Title: Threadbare

Author: Talullah
Author's email: talullahred@gmail.com
Author's website: www.secretstigma.net

Pairings: Legolas/Erestor; Elrond/Legolas.
Summary: Legolas’s heart is broken and he makes several
mistakes.
Rating: NC-17.

Feedback: I would love to learn your opinion on this.
Archive: Library of Moria, AFF, Of Elves and Men, Melethryn,
Peredhil.  Others are welcomed, but please tell me where it is.
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine.  They belong to the estate
of J.R.R. Tolkien and God knows who else. No disrespect
intended.  No profit made.  Lauryn Hill’s ‘Ex Factor’ lyrics are
extensively used in Erestor’s speech.  “It looks like freedom, but it
feels like death” is a line from Leonard Cohen’s ‘Closing Time’.

Author’s Notes: This fic is linked to ‘Contentment’.  It’s the
reverse of the coin, so to speak.

This was originally inspired by an interpretation Tori Amos’s
‘Bells for Her’ I once read combined with Peter Gabriel’s ‘I
grieve’.  Lauryn Hill’s ‘Ex Factor’ seemed a perfect fit for
Erestor’s voice.  Some parts of the lyrics were changed merely to
fit the language style employed everywhere else.  No disrespect or
inconsideration to Lauryn Hill is implied by this.

Warning: Song fic.  Legolas is OOC.  Well, not really.  In my
opinion elves will grow and learn like everyone else and this
Legolas may not be the one we meet at LotR but he will get there,
eventually.

My dear Larien, how can I thank you for the beta, for the
friendship, for your ever kind and generous encouragements, for
your unique perspective, and for so much more?

~~~~~~
Imladris, 109 Third Age

Sometimes I hate my father.  Right now, I hate him so deeply it
consumes me.  I know he means well and that he loves me, but
father, please, I want to be free to make my own mistakes.  I do not
want your wisdom and your sight guiding my steps.  Let me
tumble and fall, if I must, but I will hold my fate in my hands.

These bitter thoughts again.  I straighten my shoulders and look
around with a faint smile, hoping that everyone thinks I am a mere

happy guest, the same as so many others.  I can see in the corner of
my eye that Saelbeth is watching me.  I wonder what his report to
my father will be.  “Sire, Prince Legolas behaved himself and did
not ask for the Peredhel’s mercy or beg for his love.  As far as I
know they did not even meet in private and your son was most
gracious when congratulating the bride and groom.”

Or will it be, “I regret to inform you, my Lord, that the feelings
Prince Legolas harboured for Lord Elrond are still patent in every
one of his movements, words, even thoughts.  I suspect that even
the Lady Celebrían understood that something strange was
happening.”

It matters not.  Everything that father has to say about this he has
said a thousand times.  I wish I could just yell, no, roar, and tell
him to shut up and let me live my own life, but I cannot.  Funny
how love binds us stronger than anger; funny how it can destroy
us.

The bride and groom face us now.  Behind the bride is Lord
Celeborn.  I hate him for having sired such a shrew.  By his side
and behind the groom, who once was my dear lover, is the Lady
Galadriel.  Yes, I can see to whom the shrew takes after, all radiant
and ready to use her steal fist that she hides under her silken,
delicate skin.

Elrond smiles vaguely to the crowd but quickly turns to face her
again.  He seems to be truly happy, melting under her eyes.  I
should be happy for him, but I am dying.  Each smile, each touch,
their first kiss as husband and wife, stab me.  It is all too much for
me to bear, and yet I do.  I have pride too and I will not let him see
my broken heart again.

Oh, why did my father ask this of me?  There were others who
could have come in his stead.  Why should it have to be me?  He is
not cruel unto others.  To dissipate this most inconvenient stinging
that has overcome my eyes, I glance back at Saelbeth who is still
watching me closely.  He manages to be more conspicuous than
me.  In fact, I know that he is not the only one watching.  Erestor
also has his eyes on me.  I wonder if he is worried that I will ruin
his friend’s wedding day, or if perhaps he still wants me in his bed.
Hopefully, the later.  I am sick and tired of people thinking I
cannot control myself when this is all I have left to do.  And at this
moment I want someone in my bed.  Anyone will do, but I want
Elrond to know that I have not spent the night alone, that I do not
need him or miss him.

I am making a good job of looking unaffected, I hope.

“Mercy shall be granted to those who need it,” I always heard say.
Where is my mercy now?  The newlyweds pass us by, wearing
their smiles thin, and we turn and clap, all so joyous.  We follow
them and celebrate.  Yes, this is how every wake should be: the
deceased should stand in a corner looking happy and alive so that
everyone can enjoy their lunch.

Saelbeth must have finally convinced himself that I have no wish
to make a fool of myself and excused himself.  I can see him from
afar talking to a maiden, who knows, maybe even flirting.  Good
for him.  As they say, life carries on.  Valar!  I am so sick and
tired of common places meant to mend what cannot be unbroken – my
tiny, useless heart.

I leave from under the oak.  Its shade would have been lovely to
make love under, but my lover had always been too preoccupied
with others to have time for a little folly in the margin of the
woods.  Now I have no lover.  I wonder if she will make him less
serious, more carefree, as I intended to do and failed.  To my
regret, all seems to indicate so.  He is throwing his head back in
laughter and dancing with her as I leave.  The sounds haunt me
until another voice overrides them.

“Prince Legolas.”  Predictable.  I would like to think him a hawk,
but he is more like a vulture.  Still, I answer him.

“Yes, Master Erestor?” I say in my steadiest voice.  I wonder
where one comes to find this strength when all inside is ruin.

“I was wondering…”  Apparently my composure was unexpected.
He looks to his feet but then gives me his most seductive smile.  “I
was wondering if you would care to join me inside for a nice little
chat, away from all this commotion.”

“Surely, Saelbeth has informed you of all the news and gossip
from Mirkwood by now.”  I want the same as him, but I am
enjoying making him squirm.

“Ah, yes, but there are so many other things to talk about, are there
not?” he insists.

I cannot not help but smile.  If Erestor is anything, he is patient
and determined – persistent even.  Well, one day he is bound to 
achieve his goal and why not today.  I nod and let him lead me inside.  
He heads for the empty Hall of Fire, surely having in mind a long
courting game, but I hold his wrist and say, “Dear friend, I do
believe we will be more comfortable in my rooms.”

