The halls of Imladris, Last Homely House, were bound on all sides with luxuriant foliage bursting with the ripe, golden shadings of autumn. It was a season of change and harvest for all its sunlit beauty and though Rivendell weathered its years well, every passage through its gates brought with it reminders of mortality. The elves, as well as this Last Homely House, were passing into the fall-time of their people and Legolas, riding on horseback through the eastern gates of Rivendell, felt the sting of this comparison as he admired the trees cloaked in russet and gold and scarlet.

Nevertheless, despite the reminder that the waning season brought, Legolas cast a look around, admiring the richly harmonious structures that blended into the natural beauty that was Rivendell.

"Is something amiss?" came the voice of Elrohir behind him, as they dismounted.

"No," Legolas replied. "I only pause for a moment to give Imladris the appreciation it deserves."

"You speak as if Imladris were a person to whom you must pay respects!" Elladan said with a laugh, dismounting lightly to his left. "But come, you must be tired from the long journey; let us find your quarters." The twins drew close to either side of him, reins of their horses loosely in hand.

"A moment," Legolas replied, pale brow furrowed. "It was, indeed, a rough journey, but I should like to drink of the atmosphere of Imladris to restore my soul a moment."

Elrohir clapped his shoulder. "We are glad to have you visit us again, friend," the dark-haired elf told him. "Even under circumstances as grave as these."

"Ah, the council," Legolas said, turning to his friend with a querying look. "What is to be the subject of this sudden summons, I wonder?"

"We cannot say," Elladan replied for both of them, frowning. "We do not know. Only know this, Legolas -- our father was greatly troubled before we left for the dark canopies of Mirkwood, and took to thunderous frowns upon the recent re-appearance of Mithrandir in Imladris. They have been closeted away in many a secret talk."

"Gandalf the Grey in Rivendell?" Legolas exclaimed, thinking back to the last time he had seen the wizard. It had been a goodly span, perhaps as long as a human lifetime. "That may be ill tidings, indeed."

"Will you come with us, then?" Elrohir asked hospitably. "Someone is coming to see to our mounts; we, too, would like to be as courteous and show you to your rooms."

"A moment," Legolas replied again, glorying in the sunlit trees so rarely to be found in his own dark wood. "I shall seek you out after I have spent some time walking beneath the autumn trees."

Elrohir and Elladan exchanged a look, a smile, and withdrew, leaving the son of the King of Mirkwood to his thoughts. One of Rivendell's dark-haired elves approached to take Legolas' horse.

Legolas surrendered the reins of his horse with a nod, feet taking him automatically by that familiar route to the place he would least want to go in all of Imladris. Finding himself at the archway that would lead him there he stopped and berated himself for a manner of foolishness unbecoming to his race. There should be no equivalent for 'lovelorn' in Sindarin.

Yet Lord Estel was no more. Aragorn had come to take his place, a grim lean man who now roamed the Westernesse as a ranger.

There was an upper terrace near the waterfall, and to this he took himself, wondering at the nature of Elrond's summons. Rare indeed was the occasion that Elrond of Rivendell should look outside his borders for council amongst any of the elves yet remaining on Middle-Earth. Still, he had sent his twin sons for that very purpose. King Thranduil, instead of attending the matter personally, had settled on sending Legolas as reasonable substitute. He had found the journey pleasant in the company of his friends, the twins.

If only there remained no lingering spectre to Legolas' arrival in Imladris.

Across the gorge, Legolas' keen eyes caught sight of Lord Elrond and Gandalf the Grey, deep in discussion. The elf lord's gestures were vehement for an instant, his expression fierce. Another pall was cast on his arrival as Legolas' conviction was reinforced; he was called to Rivendell on the winds of ill tidings. Gandalf the Grey was the wizard called, and Mithrandir by elves, but in some places he was called "Stormcrow" for the bad news he bore in advance of the event itself.

Nevertheless he had come in the name of his father the King, and Legolas would bear his part in the upcoming council with all due gravity and honor. Whatever misgivings, should it become necessary he would pledge all support required.

With his resolve reaffirmed, he allowed himself to wander aimlessly once more. His winding path would bring him from terrace to terrace and eventually toward the living quarters, he knew, while allowing for a good walk. It had been a long ride and rather than remaining inactive, he chose to stretch his limbs as well as reacquaint himself with the serenity of the Last Homely House.

Late afternoon was deepening, bringing with it the burnished glow of the creeping dusk. Legolas perused his surroundings with delight and a kind of calm, until he happened upon a sight in a vine-draped bower that made him freeze as a stag in the wood.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the very one he sought to avoid.

Legolas had thought perhaps the man would be abroad, perhaps on a jaunt to one of the lands of Men or tramping in northern lands in the role of ranger he had most recently taken upon himself. He had not thought of being confronted with the sight of the man, clad in simple grey tunic and leggings, with the Lady Arwen by his side.

Arwen Und¤miel, who had captured Aragorn's heart.

There should be no equivalent for 'jealous' in Sindarin.

Cursing himself yet more fiercely for behavior unbecoming to one of his race, Legolas took to the stairs, a flight of slender panels spiraling upward, in a mad rush to outrun the past. However unbecoming, the burden of memory was not lightly set aside.

***

There was a peculiar scent on the air and in this, the most perilous time for the squads of elven archers holding the line against the darkness invading their borders to the south, such things could not be allowed to pass without investigation. Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil, had been tracking the scent upon being notified by one of his commanders of the irregularity.

Now he thought he had come upon the source.

He had tracked his way to this dark glade alone, a move perhaps ill advised at this dangerous hour, but Legolas' bow was swift and unerring, and his twin daggers sharp and ever keen for the blood of orc or spider.

In the center of the glade a small fire had been kindled, and perched on it precariously was a frantically boiling pot. Legolas' eyes widened. Here in the heart of Mirkwood, with danger not more than an arrow's flight distant, he had least expected to come upon such a thing as this evidence of a rude camp. As Legolas stared at this unlikely sight incredulously, sniffing at the air to ascertain this was the source of the smell, his head snapped up before he was even aware of movement from the corner of his eye.

"I have you in my sights," a quiet, serious voice informed him.

Legolas' bow was in his hands, an arrow already loosely fitted, and he aimed for what he had seen -- yet it was nothing more than a rabbit skin that had thudded against a tree. As he watched, a rock rolled out of the loosely-wrapped skin. The elf grimaced.

"Who are you?" he demanded, eyes sweeping the glade.

"One who seeks only a moment of peace from battle before resuming his journey," the voice replied.

Legolas' brow creased. "You are no orc," he challenged, aiming his bow at several likely targets. None, it seemed, would yield the speaker he sought; the man was cleverly concealed and the glade, no, Mirkwood itself had a way of muffling sound so that he was unable even with his sharp hearing to pinpoint the source of that voice.

"No, I am no orc," the serious voice of the man replied, "yet I have been warned that your people are scarcely more receptive to my kind as they are to the other." The hidden man's words were wry.

Legolas laughed, though he kept his bow drawn. "No matter my opinion of man, I must certainly respect the abilities of one who has me at such a disadvantage."

"Ah," said the man in Elvish, "but that is what you say while I do have you at a disadvantage."

"Show yourself!" Legolas commanded in the same tongue, now thoroughly confused.

"Enough!" said a new voice, and the slim form of one of the fair folk stepped into the clearing. Automatically Legolas trained his bow on the intruder, but lowered it when he saw whom he so rudely threatened. The dark-haired elf continued with some amusement, "Estel, come out of hiding and stop pointing your bow at Legolas. He is a friend, not an enemy."

There was a rustle, then a figure stepped from the edge of the clearing >from a space that Legolas' eyes had passed at least twice. He was very much human, and a young one at that, having not yet reached even the age where the beard of his kind would grow upon his face.

Legolas was very much chagrined. "Elrohir, have you bewitched this human, to enable him to deceive me so?"

The dark-haired elf muttered something very like "Children, the pair of you," and advanced for the fire, removing the boiling pot. "Estel, what on earth...?"

"A stew," muttered the young man, lowering his bow and looking at Legolas unwaveringly.

Legolas, for his part, knew he was staring but cared not. It had been quite some time since he'd seen a human man, and this one was unlike any in his memory. The lack of a beard made him seem more elf-like, for one, and he was clean and attired as an elf from Imladris, like Elrohir himself.

This one called Estel was handsome, he supposed, and managed to be so while still looking like one of his people. He had dark brown hair with a hint of wave to it, reaching down to his shoulders, and light eyes that regarded him with an intensity the son of Thranduil was unused to. There was a cleft in his chin, and the way he moved with economy and grace was more elf than man.

"I am Legolas Greenleaf," the blond elf offered, as a kind of peace-making. As an afterthought, he returned his unused arrow to its quiver over his shoulder.

"Estel, foster son of Elrond," the man replied forthrightly.

