More Dangerous, Less Wise

ziggy

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Chapter 30: Vilya

Chapter Text

Happy Birthday Encairion.

Beta: The truly wonderful Anarithilien.

Please note the events at Phellanthir will be told in Narmofinion which is the next fic to be written. That will reveal all about the events that led to this point and beyond, the aftermath once the Fellowship has departed. I just think to do that now would be to extend this fic beyond its narrative parameters.

WARNING: Mild slash in this chapter. For the mature version, go to Archive of Our Own under ziggy.

Chapter 30: Vilya

Elrond trod the sweep of stone steps that led to his chambers, his feet heavy and stone-mortal. He looked down at them, too tired to look anywhere else and too heart-sore to try.

He thought about Elladan lying still and silent not far away, and though he no longer fought for his life, he was far from well. There was no more Elrond could do now, nor Elrohir. Elrond knew that he had exhausted both himself and Vilya. He needed rest.

Quietly he opened his door and went into his own cool airy chambers. The long casement windows stood open and the cold night air flooded his rooms, a light breeze lifted the gauzy veiled curtains, so they were more like mist than fabric. Huge mirrors lined the walls and moonlight reflected off the glass and pale marble so that even at night the chambers seemed insubstantial, not an interior at all but instead reflected over and over the mountains, forests and the waterfalls that roared and cascaded all around the House until you could not know what was real and what imagined.

It had been a feat to build. Even Celebrimbor had said it would be difficult, but he never said impossible. He never said that.

Elrond stared out across the frosted lawns, glittering under the hard moonlight. Below him a figure stood. It looked strange, its shape unnatural. Head too thick and arms too short. Until he realised it was an Elf struggling to pull on his tunic. Suddenly a pale head popped out. The Elf stooped and then hopped on one foot for a moment too and Elrond realised he was pulling on his boots. A glint of moonlight on pale hair was enough then to identify the Elf, for it was not Glorfindel. It was Legolas Thranduillion.

He watched for a moment, dully thinking of that first time he had seen Legolas. The young Elf was similarly half-dressed then. He wondered what had happened this time.

Legolas wobbled on one foot and almost fell over and then lifted the other foot to pull on his other boot. Elrond studied the Elf; Legolas now stood properly clothed and still in the moonlight as if considering what next to do. He could not have been drenched as he had been the last time, Elrond thought absently, for his clothes were obviously dry else he would not be putting them on. Slowly it dawned upon him; Legolas must have had a tryst, perhaps had been surprised and fled. Elrond smiled to himself and wondered who the maid was. Perhaps her parents had called her in before it had gone too far, or she had another suitor? He hoped Legolas was not dallying with some girl's affection for he saw the lightness and ease of the Woodelves and Legolas was certainly not giving his heart away here in Imladris, that much was clear. Should he wish, Elrond could have looked into the hearts of all his folk, but he was not Galadriel.

Legolas slowly turned and made his way across the silvered lawns and Elrond felt a dreadful sadness in his heart; in less than a week, he thought, he would be sending this youngest son of Thranduil on a journey that could well take him to Mordor, or into battle at the least. Perhaps even the very lands where his grandfather and so many Woodelves had lost their lives for he knew that despite the fact that no oath lay upon him, Legolas would not turn towards Mirkwood once they had crossed the Mountains. None of them would.

He turned away and sank into a plush, comfortable chair, too tired to undress and climb into his own bed, cold, and empty. It had always felt too small with Celebrián in it, he thought. And then it had filled up with children who wanted the comfort of each other; climbing in with cold feet to place lovingly on their parents' warm bodies…He shoved that image away. It was too much and he was not strong enough to let the memories come, not with Elladan lying still unconscious so close by.

Vilya was warm on his hand; she caressed him and he filled his lungs with clean air so he could slow his thoughts, cool his blood, rest. The long casement windows let in the cold mountain air. It smelt of snow and pine. Below, the Bruinen roared and gushed over rocks, ice-cold, melt-water. He merely rested his head against the back of the chair and let the breath leave him for a moment. He emptied himself and though she too was drained, he let Vilya sing…

One strain at first, like ice forming. Thin, metallic chimes, and then the upward soar of Song and he felt it sweep him upwards in a building crescendo so he no longer felt entirely alone. He wondered where Maglor was and wished he was here, safe in Imladris. He often thought of those lost ones; his beloved foster fathers….One lost somewhere and the other lost in another-where…It was because of them, and because of Elros that he fostered the Heirs of Isildur, over and over. Raised them. And lost them too…

You have lost everyone. Everything.