The sparkle in his eyes and his throat quickly moving up and down
almost touch me, but this will not be about tenderness.  He and I
both know this.

I take him to my rooms and waste no time.  Never in my life have I
had such a submissive lover.  Well, considering he is the second,
that is not much at all, but I enjoy it.  I lead him to the window
where we can see the wedding party from afar, and I take him from
behind with nothing to ease the way, while he holds on to the
windowsill.  I want him to scream, I want his arms to fail to
support him and I want him to beg for mercy, but he gives me none
of this.  What he gives me is something all too different: as I
finish, he lets his robes back down, and without a word he holds me 
and lets me hide my face in his chest while we both slip onto the 
floor. I start shaking and gasping but no tear comes out, only strange
sounds that I knew not before.  This is how dry my heart is.

I know he is in pain also, in his body and in his soul, but he chose
this, he chose me, knowing that I had nothing to give him; and he
gives me his love and understanding.  I hate him for that.  I hate
him for loving me all those years without ever giving up, and I hate
him for being a better elf than me. I hate myself for being this low.

Dusk comes and Erestor does not move.  His arms shelter me and
his lips upon my hair sooth me.  The party goes on through the
night and we stay silent under the window, in the dark.  A roar of
laughter and song wakes me from the state of torpor I had settled
in.  The partisans are leading the bride and groom to their room.  I
tense and lift my head, but Erestor holds me tighter and starts
singing, first in a low voice, then louder as the noises come closer.
When they finally leave with all their stale jokes, he lowers his
voice to a hum.  In that moment, I want to love him.  I want it
desperately and I try to, I must say in my defence.  Life would be
so much easier if we could choose for the heart.

Erestor rises from the ground and kisses me on the forehead, ready
to leave, but I hold out my hand.  He helps me up and I hold him,
tightly.  I draw back and search his eyes in the dim light.  He does
not look away.  Something deep inside screams this is a mistake
that I will live to regret, but I lead him to my bed and lay him
down.  I curl around him and we sleep until morning comes.

He wakes me up with kisses and tender caresses.  I return them as
well as I can, but they seem hollow.  I feel real tenderness and
gratitude for him and it feels so good to be loved by at least one
person on Arda.  I want this to turn into something.  I close my
eyes and let him try.

Much later, I meet Elrond and his dear wife, both looking exultant.
I have no choice but to endure it, such is the protocol, but
thankfully it is all over soon.  It seems that everybody wants us to
be as far apart as possible.

I can hardly wait to leave Imladris as these short encounters repeat
themselves, and in each one, I can see the pity in Elrond’s eyes, in
the crumbs of time that he dispenses to me.  The Valar finally take
pity upon me and we leave the Hidden Valley.  Elrond sends
Erestor with us on some diplomatic errand.  How kind of him to
provide me with a replacement for what he has taken.  His pretext
is so weak it is almost risible.  I hate him for that too, but I am
glad to have Erestor by my side.  Saelbeth sees all and I know he
disapproves, but then again it is not his heart that has been
shattered in more pieces that can be counted.  Who gives him the
right to judge?

Erestor stays with us for a long time.  My father is not pleased, but
he never lets Erestor know it.  To me, however, he does not refrain
from repeating as often as he can that I am wronging Erestor and
that I should send him back.  I want to believe that he is wrong, but
he was right about Elrond.  He warned me so many times that I
was giving my heart to one who would not hold it for long.  And so
it was.

But now, with Erestor, I simply know that it has to last.  I will love
him and he already loves me.  I deeply resent my father for not
believing in my ability to live my own life and to make this work,
but the truth is that I feel guilty for not loving Erestor as I
should; though he seems to be so happy by my side, something is amiss.

Time passes.  I care little for it.  Life is life, not some grand work
of art, not a flawless love poem, but it is bearable, sometimes even
more than that.  Erestor makes sure of that when I am home.  Most
of the time I am out in the forest, patrolling, hunting, slaying
spiders.  I long to be at his side then, but when I am there I long to
leave.  Though his welcoming is always so warm, I cannot stay for
long by his side.  We are hardly newlyweds and do not act in that
way.  The affections he dispenses me are taken, but I have so little
to return and the guilt haunts me.  Still, I come back for more.

I am not sure how many years pass by.  I am not truly happy but
contentment has settled in, in some way, when he tells me that he
has to go to Imladris. Five years have passed and he must
remember that Elrond is still his lord.  Five years.  Only five years.
I wonder how this time has been for him.  For me it seemed much
longer, not in a dull way, but in a comfortable routinely fashion.  I
wonder if Erestor has managed to make a homely bird out of me.

I let him go, of course, and do not make a fuss.  In fact I hardly bid
him goodbye.  I can live without him, he knows that.  If I detect
some disappointment in him, I strive to ignore it.  Certainly he
does not expect me to return to Imladris.  It would be too
humiliating.  “Hello Elrond, and how do you fare, my old friend?
As you can see I took the consolation prize you so generously
handed out to me.”  Never.  I will not do it.  I cannot.

But Erestor takes his time in returning, though he has assured me
he would.  Against all sense and all pride I go there.  I make
excuses to myself, but I miss him.  Father tries to advise me again,
but his words hurt my pride, even if deep down I can see their
truth.

“Son, Erestor is not a toy.  Do you realise what you are doing?”  I
know that, and I know that I want him by my side for all the wrong
reasons, pride not being the least of them, in a strange twisted way.
But oddly, the bed from which I ran so often in the last five years
seems cold and empty; his seat at the dinner table, by my side, too
vacant, especially when someone else takes it.  I miss him.

“Legolas, leave him be.  You do not have a right to expect
anything from him.”  I know that also, but despite having given
him so little, I do expect something from him: I expect his love.  I
expect him to be there.  Was not that the deal?  Elrond gave him to
me, he lives for me, and I give him what crumbs I can gather?

“If you are so determined to have him, at least make an effort to
treat him adequately.”  Now these are the words that hurt me the
most.  I try my best.  I feel real affection for Erestor, I always
have and I treat him like the dear friend he is.  After that first 
time I never hurt his body again and I try so hard not to hurt him in 
any other way.  Father should see that.  Maybe he means we should be
like other couples, to look like we are in love, but I am not in love
with him and we all know it.  Should I lie? Deceit?  Is that what is
expected of me?

