Title: Place of No Frontiers  
Author: Neira47 (bahamabreezegal@hotmail.com)  
Rating: R to NC-17 later (for violence and sexual situations)  
Category: Lord of the Rings  
Pairing:  Legolas/Elrohir  
 
Summary:   This is a story set before FOTR when the darkness begins to 
overtake the southern tip of Greenwood.  This is a story of feuds and 
hatred and prejudice that comes with them among the Elven race:  a 
boxing match between the so-called “Woodland Elves” (which will 
include the Sindarian, Silvan, and Nandorian cultures) and the so-called 
“Light Elves” (which translates to the Noldor…Imladris, Lothlorien 
Elves).  In this fic, the Woodland Elves are those mistreated over the years 
and have every reason to despise their “wiser, more cultured” kindred.  
Legolas and Elrohir will inevitably meet and through much pain and 
hardships, the two heirs will realize maybe love can be enough…  
 
Disclaimer: All credit belongs to the mastermind of Tolkien, although 
hopefully he won’t be too furious to see my gross tampering of his genius 
as I’ve taken more than my share of liberty with both LOTR and the 
Silmarillion. Thus, the Firstborn are at odds (not the perfect race often 
depicted); Saeros, an ancient Nandorian warrior who by all accounts is 
killed in the Silmarillion, is alive and well in this fic.  The characters of 
Caranthir, Gildeon (who will appear later), Gelmir, Meneduil, Nenuial, 
Ariana, Orion, Celdrian, and Lenora are my own deluded creations.  
 
 
Character List (as I fooled around with them to suit my purposes):  
 
Thranduil – King of Mirkwood (formerly Greenwood), father of Legolas, 
Lenora, Meneduil, Nenuial, Ariana, Orion, and Celdrian  
 
Caranthir – Lord of Hísilómë, kingdom to the north of Greenwood, long-
time comrade to Thranduil, known for his mixed Noldor-Sindarian 
heritage but sought after for his wisdom  
 
Saeros – ancient, Nandorian warrior who fought in the Last Alliance, 
pledged to the rule of Thranduil  
 
Lenora – twin sister to Legolas  
 
Elrond – Half-Elven ruler of Imladris, father of Elrohir, Elladan, and 
Arwen; once was apprentice to Gil-galad, known among Noldor for his 
wisdom  
 
Galadriel/Celeborn – Queen and Lord of Lothlorien, known for wisdom 
yet hold a keen disrespect for those Elves believed to be unworthy of 
Galadhrim (namely those Woodland Elves)  
 
Glorfindel – Noldor Elf, who like his Sindarian counterpart, Caranthir, 
despises the long-time feuds  
 
Gelmir – loyal servant to Thranduil  
 
Gildeon – best friend to Legolas, is son to the leader of the Royal Guard of 
Mirkwood  
 
…and then we’ll see as this thing progresses  
 
A/N:  And which will become more important in later chapters, Thranduil 
is the keeper of Narya, the Red Ring or Ring of Fire, Elrond is the keeper 
of Vilya, the Ring of Air, and Galadriel, the keeper of Nenya, the Ring of 
Water.  Prologue is set upon the first years of the darkness overcoming the 
southern tip of Greenwood, the forest is not yet referred to as Mirkwood.  
 
 
*~* Prolouge*~*  
 
The lone crow held his position on a great pine’s dappled bough, his black 
gaze unwaveringly holding the Elf’s intense green eyes.  As the Elf took a 
step towards the open window, the bird fluttered his wings in warning, 
never breaking the stare the two beings shared.  Diffuse, gray light 
reflected off the oily texture of the black feathers, creating an unearthly 
sheen.  
 
“My Lord?” a soft, firm voice addressed in the silence.  
 
With a forlorn cry, the crow leapt from his perch, each beat of his wings 
striking a chord of sinister forewarning within the Elf’s chest.   As if 
waking from a deep slumber, Thranduil turned slowly towards the door.  
 
Gelmir, the King’s most trusted servant, bowed reverently before 
Thranduil’s questioning gaze, his hands clasped behind his back.  “I am 
sorry to disturb you, my Lord, but Lord Caranthir and Saeros have just 
arrived and request an audience with you.”  
 
Thranduil’s face remained impassive at the news, although a spark of 
surprise flickered in his eyes for a brief moment.  “Very well, Gelmir.  
Please send them in.”  
 
As Gelmir hurried to fulfill his bidding, Thranduil turned back to the 
window, half-expecting to see the foul bird once again perched outside.  
But there was nothing, just a slight wind rustling through the treetops, a 
few idle leaves breaking free to drift aimlessly in their bittersweet 
liberation.  With a barely audible sigh, he gripped the windowsill, the 
muscles in his shoulders clenched while his fingers absentmindedly ran 
across the taut wood.  
 
Caranthir and Saeros entered the study with soundless footsteps, the 
ancient Nandorian a couple of paces behind the Lord of Hísilómë.  
Thranduil sensed their presence and addressed his old comrades with a 
hint of annoyance, “I suppose you are here to impress upon me counsel, eh 
Caranthir?”  
 
Caranthir’s upper lip twitched slightly as he nonchalantly retorted, “I have 
found it most necessary over these long years, my friend.”  
 
Thranduil turned to regard the tall, blonde Elf who had been a comrade in 
arms and trusted confidant to him long before his Father had perished soon 
after the Last Alliance.  Caranthir possessed both Noldor and Sindarian 
ancestry, but embraced his Sindar kindred in the timeless feuds arising 
between the Elffolk. Thranduil’s eyes then fell to the silent, stern 
countenance of the Nandor warrior, Saeros, whom had pledged his 
allegiance to the House of Oropher ages ago and had continued to do so 
upon Thranduil’s rise to the throne.  
 
Raising a perfectly sculpted brow, Thranduil crossed his arms 
authoritatively upon his chest as he fixed a pointed glare in Caranthir’s 
direction, “Alas, I would imagine the pleasure of hearing your own voice 
serves as motivation enough.  Do you not agree Saeros?”  
 
The raven-haired, pale green-eyed Elf stifled a rare smirk, the only 
indication that he had indeed heard Thranduil’s question, and continued to 
stare silently at his Lord.  
 
Caranthir chuckled richly, stepping forward to embrace Thranduil in a 
warrior’s greeting, “You are well aware that my voice draws quite a 
audience as my wisdom is much sought after.”  
 
“I am aware your ego apparently knows no bounds this side of Valinor.”  
 
The Lord of Hísilómë shook his head slightly and laughed.  “We, old 
friend, could continue this conversation long into the next age, but I 
believe you know why Saeros and I have come.”  
 
A scowl overtook Thranduil’s handsome features as he turned quickly to 
face the window and looked as far as his eye could see over his kingdom.  
His kingdom that was rapidly falling into the realm of shadow with each 
passing day, a darkness that proved to be as persistent as the surrender of 
the sun to the will of the moon.  He feared its origin, praying to Ilúvatar 
himself that he was wrong, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to 
deny the whispers clinging with foul talons upon the wind.  Sauron had 
returned.  
 
Clenching his fists into tight balls by his sides, Thranduil all but hissed, “I 
will not ask for help from them.”  Whipping around, his eyes flashed fire, 
“Never, Caranthir.”  
 
Caranthir sighed, knowing how deeply Thranduil despised their brethren 
to the South, knew that he wouldn’t relinquish his hate easily, not while 
Ilyria’s death still consumed his heart.  Risking a glance in Saeros’ 
direction, Caranthir almost flinched from the anger and betrayal burning in 
those startling pale eyes as the warrior held a keen disgust for the Noldor.  
He knew he had been less than truthful in revealing to Saeros their reasons 
for coming to Greenwood, and now with two of the most obstinate, 
passionate Elves he had known in his long life shooting daggers in his 
direction, Caranthir wished he didn’t feel the need to push this argument.  
 
Yet, for the combined welfare of the Sindar, Silvan, and Nandor kindred, 
it was necessary to re-unite with those of the Noldor, at least until the 
threat brewing in the southern region of Greenwood was defeated.  
 
Easier said than done, considering the significant breach separating the 
two main lineages of the Firstborn.  Caranthir himself had reason to 
despise the Noldor side of his history, especially the Noldor’s propensity 
to dismiss other cultures as inferior and expendable to their own.  He still 
burned with a deep rage over Gil-galad’s betrayal of what he deemed the 
“lesser” Elves, surmising to force them to submit to his rule and abandon 
their own customs.  
 
But there were those who resisted, who brought a keen sense of pride and 
determination to their people - Thingol, Denethor, Oropher, Saeros - And 
thus was born hatred and misunderstanding from the power-crazed lust of 
one of the children of Ilúvatar.  So much pain reaped from a race of 
wisdom and beauty as the stars watched in sorrow.  Lines in the sand of 
Middle Earth had been drawn.  
 
Over time, rage lessened to a degree, yet mistrust proved to be too difficult 
to overcome, a noxious poison with no known antidote.  It was with much 
regret that Caranthir realized his brother in spirit, Thranduil, had lost more 
than most to the whims of the Noldor - first his Father by what many 
believed was Gil-galad’s arrow, his brother in one of the endless battles of 
The Resistance, and then many years later, Ilyria, his beloved wife and 
mother of his seven children in a so-called accident while she had been 
visiting family in southern Greenwood.  If not for Thranduil’s fierce love 
of his children, and admittedly his desperate hold on his anger, Caranthir 
feared he would have long ago succumbed to grief, for Ilyria was his 
everything - the prideful, willful heir of Greenwood had fallen victim to 
love’s embrace.  
 
“I understand your reluctance to do so,” Caranthir glanced back and forth 
between his comrades and hastily added, “both of you, yet I fear there 
might be no other recourse.”  
 
“It is more than a simple ‘reluctance,’” Thranduil spat heatedly, “Have 
you forgotten what they have done, done to our people, to our loved 
ones…”  
 
Caranthir held his hands out almost pleadingly and took a step towards the 
furious King, “No.  Never will I do so!  You know better than anyone my 
resentment towards much of what the Noldor represent, yet for the good of 
what we hold dear, we must do whatever it takes to keep this evil at bay.  
You know of what I speak.”  
 
“Sauron,” Thranduil murmured softly as his gaze fell to the cobblestones 
beneath his feet.  
 
“I fear as well as both of you that is the case - the Dark One has returned.  
If he is allowed to rise to power as once before, the consequences will be 
severe, and no form of distrust between the Firstborn shall matter as we 
shall all feel the same sting of his armies.”  
 
“Aye, I am aware of this.  But with the combined efforts of our people, we 
can banish this evil from our wake.  There is no need to trade one demon 
for another as we shall surely do if we let the Noldor into our midst,” 
Thranduil vehemently argued as he paced in agitation.  He would rather 
die than allow any of the Noldor near his family - no other member of the 
House of Oropher would fall by their hands, not while he still drew breath.  
 
“They cannot be trusted, no matter what sweet words leave their lips,” 
Saeros finally spoke in his softly lilted voice that carried such an 
undercurrent of lethality that it made many cower before him.  
 
Caranthir sighed, knowing that to change the minds of the Elves within 
this room would surely drain him of his energy.  Squaring his shoulders 
and adopting his most commanding tone, used to deal with transgressors 
within his borders, he again addressed their stubbornness, “Alas, I know 
the honor and courage you both possess, but to underestimate this dark 
opponent would be to disgrace the faith your subjects impart in your 
keeping.  I feel in my heart too much time has passed for us alone to 
counteract what is growing in Dol Guldur, what we must not allow to 
entrench itself within Barad-dúr.  Thranduil, every day a piece of your 
kingdom is falling victim.  Greenwood it is no longer.”  
 
“Caranthir, I can handle -”  
 
“Ai Elbereth, be honest with yourself, my friend.  You’ve kept the evil 
from crossing into the northern forest, yes, but shadow has permanently 
fallen amongst the trees to the south.  The kingdoms of Imladris and 
Lothlorien must be recruited to aid the common cause of ridding Middle 
Earth of darkness.  If we fail to do so, it could be to the ruin of all.  Think 
of your children, Thranduil.”  
 
As Thranduil’s eyes flickered with pain and rage, Caranthir knew he had 
gone too far and silently berated himself for seemingly questioning 
Thranduil’s protectiveness and love for his progeny.  With barely 
contained ire, the King approached the Sindar Elf, venom dripping from 
his lips.  
 
“How dare you!  You know I would give my life to protect every hair on 
each of my children’s heads.  It is precisely for this fact that your guidance 
is heard with deaf ears and a stout heart.  You expect me to allow the viper 
into the nest, to allow Elrond Peredhil the chance to harm what you preach 
I should most keep safe.  Well, you are right, Caranthir, I should look after 
my children, and to fulfill this duty, I will not yield!” Thranduil then 
stormed from the airy room, his robes flowing behind him like a wave of 
sea-green water, churning over sand and rock alike.  
 
Muttering under his breath in exasperation, Caranthir watched Thranduil’s 
exit, wanting nothing more than to knock some sense into his hard head.  
 
“Caranthir, you ask too much of him.  Do you actually expect him to get 
on his knees and beg Elrond, the apprentice of Gil-galad himself, for aid?” 
Saeros asked incredulously.  
 
“I never said anything about begging nor being on his knees,” Caranthir 
mumbled awkwardly.  
 
“Nay, but that is only a matter of semantics.  It comes down to the same 
thing.” Saeros stepped over to look out over the recently lit torches lining 
the path towards the palace.  Pools of dappled light bedecked the 
deceptively peaceful land; the air seemed warmer, almost like summer 
despite the wind.   The scent of flowers, grass, earth whirled in his head 
until he felt drunk from it.  “Do you honestly believe the Noldor are 
necessary in this battle?”  
 
“Aye, I do.  You know personally the hardships faced during the Last 
Alliance.  Sauron is indeed a mighty adversary, and we must tread 
carefully.  And that means putting differences aside.”  
 
“I remember also the suffering wrought by the Noldor *after* the Dark 
Lord’s first defeat.” The warrior sighed deeply before continuing, “I have 
always trusted your judgment, Caranthir, as you are indeed wise in the 
ways of this world, yet I still harbor much suspicion over the prudence this 
course of action will lead us,” Saeros admitted as he turned to gauge the 
reaction his words garnered.  
 
Caranthir smiled grimly, having doubts of his own.  “Time will tell, 
Saeros.  I only pray that the time will come to bridge the distance the 
Firstborn have created within themselves.  It is not as the Valar 
envisioned.”  
 
“Nothing ever is,” the Nandorian warrior whispered as all the horrors and 
darkness he had battled over the years washed over his memory in 
unwavering repetition, like an echo reverberating upon the walls of the 
deepest cave.  He only wished he knew how to bring it all to a halt and 
shed some light upon his reminiscences.  
 
“I shall go find Thranduil,” Caranthir informed with a sigh, instinctively 
knowing the warrior before him craved solitude as he struggled with his 
thoughts - he had seen too much in his time.  Saeros offered a small nod 
and then turned his entire attention upon the landscape below.  
 
