This is especially for Nako, who just wants more of Elrohir: ' I FEED UPON HIS MISFORTUNES... and it's fun to see him struggle to get to the point of giving up and accepting his fate.' Poor Elrohir. But actually, this chapter is a little interlude really, before the fun really starts. So enjoy the peace and kindness in this. Oh, and the slashy fantasy – thought you might be feeling deprived.

Ch 22: Lothlorien

Grumpy, tired and wishing he didn't have relatives, Elrohir threw himself on the wide bed in the talan. He and Elladan had just arrived, they were both tired and he was damned if he was going to meet his grandmother and father in a formal setting that required him to be polite. He hated coming here. If it were not for Arwen, he would not have come. Elladan, as usual, had been despatched to give greetings to the various relations they should both have greeted but Elladan knew when to push and when to give way. 'I will tell them your wound pains you a little and you must rest,' he said lightly.

'Do not tell them that!' Elrohir protested. 'They will all want to heal me.'

'Very well, I will tell them that you are tired and grumpy.' Elladan smiled slightly.

'Do that.'

Elladan had given him a look that was both indulgent and irritated. But he had gone and Elrohir had some peace before he had to present himself to his family, friends, for he knew that Glorfindel would be here, and he hoped too, Tindómion.

But Tindómion brought issues and images that Elrohir did not want to confront. He pushed them away now.

Elrohir stretched out on the bed, wanting to sleep, wishing Legolas were there to tease and laugh away his irritation. But all thoughts of Legolas banished his bad mood and he imagined that Legolas was indeed here, and he reached out to stroke an imaginary pale gold hair from Legolas' beautiful face. Still astonished at himself, Elrohir thought about how he felt about Legolas. He loved the Woodelf with a tenderness he had never in his long life experienced before; it was protective and tender and affectionate and made his heart feel like it would burst from his chest. He wanted to shout and sing and he could not contain it. He found himself laughing at himself for pure joy in spite of himself. He was in love. In love! And with a warrior who was in every way his equal and more, better by far than his own self. Better in every way; stronger, more noble, impossibly beautiful, impossibly masculine. A warrior who surpassed every warrior Elrohir had ever known…

He laughed again, at himself, his rapture, knowing that he was blinded by love. And happier for it than he had ever been in his life since his mother had been lost… Yes. Even that seemed less traumatic, for Legolas had made it…not less, but pointed out his own crime for what it was.*

And in spite of his perjured and sinful self, Legolas loved him back. He stroked his own hand over his hair, enjoying the feel of it, enjoying the sensation of silk.

Legolas made Elrohir feel complete. Legolas accepted him in a way that not even Elladan did. His lust and desire, even the violent passion of it, Legolas accepted as almost his due, as normal, as natural as day.

The last time they had slept together before Elrohir left, they had left marks on each other that he would be ashamed to see on another, seeing it as evidence of his depravity and violent lust, but Legolas did not care, matching Elrohir in his lust. He was as wild and unrestrained as Elrohir needed him to be. It did not seem to Elrohir that Legolas would refuse anything. In fact, he embraced it, seemed to lead Elrohir further and further into what he had seen before as depravity. With Legolas, it did not seem to be. It felt natural, exciting. He felt his cock stiffening at the thought of it. And kicked off the sheets on the bed, he could not help it. The memory of Legolas in wild abandoned lust was too much and he almost came just letting his hands drift over his own skin, flicking over the end of his cock deliciously.

He pulled himself back, wanting to enjoy this. There would be questions and sly looks enough when he joined Elladan and Arwen, but for the moment, he had privacy.

He thought about that last night when he had fucked Legolas wildly, biting at his shoulder and Legolas had squirmed in ecstasy as he plunged into Legolas, pounding his battle-hardened, athletic body, knowing Legolas could take it, wanted it. Elrohir thought of that now as he played with himself, letting his head fall back into the pillow as it had when Legolas, with a teasing, wicked smile, had pulled away and crawled down Elrohir's body until his hot mouth had closed over Elrohir's cock.

