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Greenleaf & Imladris 9-Melethron: The Ancient Path	By : MPB Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 2645 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- 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.

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Chapter V: Truth

Elrohir looked out at the darkened woods. It was evening and he was seated on a long bench on one of the balconies that lined the delved palace’s eastern wing. He had lifted his long legs onto the bench, bending one so that he could rest his arms on his knee and curl the other limb under. A week had passed since the battle with the rocs. His injured leg no longer caused him to limp and only a slight twinge now and then reminded him of his mishap.

He could hear the faint sounds of music and laughter coming from the main hall where the king was feting some noble guests. Although his twin had talked him into dressing for the occasion, at the last minute Elrohir had chosen to eschew the festivities for he could summon neither the heart nor the mood to indulge in anything merry this night. He had come to this quiet spot in hopes of solitude and a chance to sort out his thoughts and feelings. From his perch he could survey the dark woods and breathe in the sweet forest air.

Sadness infused him as he realized he would never see these woods again. His had not been rash words when he had declared that he would depart Mirkwood and never return. It was the only thing he could do to ease his heartache. Far from the source of his desire perhaps he would find some semblance of peace. And failing that at least there would be no constant reminders of his last conversation with Legolas and the resulting debacle. He sighed heavily.

“How fare you, Elrohir?”

He started and turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Trust a Wood-elf to sneak up on you without really trying, he thought a little tartly.

“Im mae, Legolas,” he managed to reply. I am well.

He swallowed hard at the sight of his friend and quickly turned his attention back to the forest. It had been three days since they had so much as seen each other, much less exchanged a word. He had been ill-prepared to see the prince once more. Especially the way he appeared tonight.

In the torchlight, his fair hair gleamed gold and mithril and his eyes had so darkened as to be almost indigo. Upon his head he wore a simple circlet wrought of silver and adorned by tiny intertwining leaves of gold. He was clad not in his usual green and brown wool or leather or other such sturdy material but in a delicately embroidered richly textured midnight blue robe over a silvery white under-tunic. In place of the rugged long breeches and soft yet hardy boots worn for more strenuous duties were thick finely knit hose in muted grey and light shoes in a dusky shade that came up to the ankles. He looked every inch the warrior prince yet the fairness of his hair and countenance juxtaposed against the darkness of his raiment lent him an air of innocence that was almost otherworldly.

Elrohir thought he had never seen a more beautiful creature, man or woman, and he silently cursed the trick fate had played on him by guiding him here and making it possible for them to cross paths. I should have stayed in my room.

“You did not join us,” Legolas said. “Several of the guests asked about you.”

“I was not in the mood for company,” Elrohir answered.

Legolas sat down on one end of the bench and looked at him. His steady gaze discomforted Elrohir. The dark-haired Elf was at a loss as to where to cast his eyes without letting them alight on the figure opposite him.

He did not notice that the prince studied him as well. Legolas had taken his father’s counsel to heart. He had given much thought to the matter and had come to only one conclusion. If he could come to desire or, at the very least, tolerate a coupling with the Elf-knight as his father had so baldly put it...

With singular determination, Legolas bent his thought to appreciating his friend’s comeliness unhindered by the restraints of their friendship; tried to see Elrohir from the point of view of the younger twin’s numerous admirers and past lovers. He knew Elrohir was coveted by many and that those he’d favored never forgot the bliss experienced in his arms. That Elrohir had easily found willing partners when he’d sought a way to find release without turning to Legolas was further evidence of his inimitable allure.

They were a study in contrasts, Elrohir and himself.

The Rivendell Elf’s hair was blue-black as the deepest night and his thickly lashed eyes grey as the twilight of early evening. He was tall and lean though not as deceptively slim as the prince; traces of his Edain ancestry lingered in his broader shoulders, his less slender limbs. Yet he always moved with the fluid grace, feline surefootedness and feather-light silence of a pureblooded Elf, his powerful muscles rippling with ease whether he wielded sword, bow or dagger.

Elrohir always gave an impression of sartorial elegance whether dressed in the simple clothing of a Mirkwood ranger or arrayed in formal garb as he was tonight. Like the prince he wore a circlet upon his head, also of silver but stark in its relative lack of adornment. Going with the rich colors favored in Rivendell, he had donned a velvety robe in deepest burgundy edged with bronze and a soft under-tunic of a particularly scrumptious shade of cream. His long legs were encased in hose the color of deep wood and his feet were shod in bark brown shoes.

There was no mistaking that here was a scion of the line of Luthien, daughter of Thingol, Lord of Doriath, and Melian the Maiar on the one side and on the other, Idril, daughter of Turgon of ancient Gondolin, and her husband, Tuor, an Adan so fair of face he could have passed for one of the Eldar.

There is as much beauty in him as there is said to be in me, Legolas mused. Would it be so difficult to submit to him? Surely, with one so fair and noble, intimacy would not be too strange or unpleasant. He was also remarkably skillful besides. The Mirkwood prince knew all too well of his friend’s reputation on yet another battlefield where he wielded weapons of a different kind with as equal ability as he did those of more martial design.

Legolas set aside such considerations. In the end it did not matter. He had to make the attempt come what may. But he needed courage to do it. In Elrohir’s answers to his questions he hoped to find it.

“If you were to have what you want do you think your desire would pass?” he asked as he had earlier asked his father.

