So . . . I decided the boys needed a starlight interlude but anyone who has read my stories will realise I can write nothing more graphic than the odd kiss. The wonderful Nelyafinwefeanorion has stepped into the breach. The majority of this chapter is hers.

I know I have some readers who enjoy my stories especially because the slash is tame and non physical. If you are one of those feel free to skip this chapter. There are no major plot points here, just two boys under the stars.

Legolas

The stars fill the sky above us and as moonlight glints off the dark hair of my beloved I bring his hand to me, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, turning it over to hover a breath above his palm. Elrohir shivers when I press my lips down, sliding them along his wrist to linger over his pulse point. I revel in the reassuring beat of his steadfast heart.

It picks up its pace at my ministrations and I cannot help but smile.

"Legolas," he says, trying to pull his hand away, wide-eyed, "We are not alone in these woods."

Despite myself I cannot repress a bubble of laughter. "Do you think Finrod has not made it clear we are not to be disturbed?"

If anything his expression grows more apprehensive.

He looks so discomfited, my poor, noble Noldor.

But no . . . He is not that. I may have teasingly called him that for all the years I have known him but Noldor does not begin to encompass the many facets of my Elrohir. It does not do him justice. It is the most obvious but not the whole. He is Noldor and Sindar, Maiar and Man. And he is part of our Silvan family, if he will let himself believe it.

He has been that for a long time now.

Sitting up to kneel in front of him, softly I lift my hand to cup his face, thumb skimming his cheekbone, his eyes closing for the briefest instant at my touch. Hands cradle his face like the precious entity it is, butterfly touches to his skin.

"My love. I have been given a great gift tonight, a gift bestowed by you some time ago, that I have not truly appreciated until now."

Needing the contact of his skin, I press my forehead to his. "I can share my love without the shadow of the past. Without the burden of my thoughts getting in the way." My fingers sink into his silken tresses. "I am free, Elrohir."

His arms slide around my waist, pulling me even closer, until we are chest to chest—heartbeat against heartbeat.

There are far too many clothes in the way.

My hands shift over his jaw, slide down his neck, unlace the ties of his tunic until my fingertips are able to trace patterns into his skin, his collarbones, the swell of muscle just below the fabric's edge.

"Legolas." It is a whisper this time.

"This night is for us, Elrohir. No one will begrudge us this, no one will think twice about it. This forest, this glade, the very grass we rest on, is yours as much as it is mine." My grip upon his shoulders tightens. "You are mine, my love, and I am yours."

Pressing my lips to his, feeling his own part at my touch, the taste of him is like heady wine—rich and dizzying in intensity.

There are hands, warm and steady on my back.

Making short work of the rest of his laces, I push the edges of his tunic apart, sliding it off his shoulders until it pools in the grass behind him.

His skin gleams in the starlight.

My lips reach for the pulse point at his neck under their own volition, and that exquisite dark head falls back softly, tension dissipating . . . At last.

His fingers are far clumsier as he wrestles with the fastenings of my own clothing and it means in the end I must pull myself away, reluctantly, regretfully, to aid him in freeing myself from their encumbrance. Regretting the loss of touch while yearning for that promise of more, the lack of clothing brings.

Skin against skin. My mouth over his. Hands roaming, stroking, reverent and slow.

There is a fire under my skin.

Elrohir

How long have we been carrying the burden of that day, that moment when it fell apart?

My heart pounds but I feel as if I could float away. Legolas told me he was unburdened but I feel it. A lightness that I almost do not recognize, it has been so long since I have experienced it.

I would laugh out loud if I did not prefer the glory of Legolas' lips against my own.

He presses to me, hands roaming over my cheeks, my shoulders, down my chest.

making short work of my tunic and then his own, as my trembling hands can barely manage the fastenings.

The sight of him before me, starlight shining in his hair, the pale expanse of his skin under my hands, a brightness in his eyes that had been diminished for these many months is my undoing.

I know I should not succumb to the temptation.

This is the place for Legolas and Maewen, even if he says otherwise.

"Legolas," I start, but his words come at me, tumbling over each other as they rush from him while huffs a laugh at my no-doubt bewildered face before taking my breath away as his mouth melts over mine.

My thoughts scatter, but those words still echo in my head.

"You belong with us."

"We want you here."

My family.

He is mine and I am his.

Those words would make me weep if Legolas were not doing his best to distract me.

He is a master at it.

The softness of that mouth leaves a searing trail along my neck. Those fingertips send sparks along my skin. My lips, seeking the sweetness of his, slide against his own,

I am lost in his scent—green things growing, summer rain, musk and leather, spice and steel.

It is a scent I would know anywhere.

Burying my face in his neck, tasting the salt of his skin, feeling the quickening of his pulse, I do not expect it when he pulls on my shoulders, so we end up falling to the grass in a tumbled heap, breathy silvan laughter against my ear.

Somehow I am sprawled upon his chest, gazing at that glorious sight, his fair hair fanned out against the green grass of the glade, the starlight reflected in his eyes, his mouth curved into that fond smile that I adore.

Fingertips traces the shape of my eyebrow, dip down to stroke my cheek, trail across my lips, with a touch that makes me tremble, leaving waves of desire in its wake.

And I sit, up on one elbow, leaning over Legolas, so our eyes can meet, so he can see me when I say this.

"I love you."

My words are not enough. I have spoken them to him countless times—in whispers, in shouts, in breathy gasps, and as casual, domestic utterances-but they have never been enough to convey the enormity of my devotion.

Legolas is my world.

He is my home.

What is mine, is his— and by some divine benevolence of the Valar—what is his seems to be mine as well.

It is an unexpected gift.

I am clumsy in the ways of his people. Awkward with my words, my actions, my emotions. But somehow I am still numbered among them:

Accepted.

Loved.

I have told him time after time that I will do anything for him. Fight for him, kill for him, incur the wrath of any who stand in the way of his happiness, his healing, his safety.

I have meant those words to the depths of my soul.

What he asks of me is a trifle, compared to what I would be willing to give him.

He asks me to love him on his own terms, in the land he now calls home.

I have done things far more challenging.

I can do this.

For him.

Anything for him.

"I love you," I say again, tracing along the scar that almost took him from me. Fingertips skimming along his chest, his abdomen, across his flank.

And then lower.

His eyes widen at my touch.

I bend my face to his, breath mingling with his own as I speak. "Anything for you."

One eyebrow goes up in that infuriating way of his.

I kiss it.

His lip curls up into a smirk.

I kiss that too.

His hands trail down my chest, thumbs circling my nipples with a deft touch that makes me quiver.

"Anything?" His face is serious now, eyes wide and unexpectedly vulnerable.

I nod and whisper those thoroughly inadequate words once again. "I love you."

"Show me."

So I do.