Title:  Seasons of the Heart
Author:  Emma Keigh
E-mail:  emmakeigh@ithilas.com
Rating:  NC-17 (m/m sex, impaired-consent sex)
Characters:  Elrond, Legolas, Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen, 
Thranduil, Celebrían, Gil-galad, and numerous original characters and 
horses.
Pairings:  Elrond/Legolas, Elladan/Legolas, Elrond/Gil-galad (flashback)
Category:  First time, hurt/comfort (a little)
Status:  New (part of Chapter 14 was originally posted as “Morning”)
Date:  7 October 2002
Archive:  Where posted (including Library of Moria); elsewhere please 
ask first
Series:  Well, I can’t promise anything, but….
Website:  http://www.ithilas.com/chezemma
Summary:  Legolas leaves home and finds shelter through the winter in 
Imladris.

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 impaired-consent sex.  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.

Notes: Following final chapter.


SEASONS OF THE HEART
An Elrond/Legolas story
By Emma Keigh

PROLOGUE

Mirkwood, Late Summer, Year 2673 of the Third Age.

“…No son of mine!” King Thranduil shouted, interrupted by his youngest 
son’s rejoinder.

“Then I am no son of yours.”  The young elf’s voice was low and intense.  
He held his father’s gaze for a moment more, then turned on his heel and 
left the audience chamber.  Within the hour, Prince Legolas rode away 
from the only home he had ever known, the few things that truly mattered 
to him packed on his saddle.  His bow, arrow quiver, and fighting knives 
were strapped in place, and once through the stone doors he never looked 
back.

***

from the journal of Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood:

Today I will count as Day 1, and henceforth I will mark it as my nautha-
edinor — my beginning day.  For today I am both born anew and truly 
come of age.  Today I have left my father’s home, not at his bidding, but at 
that of  my own heart.  I have left the prison he has built for himself and 
his children.  Never again will I dwell beneath the ground, but under the 
sky, as Elven folk are meant to live.  Never will I allow myself to be treated 
as livestock, to be sent to stand stud for some friendly broodmare.  I told 
my father I was no longer his son, and already I regret that outburst.  
Thranduil will forever be my sire, but until he grants me the merest 
respect he gives a servant, I will not call myself a Prince of Mirkwood.



He rode west through Mirkwood, keeping to the Old Forest Road, for he 
knew other elves lived beyond the woods, beyond the mountains, even 
beyond the sea — elves who did not hoard gold and treasures as Thranduil 
did, elves who did not bury themselves and their children in caves hewn 
from the mountains themselves, elves who did not force their children into 
undesired marriages.

Riding by day, he stopped at nightfall to eat and rest, and by the light of 
his cooking fire he wrote each night in his journal of the things he had 
seen, and of his feelings and thoughts.  Each morning found him refreshed 
and anxious to be underway, for as long as he was in Mirkwood he was 
under his father’s jurisdiction, a condition he devoutly wished to 
terminate.  He could have been gone from the woods in a few days’ time, 
if he’d been willing to ride Celanor close to death, but the elf-prince had 
bred this stallion himself, and its sire before, and as much as he wished to 
be away from his father, Legolas could do no harm to the horse.  Fair of 
coat and mane, the horse was a match for the elven prince, whose long 
hair was the color of corn silk in the summer.

Twice he thought he heard orcs in the night, but as long as his fire burned 
brightly until dawn, he was safe from the marauding bands that infested 
parts of the wood.  To be sure, no orc had shown his hideous face this far 
north in over a century, but it was still good to be wary.

When finally they reached the western edge of Mirkwood, Legolas bade 
the horse continue west, across the valley of the fast-flowing Anduin.  
Across the stout stone bridge, the floor of the valley rose to meet the 
towering peaks of the Hithaeglir — the Misty Mountains.

At the foot of the bridge, he pulled up and stopped.  Rising in his stirrups, 
he turned and looked back toward the forest.  Even with his sharp elvish 
sight, he could only see the dark smudge on the horizon that was the 
thickly growing trees of his childhood home.  He reached over his 
shoulder first for his bow, then for an arrow.  Fitting shaft to string, he 
bent the bow and sighted to the distant forest.  Then he closed his eyes, 
committing to memory his last view of home, and let loose the arrow.

It would come to rest somewhere in the sod of the valley floor, for even an 
elvish bow could not throw an arrow twenty leagues or more.  “I leave a 
part of myself here,” he said aloud, “so that I may someday find my way 
to return.”  He hung his bow on his back, took up the reins again, and with 
a tickle of his heels to the horse’s ribs, crossed the mighty River Anduin.

***

from the journal of Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood:

I crossed the River Anduin today.  I have never felt so separate, so alone.  
I have not met another on my journey, and have only Celanor to talk to.  
He has heard my stories and songs for a fortnight now, and our journey 
has only begun.  The mountains loom above me, the road winding through 
and over them.  It is west I go, seeking I know not what.



He camped at the base of the mountains that night, having climbed 
steadily from the bridge.  From here the journey would be more difficult, 
and with autumn and winter ahead, even dangerous.  Tales he’d heard told 
him it would take a full turning of the moon to cross the mountains, and 
that in good weather.  The road rose ahead of him, winding around the 
hills gathered at the mountains’ feet.  Rather than the beeches and oaks of 
Mirkwood, the hillsides were covered with pines and firs, and as he 
continued climbing, with quivering-leafed aspens.  Though autumn had 
just begun, the trees still stood green, but Legolas knew the first hard frost 
would turn the fluttering leaves to gold.  Three days before he reached the 
first of the passes, still low on the mountain, he awoke to a steely cold, and 
before the day was out, he clutched his cloak close about himself, hoping 
for more shelter than the bedroll and small tent he had packed.

Fat flakes of the first snow swirled around him as the day darkened before 
dusk.



CHAPTER ONE

The western slope of the Misty Mountains, five weeks later.

Winter had arrived weeks earlier than expected, and with a vengeance.  
The calendar still claimed it was autumn, but snow already lay thickly in 
the high passes of the Misty Mountains.  What had been the Great Forest 
Road had become little more than a beaten path, climbing through the 
High Pass, wide enough for two horses only if their riders were knee to 
knee.  There was little shelter this high in the mountains, and no trees 
grew, only low, sprawling shrubs and spindly-stemmed wildflowers, 
though all was covered in white.  The snow was hip-deep in places, 
mounded higher against boulders and the larger bushes.

A smaller, less-used path led across the face of the mountain, winding 
around the shoulders of the up-thrust earth, joining with the road, then 
parting again to lead into the wilderness.  Along this path two riders 
trudged in single file, their matched horses high-stepping in the drifted 
snow.  When they turned onto the road, they drew abreast of each other 
and continued west, on down the mountain, heading toward home.

The riders were as perfectly matched as their mounts.  Identical pairs of 
grey eyes peered out from under the hoods of their cloaks.  Each rider was 
armed with a bow and arrows, and each horse was burdened with a pack 
wrapped in oiled cloth.  The twin sons of Elrond were distinguishable only 
by the pair of javelins tucked under the younger’s knee.  The bright 
sunlight on the snow forced them to keep their sharp-sighted eyes hooded, 
and it wasn’t until Elrohir’s mount whinnied that they saw Legolas’s 
golden horse half-covered by the drifting snow.

As one they spurred their horses, leaping from their saddles as soon as 
they were near.  Elladan knelt at the horse’s head and put a hand to the 
arching neck.  “He lives.”

The other twin scooped the wet snow away from the icy flanks, heedless 
of the cold to his own hands.  To Elrohir’s surprise, they uncovered a 
green-sleeved arm draped across the strong withers.  Immediately, and 
without a word between them, the elven brothers shifted the snow away 
from the lifeless form of another elf.

The fair skin was white with the cold, the lips and eyelids blue-grey.  Ice 
crystals sparkled in his dark lashes and brows, and a frosty rime spread 
across his cheekbones.  “He is gone,” lamented the younger brother, 
seeing no movement of breath in the body.

“No,” Elladan corrected him, his fingers firmly pressed against the cold 
neck.  “His heart beats.”  Working together they were able to lift the 
stranger, leaning him over Elladan’s saddle.  They pulled a blanket from 
the pack and tucked it around the nearly frozen elf.  Vaulting into the 
saddle, Elladan drew the cold body close to his own, holding firmly with 
both arms.

Elrohir looped the reins loosely over the pommel and slapped the chestnut 
stallion’s hindquarters.  “Hasten home, brother.  I fear Father alone can 
keep this one from Mandos’s Halls.  I shall be right behind you.”  He 
watched as his brother’s horse leapt through the snow, quickly taking the 
doubled burden out of sight.

When he returned to the downed horse’s side, he was pleased to see the 
noble head held high.  Elrohir took hold of the reins and tugged, 
encouraging the horse to struggle to his feet.  He sized up the stallion, his 
trained eyes appreciating the signs of good breeding and care, but seeing 
also the stresses the beast had endured.  A low whistle brought his own 
horse to his side, and he draped his blanket over the finely tooled saddle, 
bringing the ends around to the horse’s chest, fastening them with a sturdy 
knot.

“Come, my new friend,” he said, stroking the soft nose.  “We shall follow 
your master and find warmth for ourselves.”

Riding alone, Elrohir soon caught up with his brother, and they continued 
down the mountain toward their home and aid for the storm’s victim.  
They pushed on through the day, their goal to get below the snow before 
stopping.  A few bites of dried meat, chewed in silence from horseback, 
sufficed for their midday meal.  The sun was low in the western sky when 
they reached the edge of the snowfall, and it was past sunset when they 
found a suitably sheltered spot to stop for the night.  The twin elves could 
have kept on, but the horses needed rest, not to mention the still 
unconscious elf they’d found on the mountain.

“How is he?” Elrohir asked, standing next to his brother’s horse, ready to 
ease the stranger to the ground.

“He’s still cold to touch,” Elladan answered.  “He’s alive, but… What’s 
the word Father uses?”

“Comatose?” the younger twin offered, grunting as he took the elf’s full 
weight in his arms.  He held the lithe form, still wrapped in Elladan’s 
blanket, close to his own body, until Elladan swung one leg over the 
horse’s back and jumped to the ground.  Together they carried Legolas 
away from the road, and laid the still form gently on the ground.  “Would 
that we had a flask of miruvor — that would revive him.”

“He’ll be safe alone for a few moments,” Elladan said.  You see to the 
horses and I’ll start a fire.  They busied themselves, setting up the barest 
minimum of a camp and looking after their horses.

Elrohir unsaddled all three horses and rubbed them down, then led them to 
the stream that tumbled down the mountain alongside the road.  The 
horses drank deeply, and the elf filled the empty waterskins with the fresh, 
ice-cold water.  The stream was too fast-moving and shallow for fish, but 
a brace of coneys had not been able to escape his keen sight and quick 
bow that afternoon, and would feed the three of them.

Hobbling the horses where they could graze, Elrohir took the water and 
the dressed coneys to the fire Elladan had built.  “I’ve kept the fire small, 
brother,” the older twin explained.  “Most of the wood is too wet burn.”

“As long as it’s large enough to roast these.”  Elrohir spitted the coneys on 
a straight stick, and with a few rocks to support it, set the spit above the 
fire and put a pot of water to heat for tea.  Silently he regarded the fair-
haired elf.  “Who is he?” he wondered aloud.  “We know so few from 
Mirkwood — they seldom brave the mountains.”

Elladan shook his head, looking at the strange elf before speaking.  “I 
know not his face, though it is fair to look upon.  There was no device that 
I could see on his clothing.”  His gaze lingered on the golden hair, the fine 
features, the lithe body.

“Nor on his baggage,” added Elrohir, “though I’ve not seen a horse the 
like of his in many years.”  The flaxen-maned horse tossed his head, and 
Elrohir caught a glimpse of a dark spot high on the neck.  Quickly moving 
to the horse’s side, he brushed aside the long mane.  “I know this mark,” 
he said, “and it’s not one Father will look on with favor.”

“Oh?”  Elladan turned the spit, then rose and made his way to the horse.  
“The mark of the King of Mirkwood,” he said under his breath.  “No, 
Father will not be happy about that.”

The night grew darker around them, and they returned to the fireside.  
Once the sun was gone, the night became cold quickly, and they wrapped 
themselves in their cloaks and laid another blanket over Legolas.  The tea 
was brewed before the meat was cooked through, and Elrohir, who knew 
more of their father’s healing ways, held Legolas’s head so he could drip 
sips of tea into the slack mouth.  He kept at it, a sip at a time, until a whole 
cup had been swallowed.  “That should help warm him.”

The moon was high by the time they had eaten their fill of the meat and set 
the remainder to smoke overnight.  The bones steeped in the pot near the 
edge of the fire, making a rich broth for morning.  They spoke little; when 
alone together the twin sons of Elrond Peredhil often sat silently, and it 
was believed they communicated on another level, one that only two parts 
of the same soul could reach.  As one they rose, and Elladan banked the 
fire while Elrohir checked the horses.  The night was cold, so they made 
their beds on either side of Legolas and took their rest with him cuddled 
between them, conserving the warmth of their bodies the night through.

It was noontime when the twin princes of Imladris rode across the river 
into their home, Elladan still holding Legolas close to himself on his 
saddle bow.  The Mirkwood elf had awakened enough to mumble his 
needs that morning, and the brothers had helped him stand to relieve 
himself, but he slept again as soon as he lay down.  They managed to 
spoon some broth between his lips, and sleepily he mounted Elladan’s 
horse, immediately falling to sleep once more against the dark-haired elf’s 
shoulder.

***

Imladris (called Rivendell).

Though termed a house by its master, the home of Elrond was nothing if 
not a palace.  Built above and along the River Bruinen, its many levels 
were connected by graceful walkways, their soaring arches beckoning the 
twins home.  Though it was a building, wrought by elven hands, it had the 
feeling of having grown in its place, so perfectly set it was between the 
rushing water and the rocky prominences that made the steep walls of the 
valley.  Nestled against, even into, the rock, bordered by the water, it was 
defensible or protected from all sides, though it had long been peaceful in 
the valley.

No one could approach Elrond’s home, his palace, his sanctuary, without 
being seen by the ever-present but invisible sentries.  With their far-seeing 
eyes, the lookouts had spied the returning sons of Elrond when they were 
still an hour’s ride away, and relayed word of their return, and of their 
companion, from post to post until it reached the ears of Glorfindel, the 
seneschal of Imladris.

