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Renascence	By : kenaz Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1750 -:- 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.

Chapter List
- 1-Renascence
- 1
The night air was mild, and
what breeze there was—clean, and with the barest trace of salt--carried
hints of cedar and cypress up the Anduin from the South. Although the
sun had sunk below the horizon, the sounds of laughter and singing rose
pleasantly from the gardens where the Elves of Ithilien, though fewer
now than in the first years of the new age, continued their work. The
moon waxed, shedding more than enough light for them to labor on well
into the night, not out of necessity, but out of love for their task.
It gave them joy to ply their talents here, to return the land to the
splendor of old, and to craft the legacy of their presence in this,
their final home in Middle-earth: the instinct toward stewardship had
not left the Elves, even as they left the lands they once stewarded.
Legolas turned aside from the
merry voices and wandered listlessly around the outskirts of the settlement,
the hood of his cloak pulled up against recognition; he would be poor
company this evening, and he fought his increasing restlessness to little
avail. Of late, he had kept to himself, seeking solitude often, for
he found he did not have the energy to feign joy, and did not wish to
concern his compatriots with this… this thing…
that had beset him, that had all but owned him for these last years.
Strange, he thought, not even to have the words to describe it.
Standing in the starlit dark,
looking first to Emyn Arnen and then to the renewed city of Osgiliath,
he hearkened back to another night. In his mind, he was standing alone
on the ramparts of Meduseld, looking out over the Folde, feeling the
dread of the shadow growing in the East. Aragorn had joined him then,
moving with skillful ranger’s tread, so silently that only an Elf
could hear him, and they stood side-by-side keeping watch, each serving
the other as a small beacon of hope in the darkness. But tonight no
brother-in-arms joined him.
Only Aragorn and Gimli would
have fathomed his need to stand in silence and would have kept his vigil
with him through all hours, knowing enough to keep their own counsel
and not ask after the longing he could not articulate. But Gimli dwelt
now with his own people, slowly hewing his ties to this land that he
might someday depart over the sea where none of his kind had ever yet
gone. And Aragorn was in his castle with Arwen and his children, and
his children’s children, reaping at last the rewards of his fate and
his faith, basking in the peace wrought by the deeds of the House of
Telcontar. When last Legolas saw him, the Elessar’s hair had turned
steely grey, stark white dawning at his temples and at the edges of
his beard. Eldarion now looked more like Aragorn in the days of their
quest. How many years were left to the king? A decade? Two? Legolas
had sworn to remain on these shores until Aragorn had passed, and that
promise had been freely offered, and had seemed no hardship to make,
and yet now… now…
Though Ithilien was far from
the sea, gulls came inland sometimes, reeling overhead in great, swooping
circles, and their cries pierced something deep within him, each mournful
call drawing a tidal surge of longing, an oppressive itch beneath his
skin just beyond reach, beyond capture. And for all of Ithilien’s
revivified beauty and all the fair Elven work wrought in the gardens
and on the land, he could no longer feel contentment here. Or rather,
sorrow tinged his contentment now, and circumscribed it with yearning.
That he had little to occupy
his time only compounded the problem. His presence here no longer served
a pressing need. Elboron, as learned as his sire and as stalwart as
his dame, governed Ithilien wisely; Baragund, son of Bergil, was as
valiant a captain as his father had been, and his men were well-ordered;
the Elves who yet remained had their own tasks and required nothing
of him. He thought again of Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves now,
he considered with a smile—and of their journeys together, and he
realized it had been some time since he had been farther afield than
the gardens of Emyn Arnen. Perhaps it was time to depart for a while.
Perhaps in travel his burden would be lightened, or at least a change
of purview might distract him from it.
He turned on his heel and walked
briskly back to his quarters. He packed a light bag, and at the first
rays of morning, he rode for Minas Tirith.

~ * ~ *~ *~

The spires of the White City
stretched up like thankful hands clasped in prayer to the sky. Legolas
looked across the vast stone slabs of the courtyard and sighed. His
stay in Minas Tirith had done nothing to dispel his listlessness or
untangle the knot which daily grew in his stomach. Aragorn and Arwen,
both so greatly beloved to him, were walking with ever quickening steps
toward the twilight of their age, though by mortal reckoning they seemed
preserved in their hale beauty. But he was no mortal, and he could feel
the life leaching from them. It had only been a cruel reminder that
their time together was but an eyeblink in the greater scheme, and no
matter the infinite capacity of their love, they were cast in finite
form.
The unexpected presence of
Elrohir, the younger son of Elrond, had been a great comfort to him.
He said much without speaking, his quiet presence as reassuring and
unobtrusive as his foster brother’s had ever been.
“We have much in common,
you and I. Princes at liberty and roving souls alike,” Elrohir had
remarked in that inimitable way he had, with the inflections and intonations
which made profound revelations sound incidental. “We would travel
well together, I wager. If Minas Tirith has not curbed your desire for
wandering, wither will you go next?”
He considered Elrohir’s question, delivered, as it had been, in a manner suggesting he knew its answer, and another pang assailed him: for if half his heart now was held in thrall by the mighty tide, the other half still clung valiantly to the memory of the forest that birthed him, and he knew then not only where he would go, but where he must: Home.
He would go home.
And so it was that he began
a journey north not alone, but with a companion unlooked for yet welcome.
They ventured alongside the Anduin, through Anorien, across the Mering
Stream and over the Onodló into
Rohan. A swifter and more direct path they might have found East of
the Anduin, but neither he nor Elrohir wished to set foot on the Dagorlad,
where the blood of the fallen still sang.
“I recall our first meeting,” Elrohir
said with a grin on their second day. “It was after Elladan and I
had returned to our father’s house from the wilds. You were walking
in the gardens, and it seemed that you stopped to acknowledge each plant
you passed. You had a look of such reverence on your face that I did
not dare interrupt to introduce myself. After our somber and secretive
business, it renewed me some to return home and find such innocent delight.”
Legolas was abashed both at the compliment,
and at the revelation that he had been watched unseen. He remembered
the day well, for in spite of all his father’s lessons, all of the
tutors who had been employed over the years in the instruction of Elven
lore and statecraft, he had felt like little more than a rustic swain
in the splendid grandeur of Imladris. When he said as much, Elrohir
laughed. It was a sound filled with joy, and Legolas’ heart was lightened
to hear it.
“I had hoped to know you
better then,” Elrohir intimated, “but our tasks would not allow
for it. We had little time to become acquainted, but even speaking as
little as we had occasion to I knew my father had chosen wisely when
he summoned you to his council. I knew you even then to be valiant,
Legolas.”
The unexpected encomium flustered
him. He was not one to listen overmuch to praise, which was so often
conditional or given in expectation of reciprocity. Elrohir’s expression
had been genuine, a gift of words given without thought to recompense,
and in spite of his mild embarrassment, he was flattered to be the recipient
of the Peredhel’s regard.
“I am glad you have come
with me, Elrohir,” was all he could think to say in return.
Elrohir simply smiled.
Days passed easily, idle conversation
mixed with companionable silence, and Legolas found he was sore glad
for the company, perhaps most of all during the long hours when they
did not speak. With each step that pressed them further toward the woodland
realm, he felt excitement and trepidation grow in tandem: this place
was more beloved to him than any other on Arda, and yet it was a land
he had willingly left, understanding even as he did so that he might
never return. Even once the Ring War ended and all his questing was
done, even when he and Gimli sojourned together, he had not paid a visit
to the place of his birth. How could he, when he feared to be dunned
for a fickle son, an inconstant prince who had abandoned the realm of
his birthright in her darkest hour to fight far away at the side of
Mortals, Halflings and a Dwarf?
If Legolas thought he had hidden his ambivalence
from his fellow traveler, he was gravely mistaken, for Elrohir had noted
it from the first.
“You both long for and dread
this return,” he carefully acknowledged as they drew near to the shadowy
eaves of Fangorn. “The longing I understand; but whence this reticence
that comes with it?”
Legolas sighed and gave a desultory
shrug. “I cannot rightly explain it, I fear.”
Elrohir looked at him compassionately.
“Try,” he said.
And so Legolas tried. “When
I was very young, my father plucked me up and set me astride his horse,
a great chestnut charger with a mane the color of fire. The ground had
seemed so very far below me, but I had not been frightened; not when
father climbed up behind and held me steady with his great, strong hand.
“We had ridden far down the
Old Forrest Road, amid the trees and the streams and the sedge, and
he whispered to me that I was a part of this land. ‘The grass and
the leaves that fall and drift on the wind are as much a part of you
as your flesh or your blood or your golden hair,’ he said. I had not
understood then; I thought perhaps he meant that my skin was made of
leaves or that my hair was like grass. ‘Silly father,’ I thought.
‘Flesh and hair are flesh and hair, not leaves and grass, and an Elf
is not a tree!’ But I did not dare laugh, though his words struck
me as strange and fanciful things, because father had used his special
tone, the one reserved for speaking not as my sire, but as my king.”
His horse had fallen in stride
with the cadence of his speech. He wondered, casting a glance at his
companion, if perhaps he should apply a greater economy of words. But
Elrohir was regarding him raptly, and nodded his encouragement for the
tale to continue.
“After a while we stopped.
He told me we would rest for a time and then return home. But the road
continued on. It passed through the woods until the trees became sparse
and gave way to open land, and then I could see no more, yet I knew
it wended its way further, and further still. Toward the Great River.
Toward the mountains. Perhaps even toward the sea. ‘Why do we stop
here?’ I asked. ‘Why do we not follow the road to its end?’
“He looked at me strangely,
as if my question were absurd. ‘Why, because this is where the forest
ends, my son. There is no reason to go farther.’
“’And what lies beyond
the forest?’ I asked, but already he had packed up the scraps of our
luncheon and summoned the horse back from his grazing. He had smiled
kindly, but it was a kingly smile, and not the indulgent smile of a
father, and I had not liked it.
“’Fret not, little one,’
he said, and his voice was full of command despite the softness of his
words. ‘You will never have a need to know what lies beyond. It is
here, in the forest, that our souls will find contentment.’”

