Title: The Weeping of the Trees (part 1 of the ‘Pilgrim’ story arc)
Author: Laurelin   (laurelin_enedlithien@hotmail.com)
Rating: NC17
Pairings: Elladan/Elrohir, slightly Legolas/Thranduil, Elladan/Elrohir/OC, 
Elladan/Elrohir/Thranduil implied.
Disclaimer: Middle-earth and all its inhabitants are Tolkien’s, not mine. I’d risk 
bankruptcy to own Legolas, though. How much would he cost me? Would they give 
me Haldir as a bonus? Or at least for a reduced price... A girl can dream, right?
Warnings: Incest! Don’t like it? Don’t read it! Simple. Also: consensual bondage, 
heavy sap, and angst.
Archive: I’m flexible, but I like to know where it’s going.
Notes: Set approx. 440 years before the Fellowship. The idea of starting a story 
arc called 'Pilgrim' came to me when I heard the song 'Pilgrim' by Enya. This story 
arc will tell how, in my imagination, Legolas prince of Mirkwood eventually became 
the archer and warrior we see in LotR. 
Feedback: The more the merrier. I’m a bottomless well. A starving monster; feed 
me! Feed me!
Summary: Elladan and Elrohir, as well as a certain Marchwarden, travel to King 
Thranduil’s court in Mirkwood to attend the feast celebrating Legolas’s coming of 
age. Not only will this event change the young Prince’s life forever, but that of 
several other Elves as well.


Dedicated to: *Elisa*, whose wonderful photo manipulations inspire me greatly. 
This fic was inspired by two of my favorites: Twin Love and Bonding. Go to 
http://lassegalenslaire.elffic.com to find them, and many others. Do it; you know 
you want to. :-) Elisa, you’re the best, thank you for the beauty! It’s unparalleled 
on the web.
And to: *Jill*. Friend, beta, counsellor, guinea pig... you’re it all! If it wasn’t for 
you, I’d still be living with this foolish idea that Thranduil is nothing more than an 
a-sexual father figure. Thank you for the enlightenment, for all your support, 
*and* for pointing out Elisa’s manips to me. This story wouldn’t exist without your 
help.

With special thanks to J.R.R. Tolkien (he knows why); to Legolas and Haldir, my 
muses, my darlings; and to Peter Jackson, for giving them faces. That is some 
helluva casting you did, my man! (But why Helm’s Deep, PJ, why?? I love the Elves 
coming to the rescue, but why a brutal, blunt axe in Haldir’s perfect body? I will 
*never* accept it!)

And finally, my apologies to: Aragorn. I once said I would always give you Legolas; 
I must come back on my word now. Legolas needed to expand his horizon. Sorry! 
(Psst, Arwen, I expect to see the agreed- 
upon sum on my bank account very soon!)


Chapter 1 – Twin Love

Imladris, May 2580, T.A.


“Elladan! Elrohir!”

The brothers looked up and saw their father standing on his balcony, beckoning to 
them.

“Please come to my study for a moment!” he called. “I need to have a word with 
you both.” And he disappeared inside without waiting for a reply, his night-blue 
robe rushing about him.

The twins looked at each other and they lowered their swords, as they had been 
engaged in a swordfighting practise together when their father had called to them.

“What can it be this time?” Elrohir wondered, grinning.

“I have no idea,” Elladan said as he sheathed his sword in its scabbard. “Have you 
been into any mischief lately?”

“Not me,” Elrohir replied as he did the same. “And it concerns us both, or he 
wouldn’t wish for us to come together.”

“Hmm.” Elladan stepped closer to his younger twin. “I like to come together,” he 
murmured hotly into Elrohir’s ear.

Elrohir laughed, but Elladan didn’t miss the shiver that ran through his body. “I 
know you do,” Elrohir said. “I, however, can’t deny that watching you come alone 
has some charms of its own.”

Elladan brought his hand to Elrohir’s chest, which was naked as they had removed 
their tunics for the fight, and let his fingertips trace his brother’s pectorals. “I like it 
when you watch me,” he said slowly. “Let us refresh ourselves and go see what 
father has in store for us, get it over with; I’ll give you something worth watching 
after that.”

“Ah, that sounds good,” Elrohir said, cocking his head and throwing his twin a 
seductive glance he knew would drive Elladan wild.

Ten minutes later, two refreshed and fully dressed Elves stood in front of their 
father’s desk. To their relief, the Lord of Imladris did not wear the stern frown he 
used when reprimanding his sons. Apparently, this was going to pass off much 
better than they’d expected.

Elrond eyed his identical sons with a half smile. He was aware of the fact that his 
sons had become lovers after the departure of their mother, Celebrían, seven 
decades ago. In the Redhorn Pass, she had been captured by Orcs, who’d tortured 
her in their dens. Elladan and Elrohir rode out from Imladris to rescue her, but by 
the time they reached her she had received a poisonous wound. Though Elrond had 
healed her, she chose not to stay in Middle-earth, and sailed into the West the 
following year. After this loss, Elladan and Elrohir were filled with hatred of the 
Orcs, and they began riding out with the Dunédain regularly, tracking down and 
slaying great numbers of Orcs. Their despair over the loss of their mother and the 
many months spent together far from home, had led them into each other’s arms. 
Elrond was far from happy with the situation, but his wrath nor his pleas had 
succeeded in changing the situation. His sons were in love with each other, and 
though it was frowned upon by many, it was not forbidden by any law for two 
siblings of the same sex to lay together. Arwen had been more understanding 
about it, and it was mainly for her sake that Elrond had finally accepted the 
situation.

“A messenger arrived from Mirkwood this morning,” Elrond began, “bringing a 
letter from Thranduil. It so appears that his only son, Prince Legolas, will be coming 
of age soon. He will be celebrating his 200th begetting-day on July 27th, and the 
letter is an invitation, for me or someone of my household, to attend the 
celebration. Regrettably, I won’t be available myself as I have obligations of my 
own, but I think you will both feel honoured to represent Imladris on my behalf. 
Am I right?”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a surprised glance. Their father had never sent them 
to such an occasion on their own before. They had accompanied him to many a 
festival or official visit, but they’d never officially represented Imladris without him. 
The brothers were experienced travellers and they’d ridden under the treetops of 
Mirkwood several times, but even though they’d lived for 2450 years now, they’d 
never visited King Thranduil’s court before, nor had they ever met the son of 
Oropher.

“Well?” Elrond said. “There are others I can send if you are not willing to take the 
responsibility, but I think it is about time you got acquainted with Thranduil and his 
house. It doesn’t happen often that a crown prince of Mirkwood reaches his 
majority and I know you will do well in representing Imladris.”

“We *do* feel honoured, adar,” Elladan then said, “and we will carry out your 
bidding. We will gladly attend the celebration as your representatives.” Elrohir 
nodded his agreement.

“Excellent.” Elrond was pleased. “I will send the messenger back with a letter, to 
announce your attendance. Make sure you are ready to depart in two weeks time; 
that will give you enough time to travel to Mirkwood. I will see to it that all 
preparations are being made for your departure.”

The brothers bowed their heads.

“Oh, one more thing,” Elrond said, and his eyebrows made a slight downward twist, 
warning the brothers. “Do practise some decency when you’re among the Wood-
elves. We in Imladris, we have accepted your... relationship by now, but I don’t 
know if Thranduil and his people will be so tolerant.”

The twins smirked, but then quickly forced their faces into a more serious 
expression as they realized that their father was being very serious. “We will make 
sure not to rebuff anyone, adar,” Elladan said.

“Good.” Elrond motioned gracefully for the door. “You are dismissed, children.”

Elladan and Elrohir simultaneously stepped towards their father’s desk and each 
took one of their father’s hands. “Thank you for this opportunity, adar,” Elrohir 
said, “we will not fail you.”

“You will be proud to be our father,” Elladan promised.

Elrond smiled a little. “I already am,” he said. “Now get out of my sight. Your adar 
has work to do.”

Elladan and Elrohir left the room with matching smiles. They spent the remainder 
of the day talking excitedly about their upcoming trip to Mirkwood, the woodland 
realm east of the Misty Mountains, where Silvan Elves lived under the rule of King 
Thranduil, son of Oropher. Thranduil had been ruling Mirkwood since the beginning 
of the Third Age, since Oropher was slain in the Battle of Dagorlad. For more than 
2500 years, Thranduil had ruled his kingdom together with his wife, Queen Arasien, 
until she had suffered a fate comparable to Celebrían’s; a party of warg-riding Orcs 
had crossed her path, but she had not been as fortunate as Celebrían. Her spirit 
had already left for the Halls of Mandos by the time she was found. That had been 
the year 2517, now 63 years ago. She left behind a grief-stricken Thranduil and 
their under-aged son, Legolas. The twins felt sympathy for both father and son, 
even though they’d never met them; they knew what it was like to lose a mother, 
but while *they* had good hopes of seeing Celebrían again someday, Prince 
Legolas had lost his mother forever. Elladan and Elrohir could only imagine how 
bitter that would be.

“I must say I am curious after the prince,” Elrohir said that night, as he laid off the 
long velvet robe he’d been wearing during dinner. Elladan was already in bed, 
sitting naked on the ivory-colored sheets, the intricately carved headboard of the 
bed behind him. His long, wavy dark hair was unbound and cascaded down his 
shoulders, and he watched as his identical twin undressed himself.

“Why?” he asked him.

Elrohir grinned at him via the mirror. “If the tales they tell about him are correct, 
he must be quite a stunning piece of art.”

Elladan threw him a mocking smirk. “Truthfully,” Elrohir laughed. “Erestor visited 
Mirkwood three decades ago and he told me that the young prince was quickly 
becoming a younger reflection of his father.”

“Erestor,” Elladan said, “has too eager an eye. I hope he kept his hands to 
himself.”

“Of course. Even Erestor knows and respects the fact that royals are supposed to 
remain celibate until they reach their majority.”

“Prince Legolas must be tense with anticipation then, with his majority ceremony 
coming up!” Elladan laughed. “If he is truly as stunning as they say he is, Elves 
must be lining up for him.” He then added thoughtfully, “So he takes after his 
father, Erestor said?”

“Apparently so. And that promises something.”

Thranduil, according to the tales the twins had heard throughout the years, was 
one of the most intriguing Elves to grace Middle-earth. Adored by his people, whom 
he ruled with kindness, he was nothing if not many-sided. A commanding warrior in 
times of war, who fought with passion and thus inspired his troops to do the same; 
a kind, compassionate ruler who stood among his people, not above them; and a 
fiery defender and protector of his realm, to which he was utterly devoted. And 
with all those magnificent attributes came, so it was said, an outwardly appearance 
that made hearts beat faster all over Middle-earth. Elladan and Elrohir had heard 
many accounts being told. Thranduil was tall, taller than most Elves, and had the 
build of a warrior, combining long limbs and slim hips with delicate but powerful, 
well-defined muscles. He had thick, wavy blond hair, aquamarine eyes that could 
change from blue to green and back again along with his mood, and a melodious 
deep voice. The features of his face were strong, but not hard, and fair. He stood 
always upright, strong and graceful, and almost never lost his temper, except when 
injustice had been done. The poor sinner his wrath was pointed at would have to 
be made of stone not to be affected by Thranduil’s reprimand. Then again, as soon 
as Thranduil was done with the wrong-doer, he would regain his normal calmness 
effortlessly. Never would he take out his anger on an innocent; Thranduil was, at 
all times, righteous.

But no matter how devoted Thranduil was to his duties as king, there was one task 
which, in his eyes, had the top priority: fatherhood. The day Legolas was born, 
Thranduil had assumed his new role as father with utter dedication and ever since 
the child’s mother had passed away, he had used every spare minute he could find 
to spend time with his son. During those hours spent with Legolas, Thranduil would 
shrug off his royal bearing like a cloak and become the kind of father anyone would 
wish for; he would never fail to reprimand his son when needed and he was 
anything but indulgent, but as the prince was a rather quiet little lad, especially 
since the death of his mother, he rarely needed a reprimand and the majority of 
their time together was spent with laughter and long conversations full of loving 
jests; for both were gifted with a quick wit, a good sense of humor. To anyone who 
visited Thranduil’s house, it became clear that father and son adored each other.

“But why the interest, brother?” Elladan asked as Elrohir removed his boots. “You 
are not starting to take after Erestor, are you? The prince is practically a child!” 
Even though an Elf officially became an adult on his 200th begetting-day, in the 
eyes of most Elves 200 years was but a heartbeat.

“Oh, not to worry,” Elrohir said, “I will keep my hands off him. Unless...”

“Unless what?”

“Unless he doesn’t want me to,” Elrohir said, grinning mischievously as he slid his 
black leggings down his legs.

“That is a wicked thing to say, brother,” Elladan said, trying to adopt Elrond’s 
disapproving look. “I will have to punish you.”

“Ooh.” Elrohir now crawled against his twin, taking an upright, leaning position 
between Elladan’s legs so that their faces were at the same height. Both were 
naked as the day they were born, and Elrohir seductively slung one leg over 
Elladan’s.

“Why?” he purred. “What did I do wrong?”

“That is obvious, I would say.”

“Is it?”

“You have fantasies about an elfling you have never even met,” Elladan said slowly 
and he let one hand wander to Elrohir’s knee, “while you know very well that you 
belong to me.”

“Hmm,” Elrohir said, leaning back a little and simultaneously shifting his hips so 
that his semi-erect member came into contact with Elladan’s inner thigh. 
“Possessive, are we? Perhaps the prince would like to have the both of us. How do 
you like that idea?”

Elladan’s lips curved up in a dangerous little smile. “I like *that* a lot better,” he 
said. “Now receive your punishment.” And he pushed Elrohir onto the bed with 
playful force, making him lie on his back. Elrohir made an umpf sound as he was 
brought in this position so suddenly, and it ended in a soft moan when Elladan 
pulled his legs wide and knelt between them. He leaned forward and caught 
Elrohir’s mouth in a lascivious kiss, laying claim to what was his, and as he did so, 
rotated his hips and brought their cocks into contact, rubbing them slowly together 
until both were hard and burning.

“Uhn,” Elrohir moaned, lifting his hips in his craving for greater contact. “You know 
me, brother. You know I like that.”

“I do.” Elladan ground his hips down harder than before, sending sparks of 
pleasure through his own body and that of his twin. “I let you watch me this 
afternoon,” he murmured against Elrohir’s lips. “Now I want to watch you.”

“It shall be as you wish,” Elrohir said, “I am at your command.”