Legolas looked from Estel to Elrohir, with whom he had long been acquainted. "In the most courteous manner possible, what are you doing in these woods? We are in the thick of fighting."

Estel's eyes kindled with interest, and Elrohir looked at him thoughtfully.

"We had come to beg provisions of you or any fair folk we might find," Elrohir began, "but if we might lend our strength of arms in return it would be the least we can offer our woodland kin."

Legolas gave a short bow of his head, eyes moving from Elrohir to Estel once more. "You are most welcome," he said sincerely, thinking of the skill of a man who had actually held him at a disadvantage, however briefly.

"Then let us go!" Elrohir said eagerly, brows drawing low in a grim look. "It has been far too long since my blade has tasted orc blood."

They disposed in haste of the questionable stew. Then swiftly did their legs carry them through the dark wood, three warriors striking for the lines that sought to hold Mirkwood safe from the encroaching forces.

***

"Nine companions...so be it. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring."

Elrond's words lingered long in his memory as Legolas remained deep in thought at the edge of the dais where the council had been held, looking down at the ridged terraces that climbed down the face of the gorge in Rivendell. He had responded without thinking on the heels of Aragorn's words, 'And you have my bow.' That simply, he was committed to the Quest to Mount Doom.

The Council had revealed to them the source of the most urgent summons that brought elf, man, and dwarf alike to Rivendell. The One Ring of Sauron had resurfaced, brought to the elves by the hand of a mere halfling, Frodo Baggins. On the shoulders of this most extraordinary hobbit had fallen the burden of being the Ringbearer on the proposed Quest to destroy the evil artifact of power.

What had possessed him so, to pledge himself so readily to a journey that would place him in close daily association with Aragorn? Did his heart betray his reason to that severe a degree? It was true that he had come to Rivendell on business of an urgent nature, speaking not merely for himself but as the emissary of King Thranduil, the only such amongst the fair folk. Yet to commit himself to the quest itself, to become a member of the Fellowship...

"It is as if I seek to wound myself afresh with an arrow long since pulled >from beside my heart," Legolas murmured, a frown marring his smooth brow.

"Now I am certain that something is amiss, though you sought to put me off earlier," said the voice of Elrohir behind him.

Legolas turned from the ledge, schooling his features to impassivity once more. "I am having misgivings in the silence of my heart," he replied, making his way to Elrond's son on soundless feet. "We wood-elves are ever rash in the eyes of our elder kin, and quick to engage ourselves to various endeavors when an instant of thought prior to action might be better advised."

"Phrased most eloquently," Elrohir praised him with a wry look.

Legolas knocked a fist at the velvet-covered shoulder of his friend. "You know of what I speak," he chastised. "Yet I do not deny that the cause to which Frodo has given himself is a worthy one, and needs whatever the support the various peoples can give him."

"Then your hesitation does not lie with the quest itself," Elrohir pointed out with maddening calm. "If I'm not mistaken the true cause lies in too much thought on our Estel, Aragorn son of Arathorn."

The blond elf wished he could turn away from his friend's scrutiny, but the truth of it was indisputable. "I had not thought of him in a handful of years, until I was most unexpectedly called to this council in Imladris," he said softly, studying the tile they stood upon with unwonted concentration. "And now I have pledged myself to the Fellowship, to be at his side and in his company until the end. Am I mad, Elrohir?"

The dark-haired elf could only shake his head, a rueful look on his timeless features. "The bonds of friendship cannot be so easily dissolved, whatever else may pass with time."

"That's true." Legolas sighed. "I remember the day he came to me in Mirkwood, not so very long ago by our reckoning, but I suppose it was the length of a human life.

"He came, then, from Rivendell and, I thought, to my arms. Yet he came radiant with the love of Arwen Und¤miel, and it was on that day I relinquished any claim or hope I held on him."

"Yet friendship remains between you," Elrohir replied, sympathy in his mien. There was a kind of watchfulness there, as well.

"Yes," Legolas acknowledged. He drew his own tangled skein of emotions into a weave of firm purpose. "Yes, and for that reason and the importance of the quest we are to embark on, I'll do what I must. I shall stand at his back...as a friend."

Elrohir bent his head for a moment, studying the pedestal upon which the Ring had lain. He looked from it to Legolas with a considering expression. "It is true that Aragorn may have been radiant with the love of my sister that day, but when he returned from Mirkwood and your dismissal, it was as if his radiance, his joy, had been dimmed."

It took a moment for the wood-elf to absorb this, but when he did he shook his head. "It matters not, at this late date...we are friends and no more."

Elrohir gave him a puzzled glance. "Do you not understand? Aragorn is leaving Rivendell, perhaps forever. He is departing, leaving my sister behind him, and he may die in this quest. Think you my sister knows this not?"

Legolas hesitated a beat, then said with unusual vehemence, "Think you I would behave in such a fashion? If ever there was a contest, I have lost it; my hopes were dashed long ago." The muscles along the fair elf's jaw flexed. "Now he has accepted the gem of the Evenstar, even though we are to embark on this dangerous journey, and nothing can change that fact. I have no right and to act upon my own lingering feelings would be behavior most unbecoming to one of our race."

Elrohir looked as though he would press the point, but with a fluid ripple of his shoulders he dropped the subject. Legolas was clearly discomfited, the beginnings of a flush rising along his pale skin. "Let us join the feast," he suggested gracefully. "If you're to leave us soon, Elladan and I would like to make your leave-taking a memorable one."

Legolas frowned an instant longer, then his obstinacy dissolved and he quirked a whimsical look upon his friend. "Oh? And what did you have in mind?"

***

A field of stars brought to earth clustered low in the tree-boughs surrounding the palace of the elven King of Mirkwood, or so it seemed to all who beheld the demesnes of Thranduil upon first arriving. The King's son Legolas had returned from the fighting lines they had held against the presence of Sauron in the wood, and with him returned scores of battle-weary archers and a new, most unexpected ally.

"It has been quite some time since we took a human to sup at our table in these woods," Legolas told Estel, holding aside a black branch in passing. "But you are most welcome here, coming from Lord Elrond as you do and wielding the blade so skillfully in our defense."

Estel brushed aside the compliment, catching the branch neatly and easing it into its place without a trace of his passing. "I'm at your service, Legolas. Elrohir and I came merely for provisions, but your need was greatest. It was an honor to fight by your side."

They walked side by side now on the road that led over the bridge into the cavernous halls of the king. The flaxen-haired elf glanced sidelong at his companion with a trace of wonder, and appreciation.

Legolas was not old as far as his race went, but he was beginning to feel the long years of his people and making the acquaintance of this man was alike to discovering the bloom of a vigorous sapling anew. Estel was a throwback to the era of the great Nômenorean kings, and this double reminder -- of the youth of this man, of the dawn of his people -- made Legolas in turn recall the flower of youth. He and Estel had become fast friends in the thick of fighting; after experiencing the man's valor in battle he would put his bow to Estel's service under any circumstance.

Back to back they had fought against the dark tide in southern Mirkwood, and together held the line. For that alone -- apart from all other recommendations -- the worth of Estel, foster son of Elrond, was immeasurable.

"The honor was mine," he replied at length, keeping the weight of thought >from expression or voice. He led the man and his company of archers up the rows of tall beech trees that flanked the gate to the palace.

The air was fresh and clear in the hall of the wood-elf king, where in the forest of Mirkwood it had been close and stifled. Beside Legolas, Estel looked about with great interest. "I have had the fortune of visiting elf-realms beyond that of Imladris," Estel said, "but never before have I seen elves dwelling in halls beneath the ground."

Legolas gripped Estel's shoulder and drew him in close. "Say not 'like the dwarves,' friend, for if you do I'll not be responsible for your safety."

Estel grinned, surprising him once more. "It never crossed my mind." He slapped Legolas' shoulder in return. "It is an amazing structure."

"One of necessity," Legolas replied. "In the days when men called our land 'Greenwood' we lived in the great beech trees. You can see it as part of our history, in some of the murals and tapestries scattered throughout my father's hall. Even today many of us choose to make our home in the trees outside the palace."

They passed through the palace and beyond some of the murals Legolas had mentioned into the main hall, where Thranduil's court circulated in a never-ending ebb and flow. There he found his father was not at court but away, having taken a party of elves to hunt. The burden of hospitality was on his shoulders, then, which was better to his liking; Legolas had never particularly stood on ceremony.

"Tend to your wounds or your friends," Legolas told his company. "Sit at table or disperse, for we'll not have battle honors until my father is returned from the field."

This was as much relief to his archers as it was to him; there was gratitude on many faces as they gave him a nod and melted into side-corridors or headed for laden tables of the great hall. He noted Elrohir assisting a wounded archer and was well-pleased, for he wished to become better acquainted with the man who had become his most unexpected guest. Legolas faced Estel.

"I hadn't realized you were the Prince of this place," Estel said with an arch of his brow.

"That title means little to us," Legolas said with a frown of his own. "Say instead I am the son of the King, and that would be more accurate."