Long devoted to Elrond and his family, Glorfindel alone in Middle-earth 
had ever returned from Mandos’s Halls.  He had known Elrond’s family 
before the end of the First Age, served the High King Gil-galad with him 
in the Second Age, and had administered the household at Imladris 
through the Third Age, teaching Elrond’s children in their turn.  His 
unceasing labor and sage advice allowed Elrond to be both Master of the 
elven sanctuary at Imladris and Master Healer.

Elrond was content with the title of Lord, or Master of Imladris, or his 
favorite appellation of all, Father, though in reality he was all but a king, 
and his children Princes and Princess of their people, both here in 
Rivendell and in their mother’s home, Lothlórien.  The quiet-spoken elf 
lord sat alone in his study, surrounded by reports of readiness for the 
winter ahead.  There had been a good harvest this year, and hay for the 
livestock was in well before the rains began.  This early snow on the 
mountain would drive game into the lower reaches of the mountains, more 
easily accessible by the sharp-shooting hunters.  There would be fresh 
meat long into the winter, and hides for the tannery next spring.  The cold 
snap would harden off the last of the apples still in the trees, and he made 
a note to have youngsters sent into the orchards to collect the last of the 
crop.

Smiling, he set aside the pile of parchments when Glorfindel entered.  
“My pardon, Lord,” the seneschal said.

“Oh, you are not interrupting, my old friend,” Elrond replied.  “All seems 
to be prepared for the winter.  All that is left is to mull the wine and sit by 
the fire until Spring.”

“I have word that Elladan and Elrohir return,” the seneschal reported.  
“They bring another with them, an elf with flaxen hair.”

“Ah, from ’Lórien, then?”

“I think not.  The sentries cannot see his garb, for he is wrapped in a 
blanket and carried by Elladan.  Elrohir leads a riderless horse.”

“He is hurt?”  Elrond rose to his feet and strode purposefully to the 
balcony.  He shaded his eyes from the sun, and gazed toward the ford.  “I 
see them,” he said after a moment, then turned away.  “I’ll meet them 
below — bring the medicine chest.”  Without another word the Lord of 
Imladris, heir of the last High-King of the Noldor, made his way to the 
stable yard to see to his newest guest.


CHAPTER TWO

Guest Quarters, three days later.

He was dreaming.  Floating in a cloud, he dreamed he was warm, warm 
for the first time in a very long time.  He knew he should open his eyes 
and awaken, but the dream of warmth was so very seductive that he drifted 
back into the timeless sleep without even opening his eyes.

The next time his consciousness rose from the herb-aided, healing sleep, 
Legolas was greeted with the smoky aroma of cured meat, and he breathed 
deeply, smiling as his eyes fluttered open.  He was abed in a large, open 
room filled with the cool light of morning.  A wide doorway, its draperies 
swagged aside, led to a terrace, beyond which the soaring mountains 
blocked the sky.  Unglazed windows were undraped, and tapestries 
covered what he presumed to be other doorways.  From outdoors he could 
hear the restful sounds of flowing water, and the melodious calls of birds 
he did not recognize.

There was something about the high ceilings, and the open doorways that 
made him comfortable, made him feel as though he belonged in this 
strange place.  A chamber like this would never have existed in his 
childhood home, he thought.  Hollowed into the mountain itself, his small 
room had been lit with candles, the stone walls ornamented only by bas 
relief carvings of ages past, times even before the coming of men to 
Middle Earth.

“Welcome.”  He heard a voice from nearby.  It was a strong voice, but 
gentle, and Legolas found the sound of it soothing.  Turning his head, the 
blue eyes beheld a tall, slender elf.  His shirt was heavily embroidered and 
buttoned to a high collar, and a dark grey robe was draped over his 
shoulders.  Dark hair was pulled back from his brow, his forelocks loosely 
braided to hang in front of his elegantly pointed ears.  With both hands he 
held a tray bearing a stemmed goblet and a dome-covered plate.  “Do you 
feel up to a meal?” he continued.

The thought of eating brought a pang of hunger stabbing through his belly, 
and Legolas quickly answered, “Oh, yes, my lord.  I am as empty as a 
spring wine barrel in autumn.”  He didn’t take his eyes from his host as the 
tray was set on a table near the bed.  “But if you would tell me, sir,” he 
went on.  “Where might I be?”

Laughter like bells ringing filled the room.  “Of course.  My apologies.  
You are in Imladris — that some call Rivendell.”

“And you…”

“I am Elrond, its master.”

Trusting in the years of training at his father’s court, Legolas was 
confident his face showed nothing of the shock he felt.  He pushed himself 
up to sit against the carved headboard of the bed, turning his head away as 
he adjusted the pillows.

He knew the name of the master of Imladris; it had been spoken over and 
over again in the halls of Thranduil.  “The mighty Lord Elrond,” 
Mirkwood’s king would sneer.  “Herald of the High-King Gil-galad.  
Leader of the host of Noldor.”  Without fail, Thranduil spat at this point in 
his rant.  “Led the army of elves to the gates of Mordor, only to be 
destroyed.  He should have fallen into the cracks of Doom himself.”

“I am called Lasarbar,” Legolas responded once he was sitting 
comfortably, the lie coming easily to his lips.  Having disavowed his 
family, he had chosen his alias before he was out of sight of his forest 
home.  “I was once of Mirkwood,” he went on, truthfully now, as the 
clothing he had worn manifested his origins.  His shifting in the bed had 
left the covers heaped about his hips, and his chest and arms revealed.

Elves as a rule were not shy about their bodies, though they preferred to 
go clothed.  Without warning, a wave of modesty washed over him, and he 
pulled the coverlet to his shoulders.  A blush started low on his body and 
spread to his chest, his throat, his face.  As much as Legolas wanted to 
hide his embarrassment from Elrond, he couldn’t take his eyes from the 
older elf.  He watched how Elrond moved, graceful as all their kind, but 
with an aura of serenity he had never sensed before.

“But now?” Elrond asked as he uncovered breakfast.  His words brought 
Legolas out of his reverie.

“Now I have no home.”  The words came from his mouth easily enough, 
but the thought of his last confrontation with this father gripped his heart 
and the breath caught in his chest.

“I will not pry, Lasarbar.  Obviously it pains you to think of your home.”  
He draped a snow-white linen napkin over Legolas’s chest and moved the 
tray to his lap.  “You are welcome here at Imladris, young one,” Lord 
Elrond announced, “as though you were one of our own.”

***

from the report of Lord Aethlon, agent of Imladris at the court of 
Mirkwood  
(sent by messenger bird):

There has been a falling out among the King’s family.  Thranduil and his 
youngest son argued at length.  Prince Legolas left the palace, and, I am 
told, Mirkwood itself.  I have written you about this young prince before; 
he is both the fairest of face and the keenest of mind of all Thranduil’s 
children, indeed, one of the fairest of our folk I have ever seen.  Golden-
haired, as are most of the children of Oropher, his eyes are the blue of 
sapphires.  He is an archer of great repute in this kingdom, and he alone 
at this court has bested me at the Battle Game.



The Library of Imladris.

Glorfindel had been working for hours. He stretched his fingers, stopping 
the threatening cramp before it could take hold of his tired hand.  Just as 
he laid down his pen and recapped the inkwell, Elrond breezed into the 
library, his robes flaring behind him.  “And how is our guest today?” the 
seneschal asked, rising from the work table.

Elrond went directly to a round table between two upholstered reading 
chairs.  The tabletop was cluttered with an unlit candelabrum, a decanter 
of wine and a pair of goblets.  He poured for the both of them and turned, 
holding one silver goblet toward Glorfindel.  “Here, my friend.  Join me.”

A glance out the window reassured Glorfindel it was still before noon.  
“The tea is still warm,” he said, taking the proffered goblet.  “Is it not 
early for wine?”

“I have had my tea.”  He touched the rim of his cup to Glorfindel’s, then 
drank the wine down in one draught, then poured another.

Sipping at his own wine, Glorfindel looked closely at his old friend.  They 
had known each other for millennia, and seldom had that expression 
crossed Elrond’s face.  “There is a light in your eyes, my lord, that I 
haven’t seen of late.”  He considered recent events and went on.  “I take it 
our guest is awake?”

“Yes.  He is.”  A smile broke his face.

Although Elrond said nothing more, Glorfindel heard the rest of his 
friend’s thoughts clearly in his mind.  He sent his own thoughts — 
Glorious, indeed — and a pained expression back to Elrond, then turned to 
shuffle through the documents on the writing table.  “You’d better read 
this,” he said, speaking aloud once more as he handed a parchment to 
Elrond.

The thin page had been folded many times to make a small packet, 
recognizable as being from one of the many agents scattered throughout 
Middle Earth who reported to the Lord of Imladris from time to time.  
Both Elrond and Glorfindel knew that there were similar agents at the 
sanctuary; part of the game of politics.

“It’s from Aethlon,” Glorfindel commented as the packet was opened.

“In Mirkwood?”  The dark-haired elf raised an eyebrow.  “Our guest is 
from Mirkwood.”  He turned toward the window to better read the small 
letters of Aethlon’s writing.

The seneschal watched as his lord read through the entire report, then one 
paragraph again, sipping the wine as he read.  Elrond dropped the hand 
holding the message to his side, and turned back to his aide.  “And you 
think our guest is Legolas Thranduilion?  He told me he was called 
Lasarbar.”  He looked again at the report as he walked back to the wine 
table and poured another draught.  “He said he has no home.”

Taking the report from Elrond, Glorfindel replaced it on the writing desk, 
but held his tongue.

For a long moment the only sound in the library was the soft susurration of 
the river rushing far away.  Time seemed to stand still while Elrond stared 
through the window at nothing.  Finally, he sighed deeply, then drained 
the entire goblet of wine at once.  “I do find him fair,” he whispered.  “Oh, 
so very fair.”

***

Guest Quarters, later that day.

When next Legolas awoke, Elrond was gone.  An elf sat at his bedside, her 
hands busy with embroidery.  When he stirred, she looked up and lay her 
handwork aside.  “Master Elrond asked that I sit with you, so you would 
not awaken alone.”  She stepped to his side, and touched her fingers to his 
forehead, and to his wrist.

She was dressed much has Elrond had been, but wore a simple gown 
beneath her plain grey robe.  Embroidery patterned her bodice, and the 
hem of her skirt, but with plain threads, not the silken and metallic 
needlework that had decorated the Master’s garb.  Her hair was brown, 
with small braids on either side of her brow pulled back into a single plait 
that reached to the floor.  Her grey eyes were large and luminous, and her 
smile was as warm as her touch.

“I am Anuviël,” she explained.  “Apprenticed to Master Elrond to become 
a healer.”  She put a hand to his shoulder.  “Now be still.”

“Did you help to heal me?” he asked with a coy smile and wink.

“If spooning broth between your lips and wiping your chin helped, then 
yes, I did.”  She plumped the pillows beneath his head.  “But in truth, I 
only follow Lord Elrond’s instructions, and assist where I am needed.”

“And I need assistance?” he asked.  He did not feel ill, in fact, he felt a 
pressing urge to be out of the bed, and was accustomed to privacy when 
seeing to his personal needs.

“Your strength may be long in returning,” she replied.  “You were nearly 
frozen on the mountainside.”

“Is there a robe I may don? Or shall I ask you to avert your eyes while I 
rush to the loo in my skin alone?”  Although Anuviël reminded him of his 
younger sister Tatharië, with whom he had often swum and played in the 
falls and river pools at home, he was not inclined to expose himself to her.

She blushed, and held a dressing gown to him.  “Please, tempt me not.”

He slipped his arms into the folds of the robe and gathered it about 
himself.

“Lady Anuviël,” he called from within the smaller room moments later, 
his immediate needs met.  “Am I allowed to bathe?”  He had been washed, 
it was apparent, but it had been many weeks since he had been able to 
soak in hot water, and the deep tub called to him.

“Yes,” she replied.  “Do you need assistance?”

“I do not know the ways of this household,” he admitted.  “Would you call 
for hot water?”

She smiled.  “There is a cistern filled by a hot spring on the hill above.  
We seldom have to carry water here at Imladris.”  She pushed past him 
through the door way and demonstrated the use of the water taps.  “Shall I 
stay and wash your back?” she teased.

“I have been bathing myself for well over a century, milady.  I believe I 
can manage.”  He pulled the tapestry aside and she returned to the sleeping 
chamber.

“I shall remain here, then,” she stated, returning to her chair and her 
needlework.  “We know not how fully you have recovered your strength.”

The hot bath was all Legolas expected and more.  The luxury of hot and 
cold piped-in water had never been afforded in the cave-palace of 
Mirkwood’s king, and so was new to the exiled prince.  Along with the 
running water, there was a selection of fragrant oils and bath salts for him 
to choose from, and a stack of soft, fluffy towels.  He slipped the robe over 
his shoulders and toweled his hair, his vigorous strokes quickly fading 
with fatigue.  Never before had he been ill or injured, and the needs of 
recuperation were new to him.

He sat on the rim of the tub for a moment to collect himself, then made his 
way back to the welcoming bed.  Before he could settle himself among the 
pillows, Anuviël was at hand, her concern evident on her face.  Pulling the 
robe from his shoulders, he snuggled into the softness and was asleep 
immediately.

“Too much too soon, Lasarbar, and you’ll be abed for days more,” she 
clucked as she tucked the comforter around him and folded the robe at his 
feet.

Legolas again dreamed of the cold, but this time he was wrapped in a 
warm cloak, held in strong arms before a roaring fire.  He could not see 
whose arms held him, but he knew that for the first time since leaving his 
father’s caverns he felt at home.


CHAPTER THREE

Elrond’s study, later that afternoon.

The swish of robes against the floor brought Elrond’s head up from his 
reading.  “Come in, my sons.”  He noticed their garb; plain robes thrown 
hastily over riding clothes, only their heavy boots replaced with soft 
leather slippers suitable for indoor wear.  “Good hunting today?”

“Yes, Father,” Elrohir answered first, bending to kiss his father’s cheek.  
“There’ll be fresh meat tonight, and more to smoke for later.”

“This winter will not see our people hungry,” Elladan added after greeting 
their father in the same manner.