Elladan rolled off his brother and took a leaning position, his back sinking into the 
pillows that lay propped up against the headboard of the bed. He pulled Elrohir 
onto his lap, making him straddle him. “Make yourself come,” he commanded 
hoarsely. “But make sure not to stain the sheets, or me; I will be in need of a 
lubricant later on.” He grinned.

Elrohir took himself in his hand and set to pleasuring himself, breathing quickly 
with the pleasure of his own strokes, but most of all, Elladan’s eyes on him. Elrohir 
was sure that no creature in Middle-earth was in the possession of eyes more 
intriguing than Elladan’s. Elladan would laugh and say that Elrohir, being his 
identical twin, had exactly the same eyes, but still... If Elrohir’s eyes were as deep 
as the sea, then Elladan’s were as deep, and as mysterious, as the ocean. While 
Elrohir’s eyes always sparkled with humor, Elladan’s would glow, flicker, suddenly 
burn with joy or passion, and just as suddenly grow dim. Not that Elladan was an 
over-emotional Elf, not at all... he was just the more sensitive of the two, an easier 
prey to melancholy. Elrohir found himself rather boring compared to his brother. 
Yes, he was the clown, he always had the jokes that made people laugh; but he 
was predictable in that role. Elladan was mysterious, unreadable. Not to Elrohir, for 
he knew his brother better than anyone, but to others. Elladan was passionate.. He 
was the fiercer warrior, battling with a blazing fire that made Orcs shriek with fear 
when he just set his eyes on them only. He was also the fiercer lover, making love 
to his brother with an intensity Elrohir had not once experienced with his former 
partners. Making love to Elladan was like being a log riding on a storming sea; you 
knew you’d never drown, but the waves could till you so high so unexpectedly and 
so many times in a row, sweeping you higher and higher, that sometimes you’d 
forget that all storms come to an end eventually. Elrohir had once told Elladan this, 
but Elladan had shaken his head and said, “Our lovemaking is a raging sea. You are 
a log. And I am a drowning person clinging to that log, trusting that you will keep 
me from drowning until the storm has passed.”

That was Elladan. Elladan was uncertain, never sure of himself, never fully content 
with himself. Especially since the loss of their mother. Elladan was always afraid to 
disappoint, always afraid to fail. The fact that Elrond disapproved of their love 
bothered Elladan more than their father would ever know, and Elrohir wondered if 
Elladan would ever stop feeling guilty, would ever forgive himself for disappointing 
their father. It was Elladan who brought that edge of despair to the nights they 
spent together, and even though Elrohir had pledged his eternal love millions of 
times, screaming, whispering, sobbing and even cursing, the fear of losing Elrohir 
had been a part of Elladan since their first kiss. It saddened Elrohir, that Elladan 
didn’t have complete faith in his brother’s love for him.

After they’d first become lovers, both had tried to fall in love with others. Both had 
been unsuccessful, but Elrohir had been the first to give up, the first one to accept 
the situation. It was Elladan he wanted, and Elladan only. Elladan had needed more 
time, more unsatisfying sex with Elves he didn’t particularly care for, until he’d 
finally come to Elrohir’s room one night and made sweet love to him. After that, 
they’d shared their bodies with no one but each other.

Elrohir hadn’t been serious about pursuing the Greenleaf. They were both still 
appreciative of the beauty that existed outside their bed, and therefore Elrohir had 
thought that he could safely make that comment. Elladan had joined in the joke, 
but Elrohir could taste the uncertainty in his brother’s words. He regretted saying 
it, now. Elrohir had always had a thing for blondes, and Elladan knew that as well 
as he; he shouldn’t have hinted at the beauty of the golden prince of Mirkwood, 
even though it had only been meant as a joke.

Wishing to annul his guilt, Elrohir threw himself more into his little show than he 
would normally have done. While his right hand still moved over his length the way 
he liked it best, he let the other walk a sensual path over the rest of his body, 
touching all those parts of himself he liked to feel Elladan’s hands and mouth on. 
Elladan watched him do it, breathing harder with the eroticism of it, and the lustful 
glow in his eyes told Elrohir that his efforts were appreciated.

However, when Elrohir felt the approach of release, he brought his hand to his cock 
again, remembering Elladan’s order not to let anything go to waste. His head fell a 
little back and his eyelids sank half-closed, but he kept Elladan’s gaze as he came 
in his own hands, letting his brother see the bliss of orgasm take over his facial 
features. “Uuuhnn,” he moaned, almost whimpered, drawing the sound out until 
not one more drop would spill into his waiting, slightly trembling hand.

“That was beautiful,” Elladan whispered. “Do you still want me?”

“I do...” Elrohir took Elladan’s burning length and teased it between his hands, 
preparing it for what was to come. Elladan moaned, looking at him from 
underneath his lashes.

“Now ride me,” he said hoarsely.

When Elrohir grasped Elladan’s shoulders and shifted on top of him, bringing 
himself in the right position, Elladan took him by the hips. Firmly. Not wanting to 
let go. “Forgive me,” he whispered as Elrohir took his arousal into his body. “Do 
you forgive me, Ro?”

Always that question. It was always about forgiveness between them. Forgive me 
for being your brother. Forgive me for being your lover. Forgive me for loving you 
more than I’m supposed to. Forgive me for wanting you. Forgive me for enjoying 
this.

“I forgive you,” Elrohir whispered back as he sank into Elladan’s waiting lap. He 
hated to answer that question every time, but it was Elladan’s way of dealing with 
this and that was why he endured it.

They held on to each other, fingers digging desperately in hips and shoulders, as 
Elrohir moved upon his lover; slowly, seductively at first, but gradually faster and 
more demandingly. Elladan slightly rotated his hips to meet Elrohir’s rhythm, low, 
grunting moans rising from his chest and spilling over his parted lips. And all the 
time he kept his eyes on Elrohir. Elladan insisted on that; if they couldn’t look each 
other in the eye while making love, then they’d better end their relationship, rather 
today than tomorrow.

Elrohir was hard again, and he moved swifter. Elladan effortlessly adjusted his own 
pace to match the new rhythm, and Elrohir, not for the first time, basked in how 
good they were together. Still holding on to Elladan’s shoulders, he leaned back a 
little and abandoned himself completely, giving in to the pleasure, letting it 
overcome him. Louder cries came from him as Elladan was once more sweeping 
him higher and higher, spiralling him to yet a higher level of pleasure, making 
Elrohir believe it couldn’t get any better, and then doing it again, and again, and 
again.

Suddenly the wave that had been carrying Elrohir, rising higher and higher under 
him, gave way, disappeared; for a moment, Elrohir felt like hanging still in the air 
before beginning the long, free fall down, the thrill of orgasm, his own *and* 
Elladan’s, consuming his body and forcing a cry from his lungs. He knew he 
wouldn’t drown. But it almost felt like it as a tidalwave of bliss swallowed him 
whole.

That was how it always was between him and Elladan. Their passion, their 
despair... their desperate passion. It almost killed him; but gods, he wouldn’t be 
able to live without it.

***

A/N: Tolkien is a bit unclear about when Elves come of age. Word on the internet is 
that it’s somewhere between their 50th and 100th year. But I wanted Legolas to be 
just a bit older, so I allowed myself that freedom. Just think of him as an eighteen-
year old, in human years.

***


Chapter 2 – Apple Of My Eye

Mirkwood, June 2580, T.A.


“... In the Second Age, after the Flight of the Noldor, Círdan made alliance with 
Finrod who settled in Nargothrond to the east. With Finrod's help Eglarest and 
Brithombar were rebuilt from their destruction. In the year 172, when came the 
Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Círdan aided Finrod in the defense of Hithlum against 
Angband. As further attacks by Morgoth forced Elves westward, they were 
sheltered in Círdan's Havens by the sea, and for this he faced the wrath of 
Morgoth. In the year 256, the Havens were besieged....”

Emlin was greatly bored. For more than two hours now, Faeldir, the tutor, had 
been talking non-stop, telling his little class of youngsters about the great Elves of 
the past. History class was, in fact, not so bad, but two hours of names, family 
trees and dates were terribly exhausting, especially on such a fair summer day in 
June. Emlin looked around. All his fellow students seemed to be in an equal state of 
boredom or an even worse one; all, with one exception, of course. Legolas was still 
sitting upright, instead of leaning tiredly on his elbows like the others, and his quill 
danced over the parchment in front of him, only halting to be dipped in the ink jar 
occasionally.

Emlin rolled his eyes. Why oh why had he befriended the teacher’s pet? Looking at 
him now, as he sat making notes and listening attentively, one would almost think 
that the prince was boring. Which of course, as everyone who had ever conversed 
with him knew very well, he was not. Still, Legolas was not laughed at or scolded 
for his dedication and industry; quite the contrary, everyone seemed to like him, or 
more than that. Emlin was jealous. How was it possible that the model student in 
class was at the same time the best loved, and most desired one? ‘Twas definitely 
not fair.

Two girls sat whispering together, throwing coy glances in Legolas’s direction and 
giggling as only girls could. Yes, Legolas was undeniably one of the most desired 
Elves of Mirkwood – and with good reason. In spite of his young age, Legolas was 
definitely masculine. His body was slender, but powerful; his facial features, 
however young, well-defined and strong. According to the Elders, he bore a striking 
resemblance to his father, King Thranduil, when *he* was still a youngster; Emlin 
found that easy to believe, for father and son, even with the millennia separating 
them, still were very alike in appearance. Thranduil would, to the human eye, still 
look like a young man, but, as was to be expected, his many years of training, 
battle and ruling a kingdom had given him a more mature, more powerful 
appearance. Legolas, with his 200 years, still had a rather sweet and innocent 
aureole over him.

And lately, Legolas had been receiving even more attention than usual. His 
majority ceremony was drawing close, and Mirkwood was humming with 
anticipation, especially the many young Elves living there. The protocol asked of 
every royal to remain celibate until the official beginning of adulthood, marked by 
the festivities taking place on the 200th begetting-day. The night following those 
festivities, the young royal would usually – the protocol did not command this but it 
was common – take someone of his or her choosing into bed. It was an honour to 
be chosen, and with Legolas, it was even more than that. The rivalry was almost 
palpable.

Emlin had asked Legolas hundreds of times if he had made up his mind yet, but 
Legolas had shrugged every time. Which Emlin found peculiar. As long as Emlin 
had known him, Legolas had never had a special interest in one particular Elf; not 
once. Legolas was Emlin’s best friend as Emlin was his, and the young Elf was sure 
that Legolas would have told him about it. Most Elves would be bouncing with 
impatience to end their celibacy, but Legolas did not seem to care at all. Surely the 
prince had physical needs? He was young, he was wanted... why the reserve?

Later that afternoon, the two Elves walked home together. To Emlin’s dismay, 
Legolas rambled about the history lessons non-stop and with annoying enthusiasm.

“Oh, for the love of Eärendil,” Emlin groaned, “for the past three hours I’ve been 
listening to Faeldir’s endless talk, and now *you* start, too?”

Legolas grinned. “Were you actually *listening* to him then? It sure didn’t look like 
it.”

“Oh, shut up, teacher’s pet,” Emlin said, making a playful shove at Legolas’s 
shoulder.

“I am not the teacher’s pet,” Legolas protested, laughing. “I just like history.”

“Ah, come on, Legolas,” Emlin said, “tell me, is there even a class you *don’t* 
like?”

“Most definitely.”

“Which one, then?”

“Dwarvish Poetry, to name one.”

Both laughed hard. “Oh,” Legolas added, “and I was also really unhappy with 
biology when we were working our way through the chapter about the dwarvish 
reproduction system.”

“Ew,” Emlin managed to say when their laughter finally started to subside, “now 
I’ve lost my appetite. Mother will be most unhappy.”

“But seriously, Emlin,” Legolas said then, “don’t you think it’s exciting to hear 
about all those strange, beautiful places in Middle-earth? I hope I get to see them 
all one day.”

“Not me,” Emlin said. “I am content here in Mirkwood, thank you very much.”

“Boring!” Legolas laughed. 

They had arrived at Emlin’s house, and they halted. “Why don’t you come inside, 
Legolas,” Emlin said, “and have lunch with us? Mother says you’re always 
welcome.”

“I can’t,” Legolas said. “Father is expecting me home for lunch.”

“Tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow too,” Legolas said, shifting uneasily on his feet. “Maybe the day after 
that. You can also come and have lunch with *us*, if you like,” he said.

“Never mind,” Emlin muttered.

Legolas’s face fell. “What is it, now?”

“I just don’t understand why you always have to run off home after school,” Emlin 
said, frowning. They had discussed this before. “The only time I get to see you 
outside class is when your father is too busy to spend time with you.”

Legolas paled. “That is not true,” he said defensively.

“It isn’t? Then ask him if you’re allowed to have lunch at my place today.”

Legolas shifted again. “I’ll ask for tomorrow,” he said slowly.

Emlin threw his hands into the air. “Forget it,” he said and he turned to go into the 
house.

“I just like to spend time with my father,” Legolas called after him.

“And you don’t like spending time with me?” Emlin retorted, turning.

“Of course I do! You know that.”

“Show me then.”

“How?”

“Let’s skip class tomorrow and take a ride into the forest. We can take some food 
with us...”

“Are you insane? I can’t skip class!”

“Why not, Legolas? Tell me, why not?”

“My father...”

“Oh, forget about your father!” Emlin exclaimed. “You’re almost an adult, Legolas. 
Has it ever occurred to you that it’s quite normal for adolescents to ignore their 
parents’ orders every once in a while?”

“You don’t understand,” Legolas said, shaking his head. “If you want to make a 
ride, why can’t we wait until we’re free from class? If *I* stay away from school, 
then the others will think *they* can do the same. And it’s important for me to 
learn. I *want* to learn. One day I will take over my father’s crown and...”

“That day may be centuries, millennia away! And one missed day at school will not 
make you a less fit king!” Emlin stepped over the threshold, inside. “See you 
tomorrow, Legolas. In class!” And with those words, he shut the door behind him.

Legolas stood still for a moment, contemplating on what to do. Then he slowly 
turned and continued his path, deep in thought. It was all so easy for Emlin to say. 
That day may be millennia away... And what if it was not? Cruel fate had taken his 
mother’s life, just like that; who could be sure that the same fate would not claim 
his father, too? The very thought seemed to cut off his air supply.

On the other hand, how could he expect Emlin to understand the bond he had with 
his father? Emlin came from a big family; his parents had to divide their time 
between nine children and it was inevitable that Emlin sometimes would be 
overlooked in the domestical chaos, while Legolas always had his father’s full 
attention.

