phoenix, not from the ash, but from his ashen deathbed. 

If he passed, as the Mirkwood king, his fair prince’s heart would indeed 
turn to stone. Elrohir had sworn to stand by him. He had sworn a warrior’s 
pledge to sing for the fallen king. He’d rode, at his own peril, for three 
torturous weeks at the prince’s misguided word. As he stared across the 
blazing casket into Legolas’ ice-blue eyes, he knew the greatest battle of 
his life was yet to come, that he was no soldier at all, should victory elude 
him. He would not allow the archer’s pride, fear, and self-loathing to 
conquer him. He would not condemn his mule-headed maltaren to a 
Valinorian eternity without ever knowing the bliss of love. 

He would fight this from his last, to the last.

After the funeral, the mighty elf-warrior had made his recovery through 
sheer force of will; that, and his knowledge of the prince’s love for him, 
held captive in the core of his being, kept him on the narrow path to 
serenity. 

“He will seek you out,” Elrond underlined with finality. “He will not see 
his error until you have grown cold and fallen, until all is lost.”

Yet his father knew none of this, and thus judged Legolas a danger to him. 

“*Ada*,” Elrohir cooed, shuffling patiently over to take his hands. “A 
compromise?”

Elrond raised a pointed, shrewd brow. “What mischief is this?”

“Legolas leaves soon for the hunt,” the prince essayed, with near-
Elrondian rationality. “I will observe their departure from the window. 
Stay at my side. Should I suffer from this vision, I will remain in this very 
chamber for an entire fortnight, sipping broth and reading The Hobbit’s 
Tale.”

Elrond’s eyes darkened. “You mock me.”

“I do,” his son admitted, not without the afore-blamed mischief. 

“Yet there is wisdom in this,” the anxious father reluctantly admitted. 
“Come. The hunters shall be departing soon.” 

With a pleased smile, Elrohir took his father’s arm and allowed himself to 
be guided back to the oval window. Below, a small party of elves had 
gathered, the Mirkwood prince not yet among their ranks.

“What is their charge, Ada?”

“A dozen or so quintail, mossfield boar, and, pray Elbereth, an oxreeth,” 
Elrond informed him. “There will soon be feasting in our halls.”

“What feast is this?”

Elrond paused, suddenly, caught in a trap of his own devising. 

“A coronation,” Elrond dismissed. 

“A coronation?” Elrohir repeated confusedly. “But who is to be…” The 
answer struck him. 

Elrohir swallowed hard, shut his eyes. His focus turned inward, towards 
his own eternal flame, which had begun to flicker. He thought of Legolas, 
alone, bereft, among the remains of his once-green forest, each trunk as 
hard and gray as a tombstone, upon his head a spiked crown of withered 
rosebush vines. He felt a surge of empathy, of compassion, and grasped 
hold. He poured this energy into the blue of the flame, into that hot, 
scorching center, until he felt its warmth flow through him. 

All this transpired, unnoticed, under Elrond’s rapt examination. 

“But Mirkwood has fallen to shadow,” Elrohir commented, as if not a 
thing were amiss. 

“The Council is yet uncertain as to the location of his kingdom,” came the 
enigmatic reply, ever-conscious of the strain such talk provoked. 

“I see.” The elf-warrior nodded patiently, but remained thoroughly 
confused as to the ways of the Council’s often eccentric logic. 

“*I* see the hunting party is poised for departure,” Elrond insinuated with 
satisfaction. “And Legolas is surely not among them.”

“He is often tardy. He is meticulous in his preparations.”

“He is never tardy,” Elrond all but decreed. “Though I have known him to 
be well-prepared.” 

Elrohir stifled a snort of exasperation, as he watched the riders charge into 
the eastern woods, not a flaxen sheath of hair among them. 

“Shall I have Irthiesien, in the library, seek out The Hobbit’s Tale?” 
Elrond queried mirthfully. The prince turned to glower at his father, but 
met with a surprisingly lenient gaze. “Or shall I fetch your brother, for a 
stroll by the archery fields? The young prince of Gondor has himself 
suffered more than a few sleepless nights at your expense. I cannot think 
how a *brief* lesson would be other than wondrously restorative to you 
both.”

With that generous proclamation, Elrond left his cherished elf-knight to 
his own wondering, at the even-handed benevolence of his father’s rule. 

				*		*		* 

With knowing, nimble fingers, the archer knotted the prickly tips of the 
sap-treated horse hair, then fed the opposite end through both of the silver 
bow’s eyes. Weaving the elastic strand into his careful grasp, he searched, 
with a tuner’s ear, for the right tension. As he expertly completed the re-
stringing, he lifted his cerulean eyes to meet Eldarion’s attentive stare. The 
task complete, he plucked the bow like a minstrel’s harp.

“Do you hear?” Legolas inquired of his student. “She sings true.“ 

“You are a master,” the youth near-gasped.

“I am merely the veteran of a noble quest,” the Mirkwood prince replied 
humbly. “The Valar’s light would hardly be well-served by an archer who 
could not re-string his bow in the heat of battle.” The young Eldar paused 
to admire his work. “Shall we test her?”

Eldarion’s eyes sparked with delight. 

The archer rose, shrugged on his quiver, then, as he strode towards the 
chalk marking that delineated the minimal distance for a practitioner’s 
stance, fired off a constant, deadly accurate stream of arrows into the 
center of the target. With nary a smirk of self-satisfaction, he offered the 
bow to the gape-mouthed princeling. 

“She is steady,” he appraised. “A fine instrument. Will you try her?” 

“I c-cannot best you,” the youth stuttered.

“But you are well-schooled,” Legolas protested. “I do not ask that you best 
me, merely that you strike the center ring of the target. This distance is of 
elven measure. Even your father, with his great skill, finds it 
troublesome.”

“Though he would rather be skinned alive by a coven of brew-drunk witch 
maidens,” a familiar voice announced, as a cloaked figure limped away 
from the cover of the trees. “Than admit to any weakness in weaponry 
skill, or in any other thing.” 

“Saitë,” Eldarion cried, then dashed over to greet his hobbled master. As 
the Gondorian prince crushed into him, Elrohir chuckled fondly and 
lowered the hood of his burgundy cloak. “You are well again.”

He beamed a supple, violet gaze at the dumbstruck archer, who struggled 
to maintain his composure.           

“I am healing,” the peredhil amended, scruffing his lean fingers through 
the youth’s ebony curls. “Adar thought a turn out of doors would replenish 
me. I am too long in the dark. I recover, yet I remain pale as a ghost.” The 
elf-warrior noted Legolas’ visible shudder at that pronouncement. “He had 
charged Elladan to watch over me… but the Loremaster of Imladris, as 
you may know, is easily distracted. It was little trouble to steal down here 
to see you.” 

“I am glad of your deception,” Eldarion whispered to him. “I longed for 
word of your progress, but father would not heed me. I feared the worst.” 

“Ah, fathers,” Elrohir grinned down at him. “Such troublesome creatures.” 
At the youth’s complicit giggle, the darkling elf was quick to 
surreptitiously add: “Much as Mirkwood archers.”    

The prince of Gondor coughed out a laugh, then guided his ailing guardian 
to a nearby log. 

“Come Saitë,” Eldarion remarked. “You will help me master this elven 
track.”

The prince of Mirkwood stood stalk-still throughout this exchange, the 
sight of his elf-brother restored halting him to near-paralysis. The elf-
warrior was no longer of a warrior’s build. The sickness had well-feasted 
on his meaty frame, gorging itself on what little swell, paunch, and gristle 
there was to be found. The languorously elegant figure proved far more 
elven in his new, lissome grace. Though his slender limbs hung with 
fatigue, the sharper angles of his face gentled his once-rapacious regard, 
almost sweetening his features to an ethereal delicacy. 

The archer’s dormant heart began to simmer in its rib-caged berth, the 
resulting flood through his brittle veins vertiginous. He lurched back, 
dizzy, as Eldarion sped past, struggling to regain his focus. He aimed his 
swimming attention at the youth, at the target, applauding limply when the 
arrows struck true. 

He nearly swooned when a cool hand pressed into the small of his back. 

“You have sharpened his instincts,” Elrohir complimented warmly. “As I 
could not have. He is better for it.”

Oblivious to the youth’s continued demonstration, the Mirkwood prince 
met the peredhil’s patient, open gaze with bleary eyes. He raise his hands, 
brushing tense, tremulous fingers down the slope of the elf-warrior’s 
sunken cheek. 

“You are not…” he barely exhaled, his voice tight, ragged. “I have not…”

“Legolas,” Elrohir cooed. He reached up, tenderly stroking soothing hands 
down the back length of the archer’s neck, over his stiff shoulders. “You 
are not to blame for what has befallen me. I did not heed your warnings. I 
felt myself… invincible. A grave mistake…”

“A warrior’s mistake,” the prince echoed, though the words were 
despairing. “A valiant error, gwanur-nîn.” Suddenly struck by the truth of 
the sight before him, Legolas released a groan of emphatic relief. He threw 
his arms around the elf-warrior, almost winding him in his ardor. “You are 
healed, Elrohir. *Healed*…” 

As the darkling elf’s weary grasp wove around his waist, a chilling 
thought assaulted the Mirkwood prince’s respite. The only possible reason 
his elf-brother could be so renewed. An unknown desolation sunk its teeth 
down to his very bones, as he shrank away from the peredhil, struggling to 
maintain composure.

“You have found another,” Legolas barely murmured, as he tore his 
gleaming eyes away from the other’s consoling gaze. “You have been 
bound…”

Before Elrohir’s tired arms could grab him, the archer began his retreat. 

“Legolas,” the elf-warrior beckoned, now too weak to follow him. 
“*No*…” 

“I am glad of it,” the maltaren answered harshly back, not understanding 
why tears sprang from his wounded eyes, why his shoulders quaked so. 
His only thought was of the river, of a water-shroud sanctuary he’d often 
sought in days past. “It is rightly thus.”

By the time Elrohir gathered breath to call him, the forest had swallowed 
him up.


To Be Continued…


A/N: 

‘Saitë’ Quenya word for teacher

‘Maltaren’ Golden Prince



Title:  Idylls of a King Forlorn, Part 5: Dago Hon
Author: Gloromeien  
Email: andromeda_strayn@hotmail.com 
Pairing: Legolas / Elrohir
Summary: As Legolas struggles with his dark, turbulent feelings, Imladris 
is invaded by a vicious foe.
Rating: R for m/m slash, adult themes.
Author’s Note: Takes place during the reign of King Elessar; he has been 
on the throne for about 20 years at this point. The race of men has grown 
prosperous, though there are still remnants of the Shadow lurking about 
(as well as natural events that aren’t necessarily ‘evil’, just 
undomesticated, such as, oh, a troll). For all the ideas/depictions of elven 
grief and the ‘fading’, I am endlessly indebted to the excellent slashwriters 
Ilye and Tyellas. Menethren is a character of my own devising. Quote 
from ‘Sonnets from the Portuguese’ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
Dedication: Once again, to the Pirate King.
 
***************  

/‘The first time that the sun rose on thine oath
To love me, I looked forward to the moon
To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon
And quickly tied to make a lasting troath.
Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe;
And, looking on myself, I seemed not one
For such man’s love!’/

As the thunderous swells of the Loudwater swept over the mossy growth 
of the riverbed, down from the Misty Mountains through the valley of 
Rivendell, Legolas dove, as ably as a freshwater minnow, into the current. 
His bowsman’s arms ripped into the clear, blue waters of the Bruinen, 
propelling him further through the gauzy shafts of sunlight that beamed 
down into the depths, a labyrinth of amber stakes. 

He swam rapidly, furiously, as if the very tide would suck him down as 
into the Dead Marshes. With a last, powerful kick, he emerged in the 
shadow of a flat-topped rock, then hoisted himself onto the well-baked 
surface. As breathless, and as breathtaking, as the mermen of legends past, 
the Mirkwood prince stretched out across the coarse stone, his sheathes of 
sodden hair clinging to his bare torso, his green leggings matted, like 
seaweed, to his limber legs.    

Only then did he release a long, charged breath.

He dipped his fingers over the edge, into the cooling river. Without the 
shade of the sweeping willow branches and the lush oak leaves that 
guarded the green spaces of Imladris, the sun’s sweltering rays seared into 
his skin, the pure heat an unrelenting assailant. The lucid blast of his 
blood-pump crashed through him still, flooding his bewildered mind with 
gushes of foreign, unwelcome feeling. With a blunt thud, his head fell 
back, the burden of resolution too weighty for his assaulted body to 
support. 

/Like a coward, I fled. At the crux of it, when he sought me out, I flew as a 
startled doe into the woods…/

His shame scorched as hot as the sun. His unsteady gaze wandered up, 
into the immaculate sky, and he thought of his people, in Valinor. 

/Perhaps this strangeness is nothing but the Sea’s call. Perhaps the Valar 
summon me./ 

His throat dry, the lie was bitter in his mouth, painfully swallowed. His 
senses still grotesquely acute, buzzing around him like a deranged swarm, 
the Mirkwood prince dared not move, least the cacophony intensify. He 
felt sick one moment, giddy the next. This condition infected his every 
thought, his every motion, until he dug his nails into the scarring rock and 
growled a curse at the sky. 

“Give me peace!!” he roared, but was silenced by a nearby splash. He 
bolted up, raptly surveying his surroundings, then paid the price when the 
nausea returned with a vengeance. /Will nothing quell this insidious fury?/ 

Before long, Aragorn’s sopping arms splattered over the rock’s edge, as he 
yanked up his hulking frame, in full hunting gear. 

“I heard your cry,” he announced himself. “Even on the plain of 
Gorgoroth, I did not heard such violent words pass your lips, mellon-nîn. 
What has befallen you?”

“I know not,” Legolas bleated morosely, suddenly stricken by a wave of 
sorrow. “I am not… unwell, nor weak, yet my heart rages like a throng of 
Rohirrim. I sweat, yet I shiver still, my mind is a fog… I cannot quench 
this rapacious thirst, this… *longing*…”

“For what do you long?” Aragorn asked quietly, yet even as he posed the 
question, he suspected the answer elusive. To the Mirkwood prince, at the 
least.

