TITLE: Whims Of The Heart
AUTHOR: Faela Istari Greenleaf
RATING: Um…somewhere from R to NC-17. Okay, NC-17. 
PAIRING: Legolas/Elrond
DISCLAIMER: Things you will get if you sue me: 
* 75 cents
* Aerosmith ticket stub
* Size-six reproduction of the One Ring (nm, you'll pry it off my cold 
dead finger)
* Pack of very old, well-used LotR tarot cards.
That's about it. I am not the esteemed, godly Mr. Tolkien. (Face it, if I 
WAS, would the characters be in such a compromising position?)
SUMMARY: It’s the night after the Council of Elrond… elves are 
stressed, hey, things happen. Pretty much plotless, but I kind of like it. 
(Orange soda + jelly beans = Faela The Amazing Smut Machine.) 
NOTES: This is the one I’ve been promising for the last couple of days. 
Feedback is needed for me to survive through the winter, I’m afraid. 
UPCOMING: I’ve got an Aragon/Legolas on the back burner. It’s at the 
moment called “Shake Me All Night Long.” :) 

******

“Legolas…”

The name was spoken in the dark, the right way, with the accent on the 
last syllable. The proper Elvish way, not what he could expect from silly 
men, who threw his name around like it was any old common-speech 
word. 

Yes, it was spoken in the Elvish accent, suitable for an Elven prince, 
Legolas mused. How he loved to hear Elvish. After months in the Wild 
among every species *except* elves, their beautiful words and voices 
floated into his ears like the loveliest of music, so unlike the rough tongue 
of the other lands east of the Sea. 

He felt so good to return to Rivendell – to Imladris – that his heart felt 
tight, even if he had come back amid the imminent, always-present threat 
of the Shadow in the south. 

He was jerked back to the reality of his surroundings with the light touch 
of someone’s hand upon his shoulder. 

The long, fair fingers of Master Elrond Half-Elven rested casually on his 
soft silver tunic, squeezing gently, the rings on them glinting softly in the 
dark. Legolas turned his head and saw Vilya, its clear blue air-stone nearly 
glowing in the light reflecting from the mist. 

It was middle-eve.  Legolas had been walking aimlessly around the Last 
House’s winding balconies, looking at the Misty Mountains rising out of 
the inky night surrounded by their wreathes of vapor, and he had most 
certainly not been expecting the sovereign of Rivendell to be awake as 
well, wandering the same path. 

“Good eve, prince of the Wood,” Elrond said quietly. “What troubles your 
mind, so that you must walk the city in the hours that others sleep?”

Legolas shook his head so that the blonde braids fell from where they’d 
been tucked over his ears. “Nothing, your excellency. I was just unable to 
rest this night.”

“I have told you before not to address me as that. How quickly you 
forget.” Elrond pulled level with Legolas and they continued walking. “It 
has not been so very long since you were here last.”

“Long enough, your…”Legolas stopped in time. “There is much that 
vexes me.”

“There is much that vexes us all, prince. And the chief subject troubling 
my own mind is that the fate of us all lies in the hands of a somewhat 
naïve Halfling from the Shire.” Elrond smiled, but briefly. “However 
much I trust you and the others to protect him.”

“Yes. Aragorn and Boromir are great warriors, for men. They will see that 
the Fellowship does not fail.”

“Do you not see yourself as a great warrior, prince?” The blue eyes of the 
king of Imladris narrowed in question. 

“I see myself as a mediocre archer, my lord,” Legolas answered honestly. 
He crossed his arms over the many tiny buttons that closed his grey 
waistcoat. Rivendell was a cold city in the night. 

“Such is a very humble opinion from the son of my friend Thranduil, the 
greatest bowman in Mirkwood.” A smirk touched Elrond’s lips. 
“Misleading, as well.”

“Oh. Thank you,” said Legolas, rather flattered. He leaned against the 
railing that led to the River Bruinen below the balcony and gazed out onto 
the clear running water. “It feels like I have been away for an age.”

