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tolkien_slashy_swapsTitle: In Fine Form
Author: Minuial Nuwing
Email: minuial_nuwing@yahoo.com
Beta: The incredible Fimbrethiel
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Elrohir/Legolas, implied Elrohir/Galion
Warnings: None, really. Vague references to a het relationship.
Request: Rating = R or NC17; Pairing = Elrohir/Legolas; Plot = A love-triangle that involves angst, but ending happily with Elrohir/Legolas as a couple; a dragonfly. A plot rather than a shagfest please!; Squicks = BDSM, incest, AU, Aragorn
Summary: Changing perceptions threaten the relationship that Elrohir and Legolas have long shared.
Author’s note: As usual, Elladan would not be left behind, so he plays a large supporting role.
Written for Naledi Seren in the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
slashy_santa 'Ardor in August' 2008
~Mirkwood, 1100 III~
Legolas shifted restlessly, urging his tired mount to a faster pace despite the failing light and the treacherous path. The forest road had never seemed so long, or so fraught with obstacles and delays that seemed determined to keep the woodland prince from his goal.
The falcon had come near a fortnight past, bearing a terse note from Thranduil. The Peredhil have arrived.
Nothing more, but the brief missive had been enough to convince Legolas to cut short his scouting trip into the wilds beyond Mirkwood’s borders and head for the caves, his heart pounding furiously in his chest as he pondered the meeting ahead.
As fond as he was of Elladan, as much respect as he had for Elrond, there was really only one guest among the party from Imladris whose welcome Legolas anticipated with a nauseating mixture of excitement and dread. Elrohir.
Legolas’ relationship with the younger of Elrond’s twins had been a source of speculation – some amused, some spiteful – for the denizens of Mirkwood for many decades. Long time friends, occasional rivals, and, over the last years, casual lovers when the opportunity presented itself…their history was lengthy and complex, and Legolas had always shied away from closely examining his own feelings about the brashly cheerful, dangerously impatient, unexpectedly gentle elf-knight.
But no more.
The last of the previous month’s pleasant but meaningless encounters with an obliging comrade, a common occurrence during the dark nights of an eventless sojourn, had left Legolas more unsettled than satisfied, his thoughts pensive even as he had lain sprawled across his drowsy conquest, his skin slick with cooling sweat and the leavings of their rutting.
His usual post-tumble lethargy completely destroyed by the dull ache of loneliness in his chest, Legolas had rolled away from his sated companion, his eyes fixed on the gleaming stars. They were a sight seldom gifted to those who lived under the boughs of Mirkwood, but one he had learned to treasure during his visits to Imladris, lying on his back on Elrohir’s balcony, a bottle of miruvor standing between them and the musical tones of the elf-knight’s voice brushing his ears pleasantly.
The memory had come unbidden, bringing with it a flood of warmth that soothed his unease, and, to Legolas’ surprise, the image of Elrohir lingered yet, a tantalizing glimpse of dark hair and starlit skin and laughing grey eyes that filled the hollow in his heart with a rush of understanding. He could love Elrohir, given a chance.
Perhaps he already did.
The sighting call of the sentry startled Legolas out of his musings and he spoke to his mount, sliding to the ground and raising a hand in greeting when several elves appeared as if by magic. “I expect there is a banquet set?” Legolas asked the groom, who stood ready to take his horse.
“Aye, my lord,” came the cheerful answer. “Food and wine for a crowd three times the size of the one attending, and dancing to follow.”
Legolas chuckled. “Ada is nothing if not a proper host. I think we are all for a wash and a change before we join the festivities, however.”
At the stable master’s nod, one of the attendant younglings vanished through the gates at a run, and Legolas knew a hot bath would be waiting by the time he reached his chambers. He bid his warriors good-bye with a round of shoulder slapping and friendly smiles, briefly considering a visit to the public bathing pools rather than a solitary soak in his own rooms. The muffled sounds of laughter and conversation coming from the great hall ended his indecision. He had guests to greet and possibilities to investigate, and the camaraderie of the pools came at the expense of haste. He would bathe alone.
Scarcely an hour later Legolas left his suite, his damp hair braided away from his face and an expectant gleam in his eyes. He smoothed his tunic with uncharacteristic nervousness, rubbing his thumb across the raised pattern that edged the garment, the leaves and vines stitched in the same muted green as the fabric. His hand then went to the waist of his breeches, smoothing the tight woven cloth and tracing the outside seam down his left leg, before beginning the journey again at the hem of his tunic. Catching himself at the repetitive movement, Legolas shook his head ruefully.
‘Really,’ he chided silently, ‘you are behaving like an anxious innocent on the eve of his majority.’
Rounding a corner abruptly, Legolas nearly slammed into a partygoer moving in the other direction, the narrowly avoided collision a blur of dark hair and black leather and an indefinable scent that brought with it images of towering arches and rushing water. For a moment Legolas could not speak, then the world righted itself and he smiled apologetically, unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed. “Forgive me, Elladan,” he said, greeting his friend with an arm clasp and a quick embrace. “This was hardly the welcome I would have chosen to give you! Surely you are not leaving the festivities so early?”
Elladan returned the greeting, then shook his head with a grin. “I must put these ruffians to bed,” he said, and Legolas followed his gaze to the two identical sprites who had taken refuge behind their father’s legs, “and then I will join the party again.”
“Read first, Ada?” the elfling on the right said hopefully, and the other nodded his head furiously, wisps of gossamer-fine hair, black as pitch, floating around his deceptively cherubic face.
“Read about the doggie,” he agreed firmly. “The big doggie, and the horn.”
Legolas chuckled, immediately recognizing the requested story from his own youth. “Huan and Lord Oromë?”
Elladan grinned ruefully. “Of course. What else?” Laying a hand on each dark head, he said, “Legolas, I am sure you have not managed to forget these two. Elros…Elurín, this is Legolas, a good friend of Ada and Uncle Elrohir.”
Legolas greeted the twins with a smile. “They become more like you and Elrohir with each passing year,” he told Elladan. “Falowen is not with you?”