Indeed, Legolas could not form a proper reply. His stare soon betrayed 
him, drifting off towards the distant archery fields. The King’s stealthy 
eyes soon traced the same path, catching sight of Eldarion and… /could it 
be?/ 

In the fashion of an oft-burdened ruler, Aragorn grew pensive. Though 
scarcely a fortnight had passed since their arrival at Imladris, there his 
foster-brother sat, pale, but of reasonable health, when just nights before 
he lay dying. There was one, most grievous of nights, on which Elrond 
had called for him, unable to further endure his child’s tormented 
suffering. With one look at his elf-brother, Thranduil’s ghost had glared 
back: hollow, withered, and gasping. Yet there he stood, correcting 
Eldarion’s arrow-hold, adjusting his balance, encouraging him as ever 
before. /How can this be?/

“Tell me, gwanur-nîn,” he inquired cautiously of the troubled prince. 
“What brought on this strangeness?”

“I am uncertain as to the cause,” Legolas insisted, yet the truth shone clear 
enough from his saddened face. It sounded loud as Gondor’s own battle-
horn whenever he looked northward. 

“I see.” Aragorn caught upon an idea. “I will fetch Lord Elrond. Perhaps 
he may prove insightful-“

“I am not ailing, Aragorn, merely dazed,” the archer snipped. “It will 
pass.”

“Then Elladan, perhaps,” the King essayed. “A Loremaster such as he 
could readily snuff-out the culprit, should it be ancient in origin, or 
obscure.”

“And what may his books tell me?” Legolas spat outright. “That I should 
pass over the sea?”

“Do you feel it may be the sea’s calling?” Aragorn queried innocently, the 
picture of brotherly concern. “It has struck you mightily. I have ere seen 
an elf so…overcome.”

“I am not *overcome*, as some lightheaded maiden,” the Mirkwood 
prince seethed, his cobalt eyes flaring. “I am merely… I am merely…”   

His vision softened, swayed anew; Legolas shut his eyes. Evasions could 
pass his prideful lips, but he could not form words to deny, to give the lie 
voice, to give it to one so dear, so honorable. To the King.   

“Merely in love, at long last,” Aragorn chuckled fondly. “Though it does 
take rather tenacious hold of you. Perhaps if you gave in…?”

“I will *not* give in!!” Legolas growled, which only caused the King to 
laugh more heartily. 

“My, you *are* quarrelsome,” he chided good-naturedly. “Little wonder it 
grips you with such teeth.” 

The prince fell quiet, unreasonably so. He sank back, though the hard shelf 
of rock offered no sanctuary, no respite. He turned his face away from the 
sun, into what little shadow his head could cast. 

“I cannot love another,” he decreed, as if to convince himself. “I will not.”

“And, yet, you do,” the King remarked delicately. “And quite deeply, by 
the looks of it.”

“I have not the heart to love him,” Legolas whispered. “He deserves… he 
does not deserve such a black and withered thing as mine own, cindered to 
coal as my father’s funeral pyre.” 

“Who among us has a heart not tarnished by some fault, or weakness of 
our nature?” Aragorn began, stroking his calloused fingers through the 
prince’s damp hair. “Would mine have been so pure, when I made Arwen 
my lady. My Queen. Yet she loves me… and I am but a foul-tempered, 
ungraciously-scented, roughshod Dunedain. Hardly blessed with your 
hallowed elven ways.” 

Legolas smirked, faintly, despite himself. Yet the darkness lingered. 

“He is restored, Aragorn,” the archer persisted. 

“Aye, he is much altered since I last saw him.”

“By what force?” Legolas implored. “By what possible force other 
than…?”    

The King’s eyes narrowed, seeing, at last, the matter’s gray focus. 

“It cannot be,” he ventured. “Who else among you remains unbound? 
Glorfindel is bound to Elrond, Erestor still frequents the serving-maid, 
Gorlomewen has long bedded Hellestiel. Ada would not dare chose 
Verithen or Caerir, their mutual devotion, though yet undeclared, in ample 
evidence… Elladan is his brother, though I dare not even think on this…”    

“You yourself told me of his body’s ravaging mere days ago,” Legolas 
reminded him. “You would not let me look on him, such was his 
resemblance to my Adar in his passing.” 

“Indeed,” Aragorn sighed, near-bafflement. “It is most… troubling.” 

Before either could suggest a plan of action, the faint scent of thick, acrid 
fumes blew through on the wind. A colossal, earth-quaking roar shot 
through the valley, bracing the trees and shoving the waves over-bank. 
Both warriors leapt to their feet, earlier musings forgotten in a tense, 
horrific instant. 

A cloud of black, hungry smoke crept over the eastern forest. Another 
furious groan sounded out. 

“The dragon,” Aragorn proclaimed, vainly attempting to harness his 
mounting excitement at the unavoidable promise of battle. “And the 
hunters half a day gone. We must take arms!!”

Without another thought, he drove into the river. 

“Vengeance will be a doting consolation,” Legolas snarled at the first sight 
of flames, then followed him to the shore.

				*		*		*        

As the two darkling princes, one of Imladris and one of Gondor, galloped 
up the winding trails of Rivendell towards the stable and the adjoining 
armory, the earth shook so mightily that Elrohir could not distinguish the 
path’s unsteadiness from his own. Furious cyclones of leaves spun around 
them, branches snapped in their wake. The steps to the armory were 
quilted with foliage: willow wisps, uprooted thistles, scabs of birch bark, 
ederwood, haybale, even the long grass from the westward tombs. 

“Go to my father,” Elrohir ordered his charge through the din. “You will 
need his protection.”

“I would fight, saitë,” the young prince shouted over the wilding wind.

“I would that you lived to reign, pen-neth,” his guardian declared with 
unwavering finality. “As would the King.” With a sour nod, Eldarion 
scurried off, up to the main wing of the Last Homely House. Elrohir, a 
black smear amidst the violent gusts, soldiered on. 

His walking-stick long cleft in twain, the elf-warrior, spurred by the 
memory of the ravaged Mirkwood, felt no need of it. Indeed, when the 
dragon’s fearsome cry had blazed through the serene valley, his body had 
achieved a wickedly potent synchronicity with the beast’s incendiary rage. 

His dormant, knife-blade warrior’s senses were instantly reawakened; the 
scent of the potential kill provoked him, adrenalized every waning muscle, 
until he veritably throbbed with anticipation. He could already feel the hilt 
of his witch-sword prodding into his swollen palm; the slice of the jagged 
belly-edge through scaled flesh, the hot spurt of dragon’s blood a Valarian 
benediction, rich in his mouth like midsummer wine. 

The feeling gained further fire, when he entered the armory and came 
upon Legolas. 

“I will wield the sword of Angmar in the elf-knight’s stead,” the archer 
called over his shoulder, as he eyed the deadly wall of weapons. “What 
think you, Aragorn?” 

His ardent eyes the ominous blue of midnight and his still-sodden hair 
inked a dark gold, the entire sheath woven as the braids of the hostile 
Rohirrim, the woodland elf’s face betrayed an air of barely contained 
menace, as he raptly perused, with an executioner’s relish, the instrument 
selection. Yet he moved with poised economy, gathering, savoring his 
strength. His lean limbs were sheathed in sculpted armor, which 
conformed to every rip of his taut abdomen, the very plum of his biceps, 
his quiver and his Lorien bow bisecting the silver wash of his back.  

“I fear it would but prolong the beast’s agony,” Elrohir commented wryly. 
“Should I attack him unarmed. Best be swift, and merciless.”

“Menethren knew no mercy,” the archer seethed, his surging senses 
hearing the words but not the voice that spoke them. “I will banish the 
very word.”

The elf-warrior chose from the wall, as Legolas stood, transfixed by a 
vision of the vengeance he would wreak. 

“The Angmar is mighty, true,” he counseled. Elrohir lay a solid hand on 
the archer’s leathered shoulder, proffered a sleeker foil. “But it is a 
butcher’s blade. Try on this Mirkwood finery.”

“Igraneil,” Legolas murmured, awestruck. His gracious archer’s hands 
clasped the ivory hilt, then stroked enticingly along its shimmering length. 
“My father’s sword.” 

“The sword of the King of Mirkwood,” Elrohir corrected him. The sight of 
his maltaren holding the weapon of his birthright with such cruel intensity 
was so criminally arousing, he could almost claim him there and then. “It 
serves the one who bears the title.”

The uniquely held tone of the voice beside him finally penetrated through 
the archer’s bloodthirsty mind-set. His withering stare whipped up, 
slapping the elf-warrior back into the truth of the moment. 

“Elrohir!!” he exclaimed. “Why have you come here?!”

“To bloody my witch-blade with butchery,” he almost purred. “Why else, 
gwanur-nîn?” 

“You are unwell,” Legolas decreed, gripping his grandfather’s sword with 
fearsome finality. “You must seek shelter in the Homely House.”

“I will not,” Elrohir spat at him, turning away from the heart-clenching 
anger in his beloved’s eyes. “I ride with the Mirkwood King.” 

In broiling defiance, the elf-warrior tore off his cloak, yanked his armor 
off the wall. He clamped the hard metal over his now-aching chest, then 
fought, with trembling fingers, to bind the ties. He felt the short-lived 
spurt of energy seep decadently out of him, the sickly lethargy creeping 
through. Still, he would not give in.  

“I will not ride you to your death,” Legolas barked hoarsely, his throat 
parched near to choking. “Elrohir, I will not see you fall. I could not-“

“I will not fall,” the elf-warrior blasted, his preparations, though sluggish, 
perilously close to completion. “I will *slay*.” This last was hissed 
through clenched teeth, whether from menace or from shortness of breath, 
the archer could not surmise. 

The thought of Elrohir slain in this vengeful battle struck Legolas to the 
core. 

“I beg you, mellon-nîn,” he cried. “Gwanur-nîn!! Go to your father. Leave 
me my vengeance!!” 

The darkling elf paused only to bow his head. 

“I am sworn to you,” he renewed his pledge. “My hand in this will not be 
stayed.” 

Before the elf-warrior could take another step, the archer’s bow-string 
sang true. The sting of the arrowhead, now buried in the thick of his 
shoulder, was lost in the swoon of impact. The smack of the tiled armory 
floor, however, registered vividly. 

Footsteps sounded beyond the door.

“Aragorn!!” Legolas bellowed to his approaching friend. “Fetch your 
father!!” 

The boot clacks rapidly retreated, as the archer knelt over the wheezing 
peredhil. With astonishing gentility, he gathered Elrohir into his arms. 
Carefully, he removed the constricting armor, then dug the arrow blade 
out. He ably employed the elf-warrior’s cloak as both bandage and pillow, 
then lay him down across the floor. 

His eyes betrayed a bitter torment, as he gazed upon the twice-struck 
prince of Imladris. He bent to whisper to his sweat-slick temple.  
        
“Forgive me, melethron-nîn,” the Mirkwood prince cooed. “I told you of 
my weakness. I may not have had the strength to save you… but I cannot 
watch you fall.” 

As Elrohir, near-delusional, held fast against the voracious darkness, 
Legolas grazed supple, quivering lips across his sallow cheek, then 
pressed them timidly to his gasping mouth. The kiss was quiet, and 
unsure, the archer’s first since his woozy adolescence, but the feeling 
behind it burned pure, sucking the drifting spirit back to present day and 
sparking his soul’s waning flame. The darkling elf inhaled sharply, 
coughed, and Legolas quickly withdrew.

Before Elrohir could press him further, he was gone. 

				*		*		*    

The stench, more foul than the Orc forges of Isengard melded with the 
bilious lava of Mount Doom then doused with troll sputum, announced 
them by a mile, but neither warrior seemed the least bothered by it. Their 
armor was brazed black, their clothing charred to rags, their bodies were 
splotched with olive-yellow ooze – the latest in dragon viscera… and their 
smiles cut a swath as broad as a ten-paddled canoe across their blood-
smeared faces. 

“*Eglerio*!!” Legolas blasted into the smoke-streaked breeze, both 
heralding their return and trumpeting their victory. 

“Eglerio, Thranduilion!!” Aragorn echoed with twice the bass rumble, as 
he clamped a delightfully weary arm over the archer’s shoulders. “You 
have wreaked a thundering vengeance, gwanur. I wager the Halls of 
Mandos quake with the cheers of fallen Eldar warriors. The day is 
blessed.”

“Aye, it is that,” Legolas admitted, unable to quell his beaming smile even 
for a moment’s reflection. “I saw my father’s eyes, as I slew the beast. 
When last it cried out, I heard Menethren call the charge. They are at 
peace, Aragorn.” 

“And they are proud,” the King chimed in. “There will be revels in 
Mandos tonight!!” 

The two fighters laughed heartily, savoring the elation of conquest. Not 
since the War of the Ring had either had their swords so bloody, their 
instincts so challenged, their years of training so vital to their survival. 
Both basked in the last remnants of their battle-fever, in the waning 
moments of their cherished partnership. Though, in their private lives, 
both felt the pull of other mates, other friendships, neither could forswear 
a deeper kinship than that which they shared in the heat of battle. 

As brothers-in-arms, they would never be more perfectly matched.  

“The hunters will rue the day they chose a dozen quintail over such a 
fight,” Aragorn remarked mirthfully, his satisfaction undaunted. 

“I will have them sever the head, when they return,” Legolas noted, with 
wicked relish. “I shall have it bronzed and hung over the gates at 
Mirkwood. ‘All who pass hither do so at their own peril’!!” The former 
ranger hung over his side, nearly choked by his snickers. “Will you also 
claim a prize, mellon-nîn?” 

“A single tooth,” the King gracelessly recovered. “My smiths will core it 
and use the shell as a goblet. Legend tells, if you grind the core to 
powder…”

“What, then?” the archer queried, rapt with curiosity.

“It is a potent aphrodisiac,” Aragorn purred salaciously. “Though those 
who strike down their potential lovers come to make little use of such 
potions.”

“And a man with five daughters ought to consider the outcome of such a 
charm’s influence,” the prince shot back. His brow furrowed, not at the 
gibe, which even he felt well-deserved, but at the question of Elrohir’s 
condition. 

