Title:  A Season Apart
Author:  Emma Keigh
E-mail:  emmakeigh@ithilas.com
Rating:  NC-17 (m/m sex, m/f sex)
Characters:  Elrond, Legolas, Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen, Erestor, 
Gil-galad, Thranduil, and numerous original characters and horses.
Pairings:  Elrond/Legolas, Elrond/Gil-galad, Elrohir/ofc
Category:  Romance
Status:  New  (portions of Chapter 3 have been published in slightly 
different form as “Interlude in Imladris”)
Date:  31 October 2003
Archive:  Where posted (including Library of Moria); elsewhere please 
ask first
Series:  Follows “ Seasons of the Heart”
Website:  http://www.ithilas.com/chezemma
Summary:  After “Seasons of the Heart,” Legolas returns to Mirkwood.

Disclaimer:  The characters and melieux from The Lord of the Rings are 
the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema (AOL).  
I only play with them from time to time for my own amusement and 
without compensation.  No harm; no foul; no profit.  The story itself, and 
anything or anyone new, however, are mine (left-overs again!).  This is 
about CHARACTERS, not ACTORS.  

Warning:  This story contains explicit scenes of sex between consenting 
adult Elves of the same gender and of opposite genders.  If you are under 
age or don’t care for this, LEAVE NOW.  Beta-read by Nikki Memmott.  
Thanks, merci beaucoup, tapadh leibh, gracias, danke, grazie, spazebo, 
arigato, obrigado.  Feedback will be cherished. *indicates italics*  
**indicates bold**

Notes: Following final chapter.


A SEASON APART—an Elrond/Legolas story

PROLOGUE

**Imladris, Early Spring:  Year 2674 of the Third Age.**

As soon as the three green-clad riders left the courtyard, Elrond made his 
way to the highest gazebo.  He knew it would be an hour or more before 
the Elves of Mirkwood reached the top of the trail on the far side of the 
river, but he was patient.  Here he could let down his guard, let his 
emotions take over.  Here he could mourn the departure of his lover.  His 
hands gripped the railing, his knuckles white, as a single tear escaped his 
eye.

“I *will* see him again,” he swore aloud to himself.  “He *will* return.”  
He was answered by the sweet call of a small, blue bird that roosted on the 
railing between his hands.  An answering call sounded from behind and 
above him, and he turned to see a neat nest tucked in the eaves of the 
pitched roof.

A deep breath stopped the threat of additional tears, and he offered a 
finger to the bird as a perch.  With the bird’s tiny talons clasping his 
extended digit, he brought the bright creature to his eye level.  Grey eyes 
gazed into the bright, black beads as the bird turned his head to and fro.

“Fear not, my feathered friend.  No one will disturb your home.”  He 
raised his hand further, reaching toward the nest, and the bird fluttered to 
the carefully woven structure.  “A sign of hope you are,” Elrond 
continued, “that my Greenleaf will return.”

He turned back to the railing to wait, and finally saw the departing Elves 
cresting the path.  Raising his hand to his eyes against the bright morning 
sun, he saw the last of the party stop and turn back.  Though all three of 
the Elves had hair of gold, only Legolas rode a golden horse with a flaxen 
mane.  *Be safe, my love,* Elrond prayed.  *Come back soon.*

As if in answer, the distant rider raised his arm in a reluctant wave of 
farewell, then turned his horse and rode away.

CHAPTER ONE

from the journal of Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood:

It is with great sadness that I leave Imladris, where I found (and have left) 
my heart—my soul—my life.  At the top of the trail, I turned and gazed 
back on the most beautiful place I have ever seen.  The fruit trees are 
flowering, and a hint of pale green adorns the long-bare branches of the 
oaks and elms.  The meadows are lush from the early rains, and the new 
foals cavort around their mothers as the stallions race each other for 
dominance in the herd.  By the time we cross the mountains, the lambs 
will be weaned and their mothers shorn of their thick winter fleeces.  
Opiran and Beornwë barely tolerated my last look, as they are anxious to 
return to Mirkwood.  At long last, I saw what I sought—a figure in grey 
robes, standing alone in the highest gazebo.  His hand shaded his eyes as 
he looked toward me.  I raised my hand in farewell, but know not if I was 
seen before following my escort on to the east and my father’s home.

-i-

**The Misty Mountains.**

“Prince Legolas,” Opiran said, the sting of command in his voice.  “Pray, 
put away your book.  We must be off before the sun is higher in the sky.”

The small party had pushed on well after dark their first night on the road , 
leaving Legolas no light to write by once they halted.  He had ignored his 
journal during his stay in Imladris, but once back on the trail, took it up 
again.

“Yes, Opiran,” the prince answered resignedly.  “I am finished.”  He blew 
on the newly written words to dry the ink, and placed the small, leather-
bound journal in the wooden box he held on his lap.  Glorfindel had made 
him a parting gift of the writing box, dark walnut inlaid with pale ash in an 
interlaced pattern with a clasp and hinges of bright brass.  Inside there 
were fitted compartments for tightly sealed bottles of ink, pens with 
various nibs, sketching charcoal, and colored waxes.  There were smooth 
papers for writing, thin papers for posting, textured paper for drawing, and 
room for his journal.  Carefully he locked the case, then tucked the tiny 
key on its fine chain into a soft pouch on his belt.  After securing the box 
in his pack, he bent his bow to the string with a practiced movement, then 
tested the draw.  Satisfied with the bow’s power, he vaulted into his 
saddle.

“You needn’t keep watch, your highness,” the lieutenant objected, already 
mounted on his white-starred black.  “Your safety is *our* responsibility.”

The young prince bristled.  “I am no child that I cannot defend myself,” he 
said.  “I will keep my bow strung while we ride.”  With the barest nudge 
to Celanor’s ribs he guided the horse into line behind Opiran, and they set 
out, climbing the formidable mountain path again.  He was dressed 
differently from the other two Elves, though his green leggings and brown 
surcoat resembled their uniforms.  Embroidered with vines and leaves, his 
silken tunic was pale green, fastened at the throat with a tiny leaf of 
mithril that caught the morning light.

Beornwë followed Legolas, his unmarked bay no more than two yards 
behind the prince, his keen eyes and ears alert for any attack from the rear.  
His cloak was the same dull green as his leggings, his surcoat an earthy 
brown with Thranduil’s sigil marked on his breast in grey.  The grey linen 
tunic was closed with polished wooden toggles, its pale color all but 
hidden from view.

The strong, Elven-bred horses climbed the steep mountains as sure-footed 
as goats, their iron-shod hooves digging into the packed earth of the 
pathway.  Centuries of use had hardened the path to even the most 
invasive of weeds and strongest of rains.  The way over the mountain 
toward Mirkwood was clear of orcs—Elrohir and Elladan had driven them 
away with their constant patrols and hunting trips.  Now that the snows 
had melted in the lower passes, and the high clefts were passable, the 
twins would soon be setting forth on yet another mission to destroy every 
orc in Middle-earth, or at least between Imladris and Lothlórien.

They rode silently, Legolas still thinking over the events he ’d recorded in 
his journal.  He closed his eyes to recall his last view of the Elven 
sanctuary, and saw in sharp detail the beautiful valley, the graceful 
buildings, and the grey-robed Elf alone in the highest gazebo.  *Was it 
Elrond?*  He searched the image in his mind, his memory as sharp as his 
eyes.  He focused his memory as he focused his eyes when aiming his 
bow, and saw the glint of sunlight on the mithril circlet Elrond had worn 
to say farewell.

He felt his heart swell, and the head-to-toe tingle that shook him every 
time he beheld the Elf-lord.  He gave Celanor his head, and let his mind 
wander over the past three weeks.  His memories were vivid and arousing, 
and suddenly his leggings tightened, and he quickly opened his eyes and 
took a sip from his waterskin.  *I forget myself,* he thought, and breathed 
deeply, hoping neither of his companions would notice his condition.  
Carefully he schooled his thoughts, knowing it would be a long ride over 
the mountains and across Mirkwood to his father’s palace.  Thoughts of 
Elrond and the pleasures they had shared would have to wait for more 
private moments.

-ii-

**Imladris, one week later.**

The night was late, and Elrond still sat at his desk.  The flickering candles 
dripped, their wicks untrimmed, and the night wind ruffled the draperies, 
sending a chilly draught into the room.  An untouched goblet of wine 
stood at his elbow, and he held a sheet of parchment in one hand, though 
he stared more to the east than at its words while he worried the thumbnail 
of his free hand with his teeth.  The Elf-lord’s long hair was carelessly 
pulled back from his face, the plaited forelocks devoid of ornamentation.  
After another moment of staring to the east, in the general direction of 
Mirkwood, he sighed deeply and returned to his reading.

He knew he was not concentrating on the report he held in front of his 
eyes.  He longed for his absent lover, for the sound of his voice, the touch 
of his hand.  Silently he shook his head.  *A mere three weeks*, he 
thought.  *After centuries alone, three short weeks is my undoing.*  
Although Legolas had been a guest at Imladris for five months, they had 
only become lovers during the last three weeks of his stay.  He chided 
himself at the months wasted in doubt and denial—doubt that the young, 
beautiful Elf would be attracted to him, denial that the feelings that filled 
his heart for the first time in centuries were love.

*Love.*

They had spoken of their desire for one another, they had called each other 
*lover*.  Not once, though, the Elf-lord realized, had either of them 
admitted to loving the other.  More waves of doubt washed over him.  
*Could he have misinterpreted the sprite’s feelings?*  He knew the depth 
of his own feelings for Legolas, knew that he had truly lost his heart to the 
Prince of Mirkwood.

To ease his mind he recalled the young Elf’s promise:  “I *shall* return, 
*melethron-nîn*.  Do not doubt that.”  He could hear the clear tenor of 
Legolas’s voice, even feel the warm breath in his ear.  With the 
recollection of one memory, others followed, and Elrond let them wash 
over him.  He closed his eyes to see the images in his mind, and he 
breathed deeply as his body remembered the touch of bow-calloused 
hands, the warmth of passionate kisses.

“Three weeks is not enough,” he muttered to himself.

“What was that, milord?”  Glorfindel’s voice startled Elrond.  He turned to 
see his aide but an arm’s reach behind him.

“Glorfindel,” he said.  “I did not hear you enter.  I was...”  He paused to 
clear his throat, for his voice was lower than its normal register.  “...I was 
distracted.”

A knowing smile crossed the blond Elf’s face.  “The absence of Prince 
Legolas affects us all,” he said.  “I miss his work in the Library.  Another 
party of scholars arrived tonight.”

“You should have informed me—I would have greeted them,” Elrond 
insisted, “if I’d known....”  This was his home, and although all were 
welcome here, he preferred to greet each guest personally.

“They arrived far too late for a formal greeting, milord,” the seneschal 
explained.  “You may meet them in the morning.”  He stepped closer to 
Elrond and touched his shoulder.  “Pray, take some rest tonight.”

“I shall.”  He turned back to the report, but paid it no more attention than 
before.

Glorfindel took the parchment from Elrond’s hand and set it aside.  “Now, 
milord.  It is past midnight, and you are weary.”  A hand under his elbow 
encouraged Elrond to stand.

“Midnight?”  He looked to the windows, seeking the angle of the 
moonlight, but all were draped against the night’s chill.

“Yes, Elrond,” Glorfindel answered, speaking as he would to a child.  
“Come, I will see you to your chambers.”

Elrond allowed the older Elf to lead him away from his work, pausing 
only to pinch out the candles before leaving the room.  In the back of his 
mind he knew he needed to rest, he knew he needed to order his mind, but 
all he was able to contemplate was the emptiness—his empty arms, his 
empty bed.  They walked in silence until they reached Elrond’s 
bedchamber.  The moonlight poured in through undraped windows, along 
with the chill of the spring night’s air.

Glorfindel glanced around the dimly lit room.  A fire had been laid in the 
hearth, but not lit, and a frosted-glass lamp held a single, flickering candle.  
The large, standing candelabra that would light the entire room held only 
stubs of candles.  Leaving Elrond’s side, he knelt at the hearth and struck 
flint and steel near the kindling.  In a moment he was rewarded with a 
small blaze that quickly caught the dry wood.

Oblivious to the cold, Elrond slipped the heavy robe from his shoulders, 
and let it lie in a heap on the floor.  He sat on the edge of the bed to 
remove his soft, suede boots and the hose beneath them.  “Thank you, my 
friend,” he said, standing again.  “I think—I think I shall be able to 
continue from here.”

“Tomorrow I shall assign a squire to assist you,” Glorfindel announced, 
raising his hands against Elrond’s protest.  “Do not object, milord.  The 
youngster I have in mind will find it a post of honor, and will relieve you 
of much concern.”

Rather than argue further, Elrond shrugged his shoulders and said, “If you 
think it best.”

Elrond’s air of resignation alarmed Glorfindel, alerting him the Elf-lord’s 
melancholy was more serious than it had first seemed.  “Yes,” he assured 
him.  “Now, milord, you need some rest.”

Nodding his agreement, Elrond silently unfastened his kirtle and shirt, 
dropped a nightshirt over his head, and slipped between the sheets.  He 
drew the coverlet over his shoulders and snuggled his head into the 
feather-filled pillow.

Before leaving, Glorfindel picked up the discarded clothing from the floor, 
setting it aside for attention in the morning.  He rearranged the burning 
wood in the fireplace, and added larger, split logs that would burn all 
night.  He closed the draperies and snuffed the single candle.  “Goodnight, 
milord Elrond,” he said.  He gently touched the younger Elf’s shoulder.  
“Dream well.”

As he quietly made his way to his own chambers, the seneschal mentally 
listed the tasks that lay before him on the morrow.

-iii-

**The Misty Mountains, on the road to Mirkwood.**

The morning sun had a hard edge to it this high on the mountain, as if it 
were too close to the ground, or the Elves were too close to the sky.  
Spring was slow to come to the high passes of the Misty Mountains.  
Snow still clung in shadowed places, north-facing glens and hollows, and 
to the ground deep within the thickets of fir and spruce.  Higher still the 
trees thinned, leaving only low-growing shrubs and wildflowers—snow-
white edelweiss and purple rhododendron painting the flanks of the 
mountain.  They could see the peaks thrusting into the sky, the bare rock 
still holding banks of snow, and in the deepest ravines, the blue-white of 
glaciers.

The Elves could see for miles when no trees blocked their view, and 
Opiran and Beornwë kept their eyes constantly scanning each side of the 
trail, trusting their horses to keep to the road.  Only Legolas watched the 
ground to either side, marking the recent comings and goings of small 
animals, as well as old trails of horses, men, and Elves.  Under his breath 
he hummed a song he had learned during the winter.