I leave him behind with all his words.  As I reach Imladris’s
borders my decision does not seem so appropriate.  What am I
doing here?  I ask the patrol we encounter to send a message to
Erestor.  From that point of the border to the Last Homely House is
a two day ride, so in four days Erestor will be here and we will be
on our way home.

But the four days pass and he is not here.  On the fifth day he
comes.  He takes me for a long walk beneath the canopy, until we
are far enough from our escorts.

“Legolas, I did some thinking and maybe we should spend some
time apart, I mean more than we already do.”  Erestor did not used
to be bitter.  Have I done that?  For a moment I forget Elrond and I
forget myself.  I want to hold him and tell him that everything will
be fine.

But my pride speaks loud and I step back, turning my back on him.
Have I travelled this far to just say to him, “Fine, then, suit
yourself”? Going home without him will bring shame upon me
both here and back home. I am angry at Erestor and once more at
father, as his words echo in my mind, ‘He is not a toy, he is not a
toy…’

So I accuse him.  It is certainly easier than swallowing my pride
and admitting to my own shortcomings.  “So you are just like him.
You had your fun and now I am a spoiled commodity that you will
not have anymore.”

“Legolas, please.”  I can see the shock spreading through his face
and I feel guilt for doing this to him, but I cannot stop myself.

“I will go back now.  I will not impose my undesired presence
anymore.  Go back to your friend and have a nice laugh over the
Mirkwood fool.  Oh, father was so right about you Noldo lot!”  I
know that I am lying and being petty and cruel, but I will not beg
for love again.

Erestor protests, he stutters, “Legolas, please it is not like that.
You must see…”  He reaches out and holds me.  “Please do not
say these things.  I would never do that to you.  It is just that…”
He gives up his explanation and settles for a simple “I love you.”

In an almost reflex action I open my mouth to tell him that I love
him too, but I bite my lip and stay stubbornly silent.  I never told
him that and I will not start doing so now.

We return to the camp and he arranges everything for us to leave
that very day.  He does not even go back for his belongings.  I
should be grateful, but I am drained.  All I want is for night to fall
and sleep to come.  By his side.

Time passes in this way.  Once every so often he returns there.
After that first time I never returned to Imladris, but in his
absences I sit and write him letters.  They are more than merely
affectionate and he comes back, he always does, even knowing that
nothing will change and that we will still be as distant as ever.
Each time I feel that he is wearier of me, of everything about and
around us.  After the first few joyous days, everything settles back
into our dull normality.

I take off whenever I start feeling too trapped and he waits,
patiently.  I can see that he is as unhappy as I am, but something
holds us together.  I try not to give any of this too much thought.
What good would it do?

And one day there comes the news: Elrond’s wife has been
attacked and has sailed.  I thought I had my course laid plainly in
front of me – I would enjoy this lukewarm happiness, that is really
less than joyous, beside Erestor for the rest of our lives and that
was it. I had grown accustomed to the idea and conformed to it.
But all these wild ideas run through my head.  Elrond taking
comfort in me, the one whom he despised.  Sometimes, I imagine
that I forgive everything and we return to our happiness has if not a
single cloud had ever crossed our skies.  Other times I see myself
rejecting him softly, kindly, letting him taste of the same blade that
cut me.  I grow impatient with Erestor, he interferes with my
reverie.  Father watches.  He knows that my wounds were only
patched and everything is raw underneath.  He knows I head for
disaster.

I go there.  I go against my father’s advice.  I go knowing that at
each step closer to Imladris, Erestor dies a little by my side and I
go there knowing that I beseech the love of a married man, that I
am beyond all law and decency.

Elrond is polite but ever so cold.  His sons hardly leave his side
and Glorfindel covers efficiently their absence.  I am patient,
though.  Have I not waited all those years and more until even I
forgot that I waited?

Time drags, but by the end of the winter my chance comes.
Elrond’s sons are escorting their sister to Lothlórien, and on one
evening, Glorfindel is held up by my dear lover.  It is almost as if
Erestor wants this, as if he is begging for the coup, for this time to
come.

Seeking my disclosure, I find Elrond alone.  He is startled by my
presence but recollects himself admirably.  Maybe he still has the
hope that I have forgotten him and settled for Erestor.  How wrong
of him once more.

I enter his private rooms, torn between the need for silence and the
need to bleed.  “And how do you fare?” I hear myself ask, the
perfect courtesan.

Elrond graces me with this faint facsimile of a smile he has
paraded the whole winter.  The martyr smile.  “As you see me.  No
more, no less.”

Ah, that noble strength, that selflessness.  I would have grown tired
of being myself if I were him.  Actually, I have grown tired of
being myself long ago.  I decide to cut through the chase and spare
us both the pain of small talk.  “Do you not feel terribly lonely?”

Elrond starts, but then he gives me his trusting look.  Dear, old,
harmless Legolas is addressing him, nothing foul can happen.

“I do,” he confesses candidly.

I should have known in this precise moment how it would end, but
this need to hurt us both is stronger.  I step closer, advancing by
the side and keeping his eyes in mine as if we were in the forest,
hunter and prey.

As I move, I speak, “Then why would you seek isolation?”

Elrond shrugs.  I know this also – the brilliant public speaker who
has inspired one generation after another cannot address his own
feelings.  Celebrían’s transformation has not been complete.

I am upon him and I act hastily, coarsely.  I kiss him.  He does not
resist, and I deepen the kiss as my hands start roaming his body.  I
feel so triumphant that I barely notice that this kiss does not arouse
or move me in any other way.  I am torn between the pathetic need
for a love long gone and this burning desire to humiliate him, to
tell him he is disgusting and has fallen too easily for my charms
and that one better than him, Erestor, awaits me.

To my shame, the needy part of me wins the debate, but as I try to
deepen our kiss, he pushes me back softly with one hand while the
other removes mine from his engorged groin.

“I am very sorry Legolas, but this cannot be.  I am lonely, yes, and
I still desire you, but I love my wife and even if I had never met
her, I would still owe respect and loyalty to my dear friend Erestor,
and so would you.”

I laugh bitterly at these words.  I have not been the hunter more
than he has been the prey.  I am a dog, one I once saw in a human
village, long ago.  His owner kicked him cruelly on the side, but in
the next minute he extended a miserable plate of leftovers and the
mutt dipped his nose gratefully in it, not without first lapping his
owner’s hand, his tail wagging.

