Title:  Seascapes  Chapters 1 and 2 
Author:  Capella        c_capella@tiscali.co.uk
Author’s website (notes about the story can be found there):  
www.geocities.com/c_capella2000
Pairing:   Legolas / Imrahil 
Rating:  Overall story, NC17.  These chapters,  G 
Summary:  Once an elf has heard the sea’s call, it’s only a matter of time 
before he will answer it. 
Disclaimer:  Middle Earth and the main characters are Tolkien’s.  No 
harm is intended and no profit made by borrowing them.
Warning :  Lots of original characters.  Set after RotK, so some minor 
book spoilers.  
 
Authors Note:   Read ‘Sea Longing’ by Capella first, or prepare to be very 
confused.    
 
Later chapters beta-read by Elfscribe, to whom MANY thanks.
 
 
 
Chapter 1
 
‘It should be a crime,’   thought the prince,  ‘to feel aught but joy on a day 
such as this.’
 
With a sigh, he turned from the window, with its long, wide view of the 
glittering sea, and returned to matters at hand.  
 
Heledir was sitting at the dark wood desk and frowning at the papers 
before him.  
 
As he regarded the secretary in silence, Imrahil felt a much missed smile 
return to his lips.  Kingfisher, indeed.  No doubt his mother had chosen the 
name in fondness for the bright-eyed, quick-limbed babe who had brought 
such colour to her life.  She was not to know that her son would grow to 
be a solidly serious man, ever dependable, but hardly given to the flashes 
of brilliance characteristic of his namesake.  Heledir had worked for the 
prince for some twenty years; Imrahil was genuinely fond of him and 
would trust him with his very life, but the sea would turn to liquid gold 
before the man could ever surprise him.
 
‘And that is all too true,’ he reflected, ‘of much of my life.’  
 
Having read through the last two letters, signed them with a flourish and 
sent Heledir on his way, the prince at last retired through the heavy door at 
the rear of the study, into his private rooms.  Once inside the bedchamber 
he shrugged off the stiff brocade robe and stretched slowly and 
thoroughly, luxuriating in the freedom of the simple cotton garments he 
wore beneath.  Striding to the long mirror, he stood a while regarding his 
image and pondering the reality of his existence.
 
The face staring back at him was not that of an old man, although Imrahil 
had passed his seventy-first birthday some two months before.  If asked, a 
stranger may have said he looked upon a strong healthy man of forty 
summers, long of limb and uncommonly fair of face.  Not many moons 
ago, the prince would have had to scold himself for the satisfaction the 
sight in the mirror gave him.  These days, however, it seemed to bring him 
little but frustration.
 
Long life is held to be a blessing by those who do not possess it, but small 
joy it brings to the man who must watch, as those he loves grow old and 
die around him.  Since the passing of his beloved Glantathar three years 
previously, Imrahil could find no pleasure in the prospect of another 
seventy years of lonely rule, and still lonelier nights in the great royal bed.
 
His advisors had, in recent weeks, begun to suggest the idea of a second 
marriage.  No doubt they meant well, hoping to soothe the prince’s strange 
moods now that the official period of mourning was over.  Some had gone 
so far as to mention individual women by name; high born and comely 
every one, and young enough to remain at his side for maybe half a 
century, given good health and a modicum of luck.  
 
Imrahil would have none of them.  These young women were mere girls to 
him, not even so old as his own dear daughter.  Other men might envy him 
the opportunity to take to his heart such youth and beauty, but the prince 
remained unmoved.  He would live another eight decades alone if need be, 
but no such child would ever replace Glantathar in his affections.
 
They had married young, and for love, although both his father and hers 
had approved of the match.  With Glantathar he had found passion at first, 
then latterly great companionship, but always a deep, unwavering 
affection.  Her quiet wisdom had sustained him through the difficult years 
before Aragorn’s accession, and he had come to rely on her utterly.  He 
had known from the start that he would outlive her, should he be spared a 
warrior’s death; but the knowledge had done nothing to ease his pain when 
the consumption finally took her.
 
The prince sighed once more and turned from the mirror, walking instead 
to the long window with the seat overlooking the sea.
 
It had been a glorious afternoon, hot and clear, with all the promise of 
early summer.  Imrahil gazed out across the tumbling cliffs to the 
turquoise water beyond, and felt his heart quicken in his chest.  No doubt 
young men all over the city had felt the same stirrings today, and had 
found some excuse to take themselves down to the sea with their friends 
or sweethearts, as Imrahil himself would once have done.  He had little 
opportunity to seek such pleasures now.  
 
In spite of himself, the prince often found himself reminiscing fondly 
about the days before the fall of Sauron: in those hard pressed times he 
had at least known his purpose.  He had ridden at the head of a company 
of fine knights into the thrill and tumult of battle, and felt the freedom 
from formality and ritual that he so longed for.  In the twelve years of 
peace since Aragorn became King, his life had changed beyond measure.  
Although he still rode for sport or hunting as often as he could, and trained 
several times a week with sword or spear, these days most of his time was 
spent on tasks which could at best be described as petty administration.  
 
His family were some comfort to him, but in truth they brought him 
heartache in equal part.  He missed Lothiriel, with her calm wise beauty so 
like to her mother, and he worried for her as she sat at Eomer’s side in 
Rohan.  Imrahil had no doubt that the young king of the Mark would treat 
his daughter well, for he clearly worshipped her.  But how would she fare 
in that land of mountain and plain, so far from the sea she had loved all 
her life?  The prince lived daily with the memory of his sister’s tragic end.  
He knew it had likely owed more to the nature of his brother-in-law than 
to her physical removal from Dol Amroth, but it haunted him still, and he 
feared that some echo of it may yet come to torment Lothiriel.  
 
As for his sons, he could honestly say that Merenin brought him naught 
but pride and happiness.  In the tall, passionate man he saw much of 
himself, but with a good deal of his mother’s composure to balance his 
warrior’s speed and fire.  He would be a true and loving husband to his 
new young wife, and one day he would make a fine leader.  Celaeren, of 
course, was a different matter.  Imrahil could feel the frown drawing his 
brows together as he thought of his youngest child.  His love and 
understanding would never be enough to overcome the man’s bitterness at 
the hand fate had dealt him.  Not for the first time, the prince silently 
cursed his heritage, as he wondered what more he could do to help his son.
 
A sudden burst of noise from the courtyards below interrupted the train of 
his thoughts.  He could not see the source of the clamour, for his window 
faced outwards from the castle walls, nor did he recognise any one voice.  
His stomach clenched, however, as his mind immediately returned to 
Celaeren.  Surely his son had not returned so soon from his visit to their 
kin in Anfalas?  One of Imrahil’s most trusted captains was travelling with 
him, and the loyal soldier knew how to deal with the younger man’s 
habits.  He was ashamed to admit it even to himself, but the prince had 
been looking forward to two or three months of peace in the absence of 
Celaeren’s unsteady temper.
 
The courtyard became quiet once more and Imrahil allowed himself to 
relax.  Though the tension drained from his body, his readiness to 
misinterpret the cause of the disturbance left his thoughts unsettled.  It was 
quite apparent that Celaeren’s problem could be pushed to one side no 
longer.  When he returned to Dol Amroth, the prince vowed, father and 
son would talk openly at last, and seek a solution together.
 
Gazing out to the horizon, and marvelling at the intensity of the blues 
mingling there, Imrahil forced himself to clear the anxieties from his 
mind.  The day was too beautiful to waste what was left of it on such 
despondent musings; he would steal some moments for himself before his 
duties called him again.  He went back in to the study, but quickly 
returned with a book of poetry in his hand, before settling on the 
comfortable window seat to enjoy the late afternoon sun.
 
The prince was not allowed to rest for long.  He knew from the hurried 
footsteps of his manservant that something must be amiss, even before he 
saw the man’s face.  Wearily resigned to the likelihood of unsettling news 
of his son, he stood and laid his book aside.  Neledhen’s look, however, 
spoke of excitement, not distress.
 
“My lord,”  he said breathlessly, with a hurried bow.  “Belgan bids me 
inform you that a messenger is come from Gondor.”
 
“Indeed?”  Imrahil strode across the chamber and stood by the bed as the 
other man held the robe wide for his arms.  “And is his message so urgent 
that I must be disturbed at my rest?”  
 
“I know not what his news may be,”  replied Neledhen, “but he has 
requested an audience with you forthwith.”
 
Imrahil found himself to be intrigued and not a little cheered by the 
thought of urgent news from the King.  Perhaps Aragorn had some need of 
him in Minas Tirith, some council or new deed that required his 
attendance.  He could not deny that he would gladly welcome such a 
summons, and the diversion from his cares that it might offer.
 
Stepping into the study, he found the steward Belgan before him.  The 
grey haired man nodded respectfully, then looked him in the eye.  
 
“My lord, a messenger is come from Gondor, with scrolls from the King, 
and from Ithilien.”
 
“So Neledhen tells me.”  Imrahil replied shortly.
 
“He will not state his mission, but desires a private audience with you.”
 
“Does the messenger have a name?” asked the prince, one eyebrow raised.
 
“None that he would give; he bears the royal emblem, but . . .”  the 
steward seemed lost for words.  
 
Imrahil narrowed his eyes.  “Yes?”
 
“He is a . . . strange . . . man.”
 
The prince laughed suddenly.  “Perhaps, Belgan, it is too long since you 
ventured from this fair city and your mind grows narrow.  We have 
nothing to fear from the men of Gondor.  Send him to me.”
 
The steward bowed and left the room, and Imrahil stood by his desk, 
glancing idly at the papers there.  At the gentle knock on the study door he 
turned suddenly, and his heart began to beat fast and loud, although he 
could not have explained why.
 
“Enter,” he said, firmly.
 
One look at the tall, slim figure who walked lightly into the study was 
enough to explain why old Belgan had thought him strange, for his kind 
had not been seen in Dol Amroth for countless years.  Imrahil forgot to 
breathe for a moment in his surprise, and there was a pause before he 
found the words of greeting.
 
“Well met, my friend,”  he managed finally.  “This is indeed unexpected.”
 
The figure stepped into the middle of the room and performed an elegant 
bow, his blond hair falling forward across his shoulders.  Then he stood, 
and met the other’s eyes.
 
“Prince Imrahil,” said Legolas, in his low, melodic voice,  “I have come to 
learn of the sea.”
 
 
 
Chapter 2
 
Legolas sat on the terrace with his face turned to the sea, as the lanterns 
burned low and the last plates were cleared from the table.  Imrahil could 
not begrudge him his apparent inattentiveness; he was clearly entranced by 
the moonlight playing on the water’s rippled surface, and could hardly tear 
his eyes away from the sight.  Indeed if the prince had been honest, he 
would have had to admit that he was glad of the elf’s distraction, for it 
allowed him to gaze surreptitiously at the object of his own fascination.  
 
Six decades of training in the arts of war had taught Imrahil much about 
self control.  His manner throughout the meal, therefore, had been calm; 
but in truth his mind was in turmoil.  He could only hope that his 
companion was sufficiently preoccupied with the nearness of the sea for 
the man’s state to have escaped his notice.  
 
After the initial shock of the elf’s dramatic entrance, their interview had 
settled into a more familiar pattern.  Formal greetings were exchanged, 
and enquiries were made as to the health of mutual friends and former 
comrades.  Legolas had produced two scrolls, one from the King and one 
from Imrahil’s nephew Faramir, prince of Ithilien.  The man had put these 
to one side and summoned Belgan.  
 
“You are a most welcome guest in my house,”  he had told the elf.  “I shall 
have my steward show you to your chambers, where you may refresh 
yourself before joining me for dinner.”
 
“Unless, that is,” he had added, as a sudden thought struck him, “you wish 
to descend to the water straight away?”
 
Legolas had smiled warmly at him but turned down his offer.
 
“It seems strange even to me,” he had said slowly, “but now that I am 
here, I feel no need to hasten to seek the first encounter.”
 
Imrahil had been unable to identify the nature of the emotion barely held 
below the surface of the elf’s words. 
 
“Take your time,”  he had responded.  “I am honoured by your presence, 
and my home is at your disposal for as long as you wish.”
 
Belgan had worked at the castle all his life, and Imrahil knew that he 
would never treat a guest with less than the utmost courtesy.  Still, he had 
been amused by the steward’s response to his words:
 
“Please show Prince Legolas to the west chambers and see that he has all 
that he needs.”
 
The old man’s face had not changed, but something about the set of his 
shoulders had visibly relaxed at the sound of the elf’s name and title.  It 
had not surprised the prince; like most of his people, Belgan had never 
before seen an elf, and his attitude towards the fair folk was likely to be 
ambivalent, at best.  However, royalty was royalty; and the name of 
Legolas was known to many through the songs and stories of the Great 
War.
 
Once the elf had left the study, Imrahil had taken the scrolls over to the 
window seat to read.  No urgent summons did he find; along with a 
smattering of news, both messages held cordial greetings and invitations 
to visit.  The prince had pondered the possibility for a while.  Maybe next 
year he would accept Faramir’s offer and ride to Ithilien.  He had always 
been fond of the young man; his gentle, wise spirit resembled that of his 
mother more and more as the years went by.  It would soothe Imrahil’s 
heart to see him, in his new found happiness with his fiercely beautiful 
wife.  If matters with Celaeren had taken a turn for the better by then his 
son could ride with him… he had not been to Gondor since reaching his 
majority and surely it was time.  Maybe, if things had really improved, the 
King would accept Celaeren into his service for a few years.  It would be 
good for him to be away from Dol Amroth for a while.
 
He had re-sealed the scrolls and taken them into the study, once more 
dismissing the anxieties about his son from his mind.  There were, after 
all, more pressing issues to be considered this evening.  If he had wished 
earlier for some unforeseen event to break into the monotony of his life, 
his prayers had most certainly been answered.
 
Of course, Imrahil had not forgotten his offer to show Legolas the sea, 
although he could never have expected the elf to take his words literally, 
spoken in the heat of passion as they were.  He remembered the details of 
that impossible, magical encounter with alarming clarity; his mind had 
rehearsed them well on many a lonely night.  Even before Glantathar’s 
death, thoughts of Legolas had warmed him when he had crept from the 
bedside of his sick wife to seek solitary, guilty pleasure in his own 
chamber.  
 