Ah. Ash Nazg again. Everyone was stretched by the constant nagging of the Ring; all felt it, he knew. There was discord in Imladris and he was hard put to hold together the generosity and tolerance of the House. Ash Nazg dug its subtle, insidious fingers between the cracks, found weakness and worked upon them. Indeed he felt it too much. It sought Vilya always, knowing her Power, wanting it, seeking her. Even now, Elrond felt it winding its tendril about Vilya's purity, shadowing her clarity and light.

He sent a short prayer to Elbereth, for her strength, her guidance for surely she had the greatest love for Middle Earth and still mourned its loss? It was why Ólorin had been sent, and Glorfindel, was it not? They had not been forgotten, not abandoned.

Are your prayers always answered thus? With emptiness and silence?

He ignored the voice and pushed himself to his feet, took one long stride to the table where a tall jug of cold wine stood, and a bowl of ripe fruit from the South. He poured wine into his glass, and stood for a moment. Really he should disrobe and go to bed but he was in that state beyond exhaustion and there was too much going on in his head for sleep.

The Valar have given Middle Earth to me.

He stood for a moment and drank slowly, let the acid and fruitiness soak his mouth, and watched the snow clouds gather over the mountain tops. Deliberately ignoring Ash Nazg.

Curunir has already turned.

He did not respond, but in his heart he knew now that was true. Saruman's betrayal was bitter. How could they have not known? How could they have let him betray them? But it hurt more deeply than that, for Elrond had trusted him, had liked him. They had a shared interest in lore, in healing… Saruman had taught him much, his intellect different from the fiery integrity and courage of Mithrandir. Elrond had corresponded, had spent time with Saruman, learning and teaching him alike.

And are you so sure of the Shipwright? Are you so sure of Her? Another cold laugh, a sneer. Did you think I did not know where are the Three?

He let Vilya close around him, a silver-blue veil over his thoughts, careful to shut Him out before the truth about the keepers of the Rings was revealed*. He turned back to look at the garden. The stars were bright, white gemstones but dimmed in the stronger light of the Moon which scryed a silver path towards dawn. Legolas had gone and left only a set of light prints across the frosted grass to show where he had ever been.

How long before Ólorin succumbs?

Mithrandir? Ólorin? He will never succumb. Elrond guarded his thoughts, his surprise. His great work is to defeat you. And he will.

He was always mine.

Elrond did not respond to that. Mithrandir was enigmatic, disliked being questioned and sometimes his motives were unclear. But in this, his opposition to Sauron was beyond doubt.

You know there is danger…Shadow and Flame…We have both seen it….

It was goading him, he knew and again, he pulled the veils of Vilya about him, shrouding his thoughts from the One Ring. Looking upwards he watched the Mariner sail the great sea of Night and thought, as he had many many times, how silly that anyone would think that truly his father, Eärendil. Elrond had been taught by Maedhros himself, perhaps one of the most learned Elves either here or Aman, and he knew the stars were not beings, knew the firmament was not finite. Although the star might as well be the Silmaril for all the good that did anyone.

A little wine had spilled onto his robe he noticed but he did not care much. He gulped the wine, feeling the warmth sink into his throat, his chest, his belly, and refilled his glass, took it back to the chair and sank down into it.

Celebrimbor had understood, he thought. His subtlety and secret craft had been a little like Elrond's own quest for knowledge, but it was healing that was the subject of Elrond's quest, not curvë for itself. Theirs had been an easy, interested friendship of sorts, for he did not harass Celebrimbor for secrets, not like Galadriel.

The Master of Imladris let his fingers stroke the blue stone that was part of Vilya's secret mechanism. Vilya was not like Nenya, a more cunning mechanism that unlocked Power. But still the words of Ash Nazg about Galadriel circled him; close, too close to the truth. Elrond was not certain of Galadriel. He knew her ambition. Nenya was not as Vilya, did not wish to heal as Vilya did. Nenya wanted Power, knowledge. Nenya wanted curvë, to discover, to invent, to innovate…and for Elrond, that did not always mean progress.

He sipped the wine and thought about his illustrious, courageous, terrifying mother-in-law. She was dangerous, he had admitted as much to Elrohir when they had both had a moment between the terrifying episodes with Elladan. In a sort of unannounced truce between him and his son, they had talked of the Ring, of the Quest, of Galadriel's attempt to lure Elrohir to her cause… Her cause.

Elrond let the empty glass dangle between his fingers for a moment. Elrohir had agreed with him that the Ring would tempt her, but would it succeed in seducing her where so many others had failed?

Through the window, he could see the Misty Mountains where they marched away south. The Mariner arced above him.