I leave his rooms without an apology, which I am sure he expects.
I make a conscious effort not to slam the door and give more of
myself away, but then I realise that I am not disappointed by his
refusal.  In truth, I am relieved.  I see now that I do not love him
anymore, that I have hung onto a mere idea, and this thought is so
freeing that I feel myself floating.  As I walk down the hall I am
free for the first time in centuries.  Free of hate, free of pride and
free of fear. I make haste for my rooms, to Erestor. I despise
myself for having harboured such low feelings for so long and I
mourn the lost time, but I am now a different elf.  All I need I
already have and I will cherish it.

Erestor is sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed.  I come to
him and kneel, hiding my face in his lap.  His hands do not run to
my hair, but I can feel his whole body stiffen.  Gently, he pushes
me aside and rises.

“How was it, Legolas?  Did you find what you wanted, what you
seem to need so badly?”

“Erestor…” He is not the silent, consenting creature I am used to.
In shock I realise that he has reached his limit.  I suppose I knew
that one day this would come.  I have no will or strength to draw
this to closure, though I need him so badly.  I do not want to bend
him with words and I do not want to beg once more tonight.  I stay
silent.  He will make his own choices and mine too.

“I am leaving.  I am leaving you and this relationship.  I have had
too little for far too long.”

I sit on my heels and look at the rug.  Such a boring pattern.
Imladris has looked better to me.  He is waiting for me to protest,
but that might just take all that I have left.  I let him go, for now.
All that inebriating freedom seems to amount to very little now.

Morning comes and I am still at the foot of the bed, dressed,
rumpled, dead.  See, I learned something this night: I learned that
an old obsession may lose its meaning without taking the time to
warn us.  And I learned something else: it is Erestor.  It is him that
I love, that I have always loved, for all that he has given me.
Selfish but true.  It is him that I want by my side, not Elrond.
Elrond is not even who I remember.  Maybe he never was.

I seek Erestor everywhere.  I hope it is not too late, I hope that for
him this is just another one of my inconsequent moods.  I find him
talking to Glorfindel, near his old rooms.  They both hush their
voices as soon as they see me and Glorfindel excuses himself after
an embarrassingly long pause.

“Prince Legolas.”  He nods, and in his words I hear resentment and
a warning.  “Erestor, you know where you can find me.  Do not
hesitate in seeking me.”

Erestor stands there, not looking at me, so much colder than ever
before.  I will have to do everything by myself this time.

“I love you,” I say as soon as Glorfindel turns the corner.  Erestor
shakes his head.  It is no surprise that he does not fall into my arms
and gratefully thank me for my love.  I know I am wrong, but I am
also angry.  Why should things have to be so complicated?

As if reading my mind he says, “It could all be so simple but you
would rather make it hard.  Loving you is like a battle and we both
end up with scars.  I have had too many wounds.”

“We have been fine.”  I am still denying the evidences, though I
cannot miss the futility of it all.  I have seen throughout these
years Erestor settling for so little, never thinking on himself.  I am
selfish enough to ask for more.

“I love you,” I repeat, as if these meaningless, little words could
ever take away all the small neglects, all the lack of care he
endured for so long, as if they could erase this last betrayal.  But
as I say the words I know he will not believe them.  How could he?
One thing he is not is stupid.

I try to hold him, but he draws away from me.  “I love you,” he
tells me.  “I have loved you.  But I know it was never returned.
Tell me who I have to be to gain some reciprocity.  Elrond?  Why
would you want that?”  He shakes his head once more.  “See, no
one loves you more than me, and no one ever will,” he adds, his
voice deeper and his eyes shining.  I had never seen Erestor crying.
I had never given him room for himself, for his emotions.  But he
is used to it and tries to hold it inside.

“Please, Erestor.”  Now I beg.  Why not?  I humiliated myself for
something of far lesser consequence just the night before.

He turns to the light, and to me he is more beautiful than I
remember him.  “Legolas,” he sighs.  “Do you not see?  No matter
how I think we grow you always seem to let me know it is not
working.  And when I try to walk away, you hurt yourself to make
me stay.  I am tired of all of this.”

“You say you love me, still.  Why would you leave me then, when
I am begging, when I will do whatever it takes?”

“Please Legolas, let me go.  Please.”  He turns his back to me, his
shoulders slump forward.  I hear his faint words.  “Is this just a
silly game that forces you to act this way?  That forces you to
scream my name then pretend that you cannot stay?”

I have no words for him.  I know this is true.

He murmurs, “This is crazy.  This is crazy.”

I hold him from behind and nuzzle his hair.  I know he likes this.
Perhaps the body can achieve what the mind and the heart have
missed.

He does not push me away, but he does not yield either.  For a
moment, I think he may succumb but then he makes his voice
heard.  “I keep letting you back in.  How can I explain myself?  As
painful as this thing has been, I cannot be with someone else.”

I wonder if he is addressing me or himself, but the recipient of his
next words is unequivocal.  “See, I know what we have to do: you
let go and I will let go too.  Because no one has hurt me more than
you, and no one ever will.”

Erestor’s famed determination.  He vowed to make me love him
and he has succeeded, even if he cannot see it.  I fear that that he
may be lost forever, but I try.  There is nothing left to do but try.

“Please, Erestor, please.”  I tell him of dreams, of us together in
Mirkwood or wherever he wants.  I tell him how I will change and
be a better person and a better lover to him.  I tell him that I will
love him so much he will beg me to love him less.  He reaches his
hand up to mine, which is still resting upon his waist, and he
caresses it.  Hope shines only to be violently snuffed.

“I know you care for me.  You cry for me.  You say you would die
for me.  But all of this is too late.  Set me free, Legolas.”  He
takes my hands from him and walks away, into his room, without looking 
back once.

All this in some half lit corridor of a house that is not mine, in a
morning I would rather not have lived.  All this my doing, but I so
wish I could blame others.  I wish I could blame Erestor for letting
me go so easily, but I know he fought as hard to hold on to me as
to let me go.  I wish I could blame and hate Elrond for having let
me share his life once, but I was the one who chose to hang on for
way too long.