Estel laughed. "Elladan said something very like, one time."

"But you are certainly tired and hungry, and I would be lax in my duties as host were I to set those aside," Legolas continued smoothly. "Which is the greater need? We will attend to either."

Estel bent a look upon him of surprising intensity. "My hunger is the greatest need."

Legolas very nearly dropped his gaze, so disconcerted was he. "Then we shall attend to that," he replied, breaking the line of their locked eyes and turning to the hall. He paused. It had been a very long time since he had been courted, and never by a Man, but he was quite certain he was interpreting Estel's subtle signals correctly. The man had, after all, been raised among the elves. "If you would prefer, we can take our meal in private, in my quarters." He glanced over his shoulder.

"I would prefer," Estel assented, eyes still on him.

For Legolas, to be looked at so was every bit as ensnaring as the subtle dance itself. It made him feel alive again when life had been little but fighting and solace in the king's halls and the long song of their people, as one living in a dream. It drew him outside of himself to a place where this human, Lord Estel, reflected a vision of Legolas in his eyes that the elf himself had not seen for quite some time: a being desirable, a being worth more than the strength of his arm or the songs and poetry that sprang >from his tongue. Estel wanted him.

That was not so rare among the elves, but it had been a very long time since Legolas had felt the immediacy of such desire.

And so Legolas summoned up a smile and turned from the young man, settling the matter of provisions. There were no servants in the king's palace, only equals, but there were many who owed him small favors. Legolas called on one of these in the interests of having food and drink sent to them, rather than remaining in the great hall as he sensed Estel was not particularly interested in doing.

"Where are we going?" Estel asked, once they had trodden through the labyrinthine halls of the palace and emerged once more into open air. The beech trees surrounding the King's hall were proud and straight and tall, rising high into the canopy above; the air here was sweet and fresh, as it was in the halls below. It was as if the very elf-presence removed the taint that clouded the remainder of Mirkwood.

"Did you think all the wood-elves lived in the palace?" Legolas said with an easy laugh. He placed a palm against the bark of his own beech, the one claimed many centuries ago when they had come to this place. "Many of us still live as we are accustomed, in the open."

Estel's gaze traveled up the tree, the fragile-seeming stair that spiraled up and up and culminated in the base of Legolas' talan. Then he met Legolas' gaze evenly. "It seems a fair dwelling for one so high from the ground."

Legolas favored him with the beginnings of a smile. "Follow me."

As they ascended they were setting something into motion, he felt, with the keenness of one who had experienced many a liaison over the millennia. He was glad of it and welcomed the change as he would welcome Estel into his bed.

Estel looked about the talan with undisguised curiosity; Legolas' dwelling was separated into two areas, the common area and his living quarters, two halves that together circled the entire great trunk. He drifted about the common area, putting a hand to the gossamer veil that kept out the night, then turned to watch Legolas.

With deft movements Legolas kindled several small lights, creating a cosy atmosphere, intimate, without being too bold. They would eat first, after all, before he discovered if he'd interpreted Estel's signals correctly.

"Amazing," the young man said, seating himself comfortably at Legolas' gesture.

"Not so very different from Rivendell in luxuries," Legolas murmured.

"I find it very pleasing," Estel returned with an open look.

Legolas hitched forward on his own cushion, quite taken with this foster son of Elrond's, and unlike most other elves, too curious to conceal it. "How did you come to be in Elrond's care, then?" Of the types of men that Legolas was familiar, this Estel resembled none in manner or appearance.

Estel's demeanor dimmed, as though a screen were cast over his features. "My mother brought me to Rivendell, for sanctuary I'm told. I never knew my father. For whatever reason, Elrond decided to have a hand in my raising."

"Ah," Legolas said, unenlightened. "For whatever reason, then, it is to our better fortune."

The fact that Estel was man, yet raised by the elves, was merely a fraction of his appeal. The genuine promise of the eve was in Estel himself, in the focussed look of those dark eyes, the prospect of pleasure to be had at his hands.

A twitch came at the veils that obscured the entrance to Legolas' talan, subtle notice that someone awaited to deliver the tray he had requested.

"A moment," he said to Estel, rising. Haldromir waited patiently by the entrance of the talan, and as Legolas hooked the veils aside with a finger the other elf gave him a brief, knowing smile. Legolas accepted the tray with a smile of his own and a shrug; he did not owe Haldromir any explanations, but the elf would surely demand one for his favor later on.

Legolas glanced over the tray with an appraising eye and was well pleased; wine, and light eating. This was a meal that could be called an aphrodisiac's delight in all accuracy.

"Please, drink," Legolas invited, placing the tray between them that it might be easily shared.

Estel took up his goblet with an uncertain frown, then the look crystallized into a calm kind of decisiveness. He lifted his glass. "To a friendship that I hope shall prove long and may benefit us both."

"I give you our ancient pledge in return," Legolas told him, lifting his cup in a toast. "Through frost, fire, and frond shall I follow you, and cleave to the bonds of our friendship."

Estel lifted his own in return, gazing straightforwardly at him. "Through frost, fire, and frond shall I follow you," he repeated, seeming to recognize the gravity of the pledge, "and cleave to the bonds of our friendship."

Once he had finished, they drank, and there was a trace of a smile on his lips.

"Now," Legolas murmured, licking the wine from the corners of his mouth, "if you're willing, Estel, I would take you to bed." That was, if not the very heart, then at the least a vital component of the friendship he desired between them.

Estel replied huskily, "I am very much willing."

***

"The Fellowship awaits the Ringbearer."

So was their quest begun. At dusk they had departed Rivendell, and in his heart Legolas felt he would never again behold the Last Homely House.

The Misty Mountains rose in jagged relief to the east as the horizon bled >from sunset to twilight in the west. The Fellowship was traveling between mountain-cliffs and the fading of the daystar, exhausted hobbits holding them to a snail-like pace. The quest hinged on the shoulders of one greatly burdened halfling, though, and to his steps they slowed out of necessity. They were a mere day out of Rivendell, from whence they had departed at dusk of the day before.

Already Legolas could feel the bite of winter on the air, and shards of frost would dog their steps as they climbed higher. He did not pay the cold much mind but it was cause for concern with their charges, the hobbits, being of somewhat delicate constitution. Snow and ice would slow their pace to a mere crawl.

As the sole elf of the company Legolas had taken up a point position, being keenest of senses of all save Aragorn. It was only natural for him to do so, and in this fashion he could place himself at a distance from the man without seeming to.

They had stopped to make a kind of camp for the evening at Gandalf's urging, and even now Legolas did not allow himself rest. He did not need nor want it. He had taken up a station somewhat apart, remaining alert for the slightest hint of peril. The elves did not need sleep as other races did; an elf could roam the dreaming-realm awake as easily as asleep, and in this manner Legolas took respite as he stood watch over his slumbering comrades.

It was standing thus that Aragorn approached him on soundless feet, coming to where Legolas stood guard apart from their companions whilst they lay slumbering on their bedrolls and cloaks. Legolas turned from reverie of moonlight and the soft unconcerned cries of nearby night owls and roused himself from the waking dream.

"Aragorn," the elf greeted the man's approach, not coolly yet bearing no particular warmth of tone or expression.

"Legolas," the man returned, neutral in all respects as one unsure of his welcome. Aragorn wore cares etched more deeply on his features than in the days when they had known one another before; time had placed greater burdens on his shoulders. He had grown, in age and stature, while Legolas remained immortal and unchanged.

It made Legolas wonder what else had changed within the man; made him ache for the years that had slipped between his fingers while Aragorn grew older. Yet that time was not theirs, and regret only made him taste the things he could never have. It was best to set it aside.

"I am glad of your presence in this company," Aragorn spoke softly, in Elvish. "It relieves me to have an old friend beside me, a comrade in arms when the certainty of fighting lies before us again."

It might have been due to habit, but Legolas could not help thinking that it was to Aragorn's advantage if any of the company lay awake. Only Gandalf might follow the Elvish speech, if Aragorn's words strayed too near old intimacies.

"It is only the allegiance due my king, and the grave nature of this quest; nothing more," Legolas replied quietly, steadfast in adhering to his resolve.

Aragorn's eyes were dark unfathomable wells. "Nothing more?" he repeated, soft.

Legolas wavered. Here was the meat of the very matter he sought to avoid. It was not a closed book within his heart, and there the trouble lay. Yet... "Yes, nothing more," he said, standing firm. "As long as Arwen Und¤miel has claim of Aragorn's heart, then I am outside the pale. I shall not trifle with the bonds of love, nor seek to come between you."

The man's eyes pierced him, intense with some unspoken emotion. "The lines of my heart are not so clearly drawn as a siege, Legolas," he said in reply. "The love I hold for Arwen is not the same as that I have long held for you."