And
having quit the forest, contentment evades me still, he
ruminated.
“I knew I should say nothing
more, and so I nodded and turned my back to the road, looked away from
its beckoning curves and back into the wood. But I knew then, with as
much certainty as I had ever known anything at that tender age, that
I did need to know what lay beyond, that would
leave the forest; my desire to know where that road led would someday
be too keen to ignore. I believe my father knew that, too, else why
would he wish so strongly to keep the distant path hidden from me?”
“As I grew older, I would
often ride out to that spot, to the place where the forest ended, and
consider what lay beyond. As Dol Guldur cast its taint further into
the wood and we withdrew deeper into the stone halls, I begged my father
to seek aid beyond his realm, from your father, perhaps, or from Lady
Galadriel or Lord Celeborn, but he refused. ‘The sons of the Greenwood
stand alone,’ he said.”
Elrohir sighed aloud, but made
no comment, for which Legolas was grateful. His father’s insularity
and disdain of their kindred to the East and South had often troubled
him, but he would not stand to hear him maligned by one who did not
know him. Even speaking so freely of him in his absence felt treacherous.

“Once, when he refused, I
pressed harder. I decried his overzealous pride. He grasped me by the
chin and looked hard into my eyes for a long time. ’You will serve
another king,’ he said gravely. I had thought it was meant as an indictment,
and I did not know how to answer him. I did not know what he wished
for me to say. I was furious by what I perceived as an accusation of
disloyalty. Only later did I understand that he had, in a moment of
prescience, glimpsed my future. There was another king, and it
was to him, rather than my father, that I hitched my fate.”
“You have done what you must,”
Elrohir told him simply. “You have accomplished the task to which
you were assigned, and much more beside. No doubt your father is proud.
Is that what you fear? Some disappointment on his part? I find it hard
to fathom that he would greet you with anything short of thundering
praise. Though, true, he might chide you for not making a more timely
appearance.”
They had ceased their roving
for the night, and set up camp under the southern eaves of the Ent’s
realm, where the trees would stand watch for them. They lay their bedrolls
close together and Elrohir’s grey eyes shone bright in the dark, appraising
him with a look of such perspicuity that it set the fine hairs on the
back of his neck to rise. Were he a maid, he would have blushed.
“And as for your king, you
have served him well,” Elrohir said quietly, their faces mere inches
apart. “But what now? He worries over you, you know. He fears that
you feel beholden to stay for him when you might take ship and find
some ease for your soul. He knows that you ache, though you will not
speak of it to him.” Nor to me, was the
unspoken implication, louder, perhaps, for remaining unspoken. Elrohir
reached up then, and pushed an errant lock of hair behind Legolas’
ear. The brief touch of his fingers was hot as a brand on Legolas’
skin.
“I…I vowed to see his reign
through,” he stuttered, taken aback by the gesture and its aftermath
within him. “I do not regret the promise made. I have established
my kin in Ithilien and have seen the gardens begin to return to their
former glory. I have ventured abroad with Gimli and seen many things
I never thought to see.”
“Yet the sea calls you, and
the lure of it becomes difficult to resist. Aye, I know the look well
enough. I have seen it often enough on the faces of many whom I care
for.”
“Do you not hear it?” Legolas
asked him, adrift now in his desperation to speak of it, to give a name
to or craft some explanation for this aching emptiness that threatened
to swallow him whole.
“To a large degree, Elladan
and I have been spared. What little mortal blood that remains in us
keeps the longing at bay. It is a subtle and persistent undercurrent
for us, but not a thundering tide.” Elrohir’s countenance was mild,
untroubled by Legolas’ agitation. “Arwen hears it not at all, though
the sight of gulls winging over Minas Tirith pains her. It is a reminder
of what she has forsaken. But there is no question that my brother and
I shall sail, after…”
At this, he stopped speaking
and Legolas saw a shadow pass across his face. His bright eyes dimmed,
though his expression was static, and Legolas impulsively reached out
to him, clasping his shoulder in an offer of solidarity. They said no
more, but slept little, each passing the night deep in his own thoughts.
When sky began to lighten, Legolas’ found that his hand was still
securely anchored to Elrohir’s shoulder, but of this, Elrohir made
no remark.