Caranthir left quietly and followed the winding hallways of the palace 
with a heavy heart, knowing exactly where he would find Thranduil.  And 
sure enough upon reaching the royal garden, at the base of a statue built in 
remembrance of the Queen, stood the blonde Elf, his hand resting on the 
marble and his eyes shut tightly against the pain evident in his features.  
 
The Lord of Hísilómë slid silently onto a nearby bench, his hands clasped 
in his lap.  He took in his surroundings, allowing the calming sensation to 
cleanse his soul.  The limbs of the ancient trees swayed and rustled in the 
brisk wind hailing from the Northern mountains.  They seemed to speak 
furtively to each other, musings over another day past.  A stream snaked 
meanderingly through the trees across the center of the Elven city, the 
gurgle of the cool water over the smooth, weathered rocks echoing in the 
dusk as it conversed in its own vivacious tongue while it hurried past to 
eventually unite with the Anduin River.  
 
“I never stop missing her, not even for a moment,” Thranduil whispered, 
never once turning to notice Caranthir had entered the gardens yet 
knowing he was there all the same.  
 
“I know,” Caranthir answered simply.  
 
“The twins remind me so much of Ilyria that I see her looking out at me 
through their eyes, especially those of Legolas.  It is both pain and 
pleasure to my heart, knowing without a doubt she lives within them yet 
reminding me every day of what I will never have again.  I will never hold 
my sweet wife in my arms.”  Thranduil’s voice was laced with bitter 
threads of regret that pierced the heart of Caranthir with thousands of tiny 
pinpricks.  
 
With a wistful expression, the Sindar Elf spoke, “I remember the day of 
their birth.  Eärendil had never shone brighter than that day.  And you, 
well, I’d never seen you more nervous, you couldn’t sit still for a minute.”  
 
“I was afraid something would go wrong; birthing twins was dangerous 
enough, and Ilyria was so slight in build.”  
 
“And yet by day’s end, two of the most beautiful children I’ve ever had 
the pleasure of laying eyes upon were born.  Legolas and Lenora still 
possess such beauty it almost hurts to gaze upon them.   I’m afraid they 
will break more than their share of hearts when they find their matches.  In 
fact, all your children should be considered dangerous with their fair 
looks,” Caranthir teased gently.  
 
“I have been blessed.” Thranduil turned to hold his friend’s eyes captive 
as his voice nearly broke, “Caranthir, they are everything to me.  That is 
why I cannot bear risking the unknown.”  
 
“Dear Thranduil, every day we face, especially in dark times such as 
these, is unknown.  Nothing is ever set in stone, not even the wisest can 
foresee all.  I understand your resentment toward our kindred, yet if they 
may help *our* people, then we must use them to accomplish this feat.”  
 
“And if this plan of yours turns out to be folly?”  
 
Caranthir stood, his bearing regal as he bowed to his ‘brother,’ “Then I 
will accept responsibility as it is my due.”  
 
Thranduil shook his head and whirled around to let his eyes wander over 
the happenings of his city.  Elves saw to their everyday duties with grace 
and efficiency.  His eldest sons, Meneduil and Nenuial, were sure to be on 
the ranges, practicing their shot with dogged persistence.  Ariana and 
Orion were bothering the Eldars for scraps of information of battles long 
past, tales of glory and romantic notion.  Legolas, Lenora, and Celdrian 
would be playing in the forest, getting themselves into trouble as usual 
even though Celdrian was supposed to be a calming influence on his 
younger siblings.  
 
Thranduil smiled as thoughts of his children pervaded his mind, yet his 
smile faltered as he pondered the danger surrounding them all.  His eyes 
inevitably sought the direction of Imladris, and he gritted his teeth.  “I 
cannot give you what you ask, my friend.  I know not how.”  With head 
lowered, he placed a quick kiss to the marble hand of his love and 
disappeared to thoughts he would not share.  
 
Caranthir watched him go a second time and whispered in the approaching 
darkness, “I do hope you shall learn in time, even if it is a luxury we do 
not have.”  
 
As if in agreement, a crow cried desolately from a nearby tree, leaping 
into the air, its black wings thrashing portentously in the shadows.  
 
TBC



*~*Chapter One*~*  
 
A/N:  I’m definitely not following any specific time line but suffice it to 
say that this first chapter and all those hereafter take place approximately 
1,000 yrs after the Prologue (since the Silmarillion just suggests a long 
time had passed).  Sauron’s stronghold in southern Greenwood has grown 
ever greater and the forest has been renamed ‘Mirkwood’ due to its ever-
present darkness.  Thranduil still has refused to seek the counsel of the 
Noldor, believing his combined armies are enough to keep the evil from 
overtaking the forest completely, especially since during this time the 
Noldor’s treatment of their Northern kindred has been even harsher at the 
request of Galadriel.  
 
Without further ado. . .  
 
 
*~*~*~*~*  
 
The sky above the Mirkwood forest cast a reddish glow through the 
branches of birch, oak, and pine while grayish clouds congregated 
menacingly at the farthest edges of the horizon.  Shadows flitted across the 
damp grass in a kaleidoscope of shapes, an occasional drop of moisture 
falling from the wall of leaves above to splash upon dried earth.  The 
ground began a gradual slope upwards, the murmuring of an outlying 
stream barely discernable in the distance.  
 
“Legolas?”  
 
Silence greeted the sable-haired Elf as he began to search with his keen 
eyes the dense foliage of the treetops with increasing desperation.  He 
heard a slight rustle to his left and whirled with lightning speed towards 
the noise, his heart hammering in his chest.  Only a pair of wild deer 
greeted him as they observed him with soulful eyes, then dismissed him in 
exchange for continuing their search for young saplings to appease their 
hunger.  
 
Gildeon expelled the breath he had been holding and then assumed an 
exasperated stance with hands resting on his hips as his hazel eyes scanned 
the surrounding terrain.  Muttering a string of curses under his breath, he 
called for his friend again.  Nothing answered but the whistle of a northern 
breeze in the stifling haze of the autumn morning.  
 
Throwing his hands up in the air, he exclaimed in frustration, “By the 
Valar!  Alright, Legolas, you win.  Now, show yourself.”  
 
Instead of the Prince, a pair of songbirds emerged from their nest, 
chattering incessantly as if in indignation of their rude awakening, 
courtesy of a shouting and ill-mannered Elf.  Gildeon shook his head, 
trying frantically to still the growing fear gnawing at his stomach.  He had 
been looking for Legolas for what seemed like hours and still not a single 
trace.  
 
Cursing himself a fool, he crept deeper within the forest, his bow clutched 
in a steel grip, his eyes ever watchful.  He never should have agreed to this 
game, but Legolas had once again goaded him into it with that teasing 
smile and deceptively innocent gaze.  He knew he should have learned his 
lesson by now – Legolas always won, no matter the sport or the resulting 
stakes.  
 
But, these were dark times.  Danger lay in wait within the deepening 
shadows, lingering, watching, stretching its foul tentacles ever further, 
covering a great distance until it raped the land of her tranquility and 
natural beauty.  Strange whisperings of unnamed fears filtered through the 
dark limbs of trees, twisted, gnarled roots disappearing into the 
underbrush.  Oftentimes, there was a feeling of being watched although 
searches revealed nothing lurking in the fog sweeping across the forest 
floor.  Yet, there was something unnatural settled over the Mirkwood 
forest.  
 
And Legolas was nowhere to be found.  Gildeon was becoming more 
convinced by the minute that something dreadful had befallen the Prince, 
as an unease that he couldn’t fully place or define had taken root in his 
heart.  He could just distinguish the outline of a large carrion bird in a 
distant tree and shuddered as a chill swept down his spine.  
 
“Legolas!?” Gildeon cried out again, “This is no longer amusing.  Come 
out so I can see you.”  He turned in a circle, waiting for the golden-haired 
Elf to emerge, laughing over his own cleverness.  But still he waited in the 
silence.  
 
He came to realize they were swiftly approaching the end of the protected 
borders of the Northern sector of Mirkwood and knew King Thranduil, not 
to mention his own father, would not be pleased that they had wandered so 
far without the assistance of a hunting party.  The patrols were already 
reduced in number for the remainder of the week due to the preparations 
for the autumn festival.  
 
Suddenly, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder and whirled in alarm to find 
the twinkling eyes of his best friend regarding him curiously.  
 
“Are you well?” Legolas inquired innocently, his hand still resting on the 
startled Elf’s shoulder and absorbing the slight quivers racking the lithe 
frame.  
 
Gildeon grasped his chest for a moment in hopes of calming his heart rate 
to a normal pace and glared at the Prince before him, “How do you do 
that?”  Legolas, better than anyone he knew, was a master at sneaking up 
on an unsuspecting victim without betraying the slightest warning that he 
was near.  
 
Legolas just shrugged indifferently.  “You, my dear friend, need to lighten 
up.  You’re strung as tight as a fully drawn bow.”  
 
“I wonder why,” Gildeon retorted with a scowl.  
 
The Prince chuckled lightly to himself and began to pick his way easily 
down the path cut through the rocks littering the ground.  
 
Gildeon rolled his eyes and trotted after the Prince.  He shot Legolas a 
sideways glance, and held back a smile.  “How is it that a *royal* Elf, 
such as yourself, who is supposed to be cultured, and dare I say refined, 
continues to behave in such an undignified manner?”  
 
Legolas grinned mischievously, “Dignity is but a matter of perception.”  
 
“Is that so?”  
 
Legolas nodded, “Aye.  Take my brother, Meneduil, for example.  Dignity 
to him is in the merits of silence, and yes, while he will make a capable 
leader one day, he is naught but exceedingly dull.  Don’t mistake me, I 
love my brother dearly.  I just don’t understand his propensity to adopt 
facial features resembling that of a granite wall.”  
 
“And then there is Ariana.  Well, to her, dignity is to be found in the 
repercussions of a noble deed or a grand gesture.  Like in the dominions of 
old.  I would imagine some poor Elf who captures her heart will find it 
more than difficult to impress her.”  
 
He then pointed to himself, “To me, you ask?  Dignity is but to be found 
in freedom.  Freedom to follow your dreams, to bend to no one’s will but 
that of one’s own heart.  That is dignity, Gildeon.”  
 
The young warrior shook his head and grinned, “You, my Prince, are too 
idealistic for your own good.”  
 
Legolas failed to hide a small pout as he denied such a suggestion, “I am 
not idealistic. . . I just tend to believe there are more forces than just 
darkness at work in this world.”  
 
“Same thing,” Gildeon muttered as he waved a hand dismissively.  
 
“Nay, it is not,” the Prince argued obstinately.  He then pursed his lips 
thoughtfully and jabbed a thumb at his companion’s chest.  “The main 
flaw in your character these days, other than your inability to tell a decent 
tale once there is a goblet of wine in your stomach, is your inclination to 
think the worst.”  
 
Gildeon raised an eyebrow and quickly retorted, “And yours is to willfully 
think otherwise.”  
 
Legolas smiled sadly and placed a warm hand on Gildeon’s rigid 
shoulders, “It was not always so, my friend.  You used to smile much.”  
 
“Things change,” he murmured quietly as he became lost in his musings.  
 
“Aye, that is so.”  Legolas glanced hastily at the pain flitting briefly over 
his friend’s face and sighed under his breath.  It had been years since 
Gildeon’s older brother had fallen in a skirmish with Noldor Elves upon 
returning from a scouting mission near the High Pass, and the hurt was 
still fresh in the young Elf’s heart.  He had not been his normal 
lighthearted self since.  
 
Legolas felt a wave of anger wash over him as his thoughts strayed to the 
inhabitants of Imladris and all the injury they had committed against his 
people.  His Father had long ago warned him and his siblings of the 
danger the Noldor represented, told them of Gil-galad’s and his followers 
evil ways and never-ending lust to control all before them.  ‘They are no 
better than Sauron himself,’ he thought furiously.  
 
“Well, at least we are agreed that there is no such thing as a decent 
Noldorian,” Gildeon joked lightly, trying to dispel the heavy mood that 
had descended.  
 
Legolas smiled and then placed an arm about his friend’s shoulders, 
squeezing gently, “That is without a doubt a universal truth.”  
 
The Elves walked in silence for a while, each occupied with their own 
thoughts until Legolas looked at Gildeon expectantly.  “Don’t you ever 
wonder what is outside these borders?”  
 
Gildeon rolled his eyes heavenward, “Please, Legolas.  Don’t start that 
again.”  
 
Legolas was anything but fazed and continued on as if Gildeon hadn’t said 
a word, “Wouldn’t you like to know what secrets the Lonely Mountain 
holds or what it would be like to ride as fast as your noble steed could 
carry you over the Gladden Fields?  Or see what shadows actually lie 
within the ancient Fangorn forest or - ”  
 
“Shadows that would consume you whole before you could admit your 
folly,” Gildeon grumbled under his breath.  
 
Legolas scoffed in response, “Come on, Gildeon!  Where is your sense of 
adventure?”  
 
He shook his head at the excitement brimming in the Prince’s eyes and 
shot him a knowing glare, “I have adventure enough just trying to keep 
you and Nora out of trouble.  I swear you two are going to make me old 
before my time.  And your Father?!  Well, he would skin me alive if 
anything was to happen to either of you.”  
 
“Last time I checked I was entirely capable of taking care of myself.”  
 
“Sure you are,” Gildeon teased sardonically, amused that he could still get 
under Legolas’ skin as his friend scowled indignantly.  
 
Legolas then sighed and let his gaze wander over the terrain, “I just get 
tired of the ‘not knowing.’  I’ve proved myself worthy time and again, and 
yet, Father, denies my desires to leave the kingdom.”  
 
“You’re allowed to leave – provided you have an escort, that is.”  
 
Legolas grunted wryly, “An escort of only a battalion of armored Elves.”  
 
“Have you forgotten the raids those dastardly Noldor Elves committed in 
the western front just last month?” Gildeon demanded irately, as he 
grabbed Legolas’ upper arm and forced him to face him.  He was suddenly 
furious that Legolas would be so casual about his safety.  If anything were 
to happen to him. . .he shook off the thought quickly, refusing to 
contemplate such an eventuality.  He would not lose Legolas.  
 
Legolas blinked in surprise, “Nay, of course not.”  
 
“Good because too much - ”  
 
Legolas’ head abruptly snapped behind them as he quickly silenced 
Gildeon, “Did you hear that?”  
 
Gildeon whirled in the direction Legolas had indicated, training his 
hearing to the slightest sound.   The Prince had unshouldered his bow and 
notched an arrow with quick and expert reflexes, his beautiful features set 
with determination and poise as a fire burned in the timeless depths of his 
eyes.  Gildeon hurriedly followed suit, every nerve-ending in his body 
firing at once.  
 
The forest suddenly recoiled from a hissing wind that chilled the Elves to 
the marrow of their bones.  A ghastly growl then reached their ears, slicing 
through the thick air as the smell of blood erupted in their nostrils.  
 
“Wargs,” Legolas hissed in revulsion.  
 
