Note: Reminder that in Through a Glass Darkly, Elladan had been wounded by a morgul blade and Elrohir offered himself to Angmar believing that he could bargain his own life and soul for Elladan's. Angmar sows a spell into Elrohir's soul that twists and distorts his sexuality and his memory of finding Celebrian in the dens of the orcs. And so he believed for centuries the lie that he had raped, or had been about to rape, his own mother, that he had ejaculated upon finding her. Legolas exposed the lie at the end of Sons of Thunder- but beliefs are not so easily unfixed and the mirror is aboard the ship.

Also, in Sons of Thunder, when Legolas was taken onto the Mindolluin (the mountain upon which Minas Tirith is perched)by Elrohir to lure the Nazgul into believing that Merry is the hobbit with the Ring, Khamûl was defeated and his ring was left on the mountainside. Elladan picked it up at first, and then cast it away.

Beta: the very wonderful Anarithilien.

Chapter 10: Dreams and Discoveries

It was a cloudy day on the Mindolluin. Bearas strode along the narrow goat track towards his snares, swinging the brace of conies he had already caught. Spring was late in the mountains and the air was still cold, a layer of snow gleamed in the sunlight on the mountain peak.

Ahead of him, the old goat track suddenly widened and Bearas stepped onto the old road that was no longer used by any but shepherds and goatherds, or hunters like himself. At his waist swung the conies and from his hand dangled a partridge, although it had broken his snare in trying to escape and he carried the snare with him to repair. He did not linger for the sun was low in the sky and he did not wish to be caught out in the night on this cold, bare mountain.

Bending down to his last snare, he quickly pulled the noose from the rabbits' flopped gently and his hands caressed the silky fur. He thought he would make a pair of gloves for his daughter from it now that the cold was coming. But the rabbits were smaller and skinnier than he had hoped. Enough for the pot though. And there was just enough of them to make a pair of gloves for his small daughter.

He wondered who else had been using the path for there were old tracks of horses, several, and travelling at speed, hunting perhaps in these woods upon the knees of the mountains. Higher up, he had come across an old fire, the stones blackened and burned and not just from the campfire; it looked as though lightning had struck several places in the clearing and one of the trees must have caught fire for the ground was scorched in strange lines, almost forming the shape of a eye. But he had not tarried long in that place for the air smelt metallic and the hair on the back of his neck had prickled like some unseen danger lurked in the shadows.

These were strange times, thought Bearas, as he strode down the narrow goat track homewards. The news that the war was over had even reached his little cottage in the mountains, although the city, Guthbrand had said, was in turmoil. Guthbrand had been returning to his mother's old farm in the mountains and told them how he had fought in the war, and that the old steward, Denethor, was dead. Burned alive, Guthbrand said, while the Nazgûl attacked the city, an orc army with Easterlings and mumâkils at the gates. Even stranger, a Man claiming to be Isildur's Heir had arrived at the head of Rohan's army and with an army of ghosts in his wake to drive off Mordor's forces. Bearas shook his head in amazement, for the truth was that none in Gondor had thought to live out the winter and here they were in Spring with Mordor defeated.

So it was said.

He hopped over a fallen tree and his snare caught in the branches. He turned to untangle the trap and as he did, something flashed in the mud, caught in the fading sun. Leaving the snare still tangled in the twigs, Bearas leaned down. His fingers scrabbled in the dirt and touched cold metal. A ring.

Old gold, worn thin. A red gem, dull with mud dried over its smooth surface. He rubbed his thumb over the glowed. Like an eye.

He looked at the ring. It must have been dropped by a lord long ago, for it looked very very old. Very worn. The gold was thin. Bearas was poor. He had never seen real gold. Perhaps the gem was a ruby? Perhaps he could sell the ring?

He dropped it into his pocket and turned back along the goat path that led down to the old road. It seemed suddenly darker. Twilight had fallen.

A grey shadow slunk between the grey trees. A wolf?

He hurried down the old road with its broken stones and moss covered statues long forgotten. Ahead, between the tall pines, were the distant white towers and spires of the city. The moon had risen early and gleamed upon the white stone so it shimmered eerily.

The wolf, if those shadows that had collected beneath the trees had been a wolf, had gone…But it seemed darker and the shadows reached like fingers groping.

