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Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow)

unbeta'd

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine.

thoughts
(elvish translation)

Summary: A look at what might happen if Legolas was just known as a messenger and not as Thranduil's son. The setting is just before the Council of Elrond. Features Glorfindel/Legolas pairing.

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Minui Peth: Mellon o Coth? (Part One: Friend or Foe?)

"They know."

"Aye. I expected as much. Once the hobbit made it over the ford, the Dark Lord trained his attention on any others travelling to Rivendell. His spies are everywhere. The Wraiths may be temporarily scattered but innumerable are the lesser evils capable of thwarting us. There have been several raids on neighbouring villages; the people flee to the west for safety. Yet Orcs are patrolling just outside our borders, attacking as soon as Anor (the sun) retreats."

"Do what you can. Those drawn here must complete their journey. Alert me of all visitors immediately."

"Aye. Ir telitha Elladan ar Elrohir?" (When are Elrohir and Elladan expected?)

"Na Ithil Bant. Nae, si cúron." (At Full Moon. Alas, now it is Cresent)

"Avgosto; incen gwanûn hebir gell an telien." (Do not worry; my guess is the twins are just enjoying the sport.)

"Útelien, Glorfindel," (It is hardly a game, Glorfindel.) the Lord of Imladris admonished.

"Na tí no ten," (It is to them.) countered the saviour of Eärendil with a wry smile.

The ancients conversed quietly on the balcony overlooking a peaceful grove of chestnut trees, keeping their voices low for the benefit of the recovering hobbit resting in the room behind them. Leaning on the rail in weary malaise, Gandalf gave a short laugh and nodded, but his mood was anything but jolly. The two elves looked in his direction and he shrugged.

"I am glad they are out there. Glorfindel is right, the numbers of Orcs are increasing and we need someone to discourage their boldness." His grave words raised an indignant grunt from the Balrog Slayer.

"My warriors are not sitting around on their hands, Peniphant (Old One)! We have strengthened our patrols accordingly and intercepted several raids already. Show some faith in Imladris' forces."

"Of course, I meant no slight. It is just imperative for everyone so appointed to reach this destination."

"Valar willing, they shall," intoned Elrond and returned to the sick room to check on the patient.

Glorfindel joined the wizard at his gloomy watch, gazing down into the peaceful grounds. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees and cast flickering shadows on the lawn. The orchard was empty of elves and the valley was silent, the tension of the Lord of the Hidden Vale infecting everyone so that even the Bruinen's booming voice was sombre and apprehensive. Glorfindel sighed and straightened up.

"I must prepare; it is an hour before annûn (sunset) and I wish to be well away before dark." He gave the Istar a brief nod and strode back inside, passing through the convalescing hobbit's chamber, offering Elrond but a quick wave of his hand in salute, knowing his comment had been heard.

The venerable soldier left the pleasing elegance of the Last Homely House through the kitchens, stopping to gather the provisions prepared for him and exchange a warm word of thanks with the able cooks before crossing the broad expanse of the formal gardens to reach the more utilitarian section of the Noldo Lord's compound.

Glorfindel stepped up his pace as he entered the barracks courtyard, noting with satisfaction that his troops were busy preparing for the night's surveillance. He was spotted and hailed and the noble captain returned the salutation. No instruction was required of him for these were seasoned warriors, hand-picked from among the best archers and swordsmen of Imladris. Each knew what was expected and what awaited them in the drear of the starless gloom, for all had seen more than an Age of life and none had reached their sum of years unscathed by combat with the enemy.

A short whistle sounded and they mounted up, forming three troops of twelve cavalry grouped in ranks of four. Without a word spoken the patrols left the barracks, the thunderous rumble of the horses' hooves providing the only accompaniment to their departure. At the ford Glorfindel saluted the border guards and there his forces divided, each troop taking a different sector of the terrain chosen by lots.

The Balrog Slayer's company had drawn the grim expanse of the North Road, a desolate and little used thoroughfare connecting the western lands of Eriador to the wild regions east of the Misty Mountains. Yet this was one of the most likely areas to run into Orcs, for the vile things had virtually made the road through the peaks impassable. The Hithaeglir was replete with dens and caves packed with the disgusting mutations and ever were they on watch for any traveller foolish enough to attempt the pass. From these infested caverns poured the influx of Sauron's minions into the gentler, more civilised lands bordering Imladris.

Glorfindel fully anticipated a skirmish at the very least.

An hour past midnight, the elven warriors encountered a large troop of the detestable vermin in a small wooded area just within the foothills of the towering mountains, no more than five leagues from the Hidden Vale. It was obvious the foul creatures had set up an ambush, using the scattered outcroppings and the cover of the trees to hide their presence. It was equally apparent that their plan had failed, for every single one of the Orcs was dead. That they had tried to flee was clear as well. What the Noldorin soldiers could not figure out, however, was the nature of the opposing army. It was an intriguing puzzle, for no tracks or signs of the warriors were evident, and if not for the finely crafted elven arrows deeply penetrating each corpse, the Imladrians would have suspected some sort of magic.

Glorfindel collected one of the feathered bolts and raised his brows as an expression of surprise suffused his features. Though he had never held one like it in his hands before, he could deduce the origin of the archer by process of elimination. The design of the shafts and fletching used in Lothlorien were known to him, as were those of Imladris and Mithlond. The weapon was definitely not of human make and there was only one other realm of elves in Arda. The attack had been thwarted by Wood Elves from Thranduil's kingdom in Mirkwood. The intrepid warrior fingered the deadly point as he counted the number of bodies; fifty Orcs lay rotting under the moon.

"It would seem we have allies to the east after all," he said softly. "Split into groups of four and seek this company of silvan elves, for I would thank them for their service."

The remaining hours of Ithil's reign they searched, but no sign of the woodland warriors could they discover. At last the faint light of dawn's approach touched the sky and the soldiers resumed ranks and headed home, no wiser regarding the identities of their unseen benefactors. When the Balrog Slayer's group reached the ford, the second and third companies of the night patrol were already gathered together. Many had dismounted and rested on the grassy banks to enjoy the show, for the guards and the warriors were arguing with, firing off questions, and making jokes at the expense of a loan person within their midst.

A solitary Wood Elf stood beside his horse, ringed by the elite forces of Elrond's realm, and stoically endured the interrogation, repeating the same answer no matter how many different ways the Noldorin elves chose to ask him to state his business.

"I am a messenger from Thranduil's Realm over the Mountains. I must speak with Lord Elrond."

"Athedrainyn (BorderCrossers) are not granted audience with our Lord. Hand over your dispatch and we shall see it delivered," one of the guards demanded.

"I cannot, for I am charged to render the news personally."

"Why, is it memorised?" a warrior jibed and raised a few chuckles from his peers.

"Excuse me?" the messenger was genuinely baffled by this query and that elicited even more laughter. He gazed around at the encircling soldiers, bewildered.

"I asked if you have the news memorised. Do you not understand Sindarin well? Your accent is rather heavy," the warrior expounded to further tittering amusement among his fellows.

"I understand your speech but not your meaning. I am commanded by my Lord to give a complete reckoning of the situation; memorisation is not necessary for I was involved in the events."

"Oh, that explains it then. I thought perhaps the message was committed to memory due to your Lord's inability to write it down." With the cutting point finally delivered the assembled troops erupted with mirthful mockery and congratulated their comrade on his fine joke.

The Wood Elf merely stood silent and still, features impassive, running his fingers through the glossy white mane of the mare by his side, waiting for them to resume their questioning.

The arrival of Glorfindel's company forestalled this, however. The Balrog Slayer dismounted and the soldiers quelled their merriment, parting to let him through to the unexpected visitor. Couriers from the Woodland Realm seldom came to Imladris for the Mirkwood elves were distrustful of the Noldorin folk across the mountains. He assessed the archer as he approached, noting with a smirk that the Wood Elf was doing the same to him.

What he saw was as he expected: the elf was small in stature, slight in build, young in years, and fair of face. So it was among the Athedrainyn, for speed was their sole defence and thus only the lightest in weight were chosen for this career. Usually, their fleet steeds were not fast enough to forestall the inevitable for very long. Thranduil's messengers seldom saw their five hundredth begetting day.

This one is not so far from his Coll o Gweth, (Coming of Age) I would wager my finest mare. And the thought made Glorfindel's face turn grim in disapproval, for to his mind it was wrong to set one so young upon the road to Mandos. Indeed, he could not recall ever meeting or hearing of such a youngling venturing beyond the cover of the trees. He weighed the Wood Elf's worth anew. More expendable or more trustworthy? he wondered.

In addition to callowness, the archer was too pale, too thin, his cloak was wrapped around him as if he felt chilled, and he was absolutely filthy, coated in mud and dirt and dried blood. If he had a sword the cape obscured it but his bow was in his left hand and the quiver upon his back was empty. His hair was probably the same flaxen shade as his mare's mane underneath all the grime and he wore it braided back in battle style. Glorfindel decided he was evaluating a very different calibre of Mirkwood messenger than those he had seen in Lorien.

"Mae Govannen (Well Met)," he said with a slight smile. "I am pleased to welcome you. Go now and alert your captain that your company may enter the Hidden Vale under the Blessings of the Star Kindler. Our Lord will be eager to express gratitude for the service your warriors have done for Imladris and the surrounding lands."

"I humbly thank you for such a gracious greeting, my Lord," said the woodland warrior with a deep bow, hand over his heart. "Yet I have no captain nor company to summon. My comrades were killed; I am the only survivor of this mission."

That this was true was evident in the depth of sorrow the lone archer's voice betrayed and the Balrog Slayer stared into eyes shadowed in misery and swimming with confusion and pain. Glorfindel comprehended instantly that the youthful soldier had seen his initial mortal combat on this journey and witnessed the death of friends and kin for the first time. The ancient warrior was saddened to bear witness to this loss of innocence and could not remove his gaze from the limitless azure orbs. His brow wrinkled; something in that woeful stare bespoken a wisdom beyond the dearth of years this youth had lived, and he wondered at it.

"I grieve for your loss," he finally managed to murmur the polite phrase as one of his leutenants coughed to get his attention. "And yet I am bewildered. There were no elves among the bodies, of that we made certain. What has become of your troop?"

Now it was the Wood Elf's forehead that creased in confusion as he tried to comprehend the noble Lord's meaning. He wondered for a second if this was not the prelude to another graceless slander but immediately discarded the notion. The warrior was not like the others, and even they would not find the death of his fellows something to ridicule. Mayhap he truly did not comprehend their dialect after all.

"Forgive me, Lord, but your question puzzles me. I did not travel hence among a company of warriors. I am one of four sent on an errand of vital importance from Lord Thranduil. We were waylaid in the mountain pass and there my friends perished."

"Four? Nay, that cannot be right," the words were said not so much with disbelief as shocked denial.

"I assure you it is the truth. No more could be spared for this journey though its priority is of the highest order. My people are beset by divers enemies from the citadel of Dol Guldur and our troops are needed to guard our borders."

"But we came upon a horde of Orcs amid the foothills, all of them felled by arrows such as are used in the Woodland Realm. No elves were among the corpses, of this we made certain. Is it possible there is another entourage from your lands, unknown to you?"

"Ah, I understand you now. Those Orcs. The ambush beneath the boxwood trees and the stones." He paused and drew a weary breath. "That filth was not the same offal that attacked my group in the mountains. However, I consider they originated from the same source and killed them with as much relish as if they had been the same that took my friends' lives." The messenger was clearly relieved to have the confusion cleared and smiled for the first time, a very grim and bitter smile.

"What nonsense!" One of the border guards scoffed. "Are you so lacking in propriety that you dare lie to the face of Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower?"

"I should thrash you for it, whelp, and teach you some manners!" a second warrior chimed in.

"I do not lie! I demand you retract that slur at once or face me blade!" the silvan archer cast back his cloak and unsheathed a long, gory hunting knife as he assumed a defensive posture. He spared a second's gawking at the tall, golden Vanya before him, yet would not allow his awe over the presence of so renowned a legend stifle his outrage over the Noldor's calumnies.

"Hold!" shouted Glorfindel, uplifting his palm toward the visitor. "Be calm and lower your weapon; the apology you shall have at once." His voice was low and measured but though his keen eyes sought the young elf's the archer would not remove his ravaged glare from the Noldo who had insulted his honour. "Ithilgwath, (Moonshadow), beg pardon of our guest immediately, for you have shamed the Lord of the Valley by such inexcusable defamation."

"My Lord?" the elven warrior stared in shock at his commander. "You heard his words, did you not? He seeks to make a name for himself by claiming the valorous deeds of others!"

"Vile son of kinslayers, defend yourself!" hissed the Wood Elf and advanced immediately, fully prepared to vindicate his reputation even if it meant drawing the pompous soldier's blood.

Glorfindel repositioned himself between them as the rest of the Noldor fell back and gave the pair a wide clearance, though two Imladrian archers drew aim upon the interloper's heart. Then the former Lord of Gondolin did something that quite shocked his troops. He took up his place beside the bedraggled Mirkwood messenger and drew his sword as well.

"I will not countenance such low words from among elves that claim to serve the Vale of the Last Homely House!" he thundered, so angry he could scarcely contain his desire to strip the offender of his commission on the spot. "Rest assured the loyalty of those who would disregard my orders will be thoroughly investigated. Choose now what your demeanour shall be: gratitude for the elf who rid our lands of the stink of Sauron's vermin or haughty disdain for a stranger far from his own lands. No reason have we to doubt this elf or subject him to ridicule, while every hint of evidence supports his account of the night's work."

At these harsh words the warriors were troubled, for they had no wish to stand against their noble captain. The archers lowered their bows and were the first to approach, bowing low before the silvan and the Balrog Slayer.

"Gohenna nin, (Forgive me)" each murmured. "My Lord, we acted on instinct when we saw his knife glint in Anor's rays."

"Aye, yet you should not have been so hasty in your judgement," complained Glorfindel. He turned slightly to view his colleague and could not suppress an amused grin at the blank expression of confused amazement plastered over the archer's features. "What say you to their apology, laegel gand?" (bold green-elf)

The silvan warrior relaxed somewhat, but only allowed his vision to flicker for an instant in the speaker's direction, keeping his attention centred on the one that had so baldly besmirched him. He was both disappointed and disgusted, for this treatment was like nothing he had been told to expect from the Noldor elves of Imladris. The disdain and the rude jokes, these he had prepared his heart to endure, but such an outright insult could only be perceived as an open challenge and invitation to conflict. Yet, there was the matter of the dispatch with which he had been entrusted and this personal injury must accept lesser notice. A short sigh left his lungs and he gave a nod equally brief.

"It is acceptable, yet these two are not truly the guilty ones. Be that as it may, for the sake of their swift repentance and in hopes of a truce between us, I will hold no grudge upon this land or its people, but upon Ithilgwath," and here he uplifted the mithril blade and pointed it straight at the warrior's heart, "shall bear a burden that may be relieved only by answering my challenge or rendering an oath of subservience."

"What say you?" sputtered the livid warrior. Ithilgwath sought to stride forth and meet the stinging rebuke at once but his fellows grasped his arms and held him still. "Subservience to such as you, Wood Elf? I would sooner kneel to a human!"

"You are dismissed, soldier," growled Glorfindel. "Return to the barracks and await your summoning before Lord Elrond. You have made your choice and now shall you earn its merits." So saying the mighty Vanya sheathed his broadsword with evident wrath but barely contained and turned his back upon the disgraced elf. With another bow he appealed to his humble guest. "I offer my own regrets for this deplorable demonstration of prejudice and bigotry. I had hoped for better from my troops, yet it seems even I cannot be free of error, for I chose this lot myself and thus ultimately must answer for their deeds, be they honourable or despicable."

Ithilgwath glowerered in furious outrage and hastened to his stallion, mounting up and splashing across the ford, two of his comrades at his heels to mark his adherence to the captain's order.

Amid the noisy slosh of the horses' watery departure the remaining warriors mounted as well, awaiting their leader's command to return to the city. Yet stringent though they were in controlling it, not a few were evidently displeased to have their comrade berated for the likes of so common a being, by their estimation, that the men of Gondor seemed noble by comparison.

"I would not have you carry that burden, Lord," the Wood Elf spoke again, "but the ways of the silvans are mayhap divergent from the customs of the Noldor. In as much as I may relieve it, consider that no grievance to Lord Elrond shall be made against yourself nor any other among your folk. What stands between Ithilgwath and me shall remain there until he chooses to meet me in combat."

"Very well, I cannot gainsay your words for I doubt I would be as gracious were it me in your position," smiled the Balrog Slayer. "Will you let us hear your name for I would have your brave deeds whilest in our fair country reported and commended to both our Lords."

"Gladly will I give my name, yet I cannot accept accolades, nor would my Lord approve them, for acting as duty demands. Cuthenin, Athedreinyn an Thranduil, Aran o Gladgalen." (I am True-bow, messenger for Thranduil, King of Greenwood.) So speaking the valiant silvan archer bowed again before the mighty reborn elf.

"Suilad," called one of the mounted cavalry in genuine goodwill, for not all were contemptuous of the visitor, especially in light of their Lord's example. "Will you join us at table, Cuthenin, and tell us tales of your homeland?"

"Hannaden," (My thanks) a meagre smile attended this acceptance for really the Wood Elf had only the wish to get his chore completed and be gone from the foreign land. His bow was required at home, where every night brought increasing boldness from the foul servants of the Wraiths in Dol Guldur.

"Nay, I must interfere in those plans," said Glorfindel, shrewdly reading the signs of aching fatigue that clung to the archer as thickly as the grime of his travails coated his slender frame. "We must allow our guest to rest and refresh himself before taking his news to Lord Elrond. Now, let us make for home and a hearty breakfast!"

Glorfindel vaulted onto his charger's back and noted the silvan lightly spring upon the withers of his mount. With a wave of his hand, the captain ordered his troops home, falling into formation at the rear alongside the Woodland warrior, and the column galloped through the shallow river's glinting spray.

TBC

Chapter Text

Tadui Peth: Dôr Minai a Brand (Unique and Lofty Place)

By the time the cavalry rode into the grounds of the Last Homely House, Anor was already an hour above the horizon and a chipper chorus of songbirds, finches, wrens, and sparrows filled the atmosphere with welcoming warbles and trilling calls of merry timbre. Above the open stretch of the Bruinen's ample floodplain, the sky was positively vibrant with the stunning gleam of the newly arrived day and promised a high and cloudless dome of gentian blue. The woods and copses of hardwoods, orchards and groves of fruit trees, and indeed every shrub and blade of grass looked lush, cultivated, and well tended. The entire place seemed to be a garden. Cuthenin could not decide where to keep his gaze, for every way he turned presented a new vista of such pristine perfection that he was astounded.

He had ridden hard across the broad shallow valley of the Anduin and noted with amazement the strength of the sun's light, so potent that it made his back warm and the skin beneath his collar perspire. The novel experience of travelling openly without the cover of leaves and limbs had at first been daunting and then exhilarating. Yet even there the land had been wild; grasses so high they tickled his mare's belly as she ran; trees bent and gnarled from grappling with wind and weather, brambles and thickets of thorny vines encroaching over the little used path. He had glimpsed the humble abode of Aiwendil from afar, no more than a wisp of grey smoke from a thatch-roofed cottage, and had strained, but seen naught of, Beorn's fabled home amidst a cove of pine trees. There was nothing in his experience to prepare him for the utter majesty of the gracious realm of Elrond Half-elven.

Even the humblest of out-buildings presented a pleasing and graceful facade. The stables were elegant and ornately fashioned with a high peaked roof tiled in red clay, white-washed wooden walls, and many open windows. To know that the horses in Imladris had better quarters than most of the people in his homeland was an uncomfortable comparison to make. Indeed, Cuthenin had almost mistaken the stately building for the Lord's abode, until he rounded a curve by a fine high wind-brake of cedar trees. The Wood Elf could only stare in speechless awe. He had seen pictures in books of the glory of Aman and the dwellings of the Calaquendi in Tirion, and this residence might easily be one of those.

It had four tiers of rooms and so many balconies and porches, turrets and cupolas that it was just possible for every chamber to have a spectacular view of the sweeping expanse of the Hidden Vale. Everything was dazzling, white and spotless like polished alabaster, trimmed out in sculpted friezes and carved knot-work ornaments. There was statuary in the gardens and fountains by the courtyard, and the air was full of sweet music from fair voices and delectable scents from rare flowers.

Cuthenin realised that all the warriors had dismounted and led away their chargers and his mare stamped an impatient foot. No doubt she had been equally impressed and desirous of inspecting the uncommon domicile and sampling the fresh oats she could smell from the open barn. The archer slid off her back and gave her a quick and affectionate tug of the ears before letting her trot off to find an empty stall with a full manger.

And then he hesitated a bit, having no idea where he was to go or to whom he should report. The Noldor soldiers all seemed to have tasks to do and places to be and were hurrying to get them done and be gone. Some glanced his way curiously, a few nodded and smiled, but none of them seemed to feel it necessary to instruct him, probably assuming he knew the way. The legendary First Age warrior was no where to be seen and Cuthenin frowned. He would just have to find someone and ask, for surely there was a place in all this huge castle where visiting messengers were expected to await audience with the Lord of Imladris. He set off toward the mansion determinedly and had gone no more than four paces when he was hailed from a small side porch near the back of the building. It was Glorfindel.

"Cuthenin, this way, if you please," he smiled and motioned with his arm as he descended from the banistered veranda. Glorfindel met the Wood Elf in the yard and took careful hold of an elbow, guiding him away from the huge house as he did so. He gave the archer another cursory examination and tried to keep his tone light when next he spoke. "I have arranged a private abode for you, free of the agitation and clamour of the Last Homely House proper. The place is fairly crawling with folk from every part of the world, and one can scarcely take a step without tripping over a hobbit, bumping into a pair of dwarves, or nearly being trampled a throng of humans, either rowdy rangers or noble Lords from Gondor"

"Dwarves and humans! What are they all doing here? And what is a hobbit? Never have I heard of such a people"

"Hobbits are rather like miniature elvish humans, if humans were very small and much more elf-like. They are very cheerful and full of mischief and I think it is these people humans are referring to when talk of brownies starts up"

"Ah," nodded Cuthenin, trying to picture this in his thoughts and failing. He sighed. "Your hospitality is most beneficent, yet there is no need to make special arrangements for me. No doubt there is a regular area set aside for messengers from other realms"

"True, but you see there is already a messenger here from Lorien and, expecting no others, we turned the rest of that space over to the rangers, for they do not get on well with their noble cousins from the White City. And the dwarves are quartered in the east wing while the humans from Gondor are in the north this time. Elrond's family occupy the west facing apartments, the hobbits are in the guest chambers of the southern portion, and the Healing wing comprises the remainder of the house not used for formal functions. I could not in good conscience put you up in a sick bed or the library!"

Actually, Glorfindel was rather abashed to be directing the silvan away from the splendour of Elrond's house and had feared the warrior would be offended to be so excluded. He almost laughed in relief to hear that the messenger thought he was being afforded extra courtesy.

Cuthenin was troubled, for while it was beyond overwhelming for the valourous Vanya to be personally escorting him to his quarters, he really had no need of rooms, per se, for he would be ready to leave after only a short respite for himself and his horse. Long enough for him to get himself clean and presentable, tell his news, and receive a reply from the Elf Lord. No more, surely, than a few hours would be required for that.

"Forgive me, Lord Glorfindel…"

"Glorfindel will suffice; I do not have any holdings or people of my own here," the legend corrected kindly and with a friendly smile.

"As you wish. I was only going to suggest that this is all unnecessary. I have no plans to remain, for I am urgently needed back home. Please forgive me for being forward, but…"

"It is I who should ask pardon, Cuthenin. Elrond cannot meet with you today, for he, Mithrandir, and one of the rangers are currently in conference and unlikely to be free any time soon. And there is a patient in the Healing wards, one of the hobbits, in urgent need of close attendance. Elrond will allow no other to oversee the halfling's care. If you can but abide a few turns or Anor, there will be time for your report"

Cuthenin came to a halt and glanced first at the Balrog Slayer, then the ground under his feet, and finally turned to the north and gazed long into the impenetrable barricade of fair green leaves and brown bark that obscured all but the mist-wreathed peaks of the grim grey mountains. His whole being radiated a deep and malignant grief that threatened to overtake the staunch control he held over his countenance. The colour of his sky-hued eyes darkened to the cast of storm laden thunderclouds and gleamed with a sheen only unshed tears could create.

He blinked twice and turned back to his companion, struggling to maintain a dignified posture when he felt ready to scream. He must return and do honour to his fallen colleagues; it was unconscionable to leave them there exposed upon the broken path to the frigid elements and the merciless teeth of scavengers.

Or worse.

The grotesque image of Orcs feasting on his comrades' flesh, dismembering their bodies and desecrating their remains, forced itself within his weary mind and Cuthenin had to fight to keep from retching on the grass.

"I must go. I left my friends in the pass, and it cannot remain thus. It is not the way of my people to abandon the dead." He managed to get these sentences out without faltering and then clamped his jaws tight, swallowing back the rising swell of aching acidity working up through his oesophegus.

"Aye, it is not our way either, to leave the deceased, unless the circumstances are dire. Yours were, and I deem you escaped with your life and that just barely. I have seen many years and, though you conceal it well, the wounds you took in the struggle are not beyond my notice"

"Lord Glorfindel, I am already healed and…"

"Just Glorfindel, maethor eryndôr (woodland warrior). Peace, have I not already said I would not place you in the Healing Ward? I trust that if you needed a physician's help you would seek it. I only wish to emphasise that the option taken was the only one available to you, and your successful arrival here was hard won and dearly bought.

"You cannot help your friends now and it has been at least three days since the battle, has it not? Whatever remnant of them is left will not be recognisable should you return." Glorfindel spoke those words as gently as he could, but that did not prevent the stricken pallor that rendered the Wood Elf's face into a mask of raw pain and shocked despair.

"Nae! (Alas!)" Cuthenin shook his head and took a step back breaking from the warrior's hold. "There must be something…I need to see to them. There are customs, prayers to make, laments to sing and…"

"Cuthenin, come with me now. You and I will discuss this further once you have refreshed yourself and taken some nourishment," Glorfindel spoke softly but allowed his voice to assume an undertone of command, playing up the role of legendary elder no youth so green would dare defy. He took hold of the Wood Elf's arm and started forward again, relieved when the archer fell into step without opposition.

Now Glorfindel had intended to lead the silvan to his own house, for there was ample space and he hoped it was not too much discourtesy to be shunted out of the Lord's mansion if that meant sharing lodging with the second highest ranking citizen of the valley. Yet now he was uneasy, for the archer was young indeed and had undergone a harrowing initiation into the cruel realities of the darkening world beyond the safety of his own trees.

Not that Mirkwood is a peaceful haven, yet it is home for him and all that he knows. His people must have rites or customs to help him cope with this sort of shock while I cannot fathom what those might encompass. At the very least, familiar faces and the kinship of shared loss would provide comfort and an acceptable outlet for expressing the sorrow inundating his spirit. Imladris has none of these things; everything here is but a foreign oddity.

The people of the Woodland Realm could not be more different, though they were elf-kind, from those of Imladris. The silvan folk dwelt amid the tree tops, even as the Galadhrim of Lothlorien, but lacked the refinement and grandure of Galadriel's folk. The Sindarin elves mixed in with the elusive Wood Elves were purported to occupy a large underground fortress of sorts. Nothing even vaguely resembling the ornate structures and carefully planned organisation of the Hidden Vale's abodes would be found in Mirkwood.

He has probably never been inside a proper house before.

The Vanya did not like the silence between them, for it was weighted with the corpses of three dead warriors. He glanced at the archer, concerned that he had said nothing for some time and walked beside him in numb acquiescence. He did not like the idea of the messenger withdrawing into the depths of gloom and guilt, beset by waking nightmares and recurring visions of the gruesome battle. As they paced closer to his home, Glorfindel became more convinced with every step that shutting the Wood Elf up inside a building of wood and stone, no matter how elegant and comfortable it might be, would be the wrong thing to do.

Thus, as he entered through the gate in the low-walled courtyard, he veered off into the grounds and slowed his pace. An idea came to him and he seized upon it, almost smiling for the sheer brilliance of the notion and changing course again. He guided the unresponsive silvan right out the rear postern and into a coolly shaded dell guarded by a small stand of oak trees. These hardwoods had graced this spot for certainly more years than the Wood Elf had yet lived.

In the heart of the little weald was a giant of a tree unlike any other in Imladris that he knew of, for it had been in the place untold numbers of centuries. Indeed, these were not like ordinary oaks and Celeborn had once come to see them, pronouncing them entirely unique to the Hidden Vale, for no other species of oak could live so long as these must have done to reach such amazing height and girth. In the largest, most ancient of the nearly immortal trees, Elrohir and Elladan had played as children and later Estel had spent many happy years climbing on its mighty limbs. Far up in the branches, but not too far for the safety of youngsters, was a sturdy wooden talan.

Glorfindel decided that it would be ideal for Cuthenin. The Wood Elf would be in the shelter of trees, something he would appreciate, and still be close enough for the Balrog Slayer to keep an eye on him. He halted beneath the oak and let go of the warrior's arm. Still no response revealed that the archer was even aware of his surroundings and the Balrog Slayer's brow furrowed in worry.

"Cuthenin. This is the place where you will stay."

At the speaking of his name, the silvan's head snapped sharply in Glorfindel's direction and a blankly bewildered stare traversed the Vanya's features. He gazed around him then at the trees and took a hesitant step on his own toward them.

"You will stay here and you will not be alone," Glorfindel repeated firmly and motioned upwards into the branches. The Wood Elf followed his hand and his eyes found the talan. He returned his sight to his host and gave a short nod. The next instant instinct took over and he dashed for the old oak, hoisting himself up high in the branches until he was nearly hidden from view, and Glorfindel exhaled a small disconcerted breath of both surprise and bemusement. He peered into the sun-sparkled leaves, but all he could make out was one booted foot dangling beneath the foliage.

"I will gather some things from my house, there within the walled garden," he called into the limbs and then turned away, neither expecting nor receiving a response.

It did not take very long for this minor task and Glorfindel returned laden with a pack and a large basket of necessities: bedding and water and toiletries. Yet when he climbed up to the talan he discovered the woodland warrior curled up on the floor, sound asleep amid the thick mulch of dried leaves and twigs that had collected on the old flet over the long years of neglect. Glorfindel had expected something of the kind would occur and was prepared to wait, feeling it was best to let the elf recover from the strain and exhaustion in his own time. He reached into the pack and pulled out a leather bound book, settled against the trunk, and started to read.

Nearly half the volume was perused before the silvan stirred and then it was just as Glorfindel had feared. One second the archer was lying still and limp as a wet rag and the next gave a hoarse shout and scrambled to his feet, bow at the ready in his left hand while his right reached in vain for an arrow from his empty quiver. The Vanya was by his side immediately, reaching carefully for the rigidly trembling, disoriented elf as he spoke.

"Peace, it was a dream. The danger is past and you are in Imladris. Do you hear me? Cuthenin, answer."

"I hear you," he croaked out and sank back to the floor, dropping the bow, heart pounding and chest heaving as the adrenalin coursed through him. "I left them!" he cried in disgust and buried his face in his hands.

"You left them, that is true, but they were dead, were they not?"

"Aye, they were dead." He sighed and lowered his hands, lifting his desolate countenance to the ancient warrior's. "But I should not have left them all the same."

"Why, so that you could die also? Would that change their fate or make their sacrifice more worthy?"

"What?"

"What are you doing here?"

"I am a messenger; I am charged to…"

"Nay, I did not ask what a messenger's duty is, Cuthenin. I wish to know why you were chosen to see it done."

The result of this question was not what Glorfindel had anticipated, for Cuthenin's whole body sagged and he dropped his head in shame. He was shaking visibly and the elder soldier quickly knelt beside him and laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. He waited, not wishing to press too hard, for he could see now there was more to the Wood Elf's burden than the violent deaths of his comrades in the mountain pass.

"I am here because I am responsible for the creature's escape. Two elves died because of my misjudgement. I was the one entrusted to oversee the cringing creeper and I am the one who allowed it to be taken from the cell. I was not even there when the attack occurred; I had left with the change of the watch."

"That is grave indeed." Glorfindel squeezed the archer's shoulder and sighed heavily, crossing his legs beneath him so he could sit next to the silvan. Of this foul gangrel beast's detention in Mirkwood he had heard from Mithrandir a full description.

He scrutinised the dejected figure beside him closely and found nothing to alter his initial impression of the warrior: Cuthenin was young and inexperienced but not cowardly or lax in performance of his duty. Given his lack of years, it was likely this unfortunate incident must have taken place during the warrior's first assignment in command. It was no wonder the youth felt guilty for the lives forfeited. The loss of confidence in his own ability such an unfortunate event had evidently caused now threatened to ruin the Wood Elf's life before it had barely begun.

"Grave indeed," the Vanya repeated and shook his head sadly. Yet he meant to salvage this archer if he could. "Tell me, how long is a standard watch in the heart of Mirkwood?"

"Three tours of Ithil and two of Anor. Why do you ask?"

"Just respond for now, archer. What is the reason for that period of time instead of another?"

"It is a delicate balance between vigilance and readiness. Shorter watches are not feasible given the small numbers in one company. Any longer without rest and warriors begin to grow fatigued. None would be able to endure the rigours of a lengthy patrol with lesser respite. The possibility of errors increases; we cannot afford such hazardous inattention."

"And did you leave your post before the appointed time? Did you fail to stand the full watch?"

"Nay!"

"Was it forbidden to remove the prisoner from the cell?"

"No, but it was a risk I should not have taken."

"Why did you decide to do this?"

"It was something Mithrandir said. He spoke of healing the creature of the ills the long enslavement by the Shadow had inflicted, of exposing the prisoner to wholesome air, clean water, and the company of elf-kind."

"From your responses, I judge the failure was unavoidable and your behaviour fitting to the standards of your King. You did not let others take the burden of your watch. Had you done so, then mayhap the lack of rest might have dulled the keen senses of those guarding the Gollum in your place. Nor did you ignore the words of a wise and learned wizard, thus demonstrating compassion to a being under your doom."

"I cannot see it that way. Had I refused the creature's request to leave the cell, no one would have died."

"You cannot know that for certainty, for the attack may have come all the same. Then maybe the prisoner would still be in the cell but more lives would have been lost."

"I cannot understand how the Orcs got so close without arousing the guards' notice. Had I been there…"

"But you were not there. Perhaps you believe your abilities are so superior to your fellows' that your mere presence could have forestalled the ambush."

"What did you say?" Cuthenin turned incredulous and angry eyes upon his host. "That is not true! I only meant…"

"Good!" Glorfindel cut him off. "Now then, this was your first taste of command and it is unfortunate you had to be taught so harsh a lesson on your initiation into leadership. Yet it is a cruel and inescapable fact: when those under your authority are placed in dangerous arenas, not all of them will survive.

"No matter how able you are, how brave you are, how noble and true of heart you remain, still some that you oversee will perish. You must face this, Cuthenin, and either come to accept it or be destroyed by it."

The Wood Elf stared in afflicted quandary at the noble elf, unable to formulate any sort of reply to such an unexpected lecture. Glorfindel's words lifted the burden of guilty shame and in its place laid upon Cuthenin's shoulders the heavy mantle of responsible authority. The messenger suddenly saw that his concept of being in charge was terribly skewed. He had believed his captaincy would enable him to protect his people from harm, preventing loss of life and aiding in driving the pestilence of Dol Guldur from his homeland. Now it was clear this was not the case and the archer realised how very small his role actually was in and of itself. Only in conjunction with the compliant and unified actions of all the elves under his command could any change hope to be accommplished. And this bewildered him.

"But then to what purpose do we choose some to lead and others to follow? Is it not better if all work together on the same goal equally, since we are none more able than the other to prevent these tragedies?" he asked quietly, assuming the twice-born warrior would know the thoughts preceding it. He was not mistaken.

"Not all have the strength to accept the responsibility of leadership. It is a weighty burden and one that will work upon your heart and mind, assailing you with self-doubts, grief, and remorse. Few can bear a strain so great, realising they must send friends and kinsmen into the teeth of death when they truly wish to shield these loved ones from any hardship. Yet I see this strength within you, Cuthenin, and judge that the trust emplaced upon you by the elders of your folk was not misguided."

Once more Cuthenin found himself unable to string together enough coherent thoughts to produce a fitting answer. Glorfindel spoke with wisdom bestowed by thousands of years of fighting the darkness, both as a leader and a warrior for his people and those of Eärendil. His endorsement of the messenger's worthiness was as rain upon seeds and within the younger elf's spirit the kernel of maturity germinated. The archer found his mood altered, transformed from a sense of helpless futility into a grim and tenacious determination. He was overwhelmed with gratitude and at that moment desired nothing so much as to retain the ancient warrior's approbation. He smiled slightly and bowed his head in respectful appreciation.

"Hannaden," (my thanks) he said soberly and lifted a gleaming expression bursting with renewed pride and hope to the Vanya's serious countenance.

"Pedon pith thenid", (I speak true words) answered Glorfindel with equal gravity. They were silent for the passage of a few seconds and then he squeezed the Wood Elf's shoulder lightly and rose. "It is almost mid-day and you have yet to take any sustenance or cleanse yourself. I will show you to the baths and, if it is not against your customs, join you in sluicing the dust of a long series of night patrols from my person."

"It is not contrary to my peoples' ways to share bathing," replied Cuthenin evenly and stood also. In truth he was not so calm in his mind, for while communal baths were not uncommon among kin, close friends, or comrades in arms it was another thing altogether to wash one's body openly before strangers. Still he did not wish to appear timid and attempted a smile. "Lead the way, Glorfindel."

TBC

Chapter Text

Glorfindel and Cuthenin walked from the walled garden in silence just as they had done upon entering it, yet this time the sombre gloom was less weighty upon the silvan's shoulders. Each elf held onto one handle of the wicker basket containing the necessities for bathing and their pace was neither hurried nor sluggish as they journeyed away from the Vanya's home. The younger elf observed with renewed enjoyment the glamour and refinement of the landscaped grounds and gardens which the pair traversed and noted their direction was once more away from the bustling activity that surrounded the main house of Elrond Peredhil. After a leisurely stroll of nearly half an hour's passing, the terrain became more rocky and the sound of water cascading over a high cliff met the archer's keen hearing. They did not follow the noise to its source, however, for the pathway led deeper into the exposed stone outcrops until at last a sheltered grotto came into view.

Here, the rock was smoothed and moulded by centuries of manipulative, watery fingers working on the sharp contours of the rugged stone. The sculpted terraces, natural shelves, and shallow steps bespoke the changing levels of the liquid over time and the rock was stained in a pleasing series of rust and green and yellow coloured ribbons where the mineral-rich water had long massaged it. There were three spring-fed pools steaming into the temperate atmosphere, heated to a degree of warmth sure to ease aches and loosen strained muscles. Long, ephemeral tendrils of misty vapour peeled from the glassy surface of the baths and filled the air with a veil of fog sufficient to provide a modicum of privacy for those who might be timid of sharing ablutions. Not that this was likely to be required here, for the naturally heated pools were empty but for one elf.

Cuthenin stopped on the path, forcing Glorfindel's halt as well, and smiled with an appreciative sigh. A hot spring was more than he had dared to hope for and exactly what he needed; this he realised as soon he perceived the peaceful grotto. There was not a single part of him that did not either pain or burn from the lengthy, sleepless journey and from the still mending tears in flesh and muscle. He was glad for the lack of a crowd and credited the advanced hour of the day for the relative solitude. He had several reasons to wish to deter gawkers curious to see his naked form. The archer met his host's questioning gaze with a nod and they resumed their pace.

The lone bather was soaking in the furthest spring from the walk-way, reclining so that he was nearly submerged in the rejuvenating water, and lifted his head as the interlopers approached. He did not bother to hide his displeasure at their arrival, scowling and sighing in aggravation as he sat up.

"Glorfindel," said the dark-haired ellon (male elf), making the word short and clipped yet filled over-brimming with distaste.

"Erestor," the legendary Vanya curtly replied. He led the way to the second pool and indicated for Cuthenin to set the basket down.

The Wood Elf glanced briefly at the bather their presence had so disturbed and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, meeting the other's rather intense gaze through the steam. Being that this was Imladris and observing the ellon's piercing onyx eyes and coal-black locks, he surmised Erestor was of Noldorin descent. Cuthenin steeled himself for more jibes and jokes. As before, he repressed any outward sign of the grimly stoic mood that surrounded him as the unpleasant memory of Ithilgwath's insults replayed in his mind. He followed Glorfindel's example, helping unpack the basket, and realised a bit late that he did not have anything clean to wear after the bath. He sighed almost imperceptibly as they set soap and towels on the dry lip of sandstone rimming the tepid pond.

While this mundane task was accomplished, the Wood Elf was acutely aware of the Noldo's close scrutiny. Cuthenin refused to return the rude behaviour in kind, however, feeling it would be unwise to encourage further conflict with the Imladrian elves. Undressing and then bathing in front of this arrogant and disdainful ellon was not something the archer looked forward to and his delight over the impending soak vanished. He turned his back to the stranger and removed his cloak, folding it neatly before sitting on the rock to pull off his boots.

"Man ná sina?" (Who is this?) The Noldo spoke in a light, amused tone to Glorfindel, his hand indicating the messenger as he did so. His speech was in the High Tongue in order to prevent the guest from comprehending his meaning, for he knew at once the visitor was silvan. As did most of the Noldor, Erestor considered the Wood Elves too ignorant to understand Quenya, a language reserved in these latter days of the Third Age only for ancient lore and lofty rituals. Indeed, the language of the Calaquendi was heard less in Middle-earth than the human tongue of Westron.

"Athedrainyn o Thranduil." (Thranduil's messenger.) Glorfindel replied succinctly and pointedly in Sindairn, taking a seat to remove his boots also. He flicked an icy glare, minute in length but aeons long in its infinite frigidity, toward the Noldo.

"Haryas essë?" (He has a name?) Erestor's voice contained the unmistakable timbre of sardonic ridicule and even had it not the smirk upending his graceful lips would have clearly indicated his scorn. He continued in Quenya and smiled in overtly indulgent arrogance when the silvan looked up.

"Aye." said Glorfindel flatly and stood, stripping off his tunic and shirt.

Cuthenin glanced between the dark-haired and golden-haired elves curiously, for it was evident these two were not exactly on friendly terms, but kept his features blank of any expression that might indicate he understood what they were saying. The fact that he was well-educated was not something he was permitted to divulge, no matter how much his pride might wish it. All the Athedrainyn were skilled in the High Tongue. Greenwood's King was of the opinion that the pretence of ignorance lent the silvans an advantage regarding privileged information that might be exchanged in the formal language.

Besides, at least the two were concentrating on their obvious contest of wills and he hoped that would deflect their attention from him as he stripped down. He stood, took a calming breath, and removed his tunic quickly, peering furtively in Glorfindel's direction to see if he was watching. He was and Cuthenin froze, for the dried blood on his pale green shirt mapped his injuries plainly. Here was the first reason he would have prefered a solo swim in the river, for he did not wish to be detained in Imladris due to the state of his health.

Glorfindel's brow wrinkled in concern; the locations and extent of the brown stains indicated the archer's wounds were serious. He raised eyes to Cuthenin and waited, for while he was not about to demand to see the healing scars neither would he enter the bath before observing the progress of the elf's recovery.

"Ela! Ohtar caurëa, nurtalë harwërya var venessërya?" (Lo! A timid warrior, hiding his wounds or his beauty?) sneered the dark elf.

Cuthenin allowed his gaze to spend a second's worth of time on the mocking visage before unlacing his shirt and cautiously easing out of it. He heard both elves' short exhalations of surprise but chose to ignore them, carefully untying the makeshift bandages from his chest and shoulder, revealing two newly closed gashes from sword and arrow punctures. Nothing short of an attack of Orcs would turn away their attention now, he realised, and shut his eyes as he hurriedly unlaced his leggings, peeled them off as quickly as his hurting body allowed, and slipped into the heated water.

Which was not fast enough to prevent his audience from more exclamations of either surprise or appreciation or both.

"Harwër ar venessë yúyo." (Wounds and beauty both.) said the one called Erestor quietly, blatantly ogling the upper portion of the silvan's exposed body, which included everything from mid-thigh and higher, for the pools were no longer deep as once they had been in Ages past.

"Farëa, Erestor. Sina lumna, úalassëa." (Enough, Erestor. This is serious, not amusing.) warned Glorfindel. He hastened to finish undressing when a harsh hiss of pain accompanied the hot water's contact with their visitor's injuries as he lowered himself to the floor of the bath. The Vanya stepped into the pool and sat next to Cuthenin, whose face was drawn into a weary portrait of severe discomfort as he attempted to adjust to the stinging heat. Muted splashing alerted Glorfindel that Erestor was on his feet and wading to the side of his bath nearest the silvan and he spared the Noldo a stern look when the elf re-seated himself just on the other side of the rock.

"You are not fully healed," cautioned the Balrog Slayer, returning his eyes to the messenger. "These are not trivial wounds, Cuthenin. Will you allow me to examine that tear at your side and the one in your shoulder?"

"It is well, truly, but if you need to satisfy yourself I will not impede you," replied Cuthenin with a sharp intake of breath, eyes squeezed shut against the discomfort as brand new skin and nerves protested the change in temperature. When he opened them again, he found Glorfindel staring in a peculiar mixture of surprise and concern. A look in the other's direction confirmed the Noldo's interest fixed on him as well.

Cuthenin knew their amazement had more to do with the other marks his bared skin revealed than the closed gashes. In the custom of his people, his body was vividly decorated with images and symbols, some arcane, some utilitarian, and others purely for their loveliness. Here was the second reason he desired to remain covered in the presence of strangers.

There were potent signs and spells of protection covering his heart, the runes forming a tri-part spiral that wound outward from his left nipple, the deep indigo dye a sharp contrast against the node's dusky pink hue and the fair apricot shade of the un-inked flesh. More such writing adorned his forearms.

Upon his back across his shoulders an elaborate and detailed image of an eagle soaring through a twilight sky spanned the archer's body and defined his well-toned physique. Above the bird's head in the grey-blue background of early night a scatter of bright white points indicated the constellation Thôr (Vega). Thus had the stars been arranged at the moment of his conception and thus the mightiest of Yavanna's avians were appointed the Wood Elf's guardians. Only careful inspection would alert the observer to the fact that the raptor's outspread feathers were likewise comprised of ancient incantations and prayers.

In three places on the Wood Elf's body, his left ankle, right hip, and right biceps, was etched the sign of his name and the lineage of his House. Here was the third reason he did not want such close inspection. This was a necessary practice among warriors facing frequent war with the demented savagery of Orcs, for the bodies of the fallen were usually dismembered and desecrated. At times, only these marks made identification of one victim from another possible. However, Cuthenin had no desire to inform the Noldor of his station and parentage.

Finally, at the very base of Cuthenin's spine was painted an indelible tracery of delicate Morning Glories in palest lavender amid an artistic spray of green vines and leaves.

The woodland warrior mentally braced himself for open laughter and outright mockery, for such were the reactions reported by other Athedrainyn returning from Lorien. Even among the Galadhrim these sacred customs had long ago died out and few remained living in Middle-earth who had once adhered to the archaic beliefs. So much more then must the lofty elves of Imladris find the practice risible.

The Noldo did not disappoint him. The black haired elf gave a loud snort of a guffaw and shook his head as he propped his arms on the stone and bent over the near-side of his pool for a closer look at the colourful tattoos remaining above the water line.

"Man verca, yára tainar nar sinar? Certar an varyalë on nostalë?" (What wild, ancient signs are these? Runes for protection or fertility?) Erestor laughed smugly as Glorfindel sent him another threatening glare. "Lean forward; let me see your back," he ordered the silvan in imperious Sindarin.

Cuthenin met his scornful stare coolly and shrugged. "As you wish." He shifted to display the images that had so captivated the Noldo's attention. He was not ashamed of the marks but their meaning was personal and he had no intention of revealing to this sneering and pompous Noldo the reasons for each one.

"Why an eagle? I would have thought a hare or a doe a more fitting picture to paint upon Nandorin skin," Erestor snickered.

Glorfindel ignored his countryman's sarcastic ribbing and met the Wood Elf's eyes with apologetic sympathy. He was pleased that Cuthenin simply resumed his place without comment and lifted his arm away from his right side to allow the Vanya's inspection.

The veteran fighter knew a poisoned wound when he saw one, for the First-born rarely retained any sign of healed injuries unless some such devilry was introduced to slow the body's natural defences. He carefully prodded the tender skin, so bright a red that the blood seemed ready to burst through the thin cover of new hide sealing it, and did not miss the slight flinch his touch incited. He lifted sombre eyes to Cuthenin and frowned as he straightened up.

The deep puncture in the shoulder was no better and looked as though the flesh had spent some time being devoured by infection before the warrior's body was able to fight off the toxin's effects. Slowly Glorfindel lifted a hand to the messenger's neck and felt the rate of his pulse. He gave a small grunt of satisfaction and raised both Cuthenin's hands, overturning them to inspect his wrists, knowing there would be tell-tale blue swelling there if the vile potion was still troubling the elf. There was only a very slight discolouration remaining yet he held the arms captive a few moments more.

From the base of his hands to the fold of the elbow, the archer's forearms were inscribed in beautiful and delicate script, the letters written in dark blue ink forming incantations and supplications derived from an ancient race and tongue that made the Vanya's brows arch in inquisitive regard. Few, he knew, would comprehend the meaning of these powerful signs; only those elves remaining in Middle-earth who had come of age before the rising of Anor and Ithil might recognise such marks. Glorfindel hurriedly turned the woodland warrior's arms down again and sent him a cautionary look, darting his eyes in the Noldo's direction and back, for Erestor was one such elf. The faintest tip of the silvan's head indicated he had been understood and the Balrog Slayer smiled.

"I am satisfied, yet a period of rest would enhance your return to full health," he said.

"Aye; I shall take your advice."

"So then you are called Cuthenin. Is that your true appellation, True-Bow, or an affectation meant to impress your peers and suitors?" Erestor quipped with another laugh, for he had not had difficulty reading the Sindarin inscription bearing the archer's name and lineage: Legolas Thranduilion nail, Hîl od Oropher, Nost en Ferin. (Green-leaf, third son of Thranduil, Heir of Oropher, of the House of the Beeches)

"Vá, Erestor," (Do not) warned Glorfindel in chilly tones. One's name was not a thing to make light of and knowing this elf's bloodlines heightened the possibility for an explosive retort, for the family's propensity for temper was widely remarked. What remained unknown was exactly where this one's limit was, and Glorfindel suspected the youthful archer did not know himself.

"It is as true a name as any you possess," the silvan smiled coldly and relaxed in the pool now that the Balrog Slayer's probing examination was finished, stretching his legs out and revelling in the warmth enveloping him almost up to his chin. He rested his head against the rock rim and closed his eyes to add to the silent dismissal, suppressing a smile when he heard an indignant exclamation fall from the Noldo's lips.

"Calaviltë," (Lightless - A being that lacks inner-light; equivalent to saying someone is not an elf. Slightly less offensive than calling someone an Orc.) the Noldo remarked in pleasant tones of lilting Quenya, smiling at Glorfindel.

"Istaviltë," (Witless) countered Glorfindel as he, too, extended his tall, lanky frame into the soothing water next to Cuthenin, inhaling the moisture laden air deeply. "Erestor is Lord Elrond's head butler," he explained to the Wood Elf.

"Chief Advisor and second cousin," corrected Erestor in caustic tones.

"Mae Govannen," said Cuthenin with exaggerated jubilance and gifted the scornful elf with his most dazzling smile, just restraining himself from adding that his King had a fine butler also and the two would no doubt get on famously should they ever meet. He was quite certain the Noldo would understand he was thinking something along these lines and preferred not to waste the energy required to voice the observation aloud.

Erestor did not return the greeting, glowering fiercely at the lowly silvan, not sure at all whether the ellon was dim-witted enough to mean the hearty welcome or sharp-witted enough to put him in just this quandary.

For a few moments all was quiet save for the gentle songs of wrens and finches and the distant rush of the cataract far beyond their sight. Glorfindel permitted himself to relax, Cuthenin took the soap and lazily began washing away the grime of the battle, and Erestor decided the timing was perfect for another round of snide remarks.

"Nályë faila lavë sina moriquendi mi nendi nosséva," (You are generous to allow this dark-elf in the family pools.) groused Erestor.

"Hautë, Erestor. Mirën sérë," (Stop, Erestor. I want rest.) growled Glorfindel.

"Ve mirël," (As you wish.) murmured the Noldo. He watched until his antagonist's eyelids dropped down to cover the noble warrior's vibrant beryl orbs and let an extra second or two pass by in quietude. When he was sure Glorfindel was convinced he had won the verbal contest by forestalling it completely, Erestor returned to his needling queries. "Varyëalyes, an man?" (You protect him, why?)

Glorfindel's eyes snapped open and he fixed them on the Noldo in exasperated fury. However, the wily kinsman of Elrond was not about to be daunted by so meagre a remonstrance as that.

"Hanyëan. Sina laiquendi hanu ná melindolya vinya." (I understand. This male green-elf is your new lover.)

"Nay."

"Nás vanima, Glorfindel, anvanima! A nessa, annessa eceniën aralyë." (He is beautiful, Glorfindel, exceedingly beautiful! And young, the youngest I have seen with you.)

"Á Nuhtë lambalya." (Hold your tongue.) Glorfindel tensed and spoke through clenched jaws, attempting to keep his volume moderate rather than cause any unnecessary distress to the silvan archer. He had no notion that his efforts were in vain, never suspecting the woodland elf understood Quenya perfectly.

For his part, Cuthenin struggled mightily to keep his composure lest he give away the knowledge he possessed of their High Speech. These insults were aimed at the Vanya warrior, he realised, and that was all that helped him maintain an outwardly calm demeanour. Cuthenin could not believe he must endure further derogation after being in Imladris so short a time. Fortunately, his agitation was taken as mere irritation and curiosity to be excluded from the private conversation and neither participant in the verbal sparring realised he was aware of the subject matter.

"Nás nessa farëa harya vénë; wen an laiquassë, sinar atta nati mani." (He is young enough to possess virginity; young and inexperienced, these two things are good.)

"Excuse me!" Cuthenin blurted out suddenly, unable to stand any more. "I will leave and allow you to continue this your discussion in peace. It is not my intention to cause anyone the need to speak a foreign tongue in their own country!" So saying he rose hastily and stepped from the bath, grabbing up one of the towels from the basket and wrapping it around his hips.

"Nay, do not go, Legolas," pleaded Erestor in mock remorse. "I have enjoyed soaking long enough while you have just arrived after single-handedly killing, what was the number, a hundred orcs?"

His words had the desired effect and the silvan elf glowered in rigid defiance over the casual reference to Ithilgwath's accusations of prevaracation. That the Noldo knew of it already indicated it was probably common knowledge amid the rest of the Valley's citizens also.

"Erestor, enough," admonished Glorfindel.

"It was not an important topic at any rate and one Glorfindel and I can resume at a later time, when perhaps there will be more details to discuss with my colleague." The Noldo continued as he exited the pool and laid a hand on Cuthenin's shoulder to halt his retreat. "Yet I have forgot to bring a towel; lend me yours and return to the water." So saying he deftly divested the archer of the cloth and allowed himself a long, lascivious look up and down the dripping, flushed body as he casually dried himself.

"Erestor! You are behaving like a child," snapped Glorfindel, but could not resist a less cursory inspection of the naked youth either.

Cuthenin shivered under the intensity of Erestor's devouring stare even though his face quickly grew hot in embarrassment. He returned to the pool with a loud splash so as to avoid the unpleasant scrutiny, ducking his head completely under the water for a few seconds.

Erestor chuckled in a decidedly lecherous manner over the archer's bashful discomfort and matched Glorfindel's livid glare with a merry smile. He knotted the towel closed with a flourish and waved as he turned away. "Wen an laiquassë, mellonen; ná moica ve mi racalyës." (Young and green, my friend, break him in gently.)

The two bathers refrained from speaking for several minutes as each tried to recover some semblance of the peaceful accord they had achieved prior to encountering the Noldo lord. Glorfindel sighed wearily, mentally debating whether to inform the Wood Elf what Erestor had said, for he worried that the advisor would spread this unseemly rumour all over the valley and further discredit the warrior's reputation.

"I am sorry for that; Erestor and I have a history. Not a pleasant one, at least at the end of it. He never squanders an opportunity to make me regret it wholly," he said.

"He is both crude and unkind, then," Cuthenin answered calmly. "And a fool if he cannot find a means to make peace with a previous…friend. I am thinking you are better as an ally than an enemy."

Glorfindel laughed at this rather blunt assessment of his status. "Aye, so I think also! You are correct about Erestor; he cannot forgive. I find myself asking your pardon once more for the poor behaviour of my countrymen."

"Nay, you are not responsible for every elf in this realm, surely. Were you to visit my home, no doubt a few silvans would behave with similarly deplorable conduct."

"Because your former lovers are also unable to comprehend the benefit your continued allegiance would bring them?" teased the Vanya and was delighted by the tinge of rose that suddenly tinted the Wood Elf's ears.

"Nay, not so! I have not yet developed any histories of that sort," he answered quietly.

"That is difficult to understand, for your are both fair and valiant, your character withstands the tests of travails and affronts, and you are an able warrior."

Cuthenin had no idea how to respond to that, for while he was aware that some females found him attractive he did not find the opposite sex appealing in that way. The romantic regard of male for male was forbidden in the Woodland Realm. That he felt this kind of attraction was a constant worry, for should he be found out the disgrace to his family would be tremendous. Concealing his body's responses to certain warriors had been especially trying during his adolescence, when his rising hormones promoted embarrassing erections he could not control.

That he felt this kind of attraction for the re-born elda he could not deny and was beyond grateful that age had afforded him a limited degree of control over the outward manifestations of desire. It had not occured to him that the interest might be mutual. He had never been approached thus by a male and had scrupulously avoided making any such advances himself. Perhaps it is merely Erestor's lewd remarks that stirs the Balrog Slayer, for they were lovers once. Cuthenin did not know if Glorfindel was testing him or simply did not understand the implications of what he was suggesting in less than subtle terms.

He chanced a swift look in the Vanya's direction and found himself unable to resist an appreciative evaluation of the virile warrior's glorious presence. The Balrog Slayer was every inch the ideal of masculine beauty and grace, broadly muscled and lean, fair of features, and crowned with hair of the richest golden colour the archer had ever seen. The Vanya's eyes positively shown with the glory of Aman and the wisdom of the Ages, and his soul was not hidden therein, revealing the tempered strength of will forged in the fiery confrontation with death and the lengthy confinement in Námo's Halls. There was nothing unappealing about Glorfindel of Gondolin.

Cuthenin was unaware of the small sigh that escaped his lungs as he averted his eyes and resumed a more diligent scrubbing with the soap.

"You are gracious to make such allowances, but I feel compelled to tell you the nature of his speech." Glorfindel realised, with no small bewilderment, that hearing a flirty compliment was an uncommon experience for the archer and wisely withdrew. He was content with the silvan's response and slowed his pursuit now that he had made his interest apparent and observed sufficient signals to warrant nurturing it.

"He was speaking of me, perhaps, yet it was clear that you were the target of his slanders."

"Aye." Glorfindel stared in surprise at the silvan's uncanny insight. "It is best for you to be prepared; he is likely to repeat his insinuations to one or two elves known for their inability to exercise prudent judgement. In a matter of hours, most of the valley will assume that you and I are lovers."

Another moment of silence passed. Cuthenin considered his course carefully and decided to take his own assessment of the Vanya seriously: he preferred to encourage the Balrog Slayer's friendship, for thus far the noble elf had allowed no distinction to be made between his station and that of his guest, a lowly messenger from a lesser realm. He had judged Legolas worthy of respect long before he had any means to learn the lineage of the archer's House. Being accepted in this manner was highly prized in the young warrior's heart, and he made his decision quickly to trust the re-born elf.

"Nar anessi arrúcima," (There are worse names to be called,) offered Cuthenin, "hequa melindo Glorfindelwa Ondolindello." (than the bed-mate of Glorfindel of Gondolin.)

The venerable Vanya's jaw gaped wide and his eyes expanded to impossible dimensions such that Legolas had to struggle to maintain a straight face, for he was not finished. Patiently he awaited his companion's return to reason, watching from eyes veiled beneath golden lashes.

"Polil quetë Quenya," (You can speak Quenya.) Glorfindel managed to choke out after a few more seconds elapsed, colouring as he recalled the things Erestor had said of Legolas.

"Aye, an hanyan Quenya yando." (Yes, and I understand Quenya also.) iterated Cuthenin serenely, a slight smile threatening to ruin the thrust of his joke. "Enquentën, nar anessi arrúcima." (As I said, there are more terrible names to be given.)

"Man?" (What?) Glorfindel was too stunned to be following the archer's words very closely or perhaps he would have anticipated the final remark.

"Nyáraryë ilyaquen nanyë melindorya." (He could tell everyone I am his lover.)

Legolas remained still, observing the Vanya's response from his outwardly relaxed pose while inside he was suddenly fearful that this was entirely too forward and he should not presume upon his elder's sensibilities so brashly. But then a small quirk of the Balrog Slayer's lips preceded a hearty laugh and Cuthenin's patience was rewarded with a broad smile and shining eyes of sapphire mirth. He returned the expression gladly and exhaled the tension from his lungs.

"Manë quentë," (Well said.) Glorfindel nodded and allowed himself another slow, indulgent inspection of the fair warrior beside him. "We shall have to devise a way to repay Erestor for his mean-spirited gossiping."

"Nay, he is a bore," scowled Legolas, not willing to give the sour-tempered seneschal the satisfaction of causing him enough distress to require retaliation. "I care not for what he says of me unless he names me a liar or a coward. I would ask, however, that you not reveal my proficiency in the High Tongue to the general population, or to Erestor in particular."

"Indeed, I shall guard your trust in me well. But do not underestimate the Noldo, Cuthenin, he can be very vindictive when he so chooses. At the very least, he has seen the insignia worked upon your arm and knows your family name. He is Lord Elrond's kinsman and has the power to make others believe you deliberately concealed who you are in order to spy on our country and report on these perilous events."

"Ai! I cannot allow him to besmirch Hîren Adar's (my Lord Father's) House thusly! Is he likely to reveal my status in Greenwood to these gossips?" Now Legolas was truly aggitated, for he had already caused his father enough heartache and had for so long hidden his ilicit desires. Though he did not understand what the Vanya meant about the dangerous situation of which he was supposedly gathering knowlege, it was doubly damning to be accused of have such tales return to Thranduil's court would be disasterous.

"Nay, that can be prevented at least. I shall speak with Elrond immediately and he will reign in his kinsman's venemous tongue. We must decide how to proceed henceforth. How shall I call you?"

Legolas thought on this only a moment, for it seemed perfectly clear to him how it must be. He had come to relay a simple message, accept the chastisement and censure of the wizard, and return to his own country as quickly as possible. That Mithrandir was actually present was a boon and now he hoped not to have to meet with the imposing Peredhil Lord at all. There was no need to explain his heritage to anyone beyond Glorfindel, but his name could no longer remain secret.

"You may refer to me as Cuthenin, but that shall be a privilege to others. Let the rest of the people know me as Legolas, for I am not displeased with that name, and it need not be accompanied by any other designation indicating rank. I only sought to hide the connection to spare my father and my people any shame my failure might bring upon them. It is one thing for a green soldier to make such a detrimental error in judgement, but quite another for the King's youngest to do so. To the Noldor I must remain merely another silvan messenger."

"Yet you have introduced yourself as Cuthenin to my warriors. Erestor's words will contradict this; how shall that be negated without revealing the reason you sought to hide your identity?"

"Nay, Cuthenin is also genuine, for thus was I named by my peers upon reaching majority and most call me this in my homeland. It is for my skill with the bow, obviously, and many elves have such names: those given at birth and those taken upon realising the nature of one's gifts.

"We shall not dispute Erestor; he learned my family-name only because of the marks I bear. He can have his fun gossiping over that barbaric practice and I shall expound its purpose to any that dare ask the reason for it. There is nothing whatsoever amusing over the need for such, and the Noldo will have revealed his vindictive heart by mocking the dire conditions my people face."

"Indeed, you shall not have to explain anything, for I shall spread the truth myself by informing my warriors of the situation as well as Lord Elrond. Legolas Cuthenin you shall be, then."

"Hannaden, Glorfindel. (My thanks) I remain in your debt, for it is my dearest wish to undo the disgrace upon my House my deeds have caused rather than add to it."

The Wood Elf fell silent then, and Glorfindel saw the sorrow return to his eyes and the defeat steal over his harried features. It was time to deal with this mounting grief, and the Vanya believed he at last knew a remedy for the silvan's suffering soul.

Yet expedience demanded that he counter Erestor's vengeful grudge first and with reluctance Glorfindel left Cuthenin in the pools, dressing swiftly and hastening to inform Elrond of his newest guest's circumstances.

TBC

Chapter Text

Canthui Peth: Gannen Nedhened (Part Four: Caught in the Middle)

"…brazenly escorted his latest quarry to the family spa, flaunting him right before my face. Well does Glorfindel know my habits and at what time I may be found there."

"Mayhap he forgot. What is the silvan like? I heard he is fair of face and fierce of mien."

"Fair enough, but he was not very bold when I saw him. The Wood Elf is all enormous blue eyes and yellow hair, just like a certain Galadhrim warden who should be lashed for his scandalous effrontery. No slight intended upon the grandeur of your flaxen mane, Lindir."

"Nay, no insult is taken, Gildirn (Star-gazer - a nick-name for Erestor). I am Sindar, as well you know, and my colour derives from my father's distant connection to the Vanyar. But pray continue; what more did you note other than the hue of his tresses?"

"I saw everything and there was nothing unusual about his physique, if that is what you want to know. Well formed and well proportioned, yet he is slight of build and small of stature. If not for all the barbaric tattoos one might mistake him for an elfling on the cusp of maturity. In fact, the messenger is probably younger than Estel."

"Surely not! Aragorn is only eighty-seven years old; even were the silvan twice that he would be little more than a babe."

"I cannot be sure of the exact number of coranar (years), but he barely looks old enough to be off the breast much less running around in the wilds."

"I thought you did not like him; now you sound as if you would make a play for the youth. Is that your plan, Erestor? Will you vie against your former love for the rodwen vaethor (virgin warrior)?"

The two elves sat in the comfort of a cluttered den filled with books and parchment scrolls, maps and architectural diagrams, charts of the heavens, a globe or two and several well-crafted telescopes and spyglasses of assorted sizes and powers of magnification. It was overall a brown room; seemingly every shade of the colour must be represented, from stark tan where the sun's gleam polished the pinewood floor to the rich mahogany and walnut of the elegantly formed furniture. There was a desk, overflowing with sheaves and scrolls, ink and quills, ledgers and log-books enough to require a month's diligent perusal to clear away. The chair tucked behind it was massive, upholstered in tough deer-hide stained almost black, patched and re-paired; its padded seat compressed into a perfect cast of its owner's rear.

A collection of less formal chairs and sofas occupied an alcove just inside a triangular foyer where the long winding staircase ended. Another door led from the landing to a small bedchamber and a third opened on the room between that and the cluttered office. Bookcases lined the inner walls of the workroom and defined a narrow chimney with a grate only large enough to burn coal inside it. This hearth dually served the bedroom behind the wall it filled. The shelves, stuffed with tomes, remained the only tidy, organised component of the suite.

Except for the magnificent observatory.

The clover-leaf shaped apartment was situated at the topmost story of the Last Homely House and the ceiling of the central, high-domed chamber was made of curved, heavily leaded, over-lapping glass panes. These were hinged at their bases and could be opened out and laid flat upon the surrounding roof like the petals of a flower. An ingenious platform occupied the floor beneath this unusual skylight and mounted on this was a tremendous telescope. Due to a series of cleverly designed levers and gears, the optical masterpiece could be raised up through the opening with unbelievable ease and trained in any direction upon the heavens.

Once lifted to its full height, the platform came level with a broad circular, railed walkway. Utilising this, an observer could point and manipulate the telescope into any angle or orientation. The star-gazing devise was Erestor's pride and joy, for there was no other like it anywhere in Middle-earth, nor in Aman, he believed. Upon this highest point in the valley's centre, the Noldo Lord spent his nights, examining the movements of the stars and mapping their circular tracks.

He was not so engaged at this hour of the day, however. Having returned from his interrupted bath, Erestor had reported briefly to Elrond what he had observed of the silvan's identity and then sought for the company of his good friend Lindir in order to share a more in depth recitation of his impressions. He was sprawled over an over-stuffed leather armchair the colour of nutmeg, absently twirling a wineglass in his fingers. Lindir sat primly on the long matching sofa, feet resting on a tapestry covered footstool, as he sipped from his own goblet, peering in speculative amusement at his agitated friend.

"I had not thought of that," mused the Noldo, eyes narrowing to a predatory slit of eerie lightlessness. Lindir lifted his brows and opened his mouth to respond when a rap on the door both belayed his remark and preceded the entry of a formally clad servant.

"My Lord, Hîren Elrond (Lord Elrond) asks for your presence in his study," stated the young page with a stiff bow that ended in an abrupt step back as the ebony haired Noldo leaped from his seat.

"Hannaden; return to your duties, Lochgaer," (Red Ringlet) answered Erestor, already moving toward the door. "I shall endeavour to complete the trite little tale for you another time, Lindir. Perhaps Elrond has more news of the messenger's mission."

"I look forward to it! Yet I may be occupied later this day. I shall seek you out if I chance upon any interesting observations of my own in the meantime," replied the minstrel, rising to accompany his friend from the suite. Yet Lindir found he was unwilling to move at the speedy pace set by the Noldo Lord and soon Erestor and the page were out of sight.

A low murmur of voices engaged in serious discussion met Erestor's ears as he reached the hallway of the Elven Lord's private apartment. The study door stood ajar and the advisor barely paused to knock before pushing through it and striding forth into the room. He spied Elrond standing on the balcony overlooking the western sky and the high craggy cliff of the shielding wall. The scion of Eärendil turned to acknowledge his kinsman with a slight nod but did not stop speaking.

"…are convinced the injuries are no longer a threat to the archer's health? I do not want to force the issue with him but neither would I knowingly send a courier back over the mountains in less than hardy constitution."

"Aye, the wounds are healed, not entirely so but the poison diminishes, allowing the body's natural ability to complete the process. With a short respite, the Wood Elf should be ready for anything." It was Glorfindel who answered, of course. He eyed the Chief Advisor with cold appraisal.

"Oh but surely he had those wounds when he defeated the band of Orcs hiding along the North Road," Erestor sneered. "I am certain we need not spare any worry for his ability to survive the return journey."

"Nay, it is one thing for the archer to have battled his way through, injured and exhausted but driven by desperate necessity, and quite another for me to deliver him into it again without assuring his strength is fully renewed," admonished Elrond with a sharp look at his kinsman.

"As you say, Lord," the advisor acquiesced.

"Erestor, I have asked you here to refresh my memory on the matter of Thranduil's family. Please, be seated." Elrond indicated a chair near Glorfindel. "What intelligence do we have on the number and ages of his offspring?" And got right to the point.

"Ah, so Glorfindel has confirmed the nature of those artful decorations? What tales we have on the history of the latter generations of Oropher's House are not very reliable. Other than the births of Thranduil's two sons, one shortly after his arrival in Greenwood and a second following the dreadful losses at Dagorlad, nothing more can be ascribed to fact." Erestor sat as he spoke, ignoring the Vanya warrior. "However, his wife-mate is believed departed for Mandos many centuries ago, a victim of poisoning from the encroachment of the spiders at the end of Sîdh Tirithbant (Watchful Peace). This silvan messenger, marked as a third son, is most likely some bastard got on a serving girl or a courtesan, perhaps."

"Tell me, Erestor, what is it that makes you so vile of temper in these days?" demanded Glorfindel in indignation, for this was by far the worst slur the Noldo had made upon the Wood Elf's personage yet. "Yon messenger has never harmed you, of this I am certain. Is it the connection to Thranduil? Does your bitterness stem from the…"

"My vileness, Glorfindel, my bitterness? What talk is this of slander when you utter such to me?" Erestor rose and loomed over the Balrog Slayer, face a livid mask of outrage.

"Enough!" barked Elrond, scowling at each in turn. "I will not permit your petty squabble to invade the tranquility of my domain. Be seated, cousin," he said and awaited the seneschal's obedience. When both his most trusted counsellors were at least outwardly peaceable, Elrond favoured each with a warning glare from grey eyes swarming with the fury of a gathering storm.

"Yet the error was mine. It was wrong of me to even bring it up, for it does not matter what we may say about the messenger's status," he continued, clasping his hands behind him and facing the pleasing scenery once more. "Thranduil has made certain to declare him a son and that is that.

"His age seems short, by both of your estimations. At most he would be in his seven-hundredth year, if he is the late Queen's offspring, and at least, well, that is anyone's guess. What say you, Glorfindel?"

"Not anywhere near seven-hundred, my Lord. I doubt he is past his second century."

"And your opinion, Erestor?"

"I concur; I remarked to Lindir that he seems younger than Aragorn."

"Nay, not so immature as that," countered Glorfindel, "but certainly much younger than any other woodland messenger sent to Lorien. I do not think he is far from his Coll o Gweth (Mantle of Maturity - Coming of Age), for he indicated he has not yet lost innocence."

"How did you learn that?" demanded Erestor.

"By asking."

A heavy silence followed this pronouncement as Elrond bent such a steely eye upon them both that neither dared resume the bickering contention.

"Then I doubt it not," declared the Lord of the Realm. "He is less than five centuries, probably little more than two. Highly irregular for him to be exposed to such rigours! The question bothering me concerns more than his age; why would Thranduil risk his own flesh and blood just to bring us tidings, even grave news such as this?"

"From what Legolas has told me, it is more to do with insufficient forces to spare. I do not think anyone in the Greenwood is accorded special consideration, regardless of rank or lineage," offered Glorfindel.

"So you believe it was just his turn to go?" Elrond's tone made it plain he did not believe this theory. He glanced over his shoulder and delivered a repudiating grimace complete with arched brow and matching, one-sided sardonic uplift of his lips.

"Nay, I did not say so. He told me he was charged to see to it because he was involved in the events he must report. He believes himself responsible for the situation and its consequences."

"I do not wonder the King found Legolas inadequate to the task, for one so callow should never have been placed in a position of authority," sniped Erestor.

"You do not even know what the news involves! How can you make such a claim?" exploded Glorfindel, rising and pointing down at his former friend and lover.

"I do not need to know; one look at him is enough to tell he is in severe disfavour at least from his King and probably from the silvan populace in general. No loving father would deploy his youngest child, one practically still dripping from the amniotic sac, on so doomed a journey," Erestor answered with smug satisfaction, relaxing as Glorfindel tensed. "It strikes me he was sent away to meet his death."

"You underestimate his ability; he dispatched a goodly troop of vermin very near our lands. Every arrow found its target with deadly precision. He was not awarded his name for naught and no doubt his King is fully aware of this gift. You are deceived by your own prejudice, Erestor; all the Athedrainyn are small in stature and thus more youthful in appearance than their accumulated years deserve."

"I bear no disdain for this Wood Elf beyond that which I hold for the race as a whole, and this is not bigotry but a justified distrust for their wisdom and intelligence. My evaluation is based on personal observations during the Last Alliance, not unsubstantiated hearsay or rumour," remarked Erestor languidly, smiling up at his colleague's irritated and highly coloured countenance. "As for the slain Orcs, there is another opinion."

"Aye, as sorry and baseless a defamation as any I have ever heard. If some other elves of Greenwood aided him, then where are they? Surely even had they left him alone yestereve they would have resumed their travel at dawn and would have reached the borders before now," countered Glorfindel.

"Far!" (Enough!) spoke Elrond with sufficient emphasis to cause both his advisors to drop their heads in embarrassment. The Keeper of Vilya eyed them both with undisguised displeasure, for he had long ago grown weary of the ill-feeling lingering between the two. Even now, when he felt the need to tend the injured hobbit, he was forced to referee yet another dispute and attempt to fathom which of them had made a better, or at least a less biased, assessment of the woodland messenger. From his perspective, the hapless archer had become the focus of a power-struggle neither of the counsellors could hope to win, for the goal of each was merely to wound the heart of the other. He decided to point this out to them.

"It is an imposition upon me, personally, to be forced to extricate this guest from the cross-fire of your continuing contest to learn which of you is the most pig-headed and arrogant. Cuthenin will have much of note to report to his King, yet little of it will be favourable to our realm and people if this continues.

"Erestor, there is no need to speak so harshly regarding this elf's status for, even if your thoughts explain his situation, how is this a thing he could will or un-will? Why make the son culpable for his sire's errors? Thranduil claims him, that shall have to be good enough for us, regardless if he wedded the mother or not.

"Furthermore, keeping his station secret is not so hard to understand; we need not resort to assigning his motives to punishment and its resultant shame. How often do Elrohir and Elladan go forth lacking any indication, whether on their persons or in their speech, of their relationship to me and this valley? We all understand the reason for such subterfuge; far more severe would any reprisals be should my sons be captured by our enemies and their identities revealed. Far more devastating to have their lives held hostage in exchange for my aid in an unscrupulous cause, or even for possession of a particular article which I wield."

"Your words are wise, My Lord," Erestor stood and made a deep bow to his kinsman, cheeks stained with abashed discomfort to be so chastised, and in front of Glorfindel at that. "I shall make no further reference to the messenger's status among his folk or his worthiness to fulfil his appointed task."

"Well said," approved the Peredhel Lord. He turned his attention to the Balrog Slayer next. "Mellonen (my friend), your words say much to me, both in what you have spoken and what you have held back. I take it you have been entrusted with confidential communication from the silvan archer." Elrond lifted his hand to forbid the words Glorfindel opened his mouth to utter. "That is well; I am pleased you have earned the warrior's trust, for the Wood Elves do not give it lightly. Mind that you treat the allegiance with the respect it deserves, for this is the son of a valourous and noble elf, no matter what Thranduil's detractors may allege.

"Neither will I attempt to pry beyond the limits of your honestly given word, as long as your intent is genuine. Yet I will not have an impressionable youth come to harm due to some unresolved issues between yourself and Erestor. If he is as young as our combined guessing suggests, then Legolas is in a most vulnerable period of development. Should I deem it necessary, I will intervene in this budding friendship at once."

The noble Vanya had turned the colour of a sun-ripened pomegranate upon hearing this and straightened his spine to almost painful rigidity. Elrond had come just short of warning him off a romantic seduction of the silvan, as if Glorfindel was set on pursuing the ellon for the mere thrill of relieving Cuthenin of innocence or to spite his previous lover. Or both.

He flashed an accusing glare at Erestor, for the advisor had obviously wasted no time in reporting to Elrond upon leaving the baths. It was likely his Lord's low evaluation of the Vanya's morals had spawned in the clever minded advisor's bitter heart. The Balrog Slayer took a long moment to reign in his wrath over this oblique yet sharp rebuke. A deep breath allowed him to steady his mind and relax his hands, which he found had curled into angry fists quite without his conscious instruction. Glorfindel bowed.

"My Lord, I will in every way possible honour the messenger's good faith in me. It is not my wish to see Cuthenin suffer harm on my watch, either."

"Good, I am satisfied." Elrond paced slowly out onto the balcony as he spoke, absently twiddling one long tendril of his brunette hair between his fingers. "Now then, I think it is clear we should not spread the facts regarding his lineage among the populace of Imladris, for he does not wish it known and I see no purpose in assigning him undue attention. From preliminary descriptions, he shall receive enough of that as it is.

"However, with the council convening in so short a time, it will be necessary to share his true identity with the elves participating. These shall be limited to the three of us plus Galdor and my sons should they return in time. Mithrandir probably knows all about it already but the mortals need not be informed." Abruptly he wheeled and glowered at Erestor. "Unless your tongue has been even looser than normal today. What have you said of the Wood Elf, other than your insinuations regarding Glorfindel's inordinate interest?"

"I did not say…I merely noticed that he is of a certain type…" stammered the advisor, now as red-faced as the Balrog Slayer.

"What does that mean?" fumed Glorfindel, rounding on the Noldo in umbrage. "Not everything is related to your imagined betrayal and unwarranted accusations against Rumil."

"Silence!" shouted Elrond. Both his counsellors jumped to hear him raise his voice, an uncommon occurrence in Imladris. "I will not tolerate this. Cease this juvenile argument and attend to the matter at hand which, may I remind you both, is paramount to the future of all the free peoples of Arda!"

"Gohenna nîn, Hîren," (Forgive me, my Lord.) Each murmured quietly, duly chastened.

Elrond regarded them with overt disappointment that caused their lowered heads to sink further until their chins nearly rested upon their chests. "Erestor? Please respond to my question."

"Aye, Lord. It is true I have remarked to Lindir of Legolas' youth and beauty and Glorfindel's personal attention to his comfort. I have spoken of his tattoos and the name Legolas and of his relationship to the Greenwood's ruling House, but this only to Lindir and no other. He is not wont to spread this news, for I informed him it is exclusive."

"Eglerio Varda," (Praise Varda) remarked the Peredhel Lord with dry sarcasm. "Lindir is probably the only one of your friends capable of discretion. I take it that you shared with others?"

Now Erestor wished he had a wizard's capacity to vanish into nothingness or perhaps a magic ring like Bilbo's so as to become invisible. It was too evident that the Lord of Imladris was cognisant of his propensity for tongue-wagging and was not unaware of the often spiteful nature of such converse.

"I may have mentioned Legolas to Elamrûn (Eastern Star) and Ithil'wath," he admitted, "but not his relationship to Oropher's House."

"Oh? Well that is surprising. I would have thought this exactly the kind of malicious rumour you would enjoy starting, knowing you were the author of all the unpleasant speculations flowing among the conversations in the Hall of Fire tonight," Glorfindel snarled in disdain. When Erestor's countenance became a sickly shade of moonlit mist, light dawned in the Vanya's thoughts.

"You were reserving that bit for a full audience! Did you mean to publicly announce your scurrilous interpretation of the archer's legitimacy?" It was clear Erestor could not deny this as he remained silent. "Oh that is despicable!" spat Glorfindel. "And even with that insult averted, Elamrûn will spread your seamy innuendoes throughout the nobility and among the diplomats; word of it will no doubt reach the visiting mortals also! As for Ithil'wath, he needed no fuel to feed his unreasonable resentment for the Wood Elf. You have quite surpassed even your most vitriolic tattling!"

"Indeed. Yet I have limited the spread of this unsavoury depiction at least partially, for I intercepted Elamrûn and cautioned him to hold his thoughts private. I can only hope he had not had the opportunity to meet with his cronies. As for Ithil'wath, I was not aware your friends included the lower ranks of Imladris' guards, Erestor," droned Elrond, fixing his advisor with the piercing light of disillusionment.

"I am sorry and yet I do not understand all this fuss over an insignificant woodland warrior. It is not as if we have never made these primitive folk the centre of such jesting before," the advisor made a lame attempt at justification. This was a mistake, for Glorfindel had all he could do to keep from doing violence to the elf.

"That is beyond tolerance! Do not include me in your sordid idea of amusement. As for this particular archer, the insignia of Oropher's House should be sufficient cause for catering more to his good graces instead of creating an enemy among the Elven King's sons."

"Exclude me from it as well, cousin, for I hope I am not unmindful of the fact that Thingol is my great-great-grandsire. The Sindar are not so far away from my lineage and this elf Legolas carries that blood. He is almost a kinsman!" added Elrond.

Now Erestor was angry, for not only had he been exposed as an incorrigible quidnunc but his words had been turned against him, made to malign the Lord of his realm. Additionally, he must endure this scathing denouncement from Glorfindel, who had long ago wronged him and never paid for it. He kept his seething heart silent, however, for he wished no further abuses to fall from Elrond's lips.

"Well, it cannot be helped. What you have spoken cannot be unspoken. Legolas begins his stay in Imladris under notoriety but not debased as the King's bastard. Let not the gossips have that to chew on; there is more than enough to satisfy them when the accusations made by Ithil'wath are added. Am I clear, Erestor?"

"Perfectly, my Lord," the advisor replied with a dip of his head and his eyes upon the ornately patterned rug beneath his boots.

"Then we shall proceed as you suggested, Glorfindel, and refer to him as Legolas Cuthenin when among the populace at large," Elrond continued. "Further, I will have Legolas' report given at the council, for I am convinced, as is Mithrandir, that his presence is not coincidental. The Wood Elf is meant to be here at this time and I believe his fate now intersects with the Ring."

"Ai! He will not be well pleased to hear of this, Lord!" exclaimed the veteran warrior. "He desires to return home as soon as possible and left his fallen companions in the mountain. This weighs upon his heart and mind grievously."

"It cannot be helped. I can little hasten the healing of Frodo's wounds, for Morgul poison is both treacherous and tenacious. Frodo will not be strong enough for the rigours of such debate for at least another day. You will have to find means to convince the archer of the importance of the cause before us. Say that I insist he remain, beg his aid with the patrols, beseech his tutelage in archery; I care not as long as he stays. As for this grief, it is no light matter."

"True. He needs to find an outlet for the shock of losing every elf under his captaincy, even though these were but three in number. This was his first trial of command," concurred the Vanya gravely.

"Most unfortunate. Mayhap Mithrandir knows something of silvan customs in mourning the dead." Elrond shook his head and frowned. "As for the loss of self-confidence, I feel you may allay that to large extent. He is bound to be impressed by the opinions of a warrior of such renown."

Erestor could not stifle a scoffing snort at that remark and while he gloated over Glorfindel's bristling displeasure, he was not happy to have garnered Elrond's anew.

"Yes, Erestor? You wished to add something?" The Lord of Imladris turned to his Chief Advisor, reproof in his cool tones and censure in his icy glare. "Have you any knowledge of the ceremonies in the Greenwood for honouring the deceased?"

"Nay, the Wood Elves are the most secretive of all elf-kind. Those primitive rituals are not for outsiders. I do not believe any Noldorin elf has witnessed a silvan burial. No one from Lorien, to my recollection, has attended a funeral in the Greenwood for aeons. Mayhap Lord Celeborn would know."

"That is not very enlightening," Elrond remarked drily, "and I doubt Celeborn would be privy to their ways. Nevertheless, I will give thought to Galadriel to inquire of him."

Erestor could not help feeling irritated by the open annoyance Elrond displayed. To his mind, the Lord of the Valley should back his kinsman rather than the Balrog Slayer, yet never had Elrond made any mention in sympathy to Erestor of the broken relationship. Yet now he would protect the tender feelings of a common Wood Elf and mock his cousin's ignorance of silvan ways. How could he be faulted for lacking the information his Lord required? Never before had the superstitious lore of the forest-dwellers been of interest to anyone in Imladris. It rankled that failing to understand burial customs of such lesser elves put him in a poor light. Still, he said nothing.

"Lord, if I may, I believe the comprehension we seek can be gleaned here in Imladris," asserted Glorfindel. Both Noldor turned questioning eyes upon him and he continued. "There are certain prayers and incantations inked upon Legolas' skin that come from a place far removed from Greenwood. I have seen such marks on elves belonging to the House of the Tree, of which Galdor was once the mightiest Lord. He will know what needs to be done and I will bid him instruct me."

"Truly? You are saying the Sindar which Oropher led across the Hithaeglir originated in Gondolin?" Elrond was intrigued.

"Well, originated at Cuiviennen, surely, but journeyed thence to Beleriand. Many survived the wars with Melkor and fled with Turgon to Gondolin. After the fall of the city, these elves made the long trek back. A multitude was the host of Sindarin elves Oropher salvaged from the destruction of Doriath. Among these must have been a remnant few from Gondolin and they must have preserved the old ways, for Legolas bears the evidence of it."

"Fascinating! I admit to heightened anticipation in meeting this unusual elf. Pursue that link and keep me informed of Legolas' disposition." Elrond voiced this dismissal with a smile and then met his Chief Advisor's gaze a final time. "Thank you for your input, Erestor; I am sure I can depend upon you to surmount personal reservations in order to accommodate the many divers peoples among us during this pivotal moment in history. The success of this perilous venture may depend on such co-operation, and our example will be an invaluable instruction for the mortals to heed."

The two counsellors bowed low and left the Lord's study together, proceeding in stony silence along the corridor. At the juncture of a winding narrow downward stairwell, Glorfindel turned away to descend and Erestor would not let him go without a parting jab.

"If you seek Galdor, try the suite reserved for Celeborn on the second floor," he offered, "though I know not why you need his aid. You no doubt have ample ideas on how to distract the silvan from his sorrows."

Glorfindel halted and glared over his shoulder, yet he decided any retort would please Erestor and give him some sense of victory, and so he resumed his pace without further conflict.

Now that was entirely unsatisfactory to Elrond's Chief Advisor and he was struck with the desire to locate the Wood Elf and see what manner of reaction he could raise from him. Someone needs to warn the youth regarding the fickleness of Glorfindel's affections, ere his heart is wounded. Assuming the silvan would be quartered along with the Lorien messenger, Erestor turned to follow a different passageway. As luck would have it, this carried him through the wing wherein the dwarven Lords were staying and he was waylaid by one of the lesser Naugrim chieftains. He was forced to endure a lengthy diatribe alleging effrontery from among the humans from Gondor and had to intercede in order to prevent a formal claim being lodged against the foolish nobleman. He was thus delayed nearly two hours.

By this time Erestor decided he would postpone his encounter with the Wood Elf until after the midday meal, which would be ready in short order. He doubled back and ascended to the third level of the family wing, taking a back corridor that was a shortcut to the twisting spiral up to the roof and his private apartment. There was little of interest in this area of the house, for its rooms were mainly for storage. Therefore he was astounded to round the corner and nearly run upon the archer, leaning casually against the wall by the opened door of a small storeroom. The elf heard his step and looked back, presenting a cheek marked with a vivid, new, swelling bruise of deep violet. Curiosity was overcome by indignation, however, and Erestor could not constrain his tongue from voicing it.

"This area is reserved for the Lord's family. What are you doing in here?" He demanded in condescending tones and nearly fell over when a second and then a third head peered out from the confines of the closet. The Lord's twin sons had returned at last and, as was their nature, informed no one. They stepped into the hall and flanked the messenger.

"Well we live here, do you not remember?" jibed Elladan.

"I do not think he was speaking to us, muindor, (brother)" corrected Elrohir. "We invited Legolas to join us."

"For he has lost his pack in a harrowing battle and has need of spare clothing while his own is laundered and mended," continued the elder twin, gently touching the slashed stain upon the shoulder of the courier's shirt.

"Mayhap you can aid us; where are the garments Estel outgrew in his twentieth year? We are of a mind that they will fit our guest better than anything we have in our wardrobes," Elrohir stated and placed a hand upon the archer's shoulder in a gesture that spoke volubly of protective comradeship.

Erestor stared from one to the other in open displeasure and included the silvan in his exasperated scrutiny. It seemed to be the day for this elf to be the cause for making him appear foolish among his kinfolk. He compressed his lips thinly and took a moment to compose his mind before saying anything else. He inhaled a breath and let it out slowly.

"How generous of you both, and highly appropriate; I am sure Elrond would approve such kindness," he said awkwardly.

"Kindness? To me it seems a simple courtesy and the least of favours considering what I have heard from the night patrol," Elrohir frowned, disliking his kinsman's cold attitude.

"Well said. And I would not wish to unsettle the rest of the guests at mealtime by having them view the gory evidence of our mutual troubles," concurred the Chief Advisor, realising he needed to adjust his mood or stand another scolding, this time in front of the Wood Elf and from elves he had tutored long ago. "I believe the trunk you seek is on the third shelf at the back of the closet. It is the one with the painted scenes depicting the Valar and the Making of Arda."

"Ah! Of course, that was in Estel's nursery. How did I forget?" laughed Elladan and disappeared inside once more as the rest of the elves tuned their attention to the sounds of his rummaging. Elrond's eldest soon sounded an exclamation of satisfaction. "Ha carnen!" (It is done!) His arm reappeared ahead of the bulk of him, bearing a folded, paper-wrapped bundle. "Here, Legolas; I believe these will suffice. See, Toltharil (Fetcher) even labelled the set: 'silk shirt, white, six palms (1 palm equals 4 inches); brown sueded leggings, eight palms; indigo over-tunic, six palms. These measurements are fairly close to yours, I would warrant." Elladan exited fully and stood beside his brother as both evaluated the archer's slender frame.

"Hannaden," said Legolas with a bow and accepted the package.

"Nay, I am thinking even these are too broad of girth and too long in the shanks. He will need a belt of some sort," argued Elrohir. He shifted his hold to the archer's forearm and tugged as he proceeded down the passage. "Follow me, our apartment is just one floor above. There you may change clothing in privacy and we will deliver your tattered garb to the laundry staff."

"Oh, I am able to tend to such things; there is no need to trouble the Lord's employees on my behalf," Legolas had never been catered to by servants before and was a bit rattled, uncertain if he was expected to acquiesce or demure. He decided on the latter, reasoning that messengers were not considered guests and the Lord's sons were merely being polite, for they could not know of his lineage and rank.

"What nonsense!" retorted Elladan, moving up alongside and taking the Wood Elf's other arm. "You are our guest and we will not allow you to work in the laundry while you are here!" So saying he smiled at the young silvan's uncertainty as Elrohir laughed merrily.

"Aye! How our Adar would scold us if he learned of such! You will just have to adjust to our ways, Legolas, for Imladris is not like the Greenwood." With that they escorted the silvan down the hall and away, leaving Erestor to tidy up the disarrayed storeroom.

TBC

Chapter Text

Lefnui Peth: Mellyn Gwîn, Cyth Vrûn (Part Five: New Friends, Old Foes)

Really, he had wanted only to be clean again; free of the grime of the bloody battle, cleansed of the muck of the road, scrubbed of the contamination of death and doom. It clung to him as close as his own skin, overwhelming his scent and tainting his thoughts, this vile film of evil, decay, and putrid detritus. He washed with relentless ardency, determined to lave every molecule of filth from his person. His hair gave him resistance, tangling in knots where clumps of stuff, the composition of which he feared to learn, had dried hard and cemented the strands together. He had already lathered his tresses thrice and was beginning the fourth attempt to rectify his mane's appearance.

No doubt that is why he was overlong in the bath. That, and the hot-tempered water that never cooled, caused him to neglect the advance of the day, and thus he was just dunking his head below the water in a final rinse when two new bathers entered the spa. Cuthenin heard their startled gasps and fought to clear his vision of sopping hair and streaming fluid, blinking to be sure he was not imagining the people upon the pathway.

They were short of stature like dwarves yet not as rugged in feature or as solid in form. They were similar to humans in face and structure yet had ears reminiscent of elf-kind and feet the like of which he had never imagined. Broad, those were, unshod and covered in a fine, long mantle of hair. One was taller yet rounder and stared through shrewd green eyes alight with awe and delight. His hair, both on his head and his feet, was coloured like ripened wheat. His clothing was provincial and rather quaint, and he carried a wicker basket filled with bathing necessities.

The other was far thinner and seemed the younger. His tresses were dark and all askew in a wild mass of curls and ringlets. In contrast to the first, he was bundled up in robes and covers as if convelscent. His serious face had the look of wisdom, newly bought before its time with the harsh coin of pain, bound within the depths of his fair blue eyes. Legolas was both comforted and saddened to sense recognition of this shared estate of shattered innocence in the steady if somewhat astonished gaze regarding him. He imagined his own countenance must bear a similar expression and attempted a smile.

"Mae govannen," he said and then wondered if they could understand him. "Apologies, I mean to say good day to you," he amended in accented Westron that earned a huge smile from the taller, rounder one.

"And a good day to you, Master Elf," he said and made a quick bob of a bow, difficult with the basket still in hand. "I am sorry for disturbing you; Lord Elrond's orders, you see."

Legolas tried to follow this but was bewildered on two counts: first, how would Lord Elrond know he was still at the baths and second, why would he send these two strangers to retrieve him? He looked up at the sky and decided it was later than mid-morn but not yet noon. He considered himself quite fluent in Westron but this made no sense. He was about to ask for clarification when the slender one elbowed his comrade sharply while giggling.

"Sam, he does not know what you are talking about! And it is rude not to give your name first; what would the Gaffer say about that?"

This made Legolas blush in embarrassment for he thought the small person was chiding him for failing to introduce himself. He hastened to correct the oversight and found the round one had the exact same idea. Their words got all mixed together and neither understood what the other had said. For some reason, the thin one found this immensely amusing and started giggling again as he shook his head, hands on his hips as he looked from the one to the other.

"Better let me start this time," he warned with a wide smile. "I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire and this worthy Hobbit by my side is Samwise Gamgee."

"Mae govannen," the archer said again. "Legolas Cuthenin from the Woodland Realm across the Misty Mountains. Pleased I am to meet Hobbits, for I knew not what Glorfindel meant when he tried to explain."

"By the Old Took! Did you hear that, Mr. Frodo? A real Wood Elf from Mirkwood! I wonder if he knows old Bilbo?" Sam gushed, gawking with renewed interest at the head and shoulders of the wild elf crouched in the pool.

"Yes, Sam, I heard. But you know Bilbo did not get to meet any of the Mirkwood elves when he was there," said Frodo.

"Greenwood," Legolas spoke the word in affronted aggravation. Ever had he been told the mortals called his homeland this epithet and now he had to learn the stories were true.

"Oh! I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Frodo and bowed quickly. "I am sure it is not murky where the elves live."

Legolas gave a small dip of his chin in acknowledgement and smiled to show he would not hold a grudge over the slight. "Tell me, why did Lord Elrond send you two to get me out of the baths?"

"What?" Sam had such a quizzically befuddled look upon his honest open face that Legolas snorted out a laugh through his nose and followed it up with a high bright bubble of mirthful giggling. It was an infectious sort of sound and soon the Hobbits were joining in.

"You said," Legolas tried to compose himself, "You said Lord Elrond ordered you to disturb me."

The Hobbits gaped at him, then each other, and then set to laughing once more, Sam shaking his head and Frodo waving the air with his hand, trying to indicate the words had been misunderstood. They were pleased to see the elf did not become offended by their glee and instead followed suit, snickering right along with them.

"Oh, this is a right muckled-up meeting and that's for certs," gasped out Sam as his mirth ebbed. "And as usual it's my own fault for speakin' first and thinkin' later. I meant to say that Lord Elrond ordered me to see to it Frodo soaks in the healing springs and I hoped we would not be disturbing you at yours!"

"Ah! That is clearer. Nay, I am finished. All that is left is to comb through my hair and I shall get on with the day. Please, do not wait on my account," the archer said. He made his way, on his knees for modesty's sake, to the step where his basket was still perched and reached in to find the simple tortoiseshell comb the Balrog Slayer had loaned him. Then, guessing the Hobbits would choose the pool furthest from the path, he angled his back in that direction and sat upon his heels. Bending his head low, he drew all the dripping locks to the front and began the careful work of disentangling the fine strands of gold, humming softly as he did.

The sound of the Hobbits footsteps indicated his assessment was correct; they were as shy of bathing in front of strangers as he was, and this made him smile. Soon the rustle of discarded garments followed and after that came two loud splashes and equally voluble hoots of surprise over the temperature of the water. Then another quickly in-drawn breath made him freeze and cease his gentle melody, for he had forgot about the image spanning his shoulder-blades, now displayed for the mortals' inspection.

The symbols and runes, spells and prayers, signs of his House and station; these he did not believe the Hobbits could decipher. Yet he found his heart inexplicably longed for these two not to make light of his illustrated body, and he held his breath awaiting their reaction.

"I never saw anything like that," whispered Sam. "Have you Mr. Frodo?"

"No, I saw some dark makings on a Man's arms in Bree, but no paintings. However, I think it is impolite to be so blunt about it."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Cuthenin, I was just so surprised is all. It is truly beautiful! It does not wash off even in this hot steam?"

"Nay, it is permanent. I do not mind you looking or admiring; it is those who would scorn such that garner my ire."

"What foolish sort of lout would find anything to scoff at in so a fine picture of Gwaihir, the King of Eagles?" wondered Sam aloud and Frodo nodded his agreement. "Mind you, I'm not sayin' I'd be up for it myself. I couldn't sit still long enough for anyone to finish it!"

Legolas laughed at that and looked back over his shoulder to find both Hobbits neck deep in the soothing mineral water. He smiled. If the image was not truly Gwaihir, what did it matter? He sensed only earnestness in Sam's voice and guileless curiosity in both Hobbits' eyes. He felt more gratitude than he had ever imagined such acceptance from folk he had barely met would engender and wondered at this.

"Le hantëan (I thank you), Sam. However, my name is not composed of a first and second part as is the way of mortal kind. Both names are equal and can be said together or singly, but neither need be prefaced by a title."

"Oh," Sam nodded but his eyes shifted to his friend's for edification.

"Legolas or Cuthenin, nothing more," Legolas added, a little red-faced for making something simple so difficult. He resumed his grooming and his tune.

Finally he was done and with a brisk move threw back his head and sent all the long hair spilling back behind him again. With nimble fingers he gathered up the silken strands and quickly braided them back from his face. He approached the stone shelf and gave a short sigh, eyeing his foul clothing neatly folded on the rock. He glanced over to find the Hobbits watching him.

"I would like to ask, if it is not wrong to do so," he began unsteadily, not wishing to insult the Hobbits, for they were guests of Elrond Peredhel not servants in his household. "I only arrived here this morning and I do not know where things are, that is the trouble."

"Of course, if we can help we will and gladly," encouraged Frodo, uncertain what the elf's discomfort was about.

"Do either of you know where the laundering is done? I need to rinse out my clothes, for I do not have any others, yet I am wondering whether this place affords any privacy or not. Indeed, I have no idea how people here tend to such necessities, but I do not like wearing the grimy garments after such an invigorating bath." And only in so saying did he realise that he did feel renewed.

"Aye, goes right against the grain, it does," agreed Sam with a sympathetic nod. "I'm afraid I don't know any more than you, for I've been at Mr. Frodo's side and he's been sick these last four days. This is the first we've left the Healing Ward."

"Ah, then you are the one Glorfindel mentioned! I am glad to see you so near to recovery," Legolas said to Frodo. His features twisted in severe distaste as he held up his blood and mud smeared leggings to demonstrate his problem.

"I see what you mean," said Frodo, sharing a shocked look with Sam. They were not unacquainted with the sort of troubles Legolas must have encountered given the evidence on the fabric. "Perhaps if you asked at the kitchens someone there could direct you. We passed that on the way here. Follow the path and stay to the right; it will lead you into the vegetable garden and the cookhouse is right there, behind the main building. Are you not staying there?"

"Nay, I have separate lodging in the grounds of Glorfindel's home. Thank you for the suggestion; I will try it." Upon saying this he placed both palms upon the rock rim and immediately the Hobbits turned about to offer privacy as he hoisted himself from the pool.

Legolas grinned, thinking he approved of manners in the Shire, and hurriedly towelled off and dressed. The leggings were a must and the torn and dirty shirt he had no substitute for either, but the soiled tunic and cloak he refused to don. Likewise, the boots were so coated with gory crud that he disliked picking them up much less putting his feet in them. He decided to follow the Hobbits' example and go barefoot. He gathered everything save the boots into the basket and lifted it as he stood.

"Good day to you, Sam and Frodo," he called as he left, for he knew his footfalls were too faint for them to hear and their backs were still turned. "I hope we shall meet again; I would like to learn more about your lands and people."

"Yes, we feel the same. Good-bye!" said Frodo.

"Good-bye!" called out Sam. "We should have tea together this afternoon if you are not busy? Our countrymen will not believe we have made friends with a genuine Wood Elf!"

"Very well, I shall find you this afternoon, then." Legolas lifted his arm, unable to wave for he was carrying the boots in one hand and held the basket against his hip with the other. He smiled back at them, amazed to find his soul greatly lightened by his short encounter with the open-hearted Hobbits; a pleasant contrast to his tense introduction to the Noldor of Imladris.

The winding path was coolly shaded for much of the way and dappled light played upon the loam as Anor glanced between the leaves to watch the Wood Elf strolling by. Upon either side the trees sang wordless greetings in the soft rustling of breeze-plucked branches all aflame with vivid orange, red, and yellow leaves, for it was Iavas (Autumn) in the Valley of the Bruinen. Legolas inhaled to his lungs' capacity, relishing the crisp fresh air delicately scented with Hyssop, Lavender, and Buddleia flowering in some unseen garden on the estate's grounds.

He was once more overwhelmed by the distinctly peaceful sense enveloping his thoughts, uncertain if this was the result of the relaxing soak or the new friends he had met. He decided it was both in equal parts and resumed humming the melody he had started in the spa. Indeed, his heart's joy was too bounteous to find expression in anything less than full voice and with delight Legolas burst into song. Indeed, the combination of the picturesque scenery and the amiable meeting quite prevented any of the grisly images of the long journey from intruding.

Cuthenin ambled thus for many minutes, making his tenor a fair counterpoint to the Bruinen's rushing tumble ever-present in the background. It was a fair, capering song lauding the glory of the Greenwood but despite its being one of his favourites, suddenly he ceased in mid-sentence. Just ahead no more than three-hundred paces, the trail would intersect with another from the left. This he knew because it was not empty and he could hear the walkers long before they came into sight. Their tread was heavy and they stepped in measured unison, tramping along in single file. No elves were these, he knew, and prepared himself to face the company of dwarves soon to cross his path.

In chagrin he gazed down at his tattered clothes and general deshabille, unshod and half-dressed, for he never went about in public without a proper tunic and foot-gear. No one could even tell he had bothered to wash, save for his well-scrubbed face and hair. It was beyond humiliating to present himself this way in front of Naugrim.

In a moment of panic he toyed with the notion of casting aside the boots and basket and leaping into the welcoming bows of the trees. He discarded that thought and resigned himself to the inevitable, for there could be no doubt that the dwarves would have heard his singing quite clearly. It would be far worse to be caught out hiding from them in the branches. What mockery they would make of me then!

Due to the cover of the foliage, he could not see them before the trails met, even with his sharp vision. They spied him at almost the same instant and stopped as one, all four of them, and stared warily as he approached.

Legolas continued walking, albeit extremely slowly, down the path. He could not deny being inquisitive for he had not met dwarves before, though he certainly had seen them passing through the Greenwood on the Forest Road. For nearly seventy years he had been assigned the task of patrolling this cleared strip of land, killing any spiders seeking to set up nets to ensnare unsuspecting travellers and dispatch the rare Orc or warg that ventured to do the same. In fact, this had been his first official duty as an adult member of the Greenwood's community.

He had often shadowed the dwarven caravans along the road's entire length attempting to learn the Naugrim's speech and thus understand their thoughts. He had never succeeded in deciphering the language beyond simple orders like 'halt' and 'hail', having no reference point from which to start. Never did he reveal himself, however, for such was forbidden and the journeying dwarves remained unaware that their lives were protected by so skilled and stealthy a guardian.

Observing them closely now, he recognised their style of dress and the embroidered insignias on their doublets; these were folk from the Iron Mountains. They were Lords of their people, judging by the rich textures and heavy robes they wore, yet each one was armed as if for battle and probably sported chain mail concealed beneath the velvet and satin. Such was the way for Durin's people, to be ever ready no matter the situation, as it was among the Wood Elves and this he approved, though how they could move, much less fight, with so much cumbersome weight always puzzled him.

The one at the head of the line was obviously the senior Lord, evident by his foremost position in the file as much as the snowy white beard and hair plated in elaborate manner, bejewelled with finely cut gems and golden ornaments of elegant design. Behind him was a dwarf of only slightly lesser stature and their likeness was so close that they must be father and son. The younger Lord's hair was almost the hue of the rust coloured leaves above his head and bound in identical manner to the elder Lord's. Behind him were two more dwarves, neither as richly attired and though they were surely all of the same House, or clan as the Naugrim called it, they were probably more distantly related and served as bodyguards or advisors. Perhaps there is no distinction between the two duties in their culture, thought the silvan.

Cuthenin was now even more chagrined to meet Durin's race in such low estate. These Lords would surely know of the troubles between Thorin's folk and Thranduil. He had absolutely no desire to get dragged into a dispute over the Barrel Incident. He had heard all about it from his elder brothers who remained bitter over the lack of spoils carried back from Erebor after the Battle of the Five Armies. Of course, they always blamed the dwarves and cursed the negligent workers who had not bothered to check inside the mysteriously weighty barrels dumped into the river that night. Legolas had not been there for all the excitement, having been posted to a long tour in the central regions, working to dispatch a particularly tenacious colony of spiders.

He had drawn abreast of the group by then and halted on the path, facing them. Legolas set down the basket and his boots and made as deep and formal a bow as he knew how to do, hoping the dwarves would take him for a servant. If he was fortunate and they were less than interested in court gossip, they would never know he was the visiting Wood Elf.

Yet he was only fooling himself with wishful thinking, for the stains and tears on his shirt and the unmistakable taint of dried blood everywhere were sure indicators that he was not a resident of the peaceful valley.

"Greetings, Lords from the Iron Hills," he said while still bent low at the waist, as that was the respectful thing to do in his country when greeting a noble and an elder. While the aged dwarf was not his elder in years, Legolas had long ago been taught to show the same respect to mortals deemed young in comparison to elven standards but long in wisdom according to their particular culture.

"Humph!" The eldest dwarf grunted, whether in surprise or displeasure or both was indeterminate. "Good day to you, elf." He let his eye rove over the unkempt, soiled clothing. "Are you hurt, elfling? Shall I send my cousin to fetch the healers?" His words were courteous but his tone was demeaning and he had made a point not to introduce himself, an overt insult among the Naugrim.

Legolas righted himself quickly and glared in barely contained anger, growing redder with every passing instant as his fury mounted. He had not met with dwarves before but his elder brothers had; he understood what the dwarf Lord's refusal to give a name meant.

"I am well, sir, yet thank you for the courtesy to ask," he managed to say in moderate volume if perhaps a bit strained in pitch and timbre. It seemed to him that the more polite he tried to be, the more rude was the response returned. He smiled with chilly grace before gathering his things again, intending to go on his way. Before he had taken two steps, the second dwarf called to him abruptly.

"Wait! Are you not a Wood Elf from the realm of Thranduil?" he demanded in tones clearly indicative of certainty over this fact, thus rendering the question into a challenge.

"I am. Legolas is my name, Master Dwarf, and Thranduil is my King." Legolas turned about and replied proudly, curious as to how the Naugrim had figured this out.

"Hah! I thought I recognised the detail of those braids," the dwarf Lord gloated. "You, then, owe a debt to me and mine!"

"You are wrong for we have never met before this day. I have not committed any offence that would burden me with a debt to you or to your family," answered Legolas stiffly, silently cursing the cleverness of the Naugrim for studying the custom of his folk so closely that he even knew the design of their braids. He had little time to ponder it, however, for the dwarf became incensed.

The dwarf Lord's face grew crimson and his dark eyes flashed in outrage. He shouted something in his native tongue and sought to charge the archer. He was halted by the elder of the group, who grasped his arm and gave a curt command, following it with several more words. None of it was intelligible to Legolas, beyond the word for 'halt', yet he was glad the attack was forestalled. He had no weapons with him and the dwarf already held a small throwing axe in his fist, raised as if to let it fly. He would have been forced to combat the dwarf hand-to-hand and disarm him. While he was sure he could succeed, he was not so sure he could do so unscathed.

The red-haired one gave him a long look up and down that made Legolas very uncomfortable, for his expression was filled with disdain and even dismissal, as if the Wood Elf was beneath him to trouble over. The dwarf gave a harsh laugh then and shared another statement with his mates along with a swift and elaborate set of hand gestures that set all of them to laughing heartily.

Now it was the silvan whose blood grew hot in rage, for he was not one to accept insult easily, especially when he could not understand the nature of it and had done nothing to earn it. His eyes narrowed to slits of glittering sapphire and his jaw clenched taut in his effort to master the urge to retort with some demeaning remark. For he could not do so, must not do so; he was here for a different purpose altogether, and once more his personal sensibilities would have to be set aside in the interest of sparing his family and homeland any further embarrassment or troubles.

Then the elder Lord made a long speech, adding more rapid hand-signs aimed toward Cuthenin, and all of the dwarves burst out in loud, belly-shaking guffaws. Legolas found that he could not let it go unanswered.

"I am sorry to learn that the tales are true after all; the people of Durin possess little grace and their store of courtesy is in even shorter supply." Legolas took care to stress the references to the Naugrim's stunted stature. "Still I would never have imagined timidity was among your race's qualities; however, only someone fearful of a fitting rebuke would give low remarks in a tongue foreign to their intended target!"

"Ruhksul!" (Orc spawn!) spat the rust-haired one and once more closed his meaty first around the haft of his axe.

"Stop!" shouted the aged Dwarf Lord, throwing his hand back against the zealous one's chest to force compliance. "He is right; we see how the, what is the term in Westron? Ah yes, faeries. Or is it brownies? Which ever, see how the faeries are uneducated in the ways of their neighbours and yet remain so quick to take offence? My apologies to you, Legolas, Faerie of Mirkwood. We shall make all our insul…comments in Westron henceforth."

The other three dwarves were doing their best to restrain their desire to burst into laughter anew, for Legolas was starring with mouth agape at this unflattering slur. No one had ever called him such a thing before and he was simply too nonplussed to put together the fore-mentioned fitting rebuke.

The red-bearded one pointed and chuckled with evident amusement and the silvan shut his jaw, drawing his mouth into a scowl and his frame up to its full height. He glared down at them icily but made no retort, determined to get through the day without engaging in another battle, either of wits or weapons, thus proving the superiority of his strength of will.

Besides, they were four and he was one; they were armed and he was not.

Legolas turned away without another word and, if an elf was capable of it, stomped off down the pathway, his mood of contented happiness utterly destroyed.

The dwarves followed a few paces back, still whispering and talking among themselves in their strange and secret speech. Then they switched to Westron, and true to the elder's promise, pronounced all their derogatory sentences plainly.

"He must be the one we heard about."

"Aye, claimed to have single-handedly killed a whole troop of Orcs."

"It is impossible; he could not even lift my smallest axe."

"Well clearly he has seen battle for why else would he be so foully dressed. Never have I beheld so ragged and dirty an elf!"

"Oh it is possible; they hide in the leaves and shoot down their prey with arrows from a great distance above. They have little taste for real fighting."

"Aye, always cringing and skulking through their dark and twisted woods, more like beasts than people. Wonder what this one is doing away from his mother, out in the civilised world."

Legolas halted on the path and all the dwarves fell silent and stopped as well. He turned to them slowly and stared each one boldly in the eye.

"Be thankful for the silvans of the Greenwood, Lords of the Iron Hills. But for our 'skulking and cringing through the dark and twisted woods' many scores of your folk would have met their ends upon the Great Road. I personally guarded forty-seven caravans that traversed my homeland."

"Hah! No report of such an escort has ever been mentioned by merchants using the Great Road. Your words are false!" shouted the rust-bearded Naugrim.

"I will not be accused thusly! Think what you may but do not call me false in range of my hearing or you shall regret it!"

"I shall think as I please and say what I think. You live up to the scoffing disregard with which the other elves speak of you: boastful, self-promoting, and untruthful."

"Retract that at once or I shall be forced to demand either your obeisance or a duel of combat!" Legolas dropped all his burdens on the ground and took a step forward.

"Oh, then I choose combat." No sooner were the words out than the dwarf charged. This time his father did not try to stop him and the other three fell back a pace.

"So be it." murmured Legolas calmly, watching intently as the small, compact form barrelled toward him. The ginger-bearded Naugrim had a small axe in hand but did not seem prepared to throw it. The silvan waited until the last possible moment before being run down by the dwarf and then lightly sprang up, neatly leaping right over the Naugrim's head to land behind him. He waited for the raging figure to register the move, preparing for another attack.

With a startled exclamation the dwarf careened through the discarded baggage, stumbling over the boots and shoving the basket over to keep from falling, caught his balance and hastily wheeled around. He fully expected a counter attack from the rear and was surprised to find the elf just standing there awaiting the next assault.

He decided not to disappoint the immortal and with a shift of his feet to stabilise his stance threw the axe with skill and precision, aiming not to kill but to strike archer on the arm with the heavy handle. His eyes grew wide when again the Wood Elf remained frozen until the second before impact and then merely dipped his torso to the left a few centimetres, dodging the weapon entirely.

Now the dwarves behind them saw their danger and with rapid shouts that were likely curses dived to the ground, subjecting their elegant apparel to the dust and grime of the walkway. Fortunately, that is the only harm they came to as the axe sailed over them and landed with a loud thump in the dirt several feet away.

This time Legolas did not wait, for in his mind it was the height of cowardice to attack an unarmed opponent with a weapon, whether the intent was to kill or not. He closed the distance between them more rapidly than the dwarf's mind could accommodate rationally and in seconds had landed a solid hit to the jaw and another to the sternum using the heels of his hands instead of his fists.

The dwarf swayed and belatedly brought his fists forward to present a defence but by this time Legolas had already stepped back beyond the reach of the shorter armed Naugrim.

The whole thing was tiresome, the silvan decided, and he was giving in to his temper, letting his emotions lead him again; a fault for which he had received frequent admonishment from his tutors over the years. He must end this quickly for he had already showed the dwarves he was not to be trifled with and he had better things to do with his time.

With a swiftness only slightly greater than his strength, Legolas once more leaped lightly into the air, spun once fully and on the returning revolution struck out and down with his leg, delivering a fearsome blow to the side of the dwarf's head that sent him reeling into the dirt where he lay, stunned and motionless.

Legolas waited not one second more, gathering up his belongings yet again and resuming his pace along the path.

The dwarves rushed to their kinsman's aid, exclaiming with loud alarm in their own tongue what surely must be the fallen one's name. Their words quickly lost the overprint of terrified dread as the unconscious dwarf gave a low groan and regained his senses. By the time they had satisfied themselves that he was injured more in pride than bodily, the elf was several metres along the path. They helped their countryman rise and hastened to catch up.

Now the silvan had kept his hearing trained upon them and remained alert, wary should they seek to retaliate and attack him as a group. That would be most dangerous, for while one dwarf was easy to defeat, four axe bearing angry Naugrim were a definite threat. Should that happen, he would have no choice but to disable some of them with broken bones and severe concussions in order to spare his life and theirs. He was suddenly glad he was wearing such ragged and ruined clothes, for it would seem he must stain the cloth with blood again. Thus, Legolas was stunned to hear not battle cries and curses in dwarvish but hearty laughter and accolades.

"Slow your pace, Master Elf! Did I hear the Noldor call you True-bow? That may be fitting in the elvish tongue but does not lend itself well to dwarvish translation; we would say 'Hammer-Hands' and 'Axe-Foot' instead!" bellowed out the ancient elder Lord.

"Aye! Well fought, Legolas Axe-Foot!" one of the counsellor/guards cried amid deep and jovial laughter.

"Will you not stop, Hammer-Hands, and let us introduce ourselves? Are you not curious to know whom you have bested this day?" that from the ginger-haired one.

And so Legolas did halt, for he was beyond intrigued and gathered that he had achieved some measure of respect among them, though how this could be so he did not quite understand. Thus, he held himself ready as they approached should it be a ruse and a trap.

The elder one noted his tension and issued out another of his gut-jarring guffaws, shaking his head in amusement to see it. "Aye, you have been trained well, warrior, and that is no less than should be expected from the Wood Elves." Then he gathered his composure and stood straight, meeting the elf's eyes with all seriousness. "Glóin, son of Gróin, at your service," he said and gave a short bow.

"Legolas Cuthenin, at yours and your family's." Legolas' response was automatic, and it was well his tutors in diplomacy had drilled him so thoroughly for he was too amazed to think straight. This was not just a Lord of Dain's people but one of the very dwarves imprisoned in his father's stronghold during the Barrel Incident. He set his basket and boots down to give a corresponding bow.

Several low grunts of approval followed this and each of the dwarves introduced themselves thus; they were Fralin son of Dwalin, Brór son of Nori, and Gimli son of Glóin. This last was the ginger-bearded one Legolas had defeated and he bore the evidence in a great purpling knot upon his temple that looked likely to spread and blacken his eye also. Yet he was grinning hugely and laughed loud, head thrown back and arms akimbo, to see the confusion in the immortal's eyes over the change of circumstances.

"Well, lad, do not look so flummoxed. We dwarves have our own methods of determining who is being truthful and who is being spiteful, who is worthy of esteem and who should be shunned. You have proven yourself more than a match for the dregs that pass for soldiers in Sauron's army," he said. "Never have I been bested by an opponent, be that Man or Dwarf, Orc or Goblin. You are the first of the First-born I have challenged, and I thank you for the opportunity. Further, I retract my doubts concerning your guarding of our caravans."

"Aye and it is also an eye-opener to know the elves of the Valley are so short-sighted as to discount the skill and daring of their kin over the mountains," added Gróin, nodding sagely as he plucked a stray leaf from his somewhat dishevelled beard.

"And so lacking in hospitable conduct, for were you our guest we would at least have provided you with clean clothing until your own could be repaired," said Fralin but then amended this slightly. "That is, once we had decided you were not an enemy."

Now Legolas had to laugh, for they all knew it was more likely he would be detained in some dark hole in their stony caverns should he ever wander uninvited into their lands. That was to his mind no affront, however, for long had there been enmity between the two races and neither would expect anything less were any to intrude unannounced upon the other's borders.

"I am sure of it, and at the least we would all understand one another honestly. I thank you all for your commiseration on my behalf, yet I must defend the Lord of this realm, for he is unaware of my condition. I am certain, once he knows of it, that some means will be afforded to have my garments repaired and to ensure I do not go naked in the mean time."

"Well if not then allow me to provide you with a robe to at least prevent the latter!" exclaimed Brór, scandalised to think of the elf running around unclothed for all to see.

"My thanks, Lord Brór. I am on my way to remedy the situation even now. The Hobbits directed me to the kitchens and thus I must leave you good people. I hope we will meet again before I return to my home," he said politely and found that he meant it.

Legolas was rather proud that he had managed to earn the regard of the Naugrim considering the bad feeling between his father and Glóin. He wondered if Thranduil would be pleased and hoped it would be so. Of course, Glóin does not know I am the Elven King's son. Yet Legolas did not believe that fact would change the dwarf's opinion of him, for the noble elder did not strike him as the sort to hold a grudge except toward the individual who had sparked it.

"The kitchens? I suppose the path does eventually end up there, but the Hobbits have sent you the long way round. This path leads out to the training grounds and barracks for Lord Elrond's troops. We are going thence in order to practice sparring for a time," Gimli informed him.

"Ah, I did not know that," Legolas frowned slightly and unconsciously tugged at the hem of his tattered shirt. He had no wish to subject himself to further scorn from the Imladrian warriors. "Is there a more direct route back to the main house that you know?"

"Nay, not now that you have gone so far afield," said Glóin. "It will take you as long to go back as to continue in this direction. But come, we will accompany you for part of the way." So saying the Dwarf Lord set out and Gimli indicated that Legolas was to take the second position behind his snow-bearded sire, a great honour for it was by rights his own place.

Cuthenin could hardly refuse without offending the Naugrim and so he fell in line, settling his basket on his hip again and marching in step with the dwarves, though his feet made no sound upon the walkway.

A strange procession that was winding through the Peredhil Lord's stately grounds: four doughty dwarf Lords and a fair silvan Wood Elf. All the way along Legolas prayed silently to Varda to let him pass unnoticed through the sparring fields and barracks, but in his heart he knew his supplications would not be favourably answered. The Naugrim had started a marching song in Westron, deep and rumbling like thunder before a storm. Even if the elves would have given no notice before they surely could not ignore so unusual a sound and that would direct them to this highly irregular sight.

Legolas, resigned to his ill-fate, joined the dwarves in the chorus for it relieved his soul to sing. That pleased Gimli, who slapped him hard on the back and nodded when he glanced behind him to make sure he would not need to repeat his earlier demonstration in hand-to-hand combat. Belatedly he thought perhaps he should have directed his fervent pleas to Vairë, but by then the broad open meadows of the training grounds had come into view.

TBC

Chapter Text

Enchui Peth: Maeth en Hant (Part six: Field of Battle)

Now the activity on the training grounds ceased and silence engulfed the various groups of warriors even before the bizarre procession came into view. Dwarves were not unknown in the Hidden Vale of Lord Elrond and diplomatic ties with the Iron Mountains may not have been strong but at least they were maintained. Many of the Imladrian elves had seen the dwarves sparring and practising with their weapons on previous days, so it was no surprise that they would do so again. A few elves had even made the effort to engage the Naugrim and test their speed, skill, and strength against the endurance, might, and tenacity of the dwarven fighters, axe against sword. Yet none of the Noldor had ever seen a sight to match this, for the Lords of Dain's kingdom north of Erebor were marching along the trail, singing with the Wood Elf messenger that had already caused such a stir.

The archer's fair voice made a pleasingly harmonious accompaniment to the basso chant of the deep-toned Naugrims' tramping canticle. His aspect was likewise a striking contrast to the regal Lords and in every way was he their opposite, though not for the usual reasons. Seldom did one among the First-born present as lesser in elegance and refinement to the children of Aulë, yet the Wood Elf nearly claimed that distinction. Even so, it could not be denied that there was about him an air of bold daring and defiance, for it required significant self-possession to behave with such a calm and genial manner in so difficult a situation. He seemed to appreciate the humour in it, even if it was at his expense, and in a strange way this enabled him to retain his dignity; dirty clothes, filthy boots, wicker basket and all.

Once the dwarves stopped their song and broke the single file formation, the spell of stuporous disbelief lifted from the Noldor only to be replaced with a mixture of amusement and irritation. Many found the display highly entertaining and watched as the Naugrim and the silvan engaged in some sort of formal and elaborate 'fare-thee-wells' before parting ways, with much courtly bowing. Others found the Wood Elf's second attempt to make himself the centre of attention appalling. And as fate would have it, the undesirable sort from Legolas' point of view, Ithil'wath and his cohorts happened to be present.

The Imladrian border guard had been relegated to the minor role of squire for the training soldiers, relieved of his regular duties in the patrols by Elrond himself, once the tale of his rash statements had been told. He and two of his cronies were not too far from the pathway and hastened over to confront the new arrivals, eager for a chance to avenge his diminished esteem. Seeing the impending confrontation, several more elves made their way closer to observe.

"Mae Govannen, Lord Gloín. How is it that you have become afflicted with this messenger's company? Has he incurred your disfavour in some way?" Ithil'wath asked, making a half-bow as he spoke.

