Title:		Deeper Waters 
Author:		Capella  (Capella@hotpop.com) 
Pairing: 	Legolas/Imrahil. 
Rating:		NC17, though not in every chapter. 
Summary:	A springtime visit to Ithilien brings many a 
realisation. 
Disclaimer:	Main characters and settings belong to 
Tolkien, as we know.  No offence is intended, and no 
profit made, by these stories. 
Warning:	Contains original characters and HET 
scenes in some chapters. 
Authors Note:	This series forms part of the arc which 
began with ‘Call of the Sea’ and includes ‘Sea Longing’, 
‘Seascapes’ and ‘Masks’.  All of these are archived on 
this site under Legolas/Aragorn or Legolas/Imrahil (at the 
time of posting, under other pairings).  You are advised to 
read ‘Sea Longing’, ‘Seascapes’ and ‘Masks’ first, since 
original characters from these appear here, and elements of 
the plot will be clearer.

The author greatly welcomes feedback.

Thanks to Elfscribe, my wonderful beta reader, and 
Esmeralda, a constant source of inspiration and support.

____________________________________________


DEEPER WATERS  by Capella


CHAPTER 1


Heledir shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and wondered 
how much further there was to go.  He watched Imrahil’s 
back as the prince rode easily ahead of him, and asked 
himself just how it was that his master could sit so straight 
and unconcerned as the horses trotted along the rough, 
narrow path.  For Heledir the ride was one long exercise in 
pain, as his seat and legs had not yet recovered from the 
long journey from Dol Amroth, only three days ago.

It had come as a surprise to him when Imrahil had 
announced that they would ride so soon for the realm of 
the Ithilien elves.  He had quite expected to linger for a 
week or two in the fair young city of Emyn Arnen, before 
setting out again.  They might instead have ridden direct to 
Minas Tirith, to pay their respects to the King, before 
disappearing into the forest.  But it seemed that Imrahil 
could wait no longer to see his elven friend, and he had left 
his younger son Celaeren and the remainder of the party to 
enjoy Faramir’s hospitality, taking none but Heledir with 
him in his haste to depart.  

It was not hard for Heledir to imagine why his master was 
so keen to visit Ithilien, although the secretary would never 
allow his mind to linger on the more private aspects of 
Imrahil’s relationship with Legolas.  Since the moment he 
had set eyes on the elf, Heledir himself had been hopelessly 
captivated by the aura of wisdom and magic emanating 
from him.  The night on the beach, when Legolas had read 
his thoughts and shown such concern for him, had been a 
turning point in Heledir’s life; and from that moment he 
would willingly have lain down and died for the wondrous 
elven prince.  The fact that Legolas had brought so much 
joy to his master had only served to increase the 
secretary’s feelings of admiration and respect.

What Heledir could not understand was why he, of all the 
royal household, had been chosen to accompany the 
prince on this journey.  There could be little need for his 
clerical skills on such a visit, and if Imrahil had needed 
counsel there were others more experienced than him, and 
far better horsemen to boot.  He had asked the prince, as 
politely as he could without seeming negative – for after a 
life spent at the castle, this journey was the most exciting 
event ever to have happened to him – but Imrahil’s 
response, while gratifying, had left him mystified.

“ It is Prince Legolas’s suggestion that you accompany me, 
Heledir, although I deem it to be a worthy one.  I believe 
he has something in mind for you.”

More than this the prince either knew not, or would not 
say.

The day was growing cool by the time the horses rounded 
a bend in the path where it dipped down to the river bank.  
On the other side the track climbed, and coming between 
two large rocks, entered a grassy space at the forest’s 
edge.  

“I believe this must be the place,” said Imrahil, reining in his 
horse at the centre of the clearing and looking about him 
thoughtfully.

Heledir, his own steed stumbling to a halt behind the 
prince’s stallion,  peered into the trees for any sign of life.

“Surely, not, Sire;  there is naught to be seen here.”

He nearly jumped out of the saddle in shock when a silvery 
laugh greeted his words.  “Then you do not know how to 
look, good Master Heledir.”

The secretary stifled a gasp as three figures glided out of 
the forest.  The elf in front, apparently the speaker, 
stepped up to the horses with a smile on his face.  He and 
his companions were tall, flaxen haired and marvellously 
fair, although none so pleasing to Heledir’s eye as Prince 
Legolas.  They wore simple clothes in woodland colours, 
and all three carried bows and quivers across their 
shoulders.  Heledir’s mouth fell open as he realised that 
one of the two silent elves was unmistakably a female; 
although as tall as her kin and dressed as they were, her 
graceful curves betrayed her sex.  

As Imrahil leapt nimbly from his horse, it struck Heledir 
that even in such elegant company his master cut a fine 
figure.  Tall and long-limbed as the woodland folk 
themselves, but with the powerful shoulders of a fighting 
man, Imrahil stood straight and proud.  Tawny hair fell 
loose about his shoulders in waves, and his suntanned skin 
seemed to shine golden in the long evening light.

The first elf paused to take in the sight of the mortal prince, 
before speaking again, with the confidence of a leader.

“Well met, friends!  Prince Imrahil,”  the elf bowed, and his 
companions nodded slowly to Imrahil, placing their right 
hands on their chests above the heart, “and Master 
Heledir.”  To his astonishment, all three of the fair folk 
turned to Heledir and performed a similar courtesy.  He 
half slid, half fell from the horse, his legs stiff and 
uncooperative, and stood at its side, thoroughly 
embarrassed. 

Imrahil returned the greeting and added,  “Well pleased am 
I to see you, to be sure.  It has been a long ride, and I was 
not so certain that we had not missed our way.  Could you 
take us to Prince Legolas?”

“That will not be necessary.”  The familiar voice, so full of 
humour and warmth, rang out across the glade.  Heledir 
turned to see Legolas walking lightly, quickly across the 
grass from the trees behind.  He looked glorious, dressed 
in a cream coloured tunic and dark leggings, blond hair 
braided and gleaming, his smile so bright Heledir could 
imagine it illuminating the whole scene.  

“Welcome, Master Heledir; I am happy to see you here.”  
The elf prince paused and touched his heart, inclining his 
head.  

Heledir recovered himself enough to mimic the gesture, 
mumbling, “Prince Legolas.”

Then Legolas walked past him, and stood before Imrahil.  
For a long moment the two princes simply stared at each 
other without speaking.  Each remained quite still, and the 
expression on both faces was intense.  Heledir, for all he 
avoided dwelling on such matters, could feel himself 
flushing at the obvious heat between them.  He tried 
without success to ignore the thought that formed unbidden 
in his mind:  ‘They may as well fall into each other’s arms; 
it is clear enough how they feel about each other.’  
 
Legolas and Imrahil did no such thing, of course.  Blandly 
courteous words were exchanged, and the two clasped 
arms briefly, in the traditional warrior’s greeting.  But each 
kept his eyes fixed on the other’s, and Heledir had no 
doubt that a great deal more was being said without 
audible words.  He stole a look at the three other elves, 
and was surprised to see their leader quite clearly 
suppressing a small smile of his own.  It seemed that the 
fair folk were not as implacable as the secretary had 
always been led to believe.

At last Legolas stepped back, and smiled across to Heledir.  

“You must be weary,”  he said.  “Let us take your horses, 
and we shall show you to your lodgings.”

The silent elves came forward and took the reins from the 
two men.  Heledir was profoundly grateful for the fact that 
the elf-woman who led his horse away did not speak to 
him, but merely nodded; he was certain that he would have 
made an utter fool of himself in response.  At close range, 
near enough for him to look into her glittering dark eyes, 
she was startlingly fair.  Heledir suddenly felt acutely aware 
of his own ungraceful bulk, and his definite need for a bath.

Legolas addressed him again.  “Meluinen here will take 
you to your room, Master Heledir.  Take your time; relax, 
and bathe if you wish.  We shall dine tonight when the 
moon is high.  My people are preparing a feast in honour 
of our guests from the coast.”

The other elf, Meluinen, gestured towards the trees, and 
smiled broadly.  “Come,” he said.  Heledir moved as if 
mesmerised, but could not resist looking over his shoulder 
for a final glance at Imrahil and Legolas.  It seemed to him 
that they looked like two figures from a great legend; both 
so tall, straight and still as they spoke together quietly.  But 
as Heledir watched, Imrahil laughed happily and placed a 
hand on Legolas’s shoulder.  The secretary quickly turned 
away, and followed his guide into the trees.

The smell of the forest was almost intoxicating, sweet and 
pungent with herbs and resinous sap.  Heledir could feel his 
spirits soaring as he inhaled deeply of the heady scent.  His 
heart beat fast with excitement as he strove to keep up 
with Meluinen’s lead along the faint track between the 
trees and bushes.  Some of the plants were known to 
Heledir:  tall pines, myrtles heavy with pale pink flowers, 
thyme and oregano creeping across their path.  But other, 
less familiar varieties there were too; strange, twisted trees 
with feathery spreading branches, woody shrubs which 
released their spicy odours as he brushed past.  He could 
have stood and looked around him to take it all in, but felt 
too timid to ask Meluinen to wait.

As they reached the edge of another clearing, the elf turned 
to him, and seemed to notice his breathless state for the 
first time.  

“Forgive me!”  he laughed.  “I set too swift a pace for you, 
I fear.  I am unused to the company of men, and tend to 
forget myself in the forest.”

There was no hint of mockery in the elf’s friendly tone, and 
Heledir felt his own shyness evaporating in response to the 
genuine warmth of his expression.

“No matter,”  the man said,  “I am eager to see your 
settlement.  My legs are somewhat stiff from the ride, 
however, as I have little skill on a horse.”

Meluinen nodded.  “I shall show you where to find the 
baths, before I take you to your lodging.  A hot soak will 
do much to cure your ills.”

Heledir smiled weakly, a sudden desperate thought flitting 
through his mind.  He could only hope that the elves’ 
bathing arrangements made some allowance for privacy, 
else he would have to resign himself to reeking of horse for 
the entirety of his stay.

He need not have worried.  After waving his arm towards 
the long low building at the back of the clearing - “Our 
gathering and dining hall, and our other public rooms,”  - 
Meluinen took him a little way up the slope to one side.  
The bathing house was wooden, like the hall, and built in a 
similar style; simple, but elegant in shape.

“There are hot and cold pools at the back,”  the elf told 
him, “for those who like to bathe together under the stars.  
And private rooms within. If you need anything, you will 
always find one of us tending the fire in the boiler room at 
the end.”

Something about the phrase made Heledir turn to his guide 
and raise an eyebrow in question.

“Aye,”  said Meluinen.  “We divide such tasks amongst us.  
We are a small group, and none of us could truly be 
counted a servant.  It is a simple life we share, but a good 
one.”

“And these buildings?  You worked together on these 
too?”

“Yes, all of us, including Prince Legolas himself.  He has 
much skill in wood-carving.”  

Heledir reflected that it was indeed no surprise that his 
master and the elf prince found such pleasure in each 
other’s company.  Had circumstances been different, he 
was quite certain that Imrahil would love nothing more than 
to throw himself into a project such as this one, alongside 
his people.  Dol Amroth’s prince was nothing if not 
steadfast in his role as leader, but those close to him knew 
well that he chafed against the formality of his position, and 
sought no aggrandisement  at the expense of others.

The secretary looked around in delight, trying to imagine 
how the glade must have looked during the building 
process, with Prince Legolas at the centre of a hive of 
elven activity.  The vision in his head contrasted sharply 
with the scene before him now.

“It is very quiet,”  he said.

“You wonder where my kin are?” asked Meluinen, adding 
cryptically,  “Just because you cannot see them, it does not 
mean they are not there.”  He raised his voice and called 
out in a strange Elvish language.  

Immediately, three or four elves responded with a gale of 
laughter, and then broke into a song with a cheerful, lilting 
melody.  The sound seemed to be coming from the trees 
behind the bath house, although Heledir could see no sign 
of anyone there.

“They sing a song of welcome for you,”  Meluinen said.  
“You will meet them later.  One is the sister of my wife; she 
is most eager to make your acquaintance.”

Heledir looked at him suspiciously, but the elf’s face was 
quite unreadable.  The man decided to keep his 
bemusement to himself, although a dozen questions were 
vying for position in his mind. 

A little way beyond the bath house they came to a tiny 
building, hardly more than a hut, nestling amongst a group 
of olive trees.  Meluinen stepped up and opened the door 
with a flourish.  His voice, however, was apologetic.

“We have not yet built anything grander to accommodate 
our guests.  But we have tried to make it comfortable, and 
fit for a scholar such as yourself.”

Inside, the cabin was perfect.  A low bed ran along one 
wall, topped with a soft cream blanket and scattered with 
cushions, their covers woven in shades of blue and green.  
Along the opposite wall, under the window, stood a long, 
narrow table, with a simple chair and an open cupboard 
beneath.  Between the bed and the table a plain blue rug 
covered the narrow strip of floor.  On the table a number 
of items were carefully arranged:  an oil lamp, already 
glowing; a mirror in a wooden frame inlaid with a pattern of 
leaves; a pitcher, bowl and goblet of engraved grey metal; 
two branches of white blossom in a small silver vase, a 
sheaf of clean paper, and a blotter, ink pot and quill.

To his shame, Heledir felt tears pricking at his eyes.  Since 
his mother’s death some years before  the Great War, 
there had been no one to show such concern for his 
comfort, or to offer him anything so beautiful.  He blinked, 
and realised that Meluinen was still waiting expectantly at 
the door.

“It is wonderful.  Thank you,”  said the man, trying to keep 
the emotion from his voice as he turned to the elf.  

Meluinen looked at him curiously, but merely said, “I shall 
leave you now, to rest or bathe as you choose.  It will be 
some two hours before we eat; but if you seek company or 
have need of anything before then, you will find me in the 
Hall.”  

Once he was alone, Heledir sat on the chair to take off his 
boots, before stowing them neatly under the table beside 
his pack.  He pulled his tunic over his head, then folded it 
carefully and placed it in the cupboard along with his belt.  
Moving to the bed, he stretched himself out full length, 
testing it.  As he had suspected, it was utterly comfortable, 
and had his head not been so full of thoughts and 
impressions, he could happily have slept there for at least 
two days.  As it was, he knew that there would be no true 
rest for him until he had given his mind some peace.

With a gleam in his eye, Heledir rose from the bed once 
more and went to sit at the table.  He moved the objects 
there around a little, until everything was arranged to his 
satisfaction.  With one piece of paper pulled from the pile 
and laid before him, he inspected the quill carefully, and 
found it sharpened to his liking.  He dipped it in the dark 
blue ink, let the excess fluid drip back into the pot, then 
brought it to the page and began to write.

****************************************


CHAPTER 2


How he had managed to keep his hands off Legolas until 
the door was shut behind them, Imrahil was not entirely 
sure.  He had felt feverish with excitement since the 
moment he had awoken that morning, and by the time they 
reached the borders of the elven realm, he had been 
fighting to control a raging lust such as he had not known 
since his twenties.  His lover’s sudden appearance in the 
clearing had caused the blood to ring in his ears and his 
heart to hammer in his chest; it was all he could do to 
maintain his composure in front of their small but attentive 
audience.

The walk up through the forest had been nothing short of 
torture.  Legolas had led the way along the narrow path, 
leaving Imrahil to follow behind, his eyes glued to the taut 
muscles of the elf’s thighs and the hint of the curve of his 
buttocks under the pale, close-fitting tunic.  He had found 
himself breathing hard, but assuming that Legolas was 
concerned about being overheard by his kin, he had 
followed his lover’s lead and talked only of neutral matters.

When they finally reached the cabin which was to be 
Imrahil’s for the duration of his stay, Legolas held the door 
open and allowed him to enter first.  The man put down his 
pack hurriedly, and turned to see the elf standing in the 
open doorway, a look of amusement on his face.  It was, 
for Imrahil,  the final straw.

“Close it,”  he said, fiercely.

Legolas’s eyes widened as he obeyed the man’s command.  
A fraction of a second later, Imrahil had him pinned against 
the door, their bodies crushed together, as he forced his 
tongue into the elf’s mouth and kissed him violently.  His 
hands clutched and dragged at Legolas’s sides, then found 
their way down below his waist to pull his hips in even 
closer.  Imrahil had been at least partially hard since the 
moment he had heard Legolas’s voice, and now he felt fit 
to burst.  He ground his cock against the elf’s almost 
brutally, and felt his lover’s answering thrusts growing 
stronger.

At last the man pulled his head back and looked closely at 
the other’s face.  He was gratified to see that there was no 
hint of humour there now, only the intensity of unsatisfied 
desire.  

“Did you miss me?”  Imrahil asked, his voice low.

“Yes,”  breathed the elf.  “Do you not feel it?”
 
They stared at each other for a second, and suddenly 
Imrahil was astonished to find himself being pushed 
backwards across the room and tumbled to the bed.  
Before he could move or speak, Legolas was astride him, 
trapping his arms at his sides, and kissing him with a 
ferocity to rival his own.  

“Do you want me to prove it to you?”  the elf said darkly.

With every fibre of his being he longed to cry out his assent, 
but he restrained himself, gazing into his lover’s hungry 
eyes and silently communicating his response.

“You shall have your proof, though you may have cause to 
rue it,”  said Legolas.

This time Imrahil could not stop himself from saying it.  He 
closed his eyes as he whispered the word.  “Yes.”

The elf’s hands seemed to be everywhere at once then, 
roughly but efficiently unfastening his tunic and shirt, pulling 
them off his shoulders, leaving his chest exposed and his 
arms further restricted.  The strong white fingers made 
short work of the fastenings at his waist, and he found 
himself lifting his hips to allow Legolas to pull his leggings 
down to his knees.  His boots were gone in a moment, and 
the leggings followed soon after.

He shouted out at the onslaught of sensation as Legolas fell 
upon him with mouth and hands.  The elf was far from 
gentle as he worked his way down Imrahil’s torso, licking 
and biting, kneading the flesh, scratching with just enough 
pressure to drive the man into a frenzy.

By the time Legolas took his cock in his mouth, Imrahil 
was practically weeping with need.  The elf’s hands were 
resting on the man’s thighs, his thumbs working along the 
tender join of leg and body, while with lips and tongue he 
at last offered some relief for the ache that had plagued 
Imrahil for so much of the day.  At last the man felt his 
peak approaching, and he pushed his head back into the 
mattress, mouth open, waiting for the first wave to break.

But just as he felt the agonising tension build throughout his 
groin, he recognised, with a shock, the presence of 
Legolas in his mind.  The elf’s desire was urgent, yet there 
was something else, an iron control which held Imrahil still, 
his climax suspended, his whole body seemingly filled with 
ice and fire simultaneously.  He felt his muscles begin to 
shake, but he was quite unable to move of his own accord.

Legolas raised his head and spoke in a tone which only 
served to heighten Imrahil’s desperation.

“Much as I long to taste you, I will wait for that pleasure.  I 
wish to be inside you when you come.”

With that, he shifted on the bed, got up onto his knees, and 
rapidly removed his tunic, revealing the bare skin beneath.  
Imrahil could only watch as the elf unfastened his leggings 
and pulled out his cock, long and gloriously hard.  The 
man’s legs were soon lifted at the knee and pushed down 
towards his chest, as Legolas positioned himself between 
them.  The elf slowly licked one hand, and used the 
moisture to lubricate himself.  All the while his eyes never 
left Imrahil’s, and the man somehow knew that until they 
did he would be utterly in his lover’s thrall.

“This will not be easy,”  Legolas said, as he held himself 
ready for entry.

“I care not.  Do it now!”  Imrahil was still shaking with the 
strain of his delayed orgasm.

He howled as the elf drove into him, but even the pain was 
a welcome respite from the terrible paralysis that held him.  
He howled again, and again, as Legolas thrust deeply, 
slowly at first but gradually building in speed.  Imrahil had 
never felt so helpless, doubly immobilised by the strength 
of the elf’s mind and the sheer power of the deceptively 
slender body slamming into his.  It was completely 
overwhelming, the most intense feeling he had ever 
experienced.  But when Legolas paused and changed his 
position slightly, only to begin his assault once more at an 
angle designed to maximise the man’s pleasure, Imrahil 
knew that his limit had truly been reached.  His shuddering  
body was already burning, but now the waves of ecstasy 
were so extreme, he did not know how he could possibly 
survive it.  Tears slid from his eyes as he finally managed to 
speak.

“Please!  Please, Legolas, I cannot . . .” he cried.

The elf pushed inside him one last time and held himself 
there, the muscles in his chest and arms visibly tensed.  He 
leaned down slightly towards Imrahil.

“Do you feel it now, my prince?”  Legolas asked, his voice 
almost menacing.

“Gods, yes, I feel it!  Release me, I beg you, before you 
kill me!”

There was only an instant to register the fact that Legolas’s 
smile was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, before 
his lover freed Imrahil’s mind from its constraints, and 
every part of his body seemed to turn in on itself  at once.  
Surely every elf in Ithilien must have heard his screams as  
the orgasm, so long withheld, ripped through him, taking 
with it the last shreds of coherent thought.  He was vaguely 
aware of Legolas crying out his own passion as he came, 
and then nothing but the physical sensation remained.

It was a while before Imrahil felt able to move or speak.  
Instead he kept quite still, eyes closed, and enjoyed the 
elf’s ministrations as Legolas lay at his side and gently 
kissed his face, licking the tears from his cheeks. 

When the man did at last open his eyes to look at his lover, 
Legolas said,  “I missed you.”

“I believe I felt it,”  Imrahil replied.  “But I had no idea that 
an elf could be so . . .  impatient.”  

“Nor had I, until I learned what it is to desire a mortal 
man,”  the elf said seriously.

At that, Imrahil roused himself and wriggled one arm free 
of his clothing, so he could raise a hand and stroke his 
lover’s hair.

“What magic is it that you used on me?”  he asked.

“It is no magic, simply my spirit touching yours.”

“Are you telling me that it is something commonplace for 
you?”  

“Not exactly.”  Legolas pushed himself up on an elbow to 
look down at Imrahil.  “Elves can reach each other in that 
way, but only with consent.  We learn from an early age to 
protect our own minds from intrusion.”

“’Tis a good thing, I think.  It could be a dangerous gift,”  
said the man.

“Aye, though not all of us have it to the same extent.  
Physical contact makes it easier, but there are some for 
whom neither proximity nor consent is necessary.  
Galadriel is one of them, and Arwen; her brothers also.  
Lord Elrond must have the gift, although I have not felt him 
use it in its entirety.  My father has it to a lesser degree; 
such power as I have is inherited from him.”  

Imrahil thought for a while.  “And men?  We are 
defenceless against such manipulation.”
 
Legolas laughed, and kissed him gently before replying.  “It 
has not been my habit to develop such intimacy with men in 
general; but it is my impression that some minds are more 
open than others.  I believe you are particularly susceptible, 
no doubt due to your unusual lineage.”

“Yet you have not used your power with me, save twice 
before,”  Imrahil gave an involuntary shiver at the thought 
of those occasions, each of which had affected him so 
greatly.

“I would not do so, my friend.  I delight in the fact that we 
meet as equals.  Were I to abuse our differences so, I 
would jeopardise something which is precious to me.”

Imrahil looked steadily into the blue eyes for a long 
moment, feeling the familiar ache in his chest.

“Do you know how much I love you?”  he asked 
eventually.

“I feel it,”  said the elf softly, and rolled into his arms, his 
lips seeking the man’s.

They lay in a close embrace as the light faded.  

At the distant sound of elven voices raised in song, Legolas 
stirred himself.  “We should bathe and dress.  I think we 
would be missed at dinner.”

“Indeed,”  said Imrahil.  “But I must ask you, how is it for 
us here, amongst your people?  Would they look ill upon 
us?” 

“It is surely rather late to ask!”  laughed the elf.  “There are 
plenty who must be aware of the nature of our friendship 
now, after your splendid vocal performance.”  

“I can hardly be blamed for that,”  the man retorted.

“I meant no criticism.  And besides, none will think the 
worse of us.  We are less formal here than in my father’s 
court, or at Rivendell  Still, I am expected to maintain some 
dignity in front of my people.  They will be greatly curious 
about you, though few will show it.  How does that make 
you feel?”

“I would be proud to stand at your side, before any 
company, and in any circumstance,”  said Imrahil firmly.

Legolas kissed him once more.  “The Valar smiled on me, 
the night they led me to you,”  he said.  “Now, come, 
bathe with me, and tonight you shall sleep in my house.”

“I have been waiting to see it.”

They rose from the bed and dressed in amicable silence.


********************


The moon was high and the stars bright in the clear spring 
sky by the time the two walked up the slope towards 
Legolas’s cabin.

The meal of light, flavoursome food, washed down with 
fragrant wine, had left Imrahil invigorated, the weariness 
and tension of the day behind him.  As the feast had 
refreshed his body, so the merry songs and tales of the 
golden-haired elves had uplifted his spirits.  But if the 
prince had been delighted by the evening, his secretary had 
clearly been entranced.  Heledir’s saucer-eyed reaction to 
all that he had seen, heard and tasted had given Imrahil a 
good deal of private enjoyment.  

The man placed a hand gently on his lover’s arm as they 
followed a path between the shadowy trees.

“Who is the dark-haired elf-woman who sat at Heledir’s 
side?  I wished to ask you earlier, but feared that she 
would hear my question.”

“Ah, that is Velenda, the sister of Meluinen’s wife,”  
replied Legolas, turning to him with a small smile.  “She has 
been eager to meet Heledir.”

“Why?  What have you told her of him?”

“Do not underestimate your secretary, Imrahil.  He is a 
keen student of history, as is Velenda herself.  I do not 
think she regrets coming here from Rivendell with her sister, 
but she finds my Silvan folk wanting in regard to 
scholarship; there must be times when she longs for the 
wisdom of Lord Elrond’s house, and the wonders of his 
library.  She and Heledir will have much to discuss, I am 
sure, and he may be able to aid her in her current work.  
With your permission, of course.”

Imrahil grinned at the elf’s courteous afterthought.  “You 
have no need to ask my leave, as I am sure you are aware; 
I could deny you nothing, and I am delighted for Heledir 
that you pay such heed to him.  You are ever kind and 
thoughtful.”  

The man stepped nearer, and this time placed his hand on 
the elf’s shapely rear, lingering for a moment on the firm, 
warm curve.  “And you are also a torment to my senses,”  
he continued, speaking close to his lover’s ear. “Tell me it 
is not far, or I may be forced to have you right here.”

He felt Legolas’s shudder before the elf pulled away from 
his touch.

“Control yourself, my hasty mortal.  It is a tempting thought, 
but I have other pleasures in mind for this night.  And we 
are nearly at my house, as you see.”

With that he led the way into a steeply sloping clearing 
surrounded by tall trees looming grey in the moonlight.  
Imrahil drew breath sharply, filling his lungs with the spicy 
aromas of cedar and thyme.  His flesh tingled as he looked 
at the cabin, seemingly growing out of the earth like the 
plants around it, suspended there above the uneven ground, 
long branches interlocking above its curving roof.  Graceful 
proportions and sweeping lines gave the simple building a 
natural beauty, even in the poor light.

The man shivered.  “There is some enchantment about us, 
besides your own.  I can sense it.”

“The forest is ancient, and the wisdom of the earth is strong 
here.  That is what you feel.  Does it trouble you?”

“No,”  Imrahil spoke slowly, “If anything, it stirs my 
blood.”

The elf’s laugh held nothing mystical.  “Then follow me, 
and we shall see if something can be done to calm it.”

Legolas ran lightly up the wooden steps to the wide 
balcony that surrounded the house on three sides.  He 
opened the door and gestured to Imrahil, and the man 
stepped through into the darkened space.  This time he had 
no need to command his lover; the door was shut in an 
instant and he found himself in Legolas’s arms, 
surrendering to a slow, deep kiss which betrayed an 
intensity the elf had never expressed in words.  

“My people were surely not disappointed tonight, for your 
spirit was shining,”  Legolas said when he drew away from 
Imrahil’s mouth.  “It is I who should be proud to sit by you, 
with all your strength and vitality, your wit and your 
golden-skinned beauty.”

Imrahil pulled him close and simply held him, the man’s 
cheek pressed against the elf’s hair.  He closed his eyes 
and inhaled his lover’s scent deeply, trees and herbs and 
newly cut grass, almost enough to overpower his senses.  

It was Legolas who shifted and broke the spell.

“Welcome to my home,”  he said, his tone light, and 
Imrahil understood that the moment for unguarded emotion 
had passed.  

The elf took his arm and drew him across the room.  A 
heavy curtain was pulled aside and the bed revealed 
behind.  
	
“I shall join you shortly,”  said Legolas, as flame sprang 
from a small tinderbox in his hand,  “ but I wish to look on 
you in all your glory tonight.”

Imrahil undressed quickly as his lover moved around the 
chamber, lighting small oil lamps and adjusting them to give 
a gentle warm glow. The inside of the cabin was gradually 
revealed to have the same understated elegance as the 
outside, and indeed in that respect it could be said to 
resemble its occupant.  

The man laid his clothes on the carved wooden chest at the 
side of the sleeping alcove, and climbed onto the bed.  He 
reclined across its soft white covers, reaching to the table 
at one side for a curved alabaster jar that stood there.  
Eyeing his lover appreciatively as the elf began to unfasten 
his shirt, he was struck forcefully by a vivid memory, and 
felt his blood rush to his loins in response.

“I have not yet had occasion to tell you so, but I have 
come to the conclusion that there is orc blood in you,”  he 
said, in a conversational manner.  “I can think of no other 
explanation for your wickedness.”  He opened the jar and 
sniffed at the contents.

“How so?” Legolas shrugged off his shirt and placed it on 
the couch.

“That letter,”  replied Imrahil.  “I could barely take my 
hand out of my breeches for a fortnight, it inflamed me so.”

The elf looked up from his own hands, busy with the 
fastenings at his waist.  “Then I achieved my aim,”  he said, 
pushing the leggings down, uncovering both the beauty of 
his form and the completeness of his arousal.  “Are you 
very displeased with me?”

The man dipped his fingers into the sweet-smelling lotion 
and began applying it to his cock.  The cool, slippery 
consistency felt good on his hot, swollen flesh.
	
“Come here,”  he said,  “and I will show you just how 
displeased I am.”

Legolas smiled, a slow, lascivious smile that made Imrahil’s 
gut clench with lust.  He walked unhurriedly to the bed and 
climbed on it, moving up until he knelt astride the man.

Imrahil reached up with both hands to clutch his lover’s 
hips and move him into place. Legolas leaned down, his 
hands by the man’s arms, blond hair falling forward to 
brush Imrahil’s tanned shoulders.

“You say I am wicked, but did you not enjoy it?”  the elf 
enquired, his face mere inches from the man’s.

“Greatly.”  Imrahil pulled Legolas down into a long, 
bruising kiss.

Legolas finally drew himself away and sat up again, 
adjusting his position slightly and moving one hand behind 
him.  As he held Imrahil’s cock in place and lowered 
himself slowly onto it he said in a low, conspiratorial tone,  
“I myself was hard for a week, just imagining your 
response.”

Imrahil groaned, his fingers digging into the elf’s hips and 
forcing him down, tight around his flesh.  Legolas gasped, 
but he did not speak.  The man remained still, 
concentrating on the sensation flooding through him, 
resisting the urge to move, in order to make the moment 
last.  When the elf started to shift himself,  Imrahil gripped 
him harder, keeping him in place.

“Not yet,”  the man murmured.  “Tell me, did you leave 
that hardness of yours untended?  I think not.”

“No, indeed; not even an elf could show such restraint.”

“Then show me what you did to ease it.”

The elf met Imrahil’s stare with a look of undisguised lust, 
as his hand moved across his own belly, gradually circling 
down to his impressive erection.  He leaned back slightly, 
and reached to caress his balls gently, while his thumb 
lightly stroked the underside of his cock.

As he watched Legolas slowly pleasure himself, Imrahil 
had cause to question how it could be that each coupling 
with his elven lover managed to match, if not outdo, the last.  
There seemed to be no limit to the delight the two could 
generate together.

He would not have been strong enough to stop the 
movements of Legolas’s hips, even if he had wanted to do 
so.  But once the elf began to work himself in earnest, 
pushing down rhythmically against the eager cock that 
impaled him, Imrahil abandoned all thoughts of control.  
His own body responded of its own accord, matching his 
lover’s pace, his hips thrusting upwards with increasing 
force as the tension in his groin increased.  

Even in the midst of his own pleasure, Imrahil sensed that 
the other was waiting for him

“You first,”  he panted,  “I want to see you come while I 
am yet capable of thought.”

It did not take long.  Legolas moaned,  “Ai, Imrahil . . .”  
and suddenly stilled.  The man watched, rapt, as his lover’s 
eyes opened wide, his mouth fell open, and a look of 
wonder appeared on his face.  There was a long, agonising 
pause, and then all was heat and movement once more as 
the elf came, his semen shooting up over Imrahil’s chest, 
even as far as his face.  

Imrahil grasped Legolas’s hips and pushed up into the 
pulsing tightness around his cock, again and again.  The 
sensation was too much to resist, and soon his cries joined 
those of his lover as he emptied himself deep inside the elf.  

Afterwards they lay close, resting in each other’s arms.  
Imrahil found his mouth close to Legolas’s ear, so he 
licked it gently before whispering into it,  “Wicked elf.”

“Hasty mortal,”  came the reply.

“I shall greatly enjoy making you pay for that comment 
tomorrow,”  murmured the man, “by pinning you down and 
licking every inch of your body, slowly, until you beg me 
for your release.”

“Torture.”  Legolas turned his face to Imrahil’s and 
brushed the man’s lips with his own.  “Would you not 
prefer to carry out your threat now, while it is fresh in your 
mind?”

Imrahil laughed, and ran his hand up the elf’ smooth back, 
bringing it to rest on his neck, under the soft hair.

“Nothing would please me more than to spend every hour 
of this night tormenting you; but I am afraid my feeble 
mortal body is finally succumbing to fatigue.  I shall be a 
poor excuse for a lover tomorrow if I do not sleep soon.”

“There are many words I could choose to describe you, 
my beautiful prince, but feeble is not amongst them.  Sleep, 
then, and perhaps I shall have my fill of looking at you 
while you rest.”  Legolas kissed the man’s forehead and 
drew him closer into his arms.  “Although I rather doubt 
that it could be so.”

Imrahil closed his eyes and let his emotions wash through 
him.  In all their encounters Legolas had treated him with 
great affection, but there was a new tenderness to the elf’s 
words tonight that filled him with unspeakable joy.  He 
could not question it, for fear of disturbing something 
fleeting; instead, for now, he would simply accept and 
enjoy it, waiting to see what the next few days might bring.  

He sensed his face relaxing into a smile as he whispered 
the words,  “I love you, Legolas,”  and felt the elf’s arms 
tighten around him in response.  And thus surrounded by 
his lover, his heart at peace, the man drifted into sleep at 
last.

****************************************


CHAPTER 4


The first draught of cool, foamy beer was enough to clear 
Celaeren’s head and ease the tension between his shoulder 
blades.  He drank deep, and finished with a contented sigh, 
wiping his hand across his mouth as he returned the 
tankard to the table.  Settling into the high-backed wooden 
bench, he looked around curiously before raising the drink 
to his lips once more.

One inn may be much like any other in some respects, but 
a glance was enough to make it clear that this was no 
small-town hostelry in a remote coastal kingdom.  The mix 
of clientele was more varied, more exotic, than any 
gathering Celaeren had seen before this visit to Faramir’s 
burgeoning city.  Emyn Arnen seemed to be a magnet for 
entrepreneurs, displaced folk and opportunists of all races; 
and most of them were represented in the White Tree that 
night.  Men of all colours there were, from the haughty 
blue-eyed Rohirrim to the short and swarthy people of the 
South.  A group of dwarves were growing increasingly 
noisy at a long table near the bar, and Celaeren had even 
noticed three elves conversing softly in a partially enclosed 
booth near the door.  If a troupe of Halflings had entered 
and ordered pints of ale all round, he would not have been 
surprised. 

In spite of the unfamiliarity of the scene, Celaeren felt 
perfectly relaxed in his shadowy corner of the room.  Of 
course, he always felt at home with a drink in his hand, but 
it was more than that. There was truly a sense that all were 
equally welcome here, and that no unnecessary curiosity 
would be shown towards one such as himself, who sought 
only a quiet place to sit, and a glass of good beer to soothe 
both mind and body.  

Faramir’s court itself was no less accepting of all the 
peoples of Middle Earth, and Celaeren felt quite 
comfortable there.  He had always liked and respected his 
cousin, but the man was a father now, and when not 
engaged in matters of governance he was understandably 
preoccupied with his wife and child.  The formal meals and 
meetings had been pleasant enough, but hardly exciting; it 
had come as something of a relief when the opportunity to 
slip away for an evening had presented itself.  Losing the 
hangers-on that his father always insisted on burdening him 
with had not been easy; but the result was definitely worth 
the effort.  The ale was as good as any Dol Amroth could 
offer, and by the time the last drop had slid easily down his 
throat, Celaeren felt utterly contented.

He was half way through his second pint when the goings-
on at a nearby table caught his eye.  A group of men, 
Northerners by their appearance, sat with a much younger 
boy, whose rangy blond looks proclaimed him to be a son 
of Rohan.  They were playing cards for money, and as 
Celaeren watched, the boy laid out his hand with a smile, 
and began to collect his winnings amidst much ribald 
laughter from the others.  Despite their protests, the boy 
stood and made a mock bow before heading across to the 
serving area.