He let his head sink into the back of the chair, wondering what Celebrimbor's true purpose had been in making these three Great Rings of Power… there was some great secret that he did not understand even yet about Vilya… something that trembled beneath the surface when the Three came together and the air was so charged that sometimes he thought the Rings had a purpose all their own and separate to anything the wielders might intend.

He thought that perhaps Annatar, Sauron, had known or at least guessed at their true purpose.

They had arrived too late at Ost-in-Edhel and already the city was razed. Completely. Only broken stones and ruined walls where there had once been a busy and prosperous city. No one escaped who had not already fled. Every single soul who had been connected in some way with the making of the Rings had been slain or taken even though the prize had already vanished for Erestor had brought the Rings to Elrond in secret, at Celebrimbor's command. And though Imladris' army had ridden like the wind, it was too late. They had all known that Celebrimbor was as good as dead.

The wine was sharp on his tongue now, his mouth had grown used to the sweetness and no longer tasted it. But he drank anyway, feeling the burn of it in his throat. He saw in his mind's eye the scarred and pitted ruins of Ost-in-Edhel,, the gaping wounds that afflicted the land from wars and desolation. Beneath the sea was fair Beleriand, and beyond the Hithaeglir, Rhovanion, the Wilds, and far countries that had never known the Eldar…How could he heal the great wounds of Middle Earth? How could he, alone with Vilya, reach beyond the known West to those hinter tribes of Khand and Harad and even further?

Perhaps not alone…

Narya will help, he thought….

But that will not be enough and if Mairon is defeated, then Ólorin will return with Narya…

He found himself thinking: the Rings do not belong in Aman.

He could almost hear Celebrimbor's voice, defiant, angry that even the suggestion that his Rings, his scrying devices, his fabulous technology should be taken to Aman. 'It belongs here! Celebrimbor had cried, throwing out one hand angrily in a gesture so like Maedhros that Elrond's breath caught. 'The Valar would stop me from using it, would try to control it - like they did Fëanor's.'

Was that true? he wondered.

A sliver of doubt eased its way across his mind.

Another gulp of wine. Ah, he was tired. His mind bled dreams, from the past that he did not want now… Elros. Their last meeting. Elros an old Man, bent over, hair white and skin creased. It had shocked Elrond beyond words. But Elros had smiled and lifted a shaky hand to his brother's smooth cheek in wonder.

He found himself thinking again of those he loved and had gone beyond him… For once he let himself remember them all, and he wished, oh how he wished he could bring them all home, and he could look his fill upon those he had loved, that he could stretch his hand across the Sea and touch his sweet Celebrián, and heal her of all her hurts, steer the grey ship safely home and hold her once again; that he could unlock the Door of Night and bring Maedhros, shining, gasping, out into the light once more…He took a gulp of wine. Where were they now, those glorious sons of Fëanor? Had Maedhros stopped falling? Had he found Eru? And Maglor…was he even on these shores or had he wandered so far now that he was forever lost? And more than anything, he wished he could turn back Time itself and forbid Arwen her journey to Lorien that had brought Aragorn to her. If only there were a way to stop her from going, to change everything so her heart was not given to Aragorn. Perhaps if he died?

He stopped, shocked at himself, though in truth it was not the first time he had thought such things.

And suddenly in that moment, a surge of Power wrestled Vilya from him and he was caught in the upsurge of Air seething and swelling around him. Great chords blasted in his ears for the Song was loud, discordant. It crashed over him. Vilya's Power shot above him like lightning bolts, huge, spiraling, spinning upwards in a silver-blue tornado of Air as she struggled with a tremendous Power. Ash Nazg, sensing Vilya's exhaustion, had used her own Power as a conduit, and attacked her.

A mighty wind rushed around the room, sweeping objects from tables. The glass jug smashed to the floor beside him and his half empty glass hurtled into a mirror and cracked loudly over the surface. Elrond struggled upright and lifted his arms, pouring out his own incipient Power to help Vilya wrestle the malignant Ash Nazg, but it writhed and poured around her, spinning its dark coils tighter and tighter about Vilya so she became one sharp blue spike of Power spiraling, shooting upwards. Elrond gathered himself, his hands filled with light and then he pulled back and shot Power like lightning into the spiral. The wind coiled upwards, tugging at him, his hair streamed in its wake, his feet felt they were no longer anchored to the earth and a terrible voice filled the air…

Ash nazg durbatulûk,

An Eye opened, a terrible lidless Eye surrounded by flame. It searched, always searching though it could not yet penetrate Imladris for Vilya still surrounded it, obscured it from His view. But Ash Nazg would open a channel if it could and bring the Eye to penetrate Imladris. Already he felt it burn…His skin was on fire, flames licked along his hands, tore into him like knives but he did not let go of Vilya.