Legolas still had a frown on his face when he entered the hall of the palace, but his 
brow smoothed when the King came to meet him, blond and tall, his strong but 
graceful body clad in relatively simple, practical clothes: a white tunic, blue 
leggings and black boots.

“Welcome home, leafling,” Thranduil said, hugging him to his chest. “The walls of 
this mansion sing with your very return.”

“Perhaps it’s my stomach you hear,” Legolas laughed. “I’m starving.”

Thranduil’s eyes sparkled with humor. “Impatient youth!” he said.

Ten minutes later, they sat at the table, enjoying their modest lunch and 
conversing cheerfully. Legolas told his father how his classes had been, and 
Thranduil recounted what *he* had been doing that morning, for he deemed it 
important that his son learned which tasks came with being a king, especially now 
that Legolas was almost an adult. Of course, he did not burden Legolas with the 
more severe cases, for he wanted Legolas to live as normal and as carefree a life 
as possible. Alas, he had not been able to prevent his child from losing his mother; 
but he had continued to raise Legolas on his own and he had done so with his 
entire soul, doing it the way he thought his late wife would agree with and hoping 
with all his heart that he was doing well.

Looking at his son now as he was chattering about his vicissitudes in class, 
Thranduil secretly thought that he might have done even better than he could had 
hoped. Legolas was a son to be proud of; he was a quick learner, and, even more 
important, an eager one. He was quick with his mind and with his bow, a weapon 
he handled with more skill and ease than most Elves his age. After his coming of 
age, he would start following lessons in hand-to-hand combat, he would learn how 
to wield knives and different types of swords.

Thranduil had taught his son the basics of archery himself, until he had deemed it 
better that a real tutor took over. Legolas was also an experienced rider; the King 
of Mirkwood was known for his horseriding skills and he had taught Legolas 
everything he knew.

But besides being a promising student, Legolas was also in the possession of many 
other qualities. He was kind-hearted and compassionate, gentle, loyal and tactful, 
but passionate when something he believed in was at stake. His only flaw, perhaps, 
- if it could be called a flaw - was that he sometimes could be a bit too sensitive, 
too introvert. Not in the company of his father, or his closest friends, but with 
others, especially young Elves like himself. Thranduil sometimes wondered if 
Legolas wasn’t still a bit too dependent for a boy his age; sometimes he almost 
resembled – not literally, of course – that young child again, hiding behind 
Thranduil’s robes and silently begging his father to take care of him. But Thranduil 
did not think it necessary to worry about this; Legolas had lost his mother at a 
tender age. It was natural that he had learned to rely on his father after that. He 
would become more independent eventually, it would only take a little longer than 
with other young Elves. At any rate, Thranduil would continue to stimulate him on 
his path into adulthood and beyond. He was thankful for his son’s love and faith in 
him, but Legolas also had to learn to have faith in others, and himself.

Thranduil studied his rambling son and knew instinctively that he was beaming with 
fatherly pride. Legolas reminded him of himself when he had been that age, 
although he had been more of a romper than his son, who had a more cautious 
way of handling things. Legolas’s majority ceremony would take place in a month’s 
time. How well Thranduil remembered his own excitement in the weeks preceding 
his ceremony! Legolas, however, seemed to feel rather neutral about it. Indifferent 
almost, as if it didn’t affect him at all.

Thranduil smiled. He was very aware of the excitement among the young Elves in 
his realm, the rivalry, the gossip; which lucky Elf would be chosen to be Legolas’s 
first? It would be a night of importance, Thranduil knew. An initiation in the arts of 
love, a memory Legolas would cherish for the rest of his life. Thranduil hoped that 
Legolas would choose well. Thranduil’s smile turned a little sad. It was a well-
known fact that all parents have at least a little difficulty seeing their children grow 
up and become sexually active, but he had never experienced it at first hand, until 
now. Yes, he felt melancholy. But, he concluded, it was only natural. After all, he’d 
been through the same changes in his own youth.

Then again, he did not have the impression that Legolas spent much time trying to 
decide who he would choose. For the thousandth time, Thranduil wondered if he 
should bring it up. Would Legolas want fatherly advice, or would he prefer to sort 
this out on his own? Legolas was unreadable in this, even to Thranduil.

The remainder of the afternoon, Legolas would be occupied with archery lessons 
and with his private tutor, who would be giving him music lessons today. Like most 
Elves, Legolas was gifted with a clear, beautiful voice, and his tutor, Aearon, was 
teaching him how to use it in song. After lunch, Thranduil bade his son goodbye 
with another firm hug.

“I’ll see you tonight, leafling,” he said.

***

That night, long after dinner was over and Thranduil had retreated to his private 
chambers, Legolas came to him. He did that more often, initially because he had 
had nightmares about his mother, later because he enjoyed a little talk with his 
father before going to bed. It was unusual; Oropher would never have permitted 
Thranduil to come to his private chambers, especially after nightfall, but Thranduil 
was not Oropher. He enjoyed those moments with his son and saw no reason to 
forbid it. Lately, he even allowed Legolas to drink a glass of wine with him before 
going to bed.

Legolas was in his sleeping garments, as always: loose-fitting leggings and a shirt, 
and he was barefoot. Thranduil watched him as he sat down comfortably on his 
father’s bed, cross-legged, taking slow sips of his wine and fanning through some 
papers that lay strewn over the sheets. Thranduil couldn’t suppress a smile. 
Perhaps it was for the best that he had not taken a new mate after his wife’s death. 
The poor woman – or man – would definitely not be pleased with a situation like 
this; Thranduil’s adolescent son stopping by at night unannounced and acting as if 
he were in his own room. And the King also didn’t think that Legolas would be 
ready for someone new in his father’s life. A replacement of his mother.

Legolas had told him what had been said between him and Emlin that afternoon, 
and Thranduil had sensed that Legolas really needed to get off his chest. They 
always talked openly. Thranduil had said that Legolas, of course, could go with 
Emlin after school tomorrow; and he had frowned secretly, for he wondered why 
Legolas was so hesitant to ask his father for so simple a thing. After all, their lunch 
appointments were as unofficial as could be, and Legolas should have known that 
Thranduil would gladly have given him permission to have lunch with Emlin and his 
family that afternoon.

Yes, in some ways Legolas was an enigma to his father. But then again, did not all 
adolescents have their little secrets for their parents?

Thranduil was roused from his little reverie when Legolas suddenly stood in front of 
him, stretching out his hand with the wine goblet in it. “May I have one more, 
adar?” he asked sweetly, but with a meaningful grin.

Thranduil looked up into his son’s warm blue eyes. “Only one more, then,” he said, 
and he motioned for the carafe, indicating that Legolas could pour himself another 
glass.

“I must practise,” Legolas said, smiling mischievously as he filled his goblet. “The 
ceremony will take place in a month and everyone will be pouring me drinks all the 
time.”

“Not as long as I’m around,” Thranduil said, but he was smiling, too.

Legolas put his newly filled goblet on Thranduil’s desk and stood behind his father, 
rested his chin on Thranduil’s scalp and wrapped his arms around the King’s neck 
in an affectionate embrace. Now that Legolas himself had brought up the subject, 
Thranduil thought this a good moment to gauge his son a little.

“Have you found a girl already to open the ball with?” he asked.

“The finding is not the problem,” Legolas said. “It’s narrowing the field down to one 
that’s giving me sleepless nights.”

Thranduil chuckled. “That bad, eh?”

Legolas stood upright, ending the embrace, and started threading his fingers 
through Thranduil’s unbound hair, combing it thoughtlessly. “How did you ever pick 
one, adar?” he sighed.

“That was not so hard,” Thranduil smiled, “with a lady like your mother around.”

Legolas’s fingers stilled for a moment and Thranduil heard the smile in his son’s 
voice when he said, “Oh, how could I forget, you opened the ball with mother!”

“I did.”

“So you knew from the beginning that she was the one, then?”

“Now you’re making it sound a little too romantic,” Thranduil said, smiling. “She 
was by far the most beautiful and charming lady, but a marriage wasn’t the issue 
yet. I had no idea where it was leading to, but it felt right, so I asked her for the 
first dance.”

A hesitating silence preceded Legolas’s next question. “Did you also ask her... to...”

“To spend the night with me?” Thranduil completed for him. “Yes, I did. But, 
Legolas, do not burden yourself with worries too much; no one is asking you to 
choose your future wife. Choose someone you feel comfortable with. One of the 
reasons it was so easy for me to choose your mother, was that she was pleasant to 
talk to.” With a smirk he added, “Unlike some other girls.”

“I know what you mean,” Legolas said with a sigh, “some girls are just so shallow. 
All they’re interested in, is bedding a prince and then bragging afterwards, 
discussing everything with their friends...”’He shivered. “The thought alone...”

Thranduil smiled. “That’s the price we pay, my son. We must learn to accept that 
some people like us just because of our royal title. But not everyone is like that. 
Surely you know of at least one nice lady whom you trust and feel comfortable 
with?”

“Several,” Legolas said, “but they are my *friends*. I can’t take one of them in my 
bed. That would be just so awkward.”

Something suddenly dawned on the King. Something that might explain Legolas’s 
uncertainty in this matter. “Legolas,” he said, turning around to face his son, “you 
*do* know that you don’t necessarily have to choose a female, don’t you?”

Silence. Legolas’s cheekbones pinked. “Yes...” he said.

“Is that what you were worried about?” Thranduil said, taking one of Legolas’s 
hands. Legolas’s blushing and stuttering confirmed this. “You are free to choose 
whoever you wish, leafling,” he said. Then, he added with a smile, “as long as 
you’re not stepping on someone else’s territory, of course.”

Legolas laughed, and the discomfort eased. “I realize this, adar,” he said, “thank 
you.”

Thranduil wondered if there was a particular Elf Legolas was thinking of, but 
decided he should not ask. Legolas seemed more cheerful already, as he sat down 
on the bed again and drank his wine. They talked long, about more trivial things, 
until Thranduil sent his son to bed. Legolas gave the King an affectionate hug and a 
kiss on the cheek, then left for his own room.

Thranduil watched his son go, smiling. He was almost a man now, but still not too 
old to be in need of some fatherly advice. Thank the Valar. Thranduil stood from his 
chair, collected the papers that lay all over his bed and piled them on the 
nightstand for a little reading before going to sleep. Then, started to disrobe. It was 
late already, and both king and prince had an early start tomorrow.

***

A/N: about the tale of Círdan with which this chapter begins: I am not really that 
smart. It is taken from the Encyclopedia that can be found on 
www.councilofelrond.com. It was written by Loriel and slightly adjusted by me.

***


Chapter 3 – Birds Of A Feather

Mirkwood, July 2580, T.A.


“And?”

“Everything is quiet.”

Elladan dumped his bag to the ground and put his bow against the trunk of a 
nearby tree, then removed his quiver, and sword. Elrohir was sitting cross-legged 
on the ground, by the small fire he’d built. They’d made camp for the night, and 
the sun had set hours ago. Elladan had gone away to take a look around, see if 
there was any Evil close. But it so seemed they were in no danger of being 
attacked. Their horses stood nearby, peaceful and relaxed; they did not seem to 
sense any danger either.

They were in Mirkwood. Set out from Imladris a fortnight ago, they had arrived at 
the border of the forest two days ago. They’d been here before and knew which 
road to take, and if everything went well, they would arrive at Thranduil’s palace 
tomorrow.

Elrohir looked up at his brother, who still stood scanning the surroundings, alert as 
always. The light of the fire danced enticingly over his tall body. As always when 
they travelled, they wore their armour; with the rising Evil in the mountains and in 
Mirkwood itself, the multiplying of foul beasts, they always had to be prepared for 
an attack. Thick, flexible leather pauldrons covered their shoulders. Leather also on 
their thighs, while their chestplates were of light metal, and mithril maille protected 
their arms and the vulnerable base of their throat. Their clothes were different 
shades of red and black, their armour leather-brown and mithril-silver. They both 
were armed with a long, elven sword, slender daggers and a light bow. They sure 
didn’t look like they were on their way to attend a party, Elrohir realized and he 
smiled.

“It’s all right, El,” he said, “we’re in no danger. Look at how calm our horses are.”

Elladan nodded slowly, but still showed no inclination to join his brother. Elrohir’s 
smile turned sly as he sat up on his knees. “Oh, I was wrong,” he said. “I *do* feel 
danger.”

Elladan arched an eyebrow. “You do?”

“Yes, it’s drawing closer,” Elrohir said as he moved towards Elladan on his knees 
until he knelt in front of him.

“A great host?” Elladan asked, playing along with him.

“No,” Elrohir replied and he started to fondle with laces, first removing the leather 
that protected Elladan’s groin. “An individual.”

“What do you think his will is?” Elladan’s voice turned a little hoarse when Elrohir 
set out to open the laces of his leggings.

“His thoughts are dark,” Elrohir said, “and are focused on you, dear brother. His 
intention is to make you scream.” With those words, he opened Elladan’s leggings 
and released his brother’s already hardening member, at which Elladan sucked in 
his breath. When the hot wetness of Elrohir’s mouth closed around him, he moaned 
approvingly and grasped the tree behind him, stumbling backwards until his entire 
body leaned against the trunk. Elrohir followed him on his knees, not releasing 
Elladan’s throbbing erection from his mouth, and now, as Elladan’s hands found his 
scalp, fingers intertwining with his dark locks, Elrohir braced his hands on the tree 
trunk, incarcerating Elladan with his arms, and started the pleasure.

He loved to do this to Elladan. The trembling of Elladan’s body, the tremors in his 
legs, the sounds coming from his lips so generously. He liked to take his time; start 
by only taking the head into his mouth, tease it with the stiffened tip of his tongue. 
Then take him deeper gradually, savouring the feel of Elladan’s hard length filling 
him more and more, until he finally had all of him.

“Mmmm,” Elladan uttered, his fingers gently forcing Elrohir closer, “ah, gods, yes!”

Elrohir moved back, letting Elladan’s shaft slide over the length of his tongue and 
then letting it escape from his mouth. Elladan whimpered with disappointment and 
need, but Elrohir took his time to admire Elladan’s beautiful, pulsing erection. One 
hand came from the tree bark and closed around the hard shaft; a thumb stroked 
the sensitive underside, pressing and coaxing, from the base to the tip. Elladan 
groaned and unconsciously pushed his hips forward.

Elrohir repeated this procedure several times until Elladan shuddered 
uncontrollably, then placed his hand back on the tree and took Elladan’s cock into 
his mouth again, drawing it deep down his throat in one slow, smooth movement 
while he breathed regularly through his nose. With his experience, he knew how to 
relax the muscles at the back of his throat to offer Elladan full access.