“Aye, gwanur-nîn, we are triumphant!!” The King boasted. “Do not linger 
on such gray matters, when there is so little time left to us. Let our glory 
ring across the valley-bed!!” 

His kill-sated smile renewed, Legolas joined him in a final cheer.

Their self-satisfied grins faded soon enough, when they marched through 
the Rivendell courtyard and came upon Elrond’s testy glare. Legolas’ face 
soured, fearing the worst, though the King’s barely-contained amusement 
was long from being smote. 

“We are victorious, Ada,” Aragorn declared, hoping to temper him. “The 
beast is slain.”

“And Thranduil avenged,” Elrond stated with knife-point precision. 
“Imladris claims the honor of offering shelter to her saviors. A pair of 
nobility, and valor…”

The two warriors grinned patiently, waiting for the axe to drop. 

“Whose dedication to their quest crushed every thing in their path,” Elrond 
near-snarled.

“Father!!” The King protested.

“Silence!!” Elrond cried, his eyes two wounded ebony pools. He turned 
the black hole of his stare on Legolas, who stood fast. “You will bathe. 
You will eat, then you will take rest, for none can deny you have fought 
bravely. You will *remain* in the north wing of the Homely House, and 
await the High Council’s decision, but you will not venture forth from 
your rooms unless under explicit order from I, myself, *alone*.”

“Is this how you treat a son of the Firstborn?!” Aragorn demanded, ablaze. 

“This is how I treat the one who has ensnared and corrupted the heart of 
my child!!” Elrond raged, not sparing even his foster son his fury. Yet a 
father he was, still, to this King of men, and the sight of his disbelieving 
eyes tempered him. “You rule in Gondor, Estel. *I* am Lord of Imladris. 
You have always respected that distinction. Respect it now. Take 
refreshment at the baths, then escort the prince to his rooms in the north 
wing. I warn you not to defy me.”

With that, Elrond swept up the steps, into the Last Homely House.

Aragorn let go an impassioned roar at his retreating father, unsheathing the 
fearsome Anduil and whipping her through the surrounding air. He 
stabbed her into the ground at his feet, as if into the dragon’s very flesh, 
the act appeasing his anger somewhat. He turned to Legolas, who had 
swallowed every scathing word like a hobbit after a hunger strike. The 
pearls of his cheeks had sunken in; his cerulean eyes now cinched, hollow. 

“He is dead,” the prince rasped, broken. 

Aragorn clasped his limp arms, as if to shake the hope back into him. 

“If he were dead, you would be free to roam. He would not sequester you 
so severely.”

“Then he is bound,” the archer mused, almost seeming to prefer him dead. 
“Why else lock me away, until he is freely loved by another?”

“You underestimate how totally paternal pride can fog even the most 
learned father’s mind. His behavior is rash, instinctive. The Sea’s call is 
fierce, and his suffering, ever constant. He can no longer bear the weight 
of Imladris’ rule.” 

“In this, we are shameful brothers,” Legolas barely spoke, the day’s 
maddening trial overtaking him. 

“Come, gwanur,” Aragorn cooed, weaving an arm around his waist and 
guiding him up the steps. “We will rest your cleaving heart. So full, and 
yet still so newly formed.” 

Later, when the balming flow of the mineral bath enveloped him, Legolas 
saw clearer. 

Sunk in the whirling pool’s sensuous depths, a cup of miruvor on the 
pielstone ledge and  his sage king-brother by his side, the Mirkwood 
prince released the last of his burdens into the silken swells that massaged 
over his steaming skin. Wooed by the tongues of lethargy lapping along 
his creaking limbs, he momentarily surrendered to the lush, vaporous 
sensation that filled him. 

“Drink,” the King laxly urged. “It will restore you.”

The archer slowly lifted the cup to his mouth, the hot liquid gushing over 
his ready lips, soothing the walls of his throat. 

“They have warmed it,” he remarked, not overly impressed. 

“Arwen often adds a splash of cream,” Aragorn noted. “She craves the 
sweetness.” 

“And you, if I do not mistake, crave her company,” the prince smirked, 
with little malice.

“Aye, that I do,” the King sighed, lost to contemplation. “To find solace in 
her arms, to celebrate this day’s glory with her, in our bed… I would 
treasure the rarity of such an end. Such a tender gift…” Aragorn pinched 
his eyes shut, rubbed his wrinkled brow. “I prove fine comfort to you.”

“I am green in the ways of love,” Legolas replied. “Your longing is an 
able teacher.” 

“So you concede to love,” Aragorn concluded, treading as carefully as a 
dove on a turret’s ledge. 

Legolas fell pensive; his look distant, pained.

“If he would chose me,” came the vague reply.

“Does the fading heart chose?” the King pondered. “I wonder…” 

“If I am his choice, and truly thus,” Legolas responded, with rapt sincerity. 
“If he would suffer my coarseness… then I would give him this unruly 
heart.” The archer’s tranquil blue eyes drifted down, into the molten 
depths of the baths. 

With a faint blush, he added: “I love him, Aragorn.” 

The King, heartened by this admission, pressed further. “Then you must 
go to him. Declare yourself.”

“And what of Elrond’s fury?”

“It will pass,” Aragorn all-too-easily dismissed. “It will be immediately 
overthrown when the realization hits him that, in order for Elrohir to fully 
recover, you must-”

“I cannot think the Lord of Imladris so full of hubris that he would 
condemn his fading child to such black ravaging for spite, Aragorn. He 
*must* be bound.”

“I think you mistake Elrond’s wisdom for selflessness. He is ever married 
to his ways.”

“I pray Elbereth *you* do not mistake him,” the prince vowed darkly.

“Such melancholy, this love evokes in you,” Aragorn teased fondly, 
hoping to distract him. “You should rejoice. You heart is opened.”

“How can I rejoice when my heart lays dying by my own hand?!” Legolas 
cried, with chilling ferocity. “Time and again I strike him down, time and 
again I cleave to the core of him and gut him through. I am a menace. I am 
too ill-formed to love him well!! And though I cannot else but claim my 
love… I cannot shake the fear that it will be the end of him. No matter 
what passes between us.” 

Silence fell, swift, razing like a scythe. Neither dared speak for some time, 
the frankness of the prince’s bleak pronouncement resounding, like a shrill 
bell, through the bath hall. Aragorn drained his glass down, inwardly 
praying for words, any words, that might inspire the prince to cast off the 
guilt that consumed his very soul and poisoned the heaving tide of his 
passions. Now, more than ever before, the King wished his blessed wife 
beside him. 

“I will go to him, this night, gwanur,” Aragorn resolved, at last. “I will tell 
the toll of it, give him the choice. He is a warrior of proud conscience. He 
may chose death.” 

“Or my death,” Legolas stated, without a trace of emotion. “This, he may 
choose.” 

Aragorn bowed once, chastely, the fangs of true fear sinking into him for 
the first time since their brave Fellowship had left Imladris, in charge of 
the burdensome Ring.

To Be Continued…



Title:  Idylls of a King Forlorn, Part 6: Edro
Author: Gloromeien  
Email: andromeda_strayn@hotmail.com 
Summary:  Can Elrohir overcome his anger and forgive his beloved? Can 
Legolas give himself to love? Can Elrond actually crack a smile? All will be 
revealed…
Rating: NC-17 for m/m slash, adult themes.
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, 
the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the pleasure of his estate 
and aim not for profit. 
Author’s Note: This is a tiny bit AU, though I prefer to think of it as un-
documented (as it *is*, my research was thorough), rather than a complete 
distortion of cannon. Takes place during the reign of King Elessar; he has been 
on the throne for about 20 years at this point. For all the ideas/depictions of elven 
grief and the ‘fading’, I am endlessly indebted to the excellent slashwriter Ilye, 
who’s work can be found in the Library of Moria. I also would like to thank 
Tyellas, at www.ansereg.com, for her excellent summary of all things Elrohir 
and Elladan, as well as her own amazing fic. I was so moved by both these 
writers that I had to give it a whirl myself, I hope they can forgive me any minor 
concept-borrowing. Quote from ‘Sonnets from the Portuguese’ by Elizabeth 
Barrett Browning. All Elvish quotes, at the end. 
Dedication: Once again, to the Pirate King and the Lady Cariad.  
 
 
***************  

/“Let us stay rather on earth, Beloved, - where the unfit
Contrarious moods of men recoil away
And isolate pure spirits, and permit
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.”/

As he strode through the drapes of shadow and the pools of torch-light 
along the northern hallway at Imladris, the King of Gondor was deeply 
shroud in thought. Though his parting words to Legolas had been hopeful, 
the Mirkwood prince’s bleak attitude had rooted dark, cloying weeds of 
doubt in his own faith in love. Perhaps the blissful outcome of his own 
romantic toils had spoiled him to the perils love could wring from the 
unsuspecting soul. 

In his youth, Aragorn, though heir to the throne of Gondor, had never 
defined himself as more than a ranger, an elf-friend. While he had once 
led the most daunting charge Middle-Earth had ever known, his was not a 
true warrior’s heart. The hunt thrilled him on occasion, as did the 
remembered glories of his elf-brother by his side; this day’s kill had 
indeed been such a moment. That moment ended, the King had gratefully 
reclaimed his throne, his pacifist’s spirit renewed. 

Not so for the prince, haunted as his homeland, who, in all his hundreds 
of years, had never shed the burden of his warrior’s vow. Legolas had 
never in his life taken a breath without the threat of some invasion: in the 
declining Mirkwood of his youth, on the deadly quest to destroy the Ring, 
in the winter of his fading kinsmen from this Middle-Earth. /Little wonder 
he fears this choke-hold love will sunder him. And with Elrohir’s 
blundering example…/

Nevertheless, the archer’s latest fatalistic pronouncements would thaw 
the most arctic of hearts. Thranduil’s choice of death had only further 
blackened his son’s graying view of the nobility of devotion; if Aragorn 
knew him but a little, he would judge his last, most self-indicting decrees a 
foiled despot’s cunning plot masked as incensed ravings. Regardless, the 
matter was now in his hands. 

He must seek Elladan’s counsel. He prayed his twinness proved a boon, 
not a hindrance.  Seconds before he gave thought to seeking out his 
foster-brother, two be-gowned figures floated up the steps, from the 
eastern wing, their drawn faces in pious contemplation of some grave 
matter. 

When the King met up with them, he gave a start.

“Melethron,” Aragorn exclaimed, at the sight of his Queen. Arwen gasped, 
then threw open her arms, gathering her husband’s weary bulk into their 
soothing folds.   

The King, felled by such tenderness, gripped into her lithe, doting frame, 
yet mindful of the ripening bud at her belly. This he knelt to bless with a 
kiss, after first drawing thickly from her ready mouth. Rising, he melded to 
her again, weaving his arms around her downy curves and burying his 
face in her neck. 

“Are you well, nîn ind?” he asked, his voice burdened with concern. “The 
beast…”

“We came from the west,” she assured him. “And were safe in the 
Homely House when the dragon struck.” She sunk further into his arms, 
not needing to give her own worries voice. 

“And our daughters?”

“They remain with Accathiral, in the White City,” she explained. “All but 
the little one, who I could not part from. But she weathered the journey 
with able Gondorian fortitude.”

“Aye, I am glad of it,” Aragorn sighed, still reluctant to release her. “As I 
am to have your strength with me in these trying times, my love.” Only 
then did the King make note of her companion, the very Loremaster he 
sought.     

“Indeed,” she murmured, pressing her cheek to his chest. “We have just 
come from my brother’s bedside.” The skip in her throat spoke volumes of 
the elf-warrior’s condition. “He is so proud. And I, selfishly, could only 
think: what if my lord had been so in our relations? What if I had lost you 
to a warrior’s wrongheaded notions of virtue?”

“Do not reproach yourself,” he appeased her. “I could think only the 
same.” He pulled gently away, gazing into her soft face. “I longed so 
desperately for your strength through these black nights, my lady.”

“It is here, husband,” she cooed, lacing warm, lissome fingers through the 
slick waves of his hair. “I would first speak of the morrow with my dear 
brother, but then we too shall retire.”

“I already long for it,” Aragorn all but groaned, then turned his attention to 
Elladan. “Come to our rooms awhile, Loremaster. I also have grave 
matters to impose upon you.”

With a preoccupied nod, Elladan shuffled after them, his focus 
despondently inward. He did not seem to have noticed a moment of what 
had transpired between them. By the time they swept into the elegant 
simplicity of the Queen’s sitting room, Elladan had not recovered himself.         

The King, ever officious, began at once. “What news of Elrohir?” Arwen 
looked to her brother, who exhaled a long, measured breath. 

“He is… coping well, I suppose,” Elladan offered blankly. “His wound is 
virtually healed. By what force, none can say. The grief still grips him, but 
he holds ever fast, aided, I’ve no doubt, by the vehement fury he shares 
with our Adar. I believe you felt its heat this late afternoon.” 

“Aye,” Aragorn acknowledged, a hint of mirth creeping into his tone. “The 
dragon seemed less fearsome.” He took his place on the divan by his 
wife, his worry somewhat tempered by this news. “But how can Elrohir 
charge his love so harshly? Surely he can see reason enough for 
Legolas’ actions.”

“A warrior’s pride,” Arwen almost spat, so bitterly that her husband 
clasped a gentling hand over her own. 

“Elrohir is sworn to the Mirkwood prince,” Elladan elaborated. “Ignorant, 
or in spite of the gravity of his condition, my brother invoked this sacred 
oath in expressing his desire to ride with your dragonslaying party. By 
forsaking this allegiance, Legolas… betrayed the warrior’s code. Elrohir 
accepts his refusal in love…”

“But not in battle,” Aragorn mused, his patience chafing. “Such 
foolishness…”

“He has been shamed by the one he holds dear,” Arwen added 
thoughtfully. “Whom he had consoled in his needful time. Yet now, there 
is none to console him. Thranduil bravely chose to give himself to his 
grief, to follow his fallen love to Mandos. As a warrior, Elrohir can lay no 
claim to bravery in fading thus.”

“Yet this very morning he rose from what many judged to be his 
deathbed,” the King reminded them. “What of this miraculous event? 
What say you, Elladan? Can your twinness shed light on this 
incongruity?”