Elrohir poured two goblets of wine and handed one to his brother.  “You 
left word for us to see you as soon as we returned.”  He picked at the 
soiled clothing he wore.  “I trust we do not…”

“…offend,” finished Elladan.  The twins often finished each other’s 
sentences, a trait to which Elrond had long become accustomed.

A brief recollection of finishing his own twin brother’s thoughts crossed 
his mind, memories from thousands of years past.  “Not at all,” he 
reassured his sons, and bade them sit down with a gesture.  “Tell me again 
about your finding our guest.”  He put aside the book he had been trying 
unsuccessfully to read, his mind more on the fair-haired elf resting in the 
guest quarters.  He carefully veiled his thoughts, not wishing to subject his 
sons to the wanton images that swept though his mind.

“Is he better?” Elladan asked, quickly leaning forward.  “Will he 
recover?”

Elrond smiled at his son’s concern.  He didn’t have to hear the thoughts to 
sense the feelings Elladan had for their guest.  “Yes, he will recover, and 
he is awake.”

The younger twin responded to their father’s question.  “We saw only his 
horse at first, then uncovered him.”

“We wrapped him in a blanket and started for home immediately,” Elladan 
continued.

“Was there anything that would indicate who he is, or where — exactly — 
he came from?

“We saw the mark of Mirkwood’s king on the horse, but nothing more.”

“He never spoke, even when he awoke.”

Elrond saw an intensity in his elder son’s eyes that spoke of more concern 
than common courtesy required.  “He awoke before you reached home?”

“Yes, Father,” Elladan replied.  “I thought I mentioned it.”  He drank from 
his cup before continuing.  “When we arose in the morning, his eyes were 
open, though he didn’t speak.”

Elrohir took his turn in the narrative.  “He walked where we led him, and 
relieved himself…”

“…and drank some broth,” Elladan finished.  “But he was asleep again as 
soon as we got underway.”

“You said he was awake, Father.  Has he told you who he is?”

“He says he is called Lasarbar, but I do not believe that is his true name.”

“What parent would call a child a homeless leaf?” the elder twin mused, a 
puzzled look on his face.

“That’s why I doubt him.”  He didn’t mention the report from Mirkwood 
that made him suspect their guest was none other than the youngest son of 
his greatest rival.  “I will allow him any name he chooses to use.  Now, off 
with you both.  You’ll not be allowed at table until you are more 
presentable.”

The twins laughed harmoniously at their father’s jibe.  “And our guest?” 
Elladan asked.  “Will he be able to join us?”

“Perhaps,” the master healer answered.  “If he is strong enough, he may.”

***

Elrond was pleased with the progress his patient had made, impressed that 
he had been able to bathe himself without assistance.  He collected a basic 
wardrobe of Imladris livery, and offered it to Lasarbar.  “Your clothing 
has been cleaned, but I thought you might prefer to dress as we do, and to 
join me and my family for our evening meal.”

Sitting up in the bed, his bare chest and arms exposed, the fair-haired elf 
smiled at his host.  “Thank you, Lord Elrond.  I would.”

“My sons are anxious about your recovery.  It was they who found you.”  
He laid the garments on the foot of the bed in the reverse order they would 
be donned.

A faint blush colored Legolas’s face and chest.  “I’m afraid I have no 
memory of my rescue.  I am deeply indebted to them.”  He pulled the 
dressing gown he’d worn before over his shoulders, slid his feet to the 
floor and sat on the edge of the bed.

“There is no debt, Lasarbar.  Elladan and Elrohir did their duty.  I would 
have expected no less of them.”  His voice was stern, and Legolas heard 
the pride Elrond had in his sons, an emotion his own father seemed to 
lack.

A strong hand cupped his elbow as he rose from the bedside, 
accompanying him as he crossed the room.  “What an honored guest I 
am,” Legolas quipped.  “To have the Lord of Imladris himself as my 
valet.”

“I would not have you grow faint and fall.”

Legolas turned his head to look at Elrond, and found the steel-grey eyes 
crinkled in a smile.  He felt himself drawn into them, and for a long 
moment they stood and looked into one another’s eyes.  He couldn’t 
speak, for there was a lump in his throat that swallowing would not ease.  
Elrond’s hand still touched the younger elf’s arm, and Legolas felt an urge 
to step even closer, into his embrace, but his upbringing stopped him, 
reminding him how inappropriate such an embrace would be.  He yearned 
to know, though, what those arms would feel like holding him, what those 
lips would taste like kissing him.  He felt a blush, stronger than before, 
rising from his chest to this face, but he didn’t look away.  He couldn’t 
look away from Elrond’s eyes.

It was the elf-lord who broke the spell by averting his eyes and clearing 
his throat.  “The — the garments may be unfamiliar to you.”  The slight 
stutter betrayed Elrond’s indisposition.  “I would be happy to assist you.”

Perfect white teeth caught on the fair elf’s lower lip for a moment, then the 
dark-lashed eyelids lowered briefly over the cerulean eyes.  “I would be 
honored, my lord,” he said.  “I feel guilty, though, to take you from more 
important matters.”

“My work as a Healer is always of primary importance.” Elrond replied.  
He drew breath to speak more, but stopped without uttering another word.

Exuberant voices interrupted from the room’s entrance, and the twin sons 
of Elrond swept into the room.  Though they were not clothed identically, 
Legolas found it impossible to tell one from the other.  Their grey robes 
were of the same fabric, but one was more elaborately embroidered, the 
other with only a simple interlaced border around the hem and sleeves, 
and the shirt beneath the robes was simpler as well than his brother’s.

“Forgive our intrusion, Father,” Elrohir began.  “But my brother here,” he 
gestured broadly to his elder brother, “insisted we see how our guest is 
progressing.”

“Lasarbar,” Elrond said formally.  “May I present my sons,  Elladan and 
Elrohir.  Do not worry if you cannot tell one from the other,” he confided.  
“I sometimes find that difficult still.”  He inclined his head to Legolas.  
“This is Lasarbar of Mirkwood.”

One after the other the twins grasped Legolas’s arm in greeting, Elrohir 
slapping him on the left shoulder and Elladan pulling him into a brief 
embrace.  Looking from one to the other, Legolas tried to discern any 
differences in their appearance.  Seeing none, he committed to memory 
the differences in their garb, determined to know who was who.

“I am told I owe the two of you my life,” he began.  “I am forever in your 
debt.”  He glanced at Elrond, for though the elf-lord had said there was no 
obligation to be met, courtesy demanded he say the words, just as it 
demanded the twins’ response.

Elrohir replied, “There is no debt…”

“… to be paid,” Elladan completed.  His grey eyes, so like his father’s, 
caught Legolas’s gaze and held it.  Slowly a smile brightened his face as 
he continued to gaze into the azure eyes.

After too long a moment, Legolas lowered his eyes and inclined his head 
in a polite obeisance.  “Then you have my boundless gratitude.”  He 
purposely looked at Elrohir, and saw in his eyes none of the intensity of 
Elladan’s gaze.  Then, in relief, he turned back to see his host, a concerned 
look upon his face.  Elrond smiled when their eyes met, and Legolas 
basked in the warmth he felt.

“Now off with the two of you,” Elrond commanded.  “You both have 
duties before the evening meal, and our guest must ready himself if he is 
to join us.”  Both sons acknowledged their father’s order.

“We shall see you…” Elrohir paused, expecting his brother to finish.  
“…at table, then, Lasarbar,” he said, completing his own sentence.  Elrohir 
stared at his older brother, a curious look on his face, then shrugged and 
approached the doorway.  “Elladan?” he called from the threshold.  “Are 
you coming?”

His brother’s call startled the older twin, and he pulled his eyes from 
Legolas and followed Elrohir, looking back as he passed through the 
heavily-draped doorway.

“You seem to have caught Elladan’s eye,” Elrond observed.  “I hope that 
does not distress you.”

“No, indeed not.”  The blue eyes watched after the twin elves for a long 
moment, then returned to Elrond’s grey eyes, still watching him.  How can 
I have feelings for the son when it is the father I desire?  He guarded his 
thoughts carefully, not wishing the powerful elf-lord to be privy to his 
feelings, at least not yet.

***

Later, after the evening meal.

Glad for the efficiency of his household staff that left the halls deserted at 
this time of night, Elrond made his way blindly from the guest quarters to 
his own chambers.  Lasarbar — Legolas, he reminded himself, if that was 
his true name — was safely tucked into bed, an apprentice alert in the 
anteroom.  The meal, however informal, had tired Legolas more than 
Elrond had liked, and he insisted the young elf retire immediately after 
eating.  It was difficult leaving the beautiful elf alone when images of the 
golden body in his arms, in his bed, in his life, teased his mind.

He shrugged his robes from his shoulders, letting the embroidered 
velveteen fall to the floor, soon to be joined by the silk and twill of his 
tunic and kirtle as he let routine guide his hands to shed his clothes.  Cool 
water splashed in his face did little to restore his equilibrium, and his 
hands shook as he buttoned the small, pearl buttons of his nightshirt.

His mind wandered again to thoughts of the current inhabitant of the guest 
quarters, and closing his eyes, he saw flaxen hair and golden skin, the 
perfect body of the young elf.  Finally loosed from the tight control he’d 
held all evening, his body responded, the immediate swelling in his groin 
proving what he’d tried to deny, to repress since first seeing the beautiful 
elf from Mirkwood.

He moaned audibly, and hearing his own voice roused him from his 
waking dream to find that his fingers had undone the buttons just fastened, 
and his erection tented the softly draped silk.

“Fool,” he muttered to himself.  “He is hardly more than a child, and son 
of Thranduil besides.”  He refastened the buttons and slid into his bed, 
empty these many years, empty since long before Celebrían’s voyage to 
the Deathless Lands.  Unbidden, the image of Lasarbar — Legolas — 
sharing his bed filled his mind.  No amount of discipline, it seemed, would 
keep the young prince out of his thoughts, so the mighty elf-lord bowed to 
the inevitable, and welcomed the dreams that awaited him.

***

Guest quarters, at the same time.

Alone in the guest quarters, Legolas did not sleep.  His thoughts, too, were 
driven by the desires of his body.  Aware of the watchful apprentice 
outside the curtained doorway, he struggled to remain still and quiet.  As 
the night wore on, the silver light of the moon filled the room, and the 
young elf could deny himself no more.

Hitching up the long nightshirt, he wrapped his bow-strengthened hand 
around his hardened shaft.  Biting his lower lip to stop himself from 
moaning aloud, he pulled on his organ, his mind imagining the elf-lord’s 
hands and mouth on him.  His other hand skimmed over his chest, raising 
the nubs of his nipples, then reached between his legs to fondle and cradle 
the heavy globes, already throbbing with need.  The image of Elrond in his 
mind’s eye drove away the memories of youthful dalliances and dreams, 
and only the walnut-brown tresses and iron-grey eyes of his host fueled his 
desire.

He slowed his hand, the gentle caresses of his fingertips sending a shiver 
all the way to his toes.  He was harder than he ever remembered being, his 
quivering organ weeping from the ghosting strokes along its length from 
root to crown and back again, and the young elf could wait no more.  He 
moistened his fingers with his own essence, then raised and spread his 
knees so he could reach the puckered entrance that ached for attention.  
The first touch was overwhelming, and he nearly cried out in his sudden 
release.

Alone in his private quarters, Elrond gasped as his mind was flooded with 
Legolas’s imaginings, and a smile crossed his face as his body was 
wracked with the same paroxysms.


CHAPTER FOUR

The following morning.

Each dawn came later than the last as Middle earth moved from autumn to 
winter, and Anor's path fell farther and farther to the south, shortening the 
days.  The waxing orb of Ithil had long since set when Elrond arose from 
his bed, dressed, and visited the kitchens.  At work long before dawn in 
any season, the kitchen staff filled his request quickly.

The day had dawned, but the sun had yet to rise above the mountains west 
of Imladris when Elrond entered the guest quarters carrying a breakfast 
tray for Lasarbar.  So, he said to himself, remembering the images that had 
come to him as a dream the night before, but were not a dream.  The 
Prince of Mirkwood does have feelings for me, the elf-lord thought.  It had 
seemed so real that he could recall the young elf's caresses, still taste his 
kisses.  But he knew it had not been real; he had been alone in his own 
bed, and it had been his own hand that had driven him nearly mad with 
desire.

Legolas still slept as the sunlight filled the room, his sleep-snarled hair 
spread across the pillow behind him like the tail of a comet.  His long, lean 
limbs were tangled in the bed covers, the silken night shirt bunched 
around his chest, and Elrond's eyes traveled from one exposed foot all the 
way to firm, rounded buttocks before the linens hid any of the golden 
body.  His breath caught in his throat, and he felt his body respond at the 
mere sight of the lovely young elf.  Not for the first time he was glad of 
the loose robes he and his people wore, for the snug leggings preferred by 
Mirkwood's elves would have betrayed his arousal instantly.

Setting the tray aside, he stood at the bedside, hands clasped behind his 
back.  His eyes drank in every bit of exposed flesh, the way the golden 
locks fell across the pillow, the dark crescent of lashes against a still pale 
cheek.  Without conscious thought his hand stretched out toward the 
sleeping elf, but with supreme effort Elrond was able to stop short of 
actually touching Legolas.  He settled, instead, for unwinding the linens 
from around the muscled limbs, covering over the smooth skin.  He could 
feel himself smiling as he gently smoothed the sheet across the strong 
shoulders, then giving into his baser desires, slid his fingers through the 
tumbled golden hair.  It was as silk before weaving, fine and soft, the 
strands without wave or curl except the forelocks, still crimped from their 
tight braids of the previous day.

Legolas stirred, and Elrond snatched his hand back from the surreptitious 
caress then turned away, quickly schooling his features into the visage of 
the stern Master of Imladris.  With his back to his slowly awakening 
patient, he put his finger, to his lips, still singing with the touch of silken 
hair.  For a moment he imagined the feel of that hair on his lips, and when 
he inhaled, he detected the faint herbal aroma of hair cleanser.

Fool, he called himself once again.  To have guarded my heart all these 
centuries only to loose it to a mere sprite.  He reckoned Legolas to be no 
more than two centuries of age, then compared that to his sixty and more 
centuries.  I must wait, he mused.  Wait for him to be healed; wait for him 
to know me as a friend; wait for him to know his own heart.