Vilya's silver-blue light, her spiralling energy fought against the coiling dark. Elrond did not waste himself in word-battle with the great Enemy, but poured himself instead into Vilya for there were thin streaks of emptiness in the silver-blue light.

Ash nazg gimbatul,

Like black cinders, the words flew around him, malevolence so great they seemed to prick the air, seep like ink into his lungs…

Ash nazg thrakatulûk

Agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

'Eru help me!' Elrond cried, knowing Ash Nazg was winning, that it would take Vilya's Power to itself and Elrond with it, would crack open Imladris to let Sauron in, not just the Eye for he already knew where the Ring was, but his armies, the Nazgûl. Vilya shuddered with the strain, and he felt the crackling of Power, splintering, shattering.

He did not hear the door crash open. He was barely aware of the spurt of crimson Power that streaked to Vilya's aid until he heard Mithrandir, Ólorin speak, felt Narya's heat like fire. Silver-blue and red twirled, curled, lit, ignited together and suddenly the Eye was gone, the flames that scalded him, burned him, were gone. Vilya convulsed, silver-blue light bled into the air. And suddenly it was quiet….

Elrond fell shaking to the floor, on his knees, head bowed and barely felt hands on him, lifting him, pressing him down into the chair. He retched and the hands that held him were agony on his burned skin. Vilya was curled around him, pulsating, trembling and he drew her close, each nursing the other.

A glass was pressed into his burned hand, words murmured in concern. At first he thought it was Elros and he cried out, lifted his other hand to that beloved, long-lost face, caressed the cheek so gently, disbelieving and the lips moved, face frowned in concern. Something was held to his dry lips and he drank, automatically registering athelas and something more potent…ayudenya perhaps? Two drops in water?… Slowly, his hands realised they were not burned and Aragorn's face was before him, concern in those grey eyes. Not Elros then, he thought anguished; his foster-son, his treacherous foster-son whom he had nurtured and who had come to take away his daughter to death, where he would not meet her again until the Ending of the World…

Vilya sighed and there was the breath of the world. Light and air again filled him Elrond blinked. Aragorn. His beloved foster-son. Tears filled his eyes and he stroked the stubbly cheek again, but this time knowing it was not Elros but Aragorn. He smiled.

'I am sorry, father. I wish…' Such anguish too in Aragorn's voice.

'I know.' It was all he could say.

He felt again the comfort of Vilya, and where Narya touched Vilya too. He struggled upright and saw that the glorious light that was Ólorin had dimmed and that it was only Mithrandir who stood staring out of the long, open windows southwards, where the Misty Mountains spread, the spine of Middle Earth, tailing far, far into the distance.

'I do not know what just happened.' The Wizard's voice was sober. 'But without shadow of doubt, He is coming,' he said emphatically. 'And swiftly.'

Elrond let his gaze drift, follow the line of cold mountains that closed about the Valley. 'You must go soon before it is too late. I will send Glorfindel and Tindómion west along the Old Road. Sauron will believe they are taking the One to the Havens. His spies and the Nazgûl will follow.'

Mithrandir nodded and glanced at Aragorn. 'We must ready the Fellowship. We leave under cover of dusk and make for the Redhorn Pass. It is still unguarded if what Elrohir says is true. Sauron does not expect us to bring the Ring to him so we go while we still have the advantage.'

'Send Elrohir with Glorfindel,' said Aragorn suddenly. 'Give him something or he will go mad with grief. You have seen him?'

Elrond hesitated; Aragorn was right, although sending his son into the jaws of the Nazgûl was the hardest order to give. Three of his captains against the Nine? One small company of warriors against the army of goblins and Orcs that would descend upon them as they fled across Eregion? He had not forgotten the darkness he had seen in Elrohir and he felt a shiver crawl across his neck at the thought of Elrohir at the mercy of the Nazgûl, and without Elladan's guiding light to bring him home.

He felt Mithrandir's hand on his shoulder, Narya suffused the air with warmth and there was, as there always was with Ólorin, the scent of frost and a slight breath of the Sea. 'Such a death I do not foresee for him,' Mithrandir said comfortingly for the connection between Vilya and Narya was still strong. 'He has much to accomplish yet.'

0o0o

Legolas had slept deeply until now and a sudden jangling of nerves like a discord in the Song brought him awake but still half dreaming. He opened his eyes slowly and saw lightning flashes in the sky above Imladris and the House seemed to shake. A storm must have suddenly swept down from the Mountains and blasted across the Valley.