No sooner had the word left his mouth, then a pack of enormous dark-
brown wolf-like creatures with lifeless eyes as black as coal and yellow-
tinged teeth dripping venom burst forth from the gloom, surrounding the 
Elves in a semi-circle of gnashing jaws.  Sharp barbs covered their thick 
pelts of fur and muscle, bristling in anticipation of savoring the sweet 
blood of the Firstborn.  
 
Legolas and Gildeon simultaneously released a spray of arrows into the 
horde, shearing through flesh and bone alike as they rained through the 
air.  The Wargs charging forward stood little chance to their bows, which 
sung relentlessly with a lethal melody.  But it was not long before their 
quivers were empty, and the archers were forced to resort to other means.  
 
Unsheathing the twin blades at his back with one fluid motion, Legolas 
sliced through the chest a Warg rushing him, bringing it to the ground 
before its wicked claws could rip through his abdomen.  So instead of his 
entrails pooling upon the blood-stained ground, the Warg suffered this 
fate, its dark blood soaking the soft leather of Legolas’ tunic.  The Prince’s 
eyes blazed with an almost unearthly fire as he hacked and hewed his way 
through the crowd of snarling beasts.  In a dance of death, he adeptly out-
maneuvered his opponents, leaving in his wake the stifling smell of blood 
and the pitiful whimpers of the dying.  
 
However, no matter how many carcasses fell at the Elves’ feet, more 
Wargs rushed forward, and the friends found themselves trapped in a 
desperate fight for their lives, surrounded as they now were.  Strangely, 
though, a contingent of the beasts exchanged a string of guttural grunts 
and howls and then quickly loped off into the trees in the direction the 
Elves had come.  Yet, before the Prince could ponder their peculiar, and 
rather disturbing, actions, he was soon preoccupied with other more 
pressing matters.  
 
Legolas cried out as pain flared throughout his back as one of the beasts 
managed to dig its claws into his soft flesh and latch onto him, its teeth 
tearing a jagged path across his left shoulder.  Gildeon gasped in alarm 
and struggled wildly to reach Legolas’ side, but in his carelessness and 
haste, a wounded Warg was able to seize him about his calf and drag him 
to the ground.  
 
His head connected with a rock with a sickening thud and his blade flew 
from his hand, the gleaming steel soon disappearing in the encroaching 
gloom.  He fought to hold onto consciousness, dazed as he was, a rivulet 
of blood snaking down his cheek.  As he began to lose this last-effort 
battle, he swallowed anxiously the lump in his throat as he watched the 
smirking beasts advance on their fallen prey. . .  
 
Meanwhile, gritting his teeth from the agony blazing up his arm, Legolas 
reached behind him with his good arm and yanked on the creature’s head 
with all his strength, hoping to dislodge the jaws imbedded in his muscle.  
He managed to pry the beast loose for a brief moment before the Warg 
clamped down on his right wrist.  
 
Dark splotches flitted across Legolas’ vision, and he felt a bout of nausea 
rise from the pit of his stomach, yet he stoutly refused to submit.  Whirling 
to his right, he fumbled slightly to get a good grip on his dagger with his 
blood-slicked hand but soon brought the metal deep into the Warg’s torso 
and twisted, ripping through its tough sinew with a feral glint in his eyes.  
Another beast tried to press its advantage hastily before the Elf could 
recover fully, slamming full force into his body, the impact of the collision 
escalating up his arm.  But, Legolas proved to be too quick as the creature 
fell with unseeing eyes to the cold earth.  
 
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Gildeon sprawled half-conscious 
on the forest floor, claws poised mere inches away, ready to inflict a fatal 
wound.  A stab of panic welled in his heart as his eyes frantically scoured 
the blood-soaked ground surrounding him.  Seeing an arrow protruding 
from the throat of a fallen enemy, Legolas wrenched the wooden shaft free 
and released the arrow into the creature’s skull.  
 
The garbled squeal of the leader of the Wargs succumbing to death 
reached its companions’ ears.  A few of the vile creatures turned their fury 
upon Legolas, while the remaining beasts emitted deafening shrieks as 
they began attacking each other with hideous viciousness, slaying in 
mindless lust of asserting their claim as the new head of the pack.  
 
He used the ensuing confusion to his benefit, finishing off what remained 
of the enemy with well-placed shots from his bow and several thrusts of 
his twin blades.  Wearily, Legolas collapsed to his knees and all but 
crawled over to Gildeon, cradling the warrior’s head gently in his lap.  
Gildeon blinked repeatedly in an attempt to win control over his 
awareness and banish the fact that there currently were two golden-haired 
Legolas’ watching him in concern.  
 
“Gildeon?  Are you well?” Legolas asked warily, dabbing at the trickle of 
blood seaping from his friend’s brow.  
 
He forced a small smile, “You are going to have to stop asking me that, 
Legolas.”  He took a ragged breath and closed his eyes against another 
attack of queasiness, his head pounding unmercifully.  
 
The Prince returned his smile with a fatigued grin of his own, “You are 
going to have to stop giving me reason to.”  
 
With a determined grunt, Gildeon shakily managed to raise himself to a 
sitting position, albeit with much help from Legolas, and grimaced at the 
foul grime and blood clinging to each of their skin and clothes.  “What say 
you we now return home?”  
 
“Can you walk?” Legolas inquired with a skeptical expression.  
 
Gildeon rolled his eyes and smirked at his friend, “Can you?”  
 
Legolas sniggered and nodded his head, “Of course.  It will take much 
more than a band of Wargs to knock me off my feet,” he admonished 
haughtily.  Yet, he was unable to hide a wince as he jarred his shoulder 
unintentionally and groaned slightly at the pain.  
 
“Right,” Gildeon returned with a small shake of his head, for any 
movement more than this would have made his head feel as if it were 
about to tumble right off his shoulders.  He couldn’t help but wonder if 
this would not be a good thing.  He was about to make a snide remark 
concerning Legolas’ endless supply of stubbornness when the Prince’s 
eyes suddenly rolled back in his head, and he cried out in agony, his body 
slumping forward over the stunned Elf.  
 
“Legolas!?  What is it?  What is the matter?” he shouted in terror, shaking 
his friend almost roughly.  
 
Legolas’ breathing was threadbare, tiny pants pressing forth from his lips.  
He opened his mouth to speak, but at first no sound came.  Finally, he 
whispered words that chilled the blood coursing through Gildeon’s veins, 
“Lenora.  Gods, Gildeon, please help her.   Help, Nora.”  
 
“Where?” Gildeon asked, panic overtaking his features.  Legolas pointed 
to their left and then sagged motionless to the earth, blackness fully 
overtaking him.  
 
TBC...



A/N:(Yay!! Elrohir makes his appearance next chapter and Legolas is 
anything but what he bargained for.)  
 
 
 
 
*~* Galadriel's Interlude*~*  
 
**Maybe Not Tonight**  
 
 
Meanwhile in Lothlorien. . .  
 
**She could see him standing off in the distance, a cloak of mist draping 
around his shoulders.  With her heart thudding desperately in her chest, 
she started to run towards him, frantic to reach him as if he would soon 
vanish.  He followed suit, until she was firmly in his embrace.  Their kiss 
was passionate and full of hunger as she moaned deep within her throat, 
pulling him closer and deeper to her.  Her hands traveled seductively 
across his muscled chest while his palms brushed lightly across her 
breasts, then encircled her hips to pull her flush against his desire.  
Consumed by the fire raging between them, unaware of where one ended 
and the other began, they tumbled to the grass, him quickly exposing her 
flesh to his seeking mouth and probing tongue, making love to her in wild 
abandon.  They fused their souls and bodies into one, the sound of her 
name rushing from his lips.  ‘Galadriel. . .’**  
 
Galadriel awoke with a start, beads of perspiration dampening her skin.  
Sitting up quickly, she brushed several clammy tendrils of hair from her 
forehead, before clutching her chest in the hopes of quieting the pounding 
of her heart.  Turning slightly, she beheld the form of her sleeping 
husband huddled beneath the silken sheets, her eyes becoming 
increasingly unfocused.  For, it was someone else entirely she wished to 
find lying next to her in the early morning hours.  Someone else she 
longed would hold her, whispering declarations of unconditional devotion 
against her skin as he did in her dreams.  Someone else who she yearned 
to possess – in body and spirit.  
 
Rising hastily to her feet, she slipped from the bed chamber like a troubled 
wraith, her hands clenched in frustration by her sides.  Her dreams were 
becoming progressively more intense, more real as she imagined his hands 
and mouth eliciting cries of pleasure from her lips.  Imagined his green 
eyes glittering with desire as they locked with her own, promising a fiery 
passion that would surely scorch her flesh in its intensity.  
 
Her longing had developed precariously to the point of obsession as she 
spent as many hours as possible imprisoned within her own daydreaming, 
observing him within the silvery surface of her mirror as she envisioned 
him her own, free to command as she pleased, to have him see to her 
every whim.  So caught up was she in her musings that oftentimes she 
tried to touch his image with her fingertips only to watch the water’s 
ripples carry him away.  
 
The Queen of Lothlorien shook her head in disgust, furious that he could 
invoke such visions in her head and longing in her body for so long, even 
if he had no idea he did so.  He was not worthy of such a reaction, yet his 
eyes – those bewitching jade pools – suggested otherwise.  In truth, he 
would make a most magnificent consort to warm her bed and appease her 
fantasies, those eyes full of fire as he pleased her.  Yes, he would be a 
splendid stallion to break, and break he would – they all did.  Course she 
would have much more pleasure in the challenge this striking Elf 
presented.  
 
Galadriel stared up at the crimson-streaked dawn, her hands clasping a 
railing with a grip of steel as determination lit a blazing inferno within her 
eyes.  Enough of wishing. . . enough of dreaming.  She resolved to make 
him hers, no matter the consequences.  He belonged to her, and she was 
enraged that he existed without her, carried on in his daily life as if she 
meant nothing.  Him, a lowly Sindarian, whose rightful place was to serve 
the Queen of the Noldor.  
 
Thranduil would learn his station, his purpose meant for him in this 
world.  And those brats sired by him and that fragile, sniveling Silvan 
excuse for a she-Elf would become her personal property to do with as she 
pleased.  She had to admit they were exceptional, particularly the golden-
haired twins with the mercurial indigo eyes that reflected their moods like 
the water’s surface in a storm-tossed sea.  They would be especially 
useful, pawns that would be fought over like scraps of meat, treasures of 
unimaginable beauty that would be worth any Elf’s loyalty, no matter how 
‘noble’ they appeared to be.  Every Elf brought before her would bow 
upon one knee and pledge any vow, simply to partake, to but taste, their 
succulent sweetness.  Legolas and Lenora. . .yes, they would prove most 
valuable indeed.  
 
Not to mention the other spoils that would come into her keeping, that 
shimmering red jewel which was fittingly hers in the first place, that 
which would soon be home in her hands.  Then, everything would come to 
pass as it was destined.  As was her privilege for being molded in 
Ilúvatar’s image and being granted His favor.  
 
The Three Rings would be hers and hers alone.  
 
And Thranduil. . . well, he would be delivered into her hands as surely as 
the earth captured the ocean’s tears.  And once his body and soul belonged 
solely to her, she would never let him go.  Soon, he would pledge himself 
into her keeping.  
 
Maybe not tonight, but soon.  With a small smile, Galadriel disappeared as 
quietly as she had appeared, feeling more at peace then she had in ages.  
 
TBC...



Title: Place of No Frontiers  
Author: Neira47 (bahamabreezegal@hotmail.com)  
Rating: R to NC-17 later (for violence and sexual situations)  
Category: Lord of the Rings  
Pairing:  Legolas/Elrohir  
Disclaimer: All credit belongs to the mastermind of Tolkien,  
although hopefully he won’t be too furious to see my gross  
tampering of his genius as I’ve taken more than my share of liberty  
with both LOTR and the Silmarillion. Thus, the Firstborn are at  
odds (not the perfect race often depicted); Saeros, an ancient  
Nandorian warrior who by all accounts is killed in the  
Silmarillion, is alive and well in this fic.  The characters of Caranthir, 
Gildeon (who will appear later), Gelmir, Meneduil,  
Nenuial, Ariana, Orion, Celdrian, and Lenora are my own deluded  
creations.  
 
 
Chapter Two  
 
A/N:  Back in Mirkwood. . .  
 
*~*~*~**~*~*~*  
 
A small assembly soon reached the outskirts of Mirkwood, and turned 
silently from the Old Forest Road, their mission secret.  Next to the twins, 
Elrohir and Elladan, rode the second-in-command of the Royal Guard of 
Imladris, Laertes, and a select few of his warriors, the group totaling six 
altogether.  
 
The dark-haired Elves from Rivendell scanned the surrounding hammock, 
the shade lying before them like a silken black sky, the limbs of leaf-laden 
trees appearing like clouds, billowing monsters that shifted with sinister 
intent by the sway of the wind.  
 
The Mirkwood Forest, a wood that was in itself an enigma, on occasion 
revealing glimpses of the once grand Greenwood the Great, a tapestry of 
such rich colors –greens, yellows, browns, and reds – it was as if Yavanna, 
the Giver of Fruits, herself had graced the landscape with her paintbrush, 
gentle strokes of her palette.  Yet, evil had torn the leaf asunder with a 
vicious swipe of malice, leaving behind a scarred remnant of prior 
majesty.  
 
Now there was gloom, so thick that it was as if wading through molasses.  
Laertes sat upon his horse like a sentry before the Halls of Mandos, not a 
muscle moved to betray a sign of life, his cobalt eyes staring unblinkingly 
ahead.  No emotion softened his sculpted features.  A thin scar ran across 
his cheekbone, making him appear to be an element of a harsh nature, 
wholly dangerous.  
 
He was waiting, but for what the others did not know, their own horses 
pawing the ground uneasily.  
 
Against his better judgment, Laertes had agreed to this short journey, for 
the sole purpose of keeping the headstrong children of his Lord, Elrond, 
from falling into danger as was their tendency.  Elladan had devised a ploy 
to spy on the patrols guarding the southern tip of the western half of the 
kingdom of Thranduil and gather information regarding their current 
movements, and if they were so lucky to bring back to Rivendell some of 
the famed bounty of silks and jewels to be found within the realm.  All in 
an attempt to regain his Father’s good graces after Elrond had 
reprimanded the twin for shirking his watch duty earlier in the week.  
 
Finally, the commander turned his head to address the group.   “This 
way,” he murmured, his deep-timbered voice, husky and wary.  He said no 
more and with gentle nudges to their horses’ flanks, they ventured forth, 
the forested hills rising around them.  
 
Elrohir gazed upon the ancient trees with wonder for the first time, never 
having accompanied any of the raids conducted over the years, secretly for 
which he experienced no great regret, unbeknownst to his brother.  His 
bright silver eyes missed nothing as he committed to memory the very 
shapes of the leaves and unique patterns carved within the massive trunks.  
The forest held a mysterious splendor, despite the far-reaching darkness 
and surreal silence, and he found himself completely enchanted.  
 
“This forest does give me the chills,” Briareus, a warrior who often 
sported a deep scowl upon his face, commented abruptly and shuddered 
for emphasis, his eyes darting nervously back and forth over the shadowy 
terrain.  
 