There was plenty of noise and activity around the room to 
seize his attention, but for some reason Celaeren found his 
eyes being drawn, over and again, to the cloaked figure at 
the bar.  The lad did not return to the table once his 
transaction was finished, but rested against the long, rough 
counter, talking quietly to the barmaid who had taken his 
money.  Eyeing the slim youngster speculatively, Celaeren 
found himself wondering exactly who he was, and what 
one of his age was doing, apparently alone, and far from 
his homeland in a place such as this.

At last he shook his head and laughed to himself, ‘I am 
becoming as bad as my father and brother,’  then turned 
his gaze away to concentrate on his drink for a while.  The 
barmaid’s coarse laugh soon pulled his eyes back to their 
original target, however.  She and the lad were sharing a 
joke of some sort, and the youth was gesticulating 
flamboyantly with one hand.  Something about the 
expressive  movement registered in Celaeren’s mind, and 
his own arm suddenly stopped with his ale half-way to his 
mouth as he watched, transfixed.  

Every detail that he saw now seemed to confirm his 
suspicions about the boy, but there was only one way to 
be sure.  Downing the remainder of his pint in one swallow, 
Celaeren got to his feet and strode across the room.  The 
barmaid caught his eye before he reached the counter, and 
half-turned towards him.  Celaeren smiled back at her, and 
kept his eyes on her rosy face as he stepped up, 
approaching, as if accidentally, rather too close to the 
blond youngster.  As his hand casually brushed the other’s 
thigh through layers of clothing, he noted the flinch and 
smiled to himself.  At such close proximity, it was clear that 
he was right.

The proud young Rohir barely moved to glance over one 
shoulder at Celaeren.

“Touch me again like that, sir, and I shall call you outside, 
to teach you some respect!”

Celaeren grinned, and waited until the barmaid moved 
along the counter to speak to another customer, before 
replying in a quiet tone,  “And I should be most intrigued, 
my friend, to discover just what weapon you might have at 
your disposal, to bring to bear in such an encounter.”

The young body visibly stiffened, and although not a word 
was said, Celaeren knew that the innuendo behind his 
words had not been missed.  As he waited for a response, 
he glanced down at the youngster’s hands and saw that the 
knuckles were white where they clutched a worn leather 
coin pouch.  

At once, he relented.   “Come, drink a glass of ale with me, 
and I shall say nothing of your secret.”

There was a pause, and then a reluctant nod.  

“Two pints of ale, then, unless you prefer something a little 
more . . .  delicate?”  Celaeren raised an eyebrow.   

“Ale suits me well, and I could match you glass for glass if 
I so chose.”  

Celaeren smiled again at the fiery scorn behind these 
words, but turned his head to one side so as not to be 
thought to be laughing.  Moments later, he led the way 
through the room with a tankard in each hand, which he 
placed carefully on the table in the corner before settling 
himself back into his original seat.  His companion glanced 
around before choosing the stool across from the prince, 
and pulling the grey cloak closed, as if for concealment.  
But there was no attempt to avoid Celaeren’s gaze; the 
proud blue eyes met his own over the table, and gave him 
cause to wonder at the fear written there.

“Relax,”  the prince said softly.  “I mean you no harm.”  

“And what proof do I have of that?”

“None, I admit, save this:  if you choose, walk from here 
now, and I shall say not a word to anyone of our meeting.”

There was no answer, nor did the other make a move, so 
he carried on.  

“I only wish to talk, and will ask no more of you.  Will you 
not indulge a lonely stranger?”  The words sounded 
melodramatic to his own ears, but they seemed to give his 
companion pause for thought.  

It was not a face designed for keeping secrets, he mused, 
watching a succession of emotions crossing the spare, 
youthful countenance.  He could almost hear the internal 
dialogue; the urge to flee struggling with the longing for a 
moment of company in which the pretence could be 
dropped.  Celaeren suddenly knew that of the two at the 
table, he was not the lonely one.  It seemed imperative to 
keep the conversation going.

He dismissed the idea of keeping his own identity secret.  
Even if news of the royal delegation from Dol Amroth had 
reached the city’s inns, he had nothing to lose by declaring 
himself.

“My name is Celaeren, and I am a visitor from the coast.  
What shall I call you?”

There was no recognition in the icy stare that regarded him.  

“I am Beremund,”  came the reply. 

Celaeren smiled.  “Little do I know of the ways of the 
Rohirrim, but I doubt very much that your parents gave 
you a boy’s name as you lay in your crib.”

“It is the only name I have here,”  his companion hissed, 
eyes narrowed.  “Do not ask me for another!”

The prince shifted on the bench and spread his arms along 
its back, in what he hoped was a placatory gesture.

“Beremund, then.  But surely I am not the first one to 
question the aptness of the name?”

She gazed at him for a moment, then shrugged, relaxing a 
little.  “You would be surprised.  It seems to me that most 
folk only see what they want – or expect – to see.  I have 
met few as perceptive as you.”

“Still, there are those here who would know the truth at 
once, I am sure.”  He nodded his head towards the booth 
by the door.  “Our woodland friends, for instance.  They 
miss very little.”

“Elves?”  she snorted dismissively.  “What would I want 
with their sort?  Cold creatures.”

He laughed. “Do not be fooled by the masks they wear.  I 
have good reason to believe that elves can be both deadly 
and passionate when roused.”

“You have?”  She said no more, but raising an eyebrow, 
she forgot herself for a moment and grinned.  Celaeren felt 
a sudden shock run through him as he recognised the wit 
and humour in her sharp-featured face.  

“Indeed.”  He declined to comment further, and waited for 
her to continue.

“No, elves are not much good to me.”  She seemed 
thoughtful, leaning onto her arms as they rested on the table, 
and speaking almost as if to herself.  “They must carry gold, 
to pay their way when they walk amongst men, but I doubt 
that I should ever see it.  A dwarf, on the other hand, loves 
to gamble, but even in his cups he is not easily swindled.  
Men, though, they are easy to deal with.  A glass of ale, an 
eager lad with a pack of cards, and there are few who can 
resist the challenge.”

Celaeren nodded.  “So that is what you are about; I 
thought as much.  Do you not know that it is a dangerous 
game?”

“I know the danger and can defend myself.  Besides, I am 
careful never to win too much.  But you presume a great 
deal by suggesting that this is a game to me.”

“If not a game, what is it?”

“A means to live, of course.  What else is a woman to do if 
she will not give up her honour or throw herself upon the 
mercy of some man in order to feed and clothe herself?”

Startled by the vehemence of her reply, Celaeren could 
think of no witty response.  He longed to know just how 
she had come to be fending for herself – it was clear from 
her manner and voice that she was no child of a poor and 
humble background – but sensed that it would not be a 
good idea to ask.  None the less, he could not drop the 
subject completely.

“How long have you been living this way?”  he asked, his 
voice serious.

She avoided his gaze as she replied,  “Long enough to 
know what I am doing.”

Celaeren looked at her, her frank, intelligent eyes cast 
down, her long, nervous fingers grasping the edge of the 
table, and wondered why the sight of her should move him 
so.  She was not beautiful, by any means, and would not 
be so even if her hair was to grow out of its current lank 
state, and be dressed in a woman’s style.  Her face would 
still be a little too long, her nose a little too sharp, her frame 
still boyish in its tall angularity.  Yet there was something 
arresting about her, proud, defiant and vulnerable as she 
was.  He had to admit that he was thoroughly intrigued; she 
was like no woman he had met before.

“I imagine this city is a good place to become invisible,”  he 
said. 

“Aye, a place full of strangers, and opportunities for all,”  
she replied, with bitterness in her tone.

He leaned forward and stared openly into her eyes, 
impressed once again by her ability to meet his look 
without wavering.

“I long to ask you what you are hiding from,”  he said, “But 
I fear you would not wish to tell me, and might flee from 
my questions.”

“Would that distress you?”  Her direct enquiry took him 
aback, and for a moment he knew not how to answer.

“I am not sure,”  he managed eventually.  

They stared at each other for a while.  The noises of the inn 
swirled around them – dwarven song, human laughter, the 
clank and rattle of bottle and glass – but Celaeren paid no 
heed.  It was as if the two of them existed in some other 
place, untouched by the smoke and heat of the busy room.

‘Beremund’ broke the silence between them at last with a 
lengthy sigh.  “Why does a woman ever run from a good 
home?”  she said sorrowfully.  “I would not marry a man 
who disgusts me, and spend my life in a cage of discontent, 
for the sake of my family’s name.”

“And your father would force you?”

“Not my father.  He died nearly two years ago.  He loved 
me truly, and would never have driven me into a marriage I 
did not choose.  It is my older brother who would rule my 
life now, and he is all too ready to listen to those who 
speak of alliances, of matches well made.”

Celaeren experienced an urge to console her, but it soon 
passed; the ale was strong, and the devil was already in 
him.  The words that fell from his lips, as if of their own 
accord, had naught to do with comfort.  Something about 
the way she had leaned towards the serving girl led him to 
say it.

“And was it the thought of your suitor, in particular, that 
disgusted you?  Or is it perhaps a more general condition?”

“What do you imply?”  she whispered fiercely, her cheeks 
reddening.

He had his answer, just by looking at her flushed face, but 
he kept on.

“I am no innocent,”  he told her, “and I would think none 
the less of you.  There are other types of love, I know.”

She drank deeply of her beer then , and stared at him 
defiantly.  “I know not why I should answer your 
impertinent questions!”  she said.  “And yet . . .”  another 
swig,  “there was a woman.  A fair, proud, woman.  But 
she has another life now, and there is no room in it for me.”

Celaeren was not disposed towards flashes of visionary 
intuition,  but the image that unexpectedly  entered his mind 
was hard to dismiss.  His cousin’s wife, the lady Eowyn, 
haughtily beautiful warrior maiden of Rohan. . .  he 
watched his companion as she averted her eyes from his, 
and felt sure that he knew the truth.  This, however, was 
one question he could not put to her, not so early in the 
evening, at least.

“And now?”  he asked, leaning towards her across the 
table.

“How should I know?  I have no time for such thoughts.  I 
exist from day to day, just trying to stay alive, stay out of 
sight.”

“I would help you, if I could,”  he said suddenly, surprising 
himself.

“I neither need nor want your help, Prince Celaeren,”  she 
snapped at him viciously.  “Yes, I know who you are; your 
reputation precedes you.” 

She raised her glass and clinked it against his, before 
tipping it back and draining it rapidly.  

“Wait!”  He placed a hand on her arm as she began to rise 
from her seat.  “I am sorry if I offended you.  I meant 
only . . .  to buy you a hearty meal, perhaps, next time we 
meet here?”  He was backtracking furiously, and knew it; 
unsure why it was so important that she should not run 
from him, but certain that he would be bitterly angry with 
himself if she did.  “We may meet again?”

Once more she seemed to weigh up the possibilities before 
replying.  

“Not here,”  she said at last.  “I cannot come back here for 
a while; I have already played too many hands with too 
many canny customers.”  So saying, she scanned the room 
warily.  “At the Golden Oliphaunt, perhaps, near the West 
gate?”

Celaeren nodded.

“But know this,”  she went on, in an low, urgent voice, 
“Should you speak of this meeting to anyone at court, I 
shall find you, and have my revenge.”

“Well do I know of the valour of the shield-maids of 
Rohan, and I doubt not that you would be true to your 
word.”  He tried to ignore the frisson of excitement he felt 
at the thought of meeting her with swords drawn, and 
continued seriously, “I have nothing to gain by calling 
attention to you; I seek merely to continue our 
conversation, and to learn of you only that which you 
choose to reveal.”

She shook her head.  “Truly, I still do not know why I 
should trust you.  We shall see.  But now I have to thank 
you for the beer and bid you goodnight; for I must go and 
lose some money.”

“Wait – what do you . . .”  he held out a hand to her again, 
but she had already left the table, and set off across the 
room to join the group of Northerners once more.

Left nursing his own drink and regarding her empty tankard 
on the table before him, Celaeren could only grimace to 
himself at his own discomfort.  In his colourful career there 
had been hundreds of unexpected encounters in dozens of 
inns, but none had unsettled him like this one.  She may be 
no beauty, but there was something about her, an energy, 
that drew him to her.  And knowing she had an eye for 
other women did nothing to dampen his interest; in fact, as 
his racing pulse could testify, quite the reverse was true. 
Maybe the ale was finally turning him into a fool, but 
however far gone he was, he would not sit and wait for her 
after she had made it so plain that the interview was over.  

So the prince rose, his pride almost intact, and headed for 
the door without so much as a glance at the mysterious 
woman in boy’s clothing.  The night air was good, 
refreshing and pure in his lungs after the dense fug inside 
the inn.  He decided to walk a while, down to one of the 
taverns by the market square.  He badly needed another 
drink; and surely somebody there would be able to tell him 
the whereabouts of the Golden Oliphaunt.

Imagining the taste of the next glass of beer, Celaeren 
dismissed Beremund from his mind, and set off down the 
cobbled street.

****************************************


CHAPTER 5


“Good morning, Heledir.  I trust you slept well?”

The secretary nearly choked in his haste to swallow the last 
mouthful of bread, as Prince Imrahil approached.  He 
brushed the crumbs from his face hurriedly, and began to 
stand to greet his lord.

“Sit down, please.  There is no need for such formality 
here.”  Imrahil smiled, and Heledir could not help but 
respond in kind.  Only the hardest of hearts could fail to be 
moved by the pure happiness evident on the prince’s face.

He had arrived at the table with Legolas; evidently they 
had decided that royal decorum could allow one prince to 
escort the other to breakfast, regardless of the obvious 
implications.  As Heledir glanced surreptitiously around the 
dining hall at the small knots of elves gathered there, he 
saw no surprise or disapproval, only smiles of greeting.  
But then these were the fair folk; one could hardly expect 
them to wear their emotions for all to read.

As Legolas moved down the long table to speak to 
Meluinen, Imrahil settled himself across from his secretary.

“Thank you, My Lord, indeed I slept well; like a well-fed 
infant.  And you, Sire?  Did you pass a comfortable night?”  
As soon as the words escaped his mouth, Heledir realised 
how inappropriate his question was under the 
circumstances, and felt the furious blush rising in his cheeks.  
He looked down at his plate, aghast at his own loose 
tongue.  

But if Imrahil noticed his discomfort, he gave no sign of it.  
“I, too, slept like a child.  I believe the very air here is most 
restorative.” 

Heledir looked up to see his master grinning at him like a 
youth of seventeen.  Mortified, the secretary longed to turn 
away again, but felt it would be discourteous.  Instead, he 
brought the conversation to safer ground.  “Will you 
require my services after breakfast, Sire?”

“Nay, Heledir, let us both take a day of rest.  I plan to ride 
out to look at the land; I would ask if you wish to 
accompany me, but I suspect that you have no desire to 
reacquaint yourself with your horse just yet.”

Even as the prince spoke, Heledir found himself shifting 
uncomfortably on the wooden bench.  “Indeed not, My 
Lord.  I should be a happy man if I never saw the beast 
again.”

“Do not wrong good Thalion,”  the prince laughed.  “What 
you really need is to become better acquainted, and take 
him out daily.  The aches would pass, and we might make 
a true horseman of you yet.”

“Perhaps, My Lord,”  replied the secretary ruefully.  “But I 
do not believe I will ever know the pleasure of a good ride 
as you do, Sire.”

Heledir caught Imrahil’s smirk before the double meaning 
of the words struck him.  For a moment his shock at the 
prince’s amusement outweighed his embarrassment, until 
the thought came to him:  ‘He is a soldier; he is 
accustomed to barracks humour, but I…’  Perhaps, if he 
wished hard enough, the ground would literally open and 
swallow him whole.

“Do not be so sure, good Master Heledir.”  The prince 
spoke smoothly, but one eyebrow was still  raised.  “It is 
all in the practice, I assure you.”

Heledir squirmed, but his master must have taken pity on 
him.

“What will you do with your day?”  Imrahil asked.

“The lady Velenda has requested that I visit her in the 
library; I shall go there this morning.  Then I hope to walk 
in the forest.  There are many plants here which I have not 
seen before.”  He spoke eagerly, grateful for the change of 
subject.

“Ah, then I need not worry whether you will have an 
enjoyable time.  I am sure Velenda will look after you 
admirably.”  

Heledir was saved from examining this comment too 
closely by Legolas, who sank elegantly onto the bench at 
Imrahil’s side before the secretary could even think of 
getting to his feet.

The elf prince greeted him as an equal and enquired after 
his well-being.  This time Heledir, aware of Imrahil’s 
amused glance upon him, chose his words of response with 
care.  For once, he managed not to stutter.

The two lovers – it was impossible to think of them 
otherwise, for even the way they sat, close, not touching 
yet each so clearly aware of the other’s presence, spoke of 
their affinity – reached for the baskets of bread and dishes 
of honey, and began to eat.  Heledir found himself with a 
dilemma; would it be impolite to stay and watch them, or 
more so to leave them at table so abruptly?

Once again, Legolas came to his rescue.  “I see you have 
finished eating, but did you try the preserved bilberries?  
No?  Then you must do so; they are particularly delicious.”

There was no chance to protest; the fair elf had already left 
his place.

“My Lord, you really need not . . .”  the secretary 
stammered, as a wooden bowl heaped with fragrant 
berries and thick, yellowish cream was placed before him.

“Please, do not say it, Master Heledir.”  Legolas’s tone 
was kindly.  “You are my guest here, and my only concern 
is that your stay should be a happy one.”

He was sure he could feel his heart swell as he replied.  “In 
truth, I do not know how it could possibly be otherwise.”

********************

As soon as he entered the library, it was apparent to 
Heledir why Velenda had requested his assistance, 
although she had not given further details at dinner.  Finely 
carved shelves lined the walls, but they stood largely empty.  
A clutter of wooden crates filled the centre of the spacious 
room, and piles of books surrounded them.  Of Velenda 
herself, there was no sign.

The books drew Heledir, as books always did; and he 
walked into the room, reaching for the nearest volume:  a 
learned treatise on Noldorin heroic poetry.  With its dark 
leather cover in such good condition, it could not be an 
original, yet it had gathered much dust.  As he opened it to 
leaf through the index, the dry cloud filled his nostrils and 
he sneezed, effectively announcing his presence should 
anyone be there to hear.

Heledir started as Velenda appeared from behind the high 
shelves at the far end of the library.  The volume in his hand 
lay forgotten as he took in the sight of her.

She was dressed all in grey, her tunic the colour of a 
dove’s wing, her leggings and boots the darker hue of a 
storm cloud.  Her hair, almost black but glinting red where 
the sun caught it, was piled haphazardly on the top of her 
head, exposing the long curve of her pale neck.  Her 
serious face wore a radiant smile of greeting, which 
seemed to do something strange to the beating of Heledir’s 
heart; as she approached, he could feel it quicken.

“Heledir!  I am so happy to see you.”

“My Lady, it is my pleasure. . .”

“Oh no, Heledir.  If we are to work together, as I hope we 
are, you must call me by my name; you owe me no title.”

“As you wish, V- Velenda.”

She nodded her approval.  “Have you eaten?  Does your 
prince have need of you?  No?  Then perhaps we can start 
straight away.”

“There is much to be done,”  he said, casting his eye 
around the room, and counting more than twenty crates.

“Aye, and more than you think.”  She caught his 
questioning glance.  “These are recently arrived from 
Rivendell; a handsome gift from the lords Elrohir and 
Elladan.  They bear the dust of their journey, which was a 
hard one; but worse, somewhere along the way the 
covering list went missing, so I am starting the cataloguing 
from nothing.”

He nodded sagely.  “What information do you generally 
include?”  

“I will show you.”  

She beckoned him across to a long table at the side of the 
room, and drew a folder from the shelf behind.  Heledir 
saw at a glance that he would have no difficulty in working 
with her; she wrote in a clear, open hand, and her system 
for classifying and cataloguing the books was logical and 
concise.  

They talked as they worked, about the books for the most 
part.  And what books they were!  Heledir was sure that 
even were he to stumble on a dragon’s hoard, he would 
never again see such treasures as these.  There were 
books of poetry and tales, telling of romance, of the beauty 
of nature and of heroic escapades from every age of the 
world.  There were tomes of lore – of plants, herbs and 
healing; of the arts of war, of crafts and construction.  
There were books of maps, finely etched and coloured, 
showing in detail all parts of the known Earth.  And there 
were volumes of history – not only of the elven kingdoms, 
but of dwarf-kind and man as well.  Some of the works 
were familiar to Heledir, but the majority were gloriously 
new, a feast just waiting to be devoured.  

Indeed, the only thing more fascinating than the books was 
the librarian herself.  It was well that there was so much 
work to do; he had not the time to stand and stare at 
Velenda, as part of him longed to do.  Instead, he listened, 
enchanted, as she spoke of the books as old friends; 
eliciting his opinion on those he knew, summarising with wit 
and affection her favourites amongst the others.  He longed 
to say, ‘And now, speak of yourself,’ but felt it would be 
importunate to do so.

He did, however, manage to ask her if she always worked 
alone in the library.

Velenda laughed.  “My Greenwood cousins like to read 
when the fancy takes them, but not one of them would be 
happy toiling here, when there is the forest, the river, the 
meadows to explore under the sun or the stars.”

“Not even your sister?”

“Tuillin?  Nay, she is as enamoured of the wood-elf’s life 
as she is of her husband.  She was ever so; when we were 
young she would shirk her classes whenever she could to 
go riding or shooting in the forest.”  She picked up a slim 
volume and dusted it thoughtfully.  “Prince Legolas helps 
me sometimes; I think because he feels he should, though 
he is an avid reader himself.”

Heledir caught her eye with a question.

“He favours the tales of great journeys, by land and sea.  
Although,”  she dropped her voice and her eyes glittered, 
“he has asked me to let him know if I find any works of 
Selarad of Lindon in the crates.”

This obviously held some meaning, which the man could 
not divine.  Smiling at his confusion, Velenda continued,  
“You do not know his writings?  No, how could you - I do 
not imagine they have found their way into the libraries of 
men.  Selarad is considered to be one of the great poets of 
the second age, and his work is certainly the most . . . 
sensual.  They say he wrote of Gil-galad, although his style 
is too subtle to be sure.”

Heledir felt himself flushing at this excess of information, 
and turned to the crates once more.

The sun had long since vanished from the easterly windows 
when Velenda exclaimed in dismay,  “Oh, I am a dullard 
for treating a guest so shabbily!  You must be ravenous– I 
had quite forgotten about lunch.”

“Nay, do not concern yourself, I had not thought of it,” he 
replied politely.  In truth, his stomach had been growling 
for the last hour or more; no doubt her acute elven hearing 
would have made her aware of the fact, had she not been 
so engrossed.  Yet there was something so charming about 
her absorption in the work she loved, Heledir would have 
fainted with hunger before he had brought the matter to her 
attention.  

She led him at once to the dining hall, where they found 
that lunch was long finished, and the tables all cleared.  

“Fear not!  I will not let you starve,”  Velenda told the now 
rather anxious Heledir.  She steered him into the kitchens 
at the end of the long hall, and towards a number of 
covered bowls on a table at the side.  The man had the 
distinct impression that this was not the first time that 
Velenda had forgotten to eat with the rest of the elves; no 
doubt the cooks regularly ensured that something was left 
for her.  

At last they sat with bowls of delicious, green, sharp-
flavoured soup and plates of bread, cheese  and salad.  
The elf, Heledir noted with some satisfaction, ate as 
hungrily as he did, though not a crumb fell from her lips, 
and she lost none of her grace.

As they finished, she astonished him by saying,  “And now, 
Heledir, tell me something of yourself.  How came you by 
your impressive store of knowledge in such a short lifetime?  
Are you the son of a great scholar?” 
 
“Indeed not,”  he laughed wryly.  “Far from it.  I was born 
in Prince Imrahil’s castle; my father was a cook, my 
mother a seamstress.”  He smiled at her expression of 
surprise.  “Truly; I should probably have been a kitchen 
boy or a messenger, had it not been for my mother.  She 
taught me my letters when I was very young, and found 
that I had a love of learning.  Queen Glantathar was a good 
and generous woman; she interceded on my mother’s 
behalf with the prince, with the result that I was 
apprenticed out to the wisest old scribe in the city when I 
was eight years old.”

“A man of Dol Amroth?”

“No, he had come from Gondor with a shroud of secrecy 
about him.  They say he was close to the steward until a 
terrible disagreement incurred Denethor’s rage and he had 
to leave.  He was not an easy master, nor always a 
pleasant one, but he gave me more than I could have 
hoped for, and for that I am ever grateful.”  

“And how long have you been in the prince’s service?”

“Nearly twenty years, since I was seventeen.  The old 
secretary was ill and his sight failing; the prince took me on 
straight away.  I have been very lucky.”

“So it seems,” she said gently.  “You love him very much, 
do you not?”

“How could I feel otherwise?”  Heledir’s reply was frank.  
“He is a great and noble leader, yet as a master he is 
always thoughtful and kind; he endeavours to make me feel 
that I am his equal.”  

“In that respect, I believe he resembles my prince of 
Ithilien.”  

The man realised that here, perhaps, lay the answer to his 
own unspoken question.  The beautiful, wise, elf-maid 
before him had presumably left the erudite splendour of 
Rivendell for love of Prince Legolas.   Maybe it was a love 
that went beyond the admiration of subject for royal leader; 
easy to imagine in a community as informal as this one.  If 
that was the case, she must know her love to be doomed 
to remain unrequited, unless – he had no idea, he realised 
suddenly, quite how these matters went amongst elves, and 
with the rational part of his mind he had no wish to find out.  
Unfortunately those other parts, which had been so 
thoroughly stimulated by Velenda’s company all day, were 
not so easily appeased.  Ludicrous as it was, he knew he 
would have to find out the truth, although the last thing he 
could do, of course, was ask her outright.

With a start, Heledir came back to himself in time to see 
Velenda’s face crease into a frown of concern.

“I am sorry, c – could you repeat that, please?”  Of course, 
his stammer would choose this moment to re-assert itself.

“I was merely wondering if you would care to join me for a 
walk in the forest?  On a day as lovely as this one, even I 
need to escape from the library for an hour or two to feel 
the air on my face.”

Heledir gave himself a good, metaphorical shaking, and 
spoke with more confidence.  “I should be delighted.  
Thank you.  Are you familiar with the names and classes of 
the plants here?”

She nodded.  “Aye, most of them.”
 
“In that case, I would very much like to return to my room 
first, to fetch a notebook and pencil.” 

“Ah, Heledir, you are truly a scholar after my heart.”

As she turned her dazzling smile on him once more, 
Heledir’s own heart did not know whether to sink to his 
boots or fly to the rafters.  Despite his earlier musings, it 
suddenly became horribly clear to him that it was he, not 
Velenda, who was irretrievably doomed.


********************

Extract from Heledir’s Journal


She calls me a scholar, praising me for my knowledge 
and wisdom, and my mind resounds with the irony of it.  
For if she knew the true direction of my thoughts, she 
would realise that nowhere in Arda is there a man as 
foolish as I.  
 
We sit at the long table, poring over the books and 
papers.  Were she to move any closer, I would feel the 
heat of her body next to mine.  My own skin burns at 
the very notion, yet she, her gaze fixed on the page 
before her, seems almost unaware of my presence, 
until she speaks.  

Her absolute concentration on her work allows me to 
watch her, my own attentions unobserved.  Her profile 
is noble and fine, her eyes dark grey and fringed with 
the blackest of lashes, long and thickly curled.  Her 
glorious hair is piled atop her head without artifice; it 
is a measure for comfort and convenience, which owes 
nothing to vanity, yet serves only to enhance her 
delicate beauty.  A stray tendril escapes and falls 
behind one pointed ear and across her shoulder;  my 
hands grasp each other in my lap, to restrain the 
fingers that itch to touch it.

But it is the sight of her neck which so nearly undoes 
me.  Her skin is not silver, like that of her elven prince; 
it is milk-white, perfect even at so close a range, surely 
both soft and firm to the touch.  Were I her lover, I 
would run my finger along the curve that descends 
from hairline to collar, the gentlest of caresses for such 
a vulnerable part.  I would press my lips to the place 
below her ear where the faintest of indentations forms, 
and breathe deeply of her intoxicating scent, like honey, 
lightly spiced with vanilla and cloves.  

It is well that I can only dream of such touches.  Were 
she to allow me such a kiss, I would surely die from the 
pleasure of it.

For twenty  years or more, all the days of my manhood, 
love has spared me its sweet tortures.  I had thought 
myself content with my lot, free of the tribulations that 
beset other men in its name.  Never have I had a 
companion who understands my passions so well, and 
shares them so completely; never have I known what it 
is to desire another so intensely that my body trembles 
at the mere thought of her name.  That I should find 
both, now, in one form so perfect, so near, and yet so 
distant, is wondrous cruelty indeed.

I am ashamed of my thoughts, and I know myself to be 
ridiculous.  One such as she is so far beyond my reach 
that even by dreaming thus, I fear I am mocking her.  
And for my own part, surely I would have been happier 
in my ignorance, untroubled by the sugared barbs of 
love that plague me now.

And yet, had I the choice, could I possibly elect not to 
have met her, not to have melted in the brilliance of 
her smile, not to have listened, enraptured, to the 
lilting music of her voice?  I would be an even greater 
fool than I am, were I to wish it so.

****************************************


CHAPTER 5


“The stars are bright, and the air is sweet, my friend.  What 
say you we lie beneath the trees tonight?”

Legolas turned at the top of the path and glanced at Imrahil 
as he spoke.  Even in the near-dark, the gleam in the elf’s 
eyes was evident.  

The man stepped up to his lover’s side as he replied.  “I 
say it is a fine idea, providing that you promise to keep me 
warm while I sleep.  The air may be sweet, but it carries a 
perilous chill to my mortal bones.”

The words had hardly left his mouth when Legolas slid 
smoothly into his arms, managing somehow to bring most 
of their bodies into contact in one sleek movement.  The 
effect was immediate, and still startling, even after eight 
days of each others’ company.  Imrahil’s heart seemed to 
double its rate, with the sole purpose of pumping hot blood 
to his groin.

“I do not think you need to worry about keeping warm,” 
the elf whispered, so close that his breath caressed the 
man’s cheek.  “Sleep, on the other hand, may be 
something of a problem.”

Imrahil found himself clutching at Legolas like a man weak 
with fever as his lover’s tongue began to explore the curves 
of his ear.  At the same time both elven hands dropped 
down his back to circle firmly, possessively, on his 
buttocks.  Any attempt he might have made to regain some 
self control was instantly undermined as the elf started to 
move in his arms, rubbing against his erection with just 
enough force to be unbearably arousing.

“Legolas . . .  ai, would you have me lose myself right 
here?” he groaned, as the insistent tongue began a slow 
and torturous journey down his neck, and the pressure of 
the strong thigh against his cock increased fractionally.

The elf raised his head and looked him in the eye, one hand 
leaving the man’s rear and sliding down between them.  
Imrahil forgot to breathe for a moment when his lover 
stroked him, hard, through the fabric of his breeches.  

“Yes, I would watch you lose yourself,” the low murmur 
was rich with humour.  “I find the prospect most alluring.”  

With that, Legolas shifted his position slightly to the side, to 
give his hand better access.  The other arm held firm 
across Imrahil’s back, supporting him as he gasped and 
staggered a little under the intensity of aching pleasure 
induced by the elf’s firm touch.

Imrahil turned his head to look at Legolas, dark-eyed and 
smiling in the gloom.  The smile widened and drew closer, 
and then the elf was kissing him, taking his mouth – there 
could be no other phrase for it – with absolute, irresistible 
authority.  Imrahil could put up no struggle; his hands still 
grasped the other’s shoulders uselessly, and his legs felt as 
if the bones had turned to water.  Part of him objected to 
giving up so soon, when all the night lay ahead, yet the 
tension was building to such a peak, it could not be long.  

His protest was feeble, moaned into his lover’s mouth as it 
was, but it did not go unnoticed.  Legolas pulled his head 
back, although his hand continued its steady, deliberate 
movements.  

“Why fight it, my beautiful prince?” said the elf, his voice 
like warm treacle.  “I wager I will have you hard again 
within the hour, and then you shall have me, in any and 
every way you desire.”

This was too much for Imrahil.  His body, which had been 
seething with lust since the elf’s first teasing contact under 
the table at dinner some two hours before, could no longer 
obey his will.  Abandoning all pretence, he flung his head 
back, and leaned sideways into Legolas.

“Valar, I am coming!”  

“Yes, now!” Legolas released the pressure of his hand at  
the crucial moment, leaving Imrahil suspended for an 
instant in painful anticipation.  Then the spasms began, and 
the elf cupped him firmly once again, holding on until the 
last tremor had died down and only the warm stickiness in 
his clothes, and the humming of spent pleasure all through 
his body, remained.

“I would be a fool to take on such a wager,” Imrahil 
managed to say at last.  “Yet perhaps I should, for I would 
be the winner, either way.”

“There are no losers here.” Legolas still held Imrahil firmly 
to him with one arm, but the other hand now moved up the 
man’s body to brush across his chest.

“You may not feel that way by the time I have finished with 
you tonight.”

“Do you intend to use me roughly, then?” the elf enquired, 
locating a nipple through the cloth and pinching it none too 
gently.

“And thoroughly, and deeply, and more than once . . .  
Gods, Legolas, not again, not yet!  Give me a chance - to 
change out of these breeches, at least.”

Legolas laughed, and kissed him gently before releasing 
him.  “Well, then, you can wash in my cabin; I can find 
something for you to wear – not that you will need your 
clothes for long.  Or we could go back down to the baths 
if you prefer.”

“I do not think that would be advisable.  We would be 
bound to meet others there, and in all honesty, I could not 
promise to keep my hands to myself to spare their blushes, 
or yours.”

“My father always taught me that humans have no self 
control, and now I see he was right.” The elf twisted neatly 
out of Imrahil’s range as the man growled playfully.  

“You . . .”  

Like two overgrown children they ran across the clearing 
and up the steps to the wooden door. There, Legolas 
allowed himself to be caught, and submitted willingly to 
Imrahil’s heated kiss.  The demanding, forceful warrior 
who had brought the man to ruin moments before was 
nowhere to be seen.

“Just to wash and change,” said the elf, as Imrahil stepped 
inside.  “It will be sweeter still to make love under the 
stars.”

Imrahil looked him up and down, slowly; imagined the long 
lean body spread naked across the great bed, the golden 
hair tangled, the fair face contorted with passion; and 
licked his lips.  

“Just to wash and change,” he repeated, and grinned.

Imrahil intended to comply with Legolas's request and do 
nothing more in the cabin than wash and don clean clothes.  
But in spite of his resolve he lingered in the tiny bathroom, 
enjoying the feel of cool water and sweet soap on his skin.  
He was quite unsurprised to find himself aroused once 
more; his body's capabilities might be unusual amongst 
men, but it seemed they reflected his elven heritage, and 
allowed him at least a chance of keeping up with his 
irresistible lover.  In the presence of the delectable elf, he 
had begun to wonder if he could ever be completely 
satisfied.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped back into 
the main chamber at last.  All thoughts of dressing and 
going out into the forest fled his mind immediately, as he 
looked at the figure before him.  Legolas stood at the foot 
of the bed folding a large blanket, clad only in his leggings 
and with his back to Imrahil.  The man watched the 
muscles play below the elf’s gleaming skin for a moment, 
before making up his mind.  In three strides he stood 
behind his lover.

"Put that down, and bend over," he said, his mouth close to 
a pointed ear.  One of Imrahil's hands in the middle of 
Legolas's back urged him down until his outstretched arms 
were firmly braced against the bed, while the other reached 
to tug at his lover's leggings.  "You are an exceptionally 
wicked elf, and I am about to give you the fucking you 
deserve."  

Legolas complained and struggled a little, enough to play 
the game; but the fact that he would acquiesce was never 
in doubt.  And as Imrahil entered him without preamble, 
gasping at the barely lubricated contact, the elf's cries took 
on a different quality altogether.  By the end of it, neither 
was capable of intelligible speech, although there was noise 
aplenty.  

In the middle of the night, despite their earlier exertions, 
Legolas indeed achieved his desire and made love to 
Imrahil under the stars.  It was a long, slow coupling, none 
the less intense for that, and as the man spilled inside his 
lover once more, he stared down into the unfocussed blue 
eyes and felt the tears start in his own.  The heights of 
physical pleasure they reached together were 
unprecedented, but the fact that afterwards he could lie 
with this magical being in his arms, and openly declare his 
emotions, was even more astonishing.  From time to time 
the enormity of his feelings for the elf still overwhelmed 
him.
A tree root digging into his hip woke Imrahil, as he rolled 
on his side.  It could not be much later than dawn; the birds 
were singing but the light filtering through his still-closed lids 
was weak.  His body felt stiff and sore - hardly surprising, 
all things considered.  He shifted to a more comfortable 
position and took a moment to recall events of the previous 
night.   

Seconds later, his mind full of hazy thoughts of love, Imrahil 
turned over once more and opened his eyes, only to find 
that he lay alone under the blankets.  He did not have to 
look far to locate Legolas, however; the elf sat with his 
back against a tree a few feet away, utterly naked, and 
absorbed in something Imrahil could not quite see.  

Loathe to disturb Legolas, yet intrigued to know what held 
his attention, Imrahil stealthily pushed himself up to a sitting 
position.  The elf did not turn his head, but the hint of a 
smile quirked on his lips, and an eyebrow raised to let the 
man know that he had been noticed.  Imrahil craned his 
neck to see what was happening on the far side of his 
lover’s legs, and had to bite his tongue to refrain from 
comment.