“Lord Elrond,” he heard from the bed.  He turned slowly, wanting to 
conceal his desires from his patient.  He smiled slightly, a friendly smile, 
not the wide grin the muscles in his face threatened.  The eyes that looked 
so openly at him were as bright as sapphires, and a fire burned behind 
them that knew nothing of the weariness of the world.

Elrond held no expectation that Legolas was truly innocent; the thoughts 
he’d detected the night before assured him of that, and although he knew 
Thranduil sheltered his children, even keeping them secluded from 
outsiders, an elf of Legolas’s age would have enjoyed intimate 
relationships with several others since his majority.

It was the sense of wonder Elrond saw in the blue eyes that enticed him, 
the young elf’s way of looking at the world as though it were new.  The 
newness of the world had long since worn thin for the elf-lord, but his 
commitment to Sauron’s final destruction fed the fire within him, and held 
him from following so many of his kind to return to the Deathless Lands.  
Now he felt a new fire kindled, a fire in his heart where it had been so long 
dampened, and it was Legolas who had sparked it to life.

“Good morning, young one,” Elrond said.  “I trust your night was restful?”

A blush colored the golden skin, rising to his face from beneath the open 
neck of his nightshirt.  “Yes, of course,” Legolas sputtered.  “I am quite… 
refreshed.”  He pulled the sheet higher over himself and turned his head 
away for a moment.

“We shall see how well you tolerate more normal activities today.”  The 
master healer touched his hand to the other’s forehead.  “I’ve brought 
bread and fruit to break your fast, then I want you to be up and about.  
You’ll lose what strength you still have if you’re abed any longer.”

***

Later that day.

Bathed and dressed again in the fashion of Imladris, his fast broken, 
Legolas presented himself before Lord Elrond in the formal audience 
chamber.  The elf-lord was seated in a throne-like chair upon a dais, and a 
second smaller chair, similarly carved and decorated stood empty at 
Elrond’s right hand.  To his left sat Glorfindel, but it was the center chair 
and its occupant that were the focal point of the chamber.  It was more a 
chair than his own father’s throne, but still more a throne than mere chair.  
Carved from the trunk of a single tree, the back extended a foot above 
Elrond’s head, inlaid with a device Legolas presumed was that of the High 
King in lapis and gold, golden stars in a blue square surmounted by a 
silver filigree.  The seat was broad, but the slender elf-lord spread his 
formal velvet robes from arm to arm.  An intricately woven circlet of 
mithril graced his brow, marking Elrond as an Elven King, though he had 
never claimed that title.

This was not the pretentious, overwhelming audience chamber of 
Thranduil’s cavernous palace, but an airy hall open to the outdoors, a 
room that welcomed rather than intimidated.  His soft leather boots silent 
on the marble floor, Legolas stopped precisely the proper distance from 
the dais, his father’s insistence on constant formality having made the 
etiquette of court instinctive to him.

“I am at your service, my lord,” the Prince of Mirkwood said with a bow.  
“Your hospitality has been generous, but as the season for traveling has 
past, I pray you set me some task.  I fear idleness does not well suit me.”

Elrond sat back and regarded the young elf who stood before him.  Any 
doubts he may have had that Lasarbar was indeed Legolas Thranduilion 
were banished by the eloquence of his speech.  I will allow him any name 
he wishes to use, he repeated to himself.  “Tell me of your skills, Lasarbar, 
so we may find the right place for you.”  Casually he drank his morning 
tea, his grey eyes smiling at Legolas over the rim of the fine china cup.

“I am skilled with the bow and the long knives,” he began, “though in the 
absence of war those skills are of little use save in hunting.”

“That is true,” Elrond replied, continuing the play of formality.  “Surely 
you have other skills?”

“I am lettered and can keep accounts,” Legolas went on.  After moment of 
silence, he added, “I am skilled with horses as well, in their care, their 
breeding, and their training.”

“Ah.  I see.  So, shall we send you to the stables, young one?”  Though 
Elrond’s face remained stern, there was a smile in his voice.

“If that is your wish.”  He would happily muck out the stables if Elrond 
requested it of him.

“I think we could better use this one in the Library, my lord,” Glorfindel 
said.  “There is much not yet catalogued, and several scholars are expected 
in the spring.”  Only the archives of Gondor could come near the volume 
of material found in the Library of Imladris.  Histories and journals of the 
kingdoms of Men were housed haphazardly by the all-too mortal 
Gondorian archivists, but Glorfindel and Elrond had spent the whole of the 
Third Age and much of the Second collecting and organizing more than 
just histories.  The Library held volume upon volume of ancient lore 
regarding healing and husbandry, scrolls of sagas and songs of both elves 
and men, family trees, family recipes, and family secrets were all made 
available to any inquirer.

Nodding, Elrond agreed.  “The Library it shall be.  Is that to your liking, 
Lasarbar?”

“As you wish,” Legolas responded with a bow.  Though he had doubted 
Elrond would have assigned him menial duties, he was pleased at the 
prospect of working in the Library.

“No, Lasarbar,” Elrond chided.  “Not as I wish.  Is that to your liking?”

The blond elf smiled broadly.  “Yes, my lord.  It is very much to my 
liking.”

***

The Library of Imladris was kept in several large, high-ceilinged chambers 
that opened one into the other.  Half dug into the mountainside, the 
contents were protected by their isolation from the living quarters, and the 
rooms were kept dry and cool.  The aroma of fine leather permeated the 
many chambers, the bindings of the books making their own atmosphere.  
To one side of the first chamber were several alcoves, each furnished for a 
single copyist with a desk, chair, and lamp.  Every volume was indexed 
three ways, by title, author, and subject, then listed in the master 
catalogue.

Glorfindel gave Legolas the task of verifying the indexes of the volumes 
in the third hall.  Most of the books were properly listed, but more than 
one in ten were not, so Legolas put pen to paper and completed the entries.  
Glorfindel was satisfied with his lettering skills, and after supervising his 
first few attempts, left him to work unfettered.  So occupied, the days 
passed quickly for Legolas through the autumn and into the winter.

***

Mid-Autumn.

Legolas loved the evenings.  The glow of candlelight gave a semblance of 
life to the carved stone that was both the structure and the adornment of 
Imladris.  The first time he had seen the statue of Elbereth at night took his 
breath away, the cold stone taking on a flush of life in the flickering light.  
He actually reached to touch the hand of the Valarian queen, convinced it 
would be warm, but his fingers encountered only cold stone, and the 
disappointment showed in his features.

“She does seem alive at night,” Elrond admitted from the far side of the 
chamber.  His voice startled Legolas, who snatched his hand away from 
the marble figure.  “I come here each evening,” the elf-lord continued.  
“Only to see her once more in the candlelight.”

Legolas, too, made it his habit to attend the statue each evening, if only 
briefly.  As his visits coincided with Elrond’s more and more frequently, 
the two began making their nightly pilgrimage together, then often spent 
the remainder of the autumn evening in conversation or across the 
chequered board of the Battle Game.  They learned from each other, 
Elrond’s play becoming more daring, Legolas’s more strategic.

In all their conversations, Legolas waited for questions about his past, his 
family, his home.  He regretted not having introduced himself with his true 
name, now that he knew these elves as friends, but could not bring himself 
to confess his duplicity, sure it would cost their trust, and perhaps even 
their hospitality.  Nothing was given without condition in his father’s 
realm, save perhaps the love of a mother for her child, and as week 
followed week of his stay at Imladris, it was difficult for Legolas to 
remember that nothing had been asked of him in return for either his 
rescue or the hospitality, and especially for the trust and affection that was 
freely given.

The one question he was aching to ask Elrond, though, also went unasked.  
Who — and where— was Elladan’s and Elrohir’s mother — Elrond’s 
wife?

His initial attraction to Elrond grew day by day into strong if distant 
passion.  But as much as he desired Elrond, it would have to remain from 
a distance, he told himself; he must never interfere in a bonded couple.  
Since he was a toddling child, his mother had taught him of the sanctity of 
a wedded couple.  She had told the story of Finwë and Míriel and the 
Doom pronounced on them.  “Even the death of one does not remove the 
vows of the other,” she taught him.  “Only the Valar themselves may 
make those decisions.”

The questions, both about his past and Elrond’s wife, were never asked.


CHAPTER FIVE

One month later.

Late autumn brought riotous colors to the woods surrounding the 
sanctuary between the rivers.  Oaks turned red and orange; persimmons 
and sycamores added vibrant yellows, but no trees were as resplendent as 
the maples in their scarlet garb.  The blaze of color was brief, one last treat 
for the eye before winter’s drab and dreary hand took hold of the 
landscape.  The day dawned crisp and clear, but there was a chill in the air, 
and Glorfindel predicted snow by nightfall.

“Let us make one more attempt to find that boar,” Elladan suggested at 
breakfast.  “He rooted through Miriël’s turnip patch again two nights past, 
and left naught but wilted greens.”

Elrohir nodded his agreement, his mouth occupied with too much muffin.  
He managed to swallow without choking, and gulped his tea before he 
could speak.  “Will you join us, Lasarbar?  I’d like to see how you handle 
that bow with a live target.”

Legolas smiled.  He was accustomed to defending his reputation as the 
finest archer in the Mirkwood, and the sons of Elrond had already been 
impressed with his prowess on the practice range.  “I would enjoy a hunt,” 
he responded.  “My bow has been too long idle.”  He turned to Glorfindel 
for leave from his duties in the Library.

The seneschal gestured his permission, shooing the three of them from the 
table.

The conversation had not escaped Elrond’s ears.  “Take care, all of you,” 
he advised.  I would not have the infirmary full of festering tusk wounds.”  
He sat back in his chair, able to see all three of the younger elves at once 
— his own sons with his dark hair and grey eyes, and their much younger 
guest, blond and blue-eyed, between them.  “Do not take any unnecessary 
risks, but fresh boar for the Solstice-feast would please the cooks no end.”

***

They rode all morning, their sharp eyes catching every sign of the boar’s 
passage through the leaf-strewn floor of the forest.  “See, there!” Elrohir 
exclaimed, pointing to a tumbled bed of mushrooms.  “He feasted here as 
well.”

Elladan hopped down from his horse and bent to examine the remaining 
broken and smashed fungi.  “This is recent,” he announced, poking into 
the patch with his belt knife.  “No earlier than this morning.”

“Then we are close,” his brother added.  He crouched next to Elladan and 
surveyed the area.  “There are still some whole — a treat for our midday 
meal.”  He quickly picked among the remaining edible mushrooms, 
gathering them into the corner of his cloak.  “Come, Lasarbar, help us.”

The blond elf stood at his horse’s head a few paces back from the 
mushroom patch.  “Are you sure they’re wholesome?”  Mushrooms were 
one of his favorite foods, but the Mirkwood prince had never learned how 
to identify the edible from the poisonous, trusting the cooks to know the 
difference.

“All but those,” Elladan said, indicating a yellowish type with a wide, flat 
top on a bulbous stem.  “Stay away from any like that.”

Stepping closer, Legolas bent to one knee to reach the smaller, round-
headed mushrooms he was almost certain he recognized.  The three elves 
quickly picked the bed clean, remounted their horses, and returned to the 
boar’s trail.

Deeper into the forest they rode, Elladan leading the way.  Legolas kept 
his eyes darting from side to side, peering into the underbrush, and Elrohir 
brought up the rear, keeping watch that the boar did not circle behind them 
and attack.  Stopping suddenly, Elladan raised a hand to silence the others.  
He slipped from his saddle and silently crept toward a fallen tree.  Roots 
ripped from the soil when the ancient oak had fallen now formed a shelter 
for the wild boar.  The elves heard his coarse breathing and snorting, and 
approached along the horizontal trunk of the dead tree.

Leaping to the top of the trunk, Legolas ran lightly toward the base.  He 
looked down through the tangled roots to see the dark, bristling back of 
the boar.  He turned and gestured silently to the other elves, who took their 
places on either side of the tree.

Slowly, and without a sound, Legolas nocked an arrow to his bowstring 
and drew the fletching to his cheek.  His peripheral vision told him the 
others were ready, and at Elladan’s signal, he loosed the arrow, striking 
the boar squarely in the back of the neck.  The arrow sank deep, but 
missed the spine — the kill — by a hair.

Angered by the attack, and in pain from the arrow in his neck, the boar 
bellowed.  Confronted with two targets, though, he hesitated, giving 
Legolas a second shot.  The second arrow hit true, its razor sharp blade 
severing the boar’s spinal cord as the shaft lodged in the animal, killing 
him instantly.

As the second arrow struck, Elrohir flung his first javelin to the throat, 
slicing through the jugular vein, and kept the second spear ready, on the 
slim chance the boar had more life in him still.  Many times he’d seen an 
animal he thought had been killed spring up and run away, or in the case 
of boars, charge their killers even as their life-blood soaked the ground.

“I think we are nearer the southern reaches of the forest,” Elrohir 
commented as he and Legolas dragged the boar by its rear legs until they 
reached the clearing where Elladan lashed limbs of the old oak together to 
build a travois.  The beast was larger than they had expected, far too large 
to carry on the back of one of the horses.  “If we continue south, we can 
follow the river and skirt the eastern edge of the trees all the way home.

“It will take twice as long to go around,” his bother responded.

“We cannot drag the travois back whence we came,” Legolas observed.  
“The way is far too rough.”

The older of the twins squinted through the forest canopy to mark the 
position of the sun, far in the south this late in the year.  “It will be far past 
nightfall by the time we reach Imladris, but Lasarbar is right.  South, then 
around to the east it is.”

They hefted the carcass onto the finished travois and lashed it securely.  
Admiring their work, Legolas wiped his hands together, then realized he 
was covered with blood, soil, and leaf mold, and that his companions were 
similarly soiled.

Elladan tied one last knot and tucked the end of the rope between two 
branches, then vaulted into this saddle.  “There is stream nearby, and a 
clearing where we can eat and rest before continuing.”

“And wash,” Legolas muttered under this breath, seating himself again on 
Celanor.

“Yes, my young friend,” Elrohir laughed.  “And wash.”

***

The burble of the rushing stream soon came to their ears, and as one they 
smiled, acknowledging the love of all elves for the sound of flowing 
water.  The grass in the clearing was still green, dotted here and there with 
the spindly stems of wildflowers long since gone to seed.  Without 
conversation they all washed the grime and gore from their hands and 
faces, and even from their long hair.  Only the icy water and the chill in 
the air kept them from stripping off and bathing in the deep pool.  Elrohir 
emptied out the bag of mushrooms they had collected, and quickly cleaned 
the bunch.  They’d brought dried meat and fruit with them, and the woody 
flavor of the fresh mushrooms made the trail rations into a tasty and 
satisfying meal.