“Oh by the Valar!” Elladan gasped as his full length was taken in. “That is 
delicious!”

More encouraging cries came from Elladan’s throat as Elrohir moved back and forth 
in a steady rhythm, sucking strongly and making sure Elladan felt the entire length 
of his eager tongue. Elladan was now constantly moving his hips, pursuing more of 
the exquisite sensation as he held Elrohir’s head firmly, moaning and gasping in 
complete abandon.

“Yes!” he cried when Elrohir moved faster, sucked harder, more demanding; he 
was thankful that tonight, Elrohir did not have the patience to delay his release, 
like he sometimes would. Hands were gripping his buttocks now, drawing him 
closer. When Elrohir moaned with the pleasure, it caused a soft, vibrating sensation 
around his entire cock that made Elladan fling his head back against the tree and 
cry out. His hips bucked again, his need building until suddenly, with unexpected 
force, he shot his seed down Elrohir’s throat. He cried out again as his brother 
drank of him, swallowing and licking him clean attentively.

“Ah,” Elladan moaned softly, “brother...” His knees buckled. When Elrohir released 
him, both his mouth and his hands, Elladan slid down weakly, spent and satisfied. 
Now eye-to-eye with Elrohir, he smiled weakly at him, that mirror image of 
himself; his flesh and blood, his blessing, his companion in darkness and in light. 
“My love,” he said breathlessly. In awe of the love he saw in his brother’s eyes.

“My forever,” Elrohir replied and he cupped Elladan’s face for a kiss.

***

Thranduil’s palace was grand, stunning, but not as stunning as the Mirkwood King 
himself. He stood waiting for them, alone, on the steps in front of his palace. His 
tall, battle-hardened body covered in heavy, royal velvets, the colors of Mirkwood: 
green and brown. His hands behind his back, his feet spread comfortably, a slight 
smile upon his shapely lips as he patiently awaited the arrival of the new guests; 
the pose of an experienced ruler. His head and his broad shoulders framed by 
glorious golden hair, crowned by a simple headband of white silver. Two braids at 
his temples, pulled back and bound together at the back of his head. His face fair 
and serene, and at the same time edged with an unpolished, masculine 
attractiveness that proved wrong those who said that all Elves were androgynous.

“Sons of Elrond,” he said, coming down to meet them as they quickly dismounted. 
“The day has finally come that my court will be rejoicing in your presence. 
Welcome!”

Elladan and Elrohir bowed gracefully, greeting the King with all respect. When they 
looked up at him, the eyes of the King went from the one to the other, sparkling 
with amusement. “Your Majesty,” Elladan said, “sire, it is an honour for us. We 
carry greetings from our father, and well-wishes for you, the Crown Prince and 
your people.”

Thranduil clasped their hands in his, first Elrohir’s, then Elladan’s. Both brothers felt 
it as the King’s eyes met theirs; this one was noble and true. This one would never 
avoid one’s eyes. *All* stories of praise they’d heard about him were probably 
accurate. “I know your names,” Thranduil said, his voice gentle but carrying the 
deep, baritone timbre that featured in the numerous tales about him. “But you are, 
indeed, confusingly alike!” He eyed Elrohir with a friendly, scrutinizing gaze, then 
turned to Elladan. “May I attempt a guess?” he smiled. “You are Elladan, you are 
the oldest.”

This took the twins by surprise. So many Elves of Imladris still couldn’t tell them 
apart, and this King, this Elf they’d never met before, had it right the first time? 
Had to be a lucky guess!

“Yes, my Lord Thranduil,” Elladan said, taken aback, “I am Elladan. But may I ask, 
how did you know?”

“I didn’t.” Thranduil laughed softly, the sound wrapping around the twins’ hearts 
and warming them comfortably from inside, like warm wine on a winter’s day. “But 
I have heard tales about you,” he said, “and after hearing those, I thought that 
such a polite and well-spoken greeting would come from Elladan, while his brother 
Elrohir would let him do the talking.” The King’s amused gaze shifted, settling on 
Elrohir again. “I still could’ve been wrong though,” he said, as if he felt he had to 
apologize for his fortunate guess.

The twins, even though they’d lived for many hundreds of years, could not help 
feeling young under Thranduil’s bright, friendly gaze. The King was older, taller; 
more wisdom shone from his eyes, more experience. And still, despite all this and 
despite his royal bearing, he was not untouchable; one could still see the young Elf 
still living in him, the humor and the joy. As Elrohir tried to picture a younger 
version of him, wondering if Prince Legolas would indeed resemble his father as 
closely as the tales told, Elladan just took in the sight of the King; he was 
magnificent beyond expectation.

At a simple sign from Thranduil, several young Elves came; one to take care of the 
horses, and two to bring the twins’ belongings to their room. “You can also lay 
down your weapons,” Thranduil said. “It is wise to be armed when travelling 
hither,” – a quick expression of regret crossed the fair features of the King -, “but 
you will have no need of them as long as you are my guests.”

When stripped of their luggage and armoury, Thranduil indicated that they could 
follow him. “Please come inside,” he said. As the three of them entered the palace 
– Elladan and Elrohir took in the tasteful splendour of it –, Thranduil inquired after 
Elrond and his household, after Imladris, and they answered him politely.

“But you have travelled long,” Thranduil then said, “and must be longing for a 
moment to refresh yourselves. It shall be so. But let me invite you to come down 
again after that and have lunch with me and my son. He will be home from classes 
shortly and will be delighted to meet you. He has been awaiting your arrival 
eagerly.”

“Yes, my lord Thranduil,” Elladan said as he and Elrohir inclined their heads, “we 
will be honoured to be guests at your table. And we in turn will be even more 
delighted to meet your son, Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, at last.”

Thranduil smiled his warm smile. “Very well. I will gladly receive you in the dining 
room, in an hour.”

They said their goodbyes and parted, Elladan and Elrohir following a servant who 
showed them the way to their room. It was spacious and light, and the dominating 
colors of it were green and brown. It smelled of the forest, of fragrant leaves and 
of pine-cones. Unaware of the fact that the twins were lovers, Thranduil had given 
them a room with two separate beds, but they did not even give it a second 
thought. They talked enthusiastically as they refreshed themselves and changed 
their clothes, discussing the warm welcome and the magnificence of the King. 
Meeting him had certainly raised their expectations even more.

When they went down an hour later, they were dressed in their heavier robes, unfit 
for travel; combining red with black, grey and white, as usual. Upon joining the 
King in the dining room, they learned that the Prince had not yet arrived, but they 
seated themselves and enjoyed a drink with the King while waiting for his arrival, 
in the meantime continuing their conversation. The King seemed genuinely 
interested in the latest developments in Imladris and the Last Homely House. The 
twins in turn listened eagerly to Thranduil’s stories concerning Mirkwood.

Not everything was new to them, of course; they already knew that Thranduil had 
come from Lindon in the west when he was still a youngster, together with his 
father, King Oropher, who led his people to Greenwood the Great, as Mirkwood had 
been called back then, and settled there. But Thranduil had many other interesting 
tales and anecdotes to tell, and he spoke with such enthusiasm and liveliness that 
it was impossible not to be captivated. Elladan and Elrohir were rapt, not only by 
the tales itself, but also by the speaker. Weaving his words together fluently and 
supporting his sentences with graceful, occasional gestures of his hands, the King 
spoke in that low-timbered voice of his. Listening to Thranduil talk was anything 
but a nuisance.

And then a single knock on the door, and an Elf of the royal guard came in. “My 
lord,” he said, bowing low, “the Prince has arrived.”

“Good,” Thranduil said, “please tell him to join us here.”

Before he’d even finished his sentence, a young, slender Elf came dancing inside 
unceremoniously. However, when he perceived the two strange Elves who’d risen 
from their seats together with the King, his feet fell still, his eyes grew wide in 
surprise. He stared at the new arrivals and they stared back at him, all three of 
them in awe of what they beheld.

Legolas had never seen identical twins before and could hardly believe that two 
individuals could be so alike in appearance. And what an appearance it was! Every 
inch the battle-ready orc slayers they were said to be, the twins were tall and 
strong, but their features were fair, their eyes soft and their lips curved in a smile. 
They looked young, but in spite of this, there was something about their faces that 
made it clear that they were, in fact, considerably older than the Prince. Millennia 
of life experience; it sat on their beautiful faces. Legolas felt instantly young, 
younger than he actually was. The twins’ robes were foreign, unfamiliar; they 
spoke of a distant realm, of different traditions, strange and exciting to Legolas, 
who so badly longed to see more of Middle-earth. Legolas also sensed a foreign 
scent in the room, the scent of the wild, the grasses outside Mirkwood, the 
mountains; a scent the twins had brought with them, still perceptible even as it 
was gradually being replaced by the scent of Mirkwood. Legolas felt instantly drawn 
to these two Elves; he felt they had many interesting tales to tell, and he hoped 
they would be willing to share some of them with him.

As for Elladan and Elrohir, they had been prepared for a confrontation with 
breathtaking beauty, but they were still taken aback. Yes, no doubt about it; blond-
haired, fair of face, sensuous lips ready to smile... this was the son of Thranduil. 
However, Elrohir felt instantly ashamed for having allowed himself to fantasize 
about bedding the Prince, even in jest. For Legolas, despite his uncommon, jaw-
dropping beauty, was still so very *young*! His body was that of a young man, 
svelte but masculine, and his facial features, although still maturing, were anything 
but childlike; but his eyes...! They were bright and blue and studied the twins with 
pure, innocent curiosity. Not once did his eyes flicker with something more.. Elrohir 
instantly knew that this young prince was not yet ready for sexual games, for 
experiments. His soul was pure, purer than a crystal mountain stream. Soft and 
gentle. This Elf would not have a tumble with someone just out of curiosity, or 
shallow lust. No, Elrohir felt it very clearly, saw it in the Prince’s eyes; Legolas was 
a romantic, and saved his embraces for that special one.

Still, Elrohir couldn’t stop his lips from curving up in a delighted smile, and he saw 
that Elladan was doing the same. How could they not? How could one remain 
unaffected by someone as heart-stoppingly beautiful as the Prince of Mirkwood? 
Thranduil approached the Prince. “Welcome home, son,” he said. “We have guests 
as you can see, the first ones to arrive for the celebration.” He placed one hand on 
Legolas’s shoulder and ushered him towards the twins.

“The sons of Elrond of Imladris,” Legolas said, smiling. Elrohir could tell that the 
young Prince was recalling the lessons his father had taught him about receiving 
guests properly, and he was doing well, but the boy’s smile was a little shy. His 
eyes however remained on Elrohir’s bravely.

“Mae govannen, Prince Legolas Thranduilion,” Elrohir said, bowing his head. “It is 
such a delight to meet you at last. My name is Elrohir.”

“Mae govannen, Elrohir of Imladris,” the beautiful young prince replied. His clear 
tenor voice kissing Elrohir’s ears. “The pleasure is mine entirely. I have heard much 
of you.” His hand came up and Elrohir took it in greeting, holding it briefly in his 
own. It was warm and dry. Stronger than one might expect. Due to intensive 
archery training, Elrohir guessed. “Welcome in Mirkwood,” Legolas smiled before 
turning to Elladan and speaking kind words of welcome to him.

Elrohir, as his brother and Legolas exchanged greetings, took his time to study the 
Prince more closely. Because he came fresh out of school, he was wearing 
relatively simple clothes: black leggings and boots, and a pale-blue tunic. His hair 
was thick and shiny, and fell in slight waves between his shoulder blades. It was of 
a slightly different color than Thranduil’s; while the King’s hair seemed to be spun 
of pure gold, Legolas’s was a little lighter, a blend of sunshine and moonlight. He 
wore the braids of a youngster, but the elaborate arrangement of the braids 
marked him as royal blood.

Apart from the glorious hair, father and son shared their dark, curved eyebrows, 
long lashes and proud jawline. They also had the same, sensual curve of lip, and 
the same light shone in their faces when they smiled. The color of their eyes 
however was different, and Legolas’s facial features were softer than his father’s. 
One would never, ever mistake the one for the other, but looking at Thranduil, one 
had a pretty good idea of what Legolas would become.. And vice versa: Elrohir 
guessed that Thranduil, millennia ago, must have been very much like the Legolas 
they saw right now.

Elrohir looked from one to the other, trying to decide which one of them looked 
more stunning, but found that this was an impossible decision to make. Legolas 
had the endearing, pure beauty of a boy turning into a man, while Thranduil took 
your breath away with his well-defined masculinity.

“You have arrived so early,” Legolas told the brothers, surprise coloring his words. 
“The ceremony won’t take place until the end of next week.”

“Indeed,” Elladan said. “Our father sent us away early. I think he feared we might 
be delayed underway, as he knows we can’t resist an orc track when we see one.”

His voice trailed off as he suddenly wondered whether he should even have 
brought up those foul beasts in the presence of King and Prince. After all, a band of 
Orcs had claimed the life of the Queen.

Thranduil seemed to sense his hesitation and smiled. “Do not worry, young Elladan. 
The four of us think alike when it comes to the race of Orcs, and with good 
reason.” He loosely draped one arm around Legolas’s shoulder. “We all know what 
happened. Our wounds are still healing, but we don’t shy away from conversation. 
You have not offended us.”

The twins smiled, relieved. Thankful for Thranduil’s reassurance. “Let us sit,” 
Thranduil said then, “and enjoy a simple lunch.”

Lunch went by with light conversation and laughter. Elrohir found it impossible to 
take his eyes off the royal couple in front of him. Legolas was so very comfortable 
in his father’s presence, more comfortable than the twins had ever been with 
Elrond. The two finished sentences for each other, made fun of each other, but 
there was also respect. Thranduil inquired after Legolas’s day in school, and 
Legolas answered all his father’s questions enthusiastically. Elrohir understood that 
this was part of their daily routine.

It was clear to Elrohir that father and son had leaned on each other after the death 
of the Queen, that they had pulled each other through and that their bond had 
grown stronger in the process. To see the two of them together was truly 
heartwarming.

Legolas gradually became more confident in the presence of the twins, and at one 
point he turned to them, eyes glimmering with enthusiasm. “I have heard so much 
about Imladris,” he said. “Please tell me about it.”

And so Elladan started telling, occasionally filled in by Elrohir. Legolas was an eager 
listener, and in his youthful eagerness, fired question after question at the twins. It 
became clear that the Prince not only had paid good attention in history class, but 
was also quick of mind. In the end, Thranduil had to remind his son that it was 
time for his archery lessons. Legolas bade the twins goodbye and left, and 
Thranduil returned to the duties awaiting him in his study, but only after having 
said that the twins were free to explore the surroundings, the gardens, and make 
use of the archery ranges and practice fields. The twins thanked him warmly, and 
they parted, in high spirits.