He loved the wantonness of his beloved, the pleasure he took in sex. He thought of the way Legolas had stretched his hands above his head, clasping the headboard like he was bound, and arching his body; the candlelight had gleamed on his skin, on the wild yára-carmë, the swirl of colour that coiled about his lean body, snaked about his hips and thigh…Elrohir had tangled his fingers in the wheat-pale hair and dragged Legolas' head back, muffled the cries of ecstasy with his own mouth. He could hardly breathe for the passion, pressing his mouth, forcing his tongue, pushing open that lovely generous mouth as Legolas gasped and rose to meet him and Elrohir slammed his hands back down. That violence and strength had Legolas moaning in desire and delicious lust.

Oh Eru, Elrohir's hands on himself moved slowly, tantalising himself with the images of Legolas as he writhed, pinned fast beneath Elrohir's own heavy weight, holding the Woodelf fast as he plunged into the hot, tight body, so tight he had to force himself harder and harder, and Legolas had begged him to punish and subdue him.

It had taken Elrohir aback, and aroused him in equal measure but Legolas had looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes, lost in desire and stretched himself again, writhing beneath Elrohir so his muscles slid beneath his skin, gleaming with sweat that Elrohir found unbearably erotic.

'You submitted to me,' Legolas had murmured. 'And you struggled with it. Now subdue me. I will submit to you.'

It undid them both and Elrohir could not remember when he had made those marks on Legolas' skin, the bruises and welts… He ejaculated hard, spurting over his belly, hot white streams jetting over his own skin.

He lay for a moment, breathing hard, heart pounding.

Better, he thought, rising and padding over to a ewer of water and pouring it into a silver bowl. He washed himself off and pulled long suitable robes over his nakedness, and then stood for a moment looking out over the city.

Lights threaded through the huge mallorns, silvery in the twilight that always seemed to linger in this forest. Strange songs weaved their way through the trees and he paused for a while to lean against the trunk of a tree nearby and listen to the singing. In the huge trees that crowded upon the hill of Caras Galadhon, were the palatial talans of the Lord and Lady, and of course their guests. He knew which talan was reserved for Elrond for it was close by and he looked up to the delicate rope pathways and balconies that strung lightly between the talans and trees.

He saw Arwen before she saw him; she leaned her elbow on a balcony along the walkway to his right and her cheek rested upon her hand. Her long dark hair fell over her shoulder and the strange half-light of Lothlorien gleamed silver lights in her hair. He smiled and made his way quietly towards her.

'Moro!' she cried in delight at seeing him. He picked her up and swung her round, kissed the top of her head and she leaned against him. 'You are happy!' she said in surprise.

'I am seeing you marry Aragorn,' he said but he realised she was right, he was happy.

'More than that,' she said shrewdly. Not for nothing was she daughter of Elrond and granddaughter of Galadriel. 'What has happened?' She stared at him and then frowned as if in disbelief. 'Moro, you are…different somehow. You look…Are you in love?' she asked in even greater astonishment.

He laughed. 'I am not grumpy and boorish so I must be in love?' He glanced at her and saw that she was not so easily duped. 'You will see soon,' he confessed. 'But I beg you keep it secret.'

She swung round to stand in front of him, laughing and gasping. 'I cannot believe it! Who has won the stony heart of Elrohir Elrondion? Who has caught the eye of He who will not be swayed, will not love, will not…'

'Hush,' he said gently. 'I am not that man.'

'Not anymore, clearly.' She pulled his arm, her face shining with delight. 'Tell me! I am so pleased for you my dearest Morók! I cannot tell you how happy it makes me!'

'You swear that you will not tell, even if you think you should? You must swear that you will not speak.'

'Goodness! So secretive! I have guessed it- it is Gimli Gloinssion! Or perhaps Frodo Baggins!' She danced in front of him, teasing and laughing and she reminded him of Legolas then and thought how good both Arwen and Legolas were for him. They lightened his heart and made him glad.

'Very well. Swear first.'

'Oh, all right! I swear it will not come from me.'

At last he was satisfied. 'Very well. It is Legolas Thranduillion.'

Arwen stopped dead in front of him. 'No!' She punched him lightly on the arm. 'Tell me truthfully. I have sworn.'

'I do tell you truthfully. He is my heart and soul. He has my heart completely.' Elrohir stopped now and regarded her seriously. 'Is it so strange that I should love him, or that he should love me?'

Arwen stared at him. 'No,' she said at last. And seriously. 'No. How could he help but love you. You are the most wonderful man in the world apart from Aragorn of course. But Legolas is a Silvan Elf. They are…different…have different attachments from us… Are you sure he will see this in the way that you do? Does he indeed love you'?