Allowing the horses a longer rest than they themselves required, the elves 
relaxed in the sylvan glade.  Elrohir wandered to the far side of the 
clearing, his dark head bent low as he looked for wild herbs for the kitchen 
and infirmary.  Elladan absently plaited the long grass into a supple cord, 
his eyes often straying from his work to the recumbent form of the blond 
elf.  Eventually he gave in to his deeper feelings and gazed steadily at 
Legolas, the plaiting forgotten in his hands.

Legolas lay back in the grass, his hands folded under his head.  In the 
weeks he had been a guest at Imladris, this was the first time he felt any 
pangs of homesickness.  The whispering of the remaining leaves in the 
breeze, the stark outlines of the bare branches, the mere patches of sky 
above all reminded him of his childhood home, his siblings, and the 
friends he’d left behind in his flight from his father’s tyranny.

Elladan heard his sigh, and knew this was his moment, possibly the only 
chance he’d have to speak of his feelings.  The dark-haired elf shifted 
position, subtly bringing his body close to the golden hair spread across 
the grass to dry.

“Homesick?” he asked, immediately berating himself for his 
conversational ineptitude.

“A little,” Legolas admitted.  “The trees still call to me.”  His voice was 
more than a little wistful.

“You must be lonely for your home, your family.”  He took a deep breath 
and continued.  “Your friends.”  His hands ached to touch the bright silky 
strands, to plait them rather than the coarse grass he had plucked from the 
ground.

“Perhaps.”  He turned toward his rescuer.  “My reasons for leaving have 
not changed.  I will not go back unless they do.”

“You are welcome to stay in our home as long as you wish, Lasarbar.”  
Elladan could no longer stop himself.  Against his will, his hand was 
drawn to the golden hair.  He lifted a still damp tress between his fingers.  
“I would be very happy if you would stay in Imladris.”  Moving quickly, 
he leaned toward Legolas and brushed a quick kiss against the rosy lips.

Legolas had avoided dealing with Elladan’s infatuation, hoping it would 
wane with inattention, but did not move away from the caress.  When 
Elladan pulled back, he met the older elf’s gaze, and saw the grey eyes 
darken.

“Your father has made me very welcome,” he said as though nothing had 
occurred.  He took Elladan’s hand in a brotherly clasp and sat up.  “You 
and Elrohir are as brothers to me.”

Hearing those words, Elladan dropped his hand from the clasp.  “I had 
hoped for — for something more.”

“I know,” the blond elf responded, his voice low.  He touched his mouth 
where Elladan’s lips had pressed, and smiled.  “You judge me rightly, 
Elladan,” he went on, choosing his words carefully.  “And I would be 
lying if I were to say I do not find you fair.”  Legolas reached the short 
distance and softly touched Elladan’s cheek.  “But I find I cannot turn my 
heart away from the path it has chosen for itself.”

“You are pledged to another?”

There was a long silence, filled with the melodic burbling of the stream 
and the distant, honking  call of a late-migrating flock of geese  “There has 
been no pledge between us,” Legolas admitted.  He lowered his head, 
feeling the color rise in his cheeks.  There never can be… he told himself 
sadly.

***

The snow predicted by Glorfindel began to fall in the hour before sunset.  
At first it was just a few wind-blown flakes that melted as quickly as they 
touched hand or ground,  but soon their fall thickened, slowly building up 
on the ground.  The three elves clutched their cloaks more tightly about 
themselves and pressed on, no choice but to continue their journey.

It was fully dark before they trudged up the riverside path, the snowfall 
beginning to collect in drifts.  Torches had been lit at the usually hidden 
sentry posts, ordered extinguished only when the party passed.

“What ho, Elladan?” the sentry at the first post called, and Elrohir was 
greeted at the second.  Waving their response to the greetings, the party 
continued, heartened that they were watched for.

But when the third post called, “Lasarbar, friend ho!” Legolas found a 
warmth in his heart that filled him, banishing the dark mood that had 
threatened him since his private conversation with Elladan.  While they 
rode he had let his thoughts wander to the possibility of a pledge with 
Elrond, a notion he had not previously entertained.  Elladan and Elrohir 
themselves represented the most obvious impediment to any relationship 
with their father — the existence, somewhere, of their mother.

Even so, he wondered if Elrond were at all interested in him in that way.  
They spent time together now and again, in conversation, playing the 
battle game, even working side by side in the Library.  Elrond’s behavior 
was above reproach, not a gesture, a touch, nor a stray word to indicate he 
was at all attracted to the young elf.

Yet, some nights his dreams were so full of the elf-lord it was though they 
had lain together in reality.  In his dreams he could put aside the teachings 
of his childhood, his mother’s stories of Finwë and Míriel.  In his dreams 
there were no barriers between them.


CHAPTER SIX

From the report of Nenion, agent of Mirkwood at Imladris 
(sent by messenger bird):

The sons of Elrond have returned from their latest sortie against the orcs 
with a near-frozen elf found on the road from Mirkwood.  I have only seen 
him from a distance, but I believe it is Prince Legolas.  They call him by a 
common name, Lasarbar, but afford him all hospitality, regardless of his 
apparent station.  He will remain here through the winter, at the least, as 
the early snow has made travel through the mountains hazardous.  He 
spends his days assisting Glorfindel in the Library, where the copying and 
indexing of books and scrolls is a never-ending task.  He has developed a 
friendship with the sons of the Peredhil; they sometimes hunt together, and 
I have heard tales of his prowess with the bow.  But he has grown closest 
to Lord Elrond himself, and they oft times converse late into the night.

***

Winter Solstice.

By the night of the Solstice, snow lay deep around the gates of Imladris.  
The heavy flakes had fallen silently for days, but the preparations for 
celebrating the turning of the year went on.  The halls were decorated with 
boughs of evergreen, and dozens of candles pushed back the dim light of 
the day and the darkness of the long night ahead.

The cooks had been busy for a seven-day in preparation for the feast to 
come, forcing the household to a near fast.  Every inch of the house had 
been scrubbed and polished, and the marble and stonework gleamed.  In 
the stables, each horse and pony had been bathed and groomed, hooves 
shined, and manes and tails plaited with ribbons.  Work in the library had 
come to a halt, and Legolas found himself working side by side with both 
servants and lords alike to prepare for the holiday.

When the day of the Solstice came, Legolas found new clothes in his 
rooms, robes more richly made and decorated than the plain livery he’d 
worn since coming to Imladris.  The heavy outer robe was dark green, 
worn over shirt and kirtle of lighter shades, with soft suede boots to 
complete his dressing.  All but the last robe donned, he sat before the 
looking glass and braided his hair, pulling the plaited forelocks back 
behind his ears.  When he was done, he realized there was no circlet for 
him to wear, as he would in his own home, the silver band that marked 
him as a Prince of the Mirkwood.  Remembering his vow, he repeated it 
under his breath: I will be no Prince of Mirkwood.  He rose from the 
dressing table, smiled sadly at his reflection, then turned away, flung the 
heavy green robe about his shoulders, then fastened the clasp and went to 
join the household — his new home — in their Solstice celebrations.

The whole of the household and surrounding villages had been invited to 
mark the Solstice, and the great hall was teeming with people — mostly 
Noldorian elves, with their dark hair and steely eyes, as well as Men who 
lived in the wilds between the mountains and the rivers.  There would be 
no dwarves, Legolas knew, as their kind did not celebrate the celestial 
events as Elves and Men did.

The early setting sun was watched in somber reflection by all.  Flanked by 
his sons, Elrond spoke from the westernmost balcony, relating the tale of 
the first rising of Anor the sun and Ithil the moon, marking the beginning 
of the First Age.  “And tonight Anor takes her longest sleep, so let us be 
joyful, and celebrate the wisdom of the Valar who set her in the sky that 
we would no longer be in darkness, so the evil which was already in the 
world would be held at bay.”

There was food and drink for all, piled high on tables placed around the 
edges of the large room.  Though there were tables set up in the adjoining 
halls where people could sit and eat, most stood in the great hall, plates in 
hand, moving from table to table, sampling all that Imladris had to offer.  
On the opposite side of the room, the ale flowed endlessly, and there were 
wines and spirits from all of Middle-earth.

“Here, Lasarbar,” Elladan said, pressing a cup into his hand, several hours 
past midnight.  “Taste this.”

An earthy aroma emanated from the amber liquid as Legolas sipped.  The 
flavor exploded in his mouth, a complex combination of earth and water, 
with an almost fruity overtone, and when he swallowed, it was fire and air 
as it burned its way down his throat and filled his nose with the sweetness 
of fine wine.

Elladan laughed. “I thought you’d enjoy Dwarf-spirits.”  He poured 
another portion into the cup, doubling the original amount.  “Drink up!”  
He tossed the entire contents of his own cup down his throat, and refilled 
it immediately.

Legolas could see that Elladan had already drunk a substantial amount of 
the fiery amber liquor.  He cautioned a larger swallow from his own cup, 
and smiled as it went down his throat with far less of a burn.  His head felt 
light, and suddenly everything in the room seemed brighter, the hundred 
conversations somehow far away.  At Elladan’s urging, he drained his cup 
and allowed it to be refilled.

It was very warm in the room, and when Elladan suggested they remove to 
the terrace for fresh air, Legolas agreed.  It was strange how the floor 
seemed to move away from his feet, and he welcomed Elladan’s arm on 
his shoulder.  The doorway moved as he walked through it, and it grabbed 
his elbow, throwing him off balance for a moment.  Elladan caught him 
under the arms before he could fall, and pulled him into an embrace, the 
older elf’s hands sliding under the velvet robe, skimming over the silken 
shirt and kirtle.

Legolas stretched his head back, and soft lips caressed his throat.  They 
traced a line from his collar to his earlobe, and as he turned his head, 
claimed his mouth.  He opened his lips to the probing tongue, and moaned 
as it explored him.  Strong hands grasped his behind and pulled his hips 
tightly against… Elladan?

“Elladan!” he gasped, pulling away from the wanton kiss, his breathing 
ragged.

“Don’t tell me you don’t want this, Lasarbar,” Elladan replied, his throaty 
voice barely above a whisper.  “I can feel your… interest.”  He ground his 
hips against Legolas once again, two erections caught between their 
bodies.  “See, I told you,” Elladan went on, his smile more of a leer as 
Legolas tried unsuccessfully to stifle a moan.  “You want this as much as I 
do.”

Legolas twisted in Elladan’s embrace, but the taller elf’s strong arms held 
him securely.  “No,” Legolas tried to say, but the word was muffled as 
Elladan kissed him again.  The kiss was searing, and the press of body 
against body was arousing.  After a moment, Legolas stopped pushing 
against Elladan’s shoulders.  His arms wrapped around Elladan’s neck, 
gently at first, and as his fingers tangled in the long, dark hair, he 
responded to the kiss, softening his mouth, welcoming the intruding 
tongue, then exploring Elladan’s mouth in turn.  The heat of his arousal 
spread through his body, and he felt his erection harden even more.  His 
body moved without his volition, and when Elladan pulled his mouth 
away, he could only whisper, “Yes.”

The two elves nearly fell on each other, kissing deeply while their hands 
alternately roamed over backs and shoulders and held their bodies pressed 
tightly together.  No longer did they hear the sounds from the festival; 
their world contracted to include only the two of them, alone on the 
terrace.  Not until they sought to lean against the icy parapet did they 
notice that they stood in knee-deep snow, and more flakes were falling 
from the night sky.

“Your room,” Elladan commanded.  “Now.”  He pulled Legolas by the 
hand, leading him indoors again.  Once back among the Solstice 
celebrants, Elladan reclaimed his flask of Dwarf-spirits and their cups.  
“Take the back stairway,” he suggested to the blond elf.  “I’ll follow.”

Both the blue eyes and the grey eyes were dark with arousal, and they 
each still breathed heavily.  Elladan poured more spirit into the cups.  
“Here,” he said, handing one to Legolas and tossing back his own.  He 
hefted the flask, measuring its contents.  “I’ll find some more of this.”  He 
watched as Legolas swallowed the contents of the cup.

A wave of dizziness washed over the younger elf, and he closed his eyes 
for a moment.  He was unsteady on his feet, but turned and made his way 
to the back stairs as instructed.  Elladan watched him go, a leering smile 
on his face.

“Brother,” Elrohir said as he stepped up behind his twin.  “I know what’s 
in your mind.”

“Then you will make sure we are not disturbed tonight, won’t you.”  
Neither Elladan’s voice nor his face made the words a question.

Elrohir pulled his brother’s shoulder, spinning the elder twin around.  He 
saw the signs of arousal: the darkened eyes, the swollen lips, the flaring 
nostrils.  “He’s drunk,” he observed.  “You both are.”

“He knows what he’s doing.”  He pulled away from his brother and made 
his way to refill his flask.

“Do you?” Elrohir wondered.

His head swimming, Legolas found his way back to his rooms.  His blood 
sang with the spirits, and his loins ached for more of what he’d shared 
with Elladan.

Elladan? he asked himself.  I care not for Elladan.  But it was Elladan 
who came to him that night, who touched him as he needed to be touched, 
who whispered words of passion he needed to hear, and Legolas received 
him, touched him as he wanted to be touched, whispered words of passion 
meant for another.

***

The next day.

Long before the rest of the household stirred, Elrohir hurried to the guest 
wing.  His brother had returned and fallen into his bed without a word 
during the final part of the Solstice festival, as those still awake and sober 
sat vigil for Anor’s rise after her longest sleep.  Silently the younger twin 
entered the rooms occupied by Legolas, and immediately drew the drapes 
across the window, plunging the bedchamber into a dim twilight.  He drew 
a warm bath before approaching the rumpled bed.

Elrohir shook his head at the mess his twin had left behind.  The sheets 
were soiled and damp, and the fair elf lay curled around a pillow, the 
coverlet clutched to his heart.  From his robes, Elrohir brought out a flask, 
much like the one Elladan had used the night before to intoxicate their 
guest, but this one containing a restorative.  He rinsed the last bit of spirits 
from the same cup Legolas had drunk from at the festival, and filled it 
with the healing fluid.