Once up in their room again, Elrohir dropped onto his bed, bouncing on the soft 
mattress. “Well?” he said.

“I have bad news for us, brother,” Elladan smirked.

“You mean the Prince?”

“He won’t let us have him. You must have seen it too.”

“I have,” Elrohir said.

“A pity,” Elladan continued. “Even the most enthusiastic tales did him no justice. 
He is a beauty, truly one of the fairest I ever saw.”

“But he’s young,” Elrohir said.

“Old enough to start learning how to use his body,” Elladan said. And after a 
second’s silence, “I wonder if he is in love. I wonder whom he will take to bed next 
week.”

“Whoever it is, ‘lucky’ is his or her middle name,” Elrohir said.

Elladan now dropped onto his own bed, facing Elrohir. “I suggest a change of plan,” 
he said, eyes sparkling mischievously. He was more relaxed than Elrohir had seen 
him in a long time; apparently he felt good here, at ease.

“A change of plan?” Elrohir said, not understanding. Elladan’s grin grew broader, 
and suddenly realization dawned on Elrohir.

“El!” he said, eyes growing wider. “You can’t be serious. The King?”

“Do you think he has a lover?” Elladan said unperturbably.

“You heard what he said. His wife... The scars are still fresh.”

“The touch of a lover can be balm on a burning scar.”

“El,” Elrohir said sternly, “you know what we promised father. Decency... not rebuff 
anyone... behave... do Imladris honour... remember?”

“I am not suggesting to drag him into bed with us. We can gauge him, ask 
around... see if he would be open to it. And we never promised father not to bed 
the King!”

Elrohir shook his head in disbelief, but amusement began taking over. Was this 
truly Elladan?

“You want him,” he said. “You actually want to lie with our host!”

Elladan raised his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Don’t *you*?”

Elrohir started chuckling. “If I denied that, I’d be lying. He is very beautiful, and 
tempting.”

“He is more than tempting,” Elladan said. “He is magnificent.”

“What about *us*, then?” Elrohir said, pouting playfully.

Elladan smiled tenderly. “You know no one can replace you, my love. Ever. But it’s 
been just the two of us for almost seven decades. A little variety won’t hurt us.” His 
eyes sought Elrohir’s, a hint of uncertainty in them. “Will it?” 
 
“No, El,” Elrohir smiled, “it won’t.” Suddenly he was straddling Elladan’s lap and 
running his fingers through Elladan’s hair. “I am forever yours,” he said.

Elladan laughed happily as he circled his arms around his lover. “You know,” he 
said, “having two beds has its advantages.”

“Does it?”

“Yes. First we can try mine, and then yours!”

Both were glowing with joy as they made love on the green and brown coverlets of 
Mirkwood; first Elladan’s bed, then Elrohir’s.


Chapter 4 – Child Of The Forest

Mirkwood, July 2580, T.A.

~ Thranduil ~


Are the twins lovers?

That is what I keep wondering. They’ve been here for several days now and 
although they haven’t touched each other once in my presence, the glances they 
give each other are those of lovers. Or am I wrong? Are they just fond of each 
other in a brotherly fashion?

Well, whatever the case, it’s none of my business. It is frowned upon, but not 
forbidden. And they are kind, gentle Elves; Legolas is getting along with them 
unexpectedly well. Perhaps because they are genuinely interested in *him*, and 
not in bedding him, like several others. I see no lust in their eyes when they look at 
him; quite the contrary, it’s more like they find him endearing. That reassures me; 
I was genuinely worried when that Erestor was here a while ago. I had to try really 
hard not to be amused though, when I saw how indifferent my son was towards 
that Elf.

When he finds the time, Legolas seeks the twins’ company. He watches them as 
they practise swordfighting, the three of them have gone for a ride together, and 
they can be seen on the archery range occasionally. It pleases me to see that the 
sons of Elrond find such delight in spending time with my son.

Legolas has surprised both the brothers and me. After only a few days, he is 
already able to tell them apart, but only when he can see their faces. It is true that 
I guessed it right once upon their arrival, but I can’t tell the one from the other just 
by looking at them. I need to hear their voices, see how they behave, and maybe 
*then* I’ll know. But today, one of the twins came down for dinner alone. Legolas 
looked at him as he came towards us and said, “Elrohir, where is Elladan?”

“He’ll be joining us in a moment,” Elrohir said, surprise coloring his voice. “But how 
did you know that I am Elrohir?”

Legolas blushed. “I – I don’t know,” he said, “I just can see it. Your eyes, I guess.”

“My eyes?”

“Yes. They are different somehow. They seem... younger than Elladan’s.”

Elrohir smiled a little and eyed Legolas with an expression of surprise and 
unexpected tenderness. Ah, Legolas; how well you see those things, my son, my 
sensitive one. How easily you enchant people with your gentle soul, the softness of 
your shining eyes. Do you have any idea, little one, how guilty I felt when I first 
gave you a bow in your hands, an instrument to kill? No, you don’t know that, for I 
made sure that my heartache didn’t show on my face. But it was there. And soon 
you will be taught even more brutal ways to take a creature’s life; the thought 
alone tears my heart apart, but it must be done. The Watchful Peace ended long 
ago, darkness is slowly overtaking our once so beautiful forest, and who knows 
what the future will bring? You must be trained like a warrior, my leafling, no 
matter how much it pains me to see you take up a weapon.

To see your child lose his innocence is without a doubt the most difficult aspect of 
being a parent. But I let the knowledge that Legolas will not lose his gentle soul 
comfort me. During his long, long life, Legolas will probably risk his life for the 
greater good many times, and I must teach him how to bring death to his foes 
without being touched by a weapon himself. For his own sake, and for mine... for I 
don’t think I would endure should he die. I would surely fade, and die a slow death 
myself. That is, if I won’t have taken my own life more swiftly by then.

Would Legolas have become a different Elf if his mother hadn’t died, I wonder. 
Probably so. He was always a sensitive child, quick to shed a tear over a dead tree, 
or an injured animal. But maybe he would have been a bit more independent by 
now, less uncertain, if his mother were still here. Maybe...

He is a child of the forest, my son. It is hard to explain. His ears hear more, his 
eyes see more, he feels and smells more than any other Elf I know. He is a 
listener, an observer, not really a talker. He takes after me in that respect, they tell 
me, and I smile. I know it’s true. But since he was born in this forest, he has a 
strong, spiritual connection with it that I lack, and envy. It is a wondrous thing. I 
remember the day my wife died. I was outside with Legolas, practising archery, 
and Legolas was totally into it, until suddenly he froze visibly. His bow dropped 
from his hands and I was about to reprimand him for his carelessness when he 
turned to me, his cheeks deprived of their usual rosy color. His eyes full of fear. His 
apparent shock nearly choked me.

“Adar,” he said hoarsely, “it’s mother... she is in danger.”

I didn’t have the time to ask for details, and within a matter of moments we found 
ourselves riding in full gallop over narrow paths, Legolas leading me and a party of 
warriors to where he knew his mother was. We were too late, alas; the Orcs had 
made it quick. After all those years, I am now able to feel thankful for that, but I 
will never forget the raw, cutting sense of despair when I realized that no healer 
could bring her back. And I will never forget the heart-wrenching grief of my son. 
As my warriors charged after the fleeing Orcs, I just sat there and cradled Legolas 
against me, trying to comfort him even as I was being consumed by grief myself. 
Sobs were racking his slender body so forcefully that it was torture to watch. I 
have never felt so helpless and lost in my entire life, not even when I saw my 
father fall in the Battle of Dagorlad, for I wasn’t a father myself back then. This 
time I didn’t only have my own grief to deal with, I had to cope with my son’s as 
well. Be strong for him.

He kept crying, long after I shed my last tear. I’d never known that so many tears 
could fall from those beautiful eyes, those pieces of the sky with the Sun in them. 
But they did. And when the tracks of his tears finally dried up, it was as if all life 
had fled from him. The only things ensuring me that he was still alive were his 
heartbeat, his shallow breathing and the slow blinking of his eyes. I had to seat 
him on my horse in front of me as he was unable to ride back himself. Something 
odd struck me then; the sky had been a uniform blue before the tragedy took 
place, and the experts at my court had ensured me that it would be clear weather 
all day. However, as we rode home, I saw massive, dark storm clouds quickly pack 
together above Mirkwood. The air grew chilly and the summer breeze increased in 
strength, turning cold. The trees assumed a darker color, not to threaten us, but to 
mourn. The branches and the leaves whispered as we rode by, and somehow I felt 
that my son knew what they were saying. As soon as our party arrived at the 
palace, the first drops started falling, thick and cold. It was midday, but the sky 
was dark and it seemed almost night. That day, the worst storm Middle-earth has 
ever seen raged over Mirkwood, and it lasted throughout the entire night. I sat 
inside with Legolas on my lap, holding him. I believe he found at least a brief 
moment of rest, but I was awake and listened to the howling of the wind, the loud 
clattering of the rain and hail; the lament of nature. That was the first time I fully 
realized how strong the bond between the forest and my son actually is. Nature 
mourned with us, but somehow I knew for certain it was not my grief that had 
summoned the storm. It was Legolas’s.

I had noticed things before, of course. Nature was gracious to Legolas from the 
very beginning, ever since the day he was given to my wife and me. Flowers 
seemed to turn towards him as he walked by. Whenever he fell out of a tree when 
he was little, he always landed on a soft, mossy spot, never on hard ground, or 
rock, as if Earth reached out to catch him, not wanting to see him in pain. Squirrels 
and other shy forest animals came to sit on his hands, play with his hair. Make him 
laugh. Does even let him come near their fawns. It was unlike anything I’d ever 
seen. *No one* had ever seen something like it, not even the Elders. “He may 
have Sindarin blood,” they say, “but he has the spirit of a Silvan.” And they are 
right.

But this, this storm; I’d never expected my Legolas to be able to, without intending 
to, elicit such grief from Nature. By the time the wind died and the rain stopped 
falling, morning had come already. It came hesitantly, as if the Sun, rising slowly 
behind the clouds, felt ashamed for having to begin the new day now that the 
Queen was no longer there to witness it. The clouds had shed all their tears, but 
the trees of Mirkwood continued to weep for the rest of the day, slow drops leaking 
from their branches. It was the saddest sound I’d ever heard.

We buried the Queen. The sky remained overcast the entire week, and no bird’s 
song was heard. That week, I lived in fear for my son, for he was a shadow of his 
usual self. However, when I finally, several days after the funeral, caught a first 
quick, weak smile on his lips, I knew he would not fade. That was also the day 
Mirkwood saw the sun again, be it briefly, and heard the first hesitating blackbird. 
Silently we pledged to pull each other through, my son and me.

And pulled each other through we have, for more than six decades. As we leaned 
on each other, we grew closer than we had ever been before, much closer than my 
father and me have ever been. But I was still Legolas’s father and had a task; I 
raised him with all the love I have in me and I pray to the Valar and my late wife 
that it is enough, that I did well... In only a couple of days, Legolas will be a man, 
and a fine young man he will be. I am very proud of him. Yet I can’t help feeling 
just a little sad now that my only child is about to officially become an adult. How 
selfish of me. I smile bitterly and realize that maybe, the father has become a bit 
too dependent on his son, too.

We have never really talked about what happened that day, the storm... I think we 
both have no need for it, as if we feel that bringing it under words would spoil it 
somehow. No words in Sindarin, Quenya or any other tongue could explain it 
anyway. I know what I’ve seen and felt and that is enough. Legolas himself is 
aware of his gift, but I don’t think he fully realizes the wonder of it, yet. As if he 
doesn’t really have an idea of how to handle it. That is something he will have to 
learn throughout the years.

I did one thing, though: when I deemed the time right, I gently asked him how he 
had known that his mother was in danger. For some reason, I was not surprised 
when he answered me that ‘the trees had warned him’.. When I asked him what 
the trees had said to him while we were riding home, he replied that they told him 
that he should not blame himself for what happened, that he had done everything 
in his power, but that the Orcs had simply found the Queen too far from home. A 
cruel decision of Fate.

The sons of Elrond have lost their mother, too. My son and the twins of Imladris 
are kindred spirits in that respect; maybe that is why Legolas is drawn to them. But 
I also see how eagerly he listens to their stories. They have made long travels as 
orc hunters, have seen many corners of Middle-earth, and it seems Legolas wants 
to hear about every single Orc they killed, every meadow they stepped on, every 
tree they saw outside Mirkwood. The twins are patient, and tell him any story he 
wants to hear. He has a craving for travel, my Legolas. When you’re that young, a 
forest, even when it’s as big as Mirkwood, soon seems too small, and I suspect that 
he visits far away places in his dreams. One day, he will want to leave Mirkwood 
and make those travels he is now dreaming about; and I will let him go, as that, 
too, is part of parenthood. Let your children go and walk the path of their choosing.

I wonder what Legolas’s path will be. Wherever he may go, I pray that the Sun and 
the stars will light his path, that the Valar will keep him safe. I pray for it every 
day.

I am roused from my reverie when Legolas walks by, his light footfalls almost 
soundless as he pads through the corridor. I rise to my feet to greet him and he 
notices me, turning his face to me. “Adar,” he says, smiling, happy to see me.

Ah, my leafling, my son; you are more important to me than the air in my lungs. I 
curse Fate for taking the Queen’s life, but I praise and thank her for giving you to 
me. I will never tire of my life as long as you are in it.

I draw him into my embrace. My father would have cringed at a public display of 
affection between King and Prince, for all the servants and officials to see, but I 
could not care less. The love of my son is my life elixir, and every now and then, I 
need a swallow of it. ... Is it, perhaps, my fault that Legolas is slow with finding 
independence? Have I involuntarily kept him small with the weight of my love? 
Have I offered a comforting embrace too many, should I have sent him back to bed 
when he came to me after a nightmare? Should I have said ‘no’ when my 
adolescent son begged me if he could sleep in my bed as if he were a toddler? But 
how could I do that, when he needed me, when he was so afraid? I could see the 
fear in his eyes, fear that he might lose *me*, too. I am not an indulgent parent, 
but I simply could not send him away in his grief.. So I allowed him to sleep in my 
bed, I held him against me, let him feel my heartbeat. Awkward as it was, to have 
my adolescent son beside me in the bed I’d shared with my wife, I enjoyed those 
moments. I needed *his* comfort, too.

Should I have done differently? I don’t know, but the thought frightens me.

“I love you, Legolas,” I say, “my little one. My everything.”