Elrohir, startled, stared at him. “I have not thought of it,” he slowly replied. He let out his breath. “This madness has probably grown because I cannot quench it. If I did, then aye, mayhap it would pass. But I cannot say for certain.” He averted his eyes once more. “Why do you ask?”

Legolas sensed the other Elf’s apprehension. In the way of Elves, he answered with another question. “Why me?” he queried. “What turned you to me?”

The query drew back Elrohir’s attention. He gazed at Legolas for a while before answering. “My foremother, Lúthien, is accounted the fairest of all the Children of Ilúvatar that was or ever shall be,” he murmured. “It is said that there will never be her like again. I do not agree. There is one who could rival Luthien in beauty, grace and purity of heart.”

“Arwen,” Legolas smiled fondly though he was puzzled as to what Elrohir was leading up to. “Not for nothing have your people named her their Evenstar.”

Elrohir’s own smile was tinged with both affection and sadness. “I am only her brother and cannot see her thus. Nay, ‘tis an ellon I speak of, a male Elf. And do not tell me that that invalidates the comparison in any way,” he added when Legolas looked surprised. He paused and drew a steadying breath.

”Elyë nar ve vanima tambë i-ára, maltaharyon”—Thou art as beautiful as the dawn, golden prince—he softly stated. “The closest thing to perfection that I have ever known.”

For a few seconds, Legolas found himself at a loss for words. Elrohir had spoken in Quenya, the melodic Ancient Speech, a language of lore chiefly preserved in Middle-earth by Elves of Noldorin descent and the Dúnedain; a tongue no longer uttered in public as a rule. Its use imparted great reverence and deep affection for the recipient. It added greater depth and meaning to the praise the twin bestowed upon the archer. “I did not know you regarded me thus,” he finally said.

“I did not realize it either,” Elrohir replied. “I thought I was merely enamored of your comeliness. Though through the years I have come to know you well and what I know I find admirable and worth loving and nurturing. I never meant to want more than that.”

“Why did things change?”

“Sirgon happened.”

Legolas’ eyes widened slightly. “What did Sirgon have to do with your feelings?”

“When I saw you kiss him, when you allowed him to caress you, I saw you in another light. I realized that I was jealous. You cannot imagine how frightened I was by the feeling. I should not have felt that way.” Elrohir looked away, his own cheeks coloring. “I suddenly wondered what it would be like to be intimate with you, to know you as no other man has or ever will.”

He glanced back and took note of the fair-haired archer’s expression of incredulity. “Did I not call it madness?” he said softly. His next words dripped with irony. “Amusing, is it not, that I who have made a name as a breaker of hearts should now be the one to know desire unrequited. Is it not the greatest jest that having so extolled the delights of woman-flesh I should now obsess over an Elf-male instead and he my own best friend at that? ”

“You have no notion of what it is like to couple with others for no other reason than because they somewhat resemble the one you desire. To not even feel lust but only desperation? It was degrading for both them and me. Yet that is what I was driven to do. But the more I used others to try and quell my need, the more I felt the difference between them and you.” He chuckled bitterly. “It was like trying to quench my thirst with mere ale when what I wanted was vintage wine. Perhaps ‘tis the Valar’s way of chastising me for my past sins.”

He looked at Legolas; saw how disturbed the prince was by his frank narrative. He drew a weary breath and turned his eyes once more to the shadowed woods. “I am sorry to have disturbed you so, gwador.”—sworn brother. “But you need worry no longer about this lunacy of mine. I will depart for Imladris tomorrow and trouble you no more.”

“That I cannot allow,” Legolas quietly replied. “I told you I would not lose you. I was not jesting.”

“Legolas—”

“I will give you what you desire, Elrohir.”

Elrohir turned his head with a jerk and stared at him in astonishment. “What?” he gasped. “Are you insane?” When Legolas simply shook his head, he paled. “I do not wish for you to make this sacrifice.”

“You make it sound as if it would be a hardship for me.”

“It is a hardship if ‘tis not your desire.”

“Then ‘tis your responsibility to ensure that I do not find it a hardship,” the prince retorted. “You and Elladan have always said ‘tis in our nature to respond to the touch of both man and woman. Why shouldn’t I experience pleasure in your arms? Skillful ones at that from what I have heard of your exploits.”

His words left Elrohir speechless. It took him several seconds to form a response of some sort. “Why would you do this?” he asked. “Pity? I will not accept pity from you.”

“Nor would I give it. I would never insult you so.” Legolas leaned forward and cupped Elrohir’s chin with his hand. “I do this because you are dear to me and I refuse to lose you.

He rose to his feet but retained his gaze on the other Elf. “Think about it,” he said, his voice soft and gentle. “When you have made your decision, come to me. I will be in my bedchamber.”

He silently walked away. Elrohir stared at his retreating figure. He did not know what to think or do. And he was seriously torn between a need to weep and the urge to go into hysterics. He realized his hands were shaking visibly and he quickly clenched them. As lucidity returned, he considered the consequences of consummating his desire.

He offers it now. But when it comes to the actual act, he will not be able to do it. Where will that leave me? Caught between fulfillment and frustration. Can I endure that?

He bent his head and covered his face with his hands. Sweet Eru, what should I do?

**************

Glossary:

Edain – Men of the Three Houses of Elf-friends in the First Age

Adan - singular of Edain

To be continued...
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- 5
- 6
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Greenleaf & Imladris 9-Melethron: The Ancient Path