And I die for the second time in Imladris.  I hate this place.  This
time there will be no Erestor to mend my wounds, to make it all
better, and I am to blame for it.  I know I am defeated by myself
and I leave.  My poor escort has to hurry to have everything ready.
I vow that this will be my last selfish act.

So here I am, returning home with my tail tucked between my legs.
I have done nothing but wrong.  I let pride speak louder at each
instance and ended up losing everything.  Father tried to warn me.
In truth, my own conscience told me repeatedly this had to stop,
but I chose to hush it.  Now I can only hope that Erestor finds a
way to be happy, and both he and Elrond find a way to forgive me.
Father once told me that I had to be kinder to myself.  I did not
understand it then, I thought he meant that I had to self-indulge,
which is precisely what I have done all these years, but no.  Now I
think I can fathom what he meant – that I must forgive myself for
my mistakes and move on, which is what I constantly failed to do.

When I met Elrond I was too young.  I think I was not entirely a
bad person and certainly not as bitter and selfish as I am today.
But I was a youth, too young, too ignorant.  Father was against it,
of course.  I could not understand it then.  I loved him and trusted
him, but I refused to heed to his advice and find someone my age.
I thought that age did not matter and that father’s fear that my
involvement with Elrond would somehow hinder or skew my growth was 
completely devoid of a sound basis.  I felt like I was already an 
adult and I trusted Elrond completely; he would never try to change 
me.

I was wrong about the first, of course.  We never stop growing and
learning, or at least we should not, and I was far from a mature
being then.  As for the second, I still cannot tell who was wrong.
Elrond never did try to change me, but he certainly has.  How
could he not with all his wisdom and kindness as my closest
example, even role model?  But the bitter truth is that from my
loving, sheltered world at my father’s house, I stepped into another
loving, sheltered world, by his side.  There were bumps on the road
of course, mainly father’s opposition, but I was surrounded by love
all the time.  I was not ready for its end.

How could I have reacted to the shattering of my dreams, of my
whole life?  Now I see one of father’s motives: he knew that I
would turn Elrond into my whole world, the very core of my
existence, and that even if we had stayed together this would
hardly be the best for me.

If the roles had been reversed, I know what would have happened:
Elrond in all his wisdom and kindness would have valued our time
together and tried to be happy for me, for my new course.  For all
the love I felt for him, I could have done the same.  Deep down
inside, I know I did, but pride…  I had not matured enough to over
come it. In fact, I used it as a defence, after the initial shock.

For years I relived that memory, thinking on what I could have
done, on what I should have done, feeling ashamed that my first
reaction had been pleading for him to reconsider.  Even much later,
after Elrond’s marriage, I lay beside Erestor and thought of this.
Now I drive the memory away.  It is not important anymore.  I did
what I had to do then.  In that moment I was truthful to him and to
myself, where later everything in my façade of indifference was a
lie.  Why should I have felt such shame of being hurt?  But I did,
and I let the hurting poison my life and my second chance.

And I see once more the truth in father’s words about Erestor: it
was too soon to take another into my life, when I was so far from
healing. I ended up hurting us both.  Yes, it was precisely like what
Erestor said, our love was like a battle, him fighting for love, I
fighting for... what really?  For nothing, but in any case, against
him.

Now I fear that my cloak of pride is worn; it is threadbare, as is my
soul.  Maybe it is time I abandon all pretence and discover who
hides underneath it.  I would like to think myself something more
than the discarded lover of both Elrond and Erestor.  I do not feel
spiteful anymore, only hollow.  Darkness fills me when I look at
the wasted time, when I dwell on the image of a barren future and
recognise this was my doing.

I try to catalogue who I am.  I am a friend of some, a good one I
should hope; I am a fairly skilled hunter and warrior; I am not the
prince I should be, but I manage to perform a decent enough role
when it is required of me.  I have not been the best of sons – I
disobeyed my father and refused to follow his advice repeatedly,
but I love him so.  My best quality is equally my worst flaw: I am
persistent, though I am sure my father would call me stubborn.
And I am a few more things, but all these parts do not seem to
amount to much or form a clear picture in my mind.  What would a
stranger see?

We arrive home and I make my vow – to do what it takes to redeem 
myself of my mistakes.  I keep it.  Hard as it is, I break my pride 
and listen to my father.  There is wisdom in his words, and with time 
they become a balm.

Time passes and I keep away from Imladris and all of its
inhabitants.  When word comes, I listen attentively for word of
Erestor, but I do not ask questions.  I fear that the rumours of my
curiosity may hurt him; I fear that he may want to forget he ever
knew me.  It is the least I can do for him, to allow myself to
become a silent and distant memory.  His last words still hover in
my thoughts, hidden layers coming through.  “As painful as this
thing has been, I cannot be with someone else.”  Is he trying?  Yes,
I feel jealous, I wonder, I try to select candidates, Glorfindel being
the most obvious choice.  But I know I have no right to ask or to
interfere in any other way.

Time washes, bleaches, erases, until I come to think myself free,
all debts sealed, mistakes forgiven and forgotten.  It looks like
freedom, yes, but it feels like death.  It is then that I meet this
young man who rides with the Rangers of the North.  We become
friends and once I know where he comes from, whom his foster
family is, without my wanting I start listening very closely to his
campfire conversation, searching for any clues, dropping
seemingly innocent questions.  This all happened long before he
was born, surely he knows little or nothing about my presence in
Imladris.  I feel disloyal to my new friend, for my duplicity, but
still our friendship grows.

One day, Mithrandir asks us a favour. We are to take care of a
repulsive strange little thing he has found.  I oblige his request,
but we all end up feeling compassion for this pathetic being.  A
dreadful mistake that we come to regret bitterly, as several of our
warriors are lost because of his scheming.

We must send news of this to Imladris, of course.  Father asks me
if I would do it.  I am very reluctant in answering, but he tells me,
“Son, maybe you are ready now.”  Ready for what, I wonder. Everything 
is over now.  Maybe he means that I need more penance still.  Father 
has not demanded this of me, but I decide to fulfil his request.  
After all, the creature was my responsibility.

The way to Imladris is more than familiar, and despite the darkness
of our days my journey is uneventful.  I arrive late in the night.
My reception is courteous: I am given no more and no less than
any other travelling prince would receive, a formal greeting by the
lord of the House and some of his courtesans, among whom I cannot see 
Erestor.  I am not sure whether to call this feeling relief or regret, 
this feeling that overcomes me upon realising that I am but a faint 
memory to them.