"Good day to you, squire Moon Shadow," answered Gloín without bothering to be more than minimally polite. Of course this was a deliberate insult, for he had already bowed to Legolas upon wishing him a good-bye before parting. The wily old dwarf was certain Ithil'wath comprehended this. "Are you acquainted with this elf, Legolas?"

"Aye, we are known to one another, Lord Gloín," Legolas returned as he once more set down all his gear. He could understand well enough how this simple excursion to bathe would turn out. "This one accused me of prevarication and self-aggrandisement. He is under my doom."

"Your doom? Did you ever hear such haughty words from so low a source before, Ithil'wath?" goaded one of his confederates.

"Nay, I have not. Such over-confidence is a serious flaw, Wood Elf. I need not reveal my superior talent with the blade; many here would be glad to explain whom you have challenged. It will be a mercy if you are spared further injury," spoke Ithil'wath, his voice soft as a serpent's sigh and as dangerous as its venom. "If you retract your charge against me and offer an apology here, before these witnesses, then I might elect to forebear delivering the public thrashing you have earned."

"It is not I who have rendered insult and spoken falsely," Legolas replied coolly. "I require neither your mercy nor forbearance. Neither need I claim to assurance in besting you. As long as I meet the contest with integrity and to the limit of my ability, then even if defeated I will have at the very least gained knowledge of ways to improve my skill. Yet, it is you who must face me to retrieve your honour; thus, you remain under my power. Whether or not the combat is open to all eyes I leave to your decision, for I fear not the scrutiny of my peers."

"Your peers? Nay, there are none of those here, Wood Elf; all your equals are back in the mountain pass," Ithil'wath was angry and cared not that this was a cruel thing to remark upon. Even so, his words drew a few chuckles and assenting remarks from among the increasing crowd.

Legolas' frame tightened up in rigid wrath as he fought the urge to strike the oafish elf for such a callous reference to the dead. Yet he did master himself, for he was soon overwhelmed with woe, thinking how he was here nursing his slighted pride while his comrades were confined to Mandos and their remains lay rotting under the open sky.

"You would grant me greater stature than I have earned, on two counts, Ithil'wath. First, my friends died that I might survive and ensure the success of our mission. No more noble a sacrifice can an elf make than rendering up immortal life for the sake of kin and country; thus, the measure of their characters far surpasses mine.

"Second, your words could be taken to imply that I am peerless here in the realm of such legends as Elrond Peredhel and Glorfindel of Gondolin. While I am certain you did not intend to place me above the Lords of your country, others who do not know you well may not understand this."

The dwarves found this last part an excellent repost and laughed loudly while Gimli again slapped the silvan a good-natured clap on the back. They were not alone in their appreciation, for many of the Noldor recalled Glorfindel's warnings concerning how to treat with the unusual visitor and they did not like to hear loss of life so casually disregarded and used as the brunt of a scurrilous jest.

"Do not denigrate the deceased, Ithil'wath. We all have kin in Mandos," scolded one.

"Mind your voice for it has become disconnected from your reason," admonished another.

"If you have any," mocked a third.

Before Ithil'wath could express his indignation to be taken to task over the Wood Elf's sensibilities yet again, a group of three warriors drew close, having finished their bout, and the bulk of the crush shifted respectfully aside to let them through to the front. In the Greenwood, this trio would be as odd a group as the dwarves and their unlikely new friend, yet in the other elven countries and even among the humans in the northern reaches of Eriador, they were a well-known sight.

Two were elf-kind, tall and fair with burnished ebony hair that seemed to absorb the gleam of Anor's rays and then jealously refused to let it go so glossy was its sheen. They were bold in manner and within their pale grey eyes resided both wisdom and ferocity while about them was an aura of mastery such that only noble Lords possess. To look upon one was to behold the second, for they were identical in every way, each brother mirroring his sibling in stature, strength, and splendour. They were dressed for battle and the bright glint of a mithril hauberk could just be discerned at their necks. Belted at their waists were great broadswords and the leather scabbards concealing the lethal blades were darkly stained from long exposure to the residue of hunting Orcs. These were the twin sons of Elrond Half-elven, Elladan and Elrohir.

Between them stood a Man, not as great in height but nearly so, broader through the chest and with full-muscled arms that revealed a strength uncommon among the Second-born of Iluvatar. He did not keep his chestnut locks so long nor were the tresses as neatly combed and braided as his elven comrades, for the human had about him a peculiar air of wildness and authority mixed together. The feral half seemed to have the upper hand, as if he could not be bothered with such refinements and delicacies as plating and adorning his hair or scraping away several days growth of a straggly beard. Deep-set and disturbing were his eyes, for they carried a look of determined urgency, stubborn assurance, and sorrow. Like his companions, he wore a heavy sword at his hip and was dressed for war. The sweat on his brow showed he had just finished a strenuous sparring match.

"Well said, silvan," spoke one of the twins, his voice quiet yet packed with the might of his rank and station. "You are the one we have heard about, called True-Bow?"

"I am, Lord," answered the archer, once more making as respectful a bow as he could, realising who these two elves were by description and reputation. Many stories of them were carried back to Greenwood by Athedrainyn to Lothlorien, for the sons of Elrond were also the grandsons of Galadriel, Lady of Light, and were often under the Mallorn leaves. "Yet I am also named Legolas in my homeland and that is my mother-name. I would be pleased for you to refer to me thus."

"So it shall be. Yet do not call me Lord," laughed the noble descendent of Melian and Thingol. "I am Elladan and here is Elrohir. Beside us is our younger brother Aragorn."

"Aye, well met, Legolas. These two are purely rogues; no need to offer such deep obeisance," the human smiled as he said it and neatly ducked Elrohir's quickly moving hand so that the attempted cuffing landed on Elladan's neck instead.

"Ai! Mind your target, muindor (brother)," admonished Elladan, slapping back.

"Gohenoch nin. (Sorry.)" Elrohir shrugged and accepted the hit gracefully. He turned his attention to the visiting silvan. "Do not listen to Aragorn, Legolas, he is an uncouth Ranger of the North. He will only tarnish your grace and teach you the inestimable skills of spitting and belching."

"Fie! Do not defame my mother; she showed me how to act in proper company, Elrohir," retorted the man.

Now as this amiable banter was progressing Ithil'wath was fuming in silent wrath, for he understood that the Lord's sons sought to defuse the ambivalent mood and distract the throng from his conflict with the Wood Elf. If they had their way, they would lead the messenger off before the duel could begin. This he would not abide, for he was determined to teach the upstart his place and reclaim his honour among his fellows.

"Your presence is a blessing," he spoke up. "What better judges to referee the match than Elladan, Elrohir, and Aragorn the Dúnadan."

"Perhaps," Aragorn's eyes narrowed to wary slits as he regarded Ithil'wath, for he did not like the things he had heard the elf say in describing the new-comer to the valley. "Yet we are also citizens of Imladris and thus may seem biased to some. I am thinking this contest should be judged by someone without ties to either realm."

"Who would that be, one of your Ranger cohorts or a Man from Gondor?" scoffed Ithil'wath.

"And why not? Do you imply a Man is not worthy to gauge your skill and determine the fairness of the combatants' moves?" demanded Elladan.

"Nay, I did not say so," objected the guard, remembering a little behind his tactless tongue that the twins claimed edain heritage.

"Besides, none of the other men are present. To argue over their ability is pointless," stated one of the other Noldor guards.

"A fitting reason not to force this contest's commencement this morn. Better to wait for afternoon or even on the morrow," counselled Elrohir.

Many in the throng murmured agreement yet an equal number complained, for they wished to see how the lowly silvan would comport himself against one of their best swordsmen.

"Nay, I wish to conclude this event as quickly as I may." Legolas interrupted. "There are other matters that demand my attention and I must not allow so small a thing as a personal affront to interfere. Better to meet my challenger now; indeed, I appreciate the chance to test my skills and the combat methods of my people against one of Imladris' warriors. Mayhap there is much to learn from it."

"The silvan speaks truthfully," Gimli nodded, his dark eyes twinkling with glee as he delicately touched the prominent lump on his temple. He knew well that the Noldo was likely to be the one doing the learning. "It is unwise to assume too much when considering an opponent's skills."

The collected elves traded uncertain expressions and remarks between them, for none were clear whether the dwarf was admonishing Ithil'wath or the Wood Elf.

"I know my own skill, and that is sufficient," said Ithil'wath tersely.

"Then put it to use now and reclaim your place among the guards," suggested one of the onlookers. "What say you, Legolas? Will you agree to have the Lord's sons judge the contest?"

"An excellent idea," boomed out Fralin with great gusto and strode forward between the two combatants before the silvan could answer. "Yet, if all parties agree, a referee can be had whose home lies outside the borders of either elven realm. We dwarves will offer to oversee the match, being impartial to either side."

"What?" Ithil'wath snorted in disdain. "I do not know if Naugrim would be able to tell whether the Wood Elf was fighting honourably or not."

"Your lack of confidence in our sagacity is expected but regrettable none the less," said Gloín indignantly. "That being the case, a simple remedy can be suggested. State the rules of the contest clearly so that none may claim to ignorance after the fact should an illegal move be made."

"That is both fair and logical," Elrohir said, nodding thoughtfully. "I say the dwarves will make excellent judges. What are your thoughts, Legolas?"

"I have no objection, for the Lords of the Iron Mountain have already demonstrated their scruples and sportsmanship to my satisfaction," he said, grinning at Gimli, and all the elves wondered at the meaning of his words.

"Excellent! I shall excuse myself and my son. Let Brór and Fralin adjudicate the duel," added Gloín, nodding to his kinsmen with a decidedly conspiratorial demeanour filling his gaze.

"So be it," replied Ithil'wath in undisguised displeasure. "Who will lend this Wood Elf a weapon?"

"I will." Elladan stepped up and unsheathed his sword with speed born of long centuries practise. This initial ring of the metal was as a death knell for those enemies of Imladris fated to hear it, yet in the quiet of the autumn morn it sang out in a nearly joyful note. He held the hilt for Legolas to take and smiled reassurance at the uncertain expression that met his eyes.

"Le Hantëan! (Thank you!)" exclaimed Legolas. "I am grieved to have to decline, Lord Elladan." He had no wish to insult his host and it was clear to all that to refuse caused him severe distress.

"Why so?" asked the Orc-slayer kindly, for he had no doubt this youth had some concern over his worth to wield such a noble weapon, and hoped to drive out that doubt. He was thus surprised to see the silvan's face colour slightly even as his chin lifted in defiant pride.

"This sword, elegant and virtuous as it is, presents too great a weight for my arm in its current state. I have never trained with such and thus would be placed at disadvantage should I accept your generous offer." Legolas was positively mortified to have to admit this publicly, yet better that than to have Elladan think he meant to spurn so strong a show of support. Predictably, a few snickers and some open laughter followed his confession.

"This is not cause for amusement," scolded Aragorn angrily, meeting the mocking elves' eyes with his steely stare. He passed his healer's insightful gaze over the ruddy stains on the pale green shirt before meeting the silvan's chagrined but obstinate visage. The man decided he would not attempt to inquire about the archer's health. "That is a valid point we had all overlooked, Legolas, and I ask that you forgive such blatant disregard."

"Aye, in my zeal to give aid I have given offence instead. Please pardon my indiscretion, Legolas," Elladan put away his sword and held out his hand to the Wood Elf.

"No insult was given and no pardon is needed," answered the messenger with a relieved smile and gripped the warrior's forearm firmly, receiving an equal clasp in return from the Noldo Lord.

"Then what is to be done," said Elrohir, "for we are all armed in like manner."

"Let the combat be hand-to-hand," suggested one elf.

"Or use knives. That would even out the disparity," another jeered, "for surely the Wood Elf can lift a dagger."

"Nay, that would then grant to me an unfair advantage," replied Legolas. "I am exceptionally skilled with knives and it is too dangerous to subject Ithil'wath to such combat. I have been schooled that once a fight comes down to daggers, the only end is kill or die. I am not sure I can entirely stifle this instinct, for it has been ingrained from childhood and reinforced in reality. I can guarantee that Ithil'wath would not die, but not that he would come away without serious injury."

His voice contained no hint of boasting or vanity, no indication of bluff or pretence. Instead he uttered the speech reluctantly, as though it was not proper for him to reveal the facts of his realm's methods to outsiders, and this was true. An uncomfortable silence followed this admission of brutal savagery, a characteristic of nearly mythic quality so often was it whispered when Wood Elves were described.

"Strange, I have not heard that Athedrainyn double as assassins," Ithil'wath finally broke the quietude and earned a smattering of nervous laughter.

"That is probably because you have never deigned to speak to one before," barked Elladan.

"Aye, and we should all be thankful our homeland does not require that level of expertise among the messengers," added Elrohir.

"Or even among the guards," appended Aragorn. "Yet I have seen such things, for I have travelled through the woodland realm before in the company of warriors led by Inarthan (The Beacon), Prince of the Greenwood. Couriers do not only go between distant lands but from region to region within the forest, alerting each patrol to the others' whereabouts and circumstances. Inarthan's messengers were equally capable with bow, dagger, or hunting knife and necessity often demanded employing all these skills in a single battle."

"True. First arrows and when those are gone, the long knife. Should that be lost then there is only the dagger." Legolas smiled as he dipped his head in gratitude, amused to hear that his eldest brother also preferred to give to strangers the name conferred upon him during his stint as Athedrainyn. The name was partly a joke referring to the pale cast of his long hair and partly a tribute to the hope and confidence he inspired in his troops.

"Then hand-to-hand it must be," concluded Gloín.

"Nay, I would rather spar with weapons, for it is a choice opportunity to learn the battle techniques of the Noldor. If it is permissible, I can suggest an implement with which both of us may be equally comfortable," Legolas objected.

"Tell us your thoughts," encouraged Elladan.

"There near the tree line I see a rack of weapons: bows, bundles of arrows…"

"I hope you are not suggesting an archery contest, Wood Elf, for then you are surely false in stating no wish for advantage," interrupted Ithil'wath.

"…spears and pikes," Legolas continued after the outburst, ignoring the Noldo save for shooting him a cold glare. "I propose we take two of the pikes and shorten their lengths."

"Of course, creating staffs sufficient in length for single combat. I see no reason to reject the plan," said Aragorn. A chorus of approving remarks arose among the collected audience and even Ithil'wath could not produce a negative reply.

"It is decided," declared Brór in a tone expressive of his relief that the long-winded elves seemed ready to move on to the actual fight at last. Not everyone had the gift of unlimited time to debate such fine points. "Let us remove to the other side of the grounds and prepare these weapons as Legolas suggests."

This the throng did and shortly all were collected around the principals and the stand of weaponry.

"You may choose first," offered Legolas. Now this was a gracious thing to do and only what was right according silvan ways. Yet it was also a wise move, for he had no information regarding his opponent's ability and hoped to learn something by observing the elf's process of selection.

Ithil'wath strode to the rack and gave the pikes a cursory inspection, snatching up the one closest to his arm's reach and carrying it back to the middle of the circle. He stared at Legolas.

Legolas stared back but did not move.

For a long moment more Ithil'wath and the Wood Elf remained in silent contemplation of each other, neither blinking nor moving. Finally Gloín cleared his throat loudly and the silvan lifted his brows at Ithil'wath as if in surprise or confusion.

"You are satisfied?" he asked.

"Aye, it will suffice. Will you not choose or have you lost your will for battle?" the Noldo quipped in derision.

"I am willing enough," replied Legolas and approached the available arms.

Unlike his opponent, he hefted several and tested the weight and girth of each pike. He also moved apart and performed a few cursory moves, spinning and jabbing with the long rods to gauge the flexibility of the wood, the balance of the shaft, and the feel of the grain against his palm. Finally he decided on a solid walnut dowel; it sang a soft, high whine as it cut through the air, a blurred arc in the silvan's hands. "This one," he said with a smile and returned to centre of the group.

An excited hum of converse sprang up around him, for this was now shaping up to be a most interesting competition after all. Elladan and Elrohir exchanged expressions of amused and pleased surprise complete with arched brows and wry smiles. Gloín chuckled and nudged his son in the side.

Aragorn, who alone amid the throng had fought with the silvans beneath their trees, met Brór's smug stare and realised that the dwarves were just as cognisant as he regarding who would be the victor in this match. He had the distinct hunch that this knowledge was not due to stories told by Gloín regarding the Battle of the Five Armies, but something much more recent. His glance turned to the elder Lord's son and examined the fresh blue bruise, now painting one half of the Naugrim's face, with new interest. Gimli actually winked when he acknowledged the man's scrutiny.

But Ithil'wath did not notice these things and openly sneered at the silvan's display while selecting a weapon, thinking this was a poor attempt at intimidation. The small, slight elf was not equal to his superior experience and strength, and if not for his loss of rank in the guard Ithil'wath would almost pity the messenger.

"Now then, I shall trim them down so that none may claim the staffs are disproportionate," Gimli stated as he walked to the competitors, axe in hand. "Our folk fight and train with poles and clubs frequently, for if an axe blade is broken or lost during war then still we are not defenceless. It is the custom among my people to trim a staff to the height of its owner. Do any here object to this method?"

When no one spoke he faced the challengers and had them hold their pikes out at arm's length with the sharpened ends resting upon the ground. With a swift chop he cut through each near the bottom and when the elves lowered the shortened staves to the dirt each stood as high as the warrior's head but no taller. This demonstration earned several appreciative exclamations from the audience and the dwarf bowed politely before gathering the cut pieces and returning to his father's side. Fralin and Brór took his place.

"Now for the rules: No bones shall be broken nor teeth dislodged," started Fralin and unexpectedly drew a burst of laughter from the Imladrians, save Elladan and Elrohir and the Dúnadan.

"Nay, it is no joke," cautioned Elrohir. "What is plain to us may not be so to those of other lands. I will not permit any further ridicule during this contest."

This silenced everyone and the dwarves continued.

"Vision shall not be targeted, nor the ears or nose. A stun to the head is permitted within the bounds of these criteria." It was Brór who spoke these restrictions.

"Hands and feet may be employed in conjunction with the staves," added Fralin and had to stop again as loud commentary threatened to drown out his speech. It was safe to say the Noldorin elves had not witnessed any sort of fighting remotely similar to that which was about to ensue. "Disarming one's opponent is not required to win, but neither does doing so constitute victory. Combat will cease only upon the yielding of one of the competitors to the other, whether by verbal request or loss of consciousness."

That made the crowd as quiet as stone.

"If any disagree or challenge the fairness of these regulations, let them say so now," called out Brór. Not even the wind whispered in response. "Then begin!" he cried and hastened to the verge of the broad circle, Fralin retreating to the opposite side so that they might observe from differing perspectives.

All the elves drew back a few paces to give the two fighters more leeway.

Legolas grasped his staff low in his left hand and switched it behind him as he bowed to his opponent respectfully. When he straightened, he saw that Ithil'wath would give no more than the slightest nod in return. The archer moved to the centre of the rudimentary arena and stood still, holding the wooden lance almost as if it was a sword, waiting and watching.

Ithil'wath gripped his weapon more evenly toward its centre of gravity, his hands shoulder-width apart, dividing the length of the wood by thirds. He intended to use both ends and wasted no time. With a shout he attacked, dashing quickly forward and aiming a blow to the side of the silvan's head. He was shocked when the Wood Elf put up absolutely no defence and the blunt heel of the wooden rod connected solidly and loudly with the archer's cheek.

A gasp went up from the crowd as the silvan went down, for none had expected Ithil'wath to land the first strike on his initial sortie.

Now in the Woodland Realm such contests were common and this was nothing new to Legolas. Indeed, it was the custom during such sparring matches for the elder opponent to have both the advantage of primary selection of weapons and of making the inaugural hit. This was an effective training method, for it enabled the more experienced fighters to set the level of force permitted during the combat, preventing over-eager novices from serious injury or just as debilitating losses of confidence. No impact could be given that exceeded the first strike's power.

This was not the way among the Noldor, for in Imladris opponents were paired by similarity in skill level and experience, with each testing and seeking to overcome the other, effectively learning their own weaknesses and how other combatants might seek to utilise them in the process. Thus, Ithil'wath had struck with force enough that he hoped to disable the Wood Elf while fully expecting the move to be parried. He knew not what to make of this, surmising the youth had frozen in a panic, and stood still for a second but no more, advancing as soon as he realised Legolas was not senseless. He smiled; it would be a sweet victory to fell his foe in two blows. He swung his staff at the bowed, golden head and inexplicably found himself flat on his back the next instant.

Legolas silently thanked Iluvatar for making him the youngest of three brothers, something he never in all his years would he have believed he would do. Yet his much older siblings had been his foremost teachers in the art of combat and neither had cared too much about use of excessive force when they felt their muindor dithen (little brother) was growing a bit too cheeky. Many were the times Legolas had found himself laid out on the ground, desperately struggling against both of them at once. He had learned early that as soon as he shook one off and attempted to rise the other would knock him down again. He had devised a method for dealing with this sort of thing, not attempting to get up at all. Instead, he curled into a ball and literally rolled under his brothers' feet, making his body a moving obstacle to bowl them over.

With painful sparks of blinding intensity hindering his vision, excruciating pounding crushing any hope of rational thought, and loud ringing obscuring his hearing, he instinctively employed this manoeuvre. Legolas careened into the charging Noldo's legs, toppling Ithil'wath and proceeding to recover his footing and centre his balance, all in a single, fluid action. Using the residual speed of the tumbling motion, he leaped into a high spin and let all of the momentum of his flight flow into the staff as he descended.

It came down upon Ithil'wath's sprawled form, catching him soundly across the shoulder with a ponderous thud, for the elf had sought to escape the hit and was in the act of turning over. Normally Legolas would have completed the attack by landing a bruising kick to the ribs that emptied an opponent's lungs of air, but he was still dizzy from the blow to his head and stepped back to recover his equilibrium.

This gave the Noldo a chance to gain his feet and flex his shoulders, working through the sharp ache in the abused muscles. He glared at the messenger, surprised by the silvan's quick recovery, and advanced warily, for Legolas had resumed his unusual stance, holding forth the staff in a two-fisted grip similar to that commonly used to wield a broadsword. This time when Ithil'wath pivoted the end of his weapon up, thinking to give the Wood Elf a matching contusion on the other cheek, it was neatly parried. A stentorious clack as wood met wood resounded through the field.

With the dropped side of his truncheon, the Noldo strived to impair his opponent's leg, hoping to land a hit upon his thigh just above the knee. He was amazed to find this blocked by Legolas' bare foot and with sufficient strength to send him reeling backwards. He circled the silvan, twirling the heavy rod hand over hand in a deliberately slow and casual manner as he closed the distance between them with each lap. Ithil'wath inverted the staff's position so that the opposite hand was now dominant, hoping to catch the Wood Elf off guard and deliver the disabling blow to the other flank instead. With a rush he shot forward and lashed out but this attempt was also stymied and he received a strike to his biceps in return. The hit evoked a loud cry of anger and pain, for never before had Ithil'wath been struck by an opponent who was in a defensive posture.

Yet Legolas had done so. Instead of falling back from the advancing Noldo, the silvan had stepped into the driving thrust, allowing his weapon to slide down the length of the pike as he pushed back. Then he abruptly relaxed his effort, utilising the pent energy of the Noldo's resistance and acceleration to snap the wood against the warrior's unprotected outer arm. The Wood Elf was beyond range the next instant, leaping into another of those deceptively light and airy, spiralling spins.

In vain Ithil'wath tried to prepare a counter attack, but he was expecting the staff again and thus was watching the messenger's hands. When Legolas' foot slammed into his cheek in exactly the same place and with identical force to the blow he had initially given the silvan, Ithil'wath began to see that he was not going to have an easy win. He was down again and a second strike crashed across the shoulders and checked his recovery. He groaned and shifted in misery, trying to right his topsy-turvy vision and keep his breakfast in his stomach. Once the Noldo was able to clear his head enough to see straight, there was Legolas staring back, casually leaning on his staff, regarding him impassively.

He did not speak but neither did he need to; his posture made his intent clear enough. Ithil'wath was being asked to yield.

That was enough to set a furious wrath alight in the Noldo's heart and he scrambled to his feet with a low curse, swaying as he snatched up his weapon. How it had been loosed form his grasp during the fall he could not remember. With energy fuelled by his rage he advanced, hoping to employ his strength and weight to overwhelm the smaller elf. He laughed as Legolas hastily resumed his defence and once more fell back before the assault. Yet no matter what tactic he used, Ithil'wath could not confer another blow upon the elf.

Loudly sang the wooden pikes as each slice and jab was parried and blocked, each thrust turned aside, the moves and counter-moves no longer definable as single events so much as continuous fluctuations in a current of strife. The Noldo pressed for dominance, increasing the speed of his assault, and the clamourous staccato as the staves concussed echoed through the glade, a mesmerising rhythm of violence and intimidation.

Surrounding the percussion of the duelling lances, the silence of the assembled spectators was absolute. Beyond that one involuntary exhale of surprise not a sound did the other elves utter. The Imladrians were thoroughly engrossed in the spectacle, for there was a stronger degree of ambivalence in this contention than in any grudge match they had yet observed. And they were astounded, for here was an uncivilised Wood Elf meeting his opponent with an almost disinterested detachment while one of their own grew hotter with each failure to take the silvan down.

As for the dwarves, two were vigilantly watching the battlers while Gloín and Gimli moved among the crowd, accepting the Noldor's wagers on the outcome of the fight.

Legolas let the Imladrian come at him for some time, learning how the elf preferred to fight, giving him subtle openings that turned into useful knowledge but never permitted contact with his flesh. One mark upon his body was all he would allow the insolent elf to make. Soon enough, though his shoulder burned, his side throbbed, and his head felt ready to explode, Legolas had the Noldo's methods and timing committed to memory forever and he grew bored. At the same time he became disgusted, for this guard was not even much of a challenge for him compared to the sort of combatants he was accustomed to facing.

Even in training exercises, Legolas expected either a second opponent, a hidden weapon, or at the very least the use of hands and feet as auxiliary tools. As soon as he realised the Noldo was not adept in such combinations, he ceased attacking that way, for he did not want the elf to claim later that he had used an unjust technique. It was now a question of how to end the contest for both could continue the dangerously graceful dance and extend the desire to immobilise the other long into the day before exhaustion chose the victor. With his previous injuries still so tender, that was unlikely to be Legolas, and he was not willing to lose due to such a weakness.

The deafening cacophony continued. Legolas drew back before Ithil'wath's onslaught. The throng of spectators shifted and re-formed their encircling boundary in concert with them.

Yet he did not want to make the situation worse through humiliating the older warrior. He was representing his entire culture and the heritage of his father's noble House, after all. It only served the narrow-minded elves like Ithil'wath if he roused belligerence among the majority of the Noldor. Giving the other elven realms reason to resent the Wood Elves was not his objective.

On the other hand, Legolas had hoped Ithil'wath would recognise his skill and change his attitude, treating him as an equal and worthy opponent. Instead the hard-headed bigot resorted to useless anger and pointless profanity. He recalled the heartless dismissal of his friends' deaths and fresh determination flared in his soul. Whatever respect the messenger had held out for this elf, based solely on the Noldo's seniority and greater experience, vanished. It was time to end the battle.

Abruptly Legolas altered his style, making his hold mirror his adversary's. For a few more moves he let the Noldo believe there was no reason to be alarmed by this, continuing merely to parry and block, swerving and weaving to avoid the blows aimed at his legs, arms, and head. Then in three hits, and in roughly the same number of seconds, he concluded the contest. The first assault landed a sharp rap upon Ithil'wath's knuckles that forced him to drop that hand from his lance. In the opening this created, Legolas simply stepped in and shoved the blunt base of his truncheon into the Noldo's stomach as he did so. The last strike fell upon the back of the head, exposed as the warrior doubled over, and deposited Ithil'wath insensate upon the autumn-browned grass.

A mixture of elated shouts and low groans erupted through the throng as the gamblers collected their winnings or paid out their debts. Loud amid the hubbub were the good-natured guffaws and barking laughter of the Naugrim, for they had bet heavily on the silvan warrior while few among the Imladrians had done so. Great was the profit collected by Aulë's children that morn.

Elrond's sons had refused to wager, however, and instead watched the Wood Elf closely.

Legolas stood still gazing down on the Noldo, working to reign in his emotions and refrain from spitting in disgust. Yet he could not call this sensation satisfaction or any sort of pride in accomplishment, for he could only think of his fallen comrades. When the real test had come, he had failed to defeat his enemies and others had paid the price for it; not once but twice. In contrast, this victory was empty and meaningless.

"Well fought, lad," chuckled the deep gruff voice of the ginger-bearded dwarf. A third time he bestowed a resounding thump upon the middle of the silvan's back, this time with sufficient force to cause the Wood Elf to step forward in order to retain his footing.

"I thank you Master Gimli, yet if you continue to show me such boisterous regard my spine will be too bruised to hold me up!" Legolas smiled down at the smaller being.

"Ah well, I shall try to make allowances for your delicate construction in future," replied the dwarf, grinning back. "But here is your share of the winnings." He held up a folded handkerchief bulging with coin and a gem or two.

"What?" cried Legolas in surprised outrage, his smile gone. "This was a duel of honour and not some common brawl to be made an object of low sport!"

"Is it unseemly for your fellows to back you, displaying their belief in your ability?" asked Gimli, completely bewildered. In his realm it would be an insult not to lay a bet in support of a comrade's skill, whether the odds favoured a win or not. His hand was on the haft of the axe in his belt.

Now the onlookers grew quiet and wary, fearful that a new and more bloody contention might be on the horizon, and edged back from the dwarf and the silvan.

But Legolas gave attention only to the Naugrim's dark, earnest eyes, seeking to know if the whole encounter had been in some manner arranged by the dwarves solely for the purpose of acquiring these winnings from the Noldor. Is this the reason they goaded me into that fight on the path, so as to know which elf to back in the contest? He frowned, for he had thought his impression of the dwarves' good-natured sportsmanship over the encounter was genuine. He must know, for if he had been used for their sport then he must demand yet another duel. To determine the truth he did something no elf had done in many long Ages.

Legolas crouched down on his heels and brought himself to eye-height with Gimli, meeting the dwarf's serious stare with his disconcerted confusion honestly. If he heard the gasps, from dwarves and elves alike, he ignored them entirely, focusing all his interest upon the sturdy, stunted warrior before him.

"Aye, in my country it would be disrespectful. Mayhap in yours it is not so?" he asked hopefully.

"Nay, just the opposite. If I have offended, I ask your pardon," Gimli said and made a courtly bow.

"I see. Different and strange to me are the ways of the Lords of the Iron Hills. Yet I perceive you did not mean to give insult, Gimli son of Gloín. There is no need for apologies; we remain in accord," Legolas said and placed a companionable hand upon the dwarf's shoulder before he rose back to full height. He gazed at the shrouded money still clutched in the Naugrim's meaty fist. "And I accept your tribute; this coin will be put to good use, securing the necessities of life for the descendants of my lost friends."

Loud was the sound of exhalation from the numerous elves, three dwarves, and one human who had been holding their breaths in fear of this simple conversation's conclusion. Both its principals looked around them in surprise and grinned at each other upon understanding the cause of the out-rushing air.

"Well said! You do more credit to your folk than you know, Legolas." Gloín shook his head and laughed as he drew closer to the silvan and made as if to copy his son's ebullient gesture of camaraderie.

Legolas jumped behind the younger dwarf, avoiding the elder Lord's heavy hand. "I thank you, yet I beg reprieve from any more of this back-thumping custom," Legolas begged, reaching behind to rub his spine. "Mayhap we could just do as Men do and shake hands?"

This amused everyone when Gloín assented, gripping the Wood Elf's fingers tightly and giving two jarring shakes. After this the dwarves took their leave, marching off to find a spot for their battle practise. The crowd began to disperse and ere they departed many among the warriors advanced to offer Legolas their congratulations and, in the spirit of the lightened mood, each one that did so gave the human handshake to signify their friendship. Soon only the Lord of the Valley's sons remained next to the insensible figure on the ground and the messenger from Thranduil's kingdom.

Aragorn bent to examine the status of Ithil'wath and, deciding he would suffer no more than a mild concussion and severe headache, called for two of his cohorts to carry him off the field. "He will be well on the morrow," he said as he stood. "That was an impressive demonstration. I have seen the silvan folk in battle before, yet even for me there were some surprises. That leaping kick is surely uncommon."

"Aye, I have never beheld such a tactic either," commented Elladan.

"I was taught by my father," Legolas shrugged, "for we share identical circumstances regarding birth order. Both of us are the youngest of three brothers, with the elder siblings many centuries senior in age and experience. Mastering such skills gave me at least a slim chance of surviving their loving attention."

"Ai! Would that I had been so schooled," lamented Aragorn. "I am youngest also and had to endure the battery inflicted when these two chose to lavish me with similar affection!"

"Nay, you cannot blame us any longer, muindor dithen," declaimed Elrohir. "Take it up with Adar; he should have taught you the necessary skills as Legolas' sire did."

"But he was a twin, as you two are, and thus his sympathies reside with his elder children," complained Aragorn.

"We had no control over that," retorted Elladan. "Cry out to Elbereth; mayhap she will hearken to your whining, for you will receive no apologies from me. We trained you well; see how fine you turned out under our tutelage?"

"So claim my elder brothers also." Legolas could not suppress a giggle at Aragorn's expense, so incredulous was his expression as he looked from one twin to the other. "I empathise with you, Aragorn, yet I fear you are beyond the age when learning the spinning kick will avail you much advantage."

"I thank you for your commiseration, then, for no one else seems to understand the situation."

"We understand it, Aragorn, we just do not share your desire to lament over it unceasingly," jibed Elrohir. "However, on a different note altogether, I am wondering why our guest has been so neglected during his stay. That is unlike the hospitality of our House and I am rather embarrassed to have to point it out." His eyes travelled the silvan's dishevelled garments and bare feet as he spoke.

"Oh, nay, that is not so, Elrohir," Legolas hastened to correct him. "Glorfindel has been seeing to my comfortable disposition but a pressing concern required his immediate attention. Otherwise, I would not be wandering about in so unseemly a state. The Hobbits were trying to direct me to the kitchen…"

"Aye, that I believe!" laughed Aragorn. "Every other thought in their heads seems of food. Have you not broken fast at this late hour?"

"Nay, but that is due to…"

"Valar! That is unacceptable; I will have to inform Adar that Glorfindel is slipping in his old age," quipped Elladan, but he was now as concerned as the others and the three surrounded the Wood Elf. "When did you arrive?"

"This morning just at dawn, but…"

"And no one has directed you to rooms that you might change out of those tattered garments?" demanded Elrohir.

"Aye, Glorfindel himself escorted me to the talan but I was…"

"Talan? Do you mean to say you are lodging in that decrepit old flet in the oaks behind his house?" Aragorn was shocked. He was used to rugged conditions but certainly enjoyed the comforts of Imladris when he was home. To refuse the same to a visitor was unheard of in the Last Homely House. "What was he thinking?"

"Of my comfort, I believe, and he was correct. I quite like that ancient oak," assured Legolas, desperately trying to get a complete sentence out before they started off again. For some reason this statement made the others silent and they were looking at him as if he must be mad, but he took advantage of their speechlessness.

"I am only still wearing these clothes because my pack was lost in a skirmish with Orcs while coming through the mountain pass. My comrades were killed there and I did not think more of the other items left behind until bathing. That is why Frodo directed me to the kitchens. I hoped to learn where I might wash out the stains of battle and repair the torn fabric before I must meet with Lord Elrond," he concluded.

"I grieve for your fallen friends," said Elrohir and reached his arm around the silvan's shoulder as he began to walk, drawing Legolas along with him. The other two fell into step behind them.

"Yet surely we can supply you with something to wear while your garments are repaired," stated Elladan. "There is an entire room filled with clothing that Aragorn has outgrown, and because humans grow so quickly there is hardly any sign of use upon the garments."

"Aye, you two see to that while I find Glorfindel and Adar. If possible I will discover when you are to have this meeting and arrange for you to take some nourishment before then. It will soon be time for the noon meal at any rate," added Aragorn.

"Indeed. We will assist Legolas in securing clothes and then accompany him to the refectory, Aragorn, and will meet you there," decided Elladan, being oldest. "In the interim, you must inspect that talan and make it presentable. If Legolas prefers to stay there, then the least we must do is insure it is furnished hospitably."

"It is fine, truly, there is no need…"

"Agreed. We shall meet later, Legolas," Aragorn interrupted any further protests and took his leave, retracing the same path Legolas had used earlier.

"Come along, Legolas," encouraged Elrohir as the silvan hesitated.

"My boots and tunic are there on the ground," he pointed out the discarded basket quietly, but Elladan waved away this information.

"We shall send someone to fetch it later," he said. "You cannot use those boots until they are cleaned anyway. Although Aragorn's feet are too large for you to fit any of his, even from years past."

"Aye, that presents a problem," nodded Elrohir, wrinkling his brow in concentration over the quandary. They could not permit a guest to go unshod.

"I will have them clean in no time," assured Legolas, attempting to disengage from the twin's grasp to gather them up.

"Nay, we do not do things that way here. Guests do not fulfil the roles of employees in the House." Elladan took hold of the Wood Elf's arm much as Glorfindel had done while his brother tightened his grip across Legolas' back. "What think you of a pair of Arwen's shoes?" Elladan asked his twin.

"Aye, that might do," Elrohir replied. The brothers were now regarding Legolas' feet with intense scrutiny. "Who would ever imagine that so delicate and exquisitely fair an appendage could be such a fearsome weapon?"

Legolas' face grew warm in embarrassment at this remark but he could think of nothing to say in answer. He was not sure whether he should feel insulted or pleased. Imladris, he decided, was a very confusing place.

TBC.

Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow)
by F.
unbeta'd

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.

thoughts
(elvish translation)

Summary: A look at what might happen if Legolas was just known as a messenger and not as Thranduil's son. The setting is just before the Council of Elrond. Features Glorfindel/Legolas pairing.

NOTE: My continued thanks for all the great feedback I have received from the readers. I will post at the other site and include more detailed responses there should anyone wish to check that out. The other site is still behind this one in chapters, sorry for any inconvenience this is causing people! This chapter draws us deeper into the mysterious customs of the Wood Elves and points to some daunting implications for the Balrog Slayer and the silvan messenger.

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Othui Peth: Pâd-en-Tawar (Part Seven: Way of the Great Wood)

"This is not advisable. Hear me, the practice of which we speak has serious consequences for those involved. You are not an initiate and therefore your participation is simply unacceptable."

"Yet if the ceremony is not performed the Wood Elf will continue to suffer."

"As would any survivor of such trauma as you describe. That is not sufficient reason to conduct a sacred rite without the proper kinfolk to lend support. It is not just a singing of songs, Glorfindel, it is a commitment."

"To what? This archaic religion? I am sorry, but that does not make sense, Galdor. I can lend support without undergoing a conversion. The warriors to be commemorated are deceased and Legolas…"

"Aye, Legolas. It is to Legolas this commitment would be made, not to his creed. That is why this rite is reserved for close family: blood kin or bonded pairs only. The young warrior will have to bear up until he returns to Greenwood; let his own people aid him through this."

"I am not certain he will be going home anytime soon," the rough, smoky voice of the grey-bearded wizard growled tersely. "What is the danger in this ceremony?"

"It is not any physical danger as you may be thinking. The ritual involves a level of trust Legolas has not bestowed on any here in Imladris. To force him to do so is both unfair and detrimental, for the other party cannot help but break this trust sooner or later, if only in failing to comprehend its nature," complained Galdor of Mithlond, First-Age elder and former Lord of the House of the Tree in Turgon's City of Singing Stone.

"Are you implying I would betray this silvan's faith in me?" Glorfindel began, growing red of face and preparing to unleash his formidable wrath.

"Yes, Glorfindel, that is exactly what I am saying to you, to everyone in this room," replied Galdor in stony tones that bore the weight of surety and silenced the Balrog Slayer. For several uncomfortable seconds, his assertion draped a pall of awkward gloom over the room's other occupants as well.

"That was a lifetime ago. Never again have I pledged anything beyond my power to grant," mumbled the mighty re-born warrior. "Surely that must attest to my scruples in such considerations as these."

"It does, Glorfindel; we are not here to impugn your character," Elrond spoke at last, having listened with a grave and solemn mien, observing the participants in the unexpectedly tense discussion.

At Galdor's insistence this impromptu conference had been called, for he had come away from his meeting with the Balrog Slayer highly agitated. The noble elf spoke now with such urgency that he must fear real harm would befall the Wood Elf should Glorfindel's suggestion be carried through. The Lord of the Valley sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"Yet Galdor has a valid point. Whether you betray him through ignorance or intent, the consequences for Legolas will be the same. I believe we are speaking of something more than the bond of comrades in arms or between a mentor and his charge."

"Indeed that is so," Galdor inserted. "If you do this, Glorfindel, you would be standing in the place of his family. You would become his family, in a very real sense, and he must accept you thus."

"Lord Galdor, are you saying this rite would essentially bind the young elf to Glorfindel?" demanded the wizard, for once frustrated by the lack of directness in the elves' conversing, although such ambiguity was a characteristic with which most of his own expository comments were endowed.

"Have I not spent the last hour cautioning against this? Verily, it is more that, in Legolas' mind, it is Glorfindel who would be tied to him," the Lord of the Tree spoke with reluctance and exasperation combined.

"Nay, we have but met this morn. How would he think that? You are surely exagerrating, mellon vrûn (old friend)." scoffed Glorfindel. He could not understand the elder Lord's reluctance to aid the Wood Elf.

"Alas, rather than decorating the truth I am telling you no more than is fitting for me to reveal. The newness of the acquaintance is but one of my objections. How can we ask Legolas to accept you in such a manner when all that he knows of you was probably gleaned from some romanticised account in an illustrated book in his nursery?" Galdor snapped and shook his head in frustration, turning away to stand upon the balcony, for they were gathered in Elrond's private study.

Even among the First-born Galdor was considered tall and he had to stoop forward to press his palms upon the banister. He sighed and cast his discriminating eye over the landscape beneath his feet. Not for a full Valian year had he visited the son of Eärendil and his reasons for choosing this specific time to pay a call were rapidly becoming apparent. Perceiving that he was not the first author of the impulse to journey hence was neither unexpected nor disconcerting to him.

He watched the citizens going about their lives, coming away from their tasks to share the repast with family and friends as the noon approached. Galdor noted the fair tree-lined avenues bedecked in autumn's fabric and the graceful gardens surrounding every house. He smiled at an elfling getting scolded by her Naneth (Mother) for making a tear in her dress. Nothing has changed and yet everything is different. There was a shadow over Imladris that had no connection to the grey-bottomed cumulus clouds filling up the western sky.

The ancient Lord was not given to stewing in anxious apprehension; like Glorfindel, he would have action. He was here for a purpose and he would not turn from it. If that purpose involved the Wood Elf's destiny then so be it. His resolve strengthened, Galdor gazed upon the Hidden Vale again. The sound of the waterfall, far enough away to shed a soothing cadence similar to that of gentle summer rain, eased the noble's worry and he nodded with a short satisfied grunt. Whatever evil was stalking Middle-earth, Imladris was safe for the moment. He turned back to his colleagues and resumed speaking, noting with a discreet chuckle that no one had interrupted his short introspection. Out of respect for my advanced years, no doubt.

"This is not a matter to be treated lightly. If Legolas is truly an initiate, and from your descriptions of the indelible text I doubt it not, then what you would ask of him is far more than he is able to give. You only just become flesh and blood, having been but a legend from a past Age; would you seek a hold upon Legolas' spirit none but his kin or his bond-mate have rights to claim? Can you not see this is detrimental?" Galdor turned to Elrond and pleaded the forest warrior's cause. To his mind, it was unconscionable to do this, for Legolas would relinquish a part of his freedom in sharing this ceremony under such circumstances.

"How it is any more detrimental than if he undergoes the rites with, oh I do not know, a brother, for example," fumed Glorfindel.

"A brother or sister is an excellent choice, already joined to his spirit. A sibling would know him from the moment of birth up to the present. They would have shared their entire lives and the place each occupies in the other's feä would not intrude upon the separate souls' growth. A brother or sister would not hinder him in future matters nor take anymore of Legolas' heart than he or she already owns."

"By 'future matters', I assume you are alluding to his choice for a life partner." Elrond sent his old mentor a wry smile. Galdor's attempts at discretion were anything but amusing, for the fact that merely discussing the Wood Elf's sexual disposition was such a taboo was a serious warning in itself. Elrond did not intend to ignore or make light of it.

"Aye. These are decisions that must not be made carelessly. Among the culture we are discussing, choosing a mate for this elf is a very private and delicate undertaking, one which his immediate family would mediate. Add to this the weight of his status in a royal House and the sensitivity of the situation is greatly compounded. We do not even know who his Guardian is or why he has come away without…" the elder Lord broke off with a gasp and had to snatch the railing to prevent himself from staggering to his knees.

"What is it? Valar!" shouted Glorfindel, hurrying to his friend.

"Are you unwell, Galdor? Please, sit and take your ease. Tell me what has befallen you," Elrond was likewise on his feet and at the ancient's side in seconds, taking the old one's arm and guiding him to the settee.

"A vision! Nae, nae! (Alas, alas!) This one's fate has been overly harsh!" the Lord of the Tree cried and collapsed onto the seat, clasping his hands together and shaking his head as if overcome with dread.

Mithrandir hastily set aside his pipe and raced to the long side table where the Elf Lord kept the wine and spirits. He poured a small cupful of miruvor and pressed the First-Age elda to take it. He was pleased Galdor did so and smiled warmly from his crease-crinkled visage when the cup was returned empty.

"Speak of this vision, if you can," encouraged Elrond.

"I saw the battle in the mountain pass. Specifically, I saw the death of one of the Wood Elves that accompanied Legolas. That this lost warrior was his Guardian is now clear to me. This changes everything!" Abruptly the elder Lord got up and began to pace the room, clasping and wringing his hands together as he did so, severely perturbed in heart and mind.

The others exchanged expressions of wordless worry between them for it was beyond disconcerting to see steadfast Galdor this reduced to anguished aggravation. They waited patiently for the venerable Noldo to speak again.

"I do not understand what is happening here," he spoke in bewildered tones and it seemed he argued with himself rather than to the three people with him in the room. "The ways of our kind are not for the sight and knowledge of outsiders. Yet the vision cannot be ignored." He stopped again on the balcony and stared out unseeing over the majestic view of the pristine valley.

When several more ticks passed without another word, Elrond cleared his throat. "Galdor, could you not undergo this ritual with the Wood Elf, for you are more than merely an initiate and surely that status…"

"Aye, my status," Galdor interrupted, gazing back over his shoulder at the Keeper of Vilya with a tired smile. "The ceremony requires a minimum of two to stand with the grieving one: a guardian and a soul-keeper. As I alone here in Imladris, besides Legolas, know the liturgies required to purge the sorrow-sickness, I must take the role of the guardian. I had thought it was to be as proxy, not that I would actually become this Wood Elf's Tirn'wador (Watcher-Brother: Guardian)."

He did not say that he was also one of the few remaining Sadryn (Faithful Ones - like a Shaman or High Priest) left this side of the Sundering Sea. Indeed, he had thought he was the last until the unexpected appearance of this silvan bŷr (follower - a devotee or believer). Where there are followers there are Sadryn to guide them.

He wondered for a few heartbeats who the Greenwood's Sadron was and whether he or she was a refugee from Gondolin as well. He gave his head a small shake; it really was not so surprising that Pâd-en-Tawar (Way of the Great Wood) should be practiced amid the Wood Elves. In any case, as Sadron it would not be proper for him to also be the elf's Faer Hebron (Soul-keeper), for such was against the rules of his Order.

"Ah. That would delegate me as the soul-keeper." Glorfindel now showed uneasiness in his voice for the first time. The ancient noble's near-collapse had convinced him there was more at stake than he could fully comprehend. Whatever acting as soul-keeper involved, the Vanya warrior was not so sure he was prepared to undertake the job. "Why did you not explain this earlier? I thought this was just a kind of symbolic rubric designed to give Legolas the means to allay the guilt and grief of his friends' untimely deaths."

"Have I not said these customs are forbidden to be shared with non-believers?" scolded Galdor. "Now you hesitate and rightly so; it is a grave responsibility that would fall upon us both. Frankly, Glorfindel, if I am to be his Tirn'wador, I must insist on completion of every aspect of Faras-Uin-Ind (Hunting of the Heart - formal courtship), especially from an uninitiated elf of a foreign realm. Can you imagine what Thranduil's response to this is likely to be?"

"What? I am not proposing to court him!" the Balrog Slayer was stunned.

"Indeed, we have gone a bit far afield, Galdor," added Elrond.

"Nay, I think that is exactly the point our clam-lipped friend has been trying so hard to make without openly stating it," Mithrandir sent the elder Noldo a shrewd glance and received a nod of acknowledgement from the Lord of the Tree.

"Valar, this is suddenly very complicated," groaned Elrond. He had no wish to be party to what was, for all intents, a hastily arranged and strange sort of bonding between the Elven King's youngest son and his obviously reluctant Master-at-Arms. "Mayhap the situation is less grave than Glorfindel believes. After all, he has spent very little time with the silvan and a certain amount of sorrow is normal and even healthy in healing the heart."

"Agreed." Glorfindel stated with overweening vehemence. "Elrond, mayhap you would find some moment to be in his company, even if but briefly, for your instincts as a healer are unparalleled. If you determine his soul is in no danger, then nothing further need be done. He will return to his folk and undergo the purging under the trees of his homeland."

"Aye, the midday meal is being served even now. I shall speak with him for I have reason to express thanks for his efforts on our country's behalf before he leaves." Elrond nodded and joined the ancient elf on the balcony.

But Galdor said nothing, for he knew what Elrond would learn. His vision had been intensely vivid and the depth of the archer's pain was more than many could endure without fading. He sighed, worried about the implications yet certain there was little choice under the circumstances. They could either return to Thranduil a son bound to an outlander or a bid the King come and collect his youngest child's corpse.

"And yet I say again, he may not be returning home for many long days," murmured Mithrandir with a faraway look in his inscrutable onyx eyes.

None of the elves would hazard a response to this for the wizard was one of the Ainur, an emissary from the Blessed Realm, and his insight was not to be questioned. One of Gandalf's hunches was nearly as good as certainty, and thus the three Lords of the First-born kept silent regarding their own opinions as they exited the comfortable elegance of Elrond's suite.

It was perhaps not so unusual for the principals in the current events to arrive at the refectory at nearly the same time, for the midday meal provided a welcome break in a given day's travails and an opportunity to meet with friends and family and discuss plans for the remainder of the daylight hours and the starlit ones to come. Indeed, the dining hall was already filled with numerous elves attached to the Last Homely House as well as four of the doughty Rangers, for this was a casual meal and none stood on ceremony or rank.

Thus, into the crowded chamber strolled Erestor and Lindir, gossiping in a friendly manner, appearing from the direction of the singer's rooms. The three Lords and the Istar were mere minutes in time behind them, descending from Elrond's study still solemn and serious over their concerns regarding the Wood Elf. Aragorn strode in from the kitchen, having paused therein to wash up a bit after completing his assigned duty to ensure the hospitable disposition of the lowly talan in Glorfindel's backyard.

Through the main arch arrived the coterie of dwarves and a similar entourage of finely dressed nobles from Gondor. There was an uncomfortable moment before the matter of who should enter first was resolved by the sudden and quick advent of four scurrying Hobbits who barged right between them in haste to get to the food. Well that awakened a shared dread of missing the meal entirely should they argue over the order of entry and the Men and Dwarves politely took turns.

Last of all approached the twin Lords of the realm, flanking their youthful guest. They were chatting amiably although it was clear the Wood Elf was finding it difficult to get a word in as his vision switched back and forth from one to the other.

Aragorn, who had been watching for them, espied the trio first and hailed his brothers from across the room. He motioned for them to join him at table and effectively focused every eye on the breathtaking sight. The three elves advanced into the hall, two adorned with the lofty grace and lordly elegance bestowed by nature and enhanced by upbringing, the other just as surely an aboriginal adherent to Eru's original design for the silvan race, and around their conjunction arose an unaffected perfection none could deny.

The Chief Advisor and the minstrel observed Thranduil's messenger with ambivalence and open appreciation respectively. The dwarves called boisterous greetings to 'Axe-Foot' that caused more than a few twitters of anxious laughter amid the immortals. The humans trained disgusted sneers upon the archer, having heard the new arrival was the paramour of a much elder and highly placed noble of Elrond's House. Such flagrant social climbing by means of bed-sport, and between males, was unacceptable to human morals. The elf was lower than a harlot but garnered just as much interest and for the same cause.

Galdor remained reserved and withdrawn, seeing exactly what he expected for the signs of the sorrow-sickness were obvious to him. Now that he beheld Legolas in person, the ancient Lord was eager to get the young elf away and do what he might to smother the smouldering grief before it kindled into a consuming pyre. He did not like to think of such a one fading from Arda.

Likewise, Elrond frowned as his worry increased tenfold. His instincts screamed for him to get the elf out of all the commotion and away from the stressful impact of so much unwanted attention, give him a sleeping draught and tuck him into bed for the next two tours of Anor. Beside him Mithrandir clucked his tongue in sympathetic dismay, for he had reason to believe this untried warrior would be integral to the success of their efforts to defeat Sauron and wished not to lose him before the mission had even started.

Glorfindel, however, drew in a shocked breath and marched rapidly across the room as soon as he realised Cuthenin was there, for his sharp eyes had noted the livid mark left by Ithil'wath's staff. Rudely he shoved aside elves, men, and dwarves to intercept the archer as he was escorted to Aragorn's table by Elladan and Elrohir.

"Cuthenin!" he called as he came closer and presented a questioning grimace when the Wood Elf looked in his direction. Once he was near enough Glorfindel reached out and drew the forest warrior from the twins' protective hold. Exhibiting considerable care, he lifted the silvan's chin with his fingertips to better examine the vivid purple bruise marring one high cheek and the eye above it.

Cuthenin did nothing to inhibit the contact.

"Valar! What has happened?" the Balrog Slayer transferred suspicious eyes to Elrond's sons, first Elrohir and then Elladan.

"Nay, do not try to make us the guilty ones," laughed Elladan. He shared a glance with his brother confirming their unified surprise over this rather possessive behaviour on their mentor's part. Both looked at Legolas with renewed curiosity, for while the rumours were rampant the twin Lords had centuries ago learned to discount most of the hearsay that originated from Erestor's rooms.

"Aye, we have been watching out for our guest, Glorfindel, which is more than you can say," added Elrohir.

"Nay, he was well enough when we parted yet now you bring him hither bearing fresh injuries," accused the Vanya noble.

"It is nothing, just a slight bruise," assured Legolas, shivering minutely as Glorfindel's fingers softly palpated the swollen contusion. "It will be gone by the morrow."

"I think it needs tending nonetheless," fussed the re-born warrior, but his voice had taken on a soft timbre that surprised even him. Exactly when he had developed this strong protective instinct toward the youth he could not define. "At least we should apply a compress soaked in athelas and aloe."

"Truly, there is no need," replied Legolas, yet he did not pull away and met the warrior's scrutiny with open gratitude. He could not deny the pleasure this gentle attention generated and while one cheek was too darkly marked to testify to it the soft blush stealing upon the other readily did so. "If you think it best, however…"

"Good! I shall tend the injury after the meal. You must be beyond famished; how long has it been since you consumed anything other than way-bread and water?" As he spoke Glorfindel transferred his fingers to rest upon the silvan's shoulder and there they remained.

"It has been a few days," the Wood Elf shrugged but not so strongly as to dislodge the comforting weight of the Balrog Slayer's hand. "I do not feel hunger often and prefer light repasts."

"Truly? No favourite foods indigenous to your homeland that we can learn to prepare for you here?"

"Nay, well, perhaps there is something, yet I have no notion of how to make it."

"Tell me what it is; I will see if our fine chef can devise a near substitute."

"It is a sort of bread, or pie, filled with sweet wild blueberries."

"But those are very different, a pie versus bread."

"Aye; I told you I know nothing of culinary matters!" the Wood Elf let loose a lightly musical laugh that was a fairer sound than any other in the room and stopped every single conversation.

All eyes sought the source of the enchantingly uplifting voice and smiles were hard to suppress upon discovering its not surprising origin. None of this did the pair of golden-haired elves notice.

Indeed, the small-talk concerning pastries was hardly a topic that would generate interest from anyone, excepting the Hobbits perhaps, were it not for the wide notoriety of the speakers' alleged relationship. Even Elrond listened with intense focus and likewise Galdor and Gandalf took note of every nuance of the interaction, for there was much more being conveyed than a casual conversation about victuals. The elves needed to talk to each other and it mattered little what the subject was as long each could hear the other's voice.

The elder Elven Lords traded glances nearly identical to those which had so recently passed between Elladan and Elrohir.

"I think I have tasted such a thing myself, once very long ago," Elrond decided it was time to join their discussion, eyes rather bright and twinkling with a smile that simply refused to be squelched. Despite the dreadful circumstances surrounding their acquaintance, it did his heart good to see the accord between his Master-at-Arms and the silvan warrior. He waited until Glorfindel and Legolas turned to acknowledge him. "Is it small, with a thin skin of cooked dough on the outside, coated with a sugary glaze? And inside it is stuffed with warm and gooey blueberries?"

"Aye, just so!" exclaimed Legolas in amazement, smiling back. He had not thought it would be a commonly known commodity, nor did he comprehend to whom he was speaking. "Wherever did you sample fruit pockets?"

"In Lindon, young one," answered Galdor, "early in the last Age. They are a favourite of mine, also. Mae govannen! You are the messenger from the Woodland Realm?"

"Aye, my Lord. Legolas Cuthenin le suilanna (Legolas Cuthenin greets you)," he said and dipped his head politely.

"Galdor o Mithlond. Buiam Tawar. (We serve the Great Wood)," answered the Noldo so quietly only those directly beside him could hear.

The effect on the silvan was immediate and dramatic. Down on his knees Legolas dropped as a shocked gasp fled his lungs. "Tawar mín beria, Sadron. (Tawar protects us, Faithful One.)" The hushed words issued from his reverently lowered countenance as his fist rested above his heart.

This unexpected obeisance precipitated an excited murmur of commentary from the dining room's occupants at large.

"Erio, bŷr, erio!" (Rise, follower, rise!) commanded the elder Lord with a warm smile and reached for the warrior's arms to speed the process. It was a very solemn face that hesitantly lifted to meet his eyes and Galdor squeezed the archer's biceps in encouragement. "Allow me to present the Lord of the Valley, Elrond Peredhel, and here behind us is Mithrandir, whom you may have seen wandering amid the Woodland King's halls from time to time."

"My Lord Elrond!" the Wood Elf made another deep bow, swallowing in nervousness over having been so familiar with the renowned Elf Lord just moments ago. "I am honoured to meet you and am humbly grateful for your indulgence toward my errand."

"Mae govannen, Legolas. Your task is perhaps more important than you know. And it is I who must express gratitude for your obliging demeanour considering the deplorable lack of goodwill you were showed on arrival." Elrond smiled broadly, dark brows arched and grey eyes gleaming. The youthful messenger was fully composed, if a bit flushed, upon straightening up and the Lord of Imladris silently applauded the elf's tutors in courtly decorum.

"Nay, my Lord, it was but a simple misunderstanding," assured Legolas. "The issue has been resolved."

"Hah! We can attest to that! Ithil'wath has been duly enlightened, Adar," crowed Elrohir.

"Or at least he will be once he regains consciousness," added Elladan, laughing a bit at the guardsman's expense.

"Good, I am glad that is settled," nodded Mithrandir. "You did not hurt him too badly?"

"Nay! I did not wish to harm him, truly." Legolas faced the wizard with no small amount of dread, for it was Gandalf's trust he had failed to keep in letting Gollum escape the Greenwood. He was relieved to find the Maia smiling gently with no trace of displeasure upon his features.

"Well he meant to injure you," stated the Istar, gesturing at the livid bruise.

"I do not think so; this is from Minui Dram (First Blow)," Legolas corrected, immediately sensing, but not comprehending the cause for, his audience's bewilderment.

"Aye, but why did you let him hit you first? I am sure even Ithil'wath was shocked when you did not block him," Aragorn entered the conversation, stating what his brothers were also wondering.

"You let him do this?" Glorfindel could not hold back his disbelieving disapproval.

"It is the way when sparring," Legolas gazed at each in turn, seeing they were as confused as he was. "The elder fighter sets the level of force to be permitted during the match. Is it not so here?"

"Certainly not!" exclaimed Elrond, appalled that a more experienced warrior was allowed to strike down a less-skilled opponent, uncontested, with the first blow.

"Indeed, in Imladris fighters are paired as equally as possible. It is unseemly for a more knowledgeable warrior to have an unfair advantage. As for those instructing the novice warriors, never would such tactics be permitted." Glorfindel clearly did not condone the Woodland Realm's training methods.

Legolas did not like hearing his country disparaged and naturally his opinion differed, yet he was the youngest in years and a visitor among these noble and legendary folk. It would be wrong for him to contradict his elders and his host publicly. He set his jaw and drew his shoulders back straight and proud, however, in silent protest.

"Mayhap we should try these techniques," offered Elladan, seeing the woodland elf's displeasure at having to hold his tongue. "for Legolas easily defeated Ithil'wath, one of Imladris' finest swordsmen."

"Aye, and without rest after a long and tragic journey, while still recovering from serious injuries," added Elrohir, grinning to see the amazement spreading across Legolas' features.

"Not to mention having consumed nothing more than way-bread and water for six days," continued Aragorn, earning an exasperated smile from the Wood Elf.

The three brothers had made certain to speak loudly enough for everyone to understand them, mortals and immortals alike, and in response the chamber was quickly buzzing with animated converse over the fight. Even the Men of Gondor regarded the silvan with more respectful expressions.

"And finished the uncouth Noldo off with his bare left foot!" concluded the gruff and booming voice of Gloín. "Hail, Axe-Foot!" he called, waving at Legolas, as his kinfolk laughed and slapped the table with their palms, chanting out 'Axe-Foot' and 'Hammer-Hands' three times in their deep, sonorous voices.

"Well now, there seems to be a story to tell," said Elrond, smiling at the messenger. "We shall join you three, if that is acceptable, and hear of this unusual style of training and the skills it imparts."

"Of course, Adar, we would pleased with your company," responded Elladan, answering for his brothers as eldest.

Another table was dragged closer to accommodate the eight comrades and without further ado everyone sat down to enjoy the meal. Legolas was relieved that no one expected him to do anything but eat as the twins and their human brother took turns telling of the morning's events, complete with a colourful description of the archer's arrival amid the Dwarf Lords. In fact, every time he paused to take a breath or try and correct a point here and there, either Elrond, Glorfindel, or Elladan prompted Legolas to try something else from the board.

Legolas found himself seated between Glorindel and Galdor with Elrond directly across from him, next to the wizard, with the twins at either end of the combined table and their mortal brother on the Elf Lord's right hand. Truly, he was too overwhelmed to do more than issue monosyllabic responses to their questions and comments. Yet ever his eyes wandered to Galdor and found the kindly albeit concerned gaze of the elder elf upon him. Near the end of the repast, the former Lord of Gondolin leaned close and whispered for his ears alone:

"Boe ammen peded firn na adeden cuil." (We must speak of the dead to renew life.)

An expression equal parts relief and trepidation passed over the younger elf's features and, seeing this, Glorfindel placed a consoling hand upon his shoulder.

TBC

Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow)
by F.
unbeta'd

italics thoughts

(elvish translation)

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.

Summary: A look at what might happen if Legolas was just known as a messenger and not as Thranduil's son. The setting is just before the Council of Elrond. Features Glorfindel/Legolas pairing.

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Note: I am using the following formula for age calculation: Tolkien says humans and elves developed at roughly the same rate up to the fifth year of life. After that, humans progressed much more rapidly, with elves only reaching physical maturity at age 50. So, using modern the American concept of physical and mental maturity at age 18, deducting the five years of equal growth from each, and dividing the one by the other, one arrives at about 3.46 years for elves equal 1 year for humans. Round that to 3.5, multiply by twelve, which is a commonly designated age for official transition from childhood into adolescence in many human cultures, and we get the elven age of 42 used in this chapter. Douglas Adams would surely love this!

Anyone who has not read "The Fall of Gondolin" in Tolkien's The Book of Lost Tales II, I highly encourage you to do so. It is absolutely my most favourite of Tolkien's legends and Galdor's importance therein is explained, and the House of the Swallow is described as producing the very best archers among the elves. Thus, I have stolen that House for the maternal half of Legolas' ancestors, recent and ancient. The story of Gondolin explains that a small remnant of the Houses of the Tree, the Arch, the Swallow, the Fountain, and the Wing (Tuor's House) managed to escape the destruction, using a secret tunnel delved by Tuor's adherents upon Idril's counsel.

My continued thanks to all who are reading and reviewing, at both sites, and I will continue to comment upon reviews at the alternate location, found in my profile.

Cheers,
Fred

Tolothen Peth: Laer Dhuir (Part Eight: Sombre Songs)

Legolas was not exactly certain how it came about but in universal accord the eight diners finished the meal and disbanded to attend to the remainder of the day's duties. Elladan and Elrohir exited together for unknown travail, Mithrandir and Elrond went to check on the hobbits at their over-flowing table, and Aragorn beseeched Glorfindel's aid in planning a scouting mission for the Rangers, collecting them from a smoke-hazed alcove whence the Men had repaired at meal's end to indulge their passion for pipe-weed.

Legolas had enjoyed a last look shared with the Balrog Slayer, the mighty warrior's gaze both apologetic and encouraging, his simultaneously reassuring and genuinely cheerful in return. The silvan warrior was thus left in the company of the noble survivor from the ancient city destroyed so long ago by Melkor's vile machines of war and one traitorous elf's disgraceful betrayal.

"Sadron?" the Wood Elf turned to the respected elder with expectant puzzlement as they rose.

"Adjourn with me and let us take counsel together, Legolas."

"Aye, Lord, you honour me with the gift of your wisdom."

The Lord of the Tree smiled and led him away out of dining hall, offering neither explanations nor expecting any questions, for he was much above the silvan in rank with respect to their mutual creed, regardless of Legolas' heritage within a royal House. The woodland bŷr was bound to do as he was asked and would neither display hesitation nor offer counter suggestions. They moved through the still crowded refectory toward a side exit beyond which was a walled garden attached to Elrond's private morning room.

Galdor was aware of, but chose not to acknowledge, the notice taken by Erestor and Lindir as he and Legolas took their leave of the room. He had already heard the seamy stories and knew their source. Yet beyond that, the wise Lord understood the cause of the Chief Advisor's bitterness and was not bereft of sympathy and compassion. This other-half of the unravelled, tangled, ruined remnant of Glorfindel's last attempt at sharing his life was the most critical factor against allowing Cuthenin to become attached to the re-born warrior.

Yet Galdor was hard put to come up with any better substitute, given the Wood Elf's obvious attraction to the Vanya Lord.

If Legolas was cognisant of the searing glares bent upon him by Erestor, he did not deign to show it and this pleased the elder. The messenger presented as calm and slightly aloof even in the midst of his mounting sorrow. This level of self-control under such derogatory public scrutiny bespoke the strength of his character as well as the high degree of his devotion to Pâd-en-Tawar. Galdor was absolutely sure the silvan archer was mentally reciting a litany designed to render the soul peaceful and the mind detached from detrimental emotional energy projected by antagonists.

The Lord of the Tree ushered the Legolas into the hidden garden and grinned to hear the appreciative sigh that fled his companion's lips. The acre-sized cultivated plot was in fact an arboretum of exotic species not normally found so far north of the coast. Elrond, having effectively grown up in the southern climate of Lindon, did all he could to replicate the ecosystem found there.

Here were trees such as Legolas had never imagined: palms without branches sprouting wide, green fans from their crowns, a strange sort of nutmeg with needle-like leaves and a wrinkled and leathery fruit, tall magnolias shedding their red-spotted seed pods, a wide variety of water-willows, innumerable ferns crowding the shaded bases of the trees, and more types of lilies and orchids than he could count. In fact, there were so many unknown varieties of flora that Legolas quite forgot he was expected to attend to the elder Lord's counsel and came as close to frolicking among the greenery as a full-grown elf was likely to do.

Galdor chuckled to see it and did nothing to inhibit the youth's excited exuberance, waiting patiently until the silvan archer had completed a tour of the garden and stopped beside a merry little brook. He joined Legolas, happy to see the absolute delight that transformed the formerly drawn and weary countenance, and led him to a comfortable bench. Close to the amply padded seat was an unusual fire stove formed from moulded clay, short and squat like a summer gourd, raised up off the ground about a third of a metre on sturdy wrought iron feet. From it radiated a cheery warmth more than welcomed by the messenger.

Legolas had not realised he was chilled until the fire's heat reached him and he stretched his hands toward it like a plant turning its leaves to the sun. "I had no idea such trees lived!" he exclaimed and smiled up at the elder Lord as he pointed to the palmettos' peculiar bark and waving fans. "Those would be easy to climb but uncomfortable for sitting or sleeping."

"Aye," Galdor laughed heartily at this remark. "Yavanna has created plants for every type of climate. In Mithlond, I think it is safe to say the elves would be just as surprised to behold the towering beeches and cedars of Greenwood." He sat beside the Wood Elf, noting in concern the ellon's need for the heat of the fire.

He had not intended to have the conversation in the open, only using the garden as a convenient escape from curious eyes. Elrond's house was a maze and there was a second portal within the morning room which led to a servants' stairway. This would carry them beyond notice up to the elder's suite. Yet Legolas seemed at ease amid the arboretum and perhaps that was more important than absolute security from eavesdropping ears.

Legolas waited for the eminent Sadron to begin their discussion. He felt rather torn between a sense of deep gratitude for a chance to talk with someone so important within Pâd-en-Tawar and frustrated not to be permitted to meet privately with Mithrandir and deliver the news he had been sent to announce. The wizard had brushed aside his mid-meal request vaguely and then Elrond had immediately interrupted, virtually commanding the archer to withhold this revelation pending attendance at an important council on the morrow. He was now expected to explain to an entire roomful of dignitaries from foreign lands how he had failed in his duty and placed Greenwood in such an untenable position.

Thus when Galdor had excused them both at meal's end, Legolas had followed along in a rather forlorn state of mind, envisioning the scorn this unforeseen meeting between so many representatives of the free peoples of Arda would inflict upon his country.

"It will be difficult for you to deliver your message from Thranduil before an audience?" Galdor had noticed Legolas' morose disposition upon learning of the council and decided that was as easy a place to begin as any, for their discourse was likely to affect the silvan greatly before its conclusion.

"Aye, Sadron. I was hoping to tell this news only to Mithrandir, once I learned he was here. I will do as Lord Elrond asks, of course."

"What do you fear?"

"To hold my people up to more ridicule and offer all the other realms of Arda additional ammunition with which to snipe at my homeland. I must relate a grave error on my part, yet though the fault is mine it is Greenwood and the silvan people that will be derided for it."

"That is unfortunate. I am sure Elrond meant no such outcome, thinking only to prevent you from needing to tell the story over more than once. If you wish, I will ask him to excuse you from this chore."

"Nay, that would be worse. Many in the refectory will have heard him request my presence on the morrow. How shall it be that every realm of free people is represented except the Greenwood? If I fail to attend, this will only serve to reveal me as unreliable and cowardly, and my race thusly by association."

"That is too strong; no one would call you timid now that the whole account of the fight is known."

"It matters not for they will speculate until a derogatory cause is discovered or invented. I will face these delegates, Sadron, and make sure to emphasise that the mistake was mine alone." Legolas spoke with more conviction than he felt and a glance at the elder noble revealed this was no secret.

"Well then we shall do what we can to strengthen you for it," Galdor smiled and laid a hand upon the archer's shoulder kindly. He noted at once the fine tremors racing along beneath the borrowed garments and grew more concerned. "You are still cold."

"Aye. I cannot get warm, except when I was in the spa, even though I feel my body is on fire at times. I believe it is an after-effect of the poison."

"In that case we must retire to my chambers. I was reluctant to do so openly for fear of adding to the rumours flying about the house," said Galdor and rose, offering his hand to the archer to help him up, for he looked bone weary. "I know a means to reach the suite unnoticed. It is regrettable you had to get caught up in that awful conflict between my former countrymen. In any other matter, Erestor is beyond reproach and the staunchest ally one could have. If he had met you in a different context, I do not think he would have given you a second thought."

"Glorfindel has explained as much," replied the silvan messenger, permitting the Noldo Lord to guide him back within the mansion through a set of long glass doors where the garden's lawn met the morning room.

They did not speak during the walk to the Lord's chambers and as fate would have it the pair passed no less than three servants on the way. Once in his suite's sitting room, Galdor had to send for aid in lighting the fire, for there was no fuel set in the grate at this mild-seasoned time of the year. The elf attending to this task gave Legolas a thorough inspection and an unsavoury smile, half sneering and half leering, before leaving. That this was the page attached to Erestor neither Galdor nor Legolas could know, being but visitors to Imladris.

Legolas gave no response to the disquieting attention other than a stoic sigh.

The elder just caught it as he disappeared through one of the chamber's inner doors and made a mental note to counter the servant's tattling tongue as soon as possible. Elbereth knows how twisted this will become, thanks to Erestor and his seething jealousy.

"Sadron, I must ask for Pennas Lunnen (History Sung) for my fallen comrades. It does not seem likely now that I shall make it back to the place of their demise as quickly as I had hoped." Legolas' voice was filled with his sorrow and guilt as he lifted pleading eyes to the Noldo Lord upon his return.

"Aye, it shall be done. Yet I am thinking that will not be enough," Galdor had brought a thick woollen cloak from his bedroom and draped it around the silvan's shoulders, joining him on the sofa by the blazing hearth. "Glorfindel has suggested the need for Úcaul Annaur (Unburdening by Fire). I am inclined to agree with him."

"But he is not an initiate!" Legolas blurted out.

To say it was a shock to learn that Glorfindel had initially proposed the rite's invocation was grossly inadequate. Legolas realised the Vanya understood something of his religion by the recognition displayed concerning the hidden marks on his forearms. It was equally apparent by the lack of same upon the Balrog Slayer's body that he was not among the faithful. For someone outside Pâd-en-Tawar to suggest this course was unheard of.

"True, yet you do not deny the idea has crossed your mind also."

"Aye, Sadron, I have longed for it ever since…" Legolas low voice drifted into silence before the sentence completed.

"So I see." Galdor carefully rubbed the Wood Elf's back. "I was as surprised as are you that Glorfindel understands the concept. In all honesty, he does not really comprehend the full extent of the ritual. He only knows you are suffering and remembered this ceremony from his first life in Gondolin. I assure you, he does not mean any disrespect to you or to your comrades in requesting my intervention."

"I would never think thus. Yet it cannot be, for I have lost Tirn'wathelen (my Watcher-Sister: female Guardian) and there is no one here to replace her or to stand as Faer Hebron."

"Your Guardian, was she destined to become your mate and soul-keeper and you, hers?" asked the Noldo gently, for he suspected this to be the case considering the depth of the silvan youth's despair.

"Nay, Calarlim (Lamp-light) was only my Guardian, Sadron." Legolas voice broke over the pronouncing of her name and he barely held back a heart-tearing sob. His hands tugged the cape tighter around him and he shivered visibly, his blue eyes awash in such anguish that Galdor knew there was more to this relationship than the formal one of guardian and charge.

"I have seen the tragedy that has befallen you, young one. You lost your Guardian in the struggle to cross the Mountains," Galdor spoke softly and with compassion. "Yet there is something more, for in the vision I beheld the power of the bond you shared. You understand? Calarlim is asking me to aid you; she made the vision to come upon me. Tell me of this and relieve your soul of the strife."

"Nae! (Alas!) I begged her not to come along but of course Calarlim would not heed me!" he had cried in desperation, searching Sadron's face for absolution for failing to convince his Guardian to remain in the Greenwood.

"Nay, your Tirn'wathel could do no less; no entreaty you could make would have stayed her purpose. Lay aside any thought of blame over her fate, for it is one she chose willingly and gladly," Galdor soothed his hand gently against the suffering elf's spine, up and down, rubbing in hopes of encouraging some warmth back into the shuddering form beside him. He waited impatiently, for he would hear Legolas divulge the real kernel of misery that was now sprouting so quickly and, if not uprooted, would too soon choke out any other emotion's growth. "Le annach caul lín." (Give me your burden.) Sadron commanded.

"I cannot believe she is gone. It cannot be! Always has she been at my side; there is no time in my memory when Calarlim was not present. She raised me; she loved me as a mother would," the archer choked out, unable to stem the tears that began to fall.

"And your cuil-oneth? (life-giver) Where is she, Legolas?" Galdor was feeling more anxious by the second, fearing confirmation of the answer that had already formed in his mind.

"She is gone. I never knew her, for I am told she could not survive beyond my creation and bearing into life. Calarlim is her sister and became my Naneth Edwen (Second Mother). I have lost her, Sadron! Why could I not save her?" Legolas doubled over as if in pain, which he truly was, and wept openly as the images returned in all their horrific detail.

Must he perpetually witness her demise, the terrible moment when her attention wavered, distracted by his shout upon being wounded, when the Orc's blade made it past her defences? Must he ever see the filthy sword's deadly swing, hear the sickening sound of rending flesh as it sliced her open nearly in twain, spilling her blood and organs even before she fell to the ground? He clamped a hand over his mouth and nose, but this did not prevent the stench from pervading his every sense; the acrid smell of her blood, bile, and urine mixing as everything poured from her severed body's cavity. Legolas fought the sickness rising in his chest to no avail and was soon retching uncontrollably into a container of some sort that the ancient Lord held before him.

"There now, young one, there now," calmly Galdor whispered as he aided Legolas through the vomiting, having suspected some such thing would result. Thus he had gathered a large bowl and kept it near at hand as soon as they had entered his sitting room. He held back the long golden hair and supported the trembling body, spoke quiet encouragement and strengthening prayers. "You did all there was to do; it was not in your power to prevent this. It is a mother's right, be she first or second, to die protecting her child. This you must accept."

The foul odour of his undigested meal was too like the grotesque stench of death engulfing his Naneth Edwen and Cuthenin wailed between the heaving expulsions from his gut. He continued to disgorge acid and bile until he was empty, body and soul. It was all over in a matter of minutes but to Legolas it seemed an Age had passed while this demeaning weakness laid him down in defeat on the soft sofa.

With the violent emotional and physical upheaval diminishing, Galdor eased the slumped warrior's depleted body aside carefully and rose to dispose of the noisome liquified remains. That this had been the only nourishing meal the silvan had consumed in days added to the Noldo's worry. The venerable elder set the offensively reeking bowl outside the door and shut it firmly. He retreated to his bedroom and exited a moment later bearing a damp cloth from the washstand, and paused beside a side table upon which stood a collection of decanters and small jars. He poured a cup of miruvor and discreetly added a minute amount of some of the powdered herbs from the glass bottles, watching to ensure Legolas did not notice.

Galdor had been prepared for something grave but this was a calamity he had not envisioned. The elf had lost his naneth and his Guardian, one and the same person, all in the same battle. The noble Sadron had no reluctance to performing the ritual now, for the urge to follow his Second Mother to Mandos would only grow stronger in Legolas' feä with each passing hour. Galdor found himself stubbornly defiant in wishing to prevent the archer from doing so, though why he was so adamant was beyond definition.

I believe only the sickness from the poisoned wounds has prevented his fading thus far, for his mind has until recently been in a haze of fever. With physical healing underway and his thoughts coherent again, it is but a matter of time before Legolas succumbs to the sorrow. He must undergo Úcaul Annaur and if Glorfindel will not acquiesce to becoming the soul-keeper then another must be found at once.

Now he must seek to learn the Wood Elf's heart and ask him to give up his Tirn'wathel, permitting Galdor to assume this crucial role. It was cruel to force him to bear his soul thus, for Legolas was alone among strangers and yet must depend upon these outlanders to see him through the ordeal to come. It would not be easy to place his trust in someone so quickly, even though the elder was a leader among the Sadryn. For this reason Galdor had drugged the potent liqueur and while the cause was just the noble Lord could not prevent the guilt that stole over his heart to do it. He only hoped the messenger had not partaken of miruvor previously and would not notice the altered taste.

Assuming he did not observe my actions in tampering with it.

He need not have worried, for the woodland elf was curled in the corner of the sofa, legs folded beneath him, one arm wrapped over his aching stomach and the other propped upon the armrest, holding up his head and covering his eyes. His shoulders shook with the aftermath of his sobbing and the wrenching regurgitation while his breath came and left with audible despair.

Galdor frowned in tribulation and hastened to Legolas' side, unceremoniously pulling him into his arms and wiping the wan face with the soft cloth. The archer averted his eyes and this Galdor had expected also, knowing Wood Elves would consider such a breakdown a sign of immaturity and indicative of a will lacking in strength. He knew how to counter this, however, and did not hesitate.

"Sîdh, Legolas, (Peace) this shall remain between us, for I shall be your Tirn'wador from henceforth, unless you object. It is fitting for you to share your sorrow with your Guardian, is this not so? You must have a Guardian until you are soul-bound to your mate. I shall take up this task."

Then the young warrior lifted surprised, tear-reddened eyes to the ancient elf's, searching them intently for some sense of comprehension. "Why would you do this, Sadron? We are not even of the same race much less the same House. Do…do you know any of my people?"

"I met your minya'dar (first-father: grandfather) many centuries ago. I witnessed his honourable sacrifice at the Last Alliance, something many do not fully comprehend, even among the First-born. Oropher's pre-emptive charge caught the Dark forces by surprise and kept them quite busy as Gil-Galad prepared for the full assault upon the Black Gates."

Galdor passed the cup to his guest and encouraged him to drink. "Your people are known to me and therein lies another mystery, for the House of Oropher is not counted istad im Pâd-en-Tawar. (knowing in the Way of Tawar.) How is it then that you and I are of the same faith?"

"I was raised by Calarlim through my infancy and childhood. I was not brought within Hiren Adar's (my Lord Father's) court until my forty-second year. She is…was of Nost Duilin (the House of the Swallow)."

"Ah, that explains it, for the Swallows were always staunch adherents to the Way. I am gratified that some remnant of those valourous people survived Maeglin's betrayal and also saddened that I had no knowledge of where they settled. Like ashes are the Gondolindrim (people of Gondolin), scattered by the wind," Galdor's voice was fraught with nostalgic regret for the loss of so great a kingdom of the elves.

"Say not ashes, Sadron, but seeds; and fertile is the ground of the Greenwood," replied the archer quietly.

"Aye." Galdor smiled into the corn-flower blue gaze, both pleased and impressed by this insightful counter-comment to his bitter-sweet remark. Legolas had a depth of wisdom few elves were capable of at his age and this only strengthened the elder's determination to salvage the woodland messenger. "This is a tie beyond our distinct ancestry. Our realms may be separate yet we both live within the bounty of Tawar. It does not matter if I am Noldorin and you silvan, for the allegiance between the House of the Tree and that of the Swallow goes back into the Ages. Besides, are not all the elves Iluvatar's Children?"

"Aye, Sadron."

"Then all that is required is your acceptance. If there is another you might choose to delegate I will approach him or her, yet in Elrond's Realm there are few that comprehend the nature of such a commitment. Moreover, I see that my journey here was ordained by Tawar specifically to fulfil this duty. None shall gainsay the voice of Tawar save Manwë himself, and I hear not the wind. What say you, Legolas? Can you abide a stranger as replacement for your beloved Tirn'wathel?"

"It is as you say: the will of Tawar is not to be questioned, Sadron. Yet it does not feel like you are a stranger, Lord, but rather that we are kinsmen, somehow." Legolas was confused that this should be so but could not deny that he felt completely at ease in Galdor's presence. He took another sip of the miruvor and continued. "I will abide it; indeed it is an honour to be granted so noble a Guardian as one among the Founders." Everything was happening so very quickly and yet he instantly felt better upon accepting this generous offer.

"Nasan." (So be it.)

Galdor rose from the couch and again vanished into the inner rooms, returning with a small wooden box tooled in fine kidskin leather and stained a rich dark violet. Upon its lid was the emblem of his noble House, a great cedar tree, and the sides of the container were decorated in an elaborate border of interlocking symbols that looked like leaf and limb but were really constructed from sacred runes and spells. Within it were the tools required to mark his name and title upon the Wood Elf's body, proclaiming his status as Legolas' Tirn'wador.

This he set upon the hearth and then gathered up the bottle of miruvor, a pitcher of water, and the cloth as well. He collected Legolas last of all, escorting him to the fireplace and settling him on the raised lip of stone before the roaring grate.

"It is best to be near the fire in your condition," he said in answer to the questioning look the archer sent him. "Finish the tonic I gave you, for that will make this easier as well."

Legolas dipped his head in assent and swallowed down the rest of the drink. He was fully aware the cordial was drugged, for his hearing was extreemly acute and he had heard more than the opening of the decanter. In truth he was grateful rather than offended. It was not physical pain he dreaded, for experience told him that would be minimal.

He could not imagine his heart relinquishing Tirn'wathel readily, even though his mind understood she was far beyond his reality now. The potent mixture, combined with Sadron's frequent declarations of the will of Tawar, made him agreeable to whatever the elder suggested. It did not even seem so unimaginable to accept Glorfindel as Faer Hebron, though his reason was fairly shouting that this could never be so. He set aside the drained cup and faced his new Guardian.

"Gerin hûr," (I am ready.) he said.

TBC

Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow) by F.
unbeta'd

italics thoughts

(elvish translation)

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.

Summary: A look at what might happen if Legolas was just known as a messenger and not as Thranduil's son. The setting is just before the Council of Elrond. Features Glorfindel/Legolas pairing.

Note: I have been given such wonderful reviews from everyone and so I thank you all! I am going to catch up the other site to match this one during the holiday, so everyone's generous and insightful comments will at last be answered. Here is another chapter. The first paragraph is a poem I wrote and I hope that does not bother anyone. There is a quick glimpse into Legolas' childhood here and a new Guardian is chosen.

Galdor takes his job seriously and so he is trying to help Legolas through the transition, that is why he 'slips him a mickey' so to speak. That is also why heasks such specific questions; he does not know Legolas well and needs to learn quickly. He is not going to do anything to harm Legolas; others shall work on that goal.

Remember in this story that Legolas is both very young and has been raised in a closed, highly conservative culture. If he seems not to know much about how to go about engaging in a physical act of love with another male, that is not so surprising. In American culture, still very oppressive in may ways, a young person feeling the stirring of sexual yearning is often forced to attempt to learn these things covertly. Think of your own youth and the misinformation that surrounded such a touchy subject as sexuality.

For someone interested in the same gender, it is far worse, for sometimes they cannot even openly question friends for fear of being shunned, or revealed and punished. In Legolas' case, the additional stigma of his parents not being bonded adds to the fear of garnering greater shame.

Next chapter, Glorfindel undergoes a similar inquisition by the ancient Sadron to determine his fitness to become Cuthenin's soul-keeper, and the death ritual is detailed.

---

Nedrui Peth: Teith na Tûr ar Tegi (Part Nine: Marks to Guard and Guide)

The fire whispers softly a song of warmth and light,
and amid the coals bright tongues dancing mesmerise my sombre soul.
Shifting shades of amber and ochre, lulling tones in gentle timbre,
yield visions of summer's favoured hours under sounds recalling autumn's showers.
Entranced, the spirit spies naught but this final burst of red and orange gloze,
remembering dew, unnumbered drops of air's breath coating leaf and limb,
feeling earth between the tangled strands of rooted toes
and the surge of sap through timber in the spring.
Bark creaking and stretching in the stormy wind, reduced to radiant embers,
gives voice to the last stanzas of the fallen tree's chorus,
I sing a subdued, sullen note of long dark nights before us
and the sleep of endless pale Decembers.

A shiver and a deep sigh worked through Legolas' body where he sat upon the hearth staring intently into the undulating gleam of translucent flame, his thoughts drifting there within the curling currents of swirling heat and fire. Absorbed in the last gift of the maple, he received the fragments of consciousness freed from the tree's dry dead branches by the consuming blaze even as his weary body soaked up the effulgent warmth. He spared a swift glance into Galdor's face and found the mild brown eyes observing him just as studiously but with far greater concentration and something akin to appreciation.

"That is both sad and beautiful," said the elder elf and smiled at the young archer's expression of confusion and surprise. "Aye, you sang the tree's last lament just now. Did you not know?" He could see this was so and Legolas' quick shake of the head confirmed it.

"I do not recall singing," Legolas was uncomfortably doubtful and worried for such a thing to happen. He was not wont to lose himself in song or any other form of contemplation, and failing to remark his own voice was not something that had ever occurred before.

"Do not be overly concerned; it is not so unusual to act strangely at such times. Your bond with the woods is strong and other bonds have been violently severed. The feä reaches for what comfort it may find under such strain; yours found the remnant essence of the tree from whence the fuel originated."

"Mayhap it is the drink," murmured the messenger, swallowing down the rest of the concoction in two eager gulps. He held out the cup. "Is there more of it?"

"There is, yet you have nothing solid in your stomach to dilute it." Galdor considered carefully the downcast disappointment on Cuthenin's features, then took the cup and arose with a nod. "I suppose it can do no harm as long as I watch over you."

"I am not a child," the belligerent words got loose before Legolas could quite comprehend it and his eyes grew huge as his ears figured out what his tongue had just uttered. "Ai, Sadron! I did not mean to be disrespectful, forgive me!"

But Galdor was smiling, pleased that the tonic was working well enough to remove some of the Wood Elf's inhibitions. There could be none between them; Legolas must trust him completely. "Be at ease, I understand the source of those thoughts and thus you are free to voice them. You are free to speak anything your heart needs to reveal." He returned with a second, somewhat smaller serving of the doctored miruvor and sat beside Legolas.

Legolas accepted the drink but not the elder's suggestion. He cold not do as Galdor said, how could he? I do not even know this elf. I cannot bear my heart to him. Yet somehow he must if he would allow the noble Sadron to become his Tirn'wador. And why am I so eager for a replacement? I do not need a Tirn'wador.

Instantly his mind called forth a vivid memory, a time when he was young and rebellious, envious of the elves his age who had no Watcher to whom they must answer. Arms crossed before him and a deep scowl marring his features, eyes fierce and bright, he had uttered the same sentence to Calarlim.

'I do not need a Guardian. Henceforth, you may be my Naneth Edwen but nothing more. Tûovor (Strength Abundant - Thranduil's first born) and Tûrdangannen (Mastery Confirmed - Thranduil's second born) do not have Guardians.'

'That is true but then again both of them have bond-mates and families now, do they not? When you are so bound, you will not need Tirn'wathel then.' Calarlim answered with calm reason, fighting her smile at the sight of her contentious son, for in her heart Legolas was nothing less. How she mourned the passing of his elfling days while rejoicing in the youth's development as this new spirit of independence sought to grow and emerge.

'True.' This reluctant capitulation was followed by a short silence as Legolas sought a counter argument. 'Yet they did not have Tirn'wedyr (Guardians) ever, for they are not marked with the signs of Pâd-en-Tawar. They are whole and strong and Hiren Adar is proud of them, yet never had they any Guardian to interfere in their actions,' he reiterated emphatically, certain such logic was indisputable.

'You are correct, your brothers are not bŷr (followers). Nothing can be done about this, for it is not the way in your father's House. However, each of them had other minders through their young years; ask and they will tell you. And those minders were simply paid to serve the King's wife-mate, not devoted and bound to his children by holy rites and sacred oaths. In fact, many governors and tutors came and went within your father's household, for few elves could abide for long the constant uproar following your two brothers' every move.'

'But Tirn'wathel, this year I shall celebrate my thirty-fifth begetting day! (equal to about age 10) That is too old to have you following after me always. The others mock me for bringing along my nurse-maid to the training field!'

'Very well, mayhap your thirty-fifth year deserves some recognition. Yet with the privilege of freedom comes the responsibility,' Calarlim decided to compromise, hastening to temper her son's joyous response so that he would hear her words completely. 'My trust in you is absolute and I expect it never to be broken, even as you know with surety that I will never betray yours. Such is the pact between us.

'You may go unattended to your weapons practice and to lessons with the scholars, yet you shall return to me at the appointed time before you make other plans for your remaining hours. You will not be late for Eneg Egleriad. (Six Praises - a cycle of contemplation and prayer for followers of Pâd-en-Tawar) Now will the strength of your convictions be tested, for if you believe the other elves will cease teasing you because I am not present, you are soon to be disillusioned.'

She had been right, of course. Without her at his back, his contemporaries had felt free to say things he had never heard before. The first day on his own he had been sent back to her in disgrace for starting a brawl over the insults and slurs aimed at his deceased mother and his status in the community. Prior to that day, he had not known it was shameful to be created as his parents had made him, for no one would speak such words with Calarlim the fearsome protector ever armed and by his side.

By the end of the week, he had realised how much he relied upon his Guardian and wished he could return to the days when she was always beside him, a shield against hurts he had not imagined, even as she had predicted. There was no going back, however, and as the years brought him closer to maturity, he was even more grateful for her dedicated vigilance and unfailing support. He had come to feel as an alien in his own lands, an outsider amid his people, and but for her aid he would not have both accepted and mastered his nature. Without her, the internal sense of exclusion would have bloomed into reality.

There was a similarity in his present situation. He truly was in a foreign land among folk split between those who could not fully understand him even did they wish friendship and those openly scornful and derisive. He needed someone to guide him through the events about to transpire and provide a bulwark against the mounting sorrow and impending disgrace. Even more, he required a mentor to teach him how to navigate among these new customs and the unexpected invitation he seemed to sense regarding expression of his darkest needs. He had many questions and a Guardian would be bound to answer them.

Yet the trust between them was not one-sided. As Tirn'wador, Galdor would defend Legolas even unto death, counsel him, console him in time of need, and most importantly act as a chaperon during courting. Tirn'wador would have the final say in whether or not a match was favoured; even an elf's parents could not gainsay the Guardian's decision.

In return Legolas must reveal his inner heart or chance nullifying his Tirn'wador's efforts. There could be no holding back, no farce or pretense of allegiance; he must either grant to Lord Galdor the same place held in his life by Calarlim or forego the entire procedure and struggle on alone.

"It is not so easy, is it?" Galdor guessed the turmoil in his companion's thoughts and its source. "Just saying it is the will of Tawar does not make the situation more endurable. Worry not; once Úcaul Annaur (Unburdening by Fire) is completed you will find this less taxing, for Calarlim does not wish you to suffer and hopes for this transition to ease your spirit. For now, the marking will be a beginning for you. As soon as the first puncture is made, you will feel her protection ebb even as the red dye seeps into your skin, even as my protection surrounds you."

Legolas shuddered again, hastily downed the rest of the drugged liqueur, and set the glass aside. "I am ready," he said for the second time and perhaps, due in part to the miruvor's effects, this declaration was more truthful than the first. He began to unfasten the closures to his borrowed tunic and slipped it over his head. As he worked on the shirt he watched Sadron remove and ready the devices required to ink the new marks and modify the old ones.

The piercing tool was a simple and efficient design carved from oak wood consisting of a slender handled stylus elegantly adorned with engraved blessings and potent prayers. The end of the handle was fitted with a tight array of three fine needles sharp and gleaming a bright white silver as if cast from mithril, which they were. Legolas had not seen any piercing quill composed from metal, and such a precious one at that. In Greenwood, the puncturing implement was generally a bone splinter, a shard of jasper, or the thorns from acacia trees. Calarlim had favoured thorns, for there was an ever-ready supply of fresh, unblunted points to harvest.

A set of brushes with thick soft boar bristles, similar to those used in painting a canvas, a vial of rust-coloured liquid and one of sooty indigo, and a container of clear liquid used to cleanse the skin and the implements before and during the work. To make a design, the brush was soaked in pigment and held between the fingers of one hand, which also pressed and held the skin taut. The needled end of the piercing tool was then dabbed into the saturated bristles and jabbed repeatedly into the dermis with the other hand.

Galdor set out everything neatly on the stone hearth and waited as Legolas removed his shirt.

Cuthenin did so and then held his arms out, fists curled tight with thumbs up-facing, for the elder elf's inspection.

Galdor took one rigid knot of folded digits and carefully massaged the throbbing vein at the arm's juncture, murmuring a prayer for peace of mind and strength of will, until the archer relaxed and the hand opened. Setting this one down upon Legolas' knee, he repeated the procedure with its twin until both arms were loose and pliant to his manipulation. Only then did Sadron allow himself to trace the long lines of text up from the crease at the wrist to the the joint of the elbow. He and Legolas quietly spoke the words of the prayers together.

Not stopping there, Galdor also ran his index finger lightly around the spiral over the archer's heart. He smiled, finding Calarlim's name in no less than three locations: on each forearm and within the delicate spiral.The place of the Guardian is still one of high prestige, then.

All of those signs relating to her would now be altered. On Cuthenin's arms, her name would be struck through with a livid slash of vibrant crimson to signify her loss by violent death. A new line of text would then be inked in blue, proclaiming Galdor's place as Tirn'wador and Legolas' acceptance of the change.

The heart-spiral was more difficult to alter, for the symmetry of the design must be preserved. Not only were the words important but the image itself represented a powerful emblem of protection. This mark was the first begun on an initiate's body and its centre was inked on the twelfth day after birth. Thereafter, it was added to every year, embellished as the child grew, through the fifth year. From thence to the fiftieth year, the spiral was increased every sixth year and then never again until bonding occurred. The marks given then would be the last ever added to the heart-spiral.

Barring a tragedy such as Legolas has experienced.

Calarlim's name could not simply be crossed out, but would have to be outlined in red instead, a much more painstaking procedure, before the elder could add his name. Galdor decided the best way to achieve both goals was to create a sort of trailing back whorl on each of the three arms, so that there would be an inner and outer spiral, one interlaced within the other, one growing from and superseding the other, yet perpetually linked in an endless loop.

Yet Galdor was not through with his observations and lifted questioning eyes to Legolas. A bright smile and a swift move to bring all the golden hair to the front was his answer and the Noldo turned his new charge slightly to better view the exquisite work on the archer's back.

"Remarkable," he whispered. "Who did the design for you?"

"Tirn'wathel."

"Of course, I should have realised." The elder's fingers trailed along one outspread wing and he heard Legolas whisper the incantation contained within the feathers as he touched them. This emblem, absolutely unique to Legolas, would have also been gradually built over his lifetime, with the small points of the constellation and a single feathered prayer inked on the first begetting day anniversary. The full image could not be finished until physical growth was complete and traditionally this was an event that happened on Coll o Gweth (Coming of Age) in the fiftieth year.

Galdor let his touch fall upon the delicate spray of vines and flowers and here his attention froze. This was a design he had seen before and his brows rose in surprise, wondering if the meaning was still the same.

"Tirn'wathel protected me," said Legolas quietly, knowing where his new Guardian's eyes were focused. "Will you do the same?"

"I will, if it is within my power. Legolas, you have said there is no one to stand as your Faer Hebron (Soul Keeper), yet this mark is reserved for an elf betrothed. Such a design was surely chosen by your intended mate. Tell me, where is this elf?" Galdor turned from his scrutiny of the vivid rendering and sought Cuthenin's eyes.

But Legolas kept his face averted, staring again into the flames, and licked his lips, trying to ready them for the work of speaking something that had only been voiced aloud by Calarlim before.

"There was no one. It was all a ruse. Calarlim took me on a visit to her cousins in the northern regions of the Greenwood in my forty-third year, for Hiren Adar expressed concern that I had not sought permission to court anyone for bonding. He supposed there was no one of interest to me close to home and suggested we travel among the various parts of the Greenwood that I might meet other eligible ellyth (female elves) of my age. Calarlim told me he really believed none among the folk near the stronghold would countenance my troth because of the stigma cast upon me as the product of illicit union.

"We stayed a good while in my mother's country, nearly the whole year. When we returned, Calarlim put it forth that I was betrothed to a warrior maiden from that region and marked me thus. Hiren Adar was pleased and professed the desire to meet my intended and her kin. Tirn'wathel had to delay the event three times, using excuses of all sorts. Another year later, word reached the fortress that the elleth had perished in a skirmish with spiders. In truth, this maiden never existed at all."

"Why would your Tirn'wathel do this? Would your father have attempted to force a match for you to someone you could not abide, beyond your country's borders, for political reasons perhaps?"

"Nay, Hiren Adar said I might bond with any elleth in Greenwood that my heart would wish, whatever her House or rank. I am not of high enough station to provide a strategic alliance, even if Hiren Adar wished for an external allegiance of that nature, which he does not. My two brothers fulfil the duty of cementing internal coalitions of strength and are bonded to ellyth from two of the most powerful among the Greenwood's noble Houses, ones that trace back to Neldoreth and Doriath in Beleriand."

"Then what is it?"

"I would never knowingly shame my family in any way. Yet if I seek a mate such that my heart truly desires, then I could not help but do so, for I long for that which is anathema among our culture."

"Ah, this is regrettable," Galdor sighed, for he realised what Legolas was trying to tell him. "Your interest does not include females, and customs scorn a bond between same-sex mates?"

"More than scorn, such is forbidden in my country. If anyone finds out, my father's House will be held up to ridicule. Thranduil's efficacy as a ruler will be questioned because he would present as weak for producing such an aberration within our people. Indeed, the fact of my existence, even lacking any immoral tendency, is enough reason for some detractors' aims. He would lose the respect of the most loyal among the leaders of the other Houses in the realm.

"Some would say it is a perversion introduced by the Sindarin bloodlines, a weakness to be purged. My brothers and their offspring would be scrutinised for any example of the detested behaviour. I have three great nephews who have not reached Coll o Gweth and they would come under the taint of my…preference. Finally, I would be judged and banished from my home, never to see my family again this side of the Sundering Sea."

All of this poured out from Legolas in a bitter stream of hurt and anguish, for while he dreaded anyone learning the truth, he felt wronged. Why must he be forced to display a false front for the rest of his life, ever denied a true bond-mate and the fulfilment such a union would bring?

"Ai, can it become more complicated, young one?" Galdor wrapped an arm around the bare shoulders and pulled the youth close, sickened in his soul to hear this tale.

In Gondolin, and now in Imladris and Mithlond, tolerance was a given and the choice for one's bonding-mate was not a cause for being ostracised from the community, much less banished from the country entirely. Lorien was more conservative, with same-sex pairings frowned upon but not prohibited by law or custom. The Greenwood's mores seemed too unforgiving and he wondered why this should be so, for the Pâd-en-Tawar did not list any restrictions regarding courting and bonding one way or the other.

"The little farce prevented all of these things. Additionally, I have been exempted from further attempts at seeking a mate on the pretext that my heart is broken and I am barely fighting off fading," Legolas continued morosely.

"So you preserve the family honour at the sacrifice of your own well-being. I deem it accurate to say that grief has been your companion even before the recent loss of your dear friends, though your intended never died. It is the same, to be sundered by death and to be held apart by rigourous laws too strict to endure. The soul cannot abide alone if it longs for union with another, and to force such a division is severely detrimental. We must remedy this, Legolas, or you will indeed be in danger of fading."

"There is nothing to be done; the laws will not be changed to accommodate me."

"We shall see. For now, let me proceed with the marking and then we will continue the discussion. I need time to think. We will begin." So saying Galdor took up the piercing stylus and Legolas' left arm.

Into the red ink the brush dipped and drank deeply, emerging full and swollen with the blood coloured die. Galdor swept the needles through the bristles and stabed the points down into the sign for Calarlim's name.

"Boe Leitho hene in dangen uin gwist pain." (It is necessary to release she who is slain from all oaths.) Sadron intoned.

"Sin endaith úhêb Calarlim sí." (These marks will not keep Calarlim here.) Legolas responded steadily, determined to be strong throughout the procedure in honour of his Naneth Edwen. "Eru, edra Mandos na Tirn'wathelen vell." (Eru, open Mandos to my dear Guardian.)

Thus, the Noldo Lord set to work and with skill and precision made the changes necessary on the Wood Elf's body. Each time the needle was dipped into the ink and pushed beneath the Wood Elf's skin, the two stated the same simple sentences. When each mark of her name was overprinted in the red dye, Galdor began to ink the oath of his guardianship.

Because the artistic script was delicate and detailed, this required several hours and annûn was approaching before the application was completed. He had thus been provided ample time to consider what action might be taken to circumvent the Greenwood's taboo, yet no reasonable option had as yet revealed itself. Galdor gave a final inspection to the heart-spiral and nodded approvingly.

"It is done. You are under my care until the day you are bound in soul-union to your life-mate," he declared.

"I shall heed your counsel in all matters, Tirn'wador," Legolas gave the proper response with a heavy heart.

Sadron had spoken truly, at the first puncture he had felt Calarlim's presence departing and it hurt more than he had expected, for this pain of the soul had taken root in his spirit upon her death and he had thought it terrible enough before. Listlessly he reached for his shirt but Galdor stayed his hand.

"Will you not even look upon my handiwork?" he queried gently and stood, pulling Legolas to his feet as well. A hand on either shoulder, Galdor half-pushed, half-led the archer to the bedroom where a long silvered glass was fixed within a carved wooden stand braced upon the floor.

"Oh!" Legolas could not help the exclamation of surprise for he had never seen a mirror so large, nor viewed his full body thus from an exterior perspective. Tentatively he lifted his hand to trace out the new additions on the heart-spiral, where the bright red outline forever highlighted that which he had lost.

"See, Calarlim will always remain close to your heart, no matter the distance death has forced upon you," said Galdor and met the tear bright eyes in the mirror with an encouraging smile.

Legolas tried to smile back and gave a brief nod, but dropped his eyes as he fought to contain another surge of sorrow.

"Go and dress while I put away the tools and straighten up the room," instructed Galdor and with another quick dip of his head Legolas hurried back to the hearth.

The flames were nothing more than shimmering spots of incandescent orange among the white fluff of ashes and broken chunks of black charcoal, but the last bits of the tree continued to give off heat. Legolas gratefully sat upon the fire-warmed stone and lifted his shirt, dressing quickly as Galdor put everything away. A soft chime repeated three times and drifted through the house, making Legolas look up in curiosity to see if Tirn'wador would explain.

"Tea time is thus announced," chuckled Galdor.

"Ah, I have promised to take tea with Sam and Frodo and their kinsmen. How shall I find them? I never thought to ask where they would like to meet," Legolas felt a bit foolish upon realising this.

"We shall go together, for I will not release you from my side until we have discussed your troubles further. Also, I promised a strengthening ritual for the council tomorrow and we must plan for Úcaul Annaur," answered the elder elf.

"As you say, Tirn'wador," Legolas rose and followed him from the room.

They found the Hobbits in their private chambers, a huge apartment meant to accommodate a family with children along and thus providing an extra bedroom and a larger sitting room. If the small folk were surprised or disgruntled to have an uninvited guest they did not show it, warmly welcoming Galdor, whom Legolas introduced as his Guardian.

Meeting Merry and Pippin was a joy and the two soon had Legolas' thoughts diverted from his sorrows as they told a series of rather embarrassing stories concerning Frodo's antics while growing up. That prompted Sam and Frodo to retaliate in kind, and before the end of the simple repast the Wood Elf was close to tears again but this time from laughter rather than woe.

For his part, Galdor was glad to see his new ward lighter in spirit and partaking, albeit sparingly, of sustenance again. They stayed with the Hobbits for two hours and then returned to the noble Lord's suite.

At once Legolas moved to the sofa and took up the warm cloak still draped over the seat, wrapping it tight about him as he curled up against the ample cushions.

"Still cold?" Galdor asked and did not wait for the answer before going to the fireplace and stirring up the embers. In minutes he had the blaze renewed and added sufficient fuel to maintain the fire for some time. That done he prepared another of the miruvor mixtures and presented it to Legolas. "Drink and we shall speak of Glorfindel."

Legolas physically jumped at the abrupt introduction of this topic and nearly spilled the glass as he took it, feeling his ears grow warm with Tirn'wador's eyes upon him. He simultaneously yearned and dreaded to explore the subject of the Balrog Slayer. He took a deep draught and steeled himself to meet Galdor's kindly, expectant gaze. "As you say, Tirn'wador." Legolas had never been so grateful for the set and proper phrases before this night. And for this tonic. This being the third portion of it in a relatively short time, the woodland messenger felt its effects begin almost immediately.

"He is a worthy suitor." Galdor began as he sat beside the woodland archer.

"He cannot be my suitor nor can I become his; he is male."

"A technicality only applicable in Greenwood. Here in Imladris and my home in Mithlond, that is an irrelevant factor."

"But I live in Greenwood."

"Glorfindel lives here."

"There, even without the law's strictures against it the match is doomed."

"I do not see why. You have already said you are not expected to provide any sort of official duty of state in Greenwood. Could you not spend much of your time away from the trees?"

"Nay! I am needed; every archer is vitally important. I could never abandon my trees, my people. You cannot know what it is like; the Shadow tries to rob Greenwood of its very soul while the Orcs from Dol Guldur seek to eliminate every elf in the forest. Shall I go away when such trials accost my country?"

"Then the match itself is not undesirable to you, only the estrangement from your home holds you back?"

"I…that is…he is worthy, I am sure. Yet I do not know him well, nor even if he desires such a thing."

"It is better not to withhold your thoughts, for I know Glorfindel well and can best determine if he would make a fitting mate for you. Over both his life-times I have observed that ellon, Legolas, and I perceive that he hungers for you. The question disturbing me is whether there is anything more than that, and yet in your current dilemma that may be all we have to build upon. You do find him appealing, yes?"

A long silence followed, broken by a nervous gulp of the restorative liquid and then, "Aye," the assent, barely audible, was given.

"What underlies this attraction?"

"I do not know, he is just…superb," Legolas felt his cheeks must be on fire so difficult was this to say and yet somehow the word had simply just escaped. He took another swallow and did not object when Galdor pulled him closer and began to gently rub his back and shoulders.

"Define that." These words were clearly spoken through a large grin. "What about him is so exemplary in comparison to any other elf you have met?" Galdor pushed, increasing the rhythmic massage down the silvan's back and arms. A light sigh and a sudden easing of tension informed him the elf was fully under the influence of the drug and he smiled again.

"He stood up for me," Legolas answered, feeling more at ease with the ancient elf, grateful for the physical contact as much as for the non-judgemental acceptance of his desire for a male elf. He shivered and sighed again; it was so good to let go of all the worry and allow his Guardian to manage things for a time. Legolas' head dropped back to rest upon the Noldo's shoulder.

"At the borders?"

"Aye, and at the pools. He intervened in Erestor's plans to defame me."

"This is a quality you admire then, his proclivity to defend you even against his fellows and friends."

Another brief nod confirmed this statement. "Even more, he respects me. He did not laugh or scorn my words, nor allow the other warriors to do so uncontested."

"And at the baths, what happened there?"

"Erestor said some rather indecent things about me and boldly stated that Glorfindel had chosen me as his next lover."

"He said this in your presence?" Galdor's tone was shocked.

"In Quenya. He does not know, no one does, except Glorfindel, that I speak it well." In a less-fuzzy section of his brain Legolas regarded himself in amazed dismay, for he had just revealed something he most certainly should not. He vaguely wondered why he did not feel alarmed at this sudden loosening of his tongue, attributed it correctly to the drugged wine, and blithely let the idea vanish from his thoughts.

"That is interesting!" announced Galdor with a short laugh as he watched the silvan slip deeper into a state of mellow inebriation courtesy of the potent drug, his inhibitions falling away one by one. "Remember, all that you share with me remains between us. Fear not, for I will not betray your confidence. You told Glorfindel of this talent?" It was this that the ancient elf found truly intriguing. "What made you trust him so?"

"Was it a mistake?" Legolas tried to focus on his Guardian but found his head too heavy to lift from its present placement upon the elder's shoulder. He had a clear view of the noble elf's strong chin and jaw and smiled, for he could tell Sadron was also still grinning widely.

"Nay, not at all. Never has he betrayed a secret to my knowledge. He seems disposed to take your part. If he had divulged anything to Elrond, I would have been told at once, for I represent Mithlond, a strong ally to Imladris. I assure you I found this information quite unexpected.

"You decided quickly to encourage Glorfindel's interest. You had ample opportunity to observe him closely at the baths, is that why? What is it about him that stirs your blood?"

"It is as I have said. He is…superb." this last word emerged more as a throaty purr of pure desire than a simple word of descriptive praise and Legolas sighed again after uttering it. Behind him Galdor's low chuckle rumbled through him and incited a light giggle from the archer.

"So you would have him for your lover." The only response to this was a lazy lolling nod of the golden head. "And how shall it be between you, then. What would you have for your first encounter?"

That brought the colour back to the Wood Elf's face instantly and chased the smile away, replacing it with a wide-eyed look of stricken embarrassment. The elder noted this and started rubbing the archer's arms soothingly as the silence stretched into minutes.

"I do not know anything about…joining…between males," Legolas managed at last and hastily drank the remainder of the tonic, wishing there was more. He did not even feel it when Galdor removed the glass from his hand and set it aside. "I understand about male and female and the making of children. None of that applies; does it?"

"Some of it does, for your body will respond as any male's. The question I believe you are asking me is how to accommodate that state of arousal. None of this was discussed between you and Calarlim?"

"Nay, for there was no notion of fulfilling such a desire. Her counsel was on how to deal with such urges privately."

"You are completely untouched by any but your own hands." Galdor's tone grew gentler then and he smiled at the short nod of acknowledgement this provoked. "What do you imagine when you handle this specific problem?"

"That it is another touching me," he began awkwardly, "another's hands and lips caressing my ears and my neck, my chest and…my…arousal." Legolas was silent for several heartbeats but Galdor gave no reaction to this scandalous statement at all other than an encouraging nod of his head.

"Tirn'wador, I have never been kissed, not with desire and need. I wish to be kissed and to kiss back," he announced quietly. And I would have Glorfindel be the one. "I want to touchthe same way; I want to give pleasure and see that this is so. Glorfindel would welcome this?"

"Aye, but he is not a fantasy under your control, Legolas. He is a real being, not merely a mythical hero from a child's story book. He is a vital and viral male and would make a most demanding lover," Galdor cautioned and felt Legolas tremble under his hands. The Wood Elf shifted uncomfortably and the Noldo Lord had no doubts as to the cause.

"Not a dream, real," Legolas whispered, and shivered again. He sought to reorient his body, hoping to ease the discomfort in his groin as this talk stimulated his libido. "I would have that be so, Tirn'wador. You can arrange this? He will become my Faer Hebron."

"Perhaps. Yet what of your fears of banishment Greenwood? Your desire has quickly overwhelmed your dread of censure."

"They do not need to know about it. You will not tell them; Glorfindel need never go there. I can remain Athedrainyn between Greenwood and Imladris, spend time in both places."

"What of your duty as a warrior? Do not cast off your just concerns for one experience of passion's fulfilment."

"Then I will go home afterwards and Glorfindel will stay here. I suppose we shall not meet again very often until we cross to Eldamar."

"That hardly seems fair to either of you. Is that all you wish for, then? To experience this joining and then depart?"

"Nay. I would have him love me. I want to be loved and to love in return. I want a life-mate, Tirn'wador. Why can I not have this be Glorfindel? He is perfect."

Galdor could not suppress a light laugh at this naive demand and bold assessment of Glorfindel's qualities."He is not flawless for no elf is. Everyone has faults and Glorfindel is no exception. Remember what I said: he is flesh and blood, more than a legend in a book. And he has had some rather bad experiences regarding pairing up with other elves. As in all cases, the problems were not entirely due to his partner's failings alone.

"You find him appealing and he has already made his interest in you plain. But these are often not the same thing, Legolas: desire and love. You crave his touch, he longs to claim you. That is a purely physical attraction. You have only met him this morn; whether there can be more between you is a serious consideration." The ancient elder's lecture ceased as the silvan warrior emitted a groan of discontented irritation.

"Why can I not have both these things? I would love him and please him also."

"Would you now? Are you so ready to commit your soul to this one elf? If that is true, could you leave him so easily?"

"Nay, you are right. I could not bear to be parted, if he loves me and I him. Yet I could never bring him to my home. Thus I am to be banished after all." Legolas nearly sobbed to utter this, his greatest fear, aloud.

"Hold, Cuthenin, for you have leaped far ahead of the present! You cannot declare love to one you do not yet know. Nor do we have any notions of Glorfindel's thoughts on seeking a life-mate. Thus, it is premature to sentence yourself to exile." Yet in his heart Galdor felt that Legolas' prediction would prove accurate, for there was in the Wood Elf's voice a note of acceptance, as if his heart had recognised to whom it belonged and felt both at peace and torn in two.

"You will see to it then. He must complete Faras-Uin-Ind first. (Hunting of the Heart - formal courtship) Then we can think of some means to conceal the bond from my people."

Galdor considered silently for several minutes, worried now that he had raised the youth's hopes beyond reasonable expectation, for Glorfindel had not seemed overly eager about assuming any role that brought him into contact with Legolas' soul. His body, yes, Glorfindel will gladly lay claim to that. As for the Wood Elf's heart, the Vanya is unlikely to be open to such a gift. I must make discreet inquiries and seek another. Legolas will be bound to agree to his Tirn'wador's choice. He sighed and squeezed the archer's shoulders consolingly.

"I shall speak with him; no more can I promise. If I decide this union would do greater harm to your spirit then you must accept my evaluation. Yet I will seek for you a Faer Hebron, for Úcaul Annaur must be achieved as soon as may be possible. For now, I will escort you back to the talan, for you are restless over a problem you must work out on your own." So saying, Galdor got up and offered a hand to Legolas, who was very red of face over this allusion to his state of arousal, which had not subsided but rather grown more frustratingly intractable.

TBC

Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow)
by F.
unbeta'd

italics thoughts

(elvish translation)

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.

Summary: A look at what might happen if Legolas was just known as a messenger and not as Thranduil's son. The setting is just before the Council of Elrond. Features Glorfindel/Legolas pairing.

Note: My apologies for the delay; the holidays were more hectic than I thought they would be and I did not get any writing done on this story. Also, just finished catching up the chapters at the other site and then a 'glitch' caused two chapters, and all the review replies, to be deleted. I will try to redo them.

This chapter comes in two forms; this one and a more erotic version not suitable here. Check the other location if curious.

Also, though I am sure most folks know this stuff already, reference is made to the Star of Eärendil, the last Silmaril, and it is associated with Venus. This is not my idea, it is what Tolkien lore enthusiasts have determined through studying his letters and notes. The position of the Evening Star to the moon is accurate in the northern hemisphere for this time of the year, though I do not have a program written that calculates the phase of the moon the night before the Council of Elrond (If anybody does, let me know!) so the crescent is just my imagination. It was thus in 2004.

Finally, I know I promised the death ritual, but it seems to me now I had my logic reversed, for this situation with Erestor needs to be clarified before Glorfindel can participate in such an important activity.

---

Paenui Peth: Hin vi Tinnu (Part Ten: Eyes in the Twilight)

Galdor decided it was pointless to try and conceal the long hours Legolas had spent in his chambers, considering the news of it had probably already spread throughout the household, and led him to the main passage and down to the first floor. Cuthenin was a bit shaky on his feet due to the effects of the miruvor and Galdor kept a steadying hand upon the archer's elbow as they walked. Ironically, they encountered no one in the corridors and made the journey out the rear door without incident. Yet, though they did not meet anyone along the way, their progress was not unobserved.

Erestor's page, Lochgaer, had followed the emissary from Mithlond and the Wood Elf from the dining hall, on instructions from his Lord, and then stood vigil outside the elder's suite. Thus had he been so ready to hand when Galdor sought aid in acquiring wood for a fire in the hearth. Hidden in a shadowed alcove near the turning of the stairs, the aspiring diplomat had also learned of tea with the Hobbits and presently watched the two elves depart the chambers together a second time.

Lochgaer trailed them long enough to note the direction their exit would take, concluding correctly the destination was Glorfindel's abode, for Aragorn's efforts to make the lowly talan comfortable had not gone unremarked among the staff. Finally free of his task, the page hastened to make his report to Erestor and then share his evaluation of the messenger with his contemporaries.

Oblivious to this, Galdor and his ward proceeded through the grounds. Abruptly, Legolas halted and his immobility forced the noble Lord of the Tree to cease moving also. Paused in the herb garden between the kitchen and the main house, the Wood Elf stared in blatant delight at the uncovered expanse of menel, eyes reflecting the icy sparkle of the moon and the Evening Star.

The clouds had moved on without dropping their cargo of moisture upon the valley of the Bruinen and the last hints of Anor's rays had fled from the lower reaches of the welkin. The atmosphere shaded from a pale and hazy lavender hue into a deepening indigo near the zenith of the outer circle of Arda's boundary with the void.

Only the brightest points had yet appeared in the heavens but Ithil was already climbing the twilit dome of the evening sky and shone brilliantly, a mithril crescent shadowed by the Silmaril of Eärendil. Thinêl (Venus - Eärendil's Star) crowded close to the shimmering sickle, boldly poised in splendorous gleam, outshining every other jewel visible in the velvet veil of night.

"Tirion takes counsel with the Mariner," Legolas whispered, sharing a jubilant grin with his newly chosen Tirn'wador.

It seemed as an omen for him, a signal of the right choice he had made in permitting an outlander such an important role in his life. Just as Tirion often wandered on his course and needed Eärendil's guidance, so too would he require the sage advice of a Guardian in order to navigate the difficult path that lay ahead. "In Greenwood, it is rare to have such an uncluttered view of the sky. Tonight it will be filled with stars; I could look upon them for hours and not grow weary of the sight."

"Aye, this is a fine place to observe the beauty of Varda's gift to elfkind. Yet Imladris cannot boast the numbers visible from the beach. In Mithlond, menel seems to take up more of the space than the ground, for the sea remains dreary and restless through the dark hours. There is nothing to draw the eye away from contemplation of the numerous constellations. Many enjoy observing the stars while stretched out on the warm white sands of the falas (shore)."

"I would like to do that."

"Mayhap someday you shall. I would welcome you in my home."

Legolas allowed himself to be tugged into motion again and the pair continued through the quiet grounds. It was a time for rest after the day's labours, a break before the formal evening meal was served and the camaraderie shared afterward in the Hall of Fire, and few elves were out on the paths and by-ways. Legolas found this strange, for in Greenwood the trees were never empty and the twilight was as likely a time as any other to encounter one's friends and neighbours.

More so, if one desires privacy during tinnu (twilight) a screen needs be drawn about the talan. Not for the last time, he considered how very different each of the elven realms was from the others. Mithlond seemed strangest of all, considering its conjunction to the Sundering Sea.

"What is the ocean like, Tirn'wador?"

"I could not hope to describe it to you acurately." Galdor reflected in silence for a moment before resuming. "It is like a lake that is endless, yet its surface is a deep green rather than the clear blue seen at Evendim. It is not smooth and reflecting like the waters at Long Lake but quivers, trembling and tumbling over itself as a running stream trips upon stones.

"It sings perpetually like a river yet its voice is low and rises from the abyssal depths, exhaling in a sorrowful lament that fills the air, underscoring every other sound and infiltrating to one's very soul. Its song resembles the beating of a mighty heart so omnipresent is it and yet one never tires of hearing its rhythmic surge and pull.

"And it is filled with living things even as a river or lake. Sometimes great beasts, larger than many of the ships I have been on, can be seen rolling with the waves and blowing high fountains of mist and water into the air. They have no arms or legs, as fish do not, yet neither have they shimmering scales nor gills for breathing. To look into their eyes you would swear there is a thinking mind staring back upon you, and it is clear these are not ordinary swimmers. Dinin Thuiadryn (Underwater Breathers) they are called.

"There are others of similar kind, smaller and finer in appearance, that love to swim alongside the boats as we go out upon the swells. They seem to smile and chatter a strange speech almost, so intelligent is their demeanour."

"Ai! Why have I never heard of such wondrous creatures?"

"You live among the trees, Legolas. I would guess no one in Greenwood has ever sailed upon Aeron and returned to speak of it."

"Nay there must be some remaining who came from Beleriand and stood upon the falas before turning away to march east."

"Well, perhaps you are right and yet I am doubtful. The reason has to do with the call of the sea. Among the Teleri, love of the ocean runs strong in the blood. Once awakened there is no peace for the heart or mind as long as an elf remains away from it. The Wood Elves would be tormented to see this wonder and then return to the world of branches and green leaves.

"Any silvan exposed to Aeron would perpetually hear the song of the surf and smell the salt in the watery air, pining for it and eventually grieving over the loss. Once sea-longing sets in, there is no relief for the afflicted save passage to Aman."

"Could they not reside beside the ocean as your folk do?"

"Some do for long years, reluctant to leave behind family and the lives they have known, yet these are mostly those with some Sindar or Noldor blood in their pedigrees. I have observed numerous silvan elves, mostly Galadhrim, who arrive in the Havens escorting family or friends wishing to leave Middle-earth. Some cannot turn away and depart along with their loved ones. Others gather up their courage and go from the seaside, returning to their homes and kin for a time, sometimes for centuries. Yet they always come back to the coast and sail away for Aman in the end."

"Your words dishearten me, for while I would dearly like to meet these Dinin Thuiadryn, I would not wish to be torn from Greenwood and my people because of it."

By now the pair were far from the main house and nearing Glorfindel's walled garden. The Balrog Slayer was not within, however, having left with his warriors before annûn for night patrol as on the previous evening. A lighted lantern hung from an elegantly wrought post at the gate and illuminated the garden path beside his house. Galdor stopped there and released Legolas' arm.

"Will you be all right on your own from here?" the elder asked with a kindly smile.

"Aye, Trin'wador. I thank you for the escort yet I would have found my way without it. I have no need of a nursemaid to see me through the next hours," Legolas answered, no longer mindful of his tongue in the ancient elf's presence thanks to a lingering, light-headed feeling of intoxication.

"Indeed! Yet I did not wish you to take a wrong turn and end up in a strange place. The miruvor drink still has you in its grip and that is as I intended. Think on what we have discussed and then sleep for a time. When you wake, seek me out and we shall conduct Pennas Lunnen (History Sung). Let all within the Hall of Fire know the valour of your comrades."

"Aye, Tirn'wador, that is fitting." Legolas' felt pleased to be offered the chance to present the story of his friends' lives to the Noldor. All shall hear of the strength found among the Wood Elves. "Aniron Galu lín, Sadron." (I desire your Blessing, Sadron.)

Galdor inclined his head solemnly and placed the palm of his right hand over Legolas' heart. "Bellas ar Ithor en Tawar le beria; Sîdh a Post en Estë le toba. Oltho mae, Cuthenin." (The Strength and Wisdom of Tawar protect you; the Peace and Rest of Estë cover you. Dream well, True-bow.)

