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Ranger's Folly, Prince's Fate	By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 3410 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Ringsand no money is madefrom this story, main characters and settings created by JRR Tolkien.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
Chapter Five: Preliminary Problems

Normally, Legolas despised the signs and emblems of royalty as much as his father, preferring simple, utilitarian garments and the crown of seasonal flowers or leaves Thranduil regularly wore. This day, he was much more particular regarding what he planned to wear and contemplated whether he should use any kind of garland at all. It might look pretentious, as though he was trying to impress Elladan with his high station and noble origins, which were more exalted than being the son of Greenwood's King, harking back to even more ancient nobility via an oblique connection to Elwë Singollo.

Well, I am hoping to impress Elladan, but do not want to seem too blatant about it.

Then again, he didn't want it to look as though he scorned his title and position as Greenwood's only Prince and Thranduil's heir; he was proud of both, and did not know if he would look ridiculous sporting a circlet of daisies with such elegant attire. "I have no idea what to do," he complained with a despairing moan.

"What is it, ionen? Are you having second thoughts about Elladan?" Thranduil peered at him from his spot on the floor where he was making a hasty alteration to the trailing, thigh-length hem of Legolas' opulent, blue velvet, fur-trimmed outer robe.

"No, Ada. I was thinking about the daisies you suggested. Somehow they do not seem to lend the proper aura of sophistication this ensemble demands."

Thranduil worked hard to control the grin trying to rework his features, raising his right brow archly and clamping his teeth tightly together, for Legolas' features were contracted in worry. The daisies had been a facetious suggestion. It was taking a moment for him to gather sufficient control to prevent an outburst of laughter when he spoke, and in the interim a bright bubble of a giggle arose in the room.

"Oh, Legolas, we do not really think you should wear daisies," smiled Idrê, Elboron's wife. Thranduil had sent for her as soon as he'd realised how distracted his son was over his chosen companion for the impending feast. Idrê did her best to fulfil a mother's role for her nephew whenever possible and was presently working on the rear tail of the robe, adjusting its height higher to match what her law-brother was doing.

"Oh." Legolas frowned at his father and received a shrugging grunt of mirth as Thranduil went back to the tiny, precise stitches required to bring the long, dipping point of the robe to the exact centre of Legolas' knee. This was vital, as the garment would not move with the fluid grace necessary otherwise, meaning it would not sway and slide as he walked, alternately revealing and then concealing the action of his thighs in the sleek, form-fitting suede leggings he was wearing.

The robe was not even really a robe at all, but more a modified tunic: snug through the chest, so that he had to wear it half-untied, and softly flared to these daring points. The sleeves were long and wide and easily fell away from his wrists, exposing his arms at will. The shirt underneath it all was little more than a vest of fine creamy white silk, but it did have a nicely embroidered front that showed through the open ties of the robe.

"Then, what goes with something this refined?" he finally asked. This night, Legolas wanted to look as regal and imposing as Ada and Aunt Idrê could manage to make him. "Should I remain bear-headed?"

"No, that will not do," Thranduil completed his work and stood. "You've forgotten it. I should not be surprised."

"Forgotten what?"

"The Relic!" laughed Idrê merrily, shaking her head as she caught Thranduil's hurt expression. "So you named it yourself, muindoren."

"True, but I was young then," growled Thranduil. "It was important to my Ada."

They were referring to a circlet of delicate leaves wrought in mithril and gold crafted by skilled dwarves in the days before the fall of Doriath. The crown was commissioned by Galadhon for his sister's son, Oropher, and presented on his Coming of Age. There had been much made of the Princes of the Noldor, newly arrived and much exalted for their courage against Melkor, and Galadhon felt it was time to acknowledge the Princes of the Sindar as well.

That initiated a tradition of great pomp and formality, the only one Oropher carried with him out of Beleriand, and Thranduil had been crowned with the circlet in the same way, as had Elboron and all his sons, all their sons, and all his grandsons' grandsons, ad infinitum. For Legolas, the ceremony had been a bit more elaborate and solemn, he being Oropher's heir, and thus his fiftieth Begetting Day was also his Coronation Day and his Coming of Age celebration, all at once. He'd grumbled about it and complained, but there was no denying his pride to be accorded the honour of wearing The Relic.
"Ai, of course! I can't believe I am saying this, but it is perfect," announced Legolas, but then the excitement left his eyes. "I have no idea where it is." He'd worn it just once for a few hours at most and couldn't recall into which storage bin he'd tossed it. "That was over two-hundred years ago," he added in his defence, seeing his father's disapproving look.