He laughs happily and throws his arms around my neck, leaning in to the embrace 
with body and soul. “I love you, too, adar,” he says.

Daily court routine continues around us as always; servants hurrying to and fro, 
officials walking by, some alone, others in small groups. But they seem to move in 
slow-motion, their voices coming from far away. They do not even give us a second 
glance, used as they are to this. And for a long, silent moment, we stand in this 
embrace.

I love you. Such simple words. But to Legolas and me, they’ve become our 
salvation and our anchor. He speaks them to me, and I to him, and they still save 
us every day; but for the rest, and it’s a rather sad truth, I think we’ve both 
become careful in using them.


Chapter 5 – Marchwarden

Mirkwood, July 2580, T.A.


More guests arrived in the week preceding the ceremony, and it was a happy 
gathering of Elves from all over Middle-earth. Legolas faced them all bravely, but 
Thranduil could tell that his son was a bit intimidated by the large numbers of Elves 
suddenly crowding the palace. To Legolas’s joy, Elladan and Elrohir continued to 
spend time with him like they’d been doing before, and he was thankful for their 
companionship. It gave him the opportunity to be away from the cheerful chaos in 
the palace now and then, as his father was busy receiving the guests and 
maintaining the political and friendly bonds between the elven realms.

One of the last parties to arrive was an assembly of approximately twenty Elves 
from Lórien. Legolas gaped at them in awe: the delegation from the Golden Wood, 
sent by the legendary Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. Some of them were 
clearly of a high political rank, official representatives of the Lord and Lady and 
their Council; their velvet robes speaking of their importance. The others formed 
their guard, clad in more practical clothing. The wrappings of the fabric were 
unfamiliar to Legolas, and he was as rapt by them as he had been by the twins’ 
robes. The guards’ leggings, tunics and jerkins were different shades of smooth 
grey; to blend in with their natural environment, Legolas knew, for the bark of the 
trees in Lórien was grey. The guards were all tall and radiated strength and agility; 
elegant, curved longswords hung by their sides. Their bows had a rounder curve 
than any bow Legolas had ever seen, and their arrows were topped with long, 
white feathers. It was all foreign and exciting. As Legolas was being introduced to 
the high officials, he had a hard time keeping his eyes off the guards and their 
strange clothes and weapons.

While Thranduil inquired after the recent events in Lórien, Legolas eyed the guards 
more closely. They caught him staring and smiled, elbowing each other in the ribs. 
Legolas felt his face grow hot and lowered his eyes; they probably thought him just 
a little kid, a princeling. One of the guards caught him blushing and one look from 
him immediately stopped the others from whispering together. Legolas guessed 
that he was the captain of the guard, although he was clad in exactly the same 
clothing as his men to make his rank a secret to the enemy.

After the silent reprimand, the guards bowed their heads to Legolas in greeting and 
eyed him more friendly. Their captain bowed his head as well, and placed a large 
but slender hand over his heart in greeting as he stepped forward. “Forgive my 
men, Prince Legolas,” he said in a melodious voice. “The long and exhausting 
journey hither has asked her toll, I’m afraid. I suspect that they became a bit 
nervous, like young maidens, when the fair Prince of Mirkwood set his eyes on 
them.”

Now it was the guards’ turn to blush. When Legolas laughed, the other Elf started 
to smile, too. He was attractive, Legolas realized. Yet his attractiveness was of an 
uncommon sort, for an Elf; one would rather call him handsome than fair. Then 
Legolas’s nose sensed something; the unmistakable scent of blood. His eyes 
searched the Elf in front of him.

“You are wounded!” he said, pointing at the Elf’s arm. A dark stain marked the 
sleeve, just above the elbow. A tear in the dark fabric revealed a crimson red gash 
in pale skin. It had to be a fresh wound.

The guard’s eyes went from Legolas’s face to his arm and back again. “’Tis but a 
scratch, my prince,” he said with a smile.

“What happened?” Legolas asked.

“Orcs,” the other said. “They crossed our path this morning; how unfortunate for 
them. The one who did this, never got the time to boast about it.” He patted the 
hilt of his sword.

Legolas laughed again. “But you must see a healer,” he said then. “Orc blades can 
be poisoned...”

“This one wasn’t,” the Elf said, “or I would have smelled it. But I will see a healer if 
it pleases you, my prince.”

Legolas nodded, then spontaneously asked, “What is your name?”

The Elf eyed him with mild surprise, but he smiled and said, “Haldir, my prince... 
My name is Haldir.”

“Welcome, Haldir,” Legolas said, “... in Mirkwood. I hope that you and your men 
will find rest here after your long journey.”

“I do not doubt that, Prince Legolas,” Haldir said with a warm smile. “Thank you! 
But until our departure, our swords and bows will serve Mirkwood, if needed.”

“Let us hope we will have no need for them,” Thranduil said as he joined them. 
“Welcome, Haldir!”

“Your Majesty.” Haldir bowed low, and the other guards did the same.

“What did I hear?” Thranduil furrowed his brow. “You were attacked by Orcs this 
morning?”

“Yes, sire.” The smile had disappeared from Haldir’s face. “Approximately twenty 
miles to the south. Thirty-six we killed, three managed to escape.”

“Where to?”

“South-west, sire. In the direction of the Tower.”

The King nodded slowly. Then he smiled. “My son is right, Haldir; let a healer take 
care of that wound. You are of no use to Mirkwood with an injured sword arm.”

Haldir smiled. “As you wish, my lord Thranduil.” Before following a servant inside, 
he bowed again, both for father and son.

***

The day of Legolas’s majority ceremony came bright and fair. Preparations were in 
full swing and Legolas thought he was going to collapse under all the attention he 
received. So when he found a moment to escape, shortly after noon, he was more 
than glad. He decided to seek some solitude in the royal gardens. As he walked 
there over the well-kept paths in a leisurely pace, he let out a sigh of relief. Finally 
some rest. Varda, what he wouldn’t be relieved when this circus was finally over. 
He knew he should be excited that he was about to leave childhood behind him and 
become an adult, but in fact, it was all the same to him.

And why? He had no idea. Maybe because his mother wasn’t there to celebrate it 
together with him and his father? He’d talked about this with the twins, and they 
said that this was very possible.

“We know what it’s like,” Elrohir said. “After the loss of mother, we cared for 
nothing. It’s only natural that you miss her, on this occasion more than ever.”

“Give it time, Legolas,” Elladan said. “Do not force yourself to feel things you don’t 
feel. Just smile throughout the entire thing, and it will be over before you know it. 
Believe me,” he winked, “the ceremony is not all that great an event it’s propped 
up to be. I barely remember ours.”

“Because you were soaked,” Elrohir smirked, at which he received a playful punch 
in the stomach.

Legolas just smiled, a little sad. The twins were blessed to have each other. Then 
again, Legolas was far from alone in this; he had his father after all. Something he 
was thankful for every day.

Legolas then found that he wasn’t alone in the gardens. Haldir of Lórien was there, 
too; he sat on a bench facing the pond and attended to his weapons. Apparently 
he’d preferred to do so in solitude. His tall sword and bow stood propped against 
the bench, his quiver lay on his lap and he was busy inspecting his arrows, taking 
them in his hands one by one, lifting them to eye-height and running his fingers 
along the shaft and feathers. Being the experienced, trained guardian he was, he 
soon became aware of Legolas’s presence, and he turned slightly on his bench.

“Prince Legolas,” he said, and he stood to face him. Inclining his blond head, Haldir 
continued, “What a surprise to see you here so unexpectedly.”

“Forgive me, Haldir,” Legolas said, “I did not mean to disturb you.”

“You misunderstand me, my prince,” Haldir smiled gently. “When I said that it was 
a surprise to see you, I meant a *pleasant* surprise.”

Legolas returned the smile. “How is your arm?” he inquired then.

“Healing quickly, thanks to the skills of your healers. A simple bandage and some 
disinfecting balm were sufficient.” He motioned for his weapons. “I should ask 
*you* for forgiveness, Prince Legolas, for bringing weapons into these lovely 
gardens.”

“You are forgiven,” Legolas said. “Did you prefer the solitude over the company of 
your men?”

Haldir smiled. “The solitude, yes... But also the peacefulness of this place. It is both 
soothing and energizing.”

“Then we came here with the same intentions,” Legolas said.

“Were you seeking solitude?” Haldir looked at him questioningly.

“And peacefulness.” Legolas laughed. “The palace is a madhouse.”

“I see.” Haldir laughed too. “Perfectly understandable.”

Legolas motioned for the bench uncertainly. “May I sit with you for a moment?”

“Certainly, my prince,” Haldir said, and they sat down side by side. Haldir wanted 
to put his quiver aside, but Legolas reached out his hand to stop him.

“Don’t let my presence keep you from continuing,” Legolas said. “I like to watch.”

“Do you have a love for archery, Prince Legolas?” Haldir asked as he resumed the 
inspections of his arrows.

“I take delight in the lessons,” Legolas replied, “and my tutor is satisfied with my 
progression.”

“And when will you start with swordfighting lessons?”

“Soon, I think,” Legolas said. “Although I think that father will want me to start 
with smaller things... daggers, and hunting knives.” His eyes automatically drifted 
to Haldir’s longsword. It was truly stunning, as far as a weapon could be beautiful. 
The long, exquisitely crafted hilt was actually made of two different types of wood, 
one dark of color, the other lighter. The two curled around each other like ribbons, 
over the entire length of the hilt. The blade had a slight curve to it, and was white 
and gleamy in the midday sun.

Haldir reached down and took his sword in his hands, then offered it carefully to 
Legolas, who eyed him uncertainly. When Haldir gave him an encouraging nod, he 
received the weapon in his hands and eyed it from all angles with respect and 
admiration. It was heavier than it looked, and Legolas understood that it would 
take quite some strength to wield it.

In the end, Legolas gave it back to its owner, who put it back in its former place. 
“A powerful weapon, Prince,” Haldir said. “Always remember to handle it with 
respect. It can mean the difference between life and death.”

Legolas nodded thoughtfully as he studied Haldir’s profile. The captain’s eyes were 
of a unexpectedly warm blue-grey Legolas had never seen before, and he 
wondered how old Haldir was. There was no doubt about it that the Elf had seen 
many seasons come and go, had known both great joy and severe sorrow; the 
memory of it still lingered in the depths of Haldir’s eyes. Legolas guessed that 
Haldir was probably younger than Thranduil, but older than the twins.

“Are you a Marchwarden of Lórien?” Legolas asked.

“Yes, my prince. I guard Lórien’s borders with my men, go on patrol, report to Lord 
Celeborn and Lady Galadriel on regular basis.”

“Have you been wounded before?”

Haldir laughed softly. “Several times. But the safety of Lórien is well worth it.”

“Have you lived in Lórien all your life, Haldir?”

“Yes, my prince. And my parents, and their parents before them.”

Legolas had expected as much. The mystery of the ancient elven realm of Lórien 
was in Haldir’s entire being. With his tall, strong body, grey clothes and golden 
head, the Elf was almost a grand mallorn tree himself. His eyes were open and 
bright, yet mysterious and unfathomable and they spoke of the stars over Lórien. 
Legolas didn’t doubt that Haldir knew every path, every tree, every turn of root 
within the Golden Wood by heart. Legolas instinctively felt that Haldir took his task 
of protecting his homeland seriously; so seriously perhaps that it exceeded all 
other things in importance. Haldir didn’t seem like an Elf of excesses; the fact that 
he’d sought solitude in the gardens was telltale. Legolas suspected that to some, 
Haldir might appear reserved and untouchable, even cold maybe, while he was, in 
fact, just devoted to his task, somewhat protective of his privacy and less 
comfortable with joviality than others. Perhaps this was the main reason why 
Legolas felt drawn to him. It was seldom that Legolas encountered an Elf of a 
cautious and silent nature, like himself.

Then Legolas suddenly realized that the other Elf was studying *him*, too. Blue-
grey eyes searching his curiously, trying to read him.

“What is it you want to ask me, Haldir?” he said with a smile. “Go right ahead; it 
wouldn’t be fair if I was the only one firing questions in this conversation.”

Haldir laughed, knowing that Legolas had seen the unspoken question in his eyes. 
“Very well, my prince. But I must warn you, it is a rather personal question.”

“Ask.”

“I see so little excitement in you, no anticipation about your ceremony tonight. Are 
you not looking forward to the celebration?”

“Barely,” Legolas replied. “Everyone is so excited about it, and it is far from 
infectious. I wish it was over and done with, so that life could get back to normal.”

“Forgive me my insolence, prince, but surely you know that this is a milestone in 
life? The end of childhood, the beginning of adulthood. Changes are inevitable.”

“Of course, I know this,” Legolas said. “And I am not asking for that. I’d be very 
content already when people will finally stop bothering me about choosing a bed 
partner. I’m tired of it.”

Suddenly Legolas wondered why he brought that up in front of this Elf he barely 
knew. This was something he didn’t even really want to discuss with his father. But 
Haldir’s face remained friendly, unchanged.

“You have not yet made up your mind?” Haldir asked.

“No... it’s not that I can’t decide; I simply haven’t given it much thought yet. It is 
not a matter of great importance to me.”

“You do not enjoy the pleasures of the flesh?” The question innocently asked, no 
scorn in the other’s eyes. Just sincere curiosity.

Still, Legolas’s cheeks felt instantly hot, and he cursed himself for blushing like a 
maid in front of this older, level-headed warrior. “I am not averse to it,” he said 
hesitantly. “I simply know of no one I’d... want to lie with.”

“No one?”

Legolas shook his head, slowly. “No one.”

Haldir studied him for a moment. “Please allow me to give you a bit of advice in 
this, prince.”

“Go ahead.”

“Try not to pay attention to what people may expect from you,” Haldir began. 
“When I was young, I felt it was my duty to try and please everybody. I know now 
that it is impossible; you *can’t* make everyone happy, you’d forget about 
yourself and end up feeling like you’ve failed anyway. So my advice to you, prince, 
is this: do what feels comfortable to *you*. This *will* mean disappointing people, 
but that’s inevitable, I’m afraid.”

Legolas smiled a little. “My father said something quite similar.”

“You see? Then it must be right!” Haldir laughed, spreading his hands. “But 
seriously, my prince... It may not seem like it, but there *is* fun to be had in this 
event. And there is no escaping it, so why not try to make of it what you can?”

For the slightest of seconds there, Legolas considered the possibility of asking 
Haldir. The embrace of the handsome, gentle warrior with his starlit eyes was not 
so bad a prospect. But the next moment, Legolas shrugged the thought off, 
annoyed with himself. He barely knew Haldir, and the Elf probably had a mate at 
home.