The elf regarded him with rue and understanding. "That is true, but out of the respect I hold for the purity of your passion for Arwen, I shall continue to remain apart. As I said to you then, Aragorn...no longer may we be shieldmates, sharing bedroll and bodies after the heat of battle."

Aragorn stood before him for a long moment, emotions passing over his face. He appeared as one conflicted, torn. "You do not understand..." he began.

"I understand that the desires of man run thick and fast and rage like the river, difficult to deny," Legolas said, adopting the manner of one superior to such things. "Our time is done." He reached out to pass a hand over the gem of the Evenstar that shone brightly on Aragorn's breast, close over the wrought silver and its sparkling gem and yet not touching.

It was a symbol of all that stood to part them, and on that bright gem Legolas affixed his eyes, using the sight of it to cement his resolution. Aragorn made a move to capture his fingers, but Legolas was by far the swifter. He eluded the man's touch with a frown and stood apart from him.

"Please, trouble me no more. It is difficult enough to deny you."

Still the man stood for a long moment, night-shadowed eyes searching Legolas' face for something which he found, or did not. At length what Aragorn saw caused him to nod once, regretfully; then he turned on his heel and returned to the place where he'd lain by the fire.

Legolas drew a trembling draught of the cold air and leaned against the bulk of a boulder, taking his bow in his hands. The lines of this elf's heart were not so clearly drawn, and yet if he were to founder now he would commit the gravest of mistakes. Love was not an arena in which an elf trod lightly.

Yet he had already been snared into the ring.

***

The talan high in the great beech rocked, its motion ever so slight like the swaying of a large boat upon the river, as a breeze swept through the forest surrounding the wood-elves' land. It stirred the sluggish air and carried with it subtle scents of the forest beyond, dark and decay, but also the damp earth and the greenery that struggled to renew itself in shadow.

In the arms of Legolas, Estel stirred.

"Are you awake?" Legolas murmured, pressing his lips to the man's temple. He was awash in a peaceable kind of wonder that had resulted from their repeated joinings; his lips and hands had not encountered a callow, unskilled youth but a confident man who sought an equal place in their lovemaking. With amusement, he thought of his friends Elrohir and Elladan, who were surely the ultimate benefactors he should thank.

Estel had surprised him, quite pleasantly so. Not merely for the skill he brought to the bed, but the quietly asserted dominance he employed as if it were inborn right.

"I am now," Estel whispered back, speaking Elvish as they had since becoming acquainted. His Imladris-accented speech was fluid and natural to the wood-elf's ears. He smiled against Legolas' collarbone.

"Are you hungry?" he inquired politely, brushing a stray dark curl from Estel's brow. The sweat of exertion had dried upon both of them, leaving behind a scent not unpleasant, rather musky in the human's case. Presently they should bathe, but he would be remiss as a host if he left the man's basic needs unsatisfied. "I suppose I could have more food brought..."

"There is plenty, if I recall rightly, that we left untouched on the tray," Estel replied with another of his unexpected smiles. The man had a solemn way about him that had carried over even into bed, there in the form of an intensity and a focus that the elf greatly appreciated, having been the object of its attention. Yet he did have humor within him, and it showed in the kindling of his eyes, the warmth of his brief smiles.

"True," Legolas agreed, freeing his hand of its idleness at the base of Estel's skull and tracing his way down the length of bare spine.

Estel drew in a breath, gray eyes silvering over with desire. "Though if you continue in that direction," he said conversationally, "I shall lose all taste for food." And, as if to demonstrate, he leaned in to nip at the flesh of Legolas' throat.

"Which is the more immediate appetite, I wonder?" Legolas said with a breathless laugh, hands seeking for Estel's proven vulnerable points, roaming over flat muscle and sinew.

"You are here, and the food is yet some distance away," Estel said logically, raking his hands through the wealth of Legolas' blond hair and taking the elf's face in his hands. The man's kisses were hungry with unquenched appetite, and overwhelming in his urgency.

Here was the appeal of bedding a man; despite the difference of their lives both of them shared the here and now and, though men's lives burned short, they burned the brighter for it. Estel was warm and alive and very much attentive in his arms. Legolas smiled against his mouth.

By equal reckoning, in terms of where they stood on their lifespan and not the score of years alone, they might even be of an age. That thought was oddly pleasing as he moved to welcome Estel into his body once more.

Rather suddenly for an elf for whom days passed as hours and years as mere months, Legolas found himself in love.

***

"We must face the long dark of Moria."

Legolas took up a stance against the wall very near Aragorn, seeming relaxed yet alert with the ease of long practice while in fact he was shaken inside. Gandalf had advised they take rest while he ruminated on which of the four directions at this juncture within Moria to take them.

His reserve was broken; at the first taste of danger, when the great stone doors had come crashing down to bar exit from Moria and keep the attacking creature outside, Legolas had found himself gripping Aragorn's arm. A simple touch. They were safe and alive and it had been a simple touch, yet it warned him of so much more.

Even elves died. This Legolas knew all too well, from the odd hunt a hundred-year or so from which a companion would not return, or the band of archers who went to skirmish in the south and returned with only half their number of fighting strong. Yet he had not seen death, true death, in so very long.

It made him afraid for Aragorn, and he hated the fear. He would root it out and destroy it if he could. Yet the nature of their very journey was an exercise in subtle fears, most of which slipped beneath the scope of everyday thought.

"Aragorn," he began softly, tentatively, framing his thoughts in conciliatory Elvish. He would apologize if he could for the other eve, for turning Aragorn aside with little more than a curt word.

The man looked up quickly, shaking dark hair out of his eyes. "What is it?"

How could he apologize for the only thing he could have done?

"It's nothing," Legolas murmured, casting his gaze to the side, to the immensity of the mines of Moria, to the cool deep dark that reminded him in vague fashion of his father's woodland halls. The palace of Thranduil might have been fashioned by the dwarf-folk, once upon a time. "Never mind."

Aragorn frowned up at him a moment longer, then gave him a slight nod and returned to his pipe.

Legolas could not dismiss the moment so easily. He was shaken to his core with the realization that Aragorn could have died, any of them might die on this journey, and all that had gone before seemed like so little time. Now he admitted to himself the love that had lain at the core of his being for long years, even when it sought no form of expression.

He had sworn to lend his bow to the cause, and to this he would hold true. At the same time he would remain by Aragorn's side to the end, if that was where their path took them.

***

"We thank you for your hospitality, but our path lies to the west, toward Rivendell," Elladan said, tone and delivery formal, as he spoke to the King of the Woodland. The look he bent Legolas, however, gave twinkling allowance to the friendship of centuries that stood between they two. "I have come for the Dônadan, who has lived as a member of your court since his arrival, yet he can tarry here no longer. My father's ward has been gone for some years now, and Lord Elrond requires Estel's presence."

A bolt of dismay rippled through Legolas. So soon?

"Ah," King Thranduil replied, inclining his head. He seemed indifferent to the news. "But of course, we shall not keep him here in the face of such summons."

Legolas, standing beside the dais, sought out Estel with his eyes. The human man appeared distraught.

"I am no child to be ushered here and there," Estel declared, threading his way to stand at the fore of the King's hall where Elladan stood before the dais. "I have been, I think, of some small use here in the fighting, and much yet remains to be won."

Elladan turned from the King with a courteous gesture. "I would speak with you alone, Estel." His voice, even lowered, rang with a steely note that brooked no argument.

The young man's eyes shifted from Elladan to Legolas, and he hesitated. The look they shared between them was rueful; they had known this day would come.

"If you would excuse us, your Majesty," Elladan said, placing a hand on Estel's shoulder.

His dark-haired twin Elrohir joined them, flanking Estel so that he had no choice but to gracefully acquiesce as they escorted him from the room.

It was unseemly for Legolas to follow, of course, but he bent a look at his father and noted the King had turned his attention to one of the endless diversions of the court of his great hall; a lyricist of some note was setting up a quartet of harp and flute and two vocalists. Containing a smile of incredulity at his own breach of manners, Legolas slipped from the hall on silent feet, intent on following.

"It is not for Father's sake I come to bid you return to Imladris," Elladan's voice rang out, alarmingly near.

Legolas froze in his tracks as might a deer scenting pursuit.

"What, then? A whim?" Estel returned, sounding exasperated. "Why would you call me from hi--from where I am needed?"

"You forget yourself," Elrohir chastised him. "You know neither we nor Lord Elrond would charge you with a task unless necessity lay behind it."

"I...I know," Estel faltered. "What necessity, then, has come to call me >from the talans of Mirkwood where I have found a place of my own?"

Legolas was well pleased by that response, yet his satisfaction was short-lived.

"It is your mother, Estel," Elladan told him. As Legolas made his way by degrees around the curve of the niche where they held conference, he could see the younger twin grip his foster brother's shoulder. "Even with all of the skill of Lord Elrond himself, she may not last beyond this winter."

"My mother? But...but she was in perfect health when we passed from Rivendell's gates!" Estel protested.

