Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Fallen	By : pip Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 12299 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
Chapter Four
By the time the orcs had taken Legolas back to the room he had been living in for so long, he was exhausted. The escape and what he had endured since was too much for his weakened body to handle, and he curled up on the bed, his limbs trembling uncontrollably.
He slept then, he didn’t know how long for, and for the first time in his life – Legolas dreamed. Of course, he had dreams before, but the nature of reverie made any dreams meaningful and understandable. These dreams were different. He still knew he was dreaming, but they seemed more of a random collection of images than anything else. He ran through darkened stone halls, chased by beautiful monsters that accused him of stealing. At one point he came upon a room full of twisted trees that wept blood, and that was when he decided to wake up.
It surprised him to have to open his eyes, and he realised he had slept with his eyes closed for the first time too. Still, it didn’t make the darkness any clearer to him. While outside, in the woodland of his home, his keen eyes could make use of the moon and starlight. Here, there was no light to see by at all. All that was constant was the warmth, and with a startled jump of fright, Legolas realised that someone was laid beside him in the dark.
“Your dreams were quite interesting,” a warm, amused voice noted. Legolas shook his head, but he relaxed again, realising that it was Sauron who lay with him and not one of the orcs. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it – for surely he was more dangerous – and yet it didn’t seem that way on the surface of things. As much as he wanted to be more afraid of Sauron, he simply wasn’t.
“You disobeyed me.” Legolas lay on his back in terrified stillness, hearing something new at last in Sauron’s words. It made him want to whimper and beg and run and hide. “You endangered your life, and that of my child.” Sauron was angry, and with every word his voice became a little colder, so that Legolas shivered as though he could feel it. “You left this room alone.” He paused. “Do you suppose my fortress to be somewhere one can just ‘wander’?” he chastised.
“I’m sorry –” he tried to say, but Sauron spoke over him effortlessly.
“There are more fearsome monsters that walk these halls. Consider the orcs the fairest of my servants.” Legolas shuddered in revulsion, but didn’t speak again. “I believe that after your wild, wilful disobedience, a punishment is in order.” Legolas didn’t dare to speak, and in fact he suspected he couldn’t even if he wanted to. The dark lord was threatening him, and the scale of the danger he was in took his breath away.
“There are tortures, Legolas, that would ensure you never go against my wishes again. You would serve me single-mindedly forever. Of course, they would change you, and others would fear to gaze upon you. With what remains of your mind, you would sense that, and kill those whom you used to love in frustrated anger and fury. Is that an appropriate punishment, do you think?”
Legolas only whimpered in answer, seeing in his mind’s eye the orcs, who Sauron had told him used to be elves. The dark lord laughed softly. “Of course, I cannot consider anything as drastic as that… yet. You have something valuable that I will not endanger even to ensure your co-operation. But some kind of punishment is definitely called for, wouldn’t you say?”
The last words hadn’t even entered Legolas’ head, and he still trembled in petrified horror at the suggestion he would become like them. He knew there was another question though, and quite suddenly he found himself wanting to beg for mercy. “No,” he whispered, his fear such that he couldn’t be sure Sauron had heard him. But he had.
“You dare to try and refuse me my entertainment?” With that statement Sauron moved on the bed and Legolas tried to scramble back as Sauron moved fluidly to sit astride him, trapping him. He rested his hands on the bed at either side of Legolas’ head and looked deeply into his eyes. Legolas couldn’t breathe. “Do you know how lucky you are that my child is inside you?” Sauron asked, his eyes full of slowly burning anger, and Legolas couldn’t help but whimper. At last he comprehended that he wasn’t going to be changed, and the dark lord’s actions reawakened the desire he had felt earlier. He was only aware of Sauron now. The dark lord moved his head closer and brushed his lips softly against Legolas’ cheek before whispering into his ear. “I would have you begging for my forgiveness for so long that your voice would leave you. You would forget how to stand on your feet before I was done.”
Legolas trembled at the words, more frightened of his own treacherous desire than the threat, and Sauron moved back to look into his eyes again. “You shake and tremble, but be honest, Prince. Isn’t that exactly what you want?” Sauron asked knowingly, as if he were reading Legolas’ mind.
Before he could reply, Sauron’s lips claimed his, and he couldn’t stop himself responding to that kiss. He gave everything that was demanded of him and more, losing himself and his thoughts again. He was almost grateful, but when it was over he remembered what Sauron wanted with him, and how everything he loved had been stolen away. All of his questions began with one word.