“Don’t be a coward, Briareus.  There is nothing but trees and rocks,” 
Elladan retorted impetuously, straightening his back and squaring his 
shoulders as if in proof.  
 
“Elladan, I would not be too quick to judge.  These trees are cursed and 
much lies in wait within the darkness beneath their boughs,” Laertes 
warned as he sought to calm the skittish horse beneath him.  
 
“They are quite beautiful actually,” Elrohir commented absently, his face 
lost in thought.  
 
His companions regarded him curiously, identical expressions of doubt 
mirroring their faces.  Briareus shook his head at such a suggestion, 
muttering under his breath as he listened to the whispers of the wood, 
sounds he had not the ability to decipher.  
 
Laertes held Elrohir’s gaze a long moment before answering, “Beauty is 
often deadly.”  
 
The twin broke the eye contact, lowering his gaze to the reins he held in 
his hand, his jaw clenched as he wondered fruitlessly as to what captured 
his interest so about their current surroundings and riled that he had left 
himself open to veiled contempt from several pairs of Elven eyes.  
 
Ruthwen, a raven-haired descendent of Antenor, a fabled warrior of the 
Last Alliance, added sagely, “If indeed those Wood Elves can speak the 
language of the trees, I shudder over what these might say.”  
 
“Most certainly that we should not be here,” Tarquin, the last of their 
party, mumbled somberly.  
 
Elladan’s eyes narrowed as he choked on the anger boiling just below the 
surface of his pale skin.  “And you call yourself worthy of being a member 
of my Father’s Royal Guard?” he countered contemptuously, exasperated 
that he was surrounded by Elves who did not realize how successful this 
undertaking would be, how proud Elrond would be at their 
accomplishments.  
 
“Quiet,” Elrohir whispered as he trained his eyesight towards an 
outcropping.  “What is that just over that ridge?  And, by Eru, what is that 
godawful stench?”  
 
“Wargs,” Ruthwen spat in loathing as the group made their way carefully 
to the awaiting carnage, the mangled, bloodied corpses of the fallen Wargs 
a gruesome sight.  It was with difficulty that the Elves managed to subdue 
their steeds enough to convince them to near the beasts, the smell of death 
keen upon the wind.  
 
“Apparently they met with the wrong prey,” Briareus speculated in 
obvious amusement, a corner of perfectly-shaped lips quirking upwards.  
 
“They have been slain recently,” Ruthwen added, surveying the ring of 
bodies.  
 
Laertes kneeled before one of the beasts and drew a golden tipped arrow 
from its heart.  Frowning, he studied the mystical cartouches and ancient 
script lining the shaft, paying especially close attention to the elaborate 
golden leaf pattern throughout.  He had seen this workmanship before in 
battles recent and long past.  
 
Standing, Laertes solemnly searched underneath the eaves of the 
neighboring trees, poised to ward off a sudden attack.  He turned back to 
regard the company, his voice laced with anxiety, “We must tread 
carefully.  No doubt there are Elves still nearby.”  
 
Elladan scoffed over such a thought, his tone insolent as he described the 
supposed skill of such inferior adversaries, “They are only Sindar 
mongrels -”  
 
“Mongrels who are handy with a bow.  Do not make the mistake of 
underestimating them. . . it shall cost you much,” Laertes shot back in 
annoyance, his expression grave.  Unlike Elladan, he had experience 
fighting the Woodland Elves and knew their skill was nothing to take for 
granted.  Their warriors had been well trained by the impressive likes of 
Saeros and Menelaus, not to mention, Thranduil was not an Elf he would 
like to cross paths with.  His prowess on the battlefield was legendary.  
 
Elrohir pursed his lips and peered deeper within the shadows.  He could 
swear he had seen the merest glint of gold and quickly dismounted, his 
heart fluttering wildly within the cage of his heart, for reasons he did not 
understand.  Clearing his throat, he called over to Elladan, “Something is 
hidden within this brush over here.”  
 
With soundless footsteps, he approached cautiously, his hand wrapped 
around the hilt of his sword just in case.  Thrusting the branches aside, 
Elrohir gasped aloud, his eyes brimming with astonishment as he gazed 
upon the beautiful creature lying upon the earth.  The Elf’s hair was a fan 
of spun-gold, glistening as if it held a thousand diamonds weaved 
intricately within the silky strands, despite the dried leaves tangled 
throughout.  His skin resembling that of the finest porcelain, so smooth 
that Elrohir itched to reach out and run the palm of his hand over the still 
cheek.  
 
His heart had never felt more alive, a torrent of molten fire sweeping 
across his skin.  His hands were trembling, his pulse racing. . . and all 
from just looking upon the motionless form at his feet.  Dazedly, Elrohir 
shook his head to clear his mind of such strange thoughts.  
 
“Ai!  Have you ever beheld such a sight?  It is as if one of the Ainur has 
fallen from beyond the very stars,” Tarquin exclaimed in wonder as he 
peered over the twin’s shoulder.  “Surely he must be a descendent from 
the Aratar.  Look how it seems the very sun kisses his skin.”  
 
Ruthwen and Briareus rolled their eyes simultaneously, each wondering 
how it was possible that such a capable fighter as Tarquin could have such 
romantic notions running through his head, each surprised the flaw had not 
yet gotten him killed.  
 
Elladan raised a dark eyebrow skeptically, crossing his arms over his 
chest.  “Is he alive?”  
 
Laertes kneeled before the Elf and lifted his uninjured wrist to search for a 
pulse.  He looked closer and could just make out the slight rise and fall of 
his chest, indicating the stranger was merely unconscious.  Glancing up at 
the expectant Elves, he quickly nodded, “Aye, although he appears to be 
badly wounded.”  
 
Elrohir looked past the beauty to see the terribly ripped flesh of the Elf’s 
shoulder, the blood smudged across the graceful column of his neck, the 
gash marring the perfect high cheekbones.  And the son of Elrond felt fury 
well up in his gut, the desire to protect the being so strong that he visibly 
flinched from bewilderment.  What was the matter with him?  Why did he 
feel that if this gentle flower faded away, he would actually lose a piece of 
himself?  
 
“I wonder who this fool is and why he has been left behind?” Elladan 
inquired, barely containing the disgust in his voice.  
 
“Why he is here alone, I cannot begin to say. As to who he is. . . well, that 
question I can answer.  He bears the royal insignia of the House of 
Oropher.  This Elf is son to Thranduil, King of the Silvan Elves.”  
 
Elrohir felt robbed of all breath, his hands convulsively clenching at his 
sides.  “It cannot be!  He is one of them?” he beseeched in a voice strange 
to even his own ears.  
 
“It would appear so.  And, by all accounts spoken of the beauty of 
Mirkwood, this must be Legolas Greenleaf, one half of the youngest 
children sired by Thranduil.”  Laertes then released the slender wrist, 
arranging the hand to lie over the Prince’s breast and rose to his feet.  As if 
speaking to himself, he quietly added, “It has long been told of these very 
twins’ loveliness.  It would seem the tales are indeed true.”  
 
“Son of a viper, he is,” Ruthwen muttered brusquely as his gaze wandered 
over the prone form.  
 
“It is impossible,” Elrohir murmured, still shocked that such an exquisite 
being could be of Sindarian blood.  Granted, he had seen and even on 
occasion conversed with Elves of such heritage whom had been captured 
and brought back to Imladris or herded off to the Golden Wood and found 
them fair to the eyes.  But this Elf?  He couldn’t think of anything that 
could even compare to Legolas.  Not the lucidity of a blue-gray night 
filled with stars, nor the changing hues of the land as the world slipped 
from season to season.  Not the most perfect of wild rhododendrons, 
enduring with a patient spirit among the highest mountain face, nor the 
most brilliant of departures by the sun as she fell beyond the ocean’s 
waves.  
 
Yet, for all the Prince’s fairness, he now had to accept the beauty as his 
sworn enemy, and to the youth, this hardly seemed fair.  
 
However, once a seed is planted in a young mind, it often thrives and 
grows without restraint.  And this time proved no different for Elrohir had 
come to a decision.  “We will take him back with us to Imladris.”  
 
Tarquin questioned hesitantly, “Your Highness, do you think that is 
wise?”  
 
The twin glared at the surrounding company and repeated matter-of-factly, 
“He is coming with us.  In fact, he shall ride with me.”  
 
“Bring back to Father the son of his hated rival?” Elladan posed 
thoughtfully as he absentmindedly scratched his chin.  Then his gray eyes 
shined over the proposal, a roguish grin spreading over his handsome 
face.  “It is perfect.  Wait until Father sees the prize we return with!”  
 
“Aye, Elladan.  He will be pleased, for this must be the greatest jewel 
Mirkwood holds,” Elrohir answered, his deep eyes slightly glazed as he 
once again beheld the oblivious Prince.  A river of lust coursed through his 
veins and threatened to spill forth, but the Elf staunchly smothered its 
flood, not wishing to provoke the incessant and ruthless taunting of his 
brother.  
 
“I am not sure -”  
 
Elrohir quickly interrupted Laertes’ warning, “We should leave now and 
head back.  No doubt others will return soon for their Prince.”  
 
Elladan nodded his head encouragingly, “You are right, my brother.  We 
shall have to return another time to ferret out the maneuvers wrought by 
the enemy.”  
 
Sighing, Laertes gritted his teeth in silence.  A hostage Prince was the last 
thing he wanted on his hands, even if it would be quite a coup against the 
resistive Northern Elves.  He only wished they would finally realize the 
futility of their continued struggle and simply submit to the decree set by 
the Noldor.  Tightening the sheath of his sword about his waist, Laertes 
suggested in an unyielding tone, “I would suggest you at least bind him, 
unconscious or not.  He may look as sweet as a lamb, yet there is the spirit 
of a tiger hidden within him.”  
 
“Very well.  I have some silk cord that should work nicely,” Elrohir 
responded idly as he walked over to his horse and rifled through a 
saddlebag, soon thereafter producing a spool of sleek rope.  He then 
quickly set about the task of binding Legolas’ hands and ankles, mindful 
as possible of the lacerations upon the soft skin.  
 
Touching Legolas was a far cry from his imagination, the downy texture 
beneath his fingers sending a bolt of lightning through his limbs, the slim 
hands speaking of a strength Elrohir wondered would feel like upon his 
skin in the throes of passion.  He inhaled deeply the fresh scent of the Elf, 
an aphrodisiac of lush wood after a summer rain, and could not help but 
marvel over how he would taste, sure to be intoxicatingly sweet as a rich 
honey. . .  
 
Admonishing himself angrily, Elrohir snapped himself from his lascivious 
thoughts and tugged the bindings tight over the pale wrists, no longer 
careful to avoid injury.  This *Elf* was nothing more than a Sindarian 
traitor – a knave imprudent enough to believe himself above the law of the 
Noldor, the very hand that was meant to rule over Middle Earth.  
 
It was the way of the world, set forth by Ilúvatar himself, as his own 
Father had told him time and again. The Noldor was the light.  And these 
Elves – these woodland conspirators – dwelled in the dark.  
 
“Do not turn your back on this Prince, Elrohir,” Briareus recommended 
dryly as the twin lifted Legolas into his arms.  
 
Elladan smirked wryly, “Prince, eh?  Well, no longer.  He is Noldor goods 
from now on.”  He watched bemusedly as Elrohir gracefully mounted his 
horse, their booty submissive as a doe, the golden head slumped against 
his brother’s chest.  This Legolas was without a doubt a feast for the eyes, 
and he could hardly wait to discover what talents rested within the sinuous 
body.  
 
As the company began to prepare for the journey homeward, Briareus 
shook his head and regarded his captain, “How long you think before 
Thranduil realizes his Greenleaf is missing?”  
 
“Not long.”  
 
“Well, we have wanted to draw him out into battle.  Maybe this is a 
prudent move after all,” Briareus offered hopefully.  
 
Laertes stood impassively, his voice solemn as his eyes fell upon the fair 
Prince within the arms of Imladris’ heir, “I fear we may be doing nothing 
more than waking a sleeping dragon.”  
 
*~*~*~**~*~*~*  
 
Gildeon pierced a Warg with one of his few remaining arrows, his strength 
nearly failing him at this point.  But Lenora’s safety, as well as that of 
Legolas, pushed him forward.  He fought heedlessly, his blood raging in 
his ears, blocking out all other sound.  He felt as if he was drifting, 
forsaking solid ground, as his body moved of its own accord.  
 
Finally, he tasted the sweet fruits of victory, the last beast dying upon his 
blade.  Dragging the mithril dagger clear of the vile flesh, Gildeon rushed 
to Lenora’s side, tenderly brushing a golden strand behind a delicate ear.  
 
“Nora?  Are you alright?” he asked softly, worry niggling its way into his 
voice.  
 
Lenora nodded slowly against his shoulder, the curtain of her hair falling 
to obscure her face.  Gildeon pulled his hand from about her waist to 
sweep the strands away, but soon discovered the stain of fresh blood upon 
his skin.  His sharp intake of breath seemed to echo in the now silence of 
the wood as he hastily began to examine the she-Elf’s side.  
 
A small red pool flowered from a deep gash upon her hip and one lower in 
her thigh.  He cursed to Mordor and back the foul plague that was the 
Warg’s existence and ripped his tunic to construct a crude tourniquet to 
curb the bleeding.  It seemed to work at the present as the bandage didn’t 
immediately show any mark of blood.  Yet, he was not about to press his 
luck.  
 
“You need to be taken at once to the healers.  I’ll carry you,” he said 
gently, picking her up as if she weighed no more than a feather, despite the 
weariness clinging steadfastly to his limbs.  
 
“I am fine, Gildeon,” Lenora replied bravely, repressing the pain as best 
she could.  “Where is Legolas?”  
 
Swallowing nervously, he shifted her in his arms.  “He is just beyond that 
ridge.  ‘Tis not very far.”  Yes, just beyond that ridge, Gildeon had 
concealed Legolas within a patch of brush prior to gathering a handful of 
arrows and retrieving his dagger to fulfill his promise to his best friend.  
He hated leaving Legolas behind, yet the desperate urgency in the Prince’s 
voice just before he fainted had urged him to act with utmost haste.  And 
was he ever glad he did so. . . otherwise, Nora might have been killed, 
unprepared as she was for the ambush.  
 
Luckily for all of them, Legolas and Nora shared such a strong bond, 
could feel the other’s emotions, could readily read each other’s thoughts, 
so connected were they.  It was a common trait among twins but the 
children of Thranduil experienced a deeper contact, almost as if they were 
two halves of one whole.  Legolas, however, was more susceptible to the 
link, felt more profoundly Lenora’s well-being than she did her brother.  
 
“Is he hurt badly?” Lenora inquired apprehensively, her cerulean eyes 
huge at the thought.  
 
Gildeon smiled reassuringly, “He will be spending the afternoon in the 
infirmary, much to his chagrin.  But he will be fine, especially once he 
sees your face.”  He looked into her eyes, trying to keep both his fear and 
anger at bay, and quietly added, “Nora?  What were you doing wandering 
about the forest alone?”  
 