Elladan veritably shied away from the question, as if he had feared it all 
along. Cautiously, he lifted his face to address his foster-brother, his gray 
eyes purpled with torment. Until that moment, Aragorn had not afore 
understood the weight the Loremaster had silently borne, since this 
misguided business had begun. Ever the more learned, yet more timid, of 
the two, Elladan often deferred to Elrohir in matters of state and of 
imminent action, preferring his brother to give voice to his own concerns, 
these whispered to him in private. Few would charge him weak, but few 
would require him to lead the charge. 

Elladan, gathering strength from his foster-brother’s muted, familiar gaze, 
made an attempt to relate the tides of feeling that pooled within him. 

“He grieves still,” he tentatively stated. “This, I know. The sickness of it 
grates… curdles even the weakest broth. I feel it, consuming him, yet… 
he seems to consume it, as well. He feeds off of it – his will does – and it 
warms him, little by little. His flame. He seems to have turned it against 
itself… I know not how…”

“Sheer, peerless might,” Aragorn shook his head, impressed. “His valor 
matched by only one other in all of Middle-Earth. That is how.”

“Which other, love?” Arwen inquired.

“*Legolas*,” the King scowled somberly. “And yet in love they strike 
blindly, razing all in their lumbering wake!!” 

“And what of the prince, Estel?” Elladan essayed.

“He speaks in tongues, gwanur,” Aragorn snorted dryly, his frustration 
mounting. “Tell me true, are the elves of Elrond’s line kin to the Maiar, as 
he claims?”

“We are,” Elladan barely breathed out, anticipation of the King’s next 
words gripping the core of him. 

“I have never seen his mood so black,” the ranger admitted, growing pale. 
“He thinks himself so unworthy of love that he… He has asked me to go 
to our brother, to make him chose… He claims that, among the Maiar, 
there is a primitive tradition. That one who grieves may revive his fading 
spirit by sacrificing the life of his beloved. By killing him.” 

Arwen, despite herself, gasped. Elladan sunk further into the cushions of 
his seat.

“In ages past,” the Loremaster recounted dully. “The love of one male for 
another was considered… unholy, by some. It is accepted now, among 
elfkind, since all but a few elf-maiden have passed over to the Sea. Even 
some time before, such feelings went unremarked upon, but back then… 
before the Firstborn came into being… The noble choice for one so 
stricken was to…” He swallowed hard, then added, “I am uncertain 
whether the Valar would favor such a choice, in our time. But I doubt the 
consequences would be… severe. He could pass to Valinor unhindered.” 

Silence fell, as thick and obscuring as a funeral veil. It was Arwen who 
spoke first, and this, like a clarion bell. 

“We must prevent this,” she forswore. “We *must* make them see 
reason.” She turned to her husband and clamped a yearning hand over 
his chest. “Else *my* heart will break.”

				*		*		*     

With slim, meticulous fingers, the despondent Lord of Imladris lay the 
mullseed compress across his son’s chest. The spiced heat blunted the 
darkling elf’s scraping wheeze to a dry rasp, but would do little to abate 
the scalding flush of his feverish skin. Though his arrow wound had 
healed in a matter of hours, the insidious grief-sickness had intensified 
beyond remedy, the ailments too numerous to conquer, or at the least 
assuage, in one collective assault.

The fever had come with his anger; his flesh pink, swollen, his lips 
chapped and flaking, the whites of his eyes bloodied to an iridescent 
scarlet. Still, his elf-knight soldiered through, as the fever sucked the very 
marrow from his bones, as his throat engorged to near-suffocation, as his 
veins bulged up, burrowing under the sheet of his skin like agile, 
aquamarine snakes. 

Rather than harrowing, the night had been an endless dirge, Elrohir’s 
ragged breaths droning, like a knell, through the hush of the room. 
Elladan had kept vigil at his brother’s side, repetitively stroking soft, 
gracious hands over his, often humming songs from their childhood to 
comfort him. At times, despite his difficult respiration, Elrohir could be 
faintly heard to murmur along with him, the only sign Elrond had that his 
child was still, on some level, coherent. 

By the window, in Glorfindel’s arms, he prepared himself as well as any 
father could. 

A red dawn bled through the dragon fumes, as if the sky itself would 
mourn him. The forest beyond the window loomed, static, not a hint of 
wind, not a birdsong, not a creature stirring. The horses bucked in their 
stalls, but the touch they favored would not wield the brush that morning. 
Brown, charred leaves blanketed the trails, the lawn, not a patch of green 
visible around the barren, weeping willow branches. 

A sharp knock sounded from the door and broke the silence. 

Aragorn slid into the room at Glorfindel’s bidding, his slate-blue eyes 
instantly drawn to the ravaged figure on the bed. Visibly willing himself to 
steady, to steel, the King tread over to his foster-brother’s side, gathering 
the length of his arm in his lap and taking gentle hold. 

Elrohir smiled faintly in recognition; Elrond’s heart skipped. 

Aragorn fondly brushed his fingers through the darkling elf’s long, raven 
hair, locking eyes with his brother. Elladan lay himself down on the other 
side of the bed, pressing his face against that of his ailing twin, hugging to 
him. Never releasing his groggy arm, Aragorn leaned over, kissed the elf-
warrior on his throbbing brow, then bent further, to his ear. He whispered 
to him for some time, so low Elrond could not make out a word. 

At first, Elrohir began to wheeze again, his teeth grit so fiercely Elrond 
thought his jaw might crush them to powder. He rose to object, but 
Glorfindel restrained him. Elladan laid a warm, solid hand over his twin’s 
heart, which seemed to calm him. Aragorn’s lush rumble of a voice grew 
louder. An anxious pulse flooded Elrond’s ears, preventing him from full 
comprehension. Elrohir’s eyes suddenly widened, their scarlet humor 
nearly spilling over, then promptly shut, creasing at the seam. His face 
grew lax, desolate; Elrond, fearing the end had come, staggered into 
Glorfindel. After Aragorn rose, his tale told, he wove his callused fingers 
through Elladan’s, over their weary brother’s heart. 

Elrohir gulped breaths sharply in, then choked out vicious, scouring 
coughs, as he heaved himself into a seating position. Aragorn and 
Elladan came swiftly to his aid, easing his legs over the edge of the bed, 
standing at his side, to steady him. 

“Rest now, gwanur,” Aragorn insisted, nevertheless bearing the brunt of 
his weight. “He will come to you.”

“No, Estel,” Elrohir, who Elrond thought beyond the power of speech, 
asserted, as he struggled for air. “It is I who must go to him.” 

The motley caravan lurched forward; with careful, agonizing steps, the elf-
warrior regained his footing. Elrond, momentarily frozen, gaped at his 
son’s near-instantaneous progress, the fever pouring out of him in great, 
gushing streams of sweat, so that Aragorn and Elladan’s clothes were 
soon soaked through. 

Seizing hold of his senses, he rushed to intervene. 

“Elrohir,” he implored, blocking their path. “What in Elbereth’s name has 
possessed you?!”

“I have little strength left, Ada,” the elf-knight confronted his father. “I will 
not spend it quarrelling.”

“It will be the death of you, nîn ind,” Elrond begged him, reaching out to 
touch his paling cheek.       

“He is my only chance at life,” he bleated, the strain nauseating him. He 
grunted adamantly at himself, then urged them forward. “Ada, I will go to 
him. I will have my life!!”

“Very well,” Elrond barely exhaled. He stepped aside.

The Lord of Imladris turned, as they ambled past, and watched the door 
close behind them.

“Namarië, melethron,” he whispered to the empty room. “Gerich veleth 
nîn.”

				*		*		*  

“Fetch me my sword, Estel,” Elrohir commanded between raw-throated 
draughts of air, as they hobbled haltingly by the armory door. He 
collapsed his weight against his twin brother, his legs unable to carry on. 
“I would rest here awhile.” 

“Elrohir?” the King inquired, after they’d sat him on a nearby bench. 
Aragorn observed naught but the insidious strain of effort on his foster-
brother’s face; still, the sudden, deadly request struck to the core of him. 
“What purpose would this serve you? You cannot walk unaided…”

“Fetch it!!” Elrohir barked, though without ire. 

/He has not the strength to quarrel,/ Aragorn reminded himself, then 
briefly nodded in acquiescence. 

Before the elf-warrior could recover himself, the King had slipped through 
the armory doors. He turned to his gentle twin, whose face betrayed yet a 
touch of tempered amusement. 

“I have never had occasion to observe such fear in him,” Elladan 
remarked, hugging once again to his brother’s side. 

“He is unpracticed, to be so easily felled,” Elrohir agreed, his even humor 
dulled by the grip of pain. “I would hearten him to it. A King should know 
to best his fear.”

“Indeed,” his twin chuckled fondly. “And what of a Loremaster?”

Despite his fatigue, Elrohir gave a start.

“Elladan,” he reproached. “Is your worry so riotous as to deafen you to 
our shared feeling?”

“I hear its music,” Elladan tread with caution. “But the melody deceives. It 
is too assonant to be of your timbre, yet there can be no other’s sound 
within me.” 

Elrohir accepted this, without comment, for some time. Wearily, he eased 
his lids shut. Unable to fully control his breathing, he gulped in a torrent of 
dry, scraping air, then pushed the entirety from his phlegm-thick lungs in 
a foul gust. Sinking his focus inward, he broke free of the physical pain, 
curling into the undulating heat at the center of his being that linked their 
twinness. 

Elladan’s weight pressed against his lax frame, as his brother allowed 
himself to descend into the baking core of their oneness. Rare were the 
times when they could retreat to their common, corporeal sanctuary, 
where their very proximity reconnected the two halves of their spirit and 
reenacted their yearlong embrace in the womb. Only in moments of high 
anxiety could they regress those generative steps, to re-forge the bond 
that could never be truly severed. 

In that hallowed moment, Elrohir revealed himself to his brother: the 
trenchant scars of his grief, the bitter remnants of love, the all-consuming 
anger, the dim hope cast by his waning flame. He drew from the 
pearlescent sphere of his twin’s pure heart, feeding on his brotherly 
concern, his Loremaster’s wisdom, and his own long-contented love of 
another. Releasing the last of himself, their spirits flowed into one 
immaculate whole.  

In an instant, Elrohir’s eyes fluttered open, consciousness and self 
retuned. Reserves of strength lay vigilant within his aching limbs, patiently 
waiting-out the crucial moment of confrontation with the Mirkwood prince. 
Still, he managed to cradle his shaken twin, tenderly wiping tears from his 
eyes. 

“I have never known such… such intensity of emotion,” Elladan sniffed, 
as he struggled to recover himself. “I would be smote by such a ferocious 
love, gwanur.” 

“Ah, but the depth of it does not affect you,” Elrohir smirked playfully. 
“Just the fury. Curious, that.”

Elladan sighed softly, snuggling closer, a mite too melodramatically. Few 
with the Loremaster’s sweet temper could long fool one to whom they 
were so closely bound. 

“Are Erestor’s eyes bright with the Sea’s call?” Elrohir teased. “Or merely 
the sight of your loveliness?” 

Elladan leapt bolt upright, his misty eyes glaring. 

“You are ever the able student, gwanur-nîn,” the elf-warrior added. “Well-
schooled by his tenderness. I daresay our tutor’s affection has aided, by 
example, in my own care these last few weeks.” The Loremaster stared 
on, incredulous, as his brother confessed the paucity of their deception. 
“But it is foul mischief to hide yourselves from Ada’s watchful eye, 
Elladan. Though I doubt he is much fooled by such rumor-mongering 
ridicule as this business with the serving-maid...”

“You have… felt this?” Elladan stuttered bashfully, the truth of it blazing 
from his cheeks. “Is our twinness so strong in you?”

“I have known it since the days of our fighting lessons, a thousand years 
hence,” Elrohir laughed outright, his own color much improved. “Though I 
believe Erestor’s love is rather newly born, is it not?”

“Newly declared,” Elladan elucidated. “But long felt. He has kept the 
burden of it. As have I, since my coming of age, both of us fearing Ada’s 
wrath. But since the shadow’s fall, and my return to Imladris from the 
war…” The Loremaster swallowed a quiet smile at the thought of his 
beloved. 

“Tell me, gwanur,” Elrohir asked carefully. “Erestor is old, and proud. His 
duty to the protection of Imladris, to your protection, is more dearly held 
than any of his own desires. How did you win him?” 

His twin again gave at start, understanding, at last, the darker purpose of 
his good-humored torments. He fell briefly to contemplation, recalling the 
string of awkward blunders and near-insurmountable misunderstandings 
that had led to their first, awesome moment of passion. Relieved that they 
had been at last discovered, Elladan wished he could take time to recount 
the totality of the tale, to indulge in a few hours praise of his lover’s secret 
beauty.  

“I hope one day to tell the toll of it,” the Loremaster responded, his look 
swollen with both love-thick and brotherly affection. “For I know well you 
would be much amused. But I fear I cannot say what particular thing it 
was that overcame his strident nature. We simply… came together, one 
day.”

“The mere sight of you, no doubt,” Elrohir joked, but with an edge. “Aye, I 
was similarly bested. But this archer of mine… how am I to win him?” The 
elf-warrior grew pale, his once rose-pricked cheeks foundering to a sallow 
cream. “He would rather die at my hands than give in to my love.” 

Elladan, brutally struck, could scarcely form words to reply.