"No longer," Elladan said gently. "We must go, Estel. Moreso we must make haste while the thread of your mother's life yet remains on this skein."

The man bowed his dark head, lifting one hand to his face. At that point, the twins both turned to withdraw. "We will meet you at the entrance to the Woodland King's hall at the first hour of evening," Elladan said, voice thick with sympathy. "May that give you time to say your goodbyes, for we have no more than that." He gripped Estel's shoulder, as did Elrohir in passing, then they were emerging onto the corridor.

Legolas had no time to steal away as they approached, but neither did he have much desire. The twins' hearing was keen enough that they had likely divined his presence already, and their understanding was shrewd to the point of realizing its cause.

"So he is to leave the wood so soon," Legolas said in a musing tone, soft enough to keep his words from Estel's hearing.

"It has been near five years, Legolas," Elrohir told him, raising his brows. "We cannot impose upon your hospitality any longer."

"It is no imposition..." Legolas trailed off, unable to finish aloud. ...when I would have him remain by my side. Even to his friends from Rivendell, he could not confide such feelings.

"I am sorry," Elladan said, and his look reflected the sentiment. They turned to make their preparations for departure.

Legolas waited beneath the archway that would lead to the great hall, back against the stone, arms folded in a stance of patience. On some level, he realized now, he had thought Estel might make his home in Mirkwood to whatever end. Those thoughts were a luxury he could no longer afford.

Yet hope remained.

Legolas could take the road to Imladris, on pretext of keeping lines of communication open between the two elven communities. And, too, there was the chance that Estel might return to Mirkwood...

Possibly for ever. He was, in truth, a fair fighter and they were in constant need of such.

"Legolas," Estel uttered, footsteps whispering over flagstones. "You must have heard."

"You're to leave these lands," Legolas replied, lifting his golden head.

Estel gave him a surprisingly steady look. He made him feel, once more, as if they were of an age instead of possessed of a great gulf of years between them. "It is my mother," he said, then his gaze faltered. "I must return."

"I know," Legolas said, and stepped forward to grip his friend's arm. "May the spirit of the Mearas speed the pace of your mounts, and the grace of the Valar protect you."

Bowing his head, Estel accepted the blessing. "I will return to Mirkwood," he pledged. A hint of a smile crossed his lips. "Our tale is not yet finished."

He was gone. Legolas remained in the archway, a frown marring the perfection of his pale brow. "May you pass from these lands safely," he whispered, thinking on the long journey that spanned from the halls of the King to the dwelling of Elrond Halfelven. May that grace protect you >from the shadows that stalk this land.

***

"He is fallen into shadow."

Even the luminous beauty of Caras Galadhon carried no peace for Legolas or their company, for the wizard Gandalf had fallen into shadow and their certainty, their resolve, was wavering. Legolas could feel that in the same way he felt the tension strung tighter than a bowstring, thrumming in each remaining member of their Fellowship.

Dressed in fine cloth of sparkling white, Legolas descended from one of the great mallorn trees. They would rest and recover here in the solace to be had of Caras Galadhon, and gather their remaining strength. The lament for Mithrandir soared and throbbed on the air and Legolas paused a moment, closing his eyes. The grief of a death so deeply felt was a pain new to him.

One flight up from the roots, at the railing of a flet Aragorn lingered, apparently not yet prepared to descend and join the others. He had not yet seen the elf, thinking himself alone, and in this unguarded moment Legolas took note of the drawn look of his face, greatly weary. The quest took its toll upon Aragorn as its weight and leadership fell to him now that Gandalf was gone. Feet moving unbidden, Legolas made for his side, feeling sympathy and more.

He had shadowed Aragorn's steps, all but his every move, during the past weeks of the quest. Yet he had feared to have another moment alone such as the one that second night.

"Aragorn," he called softly, continuing in Elvish. "A moment?"

The man looked at him, and in that moment seemed so very careworn, so grieved, that many years were added upon his features.

Legolas was taken aback. "I am sorry..." he whispered, though for what he made apology, he knew not.

"We have passed Cerin Amroth," Aragorn said, scrubbing a hand over his face, over the roughness of his beard. "I have turned her away, Legolas."

The elf regarded him with no small puzzlement and concern. A single tear tracked down the man's cheek, lost as he chafed his hands over his face again. "What do you mean?"

"I have spurned Arwen to turn her away from Middle Earth," Aragorn said hoarsely. "To turn her away from me. Elrond would have her take the boats with her kin to Valinor, and I...I would have her live on, rather than give up her immortal life for one such as I."

Legolas was rendered speechless by this revelation.

Aragorn regarded him with a highly troubled countenance. "This...this is all that remains to me of Arwen Und¤miel. Do you see?" One hand lifted to touch the star-flower of the silver jewel at his throat.

The lament for Gandalf soared in pitch and harmony about them, a dirge unparalleled. Silently Legolas watched his friend weep.

***

"The Dônadan! The Dônadan comes!"

Legolas swung from his bower high in the tallest of beech trees, gladness suffusing his breast and breaking over his countenance. The Dônadan was come, which could mean only one thing...Estel had returned to Mirkwood. Only one man who came to the hall of the wood-elves was called by that name-title. He sped from his tree to the beech-lined road that led to the gates of the palace.

He stayed for a moment in the lee of one of the towering birches, a smile on his lips, watching Estel stride toward the palace within the half-circle of an honor guard of wood-elves. Legolas was most pleased; it had been over a year since the man had been to Mirkwood, yet he had not expected to see Estel for much longer as the journey between Imladris and Mirkwood was long and fraught with peril and not lightly attempted.

"Estel!" he called, stepping gladly from behind the tree. "What brings you to Mirkwood so soon after my return from Rivendell?" It had been a scant six months, or thereabout, since he had made the journey with Elrond's sons.

Estel halted, and faced him, and there was a radiance in his face the likeness of which Legolas had never seen before.

Legolas' mouth curved in a wide smile in response, and he broke from the cover of trees for the road, dismissing the honor escort with an absent word. They withdrew into the trees.

"I came to see you, my friend," Estel said with a tender curve to his mouth. That radiant light was turned inward, as if he looked not on Legolas but on some point far distant.

Legolas cocked his head quizzically. "Come, then...your journey must have been long, so let us see to your comfort now."

"Long?" Estel laughed. "I suppose it must have been; I scarcely noticed the leagues pass beneath my feet." Indeed, he seemed suffused with energy yet, despite the rigors of a journey from beyond the Misty Mountains.

The king's son frowned, but led his guest into the halls of the wood-elf palace. There, they took sup at a table nearly deserted, for many of the elves were gone hunting the white deer with King Thranduil, while the rest made their watchful patrols. Legolas drew Estel to a seat far removed from any activity, for there was a puzzle in his friend's behavior that he wished to unravel. "Do you bring news from Rivendell?" Legolas asked intently, pushing a bowl of ripe sweet fruits before the man.

Estel stacked meat and cheese on thick bread. "Lord Elrond sends his respects, and Elrohir and Elladan their eternal friendship," he said with a brief smile. Estel ate, though absently, seeming hardly to have appetite for all his hard journey. "Nothing is changed there as you might imagine."

"What brings you here, then?" Legolas pressed.

The man's face filled with wonder, touched with that same radiance as before. "I have met...the likeness of Tinôviel come to earth once more," he said. "On the heels of discovering my lineage, I repeat a tragedy of one of my forefathers."

"Estel, what does this mean?" Legolas demanded, truly concerned for his friend now.

"I am Estel no longer," the man replied, and it was as if he was greater in stature for the moment, bearing the impression of a line of noble kings upon his features. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the lineage of Nômenorean kings stretching unbroken to the days of Isildur. This Lord Elrond has revealed to me, to remain secret no longer."

With a silent thrill Legolas unraveled the meaning of this revelation. Somehow, he was unsurprised; his friend had already possessed the bearing and hardiness of one of that ancient line. "Ahh," Legolas sighed, "I see. You are unlike to any man I have met before, yes, even kings. You are Aragorn, now?"

"Yes," the young man replied, and the moment passed, and he was once more the friend Legolas had known. Yet the weight of added knowledge had given a gravity to his bearing that from that moment forth would never be wholly absent.

With a sense of foreboding, Legolas continued, "What is this tragedy you speak of?"

"You have heard of the Lay of Lôthien," Estel, now Aragorn, said. He barely paused for Legolas' nod of affirmation. "She is my ancestor, as is Beren, the mortal man who led her to abandon her immortal life."

"It is a tragic tale," Legolas replied, searching his friend's face for some hint of what was to come.

"I have happened upon the likeness of Lôthien Tinôviel, dancing in a glade. Her name is Arwen Und¤miel, the Evenstar..." Aragorn trailed off, clearly lost in the memory of that moment. And the radiance, now known to Legolas as the light of love, shone from his face.

Legolas closed his eyes briefly. The pain, ah, he could feel the spur now of that which could compel his people from these shores to take to the boats of the Grey Havens. When all was lost, what remained on Middle Earth to cling to?