His memories were doing more than merely warming him now.  As he 
looked on the elf, his profile arresting, thrown into stark relief by the 
lanterns’ light, he felt almost sick with excitement, anticipation . . . and 
dread that he may have misjudged Legolas’s purpose in coming here.  
 
It seemed that he was alone in his nervous tension.  The elf had eaten 
delicately, but had clearly enjoyed his meal, while to Imrahil every 
mouthful had been as dry and unpalatable as sawdust.  He had barely 
swallowed enough to maintain appearances, but had moved the 
conversation along reasonably smoothly, by encouraging Legolas to speak 
of his travels with the dwarf and of his new realm in the forests of Ithilien.
 
The prince found that he was sorely discouraged by the elf’s apparent ease 
in his company.  Perhaps, after all, he had come to look at the sea, and 
nothing more.  If that was the case it might leave him ruined with wanting, 
but at least he could give to Legolas that which he sought.
 
Draining his wineglass, Imrahil leaned towards the other.  
 
“Are you ready?  Shall we go down to the water?”
 
The beautiful face turned towards him and the elf’s lips parted in an eager 
smile.
 
“Now?  Yes, I am ready.”
 
So they moved rapidly, through the quiet corridors, to the lower door that 
led directly out onto the cliffs.  The sleepy guard roused himself and stood 
to attention as the prince approached, but could not stop his eyes from 
straying to the stranger at his side.  Imrahil smiled, and called the man by 
name, saying,
 
“Prince Legolas is to be given free passage in and out of the castle at any 
hour.  See that your fellow guards understand.”  
 
As the man stammered his assent and bowed low before the prince, 
Imrahil caught his companion’s eye.  He could not have said exactly why, 
but the expression he saw there caused a sudden hope to leap in his heart.  
Still, he determined that he would make no move towards the elf unless it 
was quite clear that his attentions would be welcomed, for rejection would 
be an agony too great to bear.
 
Imrahil could have descended the worn stone steps at a run, even in the 
near dark, so familiar was the path to him.  He slowed his step out of 
courtesy for the elf.  Surefooted Legolas may be, but he had shown no sign 
of wishing to rush into this moment.  The silence was heavy between 
them, broken now by the restless sounds of waves breaking against rock 
and shingle, sounds that would forever sing to the prince of home and 
childhood.  
 
At last they stood side by side on the tiny gravel beach between the high 
rocks.  The elf did not speak, but simply stared out across the endless 
water.  Imrahil needed no elven meeting of minds between them to sense 
that Legolas was near overcome with emotion.  It occurred to him that his 
presence might be intrusive.
 
He asked quietly,  “Would you rather be alone?”
 
Legolas turned to him quickly and briefly laid a hand against his arm, and 
all the blood in the man’s body seemed to rush to his head at once.
 
“No, if you do not mind, I would prefer you to stay.”  With that he turned 
back to the sea and his hand fell away.  
 
Imrahil dared not move.  There was a long pause, during which he made a 
futile attempt to quell the legion of questions in his mind.
 
As Legolas bent to remove his boots, the man roused himself.
 
“It is unwise to swim here.  The undertow is strong, and the rocks are 
deadly.”  A vision of the elf, naked, wading into the water, came unbidden 
to his mind; his desire threatened to suffocate him.
 
“I thought not to swim.  I simply wish to feel it . . .”  the voice fell to 
nothing, and his companion walked slowly to the water’s edge to stand 
motionless in the swirling foam, the light wind catching his hair.
 
The prince, acutely uncomfortable, moved to sit on a large flat rock, and 
tried without success to avert his eyes, to think of other things.  
 
At length Legolas sighed, turned, and padded towards him across the 
shingle, his feet making hardly a sound on the tiny stones.  He settled 
gracefully on the rocks, near enough for Imrahil to be painfully aware of 
his presence even were he to shut his eyes, but far enough away for there 
to be no real suggestion of intimacy.
 
“It is wondrous . . .  like nothing I could have imagined.”  
 
Imrahil said nothing for a while, but eventually commented,  
 
“I am astounded that you waited so long.”
 
“If I had felt able to do this alone, I would have done it sooner.” Legolas 
replied, quietly.
 
The elf’s unexpected words brought a further crowd of questions into the 
man’s head, but he said simply:
 
“Did you not think to travel to the coast with Gimli?”
 
“No, it would not have been fair to him.  He has no love of boats and 
water.”  
 
The man knew at once that this was nothing like the whole truth, but did 
not pursue the matter.
 
“I could not ask my own kin to accompany me; for I would not subject 
them to the same yearnings that have plagued me daily,”  the elf 
continued,  “And I did not wish to trouble you before…”
 
It had been Legolas who had raised the subject of Glantathar earlier in the 
evening.  He had offered Imrahil straightforward, heartfelt sympathy for 
his loss.
 
“I hope I did not presume too much by coming to you unannounced.”
 
Imrahil found his voice at last.
 
“Indeed, no.  I am greatly pleased and honoured that you came here.”  He 
wanted to say more, but his anxious uncertainty restrained him.
 
“I will confess,” said the elf, in a lighter tone, “that there is another motive 
to my visit.  There is the matter of a promise to a lady.”
 
The prince started forward before he could control himself.  He looked 
into the elf’s eyes, but found them quite unreadable in the poor light.  He 
tried to avoid analysing the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  
 
Suddenly Legolas smiled.
 
“Last winter, I tarried in Edoras, and spoke to the lady Lothiriel.”
 
A warm rush of feeling flooded through the man.  Perhaps it was simply 
joy at the sound of his daughter’s name; perhaps it was something else.
 
“Did you find her well?”  he asked, eagerly.
“She was well, and exquisitely happy, but for one thing; she worries for 
her father.  When I told her I had thought to visit Dol Amroth, she all but 
begged me to do so.  It would take a harder heart than mine to refuse her 
request.”
 
“She told me nothing of this in her letters!” 
 
“Maybe she doubted that I would keep my word . . . or maybe she thought 
to surprise you.”
 
Imrahil felt sure that the latter explanation was more probable.  How like 
gentle, perceptive Lothiriel to sense from his letters all that he could not 
tell her; his loneliness, his growing sense of tedium and frustration.  So 
she had sought to send Legolas to him . . .  for what, exactly?
 
The elf seemed to answer him, as if he had kept pace with his thoughts.
 
“In our conversation this evening, you have said nothing of your life, yet I 
would not have needed your daughter to tell me that you have your 
cares.”  His voice was soft, and full of compassion.  
 
“My friend, I know what it is to be lonely; it is neither shameful nor 
unusual for one in your position.  With me you do not need to be Prince 
Imrahil, nor I, Prince Legolas.  We are simply a man and an elf who have 
fought side by side, and each has known grief and trial.  If you wish to talk 
of it, you will find me more than willing to listen.  And I trust I do not 
need to tell you that you may speak freely before me, and be certain of my 
discretion.”
 
Then Imrahil understood what it was that his kind, clever daughter had 
hoped for, and perhaps also the true reason why Legolas had made the 
journey to his city.  In spite of his burning desire, he could not allow 
himself to feel disappointment, for genuine friendship is the most precious 
of gifts.
 
So Imrahil talked, and told Legolas a little of his life.  He spoke of his 
sadness since his wife’s passing, and the loneliness of carrying on without 
her.  He confessed to his lack of purpose since the coming of peace, and 
his dissatisfaction with the formal, uneventful rote of his existence.  He 
told of his fears for his daughter, and the extent to which he missed her 
presence in his daily life.  But he did not speak of his sons, although he 
was not aware of a reason for his omission; it simply seemed that a 
moment came when he had said enough, and he knew that there would be 
other days.  
 
The elf was true to his word and listened earnestly; and such comments as 
he made were pertinent and wise.  Imrahil found himself astonished by the 
sympathy in the other’s voice and manner.  He had been raised to believe 
that elves, though magnificent in many respects, were cold, aloof 
creatures, little interested in the plight of mortal men.  Such terms could 
never be applied to the one who sat beside him now.  The man already 
knew him to be capable of passion and warmth; what he had not expected 
was the immediate understanding, the recognition that his words drew 
from the other.  He wondered if Legolas was strange amongst elves, 
perhaps because of his love for a man; or whether the differences between 
their races were not so great as his elders would have had him think.
 
When the man finished talking, they sat for a time in silence, looking out 
over the swelling darkness of the sea towards the low, gibbous moon.  It 
was Legolas who finally broke the comfortable peace between them.
 
“Too well do I know the guilty shame of longing for the past, for that time 
when the shadow of evil roamed the world,” he said thoughtfully.  “I am 
lucky to be the third son of my house, and therefore free of many of the 
responsibilities you have to shoulder.  Now that the Greenwood thrives in 
the sun once more, my father has willingly given me leave to travel and to 
make my home in Ithilien.  My journeys with Gimli are not yet over; there 
is much we wish to see together, much to learn, and much pleasure to be 
found in his company as we travel.  There are many things for me to look 
forward to, even to the day my ship leaves this shore; yet I cannot tell you 
how much time I spend in looking back.”
 
The elf’s willingness to confide in him moved Imrahil greatly.  
 
“It does not surprise me, and I see no shame in it,”  he said softly.  
 
Again they sat, and the night grew dark and chill around them.  
 
Legolas stirred himself when Imrahil failed to suppress a yawn.  
 
“Forgive me, my friend,” the elf said, “I believe you have need of your 
bed.”
 
The prince stood, and stretched, wondering suddenly if he was not being 
dismissed.  It was true that his back was beginning to ache from sitting too 
long on the cold rock, and  his eyelids were feeling heavy.  He knew that 
he should climb back up the stone stairs before long, but was loathe to do 
so, as it was evident that he would be making the ascent alone.  
 
“You will stay here?” he asked, although he knew what the answer would 
be.
 
“Yes, by your leave.  I do not need sleep tonight, and would listen to the 
sea’s true voice until morning.”
 
Still the man lingered, unsure what he was waiting for.  A sign of some 
sort, or an invitation?  None was forthcoming, but he saw the elf’s faintly 
glowing features arrange themselves into a gentle smile.
 
“Fear not,” Legolas said, a lilt of humour in his voice, “I promise that I 
will not attempt to swim, and that you shall see me safe at the breakfast 
table.”
 
Realising that he would only appear foolish if he stayed longer, Imrahil 
finally bade the elf goodnight, and turned to run up the steps to the castle.
 
 
Title:  Seascapes  Chapters 3 and 4 
Author:  Capella        c_capella@tiscali.co.uk
Author’s website (notes about the story can be found there):  
www.geocities.com/c_capella2000
Pairing:   Legolas / Imrahil 
Rating:  NC17.   
Summary:  Why did Legolas come to Dol Amroth?  REALLY?   
Disclaimer:  Middle Earth and the main characters are Tolkien’s.  No 
harm is intended and no profit made by borrowing them.
Warning :  Set after RotK, so some spoilers for the book at least. Lots of 
original characters.  
Authors Note:   Read ‘Sea Longing’ first, or you will be very confused.  
 
Later chapters beta-read by Elfscribe, to whom MANY thanks.
 
 
 
Chapter 3  
 
Merenin could not contain his joy as he rode up to the city with his wife.  
Turning his face to the early morning sun and feeling the fresh salt breeze 
cool his skin, he laughed aloud for the sheer pleasure of it.
 
Lelneth, beside him, said, “The morning is passing fair, Merenin.”  
 
He turned to watch her shake her head, the wild mass of rich brown curls 
glinting red where the light caught them, as they settled down her back.  
Their eyes met, and a sweet smile of complicity, laced with the promise of 
delights to come, passed between them.
 
The day was indeed beautiful, all the more so to Merenin’s mind for the 
knowledge that he would spend it in the land he loved so much.  They had 
sailed through the night, and disembarked at first light, to satisfy his 
impatience to reach his home.  Not that the past fortnight had been a 
hardship; he knew that the dullest of diplomatic visits would be as a 
holiday now, so long as Lelneth travelled with him.
 
“It is not just the morning, my beloved,” he said. “Four years ago I could 
never have dreamed of knowing such happiness.”
 
“And your happiness is my joy,”  his wife replied simply, as they reined 
their horses to a halt at the great gates.
 
Belgan met them at the castle doors and informed Merenin that his father 
was still at breakfast.
 
“He entertains a guest,”  added the old man, in his studiedly neutral tones.  
 
There was something about his posture, some wariness, or perhaps even 
disapproval, that caught Merenin’s attention immediately.  Before he 
could ask for clarification, however, the steward had thrown wide the 
doors of the Great Hall, and the young man stepped inside.
 
His father sat at the centre of the long table, deep in conversation with the 
blond, white clad figure at his side.  
 
‘He entertains a woman?’ thought Merenin, incredulously, but then the 
figure turned towards him, and he felt his eyebrows shoot up in 
amazement.  He forced himself to suppress a chuckle as he recalled his 
sister’s letter.  So this was the friend she had aimed to send here?  He had 
to admit that he was greatly impressed.  
 
Lelneth coughed lightly behind him, and Merenin remembered his 
manners.  He strode up to the table and bowed.  
 
“Father.  Prince Legolas, you do us great honour.  It is a pleasure to see 
you here.”
 
The elf stood and returned his bow with a fluid, graceful movement.
 
“The pleasure is all mine.”  His voice rang out like sweet music across the 
hall.  When he straightened, Merenin looked him in the eye and was 
intrigued to see his neutral expression allowing the merest hint of amused 
appraisal to show through.
 
As Merenin presented his wife, he could have sworn that he saw Legolas 
grin for the briefest of instants, but dismissed the notion as foolish.  His 
father’s guest was an elf, after all; and surely elves did not grin.
 
Lelneth, of course, was all but humming with excitement at this new turn 
of events.  She wasted no time in gently steering her husband towards his 
father and seating herself on the other side of Legolas.  As the two men 
fell into discussion of the details of his journey, Merenin remained half 
aware of his wife’s clever questions and the elf’s willing response.  He 
smiled inwardly, knowing only too well how fearsomely irresistible she 
could be.  No doubt she would know the story of the elf’s life - and  those 
of all his family - before the end of the meal.
 
Legolas had not aged, of course, in the years since Elessar’s coronation.  
How strange to think that he would look this way for another ten centuries 
or more;  the man suppressed a shiver at the thought.  Yet there was 
something very different about the elf.  Merenin had observed all the fair 
folk at the ceremony with a good deal of fascinated interest.  He 
remembered noticing something about the Mirkwood prince, a tension, a 
fragility, which had contrasted starkly with the placid grace of his kin.  
Whatever had caused it then, there was no sign of it now.  Legolas 
appeared relaxed, serene, almost radiant, as he laughed delightedly with 
Lelneth, and peeled an orange with quick, deft fingers.
 