"Le hantëan, Tirn'wador." (I thank you, Guardian.) Legolas bowed his head gratefully and when he raised it to meet Galdor's eyes found his heart lightened even as the elder's touch left him. He smiled. "Ab'eveditham." (We shall meet later.)

"Ab'eveditham." Galdor watched beside the gate until he could no longer see the archer's form and then returned to the Last Homely House, hoping to speak with Elrond and Mithrandir before the evening meal.

Legolas entered through the gate and continued on across the silent walled gardens surrounding Glorfindel's house, glancing curiously at the darkened abode as he passed. Glorfindel's home was not even half as large or grand as the Last Homely House yet even so it had two levels and the same high-peaked red-tiled roof. He wondered how the re-born warrior's decor would differ but the curtains were drawn and Legolas could not see in, to his disappointment. Legolas was tempted to try the door and see if he might at least peer inside, yet he resisted the urge and continued to the grove of oaks.

Once under the cover of the ever-leaved hardwoods, the light of Ithil diminished and it was more difficult to make things out. Legolas climbed using direction from the tree itself since this was but the second time he had been in its branches and as yet did not know by rote the best route upwards. No sooner had he achieved the platform and taken a step than his foot collided with a heavy metal object and he exclaimed in dismay.

That was not here before.

Realising the interior was no longer free of clutter, Cuthenin waited for his vision to adjust and then made his way cautiously through the looming obstacles of solid furnishings toward a brighter spot close to the trunk. There his hand discovered a lantern and a flint on the table beside it, and this he lighted in order to get a look at his quarters.

He had to laugh.

Aragorn had gone to a great deal of trouble to make the old talan more appealing, and thus it was crammed with all manner of things Legolas would never have a use for in his everyday life. A small round table and two chairs were collected in one corner right next to the wrought iron brazier on which he had just stubbed his tow. A washstand was set up on the opposite corner complete with a large supply of extra towels and toiletries, a boar bristle hairbrush, a tortoiseshell comb, a nail-file, and mirror.

There was even a settee with space enough for two people and a pair of matching cushions large enough for seating on the floor. The wooden planks were no longer strewn with leaves and twigs but swept clean, and upon them lay no less than three carpets of thick soft wool.

Beyond all this was a thick feather mattress so large the silvan was certain it had been pulled from someone's bedstead. It was laid out on the floor on the west facing side of the talan, and this happened to provide the platform's only open view through the trees. Legolas already knew the vista included the Last Homely House and the cascading falls beyond it.

The softly plump sleeping pallet was covered over with an exquisitely embroidered, green satin coverlet. There were pillows and extra blankets galore piled upon this bed and Legolas had to wonder what the human imagined his normal resting habits might be to supply such luxury for a physical requirement that visited him so seldom. He certainly would not find such repose this night despite Tirn'wador's instruction to do so.

Cuthenin shook his head and smiled, making his way by the light of the lamp to a large trunk situated so as to double as a bedside table. It must be the one from the closet in the main house, he surmised, noting the painted scenes on its exterior. He lifted the lid and found within more of the paper wrapped, labelled garments from the man's early adulthood, so many he could change attire every hour and not run out of clothing to wear for several days. Nearby were the customary wicker baskets: one for clothes in need of laundering and another for carrying necessities to the baths. Aragorn had seen to everything and the archer gave thought to expressing his appreciation for such abundant courtesy.

He has fought with my brothers and knows the austerity of a silvan warrior's life. Aragorn hopes to make my stay here as different from that as may be.

Legolas shut the lid and set his lamp upon it, deciding he should at least attempt to adhere to his Guardian's counsel. He still had the elder's cloak about his shoulders and this he laid aside neatly, for though he had been inexplicably cold throughout the day he now found his temperature uncomfortably elevated. The reason was not difficult to divine; the discussion regarding his feelings toward Glorfindel had heated him up so that he longed for nothing more than to discard every scrap of fabric covering his body. Doing so would tend to inspire following Tirn'wador's first directive to think on their conversation and that would lead him to finally confront his overt and aching arousal.

It crossed his mind briefly to see if there was a privacy screen stowed away somewhere but he discarded the notion; the elves of Imladris did not inhabit the trees and thus there was no one nearby to observe him. Cuthenin disrobed, never imagining that his actions might provide entertainment for someone so far beyond his immediate perception.

Pacing within his study in the Last Homely House, Erestor was fraught with curiosity over Lochgaer's report. He knew the Lord from Mithlond was some sort of spiritual leader among those still clinging to the ancient superstitions, yet wondered what could require so long a conference behind closed doors.

And what of the elder's failed attempt to ensure the meeting's secrecy?

The Chief Advisor suddenly wished he did know more about the Wood Elves' customs. Why would the silvan enter Galdor's rooms under his own power then require aid to walk upright upon leaving? The page had said Legolas looked slightly inebriated, and such a state did not seem consistent with any sort of sacred ritual in Erestor's opinion.

For what purpose would Galdor ply the youth with drink enough to make him intoxicated? Not a noble one, I am thinking. Mayhap the Lord of the Tree has succumbed to his baser instincts and debauched the youth.

Yet as soon as the thought occurred he rejected it; Galdor was not partial to males, from all accounts the Chief Advisor had heard, and his conduct was never disreputable.

Then what is this about?

Erestor considered following the pair and paying a call on the messenger but then had a better idea, one that would ensure he did not run into Galdor on the way there. Quickly he snatched up one of his optical devises and hastened to the observatory. If he was lucky then he would be able to satisfy one of his questions, namely whether Legolas spent the night in his talan or entered into Glorfindel's house instead, there to await the warrior's return from patrol.

The advisor had learned long ago that his rooftop platform afforded not only an unobstructed view of the heavens but of every spot in the valley not hidden by trees, Glorfindel's home included. That he had used his clever visual magnifiers for spying on his lover was also true, and thus had he learned of the Vanya's infidelity so many centuries past. He hoped the silvan would light a lamp and give away his location: the talan or his new lover's home.

As soon as he reached the roof he saw the bright glint of the lantern aloft in the trees and trained his telescope upon it. The placement of that talan had been deliberately chosen to make it visible from the Last Homely House.

Nearly an Age ago, a break in the cover had been created when one of the oaks was lost during a lightening strike. New growth had sprung up but never flourished due to the existing trees' demands upon the soil and light. Thus the treetop playroom of Elrond's children had never been as private as they had all supposed and their tutor had always had them under his eye.

What he saw this night made him gasp in shock one second and grin with lascivious delight the next. The Wood Elf was stretched out naked on his bed, pleasuring himself.

Illuminated in the soft glow of golden light, Legolas lay upon his back, one arm curved over his head, face turned slightly away into the crook of his elbow. The hand of that arm was slowly stimulating his ear, fingertips languidly running along the rim and up to the point, upon which he bestowed a slight squeeze before retreating back down to the lobe. Over and over again in a steady rhythm he applied this tantalising touch, and that it was enjoyable was beyond doubt, for his chest heaved in deep, gusty gasps and his head would occasionally arch back, exposing more of his long white neck in the process. There his carotid artery would be throbbing, though even Erestor's powerful spyglass could not reveal so fine a detail.

The magnification was more than sufficient to permit distinctly minute observation of nearly every other aspect of the archer's physique. And his exquisitely erotic responses to the indolent gratification those elegant hands provide. Erestor let the device traverse down the lean youthful body, pausing to enjoy the vision of peaked, maroon nipples rising and falling with every heavy
breath. The advisor licked his lips, wondering what those small nodes of sensitive flesh tasted like and whether Legolas would cry out to have them licked and nibbled, suckled and tweaked. Erestor swallowed, finding his own suspiration accelerated and his sexual appetite awaked. One hand dropped to his crotch and caressed the swelling organ trapped against his thigh.

He let the telescope continue its exploration, halting at the navel, a small and inwardly folded oval that served to entice lingering appreciation of a taut belly and its ridges of straining abdominal muscles. Oh, to run his hands over the skin there, to learn if the Wood Elf was ticklish, to feel the fine line of hairs running from the little dent in the inviting body down into the tight curls of pubic hair.

Erestor's enhanced vision followed that path, even though he could not detect any such lineation, and gasped a second time. Legolas was not completely bare, yet only a delicate fuzz surrounded his genitals. The archer's penis arose red and hard from between his legs, the tight sac of his scrotum equally smooth and darkly coloured beneath the organ's root.

Cuthenin's fist was wrapped tight around his solid shaft, working it with excruciating sloth, squeezing and pumping with steady pressure, twisting just slightly as he pulled his cock forward from his stomach. Up and down with mesmerising regularity he applied his practised touch but at such a rate that orgasm would be gradual and probably quite euphoric when it came.

Erestor's heart gave a jolt and his cock flexed as Legolas unexpectedly lifted his hips to thrust forcefully into the tightening grip. Two clear beads of liquid oozed from the slit in the glans and the silvan's thumb expertly swiped them up and smeared them all along the slender sex as he continued his massaging stimulation. The Noldo Lord gaped, breathing audibly through his dry mouth as his free hand hastened to untie his leggings and get his erection free. He began to masturbate, matching his pace to the Wood Elf, and groaned when Cuthenin repeated that pelvic tilt and shove manoeuvre.

Abruptly, Erestor whisked the optical instrument back to the averted face, wishing he could see the Wood Elf's expression as his ecstasy built and he neared release. The silvan still had his countenance turned away but then, as if responding to the voyeur's thoughts, he switched hands, moving his head so that he could reach the other ear and give it the same attention. Erestor exhaled a low moan; Legolas was completely lost in his fantasy, eyes squeezed shut and brow furrowed, cheeks flushed and lips parted. His tongue darted out to moisten them and Erestor was sure he had just whispered something into the night air.

Ah, to feel those lips close around his aching penis, that tongue lavishing his throbbing cock with tantalisingly dilatory licks, the acute tingle as the sound of Legolas' appreciative hum of delight surrounded his ardent erection.

Erestor stopped his actions momentarily to sharpen the focus of the scope and when next he pointed it at Cuthenin he could see the entire body more clearly. There was a sheen of sweat on the Wood Elf's labouring chest and the colours of the tattoo on his breast seemed more vivid. He enjoyed the sight of the nipples again but impatiently resumed scrutiny of the genitals.

Legolas was gently rolling his balls between his fingers and Erestor copied him, crying out incoherently at the sensation this evoked. He had an unobstructed view of the archer's stiff erection, slightly curved and slick from the slit's secretions, and Erestor decided he would not mind at all having a taste of that.

The silvan's hand went back to work on his cock, moving a bit more quickly now, and a sweep of the lens of the spyglass up the svelte body revealed the other fingers relentlessly teasing those tiny points of ruby flesh adorning the elf's chest.

"Oh Valar," Erestor whispered and once more had to swallow.

The Noldo was burning for release and quickened his ministrations to make it so. Just when he thought he could bear the tension no longer, Cuthenin's orgasm came, overtaking the youth with enough force to make him arch off the mattress in rigid tremors of passionate fulfilment. Long jets of creamy fluid spurted from his cock and spilled upon his stomach as he continued to pump.

"Ai!" The sight sent Erestor into his own spiral of ecstasy and he dropped the telescope to the floor in order to grip the banister of the platform as the sensation consumed him. He watched his semen stream forth until gradually the flow subsided, leaning heavily on the rail as he attempted to catch his breath. After a time he was able to breathe more normally and became capable of rational thought. Erestor made his appearance decent and retrieved the spyglass, training it again on the talan.

Cuthenin lay limp in the aftermath of release, struggling to resume steady respiration, his entire body flushed a soft rose from the excitement, hair a wild tangle of golden threads upon the pillow, eyes half-lidded and mouth agape. Then he stretching languidly upon the sheets, smiling, and reached for a cloth to wipe off the evidence of his ejaculation, giving his relaxed penis an endearing little tug as he did so. That done he turned upon his side, presenting his unknown admirer a fine view of his rear, and thereafter remained still.

The evening repast was an extravagant affair, nearly on the order of a grand feast. Though this meal was always formal in Elrond's house, the numerous guests had elevated the function to a degree of elegance usually enjoyed only on holidays and official state visits. Everyone arrived dressed to suit the occasion and with high expectations for the fare about to be consumed. Everyone save the messenger from King Thranduil.

Legolas did not appear at this gathering for he was still sleeping, having truly not rested more than a hour or two after his arrival at dawn. Yet he was young and physical recovery was rapid, thus he did not dream much past midnight. By then, most of the guests, at least the mortal ones, had begun to retire, leaving the Hall of Fire to the elves and their many songs and dances.

Galdor was not within the magnificent abode either, for after dining he had retreated to the path beside the kitchen gardens, there to await his ward's arrival.

"Suilad, Legolas," he called as the Wood Elf approached, smiling to see him rested and more at ease. "You are ready for the Pennas Lunnen, I see, and at dawn we will break fast together. Now let the Valley of the Bruinen ring with the glory of your friends' courageous deeds!"

"Sui pedich, Tirn'wador." (As you say, Guardian) Legolas could not suppress his justified pride to do so, for never had such a ceremony been performed amid outlanders in any account he had ever heard and he was honoured to perform this solemn and glorious chant for his friends. The two walked in silence and the archer gave another glance up into the heavens, now filled with the brilliance of a multitude of stars, and smiled.

Ahead the Last Homely House was brightly lit and from the mansion poured the luminous glow of hearth and lantern, the merry sound of fair elven voices, and the music of harps and pipes. Long before he reached the main doors, through which Legolas had never entered before, the silvan warrior announced to the revellers that a new experience was upon them. Inhaling deeply, he sang out in a voice as pristine and clear as the glinting gems of Varda's grace.

"Sí lú an rîn, sui hûnin niniel or rimai sui sîr, nîr nînath sui ross." (Now is the time for remembrance, as our sorrowful hearts overflow like rivers, weeping tears like rain.)

"Linnam an adhôr ind dhîm ah gell uireb." (We sing to replace sad thoughts with joy everlasting.) Galdor's exquisite baritone called in answer.

"Linnam o mellyn dangen vi maeth; hyn aun cuil uireb, awarthol bair ar nothrim an min theled fael." (We sing of friends slain in battle; they gave life eternal, forsaking homes and families for one just purpose.) Legolas resumed the chant.

"Linnam o cairdh hyn dely ar berin. Na gyrn hall. Eglerio maethyr dainnen!" (We sing of their deeds brave and fell. By their valour they are exalted. Praise the fallen warriors!) Galdor refrained.

"Sí lú an rîn, sui hûnin niniel or rimai sui sîr, nîr nînath sui ross." (Now is the time for remembrance, as our sorrowful hearts overflow like rivers, weeping tears like rain.) The Wood Elf completed the antiphon.

Every other sound had ceased upon the first notes of the sombre dirge and yet the air came alive, charged as surely as if a great bolt of energy was about to be unleashed from menel, filled with the anticipation of the First-born and the mortals alike within the house. Then the chant rang out again, dignified and profound, limned with majesty and grave solemnity, more distinctly now for the singers were closer. A third time the pentad resounded and this time the notes echoed through the Hall of Fire, for Legolas and Galdor had entered in.

Then followed the long Lay of Calarlim, for Cuthenin could not help but emphasise the account of this dear one's life above the others'. Spellbound the Noldor listened, for the archer's voice was as fair as his form and combined the allure was irresistable. None dared join the soloist nor would the musicians so much as pluck a string, and it was said later the Lord of the Valley and his sons wept for the silvan's loss. So sweet was the sound of his singing that even those already abed, even the doughty dwarves and Rangers, awoke with tears upon their cheeks and a sorrow so keen it pained their hearts to listen to the strains of the silvan's lament.

As the first rays of Anor breached the high barrier wall of the eastern cliffs, the final overtones of the last stanzas died away in a softening echo that was swallowed by the omnipresent roar of the falls. Yet faintly did the returning troops of the night patrol discern the song and hastened to reach their destination, curious to know what had passed during their absence. At the lead sped Glorfindel, urging Asfaloth for speed, for he was certain he knew the source of this subdued and mournful hymn. Thus with great splendour the elven warriors were borne into the grounds of Elrond's house and were met by a quiet and restrained populace. There was no jesting put forth nor cutting word spoken of the messenger from any mouth that morn.

Glorfindel strode briskly to his home, hoping to find his guest at the talan, and was disappointed to find the platform deserted. Hurriedly he washed and changed his attire, not even considering the reason for his impatient haste, knowing only a need to see Cuthenin and learn that everything was right with him. Oft through Ithil's hours his thoughts had wandered to the archer, distracting the Vanya noble with concerns over his well-being and conflicted considerations regarding the role of Faer Hebron. Thus it was with no small degree of dissatisfaction that Glorfindel was met at his very gate by Galdor and accompanied the elder Lord back inside the house.

Now Erestor had been in the Hall of Fire and received the full impact of the Pennas Lunnen. This did naught but increase his desire to prevent the youth from becoming Glorfindel's lover, for in his mind it was unjust for his former paramour to acquire such a prize after the shameful way he had been treated. How could the Valar allow Glorfindel to not only go unpunished for his wrongs but actually reward his infidelity by granting him the first taste of this virgin warrior?

Even more, he could discern the silvan was capable of great depth of love and that such a gift might be tendered to Glorfindel was galling. He would not permit such to come to pass. Glorfindel spurned the advisor's love, why should he become the recipient of the Wood Elf's heart?

He denies me, now let him know the sting of like rejection. Legolas shall not bind his soul to Glorfindel.

Erestor watched and waited as Legolas and Galdor took the morning meal together then parted. The messenger headed out doors and the advisor followed after a discreet interval. Yet no sooner had Erestor stepped outside than he lost track of the Wood Elf. Perplexed, he wandered into the gardens, reasoning the silvan might like to tour the grounds, and followed the small brook as it wended its way amid the beds and the foliage.

After some time of this aimless walking, Erestor halted beside the stream within a small stand of beeches and pondered where he should search next. Would his elusive prey return to the talan or perhaps seek out the Hobbits? Was he more likely to take to the training grounds, ask after Mithrandir's counsel, or engage the company of the twins?

"Valar! Where can he be? An elf is not capable of vanishing into the air, not even a silvan," he complained aloud, no closer to a decision than at the beginning of his rambling walk.

"For what reason do you seek a silvan elf?" a voice wafted through the branches and drew the Noldo's gaze upward and to the right. There gazing down upon him, not more than two metres above, perched in apparent comfort and ease upon a sturdy limb was Legolas.

"Ah! A start you gave me, Legolas!" Erestor said and added a light laugh. "I was searching for you, that is true."

"What is it that you would ask of me?"

"Nay, I have not come here to pose questions, Legolas, but to tender a humble apology, if you will accept it." Erestor bowed as he spoke, hoping his words would carry enough sincerity to coax the visitor from the heights. To his invidious glee, the archer leaped down at once and approached him with arm extended.

"I am glad to do so," spoke Legolas as he gripped the advisor's forearm in the traditional warrior's grasp, wary but willing to listen.

"That is better, then, and a weight is lifted from my heart for your generosity. It was wrong of me to ascribe to you hurts inflicted by another. Seeing you and Glorfindel together raised many unhappy memories."

"I am sorry for your grief." It was more difficult to speak the polite response than Cuthenin would have liked.

"Le hantëan. (I thank you.) I feel duty bound to warn you, Legolas, for you are new to these lands and have barely met the folk of Imladris. Not all is at it seems upon first glance."

"Of what do you speak?"

"Why, of the intrepid Balrog-Slayer, naturally. He wears an honourable bearing and it is clothed in a most attractive and agreeable form, as I am sure you would agree." Erestor smiled bitterly at the faint blush that stole over the silvan's ears at this remark, but he carried on, determined to spoil Glorfindel's plans. "Yet the heart within is inconstant."

"Nay, I cannot believe this. Why would you make such a charge?" Legolas did not even realise how hotly he contested the advisor's words.

"I am but reporting to you my own history," the advisor smoothly placated the riled Wood Elf. "If you would hear of it. My conscience will not allow me to stand by and observe the same fate befall another, making no attempt to avert the catastrophe of a broken spirit."

"You presume much and take your own gossip for fact." Legolas moved away, unwilling to confirm the Noldo's insinuation.

"Perhaps, yet you cannot deny it was his name you cried out in the night. Not everyone stays indoors through the twilit dusk and the oak grove is not so far from the path as to be out of hearing range."

Legolas eyes and mouth gaped wide in disbelief and embarrassment. He had not considered that someone might overhear his exclamations of passionate longing and flushed in humiliation, imagining the scene. He could not find words to counter this and turned to leave, dreading that the anecdote would be spread amid the population. A hand upon his arm halted his retreat.

"Nay, do not go," Erestor hid his sordid triumph to have guessed correctly, making his tone pleading and apologetic instead. "Your secret is safe in my keeping. I am here but to offer you the truth before you commit yourself fully. Sit beside me upon the grass and I will speak to you of Gondolin and my life there espoused to Glorfindel."

Legolas searched the advisor's eyes diligently, sure there must be malice inherent in the invitation. His instinct warned not to trust the advisor. Yet he could not deny his morbid curiosity to know what had befallen the couple to part them and reduce the noble Lord to such spiteful vengeance. In a corner of his awareness, he believed that a kernel of truth must be within the Noldo's claim, for such deep anger oft substituted for unbearable anguish. Thus, Cuthenin did stay and remained with Erestor through the morning, absorbing the dolorous tale the statesman could not hold back.

Indeed, so long were they sequestered amid the peaceful grove of trees that Galdor and Lindir ventured from the house to seek their respective friends, for the council was beginning and the two elves had not arrived. It was not without reason that their late entry together gave Glorfindel a deep sense of foreboding. He could say nothing, however, for the emissary from the Woodland Realm was seated by his Guardian, with Elrond and Erestor next, blocking the re-born warrior from conversing with him.

The council proceeded; its affect upon everyone was profound and Legolas' prediction was borne forth. From no less than the lips of Aragorn, Elrond's own foster son, came his peoples' condemnation.

'How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?' 1.

The memory of the sentence stung as sharply as the initial hearing of it had done. Legolas had defended his realm as best he could but knew it was not sufficient to account for such a disaster. Even Gandalf's attempt to minimise the error could not remove it from anyone's thoughts, least of all his.

At the council's conclusion Cuthenin was among the first to vacate the Last Homely House, eager to remove himself from chastising eyes and disapproving frowns that simultaneously failed to show surprise, as though such neglect of duty was no more than one should expect of Wood Elves.

Legolas walked determinedly from the stately grounds, making for the talan and his weapons. He was angry, mortified, disgusted, and ashamed, all at once. He could hear Glorfindel following, calling for him to wait yet he did not, desiring no discourse with the Balrog-Slayer as yet. What he needed was a means to work off some of the negative energy the morning's events had promoted, and a deep meditation upon the majesty of Tawar would not be sufficient.

I crave combat. I would go hunting Yrch, were I at home. First Erestor reveals his espousal to Glorfindel and then I must reveal the failure of the Greenwood. This atop the deaths upon my hands! All because I could not detain a simple gangrel creature in custody.

He headed for the training grounds, brusquely pushing past the Vanya as he left the walled garden and ignoring the hail from Galdor as well. They continued to follow and he listened as they bickered over him along the way.

"Wait here; I will tend to him," commanded the Lord of the Tree.

"I must speak with him, Galdor," insisted Glorfindel. "It was unwise to have his news told in such a forum before the rites of the dead could be accomplished. Let me tell him of your decision."

"Nay, there is more amiss than this council's outcome. I am his Tirn'wador and will ease his agitated mood."

"Aye, it is no wonder he is rattled; you saw him with Erestor."

"Indeed, the advisor may have been filling in some of the background ahead of you. Let me explain it fully. Go and see to the organisation of the scouting parties for no doubt your Lord has need of your wisdom."

"I will do so once I have satisfied my mind that Cuthenin bears me no ill will," countered Glorfindel stubbornly.

At this Legolas stopped upon the path and turned back, striding to them swiftly where they had halted in surprise and some trepidation, so gloomy and fierce was his expression. But his eyes cleared when he looked upon Glorfindel's, for he found nothing of duplicity therein, only concern and regret.

"Ai, Glorfindel, then go with a lighter heart. I hold nothing against you. Indeed, I am not the one you should hasten to set at ease. It is Erestor with whom you must square things."

"Cuthenin, do not heed his venomous words, I beg you!" implored Glorfindel. "You know he is capable of falsehoods. He imagines far more than ever there was betwixt us. It all happened in my last life; am I never to be forgiven?"

"Nay, it is not of Gondolin I speak. Erestor's ill-feeling is centred here in Imladris. He swears by the One that he saw you with another, intimately engaged."

"I was never espoused to Erestor here. I have not promised myself to anyone since my return to Middle-earth. He imagines wrongs that were never committed and claims harm by me that his own heart invented."

"Then you deny it?"

Nay, there was another, that is true, yet I made no…"

"It matters not!" Legolas spoke in impassioned frustration to hear such justification. "Erestor believes himself still espoused to you. He did not die nor feel the bond between you to be broken."

"Peace, Legolas, allow Glorfindel to account for his actions," chided Galdor.

"It is an unfair charge. When I perished, everything perished. I was reborn with a new heart that did not know him. I was remade with no binding ties to anyone." Glorfindel said, furious with Erestor for creating this rift before he barely even had the chance to befriend Cuthenin.

In silence Legolas considered this, for it was not a thing that he would have imagined. If Erestor was aware of it then he was truly in the wrong to demand what was no longer his to claim. He could not justly accuse Glorfindel of betrayal if their union had never resumed its former course.

"Did Erestor understand this?" he asked quietly and waited for a reply. Nothing did Glorfindel utter, merely standing with a dumbfounded expression covering his fair countenance. Legolas was aghast. "You never told him?"

"I…he refused to…"

"Love died in your heart even as your body was broken, yet you did not reveal this. Why? Can you wonder at his wrath to see you with someone else, to be rejected by the one he waited for as more than an Age passed? That is how he learned that he meant nothing to you any longer."

The intensity of this speech was enough to steal the words from Glorfindel's lips, for he perceived that somehow he had hurt Cuthenin without ever intending such a thing. There was a desperation within the tones, as though the silvan warrior had just lost one of the few remaining tethers keeping him bound to Arda, and that frightened the Balrog-Slayer. He shifted stricken eyes to Galdor, imploring intervention, as Legolas turned away with an exclamation of disgust.

"Legolas, there is more to this than Erestor has told. I ask that you refrain from judgement until Glorfindel's part is explained," cautioned Galdor, reaching out to grasp Legolas' arm and thus stall the warrior's escape. "I have spent the morn with Glorfindel, as I promised, and am satisfied. Long have I known him and I will vouch for his genuine intentions. His heart is not so cold as you think it. Come, recall your initial evaluation of his character and trust to the conclusion attained then. If you cannot, at least heed my counsel."

For a moment it seemed as though Legolas would defy his new Guardian, so vexed was his expression, yet finally he drew a deep breath and bowed his head.

"Sui pedich, Tirn'wador," (As you say, Guardian) he stated stiffly and gave a brief nod as his eyes met the re-born warrior's as well. "I will abide by the advice of my Guardian. Yet say no more to me of these matters until you have done so with Erestor."

With that he resumed his course and Galdor accompanied him, leaving Glorfindel alone on the path.

TBC

1. Direct quote from the Fellowship of the Ring.

Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow)

by F.
unbeta'd

italics thoughts

(elvish translation)

&/& text words text &/& designates beginning and ending of recalled events

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's,
the words here are mine. No money earned.

Summary: A look at what might happen if Legolas was just known as a
messenger and not as Thranduil's son. The setting is just before the
Council of Elrond. Features Glorfindel/Legolas pairing.

Note: Here at last the sordid details of Erestor and Glorfindel's broken bond. Hopefully everyone sees it is not all Erestor's fault, though he has not dealt with his pain in a healthy way. Glorfindel's sterling character acquires a bit of tarnish. This chapter is presented after all of that is resolved and the tale is told in retrospect from Legolas and Glorfindel's memories while the Úcaul Annaur ensues. So there are time shifts.

Everything written between these two symbols &/& and &/& happened earlier in the day. Hope that is not too confusing.

As for the ancient history of the two elves from Gondolin, again I have taken liberties, this being AU. The Úcaul Annaur is explained, hopefully enough to make it understandable but not so graphically as to be sickening. Such things are not unheard of in many human cultures, even modern ones. There will be further enlightenment in an upcoming chapter, for there are several things that have not been addressed. I promise I am not going to gloss over how Glorfindel convinced Legolas to go through with the death rites with him. The chapter just is impossibly long as it is and I can reveal this later in a better way. I have also not forgotten about the shoes!

My heartfelt thanks to everyone reading and especially to those reviewing! As always, check the other site to read individual replies to these wonderful comments. People reading this fandom are just fantastic and I appreciate the support very much!

---

Min-ar-Paenui Peth: Úcaul Annaur (Part Eleven: Unburdening by Fire)

A more perfect example of autumn weather could not have been provided had Elrond commanded it through the power of Vilya. The light of Anor was rich in hues of gold and burgundy streaked across the pale blue western sky, dappling the ground beneath the grove of oaks in the dell behind Glorfindel's house. The bright daubs of gleam danced with the shadows cast as the breath of Manwë swayed the upper limbs of the ever-leaved hardwoods. The soft shirring of branch and twig complimented the solitary song of an Olive Warbler perched somewhere amid the needles of a fir high on the steep stony walls of the surrounding cliffs. The trilling song drifted through the briskly boreal air in regular intervals and it almost seemed the distant avian's lilting rhythm determined the timing of the other sounds within the sheltered glade.

Low and muted, the crackle and hiss of a small, contained blaze, its flames peeking through the slots in the iron brazier as if to rival the sun, added its voice. The barely discernible rasp of a comb carding through long straight hair, the rustling shuffle of silk-clothed arms and shifting booted feet vied with the murmuring heat's noise. A louder clank as the grate was opened and several heavy objects were settled in the glowing amber coals disturbed the quiet mood and made Glorfindel startle. Involuntarily, his fingers gave the hair a sharp tug and this wrought a surprised though subdued mutter of disapproval from the kneeling figure to whom the tresses were attached.

It was Legolas, of course, and he shot Glorfindel a disgruntled glare from under upswept flaxen lashes.

"Nin gohennach," (Forgive me.) whispered the Vanya Lord contritely and carefully untangled the knot his jerking motion had formed. He resumed the grooming more carefully, counting the number of passes the simple device made through the fluid locks, determined not to be distracted by the luxurious sensuality of the weighty strands spread across his palm.

Legolas sighed and turned his eyes, since he could not move his head, to observe what Galdor was doing that had made such a disruption. The elder was slowly working a small bellows to supply the charry wood in the brazier with sufficient air to make them incandescent. His comforting brown gaze met Cuthenin's and he gave a nearly imperceptible nod as his lips formed the slim outline of a smile. Legolas returned the facial gesture and raised the goblet he held in his hands to his lips, drinking deeply.

The mixture within was the same his Guardian had supplied on the previous day only stronger, the bitter aftertaste of the potent herbs more pungent upon the back of his tongue. He had not eaten at noon and the effects of the drug were quickly diffusing through his bloodstream and easing his anxiety. As before, Legolas was glad for it; thus far the day had challenged his emotional endurance to its limit and the ritual itself was said to be gruelling. While it seemed an Age might have passed since the disastrous council, the events had concluded mere hours ago. Now he knelt on the fallen leaves in the lengthening rays of the setting sun as Glorfindel prepared him for Úcaul Annaur.

Wishing not to dwell too deeply on the activity to come, he recalled instead the history preceding it. Verily, I fled down the path from everything the dawn had introduced. He gave a slender snort of self-derision as the image filled his mind:
&/&

"You will name him Faer Hebron?"

"Glorfindel is willing and I have examined him carefully for any untoward intent. His spirit is genuine. You were not displeased with the idea yesterday."

"Aye, but that was before I knew of his espousal. He is genuine, you say, yet he could not find the means to explain the severing of his bond to Erestor. His heart is not cold, you claim, yet he cared not for the pain of his first love. I cannot entrust my soul to him nor commit myself eternally to one so fickle. Faer Hebron, if not of my own blood, should be my intended; thus I have been taught. Is it not so among the other Gairdh o Tawar?" (Regions of Tawar)

"It is. Do Greenwood's byr obey the counsel of their Tyrn'wedir and the rulings of their Sedryn?"

Long and lanky Galdor had no trouble keeping up with the smaller Wood Elf as Legolas came as close to running along the byway as possible without actually doing so. Nevertheless, the elder was irritated with such an open display of defiance from his new ward and the sharpness of his tone pulled the archer to an abrupt halt.

"I will heed your counsel in all matters, Tirn'wador." Legolas bowed his head gravely but his voice shook. Now he regretted giving over such an important role to someone he truly knew nothing about and who understood him even less. All of his anger drained away, replaced by the compounded shame such union would generate: linked to a male who was another ellon's mate.

Ai! My father will disown me and my brothers will refuse to even speak my name. His shoulders slumped and he did not bother to lift his sight from the ground.

"How can I claim someone already bound?"

The cadence of this query was simultaneously defeated and pleading and Galdor realised the messenger truly feared such a thing might be ordained.

"Nay, Legolas, never would I force you into such an immoral joining." The noble Lord quickly gripped his charge by the shoulders and gave a short, brisk shake as if hoping the physical motion would jar loose such an offensive concept. "This espousal you mention truly was in another lifetime; it is no lie. You are young and mayhap it is not as clear to your eyes, but I can see there is no eternal connection betwixt Glorfindel and Erestor." He maintained a tight hold to prevent further retreat along the path.

"Erestor does not agree. He says that Glorfindel holds his heart. What do you see in his eyes, Tirn'wador, for I saw only pain and anger."

"Their relationship was not so holy and exalted an estate as he has led you to believe. In his defence, I believe Erestor truly does care for Glorfindel and cannot accept the truth. Whatever bond existed during their lives in Gondolin, it is vital no more. This is the doing of the Valar and the reasons for it I do not pretend to comprehend. For such answers you will need to permit Glorfindel to speak freely to you, without voicing recriminations and accusations."

"Why can you not explain it to me? Tell me of their time together; you knew them then, did you not?"

"Is it my place to spread gossip and hearsay? Is it right to speak half-truths and repeat words removed from the dialogue and events that inspired them? This is not my history we discuss but Glorfindel and Erestor's. I will not reveal what was told to me in confidence, even if Glorfindel is not the same elf now that spoke those secrets all those centuries ago.

"I was quite serious regarding my apprenticeship to our Sadron then and that is why he came to me. Even more adamant am I now regarding my responsibilities, yet were I not bound by the oaths of a Sadron, still I would never betray the trust of a friend. Not even for you, Cuthenin. Do you understand this?" Galdor peered into the silvan's distraught face and shook him again for emphasis. "Do you understand this?" he repeated.

"I understand," Legolas murmured and turned his eyes down to the path. He heard Galdor exhale a worried breath and felt the elder's strong grip leave his arms. Cuthenin shivered, missing the succour of that contact immediately.

"You have already said you would hear Glorfindel's explanation if he complies with your request. I am sure he will finally confront this matter with Erestor and settle the issue, though it will not be easy nor pleasant to do so. He has many regrets, Legolas, not least of which is the distress this has caused you. When he returns, will you listen to him with an open heart?"

"Aye, Tirn'wador." Legolas did not meet his Guardian's gaze for several minutes as he considered these words. He wished to believe there was a reasonable explanation, that he could understand it all and still look upon Glorfindel with the same respect as he had upon meeting him. Yet one notion nagged at his thoughts and threatened to rob him of hope. At last he raised his head to question the elder. "Would Erestor not know of it at once? If he was bound to Glorfindel, would he not sense the dissolution of that bond?"

"Indeed, therein reside my own misgivings for the Chief Advisor's sincerity in his concern for your welfare."

"How so?"

"You are judging this in a very narrow way. In your mind, Erestor and Glorfindel must be still bound, and thus the Balrog Slayer has broken his vows. You believe this based on the premise that a true bond cannot be sundered, for thus the Valar revealed and our natural inclination substantiates. While that is correct there have been exceptions: Finwë and Miriel specifically. Open your thoughts. Has it not occurred to you that there are two possible answers to this dilemma?

"Perhaps Erestor and Glorfindel were not bound equally, in which case the Valar would never sanction a continuation of such an arrangement should one party be unwilling. An unequal bond could be of many forms: a political union promoting alliance between powerful Houses or a joining in which one elf was enamoured physically but the soul was never touched, for example.

"Alternately, Erestor was cognisant of the bond's failure and refuses to admit it, naming Glorfindel inconstant and seeking to punish him. He is deeply hurt, this much is clear to me, even if I cannot condone his manner of treating the injury to his spirit. Indeed, it may even be a mixture of these factors rather than distinctly one or the other that drives Erestor's actions. And Glorfindel's, for that matter."

"Nae! This is a horrible mess. Why is it Glorfindel who has captured my interest, Tirn'wador? Mayhap my feelings are merely lustful desire, as you warned. If so, the result is the same. How can I entrust my soul to him?"

"Fear not; if you truly cannot abide Glorfindel then I shall seek another for you, yet I must be blunt. The grieving sickness will only advance more rapidly as each hour passes. You are shivering again; the cold has returned. It is time to admit that this is not a result of the poison, long banished from your body. This is but a sign of the illness, as is your loss of hope and confidence. I know of no means to halt its course but one, for you are far from home and loved ones and the very elf you would first turn to is she whom you mourn most deeply."

"Mayhap that is for the best, then." Legolas dropped his eyes from his Guardian's again and exhaled a shallow sough before attempting more speech. "If that is my fate it is futile to evade it."

"Here is the proof of my fears already manifest before me. You would rather fade and join Calarlim than aid our cause in these dark days ahead?"

Legolas made no answer to this. What use could he possibly serve when every effort he put forth resulted only in failure and loss of immortal life? It seems I am less an advantage to the silvans than to the Shadow. Yet he could not bear to say these words aloud and thus give them substance.

"It is a difficult thing, trying to comprehend the nature of fate, and not likely to produce fruitful results."

The gruff voice sounding this notion did not belong to either of the elves, and the two immortals turned to look behind them. So intense had been their discussion that neither had noticed the approach of the wizard. Merry and Pippin, the Ring-bearer's kinsmen, were with him and stared in undisguised fascination and concern at the First-born. They had been close enough to hear the last part of the conversation regarding grieving and eyed Legolas with sympathy.

"Mithrandir," said Galdor quietly and waited for the Istar to continue.

"Mellynen (my friends)," the Maia smiled his creased and wrinkled grin and turned to address Legolas directly. "I would ask for your help in this grave matter, warrior of the woods. Frodo and Sam cannot hope to succeed all alone, even if I accompany them."

"You wish me to join the venture? Even after my failure in keeping Smeagol?" His tone plainly transmitted how unexpected was this request.

"Have I not already said it is pointless to try and comprehend destiny? It is better to accept that those events were unavoidable and take up your part in this. Vairë is not known for changing her mind very easily and she seems to have chosen you. Elrond agrees with me as well. What does your Guardian say on the question?"

"I had not thought on it, Mithrandir, as there are other issues to resolve first," Galdor frowned. Truthfully he felt it was wrong to add more weight to the archer's burdens but had no desire to speak openly of the dire nature of Legolas' suffering.

"Then we shall leave you to attend them in the hope that you will soon turn your attention to my request," the wizard bowed formally and stepped past them, continuing on the way. "Come, good Hobbits, we are on a mission to find the Dwarf Lords!" he called behind him genially.

Merry and Pippin each gave a hurried and awkward bow to the elves and skittered after their friend. They did not need to speak aloud their sadness over the Wood Elf's troubles, for each had awakened to the sounds of his haunting lament the previous night. Now this talk of fading sounded too much like dying for them to feel comfortable about it. Gandalf's belief that Legolas would join Frodo and Sam eased their worry for the Ring-bearer and pointed to hope for the Wood Elf, yet the elder elf seemed unlikely to approve it. Their grim expressions wordlessly communicated all these fears in seconds.

On impulse, Pippin reversed his progress and went back to stand before Galdor and Legolas, eyes darting uncertainly between one set of dark brown irises and one of sapphire blue.

"Pippin!" hissed Merry in a frantic whisper, watching his cousin with trepidation, terrified that he would offend the regal creatures with some inappropriate remark.

"Please, Legolas," the Hobbit spoke and reached out to take the silvan's hand in a firm grip. "Do not fade. Frodo needs you; we all do." He gave the slender, elegant fingers a brief, reassuring squeeze before releasing them and racing to his cousin. Merry fixed him with a lopsided grin, shaking his head in wonderment, and clapped his friend on the shoulder to signify his approval. Together they hurried to catch up to Gandalf, leaving Cuthenin staring in amazement.

Galdor smiled into his ward's bewildered eyes, reading the look of shamefaced guilt easily. It was obvious the Hobbit's plea had touched Legolas and forced him to think beyond his own feelings of sorrow and failure, longing and disgrace. The Lord of the Tree revised his earlier judgement; perhaps this quest was exactly the sort of burden Cuthenin required to draw him from his grief.

"Legolas, it is time to decide this matter. Come and see the place I have chosen for Úcaul Annaur. Then you will listen to what Glorfindel has to say. If he cannot acquit himself to your satisfaction then I shall ask Elrond to suggest another to undertake the role of Faer Hebron." So saying he led Legolas away from the path and into the countryside, heading for the craggy cliffs and the perpetual fomentation of the falls, confident of his charge's obedient acquiescence.
&/&

"Bind all of his hair tightly into a single braid."

Galdor's instructions to Glorfindel called Legolas back from his meandering memories and he blinked, attempting to clear his vision which had suddenly become a whirling swirl of shapes and shadows. He swayed and dropped the cup, spilling its contents upon the ground, and instinctively grabbed onto the nearest solid object close at hand. This happened to be the Vanya warrior's thigh and he felt the muscle flinch under his pinching grip.

"Nin gohennach," (Forgive me) he mumbled as he loosened his hold and tried to look up. Glorfindel's features swam in an alarmingly nauseating pattern and Legolas shut his eyes tight. "I am dizzy."

"Ú-boe anim díhenad, Cuthenin," (There is no need for me to forgive, Cuthenin.) Glorfindel knelt beside the archer and supported him, finished the long plait and pocketed the comb. "What is in that tonic, Galdor?"

"Only what is necessary. This is not all caused by the miruvor. Have him lower his head to his knees; it should pass momentarily," instructed the elder Lord as he came and stooped down beside them. "Be at peace, Legolas, it is normal to feel thusly."

"It has begun?"

"Aye, the first incantation is silent, for to hear it only compounds the stress to the body by introducing fear into the mind." Galdor lifted Legolas' chin and peered into his eyes. Truly, Legolas almost has no need of a spell to loosen the spirit from the flesh, for his yearns to flee anyway. Satisfied, he smiled to reassure his ward before addressing Glorfindel again. "You must not lose contact with him from henceforth until I tell you it is over, understood?"

"Yes, Galdor, I will not leave his side," promised the Balrog Slayer, lightly rubbing the silvan's back.

"Nay, I mean this literally. Recall the instruction I gave you this morning: you two need to be in physical contact for the duration of the ritual. You can ensure this by placing his hands upon you as well. Now, remove his tunic and shirt and yours also."

As Glorfindel complied he watched the ancient Lord quietly arranging some objects on the small table. This had been carried down from the talan to serve during the ritual and held several jars of ointments or oils, some containers of a dry gritty substance in colours of green and ochre, a set of metal tongs, and a wooden handle of sorts. He shuddered, thinking on what had been explained of this rite after Galdor's mild interrogation into his character. While pleased to have convinced the Lord of the Tree of his worthiness to become Cuthenin's Faer Hebron, Glorfindel could not suppress an innate dread for what must be done in order to uphold that honour.

It was dangerous and bordered on barbaric.

Knowing this, he stripped off his upper garments carefully, alternating hands, keeping one set of fingers tightly clasped on Legolas' arm the while. He was even more cautious while disrobing the archer, settling Cuthenin back on on his heels and positioning one of the silvan's lax limbs across his shoulder. Once Legolas' chest was bared, Glorfindel noticed at once the changes in the spiralling tattoo and sought to meet the messenger's gaze. Cuthenin kept his eyes veiled, however, a faint blush tinting his high cheeks, and Glorfindel realised this was due to the proximity of their naked flesh. Though Legolas had seen him completely unclothed in the pools, he had not touched the Vanya.

Most likely has not touched anyone else, either.

He smiled faintly over Cuthenin's shyness and the innocence it represented, giving the younger elf's shoulder a comforting clasp. He switched his attention to the glowing embers, now so hot that the brazier spilled a bright orange glow over their exposed skin. Glorfindel let his vision travel the bounds of the shallow dell, following the intricate circle which Galdor had sketched over the dirt in a fine white powder. Even as he watched, the elder moved toward this artfully crafted boundary and extended his hands over the design.

"Gleino mín nedhechor od edraith. Minna erui mellyn vi gwend a sîdh." (Enclose us within a circle of safety. None may enter save those who do so in friendship and peace.) The noble Sadron spoke clearly and the words rang with a compelling tone of command.

A spark flew from his fingers and fell upon the spiral, igniting it, and it was only then that Glorfindel realised he held a flint stone. No flames erupted from the burning powder, however, and little smoke, but a clear blue gleam as of captured moonlight arose from the ground and etched the protective talisman upon the molecules of the very air. The cool pale light mingled with the vibrant vermilion glare pouring from the grate.

"Calarlim!" Legolas moaned pitifully, clutching his head in his hands, and would have collapsed upon the ground in a heap had Glorfindel not been holding fast. "Addheli enni, saes!" (Return to me, please!)

Glorfindel gathered him close and looked to Galdor in alarm, but the elder only stood still, eyes half-lidded and hands folded as if lost in thought. The re-born elda wondered how long this phase of the proceedings would last, for Legolas did not seem to be improving, breathing with difficulty and clutching his temples as if his head must pain him severely.

Beside the table, Galdor began chanting in a slow, mesmerising rhythm but his volume was too soft for the words to carry. The Vanya warrior felt Legolas inhale deeply and then a tremor worked through him. Under the Balrog Slayer's hands, the pounding of the silvan's heart increased two-fold.

It took all Glorfindel's resolve to remain calm, for though Galdor had described every detail of the ritual and what various effects these might produce upon Legolas, it was quite different to witness these things. It was too much like illness, too close to the responses of a failing body for Glorfindel to bear it easily. Shall I always be on the cusp of loosing him just when it seems I have won him? The noble warrior no longer wondered over the urgency of his feelings and the strength of his desire to prevent their permanent separation.

How close circumstances had come to that made his stomach churn. Even now, with Cuthenin clasped in his arms, it was difficult to banish the sinking desolation that had filled his soul the moment he believed the woodland warrior was lost to him forever. Glorfindel thought back to Legolas' ultimatum and smiled grimly, for that demand had forced his encounter with Erestor to resolve the contention. The anger in the memory contrarily stirred him to sorrow as the scene unfolded within his thoughts:
&/&

Glorfindel stared at Legolas' departing form in disbelief. This mere stripling, this untested youth would instruct him on how to conduct his affairs? He scoffed one instant and the next felt his heart freeze in terror, imagining that rapidly diminishing figure never willing to reverse direction and return to him. With anxious haste he mimicked the messenger, wheeling about and hurrying toward the Last Homely House, desperate to repair the unexpected rift.

Yet he should have anticipated something of the sort, should have made certain to prepare Cuthenin for the Chief Advisor's false words and specious sympathy. It was no one's fault but his own and only his actions could prevent permanent estrangement from the Wood Elf. And while Glorfindel could not command Erestor's participation in rectifying the volatile situation, he did not quail from forcing the confrontation if need be.

In fact he was not far from absolute enragement for the complications his former mate had introduced into the first stirrings of affection and desire between himself and the Wood Elf. The Balrog Slayer was ready to throttle the deceiving throat that had so smoothly and deliberately supplied misinformation to Cuthenin. Yet there was a small corner of Glorfindel's soul that did fear to address the break openly, for his conscience could not be silenced.

Erestor was not in his rooftop apartment where Glorfindel expected to find him. When no answer came to his knock at the door, the reborn warrior did not hesitate to enter in unbidden. He called for the advisor as he moved from room to room, noting the familiar disarray in the office, the discarded clothing and unmade bed in the sleeping chamber. With a scowl Glorfindel stalked into the observatory and clambered up the narrow steps to the roof, for while the dome was open the largest telescope was still within, its platform flush against the floor of the room. Once upon the circular walkway, he spied a smaller scope set upon a tripod facing east over the valley, a small stool positioned before it.

Glorfindel's brow wrinkled in quandary, for the sighting tool was not aimed up into the heavens as one would expect. He could not deny his inquisitive nature and bent to set his eye to the device. A sharp intake of breath accompanied his shocked surprise and he straightened up, crimson in consternation. The talan in the oak grove was the visual target and there upon the visiting messenger's bed reposed Erestor. With a curse Glorfindel realised the implications and hastened to confront the advisor. It did not take him long to reach the garden and ascend to the flet.

"Welcome, Glorfindel, I have been awaiting your arrival. I suspected you would find your way here in search of your young lover," drawled Erestor, supine on the plush mattress in absolute ease and comfort, wearing not a shred of covering over his appealing masculine form.

"Erestor, this behaviour is inexcusable! You have been spying upon Legolas; do you deny it?"

"What makes you say so, Glorfindel? Have you invaded my rooms without permission?" Erestor stretched languidly and caressed his abdomen, sliding his fingers lower to fondle his penis, already filling and rising to his touch.

"Do not try to shift attention from your errors," hissed Glorfindel, refusing to allow his eyes to linger on the growing erection. "Cover yourself, for what will transpire here has nothing to do with pleasure," he snarled and snatched up the advisor's tunic from the floor, throwing it upon him.

"Ah, I doubt you would be so eager to clothe your Cuthenin," sneered Erestor and tossed the garment aside. "But I am not jealous; I can understand the allure of being his first. I care not if you want him; pierce him and get it over with for the thrill will vanish once you have spilled within him. What can the two of you share beyond such base lust? You belong to different worlds and his is barely civilised. That silvan child cannot give you what you truly crave. Join me and I will refresh your memory of how well suited we are to one another's needs."

"Do not involve him in this, Erestor." Glorfindel glared in fury but could not quite manage to keep his gaze on Erestor's face.

"I am not the one who brought him into it," chortled the advisor. He shifted his hips and flexed his penis, undressing Glorfindel with his sultry gaze as he did so.

"Enough!" Glorfindel turned his back to avoid ogling the arousing vision on the bed and took a deep breath, swallowing as he concentrated to slow his heart and reign in his libido. "This has nothing to do with Legolas and I am not here to justify my feelings for him. Cuthenin does not deserve to be punished by you for wrongs you believe I have committed. I am here to demand an accounting at last."

"Indeed? How dare you make such a statement when I am the one who was wronged? Speak no more lies; it is your worry over that Wood Elf's disposition that has brought you here. Admit it, Glorfindel, you are angry because I told him the truth and now you have lost your virgin warrior."

"You uttered nothing but innuendo and deliberately poisoned his thoughts against me!" Glorfindel turned and shouted back. His eyes travelled over the recumbent elf and rested on the fist encircling the dark maroon cock, pumping in a slow, seductive rhythm. "Valar! I will not be diverted! Dress yourself, Erestor, for I will settle this with you at last."

"Aye, diverted; that is what has happened to us. Do you not see?" Erestor's voice softened and he stood from the bed, sidling up against Glorfindel and wrapping his arms around the warrior. With a groan the advisor pressed his hot and heavy shaft against Glorfindel's groin, thrusting against the growing protrusion trapped beneath the Vanya's leather leggings. "Do you deny that you want this, love? That is surely a lie."

"Nay, Erestor, I do not," Glorfindel managed to stutter out but for an answer he found the Noldo's lips devouring his, demanding entrance. In spite of himself Glorfindel moaned and began to kiss back, eagerly caressing Erestor's limber tongue with his own, locking his arms around the naked body, leaning into Erestor's supple heat. They broke to breath and Glorfindel stared into the brightly burning triumphant gleam in the predatory onyx eyes. Smug, assured laughter met his ears as Erestor stepped back, tugging him toward the bed.

"This is as it should be, Glorfindel. You belong to me and no other. Return to me and you will find that all is forgiven. Put aside your yearning for the bastard child of the woodland King, for he is beneath you." Before Glorfindel could reply Erestor sealed their mouths together anew and pulled the Vanya down with him upon the mattress, sliding his leg between Glorfindel's thighs and gently massaging the restrained erection with his knee.

Glorfindel gasped and arched into the contact, his fingers moving to untie the leggings as Erestor's worked upon his tunic and shirt. He shifted on the bed, pressing back into the cushions in order to lift his hips and allow for the garment to be drawn off, and that is when the smoky scent reached his awareness. The faintly lingering aroma of semen arose from the bedding and he knew at once it was not Erestor's. He inhaled deeply, shutting his eyes to savour the heady musk of the youthful silvan's release, for surely this was his essence and no other's. Glorfindel's desire surged as he imagined Legolas in orgasm.

A hand slid inside his leggings and explored, grasping onto his rigid length and yanking it free of confinement. He shuddered in the exquisite combination of pleasure and pain. A throaty laugh sounded in his ear as Erestor's tongue tasted its sensitive tip and he failed to repress an ecstatic cry of longing.

"Your little silvan virgin could never make you emit those sounds. He has no idea how to please you."

The words were packed with derisive disgust and penetrated the haze of lust clouding Glorfindel's thoughts. With a jolt he opened his eyes, realising where he was and what he was doing. In desolate shame he cried out and shoved Erestor away. He could not believe he had nearly allowed himself to lie with Erestor in Cuthenin's bed.

"Valar, how can you plan such cruelty?" Glorfindel sat up and stared at Erestor. "You would hurt him thus? Why?"

"What are you talking about? What is the matter now? No one is to be hurt any longer, all is as it should be again," crooned Erestor, trying to draw him back into his arms.

"Nay! You would have us couple here, leaving the evidence in his own bed so that Legolas would know of it. That is…I cannot fathom what sort of mind conceives such a foul scheme." Glorfindel shoved off Erestor's groping hands and rose, hastily retying his garments. "You are exactly as you were in Gondolin, Erestor, nothing has changed and that deep streak of darkness in your soul shall not touch Legolas. I will not permit it."

"Ah Glorfindel, you never objected to my possessiveness back then. If I recall you found it flattering. Besides, this is no less than you did to me yet to my pain you remain indifferent. Set aside your squeamishness; it is better for the elfling to be educated on how it would be between you. He is not ready to take a mate, especially not mine. Let Galdor do his job and find the child a more suitable companion. Perhaps Rumil of Lorien, being of similar station, will be interested. Come back to bed, love."

"Get dressed, Erestor, for I will not do this," Glorfindel announced firmly and moved to take a seat at the small table, keeping his back to the naked elf with whom he had shared his first life.

Several minutes of heavy silence settled over the oak grove as Erestor waited and Glorfindel defied him.

"Very well, I will humour you for now. Mayhap before our discussion ends you will regret that decision." And Erestor laughed, a falsely cheery sound, a cracked and broken attempt to transmit dismissive unconcern that made Glorfindel cringe.

"So you would choose a fleeting infatuation with youthful beauty over the enduring commitment of soul-mates? I admit I thought it would be so and yet I had to offer you a chance to redeem yourself." Erestor dressed as he spoke and then joined Glorfindel at the table, propping his chin on his hands as he gazed into the icy indigo eyes. "I did spy on Cuthenin, you are right. Ah, he is magnificent in the grip of his passions, Glorfindel, and when he came I spilled all over one of my favourite scopes in response. Yet I doubt you will ever observe such a sight, for he will not be open to your plans to debauch him now."

"There are no such plans, Erestor. Why have you done this to Legolas? He is innocent. Can you truly think that harming him will cause me to find you desirable?"

"Nay, I quite comprehend your rejection of my love; it has been made plain," Erestor snapped and stood angrily. "You do not deserve to have another mate, Glorfindel, for you did not appreciate your first. I felt it was my duty to inform Legolas before he fell victim to the same lies you spoke to me."

"I never spoke lies to you. You are the one who misused our bond, Erestor, all those years ago. A lifetime ago for my part and still you try to manipulate me," spoke Glorfindel coldly, standing in order to meet his former mate eye-to-eye.

"Do not expect me to accept such ridiculous fallacies; I was there. Or has your memory been altered by your own guilt? Let me reacquaint you with the details then." Erestor's voice was low and dark, filled with the pain that had distorted his love and made his own heart into nothing more than a festering wound. He smirked in satisfaction as Glorfindel took a step back in shock at the sound of these words.

"I chose you, Glorfindel, from all the elves in Middle-earth, I selected you to receive my heart and soul. As I remember it, you were once overjoyed to have this honour. You were nothing then, a minor adherent to your House. How the histories have exalted you! Yet you and I, we know the truth. You were no Lord of the Golden Flower in those days. I am the one who advanced your career and raised your station. You were only a Lord because you were wed to a Lord."

"And never would you let me forget it!" retorted Glorfindel, his own anguish over this ancient affliction resurfacing. "Not a day passed that you failed to remind me of the difference in our status, Erestor. I had to grovel to earn your attentions! I had to beg for you to gift me with your touch; do you remember any of that?"

"You did not complain about it, Glorfindel, so do not play the suffering martyr to me!"

"I did not object for I feared to loose you. I was very much younger than you and it is true; I was insignificant in comparison to others you might have selected. I was flattered that you wanted me and overwhelmed when you stated your intent for us to be bound as one. I could not refuse."

"What do you mean by that? Of course you could have refused me! Will you tell me now you felt no love for me, even then?"

"I did not understand these things; you were my first and I knew not the nature of love. I found you pleasing and the match was advantageous, but what I felt was not the kind of love that binds two souls together eternally," Glorfindel's voice shook with remorse, for this was what he had dared never reveal before, though he had realised it soon after the formal ceremony of binding to the noble Noldo Lord all those long Ages ago.

Erestor stood silent, glaring in bitter denial and outraged anger at this admission. These were not the words he would hear. He drew himself up in rigid indignation. "I will not allow you to denigrate our union thus. You gave yourself to me and that is not something you can change. I will not see you initiate formal espousal with that Wood Elf; bad enough it was to witness your flagrant abuse of our sacred estate by bringing Rumil to your bed."

"I am not yours, Erestor. Our bond was not true. I was young and foolish in Gondolin, captivated by a beautiful and powerful Lord's interest, infatuated by the prestige of such a match, eager to gain in esteem and rank amid Turgon's court. What feeling there was to link us died with my body in Beleriand. The heart I have now knows you not and you cannot claim it. I will give it to whomever I wish."

"You are cruel, Glorfindel! How can you speak such cold words? If what you say is so, why did you resume your life with me upon arriving here in Imladris? If you felt nothing, why invite me back into your bed?"

"It was not I who did the tempting, Erestor, and you are well aware of it! You are the one who began to pursue me the very minute I crossed the Bruinen!"

"You did not resist! How can you maintain this farce? It cannot be both ways, Glorfindel, I will not have it! We are bound and I will forgive your weakness in succumbing to Rumil's beauty if you ask it of me. We will start anew and this enmity will be only a memory, but you must not take that Wood Elf for your own; I forbid it. I will not be shunned in favour of some rustic King's bastard, regardless his comely form, no matter if it is for only one night."

There was a brief silence as the pair stared at one another, Erestor's anguished hope plain upon his aristocratic features as was Glorfindel's shocked dismay to see it. At last the Vanya sighed and dropped his head, unable to look at his former mate any longer, unable to deny his part in the dissension between them.

"Is that what you have been waiting for all these many years since Rumil returned to Lorien?" he asked quietly and shook his head. "For me to come begging your mercy?"

"Nay, not for your apology, Glorfindel, but for you. I am your mated spouse, no other can so claim. I love you and so shall I always. Will you still deny our union?" Erestor pleaded.

"Nae! (Alas!) Nothing else can I do for I do not feel the same. It is my fault; Cuthenin is right. I should not have permitted myself to indulge in my lust upon arriving here. That is all it was for me; memories of the pleasure we found in one another's bodies. I should have told you this, but I delighted in having you chase after me and thought it my due for the way you abused me in Gondolin.

"I did know in my heart that you believed we were still soul-mates and the thought pleased me, for in payment of the long years of debasement you had subjected me to I hoped to make you the fool. It was not until you confronted me over Rumil that I realised how deep was the injury that dalliance inflicted. That much I swear to you."

Erestor gaped in stricken disbelief to hear this response and found the need to lower his body back onto the chair. He shook his head and then buried his face in his hands, leaning his elbows upon the small table, desperately trying to contain his rising sorrow and despair. It was humiliating and he could not face this a second time. Oh, he had known even in Gondolin that Glorfindel's feelings were less engaged than his own, but he would have the Vanya warrior and no other. Yet it had rankled, the fact that his mate had accepted him as nothing more than a means to satisfy carnal cravings, further a career, elevate his social status.

"That is why I would make you beg and degrade yourself before me," he mumbled through his hands. He heard Glorfindel's surprised inhalation and continued. "I understood that you did not return my feelings, but I could not bear the mortification it would cause me to set you free. Then everyone would have known and I would be pitied by my peers.

"When you died, I took that as my punishment and decided to wait for your return. I was determined it would be different between us, that I would win your love and respect by showing you the same. Thus I courted you so diligently, thus I submitted myself to you when finally you acceded. I believed you wished to rebuild our life together also, to allow the love we should have always shared to grow at last. Until I saw you with Rumil."

"Ai, Erestor. There is nothing shared between us but bitter regret." Glorfindel gave a sour sigh. "And you are right, I have done nothing to merit a soul so true as Legolas possesses."

Erestor's spine stiffened on hearing his rival's name yet he made no reply.

Long they stared in silence upon one another, all the worst elements of their inner souls revealed at last, all the ancient hurts uncovered, all the vengeful plotting disclosed. A more thorough disgrace to the true estate of bonding than their interactions would be difficult to find, for they had used one another so spitefully and selfishly that the concept of love could never be bent to fit the convoluted contours of their twisted relationship. There was nothing to salvage from these revelations and the air grew cold and still between them despite the warmth of the autumn afternoon. At last Erestor stood up.

"You have not asked me to forgive you," he began proudly.

"I have not heard your request for absolution either," retorted Glorfindel.

"Sîdh (Peace) I will finish ere you object," Erestor raised his hand to silence the interruption, a sharp stab of agony piercing his soul to hear the animosity in Glorfindel's voice. "I free you from our bond, Glorfindel, and I will bear you no more ill-will."

"I suppose you expect me to thank you?" Glorfindel growled. "Yet you show no remorse for the harm your hateful jealousy inflicted upon an innocent."

"Concern yourself with your own remorse over that; it was you who failed to be frank with the Wood Elf regarding our relationship." Erestor finished his sentence in stern tones with his imperious gaze locked on the volatile warrior's.

Another lengthy pause ensued, for Glorfindel was ashamed that this was true. At the pools, he could have elaborated on the depth of the history he and Erestor shared but had chosen to make light of it instead. He sighed.

"You have not asked, but I grant you forgiveness and in turn accept yours with humble gratitude. It seems we shall both suffer our heart's desire to go unrequited, and I do not doubt this is Námo's intent: that I experience the same pain that you have borne so long. Cuthenin is disgusted with me now and I am sure he will never consider my suit, nor will Galdor encourage him to do so.

"And because of this he may be lost to grief, for the ritual needed requires someone in whom resides his utmost trust. Fate placed me in his path and I failed him. His death would be a grave sin we would both find hard to bear, should such an untimely end claim him. I know not how I will endure such an outcome."

"You truly feel for him," Erestor gave a small rueful smile as he spoke. "Fear not; he will give you a second chance. You will have to prove yourself, no doubt, but he will not deny you the attempt."

"Ah, I would like to believe that but you did not see the pain in his eyes."

"I did see and gloated over it, to my shame. I must go beseech his forgiveness as well." This said, Erestor found he could not bear to be near Glorfindel any longer and quickly descended from the flet. He had no wish for his former love to witness his tears over this final break as he began to grieve in earnest for the emptiness in his soul.
&/&

"Buiam Tawar." (We serve Tawar.)

"Tawar min beria." (Tawar protects us.)

Sadron and byr gave the traditional acknowledgement of Pad-en-Tawar and thus the ritual of Úcaul Annaur was advanced.

"Nuin Ist-en-Eru men túliel sí, breitham o haim men naegra, ristam na falch imgûr a cuil. Iluvatar, lasta nallad o hên lín, Legolas." (Under the knowledge of Eru we have come here, broken from those we mourn, severed by the chasm between death and life. Iluvatar, hear the plea of your child, Legolas.) Galdor spoke this prayer plainly, his chanting done, and waited for Legolas to respond.

The Wood Elf was steadier, for the initial disorientation had dwindled away, replaced by the steadfast determination so integral to his character. Still and straight-backed, he knelt upon the ground in the centre of the glowing circle facing Glorfindel. Arm's length apart, they leaned against one another, forehead touching forehead, each one's hands secured firmly upon the shoulders of the other.

Legolas long single braid lay draped over his right shoulder, rising and falling with every breath he took. Upon hearing his Sadron's supplication, his bowed head rose and his bright beryl eyes locked with those of the re-born elf. Within them he found admiration and respect, encouragement and reassurance. Legolas took a calming breath and gave a slight nod.

"Iluvatar, aniron athrabeth ah gwaidyren dannen ar Nanthen min lû vedui. Anna dâf lín; boe tî gohennad pain úgerth coren dan tî. Aniron gohennad ah avegliriannen vi dôr gwanner." (Iluvatar, I wish for converse with my fallen comrades and my mother one last time. Give your permission; they must forgive all wrongs I have made against them. I would plead forgiveness for failing to honour their passing in the place where they gave up their lives.) He stated the purpose for the ritual. "Alae, si hebithon Taith-en-Rîn an Uir." (Behold, I shall keep the Marks of Remembrance for Eternity.)

"Their hroar a feär (bodies and souls) are sundered, how shall this communion be achieved?" demanded Galdor.

"Let me be the vessel for the spirits of the deceased. Let them come, would they have it so, and relieve me of my debt. Forever will I proclaim my gratitude for this mercy, until my body is spent." Legolas replied as a shiver ran over his spine.

"What is to become of your feä whilst you serve this need? Who will safeguard your spirit until these debts are forgiven?" Sadron demanded.

"I will keep his soul safe," Glorfindel spoke the correct response quietly, chilled as the reality of the situation filled his thoughts.

No sooner had he answered than he felt a peculiar shifting inside his body, centred near his heart, and gasped as a warm presence filled him and a hazy golden gleam surrounded them both. His grip upon Cuthenin tightened in concern, for the silvan's head dropped back heavily, exposing his ivory neck to the sky, while his body grew limp in the Vanya's hands. Glorfindel's breath caught in his throat as he recognised and welcomed the silvan's soul alongside his, awed by Legolas' unfailing faith and the genuine joy transmitted through the vital connection.

"Faer Hebron indeed! He would not even wait for the final declaration, so comfortable is his essence within yours." Galdor murmured softly as he knelt and gently lifted the lolling golden head, easing Legolas forward to rest against Glorfindel's chest. He smiled in approval as one of the elder warrior's arms encircled the archer's waist and drew him closer and the other supported Cuthenin's neck. "Let us make it official nonetheless. Are you willing to bear the mark of this commitment?" he asked of Glorfindel.

If he found Galdor's insertion of such casual remarks within the solemn ceremony surprising, Glorfindel kept that to himself. "Proudly shall I do so, forever until my body is spent." The Balrog Slayer could not help adding his personal emphasis to the traditional reply. He boldly raised his eyes to the ancient Lord's and endured the intimidating glower the Sadron saw fit to project.

"Nasan." (So be it.) Galdor stated at last.

He returned to the table and lifted the tongs, opening the grate as he did so. From the smouldering coals he drew out a small ingot, brilliant in the glow of red heat peeling from it. This he set upon the table and at once the sharp scent of scorched wood arose within the dell. Quickly Galdor took up the wooden handle and slipped its slotted end over the vividly incandescent object, fitting a locking ring around it to hold the metal seal fast. That done, he dipped the exposed iron into the grainy ochre powder and then hastened to the kneeling elves.

Swiftly the ancient Sadron's fingers pressed against Legolas' left side, counting down to locate the third rib beneath the heart. Without further warning than this he pressed the red-hot iron briefly against the warrior's bare skin.

"Nay!" Glorfindel could not suppress his cry of dismay even though the brand was lifted in mere seconds, for Cuthenin's body had gone rigid in his arms as a low moan escaped him. The sickening odour of burning skin dissipated rapidly but was no less shocking for it. He exhaled a great rush of air as Legolas went slack again. Then Glorfindel gasped anew, for he felt the archer's spirit stir within him, seeking to comfort him through the stressful experience, as if he had been the one to receive the wound.

Galdor set the tool aside on the table and returned with one of the small jars of ointment, spreading the cooling salve over the small, circular burn. Legolas' skin proclaimed Glorfindel his Faer Hebron, for the brand was nothing less than the insignia of the Vanya's name and rank within the House of the Golden Flower.

With insufficient time to have a proper brand made, Galdor had imporvised, appropriating Glorfindel's stamp for marking his correspondence and imprinting the wax used to seal his letters. The ancient elder met Glorfindel's eyes gravely ere he approached the table and once more lifted the tongs. Extracting a different iron from the grate, he repeated the gruesome procedure, branding the Balrog Slayer in the same place but with the seal of Legolas' name and House.

Glorfindel hissed against the searing burn but said nothing, leaning his cheek upon Cuthenin's head, relaxing as the heat of the brand ebbed during Galdor's application of the ointment. The pain was intense and he was relieved the ordeal was over, wondering what the mark would look like when it healed. Still he dreaded the rest of the ceremony, for there were three more glowing ingots within the fire and all of those would be applied to Legolas' body.

He had learned from Galdor that these small iron icons were carried everywhere by initiates of Pad-en-Tawar, just in case some such catastrophe occured. Each warrior possessed three of these markers: one he carried in a pouch attached to his tunic, the others would be entrusted to two comrades. In the event that one among the company was lost and no fitting burial could be achieved, the elf carrying the fallen one's seal branded himself with it, offering the lost soul a place to reside until family could be notified and the Pennas Lunnen completed.

In a small company such as Legolas had led across the Hithaeglir, each of the four warriors had exchanged tokens with the other three. As the sole survivor, it was Cuthenin's responsibility to ensure the souls of the departed were not adrift amid the turmoil of the living. The brands on his body would be as a beacon, guiding the unhoused feär home to their loved ones.

Glorfindel shuddered involuntarily, for Úcaul Annaur was something more. In this ritual, the supplicant willingly removed his soul and opened his body for possession, accepting responsibility for the other's death and asking the deceased for expiation. The drifting soul would be commanded to speak through the borrowed flesh of the supplicant, either granting forgiveness or stating plainly how to remedy any grievance named. This done, the spirit exited and the brand was burned onto the penitant's body as a sign of their eternal accord.

Galdor had admitted that sometimes the loose soul sought to permanently displace the person making this sacrifice, for the confusion and disorientation of sundering violently was severe and accompanied by anger and fear. This was what Legolas must face, three times over. At once the Vanya felt again the definite presence of Cuthenin's feä, much stronger than before, seeking to convey reassurance and confidence. Abruptly the sensation resolved into the archer's concrete thoughts:

'Worry no more. The pain is nothing gauged against the peace I will earn through it, insignificant compared to the honour of bearing their marks in return. They are my friends and will not harm me.'

Glorfindel was not even really aware of the soft smile that spread across his features or the gentle kiss he placed upon the archer's temple.

Galdor noticed, however, and was glad for it. His concern over Glorfindel's part in this ritual had all but vanished. Úcaul Annaur was rarely conducted, for it was not a trivial undertaking and the danger of unwholesome invasion of the supplicant's vulnerable body, breathing and functional yet all but bereft of its spirit, was very real.

He did not fear that Legolas' comrades would seek to retain possession of his body, but there were other unseen entities at large. Stories of such roving demons were not just myths and the elder suspected the fragmented bits of life infused into Orcs were of this nature. Only the most extreme circumstances required such a serious risk and Galdor had performed Úcaul Annaur only twice in all his long years of life. He was comforted that in this instance their location was doubly protected by the Peredhel Lord's ring of power and the circle of enchantment wrought through the will of Tawar.

Even so, three souls must be invited here and that leaves Legolas virtually defenceless for longer than I would like.

"Cenin Hatholvaen, Athedrynen o Gladgalen, mellon o Cuthenin. Tolo si, caro lín iest lim. Anno sîdh a Legolas ar hebo îdh uireb." (I call Clever-Blade, messenger of Greenwood and friend of True-bow. Come now, make your wish clear. Give peace to Legolas and keep eternal rest.) Galdor lifted his voice into the silent air, eager to conclude the rite.

Minutes passed; all remained still. Legolas did not stir in Glorfindel's arms.

Galdor called out again the same words, pacing a circuit within the protected ring of glowing light. No answer came that he could detect and thus a third time he issued the command. More seconds lagged past and the elder frowned, preparing to utter the call again.

Then a slight gust breezed into the glade and swirled a curtain of dry leaves around Legolas and Glorfindel briefly before dying down. The silvan moaned and shifted in the Balrog Slayer's arms, straightening up and raising his head to peer into the Vanya's eyes. A decidedly irreverent and puckish grin spread over his features, an expression the archer was not wont to make but one that was a trademark for the deceased warrior whom Galdor had summoned.

Glorfindel's eyes widened, for he was staring into a face transformed. This was not the youthful untried messenger but a seasoned warrior much acquainted with life and all its mysteries, even now the greatest one as far as the First-born were concerned. Here was an elf who had lived fully and relished it, and the eyes gazing into his were no longer clear blue as they should be but instead were deep brown, sagacious, and held no innocence. A mocking laugh erupted from Legolas' body.

"Ah, it is strange to be in such a form. Mae govannen, Glorfindel of Gondolin. Suilad Galdor of Mithlond. I am here at your bidding; say what you will," spoke Legolas' voice in tones and pitch that were not his own.

"Ai Valar, I know you now," exclaimed Glorfindel. "Although I think you were called Gîlfuir (North Star) when we met in Lorien. You were among Legolas' guard on his journey here?"

"Nay, Gîlfuir is my brother, but he shall be called hither next, I think, for we were both assigned this task. I promised Inarthan we would look after Cuthenin, for he was against sending his little brother hence."

Then Glorfindel startled, for in his mind he could hear Legolas' thoughts clamouring for expression, all jumbled and urgent but he gathered their meaning nonetheless.

"Legolas begs forgiveness for leaving you behind and wishes to…"

"Say no more," the unhoused spirit in possession of the Wood Elf's body interrupted. "Be at peace, Cuthenin. It was my honour to accompany you and no less than my duty to defend your mission, for it is vital to all of Middle-earth, as I see it now."

"Go then, seek respite in Mandos, Hatholvaen. I pray we will meet again in the Blessed Realm," Galdor said firmly, his eyes dark and commanding when they met the errant soul peering at the world through Legolas' transmuted orbs.

Hatholvaen gave the elder an insolent shrug and an irreverent smirk, winked at Glorfindel in a manner that suggested inhabiting Legolas' body had granted him more information than the young silvan might appreciate, and finally obeyed.

Legolas blinked twice and focused his blue irises on Glorfindel's for an instant before the disturbingly empty spheres rolled back in his head. With a loud exhale Cuthenin fell limp in his Faer Hebron's embrace and Glorfindel gathered him close, settling the drooping head upon his shoulder and retrieving an arm that had dropped from its secure position around his neck. No sooner had he stabilised the Wood Elf than Galdor was beside them, bearing the brand, and a second burn was etched into Cuthenin's side: the seal of Hatholvaen's name and House. Legolas only twitched this time yet Glorfindel could feel his heart racing under his ribs.

"It is over," he whispered against the archer's ear and his heart was inundated with the answering warmth of the fair soul he harboured.

Just as the spirit of Hatholvaen predicted, his brother Gîlfuir was called forth in the same manner. His demeanour was similar to his brother's with perhaps less arrogance and more compassion for the suffering that warranted such a severe remedy. Gîlfuir arrived at the first summons and granted Legolas absolution and his blessing quickly. He departed without need of the incantation and the entire event was concluded with rapid efficiency when Galdor seared the warrior's name and status upon Legolas' side just below Hatholvaen's.

Three livid marks adorned the silvan's flesh and but one more soul remained to be summoned.

Yet Galdor had no need to speak the words of command for Calargyll was already there and took possession of her sister's son gently. The eyes that opened to survey Glorfindel were now a vivd emerald green all alight with motes of gold and flecks of blue. The spirit they announced scanned the noble Vanya shrewdly before sending Galdor an equally probing inspection.

"Calarlim, Tirn'wathiel and Naneth Edwen of Cuthenin, mae govannen. I commend your excellent upbringing of this silvan byr," said Legolas' new Guardian with a deeply respectful bow.

"He was easy to raise for his spirit is strong and true, if perhaps too heavily endowed with stubbornness and impetuosity." Satisfied with his affirmation, Calarlim smiled at Galdor, gratitude displayed upon the youthful visage that was not her own. "I thank you for assuming the role of Tirn'wador, for his future is complicated and not all sorrows are behind him yet. His father's people are not initiates; they would not understand his needs. Speaking of which…"

Legolas' naneth turned to favour Glorfindel with another piercing stare, and this was all the more disturbing since the face and form confronting him belonged to the young archer. The Vanya inhaled a steadying breath and met the cool green gaze evenly.

"You will take care, Adonnen Ben (Re-born One), for his heart was untouched by such strong feelings before now. It is my dearest treasure I entrust to you, precious and irreplaceable. Born of my sister's body he may be, yet only one year did Legolas spend with her while I have watched over him for all the days since. He is my only child and I am loathe to give him up to you."

"I do not seek to part him from you, Calarlim; ill-fate has done him this harm." Glorfindel protested gently.

"This I know. Had I lived, he would still have found his way to you, only then he would maybe not be so vulnerable, so eager to fill an empty place in his soul. Yet I have no wish for him to go through all eternity lonely and unfulfilled. It is selfish for me to think I can supply enough love to give his life purpose, as he did mine. And mayhap it is not so different, for he filled the gap left at my sister's passing and I have never regretted the substitution." She sighed lightly and was silent as her eyes appraised the Vanya from Legolas' point of view.

"What would you have me do to assure you of my honest intentions for Cuthenin?" asked Glorfindel, disconcerted by this candid assessment of his physique from the shy silvan's mother.

"There is nothing you can say that will ease a mother's worries," retorted Calarlim. "It is an issue of trust, something Legolas has already granted to you fully or we would not be speaking now. Thus I will do so as well, yet with this warning: Should you mistreat him as you did your first love, I shall have Námo revoke his grace and summon you back to Mandos. There I shall be waiting."

Glorfindel could not think of any words to utter in response to this threat and indeed his attention was immediately diverted from the remarks. Within his heart he felt Legolas struggling to pull back, seeking to re-enter his own body and be once more with his naneth. Alarmed, the Vanya sought to restrain him, yet knowing not the way to do this, and called for Galdor.

"He seeks to go with her!" he shouted as the silvan's body began to jerk and twitch in his clasp.

"Nay, relax and be at peace," the Sadron knelt beside them and calmly kneaded the reborn elda's straining shoulders. "She will not allow him to depart with her to Mandos. He only wants to be with her a last time. Let him go, Glorfindel."

"I have my assurance, Glorfindel," spoke Calarlim from within her son's form. "Now that you have shared his soul, you could never hurt him. I see that even the thought of parting from him terrifies you, and few things have that power over your mind. Fear not; he comes to my call, for I would know the only experience of motherhood that was denied me: sharing one body with my child. Relinquish him, for he is not yours just yet."

'Release me; I will not abandon you.'

The soothing promise of the silvan's thoughts rang through Glorfindel's brain and at this he relented, though his soul knew an emptiness he had never imagined possible the instant the warmth of Cuthenin's feä departed. He felt a surge of vitality course through the body pressed close to his chest and Legolas' arms tightened around his neck. A soft sigh accompanied the light burden of the archer's head reposing against his shoulder and Glorfindel could feel Cuthenin's smile where his lips barely brushed against his neck.

What passed between mother and son was not divulged to either Tirn'wador or Faer Hebron, and not long did the two commune. Another deep sigh passed from Legolas' lungs, bearing a whispered farewell and Calarlim's soul as it fled.

Seeing this, Galdor hurried to the brazier for the final brand, pressing the glowing ingot of Calarlim's seal upon Legolas' side above all the others, droning a final prayer for strength and healing of the young warrior's spirit as he did so.

Back in his own skin, Legolas jerked violently at the searing agony of the burn and groaned, alert instantly, clutching onto Glorfindel as he struggled to pull himself up straight. His knees ached and his side throbbed hotly, but his heart was no longer broken. He pushed back to arms' length as they had been at the start of the ritual, permitting Galdor to apply the cooling salve, and raised triumphant eyes to Glorfindel's. Legolas smiled, a brilliant and dazzling expression of joy that he had not displayed since the loss of Calarlim.

"Le Hanteän," he said softly and impulsively wrapped his arms tightly around his Faer Hebron's shoulders, drawing Glorfindel back into a breath-stealing embrace.

"It is done," announced Galdor needlessly, smiling down upon the elves. "You may safely separate now."

Over the silvan's shoulder, Glorfindel sent the elder a look indicative of his incredulous remonstrance. He squeezed the lithe body pressed against him, delighting in the sensation of their hearts beating in tandem. He had no intention of ever letting Cuthenin go again.

TBC

Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow)

by F.
unbeta'd

italics thoughts

(elvish translation)

&/& text words text &/& designates beginning and ending of recalled events

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's,
the words here are mine. No money earned.

Summary: A look at what might happen if Legolas was just known as a
messenger and not as Thranduil's son. The setting is just before the
Council of Elrond. Features Glorfindel/Legolas pairing.

Note: As before, we begin in the past and end in the present. Everything written between these two symbols: &/& and &/& happened earlier in the day. Hope that is not too confusing.

This little chapter gives a glimpse into the means by which Glorfindel made his decision to accept the role of Faer Hebon and why Legolas agreed to allow it. We learn that Glorfindel has a confidante who is not afraid to be direct and to the point. We get a glimpse of some of the immediate effects of the soul-bond on the pair individually and as a couple. Long term effects will be dealt with next chapter as these two struggle both to learn of each other and fulfil their duties in the dangerous days time of the Ring quest.

As always, I appreciate everyone's comments and reviews. See the other site for detailed replies. Thank you to everyone reading along.

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Tâd-ar-Paenui Peth: Faer Gwaedh (Part Twelve: Soul Bond)

"You have news for me? Gladly will I listen, for much has already been spoken of you and the Wood Elf; most of it is ugly."

"Aye, it is. It is also false, that I assure you. This is not like the situation with Rumil at all. Legolas is very different."

"Then tell me, what is it like?"

"I think Galdor will ask me to safeguard the silvan's feä in order to forestall grieving. Cuthenin is in danger of fading."

"That troubles you."

"Should it not? Is it not a grievous wrong for one so young to be removed from life? I would think the inherent pain of such a situation would be obvious to you."

Glorfindel did not mean to be so sharp in this reply, never wishing to call to her mind her own loss, and truly did not understand why his nerves were so rattled by the simple comment. He dropped his head with a chagrined sigh as soon as he saw the spark of dismay within her cool grey eyes. He opened his mouth to make an apology but the clear sound of Arwen's merry laughter sent the words beyond his tongue's capacity. He looked up in confusion to see the noble Lady smiling gently.

"Ah, you do not know how telling that reference is, my dear friend," said the fair elf maid. She reached out and took both of Glorfindel's hands in hers, drawing him toward the settee to sit beside her near the empty hearth. The two were in the sitting room of the Vanya warrior's house.

She had entered at his front gate just as he had returned from the talan through the rear postern. His distress, fresh from the disturbing encounter with Erestor, plain upon his refined features. The expansive heart of Celebrian's daughter at once sought to ease this melancholy from her friend of many centuries, ushering him within to begin the delicate verbal surgery that would extract the guilt and fear from his mind.

"I did not know your feelings ran so deep and I believe it is even a surprise to you."

"That is true, for my initial reaction was to decline this request. What do I know of caring for the soul of this Wood Elf?" Glorfindel was relieved that she was not offended by his thoughtless remark and grateful for the genuine compassion and sound common sense of Elrond's daughter.

"Is that what worries you or is it rather the quandary of how to protect his soul without touching upon his heart?" Arwen held the warrior's troubled gaze, searching the clear blue depths for the answers her father's most trusted captain could not seem to call up.

A bright grin spread over Glorfindel's countenance, chasing away the sombre turmoil and aggravated bewilderment. He clasped her hand tightly and then kissed the pale white fingers. "How I have missed your counsel!" he exclaimed. "It has been too long and letters, while welcome and cherished, arrive far after the events to which they refer. I am glad you have returned, Fileg'lîr (Little Song-bird. Glorfindel's nickname for Arwen)."

"As am I, though you have avoided answering my query, Gûrraw," (Lion-heart. Arwen's nickname for Glorfindel) answered Arwen with a smile and a shake of her head.

On the surface theirs seemed an unlikely friendship, yet the pair shared many interests and a common dilemma that was completely absent when in one another's company. Both were legendary: Glorfindel for his valourous sacrifice and unexpected return to life, Arwen for her likeness to Luthién and her revered status as Undomiél, the Evenstar of her people. A pedestal can be a lonely place, though a lofty one, and each was grateful never to have endured from the other that mixture of awe and respect that either made people keep their distance or fawn over them in obsequious excess. Arwen had never worshipped Glorfindel as a hero; he had never adored her as a goddess.

Their camaraderie had begun the second day following the Vanya's arrival in Imladris. While trying to find his way through the maze of Elrond's house, he had become hopelessly lost and came upon the elf maid as she walked along the corridor to the library, an armload of books in her grasp. Now he had not met the gracious daughter of the Peredhel Lord, for Glorfindel had spent his first day ensconced with Elrond and the wizards, detailing the reasons for their unexpected journey and the dark days ahead. Weariness had excused him from the formal evening meal and thus while he knew of Arwen he had seen her not.

Glorfindel thought this maiden bearing books one of the staff and asked directions back to Elrond's private study. It was an honest mistake; among the folk of the Last Homely House, everyone treated one another with equity and the manner of dress among employees was not so different from that of the noble family's. Indeed, so it was in Aman: regardless of an elf's function in society, all were treated with respect and appreciation.

That error had endeared him to her at once for Arwen had already grown weary, though she was then but 759 years old, of the isolation her status imposed. She had known his identity of course, for Elrond had shared with his household the momentous news from Mithlond of the impending journey to Imladris of the re-born warrior and five Istari. She had invited Glorfindel into the library, promising a diagram of the house and its many levels, and he had offered to help put away the books.

Her selection included three that were favourites of his also, and they began a conversation on the merits of the volumes and the writers of the histories the books documented. They had become so engrossed in discussing the role of the Second-born within the Music of the Ainur that Glorfindel had quite forgotten the meeting with the Elven Lord. By the time the chimes rang for tea they were friends.

For his part, Glorfindel had found the sincerity in Arwen's discerning eyes as generous as the warm words of her gracious welcome. She had not taken advantage of the gaffe to make him feel a fool as she could have done. Instead she had introduced herself simply, acknowledged his identity also, and then offered the aid of the map. She had not been filled with questions about the Blessed Realm or the nature of existence within Mandos, topics he had been asked of by nearly every elf in Mithlond, it seemed.

Though young in years she presented a keen understanding of ancient lore and a depth of comprehension in the philosophies of the various free peoples few could match. He was glad of a companion who wished to discuss other things than war and destruction, Balrogs and Orcs, his death and re-birth. He was grateful for someone accepting who did not expect him to have all the answers, someone who listened.

How she accomplished it he did not understand, but she was always able to hear within his words the thoughts in the depths of his soul that were hidden even from his own comprehension. Galadriel and Celebrian, it was said, had this gift of reading hearts, so perhaps it was to be expected in Arwen as well. Yet she was more than just a wise soothsayer to him. With all of his family across the Sundering Sea, Arwen became his sister in all but blood. Had she not arrived at his door that morn he would have sought her out to discuss Cuthenin.

"I do not mean to turn aside your question," his smile was replaced with a serious expression. "It is so; I fear to be linked to another's heart after Erestor. Yet the dread of losing him stirs me to panic!"

"And is he so like Erestor that a similarly unequal bond is likely to result between you?"

"Nay, he is nearly Erestor's opposite in every way. Legolas is attracted to me but has no experience; he is a skilled warrior but so very young, beautiful without a hint of conceit, derived from an exalted family but ignobly born, trusting to the point of naiveté. Arwen, he would entrust his soul to me on the counsel of someone he has just met a day gone past."

"So then he is much like you were when you first met Erestor, with the exception of the devotion to Pâd-en-Tawar." The truth of her statement was a weighty one and made the atmosphere around them decidedly gloomy. "You believe he cannot judge between the exhilaration of physical attraction and the enduring commitment of fused hearts."

Glorfindel shifted on the cushions and looked away from her, releasing her hands and clutching his together tightly in his lap, unable to answer.

Arwen regarded him intently and after some minutes of silence had elapsed she took a breath. "Nay, that is not it. You fear the defect is in your heart. Valar, Glorfindel, you worry you would use him as a tool to punish Erestor?"

"Nae (Alas) Fileg'lîr, I have already done so and the result has far surpassed my subverted pride's design. Now Legolas may fade, for Erestor revealed our past in graphic detail, twisting everything to make me appear a duplicitous monster, incapable of fidelity, inconsiderate of love. How can he trust me again?

"I…I did not expect to feel anything other than lust and was pleased to find qualities of character worthy of genuine admiration. Still, I had not thought more than friendship and physical gratification would result, yet I find my thoughts are on his welfare, not his desirable form."

At this Arwen cocked an incredulous brow.

"Well, more so than on his exquisite body." Glorfindel sent her a salacious leer along with this admission.

"It is good to be honest," Arwen laughed, "and so why stop? You still have not separated the elf you were from the elf you are. I spied Erestor returning from this direction as I left the house. You have spoken with him or was there something more?"

"We spoke and there might indeed have been more, but I resisted. We have not been intimate since before Rumil left. Erestor has agreed the bond is defunct and assures me he will not interfere in my affairs henceforth. How can I convince Cuthenin to rely on this information? I know not any words I can say to help him understand what caused me to wound Erestor so deeply."

"That is because you do not own this deed yourself. Nothing and no one caused you to injure Erestor's heart; that was a choice whether you made it consciously or not. You seek to justify your actions but having a reason does not give you the right. Erestor says the bond is severed; what do you think about that? Are you ready to let go of your anger?"

"I do not feel angry; I feel ashamed." Glorfindel's head dropped low to illustrate his words.

"Well, Gûrraw, that is not going to be of any value to Legolas' welfare. Your shame is your own and you must not burden him with it; he cannot take it away from you."

"I do not expect him to do that! Elbereth, Arwen, you are very blunt today! I have already been subjected to a similar interrogation by Galdor and did not expect it from you! Is it so wrong to wish Cuthenin to forgive me?" The re-born warrior's visage snapped back up in surprise, hurt feelings plain within his pained expression.

"Ah, but Galdor does not know you so well anymore, does he?" Arwen was not moved by his woebegone look or his defensive words. "I am sure he found your contrition most heartening; just what one would expect from a valourous re-born hero. Indeed, he probably commended you for it and will encourage the Wood Elf to accept you. I, however, have only known you in this lifetime. We have always been honest with each other, gwador (brother); would you have me cease now?"

"Your honesty is a torment today, gwathel (sister)."

"Nay, it is your conscience that supplies the torment. Tell me, for what must Legolas forgive you?"

"As I said, for using him to wound Erestor. I need him to know I had no wish to hurt him also."

"Nay, can you not see what you are doing? Glorfindel, he does not know anything of that and he should not be made to endure such a confession. It is not for him to ease your guilty conscience. How can you think of telling him this? He does not owe you forgiveness; he does not exist to supply your need."

"That is not what I think! Arwen, I need to know that he will accept me as I am, flaws and all. I cannot bear to know he sees only the caricature of heroic sacrifice history has crafted for me."

"You need to know this; how will you accomplish that? By hurting him and then pleading absolution? If he grants it then will you be convinced his heart is true? This seems a familiar pattern with but different participants. Now you would stand in Erestor's place and put Legolas in the one you endured."

Glorfindel just stared at her, a look of stricken sorrow on his face, for he did not like the image of himself her words painted. Abruptly he rose and stalked over to the sideboard where he kept a supply of wine and spirits. He did not ask her if she wished for anything as he poured out and gulped down a small glass of strong brandy, his back to Arwen the while.

This was not the sort of conversation he had hoped to have. Where was the sympathetic sister who offered comfort when he bared his troubled soul? She seemed more concerned for Legolas than for him. That thought gave him a jolt, for he found resentment building for the Wood Elf over something Cuthenin could not even be aware of nor have initiated. He turned to her beseechingly.

"Ai Valar. What is wrong with me, Fileg'lîr?"

"Nothing, Gûrraw," Arwen rose and went to him, enclosing the imposing figure in a close embrace. "You are seeing things more clearly, perhaps, and I do not think that is a bad thing."

"Tell me what to do. Should I decline to aid him?" He remained stiff and unyielding in her arms.

"If not you, then who will? You must do something truly brave, gwador. You must help him and expect nothing in return."

"Do you really find me of such low morals, to advise me thus?" Glorfindel broke from her hold and moved away, gazing out the window toward the gardens.

"Nay, Glorfindel, that is not true. I simply care for you, flaws and all, and find you a worthy friend. I wish for you to find happiness as I have found it. You do not need to punish yourself for being unable to love Erestor. Neither is it healthy to punish someone else to feel loved. It is time to break free of your dependence on the twisted connection to my kinsman. You are the only one who can truly turn away from it and root it out.

"You have been given a second life and there is no reason to make it a copy of the first. There is no doom that decrees you must fail in Legolas' trust; that is something in your own power to determine. Your actions arise within your own mind and being; the responsibility for them thus will fall upon your shoulders. It is not enough to bemoan the consequences and regret the harm these generate for others, blaming the circumstances of our times and the growing strength of the Shadow. Have courage, Gûrraw, and fight this battle for the winning of it will bring you great joy."

Glorfindel turned from the window and looked upon her. Never had Arwen failed to see his inner heart and this day was no exception. It was suddenly obvious to him that she had counselled him in similar vein before, pointing him toward a new path while he stubbornly trod upon the old, familiar one. Twisted indeed! He exhaled a short, disgusted breath and lowered his head. Perhaps he might have said more then but soft knocking on the front door disrupted their meeting. Before he could move to answer, Arwen went to greet the guest.

Now it was difficult to say who was more surprised by the encounter, Legolas or the Evenstar, as she pulled back the wooden barrier and found him there upon the porch, bow in his hand and a terribly lost expression on his fair features. She smiled and he gawked for a couple of seconds before finding his tongue.

"Suilad, my Lady, and forgive my intrusion. I hoped to find Glorfindel at home but did not know he had company. Please tell him I shall return at a later time," said Legolas and bowed, taking a step back as he did so.

"Nay, mellon, I am on my way out, as you see," Arwen stood aside and motioned the silvan forward, giving him a rather thorough evaluation as she did. Her smile softened at the sight of the rosy hue collecting at the points of his ears and the nervous uplift of his lips as he stepped past her. Yet her merriment vanished almost at once, for he was close enough then for her to see the tremors running over his body, though he sought to hide this by a twitchy sort of fiddling with his bow

Arwen met Glorfindel's eyes over the archer's shoulder. "Light the fire and make tea," she ordered as she linked her arm through the Wood Elf's and guided him to the sofa. "You are Legolas? I am Arwen. Aragorn told me all about that fight with Ithil'wath. He spoke most highly of your skill."

"Mae govannen, Lady Arwen," Cuthenin said, too stunned by her brisk, impromptu introduction to do anything but let her sit him down upon the cushions. He watched as Glorfindel laid in the fuel and then let his eyes follow the Evenstar until she left the room through a small arched portal.

In no time she strode purposefully back carrying a soft woollen blanket. This she draped over Legolas' shoulders and tucked it all around him, fussing a bit as she made him give up the bow. Setting that upon a low table, upon which she sat, Arwen took one of his hands in hers and rubbed it diligently, for his fingers were so cold it made hers tingle and burn in sympathy.

"We must warm you, Legolas, for you are chilled as though it is the deep of winter. Give me your other hand now," she coaxed gently for the young elf tried to pull back from her.

"Le hanteän," he said, embarrassed and not at all sure it was proper to allow her to touch him thus, considering her much above him in nobility and station. Still, he could not deny that he was warmer nor object to the tenderness in her gaze. Only Calarlim had ever coddled him so.

No sooner than the thought entered his mind than the memory brought a despairing gasp from him as a deep stab of pain assailed his heart. He jerked in her grasp, pulling away and wrapping his hands up in the blanket, drawing his legs under him as he retreated into the corner of the seat.

"Ai!" the fair Lady exclaimed as she sprang up, looking anxiously to Glorfindel as he rushed from the new fire to the Wood Elf's side. "I shall go summon Ada."

"Wait!" Legolas pleaded ere she left, "There is no need to trouble your father, yet if you would ask Galdor to come here I would be grateful."

"Send both, Fileg'lîr," intoned Glorfindel as he sat gingerly beside Cuthenin, concern etched upon his features as he tentatively reached for the messenger, laying his hand carefully upon the shuddering shoulder.

Arwen nodded and sent the Wood Elf a warm smile, though it was tinged with worry and sorrow, for thus had her mother been before leaving for Aman. She transferred determined grey eyes to Glorfindel's. "I will do so. Sen anno órëlya, Glorfindel; se avhehto!" (Give him your heart, Glorfindel; do not abandon him!) she said gravely in Quenya and hastened from the house, thinking the silvan's wide-eyed startle was due to another attack of grief.

There was an awkward period of time during which neither Legolas nor Glorfindel could muster the courage to look each other in the eye, but then the Vanya sighed and squeezed the silvan's shaking shoulder.

"We spoke of you; she is my dearest friend and closer than a sister. I trust her judgement and asked her advice on how to proceed," he said firmly, watching closely to see what reaction this revelation produced.

"You asked her if you should give me your heart?" Legolas tried out this idea cautiously, flitting a glance into the warrior's eyes to see what might be revealed there. The expression was not decipherable to him, however, and so he waited to hear what answer Glorfindel would give.

"In a way. I had just concluded my meeting with Erestor and told her of it. Arwen advised me to truly put the feelings we had for one another in my previous life, where they belong."

"Would Erestor be satisfied with that decision?"

"It was his to make and he has done so. I have been nurturing a deeply buried kernel of guilt and anger for a very long time. Guilty because I could not make my heart love him, even in Gondolin when we were bound as one. Angry over his insistence that I must do so or suffer humiliation and degradation at his pleasure. We were not gentle lovers and…"

"Ai! I am sure this is not for me to hear!" interrupted Legolas, eyes squeezed tight and his body quite rigid under Glorfindel's hand. "Saes, say no more for such does not concern me. I only wish to know I am not the cause for any heartache for the Chief Advisor, for I would wish no one to feel the kind of pain revealed in his eyes."

Glorfindel understood at once Arwen's caution not to burden Cuthenin with this past experience of doomed love. Truly he looked as if he had just been struck a severe blow and his breath came and left in great heaves as he fought to retain composure.

"I am sorry. Be assured; you are not at fault in any way. It is wrong that you were caught in the midst of this tempest and I am the one who placed you there. I shall not speak of it anymore except to say that Erestor has granted his forgiveness to me, as have I to him." The words were as an incantation so immediate was the soothing result, for Legolas relaxed and leaned limply back into the cushions. Glorfindel smiled, though he knew Cuthenin could not tell as his eyes were still shut, and massaged the archer's shoulder.

"Let me get that tea, for you are still cold." He rose from the sofa and returned to the fire where a copper kettle hung amid the cheery flames from a hook set within the brick and mortar. As he poured the hot water into an earthen ware mug a loud rapping resounded from the door. "Minno!" (Enter!) he called but Galdor had already thrown open the portal and charged inside, Elrond right behind him.

Legolas opened his eyes a slit to see what all the commotion was about and found himself peering into the concerned countenances of the two ancient Noldorin nobles in addition to Glorfindel's. Galdor had summarily usurped the Balrog Slayer's spot on the sofa as Elrond took Arwen's former seat on the table. Both leaned forward in order to scrutinise the suffering silvan. Cuthenin groaned, turning his face away and sealing his lids together again.

"Ai Valar does everyone know of this illness?" he complained wearily. "Hiren Adar must not learn of it through his spies."

The elder elves exchanged bemused glances between them and then Elrond reached out and took the young warrior by the chin, turning his face to make him look at them. "Thranduil has spies in my court, does he?" he intoned with properly dramatic displeasure, yet when the Wood Elf's blue irises were again revealed, quite fully at that, Elrond was smiling mischievously and could not suppress a laugh.

"Nay do not be worried; you have not betrayed your people," reassured Galdor as he tried hard to suppress his chuckling, for Legolas was overwrought and unlikely to be certain the Peredhel Lord was jesting. He pulled his ward into his arms and rubbed the trembling arms strongly to promote increased circulation.

"Indeed, pen neth, (young one) I know your King has informants here and even who they are. Rest assured he is probably cognisant of this as well. He knows I know, as it were," joked Elrond, hoping to prompt at least a smile from the youth.

"Aye, he knows we know he knows that we know about the spies in Lorien and Mithlond as well. We assume he has them in Dale and Rohan, though we cannot confirm that. Yet." added Glorfindel. He held out the mug of tea and was pleased when Legolas sat forward and reached for it. "Carefully; it is very hot."

Legolas blew across the steaming fluid as he gazed from one to the other of the three elder's faces and wisely kept quiet about Thranduil's interest in mortal realms. He took a small sip and smiled at Glorfindel in thanks. If he was surprised when the trio of noble Lords released relieved sighs, he pretended otherwise.

"Now then, what is to be done about this, Legolas?" queried Elrond kindly.

"The spies?" quipped the Wood Elf with a wry grin and enjoyed their appreciative guffaws. "Mithrandir has asked me to join the quest to unmake the Ring. Dearly do I wish to do so for by such I may remove the shame my earlier failures brought upon my King's domain and our peoples' honour. Yet I must speak with Galdor privately for a time, if I may ask it, before I can commit my bow to this great undertaking."

"Do not be disturbed to speak openly, Cuthenin, for I have explained the necessity of Úcaul Annaur to both Elrond and Glorfindel. It was unavoidable and I trust them both implicitly never to reveal anything of the nature of this sacred ceremony." Galdor interjected.

"Sui pedich, Sadron," Legolas said softly, shocked to learn this, and dipped his head in sign of his acquiescence. "I…have a question about the role of Faer Hebron." He hesitated and sent a swift glance toward Glorfindel and then back to Galdor.

"Go on; I will answer plainly," encouraged the Lord of the Tree.

"What will happen if we do this and then after Faras-uin-Ind we cannot…are not able to…love one another," he stammered through the question as delicately as he could, feeling his face grow warm even though his teeth were practically chattering.

"Worry no more, Cuthenin. You will not be forced to consummate this union if your hearts are unwilling. The connection between you will slowly diminish and both shall remain unfettered to seek a true soul-bond," Galdor said.

He did not add that he had never known of a Faer Hebron failing to consummate the union, whether or not Úcaul Annaur was conducted, and usually before the traditional year of engagement concluded, for the desire to replicate the closeness of the soul-union was intense. Claiming someone as Faer Hebron was essentially a betrothal marking the onset of formal courtship between two elves already in love. Under less drastic conditions, the ceremony involved a mutual spiritual exchange between the couple but not a complete harbouring of one spirit within the other's body, as required for Úcaul Annaur.

"And if we should consummate the bond?" the silvan appended.

"Then you shall be bound as one in all ways, body and soul, heart and mind," answered the Sadron.

In perfect synchrony, Legolas', Galdor's, and Elrond's eyes fell upon Glorfindel.

"I…what? I understand this condition and shall abide by it," he snapped irritably as he looked from one to the other in exasperation. Nonetheless, he could not deny the disappointment this stricture against relieving the virginal youth of chastity caused him.

Legolas took a breath and sat straighter, though he gathered the blanket tightly as he did so, and faced Galdor. "I need to speak privately with Glorfindel, Tirn'wador, if you will permit it."

"I do," nodded Galdor and rose from the settee, motioning for Elrond to join him as he took his leave. "We shall be out in the garden until you call for us."

Once the door closed Glorfindel returned to his spot on the sofa but just as he sat Legolas arose, setting down the tea to drag a cushion along, and settled on the floor close to the fire, legs crossed beneath him. He smiled up at the Vanya warrior and reached for the warm mug, wrapping his frigid fingers around it gratefully. "I have never been so cold," he said for lack of any idea as to how to start this conversation.

Glorfindel nodded, gathering up another cushion and joining the Wood Elf in front of the hearth. He reached for the blanket, which was slipping away from Legolas' shoulders, and wrapped it more securely around the shivering elf. "Best to keep covered up." He did not know if he was supposed to encourage Legolas' questions or wait for the silvan to broach them.

A short silence ensued.

Finally Legolas gathered his courage, for there was no easy way to gain the knowledge he required. "I need to know why you have agreed to do this," he began. "I am a stranger to you."

"Everyone starts that way; I see no reason for that to be an obstacle. It may not be common for two who have just met to undergo so serious a ritual, yet the conditions are extreme. We do not have the luxury of time needed to become better acquainted. It is necessary to ease the suffering you endure."

"So it is a sort of pity or…or a sence of duty?" Legolas' eyes fairly blazed with indignation and he half rose before Glorfindel caught him and pulled him back down.

"Nay it is not!" insisted Glorfindel. He grimaced in vexation; sorting out his emotions was never a skill in which he excelled, in either life-time. Speaking of them coherently was well nie an impossibility. "I am selfish, I suppose. Arwen has said so often enough. I want the luxury of time and without this ceremony I shall be denied it. Do I not have the right to seek happiness as any other elf may wish?"

"I never meant to say you did not," declaimed Legolas, confused by the vehemence in Glorfindel's voice.

"Mayhap I would find that with you," the noble warrior continued more calmly. "If you are not healed of this grief, I shall never know. At least not for long years, unless Námo would be merciful to me and to thee. I would rather not depend upon such a rarity."

"Then you do want a life-mate?" Cuthenin failed to suppress his eager excitement.

"I do wish it. And what of your motives, Cuthenin? Why me and not another elf here, one of the twins perhaps," Glorfindel was just as curious, and if he could admit it, which he could not, just as insecure.

"Nay, although Elladan and Elrohir remind me of my brothers I do not think it is possible to split my feä between the two. With them no soul-union would be possible for they are soul-bound to one another."

"How do you know that? You have met us all at the same time. Did they confide in you? Are they lovers?" Glorfindel's eyes were sparkling with delight over such intriguing gossip and bent close as he dropped his voice to preserve the clandestine nature of such a revelation.

"What?" Legolas was appalled at this suggestion. "Nay, they did not tell me any such thing! Valar!" He eyed Glorfindel with something akin to disgust as the Balrog Slayer gave a shame-faced shrug.

The pair were silent for a time, ruminating on the notion of the sons of Elrond involved in an illicit relationship.

"I can see how it might be, though," said Legolas cautiously. "They have been together always, even before birth."

"Aye, and you did say they are soul-bound. That is half of the ingredients right there."

"They are certainly comely. Exceptional examples of the male physique."

"Yes they…oh you think that?" Glorfindel was a bit crestfallen to hear this.

"You think it, too." Legolas countered and again received that embarrassed flex of the shoulders in answer.

"True, they are fair, yet none would proclaim them as wondrous to look upon as you," came the gallant rejoinder and Glorfindel was rewarded with a flash of the archer's breath-taking smile.

"I agree. The sons of Elrond are fine to behold and noble in bearing and character but I feel for them as I do my brothers. I do not understand what it is, but I am drawn to you, Glorfindel," Legolas could not stop his eyes from roving over the enticing form and face beside him.

Glorfindel shared a smile nearly as brightly shining with joy as Cuthenin's, until the words registered completely. "Wait, did you say you know not what it is? Ai, drawn to me with no comprehension of why that would be? You are a cruel one, Wood Elf!"

Legolas was laughing and Glorfindel was amazed to hear it, for he had only done so once before and it was still a novel sound. It made him feel very pleased to have brought the spark of mirth back into the messenger's sombre eyes, even if he had to do so at the expense of his ego.

"Nay, I was but teasing you. I comprehend well what calls my soul to yours. Indeed, I find you appealing and alluring, that is no lie. That is only part of it, though. When we met you knew nothing about me and still you stood beside me against your own troops. I had my weapon drawn upon one of your warriors, ready to strike, and you did not permit the archers to fire. I could have been disarmed and taken prisoner easily, for I was but one. Only my mother has ever showed me such devotion, and I admit it stunned me. It still does.

"And I believe it is the will of Tawar for us to bond. How else can it be that someone uninitiated in Pâd-en-Tawar would sense the desperation of my circumstances and propose Úcaul Annar? It is no accident that you are here just at the time when I need someone. You have consoled and encouraged me, strengthened my spirit and restored my will. Glorfindel, you have had my spirit in your safekeeping from the moment we met. All we shall do now serves to sanctify that which is already ordained by Tawar."

Legolas' voice had dropped lower and lower as he explained himself and consequently Glorfindel leaned closer and closer in order to hear him. Cuthenin's words stirred him deeply and the Vanya fully intended to steal a kiss from those eloquent and flagrantly sensual lips but a loud knock on the door ruined his plan. He met Cuthenin's eyes apologetically and rose to usher in the two Noldor Lords only to find them already inside gazing upon him with a mixture of tolerant amusement and stern warning.

Pale was the light of the moon, a slim and meagre gleam spilling from Tilion's slender silver sickle. Little of its faint illumination reached the surface of Arda and less still brightened the space beneath the mighty oaks in the shaded dell. The soft cool emission from the smouldering powder had long since been dispersed by the natural circulation of night chilled air descending from the heavens. If not for the hazy glow surrounding the burning coals in the small, raised grate, the elves within its centre would have been barely discernible.

They remained together, two entwined in each other's embrace upon a large blanket spread over the cushioning of decades upon decades of fallen leaves, the other standing a little apart, looking upwards and singing quietly a soothing hymn of peace and joy.

Glorfindel sighed and his breath breezed through the silvan's hair, disturbing a few strands that drifted down across the flawless cheek. He smoothed them away, gazing down upon the archer's face, watching the shifting light in Cuthenin's eyes as the day's earlier events replayed through the dreamscapes of elven reverie. The Vanya was amazed to find himself completely aware of everything Legolas envisioned and observed that the scenes contained details the Wood Elf had not witnessed personally. His only conclusion was that their unique intermingling of feär had permitted the messenger access to the Balrog Slayer's experiences as well. Glorfindel smiled, knowing now how deeply disappointed Legolas had been when their first kiss was forestalled.

A subtle shift in position made it possible to peer surepticiously in Galdor's direction to determine what the elder Lord was doing. Glorfindel allowed himself the slightest smirk; the Sadron was engaged in one of his religious chanting meditations, staring into the starry heavens as he sang, arms spread open before him, completely oblivious to the surroundings. The re-born warrior returned attention to his fair companion and slowly propped his body up on his elbow in order to have a more encompassing vantage from which to appreciate the half-clad body pressed so close to his.

He grinned as Legolas' fingers tightened where they were entangled in his hair as though to prevent the Vanya from going too far. Glorfindel shimmied minutely closer so that he partially covered the slender silvan torso and immediately Legolas exhaled a soft sigh and relaxed. The Balrog Slayer relished the warmth between them where bare skin lay flush upon bare skin. He could feel the beat of Cuthenin's heart and sense the contentment their contact gave the slumbering warrior as well. His free hand was resting lightly on Legolas' hip and he removed it to delicately drift his fingers over the flat expanse of the archer's belly. The body twitched slightly under his touch and Glorfindel pressed his palm fully over the navel, soothing the tenseness away in a calm, circular caress.

A quick inspection of the hazy, dilated pupils in the semi-shuttered eyes revealed the silvan remained as much entangled in memory as in his Faer Hebron's limbs. It was no wonder he slept so deeply, for the hours following the conclusion of Úcaul Annar had been almost frenzied in their intensity. Legolas had been nearly euphoric for hours, jubilantly singing of his happiness over Calarlim's reassurance that she was well and at peace in Mandos, teaching Glorfindel the words to some of the hymns so that he might join in. Cuthenin regaled the Vanya with many anecdotes indicative of Calarlim's wisdom and playful sense of humour, crying sometimes over the bittersweet memories of his mother's loving care. During these releases of sorrow the Wood Elf clung to Glorfindel, no longer shy at all about the physical proximity but rather requiring the comfort such close contact gave.

Then a period of frantic physical agitation had set in such that Legolas paced around the dell impatiently and was soon climbing in the oaks, encouraging Glorfindel to follow him as he leaped from tree to tree. Galdor had not participated in this phase of the strange activity, merely watching with serious eyes the whole time. The branch chasing ended when Glorfindel missed his footing and nearly fell, finding himself instantly in the tight protective clasp of the archer as he was pulled up to a more secure position. They returned to the ground and collected around the small brazier which still emitted heat and light and Galdor passed around wine and fruit to stave off hunger until the odd state of elevated emotion subsided.

Cuthenin had become more sober as he ate, speaking of his other comrades as he did so, telling of their personalities, their courage and strength, their families. Legolas had gone into great detail in planning out how he would become involved in the welfare of some of the younger descendants of the two brothers, for each was bonded and had seen many generations of progeny. He revealed a determined hope that not all would sail to Aman to counter their grief and that none would fade because of it. Finally fatigue enveloped them both and Glorfindel was somewhat suspicious of what might have been added to the wine but was too weary to question Galdor. Gratefully he had settled upon the blanket with Legolas in his arms and both had been deeply asleep almost instantly.

Since he was not the one on the brink of fading, Glorfindel had been less affected by the dramatic events than the silvan and had awakened first. Now there was perhaps an hour before dawn and soon they must rejoin the rest of the population, learning how the soul-bond between them might alter their daily routines. The Vanya warrior realised he would probably not have Legolas beside him, half naked and compliantly cuddled near his heart, when next the archer sought reverie. Before their imminent parting he wished to indulge his desire if only in a limited fashion.

Satisfied that Legolas still dreamt, Glorfindel permitted his eyes a lengthy ogling, memorising every detail of the exposed flesh from a very small brown mole above the right clavicle to the intricate beauty of the heart spiral. He noted with satisfaction that the scars on the silvan's shoulder and side were less vibrant a red as the healing continued. With the threat of grieving sickness removed, these would be hardly detectable in a few weeks' passing.

He craned his neck to view the line of round burns along the left side, frowning at how angry and red the marks still looked. For that matter, his brand also stung and throbbed uncomfortably every time he moved. The wounds were not deep and he would have expected the skin to heal up after this number of hours. He was just thinking that he must ask Galdor about it when Legolas shifted a little, drawing his leg up as he turned slightly toward Glorfindel's chest, and nudged the Vanya's crotch with the bent knee.

Startled, Glorfindel barely bit back a moan at the pleasing contact and repositioned his body to enhance the feeling. He stared into Legolas' eyes to see if he was waking but no indication of the archer's sharp focus could he see. With a soft smile he bent slowly and pressed a light kiss upon the parted lips, just touching the tip of his tongue to the silvan's lower lip. He could feel Cuthenin's pulse increase in tempo and a light shiver ran over the supple body. Glorfindel drew back to survey the effect and his eye was once more drawn to the intricate whorls inked around the pert peak of the archer's left nipple. The Vanya could not resist the impulse to trace the spiral from its outer edge in toward the dark protrusion, watching in rapt fascination as the little node puckered and uplifted as his finger approached.

It was too much temptation, and since any touch must break the spell and wake his companion, Glorfindel, ever bold, leaned over and tasted the tantalising bud of sensitive tissue, lapping his tongue across it. The result was both gratifying and painful, for Legolas gasped loudly and arched his back, pressing into the contact. Glorfindel smiled as he repeated the caress, sucking softly and then closing his teeth gently over the nipple. It was then that discomfort joined the catalogue of sensations, for a loud thud accompanied a sharp jolt of agony across his shoulders. As a result, Glorfindel bit down much too hard into Cuthenin's tender flesh and this elicited a yelp of anguish.

At the same time, Glorfindel was summarily yanked by the hair off the Wood Elf's prone body by Galdor, a stout tree branch clutched in the Sadron's other hand. He glared at the Vanya and shoved him roughly back before turning to Legolas, to whom he sent a very disapproving and disappointed look.

Legolas scrambled up to his feet, one hand covering the bite mark and before he entirely regained his senses the other descended to his groin in an attempt to adjust the bunched fabric that was suddenly very tight indeed. The next instant he realised what he was doing and flushed in embarrassment, clasping both hands behind him and fixing his gaze upon the leaf strewn blanket with intense concentration.

"Honestly, Glorfindel, this is not indicative of a trustworthy character," the ancient Sadron snapped, tossing the limb aside.

"I shall attempt, in future, to be more respectful of the unique privilege of safe-guarding Cuthenin's spirit, Galdor," he said and bowed his head. Glorfindel did not, however, apologise for his transgression.

"And I think you are too skilled in playing o'possum for your own good, pen neth." Those words were directed to Cuthenin of course who could not hide a somewhat self-conscious giggle as he continued to examine the ground under his nervously shifting feet.

"Now then, since we are all awake and dawn is nearly here anyway, we shall make ready to break fast," he continued. "Legolas, go retrieve what you require for bathing. I know a secluded cove in the river's course where the sun almost never warms the water and thus by this time of the year it is already frigid."

"Sui pedich, Tirn'wador," Cuthenin's obedient reply was followed by his immediate ascent to the talan. He hastily gathered what he would need in the basket and dropped that down before clambering after it. He shot Glorfindel a glance, curious to see how his Faer Hebron fared, and was rewarded with a reassuring smile. Legolas' answering grin brightened the glade as if Anor had already arisen, and he practically danced after his Guardian's retreating form.

TBC

Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow)

by F.
unbeta'd

italics thoughts

(elvish translation)

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's,
the words here are mine. No money earned.

Summary: A look at what might happen if Legolas was just known as a
messenger and not as Thranduil's son. The setting is just before the
Council of Elrond. Features Glorfindel/Legolas pairing.

Note: A/N: My thanks for the readers still with me on this little journey. This chapter we learn something of Glorfindel's ideas about religion and faith as we follow the trio on a scouting mission. Glorfindel gets a scare, the couple share their first kiss under the watchful supervision of an unlikely chaperone, and Legolas makes a vow from his heart.

And for all those fans of Legolas/Elrohir/Elladan slash, please have a look at "A Feast of the Senses" by Anarien. That is if you have not already discovered this fantastic writer. And if you have, make sure to leave a review! This is beautifully written and so temptingly spicily HOT! Keep a fan handy. For the link, look in my favourites or search on her pen-name.

As always, I appreciate everyone's comments and reviews.

---

Nêl-ar-Paenui Peth: Cened Thurin (Part Thirteen: Secret Seeing)

It was the fifth day of the scouting mission and the trio of elves were at last entering the foothills of the Hithaeglir, having travelled south out of Imladris down the valley of the Bruinen at a pace neither too hurried nor too slow. The goal was not to attract undue attention while at the same time courting whatever danger might be lurking to show forth. The warriors understood they were not only meant to gather reconnaissance but to serve as decoys for the forces of the Dark Lord.

While the Wraiths knew a Hobbit had carried the Ring into Elrond's realm, that did not mean it would be a halfling bearing it away. With several small forces departing simultaneously in directions that took them all over the known lands of Middle-earth, Sauron's spies might be confused as to who the true Ring-bearer might be. If the news that three of the First-born, riding out of the Hidden Vale with some semblance of subterfuge heading for Caradhras, reached the minions of the foul Maia it would suit the purpose of the quest well.

After careful consultation with Erestor, Aragorn, and the twin Lords of the realm, Elrond and Mithrandir concurred that the journey toward Mordor must be oblique. The Ring-bearer and his companions must seem to be seeking a safe haven for the dread article, or else a confederate willing to attempt wielding it. If Elrond refused to sequester the Ring in Imladris that left Galadriel and the protection of the Golden Wood, Thranduil and his silvan magic, or Mithlond and a boat for Valinor. The scouts bound in these directions must make a convincing show of equal urgency, reinforcing the ruse that the elves meant to either keep the Ring and use it or send it to the Valar. Elrond and Mithrandir hoped Sauron's interest would be captured by this frenzied activity, permitting the true mission to get underway unnoticed, the real path and goal to remain obscured.

An additional factor had arisen once the wizard had told his tale of capture and torture in Isengard. Mithrandir needed to gauge the extent of Saruman's forces before sending Frodo out. He had little doubt that the turncoat Maia would take the Ring for himself if it could be managed, for Sauron and Saruman were of the same breed and what one wizard would do another might as easily master. Having chosen to aid the cause of Darkness, a far shorter step would lead Saruman to attempt usurping the power of the Ring and ruling Middle-earth from Orthanc. The scouts sent near this former ally's domain would be in greater peril and this very danger they must seek to draw out, forcing Saruman to show his intent.

It was a delicate balance of safety against subterfuge, for the elves must seem to be genuinely engaged in this dire errand to transfer the Ring into more capable hands or safer lands. Thus the pace must be both fast and stealthy yet not so much so as to go undetected. When the inevitable skirmishes with Orcs ensued, the scouts must defend themselves yet allow one or two of the vile enemies to escape death in order to pass the misinformation on to their masters. Through all this, the elves must gather what proof of the Nazgûl they could glean from signs or direct interrogation, should they manage to seize an Orc or a Man twisted into the service of Mordor or Isengard.

To this end, the mission was to cross the Misty Mountains through the Red Horn Pass and ride north through the valley of the Anduin, right past the black fortress of Dol Guldur. Once on the fringes of the forest, the riders were to meet with Thranduil's silvan fighters, seeking word of activity in those regions. If Thranduil was willing to lend aid then the scheme should work, for this change of direction would implicate the Woodland King as a possible protector of the Ring of Power.

Long had the Sinda Lord ruled his forested home and held back the tide of black despair that issued from Dol Guldur. The rumour of his wealth was legendary as was the knowledge that elven magic protected the stronghold and its subterranean vaults. There the Ring might linger unto the last Age and not be retrieved by Sauron, for Thranduil would never abandon his people and no means of overwhelming them had yet been found. Never would Thranduil choose to use the vile store of dark power and while the elves were certain of this Sauron could not be. The Greenwood would become a significant target should her Lord agree to help.

The hope was that a pair of Athedreinyn would set out for Lorien immediately upon meeting with the scouts. Dressed in borrowed livery of Mithlond and Imladris, evil's servants would not realise these were not the same elves who had set forth from Rivendell. Then the Dark Lord would have to wonder if the Ring was on its way to Galadriel after all. Lothlorien and Greenwood must both become the focus of much of Sauron's attention.

Clothed in woodland garb, the three scouts would then hasten back to Imladris over the High Pass and present the information they had gathered.

It was no wonder, given the goals of the task, that the three emissaries were none other than Glorfindel, Legolas, and Galdor. What better than to entrust such a formidable challenge to the re-born warrior sworn to serve the House of Eärendil? Legolas would provide a safe introduction to the Woodland Realm, and Galdor must go because it was his place as Tirn'wador to do so. Thus, the Vanya warrior, the silvan archer, and the Noldo Lord rode out from the courtyard of the Last Homely House at zenith of the day following the Council of Elrond. No troubles of any sort crossed their path at first and indeed the journey was so uneventful as to be suspect. It was as if all the marauding hordes of evil Men and foul Orcs had fled the fair lands. Whence they could have gone so quickly was a mystery.

The fifth day found them picking their way along a trail oft-used by the folk of Imladris but one that was dangerous nonetheless. Their progress was nearly as unremarkable as on the earlier days and instead of reassuring the scouts it only made them more edgy. Caradhras was not renowned for being a kind and gentle climb.

Annûn would be upon them quickly in the diminishing days heralding the winter solstice and the Vanya's horse had picked up a stone as the terrain began its transition from rolling hillocks to jagged cliffs and cramped stony defiles. It would soon be too dark to see the way clearly through the rugged landscape and none wished a second horse to end up lame. Thus, with the sun yet above the horizon the scouts halted in the scant shelter of an overhanging outcrop to await the passing of Ithil's tour. The elves were not weary nor in need of rest, yet the steeds could not go indefinitely without proper rest. Now that one was injured, extra time must be spent to heal the equine of the tender bruise on the underside of the hoof.

Glorfindel was carefully inspecting his stallion's injured foot as Galdor and Legolas began to murmur the last chant of the Eneg Egleriad. (Six Praises - a cycle of contemplation and prayer for followers of Pâd-en-Tawar) The Balrog Slayer admired the low, melodic singing, the words ever just below the threshold of comprehension, recalling with fondness how this wondrous sound would echo from the surrounding cliffs of Gondolin, filling the hidden city with the serene music. He noted that Galdor drew apart and assumed his formal stance of uplifted face and opened arms while Legolas worked as he prayed.

The Vanya strained to hear the words of the archer's supplication, certain these were not the same as those the Sadron was reciting, and was both pleased and amazed to recognise his name amid the silvan's softly voiced syllables. This had proved true on every day thus far yet Glorfindel had not found courage enough to ask for what the Wood Elf prayed. His attention remained focused keenly on Cuthenin now and he watched intently as the young warrior attended his chores.

Feeling the eyes of his Faer Hebron upon him, Legolas glanced over and smiled as he proceeded, neither ceasing his song nor his labours. He had made a small wood fire and set a swiftly constructed tripod above it from which to suspend his water skin. Next the messenger took four of his arrows, lashed them together into a rectangular frame, and onto this affixed an oilskin cut to fit in such a way that it formed a deep pouch. He had retrieved this from his pack and took from it also a kit of assorted herbs and cures necessary for field dressing battle's legacy.

With the water in the skin now warm but not boiling, Cuthenin unhooked it from the stand and carried everything over to Glorfindel and Asfaloth. Into the makeshift bucket he dumped a handful of assorted herbs known for reducing inflammation and speeding the healing of strained and bruised muscles. Holding one side out for Glorfindel to grasp, he held tight to the other and poured in enough water to reach the horse's pastern (joint above the hoof).

As if on cue, Asfaloth daintily dipped his injured foot into the healing brew just as Legolas completed the last refrain of his plainsong prayer.