Elladan shook his head. “She remained at home with Lúthiel and Ellûreth. She wanted to come – planned to come, in fact – but as the day grew nearer the thought of sitting a horse for a fortnight changed her mind.” He paused, his eyes twinkling impishly. “That, and Ada counseled against her joining us. It seems he did not wish his newest grandchild born in the wilds between Mirkwood and Imladris.”
Legolas snorted with amusement. “Elladan! So soon? I have yet to meet Lúthiel!” He grinned cheekily. “Do you plan to beget your own army, or is this the last?”
“The last for a time, at any rate, though I can claim that I must procreate for Elrohir, too, you know,” Elladan replied cheerfully. “My son is not due until the harvest, but Ada did not think it wise for Falowen to risk the trip. Not with the new one coming and Lúthiel so young.”
The oblique nod to Elrohir’s preferences brought Legolas’ attention back to his earlier musings, and the vague flutter of anxiety that had been banished by his lighthearted conversation with Elladan returned. “Elrohir is here?” he asked, though the question was surely unnecessary. One twin was seldom without the other.
“He is,” Elladan answered, hefting his sons, one to each hip, with the ease of an experienced parent. He paused, looking at Legolas uncertainly. It was no secret that Elrohir and the Mirkwood prince had occasionally warmed the same bed, though few knew, as Elladan did, how those supposedly casual encounters had affected the elf-knight. Now the nervous movements of Legolas’ hands and the faint flush that stained his cheeks made Elladan wonder if perhaps the prince had discovered the same feelings too late.
He felt he should warn Legolas, but could not find the words.
“Elrohir is here,” he said slowly, “and in fine form.”
The curious response did not register, so distracted was Legolas by anticipation, and he smiled, chucking the twins under their chins before moving on down the corridor toward the great hall.
Elladan stood watching the prince for a moment, then sighed heavily and headed for his guest suite.
The hall was ablaze with the light of the lamps that hung from the walls and dotted the tables, the air heavy with the sonorous hum of many conversations and the subdued music of flute and harp, as Legolas made his entrance. He greeted Elrond genially, spoke a few words to Thranduil regarding the patrol just finished, and nodded politely to all who addressed him, but Legolas’ eyes roamed the chamber steadily, seeking Elrohir among the cheerful chaos of the crowd. Then he found his elusive quarry, and it seemed to Legolas that all warmth fled the evening.
Elrohir lounged on a small sofa tucked away in one corner of the hall, his face alight with amusement and his chest blanketed by a fall of red-gold hair, the unmistakable color of the mane identifying the interloper even before Legolas caught sight of his face.
Galion.
Legolas went still, his heart pounding, a nearly forgotten conversation with his father’s seneschal echoing in his memory.
*~*
Is there no one you hold above the others, my lord?
As I have often said, I prefer my freedom. I need no matchmaker, Galion, and you may tell my father so.
But the younger son of Elrond…
Elrohir? He is my friend. We share many things, but the sort of love you speak of is not among them.
*~*
The deep rumble of Elrohir’s laughter drew Legolas back to the present and he watched, dry-mouthed, as the elf-knight teasingly brushed a sugared berry against his companion’s lips. Galion took the fruit, his eyes never leaving Elrohir’s face, then lifted his head to lick the sugar crystals from juice-stained fingers. Elrohir’s other hand tightened possessively on Galion’s knee and Legolas turned away abruptly, only to find himself once again chest-to-chest with Elladan.
“This is becoming a habit,” the elder twin said lightly, “and as fond as I am of you, I do not think my wife would understand.”
Legolas smiled weakly. “Then I must beg your pardon once more. If you will excuse me, I believe I will seek my bed.”
Elladan glanced at Elrohir, then turned a sympathetic gaze on Legolas. “He will be greatly hurt if you do not speak to him, you know.”
“I somehow doubt that he will even notice,” Legolas replied, unable to keep the bitter edge from his voice.
“Do not be so sure,” Elladan advised. “Come, I will go with you.” Without waiting for an answer, he caught Legolas’ arm and propelled him toward the sofa. “Mind your manners, tôren,” he said nudging Elrohir’s leg pointedly. “Someone has come to greet you.”
“Legolas!” Elrohir exclaimed, carefully disentangling himself. He rose to his feet, pulling the prince into a hearty embrace. “I had begun to think you were avoiding me. We have been here for a fortnight.”
It was all Legolas could do to maintain his composure. “I was outside the forest when Ada’s message arrived,” he said, stepping away from Elrohir as quickly as courtesy would allow, “and have only just returned tonight.” There was an uncomfortable pause as Legolas struggled not to look at Galion. “As I told Elladan, I am quite tired. I will wish you all a good night.“ He nodded to each in turn. “Elladan, Elrohir…Galion.”
“My lord,” Galion said, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he dipped his head. “Sleep well.”
*******
The next weeks did little to encourage Legolas or improve his mood. While Elrohir’s days were spent tramping the wood with Legolas and Elladan, engaged in the usual spirited conversation and friendly contests, the evening invariably found the elf-knight back at Galion’s side.
‘Or wrapped around him like wet leather,’ Legolas thought darkly, taking a vicious stab at his unlucky opponent. Only the young warrior’s quick reflexes saved him from a painful hit, and he threw up a hand in parley, looking at his lord with wide eyes.
“That is enough, my friend,” Elladan said quietly, stepping into the ring to lay a hand on Legolas’ shoulder. Dismissing the baffled trainee with a reassuring smile, he sheathed his own blade. “Put away your knife and we will find some lunch and a peaceful place to eat it.” He glanced at Elrohir. “Does that suit you, tôren?”
Elrohir did not answer, and Elladan followed his brother’s gaze to the edge of the field, where Galion waited, wearing casual clothing and an expression that was easily deciphered. “I believe,” the elf-knight said with a wicked grin, “that I have just received a better offer.”