The broken branches of a low-growing larch caught his attention, and he 
looked more carefully at the ground beneath the bruised shrub.  The large, 
square-toed boot-prints were unmistakable.  “Ho!” Legolas cried, stopping 
Opiran and Beornwë in their tracks.  Without waiting for their questions, 
the Elf-prince  turned Celanor from the main road and followed the trace 
he saw in the undergrowth.  “Orcs!” he called back over his shoulder.  
“This way.”

“Prince Legolas,” Opiran called in response.  He turned in his saddle, but 
did not immediately follow the prince.  He huffed when Legolas did not 
stop, then gestured to Beornwë.  “Go after him,” he ordered.  He watched 
as first Legolas, then Beornwë disappeared around a rocky outcropping, 
then spurred his horse to follow.

Half a league they rode, south along a ridge, until they reached an 
abandoned camp.  Legolas had dismounted and was searching the site by 
the time Opiran caught up.  The band had not bothered to police the area 
before they had left; the clearing was littered with orc-filth and remains of 
their feeding.  A fire had been carelessly built without a perimeter, the 
ashes and embers still hot.  Legolas did not examine the charred bones, 
wary of learning too much of their eating habits, but he did look closely at 
the trampled vegetation, and stirred the remains of the fire.  “They are not 
far ahead,” he observed.  “We can catch them if we ride hard.”

“No.”  Opiran ’s command was firm.  “They are too many for us, and this 
is not our land.”  He ignored the cutting glance from Legolas and 
continued his orders.  “We are soldiers of Mirkwood.  The mountain 
passes are not our concern.  Let the sons of Elrond see to these orcs.”  He 
spat on the ground and wheeled his horse.  “Back to the road, your 
highness,” he called over his shoulder.  “We shall do no more here.”  He 
waited, his horse mirroring his impatience, while Legolas remounted 
Celanor and they retraced the trail to the road.

The remainder of the day passed in tense silence.  Opiran felt no need to 
explain his orders; Legolas was undesirous of arguing with the lieutenant.  
The Elf-prince knew Opiran’s reasons were valid, but still the blood rose 
in him, the drive to help rid the world of the orc’s evil strong in his veins.  
He kept a closer watch as they rode, shunning his more usual practice of 
singing to himself or telling yet another story he had learned during his 
stay in Imladris.

The tension between the prince and the lieutenant persisted even through 
their evening meal, and it was not until Legolas had wrapped himself in 
his blanket to rest that Opiran approached him.

“You will have ample opportunity to chase orcs once you have returned to 
Mirkwood, my prince,” he said.  “Our borders are often beset these days.”

Legolas nodded his acknowledgement of Opiran’s analysis.  “But to leave 
them free, no matter whose lands we are in, rankles me.”  He still held a 
nagging anger at being overruled, like a hound pulled from its quarry 
before the kill.

“I was charged with your safe return to your father ’s palace, your 
highness,” Opiran continued.  “*That* is my concern.  Another day, 
another time, I would lead the way against them, you can be sure.”  He 
crouched down so he was eye to eye with Legolas.  “I taught you to use a 
bow, Legolas,” he reminded the prince, speaking familiarly with him for 
the first time.  “Do not think I have forgotten how to use my own.”   He 
reached a hand to grasp the prince’s shoulder.  “I hoped you would have 
learned when *not* to fight.”

Legolas returned the warrior’s embrace, extending his right hand to 
Opiran’s left shoulder.  “I sometimes forget myself.” The hint of a smile 
crossed his face as he recalled how awkward he had been under Opiran’s 
tutelage.  “May I trust you to remind me?”


The lieutenant’s laugh filled the air, silencing the night birds and crickets 
for a moment.  The tension dissipated, and the three Elves turned to their 
rest.

-iv-

**Imladris.**

Meals at the high table had become somber and silent.  Elrond, when he 
attended meals at all, sat in his accustomed chair and ate little, his gaze 
often straying to the vacant place set at his right.  Arwen sat at the 
opposite end of the table, her usually healthy appetite reduced to moving 
the food from one side of her plate to the other, while her brothers ate 
heartily and planned their next foray into the orc-infested wilds.  They 
spoke in their own patois of half sentences, a single word meaning much 
more.

Glorfindel watched the Lord of Imladris from the corner of his eye, 
concerned about the Elf-lord’s mood.  In the fortnight since Legolas’s 
departure Elrond had slid progressively into a depression the like of which 
Glorfindel had not seen since the beginning of the Third Age.

*But Legolas was not slain*, Glorfindel mused.  *He promised to return, 
and means to do so.*  They had spoken at length that last day in the 
library, and the Prince of Mirkwood told the seneschal of his intentions.

“I shall return,” he had promised.  “May I continue my work then?”

“Certainly, my young friend,” Glorfindel had answered.  “I look forward 
to it.”  They toasted their friendship and the prince’s promise with goblets 
of wine.  “There will always be a place for you here—whether to work or 
to study, as you wish.”  They had embraced as friends, or perhaps, 
Glorfindel thought, as a father and son would.  The seneschal knew he did 
not miss Legolas’s company as Elrond did, or as the twins did, but the 
melancholy that weighed on Elrond touched them all.

“Lord Elrond?”  The lilting voice of Elrond’s young squire broke the 
silence at the high table.  The half-grown Elfling held a platter at his 
master’s elbow.  “Try one of these, milord.  It’s venison with mushrooms 
and onions, in pastry.”  Beren set a hot, crusty volauvent on the plate and 
spooned the rich, brown sauce over it.  “Cook is concerned, sir,” the 
youngster went on, “ that you’re not eating.”

The sprite’s words caught Elrond’s attention more readily than the same 
sentiment from Glorfindel or the twins.  The briefest of smiles crossed his 
face, and he said. “Thank you, Beren.  I shall taste it.”  He patted the 
livery-clad shoulder before breaking open the crust with his fork.  Steam 
rose from the dish, filling the immediate area with a savory aroma.  One 
bite led directly to another, and soon there was nothing left on the plate 
but dabs of sauce.  A long draught of wine finished the meal before Elrond 
turned back to Beren.

The Elfling’s grey eyes were bright, his smile broad.  He had been serving 
Master Elrond for only a seven-day, laying out his clothes and helping 
dress his hair in the mornings.  He spent the middle of the day in his own 
lessons, and returned in the evening to wait at table and prepare for the 
next day.  He slept in a small chamber next to his master’s, and Lord 
Glorfindel had charged him with making sure Master Elrond ate and 
rested properly.

Serving as Elrond’s squire was a post of honor, and Beren took his duties 
seriously.  He was thirty-three years old, just past the transition from a 
difficult childhood into youth.  Beren’s father had been slain in an orc raid 
shortly before his birth, and his mother was an herbalist who prepared the 
Elvish medicine Imladris was known for.  All legs and elbows, he had not 
yet grown into the natural grace of the First Born, and his dark hair was 
perennially snarled.  Though he was anxious to become a warrior and 
avenge his father, he knew this post would teach him skills unlearned in 
the barracks and drill yards.

“I seem to have been more hungry than I thought,” Elrond said, dabbing 
the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

“Would you like another?” Beren asked, offering the platter again.

“No,” Elrond shook his head.  “But perhaps a bit of the sweet custard 
Lady Arwen has chosen.”  He gestured across the table at his daughter.

With a nod of his head, Beren sped away, his “yes sir” remembered 
halfway to the kitchen.

“Indeed,” the Elf-lord said to his seneschal, “your plan has succeeded.”  
He used a heel of bread to clean even the last traces of sauce from his 
plate.

“My plan?”

A long-fingered hand covered the seneschal’s and grasped lightly.  “I still 
miss Legolas,” he admitted, “but Beren’s enthusiasm is contagious.”  
Elrond sighed heavily and joined his hands in front of him.  “I fear it will 
be a lengthy summer before the Prince of Mirkwood can return.”  So far it 
had been a dreary spring as low clouds and dense fogs filled the valley, as 
though the bright light of Anor had accompanied Legolas to Mirkwood, 
forsaking Imladris and its inhabitants.

“We have hardly begun the spring, milord,” Glorfindel reminded him.  “I 
am sure Prince Legolas will return long ere the end of summer.”

“Perhaps,” Elrond mused.  “I fear Thranduil may interfere.  He has always 
been overly possessive.

A fortnight had passed since laughter had been heard in the halls of 
Imladris.  Glorfindel’s chuckle soon escalated into a full-throated laugh.  
“Indeed, milord,” he finally said.  “He has long been known for his 
miserly ways.”

It took every bit of self-control Elrond could muster to keep from spitting 
his mouthful of wine across the table.  At that very moment, Elrohir 
tapped his wine glass for attention.  As the Master of Imladris struggled to 
swallow his wine, all eyes turned to the younger twin.

“Father, Lord Glorfindel,” he began, “Elladan and I...”

“...are leaving in the morning,” Elladan completed his brother’s sentence.

Elrond sat back in his chair and looked from one son to the other and back.  
“I expected you would take up your hunt again, but so early this year?”  
He turned and smiled a *thank you* at Beren as his requested dessert was 
served.  “There is still snow in the high passes.”

“The mountains have been passable...”  Elladan began.

“...for many weeks,” Elrohir continued.  “The party from Mirkwood...”

“...had no difficulty.”

A shadow crossed Elrond’s face at the mention of the troops of 
Thranduil’s guard who had taken Legolas back with them to Mirkwood.  
“Very well,” he granted, then sighed deeply and pushed the uneaten 
custard away.  Without another word he rose from the table and left the 
hall.



CHAPTER TWO

from the journal of Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood:

It has taken us many days, but at last we are on familiar ground.  We are 
weary of the road, as are the horses.  Celanor knows we approach home, 
and I can sense his anticipation.  I have tried to keep my mind clear of the 
fond memories I have of Imladris and its Lord, for fear my body will 
expose the depths of my feelings and the truth of our relationship.  I am 
not ashamed of my love for Elrond, but do not wish it to become the stuff 
of rumor throughout Mirkwood.  Let Opiran and Beornwë and the three 
who accompanied them to Imladris speak of the beauty of the valley, or of 
its princess.  I am sure they only saw the stern visage Elrond turns to the 
world, and not the glory that I see in him.  And perhaps, if my longing for 
Imladris becomes apparent, it will be assumed that it is for Arwen I pine.

-i-

**The eastern slopes of the Misty Mountains, mid-Spring.**

The three Elves rode single file through the last pass before descending 
into the vale of the Anduin.  As the path wound around the shoulder of the 
foothill, the second rider stopped his horse and gazed across the valley 
below.  From this height the vast forest of Mirkwood could be seen 
beyond the river basin.  Though the sun was at their backs, it was still 
above the peaks of the mountains and the golden light sparkled on the fast-
running river and lit the new, bright green leaves on the distant trees.  
Legolas took a deep breath and sighed, stopping his companions.  “It is 
good to see the trees of home once more,” he said.  “When last I looked on 
them, I knew not if I would ever return.”

Opiran, riding in the lead, looked back at the young prince.  “Mirkwood is 
your home, your highness.  You will always come back to it.”

“Perhaps, Opiran, perhaps.”  He gazed at the river below and gauged the 
distance.  “We shall not make the crossing by nightfall, I wager.”

“One more night on the mountainside, then one in the valley, and a 
fortnight through the wood to home,” Beornwë advised.  We shall be 
home a seven-day before the new moon, perhaps sooner.”

“The mountains have taxed the horses,” Legolas observed.  “We shall all 
be glad to reach the valley.”

“I shall be happy to stand beneath the trees of Mirkwood once again,” 
Beornwë admitted.  “I have been too long under this endless sky.”

Legolas laughed.  “And I shall miss the stars at night and the patterns of 
the clouds by day.”

Opiran grunted his disapproval as he led the trio down the mountain.  “The 
sky is nothing to us,” he reminded his companions.  “The trees shelter us, 
sustain us, even clothe us,” he went on.  “The sky is simply there.”

Legolas had to admit that the lieutenant had a point.  Though he had spent 
his life in his father’s cavernous palace, many of the Sylvan Elves lived 
amongst the trees.  Much of their food came directly from the trees—fruits 
and nuts, particularly—or from animals and birds that lived in them.  
“Clothe us?” he questioned.  “Surely, Opiran, you do not wear rep-cloth.”  
The rough-woven fabric made from the inner bark of some trees was used 
mostly for floor mats and tapestry backing, and also for durable clothing 
worn by menial workers.

“No,” Opiran answered.  “I do not.  Our uniforms are linen and wool, as 
you know.”

Legolas fingered the silk shirt he wore beneath his surcoat.  He’d seldom 
thought about the privileges his position brought, luxuries he took for 
granted that not all Elves of Mirkwood enjoyed.  Even in Imladris there 
were distinctions between the masters and the servants, the leaders and the 
followers.  Elrond and his family lived in luxury, with the attendance of 
many servants and assistants.  The sanctuary was defended not only by the 
powers of Lord Elrond, but also a dedicated militia, dozens of well-trained 
Elven warriors who both guarded the borders and patrolled the wilds 
between the Misty Mountains and the Sundering Sea, keeping the passage 
to the west safe for any of the First Born who chose the Undying Lands 
over Middle-earth.  There were apprentice healers who learned their craft 
beginning by working in the herb gardens.  There were cooks and 
chambermaids, stable grooms and fire-keepers, squires and gardeners, all 
of whom kept the Last Homely House East of the Sea the sanctuary it was 
intended to be.

Elrond’s rule differed greatly from Thranduil’s, Legolas mused further.  
Elrond listened to his retainers, sharing in their lives, taking their opinions 
under advisement.  The King of Mirkwood, on the other hand, ruled from 
his throne, seldom meeting his people.  Only a few held his counsel, Elves 
who attended to their own interests rather than the welfare of those who 
dwelt in the vast forest.  Legolas had spent the vast majority of his century 
and a half living deep within the cavernous palace, serving a sole decade 
on patrol with the guard, though he returned to the palace rather than the 
barracks between forays.  When he did venture into the villages that 
supported the palace, he went incognito, his true identity veiled against 
exposure as he sought anonymous pleasure.

That part of his life was behind him, he knew.  Never again would he take 
his pleasure in that manner, for his heart remained in Imladris, and 
although they had taken no vows, nor made any promises aloud, Legolas 
knew he would keep faith with Elrond.  Again he thought of his last sight 
of Elrond and Imladris, and the memory filled his heart with an odd 
combination of longing and joy—joy for what he had found in the 
riverside sanctuary; longing to be there again, to once more embrace its 
lord.

“Your highness?”  Opiran’s voice interrupted the prince’s reverie.   “We 
need to continue,” he went on.  “I see storm clouds in the north.”

Legolas turned his eyes to the dark clouds that hung just above their level, 
several leagues away.  A flash of lightning streaked to the ground, sending 
distant thunder rumbling to their ears.  “Spring storms can be 
treacherous,” he said, in agreement with the lieutenant.  Without another 
word he urged Celanor on down the trail.