“Why,” he whispered, not knowing that he had spoken aloud. Indeed, he only realised it when Sauron replied to him, his words as mocking as ever.
“Because it amuses me to see you, a Prince of elves, debased and humiliated. It amuses me to watch as you lose your grace and dignity.”
At this Legolas felt an emotion he had almost forgotten – anger. He remembered giving in, and the paltry promise of oblivion that came with it – and he knew it wasn’t enough. Sauron would always be playing with him, the same way he played with the forest, and in his anger, not caring anymore what it might mean to make the dark lord furious, he pushed Sauron away from him with all his strength and jumped up to run from the dark, unguarded room into the feeble light of the corridor outside.
He was unnerved by the sound of the dark laughter that followed him, and the called out promise.
“Run, little Prince. When you stop running I will find you. Let us see how far you get this time.”
And Legolas did run. He ran through the same maze of halls and corridors he had encountered previously. Without wanting to, he remembered the uneasiness he felt then, and it returned to him now. He remembered what Sauron had said about his servants, and it spurred him on to run faster. Some of the halls he ran through were too large to be so empty, and his imagination tried to convince him he wasn’t really alone. Several times he thought he saw movement but when he looked there was nothing. His relief was almost as strong as his disappointment.
He ran for a long time. He didn’t bother to search for a way out this time – he already knew it was pointless. But maybe there was a place somewhere for him to hide, at least for a while, until he could figure out what to do next.
He entered a particularly large hall – when he looked he couldn’t see to the end of it. It was large enough to have several stone pillars supporting the ceiling, and it was dark. No torches were lit in here, and yet there was a little light, maybe from a single window high above. He looked up and suddenly felt dizzy when he realised he couldn’t see the ceiling either.
He walked slowly, trying to keep to what he thought was the centre of the room. The absence of perceptible boundaries made him feel as though he was lost in a desert, or at sea. As he reached what he considered might be the middle of the great hall he slowed down, and then stopped. An indescribable, eerie fear began to prey on him, and he shivered. Again he saw movement from the corner of his eye, but when he peered through the darkness he saw only one of the stone columns. A flash of movement, this time on the other side of the room. Legolas didn’t look towards it – suddenly he was certain that he didn’t want to see. He swallowed nervously, his mouth so dry that it caused an audible click to sound in his throat – and his heart missed a beat before he realised he had made the noise. He had never been scared of the dark, but there was something about the atmosphere in here that made him wish he had some kind of light with him. The darkness felt sinister and threatening, and who knew what the shadows might be hiding.
His train of thought was broken by the lightest touch on his hair, almost like a gentle breeze. He jumped and looked around him, trying to see through the veil of the dark. He closed his eyes and everything was a thousand times worse. He felt people brush against him, whispering nonsense into his ear as they passed. He opened his eyes again and he was alone. He wondered why it wasn’t cold. Didn’t ghosts come with the cold? The darkness wasn’t cold at all, instead it was too warm, making him struggle for his breath, and thick like a blanket, as if it had physical presence. He realised he was stuck; too afraid to carry on, and too afraid to go back. Something was in here with him. He stopped breathing, straining to hear any kind of sound in the darkness, and that was when he heard a soft, insane giggle. His heart hammered in his chest and he began to tremble. He started to move forward again, trying desperately to ignore the shapes that moved with him on either side of the hall.
From ahead he began to hear soft music playing, and something else – perhaps a quiet singing. He resisted the temptation to look behind him, frightened of what he might see. He had come too far to turn back now.
He finally reached the large door on the other side of the hall without incident, looking only straight ahead, but he was aware of the shapes that moved with him, closing in. He was so relieved that his arm felt heavy as lead when he reached out to the door. The music came from behind the door, but it stopped as he reached out to open it. At the same time the ghosts caught up with him and he felt hands sliding over his back. Cold, lifeless hands, and he whimpered in terror. He turned the handle, refusing to look around and discover his pursuer and tormentor, hoping with all his soul that the door was not locked.
To his relief the door opened, and Legolas almost fell through it before closing it firmly behind him, and leaning against the door with his eyes closed, trying to stay on his feet. He wanted to laugh, but he resisted the temptation, and slowly the feeling passed. It was a few minutes before he recovered enough from his terror to take in his surroundings.