“You practically have. It was the Second Age when you were here last. 
But for us; that is nothing. Nothing. Centuries pass us by like mere 
seconds while other beings fade away like simple flowers, withering and 
dying in the grass.” Elrond’s fingers traced invisible pathways in the hazy 
air.  

Legolas tried to agree, but the words stuck in his throat. He turned away, 
but too late: Elrond had noticed his face, and he spoke again, softly this 
time. “It may have been an age since you have been in Imladris, but I 
think you have not forgotten my touch, prince.”

“I…I have forgotten nothing,” Legolas whispered, his face still hidden. “I 
have forgotten nothing, and I remember much.” He did remember 
everything, especially on the cold nights…every stroke in the dark, every 
murmured word. Everything. His long, cooled hands rubbed his arms 
vigorously as they were struck with sudden chill, and he kept his grey-
green eyes cast down on the water. 

The Elven-king touched his shoulder. “I, too, have forgotten nothing, 
though many is the evening I have wistfully thought back upon it wishing 
to recall more accurate details.” 

Yes, that was right. Surely Legolas had memorized the entire occurrence 
far better than his more experienced companion; one did not take the 
losing of his elfhood lightly, nor the events that accompanied the occasion. 
His hands gripped the railing now, and kneaded it, the slender knuckles 
turning white. 

“Yes, elves have long memories,” Elrond continued, looking at him 
steadily. “Long memories that carry on through the ages, but sometimes 
need a bit of refreshing.”

Legolas swallowed, quite aware of Elrond watching his throat while he did 
so. “Re… refreshing, my lord?” He tried to make the question sound 
casual, but it came out sounding damnably hopeful. 

“Yes. Refreshing.”  Elrond’s fingers stroked his cheek with the lightest of 
brushes and he murmured again, “I have forgotten nothing, young prince, 
and yet I wish to be refreshed.”

“I am no longer young, lord, as I was then,” Legolas said, with just a note 
of flatness.

Elrond laughed. “Yes, but you are young compared to me.” He waved a 
hand. “Even these mountains, this city, are young in comparison to me.” 
The master paused briefly, then went on with his speech in a soft, 
reflective voice. “I am old, Legolas. I do not look it. No elf does, but I am 
old. I was born in Beleriand in the first Age of the Sun, and I was already 
ancient when the great cities of Gondor and Erebor and even your 
kingdom of Mirkwood were but dreams in the hearts of men, elves, and 
dwarves. Things have touched my heart in ways that scar beyond the 
healing of time. You are one of those things, little archer.”

And suddenly Legolas did feel very young. He hunched his shoulders and 
felt like he was five hundred again, just starting to train with a bow and 
shooting rabbits for practice. “Why?” he asked, almost imperceptibly. 
“Why is it that I have done such a thing?” Elves were basically alike in 
looks, whether they were Easterlings or of the Wood, with fair hair and 
skin, and eyes and ears slightly pointed. It was the Half-Elves that were 
blessed with rare splendor, their own pale skin contrasting with their dark 
hair and eyes, and yet he, the most insignificant of wood-elves, captivated 
this striking Elven-king. 

“It is certainly not your looks, though they are as fine and sharp of any 
High-Elf,” Elrond explained, “but the other things. They way you stood 
today at the Council and defended the good king Elessar made me believe 
you have met before under less …public circumstances.”

Red blush roses crept all the way up to Legolas’s pointy ears. 
“Yes…well…um…”

The other chuckled. “It is not a concern of mine; he is quite fine in 
appearance, for a man. The point is, you jumped so quickly to his 
protection in front of the others. Stunning display of courage.” He smiled. 
“It made me recall why I had wanted you in the first place, back when you 
were actually young, fiery and stubborn as many elves have not the heart 
to be in these dark times.”

Legolas was silent. “I have changed some.”

“Yes, but not much. And yet…what was it for you, prince? What was it 
that made you come so willingly to my bed?”

That was a question he was not quite sure how to answer at first, so he 
began hesitantly. “I… I… You are the master of Rivendell, I could hardly 
have refused…”

“And you are the prince of Mirkwood, not some rent-elf,” Elrond 
answered sharply. “You could have refused more easily then anyone else.”