The horses, too, seemed to understand the need for haste, and their pace 
quickened to a trot.  The brush grew thicker as they proceeded down the 
mountainside, reaching a roadside shelter just ahead of the cold, pelting 
rain.  The hut was little more than log walls and a thatched roof, with a 
barrel full of rain water next to the doorway.  Inside there were a pair of 
bunks along with dry tinder and clean straw.  Unsaddled, the horses turned 
their backs to the storm in the sheltered paddock, and the three elves 
carried their packs inside and barred the door against the storm.

“We provisioned this place on our way to Imladris,” Beornwë told 
Legolas, dropping his pack near the hearth.  “Let’s hope Lastofel and the 
others left plenty of cordwood.”

A sudden spark illuminated the interior of the hut as Opiran struck flint 
and steel to a candle.  The lieutenant grunted his approval when he saw the 
shoulder-high stack of wood along the side wall, tinder and kindling 
already laid in the cold hearth.  “Lastofel knows his duty,” he grumbled, 
tipped the candle and ignited the fuel.

Legolas set his pack beside one of the doubled beds and kicked at the 
straw-filled mattress with one foot.  When there was no answering rustle 
of vermin in the straw, the prince sank down, sitting on the lower pallet, 
and pulled off his boots.

By the time their evening meal was prepared, the wind began to howl, and 
thunder boomed with each crack of lightning, but they were warm and dry, 
well-fed and able to rest.  Smoked meat and lembas had been their rations 
while crossing the mountains, with the occasional addition of fresh game 
and early greens.  Here, though, they found stores of dried fruits and 
pickled vegetables, and they were all glad to vary their diet.  Beornwë 
steeped morsels of fruit in hot water with honey, then crumbled a cake of 
lembas over them.

“I did not think to taste peach cobbler before midsummer,” Legolas said 
around his first bite of the dessert.  “This is a wondrous treat.”

Even Opiran was impressed with the archer’s cooking skills, and 
expressed his surprise.  “It is good we are nearly home, or we would want 
to eat like this each night on the trail.”

“I learned this from my mother,”  the young elf replied.  “She put up fruits 
and vegetables through the summer, and we ate well all winter.

“Surely,” Legolas inquired, “you would not have gone hungry?”

Opiran grunted while Beornwë answered.  “Perhaps.  My father was 
neither a warrior nor a hunter, so we often went without meat.”

The archer’s reminiscence was a revelation to Legolas.  He had always 
dined well, never missing a meal until his ill-prepared flight over the 
mountains in the face of winter.  Most meals were private, only his father 
and mother, brothers and sisters at table, and he never thought of how or 
where the rest of the household ate.  It had never occurred to him that his 
father’s subjects, his own people, might not have enough to eat.

Opiran grunted again.  “His highness isn’t interested in your pitiful 
childhood.”

Legolas looked daggers at the lieutenant, then back to Beornwë.  “No,” he 
said,  “I should know these things.  It is a prince’s duty to insure his 
people are provided for.”  He recalled the daily meals at Imladris.  While 
the high table was limited to Elrond’s family and guests, the entire 
household ate the same food in the great hall.  The cool basement larders 
and pantries were open to all in the valley, and it was one of Elrond’s 
major concerns that sufficient foodstuffs were stored for the winter.  He 
had learned more about the administration of a kingdom in a season in 
Imladris, he realized, than in all his years in his father’s palace.

-ii-

**Imladris.**

The sound of horses’ hooves on the hard-packed path filled the valley.  
The party of Elves herded the white stallion and his dozen mares across 
the Ford of the river and into Imladris itself.  The wranglers directed the 
herd into the stable yard, leaving the remaining travelers to tether their 
mounts in the main courtyard.

Indistinguishable from his companions in plain riding clothes and grey 
cloaks, Erestor dropped from his horse’s back.  As Elrond’s most trusted 
advisor, he had been posted to the Grey Havens some five years 
previously, and returned accompanied by his aides, two would-be healers, 
and an absent-minded scholar.  The rest of the party had consisted of the 
three wranglers who also served as guards on the long journey from the 
Havens.  A gaggle of grooms hurried to the courtyard, and soon all the 
riders were dismounted and their horses taken to the stables.

Brushing the dust of the trail from his cloak, Erestor mounted the steps to 
the doors of the main hall.  As he reached the broad top step, the doors 
swung open.  Erestor and Glorfindel greeted each other first with a formal 
bow, then with a familiar embrace.

“It has been too long, my friend,” the seneschal said.  He turned and 
beckoned to Anuviël and introduced her to the new apprentices.  The 
young Elves, just come of age, shouldered their bundles and followed the 
brown-haired elf to the Healing Halls.  “Come,” Glorfindel continued 
when they had gone.  “You do remember the way to your rooms?”

“I presume our lord Elrond is in his study?”  A canted eyebrow made 
Erestor’s statement an inquiry.  Even after five years away, the councilor 
recalled the routine of centuries.

“Much has occurred while you were away, my friend.”  The blond elf 
embraced Erestor once more.  “Unless you have news of immediate 
import,” he paused, continuing after Erestor shook his head.  “Rest, 
bathe,” he suggested.  “Have you eaten?”

“We broke our fast at dawn, and rode without stopping. ”

Reaching the stairway, Glorfindel stopped.  “I’ll have a tray brought up for 
you,” he said before they parted company.  “We shall all have stories to 
tell at table tonight.”

Following the evening meal, Erestor joined Glorfindel in the seneschal’s 
sitting room.  A fire blazed in the hearth, and stands of candles cast golden 
light across the book-lined wall opposite the windows.  The small terrace 
beyond the windows overlooked a pocket garden tucked between rocky 
outcroppings.  The room faced the mountainside, and the river’s sound 
was muted.

Erestor lifted his glass to Glorfindel as the blond poured the sweet dessert 
cordial into his own glass, then set the decanter on the small, circular table 
between their chairs.  “How did you ever convince Elrond to take on a 
squire?”

Before answering, Glorfindel sipped his drink.  “I was grasping at straws, 
to be honest,” he admitted.  “I could not watch him go through another 
bout of melancholy.”

The dark-haired councilor sat forward in his chair.  Elrond was amazingly 
even tempered, Erestor mused.  He could only remember one time, long 
ago, that the master of Imladris had been so afflicted.

“The youngster serves him well,” Glorfindel continued.  “He brings joy to 
the entire household.”

“I saw that,” Erestor noted.  “But there is much you have not told me.  
What could have brought on such a mood?”

Sitting back in his chair, Glorfindel drained his glass.  “It all started last 
autumn,” he said, “when the twins brought home a lost traveler.”  Just as 
Legolas had kept his identity a secret, Glorfindel did not reveal that their 
visitor was the Prince of Mirkwood.  He told of the young Elf’s work in 
the Library, of his prowess with the bow, of his participation in the day-to-
day life of Imladris.

“So what does this visitor have to do with Elrond’s disposition?”  The 
seneschal narrated the story well, but Erestor could not fathom the 
connection between such a pleasant visitor and their lord’s melancholia.

“Everyone was enchanted by his beauty,” Glorfindel went on.  “But some 
were more smitten than others.”  He paused as he poured another portion 
of cordial.  “First, it was one of the twins—Elladan, I believe.”

Erestor’s features hardened at the mention  of the older twin, and he shot a 
sharp glance to the blond.  A blush softened his face and he looked away.  
“I have thought of Elladan often while I’ve been away,” he confided, then 
added, “and Elrohir as well.”  Quickly he lifted his glass to his mouth.  
“Again, friend,” he inquired, “what has this to do with Elrond?”

“Elrond found himself quite taken with out visitor.  He befriended the 
sprite and they became close friends.”

Erestor raised an eyebrow.  “Sprite?  Just how young is this charmer?”

Glorfindel’s brief laughter was melodic.  “Oh, he is of age; there was no 
doubt of that, but only a century or so past that.”

“To Elrond’s—what, six thousand and more?”

“The heart does not acknowledge the calendar, you know that.”

The cryptic remark held much import for the councilor.  He realized 
Glorfindel must sense his feelings for Elladan, whether or not the 
seneschal was conscious of them.  “No,” he whispered, “it does not.”

The room was silent for an awkward moment.  Clearing his throat, 
Glorfindel con tinued with his narration of the past winter’s events.  “It 
was finally revealed to us that our visitor was the youngest son of King 
Thranduil of Mirkwood, one Legolas by name.”

Only a supreme effort of will kept Erestor’s wine from spraying from his 
mouth.  “Thranduil?” he gasped.  “Elrond has become involved with a 
Mirkwood brat?”

“He is no brat, Erestor.”  Glorfindel’s voice took on all the weight of his 
years and office.  “Messengers arrived with the larks seeking his return to 
Mirkwood,” he went on.  “He complied with his father’s wishes, but 
promised he would come back.  For Elrond the days pass slowly without 
his presence.”

Once recovered from his surprise at the identity of Elrond’s new consort, 
Erestor lowered his eyes in apology.  “I should not judge so quickly,” he 
admitted.  He sat back, relaxing against the cushioned chair.  After a 
moment he raised his glass, silently requesting more wine.

“So tell me, *mellon-nîn*,” the seneschal asked while pouring the sweet, 
potent wine, “what—or whom—of Imladris did you miss the most?”

-iii-

**The Misty Mountains, on the road to Mirkwood.**

Once begun, spring came quickly to the Misty Mountains.  The western 
slopes were free of snow soon after the equinox, and flowers soon 
bloomed in the high passes.  No strangers to the maze of trails into and 
over the mountains, the sons of Elrond once again hunted the fell creatures 
that had harmed their mother past recovery.  Their continual hunting had 
cleared the area for many leagues around Imladris, and they rode for a 
fortnight before they saw any sign of their quarry.

They often rode in silence, conversation unnecessary between twins 
unseparated for more than two thousand years.  More commonly, though, 
they would sing, their voices harmonizing as only brothers’ voices can.  
They had a vast repertoire from which to choose—songs of the history of 
Middle-earth, of heroes and great loves stories, songs from taverns and 
inns, of boastful men and bawdy maids.  Often they would ride through 
the night, watching the stars cross the night sky, always watching for the 
brightest star in the sky, which was their own grandfather, set in the sky by 
the Valar themselves.

Once the highest pass was traversed, the way became steeper and more 
treacherous, as well as more likely to be infested by orcs and other fell 
creatures.  Traveling by day, Elladan and Elrohir had the advantage over 
the light-shy orcs, tracking with the aid of the bright spring sun.

“Look brother,” Elladan called.  “Orc sign.”

Elrohir slid off the back of his horse and crouched to look at the track.  “It 
is weeks old.  They will be far from here by now.”  Taking a few steps 
away from trail, he peered more closely at the ground.  “Elves have been 
past here, not long after the orcs.”

“Legolas?”  Elladan dropped from his saddle and joined his brother.  
“Celanor’s right front shoe bears our mark,” he reminded Elrohir.  The 
palomino had thrown a shoe before reaching Imladris, and had been 
reshod by the valley’s farrier.  They fanned out, searching the scrub in a 
long-practiced pattern.

“Here!” Elladan called a moment later.  “He rode that way,” he said, 
pointing to the south, “at a gallop.”  Eyes still on the  ground, he took a 
few more steps.  “Then back at a walk.”  He raised his head to catch 
Elrohir’s eye.

“They must not have found anything, or lost the trail. ”

Elladan raised an eyebrow.  “You saw how Legolas can track.  Do you 
think he’d loose an orc trail on open ground?”

Elrohir looked back to their horses, then off to the south.  “We could 
follow this trail, cold as it is...”  He smiled before going on.  “...or we 
could keep going east and ask him ourselves.”

“Go to Mirkwood?”

“He *did* invite us.”

The twin Elves mounted their matched horses and continued eastward, 
down the mountain, Mirkwood and Thranduil’s palace their new 
destination.

-iv-

*Imladris.*

The spring skies remained grey and overcast, and the mood in the House 
of Elrond matched it.  Storm after storm found its way into the valley, and 
caught by the towering walls, remained for days at a time.  The rivers ran 
high, the falls roaring with the additional run-off, and soon the earth 
throughout the valley was saturated.  Water stood in low places, and 
dozens of small streams developed, cutting through the rich soil.

“If there is much more rain, I fear the valley will become an inland sea,” 
Glorfindel mused.  “The ground is so wet it gives a most unwholesome 
sound when stepped upon.”

Elrond sat at his desk, his head bent over a heavy volume.  He made no 
rejoinder to Glorfindel’s words, nor gave any sign that he had been 
listening to his seneschal.  Without lifting his head, he reached for his 
drink, a mug of fragrant herb tea.  He knew the tea was meant to warm 
more than his body in the dampness that permeated every room.  Blazing 
fires in every hearth were not enough to keep the season’s chill away.  
More than the dimness of the overcast skies, there was a darkness in his 
mind that called to him, promising relief from care, from concerns, and 
most of all, from the pain he still felt in his heart.

Glorfindel had called him back once from the darkness, binding him to the 
present with the exuberance of the young squire Beren.  As the season 
wore on, though, with no true sign of spring, Elrond found the darkness 
more and more seductive.  He spent hours sitting alone, a book on his lap, 
turning no pages.  The few evenings he could be enticed to join the rest of 
the household as stories were told or songs sung he sat alone, his thoughts 
far from Imladris.

The rain finally stopped, at least for a while, and bits of blue sky could be 
seen in the west.  It had been days since he had truly slept, and at first light 
Elrond made his way to the stables.  He stopped at the stall that held his 
favorite stallion, a high-spirited beast who could run like the wind from 
dawn to dusk.  He stroked the bridge of the horse’s nose and whispered his 
greeting.  He held a chunk of apple in his hand, and the stallion gently 
took it from him, his velvety nose soft and moist in Elrond’s palm.  When 
there was no more apple forthcoming, the horse butted the Elf-lord’s 
shoulder.

“I am sorry, my friend,” he said.  “Perhaps there will be a treat for you on 
the trail.”  He set neither saddle nor bridle on the horse, but lead him from 
the stable and leapt upon his back.  Applying heels to the horse’s ribs they 
flew from the courtyard before the sun was fully risen.  Only Beren, 
gazing sleepily from Elrond’s terrace, saw them leave.

“Milord,” he cried out, “wait!”  The young squire noted which direction 
Elrond rode, then quickly dressed himself to ride.

Beren had been taught the basics of riding, and he knew how to saddle a 
horse, but he had no mount of his own, nor even one he was accustomed 
to riding.  He knew he was not capable of controlling any of the large 
stallions, and most of the mares had young foals still nursing.  A lone mare 
stood with her head high, and whinnied when Beren came into the stable.  
She was a chestnut, her mane and tail the same reddish brown as her coat, 
with a white blaze on her forehead.  “Come, milady,” he said to her.  “Can 
you catch Lord Elrond?”