Elladan stood beside Legolas and watched in growing frustration as Elrohir made his way back to Galion, pausing to speak to the seneschal before throwing up a final wave in their direction. Though Elladan could not hear what was being said, the intimate closeness of their bodies and the sudden burst of Galion’s laughter, quickly muffled by a brief, forceful kiss, made it quite clear that more than food was being offered and accepted.
Legolas slipped his knife into its scabbard, his eyes carefully averted from the scene playing out nearby. “I am ready,” he said, leading the way toward the caves without looking at the elder twin.
“Legolas, I…”
“Leave it, Elladan,” the prince said tonelessly.
Elladan shook his head but said no more, following Legolas back to the small dining hall that served the family and invited guests.
“We can take our food to the clearing, if you like,” Legolas offered with false cheer, piling his plate high with cold meats and cheeses before adding a large slice of fruit pie and a chunk of hearty bread. He chose a bottle of wine and nodded toward the glasses. “If you will get those…I need to speak to Ada.”
Elladan filled his own plate and grabbed two of the heavy goblets, then sat down at an empty table to wait. Though he had no intention of eavesdropping, the steadily increasing volume of Legolas’ voice and the undeniable sharpness of Thranduil’s replies made it nearly impossible not to discern the subject of their conversation.
…like a high-priced mortal whore…ignoring duties…making a spectacle of himself…
“That is enough, Legolas,” Thranduil said at last, holding up one hand as his son began to protest. He lowered his voice before continuing. “Galion is and always has been exemplary in his post. He asked to be relieved of his obligations today, and I gladly obliged.” Thranduil‘s eyes narrowed. “We both know what this really concerns, and such accusations are below you, son.”
Legolas’ cheeks flushed brightly, but the stubborn set of his jaw did not ease.
“I am sure Elladan is hungry,” Thranduil said, his voice softening somewhat, “and the little ones will soon be awake and looking for their Ada. Go eat.” He glanced toward Elladan, then gave Legolas’ shoulder a squeeze. “And do not ignore the advice of the one who knows your elf-knight best.”
‘My elf-knight?’ Legolas’ lips twisted in a wry grimace, but he did not reply, instead turning his attention toward Elladan. “Are you coming?”
They walked to the clearing in silence, and Elladan let out a sigh of relief to find the small glade empty. It would have been very like Elrohir to bring his lover here, and the fact that he had not, that he had chosen not to tangle with Galion in the place he had so often shared with Legolas, seemed to Elladan cause for cautious optimism.
Reaching for the bottle of wine, Elladan popped the cork with a practiced twist and splashed two generous servings into the waiting glasses. “Drink,” he said firmly, passing one of the goblets to Legolas. “We will eat and then you, my friend, will listen.”
******
Elrohir braided his hair distractedly, his jumbled thoughts lost in contemplation of the ruse he had tried to sustain since his arrival in Mirkwood. His carefully constructed defenses had collapsed without warning, leaving him both ashamed of his own motives and agonizingly undecided about how much to admit, and to whom.
The week just past had seen him awkwardly avoiding Galion, pleading some unnamed difficulty with Elladan’s younglings to excuse himself immediately after dinner. Elros and Elurín were delighted, far preferring the company of their beloved uncle to the attentions of the appointed nanny, and Galion himself seemed more annoyed than hurt by Elrohir’s absence, a fact that did, in a small measure, ease the elf-knight’s conscience. Though he had never intended to deceive the seneschal in any manner, had never given Galion reason to think their relationship anything other than a pleasurable interlude, he had, in truth, been using the other elf in a rather blatant fashion, and the realization rankled painfully.
Legolas’ invitation to join him in a dinner picnic at the clearing had been carefully casual, though something in the prince’s tone made Elrohir certain that Elladan had not been included, and the elf-knight was both tempted to refuse and completely unable to do so.
A state in which Legolas’ requests often found him.
Giving his reflection in the mirror a stern glance, Elrohir picked up the bottle of miruvor that was his contribution to the evening’s success and headed out to meet Legolas.
The sun had just begun to sink below the tops of the trees that ringed the clearing, lending a warm golden light to the short, soft grass and the winding stream that crossed the glade. A handful of dragonflies darted and whirred among the taller grasses that edged the water, the sunlight gleaming on their translucent wings to explode in a myriad of colors. A blanket was spread near the center of the clearing and a promisingly large basket sat at one end.
As Elrohir stepped into the clearing, a dragonfly flitted toward him suddenly, seemingly entranced by the gleam of his dark hair. The fragile creature fluttered excitedly, lighting for an instant on the elf-knight’s braid before racing away to rejoin its companions.
“That means you will receive a gift,” Legolas called in greeting, appearing from the shadowed tangle where the stream disappeared into the wood once more. “I used to try to charm them when I was very small, but I seldom managed to entice one to light.” Waving his hand toward their waiting meal, he said, “I hope you are hungry. The cooks have packed enough for two or three more, besides.”
“I am starving,” Elrohir replied, grinning despite the simmering anxiety that refused to be quieted, “but we could always send for Elladan and his hellions, if it looks as though food may go to waste.”
“Somehow, I do not think your brother would be at all pleased,” Legolas said with obvious amusement, the genuine affection visible in his smile causing Elrohir’s stomach to flip-flop.
Legolas had never looked at him in such a way before.
“Come sit down,” the prince invited, dropping to the blanket, “and see if I did well enough for our meal.”
The basket was opened to reveal thick slices of roast boar nestled in crusty rolls, the meat topped with cheese, wild greens, and a generous dollop of a spicy sauce particular to the kitchens of Mirkwood. Covered bowls held an impressive array of fruit and sweet, heavy cream, and a carefully folded piece of parchment cradled several large, fragrant ginger cookies.
Elrohir’s stomach growled in approval and he chuckled sheepishly, offering the bottle of miruvor for approval. “I believe that answers the question, but, yes, you did very well indeed.”
“I brought only a skin of water to drink,” Legolas added, urging Elrohir to help himself to the food, “because I guessed you might honor us with miruvor.” He grinned. “I even brought goblets.”