Legolas’s hand lay on the ground, palm up, and sitting on it 
was a small red squirrel.  The creature was busily engaged 
in eating some nut or seed, seemingly quite unworried by 
its unusual resting place.  As Imrahil watched, entranced, 
Legolas slowly brought his hand up in front of him until the 
squirrel sat before his face.  The food was now finished 
and the little animal was cleaning its face with deft 
movements of tiny paws.  Legolas watched intently until 
this serious business was concluded, before murmuring 
quietly in a language Imrahil could not recognise, let alone 
understand.  The squirrel sat up on its back legs, ears and 
nose twitching, as it gazed at the elf for several seconds.  
When Legolas raised his other hand and gently stroked the 
rich red fur of the creature’s back, it did not so much as 
flinch.  Then the elf murmured again, and laughed as the 
squirrel leapt from his hand to his shoulder, and from there 
away up the tree.

Imrahil allowed himself to speak.  “Do not tell me that you 
can talk to squirrels?” 

“Not in the sense of a conversation, no.  Their minds are 
not so organised.  But there is a connection there, 
certainly.”

The man shook his head.  “You will never cease to 
astonish me.  What do you feel when you make this 
connection?  What does a squirrel think of?”

“Oh, food, mostly, although even that is more of a 
sensation than a thought.  It is hard to describe.  Would 
you like to feel it for yourself?”

“Could I?”

“Not with the squirrel . . .  she is too excitable.  I think you 
would frighten her.  But there are other spirits in the forest.  
Come.” 

Legolas held an arm out to Imrahil, who would not have 
refused the gesture, whatever spiritual treat was promised 
at the end of it.  He crawled out from under the blanket 
and across to his lover.  Wincing slightly as his bare foot 
encountered a sharp twig, he crouched before Legolas, 
and leaned forward for a kiss.

“Good morning, my love,” he whispered, suddenly acutely 
conscious of the proximity of their naked bodies.

The fair elf laughed as Imrahil bent to kiss his neck, and 
continued on down his chest.  “I thought you wanted to 
know what it felt like.”

“I find I am rather more interested in this.” Imrahil shifted 
to his knees between the elf’s legs, and with an arm resting 
on each pale thigh, dipped his head lower still.

Legolas’s cock was delightfully warm and soft at first, and 
small enough for Imrahil to roll his tongue around the whole 
of it with relative ease.  But not for long; it grew rapidly 
under his loving attention, and soon Legolas was moaning 
softly, burying his fingers in Imrahil’s hair, holding the 
man’s head in place as his hips began to push upwards.  

Imrahil felt a rising sense of satisfaction as the elf grew 
increasingly excited, and before long he was urgently hard 
himself.  Pausing for a moment to draw breath, he 
wondered at how enjoyable this act was for its own sake, 
not just for the marvellous effect it had on his lover.  He 
could never have expected it, but he loved Legolas’s cock, 
the taste, the feel, the very knowledge of it in his mouth.  
Given the choice, he would start every day this way.

Sensing the elf’s approaching orgasm, he timed his efforts 
accordingly, and was rewarded by the most beautiful of 
sounds.

“Imrahil . . .  ai, my prince!  I am coming!” 

The statement was hardly necessary; there could be no 
mistaking the loud cries of pleasure, nor the pulsing stream 
of warm liquid that suddenly filled his mouth.

He took his time swallowing the last drop, then somewhat 
awkwardly unfolded his body, raising his head to be level 
with the elf’s.  Legolas, flushed and wide-eyed, smiled at 
him.  

“You seem to be rather painfully stiff, my friend.  Perhaps I 
could help to eradicate the problem?”

Imrahil snorted.  “Are you offering me a massage?”

“I had thought to ease your more short term stiffness, first.”

“Gods!  If you touch me now, you will finish me in 
seconds.”

“Then turn around and sit – here.”  

So Imrahil sat, his back against his lover’s chest, his legs 
stretched out between Legolas’s raised knees.  He closed 
his eyes as the elf leant forward and reached for him, and 
groaned at the first delicate touch of the warm hand on his 
flesh.  

It took far more than a few seconds.  Legolas knew his 
lover’s body too well, and was adept at prolonging the 
man’s pleasure to the limit of endurance.  Imrahil tried to 
wait, to enjoy the wealth of sensation; but as usual he was 
soon crying out, begging the elf for some relief.  

“Be patient, sweet prince.” The musical voice breathed into 
his ear.  “Open your eyes.”

As he obeyed his lover’s command, moaning as the gentle 
fingers continued to caress his cock, Imrahil became aware 
of the strangest of feelings elsewhere in his body.  A 
delicious tingling began in his spine and spread through his 
torso, down each of his limbs, causing his fingers to 
straighten and spread, his toes likewise, almost as if they 
were growing, lengthening.  The colours of the forest 
around him seemed to be suffused with a green glow, and 
its sounds had blended into a heavy murmur.  The myriad 
scents of the wood, on the other hand, were suddenly quite 
distinct from each other, each one causing a sharp yet 
pleasurable prickling as he drew breath.
 
Imrahil sat still and speechless, as the slow, powerful life-
pulse moved through his veins, awakening every particle of 
his flesh to the knowledge of its own existence.  Although it 
was like nothing he had experienced before, he knew 
without doubt that what he felt was the essence of the great 
tree at Legolas’s back, flowing through him like rich sap, 
even as the elf’s skilful hand drew him over the edge and 
caused his own fluid to spill to the forest floor.

“Did you feel it?” The words were barely more than a 
whisper.

“You know I did.”

“And was it good?”

“Astonishing.  Legolas . . .”

“Yes, my prince?”

“I love you so much.”

As he felt the soft lips press to his shoulder in mute 
response, Imrahil’s valiant heart finally failed him, and he 
suffered a pang of anguish at the knowledge that the elf 
would never be able to match his declaration.  For nearly a 
year he had tried to persuade himself that it mattered not, 
that what they had was enough; but in that moment, with 
the link between their spirits still lingering, he saw the reality 
too clearly, and tears filled his eyes.

“Imrahil?”

“Yes, my love.” He could not keep the emotion from his 
voice.  Not that he should need to try; no doubt the elf 
could feel his grief, whether he said the words aloud or 
kept them to himself.

“I am sorry.  I would spare you this hurt.”

“Yet you cannot.”

“What can I do?”

 “Come with me to Emyn Arnen.” Imrahil spoke without 
forethought.

There was a pause, but then the elf’s mouth touched his 
shoulder again, and for an instant the man thought he heard 
a faint sigh.  

“If it will make you happy, I shall.”

“But not to Minas Tirith?” Knowing what the reply would 
be, perhaps he was punishing himself for his own 
foolishness by asking the question.  By the time this thought 
came to him, it was of course too late.  

The shift in Legolas’s posture, a stiffening, a drawing back, 
was barely perceptible.  It was enough to make Imrahil sit 
forward and then scramble around to face his lover.  
Legolas stared at him, apparently unwilling to respond.

“You will not,” said the man,  “Of course.”

“Why would I choose to cause unnecessary pain?” The 
elf’s voice was low, but steady.  

“Cause it to whom?” Once again the words spilled out, 
and before he closed his mouth, Imrahil realised the 
devastating truth of the answer.

“It is him you are protecting, not yourself, or me.” Imrahil 
spoke slowly as the full situation unfolded itself  before him.  
“He loves you still – in spite of . . .  of course . .  . how 
could he not do so?”

Legolas reached out a hand towards his arm, his eyes full 
of concern.  “Imrahil -”

“No, please do not say it.  I have no wish to hear more.  I 
have been a fool; the fault is mine.” He stood and scanned 
the clearing for his clothes.  

“Please, let us talk.” Legolas was on his feet, but did not 
approach Imrahil as the man struggled into his leggings and 
shirt.

“What is there to say?  I have allowed myself to believe in 
a fantasy of my own making, and now I must open my 
eyes.  I would prefer to be alone.”

Even as he uttered the words he knew that part of him was 
begging the elf to ignore them, to rush to his side, to hold 
him in his arms and offer reassurance.  But Legolas, 
respectful as ever, simply watched him as he picked up his 
tunic and turned downhill.  The sight of him standing there, 
his face a mask of helpless sorrow, was almost more than 
Imrahil could bear.  

It was desperately difficult to walk away, with the dull pain 
tearing through him and his eyes blurred and sore.  Once 
his feet found the path, he simply kept going, concentrating 
on suppressing the urge to turn back, or to wait for the light 
footsteps that would surely come running after him if he 
stopped.  It must have been the soldier in him that urged 
him on, even as the man was wondering what would 
become of him now, and how he could possibly face the 
bleak and endless days ahead.

****************************************


CHAPTER 6


For the sixth or seventh time Celaeren paced to the end of 
the alleyway and looked about him.  The street was quiet, 
as might be expected early on a Sunday afternoon.  A few 
family groups drifted by, dressed in their best and chatting 
happily, in holiday mood.  None stopped at the door to the 
Golden Oliphaunt, none entered the public lounge that 
Celaeren knew to be dark and empty.  This was no 
surprise; it was hardly a salubrious location, and  those 
unfortunate enough to have no place of their own in which 
to enjoy their midday meal would surely choose a more 
welcoming alternative.  None the less, the gloomy interior 
of the tavern was calling loudly to Celaeren, and he 
grimaced as he fought off the urge to enter, to set himself in 
the darkest corner and appease his thirst with a glass of 
spicy red Ithilien wine.  

He would wait another five minutes before giving in to his 
craving.

She had not let him down so far.  For six nights in a row he 
had stolen from the palace, as early as he could without 
being detected, and hurried to the latest venue for her 
dangerous swindler’s games.  On each occasion he had 
found her already established in the bar at the centre of 
attention of one group or another, holding the laughter of 
the men around her like a shield.  Two evenings ago, in the 
Halfling’s Horse down by the market, he had thought to 
intervene when the talk had turned nasty and one of her 
victims had accused her of unfair play.  He had fingered the 
dagger at his belt and waited for the moment to storm 
across and come to her aid, but she had rendered his help 
unnecessary with a few choice jests and a spectacular 
losing hand.  That night she had been glad of his company 
and the meal he had offered her; he knew she would be 
returning home empty-handed. 

She had not let him down so far, but this was different.  
This was not just a question of her being where she had 
said she would be, according to her own private agenda.  
It was a meeting of Celaeren’s instigation, and he had 
worked to gain her agreement.  He had been surprised 
when she consented, but had placed enough faith in her 
promise to go to some trouble absenting himself from 
Court and making the other necessary arrangements.  
Perhaps he had been foolish to do so.

Kicking a stone across the alleyway, Celaeren cursed 
under his breath.  He could practically taste the wine on his 
tongue now, and knew he had waited long enough.  He 
would have to speak to the boy in the stable yard, and then 
he would satisfy his thirst.

“Celaeren.”

He whirled around, not even trying to conceal his pleasure 
at the sight of her.  She stood at the entrance to the alley, a 
faint quizzical smile on her face.  

“Beremund!  You are here!  I had begun to think . . .”

“What?  That I was not coming?”  A shadow crossed her 
sharp features.  “You should not doubt me.  I may have 
fallen on hard times, but I still have my honour.  I do not 
make promises I do not intend to keep.”

“I have waited long,”  said Celaeren pointedly.

“And I would have been here sooner, but the crook to 
whom I pay rent chose this morning to make trouble with 
me.  I was forced to show him the point of my dagger.  I 
doubt he will trouble me again, but it seems it is time for me 
to find new lodgings.”

Celaeren grinned.  “You are here now; that is all that 
matters.”

She held his stare unblinkingly.  “Where are we going?”

“Out through the West Gate, and where the wind takes us, 
I suppose.  But first I have something to show you, through 
here.”  

He turned to the door that led into the yard and waited 
until she joined him.  Together they walked inside and 
round the corner of the buildings to where the animals were 
waiting, the great chestnut and the smaller grey, side by 
side at the trough.

One glance at her was enough to tell him that his gamble 
had paid off handsomely.

“You brought me a horse?”  She whirled to face him, a 
broad smile on her face, before hurrying to the animal’s 
side.  

Watching her, Celaeren realised that in her happiness she 
could almost be called beautiful.  There was something 
altogether different about her today, and not only due to 
her delight at the sight of the horse.  Her clothes, whilst no 
different in essence from the tunic and breeches she always 
wore, were clean and freshly pressed; her hair no longer 
hung lank about her shoulders, but was tied back under her 
hat and gleamed corn-gold in its newly washed softness.

She had made an effort for this meeting, as he had.  The 
idea warmed Celaeren and yet made him shiver.

“Does he have a name?”  she asked.

“None that I know.  I am sorry, he is not as fine a beast as 
you are accustomed to, but the best I could find for hire at 
short notice.”

”No matter, he is lovely.”  She stroked the coarse grey 
mane and pressing her face to the horse’s muzzle 
whispered to it quietly, before turning to smile at Celaeren.  
“He will suit me well; I shall call him Greyshanks.”

The beast shook its head and whinnied softly, as if 
recognising its own name for the first time.

They led the horses out of the yard, down the alley and 
across to the West Gate.  Once through the great arch, 
Celaeren turned to grin at Beremund.   “Shall we?”

She nodded, and after briefly checking the grey horse’s 
tack, she leapt lightly onto its back.  “Come on, then!”

Celaeren swung himself into the saddle and turned his bay 
around.  Beremund was already off, walking for now, 
learning the measure of her steed before urging him faster.  
But as Celaeren caught up with her, she dipped her head 
and whispered to Greyshanks, pulling the reins in close.  
The horse neighed once, and picked up its speed.

They rode for an hour or more, down over the flat river 
plain and along the edge of the forest.  It was good country 
for horses, the ground even and firm, the air fresh and keen.  
Celaeren would have enjoyed the experience greatly in any 
company.  With Beremund at his side, the pleasure was 
more than doubled.  

She rode like one who was born to it, moving with the 
horse as if she and the animal were of one mind. Once they 
were out of sight of the city gates she had removed her hat, 
and the band retaining her hair; the bright locks streamed 
behind her as she laughed at the wind in her face.  

Celaeren realised that if he had thought that she lacked 
grace, it was simply because he had not, until now, seen 
her in her proper setting.  On horseback it seemed that she 
revealed her true nature, her inherent beauty.  So does a 
great sea bird hopping along the shore appear comical;  yet 
in flight there is nothing to match the effortless grandeur of 
its motion.  

As surreptitiously as he could he drank in the sight of her, 
noting every instinctive shift of her position in the saddle, 
every expression of delight that moulded her mouth into a 
generous smile and made her eyes shine.  There was little 
to be gained by denying his own response.  He had wanted 
her since the night they met, although he could not have 
articulated the reason why.  Now he had to accept that his 
desire was rather more far-reaching than that.

There had been women in Celaeren’s life, of course.  What 
combination of dark good looks and royal status attracted 
them, he had never cared to question; but there were 
plenty who were prepared to overlook his drinking habit 
for the sake of a night or more with Dol Amroth’s youngest 
prince.  Since reaching his majority he had not been short 
of conquests and propositions, and some of the liaisons 
had extended over periods of months.  But never had any 
provided more than an agreeable diversion, a few moments 
of physical bliss and some entertaining conversation.  No 
woman of his acquaintance had presented a challenge, nor 
led him to believe that beneath the alluring surface lay a 
prize that might be worth striving for.  

None, that is, until now.

At a turn in the river where a clear-running stream fell to 
join it they dismounted, and led their steeds to drink and 
graze awhile.  Celaeren filled his waterskin and offered it to 
Beremund.  She drank deep, and locked eyes with him as 
she passed the skin back.

 “Thank you.  I cannot tell you how much I have missed 
riding.”

“You do not need to tell me.  It is quite apparent.”

They sat and watched the horses for a while, handing the 
water back and forth, enjoying the sun on their backs.  

“You sit a horse so well, you must have learned to ride 
even before you could walk,” he ventured.

“In effect, that is so.  I cannot remember a time when I was 
not at home in the saddle.” 

“It must be nigh unbearable for you, living as you do, 
having lost so much.”  Celaeren knew he was taking a risk, 
breaking their unspoken rule whereby her past was not 
mentioned.  

Beremund turned to look at him directly.  “Of course.  Yet 
I do not believe that speaking of it will lessen the pain.”

“Are you sure?  If that is the only means by which I can 
help you, I would gladly listen.”

“But that is not why we are here, is it?”  There was a 
strange tone in her voice.

“What do you . . .”  he stopped, startled by the sudden 
fact of her hand on his thigh.  Before he could  recover his 
wits, she was shifting onto her knees close to him, and 
bringing her face to his.

The first touch of her lips on his own sent a wild shiver of 
excitement through him.  Yet his shock was so great that 
he did not at first respond, but merely sat and let her take 
the lead.  Eventually his arms came up to encircle her back 
and his mouth opened to admit her tongue.  Her fingers 
moved down his chest and began to fumble with the front 
of his tunic as she kissed him forcefully, desperately.  

He had thought of little else for the past week, but now that 
it was actually happening, something about it did not feel 
right.  He knew the signs of desire in a woman.  This was 
another emotion entirely.

“I cannot do this.”  Celaeren finally broke from the kiss 
and pushed her away gently.

“Why not?  You want it badly enough!”  

“Of course I want it.  But what is *your* motivation?”

“How else am I to repay your kindness?  I know what will 
make you happy.”

“And you will only be content if I treat you like a whore?”  
Was it anger, or some other emotion that had put the ice 
into her blue eyes?  “I do not even know your name,” he 
added more gently.

“Why is that so important?  Giving me a woman’s name 
will not make my nature any more feminine, nor my breasts 
any fuller.”  Now there could be no doubt that it was 
bitterness colouring her speech.

“Can you really believe that is of any concern to me?  I 
only want know who you really are.”

“Is what you see not enough?  Do you need to know 
everything about a woman before you can lie down and 
take your pleasure with her?  I had thought you more of a 
man.”  

Sensing that she was trying to provoke him, Celaeren 
struggled to control his anger.  “Must you be cruel?  I have 
lain with women about whom I knew nothing, and would 
do so again if that was all I wanted from you.”

As the words left his mouth he saw her eyes widen and felt 
a sinking in his stomach.

“What makes you think that I want any more than that?”  
She spoke each word carefully.

“Evidently you do not.  What I cannot understand is why 
you agreed to ride with me today in the first place.”  

Beremund opened her mouth as if to speak then shut it 
again.  Celaeren watched her intently and let out a short 
mirthless laugh as an unpleasant thought occurred to him.  
“I think you do not want *me* at all.  You simply want to 
prove to yourself that you can respond to a man’s touch, 
and I happen to be a convenient subject for your 
experiment.”

She looked away, but did not attempt to deny his 
accusation.

“Well, you can find another fool to play your game, 
Beremund, or whoever you are,” he continued, “For I will 
have none of it.”

She waited until he was on his feet before crying out, “Are 
you mad, Celaeren?”  Her voice held no hint of mockery, 
only despair.  “What more could there possibly be for us?  
Do you not understand the position I am in?  I am 
betrothed to a great Lord of the Mark, and the moment I 
come out of hiding my brother will find me and take me 
back by force, if necessary.  I have no doubt of it.”

He crouched before her and gazed into her pleading eyes.  
“And have you forgotten that I am the son of a great Lord 
and not without some influence myself?”

“What are you saying?”  She spoke slowly and very quietly.

Celaeren swallowed hard.  “I want to be with you, and not 
just for an afternoon of illicit pleasure.  And I am prepared 
to work, if needs be, to make it happen.”

“How can you say that?  You do not know me!”

“Then let me know you!  Tell me the truth!”  He raised his 
voice to match hers.  They stared at each other for what 
seemed an age, and as he watched the emotions warring 
on her face he thought that she might at last capitulate.

But when she spoke, her voice was sorrowful.  “I cannot, 
Celaeren.  Forgive me.”

“Then there is nothing more to say.”

Indeed, they exchanged hardly a word as they headed 
back to the city.  Celaeren tried to focus his attention on 
the ride, and to block from his consciousness the turbulent 
mass of emotions twisting his gut in upon itself.  As they 
approached the great stone walls, however, another feeling 
surfaced, and this one he clung to gladly.  Here at least was 
one urge he knew he could satisfy, and soon.  Once the 
horses were stabled and Beremund out of his sight, he 
would drink himself utterly senseless.

He could not bring himself to look at her as she stiffly 
thanked him, not only for the ride, but for all his kindness 
throughout the week.  He accepted her thanks graciously, 
as befitted Prince Imrahil’s son; and did not turn to watch 
as she walked away. 

The bar of the Golden Oliphaunt was dark and clammy, 
despite the warmth of the day outside.  Half a dozen 
unprepossessing types sat around drinking quietly in 
corners.  To Celaeren’s eye, the place seemed perfect.  
He did not waste time on beer, but ordered at once a 
flagon of the strongest wine.  The serving maid glanced at 
him warily, but he stared her down and she brought the 
drink to his table without comment.  

By the time he had drained the third glass, the edge of his 
pain was blunted, but the knot of anger inside him had only 
pulled tighter.  Two glasses later he found a focus for his 
rage.  A short burly man with a badly set broken nose was 
seated near the bar, watching him without any attempt at 
subtlety.  Celaeren returned his gaze, but the man did not 
look away; in fact it seemed that a smirk briefly touched his 
features as he looked the prince up and down.  It was 
enough.  Celaeren stood and strode across the room, his 
fist already formed into a ball at his side.

“Tell me, sir,” he poured as much derision into the title as 
he could.  “What is it that you are looking at?”


********************


Celaeren opened his eyes and rapidly shut them again to 
block out the painful glare.  Somebody was clattering 
around the room, and the noise seemed to intensify the 
agonising pounding inside his skull.  

“Leave me be,” he muttered.

“It is well you are awake.  We need to talk.”  The voice 
was not loud, but it held a note of authority which cut 
through the befuddled mess in Celaeren’s head.  He peeled 
his eyelids apart and gradually managed to focus on the 
figure seated in the large armchair.

“Faramir!”

“There is water by the bed,” replied his cousin.  “Drink.”

Celaeren pushed himself up onto an elbow, trying to ignore 
the rising swell of nausea induced by the movement.  He 
located the water goblet and drank thirstily, then turned 
back to Faramir.  “What happened?” 

“You do not remember?  I suppose not,” Faramir 
responded.  “You were thrown out of two taverns for 
brawling, and would no doubt have repeated your exploits 
in a third, had my men not caught up with you and brought 
you back to the palace.”

Celaeren groaned and shut his eyes again, waiting for the 
inevitable lecture.  

“A most unfortunate incident, and one which does not 
reflect well on our family.  That, however, is not what I 
wish to talk to you about.”

At this, Celaeren sat up a little further and stared at his 
cousin.

“We must talk about the woman you call Beremund.”

“What do you know of her?”  He was suddenly fully 
awake.

“Far more than you might guess.  I know, for example, that 
she is actually Rosalind, daughter of Aldwine and sister to 
Fréadren; and I have known of her presence in Emyn 
Arnen since the day she set foot in the city.”

“How in the name of the Gods did you know?” 

“It is my business to be aware of what goes on in my 
realm,” said Faramir mildly, “But on this occasion I had 
some forewarning.  My wife received news that Rosalind 
had run away from her home; she told me that without 
doubt the girl would turn up here.  I had the gates watched 
for her.”

“And you have been watching her since, I take it?”

“My men have kept an eye on her, yes.  They have also 
gambled with her from time to time, and lost handsomely, 
on my instructions.”

Celaeren frowned at the other man.  “Why did you not say 
something to me sooner?”

Faramir sighed.  “In truth, I pitied the girl, and Eowyn 
insisted that I should not interfere for the time being.  When 
I learned that you had met her, and were showing her 
some kindness, I was glad.  I did not expect it to come to 
this.”

“To come to what?”

The older man cast him a sympathetic smile.  “Do you love 
her, Cousin?”

Even though Celaeren shut his eyes yet again, he could feel 
Faramir’s gaze boring into him.  He sighed.  “It may seem 
totally ridiculous, but yes, I believe I do.”

“There is nothing ridiculous about it.”  Faramir spoke 
gently.  “We do not choose when or how love should 
strike us; and she has the blood of Rohan in her veins.  I 
understand all too well how compelling that can be.  It is, 
however, a very difficult situation.”

“I rather think the difficulty no longer involves me, as 
Beremund – Rosalind – clearly does not reciprocate my 
feelings.”

“Ah, well, things are a little more complicated than that.”

His hangover quite forgotten, Celaeren sat up straight and 
glared at Faramir.  “What do you mean?”

“You were not the only one to get into a barroom brawl 
last night.  Rosalind overstretched herself somewhat, 
attempting to win enough money to leave the city.  My men 
had to extricate her from the resulting fight.  They brought 
her here.  Eowyn and I have spoken to her.”

“Is she hurt?”  His heart was thumping at the thought of her 
here in the palace, in spite of their painful parting the day 
before.  

“No more bruised than you are, Valar be praised.  And for 
all her protestations, I think she is relieved to have been 
found out.” 
 
“Will you send her back to her brother?”

“ I cannot conceal her here for long.  We shall have to 
resolve the matter somehow.  But Rosalind herself is 
adamant; she will not return to marry the man of her 
brother’s choosing.  If I am to send her, it will be by force, 
and I am loathe to take that route.”

“Is her brother such a brute that he will accept no 
compromise?”

“I do not know him, but Eowyn does.  She says he is both 
stubborn and powerful.  He will not easily be persuaded.” 

“But surely . . .” Celaeren began.

“No, not even by Éomer,” Faramir said firmly.

“So what is to be done?  It is an intolerable situation.”

“All I will say is this.  Rosalind herself is very clear on the 
matter.  She will not return of her own volition.  And 
Celaeren, she told me that if she must marry, she will have 
*you*, or she will have no one.”

Celaeren stared at his cousin in astonishment for a second, 
and then leapt from the bed to search for his clothes.  
“Truly, she said that?  Then by the Gods, I must see her!”

“Celaeren!  This does not solve the problem!”

He finished pulling on his breeches and crossed the room 
to his cousin.  “Faramir.”  He placed his hands on the 
other’s shoulders.  “There must be a way to sort this out.”

“As a start, I suggest sending for your father.  I have a 
messenger ready.”

“Yes.”

“And another thing . . .” Faramir’s face softened into a grin.  
“You might want to bathe before you see her.”


********************


He knocked softly and waited for her reply before entering 
the room.  His opening statement had been well rehearsed 
while he bathed, but when he saw her, he discovered that 
words had deserted him.

She wore a simple dress of bright blue, with a white trim 
around the neck.  Her hair was pinned up away from her 
face, although a few golden tendrils strayed down over her 
ears.  Where before she had seemed angular and awkward, 
she now appeared elegantly tall and slim.  But it was her 
smile that captivated him.  It was so open and warm, 
directed through his eyes straight to his heart.  The 
sensation was enough to overwhelm him.

“Celaeren, I am so sorry,” she said.

“Do not be.  You had your reasons.”  He stepped towards 
her, and after hesitating for a moment, enfolded her in his 
arms.  Her hands felt warm against his back through the 
fine linen of his shirt.  

“What are we going to do?”  She spoke, muffled, into his 
shoulder.

“We will find a solution,” he replied, stroking her hair 
gently.

Her mouth sought his then, and this time he did not pull 
away.

****************************************


CHAPTER 7


Imrahil picked up a stone and lobbed it out across the river.  
It fell a good three yards short of the great rock at which 
he was aiming, a fact that somehow failed to surprise him.

“Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath.  An appropriate 
comment indeed.

If the purpose of spending the day alone had been to find 
some answers, he would have to admit he had failed.  All 
he had succeeded in doing as he walked through the forest 
and along the riverbank was raising more questions and 
running through a number of unpleasant scenarios in his 
head.  Now the sun was about to set and he would have to 
make his way back to the elves’ settlement for a repeat of 
the morning’s charade at the dining table.  

He had sat and discussed trivialities with Legolas at 
breakfast, of course; he would not be much of a royal if he 
was incapable of maintaining appearances.  How many of 
the other elves had been fooled by the act he had no way 
of knowing, but he would wager the number was small.  
Heledir had not been taken in, that much was obvious.  
The man’s eyes, filled with alarm, had barely left the 
prince’s face throughout the mercifully short meal.  

Perhaps he should feign illness and excuse himself from 
dinner altogether.  It would save them all a lot of 
discomfort.

Picking up another stone and tossing it from hand to hand, 
Imrahil tried to bring his mind back to the real issue.  Was 
he seriously considering choosing to spend the rest of his 
life without Legolas?

The elf had always been honest with him about his prior 
commitment to Aragorn, and Imrahil had accepted the fact 
without question.  Perhaps he would have been better to 
express some of his curiosity about the exact nature of their 
bond, instead of being so quick to offer his understanding 
and support.  He might then have avoided constructing his 
own version of the truth wherein Legolas’s love for the 
king was little more than a noble relic of a thing past.  In 
this rose-tinted picture there was no real impediment to 
Imrahil’s developing relationship with the elf, and their 
future held only happiness and passion.

‘If ever a man was a fool . . .’ he reproached himself.  To 
have thought for a moment that Aragorn could have known 
Legolas’s love and simply put it behind him was, on 
reflection, ludicrous.  Even if the king *had* taken to wife 
the most enigmatically beautiful woman Imrahil had set 
eyes on, such delights as he himself had shared with the 
blond warrior would be impossible to forget.  

‘And he does not even pretend to be in love with me; how 
much more intense must it have been with Aragorn?’  
Filled with the heat of a sudden desperate anger, Imrahil 
distracted himself from the stinging in his eyes by casting 
the second stone at the great rock.  This time his aim was 
true.  There was a loud crack as the pebble split into 
pieces and scattered into the water.  

“A fine shot, my friend.”

Imrahil closed his eyes for a second and inhaled deeply 
before spinning round to face Legolas.  The elf was 
standing quite still in the shadow of the trees, gazing at him.  
To an uneducated observer his face would appear totally 
impassive, but the man recognised a strain around the blue 
eyes which gave him a fleeting, grim satisfaction.  

“How long have you been watching me?” he demanded.

For a moment Legolas almost looked flustered.  “I have 
not . . .  it has taken me a while to find you, and I came to 
bring you this.”  He took a step forward and proffered a 
scroll.  Glancing at it, Imrahil recognised the seal of his 
nephew, Faramir.  

“I did not intend to disturb you, but the messenger assured 
me that it is urgent,” the elf continued.

Imrahil took the letter warily, avoiding both the elf’s eyes 
and any contact of their hands.  He could feel Legolas’s 
stare upon him as he went to sit on a rock and unrolled the 
message.  

“Now that I am here, would you object if I stayed?”  The 
words were spoken quietly.

“Please yourself,” replied Imrahil shortly, his attention 
carefully focussed on the letter.  His pulse was racing, but 
he was determined to do his utmost to conceal the fact.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Legolas fold himself 
neatly to sit cross-legged on the grass.  Once he started to 
read Faramir’s words, however, the elf’s presence 
momentarily ceased to concern him.

“This is incredible!”  Forgetting their quarrel for a second, 
he waved the scroll at Legolas.

“It is bad news?”

“In truth, I am not sure.  My son – I cannot believe it.”

“You have already whetted my appetite for the detail, 
Imrahil.”  

He caught the elf’s shy half-smile and sighed.  Who else 
did he have to confide in, after all? 

“Celaeren has managed to meet a woman and fall in love, 
as she with him.” 

“And this is a bad thing?  Is she an inappropriate choice?”

Imrahil snorted.  “According to my nephew, she is a fine 
young maid of Rohan, of noble blood and character.  She 
is also betrothed to a lord of the Mark, and her brother will 
not countenance her breaking off the engagement.” 

Legolas raised an eyebrow.  “Then it is sad, but surely they 
accept that they must part.”

“Apparently not.  It seems the girl has already run away 
from home once, and now threatens to do herself harm if 
she is forcibly returned to her family.  And my chivalrous 
son has vowed to stand by her.  Gods!  Why can he not 
avoid trouble for even a few days?” 
 
“And what is Faramir’s opinion?”

“He will not take responsibility for removing her from 
Emyn Arnen, but he fears a serious diplomatic incident if 
this is not resolved.  She comes from a powerful clan, this 
Rosalind.  So he requests that I return to the city – 
immediately.”

They stared at each other as Imrahil realised what he was 
about to say.  “I shall leave tomorrow morning.”

Legolas nodded.  “Then we must talk now.  There is much 
I wish to say to you, if you will hear it.”

Imrahil discovered that all his angry fire had left him.  He 
felt, if anything, defeated.  There was no telling where the 
conversation would lead, but he would not be so childish 
as to deny the elf his chance to speak.

“Before I say anything else, you should know that you 
mean a great deal to me,” Legolas began.  “Of course, it is 
your prerogative to decide to end this . . .  this relationship 
of ours; but it is my sincerest wish that you will hear me out 
and choose otherwise.”

Despite all his misgivings, Imrahil felt a warmth spreading 
through him at the heartfelt words.  The temptation to close 
the distance between them and touch Legolas was 
enormous.  Had he really believed that he would be able to 
turn his lover away?  He forced himself to remain still, and 
listened intently.

Interpreting his silence as consent, the elf continued,  “The 
bond I share with Aragorn is not something within my 
control.  It is a fact of my life that I must deal with as well 
as I can.”

“That I understand, although in truth I am not sure what it 
really means.”

“We have shared a similar connection, you and I, from 
time to time.  It is something like that, although not so 
strong unless we are physically near each other.  But I am 
constantly aware of him; if ill befalls him, I sense it; his pain 
is mine, and I feel his absence like an ache, every day.  In a 
happy partnership the bonding of two spirits must be a 
wondrous thing.  In this situation it is . . . it can be difficult, 
in spite of the fact that I love him, and chose to pledge my 
spirit to his.”

“Does he feel it too?”  Imrahil felt frankly bewildered.  
How could Aragorn possibly have entered into such a 
commitment and then withdrawn from it?  He was a man of 
honour, surely.  Yet even less likely was the thought that 
Legolas could have broken away from the king of his own 
volition.

“I cannot doubt that he feels something of it, and I do not 
believe that it is easy for him; but he is a man, and his spirit 
is not bound by the same laws as mine.  Thankfully so, for 
he did not choose to be in this position.”

“What do you mean?” 

“You have never asked how we came to be joined in the 
first place, and it seemed best, for Aragorn’s sake and 
yours, that I did not speak of it.  Yet perhaps if you knew 
the truth of it you would understand why matters have 
transpired this way.”  The elf paused, as if unsure.

“I am listening.”  Imrahil leaned forward, peering through 
the rapidly gathering gloom to catch the expression in 
Legolas’s eyes.  It was hard to read.

“It is not easy for me to speak of such things, even though I 
trust you absolutely to keep confidence.”

“Of course.”

“Aragorn and I met some fifty years ago, and became 
close, but we made no commitment to each other.  By the 
time we embarked on the quest of the Ring together, he 
was betrothed to Arwen, and although I still felt great love 
for him, it was clear that nothing could come of it.”

Imrahil felt his jaw drop as he stared at the elf in 
astonishment.  This bond was something that had 
happened after the Ring quest began?  Only thirteen years 
ago?

“I would never have approached one who was betrothed 
to another, but circumstances overtook us.”  Legolas 
shifted on the ground as if his position was giving him some 
discomfort.  Imrahil had never seen him fidget in such a 
way; his unease was surely not due to a physical cause.

“During the quest, Aragorn was . . . wounded, in his soul.  
We feared to lose him; even the Lady of the Golden Wood 
could not help him.  In desperation I joined my spirit to his, 
in order to lend him strength.  It was the only thing I could 
do to save him.  He did not wish for it, in fact he tried to 
stop me, but my will prevailed.”  The elf had averted his 
eyes as he spoke.  Imrahil had no doubt he was telling the 
truth, but clearly there was some large part of it too painful 
to be uncovered.

“Then you – you were not . . . ” He stopped, realising that 
he could not ask Legolas the question that was eating into 
his heart.  An instant later the full import of the elf’s tale 
struck him, and he understood that whether or not the pair 
had been lovers in the physical sense was a matter of no 
importance by comparison.

“You bonded yourself to him, knowing that he was 
Arwen’s, and that you would spend the rest of your life 
mourning his loss?”  The thought was unbearable.

“I had no choice,” came the simple reply.

“Legolas . . .”  

All at once he was on his knees at the elf’s side, his arms 
wrapped around the slender body, one hand cradling the 
golden head against his shoulder. 

“My love, my love, I am so sorry . . .”  Imrahil whispered, 
as he stroked the soft hair.  

Legolas’s arms found their way around Imrahil’s waist, and 
they held each other silently for a moment.  But the elf then 
pulled away to look him in the eye, and the man sat back 
to concentrate on his face, and his words.

“I do not look for your sympathy, Imrahil.  Many lost their 
lives in the Great War.  Considering the alternative if 
Aragorn was lost to us, mine was an easy choice to make.  
And there were . . .  moments of happiness.”

Imrahil knew that here was the answer to his unspoken 
question.  So the king had indeed known what it was to 
hold Legolas in his arms, to feel every sense awaken into 
bliss and to experience the incomparable joy of eliciting the 
elf’s own pleasure.  He felt a wave of mingled jealousy and 
desire course through him like fire, but said nothing.  

Suddenly he recalled that night, thirteen years ago, when in 
the silence of the army camp Legolas had come to him so 
full of sorrow and need, and changed his life for ever.  If he 
had thought this through with even half his brain, he should 
have realised that the truth was far more powerful and 
tragic than a simple memory of a past love.