~ * ~ *~ *~

They reached Lorien in the
golden light of late afternoon, and as they passed the outermost copses
a sentinel stepped out to greet them and bid them wait a while until
his captain gave them leave to enter the wood. They were glad to stretch
their legs and turn their mounts out to graze, and it was not long before
the captain arrived. Both Legolas and Elrohir greeted him with broad
smiles.
“Well met, Haldir. We have
come to trample on your elanor and lay waste to your food stores,”
Elrohir japed. The once-staid Galadhel met the teasing with a wry grin.
“Ah, excellent. I have been
told more than once that I would benefit from a good pillaging.”
Elrohir howled at that. Haldir
had been flinty and forbidding in the Fellowship’s presence and Legolas
was satisfied now to see such easy humor in the Elf who had been his
guide through Lorien.
Haldir lead them further into
the woods where a small colony had blossomed under his supervision along
the eastern borders. Warriors, in the main, resided here, and there
were few women. It came as little surprise to Legolas that one such
as Haldir, long hardened by battle and the discipline of the patrol,
would choose to abide here with likeminded fellows rather than to remove
to the softer, idler climes of Caras Galadhon. Leadership sat well on
his broad shoulders, but when Legolas said as much, the erstwhile Marchwarden
demurred.
“My lord Celeborn is still
the master of this place; I am merely a steward in his absence, and
when he departs, I shall follow. This is but a biding-place for us to
play out our last days on these shores.” Legolas heard a note of wistfulness
in his voice, and when their gazes briefly met, he could see a struggle
between leaf and tide in Haldir’s eyes that mirrored his own. He smiled
at Legolas sadly and then turned away, keeping the secrets of his sorrows
his own.
Haldir saw to it that their
horses were tended and their packs unloaded, and invited them to share
a meal with him, his brothers, and a few of the others who dwelt in
the hithermost part of the wood. Legolas found the palette of the wood
muted, its colors having ceded with Galadriel’s leave-taking; the
trees were almost memories of themselves now. Yet still Haldir and his
folk dined with relish, and afterward they gathered around a stone fire-pit
for more leisurely conversation and to pass a wineskin. One of Haldir’s
brothers brought forth a harp and sang for them, a light yet plaintive
song of summer’s end.
Legolas sat back, content to
merely observe the goings on around him. He looked up after a while,
realizing that Orophin’s singing, the warmth of the fire and the wine
had begun to lure him into reverie. Elrohir was nowhere to be found,
and some of the other Elves that had been sitting with them had drifted
away into small clusters of quiet conversation. He shook off the muzzy
blanket of sleep, and as his eyes refocused he saw that Haldir had been
watching him. The Galadhel’s expression was amused, though his eyes
were mild and kind.
“Even the doughtiest among
us are easily fatigued these days,” he told Legolas, and in the flicker
of the firelight, Legolas could see the shadows that had crept in around
his eyes, confirming what he had already inferred: that the call of
the sea reached even into the heart of the forest.

Legolas smiled rather sheepishly,
knowing he had waited too long to answer. “Forgive me, I am a poor
guest.”
“Nay, you are a weary traveler.
You will sleep in my talan tonight.” He
offered his hand to Legolas and pulled him to standing. “I have prepared
the bed for you and Elrohir. He will follow after when he is ready,
but I wager it will be some time; he and Rúmil have joined some others
in dicing.”
“I hope Rúmil is prepared
to lose,” Legolas quipped, stifling a yawn. “And where will you
sleep? It does not seem right that we should repay your hospitality
by casting you out of your own bed. Both Elrohir and I are accustomed
to sleeping rough. We will be content with bedrolls on the ground. Indeed,
it is an indulgence not to have to keep a watch for a night.”
Haldir snorted. “I have spent
a night or two under the stars in my time, and it is no hardship for
me. But there is a long road in your wake, and many miles yet before
you.” He began to walk toward a narrow path, and then spoke over his
shoulder. “Take comfort when and where it is offered, Legolas.”
Legolas thought he might have
been smirking, but Haldir turned his head too quickly for him to be
certain.
Haldir showed him to his talan,
and by the time he had begun to climb the ladder, Legolas realized that
he was well and truly exhausted.
“Sleep now, friend,” Haldir
admonished him. “Though the Lady has passed from here and our splendor
fades, this land still has great powers of restoration. No doubt you
will be in fine fettle come the morrow.”
Legolas took a moment as he
undressed to survey Haldir’s sanctuary. It was rather spacious, considering
he did not share it with any other, and it was simply furnished. The
singular concession to extravagance was his bed, which was large, and
arrayed with thick bolsters and sumptuous pillows. The thought of the
formidable warrior indulging himself with silk and eiderdown made him
smile, but his fondness was tinged with pity: A bed like this was made
for sharing. Surely Haldir did not let it grow too cold, especially
in these days of peace…but was there no one who had claimed his heart?
Was he indeed so set in his solitary ways?
The same, it only now occurred
to him, might be asked of him, or of Elrohir, or of countless other
worthy souls: so many years had been given over to the destruction of
Evil that there had been little time for more gentle pursuits. Hearts
and hands and eyes set for battle and steeled for destruction could
not concomitantly be poised for love and softened for courting. The
darkness had been cast down and they had survived, yet few had repurposed
their hearts for loving, it seemed. Of a sudden, setting his head to
Haldir’s pillow, beholding the mallorn branches dancing above him
and the bed sprawling emptily around him, Legolas knew a profound loneliness.
Though he had not slept the
night before, the rest he had taken on Fangorn’s floor with Elrohir
beside him, both near to him and far away, had been restorative in its
own way. He recalled the sear of Elrohir’s fingers on his flesh, and
remembered how it felt to be spelled by a companion’s touch. Such
was the cold rush and incessant pull of the waves in his mind that his
desire had been dulled nearly to the point of disappearing entirely.
It had been far too long since he had known another’s heat, far too
long since he had shared his body, let alone his heart. Of a sudden,
he wished for Elrohir’s peerless presence, imagined stripping him
roughly and requiting demands grounded in fire and earth rather than
in water and wind.
Though in the end, his body’s
need for sleep was stronger than its memory of desire, and he succumbed,
curled tightly against himself at the edge of Haldir’s wide bed. He
dreamed feverishly, obscenely. He woke once with a start, bolting upright,
only to find Elrohir naked beside him, his tangled hair falling in dark
vines over his shoulder as he pressed Legolas into the pillows. His
body cast a shadow over the bed as he leaned in and drew his lips across
Legolas’ jaw, down his throat. Legolas heard himself whimper.
“Sleep,” Elrohir insisted,
gentling him… but that, too, might have been a dream. All he knew
as his head returned to the pillow and darkness swirled up around him
was that his senses were filled with the rhythmic throb of Elrohir’s
heart and the susurrus of his utterances, and he could no longer hear
the sea.

