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’