“Can it not be ended, this bond, if both parties agree to it?” 
he asked gently.  

 “Perhaps if one of us truly ceased to love the other.  I do 
not know.  In all honesty, I do not fully understand my own 
situation, as it seems to be without precedent; and there 
are few left here in Middle Earth who could advise me, 
even if I felt able to discuss the matter.”

“And what will happen when Aragorn . . .”

“When he dies?”  The haunted look on the elf’s face was 
enough to make Imrahil curse his foolish tongue.  “Oh, fear 
not, I shall not perish or fade away unless I choose to do 
so.  That much the Lady was able to tell me before she 
sailed.  Whether my spirit will ever be truly free again, I do 
not know.”

“It is intolerable,” said Imrahil sorrowfully, “And I feel so 
helpless, useless, in the face of it all.”

“Do not say it!  Have I not told you that in your presence 
my heart has discovered such peace as it has not known 
for years?  You have given me so much.”

“I have been a complete fool.”  The man spoke firmly.

Legolas laughed sadly.  “I am the bigger fool.  I have been 
far too concerned with hiding the truth, with the result that I 
have taken you for granted.  I am afraid I have not shown 
myself to be worthy of your love.”

“Oh, Legolas,” was all Imrahil could find to say.  He 
reached for the elf’s hand and clutched it between both his 
own.

“Do you still want me to accompany you to Emyn Arnen 
tomorrow?”  The request was tentative, and he thought he 
could hear a plea in the elf’s voice.

“Yes, of course I do.”

“And to Minas Tirith?”

Imrahil was amazed.  “What?”

“I have thought long and hard about this.  Aragorn’s guilt at 
the thought of me being alone far outweighs his jealousy at 
the thought of me with another.  Perhaps it is time I 
stopped trying to shield him, and allowed him to accept the 
truth.  I will come with you, if you will have me.”

“If I will have you?  Gods!  Come here . . .”

Almost immediately Imrahil found himself lying on his side 
on the grass, his arms full of affectionate elf.  They kissed 
for a long time, touching each other gently, winding limbs 
around each other in a close but almost chaste embrace.  
He realised with a shock that Legolas was letting the 
connection between them grow, allowing him to feel the 
warmth – the happiness – the elf was experiencing as a 
result of their reconciliation.  His own reservations were 
forgotten; he could not imagine feeling more contented.

A mere moment later Legolas proved to Imrahil that his 
imagination was sorely limited.  Breaking off from their kiss, 
the elf raised a hand to stroke the man’s face as he spoke.

“Imrahil.”

“Yes.”

“For too long I have worried about this, what it might mean, 
whether it was right to say it.  But today I have decided to 
listen to my heart, and its song is clear to me.  I love you, 
my beautiful prince of men; I can deny it no longer.”

There were no words that could possibly do justice to the 
crescendo of feeling in Imrahil’s breast, so he uttered none.  
He simply drew his lover back into the kiss, and let his 
body say what his voice could not.


********************


It was a little after midnight by the time the lovers reached 
the encampment, treading softly through the forest.

“They will already have eaten,” Legolas said.  “Shall we 
join them in the hall, or go straight to my house?  I can 
send word to Meluinen that we are here, and ask for some 
food to be sent.”

“I have no wish to appear ill-mannered, but I have no 
stomach for company now,”  Imrahil replied, slipping an 
arm around the elf’s waist and pulling him close.  “I only 
want to lie beside you and wallow in my good fortune.”

“Then to my house it is.”

“I shall join you in a little while, but there is something I 
must do first.”  In response to the elf’s raised eyebrow he 
continued, “It would not do to leave it until morning.”

“I shall be waiting, then.”

They parted with a lingering kiss at a branching of the 
footpath, and Imrahil made his way stealthily through the 
olives towards the tiny hut.  The gentle glow of an oil lamp 
was visible through the curtained window, and as he 
watched, a shadow moved across it.  He had guessed 
rightly; his secretary would have had no heart for 
merriment this evening, and so had already retired.

He knocked softly, and called the man’s name.  Heledir 
was at the door almost at once, still dressed in his tunic and 
breeches, and looking distinctly dishevelled.

“My Lord!”  His voice was something between a cry and a 
whisper.  “Are you well?  Is there a problem?”

“I am well, my friend,” Imrahil smiled.  “I have some news 
for you, and it will not wait until morning.  May I come in?”

“Of course, Sire!”  Heledir turned and began to fuss 
around the tiny room, straightening the objects on the long 
desk and pushing his boots further underneath it.

“Please, do not trouble yourself.  I only wish to talk to you 
for a moment.”  He perched himself on the single chair as 
the secretary sank to the bed, still wearing his anxious 
expression.

“You know that a messenger arrived from Emyn Arnen 
today, with urgent news from Prince Faramir?”

“Aye, My Lord.”

“It seems that a . . . situation has arisen there, and my 
presence is needed.  We ride in the morning.”  

“My Lord.”  The note of disappointment was 
unmistakeable.

Imrahil could not resist a grin.  “By ‘We’, I refer to myself 
and Prince Legolas; he has kindly volunteered to 
accompany me.”

“Sire?”  The secretary stared at him with saucer eyes.

“You, Heledir, are to stay here a little longer.  Your work 
in the library is not yet finished, I believe; and I will not 
require your services for some days.  I suggest that you 
ride to meet me in Minas Tirith at the end of next week.  
Meluinen will escort you.”

“Sire, I do not know what to say.”

“You need say nothing,” replied the prince.  “Heledir, 
happiness is not easy to find, and all too fleeting when we 
do meet it.  Make the most of it now, my friend.”

There were tears in the man’s brown eyes, but he met 
those of his prince unwaveringly.  “You are too good to me, 
my Lord.  I do not deserve it.”

“Do not say such a thing, Heledir.  I beg to differ.  If 
anything, I have been guilty of taking you for granted, and I 
intend to do so no longer.  Now, rest, for I am sure you 
have much to do on the morrow.”

“Thank you, My Lord.  May your dreams be blessed by 
the Lady herself.”

Imrahil smiled widely, and for once saw no embarrassment 
on the secretary’s face, only joy to mirror his own.  “On 
this night of all nights, I do not doubt it,” he said.

****************************************


CHAPTER 8


“Shall we stop for a while?  The horses must need to drink, 
and I am ready for something to eat.”  Imrahil knew that 
Legolas could ride all day without thought of food or water.  
Man and horse, however, were made of mortal stuff.

Legolas brought his steed to a halt with a soft word in the 
strange language of the wood-elves.  “This is a good 
place,” he said.

They dismounted and led the animals down to the water.  
The river was broad there, and calm; too shallow for 
swimming at its edges but deep enough to form still pools 
between the rocks.  The horses drank thirstily while Imrahil 
bent to fill his waterskin and Legolas stood quietly by.  

The silence between them was not uncomfortable, but 
none the less Imrahil was concerned.  Glad as he was of 
the elf’s company on this journey, with all its staggering 
implications, he knew that the situation was not easy for 
Legolas and that his hidden thoughts were likely to be 
anxious ones.  He wondered whether to ask his lover to 
share his musings but decided against it.  In the moments 
between the murmured endearments and passionate cries 
of their reconciliation, there had been time for much serious 
discussion.  If the elf had anything new to add now, he 
would speak in his own time.  Perhaps there was another, 
more pleasurable way to help his lover.

As Legolas turned to guide the horses to the grassy area 
up the bank, Imrahil stretched, saying, “It is uncommonly 
hot for the time of year.  I think I need to cool down a little 
before we eat.”

Imrahil caught Legolas’s glance but kept his own face 
straight.  He took his time removing his tunic, standing with 
his back to the elf.  Once the outer garment was laid 
carefully on the grass, he made a great play of pulling his 
shirt over his head, then strode easily down to the river’s 
edge.  

Scanning the bank briefly Imrahil identified a large, nearly 
flat rock that stood only an inch or two proud of the water.  
Perfect.  He knelt on the sun-warmed surface, and bent 
forward to rest on one elbow and forearm at the very edge 
of it.  With his other hand he scooped water over his head 
and shoulders.  
 
Imrahil did not need to look around to know that Legolas’s 
eyes were upon him; the elf’s gaze burned more intensely 
than the noonday sun on his back.  He could imagine the 
picture he was making, bending over to the water in his 
tight riding breeches; he could see with equal clarity the 
expression on his lover’s normally impassive face.  
Grinning to himself he shifted his knees slightly further apart 
and leaned a little lower, briefly dipping his head below the 
surface.  Gods, but it was cold.

After lingering a while to let the elf take a good look, he 
rose from his knees before their discomfort became 
something more permanent, stood straight, and tipped his 
head back to comb the fingers of both hands through his 
wet hair.  Then he stretched again languidly, arms first 
raised, then circling back to his sides; and rotated his 
shoulders to flex the muscles of his chest and back.  Finally, 
he spun on his heel and sauntered up the bank.

Legolas was sitting on a high boulder, watching him closely.  
Imrahil flashed him a smile in passing and headed for his 
pack, over by the horses.  “Most refreshing,” he called 
over his shoulder.

“Imrahil!”  The elf’s voice was enough to tell him that the 
diversionary ploy had been an absolute  success.  He 
turned to his lover.  Legolas said no more, but indicated 
that he should come closer with an imperious gesture of his 
golden head.

The  man arched an eyebrow deliberately, and began a 
slow approach.  Seeing the lustful intent in Legolas’s eyes 
at rather closer quarters, he smirked.  “Legolas!  We still 
have far to ride!”

“Would you refuse me?”  The words, and the way in which 
they were uttered, made Imrahil shiver in spite of the hot 
sun on his rapidly drying flesh.  His lover’s coldly 
commanding tone, though rarely assumed, inevitably meant 
there were unspeakable pleasures to come.  He might 
curse himself for this once back in the saddle, but any later 
discomfort would be a price well worth paying.

“Would you allow me to do so?”  he challenged the elf.

“Come here.”  

In reality Imrahil had no intention of trying to resist.  He 
walked up to the elf, and waited within arms’ reach.

“Closer.  Here.”  The long pale hands on his hips guided 
him until he stood astride Legolas’s thighs, his knees 
touching the boulder on which the elf sat.  The hands 
travelled up to his chest and stroked slowly, firmly across 
the muscled flesh, then back down to the waist and around 
him, to grasp and knead his buttocks through the leather of 
his breeches.  

“This rump of yours is so perfect; it is fairly begging to be 
plundered,” the elf said.

Imrahil exhaled sharply, abandoning his pretence of 
nonchalance.  In response, Legolas bared his teeth in a 
vicious smile, and the man experienced a brief recollection 
of the terrifying figure the elf cut in battle.

“I shall give it some serious use.”  The elf’s words were 
accompanied by a final squeeze to the rounded muscle.  
“Unclothe yourself.”

Imrahil took a step back and began to unfasten the ties at 
his waist, fingers fumbling under his lover’s steady scrutiny.  
His heart felt fit to burst through the walls of his chest, and 
his cock could surely be no harder.  With some difficulty, 
he pulled his boots and breeches off, and flung them to one 
side as Legolas watched, unmoving.  Straightening his back, 
he attempted to face the concentrated gaze with a little 
dignity.

Legolas did not bother to undress.  He quickly pushed his 
leggings down over his thighs and sat back on the boulder.  
Hitching up his tunic and shirt, he brought to light his own 
erection, long and gleaming pale.  Unconsciously, Imrahil 
licked his lips.

“Aye, in your mouth first,” said Legolas.  

He fell to his knees at the elf’s feet and leaned forward, 
bracing his arms on the rock to either side of the slim hips.  
Taking in as much of the smooth flesh as he could, he 
began to lick and suck enthusiastically.  Legolas brought 
both hands to Imrahil’s head to direct his movements, but 
pushed him away before long.  

“There is oil in my pack,” the elf said, nodding towards the 
bundle on the ground a few yards away.  “Bring it here.”

Breathing heavily Imrahil scrambled to his feet and went to 
search for the small vial.  He offered it to Legolas 
wordlessly, but his lover shook his head.  “You know what 
to do.” 

The man went down on his knees again and withdrew the 
cork with unsteady fingers.  Pouring a pool of the fluid onto 
one palm, he put the vial down and rubbed his hands 
together.  Then he reached for the elf’s cock and slowly 
worked over it, coating it completely with the glistening oil.  
Legolas remained silent.  Imrahil looked up at him as he 
began a rhythmic stroking of the slick, firm organ between 
his hands.  The elf sat quite still.  Only the dark intensity of 
his stare betrayed his feelings.

Legolas grasped Imrahil’s wrist to stop his movement.  
“Get up,” he said, “Now turn around.”  The man complied, 
standing with his back to his lover.  Once again the elf’s 
hands drew him closer, and the legs between his pushed 
them apart, causing him to lower himself towards the hard 
flesh nudging at his rear.  He took a deep breath and 
released it slowly, trying to relax for the intrusion which 
was apparently soon to come.  

Legolas kept one hand on Imrahil’s hip to guide him, whilst 
holding himself steady with the other.  Wordlessly, he 
pushed the man’s legs yet further apart with his strong 
thighs.  Imrahil, taken by surprise, was forced to rock back, 
and thus impaled himself suddenly, fully, on the elf’s waiting 
cock.  He shouted at the pain, and panicked momentarily 
at the vulnerability of his situation.  But once his lover 
started to move inside him, holding onto him with both 
hands now, lifting and settling his hips in time with the 
thrusts within, he forgot his initial dismay.

“Valar’s grace, what are you doing to me?”  he cried, 
overcome by the depth of the sensations, magnified by 
both the unfamiliar position and the fact that the elf was 
taking him so forcefully, out in the open, in broad daylight.

“I should have thought you would know by now what I am 
doing,” came the cool reply.  “I am fucking your lovely 
arse, my prince, and fucking it well.  And I shall carry on 
until I hear you scream.”

“Never!”  Imrahil gasped, defiant.

The elf’s hands moved from his hips and slid around him.  
Imrahil gasped again as he felt his buttocks being pulled 
apart, allowing the next thrust to penetrate deeper still.  He 
could not stop himself from crying out.  

“You torture me!  How will I take saddle again after this?” 
he yelled.

Legolas laughed.  “You should have thought of that before 
you decided to tease me so blatantly.”

The elf moved a hand again, and this time curled it around 
the man’s desperate cock.  Still his hips maintained their 
insistent motion, pounding into Imrahil from the rear.  In 
spite of the man’s attempts to brace his hands against his 
thighs and regain some balance, gravity conspired against 
him, and he could do nothing to resist.  Surely if this 
continued much longer, he would never walk again, let 
alone ride.  

“You are a heartless brute,” he moaned happily.
 
“Ah yes, you bring out the very worst in me,” the elf 
moved his hand ruthlessly back and forth, drawing Imrahil 
perilously close to the edge, “and I love you for it.”

The words were Imrahil’s undoing.  He cried his lover’s 
name for the whole of the South to hear, defiance forgotten.  
There was an explosion of pleasure somewhere inside him, 
and he came spectacularly hard, only vaguely aware of the 
elf’s triumphant laughter and the strong hands holding him 
firmly in place around the pulsing cock inside him.

When both had calmed, Legolas brought his legs together 
and helped Imrahil to stand.  The man was hurting all over 
from the strain of the half-crouching, half-sitting position, 
and he knew he would feel sore inside for days, but 
nothing could suppress his grin.  He turned into Legolas’s 
arms and they shared a long, passionate kiss.  

“Forgive me.  I was perhaps a little careless of your 
comfort,” the elf offered, when they paused to draw breath.

Imrahil thought he might injure himself further by laughing 
too hard.  “You could say that,” he spluttered, “But 
although I might ache for a week, I will still love you for it.”  


********************


Approaching the city in the evening sun, Imrahil 
contemplated the changes it had undergone in the two 
years since his last visit.  To the North a whole section of 
wall had been added, and all across the skyline new roofs 
and spires had appeared.  The prince smiled to see such 
evidence of growth.  Faramir’s energy matched his vision, 
and under his active stewardship Emyn Arnen had sprung 
to life.  It would never rival its neighbour, Minas Tirith, but 
would complement it well.  His nephew’s city was a 
vibrant embodiment of the new Middle Earth, where 
different races no longer kept distant from each other, but 
met and mingled to share their trades and cultures.  

“It is a fine sight,” Legolas broke into his thoughts, but 
followed their direction.  “Faramir has achieved a great 
deal in a short time.”

“Aye, so he has.  Yet he has taken on no airs as a result, 
and is as approachable as ever.  People are drawn here by 
his reputation, as much as anything.”

“Your nephew is an exceptional man.  I am fortunate to 
count him as a friend,” the elf replied.

They rode on quietly towards the gates, passing through 
the usual traffic found in the rural hinterland of a thriving 
city: carts, mules and horses, the occasional flock of 
animals, groups of men in farm-hands’ dress.  Imrahil 
noted with delight that he and his elven companion drew 
little attention from the folk they passed, other than the 
wide eyed appraisal due to one so fair as Legolas.  There 
were no disapproving stares, no muttered comments, only 
nods and cheerful greetings.  This was a place where man 
and elf could ride side by side without censure.  Would his 
own people ever be so accepting?

As they rode up to the gate, Imrahil’s reverie was broken 
by a loud sound of complaint from his own stomach, 
reminding him that he had eaten nothing but a lump of 
bread and some fruit since dawn.  

Legolas turned to grin at him.  “They will have sent word of 
our arrival from the watch towers.  No doubt Faramir will 
already have ordered the feast to be served.”

Imrahil shifted uncomfortably in the saddle.  “I am more 
concerned that they heat water for a bath, to be honest.  I 
need a long soak to ease these aching joints.”

“I must accept some responsibility for your discomfort,” 
the elf said, with the faintest ghost of a smile.  “Later this 
evening I shall come to you, and ease your pain.”

They shared an intense, long look, speaking without words, 
and Imrahil felt himself grow hard once again.  “I shall 
expect you,” he said.

Faramir himself came out into the courtyard to greet the 
two travellers as they dismounted.  A groom led the horses 
away and a page hurried up to take their packs as Ithilien’s 
prince descended the steps in front of the great door.  It 
was clear he had not been sitting idly awaiting their arrival; 
from the state of his simple garments it would seem he had 
been out inspecting the building works in progress, or 
perhaps visiting the stables.

“Imrahil!  I had hoped you would return today.”  Despite 
the fact that his uncle had been gone less than two weeks, 
Faramir embraced him warmly, before turning to his 
companion.  “This is a most pleasant surprise, Legolas!  It 
is always a joy to see you.”

As he watched his nephew and his lover exchange 
greetings with the genuine affection and respect of old 
friends, Imrahil felt warmth steal through him.  

At last Faramir stepped back, and looked from one to the 
other.  “Your secretary – Heledir – where is he?  I trust no 
harm has befallen him?”

“Indeed no,” said Imrahil.  “He is busily engaged in sorting 
out Legolas’s library, and enjoying himself far too much for 
me to drag him away.  He will ride directly to Minas Tirith 
next week.” 

“Good.  Now, are you hungry?  I have called for food and 
wine, if you will join me in the Hall.”

Imrahil cleared his throat.  “If you will forgive me, I feel 
somewhat travel-worn, and would bathe before I eat.  But 
I should see my son first.  Where is Celaeren?” 
 
“Out riding, with his Lady,” said Faramir succinctly.  In 
response to Imrahil’s narrow glance, he added, “Eowyn is 
with them, and two of your guards.  It would be impossible 
to keep them apart; the best I can do is ensure they are 
chaperoned.”

Imrahil thought for a moment of the chaos that could so 
easily ensue if the young couple were left to themselves and 
matters got out of hand.  He turned his eyes heavenward, 
thanking the gods that this ill-advised romance had 
occurred here, under the watchful, sensible gaze of his 
nephew.

“Is Alagaer with them?” he asked.  His guard captain 
would no doubt have a different light to shed on events of 
the past week.

“Not today.  I believe he is at the barracks.”

“Could you send someone for him?  I will see him in my 
chambers.”  

“Then you will join us at dinner, in two hours or so?” 
smiled Faramir.  “Legolas, my steward is preparing the 
green chambers for you.  Shall I send anything up?”  

“Hot water for me also,” said the elf, lowering his lashes as 
Imrahil smirked at him over Faramir’s shoulder.  Man and 
elf exchanged a sly knowing smile.  Turning back to 
Faramir and seeing the expression on his face, Imrahil 
realised that his nephew had not only caught the look, but 
had gone a good way towards interpreting it.  The younger 
man had the sharp eyes and quick wit of a ranger, coupled 
with his mother’s intuition.  There was very little that 
passed him by.


********************


Imrahil recognised Alagaer’s purposeful tread  before the 
knock came at the door.  

“Come,” he called.

The stocky soldier smiled respectfully at his prince and 
made a smart salute.

“Sire.”

“Well, Alagaer, what news?  How has all this mess come 
about?”

Alagaer flushed slightly at the implied accusation, but 
launched into his story without protest.  He told of the 
young prince’s quiet behaviour for two days after his 
father’s departure, and of the trip to the White Tree on the 
third.  

“Was he drinking heavily?”  Imrahil had no need to evade 
the truth with his captain; the man had travelled with 
Celaeren many times in the past, and had rescued him from 
more than one drunken predicament.   

“Only beer, as we’d agreed, and not too much of it.  Once 
he met the boy, he slowed down.” 
 
”The boy?”  

Alagaer raised his eyebrows.  “You didn’t know, Sire?  
The Lady Rosalind, she was dressed as a boy when he 
met her, and a pretty convincing one at that.  We didn’t 
realise at first.”

Despite his exasperation, Imrahil was now thoroughly 
intrigued.  What kind of a woman had his son found for 
himself?  No blushing flower of a girl, it would seem.  “Go 
on,” he urged.  

The story that unfolded only served to increase his 
unwilling respect for the unknown maid.  A feisty girl, full of 
courage and wit, skilled on a horse and handy in a fight; no 
wonder his son had become fascinated by her.  His 
enjoyment of the tale came to an end, however, when 
Alagaer described the ugly scenes in the taverns two nights 
ago when Celaeren had sought to drown his anger in 
strong wine.

“And where were your men?” he demanded angrily.  

“He gave us the slip, Sire,” the troubled soldier replied.  
“Rode out the West gate, but came back another way.  I 
had not thought to watch all the gates, nor did I have the 
men for it.”
 
Imrahil sighed, and massaged his temples with his fingertips.  
“I know, it was not your fault.  It is Celaeren himself I 
should ask for explanation.”

“He is here, My Lord.  Shall I send him to you?  They 
were returning as I came up.”

“Aye, send him up.”  The soldier saluted again.  “And 
Alagaer, you have done what you can.  Rest easy, and give 
your men a night off.”

“Thank you, Sire.”  The captain turned on his heel and left 
the room.

Some minutes later Celaeren strode in with defiance 
written all over him, from his tight-knit brows to his 
straight-backed stance.  Imrahil’s heart twisted with love at 
the sight, and he rose to embrace his son.  He felt the 
other’s surprise at the display of warmth and inwardly 
sighed.  How had they come to this?

“Well, Celaeren, sit down.  You have much to tell me.”

Celaeren began reluctantly, but soon warmed to his tale.  
Imrahil found himself smiling at his son’s eager description 
of Rosalind, a more colourful version of the picture Alagaer 
had painted.  There could be no doubt about it; the boy 
was truly infatuated.  It was a joy to see him so animated 
after years of cynical disaffection; such a shame that the 
object of his desire was promised to another.

“She is doubtless a fine young woman, and I shall enjoy 
making her acquaintance,” Imrahil said carefully, when 
Celaeren had paused for his response.  “Yet I am deeply 
concerned for you both; you have chosen a path which is 
at best difficult, perhaps impossible.”

“I have chosen nothing!”  Celaeren retorted angrily, his 
passion so easily redirected.  “We do not choose when or 
how love will strike us.  You of all people should 
understand that!”

Imrahil had no wish to engage in a discussion of his own 
affairs, so he ignored the tone of the comment.  “And even 
supposing her brother can be persuaded to release her 
from her betrothal, what will you offer her, my son?” he 
asked quietly.

“Marriage, of course, and a fair life in Dol Amroth.”  
Celaeren stared at him.

“And are you truly in a position to make such an offer?”

“You think I am not fit to marry her because of my 
drinking,” the younger man stated bitterly.

“Is it not a fair consideration?”  His son could have no idea 
how it pained him to have to say it.

It seemed that Celaeren would lose his temper; the rage 
was evident in his eyes.  But after staring at his father 
silently for a long moment, he exhaled and let his shoulders 
slump.  His voice was sorrowful, resigned.  “Father, I 
know I have made a mess of my life, and have let this thing 
control me.  But until now, I have never had a reason to 
fight it, never had something to move towards as I crawl 
away from the wreckage.  Well, now I have that reason.  
Rosalind knows who and what I am; and knowing that, she 
wants me still, as I want her.  I will not fail her, I will make 
her happy.  Do not try to deny me this chance.”

Moved to the core of his heart, Imrahil spoke gently.  “It 
may not be for me to decide in the end, my son.  But I 
believe that you mean what you say, and that you truly 
hope to change.  Let me meet your lady tonight, over 
dinner and talk of lighter matters.  Tomorrow we shall sit 
and discuss what is to be done.”  

He stood, and waited for Celaeren to do the same.  Once 
again he embraced his son, and this time he felt the younger 
man relax against him.  “You may think my words harsh, 
Celaeren, but in truth my heart would sing for you.  I only 
hope a solution can be found.”

“We must find it,” his son replied.
At last the tub stood steaming and ready, and Imrahil 
peeled off his travel-stained clothes.  Every limb, every 
joint seemed to complain as he struggled out of tunic and 
breeches, throwing them carelessly on the bed.  He still 
had some forty minutes before dinner; enough to soak 
awhile and perhaps undo the worst of the damage.  He 
stretched, and crossed the room towards the bath.

The sound of a gentle knock at the door stopped him short.  
Was a man to find no peace?   Cursing under his breath, 
he wrapped a towel around his middle and called, “Yes?” 
in a suitably irritated tone.

His annoyance evaporated at once as Legolas slid into the 
room, closing and bolting the door noiselessly behind him.  

The elf-prince was radiant in a pale green silk shirt with 
golden embroidery at the neck and hem.  His hair was 
intricately braided, and his face serene.  Imrahil could only 
gaze at him, stunned anew at his lover’s beauty.  

Legolas smiled a wicked smile, and began to unbutton his 
fine shirt.

“What are you . . .” Imrahil began.

“Faramir relishes informality,” replied the elf, “but even he 
might look askance were his guests to come to the dinner 
table with their clothes dripping wet.”  The shirt was placed 
carefully on the bed, and Legolas, glorious in his forest 
green leggings and boots, strode towards Imrahil.  Before 
he could speak or move, his towel was whisked away, and 
a firm hand on his backside was guiding him towards the 
bath.  

The elf whirled him round at the edge of the tub and held 
the man close as he kissed him.  Imrahil thought his knees 
might give way, so passionate and all-consuming was the 
embrace.  He clung to his lover and let himself drift until 
Legolas pulled away.  They looked at each other solemnly 
for a moment, then the elf smiled once more and Imrahil 
wondered if it was possible for a man to die of happiness.  

A hand slid down his back and patted him gently on the 
behind.  “Now, my prince,” said Legolas, “into the water 
with you.”


********************


Throughout the dinner Imrahil observed Rosalind as closely 
as he could without causing her discomfort.  He found her 
to be very much as described: a tall, slender woman who 
looked no older than her nineteen years, and whose 
bearing and demeanour spoke of noble birth.  She would 
never be a beauty, but her bright gold hair and piercing 
blue eyes were certainly striking.  She spoke with grave 
self assurance to Imrahil himself, but when she turned to 
talk to Celaeren an entirely different manner emerged.  It 
was quite apparent that his son’s feelings were returned in 
equal measure; the two of them looked well together.

As he had promised his son, Imrahil directed the talk to 
neutral subjects, trying to put Rosalind at ease.  Faramir 
had clearly been struck by the same idea, for he had 
brought musicians to entertain the guests after the meal.  
The evening passed pleasantly without mention of the 
young lovers’ plight, and by the time the last note of song 
died away it was time for the company to retire.

For Imrahil, this stage of the evening came not a moment 
too soon.  In spite of his concern for Celaeren and 
Rosalind and the desire to know her better, his body was 
dictating other priorities.  Over-worked muscles ached to 
stretch and rest, and every part of him longed for the 
intoxicating touch of his lover.  Thirty minutes in the hot 
water under the elf’s hands had been bliss, but could never 
be enough.  His heart thudded with anticipation as he bade 
his son good night and headed for his chambers.

The prince had shed his clothing and stretched himself out 
face down in the bed by the time he heard the door open 
and close, and the bolts being drawn.  He lay deliberately 
still, luxuriating in the knowledge of what was to come.

“I see you are ready for me,” Legolas suddenly murmured 
close to his ear.  A second later, he felt a kiss being 
planted between his shoulder blades, and the sweep of the 
elf’s tongue along the line of his spine.  In his overwrought 
state, this contact alone was almost enough to undo him.

“You are aching still?  I have brought something to help 
you.”  

Imrahil heard the unmistakeable sound of a cork being 
withdrawn from a bottle, and the familiar herbal smell 
reached his nostrils almost at once.   The rush of memory it 
evoked was so vivid, he had to shut his eyes and breathe 
deeply to stop his head spinning.  Meanwhile the elf’s 
warm, oiled hands began to rub his back with long, firm 
strokes, causing Imrahil to groan with delight.  “Do you 
remember?” he ventured.

“Our first night together?” replied Legolas, “Aye, every 
detail, as if it were yesterday.”

“I knew I could love you, even then,” said the man.

In response Legolas parted Imrahil’s hair and bent to kiss 
the back of his neck, before using his thumbs to work the 
muscles there.  Further conversation rapidly became 
irrelevant, as the man relaxed and breathed deeply, 
transported beyond himself by the skilful massage.

The elf lingered on every part of Imrahil’s back and legs 
before asking him to turn over.  The man drowsily 
complied, and opened his eyes to see a grin on Legolas’s 
face and an elegant eyebrow raised.  “Now here is 
something different from that first time,” said the elf, running 
the backs of his fingers down Imrahil’s chest and belly to 
circle his sleeping cock.  “Are you too tired for me, my 
sweet prince?”

“Not if you touch me like that . . . ahhh . . . Legolas . . .”

The man peered blearily up at his lover.  Legolas was 
naked – how did that happen? – and clearly quite fully 
aroused.  Tired or no, the sight of him and the skill of his 
busily working hands were enough to coax Imrahil into the 
same state.

The elf ran an oiled thumb over the tip of Imrahil’s growing 
erection, while the other hand toyed with the man’s balls.  
Imrahil moaned at the touch.  “I would have to be worse 
than tired to resist you,” he gasped.

“Still, you need not exert yourself,” Legolas said, “Just 
relax, and enjoy this.”

Straddling his mortal lover, the elf shifted himself until their 
cocks were aligned and touching, then used two hands to 
grasp and stroke both at once.  Imrahil watched, 
mesmerised, as the slow rhythmic movements built in 
speed and intensity, calling forth an answering swell of 
pleasure in the man’s body.  

“Do not hold yourself back,” breathed Legolas at last, 
emphasising his words with a delicious rocking of his hips, 
“I am ready for you.”

“Ohh . . .” 

“Yes, that’s right, come with me . . .”

Imrahil could only obey his lover’s command, undone by 
the elf’s hands for the third time that day.

Legolas lay at his side afterwards, gently rubbing their 
mingled fluids into the man’s chest and belly.  “Now I have 
an excuse to bathe you again in the morning,” he murmured.  

“You need no excuse.”  Imrahil caught the elf’s wrist and 
brought the hand to his lips, kissing each finger in turn.  
“You know you can have your way with me, as you like.”

“Dangerous words, indeed.”  But Legolas simply drew 
closer, resting his head on the man’s shoulder.

Imrahil stroked the golden hair.  “What do you think of 
her?” he asked a moment later, as his mind returned to the 
events of the day.

“A bright spirit, though troubled.  If this matter can be 
resolved, she would be good for him,” the elf replied.  “But 
do not dwell on it now; there will be time enough 
tomorrow.  You should sleep.”

“You are right.  Goodnight, my wicked elf.”

“Sleep well, my beautiful man.”

Exhausted as he was, it was some time before Imrahil 
closed his eyes and let his dreams overtake him.  His 
thoughts returned again and again to Celaeren’s heated 
words, and he recognised the truth behind them.  He could 
not deny his son the right to feel such bliss as he himself 
had been granted with Legolas.  The situation might seem 
irredeemable, but if Rosalind was the key to Celaeren’s 
happiness, then a solution to the problem must indeed be 
found.

****************************************


CHAPTER 9


Éowyn crooned quietly to the infant at her breast, then 
gently detached him as his eyes fluttered closed.   She 
adjusted her gown, shifted the tiny sleeping form to her 
shoulder, and walked around the bedchamber with him, 
rubbing the warmly swaddled back as she went.  After a 
minute or so she was rewarded as the child belched and 
murmured.  

“That’s it, my little prince,” she whispered, holding him in 
front of her and kissing his forehead.  The grey eyes 
opened for a moment and the baby smiled at her before 
drifting into sleep once more.   
 
Laying little Boromir down in his crib, Éowyn felt tears of 
fierce love pricking at her eyelids.  There were those 
amongst her women who had insisted she find a wet-nurse 
for the infant, but Éowyn had not entertained the thought 
for a moment.  After so many years of hoping for the 
blessing of a child, when her son finally arrived in the world 
she had no intention of handing him over to another.  Every 
second with him was a miracle to be cherished.

Faramir entered the room quietly and came to stand at her 
side.  He bent to stroke the baby’s cheek.  “Goodnight, 
my son,” he said, then stood up and turned to take his wife 
in his arms.  Éowyn let her weight fall against him as her 
head rested on his shoulder, and enjoyed the simple 
warmth of his embrace.  The baby had made things right 
between them again, cured her restless heart and allowed 
her to feel the joy of her husband’s steadfast love once 
more.  She would never forgive herself for the pain her 
despair had brought him, but at least she knew now how 
greatly she had been blessed.

Éowyn pulled back to look into Faramir’s eyes, and smiled 
at the love she saw there.  He was such a gentle, 
handsome man; she would never hurt him again.  She 
kissed him slowly and felt the desire begin to build between 
them as his hands moved across her back.  Tonight he 
would forget that grief had ever existed, the bad memories 
burned away in the fire of their love.

In all likelihood, theirs would not be the only chamber filled 
with cries of passion on this night.  The thought made her 
smile.  “That was an interesting evening,” she said.

Faramir understood her at once.  They had not lost the 
ability to say much with few words.  “Well, now at least 
we know why my uncle has been so happy of late.”

Éowyn nodded.  “Aye.  Do you think he realises how like 
his son he is?  It would be hard to say which of them is 
more besotted.”  She kissed his cheek before disentangling 
herself from his arms and crossing the room to her dressing 
table.  “Does Legolas return his love, do you think?”

“There is definitely something there,” replied her husband 
with a laugh.  “When they arrived today I could feel the 
currents running between them.  I’d wager they did not 
spend the whole day on horseback.”

A vivid picture of the golden man and the silver elf 
entwined on the forest floor came unbidden into Éowyn’s 
mind.  She was taken aback by the sudden flash of heat 
that consumed her, and quickly moved the conversation on.  
“Celaeren is not happy about it, is he?  He works hard 
even to be civil to Legolas.”

Faramir unlaced his tunic as he spoke.  “It is hardly 
surprising.  His life has been shaped by his resentment of 
his father and brother for the elven blood that has been 
denied to him.  It cannot be easy for him to accept that 
Imrahil’s lover is an elf, let alone a male one.”

Éowyn thought back to the dark days of the War, when 
the silver prince had arrived at Edoras in the company of a 
different man.  “Do you know,” she said carefully,  
“Legolas told me tonight that he plans to go on to Minas 
Tirith with your uncle.”

“He does?”  Faramir turned to face her, staring at her 
questioningly.  “The thought troubles you?”

“I suppose he must know what he is doing,” she said 
slowly.  “But Aragorn . . .”

Faramir came to stand behind her as she sat at the table.  
His hands massaged her shoulders gently and he gazed at 
her in the mirror.  “It is in the past, Éowyn my love.  
Thirteen years have gone by, and he has Arwen now.”

“You did not see them together as I did, back then.  It was 
no passing affair,” she sighed.  “And I watched them 
together at Boromir’s naming feast, you know.  Aragorn 
fights to hide his feelings, but they are still there.  And 
Legolas, he simply withdraws into himself, becomes so 
distant and polite, I cannot believe he is not in pain.  What 
does he mean by taking Imrahil there?  Do you think your 
uncle knows the truth?”

Her husband considered for a moment before replying.  
“Legolas is not always forthcoming, but I cannot imagine 
him being deliberately deceitful.  Have some faith in him, 
Éowyn; he is both wise and  sensitive.  He has surely 
thought this through.”

“It is Arwen I feel sorry for,” Éowyn brought out suddenly, 
surprised at her own vehemence.  “Thirteen years of 
marriage, the third child expected, and she has to watch 
her husband grieving over another.”  It was herself she was 
angry with, she realised; and Faramir knew it too.  

He bent to her and pulled back her hair to kiss her neck 
below the ear.  She felt tears form at the tenderness of his 
touch.  “Hush, love,” he said.  “All is well between us now; 
let others find their own way.  Now, will you undress and 
come to bed, or shall I have to carry you?”