He saw that she was merely concerned for him.

'Yes. He says so anyway,' Elrohir said and felt a smile on his lips as he spoke of Legolas, knew that his heart shone through his eyes and found that he was happy. 'He is as serious about me as I am about him. Arwen, he is wonderful. 'He found it a relief to speak so, to confide in her his feelings and receive approval, not judgment. She made things lighter.

Arwen was laughing in astonished delight and she grasped his hands to dance him about girlishly. 'Of course he loves you,' she cried. 'How could he not!'

Elrohir suddenly dropped his gaze in shame; Arwen had no idea how soiled he was, what crimes he had committed. He remembered how he had stood on the cold mountain and summoned the Nazgûl, how they had tricked him and then pursued Legolas for they hated him beyond reason. Legolas was the child of Thranduil. He had battled them beneath the eaves of Mirkwood. Tricked them and evaded them. Destroyed their steeds.

Elrohir breathed, tension ebbed. The Nazgûl were vanquished, were they not? They were safe from them. But it did not excuse what he had done.

But he could not tell Arwen what he had done; he thought how pure and clean she was compared with him. He would not sully her thoughts with his confessions. No. But there were others who would demand it of him; and though Legolas had forgiven him, Elrohir had not forgiven himself.

But for now, he walked beneath the trees of Lothlorien with his little sister and listened to her excited news and thought how hard it was the path that she had chosen, for all of them.

00o0o

He could not avoid everyone forever and it was not long before Elladan sought him out and insisted he present himself. So he grudgingly accompanied Elladan and Arwen to the high trees of the Golden Wood where the Lord and Lady awaited their grandchildren.

'My dear boy!' Celeborn opened his arms and embraced Elrohir who even now he was as tall, still rested his forehead against the broad shoulder and was enveloped in the smell of Celeborn. The fresh scent of his grandfather always made him feel safe. He closed his eyes for a moment and wished for the time he could climb up onto his lap and throw his arms around the wide shoulders. For a moment, all the cares, the weight of his deeds, even his besotted adoration of Legolas slipped away and it was just him. He felt Celeborn smile against his hair. 'Well child,' he said in surprised delight. 'Well.' He stroked Elrohir's hair gently, soothing him like he would one of his falcons.

Over his grandfather's shoulder he could see his own father, hurt screwed onto his face. For a moment, Elrohir cringed inwardly; he did not know how or what he should say. And he wondered if he hated his father as much as he thought…the night before he left for Amon Sûl drifted into his mind. With Elladan lying asleep and unconscious still from the wound from the morgul blade that he had stepped into to save Erestor, and Elrohir full of blame and guilt, his father had drawn him close.

Elrohir forced himself to look up. His new-found love for Legolas warmed him; he was accepted for all that he was, he had confronted all that he had done, and what he had not done. He had not raped his own mother. He had not. And all that time he had believed himself guilty of that had been untrue. And yet…when he was here, with his father, he could not bear it.

Elrond met his gaze with surprise and slowly smiled, hesitant. Almost afraid.

Elrohir struggled with himself; and then he saw the loss in his father's eyes, for he was about to lose Arwen for all the Ages of the World. And Elrohir, for all his wrath and fury and anger and guilt, knew he had made his Choice and that meant he too would lose Arwen. Suddenly he could not bear to leave Elrond alone in his grief and he lifted his head.

'Father,' he said.

Elrond sucked in a breath and almost flinched as if Elrohir might have struck him. Slowly, he reached out and rested his hand upon Elrohir's broad shoulder, followed his hand with his gaze as if Elrohir might vanish before him. He nodded wonderingly. 'You are well?' It seemed all he could say for the moment.

Elrohir swallowed. 'Yes…I…I was injured at the Morannon, but I am healed now. More or less.'

And suddenly Elladan was there, the bridge between them again. Laughing. 'Less than more!' he said, throwing an arm around Elrohir's shoulder. 'He is grumpy because his leg is still painful. A blade in the shoulder from an Uruk, and a wound in his thigh, Ada.'

'From an Orc?'

'No,' said Elladan.

'Yes,' said Elrohir at the same time. They looked at each other for a moment and then Elladan threw up a hand.