The room he found himself in was much smaller than the hall. It had the same stone walls, and although it was dark here too, there were a least a couple of torches on the walls, throwing their flickering golden light over the stone – and the room’s only occupant.
Legolas felt his heart begin to speed up again as he saw the source of the music he had heard. It was an elf, facing away from him. His deep auburn hair would have argued against it, but it was tucked behind his ears and they were impossible to mistake. Was he real? Legolas wondered, and shivered at the thought that this might be a ghost.
The elf sat cradling a great, golden harp in his arms. His hands were stretched out, his fingers on the strings as if ready to play but he didn’t move. His back was to Legolas; his hair was loose and flowed like silk down his back. Cautiously, Legolas stepped closer, and a single bass note sounded on the harp. A soft cry escaped the elf’s lips at the same time, and Legolas stopped. The hair on his head began to stand up as he watched the ghostly figure. Once more it was completely still. The dust danced on in the musty air, the gloom continued to reign in complete silence, until Legolas doubted that he had heard anything. He stepped forward again, frightened of what he might find when he faced the elf, but unable to resist looking. The bass notes sounded as he moved closer, creeping up the scale in an insidious mockery of Legolas’ fear.
Legolas looked toward the elf sharply at this, and saw his shoulders shaking. He was laughing! Laughing at him! Legolas’ fear vanished and he rushed towards the figure suddenly with a kind of embarrassed anger. He grasped hold of the red hair that hid the elf’s face from his view and turned the elf’s head to look at him. Legolas let go immediately and gasped. Here, in this place, was the most beautiful elf he had ever seen. The dark auburn hair framed a perfectly sculpted face, delicate, but still with an indefinable masculine quality. His eyes were bluer than Legolas’, and deep enough to drown in. But none of this was what made Legolas start in shock. It was the tears. He had not been laughing – the elf was crying.
In puzzlement, Legolas let his glance move over the elf slowly; taking in the softly shimmering garments he wore, that only seemed to reveal more than his nakedness would. He was long of limb and slender. Legolas’ eyes lingered on him, drinking in the beauty like a thirsty man partakes of water. He glanced at the elf’s arms, and then on to his long-fingered hands that still rested on the strings of the harp. His eyes widened suddenly. The elf’s fingers were bleeding. How long had he been playing? Legolas thought, sickened. The blood had left his fingers and run down over the strings, staining them crimson. He looked back into the elf’s eyes in horror, and he found no comfort.
The elf looked back at him in misery, tears of pain continuing to fall down his face. Although he didn’t speak, Legolas had never heard the words ‘help me’ so loudly before. As he reached out to move those mangled fingers from the harp though, he heard a familiar voice call through the darkness behind him.
“Don’t stop, Maglor. I wish to hear you play more, and I’m sure Legolas does too. Now, please me as I have taught you to do.” Legolas turned around to face Sauron as he spoke, realising that the dark lord had followed him here, and he levelled a look of disgust and fury at him, not caring anymore what the dark lord might do. But his resolve crumbled when he again heard the notes of the harp ring out behind him, unable to avoid hearing the pained whimpers that came from the elf Sauron had called Maglor.
The music was strange, like something he had heard before. He tried to place it, but it was impossible; and he knew, really, that he had never heard anything like this. It seemed sad, but then an unexpected note would sound, not entirely discordant, but still not quite belonging. It shouldn’t work, but it did. It was a sound that seemed to suit the background of soft, painful cries that accompanied it, as well as conveying danger and darkness. He looked at Sauron, and somehow he realised that the strange music described him.
He watched, struck motionless, the by now familiar feeling of breathlessness and excited anticipation as Sauron walked towards him – and then past him. Legolas turned in surprise and saw Sauron stroking the hair of the other elf. The dark lord closed his eyes and listened; whether to the music or the cries of Maglor Legolas couldn’t be sure – and then he smiled. Sauron reached out to gently cover Maglor’s hands with his own, stilling them.
“Truly beautiful, Maglor. You may stop now.” Maglor turned to face Sauron and sobbed soundlessly against his chest as Sauron moved his hands away from the harp, pulling the elf to his feet, and looked at them.
Without saying a word he brought those hands down to the elf’s mouth and waited expectantly. Maglor looked up at Sauron as he began to clean the blood from his own fingers with his tongue without a murmur of protest. Legolas watched in a kind of horrified fascination, unable to take his eyes away from the picture in front of him.