“You were very handsome, my lord,” Legolas blurted. “And I *was* 
young then, and it was rather thrilling for me to…I mean…” He lifted his 
head, and the long corn-silk hair brushed back at his temples, and he 
looked the king of the great realm of Imladris boldly in the face. “Because 
I wanted to, that’s why.”

The laugh of Elrond rang through the night. “That’s an answer I’ll take, 
archer. And let me ask you this: do you want to now?”

Legolas let the word on his lips fly faster then an arrow. “Yes.” 

“And are you still young enough to act upon the whims of your heart?” 
Elrond touched his thumb lightly to the corner of Legolas’s mouth, dark 
eyes glinting in the mist. 

“Perhaps I am not quite so old as I act sometimes,” Legolas said, his olive 
eyes tilting mischievously. One hand crept up and found Elrond’s slender 
waist. Legolas was indeed young in comparison to the Elven-king but he 
had certainly had his share, and he tipped his face upwards and kissed his 
companion with the fervor befitting a prince. 

Elrond’s fingers roamed smoothly over his back and sides, pausing now 
and again to massage a certain place or brush Legolas’s long hair away 
from his face. The two of them stood, enveloped by valley mist, so close 
together that each could feel the slow beats of the other’s immortal heart 
as their hands teased and wandered, Legolas’s a bit tentative at first; 
Elrond’s more sure and stealthy. 

They kissed; and it was as if a river of fire passed from one to the other, 
parallel to the River Bruinen below where they stood. They caressed each 
other’s cheeks and every contact was like a thousand tiny sparks of fire 
from a tinder and flint. 

It was said that when Elves were created, the first thing they saw was the 
light of new stars, and that light remained in their eyes for the rest of time; 
and that was why Elves loved starlight above all else, and it seemed to 
Legolas for the first time that it was true. Every inch of Elrond Half-Elven 
seemed to sparkle and glint, from the rings made of starmoon on his 
fingers, to the deep, glistening eyes of indigo set in a pale face, to the glint 
of the silver buttons on his waistcoat, and the shine filled Legolas’s eyes 
until it seemed he could see only the lord of Imladris and all else was 
nothing. 

“You room with the guardsman Glorfindel, do you not?” Elrond 
whispered. 

Legolas nodded, shakily; Glorfindel had been his childhood friend and the 
two were close still. “I do.”

“Than you shall come to my own chambers.” The elder elf stroked his 
cheekbone with a feather-light touch. He smiled. “I will show you the 
way.”

The Last Homely House East of the Sea was quiet this night, the earlier 
bustle and activity of its inhabitants seemingly stifled by the dark.  They 
passed by many doors on every side, including the entrance to the Hall of 
Isildur, where Legolas knew Aragorn would be, as he had been every 
night since his arrival in Rivendell, mulling over the sword of his great 
ancestor. He shook his head for the sorrow of his friend and tightened his 
hand around that of the Elven-lord. 

Elrond’s rooms were not any more luxurious than the others, but they 
were bigger and had large windows, which opened up to a view of the 
Misty Mountains. Instead of being foreboding as Legolas had expected, 
the outlook was pleasantly serene, reminding him of adventures long past. 
The white curtains fluttered softly around the open pane, the mist breeze 
stirring the elves’ hair.

The sleeping-place of the Lord of Rivendell was much too magnificent to 
be called simply a *bed*, although for the life of him Legolas couldn’t 
think of what he *could* call it. The head-posts were formed of two 
ancient trees that grew through the floor, and whose branches twined into 
each other forming a canopy of golden leaves. The sheets were the white 
silken material of which all the High-Elves were so terribly fond. Legolas 
himself far preferred forest colors, but at that moment, the white was the 
most beautiful thing he had ever seen.  

Elrond slid his hands around Legolas from behind, his fingers feeling 
carefully for the row of buttons on the prince’s waistcoat. He undid them 
one by one, each making a tiny *snk* noise as it slipped out of its 
buttonhole, until Legolas’s breathing sped up and he stood in only his 
tunic and trousers.  That was altered quickly as he drew his tunic over his 
head and threw it semi-gracelessly to a heap on the floor, and turned to 
face Elrond, his hands reaching up to the brooch that pinned his collar. He 
pulled it off. 