"Galion will know," said Idrê and went to find the seneschal. In the silence she left behind, father and son smiled at one another, Legolas filled with nervous excitement and Thranduil packed with joy to see his son so care-free for once.

Or rather, his only care one that is easy on the spirit to carry.

When a servant brought him word Legolas needed him, Thranduil had gone at once, worried over the unusual summons, but hearing the story of the meeting in the corridor had eased his heart. Legolas was almost giddy, tongue-tied and bright-eyed, flushed and still aroused, and had finished by pleading for help in making himself unforgettable for the fête. The relieved father was more than pleased to do so, until the need was made clear as he noted the remaining blotchy black and blue zones down his son's back and side.

The fall and the fight must have been terrible; Thranduil felt new concern for the way his son down-played the event. Part of that involved a warrior's pride, but there was also a sense of acceptance in his manner. Legolas expected to face death and incur injuries regularly. All his archers were constantly at risk, such was the nature of their struggle, but this was his child and the King felt ashamed to have put him in peril. His hands gentled to tender, careful touches. The wounds were not too serious this time and they were improving, but Legolas had admitted the arm was still sore, too, and Thranduil knew his son's lengthy depression was slowing the healing process. The party and the prospect of a companion for his lonely life would do more for Legolas than all the treatments his medics could devise.

He had not yet revealed the troubling news of undesirable inhabitants in Dol Guldur, so happy to note the dreamy expression of wondrous incredulity on his child's face he had not been able to make himself disturb it. Legolas kept repeating 'I was just beginning to think about who it might be and Elladan arrives as though by command'. There was no doubt the elder Twin was the perfect candidate for his son's first lover and Thranduil could not have chosen a better partner for Legolas himself. Elladan was much older and thus experienced, understood the intensity often part of an elf's initial foray into adult pleasures, was known to prefer a male companion, and would take good care not to bruise Legolas' romantic heart and fragile ego.

Let him have this night of frivolity and fun; tomorrow is soon enough to reveal his part in repulsing the Nazgul.

As he watched, Legolas moved across the room to inspect his appearance in the full length glass by the dressing table. He was critical and minute in his examination, tugging and adjusting the clothes, picking at the shirt through the tunic's open front, turning this way and that, and tried to see himself from various angles, walking up, going away, bowing. He caught his father's smiling eye in the reflection and spun about, features transformed in happy anticipation as he came floating back to Thranduil's side.

"How do I look?"

"Magnificent!" announced the King and he meant it. "He will not be able to resist."

"Truly? I am not sure I want things to happen too quickly," Legolas admitted nervously. Just thinking about the encounter in the hall made his temperature rise and his heart soar. The unruly erection had not seen fit to subside until he'd heard his aunt's voice as she arrived with his new clothes. Even now, the leggings were much tighter than the various fittings with the tailor had indicated they would be. Legolas worried his interest would be too apparent and raised beseeching eyes to his father. "I want to be in control of things, but I'm not sure I can resist him if…"

"That is expected, on both counts. It need not be unsettling," assured Thranduil, understanding exactly what was troubling his son, and settled a hand on a tense shoulder. "Your clothes are not overly revealing, but neither is it necessary to hide your desire totally. That issue has already been raised, if you will, and thus you can just put it aside as something both of you know and accept. There is attraction between you two; nothing could be more natural.

"From what you told me, Elladan is as overwhelmed by this unexpected connection as you are. The two of you managed under very difficult circumstances today; there is no reason to imagine either of you incapable of controlling yourselves in public. He will be feeling the same hesitancy you feel, if he is affected as deeply as it seems from your words, and will treat you with the utmost courtesy and respect. Knowing he could easily control what happens, he will suppress the urge to do so."