Bearas felt afraid suddenly. His scalp tingled as the hair stiffened. He quickened his steps and as he hurried through the silent forest, a perfect round shape pressed against his breast and he remembered the ring he had picked up out here in the wilds. Old gold set with a dull red jewel. He wondered about the old Gondorian lord who must have dropped it out here hunting. But in his mind, there was an image conjured...an iron fortress hidden amongst the black mountains in the cold north, strong, and old…'Two of the brethren are with the Zigûrun...' he said softly, though he did not know what he meant or where the words came from, and his hand crept over his breast, the iron fortress again in his mind, hidden amongst the black mountain in the cold north, strong, and old…

Bearas shook himself and trotted quickly along the road, suddenly wanting company, wanting the warmth of a fire and his little girl's hand in his, his wife's smile.

When he got home, his little Gerda was waiting, swinging on the gate. She stroked the rabbit fur and looked up at her father trustingly, adoringly. And later, when she slipped the old gold ring over her little finger, he laughed when it fell off.

0o0o

Far away on the great Anduin, Elrohir awoke as if something had stirred him from disturbing dreams. The ship's bell had just sounded for midnight and all was quiet.

He lay for a moment, listening. There was no gentle breathing next to him; he was alone in the cabin as he had expected and wondered if Elladan was above deck or with Imrahil. It did not matter much either way; Elladan had sought better company and Elrohir did not blame him. I am a bear, he told himself, grumpy and out of sorts. No wonder he shuns me. No wonder Legolas has fled and hunts instead with the Dunédain.

Eomer hunts too, a nasty little voice in his head spoke. He shook it off. Legolas would not do anything to encourage Eomer. Legolas would do nothing to hurt him, or hurt Eomer either, he reminded himself and leaned back on his narrow bed that was not long enough for someone as tall as he. He thought of Legolas in these quiet moments, reminded himself of his easy elegance and grace, his indulgence, his delight and unapologetic lust that had liberated Elrohir from his own repressed horror. He loved Legolas so much it almost hurt.

From his perfect elven memory he took out an image of Legolas like a rare jewel and contemplated it; Legolas asleep, his eyes closed and his face slightly flushed, lips parted. Hair like the pale bleached grass that grew amongst the dunes of Belfalas spread over the pillow. Pale gold in the oil lamp. His lips were sensuous and full, and his strong face sculpted, but not like marble- that was too cold, too hard. Elrohir's chest felt like it would burst for love of him, and he found a smile upon his lips and a softness in his heart that had been so long absent in the long years of revenge and hate that he barely knew what to do with it.

Elrohir imagined, remembered brushing a finger lightly along the edge of Legolas' collar-bone and stroking the palm of his hand over the lean muscled chest; an archer's shoulders, arms, chest, nothing soft or weak. There were the symbols of his house. Elrohir recalled tracing them with his finger. And there was his name in runes, Laeglas, and the elegant patterns of oak and ash and beech. In green and gold, the runes on his arms melted into the swirl of colour that was his warrior's history… there the sign of the battles he had fought at Dol Guldur, and there, the dragon to show that Legolas was one of the Danedh-Amlung for he had told Elrohir of the dragon and how he had braved the darkness of Erebor. Elrohir's thoughts lingered on how the dragon swirled onto the shoulder and seemed to slither, to curl about Legolas' strong, lean torso, his lean hips and thigh.

It made Elrohir ache with need, swell with desire and his blood was hot with lust.

He remembered again Legolas' parted lips and the warm skin when he had touched the dragon, how he traced the swirl to his nipple and tightened his grip so Legolas whimpered and arched slightly. Legolas liked that, Elrohir thought. He liked the hard pinch of Elrohir's fingers on his nipple.

Elrohir's hand stroked himself, squeezed his fist around his own flesh. No quiet caress with Legolas or gentle touch but instead something wild, passionate, full of fire and aggression. He let himself slowly sink back onto the pillows and cushions piled up behind him and closed his eyes. His hands ghosted over himself and he thrummed at his own touch, panting he remembered again the sight of his beloved Legolas spread below him…his own hand moved up and down, stroking his own bulging length.

He imagined leaning in and feeling Legolas' breath warm on his own lips, a trace of a kiss, a light stroke of his tongue against his warm, eager mouth…Elrohir licked his own lips, wanting to feel that warmth now. The first time he had ever felt Legolas' mouth had been aboard the Sea Song with Legolas asleep under Elrohir's lustful gaze. And when he felt the muted, drowsy response from the sleeping Woodelf, Elrohir had pressed his tongue against those parted lips…

Elrohir's hand paused on his own flesh. That time he had shamed himself. He had taken advantage of Legolas' unconsciousness. He had behaved abominably…Elrohir shook his head as if he could rid himself of the heat, the shame of it. He pushed deep into the pillows as if he were trying to escape an unwanted touch himself, as if something held him down hard and forced him to relive that moment when he had pushed his own hard, demanding sex against Legolas' warm skin…when his fingers had pinched and teased the peaked nipples, palms flat against the lean chest and belly, moved lower until he had cupped Legolas in his own hand and squeezed through the suede breeches.