She tossed her head as if to answer, and in minutes Beren rode out in 
pursuit of his lord.

Swiftly Elrond’s stallion carried him away from the buildings toward the 
Ford.  Usually the Bruinen ran wide and shallow here at the crossing, but 
the spring rains had swollen the river beyond its banks.  Without a second 
thought, the horse and rider plunged into the icy water and swam across 
the current.  Climbing the opposite shore, the sure-footed steed headed for 
the uplands that surrounded the valley.  Elrond gave the horse his head and 
together they flew across the grassy plain.

The chestnut mare balked at the river crossing, and when Beren urged her 
on, she turned away and headed into the forest.

Halfway through the day, the sun finally broke through the overcast.  
Elrond brought the stallion to a halt in the midst of a wild-flower strewn 
meadow.  The sun’s light  banished the greys from the landscape and from 
Elrond’s spirit, and the clear colors of spring blazed in his eyes and his 
mind.  He breathed deeply, clearing his head and his heart.  He still felt the 
pain in his heart, an aching from the empty place where Legolas should 
be.  It was as it should be --  a part of him, not the overwhelming vastness 
he had let overwhelm him.  He leaned forward and patted the horse’s 
neck.

“Thank you, my friend,” he whispered.  “I see more clearly now.”

The sun was low in the western sky, obscured by dense clouds of yet 
another storm, when Elrond returned home.  He made sure his horse had 
fresh water and a measure of grain to go with the hay-filled manger, then 
headed for his rooms, his mind set on a bath and change of clothes before 
the evening meal.

“Milord?”

Elrond turned to see Erestor and Glorfindel hurrying toward him.

“Did Beren return with you?”

“No,” he answered, looking from one Elf to the other.  “I rode alone 
today.”  He saw the alarm on Erestor’s face, and the concern in 
Glorfindel’s eyes.  “What is wrong?”

“He must have ridden out after you, milord,” the seneschal answered.  
“Where did you go?”

Detailing his route, Elrond led the others back to the stables.  Erestor went 
directly to the empty stall.  “He took Randirë,” the councilor said.

“One of the new mares?”  Elrond found his stallion still cheek-deep in his 
feed, and chose another mount.  “She’ll head for Lindon, I’ll wager,” he 
said.  He gave instructions for the others to follow, grabbed a lantern, and 
left the compound again.

*What a fool I have been,* he berated himself as he rode back toward the 
ford.  He had seen no sign of other riders on the far side of the river, so 
was certain the youngster remained in the valley.  Though he had not 
utilized his tracking skills in centuries, his sharp eyes had no trouble 
following the trail left by the mare.  *Have I no sense of responsibility 
left?* he wondered.  *I thought only of myself, of my pain, of my needs.*

The threatening storm added to the urgency of finding the young squire.  
From the Ford the trail led away from the Bruinen, eschewing the uneven, 
rocky ground that bordered the swollen river.  Elrond followed the tracks 
into the interior of the valley, into the forest, holding the lantern high to 
force away the darkness under the trees.

Deep in the forest Elrond finally came upon Beren.  The youth was on 
foot, trudging desultorily back along his own trail.  His face and clothes 
were streaked with mud, and there were brambles in his hair.

“Well, young one,” Elrond greeted him.  “Have you misplaced your 
steed?”

“Lord Elrond,” Beren cried, running to stand at his lord’s stirrup.  “I meant 
to follow you, but...”  He took a deep breath and blinked back the tears 
that filled his eyes.   “...but the horse had other intentions.”

Reaching down, Elrond grasped the youngster’s arm and lifted him bodily 
to sit astride the stallion behind him.  “Hold on now, Beren,” the Elf-lord 
cautioned, and the squire wrapped his arms around Elrond’s waist.  He 
wheeled his mount and headed back along the trail.

“What about the horse?” Beren asked.

“She will be found, or come home on her own,” Elrond answered.  “It is 
you we worried about.”  He patted the youngster’s hand, and felt the small 
body relax, leaning against his back.  A sudden memory of riding with 
Elladan—or was it Elrohir? -- filled his mind, and he smiled to himself.

Halfway back to Imladris, they encountered Glorfindel.  The seneschal 
wore a stern look, but a gesture from Elrond stopped any comments.  After 
all, he reasoned, Beren had been told to look after him.  “We shall have to 
assign an appropriate mount for Beren’s use,” Elrond instructed the blond 
elf, “so he may ride with me in the future.”

“My own horse?”  The youngster sat up straighter.  “But I lost the mare I 
took....”

“With the proper size horse and saddle you will find it much easier to keep 
your seat, young one,” Elrond assured him.  He looked toward Glorfindel, 
and saw a twitch of a smile at the corner of the seneschal’s mouth.  “Such 
devotion to your duty must be rewarded.”  He knew Glorfindel would 
understand that the sprite was not to be punished for following him.

Turning in the saddle, Elrond caught Beren’s eye.  “We both must 
remember to let others know where we’re going,” he confided.  “Lord 
Glorfindel worries too much as it is.”



CHAPTER THREE

from the journal of Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood:

This is our last night on the trail.  The woods themselves are home to us, 
but I find I am anxious to complete our journey.  These weeks on the road 
have been tedious.  I miss the fine food of Imladris, the feel of clean 
clothes on clean skin, the comfort of a warm bed.  But most of all, I think I 
miss the luxury of being alone from time to time.

I have kept my feelings for Elrond to myself, not wishing to share such 
personal thoughts with my escort.  I have not yet decided about telling my 
father that I have fallen in love with his most hated adversary.  I am 
resolved, though, to offer no excuses for my absence.

-i-

**Mirkwood.**

Legolas, Opiran, and Beornwë were still two hours’ ride from Thranduil’s 
palace when they were first challenged.  Riding in the lead, Opiran 
answered the sentinel’s call, identifying the three of them.  Twice more 
they answered the challenges of the alert sentinels before they emerged 
from the forest at the foot of the bridge that led to the great stone gates of 
the cave-palace of Thranduil.

Celanor tossed his head and pawed the air with a front hoof.  Legolas 
leaned forward and patted the steed on the shoulder.  “You are impatient, 
my friend,” he whispered near the horse’s ear.  “Do not fear; you will be 
in your own stall soon enough.”  As he straightened up, Legolas could feel 
his own smile broaden across his face.  “It is good to be home,” he 
announced to his companions.

At the crest of the bridge, Opiran deferred to the Prince, and Legolas led 
the way through the stone gates into his father’s fortress.  Inside the gates 
Opiran and Beornwë took their leave for their barracks, and Legolas 
continued alone.

From the great doors a single Elf emerged, his golden hair held off his 
face with a plain copper filet.  “Welcome home, Prince Legolas,” he  said 
as he approached Legolas, still astride Celanor.  “You are expected in the 
main hall.”

“I shall see to my horse first, Hadlon.  Surely my father would expect that 
of me.”  He leapt from the saddle and pulled his pack from the horse’s 
back.  “Have this taken to my chamber, if you please,” he commanded, 
dropping the bundle at the gatekeeper’s feet.  Without a backward glance 
he led Celanor by the headstall to the stables.

It was an hour or more before Legolas approached the main hall of his 
father’s palace.  After removing and storing Celanor’s tack, he brushed the 
horse’s coat until it shone, and combed burs and trail mud from the flaxen 
mane and tail.  Sniffing at his own garb, he brushed the worst of the dust 
and straw from himself.  He ran his fingers through his hair and tucked the 
stray strands behind his ears.  He washed his face with the same cold 
water the horses drank, and so refreshed, headed for his appointment with 
his father.

Thranduil’s audience chamber was just as Legolas remembered from his 
last discussion with his father.  He looked at it with a new perspective, 
though, having seen the ways of other Elves for the first time in his life.  
Though beautifully carved from the living rock, the cavern seemed 
oppressive, and in spite of dozens of flaming torches, it was dark and 
gloomy when compared with Elrond’s main hall.  Thranduil’s throne was 
more imposing, though similarly carved from wood, the beechwood pale 
and lifeless when compared to the honey-colored oak of Imladris.

The King of Mirkwood held a sheaf of papers in his hands, quietly 
discussing them with one of his many councilors.  Each of the Elves on 
the king’s council oversaw a different aspect of life in Mirkwood or its 
dealings with the people—men, Elves, or Dwarves—outside the woodland 
realm.  Once announced by the door-warden, Legolas waited patiently 
while his father completed his conversation.  Neither did he move nor 
speak when the king waved the councilor away and sat back in the throne.  
Years of training had taught him the protocol of his father’s court, and his 
absence had not changed the routine.

The young prince knew his father had taken note of his arrival, and if he 
had taken more time—to bathe and change clothes, for instance—his 
tardiness would be remarked upon.  So he stood still, just inside the 
entrance, his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back.  As he waited, 
others of his father’s councilors acknowledged his presence, and he 
silently nodded his response to their whispered greetings.  He held his 
head high, his eyes fixed on the figure seated on the throne.  Thranduil 
was sturdily built for an Elf, a trait he attributed to having spent most of 
his youth battling with the enemies of the then-named Greenwood, Men 
and Dwarves as well as the forces of Sauron.  The king’s golden hair was 
held back from his face with an intricate circlet of mithril and gold, the 
metals wrought in the form of spring flowers and fruits.  No braids 
adorned the king’s hair, neither at forelock nor crown, and he wore no 
jewelry other than his circlet and the great ring of the Greenwood.

Thranduil’s ring was not a ring of power, Legolas knew, merely a ring of 
office.  He had been told the story throughout his life of how Thranduil 
had searched the corpses of countless Sylvan Elves killed at the gates of 
Mordor until he found his father’s body.  Vividly the king had described 
the hideous wounds Oropher had suffered at the hands of Sauron’s orcs 
before telling of the tearful removal of the ring from the finger of his dead 
father and the crown from his dented helm.

“So, you have deigned to return.”   Thranduil’s sonorous voice broke his 
son’s reverie.

At the sound of his father’s voice, Legolas stood straighter and bowed 
from the waist, then approached the throne on its dais.  When he reached 
the appropriate spot, he stopped and bowed again before answering.  “I 
wish to share in my sister’s happiness at her binding ceremony.  I know of 
no other requirements for my presence here.”  Legolas knew his answer 
would irk his father, but there was nothing false in what he had said.

The prince’s words claimed the attention of all in the audience chamber as 
well as the king’s.  He felt their eyes on him, but held his head high and 
did not flinch when his father responded.

“Harrumph.”  The king shifted position and adjusted his robes.  He glared 
at his son with a look that had often reduced Legolas to flight or worse, to 
tears.

“I hold no position in your court, Father, save that of youngest son.”  A 
snicker started in the back of the room, but was hushed before it reached 
the dais.  Legolas continued, hoping to speak his mind before his father 
recovered.  “Travel and errantry are traditional for princes such as I who 
have no other responsibilities.”  He would give no other excuse or 
explanation for his departure from his father’s court, he had decided, and 
silently thanked the Valar he had held to his resolve.

Thranduil again harrumphed, but gestured for his son to join him on the 
dais, an honor never before accorded Legolas.

Legolas knew better than to take the chairs reserved for his mother and his 
oldest brother, and instead sat on the top step of the dais near his father’s 
feet.  The courtiers turned away from them, all of them trying to appear 
busy in consultation with one another, and there was great shuffling of 
paper.

“Then tell us of your adventure, Legolas.  We would know what you have 
learned of the Peredhel.”

Ignoring his father’s insulting tone in the reference to Elrond, Legolas 
started his story with his awakening in Imladris, with no mention of his 
brush with death or his rescue by the twins.  “Much goes on in Imladris, 
Father.  Lord Elrond trains healers and herbalists, and they prepare 
medicines for many.”  His enthusiasm for the accomplishments of 
Imladris was not feigned.

“Elves do not become ill.”  The Elf-king shifted position again, and 
Legolas realized how uncomfortable the hard, uncushioned throne must 
be.

“No, but they can be injured, and there are many of the Dúnedain near to 
the valley.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised that the Peredhil consort with men,” Thranduil 
muttered under his breath.

Knowing his father’s prejudice against the mixed blood of Elrond’s line, 
Legolas ignored the comment and continued his description of life in 
Imladris.  “The libraries are extensive, and my work there was welcomed.”

“He forced you to work?  Such hospitality, indeed!”

“I asked to be assigned tasks, Father.  Travel beyond the valley was no 
longer safe, and I did not relish an idle winter.”

Legolas went on into the afternoon with his descriptions of life in 
Imladris—the boar hunt with Elladan and Elrohir, the Solstice Festival, his 
assistance with the foaling mares, and finally the return of the larks.  “It 
was then Opiran and the guards arrived.  There is no more to tell.”  During 
his tale the torches in the hall had been changed once, and his stomach 
told him it was near time for the evening meal.

All the while Legolas related his adventures, Thranduil sat in stony 
silence, his occasional nods indicating his continuing interest.

“Please, Father,” he requested at the end of his story.  “May I be excused?  
I’m sure Mother would prefer that I bathe before dining.”

“Oh?”  The abrupt change of subject gave the king a start.  “Of course.  I 
shall want to consider all that you have told me.”  With a wave of his hand 
the King of Mirkwood dismissed Legolas, and the young prince quickly 
left the audience chamber, lest he be called back.

-ii-

**Imladris: Mid Spring.**

Anor finally deigned to shine in Imladris, banishing the grey skies and 
damp mornings before her fiery face.  Elrond stood on the east facing 
terrace outside his bedchamber in his usual morning greeting of the sun, 
clad in a brocaded robe against the morning’s chill.  He gripped a slim 
volume in his hands, the pages yellow with age.  He had not slept—truly 
slept—since the last full moon, and he had spent the previous night 
reading from the ancient book.

*He wrote these for me*, the Elf-lord reminded himself.  His son Elrohir 
had found the book in his youth, and kept it safe for centuries, always 
wondering who had written the collection of love poems—some chaste, 
others erotic—and for whom.  Elrond knew.

The book was written in the hand of the last High-king, its contents kept 
secret even from the one who inspired them.  He spread the book’s covers 
and carefully found the page, then read.

Without a father’s love a child grew tall
Eyes keen, ears sharp, befitting Peredhil
His heritage revealed joined bloodlines all
So brightly shines the light of Eärendil

To court him, no, but first to be his friend,
I promised that I would not bend his mind.
His native, mortal life too soon would end
Unless he joined the ranks of Elven-kind.

So rare it is to have a choice of fate:
To be a king and die with glory, old;
Or live forever in unchanging state;
He took my hand, our journey ne’er foretold.

One sight or thought of him, my heart takes wing
Orphaned by a star; belovéd of a king.