Their conversation as they ate remained intentionally light and impersonal, a sporadic commentary on weapons and rumors and mutual acquaintances that eased Elrohir’s uncharacteristic nervousness. When at last both basket and water skin were empty, the elf-knight opened the miruvor and poured two glasses, handing one to Legolas before stretching out on his back to stare up at the small patch of darkening sky that was visible above the clearing.
Legolas smiled, remembering his own recent star-gazing, and settled the bottle of cordial between them, sipping at his glass before flopping backward beside Elrohir. “I have missed this,” he said quietly.
Elrohir rose to one elbow to take a generous swig of miruvor, giving Legolas a questioning glance. “Missed what?” he asked, determined to be obtuse.
“You.”
“You have been with me every day for nearly a month.”
Legolas sighed, rolling to his side to gaze at the elf-knight. “That is not what I mean, and you well know it.”
Elrohir glanced at his friend, then looked away. “Do I?”
“Elrohir…”
“All right. Yes, I do. But I…I cannot, Legolas. I cannot dally with you in such a manner. Not any longer.”
Legolas heart thudded painfully. Perhaps Elladan had been mistaken, after all. “You care for Galion, then?”
Elrohir was so surprised that he turned to face his companion. “Galion?” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “I like Galion – he is intelligent and amusing and quite…inventive. But if I understand the question correctly, the answer is no. I do not care for him in that way.”
“Then why?”
Elrohir sat up abruptly and drained his glass.
“Why?”
The elf-knight shook his head staring off into the trees. “Let it be.”
Legolas sat up and put his goblet aside, then caught hold of Elrohir’s chin, urging the elf-knight to meet his eyes. “No,” he said unsteadily, feeling near paralyzed by the magnitude of the risk he was about to take. “I cannot.” Sliding his hand around to the back of Elrohir’s head, Legolas leaned over and kissed his longtime friend.
Slowly, deeply, and with a tenderness that surprised the prince himself as much as it astonished Elrohir.
Drawing away slightly, Legolas struggled to tame his erratic breathing. “Tell me why, Elrohir. Why can you no longer dally with me?”
Elrohir stared for a long moment, transfixed by the faint flush that colored Legolas’ cheeks and the softness in his darkened eyes. “Because I can no longer pretend what we share is meaningless,” he whispered finally. “Because I care for you in that way. I think I have for many years.”
Legolas’ relief seemed to light the whole wood. “I love you,” he murmured, his breath washing over Elrohir’s lips. “I was so afraid I had realized it too late.”
Elrohir shook his head slightly, his thoughts still reeling from the unexpected acceptance of his own declaration. “Never too late,” he managed at last, cupping Legolas’ face in his hands and punctuating the words with a smattering of soft kisses. “Never.”
It should have been impossible that a few uncertain words and tentative kisses could alter behaviors polished over the centuries, but that seemed exactly the case. Their intimate encounters had always been as much competition as seduction, sensual struggles for mastery in which neither was truly vanquished, perhaps, but a victor always declared.
Now Legolas opened himself totally, yielding without protest when at last Elrohir’s weight bore them both to the ground, their clothing falling away under nimble fingers as limbs and tongues alike intertwined in a frantic dance.
Elrohir paused, lifting his head to study Legolas’ face intently. “You are sure?” he rasped, his thumbs tracing the steep slope of the prince’s cheekbones. “You do not have to…”
“Yes,” Legolas broke in, his voice thick with longing. “I want you inside now.” He smiled suddenly, and the brilliance of it took Elrohir’s breath away. “I want you to love me, Rohiren.”
“I do,” Elrohir murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to the prince’s mouth before beginning a frustratingly slow journey down his body.
Legolas hissed and whimpered, cursed and begged as his skin was peppered with faint red ovals, the decorative trail meandering from throat to nipples to navel, evidence of the path Elrohir’s mouth had taken to arrive where it now hovered.
The warm, damp swoosh of the elf-knight’s breath over his aching arousal was almost more than Legolas could bear, and when Elrohir lowered his head Legolas howled with pleasure, his back arching as he struggled against the firm hands that held his hips to the ground. Then the teasing tongue slid lower still, swirling and stabbing purposefully, and Legolas’ breath began to come in panting gasps. “Wait,” he ground out, his hands tugging at Elrohir’s braid. “Too soon…please, Elrohir!”
The broken pleas wiped away the last vestiges of Elrohir’s restraint and he arched up, covering Legolas’ body with his own. Quickly slicking himself with their combined fluids, he pushed Legolas’ legs upward and pressed inside in one smooth thrust. Sleekly muscled legs wrapped his waist and strong arms pulled him into a desperate kiss and Elrohir was drowning in the sensations of their loving, at once familiar and strangely new.
The tenderness of that first tentative kiss seemed to echo in every touch, every moan, and the wash of unexpected emotion threatened to end it all too soon. Elrohir shivered violently as the tingling began deep in the pit of his stomach and he reached between their bodies, his fingers closing around Legolas even as his own vision went red. Legolas cursed frantically, rocking up into the firm grip, the pulsing rush of warmth that heralded Elrohir’s release dragging him headlong into his own shuddering climax.
Elrohir collapsed bonelessly atop his lover, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs and his breathing harsh and uneven. The words he wanted to say would not come, so instead he rolled to his back, pulling Legolas into a comfortable sprawl across his chest.
Neither had ever felt so utterly undone, or so completely content.
They lay silently for a long while, each pondering the discoveries just made and anticipating the future. Legolas stirred at last, rousing Elrohir from his musings with a gentle kiss that warmed the elf-knight’s very soul. “Wake up, Rohiren,” he said affectionately, the twinkle in his eyes investing his words with a wealth of meaning. “I do believe it is time for bed.”
*******
In the softly lit guest suite, two small mouths slid into beguiling pouts.
“Where is Uncle Elrohir, Ada?”
“We want Uncle Elrohir to read about the big doggie and the horn.”
Elladan tilted his head, as though listening. “I do not believe Uncle Elrohir will be reading your bedtime story,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Not tonight.”