~ * ~ *~ *~

He woke to the sound of birds
and to the spry dance of the sun’s ambassadors across his face. Elrohir’s
head pressed up between his shoulder blades, while his hand rested absently
on his hip. That the Peredhel felt so at ease that he could sleep with
such tranquil abandon both pleased and amused him. The occasional twitch
of Elrohir’s fingers on his hipbone and the insistent, if accidental,
prod of his morning-hard shaft against Legolas’ thigh was stirring,
but he took no action, content for the moment to simply lie in close
quarters. A muffled groan from Elrohir as he burrowed his face into
Legolas’ back to escape the impinging sun made him want to blush,
laugh, and pounce. Yet before Legolas had decided which, Elrohir’s
sleepy groan became a waking bleat, and the clutching hand withdrew
as he yawned and stretched.
“I have not slept so soundly
in ages. Did you fare well in your dreams? Did I do anything untoward
in my sleep?”
“Very,” Legolas offered,
terrifically amused by Elrohir’s complete lack of shame, which in
turn allowed him to feel emboldened by the memory of his scarlet dreams
rather than discomfited by them, “and no.”
By mid-morning, they had made
ready their departure. Haldir walked with them to the river where the
Galadhrim had boats waiting to ferry them and their horses across.
“Beware,” he warned, his
expression fierce as he ran a soothing hand down the neck of Elrohir’s
unhappy mount. “The Shadow may have lifted from Eryn Lasgalen, but
there are still dark things about. We see Yrch, though they are not
as numerous as they once were, and your father’s captains have reported
that a few of Shelob’s brood lurk there yet. Once you have passed
the settlements in East Lorien and the dwellings of the Woodmen, stay
ready and alert.”
The horses were little pleased
to make the crossing. Legolas thought their wide, wild eyes and flaring
nostrils an ill omen, but there was nothing to be done for it. He saluted
to Haldir from the stern. “We will heed your warnings. I hope our
paths cross again.”
“Travel safely and take care,”
he bid them as the oarsmen pushed off from the hythe. Without another
word he turned and vanished back into the woods.

~ * ~ *~ *~

Bracken and moss had reclaimed
the ruins of Dol Guldur just as Elves and Woodmen had reclaimed the
land around it, though a wide and desolate swath surrounded Amon Lanc,
and neither Man nor Elf nor any other creature made its home on the
tainted soil. They spent the day in East Lorien, eager to discover what
their kin had jointly built, and found a thriving community of Sindar,
Silvan and Noldor in the southernmost reaches of the wood. Both Legolas
and Elrohir rekindled acquaintances with old comrades, and with every
moment they passed there, Legolas’ anticipation gave way to eagerness
to reach the forest in the north.
The denizens of East Lorien
fed them well and made a comfortable bower for them amid the elms and
the poplars, and they could still hear voices raised in song when at
last they retired. Legolas doffed his tunic and his linen shirt and
sat to pull off his boots. The moss of the forest floor was cool and
spongy beneath his feet, and he curled his toes into the green. When
he looked up, he found Elrohir’s eyes on him, brilliant as stars.
“I’ve a confession, if
you’ve ears for it,” he began, and Legolas’ brow furrowed in concern.
Elrohir sank to the ground
beside him wearing an expression that seemed to ride an improbable line
between sincerity and mischief. “Last night, you woke from raucous
dreams. Or rather, your body woke, but I think your mind was still in
slumber. Even disoriented as you were, your face looked so fair in the
moonlight that I could not help but to steal a kiss.”

Narrowing his eyes, Legolas
tried to withhold a grin and failed. “A kiss? I would deem
many kisses closer to the truth of it.”
“Then you were awake!”
He tossed back his head and laughed. “Had I been more certain, I might
have pressed for more than kisses.”
Take comfort when
and where it is offered, Legolas. Haldir’s words echoed
back to him. He took a breath, and met Elrohir’s glinting stare head-on,
extending a hand to beckon him nearer.
“What would you have pressed
for, then?”
As he had the night before,
Elrohir leaned over him, and his lips moved across his jaw and down
his throat. But there came no quiet injunction for him to sleep. This
night, skillful and knowing hands urged Legolas to wake, to rise, to
resurrect his body’s forgotten wisdom. Soon, they were grappling together
on the forest floor, straining toward each other with touches both tender
and hungry. Elrohir’s weight pressed him down into his mossy bed.
Fallen leaves tangled in his hair; the grass danced in the night breeze
to stroke his skin. The tang of desire was sharp in his nostrils mingling
with the fecund scent of the earth, and when they spilled their seed
together, their sighs and moans were but one more voice in the infinite
chorus of the wood. Legolas remembered once more what it was to be a
part of the forest, inextricable and mighty.
“Stay near to me tonight,”
he whispered, long after, but there was little need to ask, for Elrohir
was asleep with his head pillowed on Legolas’ shoulder, and he showed
no sign of waking.