"He will? How so and why? I mean, if I am irresistible…"

"Ah, Legolas, he knows how young you are; he will understand your lack of knowledge and experience in such matters. And, since he is honourable, Elladan will not attempt to take advantage of your ingenuous soul. In fact, he will probably come to me to discuss all this before anything happens. This fête is the perfect backdrop for your second meeting. There will be much to do and you will not be alone together, yet he will be exclusively near. Let your spirit guide you; spend the night getting to know who he is."

"I already know who he is, Ada," Legolas said.

"Nay, not so," his father corrected, but then he paused, wondering if Legolas' heart already had chosen this ellon. He scrutinised his son's eyes deeply, but saw only the excitement and anticipation of having an admirer he admired in return. "You know his name and you know his reputation, a fine one, may I say, if a bit bleak. There is more to life than killing Orcs."

"Indeed. That verily defines my life, too." Legolas replied, returning to the dressing table. He sat and lifted a gilded brush and immediately his father came and took it from him, began brushing his hair in long, graceful strokes as he spoke, just as Legolas had hoped he would.

"You speak the truth and this is something I should have worked harder to prevent," Thranduil sighed. He watched the golden strands shimmer as the bristles passed through them. "Greenwood will always place high demands upon your unique skills, ionen, but I intend to make sure you have a life of your own as well."

"Thank you, Ada," Legolas leaned back for a quick hug but straightened upon hearing a knock on the door. "Minno," (Enter) he called, expecting his aunt, and was surprised to see the Man from Imladris revealed in the glass as the portal swung wide. "You!" He rose abruptly and turned, face aflame, self-consciously drawing the robe close though he was fully clothed.

"Aye, Legolas," Aragorn stammered. He blinked; Legolas looked amazing. Yet it was a greater shock to see King Thranduil standing with brush in one hand, the other filled with the seron's lush yellow mane. The Man's heart sank and his stomach knotted in dread; had Legolas told his powerful lover about the encounter at the pools? Thranduil looked surprised and suspicious but not outraged. Aragorn exhaled the breath he'd been holding and continued. "I was hoping to speak to you, but can see you're busy. Please excuse me. Your Majesty," he acknowledged the King with a quick bow and was backing himself out the door when Thranduil's words halted him.

"When did you two meet?" he asked, anger prickling, for there was no mistaking the embarrassed consternation filtering through every iota of his son's aura. He set the brush down and automatically ran a smoothing hand over the golden hair.

"This morning at the pools," growled Legolas. He had not told his father about the fiasco in the grotto, having forgot it once he'd encountered Elladan, and had no desire for him to learn of it now. Valar! Hasn't this crude human subjected me to enough mortification? "Though I don't believe I caught your name," he addressed Aragorn coldly, drawing himself tall into a fair representation of his father's regal stance as he tried unsuccessfully to look down upon the Man, unsuccessful since they were nearly the same height.

"It is Aragorn. He is the young Chieftain of the Dúnadain raised in Elrond's house; the heir of Elros Tar Minyatur," Thranduil told his son, "but none are supposed to know it outside Imladris. Silly, since everyone knows Elrond always fosters his brother's progeny."
"Your words are wise, Your Majesty," Aragorn felt his cheeks grow hot, displeased to have the King tell this courtesan, no matter how highly favoured, such a vital secret, but he bowed low a second time anyway. He hoped Legolas would not reveal all and again made an effort to escape. "I will leave you and perhaps there will be time to talk during the celebration," he said, dismayed that he would not be able to carry out Elrohir's directive. The likelihood of separating Elladan from Legolas' side was less than that of dividing the flood of a river into equal halves.

"You are Isildur's heir?" Legolas' eyes had grown quite large as he re-evaluated the Man before him, gaze sweeping him up and down. Aragorn was not wearing the bathing robe any longer but had dressed to impress in his best clothes: garments befitting a young Lord cut in the fashion of Imladris, topped with a short, black cape that give him the demeanour of a cavalier, long gloves tucked into his waist, hair and beard neat and trim. One hand remained hidden behind his back and the prince wondered what he was holding there. A gift to make amends?

"I am, but please do not share that information with anyone else, Legolas," Aragorn asked graciously.

"Of course not!" Legolas snapped, scowling darkly. "What variety of fool do you take me for?" Well, he knew what Aragorn thought him to be and again his face burned with the memory of the impromptu proposition and the open desire presented in the spa. Suddenly he wondered how the Man had located his rooms and what else he might have seen on the way. "Did you follow me?"