On the other hand, Merenin reflected, his father looked terrible.  His face 
had the unmistakeably grey look of one who has not slept well, and 
although he smiled as he talked with his son, it was clear that he was 
anxious about something.  Merenin resolved to speak with him later, in 
private, to find out what had disturbed him so.  It was hard to believe that 
Legolas could have brought bad news; there was certainly nothing in the 
elf’s demeanour to suggest it.
 
Once they reached the privacy of their chambers, Lelneth turned to her 
husband, eyes shining.
 
“Well!  The renowned Prince of Mirkwood, here in Dol Amroth.  It 
promises to be an interesting summer,”  she announced.
 
“He intends to stay how long?”  He had no doubt that such a trivial piece 
of information would have been extracted from the elf at the start of the 
interview.
 
“He is not sure.  He only arrived yesterday, and has yet to make any 
definite plans.”  She kept her eyes on him as she crossed to the dressing 
table.  “Is he not astonishing?”  
 
“In many respects, no doubt,”  said Merenin dryly.  “To what, in 
particular, do you refer?”
 
“Oh, come on, Merenin.  Are you quite blind?  The songs tell of his 
courage and skill, but I have to say that the ones I have heard missed out 
his most important attributes.”  she picked up a large brush and started to 
attack her mane of curls.  “He is nothing short of magnificent.  Any 
woman would kill to have skin like that, and his voice….”
 
“I do believe you are enamoured of our guest!”  Merenin attempted a stern 
tone, but could not suppress a smile, remembering his own reaction when 
first he had set eyes on Galadriel and Arwen.
 
“Husband!  You know there is room in my heart only for you…. but he is 
remarkable, is he not?”
 
“Quite remarkable,”  he conceded, with a sigh.  He went to sit on the large 
plush couch, and watched his wife with adoring eyes as she smoothed a 
white cream onto her face.  
 
“What is the matter with your father?”  Lelneth asked, suddenly serious.
 
“I do not know, for I had no chance to ask him.  But you marked how he 
looks?”
 
“Aye, like a man who has not slept for nights.”  She swivelled on the 
small stool to face him.  “I wonder . . .  no . . .”
 
Merenin narrowed his eyes, but the expression his wife had assumed was 
innocent.  It was clear that she was not going to elaborate on her thoughts.
 
“Did you know that your father counted Legolas as a friend?”  she asked, 
after a brief pause.
 
“’Tis strange, but he has never mentioned it.  He has spoken of him as a 
comrade, of course, but along with many others.  Yet my sister’s letter 
mentioned an old friend who was planning to visit; I feel sure she meant 
the elf.”
 
“Yes, he told me he had seen her, and that she was well.”
 
Lelneth stood, and stretched her arms above her head before moving 
across to the couch to join her husband.
 
“I have a plan,”  she told him.
 
“Mercy!  Should I tremble, or be glad?”  He ducked to avoid her playful 
blow.
 
“Knave!”  she laughed.  “Hear me first, then mock if you must.”
 
“Legolas has come here to be shown the sea, not merely to look at it.  He 
told me as much, and I deem him wise for it.  How much more will he see, 
if he travels the coast with one who knows all its secret treasures?”
 
She paused, waiting for Merenin’s nod of agreement, which he duly gave.
 
“Now ask yourself, to whom shall this task be allotted?  Who will show 
Legolas the sea?  You, my love?  I would not have you so far from me, 
and if I journey with you, then we would have the entourage, and I do not 
believe that is what he wants.
 
“No.  Legolas came here for your father to show him the sea, and your 
father is anxious to give his guest what he wants, but cannot bring himself 
to shirk his duties.  He is always so bent on meeting his responsibilities; he 
has forgotten how to take care of himself.  So you must solve the problem 
for him.”
 
“I should go to him, and make the suggestion myself . . .” said Merenin, 
smiling at his beautiful, perceptive wife.
 
“Aye, and he will say no, and his counsellors will not like the idea at all.  I 
should not be surprised if old Ancened has a fit at the thought of the prince 
riding out alone with the strange elf.  But you must persuade him to do it, 
none the less.  He has been unhappy for far too long, and here, maybe, is a 
chance for him to smile again.  Lothiriel obviously thought so . . .”
 
The mention of his beloved sister’s name was enough to decide Merenin, 
as his wife had no doubt intended.  He kissed her softly, then rose from the 
couch.  
 
“You are quite right, my love, as always.  I will go to him and persuade 
him that I am more than capable of dealing with matters of state for a 
week or two, while he sets out adventuring . . .  Gods, I can already hear 
what the court will say.  ‘Has he lost his mind?  Has this unnatural 
creature cast some elvish spell on him?’”  
 
Merenin accompanied this last with an uncanny imitation of one of his 
father’s less popular advisors.  Lelneth laughed, but stood up beside her 
husband.
 
“No matter what they say, he is the prince, and the decision is his.  Even 
he should be allowed a holiday.  I would wager that he has longed for such 
freedom for many a year.”
 
His father had never said as much directly, but Merenin knew she was 
right.  He had no great urge to step into the prince’s shoes, and indeed 
acting as regent would probably be most irksome, especially in these 
glorious days of early summer when the sea was at its most beautiful.  
However, he would accept the task gladly if it might offer his father some 
respite from the sadness which had dogged him for the last three years.  At 
least the elf had arrived at an opportune moment, with Celaeren away and 
nothing but quiet peace in Dol Amroth and  the surrounding lands.  
 
Merenin kissed his wife again, this time with passion.  
 
“You are as wise and kind as you are lovely,” he said fondly.  “and I am 
the luckiest man alive.  I shall go at once to my father and put your plan 
into action.”  
 
He turned to leave the room, but came to an abrupt halt as Lelneth’s arms 
were flung around him from behind, and one hand brazenly slid down 
over his belly and dipped beneath his tunic’s hem.
 
“Not so fast, husband,”  she purred in his ear.  “There are other matters 
you must attend to first.”
 
Laughing, he twisted in her arms to face her, then lifted her bodily and 
carried her to the bed.  
 
 
 
Chapter 4
 
A small group gathered to say farewell as they left the castle.  Imrahil was 
amused to see Heledir amongst them, although if he had given the matter 
any thought, he might have expected him to be there.  He had to admit that 
the man had at last managed to surprise him the previous afternoon; just 
one more sign of the extent to which Legolas’s arrival had turned his life 
upside down.
 
Ancened had requested an audience with the prince as soon as he had 
heard the news.  It had not been an easy interview.  In the normal run of 
things, Imrahil greatly respected his counsellor’s views, and accepted his 
rather conservative nature as a fitting counterpoint to his own, more 
impetuous personality.  On this occasion, however, he was not to be 
dissuaded from his chosen course.  Ancened would not back down; and 
Imrahil, who regarded his birthright as both a gift of fate and a job to be 
done, was forced to assert his status in a manner he generally preferred to 
avoid.  
 
Ancened had finally conceded defeat, and resorted to icy civility.  He had 
swept from the study with disapproval written in every line of his body – 
disapproval, as Imrahil was well aware, not of the prince’s need for a 
holiday, but of the unconventional manner in which he meant to take it.
 
As the door closed behind the counsellor, Heledir, who had remained 
inconspicuously behind the desk throughout, had cleared his throat.
 
“If I may be so bold, my lord,” he had said hesitantly, “I think he is quite 
wrong.”
 
Imrahil was astonished.  In all the years the secretary had worked for him, 
he had never expressed an opinion without it being coaxed from him with 
a certain amount of determination.  
 
He had sat down across the desk from Heledir, and watched the younger 
man intently.
 
“You need to get away, anyone can see that, and Prince Legolas is a most . 
. . fitting . . . companion.”
 
A definite blush had coloured the secretary’s cheeks as his gaze met that 
of his sovereign.  
 
‘Well,’  Imrahil had reflected,  ‘It seems the irresistible prince of 
Mirkwood has conquered another heart.  Who would have thought it?’
 
As they rode down the long avenue towards the great gates, he was well 
aware of the reactions of the citizens around them.  Old and young, male 
and female alike could not avoid a wide-eyed stare at Legolas, before 
respectfully bowing their heads to the prince.  Stealing a glance at the elf 
riding alongside him, Imrahil found he had to agree with his subjects; here 
was something well worth looking at.
 
Legolas rode tall on his fine steed, without saddle or reins, perfectly 
balanced and at ease.  His hair was pulled back into two simple braids 
above his ears, emphasising both their elven points and the fine bone 
structure of his face.  Dressed in simple hunting garb, his bow and quiver 
slung across his back, he was every inch the warrior elf of song and story.  
He was also utterly, devastatingly desirable.  
 
Not for the first time, Imrahil wondered just what he was riding towards.
 
As they passed through the gates Legolas looked searchingly at him and 
raised an eyebrow, evidently sensing the prince’s anxiety.
 
“There can be no doubt that you leave matters in good hands,”  he said.  
“Merenin resembles his father to an extent that is almost comical, and as 
for his lady . . .  she is exceptional; such a vital, passionate spirit.”
 
“Aye,” Imrahil replied, “They are well matched, and supremely happy 
together.”  
 
Legolas, with his acute elven hearing, did not fail to hear the man’s small 
sigh.
 
“Surely you cannot deny that it is better to know love and to face the grief 
of parting, than to live a life in ignorance of such bliss?  Do not begrudge 
him his joy,”  he said quietly.  His face gave nothing away; Imrahil could 
only guess at the pain behind his words.
 
“Forgive me,”  the man replied, equally softly.  “I fear that I have been 
submerged in my sorrow for too long.  It is no wonder my children feel 
that I need to be distracted.”
 
“So cast aside your sorrow now,”  said the elf  “and enjoy the glory of the 
day.  It cannot fail to move you, if there truly is elven blood in your 
veins.”
 
It was indeed a glorious day.  A touch of lingering haze and the sun’s low 
angle tempered the sky to palest gold at the horizon, but the clear blue 
overhead spoke of the heat to come.  The land showed the bright greens of 
early summer, and the sea shimmered peacefully in the stillness of the 
morning.  Imrahil smiled as he looked about him, and breathed deeply.
 
“Well,” he enquired of his companion, “shall we ride hard?  We could 
reach the summer house not long after midday and take the boat out this 
afternoon.  Or we could take our time, stay a night there, and sail 
tomorrow.”
 
Legolas matched his smile with one of pure pleasure.
 
“Let us ride hard”  he said, firmly.  “I would feel the sweet air on my face 
this morning, and cool my feet in salt water when the sun reaches its full 
strength.”
 
Imrahil shifted in his saddle and adjusted his hold on the reins.  He 
watched, intrigued, as the elf bent down to his horse’s head and whispered 
in its ear, too quietly for the man to determine the language, let alone the 
words.  The proud roan tossed its head and whinnied loudly, then set off at 
a gallop, with Imrahil’s grey stallion close behind.  
 
By early afternoon, a fair breeze had blown up, stirring the sea’s surface 
into flurries of white and filling the tall blue sail most handsomely.  The 
boat was small and sturdy, simple in its design yet responsive to Imrahil’s 
touch as he reclined lazily in the stern, one hand on the tiller.  Legolas sat 
with his back to him, cross-legged in the prow, motionless but for his 
streaming hair and with eyes fixed on the wide leagues of water before 
him.  
 
Imrahil longed to know what was passing through the elf’s mind, but had 
not the heart to break the silence, sensing that Legolas was absorbed in the 
magic of the moment.  He let his own thoughts wander back to the first 
occasion on which he had made this journey, when his father had taken the 
helm and he and his sister had laughed and squabbled, all the way from 
the summer house to the bay.  
 
Adrahil and Finduilas; two bright spirits, each taken long before their 
time.
 
In the course of their lengthy moonlit conversation on the beach, Legolas 
had told him that the Eldar regarded mortal death as Illuvatar’s gift, a 
divine mystery forever hidden from the elves.  Imrahil had refrained from 
the obvious comment: that such a view might not be so easy to hold to, 
once death had claimed the man he loved.  
 
The sight of a familiar group of rocks on the seaward side roused Imrahil 
from his reverie and he reached to swing the boom.  An unwary sailor 
would pass the bay without even knowing it was there, its secrets hidden 
by the curving line of the coast, but he knew its location too well to miss 
it.  The boat came about and headed in to the shore at an angle, soon 
encountering the choppy waters around the cliffs.  Lively waves slapped 
across its bows and dashed its occupants with spray.  
 
Legolas laughed, a clear silvery sound that sent a shiver down Imrahil’s 
back.  The elf spun effortlessly around to face him, and even with the 
length of the boat between them the light in his eyes was startling.  Still he 
said nothing, but there was no need; his delight was evident enough, and 
Imrahil felt his heart lifting in response.  
 
Nor did the rest of his body remain unmoved.  As they slid into the calm 
of the bay he watched Legolas lean over the side to trail his fingers in the 
water, his long slender body stretching out alluringly in the process.  The 
man could only be grateful for the loose shirt he was wearing over his 
breeches; if he had thought he had his desire under control, it was clear 
that he had been wrong.  He swallowed hard, and tried not to think what 
might happen once they reached the shore and the inevitable swim was 
proposed.
 
Before long Imrahil was slowly bringing the boat up to the rough, simple 
jetty, and Legolas jumped ashore to make the ropes fast.  The elf unloaded 
their belongings and stood silently while Imrahil saw to the sail, making 
no move to help, but watching his hands running through the familiar 
moves with a concentration that unnerved the man considerably.  The look 
Legolas gave him as he sprang from the boat and picked up his pack did 
little to restore his confidence, for his eyes were dark, and his face serious.
 
‘He must know how I feel,’  thought Imrahil, with a sinking sensation in 
his gut.
 
They  turned to walk along the jetty to the beach, and the uncomfortable 
moment soon passed as the elf looked around him with a slowly growing 
smile.
 
The beach was small, but formed of a perfect crescent of fine, pale gold.  
It was held between two arms of high, craggy rock, which  curved around 
to make a natural harbour and shielded the bay from passing boats.  
Behind the beach a scattering of trees spilled out from the steep wooded 
valley, forming a broad green fringe to the sand, and to one side a stream 
of sweet water emerged and found its way to the sea.  Between the pines 
and olives could be seen the worn grey stone of the simple hut where 
Imrahil, in his youth, had waited out many an unexpected shower or 
storm.
 