When he was done Sauron glanced down and studied Maglor’s hands again. “Look,” he commanded, and the elf obeyed, but now he couldn’t stifle a broken sob when he saw what Sauron wanted him to see. Legolas saw it too. The fingers that had been bleeding and raw from hours, perhaps days, of playing the harp were already healing. Soon there would be no sign of the torture he had undergone, and Legolas felt his heart flip lazily in giddy fear, as the scale of what it meant to be a prisoner here finally started to sink in.
Sauron pulled Maglor close to him and took the other elf’s lips in a demanding kiss as Legolas watched. Maglor was facing away from Legolas, and Sauron’s hands held the elf’s wrists out and away from them both, preventing him from touching. Maglor leaned against the dark lord, seeming to melt into him. Sauron had such presence that next to him the elf looked like a sacrifice.
Suddenly Legolas realised that Sauron was staring straight at him. He was kissing Maglor’s neck, but his eyes looked deep into Legolas’ soul. As he watched, Sauron smiled coldly, and licked a line up over Maglor’s throat and jaw in an unmistakable gesture of ownership. Maglor sighed and let his head fall back, while Legolas gasped. Sauron still looked only at him, and it was clear the message was meant for them both.
Sauron beckoned to Legolas and he walked over to him as if hypnotised. He only had eyes for the dark lord, who commanded his attention easily. He barely registered the sight of Maglor sinking to his knees in front of Sauron, undoing his leather leggings to free the dark lord’s erection with a speed and grace born of practice.
Legolas reached Sauron’s side as Maglor’s lips closed around his hard shaft, taking him deeply into his mouth and his throat. Legolas looked down then, and for a moment the sight of it entranced Legolas; he marvelled at the beauty of the elf on his knees, worshipping the dark lord’s member. With a shock he realised he almost wanted to be in his place.
Sauron moaned and he looked up again, only to be caught by the dark lord’s glittering gaze. He gasped in shock when Sauron’s hand gripped his hair tightly and crushed his lips in a violent kiss. Legolas raised his hands to caress the dark lord’s face as he lost himself, only to have them secured behind his back by Sauron. Unable to touch, he could only lean in close as Sauron took his mouth, filling it with his tongue, reminding Legolas of something else so much that he felt his knees go weak. Sauron moaned into his mouth as his orgasm came closer, and Legolas couldn’t help but wonder what kind of picture they made. It was all he could think about, even when Sauron came with a loud groan and finally released him. He looked at Sauron, and the dark lord smirked as if he knew exactly what Legolas had been thinking. Beautiful.
“Take care of him, and yourself.” Sauron addressed Maglor as he looked at Legolas, and he knew he didn’t understand this, any of it. But Maglor’s next words made him shiver, because it was out of place, and yet it was at the same time exactly right.
“Yes, Hîr nín,” Maglor said quietly from his place on his knees, licking his lips as he straightened the dark lord’s clothing. Sauron looked away from Legolas for a moment and raised the other elf’s chin to look into his eyes. At Sauron’s encouragement Maglor rose gracefully to his feet again, never breaking the eye contact. There was no fight in his eyes as Sauron waited patiently. Then he lowered his head in long-observed submission.
“Thank you, Herdir,” he whispered, and Sauron smiled at Maglor as he released them. The dark lord walked away from them both as they watched him. He turned back suddenly and looked at Legolas.
“Remember what happened to the orc,” Sauron warned him, throwing a meaningful glance at Maglor. Legolas froze and he nodded, understanding the threat. Then they were alone.
They looked at each other in silence. All the questions Legolas wanted to ask fled from his mind when he looked at Maglor again, remembering how he had looked on his knees. Remembering his misery, and how much Legolas had wanted to save him from it.
After a while, Maglor smiled at him, and it chased away the darkness. Legolas smiled back, gladly forgetting where he was for a moment.
“Who are you, pen neth?” Maglor asked encouragingly, and Legolas replied without hesitation.
“I am Legolas, youngest son of Thranduil, King of Greenwood.”
“Greenwood?” Maglor looked uncertain. “Thranduil…?” Then he seemed to remember. “Son of Oropher…” he breathed, as it sunk in. “Then you are a Prince?” he demanded suddenly, his eyes full of hope.
“Yes… why?” Then Legolas understood what the hope was for, and his heart sank. “They don’t know where I am,” he confessed, looking away, not wanting to destroy what he saw in Maglor’s eyes, but knowing he had to.