I inform Elrond that I bring news of the creature, but he says he
would rather hear it later.  He tells me that an impromptu council
will meet tomorrow and that he expects me to go as my father’s
representative.  He even says that my arrival could not have been
timelier.  As always, the perfect diplomat, all glitches of our
former acquaintance ironed out.

The Council is an absolute disaster.  I listen to one after the other
speak of the shadow that spreads, of the omens, of the One Ring,
that wretched thing, and of Gollum’s attachment to it.  The
creature had some many times referred to his precious, but how
could have we imagined that it was that item?  And now I am here
sitting in front of those I harmed the most and I must tell them that
once more I failed them.  This confession comes out of me as an
anguished wail.  I do not dare raise my eyes to them while I hear
myself mumbling excuses, one after the other.  Mithrandir takes
pity on me, though.

The rest of the Council passes through me like a mist.  I hear
Mithrandir's tale.  I am almost glad that I am not the only one to be
deceived by good intentions.  Despite his gruffness, he has been
one of our most constant and loyal friends and I am glad he is here
with us.

The Council ends.  I still cannot believe that we have agreed upon
such a hopeless plan, but I make my decision, and on that very
night I seek Elrond once more.  I know that he probably will not be
that inclined to receive me alone, late at night, after my last visit
to Imladris, but I do not wish to have him surrounded by all his 
friends and counsellors while I am alone.

“Legolas, what do you wish of me?” he asks from the door step without 
inviting me in.

I look around nervously, but I keep to my decision.  “I want to be
in the group that will accompany the hobbit.”

“That is out of the question.  I already made my choice.  Glorfindel
will go.”

His choice is hardly a surprise, but I insist.  “Surely there is room
for one more.”

“Legolas, this is no time to play.”

So Elrond does not believe that I have changed.  I cannot blame
him.  I feel my old pride screaming but I swallow it.

“Please Elrond, do not judge me so hastily.  I have every intention
of repairing the wrong I did.  This has nothing to do with you or
the past.”  Maybe it has, maybe it is another way of my seeking
atonement, but this is not the point now.

My plea reaches Elrond.  “Legolas, we can hardly send the whole
elven host of Middle-earth on this quest.”

“Precisely!  If you have to send someone send me, an obscure
creature that no one will pay attention to.  Can you not see that
Glorfindel is too well known, that he will draw the attention of the
enemy upon the party?”  Despair aids my cause.

Despite my words I am ready for another refusal.  But Elrond
surprises me.  “I will present your request to Mithrandir,” he says,
“but do not expect much.”

“Thank you,” I finally say, as he is already closing his door in my
face.

I take refuge in my room, but it is a sleepless night.  I am tempted
to ask Mithrandir to intercede for me, but I know that my requests
will not have any impact in his decision, whatever it is.

Elrond and Mithrandir leave me waiting for a month.  I try to tell
myself that they would not keep me here if the final decision were
already made.  I only catch glances of Erestor, but then again I do
not actively seek him.  I try to make my presence here as
uneventful as possible.

The day comes and I finally know that my request was not only
accepted, but even thought of as a good idea.  Mithrandir trusts me,
and apparently he has told Elrond one or two good things about
me.  I could not be prouder, but this pride is so different from that
other that only compelled me to selfishness and hurt.

We leave, my old friend Mithrandir, Aragorn, the hobbits, the
dwarf and Boromir, the man from the south.  What a hopeless
bunch we are, but if their hearts are lit by such as fire as my own,
we will succeed.  Moria comes as a hard blow to my hopes, to my
confidence, but I am now more than ever determined to honour my
kind and deceased friend.

We come to Lothlórien.  My father’s realm is known for magic but
here it takes another form.  Everywhere there seems to be a balm, a
soft light, a lullaby – this is the epitome of tranquillity,
blissfulness.  I look around, astounded as soon as my blindfold is
removed.  A soft glow envelopes us and there come the lord and
lady of this land, whom I once hated.  I see the Lady Galadriel
looking deep into Aragorn’s eyes and I think that I will not
withstand such a scrutiny if she decides to bestow it upon me, but I
am wrong.  When my turn comes I find that nothing in her is harsh,
despite her evident strength.  She speaks into my mind, “Legolas
Thranduilion, you have come a long way.”

As I recall the long road, I hear her chuckle in my mind.  “No, I
meant in your heart.”  Strangely, I do not feel embarrassed, but
warm and comforted instead.  “Child,” she says, “There is still
room for love.  Do not forget it.”  And she takes her light from me.

Her words linger, however, through everything that comes to us.  I
know she means more than one kind of love and I am glad that it is
so.  Friendship and the love for this land and our peoples is what
holds Aragorn and me together, and what brings me closer to
Gimli, until we forget all the differences of our fathers.

And one day Erestor arrives with Glorfindel and Elrond’s sons.  He
has not changed, our kind rarely does, but I can see the difference.
He smiles, and on some occasions, despite the graveness of our
situation, he even laughs with the men by the fire side.

I keep my distance, although I want so much to come close and
talk to him.  Ever since Aragorn came to our forest I started
dreaming again, that one day, maybe by the hand of fate, maybe
through my own contrition, we could be friends once more, who
knows, even lovers.  Yes, I dreamt of Erestor lying by my side
once more, my arms around him, my face buried in his hair and his
voice telling me of all the small things of his day.  But I know
these are vain dreams that cannot be, and so I do not try.

I wonder if I learned something, if I learned to respect others and
not think only in my own needs or if it is my old pride that keeps
me away.

Everything that is happening in these days will one day be an old
tale that is forgotten, buried in some history book, who knows if it
will be told by our descendants or by our enemys.  But will there
be room for the glances that I can not help but steal?

We fight our enemy.  My heart constricts at the thought that some
harm might become him and this makes me a fiercer fighter than I
ever was.  But his beloved Elbereth protects him, and for this I
thank her.

These last months were indescribable.  Now I lie here in Gondor,
staring at the ceiling while I try to make sense of my life.  I think
I have improved some, I sincerely hope I have, but I miss something, 
or rather someone.

My good, old Gimli, who can see through me like only Father
does, started pestering me with jokes about my being love struck
by the Imladris elf right after we left the Paths of the Dead.  I felt
little inclination to discuss such an old and foolish matter, but in
the end, loneliness and regret loosened my tongue, perhaps helped
by some mugs of ale in our celebration.