She twisted around to smile at him directly.  “You know 
that I love you, Faramir,” she said simply.

“As I love you, my wife.”

“Will you talk to Imrahil?” she asked. 
 
”About Legolas?  I am not sure.  I think he realises that I 
know, but whether he will wish to speak of it directly is 
another matter.”  

She nodded, and rose from the chair.  Willing herself to put 
thoughts of all but her husband from her mind, she began to 
unfasten her gown.


********************


Éowyn found herself observing Legolas carefully across the 
table at  breakfast.  He was certainly a pleasing sight: the 
ageless, fine-boned face; the deep blue eyes fringed with 
long dark lashes; the shimmering hair; the elegant clothes 
covering pale, perfect skin.  It was small wonder that 
Imrahil was entranced by him.  

She watched as the elf, unasked, poured a goblet of mead 
for his lover.  The lightest of touches on the man’s arm 
drew his attention from his conversation with Rosalind, and 
he turned to face Legolas.  The elf pushed the goblet 
towards him, and Imrahil reached to take it.  Their fingers 
touched around its stem and the two exchanged a smile 
that raised the hairs on Éowyn’s neck.  How could she 
have asked Faramir if his uncle’s love was returned?  The 
answer was quite startlingly obvious.

She wondered for a moment how an immortal being such 
as Legolas could come to be in thrall to a short-lived 
human for a second time.  How much pain must he be 
gathering to himself?  Not that Imrahil was anything but a 
prize amongst men; Éowyn could hardly deny it.  Both 
Celaeren and Faramir had inherited some of the family’s 
long-limbed grace, but Imrahil had something more.  His 
height, the smooth hairlessness of his skin, his wide high 
cheekbones and the slight exotic tilt to his eyes, all 
betrayed his elven ancestry.  Then there was his glorious 
mane of hair and the tremendous vigour that infused his 
every word and action.  All in all, her husband’s uncle was 
the most extraordinarily attractive man she had ever seen.  
Legolas, it would seem, was not immune to such charms.

The idea of the two of them together was the stuff of pure 
fantasy.  Once again she tried to banish the thought from 
her mind, but to no avail.  What would they look like 
together, as the elf’s long-fingered hands slid the man’s 
clothes from his body, and the man held the elf to him in 
strong possessive arms?  Éowyn stared down at her plate 
as she pictured gentle touches becoming passionate, 
hungry caresses, the magnificent naked bodies moving 
together towards fulfilment . . .  her face flushed hot, and a 
spasm of pleasure wracked her belly, leaving her tellingly 
damp between her legs.  Looking up, she found Legolas’s 
eyes upon her, an expression of benign amusement on his 
face, and she knew her blush was deepening to the 
crimson of shame.  Gods, surely he could not read her 
mind?  She turned quickly to Celaeren, but not before she 
had noted the elf’s wry smile.

Éowyn and her cousin were deep in an innocuous 
conversation about horses by the time Faramir pushed his 
chair back and stood.

“I think,” said her husband in a tone loud enough to hold 
the attention of all, “it is time we retired to my study to 
discuss the matter at hand.”  His glance swept around the 
table and alighted momentarily on Legolas.

“You have made some improvements to your gardens, 
Faramir,” said the elf amiably.  “I shall take a closer look at 
them this morning.”

Before Imrahil could protest, Faramir spoke again.  “Nay, 
Legolas, by your leave; if Celaeren and Rosalind are in 
agreement, I would like you to join us.  Your wit is as 
sharp as your fabled hunting knives, my friend, and you 
often see through the clouds of emotion that confuse us.”

Clever Faramir, ever the diplomat.  If Imrahil had made the 
suggestion, Celaeren would have resented it 
wholeheartedly, but coming from her husband the 
proposition could hardly be refused.  She smiled to herself 
as Celaeren glanced at his lady, read her assent, and 
nodded. 

“As you wish,” said Legolas, and rose smoothly to his feet.

Éowyn chose a seat at one side of the study, where she 
could observe the discussion unobtrusively.  She would say 
her piece when the moment arose, but for now she was 
content to listen and watch.  

Imrahil sat back in one of the great winged chairs, his 
posture relaxed.  Concern was written on his face, 
however; and when he spoke his voice was authoritative.

“It is a father’s dearest wish to embrace his son and 
congratulate him on a match well made.  I want nothing 
less for you, Celaeren.  If circumstances were different, I 
would certainly be applauding your choice,” he nodded 
slightly at Rosalind, who sat straight-backed, her face 
nearly as unreadable as the elf’s, “although I would be 
advising patience.  A week is hardly enough time to make 
the most important decision of your life.”

Celaeren, his dark brows knitted in a frown, interjected, “I 
know what I want, Father.”

“As do I,” added Rosalind quietly.

“I  do not doubt that your feelings are genuine,” Imrahil 
continued.  “And were Rosalind free to accept your suit, I 
would give you my blessing to proceed in the conventional 
manner.  But there is nothing conventional about this 
situation.”

For a moment, nobody spoke.  

“Rosalind, you are betrothed to another man, are you 
not?”  asked Imrahil at last.

The young woman inclined her head.  “The man was not of 
my choosing,” she said.

“It is not unusual for a family to arrange a marriage,” 
Imrahil said gently.  “But it is against all laws and customs 
for another to interfere when such an agreement has 
already been reached.  Should I abandon all such 
considerations purely because the matter concerns my own 
son?  That is not my way, and Celaeren knows it.”

“I cannot go back there!  I will not marry him!”  Rosalind 
cried, suddenly looking very much younger than her age.  
Éowyn regarded her sadly, her heart full of pity.

“Imrahil,” Faramir was troubled.  “I gave Rosalind my 
protection here as I feared for her well-being.  I believe her 
when she says she would not live to see this marriage 
through.”

“It seems to me that there is more to this tale than is at first 
apparent,” Imrahil leant forward in his chair, his gaze fixed 
on Rosalind.  “Exactly how did you come to be here in 
Emyn Arnen, dressed as a boy, hiding from your family?”

“Her situation was intolerable!  You must see that,” 
Celaeren cut in.

Éowyn could see the way this conversation was likely to 
lead.  It was time to intervene.

“Rosalind,” she said.  The younger woman turned and 
stared at her, the clear blue eyes beseeching.  How well 
she remembered that look.  “I think it is time you told 
Prince Imrahil your story.  It is better that he hears it 
directly from you.”  

The room became very quiet as the two women gazed at 
each other.  Éowyn tried to communicate her love and 
support through her eyes; perhaps she succeeded, for after 
a long pause Rosalind nodded, and said quietly, “Very 
well.”

“My father, as you know, was Aldwine of the Mark, a 
great lord and warrior.  My mother was a woman of 
Gondor; he loved her passionately.  My elder brother was 
named for my paternal grandfather, but when my twin 
brother and I were born, my mother gave us names from 
the south, Rosalind and Beremund.”

Éowyn glanced around the room as the young woman 
paused to compose herself.  It was clear from the 
expression on Imrahil’s face that this was the first he had 
heard of Rosalind’s twin.  Legolas too sat slightly forward 
in his seat, his beautiful eyes fixed on Rosalind.

“From the first Beremund and I were inseparable.  After 
our mother’s death when we were seven, we became 
closer still.  I suppose that Fréadren felt excluded by the 
strong bond between us, or maybe it was Father’s 
indulgence of us that first caused his resentment.  Whatever 
the reasons, a distance developed between ourselves and 
our older brother very early on.

“Father did not believe that the place of a noble maiden 
was exclusively in the home.  He encouraged me to train in 
the arts of war and riding alongside my twin; this suited my 
temperament and allowed me to be with Beremund as I 
wished.  I can honestly say that even after Mother’s death, 
the years of my childhood were happy ones.  Fréadren had 
no such love of physical pursuits.  His skills were with 
words and numbers; he always enjoyed the politics of 
Father’s realm, and Father nurtured his interest.  He 
believed in each of us celebrating our natural talents and 
inclinations, not fighting against them.”

Imrahil said, “He was indeed a great man, noble and wise.  
I met him, Rosalind, after the war.”

Rosalind nodded at him, her eyes glistening with tears.  
“When I reached my sixteenth birthday,” she continued, 
“the time came for me to go to court.  I did not want to 
leave my twin behind, but it is the custom of our land, and I 
knew it would only be for a year or two.  So I went to 
Edoras, and was presented to Queen Lothíriel.  She was 
gracious towards me, and did what she could to ease my 
distress at the parting from Beremund and my Father.

“It was at that time that I met the Lady Éowyn.”  Éowyn 
kept her eyes fixed on the girl, although she knew the 
others in the room were looking at her.  There was not one 
amongst them who did not already know of the fifteen 
months she and Faramir had spent apart, that terrible time 
when grief at the loss of the fourth baby had turned to 
despair, and driven her away from his unintentionally 
oppressive sympathy.  The mention of it shamed her still, 
but it was part of the story and thus must be told.  She 
indicated, with the slightest movement of her head, that 
Rosalind should carry on.

“She came to spend some time in Edoras with her brother 
the King.  She showed me kindness, and before long 
Queen Lothíriel arranged for me to serve her as lady-in-
waiting.  Gradually I overcame my homesickness and 
settled into life at court.”

This was not, of course, the half of it.  Éowyn recalled all 
too clearly the long rides over the plains, the extended 
sessions with bow and sword, the laughter and the earnest 
conversation.  Then there were the pleading glances, the 
supposedly accidental touches, and finally the passionate 
declarations of love.  How could she have let things 
progress so far?  Had she been blind, or too wrapped up 
in her own concerns to care?

“Half way through my second year at court the news came 
to Edoras of the death of my Father and Beremund.”

Rosalind paused, looking down at her hands, no doubt 
trying to control her tears.  “They were travelling to our 
summer home when the party was attacked by brigands 
from the East.  They fought to defend the women, my 
father’s sister and her children.  Beremund was ever 
headstrong; he leapt to the fore and was outnumbered.  He 
died swiftly.  My father was wounded coming to his 
defence, and died within the week.  Most of the rest of the 
party survived to tell the tale.  They say that Fréadren held 
back and watched Father fall; he carries the guilt of it to 
this day.

“I cannot speak of my grief when I heard the news.  
Fréadren did not send for me until it was too late; I did not 
even see my twin and my father buried.  I thought I might 
die myself of the overwhelming sorrow.  Only Lady 
Éowyn’s kindness kept me from self-harm.”

A line had been crossed in her attempt to comfort the 
distraught girl, one that should have been respected.  She 
had not known what else to do but to take Rosalind into 
her arms and hold her.  What happened after should never 
have come to pass.  It had been no act of love, but a result 
of the body’s desperate need for solace and assurance of 
the continuation of life, through the sharing of hard, fierce 
pleasure.  For Rosalind, it had been quite understandable.  
What shocked Éowyn still was the depth of her own 
response.

Éowyn forced herself to remain calm, and turned towards 
Celaeren.  A wave of relief flooded through her as she saw 
his expression, full of sympathy and insight.  He closed his 
eyes for a second, then inclined his head towards her with 
a slight smile.  She knew then that Rosalind had told him 
everything, and that Celaeren had understood, and 
accepted.  She felt a surge of admiration for the young man 
and a sudden strengthening of her resolve.  This unlikely 
match must be allowed to flourish; she would do whatever 
she could to ensure it.

“Eventually Fréadren did send for me, and I returned to my 
home only to find that he had plans for me.  If he had 
resented me before, it seemed that now he could not bear 
the sight of me, and wanted me out of the way as fast as 
possible.  Yet sending me away was not sufficient; he had 
arranged for me a marriage with a man three times my age, 
a man who was repulsive to me.  I remonstrated with him, 
but he would not be moved.”

Rosalind sighed, and looked directly at Imrahil.  “Prince 
Imrahil, my brother is not a wicked man, but he is full of 
guilt and anger.  He has built a wall around himself and 
devotes himself to intrigue and the pursuit of power and 
wealth.  I wonder if he can even see why I should object to 
a union which would bring both.  He has no room for love 
in his own life, so why should he think it a consideration in 
mine?  

“Seeing no way around it, I agreed to meet the man once.  
I had hoped to speak to him directly, to convince him that I 
could never be the wife he wanted.  But that was not how 
the meeting went.”  Again the young woman looked down, 
but this time she seemed unable to compose herself to 
continue. 

A heavy stillness hung in the room, as if the occupants 
were somehow spellbound.  Éowyn realised that she 
should say something, and tried to find the appropriate 
words.

Unexpectedly, it was Legolas who broke the silence.  
“Lady Rosalind,” he said gently, “You do not have to 
speak of it, if it is too distressing.”  Rosalind raised her 
brimming eyes to the elf, who continued, “He tried to force 
his attentions on you, did he not?”  She nodded.  “And you 
resisted him.”

Celaeren could clearly bear it no longer.  He rose from his 
chair and went to stand at Rosalind’s side, his hand on her 
shoulder.  “Legolas is right,” he said roughly.  “You need 
not continue.”

She looked up at him and covered his hand with hers.  
“No, it is better to tell it, I think.”  Celaeren frowned, but 
stayed where he was and kept his peace. 

Rosalind breathed deeply, and apparently found her 
balance once more.  “How I stopped myself from killing 
him I shall never understand.  I had my dagger, and I know 
well how to wield it.  As it was, I dealt him a blow he will 
not readily forget when he thinks of such matters again.  I 
ran to my chamber and bolted the door, and lay there 
shivering and weeping for some time.  When Fréadren 
came to me, I welcomed him.  Surely now my brother 
would realise that this marriage must be called off.

“But that was not what Fréadren had come to tell me.  He 
shouted at me, called me a fool for insulting my suitor so.  
The man, he said, was only trying to taste what was 
already his.  I should think myself lucky that he admired my 
spirit and looked forward to taming such a strong-minded 
wife.  A lesser man would have broken off the engagement 
and demanded recompense. 

“I knew then that only three options remained to me.  I 
could kill the man and face the consequences, kill myself, 
or run away from my home for ever.  That night I held my 
dagger before me and stared at it for a long while.  I 
discovered, to my shame, that I had not the heart to 
choose the warrior’s way.”

“No,” said Imrahil suddenly, “There is no shame in 
choosing life.  Never think that.”  Éowyn glanced at him 
and saw how moved he was by Rosalind’s tale.  Warmth 
spread through her.  He would not let the girl go back to 
meet her fate in Rohan.

“I made my decision that night, and left before the dawn.  
The rest of my story you know.”  Rosalind looked slowly 
around the room, then sank back, exhausted, in her chair.  
Celaeren crouched beside her and took her hand.

Faramir shifted in his seat.  “You will understand now why 
I had no wish to send Rosalind back to her brother, 
Imrahil,” he said.

“Of course.  None the less, it is not yet clear to me what is 
to be done,” the older man replied.

“I cannot understand it!” Celaeren burst out.  “Surely by 
now they must believe Rosalind to be dead.  The 
engagement must already be broken.”

“Unfortunately, that is not the news from Rohan.”  Faramir 
spoke quietly.  “Word has reached Fréadren, I know not 
how, that Rosalind is alive and travelling in disguise through 
the South.  I have no doubt that he will know before long 
exactly where she is, and then he will send men to fetch her.  
This alliance is too important to him and to Haleth, the 
suitor, to let it go.”  

Rosalind let out a small exclamation at the sound of the 
man’s name and Faramir turned to her.  “I am sorry, I 
know you do not wish to hear his name mentioned, but it is 
important that we know who we are dealing with.”

“Then can we not ask Éomer to intercede on Rosalind’s 
behalf?” Celaeren asked.  “As King of the Mark, his word 
is law, surely.”

“This is a matter of blood and family honour,” said Éowyn.  
“Much as my brother might wish to help Rosalind, as I am 
sure he would, it would be against our custom for him to 
impose his will.  The lords of the Mark are powerful, and 
he must be ever mindful of their wishes.  If he were to 
force a decision on Fréadren and Haleth, it would cause a 
great deal of unrest.  He cannot afford that.”

“Éowyn,” Legolas said, in measured tones.  “How would 
Fréadren view an alternative proposal, one that would 
bring wealth and power from a different quarter, and might 
carry with it a substantial incentive?”

“If he was a reasonable man, an accommodation might be 
reached.  A prince of Dol Amroth is a good match by 
anyone’s standards, in my land as much as here.  But I for 
one do not believe that we are dealing with Fréadren’s 
reason alone.  He is a deeply stubborn man, and he will 
see this marriage through by force if necessary, rather than 
let his sister best him.”

“Then we have a serious problem,” said Imrahil gravely.  
“We cannot have Fréadren’s men riding to Emyn Arnen or 
Belfalas to recover Rosalind by force.  We would have to 
hand her over or meet them at arms, and neither option is 
acceptable.”

Rosalind’s voice chilled Éowyn to the core. “Perhaps it 
would have been better if I had chosen the dagger,” she 
said.  “My disguise cannot hide me, and there is no one 
who can help me now.”

Once again it was Legolas who spoke into the stifling 
silence.  “There is one,” he said.

All eyes were upon the elf as he sat, still and calm, his 
hands folded in his lap.  “King Elessar could intercede for 
Rosalind,” he went on.  “He is not bound by the customs 
of Rohan, and no lord of the Mark could turn against him; 
it would be unthinkable.”

“King Elessar?”  Rosalind gasped, “Why should he wish to 
take my part?”

“You are amongst his friends here, Rosalind,” Faramir said, 
but his smile was for the elf.  “I believe Legolas is right.  
The king would hear your story, and may well choose to 
speak for you.”

“Would it not cause unrest if he were to overrule 
Fréadren?”  Rosalind asked, puzzled. 

“You do not know Arag – King Elessar,” Éowyn heard 
herself saying.  “If he agrees to help you, he will not make 
it seem as if Fréadren has been overruled.  He will find a 
way to make your brother happy with the proposition.”  
She wondered why they had not considered this before.  
Perhaps they needed Legolas’s assurance that the man he 
knew better than any of them would wish to involve himself 
in this matter.

The atmosphere in the room had changed, and the 
discussion moved on to the practicalities of the visit to 
Minas Tirith, and the petition to be placed before the king.  
Éowyn said little, but found her eyes riveted to Imrahil.  
The prince was clearly relieved that a possible solution had 
been identified, but his manner was far from carefree.  
When his gaze fell on Legolas, Éowyn saw the anxiety on 
his face, and she understood.  Imrahil did indeed know of 
the elf’s history with the king; it could not be an easy 
knowledge to live with.  She wondered again what had 
prompted them to make this trip together, and what might 
lie ahead for them in the royal city.


********************


It was late by the time Boromir had been settled and 
Éowyn climbed into bed beside her husband.  He reached 
for her and pulled her close, holding her quietly while his 
hands soothed her back and arms.  They had talked over 
the day’s events while she fed the baby and undressed, but 
there was one thing left to say, and she had waited long to 
say it.

“Faramir,” she began.

“Yes, love.”  His voice was sleepy.

“Thank you.”  

“For what, love?”  He opened his eyes, dark in the 
candlelight.

“For being so kind to Rosalind, when you must have 
felt . . .” she grasped for words and found none.

“When I should resent her for what happened between you?  
I do not.”  He was fully awake now.

“I cannot understand how you can be so forgiving,” she 
sighed.

“She was young and impressionable, desperately lonely, 
and you were kind to her; it is no wonder she developed 
feelings for you.”

“And I was older, married, and should have been wise 
enough to stop it before it became something else,”  
Éowyn replied bitterly.

“You must let it go.  You had your own grief to bear, and it 
is in the past now,” he said, then pushed himself up on one 
arm.  “Is it not?” he added,  “Do you still want her?”

“No!  It is not that,” she exclaimed.

“But?”  He was far too skilled at reading her mood.  “Tell 
me, Éowyn, whatever it is.”

“I would not have it happen again, but . . . but the memory 
still warms me.  I am ashamed.”

“It still warms you?”  To her astonishment, Faramir laughed.  
“That is what is distressing you?”

“Why do you laugh?”

His hand slid down her arm to her thigh, and slowly across 
to her belly, then lower still.  It rested there, the slightest of 
movements causing her eyes to open wide and her breath 
to catch.

“Perhaps you should tell me more,” he said.

“Faramir!  That would be . . .”

“Here, in the privacy of our bed?  Tell me how it was 
between you.”

“I cannot . . .”

“Éowyn, listen.  This memory that worries you so much.  If 
you were to let it warm me as well, might it not draw us 
closer, rather than push us apart?  Try it, my love.”

She stared at him, the love and humour and lust in his eyes, 
and felt his fingers urging her on.  Her gentle, handsome 
husband whose sensitive exterior concealed such 
astonishing passion beneath.  She would do anything for 
him.

Éowyn closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began to 
speak.

****************************************


CHAPTER 10


“Heledir,” Velenda seemed as close to exasperation as an 
elf was ever likely to get,  “If we are going to work 
together on this history, you need to tell me what you know.  
I do not understand why you are holding something back.”

Heledir looked down at the table and listlessly moved a 
paper from one pile to another.  He paused to admire 
Velenda’s flowing script, covering the fine parchment with 
tidy blocks of notes in dark green ink.  How had he let his 
infatuation get the better of him to the extent of agreeing to 
this joint venture?  A moment’s consideration would have 
foretold the problem he was now facing.

“It is not that I do not want to discuss it with you,” he said 
carefully, “But some things are not fully mine to tell.”

“The House of Dol Amroth is one of the few remaining 
lines of Elven blood amongst men,” she said, “and thus it is 
central to our work.  If we cannot write of this, we may as 
well abandon the whole project.”

Heledir glanced up at her and saw that her fair face was 
slightly flushed.  A lock of her hair had escaped from the 
clasp on top of her head and fallen across her cheek.  He 
watched her brush it back behind her ear in irritated 
fashion, and his chest constricted.  She had never looked 
more adorable.  He sighed and wished for the fiftieth time 
that Prince Imrahil had not ridden to Emyn Arnen; if his 
lord had been here, the matter could perhaps have been 
resolved once and for all.  

He had not attempted to feign ignorance when Velenda 
had asked him about the royal history.  It was a tactic that 
served him well enough when family members tried to prise 
confidential information from him, but he would not insult 
her intelligence so.  Instead he had been honest and told 
her directly that he could not share with her the little he 
knew.  Under her accusing grey stare, he now wondered if 
deceit might not have been an easier option.

“I am sorry, Velenda,” he mumbled.

“Heledir.”  Her look of determination made his heart sink.  
“Have we not worked together these two weeks and 
discussed all manner of subjects without restraint?”  He 
nodded.  “Are we not friends?”

“Truly, Velenda, you are the friend I never dreamed of 
finding,” he said frankly.  A week ago he could not have 
made such a statement without blushing and stammering, 
but they were long past that.

“Then do you not trust me?”  She opened her eyes wide 
and fixed him with the full power of her deep unflinching 
gaze.

Heledir knew he was lost, but still he hesitated.

“I will make it easier for you,”  she went on.  “Answer my 
questions and I shall make no notes.  When I understand 
what is troubling you, we can decide together what is 
included in the history and what is left out.  I will write 
nothing without your consent, and you know I will tell 
nobody anything you ask me to keep to myself.”

Seeing that there was no chance of leaving her curiosity 
unsatisfied, Heledir nodded.  “I will tell you, but my prince 
may have my skin for it,” he said unhappily.

“Your prince does not strike me as one to flay his subjects 
alive,” she rejoined, “And he well knows that an elf does 
not readily break an oath.  I swear I shall not use the 
information unless you agree to it.”

“As you wish.  This does not come easily to me.”

“Of course not.  But you are a historian, Heledir; you 
should not be afraid of the facts.”

“Afraid, no.  Ashamed, maybe.”

“Is it such a terrible story?”  She asked.

“If you knew the nature of men as I do,” he said, “You 
would not need to ask me in the first place.  But you are 
right, we cannot continue with this work if you do not 
understand the less savoury aspects of our shared history.”  

He shifted slightly in his seat, then began.  “You ask why 
Dol Amroth is not full of men and women with elven blood 
in their veins, why Prince Imrahil and Prince Merenin are 
the only two so blessed.  I asked myself the same question 
as a boy, and once I had the skills to do so, I sought 
answers in the historical records.  

“Many consider it to be a magical gift, but in fact it is a 
matter of nature and man’s intervention.  
Roughly half the children born to one with the elven blood 
also carry it, whilst half do not; it is a not uncommon 
pattern in the living world.  So might a brown-eyed mother 
and a blue-eyed father have three children with brown eyes 
and three with blue.  My own uncle’s family is one such.”  

“Even so, those of the elven blood are healthy and long-
lived, and a worthy prize in marriage for any man or 
woman.  You might expect their children to crowd the 
streets of my city.  But the prince’s forefathers guarded 
their birthright jealously, and went to great lengths to 
ensure it was theirs uniquely.  There is a story that the 
women of elven blood cannot bear children.  I have 
learned otherwise.  In fact they, and second or third 
beardless sons, were simply not permitted to marry.  The 
throne passed to the eldest boy of the elven blood, and so 
the royal line continued.  On a number of occasions that 
line failed, but a father or brother was called upon to 
produce an alternative heir.”
 
“That is not so terrible,” said Velenda thoughtfully, “If that 
is, indeed, all of it.”

“It is not all, though it grieves me to relate it,” said Heledir 
sadly.  “I have found a number of stories, tales of intrigue 
and murder.  Older and younger sons who rebelled and 
were . . . dealt with; children born out of wedlock who 
vanished from the records all too soon.  They make for 
grim reading indeed.  Is it any wonder that I hesitated to 
tell you?”

“But surely no such outrage has occurred in recent years?”  
She asked.  

“Princes Imrahil and Merenin have been lucky, as was 
Adrahil before them.  For three generations now there has 
only been one child, one boy, born with the elven blood.” 
 
“Do you think Prince Imrahil would have continued the 
tradition if his daughter or younger son had been 
otherwise?”  She gazed at him levelly.

“In truth, I do not believe my master would willingly be so 
cruel,” said Heledir slowly, “Yet there are undoubtedly 
those at court who would want to see it so.  Traditions die 
hard, and in some respects I can see the logic behind this 
one, harsh as it seems.” 
 
“What do you mean?”

“There is great resentment amongst men towards those 
who have the prospect of a far longer and healthier life than 
themselves.  It would be hard for you to understand it.  
Whilst there is only one such, and he Dol Amroth’s prince, 
the people can accept such difference.  I fear, however, 
that were others to carry the same blessing – if blessing it 
truly is - they would meet great intolerance, if not worse.”

They sat quietly for a moment, each pondering the story 
and all that it implied.

“It seems to me that Dol Amroth is truly central to our 
history,” said Velenda at last.  “Painful as it may be to 
explore, it illustrates many aspects of the difficulties 
between elves and men in the latter ages of Arda.”  

“Aye, and I know you are right; if we are going to write of 
the interactions of the two races, we can hardly ignore it.  
But I wonder how Prince Imrahil will respond to the idea 
of the family secrets being aired in public?”

“We can only ask him,” she replied.  “I am sure that he will 
support the project in general terms, given his own . . .  ah, 
fondness for elvenkind.”  

He looked at her sharply, and caught the faint hint of a 
smile on her lips.  “There is ill feeling towards Prince 
Legolas in Dol Amroth, you know.  I myself have seen it 
erupt into violence,” he said suddenly.  “These matters do 
not reside solely in the past.” 

“Men envy us,” she said simply.

“Aye, and they are ignorant of your true natures, and call 
you cold.”

“As many of my kin are wont to describe men as rash and 
lacking in wisdom.”  The smile she produced now was 
whole-hearted, and solely for him.  “In fact it is a wonder 
that any friendship could develop between us,” she added 
wryly.   

Heledir was not joking as he gazed into her eyes and said, 
“Truly a wonder.”  He knew that he was doing a poor job 
of concealing his feelings for Velenda, but had somehow 
ceased to care.

She looked at him for a long moment, then leaned forward 
and placed a hand on his arm just above the wrist.  Her 
touch was light but warm, and caused an astonishing 
response in his body.  His nerves stood to attention and 
blood pounded in his ears; an ache rapidly developed in his 
groin which he tried hard to ignore.  He stared down at the 
fine pale hand resting on his own coarse flesh, then lifted 
his eyes to hers.  She did not move.

“Heledir,” she said at last.  “We have worked hard these 
last two weeks, and I have left you little time for recreation.  
Would you care to leave the books behind this evening, 
and walk with me in the forest once more?  I should be 
glad of your company.”  

“Of course, Velenda, anything you wish.”  Anything to 
carry on looking into those deep grey eyes, to hear that 
angel’s voice, to feel, Valar preserve him, that delicate 
touch on his skin.  

“Meet me here in an hour’s time,” she said softly.  “I shall 
go now to the kitchens to find some food and wine to take 
with us.”  

She was gone before Heledir could find anything intelligible 
to say, leaving him aflame with anxious desire.  Had he 
imagined it, or had her thumb really circled teasingly on the 
soft flesh of his inner wrist?

It was the longest hour he had ever known.  Back in his 
cabin he changed his shirt and tunic, and spent many 
minutes before the mirror trying to arrange his belt so as to 
conceal the thickening at his middle.  His hair was clearly 
beyond hope; cut short to stay out of his eyes when 
reading, it fell as it chose, in an unruly brown mop streaked 
with grey.  “At least I am not going bald,” he muttered, 
trying in vain to coax it into something that might be 
considered an acceptable shape.  

Finally he attempted reason.  You have worked beside her 
for two weeks; she has seen you as you are; why worry 
now?  The logic of his thoughts did nothing to quell the 
nervous sensations in his belly.  In those two weeks she 
had never touched him as she had this afternoon, nor 
looked at him with such . . .  could it be invitation? . . .  in 
her wide hypnotic eyes.  Something had changed, and 
Heledir had never wanted nor feared anything as much as 
this.

It was well he had not planned any pretty words to say 
when they met back at the library, for one glance at 
Velenda rendered him speechless.  She had abandoned 
her workaday tunic and leggings for a soft, blue-green robe 
which did not quite cover the toes of her grey suede boots.  
Her hair was braided back from her face, but then hung 
loose from a clasp behind her head in a rich dark fall over 
her shoulders.  She was utterly beautiful.

“Let us go.”  She smiled sweetly and handed him one of 
the baskets at her side.  “You carry the food, and I shall 
take the wine and the blankets.”  

The blankets?  Gods, the image that flashed into his mind 
was enough to bring him to his knees.  Yet somehow he 
managed to put one foot before the other and followed her 
out of the library and up the path that led Westwards high 
into the forest.  She talked as they went, pointing out 
particular plants, commenting on the medicinal uses of 
herbs and barks, drawing his attention to the song of 
various birds.  Gradually he found himself relaxing a little 
and matching his stride to hers; before long they walked 
side by side, conversing as easily as ever.  Perhaps he had 
imagined the change in atmosphere between them.  There 
was no hint of aught but friendship now.

At length they reached a high point on the slopes where 
they could look up to the darkening sky and down over the 
treetops to the river.  

“I like this place,” she said, setting down her basket and 
gazing towards the setting sun.  “We can look at the stars, 
and they will be bright tonight, yet the boulders behind will 
shelter us should the wind grow stronger.”

“It is beautiful here,” Heledir concurred.  The evening was 
clear yet warm, the earth and rocks around them heated by 
a day of unclouded sunshine.  

Together they spread a large blanket on the ground, and 
sat side by side, the baskets between them.  

“Shall we eat?  I must confess I am very hungry.”  She 
brought forth plates and a sumptuous selection of fruits, 
cheese and pastries.  Heledir eyed them approvingly in the 
fading light.  “And to wash it down, here . . .”  Out of the 
other basket came two metal goblets and a small green 
bottle.  

“There is sweet water in the stream, but I thought we might 
need this,” she said, handing the drink to him.  “Have a 
care; it is strong.  But should the night grow cold, you will 
not feel it.”

Heledir took the goblet and sipped the heavy, fragrant 
liquid.  Indeed it warmed him, slow tentacles of fire 
spreading through his body from his mouth and gullet.  An 
astonishing sense of well-being followed in their wake.  “It 
is wonderful,” he gasped.  “What is it?”

“Miruvor,” she replied.  “Lord Elladan sent me a case of 
bottles with the books.  Thankfully they arrived 
undisturbed.”  Velenda sipped her own drink thoughtfully.

“Lord Elladan must think highly of you,” Heledir said 
tentatively.

“We were close for many years,” she replied, a wistful 
tone to her voice.  “We studied together with Lord Erestor, 
and spent many happy days in the library.  He too is a true 
scholar, when his mind is not turned to thoughts of war and 
revenge.”

“Was it not difficult to leave Rivendell?”  he asked 
suddenly.  “I do not fully understand why you chose to 
come here.”

“It was difficult, and yet not so,” she said, with a sigh.  
“When my parents told me they were planning to take ship 
with Lord Elrond and the others, I thought for a time that I 
should go with them.  But I knew in my heart that I was not 
ready to leave all that I love here.  I may spend much of 
my time in the library, but that does not mean I have lost 
my connection to the earth.  It was terrible to see them 
leave, but it was the right choice.”

“But why did you not remain in your home?”  

“Tuillin is all the family I have now,” she said, “and I 
resolved to stay with her.  But it was more than that.  
Heledir, Rivendell is always beautiful, and Elladan and 
Elrohir make it a place of learning and warm welcome still, 
but it is not the same.  To stay there would be to remind 
myself constantly of all that has gone, never to return.  No, 
better to make a new start, build new memories.”

He watched her sip the miruvor slowly, then stare out to 
the horizon, her face like a solemn statue.  What must it be 
to carry the burden of immortality?  He must seem such a 
brief, passing thing to her.  Yet if he could only make her 
happy, just for a moment . . . “Velenda,” he began.

She turned to him and smiled.  “Enough melancholy,” she 
said.  “Let us eat, while we can still see what we are doing.  
It will be a while before the moon is bright.” 

The moment for bold utterances had passed.  Heledir 
followed Velenda’s lead in turning to the food, and by 
unspoken consent the talk moved to less serious matters.

When the last fruit stone was buried beneath the forest soil 
and the last empty plate carefully returned to the basket, 
Velenda put the hampers to one side of the blanket, and 
shifted a little to face Heledir as she leaned on one long 
slim arm.  

“Delicious,” she said.  He could not see clearly in the near-
dark, but it seemed that she licked her lips.

“Absolutely,” he managed, with a weak grin, wondering 
how on earth he might continue.  

Perhaps she read his mind in that disconcerting way that 
elves sometimes had, for she reached towards him and 
brushed her fingers lightly down his arm.  To his 
astonishment, she took his hand in hers.  “Heledir,” she 
said, “I am sorry that you must leave in only two days.  I 
shall miss you when you are gone.”

“You will?”  His breath seemed to be caught in his throat, 
his body tingling all over as the fingers curled around his 
palm began to stroke soft circles there.  

“Of course.  You have become very dear to me.”  She 
released her hold for a moment to slide across the blanket, 
now facing him completely with her legs tucked beneath 
her.  Before he could think of anything to say, her hand 
was raised to his cheek, and she ran her fingers from 
temple to jaw.  “I would show you how dear you are,” she 
whispered.  “May I do so?”

“Yes, anything . . .” was all he managed before her lips met 
his and she began to kiss him.

Having no experience to draw on, Heledir could only 
follow her lead blindly as she pressed her warm, firm 
mouth against his.  He shivered as her tongue emerged and 
swept across his upper and lower lips.  It took him a 
second to realise that the insistent pressure that followed 
was a signal for him to open, but when he did so, he came 
close to swooning with pleasure as he tasted her spicy 
sweetness, and felt her playful exploration of his mouth.

If this kiss could last for ever, if he could die here, he 
would be happy.

At length Velenda pulled away, but kept her hand at the 
back of his head, gently massaging there.

“You must breathe,” she said as he spluttered, and the 
white of her teeth was visible in the gloom.

“Velenda,” he gasped at last, “That was . . . incredible.”  

“That was only the beginning, if you wish,” she replied 
solemnly .

In spite of the fiery response raging through his body, some 
rational part of Heledir’s mind came to the surface.  “But 
why, Velenda?  Why would you want to do this?” he 
asked.

“Because you are a dear friend, who has brought me much 
joy these two weeks; because I believe we would both 
enjoy sharing pleasure together; because the thought of 
your leaving saddens me, and I would have something 
more to remember of you . . .  How many reasons should I 
give?”

“But I am not . . .  you could . . .” he could find no words 
to articulate his sense of unworthiness, but his manner must 
have made it clear.

“You think you are not beautiful, and wonder why I should 
want to touch you this way?”  Her hand dropped from his 
neck to move across his back, his shoulders, and round to 
rest on his chest.  “You do not see through my eyes.  What 
to you is commonplace, to me is exotic, intriguing.”  By 
way of illustration her finger ran delicately down into the 
open neck of his tunic and twirled around a stray tuft of 
hair there.  

Heledir tried once more to voice his doubts.  “But you are, 
you are an elf!” he cried, realising the inanity of the 
comment even as it left his mouth.  

“And you are a man.  Solid and comforting where we are 
slender and spiritual.  That in itself is enough to make me 
want to touch you, I will confess.  In you I can see, can 
*feel*, all that is real and substantial on this earth.  You 
cannot imagine how appealing that is to one who has 
watched her loved ones fade from her sight.  And I am 
drawn to *you*, Heledir, by the strength of our friendship.  
Shall we do this, or would you rather I dropped the 
matter?” 
 
“You know I want nothing more,” he whispered.  “But I 
have nothing to offer you.”