"He is wise, your steed," Cuthenin could not help smiling at the equine's sense of timing, "and respectful of Tawar. I may have to ask Galdor to anoint him." He patted the charcoal grey muzzle that leaned down to nuzzle his hair in thanks for the soothing soak.

"Nay, do not convert my charger, Cuthenin," replied Glorfindel, only half jesting. He was still not sure how he felt about the intensity of the silvan's creed.

"It would not be a conversion but a return to that which every soul seeks."

"I am not so sure. In Aman, Pâd-en-Tawar is little practised."

"Truly? I cannot understand this, for many byr have been called to Mandos through violence or grief since the Awakening. Must one's beliefs be discarded to earn rebirth?" Legolas was not pleased with this idea at all as his furrowed brow and down-drawn lips attested.

"I know not for certainty, yet I cannot think why that would be so," answered Glorfindel. He did not like to say that perhaps those re-born in Valinor had a broader understanding of truth and had no further need of religion to account for fearful unknowns. "Mayhap the byr keep apart from the rest of the population, even as the Wood Elves remain isolated from their kin in the other elven realms. In that case, it would be impossible for me to guess at their numbers. Indeed, I knew not any byr lived among the Greenwood, so secretive are the silvan's ways." While he spoke, Glorfindel massaged the horse's leg briskly but gently to stimulate the flow of blood as the rejuvenating medicine was absorbed.

"That is most likely the reason you were not aware of their presence in Aman," concurred Galdor. He had concluded his evening ritual and strolled over to where his companions crouched on the ground at the stallion's feet, each one bathing the afflicted leg with the healing water. The fact that the pair managed to occasionally brush upon one another's fingers in the process was not lost on the vigilant Tirn'wador. This level of contact, however, was acceptable and he did not speak of the playful interaction. "As you have seen, the ways of our faith are not easy to follow and many would not understand."

"I have not found it difficult," Legolas disagreed. "Yet I have seen it is so for those who become initiates later in life. I was raised thus and cannot comprehend feeling differently about my world."

"You are young; plenty of time for trials of faith to be borne," cautioned the Sadron.

"Must I be tried thus? What does it entail? Nanethen did not speak of this to me."

"I cannot see why Legolas should be required to undergo yet greater turmoil and strife to prove his dedication to Tawar," interjected Glorfindel, feeling a surge of protective outrage rise up just as when he had spied the bruise from Ithil'wath's staff.

"Sîdh," (Peace) urged Galdor. "I did not intend to suggest Pâd-en-Tawar exacts suffering from its adherents as a sign of devotion. I was but commenting on the fact that life in these times brings with it numerous conflicts and confrontations. For many, the strain of these arduous experiences prompts a sense of abandonment by the Spirit of the Great Wood. That in turn may lead to resentment and a withdrawal from the communion of the trees. Some survive such tribulations with their faith intact, others do not."

"Ah, it is like the elves who have lost respect for the Valar and find fault with Iluvatar for not guiding his children better," nodded Glorfindel. "Some folk in Imladris even believe that Iluvatar is but an invention of the Valar, and that they know nothing more of our true origins than we do."

"What do you believe, Glorfindel?" asked Legolas. This was something that had begun to occupy his thoughts more frequently now that the threat of grieving sickness was removed.

"For me there are few mysteries left, thus the ideas of faith and belief do not apply. I know the Valar exist for I have met and talked with them in Aman. They spoke to me of Iluvatar and I see no reason why they would choose to fabricate this information. At the same time, I have never felt the presence of this One being overseeing all that occurs."

"What then guides the course of events and the shape of the Music?" queried the archer, for this was something he had wondered on yet had feared to challenge the Greenwood's Sadron for answers, not wishing others to think Calarlim had failed to instruct him adequately.

Glorfindel hesitated for the last thing he meant was to insult the archer's faith or seem to undermine the authority of the worthy Sadron from Mithlond. He glanced from one to the other in the glowing orange of the setting sun's rays, assessing the serious but open countenances presented.

"Saes, speak plainly for we understand you are not an initiate. We respect the choice of every free being in such matters. Neither of us will condemn you, this I promise," Galdor reassured, guessing what prompted the Vanya's reticence.

"Aye, I find that your views on other topics have been refreshingly forthright and have served to clear away confusion and doubt within my mind. Please do not hold silent now," pleaded Legolas, his free hand, wet from sluicing the horse's injured foot, spontaneously reaching out to clasp his Faer Hebron's arm.

Glorfindel did not mind the damp patch spreading over his sleeve and smiled warmly into the sincere blue eyes. "Very well, I will describe it as best I can. I feel that Eru did for a time exist as a distinct entity with which his earliest offshoots communicated."

"Those being the Valar and the host of the Ainur?" asked Galdor.

"Aye. But as the Music began to take shape, the energy for the Making of it came from this One source. I believe that as time proceeds, each new thing that unfolds uses more of this energy. Thus, Eru is not a distinct entity any longer but dispersed among all the creations and events that have emanated from the Music.

"As for the Valar, it is clear to me that The Powers cannot control fate, either for good or evil, no matter how often I hear both curses and entreaties directed to Manwë or to Vairë suggesting the contrary. The Valar are not truly causative as such. They cannot generate the Spark Imperishable, for example. They do not even understand the nature of the Second-born very well. In all things, they have become observers more than participants."

"That is not so different from my thinking," Legolas spoke. "I feel the One within the voice of Tawar and view the Valar as components of the Music, just as we are. They know more of it, maybe, but are not much better at altering it than I would be."

"Nay, we all change the Music through interactions with others, our thoughts and feelings, adding in the uniqueness that is each individual's heart and soul. That is the beauty of it; no matter what is added, the melody and the harmony adapt and generate an ever more glorious symphony," Galdor instructed.

"The Valar speak of this also, the glory arising from contention against the Darkness, yet I do not believe I would be less willing to appreciate the magnificence of Eru's design had I not witnessed the destruction of my home and nearly everyone I loved." Glorfindel had numerous objections to the value of hardship and this point was foremost in his argument. "Indeed, I asked Námo if the stature of the Valar was increased after they finally dealt with Melkor at the end of the First Age. He admitted that he felt no different, except perhaps greater sorrow for the many still entering his Halls even after this conflict's conclusion."

"Nay, it is not in individual perception of this effort to overcome strife that the Music becomes fuller. The Music would be beautiful if no evil ever attempted to destroy it, that is true, and no doubt we would all be quite content to be within and a part of it. Yet we cannot control the choices of every free being," Galdor countered. "Those that would unmake the Music think to take its living force and create something of their own. Who can say what motivates such thought?

"Yet though we are a part of the Music and can affect it, we cannot get beyond it. No one being can encompass it, not even one of the Valar, Glorfindel, as you already remarked. Those that would silence the harmony can not achieve this eradication, try though they might. In the trying, many suffer for these destructive whims and while the Music is altered it does not stop. Thus, whether we would wish it or not, these times of discordant enmity, both personal and collective, will come upon us.

"The Music changes; this is all the surety we have. Right now its theme is dark, sombre, foreboding yet within it there is still great beauty. That intertwined motif of strength, courage, love, and hope will not be extinguished so long as there are some of us determined to hear it. Let enough of us pick up on this chorus and it will grow, overwhelming the dolorous notes, emerging triumphant and victorious. Then will we hear a new Music, resplendent and filled with joy and wonder," concluded the Sadron, smiling over the thought of such an outcome.

"Still, within it will be sombre sounds, for I will not forget the sorrow of losing my friends and Calarlim, just as Glorfindel cannot forget the destruction of Gondolin. Mayhap some will tend to hear that solemnity and tune their actions toward it, making it grow stronger. It is a cycle." Legolas shook his head, finding this all difficult to comprehend, and completely missed the astonished expressions Galdor and Glorfindel shared over his observation.

The trio fell quiet as they pondered these things and the task of treating Asfaloth continued. Before long the water cooled and the soul-bound elves lifted out the charger's foot, pouring off the water. Cuthenin scooped out the curative sediment from the bottom of the oilskin bucket and applied it liberally to the sensitive skin beneath the thick, fibrous hoof, grinning when Asfaloth snorted in satisfaction. Then Glorfindel turned the stallion loose and let him find a spot beside the other horses, watching as he walked gingerly, keeping the weight off the injury as much as possible.

"Le Hanteän," said Glorfindel, helping Legolas disassemble the contraption. "I would not have thought to create such a device but it is obviously a useful skill to have. I shall suggest the procedure for all my troops."

"It is a standard practice for Greenwood's Athedrainyn. What do you do when this happens, then, for surely it cannot be the first time?" Legolas was incredulous to learn such a lack of foresight existed amid the renowned Imladrian cavalry.

"I would walk him to the nearest stream and bathe the injury there. Verily, it slows travel and sometimes exposes one to danger, yet no other treatment have I known of than to refrain from making the creature bear any burden while the horse's natural defences repair the damage. In the stables it is different; we have everything required to speed recovery." Glorfindel explained without rancour. He did not mind admitting a need for improvement for that was the only way to increase his warriors' capabilities.

"Speaking of healing," he stretched his left arm over his head and palpated his side, grimacing where the dull sting of the brand still ached under the chafing contact with his clothing. "Why is this slight burn taking so very long to heal up, Galdor? I expected it to be completely renewed by the next day."

"If it healed so quickly the design would not remain visible," the Sadron rejoined. "Do you recall the mixture of powdered material in which I dipped the brand before applying it?"

"I do. I assumed that was sand used to cool the metal enough to lessen the severity of the wound."

"Nay, that is a caustic substance that causes scalding wounds upon contact with bare skin. No heat is required. Added to the burned imprint, it keeps the mark raw long enough for the skin to re-grow in the pattern of the seal. It also causes a coloration change so that the finished mark will not be white but a dark brown. It will be another day or two before it is healed completely." Galdor moved to his pack as he spoke, retrieving the small jar of salve he had brought along and offering it to Glorfindel.

With the speed only an exceptional archer possesses, Legolas snatched the container from his Guardian's palm before his Faer Hebron's hand was even half the way there.

"Allow me, please. It is the least I can do to soothe the suffering you endured on my account," he offered boldly, sending a look part demand and part entreaty to Galdor.

The ancient Sadron raised a brow in combined warning and indulgent understanding. Legolas yearned for contact with Glorfindel, for the sensation of mingled souls was both soothing and exhilarating and he could not help but crave more. Likewise, Glorfindel would feel the pull, longing for the sense of satisfaction the archer's complete trust engendered. Any physical contact of skin against skin enabled a limited replication of the experience. Yet care must be exercised for the contact invariably incited the desire for more intimacy and these two had been drawn to one another even before Úcaul Annaur. Galdor did not wish his ward to consummate this bond until he was certain theirs was a true desire to remain committed to one another.

Still, there is little they can do with me right here beside them. The Sadron gave a brief nod of assent and could not help chuckling over Legolas' brilliant smile in return.

Glorfindel barely had time to register what had just happened before Legolas fingers were busy unfastening his sword belt. Deftly the silvan wrapped the leather strap about the hefty scabbard and handed it to the re-born warrior, eyes very bright and mischievous when they met his. The Balrog Slayer was actually rather glad to have something for his hands to do as Cuthenin went to work divesting him of his tunic. Glorfindel had a strong urge to throw down the weapon and bury his fingers in the thick golden locks. Then to trace the outer rim of those delicately pointed ears which are too tantalisingly level with my lips.

Unconsciously, each heaved a sigh together as the garment was slipped from the Vanya's broad shoulders. What to do with it gave them both pause for a moment until Glorfindel took it from the Wood Elf's grasp and draped it over his arm. With his unoccupied hand, Glorfindel lifted the hem of his shirt, struggling to contain a smirk over the disappointment evident in the younger elf's eyes at this incomplete undressing. Yet the silvan's Faer Hebron had to take some action to help defray the rising desire to grab Cuthenin close and finally give him the kiss they both had been imagining for days that felt more like years in the wake of their sluggish passing.

With an audibly resolute inhalation, Legolas opened the jar and scooped out a small amount of the cooling ointment. Carefully he dabbed this onto the burn, feeling at once the surge of Glorfindel's spirit, so strong and filled with desire for him, seep into him through the point of contact. He hoped his Faer Hebron could sense the corresponding yearning of his feä. A quick glance between them assured Cuthenin this was so and he smiled, suddenly very proud and possessive, feeling the familiar outline of his House's seal upon Glorfindel's side. When next his eyes found the Balrog Slayer's, Legolas was sure his expression alone would ignite the air between them.

"Much better, thank you, Cuthenin," Glorfindel whispered huskily and grabbed the silvan's fingers off his skin, covering himself again. It was becoming too difficult to resist the inclination to encourage those digits, slick and slippery and warm, to continue exploring. He replaced his tunic and not until he was buckling his sword back around his hips was he composed enough to meet the silvan's gaze. He was surprised to see the playfully roguish gleam dancing through Legolas' blue eyes rather than displeasure and disappointment.

"My side hurts also, for there are five brands still raw there," his tone dared Glorfindel to decline the unspoken request while their vision remained locked. Cuthenin unfastened the harness of his quiver and bow and let the weapons fall to the ground.

"Legolas," warned Galdor, taking a step toward them.

"Tirn'wador, will you hold these for me, please?" Legolas scooped up his gear and offered it expectantly and defiantly. His features resolved into a glorious grin of gratitude when Galdor relented and took the bow and quiver from him. He did not waste another second, hastily loosening the tunic and his shirt at the neck before grabbing both at the hem and peeling them off over his head. These he tossed carelessly aside before taking Glorfindel's hand and settling the jar of salve in its palm.

Glorfindel was still gaping, eyes travelling the length of the decorated torso and finally back to the eager countenance. He gathered his wits and dipped his fingers into the oily cream, gently smoothing it over the line of wounds in the scalded tissue, suddenly overwhelmed with sadness by the pain he felt radiating from Legolas, both physical and emotional. It was more than he could bear and he took the younger elf in his arms, gathering him close in a firm embrace, insinuating his nose deep into the silken tresses. He felt Legolas' corresponding clasp as strong lithe arms encircled his chest and hugged back hard.

"I am proud of the marks," Legolas whispered, listening intently to the steady beat of Glorfindel's heart.

"I know. Forgive me, I cannot stop my soul from tearing at any sign of pain about you," Glorfindel whispered back, feeling the leap in Cuthenin's chest when his pulse quickened. As one they moved closer together and realised simultaneously that their hearts were not the only aspect of their anatomies stirring.

"Glorfindel, perhaps it would be wise to check the trail behind us to make sure no one can locate our camp." Galdor's voice broke through the soul-bound elves' deepening communion abruptly and they startled, separating to gaze upon the elder. "I must ask you to extinguish the fire before Anor sets, Legolas. It will not do to announce our presence so plainly."

"Sui pedich, Tirn'wador," Legolas answered obediently and took the shirt his Guardian held out for him. Before he had finished dressing, Glorfindel had set off down the path without a word. Legolas sighed and reached for the tunic, but Galdor stopped him.

"Nay, deal with this, for thus will Glorfindel do. We cannot afford that sort of distraction. I will be nearby keeping watch but not watching," the elder intoned and passed a pointed look over the archer's groin before turning.

"If that is so then why can we not aid one another, Glorfindel and I," murmured Legolas in aggravation.

"Could you stop there?" challenged Galdor over his shoulder.

"Who can say? I have never been 'there'," groused the silvan.

"Precisely. Let us not put you to the test, then." Galdor's voice diminished as he disappeared around the edge of the outcrop and left Legolas alone.

The archer was not hesitant to take his Tirn'wador's advise, for the fullness plaguing his aroused penis was most uncomfortable and just the idea of Glorfindel engaged in manual stimulation made Cuthenin grow ever harder. Impatiently he stripped down, boots and all, and knelt right where he was by the small fire, hand already busy before his knees touched the gritty ground. His eyes drifted shut and a wavery sigh fled his lungs as he threw his head back, thinking on what it would be like for his Faer Hebron to handle him thus, Glorfindel's long fingers wrapped around his cock, pumping in steady, maddening rhythm, watching him as his ardour peaked.

The memory of their soul-bonding suffused Legolas' inner vision; clutching close to the bare, broad chest of the Balrog Slayer, locked in his Faer Hebron's arms. Glorfindel was solidly muscled and the sensation of warmth within that comforting strength had initiated an immediate physical response in Cuthenin's body. Legolas could hear his thundering heart, feel nipples rigidly pressed against him while his own tingled with the friction of the same pleasurable pressure. The next instant he was back in the oak glade behind Glorfindel's house, reliving the moment when the warrior's lips closed over his left nipple, a hot, wet tongue tasting him for the first time.

Not even realising it, Legolas dragged his fingers across the erect bud in the centre of the heart spiral and cried out softly, his whole body convulsing as he came in a sudden rush of giddy delight. The orgasm left him breathless, simultaneously relieved and disappointed, for he would have preferred to extend the vivid images and prolong the exquisite experience.

Another sigh left him; Legolas stirred to retrieve his water skin and remove the evidence of his quickly spent passion. He dressed hurriedly, keenly aware of eyes upon him; with a great jolt of his heart he wondered if the Vanya warrior had indeed been spying. Cuthenin had to forcefully drive the idea of Glorfindel, coming as he watched Legolas masturbating, from his mind before his body responded with renewed vigour and his efforts would all be for naught. Recalling Galdor's order, he smothered out the fire and settled back on the ground near the horses to wait for his companions' return.

Galdor arrived at the campsite a few minutes later and the Balrog Slayer was not far behind. He sat next to Legolas and smiled at his young soul-mate with a decidedly satisfied and proud gleam in his deep blue eyes. Cuthenin did not doubt their pleasure, though separate, had been harmonious and reciprocal. He blushed, thinking how it would be when they shared that intimacy in reality rather than imagination, and found his desire flared even hotter than before. He managed to suppress a groan of frustration but not his restless fidgiting.

The Sadron, surmising the state his charge was in, wisely forced his way to sit between the two, giving each a kindly yet firmly determined look that forbade any further discussion on the topic of bonding, and diverted their thoughts through talk of Frodo's great burden and the admirable courage displayed by the Hobbit.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully and the soul-bound couple did nothing more together than repeat the treatment to Asfaloth's leg. By dawn the stallion was nearly but not fully recovered and so the trio set off on foot into the heights. After the day's march, the trail had narrowed and steepened to the point that riding was no longer an option anyway. Two more days of careful hiking brought them to the high point of the Red Horn and still nothing plagued them other than the slow pace and the intensified chill in the lofty air. The three elves stared in unmitigated revulsion at the distant spike of darkness arising above the tops of the trees. The tower gave away nothing of its masters, however, and the scouts began the descent.

Caradhras allowed them passage unscathed and they found the route of the eastern side unobstructed by rock-fall, snow, or vile enemies. The ninth day out of Imladris found them winding down the Dimrill Stair and by the tenth twilight they were camping beside the Gladden mere.

"We are in the open now and sure to face attack before the sun rises," Legolas advised. "It is best to draw them out from the trees, for their sight is sharper than ours in darkness and the light of Ithil will aid my aim. We must wait and cross the river tomorrow."

"Can we be certain our presence is known?" queried Galdor. "We have seen nothing indicative of danger."

"You have seen nothing," Legolas corrected. "I, on the other hand, observed a Daeraew Môr last night in the Dimrill Dale (Great Night Bird - a Stygian Owl) flying where a crane is more likely to poach. The night birds do not eat fish and newts from the shallows but bats on the wing and snakes in the meadows or beneath the trees. It was a black-faced Daeraew and I recognised her. She betrayed me once before not so many days ago, for that bird was ever close when Gollum was amid the trees. My arm ached to bring her down, yet I did not wish her masters to know we are expecting them."

"Why did you say nothing?" demanded Glorfindel and received a confused look for answer.

"I did so," insisted Legolas. "I pointed out her shadow as it swept over us just before Ithil set."

"Aye, that is true. I knew not what you hoped to tell me by that," admitted the Balrog Slayer. He should have suspected the woodland warrior was not drawing notice to the bird for the mere enjoyment of watching its eerily silent flight.

Further discussion was prevented by the sudden action of Legolas retrieving his bow and arming it as he dashed forward into the dry grasses, his eyes darting between the heavens and the tree line. At first the other two could not tell what he was firing upon, until the enraged cries of the wounded and dying Orcs' resounded across the plain. Yet the archer was firing with frantic speed and fully half his shots were aimed into the sky above, and this bewildered his fellows.

Even more frustrating, the Vanya and the Guardian could not fight what they could not see. Even as Galdor made to join Legolas, Glorfindel restrained him.

"Nay, we shall come under fire and he would be forced to protect us for we have only swords. They must be on the opposite bank. He can little enough defend himself and should we distract him, he is lost," Glorfindel uttered in hoarse tones indicative of what it cost his heart to speak this truth. They could do nothing but watch and hope.

Then came the high piercing call of a falcon as it wheeled downward out of the night, resolving quite suddenly from a vague spot of shadow against the brilliance of the stars into a regal raptor. Now it became apparent that Legolas was shielding the bird's approach, for his next arrow streaked through the air and shattered into splinters a black bolt shot from an Orcish bow. Two more Cuthenin deflected thus and in between fired upon the fiends now visible crouching in the cover of darkness, sneaking through the dry grass on the eastern bounds of the Anduin as they alternately attacked the silvan's position and the soaring bird. With a final screeching call the falcon landed upon Legolas' shoulder and in fury he turned his bow upon the Orcs in earnest, charging forward as he drew and fired so quickly that his motion was scarcely to be recorded even by elvish eyes.

"Gurth annon; tolo enni, raug thaur, a ristathon cuil edraw!" (I give death; come to me, vile demons, and I shall rip life from flesh!) yelled the youngest of Thranduil's sons as he ran.

It was too much for the cowardly vermin. They broke from hiding and ran for the safety of the pitch coloured air lingering round their masters' fortress.

"Aye, noro, ylynn nyrn!" (Aye, run, twisted monsters!) shouted Cuthenin. "Yrn medithai erin firn thaiw!" (The trees will feed upon the rotten corpses!) He sent his bitter laughter after them, mocking and taunting their retreat.

By this time Galdor and Glorfindel had recovered from the shock of these unforeseen actions and joined Legolas. He was nearly to the western banks of the Great River and the former citizens of Gondolin were torn between admiration over his skill in archery and anger over such a reckless single-handed assault. The Balrog Slayer could not contain his desperate wrath, for his heart was racing in the aftermath of his terror over the possibility of losing the Wood Elf.

"What were you doing?" he chastised sharply as he caught hold of Legolas arm. "You were outnumbered and you did not think to consult us on the best plan to attack them. Do you seek to find your death here in this valley? That was a foolish risk and an unnecessary one."

"Nay, 'tis not so…" Legolas tried to explain.

"Aye, you cannot go off thus," admonished Galdor, "seeking to satisfy personal vengeance. How would it be if your were injured or killed? What words could we bring to your people, to your Adar?" he concluded more gently.

"Did you forget me so quickly? Does your Faer Hebron mean so little to you?" ranted Glorfindel, pacing back and forth in front of the crest-fallen youth. "You would return me to Mandos broken in grief?"

"Nay, nay!" cried Legolas, alarmed and deeply moved at the same time. He clasped Glorfindel's arms in both his hands to halt the agitated motion and sought the fiery warrior's gaze. "I would have no such thing! Hear me, Glorfindel, I was not being careless. I will never take for granted the state of your heart. If I can spare you any suffering it shall be so.

"Yet this sortie I needed to make and did so safely, for under the light of Ithil the creatures were easy to mark. Their aim is not so good, as you observed, nor is their draw as strong as mine. They knew I was here and still sought to bring down Êg (Thorn - the falcon's name). My goal was worthy, for this falcon is my brother's and must bear news of vital import. I am thinking Igeredir (The Maker) is in need of aid, for near to us is the dwelling of Beorn's folk."

Glorfindel stared into the pleading indigo eyes, relenting as he heard this fervent promise from the fair archer's lips. Scarcely did he take in the remainder of the words for his feä was too relieved to know that Cuthenin had not disregarded his soul-keeper. A minute more he searched the unveiled spirit revealed in Legolas' night shrouded gaze and then pulled the younger warrior against his chest, claiming their first kiss there beneath the stars on the flood plain of the Anduin.

A muffled cry of surprise arose from the silvan's throat that was quickly transmuted into a feral moan as his parted lips were delved, his tongue caressed with the mobile heat of Glorfindel's oral muscle. He clutched tightly to the Vanya's forearms, dizzy delight weakening his legs, and relished the strength of the Balrog Slayer's arm as it encircled his waist and supported his frame.

Êg screeched in annoyance, clenching his talons on the Wood Elf's shoulder and flapping his great wings about the elves' merged heads. It was more effective than any means Galdor might have come up with to part the lovers, and the elder laughed as the two broke their kiss in breathless haste to avoid the raptor's sharp beak and sharper claws.

"Hah! Here is a second chaperone and a most formidable one!" said Galdor, yet he did not have the heart to pull Legolas' hand from Glorfindel's grasp.

"Enough," groused Glorfindel as he sought to recover his breath. "I am growing weary of this constant accompaniment, mellonen. (my friend) We are adults, after all, and share a connection few others can comprehend."

"I do not deny that, yet everything in its proper time," scolded Galdor. "What is a year to elf-kind?"

"Ai! To those in courtship it is an Age!" moaned Legolas. "So shall it seem to me, at least. I know not if I can wait that long to claim you, Glorfindel."

"I concur. That part about claiming, we did not discuss that. I shall do the claiming," declared Glorfindel.

"Nay, it is my right according to tradition," replied Legolas simply. "You are joined to my feä; I lay claim to you."

"How can that be if I am the one safe-guarding your soul? It would be more accurate to say that I shall lay claim to you."

"You do not wish for me to claim you?"

"I did not say that; yet I am more experience in such areas. I will take you first and then we…"

"Enough!" exclaimed Galdor. "That is not something you will have to work out until far in the future."

"He is right," sighed Legolas. "Let us learn what need drives Igeredir to send Êg into the open at night." He extended his arm and the raptor obediently sidled down to perch upon his wrist, allowing the archer to remove the small furled message secured to the bird's leg. "It is as I expected. My brother's archers and spear-men are in position for an assault upon the black fortress. He asks for Beorn's men to join him.

"Wise Êg spotted me from the heights and decided to enlist me as well. We must make haste for they plan to attack with the dawn. Come! We must ride to intercept them and aid in this endeavour!"

With that Legolas returned the scrip to its bearer and released the falcon to continue its journey to Beorn's compound. The three scouts whistled for their horses, mounted up, and plunged into the river to make the crossing.

TBC

Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow)

by F.
unbeta'd

italics - thoughts

(elvish translation)

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's,
the words here are mine. No money earned.

Summary: A look at what might happen if Legolas was just known as a
messenger and not as Thranduil's son. The setting is just before the
Council of Elrond. Features Glorfindel/Legolas pairing.

A/N: Well it as been ages since I posted anything and I apologise. I just about gave up on it because between classes and work I have just been exhausted. You kind folks have never failed to show support and now it is even more apparent. Someone nominated this story for a My Precious Award! See my profile for details and how to vote! I do not know who it was but I am eternally grateful. I never expected this story to earn that kind of recognition. Of course I will make sure to finish it for you and for all the readers who have enjoyed it. The other site is currently down and so review replies are sadly limited this time. Know that I am so pleased that many of you appreciate my efforts.

For those who disliked the tattooing and gave health warnings in their reviews, I thank you for being concerned for all our readers. However, it is always best to check facts before making a public statement. I have tattoos and am not banned from donating blood or plasma. For information about becoming a blood donor check with the American Red Cross website. For safety's sake, I do encourage people wanting a tattoo to go through a licensed business with a trained artist.

Regarding information that was shared on male sexuality, I am in agreement with the comment about the rarity of enduring love among couples, regardless of their preference in gender for a partner. As far as the particular style one chooses in expression of that love, or lust as the case may be, there are many many ways and means to achieve a satisfactory end. Searching the web yields a vast amount of information in varying degrees of reliability on the subject and while knowledge is power, be aware of the sources of the information you find. There are many good books on the subject and many excellent websites as well.

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Canad-ar-Paenui Peth: Teith Uirib (Part Fourteen: Marks Everlasting)

Sluggish and clogged with a thick mesh of water lilies and rushes, the dark, frigid water of the Anduin barely flowed as it spilled into a low lying dip in the broad, sloping valley. Though the river was ever young due to the inexorable uplift of the Hithaeglir, racing with turbulent speed out of the Grey Mountains north of Greenwood, it lost all its impetus as it poured into the depression. There the tricklish load of the River Gladden joined the greater stream and the combined volume of their confluence turned all that portion of the plain on the western side into a vast green fen.

The inky water clung to the horses legs; bloated roots and stems tangled round their hooves and slowed the pace of the daring chargers. Chest deep on Legolas' mare, the smallest of the three mounts, the channel was still too shallow for swimming. The horses were forced to make ungainly lunging leaps through the strangely viscous fluid. Upon their backs, the scouts were soaked through as they made the crossing at possibly the very worst point in the river to do so, despite its meagre depth and easy current.

This became apparent when an evil cackle rose above the sloshing gait of the horses followed by the distinctive whine of air displaced by an arrow's flight. The black fletched missile speared nothing but the reed choked river yet earned an agitated curse from the silvan elf for it nonetheless. Cuthenin urged his agile mare to the fore, shielding his comrades as he armed and fired into the thick bracken on the eastern bank. A hoarse shout heralded a successful shot. He nocked another arrow and waited. Every minute carried the scouts a few more feet closer to the shore as Asfaloth and Galdor's steed plunged through the mired stream, eager for solid ground and a foe to fight.

The Orcish soldiers could not resist another try and this time a pair of arrows split the night, Legolas their mark.

It was not to be. Even as he had targeted the bolts aimed for Êg so he deflected those meant for him. Closer now, he had the enemies' location marked by the very sound of their bowstrings and quickly dispatched them both. Intently he listened, focusing all his attention on the thudding compression of the foul demons' heavy tread as they shifted position, planning to intercept the elves when they left the water. Cuthenin let fly two more arrows, white fletching tipped with emerald dye, 'Gûr an gûd o Gladgalen' (Death for foes of Greenwood) marked in blue upon the ash-wood shafts. A howl of pain and fear reported one target wounded; a sudden rasp as the dried remains of summer's grasses crushed beneath a solid body proclaimed the other's nearly instant death.

The trio was almost across and all three could discern the lumbering black blobs of the Orcs as they clustered closer.

With a ringing flourish Glorfindel drew his blade from its scabbard and the light of Ithil was caught within it. A white flash swept the air as the sword arced high above his head and showed the bestial soldiers whence their end would come. The muted silver beams bounced across the waving strands of his flaxen tresses and reflected from the glinting petals where the emblem of his House was embroidered upon his sleeve. The Lord of the Golden Flower was ready for battle, eager to avenge the dead of Ages past and defend what remained of beauty in the declining days of the First-born.

His gaze settled briefly upon the woodland archer, one such remnant of that magnificent perfection. Glorfindel's jaw clenched in determined purpose and he nudged his stallion toward the silvan guarding their advance. Toward Cuthenin, he followed the long mane billowing on the breeze and the bow singing an eager anthem of defiant resistance.

It was as if Legolas sensed Asfaloth's smallest shift in position and reordered his mare to remain between the re-born warrior and harm. His sight never wavered from the demonic horde as his skilful aim kept the Orcish patrol at bay, yet he was equally aware of Glorfindel's presence, his body a shield guarding his Faer Hebron.

With dazzling clarity Glorfindel saw: Cuthenin stood at the very centre of his being, the personification of all he believed good and worthy, the high clear note of purity running through the Song of his soul. Legolas was no stranger. Instead Glorfindel beheld a long cherished dream suddenly abroad in reality; a vivid, vital, vibrant dream such as youth concocts, embodied in flesh and blood and bone, infused with a spirit so free and genuine it was almost a sin to encapsulate it so.

His heart was uplifted in pride and exaltation to know its true counterpart at last while his soul irrupted in a blaze of outrage that Legolas' blood had been spilled and his feä nearly crushed by such foul fiends as these defying them now. No sound did the veteran warrior utter but the gleam of the broadsword spilled upon his face and wrath shown forth from his glittering midnight eyes.

Beside him, Galdor's blade sang out a melodic promise of destruction as he drew it from its sheath. With this mighty sword the Noldo Lord had slain Orcs at Dagor nuin Giliath (Battle beneath the Stars) in the First Age before the rising of the moon. At the fall of Turgon's fair city the Sadron had felled countless numbers of Melkor's minions and at Dagorlad had wielded the weapon with strength and vigour in the battle of the Last Alliance. The years of peace in Mithlond had dulled neither the sword's shining edge nor the powerful skill of its noble master.

"Laeg-ar-Lagor!", (Sharp and Swift) Galdor called out its name in both challenge and warning, the words imbued with his focused hatred for the vile, mutated species. Following fast upon this pronouncement came an eerie low decibel mantra that resonated through every particle of his despicable foes' substance: "Alben bronatha, alben bronatha, alben bronatha." (None shall survive, none shall survive, none shall survive.)

"Alben bronatha!" Glorfindel took up the chant, shouting it like a summons to war as Asfaloth leaped upon the eastern shore, first from the laggard stream, and bore down in furious speed upon the misshapen monsters arrayed across the field. The Orcs' pathetic line scattered amid shouts of terror as the war horse reached them and the Balrog Slayer's blade released whatever shadowy semblance of Eru's grace served for the perverted creations' souls.

"Si an Gladgalen ar Gondolin!" (Now for Greenwood and Gondolin!) yelled Galdor. His steed was upon the bank, hastening behind Asfaloth as the ancient warrior swung his deadly sword into the clutch of demon-soldiers. A ghastly spray of gory fluid flew into the air amid the shrieks of the dying and the wounded. The stench of tainted blood ruined the clean scent of the moonlit meadow.

"Le pennon neri!" (I told you to run!) Legolas taunted as he riddled the Orcs with arrows.

The attackers were routed, retreating once more for the black cover of the darkened forest, and the scouts galloped northward along the eastern flank of the Anduin. Legolas' mare was swiftest and bore the lightest weight; she quickly gained the lead and the two Noldor could do nothing but tail the bold silvan in his dash for the tree line. Clear and sweet, the call of a nightingale arose over the pounding clamour of the horses' hooves as Cuthenin signalled his approach. An answering call came faintly from under the eaves and then a second time closer to the verge. Legolas repeated his whistle and by the echoed warble navigated under the branches. Night nearly as thick as a cave's shrouded air embraced the trio of elves.

It became instantly evident that the bulk of the Orcish army had remained beneath the cover of the woods, trusting the small sortie to deal with the approaching scouts. That they had failed seemed but to enrage the host of the main force and the brambles and bracken erupted with the grotesque forms while the night resounded with the ungainly articulations of Black Speech. The Orcs were on foot, however, and the horses' speed gave the elves an advantage sorely needed as the dark cloaked shapes swirled about them, a dank and agitated sea of hatred.

Single file the trio threaded amid the trees, Legolas and his compact mare guiding the sturdier and heavier war horses. The archer had replaced his bow with a long lethal hunting knife and with it hacked and jabbed at anything close enough to strike. Behind him the whoosh and thwack as elven blades slashed leather and rived flesh punctuated the unceasing mayhem of snapping branches and gurgled death cries. Intermixed arose the rumble of the horses' hooves, the tramp and stamp of Orcish feet, the croaking curses in Mordor's Tongue. The constant clamour of steel ringing against steel testified to the ferocity of Glorfindel and Galdor's assailing swords as they charged through the forest. Underscoring all, the ancient Sadron's mantra of doom pervaded every molecule of air. "Alben bronatha, alben bronatha." (None shall survive, none shall survive.)

Though their pace had been reduced by necessity to navigate betwixt the mighty trunks of the tall trees, the three scouts managed to maintain their forward momentum into the deepening gloom of Mirkwood. A single high, clean note trilled above the tumult of fighting and then from the canopy rained a steady down-pour of robust elven arrows. The Greenwood's archers loosed this lethal barrage over the heads of the trio and forced back the Orcs dogging their passage.

Legolas laughed in mocking delight; he had led the Orcs directly into his brother's ambuscade and the ground was quickly littered with the slain and dieing enemies. Once behind the cover offered by the tree-top archers, he leaped from his mare's back into the limbs and joined his countrymen. There were not many remaining to target, however, and the battle concluded quite abruptly. Dismayed that the creatures had turned in defeat before his quiver was emptied, blood racing with the fire of the fight still in him, the Wood Elf returned to his companions on the ground.

Glorfindel and Galdor had halted their horses in a small open space ringed by cedars and had yet to recover from the swiftness of the skirmish and the efficient stealth of the silvan fighters, none of whom had yet allowed the outlanders so much as a glimpse of either hair or hand. Glorfindel was quite certain he and Galdor were under close scrutiny and was glad when Legolas approached. The archer sought his Faer Hebron's gaze, needing assurance that Glorfindel had taken no injury, and then made the same silent interrogation of his Tirn'wador. Satisfied, Cuthenin signalled for them to dismount and waited for Igeredir (The Maker, Athedrainyn name of Thranduil's second born) to emerge from cover.

No sooner had the Vanya warrior's feet reached the leaf strewn turf than a single elf descended from the branches directly before Legolas. Glorfindel watched as Cuthenin bowed low, hand over his heart, and greeted this warrior.

"Mae Govannen, Hîr Igeredir. Eglerion curu lín ar Tawar daur an tûr sen." (Well met, Lord Igeredir. I praise your skill and mighty Tawar for this victory.)

"Suilad, Cuthenin. Ad doled lín galu. Man nôr na le?" (Hail, Cuthenin. Your return is fortuitous. Who rides with you?) replied the Sindarin prince and clasped his younger brother's shoulder tightly as he spoke, the light of pride and the gleam of relief clear within his eyes.

Igeredir was tall, nearly of a height with Galdor, and plainly a full-blooded Grey Elf: broad through the shoulder and long in the shanks. His features were noble and comely with clean lines and a strong jaw, a fine straight nose and a high white brow. What colour his eyes might be in daylight was impossible to tell for in the depths of the night they were blacker than onyx as they inspected his sibling's unexpected companions. The long hair was dark, though surely this was made more so by the faint illumination, yet no golden tresses adorned his head. Bound back severely from his face, a single waist-length braid confined the smooth straight locks. The Sindarin prince was dressed in the sylvan manner of close-fitted garb camouflaged in natural hues of bark and leaf with the same style quiver and short, compact bow all the Wood Elves used in war. He wore no crown or circlet to declare his rank nor had he need of such to mark his status. None would doubt that here was a Lord among the forest folk.

"Allow me to present Lord Glorfindel of Gondolin, a noble emissary from the court of Lord Elrond of Imladris, and Galdor of Gondolin, Lord of the Tree, emissary form Mithlond, Sadron to the Faladhrim, and my Tirn'wador. They seek counsel with our Lord and King," Legolas announced.

A nearly imperceptible breath escaped Thranduil's second born upon hearing this and his frame stiffened slightly as his eyes swept upon Galdor with an intensity generally reserved for enemies and ill omens. Briefly his eyes flickered in a strange variety of dispassionate curiosity over Glorfindel but returned with resolute comprehension to the ancient Noldo Lord. The implications were plain to him, though he was not an initiate of Pâd-en-Tawar, and with a softer expression he returned his attention to the youngest of Thranduil's children. "Ai Cuthenin," he exhaled softly. "What has befallen you?"

In the trees above, the introduction incited a soft murmur as surprised whispers spread between the unseen warriors and then suddenly a second elf leaped to the ground and hastened to Legolas. Silently the young messenger moved forward into this ellon's opened arms and the two embraced for a long moment, foreheads touching.

"Nallon gwanu naneth lín, muindor." (I weep for your naneth's death, brother.)

This formal condolence was uttered in tones of tenderest endearment, strained to breaking with the depth of anguish speaking them invoked. There could be no denying the new-comer was kin to Legolas and shared nearly as close a tie to Calarlim as did he. It was unlikely for this silvan to be a brother in truth, yet among elf-kind a cousin or a nephew, even many generations removed, might as easily be referred to as such.

The Balrog Slayer was happy to see that Legolas had so close a bond to rely upon in his time of sorrow. At the same time, he was uncomfortable and uncertain of his place in the archer's social structure. They had not discussed such matters, quickly becoming immersed in the demands of the journey and the import of their dangerous mission. It had not escaped Glorfindel's note, however, that Legolas had failed to introduce him as Faer Hebron. A glance at Galdor revealed he had marked the oversight also.

"Aye, nallam na le, Cuthenin." (Aye, we weep with you, Cuthenin.) consoled the elder prince as the two broke apart. He searched his brother's face for signs of deadly grief and returned a comforting hand to his sibling's shoulder. "What of the others?"

"We were ambushed in the High Pass; I am the only survivor," the woeful archer responded.

A piercing cry arose from above and a third elf descended from the canopy to confront Legolas. "My kinsmen are dead?" she demanded angrily. "How is it that you live?"

"Control your tongue," ordered Igeredir sharply. "Be careful, for your grief will excuse only so much."

"Nay she is right; they gave their lives for me," answered Legolas.

"Nae, nae! Alonen tass sen na hên!" (Alas, alas! We should not have given this task to a child!) The sylvan elf tore her hair in her grief and rage, turning from Legolas to keep from striking out at the youth. Two warriors joined her on the ground, attempting to mitigate her despair as she keened a ravaged wail into the night. "Hatholvaen! Gîlfuir!"

"Sîdh," (Peace) soothed Galdor and moved to the distraught warrior's side. "Your kinsmen have granted their forgiveness to Cuthenin. He has endured Úcaul Annaur for their sake. All three of the dead reside in peace within Mandos."

Shocked by this explanation, the woodland warriors' exhaled a consolidated gasp that echoed amid the darkened branches. Several more climbed down from their perches to stare at Legolas in open fascination and awe. The ritual had not been required for many generations spanning centuries of time, for seldom did the Wood Elves leave the forest and thus, though there were battles and deaths aplenty, the dead were never left behind.

"Ai muindor dithen," (little brother) sighed the Sindarin prince with a solemn shake of his head. He did not approve of his brother's immersion in the ancient beliefs and could only be horrified to think of his youngest sibling undergoing such a barbaric practice. "Hiren Adar (My Lord Father) will not be pleased to learn this."

"He will understand," Legolas lifted his chin defiantly but his eyes revealed this was more a hope than a conviction. "I am proud to bear their marks for all eternity."

"Forgive my doubts, Cuthenin," the stricken warrior begged, returning to stand before the messenger. "My grief overwhelmed my reason. I thank you for ensuring my uncles' safe passage to Námo's Halls, free of any lingering anger or resentment that might bind them to wandering loose upon Arda. Nallon gwanu naneth lín." (I weep for your mother's death.) She bowed low. "My thanks to you for performing the rite, Sadron." A second bow honoured Galdor.

"No thanks are needed," Legolas tried to smile. "I…I have brought their seals." He reached into his tunic pocket and retrieved the brands, holding these out for the grieving elleth. She grabbed them up and turned to her kinsmen's arms again in tears. "Nallon na le."

"Nallam na le, Cuthenin," (We weep with you, Cuthenin) echoed throughout the area as the silvans expressed their sympathy for so great a loss and so great a sacrifice. "Nallam an maethyr dainnin." (We weep for the fallen warriors.) Each one that had dropped from the canopy came forward and bowed in respect for the sorrow born of Calarlim's death and the courage Cuthenin showed in undergoing the sacred ritual.

With this acceptance the tension dissipated and the silvans resumed interest in the foreign elves, especially Galdor. Many of the Wood Elves had never seen a Noldo and to learn this one was both a Sadron of their creed and the youthful archer's new Guardian was nothing short of amazing. A few gave the spiritual leader reverential bows when they met his eyes.

Glorfindel had not been ignored so completely in many long years and wondered if the silvans were maintaining this purposeful indifference because he was associated with Imladris. It was a widely circulated rumour among Elrond's folk that the silvans held the Noldorin warriors under Gil-Galad's command liable for the massacre of so many Wood Elves at Dagorlad. The Vanya Lord had rather believed the woodland people simply maintained their closed society as they had always done. In any case, their aloof attitude did not bode well for accepting an outsider as Legolas' intended mate.

"Man cannen, alcannen," (What is done cannot be undone.) sighed Igeredir. "Welcome, noble Lords of the western realms." He hastened to remediate his lapse in courtesy to the visitors and gave each a respectful nod of his head. "Widely revered are the names of the survivors of Gondolin, even under the Greenwood's protection the tales of your valourous deeds are sung. There are many here of the House of the Sparrow and of the Tree, and kinship can be found without looking far. Behold, Cuthenin is of Nost Tuilin through his maternal lineage."

"We are pleased to be among our woodland cousins again," as the elder, Galdor replied for both himself and Glorfindel. "We bring word of a portentous meeting just concluded in Imladris. Ere the year is done, all of the free peoples of Arda will be drawn into the conflict that generated such debate. Great need have the western realms, both immortal and mortal, for the assistance of the Greenwood."

"Aran Thranduil will hear your news and grant what aid he deems best. We must not tarry here for the foul Orcs will regroup once they learn we have not pursued them. This is the third advance the enemy has attempted since nightfall and they may yet try again. Let us fall back to Gebel Edain." (Human settlements) answered Igeredir.

"Êg found me and has resumed his goal to reach Beorn. Do you mean to storm the tower?" asked Legolas as he mounted up.

"Aye. Hiren Adar desires to retrieve the gangrel Gollum and is sure he was taken to Dol Guldur," said the Sindarin prince. "Inarthan is staging a flanking assault from the east, planning to attack from the Bite."

"I urge you to forestall such an undertaking, Ernil Edwen," (Second Prince) Glorfindel spoke finally. "We think the creature is at large and far from Greenwood. That is partly why we have come. The sooner we may meet with King Thranduil the better for us all."

"This is unexpected! Nasan. (So be it.) We will fall back to the woodsmen's villages and contact Inarthan to join us. I have no wish to risk immortal life for a cause that cannot be accomplished."

"What of Cyll Vyrn?" asked Cuthenin. (Black Cloaks, a name for the Wraiths used by the Wood Elves)

"They are gone from this place; that is the reason Hiren Adar chose to launch the attack," Igeredir frowned in concert with the grave expressions the Noldo Lord and the re-born warrior exchanged. "No doubt your errand is pertinent to their abandonment of the Dark Tower. Cuthenin will see you safely to the stronghold and word of your return shall precede you. Gwanno ah Galu-en-Valar," (Go with the Blessings of the Valar) Igeredir said and raised his hand in salute before climbing back into the trees.

All the other elves followed suit and then a warbling song cut the silence as the silvans transmitted tidings of the scouts' arrival. One after another the Wood Elves' took up the tune and each repeat carried the lyrical report farther and farther into the forest. Legolas urged his mare forward using the whistled announcement as a guide through the grimly shadowed woods. In such dark days, it was unhealthy to assume a path once safe would remain so indefinitely, even one made by the silvans. Glorfindel followed and Galdor brought up the rear.

The journey from the fringes of the forest to the forbidding fortress in the northeastern corner of the Greenwood was many leagues in length. As dawn broke, it became necessary to halt and allow the horses some rest and a chance to find sustenance. All the many hours thus far transpired, Glorfindel's vision had remained upon the silvan warrior longing for an opportunity to question Legolas regarding his status in the archer's community.

Twice the Wood Elf had felt the stare so strongly that he was compelled to turn and learn the meaning of the intense scrutiny. Each time, the sense of confusion and mild affront contained in the Vanya warrior's look had made him quickly turn about. Now that they must stop for a time, Cuthenin determined to clear the matter up. Slipping from the mare's back he approached Glorfindel, noting how Galdor hastened to intercept him.

"Man na raeg?" (What is wrong?) demanded Legolas stepping aside to pass his Guardian. "Tirn'wador, let me by."

"Únad na raeg," (Nothing is wrong) Galdor replied. "I merely wish to establish some boundaries before we go any further, either in this conversation or this journey."

"Indeed, Galdor, it seems to me an obstruction has arisen by default." Glorfindel's sharp words interrupted. "Why was I not introduced as Faer Hebron?" This demand was directed at Cuthenin of course.

"Forgive me, Glorfindel. That I cannot do, now or ever," the morose reply came forth.

"What are you saying? Is it because I serve with the House of Eärendil? This prejudice was not mentioned before."

"Nay, it has nothing to do with where you come from or your heritage or anything of that nature."

"Then what?"

"Legolas, you did not reveal this to Glorfindel prior to Úcaul Annaur?" Galdor's tone was infused with disappointment.

"Reveal what?" Glorfindel turned to the Sadron in frenzied frustration.

"Nay, Tirn'wador. I thought it best to withhold that."

"One of you had better inform me of the meaning behind these cryptic words, and quickly," Glorfindel's voice was low and rumbled with the intensity of his warning.

"Aye. Do so at once, Legolas." ordered Galdor.

"Sui pedich, Tirn'wador." Legolas drew a steadying breath and faced Glorfindel. "It is forbidden by the laws of Greenwood for me to choose you as Faer Hebron. Male may not bond to male, nor female to female. Such is considered counter to the design of Iluvatar and thus a mark of evil influence. Anyone who goes against the edict is cast out," Legolas rushed to get the hated words from his mouth, dropping his sight to the ground in dread of witnessing Glorfindel's reaction.

"Forbidden?" Glorfindel could scarcely fathom this. "By your own sire?" The implications came crashing through his bewilderment. Legolas had agreed to a course that could only result in forfeiture of everything he knew in life. His culture, his home, his family, any friendships established among his people, his beloved Greenwood; all must be abandoned if he would consummate the bond to his Faer Hebron. The Balrog Slayer crossed the short distance separating him from Cuthenin and reached out to clasp him at the shoulders. "Why did you not tell me?" he asked and immediately understood the answer. "You feared I would refuse."

"Aye." Legolas was relieved that no anger marred the tones of Glorfindel's voice yet still kept his face averted.

"I might have done so," admitted Glorfindel. "A hard choice you would have set before me: to watch you bond with another or to claim you myself and thus rob you of the entirety of your world."

"I am sorry," Legolas shuddered, fearing the Vanya now regretted his decision. "The bond will fade away if we do nothing, as Tirn'wador has said."

"Is that what you want?" Glorfindel sounded startled, as indeed he was. Somewhere between a kiss in the meadow and crossing the river, he had quite made up his mind that Legolas and he were never to be parted save by direst necessity or death. He had assumed the archer reciprocated those notions.

"Nay!" Legolas' face rose so that he could share his indignation over such a thought eye-to-eye. "I will not force you to go against your own desires, but I wanted you to make the choice unfettered by concerns over the consequences our union would cause for me. If your decision was made for the reasons you spoke then I am willing to trade whatever I must to keep our bond." He swallowed hard. "Yet I would wish to forestall that fate as long as possible."

"By hiding the truth? I do not think that will work," Glorfindel smiled gently and squeezed Cuthenin's tense shoulders.

"Indeed it will not," averred Galdor. "Those of our faith know a Faer Hebron was necessary for Úcaul Annar. Your family probably knows this also. What will you say when your father demands to know who this elf is?"

"He will not ask me," countered Legolas. "If he wishes to know he will come to you for answers. He has never sought to circumvent my Guardian's authority and will not start now. If you do not tell him it will remain a secret."

"That was different for Calarlim raised you; he would be less alarmed by her choices. Even so, by your own account he was eager to know everything about your former Faer Hebron and pressed her very closely for answers," reminded Galdor. "He is likely to be even more curious now."

"What 'former Faer Hebron'?" Glorfindel's grip tightened and his eyes narrowed. "You had chosen another before me?"

"Nay, it was all false. My Naneth knew my heart and devised a plan to fool Hîren Adar. He has no idea I prefer males over females." Legolas reassured the Vanya.

"Ah, I see you two have not shared so much after all," groused Galdor.

"Exactly when have we been permitted any time alone to do so?" demanded Glorfindel. "You are always with us. Some things need to be discussed in private. I did not hold his soul long enough to discover every incident occurring over his entire life-span. Besides, there were other worries then and I doubt either of us were concentrating on the reaction Thranduil might present."

Galdor just snorted in answer to this.

"That is so," agreed Legolas. "As to the King's curiosity, you can say everything just as it happened, merely changing the sex of my intended. We will have to devise a different name, of course," he answered Galdor's original observation.

"So we are all to lie for you," Galdor complained. "Forgive me, but I am not sure I will be convincing. I have not the habit of inventing falsehoods."

"Well I have been lying most of my life and I will be glad to coach you. As long as the majority of what you say is the truth it will be acceptable. We must be frank and tell Hîren Adar about the rumours that spread through Imladris for his spies will report everything. We must stress that I did my duty and put Ithil'wath in his place. As for Úcaul Annaur, Elrond and Mithrandir alone know the ritual was conducted. It is unlikely our spies will learn of it until they return here."

"Arwen knows, but she will not reveal anything personal about me to others," Glorfindel added. He thought for a moment. "Possibly the twins and Aragorn but they are trustworthy."

"There is Erestor to consider," Galdor reminded and the words brought a cloud of gloom over the trio.

"He promised not to interfere in my life again," Glorfindel said firmly.

"He did not promise anything about Legolas' affairs," the Sadron growled. "He may have already revealed your role in the ritual to the King's spies."

"Nay, he would not say anything. To harm Legolas is to hurt me and he has sworn to let the past lie in peace."

"Even if he did, Hîren Adar would not count his word worthy of regard. He would at once suspect some hidden motive for never have the Noldor taken interest in what transpires beneath the canopy of the Greenwood," Legolas opined.

"You listened to him," Tirn'wador reminded bluntly.

"I am not my father," said Legolas quietly and there was a troubling undertone in the words that he failed to sequester. "Saes, Tirn'wador. I am not ready to give them up, not just yet."

"Thranduil will find out and when he does, he will be very angry," warned the Sadron. "Doubly so, for you have not only defied his will but then tried to conceal it from him. I feel it would be wiser to explain the reality, acknowledging the dread circumstances that prompted the union. He can be persuaded to withhold his judgement until the year of courtship has passed, for we can assert that the bond may fade."

"That is as much a lie as any other story would be," snapped Glorfindel. "I will not relinquish Cuthenin and either I am to state this plainly or keep it hidden completely. For Legolas' sake, I would do as he asks. Surely you can see it, Galdor, he cannot lose his entire family now so soon after Calarlim's death." He wrapped an arm around Legolas' shoulder and drew him close, delighted by the thrill that passed through him when the archer secured the link by encircling the Vanya's waist in like manner.

"You said you would protect me if it was at all in your power to do so. Surely it is a simple thing to say 'elleth' instead of 'ellon'?" pleaded Legolas.

"You are a very belligerent charge to govern, Legolas," scolded Galdor but his demeanour was kindly. "Never have I known a Guardian to be plagued by such defiant disregard of sage wisdom." He shook his head, for his better judgement was unaffected by the poignancy of the scene before him, yet his heart knew he could not ask Legolas to face so cruel a fate so soon after the traumatic events of recent days. "It goes against my nature, but I will agree to this ploy. However, should your father ask me directly if Glorfindel is your Faer Hebron I will not lie. It is a fine line, but I will balance between misleading innuendo and full disclosure as long as possible."

"Le hanteän, Tirn'wador," Legolas relaxed upon hearing this promise, giddy in the aftermath of fear over revealing all to his family. "Now then, who shall the mysterious Lady be?" Legolas' eyes shone with mischief. "Glorfindel, do you have a sister?"

The Balrog Slayer laughed and pulled Cuthenin into a quick embrace, holding him out arms' length afterwards to study the scheming elf. "Aye, I have a younger sister in Aman. Although younger in a relative sense only for she was among the dead as Gondolin burned. In our first life I was eldest but in our second she is first-born. I still think of her as my thêl laes (baby sister). Her name is Aelluin (Blue Lake)."

"That is perfect! You must tell us everything about Aelluin," the silvan smiled hugely as he disengaged from the Vanya and sat down against the broad trunk of a beech tree. The other two joined him and while the horses took their rest the elves revised their true tale of unexpected joy arising from the dour chances of ill fate into one more acceptable to Thranduil and his strict mores.

Anar was at her zenith before the scouts deemed their mounts sufficiently renewed and resumed the journey. Legolas once more issued a few notes of birdsong to ensure the safety of their path before they headed deeper into the gloomy woods. No other signs of the elusive silvans than the distantly returned whistles were apparent nor indeed were there indications of any form of native wild life. The forest seemed cloaked in a blanket of suffocating stillness, shielded from wholesome light and fresh air under the cloistering net of branch-work. Glorfindel had heard that men kept settlements within the central portions of the woods, but the way Legolas took brought them no sight of these colonies. The trio trotted onward.

At last the forest grew brighter as the boundary into Thranduil's realm was reached. Startling was the glare of the sun as the horses broke through the cover onto the wide, hard-packed Dwarven Road that transected the Greenwood. To his left and right Glorfindel glanced the length of the long straight gash through the trees made so long ago by Durin's Race. Meant to join the eastern lands of Dale and Erebor to the western realms across the Hithaeglir, there were few travellers venturing down this path in present times. In the trees above, however, a silvan sentinel hailed Legolas as they passed:

"Suilad, Cuthenin. Noro celeg, an Aran Thranduil tîr an le." (Greetings, Cuthenin. Go swiftly for King Thranduil watches for thee.)

"Aye, Sûlchim. Man lû brona tirith lín?" (Aye, Steady Wind. How long is your patrol?)

"Tírathon le sen dû." (I will see you late this night.)

"Ab'eveditham" (We will meet later.)

The travellers rode on and no longer did Legolas need the aid of his unseen guides to find the way. Once on the northern side of the road the character of the woods drastically altered and it was easy then to see why Greenwood was once called great in days long past. Shadow's tendrils stole across the boundary but could not take hold and strangle the good out of the fair strong trees. Birds, squirrels, game small and large remained in this segment of the realm and evidence of their occupation was abundant to sound and scent and sight. The chuckle of merry brooks and streams joined the understated hum and chatter of life. The close air was less choking, the mighty trees less intimidating, the Wood Elves less secretive for many called greetings from high in the canopy as the trio passed by one lofty outpost after another.

Then Asfaloth and Galdor's steed became agitated as a sinister escort of shadowy forms emerged from the thick cover. Three dire wolves loped alongside the horses, two on the right and one on the left. Asfaloth blew an enraged neighing challenge to the leader and tried to charge the creature, but Glorfindel held him back. He saw Legolas glance behind and met his concerned eye. The archer then looked to the huge canine matching his mare stride for stride and the Balrog Slayer could swear the beast returned the gaze, bold and unafraid. Legolas' mare, he noticed with some surprise, was not the least distressed by the proximity of the predators.

"Ego," (Be off) Cuthenin commanded and a gruff growl answered.

The wolf was running with jaws agape, his tongue lolling between his gleaming fangs, and to Glorfindel seemed almost to be laughing at the young Wood Elf. "Ego, Carch Fain," (Be gone, White Fang (ok, sorry couldn't resist)) Legolas repeated and there could be no doubting the grin that transformed his features. With a sharp high bark the wolf veered away and his companions joined him, leaving the scouts to continue their journey unaccompanied. Legolas looked back to his Faer Hebron and lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug, smiling apologetically but offering no explanation.

Dusk came early under the limbs of the dense-growing trees and the pace slowed to a walk as Cuthenin's mare picked her way with greater caution through the darkening byways. Then Legolas halted and before Glorfindel could enquire why he found that their progress was blocked by a patrol of elven warriors. They were cavalry yet all stood beside their mounts in the gathering twilight, silent and expectant. Cuthenin leaped down and approached their leader, a tall Sindarin elf with enough similarity to Igeredir that the Vanya guessed this to be a son or grandson of the prince. At his side sat the huge wolf, staring with that whimsical grin from golden eyes as though all of it was a grand joke.

Legolas dropped right to his knees in the dirt before this imposing elf and bowed his head low. "Aran Thranduil, le suilannon vi sîdh. Na dâf lín, tegin hîr od Imladris an siniath prestad a gûr sael. Neledhim?" (King Thranduil, I greet you in peace. With your permission, I bring lords from Imladris with troubling news and wise counsel. May we enter?)

"Erio, Legolas. Gûren gerin glass le adgeni," (Rise, Legolas. My heart holds joy to see you again.) answered the Wood Elves King as his hand drew his youngest up to his feet. Thranduil rested his fingers on Legolas' shoulder and leaned in closer to peer into the upturned face. A small exclamation of dismay escaped him then. "It is true, the word brought to me. You have lost Calarlim. Nallon gwanu naneth lín, ion nelui." (I weep for your naneth's death, third son.)

"Le hanteän, Hîren Adar," Cuthenin briefly covered his father's hand with his and then stepped back. "Here are Lords Glorfindel and Galdor, emissaries from Imladris. Much news have they to convey if you would hear it."

"Suilad, Aran Thranduil," said Galdor with a considerate nod of his head in respect to the Greenwood's ruler.

"Mae govannen, Hîr," adjoined Glorfindel, truly amazed to be greeted by the King here in the midst of the trees under the gloaming.

"Suilad, Lords of the West," said Thranduil as he smiled and the slight mockery in this designation was not lost upon the two visitors. "I will hear your counsel gladly, yet let us not waste time on formalities here under the branches. Ride with me into the stronghold and allow the Woodland Realm to extend fitting hospitality to such noble guests." So saying he mounted up and all his soldiers did likewise. The royal escort waited for Legolas to vault onto his mare's back and then all were away, trotting easily through the trees in silence, the wolf pacing right alongside the King's war horse.

The distance remaining was surprisingly short and before two leagues had passed beneath the horses hooves the foliage thinned out and the bright gleam of torches and lanterns lit the terrain. Nearly every tree housed a talan and an extended family, not unlike the Galadhrim's abodes in Lorien, yet the structures were higher in the limbs and had no slender staircases curling around the hardwood trunks. Glorfindel's attention was drawn to these high platforms, many of which were completely screened from view by closely pulled curtains and panels of woven rushes. Even so, many of the silvan elves were outside, perched upon branches to watch the procession and stare at the foreign elves. Some were even balanced on slender cords strung from tree to tree in the open space above the cavalcade. They were utterly silent.

The sound of the Forest River filled the night and by its growing volume the Vanya guessed the stronghold must be near. Almost the next instant the solitary mountain fortress came into view, a looming mass of rock made black in the dearth of illumination. It was skirted by a wide plateau about which arose a high stone-work wall and the river ran before the gates, a natural mote. The bridge was also of stone and wide enough for two horses to cross abreast. At once Thranduil's troops formed ranks. Glorfindel and Galdor were situated just behind the King and his captain while Cuthenin was forced to the rear guard with the remaining pair of wolves as companions, one on either side of his mount. The Great Gates parted at a word from the King and the entourage entered the impenetrable castle.

Once within the walls, the warriors and their King parted, the mounted guard trotting on around the mountain to some unseen destination. Thranduil and his guests halted at the entrance to the underground caverns, a tremendous arched opening in the smooth stone. Grooms arrived to lead away the horses and it was then Glorfindel noticed Legolas was no longer with them. He looked to Galdor in alarm, silently demanding the Sadron ask what was within his right as Tirn'wador yet would be inappropriate for a stranger.

"Welcome," the King was saying pleasantly as he motioned for his guests to enter in. The interior was open and airy, well lighted and more reminiscent of a grand hall than a cave. There were plush carpets covering the rocky floor and banners hanging from the ceiling. Furnishings were sparse, just a few tables and benches, and the walls were bare.

Now that they were under the glare of the torches, Glorfindel was more interested in evaluating the Sindarin ruler than the decor. He found Thranduil fairly typical of the race in height and weight although the pale flaxen tresses were not so common among the Grey Elves. The golden hair was bound back in warrior fashion, exactly as Legolas wore his, and accentuated the King's comely countenance. These features, as noted before, distinguished him as blood-kin to Igeredir, though Glorfindel had mistaken the connection. Thranduil's eyes were a rich viridian and flashed with his legendary volatility while all his movements were as fluid with lethal grace as any hunting panther's would be. He was dressed in silvan style, though of more elegant manufacture, and upon his brow a circlet of autumn foliage was the only crown he wore. Truly, there seemed little in his appearance, other than hair colour, that had carried over to Cuthenin.

No sooner had they set foot inside than a regal elf came forward and bowed to Thranduil. The two discussed the mundane matter of domestic arrangements suitable for the stature of the unexpected guests and Glorfindel ignored the conversation. Their business concluded quickly and the tall ellon swept his long chestnut hair back over his shoulder as he surveyed the visitors with less than an approving stare. Galdor feigned disregard of him but Glorfindel glared back irritably.

"That is settled then. If you would accompany me I am eager to hear your news," Thranduil said as his seneschal left to attend his Lord's will.

"Forgive me, Lord Thranduil, yet may I enquire where Cuthenin has gone? As Tirn'wador I cannot permit him to wander far from my governance, especially so soon after the ritual," the worthy Sadron staked his claim as Guardian of the Wood Elf's destiny.

"I am fairly certain he has departed to report to his captain, as is his duty." Thranduil tendered the Noldo Lord an icy inspection, frowning.

"Ah, I had thought he would join us for this meeting," Glorfindel interposed. "His input at the council was of great import."

That plainly startled the King for he halted midstep and was silent for a second or two. "Cuthenin attended this council? Why would Elrond ask a messenger to participate in such a meeting?"

"He felt the news pertinent to the events discussed, as you will learn soon enough. Cuthenin represented the Woodland Realm quite well," Galdor said.

Thranduil did not respond to this, instead moving swiftly across the room and through an opening at the back, motioning the guests to follow. Not another word did he say as they paced yet his person radiated a barely contained displeasure over the information he had received. Galdor and Glorfindel exchanged disconcerted glances as they hastened to keep up with the ruler.

The three elves passed by many an appealingly appointed parlour, numerous offices, a library upon which no less than four portals opened, and several closed doors. Their progress was observed in open curiosity by many of the stronghold's occupants but Thranduil did not find it worthwhile to stop and make any introductions. When finally they paused before one of the closed doors, Galdor and Glorfindel were fairly unnerved. They had not thought far enough into the matter, their concerns centred on the issue of Faer Hebron, to realise that the King would find his son's participation in the meeting objectionable. Given Legolas' reasons for his reluctance in attending it, they might have done so and been more mindful of their tongues.

Thranduil opened the ornately carved cedar-wood barrier and ushered them inside. There was a distinct quality of incarceration in the sound of the heavy door connecting with the stone lintel even though no bolt was thrown. They were in a comfortable study that was part of the King's personal suite of rooms for he did not feel the need to conduct the impromptu diplomacy in a formal setting. He directed them to sit near the hearth, which was blazing, and then moved to an ornate and finely crafted oak wood side board and poured out three glasses of a dark ruby wine. Thranduil handed these out as he joined them and for a moment the three did nothing but savour the pleasing flavour of the full-bodied vintage.

"I understand there was some trouble on the journey hence," he said with an even smile that revealed absolutely no warmth.

"We were beset by Orcs but that is to be expected when travelling so close to Dol Guldur," affirmed Glorfindel, mildly annoyed to have to engage in some sort of diplomatic two-step and its accompanying small-talk when important issues were at hand.

"Indeed, yet I regret you came under threat in my lands. I am glad neither of you took any injuries. It has been many years since elves of the western realms paid a visit to the Greenwood," the Sindarin King rejoined.

"As to harm befalling us, Cuthenin is so skilled an archer we were barely in any danger," Galdor stated with genuine pride and was favoured with a somewhat harsh examination for it.

"He is certainly among the best," was all Thranduil would concede. Whatever else he might have said was forestalled when the same chestnut haired elf unceremoniously strolled into the room without so much as a knock on the wood. "Ah, Galion. Everything in order?"

"It is, Hîren," the Greenwood's seneschal went right to the sideboard and helped himself to the wine, carrying the entire bottle back to the chairs with him where he chose one and sat down. "I appreciate your willingness to belay your well-earned rest in order to apprise Aranen (my King) of these untoward events. So inclusive a congregation of free peoples is most uncommon." Galion addressed the two guests thus and raised his glass to them with a little nod of his head in salute before he drank.

Galdor and Glorfindel said nothing in reply to this for it was clearly meant as a challenge, since Elrond had not formally invited Greenwood's participation, and neither one planned to engage in a power struggle with the snobbish silvan steward. Too much was at stake and they dearly hoped this unpleasant advisor would not have overly much influence on the King's decisions.

"Tell me of this council," Thranduil suddenly demanded, having delayed the discussion only for his seneschal's arrival. This they did, relaying the facts uninterrupted by the King or his counsellor. When they were done Thranduil rose and paced to the hearth where he glared into the grate and took up the poker in order to jab at the wood, sending a spray of sparks up into the flue. "This is serious indeed. I would not have thought Sauron's Ring could be held for so long by that Gollum thing without it being discovered. Yet that lengthy possession has turned into a blessing for all."

"That is true. We will need the co-operation of the Greenwood and her people if we are to take advantage of this. We must act quickly," asserted Glorfindel.

"This is madness. Elrond cannot seriously believe the Halfling can survive against such odds. It would be better to put forth that nonsense as the decoy and in fact send the Ring over the Sundering Sea. Let the exalted Valar deal with this thing, for it is one among the Ainur that made it." Galion refilled his empty glass and did the same for the others as he made this comment.

"The Halflings are surprisingly resilient when faced with adversity and resistant to the lure of the Ring. Gollum was some kind of Halfling himself, according to Mithrandir," Glorfindel felt compelled to defend Frodo's people, having seen first hand the Hobbit's bravery and determination.

"Perhaps you are correct," Galion sent the Balrog Slayer a cool glance. "My contact with them is much more limited than yours."

"I do not believe Manwë would accept the article and Elrond agrees. It is for those of us remaining in Arda to solve. In Middle-earth was it made and only here can it be unmade," Galdor said to divert the two from their budding staring match.

"Oh I do not doubt your reasoning," glowered Galion. "Yet I am equally sure the Powers could intercede and aid this cause, should they so choose. Forgive me, but Manwë is rather too cowardly for my taste."

"Cowardly is perhaps too strong, but distant and disengaged, this I feel also," Galdor sighed. "That being the case, it is left to us to see this task accomplished."

"Aye, who can say if all of the Valar could withstand the lure of the Ring? The Maiar are particularly susceptible, it seems, what with Saruman's defection to Darkness," Thranduil mused. They fell silent as he considered everything discussed thus far and then he gave a shot nod of the head. "I will do what you ask, though the price for my people will be high. Still, we are already targeted by the very presence of Dol Guldur. I would have my Greenwood freed of this cursed Shadow sickness. The messengers will be sent on their way in the morning."

This decided, Thranduil turned to go, calling over his shoulder as he did so. "Lord Galdor, if you would walk with me I will show you the way to your chambers. Lord Glorfindel, I leave you under the capable guidance of Galion."

Galdor really could not decline though his and Glorfindel's shared glance indicated both preferred to remain in eye-sight of one another during their stay in Greenwood, at least until the issue of Faer Hebron arose. The Sadron was not comfortable in his role of prevaricator and was hoping Glorfindel and Legolas would handle that part. He was no fool, however, and fully expected Thranduil's courtesy was designed to isolate him in order to ply these very questions uninhibited by others' interference. He followed the King back into the hall.

Again the journey was conducted in silence and at a brisk pace. Galdor realised this must be Thranduil's natural gait and adjusted. Presently they reached another suite which the King opened for him and the Sadron entered a finely appointed sitting room in which the fire was already lit and the lamps burning brightly. He did not even have time to thank the monarch for such accommodations before the door slammed and Thranduil began his tirade.

"You claim to be his Guardian and yet permitted him to be subjected to such humiliation? What he had to say was for Gandalf's hearing only, or for Elrond's if the wizard could not be found, not some hodge-podge of assorted dignitaries, soldiers, lords, and commoners." He hissed, his back to the Lord from Mithlond as he stalked over to the fireplace.

"There was no intent to shame him, Lord Thranduil. I offered to speak on his behalf and have him excused from attending but Legolas would not hear of it," Galdor explained, straightening to his full height as the King turned to focus his rage upon the elder Lord. In the heat of the moment, he forgot to use the Wood Elf's Athedrainyn name, but Thranduil gave no indication he noted this.

"Of course he would not accept such an option! Legolas is not one to put off his duty or defy a request from the Lord of the realm. He has shouldered responsibility for his failings admirably and was punished for them beyond need through the loss of his Guardian on the journey. Was it necessary to ask him to endure more chastisement, and publicly?" the King thundered from his stance near the grate.

"Lord Elrond did not realise how difficult it would be for him. The intent was to spare him the need to repeat the tale multiple times."

"The intent was achieved but you have not named it. I do not care about the small-minded folk who look for reasons to sustain their prejudice against the silvan people. My concern is only for Legolas. Above all else he is my son and this will have affected him deeply."

"That is so. Legolas will worry over this until you set him at ease, Lord Thranduil. His constant fear while in Imladris was to show his homeland or his people in a poor light. If I failed him as Tirn'wador I ask pardon from you. Allow me to go to him and erase these doubts."

"I respect the Guardian's place in his life, Galdor, yet you must respect mine. I will go to him myself. Legolas has lost too much for one so young and I am troubled by this ritual and its significance." He smiled grimly at the Sadron. "You must understand that I dislike many of the practices this creed demands and your sudden insinuation into my youngest child's world is an unexpected…event.

"I do not pretend to comprehend all of the religious aspects this death rite involves, yet I am informed enough to realise it could not be done without both a guardian and a soul keeper. The first he lost on this mission, the second several years ago, just before he was to initiate formal courtship. I can only assume that upon taking the place of Calarlim you then advised him on the choice of Faer Hebron."

"Your summation is correct, Lord," Galdor admitted, steeling himself for the inevitable. "Yet permit me to say that I exerted no undo authority over his decision and made it clear to both parties that the bond need never be consummated should the courtship fail to produce the depth of feeling such a commitment demands. I take my role as Tirn'wador quite seriously, however, and will continue to advise whatever I deem to be in Legolas' best interest."

Thranduil was not about to allow the Noldo Lord's assurance to satisfy him so easily. "How can you possible divine what is right for him? You have known him but a handful of days. Calarlim raised him and there was little I could do to hinder her decisions for Legolas looked to her as his naneth. To supplant her would have caused him too much strife. Yet I am thinking it would have been more merciful to do so early in his life, for now the worst has befallen him anyway. I will not sit by quietly while an outlander seeks to direct his future."

"Surely he is no elfling, Lord Thranduil. Legolas is of age to make such choices for himself," Galdor stalled. "You speak of Cuthenin as if he had no say in such matters."

"I am well aware of my son's age and treat with him accordingly. Nevertheless, I am suspicious of someone manipulating him during a time of tremendous hardship and sorrow," snarled the King.

"Sîdh, Aran Thranduil," exhorted Galdor. "I had no wish to offend you. I merely hoped to remind you that Legolas may not appreciate being left out of this discussion. He is the one who suffered the loss and endured the rite, after all."

"He would expect no less from his Adar than to seek the true purpose behind your actions. Legolas has one fault and I am sure you have noted it by now: his heart is too open and trusting. I will say it plainly, Galdor. I feel you have taken advantage of that trait to assume this place of importance in his life. I would know why."

"Your charge is false! I was quite reluctant to step in initially. There was little choice in the matter for the circumstances were dire. You must understand, Lord Thranduil, that Legolas was already fading when I met him." Galdor was not one to lose his temper but Thranduil was certainly tempting him. His explanation was thus perhaps more to the point than he would normally make it. It was no small thing to tell a father his child was beyond his help when it was most needed, and Thranduil's ashen face revealed it.

"Your words chill my heart." The anger had drained from the King's voice as well and he stared in weary anguish to hear this pronouncement. Wounds could be treated but the soul was another matter altogether. "Was it so near a thing that laegel hênen (my green elf child) would be lost to me?"

"It was so. Had Glorfindel not called my attention to the situation we might have carried only Legolas' body home to you instead of fell news."

Thranduil's brows arched. "Glorfindel? It seems I owe him a great debt, yet how is it that he was the one who took note of Legolas' condition rather than the renowned healer and lore-master?"

"He was among the elves who met Legolas at the border." Galdor cleared his throat and took a moment, remembering all the three scouts had discussed before continuing. "I regret to have to reveal that he came under no small degree of baiting and open mockery and Glorfindel was forced to intervene. Be assured, Legolas handled the situation admirably but the fact that Elrond's Captain of the Guard stepped in only caused the gossip to escalate. It is best you understand it from the source, for you will surely hear a distorted version later. A malicious rumour was spread abroad that he and Legolas engaged in a romantic encounter."

The King's eyes darkened in outrage anew and his frame became rigid as he glared at the emissary. "There is often a grain of truth in such stories. I hope you can justify the kernel within yours, Galdor, for such assignations are not favoured in my realm."

"Nay, this is not so. Nothing inappropriate has transpired between Legolas and Glorfindel," the Sadron insisted, for he believed this whole-heartedly no matter the narrow views of the silvans. "They are friends, Lord Thranduil, and I hold the utmost respect for both. Legolas weathered the taunts with graceful restraint even while combating weakened health from poisoned wounds and a sickened soul consumed in grief. Alas, it is Glorfindel's history in such matters that has afflicted Cuthenin with these slanders."

Thranduil took a step in Galdor's direction and halted, raising his pointing hand to aim it at the Sadron's heart. "I trust your word based on the oath you inked on my youngest child's skin. I also see that you have used this scandalising news to divert my mind from the original topic. If you have no other sordid gossip to share, let us come to the heart of the matter," intoned the wary father. "Who is the Faer Hebron?"

TBC

Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow)

by F.
unbeta'd

italics thoughts

(elvish translation)

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's,the words here are mine. No money earned.

A/N: I apologise for the lengthy delay in posting to this story again. I did not walk away from it, I simply could not get these chapters right. I have struggled to get it to this point and am satisfied with where this places our hero and his father. Legolas and Thranduil do have a confrontation over the subject of Faer Hebron. I have tried to make this realistic based on the following conditions I placed on Thranduil's character: 1) that he loves his son; 2) he has fallen into a trap many many people do concerning controversial issues: assuming they can be judged under black and white guidelines. Where nature is concerned, things are rarely so cut and dried; 3) he is not stupid.

Thranduil has to come to terms with this situation rather quickly, after shying away from it for years. I reason this based on the fact that he is intelligent and must know, having lived as long as he has, that there are and always will be folks who are attracted to their own gender. His decision against it is initially a practical one that gets entwined within the religious creed of the people he governs. These are a people who have long struggled against evil in their midst, a people isolated from the rest of the elven realms, a people never exposed to the Light of Valinor, distrustful of the Valar, and wary of outsiders. Under these conditions, Pâd-en-Tawar has changed and absorbed the civil edict into its religious doctrine.

Beyond that, we learn quite a lot about Legolas' birth-mother and Glorfindel finds out who some of the archer's friends and enemies are. I clipped the discussion between Galdor and Thranduil down quite a bit, for initially they argued over the same-sex issue and in retrospect I felt the King would not permit himself to be drawn off-topic again by the wily Noldorin Sadron. I may work their talk back into the story later under a different guise, so if you feel like you do not understand enough about Thranduil's decision to make the law banning same-sex unions in the first place, feel free to let me know. Thank you all for your patience and continued support!
Cheers,
Fred
04/08/2006

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Canad-ar-Leben Peth: Mellyn o Cyth? (Part Fifteen: Friends or Enemies?)

"An elf of good standing, honourable and true-hearted, highly placed among the last of the great House of the Golden Flower. You may be aware that Lord Glorfindel has a sister, Aelluin."

The words were carefully enunciated as if speaking the syllables presented a hazard, as if the sounds themselves were a poison that might taint Galdor's lips before dissipating within the ambient snap and sizzle of the kindled fire. The elder watched to see what effect they produced upon Thranduil, fearing something in his tone, his pitch, or his stance would reveal the subterfuge. The King's brow furrowed in a vague frown while he searched his memory for the named elf and for several seconds he said nothing. Then his scowl deepened and Galdor was certain the vague falsehood would be challenged. The Sadron held firm and waited.

"Nay, I have never heard that name before, I am sure of it."

"I am not entirely surprised by this. Not many have met the Lady Aelluin, even in Imladris. Few are the number who know of Glorfindel's sibling; she dislikes the attention her brother's renown invites. Of his reputation in other matters of his life she likewise prefers to remain distant."

"I see. Does Aelluin disprove the union between her brother and Elrond's kinsman?"

"Aye, she considered them an ill-favoured couple and warned Glorfindel the reasons for the bond were not sufficient to grant him happiness." Now none of this was known to Galdor personally, for even in Gondolin he had interacted little with the Balrog Slayer's younger sister, but in as much as Glorfindel had so stated this he believed the characterisation accurate. Thus, though fraught with deceit his words rang true.

Thranduil's expression acquired a slight veneer of irritation atop his unresolved anxiety over his son's fate. "You imply she does not deplore intimacy between like partners. It is a serious issue in my realm; her attitude will find little acceptance here."

"I would understand the reason for such strong opinions on this subject, if you could explain it. All my life have I adhered to Pâd-en-Tawar and am Sadron for my country; never has a restriction of this type been placed on elves before. Why is this different in Greenwood?" Galdor realised Thranduil would probably direct him to the Woodland realm's spiritual leader for answers, yet felt compelled to use any means to avoid the real subject.

"It has nothing to do with Pâd-en-Tawar, though the creed has incorporated the law fully. I enacted the edict at the end of the Second Age, deeming our people in danger of extinction, so few males returned from Dagorlad. For that reason only bonding between ellon and elleth was sanctioned thereafter."

"I understand the extreme conditions that prompted this decision, but the population has recovered, has it not? Why persist in enforcing a decree that alienates one segment of the citizenry from another? It can make no difference now if a small percentage of the population finds their gender more appealing than the opposite. Whatever the law may state it cannot eradicate such a basic component of an individual's identity." Galdor permitted himself a small bloom of hope, for the King did not sound as intractable as his son believed. It seemed more a matter of practicality than a moral doctrine. If Thranduil would repeal this law then Legolas need not be forced to choose between his family and his soul-mate.

"Perhaps, but the notion has taken on a life of its own and is now firmly ensconced in the religious ideas of both Sindar and silvan. Such unions are counter to the design of Iluvatar and represent a tell-tale sign of the strength of the Shadow. The Woodland folk live closer to the evil of the Dark Lord than those in other elven realms. Fear drives people to seek a cause, a place to lay blame. I am certain you have heard the same arguments in Lorien, Lord Galdor."

"I have. I would hear your own views rather than a generic apology."

"Do you seek a convert?" Thranduil laughed, a contemptuous sound lacking mirth. The King eyed his Noldorin guest shrewdly, discerning why Galdor had pushed them into this discussion "We have gone far from our topic," he said quietly and moved to take a seat, a silent motion of his hand bidding Galdor join him, "and that is something I would wish to understand from you. No more hesitation. Let us speak of my son and his Faer Hebron. You are obviously reluctant to discuss it and I would know why."

For a timeless minute the two elven nobles stared hard into each other's eyes; Thranduil determined to direct the conversation and Galdor equally determined to divert it. Yet the elder Sadron had encountered Oropher in past Ages and knew by reputation that his unyielding temperament had passed to the current ruler of Greenwood. The heir of Oropher was unlikely to be distracted again.

"As you wish. I cannot refute your complaint," Galdor stated flatly, dismayed but not surprised that there would be no easy resolution of the problem. He lowered his weary body into the comfortable chair, sorting out what he would offer by way of answer. The journey and the fighting had taken their toll and he wished nothing more than an end to this interrogation and a chance to bathe. "If I hesitate it is solely out of concern for Legolas. I have known him but a short time yet I have found much to admire in your youngest child. With all he has endured I would prevent further hardships. Many obstacles hinder the pair: culture, age, and spiritual beliefs among the most daunting."

"So." Thranduil sighed and pressed his fingers to his eyes a moment. "The bond was only made to reverse the extreme state of Legolas' health. For this intervention I am eternally in her debt, but I cannot see that he would appreciate pity nor would I want him to remain in a loveless union." It was not something unexpected but somehow hearing the words made the situation real for his son. Legolas deserves better.

"Nor would I," agreed the Sadron, nodding as he presented Thranduil a faint smile. "The motivation for the ritual bond is not so superficial, being a combination of sympathy, similar personalities, and raw physical attraction. The elf Legolas has chosen genuinely wishes only what is best for him; however, I am not yet convinced their bond will endure. If it does not then the separation shall be mutually accepted and not cause for additional grief."

"I trust you will endeavour to convince me of the truth in your assessment." Thranduil did not doubt the sincerity of Galdor's statements, yet every instinct told him the Noldo Lord was holding back. He wondered why the Sadron was unwilling to expound upon the lady, for on first hearing the match was not a poor one. What can be the cause for this reticence? He held Galdor's gaze in silent challenge.

"I do not mean to keep you uninformed regarding Legolas' Faer Hebron and I understand your concern for your son." Galdor sighed and grimaced as he looked away into the cheerful hearth. "Yet you must know that Pâd-en-Tawar grants me this privilege in as much as Legolas himself agreed to the Guardianship. He has asked that I remain conservative in what I say of his affianced mate."

"What say you? Legolas does not want me involved?" Thranduil could not hide the note of remorse and sadness in his voice. Somewhere in the recesses of his heart, so deeply felt that he could not even admit the notion was there, he had hoped that with Calarlim gone Legolas would turn to him for guidance.

"Permit me to be frank, Lord Thranduil, though we are not close acquaintances." Galdor shifted, sitting forward to the edge of the chair. Perceiving he had found a vulnerable spot in the forbidding monarch's facade, he held the King's eyes and diligently aimed for it. "Legolas dreads earning your disfavour and thinks his choice for Faer Hebron will not meet your standards. He wishes only to be a source of pride for you and your House. I could tell you all I know of Aelluin and still not satisfy the doubts and suspicions that crowd your vision. This is no more than I would expect, for we are strangers. Therefore, go and speak with your son of these matters. Yet listen attentively to his answers and let your heart be your counsellor."

Involuntarily, Thranduil drew a sharp breath and gripped the arms of the chair tightly so intense was the expression emanating from the Noldorin elder's dark eyes. A bright spark of fear, an uneasy flash of memory ran through the ruler's mind, for once before he had been put off by his son's Guardian over the very same topic. Then as now, a nagging doubt surfaced briefly, taunting the worried father with its terrible implications. Hastily Thranduil squelched this alarming idea, assuring himself that he was imagining things and willing himself not to permit guilt to taint his perceptions of his youngest child. Then all the agitation left him and he seemed to deflate, slouching down in his seat as he averted his gaze.

"There is great divergence among the followers of your faith, Sadron, for in Greenwood one who is not an initiate may not discuss these issues with one who is." Thranduil's bitter frustration in dealing with such a restriction over the course of Legolas' life was unmistakable. "Legolas has been taught to hold his tongue and has ever done so, even when I could see he wished my counsel."

"Mayhap so, yet this is not a rule specific to your kingdom. It is not one that is strictly enforced in Mithlond and I would never advise an elf regarding his or her Faer Hebron without discussing it with family, especially the parents. I am his Tirn'wador now and he will find my guidance more lenient, especially since he is fully grown and there is only this one issue to resolve before my jurisdiction expires. Legolas mentioned that you did not take part in his first choosing but believes you demurred for other reasons."

"What do you mean?" Thranduil looked up warily.

"No doubt it was Calarlim who put the thought in his mind, although he may have heard it spoken of among his peers also. He told me he was sent away because you did not think any elleth here would consider him suitable to wed."

Galdor watched as Thranduil's eyes filled with anger, all the centuries of confounded plans and defrayed goals revealed in glaring gravity. If he and Calarlim had ever worked together in the raising of Legolas, it must have been a tenuous truce at best. The heat of ire faded quickly, however, replaced by a deep sorrow touched by something the wise Guardian recognised as guilty shame. Galdor had but a second to observe it, however, for Thranduil quickly trained his vision into the dancing flames. It is as Legolas believes; the father merely wishes his son did not know this.

"Why then would he desire my opinion now?" murmured the distraught father. "If he thinks I hold him so lowly in my thoughts, what use can he have for my input? Were it me, I would refuse to speak of these things as well, for it would sorely hurt my soul to believe my Adar disparaged me so."

"However low he feels himself placed within your thoughts, Legolas does not resent you for it but considers the assessment must be valid." The Sadron gave the mental equivalent of a deep inhalation, for this was the break-through he had hoped to achieve. Estë, guide my tongue that my words may open his heart. "Surely the conditions of his birth were made plain to him long ago. Given the culture among the silvans, I would be surprised were he to have any other self-perception. He is well aware that some hold his very existence to be an affront and that, as his progenitor, this ill-favour extends to you. Your son does not blame you for his circumstances, rather holds you in the very highest esteem. Nothing more does he wish than to feel he has earned your respect.

"Go to him, Thranduil, and make him see this is not something he must acquire by bold deeds or eloquent words. Show him that you find him worthy, not because he conducts himself honourably and exhibits courage on the battelfield. Let him know that you understand his actions spring from his innate character, and that this core of his heart and soul is exemplary in your summation. This alone he needs from you; all else can be endured if he believes this one thing: his father accepts him unconditionally."

Thranduil stared at the ancient elf, amazed to find himself not only listening but hungrily devouring his insights. With a powerful surge of his heart he realised why: the Sadron's wisdom and straight-forward speech reminded him keenly of Oropher. How this foreign elf could so succinctly outline the complex emotions that lay between him and his youngest child, Thranduil could not fathom. Suddenly enlightenment blossomed and he allowed a sheepish smile to grace his lips, for of course the situation and its accompanying awkwardness between father and son were not unique. I only think it so because I am in the centre of it. Who knows how many Galdor has similarly counselled over the Ages? And that he found reassuring, for his story was no longer a shocking revelation marking the decay of his morals but something the elder Sadron had probably heard innumerable times before.

"Le hanteän, Lord Galdor. Long it has been since I confided in anyone on so personal a matter; indeed, I have not since Lhoss' and I parted. I did not understand how greatly I required it." Accepting the silent nod of his guest in reply and saying nothing more, the King set his mouth in grim determination, rose, and strode quickly from the room.

While Galdor endured this strange inquisition turned confession, the Balrog Slayer had an encounter of his own.

In Thranduil's private study, Glorfindel rose to his feet the instant after Galdor stood and watched the King escort the Sadron away. Before the door closed he turned to Galion, still seated on the sofa sipping ruby wine from a crystal goblet. The steward did not seem in any hurry to leave the comfort of the King's suite and the Vanya warrior stared coldly into the openly disdainful visage. Something about this elf just set Glorfindel's nerves on edge and he was overwhelmed with a strong desire to knock the smug expression right back into the haughty advisor's wine-stained teeth.

"Oh, eager to depart?" Galion finally queried, giving Glorfindel a thorough once over with his mocking hazel gaze. "You do seem weary and begrimed; perhaps a bath and a short respite would renew your disposition." The advisor stood and ambled toward the exit, still carrying his glass and Thranduil's decanter, which he tucked under his arm in order to open the door. "Come along, I will direct you to your rooms. They are well situated and not too difficult to locate, however the fortress is something of a maze. Mark well the route for I am not assigned as your personal valet."

"Thank you for your courtesy," Glorfindel answered tersely, thinking he would sooner be lost in the caverns a week than suffer Galion for guidance. In the interest of diplomacy, he held his tongue and followed, noting each intersection, turning, and stairway used. Yet the journey was indeed circuitous and the Vanya warrior had the distinct impression it was purposefully so. After some minutes of silent walking they stopped before an ornate set of double doors and with a frown Glorfindel recognised the open entry to the King's suite just a short ways ahead. "You have led us in a loop, why?" he demanded, not at all amused by the ridiculous antic.

"Ah, clever of you to notice that, Glorfindel, so observant. Forgive my little ruse, the King does not ordinarily like to have strangers so well acquainted with the layout of his palace. This is not your suite, however, but my apartment." Galion was chuckling through his words, not at all displeased that he had been caught at his game, and opened the doors. He proceeded inside but Glorfindel did not follow and thus presently the supercilious elf came back to the threshold and leaned out, peering at the Balrog Slayer in puzzlement. "Are you awaiting a formal invitation? Do come in." His smile was more a challenge than a genial expression of welcome.

Not being one to run from a confrontation, and somewhat curious as to the advisor's intent, Glorfindel gave a short nod and crossed into the room. His brows lifted in surprise for the parlour was much more lavishly appointed than was the King's private study.

Galion had a fondness for deep thick carpets and so many covered the floor that no hint of the underlying rock could be detected. The walls were likewise decorated with heavy tapestries and paintings and while the stone was visible between these hangings it was lavishly carved with ornate knot-work. The light in the place was nearly too bright to bear for there were three gilded chandeliers suspended from the high ceiling and golden wall sconces evenly placed around the room. The hearth was huge and of course alight, the heat from it stifling despite the height of the grand space. Two alcoves led away from this room and from both more garishly flickering lamplight spilled.

Galion sauntered over to the fireplace and sank with an appreciative sigh into a leather armchair that was positively decadent in its softly overt comfort. "Please join me, Glorfindel." With the goblet he gestured to the matching seat opposite as he set the wine decanter on the low table in-between.

Glorfindel suppressed a small chuckle, thinking he had determined the advisor's plans, and refrained from smirking. The sly Sindarin snoop was out of his league if he hoped to pry any confidential information from Elrond's Master of the Guard. The Balrog Slayer declined Galion's silent offer of more wine with a slight shake of his head as he sat. The plush padding was indeed pleasant but he did not permit himself to relax too much, keeping a calculating eye on his host. Several seconds of quiet proceeded as it seemed neither wished to be the first to speak. Finally Glorfindel decided to advance the game to the next round and see what might transpire. "Are Galdor's quarters close by? I may wish to speak with him ere retiring for the evening."

"Your friend's rooms are not far from here and across the hallway from you own. No doubt you wish to discuss his chat with Thranduil?" Galion asked without a hint of guile.

"Yes, I admit to curiosity over the details of their conversation," Glorfindel provided a nonchalant uplift of the shoulders to accompany the words.

Galion's expression bespoke a hint of displeasure. "They will talk of Legolas, naturally, yet I wonder why you might find the woes of a young Woodland archer interesting."

Glorfindel almost smirked; Thranduil's Chief Advisor was no match for Elrond's. It was almost too easy to deflect these meagre efforts to bait him. "I am Cuthenin's friend. I do not find it strange to wonder over his fate."

"What an unlikely comrade for one of your renown." Now the butler imbued this sentence with an oily coat of suggestive implication as he arched a brow above a lopsided leer.

The Balrog Slayer remained unpurturbed. "Why so? You know little of Cuthenin to say this. He is an honourable warrior and has done well in decimating an orcish troupe bent on waylaying travellers on the North Road out of Imladris. I am pleased to have his friendship." Finally Glorfindel decided he had been on the defensive long enough and purposed to do a bit of prying himself. "And where is Cuthenin's apartment, for I would like to thank him again for his skilful deployment of that bow during the most recent battle."

"You would thank him tonight, privately, in his rooms?" Galion gave a derisive snort. He surveyed Glorfindel speculatively from over the rim of his goblet.

"Is he not permitted guests in his quarters?" Glorfindel bristled with just the right level indignation at the seneschal's insinuation of impropriety. He was not unprepared for the steward's suspicions as Thranduil's spies were not a new addition to Imladris' court life. Surely word of his dealings with Erestor would have been reported long ago. And if not that, Rumil's stay in Elrond's realm will have been recounted by Athedreinyn to Lorien. No matter what Galion thought likely, he had no proof of any of Glorfindel's encounters. Still, all his instincts cautioned the veteran warrior to be wary. "Is Cuthenin a warrior or a child?"

"He is Thranduil's son," the note of warning in the steward's voice was unmistakable.

"This I know. I find it difficult to imagine that the King prevents his youngest from receiving visitors. Legolas is no elfling; he was entrusted with a mission to foreign lands where he would represent his people among strangers."

"His Tirn'wathel was with him."

"As his Tirn'wador is now. Tell me, are you among the followers of Pâd-en-Tawar? I am not and admit my ignorance of its rules. Is there some proscription against friendship inherent to the creed?"

Galion grimaced and sighed briefly, as if the game was now unsatisfactory, vaguely gesturing with his wineglass. "It matters not; Legolas does not have rooms here."

That was not what Glorfindel expected and he did not do well in hiding it. "Why is that? Where does he stay, then?"

"He lives where he has always dwelt, in a talan some small distance into the trees on the western side of the grounds. As to why, perhaps it is not a subject I should broach with outlanders." Galion drained his glass and set it down sharply on the table, turning his gaze away to glare into the firelight.

"If you are referring to the rumours concerning his naneth' status then no more need be said," Glorfindel growled irritably, "yet it is strange for such a prejudice to continue after the child has been accepted by his father."

"Thranduil's acceptance as you call it is not entirely approved among the people here." Galion's piercing hazel eyes jabbed at Glorfindel's outspoken criticism. "Our folk place higher standards on morality than do some other elven realms. The King has been my friend for nearly two Ages yet I cannot condone his reprehensible disregard of a sacred bond. Perhaps you did not know that his wife-mate is a cousin of mine. The shameful stain he brought upon my family and the noble House of Oropher has yet to fade. That his disgraceful conduct is discussed beyond the borders of the Greenwood is mortifying; his actions cast our people as low as mortal men. As for the mother, she will dwell long in Mandos atoning for such a selfish act."

The Balrog Slayer stared, surprised by this acrimonious outpouring and speechless for some moments after its completion. His first thought was that he was glad Legolas did not dwell within the fortress, enduring this pompous elf's self-righteous condemnation on a regular basis. His second denounced Thranduil. Refusing Legolas a place in his home, allowing public opinion to govern his interactions with a child of his body, such was unconscionable in the Vanya's mind and he came close to saying so. With effort he refrained from comment and merely glared into the resolute disfavour marring the advisor's aristocratic visage.

"I am aware the elves of Imladris would not share this view," Galion added in a slightly less acidic tone. "We would not have been so scandalised had the elleth not chosen to conceive. One can overlook much when grief is involved, and even Thranduil's sons eventually came to tolerate the new role Lhoss (Whisper) played in their father's life."

"Lhoss? Is that the name of Cuthenin's naneth?" Glorfindel could not help his curiosity over this topic, for Legolas had said nothing about his mother.

"It is." Galion paused and studied his guest's face intently for several seconds, presenting the stern countenance of an elf engaged in serious internal debate. If he was hoping the silence would prompt Glorfindel into speech, as it had before, he was disappointed. At length he gave a nearly non-existent shrug and continued. "I will satisfy your obvious inquisitiveness on this topic if you agree to do the same for me afterward."

"What is it you would know?" Glorfindel's spine stiffened involuntarily just a minute amount but otherwise he kept his discomfort over the bargain in check.

"I will only reveal that after we have satisfied your interest. Do you agree?"

"Nay; I find the terms unfair. After all, I could simply ask Legolas about Lhoss."

Galion's face dissolved into an expression of smirky, contemptuous self-assurance and he chuckled unpleasantly, low in his throat. "I suppose you could. Legolas, however, will not say one single thing about her. He will not even speak her name. No matter what you ask or what you say, he will answer not. This lesson he learned when he was very young and he is unlikely to forget it."

The Balrog Slayer did not like the implications this dire statement raised within his thoughts. He wanted very much to leave this intolerable elf and find Cuthenin, yet he had no idea where to look. He longed to convince Legolas that nothing need be kept hidden inside any longer, now that Glorfindel was part of his life. He stared in stricken aversion at Thranduil's advisor, for his demeanour divulged an inordinately strong reaction to a cousin's replacement by a paramour. Glorfindel was left wondering how Galion could have come to detest Legolas so. "What is this about?" he demanded abruptly.

The steward's brows arched in bewilderment. "An interesting question, to be sure, with many answers. At present we are negotiating an exchange of information. You want to know of Legolas' antecedents while I…have a query or two of my own."

"Regarding Legolas' stay in Imladris?"

"Nay, well, in a sense but not exactly that. Come now, I weary of this little contest. Either we will speak together or sit and enjoy the rest of this fine vintage in companionable quietude, Glorfindel. I leave the choice to you."

Glorfindel pondered his options. On the one hand, he felt strongly that he should go to Legolas and ask of these things. Yet, mayhap it was insensitive to bring it up, considering Calarlim's recent demise. Given the deep dread Cuthenin revealed over holding his father's House up to ridicule or scorn, would it be indelicate to speak of the King's consort at all? Perhaps he should not mention any of these things, letting Legolas decide when or even if the subject should be addressed. Still, in spite of himself Glorfindel wanted to know about Lhoss, feeling he could not succour Cuthenin properly if he did not understand the basis for the archer's mindset. Ultimately his curiosity won out. "Tell me of Lhoss and I will resolve your questions so long as they do not require me to betray my Lord or break a pledge of confidence."

"Excellent! We have an accord, then." Galion's smile was victoriously knowing and made the Balrog Slayer shift slightly in his chair. He gave a short nod in reply and the steward began the tale.

"Lhoss was a fixture in our lives since the day Oropher led his people under the eaves of the forest. Thranduil's law-sister was due to birth her second child and the journey had taxed her strength, causing an early delivery. Lhoss volunteered to be her aide, making certain she did not strain herself and helping to watch over the fragile babe. Her knowledge of herb-lore and her willingness to help was appreciated by the healers and the royal family alike. She became the child's caretaker and gradually took on all the younglings in Oropher's House. When the mighty underground fortress was completed, she was given an apartment of her own.

"Becoming the best of friends to Thranduil's wife, Lhoss was there for the birth of both their sons, and for the grandchildren and great-grandchildren that followed. The silvan elleth was nearly as close as a blood relative, so greatly did we trust and depend on her. More than a maid or servant or even a nanny, Lhoss was an emissary to her people, enabling the silvans to learn and accept many of the Sindarin ways. Likewise, through her the Sindarin folk learned the customs of the forest dwellers and adapted as best they could to this more basic lifestyle. We never suspected in those days what tragedy she would inflict upon us. Within a year of my cousin's death she had become the King's mistress."

Glorfindel was heartsick to hear Legolas' creation so harshly termed and wondered how it must have been to grow up under such a stigma. "I am sorry for your family's grief. The House of Oropher has endured great loss and hardship also. Yet Cuthenin is nothing but a credit to both his silvan and Sindarin heritage. Mayhap new life is a sign of new hope for the Greenwood and her people."

"I am not so certain that is so. Already six immortal lives have ended because he was born."

"There were but five all told and while no life lost is a small thing, still in the Woodland realm the Darkening has claimed uncounted others under the leadership of experienced warriors many Ages older than Cuthenin."

"I include Lhoss herself in the count."

Glorfindel was taken aback and physically reacted, his stomach giving a squeamish roll to hear the death of his mother laid at Legolas' feet. Do others here feel this way? The concept was so awful his mind refused to believe Galion was serious and he could do nothing but shake his head and peer in silence at the steward.

Galion, pleased by this lack of a verbal response, frowned to cover it and continued his thoughts. "Legolas is a capable enough archer, that I do not contest, but not up to the challenge of leadership. It was a mistake for Thranduil to insist on having him trained for such responsibilities."

"Nay, it is the burden of anyone in command to face the loss of soldiers when the enemy is engaged. I questioned him closely about the incidents; Cuthenin did all that was reasonable in the situations faced. He is not the cause for the Orc attacks that stole those lives. And he is wholly innocent of his naneth's fate."

"Ah, but that is just where many would disagree with you. Within Pâd-en-Tawar what Lhoss did was a grievous sin, for it reduced the precious gift of renewing life to nothing more than a greedy personal want fulfilled. She did not have Thranduil's consent to produce a child with his seed. It was beyond irresponsible; it signified the taint of the Shadow. A child created thus is considered marked by evil and shunned. Even her own people tried to convince her to leave for Eldamar, taking her shame and disgrace with her."

"That cannot be right," Glorfindel denied emphatically. "I witnessed the silvan warriors' reaction to Cuthenin's return. They were agitated over the deaths but not repulsed by his presence."

"Aye, there has been quite a buzz over Úcaul Annaur. The silvans will forgive much for that action and because of the weight of his grief upon Calarlim's death. They will see it as a sort of balance against the troubles Cuthenin brought them. Of course, Igeredir was there also and that makes all the difference. He and Inarthan have become very attached to their unexpected sibling and do not allow anyone to accost or accuse Cuthenin while he is in their presence. Their children and grandchildren are protective also, for the most part, and so Cuthenin is shielded from the more unpleasant opinions of the majority."

"Nay, you are mistaken. You were not there to see him fighting against Greenwood's foes; you underestimate the respect his skill has earned him among the warriors. Why should he be made to bear the enmity of his people when he is guiltless of any wrong? Whatever errors his parents may have made, Cuthenin is making his own place in the world and it is not one of dishonour," Glorfindel insisted.

Galion shrugged, "Perhaps, yet Greenwood will never be a comfortable haven for him."

Silence fell between them as each considered the conversation. Glorfindel could not help a slight uplift of spirit, for if the Woodland Realm was less than warm toward Legolas then mayhap leaving it permanently would not be so great a hardship for the archer. In light of Thranduil's prohibition of a union such as theirs, this was no slight concern.

As for Galion, he needed a moment to collect himself before beginning his inquiries. In fact, he needed more than time; he needed another serving of the pleasing wine and helped himself. A long swallow preceded his first question.

"I wonder if you will hold to our bargain," he began softly to himself, watching guardedly as Glorfindel's eyes narrowed in suspicion. With a deep breath Galion came right to the point. "Do you intend to wait out the full year before claiming your reward for saving Legolas?"

Glorfindel mastered his startlement over this bold interrogative quickly yet there could be no doubt he had failed to hide it entirely. He remained still as he scrutinised the advisor's cool, triumphant expression. Galion had it all figured out and for that Glorfindel gave the steward his grudging admiration. Not so glib of tongue as Erestor but no dullard either. Now was not the time to break faith with Cuthenin, however. There was no proof to back the seneschal's beliefs and the Balrog Slayer had no intention of supplying any. A rash reply would point too plainly to their hidden soul-bond, revealing the depth of his feeling to this odious seneschal. He crossed his arms firmly over his chest and lifted his brows. "You will have to be specific; I will not guess at your meaning."

"Ah, such admirable scruples! I admit to surprise, for your reputation in such personal areas does not support such a strong character."

"Have a care, seneschal, for I am not wont to tolerate such bald insults placidly." Glorfindel was on his feet, tight fists terminating arms stiffly bent at waist level, face etched in stony fury.

Galion rose also and gave a gloating half bow. "Quite right; my apologies. I only hoped to inform you that the truth is already out. This attempt at secrecy is entirely unnecessary and, if I might say, just a bit ludicrous."

"You will need to state this truth plainly before I may concur or dispute with you."

"Must I? Come now, I see no need to be crude…"

"Yet your words belie you."

"Indeed! My words divulge what my eye perceives. Let me present it from another view-point: mayhap I can help to preserve this carefully guarded secret. I am fond of Legolas, have always been so. It is not my wish to see him subjected to the shame of public banishment. Nor would I wish him to fade from grief, as he surely must if his…unusual predisposition causes his father's House to be overthrown."

Glorfindel's fingers itched to wrap themselves around the chestnut-haired ellon's throat and throttle the life from his vile heart. With great effort he remained silent, permitting his fearsome glower to transmit his smouldering wrath.

"I do know how to hold my tongue, you see, and am more than willing to do so provided some minor concessions are granted."

Still the Balrog Slayer stood motionless and no sound passed his lips, yet his menace grew apace with each passing instant, the potential for disaster increasing accordingly. He reminded himself that Galion had only hearsay and supposition regarding his lifestyle. Yet Legolas has lived under his scrutiny all his life. I had no difficulty discerning Cuthenin's interest in me; the seneschal has no doubt observed tell-tale signs in abundance over the course of years. Would the advisor reveal these indications to Thranduil? Would not the King's fall from power result in Galion's loss of prestige and position also? He is bluffing, Glorfindel visibly relaxed and smiled, a vicious twist of his lips that bespoke disgust rather than agreement.

Galion grimaced, just a slight flexure of the muscles across his forehead and a faint compression of his lips. Realising the direction the warrior's thoughts must have taken, he regrouped, wordlessly berating himself for being too obvious too soon. Subtly was the key in cracking the Vanya's reserve, but that tactic was lost to him now. He would have to take a lower road.

"Yet there are others not so benevolent as I. One or two among the Council of Lords suspect Cuthenin's interest in males. They have long held resentment against Oropher's House for the massacre of kith and kin at Dagorlad. Such influential leaders would be most grateful for any information that aided their cause. Of course, Thranduil would be certain to defend his son. No doubt he would find any betrayal by his advisors a grievous wound, yet it is often so with the selfish, privileged class. Never once has he thought to apologise for the ignominy his dealings with Lhoss tendered to his wife's House.

"I am sure many folk in Imladris might not be troubled if Oropher's line was removed from authority, given the numbers of their kin lost due to his incompetence at the siege of Barad Dur. As for yourself, what can it matter to you who rules Greenwood? Yet Legolas would certainly be devastated were such to come about because of his twisted cravings. As Faer Hebron, you cannot help but strive to prevent that. I am sure an amicable settlement can be reached between us to ensure he never has to confront such a terrible burden of guilt and grief."

Glorfindel stared at the self-serving elf before him, completely overwhelmed with loathing for such a creature, and fought the urge to spit in his face. The threat to betray the King he had served for two Ages fell from Galion's loquacious lips as if he were reporting a desire to have pheasant for dinner instead of venison. He wondered if Thranduil had any suspicions that his closest advisor was so duplicitous and whether he would be likely to believe it should an outlander seek to reveal the treasonous plotting. Probably not, on either count.

He concluded that the seneschal was as cold-blooded and unfeeling a creature as any Orc might be and understood better Calarlim's subterfuge regarding the phantom mate for Legolas. No matter the source of Galion's foul inducement, what he said of Legolas was true; the young warrior would be destroyed if his personal needs became the catalyst for the unseating of his father's House. With severe disgust the Balrog Slayer decided he must come to terms with the soul-less steward. Only one thing remained to be disclosed: the price for Galion's co-operation.

"What do you seek in exchange for maintaining allegiance to your King and silence regarding these unsubstantiated rumours concerning his son's preference for a mate?"

Galion inhaled and held the breath a second or two, exhaling it gradually as he sought to centre himself. He sported a chilling smile as he bent to retrieve his goblet and the decanter, pouring as he spoke, his eyes averted as he tended the task with hands that seemed to tremble. "Legolas' virginity."

For a split second Glorfindel could only gape in horrified and disbelieving outrage, unable even to form a coherent thought on the nature of the extortion, and then his rage boiled over. He lashed out with his right fist, landing a powerful blow upon the seneschal's jaw that sent the elf reeling backwards into the chair behind him, which overturned and deposited the chestnut-haired betrayer on the floor. The decanter thumped against the carpets and splashed its blood-red contents everywhere while the wineglass remained inexplicably entrenched in Galion's fingers. The steward lay stunned for a second then let loose a sharp cry as Glorfindel advanced a step and bent low, preparing to snatch up his prey and pound him senseless.

"Baw! Daro! Far!" (No! Stop! Enough!) Galion called weakly, ineffectually throwing the glass at his nemesis and raising a hand to fend off the attack. Yet it was not this pathetic attempt at self-defence which halted his opponent.

Glorfindel stared in bewilderment at the haughty elf crumpled on the rug, for Galion was laughing. The veteran warrior straightened and watched, wondering if perhaps the seneschal was in fact mad and all of their converse had been due to some kind of strange mental deficiency.

"Oh, that smarts terribly, Glorfindel. But you will do; you will do." Galion delicately pressed his fingers against the swelling contusion. "You have loosened two of my molars." He gazed up, amused in spite of his painful bruise, eyes alight with something like triumph. The advisor held out his hand. "Your assistance, if you please?" he said and chuckled again at the confusion filtering through the Balrog Slayer's blue eyes even as he wordlessly complied. They stood facing one another before the cheerful fire. At last Galion saw the subtle shift in colour from clear azure to steely grey as the Balrog Slayer's patience eroded. He raised both hands before him in supplication and took a step away. "Permit me to explain before you start hitting me again."

Glorfindel considered whether he should allow any more words to arise form the irritating ellon's mouth for he was not sure he could control his ire should further obscene announcements be uttered. He folded his arms over his chest, deciding he wished to know the motivation for the seneschal's bizarre behaviour, and nodded. "I will hear you but if anything more is said of abusing Legolas expect to find yourself on the ground again."

"Those are fair terms," Galion agreed. "I had to determine your reasons for agreeing to become Legolas' Faer Hebron. What I said is true; I am quite fond of Cuthenin, just not in the way I made you believe. I was his tutor, you see, when he first came under Thranduil's authority for his education at age 30. I have known of his desires even before he understood them himself. Calarlim and I worked hand in hand to prevent him from coming to harm because of it.

"Had you agreed to this despicable plot I am not sure how I would have dealt with you. Probably informed Galdor and let him break it to Legolas. You have shown your character to be quite suitable, I am pleased to say. Legolas will do well to keep you, yet the job of convincing him to depart Greenwood will not be easy. He takes his duties here very seriously."

Glorfindel was astounded. "I know not if I can believe you, so greatly has your story changed. Why did Legolas fail to reveal your part in Calarlim's scheme?"

"He knows nothing of it. He is very suspicious of my interest in his activities, though. He is aware that I inquire after his reports once his captain has read them over and that I watch everyone who comes and goes at his abode. In fact, he worries that I am attracted to him though Calarlim tried to convince him this is false. That is what gave me the idea for this little farce."

"Is it farce?" demanded Glorfindel, his hands curling into fists anew as his posture once more presented a threatening stance.

"Peace! My mate is in Námo's Keeping but is female, as is any companionship I seek while awaiting my reunion with her. This you can verify independently by asking any of the stronghold staff you meet, or Thranduil himself."

"And what of the King? Does he share this knowledge of Cuthenin's desires?" Glorfindel felt irritated to be so deceived, forgetting he was fully prepared to engage in mendacity for the very same cause: protecting Legolas.

"Nay," Galion sighed heavily. "We will speak more of this anon, yet I wish to include Legolas' Tirn'wador. I shall guide you to his quarters."

So saying the new confederates left the plush apartment and ventured back into the stone corridor to seek the counsel of Galdor, noble Lord of the House of the Tree, Sadron to the byr of Mithlond, and Cuthenin's Guardian. As they began their short journey, the King was well into his.

TBC

Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow)

by F.
unbeta'd

italics thoughts

(elvish translation)

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's,
the words here are mine. No money earned.

Summary: A look at what might happen if Legolas was just known as a
messenger and not as Thranduil's son. The setting is just before the
Council of Elrond. Features Glorfindel/Legolas pairing.

A/N: Here is the second of the two-chapter pair. Thranduil does a lot of reminiscing and we learn much about Legolas' birth mother. The father and son finally confront the long-hidden secret between them. Thank you all for your patience and continued support!

Cheers,

Fred
04/08/2006

---

Eneg-ar-Leben Peth: Gûr Breithol Trebreithad (Part Sixteen: Heart Breaking Breakthrough)

Thranduil walked at less than his normal long-strided loping gait, moving with purposeful deliberation as he traversed the distance between his mountain fortress and the secluded talan wherein his youngest child had resided for all his short life. He needed the slow pace to grant him time. As they always did on this walk, his thoughts retreated as his progress advanced.

There was much to consider and he wanted to do what was best for this silvan child he had unwillingly sired. The King winced just thinking the words, but he did not entirely correct his mind's assessment. I wanted no third elfling, even Legolas knows this truth. That fact had not prevented the Sinda Lord from loving the elfling born to him. Nor had it eased his frustrated grief upon learning that, not being bound to the mother, his rights were not as sound as he had assumed they would be.

It had never entered his thoughts to bond with Lhoss for his true mate would be reunited to him someday in Eldamar. As far as Thranduil was concerned their relationship had been satisfactory to both: mutually exclusive, carefree, stimulating, and grounded in real friendship. They had been comrades long before they became lovers. He had never imagined the silvan elleth would desire anything more. A faint smile graced his features as he recalled her lithe, willowy form, delicate features, and long mane confined entirely in slender silver braids. She was a wild thing, quite in contrast to the gentle meaning of her name, bold and unwilling to be fettered against her heart's wishes. So she stated whenever her more conservative kin chastised her for the unorthodox link to the Sindarin King. Not once had the topic arisen between them, though Thranduil knew it was an annual event for her father, sister, and aunt to try and convince her to give up the illicit affair and bond with a respectable ellon.

Had Thranduil not lost his wife it is unlikely he would ever have considered anything other than platonic accord between him and Lhoss. Even had he not loved his mate, which he averred to his elder sons he truly did, Thranduil was not one to sunder a solemn bond to the mother of his children. His sons, and all of their mother's kin, had a decidedly different idea of what defined breaking such a vow. Thranduil grimaced, thinking on the many cutting remarks he had endured from various members of his wife's House, most notably Galion, over the years. He had been quick to tell them to mind their own business and leave him to tend his affairs as he saw fit. My arrogance has brought this grief upon me and upon my sons, all three of them. I should not have openly taken Lhoss for my consort.

Yet had he not then Legolas would not be, and that he could not imagine now. For a moment he faltered on the trail, recalling how close he had just come to losing his silvan child, before finding his resolve and resuming the walk. His thoughts returned to mulling the past, as if revisiting the events might present him with a means to alter their more unpleasant consequences.

His elder sons had tolerated Thranduil's affair as an aberration brought on by grief over their mother's death. At first they had assumed it would end and the embarrassment would be over, yet centuries elapsed and the pair showed no sign of separating. Inarthan and Igeredir endured the liaison with barely suppressed outrage that occasionally erupted into volatile condemnation if Lhoss was given too much attention at public feasts and holiday celebrations. When word reached their ears that a child had been created of this dishonourable union, loud was their outcry for the silvan adulteress to leave for the Havens, taking her shame and her misbegotten progeny with her.

The news of the pregnancy was a shock to Thranduil as well. They had never discussed such a thing for he had assumed it was not an option Lhoss would entertain without being bound to her mate. Generation of life was taxing to the mother and a committed husband was required, for the strength of both parents was needed to make the growing child strong and healthy. No elleth would consider endangering her offspring by creating life under so tenuous an attachment as Lhoss shared with Thranduil.

Or so I believed. The King shook his head as he trudged on, recalling events that had felt like betrayal so great was the damage done. He could not understand why she would do such a thing and had angrily demanded an explanation. The look that came over her features had been one of such infinite sorrow that he was shaken to the core. Her answer had been cryptic, saying if he did not have the answer in his heart then no rationale she might give would ever suffice.

She did not ask for them to become formally bonded. She did not request his presence at her side. She said nothing when the King's council of advisors, his sons, and grandchildren demanded her banishment. She declined to refute the charges of seeking to elevate her status. She made no reply when accused of trying to force Thranduil to accept a mate he did not want and a child that was not his own. She refused to defend herself against allegations that she had other lovers and any of them might be the babe's sire. Instead she waited for someone to speak on her behalf, someone whose voice could not be overruled. She waited for Thranduil.

He did not come to her defence. He chose to believe these indictments instead of the friend and lover he had depended upon for Ages out of time. Lhoss moved out of her home in the stronghold and resided in her sister's talan. Calarlim and their father tried to convince Lhoss to relocate to their clan's holdings in the northernmost sector of Greenwood in the foothills of Ered Mithrin (Grey Mountains). There at least she would have the comfort of seclusion.

Within the silvan culture, dwelling so near to evil, Pâd-en-Tawar had become altered over the course of the Third Age. No more was the religion a celebration of Arda's Gifts and Iluvatar's Music. The catastrophic loss of life during the Last Alliance had to be addressed somehow, made comprehensible, preventable. It was necessary to find scapegoats to take the blame. With Sindarin rulers who avowed the customs and lifestyle of Doriath, such liberal ways, corrupted by exposure to the morally destitute people of Feanor, became the focus of the chaotic paranoia to which the silvans succumbed.

In place of the reverent jubilation that characterised the creed in other lands, a strict dogma with stringent rules and harsh penalties evolved. Even a temporary law designed to prevent extinction became a permanent commandment inspired by the will of Iluvatar. Under this new rubric, what Lhoss had done was unforgivable. In concert with this belief, none, be they Sindarin or silvan, truly wanted such a tainted elfling and its naneth among them. Her need for someone to love had doomed Legolas to a dismal future. Among the populace, it was quietly hoped that both mother and infant would be dead before the pregnancy's end.

Yet she would not go away. She waited for me to discover the answer to my question and seek her out. When I did so, nine months into the pregnancy, too much time had elapsed. Again the King paused in his progress, lost in his internal reflections and twisted in turmoil. Lhoss knew there was no space in my heart for her and dared to take something of mine to could keep for her own: a child.

Too late Thranduil had come to his revelation. The love she had held secret in her soul for so long had soured under his cold denial and cruel abandonment. She did not trust him anymore. All that she had once given to him she poured into the creation of her babe. As a result her own feä diminished apace. It was uncertain if she would survive long enough to birth the child, and whether the infant would have sufficient strength to carry on if it ever was born. Thranduil was left with the horrifying fact that his callous negligence might be the cause for the death of two elves, one of which was his own flesh and blood.

She permitted him to spend those final days with her, hearing genuine contrition in his pleas for forgiveness, but she did not believe his assurances that he would make things right. She would not return to the fortress. She refused to be alone with him and he was not granted leave to touch her beyond clasping her hand. Calarlim tried to intervene for the child's sake and whenever her sister slipped into unconsciousness she coaxed the reluctant father into speaking to the unborn babe and caressing any spot on Lhoss' small round belly that quivered even the slightest bit. Thranduil spent a handful of days attempting to give his youngest child some part of his strength, some sense that he would be greeted with love upon his birth. Every time the King left that talan he dreaded that death would greet his return.

And so it came to pass.

Lhoss went into labour less than three weeks after her lover finally claimed their babe and two months too early for the child's healthy delivery. She simply could no longer hold onto her soul and sought to transfer what remained of her essence to her son ere she passed. There would be no spirit left to heed the call of Námo.

Thranduil hastened to the summons but arrived to find the nativity completed amid a scene of sorrow rather than joy, for Legolas' mother had indeed perished during her labour. As the King held their tiny elfling for the first time, he was calmly informed that she had named the child, chosen a Guardian, and with her final breath demanded his son be raised in the silvan way by her people. Before witnesses she had declared this: the nestaron (healer), her sister, and Greenwood's Sadron.

In bitter rancour the King liked to pretend that she had done this out of spite, for she had never been a devout believer in the silvan's faith. She sought to punish him for failing to acknowledge the conception as his issue. He knew that was not the last thought of her heart, however. It had been love and fear that made her act so. He had denied Legolas and defamed her; what else would she imagine but that he would shun the child once he was born? Desperate to ensure her babe would be loved and cherished, she had bound her sister to the Guardian's vow and agreed to Calarlim's terms: Legolas would be a follower of Pâd-en-Tawar. Lhoss was within her rights while I negated mine. Thranduil heaved a deep breath, as close to a sob as he had come in many centuries, and fought to master his fruitless despair.

He could not fault Calarlim, for the aunt had loved Legolas long before he was born, of this Thranduil was certain. Her unconditional acceptance and devotion to her nephew was surely what had made it possible for the elfling to survive at all, for he was so small and weak upon birth that he had not even strength to cry. Calarlim never put him from her arms unless it was to place him in Thranduil's and between them they willed Legolas to remain alive. They formed an awkward partnership that eased into guarded respect as the years passed and the child grew, ensuring he knew beyond any doubt that he was loved by his father and his second mother.

Thranduil grimaced and shook himself, mentally and physically, where he stood upon the empty pathway unsuccessfully trying to force these unpleasant memories from his thoughts. Since Legolas' birth, he had trod this course so many times the ground was packed hard and no plant dared sprout there for dread of being crushed. As often as he could, Thranduil had made the short trek to spend time with his youngest, hastening his step as he approached, heart uplifting in anticipation only to plummet in daunting regret every time duty shortened his stay. Calarlim never limited his access, that he could not claim, yet she made the boundaries clear: she was Tirn'wathel and Legolas was her responsibility not Thranduil's. No matter how he tried to overlook the restrictions he could not escape the reality. He was a visitor to that talan, a visitor in his son's life.

The Sindarin monarch sighed and adjusted the pack slung over his left shoulder, taking comfort in its contents as he set forth again. He was bringing everything necessary to cater to his youngest as befitted an honoured warrior, just as Galdor has suggested. This would be no sacred ritual such as Legolas had endured under the rigours of his archaic religion. There was nothing of mystery about the diversion Thranduil intended to provide. Plain and simply, the practice promoted only pleasurable relaxation and was a common event among the Grey Elves of Beleriand in the days before the War of Wrath. This was a ritual many of Greenwood's soldiers shared among the company of friends and fellows and one Thranduil enjoyed with his sons and numerous grandsons frequently.

Thranduil planned to massage away the fatigue and stress of battle and sorrow. It was one of the few Sindarin customs in which Legolas would participate, once he began the rigourous physical training inherent to becoming a skilled warrior. The King had always enjoyed these private times with Legolas and believed his son did as well. They would talk then, Thranduil sharing stories of his childhood and telling of Oropher, the grandfather dead long centuries before Legolas' conception. He would relate embarrassing anecdotes of his elder sons' antics during their elfling days. Sometimes, when Legolas dared to ask, he would speak of Lhoss, for Calarlim had not revealed much of his naneth's character and what was heard among his contemporaries was hardly flattering. Thranduil was able to give his son a more balanced picture of the elleth who had loved him so strongly that she gave him life at the cost of her own.

If Thranduil hoped the relaxing experience would induce his son to open up and speak of this unprecedented bond to an outlander, who could blame a father for such?

His session with Galdor had been unsettling at best and unthinkable at worst. Little had the Sadron spoken of Legolas' Faer Hebron and while none of it could he denounce as false something was not right. Thranduil hoped the Guardian was nervous because the elleth was partly Noldorin; perhaps some scandal attended her history. Ignorant of her age in years, he even wondered whether she might be counted among the kinslayers of Doriath or of Alqualondë. Thranduil physically winced as this idea presented itself. Yet even that he could hardly use as means to condemn the match, for he knew Lhoss was dead only because of him. I am no less a killer myself, for Lhoss would not have faded of grief had I treated her heart better.