Aragorn grew pale. This was not a conversation he wanted to pursue in front of Thranduil. "I asked one of Elboron's grandsons where your dwelling was located," he said, which was true enough. He'd run into his new friend from the hunt while wandering the halls and posed the most popular question in the fortress, having no idea where the fair seron actually slept when alone. Finding him housed in the area reserved for family underscored the strength of Thranduil's claim. Perhaps Elladan really was in over his head.

"What are you hiding behind your back?" Thranduil suddenly demanded, recalling Elboron's report about the interest all of the Imladrians had expressed for his son. The friction on display was fraught with chagrin on both sides, but running through their interaction was an almost palpable current of sexual allure, again on both sides. He hid his glee behind a stern and forbidding glower, but his eyes were shining. This would be so good for Legolas' self-esteem, for the King was sure the Man held a love offering in hand.

"Oh, nothing," Aragorn was caught and knew it. There was no getting out of it now; the King would know he desired the Royal Courtesan. The Man braced for doom. "Well, something for Legolas," he concluded, dropping his eyes as he slowly dragged his hand forward and unfurled his fist, presenting the small trinket: a broach he'd purchased in Rohan. It was carved from onyx in the form of a running horse, black mane and tail flying. "I wanted to apologise for intruding on your bath, Legolas."

"Oh. That's very…thoughtful of you," stammered Legolas, staring in wonder at the small gift even as he marvelled at how easily their confrontation was so innocently explained away. He found his opinion of the Man improving.

He thinks on his feet, knows how to make a considerate gesture, and cleans up well; more traits in his favour.

The broach was beautiful and he wanted to take it but really didn't know if he should under the circumstances. His eyes flickered to his father, who smiled and gave a tiny nod, and then back to the Man. Slowly his hand extended to touch the little horse; it was as smooth as one of his arrow points. The single eye was an inset chip of some bright glittery stone. He picked it up, feeling the warm, rough surface of a swordsman's palm as he did, and decided to reveal the truth about his identity. "There is a misunderstanding between us that needs to be…"

"Please, Legolas, say no more," Aragorn interrupted, hand upraised. "It was entirely my doing." Spellbound, breath suspended, he'd watched as the beautiful elf lifted the token from his hand, felt the whispery touch of lethal fingertips brush his skin, watched Legolas inspect the broach, a faint smile softening that formerly cool expression. The Man had not missed the quick check to make sure Thranduil approved and was both surprised and elated to note the King's permission. So, he is willing to share after all. "Do you like the pin? I saw it in Rohan and thought it perfect to secure a cloak."

"Yes, it is fine indeed. Thank you." Legolas looked at him, uncertain how to behave. The Man thought he was a seron! On reflection, he chose not to elaborate on the mix-up over his chosen profession. No need to embarrass Aragorn in front of his father. He decided to smile; the gift pleased him, after all. The smile felt awkward and false, but unbeknownst to him, Legolas had presented a look that was interpreted by Isildur's heir as endearingly shy and self-conscious. He suddenly found the Man beaming at him as though he'd just been told the happiest news imaginable. His smile warmed. "I will wear it tonight and I am certain there will be an opportunity to talk again."

"You are most gracious," Aragorn enthused and then caught what might have been a suppressed chuckle from the King. He found the monarch peering at him intently, emerald eyes very bright indeed. Aragorn decided this was the best time to leave, while everyone was in such good spirits. Yet again he bowed. "You Majesty, forgive the intrusion. Legolas, farewell until the feast." He backed into the hall and shut the door behind him quietly, turned, and went strutting off down the corridor, very proud of himself for handling the potentially volatile situation with such maturity and finesse. He passed two ellith pacing swiftly toward him and graciously stepped aside, bowing as they swept by him, and completely failed to note the black looks each trained upon him as she went.