“I am not suggesting marriage, my friend,” she laughed.  “It 
will be years, centuries perhaps, before I am ready for 
such a bond.  You know how it is for my people; there are 
some acts of love that can only be shared by those joined 
for life.  These we may not experience together.  Then 
again there is still much pleasure to be found, and I will not 
leave you unsatisfied.”

“Gods!”  He could not contain the oath as her words set 
his body aflame.  “Do what you will, Velenda.  I could no 
more resist you than . . .” her lips on his silenced him once 
more.

They kissed for a long time, until Heledir, light-headed, 
forgot that he had ever tried to protest.  Velenda’s hands 
roamed across his back as her tongue twined around his.  
After a time, his confidence grew, and he began to respond 
in kind.

“I would touch more of you.”  The silky voice whispered in 
his ear, making all the hairs on his body stand on end at 
once.

She removed his tunic and shirt slowly, caressing parts of 
him he had never guessed to be sensitive, making him 
moan with sheer bliss.  When she rose to take off her own 
clothes, standing before him pale and gleaming in the light 
of the rising moon, only a concerted effort of will prevented 
him from spilling in his breeches, untouched.  But when she 
lay down beside him, her warm softness pressed against 
him, he found appropriate words at last.

“Teach me, Velenda.  Tell me how to please you.”

“Ah, Heledir,” she sighed, running her fingers across his 
chest, “Ever the scholar.  This is a lesson best learned for 
yourself.  Touch me as you will, and let my reactions guide 
you.”

So touch her he did, softly at first with his hands, as if 
afraid to break something unbearably precious.  He 
stroked her slowly from her face down to her hips, 
astonished by the smooth perfection of her skin, 
breathlessly enraptured by the beauty before him.  Her 
gasps and cries drew him on, and after a while he bent his 
head to taste her sweet flesh.  He did not forget to kiss her 
neck, as he had long dreamed of doing, but from there he 
moved gradually lower, until at last his mouth closed 
carefully around one pert nipple, and he began to suck 
gently.  Encouraged by her shuddering response, he 
brought his hand up from her belly to cup her other breast, 
and with his thumb he mirrored the action of his tongue.  

Velenda’s cries were enough to wake the forest, and each 
sound she uttered sent a delicious thrill through Heledir.  
Eventually he raised his head to look at the beautiful elf 
maid moaning beneath his touch, and listened to the need, 
the hunger in her voice.  He took a deep breath.  “Tell me, 
Velenda, tell me what to do.”

“Better than that: I will show you.”  Her hand on his 
pushed it down, sliding slowly over her belly and beyond, 
over the smooth mound and between her legs, which 
parted to welcome his approach.  Utterly transfixed, he 
allowed her fingers to guide his into a firm rhythm, sliding 
amongst the folds of flesh and over the tiny nub he found 
there.  He did not need to ask if what he was doing was 
right; her desperate writhing might have been interpreted as 
pain, but her breathy gasps, “Yes, yes,” left no room for 
doubt.  

Suddenly Velenda stilled beneath him and let out a groan,  
“Heledir!”  

He stopped his movement, afraid that he had inadvertently 
hurt her in his enthusiasm.  Her hand flew back to his and 
pushed it hard against her flesh as she cried out again.  Her 
back arched, and all at once her body was shaking, pulsing, 
deep spasms of the muscles beneath his fingers.  As he 
understood what was happening to her, Heledir felt a wave 
of love, pride and desire pass through him, a heady mix 
that left him reeling, and his eyes filled with tears.

“Velenda, oh Sweet Valar, Velenda, that was incredible,” 
he said as her breathing returned to normal and her body 
relaxed. 

“Wonderful,” she agreed.  “You are an excellent student, 
as I might have foreseen.”  She reached up and pulled his 
head down for a kiss.  Holding the back of his neck she 
slid her mouth around to his ear.  “And now it is your turn,” 
she whispered.

Somehow she made it last, in spite of his almost painful 
excitement from the start.  

Heledir’s embarrassment as she pulled off his boots and 
breeches was soothed away with lingering touches and 
appreciative words.  Once her hands moved up his thighs 
to caress his most sensitive parts his fears and anxiety left 
him.  All he could think of was the indescribable pleasure 
she was generating, this beautiful, perfect being bending 
over him, her long hair brushing his hips as her warm firm 
hands held him, fondled him, stroked him . . .  

Gods, let me die now!  It can get no better than this!  His 
brain formed the words, but all his mouth could manage 
was a wordless scream as the ecstasy erupted within him 
and his own fluids splashed across his chest.

Velenda held him until the last pulse had died away and 
everything, all life, all energy, had drained from him, leaving 
him a weak and boneless bundle of incredulous happiness.  
He felt the tears slide down his face as she nestled herself 
alongside him, bending in to kiss him chastely on the cheek.  
“Sweet Heledir, you were made for this.  You are beautiful 
in your passion,” she murmured.

“But I have not . . .” he started, tailing off into foolish 
silence.  Why confess the inexperience which must be so 
apparent to her?

“Shh, I know.”  She kissed him again, softly.  “So we have 
much time to make up for, no?  It is well the night is 
young.”

He rolled to one side and raised himself on an elbow, to 
look down at her as he reached for the silken mass of her 
hair.  “Velenda, you are so lovely.  I do not understand 
what I have done to deserve this.” 
 
She ran a finger from his chin to his navel as she replied, 
seemingly unworried by the stickiness there.  “You needed 
to do nothing but be your own gentle, warm-hearted self,” 
she said.  “it is more than enough.”

Heledir remained unconvinced, but kept his thoughts to 
himself.  He bent instead to lick the tender skin of her 
throat, and thrilled at her answering shiver.  Whatever she 
might say, he knew all too well that this night he had been 
blessed beyond all dreams of men.  However long a life the 
Gods should allot him, he would never forget a moment of 
this happiness, and would praise them every day for 
granting him such a gift.

****************************************


CHAPTER 11


Aragorn stood at the long window, the scroll in his hand.  

The sky above the city was still a clear blue.  In the streets, 
men and women went about their business much as they 
had ten minutes before.  It was an ordinary day in Minas 
Tirith, and none but himself could be aware that the world 
had changed.

He passed the scroll from hand to hand several times, a 
nervous gesture that served no real purpose.  Eventually he 
could stop himself no longer.  Unrolling the parchment, he 
read it once again, hoping to divine some additional 
meaning from Faramir’s message.  But the words were 
bland, unremarkable as the script of the servant who had 
set them down.  No explanation was to be found there.

Faramir would arrive in Minas Tirith tomorrow.  
Accompanying him would be the royal party from Dol 
Amroth, and also a young woman under Faramir’s 
protection, an acquaintance of his wife seeking to place a 
petition before the king.  With them would be Prince 
Legolas.  

The simple statement still shocked him, even on the third 
reading.

He had heard some days before of Imrahil’s arrival in 
Emyn Arnen with his son.  It was unthinkable that the man 
should return to Dol Amroth without first visiting the white 
city.  Whatever his personal feelings on the matter, as king, 
Aragorn could expect nothing less.  He had forced himself 
not to speculate about other meetings, other visits that 
might be taking place.  When Imrahil arrived at the palace 
he would be greeted warmly, as befitted a friend, a worthy 
ruler, and a valiant comrade from the Great War.  The man 
could not be blamed for his involvement with Legolas.  
How could he even guess how much hurt the knowledge of 
their affair was inflicting on the king, who was, after all, so 
visibly happy with his queen?

Legolas himself was another matter.  He must surely know 
how Aragorn was suffering.  On that October morning 
when the king had watched the elf take Imrahil’s letter 
from Faramir’s hand, no words were needed.  He had 
known in an instant that the elf’s relationship with Dol 
Amroth’s prince went beyond mere friendship.  No doubt 
the lingering connection to his former lover had allowed 
Legolas to sense his flash of seething jealousy, just as 
Aragorn had felt the elf’s guilty regret.

In the months since that revelation, it had proved 
impossible for Aragorn to ignore the reports from his 
people in Belfalas.  He had devoured all the relevant 
information and surreptitiously demanded more.  Little joy 
it had brought him; he had found himself sickened both by 
his own behaviour and by the stories he heard, tales of the 
prince’s unorthodox behaviour, and his obvious delight in 
the company of his mysterious elven visitor.  With every 
new testimony, Aragorn’s bitterness had grown.

And now, by choosing to come here to Minas Tirith with 
his lover, Legolas was deliberately twisting the knife 
already embedded deep in the man’s heart.  Was this, 
finally, his punishment for the terrible wrong he had done 
the elf?  If so, it could only be the beginning.  Knowing that 
the anguish was well deserved did not make it easier to 
bear.

I am a reasonable man, I love my wife, and I will act like a 
true king, come what may.  The words were simple enough 
to form.  It would take all his strength to live up to them.

A sharp pain in his hand brought Aragorn back to his 
surroundings.  It seemed that he had unconsciously raised 
his fist to his mouth and bitten down on his knuckle.  
Staring at the red marks there, he laughed without humour, 
then turned back to the window, counting his breaths in an 
attempt to calm his mind.

When Arwen entered the chamber Aragorn was still 
standing rooted to the spot, although some time had 
passed.  He turned to her as she approached and 
attempted a smile which he knew to be unconvincing.

“Estel, what is wrong?”

Her use of his old Elvish name never failed to move him, 
but today her words only increased his sense of guilt.  He 
looked at her, radiant as ever, the swell of the baby just 
beginning to show, and cursed himself for his inconstancy.

“It is nothing disastrous, my love,” he said.  “I was merely 
pondering the contents of this.”  He held the scroll out to 
her and watched as she read it quickly.  Her brow 
furrowed almost imperceptibly as she considered the news.  

“What is the nature of the young woman’s petition, I 
wonder?” she said after a moment.

“I know no more than you see before you,” he replied, 
“but if Faramir is supporting her, it cannot be a trivial 
matter.  His judgement is sound.” 

She nodded.  “And you were expecting Imrahil and 
Celaeren.”  

“Yes.”

“But not Legolas.”  She gazed at him, her dark stare 
betraying no emotion.  “No doubt he has some business of 
his own to attend to in the city.”

“No doubt.”  He could bring himself to say no more.  He 
had not told Arwen of Legolas’s relationship with Imrahil 
and it was unlikely that she even suspected it.  For an elf 
who was already bound to form such an attachment to 
another was unheard of, and commonly thought to be 
impossible.  How could Arwen, with her strong sense of 
destiny and propriety, conceive of such a notion?

“Estel.”  Her voice was compelling, full of the wisdom of 
her age.  “It would be so much better for both of us if you 
would tell me what is on your mind.” 

Aragorn sighed.  It was not the first time they had covered 
this topic; he doubted that it would be the last.  “My love, 
there is nothing for me to say.  I can see no point in 
revisiting the past yet again.”

For a long moment she looked searchingly at him.  She 
drew breath, apparently to protest, but then shook her 
head slightly and let out a sigh of her own.  The irony of it 
was, she could, if she so chose, reach into his mind and 
know for herself exactly what was happening there.  But 
she had vowed to him at the outset that she would never 
use her gifts without his consent.  Unlike her husband, it 
seemed that Arwen kept her promises.  

“If you will not speak to me of it, at least find time to talk 
to him,” she said at last.  “You will do yourself ill if you 
carry on like this.  You know that I love you, and that I 
understand the complexity of your heart; why can you not 
accept it?”

Aragorn could think of nothing intelligent to say, so he 
walked to her and took her hand before leaning in to kiss 
her gently.  “I have never deserved the love of one so 
generous as you,” he said at last.

“Perhaps not, but I know my destiny,” she replied 
smoothly.  He glanced at her quickly, and was relieved to 
see the hint of humour in her smile.  “They are arriving 
tomorrow,” she continued.   “I shall take the children out 
into the forest the next day, as I have been promising them 
since the hot weather began.  We shall leave early and 
return late.  Use the day well, Estel.  Find time to talk to 
him, and try to discover some peace for your spirit.”

His heart swelled with affection for her as she offered him 
the only thing she could.  How was he supposed to tell her 
that it would make no difference, and that any amount of 
talking would never make the pain disappear?

“Have you spoken to the staff about their lodgings yet?”  
Arwen ended the growing silence between them.

“Not yet.”

“I shall see to it; you should be getting ready for the day’s 
business,” she said briskly.  “And I shall see that the 
kitchens are prepared for a banquet tomorrow evening.”  

“Thank you, Arwen.”  For everything, he added silently as 
he watched her glide out of the room and felt the familiar 
sinking feeling in his stomach.  He had failed her once again, 
as he would continue to do every time the subject of 
Legolas arose between them.  

Aragorn knew quite well that talking to Arwen would ease 
the pressure on his heart.  She had known of his love for 
Legolas and accepted it, long before the bond between the 
two males had been formed.  Yet explaining in full the 
nature of his pain would mean admitting to something far 
more horrifying.  How could he confess to his wife that his 
feelings were founded on guilt, guilt that stemmed from the 
dreadful circumstances in which the bond had come about?  

Even with Legolas, he had never been able to speak of the 
truth of that day.  The elf still believed that Aragorn’s brutal 
sadism had been entirely the work of the ring, acting 
through him.  The man had not found the courage to own 
that some of the violence, at least, had come from himself 
alone, stirred from the darker reaches of his soul when the 
conflict between duty and desire had become too much for 
him to endure.

At the time he had allowed himself to accept the elf’s 
reassurances.  Indeed, there had been no viable alternative.  
The fate of Middle Earth had hung in the balance, and 
Aragorn’s destiny had grown to consume his whole being.  
For a while he had become the myth: noble, invincible, the 
one true King.  

Introspection and self-accusation had only come later, 
once the world had settled into peace.

Of course, Legolas had claimed responsibility for the 
events of that fateful day.  The elf had set out to seduce 
him, in order to reach beyond the ring’s influence to the 
man’s spirit, and thus save him from the descent into evil.  
But Aragorn knew that nothing could detract from the 
enormity of his own crime.  Neither the elf’s intentions, nor 
the vile influence of the ring, could negate the fact that he 
had taken his beloved friend by force.  Worse still, perhaps, 
he had allowed Legolas to bind their spirits in an 
everlasting union, dooming the elf to an eternity of hopeless 
love while Aragorn fulfilled his own destiny by taking 
Arwen as his rightful wife.

Of all the people in Middle Earth, he surely had the least 
right to feel jealous because his former lover had now 
found happiness in the arms of another.  Yet no amount of 
rational thought would make the searing emotions 
disappear.  Aragorn wanted Legolas now, as much as he 
ever had; the thought of the elf with Imrahil filled him with 
impotent, nauseous rage.  Awareness that his response 
was utterly unjust only added another rich element to the 
stew of guilt already fermenting in his mind.  

This was not a matter that one who called himself a man 
could discuss with his wife.  Of that, Aragorn was 
absolutely sure.


********************


The cooks had prepared a feast truly fit for royal visitors, 
and the king’s guests appeared to be enjoying the food.  
Aragorn himself may as well have been consuming wood 
shavings for all the pleasure he derived from the fine dishes 
before him.  None the less, he forced himself to eat well, 
determined that none should know of his inner turmoil.  

Thankfully Legolas had not seated himself next to Imrahil.  
The elf was deep in discussion with one of Aragorn’s 
senior counsellors, on the far side of Faramir, to Arwen’s 
left.  The king had caught no surreptitious glances, no half-
hidden gestures, between him and his lover.  Indeed, since 
arriving at the palace, the two had appeared relaxed and 
friendly with each other, but there had been no sign of any 
special intimacy.  

Imrahil, seated at Aragorn’s right, was diverting company, 
as ever.  At the start of the meal the king had watched his 
own words, careful lest his feelings towards the man should 
show through.  However he soon found himself relaxing, 
for even in these circumstances it was quite impossible not 
to like the genial prince.  His conversation flowed easily, 
fuelled by sharp intelligence and a ready wit.  He was a 
strikingly handsome man, in prime physical shape.  Legolas 
had chosen a worthy partner; of that there could be no 
doubt.  Whilst keeping up his end of the exchange, 
Aragorn searched for some wariness or unease in the 
man’s manner and found none.  He must be totally 
unaware of Legolas’s prior emotional involvement.  That at 
least was something to be grateful for.

To the right of Imrahil, Rosalind and Celaeren were 
showing none of the discretion exhibited by their elders.  It 
was obvious, as it had been from the moment they first 
rode into view of the palace walls, that the young couple 
were in love, or at least deep in the throes of infatuation.  
Aragon was eager to know what had brought the girl here 
seeking his help, but etiquette prevented him from asking 
the father when the son sat only a few feet away.  That 
discussion would have to wait until the morrow.  He noted 
with interest that neither of the two youngsters had touched 
a drop of wine or ale.  He had heard of Celaeren’s 
problem, of course, so the prince’s abstinence could not 
but surprise him.  She would help him tame the beast within?  
Good luck to her.

As the servants came out to start clearing the dishes away, 
Aragorn called for more wine and bade the minstrels take 
up their places.  He fervently hoped that they would outdo 
themselves tonight.  With Arwen at one side, Imrahil on the 
other, and Legolas’s musical tones tantalisingly audible 
across the table, he badly needed some distraction.  His 
noble, wise façade might still be intact, but the weariness 
inside was beginning to take its toll.


********************


“Thank you, Rosalind.  It must have been very painful to 
recount your story in full.”  Aragorn spoke gently to the 
young woman, who sat with head bowed before him.

“Please, My Lord,” she said softly, her voice barely more 
than a whisper, “I beg you to help me.”

What must it cost her, proud maiden of the Rohirrim, to 
lower her eyes and plead in such a way?  Aragorn looked 
around the room and saw immediately that he was not the 
only one so moved.  Celaeren had his hand over his eyes 
as if to shield himself from Rosalind’s distress; Imrahil was 
gazing at the girl with pure compassion on his face; but 
Faramir was looking directly at Aragorn, obviously trying 
to assess his own response.  Legolas was not present; he 
had excused himself after breakfast, saying he wished to 
visit the palace groundsman.

The king pondered for a moment how best to begin.  It 
was not an easy case.  Rosalind had struggled to tell the 
story of her fiancé’s attempt at rape, and Aragorn had 
stopped her when she became tearful.  What she had 
managed to relate was enough.  No woman should be 
forced to stay with a man who believed he had the right to 
treat her with so little respect.

Hypocrite.  The word rang in his mind as he shut his eyes 
briefly, trying to rid himself of the image of a blond figure 
kneeling before him, naked and afraid, the sword Anduril 
at his neck.  As always, a powerful and contradictory 
mixture of emotions rose in him at the memory.  He forced 
himself to suppress them, and brought his mind back to the 
present.  This was not about himself and Legolas.  It was 
another opportunity, granted by the Gods, to rectify the 
wrongs in another’s life; one more chance to atone. 

“I was lucky enough to know your father, Rosalind,” he 
said, his composure regained.  “And I mourned his passing, 
long before his time.  I would help you for your own sake, 
but I know that he would give me his blessing, and this 
heartens me.  He would not see you married to such a man.  
Your brother must have found his own grief and 
responsibility hard to bear; I doubt he would seek to 
continue the arrangement, were he not himself hard-
pressed.”

She raised her sky-blue eyes to him and managed a weak 
smile at his acknowledgement of her family pride.

“You know this is not an easy matter to resolve,” Aragorn 
continued.  “Where King Éomer would hesitate to interfere, 
I must tread carefully.  I do not consider myself to be 
above the law; I am merely its instrument, its figurehead.  
Therefore I cannot order Fréadren to have the betrothal 
negated.  Such a crude tactic would, in any case, be 
counter-productive.  A more subtle approach is needed 
here, I feel; one that leaves your brother’s honour intact, 
and ultimately works to his advantage.” 
 
All the eyes in the room were fixed upon him now, the 
sense of eager anticipation almost palpable.

“Do not be disheartened if I do not offer you a solution 
straight away.  I have a fair notion of how to proceed, but 
there is one with whom I must discuss the idea before I 
reveal it to you.  We shall speak of the matter again 
tomorrow, but in the meantime rest assured that I shall do 
for you what I can.”

“My life is in your hands, My Lord,” said Rosalind simply. 
“And I shall be forever indebted to you.”

Imrahil caught Aragorn’s eye over Rosalind’s shoulder, 
and raised a brow enquiringly.  The king shook his head 
very slightly, and gestured towards the door.  
Comprehending immediately, the prince rose to his feet 
and crossed the room.  “Come, Rosalind,” he said, “Let us 
walk outside for a while; the sun is warm and there is much 
to see here.”  

Faramir and Celaeren also stood.

“Celaeren, I would speak with you alone, if you please,” 
Aragorn said.  “Faramir, you and I shall talk later on.”

“As you wish, Sire.”  Faramir bowed politely and followed 
Imrahil and Rosalind out of the room.

Celaeren was watching Aragorn warily, clearly somewhat 
surprised by this turn of events.  The king felt he must have 
some idea of what was to come.  The young man, for all 
his problems, was reputedly no fool.  As his father’s son, 
one would expect no less.

“Please, sit.”  Aragorn gestured towards a chair and took 
the opposite one himself. Celaeren’s brown eyes did not 
leave his.  “I hope you will not feel that what I have to say 
is intrusive.  It has direct bearing on the decisions I make 
regarding Rosalind.”

Celaeren nodded.  “I am only concerned for her 
happiness,” he said.

“Tell me, Celaeren.  How long is it since you had a drink?”  
He was deliberately blunt in his questioning, keen to see 
the nature of the reaction he provoked.

The prince remained admirably calm.  He ran a hand over 
his dark hair and avoided Aragorn’s gaze for a moment, 
but when he spoke, his voice was steady.  “Six days,” was 
all he said.

“And how are you, when the drink takes you?  What kind 
of man does it bring forth?”  

“Not the kind of man of whom one would be proud.  You 
have heard stories . . .”

“I am asking because I would hear it from you.  What kind 
of man?”

Celaeren stared at the floor.  “It makes me violent,” he said 
eventually.  “I have been known to become involved in 
brawls for no reason.”  There was a pause, then he raised 
his head and spoke defiantly.  “My Lord, I know what you 
are going to say to me.  How can such a man be a fit 
husband for any woman, let alone one such as Rosalind?”

“Would I be wrong to ask such a question?”  Aragorn 
spoke a little more gently.

“Of course not.  She deserves better.  But that is not the 
man who would marry her. I have vowed to Rosalind, by 
my life, that I shall not drink to excess again.  I will not 
dishonour her.”

Aragorn sighed, touched by the naivety of the young man’s 
assurance.  “It is not so simple,” he said.  “In my long years 
I have seen many men, good friends and soldiers, succumb 
to a problem such as yours.  Each of them at some stage 
promised me that they would not drink again.  And each 
broke that promise many times before he died.  It is a long 
and difficult road.”

“None the less it is one I must walk.”  Celaeren held his 
head high and met Aragorn’s gaze.  “I have no other 
option.”

“And how will you do it?  Do you think you are strong 
enough to take one glass of wine and not follow it with 
another?  What will happen when you return to Dol 
Amroth and meet up with your tavern friends?  Will you be 
able to resist then?”

“Why should I need to seek them out, if Rosalind is with 
me?  As for one glass of wine, I shall not even touch that, if 
it is the only way to avoid falling again.”

“Well, I wish you luck, truly I do, and I shall help you as 
far as I can.  There are herbs . . . but they can only ease 
the process slightly.  The real work of healing must come 
from you.”

“I know it, My Lord, and I am ready for it.”

Aragorn privately doubted that Celaeren was fully 
prepared for the challenge that lay ahead.  At his age, 
anything and everything still seemed possible.  
Unfortunately the king had seen enough to know that 
miracles rarely occurred. However, he had no wish to 
discourage the young man further, so he wasted little time 
in drawing the interview to a close.  

“Ask Faramir to come to me, would you?”  he said, as 
Celaeren made his exit.  


********************


By late afternoon the regular business of the day was 
concluded and the outline of a plan to help Rosalind was 
agreed with Faramir.  In the usual course of things, 
Aragorn would feel justified in retiring to his chambers for 
an hour or two to read, or perhaps to bathe.  This was no 
normal day, however, and he had sent a servant to find 
Legolas and request his presence in the king’s study.

Alert as he was, the soft knock at the door took him by 
surprise.  His heart responded as it always did to the elf’s 
presence; it began to pound almost painfully against the 
walls of his chest.  He took a deep breath and exhaled 
slowly, willing himself to relax.

“Come in.”

There was no reason to expect that Legolas should 
become any less lovely over the years, but it seemed 
nothing short of unfair that he should become even more so.  
Perhaps it was only Aragorn’s perception of him, 
sharpened by the months of separation; but the elf’s 
ethereal splendour, enhanced by the shades of green and 
gold that he wore, seemed more striking than ever.  The 
breath caught in the king’s throat as he watched his former 
lover cross the room to stand before him at the window.

“You wished to see me?”  There was no hint of feeling 
audible in the pleasant, neutral voice.

“Of course, Legolas.  I wanted to ask you . . .  how have 
you been?”  It was an unimpressive opening to the 
conversation, but Aragorn could think of no other.  The elf 
still had the power to reduce him to a fool with the merest 
look.

“I am well.  And yourself?”

“Well, also.  Will you sit?”

Legolas sank smoothly into the chair across from Aragorn 
and sat there, straight-backed and . . . was it wariness, the 
slight tension in his posture?  It was the first sign he had 
given that he was not wholly comfortable in the king’s 
presence.

“Arwen appears to be in good health with the child.”  A 
suitable courtesy, maybe, but also a timely reminder of 
Aragorn’s commitments.  Legolas had always chosen his 
words so carefully.

“Yes, indeed.  She thrives on motherhood.”

Legolas gazed at him for a moment, then turned his head to 
look out of the window.  Something about the movement 
caused Aragorn’s resolve to break, and he spoke 
thoughtlessly.  “Why did you bring him here?”  

Turning back to him, the elf replied coolly,  “It would be 
more correct to say that he brought me, given the 
circumstances.” 

Faced with such unruffled calm, Aragorn felt his customary 
self-control cracking.  Nobody else could undermine his 
defences so easily.  “Why?  Why did you agree to come, 
then?”

Sitting very still, Legolas stared at him relentlessly.  “Why 
should I not?” he said slowly.

“You know quite well.”

“This is not just about you,” the elf said, enunciating each 
word very deliberately.  “My presence here is important to 
Imrahil.”

“To Imrahil?  Gods!  You seek to wound me!  Well, you 
have the right to do so, I know.”

Silently, Legolas stood and moved once more to the 
window.  As the man watched, astonished, his long pale 
hands gripped the window ledge until the tendons were 
clearly visible.  Aragorn realised, with a growing sense of 
horror, that what he had taken to be unshakeable 
composure was in fact nothing but a thin veneer.  Before 
his eyes, that veneer now fell away and he saw, for the first 
time in thirteen years, the suffering behind it.

“Do you think I do not know your pain, Aragorn?”  
Legolas said at last.  “I know it all too well, for I 
experience it with you.  I feel your longing and your 
jealousy, and believe me, I understand them perfectly.  
You have known the company of elves for far too long to 
believe that they do not have emotions of their own, 
whatever they choose to show.”  Blue eyes locked with his, 
and he saw something close to despair in their depths.  

Pity warred with baser sentiments in Aragorn’s breast, but 
the battle did not last long.  “It was Imrahil you were with, 
in Cormallen after the war, was it not?”  he asked angrily.

“It was.”

“And all the years since?”

“Although it is no business of yours to know it, we did not 
meet again until last summer.”  The elf spoke with brittle, 
icy precision.

“Does he know about . . . us?”

“In outline, yes.  I could not hide it from him.  You need 
have no fear of indiscretion from him.”

“So this is the meaning of one eternal love?  The spiritual 
bond that allows such twofold betrayal?”  Aragorn’s 
words seemed to pour out of their own accord.

“Aragorn.”  The elf’s voice held a warning.  “You know 
that you are being unjust.”

They stared at each other in silence.  Behind Legolas’s 
eyes was something Aragorn had rarely seen, something 
that was more furnace than glacier.  He bit down his angry 
response, and waited for the elf to speak.

“I will not wait out all the years of this earth wretched and 
alone,” Legolas said at last.  “Right or wrong, that is my 
decision.  Would you wish loneliness upon me?” 

“It is not that I wish you harm.  I just . . .  I cannot bear to 
think of you with him.”

“Then do not think of it at all.  I will not give this up, even 
to spare you.”  

Something about the elf’s face gave Aragorn pause for 
thought.  He was struck forcefully by the certainty that this 
had not been an easy decision for Legolas to make.  “But 
Legolas,” he said, “Another man?  If it had been an elf . . .”

“And well you know that none of my kind would have me, 
bound as I am.”  

“Would you break it?” Aragorn asked suddenly.

“The bond between us?”

“Yes.  Would you end it, if there was a way?”

Legolas gazed at him, the mask of serenity slowly settling 
back into place.  “Have you forgotten that it was my 
choice to make this union?” he said softly.

“That is hardly the case!  It was my weakness that made it 
necessary, and my . . .  what I did . . .” he faltered as the 
loathsome memories assailed him once again.

“Ah, now we come to it.”  Legolas leaned on the window 
ledge and peered down at him with a strange expression 
on his face, somewhere between pity and satisfaction.

“What do you mean?”

“We come to the part of the discussion where your guilt 
becomes paramount.” 

“When I think what I have done to you, Legolas, I have 
enough cause to feel guilty.  Would you mock me for it?”  

“I do not mock.” The blue eyes were serious.  “I feel what 
it does to you, this terrible guilt.  Aragorn, your jealousy is 
natural, but you will conquer it in time.  The feelings of 
longing we will both learn to live with.  But this dreadful self 
reproach stands to destroy you.  You are drowning in it, 
and you threaten to pull me under with you.”

It was a while before the man found his voice, and when he 
did so, he could barely choke the words out.  “Yet what 
can I do?” he said.

“It is not for me to tell you what you should feel . . .  but I 
know what I hope for.  Give in to your jealous rage for a 
while; hate me for coming here with Imrahil if you must.  
Alternatively, feel relief, happiness even, that I have 
achieved some peace with him in spite of our history.  
Anything to stop you dwelling on your remorse and self-
loathing.  The past is done, Aragorn, and cannot be 
changed.  You must forgive yourself.”

“Easy words to say,” Aragorn whispered, his head sinking 
into his hands.  To his shame and dismay, he felt his eyes 
fill with tears and his shoulders begin to shake.  First 
Arwen, now Legolas; urging him to leave his guilt behind, 
to move forwards.  Would either of them be so quick to 
offer absolution if they knew the true horror, the depths of 
depravity to which he had fallen?  He gave in to his grief, 
allowing it to consume him as he pressed the heels of his 
hands into his eyes in a vain attempt to stop the tears 
flowing.  

It seemed a long time later that a gentle pressure on his arm 
caused him to look up.  Legolas was kneeling on the floor 
in front of him, his hauntingly beautiful face only inches 
away.  His hand now rested on Aragorn’s shoulder, and 
his look was one of compassion.  

“Aragorn, you can stop hiding it.”  The words cut through 
the welter of emotions in his head, holding his attention 
completely.  “I know what you did in Lórien.  I know it 
was you.”

“You . . .  what?”  In his shock, he could hardly 
comprehend what he had heard.

“I know it was you, not the ring.  And I forgive you.”

“You know?  How could you?”  His hand reached for the 
elf’s arm and clutched it, fingers shaking.

“I have always known,” said Legolas sadly.

“Then why, in the name of all that is holy, did you not say 
so before?”

“To be honest I did not know how to speak of it, and I 
was afraid to do so.  There was something in your soul so 
dark, so deep-rooted, that I did not recognise it; and I 
feared that by disturbing it again I could do you lasting 
harm.  It is only since I have come to know Imrahil that I 
have realised quite how deeply the vein of guilt runs in you, 
and how powerfully it has controlled your actions.  I am 
afraid of it no longer, and would help you face it, if you 
have the courage to do so.”

Speechless, Aragorn stared at the elf.   A cavalcade of 
thoughts flew through his mind, only gradually quieting 
sufficiently for him to identify the warm sensation of blessed 
relief.  

“Thirteen years,” he breathed.  “If only I had been brave 
enough to speak of it before.”

“I wish the same thing,” said the elf, “but we cannot change 
it.  We have only the present.”

“How could you allow yourself to be close to me, after I 
had done that to you?”  

“Because I loved you,” Legolas replied.  “And I still do.  
Can you sense it?”  

The elf’s grip on his shoulder tightened a little, and he felt 
the glorious, fierce heat wash through him.  He closed his 
eyes, and placed his hand over Legolas’s.  

“Yes.”  He wanted to say more, but could not find 
adequate words.  They remained still for some time, and 
Aragorn felt the anger and bitterness draining from him as 
the elf’s spirit nourished his own once more.

“You came here with Imrahil for my sake, as well as his,” 
he said, finally.

“Yes.”  The elf gently removed his hand from Aragorn’s 
and sat back on his heels.

“But it is not easy for you.”

“No.  Whatever you may think, I have no desire to see you 
suffer.”

“Do you love him?”

There was a long  pause before Legolas replied.  “Yes,” he 
said softly.  “Yes, I do.”

There was no need to ask whether the elf loved Aragorn 
himself any less as a result; his body was still vibrating with 
the knowledge that Legolas’s passion for him remained 
undimmed.  That the elf could also love another was an 
enigma, contrary to all the teachings of the first-born about 
bonds of the spirit.  “How can it be?” he asked.

“I do not understand it myself,” said Legolas, “and perhaps 
I never will.  All I know is the truth of my own heart.” 

“I feel I should despise him, hate him for having what I 
cannot.  Yet I will not deny that he is a good man, worthy 
of you, if such a thing is possible.”

Legolas smiled.  “Aye, and he is at peace with himself, a 
fact which has helped me to find some tranquillity in my 
own soul.”

“Will I ever be able to stop telling you I am sorry?” 
Aragorn sighed.  

“I think you should save those words for one who needs 
them more than I do, my friend.”

“Arwen.”

“Your reticence hurts her more than the truth ever could,” 
Legolas said.  “Perhaps now that the air is cleared between 
us, you will find it within you to do as she wishes, and 
share your innermost thoughts with her.”

“Your generosity will never cease to astound me,” the man 
told him.

“Why?”  Legolas laughed.  “My own wounds will never be 
healed by seeing pain inflicted on another.  It is always 
better to promote harmony where we can.  Which reminds 
me; did you decide to help the girl, Rosalind?”

“Of course.  I could hardly turn a deaf ear to her story.  I 
need to talk to Arwen first, but I hope to offer a workable 
solution tomorrow.”

“It was my suggestion to bring the matter to you,” said 
Legolas with a small smile.  “I hope I did not place an 
unwelcome weight on your shoulders.”

“Not at all,” Aragorn smiled in return.  “It is only the 
opportunity to help others that makes this business of being 
king worthwhile, as you well know.”

“Ah, Aragorn.  You are a good man to the core.  I have 
always known it.”  Legolas rose to his feet as he spoke, 
and held out a hand.  

Aragorn stood, and wrapped the elf’s warm fingers in his 
own.  He felt weary, as if he had run for hours, or fought a 
great battle with no clear victor.  A sudden urge overcame 
him, and he spoke before he could change his mind.  “May 
I kiss you, Legolas?  Just once, for the sake of our 
friendship?”

“Would it be wise?”  The elf said levelly.

“Probably not, but . . .”

They stared at each other for a long moment, then a slight 
pressure from the elf’s fingers gave him the answer he 
needed, and he stepped forwards.

Their lips met in a caress that was almost chaste, and for 
an instant everything was as it had once been.  Aragorn 
inhaled deeply, breathing in Legolas’s scent as he tasted 
again the elf’s unique sweetness.  A sense of delicious 
melancholy crept over him, but beneath it was something 
else, something that could not be ignored.  Half consciously 
he moved closer, and brought his hand up to the elf’s neck 
to draw him in.  Heat suddenly flared between them.

Realising what he was doing, Aragorn pulled away 
abruptly.  At the same time Legolas stepped back, a hint of 
warning once more visible in his look.  

The man sighed and blinked away the stinging moisture 
from his eyes.  “Be happy with him,” he said.  “My heart is 
not so scarred that I cannot wish you that.”

Legolas smiled, though his own eyes betrayed his sadness.  
“It is all I wish for you, with Arwen and your children,” he 
said.  “You know that I have never really left you.”

“I know it.  Go now, before I do something I will regret.”  

Legolas nodded to him, squeezed his hand gently, and 
turned to leave the room.

The door shut quietly behind the elf.  This time Aragorn did 
not attempt to stop his tears, but welcomed them as they 
flowed freely.  There was no bitterness in them now; he felt 
rather a sensation of cleansing, emptying, as if a stain was 
being washed from his soul.  Even through his sorrow, he 
knew that this day was a turning point in his life.  An 
enormous load had been lifted from him.  He may have far 
to go before his conscience could know true peace, but at 
last the long journey towards redemption had begun.

****************************************


CHAPTER 12


Imrahil lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.  

It was good stonework, solid and true, impressively 
vaulted and deeply shadowed in the light of the oil lamps.  
There was nothing in the unremarkable sight to justify his 
continued scrutiny, yet he found himself unable to close his 
eyes.  What would be the point?  There was little chance 
of sleeping, but he had not the heart to get out of bed and 
seek a book or some such distraction.  He should have 
taken more wine with his dinner; perhaps that would have 
given him some peace.