At first he could not think where he was. . And then remembered he was in Imladris with its marble floors and carved limestone, waterfalls, where even in the Winter there was still the lingering faint scent of roses and lavender like some lovely woman had passed by and he not seen her. So deeply had he slept he was not even sure he was yet awake for he had been dreaming of the Wood.

….of the time of the Dragon, when still Smaug slept and dreamed of gold and the Arkenstone was hidden in the heart of the fabulous trove. Legolas had not dreamed of Smaug, but of Lathron; The Listener had stepped out of the shadows of his dreams, moved aside the veils and stooped to kiss Legolas on the mouth so he thought he had awoken and found himself in that part of the Wood where Lathron dwelt, where green light filled the glade.

Lathron took his hand and led him deeper still until the light was dim and dark and the silence thick, and there Lathron laid him down.

There was a fire and he stared into the shifting, leaping flames and thought of Dragons, liquid molten fire captured and given life. He had not been able to forget Smaug's Song until Lathron sang another Song and there was the pain, the tender prick of the quiss as Lathron slowly drew the blood of his yarë-cárme, pricked out in coloured inks the path of his pain. He remembered the sharpness of its making on his skin, that dulled to an ache… Lathron had breathed with him; breathe through the pain, he had murmured. It is only pain and will pass.

And it had.

But it took him to another place, the place between, into the twilight world before Time, before the Counting.

He blinked slowly, still half asleep and thinking that he had forgotten the dream that had come to him whilst lost in the haze of ecstasy and pain that the Ancient Art, the yára-carmë, brought. It had a hallucinogenic quality of sharp clarity and surreal images and now it came back to him…

…He was somewhere else, running this time along the sand beside a silver sea, the sand hard beneath his feet. He was running, and there was someone ahead… someone without whom he could not live, and he knew he might lose them until the Ending of the World… He ran harder, looking ahead, the wind streaming through his long hair and his eyes wide and searching, his mouth open to breathe for his lungs pumped hard…And then he saw a tall warrior, standing thigh deep in the water which lapped at him gently, and he stared unseeing into the distance, at something that Legolas could not see. The warrior's black hair was unbound, loose and it fell straight down his back, so long that it floated on the mercurial water. He turned slightly at the sound of Legolas' voice and their eyes met like lightning; Legolas was pierced by the hurt, proud gaze that wanted so badly to do right and believed that he could not. Legolas reached out with a terrified cry but it was too far and too late and the warrior walked forwards, deeper into the water and his long hair floated and the warrior closed his eyes and the water closed over him…

'No! No!'

He awoke sweating and with the sheet wrapped around him, still in dreams and he sat upright and stared at the dim, waning Moon; a sliver in the dark sky…Still half-dreaming, he thought it was Elrohir whom he had seen on the dark beach under the moon, it was he who had dipped beneath the water…

Legolas rose to his feet, felt his limbs trembling as if he had run a long way, sweat shone on his skin. He caught an image of his reflection in the silver mirror and for a moment thought he still dreamed for the ethereal and lovely face that looked back at him, with startled eyes huge and wondering, and the full lips parted in a gasp for he did not know himself. The dragon etched onto his skin was, he was certain, moving, undulating in the dim light. It looked at him knowingly and curled over his arm, his bicep and slid down his shoulder, coiled around his thigh… A breeze lifted the gauzy veils that were pulled across the long open window, lifted the ends of his unbound hair. He opened the silvery wood door and stepped out onto the verandah. Half asleep still and dreaming he looked over the Bruinen. The stars were hard and bright as always in the Valley and a skein of mist lay over the lawns.

When he turned he saw a figure standing on the verandah a little way along from his own door. The man inclined his head towards Legolas. Moonlight gilded the bronze hair and reflected in his strange grey eyes, so pale they were almost silver. It was Tindómion and his gaze was fixed upon Legolas appreciatively. Legolas stood for a moment and then shaking himself free of the cobwebs of his troubled dreams, he smiled, and let his long hair slide over his shoulder in invitation.

They did not speak but stepped towards each other, and unsure if this was still a dream, Legolas held out his hand, took Tindómion's in his and led him within, into his chamber. This time it was not the desperate and frenzied fumbling of earlier. There was almost a sense of sadness beneath the physical yearning.

'I leave in the morning for Mithlond,' Tindómion said as he shrugged out of his silk robe and left it curled on the floor like some sleeping beast. Only then did Legolas realise Tindómion looked as if he had dressed hurriedly, as if he had been summoned in haste.