“It is lovely,”  Legolas said.  They had climbed down from the end of the 
jetty, and were walking barefoot over the warm sand.  “I cannot believe 
that nobody else has discovered it and claimed it as their own.”   
 
“There are other bays,” said Imrahil, with a grin, “but this one has always 
been special to my family.  None of the local people will invade our 
privacy by coming here.”  As soon as the words escaped his mouth he 
stopped, realising the implications of his statement.
 
Legolas said nothing, but slowly bent to lay his pack on the sand, then 
straightened again and turned to look back at the sea.  The breeze caught 
his fine white shirt, moulding it to his body, and blew a strand of hair 
across his face, golden in the bright sun.  
 
He turned his gaze to Imrahil, who stood as if rooted to the spot.  
 
“Then it is perfect,”  he said.
 
The blood began to pound in Imrahil’s ears as he stared at Legolas.  The 
look on the elf’s  face was unambiguous now, the invitation at last beyond 
doubt; yet the man found that he was quite unable to move to accept it.
 
“Why do you hesitate?”  asked Legolas, a note of laughter in his voice.  
“Do you not know why I came here?”
 
“Why?”  Imrahil’s query would have been inaudible to a mortal man.  His 
mouth was dry and his breathing felt suddenly constricted.
 
 “Because I believed you to be a man of your word,” replied the elf, and 
for a second it seemed to Imrahil that all movement, of his heart, his lungs, 
of the air itself, ceased.
 
In that instant, as both stood silent and still, he understood a number of 
things.
 
Surely Legolas had been waiting, teasing him gently but keeping his 
distance, in anticipation of this moment.  If that was the case, the 
implication was clear; Imrahil was not the only one who had relived their 
night together, imagining his passionate promise becoming reality.  How 
many times had the elf found his pleasure while thinking of him?  He 
could not dwell on that question for long; the mere thought would be 
enough to make him lose control, before he had even begun to show the 
elf that he was, indeed, a man of his word.
 
Two strides closed the distance between them, and at last Legolas was in 
his arms.  
 
Mindful of his promise, Imrahil kissed him hard; there would be time 
enough for gentle caresses once his claim had been established.  One hand 
in the small of the back pulled Legolas in to him, their bodies matched in 
height, muscle against muscle.  His tongue plunged into the sweetness of 
the elf’s mouth, his other hand combing through soft hair to force the head 
closer still, to lock him into the hungry embrace. 
 
When the need for air became imperative, Imrahil relaxed his hold on the 
elf’s head and pulled his mouth away.  Legolas seemed reluctant to let him 
go; his hands gripped the man’s shoulders as if his legs might buckle 
beneath him, and a slight shift of his hips made his arousal urgently 
apparent as their bodies pressed yet more firmly together.  Imrahil brushed 
a finger across the moist, silent lips, looked steadily into the deep blue 
eyes and understood what it was that had made them dark.
 
No words were spoken as the man took a step back and brought both 
hands to the fastenings of the elf’s shirt.  Legolas stood with his arms by 
his sides, neither helping nor hindering Imrahil in his endeavour, but 
simply allowing him to do as he pleased.   In spite of the fact that he was 
all but trembling with lust, the man found himself to be totally focussed on 
the task.  It was not long before the elf stood bare-chested before him, and 
strong fingers set to work on the soft cotton leggings.
 
Once Legolas was quite naked, Imrahil stepped back again, and looked 
long at the glorious sight before him.  He had thought to call the elf 
beautiful, as he had lain in the candle light and shadow years ago, but 
realised now that the word was too tame for all that he beheld.  The 
strength of the tall lean body seemed barely confined beneath the smooth, 
luminescent skin, and the stillness with which the elf awaited him was 
unearthly.  Imrahil would gladly have fallen to his knees before the 
magnificent being, but that, too, could wait.  
 
For now, he sought only to meet the unmistakeable challenge in the elf’s 
unwavering gaze.
 
Inspiration struck him suddenly, and he crouched to reach into his pack, 
without breaking eye contact.  The flask held oil to prevent his skin drying 
and cracking, through prolonged exposure to salt water and sun; he had 
not dared to think that it might serve another purpose, but it would do well 
enough now.  Let Legolas think that he had come prepared for this… he 
grinned at the thought and saw the elf’s eyes widen in response.  
 
His heart thudded and his skin tingled as he went to stand at Legolas’s 
side, and briefly bent to place the oil flask on the sand.  He placed one 
hand gently on the taut belly then slid it, slowly, down; carefully avoiding 
the erection, reaching below to cup the sac firmly in his palm.  Tiny 
movements of his thumb stroked the underside of the rigid cock, drawing 
a gasp from parted lips; but still the elf said nothing.
 
Imrahil kept his hand in place while he moved behind Legolas.  The 
contrast between his own clothed body and the naked elf pressed against 
him excited him beyond belief; his own cock felt impossibly tight as it 
pushed into the cleft between the other’s buttocks.  His free arm snaked 
around to draw Legolas more tightly in towards him, and his hand splayed 
out across the smooth warm chest, fingers and thumb brushing first one 
nipple, then the other.  It was enough to make the elf tremble, and the slim 
hands came up to hold on to the man’s shoulders.
 
Imrahil bent his head to the elf’s neck and ran his teeth and tongue lightly 
along the skin there, tasting salt, before speaking directly into the pointed 
ear.
 
“Look at the sea, Legolas, listen to it.”  His voice was soft and low.  “Let 
it enter your mind and fill your heart, as I will enter you, and fill you with 
my desire.”
 
This brought a moan from the elf, and Imrahil knew he could wait no 
longer to satisfy his own aching need.  
 
“Kneel for me, lovely one,”  he said, and bringing both hands to the elf’s 
shoulders, he guided him down onto the warm golden sand.
 
Imrahil had to close his eyes and breathe deeply as he smoothed the oil on 
to his cock, for the vision displayed before him threatened to bring matters 
to an all too hasty conclusion. Even on hands and knees, thighs invitingly 
parted, Legolas maintained his poise.  The man had the distinct impression 
that the elf was still teasing him, challenging him, and a wave of 
liquefying lust passed through him, as he silently vowed to do whatever it 
might take to disturb that inhuman composure.
 
Positioning himself quickly, he forced his cock home in one slow, 
determined movement, easing his way past the tightness that brought tears 
to his eyes.  Wanting to savour each sensation to the full, he paused, and 
was rewarded when Legolas shifted slightly against him and let out an 
audible breath.  Grasping the elf’s hips, he hauled them back and held him 
tightly, and waited again, feeling the blood throbbing in his cock.  
 
His self control almost deserted him when Legolas suddenly dropped 
down onto his elbows, causing him to sink in deeper still.  He started to 
move, slowly pulling back as far as he could without withdrawing 
altogether, then thrusting decisively in again, hard and swift.  After a few 
such movements he realised that the elf was pushing back to meet him just 
as forcefully, and he smiled, knowing that he would achieve his aim ere 
long. 
 
The pleasure could have overwhelmed Imrahil, but he willed himself to 
hold back, halting for a moment to recover each time he approached the 
edge.  He would make this last and hear Legolas cry out, before he 
reached his own release - or perish in the attempt.  Leaning forward 
slightly, he slid his hand round the elf’s hip and held his shaft in a firm 
grip, feeling a shock of painful delight as the muscles around his own cock 
contracted tightly in response.  
 
Hand and hips moved now in concert, and the elf’s composure finally 
gave way.  He writhed beneath Imrahil’s touch, his body rising to meet the 
man with every thrust, his breathing loud and fast.
 
Still he did not speak. 
 
Imrahil, realising that he could not stay himself much longer, let go of the 
elf’s cock and drew himself out to the limit.  Legolas groaned, and tried to 
move to regain the contact, but was firmly restrained by the man’s hold on 
his hips.
 
“Say it.”  Imrahil’s voice was a low growl.
 
There was a pause, as the elf strove against the hands that held him.
 
“I am yours,”  the sweet words came at last, almost a whisper.  
 
Imrahil pushed in once, slowly, then withdrew again, relishing the sheer 
power of the moment.  The truth of the matter did not concern him; all he 
wanted was the elf’s surrender.
 
“Louder,”  he said,  “Let the sea hear you.”
 
“I am yours, Imrahil!  Finish it, please!”  cried Legolas, his voice full of 
need.
 
Satisfied, Imrahil buried himself once more in hot, tight flesh, and reached 
again for the elf’s cock.  Abandoning his self control, he rammed into the 
golden body almost brutally, leaning forward over the long back as his 
hand sought to maintain the same rhythm as his hips.  The elf’s 
capitulation was complete, and he cried out freely now, his voice blending 
with the man’s as Imrahil groaned and shouted, wordless sounds of 
unashamed bliss.
 
Suddenly, Legolas tensed.  
 
“Yours . . .” he cried again, as he came, spilling into the man’s hand and 
onto the sand beneath.
 
Imrahil felt the spasms in the muscles surrounding him.  The pleasure of it 
was blinding, and he stared unseeing at the sky.  He shouted his lover’s 
name as his whole body shook with the power and depth of his own 
orgasm, the fluid exploding at last from his pulsing cock, deep inside the 
elf.  
 
Collapsed on the sand, they lay together on their sides, Legolas with his 
back against Imrahil’s chest, and for a long time they neither moved nor 
spoke.  Imrahil listened to the sea’s soothing murmur, enjoying the sun on 
his face, the breeze lifting his hair.  His mind felt numb, contentment and 
disbelief suppressing the questions he would eventually have to ask.  
 
He raised a hand to stroke the elf’s hair.
 
Legolas suddenly turned in his arms to face him, and initiated a gentle 
kiss, full of affection and lazy, sated desire.
 
“You know there is a limit to what I can give you,”  he said, when he 
pulled away at last.
 
“Of course I do,”  replied Imrahil.  Whatever his uncertainties, he was 
under no illusions about the elf’s commitment.  
 
“Your heart and spirit are his, and always will be,” he acknowledged.
 
A sudden thrill of daring ran through him, as he thought of the challenge 
he had seen in those blue eyes, and he added,
 
“But for the time that you spend here with me, your body, at least, is 
mine.”
 
Legolas laughed, his eyes sparkling.
 
“I was right to come here,”  he said.  
 
They kissed again, with a little more heat this time.
 
“I have but one question,”  announced Legolas, moments later.
 
“Ask,”  said the man, stroking his lover’s cheek.
 
“Will you submit as willingly to me?”
 
Startled, Imrahil gazed at the elf, and saw both amusement and hunger in 
his face.
 
“Will you make me?”  he asked, surprising himself with his boldness.
 
The smile that spread slowly across Legolas’s face held more than a hint 
of wickedness.  His hand reached under Imrahil’s shirt and found its way 
up beneath the cotton, to his chest.  The man gasped as he felt a sharp tug 
on his nipple, which seemed to send urgent signals directly to his cock.
 
“I think you will find that the prince of Mirkwood is not easily denied,”  
Legolas told him, his voice as smooth as fine silk.
 
“I do not doubt it . . .”  Imrahil managed to say, before the skilled hand 
moved lower and robbed him of the power of speech.
 
It was some time before either felt the need for further words, though 
sounds of pleasure soon mingled with the crash and hiss of waves upon 
the shore, as the sun moved slowly through the bright afternoon sky.
 
Title:  Seascapes  Chapters 7 and 8 
Author:  Capella        c_capella@tiscali.co.uk
Author’s website (notes about the story can be found there):  
www.geocities.com/c_capella2000
Pairing:   Legolas / Imrahil 
Rating:  NC17.   
Summary:  Not all is sweetness and light in the fair coastal city of Dol 
Amroth…
Disclaimer:  Middle Earth and the main characters are Tolkien’s.  No 
harm is intended and no profit made by borrowing them.
Warning :  Set after RotK, so some spoilers for the book at least. Lots of 
original characters.  
Authors Note:   Read ‘Sea Longing’ first, or you will be very confused.  
 
Later chapters beta-read by Elfscribe, to whom MANY thanks.
 
 
 
Chapter 7
 
Warm hands stroking his thighs woke him, some time before daybreak.  
No sudden jolt into consciousness, this, but a slow, insistent pull drawing 
him gently from his dreamless rest into the reality of his pleasure.  For a 
while he lay without thought as the hands, knowing and firm, caressed his 
hips and belly before returning to his thighs and lingering there.  
 
When long fingers delved into the space between his legs, and brushed 
leisurely upwards to fondle the tender sac and the flesh behind, his 
unwitting response betrayed his wakefulness, and he finally opened his 
eyes.
 
The chamber lay in darkness, but for the faint glow emanating from his 
lover’s pale skin, and the shimmering fall of hair that partly covered 
Legolas’s face, as he bent in concentration to his task.  Imrahil remained 
still, feeling himself harden and swell, the convulsive heat of desire 
building in his gut, as the elf’s hands continued their tantalising work.  
Palms slid across skin, now feather-light, now roughly dragging; fingers 
kneaded, nails gently scraped; maddening touches everywhere except his 
aching cock.
 
Just as he reached the point where he knew he could keep still and silent 
no longer, but must cry out for relief or reach to bring it himself, the elf 
bent lower, soft hair fell across him, and he felt the warm, moist tongue 
lick him once, slowly and deliberately, from base to tip.  He groaned, 
shuddering with helpless lust, as Legolas raised his head once more, and 
spoke.
 
“Good morning, lover.”  The voice alone was almost enough to make him 
come.
 
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before replying.
 
“Our exertions must have adversely affected your mind, my lovely elf, if 
you are not aware that it is still night time.”  
 
“I have retained some small measure of wit, my beautiful man, in spite of 
your proximity,”  Legolas retorted briskly.  “Dawn approaches and I 
should return to my chamber, but I would watch you lose yourself in 
pleasure once more before I go.”
 
“I cannot argue with such a proposition,”  said Imrahil, with a dramatic 
sigh. “Therefore I must submit.”
 
Without warning, Legolas wrapped a hand around his cock and held it in a 
firm grip, causing Imrahil to gasp and arch his back.
 
“Oh, not yet,”  the elf murmured, his tone dangerously smooth,  “but you 
shall do so before long, I assure you.”
 