Trying to banish the thoughts of Legolas from his mind, he 
began to count the stones in the great curved rib that 
stretched from the window to the door.  The attempt 
proved to be useless.  He had not reached thirty before he 
abandoned the census completely.  

Asking the elf to join him in Minas Tirith had seemed such 
an obvious thing to do.  When his lover had unexpectedly 
agreed, Imrahil’s joy had known no bounds.  Before they 
had reached the city Legolas had quietly explained to him 
that intimacy between them might be difficult; with Aragorn 
so close, his presence in the elf’s mind would be strong, an 
unavoidable inhibiting influence.  Imrahil had accepted the 
fact with grace, saying that he was no incontinent youth, 
and that his love for the elf went far beyond the merely 
physical.  

What a fool he had been.  One solitary night in the huge 
feather bed of the grandest guest chambers, Imrahil’s by 
right of his royal status, had been a trial.  The second might 
well prove to be his undoing.  

Last night Legolas had told him before they retired that he 
would not sleep, but planned to meditate under the stars.  
The prince had therefore not expected company; none the 
less, its absence had  been keenly felt.  This evening the elf 
had said nothing of his intentions, but after the meal had 
bidden him good night with a warm smile that caused 
Imrahil’s heart to contract painfully.  And now he lay alone 
once more, desperately wondering where his lover might 
be, and what exactly was going through his mind.  

It was not that he craved sexual contact, although the mere 
thought was enough to rouse his body to attention.  Painful 
as it was to admit to himself, he knew that what he really 
needed from the elf was reassurance.  

Since arriving at the palace he had watched Legolas 
carefully whenever he felt he would not be noticed doing 
so.  His lover had maintained an exterior so calm, it hardly 
seemed natural, even for an elf.  It was almost as if his 
physical being was present and performing its role to 
perfection, while his spirit was somewhere else entirely.  

Imrahil had no doubt that beneath the placid surface 
Legolas was in considerable turmoil, trying to maintain his 
equilibrium in the presence of the two men who had laid 
claim to his heart.  What was the outcome of that struggle?  
Was Aragorn’s influence so overwhelming that Imrahil had 
been temporarily forgotten?  Was the elf perhaps regretting 
his rash statement of love for the prince, and realising that 
he had in fact overstated the truth?  More pressingly, what 
had happened between Legolas and the king during their 
private interview this afternoon?  The two had spent less 
than an hour closeted in Aragorn’s study, but to Imrahil it 
had seemed a lifetime.  When Legolas had emerged alone, 
he had given no sign of what had passed.  Even if there had 
been opportunity to do so, Imrahil would not have found 
the courage to ask.

Sighing as if his heart would break, Imrahil extricated 
himself from the tangle of sheets and got to his feet.  As he 
walked around the room extinguishing the lamps he cursed 
himself under his breath, adding “He is not coming, and 
you knew it, you half-wit.”  With the chamber in darkness 
he returned to the bed and shifted around in it restlessly, 
searching for a comfortable position but finding none.  He 
resolved to stop behaving like a child and to try to get 
some sleep.  Whether his body would obey his mind’s 
command was another matter.

For all his pessimism he must have dozed off, for he was 
not aware of the door opening and closing.  It was only the 
sound of a soft voice speaking his name that woke him.  
Imrahil opened his eyes, confused, and peered about him.  
The faint illumination in the room did not come only from 
the shaft of moonlight slanting through the tall windows, but 
also from the motionless figure at the bedside.  His pulse 
quickened at the sight.

“Legolas!  You are here!”

“I am sorry,” the elf said quietly, “It is late and I have 
disturbed you.”  His tone was odd, distant somehow, 
fragile.  

Imrahil, now fully awake, stared at him.  “No, do not 
apologise!  I am so happy to see you.”

“May I get in?”

“You do not need to ask!” replied the man vehemently, 
throwing back the covers and extending his arms.

Without further comment, and without pausing to undress, 
the elf lowered himself to the bed and slid across the 
mattress into Imrahil’s waiting embrace.  Sensing that 
something was very wrong, Imrahil asked no questions, but 
smoothed a hand over his lover’s hair and murmured soft 
endearments.  They lay in this fashion for what seemed to 
the man to be a very long time.

Eventually Legolas raised his head from Imrahil’s shoulder 
and kissed his cheek gently.  “I would have come to you 
sooner,” he said.  “I waited until Aragorn was asleep.”

“You have been with him?”  Imrahil spoke sharply, in spite 
of himself.

“No, of course not.  But I do not . . .  sense him so much 
when he sleeps.  He was troubled tonight, and his distress 
bothered me.  It is part of the bond.”  Legolas spoke with 
sadness, and a weariness that Imrahil had never before 
encountered in him.

“I understand.”  The man tightened his hold on the warm 
clothed body beside him.

“Can we . . .  may I just lie beside you tonight, and feel you 
holding me, like this?” 

Imrahil thought something within might burst as the painfully 
intense love welled up in him.  Never could he have 
imagined that the elf would reveal such vulnerability.  “Of 
course, my love,” he whispered.  “Anything you want.  I 
am here for you.”

There was little sleep to be had that night for Imrahil.  At 
first he kept up his soft words of love and encouragement, 
holding the elf close yet with great care, as if he might be 
damaged by too forceful an embrace.  After a while, 
however, it become obvious that Legolas was not going to 
speak of his woes, but was in fact asleep, or at least in the 
open-eyed trance that amongst elves passed for slumber.  
The man, aware of his lover’s exhaustion, feared to relax in 
case a sudden movement should rouse Legolas from his 
rest.  If he could not ease the elf’s heart by talking the 
matter through, he could at least ensure that the beautiful 
creature in his arms felt secure and loved as he slept.  His 
own needs were of little consequence by comparison.

Sometime before dawn, however, Imrahil’s weariness got 
the better of him and he closed his eyes, passing at once 
into dreams.

When he woke, the sounds of morning were drifting up 
from the city and sunlight was pouring through the East 
window.  In the great bed, the tables had been turned; 
Legolas was now lying open-eyed, cradling Imrahil’s head 
to his shoulder.  He met the man’s bleary eyes and smiled.

“Legolas, my love, are you well?” Imrahil asked, as full 
recollection of the night returned to him.

“I am now, sweet prince.”  The elf touched the man’s lips 
with his own.  “And I am sorry I came to you so distraught.  
It must have wounded you greatly.”

“Hardly,” Imrahil replied.  “It would have been more 
distressing by far, had you stayed away.  Do you want to 
talk about it?” 

“I am not sure that there is much to be said.”

The man narrowed his eyes, but refrained from comment. 

“I sense that you wish to know what passed between 
Aragorn and myself,” Legolas said gravely.  “Do you really 
think that it is wise?”

“Absolutely.”  Imrahil did not need to feign his certainty.  “I 
assure you that my imagination will furnish an explanation 
that is far more painful than the truth, otherwise.”

The elf nodded, yet paused a while before speaking.  
Imrahil had the distinct impression that he was trying to 
frame a difficult tale into a form that would neither betray 
the one man nor hurt the other.  When he eventually spoke, 
his words were carefully measured.

“We talked of the past, he and I.  Aragorn feels great 
remorse for the fact that I was driven into making the bond 
by what he perceives as his weakness.  In order to 
confront his guilt, it was necessary to relive some extremely 
painful memories.  And before we could do that, he 
needed to vent his anger, express his jealousy, and be 
reassured that I love him still.”

Imrahil bit his lip for a moment.  He had asked for the elf’s 
honesty; he could not resent it.  “Of course,” he managed.

“It was not easy for either of us, but I think it has helped 
him.  He talked to Arwen last night, and finally slept at 
peace.”

“Legolas,” the prince said slowly, “Do you know that 
whenever you talk of these matters, it is always Aragorn’s 
needs that seem to concern you.  Do you never consider 
your own desires, your own well-being?”

The elf looked at him with surprise.  “Of course!  Would I 
be here, otherwise?”

“Well, there is that, but . . .”

“Imrahil, there is something you should understand about 
Aragorn, although I could never say it to anyone but you.  I 
have seen him at his absolute weakest, and have touched 
the flaw in his soul.  As a result, I will always be the 
stronger one, now as I was then.”

“You did not seem particularly strong, when you came to 
me last night.”

Legolas smiled seriously and raised a hand to the prince’s 
cheek.  “That is because with you, I do not need to be.  
You have enough strength of your own; you do not need 
me to find it for you.”

Imrahil felt as if he had been handed a great gift.  He 
blinked, and stared into the elf’s deep blue eyes.

“Thank you, Legolas,” he said.

“For what?  It is I who should be thanking you, surely.”

“For letting me love you.”

“Ah, Imrahil.”  Legolas pulled the man towards him for a 
kiss.  “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

Imrahil understood that the elf was speaking of something 
beyond physical appearance.  “You are one to speak of 
beauty,” he whispered, and returned the kiss with fervour.


********************


Aragorn’s face was unreadable across the breakfast table, 
but he had the colour of one who had slept well.  However 
grim yesterday’s confrontation with Legolas might have 
been, it had presumably brought him some peace.  Once 
again Imrahil wondered what the dreadful truth at the core 
of the story could be, the crucial element that had been 
kept back from him and which explained how the bond 
had come to be necessary.  However much Aragorn’s 
history with his elven lover might distress Imrahil, it could 
not be denied that the other man was decent, noble and 
every inch the king.  He could not possibly have intended 
to bring such lasting grief and pain to Legolas. 

The prince was roused from his reverie by Celaeren, 
speaking in an undertone close to his left ear.  

“Has he given you any idea, Father, of what he intends to 
do for Rosalind?”

Imrahil frowned at his son’s lack of discretion, but 
reminded himself that the boy was in love, and the object 
of his affection in danger.  “I know nothing more than you, 
Celaeren,” he said.  “Try to have some patience, my son; 
he will not keep us waiting longer than necessary.”

Indeed Aragorn had no intention of prolonging the 
suspense.  As the meal came to an end he requested that 
Rosalind and Celaeren come to his study in half an hour to 
discuss her future.

“By your leave, Rosalind, I suggest that Prince Imrahil and 
Prince Faramir join us,” he said, tactfully allowing the 
young woman the status so long denied her.

“Of course, My Lord,” she replied, looking at the king with 
frank admiration.  “I would expect them both to be 
present.”

“It is well.”  Aragorn nodded, and the company rose.


********************


The young lovers, emboldened after two nights at the 
palace, sat together on the long couch to the side of 
Aragorn’s desk.  Rosalind held herself very still and upright, 
while Celaeren, gazing fixedly at the king with a serious 
expression, rested a protective hand on hers.

Faramir had chosen a chair on the other side of the room.  
He now sat back in it, relaxed but attentive, a slight smile 
on his lips.  It was obvious that he knew rather more of the 
king’s plans than did either Imrahil or his son.

Imrahil himself sat in the middle of the room, watching the 
faces of each in turn.  Legolas was not present to draw his 
eye; once again the elf had taken himself out into the 
gardens before the meeting began.

Seated behind the great desk, Aragorn surveyed the room 
before speaking.  His eyes lingered first on Rosalind, 
anxious yet proud, then on Celaeren, full of fiery resolve at 
her side.  The king’s glance passed over Imrahil to 
exchange a look of complicity with Faramir, the trusted 
steward.  Finally the dark head swung back to gaze 
directly at Imrahil.  The prince found himself held by the 
stormy grey intensity of Aragorn’s regard; he could not 
have turned his head aside if he had tried.  The moment 
stretched out and something indefinable passed between 
them.  Imrahil was reminded of the times when, as a 
boisterous child, he had been called to account for his 
deeds by his father.  Now, as then, he felt that he had 
nowhere to hide; his deepest self was clearly visible to the 
other, his soul bared for scrutiny.  It was not a comfortable 
feeling, but at least he could say that he sensed no 
antagonism or disapproval from the king, only a great, 
deep sadness.

The sorrowful eyes turned away from his and Aragorn 
cleared his throat discreetly.  “I apologise, Rosalind,” he 
began, “for delaying my answer in this way.  Yet once I 
explain my thoughts to you, my reasons will become 
apparent.  I have looked for a solution to your dilemma 
which will guarantee your safety but also protect the 
honour of your family, and allow your brother to feel that 
he has not been slighted, either by myself or by King 
Éomer.  

“After due consideration it seems clear that rather than 
seeking to end your engagement to Haleth directly, the 
appropriate course of action would be to offer something 
better in its place, something which Fréadren cold not 
possibly refuse.  With all due respect to our friends from 
Belfalas,” here the king nodded slightly to Celaeren, “an 
alternative marriage proposal at this stage would not only 
be inappropriate, it would, as far as Fréadren is concerned, 
hold no advantage over the betrothal already in place.  I 
venture that an alliance with a powerful lord of his own 
land is, for your brother, a far more worthwhile prospect 
than a union with the prince of a far distant coastal 
kingdom.  The only other incentive we could offer would 
be a material gift.  Unfortunately this would insult Fréadren; 
he could not possibly accept it with honour.  

“Bearing all of this in mind, I suggest making a proposal of 
a rather different sort.”  Aragorn smiled at Rosalind, who 
sat forward, clearly holding her breath.  “With your 
agreement, Rosalind, I intend to write to your brother and 
request your attendance here at court in Minas Tirith, as 
companion to my wife and family.  I will admit that I have 
an interest in your acceptance.  My daughters are of an age 
when they need instruction in the arts of the sword, the 
bow and the horse; my children will not be raised as 
helpless maidens, their only skills those of the household.  
My wife and I have been discussing for some time the 
appointment of a tutor for this purpose.  If all that I hear of 
your abilities is true, I can think of none more suited to the 
task than yourself, and having discussed the matter with 
Queen Arwen, I can say that she is in agreement.”

“Sire!”  Rosalind’s face was a picture of astonished 
happiness.  “You honour me beyond belief!”

“Your brother might not see it that way,” said Aragorn 
wryly.  “I shall not, of course, use the word ‘tutor’ in my 
correspondence with him.  The term ‘Ladies’ Companion’ 
is, I believe, more appropriate to one of your station.  You 
will be part of my household, and for the term of your 
attendance at court, you will be under my protection.  Do 
you accept the idea in principle?”

“My Lord.”  The young woman bowed her head and 
touched her heart.  “I am greatly honoured to do so.”

Imrahil sat back in his chair and crossed his legs at the 
heels.  He could feel a grin forming on his face.  Aragorn 
had indeed offered a perfect solution.  Of all the proposals 
he could have chosen to place before Fréadren, none 
could carry such weight as this.  For the presence of his 
sister to be requested at the king’s court was an enormous 
honour, one which would override any other 
considerations.  For the time being, at least, the matter of 
the betrothal would surely be put to one side.  There 
remained, of course, the question of Rosalind’s long-term 
future. 

This thought had obviously occurred to Celaeren at the 
same time as his father.

“My Lord,” said the young man, “What of Rosalind’s 
engagement, and my suit?”

“You have heard what I suggested,” Aragorn replied 
calmly.  “I do not, at this stage, propose that any move be 
made to terminate the betrothal; it would be far from politic 
to do so.  I suggest that in the first instance, Rosalind is 
invited to court for one year.  During this time it may be 
that her fiancé’s patience grows short; he himself may 
choose to bring the arrangement to an end.  If not, towards 
the end of the year I shall invite Fréadren to Minas Tirith to 
visit his sister, and put the matter to him face to face.  I 
imagine that by then his anger at Rosalind’s disappearance 
will have subsided; he will be in a more likely frame of 
mind to discuss terms.”

“But . . .”  Celaeren began, just as Rosalind opened her 
mouth.  She stared at him with wide eyes and nodded 
slightly, indicating that he should speak for the two of them.  
It was hardly necessary; surely everyone in the room knew 
what Celaeren was about to say.  Imrahil wondered for a 
fraction of a second whether to intervene before his son 
could speak out of turn, but just as quickly decided that the 
young man should have his say.

“Sire, your offer to help Rosalind in this way is most 
gracious and generous.  I have no doubt that she will serve 
you well, and be happy here in your household.  But if the 
engagement is still in place, she . . .  we will not . . .”

“She will not be in a position to accept your suit, no.”  
Aragorn’s attention was fixed on Celaeren, the gravity of 
his expression reflected in his voice.  “I do not need to tell 
either of you that whilst under my protection, Rosalind’s 
honour will be as my own; propriety will be observed.  If 
you think for a moment, you will see that this is the better 
way.  True affection can afford to wait a while, and by 
following a less precipitous course, you may allow 
yourselves a more solid foundation for the future.”

To Imrahil’s dismay, Celaeren spoke again.  “But Sire, a 
year?”

“At the end of that time, if Rosalind is still at court, and if 
matters proceed satisfactorily, I shall be happy to support 
your cause.”  Aragorn spoke in general terms, but Imrahil, 
watching the man’s wise, knowing gaze on Celaeren, knew 
well what was meant.  The engagement would be ended; 
the king would see to that.  The real question was whether 
Celaeren could, in the course of the twelve months, show 
himself to be a worthy suitor.  The prince was certain that 
Aragorn would have no qualms about preventing the match, 
should the young man fail to bring his problem under 
control.

Judging by the look on Celaeren’s face, he too had 
understood the king perfectly.  “My Lord.”  The dark head 
bowed in reluctant acceptance.  

Aragorn’s face softened a little.  “You will of course be a 
welcome guest at my table, whenever your business should 
bring you here.”

“From Dol Amroth?”  Celaeren blurted out.  Rosalind, 
tight-lipped at his side, turned to him with warning in her 
eyes.  

Imrahil sat forward to speak, thinking to cut in before his 
son could say something inappropriate in the king’s hearing, 
but Faramir pre-empted him.

“Celaeren, take heart,” said the steward kindly.  “Nobody 
is trying to put obstacles in your path.  You know that 
there is a place for you at court in Emyn Arnen; with your 
father’s permission I should be happy for you to take it, for 
some or all of the year to come.”

Imrahil could hardly credit that the offer should come from 
Faramir without his own planned suggestion.  Nothing 
could be better for his son.  Away from Dol Amroth, away 
from the group of dissolute, cynical types that Celaeren 
had called friends, the young man actually stood a chance 
of fighting his addiction.  And with Rosalind near enough to 
keep his mind on the eventual prize, his likelihood of 
success must be even greater.  

“Father?”

The prince smiled warmly at his son.  “With my blessing, 
Celaeren,” he said.  “You can serve Belfalas well there, 
especially now as our trading interests with the East are 
growing.”

“Then I thank you, cousin, and look forward to accepting 
your kind offer.”

Faramir nodded to Celaeren, then turned to meet Imrahil’s 
gaze.  There was no need for words between them to 
express Imrahil’s gratitude and his nephew’s concerned 
assurance.  There would be time enough later to thank the 
steward for lifting such an enormous load from his mind.

Rising from behind the desk, Aragorn indicated that the 
meeting was at an end.  “Rosalind, if you wait for me in the 
hall, in a few minutes I shall take you to meet the children.  
Arwen is with them; the two of you can discuss at length 
the details of your role.  I am afraid I shall not be able to 
join you for long as I have a delegation from the North to 
meet with this morning.  Prince Imrahil, if you please?”

Surprised, the prince stood by his chair as the others left 
the room, Faramir with his arm around Celaeren’s shoulder.

“Please, sit down.”  

Imrahil mirrored the king’s motion and sank back into the 
chair.  Unsure what was expected of him, he coughed 
behind his hand before speaking.  “My Lord . . .”

Aragorn gestured him to silence.  “Imrahil, please, we are 
comrades of old.  You can dispense with such formality.”

“As you wish, Elessar . . .” the prince tried to ignore his 
sense of unreality at addressing the king thus, in these 
circumstances.  He could not quite bring himself to use the 
older, familiar name.  “You have my heartfelt thanks for 
intervening on Rosalind’s behalf in this way.  I was quite at 
a loss to help her.”

“It is easy to sympathise with her plight,” Aragorn said, his 
eyes seemingly focussing on a point somewhere over 
Imrahil’s shoulder.  “But my motives are not entirely 
altruistic.  Faramir assures me I would be lucky to find a 
woman more skilled than she, on horseback or with the 
sword.”

“I cannot vouch for her fighting skills,” replied Imrahil, “But 
I have seen her ride, and she is a true child of Rohan.  
Your daughters will be lucky to learn from her.”

“Indeed.  As for Celaeren, I can do no more at this stage.”  
Here was the crux of the matter; the king’s attention had 
returned to Imrahil in full.

“You have done enough,” said Imrahil frankly.  “It is up to 
him now, to bring his life under control once more.  He 
understood perfectly well what you were telling him.”

“I have seen too many families brought to ruin by men’s 
folly, fuelled by wine,” said Aragorn sadly.  “I will not 
allow it to happen to one whom I have taken under my 
protection.”

“You are right; he must free himself before he can make a 
future for himself with Rosalind.  It is well that he hears this 
from you; a father’s counsel is more easily ignored.”

“The brother will give up the other engagement without 
protest, I think,” Aragorn tapped a finger thoughtfully on 
the desktop, “if he is the kind of man I believe he is.  A hint 
of preferment, a royal match; he would be hard put to 
refuse such a proposal if it is made in the right way.”

“Let us hope you are right.  In any case, you are generous 
indeed, to offer such hope to my son.”  

Aragorn shifted slightly in his chair, leaning a little towards 
Imrahil. The prince held his breath as he watched the grey 
eyes grow dark, the noble face deeply serious.  In the 
heavy silence, he sensed the gathering of the king’s 
mystical power, and behind it something else.  With 
growing anxiety he recognised it as a faint yet distinct 
shadow of menace.

“For the sake of Dol Amroth’s friendship.”  Aragorn’s 
voice was low.  “Our alliance means much to me, and I 
would not have it disturbed.” 
 
Imrahil thought carefully before replying slowly,  “It is of 
even greater importance to me.  I will do everything in my 
power to preserve it.”

“Besides,” the king said quietly, “Where genuine love exists, 
who am I to stand in its way?”

Imrahil could feel a flush heating his neck, but forced 
himself to keep his eyes on Aragorn’s intense, expressive 
face.  He wanted to respond, but could think of nothing 
appropriate to say.

“Our interests are not dissimilar,” continued Aragorn.  “In 
fact, I would go so far as to say that we have much in 
common, you and I.” 

“So we do.”  The prince found his voice.  “And I trust that 
you know that while I live I would do anything to protect 
our . . . mutual concerns.”  

The slight nod told him that he had judged the matter 
correctly.  He could not expect Aragorn to give his explicit 
blessing, nor for him to say aloud, ‘Treat him well, or I 
shall see your head severed from your body,’ but there 
could be no doubt of the true subject of their discussion.

Their guarded words were apparently enough to satisfy the 
king, for he pulled his chair back and stood, then waited 
for Imrahil to do the same.  Their eyes remained locked 
together as Aragorn walked around the desk to stand 
before Imrahil.  There he paused, before suddenly grasping 
the prince’s shoulder in the firm warrior’s gesture of 
solidarity.  

“I wish you well, you and your son,” the king announced 
solemnly.  

Imrahil swallowed hard, and lifted his hand to return the 
embrace.  “You will never have cause to doubt your faith 
in us,” he said.  “May you live long, rejoicing in the love of 
your family and all your people.”  

There was nothing more to be said, so they walked silently 
to the door.  Imrahil felt that his feet might be gliding 
through the air an inch above the flagstones, so exultant 
was he in his heart.


********************


As he strode along the corridor to the bedchamber, a 
touch on his arm brought Imrahil to a halt.  He spun round 
to find Legolas close behind him, smiling enigmatically.  

“Why are you . . ?” he began.  

The grip on his arm tightened, turned him about and 
propelled him forwards on his original path.  “Shush,” the 
elf said in an undertone.  “Into your room.”

Imrahil was astonished to find himself almost dragged 
across the threshold.  Legolas did not turn, but kicked the 
heavy door shut without a glance.  A continuation of the 
same movement brought the elf up close to him, a hand 
behind his head, another in the small of his back, the long 
body pressed against his.  He had no time to voice his 
surprise or delight; his lover’s mouth sought his and 
crushed against his lips in a kiss so passionate as to be 
almost violent.

Gasping for breath, the man pulled his head away at last.  
The blood was roaring in his veins and pounding behind his 
ears, but his mind was slow to catch up.  “Legolas, 
what . . ?”

“I have been thinking of you all morning,” the elf said, “and 
it seemed to me to be time to replace thoughts with 
deeds.”  

With that, he brought his hands to the front of Imrahil’s 
shirt and started work on the fastenings.  

“I only came up here to change my boots,” said the prince.  
“Celaeren is expecting me at the stables.”

“Then he can wait.”

As cool hands parted the linen and rested on the flesh 
beneath, only to be followed by a hot, demanding mouth, 
Imrahil found he could offer no further protest.  He 
staggered back to lean against the wall, Legolas following 
his movement without breaking the contact between them.  
There the man gave himself over to the sensation of lips, 
tongue and teeth grazing his skin, setting him aflame, 
causing his heart to race furiously and shudders to wrack 
his body.  

Before long the elf dropped to his knees.  Grasping 
Imrahil’s hips firmly to keep him still, he set to work on the 
ties of the man’s breeches with his mouth.  The intermittent, 
almost accidental pressure on his cock as Legolas went 
about his task was nearly enough to finish Imrahil; the sight 
of the blond head pressed against his crotch was too much 
to take in.  He closed his eyes and breathed hard, his 
fingers scrabbling at the stonework for purchase as his legs 
threatened to give way.  

After an age of torment, Imrahil felt his breeches being 
pushed firmly down over his hips, then suddenly all contact 
ceased.  He blinked and looked down to see Legolas 
staring at him, eyes dark with passion, a knowing smile on 
his lips.  Very slowly, the elf raised one hand, then the 
other, and began to stroke the man’s cock lightly, only his 
fingertips touching the aching, overheated length.  

It was impossible to remain silent.  The groan that escaped 
Imrahil seemed to issue from his soul.  In response, 
Legolas tightened one hand around the man’s cock, his 
thumb circling around its tip, while the other palm moved to 
cup his balls, gently squeezing and rolling the flesh.

“My beautiful prince of men,” the elf said, “You are nothing 
short of magnificent.”

“Gods!”  Imrahil shouted, thrusting his hips as a wave of 
desire overcame him.  Legolas’s head moved forward to 
meet him, mouth open.  Pleasure coursed through the man 
as he found himself enveloped in moist warmth, whilst both 
clever elven hands continued to tease and caress.
At first Legolas merely toyed with him,  rolling his cock 
from side to side with a firm, playful tongue, then drawing 
away to leave him quite exposed, untouched but for 
delicate licks and kisses around his slick, shiny tip.  It was 
almost unbearable.  Before long his hands moved to the 
back of the elf’s head in an attempt to gain some control.  
 
Legolas laughed, but none the less took pity on him.  The 
pressure of his lips around Imrahil’s flesh increased, and he 
started to move back and forth, sucking and releasing, his 
tongue now working in earnest.  The man began to rock in 
rhythm with his lover’s movements, moaning and sighing 
with the sheer bliss of it.  As Legolas increased his pace, 
the man knew he could not possibly last long.

“Legolas. . .  my love . . . I cannot . . .” 

The elf pulled back to speak, gazing up at Imrahil with 
wide eyes.  “Ah, but you can, Imrahil, you can give me 
what I want, right now.  Do not make me wait.”

This was hardly a demand that Imrahil could refuse.  As 
Legolas bent towards him once more and slid those fine 
lips down the length of his cock, he felt his whole body 
tensing for release.  He shouted again as he came, 
incoherent exclamations bursting from him with each 
wrenching pulse of hot fluid.

Afterwards, he could do nothing but stand shaking against 
the wall, fingers tangled in his lover’s braids, breath coming 
in ragged gasps.  Legolas held him gently in his mouth until 
he settled and regained the ability to speak.

“You are unbelievable,” the man said at last.

The elf sat back, pausing to place a final kiss on the tip of 
Imrahil’s softening cock as the prince loosed his grip on the 
tousled blond hair.  “And you are glorious,” he replied.

The prince watched Legolas slowly lick his lips and smile 
up at him with such warmth and satisfaction, he felt tears 
start in his eyes.  What had he done to be blessed with the 
attentions of such a lover?  To the end of his days he 
would never comprehend it, but at least he understood 
what he should do to give thanks.

“Come, get up,” he said, extending a hand to the elf.  “Lie 
down with me and let me return the favour.”  

Legolas stood, but shook his head, a mischievous glint in 
his eye.  “Your son will be growing impatient,” he said.

“But you . . .”

“I shall not find my release until I come to you later 
tonight,” the elf murmured into his ear.  “Will you make it 
worth the wait?”

“Worth the wait?  Valar, Legolas, what do you think?  
And how do you expect me to concentrate on my son’s 
concerns with such a challenge on my mind?”

“Oh, I have good reason to trust in your powers of 
recovery.”  Legolas drew away from him, grinning.  “Just 
do not wear yourself out with too much hard riding.”

Imrahil let out a snort of laughter and swatted the elf’s 
backside.  “You are utterly wicked,” he said.  “And if I did 
not have to be somewhere else . . .”  

“I know.”  Suddenly serious once more, Legolas melted 
into his arms and kissed him sweetly.  “Go now, and we 
shall continue this later.”

“Oh, we shall.  Indeed we shall,” Imrahil growled, his face 
pressed into the elf’s soft neck, his hands roaming across 
his lover’s firm muscled back.  “And I shall take you 
thoroughly, deeply, as you deserve . . . Gods!  I am hard 
again already, just thinking of it.”

“But you have other things to think of now,” said Legolas 
primly, pulling away once more.

“Yes.”  Reluctantly, Imrahil gave the elf’s buttocks a final 
squeeze before directing his hands to the rather less 
exciting task of fastening his clothes.  Striding to the long 
mirror, he shook his head and ran the fingers of both hands 
through his hair.  

“It will have to do.”  He grinned ruefully at Legolas and 
opened the door.

“It will do,” the elf smirked, and slipped out into the 
corridor.  Silently, he was gone.

Imrahil took a deep breath, composing himself to face the 
world.  Here was a chance to talk some sense while 
Celaeren was in a most receptive mood.  The 
preoccupation with Legolas must not be allowed to get in 
the way; it was time to focus on family matters.  He shut his 
eyes for a moment, then opened them and raised his head 
proudly.  His mind clear, he closed the door firmly behind 
him and set off for the stables to meet his son.

****************************************


CHAPTER 13


Father and son walked from the stable up through the great 
gate to the citadel, talking easily of inconsequential matters, 
their serious words already exchanged.  Beyond the palace 
doors they parted, with laughter and a hearty embrace.  
Celaeren took the stairs two at a time, eager for hot water 
and a sight of his beloved, while Imrahil headed for the 
state rooms.  It would be good to speak to Faramir now, 
with the afternoon’s conversation fresh in his mind.  
However, the guard outside the audience hall informed him 
that the king and his steward were still in discussion with 
the delegation from the North, so he turned instead to 
climb to his chambers.  

At the junction of the corridors along which the guest 
accommodation lay he paused, but after a moment’s 
reflection, chose to return to his own rooms first.  A 
change of clothing and a wash would do him no harm 
before he sought out his lover.  Then he would be able to 
share his happiness at the turn in Celaeren’s fortunes, and 
the frank determination with which his son was facing his 
future.

A few minutes later he stood at the south window, looking 
out over the walled gardens as he tied the laces of his tunic.  
There below him was a sight that nearly stopped his breath.  
The gardens themselves, though small, were lovely; trees 
and flowers, in the full luscious splendour of late spring, 
glowed in the evening light.  How different was this rich 
green space from the desolate courts of Denethor’s time!  
The beauty that moved his heart was, however, to be spied 
at the far end of the tiny lawn, in the person of the architect 
of many of these changes.  There Legolas rested on a long 
bench, legs crossed before him, head bent to read the 
scroll in his hands.  At his side, Meluinen reclined, hands 
behind head, his eyes fixed on the trees.  

Imrahil could not help noting that Meluinen was not so fine-
featured as Legolas, his frame slightly bulkier, his hair a 
more vivid yellow-gold.  Side by side, however, the two 
elves presented a truly magnificent sight.  How could any 
man fail to be drawn to such splendour?

As Imrahil watched, Legolas finished reading, and turned 
his face to his friend while he rolled and bound the 
parchment.  Meluinen gazed at him fondly, but his 
expression changed as the elf-prince spoke, and he 
reached out to rest a hand on the other’s arm.  The gesture 
was one of surprised concern, and it chilled Imrahil to the 
bone.  What bad news had his lover received?  Pulling his 
boots on hurriedly, he strode from the chamber to find out.

By the time he reached the gardens the moment seemed to 
have passed, and the two friends were sitting relaxed, 
conversing easily.  At Imrahil’s approach both turned, 
Meluinen with a formal gesture of greeting, Legolas with a 
look fit to melt the man’s soul.  Imrahil nodded to both, 
hand on heart, and offered words of welcome to the new 
arrival. 

“I have returned your secretary safely to you,” Meluinen 
said once the pleasantries were complete, a trace of 
amusement evident in his voice.  “He is walking in the city, 
but should be returning soon.”

“He is?”  Imrahil was astonished.  Heledir out walking, not 
sharpening his quills in his chamber and anxiously awaiting 
the prince’s return?  How the man had changed!

“Prince Faramir spoke with him in your absence,” said 
Legolas, “And suggested that he enjoy the afternoon at 
leisure since you were likely to be gone some time.”

“Quite right,” said Imrahil briskly.  “We will not be many 
more days here, and there will be much business to attend 
to before we leave.  We should all make the most of our 
time.”

“Indeed.”  Legolas smiled sadly.
 
Seeing that his lover was in no hurry to mention the scroll, 
Imrahil gave it a pointed look.  “You have received news,” 
he stated.

“Yes.  It is from Gimli.  Meluinen brought it with him.  It 
carries sad news, I am afraid; the dwarf’s father is 
seriously ill.”

“Glóin is ill?”

“Yes.  It is a great shock to my friend.  His father is old, it 
is true, but he has proved to be exceptionally hale and 
hearty until very recently.  This is unexpected.”

Imrahil stared at his lover, trying hard to feel appropriate 
sorrow at the news, rather than relief that it did not concern 
the elf too directly.  He liked Gimli, gruff and honest as the 
dwarf was; it would be difficult not to do so.  What was 
hard to understand was the nature of the friendship 
between the unlikely pair.  Imrahil was well aware, 
however, that bonds formed during wartime had deep 
foundations.  He knew better than to question the genuine 
love between Legolas and the dwarf.

Further discussion of Gimli and his father was prevented by 
Meluinen, who was facing the gate, calling out, “Welcome, 
friends!”

Imrahil turned to see who was entering the garden and felt 
his mouth fall open.  Here was Heledir, as might be 
expected.  But at his side, elegant and striking, walked 
Velenda.  A glance passed between the two and the elf-
maiden’s hand very briefly brushed the man’s arm as she 
smiled into his eyes.  

Velenda looked quite different from the brisk, business-like 
librarian she had appeared to be in Ithilien.  In place of her 
customary tunic and leggings she wore a soft grey gown, 
and her hair, so dark yet glinting red in the sun, was flowing 
loose over her shoulders.  She was a veritable feast for the 
eyes.  No wonder that Heledir was fairly glowing with 
happiness.  The signs were quite unmistakeable; this was a 
friendship which had moved on to become something 
greater.  

Trying to suppress his amazement at his secretary’s good 
fortune, Imrahil greeted the pair warmly.  Velenda replied 
serenely, but Heledir seemed to be struggling.  A blush 
crept up his neck and coloured his cheeks as he mumbled 
appropriate words.  These new developments were 
obviously as much of a surprise to him as to anyone; he 
had not yet learned to accept matters with calm good 
grace.  

Taking pity on his secretary, Imrahil  clapped him on the 
shoulder.  “Come, sit with me, we have much to discuss.”

Meluinen had apparently had a similar thought.  He sprang 
to his feet and took his sister-in-law’s arm.  “You must see 
this, Velenda,” he said, steering her towards the low arch 
that separated the lawned garden from the main court.   As 
they stooped to pass through, their clear voices rang out 
with gentle laughter.

Legolas also rose from the bench, the scroll clutched in his 
hand.  Over Heledir’s head his gaze met Imrahil’s.  The 
elf’s deep blue eyes seemed to speak, but the man heard 
only one word: later.  His groin tingled at the thought.  With 
a sudden shock, he felt Legolas’s presence in his mind, and 
knew at once that he was not alone in his lust.  The touch 
lasted only a second, but was enough to leave him gasping; 
surely his face was flushed as red as the secretary’s as he 
fought to maintain his composure.  

“Sire?”  Heledir’s voice was anxious.

“Aye, Heledir.”  Imrahil watched from the corner of his eye 
as Legolas disappeared into the palace, and felt his 
breathing return to normal.  “How was your journey here?  
Do you hate your horse once again?”

“No, My Lord, you were right.”  The secretary managed a 
shy smile.  “With practice it does become easier.”

“Good.  Now, listen; there is much you should know about 
events of the past week.”

In fact, Imrahil found himself telling Heledir far more than 
was strictly necessary for him to know, had his role in the 
prince’s life been simply that of a secretary.  True, he 
would learn the details over the course of time through 
various meetings and items of correspondence; there was 
no reason to keep anything back.  But Imrahil realised that 
he was talking as much for the pleasure of it as for any real 
need.  It was as easy to unburden himself to the stocky, 
serious man as it was realistic to expect a wise, 
sympathetic response.  None of his other counsellors 
offered such a combination of intelligence, loyalty and 
compassion.   Had their circumstances been different, 
Heledir would not be called a servant at all; he would 
simply be a friend.