				*		*		*    

With acute exasperation, Legolas pressed the smooth plain of his brow to 
the cool windowpane, the hazy atmosphere beyond clouding his bleary 
stare. The red dawn had fused with the dragon’s death fumes into an 
overcast, sulfurous sky, as if shielding the blithe heavens from the 
onerous activities below. A crimson daybreak was an ill portent. Coupled 
with the beast’s vile smoke…

The Mirkwood prince sighed, shut his brimming eyes. /The High Elves do 
not care for such woodland folklore as weather-signs and leaf-casting. 
Just as well./ 

In a blind instant, he bashed both his fists onto the glass, wrenched 
himself away, then stalked across the length of the room. Another 
sleepless night captive in this chamber of subtle torments would erode 
the rock-hard foundation of his respect for the Lord of Imladris into finely 
grained dust, not accounting for the grinding of his teeth’s ivory. No 
warrior of his mettle would allow himself be so indulgently detained. 
Indeed, over the endless drudge of the night, Legolas had entertained a 
thousand methods of escape, none so alluring as marching past the 
unguarded door, through the empty halls, and into their vigilant midst at 
Elrohir’s bedside. There, amid their grating protests, he would prostrate 
himself at the elf-knight’s hand and… 

/And pray that his betrothed does not slit my throat./

The archer turned his embittered eyes back towards the glass, the cloying 
murk beyond. A bilious shame scored through his insides, scraping the 
very marrow from his bone-brittle resolve. He had brought the gloom of 
Mirkwood here to beauteous Rivendell, the taint of his Silvan blood to the 
peredhil’s hallowed heart. Their people’s alliance had been forged by the 
threat of Mordor’s infernal hearths; the peace of men could not solder 
such brimstone bonds, should they crack and crumble. /Little wonder they 
have me caged./ 

Legolas thought he would spit fire if they did not release him soon.

The length of his chamber door rumbled, announcing the King. He spun 
around, his face beaming with gratitude, only to confront a sight gutting to 
behold. He froze.

Shrugging off the aid of his two companions, Elrohir swept into the room 
with a focused, yet tremulous, grace. Though still clad in his bed robes, 
his sword-belt clung to his skeletal hips, emphasizing the anemic cinch of 
his waist. The nimble angles of his face were sharpened to fine, delicate 
points, his skin near translucent in its pallor. The haunting effect, coupled 
with the incisive glare of his indigo eyes, left the Mirkwood prince bereft, 
his guilt blunt, brazing. He could do nothing but stare, as the elf-warrior 
unsheathed his witch-sword and aimed its gluttonous blade at him. 

“By the will of the Maiar, my kin, I have risen,” Elrohir pronounced boldly. 
“I come to claim my right, Prince of Mirkwood.” 

The archer’s chill, cobalt eyes locked into his razing stare, searching for 
the faintest sign of feint. He found none. 

With a solemn bow, Legolas knelt before him. 

“Elrohir!!” Aragorn charged forth. “What is this madness?!” 

Elladan moved to restrain him, but Aragorn stayed him back. The King, 
though livid, knew better than to challenge his sickly brother’s tenuous 
strength. Instead, he moved between them, the ruthless sword-point 
inches from his chest. 

“I have chosen, Estel,” came the unfeeling reply. 

“This cannot be the choice of your heart, my brother,” Aragorn pursued, 
his eyes wild with fear, with feeling.

“I have no heart,” Elrohir insisted morosely. “Only shards are left, from its 
breaking.” His jaw steeled. “But I would have my life. Aye, I would have 
that bleak consolation.” 

“I will not let you do this,” Aragorn seethed, as the Loremaster again leapt 
to still his charge. The King tossed him off, spinning around to confront 
the kneeling prince. “And you!! You accept this fate?! Laying down before 
him, yielding to his madness, like a buck caught in the briar?!” 

“Estel,” Elladan urged patiently, resting a quiet hand on his heaving 
collarbone. “Let them come to a resolution in private.”

“I am sworn to him as dearly as to my own brother,” Aragorn fumed, in 
torrid vexation. 

“You are powerless in this, gwanur-nîn,” the Loremaster reminded him. 

The King grunted, once, indignant, then shook off his hold. He peered 
down at Legolas, barely able to dam the goading swells of sorrow.

“Remember your father’s final words, in his passing,” Aragorn compelled 
him. “Remember his dying wish, Legolas!!” 

With a last, withering glare at Elrohir, the King fell in behind his foster-
brother, retreating to the hall. 

At the clink of the turning lock, the elf-warrior swallowed hard. He fought 
to still the tremors shaking through his feeble grip, the claws of pain 
seizing cruel hold of him. The Mirkwood prince could no longer meet his 
bracing stare, his eyes glazed, introspective. The King’s brutal decree 
had hit its mark. Elrohir corralled his last reserves of strength, and 
pressed his advantage. 

“Fear not, archer, I will be swift,” he declared. 

“You have known no mercy,” Legolas barely gave voice to his reply. “I 
would have none from you.” 

“Brave to the last,” Elrohir taunted him. “You are your father’s son.”

“I make no claim to his glory.”

“Look on me!!” the elf-warrior barked suddenly. “I would see the truth of 
your eyes.” 

When Legolas raised his hollow, hurting gaze, the sickness bit deep. 

“There is one truth, and only thus, Elrohir,” the archer answered softly. “I 
am yours.” 

Caught in a blaze of fury, the elf-warrior staggered forward, pressing the 
blade into the thin skin of his throat. 

“You would have me then?!” Elrohir snarled. “To love with your barren 
heart? To *cherish* as the lethal steel of your slit-knives?”

“I would…” Legolas tore his eyes away, his pride making meat of his 
resolve. “I would have your sentence. Your choice. Nothing more.”

“Then my love is as black a condemnation as death,” Elrohir groaned, the 
agony overtaking him. He stabbed his witch-sword into the floor, his 
arthritic hands clasping the sweat-slick hilt. With a fierce, guttural growl, 
he pressed on. “Why?! Why does my love mean nothing to you, when it 
rages still within me, when it has staved off the hand of death itself?!” He 
retched instinctively, then forced the keen acid back. With the ebbing 
fumes of his might, he bore down on the corrosive, enveloping grief, 
stealing back these final, precious moments of life. “For I live only by the 
love of you. It is this fire that feeds my eternal flame. It has borne my spirit 
through the shadow and holds me strong even now, this knowledge, this 
love.” 

Legolas leapt to his feet, his breaths thundering through his chest as 
raggedly as the elf-warrior’s own. He reached out to the rasping, fading 
knight, but was stayed by his wounded stare. 

“How can you think even for a moment that I could…” Elrohir heaved in a 
tight, cloying breath. “That I could even raise a hand to harm you, my 
dearest one… I would rather be Sauron’s whore, refashioned as a 
sniveling orc, than ever see you hurt, maltaren-nîn… melethron-nîn…”  

The deadly witch-sword clanked dully to the floor, as Legolas swept the 
darkling elf into his strong arms. With care to his fragility, he shook him, 
hoping to flame the embers of his dimming light. 

“Harken to me, love,” he cried, hugging his leaden form with all his might. 
“You have my heart!! I would have our life, Elrohir. I would have our love.” 

The elf-warrior’s heavy arms wove around his solid frame, cleaving to 
him. The Mirkwood prince pressed their cheeks together, the coupled 
streams of their tears balming their fever-flushed skin. Elrohir languished 
in the archer’s blanketing heat, his body’s defenses drawing deeply from 
this potent source. Though far from completely renewed, his legs were 
soon able to bear some well-supported weight, which allowed him to rest 
his still woozy head on Legolas’ shoulder. 

“Tell me again,” he urged, still unable to lengthen his shallow pants.

“I am yours,” Legolas murmured, his hold tightening further. 

“Again.”

“I would have our love, my brave one,” he repeated with undisguised 
affection, but remained preoccupied by his grave condition. “Should you 
not take rest, melethron?” 

“And your heart?” 

“Your very own,” the Mirkwood prince assured him. “But you are still so 
weak…” 

“Stay,” Elrohir implored him. “I need you close.” 

Carefully, the elf-knight raised his groggy head from his most welcoming 
shoulder. Though sheltered in the protection of his arms, doubts as to the 
archer’s sincerity still nipped at the edges of his senses. When his full, 
violet eyes met the prince’s, his continued anxiety was plain. The cause, 
however, remained elusive. 

“What else may you require, love?” Legolas asked, his tone surprisingly 
timid. “Would you bathe? Eat? Sleep, certainly, would refresh you…”

“Your lips would be ample refreshment, maltaren-nîn,” Elrohir grinned 
faintly, then thickly brushed his own over the archer’s trembling mouth. 

Legolas gasped at the sensation and withdrew with a jolt, blushing 
fiercely. Elrohir indulged in a soft chuckle, then pressed on into a gentle, 
enticing caress. He felt his prince struggle to steady his quaking arms; his 
inexperience shaming him. The darkling elf worked firm, comforting 
fingers over the archer’s neck and into his flaxen hair, easing the pangs 
that shook him. 

As in battle, Legolas was not quickly won over, despite his love’s obvious, 
enthralling skill. Caught in a sigh, Elrohir claimed his hot mouth, stroking 
the velvet length of his tongue along the prince’s own rough texture. 
Legolas moaned appreciatively, opening to him. An able student, he 
surrendered to this rapturous friction, sucking deeply, wantonly at the elf-
knight’s stirring lips. 

The kiss was of such tenderness, Elrohir was soon able to stand unaided. 
Still, the need for rest lapped just as ardently at his aching limbs. Legolas, 
lips swollen blissfully scarlet, recognized his love’s weariness and broke 
away, the nagging worry still rimming his dizzy eyes. With a dazed, 
slightly giddy smile, he cradled the half-elf to him.  

“Come, nin bellas,” he murmured, guiding him over to the waiting bed. 
“Sleep beckons us both.” 

As he lay Elrohir across the pristine sheets, Legolas swayed, stumbled. 
He shook his head, laughing at himself, as he fumbled with the elf-
warrior’s sword-belt. 

“Ah, the fearless Prince of Mirkwood,” Elrohir teased, his eyes twinkling. 
“A rider of unmatched speeds, an archer of lethal skill, at one with his 
deadly twin-blades… undone by a mere overture of a kiss.” 

Legolas ripped the belt out from under him, his cheeks flaming anew. 

“This was but… an *overture*,” he rasped, his eagerness and his 
discomfort both clearly in evidence. 

As was, Elrohir noted, a budding arousal. The ease with which the 
darkling elf was able to unravel him could, in the future, prove 
dangerously addictive. 

“Melethron,” Legolas began, visibly willing himself to focus. “As much as I 
long… *desperately* long to…” He found he could not continue, his throat 
parched at the very thought of their coupling. 

“Soon, maltaren-nîn,” Elrohir soothed him, lazily weaving their fingers 
together. “Even I know when I am bested. My affections would be poor 
consolation now. Best to delay them.”  

“Aye,” Legolas echoed, with little conviction. His eyelids drooped to half-
mast, as if in rapt contemplation of some lush melody. His fingers lingered 
over the delicate skin of Elrohir’s wrist, sending tendrils of pleasure 
creeping up the length of his arm. Elrohir plucked his hand away. 

“Legolas,” he mused, wishing he could give in to the fair prince’s 
ministrations. “You best  take a moment to ease the King’s mind, before 
Estel looses hold of himself and breaks down the door.” 

“Disturbing our rest,” the prince sighed, waking from his reverie. “And 
shall I request a bath, for morning? Soothe your weary bones...” 

“Already such a doting lover,” Elrohir smirked, pleased by this tenderness. 

As he sauntered over to the door, Legolas unfastened the laces of his 
tunic. The anxious King appeased, the archer relieved himself of his 
garments and crawled, suddenly conscious only of his exhaustion, under 
the consoling covers. Elrohir, he discovered, was heavy with slumber. 

He curled into his beloved’s warm embrace, giving in, at last.



To Be Continued…



A/N: Don’t fret, there’s more. You didn’t think I’d leave off without some 
serious comshucking, did you? (Sorry, wrong fandom.) 

Maltaren-nin  My Golden Prince

Melethron   Beloved

Gwanur   Brother

Gerich veleth nin   You have my love.

Namarie   Farewell

Nin bellas   My strength

Nin ind    My heart




Title:  Idylls of a King Forlorn, Part 7: Melethron
Author: Gloromeien  
Email: andromeda_strayn@hotmail.com 
Summary:  Elrohir and Legolas, um… come together. ;)
Rating: NC-17 for m/m slash, adult themes.
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, 
the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the pleasure of his estate 
and aim not for profit. 
Author’s Note: This is a tiny bit AU, though I prefer to think of it as un-
documented (as it *is*, my research was thorough), rather than a complete 
distortion of cannon. For all the ideas/depictions of elven grief and the ‘fading’, I 
am endlessly indebted to the excellent slashwriter Ilye, who’s work can be found 
in the Library of Moria. I also would like to thank Tyellas, at www.ansereg.com, 
for her excellent summary of all things Elrohir and Elladan, as well as her own 
amazing fic. I was so moved by both these writers that I had to give it a whirl 
myself, I hope they can forgive me any minor concept-borrowing. Quote from 
‘Sonnets from the Portuguese’ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. All Elvish quotes, 
at the end. 
Dedication: Once again, to the Pirate King and the Lady Cariad.  
 
 
***************  

“When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire
At either curved point, - what bitter wrong
Can the earth do to us, that we should not long 
Be here contented?”

Though the balming, loam-scented waters of their bath had chilled, 
neither elf had broken their embrace long enough to take note. For hours, 
mercurial, elemental Mirkwood had plundered the lush hollows of 
seasoned Imladris; his ardent tongue relishing the subtle textures, 
tantalizing the most sensitive sweeps, uncovering the stirring nuances of 
their deep kiss. 

With every luscious draught on the near-purple smear of his lips, Elrohir 
felt another rigid joint release, another spear of pain withdraw from his 
calcite muscles. Though enmeshed in the weave of their fervent, grasping 
arms, the silken lengths of their skin, the sodden locks of their hair, their 
hips remained resolutely apart, floating in the stagnant bathwater 
between them. 

As Legolas dedicated his devout attention to suckling the elf-knight’s 
bottom lip, Elrohir allowed his curious fingers to linger above the archer’s 
navel, the clenched abdominals below confirming his thick-headed 
suspicions. Ever-conscious of his beloved’s diminished capacities, the 
archer silently suffered through what must be, after a long morning’s soak 
and grope, a fiercely potent arousal. In consideration of this unusually 
tormenting agony, as well as the cool sterility of the water, Elrohir took a 
smoldering draught from his love’s ripe mouth, then eased away. 