It was only later, when Legolas had silently closed the door of the 
chamber behind him, that Imrahil’s thoughts regained sufficient clarity for 
him to reflect on the wonderfully unpredictable nature of his lover.  Each 
encounter, it seemed, brought something quite new, awakening responses 
that he could not have imagined lying dormant within him.  
 
At times the elf would lie willing and compliant in his arms, his expressive 
blue eyes encouraging Imrahil to claim him forcefully, as on that first 
golden afternoon.  Just as frequently, however, Legolas would assume 
total control, leaving the man to abandon himself to rapture in the 
demanding warrior’s hands.  On occasion their lovemaking was slow and 
sensuous, fuelled, it seemed, as much by the strength of their friendship as 
by the fires of their lust; while sometimes the burning need between them 
threatened to consume them both, and they fell upon each other in hungry 
pursuit of a rapid, violent climax.  
 
Playful and intense, teasing and compassionate, earthy and mysterious; 
Legolas was all of these and so much more besides.  To say that Imrahil 
was captivated by him would be to understate the truth.
 
His mind full of images of the elf, the prince fell into a light, fitful sleep, 
fragmented dreams of passion tormenting him in the absence of his lover.  
When he awoke the morning light was streaming through the window and 
the castle was coming alive.  He was unsurprised to find that he was hard 
and needful once more, and release came quickly in his own hand, as he 
recalled Legolas’s exhaustive conquest of him in those moments before 
dawn.
 
Marvelling at his own capacity for lustful excess, Imrahil finally staggered 
from his bed, and called for a tub of fresh water to sluice his fevered skin.
 
After breakfast the prince, his mind once more on the business of the day, 
headed for his study.  Legolas had been the very soul of propriety at the 
table, and afterwards had tactfully excused himself, saying that he wished 
to meditate at the sea’s edge for a while.  Merenin and Lelneth had 
apparently not yet emerged from their chambers.  Imrahil smiled to 
himself to think that even two weeks of days spent apart, while his son 
took his place in the formalities of the court, must have been difficult for 
the besotted pair.
 
Faithful Heledir sat at the desk, a large pile of papers beside him.  As the 
prince entered the room he looked up, and gave such a broad smile of 
approving welcome that Imrahil was momentarily quite taken aback.  He 
greeted the secretary warmly and took his seat across from him as the man 
cleared his throat.
 
“Sire,”  Heledir bowed his head respectfully.  “It makes my heart happy to 
see you looking so well.”
 
Imrahil kept his expression neutral, in spite of his astonishment at the 
directness of this remark.  He neither liked nor expected servility from his 
staff, but the shy, serious secretary had always adopted a manner both 
formal and deferential in his presence.
 
“Thank you, Heledir,”  he said gravely.  “Now, tell me what new matters 
await my perusal.”
 
The prince and his secretary were barely half way through the stack of 
documents when a confident knock at the study door announced his son’s 
arrival.
 
“Ah, Merenin,”  Imrahil said, not needing to turn to know whose tread was 
crossing the stone floor.  “I had hoped you would join us.”
 
He looked up as the younger man’s hand rested briefly on his shoulder, 
and smiled into the grey-green eyes that were so similar to his own.  
Merenin returned the smile.
 
“Father.  I suppose you want me to explain all that took place in your 
absence?”  
 
“That is hardly necessary; I trust your judgement entirely.  However, 
this,”  he waved a scroll bearing the seal of Pinnath Gelin,  “requires some 
thought.  Did you speak to the messenger?  Did he elaborate?”
 
For a while father and son pored over the papers together.  As ever, 
Imrahil found himself enjoying Merenin’s ready wit and perceptive 
comments.  His son’s merry personality concealed a mind as sharp as a 
newly honed sword when it came to political intrigue and diplomatic 
initiative.  It occurred to him that with Merenin to act as regent, there was 
really no reason why he could not travel from the city more often.  A trip 
to Ithilien in the spring was, after all,  looking more attractive by the day.
 
As the last document was handed to Heledir for filing, Merenin turned 
towards Imrahil and looked him squarely in the eye.  
 
“Now, by your leave, Father, I would talk with you alone.”  he said.
 
Imrahil did not need to wonder what the subject of the talk would be.  
Since childhood, Merenin had found it hard to conceal anything of import 
from him; whether because of some inherited elven trait in their thoughts, 
or simply due to the normal human closeness of father and son, he could 
not say.  He had been well aware of the cause of Merenin’s unease at 
dinner the night before, but had not attempted to broach the issue, 
knowing that his son would come to him in time.  Whatever faults he may 
have, Merenin was not afraid to face difficult facts.
 
“Heledir, you have worked hard enough this morning,”  said the prince.  
“Go now, and spend the afternoon at leisure; enjoy the sun on your face 
for a change.”
 
“Thank you, my lord,”  said Heledir, with a deep bow.  “I may do just 
that.”
 
The two men watched as the door closed behind the departing secretary.
 
“The change in him is most uncanny.”  said Imrahil thoughtfully.  “Did 
you not mark it?”
 
“The same could be said of you, Father,”  responded Merenin in a wry 
tone.
 
Imrahil was impressed; his son was wasting no time in coming to the 
point.  He stood, moved from the desk to one of the more comfortable 
chairs, and gestured to Merenin to do the same.  Once they sat facing each 
other, he spoke.
 
“And that, I assume, is the reason you wished to speak with me?”
 
Merenin nodded.  “You are happy.”  It was a simple statement of fact, 
with no trace of query.
 
“Happier than I have been for some time, yes.”
 
“Because of Legolas.”  
                                                                                                              
Imrahil stared at his son, reading the tension and emotion on his face.  It 
was a while before he answered.
 
“Yes, and because of the insight he has given me into my life,”  he said at 
last.
 
After another pause, Merenin continued,
 
“Do you love him?”
 
Imrahil had expected this question.  In spite of the fact that he had 
deliberately avoided asking himself the same thing a hundred times in the 
past two weeks, he had at least given the matter enough thought to have 
prepared an answer for his son.
 
“There are many shades of love, Merenin,”  he said, with a slight sigh.  
“Legolas is noble and wise, strong and fair; it would be nigh impossible 
not to love him, in some fashion.”
 
“I think you are evading my question, Father,”  replied his son.  “You 
understand my meaning.”
 
“Then let me give you the answer you seek, in spite of your unwillingness 
to ask directly.  He has not replaced your mother in my affections, nor will 
he ever do so, you need have no fear of that.  When I gave my heart to her, 
it was a lifetime commitment.”
 
Imrahil did not speak of the promise he had made to his wife on her 
deathbed: to carry on living life to the full, and to allow himself to love 
again when the time came.  Glantathar had never shied from the 
knowledge that her husband would likely outlive her by decades, and had 
told him many times that the thought of him suffering alone for another 
seventy years was far harder to bear than the prospect of him finding 
peace in the arms of another.  She could not have expected this particular 
turn of events, but he did not believe that she would have been wholly 
dismayed by it.
 
Not for the first time, Merenin’s next words came strangely close to his 
father’s thoughts.
 
“Mother was nothing if not generous,”  he said slowly.  “I do not suppose 
that she would begrudge you some happiness now.”
 
“I realise how difficult it must be for you to accept this,”  Imrahil said.  “It 
came as surprise enough to me.”
 
Merenin turned his face from his father’s gaze at these words, and Imrahil 
heard a note of warning in his mind.  His son’s discomfort was 
unmistakeable, but there was an emotion intertwined with it that he could 
not place; and it worried him.
 
“Does he love you?”  Merenin asked.
 
Did Legolas love him?  Another question that the prince had anticipated, 
but one which was not so easily answered.  That the elf liked and 
respected him was beyond doubt, and his affection was freely given.  But 
what could love mean to such a one as he, bound for eternity in spirit to 
another man?  He had not asked, nor did he expect Legolas to volunteer 
such information.  Indeed, in their quiet moments of peace at the 
waterside, he had come to realise that it did not matter what this gift was 
called; it was a thing of the present, to be taken and enjoyed, without the 
stifling burden of question and anxiety.
 
“I do not know,”  he said, deciding on complete honesty.  “We have not 
discussed the subject.”
 
Father and son stared at each other for a long moment.
 
“I would not have you hurt,”  said Merenin at last.
 
Imrahil smiled.  “You need have no fear on that score,”  he said.  “I have 
few illusions about this friendship and Legolas is an honourable soul.  My 
trust in him is absolute.”
 
His son nodded.  “That, at least, I can understand,”  he conceded.
 
The younger man walked across to the window and gazed out at the sea 
before posing his next question.  “Does he intend to stay here?”  he asked 
tentatively, then turned sharply at Imrahil’s sudden laughter.
 
“Gods, no!”  said the prince.  “I am not about to install him as my consort, 
if that is what you mean.”  
 
Merenin’s irritation was obvious in his reply.  “I meant no such thing!  I 
only wondered . . .”
 
“I know, I am sorry, Merenin.  But can you imagine Ancened’s face?”
 
He was pleased to see his son manage a smile at that.
 
“Legolas has his responsibilities in Ithilien, and I must think of my land 
and my people, for all I have taken leave of my duties these past weeks.  It 
will not be long before he returns to his kin, and life will continue as 
normal.  This is a moment out of time, an interlude, if you like.”  
 
He spoke lightly, but could not suppress a feeling of melancholy at the 
sound of his own words.  There could be no doubt about the eventual 
outcome of this affair, it was true;  the only question was how long they 
had left together.
 
It was clear from the set of Merenin’s shoulders that the news was 
something of a relief to him.  His face and voice, however, held concern.
 
“It will not be easy for you,”  he observed.
 
“I have faced worse trials,”  Imrahil said, gently.
 
Returning to his seat, Merenin brought the conversation round to the 
subject they so often tried to avoid.
 
“How do you think my brother will respond to your friendship with 
Legolas?”  he asked grimly.  “I do not foresee it being easy for him to 
accept.”
 
“Probably not,”  replied the prince, “But accept it he must, for I will not 
hide it from him.”
 
“Have you told Legolas about Celaeren?”  
 
“Of course.”  There had been time enough for such talk during those long 
two weeks, even with the distraction of bodily pleasures so close at hand.  
There were few subjects they had not covered in some form or another; 
and Imrahil had found it soothing to talk to the wise and kindly elf about 
his fears for his younger son.
 
“Elves are great healers, are they not?”  Merenin asked.  “Is there anything 
he can suggest to help?”
 
“I am afraid that Legolas is no expert in the healing arts, and besides, 
Celaeren’s malady is not known amongst elven kind.  They are fond of ale 
and wine, and it is not unheard of for an elf to become foolish through 
drink, but it seems they do not experience the compulsion that afflicts your 
brother.”  Imrahil spoke sadly; the same hopeful thought had occurred to 
him, and Legolas’s response had been a disappointment.
 
“He did offer the observation that this is firstly a sickness of the spirit, and 
that the clue to his cure lies there.”
 
“We both know that to be true,”  said Merenin.  “But how to begin when 
he resists all offers of kindness?  You have tried so much, and I . . . ”
 
“How many times have we spoken thus?”  said Imrahil wearily.  “You 
know it is not your fault; you cannot carry guilt for the sheer accident of 
your birthright.”
“I know that, father, yet his grievance cannot but affect me.”
 
“I understand, Merenin, for I feel it too; yet we must believe that in the 
end love will be stronger than bitterness.”
 
They sat for a time in silence, while Imrahil recalled the elf’s further 
words on the subject.  When he had suggested that there was one who 
might be able to help, Imrahil had at first rejected the notion as ridiculous.  
The King of Gondor had, after all, a thousand more pressing concerns to 
deal with.  Legolas, however, had been insistent.
 
‘You are a friend and a noble comrade; you stood at his side in the hour of 
need.  He cares for you and would willingly offer you help.  And though 
he wears the mantle of a great king, Aragorn will always have the soul of a 
skilled and gentle healer.  Well does he know the ways and failings of 
men; if anyone can help Celaeren, it is he.’
 
The passion in the elf’s tone, as he had spoken thus of his true love, had 
threatened to break Imrahil’s heart, even as he had stored the words away 
to ponder them later.  He had wondered briefly if his own voice held such 
vivid emotion when he talked of Glantathar.
 
Thinking back on the conversation now, the prince found himself nursing 
the faintest spark of hope.  If he did ride to Ithilien and Gondor in the 
spring, he could at least ask Aragorn’s advice.  The peace was holding fast 
and nights in Minas Tirith were long and full of good cheer; there would 
be ample time for honest talk with the wise and compassionate king.  
Maybe nothing would come of it, but at least Imrahil would not be too 
proud to ask.  If he had learned nothing else from Legolas in these few 
glorious days, he had come to understand that he gained nothing by 
holding his cares fast to his heart; if fate – or the gods -  had blessed him 
with such extraordinary friends, perhaps it was time for him to use the gift 
more fruitfully.
 
For now, however, there remained his older son, who had overcome his 
own unease to face his father and set matters to rights between them.  
 
Imrahil stood and Merenin did likewise.  Smiling, father and son 
embraced, with almost palpable relief.  His hands on Merenin’s shoulders, 
the prince stood back.
 
“My son, you are ever a joy to me,”  he said.  “And I thank you for 
coming here this morning to speak of these things.  Your open heart does 
you credit.  I am sorry for your discomfort, but hope you will find it within 
you to understand.”
 
“Give credit where it is due, Father,”  Merenin replied with a grin.  “I 
would not have found it so easy to accept had my wife not taught me some 
sense.”
 
Imrahil laughed.  “You are a lucky man, indeed,”  he said.  “I do not have 
to tell you  to cherish her.”
 
“No, thank you, my lord,”  said Merenin, making a deep bow that 
mimicked Heledir’s with disturbing accuracy.  “And by your leave, I may 
go now to do just that.”
 
As his son left the study, Imrahil reflected on all that had been left unsaid 
between them.  Perhaps it was better this way, with Merenin’s acceptance 
and understanding tacitly implied rather than made explicit.  He had the 
distinct impression, however, that there was rather more to it than that.  
 
‘No matter,’  he thought, moving to the door to summon Neledhen, ‘No 
doubt all will become clear eventually.  It is only a question of time.’
 
With that he went into the bedchamber to change his clothes, before 
venturing down to the beach to find his lover.
 