~ * ~ *~ *~

In the morning, they bid farewell
to their fellows and resumed their journey. The settlers suggested they
ride west and skirt the edge of the wood until they reached the Old
Forest Road, for there were no clear paths beyond East Lorien, but neither
Legolas nor Elrohir wished to retrace their steps, and being well versed
in woodcraft and tracking they had no fear of becoming lost or waylaid.
The Elves did not much persist in their warnings, for Legolas was a
prince of Eryn Lasgalen and had lived millennia in the shadow of Sauron’s
fastness, and Elrohir was himself a warrior of great repute.
They rode slowly, allowing
their horses to pick their own passage through the trees. Though the
shadow had been lifted nigh a century ago, one hundred years was not
nearly time enough for the land and the trees to forget all the blight
that had laid upon it for millennia. While parts of the forest thrived,
there were still pockets of darkness and decay. When they slept, they
slept warily, each taking a turn at the watch, and with the horses always
in their sight.
They trekked on, at last reaching
the road that bisected the forest. Emyn-nu-Fuin loomed darkly ahead.
“Here is your road,” Elrohir
said, riding up beside him, their legs brushing together as their horses
stood shoulder to shoulder. Together, they looked to the west and watched
as the path opened out into Wilderland, the Great River an unseen presence
further than what even their keen eyes could see.
Legolas hesitated, but Elrohir’s
hand on the small of his back offered a heartening reassurance.
“You know now what lies beyond;
it is time you were reacquainted with what lies within. Come.”
He clucked to his horse and
moved ahead, back into the woods. Legolas followed.
They had not gone far when
they heard the padding of feet on the earth. Elves did not make such
a ruckus, and from the slow cadence, they agreed that the walkers were
attempting stealth. They dismounted, and Legolas made ready his bow
but did not draw it; he would not fire until he saw his enemy, lest
it be one of their allies—a wandering Beorning, perhaps, or a Woodman.
After a time of silent watching,
he caught sight of swarty hide skulking off to the East.
“Yrch!” he hissed between
bared teeth. “Take the horses. I will go and assess their number.
I would know if they are few or many before we choose our action.”
Elrohir nodded his agreement
and Legolas slipped away, unseen and unheard.
He stalked on the ground and
from the trees, following as closely as he dared, until he came in sight
of the foothills of the mountains. There, the Yrch had made their den,
and Legolas counted nearly a score: too many for him to take on alone,
but if they lacked ranged weapons, he could kill a goodly number at
a distance and Elrohir was more than capable of handling the rest. He
backed away slowly, intending to fetch Elrohir that they could begin
their campaign. He had made it only a few steps when he heard a horrific
shriek, the squealing of a wounded horse, followed by a sound which
nearly tore his heart in twain: another scream… Elrohir’s.
Like the wind he flew, not
caring if the Yrch were in pursuit. He cursed himself for his stupidity
for suggesting they separate. Had decades of dwelling in idle peace
in the gardens of Ithilien stripped him bare of all instinct? When he
reached the spot where they had parted, his stomach was filled with
cold, sour dread. Elrohir’s horse lay dead on its side, its neck twisted
horrifically beneath it. Worse, a giant spider was feasting at its belly,
bright red blood slicking over the creature’s black maw. Of Elrohir
and of his own mount there was no sign.
The spider’s eyes glowed
malevolently in the dark. She hissed, angry at being disturbed from
her meal. Legolas nocked an arrow on his bowstring. With only a high-pitched
whine for warning, she lunged for him over the horse’s remains. He
loosed his bolt and the arrow pierced her faceted eye. She made a dreadful
screech of rage and pain, limping forward toward him. He sent off another
shot and the spider slumped forward, made a low rattling sound, and
died. When he approached the carcass, he noticed a trail of jaundiced
slime oozing out behind it, and he realized the spider had already been
wounded by a sword-thrust to its belly, and that one of its legs had
been hewed off at the joint, leaving black blood pooling on the ground;
no doubt the work of the Elf-knight. Elrohir, though not yet found,
was nearby.
He stepped cautiously around
the wreckage of the horse and spider, and it took but a moment to find
what he dreaded: the Ungol’s foul nest, and within the web, a limp
form the size of an Elf cocooned in oily strands.
“Elrohir, no!” he cried
out, no longer mindful of who or what might hear him. He leapt forward,
unsheathing his knife and dragging it through the filaments. Beneath
the spider’s vile shroud, Elrohir lie pale and still, angry red blisters
across his eyes and cheeks the only color in his face.
“Nay, beauty! Not now! Not
when we are so close to home, and you and I have just begun to learn
our hearts!”
He pulled the web away from
Elrohir’s mouth and nose, and at last, with a long, low, wheeze, Elrohir
drew a breath. Legolas sank to his knees in relief. Slowly, with each
labored inhalation, color returned to his face, but the welts only grew
more livid and his eyes had swollen shut. Soon, Elrohir was groaning
weakly, and Legolas thought he had never heard a more beautiful sound.
But while his lungs resumed
their work and forced noises of complaint out from between his bowed
lips, his features were still slack, his limbs leaden and motionless.
“You have taken the Ungol’s
venom,” Legolas told him, uncertain of how conscious he was or of
how much he could hear. He strove to keep his voice low and calm. “She
uses it to immobilize her victims. It will be some time before you can
move again. But I dare not tarry here, lest the smell of death pique
the interest of the Yrch.”
“This will be neither pleasant
for you, nor comfortable,” he warned, heaving Elrohir over his shoulder
like a flour-sack, “but it is currently our only option.” In tracking
the Yrch, he had seen a great sycamore with wide limbs good for climbing
and perching; they would be safest off the ground. When, with great
difficulty, he had hoisted Elrohir into the tree and secured him to
the branches with his own coil of hithlain rope, his companion’s silently
rueful countenance spoke volumes.
It was not until the next day
that Elrohir began to stir, at last asking Legolas to untie him. He
moved stiffly at first, and with a deplorable lack of coordination,
but eventide found him much improved.
“Breath of Manwë, my eyes
are afire!” he grunted roughly, coming back to himself far more quickly
than Legolas dared hope. He reached up to rub his face but Legolas held
back his hands.
“Do not break the blisters
else the poison will spread!”
Elrohir growled and clambered
awkwardly to his feet, reaching for the branch above him to keep his
balance.
“Tell me what happened. What
do you remember?”
Elrohir stretched his arms
above him and arched his back, making little noises of discomfort as
he did so. “The spider dropped from the tree and savaged the horse,
and I had only time for one stroke as it attacked. I took out one of
her legs, but with seven to spare, loss of one did little to slow her.
All I could do was attempt to run her through. When she reared, I went
for the belly, but I must have missed the vital parts.” He winced,
rolling his head in slow circles and reaching back with one hand to
rub his neck. “She spat her venom at me, for I was out of the reach
of her stinger. It felt like fire on my skin, like molten metal sprayed
across my face. I could not bear the pain of it. In my weakness and
confusion, I did not run—could not run—and she wrapped me in her
foul silk. I thought she would squeeze all the air from my lungs! I
grew colder and colder, and I could no longer feel my limbs… I thought
she had killed me for certes.”
Legolas’ face rankled with
disgust. “If only her kind granted such grace. She would have kept
you in her web and drawn the life from you bit by bit. And when she
had drained you down to the last of your blood, only then she would
have eaten you. Slowly. The broodlings of Shelob take their meat fresh.”
Elrohir shuddered, looking
for a moment as if he might purge. When he had regained his equilibrium,
he turned his head slowly and Legolas beheld his expression of fear
and dismay.
“What of my eyes, Legolas…
the venom…”
Legolas felt a lump of ice
form in the pit of his stomach. If the venom could paralyze an Elf and
raise such gruesome chancres on the skin, he could only imagine what
they might do to the tender tissue of the eyes.
“Do not abandon hope, Elf-knight.
My father’s healers know well the spiders’ poison, and you will
soon be in their care.” He prayed that he spoke true.
“Soon? But how am I to go
if I cannot see? Shall you lead me on a string like a blind beggar with
a dog?”
Legolas might have grinned
at Elrohir’s vexation had their circumstance not been so dire; Gimli
had groused in nearly identical terms when Haldir had insisted on binding
the eyes of the Fellowship when they crossed the Naith of Lorien.
“Nay,” he assured. “You
will follow my voice, and I shall direct you.”
Elrohir scoffed irritably.
“And thereby announce our every move to our foe!”
It was a valid point. But he
could not leave Elrohir behind, sightless as he was. Though he would
not insult the Peredhel by deeming him helpless, he was most certainly
at a deadly disadvantage. And the more time that passed with the Ungol’s
poison working its way through his skin, the greater risk that Elrohir’s
eyes would be irreparably harmed.
Legolas blew out a frustrated
breath and let his head drop back against a tree limb. Through what
few breaks opened in the canopy, he espied the glimmer of faraway stars.
“Elbereth!” he cried, an
idea striking him at last. “They might know what is ‘left’ and
‘right,’ but they have cowered so long beneath the roof of our trees
that they have forgotten the legend of the sky! Tell me, friend, are
the tales of your Grandsire truth, or merely story? Does he indeed captain
a ship across the heavens?”
“Aye,” Elrohir affirmed.
“He rises even as we speak. My siblings and I have always perceived
his presence.” His expression brightened as he seemed to glean an
inkling of Legolas’ plan. “I do not need my eyes to find him above
me.”
“And I wager you do not need
your eyes to find Soronúmë or Luinil,
either.”
When Elrohir’s smile further opened
across his face, Legolas knew he understood. “Yet as the night wears
on, the stars will shift in their orbits. I do not know how easily I
shall be able to reorient myself to their movement without sight.”
“Might your Mariner-kin be bidden to
delay his crossing for a while? Might he hold his ship steady in the
sky to be your beacon? And might he have some clout in asking his companions
to likewise stay their journeys so that you may more easily recall their
stations?”
Elrohir appeared stunned by the very
thought of such a thing. “I do not know if he can delay, but if he
can, he will. As for the stars, they are Varda’s creations, and beholden
to no-one’s whims but hers. Will you watch over me for a time, that
I might beg this favor?”
He turned his face to the heavens,
and despite the ravages of the Ungol’s poison, his face glowed with
such a fierce beauty that Legolas was near breathless to behold it.
He was luminous in the moonlight, his arms outstretched in supplication,
his lips moving in silent entreaty. Yet it seemed to Legolas that some
essential part of him had vanished, was sailing high on the tides of
the night sky, and that what he beheld, enrapturing though it might
have been, was but an animate shell; Elrohir’s body, but not his essence.
After a time, Elrohir shivered
and shook his head as if to release himself from trance or slumber.
Simultaneously, Legolas felt his presence again beside him on the branch
of the sycamore, the soul in flight returned. His smile maintained a
dreamy quality, as though something of his spectral travels lingered
still within him.
“He says he will remain at
the apex of his flight until sunrise, and he will ask the larger stars
to keep their vigils fixed as well. He will watch over us, Legolas.
He will see us home.”
Home.
To hear the word from Elrohir’s lips filled him with hope.
“Let us away. I would not
have him fight the pull of the sky while we sit idle. And in any case,
it is all I can do to keep from scratching myself raw, and I will suffer
all the more without something to occupy me.”
It was only then that Legolas
realized that Elrohir must have been in agony. So stalwart and stoic
was he that he had barely uttered a word of complaint since he had roused
from his stupor. Yet when Legolas looked closely at him, he could see
the tense set of his jaw, the thin press of his lips and the occasional
flare of his nostrils that suggested he was straining against his pain.
There was no time to waste.
“Then we are off. Stay as
close to me as you can.”
Elrohir clamped a strong hand
on Legolas’ shoulder. “Close enough?” His hopeful smile split
the darkness, and Legolas resolve was galvanized.
As they moved slowly east they
heard the ravening cries of Yrch, and the grim song of their laughter.
They had found the carrion and were devouring it.
A shout arose from their foul
feast. “I smell Elf-meat!”
Elrohir’s hand tightened
on his shoulder. They moved ahead as stealthily as they could, for there
was no going back.
“Alcarinquë,”
Legolas whispered. Elrohir nodded and continued in the direction they
had started, toward a star obscured this night by leaf and bough. His
steps were tentative, and he swayed as he moved, instinctively wary
of obstacles before him. Legolas took the rearguard, walking backward
and keeping watch on their foe. He saw them now, hunched over their
bloody feast. Most of their backs were to him, but he counted only five.
That left many more still lurking in the dark.
They were nearly clear of the
area when one looked up from the gore and spotted them. “Elves!”
it roared, and the others swung around to see, taking only a moment
to choose between the bodies they had already consumed and a fresh meal
before them.
Legolas craned his neck and
saw a clearing north and to the west. “Luinil!”
he barked. “Run!”
Elrohir bounded away, tracing a swerving
trail in the direction of the blue star. As the Yrch neared, Legolas
sent off one shot, and then another, and another. Within moments, all
but two had fallen. But the pair who yet lived let out terrible howls,
and an answering roar resounded beyond the clearing.