*~*~*~*~*
Author: Minuial Nuwing
Email: minuial_nuwing@yahoo.com
Beta: The incredible Fimbrethiel
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Elrohir/Legolas, implied Elrohir/Galion
Warnings: None, really. Vague references to a het relationship.
Request: Rating = R or NC17; Pairing = Elrohir/Legolas; Plot = A love-triangle that involves angst, but ending happily with Elrohir/Legolas as a couple; a dragonfly. A plot rather than a shagfest please!; Squicks = BDSM, incest, AU, Aragorn
Summary: Changing perceptions threaten the relationship that Elrohir and Legolas have long shared.
Author’s note: As usual, Elladan would not be left behind, so he plays a large supporting role.
Written for Naledi Seren in the
slashy_santa 'Ardor in August' 2008In Fine Form
~Mirkwood, 1100 III~
Legolas shifted restlessly, urging his tired mount to a faster pace despite the failing light and the treacherous path. The forest road had never seemed so long, or so fraught with obstacles and delays that seemed determined to keep the woodland prince from his goal.
The falcon had come near a fortnight past, bearing a terse note from Thranduil. The Peredhil have arrived.
Nothing more, but the brief missive had been enough to convince Legolas to cut short his scouting trip into the wilds beyond Mirkwood’s borders and head for the caves, his heart pounding furiously in his chest as he pondered the meeting ahead.
As fond as he was of Elladan, as much respect as he had for Elrond, there was really only one guest among the party from Imladris whose welcome Legolas anticipated with a nauseating mixture of excitement and dread. Elrohir.
Legolas’ relationship with the younger of Elrond’s twins had been a source of speculation – some amused, some spiteful – for the denizens of Mirkwood for many decades. Long time friends, occasional rivals, and, over the last years, casual lovers when the opportunity presented itself…their history was lengthy and complex, and Legolas had always shied away from closely examining his own feelings about the brashly cheerful, dangerously impatient, unexpectedly gentle elf-knight.
But no more.
The last of the previous month’s pleasant but meaningless encounters with an obliging comrade, a common occurrence during the dark nights of an eventless sojourn, had left Legolas more unsettled than satisfied, his thoughts pensive even as he had lain sprawled across his drowsy conquest, his skin slick with cooling sweat and the leavings of their rutting.
His usual post-tumble lethargy completely destroyed by the dull ache of loneliness in his chest, Legolas had rolled away from his sated companion, his eyes fixed on the gleaming stars. They were a sight seldom gifted to those who lived under the boughs of Mirkwood, but one he had learned to treasure during his visits to Imladris, lying on his back on Elrohir’s balcony, a bottle of miruvor standing between them and the musical tones of the elf-knight’s voice brushing his ears pleasantly.
The memory had come unbidden, bringing with it a flood of warmth that soothed his unease, and, to Legolas’ surprise, the image of Elrohir lingered yet, a tantalizing glimpse of dark hair and starlit skin and laughing grey eyes that filled the hollow in his heart with a rush of understanding. He could love Elrohir, given a chance.
Perhaps he already did.
The sighting call of the sentry startled Legolas out of his musings and he spoke to his mount, sliding to the ground and raising a hand in greeting when several elves appeared as if by magic. “I expect there is a banquet set?” Legolas asked the groom, who stood ready to take his horse.
“Aye, my lord,” came the cheerful answer. “Food and wine for a crowd three times the size of the one attending, and dancing to follow.”
Legolas chuckled. “Ada is nothing if not a proper host. I think we are all for a wash and a change before we join the festivities, however.”
At the stable master’s nod, one of the attendant younglings vanished through the gates at a run, and Legolas knew a hot bath would be waiting by the time he reached his chambers. He bid his warriors good-bye with a round of shoulder slapping and friendly smiles, briefly considering a visit to the public bathing pools rather than a solitary soak in his own rooms. The muffled sounds of laughter and conversation coming from the great hall ended his indecision. He had guests to greet and possibilities to investigate, and the camaraderie of the pools came at the expense of haste. He would bathe alone.
Scarcely an hour later Legolas left his suite, his damp hair braided away from his face and an expectant gleam in his eyes. He smoothed his tunic with uncharacteristic nervousness, rubbing his thumb across the raised pattern that edged the garment, the leaves and vines stitched in the same muted green as the fabric. His hand then went to the waist of his breeches, smoothing the tight woven cloth and tracing the outside seam down his left leg, before beginning the journey again at the hem of his tunic. Catching himself at the repetitive movement, Legolas shook his head ruefully.
‘Really,’ he chided silently, ‘you are behaving like an anxious innocent on the eve of his majority.’
Rounding a corner abruptly, Legolas nearly slammed into a partygoer moving in the other direction, the narrowly avoided collision a blur of dark hair and black leather and an indefinable scent that brought with it images of towering arches and rushing water. For a moment Legolas could not speak, then the world righted itself and he smiled apologetically, unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed. “Forgive me, Elladan,” he said, greeting his friend with an arm clasp and a quick embrace. “This was hardly the welcome I would have chosen to give you! Surely you are not leaving the festivities so early?”
Elladan returned the greeting, then shook his head with a grin. “I must put these ruffians to bed,” he said, and Legolas followed his gaze to the two identical sprites who had taken refuge behind their father’s legs, “and then I will join the party again.”
“Read first, Ada?” the elfling on the right said hopefully, and the other nodded his head furiously, wisps of gossamer-fine hair, black as pitch, floating around his deceptively cherubic face.
“Read about the doggie,” he agreed firmly. “The big doggie, and the horn.”
Legolas chuckled, immediately recognizing the requested story from his own youth. “Huan and Lord Oromë?”
Elladan grinned ruefully. “Of course. What else?” Laying a hand on each dark head, he said, “Legolas, I am sure you have not managed to forget these two. Elros…Elurín, this is Legolas, a good friend of Ada and Uncle Elrohir.”
Legolas greeted the twins with a smile. “They become more like you and Elrohir with each passing year,” he told Elladan. “Falowen is not with you?”