Legolas rasped a moan in protest, tracing the length of the elf-warrior’s 
swollen lips with a lecherous tongue-tip and newly lapping them apart. 
Unlike his previous pleasuring, the kiss was bold, unrelenting, the 
apprentice now graduated to the full, lustful mastery of the form. A surge 
of longing seared through the still-ailing prince of Imladris, to which his 
body could not respond. Instead, he stroked his slender, gracious fingers 
down, over the archer’s strident loins. Legolas groaned hoarsely in 
surprise, unable to avoid responding to the unexpected adventuring of his 
touch. He bucked forward, bit into his mouth, and, in one great gush of 
heat, spent himself over his wrist. 

“Forgive me,” the Mirkwood prince panted, sinking his weight down over 
him. With his mop of golden hair splayed wild, his head lolled into the 
cradle of elf-knight’s collar, his shallow, grasping breaths spraying the 
sweaty skin of his neck. “I could not… I was… overcome.”

“How may I persuade you?” Elrohir inquired softly. “That your desire is no 
encumbrance, nor some ill-born burden I should bear?” 

“You have suffered such indignities out of my ignorance,” Legolas 
explained haltingly. “It is out of love that I -“

“Ah, my dearest one, speak not of the shades of love when you have not 
yet known its boldest colors,” Elrohir chided him, but sweetened his 
sharpness with another kiss. He felt a sprig of tension snake up the 
prince’s spine. “I am not some simpering halfling in a Warg’s salacious 
jaws, but an elven warrior of considerable mettle. The grief of heartbreak 
could not long best me. How could I ever be felled by something so 
beauteous and enrapturing as your desire?”    

“I… I am not…”

“Not beautiful? Surely you jest,” the prince of Imladris purred into the 
cream of his temple. “In all of Middle-Earth there is no creature that dares 
vie for your fair title, no archer keen as your skill. And though I have but 
begun to discover its creeps and corners, I daresay there is no gentler 
heart.” 

“Elrohir…”

“The King has well informed me of the gloom that resides there still,” he 
continued brashly. “I give this black plague notice of imminent destruction, 
for I will not long suffer the misbegotten musings it provokes in the wild 
spirit I love so well.”

As the darkling elf traced a viscous trail of caresses along the flushed 
plain of his brow, Legolas fell silent. His father’s dying words were echoed 
in his beloved’s own, horrifically so. With a jolting shiver, he recalled 
those many stark, hungry nights in the Mirkwood crypt, at his father’s 
grave, fighting with the notion of his legacy, with his growing feelings for 
his warrior-brother, with himself. The only sense of resolution had come in 
their bed, or, more acutely, in its perversion. That night, he had known 
himself more truly than ever before. 

The insufferable reality of this nightmare vision had distorted everything 
since.  

The prince burrowed deeper into their embrace, cleaving to the elf-
knight’s frail frame for hidden reserves emotional fortitude. At last, he 
ventured: “How can you so easily dismiss the… my brutality, at my 
father’s house. The manner in which I forced -“

“Aye, you used force, but not against my will.”

“But the bruises. The scars must still…” He found he could not finish, 
such was the memory’s hold of him.  

“Legolas,” Elrohir insisted, with explicit tenderness. “Your grief was 
fierce.”

“*You* were grieving, love,” he swallowed hard. “Even then… I 
recognized the first of your fading at the Warg attack. I knew of your 
weakness and still I -“

“I gladly bore that dark indulgence,” Elrohir assured him. “And would 
again, maltaren-nin, should loss overcome you so totally. You were bereft 
of feeling, and my arms were poor consolation. You required steel, 
severity, complete surrender… it is in our nature.” Elrohir rested his face 
against the archer’s crown of flaxen hair. “You required it of me… 
because you feared the love you bore me. In knowing this, my body’s 
aches were a small sacrifice.”

“Even then, you… you knew?”

“I knew it the first night of our Rites,” Elrohir confessed, savoring the 
sensation of his own relief at the admission. “One does not sing so 
hauntingly, so ravenously to…to one they merely wish to bed. You soul… 
desired more than the flesh’s comforts, even if you were not yet aware of 
this longing.” 

Legolas fell pensive, the truth of this affecting him deeply. 

“I have long been alone,” he admitted in a whisper. “Lonely. I have known 
little else, in all my years.” 

“The peace has become a time of great challenge, to those honor-bound 
in wartime,” Elrohir remarked. He warmed to a less intimate approach, the 
shadow of grief looming still. “Centuries of strife does not beget a race of 
gardeners and ale-brewers. Many of our kind have lost their way… or 
never known of another. Think of the Galadrrim!! Even as far south as 
Gondor, there were strange reports from the haunts of Lorien…” 

At his knowing words, Legolas shook off his sorrow. His lips curled, 
mischievous. 

“Will you tutor me in the weirding ways of peace, beloved?” he asked 
coyly.

“Only if you swear to the unending worship of my body and soul,” Elrohir 
laughed heartily. With a heavy sigh, he hugged closer to the Mirkwood 
prince, submitting to the mounting exhaustion of his still weakened 
condition.

The archer, however, remained wired with tension. 

“I would swear to this, and much more,” he ventured, his voice aquiver. “I 
have not yet informed you… last night, when I spoke with Aragorn at the 
door to your chambers, Elladan told me… the High Council will meet, this 
day, at the sun’s highest peak.”

“That is soon,” Elrohir remarked, without discernible enthusiasm. He knew 
the Council’s resolutions, and a restoring sleep beckoned. “You must 
dress.” 

The elf-knight felt his golden one begin to tremble. In an instant, sleep 
held little allure. 

“You are weary,” Legolas conceded, attempting to quell the tremors that 
shook him by slowly beginning to rock his sickly love. “I will see to your 
comfort.”

“You fear their decision may part us,” Elrohir cut to the quick. “You would 
that I stand with you.” 

“Your father… he may yet…”

“My father rules Imladris, not my heart.” 

“It is your birthright,” Legolas continued, unwavering. “I would not that you 
be denied, as I have been, the fulfillment of the dreams of your youth, of 
your people’s promise…”

“Our people are passing from these lands,” Elrohir reminded him. 
“Imladris is but a sanctuary to those that linger, perhaps too long, on 
these shores. I would have the little time allotted us, love, over the rule of 
a thousand kingdoms. It is the promise of love’s tenderness I dreamt of in 
my youth, not my father’s throne.”

“And what of Elladan? Must you not chose together?”

“Elladan,” Elrohir mused, thinking of his last conversation with his bashful 
twin. “He, too, has been gifted by love in these peaceful times. A warrior’s 
love, at that. We will come to some… understanding. Do not let this 
trouble you.” He brushed a warm kiss over Legolas’ mouth, but still 
sensed his unease. “Yet you are troubled still.”

“Melethron,” Legolas barely spoke, the entire length of him shaking in 
earnest. “I know we are but newly joined, and not yet coupled in the act of 
love… but would you… would you consider… I am unmannered in the 
ways of tradition, but could you, perhaps, give thought to… consenting 
to…”

“Being bound together, by Celeborn,” the darkling elf finished for him, 
both astounded and heartened by the proposal. 

“Aye,” he exhaled. Legolas raised his head to meet the elf-warrior’s eyes 
with a look of ravaging sincerity. “It is my dearest wish.” 

The sight of his tempestuous beloved so wreaked by these gentle 
yearnings momentarily robbed Elrohir of vital breath. On impulse, he 
crushed their impassioned forms together, his slow-healing body sucking 
the very force from the prince’s sound frame. 

“Then it is granted,” he cooed, as a knock struck the chamber door. 

				*		*		*            

When the two princes wandered, arms tightly linked, through the ornate 
archways of their forbears and onto the vermilion slates of the High 
Council’s terrace court, Elrond stopped cold. As did, amidst quick-
retreating ripples of intolerant babble, the awestruck assembly.  

On Elrohir’s impulse, the two strolled over to the cascade of flowering 
ederwood branches that drooped over the far corner of the balcony. The 
tree was mostly barren, victim to the noxious dragon fumes that still 
misted over the surrounding forest, with the exception of one seemingly 
unimpeachable, honey-colored bloom. The princes of Imladris and 
Mirkwood bore little mind to the disbelieving eyes that surrounded them; 
instead, they flattered the resilient tree with their regard. Elrohir caressed 
the length of the soft-wood bow with an open palm, cradling the lone 
blossom, then raised the near-translucent petals for the deft archer’s 
approval. After a bashful, mannered sniff, Legolas pulled away, and 
sneezed. 

The resulting snicker from his delighted son nearly brought Elrond to 
tears. 

The Lord of Imladris had not thought to ever see his dear, brave child 
again, let alone so soon, and so plentifully restored. Though hardly the 
strength he once was, Elrohir’s progress in one mere night was nothing 
short of unprecedented among elfkind. Where once death-gray shadows 
crept, now a giddy pearlescence shined. Though still perilously fragile, his 
lithe limbs had re-acquired their agility, poise, and feral flow, despite the 
continued necessity of some form of crutch, be it elven or otherwise. His 
face evidenced the most noticeable transformation: his cheeks plump, 
glowing buds, his sharp jawline now of a thicker blade, his eyes alight 
with a rapt incandescence, and his lips particularly scarlet, ravenous. This 
radiance could not entirely mask the pain, and, more likely, exhaustion 
that even now encroached upon him. Elrohir displayed nary a wince of 
this agony, holding fast in support of his beloved as the archer physically 
supported him. 

Elrond rose to call the session to order, but found he could not speak. 

While the company of High Elves resumed their tittering, Elladan had 
rushed over to the ederwood-shroud corner to embrace his healing twin. 
The sight of their tenderness, of their renewed connection, blindsided 
Elrond. He felt the heat of Glorfindel’s imploring glare, when the 
Gondorian consorts joined themselves to the impromptu gathering; 
Aragorn and Eldarion harkening to a visibly awkward Legolas, even as 
Arwen clung to her bleary-eyed brothers. At the last, blissfully 
overwhelmed, the entire party crushed together in one heaving mass of 
relief, of emotion. 

Elrond faltered, and fell gravely onto his throne. Thranduil, even your 
cantankerous Silvan wiles would hearten at this incredulous display. 

“Come to order,” Glorfindel announced, taking his place at Elrond’s side. 

The Lord of Imladris straightened in his seat, inwardly suppressing the 
desire to link arms with Glorfindel as the two princes had. Across the 
terrace, Elrohir and Legolas parted with a lingering kiss, Elladan guiding 
his brother over to their place in the circle. Aragorn, Arwen, and Eldarion 
followed suit, leaving the Mirkwood prince to await his summons. The 
dulcet elf bore no trace of any anxiety – his warrior’s oath demanded 
nothing less - though Elrond would not be deceived by this, or any other 
Silvan ruse. His dread was gripping, and acute. This was clear. 

“Legolas Thranduillion, last son of Mirkwood,” Elrond fearsomely 
bellowed. “The High Council of Imladris would hear your cause.” 

With brash strides, Legolas marched to the center of the circle and faced 
the Lord with a hawkish stare. 

“I, Legolas Thranduillion, Eruchin, blood of Sindar, covet the High 
Council’s fair reason. The Mirkwood of my home has fallen. Its King, 
dead. I am the last son of his house. My Fate rests with you.”

Elrond nodded severely, deferring to Celeborn, at his left. He rose. 

“The High Council mourns with heavy heart the fallen King of Mirkwood,” 
he began, his manner blessed with an eerie, Galadrian calm. “And 
recognizes, in this time of peace among the many Eldar tribes, the might 
of his reign. The Council has long deliberated on your plight, Legolas of 
Mirkwood. Our decision is the word and deed of the Valar above, and 
should you refuse to honor our judgment, you will be banished from their 
regard, and the care of Imladris. Do you swear to honor the Council’s 
word?”

“I will hear your judgment before I swear myself to it,” Legolas avowed. 
The assembled circle bristled at his insolence, though it was spoken with 
measured restraint. 

“What is this?!” Elrond snapped, unsurprised. 

“I seek no quarrel with this Council,” Legolas amended. “I would be 
blessed with its good faith. Yet, I am pledged to another, whose Fate will 
soon be inextricably bound to mine own. I will not choose for him, or 
myself, until the choice is clear. I would hear your judgment, my Lord.”

“You will hear my judgment, princeling,” Elrond snarled menacingly at 
him, rising from his throne like the dragon from valley hollows. “If you wish 
it so.”

“*Ada*,” Elrohir protested, struggling to rise. His white-knuckle grip 
clasped to both Aragorn and Elladan’s outstretched, bracing arms, he 
inwardly cursed himself for not accepting the earlier offer of Mithrandir’s 
walking stick. 

Legolas watched this struggle with disbelief, madly battling to contain the 
impulse to go to him. 

“My Lord,” Elrohir corrected himself. “I would address the Council on this 
matter.”

Elrond blanched at the sight, guilt searing an acid path to his core.

“The Prince of Imladris would speak,” Aragorn echoed, with regal 
imposition. 

Celeborn placed a firm hand on Elrond’s shoulder, then both Eldar took 
their seats. 

“You may speak, Elrohir, son of Elrond,” Celeborn acquiesced with a 
simple nod.

The elf-knight shuffled cautiously forward, only to be met by Legolas’ 
steady grip. As he guided him to the center of the circle, Elrohir felt the 
harsh beats of the fair archer’s pulse merge with his own, though his 
gentle demeanor betrayed none of the voracious apprehension that 
thundered within. Not wanting to provoke Elrond further, Legolas took 
solid hold of his beloved, but the bulk of him remained at a judicious 
distance apart. 

Before his address, Elrohir locked eyes with his dear maltaren, silently 
reminding him of their mutual affection. The gesture spoke volumes to the 
assembled company. 

“Though this is a Council of matters of rule and law among our people,” 
Elrohir commented wryly. “I would speak of matters of the heart. Of *my* 
heart.” He turned to meet his father’s withering stare with tender eyes. “I 
have lived a righteous life, at the service of the Valar, of the Eldar, of 
Imladris my home. Throughout my life, I have seen the balance of 
shadow and light: my mother, who could not bear the perils of this world, 
fled to Valinor; my sister, who embraced the love of a man of this Middle-
Earth, chose a mortal life. I have waged terrible war on the plains of this 
land and I have rode over every region, awestruck by its formidable 
beauty. Never alone, for my soul is twinned to another, but lonely. 
Uncoupled. Itinerant. Never could I rest, when the threat of Mordor 
beckoned. When a warrior’s life was the only life I could safely know, to 
keep safe my home, my people.