For a moment Maglor’s eyes continued to hold a fevered gleam, as if he were thinking about something. But then Legolas’ words seemed to break through and he closed his eyes for a long moment, swallowing, almost as if he had been expecting it. He sighed quietly in acceptance.
“Well, you already know I am Maglor, son of Fëanor,” Maglor said, watching Legolas’ reaction carefully.
Maglor? Suddenly Legolas realised that he knew of the name. It couldn’t be the same Maglor; he would be millennia old! At that thought another, darker, more frightening one struck him. “How long have you been here?” Legolas asked, already not wanting to know the answer.
He gave Legolas a melancholy smile. “Long enough that it wasn’t always ‘here’. Long enough to see Sauron establish himself in the place of Morgoth. Longer than my life before. Long enough…” He seemed full of sadness suddenly, as if he were thinking about something from his earlier life. Maglor shook his head and began to lead Legolas to the door, taking his hand.
“Come,” he said, briskly.
“No! I can’t! Something is not right in there, Maglor,” Legolas cried, pulling his hand away, remembering what had happened to him before he got in here.
“Of course it isn’t.” Maglor looked back at Legolas, and his next words made him even more afraid. “They are the elves that Sauron couldn’t keep. He imprisons their souls here instead. I can’t tell you their story, I’m afraid. I fear I’ve lost the gift of stories,” he smiled sadly in apology, “and I don’t truly know it anyway.” He explained all this patiently, and sighed softly when he saw that Legolas was still not ready to go with him.
“You look horrified, but these ghosts are no longer what we would call elves, pen neth.” Maglor considered his own words for a moment, before adding quietly, “so, who among us is lucky?” He looked at Legolas uncertainly. “You do understand what your future will be, don’t you?”
“I won’t stay here,” Legolas vowed vehemently.
Maglor laughed bitterly. “Yes, I still say that, as he promised I would. But here I am, still alive and aware of every cruelty he inflicts on me. Sometimes…” he sighed. “Sometimes, I almost grow tired,” he said longingly.
“You will find it impossible not to fight at times, but you should avoid going against him, it will give you peace for a while. He enjoys resistance, savours it. He enjoys twisting things…” his voice trailed off and once more Maglor seemed lost in his thoughts. Was it really surprising? Legolas thought not, considering how long he must have been held captive here with only Sauron for company. He shivered.
“I know,” Legolas replied, wanting to give Maglor understanding. But then he found himself thinking of what Sauron had told him of the orcs. He remembered the forest, and how Sauron had twisted and corrupted that. It was all too much; the trees, and now Maglor. Guilt consumed him when he considered the effect Sauron still had on him. He only remembered where he was when he felt gentle hands brushing his tears away.
“Don’t cry… Come,” Maglor encouraged, taking his hand again, and now Legolas complied; he was too tired to fight anymore.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They faced each other in the bed. Maglor had a room that was not unlike Legolas’ own, only the furnishings were more comfortable. It was less like a cell, and more like a bedroom. Sauron must spend enough time here to want to make it comfortable, he realised. Not surprisingly, there was only one bed, and between them they determined to share it.
It was impossible not to begin to fall in love with the elf a little, despite Sauron’s warning. After eating – he hadn’t realised how hungry and thirsty he was until then – Maglor had bathed Legolas, lingering over washing his hair, taking Sauron’s orders seriously, so seriously that Legolas had needed to flick the water at him. They had fought and laughed until Maglor had held Legolas against the wall, and poured a jug of cold water over him.
It was then that Legolas realised just how much it meant to Maglor to have someone else there. The elf’s eyes had filled with tears even though they were both laughing, and Legolas wanted nothing more than to kiss him, and make the tears go away. But, ever mindful of Sauron, he had simply run away from Maglor, laughing in childish glee when Maglor cornered him.
Then Maglor had stolen a kiss, and Legolas forgot everything, captivated by the thought that this beauty desired him. But a kiss was all it had been. Maglor ended it by laughing at his youthful exuberance and promising to cure him of it at the same time.
It had not all been fun and laughter though. Maglor had a cupboard that contained oil which he begged the orcs for in secret. Maglor instructed Legolas in the use of it, and applying the oil to himself in front of Maglor had been humiliating, especially when he considered what it was for. Maglor even managed to comfort him on that, pointing out that actually preparing himself would deny Sauron the pleasure of hurting him so much.