**Imladris:  Year 2583 of the Second Age.**

Alone in his study, the Master of Imladris was startled by the blaring of 
trumpets.  A broad smile crossed his face for a moment, then he carefully 
schooled his features to their usual severe expression before rising from 
his desk.  He shook the creases from his robes, straightened the drape of 
the full sleeves, then made his way to the main hall.  He glanced at the 
statue of Varda, his right hand automatically touching his heart in 
obeisance.  Liveried staff stood ready, and he took his place before the 
great double doors.  A touch on his elbow told him Glorfindel was in place 
as well, a step behind and to his left.  He took a deep breath and held it for 
a moment before exhaling.  A quick nod signaled the chief attendant to 
open the doors.

Master Elrond stepped into the midday sun.  Spring was nearly spent, the 
trees in full leaf of a dozen greens; roses bloomed red and yellow, pink 
and white amidst the foliage.  The air was sweetened with a fresh breeze 
that carried the song of the nearby river, but his senses were unaffected by 
the beauty of the spring day.  The grey eyes were riveted on the leader of 
the arriving troop of riders, the one for whom the trumpets had sounded.  
His ears heard only the creak of tack as the High-king vaulted from his 
saddle and strode toward Elrond, the long traveling cloak flaring.

As one, the master and seneschal of Imladris, as well as the waiting 
attendants, sank to one knee before their king.  Standing before his host, 
Gil-galad gestured for Elrond to rise.  They greeted each other as warriors, 
right hands clasping forearms, then the king pulled Elrond into an 
embrace, holding him tightly to his chest.

“My king,” Elrond said, a sigh in his voice.  “Welcome to Imladris,” he 
continued more loudly.  They drew apart, the embrace not a second longer 
than protocol dictated.  The grey eyes, however, were brighter than before, 
and a smile broke the usually stern visage.  “Glorfindel,” Elrond called 
without taking his eyes from the king’s.  “See to the king’s companions.”

With a wave of his hand the seneschal signaled to the waiting attendants.  
Grooms erupted from the stables, each seeing to one or two of the horses, 
and the household attendants hefted the packs and bundles of the king’s 
baggage.  By the time Glorfindel steered the newcomers toward the 
barracks, Elrond and Gil-galad were halfway up the curving staircase of 
the main hall.

They knew the precise spot in the upstairs corridor where they disappeared 
from view, and two steps beyond that were again in each other’s arms, the 
brotherly kiss of welcome replaced by a passionate kiss of reunion.  Gil-
galad held Elrond’s face between his large hands, his kiss devouring and 
plundering with desire.

“Milord,” Elrond sighed as they eased apart to breathe.

“My love,” the king whispered.  They kissed again, more slowly, more 
thoroughly, as their hunger for each other was eased, their appetites for 
more whetted.

“Come,” said Elrond, his lips at the king’s ear.  “Your chamber awaits us. 
”

Refusing to relinquish his embrace totally, Gil-galad kept an arm around 
Elrond’s shoulders as they hastened the remainder of the way to the king’s 
chamber.  Once inside the private room they did separate, and as Elrond 
secured the door, Gil-galad shed his traveling cloak and weapons.

The twin of Elrond’s own room, and joined to it with a common sitting 
room and terrace, the kings’ bedchamber was large and airy.  The high 
ceiling was painted as the sky, the stone floor covered with a soft, deep-
piled carpet.

For travel the king was dressed as a common warrior:  heavy woolen 
breeches and a linen tunic, open at the bottom but buttoned from waist to 
throat.  Both garments were sweat stained and dusty, but Elrond’s nimble 
fingers quickly unfastened the many buttons and slid the tunic over  the 
strong, broad shoulders, letting it fall unheeded.

In an instant, Elrond’s heavy mantle lay in a heap, and the king’s fingers 
worked the mithril fastenings of Elrond’s silken shirt.  Garment by 
garment they undressed each other until their bodies were fully revealed.  
They were both aroused, their nearness and the anticipation of their 
reunion more than sufficient stimulus.

“Bath or bed?” Elrond asked as they regarded each other at arm’s length, 
their hands clasped like schoolchildren’s, eyes drinking in the familiar 
sight of the other’s body; memories refreshing after their long separation.

Gil-galad gathered the more slightly built elf into his arms again.  “If you 
can stand the stink of the road,” he joked, “I would have you first—then 
we can bathe together.”

“I think I can...” Elrond began, interrupting himself with a gasp when the 
sensitive spot on his neck was nipped, then kissed.  “...ignore...” he paused 
to run his tongue along the tip of the king’s ear.  “...the stench of your 
horse.”

Robust laughter filled the room.  “Now,” the king said as he clasped his 
arms around his lover, nearly throwing them both onto the large bed.  
Rolling to cover Elrond’s body with his own, he went on, “I shall ride 
*you*!”

“Yes,” Elrond gasped as the high king attacked his body with mouth and 
hands.  “Oh, yes!”

The Master of Imladris knew his king’s most intimate desires, knew how 
to satisfy his every need.  Later their lovemaking would be slow and 
sweet, but now, the first time after so long a separation, it was fervent to 
the point of desperation.  Likewise, the king knew Elrond’s most sensitive 
spots, where a touch would send a shudder throughout the lean, ivory 
body.  Few words passed between them; soon Gil-galad’s mouth was 
filled with Elrond’s hardened flesh, and naught but gasping moans of 
pleasure passed Elrond’s lips.

So well they knew each other’s needs, Gil-galad’s outstretched hand was 
immediately filled with a phial of oil from under the pillows.  A slickened 
digit broached Elrond’s entrance, and the Elf-lord shuddered anew, unable 
to thrust his hips both back and forward at the same time.  Gil-galad kept 
the same rhythm with his mouth and his hand, and when he added a 
second finger alongside the first, Elrond thrashed his head from side to 
side, hands fisted in the sheets, the pleasure nearly too much to bear.

Clamping his free hand at the base of Elrond’s shaft, Gil-galad completed 
his preparations.  Soon his own throbbing member took the place of his 
questing fingers, and he smoothly sank himself into the body of his lover.  
He watched as Elrond’s features softened with pleasure, as he relaxed to 
accept the turgid intruder.  They found their rhythm together, giving and 
accepting, climbing as one to the summit of passion, tumbling in unison 
from its heights into a timeless limbo, their spent bodies snuggling into 
place in each other’s arms.

-iii-

**Mirkwood:  the Third Age.**

The small room was just as Legolas had left it, sparsely furnished with 
only a narrow bed and washstand, a desk and chair, and a wardrobe 
cabinet.  A plain, thin rug covered the stone floor, and the walls were 
undecorated.  There were no windows, and only a single stout door of 
oaken planks.

The inside of the door was marked with dozens of small holes, each the 
exact diameter of the point of a practice arrow.  He ran his hand over the 
pockmarked wood, remembering the time he nearly shot one of his 
brothers when the older elf opened the door without knocking.  The ewer 
was filled with washing water, soft towels folded and stacked in the base 
of the washstand.

He stank of the road, he realized, and the quick wash of his hands and face 
in the stable would not suffice if he wished to dine with his mother.  
Throwing open the wardrobe doors, he gathered clean clothes and set out 
for the baths.

Deep in the mountain a natural hot spring had been found, several pools 
built to collect the water, and it was there Legolas headed.  He chose one 
of the smaller pools, just large enough to accommodate his height, and 
stripped off the tunic and leggings he had worn during the entire journey 
from Imladris.

A sigh escaped his lips as he eased himself into the hot water.  “Oh, that 
feels good,” he commented under his breath.

“Have they no baths in Rivendell?” a haughty voice asked.

A century older than Legolas, Dorolas was the brother he had always 
emulated and eventually tried to surpass.  Legolas was the better archer, 
but Dorolas could ride any horse alive, and keep his seat at top speed or 
when jumping obstacles.  He was blond, of course, but took little care in 
dressing his hair, pulling his forelocks back in a single braid and allowing 
the rest of his hair to hang loosely.

Legolas smiled at his brother’s arrival.  “I should have known you’d be the 
first to seek me out.”

“Only that I guessed aright that you would come here as soon as Father 
turned you loose.”  Dorolas sat at the side of the pool and hugged his 
knees to his chest.  “You have much to tell us,” he said.

“And you wish to be the first to hear.”

“Of course.”  He dipped his hand in the water and splashed at Legolas.

“I have learned much,” Legolas admitted.  “New stories, a few songs...” he 
teased.

“And what of Rivendell?  Do they do strange things there?  Do they have 
odd ways?”

Legolas squeezed his hands together, aiming the stream of water directly 
at his brother.  “They *do* have baths, I assure you.  Baths where 
*privacy* is respected.”  He quickly ducked his head beneath the surface, 
then blinked the water from his eyes.   “Now leave me be, and I will tell 
everyone my tales later.”

It had been weeks since Legolas had been able to bathe properly, but he 
did not linger, quickly scrubbing the grime from his fair skin and washing 
his hair.  Back in his room, he dressed and combed out the worst of the 
tangles.  No sooner did he set his silver circlet on his brow to hold his still-
damp hair, that he heard the toll of the evening bell calling the family to 
table.

A turning of the passageway short of the dining room, Legolas stopped 
and took a deep breath to quiet his pounding heart.  He had already faced 
his father, he reminded himself.  He knew there would be questions about 
his time away, but not the interrogation he’d expected from his father.

To be honest, he thought, he hadn’t missed his father at all during his half-
year away.  His earlier meeting with his sire had been as though no time 
had passed at all, and Legolas realized that to the three thousand and 
some-year-old Thranduil, it was as little as from one day to the next.  He 
had missed his mother, though, and thinking of her lightened his heart.  
Taking another deep breath, he steeled himself once more, then proceeded 
to the dining room.

He had only set a single foot into the room when he was assaulted from 
both sides.  Tatharië threw her arms around his neck; his older sister 
Cordofië, shorter than their youngest sibling, hugged his waist.  His vision 
swam as he choked, then managed to extract himself from the double 
embrace.

“Sisters,” he said, “Pray let me breathe!”  He kissed each of them on the 
forehead and proceeded into the room.  Already seated at the foot of the 
table, Taurfëa, the Queen of Mirkwood, smiled broadly at her son and held 
her hands out to him.

No Elf was ever as fleet of foot as was Legolas in gaining the side of the 
Elf-queen.  He took her hands in his, fell to his knees, and kissed her 
hands.  “Forgive me, Mother,” he whispered.  “For causing you worry.”

“You are home now, my Greenleaf,”  she responded.  “Let us not dwell on 
the past, but rejoice that you have returned safely.”  She kissed his 
forehead and bade him rise, but maintained her grasp of his hands.  “I can 
see that you are well,” she said.  A furrow creased her brow, then 
disappeared as she smiled again.

“Is there something amiss, Mother?”

“You have grown.  You are no longer a youth to my eyes.”

Legolas felt a blush rise in his face.  *She suspects*, he thought.  *She can 
tell I have fallen in love.*  “I have had many new experiences,” he 
admitted.  He took a deep breath, trying to slow his pounding heart.

Taurfëa squeezed his hands and released them.  “We can speak privately 
later, my son.  Let us all sit, and you can regale us with tales of your 
adventures.”

The questions began before the meal was served.  There were seven at the 
table, Legolas, his two sisters and their parents, along with Dorolas and 
their oldest brother, Gaerduil, heir to the Elven throne of Mirkwood.  
Tatharië and Dorolas alternated asking first one question, then another, 
allowing Legolas no more than a bite or two between answers.  Sipping 
his wine to ease his dry throat, Legolas held up a hand to stop the 
interrogation.  “I will tell you everything,” he promised.  “Will you let me 
eat at least?”

Thranduil cleared his throat.  “Let the lad finish his meal,” he chastised 
them.  “You chatter like a flock of magpies.”

Legolas nodded his thanks to his father, hoping his surprise was veiled.  
He could not recall that his father had ever taken his part against his 
siblings, no matter how vicious or innocent their teasing.  Gaerduil, 
however, did not mask his astonishment at their father’s words.  His 
mouth gaped open for a brief moment before he collected himself and 
continued eating in his usual silence.

The oldest and youngest of Thranduil’s sons had never been close.  With 
their births separated by more than a thousand years, Legolas had come of 
age before he ever met his oldest brother.  He suspected that the crown 
prince found their parents’ continued breeding habits embarrassing, as 
most Elven couples bore a limited number of children early in their lives.  
Thranduil and Taurfëa had regularly produced an heir every century or 
two, resulting in an unusually large royal family.

“They’re repopulating the Greenwood all by themselves,” Dorolas had 
once teased, referring to the immense losses the Sylvan Elves had suffered 
during the War of the Last Alliance.

Finally, Legolas finished eating, and the family sat long into the night 
listening to his stories of far away Imladris.

-iv-

**Imladris:  the Second Age.**

Gil-galad heard a decorous *ahem* at the doorway, and quickly spread the 
coverlet over himself and his dozing lover.  “Come in, Glorfindel,” he said 
quietly, loud enough for the seneschal to hear, but not to disturb Elrond.  
He knew no one but Glorfindel would dare intrude upon them, and indeed, 
it was the tall, blond Elf who entered the bedchamber, his eyes discreetly 
averted.  “Your discretion is appreciated, but unnecessary, old friend,” the 
king advised.  “There is no shame here.”

Glorfindel turned his head, raising his eyes to meet Gil-galad’s.  The king 
reclined against the head of the bed, his long, dark hair spread across the 
white bed linens.  Though the king’s bare shoulder and chest were 
exposed, his body was modestly covered, and Elrond’s head rested on the 
king’s other shoulder, his eyes closed.  “I am sorry to intrude, your 
majesty.  Will you be dining downstairs this evening?”

Gil-galad thought for a moment, considering the tedium of dressing for a 
public meal.  “No, not tonight.”

“I shall have a meal brought to the sitting room.”

The king nodded his approval.  “A hearty meal, please.”  A smile crossed 
his face.  “I have grown weary of trail rations.”

“Of course, sir.  Your things have been brought upstairs,” he went on, 
“and I’ve told your squire to await your call.”  Without a word, he moved 
a tray with wine and goblets to the table beside the bed, then picked up the 
discarded garments, leaving them draped over a chair.  “If there is nothing 
further you require, your majesty,” he added, “I shall leave you and 
Master Elrond to your... conference.”  When there was no answer from the 
king, Glorfindel turned away and left them alone.

“I fear he does not wholly approve of us,” Elrond whispered against the 
broad, muscular chest before planting a kiss on the smooth skin.

Gil-galad in turn kissed his lover’s forehead.  “It is not his place to 
approve or disapprove, and he knows it,” he remarked.  “We are discreet 
in public, though the Valar themselves know we have nothing to be 
ashamed of.”

“I wager, though, you do not disappear into your bedchamber with Amdir 
when you visit Lothlórien.”

The king laughed as he poured wine into the goblets.  He waited while 
Elrond  pulled himself to sit against the head of the bed.  “Jealous?”  They 
touched their glasses together.

“Never,” Elrond answered before drinking.  He swallowed the cool, sweet 
wine, then admitted in a whisper, “Always.”