“Curse me!” Legolas hissed under
his breath. He had sent Elrohir right to them, and right to his death.
He rounded one of the hills just in time
to see Elrohir stumble. The Yrch were waiting for him. Their leader,
a large, misshapen thing, leered openly and licked his lips in a grotesque
parody of desire.
“Elrohir! Soronúmë!”
Elrohir did not even turn his head, but
dove to his right. Had he not been blind, he would have seen the eagle
star at his shoulder guiding his flight. The Yrch looked up and around,
momentarily distracted, and Legolas sent down another volley of arrows
in succession, each hitting its mark. The remainder of the Yrch scattered.
Legolas’ arrows had enraged the survivors,
whose raging summoned their full number forth. Another dozen or more
emerged from the shadowy caves that pierced the bedrock of Emyn-nu-Fuin.
Legolas leapt high as he could and his hands found purchase on the lowest
limb of an oak. He swung up into its branches, and thence he dashed
from tree to tree in the opposite direction he had sent Elrohir. The
furious horde did not know which way to move.
Elrohir reeled. He had drawn his sword
and dagger both, as if to compensate for loss of one sense by wielding
two weapons, but Legolas could see that he was greatly unnerved even
as his face betrayed little distress. He turned his attention to the
growling below. Yrch had swarmed the tree in which he stood, and if
a single one of them had carried a bow or a sling, he would already
have been dead. He jumped just as one clambered up beside him, but realized
too late that the next tree was too distant to reach. He had no choice
but to return to the ground. Drawing his white-handled knives, he crouched
and leapt down.
No sooner had he landed than one of the
creatures grabbed him around the neck and jerked him off his feet. They
stumbled backward together. Legolas managed to turn in the creature’s
grip to face him. The Orc’s breath smelled of rotting flesh and dung,
his dark eyes burned greedy and soulless. The creature appeared intent
on wresting one of Legolas’ knives free, and Legolas knew it would
happily crush every bone in his hand to do it.
“To Borgil, Elrohir!” His voice carried
over the land. “Your knife!”
He could not look to see if Elrohir had
heard him, nor to see if he was pursued; his eyes were set on his own
struggle, which required all of his strength. He glimpsed over the Orc’s
shoulder a sudden flash in the moonlight; above him, the ever-star of
Menelvagor flared red in the sky. An instant later, the beast bellowed
and fell forward, Elrohir’s dagger to the hilt buried in his back.
He wrenched himself free of the creature’s clutches and pushed its
body aside.
Elrohir lurched toward him, his head
moving wildly from side to side in a futile effort to seek out his foes.
“Where, Legolas?”
Legolas could not immediately answer
as two more of the glamhoth set upon him. He took them out with the fleet
work of his knives. Looking up, he found the rest of the pack gaining
on Elrohir. They would soon surround him.