"You love her," he said steadily, with certainty.

He had thought Estel was returned to him, to Mirkwood.

Aragorn came free of his recollections with a minute shake of the head. He fixed his eyes on Legolas. "Yes...I wished to tell you at once. Both of my heritage, and of the tragedy of happening upon her." He passed a hand over his brow. "I have lived amongst the elves all my life. I could not countenance accepting the love of Arwen Evenstar, the daughter of my foster father, nor luring her from her immortal life."

He was wrong. Estel would never return to Mirkwood now, nor to him.

"Yet you already return her love," Legolas said softly, inevitably. "Neither man nor elf may have sway over whom he loves." He gave Aragorn a tight, controlled smile. So he would come back to Legolas fresh from this love? The end of this tale was already writ clear; it had precedence in legend.

He would send this Aragorn forth, as he was not capable of remaining by his side.

"Yes," Aragorn said with a frown, "but both man and elf have sway over their actions." He reached across the table, and on his left hand there was a ring that had not been there before, a silver band in the likeness of twining, crowned serpents inset with a dark green stone.

Legolas drew back. "Yes," he said. "They can." The sadness cut him off from Aragorn's mingled joy and disquiet.

"Legolas." Aragorn focused on him at last, casting him a puzzled glance. "You seem troubled. What I've revealed...it changes nothing between us."

"Oh, you are wrong," Legolas replied, shaking his head slowly. "It changes everything...Aragorn."

Aragorn shook his head. "I...I do not understand," he confessed, blue-gray eyes like approaching clouds.

Legolas said inexorably, by way of response, "Through fire, frost, and frond have I pledged to follow you, yet no more to cleave to any bond beyond that of friendship." He turned his gaze to the side, unable to bear the look of slowly-dawning comprehension. He would sever all ties if he could, such was the extremity of his hurt and disappointment. Yet the pledge they had made was one oath that would not stand breaking.

"No!" Aragorn exclaimed, pushing back from the trestle table. "That was not my intention in coming here! You and I, we are shieldmates! We've fought side by side, we've lain..." He broke off, remaining seated, eyes fixed desperately on the golden-haired elf.

Legolas was still shaking his head from side to side. "You renewed the youth in me for a little while," he said with a bittersweet smile for the remembrance. "But we cannot remain blithe shieldmates when Aragorn, son of Arathorn will live out the days of his mortal life with Arwen Evenstar. Your destiny stretches out before you, son of kings. So it is foretold. And Legolas Greenleaf may go to the Grey Havens and leave these shores--"

"No!" Aragorn shouted, and now he rose to his feet, drawing startled looks >from those few elves scattered round the hall. He continued, lowering his voice with a self-conscious glance round the great hall. "No, I cannot accept this."

The elf gave him a sad smile. "It is already done; the moment you set eyes on your Tinôviel you ceased to have a care for any but her."

"That's not true, Legolas!" Aragorn protested, putting forth a hand.

Legolas turned away from him. He had already ceased to listen fully. Not today and not tomorrow, but some day, he would cross into the West...

***

The lament for Gandalf dwindled in volume and verse, lingering on one pure note delivered from many throats. As it hung in the air Aragorn looked at him steadily -- not for comfort or deliverance from his agony, but in gratitude, for Legolas had remained with him throughout the worst.

"That choice is yet before her," Legolas said as gently as he was able. "There are elves who remain in Middle Earth still, out of our hopes for this place we have lived in for so long. And I have no intentions of passing into the West, nor fading from this land."

Aragorn's brow furrowed, though he did not seem displeased. "My friend...what changed?"

Legolas kept his eyes on Aragorn, said seriously, "I have hope yet in man...hope yet, in you."

Aragorn went very still, casting his eyes down. Briefly, for an instant only, he reached up to grip the gem of Evenstar.

"It's not my intent to push the Evenstar from your heart," Legolas hastened to assure him, not sure he understood the gesture but at least needing to purge himself of the very thought. He was silent a moment, glancing over the rugged features of the man, old as far as the span of his people's years yet in appearance seeming to be at the prime of his life. "In fact...nothing need change with these revelations..."

"If nothing changed," Aragorn murmured, "I would let another mistake stand." He looked up, now, gray eyes meeting Legolas' blue ones, letting the gem of the Evenstar fall to his throat.

"What do you mean?" Legolas held his ground as Aragorn took a step forward. He thought he already knew; still there was resistance to him of long habit.

"The mistake of letting you break company with me," Aragorn replied forthrightly, giving him a look that pierced keenly. "All those years ago, all of this time lost. Did you think me so mean, as to tear my love from you and give it to another?"

"I...I did not know what to think," Legolas stammered distractedly, his perceptions thrown awry. Had he misunderstood? Had they, indeed, spent wasted years apart? "All I knew was that you came to me, consumed with your love for her."

Aragorn paused; it seemed his thoughts turned inward for a moment. "I do love her," he said softly. "But you are -- were -- my shieldmate, and I never wanted that to change."

"And what of Lady Arwen?" Legolas could not help the cry. "Would she wait willing in her bower for you to come from my arms to hers?"

Aragorn's look was sharp; it cut as a tongue of flame. "You know your people. Do you think her so mean, as to withhold my love from you and keep it from all others?"

"I have been unfair," Legolas admitted with a small sigh. He could not meet the man's eyes. "Perhaps I am not so very old, after all, to act in such a fashion." There was the one thing yet buried under all of this talk he had not allowed himself to believe. Aragorn...can you possibly still feel...

"I still care for you," Aragorn said quietly, reaching for him.

And I for you. The words rose unbidden in his throat; the elf stifled them. This was not right; he felt as though he were being trapped into a corner. What he'd believed of Aragorn for the past seventy years was now undone. Legolas drew back, away from the hand that would touch his shoulder, perhaps stroke his hair as of days gone past.

"Legolas?" Aragorn's look turned puzzled, then troubled. "You still don't believe me."

"It is too sudden," Legolas argued. "I cannot believe..."

"You cannot believe that the only sudden thing is your own realizations!" Aragorn's voice hardened; his face was frustrated now, almost angry. "My feelings have never changed! It didn't...it should not have been as it was."

Perhaps the only thing he was afraid of was opening his heart to this man once more. Legolas was ashamed, of himself and his past behavior, of the assumptions he'd made. He, the wood-elf, had acted more the part of the Man than the man himself had.

"The elves of Rivendell have ever been more generous of nature than we wood-elves of Mirkwood," Legolas said, and even to his own ears he spoke cuttingly. "I apologize, for thinking so of both you and she. I am not worthy of your care, Aragorn; forgive me and I shall excuse myself."

"That's not what I meant," Aragorn objected, gentling his tone. He moved to approach Legolas once more, but the elf withdrew.

"Forgive me, Aragorn," Legolas said, putting a hand to his brow with a frown. "I...you are right, the realization is sudden. I must think on it..."

Aragorn sighed. "Then think on it," he replied. "I will be with the rest of our company." Now he moved with swift strides, but only laid a hand on Legolas' shoulder in passing.

Legolas looked after him for a long moment. "I will be acquainting myself with the light-elves," he said softly in response, though there was no way the human could have heard him. Perhaps there, among the Galadhrim, he could root out and destroy the source of the jealousy unbecoming an elf, and sort out his true feelings for good.

The chant began anew, and the choral voices began their song once more, a threnody rising on the air. Legolas followed Aragorn's footsteps down the stair of the mallorn and back to the others, for the moment at least.

"A lament for Gandalf," he murmured in passing the hobbits. It would mean something to them, he thought, who had known Mithrandir well.

Merry lifted his head. "What do they say about him?"

"I have not the heart to tell you," Legolas replied, closing his eyes. "For me the grief is still too near."

***

He had been sleeping, for here in Lothl¤rien of all places it was safe to lose himself in a true sleep rather than roaming the dream-paths while waking. An elf did not require sleep, but it was like a pleasant pastime to refresh the mind and body after a long journey, which this had been. So Legolas settled himself on the near-empty talan of one of the Galadhrim, taking sleep as one might a draught of restorative.

What drew him to break the veil of sleep he'd drawn was the sense of someone standing over him, watching.

Legolas opened his eyes, assuming a calm he did not feel. He was in the heart of an elven land, the heart, Haldir claimed, of elvendom on earth, yet he felt impossibly alone, disconnected from the Galadhrim that were his kin by collateral lines. They did not quite trust him, a wood-elf from the northern lands; he got the distinct feeling they looked down upon him no matter how respectfully he was treated.

Though the Galadhrim were cousins to the wood-elves, Legolas received the impression that his 'cousins' thought his people had dwelt too near the mortals for too long; acted, in fact, too like the ephemerals. The Galadhrim seemed to think of themselves as purer stock, at least, though simply the fact that they had stopped bearing children first, and the wood-elves had been the last to stop reproducing, was indicative of nothing.