'Orc,' repeated Elrohir firmly, but Elladan looked at him reproachfully. He had said that Elrohir must not fight him, must agree to be seen by Galadriel and Elrond so they could rid him of the last vestiges of the Black Web. Elrohir hesitated. He owed Elladan more than he could ever repay.

'And there was another thing,' he said softly. 'An infection, a poison. I think I would like you to look at it, Father, if you would.'

The look in Elrond's eyes was more than he could bear; gratitude. And he had so little reason to be grateful to me, thought Elrohir viciously of himself. For I have spurned him in my cowardice, thrown him off when it was fear I would be discovered. He clenched his teeth and shook his head against himself.

'It does not have to be me who heals you,' Elrond said gently and Elrohir looked up to see how his father had retreated, thinking Elrohir had rejected him once again.

'No!' He grasped his father's hand before he could withdraw. 'No…I want you to. It's just…I have…I have much to tell you.'

So it was that he found himself in a cool chamber with gauzy veils lifting in a breeze and the lights of Lothlorien glinting in the trees.

'I have always found Lothlorien a little suffocating,' Elrond was saying quietly. 'Of course I never told your mother. And I would not dare speak of it to anyone else. Galadriel might hear.' He threw a conspiratorial little glance towards a surprised Elrohir. 'It is rather overwhelming to have Her as a Moher-in-law, he added even more quietly.

Elrohir laughed in astonishment. 'I never knew you felt like that,' he said.

Elrond smiled and drew up a stool so he could sit more closely to his son. He had shed the long robes and had on his fine silk shirt and breeches. Elrohir could feel the warmth from his father, and the familiar scent of athelas and all-heal that always permeated his clothes and hair and skin. it was comforting.

'I will need to see where the wound was made,' said Elrond, looking at him.

Elrohir breathed in. 'There is no wound,' he said. 'It…It was absorbed.' He found his father's expert Healer's look on him and felt the slight pressure that was Vilya probing for his wound. 'Into the skin,' he added. 'Through contact with an already infected patient.' He did not seem able to stop himself. '

Elrond leaned closer and lifted the edge of Elrohir's shirt, letting his fingers brush against his son's skin. Instantly, Elrohir felt a peace envelop him, akin to the peace he felt from Elladan but it was not blue but white, intense, clear. It filled him with joy! Vilya shone down upon him, into him, filled him so there was a swelling in his chest that was love. He felt his father's hand hover over his heart for an instant and then gently withdraw, and with it, Vilya's white intensity.

Elrohir blinked and stared at Elrond.

'This…infection…Is it in the form of threads? Like you would see bacteria under the velicë-hyelma?'

Elrohir nodded. The tiny threads of bacteria moving under the slides of the velicë had fascinated him as a child. He had often stood on tiptoe, pressing one eye against the eyescope of the device that Elrond had reinvented from descriptions he had from Maedhros. 'Yes. Just like that.'

Elrond nodded. 'Yes. I can sense the scars in your blood from their presence. I would like to have a sample and look at it but they have nothing like the velicë here. Vilya will have to do, amplifying my Sight as she can.' Elrond shuffled closer again, and this time he instructed Elrohir to take off his shirt so he could see the whole.

As he did so, Elrond made a small noise of distress and Elrohir remembered too late, the small scars he had from battle and from where the Nazgûl had pierced him many times. The shoulder wound was healed but still visible, although at least the marks upon him from Legolas had faded, he thought relieved. It was a conversation he was not yet ready to have.

'You have been hurt more than this,' Elrond said softly. But his voice was not that of the healer but the father and Elrohir felt a surge of anxious recrimination. He stared at Elrond; surely Elrond did not feel guilty about him, Elrohir?

But Elrond said nothing and the rawness and hurt were hurriedly pulled back beneath Vilya's light.

Slowly, Elrohir felt the heat of Vilya excoriating the burning threads that still lingered in his blood. As they dissipated, he saw how his father bent all his thought and concentration into the Song and wielded it like a blade. A thin blade of light from Vilya brushed over his skin, the healing lacerations and the skin knit and sealed, thickened under Vilya's patient blade.

At last, Elrond sighed and bowed his head. 'I have it,' he said. 'It is gone. The scars in your blood are healing now, the little cells replenishing themselves. The bacteria was designed to overwhelm you, kill you, but that has gone. There was a secondary effect though; the scars left by the bacteria seemed unable to heal.' He pushed his chair back and wiped his hands on a cloth that hung nearby. 'Very subtle. I have never seen anything like it but once and that in Beleriand. If I had not known, I would have missed it.'