“Toward Helluin, Elrohir! Quickly!”
Elrohir stopped and pivoted to face southwest.
“At your left!” Legolas cried, running
forward in a vain attempt to reach his friend. Fortunately Elrohir’s
reflexes were swift and true. He hefted his sword aloft and brought
it down in a slashing arc to the left, cleanly cleaving the Orc who
assailed him. Even sightless he was deadly. If he got but a little closer,
he would be near enough to an ancient elm to climb into its branches
and buy a moment’s reprieve with a stalwart stem to guard his back.
When one of their foes fell,
another sprang up instantly in its place. Before Elrohir could reach
the tree, an Orc caught up to him, drew its ugly scimitar back across
its shoulder, and prepared to make a lethal, slicing blow.
“To the ground!” Legolas
shouted in desperation, swinging around with his knives gleaming. The
Orc-blade whistled over Elrohir’s head, sank into the trunk of the
elm, and stuck there.
As his own opponent advanced
with savage laughter, others closed in around Elrohir, who lay flat
on the ground awaiting Legolas’ direction.
“Aware at your feet!” he
called, the stars no longer serving to guide them as the foe hemmed
them in on an earthly plane.
Elrohir was up in an instant,
his sword primed for the enemy he could not see. And even as Legolas
dispatched the marauder before him, he saw fear and rage and utter determination
cycling in succession across Elrohir’s face.
The sudden twang of bowstrings
was a most glorious sound, even more so when followed by a rain of arrows,
their fletching green and gold and nearly as familiar to him as his
own. The remaining Yrch were stopped in their tracks, crumpling dead
to the forest floor without a sound.
There was nary a crackling
of a leaf underfoot when Legolas’ horse stepped out of the shadows
bearing a majestic Elf upon his back, flanked by four archers on either
side. The regal figure unstrung his bow in one smooth gesture, looking
to Elrohir as he did so.
“Welcome to Eryn Lasgalen,
son of Elrond.”
He turned then to Legolas.
“Welcome home, my son.”

~ * ~ *~ *~

Legolas opened the door with
caution, but there was no need for it; Elrohir did not sleep, and was
anticipating his arrival. Five days in the healers’ care and he was
hale and whole again, save for his bandaged eyes. A few more days of
various unguents and herbs and those, too, would be recovered, though
he had begun to chafe at the restrictions placed upon him, restless
with too much resting.
Legolas sat beside him on what
had in another time been his own bed and looked around his old room
once more, thinking how strange it was to see Elrohir there. A lamp
on a low table illuminated the chamber even though Elrohir could not
discern between light and darkness beneath his swaddling. He reached
up to rub his eyes but Legolas’ quick hands intervened.
Elrohir glowered. “I shall
go mad from the itching.”
“It is a good sign. They
are healing; leave them be.”
“Easier said than done,”
Elrohir scowled, one hand again moving upward in a reflexive attempt
to relieve his discomfort.
“I will bind them to the
headboard if need be.” The threat was delivered with a grin, but he
did not quite expect Elrohir’s responding smile, a slow, lascivious
leer that moved predatorily across his handsome face.
The smile became a wince and
Elrohir brought his hands to his face a third time. Legolas grabbed
them and held his wrists together, bending down to kiss the tips of
his fingers. Elrohir made a hum of satisfaction and his lips curled
up in a smirk, leaving Legolas to briefly wonder if he had just succumbed
to some Peredhel ruse. He pressed Elrohir’s hands to his chest.
It looked as if he were praying. Legolas recalled the ethereal beauty
his companion had evinced when communing with his grandsire, and the
feral prowess of his body in motion as they had worshipped together
in a wholly different fashion. After a moment’s consideration, he
drew a single finger down Elrohir’s chest, past the piously postured
arms and over the taut planes of his belly, and Elrohir made a low rumble
in his throat.
Legolas explored with only
the tips of his fingers: the tapering curve of Elrohir’s waist, the
pulse at his throat, the hollows of his collarbones. He watched the
slow rise of Elrohir’s erection beneath the blankets and listened
to the acceleration of his breathing, the changing cadence of his heart.
His own body’s response was so closely allied that he imagined he
could thumb a lazy circle over Elrohir’s nipple and feel his own contract
in delight.
When Legolas stood and moved
away from the bed, Elrohir’s face fell.
“What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” Legolas assured,
sliding the bolt on the door home with a decisive and satisfying clack.
“But it would not do to have your tender care interrupted.”
A feral noise arose from the
bed then, and Elrohir whipped back the blankets. The loose linen pants
he wore were now vigorously tented. He tugged at the drawstrings and
shoved the restrictive article down, freeing a spectacular shaft that
stood willfully out of a thatch of dark curls, straining to be venerated
with hands and lips and secret flesh.
“I will have your care, but
I beg you, let it not be overly tender.” His voice turned pleading.
“Succor me with an ardent touch, Legolas.”
The sound of his own name in
such a fervid appeal incited him to action. He rushed to rid himself
of his own clothing, which predictably seemed to fight him at every
turn.
“You are undressing,”
Elrohir observed, his approval plain. “Alas, that I should miss seeing
you fully bared for me this first time!”
“Shall I describe it for
you?”
A sinister smile blossomed.
“Please.”
Legolas bit his lip against
the surge of lust that wracked him and dropped his shirt and jerkin
carelessly to the floor. “I am bare to the waist.” He tugged the
leather thong from the end of his braid and shook out his pale locks.
“I have unbound my hair for you.”
“For me,”
Elrohir reiterated in a whisper.
“I am unlacing my breeches.”
It became more difficult to speak; his voice had gone husky and deep.
Elrohir cupped himself, his
fingers lightly trailing over his length, his legs quietly swimming
on the sheets. The sight of it was as exquisite as it was arousing.
Elrohir’s skin glowed with the flush of blood; even with his glinting
silver eyes veiled, he was radiant.
“And you… your body…
tell me.”
Legolas groaned, his own hand
reaching impulsively to the apex of his thighs to mirror Elrohir’s
motions. His shaft twitched against his palm, his bollocks taut as plums
beneath. “I am hard, Elrohir. I ache for want of you.”
“Ai!” Elrohir growled,
reaching out to him, “do not keep me waiting!”
Legolas stepped near and wove
their fingers together as Elrohir drew him down. He lay between Elrohir’s
legs and the sweat-sticky drag of their shafts together sent a shudder
straight through him. Elrohir’s hands and mouth pushed and pulled
him like a tide, drawing him to the edge of release and then thrusting
him back. Once more hurtling toward the precipice, he tugged away and
traced the swollen outline of Elrohir’s lips with a forefinger.
“I have never felt so alive…
I am renewed by your loving.”
Elrohir’s hands shot up and
dragged him roughly back into a devouring kiss. When his mouth suckled
a hot path up his neck, Legolas nearly howled.
A loamy growl promised the
earthiest of delights. “You have not yet known my loving, Greenleaf.”
Legolas could not find words,
so he drew one of Elrohir’s hands down over his flank, across his
hind. Elrohir had no need of his eyes to find his path. His fingers
moved as if they had known this terrain a thousand years. They delved
him, plumbed his depths, found the place within that threatened to send
Legolas spiraling. Healing salves were pressed into a kinder duty. At
last, Legolas drew himself up, steadied by Elrohir’s hands, and sank
slowly down. He felt himself pierced to the core.