A shadow darkened Gil-galad’s features.  “More than two and a half 
thousand years, and still your childhood haunts you.”  He grasped 
Elrond’s free hand in his own and raised it to his lips for a gentle, 
lingering kiss.  “You own my heart,” he continued, clasping the hand to 
his breast, feeling his heart pound against his lover’s hand.

Elrond turned his head and kissed him, but drew away just as their 
passions were again ignited.  “My heart is yours as well,” he vowed.  “As 
my hand would be were you only to ask.”

“I know,” the king answered solemnly.  He set his goblet aside and 
stroked the smooth, ivory cheek with the back of his fingers, then drew his 
fingertips along the line of Elrond’s jaw.  “I would take your hand, my 
love, and give you mine, were it mine to give.”  His voice held touch of 
sadness, for nothing would please him more than making the Master of 
Imladris his spouse, but as High-king, he would make a political match, if 
any.  The Elven realms of Middle-earth had not suffered for his singular 
reign, and his dealings with the lesser kings of Men and Elves were eased 
for his supposed availability.

Touching only Elrond’s chin, he claimed another kiss, their lips molding 
to each other’s.  They shifted positions, Gil-galad leaning into the 
deepening kiss, taking possession of his lover’s mouth once again.

Elrond’s arms and legs snaked around the king, holding him in a double 
embrace, and they rolled, switching top for bottom.  Pulling back, Elrond 
smiled broadly, then sniffed loudly.  “Perhaps... it would... be wise... to 
have... that bath....”  He paused between words to kiss Gil-galad’s nose, 
his cheeks, his chin, until finally the king put an end to the teasing by 
pulling Elrond’s face to his own for a searing kiss on the lips.  Without 
breaking contact, the kiss softened, and the king’s hands moved over 
Elrond’s head, fingers tangling in the dark locks.

The kiss aroused them both, but grudgingly Gil-galad pushed Elrond away 
and sprang from the bed.  “Yes, we should,” he said, his voice raw with 
passion.  He tore his eyes from his lover’s inviting body, strode to the 
wardrobe cabinet and donned a dressing gown.  As he tied the sash around 
his waist, he took a deep breath, held it, and, after a moment, let it escape 
slowly.  “See to it,” he said firmly, the ardor banished, and he disappeared 
into the next room.

Without meaning to eavesdrop, Elrond discerned his lover’s voice from 
the sitting room.  A second, unfamiliar voice answered the king’s greeting.  
*Gil-galad’s new squire*, Elrond surmised.  The king’s sudden change of 
mood did not surprise him; he was long accustomed to sharing his lover 
with the duties of office.  In his mind he traced Gil-galad’s train of 
thought:  *bath... clean clothes... luggage... squire...*  With a wry smile 
Elrond rose from the bed and took his clothes into the adjacent bath.

The king’s private bath had been designed to accommodate not only the 
tall, sturdily-built High-king, but also his lover.  An oversized, tiled-lined 
tub was the focus of the room, intended for relaxation as well as washing.  
Elrond dropped his robes to one side and opened the taps, filling the tub 
with water piped from the hot spring high on the mountainside.  Choosing 
one from a row of crystal bottles, he added an amber oil to the water.  A 
deep breath filled his lungs with the musky fragrance he knew was Gil-
galad’s favorite.

“You remembered.”  Strong arms circled his chest, and Elrond shuddered 
from the nipping kiss on his shoulder.

“Of course,” he answered.  “Five years is not an eternity.”  He turned in 
the circle of Gil-galad’s arms and returned the embrace.  “It only seems as 
such,” he added, “when I rest in an empty bed.”

Their bath was a languorous combination of washing and loving, the 
cooling water finally driving them from the tub.  The westering sun drew 
them to the terrace, and they watched as reds, oranges, and purples striped 
the sky, finally giving way to the star-speckled black of night.

“You still watch for his star each night,” Gil-galad commented when 
Elrond remained at the parapet long after the sun had disappeared, the 
bright ligh t of Eärendil still above the western horizon.  The king 
retreated into the bedchamber, claiming a place on a comfortable divan 
before the hearth.

“What did you mean,” Elrond asked as he took a seat next to Gil-galad, 
“when you said my childhood haunts me?”

“Orphans often find it difficult to truly trust those who love them, even as 
adults.”  Gil-galad paused long enough to push the still-damp strands of 
hair away from Elrond’s face.  “I see it more in children of men, whose 
parents are mortal....”

“My parents were mortal,” Elrond reminded him, “as was I as a child.”

“Yes.”  Gil-galad nodded.  “I remember.”

“I trust you with my life,” he affirmed.

“But you do not trust my heart.  You fear—just a little—that you will lose 
me too, as you did your parents and your twin.”

“Forgive...”

Gil-galad shushed Elrond with a soft kiss on the forehead.  “It is not your 
doing, my love.”  His fingers continued to caress the younger elf’s hair.  “I 
wish I could take away your fears, but I cannot undo the past.”

“It is enough that you love me, and I you.”  Elrond’s voice was quiet, and 
the king could hear in it the remnants of the small boy he had once known.

Taking Elrond’s hand in his own, Gil-galad first kissed it, then pressed it 
to his chest above his heart.  “I swear to you, Elrond Eärendilion,”  he said 
in formal language, “I will never leave you.  We may be separated for a 
time, but you will be in my heart for all eternity.”



CHAPTER FOUR

from the journal of Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood:

There is nothing more comforting that to rest in the arms of your lover, the 
sound of his heart, the warmth of his embrace, the scent of his body 
surrounding you.  But to realize it is only a dream, and that you are alone, 
is truly a rude awakening.  I found myself grasping a pillow, aroused to 
readiness, with only my own hand to bring release.  Though I am not 
ashamed to pleasure myself, I wept in my solitude, knowing that the one I 
love is likewise alone.  Long will be the days until I can return to his 
side—to his bed—and my heart will be heavy until we are reunited.

-i-

**Mirkwood.**

The first night Legolas spent in his father’s palace was a trial.  Resting in 
his own bed for the first time in more than half a year, he longed for 
Elrond, a vivid dream filling his mind.  He dreamed they were together in 
the peaceful vale of the Bruinen.  His body remembered the touches and 
caresses of the Elf-lord, though it was his own hand which stroked his 
need upon awakening.  Arising, he vowed nothing—no one—would keep 
him from returning to Imladris as soon after his sister’s binding as was 
possible.

The Elf-prince slipped into his old habits as though he had never been 
away from Mirkwood.  He broke his fast with quickly-grabbed pastry and 
fruit, consciously avoiding his father’s audience hall and his mother’s 
sitting room.  He knew his sisters would be busy with preparations for the 
coming ceremony, and he hoped his brothers would be engaged in their 
more usual pursuits, and would ignore his activities.

Seeking out Lord Aethlon proved to be a morning-long task, and it was 
shortly before the bell for the noon meal that Legolas found Elrond’s agent 
in a quiet chamber teaching a roomful of children their letters.  Legolas 
recognized two nieces and a nephew among the busily writing students.  
Not wanting to interrupt the lesson, the prince stood silently at the door, 
his eyes entreating Aethlon’s attention.

“I apologize for the interruption,”  the prince whispered when the tutor 
came to the doorway.  “But I must speak with you in private.”  He 
carefully remained out of view of the students.

Aethlon nodded to Legolas, then spoke quietly to the oldest student.  His 
instructions given, he led the prince to a smaller but deserted classroom 
across the hallway.  “We can speak freely here, your highness.”  Aethlon 
was taller than Legolas, his blond hair more like mithril than gold, 
marking him as Galadhrim.  His hair was pulled back from his broad brow 
into a simple braid, and his clothing was green and brown, the livery of the 
house of Mirkwood.

“The master of Imladris bade me bring his greetings.”  Suddenly Legolas 
felt nervous, as though he were back in the classroom himself and asked to 
recite a lesson he had not studied.  A niggling fear touched his heart that 
his father would learn of his feelings for Elrond, that his carefully worded 
and written message would somehow find its way to the king’s eye.  He 
fidgeted with the tightly folded paper of his missive.

“I was told to expect your visit, your highness.  You have a message to 
send?”

“Is this right?  Lord Glorfindel showed me how to fold it for the birds to 
carry.”

Elrond’s agent plucked the packet from the prince’s outstretched palm.  
He turned it this way and that, nodding at the tightly creased folds.  “He 
taught you well.  I will send the bird at sunset, your highness.”  He tucked 
the message into his belt.  “Fear not, your message will reach Imladris in 
three days’ time, perhaps less if the wind is with her.”

“Thank you, Lord Aethlon.  I know I can trust to your discretion.”

Their eyes met and the Elf-lord nodded.  “And I to yours,” he replied.

Without a word Legolas inclined his head and touched his right hand to 
his heart in promise, then walked away while the tutor returned to his 
students.

A commotion at the main entrance drew his attention as Legolas headed 
for the stables to see to Celanor.  Moving quietly in his soft-soled boots, 
he risked a look into the entry hall.  A small crowd milled about, and he 
identified another of his brothers complete with spouse, grown children, 
and, it appeared, grandchildren.

*A Elbereth*, he swore to himself.  Most of his siblings had taken their 
father’s edict to repopulate Mirkwood very seriously.  *Soon*, he thought, 
*the ‘wood will be so full of Thranduil’s get, there will be no one 
unrelated to bind with.*  As though a lamp had been lit in his mind, he 
suddenly understood why his father had demanded he court an Elf-maid 
from Lothlórien.  Let another brother or nephew seek a spouse in the 
golden wood; he had lost his heart in Imladris.

An hour later, Dorolas found him in the stables, nimble fingers busy 
braiding Celanor’s mane.  “You have always been the best at avoiding 
family,” the older brother said.  He touched Celanor’s flank and circled 
around the horse’s rump.

“You taught me,” Legolas answered, grinning at his brother.  He tossed 
Dorolas a comb.  “Make yourself useful. ”

“Your horse has always been the prettiest one in the stable.”  He combed 
the long, flaxen tail, and when all the tangles were removed, plaited it in 
the same complex, six-strand braid that adorned the Elves’ hair.  They fell 
into an awkward silence broken only by the horse’s snorting and stamping.

Legolas pressed his cheek to the horse’s neck and hushed the stallion.  
“We will be off soon enough, mellon-nîn,” he whispered.  “You need rest 
before crossing the mountains again.”

Dorolas raised his head.  “You plan to return to Imladris?  Father will 
never allow it.”

A blush rose in the younger Elf’s cheeks and he shook his head at his own 
indiscretion.  “You might as well know,” he answered, “yes, I intend to 
return to Imladris.”  He turned away from his brother and traded the mane 
comb for brushes.  Starting at the top of Celanor’s head he vigorously 
brushed the golden hide.  “There is nothing for me here,” he added quietly.

“You met someone,” Dorolas accused.

“I met a great many people,” he said honestly.  “Elves, Men—even a 
Dwarf.”

“Someone special.”  He was insistent.

Legolas’s blush deepened, and he nodded.  “Is it that noticeable?”

“To me, and perhaps to Tatharië, if she were to look.  She is too taken 
with her beau to notice anything or anyone else.”

“She would not understand.  She would expect me to fall in love with a 
maid.”

“So that’s the truth of it.  I have long suspected, muindor-nîn.”  He stared 
at Legolas for a long moment.  “Is he worthy of you?”

“I sometimes wonder if I am worthy of him,” the younger Elf admitted 
under his breath.

“I have heard that the sons of Elrond are quite valiant—in all their 
endeavors.”

Legolas chuckled.  “Yes, they are, but it was neither Elladan nor Elrohir 
who captured my heart.”

“Will you tell me his name?  Or must I torture it from you as I did when 
you were a child?”

“You would have a time of it now, brother.  I doubt you can still pick me 
up by my heels and dunk me in the horse trough.”

-ii-

**The Misty Mountains.**

The route through the Misty Mountains was familiar to the twin sons of 
Elrond; they had ridden every trail and path, in good weather and in bad, 
for centuries.  Sometimes they only traveled between Imladris and 
Lothlórien, since their mother’s departure for Aman they hunted orcs.  
They had taken a vow to wipe Middle-earth clean of the entire race of 
orcs, and year by year they came closer to accomplishing their goal.  They 
had always avoided the way stations maintained by the Elves of 
Mirkwood, and stayed out of range of the borders of the Woodland Realm.  
Invited by Legolas, however, they made use of the shelters and headed 
directly for the dark eaves of the forest.

“Hold!”  The shout rang out before they were a bowshot within the forest.

Riding side by side, Elrohir looked left; Elladan looked right.  Their sharp 
eyes searched the forest floor, then the lowest branches of the towering 
trees.  The soft sound of footfalls on the packed earth of the trail drew 
their eyes back to the fore.  Before them stood a tall, golden-haired Elf 
with bow drawn to his cheek.  He was dressed in the grey and green livery 
of Mirkwood, his hair pulled back simply without braids of nobility.  
Silently, two more Elves stepped onto the trail behind him, their bows 
drawn as well, all arrows trained on the mounted twins.

Slowly Elladan and Elrohir raised their hands, their bows strung but 
looped over their shoulders, their swords and daggers safely sheathed.  
The matched horses stopped as soon as their reins were dropped, their 
faultless training holding them from stamping or rearing.  The rustling of 
underbrush told them more guards had stepped onto the trail behind them, 
and the twins knew a ring of arrows were aimed at them.

“I am Elladan of Imladris, son of Elrond,” the elder of the twins stated, 
“and this is my brother, Elrohir.”

“We come at the invitation of Prince Legolas,” the younger continued.

The leader lowered his bow, but the two Elves behind him did not.  He 
looked back and forth between the two Noldorian Elves, then shrugged.  
He gestured and the other bows were lowered, their strings relaxed, and 
the twins lowered their hands.

“I was not told to expect guests.”

Now it was Elladan who shrugged.  “Do you doubt my word?”  He 
tempered his voice, trying to sound friendly and harmless.

“Prince Legolas stayed the winter in our home,” Elrohir explained in the 
same tone.  “And on leaving offered the hospitality of the Mirkwood in 
return.”

A long silence settled on the wood as the blond Elf considered the 
strangers ’ words.  As ageless as Elves appeared, the leader of the troop 
had an aura of youth, and his indecision intensified the impression Elladan 
and Elrohir shared.

“We have never visited your fair woods before...” Elladan offered.

“Perhaps you would guide us...” Elrohir continued.  Courtesy and civility 
would be the key here, he realized.  A guide—escort—would maintain 
security as well as extending hospitality.  He knew his brother would 
follow his lead.

“...to the home of our friend?”

The Princes of Imladris were duly escorted through the northern 
Mirkwood by a squad of unnamed guards.  They halted only for meals and 
to rest the horses, and aside from the most basic of courtesies, rode silently 
under the canopy of trees.  The twins were not bound, and they retained 
control of their mounts, but the constant scrutiny of the guards soon 
became oppressive.