Then as Legolas' sex began to bulge, he had squeezed harder, painfully and although Legolas's length filled quickly, he had whimpered … Elrohir's hand closed on himself and pumped, the pressure and churning in his balls a delectable, sinful secret.

He remembered how hungrily he had stared at the Elf spread before him, flushed cheeks, lips parted, eyelashes dark against his skin, long pale hair mussed and tangled, and the long, lean body …that dark desire that had raised its predatory head earlier now seized Elrohir as completely as it had before on that dreadful night on the Sea Song. Panting, pumping he remembered how he had suddenly dragged Legolas' hair into his fist and pulled his head back so his throat was exposed and Elrohir had pressed his hot mouth against the other Elf's throat, pushed open his lips to wrestle with his tongue.

Suddenly his hips thrust forwards and he exploded in sticky streams of white.

He stilled, listening to the sound of his own breath, hard and panting. There was a stickiness on his hand and the smell of his own semen. He blinked.

What had happened?

He had been fantasising about Legolas and somehow, at some point, it had turned to violence, when he had ripped the fabric of Legolas' clothes whilst he slept, and what he did could not be called a kiss, more rapacious, more assault…

Horrified at himself, Elrohir pushed himself up and stared at the semen spent in his hand, felt the familiar acid of bile in his throat at the smell. Ever since he had smelt the orc's semen on his own mother's thighs…

Eru.

He leaned forward and retched, felt bile fill his throat as it always had.

On a narrow shelf was a basin and jug of water for washing. He shook his head and leaned over the basin and filled it with cold water and splashed it on his face. His own reflection trembled and slowly stilled in the surface of the water and he stayed leaning over and staring at himself, staring into his own eyes, and hating himself. Hating the wickedness and darkness in his own heart that he enjoyed remembering a time when he had almost raped his own beloved Legolas. He was a loathsome disgrace. Unworthy. Unworthy!

He pushed himself from the small narrow cot and hurled the door open. The ship lurched as if it felt his disgust but it was just the wind and sea that plunged them from stern to bow and the ship rose and fell and the wind thrashed the water into stormy waves.

But it was not the sea, he reminded himself. It should not be so rough. It seemed almost that the elements themselves sought to rid Arda of him, that Air and Water had joined to throw the ship from the river.

He paused in front of the door of his cabin but he could not face the smell of his own self, the stink of his own semen spilled as he thought how he had almost raped Legolas. Almost raped his own mother, no matter what Legolas said. He was wrong. I am an evil, a blight upon the world, he told himself, hating himself. Hating the darkness in him.

And now, the cruel spell that had insidiously slunk into his heart, returned. Away from the green-gold love of Legolas, Angmar's malice reasserted itself and Elrohir turned away, brooding on the beast he believed himself to be.

0o0o0

Legolas turned over in his sleep, restless and hot. He threw off the coverlet that had been cast over his bed and kicked it off his legs onto the floor. Something had awoken him but he could not say what. It had disturbed him whatever it was; something in the Song, like someone had strummed a finger over the strings of a harp.

He lay on his back staring up at the canvas roof, listening to the dwarf's snores. It was more of a snuffle and he wondered if it was that which had awoken him. But Gimli's presence was calming, and never bothered him. Even in the early days of the Fellowship, even when they sniped and bickered, he had known at some deeper level of Song that Gimli was earth and rock and good stone. It was the Ring that had made them fight each other, they both knew that now, for as soon as they had entered Lothlorien, the Ring had muted, turned elsewhere, and they had been able to find again the camaraderie they had had in Phellanthir and along the banks of the Bruinen.

So it was not Gimli that disturbed him, Legolas thought again.

He could see the stars through the open door of the tent. He had deliberately left it open to let the air in, the wind and stars. Moonlight pooled on the grass beyond, silvered the thin branches of the trees. There was barely a sound.

And yet his senses thrummed and he wanted to move. Something felt…not right. Like the notes in the Song had been pulled, distorted. It reminded him uncomfortably of when he had travelled with the Ring and it whispered and taunted, endlessly, wearing him down with its insidious seduction.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and his feet touched the rushes on the floor, dug into them to find the grass beneath, the earth and soil. He listened.

There was the sound of Gimli, the deep sonorous Song like a bronze bell over water, in the deep heart of the mountain. It was the song of Erebor, he remembered. And there too he could discern his friends, the hobbits with the lightness of a melody dancing over the fields and brooks and little gardens and hills. Frodo. Changed. A darkness sat within him that spoiled him, an empty patch in his song like scorched rock and dry earth where nothing could grow…Legolas dwelled upon Frodo for a little while, running over his presence with his own awareness, pressing his own green-gold lightness into the cold dark places of Frodo's heart. And when he felt the little hobbit's breathing deepen and slow, he turned back to feeling his way through the night.