Guilt bowing his broad shoulders, he began walking again at an even more sluggish pace, eyes upon the ground as a vision of her empty, haunted eyes pervaded his consciousness. He sighed deeply and for the thousandth time since Legolas' birth silently vowed to her not to let their child suffer for their errors. Yet even as he made the promise he knew it was a futile and empty gesture. Not even Calarlim could protect Legolas from the general disfavour with which his countrymen regarded him. Now she was gone and this foreign elf stood in her place, claiming ascendancy over the youthful warrior. Galdor sought to join the naive archer to a lady from a distant realm of a people who disdained the Wood Elves. Will she demand his removal to Imladris? Is that what Legolas believes I will disprove?

Strangely, while the thought of Legolas leaving Greenwood was upsetting, that was an easier thing to worry over than whether he had really desired anything of the noble lady. Once more the muttering warning prickled through Thranduil's subconscious and once more he firmly tried to stifle it. The Sadron included 'raw physical attraction' in his list of qualifiers for the match. Yet there were other memories that would not let the unsavoury suspicion die.

The destination was reached in scant minutes more and the King stood staring up at the dimly lit and silent talan. All of the curtains and screens were drawn and out of respect the homes nearby were also shrouded, the activity of their occupants subdued. Softly filtering through the canopy arose a gentle harmony of voices singing hymns and prayers of peace and comfort for the deceased warrior, pleading strength and hope for the son she left behind. The neighbours provided an auditory blanket meant to muffle any sounds of grieving the young warrior might need to vent. Indeed, many of these folk were Calarlim's kin and thus Legolas' also and their combined dolour was a palpable sensation that fell heavily upon the soul. Whatever reservations these relatives harboured concerning Legolas' scandalous origins were washed away by the deluge of tears spilled on his and Calarlim's behalf. Thranduil climbed the tree and stepped onto the main platform.

It was bare with only a small brazier for heat and cooking, now empty and cold, a few cushions scattered near it, two low tables suitable for floor-sitting, a small chest near the trunk for utensils and cooking gear. An unlit lantern hung from the branches overhead. The austerity was normal for the silvans, who had little use for furniture in the limited space amid the branches. Legolas was not in the room nor had Thranduil expected him to be. He knew his son would be in Calarlim's flet, for the only light spilled from there, and so he quickly stepped the short distance to an adjacent platform set at chest height and pulled himself up. The area was just as spartan with another hanging lamp, a chest for clothing, and a pallet for sleeping. Upon this was Legolas reposed, still and quiet, curled on his side with his back to the entrance. Bow and quiver, boots, tunic and shirt lay scattered on the floor where he had cast them down. He did not stir.

Thranduil did not wish to disturb his son's sleep and thus moved quietly across the platform to sit down next to his youngest child. "Nae, ionen vrêg, man amarth um an le túliel?" (Alas, my wild son, what evil fate has come to you?) he whispered, gently reaching out to stroke the long mane of golden hair splayed across his son's painted back.

Instantly Legolas awoke and turned, round-eyed with terror and anger as he sat upright and held forth a dagger drawn from beneath the pillow. In the other hand he clutched a length of cloth close to his heart: one of Calarlim's tunics. His expression filled with confusion and pain, his cheeks, damp from uncountable tears, marked the passage of two more. The arm wielding the blade shook. He exhaled a loud breath and heaved in another, dropping the knife and bracing his bowed head on the freed hand as the other fell limp upon his lap. "Nin gohenach, Hîren," he whispered brokenly but would not lift his eyes.

"Nay it is not necessary to ask that of me," assured the father kindly, laying a hesitant palm on the bent head. "Bear no concern for me during this time. I am but glad to see you whole." He softly soothed a caress over the mussed tangle of untended tresses, vision travelling the length of Legolas' body, noting the fading scars and bold additions to the heart spiral. That he could see the wounds' marks at all gave his heart a painful jolt of chilling guilt. He had sent his youngest, little more than an elfling when his years were counted, into the teeth of death. His stomach sickened, imagining Legolas' remains among those decaying in the High Pass.

With effort he mastered these gruesome images and studied the other signs, catching his breath at the dark line of small round brands just visible down Legolas' left side. More indications of the gap between us. I can barely comprehend my own son's world any longer. Thranduil ached to gather Legolas close just as he had when his third child was but a small elfling, days but recently passed in terms of the First-born. He could not, or would not, for everything had changed once Legolas had achieved adolescence. What agony the King had secretly hidden the first time Legolas avoided his touch and shunned a paternal hug. True, he had expected it and was prepared to wait out the youth's need to present an image of maturity and independence, for he had already raised two sons. Yet it soon became apparent Legolas' was not undergoing this volatile stage of development in the same manner as his brothers.

Instead of the disdainful attitude of impertinence common to youths at this juncture in life, Legolas became hesitant and almost fearful. Having assumed the strange temper would pass, Thranduil's worry deepened as Legolas' anxiety mounted rather than diminished. Others noticed and the inevitable ridicule began. The troubled archer withdrew further, trusting only Calarlim, yet that in itself became fodder for the cruel jests and snide remarks. Never shy of his body before, Legolas became acutely embarrassed by the changes overtaking him. He began guarding his modesty fervently and sometimes could not even bear his father's gaze. He would not even throw off his clothing to go swimming with his nephews and cousins. When Thranduil had attempted to console him with explanations and reassurance that every male elf experienced such things, the youth had become even more mortified.

That was when the first nagging warning had entered the King's mind, shocked to realise that Legolas was not exhibiting this extreme bashfulness when in the presence of ladies, as one might expect, but rather when in the company of males. And if Thranduil was aware of it, mayhap others were also. Alarmed, the King could not go to the healers for help or consult the Sadron, not even to Calarlim could he voice these concerns. Too much guilty shame had been placed upon his son already. If word got out that Thranduil was enquiring about such aberrant sexual urges and how to combat them, as it most certainly would, everyone would realise the source of his son's discomfort. Instead, the panicked father had taken to the libraries and consulted every text on sexual development he could find. There he found the reassurance he needed, for the books indicated such adolescent interest in like kind was a but passing obsession many young elves experienced and the yearning would abate once a suitable life-mate of the opposite sex was discovered.

The works restored his hopes. It never entered the King's head that this information might be biased. He had ordered the removal of any books expressing a counter view. Any text indicating an individual's desires were an innate characteristic had long ago been discarded in favour of those presenting the opinion that sexual attraction was a choice of either nature or perversion, right or wrong, sinful or sacred. Choosing one's own gender was sinful and anyone feeling such an urge must fight it diligently.

The books went further, explaining the crucial role of the parents in their child's development, stressing the necessity for suitable models of behaviour from a properly bonded couple as the most important influence during adolescence. In light of his personal experience to date, this seemed logical enough; after all, Thranduil had been raised by two loving parents, as had his first sons, and all had grown to maturity to become wedded with families of their own. Legolas had been denied this vital ingredient. Mayhap his twisted fascination was due to this lack of a fitting example of a bonded pair. Concerned, the King had at last consulted with Calarlim regarding Legolas' future, presenting the not unlikely notion of disfavour among the court, and the Guardian decided to take her adopted son away to the distant lands of her people to seek out a mate. Upon their return Legolas had seemed more at ease and, when his training resumed, learned to tolerate the Sindarin custom of massage as long as his father performed the ritual.

Thranduil sighed, wishing he could break through his son's wary reserve so studiously maintained since those days and compounded now by grief. Legolas had not raised his head and the King could imagine what thoughts might be going through his son's mind. The young archer looked more like an abandoned elfling than a skilled warrior. His instinct told him to reach for his child yet he could not bear to be rebuffed anew and refrained from greater contact, counting himself fortunate that Legolas permitted the press of his palms.

"You are weary and have weathered much strife; lie down and allow one warrior to tend another," he coaxed with the traditional invitation and was granted a flash of agonised eyes before Legolas slowly settled on his stomach, rigid and unyielding, head turned away. It always began thus, every muscle taut as if Legolas expected to feel the sting of a lash instead of the firm, regular pressure of fingers kneading away the stress.

Thranduil squelched the urge to emit another sigh as he gathered up the tangled mane and draped it across the pillow, exposing the vivid image of Legolas' totem. He always felt a small tug of discomfort upon seeing it, for he wondered about the pain that had accompanied its making. He had never asked of this, for he feared Legolas might misinterpret his concern as an indication of doubt for his son's fortitude. He knew enough of the silvan way to realise such a weakness would be scorned and any suggestion of such delicacy of constitution was a grave insult.

Yet all squeamishness aside, Thranduil could not deny his fascination with the detail and the beauty of the permanent design. He was grateful for every opportunity to study it, for he felt certain that if he could appreciate every nuance in this intricate pattern and commit every word of each incantation and prayer to memory, he would understand his son at last. Lightly he traced over the regal head of the sharp-eyed raptor, causing Legolas to jerk in shock before murmuring the words that must follow such an exploration.

"Nin Gohenach." Thranduil's voice was tight in his throat and he was surprised to find his eyes burning as tears sought to find an outlet. He denied them passage; Legolas did not deserve the burden of succouring his father's rueful compunction.

"Ha únad." (It is nothing.)

Beside the cot was the satchel Thranduil had brought and he reached inside to retrieve the bottle of oil, a cotton cloth, and a small burner made specifically to heat the oil. He busied himself with lighting it and propping the small bottle in the ceramic container poised at just the right height above the single tongue of flame. Experience had taught him Legolas would not completely disrobe and so he did not even suggest it, instead uncorking the bottle, letting the fragrance of Rosemary, Bergamot, and almonds suffuse through the enclosed space. He smiled lightly when Legolas inhaled deeply and visibly relaxed. In the minutes waiting for the oil to warm, Thranduil rose and went to wash his hands, another custom of the ritual, for on the field of battle there were often traces of blood and gore and such must not mingle with the essential fluid rubbed into the skin.

That done, he returned and took up the oil, pouring out a small amount in his palm and liberally coating both hands. Legolas tensed again, anticipating the initial contact with something like dread, just as he did every time. Thranduil knew not why the sight bothered him so deeply this night yet refused to examine his thoughts to learn the cause of the strange melancholia. I might have lost him, is that not reason enough to feel this way? He cleared his throat lightly to see if that would ease away the constriction around his vocal chords before trying to speak. "I will begin now," he warned, a necessary precaution so that Legolas would not flinch when hands connected with his skin. Thranduil's settled lightly on his son's lower back, right in the curve at the base of the spine, neither pressing nor rubbing, merely resting there just above a delicate green tendril of the Morning Glory vine tattoo escaping from beneath the leggings.

Legolas flinched anyway.

The King ignored it, as he always did, distracting his thoughts by the tattoo under his fingers. His first Faer Hebron's mark. As he paused, he wondered if a new image would be inked to honour the more recent bond. At last another deep breath, close enough to a poorly restrained sob to make the King frown, made the archer's shoulders rise and fall, leaving a more normal stillness in its wake. Thranduil pressed the heels of his hands down and pushed, letting them glide along the oily film as they moved upward to Legolas' shoulder blades. He placed his hands flat for the return journey, his thumbs riding the groove of the spinal column with just a little bit of pressure. He repeated the same moves, up and back, twelve times until Legolas sighed again, a long exhale of comfortable ease, now completely relaxed and limp upon the pallet.

Thranduil switched to his finger tips and added a rhythmic, circular kneading tempo that stimulated the taut muscles underlying the outspread wings of the falcon image. He concentrated on the neck and the base of the scull for a time, massaging carefully but firmly. Thranduil worked his way back down, rubbing the ache out of the trapezius and deltoid muscles, until his hands once more reposed in the lumbar curve. He turned his palms inward and again began the long upward stroke, turning his fingers out as he went until he reached the scapula where his digits lightly curved over Legolas' ribs just beneath his arms. Applying slightly more pressure on the sides, the King's hands travelled down again but abruptly stopped. The pad of his index finger had encountered the first of the small brands. Legolas immediately tensed, even holding his breath, and Thranduil had to fight the sorrowful sigh seeking exit his lungs.

"Be at peace," he said calmly and removed his fingers from the sensitive region. "I did not mean to press there." He continued the massage even as Legolas lifted his head to look back at him. Thranduil met his son's troubled eyes with a kind smile. "I may not understand it completely, but I am proud of the sacrifice you made for your friends, for your naneth."

Legolas stared at him, wanting to explain that it was not a matter for pride but rather an obligation required of him. Thranduil would never see that and so he gave his father a half-hearted smile instead and turned his head away again. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to think but only to feel, loosing himself to the rejuvenating pressure of the hands coaxing his body into healing relaxation. He hoped Thranduil would refrain from further speech, for while at times he enjoyed the stories of his brothers' or of the King's childhood, this night he had no wish for such trivial tales. He learned quickly that wish would not be fulfilled.

"I understand what you have lost," Thranduil continued, hoping this was a suitable way to begin the conversation, "for my naneth died when I was a few years older than you are. Even now there are times when I wish my Nana was here and she has been gone since before our people came to this land. If not for my wife, I am sure I would have faded from the grief. How my father continued I never comprehended until I also lost my mate." No reply came from the motionless elf beneath his moving hands. "Galdor tells me your Faer Hebron is from Gondolin, the sister of our guest, Lord Glorfindel." Still nothing, not even a grunt of assent, greeted this prompting. "I owe this lady a life-debt, for without her intervention I would be the one grieving tonight."

Legolas sighed, realising he must respond and dreading what would follow from it. "Tirn'wador cautions the bond may not strengthen for we know each other so little."

"I am still thankful and hope to tell her so personally. You are very dear to me, Legolas, and if I have not said it often it is not through any fault of yours."

"The Lady Aelluin will never come to Greenwood, Adar," Legolas replied coldly, ignoring the tender words completely. In fact, the archer sat up and pulled away from his father's hands. He was not sure why this attempt at commiseration and sympathy struck him so sharply, but he suddenly had no wish to endure it. A dark flare of anger coursed through him and he had to admit he did not truly believe his father's avowal. Were Thranduil to ever learn the truth that faint offer of warmth would dissipate quickly to be replaced by disgust and aversion.

The King hid his hurt as best he could, covering it by taking up the cloth and wiping the oil from his hands. "I see. You will remove to Imladris then. That is not what I would have hoped for yet no price is too high to pay for your salvation from fading."

"I did not say I would leave Greenwood," Legolas objected bitterly. "Too much is happening to decide that and there is no reason to think the soul-bond will survive the trials to come."

"You do not plan to complete Faras-uin-Ind?" asked Thranduil, his uneasiness returning. Calarlim had not explained clearly why the silvan maid betrothed to Legolas scant years ago had failed to return with him to the stronghold. Upon the announcement of her untimely death, Legolas had not seemed overcome with despair, as he was now, but barely troubled at all. His routine had gone on as it ever had, as if he had felt noting at all for the deceased elleth. His son seemed similarly apathetic toward the new fiancé. "Is this because of your first love?"

"Nay!" Legolas fairly shouted the word. The shocked bewilderment on his father's features made him blush in embarrassment to have reacted so. Yet again the rage boiled close to the surface, for he was forbidden to admit that his first romantic stirrings had not been for some maiden of the northern reaches but for a seasoned warrior under Inarthan's command. "Forgive me, Hîren Adar," he bowed his head respectfully, "I am not myself this night. I meant to say that it has nothing to do with her. It is just that I am weary and cannot think about the courtship just now."

"Sîdh, I am the one who should ask pardon, for my inquiries disturbed you when what you require is rest. Galdor advised me to speak to you about this else I would not have brought it up."

"He did? Why would he do that? He is Tirn'wador; he is supposed to handle these things so that…" Legolas broke off, struck speechless to see that shadow of wounded feelings darken his father's eyes again. "Nae, every word I say is wrong! I am just surprised, for never before have you sought to intervene."

"Daro, no more apologising, Legolas. It is not your doing, can you not understand? I am the one to blame for this barrier between us," Thranduil whispered in pained remorse. "It is true that I sent you away. I am sorry for it; you were too young to seek a life-mate and I pushed you into it. I did not do it out of shame, that you must believe, but out of fear for your future. Calarlim was so certain you would find someone among your own, among your mother's people. I did not want your parents' errors to afflict you so; I did not want you to spend your life alone."

Legolas stared, aghast and wide-eyed, mouth dry as frail fragments of fallen leaves upon a winter trail as Thranduil sputtered out these disjointed words. He had never seen the King nervous before and had the situation not been so tragic it might have been faintly amusing. He could hardly focus on what was being said, too absorbed in watching the gloom of contrite self-reproach tinge Thranduil's countenance. He was simultaneously horrified and perversely pleased to see he had roused his father's discomfort over the turn of events. Legolas was suddenly overcome with a strong desire to shout out that he was indeed doomed to live alone and it was solely Thranduil's fault but not because he had failed to wed Lhoss. The next instant cold misery enveloped Legolas' soul as he imagined the scandalised disdain that would transform Thranduil's features if he ever found out the real reason.

Unconsciously Legolas gathered Calarlim's tunic, still clutched in his hand, close to his heart as he recalled the events Thranduil was so set on forcing him to relive. So much anger, so much hurt had filled him then, Legolas wondered how he had endured it as the memory made the pain fresh and new. The terror of self discovery, the fear of being revealed to others, the dread of loosing his father's love assailed him just as if he was still but 40 years of age struggling to find his place among the Sindarin elite of Oropher's House. He had felt it was but a matter of time before everyone learned of his disgusting desires. When it happened, he would be cast out, for he understood exactly what the majority of the Wood Elves thought of his existence. They would all say it was only to be expected of one conceived through sinful selfish desire.

Attempting to prevent his, he was mocked for hiding away and refusing to show his changing body, 'prim and pretty as any maid'. Desperately he fought against the uncomfortable feelings and physical reactions now tacked onto his admiration of warriors in his brothers' patrols. Yet no matter how hard he tried he could not make his body heed his commands and even far from the source of these sensations his mind brought the alluring images vividly to life. If not for Calarlim's intervention, he had no doubt he would have destroyed himself rather than suffer the loss of his family's respect, rather than bring any hint of fault upon Thranduil.

Until Calarlim brought him the news that he was to be dismissed to the far northern colonies, effectively banished from his father's household after all, turned away before the ugly truth could bring the ruling House low. And while Legolas had never wished to cause his father any woe, would have done anything to protect the noble House form scorn or derision, yet it hurt him to find that Thranduil wanted him to go. He was an embarrassment, even without his perversion revealed. His father knew that none of the Lords of the court would favour a match between the King's bastard and one of their noble daughters.

Calarlim's words, intending to soothe his wounded spirit then, explaining why they had to leave, did as little to ease his heart now. 'He cannot bear to see you suffer and he knows you are in agony over this. He bade me take you far from here, to present you only as Cuthenin, Athedreinnyn of the Greenwood, my nephew orphaned by the fight against the Orcs and spiders. In this way we may hide the stain of your illicit birth. He does this because he loves you, Legolas.'

How much he needed to believe that and Calarlim had usually been able to convince him it was so. She was gone, however, and he must somehow sort it out for himself at last.

"Calarlim has been taken from you," Thranduil started speaking again and so close were these words to his son's thoughts that Legolas startled and sucked in a loud breath. The King reached over and laid a comforting hand on the archer's shoulder, mistaking the involuntary response for grief. "Your Tirn'wador is wise and means well, yet he knows next to nothing of you. I have helped raise you from the day you were born, Legolas; surely I understand you better than Galdor. Permit me to aid you in these decisions regarding your Faer Hebron."

"I know not how to answer that," Legolas blurted out, running a hand through his hair in aggravation. "I was not planning to make any decision so soon," he hastily amended, catching the in-drawn breath signalling Thranduil's dismay over the blunt admission of this breach in trust between them.

"You need not come to a conclusion now, yet voicing your concerns may make the determination easier when the time is right," Thranduil tried again, squeezing lightly to encourage his son's confidence. "I may as well be honest; your Tirn'wador told me you believe your choice will displease me. Will you not speak of these worries and let me counter them?"

Legolas stared in disbelief. How could Galdor betray me so? "You do not understand what you ask of me. What if you cannot allay my fears? What if you would but reinforce them, once they are known to you?"

"There is nothing that will change my love for you, Legolas; you are my son. I am keenly aware that you have borne the brunt of suffering for my wrongs, for you mother's mistakes. I would undo whatever harm I can; I would have you find some peace within your self. If this lady of Gondolin can win your heart, then I care not who or what she may be. Whatever it is you think I will denounce, I…"

"Daro! Saes, Adar, saes!" Legolas cried, covering his eyes with his hand to block from sight the imploring expression governing his father's visage. "I do not want to speak of this; I cannot speak of it!"

"Ai, Legolas! Nay, nay this is wrong. Come here, I meant not to cause you more distress," alarmed, Thranduil moved closer and pulled on the shoulder still beneath his fingers, drawing his hesitant son to him, wrapping protective arms around him, finally holding the rigid body tight against his heart. The King sighed, resting his chin atop the bowed head, feeling the strain ebb away as Legolas permitted this meagre comfort. He scarcely dared breath or utter a sound lest he chase away his skittish child. He marvelled at the wiry strength of the form he embraced; Legolas had been truly an elfling when last Thranduil had held him thus. Now he is grown and I have lost him. Nay, I lost him the year I sent him away. His arms' grasp tightened in concert with the realisation even as his heart constricted in sorrow.

Legolas willingly went into his father's arms. Though conflicted in spirit he yet loved Thranduil and needed reassurance that the sentiment was returned. It was strange and frightening, for he had not permitted himself such contact in so long, anticipating his father would somehow know the truth just by hugging him. He realised now how irrational that notion was for nothing happened, no flinching repudiation, no curses or condemnations, no denouncements of any kind followed the embrace. Instead he felt a measure of peace and a sense of security he remembered from his childhood days; Legolas wept for what he had denied himself these many years. Instinctively he burrowed closer, clung tighter, certain this might well be the very last time he would ever enjoy such an uninhibited expression of paternal love. For I cannot give him false hope.

After so many years of lying and deceit he was weary of it, could not maintain it without Calarlim to act as the buffer between him and this elf he loved and respected so much. He could not endure the doubt anymore, the fear of being rejected eating away at his confidence and robing him of resolve. If his father loved him, he would forgive him in time. If Thranduil did not, then there was no need to grieve over loosing a regard he had never earned. Legolas took a steadying breath and sat back, his father's hold loosening but not releasing him, and sought Thranduil's eyes.

"It is best for you to understand, Adar," he said and swallowed to keep the choking bile from invading his mouth. "I will never consummate a bond with the Lady Aelluin of Gondolin." He paused for another chance to breathe, hardly comprehending what he was about to say. "I will never consummate a bond with a Lady of any realm."

For a long silent moment they held each other's gaze, searching for a place of understanding, Legolas simultaneously terrified and hopeful, Thranduil both frightened and resigned. There was insufficient space remaining between them to house dissembling, pretence, or vain rationalisations. There was only the raw core of Legolas' soul, exposed and vulnerable, awaiting his father's adjudication, prepared for the sentence under which he already languished to be pronounced aloud.

The conviction never came. Thranduil could only see the tragedy and the anguish of the situation he had forced upon his son. He could not blame Legolas; how could this be his fault? Nay, it was Thranduil who had brought the curse upon him, for had he not denied mother and child his aid and strength in the days when it was most sorely needed? How could it be otherwise, the agonised parent reasoned, when all of Lhoss' feä, a purely feminine essence, had transferred to her child while almost nothing of himself had he given. Was it not his law that placed his son in such trepidation? Not for himself, not most of it. He shudders for what this will do to me, to his family. It was all so easy to see now that Thranduil wondered at his blind denial.

"Ai, Legolas," he whispered in fractured tones, yanking his suffering child back into his embrace, permitting no longer even the slender distance of an arm's reach to remain between them, willing his son to trust him again. "It changes nothing; it changes everything," he mourned, spilling quiet tears into golden hair. "I will not have you torn from me over this. We will find a way to make it all right; you will see."

And it was not an empty promise in either elf's estimation, for while Legolas did not believe it could be done yet he cared not, for with Glorfindel resided the promise of a soul-mate and as long as Thranduil did not reject him, he could accept whatever fate willed. As for Thranduil, he could already sense the change in the climate and detect the smell of war upon the horizon. He did not need the gift of foresight to perceive that his third child, unwanted and denied, had already risen far above these ignoble origins to claim a pivotal place in the events to come.

TBC

A/N: There it is. I waited to place this note at the end so as not to give away the conclusion. As I saw it, there were three possible reactions Thranduil might have to learning his son desires a male lover: 1) outrage and rejection borne of shame and guilt, forcing Legolas to leave Greenwood behind in order to fulfil his destiny; 2) complete denial and purposeful blindness, thus keeping his son close, protecting his reputation of being 'right', and preventing having to admit he may have been cruel to make such a law; or 3) accepting Legolas but still seeing the desire for a male as inappropriate, sort of loving Legolas no matter his flaws, taking the blame for Legolas' shame upon himself. I did not consider a fourth possibility, that Thranduil would instantly become enlightened and accepting of same-sex pairs, because I doubt such decisions are rarely instantaneous, either in formulating or disposing of such a bias. Now that his heart and mind are open, however, I am sure he will grow in wisdom concerning his son's nature, eventually coming to the realisation that such a preference has no more to do with goodness, decency, and honour than a person's eye colour would. I leave it to your judgement if I chose the best option, and do not hesitate to let me know your opinions.

As for Legolas' reversal of the decision to keep the truth a secret at all costs, consider this: He expected Galdor to handle it, for never had Thranduil discussed any personal matters with him, for Calarlim prevented it. I hope I made it clear that she was rather distrustful of Thranduil and impeded his access to Legolas quite a bit. Legolas was in the midst of grieving when Thranduil decided to have their wrenching discussion, he was vulnerable and alone and Thranduil used the Sindarin ritual to put his son in a relaxed state of mind first. And in the end, Legolas needed to have his father's unconditional acceptance and took a huge chance that he would receive it, counting on the love he could feel to be true and real. He trusted his instincts, and maybe relied on a little prompting from Calarlim that happened during their communion at Úcaul Annaur, too. Again, I would love to hear your opinions, either for or against the various ideas in this chapter.

Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow)
by F.

UnBeta'd

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.

thoughts
(elvish translations)

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NOTE: My thanks to everyone who has so patiently waited for this story to continue. For those who have sent me encouraging feedback, reviews, and notes, you are more appreciated than I can possibly express. I would like to explain the lack of updates yet I do not like to be the sort to moan and groan about life. I accepted too many commitments to do justice to them all and then had to deal with some personal problems that kept me from Cuthenin. I promise not to abandon the story and hope to be more regular in updates. I had originally planned to end this story at the completion of Úcaul Annaur so there have been quite a few details to work out. I will not leave anyone hanging as to the ultimate fate of Cuthenin and Glorfindel.

Speaking of which, I know from the reviews how eager everyone is to see these two interacting more closely, but please bear with me. Legolas is in Greenwood, facing some important issues not only personally but as a citizen of his father's kingdom as well. I hope everyone understands I could not just gloss over this visit, and hope the scene depicted gives some insight into those who, after the Ring Wars, chose to join Legolas in establishing the colony in Ithilien. Thank you again all for your patience and continued support!
Cheers,
Fred
08/12/2006

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Odog-ar-Pae Peth: Mereth o Thamas-en-Gladgalen (Part Seventeen: The Banquet in the Great Hall of the Greenwood)

"I disagree entirely. You cannot permit Cuthenin to join this futile endeavour."

Inarthan stood before his father in dispassionate defiance, regally imposing in spectacular battle armour that looked to be made of mithril it shone so brightly, certainly a relic from the First Age. A grandly plush cape of forest green wool backed in black silk was draped upon his shoulders. Just brushing the grass behind him, the long cloak was clasped at his neck with a lustrous ruby gem that flickered in the moonlight as if a living flame dwelled within its heart. The Greenwood prince's posture was calm and projected a comforting aura of strength and purpose but his eyes were alight with incredulous dismay. As he spoke he accepted a large tray laden with delectable fruit from the King and in turn passed it to a waiting server.

"He is of age; it is fitting for him to undergo this challenge and his heart bids him so."

Thranduil, uncrowned, presented sombre elegance rather than courtly ostentation for the occasion was formal rather than joyous. Dressed in an amber satin waistcoat and chestnut dyed breeches beneath a sleeveless, open robe of jade velvet edged in ermine, he remained equally collected and cordial in outward manner yet his strained voice betrayed his true feelings. He hefted a second platter, upon which reposed a delectable roasted pheasant, and gave it into his second son's care.

"You do not want him to go either."

Igeredir explicated the obvious with a soft snort. Cleansed of the grime of the campaign from which he surely must have returned but a scant hour or so hence, the middle son of the Sindarin ruler was clothed similarly to his sire. Waistcoat in silk the autumn colour of maple leaves overlaid a fine tunic with flowing sleeves of a soft sheer fabric in pale citron. His breeches were black and his luxurious robe was that shade of blue sported by spruce trees high on the slopes of the forest's weathered peaks. The warrior grimaced as he hastily pressed the succulent entré into another waiter's grasp.

Now these attendants were nearly as richly garbed and sophisticated in demeanour as the King and his sons, yet passed among the gathered Wood Elves with subdued subservience, making certain to present their offerings to every group. As each family was approached, the unusual staff made sure to bow their heads in deference, no matter how lowly the simply clad silvan Elves looked in comparison. If appearance could be trusted, the nobles of the King's court were engaged in this humble duty, waiting upon the common folk of the realm as if they were the Valar and their Valarindi in some rustic disguise.

"I do not want him in such dire circumstances, but when you were his age neither did I hope for you to face the dangers that plague us daily. I did not stop you from doing so, however; nor did either of you forbid such hazards to my grandchildren. Nor they to your grandchildren." This time Thranduil presented his eldest with an ornate cauldron capped with a golden lid from which escaped the most delicious vapours via a series of minute pores around its perimeter.

"It is one thing to fight Orcs and spiders alongside a full company of warriors but quite another to brave the legions of Sauron's army en route to the very fires of Mount Doom in the heart of Mordor. With only mortals to aid him, and four of those untrained in warcraft. We shall lose him, Adar!" Inarthan's voice, though fraught with his earnest dread, remained modulated in tone and timbre. He nearly spilled the soup upon the grass, however, in his eagerness to be rid of it and his overabundance of strong emotion regarding the topic.

The Elf who salvaged the elegant tureen gave him a look of concern and warning combined, for it was none other than Galion, the King's seneschal. He did not speak, however, and turned from the prince to do his duty and serve the tantalisingly fragrant broth. He gave his head-bob with a broad smirk and a wink, for the first Elves he waited upon were the visiting Lords, Glorfindel and Galdor, seated upon wide, low stools of brocaded satin trimmed in an intricately knotted fringe of silk tassels. Still he said nothing, merely ladling an ample portion of the concoction into the guests' bowls before moving away to serve the rest of Greenwood's population.

Glorfindel's attention was distracted from the drama playing out between the King and his elder sons by Galion's presence yet he barely spared the irreverent steward a thin frown. The Lord of the Golden Flower had not envisioned so formal a function in such a time of grim news from afar and the tragedy of recent losses locally. He had not thought to pack any garments suitable to represent his House in the grand manner on display amid the Sindarin nobles and had been forced to accept the loan of a fittingly flamboyant robe from Galion. It was made in the same style as the royal family's were, open and sleeveless, constructed in his case of opulent, carnelian fabric and trimmed in the fur of silver foxes. Beneath this heavy drape he wore his travelling clothes, these having been brushed and freshened with fragrant rosemary by some dedicated servant of the stronghold.

"Please try the soup, Hîren (my Lord)," spoke a quiet voice from his left. Glorfindel glanced over to find one of Thranduil's numerous great-great-grandchildren smiling politely at Galdor. The Sindarin Elf reminded him of Igeredir strongly yet her manner was not so imposing and the elleth was obviously not a warrior by trade. A scholar, perhaps, or a healer. Her mundanely courteous remark, juxtaposed against the serious conversation taking place between Thranduil and his princes, aptly encapsulated the bizarre atmosphere of the dinner.

Glorfindel transferred his sight to Galdor and noted that he, too, had borrowed clothing from the lofty-mannered seneschal. The emissary from Mithlond sampled the broth and declared it delicious, earning a gracious nod from the noble woodland Lady. Galdor behaved as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring, as though his host was not discussing the private affairs of his family in front of everyone. Yet he must be as keenly interested in this strange council as I, if not more so. The Noldorin Lord presented his usual serenely composed countenance, the image of an ancient and revered sage from the Elder Days. That made Glorfindel smile, inwardly at least, for Galdor, august patriarch of the House of the Tree, a Sadron and Founder of Pâd-en-Tawar, was his contemporary, older by only a handful of years.

This was without doubt the strangest feast Glorfindel had ever attended. Indeed, this is more a grandiose picnic than a banquet.

The formal fête was being served, its opulence notwithstanding, outdoors under the stars for Thranduil's Great Hall was not found within his cavernous fortress. That this hall was but a broad, green meadow ringed, according to tradition and lore, by the very oldest living trees in all of Arda, purportedly planted by Yavanna's own hands, did not detract from the splendorous simplicity of the occasion or its locale. A sacred place in the Elder days, the grassy lea had served as the silvans' seat of council, market, trysting spot, and community gathering place since first the Teleri settled beneath the canopy.

It took no great amount of thought to comprehend why such an area would become so popular, for Wood Elves delighted in starlight and revelled in every opportunity to absorb the distant, argent shimmer, for open space in the tree-crowded forest was limited. Few evenings passed without a large portion of the population collecting in Thamas-en-Calenhad (Great Hall in the Green-space), filling the air with song, many of the melodies so ancient they were originally voiced at Cuivienen. There was no singing on this evening, as yet, but the silvans were apparently prepared to remain indefinitely, having carried down mats and small stools from their talans to make the ground more appealing to Elves at ease in the heights.

To Glorfindel, the impression adduced that this mode of convocation was common rather than unique. The Balrog Slayer gazed about in curiosity from his place of honour. His low but comfortably padded seat was situated on a subtle uplift in the turf before an aggregation of five tall stones that surely could not have found their places without the aid of elven strength and determination. Yet they were not carved, polished, sculpted or otherwise embellished in any way; they were just great oblong blocks of black basalt arranged in a crude arc upon this little hummock. He wondered what superstitious notions were attached to these hunks of rock and their placement within the open meadow so far from the mountain fortress. His meandering eyes and thoughts snapped back to the royal family as the King answered his eldest son.

"Loss is a familiar, bitter companion to the Elves of the Greenwood, both Sindarin and silvan, whether nobly or humbly bred, and many are the ways one may lose a loved one. Yet even so, Tûovor, (Strength Abundant - Inarthan's father-name) speak not those words of Legolas," Thranduil stated with understated vehemence that silenced the undercurrent of muted chatter around him. The light in his olivine orbs was awash in a turbulent flux of fear, anger, and something near to pleading.

Inarthan sighed audibly and bowed his head; the effect was immediately disconcerting for the warrior prince was such a fulsome image of powerful authority that just the sight of him could give the heart courage. To see him despondent was to feel a quailing chill freeze the soul. "Nin gohenach, Adar, pennon inden Úistiel," (Forgive me, Father, I spoke my heart without thinking.) he said contritely ere he straightened his stance anew. "I understand Legolas' desire to prove himself and to make amends, but he could do that here at home. The struggle will come upon us first, for Dol Guldur will be the Enemy's command post in the north. A warrior with Cuthenin's skill will be greatly needed and difficult to replace."

"I do not dispute you. Yet fate has placed our Cuthenin on this path and he is unwilling to turn from it. There are many able warriors in Greenwood; there is only one Elf among all the First-born whom Mithrandir would have with him on this Quest." The major chord of a father's unabashed pride rang through these words as Thranduil corrected his eldest son gently, for Inarthan had omitted completely the wizard's part in the venture.

Throughout the meadow, the quiet murmur of low voices, the pitch of the sound affirming and supportive of the King, began anew as the royal family paused in the discussion, Thranduil's endorsement of his youngest son's participation being difficult for the elder princes to counter. Viewed from beyond their immediate circle, the trio gave every indication of engaging in a normal conversation; none of the other Elves gathered would be able to determine by sight that the Sindarin Lords were arguing. This was especially true since this immediate circle was comprised entirely of Elves belonging to Thranduil's clan, a sizeable throng and a substantial physical barrier between the King's family and his subjects. Nonetheless, elven hearing granted nearly everyone access to the particulars of the debate.

Which surely Thranduil knows. This must all be for the benefit of the Wood Elves.

Not for the first time was Glorfindel perplexed by the rationale behind the Sindarin Lord's behaviour. He had been subjected to one surprise after another this day and the inexplicable manner of hosting a feast while informing the public regarding personal affairs was just another eccentric feature of Greenwood's hybrid culture, he supposed. Still, he wondered if anyone would challenge the presented reasoning for sending Legolas, for all intents an untried warrior with a tendency to rash action, on so important a mission. Indeed, his own opinions on the topic were conflicted.

So much greater then must be their dilemma.

The family's voiced worries revealed their distress over the possibility of Cuthenin's demise during this quest while addressing the concerns of the populace over who should represent the woodland realm. None would doubt that the King's family wished Legolas to remain in his homeland, fearing him unprepared for such a hardship, yet forces beyond their control would compel them to let him go nonetheless.

Glorfindel revised his judgement, deciding Thranduil and his elder sons were shrewd politicians after all. The King was garnering his subjects' natural sympathies for his family's wrenching conundrum in order to soften opposition to Legolas' participation in the vital pursuit. He shook his head slightly, scoffing at his slow comprehension of the purpose behind such open cogitations, for while he was unsurpassed in tactical skill and warcraft, his acuity in the ways of statecraft was dull in comparison.

He scanned the numerous Elves belonging to Thranduil's clan and was struck by the lack of silvan folk among them. The House of the Beeches had not blended formally with the more primitive silvan bloodlines, it would seem. He recognised some people he knew personally, formerly of Mithlond, and the inescapable conclusion was that Thranduil's House sought mates amid adjuncts of the Sindarin nobles dwelling by the seashore. Yet none of them seemed disposed to dissent against Legolas and this silent support was equally unexpected, given Galion's vivid portrayal of disfavour among the Sindarin Lords for the King's illicit affair.

And still another peculiarity, given their lack of obvious hostility, is the fact that Legolas is not seated amid the multitude of his father's extended family.

Glorfindel's intended was much farther away, surrounded by a smaller coterie of Elves that must belong to his Naneth's people, for they were all silvan. He noted the distance between them and any other group or family; he absorbed the commonplace appearance, the reduced numbers of the descendants of the House of the Swallow. These observations saddened Glorfindel, for in Gondolin these folk had been highly lauded and dwelt in splendour under the favour of Turgon their King. He wondered if Legolas knew anything of his peoples' proud history and determined to share his memories of their brave deeds on that dreadful day so long ago. He also questioned whether the decision to sit with his Naneth's House was the archer's or a restriction imposed by his illegitimacy. Would Legolas choose to be so far from his father's presence in such a time of sorrow?

I would not think it, but if his low status so ordains he would be bound to obey, considering his fear of exposing his Adar to the nobles' disfavour. He idolises Thranduil. The Balrog Slayer had to admit he was bewildered by Cuthenin's strange circumstances: subject to oblique ostracism from all while discussed with obvious affection and worried misgivings by his father and brothers. And what does Legolas make of this council, for he is not so far removed that he cannot hear their contention plainly?

Glorfindel's eyes sought Legolas, perhaps for the twentieth time though he was unaware it had been so often, this time to check on how the younger warrior was bearing up under the strain of being the topic of open deliberation. The Vanya Lord grimaced, not because Cuthenin seemed to be in distress but conversely because he was not.

The woodland archer looked utterly relaxed, reclining upon the grass and leaning back into the arms of a silvan elleth. She held onto him with one arm round his chest while with the other she retrieved morsels from the various plates and bowls scattered around and fed them to him. Cuthenin was not wearing much, just a loose pair of breeches and what could only be a sleep-shirt, which was unlaced and hanging open, and he was barefoot. Glorfindel concluded that someone had roused him from bed and dragged him down to the meadow without giving him time to dress for the feast, which was the case.

This elleth, mayhap, brought him hence, but why so, if as appearance suggests, he had retired for resting? That no one else found Cuthenin's state of deshabille worthy of comment was yet another inexplicable wrinkle in the aspect of Greenwood's poorly fused, patched-together society.

Watching the pair, Glorfindel's eyes narrowed as his features hardened in an expression reserved for those deserving his most virulent wrath. From time to time, the silvan female's hand gently rubbed Cuthenin's chest, just over the tattooed spiral above his heart, through the gap in the shirt. Legolas' hand rested atop hers and he did not protest these intimate touches.

An aunt, perhaps, or even his maternal grandmother. Could be a cousin. Glorfindel reasoned to his jealous mind. It did not work, jealousy not being an emotion generally affected by rational thought. His left hand clenched tightly around his fork and he used it to stab in distraction at the delicacies upon his plate, yet his jaws were clamped shut and not a bite did he taste. It was denial more than logic that pushed him to seek an innocent explanantion. He is grieving; these Elves are his family. It is but a display of compassionate comforting. Besides, Legolas has no romantic interest in females. This notion did help a bit, yet almost at once the Balrog Slayer's ire returned as another Elf joined the archer's group.

This was the same warrior who had so openly embraced Legolas upon their arrival in Greenwood. The ellon summarily lifted Legolas off the elleth's lap and transferred him to his. Cuthenin laughed softly at something the warrior remarked as this was accomplished but made no effort to get free, even allowing this male friend to take over the task of feeding him. The ellon's long fingers slipped beneath the fabric of the shirt and Glorfindel could actually see Legolas' sigh, so deeply was it expelled from his lungs, and the mourning Elf shifted to settle more fully into his friend's comforting clasp. The warrior bent his head low toward Legolas and his hair fell forward, a curtain of dark tresses hiding their faces, and Glorfindel's breath ceased.

In rigid disbelief he watched, straining to see more clearly what was happening while at the same time forced to remain where he was lest he call attention to his inordinate interest in this tableau. Why is he shielding their interaction from view? What does he whisper, so softly none can overhear it? Is he kissing my Cuthenin? That idea, irrational though it might be, very nearly had Glorfindel on his feet but for Galdor's intervention. The worthy Guardian tapped him rudely on the shoulder and cleared his throat. The Vanya warrior turned to his old friend in seething fury.

"You permit this?" he accused in a hiss more audible than he intended, his hand making a swift, cutting gesture in the direction of his intended.

The exasperated expression transforming Galdor's features informed Glorfindel that he had been heard by everyone. He became uncomfortably aware that all speech had ceased. He swallowed, not daring to so much as glance in Cuthenin's direction, and darted a covert look at the King instead. Thranduil's glowering countenance was enough to make him wish he was still home in Imladris, for the threatening visage was mirrored not only on the faces of the King's older sons but on nearly every one of the assembled members of the House of The Beeches.

"You misunderstand," snarled Igeredir. "There is no insult to your sister in this for such assignations between like kind are forbidden in Greenwood. Furthermore, Cuthenin and Sûlchim are cousins, nearly as close in blood as brothers; Sûlchim's father and Cuthenin's mother were first cousins."

"They were raised together," Inarthan added in cold disdain. "Sûlchim is but five years Legolas' senior."

The Balrog Slayer rose immediately to his feet and made a deep bow to the King and his sons. "Please forgive my offence against your House. I rashly assumed an affront to my sister that clearly was not presented. The ways of the Greenwood are not as those of Imladris, and for this reason my mind misinterpreted what my eyes beheld."

"It is understandable that you would wish to defend your sister's honour," answered Thranduil in a less than generous a tone. "No slight upon my House has been noticed." He resumed his task of passing out the food, dismissing his guest's indiscreet outburst, his ensuing silence forbidding additional censure of the foreign Lord.

Yet the atmosphere of the glen had acquired a distinct edge to it. More than a few hostile glares were bent upon the re-born warrior from both the House of the Swallow and of the Beeches.

Glorfindel resumed his seat with a heavy heart that was yet in great part eased, for he felt a sharp sense of having narrowly averted a catstrophe. Only the woodland princes' misunderstanding concerning the cause for his anger had prevented the public revelation of his true feelings. He busied himself with eating, reaching for and tasting something from all the dishes that had been steadily accumulating throughout the course of the extravagant meal. He kept his eyes averted from Cuthenin's location, not just to prove to the assembly that he was satisfied with the princes' explanation but to refrain from facing the hurt he was sure must be visible within the archer's eyes should he chance to meet them.

Ai! Where has my reason and self-control fled? I am acting like any love-struck adolescent elfling. The Vanya berated himself sternly, for the consequences of giving vent to this unseemly jealousy would be very grave for Legolas. He truly did not wish to place Cuthenin in such unbearable conditions: shamed and banished in disgrace from his homeland and his family.

"Well played, Hîren, skilfully done indeed." These mocking words, but faintly murmured close to Glorfindel's ear, arose from the smirking mouth of Galion. The steward had reappeared, this time bearing a trencher heaped with the smoked flesh of a boar, pulled from the bone and seasoned with a rich and tangy tawny-brown sauce. "Do taste this delicacy my Lords, I doubt anything similar is served in the court of Imladris. The preparation is something of a family secret here in Greenwood," Galion said in an audible tone as he leaned close to bring his burden within Glorfindel and Galdor's reach.

"My thanks, good steward," smiled Galdor. "Truly, the fare of the forest has my tongue awake with anticipation for every bite." As he helped himself he sent Glorfindel another scowling remonstrance. "Are there some among Thranduil's people, then, as you remarked earlier, who would put forth that Glorfindel's presence is more than a diplomatic necessity?" he asked of Galion in a subdued pitch inaudible beyond their seats.

"You honour us with your compliments, Hîren," the seneschal rejoined for the crowd's benefit before dropping his volume again. "There are always those who seek to discredit Legolas; even before his birth this was so. And not all here are ignorant of gossip from distant lands. Lord Glorfindel's reputation for bedding ellyn has reached the ears of many. However, his visible outrage and the timely explanation supplied by the elder princes has deflated the notion that he is interested in Cuthenin for himself. That is, for all save a few who are convinced of Legolas' true inclination but cannot prove anything.

"That being because there are those of us who have worked very hard over the years to keep him removed from any opportunity to indulge his passions. Legolas himself has determinedly refrained from putting his person in the way of temptation and I can attest to the truth of his complete innocence. He has not been publicly accused because he has never done anything forbidden for which to be indicted. Many may suspect his preference but none can impeach his conduct." These harsh words were intended solely to censure Glorfindel, for while Legolas would be the last to credit it the butler was one of his most vigilant protectors. Galion moved away to another group, sending one last searing glare into the Balrog Slayer's penitent beryl eyes.

Glorfindel sighed wearily and flashed a look into Galdor's face. The placid expression had returned as the Sadron chewed slowly but the Vanya warrior was not fooled. Legolas' Tirn'wador would be certain to take him to task over this slip ere the dawn had broken. He shifted his focus again to the King and the elder princes, noting that all the passing and serving was done and the aristocratic Sindarin staff were returning to their respective clans even as Thranduil took his place, a seat located in the centre of the stone arc. His sons sat beside him, Inarthan on his right and Igeredir on the left. The uncomfortably tense silence remained and Glorfindel shifted uneasily, knowing he was the cause for disrupting the usual protocol at such affairs.

Several edgy minutes of night elapsed as the stars looked down, spilling the trembling glint of their silvern splendour over the collected Elves.

"Mithrandir is wise; even among those deemed so he is a sage of renown," a new voice spoke, one of the Sindarin nobles among a group seated so close to the King's people that Glorfindel could not tell exactly where the division was. "Yet he is not as well informed on matters under the eaves of the forest."

"Aye, but he has an ally on our borders who keeps him apprised of news: Aiwendil," remarked Galion. "I would wager he knew of the Gollum's escape long before Cuthenin arrived in Imladris."

"Yet he drafted Cuthenin into service nonetheless," appended Igeredir, sensing where the nobleman's complaint was leading.

"That is not exactly so," Glorfindel boldly spoke up. He paused only for an instant to feel a twinge of regret over the shocked countenances gawking at him. "Mithrandir requested Legolas' aid after consultation with Lord Elrond, his sons, Lord Galdor, and myself. It was just that: a request, not an order or a penance imposed due to presumed shortcomings."

This unexpected interruption was followed by a few seconds of very dense stillness during which every Elf in the kingdom stared at the foreign Lord, their expressions an even mix of blatant surprise, distrustful resentment, and calculating shrewdness.

"Your information is invaluable and we are grateful for it," another Sindarin Lord of the court stood and bowed to Glorfindel, "yet when has the fate of the Greenwood's people been decided by the leaders of such distant lands?"

"Indeed, and more to the point, by what right did Legolas accept this challenge before consulting with his betters? He took much upon himself, for it was not intended that he should go to Imladris as emissary for our realm," another added with blunt disdain. "He was sent as a messenger, nothing more, and it is unseemly for a task of this magnitude to be given into his hands to accomplish."

"Or fail to accomplish, as the outcome will more likely be defeat if left under Cuthenin's command," a third Sindarin Lord stood and appended his disparagement.

"That is an unjust assessment," Glorfindel could not help challenging that insulting comment. "I examined him closely concerning the events surrounding the creature's escape. Nothing approaching negligence is indicated. Had any other Elf been the miserable gangrel's keeper, would anyone here condemn them for the attack?"

"Kind words, Lord Glorfindel, offered gallantly in your future law-brother's defence, but as you have remarked: our ways and those of Imladris differ. Our definitions of negligence likewise do not coincide," commented the first Elf Lord drily.

"Do you level such a charge upon my son, Tarias?" (Difficulty) demanded Thranduil, his demeanour cool, his tone level, and his eyes ablaze with fury.

As though his words contained some unvoiced mandate, and before an answer could be made, four of Thranduil's younger descendants rose from their places and made their way conspicuously to the clan of the Swallow. They stood still and silent, ringed in open solidarity around Legolas where he remained ensconced in his cousin's grasp. Though as richly dressed as the rest of their clan, each of these elves betrayed the manner and bearing of warriors; it was evident they must be common members of a single company and that Legolas was not only kin by blood but their war-brother as well.

Tarias frowned in disapproval as he watched this arrogant display of rebellious camaraderie yet shook his head as he answered. "Nay, excuse my wayward tongue for I misspoke, Aranen. (my King) It is more accurate to refer to Cuthenin's inexperience as the culprit in our warriors' deaths than any lack of spirit or courage on his part."

"That is twice you have maligned my brother in as few passing moments," intoned Inarthan in a soft voice that was laced with the promise of severe reprisal. "I would know the basis for it. Have you information we do not? Perhaps a formal account of Legolas' actions that day would enlighten us all."

"There is nothing untoward to relay," said a more distant voice.

Attention swerved to find its source and all watched and waited as the speaker approached from the far edge of the glade. The Elf was neither Sindarin nor silvan but one among the multitude who were a mixture of the two, for the example of spurning the woodland folk given by Thranduil's House was by no means followed universally. Indeed, it was only among the few most powerful clans of the Sindar that such discrimination was practised. She seemed in age a contemporary of the elder princes and moved with that sense of reserved power and command that denotes the leader of any fighting force, regardless the realm they serve. She came forward until she stood before Thranduil's seat and bowed in respect.

"Hîren, Cuthenin arrived for his turn at watch at the appointed time, alert and prepared for his tour. No unusual activity occurred during the three-day shift although he was relieved several hours late; a fact he did not reveal to me out of friendship for the tardy warrior. After making his customary report, Cuthenin requested permission for the Gollum to be allowed outside for a time, per Mithrandir's recommendation.

"I agreed with the wizard's ideas about healing the miserable creature and I gave that order. This was not the first time I had done so. Should anyone wish to lay blame for the events that came to pass thereafter, they need look no further than my compassionate heart. Cuthenin was dismissed from duty for the day, as he had completed his watch. I have found nothing in his actions that displayed either lack of discipline or want of sound judgement."

Her speech compete, the captain gave a reverent nod to her King, turned and strode over to join the warriors surrounding Cuthenin. As she did, several more Elves arose from their respective families and made their way to stand in support of Legolas. They were not only silvan nor drawn solely from among the archer's blood relations but constituted a fair representation of the Greenwood's divers populace, both in class, race, and age. Warriors all, the common denominator linking them was the bond of soldiers who depended on one another for life and safety. This was a bond Glorfindel understood well and he nodded in approval.

Now it was clear from the captain's rapid, concise delivery that she had given this same assessment before, at least privately, yet even so Glorfindel could not suppress a triumphant grin which he trained first upon the contemptuous Sindarin nobles and then upon Cuthenin. His intended's vision was focused elsewhere, however, and Glorfindel's smile softened. Legolas' shining eyes were locked upon his Adar's, revelling in the outpouring of encouragement, approbation, and love emanating from the deep emerald sea of Thranduil's orbs.

Glorfindel could tell that Cuthenin wished to go to his father yet remained among his mother's people, and the Balrog Slayer had to rein in his desire to rise and forcibly relocate the young archer to his rightful place. Silvan he might be in heritage and culture, yet there was still honour and dignity in the House of the Sparrow. Beyond this, Cuthenin was every inch Thranduil's son; none would doubt his innate nobility. None with a shred of intelligence, at least.

The intensity of his gaze reached Legolas even across so great a distance and the archer turned to him. Cuthenin blinked wide blue eyes and then responded with a slight smile, a shy smile, an almost apologetic smile that at once elated and bewildered Glorfindel. The re-born warrior felt his heart turn over in his chest and a painfully wistful sigh fled his lips. How he yearned to go stand beside Cuthenin, to place a supporting hand upon his shoulder.

And why should I not? Is it so unseemly for me to back my future law-brother? It would be right, a way to amend my poor behaviour earlier. He stirred, intending to follow through on this idea, when another sharp poke in the shoulder drew his sight away from Cuthenin.

With the spell broken, and Galdor's disapproving glare upon him once more, Glorfindel realised that his prolonged indulgence in admiration of Legolas had been of sufficient magnitude to garner others' notice as well, most importantly that of Thranduil, Inarthan, and Igeredir. The trio were regarding him with seemingly bland unconcern but their eyes proclaimed their combined surprise, comprehension, and alarm. No doubt did the Balrog Slayer harbour; they knew.

He felt his soul shrink within his body, receding in quaking dread behind his valiant heart, the pounding of which overwhelmed his hearing for a moment. Unable to bear the strain of meeting their consolidated and disapproving scrutiny, he transferred his notice to Galdor and physically winced. The Lord of the Tree looked ready to commit his first act kin-slaying. "Valar, nin beria," (Valar protect me.) Glorfindel whispered gloomily, having absolutely no faith in such a plea being heard.

"…regardless the outcome. Is it right for an outlander, be he even from the Blessed Realm, to so determine who should represent our people? I say it is not meet. Let the folk of the Greenwood choose their champion for this Quest." Tarias had resumed his discordant protests and this bold challenge snatched Glorfindel's notice away from his personal dilemma.

"Aye, we should put it to voice," one of the other malcontents averred.

"Is this the will of my subjects?" demanded Thranduil, rising and stepping forward from the encircling black obelisks. "Or is this but more belligerent complaining from the Houses of Beor and Brûn Ist? (Houses of the Followers and of Ancient Lore) Let us see who supports the choice of Tarias and Lumren." (Difficulty and Shady)

So saying, the King demonstrated his meaning by example, walking purposefully to stand with those collected amid the Swallows. As soon as he was close enough, he bent and took his youngest son by the arm, aiding him to rise, and then wrapped one strong arm around the youth's shoulders, drawing him close to his side. Legolas presented his Adar with a brief but exultant smile, winding his arm about his sire's waist to reinforce this unity, before mimicking Thranduil's serious demeanour.

Very quickly the Wood Elves sorted themselves between the two camps, with the head of each House moving to stand in support of either the King and his son or the dissenting nobles. Though he would have wished it otherwise, Glorfindel was not surprised that the numbers were not overwhelmingly in favour of Legolas. Still, he could discern that enough had joined Thranduil to over-rule the opposition. Tarias and Lumnen said nothing, allowing their scowling frowns to indicate their dismay.

"It is decided, but for one more voice as yet unheard," extolled the King. He met his youngest's eyes and gave a brief nod, separating from Legolas and standing back a pace.

Cuthenin took too strides forward into the open and turned to face his father.

"I will go, for I have given my word to Mithrandir that I would aid this undertaking in any manner possible. I go not only to remove the injury the reputation of the Woodland Realm has suffered due to the escape of Gollum, though that is perhaps sufficient reason. I go to do what I may to bring an end to the tyranny of the Dark Lord, too long a resident in our lands and now subjecting the people of every land to his evil cruelty.

"Should I fail, let not the people of Greenwood bear the burden of that defeat, for I join the Fellowship not as representative for her folk alone. I will stand for all the First-born, for while our time here draws to a close, yet it is right to support the cause of those who will inherit Arda from our hands. I pray I do not fail, or if I do so that it will not be from lack of fortitude or ability but only because the Shadow has been victorious and won its prize, in which case my soul will be in Nâmo's Keeping, there to be joined by many of my kin.

"I pray my courage is enough and my skill sufficient. I beg the aid of Tawar and the petitions and supplications of all here on my behalf, that I have what strength is required to bring honour to my family and homeland, that I prove anew the gallant constitution of the Elves. I beg the grace of your Blessing, Aranen, that I may go with a clear conscience, free of regret for my absence in such a time of adversity." His proclamation concluded, Legolas knelt upon the grass before the King, head bowed and hand over his heart, awaiting this last affirmation of his decision.

Thranduil did not hesitate and in fact had reached his son before Cuthenin's speech ended. His right hand he placed upon the crown of golden tresses and his left rested upon Legolas' shoulder as he spoke:

"I grant you my Blessing with both joy and misgiving, filled with both pride and regret. How can it be otherwise? You are my own child, yet grown and a warrior well-fitted to this task. In selfishness I would wish to deny your participation, yet even if I did this you would go. That is to your credit, for it speaks of a strong character and a true heart. I have no doubt that you will do justice to the trust the wizard has conferred upon you yet I feel my heart straining against the woes you must face upon this journey.

"Let no concern or fear for our fate cause you distraction lest you falter and cause me to face the dread of losing you. We will be fighting beside you, albeit divided by the long leagues of many realms and wasted wilds. Our stewardship of Arda may be waning but the determination of the First-born has not diminished, anymore than the Wood Elves have come to love less the trees that have sheltered them since the Elder days. We shall all succeed or all fail, and if the latter then it will not be for lack of valour on the part of elf-kind.

"Go with your King's sanction and your Father's reluctant consent. But return to me, Legolas, if you can, for my heart cannot abide here longer if yours is in Mandos." This last sentence was murmured for the benefit of Cuthenin's hearing alone, for Thranduil once more raised his son upright, pulling him against his chest in a clasp so tight as to be painful, his soul aching in fear of this being the last time he might ever hold his youngest child thus.

A subtle cacophony followed this inspiring scene as many of the silvan byr (followers) of Pâd-en-Tawar uttered entreaties for Cuthenin's protection and the success of the Fellowship's venture. Among the Sindarin Elves could be heard scattered avowals of approbation for Legolas and of commitment to ridding the world of the Shadow, for their hearts were stirred and they were eager to be part of this fight.

Now Thranduil met his elder sons' eyes, a questioning, almost pleading expression shining from his. Inarthan and Igeredir smiled and silently communicated their understanding before their father released their younger brother from his embrace, resettling his arm around Legolas' shoulders as he led him away from the crowd. In unison Greenwood's princes tuned and converged upon their guests, bearing down upon Glorfindel like wolves after a hart. Their smiles were courteously cold and grim and their silence was more ominous than any curse or accusation would have sounded.

Glorfindel stood, not one to meet his doom in cowering meekness no matter how hopeless the situation appeared. He was glad for the stool behind his knees, however, for it prevented the unseemly act of taking a step backwards, something his instinct screamed he ought to do as the Sindarin princes advanced. He felt a hand upon his back and realised it was Galdor, quietly pledging his support, and thanked the Valar for the elder Elf's friendship. As Inarthan and Igeredir flanked him, Glorfindel caught the smirking leer of Galion. The seneschal was right behind the King's sons and together the three Sindarin Elves escorted the visiting Lords from Thamas-en-Calenhad.

TBC

Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow)
by F.

UnBeta'd

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.

thoughts
(elvish translations)

NOTE: Here is another update! This chapter offers more dialogue between Thranduil and his youngest, for there are many unresolved issues between them yet. Glorfindel faces Cuthenin's family next and we shall learn how the brothers became so protective of a sibling they initially detested and how it is that everyone in the immediate family seems to know Legolas' problem but thinks no one else does, thus keeping silent out of fear to expose him to ridicule or worse. Thanks to one and all for your patience and continued support!
Cheers,
Fred
08/26/2006

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Toloth-ar-Pae Peth: Remmin Tîw (Part Eighteen: Mixed Messages)

The foot paths and branch ways radiating outward from the arboreal city surrounding Orod Im'elaidh (Mountain amid the Trees) were empty and silent. So quiet that the soundless tread of elven footfalls thudded in noisy counterpoint, one set lighter, shorter in stride, and unshod, the other forceful, rapid, and booted in sturdy gear meant to withstand the rigours of a long campaign over harsh terrain. The King and his last-born child walked away from Calenhad (Green-space) and the subdued revelry of the subjects of the realm as Mereth-en-Maethyr'wann (Feast of the Dead Warriors) progressed.

Music filtered through the air, eerie and melancholy but equally fair and defiant, building in rhythm so gradually that when finally the pyrrhic tempo was achieved the Wood Elves would be jolted in surprise though this type of gathering was much too commonplace in the darkening forest. They would dance then, pouring the pent energy of their sorrow and anger and fear into the synchronised steps, the terpsichorean movements reminiscent of battle, infused with the tumult of their unceasing and violent struggle to live, free and unfettered by evil's subjugation.

Though the two Elves retreated steadily from it, the music followed, injecting something of its agitation and strife into subconscious awareness so that they stepped in time with the dirge and felt the passionate turmoil of the frenzied ballet beginning behind them.

Thranduil looked at Legolas, the incarnation of Lhoss' hindered and hidden love, and permitted his mind the distraction of admiring the refined lines of the profile, marvelling at the sturdy strength of the archer's shoulders beneath his arm's easy embrace, appreciating anew the unique combination of durable vigour and gossamer elegance contained within Cuthenin's compactly lissome frame. Everything about him recalled the House of the Swallows and few in Greenwood could fail to see this. It was difficult to find any hint of Oropher's hardy bloodlines in Legolas outward form yet incongruously impossible to envision him belonging to any other family. Few in the Woodland Realm would question that, either. The King tried to recall when during Legolas' short life that had come about, for it certainly had not been so at the beginning.

With vivid acuity, Thranduil relived the first time he had held his son, the babe so tiny he was barely large enough to require two hands and so frail he lacked sufficient energy to keep his eyes open. The dysphoric father, skilful and practised through the handling of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren more numerous than he cared to count, had actually held his breath when Calarlim laid the silk-swathed body within his hands. He had never cuddled a new-born so listless and quiet; indeed, he had feared the worst until he felt the rapid tempo of the determined heart beating beneath the pressure of his fingertips.

Yet the child had refused to stir, content within the cocoon of silk swaddling. It had taken a great deal of cooing, cajoling, and coaxing to bring it about, but at last the long-lashed lids had lifted and the infant's hazy vision had attempted to focus on the source of the familiar voice. For an instant father and son joined sight and their souls met and the King was certain the fragile elfling recognised him. His heart, formerly weighed down in grief and guilt over Lhoss' death, had soared in a bursting flurry of exultant love.

It was not until that moment that I truly claimed him for my own.

Since that moment, Thranduil had tried, wished, hoped, yearned, and failed to achieve full parental control of his youngest son. In the end, his efforts amounted to little more than tokens, nominal actions designed to assuage his guilt, for it had been easier to just let Calarlim handle everything. He had appeased his sons, mollified his deceased wife's incensed kin, acquiesced to the silvans' religious precepts, catered to the courtly nobles, and avoided the responsibility, with its concomitant controversy, of Legolas' upbringing. Had Thranduil truly wanted his third son close beside him, would he not simply have left that talan with his babe in his arms, ignoring Calarlim's possessive demands? Indeed, the Sindarin monarch was well known for decisive deeds, for planning, orchestrating, directing, leading and achieving whatever purpose to which he set his mind and strength.

Now Vairë has brought about the very thing I have both longed for and resisted: the opportunity to really be a father to my son. How like the Vala to make my first duty as such that which is most delicate. Yet I must not falter, neither by failing to speak nor through overly vehement objections, for Legolas' eternal happiness depends upon choosing his life-mate wisely. Adar, how I wish you were still with me!

Thranduil tried to envision what Oropher's response would have been to such a situation but absolutely nothing presented itself. The King realised he had never considered it possible for any of his kin to feel such depraved urges while at the same time had openly deriding anyone in another's House who displayed even vague affectations of their sex's opposite. Had he made such derisive comments in Legolas' hearing? Undoubtedly.

The newly enlightened father stifled a cringe, regretting every example of such intolerance, and unconsciously tightened his hold upon his last child's shoulders as they paced in tandem down the path. He did not feel differently toward Legolas, knowing the truth, but instead commended the youthful ellon for his efforts to remain within the bounds of Law and custom. Yet he did not want Legolas to spend his life alone and loveless. His son deserved a mate as much as any other Elf, and if that partner must be male, then Thranduil would have to find a way to accept it, difficult though that would surely be.

With that thought, he acknowledged where his duty lay. He had no idea how to bring it up, but he must broach the subject of Faer Hebron again, for he trusted his intuition regarding the nature of the Balrog Slayer's keen interest in Cuthenin. Whether Legolas was aware of it was at the heart of the matter.

Nay, whether or no he reciprocates these feelings is the real issue here. And if he does, what then shall my advice be? Thranduil sighed wearily.

Legolas glanced up nervously at the sound, feeling the muscle of the arm across his back grow taut, wondering what thought prompted the sudden tension. He had ben too engaged in the public debate, too relieved to see friends and family support him, too overjoyed to find his father at his side to notice Glorfindel's moment of self-revelation. He could only surmise the uneasy strain arose from the King's concerns over the dangers inherent to the Quest.

He hoped that was the cause. They had not not delved too deeply into specifics after his impulsive admission, both being too uncertain of one another to know how to discuss the subject. Yet Legolas understood that while he need not fear rejection or the loss of his father's love, what he desired was not so easy for Thranduil to wholeheartedly embrace. The little spoken had involved assurances that Legolas was not to blame for his aberrant nature, that knowledge of his abnormal craving need not become public.

What if he secretly believes this weakness will prove the downfall of the Quest?

Legolas forced the idea from his thoughts, refusing to let the fear take hold of him. There had been no hint of artifice or contrivance in the King's Blessing, nor anything but love in his father's soulful plea to remain safe. Nevertheless, Thranduil's quiet brooding wore upon Cuthenin's peace of mind until he could bear it no longer and spoke.

"I should have stayed to join the dance, but I am weary beyond thought, though I have rested several hours already."

"Nay, you have done everything required to ensure your comrades' remembrance. More rest is what you need if you are to be strong enough for this undertaking."

Thranduil was glad he would not have to see his son perform the dance, for the idea of his youngest engaged in even a re-enactment of the deadly travail that marked their days turned his stomach. Thranduil had never seen Legolas in battle; he could not tolerate imagining it much less witness such an abomination. Others brought him reports of Cuthenin's superb marksmanship and unfailing courage and he made certain to give ample praise for every brave deed, but within his heart the King was sickened.

Nothing pointed to the relentless encroachment of the Shadow more than the sad fact that every Elf in Greenwood was trained to fight, no matter what their calling, regardless their repugnance to the idea of killing. Noble and commoner, young or ancient, Sindarin or silvan, from the King's sons to the cobbler's wife, the Wood Elves had few skills as well refined and universally perfected as those used to practise the unholy art of destruction.

Legolas sighed deeply, just as he had in his cousin's embrace. "Aye. I am proud and honoured to aid this cause, yet fearful of impeding the Fellowship's success through my shortcomings and lack of experience."

Thranduil glanced at his youngest child, displeased but not surprised by the note of defeat in every syllable, and observed the faint discolouration ringing the indigo eyes. He suppressed another wince as the wrenching, aching desire to keep Cuthenin close gripped his soul. He is truly too young for this. Yet the apprehensive father realised this assessment was no longer relevant. Legolas was of age and Shadow had already bequeathed to him its most malignant legacy: watching as a beloved parent died a violent death. Not even his older sons had been forced to witness such a horror.

It was an experience he and Legolas shared that the King wished had remained uniquely his, for the tragedy of Oropher's death had deeply scarred his soul. Thranduil would have given anything for his child to be spared the same. This is the source for his self-doubt: guilt. I believed I should have been able to save my Adar. Legolas believes he could have prevented Calarlim's death. We are both wrong, but we feel responsible anyway. He smiled bravely and gave the slender shoulders a firm squeeze.

"Nay, you have more experience than you realise. Who among those mortals has fought against Wraiths, Orcs, and spiders, often simultaneously?" Thranduil asked and then answered himself: "Not one of them. Have any of them undergone a ritual as gruelling and dangerous as Úcaul Annar to ensure their friends and kinfolk peace beyond death? Nay, I think not. And you have no deficiencies to overlook, ionen nelui, (my third son) or at least none that are relevant to the success of this Quest."

"Le hantëan." Legolas' smile transformed his careworn features with jubilant pride. "I am thankful for your support, Adar. I was not sure how you would take the news."

Thranduil smiled in kind, welcoming any brief reprieve from his harrowing thoughts of war, death, and the looming topic of Faer Hebron. "I seemed calm and composed at the feast, did I not?"

"You did; I was most impressed. Even Tû (short for Tûovor, eldest prince) remained reserved, considering his explosive reaction when I was chosen as the messenger, while Tûr (short for Tûrdangannen, second prince) barely spoke at all."

"Their restraint is even greater than you suspect, for we had been informed of the full compliment of the Fellowship only a couple of hours before the meal. The illustrious Lords of Gondolin failed to mention that in their recount of the Council's minutes. The news actually came from you, for your written report was most thorough, as always. I am sure you can imagine Tûr stalking the halls, waving the document, shouting in consternation: 'Lord Elrond is mad! He should not be permitted to make these kinds of decisions.' That is why I was called away; Galion sent word that I was urgently needed."

"Which must translate: 'Your Second son is attempting to strangle your Third son's Guardian'."

"I would not have left you alone otherwise, sleeping or not."

Legolas shared a less assured grin with his father as they ambled along the winding path from Calenhad (Green-space) back toward his simple abode within the trees. The hush that followed their brief exchange was underscored by the trailing tendrils of the joyless music insinuating its escalating temper into the space around and between them. Each felt the doom of their impending separation on the morrow. In the time required for seven breaths their easy rapport leeched away, claimed by the tainted mood, evaporating into the heavy night.

The uneven emotions spoiled the pleasure of the moment, eradicating what delight should have been contained in this rarity, father and son strolling together amicably without need for pretence or protocol to govern their interaction. Instead of being astounded by their newly-forged confidence in one another, rather than feeling heartened by this budding surety of mutual acceptance and respect, Thranduil and Legolas were mired in doubt as to the durability of their accord. If anything, the nearness of Legolas' departure caused the two to appreciate these fears more keenly.

Impulsively, each gripped the other, attempting forestall the inevitable, instinctively clinging closer to the notions of comfort and security bounded in the concepts of home and kinship. Thranduil looked at his son and found the archer's eyes upon the path, brow furrowed and mouth fixed in grim despondence. Thinking over the simple conversation, he wondered what interpretation Legolas might have given to the words. The King deemed it best to take nothing on assumption when Legolas harboured such strong internal reservations regarding his worth.

"Do not misinterpret their actions; Tûr knows, as do Tû and I, that your skill with the bow is second to none. Tûr's fear of you coming to harm overwhelmed him, prompting that outburst. As for me, I have been to Mordor and Tû is old enough to remember my stricken state when I returned, the lone survivor of my immediate kin. If I could trade places and go in your stead, it would be done. Your brothers feel likewise and I know several of your nephews and cousins who would do the same." Thranduil stopped and turned Legolas to face him, a hand firmly on either shoulder so that he could look him in the eyes. "We understand why you are going and even agree with your reasons. Indeed, we are filled with justified pride for such determination, but that does not stop us from worrying."

"Iston, Adar." (I know, Father.) Leolas met the serious expression with matching solemnity for several seconds before the pair resumed their walk, grateful for the reassuring weight of his father's arm draped protectively across back once more.

Thranduil suddenly gave a small exclamation and shook his head. To Legolas' unspoken enquiry he smiled sadly as he replied, "I just realised we have never walked this path alone, you and I. Always Calarlim was along, or more often one or the other of us travelled it singly. I regret that more deeply than anything else, Legolas. It should not have been so difficult for a father to be with his child, nor for a son to seek his Adar's advise and comfort."

"Aye, it must seem thus to you, having overseen every aspect of Tû and Tûr's young years. I have known no other way and was merely grateful for the time we spent together. I am sorry Calarlim deprived you."

"Ai! Every action done in Greenwood is not yours to account for!" Thranduil gave his son's shoulders a brisk shake. "Calarlim did as she thought best and I cannot fault her in your upbringing, for every decision proceeded from a profound love and a desire to protect you from an ill-fate you did not deserve. She loved Lhoss but was very angry with her sister for placing you in such a situation."

They were quiet for a time and the King felt his youngest child shiver just slightly. Thranduil repeated the reassuringly strong tug in response and heard Legolas' brief sigh of sorrow.

"I was angry, too," Cuthenin admitted slowly, "once I learned what those words meant: 'Thranduil's bastard' and 'Greenwood's shame'. I did not even know her and could not understand what I had done to make her want to punish me so. She gave me life and then abandoned me. It was long before I could forgive her."

"There was nothing I could do to prevent those harsh insults from reaching your ears, yet it still sears my soul to hear you repeat them." Thranduil slowed on the path, startled to be discussing with his son the same guilt-ridden memories that ever plagued him when his feet trod upon it. "Truly, Lhoss never envisioned it would turn out that way. She was so certain that what she felt was also in my heart; she was convinced that I refused to declare my love for fear of wounding my elder sons. Your mother really believed that news of our child's conception would break me free of those constraints. Oh, how I failed her! And you. By the time I understood it was too late; she had resigned herself to fading."

Legolas halted, eyes trained upon the compacted earth beneath his bare feet, forcing Thranduil's stop as well. "There were times I wished she had taken me with her," the archer said, the words little more than a whisper in the chilled autumn air. "When I understood what exactly was wrong with me, when you sent me away, then I felt it would be better to face Námo than eternity in such shame and isolation. If not for Calarlim…"

Legolas ceased speaking abruptly for his father had fallen upon his knees and clutched him tight about the waist, face pressed against his sternum as muffled cries of angry anguish escaped into the night. Cuthenin was shocked and knew not what to do, instinctively laying one comforting hand upon the King's bowed head and the other on his shoulder. "Nin gohennach! (Forgive me!) I did not mean to upset you, Adar."

Thranduil merely hugged him closer and groaned in greater despair, his entire frame shaking with the force of the sorrow these words worked within his heart. How could I have remained silent all this time? I should have spoken of these things with my child openly. Valar, I would have ordered a flogging were any parent reported to me for exhibiting such negligence for their child as I have shown! "Manwë forgive me! How can you abide to even look upon me; I have wronged you so deeply? Legolas, speak not of longing for death, I beg you!"

"Sîdh! (Peace!) Adar, I do not yearn for Mandos anymore, this I swear. Úcaul Annar has satisfied my soul's craving for Nana Calarlim and Glor - my Faer Hebron has granted me hope of true peace and contentment in the future." Legolas' desire to appease his father's distress caused him to momentarily forgo caution and he barely caught himself before speaking aloud his beloved Balrog Slayer's name. He held his breath, for the slip stilled Thranduil's muted wails instantaneously.

As suddenly as he had dropped to the ground, the King was on his feet again, gripping his son at the elbow and tugging him into motion, casting worried glances from red-rimmed and tear-drenched eyes to either side of the path and up into the limbs overhead. "These are issues we should discuss in a more private venue," he murmured, his sidelong glance documenting Legolas' dismay and dread.

The two traded no more words as they nearly ran down the trail, Legolas terrified for the implications his father's actions portended and Thranduil apprehensive lest some unseen Elf might have overheard the archer's partial admission. True, no one had they encountered thus far yet it was not unlikely that some citizens might forgo the fête and remain at home. Mid-stride, the King altered their direction, choosing an intersecting track that led to the mountain fortress. In minutes the looming pinnacle came into view as they cleared the tree line. Moments later they hastened inside through the kitchen entrance. Still keeping a sure clasp on his son, Thranduil slowed to a less frantic pace as they traversed the tangled labyrinth, quickly gaining the more sumptuous section in which the ruling family was quartered.

When at last the King stopped before the doors of his private suite, Legolas was close to desperation. He had often been in this apartment once he reached the age of thirty and was required to undergo formal education and tutelage in the ways of the Sindarin court. Usually he anticipated time spent in Thranduil's rooms with excitement of an entirely different order than he was presently experiencing. He watched as his father released him and pulled a set of keys from his waistcoat pocket, sorting through them for the right one. Thranduil dropped them and cursed, bending to snatch them back up, his hands shaking with the strength of the emotion coursing through him. Anger, disgust, both? Legolas wondered and his shoulders slumped.

Then the lock clicked and the tormented parent seized his son's arm and ushered him inside, giving a last glance along the corridor before shutting the portal, careful to elicit no sound from the heavy wooden barrier.

The room was not as dark as one might expect an underground chamber would be and this was primarily due to extensive delving through the stone to the surface, creating a series of narrow shafts for ventilation and light. Within some of the sloping tubes were mirrors positioned to capture and deliver the beams of the sun into the rooms, and though it was night there was a faint illumination from the waxing gibbous moon. In addition, the remains of the fire still smouldered in the grate, lending the space a soft iridescent glow. Nonetheless, Thranduil hastened to light a lamp and then moved to the hearth. He knelt and built up the fire with wordless concentration, poking and stirring the ashes, arranging the logs with excessive precision, turning the simple exercise into a procedure requiring great care and patience.

Truly, he knew not how to speak of this and was trying to recall any counsel he had ever given his elder children or even some among the latter generations concerning the ways of love. He was dismayed to realise nothing at all came to mind and was forced to confront the fact that he had allowed someone else to attend this vital task. No doubt their naneth took charge of such instruction. Yet the realisation that he was perceived so unavailable to his offspring stung sharply and unsettled his heart. What manner of father have I been to my sons?

"Adar?" Legolas managed to speak, unable to endure any more of the intense silence. "I did not mean to deceive you; nay, that is wrong. I did not want to deceive you but I…"

"You could not trust that I would support you? Do not apologise, for I do not blame you. Come here, Legolas, and sit beside me," Thranduil urged and his voice held neither wrath nor repugnance but instead rang with remorse and sorrow. The King took a place upon the settee and waited as his youngest obeyed.

Legolas complied, sitting gingerly next to his father, staring with owlish eyes in a mixture of surprise and worry, for he had no experience to prepare him for how to deal with his Adar in such an open manner. Nearly his entire existence had been spent trying to prevent Thranduil from rejecting him by shielding the King from the truth. As a young elfling, Legolas had become convinced that Thranduil was ignorant of the horrid things others spoke concerning him. The child feared that if his father ever learned what the other Elves said, he would agree with them and send Legolas away. The adult version of the distraught youngling had never quite managed to banish those beliefs from his heart.

"Your Faer Hebron is Glorfindel," Thranduil spoke the words as facts and this was born out when Legolas nodded in unspoken assent.

"You are not angry?" he asked tentatively.

"Nay," Thranduil blew a disgruntled sigh through his nostrils, accompanied by a brief press of fingertips to eyes irritated by the unaccustomed flow of tears. "I am surprised, though the more I think on it the more sense it makes. I feel foolish, if you must know, that I did not figure it out right away, especially considering the Elf's rather astonishing remarks at the feast."

"I did not intend to make you look a fool. I just thought it would be best to wait until after, when I know for certain if this is going to work."

"Saes, no apologies." Thranduil felt his world tilt ominously at the implications. After what, exactly? "I cannot pretend to know what it was like to grow up in fear of your own father finding out who you are, but I can promise that whatever dread you harboured will not be proved valid. You owe me no explanations, Legolas.

"I am concerned, nonetheless. Glorfindel? Ai, his reputation precedes him and I am not referring to legendary battles, ancient or otherwise. Valar! Galdor chose poorly for you and I am indeed displeased with his decision. Surely there are other ellyn in Imladris he might have selected? What of Elrond's sons?"

"What of them? Adar, forgive me, but I feel toward them as I do for Tû and Tûr."

"And for this re-born warrior you feel…what? Tell me what has taken you in this direction, for I fear the dire condition of your health has been used against you by this lecherous ellon. He is bound to another; was this never revealed? I will not stand by and permit him to use you and then turn away from you."

"He would never do that, Adar. What you have learned of Glorfindel is unfairly biased. He was bound in his first life but not so in the second. His heart does not belong to anyone, unless it is to me."

"How can you be certain of this? You have known him but a few days and the conditions under which you met were not usual. I can tell you a person does not change natures so swiftly, if at all."

"I do not dispute that yet I believe his true nature is honourable."

"Yet he has dallied with many hearts and wounded those who did not deserve such punishment. I know that Rumil returned to Lorien with his soul in poor condition after his sojourn with Glorfindel ended, though by all accounts he was no innocent going into the encounter. You have no experience whatsoever. How can you judge what is true and what is fallacy where such matters are concerned?"

"I do not know!" Legolas nearly shouted in exasperated dismay, rising from the sofa and pacing in agitation around the room's perimeter. He stopped by the fireplace and leaned upon the mantle, trying to compose himself. "Tell me how to judge the difference, Adar. How will I know if what I feel is merely lustful desire or a genuine commitment that springs from within my soul? How did you know?"

Thranduil realised his mouth was agape and shut it, blinking to bring his eyes back into a less amazed diameter before swallowing nervously and clearing his throat.

"I…when I met Merenind (Joyous Thought - Thranduil's deceased wife) her beauty and refinement were the first aspects of her being to gain my attention," he began, motioning for Legolas to return, watching as his youngest did so. "There is nothing wrong with stirrings of attraction, though it is easy to understand how you came to such a notion. You have felt such yearning and had no means to express it, whereas your contemporaries, male and female, were permitted the flirting and dallying common to that stage of development.

"Thus did I learn much of such carnal pleasures long before I met my life-mate. When we were together, I knew how to temper such sensations in favour of learning of her character, her hopes and dreams, her thoughts and convictions. I courted her slowly, for she was hesitant to accept my attentions. This may have increased my determination somewhat, I do admit, but by then I already knew she was the right one, the only one."

"But how? What gave you such assurance?" demanded Legolas impatiently. He sat bent forward toward his father, absorbing every nuance, every inflection of Thranduil's voice and tone, each shift in body posture, desperate to learn what he so dearly wished to know. To his disappointment and disgust, the King merely shrugged, an apologetic smile upending his firm mouth.

"I honestly cannot say exactly. There was within my heart a sense of having met my counterpart, a feeling that if I did not win her favour I would forever be incomplete, bereft of a vital component of my being. There was strong concurrence from both my family and hers, which encouraged me. Everyone seemed to agree that we were fated to be matched, except for her! This only spurred me to greater efforts and after almost two years of courtship I at last gained her hand.

"There is a significant difference between my situation and yours, and I do not refer to Glorfindel's gender. Merenind was of unimpeachable character and highly eligible. She was of eminent status and thus in a position to have her choice from among any of the noble ellyn in Doriath. My family was not so exalted in those days, though Oropher's holdings in Neldoreth were not insignificant. The House of the Beeches was considered rather rustic, however, and Oropher was known to be contentious regarding the influence of the Noldor upon Thingol's court."

"She was of a more prestigious family; is that what made her reticent regarding your suit?" Legolas asked, hoping to distract his father from further castigation of his Faer Hebron's intentions.

"Nay, it was nothing like that, though I long believed as you have spoken. Many years later, after Tû was born, she revealed to me that she had been cursed with a vision of being severed from her family. In this dream she rode at my side as a vast host commenced emigration from the woods of our homeland. It proved to be a prophetic insight. After much deliberation, she accepted this as her fate, believing the Vala Vairë had gifted her with knowledge of her true path. Thus the very intuition that first made her hesitant finally made her mine." Thranduil smiled but a brightly knowing gleam filled his eye, though not an unkindly one.

"Yet your case is much different, as I began to elucidate," he resumed his lecture as Legolas grimaced and sat back, folding defiant arms over his chest. "You have not had any opportunity to explore the feelings assailing your body. I will admit to being torn between worry and pride regarding your retention of innocence so long past your majority. Over-riding all was a latent fear of your particular problem, for there was ample evidence to suggest something amiss during your adolescence. I believed then that the situation was temporary and would right itself."

Legolas snorted angrily and turned away, hugging his arms tight around his body and glaring into the fire. "I cannot change what I am. I cannot feel what is counter to my heart's desire. I have tried; Calarlim made me try. It was horrible and humiliating, Adar. The elleth charged with my 'instruction' was not cruel nor did she ever reveal to anyone my failure, but her pitying eyes stayed with me long after the event."

"Valar! I do not mean to put you through any such ordeal, ion nelui, nor to change your nature. I only hoped to explain how you ended up so unprepared for the decision you now face." Thranduil reached for his son, a strong hand over hunched and in-drawn shoulders, and carefully massaged the rigid muscles. He had not imagined Calarlim would demand a test so severe and could not prevent a bright flair of indignation and ire on his child's behalf. Yet guilt quenched it, for thus was answered a question he had harboured but had dreaded to ask.

"Your lack of exposure to admiring eyes and inquisitive hands makes you vulnerable," he continued. "Not everyone who finds you attractive will hold honourable thoughts, and some would purposefully deceive you to gain your trust and thus access to your body."

"Glorfindel would not do that," he insisted, yet simultaneously recalled that Galdor, and even Lord Elrond, had worried over this very notion.

"I hope that is true; nevertheless I want you to be cautious. Do not give away your heart to someone unworthy of it, mistaking your body's craving for pleasurable release as real sentiment." He maintained the comforting pressure and allowed Legolas time to return from memories that were obviously painful and gave rise to belligerent discontent.

"I do not deny having those feelins for Glorfindel, nor would I deny that his expressed interest in me is thrilling in its own right." Legolas slowly relaxed and attempted to voice the secrets of his inner-most heart and soul. "Yet there is something more than this. I have given him my soul and he accepted it freely. He held me safe, Adar. There was nothing then of the body between us, yet I felt at home within his heart. When it was time to separate, he feared to let me go; he feared I meant to depart for Mandos, that I would leave him alone. He is very lonely, Ada, for all his numerous conquests. Accounts of which are highly exaggerated, I assure you."

To such a declaration, Thranduil knew not what to say. There was the ring of truth in Legolas' words and an underlying warmth in his tone bearing the unmistakable cadence of deep longing and ardent yearning. He spoke as one divided from his soul-mate; Thranduil was reminded of his own sense of division the first time he was forced to leave Merenind's side to attend the duties to which a warrior is bound. He met his son's conflicted gaze, hope and uncertainty warring within Cuthenin's clear blue orbs, and Thranduil realised with a start that, while Legolas was yet confused, he was convinced.

Legolas' heart is already bound to the Balrog Slayer.

With that conviction came the overwhelming need to demand an equally earnest confession from the Faer Hebron. Impulsively, Thranduil enveloped his son in a reassuringly impenetrable hug, hoping to impart the validation such a heartfelt admission warranted. Before he could utter such affirmations, Legolas posed a jarring question.

"Did you love her, Adar? Did you feel anything in your heart for Lhoss or was there only lustful longing?"

Thranduil felt the air gush from his lungs, the query, hard and biting and bitter, hitting him in the gut with the force of two centuries of unrevealed suffering. He sat back but did not let go of his child, braving the anguished look wrought upon Cuthenin's comely features. It took a moment to compose himself enough to answer, and even at that he felt tears collect within his eyes even before the words left his lips.

"I did love her, ionen, though in a lesser manner; I did. It was impossible for me to admit this, for I still am soul-bound to Merenind. How could I betray my beloved thus? I still do not understand how fickle my heart has proved to be, to my shame. I did not want to love Lhoss. We were only friends; we were only bed-mates, well-matched and like in mind-set."

Legolas flinched and shut his eyes, attempting to break free of Thranduil's grasp. The King held on tighter, however, and Legolas ceased to struggle as the explanation went on.

"Forgive me, I know this is terrible to hear. I do not wish to pretend that what I shared with your naneth was right, for it was not. I mislead her because I could not be honest with myself. I am guilty of encouraging her to relinquish her heart and give in to an unrequited love. The unrestricted gift of her heart enabled me to survive my grief, but in return I offered her nothing other than the comfort of bed-sport and the camaraderie we had always known.

"I am responsible for your mother's death, let me not seek to hide from responsibility. I pray each day for her forgiveness, and yours." Then Thranduil awaited his son's conviction, for he had never answered this question before, though Legolas had posed it obliquely on more than one occasion. To his amazement, Legolas merely shrugged and grimaced, eyes open but lowered as he answered.

"I did not know her; she is an enigma to me. I just needed to hear it from you, the why of it all. The talk of her was less than kind, as you know, and so it remains. Yet I could not comprehend what she gained by the association. To me it seemed she traded everything: a position of trust within the court, the esteem of her peers within the silvan community, the respect of virtually every Elf in the woods, all for someone who did not care about her. It made no sense to me, though everyone called her base and labelled her a whore, as if this explained everything."

"She was neither of those things and I cannot even speak such words with her in mind," Thranduil's vehement response countered his son's lackadaisical rejoinder. "Do not think ill of her, Legolas. She saw within my soul the feelings I tried to deny. She hoped to bring them to full bloom and failed, but this is not something for which she deserves scorn and derision from anyone. Even you, whom her actions harmed the most."

"Yet she loved you far more than she ever did me. She only made me as a means to gain your heart. When she failed, Lhoss readily abandoned me."

"You have not forgiven her."

"I am trying. I just do not understand, or at least, what I understand wounds me."

"Aye. I believe you have endured this grief your entire life," said Thranduil and the reality of his observation was both eye-opening and frightening. What could it be like to face every single day with such knowledge, that his mother preferred to die rather than bear the shame and grief of raising an illegitimate son, that his father considered him unworthy to share the family name and let others claim him? He had not envisioned before how close to the brink of fading Legolas lived.

Yet Thranduil knew it was not what Lhoss had willed. "You have been mislead by all the hearsay and low gossip. She did not choose to desert you nor did she love me more than you. She gave every ounce of her strength, every particle of her spirit to create you and bring you to life. She believed I would have a change of heart and accept you both. Forgive her for holding to hope, Legolas; she did not mean to wound you but to provide you with a true family, both a father and a mother to love and raise you properly. I am the one at fault, for had I not denied her so cruelly she would have survived our separation and would be here with you now. Mayhap all you have suffered would not have come to pass."

Legolas sighed and shrugged again; it was not the answer he had wanted but he could not define what an acceptable reply would be. He was not sure he would ever be able to agree with Thranduil's assessment of Lhoss' motives, but was unwilling to upset his Adar further. "I do not want to harbour ill-feelings against either of you. It maters little now at any rate; the past cannot be undone. I must keep hope for the future instead, and if the Quest succeeds mayhap I will find the peace I seek with Glorfindel." He finally lifted his eyes to the King and offered a half-hearted smile.

Thranduil returned the expression fully, reading easily the refractory resentment but noting also Cuthenin's determination to slough off the burden such residual ire placed upon his soul. It is the link to his Faer Hebron that has permitted this more positive outlook.

"Your words do Glorfindel great credit. I am honoured for your trust in speaking honestly with me, yet understand that I must hear the same declaration from his heart before I can think to give my blessing to this match," he replied in hoarse and broken tones, finding the idea of his last-born grown and soul-bound saddened him, given the circumstances and the harrowing events poised to part the would-be lovers. He felt Legolas stiffen in anxiety and rubbed a soothing caress over the golden crown of hair before he let go and stood up.

"You mean to speak to him of this? What are you going to say?" Legolas' voice was fraught with trepidation and he stared in blatant consternation, his hands gripping the cushion of the sofa so hard the fabric would likely hold his prints for a week.

"Do not be worried; I will remain calm as long as his responses are honest and his emotions genuine. If I sense any subterfuge or dissembling, that is another matter. Permit your Adar to do this one thing on your behalf. You would have my assessment and my advice, would you not?" he asked gently.

"Aye. Only, I do not want you to make him fearful to…to court me," Legolas admitted, his ears growing red as the culmination of courtship presented itself to his mind, accompanied by excitement to have his father confirm his choice and terror lest he reject the Balrog Slayer's suit.

Thranduil peered at his son gravely, knowing what he must say would be no consolation to his son. "If he is so easily diverted from this course then you will see that his heart and soul are not engaged. It is better to learn this now, though your spirit would suffer for it, than years later when the wound would be far deeper and unlikely to heal. Remain here; go and rest in the bed chamber for a time. I will return as soon as I am satisfied."

So stating, the King strode from the room with his accustomed pace of purposeful authority, leaving behind an archer far too rattled and agitated to think of sleep.

TBC

Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow)
by F.

UnBeta'd

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.

thoughts
(elvish translations)

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NOTE: Well Glorfindel tried his best to convince Legolas' family that he is worthy. A tough thing to do when he is only just getting used to the idea of being Faer Hebron. I hope everyone thinks he acquits himself well and that the princes and their father are reasonably assured. Thanks to one and all for your patience and continued support!
Cheers,
Fred
09/02/2006

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Neder-ar-Pae Peth: Dangweth o Glorfindel (Part Nineteen: Glorfindel's Answer)

The elder princes of Greenwood tramped behind their illustrious guests, silent and dour, their demeanour more like gaolers leading prisoners to the dungeons than noble scions of a royal House escorting visiting dignitaries to an audience within the grand fortress. Inarthan's resplendent armour clinked and squeaked where leather stays and ties rubbed against mithril links and over-lapping aurum plates, supplying the intimidating image of the mighty warrior even though he was to the rear of the foreign Elves. His polished, hard-soled boots struck the stone floor with dull regularity, marking out his long-legged gait, sending forth a reverberating tattoo, a solemn rhythm reminiscent of the death-knell drumming of the hangman's procession winding along en route to the gallows. Beside him, Igeredir's feet made no sound in their suede kidskin shoes, but he unconsciously slid his jewelled, ceremonial dirk a few centimetres from its sheath and then re-seated it, over and over. The scraping rasp and clack, rasp and clack providing a fitting counterpoint to his brother's weighty footfalls.

If the noose somehow fails, there is a blade at the ready for beheading instead.

So it seemed to Glorfindel's mind as they walked, the noises recalling an execution he had witnessed in the North Downs once not so long ago. He glanced to Galdor and found the august Lord deep in thought, oblivious to the affect the auditory stimulus was having upon the Balrog Slayer.

And what is he thinking about? How to explain to Elrond and Mithrandir that aid from Mirkwood has been denied because of my wayward thoughts and eyes and tongue? How to make them accept that Legolas will not be joining the Fellowship because the Princes of the Woodland Realm fear for their little brother's virtue in my company and refuse to let him leave? Glorfindel sighed, a sound just slightly less miserable than a groan, abruptly halted in the hallway, and turned to confront the King's elder sons.

"I know what this is about and it is quite unnecessary. I will leave at once if that is what you require, only do not let my shortcomings alter the plans agreed upon thus far," he said boldly.

"Silence!" hissed Inarthan angrily. "We will not discuss such personal matters in the corridor. Continue, please."

Glorfindel found that an odd comment, considering the family's public discussion in Calanhad, but complied nonetheless.

"Where is it you would have us go?" queried Galdor, coming out of his momentary fugue at his comrade's words.

His question caused Inarthan's brows to arch upward while Igeredir made a smirking sort of scoffing sound as he shook his head. Inarthan quirked a wry smile and offered a brief shrug. They had all been marching along, each mired in their particular ruminations, each assuming the others were aware of the destination.

"My quarters?" asked the second prince of the first.

"Nay, your daughter will leave the feast early and seek you out. She undoubtedly guessed, probably before we did, and yet I do not want any interruptions, well-meaning though her intent would be."

"You are probably right. Yours, then." Igeredir made a motion with his hands, instructing the guests to resume their progress, but Galion's remarks stalled them all.

"Perhaps Lord Galdor's rooms would suit better. The study is larger and no doubt the servants have kept the fire roaring." He smiled his complacently patrician smile, giving it first to Igeredir and then to Thranduil's heir.

"No, Galion, I think not," intoned Inarthan in icy tones, eyes narrowed in undisguised displeasure. "I am well aware of the reason you chose those rooms, as is Adar, but in this case such measures are not required. We will gather all the information we need without the assistance of your unseen presence lurking in the hidden chamber beneath the tapestry."

"As you wish," the steward dipped his head, losing neither his smile nor his aristocratic tone. His demeanour did nothing to endear him to Galdor, however, and his prince's remarks inflamed the noble Sadron's fury.

"Spying on me?" Galdor demanded, his face clouded with aggravation. "Good! Fine! I am not disturbed; you are a loyal attendant to your Lord King and that is commendable. I hope you remember the prayers you overheard and recite them sometime; such supplications might benefit your soul." The Lord of the Tree was more than displeased, having believed Galion was genuinely in accord with him where the well-being of Cuthenin was concerned. To know the seneschal had chosen the way of subterfuge and eavesdropping was insulting.

"Nay, Lord Galdor, I did not use the secret chamber to overhear your private speech, either when you were alone or with Glorfindel. We share a common goal and all I have learned from you has been through direct conversation," the butler professed, bowing humbly to the ancient Sadron, his tone stripped of its characteristic, mocking condescension.

"Then why was I given that room? Bah! I do not need to hear your reply; the answer is obvious to all. Enough! Let us continue to your apartment, Inarthan, and talk confidentially of this grave matter," Galdor spared Galion a last glare and set off again at a much brisker pace, his disgruntled pride lending his motion a fluid speed it would have been hard to keep up with had the other Elves not been his equals in long-limbed height.

Glorfindel could not suppress a mirthless chuckle at the seneschal's expense, pleased to see the haughty Elf so chastened and fittingly subdued in the aftermath, ere he followed his friend. No matter that Galion claimed to be Legolas' friend, the Balrog Slayer neither liked nor trusted Thranduil's cunning Sindarin henchman.

Nothing further was said as the five Elves resumed their journey and, with Inarthan giving the necessary direction and the accelerated velocity, reached the eldest prince's rooms before many minutes more had elapsed. At the portal, Thranduil's first-born opened the door and stepped aside to permit his visitors entry, but hastily blocked the opening when Galion made to cross the threshold.

"That will be all, Galion. We do not require anything more this evening. Please feel free to return to the festivities," he uttered this imperious command in the coolly dispassionate tones of princely superiority that welcomed no objections.

Galion attempted to make them anyway. "Your Highness, I am honoured by your gracious offer to forego my duty and enjoy an evening of revelry among my peers, yet I am sure my experience in affairs of the court would prove…"

"Really, Galion, can you not understand a formal dismissal when it is given?" snapped the King's Heir. "Ego! (Be gone!) We will manage without you quite well." He did not wait to see the reaction this belittling banishment would produce, but instead went within and shut the door right in the steward's face. Inarthan found Glorfindel barely holding back his glee over Galion's summary rejection and Galdor still brooding over the affront to his dignity and honour. "My deepest apologies, Lord Galdor; he is loyal to our father but I find Galion insufferable most of the time. I have not heard him speak lies, however, so it is…"

"I have," interjected Igeredir and the Balrog Slayer in unison. It startled them both and they eyed one another with cautious speculation.

"Never mind, Lord Tûovor, he is of no consequence in the larger view of things," Galdor said and waived away his injured pride with gracious, if somewhat stiff, courtesy. A sudden thought made his eyes widen as they scrutinised the finely appointed study with care. "Unless he would stoop so low as to spy on his King's sons also."

"Oh, he is certainly capable of it; I have had ample proofs," scowled Igeredir. "That is the basis for my strong aversion to the Elf. I will not go into details but I caught him in the act of prying into what was for me a most private and personal matter."

"Surely not!" exclaimed Glorfindel, really shocked that such an idea might be plausible.

"Indeed, he snoops and sneaks and pokes into everyone's business: the exalted and the common, the servants and the nobles, even in the stable yard he has his network of information gatherers. When he so wishes, he can be as quietly invisible as air. To the point, I am sure he is poised behind the door right now, ear pressed against the key hole to hear what we are saying about him." To emphasise his point, Inarthan yanked open the heavy wooden barrier and all four Elves peered out in time to catch a glimpse of the steward's flowing robes and auburn hair as he hastily fled around the corner.

"By Elbereth!" Galdor could not help laughing at the mental image of the regal seneschal scurrying for cover like a kitchen insect exposed in its nocturnal scavenging by the light of a candle. "Why has the King kept him in service? How do you live with such a meddlesome yenta?"

"You have heard the old saying: Keep friends close and enemies even closer? Adar ascribes to that doctrine, feeling Galion is equal parts ally and antagonist," answered Igeredir.

"We suffer him with caution and care. I have my quarters inspected for unauthorised delving and stonework regularly. Igeredir does the same. Adar checks his apartment himself, to prevent the staff from realising he distrusts Galion and spreading the rumour," explained the elder prince.

As he spoke, he re-closed the door and led the way to the hearth, which was crackling with cheery warmth, motioning an invitation to sit as he moved on through an interior doorway. From within his voice carried, along with the sounds particular to unfastening the clasps and fittings of war gear. "He has his uses, however, and through him Adar knows everything that is happening in the kingdom: who is plotting with whom, what Houses are seeking to form alliances through marriage, which ones are on the brink of a feud, and so on." He reappeared, sans armour, discalced, garbed in a loose tunic of white and leggings of charcoal grey.

During his brief absence, Thranduil's middle son had procured each guest a glass of wine and now handed one to his brother as well. "That assumes Galion reports everything he learns and relays it only to Adar. I am not so trusting," he added.

They all collected amid the chairs by the fireside and sat in uneasy, silent, and guarded contemplation of one another, sipping the potent vintage.

Igeredir was not willing to wait for Inarthan to begin, however, and leaned toward Glorfindel ominously, pointing the long index finger of his right hand at the re-born warrior's heart. "You have put Cuthenin at risk," he said without preamble. "I will not tolerate any threat to his well-being, no matter how renowned and legendary the source of that danger might be."

"I have no intention of causing Cuthenin harm," objected Glorfindel, holding up his free hand in a gesture of defensive deference. "I want only what is best for him, truly."

"Oh? How can you think to judge what is in his interests? What do you know of our brother?" demanded Igeredir.

"Enough, Tûr," admonished the elder prince. "Let us be frank, for we have not time for these coy games. Lord Galdor, is this the Elf you chose as Legolas' Faer Hebron?" Tûovor addressed the noble Sadron gravely.

A long pause followed, for both foreign Lords were stunned to have this question asked so directly. Inarthan had voiced the query calmly, though not without tension, as the second son looked on, equally attentive and serious yet likewise lacking any display of shock or astonishment. The pair gave the impression that the nature of Cuthenin's latent desires was not a novel subject between them. Galdor and Glorfindel had assumed the princes discerned Glorfindel's interest but neither had suspected the elder brothers knew of Legolas' illicit and unlawful preference for males, for Galion had stated just the opposite mere hours gone past. They shared their confusion in a wary glance.

"Aye." It was Glorfindel who finally answered. He paused as the brothers traded exasperated frowns before continuing. "You know. How long have you suspected that Cuthenin's tastes are like my own?"

"That is irrelevant," snarled Igeredir and then proceeded to respond anyway. "Do you think we are ignorant and backward folk just because we do not live amid the splendour of Noldorin society? Nature is what it is; we have other acquaintances afflicted with this curse. Besides, Legolas is our little brother and we watched him grow up. Why are you so surprised that we should understand him?"

"Because he has no idea that you do," intervened Galdor, hoping to quell the rising wrath he sensed in the middle-born prince. "Is your disapproval of such desires the reason you keep him uninformed?"

"Of course we disapprove," growled Inarthan. "He is doomed either to a life of longing and loneliness or shame and banishment from among his people, severed from his home and family. Would you not wish otherwise for your brother?"

"That does not mean we love him less for it," insisted Igeredir, "nor feel ashamed of him. We had plans to aid Cuthenin."

"Your unexpected intervention has now made this impossible," Inarthan sighed and rubbed his forehead as if it ached.

"What plans?" demanded Glorfindel in edgy apprehension.

"We had hoped to arrange a marriage to a suitable elleth for him, a union in appearance only that he need not consummate. The idea was that we could offer this female sufficient wealth and status to remain silent," explained Igeredir, "and Legolas would not object should she find an acceptable but prudent paramour willing to guard this secret."

"Once this veneer of morally and lawfully acceptable bonded bliss was applied, we hoped to help him find a lover, someone both discreet and caring, a true soul-mate. You two have entirely ruined this ideal," concluded Inarthan, his tones dejected and accusatory.

"Nay, I am Cuthenin's soul-keeper and I mean to be his life-mate. No other will suffice, for him or for me. Who are these Elves you have engaged for this horrific farce?" Glorfindel was on his feet, incensed that the elder brothers would go about plotting such a course while keeping Legolas in the dark, asking him nothing of his own hopes and needs.

"Please be seated, Glorfindel, your indignation is misplaced," urged Galdor calmly as he reached out and tugged on the elegant, borrowed robe from the back, drawing his friend down. "This scheme has not advanced beyond some surreptitious meetings to produce a tentative list of likely Elves, unless I am mistaken." One look at the brothers' crestfallen features proved his assessment true. "My guess is that it has proved more difficult than you imagined to identify who would be dependable in such a precarious venture."

"That is so," nodded Igeredir. "We have found it impossible to find a female, outside our own kin, we can wholly trust with Legolas' future, and that of our House. There are more than a few Elves who would not be displeased to arrange a shift in power, and with times what they are the silvan people could be easily swayed to rebellion if a flaw of this sort was revealed in the King's bloodlines."

"It has been twice as hard locating a suitable mate for afterward. Most with such inclinations simply leave Greenwood, resettling in Lothlorien where customs are not so strictly enforced. Yet ill-news travels swiftly and these people's kin are subject to shunning and sometimes more serious reprisals here. With Legolas it would be far worse. No one would wish to subject their family to the machinations of court politics by taking Legolas as their mate, openly or otherwise, not even in Lothlorien," commented Igeredir.

"Nor would Legolas want anyone innocent to suffer for his sake," interposed Inarthan.

"We have noticed some who cast covetous leers in our brother's direction, as you did this evening, Lord Glorfindel, but none upon whom we could rely to keep up the ruse we propose. Which brings us back to this night's imprudent display of blatant longing. Valar, anyone with eyes could see what was in your mind! Lust and desire will not sustain the sort of relationship you would face as Cuthenin's mate," concluded Igeredir, once more training his accusing finger upon the Vanya warrior.

"You are not listening," Glorfindel sat forward and pointed right back. "I just told you that I am Faer Hebron. I have held Cuthenin's feä within my body, mingled with my spirit. There is no other who will suffice. I defy you to produce any contender as worthy or as suitable. And had you been watching as carefully as you claim, you would not have missed Legolas' response to my presence."

"Indeed I did not," snorted Inarthan with a brusk discordant laugh. "You made him nervous and ill at ease, ashamed of his reliance on his cousin's comfort. What sort of Faer Hebron accomplishes that?"

"Well, what sort of cousin caresses his kinsman so intimately?" Glorfindel countered, red of face to be called out for his jealous reaction.

"Intimate caress? Is that what your low mind imagines he was doing? Ai Valar, and they call us uncivilised," groaned Igeredir and stood up, impatiently throwing off his elaborate robe as he carried his glass back to the sideboard to refill it. "You have seen the heart spiral tattoo, have you not?" he called over his shoulder irritably.

"Of course I have; it is very beautiful." The Balrog Slayer could not prevent his mind from recalling the night of Úcaul Annaur when he had dared to take a taste of the ripe red hub of that intricately inscribed wheel.

"Then permit me to enlighten you, Lord Glorfindel. It is not there for your sordid admiration and imagination. It is a collection of prayers and protective incantations," noted Inarthan in displeasure before switching his attention to the Lord of the Tree. "Forgive me, Lord Galdor, but this soul-keeper you have chosen seems poorly educated regarding the beliefs of the Elf to whom he claims to be bound."

"There has not been time," answered the Sadron. "Yet now is as good a chance as any we shall have. Glorfindel, to touch the marks upon Legolas' body is to invoke the prayers and blessings contained within them. I can tell you there was nothing more going on than this as Sûlchim traced the design. That being the location of Legolas' deepest wound, his heart, these prayers received the most concentration. It was not sexual in nature."

"Ah." Glorfindel could only mutter sheepishly, transferring his contrite countenance from one to the other: Igeredir, glaring down from his stance beside his brother's chair; Inarthan, mouth contracted into an accusing sneer of contemptuous repugnance; Galdor, one brow quirked high and the other lowered in remonstrance above eyes that were not without compassion. The re-born warrior found he preferred to stare into the dancing flames instead as he pondered his mistake. His forehead creased in confusion, for the memory of Cuthenin's reaction to his bold sampling of the painted skin belied the Guardian's explanation. He returned his eyes to Galdor anew. "Hold, that is not necessarily true. When I traced that spiral, my touch aroused him, even in slumber."

"You did what?" Inarthan bolted from his chair and poised himself to spring.

"Groped him while he slept! You…you…Ai! I do not know a foul enough word!" thundered Igeredir and joined his brother's attack.

Glorfindel realised his mistake but truthfully could not deny the charge, for that was precisely what he had been up to, and thus he jumped to his feet and prepared to meet the brothers onslaught.

"Daro! Sîdh! Daro, Hîren!" (Stop! Peace! Stop, my Lords!) shouted Galdor and had he not been so quick the Princes of the Woodland Realm and the Lord of the Golden Flower would have become entangled in a bloody brawl. The odds for Glorfindel's extrication from such a fight unscathed would have been exceedingly poor, given the ferocity and strength of his dual opponents. As it was, the Sadron got between them and kept the combatants separated, if by nothing more than the length of his extended arms and the bulk of his lanky frame. For a few seconds of grunting, cursing, flailing arms, and straining bodies, it seemed Galdor would be the primary casualty as the brothers sought to get around him to reach their prey and Glorfindel sought to meet them head on with whatever honour he could manage under such an accusation.

"I was there!" panted the noble Noldorin emissary from Mithlond, struggling to shove Inarthan back, for he was standing on the Sadron's foot. "Nothing happened, much, and I punished Glorfindel for taking liberties."

The princes paused and trained their attention on Galdor. Suddenly realising how unseemly their behaviour was, both brothers released their holds on the ancient Elf's hair and clothing, blushing scarlet as apologies were offered. Each sent Glorfindel a cutting glower as they stepped back and resumed their seats, resettling their garments and their dignity into a more respectable demeanour. The Balrog Slayer eased cautiously onto his chair, his eyes never leaving their faces as if he expected them to pounce at any moment. Galdor took a moment to regain his breath, smoothing his mangled braids and frowning over a small tear in the borrowed robe. With a disgusted exclamation he removed it and draped the rumpled garment over the back of the sofa. He did not return to his place by the fire, however, but remained standing between the volatile Elves.

"If you will permit it, I believe I can explain this to everyone's satisfaction," he announced in the clipped tones of a supremely annoyed and out of patience First Age Legend and esteemed Elder. Low decibel, albeit polite, expressions of assent met his ears and he drew a calming breath before continuing. "Everyone in this room understands and accepts that Cuthenin finds other male Elves attractive, correct?" More mumbled confirmations followed this. "And we also know that Glorfindel likewise prefers ellon to elleth. Then is it so very surprising that the two would find one another appealing?"

The pained expressions upon the elder princes' faces signified they found this a difficult concept to comfortably embrace. They traded uneasy glances between each other before sending the Balrog Slayer's form awkwardly assessing appraisals. That they found it nearly impossible to see him from their little brother's perspective, as a source of sexual craving, was evident by the obvious distaste contorting their fair features.

Glorfindel concentrated very hard to keep his visage as blandly inscrutable as possible, hiding his smug satisfaction over the elder brother's discomfort in regarding him thus. He was not so foolish as to ruin Galdor's efforts by flaunting his much extolled masculine beauty and grace.

"Oh come now," admonished Galdor impatiently as the silence stretched into nearly a minute. "How can you expect to help Legolas if you refuse to even try to understand his disposition? Is it really so impossible to see that Glorfindel is an attractive ellon? Would you not concede, at least, that many ellith find such a face and form alluring?"

That registered more clearly, for Inarthan and Igeredir were accustomed to judging themselves and other males against a perceived ideal of virility, ranking each one's relative appeal to ellith. Igeredir cleared his throat. "Yes, we can understand that, Lord Galdor, but Legolas is different."

"Nay, he is not different. Legolas has passed through all the same stages of growth and development that you did and has achieved the fullness of maturity, he is an adult male and his body and mind are male. It is merely what he wants that is different," explained Galdor in more kindly terms, seeing that the brothers had not as yet fully accepted that their much younger sibling was now an adult with an adult's needs. Logically they might perceive this and speak of Cuthenin finding a mate, but emotionally neither of the elder princes were ready to acknowledge this fact. He suspected that they had not thought very deeply on what it might mean to hold desires for like kind either.

The Balrog Slayer could see that the Sadron's words had shocked the princes deeply. He watched as they were suddenly forced to confront the truth; their brother experienced the same carnal hungers that drove them, the same passionate yearning burned in Cuthenin's loins, the same instinct to find and bond with a life-mate governed Legolas' body. Glorfindel watched as the astonishment left their frozen features, melting slowly into sorrow underlain by anger. They had reached the inevitable conclusion: that which was most natural for an Elf to want was denied to Legolas, simply because he sought a male partner.

Inarthan lifted troubled eyes to meet Glorfindel's but when he spoke he addressed Galdor. "You are trying to tell us that when this episode of touch occurred, Legolas was more than willing for Glorfindel to do so; it was what he wished and desired would take place."

"Yes," nodded Galdor sympathetically. "He was neither sleeping nor unaware of Glorfindel's fascination with the tattoo and its specific placement over such a sensitive area. Thus, both received a painful reprimand. I take my responsibility as Tirn'wador seriously, Inarthan, and will not permit Glorfindel to take advantage of Cuthenin, but neither will I deny your brother the chance to explore these new experiences as they arise."

The princes traded chagrinned frowns and then both stood. They bowed in formal reparation to their sibling's Faer Hebron. "Forgive our injudicious attempt at assault. I beg you will make allowances for fraternal love," intoned Inarthan.

"Gladly, gladly," assured Glorfindel, arising and offering his hand to each, smiling as the traditional warrior's grip upon forearms was exchanged. They all sat down again, more relaxed than before, and everyone turned to Galdor expectantly.

"What is to be done?" asked Igeredir. "Legolas cannot openly proclaim his Faer Hebron."

"He has already done so," reminded Galdor with a smile, no longer so displeased with Cuthenin's scheme. "Few here will be able to confirm or deny the claim of Aelluin as soul-keeper and intended mate. If some have remarked Glorfindel's appreciation of his sister's betrothed, that comes as no surprise, for his reputation seems much less exalted here than in other elven domains."

"But to continue the courtship, Legolas will have to leave Greenwood. We would not have this come to pass," argued Inarthan, "and Adar would be devastated. He thinks that Ithil shines solely to bring out the highlights in his youngest child's pale golden hair."

"As surely it does," this rejoinder surprised them all for it was spoken in conjunction with the opening and subsequent closing of the suite's oaken portal as Thranduil strode into the room, catching the end of his son's statement. "What will so bring me to ruin, Tû? I asked you earlier not to speak of dread fates befalling our Cuthenin." The King passed a slow evaluation over Glorfindel as he spoke and went to help himself to wine. Glass in hand, he joined the group and sat down on the sofa next to Galdor.

"I was not, Adar. We are discussing Legolas' future mate," said Inarthan boldly, his mouth set and grim even as his brother grimaced and sent him a warning glare.

Igeredir knew that tone too well. As youngsters, Tûovor's conscience had often gotten the better of him when the two engaged in some mischief, and the eldest son would find he could not keep silent, indicting his younger brother in the process. As far as the princes were aware, their father had no notion of Legolas' preference for males, and Tûrdangannen feared his sibling was about to unburden his soul of the secret they had been keeping for over a century.

Thranduil's brows went up. "His mate? You are conscientious brothers to worry for Legolas, but I am certain his Guardian would not have selected an unsuitable Faer Hebron." The monarch sent Galdor a sharp glance and then let his appraising vision return to Glorfindel, seated across from him. It did not escape the law-father to be that his potential son-in-law shifted in speechless anxiety under this intensive scrutiny.

"Aye, so Lord Galdor has just this moment insisted," Igeredir hurriedly replied to forestall Inarthan's revelation. "We were just saying we do not want Legolas to leave Greenwood to pursue this affiliation."

"Oh?" Thranduil frowned at his middle child. "You would keep him here and deny him this chance at happiness? I am surprised by such a selfish response, Tûr."

"Nay! I did not mean it that way," exclaimed Tûr in exasperation, sending his brother a look composed of entreaty and warning in equivalent measure.

Now Galdor was thoroughly enjoying this side-stepping word game on the part of the three royals, for alone in the room he knew that each of them was aware of the Great Secret and all wished either to honour Legolas' trust or to protect his feelings, both in the case of the King. Thranduil had paid a visit to the noble Sadron, after being recalled from his youngest child's side earlier, revealing the successful implementation of the Guardian's advise and offering gratitude for it. With the King's timely arrival, Galdor now suspected Legolas had informed his father of the Faer Hebron's true identity. The ancient Noldorin emissary chuckled and shook his head, sending Glorfindel a gleeful grin as he did so, the meaning of which was lost on the Balrog Slayer.

"What is amusing in this situation?" demanded Inarthan indignantly, finding nothing discussed thus far worthy of laughter.

"Nothing much, just the sight of you three trying so hard to find a way to speak of family matters among family without betraying the one member of the family this concerns," said the Sadron kindly. "Permit me to end this tormented verbal stand-off. Inarthan, Igeredir, your father knows everything you know. Lord Thranduil, your elder sons understand all about Legolas' needs and the Faer Hebron."

"And he sits here un-maimed?" quipped Thranduil, only partly jesting for he knew his sons' tempers were not easy to appease.

"Aye, but it is only due to Lord Galdor's intervention," admitted Igeredir. "Adar, how long have you known?"

"Just since this afternoon, though truthfully I have long felt something was wrong and simply could not face it. And you two?"

"Nearly a century and a half," said Inarthan, relieved he no longer needed to lie to his father about his hopes for Legolas. "You approve of Glorfindel as his mate?"

"That is what I am here to determine," Thranduil stifled his surprise and bitter hurt for the long-term subterfuge perpetrated by his sons, realising he was the cause of it, and turned his gaze upon Glorfindel as he replied. "You will explain yourself to me, Lord Glorfindel of the Golden Flower. Why did you agree to this unusual bond with my child? You do not even know him; he cannot mean anything to you. Do you realise what hope you have injected into his heart and what will become of him should you turn from him now?"

"It is no less than the hope he has infused into my being as well," said Glorfindel. He sought frantically within his mind for the right words, the words that would prevent the King from forbidding his suit and permit Legolas' inclusion in the Quest. Glorfindel found he could not get past the overwhelming fear that he might have to face returning to Imladris without Cuthenin. He shook his head, his hands twisting ineffectually together as he tried to make answer. "I know not what to say to convince you that I will not be false to him or use him cruelly."

"Answer you must!" blurted Igeredir. "We will not permit you to harm him. Have I not already stated this? Better for him to feel pain and sorrow by breaking from you now, better a wound from which he may recover than to lose his heart to you only to have it broken."

"Peace!" Thranduil held up his hand to admonish his second son. "Let him find the means to enlighten us. Threats will not help Legolas' case."

Silence followed this decree as all turned their attention pointedly upon the re-born warrior.

Glorfindel found the father's forbearance more intimidating than Igeredir's challenge, for he realised keenly that Thranduil would not be appeased by trite or commonplace declarations of love and devotion. The King would accept nothing less than exposure of his very soul, and the Balrog Slayer was beyond comprehending how to do so when he had diligently trained himself never to reveal it. Even to myself. I would give anything for Arwen's aid just now. Fileg'lîr was far away, however, and he had none to rely upon but himself. He heaved a disconsolate breath and met Thranduil's guarded stare.

"We are the same, your son and I," he began and flinched as obvious puzzlement and displeasure coloured the King's expression. The Vanya warrior realised that such an equivalent reckoning, given his less than laudable reputation in the Woodland Realm, was not flattering to Cuthenin and tried again. "Our Song, the Music that makes us who we are, this is of the same source and bears the same theme. He is the Melody to my Harmony. Separately, we are ordinary, uninspired, incomplete, dissonant tones plucked at random upon a harp, existing in this place but nothing more. Together we are a thing so rare I know not how to describe it to you properly," he paused and rubbed his temples, trying to think coherently. Glorfindel took another breath and continued, sensing the monarch waiting expectantly for the rest.

"It is like glimpsing the mind of Eru when you look upon Arda in all its glorious complexity. Can you imagine our world lacking the mountain heights or the running rivers? So it is with me and Legolas. There has been something missing in my world all these long years and I have been waiting to discover it. I have dreamed of Legolas yet did not know who he was. He has been part of my comprehension since I have had the capacity to reason, a source of unnamed sorrow and unidentifiable longing for that which is needed yet absent. I cannot turn from him, not ever, for now I know that the part of me that I require to become whole resides within Cuthenin.

"I could tell you he is fair and I am drawn to that beauty; it is no lie. I could praise his fine character and valourous courage, his skill and daring, his genuine heart and trusting soul. These things you know of, even better than I, yet they are secondary to this other, more vital quality that has ensnared me. I have held his soul within mine and in that moment we were the same; it was clear to me and to him. Our union cannot be denied, King Thranduil; it would be the end of us both." Glorfindel stopped talking, fearing more speech would achieve only negative results, and awaited Thranduil's judgement. He felt his explanation was terribly inept and wanting in eloquence, but prayed for it to be acceptable nonetheless.

The quiet of the study was like the portentous solitude of the gathering dawn, a moment filled not with dread but with anticipation, a brief interval of waiting composed of pleasing imagining of the beauty and promise held in the reappearance of Anor. The soundless contemplation bespoke confidence in the dispelling of the shades of night where fears had many darkened corners in which to be concealed, festering and painful to the heart. A fore-gleam of hope, faint and glimmering upon the horizon's edge, drew all attention and interest as everyone pondered Glorfindel's unorthodox declaration. Finally, Thranduil inhaled deeply and spoke.

"You love him," he said simply and smiled, "though how it can be so has you just as confused as it does us. I cannot ask more at this stage, for the truth in your voice will not be gainsaid. Still, you will proceed with caution and follow the proper path. Faras-uin-Ind will be completed and I must insist on being present for any formal and public acknowledgement of this unexpected bond. Galdor, you will see to it that Glorfindel is correctly instructed in this?"

"Indeed, it shall be my pleasure to ensure all goes forward with due propriety, my Lord," Galdor was smiling with joy for such a satisfying outcome and laughed to see Glorfindel's dumbfounded expression. "Have you nothing to say to your future law-father, mellon vrûn?" (old friend) he said as he nudged the Balrog Slayer's shoulder.

"I am gratified by this endorsement, my Lord, more than my stumbling tongue can express," stammered Glorfindel as he rose and bowed to the King. "I will not betray this trust, I swear it by all that is good and holy."

"Well said," approved Inarthan. He stood and leaned forward to lay his hand upon Glorfindel's shoulder in support that was yet heavy with foreboding menace. "We shall of course hold you to it."

"Aye. Let but a whisper of infidelity or betrayal reach our ears and you will find Mandos a more agreeable habitat than Imladris," added Igeredir, not entirely convinced but unwilling to defy his sire's decision. "Which returns us to the discussion of Legolas leaving Greenwood."

"I would not wish him to be severed from his home and family," mourned Glorfindel, "yet I cannot see how I can reside here as Cuthenin's mate without causing strife that would affect the entire realm."

"So he has spoken of this with you," nodded Thranduil, "and thus he hatched this little plot about Aelluin. Is there even such an Elf in existence?"

"There is, though she resides in Aman," insisted Glorfindel. Beside him, the older brothers huffed in good-natured irritation over Legolas' ruse, a clear indication they had been victims of their younger sibling's machinations previously.

"For now I can do nothing to change the Laws that hinder your citizenship," continued the King sadly. "The Shadow grows and the people are frightened. They want stability and surety, as unlikely as such things are to be found in the coming conflict. Internal dissension would weaken us and lend aid to the Dark Lord's cause. Know that it is a rule I will quickly render null and void once the Quest is successful."

"If it is so," groused Inarthan. "I still feel the plan is flawed. How can so few hope to succeed against Sauron's army?"

"It is not so unheard of for a few, or even a single individual, to change the course of fate. I was at the Last Alliance where all our efforts, all our sacrifice in lives, all the strength of the combined armies of the free peoples, availed us naught in the face of Isildur's pride and greed," reminded Thranduil and silenced further condemnation of Elrond's scheme. Everyone became quiet as they thought on the peril the venture enfolded in its undertaking.

"Well, this is a first," announced Igeredir abruptly.

"What?" demanded his brother.

"Galion is the only one who does not know what is going on for a change."

"Hah! Do not count on that," warned Thranduil, laughing. "He has means to find out what is going on way ahead of anyone else."

"Ai! He is intolerable and if he knows he is a threat to Legolas' happiness," complained Inarthan bitterly.

"Nay," surprisingly it was Glorfindel who took up the butler's defence. "He does not plan to harm Cuthenin. If he wished it he could have brought down the House of Oropher long ago, for he has been aware of your brother's inclination since the very beginning."

"Thank you," came a softly muffled answer wafting in arrogant and pretentious tones from some indiscriminate location not too far afield, the unmistakable voice of the worthy steward.

"Galion!" thundered Inarthan, stalking about his study, thumping on the walls, yanking back tapestries, peering behind paintings, and stamping on the ground to test for hollow zones. "Come out at once! I will not tolerate this inexcusable insinuation into my private affairs!" No response greeted his demands, however, and in fuming aggravation the Heir ceased his ranting, scowling at the poorly concealed amusement adorning everyone else's countenances. "Adar, I must insist you make him stop. But give me leave and I will have him doused in the Enchanted River; that will deplete him of all his ill-gotten information."

A disembodied squawk of combined fear and rage drifted through the room accompanied by a muted scurrying sort of sound.