“We are little more than prisoners,” Elrohir whispered during one rest 
stop.  It seemed inappropriate, somehow, to speak aloud, even to his 
brother.

Elladan swallowed the last bite of his rations and drank deeply from a 
waterskin before answering.  “It might not be diplomatic, but certainly 
prudent if they did treat us as such,” he answered.  “These guards have no 
proof of our identity, nor of Legolas’s invitation.”

A sharp look from the squad leader as he remounted his horse silenced the 
twins, and in moments they were underway once more.

Days passed before Elladan spoke up to address their escort.  “Your forest 
is vast indeed....”

“...can it be much farther to the hold of your king?”  The floor of the forest 
was only dimly lit by the sun above the canopy of branches and leaves, the 
filtered light dappling the hard-packed earth of the trail.  The day-long 
twilight faded quickly to deepest night, and even Elven eyesight could not 
discern the shapes of the massive trees or the heading of the path that 
wound between them.

“It is nearly seventy leagues west to east through this part of Mirkwood,” 
the squad leader answered.  “I see no need to overtax the horses.  It will be 
another three, perhaps four, days.”

Elladan, always the less patient of the twins, sighed at the news and 
shifted in his saddle, while his bother smiled wanly.  A silent glance 
between them bolstered their spirits, but they could do nothing to hasten 
their journey.

-iii-

**Mirkwood.**

Dripping wet, Legolas made his way through the dimly lit back corridors, 
trying to reach his room without being seen by parents, siblings, or 
servants.  The lower passageways had a tendency to be damp, masking the 
trail of water he left with each squishing step.  Dorolas could indeed still 
dunk him in the horse trough, though not by holding his heels.  They had 
wrestled for an hour in the stable before the older and taller brother tipped 
the younger, lighter Elf into the cold water, following him in a second 
later.  They parted laughing, once again the best of friends.

Even though Dorolas bested him, Legolas did not divulge the name of his 
beloved.  “I will tell you before I leave,” he promised, remembering that 
Dorolas had never been able to keep a secret.

A puddle forming at his feet, Legolas waited in a side passage as three 
wine barrels were rolled toward the kitchens.  How many guests have been 
invited? he wondered, and stole after the sommeliers, his sodden shoes 
still leaving wet footprints behind him.  It had been decades since he had 
crept around this part of the palace, but memory served him and he found 
his room soon enough.  As he approached, however, he saw his door was 
ajar.

Standing to one side of the doorway, he gave the heavy wooden door a 
push, and it swung open on well-oiled hinges.  Cautiously he leaned his 
head into the doorway.  Sitting at his desk, her hands folded primly in her 
lap, was his mother.

“You’re wet.”  Her eyes dropped to the floor, the puddle spreading around 
his feet, water still dripping from his hair and surcoat, then returned to 
meet his gaze.  “You’re avoiding your family, Greenleaf,” she chided him.

“Yes, Mother,” he answered, feeling like a misbehaving Elfling once 
more.  “Dorolas and I were...”

“You and Dorolas are both far too old to wrestle in the horse troughs 
anymore.”

“Of course, Mother.  We—uh—“  He ducked his head, unable to compose 
an excuse.

Taurfëa smiled and reached a hand to her youngest son.  “Now I know 
your adventure has not changed you completely.”  She rose from the chair 
and took a towel from his washstand.  “Dry yourself, son,” she said.  “I 
thought we could talk about your journey without your father or brothers 
listening.”

Legolas took the towel from her and kissed her cheek.  “Yes, Mother.  I 
need to change into dry clothes, then we can talk.”

Stepping behind him, Taurfëa closed the door and stood facing it, giving 
him a modicum of privacy.  “We can talk while you change—my Ladies 
expect me to return shortly.”

Quickly Legolas stripped the wet clothes from his body and dried his skin.  
“What do you wish to know?”  He pulled on a fresh pair of leggings and 
bade Taurfëa sit again.  A second towel squeezed the water from his hair, 
and once the dripping stopped he donned a fresh tunic.  The pale blue silk, 
embroidered with silver, was one of his mother’s favorites.  He fastened 
the tiny pearl buttons, but left the high collar open, then sat on the bed, 
combing through his tangled hair, answering his mother’s questions all the 
while.  He started to rebraid his hair only to be interrupted by her hand on 
his arm.

“Sit here, Greenleaf.  It has been a long while since I braided your hair.”  
He sat at her feet, and her fingers deftly plaited the damp strands.  “This 
will wave when it dries,” she cautioned him.  “But it will stay tidy much 
longer.”

Legolas had heard the warnings about plaiting damp hair since he was old 
enough to have his hair braided.  He smiled at the familiar words.  
“You’ve taught all of us that lesson, Nana.”  He told her of the journey 
alone over the mountains and the fierce storms he had faced.  He hedged 
around the circumstances of his meeting the sons of Elrond, but told in 
great detail of the kindness and hospitality he had been offered at Imladris.  
He talked about his work in the Library, and of the friendships with 
Glorfindel and the others of the household.  Of Lord Elrond he simply said 
that they had become friends as well.

The last braid was secured but Taurfëa kept one hand on her son’s head.  
“You are not telling me everything.”  Before he could protest, she went 
on.  “There is a light in your eyes that has never been there before, 
Greenleaf—a light that only comes when the heart burns with passion.  
You have fallen in love, have you not?”

His heart raced, and he breathed slowly and deeply trying to calm it.   
“Yes, Nana,” he admitted, his voice low.

“And has she—has this person fallen in love with you?”

“Yes,” he whispered.  He noticed his mother’s choice of words, and 
realized that she understood it was unlikely he had fallen in love with an 
Elf-maid.

She bent and kissed the top of his head, then rose from the chair.  He stood 
also, and she looked up into his eyes.  Legolas smiled at the warmth of her 
gaze, and kissed her cheek.  “Please, Mother,” he pleaded.  “I am not 
ready to...”

“I will keep your confidence, Greenleaf.”  She stepped to the door, 
avoiding the wet towels he had dropped on the floor.  Turning back, she 
said, “But it cannot remain a secret forever.”  Smiling at him once more, 
she let herself out, closing the door behind her.

When she had gone, he flung himself onto the bed and tucked his hands 
under his head.  Relief flooded him, and he sighed.  He had never been 
able to keep a secret from his mother, but telling her part of the truth 
would suffice for now.  His brothers and sisters were a different matter; 
Cordofië could be as a badger if she thought he lied to her, and Dorolas, as 
close as the brothers were, was sometimes lax in keeping confidences.  
The thought of explaining to his father that he had taken a lover, not to 
mention that it was *Elrond Peredhel*, brought on a cold sweat.  “I should 
not fear him,” he said aloud, though he was the only one to hear.  “I am an 
adult, and have to right to give my heart where I choose.”  *Sure*, he 
thought.  *Father rules his family as he rules Mirkwood, with naught but 
his own desires in mind.*

If possible, he decided, he would wait until he was ready to return to 
Imladris before telling his father the whys and wherefores of his journey.  
A distant bell rang, first call to the evening meal, and he quickly readied 
himself for his next trial.

-iv-

**Imladris.**

The draperies in Elrond’s study had not been drawn against the night’s 
chill, and the damp, moonless night invaded even the candlelit room.  
Glorfindel swept into the room without knocking and strode directly to the 
open windows.  He tugged on the cords which bound back the heavy 
draperies, and they fell into place.

“Come, milord,” the seneschal said as he turned away from the windows.  
“It is past midnight once again.”

“Midnight?”  Elrond’s voice was distant, like the last, thin echo of a once 
strong call.  He held a scrap of paper in his hand, one side of it covered 
with cursive writing, sharp creases still marking the thin sheet.  He spread 
the paper on the desk and smoothed it with the flat of his hand, then gently 
ran his fingertips over the last word.

“Yes, milord.”  *The message from Legolas*, Glorfindel thought.  He had 
not read the letter, respectful of Elrond’s privacy, but it was apparent that 
the letter had great impact on the Elf-lord.

“He has arrived safely,” Elrond stated quietly.  “He is anxious to return.”  
The Elf-lord smiled, still gazing at the words on the paper.  Carefully he 
refolded the sheet and tucked it away.

Licking his fingertips, Glorfindel snuffed out the candles one by one, 
leaving the room lit only by the flickering flames of the dying fire.  
“Come, I shall see you to your chambers.  Beren should be abed already.”  
He guided Elrond from the study, across the main hall, and up the stairs.

The Master of Imladris walked with him as if on a lead, his eyes 
unfocused, his feet nearly dragging across the marble floors.  Step by step 
he seemed to draw more into himself, and by the time they reached his 
chambers, Elrond clutched his outer robe closely around himself, a wall 
between him and the world.

“Elrond,” Glorfindel said without the usual honorifics.  *”Elrond!”* he 
repeated more loudly before the dark-haired Elf responded.  The grey eyes 
blinked twice before they focused on the seneschal.  “The brightness is 
gone from your eyes, my friend,” he observed, his voice low again.  He 
didn’t want to awaken Elrond’s squire at this late hour, but he would speak 
to the youngster in the morning.

“The joy has gone from my heart.  I fear I will not enjoy a moment until 
he returns.”  Elrond’s voice was barely more than a whisper.  He had not 
moved from the spot where Glorfindel had led him, but he let his hands 
drop and his robe fall open.  “For centuries, I have been alone,” he went 
on.  “Only now, though, do I feel the emptiness.”

Grasping both Elrond’s shoulders in his hands, Glorfindel looked deeply 
into his eyes.  “Do not slip into that darkness,” he commanded.  “It will be 
but a little while before Legolas returns.”   When there was no response, 
he continued.  “I know how enticing the darkness can be, Elrond; I have 
been there.”  He slid the outer robe from Elrond’s shoulders, then guided 
him to sit on the edge of the bed.

*”Daro ned i’galad,”* he said.  He had seen Elrond in this state before, 
following the death of the High-King.  There had been little hope of a 
reunion then, however, save in the Undying Lands, and after time the Lord 
of Imladris had returned to himself.  Following Celebrían’s departure for 
Aman, though, an air of resignation had come over him.  The arrival of 
Legolas in his life had brought both light and life back to the Master of 
Imladris.

Closing his eyes Elrond shook his head at Glorfindel’s words.  “Its pull is 
strong, and alone I am so weak.”

“You are not alone, Elrond,” Glorfindel reminded him.  “Legolas is in 
your heart, as you are in his.  Do not abandon him for the darkness.  He is 
too young and full of life to follow you.”

Elrond’s eyes snapped open and he looked directly at Glorfindel.  “No,” 
he stated, his voice stronger.  “I shall not abandon him.”  He drew a deep 
breath and sat up straighter, then reached to grasp the other elf’s shoulders.  
“Thank you, my friend.  It will be difficult to resist the pull of the 
darkness, but you have given me a lifeline to cling to.”



CHAPTER FIVE

from the journal of Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood:

My sister’s wedding draws near, and I still have not spoken to my father 
of my intentions to return immediately afterward to Imladris.  I fear he 
will take measures to prohibit my leaving if I give him advance notice.  
Though little has changed here in my father’s palace, I feel even more out 
of place than I ever did before.  It is not just that I miss my lover, and I do, 
with all my being, but that I have changed while away.  Perhaps Mother is 
right that I am no longer a youth, and see my home for the first time with 
an adult’s eyes. I find myself wondering what Elrond is doing from hour 
to hour, day to day.  He has his work, at least, to fill his days, but I trust 
his nights are as lonely as mine.  I find sleep evades me, but I spend my 
rest time dreaming of our reunion.

-i-

**Mirkwood.**

Ten days and nights they had been beneath the beech and oak trees before 
the challenges began, demands for passwords from unseen sentinels.  The 
twins were identified solely as guests of Prince Legolas, and one by one 
they passed the checkpoints.  At dawn on the last day they were roused 
from their rest by a new troop of warriors, their livery marked with the 
sigil of Thranduil’s personal guards.  Without a word Elladan and Elrohir 
were gagged, their hands bound behind their backs, their weapons 
removed.  They watched as their escort headed back to the western 
marches, leaving only their matched horses.

The twins were dragged to their feet, and shoved in a roughly easterly 
direction.  Elladan craned his head back, anxious about their horses, and 
felt the point of an arrow in his back.  “Don’t worry about your mounts, 
*Noldorim*,” the archer said, withdrawing his arrow before drawing 
blood.  “Now go,” he ordered.

Elladan did not risk another jab from the over-zealous archer, and trotted 
to catch up with his brother.  At a jog they covered the last few leagues 
through the forest, and came to the massive gates of Thranduil’s cave-
palace as prisoners.

They followed their captors into the cavern, pushed from behind at any 
hesitation until their reached the doors of Thranduil’s audience chamber.  
The leader slipped into the chamber, but the remainder of the party as well 
as the two visitors waited.

The silence in the antechamber was oppressive.  Suddenly the doors were 
pulled open and Elladan and Elrohir shoved stumbling into the spacious 
hall.

The undercurrent of noise—rustling papers, intense whispers—that 
usually filled the audience chamber died as the dark-haired Elves were 
forced to their knees before the beechwood throne of the King of 
Mirkwood.  Their gags were removed, but a glaring look from their 
captors cautioned them against speaking out of turn.

“What have we here?”  Thranduil’s voice boomed throughout the 
chamber, and all eyes were on the newcomers.

The great doors were flung open once again.  “Father!” Legolas cried, 
running to the center of the room.  “Stop!”  His soft-soled shoes slid on the 
polished stone floor, but he kept his feet, coming to a halt between his 
friends and his father.

“Legolas,” Thranduil intoned, “this does not concern you.”

“Yes, it does, Father.”  The young prince caught his breath and continued 
formally.  “May I present Elladan and Elrohir of Imladris, who rescued me 
on the mountainside when I was overcome by a storm.  They saved my 
life and are as brothers to me.  I was an honored guest in their home, and 
would extend them the same hospitality.”

“The sons of the *Peredhel*?”

“Yes, milord,” Elladan answered, ignoring the implied insult to his family.  
“My brother and I wish to honor your house and your daughter.”

“We bring the greetings and good wishes of our father, ” Elrohir 
continued.  His grey eyes glanced quickly from Thranduil to Legolas and 
back, and he stilled the smile that threatened to break across his face.

“We also seek to visit with our friend and brother, your son, Legolas.”  
The twins never planned their duologues, and had long since learned to 
take advantage of the confusion their resemblance often caused.  
Thranduil looked back and forth between the brothers.  Dressed alike as 
they were, it was difficult to distinguish one from the other.  In the months  
he had spent at Imladris, Legolas had learned that Elladan’s right eyebrow 
was a bit higher, and Elrohir’s mouth curved into a slight smile even at 
rest.