 
 
Chapter 8
 
Heledir stared into his glass, and wished, for the tenth time at least, that he 
had refused his brother-in-law’s invitation, and stayed at the castle that 
night.  
 
There was nothing wrong with the ale itself, of course; not for nothing did 
the Ship and Swan have a good reputation amongst the city’s drinkers.  
The clientele left rather more to be desired, however.  Although the night 
was yet young, copious quantities of beer and wine had already been 
consumed, and the groups at several tables were becoming increasingly 
boisterous.  Heledir felt himself to be acutely out of place, and wished that 
the hour would pass quickly so that he could excuse himself without being 
too discourteous.
 
It was not that he did not like his brother-in-law.  Alagaer was a decent 
enough man, and treated Heledir’s sister well; but he had little in common 
with the secretary himself, and would not have sought his company simply 
for the pleasure of it.  Heledir had known from the outset that this was a 
meeting with a definite agenda, and had agreed to attend only for his 
sister’s sake.
 
As the oldest and most well-educated child in the family, he was quite 
accustomed to being asked for advice on a wide variety of subjects.  His 
position at the castle, at the right hand of the prince, gave him a unique 
status amongst his relatives and acquaintances - one which he would have 
been far happier without.  Discretion came naturally to Heledir, and he 
admired Prince Imrahil with a fervour that came close to adoration.  As a 
result, he found the frequent requests for privileged information, covering 
anything from pure gossip to matters of  business, almost painful.  At the 
same time, his quiet and self-effacing manner made it hard for him to 
rebuff such demands outright; thus over the years he had become highly 
skilled in the art of using many words to say virtually nothing.  Tonight 
was no exception to the rule.
 
He took a swig of the rich, dark brew, hoping that it might relax him a 
little.  If there had been no reason for him to guard his speech, he might 
have drained the glass and demanded another, finding some peace in 
gentle intoxication.  In reality he could do no such thing; decent as 
Alagaer was, he wanted information as they always did, and would have 
no hesitation about prying it out of him in a drunkenly careless moment.
 
He listened to the other man’s story about a complicated land acquisition 
on the Anfalas border, and asked a few pertinent questions, enough to 
feign interest.  When the inevitable request for advice came, he spoke for a 
while in general terms, measuring his words carefully.  He took care not to 
betray his knowledge of a report, which had landed on the prince’s desk 
only a week or two before, detailing the interests of a certain wealthy 
southerner in the same area.
 
Alagaer was no fool, and Heledir could sense his disappointment at the 
vague response.  No doubt he was well aware that the secretary knew far 
more than he was willing to tell.  Heledir felt some sympathy for the man, 
who was only trying to provide for his family, Heledir’s own kin at that.  
Nonetheless, he could not afford to weaken; he would say nothing more.  
 
The conversation circled aimlessly for a while, before Alagaer excused 
himself somewhat grumpily and left the table to relieve himself.  Alone 
with his ale, Heledir surveyed the room cautiously, wondering briefly if he 
envied the carefree revellers around him, arguing, gossiping and flirting 
with the serving maids, without concern for their words.  He knew it to be 
an idle thought, as he would not trade his position for any in Middle Earth, 
and as surely as he breathed he would never knowingly allow himself to 
let Prince Imrahil down.
 
A sudden commotion drew his eye to the men entering the tavern door.  
Catching sight of the individual at the centre of the group, arms around 
two of his friends as if for support, Heledir felt his heart sink down to his 
stomach.  He dropped his eyes and hunched down over his glass, praying 
to remain unnoticed.  From the corner of his eye he watched with relief as 
the noisy troupe settled at a table on the far side of the room, near the 
door, and as Prince Celaeren sank onto a bench with his back to him, he 
started to breathe again.  He recognised at least two of the other young 
noblemen, but was quite sure that none of them would know him.  
 
It should have come as no surprise to Heledir to see Dol Amroth’s 
youngest prince here, in one of the city’s finest taverns.  Celaeren had 
returned from Anfalas some three days before, and it had been  clear from 
the first evening that his trip had done nothing to reduce his appetite for 
fine wine and ale.  Be that as it may, the possibility had not crossed the 
secretary’s mind; but now that the prince was here, he knew quite well that 
it was not a turn of events to be welcomed.
 
Heledir picked up his glass and drank in earnest, determined to drain it 
quickly.  He would finish his ale, and as soon as Alagaer came back, he 
would make some excuse and leave.  The night would end without 
incident, and he would return to the castle.
 
It soon became apparent why his brother-in-law had been gone so long, 
for when Alagaer returned, he was carrying two brimming glasses, and 
showed no signs of setting them down.
 
“Come, Heledir,”  he said,  “I have some business to do with my 
neighbours over there.”  
 
He gestured with his head towards a group of farming types sitting near 
the prince and his friends.
 
“Will you join us?  I am sorry, but I urgently need to speak with them and 
it will not take long.”
 
Heledir shook his head, trying to suppress his anxiety.  Most likely 
Alagaer had not noticed Prince Celaeren in the noisy party by the door, 
and Heledir had no wish to draw his attention to the royal presence.
 
“No, better that you conclude your business in peace, and join me again 
when you finish,”  he said firmly.
 
Alagaer looked narrowly at him, but placed one of the tankards before him 
without comment, then crossed the room to his neighbour’s table.
 
Later, Heledir would wonder why he did not simply leave the drink and 
walk quietly out of the tavern.  Hindsight and wisdom so often go hand in 
hand; but on this occasion his every instinct was giving him the same 
message, at the time when action would have been appropriate.  He could 
easily have slipped away unnoticed, and contacted Alagaer later to offer 
his apologies; his brother-in-law would not have been impressed, but 
nothing terrible would have come of it.
 
Yet instead he stayed, sipping his drink, watching the group of noblemen 
with grim fascination as they called for more ale and wine, lunged at the 
passing serving maids and made extravagant gestures as they laughed and 
sang.  Quite clearly they were all inebriated, although Celaeren seemed 
rather less animated than the others.
 
Eventually it occurred to Heledir that he would be less likely to be seen if 
his back was towards those whom he wished to avoid.  Accordingly he 
moved to the other bench and stared unseeingly at the wall before him, 
wondering, as he had so many times before, what would become of the 
unhappy prince. 
 
Heledir had grown up in the castle, since his father and mother were both 
in service there.  He was some eight years older than Celaeren, and had 
many vivid memories of the boy as he grew from infancy to young 
adulthood.  The prince had been a happy, lively child, always laughing 
and playing ingenious pranks on his brother and the other children of the 
castle.  He had adored Merenin; ten years his senior, the older prince had 
been his idol, his greater strength, speed and wit setting the targets for 
Celaeren himself to aspire towards.
 
It was said that the parents knew as soon as the baby was born, and as the 
boy grew, it rapidly became clear to everyone around him that he would 
never match his brother.  At what stage Celaeren himself realised that he 
had not inherited all the royal gifts of the house of Dol Amroth, Heledir 
could never be sure.  Certainly he must have known many years before the 
first growth of dark hair on his face, the clearest sign of his purely mortal 
heritage, appeared.  
 
It was no surprise, of course, to anyone else in the castle.  Heledir’s father 
had explained to him quite early on that only one or two in any generation 
of royal children carried the elven blood in their veins.  Princess Lothiriel, 
lovely and wise as she was, did not have it; but unlike her younger brother, 
it seemed that she did not find the fact a cause for bitterness.
 
Celaeren had grown into a tall and handsome young man, dark haired and 
grey eyed like his Numenorean ancestors, traits he shared with the 
majority of  the upper classes of Belfalas.  In a crowd of men, he would 
stand out as a nobleman of high birth.  But next to his father and brother, 
with their strikingly angular, smooth-skinned faces and their unusual long-
limbed grace, he looked almost commonplace.  
 
He had trained hard, always striving to equal his brother in the arts of war, 
never allowing himself any leeway for Merenin’s natural advantage.  For 
years he had driven himself relentlessly, but at some point, the fact that he 
could never be all that his brother was had undone him.  Bursts of violent 
temper and cruel wit signalled his resentment, and he began to drink 
heavily.
 
While Princess Glantathar had lived, the problem had been limited to the 
occasional scuffle in a tavern after a night of heavy drinking, or the 
embarrassment of the prince being escorted to his chamber after excessive 
behaviour at dinner in the Great Hall.  After the death of his beloved 
mother, however, Celaeren had slipped further under the control of his 
addiction, and there seemed to be little that could be done to help him.  
 
The young prince had gathered around him a group of noblemen’s sons 
who shared his love of ale and wine.  Heledir could well believe that some 
of them also nursed grievances as bitter as Celaeren’s own; he had enjoyed 
the study of history, and knew well that men were ever prone to jealous 
resentment, especially where long life, health and strength were 
concerned.  Privately the secretary thought that living twice as long as all 
those around you would be more curse than blessing; but he realised that 
there were far too many who did not see it that way.
 
Whatever their motivations, Celaeren’s clique saw to it that his behaviour 
was allowed to continue.  If Prince Imrahil tried to stop his son drinking 
by restricting his access to alcohol, there would always be somebody to 
supply him with a glass or a bottle.  Short of locking the young man up 
entirely, a measure which Heledir knew he would never be persuaded to 
take, the prince could not keep his son apart from his nemesis.  He 
therefore tried to limit the damage, setting his most trusted guards to 
watch Celaeren discreetly, with instructions to step in if matters got out of 
hand.
 
Strangely, there seemed to be no guards present tonight, unless they were 
waiting surreptitiously outside the tavern.  Heledir had the uneasy feeling 
that this was not the case, and that they had somehow been shaken off by 
the group of young men much earlier in the evening.  If this was so, there 
was all the more reason for him to creep out of the tavern and return to the 
castle, before Celaeren and his friends grew even more raucous. 
 
He lifted the glass to his lips for one last swig before leaving, but a hand 
laid without warning on his shoulder caused him to start violently, and 
drops of ale spattered on his chest.  He froze, heart pounding, at the sound 
of the very last voice he wanted to hear.
 
“King-fisher!”  Celaeren said in his unmistakeable mocking tones.  “What 
brings you here so far from your nest?”
 
As Heledir turned, he could smell the wine on the prince’s breath, along 
with the strange unhealthy sweetness that seemed always to lurk around 
the man.  The hand on his shoulder was heavy, and the words deliberately 
slow.  Daring a glance at the prince’s face, Heledir saw that the grey eyes 
were fully focussed on him, and held a strange, intense expression.  He 
was not completely intoxicated, then, but no doubt the wine had put him in 
a dangerous, unpredictable mood.
 
Two of the other noblemen stood  behind the prince, to either side of him.  
One was a man of some twenty-five years, whom Heledir vaguely 
recognised.  The other, with his gingery-red hair and beard, did not appear 
to be a man of Belfalas at all.  Both were grinning broadly, and apparently 
waiting for their leader to speak again.
 
“S..s..sire,”  Heledir managed to stutter, nausea rising in his stomach as he 
wondered how he could possibly escape.
 
Celaeren turned to his red-haired companion.  “This, my friends, is my 
father’s most trusted servant, his faithful secretary, the . . . reliable . . . 
Master Kingfisher,” he said.  “He who is privy to all the secrets of the 
royal household.”
 
The two men sniggered, as the prince leaned heavily on Heledir’s shoulder 
and lifted his leg unsteadily over the bench to sit astride it, facing the 
secretary, uncomfortably close to him.  
 
“So tell me, Master Kingfisher,”  Celaeren leaned in closer, causing 
Heledir to flinch away before he could stop himself.  “What do you make 
of our lovely visitor from the North?”
 
Rigid with dismay, Heledir sat speechless.  Of course Celaeren would ask 
him about the elf.  Since the younger prince’s return, the atmosphere in the 
castle had been unusually tense, and Celaeren had seemed quietly sullen, 
watching Prince Legolas intently during mealtimes in the Great Hall.  
Heledir could not understand why the elf remained at the castle under the 
circumstances; he was due to leave for Ithilien any day now, and surely 
the young man’s attitude could not have escaped him.
 
“Well?”  said Celaeren, placing his hand on Heledir’s arm and shoving 
him lightly.  The secretary realised that he was not going to be allowed to 
remain silent.
 
“My lord,”  he said, desperately searching for non-committal words.  “It is 
not for one such as me to comment on the royal guests.”
 
“Oh come now, Kingfisher,”  the prince responded, his hand still in place, 
now taking a gripping hold.  “I and my friends would hear your thoughts 
on my father’s new obsession.”
 
The vile insinuation behind the words made Heledir’s face burn and his 
eyes sting.  Avoiding Celaeren’s gaze, he stared at the table and held his 
tongue.
 
“Come, speak,”  the prince’s tone was threatening now, and the pressure 
of his hand increased.  
 
The stricken secretary was vaguely aware of the other two men standing 
close behind him, bending towards him to hear his answer.
 
“You sit all day in that study, and you hear everything that goes on.  Tell 
us what you think of the pretty creature who has so thoroughly bewitched 
my fool of a father.”
 
Something in Heledir seemed to break at this, and he turned to face his 
tormentor.  His voice, when it came, was clear and free of any hint of a 
stammer.
 
“Prince Legolas is a hero of the Great War,”  he said.  “He fought bravely 
at the King’s side, and he is both noble and wise.  It seems to me that he is 
a most fitting friend for Prince Imrahil.”  
 
For a moment none of the men spoke.  Heledir turned back to the table and 
sat, awaiting the terrible consequences of his overly bold words.
 
Suddenly Celaeren leaned even further in, until his face was almost 
touching Heledir’s.  The alcohol fumes coming off him were almost 
overwhelming.  
 
The secretary closed his eyes as the prince hissed,  “Friend?  Is that what 
you think?  Would not concubine be a better term?  Or perhaps harlot?”
 
Heledir had not believed that his misery could become any deeper, but the 
prince had proved him wrong.  He hung his head in shame, feeling the 
fingers digging into his arm, and prayed for the moment to end.
 
“Look at me, Heledir!”  Celaeren’s tone was no longer sly, but cold, and 
full of command.  The secretary had no choice but to turn and meet his 
gaze.
 
For a long while the two men stared at each other, Heledir at first 
struggling to keep his face still and to meet the bitterness in the other’s 
eyes without shying away.  He swallowed hard, but held his silence.  As 
the time went on, however, he found himself raising his head and his 
resolve strengthening.  Let Celaeren strike him, let him do his worst.  
Heledir would not sully the names of his master and the elven prince by 
replying.  Calm at the last, he waited for the blow to fall.
 