He rose to his feet and washed his hands in a bowl. 'It was made as a weapon against the Elves,' he said. 'Men would simply be killed but this was intended first to completely overpower whoever was infected, and then to change them from within.'

Elrohir could not speak. It had been made to subjugate Legolas, to make him Elrohir's thrall. It sickened him now to even think it, and he bowed his head in shame. Elrond slowly paused, slowed his hands as if he noticed Elrohir's distress and was thinking how to broach it. At last, he lay down the towel and scooped up his robe, threw it casually over his shoulder.

'I am hungry,' he said unexpectedly. 'Will you join me?'

Elrohir found himself suddenly famished and without thinking, said, 'Yes.'

So he found himself following his father from one flet to another until they came to Elrond's quarters, and there was Erestor and Glorfindel, already seated as if this were planned although it clearly had not been.

As Elrohir entered the talan, both rose to their feet with exclamations of delight and welcome and came towards him, embracing him warmly. Then from behind him, another stepped from the shadows.

Tindómion.

Elrohir felt a dreadful flare of jealousy and fury.

He remembered the night he had returned with Elladan cradled in his arms, desperate, full of guilt and remorse, having sunk on his knees in the mud before Angmar, offered himself if only Angmar would cure Elladan of the wound of the morgul blade. And Angmar had rifled in his thoughts, delved in his dreams, searched his secret fears and guilty vice and found them; the corruption wrought by Haldir, the guilty secret that he been too late to save his mother.

But that night he had fled to his friend, Tindómion for comfort;

his door had been closed and Elrohir pounded on it.

'Istel!' he had cried and leaned his forehead against the door, one hand on the door jamb. Please be here, he thought desperately, Temptation was too much. He needed to be kept from the One Ring that whispered to him what it could do.

It was a moment before he heard his friend within.

'Istelion!' he cried again in despair.

He was almost aware of quiet voices but did not register it quite until Tindómion opened the door. His long bronze hair was loose and his shirt open, hastily tucked into his breeches. His silver-grey eyes were slightly dazed and the pupils dilated, his lips were slightly swollen but Elrohir barely noticed in his distress. He bowed his head and leaned it against Tindómion's shoulder.

'I cannot bear this, Istel. I should have stopped him.'

A strong, comforting arm was thrown around his shoulder and Tindómion leaned his own head against Elrohir's. 'I have someone here,' he murmured in a low voice. Elrohir started and pulled back, suddenly realising why his friend's shirt was half undone, untucked. An apology on his lips he backed away mortified but Tindómion pulled him close and lowered his voice, speaking into his hair like he was a child. 'He will understand. Let me ask him to

leave. He will not mind.'

'Ah, forgive me, Istel!' Elrohir cried softly. That it was a man in Tindómion's rooms was no surprise to Elrohir. Tindómion was unashamed of his preferences, and discrete because he wished to be, not out of respect for Elrond or any other. It was his own business. 'I did not mean to disturb you. But I do not think I can …' His voice broke in a sob. 'He is so still and cold!'

'Elrohir, stay. I cannot allow you to leave like this. You are too… vulnerable.' Tindómion's grey eyes were concerned. 'You know of what I speak,' he said emphatically, holding Elrohir's gaze. 'We will talk in a moment but when I have explained to.' Tindómion drew Elrohir after him, one hand on his arm so Elrohir could not have pulled away without immense discourtesy to one he knew loved him.

There was movement in the shadows. An Elf pushed himself away from the wall where he had been leaning, his movements sensuous and languorous. Elrohir had opened his mouth to apologise for the intrusion but no words came. He stared. The Elf was barefoot and his white linen shirt gaped wide, and in the soft lamplight his pale skin gleamed. His shirt had slipped off one shoulder and Elrohir saw the outlandish colour and swirling pat-terns inked on his skin beneath the shirt. Pale gold hair fell loosely and unbound over his broad shoulders and straight down as far as his lean hips. It was Legolas Thranduillion. Barefoot and his long green eyes were dazed with lust. When he saw who it was Elrohir he blinked slowly and his mouth, warm and wanton, opened in a gasp.