Gently he touched Legolas’s shoulder and quietly said, “Lasarbar.”  He 
pushed the tangled blond hair from the pale brow and repeated the young 
elf’s name.

The dark lashes fluttered against the colorless cheeks and opened slowly, 
then closed again, a grimace of pain on his face.  “It is I, Elrohir,” the 
older elf said, his voice still low.  “You need to drink this.”  He supported 
Legolas’s head and put the cup to his lips.  “It will stop the pain and settle 
your stomach.”

Legolas drew in a tiny sip of the fluid, but Elrohir tipped the cup so he was 
forced to drink deeply.  “You must drink it all, my friend.”

Dutifully, Legolas swallowed until the cup was empty, then opened his 
eyes again.  “I did not know my head could come apart in pieces and be 
made whole again.”

Elrohir laughed, then hushed himself.  “That is often a consequence of the 
Solstice celebrations.  Father’s apprentices prepare an ample supply of this 
in advance.”  He waited a moment more, watching as a more normal color 
returned to the other elf’s face.  “Can you walk?” he asked.  “There is a 
bath waiting.  I’m sure Elladan has left you soiled and sore.”  He knew his 
brother’s proclivities, and had often ministered to his partners.  

In the years since Celebrían had sailed west Elladan had changed, Elrohir 
mused.  For decades he withdrew, spending time only with his twin.  
When he finally sought other company, his liaisons were brief and fiercely 
sexual.  Seldom did he maintain a relationship beyond a night or two, and 
more and more frequently his partners were cast aside with little regard.

A wan smile played at the corners of Legolas’s mouth.  “Yes,” he said.  
He pushed himself up to sit, then dropped his head into his hands.  “The 
room spins,” he uttered weakly.

Elrohir quickly sat beside him and supported him with an arm across his 
shoulders and his hand on his near arm.  He felt Legolas stiffen at his 
touch.  “Fear not, my friend,” he assured him.  “I am not my brother.”

The assurance was sincere, and Legolas relaxed against his strong 
shoulder.  When his breathing slowed he opened his eyes once again.  “I 
believe I can walk now,” he said, and they rose as one.

Elrohir kept his grip on Legolas’s arms, not releasing him until he stepped 
into the bathing tub.  He helped Legolas ease into the warm water, 
cringing with him as the heat stung the scratches that criss-crossed his 
back.  “Rest here while I see to your bed.”

He made quick work of changing the linens and set aside the festival 
clothes Legolas had worn the night before.  The buttons on the shirt could 
be replaced, he presumed, but the underclothing was a total loss, the long 
rips in the thin silk fabric irreparable.  He hung the dark green robe in the 
wardrobe and collected a set of day-to-day garments to lay out.  When he 
returned to the tubside, he found Legolas stretched full length in the long 
tub, his head cushioned by a folded towel, his hair draped behind him onto 
the floor.

“Feeling better?”  He perched on the side of the tub.

“Yes,” he answered without opening his eyes.  “I seem to be recovering.”

“With your leave, I will tell Father of Elladan’s indiscretions.”

“NO!”  Legolas sat up with a start.  “Do not speak of it to anyone.”  He 
pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.  “He took 
nothing from me I did not give, and have not given before.”  He looked 
directly at Elrohir.  “I am no virgin child, Elrohir.”

“He marked you,” Elrohir went on, indicating a red area on the younger 
elf’s shoulder, the marks of teeth obvious.  “He got you drunk…”

“I was intoxicated, not senseless,” Legolas stated.  “Do not treat me like a 
child, Elrohir.  I may not have your centuries, but I am of age.”  He closed 
his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment.  “I think,” he said, a 
conspiratorial tone in his voice, “you’ll find your brother marked as well.  
I give as good as I get, my friend.”

The older elf bowed his head in apology.  “I will abide by your wishes.”  
An awkward moment of silence lay between them.

Slowly Legolas unfolded his legs and lay back in the tub, stretching his 
long, lean limbs as he did.  A sigh escaped his lips when his head returned 
to the makeshift pillow.

“I have laid out clothes for you, and your bed is freshened.”  Elrohir rose 
and continued, “I will take my leave.  I will tell Father only that you are 
indisposed this morning… as are many in the household.”  He wasn’t 
totally convinced that the young elf had sorted through the night’s events, 
but he hoped the encounter would not close his heart or twist his mind.  
Perhaps, he thought, it will reopen Elladan’s heart.

Legolas opened his eyes.  “Can you stay?” he asked.  “Will you stay?”

The dark-haired elf nodded and smiled, then sat again on the side of the 
tub.

“It’s just…” Legolas’s voice was small and quiet.  “…I feel like company 
today.”

***

Legolas and Elrohir spent the day in the guest suite.  After the younger elf 
was bathed and dressed, they set up the battle-game.  Elrohir was a 
thoughtful player, considering each move from several aspects before 
shifting the piece from one square to another.  Conversely, Legolas moved 
almost immediately after Elrohir did, his strategy indecipherable.  The 
quick moves had pressed Elrohir back into the corner of the board, a Rider 
and a Tower alone guarding his King.  Only the Queen and a Halfling 
remained at large, and the one remaining Wizard was penned in the corner 
opposite the King.

“Twins do not share everything,” Elrohir said.  “There are some things that 
seem to be given all to one and none to the other.”  He moved his Queen 
one square to the right.

“So you prefer maids?”  King’s Rider’s Halfling to Queen’s Wizard six.

“Not exclusively, but yes, I prefer them.”  Elrohir studied the board.

“I have no interest in maids.  They are all as sisters to me.”  Legolas sat 
back in his chair, knowing he would have at least several minutes before 
Elrohir’s next move.

“Elladan has lain with maids, but takes no satisfaction from them.  And 
frustrated, he is likely to become… rough.”  He raised his hand and moved 
it toward his Queen, but stopped in mid-air.

“One of my sisters had a husband such as that.”

He shifted to look at the board from a different angle.  “What did she do? 
He hoped for some insight, some reasoning that would temper Elladan’s 
behavior.  He knew his brother still struggled with the pain of their 
mother’s departure, and for all these years he had been unable to help ease 
it.

“She bore him a child, came home to visit, and refused to go back.  She 
lives in our father’s home… still.”

Not able to find a safe move for any of his remaining men, Elrohir 
resigned the game, to the delight of his opponent.  “It’s good to see you 
smile,” he observed.  They replaced the pieces on the board, ready for the 
next game.


CHAPTER SEVEN

The Library, early winter.

“Excuse me.”

Legolas raised his head from his work, indexing another history of the 
middle years of the Second Age.  “Yes?”  The dark-haired elf seemed 
familiar to him, but he couldn’t put a name to the face.  In a race of 
beautiful beings, this elf was plain, short, and slightly built.  His eyes were 
blue, but a pale, watery hue, with little fire behind them.  His nose was too 
large for his thin face, and his ears stood out from the side of his head.  
“I’m sorry,” Legolas apologized.  “Have we met?”

“Yes, once,” the plain elf answered.  His voice, lacking the melodic tones 
common to his people, seemed to emanate from his nose instead of his 
throat.  “In your father’s court.  I am Nenion.”

Legolas glanced quickly around the parts of the Library he could see from 
his desk.  His breath hissed between his teeth as he hushed Nenion.  
“Speak not of him here, I pray.  I am Lasarbar, not… not what you would 
call me.”

“Very well, Your High… Lasarbar.”  He pronounced the alias with the 
same sneer Legolas remembered from his father’s rants regarding Elrond, 
and anyone Noldorian.  “But I have word from your father.”

“I have no wish to hear from him, unless he has lifted his edict.”

“I know nothing of that,” Nenion went on.  “He orders your return.”

Legolas felt the heat of anger fill him.  He knew his face was red, and 
cared not that his father’s agent saw his emotion.  “I am no longer subject 
to his orders.”  He bent his head back to his task, and carefully lettered the 
book’s title into the index.

“But I am, milord.  I am commanded to make you aware that your sister 
Tatharië is to wed in the spring, and she refuses the rite be held without 
your presence.”

It was not beyond Thranduil’s methods to pit one child against another, 
nor to use one to compel another’s compliance.  Legolas placed his pen 
down, careful not to smudge the dark ink on the snowy paper..  He folded 
his fingers together, partly to keep them from wrapping around Nenion’s 
throat and throttling him.  “I will not return until he publicly lifts the edict 
he placed upon me.  You may tell him I will not be shipped away like a 
bull calf to stand stud for his friend’s cow of a daughter.  I will live where 
I choose, and I will not marry anyone’s daughter, sister, or spinster aunt.”  
Proud of himself for the control he exhibited, he held his gaze on Nenion 
for a long moment, his sapphire-hued eyes boring into the colorless, pale 
elf.  When the silence had extended an uncomfortable time, he added, 
“You are dismissed.”

“As you wish, milord.”  Nenion turned away and quickly left the Library.

Watching him go, Legolas breathed deeply, then hung his head.  He had 
managed to put his past life in the back of his mind, and now Nenion had 
brought everything to the fore.  After a moment, he swallowed against the 
pain in his heart, and returned to his work.

In the adjacent alcove, Glorfindel sat silently until he heard his young 
assistant gather the books he had indexed and return them to the third 
chamber of the Library.

***

Elrond’s study, that evening.

“You are certain he is Thranduil’s son?”  Elrond leaned back in the large 
chair, and steepled his fingers in front of his chin.  A storm brewed 
outside, the wind whipping through the boughs of the ancient trees, 
howling through the deep valley.  Half a dozen flickering candles lit the 
area where Elrond sat, but the rest of his study was in darkness.

Glorfindel stood at the edge of the circle of light, his hands clasped at the 
small of his back, his robes gathered behind him.  A clasp of filigreed gold 
held the blond hair away from his face, away from the danger of smearing 
ink.  “I heard him and Nenion clearly, Lord.”

The Lord of Imladris waved away the formality, and rubbed his forehead.  
He’d suspected this winter’s guest was Legolas Thranduilion, but until 
now he had been able to discount the suspicion.  “Again,” he requested.  
“Tell me again.”

“Lasarbar — Legolas — sat in the next alcove working on the index.  He 
was not aware I was nearby.”  The seneschal gestured at the carafe of wine 
at Elrond’s elbow, and poured a goblet full of the rich, red liquid.  He 
raised the goblet silently to his lord, then drank deeply of it.  “Nenion told 
him they had met at his father’s court.”

“For years I’ve known Nenion was in the pay of Mirkwood.  He’s…” 
Elrond paused, then went on.  “…harmless.”  He filled his own goblet and 
sipped.  “What else?”

“First Lasarbar told Nenion he had no wish to hear his father’s message 
unless the edict had been lifted.”

“What edict?”  Elrond tried to recall what Aethlon had said when he 
reported the argument between King and Prince.  “I know of no edict 
Thranduil has issued, but news has been scarce this season.”

“Thranduil ordered his son to return to Mirkwood,” Glorfindel went on.

“Not this time of year, I fear,” the Lord muttered.  “Surely even Thranduil 
would not expose his son to such danger as traveling over the mountains 
in the dead of winter?”

The blond head slowly moved back and forth.  “I know not the mind of the 
King of Mirkwood.”  He swallowed more wine before he went on.  
“Evidently, the Prince’s sister is to wed in the spring, and insists her 
brother be present.”

Suddenly a crack of lightning illuminated the room, and a peal of thunder 
boomed through the building.  “The weather mirrors my mood, I fear,” 
Elrond mused.  “I like it not that Nenion harasses my guest, regardless of 
his identity.”  Usually he reveled in the storms that raced through his 
valley, the play of wind and water against the earth rousing in him a sense 
of Arda’s beginnings, ages before his own birth, and how the world would 
be, ages after he sailed to the West.

“Then Lasarbar said something about not being a bull calf to send away to 
stand stud to a friend’s daughter.  He said he would live where he chose, 
and not marry anyone’s daughter, sister, or spinster aunt.”

The dark-haired elf-lord smiled despite his ill mood.  Though he and 
Legolas had spent hours in conversation, often over the Battle Game, 
Elrond had never been able to broach the subject of the young elf’s 
personal preferences, nor even if he had left a wife or lover behind in 
Mirkwood.  “Ah,” he said.  “But what about sons, brothers, or bachelor 
uncles?”

Glorfindel’s laugh echoed in the darkened room.  “He said nothing about 
them, old friend.  I would wager there is yet hope for your suit.”

“You know me too well, I fear.  The sprite has thoughts of me, I know,” 
he admitted.  “But if that will lead to what I desire, I have no idea.”

“You will never learn by sitting here in the dark,” his oldest living friend 
suggested.  “It has been long since you have courted anyone.  Perhaps you 
have forgotten how?”

The grey eyes rolled upward at Glorfindel’s wordplay.  “A long time 
indeed.  Millennia and more.”  He stood and placed his empty goblet back 
on the table.  “But forgotten?  Never!”  Taking the goblet from 
Glorfindel’s hand, he pulled the older elf into a chaste embrace.  “Thank 
you, friend,” he said.  “For opening my eyes.”

***

A week later.

“Lasarbar!”  It was normally quiet in the Library, and Glorfindel’s voice 
cut through the silence when he called for his young assistant.  The 
seneschal’s nose was buried in a book when Legolas arrived.

Books were stacked high on Glorfindel’s desk, barricading him behind a 
wall of leather-bound parchment and paper.  He pushed the stacks directly 
in front of himself to the side so he could see the young elf who had 
become so dear of all of them at Imladris.

“What is it you require, my lord?” Legolas asked as he took a seat.

“Have you found a subject that interests you, young one?  Your progress 
has slowed.”

Legolas hung his head.  “My apologies, Lord Glorfindel.  I did not think 
my reading would slow my work so much.”

“Do not chastise yourself, Lasarbar.  We have no requirements of speed 
here.  If you are interested in a topic, by all means, pursue it.  Study is as 
important a task as any.”

A smile crossed the younger elf’s face.  “That is kind of you.  I have found 
some histories that intrigue me.”

Legolas shifted in his chair, rearranging the drape of his kirtle.  He had 
become accustomed to the robes he now wore, but still remembered the 
comfort of the more familiar leggings and tunic of his home.

“But there is one thing that puzzles me,” he began.  “And I think only you 
can answer my questions.”

The golden-haired elf-lord raised an eyebrow at the request.  “Ask away,” 
he offered.

“I read of a Glorfindel who fought the evil Balrog and was slain.”