Suddenly Celaeren laughed loudly, and the clutching hand on his arm was 
removed, only to clap him soundly on the back.  The prince held out a 
hand to one of his friends, and got to his feet with the man’s help.
 
“You serve my father well, Kingfisher,”  he said, in an oddly warm tone.
 
“No doubt the same could be said of the elf,”  responded the red-haired 
man with an unpleasant leer, and the three began to laugh as they turned 
back to their own table.
 
Heledir sat stock still for a few minutes, thanking the gods that his ordeal 
was over.  Once he was sure that the other men must be settled in their 
places, he rose and turned towards the door.  Alagaer was still in 
conversation with his neighbours; across the smokey, bustling tavern he 
had apparently noticed nothing.  Heledir made a rapid decision, pulled his 
cloak hood across his face, and scurried to the entrance without glancing 
at the tables to either side.
 
Once outside the tavern, he let his hood drop, stood for a moment 
breathing deeply in the clean night air, and allowed his eyes to close.  
They opened again suddenly, however, at the sound of a taunting voice at 
his side.
 
“Kingfisher!”
 
He whirled around to find the red-haired man, and another, tall and dark, 
unknown to him.  His heart sank at the looks on their faces, and the certain 
knowledge of what was about to occur.
 
Before he could run, the redhead grabbed his arm and dragged him to the 
side of the alleyway.
 
“So you would defy your prince?”  the man sneered.  “It seems to me that 
you could use a lesson in humility.”
 
And so it began; a sharp rain of blows to his chest, stomach and arms, 
causing him to back into the wall and double over.  Even through his fear 
and pain, Heledir realised that the men knew what they were doing, and 
were not aiming for lasting, serious harm. He knew he should be relieved 
at this, but instead felt only the humiliation of utter helplessness.  
 
At least it was over quickly.  A final swinging punch connected with his 
face, snapping his head back and making him see stars.  By the time he 
could focus once more on the scene around him, the men were gone, and 
he was alone in the alley, totally defeated, blood from his face mingling 
with his tears.
 
The walk back to the castle was difficult, but at least it seemed that the 
pains in his chest were the result of bruising, and that nothing was actually 
broken.  When he reached home, he pulled his cloak hood up to avoid the 
friendly gaze of the guards at the gates, crept in through the kitchen 
entrance, and managed to steal through the quiet corridors to his tiny 
chamber without being detected.  
 
He cleaned himself up as well as he could and took himself despondently 
to bed, wondering what excuse he could possibly find to explain the black 
eye, which would no doubt be fully formed by the morning.  As he shifted 
uncomfortably on the hard mattress, trying in vain to find a position in 
which his torso would ache a little less, he decided that a partial form of 
the truth would serve him best.  He would say that he had been dragged 
into a tavern brawl against his will, by drunken men he did not know, and 
had received the punch while trying to flee.  It was a common enough 
story; there was no reason why anybody should question it.
 
After two hours or so of tossing and turning, Heledir decided that trying to 
sleep was useless.  The air in the chamber was stifling, and he could find 
no comfort in the bed.  A sudden whim took him, and he knew at once 
how to find some respite from his unhappy thoughts, if nothing else.
 
Rising from the bed, he pulled on a pair of leggings under his nightshirt, 
and donned his cloak and boots.  Down through the sleeping castle he 
went, to the tiny door where a guard dozed peacefully.  Heledir had known 
him since childhood, and had no wish to bring him trouble, so he gently 
spoke the man’s name and told him of his wish.  The guard nodded 
wearily, rubbing his eyes, then opened the door for him.  
 
Fresh salt air hit Heledir’s face as he descended the worn stone stairway.  
The night was still and quiet, the water, dark and mysterious, rippling 
gently under the moonlight.  As ever, he found the sight both soothing and 
unsettling, the vastness of the ocean stilling his immediate thoughts, but 
waking in him instead a strange yearning, for lands and adventures yet 
unknown.  He settled on a flat rock with his eyes on the horizon, and 
allowed his mind to empty of everything but the sea.
 
He did not know how much time had passed when he became aware of 
another’s presence.  Turning his head slowly, he winced at the stiffness in 
his cold neck, then stopped, staring in disbelief at the figure beside him. 
 
Prince Legolas stood quite still, only a few feet away, looking directly at 
Heledir.  The light of the moon was enough to give his white shirt and his 
skin a silvery colour, and to show the expression of gentle concern on his 
face.
 
Heledir leapt to his feet, barely stifling a yelp of pain at the sudden 
movement.  “Prince Legolas, I am sorry, I . . .”  straightening, he fought to 
pull himself together.  “I am sorry, I did not know that you would be 
coming here.  I shall go immediately.”
 
“Please, do not go.”  The elf’s voice was quiet, yet full of musical depth 
that made Heledir shiver.  “I should be most offended if you ran off so 
quickly.  It is I who should apologise; I had no wish to disturb you.”
 
Something in his tone made Heledir sit down once more.  He found that he 
could not take his eyes from the elf’s face, although he knew he should not 
be staring.
 
“Master Heledir, is it not?”  Legolas said.  
 
The man could only nod in reply.
 
“Such a beautiful name,”  the elf mused, and Heledir knew instantly that 
he would never again question his mother’s choice, which had led to so 
many unkind jibes at his expense over the years.
 
Prince Legolas took a step closer.  “You are hurt,”  he observed.
 
“It is nothing, sire, the result of a foolish tavern brawl, no more.”  The 
man dropped his eyes as he spoke.
 
“You do not strike me as the sort of man to seek such trouble.”  A shock 
ran through Heledir as the elf’s hand gently held his chin, and raised his 
face once more.  
 
“This eye needs some treatment,”  Legolas said.  “When we return to the 
castle, I will bring you some ointment for it.  What of your other wounds?  
I could see that it hurt you to move.”
 
“Bruises, nothing more,”  breathed Heledir, unable to resist the elf’s 
words, though he was deeply embarrassed to be the subject of such 
attention.  
 
To the man’s amazement, Legolas crouched down in front of him and 
moved the hand from his chin to his shoulder.  “How did this fight 
happen?”  he asked gently.  “You are not a violent man.”
 
Heledir opened his mouth to tell his amended version of the truth, but 
what came out was rather different.  Afterwards he would be unable to 
explain why he had said so much; at the time it simply seemed natural.
 
“I was in a tavern with my brother-in-law, when a group of men 
approached me.  They questioned me and I could not turn them away, for 
there were men of . . . noble birth . . . amongst them. Yet I could not 
answer them as they wished, for their words would dishonour me and 
those I hold dear.  Two of their number decided to each me a lesson in 
humility.  There was nothing I could do.  They were drunk, but strong.”
 
Legolas’s eyes, level with his own, gazed at him with compassion, as he 
sat numbed by his own lack of discretion.
 
“Do not worry, good Master Heledir,”  the elf said.  “It is better to speak 
of such things than to bear the pain alone.  You may tell me more of it if 
you wish, or I can return to the castle and send for another to sit with you.”
 
“No!”  Heledir forgot to speak politely in his terror.  “I can tell nobody of 
it, least of all . . .”  he stopped, realising what that what he was about to 
say would give away more than he wished.  But the damage, it seemed, 
was already done, for the elf’s eyes widened in understanding.  He 
wondered briefly whether Legolas was in fact reading his mind.
 
“I see,”  the elf said sadly.  “It does not surprise me that men speak badly 
of my friendship with the prince.  We had foreseen it, but still it wearies 
my heart.”
 
After a pause Legolas spoke again.  “Tell me, Master Heledir, there is 
much resentment towards elven-kind amongst the people of Belfalas, is 
there not?”
 
“Aye, men are foolish, as they ever were.”  In spite of himself, the man 
warmed to the subject.  “It seems we learn little from history.  The 
bitterness that led to the fall of Numenor is still to be found here, wherever 
a group of malcontents may gather.”
 
“Do you not understand it?”  asked the elf.
 
“Yes and no,”  replied Heledir.  “I understand that they envy your 
immortality, seeing it as the greatest of gifts.  Yet I cannot share that 
view.  How weary must the prospect of eternal life be, even if your kin are 
granted the same, and you never have to stand by helplessly, as those you 
love die.”
 
Legolas stared at him silently for a long time, and even in the moon’s pale 
light his eyes seemed to glow brightly blue.  “Then you are uncommonly 
wise as well as loyal, Master Heledir,”  he said at last.  “For you 
understand why my people regard your passage from this world as a 
unique blessing.”
 
The elf rose to his feet once more, and stepped back a little.
 
“I would rest a while here,”  he said, “and let the sea calm my thoughts. 
Will it trouble you if I stay?”
 
Heledir thought for a moment before replying.  “No, indeed, sire.  I find 
that your company soothes me greatly.”  He was astonished, both by the 
truth of his words, and by his own boldness in saying them.  Never had he 
known himself to be so forward. 
 
So the elf settled himself cross-legged on the shingle, and gazed out across 
the dark water.  Heledir watched him for a while before turning his own 
face back to the horizon, and allowing his eyes to relax their focus.  
 
Too much had happened for him to comprehend straight away; he could 
not attempt to sort through it all at once.  As his mind began clear once 
more, the confusion of thoughts fading slowly, he held on to only one 
certainty. After the strangeness of this night, he knew that nothing in his 
life would ever be quite the same again.
 
 
Title:  Seascapes  Chapters 9 and 10 
Author:  Capella        c_capella@tiscali.co.uk
Author’s website (notes about the story can be found there):  
www.geocities.com/c_capella2000
Pairing:   Legolas / Imrahil 
Rating:  NC17.   
Summary:  An elf cannot stay for ever in the world of men.  Will he leave 
hearts broken in his wake? 
Disclaimer:  Middle Earth and the main characters are Tolkien’s.  No 
harm is intended and no profit made by borrowing them.
Warning :  Yikes!  Short HET scene at the beginning of chapter 9.  Just lie 
back and think of England; it will be over soon.
Set after RotK, so some spoilers for the book at least. Lots of original 
characters.  
Authors Note:   Read ‘Sea Longing’ first, or you will be very confused.  
 
Later chapters beta-read by Elfscribe, to whom MANY thanks.
 
If you’ve enjoyed this or have something to say about it, I’d LOVE 
feedback.
 
 
 
Chapter 9
 
Merenin propped himself up on one elbow to look down at his lovely 
wife.  Lelneth’s face was rosily flushed, and the sweet colour spread down 
her neck and across her firm, ample breasts.  She lay unashamed with her 
arms behind her head, gazing up at him with a smile so full of lazy 
satisfaction, it could almost be described as smug.
 
“Do you know, my love,”  she said, laughter in her voice, “I do not believe 
I shall ever tire of this.”
 
He ran a hand over the gentle swell of her belly, and watched her eyelids 
half close in response.
 
“You may be the death of me yet,”  he replied, “but I shall certainly die a 
happy man.”
 
His hand strayed lower, fingers pushing through the tight curls of hair to 
the softer flesh, still hot and slippery with their mingled fluids.  Watching 
Lelneth’s face intently, he slid two fingers inside her, while his thumb 
sought her clitoris with the unerring ease of long practice.  She gasped, 
closing her eyes and raising her knees slightly, losing herself in the 
irresistible rhythm of his touch.
 
“Open your eyes, sweetheart,”  he said after a while, when her quickened 
breathing and the movement of her hips told him of her approaching 
climax,  “and look at me.”
 
Her eyes opened slowly, and then wider still, as she came for the third 
time that morning, moaning and shuddering under her husband’s hand.
 
He slid his arm out from beneath him to lie full length at her side as she 
calmed.  He kissed the soft skin of her shoulder, and blew gently over the 
dampness left by his mouth, watching at close range as the downy hairs 
rose on end.  His heart ached with love for her.
 
“They would have to lay me to rest in a wooden box, before I could tire of 
you,”  he whispered.
 
A little later he rose and called for warm water, before walking to the 
west-facing window.  
 
“Another glorious day, love.  Shall we ride out?”  he asked.
 
“Perhaps.  What are your father’s plans?”  she responded.
 
“Oh, he will hear petitions all morning, and probably much of the 
afternoon.  Half of Belfalas has chosen this week to seek his judgement 
and favour; I rather think their real purpose is to catch sight of the famous 
elven warrior.”
 
“Then we should ask Prince Legolas to ride with us.  He will find little 
pleasure here under the circumstances, and would probably welcome the 
chance to escape the castle walls.” 
 
Merenin turned to his wife and studied her expression of assumed 
innocence.  
 
“In truth, I think you simply seek to enjoy his company yourself,” he said, 
teasingly.
 
“And would it prove such an onerous burden to you?”  she asked, an arch 
smile on her lips.
 
This was not a line of questioning that Merenin wished to pursue, so he 
promptly changed the subject.  “What about Celaeren?”
 
“What about him?  I doubt very much that he would choose to come with 
us, even if you decided to ask him.”
 
“He can be charming enough.”
 
“Aye,”  she said dryly, “so long as we ride out before lunch.”
 
She must have read his feelings on his face, for she softened almost 
immediately.
 
“I am sorry.  He is your brother, and you love him.  I understand that,”  
she said.  “But I grow so tired of watching you and your father worrying 
about him, and trying to appease him, only to be disappointed every time.”
 
“I know, Lelneth.  But what can we do?  We can not give up on him 
because of this . . .  this sickness he suffers from.”  He turned back to the 
window and stared out despondently.
 
Lelneth’s soft footsteps crossed the floor quickly, and her arms pushed 
beneath his to meet around his chest.  He leaned back slightly into the 
comforting warmth of her naked body against his, and sighed.
 
“Courage, husband,”  she murmured.  “I do not believe, even now, that it 
is a sickness beyond cure.”
 
Merenin shut his eyes and allowed himself to relax in his wife’s loving 
embrace for a moment, until the servant’s knock drew them apart once 
more.
 
The Great Hall was nearly empty by the time the couple descended to 
break their fast.  Belgan informed Merenin that Prince Imrahil and his 
elven guest had already eaten, in a tone of such politeness that it could 
only indicate disapproval, although Merenin could not be sure whether he 
or his father were its object.  Lelneth, when questioned, had no doubts 
about the matter.
 
“Your father, of course.  Apart from Ancened and Celaeren, Belgan is the 
only one in the castle who has not been totally won over by Prince 
Legolas; and you know that in his eyes you can do no wrong.”
 