“That’s an heirloom,” Elrond said raggedly. 

Legolas dropped it on top of his tunic and continued peeling off Elrond’s 
waistcoat and undershirt. “Oops.”

“Ah, well. Never mind. Perfectly all right.” He gripped the back of the 
younger elf’s neck and tilted it back, kissing him again, combing the 
fingers of one hand through Legolas’s hair while the other fumbled 
maladroitly with his own belt. “Damn. That is hard to do with just one 
hand, isn’t it?”

Yanking off a boot, Legolas nodded in agreement. “Well, yes, but you can 
let go for a second, I’m not going to run away.”

“Only if you promise.” Elrond jerked the belt off and dropped it onto the 
growing pile of discarded clothing. Legolas went after the lacings in his 
other boot. “You need help with that?”

“No, of course not.” He gave it a final wrench and it hit the floor with a 
*clunk*. He stood now in just his green trousers. 

Elrond motioned with a finger. “Off with those.” 

It continued along those amiable lines until the two of them stood naked 
before one another, the touches that had come so easily a moment before 
suddenly seeming hesitant. Legolas held his shoulders back reflexively, 
defensive stance, something he had learned to do first as a prince and later 
as an archer. 

Elrond reached out and stroked the hard line of the muscle in his neck. 
“How beautiful you are, my prince of Mirkwood. So rare and hard-to-find 
are the incarnations of the stars.”

With those words Legolas relaxed into the arms of the great Lord of 
Rivendell, and they wrapped around him with warmth and surety, and 
guided him down onto the object too magnificent to be called simply a 
*bed*. He watched his own pale fingers twist into Elrond’s dark hair and 
closed his eyes as he felt lips close ever so gently around his nipple, then 
trailed carefully down his body, leaving a damp coldness where they had 
already been. 

Legolas’s heels slid around on the slippery silk sheets as Elrond crawled 
between his legs and commenced performing the kind of skillful blowjob 
that can be given only after quite a bit of experience. His eyelids flew 
open and he looked down to see the top of a dark head, and the tip of a 
pink tongue tracing designs on his cock. 

He felt like his spine had disappeared completely, his muscles turned 
rather to liquid, and he sagged onto the mattress like a melting ice cube as 
he discerned the tickling brush of eyelashes on his groin. 

Tiny moans escaped Legolas, coming from somewhere deep in his throat 
as his fingers clenched into the soft feather mattress, and beads of sweat 
began to form around his hairline. His heels continued slipping around 
irrepressibly until finally, they latched around Elrond’s back, drawing him 
up, and their lips met again, this time desperately, urgently, frantically. 
Elrond’s tongue glided into Legolas’s mouth, exploring every corner, and 
Legolas wrapped his arms around his lord, pulling him so close that it 
seemed like he was trying to draw Elrond within himself and make them 
one. 

The act itself was short but seemed like eternity. Legolas sensed that he 
was floating above his own body instead of contained by it, but every 
sensation came through to him perfectly, from the disturbingly elegant 
nuzzling of the ancient aristocrat on his neck to the moment that he felt 
Elrond’s cock slide inside him, slowly at first, teasing.

Legolas drew in a quick breath. “/Curonir!/” 

Elrond kissed him, silencing further Elvish curses. He thrust again, faster 
and faster, plunging himself deeply into Legolas’s fair shores. “My 
prince,” he said hoarsely. 

“My lord,” Legolas just managed to respond raggedly, before Elrond’s 
touch pushed him over the edge and spiraling down into the chasm, and he 
felt hot seed spill into him and then dimly sensed his lover collapsing onto 
him, both of them breathing now in heavy, quick sighs. 

Elrond was the first to regain his composure, and he pulled one of 
Legolas’s hands to him and kissed his fingertips. He squeezed the other 
tenderly. “So, little archer. This is my gift to you. Something pleasant to 
close your eyes and look back on, on the road to the Dark Lands.”

Legolas could not speak, but he squeezed back. 

*