“Yes, I’ve read those stories.  I’m afraid I don’t remember the battle as 
being quite so heroic as the chronicler makes it to have been.”

“It was you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you returned from the Halls of Mandos?”

The normally bright voice was suddenly low and quiet.  “Yes.”  In silence 
he awaited the next, inevitable question.

“You’ve been with Lord Elrond a long time.”

“I knew his grandparents,” he explained.  “Then, after the end of the First 
Age, Elrond and his brother Eros were given their choice.”

Legolas thought for a moment, recalling his childhood history lessons as 
well as the chronicles he’d recently read.  “Elros who became King of 
Númenor?”

“Yes.  Elros chose to remain mortal.  Elrond chose immortality.”

“And you’ve stayed with him all this time?”

The older elf nodded his head.  Though blond, his hair was a shade 
different from Legolas’s:  paler, more silver than gold.  “I am bound to 
serve him and his family as long as I live.”

“Bound? You are not a slave.”

“No, I am not a slave.  Only the Dark Lord keeps slaves.  But I am a 
servant.  It was decreed by Mandos himself that I should serve Elrond of 
the House of Tuor as condition for my release from his halls.”

Legolas had tried to put thoughts of his father aside, but the idea of being 
bound to a life not of one’s own choosing brought the memories to the 
fore.  The heated argument that forced him away from his home had faded 
in his mind with the happiness he’d found in Elrond’s sanctuary.  “Does it 
not embitter you?  To be forced to lead a life you did not choose?”

Glorfindel’s kind face smiled across the desk.  “Bitter? No, of course not.  
This is a life I would have chosen for myself.”  He spread his arms wide.  
“Where else could I have ever had so much?”

“You are alone, though.  You have no family.”

“The house of Elrond is my family.  I sired children in my first life, if 
that’s what you mean.  They have long since passed to the west.”

A blush colored the fair cheeks as he mentioned more intimate 
companions.  “You have no wife… no lover.”

The laugh that filled the room was deep and truly meant.  “Oh, never fear, 
young one.  I have had my share of companions through the Ages.  I do 
not sleep alone unless I desire it.”

The blush deepened as Legolas’s embarrassment grew.

“Now, go back to your studies.  We will talk again when you have more 
questions.”  He stood as Legolas did.

“Be assured, dear Lasarbar,” he said at the office doorway.  “I have never 
regretted one moment of my service.”


CHAPTER EIGHT

Mid-Winter.

Elrond’s study was the comfortable retreat of a hard-working leader.  
Account books, their spines marked with years in series, filled shelves 
along one wall, and other documents — scrolls and loose parchments — 
were stored in a less orderly manner.  The wood paneling was darkened 
with age, the patina of years adding to the warmth.

His head bent over a report, Elrond leaned his head on one hand, elbow 
propped gracelessly on the desk, and unconsciously twirled one fore-braid 
in his fingers.  A single candelabrum illuminated the desktop, the fire in 
the hearth reduced to glowing embers.  A near-empty wine goblet stood to 
the side, next to a forgotten plate of honeyed hazelnuts.  He didn’t raise his 
head as Elrohir drew near.

“Father?” Elrohir said quietly, not wanting to startle Elrond from his 
concentration.

With a sigh, Elrond pushed the report away.  “I shall never be able to 
decipher Finrolden’s handwriting.  It’s as though a hen had scratched the 
ink into the paper.”  He drained the goblet and turned to his son.  “It is 
late, my son.  You are alone?”

“Yes, for once.  The sorrel mare is in foal, and is restless as her time draws 
near.  Elladan has taken to staying the night in the stables.”  He laughed, 
taking a few of the hazelnuts from the plate.  “More comfortable, I think, 
than sleeping at a desk.”

Elrond accepted the chastisement.  “Fear not, I will rest tonight.”  He 
waited as Elrohir pulled a chair from another desk and sat, then asked, 
“What brings you to my study at such a late hour?”

“It is a delicate matter, Father,” he began.  “One I have never discussed 
with you ere now.”

The elf-lord sat back and waited for his son to continue.

“We — I — have noticed — it appears — that since Lasarbar arrived — 
you seem to have found a happiness —something that has long been 
absent from your mood.”  Usually fair-spoken, Elrohir’s observation was 
halting and hesitant.

A somber nod was Elrond’s only response.

“Well? Am I correct?”

“Correct in what?”

“That you have feelings for him.  Personal feelings.”

“I am not in the habit of discussing such feelings with my sons.”  He could 
feel the heat of the blush that rose into his face, and was glad for the dim 
light that hid his embarrassment from his son’s notice.

“It is because of one of your sons that I ask, Father.  Elladan is infatuated 
with him, and has taken liberties.”

Elrond bowed his head.  “I have seen how Elladan looks at Lasarbar.  Pray 
tell me I am not so transparent.”  He didn’t reveal his knowledge of the 
liaison between his elder son and the young elf.

His father’s confession brought laughter to Elrohir’s throat.  “No, indeed 
not.  It is only that I have longed to see you happy again.”

“I have not been unhappy,” he muttered, knowing that was but an excuse.

“No, you have been miserable, and before you say anything, it began long 
before Mother departed.”  There was a challenge in Elrohir’s voice.  He 
spoke now not as a son to his father, but as one adult to another.

“I know — we’ve all known — that your marriage with Mother was 
political.”  He knew he was treading on thin ice.  Celebrían was seldom 
mentioned in Imladris, more than a century after her departure for the 
Blessed Lands.  “From the time we were grown we expected her to 
remove to Lothlórien permanently, and leave you here, with your books 
and Glorfindel.”

The dark head snapped up to glare at the younger elf.  “Glorfindel and I 
were never…”

“I know that, Father.  But others whisper of it.  Why else, they wonder, is 
he so devoted to this family?”  Elrohir rose from his chair and strode 
across the room, out of the circle of light cast by the candelabrum.  He 
reached his hand to touch one of the ancient volumes on the shelf.  “By the 
time I reached a century, Father, I had read most of the books in the 
Library, did you know that?”

“Yes,” Elrond replied, wondering what this train of thought would lead 
them.  “I was always proud of your desire to learn all you could.”

“Do you know there are several histories of the Second Age in the 
Library?”  When his father made no response, Elrohir went on.  “I was 
fascinated by the stories of the last High-King, Gil-galad.  And every 
mention of him included the phrase, ‘…and Elrond, who was with 
him…’,” he quoted.  “Then one day, I came across an old journal.  It 
wasn’t a diary, but a collection of verses, written about a great love.  I read 
them over and over for years.  Some were gallant, full of the purity of true 
love.  Others — most of them — were erotic and graphic.  I searched 
everywhere to learn who had written them.  And for whom.”  From a 
pocket inside his robes Elrohir produced a slim volume.  The leather 
binding was worn, and the pages yellowed, the single device tooled into 
the cover faded with age.  He gave the book to his father.

“See the traces of paint in the tooling?  The Silver Stars of Orodreth — 
Gil-galad’s father.”

Elrond opened the book and stared at the first page of writing.  He took a 
deep breath and held it, then closed his eyes against the tears that welled 
up unbidden from his heart.  He breathed again and sighed.  “It is his 
hand,” he whispered.

“They were written for you, weren’t they?”

A nod was all the answer Elrond could give.

“He loved you very much.”

“And I him,” Lord Elrond whispered.

Only the crackling of the fire broke the silence.  Elrohir took his seat, 
watching his father page through the old book.  He gave the older elf time 
to reflect on, to rejoice in, to remember the past before he brought back the 
present.

“You have a chance to be happy again, Father,” Elrohir observed as he 
stood to leave, snatching a few more of the sweetened nuts.  “Do not let it 
slip through your fingers.”  At the arched doorway he stopped and turned 
back, popping his snack into his mouth.  “Send Anarwë to be fostered by 
Finrolden.  The sprite is a born scribe, and his father will be proud to have 
his son in such a noble house.”  He smiled at his father’s quizzical look.  
“And you will be able to read those reports more easily.”

***

With the candles snuffed out, the night was dark, Ithil not yet risen in her 
chase of Anor to the West.  Even in the darkness Elrond knew his way 
though the halls and corridors, up the stairs, and along the terraces, and 
soon he reached the guest quarters.  This wing had always reminded him 
of an inn, a long corridor that lead to room after room, for oft times there 
would be many scholars visiting, or a large traveling party in need of 
shelter.  This autumn and winter there was but one visitor, the young elf 
who called himself Lasarbar, who had captured the elf-lord’s heart.

Moving silently with soft-shod steps, he entered the suite of rooms, the 
empty sitting room as dark as the corridor.  The doorway leading to the 
bedchamber was draped, indicating a request for privacy, but Elrond could 
no longer resist his urges.  Time stopped for him as he stood at the 
curtained doorway, his eyes closed as he listened for his guest’s breathing.  
The soft susurrations reached his ears, evenly paced, and Elrond was 
certain Legolas slept.

Like a wraith he slipped into the bedchamber, his own breath now loud in 
his ears, his heart pounding in his chest, and opened his eyes to take in the 
vision before him.  What he saw nearly made him gasp, for the beauty he 
saw was more than he had dreamed.

One long, leanly muscled leg extended out from under the rumpled 
bedclothes, bent at the knee, accentuating the curve of the firm, rounded 
bottom.  One hand lay across the flat abdomen, the other arm was flung 
above his head, the tousled blond hair swept across the pillow.  The 
smooth chest rose and fell with his breathing, the dark circles of his 
nipples punctuating the broad expanse of golden skin.  At rest his face 
seemed still younger than he truly was, the sculptured cheekbones and fine 
features seeming innocent and unspoiled.

His hand brushed against the book of poetry he had placed in a pocket of 
his robe.  Such a love he and Gil-galad had shared, that even now, 2600 
years and more after his death, the thought of the elf who was king of their 
people, as well as of his heart and soul, filled him with boundless joy, and 
buried him in endless grief.  The love I had for Gil-galad is in my heart 
still, he realized.  I could not offer it to Celebrían.  Can I open my heart 
once again for this one?

As he watched the sleeping elf, Legolas turned toward him, and the sheet 
slipped away from his groin, exposing him fully.

“A Elbereth,” Elrond swore.  “You are beautiful,” he whispered.

The darkly-lashed eyes fluttered and blinked.  The dark blue orbs caught 
sight of Elrond, and a wan smile crossed his face.  “Tha’s nice,” he 
mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Go back to sleep, young one,” Elrond whispered.  “You’re dreaming.”  
His fingers gently moved an errant stand of silken hair from Legolas’s 
face.

“Dreaming,” the sleeping elf repeated, his eyes closed again, and he 
sighed.  As he nestled into the pillows, his hand moved to his flaccid sex, 
his fingertips stroking it to hardness.

I must not see this, Elrond thought, but he was mesmerized by the graceful 
movements of the young elf’s hand.  He felt himself reacting, aroused by 
the sight of the unconscious masturbation.  Legolas continued to stroke 
himself, his breathing becoming more and more labored as he acted out 
his dream.

Let it not be of Elladan he dreams, the elf-lord prayed.  Or of some elf-
maid in Mirkwood.  He dared not even give thought to his dearest hope, 
that it was he who was the phantom lover of Legolas’s dream.

Gasping moans replaced the voiceless sighs, and the gentle touch became 
a firm grasp as the long fingers wrapped around the turgid organ.  His 
other hand slid over the smooth chest, a single touch enough for the rosy 
buds to harden and peak.  Milky fluid seeped from the darkened head, then 
with a shout, the climax came, seed shooting over the belly and chest as 
shudders wracked the entirety of the perfect, golden body.

Elrond could barely control his responses, all too near to spilling his own 
seed.  He pulled the sheet to cover the panting and relaxed elf, then bent to 
brush his lips across the tangled hair.  “Rest now, young one,” he 
whispered, then turned away to return to his bedchamber.  In the doorway, 
he paused and looked back, hearing again in his mind the sound of his 
own name shouted in Legolas’s orgasm.

As the curtain fell back over the doorway, blue eyes opened, and Legolas 
smiled broadly, then turned over and slept again.

***

The Stables, at the same time.

Without need for a lamp or a candle, the keen-sighted elf found his way to 
his brother’s side in the darkened stable.  The expectant mare had calmed 
somewhat, and stood in a corner of the oversized stall.  Elladan sat near 
her, reclining on stacked hay bales, but Elrohir spoke first to the horse, 
running a hand over her withers.  

“I spoke with Father,” he said quietly, settling himself on the hay, sitting 
near his brother’s head.

A raised eyebrow said about?

“Many things,” he answered the silent question.  He kept his voice low, 
not wanting to alarm the skittish mare.  “About Mother,” he went on, “and 
King Gil-galad, and Lasarbar…”  He lowered his voice even further.  
“…and you.”

“That must have been quite a conversation.”  Elladan drank from a 
wineskin, then offered it to Elrohir.

“Yes,” Elrohir admitted.  “It was.”  He accepted the container, noting it 
was nearly full.  He lifted the skin to his mouth and drank, savoring the 
strong wine as it burned its way down his throat.  A long silence stretched 
between them.  “He has deep feelings for Lasarbar, brother.”

“And I do not?”  He took back the wineskin.

“Do you?  Elrohir knew his brother had feelings for the young elf, and had 
long wondered of their nature.

“I have feelings for him as well.”  He uncapped the wine, drinking deeply.  
“He excites me still,” he admitted.  “Even after… even after the Solstice.”

“So you lust for him.  Is he different from any of the others?” he asked, 
trying to keep his voice free of the distaste he held for Elladan’s behavior.

“I thought it was only lust.”  He sighed, then turned to lie on his back, 
staring upward into the darkness.  “At first it was only his beauty, his 
golden hair, his body that enticed me.”  After another swallow of wine he 
passed the skin back to Elrohir.  “Brothers may speak of such things,” he 
continued.

Elrohir could not see his brother’s blush, but sensed the embarrassment 
that Elladan felt.  “We have always shared what is in our hearts without 
judgement.”  He grasped Elladan’s shoulder, the touch reinforcing the 
connection that was always between them, the bond they shared 
overcoming the fear Elrohir felt that they were growing apart.