Legolas watched from the bed, he rested on his elbow, leaned his cheek in his hand and regarded the Fëanorian intently. 'Surely you do not sail?' he exclaimed and could not help the disappointment for Tindómion was powerful, strong and his beautiful strong face was turned away just then so he could see the strong profile, the full lips and his eyes looked downwards at the ties of his shirt.

He glanced up briefly at Legolas, a smile tugged lightly at his mouth. 'You think me so fickle that I would leave these shores just as Sauron grows strong?' He smiled teasingly and pulled his shirt over his head, balled it up and threw it in a corner as if he had no further use of it. He faced Legolas who watched him approach. So graceful and sensuous, Legolas thought, he almost prowled. The Fëanorian stopped at the edge of the bed, looking down . 'Glorfindel goes with me, and Elrohir. We do not sail. We will be a decoy,' he said. 'We ride West to draw the Eye of the Enemy. You will leave at dusk so that you may slip away unnoticed and unseen.'

Legolas sat up abruptly. 'We leave at dusk? That is a strange time for a journey to begin,' he mused. 'But in all our meetings, Mithrandir has said over and over that secrecy is our best weapon.'

'This time tomorrow neither of us will be in Imladris,' Tindómion said softly. He looked upon Legolas tenderly and then said, 'You will be on your way south along the Hithaeglir and I will be riding along the Greenway with hopes to meet the Nazgûl once more on Amon Sul.'

Legolas almost gasped then. 'Is that not truly dangerous?'

Tindómion laughed softly and leaned down to stroke a tendril of hair back from Legolas' face. 'Says the Elf who would go to Mordor with but eight companions and the One Ring.' His eyes were soft and he pressed his mouth against Legolas'. 'You are very fair and so brave it takes my breath away.' Tindómion's eyes travelled down Legolas' body and back up to his face appreciatively. He touched very lightly, the faint scar on Legolas' chest and frowned.

Legolas cringed inwardly for this was self-inflicted whilst deep in the throes of the poison. It had been an expression of futility and despair. Unworthy. He shook his head slightly; the tinny ringing was back in his ears, a distant nagging discord. How could they send him with the Ring when he was so weak? 'I am the least of my kin!' he said, looking away. 'I have stumbled and blundered my way into this and I cannot believe that Elrond chose me. I have done nothing to deserve it.' He glared down at his hands as if somehow they were to blame for his gaucheness and clumsiness since coming here so he did not see the surprise and tenderness on Tindómion's face.

'The least of your kin? Then they must be the Valar!' Tindómion laughed gently and lay on the bed beside Legolas, propped himself up on his elbow and stroked Legolas' thigh.

'My brothers are so much more than I,' Legolas said regretfully. 'Laersul is the leader of our warriors. He keeps the Shadow at bay in the Wood, and Thalos can talk the silk from a spider,' he said. 'I do not know why my father chose to send me,' he added miserably and then felt worse because he thought he was whining. It was something Thranduil would never tolerate and he hated it himself.

Tindómion laughed and shifted closer to Legolas so his breath was warm on Legolas' skin. 'And their youngest brother crossed the Hithaeglir on his own and braved the Nazgûl to boot? He is one of the Nine Walkers who will take the One Ring to Mordor and destroy Sauron.' Tindómion smiled and wrapped his hand in Legolas' long hair. 'I think your brothers will be proud of you and I know your father will be.'

Legolas opened his mouth to protest that he had hidden trembling in the heather when the Nazgûl passed him by in the mountains but Tindómion stilled his protests with a kiss that burned hotly through his blood and loins.

'Did you not join Imladris in its defence of Middle Earth,' Tindómion murmured against Legolas ' cheek and Legolas felt his belly quicken in anticipation. 'You fought alongside Glorfindel and the Sons of Thunder against the gathering army of Orcs.' He kissed Legolas again and this time pressed his strong powerful body against the whole length of Legolas'. Legolas gasped and felt lust rush and pool in his loins. He let his head fall back against the pillow and sighed.

'Did you not slay an Orc that was Elrohir's trophy? That was a feat to brave Elrohir's wrath however righteous the torment. Did you not risk yourself to bring Rhawion out of Phellanthir? They say you are like our Sons of Thunder, that you will not leave a comrade behind. They say you are fair and brave and that the Woodelves are wild and free…'

Tindómion pushed at the waistband of his own breeches so they slid over his lean hips and the Imladrian paused for a moment teasingly until Legolas bit his lip and looked into the grey eyes that watched him, licked his lips almost nervously for this was no quick tumble; this was a great lord of Imladris, lover of the High King Gil-Galad, the son of Maglor.

Tindómion gently reached up and cupped Legolas' cheek. 'Why do you doubt yourself? Your worth? I have told you what is said about you.'