A bit earlier, right after the encounter in the hall…

Elrohir didn't even bother to go to the secluded cavern and its steaming pools, knowing his brother was in no mood for a soothing soak amid curling tendrils of incense and soft music. Much less would he want to cavort with any of the seryn or spend time relaxing with old friends among the King's kinfolk. No, Elladan was beyond any means of normal socialising and would have taken himself to the arena, there to spend his fury, fear, and guilt on anyone foolish enough to get in the ring with him. Elrohir knew the way and hastened, worrying over how few of the sylvans were adept with a broadsword. No physical injury would be done to anyone facing Elladan, but the psychological damage could be just as harrowing, and more permanent.

Elladan had a way of destroying an opponent like no other warrior Elrohir had ever seen: cruel, brutal, mocking, belittling in the swift manner in which he neatly disarmed his opponents. Then, even as they prepared to acknowledge defeat, he handed them back their swords and let them try again. And again, for hours. Pride and honour demanded the hapless combatant accept this silent, taunting, challenge until forced in shame to refuse to take back his own blade. A warrior from Lorien had sailed after such an encounter; other survivors refrained from speaking to either of the brothers. Here in Greenwood, how would such a defeat be borne? Elrohir shuddered; he'd heard rumours about suicide among dishonoured sylvans.

Thranduil could meet him equally, perhaps Elboron. No others came to mind.

The sound of combat reached him long before he could see the action, and the noise inspired him to run. Clearing a thick tangle of vine-strangled trees, Elrohir found himself in the training grounds of the stronghold, but could not get a glimpse of what was happening because of the press of the throng surrounding the arena. Every warrior in Greenwood seemed to be present, silently and tensely watching the mock battle. As he forced his way through, Elrohir suddenly realised he was indeed hearing the ring and clang of duelling swords.

Two swords!

Seldom had he known such relief and became even more determined to get to the front and learn who was able to spar against Elladan in the grip of unbridled rage. As warriors realised who was pushing at them so insistently, a way opened for him and Elrohir suddenly found himself gazing at the fighters: Elladan and Elboron.

The King's brother was calm and concentrated as he parried Elladan's bone-crushing blows, dodging and twisting deftly out of every feint and ploy, occasionally landing a jarring strike upon his opponent's sword with the flat of his blade. Elboron keenly studied Elladan's actions, seeing almost before the Noldorin Prince what tactic was about to be utilised. He sensed the wild wrath without comprehending its source, but detected in it the silent howl of a ravaged soul.

Everyone knew about Celebrian's terrible ordeal and its effect upon her sons. Elladan had been the one to find her and had no means to alleviate this great sorrow, the wise Sindarin Prince knew, and hoped he could be of use. How glad he was that he'd come to check on one of his many grandson's progress in swordsmanship! Elboron planned to fight until Elladan exhausted himself and the match could end in draw. He spotted Elrohir and nearly felt the bite of steel for his instant of distraction, but managed to evade the strike.

Thus the match went on, the combatants well matched, seasoned warriors who knew how to pace themselves. Even so, soon sweat matted the flying hair and stained their clothes as Elladan pressed hard to disarm Elboron. The Prince fought back with both deliberation and daring but retained a defensive posture, refusing to take the attack to his friend. The speed of their moves increased, each becoming more confident as familiarity of one another's ability and strategy increased. It was a spectacle of both great beauty and great peril, for neither appeared to be holding back, though every heart prayed it was so. A single misstep, a brief falter and the honed edge of a steel blade, driven by the force of elvish might and fury, could easily carve tragedy from sport.

The crowd watched in total silence and there was no wagering as there had been when the Twins had battled one another to a standstill once. The tension in the air restrained them. This was more than a friendly sparring match; Elladan's aura was spiked with strong emotion though none believed Elboron to be its object. The cause they could no more guess than could their prince, and an uneasy excitement clouded the air. Who would tire first?

Elrohir decided he had seen enough and entered the ring, hugging the fence as he called Elladan in a voice quiet and insistent. Almost the next instant his brother leaped back from the conflict, sheathed his sword, and held his empty hands out-facing.

"I cede the match to you, Elboron," he said icily, chest heaving and harried eyes blazing. He waited until Elboron saluted and then turned, striding toward Elrohir with an expression so murderous upon his features that the sylvans fell back before he even came close. The brothers left together, Elladan leading, making their way along cool green trails until the murmur of the crowd was lost in distance.

I thought we agreed you would seek me out when such was your need. Elrohir gently reminded and set his hand on Elladan's shoulder to slow his pace.