Elladan shook his head. “She remained at home with Lúthiel and Ellûreth. She wanted to come – planned to come, in fact – but as the day grew nearer the thought of sitting a horse for a fortnight changed her mind.” He paused, his eyes twinkling impishly. “That, and Ada counseled against her joining us. It seems he did not wish his newest grandchild born in the wilds between Mirkwood and Imladris.”
Legolas snorted with amusement. “Elladan! So soon? I have yet to meet Lúthiel!” He grinned cheekily. “Do you plan to beget your own army, or is this the last?”
“The last for a time, at any rate, though I can claim that I must procreate for Elrohir, too, you know,” Elladan replied cheerfully. “My son is not due until the harvest, but Ada did not think it wise for Falowen to risk the trip. Not with the new one coming and Lúthiel so young.”
The oblique nod to Elrohir’s preferences brought Legolas’ attention back to his earlier musings, and the vague flutter of anxiety that had been banished by his lighthearted conversation with Elladan returned. “Elrohir is here?” he asked, though the question was surely unnecessary. One twin was seldom without the other.
“He is,” Elladan answered, hefting his sons, one to each hip, with the ease of an experienced parent. He paused, looking at Legolas uncertainly. It was no secret that Elrohir and the Mirkwood prince had occasionally warmed the same bed, though few knew, as Elladan did, how those supposedly casual encounters had affected the elf-knight. Now the nervous movements of Legolas’ hands and the faint flush that stained his cheeks made Elladan wonder if perhaps the prince had discovered the same feelings too late.
He felt he should warn Legolas, but could not find the words.
“Elrohir is here,” he said slowly, “and in fine form.”
The curious response did not register, so distracted was Legolas by anticipation, and he smiled, chucking the twins under their chins before moving on down the corridor toward the great hall.
Elladan stood watching the prince for a moment, then sighed heavily and headed for his guest suite.
The hall was ablaze with the light of the lamps that hung from the walls and dotted the tables, the air heavy with the sonorous hum of many conversations and the subdued music of flute and harp, as Legolas made his entrance. He greeted Elrond genially, spoke a few words to Thranduil regarding the patrol just finished, and nodded politely to all who addressed him, but Legolas’ eyes roamed the chamber steadily, seeking Elrohir among the cheerful chaos of the crowd. Then he found his elusive quarry, and it seemed to Legolas that all warmth fled the evening.
Elrohir lounged on a small sofa tucked away in one corner of the hall, his face alight with amusement and his chest blanketed by a fall of red-gold hair, the unmistakable color of the mane identifying the interloper even before Legolas caught sight of his face.
Galion.
Legolas went still, his heart pounding, a nearly forgotten conversation with his father’s seneschal echoing in his memory.
*~*
Is there no one you hold above the others, my lord?
As I have often said, I prefer my freedom. I need no matchmaker, Galion, and you may tell my father so.
But the younger son of Elrond…
Elrohir? He is my friend. We share many things, but the sort of love you speak of is not among them.
*~*
The deep rumble of Elrohir’s laughter drew Legolas back to the present and he watched, dry-mouthed, as the elf-knight teasingly brushed a sugared berry against his companion’s lips. Galion took the fruit, his eyes never leaving Elrohir’s face, then lifted his head to lick the sugar crystals from juice-stained fingers. Elrohir’s other hand tightened possessively on Galion’s knee and Legolas turned away abruptly, only to find himself once again chest-to-chest with Elladan.
“This is becoming a habit,” the elder twin said lightly, “and as fond as I am of you, I do not think my wife would understand.”
Legolas smiled weakly. “Then I must beg your pardon once more. If you will excuse me, I believe I will seek my bed.”
Elladan glanced at Elrohir, then turned a sympathetic gaze on Legolas. “He will be greatly hurt if you do not speak to him, you know.”
“I somehow doubt that he will even notice,” Legolas replied, unable to keep the bitter edge from his voice.
“Do not be so sure,” Elladan advised. “Come, I will go with you.” Without waiting for an answer, he caught Legolas’ arm and propelled him toward the sofa. “Mind your manners, tôren,” he said nudging Elrohir’s leg pointedly. “Someone has come to greet you.”
“Legolas!” Elrohir exclaimed, carefully disentangling himself. He rose to his feet, pulling the prince into a hearty embrace. “I had begun to think you were avoiding me. We have been here for a fortnight.”
It was all Legolas could do to maintain his composure. “I was outside the forest when Ada’s message arrived,” he said, stepping away from Elrohir as quickly as courtesy would allow, “and have only just returned tonight.” There was an uncomfortable pause as Legolas struggled not to look at Galion. “As I told Elladan, I am quite tired. I will wish you all a good night.“ He nodded to each in turn. “Elladan, Elrohir…Galion.”
“My lord,” Galion said, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he dipped his head. “Sleep well.”
*******
The next weeks did little to encourage Legolas or improve his mood. While Elrohir’s days were spent tramping the wood with Legolas and Elladan, engaged in the usual spirited conversation and friendly contests, the evening invariably found the elf-knight back at Galion’s side.
‘Or wrapped around him like wet leather,’ Legolas thought darkly, taking a vicious stab at his unlucky opponent. Only the young warrior’s quick reflexes saved him from a painful hit, and he threw up a hand in parley, looking at his lord with wide eyes.
“That is enough, my friend,” Elladan said quietly, stepping into the ring to lay a hand on Legolas’ shoulder. Dismissing the baffled trainee with a reassuring smile, he sheathed his own blade. “Put away your knife and we will find some lunch and a peaceful place to eat it.” He glanced at Elrohir. “Does that suit you, tôren?”
Elrohir did not answer, and Elladan followed his brother’s gaze to the edge of the field, where Galion waited, wearing casual clothing and an expression that was easily deciphered. “I believe,” the elf-knight said with a wicked grin, “that I have just received a better offer.”