Celaeren, it seemed, had not appeared at the table.  Merenin knew that this 
was not at all unusual, as his brother rarely ate before midday.  Quite 
likely he was already in the training yard, punishing himself for last 
night’s excesses and swearing never to drink again.  Merenin resolved to 
find him straight away after breakfast, and invite him to ride down the 
coast with them.  He would seek out his brother and gauge his response, 
before deciding whether to approach the elf.  Legolas would no doubt be 
easy to find, as he seemed to spend much of his time, when Imrahil was 
otherwise occupied, sitting on the beach and gazing silently out at the sea.
 
As he walked through the great courtyard towards the archway, Merenin 
could hear nothing to indicate that any training was in progress in the long 
walled space beyond.  He was hardly surprised; in these days of peace the 
fair knights of Dol Amroth were happily settled on their rural estates, and 
the castle’s garrison had been reduced to a handful of guards, comfortable 
family men every one, who showed little inclination for such strenuous 
activity so soon after breakfast.
 
On the slim chance that he might yet find his brother, perhaps pausing to 
clean his sword or taking a swig from a skin of water, Merenin passed into 
the shade of the wide stone arch.  Before he could emerge into the sun 
once more, he stopped short in astonishment. Celaeren was nowhere to be 
seen, but the yard was not deserted.
 
Prince Legolas crouched with his back to Merenin, hands moving swiftly 
about his work as he trimmed and fletched a long, silver-tipped arrow.  A 
smallish bow lay on the ground beside him, and his quiver stood 
alongside.  The elf was dressed in hunting leathers, green and brown, and 
his hair was pulled into braids and tied at the back of his head.  As 
Merenin watched, he finished his task and dropped the arrow into the 
quiver, before leaping to his feet and slinging it across his shoulder, with 
the fluid confidence of one who has performed the same movement 
thousands of times before.  
 
‘Many thousands of times,’ the man reflected.  
 
Merenin could not bring himself to speak, to announce his presence, as the 
elf picked up his bow.  He had yet to witness a demonstration of Legolas’s 
legendary battle skills, for to the best of his knowledge the elf had laid 
aside his weapons for the duration of his stay at the castle.  It came to him 
with sudden certainty that there could be only one reason for him to take 
them up again now: Legolas would be leaving Dol Amroth soon.
 
Before he could fully examine his reaction to this revelation, Legolas 
began to shoot.  Merenin gazed in stupefied silence as the elf loosed arrow 
after arrow from the singing bow, following each with the next so quickly, 
the man could not properly follow his movements.  There were four 
targets at the far end of the yard, and Legolas aimed a single arrow at each 
in turn, left to right and back again, until finally his quiver was empty and 
a cluster of gold-fletched shafts marked the centre of each red circle.  
 
The whole display had taken seconds.
 
As he watched Legolas cross the yard to collect his arrows, moving with 
his habitual feline grace, Merenin realised that he was holding his breath 
and that his skin was tingling.  A curious feeling of queasy excitement 
rose in him.  
 
‘I should not be watching this.’  The thought entered his mind and stayed 
there, as his heart began to beat far louder and faster than was right.  He 
knew that the only course of action was to flee, to forget what he had seen 
and how the elf’s extraordinary speed and skill had stirred him, bringing 
undeniable confirmation of the suspicions of the last few days.
 
At the very moment when his body at last decided to obey his brain’s 
commands, and he turned to leave the yard, Legolas called his name and 
he knew he was lost.
 
“Prince Merenin.”
 
He spun round to see the elf walking towards him, a smile of welcome on 
his beautiful face.
 
“Prince Legolas, good morning,”  Merenin said, then waited foolishly, 
since he did not know what else to say.
 
The elf stood a few feet away and regarded him calmly.  “Do you come to 
train?”  he enquired.  “I would gladly fence with you a while, for your 
father assures me that your skill with the sword outstrips his own.”
 
“I am not sure if that is true,”  replied Merenin, thinking fast.
 
The idea of entering into the strangely formal dance of swordplay with the 
graceful elf was enticing, to say the least; and for this very reason he knew 
he should back away.  Yet he could hardly refuse Legolas’s suggestion 
without discourtesy to his father’s guest.  
 
“But I should be honoured to join you,”  he finished.
 
Together they entered the small armourer’s store that led off the side of 
the yard,  Merenin acutely conscious of the spare, elegant figure treading 
so lightly at his side.  He tried to concentrate on the weapons, and chose a 
long, fine sword which he proffered, hilt first, to Legolas.
 
“It surprises me, that you choose to travel without your own,”  he said, 
needing to break the silence.
 
“My bow and knives serve me well enough.”  The elf smiled, and 
accepted the weapon with a slight nod, before taking it out into the 
sunlight to inspect its blade and make a few experimental swings. 
 
Merenin found one of his own swords, and grasped its familiar contours 
with relief.  The weight of it in his hand comforted him, and focussed his 
mind on the challenge of meeting a swift and agile opponent, who would 
fight in unfamiliar style.  Since boyhood Merenin had always excelled at 
swordplay above all other arts of combat; he determined that on this 
occasion he would retain his honour, come what may.
 
They began slowly, dancing around each other, each trying to find the 
measure of the other.  It struck Merenin almost at once that they were of 
virtually the same height, but that his own shoulders were somewhat 
broader; the elf was undoubtedly quicker than him, but he may have the 
advantage of strength.  He lunged, almost playfully, testing Legolas’s 
response.  The parry came swiftly, as expected, but without undue force.  
Catching the elf’s eye, he realised that Legolas too was holding himself 
back.  Merenin grinned, and saw the response on the other’s lips that 
signalled the start of a fight in earnest.
 
The speed and intensity of their contest increased, yet paradoxically each 
move, for Merenin, became clearer, held in its own distinct moment in 
time.  He knew this feeling of old, the strange joy of combat, the 
narrowing of his concentration until nothing existed but himself, his 
opponent, and the clash of metal between them.  There was a peculiar 
symmetry to their movements, a sinuous lightness to their dance, quite 
unlike the heavy-handed aggression of a bout with the men of the guards, 
with whom he usually trained.
 
If Legolas had not stopped the contest, Merenin could not have said how it 
would end, for the two were indeed well matched.  The elf lifted his blade 
and stepped back with a small motion of his head to signal a pause.  
Merenin dropped his sword-arm to his side and nodded, unable to keep the 
smile from his face.  He was breathing hard, and his blood pulsed rich 
with life.
 
“Your father spoke the truth,”  said Legolas, evenly, as if he had known no 
exertion.  “You are a fine swordsman.  And strange, for you fight like an 
elf, and yet not so.  It is long since I have had the pleasure of meeting such 
an opponent.”
 
“The pleasure, and honour, is mine,”  replied the man, as courtesy 
demanded.
 
They smiled at each other for a second, but then the elf’s eyes looked over 
Merenin’s shoulder, and the blond head bowed slightly.
 
“Good morning, Prince Celaeren,”  Legolas said.
 
Merenin turned to find his brother leaning on the stone of the archway, 
watching the two of them with an unfathomable expression.  
 
“Celaeren, good morning,”  he echoed the elf, trying not to feel 
disappointed.
 
Celaeren walked slowly towards them.  
 
“Good morning Merenin.  Prince Legolas.”  His voice was cool, non-
committal.  “My brother is still standing, I see.  Did he acquit himself 
well?”
 
“Well, indeed,”  Legolas replied, equally smoothly.  “I would not wish to 
have Prince Merenin as an enemy.”
 
“A great compliment, coming from such a warrior as yourself.”  
 
Something in his brother’s tone made it clear that this was not the simple 
courtesy it appeared to be.  Suddenly tense, Merenin placed his sword on 
the stone bench by the armoury door, and turned to Celaeren.  Legolas 
likewise laid his sword down, and stood at Merenin’s side.
 
As Celaeren approached, he did not look at his brother at all, but stared 
openly at the elf.  From the corner of his eye Merenin could see that 
Legolas appeared quite unconcerned, although a knot of anxiety was 
growing in his own chest, as the moment drew on.
 
Standing before the elf, Celaeren spoke.  “Perhaps you would do me the 
honour, Prince Legolas, of allowing me to prove myself as my brother has 
done.”  The words were harmless enough, but Merenin could sense the 
danger behind them.
 
“You would fence with me?”  Legolas asked.  
 
“Nay, I am no master with the sword.  My skill is in unarmed combat.”  
 
For a moment there was silence; and Merenin’s mind raced.  That 
Celaeren should challenge Legolas thus was not beyond the bounds of 
courtesy, as they stood in the training ground and Merenin was there to see 
fair play.  However, he knew that his brother’s request  came not from a 
simple desire to prove himself, in good spirit, against a famous warrior.  
Behind his suggestion lurked a well of emotion, resentment and envy at 
least.  Merenin could not be sure what other feelings his brother harboured 
towards the elf, since he had not attempted to discuss the matter with 
Celaeren, knowing too well how difficult the conversation might turn out 
to be.
 
“Will you accept my challenge?”  Celaeren’s tone was lighter now, almost 
insolent.  The implication was clear; it would be hard for Legolas to refuse 
with honour.  Yet refuse he did.
 
“I would prefer not to do so.”  The elf spoke quietly, no trace of  emotion 
in his voice.
 
“May I ask why?  Is such a lowly diversion beneath the dignity of your 
people?”  
 
Merenin opened his mouth to speak at this, but stopped and shut it again 
when Legolas half turned and looked at him.  If the elf had spoken the 
words, his command could not have been clearer.  
 
Turning back to Celaeren, the elf said,  “Not by any means; I myself enjoy 
the sport.  Yet I sense that sport is not what you seek with me, and I would 
rather you spoke your mind.”
 
There was a long silence.  Merenin noticed his brother’s hands form fists 
at his sides.  He badly wanted to intervene, but somehow, it seemed that 
he was frozen on the spot.
 
“And if I force the issue, what then?”  Celaeren’s voice was icy.
 
This was too much.  “Celaeren!  You cannot…”  Merenin stepped towards 
his brother, but Legolas’s hand on his shoulder stopped him once again.
 
“Forgive me, Prince Merenin.  I believe it is me your brother wishes to 
speak to.”  The elf spoke gently, and his hand applied the faintest of 
pressure.  Even in the anxiety of the moment warmth flooded through 
Merenin at the touch.  Stunned, he found he could not demur when 
Legolas said,  “Please, sit, and let us finish this.”
 
He sank down slowly onto the stone bench and watched as Celaeren and 
Legolas faced each other, the elf staring unblinkingly into his brother’s 
eyes.  
 
“Well?”  said Celaeren.
 
“I do not advise it,”  Legolas said, mildly.
 
In a sudden flash of movement Celaeren’s fist came up and swung at 
Legolas’s jaw.  But the connection was never made, for the elf moved 
faster still, and held the man’s wrist firmly, a few inches from his face.  
The bright blue eyes did not stray from Celaeren’s for an instant.
 
“It is no solution.”  Oddly, the elf’s tone now seemed almost kindly.  
 
After a long pause, Merenin saw his brother’s body relax, and his arm 
became limp in the elf’s grasp.  Still holding on, Legolas allowed 
Celaeren’s arm to fall; even then he did not remove his hand, but left his 
fingers loosely linked around the man’s wrist.  Celaeren stood as if 
mesmerised for a moment, then shook his head.  
 
“Do you ever tire of being so damned perfect?”  he said angrily.
 
Unexpectedly, the elf laughed, a genuine sound of amusement, dispelling 
some of the tension of the moment.  “If you come to Ithilien,”  he said, “I 
shall introduce you to my friend the dwarf.  He will have much to say of 
the perfection of elves.”
 
Celaeren was not to be mollified so easily, but when he spoke his voice 
seemed weary.  
 
“Why did you come here?”  he asked.
 
He seemed not to notice that Legolas still held his wrist.  Merenin, on the 
other hand, could not forget it; his eyes drawn time and again to the sight, 
as he wondered what it would feel like to have the elf’s fingers resting 
thus on his own skin.
 
“To look at the sea, and to visit a friend,”  Legolas said, without rancour.
 
“A friend?  You speak lightly of my father, while you toy with his 
affections, before returning to your own kind.  Is it a passing whim for 
you?  To spend a moment of time with a mortal man, filling his head with 
dreams of eternity, knowing that he will die and you will not?”  
 
Celaeren finally dropped his head, tearing his eyes away from the elf’s 
unflinching gaze.
 
“Is that the root of your anger?”  Legolas replied softly, his voice so full of 
anguish that Merenin knew even Celaeren must hear it, and know it to be 
real.  “You think that I do not care, and that death does not touch me?  
You understand so little of my heart.  And yet I will admit that I do not 
understand you.  You fear your mortal end so terribly, but you turn away 
from life, filling your soul with bitterness and sorrow, pushing away those 
who love you and seeking out your own destruction daily.  How can that 
be a solution to your pain?”
 
All the fire seemed to have gone from his brother as he slowly raised his 
head again to look at Legolas.  “What solution is there?  Tell me, Elf.”  
His voice was little more than a whisper.  Merenin felt a draining sadness 
pass through him at his brother’s words, which held no hint of mockery 
now.  He watched as the elf moved his hand, sliding it up from his 
brother’s wrist to grip the flesh of his lower arm gently.
 
“I do not know, Celaeren,”  he said,  “But I do know this.  All your anger, 
all your hurt, will not bring your mother back; nor will it change the 
circumstances of your life.  Is it not time to let it go?  If a solution exists, it 
is inside yourself, and it is there you must seek; yet you have no need to 
feel that you are alone.  Do not be afraid to turn to those who would help 
you in your quest.”
 
Merenin could not say how long the silence lasted.  His brother and 
Legolas stood quite unmoving, eyes still locked together.  That something 
strange was happening between them he had no doubt; what it was, he 
could not begin to imagine.  He sat miserably on the bench, ashamed of 
his overwhelming desire to be the one so thoroughly at the centre of the 
elf’s attention.  
 
At last Legolas took his hand from Celaeren’s arm and stepped back with 
a sigh.  It seemed that the spell was broken, for Celaeren shook his head 
again, turned away wordlessly, and stood looking up at the sky, running a 
hand through his hair.
 
Legolas looked at Merenin and smiled, but the man saw that his eyes were 
full of grief.  He had no words to offer, so he waited for t