He slitted his eyes and saw Celeborn standing at the food of his bed, a stern expression on his ageless, handsome features.

Gasping, hands automatically grasping for the daggers that lay not too great a distance from the side of his bed, Legolas was propelled into wakefulness. "What is it you want of me?" he demanded warily, for as the Galadhrim did not quite trust the wood-elves, so he too was wary of his Lothl¤rien kin. Lord Celeborn was a cipher to him and for that reason he remained on his guard, to a point.

Under any circumstances, to boot, it was disconcerting to be roused in such a fashion.

"Even here you cannot relax your guard, then?" Celeborn said to him in enigmatically questioning tones.

Legolas stood, keeping his eyes upon the elf-lord. "Even here in the heart of Caras Galadhon a burden lies upon us all. We may take solace here, but never escape it." He spoke of the Ring, of course, and Frodo; but the matter of Aragorn also weighed heavily on his mind. The one was connected to the other, and unless he resolved his own troubles he could not properly protect the Ringbearer and fulfill his role in the Quest.

"You nourish the seeds of discontent and envy within you, son of Thranduil," Celeborn murmured. "I need not the divining power of my Lady to reveal this thing."

"And what business is this of yours?" Legolas demanded, startled at the directness of Celeborn. He had not thought the light-elves to be so bold, nor himself to be so obvious.

"Though you may not accept harsh truths of man -- much less one so close to your heart -- or of free folk, you have no choice but to accept the counsel of your own kin," Celeborn told him, handsome features hard with exactitude. "You would place the Quest in jeopardy, Legolas, with the vagaries of your divided heart."

"I -- I don't know what you mean," Legolas faltered, seeking to put him off. Surely it wasn't that grave a situation; his own situation was as nothing.

"You do know," Celeborn countered, "for your own expression betrays you, Legolas. When the Quest stands on such uneven ground, all companions must tread together, united in purpose and resolve. Your care for Aragorn of the Dônadan may dull your resolve, just as his for you may cloud his purpose."

Legolas' first instinct was to flare up once more, to challenge or deny that which Celeborn would have him confront. After quelling that quick, heated urge, he remained silent, avoiding the elf-lord's penetrating gaze. Had he not told Aragorn he would withdraw amongst the light-elves for this very purpose? Yet he resisted. Was his nature truly so contrary, that he would put off all who sought to aid him in reaching an understanding; that he would, in fact, remain immobile as encroaching waters closed over his head rather than swim to offered shelter?

"Ah," Celeborn said, inclining his head, gaze intent upon his features as if reading an open volume. "You understand now, I think."

"I have dogged his steps since danger first came upon us in Moria," Legolas said, overwrought, sinking to the bed. "It is not becoming for one of my race to involve ourselves so with an ephemeral; his life will pass as the light flickers, almost like one day to the next."

"It is unbecoming," Celeborn told him, voice sharp, "for one of any race to turn aside a depth of feeling rare to be had in any lifetime, elf or man or free folk. Whether you label it love or friendship or passing fancy, none of us are above it based simply on the span of our lives."

Legolas turned his face away. He had had such a thought himself, some time when his feelings were new and the name of Arwen Und¤miel had not yet crossed Aragorn's lips. Even more than that, when Estel had been his lover and Aragorn had not yet come into being. "I am unworthy of the regard of the Galadhrim," he said huskily, no longer resentful for it. There was no question of why they had held themselves apart.

"Not unworthy," Celeborn corrected, stern expression softening. "Simply young, son of Thranduil."

Legolas lifted his head. "I'm no younger than many of your elves," he protested.

"Immature, if you prefer," Celeborn said, without changing expression.

Legolas stared at him in astonishment for a long moment, then, as the elf-lord's lips quirked, he burst into a peal of laughter. After a moment, he stilled, but the relief of humor still played about his mouth. "What must I do?" he said, though he asked himself as much as Celeborn. "I have been unfair, as well as unkind, for so long."

"Be true to yourself," Celeborn advised him. "That is the first step to healing the breach, and fortunately I think it has already begun."

"And?" Legolas prompted, feeling sure he knew the answer, yet content to let it flow over him from another source.

"Be true to him, as well." Celeborn's handsome, ascetic features shifted into something resembling an encouraging smile. "No matter how long and no matter how far, doing so will keep you on the right path until whatever end." He advanced, looking steadily into Legolas' eyes, and placed a hand on his shoulder. What remained unsaid was, if you do not, you may fall into ruin, and he as well.

His friendship, his care for Aragorn was entwined with the very roots of the Quest. Here he could sense it where before his thoughts had been as shadowed and uncertain as the tainted air of Mirkwood.

"Was it the influence of the Ring?" Legolas asked with a frown, standing once more. That could not be the answer, though, however convenient; the breaking of their friendship had begun long before.

"Perhaps," Celeborn replied, giving Legolas a complicated look. "I find it more likely that the Ring only took advantage of what was already underway, however. Shadow lies upon the heart of both man and elf even without the influence of the One Ring."

He removed his hand from Legolas' shoulder, gesturing to the dark-lit beauty of Lothl rien. Its structures glowed with inner light even in the deepest hour of the evening. "Be at peace, son of Thranduil," he invited, features not nearly so stern as that moment when he stood before Legolas' bed. "Now that you've put your mind at ease, put your body and heart thus as well. There is time, yet, before necessity compels you to depart."

Legolas nodded. He was at peace, for the moment. His realization was best when shared, because he had caused great pain to Aragorn as well as himself, now that he had been shamed into the admittance of it. He lingered, though, because he had been nursing this hurt so long to his breast that concealment had become a habit...even to himself. He looked >from Celeborn to the darkness outside the talan that had been loaned to him, picking out the hundreds of pale-glowing gems that made up the core of L¤rien's elvish city.

"Do not linger on the knowledge too long," Celeborn warned him as if reading his thoughts, grasping his shoulder once more -- this much by way of farewell. "Freshly admitted, the knowledge can cleanse your heart, but if you do not share it, it becomes poisonous to you once more."

"Thank you," Legolas said by way of answer. "You have showed me much, Lord Celeborn."

Celeborn's hand tightened. "I show you nothing which your mind had not already realized, friend," he replied. "It was your heart, and your pride, that needed a little outside intervention." The edges of his mouth quirked upward, not quite a smile but something like. With that, he released Legolas and stepped toward the portal of the talan, pushing aside the filmy veil and disappearing into the crisp evening.

"Or perhaps it was my courage that needed the intervention," Legolas said quietly, looking out into the dreamlike splendor of the City of Light.

Gathering it about him, he braced himself and left the talan as well.

***

The Fellowship slept below, ensconced comfortably in the roots of one of the great mallorn trees of the woods of L¤rien. Legolas descended lightly, like a bird on the wing, seeking not to wake his companions. Rather, he sought to wake only one. They had remained on the ground because the hobbits were uncomfortable, he gathered, with roosting high in the air. Samwise Gamgee had gone out of the way to declare how unnatural it was.

He passed by the hobbits, curled up in comfortable piles of cloak and root-hollows, and looked incredulously over the form of Gimli, who poured out ripping snores into the air as he slept on his back. It was a wonder any of them could sleep to that tune.

Aragorn slept somewhat apart from his companions. It was a wonder to see his sword set far to the side, instead of ready to hand, yet if they were not safe here in the wood of L¤rien they were safe nowhere indeed.

Legolas bent to take hold of his shoulder and froze in a crouch. Aragorn's eyes were narrowed to slits and he looked up at him now, opening his eyes fully. He must have been watching him, then, as Legolas approached around the curve of the immense mallorn. Dipping his head slightly, a smile tugging at his mouth to acknowledge Aragorn's abilities, he placed a finger to his lips and then glanced to the side, intimating that Aragorn should follow.

Rising from his crouch, casting a backward glance over his shoulder that invited pursuit, Legolas moved beyond the sleeping figures of their companions. There was a glade beyond the next few great mallorns, a welcoming place with many hollows veiled with tangled greenery . He wondered why the others had not chosen to lie there, but perhaps the hobbits liked their enclosed woody spaces after all.

"What is it you wanted to speak of?" Aragorn asked him, lingering at the edge of the glade. There was hope in his eyes, yet the language of his body told that he had been too often spurned to let emotion prompt his steps.

"Many things have kept me from your side," Legolas replied, standing near one of the veiled hollows. He glanced down, unable for an instant to meet Aragorn's forthright gaze. The man had never been less than honest with him; it was Legolas' own heart that had betrayed him. Pride, and jealousy, and all that he'd thought himself incapable of. "I will not let it keep us apart any longer. I...I am sorry for my foolishness, my..." He halted.

"Don't," Aragorn said, extending a hand. "Legolas, there is no need." He paced forward into the glade, caution falling away from his features, something more than hope taking its place. Certainty. Desire.

Legolas lifted his head proudly. "There is need," he asserted. "My own heart compels me to admit my most grievous error."