“I was gathering niphredil for the wreaths being prepared for the festival 
when I saw the two of you in the wood.  I-I then became curious so I 
followed.  I know it was foolish but I suppose I did not think the two of 
you would wander so far.  And then I felt Legolas in pain, and I just began 
to run, not really paying attention to anything in my path.  Not until those 
foul beasts were upon me,” she fell silent for a long moment, shuddering 
over the memory of her first glimpse of those awful fangs.  Then she 
raised her gaze back to Gildeon’s face and softly whispered as she reached 
out to touch his cheek, “Thank you, Gildeon.  For saving my life.”  
 
The warrior tightened his grip about the precious cargo he carried and 
quickly dismissed her gratitude with a gentle tone, struggling to ignore the 
strange stirring in his stomach, “There is no need for such words, you well 
know.”  
 
“But if you had not arrived when -”  
 
“Hush, now, Nora.  We will not speak of it.  Just promise me that you 
shall be more careful in the future,” Gildeon admonished as he quickened 
his pace to reach Legolas’ hiding place.  
 
“I promise.”  Lenora slowly arched a fair brow, “You are sure Legolas 
will be fine?”  
 
“You know how stubborn your brother is.  Aye, he will heal swiftly.  
Besides he would not want to incur your wrath should he fail to do so,” he 
answered with a laugh that eased Lenora’s heart more than the finest of 
summer skies.  
 
“But why was it necessary to leave him behind?”  
 
After a tense moment, Gildeon decided to tell her the truth, “He fainted 
upon feeling your pain.  However, he shall recover now that you are safe.”  
 
She gritted her teeth at this news, cursing, not for the first time, Legolas’ 
over-sensitive nature and the fact her brother was so because of her.   
Sometimes she could not help but feel a burden and wonder whether he 
secretly wished he had not been saddled with such a load.  
 
The silence stretched as Gildeon continued on the path that would bring 
them to Legolas, but which she finally broke by emitting a soft sigh, 
“Father, will not be pleased.”  
 
He glanced briefly at Lenora’s face and snorted in response.  “That is an 
understatement,” he muttered under his breath, trying already to steel 
himself against the cacophony that would be the King’s displeasure.  
 
“He is much too overprotective, much as if Legolas and I were still 
babes,” she sulked prettily.  
 
“For good reason, Princess.  It is but natural to so protect such a treasure.”  
 
Lenora’s expressive eyes, now the color of the richest sapphire, bored into 
Gildeon’s, causing the breath to catch in his throat and a thousand fire 
storms to dance across his skin in chaotic trails of cinder.  His hold tensed 
about her body until she whimpered in pain, which he promptly loosened, 
his eyes apologetic.  
 
“I am sorry, Nora.”  
 
“It is quite alright.”  
 
In order to conceal his sudden nervousness, Gildeon nodded his head 
slightly to the right, “Legolas is just over there.”  
 
She tore her eyes from the enigmatic Elf and trained her head in the 
direction he had indicated.  “Where?”  
 
“Right over there - ” his voice trailed away in disbelief.  For there was no 
Prince to be found.  The brush that Gildeon had so carefully placed around 
his friend was askew, imprints of horse hooves nearby - smudges in the 
dirt that stampeded across his heart.  
 
Legolas was gone.  
 
TBC. . .  
 
 


Title: Place of No Frontiers  
Author: Neira47  
Rating: R to NC-17 (for violence and sexual situations)  
Pairing:  Legolas/Elrohir  
A/N:  Same disclaimers as before.  
 
Any and all suggestions are most welcome. . .what can I say? It's all about 
customer service!  
 
 
*~*~*~**~*~*~*  
 
“This cannot be!  Find my son!  No one in this kingdom shall find rest 
until he is safely home where he belongs!”  
 
Gildeon squeezed his eyes shut briefly as the King’s yell of denial 
reverberated against the stone walls, shaking him to his very core.  He was 
crumbling inside, frightened beyond anything he had ever known, being 
devoured alive by one awful scenario after another by what could have 
happened to Legolas, his best friend in the world, his brother.  
 
Opening his eyes, he saw Meneduil and Nenuial, their faces grim as they 
stood next to their father, fury evident over the disappearance of their 
beloved brother.  Celdrian, Orion, and Ariana were being ushered out of 
the room as the commanders of the militia that were within the city limits 
began to arrive, ready for their orders from their Lord, his own Father, 
Aegnor, standing among them.  
 
Gildeon’s gaze turned downwards as his Father’s dark brown eyes found 
him, telling quickly of his anger that his son had been so irresponsible.  
That his son was guilty for allowing the abduction of the youngest Crown 
Prince of Mirkwood.  If it was possible, Gildeon felt even worse, wishing 
he could just turn to liquid and slip through the cracks beneath his feet. . 
.anything to escape the truth.  He had failed Legolas.  
 
He listened dismally as Thranduil ordered scouts to be sent to the 
surrounding kingdoms with news of the grave emergency, issued 
instructions to lock the city down against the admittance of any who did 
not bear royal summons, recruited Saeros’ aid to search for evidence of his 
son’s whereabouts.  He watched the chaos as Elves ran this way or that to 
do their Lord’s bidding, worry for their Prince palpable in their 
movements, a visible pallor settling over Mirkwood.  
 
The King paced agitatedly back and forth like a caged panther, the green 
of his eyes almost glowing in his fury, hope warring against despair within 
their depths.  There was a lethality in even the slightest movement that 
would frighten the strongest soul. . .the angel of death he had become, 
ready to journey into shadows none other would dare.  And Gildeon stood 
transfixed as he watched the barely leashed power that seemed to radiate 
from his very fingertips.  
 
It was then he saw Lenora enter the room, fresh from the infirmary, her 
shoulders slumped as she wrung her hands nervously, tears running freely 
down her cheeks.  She-elves hovered over her, protective as mother hens, 
trying to persuade her to retire to her room for rest.  Finally, Meneduil 
took charge and ordered her to bed.  She resisted at first but a look from 
her Father silenced her protest.  Yet before she left, Thranduil’s expression 
softened considerably as he kissed her gently upon the forehead, holding 
her tightly in his embrace.  
 
 
For one dear second, her eyes met Gildeon’s and he flinched from the 
layers of anguish there, the emotional stress her body all but sagged 
under.  A quiet sob reached his ears and wrapped around his heart, 
wrenching his very soul.  Then she adverted her gaze and hurried from the 
Hall as if desperate to be near him no longer.  And it was all he could do 
not to drown in the wave of bitterness flowing unheeded through his body.  
 
 
 
But he did not have long to wallow in his self pity, for then the King 
motioned for him to follow as the warriors retreated to the antechamber of 
the Royal Study to begin preparations for battle.  Gildeon swallowed 
apprehensively but dared not disobey.  Once inside, Thranduil called him 
to his side and demanded to know every detail from that morning, from 
the Warg attack to when he returned for the Prince, no matter how 
inconsequential.  And so he spoke, albeit with a slightly shaking voice, 
and outlined every account from his memory as Eurytus, the King’s chief 
counselor, rapidly jotted it down to paper and Nestor, the Royal 
cartographer, sketched a diagram of the outlying area, complete with the 
estimated number of paces Gildeon’s trajectory had taken him from 
Legolas’ position and the time that had lapsed in between.  
 
 
The King nodded, and his probing gaze searched that of the pale face 
before him.  He saw the guilt and pain in the youngster’s eyes, the fear 
that held him in clutches of steel.  Thranduil was well aware of the close 
friendship this lad shared with his son, the willingness of the two to 
protect the other, regardless of boundaries of station.  He also knew the 
pureness of heart of the son of his Chief Royal Guard and felt a pang of 
compassion as his hand rose to reassuringly squeeze the Elf’s shoulder, if 
but for the merest of moments.  
 
 
Gildeon looked up in surprise at the gesture, but the King of Mirkwood’s 
face had already turned to stone, his eyes hardening as he dismissed the 
youth with a wave, his attention returned to his advisors and commanding 
officers.  With downcast eyes, the young Elf quickly slipped from the 
chamber, the music of many voices debating the best course of action 
ringing in his ears, shaming him that the chorus was even necessary.  
 
 
And so the vigil began. . .  
 
 
It was with much sadness, Radagast arrived, having heard of the 
commotion from the grieving songbirds as they tried to comfort each other 
with their melody.  The Istari leaned heavily on his staff, his heart wishing 
for the return of his favorite pupil, and offered the services of every bird 
and beast within his command to accomplish such a task.  As if in 
testimony, Radagast ambled over to the room’s balcony and whistled 
softly.  A piercing cry rang through the morning air in answer as a snow-
white falcon came to rest upon his shoulder, dipping its head 
affectionately in Radagast’s direction.  
 
 
“Ah, Nessus.  It is good to see you, my friend.”  He stroked his head 
gently, humming lightly to himself.  “I must call on you to lend me your 
eyes.   The young Prince is in need of our                aid. . .find the 
Greenleaf among the trees of this world.  Return word of his well-being to 
those whose hearts ache.”  
 
 
Nessus turned shrewd eyes to the King and held his gaze for several long 
moments.  Then with a grand fluttering of wings, the falcon began his 
mission underneath the watchful fire of the sun.  
 
 
Thranduil turned grateful eyes to the wizard and gave a slight nod of his 
head, touched that his son meant so much to so many, although he had 
always known this to be true.  He could only hope the Fates would not be 
so cruel as to take Legolas from him and that Eärendil would guard over 
his golden son.  
 
 
Hours after Nessus’ departure, Saeros and a contingent of the best trackers 
within the Nandorian ranks swept into the hall to greet the expectant 
King.  They bowed before him, coming to rest on one knee with their right 
hand above their hearts in salute.  
 
 
Saeros stood at Thranduil’s request and spoke quietly, his frustration 
evident even for one so composed, “I beg your leave, my Lord.  We found 
no physical trace of your son, other than the discarded arrows from his 
quiver amongst the Warg corpses.  Yet we were able to discern the faint 
presence of a set of tracks that had been carefully hidden amongst the 
leaves.  Tracks made by no Orc or other foul servant of the Dark.  They 
led onto the Old Forest Road -”  
 
 
“Towards Rivendell,” Thranduil finished with soft menace.  He had 
known this would be the case.  Had known the Noldor had his youngest 
child.  
 
 
Saeros nodded, his eyes holding those of the son of Oropher, a matching 
rage coursing through his veins.  He had watched the Prince grow over the 
years to become one fitting of the Teleri, had sworn on his honor to 
protect him with his own life if necessary.  And he had every intention of 
doing so. . .Thranduil would hold his son again in his arms.  
 
 
The King motioned hurriedly for the tracker to follow him, “Come then. . 
.much must be done.”  
 
 
“And done it will be by the powers that remain of our forefathers.  
Together we shall stand firm as the Great Willow against the tempest,” the 
Lord of Hísilómë addressed with great authority from his vantage point, 
the blonde Elf standing tall under the doorway.  Above him carved into the 
archway was the Willow of Fortune and underneath the ancient oath of the 
Teleri. . .Unite as Brothers against the swell of Those which seeketh to 
dim the Light and let the great sword of Justice defend us hither on the 
winds of Time. We will be One Forevermore.  
 
 
“Caranthir,” Thranduil murmured with a breath of relief.  
 
 
“Come my friend. . .take a walk with me.”  
 
 
Thranduil hesitated, not wishing to waste one precious moment of time.  
Saeros noticed this even though the King’s face betrayed nothing and 
sought to ease his Lord’s mind, “I will gather the commanders and inform 
them of all new developments, if you shall wish it.”  
 
 
“Thank you, Saeros.  I shall be along shortly.”  The Nandor warrior bowed 
to his liege and exited the room with an entourage of soldiers, the eldest 
Princes of Mirkwood close on his heels.  
 
 
Caranthir led Thranduil to the Royal Garden, the Linden tree that had been 
planted on the day of Legolas’ and Lenora’s birth blooming next to a 
creek bed, its yellow buds bright in the sunlight streaming through the 
clouds.  The King leaned over to pluck a wayward blossom from the 
ground and inhaled its sweet smell, his heart constricting.  The tree always 
flowered the most during the time of the Autumn Festival, the season that 
had blessed his life with the birth of his twins.  
 
 
The Festival lay just days away, yet the one who took the most pleasure in 
its conception was not here to see it.  Thranduil gulped hastily against the 
tears that threatened to fall and instead hardened his heart with the anger 
that tore relentlessly at his very essence with digging claws.  
 
 
“I will not lose him, Caranthir,” Thranduil whispered vehemently, his fists 
clenched in frustration and hate.  
 
 
“No, Thranduil, you will not.  We will bring him home.”  
 
 
The King turned to watch the quiet ebb of a tributary, studied the purpose 
and constancy of each drop of water as it jostled with its brothers to reach 
their final destination of the Falls of Perienes.    He tuned his ears to listen 
to the whispers upon the wind, the same force that had brought forth 
damage in winter storms and comfort during a scorching summer spell.  
He felt the song of the trees and surrounding wildlife underneath their 
boughs course through the very marrow of his bones to ripple through 
every nerve-ending.  And he keenly felt the soothing presence of one who 
had always been there for him, no matter what nature or destiny had 
thrown in his path.  
 
 
“I am glad you are here.”  
 
 
Caranthir smiled at the rigid countenance before him stately in all his 
glory, “As am I.  Although I had hoped my journey would be greeted by a 
much happier note.”  
 
 
“Legolas has been looking forward to this year’s Festival ever since the 
celebration concluded just last year,” Thranduil mused wistfully.  He faced 
Caranthir, his eyes shining from his memories, “Do you remember when 
Legolas bested the premier archer from Ossiriand at the archery 
competition?  His bow sung with the sweetest of perfections and he had 
the biggest smile on his face throughout the rest of the day.  Course his 
throng of admirers swarmed to alarming numbers. . .poor boy had to hide 
up in the trees for hours.”  
 
 
Caranthir chuckled, recalling the incident well, “Ah, yes.  The hardships 
of beauty, not to mention he has quite a nice title to go with it.”  
 
 
“He will drive me to distraction, that one, along with his sister.  I daily 
have to field more than a dozen new marriage proposals for each of their 
hands. . .all in the name of Mirkwood.  I swear, Caranthir, I am not ready 
to let my children go. . .Meneduil has been of age for centuries yet when 
the time came for him to take a spouse, it was nearly my undoing, 
although the match with Semele could not have been more true.”  
 
 
“The trials of a Father, yet even the greatest of burdens is well worth the 
honor Ilúvatar bestows upon us.”  
 
 
Thranduil nodded, unable to speak for fear of the screams that demanded 
to be released from their prison within his throat.  Caranthir, in his desire 
to bring back the smile that had only moments ago been upon the King’s 
face, laughed suddenly, which immediately drew a confused expression 
from Thranduil.  
 
 
“I seem to remember this time last year when Legolas and Orion stole into 
Elaida’s kitchens and proceeded to wolf down all her apple tarts and 
mince pies.  I thought she would surely faint when she discovered the 
disappearance.”  
 