The Rohirrim were there too, the wind over the high plains…Eomer's distinct notes, proud and windswept like the high steppe of his home.

No. It was none of these.

It was something unfamiliar. He stirred and rose to his feet, ducking beneath the tent flap to emerge outside in the cold night air. The stars were bright for the endless rain had washed away the last traces of ash and dust from the eruption of Mount Doom and the air was clear.

He leaned in and listened to the metallic chime of stars and the whisper of Spring across the land as small plants awoke and animals scurried about to feed their young.

It was none of these things…whatever it was was far away.

He wondered if Elrohir was awake and if he had yet landed at Osgiliath or was still aboard. A terrible loneliness surged through him then and he thought that this is what it would be like if Elrohir died…

Anglach had died.

He sank down onto the deep grass on the riverbank and drew his knees up, rested his chin on them.

He had not given himself space to grieve since the last night he had slept with Miriel, and Lossar; the three had started out together, leaving the feast that he could not enjoy, with Miriel leading them on. It was Legolas who had captured her, leaving Lossar somewhere in the glades beside the forest river, with the fires and music and dancing. It was by Miriel's design to be alone with Legolas, it seemed to him later, for usually all three of them ended curled about each other, his legs twined with both Miriel and Lossar. But perhaps Miriel had sensed Legolas' grief that night, and perhaps Lossar had decided to give them both time alone.

That night was their last before he had left for Imladris.

Now he knew that night had been his last ever with Miriel. For she was dead.

He remembered he had awoken, and slid away from Miriel's soft, warm body as she slept and began to dress, his absence waking her. She had slid her hand in his and smiled. She had a lovely smile, he remembered now as he sat upon the riverbank in Ithilien.

The moment they had returned to the glade, Miriel had been greeted by a dozen young relatives. Smaller hands had taken hers and pulled her towards one of the bonfires that was now low enough for the older elflings to jump. Those must be the children she was trying to take to safety when she was killed, he thought. His fingers twisted in the long grass and he felt a sob struggling from somewhere deep inside him.

She had been whisked away on children's laughter, and Legolas had slipped away also, back to the old oaks, to his own unadorned flet. During the feast he had made merry for his family, his father's sake, but took no comfort in it, at least not while sober.

Now without the numbness of wine or the warmth of another body to comfort him and help him forget, he had slumped to the floor and bent his head as he did now, raked his fingers through his hair, and for the thousandth time, relived the moment of finding Anglach. The bloody mess where his eyes should be, the tattered rags of his ears.

His sobs had been silent and racking and his tears bitter. And now the sob burst from him, a single wrangled cry and though he did not weep, he pressed his face into his knee.

That night in the Wood, after he had left Miriel, and retreated to his own flet, he had grieved, longing for Anglach's laughing, teasing, calling him goblin-prince until he had become conscious of an embrace, a familiar scent, a whisper. His cheek had pressed against a shoulder, the softness of long dark hair. At first he thought his brother, Thalos, had come. He had rubbed his sore eyes, opening them instead to Lossar who banished the darkness close around, and had regarded him with a depth of compassion that completely undid him then and undid him now.

He remembered how kind Lossar had been. "If only there were no last times, only firsts and forever." Lossar had sighed and drew his friend close again, stroking his long hair, a glow of silver, down the length of his back until Legolas had wept against his shoulder.

Now Legolas knew his face was wet again and he pressed his face into his knee, hard against the bone. Miriel was dead. And Lossar with his slow, easy smile. His lovers. His friends. Both dead. Like Anglach.

A low cry wrung from him that seemed to come from deep within, from his belly. From the absolute grief that now, at last, he gave into. He sat alone of the banks of the Anduin in far Ithilien and wept for them all.

He did not know for how long he sat there, but a warm hand descended upon his shoulder. Heavy, square, skilled. Short blunt fingers found his and clasped his hand in so intimate a gesture he thought it should be Lossar. But it was not.

'Aye, lad. You cry for your losses. Grieve for your old friend, Anglach was it? Tell me.'

So Gimli sat beside Legolas and listened to him tell of Anglach, of his teasing and silliness, of the time and time again that he had saved Legolas' life and Legolas had saved his. How Lossar and Miriel had comforted him the days after and how he grieved for them all. And Gimli told him of his own folk and his own losses. And Legolas thought then that he had lost friends, and found friends. That he would live.

0o0