The King of Mirkwood sat silently for what seemed an eternity to his son 
and the peredhil twins.  “Very well,” he finally said.  “They may remain as 
*your* guests, my son.”  With a wave of his hand he dismissed them, 
turning immediately back to his advisors.

With the small knife that hung at his belt Legolas cut the ropes which 
bound the twins’ hands, then helped them to stand.  Their bows went 
unacknowledged and they quickly left the great hall.  Once without 
Thranduil’s presence, the three embraced in greeting.

“You must tell me everything,” Legolas demanded as the sought out the 
palace’s major domo.  He insisted the twins be given rooms near his own, 
displacing a tardy sister and brother-in-law.  Together they saw to the 
twins’ horses and belongings.  “I apologize for the way the guards abused 
you,” he offered once they were settled.  “Father is somewhat—
tyrannical—about unexpected guests.”

Assuring him the brief bondage had done them no harm, the twins told 
him of their journey.  “Father misses you,” Elrohir mentioned quietly.

Legolas’s indigo eyes clouded for a moment and he nodded.  “As I miss 
him.”  He blinked against the sudden tears mention of his lover caused.

“The true reason we came...” Elladan admitted.

“...Was to ensure your return,” his brother completed.

The young prince hushed them both.  “Speak not of that yet,” he 
cautioned.  “I have not told my father of my intentions.  I dare not give 
him opportunity to forbid my going.”

A distant bell sounded for the midday meal.  “Come,” Legolas said, “it is 
time you met the rest of my family.”

-ii-

**Imladris.**

Elrond and his seneschal sat before the hearth in the privacy of Elrond’s 
study.  Each sat in a comfortable chair, and a flask of wine stood on the 
table between them.  No other light shone in the room, save the pale light 
of the stars in the clear night sky.

“We have been together a long time,” Elrond began.  “Haven’t we, my 
friend?”

Glorfindel stared into his wine for a long moment.  “ Yes, milord,” he 
answered.

“And you would tell me the truth if I ask it of you?”

“Of course.”

“Then tell me honestly what you think of this affair —relationship—of 
ours—Legolas and me.”  Elrond touched his seneschal’s hand.  “Am I a 
fool?”

“That remains to be seen, milord,”  the blond Elf answered with a smile.  
“I have known you for most of your life, Elrond, and I have not seen you 
this happy in an age.”

Noting the absence of the usual honorific, Elrond knew Glorfindel spoke 
from his heart.  *An age*, he thought.  *It has been an age since....*  
“Since....”

“Since the High-king died.”

The dark-haired Elf nodded.  “You never *did* approve of our love, did 
you?”

“It was not that I disapproved.”   Glorfindel refilled his goblet.  “I was 
charged long ago with service to the House of Tuor.  As long as you were 
involved with Gil-galad, you were the last of your line, and not likely to 
procreate.”  He drank deeply and continued.  “I knew your love for him 
was true, but I could not read his mind.  I could not be certain he would 
not break your heart.”  He bowed his head.

“And had he not fallen to Sauron....”  That was a fantasy that had filled 
Elrond’s soul for all of the Third Age, fading only with the coming of the 
Prince of Mirkwood.

“He would have insisted you marry and sire children,” Glorfindel stated, 
raising his eyes to meet Elrond’s.  “He knew the House of Tuor must 
prevail.”

“He made me promise not to follow him in death.”  Elrond had never 
revealed the vow he had long ago made to his king— to his lover.  He 
raised his hand, the firelight glinting on the Ring he wore.  He knew 
Glorfindel did not see Vilya, but the seneschal had long been privy to his 
custody of the powerful talisman.  “I am bound here,” he went on, “as 
long as the evil we fight remains.”  He dropped his hand to his lap and 
looked at his friend.  “Is it wrong for me to seek pleasure for myself?  A 
respite from the burden I bear?”

“No, milord,” Glorfindel assured him.  He rose from his chair and sank to 
his knees before the Lord of Imladris, and took Elrond’s hand in his own.  
He bowed his head to press a kiss to the hand’s back.  “It is not wrong.”  A 
light touch on the golden hair acknowledged Glorfindel’s obeisance and 
fealty, and the seneschal took his feet.

“Prince Legolas *will* return, milord.  Doubt it not.”  He refilled both 
their cups with wine and reseated himself.

They sat quietly, occasionally sipping at their wine, enjoying each other’s 
company.  The fire in the hearth had burned low when Elrond spoke again, 
his voice so low Glorfindel could barely hear.  “Was she happy here?”

“Yes,” the seneschal answered, “I believe she was.”  There was no need to 
name Elrond’s wife.  The fire popped loudly, startling both Elves.  “She 
took great joy in her—your—children.”

“As do I,” Elrond agreed.  He sighed deeply and stared into the flickering 
flames.  “This melancholy that besets me brings me grave doubts,” he 
admitted.  “I cannot help but wonder if my life has followed its proper 
course.”

“The course of all our lives was set long ago,” the blond Elf reminded 
him.  “Ilúvatar’s song was sung before the beginning of time.  We must 
have faith that we are all part of the melody.”

The dark head nodded in agreement, the grey eyes blinking against the 
tears that suddenly filled them.

Silently Glorfindel laid a hand on Elrond’s arm, his raised eyebrow 
questioning.

“I am all right, my friend.  I merely stared too long into the fire.”  He 
grasped Glorfindel’s hand where it lay, then stood.  “I believe I shall retire 
now.  Thank you for your company this evening—and for your ear.”

Rising as well, the seneschal put his hands to Elrond’s shoulders, then 
embraced the younger Elf.  “You will find comfort in your heart, milord,” 
he said, “in your love for Prince Legolas, and his for you.”

Elrond returned the embrace, then moved away, a silent smile thanking his 
old friend.  He stilled the voice of doubt that filled his mind with 
memories of Legolas’s bright smile, his clear blue gaze, his perfect golden 
skin.  Once abed, he let himself recall the all too short a time he had spent 
with the young prince.  He remembered their evenings across the game 
board from one another, their quiet walks among Imladris’s trees.  Most of 
all, though, he remembered the quiet moments they had spent in each 
other’s arms, passions sated for the moment, their bodies fitted together as 
two halves of one being.

“Come back to me,” he whispered into the darkness as he tumbled into his 
dreams.

-iii-

**Mirkwood.**

“These are my mother’s passion,” Legolas said.

“I’ve never seen such tiny trees,” Elrohir said.  He crossed the terrace to 
look more closely.

“They are not miniatures,” Legolas explained.  “If you took a seed from 
any of these, and planted it in the forest floor, it would grow to full size.  
They are merely stunted by the small pots.”

“The shapes are beautiful,” Elladan whispered, gently touching the dark 
needles of a fir tree, not even as tall as the length of his forearm.  The 
twins had set aside the long robes of Imladris for green leggings and silken 
tunics much like those worn in Mirkwood.  Except for their dark tresses, 
they seemed as any of the many Elves who populated the cavern palace 
and the surrounding villages.

Legolas pointed out the wire wrapped around the branches of a maple tree, 
just coming into leaf.  “See how she trains the branches? When they have 
grown strong, she will take away the wire.”

Elrohir stood back from the racks of potted trees, his eyes taking in the 
total arrangement, the variety of species, the differing shapes and colors.  
His gaze also strayed upon his brother, seeing for the first time in years the 
gentleness he knew to be in the deepest part of Elladan’s heart.  His twin’s 
heart, hardened by their mother’s fate, had softened, in part by the 
presence of Legolas in their lives.

The visitors from Imladris were shown every corner of the cave-palace, 
from the deepest storerooms to terraces that looked out over the expansive 
forest.  Everywhere they went they were viewed with suspicion, and the 
twins soon understood the depth of Thranduil ’s ill feelings toward their 
family.  

“We have few visitors here,” Legolas tried to explain.  “And even fewer 
*Noldorim*.”  The prince showed one of his favorite escapes from the 
palace, a watery path that exited the mountain under an iron portcullis.  
The day was warm enough to dry them quickly as they walked the paths 
that meandered through the  ‘wood.

Having lived all their lives in the substantial buildings of Imladris, with 
occasionally visits to the airy talans of Lothlórien, Elrohir and Elladan 
found the combination of cottages constructed on the forest floor and 
talans scattered among the branches of ancient trees a comfortable mix.

The blond prince led them away from the mountain of Thranduil’s palace, 
to the top of a gentle rise.  At the summit of the hill, an ancient oak grew, 
its trunk more than a fathom across.  Its gnarled bark afforded the sure-
footed Elves more than adequate footholds as they climbed aloft, not 
stopping until they gained the sturdy talan in its uppermost boughs.

Few branches overhung the talan, leaving it open to the sky.  They could 
see the craggy shoulders of the mountains of Mirkwood half a league to 
the northeast.  There were few items in the talan, unprotected as it was, but 
tightly closed chests held furs and cushions that softened the hard surface 
as they took their ease.

“This is an uncommon retreat,” Elladan observed.  A gentle breeze wafted 
through the foliage, and the songs of birds sweetened the air.

“This alone would draw me back,”  Elrohir added.

“My heart was once here,” Legolas mused, his gaze pulled to the west, 
past the forest and the mountains to an unseen valley leagues upon leagues 
away.  “But now there is nothing here for me.”

“We should not have worried...”

“...about your returning...”

“...and trusted in your feelings for Father.”

They remained in the treetops until the day dimmed to evening, then 
hurried back lest they miss the evening meal.

-iv-

**Imladris.**

Mornings were the worst time of day, Elrond mused as Anor rose above 
the eastern horizon.  He stood on his terrace, as was his habit, to greet the 
day, ending another long night alone.  Though the First Born did not need 
to sleep each night as the mortal peoples of Middle-earth did, the customs 
in Imladris mandated quiet during hours of darkness.  For centuries Elrond 
had spent his nights in silent contemplation and study, sleeping only when 
his body or mind required the deep rest of dreams.

He had found contentment in his life, finding satisfaction in the love of his 
children and affection of his people.  Now, though, contentment and 
satisfaction were no longer enough, as he had again tasted of true 
happiness and passion.  Legolas had opened Elrond’s heart, filling it with 
love, and in the prince’s absence, the Elf-lord’s arms ached with 
emptiness.

Routine became Elrond’s refuge.  He could lose himself in meditation as 
his footsteps took him unerringly from his rooms to his study, to the 
Healing Halls and the dining room.

That night he had dreamt of his first love, of the thousands of years he and 
Gil-galad had shared, and even the light of Anor could not drive the High-
king from his thoughts.  The bell for breakfast sounded, and the Elf-lord 
raised his head, startled at how distant it sounded.  He glanced around, 
instantly orienting himself.  The doorway he faced was the mirror image 
of his own, and he knew well what lay behind the long-untouched 
draperies.  He had not trod those corridors since Celebrían sailed west, not 
frequented these rooms since shortly after Arwen’ s birth.

All anticipation for breakfast evaporated as memories swirled though his 
mind.

“Come with me.”  It was mid-morning when Elrond swept into main room 
of the Library and spoke to his seneschal.  Without another word he turned 
and strode away, his steps taking him to the private wing that housed the 
family’s bedchambers.  Glorfindel hurried to keep up, but reached 
Elrond’s side only when the Elf-lord stopped at the long-unused entrance 
to Lady Celebrían’s suite.

Tenderly his fingers touched the dusty hanging that guarded his wife’s 
deserted rooms.  Once Glorfindel joined him, he thrust aside the tapestry 
and entered for the first time in centuries.

“Have these rooms cleared,” he ordered, looking about.  “Furnish them as 
they were...”  His voice faltered for a second, but he regained his 
composure.  “...before.”  Completing his command, he turned on his heel 
to leave, but stopped when his hand brushed the tapestry that covered the 
doorway.  “I think we can bring back the *doors*,” he said.  “Legolas is 
accustomed to more privacy than Elves of Lothlórien.”

Enlisting the assistance of Elrond’s young squire and half the staff of the 
House, Glorfindel moved the furniture and abandoned belongings of the 
former Lady of Imladris to an unused attic and stored them carefully.  The 
suite, a twin of Elrond’s own, was aired for the first time in a century and 
cleaned.

“I have long wondered,” Beren asked as they rehung a heavy wooden door 
in its frame, “why are all the doorways draped?  We have doors in my 
mother’s house.”

The seneschal took the bronze pin from the lad and slipped it into the 
waiting hinges.  Two blows with a wooden mallet drove the bolt home, 
and swung the door back and forth to test its swing.  Cringing at the loud 
squeak from the rubbing metal, he added oil to the hinges and tried again.  
This time the door swung silently, perfectly aligned with the latchplate.

Smiling at their success, Glorfindel tousled Beren’s dark hair.  “Lord 
Elrond’s wife,” he explained, his voice taking on a pedagogical tone, 
“came from the Golden Wood....”

“Yes, sir,” Beren piped up.  “We learned about Lady Celebrían in school.”

“In Lothlórien,” the older Elf continued, “they live in the trees, on 
platforms called *talans*.”   He paused while Beren nodded his 
understanding.  “The *talans* are not divided into rooms as buildings are, 
and the Lady was uncomfortable being closed in when she first came 
here.”

He lifted the next door to its hinges and extended his hand to the squire for 
the pin.  “To ease her mind, Lord Elrond ordered all the doors removed.  
In some rooms, even the window glass was removed so she would feel 
more at home here.”  He pounded home the bolts.  “I had wondered how 
long it would be before Lord Elrond restored the original design of his 
home.”

“Were these always the Lady’s rooms?”  Beren handed the next pin to 
Glorfindel.

“No.”  He drove home the pin and stepped back from the door.  He looked 
the squire up and down—the sprite was all legs and arms, it seemed.  His 
high cheekbones showed the promise of Elven beauty still years away.  
His dark hair hung loosely past his shoulders in tangles.  It would be 
another decade or more before he earned the braids of an adult.  “How old 
are you now, lad?”

“Thirty-three, milord,” he answered.  “You know that.”

“Yes, of course.”   Suddenly the ancient Elf-lord felt his mouth go dry.  
“So you are old enough to know...”  he cleared his throat, trying to find 
some ease to the discomfort that filled him.  “...about....”

“About what, milord?”

“The history of the Second Age.”

Beren tilted his head and looked quizzically at Glorfindel, then nodded.

“You know that Lord Elrond was Herald to the last High-king, Gil-galad.”

*Nod.*

He oiled the newly bolted hinges without testing the door for squeaks.  
“This was the High-king’s apartment—when he visited Imladris.”  He felt 
a blush rising in his cheeks.  In all his many years, he had never been 
required to explain such personal matters to a youngster, but this sprite 
had no father to instruct him, and was of an age to know the ways of the 
world.  Soon he would be old enough to train with the warriors, and 
ignorance would not protect his innocence in the barracks or taverns.

“They *were* lovers, then,” Beren said under his breath.

“Where did you hear that?”  Th