Legolas looked away; he knew what else they must say about this wild Woodelf in their midst, so unwise, untutored and unlettered. He was the Son of Thranduil and must seem like a rustic peasant.

'This is the Ring that tells you that you are unworthy,' his companion said suddenly. He put his hand beneath Legolas' chin and brought his head up so he had to look into Tindómion's silver- grey eyes. 'It whispers to you of your unworthiness, does it not? You have felt it? Heard it?'

Legolas began to shake his head in denial, why would the Ring even bother with him? There was nothing it could gain from him and then stopped…it was true that he never felt these doubts when he was in the Wild. And he never questioned himself in the Wood in spite of difficult missions and having been sent to any number of diplomatic occasions… True he was not allowed to speak since that unfortunate incident at Esgaroth. And it was true that his father often said he would trust his horse at a council before he would trust Legolas, but he said it in affection and teasing, and he had still sent Legolas here to give the news of Smeagol's escape…

'Perhaps there is some truth in what you say,' he admitted wonderingly. 'But how could a mere ring do that?'

'It is no mere ring,' Tindómion replied soberly and he sat up, all playfulness gone and Legolas saw the warrior, the counselor, the wisdom that came from his long life. He felt suddenly in the presence of one who was truly great, as Glorfindel or Elrond.

'It was made with the curvë of my kin,' Tindómion said seriously, loosening the thick braid of his hair and carding it loose so it lay across his shoulders. Legolas tried to concentrate on what Tindómion said rather than what he did. 'Celebrimbor knew how to unlock the Power in particular metals and gems. He learned it from his father who learned it from Fëanor himself but Celebrimbor perfected it.' Tindómion sighed. 'His knowledge went beyond anything the world has ever seen… But he would not listen to those of us who warned him against Annatar. And so he was drawn into the making of the Rings, and that is why Sauron destroyed Ost-in-Edhel so completely.'

Legolas wanted to ask more for he knew little of those times or the story of Eregion, but Tindómion kissed him before he could speak and pulled his hands through Legolas' own hair, tugged gently so he felt a thrilling burn in his belly that had him forgetting what he was going to ask and instead wanting Tindómion pressed against him.

'I seem to have rather more clothes on than you,' Tindómion observed smiling, and he slid completely out of his breeches now and dropped them on the floor beside the bed and looked at Legolas. His chest was broader than Legolas', and hard and smooth. His nipples were pale and erect and Legolas wanted nothing so much as to lick and suck on them and his cock bulged and bobbed happily at the thought so he slid to the floor on his knees and leaned his elbows on the Fëanorian's thighs, and let his hand drift over the flat belly, the hard chest and stroke those nipples gently.

Then he reached to thread his fingers through the heavy bronze hair, lifted it in his hand. 'No one in the Wood has hair of such a colour. Is it common amongst the Noldor?' he asked.

'No. Indeed I have not heard that anyone beyond my kin have had hair this colour,' Tindómion said, 'but that is not necessarily seen as a good thing.' He laughed breathlessly and caught Legolas' hand. He kissed Legolas hard, pushing his tongue firmly against the full lips and into his mouth. Legolas felt the surge of lust spike as Tindómion sucked on his tongue and he thrust it in further aggressively and pulled Legolas onto the bed, shoved him down and straddled his thighs.

'I think you talk too much,' he said in a mock growl and pinched Legolas's nipples hard so he yelped slightly and grabbed at Tindómion's thighs. Tindómion lowered his head then to Legolas's chest and sucked at one nipple, letting his hand stroke firmly one muscular thigh . Legolas gasped, and saw that Tindómion smiled to himself with one nipple caught lightly between his teeth and then he slid his whole body down so he lay pressed against Legolas and gave one long lick from his chest to his mouth and kissed him hard and passionately until Legolas was lost in desire, his eyes half-closed.

Tindómion leaned in and kissed Legolas again, but much more softly than he had before. 'I do not think we will see each other again this side of the war,' he said regretfully 'Unless you come to bid me farewell when I leave.'

Legolas' heart suddenly thumped. 'Of course.'

'Ah, you are beautiful and brave. I want to remember you like this.' Legolas sank back into the bed and lost himself in pleasure. Tindómion was skilled and demanding, a warrior used to giving and taking in the lust-filled aftermath of battle and it was passionate and hard and satisfying. Deeply so.

0o0o

It was some hours later when Legolas felt Tindómion pull away from where they lay entangled and sated. He stretched languorously and felt his limbs soft and replete. He opened his eyes sleepily and watched as Tindómion slowly, quietly pushed himself up and swung his legs to the side so he sat on the edge of the bed, carding his long hair through his fingers and then quickly twisted it into his customary braid. Legolas watched for a moment for the Fëanorian thought him still asleep.