 
Snickering in amusement at the antics of his children, Thranduil sagely 
reflected, “Aye, I remember.  They did learn their lesson well, however, 
when they were ill for nigh a full week.  Just the prospect of food had 
them begging for mercy.”  
 
 
“You recall when we were that young?” Caranthir asked with a raised 
brow.  
 
 
“How could I forget?  We got ourselves into so much trouble we had to 
hide from our parents for weeks.”  
 
 
Caranthir chuckled, “Course that never worked.  All it did was delay the 
inevitable and give them more time to fashion more inventive 
punishments.”  
 
 
“Aye. . .and our children think we can be harsh.  Imagine if they had had 
to deal with our         Fathers. . .we would appear as saints.”  
 
 
“That is to be sure.”  
 
 
“Yet, one truth we could always hold to was they would do anything to 
protect us from outside harm.  And I shall prove no different. . .I will do 
anything to save my son, Caranthir.  I will take any risk, face any peril, 
and my wrath will not be contained should any harm come to him.  My 
enemies shall rue the day they dared cross me and will beg for mercy with 
their dying breath,” Thranduil swore with such conviction even the wind 
shuddered, a gust whipping the King’s evergreen cloak about his broad 
shoulders.  
 
 
Caranthir nodded with a lump in his throat and cautioned softly, 
“Nevertheless, do not let your anger cloud your judgment, Thranduil.”  
‘Please,’ he almost added. . .  
 
 
Thranduil paid no heed to the offered advice and started to pace with 
fervor, hands clasped behind his back as his mind raced with the 
preparations foremost in necessity, “We must recall the military to the 
south. . .they will be needed to march on Imladris without delay.”  
 
 
Caranthir sighed, knowing that being the voice of reason when it came to 
Thranduil and his devotion to his children, would prove a difficult 
victory.  “Alas, my friend, we cannot amass all our forces for this course, 
if Legolas is indeed within Rivendell.”  
 
 
“He is,” Thranduil spat heatedly, his loathing of his rival rising to new 
heights, even after all these long years, and he was all but spoiling for a 
brawl.  
 
 
“I do not concede this fact as likely, yet we must be sure.”  
 
 
“What more is there to know?  Elrond has stolen my son, my precious 
Greenleaf, and he shall pay most dearly for such actions!  And do not 
think to impress upon me the need for Mirkwood to bow down to Imladris 
and roll over in submission, all in the name of peace!  It is because of 
them that our race suffers so and I would see them destroyed before I 
would ever ponder such a travesty!”  
 
 
Caranthir stared hard at the King for several long moments, the anger 
radiating from the Sindar burning him with its intensity.  He knew what 
Thranduil was doing. . .that he was trying to instigate an argument to 
combat his own fear.  And this time, Caranthir would not concede, 
knowing it would do the King no good.  
 
 
Tamping down his own irritation, Caranthir nodded brusquely and placed 
his hand to Thranduil’s heart, “So be it.  Yet, our borders cannot be left 
undefended against the masses of Orcs and other minions of the Dark 
Lord.  No, we are faced with two battles, the outcome of each crucial.  
Thranduil. . .the Nazgûl have been spotted.”  
 
 
Once Thranduil realized with much disappointment Caranthir was not 
going to oblige him, he digested this new turn of events, his brow 
furrowed at the ominous implication of such a finding, “Are you sure?”  
 
 
“Aye, I have had scouts searching long the region of the Witch-King and 
there have been several sightings.  Elrond has chosen a most inopportune 
time to stage his abduction.”  
 
 
The King scowled deeply at the Lord’s glib remark, turning away, “No 
hour is timely in such a cowardly act.”  
 
 
Caranthir quickly sought to make amends, “I am sorry for the disrespect 
my words have given.”  
 
 
Thranduil directed eyes overflowing with pain towards his stunned 
companion, tears glistening upon dark lashes, “I have failed, Caranthir. . 
.too many times, have I failed my family.  My Father perished because of 
my weakness, then Eleon and my beloved Ilyria.  I cannot fail my son.  
They cannot take him away from me, for that is a blow my heart cannot 
withstand.”  
 
 
“By Eärendil’s grace, I give you the sacred vow of my people this shall 
not come to pass.  Do not relinquish your faith, my King, for fail you have 
not done,” Caranthir avowed fiercely, bringing Thranduil’s hand to his lips 
and then his forehead, his eyes searching for the passionate determination 
he so loved and held dear in the one who laid claim to his heart.  
 
 
There was nothing he would not forsake for the Elf before him, yet he 
would never voice such thoughts, unable as he was to break free of his 
fear.  Yet, the feelings were there all the same, staring back at him 
whenever he glanced in a mirror.  Had been for as long as he could 
remember.  No matter how sudden or unexpected, the seed of love had 
grown within his breast until the greatest reward he could imagine was to 
hear Thranduil’s voice or bask in the light within his eyes.  And, by the 
Valar, he would never be sorry for such a love, one which had been 
nurtured for so many long years.  
 
 
Thranduil swallowed earnestly at the feel of his dearest friend’s silken lips 
upon his skin and studied the crystal blue eyes fixated on his own.  They 
were guarded as usual yet there was a small glimmer of something more. . 
.something that made his heart pound just a beat faster. . .something that 
he had envisioned on many occasions past in dreams.  
 
 
He took a step back and forced his mind to push such thoughts aside.  His 
son’s freedom, his very life, was at stake.  “I shall hold fast.”  
 
 
A hint of a smile ghosted Caranthir’s lips at the words, the fire glowing 
with green embers once again within the King’s eyes, “As shall I.”  
 
 
*~*~*~**~*~*~*  
 
Legolas drifted somewhere between the land of dreams and consciousness, 
a black void as thick as a woolen cloak that stretched forth and distorted 
both space and time.  He wandered aimlessly, disoriented and alone, 
struggling in vain to find a sure foothold that he could cling to, that would 
anchor him in this churning sea of darkness.  He knew something was not 
as it should be, a prickle of warning delving deeper into the cocoon of his 
mind until he could ignore it no             longer. . .a persistent beacon 
glimmering faintly in red off in the distance.  
 
Stumbling, Legolas swam impatiently through the quagmire of his 
thoughts toward the pinprick of light, glowing crimson like bloodshed, 
desperate to see anything other than the endless night where the stars 
refused to stand guard from up above.  Yet, at the same time he was afraid 
to leave the obscurity of the shadows. . .afraid of what he might find, or 
more importantly, what would find him.  Slowly, he drew closer. . .closer. 
. .pulled forward soundlessly on strings not of his own accord.  
 
However, a strangled voice from within screamed at him to stop, to flee 
back to the core of the darkness.  Memory stirred, yet he turned his head, 
recoiling from it although he did not understand why.  And without a 
second thought he heeded that small voice. . .he retreated quickly.  But the 
light would have none of this farce.  It was as if countless eyes were now 
pursuing him relentlessly through the infinite caverns of his mind, always 
herding him in the direction of that shimmering stain of red . . .forcing him 
to accept the inevitability the light offered.  
 
An explosion of colors erupted behind his closed lids, sparkling like 
fragmented diamonds, leading him out of the darkness.  And he followed 
with leaden feet like a prisoner towards a hanging noose.  Consciousness 
flooded through his veins, a conflagration of sensations pummeling him 
all at once.  Legolas felt a painful throbbing within his shoulder, the 
pungent smell of healing herbs wafting from the wound to tickle his nose.  
His cramped muscles complained violently from a source he as of yet 
hadn’t comprehended.  The bitter taste of witchroot lingered on his 
tongue, its trek down his throat leaving behind a burning path.  His head 
swam precariously, his mind unable to grasp onto any rational thought for 
long.  
 
Legolas struggled against his drug-induced state of mind, forcing bleary 
eyes open a fraction.  What had befallen him?  And where exactly was 
he?  He was facing towards a crumbling wall of stone and packed mud, 
trailing vines and lacy patches of moss growing riotously wherever they 
saw fit.  Firelight flickered eerily across the stone, and he could feel its 
teasing warmth caressing his back.  It appeared only this wall and the 
partial remains of another endured of what once must have been a sound 
structure, yet now only a rotting skeleton lingered behind, forgotten and 
discarded.  
 
He could see the surrounding trees beyond the wall, foreign to his eyes, 
their dialect strange.  Yet they were comforting all the same to the 
bewildered Wood Elf.  The land fountained sharply to the east, the snow-
capped peaks like jagged teeth, barren cliffs chiseled into their massive 
face.  The land to the west sloped much more gently, fertile soil amidst a 
tangle of streams and ponds.  Legolas faintly heard the chirping of insects, 
the screech of a night owl, the quiet murmuring of water nearby and tried 
to allow the calming sensations to drum through him, panicked as he was 
by his memory lapse.  
 
He swallowed with much difficulty, his tongue thick in his mouth.  
Experimentally, he opened his eyes further, blinking against the acute 
onset of splotches riddling his vision, the drugs still running rampantly 
through his body.  Shifting his gaze downward, he could see binding 
wrapped and intricately knotted about his wrists and ankles and cursed 
inwardly at this unwanted realization, the twine cutting painfully into his 
soft flesh.  
 
Time was a distant concept as he had no idea how long he had been here.  
Or where here was for that matter.  Legolas tried to remember how he may 
have ended up in this predicament, whatever it proved to be. . .could recall 
the fight with the Wargs, Gildeon by his side. . .but then there was only 
blackness.  A cold dark that persisted until he found himself here alone.  In 
some form of a nightmare.  
 
Suddenly, a memory took hold, filling his heart with ice.  Nora!  
Something had happened to Nora.  Forcing words past his lips, he groggily 
mumbled his sister’s name and flinched from the unexpected feeling of 
many pairs of eyes boring into his back.  Legolas turned his head slightly 
to see behind him but quickly halted all movement when his stomach 
rolled queasily, and he clenched his eyes shut with the effort to not spill 
the contents of his stomach.  
 
“So the golden bird has awoken?” he heard a silky voice permeate through 
his haze and cringed intuitively at the sound.  “Apparently you were not 
drugged sufficiently, although, I am hardly disappointed in this turn of 
events.”  
 
 
The voice had a strange lilt, not one he was accustomed to hearing, the 
awkward Sindarian speech laced with loathing and contempt.  Gritting his 
teeth, Legolas’ voice was but a raspy whisper, “Where am I and who are 
you?  Where is Nora?  Gildeon?”  
 
 
“Ah, my little bird, you are in no position to make demands.  I would 
advise you to hold your tongue unless addressed.”  
 
 
“Where is Nora?” Legolas repeated more firmly.  
 
 
“You try my patience.  I know not of what you speak.”  
 
 
He closed his eyes in relief.  Gildeon would have kept Nora safe. . .surely 
he would have.  She had to be alright, as even in his befuddled state he 
could not sense any danger surrounding her.  They were both safe.  Him, 
on the other hand. . .  
 
 
“Release me,” he demanded with a shaky breath.  
 
 
“I think not, my little bird.”  
 
 
The Mirkwood Prince stiffened at the endearment, anger welling within.  
He clenched his jaw and fought against the dizziness still plaguing him.  
“Do not address me so.  I am nothing of yours,” he muttered with a 
strength he did not feel.  
 
 
Elladan coolly stalked closer to the bound Elf as would a cat upon a 
downed sparrow, a gleam in his eyes Legolas would not have wished to 
see, “I beg to differ, my little bird.  You are property of Imladris now.”  
 
 
Imladris?  That shocked Legolas to the core of his being as he frantically 
wondered how such an eventuality was possible.  How had he fallen into 
the Noldor’s clutches?  Fury quickly overran his surprise though as he 
hated the Noldor more than anything he had ever come to know, his 
father’s words echoing in his head. He rolled onto his back, ignoring both 
the pain in his shoulder and the nausea, his gaze levelly meeting that of his 
tormentor.  
 
 
Elladan took an involuntary step back from that heated gaze.  Elrohir 
however was stunned once again by the perfection of the beauty before 
him.  Legolas’ eyes were magnificent stormy pools of cobalt blue with a 
smattering of golden flecks, which blazed all that more brilliantly due to 
the rage seen within.  The son of Lord Elrond had been mistaken in 
believing the Prince would be passive for before him rested a viper coiled 
to strike.  And he was simply breathtaking.  
 
 
The captive’s words were delivered with a soft vehemence, the sound of 
steel being drawn, “I belong to no one.  And certainly not to the scourge of 
Middle Earth, you Noldor bastard.”  Legolas held the dark-haired Elf’s 
gray eyes, feeling his skin burn with indignation.  From the corner of his 
own eyes, he could see other dark-haired beings rising from various 
positions around the campfire and begin to advance upon him, swords and 
daggers held in tense grips.  
 
 
The twin’s nostrils flared dangerously as he started toward their insolent 
prisoner, his fist drawn ready to plunge it into the face of the one who 
dared insult him, especially someone who was hardly worthy to lick his 
boots.  Elrohir grabbed his hand before it could fall, sending his brother a 
warning look, a silent communication that Legolas would be dealt with by 
his hand alone.  
 
 
Legolas had been prepared to receive the blow, having read the intention 
in the Elf’s gaze before the fist had been raised.  He was surprised that it 
had been restrained and even more so that the one holding the other back 
shared an identical face.  It was a little disconcerting. . .almost like seeing 
the primitive duality of one nature. . .a battle between good and evil within 
one soul.  
 
 
It was a face that intrigued him.  Dark auburn locks that fell past slim 
shoulders and framed high cheekbones and flawless skin, like marble 
statues of the finest craftsmanship. Eyes, although one pair a steel gray 
and the other an iridescent silver, that seemed as if they could bore straight 
into the soul, and leave no corner untouched until you were swallowed 
whole.  A face that blended into the night like a star from the heavens.  
 
 
A face that belonged to the enemy no matter how beautiful, he quickly 
reprimanded himself.  His present condition was proof enough of that.  It 
was a face that would see the death of those he held dear without so much 
as a twinge of remorse.  
 
 
“What is the matter with you?  The spawn of the very devil has dared to 
insult the sons of Elrond and you stand there and allow it?”  Elladan spat 
in Quenya, his chest heaving with each ragged breath while he continued 
to defile the lineage of the House of Oropher with unflagging zeal.  
 
 
With narrowed eyes, Legolas looked upon his captors with increased 
hatred.  Although much of what had been said had escaped him with his 
flawed knowledge of the despised Quenya tongue, the name Elrond, nor 
the term for son, had not.  The sons of Elrond, were they?  Sons to the 
ruthless ruler of Imladris who raped and pillaged without mercy, the very 
bane whom had afflicted his people with the need to dominate and 
control.  But this would never be.  The descendants of the Teleri would not 
fall victim to this curse.  
 
Before Elrohir could speak, Legolas declared with a clipped regality, 
“Then my words ring ever more true.  A curse on every black soul that 
slithers within the House of Elrond like a disease upon the very soil of 
Arda.”  
 
Briaerus, who had been surveying the scene with interest, smirked 
vaguely.  “A spirit of a tiger, indeed.  Elrohir may fancy him, yet he shall 
find him difficult to tame,” he whispered.  
 