I know, but you were part of the anger, Muindor. How if I really hurt you?

You know you could not. Why am I implicated?

You defamed him. I warn you now not to speak in that manner again.

I will risk your wrath and say what must be said.

They came to a halt and faced each other, mirrored images of strained and conflicted hearts, each defiant as the righteous one in this dispute. Nothing was hidden between them, yet each protected his brother's private soul and insisted upon this type of converse, asking and answering when the thoughts could be exchanged nearly simultaneously. It was beneficial beyond the realm of courtesy, each finding the effort to listen and reply forced a deeper introspection and enabled them to remain friends when the conflict resolved.

If you name him loose, you risk more than my wrath.

I do not so name him.

Wise, Muindoren.

Yet, you must drive these tender thoughts of Legolas from your heart.

No. It is more than tender thoughts.

Nay, you are just… swept up, Muindor. Bed him and you will see it then, but do it without touching his spirit.

I do not want him like that; can you be so obtuse? I want nothing more than to touch his spirit.

He will not understand. It is not their way.

It is the only way; he does understand.

As they shared these remarks, they began a slow and measured motion, pacing round and round one another, first one direction and then the other. They stalked each another like panthers in a contest for dominance, but each kept his distance. This was a contest that must remain remote. Both were armed and the strain between them elevated to a dangerous degree; they knew better than to engage one another in battle with enmity between them. After this was settled, then they could spar and derive joy from the encounter, but not as they were. Not since adolescence had brother sought to hurt brother, and the lesson had stuck. They'd collapsed, bloody and exhausted, neither the victor, the root of the quarrel forgotten. It was the distress the battle caused their naneth that taught them never to do it again.

He is a seron, Elrohir persisted. He cannot love you. And I will not lose you.

Why do you assume the worst? You will not lose me but gain a sylvan brother.

No, Elladan.

Yes. My heart is already engaged; it is too late.

No! I do not accept that! It is infatuation, nothing more.

Muindor, you are not listening to me. I want him; there is nothing more to be said.

Whatever he gives to you is the same he would give any person in need.

Do not think such things of him!

This is not our world; here there is no shame in thinking this way. You know this. Mend your wound now before it is too deep to heal.

I do not want to kill this love. I want to feel it and be happy.

It will not give you joy but despair. I will not face losing you as Adar lost his twin. I have the means to deaden your heart to the pain and at the same time heighten your ardour. Bed him and when it is done, you will understand who Legolas is and accept his calling.

How can you be so cold? There are those who once were seryn and now are mated spouses. He does not feel the same about this calling as the others; I would stake my life on it.

That is what I fear most!

Enough! I will not use him, nor does he want to be used. With that Elladan broke from the circle and returned to the stronghold, leaving his brother to consider other options.

For his part, Elrohir was even more determined to stop the avalanche he envisioned about to bury his brother. He elected to do a thing he had not done in many a long year and never without his brother's knowledge and consent. Elrohir went looking for Legolas.
TBC

NOTE: Things get even more muddled, but Aragorn has made a turn around. Sorry for the cliff-hanger; will try to update again soon. Maybe you can all guess what Elrohir is plotting? Oh, and there is no indication in Tolkien's works of any family relationship between Galadhon (Celeborn's father) and Oropher, but in this story I have made them uncle and nephew. We don't know from Tolkien who Oropher's mother was, so I am taking liberties again. Thank you to all the folks sending me encouragement to continue. I mean to finish it; this is a gift fic for a good friend and I will try to work on it more regularly.

Glossary:

Idrê - thoughtfulness

Etsiri - river's mouth

Seron - lover, courtesan

Seryn - more than one courtesan

Seronath - all courtesans as a class

Baragûr - Fiery-heart

Andaith - a mark denoting a long sound for a vowel.

Ela! Elladan ar Elrohir, tultâ di gwa-lassiê - Behold! Elladan and Elrohir, come under the leaves. ( a traditional sylvan greeting in primitive elvish)

Brûn flad-en-gwaew, pedich farn - Old bag of wind, you speak enough (you talk too much)

melethron - male lover

Ernilen - My Prince

Elboron - Brave Star
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Ranger's Folly, Prince's Fate