Eventually all of the necessary things had been done, and now for the first time they were each able to reflect on what this meant. As if independent of thought, their hands reached out to touch gleaming hair, soft skin and red lips. Worshipful touches, each making sure that the other was real. Legolas leaned in to kiss Maglor softly, his hands already moving down, trailing his fingers over the elf’s back…
He stopped in puzzlement when Maglor laughed into the kiss. His laugh was musical, like the tinkling of rain on wild flowers. Blue eyes locked with blue in question and amusement.
“Why are you acting like this with me? What are you rushing for?” Maglor asked quietly. Legolas was suddenly unsure of himself. What was he doing? He pulled back and Maglor followed him, but his hands only reached out to cup Legolas’ face, looking deeply into his eyes.
“We are elves, we have eternity.” Maglor explained patiently, and laughed again when Legolas still regarded him without understanding. “You should be reminding me of this,” he chided playfully, tapping Legolas’ nose with one finger. He touched Legolas’ lips then, and he became serious. “Help me to remember…” His voice was sad suddenly, despite the situation.
Legolas wasn’t sure what Maglor wanted from him, this was entirely new. But his words and obvious longing awoke something in Legolas, something different. He mirrored Maglor’s actions, touching the other elf’s face, giving himself the time to admire the soft skin, the delicate features. All the expectations of others vanished from Legolas’ mind, and soon he found himself lost in admiration. He ran his fingers through Maglor’s hair, fascinated by the way the light made it shine in tones of fire and copper. His fingers traced the delicate lines of his ear, ignoring the sigh that this produced.
He had such beautiful, almost luminous skin. His hand came to rest on Maglor’s neck, where his pulse beat rhythmically in a reminder of life and warmth. Looking up, he found his gaze caught and held by those blue eyes, and he smiled. Now he understood. He lay back on the bed contented just to look for a moment.
Maglor grasped hold of his hand and they lay facing each other for long minutes, enjoying the nearness of each other, savouring the feeling afforded by something so simple as the holding of hands. They seemed to speak to each other without talking; even the intimacy of eye contact was a way of making love to them. This was natural, Legolas thought, and he became sad when he realised it had very nearly been taken away from him.
A single tear fell at the thought of what he had almost become, and Maglor just watched, completely taken with him. They moved closer, so slowly that it seemed almost not to happen. He didn’t know this time when the kiss began, only that it was. Their lips moved without urgency, in the same timeless, patient way as their hands. So many promises they made to each other in that kiss. So many things they told each other. And when it was over Maglor simply looked at him.
“You carry his child,” he said, and his voice was carefully neutral.
The strange mood that had descended on them was lost to Legolas then, and he sighed. “Yes,” he replied, resting his hands on his belly. “And one other,” he added quietly. He turned his face away from Maglor, certain of what was there, but then he felt the elf’s hands come to rest on him, next to his, seeming to touch the life inside him, for it stirred.
“Do not be ashamed, pen neth. They are partly you and your line too. How could anything bad come of it?” It was so strange to hear hope spoken aloud that Legolas didn’t immediately recognise it. When he did he looked into Maglor’s eyes again and he saw nothing there to be afraid of.
Instinctively he moved closer to the older elf, needing the comfort he had been denied for so long, and that was when Maglor began to sing. Legolas’ eyes widened.
“You, yes! Now I remember…” he said, but his thoughts were taken away from the realisation by the sound of Maglor’s voice. It seemed he was singing an old, forgotten lullaby to the unborn children. Such a fair voice; Legolas had never heard anything like it, and he only wanted for it never to stop. Maglor’s hand still rested comfortably on his belly, and Legolas yawned as he rested his head on Maglor’s arm, closing his eyes to hear the melody better. He didn’t know when he fell asleep, that gentle voice encouraging him to hopeful dreams.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maglor finished his song and looked down on Legolas. The prince’s eyes had opened again when he fell into sleep. Maglor sighed. He was so young, so beautiful, and Maglor was at the same time sorry he was here, and glad. For the first time he allowed himself to voice the thought that had been in his mind since he had seen the Prince.
“I am not alone.” He blinked away the sudden tears that filled his eyes and pulled Legolas closer, needing the contact. He lie awake for a long time, stroking the pale golden hair, wondering what Sauron planned for them. Eventually he slept too, but his dreams were troubled.

Translations:
pen neth – young one
Hîr nín – my Lord
Herdir – Master
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Fallen