Elrohir's heart leapt in his chest and something emerged from the darkness of his thoughts, an image…

Fiery light, torches in sconces gleaming on the rocky wall, lighting up a body hanging, stretched to its limits, from shackles, from chains disappearing into the dark. Long, pale gold hair …Ah! Eru… Lust flared and ignited in his loins and shame blazed in his heart…Flat-bellied, lean hipped. Pale skin already marked with blood, a wild whirl of colour and abstract… The sound of a lash against flesh, a muffled cry and he jerked and pulsed with lust.

'Your yôzaira.'

He knew his lip curled in disgust at himself, but Legolas saw it and his own mouth pressed thinly in an answering, unspoken challenge. Their eyes met like clashing blades and slid off each other. It made Elrohir want to dominate and subdue! Legolas was here for sex. He could smell it in the air. Desire charged into his belly, churned in his balls and he stiffened. His face flushed and his voice stuck in his throat, he could not speak. I am not this! he railed against himself. But he was.

And he knew it.

'I think I had best leave.' Legolas was cold and stiff. He was angry, thought Elrohir.

Tindómion's arm about Elrohir sagged slightly. He was disappointed, Elrohir recognised. But Tindómion only said, 'Yes, probably for the best.…'

Legolas inclined his head slightly towards him and there was no mistaking the slight curl of anger and arrogance on Legolas' lips, Elrohir thought.

Oh, how he had wanted to wipe the arrogant sneer from Legolas' mouth, Elrohir remembered, how hot and full and needy he had been. Of course it had been nothing to do with Celebrian's rescue that made him desire Legolas; it was desire. Just pure desire. And later of course, he had recognised that it was not even just desire but that Legolas touched his soul.

But Tindómion had been Legolas' lover. And that was enough to make Elrohir pause. He gauged his feeling about that, wondered what he felt and how deep it was.

Was that strange disappointed ache in his heart jealousy or something else? A longing, a deep heart-aching misery. He did not deserve Legolas. He was so damaged, so corrupted.

But he had not time to think for he was enveloped in the warmth of Tindómion's hug and the jealous thoughts were driven out by the brotherly love they had shared for centuries, before either even knew of Legolas' existence. Erestor and Glorfindel joined them and drew him close, rested their heads against his, and spoke gladly at the joy in seeing him. The last time he had seen Glorfindel, the First Age warrior had been recovering from the attack upon Amon Sûl where he had been struck down by Angmar and only Major's glorious rescue had saved him. Even now Elrohir wondered if he had been dreaming. At the time, Tindómion had found it hard to forgive Elrohir for keeping his promise to Maglor and not telling Tindómion, his son, that he had been there. But there was no trace of resentment or lingering hurt in Tindómion's joy at seeing him, or in being in Erestor and Glorfindel's company. But now Elrohir wondered too if Erestor had told Elrond, who loved Maglor as Tindómion could not.

He chose not to ask the hard questions, and they did not ask him anything he did not wish to say either. Instead they spoke long into the night, telling of their adventures, and Elladan joined them too at last and they heard how the hordes had come down from the Hithaeglir and attacked first the Brown Lands and the Trollshaws, slowly wiping out the little farms and villages, then attacking the Rangers in the Angle and crossing the Bruinen and into Imladris.

They drank long and hard, egged on by Erestor's outrageous claims that had Glorfindel rolling his eyes and shaking his head, and Elrohir and Elladan joined Tindómion laughing.

When at last he slept, Elrohir was peaceful, the beginning of healing between he and Elrond speeding the healing of his own body. He dreamed of Legolas. Awakening in the night with a sense of cold dread in his belly that Legolas was in mortal danger however, he shook himself and told himself it was just fear and the last vestiges of the Black Web that made him fear. For Legolas was safe in Minas Tirith and Sauron's army destroyed. Surely there could be nothing to disturb their peace for a while yet at least?

0o0o

Legolas pulled a cloak over his shoulders. He did not usually feel the cold. Even on Caradhras he had given his cloak to Pippin whose teeth had been chattering while Legolas had not felt it too badly. He had noted, at the time, as well that his own cloak was much better at repelling water and snow than the other companions. Now he felt cold as if his very bones ached. It was odd.