Laertes frowned at his lieutenant and shook his head.  He gripped his 
sword more tightly in the event the prisoner became too unwieldy and he 
was forced to protect his Lord’s sons.  Just in case, he magically proved 
able to break free of several feet of rope wrapped around him.  
 
Tarquin just stood quietly, hands clenching by his sides as his heart pitied 
the innocent before him.  His comrades may find such thoughts traitorous, 
yet he could not help himself.  His own mother had instilled in him the 
belief that hope sprang eternal.  He was willing to die for Imladris should 
the need arise.  But at the same time, he detested the callous manner in 
which their Northern kindred were treated, as if they were no more than 
cattle.  His commander was different though and that was why he served 
him without question.  And Elrohir was different. . .he had seen the twin 
demonstrate acts of kindness to those forced to give up their freedoms and 
beliefs all in the name of the Noldor.  Although he had never seen Elrohir 
as enamored with any the way he was with the Elven beauty from the 
Woodlands. . .  
 
Elrohir looked upon the Prince with a mixture of disbelief and wrath, 
stunned into silence that the blonde before him would be so bold.  It was 
obvious Legolas would have to learn his place, for his own good as this 
disobedience would not do.  He released his hold on his brother and took a 
step back, his blood boiling.  Watching impassively, Elrohir followed the 
red trickle that coursed down Legolas’ chin after Elladan’s hand connected 
with the smooth jaw.  He watched the beautiful head snap back but not the 
extinguishing of defiance in the fiery blue ice of his eyes.  
 
Kneeling before the Prince, he roughly grabbed Legolas’ chin, lapsing 
back into Sindarian, “You will speak no further with such impertinence or 
the consequences will be dire.  The Lords of Imladris are your masters 
now.”  
 
Legolas spat in Elrohir’s face in response, “I would rather die a thousand 
deaths, *son of Elrond*.”  
 
Elrohir swiped furiously at the wetness on his cheek, “You will submit, 
willingly or no, but you will yield.  This I promise you, son of Thranduil,” 
he snapped condescendingly.  
 
“And I give you my solemn vow that I will kill you before that ever 
happens.”  
 
Losing the last thread of his patience, Elrohir backhanded Legolas hard 
against his left cheek, the skin already bruising angrily from the force of 
the blow.  “I do not think so.  Or have you forgotten your predicament?  
You are a prisoner and will serve Rivendell as ordered.”  
 
Legolas glared back, his hands twitching agitatedly within his bonds, 
“You are prone to serious delusions.  You will not get away with 
kidnapping me.  Mirkwood will not stand for it.”  
 
He was met with amused laughter, and despite himself, chills skimmed 
along the surface of his skin.  “I don’t give a damn what Mirkwood will or 
will not stand for.  It is only a matter of time before Mirkwood stands no 
longer.”  
 
With a livid cry, Legolas swung his arms upward to catch the twin 
unawares but a swift kick to his bruised ribs thwarted his effort and he was 
unable to squelch a moan of pain as his body protested.  Ruthwen stood 
above him and sent a disapproving glare towards Elrohir.  
 
“There is no time for this.  Before he becomes much more troublesome, 
you had best drug him back into submission.  Or this expedition, your 
Highness, will be for naught.”  
 
“No,” Legolas whispered as he fought like a wildcat to dislodge Elrohir 
from above him and the hold Ruthwen had on his lower body.  But he was 
helpless as the twin with the shining silver eyes forced a draught down his 
throat, pinching a muscle in his neck which reflexively led him to swallow 
every last drop.  
 
Then with a tender caress down his cheek, Elrohir whispered so softly 
only Legolas could hear, “You belong to me, Legolas Greenleaf of 
Mirkwood.”  
 
Legolas’ eyes teared from the potion flowing through him, yet before he 
succumbed to oblivion once again, he murmured fervently, “Never, son of 
Elrond.  Never.”  
 
 
 
TBC. . .  
 
(Next chapter will be out soon. . .let Round Two begin. . .Galadriel also 
makes her next appearance in all her evil ways.)



Title:  Place of No Frontiers  
 
Author:  Neira47  
 
Rating:  NC-17 (for violence and sexual situations)  
 
Pairing:  Legolas/Elrohir  
 
Disclaimer: All credit belongs to the mastermind of Tolkien, although 
hopefully he won’t be too furious to see my gross tampering of his genius 
as I’ve taken more than my share of liberty with both LOTR and the 
Silmarillion.  
 
A/N:  Not much action in this one, sorry about that...just sets up for things 
to come but things will start getting out of hand very shortly.  Next chapter 
will swing back to Mirkwood and also divulge Elrond’s take on Elrohir 
and Elladan’s little excursion.  I’ll also update the character list next time 
as I know it has continued to swell to massive proportions.  Also sorry if 
this isn’t up to par... Please let me know along the way if you have any 
suggestions or criticisms regarding anything you read and I’ll do my best 
to improve.  
 
 
 
Chapter Four  
 
*~*~*~**~*~*~*  
 
He was trapped in a clouded dream, a disembodied voice calling to him 
with increasing persistence...a whispered song carried on wings like those 
of a bird soaring towards the approaching dawn.  Always calling him 
thither, restless like the pulsing of a troubled heartbeat that knew no 
peace.  He saw towering peaks reaching for the sky, turned golden by the 
sun, almost melting like grains of sand by her rays.  Then suddenly he was 
surrounded by a deep twilight, as barren as a desert, as the crescendo of 
that voiceless melody burned his ears, filled his mind, always 
calling...forever calling...  
 
Legolas felt himself falling, plunging further and further into darkness 
with not so much as a single outcropping to grab to halt his descent.  He 
could not seem to remember what he knew he should...could only flail 
helplessly until his body would break like the shards of a looking glass 
upon the jagged rocks below.  
 
Then his mind registered arms holding his shaking form close, urging him 
to drink...cool liquid touching his lips.  In his confusion, it took several 
minutes for him to realize he hadn’t fallen, that the one holding him was 
indeed real.  He parted his lips slightly and tasted the bitter tang of quinine 
upon his tongue.  Ever so slowly, he forced his weary eyes to open and 
blinked at the hallucination before him.  He told himself he was still 
dreaming, caught in a gossamer net of delirium...perhaps from too much 
wine...perhaps...  
 
“Can you hear me, Legolas?” a faraway voice posed with eyes awash with 
worry.  
 
‘Tis only a dream,’ he whispered to himself, nothing more than a dream 
that spoke back to him.  “Y-yes,” he answered, his voice strangled to his 
own ears.  But his throat pained him so making it difficult for speech.  
 
“Drink more of this...it shall help clear your troubled thoughts.”  
 
He allowed the chalice to be brought back to his mouth and forced himself 
to swallow...anything to make his vision lucid once again.  
 
“There now...I think you are through the worst of it.  You need to rest, 
sweet Prince, to heal your spirit.  Do you understand?”  
 
He nodded, yet tried to forbid his eyes to close, not wishing for the 
darkness...for the dreams.  Legolas reached a trembling hand forward.  
“Danäe...” he managed to murmur.  And he felt a warm hand envelop his 
cold fingers, a voice singing to him softly before he slipped back into the 
shadows.  
 
“Sleep, my Prince,” Danäe hummed gently, brushing back strands of his 
golden hair from his face to place a tender kiss to his temple.  She watched 
the resting form in her arms with a mixture of happiness and fear.  She had 
not dared hope to ever see his face again, but considering where they were 
wished this privilege had not been granted.  He should not be here...not 
her Greenleaf.  “Sweet Elbereth, keep him safe.  I beg of you,” she 
whispered to the stars she could not see.  
 
*~*~***~*~*  
 
When Legolas next awoke, he was alone.  Not that he was surprised...he 
hadn’t expected to find Danäe hovering over him.  Not when it seemed his 
mind had finally settled down to a semblance of normalcy.  His eyes could 
clearly make out his surroundings, although he did not recognize them.  
Finely carved furnishings, inlaid with ivory and gold, tapestries lining the 
arched walls, murals of Elves he knew not.  He was lying on a golden bed 
with a rich burgundy coverlet, a filmy canopy of silk above his head.  
 
Turning his head, he noticed all the doorways and windows were barred, 
which he thought strange.  Returning to his prior position of staring at the 
ceiling overhead, his mind tried to sift through his memories in an attempt 
to piece together this mystery.  
 
His jaw and temple ached with an insistent throb, his stomach queasy from 
emptiness, and these findings left him even more confused.  Folded upon 
his chest, his hands flexed instinctively and, when he felt a glimmer of 
pain, his eyes quickly fell upon his wrists.  The skin was nearly rubbed 
raw, although the healing process had already begun, a thick amber paste 
smeared across the lacerations.  But why were his wrists in such a state?  
Legolas’ brow furrowed as he sought deeper into his thoughts, struggling 
to remember what it seemed his consciousness tried to hide.  
 
Then as if lightning had flashed down from the heavens and struck him, 
his eyes widened, his heart bulging from the sudden realization.  The 
twins!  He had been captured by those demons and must have been 
brought back to this place...but for what purpose?  What did they want of 
him?  
 
It mattered not.  He was escaping before he could find out.  Pushing 
himself to his feet, his arms quickly shot outwards to grasp at the bedpost 
as his knees buckled.  The abrupt movement jarred his mending shoulder, 
and he drew a hissing breath through his teeth.  Clutching frantically at the 
ornate wood to keep himself upright, he cursed the defiance of his own 
body, hating the feeling of helplessness washing over him.  He was 
anything but...his Father had trained him well.  Yet, he hadn’t been able to 
defend himself ever since this nightmare began, and it chafed his battered 
nerves that the enemy had him in such a position.  His Father would be 
aghast at his apparent ineptitude.  
 
Still his limbs refused to answer his desperate plea to aid him in his 
getaway, feeling as if they were little more than putty.  His upper arms, 
trembling from the exertion of trying to keep the ground under his feet, 
gave way as he crumpled to the cobblestones, a cry of frustration bursting 
forth.  For several long minutes, the Prince lay there in a toppled heap, 
staring blindly forward as the walls of doubt closed in on him, silently 
mocking his plight.  
 
But fury slowly forced a myriad of fissures to spread across the barricade 
entrapping his mind...like ripples on a lake’s surface they grew until the 
wall was shaking at its very foundations.  He was a Prince of Mirkwood 
and not some feeble victim...he would not submit without fighting with 
every last thread of resolve left in his body.  He would never surrender so 
help him.  
 
Shakily pushing himself up on his hands and knees, Legolas let the dim 
rays of sunlight peeking through the shuttered windows warm his body 
and offer their strength.  Closing his eyes, he felt a river of molten fire 
flow through his veins as he absorbed the sun’s power, devoured every 
morsel with ravenous jaws until he was nearly choking.  He channeled the 
energy to mend his weakened body, tremors racking his frame as he 
slipped further into a trance-like state, a white squall of rage lashing out 
across his vision.  
 
Radagast had taught him the power the forces of nature held, if one only 
summoned them, gave oneself freely to their omnipotence to become their 
conduit.  Course, there was a danger involved, of not being able to control 
the connection, of losing a firm grasp on one’s own mind.  The wizard had 
warned him repeatedly not to underestimate the gravity of such a situation, 
and had reprimanded him severely for trying to practice the forbidden art 
without his permission.  
 
Legolas was by no means expertly skilled in the summoning, although he 
had had success in the past, which is why he resorted to such means now.  
Radagast had told him that he possessed a rare gift, one that would thrive 
in time.  Yet, the Prince did not have the luxury of patience...he needed to 
escape.  
 
It was when Legolas was immersed in the ancient ritual that Elrohir left 
his brother’s chambers with the intent of allowing himself a visit with his 
captive, edgy as he was with the latest bitter argument with Elladan that 
this prize was meant for him.  Like none other, there was much he wanted 
to learn about the exotic Prince, much he wished to say.  It was as if 
Legolas’ mind was a labyrinth he longed to explore, and against his usual 
nature, he was not inclined to share.  Not this time even if it meant his 
brother would refuse to speak to him.  That was just an unfortunate 
consequence he could live with...besides he knew Elladan’s fancies were 
exceedingly short-lived, and it would not be long before he was enamored 
with some other pretty face and would forget about his cravings for 
Legolas...or at least Elrohir hoped.  
 
Elrohir pushed such dilemmas from his mind and focused instead upon the 
Prince.  He had been informed that Legolas still rested, the drugs he had 
used to subdue him overwhelming the young Elf’s system, adversely 
combining with the forced starvation that sought to keep his strength 
weakened.  For a brief moment, Elrohir had felt remorse for his actions, 
but it was quickly smothered...he had had no choice considering the 
Prince’s resistive nature during the trek to Imladris.  And as he had no 
intention of releasing Legolas, it was best the Elf learned the merits of 
submission, for his own sake.  Yet, he could not help making his ‘guest’ as 
comfortable as possible during his recovery before the lessons were to 
begin.  So he had had Legolas brought to his own bedchamber where the 
comforts were far greater than those to be found in the servants’ quarters.  
 
Arriving at his destination, he nodded at the guards posted outside the 
main door to his room and slid the lock free.  Elrohir was shocked to find 
Legolas awake and kneeling beside his bed, his body almost shimmering 
from within.  Shaking his head, he purposefully strode over to the form 
and grabbed an arm, wrenching the Prince to his feet.  Elrohir swallowed a 
bit anxiously as Legolas’ eyes found him...it was as if a gray mist swirled 
within, an unnatural fire that belied the Elf’s age and spoke of a power far 
greater than he had ever encountered.  
 
His hand tightened defensively about Legolas’ upper arm, his other ready 
to extract a jewel-encrusted dagger hanging from his waist should the need 
arise.  Gradually, the Prince’s eyes returned to normal, a cerulean blue that 
mesmerized Elrohir every time he had been graced with such a sight.  
 
Yet, Legolas’ body trembled with anger as he beheld his antagonist – the 
dark-haired twin with the silver eyes.  The very one who had implied he 
belonged to him.  The one who had stolen his freedom.   His link to the 
outside world had been broken, but enough of its energy flowed through 
the Elf’s weary limbs to instill him with the necessary strength to wield 
this battle.  With an expression devoid of emotion, Legolas stared straight 
into the silvery spheres before him and snatched his arm free.  
 
“You shall release me at once.”  
 
“I fear not, golden one,” Elrohir answered in a calm undertone as he 
watched the Elf carefully, trying to gauge Legolas’ intentions.  
 
“Release me!  Or you shall come to regret your poor decision!” Legolas 
finished in a shout with clenched fists, his calm demeanor shed in favor of 
the fiery temper that stirred below his surface – he was after all 
Thranduil’s son.  
 
The twin relaxed slightly and chuckled, amused by the tactics of the 
Sindarian,  “Again, I must refuse, although I do thank you for your kind 
warning.  ‘Tis most appreciated.”  
 
“You and I will fight until the end of days before I ever submit, and I will 
give no forgiveness upon you after my victory,” Legolas vowed, his eyes 
taking on a bewitching glow.  
 