Elladan stood beside Legolas and watched in growing frustration as Elrohir made his way back to Galion, pausing to speak to the seneschal before throwing up a final wave in their direction. Though Elladan could not hear what was being said, the intimate closeness of their bodies and the sudden burst of Galion’s laughter, quickly muffled by a brief, forceful kiss, made it quite clear that more than food was being offered and accepted.
Legolas slipped his knife into its scabbard, his eyes carefully averted from the scene playing out nearby. “I am ready,” he said, leading the way toward the caves without looking at the elder twin.
“Legolas, I…”
“Leave it, Elladan,” the prince said tonelessly.
Elladan shook his head but said no more, following Legolas back to the small dining hall that served the family and invited guests.
“We can take our food to the clearing, if you like,” Legolas offered with false cheer, piling his plate high with cold meats and cheeses before adding a large slice of fruit pie and a chunk of hearty bread. He chose a bottle of wine and nodded toward the glasses. “If you will get those…I need to speak to Ada.”
Elladan filled his own plate and grabbed two of the heavy goblets, then sat down at an empty table to wait. Though he had no intention of eavesdropping, the steadily increasing volume of Legolas’ voice and the undeniable sharpness of Thranduil’s replies made it nearly impossible not to discern the subject of their conversation.
…like a high-priced mortal whore…ignoring duties…making a spectacle of himself…
“That is enough, Legolas,” Thranduil said at last, holding up one hand as his son began to protest. He lowered his voice before continuing. “Galion is and always has been exemplary in his post. He asked to be relieved of his obligations today, and I gladly obliged.” Thranduil‘s eyes narrowed. “We both know what this really concerns, and such accusations are below you, son.”
Legolas’ cheeks flushed brightly, but the stubborn set of his jaw did not ease.
“I am sure Elladan is hungry,” Thranduil said, his voice softening somewhat, “and the little ones will soon be awake and looking for their Ada. Go eat.” He glanced toward Elladan, then gave Legolas’ shoulder a squeeze. “And do not ignore the advice of the one who knows your elf-knight best.”
‘My elf-knight?’ Legolas’ lips twisted in a wry grimace, but he did not reply, instead turning his attention toward Elladan. “Are you coming?”
They walked to the clearing in silence, and Elladan let out a sigh of relief to find the small glade empty. It would have been very like Elrohir to bring his lover here, and the fact that he had not, that he had chosen not to tangle with Galion in the place he had so often shared with Legolas, seemed to Elladan cause for cautious optimism.
Reaching for the bottle of wine, Elladan popped the cork with a practiced twist and splashed two generous servings into the waiting glasses. “Drink,” he said firmly, passing one of the goblets to Legolas. “We will eat and then you, my friend, will listen.”
******
Elrohir braided his hair distractedly, his jumbled thoughts lost in contemplation of the ruse he had tried to sustain since his arrival in Mirkwood. His carefully constructed defenses had collapsed without warning, leaving him both ashamed of his own motives and agonizingly undecided about how much to admit, and to whom.
The week just past had seen him awkwardly avoiding Galion, pleading some unnamed difficulty with Elladan’s younglings to excuse himself immediately after dinner. Elros and Elurín were delighted, far preferring the company of their beloved uncle to the attentions of the appointed nanny, and Galion himself seemed more annoyed than hurt by Elrohir’s absence, a fact that did, in a small measure, ease the elf-knight’s conscience. Though he had never intended to deceive the seneschal in any manner, had never given Galion reason to think their relationship anything other than a pleasurable interlude, he had, in truth, been using the other elf in a rather blatant fashion, and the realization rankled painfully.
Legolas’ invitation to join him in a dinner picnic at the clearing had been carefully casual, though something in the prince’s tone made Elrohir certain that Elladan had not been included, and the elf-knight was both tempted to refuse and completely unable to do so.
A state in which Legolas’ requests often found him.
Giving his reflection in the mirror a stern glance, Elrohir picked up the bottle of miruvor that was his contribution to the evening’s success and headed out to meet Legolas.
The sun had just begun to sink below the tops of the trees that ringed the clearing, lending a warm golden light to the short, soft grass and the winding stream that crossed the glade. A handful of dragonflies darted and whirred among the taller grasses that edged the water, the sunlight gleaming on their translucent wings to explode in a myriad of colors. A blanket was spread near the center of the clearing and a promisingly large basket sat at one end.
As Elrohir stepped into the clearing, a dragonfly flitted toward him suddenly, seemingly entranced by the gleam of his dark hair. The fragile creature fluttered excitedly, lighting for an instant on the elf-knight’s braid before racing away to rejoin its companions.
“That means you will receive a gift,” Legolas called in greeting, appearing from the shadowed tangle where the stream disappeared into the wood once more. “I used to try to charm them when I was very small, but I seldom managed to entice one to light.” Waving his hand toward their waiting meal, he said, “I hope you are hungry. The cooks have packed enough for two or three more, besides.”
“I am starving,” Elrohir replied, grinning despite the simmering anxiety that refused to be quieted, “but we could always send for Elladan and his hellions, if it looks as though food may go to waste.”
“Somehow, I do not think your brother would be at all pleased,” Legolas said with obvious amusement, the genuine affection visible in his smile causing Elrohir’s stomach to flip-flop.
Legolas had never looked at him in such a way before.
“Come sit down,” the prince invited, dropping to the blanket, “and see if I did well enough for our meal.”
The basket was opened to reveal thick slices of roast boar nestled in crusty rolls, the meat topped with cheese, wild greens, and a generous dollop of a spicy sauce particular to the kitchens of Mirkwood. Covered bowls held an impressive array of fruit and sweet, heavy cream, and a carefully folded piece of parchment cradled several large, fragrant ginger cookies.
Elrohir’s stomach growled in approval and he chuckled sheepishly, offering the bottle of miruvor for approval. “I believe that answers the question, but, yes, you did very well indeed.”
“I brought only a skin of water to drink,” Legolas added, urging Elrohir to help himself to the food, “because I guessed you might honor us with miruvor.” He grinned. “I even brought goblets.”