“So you don’t think me dainty?” he asked.

“No, my prince. Quite the contrary; it pleases me to hear that there are still young 
Elves who take the matters of the heart so seriously.”

Legolas smiled. “I thank you, Haldir, for your reassuring words and for your advice. 
It will not be forgotten.”

“I am glad I could be useful.”

“Now, Haldir, please tell me something about Lórien. From what I’ve heard, it is a 
place of magic and beauty; but my teacher is a prosaic and I suspect that his 
stories don’t really do justice to Lórien. I would like to hear more about it from a 
poet, like you.”

“A poet, my prince?” Haldir laughed. “I fear it might be disappointing. But I will try 
my best...”

In the thirty minutes that followed, Haldir spoke of Lórien, and in spite of his own 
concerns, it was far from disappointing. He *knew*. He knew what it was like to 
wake up in a talan with the first light of day falling through the mallorn leaves. He 
knew what it was like to walk the dewed grasses and smell their scent in the 
morning. He’d seen the golden leaves, the yellow blossoms of spring. He knew 
what it was like to fall asleep with the song of the Golden Wood in his ears. He 
knew, and he let his words sketch it all so lively that Legolas was able to form an 
almost crystal-clear image in his mind. For more than half an hour, Haldir spoke of 
the magic and the beauty of the Golden Wood while Legolas listened, asking 
questions now and then; both Elves took enjoyment from it.

To Legolas’s regret, their conversation couldn’t last. He had been missed in the 
palace, and soon he was found by one of the servants.

“My prince,” the young male said while he bowed, “forgive me the interruption, but 
you are needed inside. The tailor asked me to remind you that your ceremonial 
robe needs finishing.”

“I will be there shortly,” Legolas sighed. The servant bowed again and left.

“Forgive me, Haldir,” Legolas said, turning to the Lórien Elf. “I cannot stay to hear 
more. Perhaps we can continue our conversation later?”

“Of course, my prince... I would like that,” Haldir said with a nod.

Legolas stood from the bench. “Will you be attending the celebration tonight?”

“Yes, my prince.”

“Good... Until tonight, then. And thank you for your company, Haldir.”

“Thank *you*, Prince Legolas.”

As Legolas strode back to the palace, he perceived a group of girls coming outside, 
accompanied by a female teacher. Apparently they were to have some sort of class 
in the gardens. For a moment, he was tempted to take another route and avoid 
them, but then he remembered Haldir’s words:

*There is fun to be had...*

A sly smile appeared on Legolas’s face as he left the path. A few meters to the 
right stood a large bush laden with sweet-scented, white flowers. He plucked one 
with care and then continued his path, towards the girls, who spotted him now and 
immediately started their usual giggling and whispering. He just smiled and held 
his hands behind his back. One of the girls did not join the nervous conversation: 
Lachwen, a girl he’d been friends with ever since he could walk. She was slightly 
older than he and had often, in her young years, bossed him around like she would 
a younger brother.

“Good afternoon, Ivoriel,” he greeted the teacher. And with a nod to the girls, 
“Ladies...”

“Good afternoon, prince Legolas,” Ivoriel said, then looked at her pupils 
expectantly.

“Good afternoon, prince Legolas,” the girls chirped obediently. Legolas didn’t think 
he’d ever seen so many different shades of red.

He approached the girls, eyeing them one by one. They shifted nervously, blushed 
more fiercely, and watched him in tense anticipation. He stood still in front of 
Lachwen, produced the flower from behind his back and offered it to her.

“Can you dance?” he asked her casually, and he could almost *hear* the jaws 
drop.

“Can *you*?” she retorted.

“Why do you think I’m asking you?” he laughed. “I need someone who will make 
me look like a better dancer than I actually am. I’m counting on you, Lachwen!”

She laughed, too, and accepted the flower. “You are lucky I didn’t give the first 
dance to another yet, you!” she said.

“*Very* lucky indeed,” he said with a smirk. “I’ll see you tonight, Lachwen... Don’t 
be late!”

And after an inclination of his head to the girls, he continued his path, leaving 
Lachwen in the company of her *very* jealous classmates. When he was a few 
meters away, feverish whispering began; all girls crowded around her, either to 
congratulate or to scold her, and admired the flower in her hand like they would an 
engagement ring. Legolas smiled to himself; yes, there *was* fun to be had in this. 
Lachwen was a good choice for his first dance partner; do what feels comfortable, 
adar and Haldir had said. Well, that was exactly what he had done just now. 
Whistling, he ran up the stairs.

***

A/N: the description of Haldir’s weapons is based on the movie props.

***


Chapter 6 – His Father’s Son

Mirkwood, July 2580, T.A.


Following ancient tradition, the celebration was to begin with a festive banquet. 
Then the official ceremony would take place, followed by a ball. Also according to 
tradition, the young prince would open the ball by dancing with a lady of his 
choosing, then attend the feast for another hour or so before retreating to his 
chambers – preferrably in the company of someone – and leaving the guests to 
party by themselves.

The room where the banquet was to take place, was of a size that made it quite 
cosy and intimate as a dining room, but after the removal of tables and chairs it 
would make a fine, spacious ball room. The sun was setting outside, bathing the 
room in a warm, honey-gold light, and guests had begun to gather for the banquet. 
Elladan and Elrohir were there, going around shaking hands and engaging in 
conversation here and there like they’d seen their father do countless times. The 
atmosphere among the guests was friendly and cheerful. Everyone had enjoyed the 
warm welcome in Mirkwood and was in joyful anticipation of this evening; 
Mirkwood was famous for its exquisite dishes and wines, and Thranduil was an 
excellent host. A celebration in his palace was always a success.

Thranduil and Legolas would make their appearance once everyone had arrived and 
was seated. The tables had been arranged in a giant rectangle, and Thranduil 
would sit at the head with Legolas at his right hand and the chairman of the 
Council at his left. The twins hadn’t seen father and son for hours and suspected 
that both had been occupied with preparing themselves for the event.

This was true. Legolas had long, rather tedious hours behind him of standing still 
as the tailors moved around him to make final adjustments to his robe; raising or 
lowering his arms when it was asked of him.. Then, sitting still in a chair as a 
maidservant combed and braided his hair with great care. He also had a last – and 
rather pointless – conversation with the master of ceremonies, who found it 
necessary to go through all the planned events with him one final time. Legolas 
smiled and nodded his way through the afternoon, patient as always, and secretly 
thankful that all this madness would finally be over in a couple of hours.

And then, when it was almost time for him to join the assembly in the dining room, 
a knock on the door and Thranduil entered the room, in full state and ready to 
make his glorious appearance downstairs. His powerful body clad in a velvet robe 
of a deep dark red, the gold embroideries simple but refined. Two single braids 
hung from both sides of his head, the rest of his hair streamed freely down his 
back in soft, thick waves of gold. A modest silver crown completed the picture.

“Adar,” Legolas greeted him with a happy sigh.

“Ion-nîn,” Thranduil said as he came to Legolas and took his son by the shoulders 
to look at him.

“I am almost ready,” Legolas said.

“Yes...” Thranduil eyed the others present with a friendly gaze. “Would you please 
leave us for a moment?”

The servants and attendants bowed and left the room one by one, until Thranduil 
and Legolas were alone. Thranduil patted Legolas on the shoulders, then slowly slid 
his hands down his arms as he studied his son. “Look at you,” he said proudly. “I’m 
suddenly the father of a grown son. I really meant not to say this, but it seems 
only yesterday that I carried you around on my arm. And...”

“Adar,” Legolas warned with a smile.

“Will you not grant your old father his self-pity?” Thranduil asked, the corners of 
his mouth quirking up.

“Self-pity?” Legolas laughed. “Why, adar? I am still the same, only one day older 
than I was yesterday.” He took Thranduil’s strong hands in his own and kissed 
them. “Don’t go all emotional on me, adar,” he said, “I forbid it.”

Thranduil chuckled. “You forbid it, my son? Very well... It is your day, your 
celebration. I will carry out your bidding and keep my fatherly speeches to myself.”

Thranduil did not speak of it, but his thoughts were with his late wife this day more 
than any day since her death. She should have been here, he thought. She should 
have been here to see you like this. However he did not want to burden Legolas 
with these heavy thoughts. Instead he helped his son with the arrangement of his 
robe. It had been made especially for this occasion and was of almost the same cut 
as Thranduil’s; meant to be worn only on special occasions. And that, Thranduil 
thought amusedly, was probably for the best. These long, intricately cut robes were 
meant to make the wearer look beautiful, to show his status, and were as such 
effective; but they were not meant to be comfortable.

Thranduil showed Legolas how to drape the heavy velvet over his arm, and 
brushed some stubborn flocks of dust away. “There,” he said then, “all done.” He 
eyed Legolas with pride. His son, an adult now. Dressed like a king in his velvets; 
they were green, the color of the forest, so fitting for the name Thranduil and the 
Queen had chosen for their firstborn. His hair: braided sunshine. Eyes like his 
mother’s. “Time to shine, leafling,” Thranduil said. “Are you ready?”

Legolas took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said.

Thranduil smiled, cupped Legolas’s chin with one hand. “You’ll do fine,” he said. 
After a lingering kiss on Legolas’s forehead and an encouraging, fatherly tap 
against the cheek, Thranduil and Legolas swept out of the room.

***

A joyful anticipation was over the assembly in the dining room as all awaited the 
arrival of King and Prince. All were seated now, and the room was filled with 
murmur and occasional bursts of laughter. Servants had filled the glasses with one 
of Mirkwood’s famous wines, and it was enjoyed, very much so.

And then finally, an Elf of the guard entered. He thrust his tall staff against the 
floor once, and everyone grew quiet, turning their faces to the door. “King 
Thranduil,” the guard announced, “and the King’s son, Prince Legolas.”

The doors swung open and everyone rose in their seats as Thranduil appeared, 
followed by Legolas. Both were a sight to behold; long, flowing robes, Thranduil’s 
dark red, Legolas’s green. The whispering of royal velvet, golden hair catching the 
light of the setting sun. Elladan and Elrohir did not know where to look first, and 
judging by the faces around them, they weren’t the only ones to have this 
dilemma. Elrohir leaned over to Elladan and whispered, “Be still my poor heart.”

“Hush!” Elladan breathed. “Don’t speak before the King does.” But he never took 
his eyes off the royal pair as they strode gracefully to their seats. Thranduil eyeing 
the guests openly, meeting gazes and treating those present to one of his 
charming smiles. Legolas’s eyes darted from one face to another, to his father’s 
back and back to the guests again, one corner of his mouth quirked up in a timid 
half-smile. But his back was proudly straight and his step as graceful as his 
father’s. A genuine smile broke through when he spotted some familiar faces 
among the strangers: Elves from Mirkwood, and Elladan and Elrohir, and Haldir on 
the other side of the room.

Before seating himself, Thranduil spoke words of welcome to the guests, thanking 
them for their presence and voicing his hope that all would have a pleasant 
evening. Legolas also spoke some welcoming words. Then, when he and Thranduil 
sat down, all followed their example, and servants came in with food. Trays laden 
with exquisite Mirkwood dishes, both warm and cold; cans of water, decanters with 
wine, baskets with bread...

Soon, all were enjoying the excellent food and drink, and merry conversation. 
Evening wore on in this manner; smiling lips everywhere, shining faces, flushed 
cheeks... Yes, the wine was truly as good as it was said to be. Mirkwood’s royal 
house wasn’t renowned for its vineyards and wine for nothing! Elves did not get 
drunk so easily, but a couple of glasses never failed to loosen the tongue of even 
the most close-lipped Elf. Elladan and Elrohir feasted on the meal and particularly 
enjoyed the red 2273, it had a hint of cranberry to it the twins found very 
palatable.

“I am in trouble,” Elladan murmured to his brother. “This must be the best wine I 
ever tasted, and you know how a good wine always affects me.” Suddenly a hand 
on Elrohir’s knee under the table.

“El,” Elrohir warned with a smile, “you are the oldest. Aren’t *you* supposed to be 
the sensible one?”

“I’m tired of being sensible,” Elladan replied, and his hand started to move slowly 
towards Elrohir’s crotch.

“Apparently so. What is it with you Elladan? Ever since we’ve arrived in Mirkwood, 
you’ve been more... loose than you usually are. Is it because father’s eyes are not 
on us?”

“That,” Elladan said, “this wine; and... I don’t know. Mirkwood is working on my 
loins somehow.”

“Especially its ruler, perhaps?” Elrohir suggested, grinning evilly.

Both glanced at the head of the table, where Thranduil was engaged in a lively and 
apparently very amusing conversation. His handsome face adorned by a smile, long 
fingers playing with his wine goblet. “Yes,” Elladan said, mesmerized by this sight, 
“I’d never thought I’d say this one day, but he awakens a desire in me.”

“What kind of desire?”

Elladan’s gaze met Elrohir’s. “The desire to share him with you,” he said under his 
breath.

Elrohir suddenly realized he was feeling very hot. Was it the food, the wine, the 
many candles that had been lit since darkness had fallen, Elladan’s hand on his 
thigh or the mere thought of having the magnificent Mirkwood king in his and 
Elladan’s bed; naked in all his golden glory, slick with sweat and surrendering to 
the passion? Probably a combination of all those things.

“Well,” Elrohir said casually, taking a sip of his wine, “what have we found out thus 
far? Remember, El; this is not just some Elf. This is the Mirkwood King we are 
talking about. He is without doubt the most desired Elf in this room, and probably 
the most unattainable one.”

“You inveterate pessimist!” Elladan poked him in the ribs. Then, softly, “That is 
exactly the reason why he’s so desirable. Well, one of the reasons.”

Elrohir gazed deeply into Elladan’s eyes. “I’d almost start thinking this is but a 
game for you, El; a hunting game. Except that I know you better than that.”

Elladan’s face became serious. “No game, Ro,” he said. “It is not my intention to 
seduce him and play with him for fun. If I have given you reason to doubt my 
motives, I apologize. But he is unlike anyone I have ever seen, and I can’t help 
wondering what his lips would taste like.”

“Probably as exquisite as his wine, or better,” Elrohir said. “And not only the 
thought of tasting his lips is pleasurable.”

“Indeed... I know not what our odds are, and of course, the heart of a widower 
needs gentle treatment, but if there’s any chance that he will let us offer him some 
comfort, I will gladly have him.”

“At least we found out that he has no lover...” Elrohir said pensively.