"No, I depend on his vast store of information regarding the various Houses. He is devoted to our family; worry not for your secrets to remain hidden," placated the King. "Now, we have other matters before us to decide. I would not have our three scouts return over the High Pass alone, considering the terrible losses incurred by Legolas' company on the same path just weeks ago.

"Join me, for this discussion must take place in the war room; I have need of my maps as well as my sons' evaluation and recommendations regarding the size and the roster of such a company. Lord Galdor, if you would go and retrieve Legolas from my chambers I would be grateful. Much as I dislike disturbing his rest, his knowledge of the conditions of the road is first-hand and thus vital."

"I shall do so gladly," spoke the Sadron, doubting he would find his charge sleeping in light of the topic recently under discussion.

"Permit me to accompany you," offered Glorfindel and felt the tight compression of Thranduil's grip upon his elbow the next instant.

"Nay, you will come with me, Lord Glorfindel. No need to put your promise of virtuous conduct to the test so soon," he remarked, tugging to ensure the Balrog Slayer stayed beside him as they exited the chamber.

TBC

Chapter Text

Cuthenin (True-Bow)
by F.

UnBeta'd

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.

thoughts
(elvish translations)
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ scene shift

NOTE: The journey back to Imladris begins and Legolas finds he has numerous supporters. The secret is out! Glorfindel grabs the opportunity to give Cuthenin a lesson in sparring. Next chapter, the sight of the battle in the High Pass and then on to the Hidden Vale. Thanks to one and all for your patience and continued support!
Cheers,
Fred
10/22/2006

Caer-ar-Pae Peth: Thar Imrath-en-Anduin (Part Twenty: Across the Valley of the Anduin)

A note on the princes' names:
Tû is short for Tûovor (Strength Abundant) Inarthan (The Beacon), Thranduil's first-born and heir.
Tûr is short for Tûrdangannen (Mastery Confirmed) Igeredir (The Maker), second-born son.

---

"I have heard it said, Lord Glorfindel, that you are a master swordsman."

"Just Glorfindel, if you please Ernil Edwen." (Second Prince)

"As you wish. Although why you would choose to deny the nobility of your heritage evades my comprehension."

"I do not seek to deny anything but to emphasise the reality of my new life. I am not a Lord among the House of my people any longer. Those of my lineage still in Middle-earth remain in Lindon with Círdan as their Lord. I am proud of my service to the House of Eärendil."

"Even so, many were not pleased to find you choosing Elrond's House over your own," reminded Galdor.

To this Glorfindel did not respond save to send his friend an admonishing look, for while Galdor's words might be true indeed, the Lord of the Tree surely comprehended the Balrog Slayer's reasons for eschewing the title since his return to Middle-earth.

Glorfindel, Igeredir, and the Sadron thus argued mildly as their horses cantered across the broad plain toward the Anduin's eastern banks and the Old Ford north of the Carrock.

The trio was not alone on the journey out of Mirkwood, for King Thranduil had deployed a full company of seventy-two warriors to ensure the safe passage of the emissaries across the imposing peaks of the Hithaeglir. If they also took time enough to dispatch the vile orcs who had accosted his youngest child, none of soldiers would regret the added chore.

Seldom did the forces of the forest travel beyond the shelter of the ancient trees and yet the mounted archers rode boldly out into the brilliant glare of the noonday sun, heads and shoulders proud, hair lifting and falling to the rhythm of the horses' rumbling advance. The Elves of the Greenwood did not, perhaps, present so stunning a vision of military grandeur and armoured might as would the troops of Imladris or of Lindon, but skill, grace, and fearsome bravery made them no less a sight to behold. They were fey and fair, feral and elegant, wild yet wise and to see them was to experience that most primal of themes within Eru's Symphony. Not the lesser Children of the Stars were they but simpler, not of mind but in manner; purer, both of heart and of intent; unmatched, possessing an untamed, innate strength.

At the head of this impressive column rode Inarthan with his youngest brother at his right, Glorfindel beside the youthful archer, and Igeredir flanking the Vanyarin warrior. Behind them, Galdor's comrades were none other than Sûlchim, Cuthenin's cousin and best friend, and two Sindarin soldiers descended from Inarthan's line. Following these the remaining sixteen sets of cavalry completed the entourage bound for the High Pass, armed and ready for the worst. While all were grimly aware of what awaited in the treacherous mountains, none were notably fearful or wary. Instead, a mood of suppressed mirth and mild excitement abounded such that Legolas wondered what had come over his friends and kinfolk.

Friends and kin indeed! Every Elf here is either from my company or shares my blood, whether on the sylvan or the Sindarin side. This fact made him smile and he shared the warmth of such approbation with the King's heir joyfully, the strange humour of the morn notwithstanding.

The oldest son of Thranduil grinned back at his little brother, noticing the faint bewilderment within the youth's shining eyes, but offered no explanation for the amiable camaraderie. Instead he joined his second brother's mild interrogation of the Imladrian noble. "Aye, that must be so, Lord Galdor, yet I do not believe my sibling meant to bring into discussion a topic so polarising. Glorfindel must defend his call to return to the defence of Eärendil's House while his remaining kin cannot help but bemoan their loss of so judicious a governor."

"Truly spoken, muindor," nodded Igeredir. "It is Glorfindel's prowess I wish to investigate."

"I thought as much. Glorfindel, Tûr alludes to your talent with the blade. Will you speak to it?"

"I know not what to say," replied the veteran swordsman warily, suspicious of the unusually jovial demeanour the princes displayed. There was just a hint of exaggeration underlying their friendly tone, a subtle note of challenge within their innocent words.

While the brothers had ceased being openly hostile following their sire's endorsement, they had not completely warmed to the idea of Legolas becoming Glorfindel's soul-mate. Inarthan had scrutinised him closely throughout the discourse in Thranduil's war room, observing every word he spoke as though expecting to discover hidden revelations. Igeredir had managed to intervene whenever Glorfindel sought to move closer to Cuthenin, blocking them from so much as brushing shoulders.

Some sort of verbal trap is being laid. Yet the First-Age legend could not tell where the spring might be so as to avoid becoming ensnared. "I am no more gifted than many an Elf I have sparred against in Imladris. What prompts this interest; is it because the bow has become the weapon of mastery among the woodland folk?"

"Exactly so!" Sûlchim leaped at this suggestion like a fox upon a hare. "Cuthenin is a good example. He is an expert with the bow but has absolutely no experience whatsoever with sword-play." A merry smile lit his fair face when Glorfindel turned to regard him, while a distinctly mischievous glint shone from his olivine eyes. His cousin's gaze he refused to meet though its weight he could plainly discern.

"I would not say he lacks all familiarity," corrected one of Inarthan's grandsons ere Legolas could voice any retort.

"Nay, but I doubt he has ever done more than practice, and singly at that." This time it was one of Igeredir's many progeny, a lively green-eyed, brunette elleth who spoke.

"What?" Legolas looked behind him in confusion, frowning when his reaction engendered an almost universal display of smug smiles among the Elves.

He did not know what they were up to, but he was sure this conversation had begun with his brothers' clear intent to bait Glorfindel. That was worrisome enough; it was too like the demeaning remarks he had endured from the Noldorin soldiers. Cuthenin doubted he could remain silent should anyone openly insult his Faer Hebron, and the consequences of that he was eager to avoid. This abrupt shift in focus from the Balrog Slayer to him was unsettling. Everyone knew he was not built for the broadsword, everyone knew he was adept as any sylvan with the hunting knife, and everyone knew he was better with daggers than almost anyone save Thranduil himself. Were they now attempting to divert attention from Glorfindel by disparaging Legolas' skill? Uncertain of how to respond, the dialogue proceeded without him.

"Indeed, I can attest to his assiduous dedication to solitary exercises, sword firmly in hand," assured Sûlchim seriously but the devilish smirk had not departed.

"You mean the long knife," countered Legolas, glaring at his friend in dismay, not pleased in the least at the roguish sparkle filling his cousin's gaze, "and I do not just practice alone; I often spar with you, Sûl. My swordsmanship is far superior to yours."

Poorly suppressed snickering met his reply and Cuthenin fumed, aggravated beyond tolerance to think they were poking fun at him, regardless if their gibes spared his Faer Hebron. From childhood he had been the butt of teasing and disparagement of all sorts; he liked it no more now than he had in those tender years. As always, his remarks only encouraged the gaiety.

"Is it?" queried another laughing voice among the troops. "Well, that level of confidence is encouraging."

"Verily, I would not wish to cross my blade with the legendary weapon of Glorfindel of Imladris," averred Inarthan with as much gravity as he could manage through his laughing lips, returning the Balrog Slayer to the farce.

"Perhaps this topic is best left for another venue," suggested Glorfindel firmly, having determined where the Wood Elves planned to take this conversation, even if his intended was completely oblivious to their plot.

"When shall we ever have the opportunity to learn these things?" demanded Igeredir. "Nay, this is the perfect time and place for such discourse. We are all concerned, you see, for how Legolas will fare, lacking in such skills."

"Ai! I need not learn how to wield a sword. My skill with the bow and the long knife will serve well enough," Legolas complained, surprised and hurt to hear his brother's words but even more dumbfounded when a loud spluttering of laughter arose at his remark. He glowered at the Elves over his shoulder but this only seemed to amuse them more.

"Ah, Legolas, you are being misled," Galdor was trying very hard to refrain from this merry-making at his charge's expense.

"Muindor, (brother) you are so naive," Sûlchim managed to chuckle out through his juvenile sniggering. "It is of no consequence; I am certain Glorfindel will be happy to teach you the finer points of handling your sword."

"And his!"

Braying guffaws erupted accompanied by more comments, each one more ribald than the last, leaving Legolas no doubt as to the real subject of their joke.

"Aye, no doubt he knows the most effective grip required to elicit a satisfactory outcome."

"I am sure he can demonstrate how to produce a powerful and deeply penetrating thrust."

"And of course the best strategy to lure your quarry close enough to be impaled."

Legolas' embarrassment was only surpassed by his stunned realisation that every Elf in the company must know his secret. He averted his sight from his companions instantly, staring into the broad, grassy meadow as his face fairly flamed with the heat of his self-conscious abashment.

"What to do if you find yourself impaled."

"Or wish to be!"

"The most sensitive zones to target."

"The proper technique to use when sheathing your sword."

"Far!" (Enough!) Glorfindel's voice boomed out and silenced all the rude rejoinders. He tapped the younger Elf's shoulder and smiled gently once the mortified blue eyes joined his. With a nod toward the open plain, Glorfindel invited his soul-mate's accompaniment and the pair galloped away as the column slowed to a more sedate pace in order to give them the lead.

Asfaloth was the larger steed and many would assume the mighty war horse could easily outstrip the Wood Elf's small, painted mare in a race, but such a notion was inaccurate. The spry woodland equine would be the victor in any such competition and indeed seemed eager to prove it. She pranced and arched her neck, tossing her elegant head, and gave a brief snort through flared nostrils as her keen black eye dared the Balrog Slayer's mount to the match. If not for her rider's stern request she would have galloped with all her strength until she reached the banks, leaving the grey charger to follow behind the long sweeping plume of her chocolate coloured tail. She could feel Legolas' wish to remain beside Asfoloth and so she complied, giving a high, round-backed buck just to emphasise her displeasure.

Glorfindel laughed to see it and met Legolas' disconcerted grimace kindly. "These Greenwood horses are stout-hearted indeed! Few mounts, even among Elrond's most prized stallions, would wish to challenge Asfoloth so. Did I hear you call her Alachas?" (Fearless) He hoped this change of subject would deflect Cuthenin's distress over the lurid allusions to sexual gratification just endured.

"You did. Surely you cannot doubt it is a fitting name, seeing how well she behaves in battle." Cuthenin looked sharply at his intended to determine if the noble warrior was somehow ridiculing his mare. It was bad enough to suffer taunts from his brothers; if Glorfindel joined their game he was not sure he could bear it.

"Oh, I do not dispute that one bit."

There was perhaps a little more emphasis given the words than needed and just the slightest quirk to those firm red lips and Legolas permitted his disappointment to bloom into umbrage. "It is certainly a better name than Asfaloth. What is that supposed to mean anyway?"

The valiant war-horse stamped and laid back his ears as the scornful words reached him.

"What do you think it means?" Glorfindel continued to smile, unperturbed by Cuthenin's ire and Asfoloth's obvious displeasure over the insult. He was indeed deliberately badgering his companion in hopes of providing an outlet for the tension revealed by the archer's rigid frame and frowning face.

"Well it sounds like some sort of Quenya-Sindarin mix-up if you want to know. It could be 'Beside the Foam Flowers'. Or maybe it is purely Sindarin and the best guess I can come up with is 'Impetuous Flowers'."

These interpretations made Glorfindel laugh heartily but the regal stallion did not appreciate being likened to blossoms, either capricious or frothy, and trumpeted a loud whinny of indignant affront before turning to nip the archer's knee. Cuthenin gave an abbreviated shout of peeved pain; Alachas defended her master, sinking her incisors into the charger's shoulder; Asfaloth reared up to demonstrate who was more powerful; and both Elves had to exert considerable effort to separate the horses before an all out combat of hooves and teeth commenced.

"Enough of that, mellon, or I will tell him which one of those guesses was correct." With these words the Balrog Slayer managed to quiet his horse's injured feelings first.

Alachas settled down with a final, victorious snort.

The pair resumed more normal progress at a steady pacing gait and Legolas glanced over his shoulder to check on the troop behind them, bewildered to find that Galdor was not in pursuit. They were now on the edge of his hearing range, the voices of the warriors distorted and only partially intelligible.

He met Glorfindel's gaze, questions in his own, and took a breath before he spoke on the touchy subject they had recently escaped. "How did they come to learn about me, about us? It is clear they know all and I cannot believe my Adar would reveal this."

"I was not privy to the decision so I am unable to enlighten you. I also find it hard to accept that your brothers are so comfortable with my role in your life as to jest with you about it. Yet neither do I believe they would humiliate you among your peers for spite. Perhaps they wanted to tell you but could not figure out another means to do so."

"Oh, you do not know them; they plotted exactly how! They wished to embarrass me and rightly guessed I would make the error of thinking you were the target of their remarks. I shall find a means to pay them back." Cuthenin shared a devious grin with the veteran warrior but for all his grumbling did not really feel overly upset by the foolery at his expense. Rather, he felt pleased, agreeing that they would not taunt him about something so serious unless they were fully supportive. That this affirmation extended beyond his immediate family to include the entire company served to warm his soul, now that the shock of the joke was over. Never would he have imagined he could so thoroughly enjoy being ribbed.

Neither would he have believed he could become so quickly aroused by the images the risqué innuendo raised within his mind. Cuthenin was having difficulty getting beyond the internal vision of Glorfindel giving him explicit instruction in such sword-play and was acutely aware of the tingling throb pulsing through his groin. He could not stop his eyes from hastily sweeping over the Balrog Slayer's crotch to see if there was any indication of a similar problem arising there.

"Ai! I am suddenly glad I have no younger brothers, judging from the expression in your eyes," Glorfindel remarked. He did not miss the furtive inspection racing over his lap and elation coursed through his veins. He turned and looked behind him, noting with pleasure that the column of mounted archers was no longer in ranks, reduced to an ambling crowd collected around the elder sons of Thranduil and the Sadron. He slowed Asfaloth and, as his companion followed suit, urged the horse closer to Cuthenin's mare. When they were near enough for the Vanya's leg to brush against the sylvan's, he leaned in, wrapped an arm across Legolas' shoulders, and ventured to sample the younger Elf's smiling lips. A hush of a breath drifted across Glorfindel's face as Cuthenin gasped out in surprise, brightly shining eyes meeting his when he straightened to observe the response to this impetuous move.

Now it might be wondered why the worthy Guardian had permitted this romantic interlude, having given his word to King Thranduil to oversee the courting of his youngest child. Truly he had no intention of failing in his duty. Galdor sighed in irritation as he watched them draw farther away. Now he would have to go after them, thanks to all this well-intentioned jocularity. "Really, could you not have thought of another way to tell your brother that everyone here understands and no one holds him in low esteem for it?" he demanded of Inarthan as he prepared to follow the retreating couple.

"Of course, but then Glorfindel would not have needed to come to his defence and whisk him away from such vulgar humour," retorted Inarthan.

"We arranged this just so," informed Igeredir. "Adar has the Balrog Slayer fearful to dare even a lecherous look at Legolas, much less indulge in a little harmless 'courting'." Thranduil's second-born now flanked Galdor's steed and the two princes effectively halted the Guardian's departure. The entire cavalry was reduced to a milling herd around them. "We were not exactly encouraging his attentions either, to be truthful. This is the least we can do to make amends."

"Ernil Edwen, let me pass. It is my duty to oversee any 'courtship' and I have personally promised your father to make certain his son's intended behaves with all propriety. You were there to hear it; will you dare disobey your King?" Galdor hoped these strong words would move the Sindarin princes to relent and he was disappointed to hear several scornful snorts from the King's many grandchildren as Igeredir just shrugged while Inarthan laughed outright.

"Adar need never know of it," the King's heir commented nonchalantly. "They are in plain sight and on separate horses. What do you imagine they can do in such a situation?"

It was precisely as these words were uttered that Glorfindel coaxed Asfaloth to sidle close enough to Legolas' mare for the Balrog Slayer to lean in and steal a kiss.

"Ah, Glorfindel," Legolas sighed, transferring his vision to the smiling lips that had just fondled his. "We must part or Tirn'wador will certainly separate us forcefully."

"Galdor appears to be detained." Glorfindel spared a glance to the heavens and then again to the diminishing figures on horse at their backs. "No hawks are about to swoop upon us and your brothers keep the guard at bay. They are your allies, Cuthenin."

Legolas craned his head to peer beyond the bulk of the Balrog Slayer's muscular arm, still draped over his shoulders, and saw that this was true. The Sadron seemed to have halted completely and was surrounded, arguing with several of the warriors while the elder princes barred the way. The words drifting within auditory range indicated that Galdor was in for a lengthy reply to his inquiries.

With a broad grin the archer passed his arm around the Vanya's waist, using the connection to lever himself up and return his Faer Hebron's embrace, mouth open, willingly petitioning a deeper exploration. Another quick sigh left Legolas' lungs as Glorfindel happily accepted the invitation.

The warm, probing muscle sinuously invaded, avidly tasting him, stroking against his palate and curling curiously around his quivering lingual organ. The sensation was dizzying and Cuthenin's eyes fluttered to a close; he moaned when sudden suction sealed their mouths and he felt his tongue drawn past Glorfindel's teeth. In excited hesitancy, Cuthenin delved into the slick and torrid cavity, learning the unique internal topography concealed behind the strong jaw and sensuous lips of his intended, discovering the singular flavour of Glorfindel, sliding the tip of his tongue beneath his counterpart's fleshy lobe to tickle the tender, connecting tissues at its base. He thrilled, heart rate tripling, when a deep rumble of approval met his ears.

Galdor pressed his lips together in a stern frown as he regarded the couple. "I suppose you are right," he grudgingly admitted, "I will not begrudge them a kiss and some private conversation, for they must learn if the bond will hold or fail. Yet I am surprised by this unexpected alteration of your opinion of the match. Last night you were ready to pummel Glorfindel for taking liberties and today you arrange a flirtatious encounter. When last we spoke you two were staunchly determined to keep Legolas' nature hidden, yet now I find an entire troop of warriors fully informed. How do you explain this?"

"We held council," began the elder prince.

"Without Minya'dar," interposed one of his sons with a conspiratorial smile.

"Right after our meeting in the war room concluded. Legolas' joy in gaining our open support was very moving for me. I did not realise how isolated he must have felt, how fearful of losing our regard. He worked so very hard to earn it," Inarthan went on.

"Both Houses were represented at the meeting: the Swallows and the Beeches," added Sûlchim. "Everyone who wanted to be part of this escort was included."

"I could not ask anyone to join this venture who did not fully support Legolas, regardless of his preference for a mate," continued Inarthan. "I decided to reveal what I knew. The decision was mine alone and if Cuthenin is angry he can take it up with me. Before I could say anything, Sûlchim there blurted out the truth and dared anyone to condemn his cousin, saying those who would do so were unfit to ride with Legolas' company."

"Aye, he was all prepared to duel for his cousin's honour and when no one contested his words you should have seen the look upon his face," laughed the green-eyed elleth of Oropher's House. "It should not have come as such a shock; those gathered for this conference were already Cuthenin's friends and allies."

"We have surmised something like this for many years," added another warrior.

"It is of no consequence; we would never betray our kin."

"It is time this ridiculous notion dies away and I decided that if Adar cannot take the first step then I would. I have," the elder prince spoke with determination, finalising the strong affirmations of his brother's friends and relatives.

"That was a bold decision!" exclaimed Galdor, regarding the oldest prince with open amazement.

"Well, in truth I was compelled to do so at my wife's urging. We met to confer over the selection of warriors for this mission, for she oversees the woodland patrols. She feels quite strongly about the ban, for one of her sisters left Greenwood to live in Mithlond for this very reason," admitted Inarthan.

"We all have friends and relatives who have been forced to leave because of this fear," added Sûlchim.

"Plus, in the middle of this great council, in walked the King, stating the very same thing: that none must go who would oppose Legolas' right to choose for himself who is best suited to become his bond-mate. I swear he must have been concealed within one of Galion's spy-holes," said the second prince with a bemused shake of his head.

"Or the seneschal heard all and informed his Liege. Do you have no reservations about Glorfindel's fitness to become Legolas' chosen love, Igeredir?" asked Galdor.

"I have my doubts, but those are not just cause to keep my brother from this chance for happiness. My eldest law-daughter pointed something out to me that I had not considered. What she said convinced me; Legolas and Glorfindel are fated to be together. Who am I to interfere in their destiny?" the middle-born son remarked fervently. "Glorfindel would give up his life for those he loves; he would die for my brother," concluded Igeredir, his voice a little husky.

Had he heard this, Glorfindel would have heartily agreed with Igeredir, but his attention was focused on the prince's youngest brother. With great delight he permitted Legolas to explore his mouth, enjoying Cuthenin's tentative efforts to perfect his technique in this first step of foreplay. When the prehensile tongue wrapped tight around his and was then withdrawn, sliding in a tantalising tangle toward his teeth, the re-born warrior groaned in excitation.

"You learn rapidly," he remarked, briefly breaking the connection, eyes alight with a flare of exhilaration.

Before Cuthenin could reply, Glorfindel pressed for dominance, using his height to advantage, smothering his less experienced partner with a barrage of kisses from flirtatious and whimsical nibbles and licks to devouring and demanding sorties into the unmapped mouth. Legolas tried to match these manoeuvres but found himself too overwhelmed by the stimulation to do much more than relish the pleasurable encounter.

A series of softly voiced moans were extracted from the sylvan's lungs as Glorfindel discovered that his lover's upper palate was highly responsive to a long, slow, wet caress. Smiling ferally, he used the new-found weakness to distract Cuthenin while his free hand worked with dexterous rapidity to undo the ties and clasps securing the archer's tunic and shirt. In no time he succeeded in pulling the fabric aside, revealing the decorated chest to the warmth of Anor's rays.

"Oh!" Legolas exclaimed, pulling back as a soft breeze unexpectedly caressed his bare skin. He looked down at his body, the harness of the quiver still snugly tight, the material of his clothing thus effectively prevented from falling closed. He inhaled a trembling breath as Glorfindel's hand entered his field of vision and watched as fingertips raced over his stomach and brushed upon his nipples. "Oh," he said a second time, a whispered, drawn out sigh of pleasure riding the crest of a long shiver that arose with a jolt from his heart and worked its way down to his seat.

"Magnificent," Glorfindel spoke with quiet delight and met his lover's gaze with triumphant tenderness. Hungrily his eyes catalogued the sight of the naked expanse of firm flesh, divided and defined by the tri-part leather strapping, rosy buds rising in the heat of passion, yet a more tantalising image he could imagine. He swooped in for another scorching kiss, fingers eagerly stroking and tweaking the tattooed skin, circling the whorls of the heart spiral from the outer rim inward until he found its centre atop a heaving pectoral and flicked it.

Legolas' entire body jerked, the resulting wail muffled, and he clutched at the Balrog Slayer's biceps. With a loud and sloppy pop he disengaged from his mate's commandeering mouth and stared into the deep lapis irises, the expression therein equal parts desire and devotion, lust and love, possessive and yet utterly subdued. No one had ever looked upon him in such a manner. "Glorfindel, I…" His tongue was silenced as it met its match in another soul-delving osculation and Legolas gladly relented, making a fumbling attempt at working lose the closures of the Balrog Slayer's clothes.

Glorfindel felt the hand at his back convulsively clutch his tunic as inexperienced fingers started working on the ties of his garments. He chuckled, the sound absorbed within the mouth so sweet, so tantalising that he could never weary of the unique taste and texture. Yet he was not through with his efforts at unveiling. Intending to remain in control of the agenda, he intensified the amorous assault, engaging in a series of diversionary tactics to keep the sylvan's mind befuddled by titillating sensations.

Retreating from the supple lips, Glorfindel give the lower labial a final lick before moving on to mark the line of the archer's jaw with ten minute bites. The first elicited a dazed whimper and stilled the hand trying to divest him of his shirt; the last ended just beneath the lobe of the left ear which received a swift swipe from his tongue. Pausing there, he whispered, "I would lick every inch of you, here and now, were there no audience but the sun."

The sultry words sent a shudder rippling through Legolas' skin, mouth agape and panting, eyes aglitter. He swallowed hard, passing his tongue over lust-swollen lips as if he meant to make some answer. Before his mind could manage sufficient coherence to reply, the ridges and coves denoting his outer ear were thoroughly swabbed with slick saliva. Now all respiration became suspended as Legolas' eyes expanded in unbelieving shock and he waited, tense and eager, for this favourite among his fantasies to become real.

Fingers found a hold beneath his chin as a thumb pressed down over his mouth to seal it and he understood the command to control his voice just a second before Glorfindel enveloped the throbbing point of the ear within his lips, sucking in as soft taste buds soothed the aroused tip gently. Legolas twitched, struggling to hold in his delight in a sensation only dreamed, and then it was over, his ear both cold and hot from the stimulation as the air of the breeze-blown valley teased the wet cartilage.

"Ai! Bauglir!" (Tormentor!) Cuthenin exhaled in a breathless whisper, finding it supremely difficult to draw sufficient air for anything more than this, and brazenly tipped his head to the side to demand the same for the other ear.

Glorfindel was happy to accommodate this unspoken request and while his mouth enjoyed the exquisite delicacy and his mind rejoiced to know he was the first Elf to ever visit these attentions upon Legolas, his hand drifted sedately downward. His fingers, following the line of the jaw, traipsed adoringly over the thumping pulse in the elegant neck, skimmed over the sharply defined 'V' at the base of the throat, massaged the breastbone. With infinite tenderness he traced the leanly muscled curves of one pectoral up to its sensitive tapered point, took the firm red bud between finger and thumb and gave a solid tug.

Cuthenin's whole body shook and Glorfindel worried he would make the younger Elf come before he achieved his objective. Hastily he plunged his tongue back down the archer's throat to stifle the accompanying shout, transmuting the abrupt cry into a long, lowing groan, and hurried to finish his task. Before he was forced to release Legolas' lips for respiration, Glorfindel had the leggings unlaced.

That broad swordsman's hand burrowed in and met the soft pelt of hair encircling the constrained penis. Cuthenin nearly shrieked, squirming in excitement and trepidation both. "Glorfindel! Daro! Hyn cenitha!" (Stop! They will see!)

Galdor was silent for a time, considering Igeredir's speech, checking to make sure the Elves being discussed were still within eye reckoning. He was satisfied to note Glorfindel and Legolas had slowed their horses to a lazy stroll and remained arm-in-arm, leaning upon one another, heads bent together. Then he pressed Igeredir for more. "You have spoken strong words regarding your brother and his Faer Hebron, especially as you are not an initiate nor a follower of Pâd-en-Tawar. Now explain what you mean," commanded the noble Sadron.

"Nay, I shall say no more. If it is true then nothing can force Legolas to abandon Glorfindel or vice versa. If it is false, then it is best no word of it ever reaches my brother's ears. I would not have him swayed to remain in a loveless bond because of some romantic notion of unfulfilled fate," growled Thranduil's middle son, angry at himself for having revealed too much.

Now everyone became more serious, for fate and destiny were concepts that demanded much respect among the First-born. That which an Elf must experience, good or ill, was already contained within the chords of the Music; its strains and melodies, harmonies and themes generated long before any of them came into being. None could escape fate and indeed it was believed the highest purpose an Elf might have is to seek out and discover his destiny and live it to its full realisation. In this were the Sindarin and the sylvan elves alike, whether they were followers of the ancient religion or not.

The First Age Elder regarded Thranduil's volatile second child with intense interest. Igeredir, he surmised, was less willing to adhere to Sindarin customs merely to satisfy politics, more likely to argue for passionate reasons than for logical ones, despite his pretence of scorn for the chaos of romance, and freer to speak his mind when it conflicted with his father's. Thus was the birthright of the second-born son, his consolation for not being the heir. More than these musings confirmed such an evaluation in Galdor's mind. He knew the law-daughter of which the second prince spoke for she was from Mithlond. An Elf of mixed Sindarin and Noldorin heritage, her people were among the remnant survivors of Gondolin. The Lord of the Tree raised his brows a fraction and looked again into Igeredir's eyes. No words passed between them but the Sadron was answered.

Galdor sighed as he returned his gaze to Cuthenin and Glorfindel, smiling kindly at the sight. Their horses had completely stalled and were complacently nibbling the grass, determined to take advantage of the interlude. The Balrog Slayer was bent low, curled all around Legolas, obviously exploring the younger Elf's mouth quite thoroughly, one arm still firmly bound across the archer's shoulders holding him tight. Cuthenin's hand gripped the back of his Faer Hebron's tunic with such a taut-fisted hold that it seemed he feared to lose his seat on the mare. Ah well, it is just a kiss. They have earned it.

"First sparring lesson." This and a rather irreverent snicker invaded his generous thoughts and Galdor turned to glare at Sûlchim.

The young sylvan byr paled to be caught out by the Sadron and composed himself at once. "I ask pardon, Hîren," (my Lord) he offered with a respectful dip of his head. "I should not have spoken so crudely."

The Lord of the Tree gave a short nod in acceptance and returned his attention to the courting couple. Galdor's brow creased slightly; Glorfindel's form was rather more animated than kissing could account for and Cuthenin was rigid as a pine tree. A peculiarly garbled sound that might have been the Balrog Slayer's name drifted through the air. Legolas' body suddenly melted into a boneless heap against the older ellon. It was then the Sadron realised that he could not see where the Elves' other hands were. His eyes and his mind both opened wide.

"Shh," Glorfindel soothed his lover, "they are too far away and behind us; none will see. I will not have them make so light of your long deprivation. It is not amusing that this is a pleasure you have never yet known, and still, I am glad. Forgive my selfish jealousy, but I am pleased to be the first to touch you thus," Glorfindel's voice was low and gruff like the warning growl of a wild wolf.

He broke from Cuthenin's gaze, for at this moment his fingers closed around the rigid, confined shaft. His eyes were transfixed upon the gaping leggings as the slender organ, full and radiating a compelling aroma of musky heat and sex, was drawn forth completely. He smiled, enjoying the sight of the dark maroon tip rising above the encircling palm, and tightened his hold just enough to feel the firm resistance and the answering quiver in the aroused flesh.

Glorfindel raised his sight to Legolas', noting with satisfaction the parted and panting lips, flushed cheeks, and an expression somewhere between panic and ecstasy. He gave the virgin cock a firm stroke, glad he still had the other arm wrapped around the archer's shoulders for the movement nearly made Cuthenin swoon.

Legolas' head dropped back upon his Faer Hebron's arm, eyes squeezed down into frantic creases beneath his wrinkled brow, teeth clamped hard upon his lower lip to prevent exhaling the scream of delight his lungs so longed to express. He could not believe this was happening though every nerve of his body sang with the glory of a pleasure so intense it bordered on delirium.

He both wanted the Vanya warrior to proceed and to cease what he was doing, for Cuthenin was sure they would be caught and his humiliation would be unending should the Sadron or one of his brothers witness the culmination of his arousal. The idea generated a surge of adrenaline that heightened his libido and he involuntarily pressed his pelvis forward to increase the friction, a fractious wail wavering within his larynx as he refused to part his lips.

Watching this reaction, Glorfindel again feared to bring about a climax too soon and released the engorged rod. "Easy," he whispered. "Breathe deeply and try to relax." As he spoke, his hand again delved within the fabric, now slightly damp with sweat, and carefully cupped the tight, full sac with its concealed treasure. Slowly he extracted the twinned globes from the garment's cover, taking Legolas' mouth in a deep and lingering kiss to quiet the expected outburst of startled appreciation, and then removed his hand. Their lips parted with a pleasing sound at the loss of suction and Glorfindel sat back to survey the result of his diligent efforts.

The vision was enough to make him momentarily wonder if he would come as he was, his burning cock restrained painfully against his thigh, without a single touch required. Legolas presented an erotic phantasm brought to life: the juxtaposition of innocence and prurience, fully clothed but naked for all to see, genitals excited and exposed, nipples red and erect, eyes glazed in longing and glittering in anxious anticipation of what was yet to come.

The younger Elf trembled under Glorfindel's ravenous stare, breath entering and leaving his lungs harshly, pulse so rapid the artery in his neck throbbed visibly. He suddenly recalled his Tirn'wador's words: this was no dream under his control. Realising he had just permitted another Elf, someone he hardly knew, to handle him in so intimate a manner, Cuthenin became ashamed and moved to cover himself, his gaze falling and his cheeks flushing darker.

Glorfindel recognised the crestfallen look as soon as it crept into Cuthenin's eyes and swift as a striking viper his hand snatched at the archer's wrist and halted the attempt at modesty. "Nay," he said, his tone both firm and gentle. "Our souls are joined already; do not feel remorse for your natural desires. You are mine and I am yours. We are not beyond the bounds of your creed in this form of gratification. I do not do this on a whim, a mere diversion to grant me momentary delight or to make sport of your innocence. This is for you alone. I will pleasure you, Cuthenin, and you will know what it is like to spill into your lover's hand."

With those words Glorfindel clasped the resilient organ and began to pump in slow, steady strokes. True, he had said the act was solely for Legolas' pleasure, but he could not help the surge of satisfaction this initiation into the carnal delights reserved for lovers evoked. His mate's soft cries and shuddering release would be ample reward.

The reassuring avowal burrowed into Legolas heart and settled, neatly sealing over the long years of guilty self-denial with warm acceptance bounded in love. Cuthenin gave himself into the care of his mate, trusting this Elf with his most basic needs even as he had trusted him to keep safe his soul during òcaul Annaur. He could not remove his sight from Glorfindel's hand holding him, squeezing and working his cock in carefully measured time as if he knew with certainty exactly how Cuthenin liked to be touched.

Every motion was perfectly attuned to hungers his flesh craved beyond his conscious comprehension, borne out by the instinctive response of his rocking hips. Enthralled by the waves of delicious tension building with every pass of those long, elegant fingers over his penis, nothing Legolas' imagination had ever conjured compared to this raw, unadulterated bliss. His heart soared as the vital spiritual connection the two had shared was regained. The echoing note of commitment set his loins afire with an ache so deep and encompassing it felt his entire existence was defined in the moment.

Legolas realised he could not long delay the impending release and when Glorfindel closed his mouth around an ear tip he was simultaneously thrilled and disappointed to recognise the familiar constriction coiling through his abdomen just before the pinnacle was reached, a last effort to prolong the exquisite torment of the climb toward ardent abandon. Then the Balrog Slayer dragged his thumb across the inflamed glans, smearing the slippery secretion around the head, anointing his cock with the seeping seminal fluid, and all his reserve dissolved, sublimated by the heat of his explosive orgasm. His mind disengaged, the distinction between hroa and feä lost, set free from the normal course of reason and thought to flow in surging wonder through the tumult of the exultant flux.

Glorfindel exalted with him, supporting the slender form as tremors of delight raced through muscle and sinew, muted with a kiss the brusque shout of his name before the word could get beyond the archer's lips, shared the astonishment wrought by the open exchange between their mingled souls. The warmth of the semen coating his fingers reached to his very core and the re-born Elf believed he had been granted new life only then. How could he call the long, lonely years without Cuthenin living? It was evident now that he had been waiting all this time, preparing for the day he would find this vital component his being lacked and claim him as his own.

He marvelled at the idea of sharing a complete union and the thought was returned to him from Legolas' mind, franticly overlaid with yearning desire to realise it at once. Of course that was not possible and he soothed their inevitable disappointment with tender kisses interlaced betwixt whispered endearments.

Legolas rested in the Balrog Slayer's secure embrace, eyes half shut as the words of devotion anchored him in ways he had not imagined possible. Always there had been a sense of wariness and isolation encumbering his heart, but this he let fall away, a defence unnecessary in the presence of his Faer Hebron. As he watched, Glorfindel's fingers disappeared inside his mouth. Cuthenin focused hazily on this action, not comprehending at first what Glorfindel was doing. Then understanding bloomed and his eyes widened in shock, for the noble Lord was contentedly cleaning his sticky fingers by consuming Cuthenin's spent seed. He opened his mouth to speak of it and was claimed in a fiery meeting of lips in which the bitter flavour of his vital essence was imparted to his palate.

"Aye," said Glorfindel in answer to the unuttered query plain on Legolas' face, "I like it well."

With a wide grin, he set about reverting his lover's dishevelled aspect to one more indicative of modest decency, enjoying immensely the new experience of putting the sylvan's lax genitals back inside the leggings, knowing now to settle everything gently to the left ere lacing the fabric shut again. Tunic and shirt were drawn back to properly obscure the painted chest, all tied and straightened, and in mere minutes no sign that anything untoward had happened was apparent. Except for his kiss-swollen lips, pink ears, and thoroughly sated expression. Glorfindel gloated and Legolas, unable to dispute it, could only smile.

"Valar, Glorfindel, I have but dreamed yet none of those fancies were near the truth." Cuthenin spoke at last. "What of you? I would not have you go unfulfilled after granting me such a gift."

"Nay, the gift was mine to give and requires nothing in exchange. Besides, I am older and better at managing such desires. I can be patient, though some would have you think otherwise, anticipating our next encounter in the interim."

"Let us make every effort to ensure that is not a lengthy wait," suggested Legolas. He patted Alachas' neck and laughed abruptly as her head rose from the tall grass so she could get him in her sights. "I am truly glad our horses love us so well, for this exquisite experience would not have been possible without their tolerance."

"Aye, we shall have to find some treat to offer them as reward," Glorfindel slapped Asfaloth a sound clap upon the whithers and tousled the fine silver mane, shifting on the stallion's back in order to turn and check on Galdor. The Sadron was still in conference with the others, though the Greenwood's princes appeared to be reorganising the troops and preparing for a more ordered advance.

Just then Galdor gazed directly at Glorfindel, and even with the empty space dividing them he was sure the Balrog Slayer could feel the power of his abundant displeasure. The Sadron urged his horse forward in haste, the elder princes beside him. Glorfindel sighed in mild annoyance but nothing could diminish the joy of coaching Legolas through his first lesson in the erotic pleasures lovers could share.

He met Cuthenin's rueful gaze and shrugged, reaching to take hold of his lover's hand. Together they turned their horses and stood ready, prepared to face whatever censure their impulsive actions had earned.

TBC

Chapter Text

Cuthenin CUTHENIN (True-bow)by F. E. Morton

UnBeta'd
thoughts in italics
(elvish translations in parentheses)

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Min-ar-Pae Peth: Thar Hithaeglir (Part Twenty-one: Across the Misty Mountains)

A note on the princes' names:
Inarthan (The Beacon) is Thranduil's first-born and heir.
Igeredir (The Maker) is the second-born son.
These are their nicknames, earned in their young years when they served as messengers, one of the first assignments of any warrior of Greenwood. I am tired of trying to switch back and forth between the cumbersome appellations I gave them, finding doing so with Legolas/Cuthenin is quite enough to manage, and so I beg everyone's indulgence for abandoning the elder prince's rightful names. :)

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The soaring, white-capped peaks of the Misty Mountains rose beyond even the reach of Elven eyes. Veiled in the ragged clouds, the impenetrable ranks of rigid rock barred the way, a daunting and perilous enigma to the small band of woodland warriors and their foreign guests. They were but the most recent Elves to face these jagged pinnacles and feel their hope quail, their courage falter. This self-same barricade had caused a third of the Telerin Elves to balk at continuing the Great Journey to the sea and Aman in the furthest west more than three Ages ago in the Time before Time when there was neither Ithil nor Anor. Even at the behest of Oromë and his promise of peace and plenty, they would go no further.

It was no wonder lore and legend lent the mountains elements of a malevolent sentience stone could not possess, unless from some revenant remnant of Melkor, whose malice raised them up. Such was not deemed unreasonable by the Wood Elves, for everything in Arda was filled with Iluvatar's Music and thus could it be known. Melkor, for all his malignant corruption, was part of that Song no less than were Yavanna and Aulë.

What a strange thought, that this inanimate mass of rock and stone had influenced the evolution of the sylvan people, providing the isolation requisite to promotion of those traits unique to the Wood Elves. If not for the treacherous range of perpetually ice-clad mountains, would the folk of the Greenwood have become such a distinctive race among the First-born, so different from their Sindarin cousins and even from the Green Elves beyond the dividing elevation? Truly, the obstruction was as much an agent upon them as their beloved forest.

So thought Glorfindel, once a noble Lord of Gondolin and now naught but a humble warrior in service to a greater House. If the presence of Vala could not induce their ancestors to attempt the ascent, what could possibly convince this handful of sylvan and Sindarin soldiers to make the crossing?

Loyalty, respect, kinship, and a growing sense of pride over the part their youngest prince shall play in the struggle ahead.

For the Balrog-slayer, Cuthenin was nothing less: Ernil Nail o Greenwood (Greenwood's Third Prince), just as the indelible marks on his body proclaimed, and yet no sign was required to comprehend this fact. Indeed, he had noted Legolas' innate nobility the very first time he saw him, even battle-grimed and weary. It struck him as bizarre that he should be counted high-born and nearly peerless solely by virtue of his former marriage to Erestor, while Legolas, sprung from bloodlines that included Celeborn and Thingol among its many branches, was discounted and denigrated. At least among the present company none would judge Cuthenin less than the son of mighty Kings.

Glorfindel surveyed his companions trekking toward the pass, resolute and yet uplifted, determined yet hopeful, and deemed them both formidable and exemplary. They proceeded with the discipline and caution appropriate to such a well-trained fighting force, unfazed by the novelty of the open plains but wary of the heights before them. Here, they were visible to any enemy that might chance to spy upon the valley and all knew a bloody battle awaited them, yet this certainty held no power to perturb their doughty hearts. Indeed, they were keen to engage their foes and Glorfindel could feel the ferocity of that desire, see it burning brightly in eyes that scanned the rocky cliffs and defiles, sense it in ears that strained for any noise emanating from the distant peaks.

So the word of their fey and feral nature told to us by the wizard is cold truth. Mithrandir avowed he had never seen such pitiless annihilation as that witnessed at the feet of the Lonely Mountain.

Glorfindel's gaze fell upon Cuthenin and stayed, recalling the defeated Orcs among the boxwoods on the North Road, the daring solitary sortie to spare Igeredir's falcon, the selfless protection provided for him at the river crossing. It stirred him deeply and the revelation rose anew: Cuthenin was nothing less than the perfect incarnation of every trait the Balrog-slayer found worthy, both internally and externally. Could he design the ideal companion for his lonely heart, he would have crafted Legolas. Glorfindel's soul expanded with felicity and joy, pleased that he need no longer worry for his heart to show upon his countenance. The consuming vibrance of his emotion was tangible and Legolas turned to smile over his shoulder, blue eyes glinting with hunger that their stimulating experiment had but whetted rather than assuaged. Glorfindel's answering grin was nothing less than radiant.

"Tiro râd, Legolas," (Attend the trail, Legolas) ordered Galdor.

"Sui Pedich, Tirn'wador." (As you say, Guardian) Cuthenin gave his intended a saucy wink ere he obeyed.

Since the erotic interlude in the meadow, Galdor had kept his ward apart, insisting Legolas ride beside him in the forefront while the Balrog Slayer was relegated to the company of Sûlchim and Igeredir. Those two exchanged gleeful smiles over such cheeky behaviour from the normally subdued and shy sylvan archer, but refrained from any further jesting over their kinsman's blossoming personality. Everyone realised this exuberance represented the lifting of two centuries' worth of repressed needs and that was no laughing matter at all.

None understood this better than Galdor, who breathed a soft sigh of resignation. Managing an adult Elf so wholly denied all but the most basic outlet for such natural urges was difficult, to say the least. It was a delicate balance, upholding his promise to the Sindarin King and honouring his pledge to Legolas. He had to decide how strict to be, when to demand Cuthenin's obedience, and when to let him indulge this new-found freedom. Had the outcome not been so serious, he would gladly have let the couple engage as fully as they wished, but Ûcaul Annaur made that course impossible.

Besides, Legolas was completely ingenuous and simultaneously overwhelmed with the splendrous intimacy of co-habiting his Faer-hebron's body. How could such innocence differentiate between fleeting, euphoric delight and timeless devotion? Yet, Galdor could not deny that when first he had interviewed the archer, there had been in Legolas' voice the tone and timbre of truth. Even then, his soul had recognised and yearned for its mate. Of course, and also from the very beginning, the carnal attraction was equally strong.

Is it any wonder he craves physical union more than most?

Nay, and when the moment of confrontation had come, Galdor found he had no reprimand to give beyond an admonishing scowl at the Lord of the Golden Flower. Yet even in this he revealed a genuine gratitude, for it was clear enough that Glorfindel had not taken his young mate very far nor taken satisfaction for his own desires. Such restraint, not previously a hallmark of the warrior's character, said much of his commitment to Legolas.

How long he can resist; that is the question which plagues me now. Galdor glanced back and found Glorfindel watching him seriously. Another sigh left the venerable Lord of the Tree and earned a questioning look from Inarthan.

"You are troubled?" asked the King's heir quietly, shifting his sight to Legolas and back to Galdor.

"A bit. The hours of the night are long ones and I would have everyone rest before we must face the demons in the pass."

"I will set reasonable watches; there is no cause for concern. We will not reach the dangerous regions this day."

"How far will we go?" asked Legolas, unconscious of the double entendre until Sûlchim snorted while attempting to suppress a sniggery giggle. Cuthenin's cheeks grew warm and he spared a peek at his Tirn'wador.

"Exactly what I was wondering," said Galdor drily.

Legolas frowned but did not respond, having no intention of prompting any edict that would thwart his plans for Glorfindel.

"I am thinking the cove you described is far enough to journey today and ample enough to hold our number," Inarthan addressed his brother without a hint of mirth in his tone. "The water is clean?"

"Aye, no foul thing has touched the place. I felt there the presence of Tawar; it is a good spot."

"So be it. Take Sûlchim and scout ahead. If all remains serene we will camp there."

The two sylvans broke from the company and sped across the rolling plain, but not before Legolas directed Alachas to flank Asfaloth whereupon he reached for Glorfindel's arm and pulled him down for a swift kiss that made his Faer-hebron fairly glow with delight. He rode away smiling and ten lengths out he turned, arm uplifted in farewell salute to Glorfindel, and he was smiling still.

"Legolas!" Sûlchim laughed easily, free now from the censure of his betters both in blood and belief, and slowed a bit, scrutinising his cousin thoroughly.

"What is it?" demanded Legolas, checking to be sure all ties were tied and all buckles fastened. He felt his hair to ascertain if his braids had come loose, and all this afforded Sûlchim greater merriment.

"Ai! Your appearance is perfection defined, as always," he said generously, to which his cousin gave a gracious dip of the head in thanks. "I just have never seen you act this way before."

"How am I acting? Is my behaviour inappropriate for a newly betrothed ellon?"

"Nay, it is exactly the way an Elf in love normally carries on."

"Well, you should know, having been in love at least six times now," laughed Legolas. Then he sobered. "Have you ever truly loved another, Sûl?"

"Nay, though I think I might soon," Sûl shrugged, suddenly diffident.

"Who?" asked Legolas eagerly. "When? I have barely been gone a month and you said nothing of this ere I left."

"You do not know her; she dwells in Lorien and came to visit her maternal aunt."

Legolas signalled Alachas for a full stop. "You would go to Lorien?"

"It is too soon to think of that," Sûlchim evaded the question, letting his horse walk on so that Legolas had to resume if they would speak. "What of you? Will you go to live in Imladris?"

"I have no other choice," Legolas answered, no small trace of bitterness in his words. "I never imagined something good could spring from such deep despair. Nor would I credit that a feeling so glorious could hold within it the seeds of a similar woe. This wondrous thing comes to pass just when I have gained Adar's respect and forces me to choose between them. Yet for me it is too soon to decide also, for first there is the Quest."

"I do not understand why he cannot go with you. It would seem logical to include a warrior with such experience."

"Lord Elrond and Mithrandir believe stealth provides the only hope for success. Glorfindel is too renowned to remain anonymous."

"I know not if I could endure such a separation so soon after bonding. It is best to spend the first few years together, or so I've been told."

"Sûl, we are not bound yet. There is Faras-en-Ind to be completed and "

"Oh of course!" the archer laughed but then it was he who discarded all sign of jesting and halted his mare. "Do you really plan to wait? Do you think it wise to make him wait? His reputation for constancy is rather poor."

"That is not so," fumed Legolas, though his tone was underlain with doubt. "He would not dishonour our bond thus."

"You are not bound, remember? Legolas, I mean no disrespect to your Faer-hebron and if your Adar approves I am easier in my mind, but still I would not advise prolonging the engagement in your case. Claim him and make him yours before you leave Imladris again."

For some minutes the two stared at one another and though Sûlchim despised being the one to squelch his cousin's exuberant mood, he knew it was right. No one else would be this blunt with Legolas and the last thing Cuthenin needed was more lecturing about his duty as byr, as Thranduil's son, as a citizen of Greenwood, as the sole representative of the Elves among the Fellowship.

"You think his love is superficial," grimaced Legolas, trying to sound angry while his voice betrayed his fears.

"I do not know if that is true. What is clear is that he makes you happy and I would see that continue, for whatever time you have. We go to war, Legolas, and many will end up in Mandos before it is done. You deserve to know this joy, so do I, so does Glorfindel. If Ôlnathron (Dream Weaver) will consent, I will be bound before the Winter Solstice."

Legolas gasped, mouth agape. "You only met her a month ago!"

"Longer than you have known Glorfindel," Sûlchim pointed out.

Another silence commenced and by unspoken agreement the pair of scouts set forth anew, covering the remaining distance more quickly. Legolas took the lead and found the sheltered cove. A swift reconnaissance proved the site untouched since his last visit here. He let Alachas drink from the small stream and slid from her back, Sûlchim following suit. "What if you are wrong and you bond with someone you do not really love?" Legolas blurted out suddenly. "You would be forever linked to Ôlnathron. What if then you find the one who holds your heart?"

"I do not have the answer for any of that," the scout was shaking his head. "No one does. I trust my instincts."

"But you have thought yourself to be in love many times and it was not so," insisted Legolas, hoping desperately that his friend could provide an adequate explanation and ease his own worries.

"True and this is not the same as those other times," Sûl began. "I feel as though I already know her. I do not understand how, but I think it is the same for Ôlnathron. Legolas, she came here to find me, not to visit her aunt. No one is making excursions for such trivial reasons anymore; it is too dangerous, even on the paths laid down long ago."

"Sûl, that sounds preposterous. How could she know you even existed? Did one of the messengers speak to her of you?"

"Nay! You are deliberately trying to misunderstand and you know it. It was just the same for you. You insisted on going to Imladris though it was a ridiculous suggestion."

"What?"

"Aye, it was. You were not exactly the messenger of choice. Laying aside your illegitimate birth, which none but your family will do, and still you have next to no battle experience, had never left the forest before, had only the diplomatic training you learned from Galion, with little chance to practice any of it before you suddenly took off over the mountains on a highly dangerous journey at the end of which you were to meet with a wizard and/or an Elven Lord and explain the loss of one of Sauron's spies from captivity." Sûlchim laid it out as plainly as he knew how and watched as his cousin's visage coloured in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. There was a tense moment where the scout wondered if Cuthenin planned to strike him but they had settled arguments that way in the past and he was prepared, considering his kinsman might have much pent anxiety to vent.

Legolas did not give in to his fury, however. "You are saying my soul was seeking its mate and knew Glorfindel would be there."

Sûlchim released a deep breath and relaxed, smiling gently as he reached for and clasped his friend's arm. "Yes, I believe that is so. I am not sure if you hoped to meet Glorfindel, subconsciously, or if you just felt the pull of your soul-mate. These are dangerous and desperate times. Our Sadron tells of such instincts coming forth when the sylvans have faced war in the past."

Legolas was nodding in a thoughtful manner, his expression serious and brooding. "Perhaps you are right. If so, then all that has happened was fated to come to pass. I want to believe that, Sûl."

"I see no reason not to, muindor. Does he feel the same?"

Legolas grinned. "He asked the Lady Arwen if he should give me his heart."

"I would consider that strong confirmation," laughed Sûl and gave Legolas arm a squeeze before letting go. His eyes filled with a sombre expression once more. "I will miss you."

"Aye," Legolas sighed heavily. "I will miss you also. I do not know how I will bear it. Greenwood still holds my heart; there are some woods in Imladris but it is mostly cleared land with houses and farms and villages. It is almost like Dale except the homes are grand instead of coarse."

"Well, once all this trouble is over I will come to visit and bring Ôlnathron. If you do as well on the Quest as you did on your first task, you will become a great hero. Mayhap we will name one of our sons after you."

"Ai! You would not dare!" Legolas blushed and landed a playful swat at Sûlchim's head. They laughed and strolled toward the bank of the stream where the steeds were busy tearing into the lush green clover. "I did do well, yes? Adar is pleased and even Igeredir is impressed. He said 'well done, Cuthenin' and you know he never gives out praise. Not to me at any rate."

"Valar!" Sûl's eyes popped wide. "The best he has done for me was a grudging nod, and that was some fifty years ago when I bested Fînhirith (Flowing Hair) with daggers."

The pair refreshed themselves at the stream and remounted, returning to report on the location, each one easier in his soul for the chance to speak openly of matters so close to their hearts. As for Legolas, the conversation bolstered his nerve and strengthened his determination as one remark continuously recurred in his mind: 'Claim him and make him yours before you leave Imladris again.'

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Anor was no more and the day reduced to a hazy glimmer, diminished to failing lustre floating amid the shimmer of mist and motes. The last of the light coalesced above the trickling surface of the winding creek, glazing its frets and dimples with momentary brilliance, or was it the other way round? The water and the air, different but in density, one the vapour and breath of Arda and the other its living fluid, merged more fully in the dusky gloam of twilight and spilled in a feathered flux of wispy white along the runlet. Into the sheltered cove this ghostly welkin tumbled, dancing in swirling whorls and cavorting in lazy curls that unrolled as they spread out into the open space. The ever-shifting surface of the liquid murmured, a tremulous drone underscoring the fair soft strains of Egleriad Enchui (Sixth Praise), annûn's concluding rite for all adherents to Pâd-en-Tawar.

As during his youth in Gondolin, Glorfindel found the plainsong praise soothing and calming, the melodious mingling of the sylvan voices satisfying in a way the music and singing of the Hall of Fire in Elrond's house never was. He watched the warriors setting camp, noting the way Greenwood's folk incorporated the final cycle of the day's prayers into the work and routine of a soldier's life, even as Legolas had done on the journey homeward. He saw that, like him, the Sindarin warriors who were not initiates in the ancient sect responded favourably, their movements synchronising to the rhythm of the chant, their faces slipping into contemplative expressions of respectful appreciation. There was no doubt the vocal meditation called forth a presence of magnitude whose roots anchored deep into the heart of the world. Glorfindel sensed the vigilant protection of the Spirit of the Great Wood emanating from the tree-topped hillocks ringing the cove and his cares ebbed away with the fading light.

He stood beside Cuthenin's elder brothers who watched him watching their sibling with what could only be named bittersweet acceptance. Glorfindel knew their scrutiny was upon him and waited, for he had no doubt as to the purpose of their close regard. He was surprised they would seek to intervene instead of Galdor, but then again the Sadron was deep into his communion with Tawar and was unlikely to confront the Balrog-slayer for some time. Glorfindel had no misconceptions as to the nature of the brothers' intent, no matter that they had stalled Cuthenin's Guardian earlier. He was accustomed to abiding in patience and did so now, confident Thranduil's heir would codify the boundaries of acceptable interaction between him and Legolas. Yet as before, the King's middle son was not so content or disposed to forebear Inarthan's hesitance.

"Lest you misconstrue our design in permitting the afternoon's activity," Igeredir began, "we are not condoning unbridled licentiousness on your part."

"Or our brother's," added Inarthan quickly. "We appreciate Legolas' desire to experience that which has so long been denied him, but would have events unfold gradually."

"Aye, rather than this night. He needs time to adjust to his new circumstances," continued the second prince.

"I had not planned to divest Cuthenin of innocence in such a place and with so great an audience," snapped Glorfindel with a scowl and folded his strong arms before him in defiance. Really, the princes' fears were ridiculous. To his surprise, both snorted in amusement and Igeredir shook his head.

"You fail to consider what Legolas' plans may be," he said and spared the Balrog-slayer a wry grin.

Glorfindel's brows rose in surprise and he looked to Inarthan for confirmation of this concern, found it, and reordered his features in accord with his dawning worry. Had he taken Legolas too far? Would he understand if Glorfindel rebuffed his amorous advances or be hurt and humiliated?

"Aye, you comprehend us now," remarked Inarthan. "Cuthenin is quite strong-willed, as anyone would have to be to survive the harsh judgement his countrymen have never failed to proclaim to his face, save when he was a small elfling."

"You will find him quite determined, I would imagine," continued Igeredir. "Have you thought on how to counter his advances and spare both your honour and his ego?"

"Indeed, that is quite fragile, no matter how cocky a demeanour he adopts in public," instructed the King's heir. "I do not want him feeling rejected and unwanted."

"I assure you both I would not permit him to harbour such notions," said Glorfindel. "I will simply be direct and explain all these things in a straightforward manner. He will heed my reasons for restraint and while he will not be pleased Legolas will concede to my greater experience." This yielded another brusque bark of breath and a roll of the eyes as Inarthan propped his hands on his hips and eyed Glorfindel askance.

"You have no idea what you are dealing with," he intoned in combined sympathy and mirth.

"Perhaps we should enlighten him as to the depths of Cuthenin's stubborn and intractable nature," laughed Igeredir.

"Perhaps you had," said Glorfindel, "yet I hardly think he would attempt to force me to his will." When the princes shared a speculative glance the Balrog-slayer felt his heart make a most peculiar skip as his stomach muscles tightened inexplicably. The brief argument by the banks of Anduin regarding who should claim whom replayed through his mind. Surely, Legolas would not be the aggressor in their coupling? His eyes scanned the cove for Cuthenin and with something akin to alarm realised the young sylvan was striding purposely across the glade, prayers finished and chores all done. He reached them rather quickly and sent each a searching gaze.

"You were talking about me; I know it. What stories are they telling you?" he asked Glorfindel. "They exaggerate terribly; fully half of the scrapes and scandals they relate happened only in their imaginative brains. I was never so wilful or wild."

"You have revealed yourself, Cuthenin!" laughed Igeredir, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "We have said nothing of your less admirable qualities. Since you have done so, however, we can now feel free to enlighten your Faer-hebron fully."

"Ai! Be forewarned, I will not sit in silence as you defame me, muindyrin. (my brothers) I have as many tales to tell as you," Legolas threatened, a tilt of his chin flouted the princes' status as his elders and his lords.

Inarthan chuckled. "That is well; we can take it for we know each of your stories is linked to ours. You may claim to have come out ahead of us in any one of them, but we will dispute that most vehemently."

"Aye, let your betrothed be the judge of whose account lacks verity, Cuthenin," added a new voice as Sûlchim joined them.

"Oh no, he will favour our brother no matter what we say," complained Igeredir.

"What nonsense is afoot," grumbled Galdor in false pique, following his ward's cousin. "I am eldest here and shall judge the winner. Legolas, I forbid you to begin this contest prior to dinner, however, lest my appetite be lost in the throes of laughter your antics retold must elicit."

"As Tirn'wador, you are bound to be on my side in this," reminded Cuthenin.

"True, but I cannot always control my reaction to a good yarn and am just as bound to give in to merriment as the next Elf," grinned the Sadron. "I can be impartial, at least more so than Glorfindel."

"I would not choose Legolas' part solely because we are affianced," complained the Balrog-slayer. "I believe I am capable of honest criticism when it is due, no matter the subject's identity."

"Let the two from Imladris determine the victor together, then," suggested Inarthan, "and we shall go in teams: Igeredir and me against Cuthenin and Sûlchim."

By this time many of the warriors had collected around the princes and the Balrog-slayer and all clamoured for Oeth-en-Nern, (Battle of Stories) ratifying their Ernil Vain's decree. The principals in the opposing camps, Inarthan and Igeredir on one hand and Cuthenin with Sûlchim on the other, made their way amid much good-natured jesting and encouragement to the fire ring where the night's blaze was already thriving. Everyone found a spot, Glorfindel was shoved into the centre alongside Galdor, as the two foreigners were allotted the role of judging the tales. Yet as per Mithlond's Sadron, no word was uttered in contest until all had consumed a portion of the hearty soup and way-bread prepared for the evening meal. Once this was accomplished dice were rolled to determine who should be granted the opening story and luck was with the elder princes.

Legolas groaned in misery; mentally running through the many examples of the numerous trials and tribulations that had marked his growing years and trying to guess which would be the first revealed. He cast a wistful glance at Glorfindel. "You must promise not to laugh too hard," he said with a rueful smile.

"I promise," grinned the Balrog-slayer, leaning forward to rest his hand on the archer's knee with a confirming squeeze.

"If he breaks his word I will counter with a story or two of our youth in Gondolin," inserted Galdor, nudging his old friend in the back with his toe. His threat raised an approving chorus of ooohs from the crowd and laughter from the princes.

"So be it," said Inarthan. "I will begin." Then he leaned close to Igeredir and the two consulted in hushed whispers for a moment, breaking apart with snickers and suppressed grins, eyes alight with mischief and tinged with much love for their muindor dithen.

"Lasto! Lasto pân gwaith! Nín pith trenar cairdh Cuthenin. (Listen! Listen all people! My words tell the tale of Cuthenin's deeds.)" the Kings heir stood and announced in bold and formal tones so that everyone grew quiet and trained eyes and ears upon him, save those Elves who had drawn duty for the night's first watch.

"Lû min annan io," (One time, long ago) he began with the customary words. "When Legolas had lived but forty summers and was new to the duties of a page in Thranduil's court, he challenged an Age's old custom and broke with all mores of propriety by reminding our Adar of his status as Peniaur (Ancient One).

"Lest the custom in Greenwood be misunderstood by our guests, let me elaborate. Wood Elves do not mark any Begetting Day anniversary beyond the thousandth one. Once an Elf has achieved that milestone, further attention to the length of his or her life-span is deemed crass and vainglorious. The Age of Wisdom is to be noted by respectful adherence to such an august person's words and advice. Celebrating one's advancing years also highlights those who have been lost, whether to Mandos or the crossing, and is incredibly vulgar and insensitive."

"I did not see why it must be so," interrupted Legolas, leaning close to Glorfindel. "All Adar's celebrations had ceased long before ever I was conceived yet my brothers never forgot to detail these grand fêtes for my envious ears to hear."

"Dîn, Cuthenin!" boomed Igeredir, rising and pointing in stern authority at his younger brother. "You know the rules of Oeth-en-Nern: the tale may not be disputed in its telling. You are penalised two points of credibility." The middle prince sat back down with a smug grin that he shared with Inarthan. Legolas glowered in dismay but wisely refrained from further speech.

"Sui pedol (As I was saying)," Inarthan resumed. "Legolas behaved with unbelievable impertinence and entirely in secret, so that we, his brothers and chief mentors during this period in his development, were unable to prohibit the ill-considered and wholly disgraceful bacchanal that ensued.

"Not only did he plan and execute this kingdom-wide party, he did it using the official language of the court and Galion's stamp of approval as Chief Steward to the King. In short, Cuthenin forged the ellon's signature and affixed his Seal of Office to the proclamation before sending the invitations out to every corner of the realm and beyond."

A resounding low of disapproving exclamations circled the fire and there was much 'tut-tutting' and cries of 'nae-nae' (alas-alas) intermixed with a few calls of 'hen deleb' (abominable child). Legolas bore it well, standing and bowing to his detractors in mock gallantry as though their words were plaudits instead of insults, for it was all in jest. Glorfindel and Galdor exchanged their amazement in wide-eyed silence, for while brothers telling tales on one another was a time-honoured tradition among folk of every kind, never had they observed it taken to the level of serious competition. There could be no doubt, however, that coin and markers were being exchanged as the gathered Elves gambled on which team would arrive the winner.

"Hiren Adar (my Lord Father) was uninformed as well, of course, and wondered aloud as to the gay and gaudy decorations appearing around the city and especially in Calenhad (the Green-space). It was obvious he thought we were planning something but our ignorance was genuine, for it was not was many months until his Begetting Day and we did not yet suspect our muindor dithen. When all manner of minstrels, mummers, thespians, jugglers, jesters, contortionists, magicians, and pedlars began arriving, we confronted Galion. He, too, avowed no knowledge of the proceedings and was mystified as to how the event was being organised without his assistance."

"Galion was thoroughly flummoxed and absolutely livid." Igeredir interposed with obvious glee. "He interrogated the arriving entertainers to no avail: Cuthenin had sworn them to secrecy and paid for their oaths in riches from the King's own vaults. Without permission to do any such thing, naturally."

More aggrieved moans and admonishments arose from the crowd, among them the Balrog-slayer's aggrieved 'Ai Legolas!', and this time Cuthenin clutched his bowed head between his hands, feigning to be downcast in regret and remorse. Then again he stood and in soundless joy welcomed the accusations as accolades, smiling and gathering the scolding words in with magnanimous gestures. As he sat, he offered Glorfindel a helpless shrug and a wide smile.

"Well, the days followed one behind the other and it seemed that each dawn brought more excitement, more visitors, more craftsmen and artisans into the city. We had glass-blowers and ship builders and sculptors of whale bone from Mithlond, metal and gem smiths and bowyers from Lothlorien, Dale sent a contingent of human musicians while the Dwarves of the Iron Mountains sent weapons and armour and fine jewellery with them, fearing to enter Greenwood beyond the need to traverse the road yet still hoping to profit by the event. There were fire-breathers from Rohan as well as sleek race horses and diminutive riders to set them coursing. Most exotic of all, there was a caravan from Rhûn with dancers purported to be of mixed Avarin-human origin. The city was quickly taking on the atmosphere of a carnival.

"Not long after the visiting entertainers were all settled in their various camps and compounds, guests began arriving in small groups. I can tell you that was an eye-opener and a puzzler all at once, for while the dignitaries were happy to present their invitations, the documents only promised a 'joyous, convivial gala'. None in Greenwood could admit to the mystery, for how would it look to our allies and friends should King Thranduil and his court deny knowledge of the celebration? Thus, we all became Cuthenin's unwilling, hapless advocates and co-conspirators."

"I think Legolas just earned back those two points," called out one of his many grand-nephews from the ranks and a smattering of laughter supported the notion.

"Fine, so be it," agreed Igeredir and continued the story where his brother had stopped. "The roster of delegates was impressive, including Gildor Inglorion and several of his rambling nomads. Haldir of Lothlorien and his brothers arrived, serving as personal guards to Celeborn the Wise, eager to compete in the pre-arranged tournament. Aewendil accompanied Beorn himself, eager to participate in a promised hunt beneath the full moon. Círdan came with his knights and ladies, Mithrandir brought his fireworks, Fréalaf of Rohan sent his daughter and her husband, and even the retiring folk of Forodwaith dispatched a contingent of their foremost citizens to witness the occasion."

"Ah, I see by your expressions, worthy folk of Gondolin, that you now recall this event and what it signified. So be it! Let me finish ere you announce your judgement!" Inarthan called out firmly, for it was true that Glorfindel and Galdor understood.

Galdor had naturally learned of it by virtue of his high position in Mithlond and had advised Círdan to attend in person rather than sending a lesser emissary. Invitations from Thranduil's court were rare and though a treaty of trade and defence existed between the two realms, a visit with a less serious agenda would bolster those ties by building trust and friendship between the distant lands. He had elected not to go himself, and could not help wondering how different events might have been had he done so and encountered Legolas during those formative years. I could have brought him away to Mithlond; he need never have learned to despise and suppress his own nature. The Sadron offered his ward a sad smile, but Legolas' eyes were trained elsewhere.

Glorfindel had heard of the grand event through Imladris' connection to Lothlorien, but since no invitation ever arrived in Imladris, the Balrog-slayer could not convince Elrond to permit him to attend. Neither did the twin Lords or their sister deign to crash the party for the over-sight was deemed an insult. No doubt Cuthenin, concerned over lingering resentment, harboured by both realms' rulers and based on losses at Dagorlad, had elected not to include the Noldorin folk from Rivendell. It would be good to set the record straight and explain to Elrond that the harm was caused by a mere youth of forty summers rather than by the King of the Wood Elves. He gazed in gaping wonder upon Legolas, whose smile had become subdued and even shy as he watched to see how Glorfindel reacted. Never would he have dreamed Cuthenin was the author of such a controversial convocation. It had taken nearly a hundred years for people to stop talking about it.

"Now, picture if you will our beloved Galion scurrying to and fro attempting to accommodate all these unexpected visitors, housing them in a manner suitable to their rank and station and race, providing for meals and baths and the washing of clothes, all without having a clue as to the perpetrator of the elaborate scheme," crowed Igeredir, clearly revelling in the steward's discombobulation. Many in the troop responded in kind, laughing at Galion's expense, the steward's penchant for snooping having earned him numerous detractors. "And imagine, if you can my good friends and kin-folk, our baby brother watching all this from the sidelines, for as a humble page and not yet of age, he was not permitted to engage in the full-blown festivities."

"Aye, he planned and organised a party to which he was not even allowed full access," Inarthan took care to emphasise, "though as yet we did not know it.

"Finally, the day of the feast dawned and though we had no part in arranging it still we were left no room to doubt it, for a magnificent banner was draped above the dais in Adar's throne room, proclaiming the day a national holiday and the beginning of a new Mereth Baedâd (festival held every twelve years) that was to run for an entire cycle of Ithil, all to commemorate " Inarthan paused to lend the moment its proper dramatic impact. " the arrival of Oropher and his Sindarin refugees from Beleriand!"

Right on cue the gathered Elves burst into raucous laughter and hoots of delighted derision as the elder prince seemed to have revealed a flaw in his own argument against Cuthenin.

"The Princes are bested!"

"Concede defeat, Minya'dar!"

"Aye, you are lost, Ernil Arad!" (noble Prince)

"Yet it was the wrong day!" Inarthan fairly bellowed to be heard above the crowd. At once they quieted, anticipating his concluding remarks. "None of the visitors would know this, of course, and so to preserve the dignity of our House and our people we all went along with it. Ah yes, our Cuthenin was clever indeed, for this fine party to honour the fusion of Sindarin and sylvan culture just happened to coincide with Adaren's Begetting Day Anniversary."

At this a great cheer and loud clapping erupted among the Elves and many rose to their feet and drew near to grip Legolas in soldier's salute or openly envelop him in hugging arms. He was passed from one to another and ended up between his brothers, flushed and giddy with joy as each draped an arm across his shoulders. It took some time for the felicitous clamour to subside, aided by Sûlchim's call for quiet. When the ruckus calmed, Sûl addressed the visitors.

"What say you, Lord Galdor, Lord Glorfindel? Is Legolas best or bested by this tale?" Of course he knew what the answer must be yet tradition demanded he speak the challenge.

Galdor and Glorfindel stood and all fell silent to hear their words. They made a brief show of conferring with one another, lips to ears, before the Sadron announced their decision. "It is abundantly clear that Legolas bested not only his brothers but Galion, Thranduil, all of Greenwood, and indeed the leading members of nearly all the free peoples of Arda! I proclaim him indubitably Best and would dearly love " the rest of his sentence was drowned out in the rousing chorus of praises that went up from the troop. It took a bit of effort to get them to settle again and only the combined shouting of Glorfindel and the elder princes achieved the goal. "I would dearly love to hear the end of this story," said Galdor. "How did you learn that Cuthenin was the culprit?"

"Aye, I want to know that, too," said Legolas, eyeing his brothers with interest, for they had never before revealed this part to him either. They had confided, after the conclusion of the event, that they deduced his responsibility and awarded a punishment so far beneath the stature of his 'crime' that he had dared not breath another word about it, considering himself fortunate that the festival was so successful that the princes could not in good conscience condemn him fully.

"I am the one who uncovered the deed's author," answered Igeredir. "Keep in mind that Inarthan and I were at the time Cuthenin's principal tutors. On top of our regular duties to the realm, we had to oversee his education. My subject was history and it was rather a coincidence that lessons had recently covered the history of our people in Beleriand and the ensuing migration. That roused my suspicions and so I did a bit of investigating. I discovered several practice sheets inked with Galion's signature hidden in Legolas' desk in the library."

"You went through my things?" Legolas was shocked.

"Hold a moment and you may perhaps forgive me," Igeredir held up his hand to forestall the impending eruption of indignant wrath. "I also found the note you wrote for Ada, wishing him 'a joyous Begetting Day from your last-born son, who never had opportunity to present a gift to mark the anniversary.' It was on that day that you truly became my brother, Legolas."

"Mine also, for of course Igeredir shared his findings with me," continued Inarthan quietly. Indeed, everyone was still and silent, taking in this heartfelt moment. "The words brought me near to tears, realising you had engineered the entire celebration just to bring a smile to our Adar, who for the most part was weighed down in grief and guilt those days."

"We put everything back as we found it and never told of our discovery. You scarcely imagined that we were as eager to see Adar's reaction as you were, Legolas. It was the most wonderful gift I believe he ever received, that simple note rolled up and tied with a blue silk ribbon. How you managed to sneak it onto his tray at the feast, this I still wonder about."

"Ai, that was the easiest part," replied Cuthenin. "As page to the King, I was the one serving him every dish and keeping his wineglass filled." Legolas fell quiet, remembering the night with melancholy nostalgia. "He did smile; the party pleased him."

"Indeed, he had not truly felt joy since your naneth's death," admitted Inarthan seriously. "It was the moment that renewed his self-confidence and enabled him in some measure to forgive himself. I hope he took time to thank you properly and let me do so now."

With that Inarthan snatched his brother close and held him tight against his heart until he feared he truly would weep. Igeredir peeled them apart only to mimic his elder's action and pressed a kiss upon Cuthenin's brow that was nearly fierce. Of course, the company exploded in happy applause and cheers anew, and not all could prevent the emotion from spilling down their cheeks.

At last the Elves fell quiet and returned to their places while Legolas remained between his brothers, who would not release him. He smiled at Glorfindel and Galdor and shared his happiness with everyone at large before seeking Igeredir's eyes again.

"I do forgive you," he began solemnly, "but now it is my turn to tell a tale," and beamed as both princes exhaled long suffering groans and guffaws in protest.

Many tales were told that night by many among the group and Glorfindel learned much of Cuthenin's young years, some stories sad and serious while others remained light and carefree. It was not lost on the Balrog-slayer that he was not the only one to be enlightened by the narratives, for Legolas was hanging on every word his people spoke, hungry to find out what their thoughts truly were, gratified to discover the disgust and hatred he so dreaded were never shared by these few at least. If Inarthan had been concerned over his brother's vulnerable ego, Glorfindel reflected, his worries were placated somewhat by the affirming words of these stout-hearted warriors. Beyond that, the exercise in camaraderie ensured he was never alone with his betrothed.

Cuthenin realised this was nothing less than a conspiracy and openly accused his Tirn'wador of arranging it, which the Sadron refuted in abused and martyred terms. Nonetheless, Legolas could not manage a single moment apart with his Faer-hebron and in the end had to accept this joint effort to chaperone his activities. His was the last watch of the night and he stood it alongside Sûl far from the camp on the crest of the encircling hills. Thus, he missed the discussion between the princes, Galdor, and Glorfindel regarding the coming ascent to the pass.

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Not until the entourage was half-way to the desolate place did Inarthan reveal their plan. Glorfindel and Igeredir would ride ahead as scouts, so to gain intelligence on the most likely place from which to expect an ambush. In vain did Legolas argue against them and Glorfindel silenced him at last, sealing their lips together in farewell ere he mounted up and rode away. Camp was set, though it was but mid-afternoon, yet instead of being grateful for the respite the warriors were tense and anxious, for some thought as did Legolas, that it was his right to go, while others believed he must defer to the authority of the princes. He paced unceasingly across the stony ground, casting many an aggrieved look in his elder brother's direction for failing to consult with him. Slowly the hours wore on and the scouts did not return.

"What a place!" exclaimed Sûlchim and shivered. "A fortress for certain and these endless piles of weathered rock its battlements. I wonder that any creature can keep life in its body and call this place home, for what does the mountain give but cold and hardship? Many say Orcs and goblins were made from Elves, but I wonder if it might perhaps have been dwarves that supplied the initial stock instead."

"What are you talking about?" snapped Legolas, edgy and disquieted by the long delay.

"The caves, of course," replied Sûlchim, not bothered by his cousin's attitude for distraction was his sole intent. "It is said the entire range is riddled with them and, did one know the route, a journey could be made from here to the mines of Khazad Dûm, all without ever seeing the sun or the stars."

"I have heard that, also, yet what has it to do with the origin of Orcs and goblins?" demanded Legolas, halting by his life-long friend.

"If there is such a sophisticated arrangement in those tunnels and caverns, then it cannot have been the design of anything so lacking in intellect as are goblins. The dwarves must have done the delving, and for their troubles were captured and converted into servants of the Dark Lord."

"Ai! The thoughts that clutter up your mind!" Legolas shook his head in aggravation. "Even ants can make an ordered network under the dirt and wasps form a parchment hive of symmetrical chambers. The creatures of Arda do not need intellect to understand the world which spawned them. Your proof fails, muindor."

"Ants and wasps are natural components of Yavanna's design; it is expected for them to have the skill needed to manipulate the elements for habitation. Orcs and goblins are not. How could they have the kind of instinctive insight necessary to tame the might of such mountains? Nay, it had to be dwarves, for they are the handiwork of Aulë and thus to these stunted children he imparted the art of working in stone. How else does the weight of all this rock not crush and collapse the tunnels?"

"Mayhap Sûlchim speaks truth, for is it not a fact that dwarves do not recognise green life nor hear the Music? These are traits they share with Orcs," commented another warrior.

"Aye, have we not had as much to bear from the Naugrim of the Grey Mountains as from the spawn of Melkor? I have long considered how similar the dwarves are to goblins: short and stocky, fearful of Elves and sunlight, cruel and without honour," yet another opined.

"That much is not true," stated Legolas, "and I guess there are dwarves and then yet dwarves of other kind, just as there are Wood Elves as well as Noldorin and Sindarin folk among the First-born. For my part, I have found the dwarves of Erebor as honourable as you are, though their ways and customs are strange."

"What is that you say?" asked Inarthan, breaking into the conversation. "When have you had such close dealings with Durin's race?"

"In Imladris, of course," interjected Galdor. "Though Legolas was not inclined to tell the story himself, Gloin, an esteemed Lord of the Iron Mountains, was not a bit shy of relating the tale once he had downed a few tankards of potent wine. Cuthenin earned the trust and respect of the Dwarven emissaries to Elrond's Council and no doubt that fact influenced the decision to include him among the Fellowship."

Legolas groaned and shook his head, for he had not wanted to speak of this among his people yet the warriors were restive and eager for any means to turn their thoughts from ruminating over the conflict to come. Paused upon the barren, rocky land, waiting for the return of the scouts, they listened with attentive ears to the Sadron's engaging account of Legolas' combat with Gimli, Gloin's son. When it was done there was much laughter and comment and congratulatory remarks were offered by one and all, for the Wood Elves, sylvan and Sindarin alike, were pleased with the young archer's handling of the predicament.

Legolas, though he stopped his agitated pacing, could not dispel a growing sense of anxiety and with it resentment for his brothers' refusal to appoint him one of the scouts. No matter his experience of the trail or knowledge of the location of Orc dens, they had denied him. As hours passed with no news, Legolas' anger gave way to fear. He remembered well how long it had taken to reach the place of the ambush; the scouts had been gone too long not to have returned from that point. Still, he could not deny that he felt none of the wrenching emptiness he had endured upon the death of Calarlim, and so he hoped this meant his beloved Balrog-slayer was safe. Mayhap they had found nothing and thus ventured a little farther. The stars were shining before he lost all patience and with a plaintive curse strode to Inarthan.

"Let me go after them," he demanded.

"Nay." Inarthan raised his eyes to Cuthenin's distraught countenance and shook his head. "I will not risk any others to satisfy your fears. Both are crafty and skilled in stealth; knowing what to expect, they would not be taken unaware. Whatever may be the delay it is not due to any harm befalling them."

"How can you be certain of this?" Legolas countered, dread sounding through the words even as he hoped for reassurance. His brother smiled and stood, clasping his shoulder in comfort, but it was Galdor who replied.

"You would know at once if something befell your soul-keeper, whether from Orcs or mischance. After what I observed at the Gladden crossing, I do not believe the Valar themselves could halt your efforts to charge to Glorfindel's rescue. Tell me, do you feel he is in peril or are you merely impatient and fretful?"

"Fretful?" Legolas snorted, blushing in embarrassment as several of his comrades snickered over the rebuke. "I am eager to kill my naneth's murderers; is that unexpected?" Yet he was actually pleased by the elder Lord's remarks, for he needed to be sure his instincts were trustworthy in this case.

"Nay, I am surprised you have been this patient," joked Sûlchim and moved to console his cousin. "We will see them all slain before another day's passing."

Legolas did not heed his words, however, for at that moment his ears detected the faint echo of hooves on stone. He bounded up the moonlit path, struggling to contain his hope and happiness, and upon a turn of a switch-back hailed the returning warriors with a loud whoop. In no time he reached the riders and found himself beside Asfoloth, gripping to Glorfindel's calf and smiling, eyes more brilliant than the stars, bright with both relief and love.

"Mae govannen, Faer Hebron. What took so long?"

"Mae govannen, Cuthenin. All is well," the Balrog Slayer reached out and ran his hand through the golden hair and touched the upturned cheek, his eyes revealing a mix of sadness and compassion.

"What is it?" Legolas lifted his hand to hold Glorfindel's against his face for a moment longer.

"The remains are there, Legolas, and it was not a fair vision to behold."

"Nay, it could never be that," Cuthenin responded, walking beside the stallion as their progress resumed down the track.

"It is not the sort of thing you have been exposed to," Igeredir expounded. "We would spare you the sight."

"I have seen worse, for I watched as they were destroyed." Legolas met his brother's eyes over his shoulder, noting the same grim demeanour Glorfindel presented. "Nothing could be more terrible."

To this they could contrive no rebuttal. They walked the remainder of the distance in silence and entered the camp, the fingers of Legolas's right hand still resting on Glorfindel's knee. There much argument ensued once the scouts dismounted and gave their report, for the Princes of Greenwood were divided on the best course of action and the warriors divided with them, half on either side. Igeredir held that they must fight their way through and take as many of the foul creatures to death as they could. Inarthan avowed he would not risk another immortal life if he could do so and still see his brother safely across the mountains.

"The pass is too closely watched; the way to the font of Mitheithel is free of Orc-sign. That is how we should cross," stated Inarthan.

"Nay, we have come here to avenge the deaths of my comrades and my naneth," Legolas insisted. "Whatever awaits us there, I will not be deterred."

"We have come to get you over the mountains uninjured," countered Inarthan. "The paths leading north are not as hazardous as this one, though the way is longer."

"That is not known with any certainty," argued Igeredir. "What if we travel all that distance only to find the conditions worse? None have investigated the pass at Mitheithel's font in many years; at least, none who have returned to Greenwood. The fact that Glorfindel and I encountered no indications could be a deliberate lure. We may be drawn into ambush."

"Highly unlikely, Ernil Edwen. The fact that the river flows so swiftly there will grant an advantage to us," said Glorfindel. "The goblins are fearful of it and will not have many caves opening into the passes there. Without the cover of their noisome holes, they will not chance being caught in the open by so large a force."

"You want me to turn away, even after telling me my naneth's remains are subject to debasement, debasement so vile that you refuse to speak plainly about it? That is too much to ask. I will not go north," Legolas railed in high displeasure, shocked to hear his Faer-hebron support Inarthan's scheme.

"Your purpose is greater than the need for personal revenge," reminded Galdor sternly. "Mithrandir and the rest of the Fellowship are depending on your participation. What of the Quest should you fall here?"

"I will not," hissed Legolas. "I survived before with much less aid."

"At a cost of three lives! Would you have more blood spilled just so you can seek vengeance?" growled Galdor, angry at this open defiance from his ward.

"This is my right, for I have been wronged in ways that can not be repaired unless I sail beyond this world and meet those lost ones, re-born and renewed," Cuthenin ground out bitterly. "I do not ask for any to join me who find the cause unworthy. Yet I wonder that you can doubt my skill, Tirn'wador, for we have fought together."

"That was not my meaning," avowed the Lord of the Tree. "Even the greatest of warriors may fall by the merest chance of fate."

Inarthan sighed, realising there was no means of dissuading Cuthenin but determined to try. "Your skill is not in doubt, nor is it right for you to be weighed down with remorse, for I believe that motivates this rash desire to confront the foul goblins. Have you not completed Úcaul Annaur? Nothing more do you owe to the deceased."

"No, it is not a question of a debt to be paid but of honour and duty to those we love," Igeredir got between his brothers but it was to Inarthan he spoke. "If I lay among the dead there, or Legolas, would you be content to turn away? He is not a child anymore and it is time to acknowledge that fact."

"I know this, but I would spare him as long as possible. What lies ahead on the Quest is danger enough and more. Why court trouble when it already stalks him so closely? Now that we are here and I have heard Glorfindel's report, I misgive this plan. We should go north and cross at Mitheithel's font."

"Inarthan, I am going through that pass," stated Legolas, his anger vanquished in light of the love within his brother's words. "I understand your distress for I also am torn. In one respect, I would rather you and Igeredir turned back now and let me continue on alone. So, too, I dread to have Glorfindel exposed to such hazards, or Galdor, or any of my kin and friends, for the love I bear them. Yet at the same time I understand that what I feel is returned and none of us here would wish hardship on another."

"Hardship is upon us, whatever we may wish," continued Igeredir. "I would rather face it boldly at my brothers' sides. We must clear this pass now, not just to satisfy Cuthenin's desire for revenge but for future need. Who can say whether the Elves of Greenwood might need to go forth in aid to the lands of the west? Adar would never ignore a call to arms from Mithlond and this way is the quickest means to reach Eriador. What if Greenwood should require help, how would our messengers even reach their destinations if the Orcs know we will not fight to keep the pass open? Let these foul beasts know the Wood Elves are not a people so easily subdued once riled."

"I will go with you," announced Sûlchim and took his place beside his cousin. At his word, the majority united behind the King's younger sons, for Igeredir and Cuthenin had declared what each one felt in the corners of the heart and soul.

Then Glorfindel stood before his betrothed and placed a hand upon Legolas' shoulder, gazing down into the fiery determination in the shining cobalt eyes. He gave a quick nod and squeezed the tense muscles beneath his fingers. "My place is with you and I will see you through this trial by the might of my arm and the strength of my spirit, for am I not your chosen Faer-hebron? Forgive me for doubting you, Cuthenin."

Not even Galdor dared interpose any argument to this, seeing the two Elves entirely absorbed in one another. Truly, he had never doubted that such would be the case but rather wished that he might have spared Legolas the pain that awaited ahead along the path. He sighed and shook his head.

"Better just absolve everyone, especially me, for above all others I should know not to gainsay the will of Tawar, which surely has guided our actions on your behalf thus far. Let us clear this pass, Legolas."

"Nasan," intoned Inarthan grimly, convinced but nonetheless uneasy and sick at heart. Like his Adar, he detested seeing Legolas fight and had never been able to give an order that called for his youngest brother to go forth into the midst of hazardous terrain, forcing his wife-mate and Igeredir to bear that burden up to now. "I call a council of war."

And so they plotted the means to overthrow their enemies and reclaim the High Pass for the free peoples of Arda. Minuial saw them dispersing along the track in small groups, the plan calling for the bulk of the troop to detour as if intending to head for Mitheithel's Font. The rest made slowly for the more traditional crossing, the pace deliberately sluggish in order to draw the vile creatures out of their hiding places. The ruse worked and just beneath the crest of the peaks the black caverns spilled a hellish sputum of living filth upon them, all shouting in their fiendish tongue and brandishing their cruel weapons. It seemed an easy victory would go to the Shadow, just as when Cuthenin had made the trip before.

Yet it was not so. This time, Inarthan ordered his brother to seek a secure position whence he could fire upon the swarming mass at will, picking off the Orcs as Thranduil's heir led Glorfindel, Sûlchim, and Galdor in a direct charge. No sooner had the trio become surrounded than a fearsome war cry arose amid the rocks and crags, echoing in thunderous noise so loud that it seemed the Powers had come down upon Middle-earth to destroy the minions of Melkor. In truth, it was Igeredir and the remainder of the troop, scrabbling over the rough landscape to turn the ambuscade upon the glamhoth. In vain the fiends tried to escape back within their foetid dens, for Cuthenin slew them in silent and bitter relish, his bow singing an anthem of death more vibrant than any taunt of war or chant of doom could be.

It was over before Arien had completed a fourth of her daily trek, for whatever demons remained hidden in the caves and tunnels refused to come forth and face the Wood Elves. None among the troop had forfeited life for duty done and injuries were overall minor. Three among the valiant Wood Elves would need to be borne home on litters, but this sacrifice was small in comparison to the achievement of their goal. The message had been delivered, the lesson given: the High Pass through Hithaeglir was not a toll-road for evil's hordes.

But there was no joy in the victory, for now that the way was clear all beheld the despicable scene Glorfindel had hoped to prevent Legolas from witnessing. There upon the highest accessible point in the defile were all that remained of the valiant warriors who had faced down the Orcs at Cuthenin's side.

The bodies were not intact nor lay as they had fallen. Cruelly had the enemy degraded and disgraced the First-born, for each Elf had been dismembered. Limbs were rent from torsos and jumbled in a heap, the bones charred and chipped and gnawed as would be any shank of deer meat roasted on a spit. Ribs had been ripped apart, likewise picked clean, and driven into the rocky ground to form a crude barricade across the trail. Worst of all, three sculls capped the ends of crude black pikes thrust deeply into the earth, the fair heads gouged free of eyes and most of the skin and all the teeth, so that only a few trailing wisps of silken hair drifted in the wind, a grotesque banner proclaiming the Orcs' dominion.

In silence the Elves gazed upon this abomination, overcome with sorrow and stunned by the sight, an image that must surely remain ever sharp in all its horrific detail for time unending, unable to find means to act or thoughts to guide their weary hearts. A stricken sob arose but from which soul none could say. The biting breath of Manwë's gale, howling in impotent fury to touch upon such woe, dried tears that blinded eyes to that which no Elf was ever meant to see. Galdor knelt upon the ground and began softly to pray Egleriad an Fern (Rite for the Dead). Others joined him and soon the voices rose above the cutting gusts of air, soothing the frantic whirlwind of emotion into a steady, calming breeze, clean and crisp and arising from the west.

Through it all Cuthenin stood still upon the desecrated ground, still and firm and strong. He did not weep or wail in agony, nor curse the name of Vairë, nor challenge Námo's right to determine the fate of any sundered spirit. He knew what he would see here, had imagined it since the battle that claimed his beloved Tirn'wathel, had heard the vision confirmed when soul to soul they shared his body on the day of Ûcaul Anaur. In the same way, he was prepared for what he must do now, determined to carry out the last instructions from Calarlim to her adopted son.

With the holy chant enveloping him in its protecting influence, Legolas removed his cloak from around his shoulders, strode forward, and gently retrieved the severed head of the only mother he had ever known. Carefully he gathered up the fluttering nut-brown tresses and anchored them beneath the bone and then the whole scull he wrapped securely, leaving a length of cloth open upon the ground. Then he went to the pile of mix-matched limbs, fragmented fingers, and scattered vertebrae, selecting form among them those that were hers, unhesitating, confident, sure that his choices were right. Three arm-loads he carried from the midden to the cloak and when he was satisfied every shard of her remains were accounted for, Cuthenin tied the bundle tight with strands of his own hair.

The prayers ended as he stood and Legolas found himself staring down upon the meagre packet of fabric. That this should be all there was to her, a being so dear to him, a person so loyal and true to him, the one Elf in Arda who had never thought ill of him for even a fraction of a second, this truth he could not encompass. Such a thing was absurd, could not possibly be so. Then he faltered and the tears came and he would have collapsed had Glorfindel not been there to bolster him up and hold him close. As he spent his grief upon the Balrog-slayer's shoulder, his kin and countrymen repeated his efforts for the other two fallen warriors. By noon all of it was done and there was no reason to stay. They left the eastern side of Hithaeglir and commenced the descent into Eriador.

TBC

NOTE: Hi folks. This chapter is dedicated to Vicky, Stef, Ceren Cae, Setare, and wetheril, who have either declared Cuthenin a favourite or inspired someone to do so, and in all cases have left me very encouraging feedback just about everywhere. It is also dedicated to QAFho, who has been a good friend throughout the writing of this tale. Many have requested I finish the story. I never meant to abandon Cuthenin; I just got really downhearted and ended up questioning whether the story is any good or worth continuing. I did intend to see this through to the start of the Fellowship, though, and so I will drag out the outline and see if I can follow through. To those kind folks who added me and/or the story to their favourites at , this is for you, too. My great appreciation to everyone who has ever read even a little of this tale.
Cheers,
Fred
07/12/2008
TBC

Chapter Text

CUTHENIN (True-bow)

by F. E. Morton

UnBeta'd
thoughts in italics
(elvish translations in parentheses)

---

For Naledi: With Best Wishes for a Wonderful Holiday

NOTE: Naledi asked for a chapter of Cuthenin dedicated to her and I am so happy to do it. Of course, it was supposed to be done by Christmas (and thus the gift theme) but now it is February, hence the Valentines design. For the long delay, my apologies. I thought this was going to be fun, light-hearted, and easy to write, but it just did not follow my hopes. Though the story is not complete yet, nor even the ideas mentioned here, I simply must end this instalment. I hope you can forgive me and that this meets everyone's expectations. As to the story, I combined a couple of ideas I had and hopefully still kept this within the proper timeline thus far. We get to see Legolas interacting with other members of the Fellowship here and, of course, with Glorfindel. ;) Enjoy!

Ant Aglareb (Glorious Gift)

Part One

Legolas walked amid the quiet grounds of Elrond's lush estate scarcely noticing the changes in the living plants as the mild winter of Imladris approached, failing to note the lobelias and wild hyssop still in flower. He was heedless of the delicate scent these provided or the occasional butterfly drawn to them, while a wind brake of crab-apple trees boasting abundant ruby red fruits and branches filled with birds of every sort could not penetrate his awareness. None of it intruded upon the Wood Elf's introspection as he sought a secluded spot to work on his arrows, a task requiring enough of his attention to defray his grim brooding yet not enough to occupy him entirely. Having just left the morning meal and the company of his well-meaning new friends, Legolas wanted nothing more than a place apart where he might let his thoughts dwell upon Glorfindel.

Since returning from Greenwood, Cuthenin had not been able to find his way back to the balance he'd achieved after Úcaul Annaur. The separation from his father and brothers, his friends and comrades, had been much more difficult due to the deeper bonds forged between them by their acceptance of his need for Glorfindel, the recovery of the remains from the heights of Hithaeglir, and the looming war about to break upon the world. The parting in the western foothills of the imposing peaks had been acutely painful, during which each of his brothers presented him with gifts 'for luck'. Now these were in addition to the new bow, quiver, and garments bestowed upon him by Thranduil before departing Greenwood.

From Inarthan Legolas received ten arrows fletched in white and marked with the seal of their Adar's House to be used in the definitive battle, thus invoking his family's strength and protection in that dire hour. Igeredir presented him a dagger with an exalted history, being one cherished by Oropher who had in turn received it from his father at his coming of age. Should the struggle devolve to single combat, the second prince was certain this blade in his sibling's skilled hands would furnish victory. A separate, special token from his father they also tendered over: Thranduil's own long knife, a weapon he seldom used but always carried, for it was given to him by Lhoss in the early years when their friendship was strong and untainted by their illicit affair. That last bit of information was imparted privately in written form, for not even Inarthan and Igeredir knew the weapon's origin, and Thranduil had no wish to re-introduce contention between his Sindarin and sylvan sons.

Everyone had something to offer, the most common gift being the traditional ten arrows marked with the giver's insignia, each elf exhorting Cuthenin to use them in battle to kill his foes, thus allowing them a small part in the fight. There were so many of these bundles that Legolas would scarcely be able to carry them all; his new quiver was packed and Alachas laden with extra cargo. Thus it was that an army of Wood Elves ventured with him on the Quest, if only in spirit. Sûlchim gave a water-skin and the cousins ritually exchanged seals, though neither would be on hand should death claim one, which was the very point, symbolising faith that neither would have need of a host to bear the feä home to Greenwood. The irrepressible sylvan had offered to accompany Legolas to Imladris and there remain until the Fellowship departed, but this was not feasible, for to Sûl had Legolas entrusted the final burial of his Naneth's bones, being of Noss Tuilinn. To no other would he bestow the honour and the duty, not even his brothers, the princes of the Woodland Realm.

Legolas missed them keenly, a novel experience, for while he respected and admired Inarthan and Igeredir, he was much younger and his illegitimate conception kept them ever at a distance, no matter how minor that division had become over the years. Before, he'd marked his leave-taking from them with relief, for they were demanding task-masters and expected him to be better at everything than any other warrior they commanded. Besides, time apart from his brothers had up to now been minimal, mere days in length, and he knew he would see them soon; perhaps sooner than he might even wish. As things stood presently, they might not be reunited for a very long time. Or never until Mandos releases me, should things go badly. The thought sent a shiver through him and he wished he could seek out his father and gain the reassurance of his counsel.

That was a recent realisation, too; not the desire to confide in his Adar but the ability to do so, the expectation that should he wish it he could garner the King's attention wholly and for as long as he needed it. The reconciliation with Thranduil had sealed a gaping wound in his soul and the healing of it was not without its own smarting pain, for until its eradication Legolas had not realised the extent of the misery it caused him, spanning all the years of his life. Dearly did he love his Nana Edwen, yet he could no longer deny that she had cheated him of something vital in so severely restricting access to his Adar. For so long he had simply accepted that it could be no other way, assuming the distance was mandated by his father as much as Calarlim. Cuthenin had learned to protect himself from that hurtful notion, holding himself back for fear of being pushed away. Now he thought daily of his father, longing to be able to ask his advice regarding the courtship, the Fellowship, his concerns over the quest, his fears for Frodo; in fact, Legolas found he wanted the chance to talk to his Ada about everything.

He sighed as he abandoned this contemplative cogitation, eyes scanning the all but deserted pathways for this was an area of the estate he had not visited before. He was not sure if this was part of the public or the private areas of the Last Homely House and hesitated; he had no wish to stumble upon the domain of Lord Erestor, nor to intrude upon anyone's dwelling. Yet as he glanced about, he became convinced this was still part and parcel of the commons, for the style and layout of these gardens resembled those of the main courtyard, albeit the beds were empty and forlorn. At last he spied a trim, chest-high hedge of interlocking quince bushes bounding a small rectangular space, its entrance a trellised arch covered in vines. All the branches were bare and the vines a grey tangled mass of naked threads, but this unlikely sight beckoned him. Surely this was a place where solitude abounded; none would think to seek him here.

With a satisfied smile Legolas entered in and surveyed the interior, finding a simple geometric design within which a series of dormant beds flanked a central circle. Therein a fountain, the bronze font formed in the image of a maiden pouring water from a ewer, stood silent and dry. The place had a wistfully desolate quality of abandonment that appealed to his mood. He strolled about the perimeter, touching on the thornless hedge or gracing the bark of a slumbering tree with his caress, coming last to the waterless fountain. The broad rim of the empty basin provided a suitable bench for sitting and other groups of chairs claimed the four corners of the garden, but Legolas eschewed them all and settled on the drab brown grass instead. He unpacked his supplies, ostensibly to repair old and prepare new bolts for his quiver, but at the last he retrieved from the depths of the pack a scroll of parchment.

He unrolled it and weighted its corners with a few arrowheads, smiling at the image there: the symbol of the Rising Sun, the well-known device signifying Glorfindel's noble House. This was the emblem he desired to have inked upon his flesh to honour his Faer-hebron and Legolas planned to have the tattoo imprinted before the Yule celebration. He hoped to show Glorfindel this unique and fitting gift on Solstice night. The placement of the indelible mark was proving a difficult decision, Cuthenin uncertain whether he should display the tattoo upon his abdomen just left of his navel or on his right arse-cheek. Situated on his front, Glorfindel would be unable to ignore the excited extremity acting as the design's pointer and Legolas would surely enjoy the attention that would generate. Recalling the feel of Glorfindel's hand on his flesh made him tremble and grow hard. Legolas responded as instinct decreed, sliding his fingers beneath the waist of his leggings to stroke his penis, imagining the digits were not his own.

Oh, to have Glorfindel do this once more.

The memory of that day came back in full detail and Legolas hastened to duplicate the scene, opening his shirt and tunic and lightly running his hand up from his belly to his breastbone, just brushing over the left nipple arising from the centre of the heart spiral. He caught his breath and repeated the touch, pressing harder this time and watching as the flesh grew darker and uplifted beneath his fingertip. With shaking hands he wetted the same digits and then soothed the slickened pads over his ears, first one and then the other, the pressure soft and tantalising, the pleasure rippling through muscle and sinew. He suppressed a groan as the other hand dug deeper into the leggings and pinched the glans of his cock. The organ twitched in its confinement and Legolas hastily opened the pants, gripping the rigid erection tight and pumping. He resumed the gentle caress of his ears, intermittently squeezing the nipples, eyes shifting from the red, engorged points to the head of his penis as it appeared and then vanished with every stroke of his hand.

He remembered how Glorfindel had kissed him, the tongue so playful and yet so eloquently expressive of desire, as though he had kissed Legolas a thousand times and knew every means to render him breathless with longing and giddy with delight. He remembered the masterful way the swordsman's hand had exposed him during those exhilarating kisses, leaving him fully clothed and yet utterly laid bare, every intimate feature on open display, save one. He remembered how quickly he'd been undone by his Faer-hebron's tactics, spilling much too soon, his hot semen dripping down the tight fist and spattering his chest. He remembered Glorfindel licking it off him, savouring the bitter substance as though it were a delicacy, sucking it off the nipple it dappled and finishing with a soft nip at the ruddy peak. He remembered the tightening coil of anticipation in his gut just before he came and felt the same sensation now. At once he stopped all stimulation, breath ragged and pulse elevated. He was determined not to bring himself to orgasm too soon.

Cuthenin heaved a great sigh and shrugged out of the gaping upper garments since he did not have his quiver on and could not use the straps to hold them open. He ran his hand over his lean, flat belly again, wondering how the emblem would look there. Before seeing the mirror in Galdor's room, he'd never contemplated how the symbols on his body appeared to others, and sitting in the grass fully aroused, he wished he had that mirror so to envision how he appeared to Glorfindel's sight. The idea made him shiver and he was of half a mind to dress and go to the Sadron's apartment to find out.

Yet if Galdor is there, what excuse would I give for my visit?

That was enough to chase the idea away and momentarily squelch his raging libido. In the pause that ensued, he contemplated having the tattoo inked on his flank instead. For that he would have to uncover his entire lower body, always a deterrent since adolescence. Could he bear to have his Tirn'wador see and touch his naked rump? Then he realised that he would need to expose his backside to Glorfindel, too, in order to show him the gift. That made him grin in wicked delight. Legolas acted out the thought, kicking free of his shoes and sliding his leggings down his thighs and off, moaning as his cock filled and presented him with an even harder erection than before. He rolled to his side and reclined upon the grass, caressing his hip with one hand, cock tightly gripped in the other. What would the Balrog-slayer do?

Mayhap he would claim me on the spot.

The idea filled his mind and Cuthenin's heart thudded wildly. Would the sight of the mark, a clear indication of possession, inspire Glorfindel to mount him, thrusting his hot, hard shaft inside until he spilled? Just thinking this almost made Legolas come and he slowed his masturbation again so to prolong the experience.

He soothed his hand over his rump just as he was sure Glorfindel would, touching the spot where the tattoo would be with both pride and love. He had yet to see his Faer-hebron aroused, though the organ he'd viewed in the baths was not modest of presence even when relaxed. When it was erect and solid, surely that would be no humble blade to sheath within his body, and Legolas' stomach clenched in a spasm of both fear and anticipation. There was only one place for it to go and that did not seem yielding enough nor conjure images of pleasure. Never had anything gone inside that channel and Legolas wondered what it would feel like.

Tentatively, he slipped his fingers down within the crease, shifting his leg forward to make access easier. He ran a quick touch over the sealed opening and gasped; the sensation was electric. Would Glorfindel do this? He tried it again, this time exploring the zone more fully, circling the puckered flesh and rubbing against the opening. Carefully he pushed against the resisting muscles until he forced a finger inside, imagining it was something else entirely, panting as the sensation coupled with his imagination. The feeling was strange and lacked the dazzling flares of delight touching himself in other places yielded. Perhaps the sensation was restricted to this quality of fullness, the pleasure derived from the giving of such access, satisfaction achieved by the act of submission, a true indication of trust and love. Vigourously his other hand worked at his cock, pumping faster to counter the discomfort and maintain his state of arousal as he began to move the finger in and out, trying to push farther each time.

Yet Glorfindel would not take him so daintily and so Legolas tried to insert the finger deeper, finding the way he was settled on the grass inconducive to achieving that goal. Awkwardly he pulled the digit out and rose to his knees, spreading his thighs wide as he leaned back and reached beneath his body. Once more he shoved the finger inside, wincing at the burning resistance, and eased it back slowly, resuming his attention to his flagging cock. Then he pressed forcefully on the next intrusion, pushing each knuckle past the ring of tense muscle until he could go no further, and unexpectedly struck a hidden region he never knew was there. Stars exploded behind his shuttered eyelids as tremors of pure delight raced over his entire body, all terminating in the weeping tip of his penis.

A rasping grunt fled his lungs, which could not seem to get enough air to do more, and that was well as he had no wish to advertise this experiment. Desperate to feel that again, Legolas plunged the finger in, striking the internal gland so hard that his entire body shook with the sensation. His shaft swelled in his hand as he pivoted into his tight hold, the red penis becoming so firm and hot it ached. Now he was eager to have the two sensations coincide and managed to favour his excited organ and the internal source of such raw pleasure with equal and simultaneous stimulation. The effect was more than he could comprehend, being lost entirely in the new feelings that turned his entire being into a throbbing instrument of sublime elation. Yet, even as he repeated the move a sound reached his ears, a garbled and incoherent exclamation, the source much too close for his comfort. He froze and his eyes flew open in time to see a quickly retreating figure, the flowing dark hair making his heart falter and his stomach churn in dread.

With a silent curse he burst into motion, snatching at his clothing and dressing more speedily than he had ever done before, frantic to learn and yet terrified to know who had discovered him in a pose so flagrantly prurient and so thoroughly vulnerable. There were only so many elves living in the Last Homely House with hair that dark: Lord Elrond, his children, and Erestor. As Cuthenin ran through the catalogue in his mind, he found it impossible to determine which would be worse, which one's eyes would be the least mortifying to meet. Please, Eru, let it be one of the Twins. As he was tying up his leggings, having shoved the recalcitrant cock back under wraps, a quiet voice reached him.

"Perhaps you might find Cuthenin in the orchard, Galdor. When I see him, I will let him know you wish to speak with him."

His courage plummeted; there was no other voice in all the world as filled with quiet strength and wisdom. His intruder was Lord Elrond. Legolas wanted to disappear right where he sat and his lithe frame curled up, knees drawing to his chest as he folded his arms over them and buried his face in the crook of his elbow. Just like a child, he dared hope that if he could not see this terrible thing, it would simply cease to be. But he was not an elfling and knew well enough that here was a situation he would have to meet with maturity, presenting a composed, almost insouciant disregard for the interruption. He would never manage it.

All the diplomatic training Galion has ever forced me to undergo will be insufficient to prevent me from flushing scarlet every time I meet him now.

Legolas ground his teeth in bitter frustration, waiting until he could be sure not to run into his Tirn'wador, who had obviously been searching for him and enjoined Elrond's help. Finally he collected his tools and rose, walking toward the vine covered arch with a heavy heart. No sooner had he passed its threshold than he spotted the austere Lord waiting for him some paces distant. He stalled, mouth dry and mind numb, until Elrond's beckoning hand prompted him to move forward. How he covered those few steps of open ground ever remained a mystery to him, yet he was gratified to see the noble elf watching him with neither anger nor amusement. There was only the usual, inscrutable expression of quiet dignity the elven Lord always presented and Cuthenin breathed deeply to flush the tension from his lungs. When he was close enough he bowed low.

"I beg you will forgive me, Lord Elrond," he said, pleased that his voice sounded much steadier than he truly felt. He met the calm grey eyes and was relieved to see the lore-master smiling gently, his features expressing only compassion and reassurance.

"There is nothing for me to forgive, Legolas," said Elrond. "Indeed, I am the one who disturbed you and for that I am sorry; it was not intentional. Please understand, I waited here not to distress you nor to take you to task. My purpose is simply to make certain such an undesirable interruption does not recur."

"Yes, Hîren, I thank you for this caution. It will not happen again, this I swear." Legolas felt the blood rush to his ears and cheeks and just stopped himself from bowing again.

"Nay, that is not what I meant," corrected Elrond, a gentle smile upending his lips. "I only want to inform you of the customs here in Imladris. When one desires solitude, it is common practice to place one's shoes beside the entrance to the chosen place, so to communicate the need for privacy to any who might pass nearby."

"Ah, that is a wise custom and in Greenwood we have similar means to convey such wishes. I should have thought of that first." Legolas was even more embarrassed now, for no doubt Lord Elrond imagined the people of Greenwood engaging in all manner of intimate activities out in the open with no thought for propriety or modesty.

"That is well then; let us speak of this no more, yes?" Elrond's smile grew; how could he not be moved by this young elf's solemn and subdued torment? He reached an arm to draw him near and kept it firmly over the ellon's shoulders as he led the way from the garden. "Your Tirn'wador is searching for you everywhere, Legolas. Make certain to meet with him at some point today."

"I will, Hîren," Legolas was not exactly comfortable being this close to Elrond but did not resist for fear of giving offence. Finally they stopped, for Elrond intended to return to his study, and Legolas found himself face to face with the legendary elf, the perceptive grey eyes analysing him keenly. He swallowed.

"You are much better; the danger has passed," remarked Elrond, "but still your heart is troubled. I am thinking this is a difficult time to begin a courtship."

"Aye." Legolas really did not know what to say or if he should speak at all, but he held the insightful gaze nonetheless.

"This is but a formality? Is there a clear understanding between you and Glorfindel?"

"We are betrothed," answered Legolas, not certain what he meant.

"Indeed? Perhaps sylvan customs are different in this regard also. Here in Imladris, rings would be exchanged by the couple," remarked Elrond, his gaze intense but not intrusive. Truly, he was concerned whether Glorfindel was prepared to give his commitment this visual endorsement.

"There are courting gifts among my peoples' traditions, too," admitted Legolas, suddenly downcast for he had received nothing from Glorfindel as yet.

"Perhaps that is why Galdor is looking for you so diligently," hinted Elrond, his smile returning as Cuthenin's blue eyes expanded and the gloom was chased away from his countenance by an exuberant grin.

"Oh!" said Legolas, breaking loose and bounding away three steps before his manners resurfaced. He ran back and bowed low, still grinning madly. "Thank you, Hîren!" he exclaimed and immediately raced away at top speed.

Elrond watched him go with a light laugh and a shake of his head, thinking Glorfindel was much favoured by Iluvatar to be granted this second chance at happiness with so glorious and unspoiled an example of elven grace and beauty.

Part Two

It was a fine morning, Frodo thought, the air balmy and warm despite the time of the year and he could not help but wonder anew how extraordinary was Imladris. Back in the Shire, it would likely have snowed two or three times already and the trees would have been bare for two months. The fields would be brown and crusted with icy ridges at sunrise and all of Hobbiton's inhabitants would remain indoors beside warm fires for most of the early hours. Even now with Yule approaching, folks would not venture forth until the sun was up and the air a little warmer. If weather was too wintry, no one came out at all. Travellers spying the village from afar would see nothing but an array of chimneys belching continuous columns of white and grey smoke. Indeed, keeping those fires burning was pretty much the only thing that might force a Hobbit outside during the frigid mornings.

Well, of course it wasn't anything like that in Imladris. Bilbo had often related stories of his brief stay in the enchanted vale during Frodo's formative years, but the descriptions had seemed too fantastic, too fanciful to believe. Now the reality surpassed all those quaint attempts to illustrate the wonder of the place. Here, the temperature was comfortable enough to go about without even a coat or hat to guard against the chill. In fact, the weather was more like autumn than winter and though the trees lost their leaves, Frodo could already see new buds growing fat. Any day they might burst open and spring foliage would unfurl again, blooms and flowers of all kinds would quickly filling the landscape. It was intriguing and Frodo hoped to see this elvish spring, yet the Fellowship would be on its way by then.

I might not ever see another springtime.

This dark thought chased the enjoyment from his after breakfast stroll and Frodo sighed. With a heavy heart he turned away from the magnificent gardens and trudged along a less worn pathway. The white paving stones wound around through an orchard and then over a hillock and through a paddock where goats were kept. The ruminants eyed him with interest and several kids ambled along behind him, knowing the Hobbit generally brought a few treats along for them. Frodo didn't disappoint and distributed the fruit and pastries he'd scavenged from the pantry, his spirit lightened by the animals' antics as they jostled and butted heads attempting to get to the food. An over-zealous lop-eared doe nipped his fingers and fixed her deep brown eyes upon him, the rectangular pupil granting her an air of intelligence rarely seen in quadrupeds of this variety. Frodo had to laugh.

"You are greedy this morning, Fern," he scolded. The Hobbit had taken it upon himself to give the creatures names, having learned from one of the elves that this was not a custom the folk of Imladris practised regarding livestock. "Just for that, I'm going to give the last apple to Sniffer."

Instead of hand-feeding the aptly named goat, Frodo tossed the goody away, laughing lightly as the entire herd trotted after it. He went on his way and soon scrambled over the low stone wall separating the goats' pasture from the countryside. There was no path now, at least not an elegantly paved one, but he knew where he was going and strode off confidently. In a matter of minutes he reached his destination: a little hill crowned in oaks, the rise overlooking a picturesque dell where a still pond rimmed in lily pads reflected the white clouds drifting across the endless blue sky above. There were one or two statues and a couple of benches scattered around the place, but otherwise it was left to nature.

Frodo didn't know what it was about this spot that drew him, but found it serene and peaceful. The place almost had an aura of holiness about it, for all was still and quiet. Even the stirring of the wind was subdued and the voices of birds reduced to occasional calls and songs rather than the constant twitter and chatter common throughout the rest of the valley. No one ever seemed to come here and while the Hobbit could not imagine why, he was grateful for the solitude. Everyone at the Last Homely House was gracious and kind, generous and felicitous, always seeking to include him in singing or dancing or outings, always asking after his health and offering him some rejuvenating herb or concoction said to be miraculous for its healing properties. It was at first gratifying but as the weeks wore on, the constant attention became a burden. Frodo had never felt more fragile and vulnerable, for while the elves didn't mean to, their concerns only called attention to the unpleasant reality of his situation.

How am I to actually accomplish this monumental task?

So, Frodo came to Pond Vale (for so he thought of it) almost every day to escape the earnest good intentions of the elves and the unending scrutiny of the other Big Folk still hanging about Lord Elrond's estate.

As was his habit, he settled at the base of one of the trees and gazed upon the quiet glen below. Perhaps he would go down, perhaps he would not. A whip-or-will sounded its signature song and received an answering call from the opposite side of the little knoll. A breeze briefly ruffled both his hair and the surface of the quiet pool. Frodo exhaled a pleased breath; just being here soothed his nerves and helped him focus. Whatever awaited him beyond the gates of Rivendell, he would not face it alone. He had the strength of Strider and Boromir to protect him, the skill and daring of Legolas to defend him, the stout and mighty heart of Gimli to shield him, the wisdom of Gandalf to guide him, and the courageous loyalty of his dear, good friends to comfort and cheer him. Somehow, they would all see it done, one way or the other, or perish in the attempt.

It was hard to keep positive thoughts flowing through his mind at times, and this he attributed to the lingering darkness instilled into his flesh by the Witch King's blade. Frodo sighed and was about to rise when movement down on the far side of the glade caught his attention. Two elves were strolling toward the pond and soon they were close enough to be recognised as Glorfindel, the joyful and fierce elf Lord who had aided his escape from the Nazgûl, and Legolas, the youthful Wood Elf he'd met at the baths. He was about to hail them when a bizarre thing happened. Legolas opened his mouth and began to speak, or it looked like he was speaking, yet there was no sound to be heard.

Then Legolas led Glorfindel to the edge of the pond and leaning down cupped his hands, filling them with the water. This he carried to the Balrog-slayer's lips and from it the warrior drank, settling his hands around the Wood Elf's. Legolas also drank, letting Glorfindel guide this living cup of overlapping palms, and their actions had about them an aura of solemnity and of ritual. Then Legolas retreated a small way and slowly began to circle Glorfindel, his movements rhythmic and graceful, his steps more reminiscent of dance than simple locomotion, now drawing nigh as though to lightly rest his fingers on Glorfindel's arm or shoulder only to step away quickly if the older elf reached for him, and all the while his mouth worked as if forming words, yet not a one carried to Frodo's ears.

Frodo stood up, perplexed indeed, for he was close enough to hear Legolas, though mayhap not all the words would be distinct, and if he was singing every note would surely be clear, even if the lyrics were in Nandorin and utterly unintelligible. He was about to move closer to see if perhaps the elf was simply singing very quietly when a voice hailed him from behind.

"Frodo! What are you doing out here?"

He turned to find Strider ambling up the hill, smiling, arm lifted in greeting. He had a wreathe of flowers tucked under his other elbow and was uncommonly neat and tidy this day. Frodo decided to comment on that just for fun.

"Good Morning, Strider. I didn't realise you were there; the air is so fresh. I would think I am down-wind of you except it is clear you have finally succumbed to the lure of hot water and clean clothing."

"Hah! You are an impertinent scoundrel, Frodo Baggins," laughed Aragorn. He came to stand beside his friend and spied the elves in the glade below. At once his eyebrows rose and his expression exhibited both amusement and concern. "Ah, now what's going on here?"

"That's exactly what I am wondering," said Frodo. "Legolas looks to be singing, but I can't hear are not so far away as that and you know elves' voices carry much clearer and farther than mortals' do."

"Oh yes, that's quite true," agreed Aragorn, turning a baleful eye on Frodo, "but it is your activity that garners my surprise."

"What? I'm not doing anything." Frodo's brow wrinkled in aggravation. "I just came here to enjoy some peace and quiet and then those two came along and all this peculiar swaying and posing and silent singing started."

"They do not know we are up here," commented Aragorn, "and yet we are little more than a stone's throw away. Does that not strike you as unusual, especially for Legolas, upon whom it is impossible to sneak?"

"It does," agreed Frodo. "What does it mean?"

"It means you are eavesdropping, nay, worse; you are spying on them. Frodo, I am surprised at you! Pippin, perhaps Merry, too, might fall prey to such a temptation, but never you."

"What are you talking about? I was here first and they came along after. I am not spying on them and in fact I was about to go down and find out what they're doing when you arrived."

"You were?" Aragorn's eyes grew huge and he struggled to keep his laughter in check, knowing this would surely alert the elves to their presence. "Why, Frodo, I had no idea you had such lascivious leanings."

"Lasciv…!" Frodo found he could not even complete the word, so furious and flustered the charge made him. He glared and raised a pointing hand at the Man. "Now you look here, Strider…"

"I am looking, though normally I would turn and walk away at once, mind you, for standing here watching is thoroughly rude and will earn us no merits in Glorfindel's ledger, nor advance us in Legolas' good graces, either." Yet Aragorn smiled as he spoke these words.

"What do you mean? Aragorn, are you implying those elves are, well, courting?"

"Aye, courting is the word Legolas would use and, according to Lord Elrond, he and Glorfindel are now betrothed; the mission home to Greenwood had many goals I'm guessing. What you are witnessing is certainly a prelude to, putting it nicely, love-making. This must be a sylvan mating dance of some sort. No doubt this will go on for quite a long while before anything more intimate transpires; elves like to make it last."

"Mating dance?" Frodo really did not know what to make of it but absolutely refused to be shocked, especially since he felt Aragorn was purposely trying to shock him. He studied Legolas' stylised dance again and while the movements were fluid and artistic, they were also exactingly precise and there was nothing provocative in them. The subtle use of hand and wrist motions, the way he would cock his head or suddenly turn away and duck behind a curtain of golden hair made Frodo think more of a pantomime play than of romance. Strider could be pulling his leg, getting him back for the numerous jokes concerning the Man's rugged and ripe olfactory presence, for what could he know of sylvan mating practices? In the back of Frodo's mind, proper upbringing warned him to leave at once for it was impolite to spy on the couple in any case, but somehow he couldn't manage to stifle his curiosity.

"So the rumours are true, Legolas has become Glorfindel's lover. I didn't believe the stories, for folks sometimes spread tales just for the enjoyment of knowing people are repeating them. Both are male elves, correct?" he ventured.

"You know they are."

The two gazed at one another in silence for a few heartbeats, each measuring the other's reaction to the situation. Yet neither were elf-kind capable of reading hearts and minds and so Frodo opted to quiz Strider.

"And what do you think of that?"

Aragorn took a moment to reflect before answering. "I have known Glorfindel all of my days and his open fascination with our woodland friend is quite out of character."

"What do you mean?" That was not the kind of reply Frodo was expecting. "Are you saying Glorfindel does not generally prefer males?"

"Nay, I am saying the preference of gender is the least of the obstacles standing in their way," admonished Aragorn. He had been wondering about the Hobbits' reaction to the same-gender match and hoped to make his opinion plain. "I was raised to accept bonds of this type, though among Men it is frowned upon. I think that is a bias shared by many mortal people, as the need to reproduce before we die is imperative. Even so, such desires are as common among mortals as immortals, and I will neither ridicule nor denounce the feelings blooming between Legolas and Glorfindel simply because both are male."

"Nor will I," insisted Frodo. Aragorn was peering at him intently and the Hobbit realised more was required of him. "I have to admit we don't talk about this much in the Shire. Folks that feel as they do keep quiet and everyone ignores it. Do not fear; I will speak to Merry and Pippin and make certain of their good manners."

"That is well, for I think the sudden emergence of such intense attraction is likely to be difficult for Legolas. As elves reckon it, he is actually very young and still innocent. Add to it that our intrepid First-age hero is hardly an easy elf to love. If that were not sufficiently daunting, consider that Legolas just lost someone dear to him and is far from his family now. His rapport with Glorfindel developed very rapidly, which is unusual for Wood Elves, and he will have to figure out how to handle this relationship on his own without very much time to do so, given his part in the great work ahead of us." Aragorn glanced over at the elves and grinned. "Our woodland archer seems to be getting the hang of things fairly quickly, though."

Frodo turned just in time to see Legolas kiss the palm of Glorfindel's hand, to which romantic action the Balrog-slayer leaned close and stole a taste of his lips. It was a quick kiss, for Legolas leaped back, face transformed with a radiant smile, and began his slow and sinuous dance anew, letting Glorfindel hold to his fingers as he turned about. The silent singing resumed as well and Glorfindel joined in, mouth and throat working in silent harmony with Legolas'.

"Well, it certainly looks like love to me." Frodo's smile dissolved into an expression of perplexity. "So why can't I hear anything? Are they whispering the words?"

"Nay, they aren't whispering. You know that elves can hear and see more clearly than mortals, yes?"

"Of course, even children know that, Aragorn."

"Well think about it, then. If they can hear more clearly, that probably means they can hear more sounds."

"Like a hound, you mean?" Frodo had never considered such a possibility and turned to watch Legolas again. Somehow, during the brief interval when the Hobbit's attention was diverted, the elf had discarded his shoes and loosened his hair. The flaxen strands fanned out and traced across Glorfindel's cheek as Legolas made another circuit around him, elegantly spinning every single step.

"Exactly like a hound but don't dare make that comparison within earshot of any elf, especially an elf of Imladris. Wood Elves, maybe, would not find the allusion too insulting for they honour the non-speaking creatures of the world," nodded Aragorn. "Now, since they can hear more sounds, does it not make sense that they can produce more sounds, too? There is much in their vocal range that exceeds the limits of our hearing."

"I never even imagined that," said Frodo, awed, "but it does seem logical. Is there no way to know what he's singing? What a loss for us, for elvish songs are fair indeed."

"It is impossible to hear them the way they are heard by elves," answered Strider, "but I have read many of the lyrics. Elves have some poetic and fanciful ways of explaining that they are horny."

"What? Nay, you must be joking." Now Frodo was truly shocked and his eyes flew back to the couple by the pond. Glorfindel's hand gripped the Wood Elf's hair, keeping him near as he continued to dance. Legolas' fingers rested on the Balrog-slayer's waist, holding tight as the two turned together about a common axis. The scene had definitely acquired a sultry ambience that defied the cool autumn air.

"Does it look like I was jesting?" Aragorn asked, pointing toward the elves as he crouched down to eye-level with Frodo. "Legolas seems very eager, yet I know the Balrog-slayer was lectured for quite a long time by Galdor, specifying what is and is not allowed during this courtship. He would not risk angering Legolas' father and brothers by disregarding that instruction."

"How could you possible know that?"

"I overheard Glorfindel complaining of it to Arwen last night."