Tindómion's hair was red in the lamplight and it seemed to catch fire. His strong and lovely face was half turned in profile and Legolas thought how fair must have been the sons of Fëanor to have produced such offspring. How strong the bones and blood.

Legolas shoved one arm beneath his head so he could watch and shifted slightly for the sheets were pulled tightly around his hips. Turning his head, Tindómion smiled. 'I was hoping not to wake you, but I should have known better for a warrior of the Woodland Realm.'

Legolas reached out to touch the marks of passion left on his skin. 'I was rough with you,' he said smiling and Tindómion laughed softly and tapped his finger on similar marks on Legolas's shoulder and belly and thigh.

'Then was I too much for you?'

'Never.' Legolas replied, gazing at his hair, lost in the bronze sheen, the weight of it and thickness a memory now.

'Will you come to bid us farewell when we leave?' he asked Legolas. 'For the Havens,' he reminded Legolas gently.

'How could I not?' Legolas put his other hand behind his head so he was propped up now and could watch Tindómion properly as he stood. Tindómion was muscular and athletic. It was only then that Legolas remembered his vow to himself that he would observe the harsh and restrictive laws of Imladris and not pursue either Tindómion or Elemé. He smiled unrepentantly. He had meant it at the time, he admitted to himself, but he had never had much will power. Laersul had said that more often than he could remember and there had been enough times that you would think he would learn. But Tindómion was glorious, and Legolas had a tale to take back to the Wood for Tindómion could rival even Glorfindel for beauty, courage and lineage.

'Will it not scandalise Imladris that one of its glorious captains has been spending the night with me?' he asked mischievously.

Tindómion threw him a look. 'There will be no gossip or scandal,' he said seriously. 'I am discrete for Elrond's sake and because I care about Imladris.' He looked at Legolas, held him in that silver gaze and added, 'And you must be too. But it is not the scandal it used to be in Gil's court. '

Then he leaned down to scoop up his shirt and tugged it over his head, Legolas did not miss the fleeting look of intense pain on Tindómion's face. He hesitated a little, unsure whether he was deemed close enough to pry without driving Tindómion away. 'You were close?' he asked softly.

Tindómion paused, said nothing, but looked down focusing instead on the button of his loose linen shirt. 'We were,' he said at last and although it was brief, it was not terse. He looked down at Legolas and smiled. 'I wish I had time to tell you of him,' he said regretfully.

'Perhaps when I come back?' Legolas said with a bright smile but at that, Tindómion looked at him and suddenly knelt on the bed and kissed Legolas again. He smelled himself on Tindómion's mouth and it made his cock give another hopeful little surge and he wound his arms around the Fëanorian's neck. 'Why don't you stay a little longer? The night is barely passed. We have time, surely?'

At that Tindómion laughed. 'You are incorrigible!' he declared and stood up.

'What will I do until we leave? It seems interminable!' Legolas said and crossed his arms over his chest. He realised he was more than a little bored with all this waiting.

'I have much to do before I leave. We must make sure we draw the enemy's spies towards us and away from you.' He paused. 'I wish I had all day with you…. I will think of you often.'

'Then when I return I will hold you to that. And you can spend all day with me helping me to remember why I wanted all night with you.' He flashed a dazzling smile at Tindómion. 'It will be a desert for me until I return here, I am sure, with only Men and Hobbits, a grumpy Wizard and a Dwarf.'

Tindómion laughed loudly and shook his head. 'I am sure you will not starve,' he said wryly. 'You never know, the Dwarf might like Elf-flesh.'

Legolas was horrified at the very thought of Gimli, but it was not revulsion and that surprised him, but instead respect for his new-found friend. 'You think me a man of poor morals indeed if you think I would even consider that. I would have to be very, very hungry,' he added cheekily. 'But perhaps I will find a Man or two as a tasty snack until I return.'

Tindómion had pulled his breeches onto his long legs and buttoned his shirt while looking down at Legolas. 'You must also practise the fiddle, my friend, for your playing is the worst I have ever heard in my life. And that is long indeed.'

Legolas laughed and watched as the tall Elf turned and opened the door of his room. He looked back once over his shoulder and then left and Legolas was alone.

tbc

One more chapter to go.

The keepers of the Rings- originally Cirdan the Shipwright had Narya but he gave it to Gandalf when he arrived.

yára-carmë- Ancient art. See The Black Arrow. Chapter 5 for Lathron.