Imrahil listened as Heledir summed up in a few well chosen 
words the political advantages of a match between 
Celaeren and a well-born lady of Rohan, then added his 
own congratulations at such happiness for the young prince.  
Warmth for the secretary flooded through him, and a 
resolution formed in his mind.  By the gods, when they got 
back to Dol Amroth he would see that all was well in 
Heledir’s life, and offer him the advancement appropriate 
to one so close to the centre of royal affairs.  It was a 
move, he suspected, that was long overdue.


********************


The company was merry at dinner, for reasons that had 
nothing to do with the excellent wine.  Celaeren and 
Rosalind touched not a drop, while Imrahil, mindful of the 
pleasures to come, had his own reasons for choosing 
moderation.  In spite of the literal sobriety, the talk at the 
high table was lively, and faces were glowing.  And well 
they might be, as elves, women and men sat amongst those 
they loved.  

Faramir and Meluinen did not have their wives with them, 
of course, but their long-standing friendship provided 
entertainment in its own right.  To Imrahil’s surprise the 
golden elf had a sharp and somewhat earthy wit, which 
Faramir obviously knew of old, and thoroughly 
appreciated.  The steward fed the questions and comments 
which encouraged Meluinen’s humour to shine, until all at 
the table were wiping their eyes with mirth.

“I would never have expected such comedy from an elf,” 
Imrahil muttered from the side of his mouth, as an anecdote 
about a talking bird came to an end, to be met by at least 
one cry of “No more, I beg you!”

Legolas, seated on the prince’s right, rolled his eyes.  “You 
can imagine how my father despaired of our association,” 
he whispered.  “Yet he is the truest of friends and a fine 
captain.  For myself, I have always been grateful for his 
‘bad influence’.”

The minstrels, responding to the mood of the diners, 
performed with gusto and received much hearty applause.  
None were discountenanced, therefore, when the queen 
suggested that the elves may wish to sing.  Legolas was 
clearly about to demur, but Meluinen caught his eye and 
called something, inaudible to Imrahil, which changed the 
elf prince’s mind.  

“Very well.”  Legolas rose to his feet and joined his friend 
as they walked round the table to the musicians.  After an 
animated discussion the lutenist rushed off to the side of the 
hall, only to reappear with a second instrument, rather 
larger than the one he had been playing.  This he handed to 
Meluinen and a short tuning session followed.  A page 
brought forth a chair; Meluinen sat and Legolas stood at 
his side, one hand on the chair back.

“Appropriately enough, a song of the spring,” the elf prince 
announced, when all were ready.  He bowed slightly to the 
king and queen.

Meluinen was as fine a musician as he was a raconteur.  
The tune he began was fast and intricate, with a driving 
beat.  Imrahil felt his foot begin to tap of its own accord; 
looking around the table he could see fingers drumming 
and heads nodding in time to the rhythm.  After a few bars 
the lutenist caught the sense of the music and added a 
simple accompaniment. He was followed in short order by 
the singer, who had picked up a tambour as soon as the 
playing began.  

Legolas let the musicians play together for a while and gain 
enough confidence to extemporise and embellish the main 
theme a little, then he began to sing.  

The language was not Sindarin, so Imrahil could not follow 
the words.  This was no great loss, however; the vibrant 
gaiety of the song still came through clearly.  Legolas sang 
one verse, Meluinen the next, then together they took the 
chorus, with harmonies so sweet and ancient that they 
brought up gooseflesh on Imrahil’s arms.  He felt his spirits 
lift and a wild joy fill his heart as the music coursed along.  
It was utterly exhilarating.  

After several verses, Imrahil realised that Legolas was now 
singing the chorus in the common tongue:  

All hail the gods of spring now,
The green buds bursting on the bough,
The earth so rich beneath the plough,
All hail the gods of spring!

Another repeat, a gesture of his hand, and the whole hall 
seemed to be singing with him.  Imrahil could see to his 
delight that even Aragorn was grinning as if he had not a 
care in the world, and joining in with great spirit.  

At last the song came to an end with a mighty flourish from 
Meluinen and a roll on the tambour.  Imrahil could almost 
hear the collective intake of breath before a tumult of 
applause began.  The elves would not be persuaded to sing 
more, but thanked the musicians before returning to their 
places at the table.

“Wonderful,” Imrahil breathed as Legolas sat down.  
There was more to be said, but he felt certain he would 
commit a major indiscretion before the entire company if 
he were to go on.

“It is well none here but Velenda understand the Sylvan 
tongue,” Legolas replied with a wry smile.  “It is a song of 
the simple folk, and some of the verses are somewhat . . .  
explicit.  Needless to say, it is Meluinen’s favourite.”

Imrahil raised an eyebrow.  “It was quite enough to make 
the sap rise, as it was,” he whispered, and enjoyed the 
look of pure wickedness he received in return.  

“Is there anyone here who wishes to follow that?”  Faramir 
was asking the table at large.

“Velenda!”  Meluinen called, leaning forward to grin at her.

“Hardly,” she protested, but her brother-in-law was not to 
be dissuaded.  Eventually, bowing to the inevitable with 
grace, she rose and took her place before the table. 

“I shall not sing,” she declared, “as it is not my strength.  I 
shall give you, instead, a work of one of our greatest poets.  
My prince, at least, is familiar with Selarad of Lindon.”  
Here Velenda turned slightly and inclined her head to 
Legolas, a secretive smile playing on her lips.  

Imrahil could only wonder at the relevance of the comment, 
as Legolas failed to contain his astonishment at the elf 
maiden’s words.

“This piece, too, is most appropriate,” Velenda continued, 
“as I find myself honoured to be in the presence of so 
many heroes of the Great War.”
She paused and cast her eyes down as silence fell in the 
hall.  Then raising her head and extending one arm slightly, 
she began.

Imrahil had listened to many a bard in his time, reciting for 
the pleasure of the royal court, but he had never heard 
anything like this.  Here was no thumping meter, no 
repetition of stock phrases, no standard tale of love or woe.  
The language was as subtle as the rhythm of the poem, and 
seemed to insinuate itself gradually into the heart until the 
listener sat helpless, spellbound by the power and beauty 
of the words.  

On the surface the poem was a description of a great 
warrior, arming and going forth for battle.  There were 
details of his armour, greaves, breast-plate and sword, and 
vivid images comparing the hero to noble beasts and forces 
of nature.  His strength and valour were only matched by 
the dreadful sorrow in his heart that such mortal violence 
should be necessary in this world.  So much the poet made 
clear.  

Yet at the same time, without a single coarse word or 
dubious double meaning, the true nature of the piece shone 
through in its lingering descriptions of the sternly 
magnificent subject.  It was a song of tragic love, deep, 
spiritual and enormously sensual.  

Velenda spoke the words perfectly, the clarity and 
simplicity of her delivery allowing the poet’s own emotions 
to come to the fore.  Rarely had Imrahil experienced 
anything so moving, nor indeed so subtly arousing.  By the 
time the recitation came to an end, his vision was blurred 
with tears, and it was a while before he realised that he 
was gripping Legolas’s hand under cover of the tablecloth.  
A glance at the elf was enough to show that he was 
similarly affected, his blue eyes wet as they gazed at some 
distant point, his face solemn.  A slight additional pressure 
of Imrahil’s fingers seemed to bring him back, and he 
shifted in his seat, returning the prince’s weak smile before 
they drew their hands apart.

At length Velenda spoke into the stillness.  “I am sorry; 
perhaps I should have chosen something a little more 
cheerful.”

At once a murmur of dissent broke out.  

“Most certainly not,” Aragorn said quietly, his voice 
making it obvious that he too had been deeply moved.  “I 
doubt that many of us have heard words so beautiful 
before.  Thank you, Velenda.”  He nodded to the 
musicians, who had themselves been sitting stupefied by 
the performance.  They took the cue, and after a 
momentary consultation, began a sweet, gentle melody as 
Velenda returned to her seat.

As the conversation around him regained its former 
momentum, Imrahil sat silent, musing on Velenda’s 
astonishing choice of poem and its power to affect him so 
strongly.  Here he was, a man long married, who had not 
even contemplated lying with another male until Legolas 
had appeared in his life.  And now he was so far gone that 
the words of an ancient poet telling of the physical love of 
one man for another were enough to turn his bones to jelly 
and his brain to a seething mass of desire.  Was there any 
hope for him?   Quite probably not, and besides, would he 
have it any other way?  He turned to glance at Legolas, 
watching the movements of the elf’s elegant hand as he 
described the forms of Sindarin poetry to Rosalind.  What 
would he not be prepared to do for the touch of those long 
slim fingers on his flesh?  
Imrahil shuddered, and tried to think of something else.  
His mind, however, returned unerringly to the night ahead, 
and all he had planned for the elf.  If he had been eager 
before, now he was mad for it, thanks to Velenda’s 
performance.  He could only pray to the gods of spring, 
summer and winter that the meal would be over soon.


********************


There had barely been time for Imrahil to prepare himself 
and the bedchamber, before the knock came at the door, 
and Legolas slid inside.  He was surprised to see the elf so 
soon.  What had happened to Aragorn’s distracting 
influence?  Perhaps he would ask later, if the moment 
arose.  But for now, there were rather more pressing 
matters to deal with.

“Imrahil.”  The elf looked glorious, as ever, in the green 
and gold robe he had worn to dinner.

“Beautiful Legolas.”  Imrahil waited as his lover walked 
towards him, stopping some three feet away.  “I have 
something to ask of you.”

“Yes?”

“Will you do as I tell you tonight, submit to my desires?” 
 
The elf’s eyes grew wide in the soft light of the oil lamps.  
“Willingly,” he said quietly.  “You know that I trust you.”

“Good.”  Imrahil moved closer and took Legolas in his 
arms, kissing him lovingly and long.  How easy it would be 
to become lost in that embrace, to forget that anything else 
existed.   

As his head began to spin, Imrahil pulled away.  He 
backed up to sit on the bed, watching approvingly as the 
elf stood still, waiting for his words.  

“Unclothe yourself,” he said.  “I wish to look at you, first.”

Legolas moved slowly, his hands lingering on his own body 
as the heavy silk fell from his shoulders.  He laid the robe 
on a chair and stepped back into the middle of the room, 
smiling at Imrahil as he began to unfasten his leggings.  The 
man worked to control his breathing as his lover’s body 
was gradually revealed.  Words of the poem rang in his 
head as he looked at the immortal warrior before him.  He 
must remain calm; he would make this worth the wait.  

Keeping his eyes locked with the elf’s, Imrahil stood and 
began to remove his own clothing.  It did not take long, 
since he had been down to shirt and loosened breeches 
even before Legolas had arrived.  Once he stood naked, 
he saw the elf start to move towards him, but shook his 
head.  Standing to one side, he gestured to the bed. 

“Lie in the centre, face down,” he said.

Legolas gave him a long, smouldering look that threatened 
to weaken his resolve and make him throw himself on his 
lover, all thoughts of restraint abandoned.  ‘I will be 
strong,’ he chanted silently, as the elf obeyed him.

The flickering light of the lamps emphasised the smooth 
planes and curves of the beautiful figure before his eyes.  It 
was a sight that would move a man of stone.  Imrahil could 
hear the note of excitement in his own voice as he spoke.

“Raise your arms above your head, wrists together.”

Legolas slowly complied as Imrahil bent to retrieve the soft 
rope, noting as he did so how the movement of the elf’s 
arms realigned the muscles all down his back.  

“Imrahil, you do not need to bind my hands.  If you tell me 
to be still, I shall be still.”  It was a weak protest, for 
form’s sake, perhaps.

“Ah yes, my love, but how much sweeter for you to be 
helpless, to give yourself over to me completely.”  The man 
knotted the rope securely around the slender wrists, and 
leaned across to fix the other end to the central post of the 
headboard.  “Besides, by the time I finish with you, I am 
not so sure you will be capable of remaining still.”

The breathy sigh told him that Legolas was more than 
happy to accept his situation.  “What are you going to do?” 
asked the elf, in a voice muffled by the pillows.  

“Some days ago I made a promise to you, one which for 
various reasons I have not yet kept.”  Imrahil sat on the 
bed at his lover’s side and stroked the exquisite buttocks 
lightly.  “You came to me in Dol Amroth because you took 
me to be a man of my word; I would not have you revise 
that opinion.  So I intend to lick every inch of your body, 
slowly, until you beg me for your release.  And then, when 
I truly believe that you can stand it no longer, I will take 
you, so hard that you might know how I feel when I look 
at you like this.  I will hear you cry out at your climax as I 
spend myself inside you, and I will know that you are 
mine.”  

It was a gamble to speak thus under Aragorn’s roof, as 
Imrahil well knew.  But the elf’s shuddering response, his 
barely suppressed moan, was all he needed to know that 
his instincts had been correct.  Lifting the soft mass of pale 
hair, he twisted it loosely into a coil and moved it to the 
side of the elf’s head, leaving the long neck quite bare.  He 
shifted to kneel on the bed, and bent down to begin his 
campaign there, where the flesh was so tender. 

The scent and taste of the elf was intoxicating, as ever.  At 
first, Imrahil wondered if he would be able to control 
himself for long enough to act out his promise.  But as he 
progressed, from the neck down over the raised shoulder 
blades, and up along each powerful arm in turn, he found 
that his fascination with the changing textures of the smooth, 
pliable skin as it stretched over muscle and sinew, and with 
the little noises and movements that Legolas made in 
response to his attentions, was enough to drive him on.  

It would not be correct to say he was merely licking the elf, 
as his lips and teeth too joined in the exploration, gently 
covering, as he had said, every inch of the delicious flesh.  
From the arms he moved down the body, following the 
well-defined chain of the spine then returning to linger on 
the intricately muscled expanse to either side.  Then on to 
the legs, where again he dallied, caressing each toe in turn, 
teasing the backs of the knees with wet tongue and gentle 
breaths until Legolas gasped and flexed his legs helplessly.  

By the time he reached the top, to nibble his way along the 
crease where thigh met buttock, the elf was moaning softly, 
and shifting restlessly on the bed.

“Hush, my love,” said Imrahil, “We are not even half way 
there yet.”  With his hands, he parted Legolas’s long legs, 
and knelt between them.  Placing his palms on the firm, 
warm thighs, he felt a tremor of anticipation pass through 
his lover, and smiled.  Leaning forward, he began to pay 
homage to the glorious swell of the elf’s buttocks and the 
enticing cleft between.

As his tongue swept down, over the tight opening and the 
sensitive area beyond, it occurred to Imrahil that in his 
younger days he could never have imagined doing this, let 
alone enjoying it.  Yet even here the elf’s flesh was sweet, 
and the growing abandon with which he writhed on the bed, 
pushing back against Imrahil’s mouth and groaning 
unashamedly, made the experience urgently pleasurable.  

Legolas must be every bit as hard as himself by now, and 
just as desperate for him to push his cock in and bring this 
delirious torment to a rapid conclusion.  Imrahil felt himself 
break out in a sweat at the thought.  

That, however, was not the plan.

He gave a final firm tonguing to the elf’s balls as they lay 
heavy against the mattress, then pulled himself reluctantly 
away. “Now turn over,” he ordered.

Legolas wriggled delightfully in his hurry to obey despite 
the restriction on his arms.  Imrahil stood and walked to 
the side of the bed in order to take in the sight of him, 
flushed and fully aroused, glorious in his nakedness.  He 
looked for a moment in silent awe, then climbed back onto 
the mattress.  

“What do you think of your hasty mortal now?”  he asked, 
fingertips lightly circling on the taut belly.

“By the gods, Imrahil,” the elf breathed, “You undo me.”

“And that, my love, is exactly what I want.”  

The man dipped his head to kiss the perfect lips once, 
briefly, before turning his attentions to the soft pale flesh of 
the elf’s inner arms.  He did not rush, but sought out every 
neglected spot in a leisurely fashion which was clearly 
driving his lover to distraction.  

“Imrahil.”

He raised his head from the delicate throat and looked into 
the deep blue eyes.  “Yes?”
“Please.”

“I have told you how it is going to be,” Imrahil spoke 
calmly, although his need, by now, was no less than that of 
his lover,  “and I have no intention of changing my plan.  
So I suggest you submit sweetly, if you do not wish me to 
make you wait even longer.”

The only reply was a despairing groan as Legolas closed 
his eyes.  

Imrahil studied the sculpted definition of his lover’s torso 
before placing his mouth there.  He had heard men 
mocking elves for their elegance and grace, suggesting that 
their long-haired beauty made them effeminate and weak.  
Only a complete fool could think such a thing.  Here before 
him was a being of astonishing power, full of tightly 
controlled strength, both physical and mental.  What a 
relief it must be to surrender that control to another, even 
for a short while, as Legolas was doing now.  

His tongue found its way at last over the elf’s chest, 
carefully avoiding the nipples, around the belly and over the 
hips.  The front of the legs deserved no less attention than 
the back; he spent time there ensuring that no claim of 
neglect could be made.  By the time he slid up the mattress 
once more to kiss his lover’s face, both were breathing 
hard, and the flush on Legolas’s cheeks had deepened.

He kissed the smooth clear brow, and ran his tongue from 
temple to temple across the bridge of the nose.  Each 
eyelid he anointed; then the nose itself, the cheeks and chin.  
Finally he descended on the slightly opened mouth, and 
kissed Legolas for all he was worth, his tongue plunging 
into the incredible sweetness within.  It was a kiss of 
searing intensity, all the more arousing for the fact that no 
other parts of their bodies were touching.  Imrahil had little 
doubt that were it to continue much longer he, at least, 
could come from this contact alone.  

He drew away once more and smiled down at the pleading 
eyes.  “You are ready for me?” he could not resist asking.

“Gods, yes, Imrahil, you know it,” Legolas gasped.  
“Please do not make me wait any longer!”

“But there are some parts I have not yet visited,” the man 
laughed, and bent his head to one dark nipple.

To his immense satisfaction the elf cried out as Imrahil’s 
lips closed and he sucked on the rapidly hardening flesh.  
Pulling his head back, he licked the point for a while, then 
blew across it.  The cry had subsided to a succession of 
moans, music to his ears.  As they increased in volume, he 
moved across to molest the other nipple in a similar fashion.  

He soon had his reward.

“Imrahil!  You will . . . finish me, if you carry on like that.”

A painful pulse of desire flooded his groin at the thought, 
but he maintained his resolve. “That would not do.”
At last he positioned himself between the elf’s readily 
parted legs and bent to the glorious treasures at their 
junction.  Legolas’s cock was rigid and unusually darkened; 
the tip was slick with fluid.  Imrahil licked it off delicately, 
savouring its unique flavour, then slid his mouth over the 
head and as far as he could go, barely touching, with the 
least possible pressure.   

Legolas howled; there was no other word for it.  “Please, 
Imrahil!  If you want me to beg . . .  finish it, please!  
Touch me . . .  take me . . . anything, just finish it!”

How could he resist such a plea?  In any case, the elf was 
obviously too close to completion to withstand much more 
of this torment.  He gave the lovely cock a last series of 
licks, covering the whole of it from base to tip, then pulled 
away and reached for the jar of lotion at the bedside.

“I promised to take you hard,” he said, struggling to 
control his own voice, “Did you think I would not do it?”

This was no occasion for subtlety; they were both far 
beyond that.  Once his own flesh was shiny with the sweet-
smelling concoction, he wasted no time in raising the elf’s 
legs and hooking them over his shoulders, leaning over and 
sliding up the bed until he was in position.  Legolas, 
murmuring almost inaudibly, had closed his eyes.

“Look at me!” Imrahil said.  “Watch what I am doing to 
you!”  He waited until he had the elf’s attention before 
grasping his own cock and pushing it slowly but surely 
home.  They both gasped, Imrahil in delight at the heat, the 
tightness that never failed to thrill him.  

Legolas shifted a little to allow him to push even deeper, 
and sighed, “Yes.”

The one word acted like a spur to Imrahil.  Hard, he had 
said, and hard it would be.  He thrust, slowly at first, but 
rapidly gathering speed.  Every move was ecstasy, and 
every cry from Legolas threatened to take him over the 
edge too soon.  He bit his lip, waiting for a signal from the 
elf.

When it came, it was not what he expected.  

Legolas, obedient to the end, had not taken his eyes off 
Imrahil as the man plunged into him again and again.  His 
lips were parted, and a look of something between anguish 
and bliss painted his features.  But when the man shifted 
slightly and brought a hand forward to wrap it around the 
elf’s erection, the fair face cleared, and only rapture could 
be seen there.  A few more thrusts, the enclosing hand 
working in rhythm, and the elf’s eyes widened.  

“I love you, Imrahil,” he called out, to the man’s 
astonishment.

On the point of his own orgasm, Imrahil replied, “Then 
show me!”

He had not anticipated it.  The shock was nearly enough to 
send him hurtling off the bed.  In an instant, his mind and 
body seemed to be filled with a pleasure not his own, 
pounding waves of ecstasy filling him to bursting point.  
The complex mixture of emotions beneath only served to 
heighten the sensation, propelling him at terrifying speed 
towards the inevitable end.

The screams must have come from his own mouth, for 
behind them he could hear Legolas, crying his name again 
and again, as they came together in spasms that seemed to 
last for hours.  

When his mind returned to his body he realised he was 
sobbing, and his face was wet with tears as it lay on the 
elf’s chest.  Filled with a sudden desperate need to feel 
Legolas’s arms around him, he scrambled up to untie the 
rope.  His hands were shaking so much that he fumbled, 
cursing, before finally freeing his lover and sinking gratefully 
into his embrace.

“I love you, Legolas, gods, I love you so much,” he 
whispered, clutching the elf to him as if his life depended on 
it.  

Legolas stroked his hair and nuzzled his neck soothingly.  
“I am here, my sweet prince,” he murmured.  

As the feeling of melancholy subsided and his mind began 
to clear, Imrahil pulled back a little to peer at his lover.  
The elf’s face was once again serene, the smile sweetly 
inscrutable.  Was there a telltale moisture in the corners of 
the eyes, or was the lamplight deceiving?

“Was I the only one so affected?” he asked.

“No,” Legolas kissed his cheek lightly.  “You felt it, 
surely.”

“You told me, when I asked for it before, that we could 
not share . . .  that.”

“Our circumstances have changed somewhat, have they 
not?” the elf replied gravely.

Imrahil considered all that had passed and listened to his 
singing heart before replying.  “Yes, my love, they have.  
But here, of all places?  I did not think that you could be so 
free.”

Legolas laughed a little.  “You did a fine job of overcoming 
any remaining inhibitions, I must say.  But the situation with 
Aragorn has also changed.”

“I have not yet told you what passed between us,” the man 
replied.

“You do not need to; I can sense it.  The bond is still there, 
but he has let go, as far as he is able.  It makes me sad, but 
it is also a great relief.  I am more free now than I have 
been, and yet . . .”

Imrahil raised himself on an elbow.  “What is it?”

“No matter.  Now is not the time to discuss such things.  I 
can see that you are tired; you should sleep.  Shall I 
extinguish the lamps?”

“No, leave them.  I would rather look at you.”  The man 
knew from experience that there was no point in 
encouraging the elf to speak if he had decided otherwise.  
Accepting the fact, he dropped back to the pillow and 
pulled Legolas towards him.  In the warmth of their 
entwined bodies it was not long before sleep claimed him.


********************


Early morning light filled the chamber when Imrahil opened 
his eyes, coming swiftly to full consciousness with mind 
alert and humming with thoughts.  At his side Legolas lay 
still; for a moment it seemed he might be sleeping, but a 
twitch of his lip in response to Imrahil’s scrutiny soon 
indicated otherwise.

“Good morning, my love,” the elf said lazily.  

Imrahil’s heart leapt at the unfamiliar words.  “It is indeed a 
good morning,” he replied.

“And we are not the only ones in the palace to feel that 
way, I should think.  The Great Hall was fairly spilling over 
with happiness last night.”

“Aye, though my son still needs to learn some patience,” 
said Imrahil.  Thinking back over the events of the previous 
day, he went on, “Tell me, what do you make of this 
friendship between Heledir and Velenda?”

“They are happy with it,” said Legolas, “What more is 
there to think?  It is not entirely unexpected.”

“You thought this would happen?”  Imrahil sat up and 
stared at his lover in astonishment.

“Why not?  They have much in common.”

“He is very lucky.”

“So is she.”  Legolas looked amused.  “Your secretary 
might not have royal blood,” he stroked Imrahil’s thigh 
suggestively as he said the words, “but he is a good man, 
honest and wise.  Velenda has long missed the company of 
a true scholar, as you know.”

“But . . .”

“Perhaps you would find it easier to accept if he was a 
great beauty, like yourself?  I should imagine that Velenda 
sees something there that you do not.  She is no fool.”

Imrahil felt himself flush, and changed the subject hastily.  
“Indeed not.  And her performance last night was 
astonishing.  Tell me about the poet – you were surprised 
when she mentioned his name.”

Legolas laughed.  “Only because most of his works are far 
too . . . stirring, to be spoken in company.”
“I should like to read them,” Imrahil said, shivering at the 
thought that there were others of an even more erotic 
nature.

“And so you shall.  I shall bring you copies of his books.”

Something about the way Legolas said this made Imrahil 
look at him sharply.  “Bring them from where?” he asked.

“From Rivendell.”  The elf sat up and gazed at him 
seriously.  “Imrahil, I intend to travel North with Gimli 
when he goes to see his father.  It would be well for me to 
visit my own kin, and I shall spend some time in the house 
of Elrond’s sons before I return.  There are things I need to 
understand about this bond, and my eventual fate; and if 
the answers are to be found anywhere, they are in 
Rivendell.”

Imrahil felt as if he had swallowed a lump of lead.  “When 
will you go?”

“It really depends on Gimli, but I imagine we shall set off 
before midsummer.”

“And how long will you be away?”  His hopes of inviting 
Legolas to Dol Amroth in the autumn were apparently 
going to be dashed.

“The best part of a year, at least, since I cannot think that 
Gimli will wish to travel home in the winter.  And I have 
half a mind to pass through the Shire, and see the hobbits 
again.”

“But it will be so long before *I* see *you* again!” the 
man blurted out, and added, “Why do you smile?  Does it 
mean nothing to you?” 

“I only thought how like your son you are.”  Legolas took 
his hand and bent to kiss it.  “My beautiful prince, I would 
gladly spend every day at your side, but we both know it is 
not to be.  My friend needs me, and I have my own 
reasons for making this journey.  A year is not so long.”

“To you, maybe not.  I am only a hasty mortal, I do not 
have the blessing of time on my side.”  

“You will survive it.  When there are messengers to be 
found, I shall write to you; and wherever I am, you know 
that you have my love.”

“I do?”  The words were out before Imrahil could stop 
them.  He cursed himself silently for his childish sulkiness.  

Legolas was not annoyed by the petulant question, but 
smiled sympathetically at the man.  “How shall I prove it to 
you?” he asked, and the smile became a grin.  Before 
Imrahil could comment, the elf was kneeling astride his 
thighs, leaning in, pressing their bodies together, and kissing 
him with a passion that could not be denied.  A slight shift 
of the hips sent fire shooting through his groin and banished 
the despondent thoughts from his mind.

“I am yours, remember?” the elf whispered in his ear.

Imrahil groaned, and produced a grin of his own to show 
that he did not speak from insecurity.  “Then show me,” he 
said.


********************


Imrahil was sitting at the big oak table when Heledir 
knocked at the bedchamber door, exactly half an hour 
after breakfast, as requested.  The prince smiled to himself.  
Love may have put stars in the man’s eyes, but it had not 
interfered with his sense of duty.  

“Come,” he called.

The secretary was carrying his writing case.  After greeting 
Imrahil politely, he set it down at the far end of the table 
and began to open it.  The prince gestured with one hand.

“There is no need, my friend.  I have not asked you here 
for formal business; I simply wish to talk to you.”

“My Lord?”  Heledir hovered uncertainly.

“So sit down, please.”

The secretary sat and regarded him with dark, serious eyes.  
Imrahil gazed back at him and felt a momentary stab of 
regret for all that might have been.

“You have enjoyed this trip, I think?”  he began.

“Indeed, Sire, it has been a most unique experience.”

“And has brought with it unexpected pleasures of 
friendship,” said Imrahil, determined not to be put off by 
the other man’s embarrassment.  “And of course, scholarly 
opportunity.  I am happy for you.”

“Th – thank you, My Lord,” Heledir stuttered in his 
confusion.  He had clearly not expected the talk to concern 
himself so personally.

“In the light of it all, I have a proposition to make to you.”

“My Lord?”

“You have served me well all these years, Heledir, and you 
shall always have my gratitude.  But now, if you wish it, I 
am prepared to let you go.  There is a position for you in 
Emyn Arnen, should you choose to take it, as counsellor to 
Prince Faramir on matters concerning coastal trade.  I am 
certain that you would soon find your duties extending far 
beyond that; a man of your skills and qualities will always 
be valuable to a wise leader.  You will be well provided for, 
and you will be within a day’s journey of both Ithilien and 
Minas Tirith, so that you may pursue your, ah, scholarly 
concerns uninterrupted.”

Heledir sat motionless throughout this speech, his eyes 
fixed on Imrahil’s face.  But as the prince finished speaking, 
his head dropped; he appeared to be studying the table.  
There was a long pause.

“Heledir?”

When the secretary looked up at him, Imrahil was 
discomforted to see the glint of tears in his eyes.

“My Lord, I do not know what to say.”  His voice was 
thick.  

Imrahil had a sudden unpleasant thought.  “Do not think 
that I let you go easily, my friend,” he said.  “It is precisely 
because I hold you in such high regard that I would see 
you happy.”

“And for that I thank you, Sire.”  Heledir wiped his hand 
across his eyes before continuing.  “You overwhelm me 
with your kindness.  But if you will still have me, I would 
not choose to leave Dol Amroth.”

“I cannot think why not!”  Imrahil was astounded.  

“It is all I have ever known, and it matters to me.  You 
matter to me, My Lord; I have never doubted that I will 
live out my life in your service, and be proud to do so.”  
Heledir spoke more firmly, fast regaining his composure.  

It was Imrahil’s turn to swallow around a lump in his throat.  
“You honour me, Heledir,” he said gently, “and I am lucky 
to have such a man in my employ.  But think what you are 
turning down.  Is she not important too?”

The secretary looked long at him, and it seemed that in that 
moment something between them changed.  

“May I speak openly, Sire?”  Heledir asked.
 
”Always, my friend.”  Imrahil smiled encouragingly.  Who 
else did the man have to confide in, after all?

“Velenda is not in love with me,” the secretary said, “and 
that is as it should be.  She is fond of me, of course, and 
we have a friendship which I hope will endure.  We will 
share the work on our history through letters and 
occasional visits, and when we meet, I trust that we will 
spend happy times together.  But can you imagine how it 
would be if I gave up all that I know to be nearer to her?  
How long would her fondness last if my occasional visits 
became a regular occurrence?  How long before she 
realised that she is far too good for me and that I am 
nothing but a poor man to be pitied?  I would not have that 
happen.” 
 
”Surely you misjudge Velenda,” said Imrahil, amazed by 
the man’s openness.  “Elves are not inconstant; she would 
not hurt you.”

“No, I am sure that she never would.  She would take care 
of me and my feelings, but she could never return them.  I 
have no wish to become a fool through the love I bear for 
her.  It is better that I understand that now, and continue 
with my own life, my dignity intact.  I hope I shall still see 
Velenda, by your leave, when you next visit Ithilien.”

“Of course!  And she may well choose to accompany 
Prince Legolas when he next comes to Belfalas; she will 
also be welcome to visit alone, or with any of her kin, as 
she wishes.”  

“Thank you Sire.  Then my answer, if you accept it, is that 
I shall stay with you.”

Imrahil felt a sudden wash of shame as he recalled his 
conversation with Legolas in the early hours of the morning.  
How wrong he had been.

“You are an exceptional man, Heledir,” he said firmly, “and 
Velenda is lucky to have your friendship.  If matters change 
between you, as well they might, this opportunity will not 
be closed to you.  In the meantime, it is I who am fortunate 
that you choose to return to Dol Amroth and continue your 
excellent work there.”

“Is there nothing that needs to be done now, Sire?” Heledir 
gestured towards the writing case, his face reddening again 
at the prince’s praise.

“Nothing so urgent that it need spoil such a beautiful 
morning as this one.  I, of course, must see Faramir and tell 
him that his loss is my gain.  I hardly think he needs that in 
writing.”  Imrahil grinned.  “But first, I believe our elven 
friends are waiting for us in the gardens.  Will you join 
me?”

“With pleasure, My Lord.”  Heledir picked up his case and 
bowed his head graciously.   

“Leave the case.  You can collect it later.”  Imrahil placed 
a hand on the other man’s shoulder.  “Come, we should 
make the most of our time here.”

The two exchanged a smile of pure understanding.  Heledir 
dropped the case on the table, and side by side, they 
walked to the door.


********************


On the morning of the elves’ departure Imrahil and Legolas 
walked together in the deserted gardens.  There was little 
to be added to all that had been said during the long night 
of passionate farewells, and Imrahil, physically sated but 
emotionally somewhat numb, half feared to speak lest he 
say too much.  As they sank down onto the stone bench 
beneath a spreading Jacaranda tree, it was Legolas who 
broke the silence.

“I could have remained here for one more day,” he said, 
brushing his fingers over the back of Imrahil’s wrist.

“No, love, it is right that you should be home for Tuillin’s 
feast day.  I would be leaving with you, had the accursed 
envoys from Lamedon chosen a different time for their visit.  
As it is, I shall be locked in meetings all day, no doubt.”

“Perhaps, then, it is better this way,” the elf said gently.

“Aye, and better to say our goodbyes in peace, rather than 
half way along the road under the eyes of all the company.”  
Imrahil tried hard to believe in his own words, in spite of 
the heavy ache in his gut at the thought of his lover’s 
departure.

They talked intermittently of meaningless things for a while, 
until Legolas peered up at the sun and sighed.  

“It is nearly time,” he said.

Imrahil, gazing into the elf’s eyes, gave in to his fears.  
“You will not forget that you have promised to write to 
me?” he asked, horribly aware of the note of pleading in 
his voice.

“Of course not,”  Legolas smiled, “And in turn, all I ask of 
you is that you do not doubt me.”

“How could I?” The man was indignant.  “It is not that, it is 
just . . .”

“I know . . . and likewise, I shall miss you greatly.”  
Legolas raised a hand to touch Imrahil’s cheek, while the 
other delved inside his own tunic and retrieved a small 
scroll, bound with a ribbon of green and gold.  “This is for 
you,” he said.

Imrahil took the scroll with a hand that was not quite 
steady, and looked questioningly at Legolas.  

“By all means, open it now,” the elf went on.

The flowing script was unmistakeably the work of Legolas 
himself, although the ink was an unfamiliar purple.  Imrahil 
felt his eyes brim as he read the first lines:


For Imrahil, true friend, beautiful lover, dear to my 
heart
Until we are together again.

‘The Warrior Arms for Battle’
by Selarad of Lindon


“You knew the poem?” he said in surprise.

“No, I had not heard it before.  Now you know how 
Velenda and I occupied ourselves while you met with the 
king and his steward yesterday morning.”

“Legolas, I have no words to thank you,” Imrahil said, 
trying hard to refrain from weeping openly.

“Then do not search for them; we do not need them.  
Come . . .” the elf stood, and waited for Imrahil to do the 
same.  They embraced, and indeed in silence said all that 
was needed.  At length they regretfully pulled apart.

“Now it truly is time; they will be waiting,” Legolas said.  

The man nodded, no longer trusting his voice.

Imrahil was deeply thankful that Aragorn was not there to 
witness the final parting.  The king and his steward, having 
business to attend to, had already made their farewells.  
Only Heledir, Rosalind and Celaeren had gathered before 
the stables, the young couple standing to one side 
discreetly while Velenda and Heledir talked quietly 
together.  
 
As Imrahil and Legolas approached, Meluinen emerged 
from the stable with the three horses.  He lifted his pack 
and bow from the pile by the door, and smiled across at 
Velenda.  She nodded slightly, then leaned to kiss Heledir 
softly before following her kinsman’s lead.  

Imrahil turned to look at Legolas.  “Farewell, then, my 
friend,” he managed, aware of his son’s eyes upon him.  
The elf placed a hand on his shoulder, and spoke softly for 
his ears only.

“This is not an ending, my love,” he said, smiling.  At once 
Imrahil felt again the rush of feeling, heady, melancholy love, 
as the elf opened heart and mind to him.  He stood a little 
straighter and returned his lover’s gesture, fingers gripping 
the green-clad arm firmly.

“I know it,” he said, in a stronger voice.

Somehow he maintained his composure as he bade a 
warm goodbye to Velenda and Meluinen.  He watched 
through clear eyes as the elves leapt lightly onto their 
steeds and walked them down across the cobbles, until a 
bend in the street took them out of sight.  Only then did he 
turn to his companions, to find that Celaeren and Rosalind 
had already slipped away, leaving Heledir alone at his side.  
 
A glance at the man showed that he, although moist-eyed, 
was bearing up well, standing straight and solemn as he 
looked back at the prince.  If the secretary could succeed 
in putting a brave face on it, Imrahil would most certainly 
do no less.

“We shall survive,” he said, throwing propriety to the 
winds.

Heledir gave him a strangely wise smile.  “I am trying hard 
to remember, Sire, that we are blessed among men.”  

Imrahil laughed through the welling tears.  “You are right, 
Heledir,” he said. “So very, very right.”


********************  END  ********************


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