“The trouble with you, laddie, is that, for all your years, you lack
perspective,” he told me when I finished my tale. Ever since then,
he has been throwing wood onto the fire of my deepest desire.

Gimli never ceases to amaze me.  I thought he would be appalled
by our elven ways but he tells me instead, “You must talk to him.”
I shake my head.  “What have you to lose?” he asks, as I constantly
have asked myself.

“I have no right,” I tell him.

“Nonsense, you are just afraid.”  Is he right?  I never liked
confiding that much and for a reason: friends do enjoy running our
business for us, but Gimli is so kind and well meant in his bawdy
ways that his advise brings me some comfort, though I by no
means intend to follow it.

What I do is another thing that I should have done long ago, and
that I meant to do in Imladris: I try to close the wounds between
Elrond and myself.  I doubt that we can ever be friends but let us at
least be in peace.

Ours is a short conversation.  I approach him but he is the first to
talk. “Mithrandir was right about you.”

I smile, embarrassed, but Elrond continues, “I never thought that I
could do so much harm.  I once asked for your forgiveness, but I
confess that since then there were a few times when I felt less than
contrite, relating to you.  It was hard for me to watch you hurting
so much someone we both love.”

“Elrond,” I try to interrupt.  I do not care to dwell on this.

He stops me, though.  “Legolas, you deserve to be happy.  Will
you be?”

Once more the lady’s words warm me.  ‘There is still room for
love.’  Yes, for love, for friendship, for laughter, and for
forgiveness.

I draw a deep breath and spill out all before Elrond stops me once
more.  “I came here to tell you that I am sorry for the wrong I have
done to you, for the cold treatment, for that little scene, and for
Erestor.  I am sorry for all my spite and I hope you forgive me and
can recall me as I now recall you: with immense love, and with
more joy than regret.”

“Yes,” he says, after a pause that threatened to steal the life from
me.  “Let us not talk of the past anymore.”  We part with a smile.

The Imladris folk return to their homes, and Gimli and I depart to
Ithilien without so much as a single word exchanged between
Erestor and I.

Time travels fast in this new age of men, and before I can blink an
eye there is news that Elrond is leaving Middle-earth, and with
him, most of his House, including Erestor.  I pace restlessly until
Gimli forces me to confess what torments me.

My good friend only tells me the obvious: I will regret it for a long
time if I do not take this chance, if I repeat that little Gondor
fiasco.

I ride to Mithlond praying at every step of the way that it is not too
late.  I pray to his Elbereth and she takes pity on me.  The majority
of the party from Imladris has sailed, but Erestor is there to the
last minute, working with Círdan to ensure that everything goes well.

They are surprised to see me, all the more in Gimli’s company, but
I waste no time in telling them that I am not here to sail.  I feel I
owe some satisfaction for my imposed presence, but Círdan stops
me short and welcomes me.  Círdan has hosted generations of our
people and shows me his kindness and efficiency; but what I came
here for, I will have to find it myself.

Night falls, we dine, we talk, we laugh despite the sadness that
there is in leaving.  I seek his eyes, I hope he knows I am here for
him, but he gives me nothing.  Círdan’s guests start leaving to their
rooms and I stay behind, hoping that my chance will come.  Gimli
yawns loudly by my side and engages in a strange conversation
about ships with Círdan.  Apparently he has developed a
fascination for the sea.

A few other elves are still in Círdan’s halls and the one I seek is
among them.  I wait and wait, but he neither leaves nor comes to
me.  Gimli, despite his enthrallment, keeps scowling at me.  He is
almost comic in his determination to play the matchmaker.  Círdan
watches.  I have no doubt that by now he has figured the purposes
of my visit.

At times like these I cannot understand myself.  What holds me in
place, what prevents me from doing what I came here for?  Finally
Erestor comes closer with the other elves to bid his host good
night.  He knows he must not abuse his host and that it is time for
us to retire, and so we do, with Gimli conspicuously elbowing me
in my hip.

I desist for the night.  He is not leaving tomorrow and there will be
time.  Maybe Gimli was right and I am afraid.  Legolas
Thranduilion, the pride and joy of his people, the bravest living elf
on Middle-earth, is afraid to tell his old flame that he still loves
him and is sorry for all the harm done.

Once more I am playing my waiting game.  One day after the
other, I watch Erestor and he knows that I watch him.  Subtlety
was never my forte, and now too many people notice, but I do not
care.  Losing face is the least of my cares now, though once it was
all I thought I had left to keep.

Still, I cannot seem to make the first move.  Gimli begs me to let
him help, to force some situation, to have a talk with ‘that mule of
an elf,’ but I refuse.  I have to do this by myself and Erestor
deserves it.  I wander through Círdan’s well designed home and
find his rooms easily. I even think of finding a way of letting my
self in and wait for him, but I doubt he would see this too kindly.
But I do know that he would be alone and that is a relief.  Gimli's
friendly, gossipy personality is not without benefit.

I pray everyday for something to put us out of our misery because,
despite his aloofness, I can glimpse on occasion that my presence
does not leave him unaffected.  But life is not like a children’s
tale.

I think of writing him a letter, but the ridicule and cowardice of
writing a missive to someone who I have crossed half of Middle-
earth to see does not elude me.  I think of doing something silly
and romantic for him, but we are long past the time when that
would be welcomed.  I am in despair and the sands of time keep
moving.  He too will leave soon and I am stranded on this island of
indecision.

But despair sometimes gives us wings.  I have been here for half a
month and have done nothing, but the news that he will sail in the
next ship finally stirs in me what courage I need.  The very day
that I receive such news, instead of waiting for him after dinner as
I have done all these days, after stalking his every move all day
long, I rise from my seat and walk to him.

“Master Erestor,” I say in a formal, contained tone.  “I wonder if
you would dispense me a few minutes.”  The walls of the room
seem to contract in apprehension in that fragment of time when he
considers my request.  He nods and our host and his guests let out
a collective sigh of relief, almost within hearing range.  It would be
amusing any other time.

I am the one that requested the audience, but he is the one who
leads me to a secluded room right here on the ground floor.  It
seems to be some sort of office, but I am not interested in settings.