Their conversation as they ate remained intentionally light and impersonal, a sporadic commentary on weapons and rumors and mutual acquaintances that eased Elrohir’s uncharacteristic nervousness. When at last both basket and water skin were empty, the elf-knight opened the miruvor and poured two glasses, handing one to Legolas before stretching out on his back to stare up at the small patch of darkening sky that was visible above the clearing.
Legolas smiled, remembering his own recent star-gazing, and settled the bottle of cordial between them, sipping at his glass before flopping backward beside Elrohir. “I have missed this,” he said quietly.
Elrohir rose to one elbow to take a generous swig of miruvor, giving Legolas a questioning glance. “Missed what?” he asked, determined to be obtuse.
“You.”
“You have been with me every day for nearly a month.”
Legolas sighed, rolling to his side to gaze at the elf-knight. “That is not what I mean, and you well know it.”
Elrohir glanced at his friend, then looked away. “Do I?”
“Elrohir…”
“All right. Yes, I do. But I…I cannot, Legolas. I cannot dally with you in such a manner. Not any longer.”
Legolas heart thudded painfully. Perhaps Elladan had been mistaken, after all. “You care for Galion, then?”
Elrohir was so surprised that he turned to face his companion. “Galion?” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “I like Galion – he is intelligent and amusing and quite…inventive. But if I understand the question correctly, the answer is no. I do not care for him in that way.”
“Then why?”
Elrohir sat up abruptly and drained his glass.
“Why?”
The elf-knight shook his head staring off into the trees. “Let it be.”
Legolas sat up and put his goblet aside, then caught hold of Elrohir’s chin, urging the elf-knight to meet his eyes. “No,” he said unsteadily, feeling near paralyzed by the magnitude of the risk he was about to take. “I cannot.” Sliding his hand around to the back of Elrohir’s head, Legolas leaned over and kissed his longtime friend.
Slowly, deeply, and with a tenderness that surprised the prince himself as much as it astonished Elrohir.
Drawing away slightly, Legolas struggled to tame his erratic breathing. “Tell me why, Elrohir. Why can you no longer dally with me?”
Elrohir stared for a long moment, transfixed by the faint flush that colored Legolas’ cheeks and the softness in his darkened eyes. “Because I can no longer pretend what we share is meaningless,” he whispered finally. “Because I care for you in that way. I think I have for many years.”
Legolas’ relief seemed to light the whole wood. “I love you,” he murmured, his breath washing over Elrohir’s lips. “I was so afraid I had realized it too late.”
Elrohir shook his head slightly, his thoughts still reeling from the unexpected acceptance of his own declaration. “Never too late,” he managed at last, cupping Legolas’ face in his hands and punctuating the words with a smattering of soft kisses. “Never.”
It should have been impossible that a few uncertain words and tentative kisses could alter behaviors polished over the centuries, but that seemed exactly the case. Their intimate encounters had always been as much competition as seduction, sensual struggles for mastery in which neither was truly vanquished, perhaps, but a victor always declared.
Now Legolas opened himself totally, yielding without protest when at last Elrohir’s weight bore them both to the ground, their clothing falling away under nimble fingers as limbs and tongues alike intertwined in a frantic dance.
Elrohir paused, lifting his head to study Legolas’ face intently. “You are sure?” he rasped, his thumbs tracing the steep slope of the prince’s cheekbones. “You do not have to…”
“Yes,” Legolas broke in, his voice thick with longing. “I want you inside now.” He smiled suddenly, and the brilliance of it took Elrohir’s breath away. “I want you to love me, Rohiren.”
“I do,” Elrohir murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to the prince’s mouth before beginning a frustratingly slow journey down his body.
Legolas hissed and whimpered, cursed and begged as his skin was peppered with faint red ovals, the decorative trail meandering from throat to nipples to navel, evidence of the path Elrohir’s mouth had taken to arrive where it now hovered.
The warm, damp swoosh of the elf-knight’s breath over his aching arousal was almost more than Legolas could bear, and when Elrohir lowered his head Legolas howled with pleasure, his back arching as he struggled against the firm hands that held his hips to the ground. Then the teasing tongue slid lower still, swirling and stabbing purposefully, and Legolas’ breath began to come in panting gasps. “Wait,” he ground out, his hands tugging at Elrohir’s braid. “Too soon…please, Elrohir!”
The broken pleas wiped away the last vestiges of Elrohir’s restraint and he arched up, covering Legolas’ body with his own. Quickly slicking himself with their combined fluids, he pushed Legolas’ legs upward and pressed inside in one smooth thrust. Sleekly muscled legs wrapped his waist and strong arms pulled him into a desperate kiss and Elrohir was drowning in the sensations of their loving, at once familiar and strangely new.
The tenderness of that first tentative kiss seemed to echo in every touch, every moan, and the wash of unexpected emotion threatened to end it all too soon. Elrohir shivered violently as the tingling began deep in the pit of his stomach and he reached between their bodies, his fingers closing around Legolas even as his own vision went red. Legolas cursed frantically, rocking up into the firm grip, the pulsing rush of warmth that heralded Elrohir’s release dragging him headlong into his own shuddering climax.
Elrohir collapsed bonelessly atop his lover, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs and his breathing harsh and uneven. The words he wanted to say would not come, so instead he rolled to his back, pulling Legolas into a comfortable sprawl across his chest.
Neither had ever felt so utterly undone, or so completely content.
They lay silently for a long while, each pondering the discoveries just made and anticipating the future. Legolas stirred at last, rousing Elrohir from his musings with a gentle kiss that warmed the elf-knight’s very soul. “Wake up, Rohiren,” he said affectionately, the twinkle in his eyes investing his words with a wealth of meaning. “I do believe it is time for bed.”
*******
In the softly lit guest suite, two small mouths slid into beguiling pouts.
“Where is Uncle Elrohir, Ada?”
“We want Uncle Elrohir to read about the big doggie and the horn.”
Elladan tilted his head, as though listening. “I do not believe Uncle Elrohir will be reading your bedtime story,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Not tonight.”