“Yes, that is what Legolas told us and he is the most reliable source. What we 
*don’t* know, however, is whether he’s ever had males in his bed. Either before or 
after his marriage... I didn’t dare to ask Legolas.”

“And even if you did, I’m not sure whether he would know. They are close, but 
would Thranduil be so open about these matters?”

“I’m not sure either... Do you think he’s been celibate ever since the death of the 
Queen?”

“It’s been 63 years... A long time, but it’s not unheard-of. The death of the Queen 
was sudden and brutal, and she is obviously still sorely missed, understandably... 
It wouldn’t surprise me if it were so.”

Suddenly Elladan laughed. “Do you remember fancying the Prince?”

Elrohir gave a little smirk. “By Mandos, yes... Well, that was before I gazed into 
those two pools of innocence he calls his eyes.”

“Yes... although he looks older tonight, don’t you think?”

Both studied Legolas from the distance. “It’s the braids, I think,” Elrohir said. An 
Elf’s braids could tell an observer much about that Elf’s age, his status, his region 
of birth... Until now, the arrangement of Legolas’s braids had been that of a 
youngster. Now, he wore the braids of an adult; it let more of his hair free, but 
pulled it back at the same time, revealing more of his face and his neck. Yes, it 
definitely made him look older. It emphasized the masculine lines of his angular 
cheekbones, and his jaw.

“Ro,” Elladan said, “if Legolas asked you to bed him tonight, what would you do?”

“He will not do that,” Elrohir said.

“No, but what if?”

Elrohir pondered this for a moment. Then laughed softly. “Many would call me 
insane, but I would not do it.”

“You would not?” 
 
”No. I’d feel flattered... but you know Legolas. He’s such a romantic soul. It would 
not be fair to him, for my heart belongs to you. He needs to be with someone who 
can love him back.”

Elladan smiled. “Yes, simple, meaningless pleasures are not meant for our Legolas. 
We see that, but I’m afraid that not everyone does.”

“No. Isn’t that strange? People, men and women alike, appreciate an experienced 
partner, the more experience the better; but somehow, the thought of laying with 
someone as unspoiled and untouched as Legolas, has great charms of its own.”

“Being someone’s first is always special,” Elladan said. “It is always an intense 
experience; both very touching and very arousing. I cannot blame people for 
wanting to experience it with Legolas. He is exceptional, and I can imagine that 
laying with him will be exceptional, too.”

“Do you think Legolas is happy?” Elrohir asked suddenly, serious.

“Happy?” Elladan was surprised. “As far as one can be, with a murdered mother... 
I’ve seen him dancing in the corridors, he sings to the trees, and laughter is to him 
what song is to a bird: a part of his nature. Do you think him unhappy?”

“Not necessarily unhappy...” Elrohir furrowed his brow. “Just... not sure of himself. 
He wields the bow like no other elfling I ever saw, but he blushes and stutters like 
a maid when you compliment him...”

“... Except when it’s his father. Then he’s beaming.”

“He’s intelligent and quick of wit, but he rarely shows it...”

“Except when his father is around.”

“And he’s very distant, physically. I wrapped my arm around his shoulder the other 
day, in an innocent, brotherly fashion... well, to say that he jumped out of his skin 
would be exaggeration, but it was close. I felt him freeze under my arm.”

“But not with his father,” Elladan completed. “Those two are hugging all the time.”

“Legolas adores his father,” Elrohir said, “and I understand... *we* had not only 
father to seek support by when mother left, we also had Arwen, and each other. 
Legolas has only the King. It is no wonder that they have grown so close. But 
Legolas seems to have so low an esteem of himself; it’s really not necessary and I 
wonder what the reason is.”

“Yes...” Elladan said thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t hurt him to have just a bit more faith 
in himself. I’ve heard that an only child often has the idea that his parents expect 
him to be perfect, that he has to live up to certain standards and will be a failure if 
he does not succeed. And, sadly enough, a deceased mother is particularly hard to 
please. Perhaps that’s what’s ailing him. It could be an explanation. His mother is 
no longer here to praise him, be proud of him, hug him, and his father’s 
compliments and embraces come closest to that. Perhaps that is why Thranduil’s 
affection and satisfaction are so important to him.”

“Yes,” Elrohir said slowly, “who knows...”

“Do not worry too much about our young friend, Ro,” Elladan said, patting his 
brother’s shoulder reassuringly. “He will get there. I can feel it.”

Elrohir smiled. “You are right. You know what they say: ‘the timidest and smallest 
bird can sing the most heavenly tune of them all’.. And I think that is our Legolas 
in a nutshell. Given time, he will find his path, and the Sun will light it for him by 
day, the Moon and the stars by night. And I don’t think his path will lead to 
mediocrity.”

“Let us drink to that,” Elladan said and he raised his wine goblet. “Let us drink to 
Legolas...”

Those last words were heard by others. Word spread quickly, and within a matter 
of moments, the entire assembly was in the presumption that Elrond’s sons were 
about to propose a toast. At least two hundred pairs of eyes suddenly were on the 
twins in expectation, and the room had gone awkwardly silent.

“Erm,” Elladan said. Thranduil and Legolas were also looking at them, smiles on 
their faces. A soft explosion of laughter beside him. Apparently Elrohir found this 
very amusing. Curse him. Then, a poke in his ribs and Elladan shot from his chair, 
still holding his wine goblet. And then there was no longer a way back.

He cleared his throat nervously and overthought for a moment what he would say, 
but the silence was broken by a soft coughing sound from Elrohir, echoing him in 
jest. He looked down at his twin in annoyance, but soft chuckling around him told 
him that others appreciated the joke. Of course; leave it to Elrohir to entertain the 
crowd, Elladan will be his father’s son and make everything right.

“My dear Elves gathered here,” he began. “I will make it brief. Elrohir and I arrived 
here last week and were very warmly received by the King and the Prince, for 
which we are very thankful. It is the first time that we attend such an official 
gathering as representatives of Imladris without our father and he has begged us 
on his knees to behave like mature Elves...”

There was laughter again; it was an amusing image, the wise and revered Lord of 
Imladris in such a position.

“... Well, I can only say, we tried our best. Over the past few days, we spent quite 
some time with Prince Legolas, and he’s become like a brother to us; something 
Elrohir is particularly thankful for, since he has always wanted to have a younger 
brother to bully, like I do him.”

An annoyed little sound from Elrohir, and more chuckles. Elladan grinned devilishly 
at his twin before turning to the head of the table, where Legolas and his father 
were seated. “Legolas... as we told you before, our father would have loved to be 
here, but unfortunately he was unavailable, and he apologizes for that. But he 
asked us to warmly congratulate you on his behalf and that of the whole realm of 
Imladris, with your 200th begetting-day and your coming of age... and he also 
wanted us to emphasize that, well, that you’re always welcome in Imladris, and the 
same goes for the King. Lord Elrond will gladly receive you as guests in the Last 
Homely House.”

Thranduil nodded gracefully, and Legolas sent the twins a delighted smile.

“Legolas,” Elladan continued, “if our father were here, he would probably give you 
heaps of good advice, but I will do no such thing. Firstly, because I am not my 
father; I lack his years and his wisdom, and so does Elrohir. Secondly, because I 
don’t think you really need it. You are a very fine Elf already and you will only 
become finer, especially if you continue to resemble your father so much. Elrohir 
and I have seen much of Middle-earth, but I dare say that we’ve never felt so 
welcome anywhere before. When we get home, we will not forget to thank our 
father. If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be here, enjoying Thranduil’s hospitality, 
his and Legolas’s charming company, and this... absolutely magnificent wine!”

The assembly chuckled mischievously, and Thranduil’s humble smile slowly 
changed into a grin. Elladan lifted his goblet and continued, as he tried to pay full 
attention to his speech and not be distracted by Thranduil’s enticing appearance, 
“It is only fitting that I use this magnificent wine to give a toast on an Elf who is 
just as magnificent. Legolas, on behalf of Imladris, congratulations. You are a 
promise to Middle-earth.”

The gathered Elves applauded approvingly, and then all drank to Legolas, following 
the twins’ example. Legolas underwent it all with a smile. Elladan sat down again.

“Nice speech,” Elrohir said. He then leaned over to Elladan’s ear and said softly, “I 
love you.”

Elladan looked at him in surprise, but Elrohir sat back again and lifted the wine 
carafe. “More wine?” he asked with a smile.

When all Elves had finished eating, it was time for a more official interlude. 
Servants cleaned the tables until all traces of dinner had vanished. The room went 
quiet as the chairman of the Council stood from his seat; this was not a moment 
for merriment and jokes, for it was time for Legolas to take his oath. A formality, 
true, but a formality rooted in ancient tradition going back generations. All Elves 
took an oath when coming of age, but with Legolas, more was involved.

The chairman of the Council, a silver-haired Elf called Belegor, was an experienced 
politician, several millennia Thranduil’s senior. The green rim of his grey robe 
marked him as an influential politician at Thranduil’s court. He had already served 
King Oropher before Thranduil came of age and had witnessed Thranduil take his 
oath long ago. He would lead the ceremony now.

Belegor invited the assembly to follow him, the King and Prince Legolas to the 
adjacent throne room. The real ceremony would take place there, while the dining 
room was prepared and transformed into a ball room, where the guests would 
return for music and dance once the ceremony was over. All rose then, waited for 
Thranduil and Legolas to depart with Belegor and other Mirkwood officials, then 
followed close behind in small, talking groups.

One of the Lórien Elves, as he passed by, threw Elladan a flirtatious smile. Judging 
by his looks, he was one of the youngest politicians of the Lórien delegation. 
Anyriand was his name, the twins remembered. Beautiful green eyes and honey-
blond hair. A slender body clad in grey and white. Elladan grinned coyly at him, 
then, when the Elf was out of hearing range, looked at his brother.

“He fancies you,” Elrohir said.

“Or you,” Elladan said. “I bet he can’t tell us apart.”

“Interesting...” Elrohir said thoughtfully.

“What?” Elladan said suspiciously. “What are you up to, now? Don’t we have 
enough on our hands already, with the King?”

“Hmm. I was just thinking...” Elrohir lowered his voice. “I’ve been observing those 
Lórien politicians a little. They are all quite old, and slightly aloof, as can be 
expected from Elves of the Golden Wood. But this one is younger, and more like 
us, not quite so distant.”

“Yes?” Elladan said. “So what’s your point?”

“The bonds between Lórien and Thranduil’s realm have always been good. Perhaps 
this Elf can be of use to us... do you follow me?” Elrohir winked. “He may *know* 
things... If we play this well, and you know we can... If we pump him for 
information...”

“How much pumping do you think will be required?” Elladan asked, and he 
smirked.

Elladan’s smirk found a twin on Elrohir’s face. “I don’t know! He’s quite beautiful... 
How much would you be willing to give?”

“Give me another bottle of that wine,” Elladan said, “and I’ll even spread my legs 
for Erestor.”

Elrohir chuckled evilly, but a hint of surprise was in his eyes. Surprise over this new 
brother of his. “Watch it, brother,” he said, “now you’re going too far!”

Both laughed, but then Elladan bent over to Elrohir’s ear and said, “An old, familiar 
twin game, then?”

Elrohir nodded. “It has worked for us before... let’s see what it can do for us this 
time, shall we?” Two pairs of grey eyes met, sparkling with mischief.

“And what if he doesn’t know anything useful?” Elladan wanted to know.

“Well, in that case we’ll gain only pleasure, instead of pleasure and information. Is 
that such a bad thing? As I said, he’s beautiful... and I don’t think he will have 
something to complain about, either. We’d all be happy!”

Elladan laughed. A beautiful sound to Elrohir’s ears. “Count me in, brother,” he said 
as they left the room, “count me in!”

***

A/N: Ion-nîn means ‘my son’. The ‘how much pumping’-joke comes from 
‘Tomorrow Never Dies’, the Bond-movie of course. Anyriand is not completely a 
figment of my imagination; he actually appears briefly in some of the cut scenes 
from FotR, to be seen on the Extended DVD. Find out more about him on 
www.theargonath.cc/characters/anyriand/anyriand.html. I needed a beautiful Elf 
from Lórien and he fitted the description. :-)

***


Chapter 7 – Twin Play

Mirkwood, July 2580, T.A.

 
It was an entirely different atmosphere in the throne room. All guests were in awe 
of the grandeur, the splendour. When Oropher came to Mirkwood from Lindon, he’d 
brought with him the tokens of his royal heritage, valuable items from a past long 
gone, the time of his ancestors. Objects that had been passed from father to son, 
millennium after millennium. Long banners that had accompanied armies to war, 
now hanging against the walls and from the high ceiling. Their colors slightly faded 
by the sunshine they’d seen in a past, but still proud in their history and with the 
royal emblem on them. Other objects of war against the walls: spears, a few bows, 
even Oropher’s authentic sword, the one he’d carried during his last battle, the 
battle of Dagorlad. Thranduil despised the object, harboured a childlike hate for it 
since it had not been able to save his father’s life, but it simply belonged in the 
throne room; that he could not deny. Besides relics of war, there were also art-
objects to be seen: vases, statues, and the throne was a masterpiece in itself. 
Completely made out of heavy oak, with leaf and flower designs carved in the 
back, the armrests, and the legs.

The throne was where Thranduil seated himself for the ceremony. Legolas 
positioned himself a meter or two before the stairs that led to the throne, and 
Belegor stood on the lower step, facing the Prince. As the guests entered, they 
lowered their voices to a respectful whispering, or stopped talking altogether, just 
taking in the magnificence of the throne room. Torches had been lit, creating an 
almost mystic atmosphere with their flickering light. Several elven maidens stood 
on both sides of the throne and on the steps leading to it, sheltering little white 
lamps in their hands, thus creating an even more solemn and mysterious 
atmosphere.

The assembly of Elves gathered around Legolas, at a respectful distance, to witness 
the ceremony. Thranduil, sitting high on the throne, could face them all easily. 
Everyone was silent now, and all watched Legolas as he stood there all by himself, 
facing Belegor and his father; seeking anchor in Thranduil’s eyes. The oath was a 
formality, but that didn’t mean that it was to be taken lightly. Legolas was tense; 
Thranduil could see it in his son’s shoulders, and in his eyes. On other, less solemn 
occasions, Thranduil might have given him an encouraging wink, or a nod; but this 
was not the time.

Belegor then spoke. For the few Elves who did not know exactly what was about to 
happen, he briefly explained the nature of this royal oath, its purpose and its 
origin, for which one had to travel millennia back in time. Oropher had taken the 
tradition, which had then been ancient already, with him from Lindon, and Legolas 
would be the first Mirkwood-born prince to take the oath. It meant the official 
a