It occurred to Frodo to inquire as to why Aragorn had been unable to make his presence known to his friend and his betrothed, but he decided he really did not want to confirm his suspicions. The idea of Arwen hiding Aragon in the closet to prevent their late-night liaison being discovered by Glorfindel ran counter to the Hobbit's internal perception of the fair Lady of Rivendell, and besides, it was none of his business. Neither was the scene below and Frodo resolved to slip away before he was discovered.

"We must leave, Strider; this is wrong. Besides, I've no wish to see…"

"Ai! Legolas, daro. Baw!"

The unexpected command from Glorfindel interrupted Frodo mid-sentence. He and Aragorn turned attention to the glade in time to behold the intrepid Balrog-slayer fishing Legolas' hand out of his leggings while trying to create some distance between him and the Wood Elf.

"What's wrong? Glorfindel, let me…"

"No! We mustn't. I will let you do nothing more, Legolas." Glorfindel deflected Legolas' attempts to embrace him, pushing on the archer's chest gently but firmly.

"Mustn't? Why? I…I only want to pleasure you as you did for me on the journey." Legolas stepped away, suddenly uncertain, his hands worrying each other where he held them at his waist. "Tirn'wador told me he spoke to you about the courting gifts. He said we are free to share them and I thought…

"This is not the sort of gift Galdor mentioned to me," scolded Glorfindel. "Nay, we must hold to the correct order of things and abide by the guidelines of Faras-uin-Ind. I gave my word to your father; that is as sacred as a vow to me."

"But that was no obstacle when we crossed the valley of the Anduin. How can it be wrong for me to give you the same delight?"

"That was different; I acted spontaneously and without thinking carefully. Since then I have spoken with your brothers and your Tirn'wador. They all agree…"

"My brothers!" Legolas hissed, sudden wrath flaring up in place of his thwarted passion. "What have they said that would turn you away from me?"

"I have not turned from you; I just believe, as they do, that we should let this courtship progress more slowly henceforth. I love to watch you dance, but anything more is far too tempting and will only taunt us with a goal we cannot yet achieve."

"This is but a traditional sylvan courting dance." Legolas folded defensive arms across his heart. "It is a prelude to greater intimacy, an invitation to go further, but I had no intention of consummating our bond here in a public place."

"Even so, we must stop now."

"But we haven't done anything!" Legolas' arms unfolded long enough to lift and fall in an expressive gesture of frustration before closing tight over his chest again.

"Precisely, and so it must be. I intend to keep my promise and complete this courtship honourably, a difficult task when your hands go wandering. Please, respect my decision, Legolas, and accept that your elders know what is best." Glorfindel offered this with as kind a smile as possible, knowing his words could do nothing but anger the younger elf. Too late did he regret his impulsive decision that day, exposing his betrothed to the delights to be had from a lover's touch, relishing the eager surrender of Cuthenin's body to his manipulation.

"What did they say to you?" demanded Legolas, furious with his brothers in order to counter his distress over the chastisement. "This is not how you felt before. It is not fair to me, Glorfindel, to make such decisions alone without even consulting me."

"I realise that, but I was in the wrong to take you so quickly to that level of gratification. You are not ready; the ability to resist the urge to go beyond it has not had time to develop. I don't want to be placed in the position of rejecting your advances; I would not hurt you that way."

"Yet you have rejected me," he said, voiced pitched low and wavering with betrayed trust. "Had I believed you capable of that, I would never have shared this with you." He turned away, unable to bear looking into those pained yet pleading eyes, scanning the ground as he paced the area where his feet had lightly tripped amid the faded grass. At last he spied what he was seeking and snatched up the discarded ties for his hair, hastily braiding the locks, back to Glorfindel all this time. "You were not averse to the greater intimacy of Úcaul Anaur. What I hoped for is much less intrusive."

"Saes, Cuthenin, I am not rejecting you," implored Glorfindel. "Please understand, your life was at stake and thus I was willing to undergo Úcaul Annaur with you."

"I thought I understood. I believed there was more to your reason than that, especially after the experiences we shared during…"

"Lord Glorfindel!" a loud voice interrupted Legolas, the sound near enough for the speaker to have overheard the argument.

"Here," answered Glorfindel, turning to find one of Erestor's pages entering the quiet glade. "What is it, Lochgaer?"

"Forgive my intrusion, Hîren," the page managed to pass his disdainful leer over Legolas as he bowed to Glorfindel, "but Hîr Elrond has requested your presence at the house. Elladan and Elrohir have returned and he wishes for your counsel during their report."

"I will be there anon."

Glorfindel did not even attempt to hide his grimace of absolute frustration and disgust nor his sigh of resigned capitulation as he gave the page a dismissive nod. His cutting glare marked the insolent servant's departure and then he turned again to Cuthenin, only to find Legolas already leaving in haste up the hill, his soft leather shoes left behind. The Balrog-slayer gathered them up and hesitated, wanting to go after his betrothed, yet at the same time he feared to continue the unpleasant confrontation. Truly, he was the one unprepared for the realities of courtship with so alluring and bold an elf. A lusty affair or a vigourous romp with a willing partner he could handle, so long as no demands were made upon his heart. Now that his heart was utterly captivated, he didn't know how to act or what to do; could not differentiate between thinking rationally and responding out of fears spawned by the past. Glorfindel obeyed the summons from his Lord and left the glade, this the one and only time he ever ran from trouble.

As for Legolas, his rapid retreat had not been solely due to his embarrassment over Lochgaer's intrusion or the anguish generated by Glorfindel's resistance to his advances. No sooner had his attention been diverted from his Faer-hebron than he'd discerned the unmistakable noise of feet trying to bear away their owners without making any sound, something impossible for anyone except elves. His sharp ears pinpointed the location and his perceptive eyes soon sighted the culprits. Anger flared at once and Legolas sped across the dell and up the hill, closing on Ranger and Ring-bearer, barring the path before they could escape. His vision tracked from one to the other, all his wrath and misery threatening to explode any second.

"Ah, Legolas, we did not intend to pry," Aragorn began, a deep bow accompanying the words. He did not like the wild look of the Wood Elf's countenance.

"It is all Strider's fault!" Frodo blurted out. "I was going to call out to you but he started talking about sylvan mating…Ah!…Nay, that is I mean he was saying how elves are like dogs."

"Dogs?" Legolas' eyes narrowed until the irises were nearly invisible as he glared down at Frodo. Slowly he transferred this cutting stare to Aragorn and favoured the Man with a look of such searing repudiation that the Ranger hung his head.

"Please, forgive me, Legolas, I was playing a joke on Frodo, hoping to embarrass him, and I may have exaggerated things a little," he said.

"A little? I had no idea you knew anything at all about sylvan mating customs, Aragorn." The scathing words left no doubt as to Legolas' opinion of the Man's grasp of his peoples' traditional courting rites.

"Well, I don't really know much," Aragorn backed away as he spoke, hoping to get a little distance between him and the irate Wood Elf. "I learned a small amount from the friends I made during my service in Mirkwood…I mean Greenwood."

"I see, enough to liken me to a dog," snapped Legolas. "How long were you watching?"

"I didn't mean to imply you are like a dog," objected Aragorn, another step moving him further away, wreath of flowers held before him as a symbolic shield. Legolas followed.

"Aye, he said your singing was like a hound, not your actions. The mating dance was quite lovely," Frodo offered in the Man's defence. The comment stopped both his friends and the Wood Elf glared over his shoulder at the worried Hobbit while Aragorn's eyes bulged in disbelief.

"Wonderful, Frodo, thank you so much for clarifying that," he moaned.

"I sing like a hound baying?" growled Legolas, turning back to the Ranger, brows contracted in furious distemper, fists balled up and ready to strike.

"No!" shouted Frodo and Aragorn together.

"You sing beautifully, Legolas," assured Aragorn.

"Aye, it's just that we can't hear you when you sing about being…"

"Frodo!" Aragorn desperately tried to cut him off.

"…in love," the Hobbit continued, "and Aragorn explained how elves can make many sounds beyond the range of mortal ears."

Light dawned in Legolas' eyes and his anger melted, for he hadn't thought of this himself until this moment and much of his embarrassment vanished. At least these two had no idea what the words actually were. He inhaled deeply and relaxed a bit, but as soon as the outrage left him the sorrow returned. His shoulders slumped and he turned from his friends.

"Aye, that is true," answered Legolas. "Please forgive me; I should not have menaced you over so trivial a detail, Aragorn." He left without waiting for a reply, for the terrible ache in his heart suddenly spawned a surge of tears that he fought to control. He wandered away over the fields, every atom of his being radiating gloom and despair.

The two mortals watched him go and simultaneously exhaled relieved breaths, venturing to look at each other in order to evaluate how damaging this episode was likely to become.

"We should have left at once," admonished Frodo. "You should have explained what was happening and we should have left them alone."

"I know it," admitted Aragorn. "I never expected things to go so wrong and rather thought we would have plenty of time to make our getaway without being discovered."

"I suppose you were right about this being hard on Legolas," said Frodo. "Whatever that was about, Glorfindel seemed unwilling to hear his side of it."

"It is clear enough to me what it was about," noted the Man. Then he shook his head sadly. "Enough. I have said too much already and will not add to my errors by speculating on what has happened between them."

He set off toward the pool, carefully returning the crumpled flower garland to order, and Frodo watched him for a moment before trotting after. "What brought you here today, Aragorn?" he asked, eyeing the flowers with blatant interest.

It was a little while before the Ranger spoke again and during that time the two reached one of the statues. The lifelike marble image depicted a smiling woman with long straight hair caught back in a mantle resplendent with small starry gems. Her gown was elegant and she had the bearing of a noble lady yet her eyes were sad and focused far beyond the world around her. Her hands she held before her as if in offering and within them rested a bright white jewel set in a simple mithril fillet. Aragorn settled the garland around her shoulders and cleared away a few stray leaves and twigs collected at the figure's feet.

"She was beautiful, was she not?" he said softly, smiling down at Frodo.

"Aye. Who was she?"

"My mother, Gilraen. She left the world before her time just about nine years ago."

"I'm sorry for your loss. I didn't know."

"Thank you. I wish she had waited just a little while longer, but that was not her wish," sighed Aragorn.

There was nothing more to say. He began to sing a hymn in elvish and while Frodo did not know the words, he stayed and lent the comfort of a friend's presence to Aragorn during the hour of his remembrance.

Part Three

"No, he wouldn't normally leave them behind, Pippin," opined Merry, his tone rather condescending as he addressed his kinsman. "Obviously, he was in a hurry to get here and just didn't stop to gather them all up."

"Oh, and I suppose you know all about it since you've had so many dealings with Elves," scoffed Pippin. He leaned forward and poked Merry in the stomach with the long stem of his pipe, just removed from his mouth so to make the cutting rejoinder.

"Oy! Respect your elders, Peregrine Took," Merry snapped, sitting up and making a foiled attempt to snatch away the pipe so rudely introduced to his mid-section. Pippin snickered and blew a huge cloud of smoke at his cousin's scowling face.

"Stop, you two," said Sam, aggravated to have to interrupt his peaceful smoke in order to referee another argument. "Can't we just enjoy this little bit of quiet time without any bickering just once?"

"We're not bickering," insisted Merry. "Gandalf said we must make the effort to get to know our fellow Fellowship members before the journey begins. I'm just trying to help Pippin understand Legolas better."

"Well, you are not fit to teach me anything, much less lore concerning Wood Elves," snorted Pip. "Here's Frodo, I'm sure he would know the answer."

Pippin stood and waved to the Ring-bearer walking along the garden path, beckoning him over to the cosy gazebo where he, Merry, and Sam were digesting Second Breakfast as they waited for an appropriate opportunity to request Elevenses. They had learned by trial and error that Lord Elrond's kitchen staff were less likely to run them off if they waited at least two and a half hours after the morning meal served to the general household was cleared away. A suitable place to wait had to be found, for hanging about the kitchen doors only earned them dark glares and exasperated complaints from the staff. The Hobbits had located this quaint pergola amid a profusion of climbing clematis after a week of wandering the grounds and had thereafter spent most mornings beneath the blooming vines, smoking and chatting and dozing.

"What is it now?" asked Frodo, irritation clear within his tone and visage. He halted and propped his fists upon his hips so to favour them all with his displeasure. "Slouching about again, I see, when you might be studying up on the geography or the history of the lands we have to cross. It wouldn't hurt to spend a few hours in practice with the swords Strider gave you, either."

"Here now, what's the matter with you?" demanded Merry, indignant. "We're just enjoying the few days of ease and comfort left to us."

"And just so you know, we were learning about something important, or trying to at least, and that's why I called you over. But if you plan to be so grumpy, I'll just go find Gandalf and ask him," sniffed Pippin with matching resentment. Yet he made no move to leave the comfort of the gazebo, instead settling back onto the cushioned bench and clamping his pipe between his teeth. He glared over the bowl and puffed determinedly for a time.

"Mister Frodo, is something wrong?" asked Sam, rising and going down to meet his master. "Have you had bad news of some kind today?" He eyed his friend keenly, seeking for signs of the poison left by the Morgul blade. Frodo did seem flustered and upset about something.

"No, Sam, nothing is wrong," Frodo lost his grimace and settled a hand on Sam's shoulder, glad for such a vigilant and loyal friend. He offered a rueful smile and continued. "I suppose I should apologise to all of you. It isn't anyone's fault but my own, and Strider's, but it can't be undone now."

"Oh, that's all right," offered Merry generously, sitting up with a bright gleam filling his eyes, for he knew a story was in the offing, one that would likely be most amusing since it had Frodo so flustered. He longed for a good long belly-cramping laugh and was sure he'd found a source, if his cousin could be persuaded to elaborate the details. A quick glimpse at Pip revealed he had exactly he same idea. "What happened? Were you caught stealing blueberry tarts from the pantry?"

"No! I would never do…"

"Perhaps he interrupted Gandalf and Master Elrond in an important meeting again," suggested Pip.

"Nay, I only did that once," huffed Frodo. "How was I to know the meeting was private? No one said so. I asked where Gandalf was and that page told me where to find him. I did not intend to walk in on a full council session. So many stern and regal Elves!" he shuddered at the recollection of all those staring eyes aimed solely upon him. "Anyway I haven't seen either of them since breakfast."

"Ah, then it must be something else," Sam intoned the obvious with a solemn nod, rubbing his chin as he delved his thoughts for other ideas. "Did you get lost and end up in someone's private quarters and then used their privy and got caught by the servants?"

"No!" Frodo gaped at Sam and then his gaze turned speculative. "Have you?"

"Weeellll…I ain't sayin'" Sam giggled and shrugged and blushed all at once.

"Oh, Sam," Merry grinned. "Whose was it?"

"Never you mind."

"Oh come on, tell us!" urged Pip.

"Yes, we better know in order to be extra cordial to that person should we meet them," coaxed Frodo. "We can't have these Big Folks thinking we're a lot of blundering trespassers."

"I wasn't trespassing," insisted Sam, "at least, not on purpose. But these elvish folk of Imladris have created quite elaborate furnishings and fixtures to accommodate so humble a natural function. This privy was more fancy than the one in our suite by far. Marble and gold and sculptures and all! There was absolutely no smell, either."

"Really? Now there's something I never thought about. Do you suppose they don't…well, you know, or does it just not stink like everybody else's?" Pippin wanted to know.

"We'll find out once we're on the road with Legolas," chuckled Merry.

"Are you going to set a watch on him and follow along when he goes to do his business?" laughed Sam, slapping Merry on the shoulder. "I've a feeling you might get an arrow in a painful location for your curiosity."

"I'll tell him you told me to do it and then we'll see who gets an arrow shoved up his…"

"Merry!" Frodo interrupted sharply, trying hard to hide a grin with a glower.

"What? You were thinking the same thing," Merry defended his crude reference. "Anyway, what did you do that was so upsetting that you had to lash out at us?"

"I didn't lash out; I just suggested you might use your time to better purpose," Frodo claimed. "I don't know if I should tell you lot, for this is not something that should be repeated. The people involved would not be happy about that and I have no wish to earn even more disfavour than I already have."

"Master Frodo, you know you can depend upon me," Sam said, drawing himself up with no small amount of dismay stiffening his spine. "Have I ever repeated a secret?"

"Yes!" All three of his fellows chorused together, but they were smiling.

"Oh! I have never! Not about something important and not when you told me not to," Sam folded his arms over his chest and turned his back on them.

"We were only joking," soothed Pip, rising and patting the insulted gardener on the back. "We know you can keep your mouth shut."

"Yes, I'm sorry, Sam," laughed Frodo. "You're just too easy to rile sometimes!"

"Well then, if you really trust me, prove it." Sam exchanged glances with Pip, receiving due appreciation for this back-handed means of forcing the story from their friend. "Tell us what happened."

"Aye, we all give our word never to repeat it," added Merry.

"All right, but your promise must go further than that. You must swear not to use the knowledge to poke fun at anyone. No jokes or jests about it, hear?" Frodo demanded.

"We swear," Merry eagerly answered. "Now come and sit down. Here, fill your pipe with my leaf, if you like."

Frodo took advantage of these offers and for a few minutes silence reigned as he packed and lit his long clay bowl. Sam sat beside his master watching him smoke. Merry and Pippin kept their eyes fixed on Frodo intently, anticipation and smiles already apparent on their faces. Finally, Frodo favoured each with a serious glance and explained what he and Strider had witnessed just moments ago. At the end of it, he was even more sombre and distraught, worried for Legolas in light of the recent battle against grieving, and the faces of his friends revealed their thoughts ran along a similar vein.

The Hobbits reflected on the melancholy ending of this narrative in pensive silence. Merry, who had hoped for a good laugh, found himself homesick with longing to see his folks at Yuletide. Pippin tried and failed to suppress a sniff, eyes turned down. Frodo picked morosely at the hem of his vest. Sam kept sighing and shaking his head, methodically cleaning the inside of his pipe with a much stained rag as he did.

"It just goes to show," he finally spoke, "we are all alike even those of us who are most different. There's Strider, so fierce and stern yet he was born of a woman just the same as us and mourns her passing. There's Legolas, immortal and perfect to behold, and yet he has as much trouble with love as I would."

"Well, I am sad for Aragorn. Master Elrond said the Dunedain are supposed to live long lives but both his parents are gone," said Pippin. "And I am sad for Legolas, too. Everybody's talking about him behind his back for being so quick to engage in bed-sport with Glorfindel and now Glorfindel rebuffs him. I don't believe Legolas meant any harm by the singing or the dance. It's probably just the way they do things in Mirkwood."

"Aye," agreed Frodo, "and it's all lies, the gossip we've heard, according to Aragorn. He said Legolas is very young and still innocent."

"Really? Then at least I am not the only one," grinned Pippin. He folded his arms behind his head and leaned back with a satisfied smirk. "Perhaps now someone else will bear the brunt of your ribald jokes about the pitfalls of sex for the uninitiated."

"No, we promised not to tease Legolas about anything we heard today, remember?" said Merry. "I guess that means we can keep on making fun of your youth and inexperience for the duration of the quest."

"I don't think so," Pippin sat forward and made a grab for Merry's pipe, pulling the stem right from his cousin's smugly set lips, and tossed it over the lattice-work banister of the gazebo.

"Hey!" Merry cried, bounding over the rail to retrieve the pipe. "If it's broken you'll be buying me another."

"Oh stop it!" fussed Sam. "Can't you two be serious ever? Legolas could be in real danger if he's fallen in love with Glorfindel. Elves can die from a broken heart, or so old Bilbo says. I just don't see how he can find another male attractive, though," admitted the conservative gardener. "What makes a person desire one kind or another?"

"That I could not say," answered Merry. He returned with the pipe and put it away, scowling at Pippin as he answered. "Love has no rules, from what I can tell. The most unlikely people end up together as couples."

"Well, I am expected to marry and have a family," said Pippin, "so I suppose it's a good thing I only find females attractive. Lucky for Legolas he is not the heir to a vast realm."

"Fool!" Merry lightly slapped Pippin on the side of his head. "Elves live forever; the Lords among them don't need heirs."

"Lord Elrond has heirs," countered Pippin, trying to get Merry back and missing as his cousin ducked away neatly.

"He has a family because he is blessed by Iluvatar, not because he needs heirs," said a fair voice behind them. All the Hobbits jumped in startlement and turned to find Legolas staring from guarded and distrustful eyes.

"You gave my heart a shock and no lie," said Sam with a nervous laugh. He stood and bowed. "Won't you join us, Master Legolas?"

"Just Legolas, if you please, and no. I was sent by Mithrandir to fetch you. He wants us all, the Fellowship that is, to meet with him in his apartment in Lord Elrond's house."

"Now?" asked Pippin. "We haven't had Elevenses yet."

"Now."

The Wood Elf turned on his heel to go, shooting Frodo a sharp look filled with affronted and wounded dignity as he did. The halflings held back a bit and then ambled out in his wake, but he neither paused nor looked back and soon drew far a head.

"Do you suppose he heard your story?" whispered Sam to Frodo.

"I hope not," Frodo rasped back grimly, "but with my luck he probably did."

"What should we do?" worried Pippin. "I wish you'd kept your tale to yourself, Frodo, for now he'll be angry with us all."

"I have no room in my heart to be angry with you," the elf's voice called back, sullen and morose, "but I am displeased to find the ugly scene retold so soon. I suppose it will be the talk of all Imladris by luncheon."

The Hobbits remained silent after that and saw no more of Legolas until they came to the wizard's rooms. There they discovered Gimli and Boromir already seated by the fire, while the Wood Elf had gone on to locate Strider. Within minutes the two arrived, Aragorn quiet and serious while Legolas remained aloof, choosing the window sill on which to sit and ignoring the others entirely after offering Mithrandir a respectful bow.

The wizard scowled, not knowing what it was about, and surveyed his hand-picked team of adventurers. Boromir, Gimli, and Aragorn removed to the broad table strewn with maps and charts, quickly falling into evaluating each others knowledge of the lands and people they might encounter. The Hobbits gathered by the hearth where a table of light refreshments was set, and while they nibbled on these and chatted about the weather, they kept sneaking anxious glances at Legolas and Aragorn. The Wood Elf was concentrating on mending arrows, having brought his quiver and supplies along specifically for that purpose, and pretended not to take note of anyone else's activity, though he was clearly alert and on edge. The mood in the room was decidedly tense and Mithrandir was not pleased.

"Well, perhaps you are wondering why I asked you to join me," he began.

"Yes, I am," said Boromir. "I hope it is to plan out our route on this dangerous quest, for the lands are rugged and fraught with danger."

"Aye, we need a strategy," agreed Gimli, "a means to work out the easiest road for the Hobbits while yet eluding the Enemy's notice."

"We made it over rough roads to get here," argued Merry, miffed to be called weak, even obliquely.

"And faced down Black Riders," added Pippin.

"And would have perished utterly but for the aid of Glorfindel," interrupted Legolas sternly.

"I meant no offence," said Gimli, "but the fact remains: this journey will be long and treacherous. It is no time to be boasting of strength untested and courage untried. We are nine against a multitude and we must work together or fail."

"Aye, Gimli speaks wisely and Legolas is right; but for Glorfindel's timely arrival we would have all been cut down before we reached Rivendell," Aragorn said, offering Legolas a respectful nod which the Wood Elf only barely acknowledged.

"Well, we've got an elf along," shrugged Gimli. "Legolas is hearty enough and maybe knows something about Black Riders. We'll be all right." He offered the sylvan a smile, concerned over the black mood afflicting his friend, and received one in return that was a meagre and dilute facsimile of the sylvan's usually vibrant countenance.

"Is that true, Legolas?" asked Boromir, eyeing the Wood Elf with undisguised distaste. "Do you know something of the Black Riders?"

"Something," Legolas nodded, "but I have not fought them hand to hand and arrows wound them not. Yet I doubt they will be our greatest dread, as no scouts have turned up indications of them since the drowning at the ford."

"With that I agree," said Mithrandir, moving to Legolas and settling a firm hand on his shoulder, his keen grey eyes searching for answers, but Legolas remained closed. He sighed and a landed half-hearted pat to the rigid shoulder as he turned back to his other guests. "Yet this is not the cause for which I brought us together today. The danger of the road we will face soon enough and it is best to do that with people we know and trust.

"Now, some of you know each other well, for example all the Hobbits are life-long friends and I have known both Frodo and Aragorn for many years. Some of you know each other a little, as Aragorn has spent several days with Frodo and company, each learning of the other's temperament and personality, but the rest of us are virtually strangers. This must be remedied.

"It is the season of Yule and this provides the perfect means for becoming better acquainted. We will each prepare for Yule according to the customs of his own lands, inviting the other members of the Fellowship to visit his apartment and enjoy the activities and delights particular to that realm. What say you to this idea?"

"Will there be gifts exchanged?" asked Pippin excitedly, jumping from his chair.

"If that is your peoples' custom," nodded Gandalf, grinning hugely.

"This is a waste of time," complained Boromir. "We need to spend these precious days preparing for the quest. There are so many elements to consider and numerous routes we might take, yet not one have we discussed together as a group."

"I've nothing against a good party," said Gimli, "but I believe Boromir raises a valid point. Can we not do both these things?"

"Indeed we shall," averred Gandalf. "I am not proposing that we spend all the remaining days here in merriment and feasting, yet there is time enough to consider our options before we go. Besides, I am in daily conference with Lord Elrond and until the information his sons collected is properly evaluated and understood we will not finalise the itinerary."

"Are we not to be included in these discussions?" demanded Boromir. "It seems to me we have become little more than foot-soldiers awaiting the generals' orders. That does not set well with me, for I am a general in my country and have intelligence of the roads east that none here in Rivendell possess, be they thousands of years my senior."

"Mind how you speak," Legolas rebuked him. "It is elves of Imladris who wandered far into the most dangerous regions between here and Mordor, places no Man could venture undetected, and the Twins' report is not to be discounted so."

"It is not a question of generals and soldiers," said Aragorn, "but of wisdom versus folly. I for one am not willing to make any plan until the knowledge gained by Elladan and Elrohir is made available to me, though I am a leader of Men as well."

"Of course you are not concerned, for you will be included in this war council, Ranger of Arnor," snorted Boromir, "being betrothed to the daughter of the Lord of this Realm, but that leaves the rest of us on the outside. I am not content."

"Whether or not you are content is of no consequence," stated Legolas. "Aragorn's inclusion in any council will be based on his attitude of respect and his grasp of the scope of this grave undertaking, not his relationship to any elves here."

"Oh, how foolish of me." Boromir gave an exaggerated half-bow and a smirking grin. "No doubt you were chosen for this mission based on those same qualities of intelligence and deference. Your intimate affiliation with a renowned Elf Lord had no bearing whatsoever on your selection."

Legolas was across the room in seconds. He was intercepted by Aragorn barely a hand's length from Boromir though the Ranger's grip upon his arm would not have held him had he truly wished to do harm to the Steward's son. He glared at Boromir in fury, casting his sight up and down the length of the human with absolute contempt, the shaft of the arrow he'd been crafting clenched in his fist. With all he had endured today, he was in no frame of mind to weather such slurs.

"I am betrothed to Glorfindel of Gondolin and he to me," he announced proudly.

"Well, that was quick," smirked Boromir.

"What does that signify?" hissed Legolas.

"It signifies nothing," Mithrandir interrupted before the Wood Elf's wrath boiled over. "Legolas was chosen by me," he growled. "If you want to know my reasons, I will be happy to enumerate them, but this kind of calumny I will not tolerate. Your vituperative backbiting leads me to question your place in this undertaking, Boromir."

"That does not surprise me," scoffed the Man. "My father cautioned that I would find little sympathy for the plight of Gondor here."

"It is not only Gondor that is imperilled," reminded Aragorn.

"But it is Gondor that has the most to lose and who will lose it first, should the Ring fall to Sauron," disputed Boromir. "Even so, you all countenance this mad scheme, leaving the dread devise in the keeping of the weakest member of the group, purposing to aid him in carrying it to the very heart of the Enemy's realm! Yet I am the one whose participation is questioned?"

"Frodo is not the weakest point in this chain of nine links," intoned Legolas darkly. He tapped the man lightly on the chest with the ash-wood shaft. "You are. Out of us all, only you speak of mastering evil, an utterly vain solution which is not only impossible but, were it not, would place you in a position to rule over all other realms and nations."

"What say you, sylvan?" thundered Boromir, and now it was he who found Aragorn a barrier betwixt him and his adversary, yet the son of the Steward was trying very hard indeed to get around the Ranger. "Do you dare name me a confederate of that very demon who seeks to destroy my home, my people?"

"Let him go, Aragorn," urged Legolas, ready to meet the infuriating Man and teach him his true place in Arda.

"Stop this!" boomed Mithrandir. He retrieved Legolas from the confrontation and escorted him to the deserted window sill. "Enough, son of Thranduil," he whispered. "Remember who you are. We are allies here and not foes. Let us act the part."

"I am not the one who chose the path of contention," growled Legolas.

"Yet you elected to walk upon it," murmured Mithrandir.

"My apologies, Mithrandir, for disrupting the meeting," he said and bowed low, for this was a just charge. "If you please, I will wait without until things are settled in here." Legolas ducked through the window and sat on the balcony floor with his tools so that he was beyond eyesight, but not earshot, of the rest of the Fellowship.

Gandalf sighed and turned to chastise Boromir, yet before he could begin the Man spoke.

"You need say nothing, Mithrandir; I hold no grudge against Legolas. As for my remarks, I realise they were considered insulting to Frodo, and yet they were not intended so. I am simply trying to force you, all of you, to realise what you ask of the Hobbits. Is it fair to place this burden upon them? When have they faced battle or hardship such as the quest must certainly exact?"

"I seem to recall that Frodo volunteered to do this thing," growled Gimli, "when none the rest of us would speak up, and that includes you, Boromir of Gondor."

"Aye, we can make decisions for ourselves. We are not children," fumed Merry. "Gandalf trusts Frodo with the Ring and so should you."

"And this is all but a part of it," said Frodo. "You had no reason to slight Legolas that way."

"I was concerned about his true value to our mission, but now that Mithrandir asserts the sylvan is his personal choice, I would certainly back him," Boromir rationalised.

"Hummph!" Gimli grumbled and stomped over to glower up at the nobleman. "So far you've denounced Aragorn as a pretender to the throne of Gondor, labelled Frodo and all the Hobbits as incompetent and weak, and Legolas you've accused of trading his body for a place among the Fellowship. I wonder what you say about me behind my back?"

"I never said any of those things," declaimed Boromir.

"Well, I heard exactly what Gimli did," said Sam. "Gandalf, if it's all the same to you, I'm going outside with Legolas."

"Me, too," said Pippin. Merry joined him and Frodo followed as well. Before they reached the door Gimli's rolling laughter caught up with them.

"Gandalf, you'd best adjourn this meeting, for you've just lost six of the nine members. I'm with them," he said and sauntered across the room, casting one last withering stare of utter contempt upon Boromir as he passed.

"Sorry, Gandalf, but my place is with the others also," Aragorn made the revolt complete. "Boromir, know that you cannot insult one without offending all. Until you can come to terms with Legolas and the Hobbits as your equals in this endeavour, I'll oppose you in every way at my disposal."

"Aye, he might just use his influence with the Lady Arwen to convince her father to have you sent back to Gondor," sneered Merry.

"And making an enemy of Glorfindel's betrothed isn't exactly wise," snickered Frodo. "You are either very brave or incredibly ignorant."

"Oh, Axe-foot would level the grand Lord of Gondor long before Glorfindel ever had the chance to defend his fiancé's honour," chuckled Gimli. "Beware, Boromir, the Wood Elf is more than your equal in strength and skill at arms."

Boromir's face had turned an unpleasant shade of maroon by then but his reason finally managed to get hold of his tongue and held it captive, though his hubris remained evident beneath his anger. He stood stiff and proud before the table, glaring as the rest of the Fellowship went out the door and joined the Wood Elf, their words of welcome clearly discernible as was the tone of friendship with which they were spoken. The Man of Gondor had to admit; he had made a serious error in judgement. Best qualified he was, of this there was no doubt, but the leader of this group he would never be. Indeed, it was doubtful now that he would even be allowed to take part at all.

"Very well, let us gather again at the evening meal and see if we cannot resolve this," sighed Mithrandir. "The rest of you may go; Boromir and I have many things to discuss." He turned and eyed the Man with supreme disappointment.

Part Four

Never had he endured such an exasperating day. Accustomed to maintaining a strict guard over his private needs and personal habits, Legolas had somehow cast all his normal reserve aside and now must bear the humiliating consequences. How had things become so horribly convoluted? The encounter with Elrond was enough to ruin his mood and could certainly do nothing to improve his reputation among the Imladrian elves. What had prompted him to indulge his hungry urges in so public a place eluded him and Cuthenin decided it was due to the power of the attraction he felt, the strength of the bond between him and his Faer-hebron. Normally, that would be cause for joy, but the unexpected discord with Glorfindel had sent him into a downward spiral which now threatened to sabotage his role as the Fellowship's eyes and ears. There was no denying his frustration and confusion over the argument had made it easier to give in and speak out against Boromir's niggling insults.

Cuthenin sighed; it felt as if everyone in the valley who was of any importance in his immediate circle was against him this morn. The list was long and he tallied its entries: Lord Elrond probably believed he lacked any basic sense of decency, his beloved Balrog-slayer took him to task for escalating Faras-uin-Ind, Aragorn and Frodo spied on him, not to mention that odious page, Lochgaer; Frodo freely related every detail of the argument to his countrymen, whose tongues wagged almost as much as a puppy's tail, and then more insults and innuendo were delivered by that arrogant human, Boromir. Legolas was distraught over how to mend things, especially with Glorfindel, and went searching for Galdor so to discuss the situation. The Sadron was not in his apartment and Cuthenin was on his way to the Hall of Fire when he turned a corner and came face to face with Erestor.

"Oh, Cuthenin, there you are. Galdor is looking for you," said the seneschal and then just as the Wood Elf opened his mouth, continued. "I am not sure of everything he wants but I can reveal that you have been assigned new quarters."

"I have? Where?" Legolas was too surprised to answer with anything more erudite.

"In the very best wing of the House," announced Erestor, gazing down upon the young archer with imperious appraisal. "Right across the corridor from Lord Galdor's suite." The sylvan archer stared at the tall Noldorin elf blankly and the noble statesman stared back, trying to gauge whether or not Cuthenin knew about his ability to spy on the talan from afar, which would mean Glorfindel had told him. That would explain Galdor's sudden demand to change the Wood Elf's sleeping arrangements. Several more seconds of tense silence ticked by and Erestor made a vague sort of peeved frown. "Lord Elrond deemed the oak dell an unsuitable place for the son of King Thranduil to reside. He thought being near to your Guardian might be more comfortable for you."

"Oh. Yes, I'm sure he did. I will move my pack today." Legolas spoke dully, his hopes taking another blow, for he had counted on the treetop abode as the one safe place where he might indulge his passionate longing for Glorfindel. Not to mention that the talan was scarcely five steps from the Balrog-slayer's home and Cuthenin had envisioned how convenient that might be in the days ahead. He wondered if Elrond's early morning discovery had anything to do with the relocation. Could anything else go amiss?

Aye, it could for Anor is but half way through her daily trek. Best not to tempt Vairë. Tawar nin beria!

"There's no need; I sent Lochgaer to see to it," added Erestor.

"Thank you," Legolas intoned, feeling anything but grateful, and turned to go inspect his things, certain the leering page would have burrowed through his few possessions and mayhap even helped himself to some of them.

To return to that section of the house more quickly, Legolas decided to traverse the dining hall and could not fail to note the sudden hush that filled the room as he entered it. Was every single eye focused solely upon him? Surely it seemed so.

The Noldorin elves appraised him with poorly concealed disapprobation, a few offering a terse nod but no word of greeting as he passed. The humans from Gondor watched him with what they thought was well disguised fascination, a light illuminating their faces that was equal parts curiosity, contempt, and strangely enough, deference. The Rangers cast swift, evaluative glances in his direction and thereafter pretended not to notice his presence. The Hobbits gaped in open awe, the magnitude of their wonder significantly greater than ever, while the Dwarves' former cheer was replaced by grim glowers and grumbling rumbles reminiscent of a small avalanche about to pour down a mountainside. Gimli especially looked ready to erupt in another fit of axe throwing. Legolas struggled to maintain a placid visage as he walked the room, scanning the scattered groups for his Tirn'wador in vain. He was almost to the exit when Boromir came in through it and blocked his path.

"Ernil Legolas! I am glad I found you so quickly," he exclaimed, an ingratiating smile covering his features, left hand out thrust in friendly greeting.

Legolas' eyes widened and his surprise was evident. Why was this bothersome Man calling him by such a title? He could not know the truth. Suspecting some new insult, his heart filled with foreboding. "Suilad, Boromir. Excuse me, perhaps someone has misinformed you of the definition of that term. It is generally used to denote the heir to a King. There is no reason to employ it when addressing me." With high distaste he gripped the out stretched palm and squeezed, giving it a solemn shake before letting it go.

"Ah, you need not maintain this subterfuge any longer," Boromir laughed. "I know what the word means and it certainly applies to the son of King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. I hope you will accept my apology for treating you with such a distant manner; I had no idea we were equals."

A burst of derisive laughter arose among the elves, which they contained at once for Gimli leaped to his feet and stormed his way to the Wood Elf.

"Don't look so shocked, prince of the trees, for we know all about you now. How could you pretend to offer friendship to me when your father unjustly imprisoned mine? I will have retribution from you for this grievous offence!" he thundered, brown eyes dark with fury and heavy hands curled into fists that were thankfully empty.

"Gimli, my friendship is not false," Legolas began, ignoring the Man in light of this more serious issue. "I was not in the stronghold when the Erebor Incident occurred, but if you deem me at fault by virtue of my lineage then I will gladly do whatever I must to make amends."

"If that be true, then why did you try to hide who you really are?" demanded the Dwarf.

"I did not intend to deceive you; I am no prince of Greenwood. Must everyone submit his pedigree before establishing accord with another?"

"When you put it thusly, no," Gimli grudgingly admitted.

"But are you not the son of the Elven King?" insisted Boromir. "I have uncovered this truth by a most reliable means."

"Might I know the name of this person?" inquired Legolas, pulse pounding as he considered who would betray him. There were so few who knew the truth and he had believed none among those would disclose his secret, not even Lord Erestor, because of Lord Elrond's gracious decision to help protect the House of the Beeches from dishonour or scorn.

"Oh, it was entirely accidental," the Man said. "In my rooms I discovered a small box of tortoiseshell upon the table by my bed. A scroll, bearing your name, title, and lineage accompanied the object. No doubt the gift was placed in my suite by a servant by mistake. Here it is." He produced the small brown and black mottled container, smiling brightly to have done the noble prince this favour. "I hope our past differences may be forgotten; I plead ignorance and a mind overwrought with worry. Please accept my apologies for my inhospitable remarks and my congratulations on your recent betrothal."

Legolas stood transfixed, eyes glued to the ornately carved box in disbelief, failing to acknowledge Boromir's words as he tried to comprehend what was happening and why it was coming to pass. He lifted his hand tentatively toward the box and then faltered, swallowing hard as he let it fall back limp and lifeless to his side. He raised stricken eyes to the human.

"This was in your rooms?" he asked quietly, his voice so crammed with sorrow that it was painful to hear. "And this scroll, do you have it?"

Boromir's smile was gone as he began to realise his efforts to right his erroneous opinions was going horribly wrong. "Yes, I left it behind but I am certain it is still there. Will you not accept this token, for surely it was meant for you. A lover's keepsake, mayhap?"

"What you hold is dear to me indeed, yet I cannot take it from your hands," said Legolas darkly. "I would ask that you deliver it to Lord Galdor, for he is my Guardian and will decide what is to be done now." With a final forlorn and lingering glance upon the box, Legolas shouldered his way past the Man and made for the nearest door out, breaking into a frantic sprint in hopes of reaching some secluded place before his anguish overtook him.

Back through the gardens he tore, ignoring the stares of any he happened to pass; indeed, Cuthenin truly never noticed they were there, too distraught over this unheard of disaster. How had that selfish and stupid Man come into possession of a sylvan courtship gift? Only he, Galdor, and now Glorfindel knew that three gifts were required during the course of Faras-uin-Ind. Only the three of them comprehended the significance of Ant Vinui (First Gift). It was not possible that Glorfindel would do something so cruel as to deliver the gift to the wrong person and in the same stroke reveal Cuthenin's unfortunate origins; was it? Prior to the argument that morning, he would have denounced such a suggestion vehemently.

"Cuthenin! Daro, saes!"

A voice called but he failed to heed it. Tears blurred his vision just as a looming shape darted out in front of him and Legolas veered right to avoid collision, too late. The figure careened into him and both went down. Frantic to get loose, the sylvan struggled against his assailant for a couple of seconds, managing to knee the miscreant in the stomach before realising it was Galdor.

"Ai! Enough, Legolas! Stop now before I respond in kind," the agitated Sadron warned. He could not help feeling that Thranduil had raised an inordinately reactive trio of sons, having now been assaulted by all three.

"Forgive me, Tirn'wador, but I couldn't tell it was you. Why did you do that?" Legolas jumped to his feet and helped the noble leader rise, cautiously brushing down the elder's robes and daintily plucking a stray twig from his locks. When at last he dared to meet his Guardian's gaze, he found the Sadron's anger abated and the deep brown eyes filled with worry and compassion.

"To stop you before you made any more thoughtless errors. I just learned of what has happened," Galdor said quietly, reaching for Legolas and taking him at the elbow. "Things are not as they appear. Come, we have much to discuss but we must do so in private. Let us walk together out here for the house is abuzz with esuriant tongues eager for new spectacles to report and cavil."

"I can't believe it," Legolas struggled to say amid slowly cascading tears, permitting himself to be led without regard to the direction. "If he wished to end the courtship he need only have said so. I would not have thought him capable of such heartlessness."

"He is not," insisted Galdor. "There is more going on here than we know, but I can assure you Ant Vinui was not left in Boromir's rooms by Glorfindel. Nor did he pen any scroll, for that was not part of the instructions I gave him, as you and I know. I am much interested to see it for I would recognise the Balrog-slayer's hand at once."

"Someone else did this? I want to believe that but none know the rules of Faras-uin-Ind save the three of us." Despite this fact, Legolas took hope from his Tirn'wador's calm declaration.

"That is what we assume, yet it is possible we are mistaken. Lord Erestor is clever and resourceful; if he wants to learn something he will find a means to do it. I suspect it was he, for he alone has reason to attempt breaking you and Glorfindel's bond, or so at least he must still think. In truth, Glorfindel's heart will never be his, regardless the outcome of Faras-uin-Ind."

"Your words hearten me," Legolas inhaled deeply, releasing the pent air in a shaky sigh as his nerves calmed and the tears ceased. "Ai Valar, how could I imagine Glorfindel would hurt me thus? Am I so wary and mistrustful a mate as that?"

"Nay, perhaps you had cause to surmise something of the sort. News of the misunderstanding between you two reached me earlier and I've been hunting for you since. Legolas, know that I respect you and find myself daily growing more fond of you, but what were you thinking?"

"I don't know," exasperated and frustrated and confused and angry, Legolas was far beyond the ability to restrain those emotions from voice or manner. He halted and shook loose from the Sadron's hold, favouring Galdor with a black scowl. "Tirn'wador, I am too many years past majority to weather such a scolding well. I won't justify myself; nothing I did was in violation of Faras-uin-Ind. If you must know, I never got the chance to do anything, thanks to you and my brothers. What did you say to him that has made Glorfindel so averse to anything more than a kiss and a dance?"

"I did nothing but repeat the warning made prior to Úcaul Annaur," said Galdor, "and elucidate the particulars of the stages of courtship. Glorfindel did not seem overly anxious at the time. As for your brothers, I was not present when they had this conversation. For these answers you must speak with your Faer-hebron."

"He will not come near me," complained Legolas. "How can I learn what is beneath this sudden change of demeanour if he refuses to speak of it?"

"He will not refuse," smiled Galdor. "You have forgotten something important: since we know Glorfindel did not author this horrible practical joke with Ant Vinui, we can safely deduce he wants you to receive that gift. Even now he waits in tormented solitude for your response."

For the second time that day brilliant, beatific realisation illuminated every corner of Legolas' soul. The certainty that Galdor was right filled his heart with both peace and urgent longing and Cuthenin's face transformed from a mask of bitter acrimony to an expression of joyous exaltation.

"Exactly how intimate are we allowed to be without breaking the rules," he asked boldly, "and be specific. I do not want to go to Glorfindel with incomplete knowledge."

"The Laws state it plainly: 'the couple must not join bodily one to another in carnal intercourse nor mingle the essence of body and soul until the day the bonding is formally recognised'. You know this, Legolas."

"But what defines carnal intercourse? Glorfindel said the things we shared during the journey across the Anduin valley were not forbidden, yet now he will not permit me to initiate the very same activity."

"It is very simple: any form of penetration with the penis is forbidden, and that includes any orifice the body possesses which seems amenable to such penetration. In other words, neither anal nor oral intercourse is permitted." Galdor explained plainly and patiently, knowing that despite Cuthenin's protests of being far past his majority, the young archer was woefully ignorant of the intricacies involved in the act of love-making. He continued:

"If he is resistant to other types of stimulation, there must be a reason. Perhaps it is what your brothers said to him, perhaps it is something else entirely. Here is where you must tread carefully and recall what I first warned. Glorfindel is not perfect and has as many flaws as anyone, probably more considering he's had two life-times to accumulate them. I know him not as well as I did all those years ago in Gondolin, but in one regard he is still the same: the Balrog-slayer has a very difficult time expressing emotions. At some point, he learned to ignore them and thus finds it hard to identify and explicate his motives when emotion is driving his behaviour."

"How will I get him to reveal something he doesn't himself understand?" demanded an exasperated Wood Elf. "Sadron, as my Tirn'wador, perhaps you should approach him and…"

"Oh no," chuckled Galdor, shaking his head. "I will be happy to listen, to advise, and to support you through this process, but you are the one betrothed to him, Cuthenin. If you cannot learn how to draw him out now, what will the years ahead be like? The thrill of physical pleasure is but one aspect of mated life; you two must learn to share in other ways also."

Legolas could not argue with the logic in this but neither could he feel much hope that he would succeed in light of the disastrous outcome of their morning tryst. He frowned, glancing around the environment for the first time since the Sadron's unusual method of garnering his attention, and noticed they had walked nearly all the way around the perimeter of the grounds. Just beyond the next rise, the oak dell lay nestled in the small depression behind Glorfindel's house. Indeed, the peak of the roof and the chimney were already in view. Legolas sent his Tirn'wador a devilish smirk.

"So what is my curfew, Tirn'wador? And while I am sorting things out with my Faer-hebron, will you be investigating this unscrupulous attempt to drive us apart? I am going to tell Glorfindel what happened and I can imagine he will be furious."

"Do not be impertinent, Cuthenin, there is no curfew." Galdor was unable to be angry over such insubordination, feeling it a healthy sign that Legolas had come to terms with Calarlim's loss and was finally growing more independent. "I had just cause for changing your quarters for I learned from Glorfindel the talan is under frequent watch by Erestor. In short, he spies on everyone in the valley with his long-sighted tubes and has admitted keeping the oak dell under his surveillance. Otherwise, I would not have acted for I trust you to uphold the precepts of Pâd-en-Tawar."

"Ai! Lord Erestor is insufferable!"

"Indeed. As to the rest, I had planned to do as you ask. I am rather counting on you to keep Glorfindel occupied until I can determine who is at fault. He is likely to assume it to be Erestor and while I tend to agree, Lord Elrond would prefer not to have one of his top advisors murder the other. If it was his cousin, Elrond will punish the seneschal severely enough."

"Very well, we are in accord," smiled Legolas. "There is one other favour I would beseech."

"What is it?"

"I want you to imprint a new design on my body to honour Glorfindel. Will you do it?"

"Aye, you need not even ask; I will be happy to do it. I was wondering if you had discussed this with Glorfindel. Will he agree to be marked to honour you as well?"

"I haven't mentioned it yet," admitted Legolas. "I would rather let him offer freely than have him feel obligated to agree. He is not an initiate of Pâd-en-Tawar and I would make no demands upon him to follow our ways."

"Well said," nodded Galdor, reaching over to bestow a kindly thump on the Wood Elf's shoulder. "Go and settle this trouble with Glorfindel, Cuthenin, and we will speak of other matters at the evening meal."

"Ai! I cannot dine with you for Mithrandir has called a meeting with the Fellowship. You would not believe what Boromir…"

"Oh, I have heard about it; everyone has. You accused him of seeking the Ring to control it for his own ends. That is not very diplomatic," Galdor remonstrated.

"It is the truth and everyone knows it," argued Legolas. "Now that he thinks I am royalty, suddenly he wants to be my dearest comrade. The Man is utterly false and should not be on this quest."

"Yet Mithrandir sees a need for his participation and that is where the matter must end," lectured Galdor. "Do not forget, many have expressed uncertainty or even open opposition to your inclusion as the person to represent all elf-kind. Difficult as it may be, you must find a way to tolerate Boromir. Mayhap the influence of less greedy hearts will inspire him to be better. In any case, you exemplify all elf-kind as well as your father's House and Realm. Would you have it said you are unable to set aside your prejudice for the good of the Fellowship?"

"No, you know I do not wish that."

"Then exert yourself and learn why this Man feels the need to hide his real agenda. Inspire his trust and get him to confide in you. At the root of most distrust and hatred abides a deep and consuming fear. Living as close to Mordor as he does, this should not surprise you. Now that he is here in Imladris, his heart is shielded from those evil influences. This is the time to reach him and reawaken his true nature, for he comes of courageous stock, a family of loyal protectors to the throne of Gondor. He is worth salvaging, Cuthenin."

"Sui pedich, Tirn'wador," Legolas bowed as he spoke the traditional capitulation. "I will try."

Galdor smiled but made no further remarks, heading away instead to the Last Homely House, there to unravel the plot to sunder the bond between his ward and his friend of old.

Legolas stood alone in quiet contemplation of the bit of red tiled roof and clay brick chimney that proved his proximity to Glorfindel's house. He had no idea what he should do or say. Should he apologise or demand Glorfindel do so? Perhaps it would be best simply to go in the guise of visiting, of wanting to invite his Faer-hebron for a walk or to go riding through the countryside, acting as though nothing untoward had occurred between them. Then again, it was ever his way to get right to the point and just struggle through a disagreement until both parties could see beyond it.

That was how he generally dealt with nay-sayers and antagonists back home and it seemed to work, earning him respect if not acceptance. Indeed, it was this trait of determined, some would say stubborn, insistence on challenging his detractors that had first garnered his brothers' admiration. Of course, he was more willing to listen and discuss an issue now than in his elfling days, when Cuthenin was known for changing other elves' minds with his fists and feet.

He sighed, mouth set in a thin, grim line, wishing again for the opportunity to speak with his Adar. This one morning held enough troublesome conundrums to keep them in counsel for a week, yet he would settle for an hour of the elder elf's time and wisdom.

What retribution might he consider fitting for Erestor's underhanded betrayal? What would he say about this Man, Boromir, and his flawed valour? How would he treat Glorfindel's rejection?

Sadly, Legolas realised he could not conjure up any likely suggestions Thranduil would make, knowing him so little; indeed, all that he'd thought to be truth turned out to be only half-truth or even wholly inaccurate. In so many ways he'd only just met his father; he truly knew Glorfindel better due to the the melding of spirits during Úcaul Annaur. That fact stung, for how could his Faer-hebron turn against him for initiating Hwiniad-en-Melethryn (Lover's Dance)? Perhaps this aspect of courtship was unknown except among the sylvan people, yet it was not as overtly seductive nor as flagrantly possessive as the exciting manipulation to which the Balrog-slayer had subjected him on the plains of Nan Anduin. Cuthenin frowned; there had to be something more, perhaps something he'd inadvertently done to make Glorfindel balk, but what?

I will not find out by standing here.

Legolas hesitated but a moment longer before jogging toward the Balrog-slayer's house. A thousand possible scenarios zipped across his inner vision as he ran, everything from abysmal failure and the breaking of the bond forged during Úcaul Annaur to a sizzling reconciliation and the consummation of that same bond into something permanent and eternal. The distance was covered in time he could not reckon for it seemed to pass in a handful of heartbeats; all at once he was standing before the trim, white-washed door. There his nerve faltered a second and his resentment over the incident returned. Why should he have to seek out Glorfindel when he was the abused party? This petulant gripe he refused to entertain and, with a deep breath to bolster his resolve, raised his hand and knocked. It was but a moment before the door was opened and when it did the Evenstar stood upon the threshold, her calm grey eyes presenting both surprise and gladness to behold him there.

"Suilad, Cuthenin," she smiled and stood aside to permit him to enter. "I am so pleased to see you. Glorfindel and I were just speaking of you."

"Suilad, Hirilen Arwen," Legolas returned the smile faintly, not so sure how to interpret her remark, embarrassed to think she knew all the details about the disagreement. He edged past her into the vestibule. "I hope I am not intruding."

"Legolas?" the query came from within and was followed by Glorfindel's immediate arrival in the hallway. He gaped at the archer in silence, unable to believe he was truly standing there. "You are here."

"Aye. If it is to your liking, I would speak with you," Legolas ventured carefully, his eyes watching for any hint of the wary discomfort he'd witnessed earlier. There was only anguished remorse and relief there and this made Legolas smile warmly.

"I will take my leave," Arwen said, grinning as she gripped Legolas' biceps in passing. "I expect you both to join me in my apartment for the evening meal." With that invitation delivered, the fair Lady of Rivendell left the lovers.

Part Five

In silence the two warriors, one ancient and one vernal, gazed upon one another, each awaiting the other's next move, until at last Legolas shrugged and spoke.

"I hope she will not think me rude, but I cannot join Lady Arwen for the evening meal tonight. Mithrandir has called a meeting of the Fellowship."

"I will tell her for you; she will understand."

Another brief pause ensued and then finally Glorfindel smiled, though it was rather half-hearted and anxious expression. "I did not think you would come," he said. "I am happy to speak with you and was about to go and look for you. Please, come inside." He led the way into the familiar study and nervously offered his betrothed a seat. Carefully he sat next to Cuthenin, uncertain how or where to begin, though he'd spent hours pouring over the details of the unpleasant incident with Arwen, gleaning her incisive advise.

"I want to apologise." The two spoke as one and stopped, grinning over this synchronism, and promptly repeated it.

"I don't understand what I did wrong," Legolas replied uneasily. "There is nothing for which you need apologise," said Glorfindel at the same time.

They laughed awkwardly together and Cuthenin nervously passed a hand over his hair. "You had best go first," he suggested.

"Very well. Legolas, you did nothing wrong, at least not intentionally," the Balrog-slayer assured, one hand resting lightly on Cuthenin's knee with a consoling pat. "There is no possible way you could comprehend."

"What do you mean?" Legolas disliked the tinge of patronising arrogance that had crept into his Faer-hebron's tone and he physically recoiled from the touch. "How can you say that?"

"I don't mean that the way it sounds."

"That is well for it sounded rather demeaning."

"Ai! Nay, Legolas, saes; do not make hasty judgements," implored Glorfindel, regretting the ill-spoken words. Where Cuthenin had drawn back, he scooted closer. "I just find this difficult. This is not about you at all. I merely reacted to your advances instinctively." No sooner were the words out than he winced and at once raised a hand to stall the expected outburst. Too late.

"What say you? Am I to understand your first instinct to my overtures is to put a stop to them?" Legolas was on his feet, face flushed with fiery indignation that failed to hide the bruised heart beneath it. "This day, this day is as an unending curse and punishment!" he seethed, dodging to get past his host, who had of course jumped up to halt him, and though he surely could have evaded capture, Legolas let Glorfindel stay him.

"Forgive me, Cuthenin; my tongue cannot seem to wait for the right words and blurts out whatever runs through my head first. The problem is that these are things hard to admit, things I don't like to think about." Glorfindel silently murmured a prayer for courage. "It all has to do with the past, I'm afraid, the events that marked my first life. Arwen pointed out long ago how unfair it is to make you responsible for those old fears and failings, and truly I meant to heed her warnings."

"Ah. You discussed this with Lady Arwen at length?" Legolas tensed again, chagrined to imagine the noble Lady's reaction to his exploratory activities.

"Aye, just as you no doubt discussed it with Galdor," Glorfindel pointed out, releasing his clasp on Legolas' arm and folding his arms tight. "She is the closest to family I have and if I can endure the fiery admonitions of your brothers and your father, not to mention your Tirn'wador, you can learn to tolerate my reliance on Arwen's counsel and affection."

"I never meant to imply I was against it." Cuthenin stared in consternation at the return of this combative, defensive manner. He sighed and shook his head. "We should perhaps wait to talk about this. I have no wish to argue with you." He made to go but the Balrog-slayer reached for his elbow again and held fast.

"That is not my wish, either," Glorfindel agreed. "Yet we must find our way through this. I confess I find the amount of cautions, warnings, and outright threats levelled upon me by your family to be daunting. My hope is to be with you forever and I don't want anything to come between us, but the conditions imposed by them and by your religion are hard to bear."

"Yet something has come between us, whether it be your past or my family. What did my brothers say that so easily turned you from me?"

"I have not turned from you. I am just not comfortable with the aggressive way you are conducting this courtship. I am trying to obey all these rules and keep my promises, but you are actively pushing me to fail in both endeavours. Besides, I should be the one initiating each aspect of Faras-uin-Ind," Glorfindel blurted out.

"Aggressive?" Legolas jerked his arm from Glorfindel's grasp. "I've done nothing that fulfils the definition of that word. How is Hwiniad-en-Melethryn (Lover's Dance) aggressive?"

"The lyrics made your intentions explicitly clear," intoned Glorfindel. "Besides, one may be aggressive in a more clandestine, cunning way. There is no use denying it; your goal was to seduce me." The Balrog-slayer turned and marched to the window, seeming to stare out past the panes when truly he was watching Cuthenin's reflection in the heavy glass.

"I was not going to deny it," fumed Legolas, frustrated by these strangely belligerent remarks and charges. "Glorfindel, I only wished to celebrate the first phase of Faras-uin-Ind." He paused, recalling his Tirn'wador's words. If they were true and Glorfindel really hoped he would accept Ant Vinui, then all this fuss and bluster must be some kind of decoy or diversion to keep from discussing whatever was really going on. With measured steps he went to his Faer-hebron, stopping an arm's length away and proffering an uncertain smile as Glorfindel turned to him. "I will, of course, accept your gift." That at last brought a gleam of happiness to the Balrog-slayer's eyes and Legolas took a half-step forward, extending his hand, holding his breath until it was taken into the older warrior's protective hold.

"For that I am glad. I know this makes little sense to you, but I need to be the one deciding when and how we move the courtship along," said Glorfindel, trying again to voice his true fears with little success. Even he could hear the undertone of imperious authority in the words and as expected, Legolas balked.

"Faras-uin-Ind is not a solitary endeavour," he reminded, slipping his hand from its resting place against the Balrog-slayer's palm. "I am part of it, too. Why must I refrain from expressing my delight in our growing bond? You have had no resistance from me to anything you wished, from the first. Why does it displease you for me to take the initiative?"

"Because you know nothing of such intimate activities," Glorfindel improvised, cheeks growing red with both embarrassment and frustration. "I am older and should be the dominant party. I AM the dominant member of this partnership and won't tolerate such forward behaviour." He stood rigid, knowing the way this sounded but unable to stop himself. Arwen had cautioned him to mind how he broached his fears but he couldn't seem to find words that were not contentious with which to do it.

"You are my chosen Faer-hebron," Legolas bridled, a shadow of hurt and anger darkening his features. "You are older and wiser and have far more experience, in love and in life, than have I. Even so, I am not a…a person of lesser value nor unworthy of standing beside you." Unexpectedly and most alarmingly, tears stung his eyes and he had to fight to keep them at bay. "Your words seem to say I am not…that you are ashamed of the feelings between us." He swallowed hard after that, unable to go on and ready to flee. Only the dawning look of horror on Glorfindel's face held him.

"No, no! That is not how I meant it at all, Cuthenin." This was far worse than Glorfindel had imagined and much worse than Arwen had warned. Now his blundering had caused Legolas to think he held him in low esteem. Given the long years enduring the scorn and contempt of others because of his illicit birth, this was especially egregious. "I have let my pride rule my tongue, as it ever has," he mourned. "Please forgive me, I never meant to imply that you are not wondrous to my eyes, or that I am anything but elated to have you as my betrothed, soon to be my mate for all time. Let me try again to explain this," he pleaded, devastated to see the gleam of unshed tears in Cuthenin's eyes and the flinty restraint with which he held them in check. A short nod was the only answer he received and counted it a blessing as he followed the woodland elf back to the settee and sat beside him.

"I cannot pretend that your boldness does not make me uneasy," he began.

"Why are you wary of my advances? I would rather hope that you exalt in my desire for you," Legolas managed, voice subdued and eyes downcast, finding it much easier to examine his fingers where they lay listless in his lap than look upon his intended mate.

"Indeed, so it should be and I am not a small amount ashamed to have this failing," Glorfindel agreed, silently relieved that Cuthenin was no longer peering at him through those distraught and wounded eyes. "Even more so I am mortified by my unseemly words. You have done nothing to earn them. While I thought all this was truly expunged from my soul, my behaviour today proves otherwise. This antagonism stems from long ago, as I began to say and then so cruelly diverged. It is difficult…" he had to pause, desperate to voice his fears in a way that did not implicate Legolas, and inserted his hand between the archer's. At once it was clasped tight and Glorfindel's heart bounded. A glance into Cuthenin's eyes found them wary but expectant.

"Go on," Legolas coaxed.

"Aye. I am not comfortable being the one pursued. There are reasons but let me say what I must for it is best you know now: I have no wish to be claimed by you, dear though you are to me. I must be the one to claim you." At last it was all out and the mighty re-born warrior waited in trepidation for the expected outburst, either of hilarity or ferocity, from the volatile Wood Elf. Instead there was silence; long, painful, unbearably profound, the kind of silence known only in places where one was utterly isolated and truly alone.

"I see," Legolas said grimly, unable to answer with any sort of intelligence for in fact he failed to understand at all. What did it matter which part one played: scabbard or sword? Was the experience not pleasurable either way? His initial experiments with penetration this morning seemed to support that assumption. He hadn't thought of one role as dominant and one submissive, nor had he imagined retaining only one position as his permanent state. Ought they not experience both ways, all ways of sharing this physical expression of their bond? It did not make sense to do otherwise, yet somehow he had to decipher what this was really about, even as Galdor had said.

"Why do you feel like that? It almost sounds as though coupling with me is not to your liking, for you would restrict the manner of our joining to that of partners of opposite gender. Am I a substitute for a female lover?" He knew this could not be true for Glorfindel would never have trouble securing a female for a mate, should he have wished it, yet Legolas had no clue as to the nature of this unexpected condition set upon their bond.

"Nay, you are no stand-in but my true desire," Glorfindel had to smile over this theory, a fleeting, bittersweet expression that faded into intense and solemn remorse, for it was clear he was putting Legolas through an agony of uncertainty and doubt. Cuthenin's willingness to endure this harrowing discussion emboldened him, boosting his determination to visit this place of anguish and regret. He must overcome his resistance to sharing with Legolas and learn to trust the sylvan archer, else their chances for happiness were doomed.

"I was born in Gondolin soon after the hidden enclave was populated. Then, I was more like you: very aware of the disparity between my station and that of others in my House. I was just a minor baronet, hoping to rise in rank through valour in battle, but at the time our people remained concealed and went not to the wars ravaging the surrounding lands." He paused an instant and then plunged ahead. "Even before I came of age, I knew I was fair to see and had caught the eye of many an elf. One in particular that pleased me most."

"Erestor." Legolas interrupted.

"No, not Erestor. Someone else, someone I would have come to love dearly had I listened to my heart instead of my ambition, but he was of even lesser rank than I from a House of lower standing. It had already occurred to me that my allure could be used to secure a higher station. I was drawn to this elf but never considered pursuing him for such a union would offer no advancement. Soon after my majority, Erestor made his desires known. He formally proposed and presented such a flattering offer that I felt I could not refuse. My heart was not encumbered and he was fair, powerful and fair; wedded to him, I would be elevated to a rank far beyond my hopes. I accepted even though I felt nothing for him, assuming those emotions would grow in time.

"Yet he was not unaware of my pecuniary, self-serving reasons and resented it. He never let a day go by without reminding me that he had 'purchased' me, body and soul, for his personal amusement and cared not if I ever felt anything for him. He never forgot to make a point of exaggerating the difference in our social status, ranking me lower than I truly had been. He used sex to reinforce that inequity. I was made to do things I hated, to beg and to abase myself before him. I never knew when he would demand his conjugal rights and he would purposefully wait until I was among my peers in the guard or some other public place. He was blatant and coarse, groping and caressing and kissing me in a manner too familiar to be decent with others so near."

"Nae, Glorfindel," Legolas breathed, his own woes forgotten as this sordid tale unravelled. He settled his hand atop the Balrog-slayer's and gave a firm squeeze, beginning to comprehend how his eager desire to test the dimensions of his Faer-hebron's arousal in an open, public place might have triggered unpleasant memories.

Glorfindel responded with a swift, worried glance, and continued:

"Everyone knew about my situation but of course none dared say anything to my face. The relationship failed to grant me the esteem I thought the lofty title of 'Lord' would provide. I had to work doubly hard to advance within the guard and struggled to become a trusted lieutenant. My status among my peers fell, for I was perceived as trading my self-respect and dignity for mere wealth and position. That was the truth but it was hard for me to accept it, so I blamed Erestor and grew to despise him. I was too proud to ask for him to release me from the false bond; I did not want to give up the position I had paid for with such suffering. He was too proud to admit I would never learn to love him, unwilling to relinquish his prize and watch as I found happiness with another. It was humiliating for both of us.

"Since my restoration to life, I have feared to replay that scenario. I have submitted to no one. I've become accustomed to being the one in control and will not give that up. With Erestor I was never treated as an equal and I will never allow myself to be denigrated like that again. While you didn't intend it and could not have known, your tender advances struck a chord of warning, for your brothers cautioned me that you were not easily swayed from a course of action when once you had made up you mind. After our tryst upon Nan Anduin, your fervour increased ten-fold and a distinctly predatory look filled your eyes whenever they chanced to be upon me, which was almost always. I didn't know what to think, for Inarthan implied you would not accept 'no' should you decide to advance our intimacy. I did not mean to hurt you and should not have spoken so harshly, but I won't be manipulated."

Throughout all the remainder of this long soliloquy Cuthenin remained quiet, taking in the disturbing story with growing alarm. Simultaneously, he felt relieved to understand the cause and upset to be cast in the role of a controlling, sadistic, devious lover. Mixed with those conflicting emotions simmered an unreasonable jealousy for this unknown and unnamed elf who might have - would have - won his Balrog-slayer's heart had events transpired differently. Yet above all swelled an indignant and vindictive wrath against Erestor, who had so abused his beloved's heart and soul, reducing this magnificent and proud warrior to grovelling indignity. Because of him, Glorfindel feared to be mastered and Legolas found his disappointment less than his sympathy. He was eager, but not so much that he would make his beloved suffer to satisfy that hunger. His heart filled with gentle compassion and he resolved on the spot to treat his Faer-hebron with tenderness and patience, winning his trust gradually and his love eternally.

"I was not trying to manipulate you," he insisted softly. "I don't want to take away control and feel no need to achieve mastery at the cost of wounding your soul. My brothers have done me an injustice; I can accept a refusal from you as long as I know it is just a temporary one, as long as our union is merely postponed and not annulled. No doubt their motive was to ensure we adhere to the long courtship, unsure whether sufficient wisdom has accrued to me to know my own heart. It is true that I have been considering whether we should wait out the year or seize the moment and consummate our bond while we have these last few days of peace to share, but never would I force you to agree to that if your heart is not ready.

"Indeed, I will submit to your every whim if that is what will give you ease and bring you comfort. I trust you with my entire being and know you would never abuse that trust. In time, you will come to understand the same: that you can rely upon me to support you in whatever way you most need my love and strength. I yield to you with joy, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, my heart's desire, Faer-hebron nin, and on our bonding day you will claim me for your own. Or you could do so now."

Glorfindel gasped aloud, shocked breathless by this complete surrender, having expected a battle at best and the breaking of their bond at worst. Could it be possible that this incredible creature could so easily relinquish his will? Without realising it, he spoke that thought aloud and was stunned when Cuthenin smiled warmly and leaned close, capturing his face between those elegant, deadly hands.

"It is not against my will to do this. I did not mean to be aggressive; I was only imitating you and what you have done with me. I wanted to give you the same excitement, the same thrill, the same breathless ecstasy; just in my own way, a sylvan way." Glorfindel's cheeks was warm against his palms and the firm lips were so near, yet he feared to attempt any contact. Never had he imagined the stalwart warrior could be this vulnerable and never would he have guessed how appealingly erotic that would be. He was growing hard already and very much wanted to check if his Faer-hebron was experiencing the same sensation, but again he restrained his desire and waited, meeting the blue eyes with hope and encouragement. "And I confess it, I did long to know how you are made and the form your desires assume. I didn't think you would be against it or I wouldn't have dared unsheathe that delectable blade."

The response to this was beyond his expectations, for Glorfindel caught him at the arms again and pulled him close, demanding the very kiss he'd hoped to steal, invading his mouth with proprietary fervour and a rumbling growl.

"This is how it should be between us," he said, breath coming and leaving his lungs through flared nostrils, "how I need it to be. I want you so much, Cuthenin, but I want to be the one to introduce the pleasures lovers share. And it was not wrong for you to be curious."

He dived in and claimed the archer's lips again, relishing the compliant and yielding tongue that graced his with adoring caresses, a soft moan arising from his beloved archer's heart to accompany their amorous duet. The echoing vibrations at once calmed him and eased him into a less demanding state; his mouth migrated to other areas of the exquisite face, sampling the jaw and the neck and the temples and finally the ears, which made Legolas twitch and cry out.

"Ai! Glorfindel! That is wondrous; do not stop."

Paradoxically, the plea initiated the opposite response as the Balrog-slayer met the shining blue eyes with a cocky grin and a smug chuckle. "'Delectable blade'! What an artful accolade, ernilen o gelaidh. (my prince of the trees)" He stood and lifted Cuthenin to his feet, circling strong arms about the slender waist and pulling him hard against his body, making no secret of the growing erection trapped against his thigh. He leaned close to the Wood Elf's ear and whispered: "Would you wish to wield it again?" adding a little thrust of his hips to bump the solid mass against Cuthenin's groin.

"Aye," the breathy word slipped free in the same hushed tone as Legolas nodded vehemently, wishing he could get his hands loose to touch the hidden organ, the heat of which was evident even from beneath the Balrog-slayer's clothes, but Glorfindel had his arms effectively pinned in an encompassing bear-hug. Instead, he waited for his Faer-hebron to pull back far enough to meet his gaze and then swooped forward and stole a kiss of his own.

Part Six

Despite Glorfindel's firm statements of preferring the dominant role, he allowed Cuthenin to freely sample every aspect of his mouth, imitating and repeating whatever moves the archer's impetuous tongue made, and Legolas revelled in the experience. So much so that he failed to realise he was being denuded until cool air caressed his bare chest. Their lips parted as Glorfindel slipped the tunic and shirt off his shoulders.

"Now do as I have done," he said simply, running his hands appreciatively, possessively over Cuthenin's shoulders and down his arms, catching hold of his hands lightly and drawing them up to rest upon his chest. He held Legolas' gaze as the slender fingers quickly, nervously unclasped the fastenings of the uniform tunic and then worked loose the lacing that held closed the silk shirt beneath it.

Then Legolas' vision switched to the body his efforts were uncovering, sliding the garments back and over broad shoulders warm and hard beneath their sheath of resilient skin. He caught his breath; Glorfindel was magnificent to behold, virile and well-formed beyond even the standards of the elves, unmarred by any scar or blemish, boasting a creamy golden caste as if the light of dawn collected round him and could not bear to leave. Consumed with yearning, Legolas could empathise with such fortunate sunlight. Then, unable to resist, he rested his cheek against the muscular chest, listening intently to the steady, powerful beat of the noble heart, smiling in recognition; yes, here was the place where he'd found a sheltering home for his wandering soul. Dearly he wanted to repeat the experience but steeled himself to wait patiently for his Faer-hebron's next move, pressing an impulsive set of lips in the spot where his ear had lain before standing back to meet Glorfindel's eyes with quiet anticipation.

The renowned warrior was astounded and deeply moved by Legolas' simple expression of reverent admiration and desire. Never had he so longed to live up to the expectations that accompanied his fame, wanting to be courageous and bold, wise and worldly, compassionate and passionate, perfect in every respect for Cuthenin deserved no less. He would make this initial unveiling an experience his young mate would remember always. With casual grace and a pleased smile, Glorfindel reached behind him and unfettered his hair, flexing the muscles across his chest, flagrantly tempting Legolas with an invitation he knew the sylvan must refuse having just given over control to his Soul-keeper. The motion drew the archer's eye unfailingly to well-defined pectorals and the small maroon points rising in the sudden exposure to air, though the atmosphere was anything but cool.

"Ah!" Cuthenin exhaled abruptly, took half a step, halted and fell back again, finding it difficult both to breathe and to remain still, as he followed every ripple and swell across Glorfindel's svelte torso. Those mighty hands delved into the luxuriant locks and combed them through, fingers fanning the flaxen mane across his shoulders. Glorfindel tilted his head back and shook it, sending the long tresses behind him in a rich cascade of flowing gold, exposing the long column of his neck and the indentation above his clavicle, the inverted delta miming the symmetry of his battle-hardened build.

Pleased and proud to note the Wood Elf's rapt fascination, Glorfindel wondered if Cuthenin would be able to hold to his word and wait until given leave to explore to his heart's content. A glint of mischief twinkled through the Balrog-slayer's smile; it would be no great offence if Legolas failed. In truth, realising he would be the first, the only person Cuthenin had ever touched in this way raised his desire to have him memorise every plane, curve, and dimple of his body's contours. Glorfindel let his arms fall to his sides and waited, giving a brief nod as Legolas glanced to him.

Cuthenin was not so bold or self-assured as he copied this latest example, for his scars had not faded much over recent days and his body was not formed with the robust grandeur that denoted his Faer-hebron, or indeed most elves. He dropped his head a bit as he unwound the long plait that fell down the centre of his hair, hoping the uniqueness of his painted skin would compensate for the perceived deficit. A sharp spike of fear lanced through him as he wondered how he compared to that unknown and unnamed lost love from Glorfindel's youth. He shut his eyes to force the idea out and when he opened them found his focus centred on his groin and the fullness there, a small damp dot marking the confined tip of his imprisoned penis. From beneath his lowered lashes he flickered his sight over the half-meter of open space between him and his beloved, peering at the corresponding area with avid interest. Having held the heat and hardness of Glorfindel's cock, if only for a mere second or two, his heart leaped in expectant hope of repeating the experience more thoroughly.

Suddenly his Faer-hebron's hand entered the field of view and Legolas startled, catching his breath when the fingers seductively rubbed against the bulge, raising a tremor of sympathetic harmony in its counterpart. Wondering if he was expected to copy that move, also, Cuthenin did, envisioning himself grabbing Glorfindel's hand and pressing it into service to provide the erotic caress. He exhaled a faint whimper and lifted his face to the ceiling as he shook back his loosened mane, the golden strands swaying. Glorfindel's answering smile was both fiery and adoring and rebuilt Legolas' confidence. He reached for the trio of small braids at his temples, swiftly untying each one, and combed his fingers through the kinked and crimped tendrils which refused to lie flat.

"You have hair so fine, Cuthenin, it is like filaments of pure sunshine." These words produced a wide grin and sent a deep flush of pink to the archer's cheeks and ears, a bright light of gratitude and pride kindling his blue eyes. "I have definite plans for how to use it." That initiated a confused and speculative expression that made the Balrog-slayer chuckle; there were so many ways to incorporate such luxuriant tresses during love-making and he was fairly certain Legolas had never before considered even the most obvious ones. He inhaled deeply, letting his nostrils draw in the musky perfume of the young elf's arousal, relishing the distinct, unique aroma, memorising it so thoroughly that he would never be able to think of Legolas without a trace of the scent wafting through the thoughts. He settled his hands at his waist and watched the sharp increase in respiration this initiated in his betrothed.

Cuthenin observed those hands rearrange themselves, one moving to dip just the very tip of an index finger beneath the waist of the leggings, the other lifting only to slither down the Balrog-slayer's chest from breastbone to navel in a slow seductive caress. There the fingers paused to circle the small indentation before lightly traipsing down the fine line of blonde hairs that arose below it and disappeared beneath the pants. Cuthenin found it maddening, wishing those were his fingers instead, or better yet his tongue, and unconsciously licked his lips. The idea consumed him; what did Glorfindel taste like? He lifted his eyes, hungry and yet begging for mercy, to find the Balrog-slayer's intense gaze upon him, studying him with potent desire clear in the handsome countenance.

Recalling that this game required him to copy Glorfindel's every action, Legolas complied, finding his libido heightened dramatically as he soothed his hand over his body and traced the outline of his belly button, for now of course he imagined Glorfindel doing this to him. "Would that it were so," he whispered and laughed self-consciously when his beloved's arched brows revealed that he had spoken aloud. "That your hands would touch me like this," he explained, voice hushed and tinted with ardent yearning as he petted the tight abdomen and slid his fingers under the waist of his pants, not burrowing too far but enough to make Glorfindel's eyes dilate and his breath quicken.

"In time," promised Glorfindel and garnered his love's full attention by briskly undoing the ties of his leggings, boldly pulling them open and pushing them down, revealing himself in one smooth, practised gesture. His shoes proved a momentary glitch as he toed each heel and forced his feet free, but this might rather have been intentional for the movement of his legs caused his exposed genitals to bounce and bob provocatively, and there Legolas' vision was transfixed, mouth open enough to make his breath audible and convert his expression into appreciative gawking. He was drooling mentally if not in reality, and Glorfindel's stance expanded in virile pride.

"Are you pleased?" he queried, meaning to tease but his voice betrayed the insecurity underlying the question. It was apparent even to him the uncertainty in these words and Glorfindel was stunned, used to being confident of his seductive allure, his ability to ensnare any heart he wished. With Cuthenin everything changed, for now it was he whose heart had been bewitched and bound to this lissom young elf of the woods.

"Pleased beyond thought," sighed Legolas, torn from his intent inspection of his betrothed by the note of vulnerability in the humble question. He raised his sight from the elegant column of maroon flesh arising straight as a lance above the soft contours of the hairless sac. How could he not be pleased? Glorfindel was perfect, even as he'd said to Galdor that very first day. "Pleased beyond my dearest fantasy. You are magnificent, Glorfindel. My soul is content while my mind still reels to know we are betrothed, you and I." He smiled to increase the level of reassurance he hoped to impart, awed to think Glorfindel of Gondolin needed confirmation from him, and was gratified to see a more vibrant glow surround the golden warrior. "Yet I would be more pleased to combine sight with touch. Saes, Faer-hebron, let me learn what your body feels like. Let me touch you."

That impassioned request made the Balrog-slayer suck in a sharp breath. "I want that," he hesitated, "but let us both be patient a little while longer." It occurred to him that Legolas had failed to reveal the remainder of his sleek, wiry form and since he had been granted the privilege of command, he employed it. "Remove those, Cuthenin," he said, motioning casually toward the offending leggings. He watched as Legolas hastened to get out of his boots first and suddenly smiled. "Which reminds me, I have your shoes in the bedroom for you left them beside the pond."

"Did I? Thank you," whispered Legolas, rapidly discarding his footgear, heart hammering and desire surging. With speed he didn't know he possessed he unlaced his pants and whipped off the snug garment, tossing it away to proudly display his rosy red cock. His hand reached for it, seeing Glorfindel's eyes focused there, and at once the brilliant gaze lifted to his. As one they took a step forward, each reaching for the other's erection, taking hold and drawing them closer still until they stood pelvis to pelvis, free hands entwining as their mouths sealed tight in a heated kiss that was poignant in its simple unity of heart and soul.

Words failed, plans vanished, thought ceased as pure feeling swept them away in a surge of glorious welcome, a sense of being home, safe, protected, loved, desired. Their hands moved in perfect synchrony and at some point let go only to reconnect, each capturing both shafts together, Legolas' hand overlain by the Balrog-slayer's, the unified grip pumping both florid organs in time to the rising beat of passion's tempest. Kiss merged into kiss, lips sampled chins, cheeks, noses, the tender join where the throat and the jaw connected. Lost in the essential comfort of pleasuring one another, they peaked together, crying out in surprised joy as though they'd forgotten this was the inevitable conclusion, clasped together at the vital juncture, foreheads touching, eyes blind to all but the soaring jubilation of the moment.

With trembling limbs they held each other up, an almost graceless, slouching effort to remain standing as the waves of ecstasy washed them to and fro, consciousness fused, buoyed in this warm and blissful sea. In the aftermath they shifted, closed the gap, sweat-filmed bodies pressed tight, hearts pounding out the same rhythm, respiration gusting the same giddy wonder, each one's head nestled in the crook of the other's shoulder and neck, content and at peace.

Joined in spirit, they had no need for words as thought and feeling were freely exchanged, each acknowledging the wonder of such complete communion and simultaneously yearning to take it further, to experience the ultimate expression of their unique bond. Yet in this state nothing was hidden and so quite suddenly the question resurfaced: Legolas eager to ratify their bond for all eternity, Glorfindel disposed to keep to his word and wait out the full year. His reasons could not be shielded from Legolas' either and these produced a sad and resigned sigh from Cuthenin. He eased back from Glorfindel's arms enough to stand straight and gaze into the Balrog-slayer's eyes.

"You do not trust me," he whispered mournfully, but there was no anger in the words and his hurt was tempered by the knowledge of how deep Glorfindel's fears ran on this topic. His Faer-hebron was terrified to commit his heart again only to learn it was a mistake. "Not yet, at least, but you will. I will prove myself to you, Glorfindel. I, too, want our joining to be free of any doubt or hindrance from the past."

"Ah, Cuthenin, you know the guilt I suffer to have failed you in this."

"You haven't failed," insisted Legolas. "Are we not betrothed? Have you not tendered Ant Vinui to me? My impatience can be tempered, my disappointment borne." He smirked as he cast his gaze up and down the fine physique. "We can indulge as we have just now, though it is somewhat messy," he teased, chasing his finger through the smear of their combined ejaculate coating Glorfindel's belly. Then suddenly his heart lurched and he grew serious in wondrous amazement. "Ai Valar," he whispered. This was the first time he'd seen and touched an aroused male, the first time he'd witnessed any one's passionate orgasm besides his own. Hesitantly he stepped closer, laying his palms against the firm pectorals, sliding until his hands rode over the rigid nubs of the Balrog-slayer's nipples. They were hot and hard and rose higher as he uncovered them.

Fascinated, he caressed them with his thumbs, pressing down so that they popped up dark and tempting when his fingers passed. Without stopping to think he leaned low and licked one, moaning at the salty taste and the heat beneath his tongue, and dared to do the same to the other. A heavy hand descended upon his head and a deeply gratified groan rumbled up from Glorfindel's belly. He peered up and smiled, exhilarated to know this pleased his betrothed, and settled his lips around the choice bit of flesh. The sensation as it rolled against his tongue was like nothing else and feeling the increase in Glorfindel's heartbeat excited him. Cock filling rapidly, he began a thorough exploration of the warrior's body, licking, tasting, gently trying the firmness of the flesh with his teeth, noting every reaction and quickly deciphering what was pleasurable for Glorfindel and what was merely tolerable because it was Legolas doing it.

His efforts took him in a winding spiral as he moved around the upright form, caressing and soothing and sampling every millimetre of naked skin. He licked a trail from the nape of the warrior's neck to the base of the spine, kissing the dimples that marked the joint of back and arse, stopping at the taut mounds and moving back up, giving special attention to the small brand of his seal upon Glorfindel's side. Ribs were grazed, underarms nuzzled, ears lapped, their whorls mapped, elbows pinched, which made Glorfindel snicker and Legolas shrug, until he was again in front and slowly dropped to his knees, hands coming to rest firmly on tight round buttocks, and he was at eye level with the proof of his Faer-hebron's desire for him.

The Balrog-slayer's cock was hard and dark and pointed forward, the scent of it pungent with the recent release still coating the tight, hot skin. Legolas could not deny his curiosity; he'd heard much talk of the exquisite pleasure wrought by fellatio and opened his lips, fitting them over the bluntly pointed head and running his tongue over the smooth, sensitive glans. Immediately a loud cry escaped Glorfindel and the penis jumped and slid deeper inside only to withdraw and then plunge in even farther. He nearly gagged and at once Glorfindel groaned a complaint and pulled out with a soft pop, staggering back as he grabbed his cock.

"Ai, Legolas, you mustn't, beloved, for I have not sufficient will to stop you should this go further." His words were rushed and gasping and his eyes burned with both hunger and regret as they met the Wood Elf's.

Reluctantly, Cuthenin got to his feet, a sheepish apology on his lips that never found air to give it voice for Glorfindel at once pounced, arms trapping him, mouth sealing over any outcry as he kissed the sylvan with forceful stabs of his rigid tongue, obviously doing with the oral organ that action prohibited to his penis. Once more their bodies were crushed together groin to groin and Glorfindel began to thrust against the archer's slender erection, relishing the slippery friction where his cock rubbed against Cuthenin's in the groove between hip and abdomen, balls tingling when they brushed the corresponding set clustered at the root of Legolas' shaft. One of the Balrog-slayer's hands migrated down and around to knead and squeeze a supple rear, gripping the taut flesh and using it to slam Legolas hard against him on the next thrust, all the while spearing that hot, wet cavity from which muffled and stifled cries failed to escape.

His potent lunges propelled them in jags a few steps until the seat of the sofa met the back of Legolas' knees and the next shove sent them sprawling across the furniture, legs and cocks tangled in an excruciatingly erotic knot, the Balrog-slayer atop the woodland archer, still pivoting against the body captive beneath him. Their mouths were no longer locked but their eyes were, Glorfindel's afire with hunger and brilliant with exaltation over his mastery of his mate; Legolas stunned by the power and strength of the elf rocking against him, dazzled by the searing lashes of delicious friction whipping through his cock, awed by the idea that surely he was going to be mounted and claimed any second. Even as a spark of panic flared within his gut, a hand reached under his thigh and pulled it aside, making access easier, and then fingers softly pressed against his anus.

"Nae, Legolas, would that I had not made that promise," Glorfindel whispered and on the next thrust they were shoved inside, two at once, burrowing quickly toward Cuthenin's centre and even as the burning pain registered in his brain it was supplanted by a bright explosion of glorious pleasure.

"Glorfindel!"

He didn't realise he cried out, wriggling under the heavy, pounding weight as the fingers probed him, fucking him just as the massive cock would surely be doing next. Suddenly the weight lifted from his chest; Glorfindel shifted and sat beside him, watching the results of his fingers' efforts with avid delight.

"Ah Elbereth, you like it well," he smiled and jabbed with greater force, stroking the small hump with relentless pressure, devouring the Wood Elf's writhing attempts to push them deeper. He bent over the recumbent form and whispered in a blood red ear. "You want it, need it. But for that promise I would breach you, sheathe my hot, hard cock to the balls, stretch you to fit me, and fuck you so hard, make you spill and scream my name, make you mine." He paused to breathe and lick the tantalising ear, biting it so that Legolas whimpered and squirmed. He trailed his lips down the elegant throat, over the clavicle, on to the the painted pectoral and its dark red hub. Generously he lapped it, flicking the distended point with his tongue, watching Legolas arch toward his mouth. "Is this good for you?" the words blew over the wet nipple and Legolas' body shuddered from head to naked toes.

"Aye," he whispered, a breathless affirmation and a desperate plea. "Saes, saes."

Then Glorfindel's mouth was on him, licking and kissing and tasting of his lips, his ears, his neck, his chest, and all the while the doubled digits pierced and penetrated, the sensations startling and confusing. The intruding flesh pumped in and out of his arse, striking him in the hidden gland perfectly every time. Fingers or an erect penis? Was Glorfindel fucking him? Every part of his body capable of erotic sense was electrified, the points of his ears tingling, nipples thudding with a tight, achy pulse, the tip of his penis so full and distended and ready to burst, alive with jagged streaks of pure delight that disrupted his thoughts. Legolas felt his body coiling for an orgasm of unprecedented proportions.

"Are you…are we…Glorfindel… you're inside me?"

"Nay. You'll know it when I take you. This is nothing, a shadow," he whispered, spellbound as he watched the erotic display of Legolas slowly coming undone, eager to see the rigid shaft convulse and expel its bitter nectar, hungry to see the Wood Elf shaken to his core. He reached out and grabbed the elf's erection, fisting the penis tight and squeezing as he stroked in time with his delving digits. "Only my fingers inside you now, but Oh! what pleasure that will be when I take what is mine, spending my seed deep within you, driving you over the edge. Ai! You're so close, Cuthenin; let go! Let go."

It was a command he couldn't disobey even had he wished it, but Legolas was beyond any such rational considerations and on the next stroke he came to a shuddering, fulminating crescendo of song and light and love and Glorfindel, in him, fingers buried up his arse pressing that vital button; on him, hand milking his erupting penis; beside him, lips kissing his gaping and gasping mouth, whispering of love and pride in his ringing ears, daintily nibbling his tight, red nipples. He expelled semen and clear fluid and then a warm golden spurt followed, for Cuthenin was so overwhelmed that his bladder involuntarily emptied, extending the unbelievable experience a little longer. It seemed an eternity of wingless flight, of soaring free of mind and body, drifting on warm currents of pleasure unnamed and indescribable, and when it ended it left him unconscious, a limp, debauched heap draped over Glorfindel's sofa, legs spread wide, head lolling off the edge, one arm slung over the back of the seat.

The Balrog-slayer could not have been more pleased, following quickly after his young mate's explosive culmination, letting his orgasm overtake him as the sight of the pale yellow stream greeted him, its acrid scent intoxicating in a way Glorfindel had never considered it could be. Leaving his hands buried inside Legolas he primed his cock and pumped into the grip, going up on one knee to lean forward and spill his seed over the senseless elf. Seeing the spatter of white flecks hit the flushed cheeks, chest, and stomach spurred him to even greater intensity of delirious pleasure and he groaned as his softening penis suddenly hardened in his hand and he continued pumping, coaxing another spurt of seed from its minute mouth. Panting for air, he collapsed back onto the sofa and surveyed the scene, well pleased and proud of the glorious mess to which he'd reduced Legolas, already planning what games to play with him next, for it was abundantly clear the young elf's potential for startlingly erotic responses was immeasurable.

Glorfindel grinned and gently flexed his fingers, still buried inside Cuthenin, and relished the jolt that rattled through the archer, bringing him back to consciousness with a great gulp of a gasp as he called his Faer-hebron's name. The Balrog-slayer shushed him and stroked the tender spot, catching his breath as Legolas drew his knees in and laid them wide apart, exposing himself, eyes pleading, for pity of punishment he couldn't tell and for the moment did not care. Glorfindel slowly pulled the fingers down the tight, cramped canal and just when it seemed he would withdraw them completely, thrust them in again just as slowly, ending with another tickle at the swollen gland.

"Ah! Glorfindel!" Legolas wailed, grabbing at the back of the sofa for support as he weathered the waves of sensation, something between agony and delicious solace. He stared, mesmerised by the devouring beryl, eyes that noted every twitch and tremor his body made with obscene relish. The fingers probed him again and the Balrog-slayer spoke.

"That was magnificent, Cuthenin. Watching you surrender to my touch was almost as wondrous as covering you in my essence," he said, voice husky and edged in smut though he had yet to lap up any of the piquant residue of their mutual gratification. He probed the archer's secret spot and grinned when Legolas strained both against it and into it. "I'm going to make you come again, but I have a feeling it will take quite some time before there's anything to spill. If I recall our instructions from Galdor correctly, the only thing that cannot go in here," he made another deep thrust that had Cuthenin trembling and made him moan, "is my cock. As long as I do not spill in you, nothing else is forbidden. Nothing."

The way he pronounced the word turned it into a seductive promise, or a titillating threat, but either way Legolas felt his penis hardening under the relentless stimulation as the fingers retreated and re-entered him so sluggishly, infiltrating by degrees, penetrating him until the bony knuckles of Glorfindel's hand dug into his flesh. Gently he petted the dear, tender place inside that yielded a feeling that was some kind of magic elixir or dark spell, potent wine or bitter poison, holy incense or heady aphrodisiac. He wanted it to stop; he needed it to continue unending for ever more.

"Ai! What have you done to me?" he cried, voice breaking as the relentless hand stimulated him, turning his gut to jelly and his mind to a thousand buzzing stars. Urgently he tried to press down as they retreated, trying to keep them there in that sensitive place, trying to expel them from his body. "Don't stop," he gasped, seeing concern flicker through Glorfindel's eyes as the fingers momentarily faltered.

A triumphant grin replaced the worried look and the digits plowed in, plunging hard and landing such a forceful jab at the prostate that Legolas' whole body shook and he was momentarily blinded by the streaks of brilliance lancing through his nerves. His back arched off the cushions, his head bent back, his legs struggled to fly wider still, his nipples protruded, thrust forward in hopes of finding something to suckle them, and his cock stood up straight as an arrow, supported by the emptied testes tucked tight under the rejuvenated root.

"Ai Cuthenin," Glorfindel breathed, awestruck with this vision of wanton submission. He leaned over the jutting cock and kissed it, a sweet lingering kiss that ended with a lavish lick at the dry slit, fingering the internal gland softly at the same time. Legolas screamed, an unintelligible cry that might have been his name but it really didn't matter.

"Have pity!" Legolas gasped out, watching as his Faer-hebron shifted, advancing closer to his chest, pausing to rub his insides again and enjoy the twitching lament this raised before closing in on the heart spiral. "Have mercy, Tawar nin beria, have me!"

Legolas was near tears as the mouth settled on his nipple and sucked, the tongue dancing over the sensitised flesh as suction drew it in and held it bound. He watched as Glorfindel pulled back, retaining the suction as long as possible and adding his teeth to the procedure. Frantically Legolas leaned up into the delectable pain, never having imagined anything could feel so good and so bad simultaneously. He watched as the skin stretched, escalating the searing, tingling pleasure until the aureole eased out, indistinguishable from Glorfindel's ruby lips at first, and then the whole node at last popped free, bouncing back wet and rigid. Cuthenin groaned, writhing as the fingers stroked him and Glorfindel did the same to its twin.

The Balrog-slayer experienced his first disappointment of the afternoon when he discovered he could not reach Cuthenin's ears while he had his fingers inside him, at least not with the archer in this despoiled and debauched position, and that he had no desire to alter. The only answer was to find a substitute for his fingers and while he ran through a long list of items he could use, Glorfindel began to clean off some of the fluids smeared over the slender body, savouring especially the sharp taste of the urine, wondering if Legolas was aware of how far he'd fallen, how much he'd surrendered. Not wanting anything to make such complete collapse rare, he decided to keep quiet about it until he devised the right way to compliment and praise Cuthenin, for truly Glorfindel was impressed and no little bit proud of having elicited such total loss of control.

"Glorfindel, saes, I can't…" Legolas moaned, caught between the delight these attentions invoked and the unendurable stress and tension of being ever on this narrow edge, too close to orgasm to think of anything else, too far to be comforted by the relentless stimulation. He raised frantic eyes to Glorfindel, not knowing how to express this, unable to find words in his state of elevated arousal. "Saes," he wailed, bearing down on the digits that had just stroked him again.

Glorfindel heard the desperation in those tones and realised he had perhaps pushed things too far. Legolas was wound so tightly he was no longer enjoying the experience. At once guilt flooded every thought and he chastised himself; this was not the way to train his mate and would serve only to make Legolas wary of future experiments in penetration. He deemed the time ripe to ease the sylvan down to a calmer mood yet to leave him in so excited a condition would likely make him testy and sullen. The only way to avoid this ill-humour was to take Cuthenin back to the heights of release as quickly as possible. Eagerly, Glorfindel took hold of the rigid pole projecting from the crux of the far-flung legs.

"Nín anirad-en-ind, (My Heart's Desire) do not neglect me so," he whispered plaintively, once more rising to his knees on the sofa, shuffling closer so that his cock was within arm's reach of the prone elf. As he spoke, he began stroking the shaft within his grip more quickly. "I would come with you."

As he'd known it would, this plea for attention was instantly answered and a warm, firm fist encircled his erection, making him groan and buck into the touch. Yet the greater goal was not merely to assure his pleasure, too; Glorfindel rightly concluded that forcing Legolas to focus beyond his somatic responses would enable him to relax and enjoy the activity again.

"Valar, Glorfindel, you feel so…" Legolas truly had no adjectives sufficient to render this description. His Faer-hebron was well endowed both in length and girth and the balls at the base of the shaft were equally impressive, swaying as he moved into the steady beat of Cuthenin's hand, slapping lightly against it. Impulsively he let go and palmed the smooth sac, tenderly squeezing the hidden glands, and immediately the Balrog-slayer let out a roar of surprise and delight. At the same time, his fingers zeroed in on Legolas' prostate and wrung a shout from the archer. Before Legolas could catch his breath, Glorfindel's tongue invaded his parted lips and kissed him thoroughly. They parted with a soft sucking sound, faces transformed into smiles as the joint effort to bring them to completion escalated.

"Tell me," Glorfindel panted.

"What?"

"What were you going to say?" he asked, eyes glinting with roguish devilment. "About the cock you are so masterfully teasing." He leaned in for another kiss, half-chuckling, half-moaning, for Legolas repeated the careful palpation of his scrotum.

"I am not teasing it," insisted Legolas."

"But will you not tell me?" Glorfindel thrust forcefully into the compelling grip, watching the penis slide through the hole made by the archer's deadly fingers. "Tell me," he whispered.

"I was going to say only that you are magnificent," sighed Legolas once his mind cleared from the searing jolt of plunging fingers, which were now keeping time with the rhythm of his hand.

"Only that?" Mock disappointment cloaked the words and Glorfindel lifted baleful eyes.

"Nay," he breathed, a sharp gasp punctuating the word as the Balrog-slayer's thumb caressed the glans of his penis. He imitated the gesture and felt the bulging organ twitch in his grip. "Potent. Magnificently potent." He groaned in an agony of delicious sensation as Glorfindel simultaneously stroked his core, squeezed his cock, and daintily licked at his nipples. "I want to see it explode," he managed several panting breaths later. This being his first time sharing such intimate converse with his Faer-hebron, Legolas was unprepared for the effect of these words. His wish was granted; the dark red tip suddenly disgorging a thick clot of white semen which fell with a heavy splat upon his navel, the sound covered by the exultant cry from Glorfindel's lungs as he rocked forward and collapsed atop Legolas.

Stunned for a second, Legolas slowly felt his heart expand in a new emotion comprised of pride and nurturing love, ecstatic to have brought about so complete a loss of composure and obvious pleasure, as well as having learned an important point: Glorfindel was very receptive to banter of a lewd and lascivious nature whilst engaged in love-making. Legolas grinned, letting go of the sofa to caress the head bowed against his chest, murmuring silly endearments to his beloved, not caring in the least that he was still hard and horny with those inexorable fingers buried inside him.

Glorfindel was too dazzled by the experience to remember at first that the entire purpose of distracting Legolas had been to ease him into orgasm. He simply lay still and shivered, transported on fleet wings of desire to regions of existence only visited when he was with Cuthenin. That thought alone made it through the cresting waves of pleasure, for while he had known many lovers and enjoyed them all, this was the first time Glorfindel had experienced release with the companion of his heart and soul. It was enough to bring him perilously near tears until he became cognisant of the hard nub of a pert nipple poking him in the cheek. It was the simplest move to turn his head and devour it. Legolas snatched at his hair and squawked out an unintelligible exclamation, wiggling under the stimulation without much success, weighted down as he was.

Energised and enervated, Glorfindel lifted himself from the prone body, keeping hold of the tender flesh until the last possible moment, relishing the continuous cries of delight from Legolas, and once more took up the archer's cock. Eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction, Glorfindel sat back and pumped it for all he was worth, pressing the inner zone of erotic fulfilment repeatedly, his fingers cramped and going numb from the incessant compression imposed by the surrounding walls of muscle. He watched as Legolas grunted and strained, tensing under the dual assault, knowing it would not take long now, wondering whether there would be anything to expel when the moment of climax came.

"Ai Valar, you are beautiful like this, Legolas," he whispered, enthralled by the sight. "Come for me, Cuthenin; come for me now."

As before, his command was obeyed and a harsh gasp stole the air from Legolas' lungs as his body convulsed, going stiff and motionless as the sudden fire of a dry orgasm raced through him, a hot and searing sensation that was almost painful as his muscles rippled and rocked in the effort to pump out fluid it did not have. Mercifully, Glorfindel stopped tickling his insides and let him get through it, the fingers finally easing out of him as the tight grip around his penis relented. A burst of panic filled him; he'd become so used to the fulness that all at once he felt empty and abandoned. He called for his Faer-hebron in despair and longing and the cry was answered at once. As soon as his hands were free, Glorfindel reached for him and gathered him up, cradling him close against his heart, rocking him to and fro.

"Beloved," he spoke, the tone half-fearful. "Carnal intercourse or not, I think this bond is sealed."

Legolas was too happy and too exhausted to do more than nod his affirmation against the broad, warm chest where his cheek rested, content to listen to the mighty heart where his spirit was nestled, safe and secure.

They were in the tub when the rude disturbance interrupted the necessary ablutions.

Nearing its close, the day had taken a decided turn for the better, Legolas reflected, a pleased smile upon his lips and a soft sigh in his soul. He'd fallen into reverie in Glorfindel's arms, the two of them curled around one another on the sofa, and there he'd rested in the snuggest, warmest corner of his Faer-hebron's soul, rebuilding his strength and renewing his stamina. The slow emergence into alert and wakeful consciousness was accompanied by a soft and gentle song of love and he found himself smiling, gazing into those amazing beryl eyes. Kisses were exchanged and then he was gathered up as Glorfindel rose, carried off into areas of the Balrog-slayer's house Legolas had never visited. They passed through the sleeping chamber with its neatly made bed, the mattress beckoning them to come and reduce it to complete deshabille, but they resisted temptation and went on through another hallway to the bathing room.

Here they soaked and washed one another until Legolas' obvious discomfort was too much for Glorfindel. He made Legolas a fresh new bath with steaming water, rejuvenating herbs, and essential oils, the fluid shallow so to concentrate the effective properties of the healing ingredients. Back into the tub he put the woodland warrior and stood back to survey the scene, unable to hide his growing excitement. He hurried to gather the remaining supplies he needed and climbed in, watching the water slosh over the enticing figure of his betrothed and wishing he could be like the liquid which surrounded, enveloped, lapped, caressed, soothed, and seeped inside the Wood Elf's body.

Cuthenin reclined on the floor of the half-filled basin, braced up, knees bent and arms locked behind him. He was panting lightly and let his head fall back, slowly leaning down onto his elbows so that his hair floated on the water's surface and his nipples pointed to the ceiling while between his legs everything was on open display. The cock projected just its head above the water line while the balls rose to bob around its base, revealing the raw and inflamed hole. Into it Glorfindel slid the long wooden handle of his back-scrubbing sponge, the implement well greased with a soothing lotion designed to promote rapid healing of bruises and abrasions, both of which Cuthenin had sustained during their adventurous experiment in sexual stimulation permitted by the precepts of Faras-uin-Ind.

Of course, if the tool just happened to reach a certain spot and gently massage it, there was nothing Glorfindel could do about that. In fact, the Balrog-slayer was determined to coat every inch of Legolas' abused anal canal with the healing salve, filled with regret to have invaded that virgin channel with dry fingers, two at once, and then rammed them with repeated force against the sensitive internal gland. Not to mention that the ridge of his knuckles had punched Cuthenin's rear end with every intrusive thrust. It would be neither easy nor comfortable for him to remain seated at the Fellowship dinner that night. To make up for his thoughtless deed and to ensure Legolas' discomfort was minimised as much as possible, he worked the handle slowly it in and out, swirled and turned it, removed it to reapply the ointment, inserted it at a different angle, wiggled it up and down and in general fucked Legolas with it as thoroughly as he knew how.

"Ai, Glorfindel," Legolas cooed, shuddering as the slim rod tap-tap-tapped at his prostate, in and out, out and in.

"Like that, do you?" smirked the Balrog-slayer, giving the back-scrubber a twisting thrust on the next move, fascinated by the way the puckered entrance had sealed around it and fought to keep it inside, the red rim alternately protruding when he drew it out and folding back inside itself when he reinserted the wooden dowel. Never had he used the cleansing implement in this manner and doubted he would ever be able to look at it without growing hard and needing to masturbate, this image of Legolas seared upon his brain as he pumped. Indeed, right on cue the Wood Elf groaned and strained forward, trying to take more of it in, and Glorfindel obliged, easing it deeper, sawing it briefly against the internal swell.

"Valar!" Legolas shouted, gasping for air, wishing he could grab his cock and pound it into glorious, spurting submission. He raised his head with difficulty, for Glorfindel probed him again more deeply, working the hard stick in a quick circle, the motion feeling like he was being reamed and bored, fitted with a new hole, one ready to accept the Balrog-slayer's cock whensoever he chose to give it to him. "Oh, I'm ready now," he moaned in heated yearning, peering at his ramrod rigid penis where it quivered between his legs. "Saes, Glorfindel, I want you, need you."

"Nay, Legolas, nay," Glorfindel whispered, almost salivating as he watched, stroking his erection rapidly while he teased his betrothed closer to orgasm. He glanced at the head of the shaft rearing out of the water, hungry to see it shoot off, to hear Cuthenin scream his name and beg for more. He pulled the dowel almost all the way out and then shoved it back its entire length, which he had to admit was longer than his organ even at its most distended, and thrilled to see the reaction, for Legolas did scream, jerking and pulling his legs right up out of the water as he curled onto his back, head thrown back and throat exposed, panting through gaping lips, blue eyes hidden behind lids sealed into creases. Surely the next plunge would send him over the edge even though no other part of his body had been touched since the 'treatment' began. Before he could conclude the therapy, an abrasive staccato of banging and rapping arose from the parlour.

"Glorfindel!" a muffled voice drifted to them, the anger and volume with which the name was shouted evident to both bathers. They shared a surprised and aggrieved look upon recognising the voice.

"Nae, do NOT answer," demanded Legolas, frantic to experience his third climax of the day, a personal best, wriggling his bottom to secure a firmer grip on the elusive tool which seemed ever to want to slip away, just as it was now. "Glorfindel, don't!"

"What in Mordor does he want?" complained Glorfindel, thrusting the handle back briskly and smiling as Legolas nearly came up off the floor of the basin, his shout certainly loud enough for Erestor to hear it. He eased the back-scrubber out to what could only be described as a sob. Quickly he coated it with the thick salve and inserted it again, gasping when Legolas howled, the cry feral and harsh. There he held it fixed, watching the tremors racing through Cuthenin's body as he strained to draw it in, to get it to move. "Ai, you are almost there, aren't you?" At last he shoved the handle deeper and touched on the tender spot, thrilled by the idea of the seneschal being an auditory witness to his command of the young elf, knowing the Noldorin Lord would assume he was fucking Legolas.

"Yes! Valar, I need…"

"Glorfindel, I need to speak with you! It is important!" the strident tones of the seneschal's words could not hide the lurid fascination he felt, knowing what was going on, or at least assuming he did. Erestor simultaneously wanted to interrupt this erotic encounter and hear it come to conclusion. More than once, he'd considered approaching Glorfindel about sharing the Wood Elf, thinking he could keep his beloved if he allowed the sylvan archer into their bed to be shared between them.

"I think I must go and see what this is about," suggested Glorfindel, ramming the tool home with almost vicious force. Again a tremendous shout left Cuthenin's lungs and he struggled in the throes of the sensation. "We'll have to stop for now." Glorfindel started retracting the dowel, hoping the reaction would be as he imagined.

It was.

"No! Don't you dare stop, Glorfindel," panted Legolas, awkwardly trying to follow the disappearing rod, sloshing water everywhere as he shimmied in the tub. "Finish me!"

"Legolas, if I do that Erestor will hear everything. Do you want that?" He whispered, sliding the scrubber against the prostate more gently, wiggling it around for good measure. Legolas' cock was distended and dark, seeping a trickle of clear fluid from its tiny orifice. As he watched, a drop welled up and flowed over the glans, draining into the tub in a delicate dendritic spiral.

"I will not be ignored, Glorfindel! Nor will I be unjustly accused and your precious sylvan sylph will answer for it!" From outside, Erestor pounded harder on the door, hoping to get inside and witness in fact what his imagination presented.

"No, I don't want that; he's vile," wailed Legolas and the next second screamed as the slender pole jabbed at him so sweetly once more. "Oh, please, touch me, Glorfindel, make me come."

"I think it would be better to leave it inside you while I deal with Erestor. When I come back, I'll resume the treatment, all right?"

"Answer me, Glorfindel!"

"Valar, Glorfindel, don't leave me like this!"

"As you wish," he crooned, so hard himself now that he could stand no more. He plunged the handle in and out rapidly, deeply, vigourously so that Cuthenin bucked in the water and cried a continuous stream of unintelligible expletives, going silent and freezing as the moment came, gulping in a huge breath as his back bent in a lovely arch and his legs parted wider in a spasm of ecstasy. The air came back out in a howl of pure delight as the ruby red cock spat a trickle of seed into the savagely crashing bath water. Before the glorious experience dulled, the Balrog-slayer gave the handle a few more thrusts just to take Legolas higher and could not suppress his own eruption, watching the way the muscles rippled and rolled across his betrothed's body as the sensation washed through him.

"Ah, Legolas, nín orthoradron lend (my sweet conqueror)," he groaned, lurching forward until his spurting cock rested atop Cuthenin's deflating one, the resultant ribbons of seed twisting and slithering over his belly to join the archer's expended essence.

For several minutes there was only silence, within and without the house, save for the laboured efforts the lovers required to meet their bodies' need for oxygen.

"That was amazing," sighed Legolas, shivering in the residual rivulets of glorious gratification. Then he giggled. "Orthoradron lend?"

"Aye," said Glorfindel, defensively sheepish, not having realised he'd actually voiced that resounding thought, and forced himself upright again. With care he eased out the long-handled stick. "Well, such mastery of the heart is not so difficult to bear after all."

Into this gentle dialogue the knocking on the door resumed, the sound now muted and mournful, and the voice that joined was no longer demanding or insistent. "Glorfindel, please, I would not come here if the cause was unimportant. My integrity and my very career are at risk because of these charges."

"What is he talking about?" Glorfindel dreaded to even ask, certain whatever was going on would spoil the wondrous accord just developed between him and Legolas. Besides, he was not prepared to discuss how exciting the idea of having their love-making observed by Erestor had been.

"I have not made any charges," insisted Legolas, pulling himself into a sitting position, unable to hide the wince as his much used rear throbbed in protest. "Tirn'wador is taking care of it. Someone stole your gift from my room and placed it in Boromir's." He raised a hand to stall the inevitable outburst gathering in Glorfindel's eyes. "Along with the traditional box, this person left a scroll to make sure Boromir knew whose property he held in his possession. My name, rank, and lineage were clearly defined. He scoured the Last Homely House seeking for 'Ernil Legolas of the Woodland Realm'. Everyone in the valley knows."

Glorfindel was already out of the tub, snatching up a towel and stomping into the bedroom, muttering curses under his breath as he went. He did not wait to find clothes, pulling on a robe and cinching it at the waist with a vicious flourish. Motion caught his notice and he glanced over to find Legolas peering wide-eyed through the bathroom door, no doubt wondering if the Balrog-slayer was about to lose his temper and what would happen if he did.

"You'd best remain soaking until I return; you'll be sore tonight for certain otherwise. I'll handle Erestor," he commanded. Not waiting for confirmation, he strode from the room, robe billowing in his wake.

Legolas was not about to miss this and trotted with stilted steps to the prominent wardrobe rummaging amid the garments for one of Glorfindel's tunics and belting this around his slight frame. All his clothes were scattered on the floor of the sitting room but he could not deny a certain smug satisfaction over that, knowing Erestor would see the horrific mess they'd left there and understand its cause. To drive the point home and solidify his claim on Glorfindel's heart, he would go forth just like this: still wet, still flushed from his release, genitals barely covered by the tunic that just reached his thighs. Maybe he would have to bend down to reclaim his garments; maybe he would let Glorfindel pick them up and hand them to him to prevent it.

Smiling over the look certain to cross the haughty seneschal's face, he moved to the mirror on the dresser to fiddle with his hair but a sight reflected there stole his attention. As promised, his shoes were here, settled toe first just under the edge of Glorfindel's bed right next to a pair of dark blue velvet slippers embroidered in silver thread. Seeing them there, as though they belonged, as though they were accustomed to resting here in this room, made his heart swell up and turn over in the sweetest kind of aching longing he had ever known. He let them stay and padded off down the hallway barefoot, halting just outside the parlour where the former lovers were already arguing.

"I should not have disturbed you," Erestor said quietly, the pain in his voice evident.

"Yet here you are," answered Glorfindel, annoyance and undeniable gloating pride evident in his. "Say what you must; Legolas has already informed me he hasn't made any complaint against you."

"Galdor has. I came to tell you I am not involved in this scheme. I have held to my promise to let Legolas be. When I give my word, it is as the will of Manwë. You know this about me."

"So I have long believed," sniffed Glorfindel, "yet few were aware of Legolas' situation in Thranduil's family. How do you explain it?"

"I cannot. Lord Elrond is interrogating the servants. He hopes to find someone who will indict me and I fear the true miscreant may do just that to cover his or her own transgressions."

"It is unlikely anyone else would care so much to cause Cuthenin this anguish. I know not why you sought me out; there is nothing I can do to prevent someone from speaking against you."

"You could speak for me when that time comes," pleaded Erestor. "Your support would mean everything, the difference between permanent banishment from my home and only a protracted, unpleasant stay among Gildor's roaming outcasts."

"You expect me to plead your case?" Glorfindel's brash laugh echoed through the room. "If this fate befalls you, can you deny you have earned it?"

"I do deny it!" whined Erestor. "I swear I had nothing to do with it."

"Even so, your sins are many, especially against me. I will not intercede for you, Erestor of Imladris. Go; I will hear no more." Glorfindel escorted him out, eager to return to Legolas and console him over this new vexation, only to enter the corridor and find his beloved Wood Elf leaning against the wall beside the threshold, head bowed upon the arm that supported him there. "Cuthenin? Do not be upset, Elrond will punish him, as you surely heard."

"Aye, I did and thought I would be glad about it, but somehow I feel terrible," admitted Legolas, lifting confused eyes to Glorfindel's. "Faer-hebron, I believe him."

"He is clever and well-versed in the art of inspiring others to believe in him," groused Glorfindel, taking Cuthenin by the arm and leading him to the bedroom, examining his garb with amusement. "You were coming in there to boast and make your claim abundantly clear," he said, feeling very proud and pleased by that notion, but Legolas' gloomy features clouded with guilty remorse.

"I was. What cruelty is in me to do that? He has repented his early mistreatment and while that elf I would like to beat into unconsciousness for the wrongs he did you, he is no longer here. Just as you are changed and renewed, Erestor has finally awakened to a new self also. His heart, however, has not forgotten you. I pity him now and want no part of hurting him further."

"How can you name yourself cruel and say these things?" Glorfindel wondered, surprised by the wisdom and compassion in the younger elf. "You shame me, for I was indeed pleased to lead him to the place where our bond was sealed. Ai! It did cause him pain to be there and I gloated over it. Cuthenin, you're betrothed to a loathsome ogre of an elf."

"What are we to do about him? I don't want him to suffer more; the heartache is sufficient for he is grieving. Is it not enough that his pining may bring him to fading?"

"Aye it is. We should see Galdor and Elrond and speak in Erestor's behalf."

So saying, the two collected their garments, dressed, and left the house together. Scarcely had they gone ten steps when they encountered Gimli, the dwarf lurking about near the hedges fronting Glorfindel's property. Coming upon him was clearly a surprise to the elves, for he had remained silent in his vigil and shorter stature ensured invisibility until the Balrog-slayer opened the gate. Realising at once what he was intruding upon, based on some rather noisy evidence, Gimli had elected to wait patiently for the lovers to emerge.

Lovers indeed, Gimli thought, sight flickering between the elves, noting the proprietary way the elder warrior's hand rested in the small of Legolas' back. He also caught the uncertainty and embarrassment in the sylvan's eyes, the faint tinge of rose rising in his cheeks, the anxious glance he gave the Balrog-slayer. Gimli frowned; this was not how he wanted things to be and for that reason he'd come to settle this matter with his elven friend. He chewed on the word, appraising Legolas objectively, removing the unpleasant familial relationship to Mirkwood's King, and found the term still appropriate. He smiled suddenly and bowed low so that his beard nearly swept the ground.

"Gimli, son of Gloín, at your service," he announced gruffly and stood straight to observe the result of this, the nearest he could come to apology.

Legolas swallowed, throat tight and achy. He knew the proper greeting and dreaded to give it, but failure to do so would indicate he had no wish to continue his friendship with the dwarf. He stepped forward beyond Glorfindel's steadying hand and bowed. "Legolas Thranduilion, at yours and your family's." He found the dwarf giving a pleased nod when he straightened up. "Gimli, I want to explain why I didn't tell you who I am."

"No need!" bellowed Gimli, face clouding in ferocity as he lifted his broad hand up.

This, too, was a typical tactic among his people, who prized their privacy and for whom sharing a secret was the greatest sign of trust and friendship. The polite thing to do, and the only way to ensure the person's desire to share was genuine, was to feign no interest and then wait to see if the other party repeated the offer. This must be done twice before the actual information could be told. To say he waited in anxious hope was not an exaggeration, for Gimli found he truly enjoyed Legolas' company. The sylvan elf was a warrior first and foremost, upheld a strict code of honour, and was devout according to the precepts of his religion, strange though Gimli might find them. It was all a rather dwarvish demeanour that he secretly found highly commendable and rather amusing in an elf.

"Nay, you must permit me to tell you," Legolas pleaded. "Only in this way can I hope to make you understand that the slight was not intentional."

"You do not need to convince me. Besides, this is personal business of an elvish nature, perhaps."

"It is personal, that's true, but I would prefer to tell you about it and remove any doubts from your mind before we venture from the valley to face Eru alone knows what horrors. Mayhap even death. I would not have this remain between us."

"As I have said, I require no proofs from you, elf, but if it will ease your mind to speak then I will gladly listen," Gimli's grin was tremendous as he silently laughed at the sylvan's ability to conduct himself as a proper Khuzd. (Dwarf) He directed his next words to Glorfindel. "If you will excuse us, this is a private matter, Lord Glorfindel." With that Gimli motioned Legolas to follow and set off. Hearing no footsteps, he glanced back to observe the couples' good-byes.

"Namarië, Mellethen," said Glorfindel. He'd understood at once what this trouble was about, for he remembered well the party of dwarves Mithrandir had led into Imladris on the way to Erebor. The wizard had carried the tale of the adventure back with him and everyone in the valley knew about Thranduil's decision to imprison the dwarves. He gave Legolas a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder and a smile.

Self-consciously, Legolas leaned up on his toes and brushed his lips over Glorfindel's in farewell, but when he moved to withdraw found himself suddenly captured in a steely embrace, his lips devoured in a searing kiss of smouldering promise. "Oh!" he gasped when he was released, Gimli momentarily forgotten as he stared in wonder at this amazing elf who was now his. "Ab'eveditham, Mellethen." (We will meet later, my love.) he managed.

"Aye, abdolo enni sen dû," (return to me tonight) murmured Glorfindel, and let Legolas go, watching the slender sylvan saunter off with the stocky dwarf, amused and proud of Legolas for facing up to the unpleasant issue. Elbereth, he is unique and familiar, fascinating and comfortable, erotic and comforting all at once. Am I a fool to wait out the year? Unable to judge this coherently, Glorfindel took himself off in search of Arwen, certain her guidance would enlighten him.

"Where should we go?" asked Gimli, eyes upon Legolas' pensive features. The estate was tremendous and he had explored little of it, sticking to the main house and the training grounds. "The valley teems with listening ears and peering eyes."

"Truly," Legolas shook his head with a disgruntled frown. "I just learned that the talan where I was staying is subject to the leering inspection of Lord Erestor at any time, day or night. Tirn'wador has moved me inside next to his apartment."

"Mahal! That is not seemly behaviour," exclaimed Gimli. "I saw and heard his yammering excuses just now. I would not believe his story, Hammer Hands, if it were me who had been slighted." He kept pace with Cuthenin, noting with approval how the lanky legged Wood Elf shortened his stride without making any show of it.

"I don't like him, that I must admit," sighed Legolas, "but now I no longer think he was responsible." As he walked he tried to think of a deserted spot where he might speak freely to Gimli. At once the little garden by the pond came to mind and he altered his direction. "Come, I know a quiet glade not far away."

In a matter of minutes they reached the place where the horrendous day had taken its most terrible plunge into misery. Surveying it now, Legolas found it no longer pained him to think of the argument, considering the new level of understanding he and Glorfindel had achieved because of it. Perhaps the same will be the result with Gimli, for he seems as eager as I to mend this old grievance between our families. Resolved to do whatever was necessary to convince him, Legolas turned and motioned for the dwarf to take a seat on the bench. As he had done once before, the sylvan warrior suspended his natural pride and settled down on the grass close to Gimli's feet, so to look him in the eyes as he spoke.

"What I have to tell you might cause you to despise me or view me with contempt," he began quietly, holding the dwarf's eyes bravely. He had no idea how the dwarves viewed an illegitimate birth but rather thought they would scorn such a dishonourable start to life.

"How so? You have already said you were not in the stronghold when my father arrived. You could not have had any say in how he was treated," Gimli replied, intrigued by this serious and solemn warning.

"Aye, but what I must tell you has nothing to do with Erebor," Legolas went on, finding he had to drop his eyes. "I wanted to keep my real status secret from everyone because it is such an embarrassment to my father, to my people, and to me." He stopped, a pang assaulting his heart as he considered the consequences of his next few words. Even the idea of losing Gimli's respect was distasteful beyond expectation. He hadn't sufficient energy to be surprised by that, simply accepting that it was so.

Gimli's face folded into a scowling mask of confusion. What could make a father embarrassed to have so fine a son? Suddenly his eyes went wide and colour rose to his bearded cheeks. "Oh!" Now he felt certain what Legolas was about to tell him. Only that most ancient of shames could taint the character of such a valiant elf and the dwarf had no desire to force his friend to speak of it. "If it is nothing to do with Erebor, then you need say no more."

"You have guessed," Legolas watched him keenly, hurting inside for if Gimli figured it out surely the others would, too. His shoulders slumped and he sighed, folding his legs under him and covering his face with his hands. "I just wanted to be Legolas Cuthenin, a warrior of the Woodland Realm, determined to help defray our error in losing Gollum. I was so proud to be chosen by Mithrandir. Valar, can you imagine Boromir's reaction? From prince to bastard in a matter of hours, and of course he'll think I was the one who left that scroll, trying to make myself seem more important than he."

"Nargûn," (Mordor) growled Gimli, his expression as black as the curse he uttered. "I for one will not permit that haughty man to defame you," he announced, sitting forward to settle his huge hand upon the Wood Elf's shoulder. Legolas did not look so fierce and valiant right now and the dwarf was of a mind to wonder just how old his new friend really was. The wide blue eyes lifted to meet his, the elf's gaze filled with relief and gratitude.

"You would still support me? I didn't know whether it was unseemly for someone of your rank to have a friend with such base origins," he said. "It was amazing enough to find we are so compatible, an elf and a dwarf." He smiled and his back straightened somewhat.

"I will remain your friend and make no distinction between you and me. Though a Lord among my people, as is my father, I have many brothers who are not," Gimli paused, watching Legolas' interest build. He could not help but trust the elf after such a wrenching admission. "I do not hold them less my friends and kin because of their lack of status."

"I am gratified to hear it. Is it dwarvish custom to keep more than one female? Has your father many wives?" Legolas was intrigued.

"Well, it is not something we talk about, even among our own kind, but there are few dwarf females, much fewer than there are males. It is common for one wife to keep many husbands; a primary mate whose name and family she will join, and numerous other 'little husbands' who provide extra children for the clan. As long as these secondary lovers are within the same clan as her primary, none of the children suffer scorn. Even so, those male children remain lesser for all their days and are doomed to become nothing but secondaries themselves when they mature."

"Ai, I feel for those who have no chance to make a change in their fortune simply because they were not born of the primary mating. That is how it is for me; no matter what I do I can never be more than a mistake my father learned to love."

"No, I do not believe that. A mistake? Hardly!" boomed Gimli, thumping the elf on the shoulder as though to crush that notion flat. "Eru does not make mistakes. You were born to take part in this dangerous endeavour, Legolas. Why you were meant to be born outside the sanctifying shield of marriage, I cannot guess. Perhaps it is to make those of us who do have that benefit realise what a gift it is, and not something we earned." He slid from the bench and tugged the Wood Elf upright. "Come along; we're expected at this bloody dinner. Do not spare a thought for Boromir; his opinion is meaningless."

"But I will have to serve beside him on the quest. How am I to endure his sneering looks and derisive insults? No doubt he will find this both amusing and disgusting at the same time. As for the Hobbits, I don't know what they'll make of it. Do you suppose they will shun me?" Legolas gave no thought at all to the ease with which he entrusted these fears to his comrade, for it felt perfectly natural and comfortable to do so. He missed Sûlchim terribly and found Gimli an admirable replacement.

"Boromir may be arrogant and self-serving, but he is also a soldier. He will not let his personal bias endanger the mission. Besides, Mithrandir will not permit him to antagonise you. As for the Halflings, I can't imagine they will hold this against you. They do not seem like that sort of people to me. In fact, I'd be willing to wager they will continue to treat you like a prince, gazing with awe and respect and admiration. Especially Sam." Gimli relished the role of 'elder brother' and that was the main thing he missed about being so far from home. Among his many lesser brothers, he was regarded as wise and thoughtful; never a day passed that one of his kin did not seek him for counsel or simply to pour out a tale of woe, as Legolas was doing now.

"Ai! That's almost just as bad," laughed Legolas, considerably more light-hearted than he had been before unburdening his soul. "Sam is always just on the verge of speaking to me and then he loses his nerve and just stares and stares."

"Hah! Pippin is worse. Have you noticed his hints about learning to use a bow? He wishes to emulate you."

"I could make him a bow," Legolas said, thoughtful as he considered this. "It would be just for hunting small game, but I'm sure he could learn."