In the little room he had taken, his bow leaned against the wall and his knives were in their sheaths and harness were draped over the wooden chair in one corner. The maid who came in daily to clean the house had turned back the small mirror over above the mantelpiece so it gleamed softly in the lamplight. He stared at it, thinking it was like an eye, spying on him from Somewhere Else. He told himself he was foolish but he avoided looking into it.

Downstairs he could hear the clatter of plates and knives and forks as the hobbits tidied up after supper. The sound was domestic and comforting and he thought he should go and join them for he knew he felt a little lonely. He missed Elrohir's fire and passion, the wholeness of his love, his adoration and devotion. He missed the consuming fire of it. But there was another bit of him that wanted something else; home. Listening to the pots and pans being washed and put away, the merry chatter of voices, he was reminded of the great kitchen at home. Galion scolding the maids and getting in Úroch's way, Anglach and he cajoling cakes and pies from the cooks and scullery maids…Anglach.

An ache settled in his heart that he could not bear. He had not had time to really think about Anglach on the quest, there had been so much danger and peril. But now that there was peace, and the threat had gone, it seemed his heart was determined to mourn. He sat on his bed with his knees drawn up and his cloak draped over his shoulders. He leaned his cheek on his hand and stared at nothing, remembering the countless Feasts of Starlight when they had leapt with increasing recklessness over bonfires, or juggled with knives when drunk, played Five Finger Filit even drunker so their fingers were cut and gouged and they were too stupid to feel it. He thought how Anglach would have loved to know that he was friends with a dwarf and would have wanted to play with Pippin and stare at Elrohir. He smiled through the tears that pricked his eyes; he did not know what Anglach would have made of Elrohir. He did not know what Thranduil or Laersul or Thalos would think…he chewed his lip and his fingers picked at the cuff of his tightly sewn tunic sleeve. They would not be pleased. They would worry. Whereas his friendship with Gimli would hardly cause comment…maybe a little. But once they met Gimli, all would be well…But Elrohir was another matter entirely.

Perhaps he had been unfair on Elrohir, demanding that Elrohir say what he would tell HIS father when Legolas had not thought how he would tell his own.

Gradually the clatter from below dimmed and he smelt the fragrance of pipeweed curling through the air; the hobbits were sitting outside and smoking, he realised. He could hear their low voices beneath the apple tree where they sat on blankets on the grass and watched as the stars began to appear slowly, one by one at first and then gradually, sweeping across the darkening sky. But as the darkness drew close, he felt restless. A churning in his blood that made him want to run across the rooftops and leap into the trees, to gallop Arod wildly across the plains…It was the Sea, he thought. And before he knew it, he had thrown his cloak onto the floor and was climbing out of the window and into the tree.

'At last!' Merry called up. 'Come on down, Legolas, and join us.'

Distracted, Legolas looked down at the Hobbit's upturned face. Merry was grinning and beckoning with such warmth that Legolas' unhappiness vanished and he slid through the tree, hopping from branch to branch until his feet were on the grass and he cast himself beside the hobbits.

'What are you doing up there on your own?' Pippin shoved Legolas cheerfully. 'Not missing Gimli, surely?'

'Pippin!' Frodo cried, amused. 'Stop teasing.'

But Legolas smiled a little. 'I am missing the dwarf indeed. He is a rock and I feel a little storm-tossed.' He smiled as reassuringly as he could at the Hobbits' suddenly serious expressions.

'Is that the Sea-longing, Legolas?' asked Pippin. His face was serious and concerned and his pipe was half way to his mouth. 'If it is, you must tell us.'

'Yes. We are supposed to be looking after you,' Frodo added. Legolas smiled with sudden affection for these heroic little men who were determined to look after him, a warrior of the Woods.

'I do not think it is,' he said. 'I just miss everyone. I miss Gimli. And Aragorn,' he realised. He did not say that he missed home, or that he missed Elrohir. The very thought of Elrohir made him almost swoon with longing. Is this it? he wondered. Am I just truly in love with my beloved? And that is all it is, this unsettled strangeness?

'Come and talk to us, Legolas,' Frodo said with a shrewd look. 'Bilbo used to talk a lot about the Woodland Realm. He told us about when he was hiding in the stronghold and how you and another Elf had to look after the Dwarves.'

'Yes!' cried Pippin excitedly. 'He said Dwalin used to deliberately drop the most enormous turds!'