“The War is ended, the Shadow fallen, and my heart… has strayed from 
these timely preoccupations. Know this: when you choose the Fate of this 
thorn-stemmed flower of the Mirkwood greens, you choose my own. For 
by Elbereth, I will nevermore be parted from him.”

Legolas shut his eyes, his beloved’s words piercing the knife’s edge of his 
self-control through. He fought desperately to smote the blaze of love 
within him, to meet the Council’s verdict with honor, if not obedience. 

“What say you on this, Prince of Mirkwood?” Celeborn asked, with potent 
meaning. 

The archer felt their searing glares raze over him, blunt, demanding. His 
warrior’s heart rose to meet their challenge, as he raised the lids of his 
eyes with purposeful temperance. 

“I am not one for pontification,” he shot true, in Elrond’s direction. “Or 
times of peace. I have known no other life than that of a warrior, and 
would have none other. Yet peace has come, my father dead, and our 
people in retreat… I am uncertain of my place on this Middle-Earth, or 
elsewhere. I know but one truth. I would bind my soul to this Prince of 
Imladris, to this son of Elrond. To this best and most beautiful Elrohir of 
my heart.” 

In this breathless moment, the assembly turned to Elrond. Immersed in 
the audacity of these declarations, he had allowed Glorfindel to weave 
their long fingers into a familiar clasp; this touch was the only point of 
warmth in the entirety of his stern, frigid frame. As Elrohir, courted by a 
mounting fatigue, was welcomed into the archer’s caring arms, Glorfindel 
stroked a soothing, sentimental touch over the flex of Elrond’s bent 
knees. This haunting gesture recalled another Council session, long ago, 
when the meat of the matter was the emergence of their own love, with 
Elrond still bound to the departed Celebrian. The mother of his children; a 
marriage of convenience. /They will not suffer for their love as we did, 
melethron./

Elrond rose once more, with imposing determination. 

“Legolas Thranduillion,” Elrond proclaimed. “The High Council is decided. 
You are Prince of Mirkwood no longer. The once-green wood is 
abandoned, and thus the proposed reign of its new King and heir forfeit.” 
A hush fell over the company, each eager for further news. “Yet you are 
pledged to greater cares than Mirkwood, and these are to be respected. 
You are foresworn to wait-out the life of the King of Gondor. The Council 
sees no need to alter this. After his death, you will proceed to Valinor, 
with the last of the Elven people. Those that remain after your departure 
choose a mortal life.

“There are those, in the forest of Lorien, that have made this choice. The 
last of the Galadrrim reside there still. Among these fearsome archers will 
you make your home, until such time as you pass over the Sea. I, myself, 
and those who chose to follow, will shortly pass to Valinor, and with us, 
the sanctuary of Imladris. And so, in the light of the Valar, I name you 
King Legolas, of Lothlorien.” 

Legolas reeled, this once gripping tight to Elrohir. 

Elrond smirked pridefully, as the assembly held their breath. He 
continued: “My dearest Elrohir, child of my heart, I name you heir to my 
Lordship, and ruler of the Eldar on this Middle-Earth.” He looked out, over 
the company, to further emphasize the resounding impact of his 
pronouncements. “These two Lords of the realm will be bound, and 
crowned, in a fortnight’s time. These celebrations will be the last, and the 
greatest, of these homely halls. Those that sail for Valinor will depart the 
following dawn. Those that part for Lothlorien, and delay their choice, may 
leave at their Lords’ leisure.

This is the High Council’s decree, under the Light of the Valar.”

The other members of the Council bowed their heads in agreement. As 
was the custom, the High Elven rose in unison, then filed away through 
the furthest arch, under the pious faces of Feanor and Gil-galad 
enshrined in the silver sheen of the stone. Lord Elrond, the last to exit, 
paused briefly by the carved robes of Ingwe, Glorfindel waiting ahead, to 
catch one final glimpse of his court, of his contented family. 

He sighed, once, then kept on. 

After the High Council’s decree, a dormant hush seemed to blanket over 
peerless Imladris herself. The remains of the elven company, though 
inwardly consumed by an unseemly, gnawing need to rumormonger, 
drifted off into the gloom-brushed halls of the Last Homely House. Only 
the children of Elrond and their lovers stayed behind, their faces beaming, 
yet ambivalent at the news of the passing of both their father and of their 
home into legend. 

Legolas had long before swept Elrohir into a back-breaking embrace. His 
beloved shroud in the deep of his arms, Legolas whispered to him with a 
secret, silken tongue, the intimacy of these private thoughts moistening 
their eyes. Reluctant to interrupt, the King and Queen of Gondor instead 
coddled their awestruck son, who struggled to repress his thousand 
queries about the events he’d actually witnessed firsthand. 

Mindful of overt attention, Erestor, who had surreptitiously returned, tread 
measuredly across the terrace, courting Elladan’s attention. They, too, 
quietly conferred. After a veritable festival’s worth of crimson shades 
colored the Loremaster’s cheeks, he nodded intently, then turned to 
address his twin. Elrohir, immersed in both bountiful relief and crushing 
fatigue, was by this point cradled snugly in the future Lord of Lorien’s 
arms, his head tucked against his shoulder.

“Brother,” Elrohir himself beckoned, reaching out to his twin but unable to 
long sustain the stretch. “I would speak with you of these tidings.”

“Be assured, Elrohir,” Elladan replied, before the question was posed. “I 
bear you no ill, and will serve both the brother and the Lord with equal 
devotion.” 

“This, I never doubted, gwanur-nin,” the elf-knight confirmed. “I merely 
wished… do you long for Valinor, as well? Will you pass over with Ada?” 

“Is there no need for elf-lore among the fearsome Galadrrim?” Elladan 
teased, his answer implicit. “I would not leave the transcribing of the tales 
and legends of the Eruchin to such impatient, unlearned spirits as 
yourselves.”       

The familiar company laughed, and drew closer together, Erestor weaving 
a tentative arm around the Loremaster’s waist. 

“And you, Chief Protector,” Elrohir submitted. “What will you find to 
occupy that keen strategist’s mind once Imladris is laid to rest?” 

“Lorien’s borders need tending,” Legolas remarked, complicit. “Those 
willful Galadrrim crave a wise general’s discipline. There is a place, in the 
white lady’s woods, for such a strict and seasoned archer, should you, 
too, wish to postpone your journey overseas awhile.” 

“Aye, the task suits me well,” Erestor solemnly agreed. “For I would not 
dare be parted from one to whom I was bound this very morn.” 

At this announcement, Elladan blanched, while a chorus of exclamations 
burst forth from the others. 

“*Bound*?” Elrohir gasped, vaguely distressed that he was not party to 
the ceremony. 

Elladan shot a cutting look of reproach at Erestor, but could not long keep 
compassion from his eyes. The Imladrian general was brusque, 
impulsive; indeed, this brashness had helped win over Elladan’s oft-timid 
nature, had led directly to their joining under this past sunrise.      

“Dearest one,” Elladan cooed to his twin, struggling to explain this 
uncharacteristic spontaneity. “You know I am of humble heart… I did not 
wish… you were unwell…” 

“Hush, gwanur,” Elrohir insisted warmly. “If you are bound in love, then I 
am glad of it. Though it troubles me that you waste such precious hours 
on this, the day of your binding, with my regretful troubles. Go!! Take 
solace in each other’s arms!! I shall not hear another word from you until 
we are both… sufficiently *rested*.”

Elladan didn’t dare reply, but instead hurried to embrace his highly 
amused twin, then escaped with Erestor to the sanctity of his 
Loremaster’s chambers. 

As Elrohir attempted to stifle an unseemly yawn, the Gondorian consorts 
approached them. After blessing her drowsy brother’s brow with an 
approving kiss, Arwen clasped his heavy hand in hers.

“Rest well, my brave one,” she smiled serenely. “But before, the King and 
I would entreat your counsel on a small matter.” 

“Which is this?” the darkling elf asked in a mumble, his lashes batting 
rapidly as he fought to stay focused. 

“Another time, perhaps, my Lady Undomiel,” Legolas ventured, anxious to 
have Elrohir take rest. Then, to the elf-knight: “Beloved, you are worn 
raw.” 

“A simple request, mellon-nin,” Aragorn pushed in. “Our son is now 
without a guardian. If he is to be fit to reign as a king of our lineage, he 
will need schooling in the elven ways of war. Who better to tutor him that 
the two finest warriors the Eldar have among their ranks?”

“You would the Prince live in Lorien?” Legolas reeled. Mischievous as 
ever, he raised a knowing brow at the King’s madness. “*You*, Aragorn, 
would part with your only son?” 

“Two season only,” Arwen cautioned him. “I would have my boy know his 
sisters. Half a year in training at Lorien, and half a year in practice, at 
court. Fair trade for the bounty of elven wiles.”

“Indeed,” Legolas winked at Eldarion, who could not seem more pleased 
at the prospect of such adventures. “Well, then. After the Lord of Imladris 
has passed, we will journey to Minas Tirith. Elrohir, as well, must collect 
his treasury of armor there. Elladan and Erestor will be tasked with taming 
the roguish Galadrrim, and we will arrive at Lorien to a king’s welcome.” 
Suddenly, Legolas caught wind of his Elrondian tone, then giggled 
mercilessly at himself. “I did not think I would well-bear a Lord’s burdens, 
but this last decree bore a whiff of Glorfindel’s cunning, if I may commend 
myself.” The friends shared a hearty laugh at this self-reflection. Gingerly, 
he kissed the crown of Elrohir’s raven hair.  “What say you, melethron?” 

The Elf-lord, regretfully, had already fallen asleep. 

				*		*		*  

In exasperation, Elrohir tugged the elliptical elf-crown from its nest around 
his head and aggressively tinkered with the shape of the fused mithril 
twines. Though the dwarves newly settled in a restored Moria had 
themselves taken his measure, and thereby forged a magnificently 
intricate mantle for Elrond’s heir, the haste required had forgotten certain 
subtleties. Such as leaf stems that did not dig into one’s scalp, a down-
lined interior whose quill edges did not scrape, temple-clamps crafted in 
the likeness of his witch-sword that did not pinch to near-blindness. 

He clunked the silver garland down onto the marbled stone of the long 
banquet table, grunted, and glared at it.  

“Not a day’s rule yet passed,” Aragorn snickered. “And already you scorn 
the burden of leadership.”  

“It is the dwarves’ skill I scorn, or lack thereof,” Elrohir grumbled, but not 
without a gentle smirk. “The metal chafes me raw.”  

“Aye, clearly, you are restless,” Aragorn continued to needle him. His 
slate-blue eyes wandered across the hall, where the Lord of Lorien held 
court amidst a quiver of rapt archer-comrades. By the King of Gondor’s 
estimation, he was recounting his own part in the final hours of the Battle 
of Hornburg, at the Helm. It would perhaps require such an army to tare 
their enthralled gazes away from Legolas’ peerless radiance. “But does 
the blame truly rest on your crown?” 

The blazing look the brittle half-elven shot in the archer’s direction 
confirmed his suspicions. Elrohir locked eyes with his beloved, and 
sighed. 

Aragorn laughed heartily. “You are well matched. Many a night, this last 
week, has the Queen’s rest been disturbed by Legolas’ midnight 
wanderings, creeping into our chambers to beg for my company. The 
restoration of your health brings many blessings, gwanur-nin.” 

“Indeed,” Elrohir snipped, though an ache of an entirely different nature 
still gnawed at the core of him. They were bound and crowned now, true, 
but not yet coupled, and still the feasting raged on around them. The last 
night of Imladris. How could they, in good conscience, excuse themselves 
at such an early hour? Thus, Legolas trafficked with the Galadrrim by the 
terrace doors and Elrohir was sequestered behind the banquet table, his 
longing grown more palpable than the taste of miruvor from his goblet.

The sight of his resplendent beloved did little to smite this long-simmering 
desire. Clad in a palette of rich, aquatic greens, the Lorien Lord’s lithe 
frame bristled with bold vitality, as if ready to pounce. A fortnight of day-
long advisory meetings with each member of the High Council had done 
nothing to tame his cutthroat ways, though this ritual retelling of war-tales 
bode well for their initial relations with the Galadrrim and bespoke the 
hidden reserves of soldier’s wisdom in the veteran archer. They were, 
indeed, well-counseled and well-matched. 

The golden beams of the surrounding candelabra coupled with the 
moon’s warm glow to flatter the Lord of Lorien’s flaxen mane, cream-
kissed skin, and cerulean eyes. The quicksilver sheen of his own mithril 
crown reflected these ethereal sources, bathing the mercurial elf with a 
celestial aura, as if Manwe himself had descended from above. Despite 
this Valarian grace, when Elrohir regarded him thus, he saw through an 
archer’s ease at storytelling, a beauty’s unconsciously affecting poise. He 
saw through to the ferocious soul that basked in a cunning kill, the 
shame-wrecked prince that trembled in his arms, the misguided heart that 
shot down when it should have opened, to save. 

These flaws he loved so dearly well, and cherished deep within.  

From the opposing end of the banquet table, his father gestured to the 
waiting minstrels. They struck up a quaint, cheerful melody, which suited 
the company. Many among them rose to dance, including his twin with a 
fiercely reluctant Erestor, and the Queen of Gondor with her eager son. 
Aragorn remained at his side, knowing, as Elrohir did, that to dance with 
his beloved would do little to encourage their continued attendance at the 
celebrations. Instead, the King clamped a warm hand on his brother’s arm 
and squeezed fondly. 

“I was quite moved at the time of your binding, gwanur,” Aragorn 
commented with affection. “I have not witnessed such tenderness since… 
well, perhaps the comparison is unjust. At mine own, I had eyes for little 
other than Arwen…”

“Aye, even now, that is plain,” Elrohir ribbed him, as the King’s dewy gaze 
rarely shied far away from the Lady Evenstar. “But tell me, Estel, may she 
travel well in her condition?”

“As well as a lone, grief-sick elf through Mirkwood ashes,” Aragorn 
retorted, then thought better. “And more ably, still, at that. It is yet six 
month till our child will be born, four before her confinement. I hold some 
fears… but without her father’s healing here, she will need a midwife’s 
care. Best we return to Gondor.” 