This will not require moonlight or a cosy fire.  This will not be a
sweet lovers’ reunion.  I know I should say something but I stand
there looking at him like the fool that I am.  I want to hold him but
I know that is impossible.

He parts his lips and for a moment I hope that like Elrond he will
be quick in his forgiveness and all will be well, but he merely asks,
“What is it?”

He used to be much more courteous, and these so very cold words
are like a slap to my face. I start, “I have come here,” but my voice
fails.  I clear my throat and start over -- this must be done now.

“I have come here to tell you that I love you.  I cannot stand the
thought of you leaving without my telling you this.”  He stays
silent and I continue, “I know I have wronged you.  I was selfish
and careless, and I was never good in any way to you.  I know…”
What do I know?  Perhaps I do not even know him.  This is
hopeless.  I should leave, I cannot even stand his stare, but I stay.

I try to reason to myself, that maybe this is not so bad.  After all
he could have refused to hear me in the first place.  The words leave
my mouth without any thought.  “Is there the slightest chance that
you will one day forgive me?”  And then, “I have changed. Please…”  I 
stop myself short here.  I meant to ask, ‘please let me show it to 
you,’ but that would be asking too much.

“Our time has passed, Legolas,” he finally says.  My heart drops to
the floor and his next words finish my defeat, “When we met I
thought that I could withstand less than perfection, that I had love
enough for the both of us.  It is not enough anymore.  I still think
of you, how could I not, but I have to tell you that I have been
happier alone.”  He pauses and then adds in a lower voice, “Or at
least not as unhappy.”

I know I should simply ask for forgiveness and leave the room, but
I stand there feeling my face contort.  I close my eyes, trying to
hold it inside and I feel him coming close.  I remember the times
when I used my self-inflicted pain to make him stay with me, but
this is far from my intention now and I turn to leave the room and
spare him this pitiful show.

His hand on my shoulder.  The world stops for a minute, but my
resolve returns.  I reach my hand for the handle, but his grip on my
shoulder tightens and he enfolds me.  I hear his words trickling
down through me, burning, soothing, melting. “Maybe there is
time for goodbye.”

I gasp and then let out all the air in my lungs in a long shudder as I
feel his lips brushing my ear, his arms holding me tighter.  Oh, he
wants me, he does.  Even if it is just goodbye, as he said.

His hand searches mine on the handle and opens the door.  He
leads me to his rooms on the first floor.  Mercifully no one crosses
our path.  I cannot stop trembling and I feel my hands cold as ice.
My sweet Erestor closes his door behind us and shows me all that I
have lost.  How I have missed his eyes burning into me, his lashes
caressing my chest as his lips close around my nipples.  And his
fingers, so agile, should have undone my buttons every night.  His
skin is warm and soft, but his body underneath it is strong and
hard.  Its weight upon me is all I need to remind me that I am alive.
I mean to touch him, to return the caresses, but I am frozen.  He
comes up for a kiss and I finally wake from my stupor.  I wrap my
arms around him, running my hand down his back, until I find his
taught buttocks and pull his groin to mine.  He moans but my other
hand pulls his head closer even, and I cannot recall having ever
kissed him thus.  The need for air finally parts us, but for a mere
second.  I roll on top of him and I kiss him again and again as if it
was the very first time and not something I had done so often in the
past.

He has graced me tonight with his clemency, and I must make the
best possible use of it.  I am effervescent in my zeal.  I only take
my lips off his skin to murmur, “I love you,” but then I waste no
time and return to my caresses.  As I descend his body, I feel his
fingers burying deeper and deeper into my hair and finally grasp it
strongly as I take his scalding length in my mouth.  I had slowly
forgotten its taste, as well as his scent, so dear to me, so warm.  My
hands are upon his thighs, but I let one seek his testes and then
lower.  I only stop my loving suckling to wet my fingers in my
saliva and his own dew.  He knows what I will do next, and
spreads his legs wider, enveloping me with his calves.  I take him
deeper into my mouth as my fingers enter him and seek their target
and my efforts are rewarded by a stronger pull on my hair as he
almost curls.  I repeat the motions over and over until I drink of
him.  There is nothing finer in the whole of Arda.

He falls back, panting, and reaches his hand to me.  I lie by his side
and he kisses me languorously, caressing my face, absorbing his
own taste as well as my own.  This is moment is so poignant to me
that it elicits another gasp.  As a consequence, I feel his hand
fumbling down, his fingers teasing me, delving into my curls so
lightly that they almost hurt, and then curling around my erection
providing relief in one moment, more torment in the next.  He
moves to reciprocate my earlier actions but I hold him: I want his
lips right where they are, on mine, where they have always
belonged.

He abides my request and after my release comes, we stay in the
kiss, so much quieter now, lips barely moving but still merged.  I
hold him closer and finally leave his lips only to nest my face
under his, in that warm sea that is his hair.  I feel him holding me
too, his hand stroking my hair ever so slowly and I wonder if I
could ever make him change his mind.

“Does it have to be goodbye?” I whisper.  His hand stops for a
moment, but then he finishes the stroke.

I wait for his answer for a long time, but it comes at last.  “I have
to leave.”

I want to make one of my old scenes, force him to stay somehow
but I know better than that.  Another solution occurs to me.  “Can I
join you?”

“You have…”  I do not let him finish.

“I know.  I have friends and responsibilities here.”

We stay silent until dawn comes and then he leaves.

In all the years that I stay here I keep wondering if he was letting
me down gently or if he would have taken my company, had I been
free to offer it.  All of his words seem to have an ambiguous
meaning, except those, “There is still time for goodbye.”  Maybe
that is all that night was and I refuse to see it.

My good Gimli suffers my moods, cheerier on some days,
gloomier on others and we do what we can.  Of late, he has been
pestering me with the silliest of ideas: to build a ship and sail to
Valinor.  He says he remembers each and every one of Círdan’s
words and that he will not die without doing this, with or without
my help.

I was born on this land and I never felt the calling of the sea that
so many of our kind claim to feel, but I feel another calling.  I am 
not sure this ludicrous plan will be our utter folly or if Ulmo will 
grant his mercy upon us.  I only know that I need to go there and see 
him once more.  Will he receive me?  Will he turn me away?  I do not
know.  If he tells me that there is no room for me in his life, I will
have to accept it.  They are right, the voices that say that life
carries on.  But I need to see him again.

Finis
December 2004