"Nay, better to teach him to throw a good, solid axe. That way, he can catch a meal and kill an enemy both," argued Gimli.

"He is not made for axe-throwing. Hobbits are not built like small sturdy mountains, as are the dwarves."

"Well, they aren't shaped like tall springy saplings as you are, either," laughed Gimli.

"Sapling? I am not like a sapling."

"You are. You are young and very very green."

"Nay, I've been in many battles. More than you, I'm sure. I've probably killed over a thousand Orcs by now."

"Oh a thousand, is it? That's a very large number." Gimli's sarcasm was as thick as his incredulity.

"Perhaps that is a slight exaggeration," Legolas blushed. "Still, I am an accomplished warrior among my people."

"No doubt."

"You do doubt it?"

"Did I say anything?"

"Your tone implies it. I know I have killed more Orcs than you, for I fight them every day."

"Of course you do," Gimli teased, having great fun making the elf get all flustered and bristly.

"Ai! You mock me!"

"Nay, I simply cannot say I entirely trust your claims." The dwarf's eyes twinkled merrily. "Perhaps we could place a small wager on it."

"On what?"

"On who shall kill the most Orcs on this quest. Naturally, I'm certain to be the winner."

"Oh, that is a bet I will gladly take!" exclaimed Legolas, looking upon his friend with no small amount of pity. "You are doomed to lose."

"You are ripe for a come-uppance, with that arrogant attitude," chuckled Gimli, rubbing his heavy hands in avaricious glee. "Now, what do you wager?"

"I haven't much," admitted Legolas. He considered long and frowned. "I confess I can think of nothing I possess that a dwarf would want."

"Mayhap there is something an elf would want that you can offer," said Gimli. "You can craft me a bow."

"What? You can not draw a bow; your arms are too short."

"They are not! What you are really saying is that you lack the skill to adapt the craft to withstand the power of dwarven muscles. I would snap that bow of yours to splinters if ever I should pull the string."

"Impossible, for you could never even extend it to a full draw," scoffed Legolas, "but maybe I could make you a bow of iron or steel."

"Haw! Haw!" Now Gimli almost fell over laughing. "A Wood Elf thinks he can work metal! Mahal save us, it will crumble in a pile of brittle fragment on the first use!"

Legolas bore the ribbing with good grace, admitting he knew nothing of working metal of forging steel. They continued the friendly bickering all the way back to the Last Homely House and by the time they entered Mithrandir's suite the bets had been decided. Legolas would craft a fine elvish cross-bow for Gimli to spare his arms the strain, and he in turn would wager a small axe he carried with him always, saying it had been his grandmother's and was a worthy weapon, light-weight enough even for a frail elvish princeling to wield.

Their jovial mood did much to set the tone for the meeting, as it was infectious, and soon the Hobbits were asking what it was all about and picking sides. Pippin and Sam backed Legolas and Frodo and Merry backed Gimli, to be fair. Aragorn agreed to be the score keeper and Mithrandir promised to safeguard the pot. Boromir alone abstained from the hi-jinx, observing the interactions among his fellows with cool reserve, still uncertain how to reconcile his objectives with the goal of this haphazard band of unlikely knights errant.

TBC

MORE TO COME…

NOTE: Well, I know there re many cliff hangers here and I do apologise. The good news is this means I will be revisiting this tale soon, after I work on a chapter of Aearlinn and then the remaining Xmas , I know. Now it is February and it has taken more than a month to get this part done. I cannot explain why it was so hard to do nor why it turned out so differently than planned. It has been so difficult, I never even got to three elements I had hoped to bring up in this chapter(s). I hope it is not found to be boring, what with trying to work in some of the Fellowship and the evolving relationship between legolas and these other diverse people, but I do not want to ignore the reason he is in Imladris. Hope everyone enjoys it, especially Naledi :)

Cheers,
Fred
02/03/2009

Chapter Text

UnBeta'd
thoughts in italics
(elvish translations in parentheses)

Neled-en-Pae-dadol Peth: Mellyn Gwîn, Cyth Vrûn
(Part Twenty-three: New Friends, Old Enemies)

The night was bright and filled with starlight and music, elvish voices raised in harmonious accord rendering elvish songs with a degree of ethereal perfection impossible for any other race. It was not Sindarin, his birth tongue, the dialect of Gondor and all civilised places, but Quenya, an archaic language seldom heard and little written. Boromir had refused to learn it, deeming it a useless task, yet now he wished he had not spurned those lessons with the sages and the scholars. The verses flowed by him and over him and through him, the sound itself seeming alive with the brilliance of the insightful souls of these counfounding, fascinating people.

Did they sing of the stars in words of poetic precision, flawless and real and anything but contrived, capturing the essence of the silver sparks, the reason for them, the nature of them? Perhaps the lyrics recounted a history from the time before the Sun and the Moon, a story of ill-fated love or a great battle won. So it must be: an ancient tale chanted in ancient speech, the words ringing with the glory and the grandeur that had once been theirs. Once, before the awakening of Men when stars were the only light for all the world and these star-children the only folk peopling it.

Boromir could not imagine that, a time of ever-night, everything cast in shadows and darkness. Just trying to picture it made the Man shiver and he was more conflicted than ever, for supposedly the elves preferred those days and pined for what once had been. Learned men claimed the greater part of their history had faded into legend before the rising of Ithil and the blazing birth of Anor. He could not encompass it, living and loving, fighting wars and making merry, all without anything brighter than the faint glimmer and glint of Varda's gifts. How could one mark time in such an environment? Of course, immortal beings had no need to take note of passing years much less passing hours. It was alien; a state of existence so foreign to the life he lived that Boromir saw the gap between human thought and the elvish mind as too great a chasm to close. He would never understand people whose memories spanned thousands of years.

In Imladris, one could not help but feel the weight of all those Ages. It was not in the place itself, for Rivendell was a recent colony settled within the history of Men, but in the eyes of the valley's Lord and the elven folk he governed. Boromir frowned and moved from the Hall of Fire to the adjacent porch, eager to get away from the congenial atmosphere spilling out of the house. He crossed the portico into the formal courtyard, unsettled by the gleeful camaraderie for no good reason he could name. How could they be so exuberant and care-free knowing the dire threat looming over all the world? Then again, why should they care? Elves did not really belong in Middle-earth, having a home far away protected by the Powers and secluded from all evil and decay. Why they stayed, that was the real question and the Man wondered not for the first time about the legends of the Rings of Power. If true, then maybe the One Ring held even the greatest among the First-born in thrall.

Then why send it away into the Enemy's own lair?

It was madness, senseless madness. Nothing about the elves or their reasoning made sense to him. He drifted away from the grand house and its elite inhabitants, out into the grounds where the sound of the music diminished, though he could not escape it within the borders of the secluded valley. Soon he came upon a fair gate of scrolled and filigreed metal the colour of sage. The low wall in which it was set shone bright white under the sheen of the moon and beyond it the calming cadence of trickling water beckoned. He went through. The gardens, at least, were devoid of revelling ancients cavorting in self-imposed blindness and unbending conviction. Yet, they were neither and he could not fuse their frivolity and antiquity. He wanted to scoff and discount these people, had come prepared to do so, yet found he could not. They were not what he'd expected, not as he'd been taught, not even as they seemed this night.

Faramir would not have been surprised by any of this.

He would have recognised and rejoiced in all that left his older brother perplexed and uncertain. Faramir would have known how to earn their friendship and respect. They would have heard him; they would have seen him. Elrond likely already knew of him through Mithrandir. It occurred to Boromir that perhaps the great lord had expected Denethor to send his younger son, for the lore-master made it clear an envoy from Gondor had been anticipated.

I am not the Man he hoped would arrive.

Perhaps he assigned too much importance to the identity of Minas Tirith's delegate. Could Elrond notice him as an individual person, or was one representative from Gondor much the same as any other? Could any immortal even differentiate one mortal among a world teeming with ephemeral, fragile humanity? Yet, Boromir was just as certain Elrond could and did, peering at him with those keen, perceptive eyes that seemed to see right inside his mind and heart. Could he truly? Boromir shook his head, frowning. He had not believed the fables learned at his mother's knee and now here he was immersed in the culture and the company of the elves who populated those very tales.

His frown deepened as he moved farther from the mansion. He had not come prepared to feel respectful, almost reverent, to feel insignificant and inadequate. He had thought to express a piteous indulgence for a people diminished to dim shadows of reality, a people removed from the toil and turmoil of life, a people in decline. Instead, the show of frivolity and mirth was only that; the elves of Imladris were engaged in serious warfare of a kind he had not imagined, warfare that had begun at the dawn of time. In comparison, Men's efforts were but ineffectual vanity. He was the farce; he and all his people's long history of combating evil amounted to less than a moment as elves reckoned time.

That, he decided, was what made the blithe demeanour so disconcerting. He knew they were not just singing and playing but what is was they were doing was beyond his comprehension. He considered if it might really be possible to counter the dark and ponderous dangers surmounting the world with music and song, weaving potent magic from dance and art and artistry. An image filled his mind of beings with two opposite halves: fierce and powerful warriors who indulged in foolery and wept over sunsets. Try as he might, he could not merge those contradictory personas.

He wandered along a pathway bathed in moonlight, unconsciously homing on a brighter gleam up ahead through the trees. Boromir cleared the small copse and halted, thinking to turn back but ignoring the ethical prompt of conscience. He had come upon a private conversation between two of the First-born, clearly one for which they desired both privacy and the balmy night air. It was the star-dusted glow of their skin and hair that had drawn him and now he was loathe to depart. They had not sensed his presence, or perhaps they simply ignored it, and while his behaviour amounted to nothing less than eavesdropping, the Man felt justified, for one of the pair was Legolas.

If ever there was a prime example of their disconcerting dichotomy, there he stands.

Charged by Mithrandir, and Lord Elrond himself, to mend things, Boromir had attempted to do so at table, a huge error in judgement. Though his contrition was authentic, it only managed to call attention to the unsavoury rumours circulating. Then Pippin had made things worse by joking about the obvious fact that Legolas was not very comfortable sitting on the scantily cushioned chairs. Legolas had turned red, then white, then tried to laugh it off all the while looking as though he wished he could vanish.

Mithrandir berated the Hobbit, then Frodo scolded Pippin, who then felt awful and kept apologising, while Aragorn tried to change the topic by reminding everyone of the hopeless (in Boromir's opinion) task set before them and relaying some information the Twin Lords had brought to light. Finally, Gimli called everyone 'damned fool idiots', said he didn't care what anyone else thought of Legolas, and invited his friend for a walk. They left before the second course.

Now the Wood Elf leaned against a slender, fluted pillar upholding the roof of an elegant gazebo, his posture relaxed and unassuming; quite different from the stern and combative stance he generally exhibited in the Man's presence. Boromir watched him conversing with his guardian, his features almost transmuted with happiness, his tone bubbling with excited anticipation and something like tremendous relief. Galdor sat within the structure, smiling and encouraging his ward, indulgent joy in his features, yet even in this less dominant pose he was obviously the elder and more powerful elf. Legolas absorbed his unvoiced approval and drank of his unfettered admiration as though long deprived of such regard and validation.

And so it must be, a consequence of low birth.

The Man wanted to discount the debased prince but could not manage it. Legolas carried himself with the grace of all the First-born yet about him clung an air of nobility that was distinctive. Boromir would never have guessed he was bred in shame. At the same time, seen like this, when he thought none but his mentor could perceive him, Legolas was fair and fragile-seeming. Fair enough, that was truth, but hardly fragile, at least not physically. Exuberant enough now but beneath still serious and troubled.

Boromir had already heard much of his skill in battle and did not doubt the truth of the stories, yet he could not entirely accept it either. Legolas' actions bespoke a lack of maturity: challenging someone to combat over a perceived affront, allowing himself to get involved in an intimate affair with a much older person he barely knew, lying by omission about his background, accusing Boromir of treacherous intentions. Word had got round that he really was young and the Man believed it; it was all in the eyes. There lay the basis for his scepticism, or rather his lack of confidence, in the elf. Legolas was simply too inexperienced to be trusted on so serious a mission.

He should be sent home to his father.

Yet had he not just come from Mirkwood? The elven King must care little for his youngest child to send him off into nearly certain death. If so, that was a terrible burden, one that inspired unwarranted shame and guilt, and Faramir immediately came to his mind. To receive nothing but scorn and derision from one's own sire, that was an onerous fate. The Man scowled; for all he'd been prepared to dislike Legolas and had just enumerated many reasons to disparage him, what he truly felt was just the opposite.

The Wood Elf ceased talking and Boromir startled as two sets of riveting eyes delved him to his marrow. Legolas was standing straight, attitude wary but not angry. The elder elf rose also and not so subtly nudged his ward. At that prompt, Legolas raised his hand in greeting and when he spoke his voice was hesitant and yet more cheery than the Man had ever heard him sound.

"Suilad, Boromir. Have you wearied of the merry-making so soon?"

"Aye, and it would seem you feel the same. Suilad, Lord Galdor," the Man used the same tone and bowed to the noble ancient.

"Well met, son of Gondor," nodded the wise Sadron. He sent Legolas a look filled with insistence that now was the time to make good on his promise, to go beyond formal apologies and really mend things between them. "Forgive me, but I must take my leave of you both, for I have promised to sing the Lay of the Mariner once more since Círdan is not here and Elrond will not."

"Ab'eveditham, Tirn'wador." (We will meet later, Guardian.) Legolas bowed politely but then spontaneously caught the Sadron in a swift embrace, needing to feel the press of affirming arms round him, and smiled as he drew back, catching the gleam of Galdor's sincere goodwill in his pale, green eyes.

"Aye, we will have much to discuss, but not until Anor rises. Galu-en-Tawar am le," he said and turned to Boromir, raising his right hand up, "and upon thee also may the Blessings of the Great Wood descend and remain."

"My thanks," the Man uttered gravely, bowing in respect for such an honour to be bestowed on a human.

He watched the elder stroll away and glanced at Legolas, who was staring fixedly at his guardian's retreating form, looking anything but comfortable. The relaxed and easy pose displayed before had been replaced by the upright attitude of superiority he generally exhibited around Boromir. The Man allowed himself a smile, but a rueful one, knowing now the reason behind that show of conceit.

"Legolas."

"Boromir."

They offered one another courteous smiles and courtly little nods of respect that were utterly fake and then fell silent. Mending this rift was not going to be an easy task for Man or Elf. Legolas sighed and parted his lips to make some attempt, but Boromir jumped in first.

"It grieves me that my ignorance and bias was used to reveal that which you would rather have remained private," he began, hoping to find a means to speak of this without making things between them even more awkward.

"Indeed, it was a vile thing to do, to you and to me, for we have not been generous toward one another and discord was certain to arise. Whoever is guilty owes a debt to us both. For my part, I know you had no intent to cause me discomfort or embarrassment." Legolas felt his cheeks grow warm and was glad the dark hid his reaction from the Man. Why must every conversation begin with this, his shame and humiliation?

"No, I didn't."

Boromir studied the Wood Elf carefully but unobtrusively, he hoped, noting the uneasy tension in the wiry frame and displeased by it. Maybe he shouldn't have brought up this topic again, but there was too much enmity between them to let it lie. He was determined to address that which he felt it was imperative to discuss, but was a Man of action more than speeches and feared to generate more hostility rather than the truce he desired. Still, he was a Man of honour and these were things he felt honour-bound to say. He cleared his throat and Legolas looked to him.

"Like everyone else, I heard the gossip and listened to the rumours," he began. "To say I was surprised by all the drama and intrigue your status generated is an understatement. Such are not the manners and attitudes I'd imagined High Elves would foster. Then again, It makes them more real, somehow, more like me."

"What do you mean?" Legolas asked, taking a half step back. If this pompous Man was about to malign his parentage, Legolas would be forced to abandon any hope of ever befriending him.

"Before coming here, my idea of elves was one of contempt and disregard. Now it is more disappointment accompanied by something almost like awe," he said. Legolas' face rearranged itself into a perplexed scowl giving his ageless features lines and furrows they would never display otherwise.

"Your initial views are no shock tome; such is the attitude of most mortals. What you describe now is contradictory. I would not think it possible to feel disappointed and awed simultaneously." He was almost certain the Man was building to something insulting and rude and braced himself for it, wondering how he could adequately justify to Lord Elrond, his Tirn'wador, and Mithrandir the sudden removal of Boromir's insolent tongue.

"Allow me to explicate. I am an educated man," the Steward's heir continued, permitting himself a step apart so to create a small cushion of protective distance, "tutored by the most learned scholars of my country, schooled in the history of the Numenoreans, knowledgeable of the various cultures of the many realms and kingdoms of humans scattered throughout Arda. I am admittedly not as well-versed in the history of the elves and honestly could not say I know much of, or see any reason to know, the great deeds of the Eldar before the coming of Men."

"I see." Legolas' hands curled into fists.

"No, you don't. Permit me to finish before you proceed to attack me."

"I am not going to attack you!" Legolas fumed in high aggravation. "I would offer you the chance to retract anything derogatory first. Besides, you cannot expect me to be amenable to listening when all you do is offer new reasons to call you enemy instead of friend."

"So it may seem, buy let me explain and then if you consider my remarks disrespectful I will assent to whatever redress your honour demands."

Legolas stared in confusion, curious about what Boromir had to say and uncertain if it had to do with elf-kind in general or himself specifically. He gave a curt nod, to which the Man dipped his head, smiling somewhat grimly as he began to speak.

"I recall the stories of the First and Second Ages as one would legends, tales so lost in time that the truth is impossible to know and thus they serve only as entertainment for the fireside. A warrior first and foremost, I have considered these ancient histories irrelevant, consumed as I am with the trials of safeguarding my country and my people against the encroaching evil on our borders. Early on, I relegated Elves and their doings to the sphere of myth and mystery, a topic reserved for the young, the romantic, or the foolish. I find it necessary to reconsider that opinion now."

"And your new evaluation includes a peculiar variety of thwarted reverence?" Legolas bristled. How could Galdor expect him to make a comrade of such an abominably arrogant person?

"In a sense," Boromir went on, cognisant of the Wood Elf's rising ire but determined to complete his point. "A dying race even before the Last Alliance, diminished in strength and power, cowering in their protected enclaves, thus Denethor my father described the First-born of Iluvatar to his first born son, and I had no reason to doubt him. All my life and throughout the life of my father, grandfather, and great-grandfathers for many generations, the people of Gondor have lived and died without ever seeing, or even thinking of, an elf."

The look of stunned indignation plastered over the ingenuous Wood Elf's face was not promising and it was all the Man could do to keep going, but he did, quickly.

"It was a shock to learn my father was so ill-informed, so completely mistaken. Instead of a waning and ineffectual people, I have come among immortals who bravely defy an onslaught of virulent, evil energy threatening to consume the whole of Arda. How they go about it I cannot determine, though I know there are formidable elven warriors here. Perhaps it is more the stubborn refusal to let the Shadow win that impresses me." Boromir shrugged, unable to adequately articulate his assessment of the Elves of Imladris.

"Aye, all elf-kind abhors Shadow." Legolas stared at the Man, nonplussed. Just when he was about to unleash an excoriating barrage of counter denouncements for such blatant impertinence, Boromir turned around and twisted his scurrilous words into compliments. Legolas had no means to predict what the Gondorian would say next.

"I wanted to ridicule and disregard elf-kind," Boromir continued, "came prepared to do so. Instead, I find myself awed and no small amount disturbed."

"Disturbed?" Legolas was completely lost.

"Aye, about many things," the Man gave an aggrieved frown. "For one, I would not expect a people so devoted to the destruction of evil to be so prejudiced and petty in everyday matters."

"What?" the sylvan archer was back on the defensive. "We are neither of those things."

"Everyone has some prejudice; it is unavoidable. Even you," Boromir challenged.

"I thought we both wanted to reach accord," seethed Legolas, "but it won't be possible as long as you make such contentious statements to me."

"I prefer contention if the end result is understanding," rejoined Boromir. "Friendship is no light and easy thing, not friendship with me."

"That I can believe."

"You cannot deny the High Elves here are not exactly pleased with your selection as a part of the Quest and that displeasure stems from your sylvan origins, your humiliation of one of their finest swordsmen, your unorthodox relationship with Glorfindel, and your status as King Thranduil's bastard son." There, he'd said it. Before Legolas exploded, Boromir hurried to finish his thought. "That does not set well within my notion of Lord Elrond and his people. My own lack of respect can, perhaps, be dismissed as stupidity and arrogance, for I am but a Man with no prior experience among the First-born. Even so, it matters less to me how you were begot than whether or no you will prove useful on this mission."

"I cannot believe you are saying these things to me." Legolas reflected bitterly, incapable of determining what the correct response would be. In one breath the Man admitted his fault, then faulted his betters and implied his position on the unseemly topic was supportive. Legolas turned abruptly and moved to the pathway, intending to join Galdor in the Hall of Fire and beg to have this unfathomable human removed from the Fellowship lest he kill him en route to Mordor. "Stupid and arrogant, aye, those are the adjectives I would choose for you. Say no more words to me, Boromir; I will not remain party to this farce of conciliation."

"Wait," Boromir followed. "Most people would say nothing to your face while indulging their appetite for unsavoury stories behind your back. But you and I need to have a clear understanding between us for we will surely hold safe each other's lives many times in the days ahead. I cannot help noticing that for all my words may cause pain, you have neither contradicted them nor challenged me to combat; thus, I surmise their truth."

Legolas stopped and eyed him coldly. "For one who hopes to count on me in battle, you speak without tact or intelligence."

"Nay, Legolas, do not reduce this to the same kind of petty quarrel you had with that Noldorin elf, Ithil'wath. This is very important. There can be no question of distrust between us."

"Petty quarrel, is it? My honour, my peoples' dignity is unimportant compared to your need for reassurance that I will not let the orcs eat you?" Legolas was beside himself. He saw no recourse but to challenge the Man and teach him his manners the hard way, but for that imperative from Galdor. "Oh, be assured; there is no question in my mind whatsoever, Boromir! I cannot entrust myself to one who defames me so openly." Legolas was trembling in his effort to restrain his outrage and was infuriated to see mirth playing through the man's dark eyes.

"Have I defamed you? Nay, I have uttered truth, confirmed by your lack of rebuttal."

"You wish to make me say the words, so be it: I am King Thranduil's last-born, bastard child. Are you satisfied?" He wheeled and stormed down the path, muttering curses under his breath and plotting how to dispose of the odious mortal. To his complete disbelief, Boromir followed.

"I am, but not because I wished to hear you admit the truth openly to me." Boromir had to walk very fast to keep up. "You see, however little I know of you, Legolas, that much I take for fact: you will not deny truth even when it is not complimentary to you. There are few who would hold so determinedly and courageously to truth when that truth is nobody's business to know. That indicates an exemplary character."

That brought the Wood Elf up sharp and Boromir paused, too, surveying the perplexed sylvan, watching a score of conflicting emotions go chasing through his glittering eyes, judging he had Legolas' complete attention.

"In case I haven't made it clear, I care not who you are or what you are so long as you will be trustworthy in battle and loyal to our cause. I find you honourable no matter your parents' errors, Legolas, or the opinions of High Elves; I would trust you with my life in any situation that arises," the Man concluded, hoping that would soften the sting of his blunt speech.

For several heartbeats Legolas said nothing, running the conversation through his mind again and again, desperate to learn whether Boromir was sincere in this last part or no. He could not deny that the Man's usual pomposity and air of arrogant superiority were completely absent. He was speaking to Legolas as he would an equal, something he had not done previously. Yet, if he really did not care about whether or not Legolas' parents were properly wed, then why had he been so pleased when he thought Legolas was a prince? That, however, was not the question the sylvan archer asked.

"You still doubt my skill and question my trustworthiness. Why should I care to console you?"

"No, I do not doubt you and have no need of reassurance."

"Then you have said all this "

"To tell you that I will not treat you as lesser because of your status."

"Really? You had nothing to do with me at first, sneering down your nose along with the rest of the humans. Yet, you were ready enough to befriend me when you thought I was a high-born prince."

"Aye, to my shame. I already told you honestly of my mixed feelings about elf-kind and how I listened to the gossips. The truth is, once I found out you were royalty, I thought you would be more attuned to the responsibilities I bear. We both must place the welfare of our own folk above all. I hoped to make an ally within the Fellowship, someone who would understand and support my position."

"You thought that would be me?"

"I did."

They regarded one another in the quiet night air, the dark not black enough to hide the mixture of fury and bewilderment swirling in the elf's eyes. Legolas inhaled a deep breath.

"It is hard to believe you, given the attitude you held toward me even before my shame was made so public. I think you are saying what Lord Elrond would have you say."

"That is in some part true, but so are you treating with me only because your guardian insisted upon it."

There was no denying this and Legolas frowned, folding his arms before him. "Yes, but I am doing it for the betterment of the Fellowship, not my own ends. If I had my way, you would not be part of this endeavour."

"Why, because of my words at the council? I spoke the thoughts in many minds less willing to challenge the great elven Lords. Is that so terrible?"

"No, but I fear you still hold those views, which are dangerous. Even more, I deem your method of thought and action irrational. For example, you were so jubilant to discover you'd made the acquaintance of Thranduil's heir. Knowing the truth, you will not openly treat me as lesser but only think it, yet all the while you disdain the contribution of Elladan and Elrohir, two true princes if ever that word had meaning for elves."

"Fair enough, I admit I "

"And now you will do me the great honour of treating me as an equal," Legolas sneered. "How magnanimous!"

"Yes, I deserve that, too, but really I "

"What you deserve is ," but Legolas stopped, suddenly hearing himself preparing to pass judgement on the Man yet again. Flustered and frustrated, he blushed to have forgotten his Tirn'wador's words. "I don't know what you deserve," he amended quickly. To his amazement, the Man erupted in nervous laughter.

"Ah! Legolas, your guileless demeanour is refreshing, for it is so seldom encountered," he said brightly. "You will be of benefit to the Fellowship in more ways than one, I'll wager. Please, accept my apology for all the discord. I am accustomed to being the one in command and it is difficult for me to accept a secondary role. I fear I was too pleased to see your royal status as an avenue to advancing my position in the Fellowship."

"You confuse me," complained Legolas. "One second you insult me and the next you would claim friendship. Is this the way for Men of Gondor?"

"I warned you; my friendship is not an easy thing to bear."

"So you did."

"And since I have not been rendered insensible by 'Axe-foot', may I take that as proof you wish to become friends?"

"Let us say instead 'allies' and that will be nearer the mark," Legolas said. "I can only pray it is worth all this turmoil. Could you not simply have told me you don't care that I am no prince of Greenwood without all those references to your convoluted view of elves?"

"I am not so certain you are not a prince of Greenwood," Boromir shrugged, "and doubt you would have believed me if I just said it outright. I wanted you to understand how I arrived at that opinion since it is at such variance with my initial conduct toward you."

"And you got to this point by considering how petty the folk of Imladris can be?" Legolas was astounded by such reasoning. "Do you always go about things in such a tortuous manner? I cannot begin to understand this."

"Nay, it is no great stretch to see it, Legolas. Their prejudice forced me to confront my own, to see that I was ready to condemn you only because it agreed with what the High Elves were saying. And I permitted them, one of them, to use me to cause you harm. That does not set well with me. Besides, maybe, since we are being honest tonight, I can admit it was very difficult to voice these words. I cannot deny that I am a proud Man, but nevertheless realised I was behaving as an odious toad and a stupid one."

"'Odious toad' is perhaps too extreme," chuckled Legolas. "In truth, the fault for the misunderstanding is partly mine. The denouncements I made regarding your motives for joining the Fellowship were widely repeated. I offer you my sincere apologies. Never should I have suggested your reasons are anything but honourable. Misguided, yes, but not a product of malice."

"As I said at dinner: I accept, Legolas, and add this caveat: that you take my hand in friendship. I, too, regret the false judgements and misunderstandings of which I have been guilty."

"Nasan!" (So be it!)

The Wood Elf and the Man of Gondor stepped toward one another and shared a fast, forceful grip, separating to stand in nervous poses of feigned nonchalance, showing faint, uncertain smiles. Both knew this accord was required by their betters and thus was at best a rickety truce, but it was a start. Almost as one they turned and loitered along the broad pathway, following the soft sound of the nearby brook. The quiet between them was difficult to bear for both but it was the Man who broke it first.

"Of what are they singing?" he asked suddenly, unable to generate anything more pertinent yet less ominous.

"What, now?" Legolas looked at him briefly and offered a more authentic smile. "They sing of Gil-galad now and soon, when that is done, Galdor will begin the long Lay of Eärendil."

"Why are they singing in the ancient tongue?" the Man couldn't help asking. "Is that the usual manner of sharing tales here?"

"I could not say," Legolas grinned and shrugged. "I have never been here before, either. Yet in my home we also sing many of the old tales in our own ancient tongue, though it is not an abandoned language, as is Quenya, but one we speak among ourselves daily. The folk of Lorien, too, know the old speech."

"Lorien, the Golden Wood, you mean?" Boromir asked, his voice betraying his uneasiness with the place. "In my homeland, Imladris is scarcely believed to be real, but the Land of the Lady of Light is something of a horror story."

"What?" Legolas stopped walking and crossed his arms over his chest, indignant. "Lord Celeborn is a kinsman to my Adar and thus to me. He rules a realm of beauty and peace. Where is the horror in that?"

"There is none," Boromir agreed, holding up hands to quell the elf's outburst. "Yet the stories say nothing of this Lord you name. In my country, the Golden Wood is ruled by an elf-witch, a Lady perilous and powerful who robs men of their very souls and feeds babes to her pet wolves."

"You cannot be serious!" Legolas exclaimed in shock. "The folk of Lorien are my own people, divided due to the encroaching evil that now seeks to divide us all. Galadriel may have a questionable past, but whatever her offences may be they do not include soul-snatching or abducting and killing innocent children."

"Ah! You admit there is something dark about her," Boromir pointed at his companion, smiling victoriously. "There is always a kernel of truth in such fables, no matter how embellished and distorted the reality has grown over time."

"I cannot say if that is so or not," Legolas hedged, unfolding his arms and resuming his progress.

"Well, what was your impression of her, then?" demanded the Man.

"I have never been to Lorien," answered Legolas, casting a swift glance into Boromir's face to see if he was likely to say anything that would demand immediate retraction or redress. After what had already transpired between them, Legolas had no desire to be forced to issue a challenge to the Man in defence of the Lady's honour.

"So you do not really know," Boromir nodded and then shook his head, chuckling in bemusement, "but you champion her anyway."

"What is amusing in this?" demanded Legolas. Valar! This is the most contentious person I have ever known!

"Just that you remind me of Faramir, my younger brother. He, too, will abide no disparagement of the Lady of Light, though he knows only what he has read in scrolls so old they are crumbling into dust."

"Well, I am sure she is wise and noble, else Lord Celeborn would not have wed her," insisted Legolas. "He is a cousin of Thengel, the great elven King of Doriath."

"And your 'adar' is kin to Celeborn and so then must also have blood ties to that royal lineage, as do you," Boromir bowed, sweeping his hand out in an exaggerated flourish that was not meant to be mocking, as his expression demonstrated when he righted himself. "You are descended from impressive stock, Legolas."

Legolas did not know if the Man was serious. In light of the convoluted discussion just concluded, he decided to say nothing and hurried forward out into a bright clearing to stand upon the bank of the cheerful stream. Perhaps the remark was meant in a complimentary way and he should respond with a similar nod to Boromir's exalted ancestors. He pursed his lips; this was all so much more difficult than conversing with Aragorn.

"That was not intended to offend," Boromir offered, following.

"Nay, there is nothing rude in your words. I cannot dispute your evaluation," he said finally, "though it means little to my people. The woodland folk point to Thengel's fate as a caution against the lure of power and wealth. I think it is the same for your people. The downfall of Numenor and the splitting of the line of the Kings of Men is a tale known to us. You, also, possess a noble pedigree but your forebears all chose not to take upon themselves the burden of a crown."

"Aye, that is true," Boromir answered, surprised Legolas knew anything of his peoples' history. "The Stewards hold the land of Gondor in trust for the return of the King. It is not something we have given much thought to in these darkening days, for it is hard enough to hold onto the land. Grasping for a crown, we might well lose the kingdom."

Silence fell between them but now it was the sort in which congenial contemplation arises rather than a quiet fraught with strain and suspicion. Side by side they stood, one gazing into the burbling water, the other scanning the heavens, each acknowledging that there was not so much distance between them as they might have supposed.

"It is a fine night," remarked Legolas, eyes shimmering as they reflected the light of the stars which he studied in wonder. He gave his head a bewildered shake. "I cannot get used to it."

"This mild weather?"

"Nay - aye - that is, I am astounded by the differences between my homeland and Imladris."

"Ah. It is rumoured that Mirkwood is a place to fear."

"Nay, not so, though perhaps there is more truth in that than I wish to acknowledge."

"I know that feeling. My home was once the beacon of all that is decent and honourable among Men, a bastion of strength and power. Now, we are a people besieged."

"As are mine. There are dark and terrible things stalking through the shadows of Greenwood right now, yet here one would never imagine the world was anything but gloriously radiant and ever-peaceful. I I feel somehow wrong to be here when I know I am needed at home." Legolas frowned; that wasn't what he'd meant to say at all. He wanted to speak of the majesty of the Elder Days and the beauty of the world when the First-born were still in the Spring-time of existence. He meant to explain how Imladris preserved that resplendent magnificence, to relate some inkling of the might and power of the Elves and dispel Boromir's negative view.

"I have had similar thoughts," admitted Boromir. "I keep thinking I should be back with my troops and my brother should be here instead."

Legolas offered him a rueful half-smile in acknowledgement. "I understand how great is the threat your people face, for the same Enemy once took up residence in my home. We were unable to unseat him until aid came to us from the White Council, which is the gathering of our greatest Lords and the Istari." Again he paused and evaluated Boromir's countenance, trained upon him in serious interest. Perhaps this was the opportunity what Galdor meant for turning the mortal's heart toward light and hope. "As I was growing up, I often wondered why Adar did not call upon the White Council to use the Rings of Power and force the Necromancer out."

"So! The legends are true," Boromir's eyes gleamed in something like anger and avarice combined. "And did they not use that mighty power to finally drive Sauron from your home?"

"Nay. They would not use the Rings for fear of drawing out the One. Now that it is found, still they will not use them."

"Does that not bother you at all?" demanded Boromir. "Your home will be hard hit when this war breaks open, for the tower of Dol Guldur is not empty."

"Nay, it is not," Legolas' eyes dropped away and it was clear he was deeply troubled by the turn of the conversation. "My people will suffer much and I fear for those who are dear to me."

"As do I," said the Man, taking a step closer and lowering his voice. "That is why I called for the use of the One against its maker. Once he is defeated, it will be easy enough to destroy the Ring for none will oppose us."

"So it seems," Legolas nodded, alarmed to hear this theory voiced with such certainty. Boromir had not heeded any of the counsel given thus far. "But it does not work that way. The One corrupts whatever it touches. Even that which begins in purity will end in infamy."

"How do you know?" insisted Boromir. "That is what you have been told, but no one truly knows."

"Nay, I have been told nothing of it. We do not speak of that thing. I know because I feel it in my soul. What Frodo bears is a vile abomination, for it holds nothing less than the warped and perverted essence of one of the Ainur. Whatever good was in Sauron at his creation, it was lost long Ages ago. If one of the Blessed can become so debased, how can we resist such a force? The idea of it makes my skin crawl and being near it makes me feel sick at heart. I despair, imagining the future holds only defeat and endless sorrow."

"And yet you are content to let Frodo carry this burden."

"Content?" Legolas flared, lifting furious eyes to Boromir's. "Nay, I am not content but neither was I prepared to take it up, to touch it myself. May Eru forgive me, I could not. But I am not content, Boromir." He turned away, unhappy and worrying again over the fate of those he loved, his mission to convert Boromir forgotten. He reached into his tunic pocket and drew out the small tortoiseshell box, turning it over and over in his hands.

"Forgive me, that was unnecessary for I faced the same challenge and did not step forward. For all I have so loudly demanded that it be wielded against our foe, I, too, was unwilling to lay hands upon it," Boromir settled a friendly clasp upon Legolas' shoulder and saw what he held. Glad for a chance to turn the subject elsewhere, he motioned to it. "I see you have reclaimed the gift." He offered a smile as Legolas looked up. "Is it from your betrothed?"

"It is," Legolas stiffened and stood tall, suspecting the reason for this query was not pleasant in the least. "You do not approve of such a match, a union between two males."

"It is not for me to judge," answered the Man, shrugging. "I confess it is not a pairing Men condone, but elves are not Men. And as I already said, I should not have fallen to the lure of rude gossip. It is easy to do, so far from home. Men I would not normally count worthy of my notice I have welcomed at table here, just for the comfort of a human face and voice. I only ask about it because the gift does not seem to please you. Is this due to the way it was used against you?"

"Nay, not that," objected Legolas. "It does please me," he started and halted again, looking to the small object cradled atop his palm. "It is just that custom demands that I take it to my Nana, that is my mother, and seek her counsel regarding the match. It is a formality, of course, but a much cherished one." Now that the words were out, he was shocked to have spoken of this to a person he had counted little better than an enemy just moments ago. Perhaps he was more unsettled by the talk of the Ring than he'd realised.

"Ah, and you are now far from her," nodded Boromir, surprised by the elf's candour and eager to encourage it. He was determined to win the sylvan's trust and prove his worthiness to participate in the quest. Indeed, Lord Elrond had warned that his incumbency was dependent upon achieving that goal.

"She is dead," Legolas said flatly, his chest tightening up in a harsh spasm that robed him of air and sent a shock to his heart. It was the first time he'd spoken those words and the finality in them was crushing. The Man was speaking and he tried to focus on that, hoping to stave off the wave of nausea that engulfed him.

"I'm sorry; I had no idea." Boromir felt terrible, looking at the elf. Every pore of Legolas' body radiated abysmal dereliction and abandonment. He took a spontaneous step in his direction and stopped, uncertain what to do. "I lost my mother, also; though it was many years ago."

They spent a long moment in silent communion over this unexpected congruity in their lives and then Legolas spoke again, his voice very quiet and small.

"Do you still miss her?"

"Every day that dawns."

They did not speak anymore for Legolas began to sing and while Boromir did not know the words or the language he allowed the music to become an offering for his mother, too.

TBC

NOTE: Well, this one has been in mothballs a long time, so thought I would try to get something posted.

Chapter Text

Canad-en-Pae-dadol Peth: Ir Hebed na Maer… (Part Twenty-four: If the Shoe Fits…)

"Minno!" Legolas called out at the knock on his door, but did not go forth to meet his guest, unwilling to leave the tall, silvered glass standing in his dressing room. There was nothing like this in Greenwood and he was fascinated, turning and viewing himself from this angle and that.

"Legolas?" His visitor called, finding him neither in the parlour nor the bed room.

"Here," the Wood Elf answered and smiled when Aragorn's surprised countenance appeared in the mirror's surface. "Do you think this will do?"

"It is fitting garb for a young lord or a woodland prince," nodded Aragorn, his grin broadening as Legolas primped, preened, and posed before the mirror, adjusting the short cloak of royal blue about his shoulders so that it draped in a debonaire diagonal across his chest. Since the clothes had once been the Man's, he had fond memories of donning them with the same serious circumspection when he was newly come of age. He recalled being highly pleased with himself and delighted with the effect the clothes produced, transforming him from Estel, Elrond's mortal foster-son, into Aragorn, the dashing, daring, dignified, and virile young Chieftain of the Dunedain.

His happiness was for more than nostalgic recollection, however, for he had not seen Legolas so genuinely carefree since the dance in the glade with Glorfindel, and that had not ended so well. In fact, many unpleasant events had occurred since his return from Greenwood. This day's doings would not prove so troubling for the woodland warrior, he hoped. It was good to see Legolas behaving like the young ellon in love he was, sorrow let go for at least a little while. There would be trouble enough and to spare once the Company left Imladris; this short respite with Glorfindel would have to sustain Legolas through all that came to pass. Aragorn let his eyes travel from Legolas' carefully braided golden tresses to the elegant attire to the shoes, and there his smile threatened to become laughter as his brows rose high.

"What?" demanded Legolas, frowning into the mirror at the Man's obvious amusement, following Aragorn's gaze to his feet. "Are they not appropriate?"

"Appropriate? Aye, certainly they are, for a maiden fair," snickered the Ranger.

"A maiden? Do you mean to say shoes have a sex of their own?" he huffed indignantly as he cheeks turned red. "I cannot wear my travelling boots nor my hunting boots, and I have no others here. I did not think to pack anything fine while I was in Greenwood; there wasn't space for it anyway."

"Surely even in Greenwood the footgear of maids and warriors is not the same," Aragorn said, laughing. "Couldn't you find any male in the whole of the valley who has feet as delicate as yours?" This, he knew, was skating quite close to the boundaries of the Wood Elf's personal pride, but Aragorn felt he had not crossed it - yet. A severe glare warned him to mind that limit carefully.

"You know I have not made many close friends here, Aragorn," Legolas growled, face darker, and he kicked off the shoes in dismay. "Your brothers are much too tall, you are much too broad, and Galdor is much too ancient for any of your shoes to suit me. What else can I do? Lady Arwen has excellent taste and she happens to take after her Naneth's sylvan heritage; her bone structure is more refined. And these shoes are neutral enough; ellon or elleth might where them."

Aragorn shrugged."If you say so, mellon. You certainly look attractive. What is the occasion?"

"Attractive?" Legolas squawked and whisked the cloak off in an instant. "I am not trying to be attractive!" He hastened to the wardrobe and began rummaging through the little trunk of garments the Twins had found for him when first he arrived in Rivendell.

"Oh! I assumed you were dressing for Glorfindel." Aragorn had difficulty subduing his mirth as Legolas pulled out another outfit, equally fine and just as alluring, and hastened behind the screen, changing quickly, discarding the first on the floor. He emerged and presented himself for inspection, anxious eyes peering keenly at the Ranger.

The Man remembered enjoying the many appreciative glances he received from Ladies of the realm when he wore this particular ensemble and deemed it complemented Legolas even better. The garb was comprised of soft leather breeches died coal black, truly little more than leggings in fit, a cream-coloured silk shirt with full sleeves that fell to wide, tight cuffs at the wrist, and a surplice in forest green trimmed with rich gold braid. The assembled attire called for a broad golden belt, which was not in the trunk, and tall black leather boots that came over the knee, if he recalled correctly. The notion of wearing Arwen's everyday house shoes with it made him shake his head in disfavour even as Legolas slipped his feet into them.

"What? What are you thinking now? Is this not better for a meeting with Lords Elrond, Erestor, and Galdor? Mithrandir will probably be there, too," Legolas demanded, hands on hips and chin tilted defiantly.

"I am sorry, Legolas, but these are the clothes I once donned when I was a young Man eager to go - ah - courting, if you will." Aragorn laughed heartily at the crimson flush that raced up the ellon's neck all the way to his ears.

"I see," complained Legolas, "and your ideas of courting are obviously not what my Adar means when he uses that word." He sighed and raised his arms as he gazed down at himself, letting them fall to his sides with a dull slap. "What am I to do, then? I cannot wear my travelling clothes to the meeting."

"Why not? What is this council about?"

"On the surface, to reveal the identity of the one who so cruelly betrayed my name and status. I believe the elder Lords fear that I mean to call this person out to face me in single combat; indeed, I have considered it. By what right does this person expose my Adar and my realm and essentially all of my people to such mortification and scorn? Glorfindel has exacted a promise from me not to do so; he wants to deal with the person himself, feeling my honour and any attack upon it is now his province to defend."

"I understand him," Aragorn admitted. "If anyone placed my Beloved in such an embarrassing situation, I would be blind with rage."

"Yes, I could not abide anyone condemning Glorfindel either," Legolas said softly and the light in his eyes revealed both his fiery indignation and his pleasure to be so treasured that he inspired this same sensation in the Balrog Slayer. "Yet I have other things I wish to discuss, more important things even than this insult. I need these august lords to take me seriously and I don't think your old strutting duds will invoke the right tone."

"Strutting?" Aragorn hooted, then made an effort to be serious when his young friend scowled and again disappeared behind the screen. "I think you will look fine, Legolas, in whatever you wear, but not with those shoes. Elrond at least will notice and recognise them. Just use your own boots; there is nothing at all wrong with them and none of the lords will care what you have on anyway."

"Then why does it matter which pair of shoes are on my feet?" demanded Legolas, reappearing in a short dressing gown tied about his waist. He bent to sift through the trunk. "Oh!" he announced in pleased surprise and straightened, holding forth a pale indigo tunic, sleeveless and form-fitting. Aragorn nodded approval and Legolas ducked out of sight behind the screen again.

At this, the Man arched a speculative brow. He had heard the Wood Elf was modest, but found such caution overly scrupulous; there were only the two of them in the room. Having grown up with elves, Aragorn knew them to be uninhibited about their bodies, at least in Imladris and Lothlorien. There was something about Legolas, though, that inspired compassion and he hesitated to confront him about his diffidence. While he was dressing, another knock came from the parlour.

"Would you mind, Aragorn? I do not want any more critics coming in here." Legolas' request came too late, for Gimli's heavy tread sounded just before his gruff voice calling and soon enough the Dwarf was in the dressing room. His eyes moved from Aragorn to the screen, around which the elf's golden head leaned.

"Mahal! What is taking you so long?" he barked, marching over to the concealing panel where he eyed his friend up and down and then shot Aragorn a suspicious look when the Man suddenly straightened up as though prepared for trouble of some sort. There was a tense and silent moment that caused the Dwarf to return his uncomprehending glance to Legolas. "Well? Is something amiss I should know about?"

"Gimli," Aragorn began, and stopped. How exactly does one tell a Dwarf that he is not supposed to barge in on someone naked behind a dressing screen? "Legolas is…"

"I can't decide what to wear," Legolas interjected awkwardly.

"Can't what?" Gimli's eyes widened then blinked in disbelief. "Wear clothes!" he bellowed.

In the process of pulling on the black leather leggings when Gimli arrived, Legolas resumed the task with unduly slow and careful hands, but his friend took no notice and so he proceeded with more normal speed. Gimli seemed unaware that he was intruding into a private space and Legolas was too uncomfortable to mention it. He had the tunic buttoned up by now. "How does this make me look?" He edged out from behind the panel, sending Aragorn a desperate glance. "Is it dignified and respectful?"

Gimli scrutinised the elf's expression carefully, thinking this must be some kind of jest, but Legolas did not seem to be in a joking mood. Indeed, he looked vaguely distraught and flushed. The Dwarf frowned and stroked his beard; perhaps clothing had more serious implications among elves. They certainly did wear a great deal of purely ornamental finery. He gave the Wood Elf's apparel an evaluating examination and shrugged. "It is all right for elves, I suppose, but rather scandalous."

"Scandalous?" Man and Elf exclaimed together.

"Aye. The breeches, if one can even call them such, fit like a second skin and everything private is plainly on display."

"Nay, the tunic covers me there," argued Legolas. "Doesn't it?" And he was back before the mirror, twisting this way and that, bending and bowing. He had to admit everything was snug and thus subtly revealed his form, but scandalous was hardly the word he would choose.

"Of course you're covered," said Aragorn, miffed, for after all these had been his own clothes and he had never gone about in anything indecent or tawdry. "Dwarves are overly fastidious. Gimli would have you wear a full coat of mail, carry a shield and an axe or two, not to mention an iron helmet."

"Ha! Nothing wrong with that, but we Dwarves are no strangers to fashionable attire," announced Gimli. He looked at the clothing scattered about and spilling from the chest and stomped over to it, digging through, lifting this cloak, that shirt, these tunics and those pants, tossing them aside as he appraised and rejected them, often holding them up in front of Legolas to gauge their compatibility. "Ahhh!" he breathed this appreciative, growly sigh as he pulled out a beautiful robe from the very bottom of the trunk, grunting in satisfaction as he raised it up. "Just the thing," he stated and shook it a bit when Legolas seemed reluctant to try it on. "Come now, you can still wear the clinging stuff. Hugs you like small clothes anyway."

"That will swallow me up," complained Legolas. "I am not an Elder yet."

"Elder?" Man and Dwarf exclaimed together in matching tones of incredulity.

"No Elder would ever wear that," sniffed Aragorn. "I wore it for the Mid-summer's Festival ball when I was twenty-two, barely even of age. It was quite becoming and I had my choice of partners for every dance." Suddenly he remembered a pertinent fact and his cheeks paled. "Let us keep that quiet, if you don't mind."

"Why?" asked Legolas.

"Arwen was in Lothlorien then and, well, I am sure she danced with others at the festival there anyway."

Gimli laughed and winked at Isildur's heir. "So, she is your Lady Fair and you were playing the stag!"

"Now, Gimli, that is a coarse way of putting it," grumped Aragorn, but he was half smiling. "We were not betrothed then. She would not begrudge a young man a few dances. Or more."

"Wrong mood," Legolas frowned, shaking his head, but he slipped into the robe to appease Gimli. They all trooped to the mirror and watched as the woodland warrior stood straight, assumed a regal mien, and strutted a few steps and back. Surprisingly, the effect was not so terrible. In fact, he quite liked the way the sleeveless robe flowed round him, billowing a bit when he walked, drifting out behind him and thus showing off the clothes he had chosen. He smiled hopefully at them in the mirror.

"Yes, that is better," Aragorn admitted, "but it lacks something."

"Something for his head," suggested Gimli.

"No helmets," laughed Legolas, "and no circlets, coronas, crowns, or coronets either."

"Needs a belt and a fine sword," opined Gimli.

"One does not wear a sword under the roof of one's host," said Legolas, clearly shocked by such a vulgar suggestion.

"Why not?" demanded the Dwarf. "Don't you want your friends to know you are ready to defend the home into which you have been so graciously welcomed?"

"Aye, but I demonstrated that by killing a whole troop of Orcs before I ever came to the house," explained Legolas. "One does not drag the corpses into the sitting room afterward."

"Precisely. You would have killed those Orcs anyway for the sake of your lost friends. It needs to be shown, without the gory proof, that you would do the same for Elrond's people." Then Gimli thought a minute. "Of course, they've not all been overly kind to you, so perhaps…"

"A belt would give the look better definition," Aragorn suddenly announced, hoping to quell the argument. Since neither Legolas nor Gimli wished to quarrel, he succeeded.

The trio tried various accoutrements around the Wood Elf's waist, from flowing sashes to rugged leather belts and even an ornamental girdle of plaited gold. Then, still not satisfied, they had to try the robe with the original clothes. Somewhere during the second fitting, another rapping came at Legolas' door.

"Hello! Legolas, are you here?"

It was Boromir's voice and soon enough he followed the chorus of summonses to the fitting room, appraised the ensemble in its present configuration when asked, and sat down on a bench next to Aragorn to offer his opinions as the various articles were mixed and matched, tried on, taken off, and discarded in heaps upon the floor. In all this trying on and casting off, Legolas discarded his timidity, too, finding that none of the mortals cared about his tattoos beyond one or two appreciative compliments on the artistry. The result of all this masculine camaraderie, however, was that no one bothered to ask Boromir what brought him to Legolas' apartment. Likewise, the Steward's son quickly forgot his task, which was to fetch the Wood Elf to his appointment, for the Lords were waiting.

Presently, there came a fourth tapping at the portal, this time loud, insistent, and impatient, followed immediately by Galdor striding into the crowded dressing room. His amazement to find them all there and to hear the jumbled explanation that poured from all four of the occupants at once was exceeded only by his amusement and his underlying joy to see Legolas so at ease with his compatriots. As all the various outfits were described and the accessories argued over and presented for his ultimate judgement, the Sadron realised that the real culprit was a pair of lady's shoes, which simply refused to compliment the image of respectable and respectful masculinity the Wood Elf hoped to produce for his elders' benefit. The ancient ellon's eyes sparkled as he inspected his charge's slender feet.

"So the problem," Galdor spoke carefully, "is that the Noldorin and mortal folk of the valley are all too coarsely constructed and there has not been time to order a pair of dress boots from the local cobbler?"

"Aye, Tirn'wador," agreed Legolas, glad his Guardian understood. "They all say these shoes will not do with this wardrobe." He made a graceful turn, displaying the black leggings, blue tunic, cream-coloured silk shirt, and elegant sleeveless robe. About his waist was a wide sash of darker indigo and the fringed ends trailed to his knee,just concealing the scabbard of his long knife. Arwen's shoes, modest brown leather clasped with a single bright silver buckle over his arch, did present an incongruous combination.

"I know someone who has boots that would fit you," said the Sadron quietly and flashed Aragorn a glance. "I am surprised you did not think of it, Dunedan, but perhaps it is better that you did not."

"What? Whom do you mean?" Aragorn did not appreciate being called out this way, especially when Legolas favoured him with that open-mouthed stare of disgruntled affront. "Truly, I do not know who it is," he insisted.

"No matter," said Galdor. "I will just go and announce you, Legolas. Come along." Everyone followed them through the apartment and into the hall, up the stairs and through the main corridor to the east wing of the house, then down a secondary corridor which ended in a semi-circular vestibule in which was set an open archway. A beaded curtain of silver hung over it and moved in the ambient breeze, creating the impression and the subtle sound of soft raindrops, and from the room beyond could be heard a harp strumming, singing a quiet, mournful tune. "Lindir, are you within?" called the Sadron and did not wait, parting the curtain and going in, but forbade the others with a stern look.

The strumming ceased abruptly and now the low murmur of voices could be heard, but not the words they created, and presently Galdor returned. "Go in, Legolas. Lindir is a Sindarin elf and of tall, slender build. I believe he has boots that will suffice." He gave his charge a little push that sent him through and then herded the others away with him, refusing to comment or reply to any of their questions. Indeed, he remained at the juncture with the main hall and leaned upon the wall, demonstrating his intent to stand guard quite effectively. Men and Dwarf wandered off together in disgruntled curiosity. They had all hoped to see the final product of their creative collaboration, but sensed that there was something more in this by the Sadron's reticence.

Legolas felt ill at ease, standing before the elegant minstrel, embarrassed to be here asking to borrow a pair of boots from someone he did not know who did not know him. He had seen the musician of course, but had not spoken to him and Lindir had been careful to ignore his presence, as had many of the elves of Imladris. Now here stood the ellon, actually holding two sets of boots in his hands, a pained expression of badly restrained misery in his pale blue eyes. Not for the first time, Legolas chafed under his Tirn'wador's authority over him. He smiled, a tight, brief stretching of lips, and offered a polite bow. "Mae govannen, Lindir. I am sure this must seem a most bizarre request." They stood facing one another in a little anteroom with cloaks hanging on hooks and several satchels leaning against the walls beneath them.

"Oh, perhaps so, I am not sure it is fitting, if that's what you mean," replied Lindir. He stood staring down at the Wood Elf in silence, absorbing the display of guileless discomfort robed in splendour, sight tracking from the small jewelled ornaments tucked into the braided hair over the elegant clothing, down to the absurd shoes. He sighed faintly, gave a shake of the head even fainter, and offered a sad smile filled with remorse and regret. "I am very sorry, you see. Giving you the boots isn't going to be enough, I fear."

"What do you mean?" asked Legolas, but then he saw it, there in those contrite eyes, and gasped. "You?"

"Aye, it was me. You'd best come inside," confirmed Lindir and led the way, aware that Legolas was standing frozen in the cloakroom. He went into his study, which was a music room filled with harps and flutes and lutes and lyres and stands with sheaves of parchments covered in verses and notations. He sat wearily in the chair he liked best, set the boots on the floor, and waited. In a minute, Legolas came through the door, pausing to stare at him from a few feet away. Lindir motioned to a chair and found it very hard to meet those angry eyes. Legolas did not sit.

"Why?" he burst out, hands curling into fists, heart racing. "I've done nothing to you; we've never spoken. Do you hate all Wood Elves?"

"No, I do not hate anyone," sighed Lindir. "Please sit and I will tell you everything."

"You will tell everything now," hissed Legolas, hard pressed to restrain his wrath at such a flippant answer.

"So be it," shrugged Lindir listlessly. "No doubt you will want to challenge me to combat afterward, but I am no match for you by all accounts."

"A challenge of this nature is not predicated on whether or no the combatants are well-matched," seethed Legolas, "but you are safe in any case. I have given my word not to demand satisfaction of you."

"Then I must thank Galdor, though I begin to think a quick death would be better for me than what is to come."

"Valar! You imply I would slay you as though commenting on the weather! Can you speak without giving offence, I wonder? And Galdor would never ask so great a favour of me, for he understands too well my nature. Thank Glorfindel, or perhaps not, as he intends to deal with you himself and spare me the need to dirty my hands."

"I did not mean that to insult you, but I see my error and accept your rebuke as just," sighed Lindir, lifting dull eyes to the woodland prince. He realised fully the level of self-control he was witnessing and smiled, bowing his head in respect. "You remind me of your grandfather. Truly, I have wronged you unjustly and through you all your forebears and living kin. I cannot hope to be granted forgiveness and since you will not be permitted to teach me my lesson personally, be appeased by knowing that Elrond intends to banish me from my home."

"I see," Legolas' eyes narrowed. "It is to my mind cowardly to attempt to engage the sympathy of your victim in order to gain clemency."

"And I see that my every word can do nothing but anger you more," Lindir rejoined, shaking his head, a wry smile on his lips. "You are young, but from what is said you have known great sorrow already and also great love, the love that will shape your fate for all the time given to you." A violent shudder seized him and he cringed as though in pain, breathing heavily, eyes going glassy for an instant. Then he seemed to snap back, blinking nad scowling at Legolas.

"That is so," Legolas answered, somewhat confounded at the manner of this minstrel. He seemed to accept both his culpability and his impending doom without fear or anger, owning his crime fully. Still, there was about him a desire to earn Legolas' understanding if not his forgiveness, and this sudden allusion to love and sorrow struck a chord within the Wood Elf. Nor could the symptoms of anguish be ignored; Lindir truly was languishing in profound grief. Legolas discovered he was not glad of that and he did wish to understand. What had inspired the singer to such despicable trickery toward someone whose ancestry he apparently respected, if the timbre of his voice could be believed? Indeed, there was no hint of subterfuge about him and Legolas' rage gave way to guarded curiosity, subsiding enough so that he moved to a chair and sat facing the minstrel. "Speak, but say no more of my forebears or my heart. I wish to hear only about this plot of yours."

"Simplicity itself, here is your explanation: it was done for love," announced the minstrel and laughed at the stunned expression this statement produced in his youthful guest. "What, have you not ever heard that elves can fade for lack of love? Were you not in danger of it yourself?"

"I was fading from grief for loss of my Nana," snapped Legolas.

"True, and that grief was spawned by the very love in which you held her to your soul. It is no different for one who loves and knows that love will forever be rejected."

"Ah!" Legolas cried involuntarily, for this he had not expected. How many of Glorfindel's old suitors must he face before his claim would be acknowledged? "You loved him, but he did not return your feelings? How, if you truly held him in your soul as you say, could you do something that must hurt him so? Glorfindel's love for me is not false and to drive us apart must break him, too."

"Glorfindel!" Lindir spat, sitting up in his seat, eyes suddenly blazing. "I despise Glorfindel above all people! Why should I care about his heart? Nay, it is Erestor I love, but he is the one who loves Glorfindel and can see no value in any other heart. Now he has been utterly rejected, his mate taking another as husband, and he suffers. How can I watch him suffer and do nothing? Could you stand by and watch your precious Balrog Slayer wither into grief and fade?"

Legolas was dumbfounded. For several seconds they stared at one another, Lindir in wounded defiance, he in perplexed confusion. "You love Erestor? All this time you have loved Erestor?"

"Aye, and now perhaps you can understand how deep has been my sorrow to be only his dear friend and confidant, spurned in favour of that pompous and self-absorbed re-born muscle-bound lout of a warrior! For Ages I have endured it, contenting myself with hopeful self-deceptions, pretending someday he would realise his folly and turn to me." Lindir spewed his venomous words forth without restraint and was pleased by the shock of their impact. Lindir rose to his feet without realising it, shouting as he loomed over Legolas. "I finally had to face it, thanks to you. At long last Glorfindel told him the truth: he had never really loved Erestor at all and wanted no more to do with him. And Erestor did come to me, but only to pour forth his woe and unburden his soul to his oldest and dearest friend in all of Arda!"

"Lindir," Legolas began, but got no further as the singer went on, his voice ragged with agony.

"He is fading, Legolas, my own beloved, and I can do nothing! He does not even see the love in my eyes or feel the desire in my touch. What would you have done in my place? I thought to give back to him that which he needed so desperately: Glorfindel of the Golden Flower. Yes, I hoped you would think he spurned you as he did Erestor, as Erestor did me. I hoped you would think he had revealed your unseemly origins to all and sundry. Then Glorfindel would return to his first husband and my beloved seneschal would continue, and I would continue loving him. Why must we two perish in misery so that you and that detestable, ungrateful wretch of a Balrog Slayer might be happy?"

"I do not want anyone to fade to ensure my own happiness!" objected Legolas vehemently. "I want Erestor's soul to be healed, and…and yours as well. I did not know." He stood and raised a hand, gently taking the singer's arm in a firm grasp. "I think, perhaps, that Erestor is mistaken in what he feels for Glorfindel. From what both have said to me, it was more about power and possession than anything approximating love."

"Elbereth spare me." Lindir gazed into Legolas' earnest face and clear eyes and groaned, dropping back into his chair, covering his face with his hands so he would not have to see that innocent countenance. "Why must you torment me this way? Have you no pity? I would rather you explode in fury and strike me down than offer me such false hopes. You are cruel beyond all telling!"

"See here!" barked Legolas angrily."I am none of those things, neither cruel nor tormenting nor do I pity you. Well, yes, I do, but not as you mean it. I do not…"

"Stupid child!" sobbed Lindir, for he was weeping now. "Realising he does not love Glorfindel does not mean Erestor will love me! He does not!"

"But he does not love Glorfindel," insisted Legolas, "so he will not fade. He will not fade, Lindir. You will not lose him." The singer grew quieter and raised his tear-stained face a tiny bit, peering at Legolas through watery eyes in which a small glint of hope flared to life. The woodland prince offered a sympathetic smile. "Aye, you understand me now. In time, having cleansed himself of those old follies in his head, mayhap Erestor will be ready to love someone truly. Mayhap he will come to appreciate his oldest and dearest friend in a new light."

"Oh," Lindir gulped out the word and tore his sight from Legolas, fumbled for a handkerchief and cleaned up his face. He felt utterly foolish and completely miserable and unbearably renewed all at once. "I have done a terrible thing," he whispered.

"Yes, it was my worst nightmare come true, save only one," admitted Legolas and sat back down. "I wish you had not, but good has come of your treachery, it seems."

"Good? What good comes of selfish motives?"

"Apparently much," Legolas shrugged. "Boromir and I have resolved our altercations and are likely to become friends in the days ahead. Gimli has proven the truest of any friend I have ever had and I think he would be as likely as Glorfindel to want to do you harm on my behalf, though I don't suppose that is much comfort to you just now. But it is important because…"

"Yes, child, I am not simple; I see it. The Fellowship must be closer than family to survive the trials of the task before you," snapped Lindir, suddenly embarrassed to be lectured by this stripling youth.

"Fine, then," Legolas said tersely, displeased to be discounted this way. "I meant only to ease your suffering, but you seem to want it. Maybe it's what you do need; a stripling youth knows nothing of the remorse of ancients who fall from grace."

At this Lindir laughed suddenly and long, for he was so shattered he could not command himself and for Legolas to read him so clearly, throwing back at him his own uncharitable thoughts, was a much harder lesson to receive. The Powers were determined to chastise him thoroughly, he thought. He went on so long he saw anxious concern grow in the Wood Elf's face and this only incited him to more whoops of hysterical gayety. Abruptly the woodland prince rose and hastened about the room, searching for something, and grabbed up a vase of flowers. The lilies he threw to the floor while the water he dashed in Lindir's face. The treatment worked; with a gasping inhalation the singer's manic amusement subsided and he sat glaring up at the clearly frightened warrior.

"Valar!" he shouted, wiping his face and dabbing at his clothes, cheeks pale in outrage. "Warriors haven't any common sense, always choosing some violent solution to whatever situation they encounter."

"Indeed!" Legolas was relieved to hear the minstrel speak at all, but once more these were not kindly spoken. He propped his fists atop his hips and gazed down, shaking his head. "I don't know what to do about you," he said.

"Elrond has taken the responsibility from you." Lindir's voice was acid and his face contorted in a deriding sneer.

"Of, you are terrible!" exclaimed Legolas, but he had to laugh at such defiance in the face of certain banishment. Then he sobered. "You must not take that tone anymore, Lindir. Glorfindel will not be easy to appease and it will require me to do it. Do you truly want to create disaster, now when such dire trouble falls upon us? I do not want my beloved to stain his hands with your blood, nor do I wish my family to learn of this insult to our House. I believe you are truly sick in spirit and need help, but you must stop now if you are to get it. Elrond is fair, but he has an entire realm to consider and this Quest on top of that. My father and brothers will soon be at war with Dol Guldur and need no distractions such as this. I think the best thing is for you to go voluntarily to Greenwood and tell all. Place yourself in service there in my father's House for a term of one year and I will be satisfied."

"Oh, will you indeed?" Lindir jumped up, but he was weeping again, for he really was broken in spirit. He clutched at his heart and suddenly dropped down on his knees before Legolas, grovelling. "Oh, this is undeserved, undeserved!" he wailed and to Legolas' horror actually bent and kissed his feet.

"Ai! Do not do that! Here, arise and compose yourself," he said and knelt to help the singer up, settling him back in the chair. "I will go find Erestor for you."

"No! I do not want him to see me this way, shamed and a shameful ruin!"

"Why? Have you not seen him thus? Is that not what friends do, comfort one another through both trials and triumphs? Be at peace now and I will send him here."

"So be it," whispered Lindir, blinking away his tears and twisting the drenched handkerchief in his worrying fingers. He watched Legolas move off toward the door. "Thank you," he announced loudly and smiled when Legolas turned. "I know I am not well."

"No, but you will be again, and soon. Be at peace; I know where to find Erestor and he will be here at once." Again Legolas turned to go, only to be stopped again.

"You forgot the boots," called Lindir, rising and bringing both pairs with him. He made Legolas take them and saw him to the door, returning to his chair to wait for Erestor, a bit disturbed by the unsettled way he felt inside, not sure what had just happened between him and the woodland prince.

Galdor met Legolas and they went away together to find Erestor, and thus Legolas made his entrance to his auspicious meeting carrying the boots instead of wearing them. Elrond raised a questioning brow, but as soon as the story was told left with Erestor to ensure the minstrel was not in any immediate danger, for insanity was uncommon but often deadly in the First-born, suicide being the chief threat. Legolas finally slipped his feet into the tall footgear and walked around to see how well they fit. Like Aragorn's clothes, the match was not perfect but near enough to be bearable. He smiled inquiringly at his Guardian. "Am I suitable now?"

"You always were," answered Mithrandir, who was there of course.

"Well said," agreed Galdor. "I do not believe Elrond will be able to meet with you just now, Legolas. This business with Lindir is serious."

"I suppose so," sighed Legolas. "I had hoped to talk to him before Glorfindel returns from patrol, but it may wait a day or two."

"Aha!" Mithrandir announced gleefully. "Something you do not want to talk about with your betrothed?"

"No," said Legolas simply and smiled, offering nothing more.

"Your efforts at being mysterious are futile," chuckled Galdor. "We have all been wondering when you would try to inveigle some promise from Elrond not to send Glorfindel into battle."

"I will present my arguments to Lord Elrond alone," insisted Legolas firmly. "I do not want to lose him again."

The elders sat in stupefied silence on hearing this and shared confounded stares, but Legolas seemed not to realise there was anything unusual in his words. "So be it," said Galdor, "but that discussion will not take place today. Have you readied your reply to the betrothal gift?"

"Of course," Legolas' tone expressed his affront to have the question broached. Then his shoulders slumped. "I only delay because of the custom. I wish my Nana was here to give her approval."

"Did she not do so during Úcaul Annaur?" inquired Galdor gently.

"Aye, but that was different. It was…" but he found he could not go on and turned away. After a time he sighed. "It was our parting, body and soul: her death and my birth, or re-birth."

Mithrandir cleared his throat, disturbed by these unexpected and cryptic expressions. "Most unfortunate and my most heartfelt condolences, young one," he murmured. Legolas gave a quick nod but remained silent. The wizard and the Sadron shared another glance. "Still, we must continue on. Legolas, would you mind taking these pairs of shoes away? I believe Arwen would appreciate having hers returned and Lindir's you may keep. Then gather the Fellowship for me; I intend us to take the noon meal together."

"Aye, Mithrandir," Legolas sighed and gathered the shoes, bowing to Galdor. "Ab'eveditham, Tirn'wador." He left them, his mood solemn and pensive, but did as he was told.

TBC

NOTE: A quick chapter and a few loose ends that needed tying up. Hope the dressing room scene was amusing and fun :) I think most of you guessed the guilty one had to be Lindir, and I hope it is plain as day that he is quite mad and must have been breaking when he planned this dark revenge, reinventing it as a selfless service to his unrequited beloved seneschal. Maybe those shoes are catalysts in and of themselves! Galdor was wise to let Lindir and Legolas have it out; of course he knew Legolas had already promised not to hurt his betrayer. Elrond would surely have noticed Lindir's insanity as soon as the two were brought together, but such a meeting in front of all the lords of the land, forced to admit his reasons before the one he loved, might have finished Lindir entirely. More about the gifts of courtship and catalysing shoes later. Anyway, my annual post of Cuthenin at holiday time.

Chapter Text

Leben-en-Pae-dadol Peth: Aint-en-Gwend, Tîw-en-Hebil, Naid-en-Mîl
(Part Twenty-five: Gifts of Friendship, Signs of Possession, Tokens of Love)

It wasn't until Legolas was actually standing before the entrance to Lady Arwen's apartment that he recalled exactly how he came to have her shoes in his possession. Her brothers had pilfered them from her wardrobe without consent and now here he was, footwear in hand, about to offer them back with his thanks for their use. No doubt she had noticed them missing before now and some unfortunate servant had been chastised for their loss. For all the time he had been away in Greenwood, the shoes had been in the talan in the oak tree behind Glorfindel's house, and he was sure the Twins had forgotten all about them in the course of the important task of scouting the route for the Fellowship. He wasn't about to get into a sibling conflict by indicting the brothers.

Not only that, in addition to the ones on his feet, he had the second set of boots from Lindir in the other hand. These he set aside next to the wall, hoping she would not notice them and wonder if perhaps he had some sort of shoe fetish that impelled him to steal the footgear of various and sundry folk he encountered. And, of course, he had already pulled the cord that tolled a fair silver bell to announce visitors and could hear someone approaching; escape was now impossible. Legolas sighed in resignation; he would just have to brazen through it and accept the blame for the missing shoes.

What he had not imagined was that someone else would answer the summons and when the haughty auburn-haired page peered at him, arm firmly secured on the door to block free passage, Legolas was startled into silence for a few seconds. The servant's sight fell to the shoes in his hands, travelled on to inspect the boots on his feet, journeyed to the pair on the floor by the wall, and back to his face. It was the same odious retainer he seemed to encounter every time he was in a less than complimentary condition, beginning with his initial interview with Galdor. This time, however, Legolas looked regal in his elegant attire and stood as tall and straight as possible, presenting a passable impression of his father's majestic stance, and though he could not look down upon this servant, since the squire was an inch or two the taller, he held his head high and feigned a dignity he did not quite feel.

"Yes?" inquired the detestable Lochgaer, brows arched and lips sneering. Then he seemed to recall that he was door warden for fair Undomiel and assembled the demeanour of cool detachment presented by every butler ever born when facing the latest peddler at the door.

"Is the Lady Arwen within?"

"She is. Whom may I say is calling?" Now the servant spoke politely, but the mocking glint in his eyes was sufficient to reveal the dare in his words. He wanted to know how the bastard prince would answer and had the satisfaction of seeing colour rise in the Wood Elf's face.

"Legolas Cuthenin, third son of Thranduil, King of Greenwood the Great." The words rolled off Legolas' tongue with pride and just a hint of a sharp rebuke, for he was not ashamed to belong to the House of the Beeches whatever his standing within it.

"Indeed," intoned the page, a touch of uneasiness tainting his bully's enjoyment, for the authenticity in the archer's voice was indisputable. He suddenly recalled, too, the news of a betrothal between the sylvan and Lord Glorfindel. On top of that, Lord Erestor, Lochgaer's mentor, was in disfavour and had dismissed him upon learning his part in the revelation of Legolas' secret. It occurred to the page, rather too late to do anything about it, that Lady Arwen's request for him to serve at her luncheon might not be due to lack of knowledge about these inter-related facts. Nervous dread replaced vague uneasiness. Lochgaer cleared his throat. "I will announce you," he murmured and disappeared inside, leaving the door open.

Legolas' heart fell for he had no wish to hear the derogatory tone in which this unpleasant person would identify him. He hastened after and caught up with Lochgaer just as the loud pronouncement commenced:

"Legolas Thranduilion, Ernil-en-Gladgalen Daer!"

The ringing titles contained no trace of disdain or derision, sounding forth in respectful timbre, the deferential mode a servant maintained for his betters. Lochgaer stood at attention beside the arched entrance into the sitting room, peering hard at the opposite wall so to avoid eye contact, and Legolas paused beside him, no small amount bewildered and pleased as Arwen and her guests rose to greet him. Aragorn was there and several elves Legolas had spoken with briefly once or twice in the Hall of Fire or the refectory. There was also an ellon he had only glimpsed once, speaking quietly with Lord Elrond. Well-schooled in courtly conduct by Galion, Legolas assumed the proper mien of a lesser baronet before the great nobles of the land and watched the fair Evenstar approaching, hand outstretched and lips smiling. He took her white fingers carefully and bowed gravely beneath them.

"Cuthenin, how good of you to stop in at my humble little party," she cooed, retaining hold of his hand, amused and curious to see the shoes, after which she glanced at his feet. Then she seemed to comprehend everything. "Oh, thank you for bringing those to me; I have been searching for them for days and days." She motioned to the page and took the shoes, shoving them in Lochgaer's hands. "Take them to my dressing room," she ordered sternly, "and return at once." Then she took Legolas' arm and escorted him in, introducing the guests graciously.

Every one of them greeted him cordially, not so much as a whisper of shock to see him there apparent; they seemed genuinely pleased to meet him. Before the pleasantries were concluded, the page had returned and stood silently awaiting the Lady's commands, but she ignored him. Next, there was a small tussle over who would have the woodland prince beside them and Legolas was radiant by the time he ended up seated beside a beautiful elleth with eyes of green, a cousin of Círdan. She was visibly gloating over her coup to have won the Wood Elf's company and kept a proprietary hand on his arm. Now all eyes turned to Arwen, who had remained standing, Aragorn beside her.

"I am so pleased to host this gathering," she began. "Everyone here has in common a singular sorrow: we have all lost our mothers, whether by violence or grief or mortal fate or the long parting of the Sundering Sea. Those of us in the last category are fortunate, indeed, yet we also feel the pain of loss, though perhaps not so keenly."

"Aye; yet I do not believe any separation is easy to endure," said Legolas' companion. She smiled at him kindly. "We thought to initiate you into our clan, finding the support we grant one another makes the burden less onerous."

"I thank you!" said Legolas. "It is an honour to be included."

"Much as I derive solace from our gathering, it is equally important for me to demonstrate that not all the folk of Imladris are such biased and judgemental people," added a tall, dark haired elf, serious to the point of grimness. It was the one observed in converse with Lord Elrond, his bearing noble though his garments were simple and unadorned with any ornament or jewel. "Most of us are not so narrow-minded, Legolas, and I hope you will not take away with you only unfavourable recollections of your time here."

"Indeed not," Legolas bowed, instinct telling him this was an ellon of Noldorin lineage and Ages ancient, for the light in his eyes could only be gathered from lingering in the presence of the Two Trees, while the anguish there betrayed wearing trials of body and soul. Legolas wondered if he had come over from Aman at the rising of the Sun with the host of Feänor's warriors. He couldn't prevent his mind from considering if the ellon had been involved in the kin-slayings, but at once Legolas rebuked himself; he did not know anything about this person. His eyes fell away, for he was dismayed to find himself so quick to judge, but a quiet laugh brought them back up.

"Nay, I hold no grudge against a fleeting thought so rapidly checked and discarded," said the noble ellon. "We all succumb to such minor biases; there is no fault in that when they are recognised for what they are and rejected. The error comes from holding on to these prejudices as justification for intolerance and outright abuse. If more could behave as you have just done, it would be a better world." The austere ellon smiled faintly and dipped his head as though in thanks.

"Your words are both wise and gracious," Legolas said and he bowed again, not sure what the correct protocol might be in such a circumstance. He was spared too much anxiety over it by the next person to speak.

"We are distantly related," declared another ellon, stocky for an elf, chestnut-haired, and of less lofty stature, "for my fore-mother and your grandfather's great-great grandmother were second cousins. I despise the unseemly light cast on the sylvan elves by some here! My kin followed the Noldor into Eregion in days of old and thence to Imladris and thus my heritage includes all the races of the First-born, save Vanyarin, as well as blood of mortal people."

"I fought beside your father at Dagorlad," another Noldorin ellon suddenly announced. "I hope he will forgive me for not coming to your defence sooner. I admit I believed the entire scenario was a hoax and you were not his child, for you do not favour him. Yet, your courage and your temper give you away rightly enough." That raised a soft chuckle from all, including Legolas.

"There is another thing we all share," said Aragorn, "for each of us here has been subject to gossip, our personal histories or secret embarrassments revealed."

"Oh," Legolas faltered. "I…"

"Yes, it is not the easiest topic for any of us," inserted the Noldorin lord. "I am of the House of Feänor and fought bravely in the wars of Beleriand, but rumour spread here that I was among the killers at Alqualondë and joined in all the other kin-slayings. And I was there, it is true, and I fought. Much blood was spilled but less killing than many suppose, and I am among the majority of Noldor who gave grievous wounds but never death. This is my crime, drawing sword against my own, drawing blood, but I am not guilty of taking life. I committed this sin freely and do not expect forgiveness nor have I sought it, but none of my actions were undertaken for any of the false reasons put forward. There is a level of fealty that one may not deny and some oaths that cannot be renounced, no matter how dire."

"That is a terrible burden to bear." Legolas had not often thought on those Noldorin folk who had not taken life in the fighting, the shame and guilt they must carry, but he did so now. His compassion must have showed, for the noble ellon smiled.

"I do not often speak of it," he said, "and for long years have remained silent, deeming it just to endure these vicious smears without complaint. Yet, other victims deserve no punishment and have suffered unduly all the same."

"I am one of them and tried to ignore the wagging tongues, but that tactic failed to discourage the perpetrators," the emerald-eyed beauty began her tale. "I arrived here from Mithlond not long after Imladris was founded. I came alone and kept to myself, seeking only peace and serenity. I did not attend parties or go often to the Hall of Fire or seek some post of service, and this reticence aroused curiosity. Since I would not speak of my reasons for being here, speculation ran rampant. I heard everything from a broken heart to banishment from Círdan's realm for treason, and he a distant cousin!"

"Ai Valar," Legolas sighed, shaking his head in sympathy.

"As for me," his burly distant kinsman said, "my vulnerable spot is the comprehensive quality of my pedigree. As I mentioned, my people settled in Eregion and became acquainted with Durin's folk. We are all smiths in my family; I am one of the best here in Imladris. It is no accident, for it is in my blood. My ancestors include a Dwarf or two. This was a carefully guarded family secret, even in those more lenient days, and I was not happy when it became public knowledge. So you see, I know somewhat of your despair."

"Yes," Legolas was overwhelmed; what could he offer as consolation? "Would that your family had not had need to keep this secret, for there is honour, dignity, and much to appreciate in Durin's race."

"Your words are gracious," the ellon bowed.

"My relationship with Lord Elrond, who is to me as a father, was nearly destroyed," Aragorn said seriously. "I had not yet spoken to him of my love for Arwen, yet she and I knew what would be. We were content to let this bond grow as our hearts permitted, agreeing that it was too soon to share the news. Somehow, our mutual feelings were discovered. My mother knew it, but she would never betray her son's trust. Even so, Elrond was informed in such a way that it seemed Arwen and I purposefully meant to deceive him. He was more hurt by that than by the notion of our love."

"It was a bitterly hurtful day for us all," sighed Arwen, "and it was many many days before the pain dulled enough for Adar to reach acceptance."

"I can imagine your sorrow and distress," Legolas murmured, for he had spent his whole life fretting over his father learning of his secret desires. This had stood between them, preventing the closer bond he had been so long denied. "And Lord Elrond's, too. I am glad understanding was achieved and peace restored."

"That leaves me," said the old warrior gruffly. "I am not guiltless, as some others are. I was, and still am, entangled with two families at once, having a wife and child in Lothlorien that I left there, bringing with me the second to birth our son here free of the scathing contempt and scorn of my relatives and hers. Elrond knew our situation and agreed for the children's sake to keep it quiet. Well, that did not last beyond a year and all of us have suffered by the revelation of our private business."

"Oh, what cruelty!" exclaimed Legolas, furious on the unknown child's behalf, for his heart still stung with the hurt he'd suffered through his young years. "The ones who spread such news and do such harm should be stopped! How is it they are permitted to continue?"

"The nature of our situations made it such that we did not share our individual shames willingly," said the Noldorin lord. "Remember, much of what was spread was truth, as in your case. Our stories were not publicised all at the same time, but one by one, each unfolding as the last rumour finally became so oft repeated that it lost its power to titillate. Had we thought to exchange information sooner, we would have realised there were only two principals responsible for these many rumours: Erestor and his protégé, Lochgaer."

In the ensuing silence every eye fell upon the page, who stood trembling and sweating in dread. His eyes darted from one to the other, barely able to meet the cold glares. "I am but his lackey," he cried suddenly. "Lord Erestor is the true culprit, but he remains protected behind the shield of his kinship to Lord Elrond, and so now you turn your wrath upon the lowly Lochgaer."

"Be silent!" chastised Arwen. "I have gone to my father about him before, though Erestor is also my kinsman, but since none of the people involved wished to draw extra attention to themselves by refuting the odious gossip, Elrond did nothing. Yet we are now united in our purpose, as you see, and Erestor will be punished."

"Yet that purpose mentioned may not be what you imagine it to be," suggested the lovely lady from Mithlond. "We realise you were trained specifically by Erestor over long years. We believe the unique qualities you possess have been misdirected and thus corrupted. We hope to rehabilitate you."

"Such an inquisitive mind would be better bent upon the gathering of knowledge that is beneficial to all rather than detrimental to a few," continued the Noldorin lord.

"Not to mention a distinct gift for sneaking, or perhaps subterfuge is a more palatable word," remarked the old warrior. "You would make a most excellent spy."

"Spy!" cried Lochgaer. "You mean to send me into enemy country and thus do away with me!"

"Do not be so histrionic," scoffed the smith. "We do not want you to be killed in battle."

"We want you to become a productive and useful member of this community," said Aragorn, "though few in the days to come may escape the foment of war. Our intent is to send you to train among my Rangers of Eriador, which means Elrohir and Elladan will take you in hand."

"What if I do not wish it? I am no warrior and am too old to start training for it now," whined Lochgaer, shaking more than ever.

"If your courage is so lacking, then you should go from Imladris. I would say join Erestor and Lindir in Greenwood, for they will spend their banishment there, but I do not want my own people to be victimised by you three," opined Legolas.

"Agreed, they should be separated, Erestor and Lochgaer, for they feed upon one another's depravity, bolstering one another and countering whatever check the conscience attempts to provide," said the Noldo lord.

"It might be best if you sailed from these shores," said Legolas quietly, "for you have become like a foul mere, poisoning the air with rotten words that weigh upon the soul and spread division among folk who long for unity."

"Well said," nodded the fair lady of Mithlond. "That is why we wanted to invite you into our circle, for we needed to hear the voice of someone more objective about the atmosphere here. You have confirmed what we have all felt."

"So then, Lochgaer, what will it be?" asked the old warrior. He stood and folded his arms over his chest. Behind him, all the others rose. "For your part in subjecting my child, an innocent, to misery and sorrow I could demand the severest penalty our laws allow: forcible expulsion from the country and warning of your character sent ahead of you to the other elven realms, that you may not take your bitter malice elsewhere. I am content to let you choose Aragorn's option, or that of Legolas, should you prefer it."

"I will not be subjected to banishment in this manner!" he fumed. "By what authority do you lot convict me? I have not been charged with any wrongs and even then only Elrond may sentence me."

"As you wish," intoned Arwen, shrugging. "You may go to your quarters and await my father's summons."

The page stood staring, sight tracking from one to the next and ending on Legolas. His face grew dark as his wrath rose and he raised a pointing hand. "You are behind this! I would not have credited such an outcome: that a low-born Wood Elf could wreck my life so utterly, but I suppose Glorfindel's esteem clings even to such as you. A curse upon you and all…"

He was cut off as the Noldo Lord sprang forward and struck him sharply, knocking him to the floor. "Enough!" he shouted, looming over the cowering page. "Do you dare call down doom upon one of the Nine Walkers, knowing the future of all free people rests upon their Quest? Now there shall be no choice and I sentence you here: To the Havens you shall go, under guard, and out to sea as soon as a boat may be readied. Whether the Powers will permit you to cross over with hroa and feä intact, I cannot say, but such is your fate, Lochgaer."

"You cannot sentence me!" he whimpered. "Only the Lord of the Land may demand banishment."

"Elrond will not gainsay my will," intoned the daunting lord. He crossed to a door and opened it, revealing a narrow hallway: a servants' entry to the suite, and called down it. A tall ellon hastened to the summons, dressed in finer livery than that of the Noldo lord before whom he bowed low. "Take this person away and lock him in the cellars, for I do not trust his word even should he give it and promise not to fly. I will inform Lord Elrond."

"Sui pedich, Hiren," said the guard and toed the moaning Lochgaer. "Up now and come with me; do not make me draw sword in the Lady's rooms."

He would not budge, but lay grovelling and weeping at the Noldorin lord's feet, pleading incoherently for mercy. The smith and Aragorn heaved him up and the guard dragged him away still wailing and mewling, and all the house came forth to watch their progress, more than a few applauding his removal, for not all the tales he'd taken to Erestor had been so serious, but hurtful nonetheless, and his victims were pleased to be avenged.

"An unfortunate outcome," Arwen sighed unhappily. "I truly thought he would accept censure from us and choose to be retrained."

"It is no fault of yours, Arwen," the lady from Mithlond consoled.

"Aye, he is stubborn and hard-hearted," said Legolas and set his hands on his hips, frowning. "Now, why may that be? Did he undergo some trial or tragedy that has made him bitter?"

"Nay, he has not," informed the Noldorin lord. "Lochgaer has lived in Imladris all of his days, knowing neither war nor want. His parents sailed when they realised what he was doing, for they were ashamed. He chose to be as he is, even as you chose how you would meet the fate into which you were born. Hardship is neither cause nor justification for malicious behaviour, Cuthenin, and you are a fine example of that truth. You need not pity Lochgaer."

"As for myself, I have spent enough of the day dealing with him," said the smith and laughed suddenly, a deep, rolling, merry sound. "Legolas, I know of your friendship with Gimli, Gloín's son. How if I teach you a traditional Dwarvish greeting in Khuzdul?"

"You speak the Dwarven tongue?" Legolas was amazed. "Do you have a Dwarvish name, too?"

"Of course!" affirmed the smith. "Though, that I may not speak except among family and I hope you understand it is no slight against any of the company here." He bowed to all formally.

"Nay, we are not insulted," smiled Aragorn. "Let us learn this Dwarven greeting then, though maybe some of us already know it."

"Show off!" Arwen swatted him and all laughed, and the party grew gay after that until duty or work called the Elves away, one by one. Ere long, only Legolas and the Noldorin lord remained with Arwen and Aragorn.

"I must depart as well," he excused himself, "for I have an appointment I dare not miss without earning an exasperated complaint from Elrond, for Bilbo will go seeking me in the Lore-master's study, and there is serious work afoot there." He turned to Legolas. "I am glad to have met you, and gladder still that Mithrandir chose you for this great task. Know that all our hearts go with you and if I do not see you before you depart, I pray the Valar will surround you, protect you, and bring you back safe out of doom and destruction."

"I thank you, Hiren," Legolas said, moved by the invocation. "Galu-en-Tawar an le," he returned, for he had no holier blessing to bestow, but worried as he spoke that his humble words would sound like mockery to someone who had dwelled beneath the light of the Two Trees.

"You honour me," said the lord and his voice was strained as though he fought strong emotion. Indeed, Arwen laid a hand upon his arm, eyes shining with unshed tears as she looked upon Legolas. Then the Noldo turned quickly and strode for the door, calling Aragorn to him as he went, and the Dúnadan gave his love a hurried kiss and left.

"Did I misspeak?" Legolas asked. "I did not mean any affront; it is the highest blessing we can give, those who hold to Pâd-en-Tawar."

"Nay, Legolas, you have given him a powerful gift and he is too deeply touched to command his voice, or he would thank you more properly," said Arwen, and smiled as she shook her head. "And to cause him, of all the elves still in Middle-earth, to fail in voice is a wonder in itself. He is very old and his history filled with darkness and terrible deeds, as he admitted to you here, but also unbearable loss and deeds of great valour and compassion. Even so, none have blessed him since those evil times."

"None?"

"Nay, not even my Adar."

"How so, Lady? Who is he?"

"That is not for me to speak," she said, "for the name he gives is his own to choose after so long a life. Who am I to reveal his past? Nay, I do not chastise you for asking, only explain why I cannot answer," she reassured, seeing Legolas' abashed countenance. She took his arm and led him into her private sitting room where a cheery fire crackled in the hearth, surveying his appearance as they walked. "You are dressed as though for the court of Turgon in Gondolin. This attire suits you well," she remarked and laughed, pleased by his proud smile. "I am glad you came to the party, for I was not certain you would accept my invitation."

"Your pardon, Lady Arwen," Legolas said, "but I received none. Mithrandir asked me to return your shoes and…Ai!"

"What is wrong?"

"Tawar nin beria! I was supposed to gather the Fellowship to join the wizard for the noon meal. It is far past that now; what will Mithrandir think of me?"

"Be at peace!" Arwen patted his arm. "I believe he must have learned about the party, or guessed, and will excuse your disobedience."

"I hope you are right."

"It is no use worrying over it now and I will vouch for you. Our effort with Lochgaer may have been in vain, but it was a worthy attempt and one Mithrandir would approve."

"Yes, I suppose so." They were beside the fireplace and Legolas began to feel self-conscious, alone with the fair Even-star, and fiddled with the hilt of his long knife.

"Sit, Legolas, and let us talk together," she encouraged, taking a seat on the sofa and patting the cushion next to her. "I have a favour to ask of you," she added as the Wood Elf awkwardly settled, adjusting the scabbard and sash.

"I will be glad to assist you in any way. What do you require?" Legolas felt more at ease hearing this, uncertain what they could possibly talk about together otherwise, so great did he deem the gulf between them, for she was both fair and regal. Yet, he deemed it wise to earn her friendship, for she was dear to Glorfindel, and she had shown him only compassion and kindness since their first encounter. Suddenly he understood that the barriers between them were of his own making, for she had never assumed a lofty or distant air. Legolas relaxed somewhat and smiled; she was more Telerin than Noldorin after all.

"You know I am betrothed to Aragorn and desire nothing more than for him to achieve his destiny. You may not be aware that choosing him for my mate means I am never to step foot on the shores of Aman."

"Nay! Surely not! Why should you be punished for loving Aragorn?" Legolas blurted out, truly shocked.

"It is no punishment but my own choice, part and parcel with mortal life. Those of Eärendil's lineage are given this opportunity to decide their ultimate fate, a gift granted to no others in all of time. Some choose to belong to Eärendil's people, mortal Men, while others remain among the First-born. The time came for me to choose and I chose Aragorn."

"Ai, my Lady, what you name a gift I deem a harsh burden to bear!" Legolas cried. "To hold true to your heart's desire, you must relinquish all your people, your family! What sorrow envelops your happiness and now I comprehend better Lord Elrond's reaction to the news of your troth. Cannot some exception be made? Or could you not postpone this choice until after the years have worn away and Aragorn goes to the fate of all Men?"

"Nay, for to wed him and bear him sons I must be a mortal woman. The choice does not pass beyond this generation of Eärendil's line."

"I'm afraid I do not understand it," Legolas faltered, not wishing to offend Arwen's beliefs but feeling the Valar were unduly cruel in their demands.

"So it is for much that we encounter in life," she said. "I, also, find some of your peoples' beliefs arbitrary, the ban against like-sex union, for example."

"Aye, I confess I do not see any sense in that, either," admitted Legolas. He gazed at her sadly. "Then there is nothing to be done?"

"I cannot change the gift of the choice, no," answered Arwen, "yet I can do what I may to safeguard the future I desire."

"What do you mean?"

"It would be cruel indeed to make this decision and then have no love to share my numbered days," she said. "I mean to protect Aragorn and have always appointed someone to watch and guard over him when he is far from my side. For long years my brothers have had this charge, and when they are not present then Halbarad is sworn to the same guardianship. Yet now fate takes him away from those who would protect him on my behalf. He goes alone into this dire Quest, Legolas, and I fear for him."

"Nay, Lady, he will not be alone. Mithrandir's power will safeguard all."

"He will safeguard the Ring-bearer and that is as it should be," she corrected, "nor would I ask him to turn from so important a commission. Boromir's allegiance is divided and I trust him not, no matter how brave and noble he may be. Gimli I do not doubt, yet he is a Dwarf and I find I cannot unburden my heart to him. So I come to you, Cuthenin." Arwen took up the young warrior's hands and clasped them tight within her own, peering at him with clear eyes; eyes that laid bare all the fears of her gentle heart, already so tried and wounded from loss of a mother's counsel in such tribulation. "Will you not pledge to me your loyalty and promise to guard my love? No other can do this thing, Cuthenin, and it may be as important a duty as that laid upon Frodo."

Legolas felt no hesitation whatsoever, grateful to be permitted a part in easing the course of so great and tragic a love. He slipped from the sofa down to his knees before her, filled with the power of her words and the depth of her trust in him. He drew the long white knife and laid it in her lap. "I do so pledge; henceforth, I am yours to command, second only to the will of my father and King, and take up this commission with a glad and a grave heart. Your faith honours me and I will not fail you, my Lady. Aragorn shall not fall, though Legolas fall to prevent it."

"That will not be necessary, I pray," she cried and raised him up, wrapping him in a warm embrace. "I doubt you know what comfort you have granted me," she murmured. "I cannot confide such fears to Ada; my choice has hurt him so deeply, though he tries hard to hide it from me. My brothers would do too much, if I shared my dread with them, hindering Aragorn and weakening him in their efforts to spare him. That is not the way to make a Man into King, for he would know their purpose and guess the source. You he will not suspect, for you are young and he thinks to watch over you!"

"Indeed!" Legolas giggled, grinning. "This is a fine joke on him, and I shall tell him all on your wedding day, Lady."

"So be it," laughed Arwen, "you will have earned the right to your jest, Cuthenin!" She hugged him again, sighing, so much lighter in heart that it showed. "I wish I could do something to ease your burdens, but here I have added to them."

"Nay, not so," Legolas disagreed. "My sorrows have ended and only happiness awaits me at the end of this Quest, for Glorfindel is true and we will be wedded even on the day you and Aragorn take your vows. Yet, there is something you could do, for I have similar fears over my beloved's role in this war."

"Glorfindel is more than an able warrior, Legolas; surely you do not fear he will fall?"

"He has fallen before; how can I not think of it? Sometimes the images of that dreadful day are so vivid it seems a memory, that I was really there, seeing his end. This is probably due to the communion of our souls during Úcaul Annaur. I don't believe I can endure losing him, yet I also have no desire for him to know I would meddle in his life. He is proud and rightly so, for he is a mighty warrior, yet I would have Lord Elrond withhold him from battle until the last extremity. Your voice added to mine might sway the decision in my favour."

"Now you and I both know that shall never be," Arwen shook her head, "whether Elrond ordered it or no, but maybe I can give my brothers some work to do, since they chafe under the rejection of their enlistment with the Quest. They shall become Glorfindel's shadows and fight beside him. They will not let him fall, Legolas."

"You have eased my heart," he smiled and dared to hug her back.

"That is well, for I begin to think on you as a younger brother now that you are to be bound to Glorfindel. If ever you require a feminine ear to discern the wisdom or folly of your thoughts, I welcome the role of sell-en-'waeth." (sister by bond)

"Aye, this is an unlooked for blessing. There is much I cannot confide to anyone save Galdor and though he is sage and encouraging, I fear he finds me puzzling and rather a trial to his nerves. Just the other day I knocked him down and struck him accidentally."

"What?" Arwen was wide-eyed, imagining this, and laughed in spite of herself. "Why so, Legolas? What did he do to rile you, and how, if I may ask, can you accost someone 'accidentally'?"

"It is the truth," insisted Legolas, grinning with her, but then he sobered. "It happened right after I found out Boromir had my courting gift from Glorfindel. The first gift is so important, you see, and none but my Tirn'wador or my immediate family are meant to handle it before giving it to me."

"Ah, Faras-uin-Ind," she nodded. "Glorfindel told me about this and that you accepted Ant Minui."

"I did."

"Why do you sound so wistful, then? Do you regret your decision?"

"Nay! I only wished I could share the moment with my Nana. It is tradition, you see, for a son to seek his mother's approval for his mate, since the union will join the families together forever."

"And she is gone," Arwen sighed and examined the Wood Elf's miserable expression. "Tell me, what would you say to her to gain her approval for this match?"

"She has given me that already," Legolas' face brightened, "during Úcaul Annaur." He fished in his pocket to draw out the tortoise shell box, handing it to her. "What do you make of this gift, my Lady?"

"Legolas, I am to be your sell-en-'waeth. There is no need to address me by formal titles anymore, is there?"

"As you wish, Arwen," he nodded and motioned again to the box. "Well?"

"It is beautiful," she remarked as she turned it in her hands, for it was, but then she gave a soft exclamation, observing no means to open it. "A magic spell seals it! Is that part of the tradition?"

"It is," he smiled. "Glorfindel has done well in this, for the unlocking words are chosen by the suitor and must be such words that I would think to use. In this way, he shows his affinity for my thoughts, shows that he understands my heart. Of course, after Úcaul Annaur, he could not err."

"I see," Arwen found this reference intriguing, having listened to a brief description of the ritual from Glorfindel and observed the brand on his side. She thought this practise an extreme reaction to loss, but considered the spell-bound box a good means to test the depth of attraction between young couples. The Wood Elves were wise in some things. "He chose the right words, then, and you have opened it. What is inside it; is this something you can share with me?"

"If you will," he said shyly, "since you are to be sell-en-'waeth to me and my Nana is not here."

"Of course," she leaned closer and pressed the box into his hands, her gentle heart in her eyes. "Demonstrate this box, Cuthenin, and prove to me how fitting is this mate you have chosen."

Proudly he held up his palm, the simple container balanced there, and softly spoke the words: "Thôr Orthad." A faint glimmer surrounded the perimeter of the plain sides and defined a line of soaring eagles in flight graven in the smooth shell. As the spell dissipated, the box was revealed to be beautifully decorated to honour Legolas' maternal family history. In the top was set a delicate seal, the insignia of his mother's clan among the swallows. On the bottom was cut the well known crest of the Rising Sun with rays outstretched, Glorfindel's seal, and beside it Legolas' personal seal, the same that he carried with him always and with which Glorfindel was forever marked.

"See? Above, that which is known and represents all the people who have gone before me: The Unnumbered Swifts. Underneath, all that is coming into being now, a new conjunction of Houses: The Rising Sun and the Soaring Eagle," Legolas breathed the words, both pleased and awed. "Are they not fitting together?"

"Aye, they are," Arwen murmured, fascinated by the Wood Elf's demeanour of joyous satisfaction limned in reverence. "What is inside it?"

"When I received it, nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Aye," chuckled Legolas, enjoying her puzzlement. "I have since filled it and will return it to Glorfindel. His acceptance of this present leads to the third and final exchange. Then the courtship continues but is less a courtship than a beginning of life together. In our case, that will have to be postponed." He returned the box to his pocket.

"Not for long, I pray, and we will have such a celebration in Gondor that the histories will record it," Arwen said.

"That is my hope also." There was a pause as both thought on that future, so far away it seemed. Then Legolas stirred, giving her a hesitant smile. "There is one thing more I would ask you. Glorfindel calls you his only family here," he began cautiously. "I would not expect you to disclose anything he told you in confidence, yet he mentioned something to me and I was thinking you might elaborate."

"I am not sure," Arwen hedged.

"It is about his first life, when he was young," Legolas hurried on. "He told me many things and spoke of an ellon to whom he was drawn before he wedded Erestor. Someone he might have come to love."

"Truly? Of this he has said nothing, Cuthenin," the Lady was sincerely surprised. She watched Legolas' hopeful expression crumble into woe. "Why do you need to know? Whoever it was is no longer here, surely, but in Aman or Mandos."

"How can I be certain?" asked Legolas. "What if this ellon is still in Middle-earth and he comes here to Imladris. What if he comes here when I am gone away? What if that old love blossoms?" He got up and paced the room in his agitation. "I could lose him that way, too."

Arwen went after him. "Nay, Legolas, that would not happen, not even if this person arrives and tries to woo Glorfindel. I distinctly heard you announce that his heart is true. Did you not tell me he considers the two of you already bound?"

"He said so, but he is rueful about this lost love of his youth," complained Cuthenin.

"No, that life is behind him now, completed and finished as it was meant to be," smiled Arwen, taking Legolas arm and walking him through the rooms toward the door. "Put such worries from your mind; I am sure if there was true regret over this ancient affinity, Glorfindel would have revealed it to me long ago."

"Yes?" Legolas lifted his eyes to hers as they halted before the exit.

"Definitely. Did you never feel such heart stirrings as a child? Such feelings are intense but of short duration, for they are born more of the rapid changes of growth than any real connection, spirit to spirit."

"You experienced such a young love?"

"Of course, did you not?"

"No, none that remains in my memory," Legolas' uncertainty was apparent in his voice. "Unless…there was once a guardsman I idolised. I never even spoke to this person, merely watched him from afar with much anguish and sighing."

"You see? It happens to us all. That is what we are discussing in Glorfindel's case, I am sure of it," insisted Arwen."

"You are sure?"

"I am. Now you must forgive me, but I must close our visit for now. I need to ready myself for the evening meal, for Aragorn and I are dining together privately." Arwen kissed his cheek and presented hers for him to do the same, which he did. "That is how siblings in Imladris greet and part from one another."

"I have seen it," Legolas was beaming, exultant to belong to two such fine families now. Seldom had he known such acceptance as he'd experienced today, even in Greenwood. "I will let you know how the gift is received."

"I want to see the next one he gives you, too."

"So be it; I will let Glorfindel show you mine, if he wishes," Legolas grinned and bowed to her as he backed out the door. He waited until she closed it to collect his second pair of boots and made his way with a much happier heart to his rooms.

He stopped outside Galdor's door and knocked, but no answer came. The Sadron must be in the Hall of Fire again, he surmised, and went inside his apartment, carrying the boots to the dressing room. There, the disaster created by the effort to concoct a suitable outfit for the aborted meeting with Lord Elrond had been cleared away and Legolas found the garments all neatly arranged in the wardrobe, the position of the tall mirror adjusted slightly to allow easier passage beside it. His bedroom was likewise tidy and clean, a fire in the hearth, the bed made, and the covers turned down for him. A glance in the bathing chamber revealed two huge ewers of hot water in the cabinet beside the copper tub, which itself was warm to the touch. Intrigued, he wondered how that was achieved, getting down on the floor to peer underneath, looking for a heat source. There was nothing.

Legolas went back to the dressing room and removed his fancy robe, hanging it up beside the other garments. His fingers grazed the fine frame of the mirror as he pondered the workings of the house, staring about curiously, for he was unused to having servants wait on him, and wondered who this unseen person could be. He knew many of the people coming and going through the house were not guests, and sometimes it was easy to tell who was whom by where one encountered them: cooks were found in kitchens, scribes occupied the offices, healers were in the infirmary. So it was in Thranduil's stronghold, also. Beyond that, he could at times identify the nobles by the finery on display, but not always. The ancient Noldorin lord was not dressed as he imagined a noble would be, and some folk were not nobles but residents nonetheless, like Lindir, and tended by servants just the same. It was a strange custom.

Then he bethought himself of that inner doorway in Arwen's suite and went to investigate his sitting room. Sure enough, he located the unobtrusive portal and it opened into a short, narrow hallway which turned a sharp corner into the unknown. "Is anyone here?" Legolas called tentatively, but no reply followed. He waited a moment more and then withdrew, shutting the door carefully and examining it for a locking latch. That he found and turned it, striding through to the main entrance where he locked that, too. It was not that he had any fear of being physically harmed, but Legolas did not want any stealthy servant creeping in without his knowledge. He had awakened in the morning without any sign of such a thing, but he had no wish to be disturbed or spied upon.

A shudder of revulsion worked through him, thinking of Lord Erestor ogling him while he lay naked in the Oak grove talan beside Glorfindel's house. Even worse, the sly seneschal had seen him fully aroused, pleasuring himself. Had Erestor witnessed the moment of release, too? Unexpectedly, the notion wrought a distinct, warm throb in his groin and Cuthenin blinked in surprise. He shook his head, returning to the dressing room, and sat on the bench to work loose the boots, catching his reflection in the glass.

He stared at the image, intrigued, and could not deny he had been thinking of this since the wardrobe session with his friends, having glimpsed his naked form then. Here was an opportunity to see himself as Glorfindel did and he was both eager and hesitant. He leaned an arm upon his knee and bent forward, arched a brow in a sultry expression, then snorted out a laugh and dropped his head in amusement.

That, I pray, is not what he sees!

A moment more he gazed upon the floor, lids dropped low, then raised his eyes and studied the face in the glass. It was a comely countenance, he decided, handsome even. His features were refined and his mane glorious, to say nothing of the delicate points of his sensitive ears. He liked his eyes, the blue colour of them rare, the openness evocative of trust and fellowship. Others liked them, too, he knew, but Glorfindel never commented on his looks very much.

Nor have I remarked on him except in global terms. He is magnificent; he finds me beautiful to behold.

He stood then and began to disrobe, slowly removing each item: sash and long knife, tunic, silken shirt, and then he stopped, exhibiting to himself the tattoos upon his arms and chest. He traced the spiral inward to his nipple, already a dark maroon peak, and stroked it, whispered a soft moan and sat down on the bench. Eyes back on the mirror now, he teased the tender bud again and the sensation spurred him to arousal. His free hand massaged his hardening cock beneath the tight leather leggings and another hungry groan issued from his lungs. Legolas stopped and untied the snug lacing, watching his reflection in fascination as he parted the fabric and his erection escaped, stabbing out into the air, pointing at him from the glass. He caught his breath and touched himself with trembling fingers, just lightly running them over the engorged organ, and a violent shudder rocked him.

Heart racing, he stood and slid the pants off, stepping out of them and then reaching for the tunic again, searching the pockets. He found the box and sat, breathed the magic words to open it and drew forth a delicate net of mithril to which smooth, round moon-coloured beads of pearl clung at each intersection where four strands connected. There was means to expand it or draw it tight at both ends of the lacy tube of glittering metal, and Legolas opened it to its fullest diameter. It was made for Glorfindel, who was in all ways broader and thicker than Cuthenin, but it could be adjusted to fit him. He slipped it over his rigid shaft and the cool metal flowed over him like water, melding to his shape as he pulled at the draw cord at the base. The mesh covered him from root to head and he tightened it there, too. Only then did he lift his eyes and look in the mirror, spreading his legs wide.

A harsh breath left him and he heard his lungs' efforts to meet the needs of his elevated pulse. The sight was an erotic shock, ruddy skin wrapped in silver gleam, soft glans peeping above the net, balls drawn close against the root below, and he wished Glorfindel was here to see him now. He grasped the sheathed erection and the pressure of the pearls against the taut flesh made him grunt and twitch. Watching in the mirror, he pumped a few firm strokes and felt his cock expand, the friction of the beads wondrous, the sight of the hand moving over him exciting, the sparkle and flicker of the mithril mesh mesmerising. His pace increased and he wished dearly he had something to use to stimulate himself internally, too. A vision of Glorfindel's scrubbing brush blazed into his mind and Legolas leaped up, hurrying to the bathing chamber, but there was nothing like it there, and nothing designed with a long enough handle to be useful for his desire.

Legolas exhaled a disappointed moan and returned to the bench, resumed the pleasing masturbation, fascinated by the perspective the mirror granted. How would he look when he came? The idea raised his ardor higher and he increased the motion, moaning, leaning back on one arm, squirming a bit for the mesh was tight about him now, digging in at the base so that every downward stroke burned. He shifted, eager for orgasm, and softly thumbed the tender slit. That brought forth a long shudder and he prepared for the exhilarating rush of seed, letting go, but the desired ejaculation did not result. Instead, pressure and tension coiled tight within his groin, uncomfortable and almost painful. He redoubled his efforts, imagining what it might be like to feel Glorfindel penetrate him with the mesh on his rigid cock.

That sent an electric jolt through him that should have left him spent and drowsy, but again there was instead intense frustration and yearning need. Legolas wailed and stopped, for the beads had begun to chafe hisflesh, and stared at himself, panting, sweating, aroused, and flushed. The wild, frantic fire in his eyes was foreign to him and he wondered that this was his own face before him. The throbbing burn in his cock distracted him from such observations and Cuthenin realised the problem at once: the mesh was pulled too tight about him. Removing it should be easy enough, yet he found the slender strands of metal relentless and the clasp stuck fast.

"Ai!" Panic blossomed and Legolas tried to use the mirror to help him find the release for the catch, but the reversed image confounded him. Desperate, he picked up his long knife, but seeing how his hands shook made him put it down again. "Valar, I can't get it off!" he wailed and stood, cupping his aching shaft carefully as he ran to the bathing chamber.

There he found a jar of slippery soap and slathered it all over himself, but the tight net would not let him go. The upper end loosened easily and the soft web puddled around his root, the nearly purple organ arising from a metallic nest. Legolas gripped the sides of the tub, bent over in misery, eyes squeezed shut as he pulled, twisted, and picked at the steely grip of the deceptively delicate sheath. Close to tears, he gritted his teeth, grasped the mithril fibres, and yanked hard. That raised a horrific howl of agony and he found himself on his knees, shaking, still trapped in the silver vice, the sound of his miserable moans echoing in the copper tub.

To his horror, that was not the only sound. A loud pounding sounded from the front room: someone knocking at his door.

"Legolas!" the voice was faint but packed with fear and rage and unmistakably Glorfindel's. "Open the door, Cuthenin; what is happening in there?"

He forced himself upright, again supporting the abused erection gently, and hobbled toward the sitting room. "Glorfindel, I am not hurt," he called, but the pain was in his voice and even he could hear it. The pounding fist gave way to the ponderous thud of a sturdy shoulder ramming the wood. "Wait, I am coming!" he cried and wished that it was so. He quickened his shuffling gate when the next concussion of Balrog Slayer and locked portal strained the hasps and cracked the thick oak wood planks. "Hold! Hold!" Legolas gasped, at last within arms' reach of the door, then leaned gratefully against it. "Tawar nin Beria," he groaned.

"Legolas?" Glorfindel sounded less frightened and more bewildered.

"Aye. Are you alone out there?"

"What? Yes, of course I am. Who else would be with me? I came from patrol straight here to find you screaming behind a locked door. Let me in, Cuthenin."

"Swear you are alone first. Check and make sure nobody followed you."

"Elbereth," the muttered reply came back, muffled by the boards, but Glorfindel complied. "There is no one here. I do not believe anyone else heard your yell. Now open up and tell me what happened."

"I will show you instead, and if you laugh I think I'll have to break our troth."

"Legolas, I…" Glorfindel was stunned speechless. The archer's voice was low and ruinous and filled him with a strange mixture of relief and dread. Relieved, for at least he was well enough to sound such dire threats, yet anxious to understand their cause. "I will not laugh. Open the door now." He heard the mighty sigh of resignation even through the thick barrier and the warrior's heart stung to be kept apart even the few seconds required for the latch to be released. The handle turned and the door parted a sliver. Legolas' eye peered out, wide and filled with misery, met Glorfindel's briefly then scanned the hallway. Unwilling to be patient any longer, the Balrog Slayer gently pushed inward and slipped in, watching his young mate slam the door and re-lock it. Legolas peered at him over his shoulder, still crouched against the door, long golden mane cascading down his back and tickling his buttocks.

Slowly Glorfindel's eyes travelled the nude form, searching for signs of hurt or injury and finding none. Instead, his nostrils flared, picking up the unmistakable scent of his Wood Elf's aroused state. Then Legolas shivered and the hair moved and he caught a glimpse of something new. Impulsively his hand darted out and brushed the locks aside, sucking in a breath at the newly inked mark there: the seal of his House in vivid reds and golds on Cuthenin's left cheek. "Oh," he sighed, smiling, raising his eyes."Is this the source of that tortured cry?"

"Nay!" Legolas snapped, flushing dark. "I cannot mark myself there; Galdor made it for me yesterday." He glared and tense silence accumulated around them.

"Then what?" Glorfindel asked softly, unable to prevent his natural response to Cuthenin's naked presence. He drew closer, fingers stroking the inked arse. "Why are you…"

"Ai, Glorfindel, this is not how I wanted it to be," Legolas could not believe he must reveal the gift he'd chosen in such a manner. Swallowing back another sigh, he shut his eyes and turned until his shoulder blades met the wood. He took away the protecting hands and spread them against the door. A sharp inhalation reached his ears, but he dared not look for fear he'd see either a huge grin or worse, an angry scowl. He need not have feared, for instantly Glorfindel was beside him, fingers cautiously exploring the engorged penis slick with soap and its bizarre confinement. "I…I cannot get it off," Legolas ground out, trembling under the careful touch of loving fingers.

"I see; be still now," Glorfindel said softly. The light was not sufficient, for Legolas had not lit any lamps, but he lifted the mesh tube and realised how it was meant to be worn. His heart gave a mighty jolt of a beat as the stunning vision of blatant sexual allure assailed him. Had Cuthenin met him at the door presenting his erection sheathed in that mithril net, he'd have taken him without thought, and found restraint almost impossible now. Suddenly Glorfindel bent and gathered the Wood Elf in his arms, carrying him into the bathroom where he set him in the tub. He paused long enough to bestow a reassuring kiss. "How could you think I would laugh at such pain?" he scolded and then turned up the wick in the lantern hanging overhead.

"I didn't, really," Legolas sniffed. "Can you undo it?"

"Aye, I think so. Let me wash off the soap and I need to reattach it at the top, too."

"Nay, nay! I want it off, Glorfindel! It hurts!"

"I know this, be at peace, Cuthenin," he whispered, wrapping the archer in his arms gently, careful not to press his body against the swollen shaft. "I must move the net out of the way to find the catch. Just be patient and trust me." Glorfindel carefully examined the abraded skin where Legolas had made the unsuccessful attempts to pull the sheath free and poured the warm water over him, sluicing away the soap. He raised the net and tightened the draw cords lightly, just enough to keep the tube extended, and the sight brought him to full arousal. The dark red flesh peeped through the mesh, the bluntly rounded tip poked above the glittering rim.

Cuthenin visibly relaxed as the soothing water ran over him but the fullness did not diminish nor did his need grow lesser. Even so, he felt calm in Glorfindel's hands, certain the Balrog Slayer would take care of him. When Glorfindel dropped to his knees to examine the closure of the mithril net, Legolas began to tremble again, unable to quell the image of being devoured by that succulent mouth. He groaned and their eyes met and abruptly Glorfindel stood, lifted him from the tub and hurried into the bedroom, laid him down upon the bed.

"Glorfindel…" The name was a breathless whisper.

"Legolas."

He stood poised above the archer, gaze molten as it travelled the svelte figure and returned to the wide, sapphire eyes ablaze with passionate yearning. Slowly, Glorfindel sank lower and lower until their lips engaged once more. Frantic fingers ran through his hair, grazed his cheek, clutched at his biceps; a soft moan passed into his lungs. His hands made their own journey, testing firm nipples and barely ghosting over the exposed glans of the engorged cock. At this Legolas cried aloud and they parted, smiling, giddy. Glorfindel found himself half on the bed, one knee planted between wide-spread legs. He inhaled a deep breath and put both feet on the floor, reached for the hands clutching him and drew them away, kissed the lethal fingertips, and gathered his resolve. There was still the problem of the net.

The lamp beside the bed burned softly, the golden light that fell upon Legolas became dazzling sparks where the mithril sheath caught it. The rigid penis flexed up toward him and Glorfindel exhaled a low growl.

"Release me, Faer Hebron."

"Easy, be still now," he whispered, finding his respiration ragged and his heart racing. His fingers carefully explored the base of the organ and found the trouble right away: the small closure was covered by a fold of skin where one of the testicles rested against the swollen shaft. Unable to resist, Glorfindel stroked the little gland in its taut pouch and was rewarded with a convulsive spasm that shook Legolas' entire body. "I found the clasp; it does not look to be broken," Glorfindel announced quietly and opened it, sliding the draw cord loose. The silvery mesh relinquished its pincer hold and Legolas exhaled a grateful moan. The upper restraint was easily loosened and Glorfindel lifted the shining sheath away, barely noting where it fell as he climbed back on the bed.

Without preamble, he settled beside his mate and enclosed the erect organ between his lips, enveloping nearly all the over-excited flesh within his mouth, sucking carefully for he knew the skin would be sensitive, but it would not take much effort on his part to effect a cure for Legolas' discomfort. Indeed, he felt a hand grab at his hair as Legolas rocked forward, wailing a long shout of ecstatic delight as he erupted nearly at once.

The orgasm swept Cuthenin away and emptied him of thought, flung him back sprawling on the mattress, and he returned to awareness out of the heights of euphoria to find Glorfindel watching him, eyes alight in absolute adoration. Legolas smiled, unable to speak, and opened out his arms. Glorfindel fell into them, collecting him close, kissing him soundly. They lay entwined for some minutes as Legolas recovered, amazed, fingers caressing one another in wonderment, each touch filled with joyous recognition, tongues sampling one another, hearts beating in synchrony, spirits mingled.

And while Glorfindel was as moved by the experience as Cuthenin, he was also hard as iron and managed to disrobe as he lay beside his young mate. No words were required for Legolas was eager to provide the same fullness of the erotic phenomenon; he found the potent root and took it in hand as the Balrog Slayer rolled to his back. Never having done this before, Legolas was not so skilled, but let Glorfindel guide him, tuned to the elder ellon's every sigh and quiver, every whispered exhortation. The sensation of the hot, rigid flesh as his lips closed round it was a shock, but not an unpleasant one, the scent pungent and the flavour ripe and salty. His tongue laved the smooth heat of the glans and swabbed over the weeping slit. Slippery fluid rolled over his tongue and did not dissolve in his saliva, which felt strange; he swallowed to clear it and his heart swelled to hear the shout of delight this wrenched from the mighty warrior prone beneath him.

Legolas did not attempt to use his mouth alone, fearful of trying to take in so much, fearful of accidentally grazing the thick protrusion with his teeth, fearful of spoiling the joining for Glorfindel, but these worries vanished almost at once. He became absorbed in the newness of the experience, the exhilaration of his mate's response to his efforts. Carefully he adjusted the speed and pressure of his hand, employed in the vital work of holding the organ and supplying the necessary friction, following instruction to squeeze harder, go faster.

Glorfindel propped himself on an elbow to watch, hands carding through Cuthenin's golden tresses, then holding them out of the way so he could see. A bright blue eye swivelled to catch his and he grinned; but then shouted in delight when the archer's slender fingers lightly brushed his balls. "Again, yes!" He knew he was approaching the moment of ejaculation but had no time to consider whether he should lift away that delectable mouth, unsure if Legolas was prepared to accept the rush of bitter fluid. The next sequence of stimulating touches occurred in chorus and it was impossible to hold back longer, and this gave the Balrog Slayer a quick flash of surprise even as he soared away into ecstasy, warm tongue massaging him as Cuthenin rapidly swallowed.

He remained aware as the richness of the pleasure rippled through nerve and sinew, cognisant of Legolas' pressing kisses all over him, gripping his hand, fingers entwining, the warm dampness of the palm resting on his chest. He looked up into a radiant face, Cuthenin seated beside him, hair spilling over his shoulder and half obscuring the heart spiral tattoo. Staring into those azure eyes, a new realisation solidified, a concept he had appreciated unconsciously throughout the encounter that only now rose above the turbulence of sexual elation: the bond between them was sealed and set. A thrill ran through him; he reached for the wrist above his chest and clasped it tight. "Legolas, hervenn."

"Aye, melethen, gwedhim (Aye, my love, we are bound)," Legolas whispered. He sidled closer and bent low for a kiss, his pride in granting his mate such pleasure overborne by the unsurpassed sense of contentment, of belonging, a reassuring certainty that he would never be alone, that all the remainder of his days would unfold against the background of this omnipresent love, this essential link of body and soul. He did not resist when Glorfindel drew him down, draping himself with a happy sigh over the broad chest still heaving to regain sufficient air after the glorious consummation. "Gwedhim."

"Gwedhim," repeated Glorfindel, his voice a faint whisper, and he wondered that no distress accompanied the acknowledgement. Somehow, he knew Thranduil would understand and accept, if not approve. How could they endure a year of teasing temptation after the unity achieved during Úcaul Annaur? Impossible. He laughed, rubbing Legolas back and reaching lower to caress the place where he knew his seal was marked in gold and red. "You will of course protect me from your brothers."

"They would not dare molest you now," Legolas promised and flexed the muscle beneath Glorfindel's hand. He lifted his ear from the steady beat of the noble heart he so loved and met the beryl eyes. "I did not intend this, but I am glad."

"I know; I am equally satisfied with the outcome. I guess this is Ant Edwen?" he grinned cheekily and gave the firm arse a soft slap.

"Nay!" Legolas denied. "The mark is traditional, but not as one of the gifts. The mithril sheath is Ant Edwen."

"Ah, I see; you gave me something you would choose for yourself."

"Is that not sensible? I thought it would enhance your majestic form perfectly."

"And tried it on yourself before the mirror to see how it might look."

To this Legolas merely giggled and shrugged a shoulder. "It was not pleasant after the first few minutes, but the ending was worth the pain." He returned his head to its comfortable pillow and shifted closer, warmth suffusing every empty place in his heart. They lay in quiet communion for some minutes before Glorfindel spoke.

"So this tattoo is solely a sign of possession? I would like to have a mark, too, signifying my claim."

"I don't know if possession is the right concept," Legolas raised a delighted countenance, "say it is symbolic of belonging. I would like that; I cannot pretend I haven't been hoping you would want one. What would you choose to honour me?"

"An honour, yes I see how that would be true," Glorfindel mused, carefully running a finger down one of the prayers on Legolas' forearm, powerful incantations for protection and strength indelibly marked in elegant script. "Will you teach me the way to honour you?"

"Ai, Glorfindel!" Legolas buried his face against the broad chest, consumed with emotion, and could only hold on to Glorfindel for some little time. Finally he inhaled a deep and shaking breath and lifted his head again. "Everything you do honours me," he said quietly, and now it was his turn to be clutched in crushing arms and hugged as kisses descended upon him in unexpected places: his ears, his chin, his eyes, his hair, finally his lips and there they stayed. The languid oral exploration roused his passion anew and he felt Glorfindel's ardor rising also, but they made no move to advance their desires, content for the moment with the union that had fused their hearts. They parted with paired smiles and settled back into relaxed entanglement. "What would you choose?" Legolas asked again.

"I am not sure," Glorfindel mused, fingering the flaxen strands strewn over Legolas' shoulder. "The seal of your father's House is noble, but that is only one aspect of who you are, while mine verily defines me. The soaring eagle is too…unique? personal? I do not know exactly, only that it should not be repeated elsewhere. It defines you too fully, perhaps, to be displayed on another's skin."

"Aye, you understand perfectly," Legolas marvelled. "The totem may not be reproduced anywhere else; that is one of the tenets of my faith."

"You see how true the bond is? How else would I sense that?" Glorfindel was pleased to have this proof, for a small tingling of apprehension had begun to creep into the edges of his thoughts. He sighed and pushed these vague, unformed fears aside and pondered again all he knew of Cuthenin. Readily, the memory of the crossing at the Gladden meres filled his mind; his wonder to see Legolas charge ahead, placing himself between danger and his Faer Hebron, remembering the startling revelation that Legolas was his most secret dream of the perfect mate incarnate, the one for whom he had waited so long, so patiently. It was as though Legolas had been designed according to his deepest needs. None of that was easy to translate into a single image. He sighed and looked into the expectant visage peering at him.

"It is more difficult than I deemed it would be at first. I would like to indicate the importance of your mother's people, for I believe you are more like the Swallows I knew in Gondolin. Steadfast, courageous, the most skilled archers, the fiercest warriors, incapable of deceit or malice. The mark should show a swallow in flight and a single arrow entwined within a fair, yellow gladden."

Legolas pulled back enough to gaze in wonder. He had desired for Glorfindel to choose the swallow, but the arrow and the blossom were a surprise; their significance instantly apparent. He smiled. "The bond is true," he agreed, "for that is exactly what I would have."

"So shall it be. We will speak to Galdor on the morrow to see it done." He paused and searched the clear azure eyes. "Do you fear what will happen when our union is discovered?"

"Fear it? Nay, I am proud and have no wish to conceal our new status. Only, I do not want anyone berating me about it; it is done and I want only to hear joyous congratulations from all I encounter. And I want the spies to keep this out of their reports so that my words are the first Adaren reads revealing the news. And I want a fine party."

Glorfindel laughed in relief, for Legolas' resolve bolstered his. "I think the last two are easy to arrange. As for the hearty congratulations, I don't know if Galdor will be overjoyed. It is his responsibility to answer for you to Thranduil."

"Adaren will not be angry when I explain it. Really, Galdor fulfilled his duty to me and to my family when he secured you to become my Faer Hebron. They may not follow Pâd-en-Tawar, but my family understands enough about its demands. Once you were selected and accepted the role, all else was but waiting for the right moment. That we found it ourselves should surprise no one."

"So I feel also," Glorfindel nodded and pulled his mate close. Again a period of quiet contentment wrapped them in tender felicity and they drifted into a light reverie together. They came alert to tapping at the door and realised the night had passed into dawn.

TBC