Elrohir groaned beneath him,
his head jerking up from the pillow. “Sweet beauty! Would that I could
see your rapture!”
“Feel it!” Legolas choked
out his charge, his entire body tensing. He moved slowly, feeling himself
sundered from within and remade in ecstasy. Elrohir stroked him, each
touch sending his blood through his veins at dizzying speeds. His lungs
felt near to bursting, each breath filled them so fully. Legolas, too,
was blind now, for sight was merely a distraction from other senses:
from feeling the heat rising from Elrohir’s skin, from learning the
musk of his scent, from hearing the rapid thunder of his heart and the
blending of their voices harmonized in a song of renewal. No sea could
sink him, no wave could break him, no gull could rend his spirit with
a cry: not when Elrohir’s song was building beneath him, filling his
ears with a symphony of sweetness, of love, of desire. Pleasure overwhelmed
him. He threw back his head, keening, and spent: a fierce white swell
casting its foam across the shore. Elrohir bucked hard from below, cried
out once, and then held him tight, filling him with wet heat.
For a protracted moment they
stayed frozen in their attitudes of delirium, and then slowly Legolas
sank forward, Elrohir guiding him down until Legolas’ body covered
him. They embraced, tenderly now, and shared kisses more gentle than
fierce. Legolas’ tongue drew lazy culls from Elrohir’s neck. There
was a taste of brine that sent him reeling with contentment rather than
grief. He grazed Elrohir’s throat that the salt of him might settle
forever in his lips.
“I should very much like
to see the rest of Eryn Lasgalen when my eyes have healed,” Elrohir
whispered idly.
“Of course,” Legolas replied,
his fingers following the shadows the little lamp had cast over Elrohir’s
torso. “And then where will you go?”
“My duties were long ago
discharged; I suppose it matters very little where I go.” He tangled
his fingers in Legolas’ hair. “I am told Ithilien is lovely at summer’s
end.”
Legolas laughed. “Aye, it
is. Quite temperate in winter, as well.”
“Then I should stay at least
until the spring.” He bent his neck to kiss the crown of Legolas’
head. “And what of you, Greenleaf? Will you stay in the forest now
that you have at last come home?”
Legolas smiled wistfully. “I
may linger here for a while, now I know that I am welcome, but in truth,
there is another territory I would fain explore.”
His fingers moved silently
across Elrohir’s bed-warm breast, and traced a map of his desires
over the welcoming landscape of Elrohir’s heart.

~ * ~ *~ *~

His father’s halls had changed
little in the time he had been away, and yet they seemed more beautiful
to him now than it ever had in his youth, more vibrant. Graceful corridors
led to opulent chambers, and fires brightened the gloom of the stone,
refracting off the mica and quartz and making the walls almost appear
to shimmer. There was a light and liveliness within that he had not
seen since long ago, before the advent of Dol Guldur.
Leaving Elrohir to his sated,
healing sleep, he had crept forth from the cozy shelter of their bed
to wander his childhood home, steeping himself in memory with each echoing
step. Moon and starlight trickled through the leaves to limn the
vaulting spans of the arcade and a few lanterns still cast silver-blue
light across his father’s courtyard. He gazed upon it for a
long while, remembering how he had run along the spiraling paths as
a child. He looked up only when he felt eyes upon him and knew
he was no longer alone. There, across the courtyard, framed by
leaf-scrolled columns, stood his father. He beckoned Legolas silently,
with a simple gesture that drew son to father like a flower to Anor’s
golden rays.
In his own lavish chamber,
Thranduil set two goblets on a table and reached for the wine Galion
had brought up from the cellars. It had been decanting in a carafe of
cut crystal, the ruddy liquid glinting against the facets. Legolas let
undertones of blackcurrant and violet waft toward him. The hint of cedar
that lingered behind the other notes reminded him of the summer breezes
in Ithilien. Thoughts of Ithilien turned to thoughts of the sea, and
he realized that his longing had not plagued him since Lorien, since
the cry of the gulls had been supplanted by sweeter sounds of pulse
and breath.
Legolas raised his glass to
his father. “I will say again, as I have said every day, that your
arrival was most auspicious.”
Thranduil grinned. His mouth
was a vainglorious arc beneath audacious blue eyes, and Legolas himself
smiled spontaneously upon seeing it. His sire was proud and kingly and
still full, despite their long and discordant parting, of ferocious
love for him.
“I remain your father, Legolas.
I carry you in my soul no matter how far from me you wander, and no
matter how long you roam. I felt your presence here once you crossed
the Anduin.” He snorted out a laugh. “Though I should add that Haldir
keeps me well informed of those who pass his way, and he knew I would
have a particular interest in his most recent visitors. One of his winged
messengers arrived a mere day after you left Lorien.” His gaiety faded
then, and he ensnared Legolas in an unrelenting paternal gaze. “What
neither he nor I could ascertain was which path you would take. Had
one of my sentinels not spotted an unfamiliar horse fleeing riderless
alongside the Enchanted River, you might have been lost ere we reached
you.”
“And yet we were not lost.”
Legolas gently reminded him. “We had both sires and grandsires to
find us, and to lead us home.”
Thranduil set his goblet down,
sighing, and reached across the table to cover Legolas’ hand with
his own, the intensity of his emotion radiating through that simple
touch.
“My most beloved one… Always
you sought what lay outside our home. While my eyes were fixed to the
trees, yours looked beyond. I always believed that you were looking
away from me, yet you would have said you were merely looking toward
the unknown.”
Legolas gripped his father’s
hand tightly, felt its calluses and strength.
“You have traveled to the
ends of Arda and back. You have walked through fire, and through shadow,
and over the mountains and beneath the earth. And now you are returned
to the forest… have you found at last what it was that you sought?
Have you found the thing that called to your roving soul?”
Legolas’ mind flashed to
the memory of Elrohir standing beside him in the courtyard in Minas
Tirith at the onset of their journey, a winsome smile lighting up his
face.

“We have much in common, you and I…princes at liberty and roving
souls alike.”

Legolas’ heart lurched in
his chest with sudden exultation. He squeezed his father’s hand and
smiled in wonder.
“Yes, Father. I have found
it.”

The End

Author’s notes:
The title and portions of the story were inspired by the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem of the same name.
Regarding stars: Tolkien named a number of stars and constellations in his works which correspond with our own solar system. Alcarinquë is our Jupiter; Luinil is variously attributed as being Rigel, Regulus or Spica; Helluin is most likely Sirius; and Soronúmë may or may not be Aquila. Borgil is Betelgeuse, which appears in the constellation of Orion, the warrior; in Tolkien’s world, Orion becomes Menelvagor (“Swordsman of the Sky”), an eternal guardian of the world and a heavenly rendering of Túrin Turamabar.
My star-spotting skills are dubious at best, and I ask for my readers’ kind indulgence as I have likely ascribed astronomically impossible locations for these celestial bodies! Let us consider it poetic license of the highest (!) order.
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Renascence