“Well reasoned,” Elrohir agreed. 

“And you, gwanur?” Aragorn broached, with slight trepidation. “Do you 
feel… entirely restored?”

“I have progressed,” Elrohir admitted wearily. “Though I still tire under 
prolonged strain. Horseback always soothes me, but I engaged the young 
prince in swordplay late last afternoon, and I slept through supper, till 
morn. Legolas was… overly attentive, this morning, to be kind.”      

“The binding Rites, surely, have strengthened you,” the King supposed.

“They have,” the Elf-lord acknowledged with a smile. “As does the night’s 
promise…” 

“Legolas will surely push you to delay such intimacy,” Aragorn remarked 
bemusedly. 

“Perhaps,” Elrohir noted, enigmatic, as he watched the Galadrrim applaud 
the conclusion of their new Lord’s tale. 

Conscious of the constant appraisal of his husband’s gaze, Legolas 
strolled over to the minstrels and beseeched a word with their lute-playing 
leader. Their deal struck, he silenced his companions with a glance, then 
rose to address the revelers. 

“My Lords and Ladies of Imladris,” the lute-player announced. “The Lord 
of Lorien would grace us with a song.” 

The crowd applauded, all turning towards the balustrade, where Legolas 
now stood. As the minstrels prepared themselves, he took a sweeping 
bow, then fixed full, loving eyes on his Elrohir. There was no need for a 
formal dedication. The darkling elf took a long, steadying breath, then 
stood to welcome this incumbent treasure, the gift of his husband’s song. 

To Elrohir, the music began with a jolt, the first chord striking true. As the 
strains wafted, like the balming swells of a mineral bath, around him, he 
was lulled into the stream of the rich, enveloping refrain just as Legolas 
began to sing the Lay of Leithian. His lush, yearning voice caught his 
beloved in a rapturous thrall. As on the first night of their then warrior’s 
Rites, a brazing heat fused through the length of Elrohir’s skin, every shift 
in the archer’s tone breaking another sultry wave over him. Yet his 
eloquence was equally seductive, the archer’s voice thick with a lonely 
heart’s longing, tremulous before the promise of eternal devotion.             

Hopelessly unmoored by the last of the song’s intoxicating beauty, Elrohir 
blithely shut his eyes. His dear, incandescent husband best remain by the 
balustrade, else this portion of the festivities would indeed be swiftly 
ended. Before the thought could pass on, he felt the charge of Legolas’ 
arms around him, nestling him close. The most gracious of hands cupped 
his face, as soft, still-timid lips suckled at his mouth. 

“Melethron,” Legolas rasped, his smooth voice now perverted by longing. 
“Do you tire?”

“Nay, I am quite well,” Elrohir protested, reluctantly breaking their kiss to 
prove his cause by the sharpness of his eyes. 

“You are *weary*,” Legolas insisted, a glint of mischief rimming his 
pregnant stare. “We must presently retire. Take some rest…” The 
archer’s nimble fingers brushed down the length of his back, cupping a 
firm grip even further down. 

Elrohir, head swimming with echoes of his beloved’s song, readily 
complied with this small deception. He allowed desire to overtake him, the 
luxury of Legolas’ proximity, his velvet touch, the overpowering scent of 
his body, ripe with sweat.

The Elf-lord swooned, and sagged into his embrace. The efficacy of the 
resulting gasps made him snuff a laugh into the crook of Legolas’ arm, 
almost giving the game away. A chorus of concern forced the Lord of 
Lorien to usher him away to their chambers.

The Lord was more than eager to comply. 

				*		*		*

“You may cradle him in slumber, but do not cling,” Elrond seemed to be 
concluding. At least, Legolas desperately hoped for this. “His chest may 
be constricted. He must not feel crushed, or any restraint…” The former 
Lord of Imladris continued patiently on, meticulous in his instruction, 
demonstrating no apparent signs of fatigue, distress, or… self-awareness. 

Legolas exhaled in slow, measured breaths, his voracious tongue 
prodding at the cage of his clenched teeth. The diaphanous gauze of his 
innermost robe clung to the sweat-soaked length of his skin; the fall of the 
outermost layer barely concealing the moist blunt of his barrel-thick shaft. 
He nodded once, with studied severity, and prayed that the green of the 
silk sheath was dark enough to absorb any over-drip. He could not for any 
decent stretch of time avoid the thought of Elrohir, waiting and surely 
naked beyond the chamber doors at his back; thus any wits that may 
have served to quickly assure Elrond both of his son’s continued health 
and of Legolas’ capacity to care for him were dangerously preoccupied.     

Before, as he had lain the limp body of his mock-dormant love onto their 
bed, Elrohir had surreptitiously tickled his fingers over the archer’s wrist, 
then fluttered their feathery tips along the soft of his inner-arm, an echo of 
the need withheld on the night they declared their love. As the 
overbearing father droned on, the Lord of Lorien now sorely regretted 
using the half-elven’s weakness as a ruse, the memory of that teasing 
touch ghosting up his slick arms, taunting him with the later promise of 
grips, strokes, clutches...

Legolas swallowed hard, struggled to focus.     

“*Ada*,” the son-in-law assuaged with familiarity. “I am ever grateful of 
your fond counsel, but I must tend to him, before he may rest.”

This chastened Elrond. “I had not thought on this,” he admitted 
sheepishly. 

“Do not be troubled,” Legolas added intuitively. “Though the blanket of 
winter descends, do not let it shroud your heart in sorrow, in doubt. 
Rejoice!! Imladris was a kingdom of plenty, your children are rich in love, 
and our dearest elf-knight will yet be replenished by slumber. Your eyes 
will bear this witness, on the morrow.” 

“Aye,” Elrond admitted, but did not seem convinced. “Sage counsel, 
Legolas. I have chosen wisely.” At this, the Lord of Lorien met his law-
father with an easy smile. “Rest well, my brave one.” 

“Hannon le, Ada.” 

With a last flick of his eyes over the chamber doors, Elrond bowed in 
deference, then slipped back down the shadowy hall. Legolas sighed 
mightily, spun on his heel, and swished through the arched entrance of 
their rooms. 

There, he met with a sight that stirred the very bowels of his self-control. 

Elrohir, bare and hauntingly beautiful, before his very eyes. 

For him, only. 

“Melethron,” Elrohir beckoned, stepping further into the glow of the 
surrounding candlelight. 

Offering himself.  

Ache knotted into his straining groin, the light wool folds of his robes 
evidencing a painfully visceral bulge. Legolas gnawed on the inside of his 
cheek, drawing blood, smoothing the flint-rock taste through his mouth. 
Instinctively, he thought of the plains of Pellenor, the heat of hand to hand 
combat, and his body surged. Hungry, wanting, he fisted into the bristled 
fabric at his sides, as if to restrain himself. A deranged fever raged 
through his veins, kin to the bruising lust of that thoughtless Mirkwood 
midnight, fogging his judgment and urging him to attack the stately grace 
of the supple, sensuous frame before him. 

Elrohir tread quietly forward, brushing kind, lingering hands over the 
archer’s heaving chest. Careful to maintain some distance between them, 
the darkling elf nevertheless leaned in to suckle, almost sweetly, at the 
scarlet smear of Legolas’ lips. 

In the very instant of this tenderness, the fever quelled. 

“My father serves me well,” Elrohir appraised, as his heady gaze licked up 
the luscious length of him. “His dull lecturing has left you ready.” He 
stroked a knowing hand over his tenting robes, raised a daring eyebrow. 
“Ripe.” With a flick of his tongue, he opened the archer’s warm, wanting 
mouth, drawing deeply, claiming him. 

“Hold tight, beloved. I will have you now.” 

Arms of astonishing strength gingerly assaulted him, whipping open his 
belt and buckles, yanking off his boots, tearing through the ties that bound 
him and swiftly shedding his robes. All the while, Elrohir never missed an 
opportunity to fondle, tease, or ardently caress a bare patch, a sheer 
slope of the Lorien Lord’s buttery skin. Soon tangled in a satin mess on 
the floor, Legolas laughed, shrieked, and squealed as the elf-knight bit 
sharply into his purple nipples, then vigorously balmed their stiff nubs with 
lively laps. Snaking his legs around Elrohir’s waist, the fair archer had 
long abandoned any trailing thought of Mirkwood, mad lust, or other than 
his own impending ravaging. 

When Elrohir gripped seasoned fingers around the root of his 
engorgement, he abandoned all thought whatsoever. 

As mauling hands pumped over the nest of bloated nerves at his base, 
the avenging tongue circled his pearly head, laving its ring of viscous 
droplets across eager lips. Waves of raven hair spilled over his thighs, his 
lap, nearly obscuring the rapt, indigo eyes that bore into his woozy 
senses, forcing him to watch as his one, truest lover swallowed the whole 
of him. 

Legolas reared, wild, bucking into the molten deep of his mouth, a fury of 
feeling singing through him, nothing like raw, nothing like flesh, nothing 
like lust. Ever sure of his aim, he soon shot a stream of searing bolts 
down the elf-knight’s throat, the smack of release nearly winding him. 
Legolas collapsed into the gauzy folds beneath him, tears welling in the 
cerulean pools of his eyes.

One thought alone gripped him. /This… this is his heart’s loving. This is 
love./ 

His tawdry gaze only for the lovely, listless archer, Elrohir crept up 
alongside of him, linking their still-wanting limbs together. With 
considerate delicacy, he slowly unwound his beloved’s intricate braids, 
expertly separating, then smoothing, the flaxen strands, as Legolas 
struggled to regain his composure. The darkling elf hummed raggedly 
throughout this task, occasionally bowing to kiss a flush cheek, the blue 
hollow of a temple, the pale cast of his brow. 

When Legolas snuck his hesitant lips up to meet his lover’s own, he 
forced down another sweep of sorrow. Elrohir met the kiss with ample 
tenderness, moving to cradle him. 

“Take your ease, maltaren-nin,” he murmured gently. “The night is young, 
and this first love-act would strike true to the most seasoned of hearts.”  

“You seem little troubled by it,” Legolas noted morosely. 

“One need not weep to be moved by the sight of his love,” Elrohir 
remarked, the violet glow of his eyes enveloping him anew. “My beauty.” 

Instantly repentant, Legolas tightened their embrace, as if using his lithe 
form to dam the tide that flooded through him. 

Elrohir sensed his unease, and cooed: “I should have taken greater care 
to prepare you, melethron-nin. For elfkind, the Rites of love are more 
potently felt than for any other creature on Middle-Earth. Few, after 
experiencing such passions, may return to a mortal love’s bed. For some, 
the act can be… shattering.”

“Aye, it is fierce as the rush of the mighty Anduin,” Legolas conceded, 
head nuzzling into the darkling elf’s shoulder, to steady itself. “As if I’d 
drained an entire barrel of Dwarf ale. I am drunk with it.” Shimmering eyes 
beamed upwards, his mischievous smile retuning with a vengeance. 
“With your scent, melethron. With need of you…” He lay the languorous 
bulk of his lean, muscular body across the swaths of aquamarine satin, 
exposing himself to Elrohir’s lingering gaze. 

In another of the night’s glorious firsts, the elf-knight soon felt himself stir 
to full, scorching potency. With a wicked glint, Legolas grazed the 
already-glistening tip of his log-fat arousal, then raised his sinuous 
fingers, generously coated with the translucent sap, to his waiting lips, 
sucking wantonly. Elrohir growled, ground their hips together. Blunt, brutal 
jolts of pleasure stabbed up the archer’s spine, enflaming him to full, 
decadent hardness. The darkling elf pinned his fair lover beneath him, 
ready hands parting his all-too-malleable legs, reaching between them to 
stroke their slicked lengths in unison. 

The smoldering friction that resulted nearly bested them both. 

“Melethron,” Elrohir groaned, somehow corralling his senses to produce 
speech. Legolas was almost sentient enough to be envious. “Does this 
please you…? Or would you that I… that I…”

“Please, Elrohir,” Legolas begged outright, gripping vehemently into the 
head that recklessly stained his neck with crimson culls. “Have me… 
Have my loving…Have my heart…” 

Caught in the frenzy of stroking hands, of mounting heat, of the honey-
thick salve that readied him, Legolas was conscious only of a keen, 
immaculate rapture, the awesome thrall of his lover’s sensuous 
attentions. As if sinking into a tranquil pond, the elf-knight sheathed 
himself deep within the lank archer; the sheer ecstasy of this joining 
blazing through him like dragon’s fire.  

For several bliss-drunk moments, Legolas heard nothing but his love’s 
husky grunts, his own feral pants, felt nothing but the singe of that hot 
mouth over his own, knew nothing but the throb of their writhing loins, the 
thunderous pound of his telltale heart. When, undone at last, Legolas 
spent himself across the taut wash of his abdomen, Elrohir could do 
nothing but so bless him in return, releasing a white-hot gush into the 
secret, sacred core of him. 

The Elf-lord soon fell over him, his last reserves of strength drained 
resolutely hollow by their voracious coupling. 

Legolas hugged him close, drank in their sweet, musky scent. A fugue of 
peace descended, bathing his passion-soaked mind, his sated body in a 
swell of opulent affection. 

“My glorious elf-knight,” he purred against his cheek. “Radiant star-rider… 
most eloquent and ethereal husband…” 

“And what of my fearsome ways?” Elrohir chuckled softly, unable to sleep 
with Legolas so unwound. There was such ease in his dear maltaren’s 
voice, such contentment. It heartened him. “Lesser elves would tremble 
before one of such lethal skill, you would be well to remind yourself.”

“Aye, I did tremble,” Legolas insisted, still mildly delirious. “I quaked. I 
scorned and cursed and shunned, but was soon tempered. Tamed. By 
your valiant heart, my beloved.”

“You are no such thing,” the darkling elf chided, with implicit tenderness.

“I am yours,” he whispered, sinking deeper still into their embrace, until 
their two slender, gracious forms neatly melded into one. “By Elbereth, I 
have known no other’s light. No other’s love. 

In this, I surrender to you, Elrohir of my heart.”


The End



A/N:  ‘Hannon le.’  Thank you.