“I expected nothing more than a night of pleasure,” Elladan began.  “He 
had refused me once, so I eliminated his reserve with spirits.”  The mare 
whinnied and stomped her hoof as the foal moved in her womb.  Elladan 
rose from the hay bales and soothed her, running his hands over the 
distended belly.  “Not long now,” he told her, and returned to the hay 
bales. “I thought one night with him would suffice, and my desire for him 
would be satisfied,” he admitted.  “It disturbs me, but I find I long for him 
still.”

Elrohir let escape an exasperated sigh.  “So you will still pursue him?  
When you know it is not you he loves?”

“I stopped thinking about love long ago.”  Elladan’s voice was suddenly 
hard and loud, and the sound of it startled both his brother and the mare.  
“It means nothing to me.  I take my pleasure where I find it.”

A strong image of their mother’s departure filled Elrohir’s mind.  “It is 
because of Mother that you have closed your heart?  Because she loved us 
and yet left this world?”  His words struck at Elladan and cut deeply.

“I asked her how could she leave us, when I —  we loved her so.”  Tears 
long unshed thickened Elladan’s voice.  “She told me love was not 
enough…”  Sobs interrupted his confession.

“Oh, Elladan.”  Elrohir gathered his brother into his arms and held tightly 
as the pain of more then a century was finally washed away with tears.  
“Elladan, it was not you who failed her.”  He felt his own tears flow as he 
remembered that awful time.  “It was the foul orcs who poisoned her 
spirit, not any of us.”  They sat together until Elladan’s sobs eased and 
Elrohir’s tears dried.  

“There is still love in your heart, I know,” Elrohir whispered.  “You will 
find it if you let go of the pain.”

“Without the pain I have nothing.”  Elladan sniffled back the last of his 
tears, still clinging to his brother.

“You have me, brother,” Elrohir promised.  He bent his head and kissed 
the top of Elladan’s head.  “I will never desert you.”

***

Two weeks later.

Winter was half spent, and though the storms swept past Imladris less 
frequently, they were harder, colder, and longer than the storms of autumn 
and early winter.  The wind had blown from the north for two days, the 
cold freezing the water in the horses’ troughs, leaving a rime of ice on the 
paving stones of the courtyard.

The waters of the River Bruinen froze in mid-fall, heaping on the thick ice 
of the lower river.  Children skated on the pond, hitting a disk back and 
forth among them throughout the clear but cold day.  The infirmary saw a 
constant stream of bumps and bruises as even sure-footed elves found 
their feet flying out from under them as they attempted to walk across ice-
slickened walkways.

“I must excuse myself tonight, young one,” Elrond said as he met Legolas 
before Elbereth’s statue, as was their habit.  “The wife of one of the 
Rangers was brought to me today, unconscious from hitting her head as 
she fell on an icy step.”

“I understand, my lord,” Legolas assured him.  “Will she recover?”

Elrond looked at the marble statue for a long moment.  “I must say I do 
not know.  If she were of the First Born, I would say yes, but the race of 
Men does not have our strength.”  He reached his hand to brush the 
statue’s fingertips, and his lips moved in a silent plea to the Queen of the 
Valar.

“She shall have my prayers as well, my lord,” Legolas promised.  He 
could see weariness in the way Elrond stood, his usually proud posture 
giving way to stooped shoulders.  Sensing the strong emotions held within 
the tall form, the young elf touched the Healer’s arm, wishing his own 
strength could be transferred to the suffering woman.

Elrond lifted his head.  The grey eyes had a far-off look to them, but as 
Legolas looked deeply into their grey depths, they brightened, and the elf-
lord smiled, and clasped both of Legolas’s shoulders.  “Thank you, my 
friend,” he said.

His hands lingered, their touch filling Legolas with desire.  The simple 
touch did not move into an embrace, as he hoped, but in a heartbeat Elrond 
dropped his hands, turned, and strode toward the infirmary.

Keeping his promise, Legolas stood for another moment before the statue 
of Elbereth and silently sent his prayer to the Blessed Realm.  After his 
request for the recovery of the woman whose name he did not know, he 
added his own petition, one he had sent westward nearly every night since 
coming to Imladris.

O Elbereth Gilthoniel, who made the stars to shine, he prayed silently.  
Give me the courage to tell him — show him how I feel.  A wave of 
uncertainty swept over him, and he added,  But if he does not feel as I do, 
let me hold my tongue, and dream forever of what might have been.

His usual activity for the evening canceled, Legolas headed for his own 
chambers, thinking to read before taking his rest for the night.  Climbing 
the wide stairway to the private levels, he was met by Elladan.

“Good evening, Elladan,” he began.  He started to ask if Elladan wanted 
something, but the words stopped in his throat.

“My father must be occupied tonight — or you have grown tired of battle-
play.”  The words held an edge of sarcasm that seemed out of place to 
Legolas.

“Your father is attending to an ailing woman,” Legolas responded.  
Elladan had not attempted to maintain the physical relationship after their 
encounter on the night of the Solstice.  The elder twin had behaved as 
though nothing had happened between them, so Legolas had put the night 
behind him, though it hadn’t been an unpleasant experience.  For him, at 
least, it had been merely sex without passion, without real feelings for the 
one who had brought him release.

“Elrohir is occupied this evening as well.”

“So you seek my company?  Legolas knew not what possessed him to 
answer thusly.  He had not intended to flirt with Elladan, but realized it 
was his body’s needs speaking through him, not his mind or heart.

Elladan’s grey eyes brightened, and he smiled, a bit lecherously, it seemed 
to Legolas.  The dark-haired elf moved closer and touched Legolas on the 
arm.  “Was our last encounter so displeasing to you?” 

The fair-haired elf could not stop the blush from coloring his cheeks.  “No, 
it was not,” he admitted in a whisper.

They both turned to see one of the fire-keepers cross the open hall below 
where they stood on the stairs.  The grey-clad elf carried a bucket 
brimming with ash, shoveled from one of the ground floor hearths, but 
never lifted his eyes from his route.

“We should not speak of such things here, Lasarbar,” Elladan whispered.

“No, we should not,” Legolas answered.  It is Elrond’s touch I hunger for, 
he told himself.  And now my bloods sings to Elladan’s touch also.  
“Come,” he said, and led Elladan toward his chambers.  He could no 
longer deny his body’s needs, when his mind knew his heart’s desire 
would never be realized.

They walked quickly and silently to the rooms Legolas had made his own 
in the months he had been at Imladris.

Once within the sitting room, Elladan pulled Legolas into an embrace 
arousing the younger elf, making his breath come fast, his heart pound in 
his chest.

“I know there is no passion between us, Lasarbar,” Elladan whispered in 
his ear, the warm breath sending a shiver of excitement through the lithe 
body.  “But there can be pleasure.”

The touch of Elladan’s tongue to the point of his ear, tracing along the 
curving edge to the lobe, then the gentle tug of teeth on the soft flesh, was 
nearly his undoing.  His knees became like jelly, and he gripped Elladan’s 
body as he struggled to keep his balance.  A sigh forced its way past his 
lips.

“Ah, I knew it,” Elladan moaned into his ear.  “You still respond to me.  
You still want what I can give you.”

Legolas couldn’t argue, he could only stretch his head back and allow 
Elladan to kiss and lick a line down his throat, stopping to nibble at just 
the spot that dissolved all volition, all discretion, all shame.

This time neither of them were intoxicated, and neither of them held the 
illusion that this was love.  This was sex, the giving and taking of 
pleasure, the dominance and submission of their bodies, each of them 
wishing the other were someone different.  The name Elladan whispered 
and shouted was unknown to Legolas, but the name that issued from 
Legolas as strongly as his seed spurted forth was one Elladan knew well 
— his father’s name.


CHAPTER NINE

Late Winter.

Days of bright sunshine followed the ice, but still the north wind blew cold 
through the valley, and all that melted during the day refroze overnight.  
Inside the sanctuary fires blazed in every hearth, and at night banks of 
candles lit every corner.

The minutiæ of administration had long been a bulwark between Elrond 
and the realities of his existence.  Occupied with the day to day details of a 
large household, the petty and not-so-petty squabbles of his vassals, and 
expanding his own knowledge as a healer and loremaster, he had no time 
to dwell on the emptiness of his personal life.  He had been emotionally 
alone for so long it seemed the natural order of things, and he had 
convinced himself that he was happy.  At best, though, he had been 
content in the years of his marriage with Celebrían, and he had found true 
joy in seeing his children born, grow into adults, and live their own lives.  
The moment his beloved Gil-galad had been struck down by the Dark 
Lord, his heart had been emptied, and remained so until now.

When that void began to fill with his feelings for the young elf-prince, 
Elrond dismissed it as a simple attraction, base lust, his body’s natural 
response to the presence of a beautiful, young, vibrant elf.  Day by day, bit 
by bit, the void was diminished, and his feelings for Legolas grew 
stronger.

It had been so long since such strong desires had affected him, Elrond 
was, at first, at a loss as how to proceed.  He was painfully aware of the 
gulf of years between Legolas and himself, and wondered if the much 
younger elf could possibly find him desirable.  An elf such as Legolas, 
grown to adulthood sheltered in the fastness of Mirkwood, would be 
accustomed only to the golden hair and blue eyes shared by the family and 
people of Thranduil.  Would he see any beauty at all in the Noldorian 
darkness of his eyes and hair?  The doubts preyed upon his mind and held 
his tongue, and he could only watch Legolas from afar, could only be a 
friend and mentor to him.

But how he longed to touch the smooth skin of his cheek, to comb his 
fingers through the silken strands of golden hair.  Every time Legolas 
spoke, Elrond focused on his mouth, wanting nothing more than to taste 
those rosy lips.  He often watched the sprite work in the library, diligent in 
his tasks, and sometimes followed him to the stables, where he cared for 
his horse with compassion and concern.

A chance encounter had led to their spending the long, dark evenings 
together, heads bent over the checquered board of the Battle game.  
Legolas asked questions about the past, historical events in which Elrond 
had taken part, of battles and alliances long since relegated to history 
books.  The elf-lord told his stories, basking in the rapt attention of the 
young elf, then asked what Legolas thought.  He found the Mirkwood 
prince had a keen mind, but his limited experience with others hindered 
his understanding of history.

“You are in the library every day, Lasarbar,” Elrond told him.  “Do not 
simply list the books.  If you find one that piques your interest, read it.  If 
you have questions, ask them.  Glorfindel and I will gladly answer, if we 
can.”

“And if you cannot?” Legolas teased, a broad smile brightening the room 
as well as Elrond’s heart.

“Then we will all learn together, young one.”

***

It was late one evening when Legolas returned to his chambers, his control 
strained to the utmost.  He had spent hours in Elrond’s company, their 
conversation a blur in his befogged brain.  He hoped he had not made a 
fool of himself, but couldn’t remember a single subject they had 
discussed, nor a word he had said.  He had been a guest in Imladris while 
Ithil waxed and waned four times, and now was nearly full once again.  He 
still marveled at the hospitality of this household, of their trust and 
affection he’d been offered.  But it was much more than trust and affection 
he desired from his host.  His attraction to the tall, stern elf-lord had not 
diminished with time, only grown stronger.

This night, for some reason, he found his desire for Lord Elrond nearly 
overwhelming.  He watched the older elf’s face as he spoke, losing 
himself in the smokey eyes, wondering for the thousandth time if his lips 
were as warm and soft as he imagined.  He pictured himself twirling the 
plaited forelocks between his fingers, using them to pull the expressive 
face to his own, plundering the richness of his mouth, pressing their bodies 
close together.  He somehow managed to put words together in coherent 
sentences, to follow the conversation as if he was in possession of his 
faculties.  His head may have had control of his mouth all evening, but his 
heart was in full command of his body, and only the heavy drape of his 
robe over his lap kept him from exhibiting his lust more openly to Elrond.

He threw the robe and kirtle over a chair, slipped off the soft house shoes 
and short hose, and padded barefoot to the bath.  He tugged the tunic over 
his head, and frowned at the damp stain that spread across the garment’s 
hem, then tossed it aside as he splashed cool water on his face.  His clout 
was more heavily soiled, and he quickly unwound it from his hips and sent 
it after his tunic.

Unrestrained, his member hardened again at the merest thought of Elrond.  
He closed his eyes and threw his head back as his mind filled with the 
image of the elf-lord on his knees.  He could almost feel the long fingers 
digging into his posterior, and the heat of labored breaths on his intimate 
parts.  Forgetting his ablutions, he hastened to the large bed where he 
could indulge his fantasies more comfortably.

He had found a phial of sweet-smelling oil in the bath, and had secreted it 
in the table beside his bed.  Wonderfully slick, he had used it repeatedly to 
facilitate his dreams of Elrond.  When warmed to the temperature of his 
body its fragrance changed to a heady, musky scent that aroused him even 
further.  This night he rubbed the oil on his chest and shoulders, breathing 
in the intoxicating scent before applying the lubricant to his hard, straining 
organ.

With light, teasing strokes along the throbbing shaft he was soon gasping 
for breath.  He slid one hand across his oiled chest to pinch and pull at his 
pebbled nipples, sending shudders from head to toe.  His hips pushed up 
from the bed, rubbing his sex against his hand and he grasped it firmly, 
thrusting into the circle of his fingers, imagining Elrond’s mouth and 
hands touching him, caressing him, bringing him indescribable pleasures.  
His toes curled, the pressure in his groin built, and he knew he was at the 
edge of control.  He breathed deeply, easing back from the precipice, then 
starting again with soft, ghosting strokes.  Soon his entire body throbbed 
with every heartbeat, his breath came in heaving gasps, and he could no 
longer pull away.  The sensations, real and imagined, drove him into a 
whirlwind which left him physically spent, able only to whisper his 
beloved’s name as he slipped into his dreams.

***

It took every bit of self control Elrond could muster to turn away from the 
young elf when they parted company after hours over the board of Battle.  
He stood at he top of the main stairway and watched as Legolas walked 
away.  His arms ached to reach for him, his loins burned with desire.  He 
opened him mouth to call him back, but stopped.  He turned away and 
made his way to his own chambers to spend the night alone once again.

Though Elrond had been privy to some of the young elf’s dreams, there 
was no outward sign that he was attracted to the elf-lord.  He knew 
Elladan and Legolas had spent nights in each other’s company; perhaps it 
was his son that the Mirkwood elf desired.

No, he answered himself.  It was my name he cried in his dream.

He took exacting pains with his nightly routine, hoping the familiar tasks 
would take his mind from his imaginings.  He was able to concentrate as 
he undressed and washed, but whe