“My, my...such spirit.  Pray tell Legolas what do you intend on using for a 
weapon.  You are...shall we say...defenseless,” Elrohir pointed out 
haughtily, his hands outstretched in a indication of false deference as he 
took a step forward.  
 
“I shall use my bare hands if necessary,” Legolas retorted as he proudly 
stood his ground, dignity speaking under the layers of stained refinement 
that signaled his position.  He would not give the Noldor the satisfaction 
of backing down.  Tilting his head slightly to the side, he narrowed his 
eyes, “Besides I do not see any hindrance to prevent me from doing so and 
simply taking back my freedom.”  
 
“Ah...do not let your eyes deceive you my Prince.  There are plenty of 
obstacles to your escape waiting just outside that door and they would not 
take kindly to my...demise...at your eager hands,” the son of Elrond 
enlightened with a smirk.  
 
“Do not be so self-assured, Betrayer.”  
 
“Elrohir.”  
 
“What?”  
 
“My name is Elrohir, if you please.  Betrayer...devil...fiend...,and I do 
believe the few other choice names you have bestowed upon me during 
our short acquaintance, all sound much too formal considering,” he 
affirmed sardonically, eyeing the Prince suggestively.  
 
“Considering what?” Legolas murmured suspiciously as he stared at the 
face that was nameless no longer.  
 
“Our fate of course.”  
 
Legolas’ face twisted in contempt and frustration, “Do not speak in such 
riddles.”  
 
“Tis no riddle.  You now belong to me, Legolas.  And you and I shall get 
to know each other much better I do think,” the twin spoke softly, letting 
his gaze roam over the object of his desire, hiding none of the lust he felt.  
 
The blonde stepped back in alarm as he read Elrohir’s eyes, “Nay!  Your 
foul hands will never touch me.”  This eventuality had not occurred to him 
– he had assumed they had wanted information from him about his 
Father’s kingdom...never that his body was to be used against his will.  
However, this new knowledge only served to throw kindling on the fire 
that was his defiance.  
 
Elrohir snickered condescendingly at the Elf’s answer, more than happy at 
the prospect of proving the young one wrong.  He had wanted Legolas 
upon first finding the Elf unconscious days ago and wanted him even 
further now that he had witnessed firsthand the spirit the Prince owned.  
This was more than a simple conquest and deep down he knew it, although 
he refused to give the thought even the slightest of substance.  For now at 
least.  Now he had to show Legolas the depth of his resolve – that there 
was nowhere for him to go.  
 
Raising a brow, Elrohir folded his arms across his chest, his lip curving 
upwards, “I don’t remember advising you that you had a say in the matter.  
It will be to your benefit to accept the inevitable.”  
 
Getting his emotions back under control, Legolas schooled his features 
into an impregnable mask. “And it would be to your advantage to not 
underestimate me,” he avowed as he turned the tables decisively and took 
a step towards Elrohir, confidence suddenly surrounding him like a warm 
cloak.  He leaned ever slightly towards the mystified twin and murmured 
quietly, “Ignorance is curable. Stupidity is not...Betrayer.”  
 
A spark of fury erupted in Elrohir’s eyes, yet he stifled it quickly, 
determined to not allow the Elf before him to get under his skin, “I 
suppose you believe yourself clever.  Forewarned is forearmed, is that it, 
Legolas?  You find courage in hollow words, yet you fail to have the 
strength to put truth behind them.”  
 
“Are you so certain of that?  Or is it actually yourself you are trying to 
convince?”  Legolas took another step forward, his eyes cold and 
calculating, again throwing Elrohir off balance at the wide spectrum of 
emotions that continued to play out in the expressive eyes...one minute – 
fire, the next – ice.  
 
His control snapping abruptly like a willowy twig under a horse’s hoof, 
Elrohir squared his shoulders and rounded on the Prince, his voice as 
sharp as a well-honed dagger, “I am not the one who finds themselves 
captive...your every whim is to be decided by me.  And you, child of the 
wood, will do well to remember that!  Remember, or you will leave me no 
choice but to show you the price of opposing the will of Imladris and it 
shall be heavy indeed!”  
 
“I remember, and hold dear to my heart, the honor and wisdom of the 
Teleri.  And to that, and that alone, do I pledge myself.  Never shall your 
*will* impose upon such Light.  Nor me.  And I am not a child!” he 
quickly added in a huff.  
 
Scoffing bitterly, the dark-haired Elf leered at the proud Prince, shrugging 
his shoulders, “You speak of honor, yet you are nothing more than a 
traitor to the ways of this world.  And...a child at that.”  
 
“I am a warrior of Mirkwood, you ignorant fool.  And I would not expect 
honor to be a concept you would understand for it is *you* who has 
discarded her in your cowardice,” Legolas fired back, incensed at the 
insult upon his people and his own position.  He was still royalty and not 
at all used to being spoken to in such a manner by a mere stranger.  His 
cheeks were flushed, his chest heaving slightly under his tunic as he stared 
at Elrohir.  He was angry and frustrated at the turn of events that had 
landed him in this predicament, at the undaunted arrogance of the twin 
that he was nothing more than a incompetent bauble to be put on display, 
and more than anything at the dastardly, treacherous thoughts running 
through his head that it was a shame Elrohir had to be so stunning.  
 
Elrohir smiled thinly, his eyes taking on the visage of a predator as he 
watched the shivers rippling through the svelte frame and the distress 
swirling in Legolas’ eyes, “Well, Legolas, aren’t you the contradiction.  
Words of such conviction yet you tremble before me, shrouded in your 
*honor*.”  
 
Legolas’ back stiffened in indignation, any notions that Elrohir’s eyes 
were the most beautiful shade of silver chased from his mind, “Tis not 
from fear, let me assure you,” he spoke with clipped firmness.  This Elf 
was most certainly the most boorish being he had ever had the displeasure 
of meeting.  
 
“Is that so?  Perhaps, you are the one deceiving yourself,” the son of 
Elrond commented curtly as he reached out to run his fingers through the 
silky strands of wheat haloing Legolas’ shoulders.  The Prince jerked back 
in response, the rear of his still unsteady legs striking the side of the bed, 
throwing him off balance in his haste.  He stumbled backwards until he 
was lying on the thick satin of the coverlet, the blood rushing from his 
head at the sudden movement.  
 
“Well I must say I am much more fond of seeing you in this position, my 
sweet,” Elrohir remarked with a lewd grin, his loins tightening in response 
to the sight before him.  
 
Legolas tried to push himself off the bed, yet Elrohir quickly draped his 
body over the struggling Prince, ramming Legolas deeper into the soft 
prison.  The blonde was at a distinct disadvantage, his body still 
weakened, and he was unable to fully dislodge the Elf above him.  
However, he managed to slam his elbow into the twin’s jaw with deadly 
accuracy, snapping Elrohir’s head to the side with a resounding crack.  
That earned him a strike against the temple with the hilt of Elrohir’s 
dagger, starbursts exploding behind his eyelids at the impact.  
 
Elrohir wrenched Legolas’ injured wrists above his head and bound the 
dazed Elf to the nearest bedpost with his leather belt, grimacing at the 
angry red welts already marring the pale flesh, yet frustrated enough to 
care little. Then he pushed all his weight against the Prince’s ribcage to 
drive away his breath and brought the dagger against the smooth column 
of his neck.  
 
Grinding his hips into Legolas’, Elrohir let the extent of his arousal be 
known to his obstinate captive.  “You do not have to make this so difficult, 
Legolas.  You might just come to enjoy your new life here,” he murmured 
as he leaned closer, delicately pricking the silken skin as he hungrily 
gazed upon Legolas’ supple lips.  “With me,” he added quietly.  
 
“I would more likely bow down to Melkor himself as his faithful subject,” 
Legolas retorted hotly, desperately trying to get his body’s response under 
his complete control.  The feel of Elrohir’s skin was like the finest silk, his 
hardened muscles a maddening contrast to that softness as his rigid 
erection pressed intimately against the juncture of his thighs, tempting his 
own to answer.  And to the beleaguered prisoner, the sudden stab of 
longing strangely coursing through his veins drowned him in humiliation.  
 
“I will have you, whenever the mood strikes,” Elrohir guaranteed 
fervently, his eyes darkening to deep pools of pewter as his desire to bury 
himself within the hidden warmth Legolas offered teased him 
unmercifully.  A grin of triumph split across his face though as he felt an 
awakening hardness meet his own and he roughly rubbed himself along 
Legolas’ groin, prompting an unwanted moan from Legolas’ lips.  “It 
would seem your body welcomes my touch, golden one. . .begs me to take 
you as you were meant to be.”  
 
Legolas’ body turned to ice, a murderous visage encompassing his eyes, 
“Be prepared for disappointment as it rips you from the safety of your 
deluded fantasies.  Conquest may be easy, but control most certainly is 
not, and for all your impious conceit, it will garner you nothing but self-
destruction.  And I will look forward to that day, son of Elrond,” the 
Prince pronounced with cold harshness, turning Elrohir’s title into a 
disgraceful epitaph, one reeking of foulness.  
 
“Elrohir!  Say it...say my name!” Elrohir ranted, his patience gone.  He 
pushed the point of the dagger upwards, drawing a stream of 
blood...reminding him of a red rose slashed and broken upon a canopy of 
pristine snow.  When Legolas remained silent, he pressed his arm 
forcefully against the Prince’s throat, effectively limiting Legolas’ oxygen 
supply until dark splotches began to overcome his vision.  Legolas 
struggled, bucking his hips upwards in an attempt to throw the irrational 
Elf from him, but managed nothing more than enraging Elrohir further.  
 
“Say it,” Elrohir demanded again...he didn’t understand his actions...this 
burning need to inflict pain until Legolas submitted.  It sickened him, yet 
he bore down harder on the graceful alabaster column all the same, out of 
frustration, out of anger, out of...desperation.  He was not used to rejection 
and by no means was he ready to be so now.  Legolas would learn to crave 
his touch, respond to it with all that passion lingering in his soul, would 
come to beg for a simple caress.  This obsession he suffered would allow 
for nothing less.  
 
“Why must you be so damn unyielding!  Tell me you feel nothing...tell me 
you don’t desire me as I do you.  You, who speaks of such 
righteousness...you who does nothing more than lies to his own 
conscience.  Tell me!” he ground out through clenched teeth as he lifted 
his arm to allow the Elf to draw breath into his lungs.  
 
Nothing but silence greeted him and he lashed out, striking the Prince and 
splitting his lip.  After several more minutes of raving to the soundless 
form beneath him, it finally registered that he had seamlessly slipped back 
into his own native tongue, that Legolas had no idea what he was saying.  
With a choked sob, he lowered his head and lapped at the trickle of blood 
at the corner of Legolas’ lips, moving his mouth to fully cover the Prince’s 
own.  
 
Legolas tried to pull his head away, but Elrohir framed his face with his 
palms and prevented him from doing so.  The Noldor twin again dragged 
his erection across Legolas’, eliciting a surprised gasp from the Sindarian.  
Taking advantage, Elrohir thrust his tongue into the moist, warm cavern of 
Legolas’ mouth and greedily explored the soft recesses like a conqueror 
staking claim to new territory, desperately trying to mark him as his own.  
 
Stunned momentarily, Legolas felt the intrusion sweep across him like a 
wildfire, every nerve ending in his body ablaze with a bizarre pleasure.  It 
was a feeling akin to drowning in a tumultuous river, being tossed asunder 
in feral winds accompanying a summer tempest...of completely losing 
oneself.  And for the merest of moments, Legolas felt himself respond to 
its unerring pull, his own tongue brushing across the slick flesh devouring 
him, amazed by the unexpected sensations wracking his body.  
 
But then reality set in, and he remembered the circumstances that preceded 
such feelings.  The Elf kissing him as if he were trying to suck the life 
from him was simply doing so to assert his ownership, and Legolas was 
not about to let that happen.  His struggles began anew, although to his 
frustration they proved mostly futile against his determined opponent.  
 
Elrohir had felt Legolas’ passion begin to emerge at his prompting until 
the willful Elf had staunched its surge and begun to fight him once again.  
The Noldor increased his efforts, trailing a wet path down the graceful 
column of Legolas’ throat to tease the artery pulsing erratically at his 
ministrations and brought a deliberate hand to the growing bulge in the 
Prince’s leggings.  
 
Abruptly, there was a timid knock at the door and Elrohir cursed lightly.  
Never taking his eyes off the furious ones of his captive, he called out to 
permit entrance.  The door opened and a fair-haired she-Elf with aged 
almond-shaped caramel eyes stood upon the bedchamber’s threshold, a 
tray laden with a pitcher of water and tureen of broth held between her 
tremulous hands.  
 
“I have brought refreshment as you had requested, my Lord.”  
 
Legolas stared back at Elrohir, his jaw set in a rigid line...until he heard 
the quietly spoken words.  His head jerked towards the sound, his eyes 
widening as he swallowed convulsively,  “Danäe?” he whispered.  
 
Elrohir quirked an eyebrow, glancing quickly between the Elves’ 
matching ashen complexions, Legolas seeming as if he had seen a ghost.  
Apparently, Legolas was quite familiar with his father’s longtime servant 
and she with him.  Although he supposed he should not have been 
surprised...after all they were both Wood Elves from Mirkwood.  
 
“Put it on the table Danäe and leave us,” Elrohir ordered firmly as he went 
back to watching the myriad of expressions flitting across Legolas’ fair 
face.  
 
Danäe returned Legolas’ baffled gaze, her sense of protectiveness raging a 
battle within her breast as it had so many times before.  This was her 
Legolas...the Elf she had helped raise after her beloved sister’s death.  Her 
own nephew.  
 
She had watched him and Nora emerge from childhood, such mirror 
images of Ilyena with the fiery spirit of Thranduil lurking in their eyes.  
True testimony to the best qualities of the King and Queen of Mirkwood.  
Danäe had formed an even more special bond with the twins since they 
had been so young when they had lost their mother.  
 
But then she had been taken prisoner in a traitorous maneuver against the 
Royal House, by the one person she had trusted most.  Thankfully, it had 
not come to fruition and her sister’s children had been kept safe.  Until 
now.  And how was she supposed to walk away?  She had already been 
forcefully dragged from Legolas’ side as he had lain unconscious upon his 
arrival here in Rivendell.  And her other duties about the household had 
since kept her from reassuming her position next at his bedside.  
 
Yet, now her Prince was awake and her heart broke at the naked longing 
in Legolas’ eyes, that same expression he had held as a child beseeching 
her to banish lingering nightmares upon the morn.  She watched the 
confusion and disbelief dart across his face, knew he must have believed 
her perished long ago on that fateful afternoon and now was convinced his 
mind played cruel tricks.  
 
“Danäe, did you hear me?  You have been dismissed,” Elrohir prodded 
firmly, exasperated by the interruption.  
 
Danäe blinked back a mist of tears and nodded hastily.  She set the silver 
tray by the bed and backed away with her head lowered, the image of 
Legolas bound to the twin’s bed to be subjected to whatever foul whims 
the Noldor wished burned into her eyes.  She gritted her teeth and 
clenched small hands by her