Merry laughed. 'Because you and your friend, An..Angerlick?' He frowned and shook his head. 'Anyway, the two of you had to collect the pots and he saw it as revenge! Is that true?'

'Anglach,' Legolas corrected softly. 'Yes- it is true.' He smiled and forced himself to brightness because Frodo looked so frail sitting amongst the cushions, and Sam was gazing up with a starry expression that meant he was hearing a story he knew well and loved. 'Dwalin did drop the biggest stinkiest turds I have ever seen in my life. They were like a horse's droppings.'

'I love that story,' Sam murmured to himself and Legolas laughed in spite of himself for it was unexpected that Sam, who was so proper and tidy, would enjoy such an earthy tale.

So he found himself telling the Hobbits the story of how the company of Thorin Oakenshield, which included one Hobbit and a Ring that no one knew about, found itself in the so-called dungeons of the Elven King, and how Legolas and his dearest friend, Anglach, looked after them until their notorious escape which had resulted in disgrace for the two friends until Bilbo revealed his secret.

Pippin and Merry were lying on their bellies, chins in their hands and swinging their feet in the air and laughing at the story. And Legolas smiled; strangely he wanted to talk of Anglach. It felt somehow that he was still alive and just waiting at home for Legolas to return so they could pick up where they left off, teasing and daring each other to do sillier and sillier things, flirting and complaining of broken hearts.

'Anglach was always telling the maidens that I was the lost child of the goblin-king, or that I was an orc foundling or something.'

'He sounds just like you, Pip,' said Merry. 'What do you think he will make of Elrohir?' he asked and Pippin, as if he had just realised, made an ooh noise, eyes wide and round.

Legolas looked up at the stars and stretched out his long legs. 'I was wondering that myself,' he said quietly and leaning back on his hands. 'I think…I think he will be happy for me,' he managed to say and even as he spoke, he realised the truth of his own words, and that he was no longer the Elf that had flirted with Sigrid that day after the battle, or the Elf that had looked after the Dwarves. He could no longer lie, limbs and hair tangled with Miriel and Lossar, he thought with a dreadful sadness, for both of them were dead, like Anglach. But he did not want to dwell on that either. What was true was that he had changed utterly. He wondered if Anglach would even like the Elf Legolas had become. But it was Anglach's death that had changed him so, and Elrohir's overwhelming passion. He had to look down quickly for he was suddenly overcome with emotion.

There was a silence and the Hobbits glanced at each other though Legolas did not see them. But a small hand closed over his very gently and he looked up to see Sam watching him with a slow realisation and concern. He found a well laundered linen handkerchief pressed into his hand by Frodo and blew his nose, noting with surprise that it had his own father's emblems embroidered upon the laundered linen.

'He gave some to Bilbo, as a gift when last he visited the Wood,' Frodo explained. 'Bilbo had them with him in Rivendell and told me I might need them. How strange,' he said softly. 'This one went all the way to Mordor with me and was still in my pocket when I got here. Not as clean as it is now of course. It has been washed,' he smiled gently.

Legolas realised guiltily that Frodo's eyes were sunken and he looked so tired. Pippin yawned widely and Sam said firmly, 'Mister Frodo sir, time you went up.' He stood up and the Hobbits sighed and struggled to their feet. With soft goodnights, Sam led Frodo back inside and Merry stayed a little while longer, until he yawned hugely and shuffled off to bed. And then there was only Legolas and Pippin, who still lay on his belly and swung his feet and rested his chin in his hands.

'How old are you, Legolas?'

Legolas frowned. 'I have seen many an oak to ruinous age grown,' he said. 'But the Elves do not count the years as so Men.'

'Well you seem like a tweenager sometimes, and very ancient sometimes. And then at other times, a mere child.'

'Well I think that of you too, Pip,' he said.

Pippin stayed and kept him company, talking quietly of his home, the Shire and its rolling hills and meandering rivers, the meads and woods. And Legolas thought he might visit. Pippin told him too of the Old Wood and piqued Legolas' interest even more.

'I will come there one day,' he said in a promise and then saw that Pippin's eyes were crossing with trying to stay awake until at least his words were slurred with sleep and Legolas gently ushered him upstairs and to bed.

Legolas stayed up and watched the stars until the darkness began to deepen and then the first creamy crack of dawn appeared in the East and he wondered how long before Elrohir returned.

0o0o