"Enough," Aragorn murmured, and now he was near enough to press a hand to Legolas' shoulder, bending very near him. "We need speak of it no more, as long as we make amends."

A bright smile lit the elf's features, and he gripped Aragorn's arm in return. The burden that had weighed him down for so many years was dissipated at that touch.

They stood together thus somewhat awkwardly, close as friends, as lovers might stand. Why was it so difficult, he mused, for them to slip into the old familiarities? His heart was unfettered but his hands refrained out of long habit. He had held himself apart from Aragorn for so long it was out of that accustomed self-denial he continued to do so now.

Legolas' eye caught on the flowery gem of the Evenstar at Aragorn's throat and he drew a breath. The unspoken presence of Arwen was still very much within Aragorn's heart, and that too was another reminder of why he had remained withdrawn, aloof, for so long. He was surprised, however, when Aragorn drew him close by the simple expedient of an arm placed round his neck.

"You are thinking too much once more," Aragorn told him simply, whispering into one delicately-tapered ear. "I can tell by the subtle play of thought across your face. Now I will ask you, and this will be the last time. Will you stand beside me, will you be my shieldmate once more?"

This was his last chance, in this moment a true choice was offered to him. With the breach repaired between them, he had a choice to restore their friendship yet nothing more, now that he acted out of clear thought and set aside his rancor forever. He also had the chance to regain all that had been lost between them, and have it be so until one of them departed Middle Earth for good.

Despite the difference of their lives both of them shared the here and now and, though men's lives burned short, they burned the brighter for it...

Those words from long ago returned to him. "I will stay by your side for as long as I am allowed, as friend or lover," Legolas replied gladly. Was that not the true nature of love? So long as Aragorn was well-served out of the care that he had for him, that was the only thing that mattered. One day you will pass from this land, bound up in the long sleep that comes to claim all of your people...

"I do want you," Aragorn replied, eyes stark with his honesty, and need. "For my lover, as long as you will stay."

Aragorn's fingers passed over his cheek, caressed the side of his face and neck, and Legolas turned his head to press lips to Aragorn's palm. The human's thumb ran along the edge of his ear, tracing from lobe to elongated tip. I cannot forsake the immortal life for you as she has; I have nothing to give in return. A wry smile crossed the elf's lips, and at that Aragorn closed the last distance between him, wiping away any trace of bitterness from his mouth with his own. I cannot bear you children, nor share your throne. But I will give myself, as long as you will have me.

"Then let us become lovers again," Legolas murmured in response to Aragorn, and his own ruminations.

He wound his arms around the ranger, fingers tangling in his dark hair. Aragorn kissed him hard, near ruthlessly, slanting his mouth over Legolas' in a fashion that left no room for protest or second thought. The very desperation of his kiss impressed upon the elf the sense of the empty years, bereft of warmth or comfort, and Legolas chased it away with the immediacy of his passion, with a yielding, flickering tease of tongue. Aragorn needed no urging to part his lips and drink between them.

And when you pass from this land, so shall I.

By mutual movement they ended up in one of the inviting hollows at the edge of the glade. Aragorn drew aside the greenery that screened it off from common view, offering his hand to Legolas in a surprisingly courtly gesture. Legolas gave him a gentle smile; his hand, placed in Aragorn's, was acquiescence in return.

They lowered themselves to the lush grass, and there the barrier that had been in place for so long dissolved with each touch, with the scratchy immediacy of Aragorn's beard against his smooth skin, with each tie or leather fastening to their clothing that came undone. Aragorn trailed his lips down every bit of pale elf-flesh that was revealed by the industry of his hands. Legolas lay beneath him for the moment, content -- at least to start -- for the human to dominate their coupling. Not because it had been so long, but because this was not the same beardless youth he had lain with before. He was perfectly satisfied for Aragorn to reacquaint himself with his body with lips and hands and the parting of clothes from flesh.

He hissed in soft startlement as Aragorn raked blunt fingers over his exposed torso, then soothed the small hurts away with the passing of his lips over the brief stark red that marred his skin. Aragorn bared him to the waist and looked up into his eyes, tongue passing briefly over his lips as he considered the half-nude elf before him, who reclined against the grass with an unexpectedly tender look.

"I've missed you so," Aragorn breathed. He sat on his heels as he undid the last of the ties that would allow him to draw his own shirt up over his head, tossing it to the side where it overlapped with Legolas' discarded finery.

Legolas reached for him now, a small frown furrowing his brow as he took in the scars and scattered old wounds that mapped over the terrain he had known so well. Aragorn was corded with muscle, lean and strong, his flesh several shades darker than the elf who lay beside him. Unlike the elves, humans' bodies never completely recovered from many of the wounds they received, even over time. Aragorn took his hands and entwined their fingers together, drawing him close, giving him another of his searching looks before crushing his mouth down upon him.

His kisses were dizzying, demanding, they sought to draw the soul up from within him in response. Legolas sent his hands roaming over this newly unfamiliar territory, fingers caressing each scar and long-healed wound and coming to know them all as he would never know the intervening years that caused them.

Fumbling for the ties of Aragorn's breeches, Legolas found his wrists caught in a firm grip. "Wait," Aragorn told him with an unyielding look.

"Oh?" Legolas said in answer. This man, this Aragorn...his lovemaking was very much different from Estel's haste and heady embraces.

"I want to enjoy every inch of you," Aragorn said with a taut grin, ducking his head and planting a sudden kiss on Legolas' throat. "No matter how much it may be agony to linger."

That grin should have been warning, but Legolas was disarmed and vulnerable now to Aragorn's slightest glance. The man flipped him onto his back and, near swift as an elf, pinned him with the weight of his body, parting his thighs with a knee and lying thus with a wrist beneath each hand on the sweet-smelling grass. It was crushed beneath their weight and smelled the sweeter for it.

"Aragorn," the name tumbled from his lips like a sigh. Testing the weight on him, Legolas rolled his hips. Aragorn's breath caught and the man settled against him firmly, their bodies close enough to feel the imprint of one another's rising passion.

The man bent over his bared torso, first scattering aimless kisses here and there, then seeking the roseate ovals of his flat nipples and outlining them with a reverent tongue. Legolas drew air between his teeth in a slight hiss, feeling the soft flesh rise into sharp peaks under Aragorn's trembling, nursing mouth. He struggled for a moment, wanting to touch in return, eyes flickering over Aragorn's chest and the dark coins that were already pointed and firm without a single stroke of mouth or fingers. Aragorn had a good grip on him, and growled softly to let him know he would not relinquish control for the nonce.

"Legolas," he said huskily, lifting up to lay kisses on his mouth again. Legolas felt as if he were sinking into the earth; the man settled ever more firmly over him and brought their hardening groins into ever-so-satisfying contact. He shuddered, and his lips flowed open beneath the claim of Aragorn's tongue.

They shifted for long moments, rapt in the thrust and play of friction as much as the joining of their mouths. It wasn't too much longer before Aragorn released one of his wrists and reached between their bodies, hand moving over the ties that kept Legolas' breeches secure. With rough jerks of his fingers he snapped the ties.

"I thought you said you would linger," Legolas chided him, breathless from the force of that most recent kiss. He eased his hips up, breath catching as Aragorn shifted his weight long enough to peel his breeches down over his thighs. The skin there was the palest, not often being exposed to light.

"I'll linger over this," Aragorn promised. He smoothed his palms over the sensitive skin of Legolas' inner thighs, making him gasp once more, then he lowered his head and drew Legolas' aching flesh into his mouth.

Legolas tossed his head back, breath going tight in his throat, muscles jumping in his thighs as Aragorn gave him this most intimate kiss. "Aragorn..." he pleaded, without knowing quite what he asked for, more, faster, longer, or simply relief to this feeling that gripped him, sweeter than pain but just as acute to the senses. He lifted his head and watched the swaying regularity of Aragorn's dark head and the sound that swelled and broke from his lips was like a thready lament, wanton cadences of Elvish tripping from his tongue in a musical stream as Aragorn's mouth played the undercurrent of rhythm that moved between them, thicker than blood or friendship.

"I'm flattered," Aragorn pulled back, wiping at his mouth, "but surely you exaggerate; I'm not half so skilled." His hand captured Legolas' slick flesh, seeking to pull from him the release that his mouth had not.

"Wait..." Legolas stretched forth a hand, shuddering, seeking to stem the inexorable tide that Aragorn would coax forth.

The man gave him a brief, assessing look, gray eyes glinting like pearl in the dawn light as they moved over him. His fingers stilled for the barest instant, then he shook his head and shifted over Legolas' thighs, wrapping the rough suction of his mouth around him, heated velum drawn over his sensitive shaft in delicious slow strokes.

The elf writhed beneath him; where before the pull of Aragorn's mouth incited him to lyricism, now he dredged complicated curses from the long reaches of his memory. His legs splayed under Aragorn's forceful palms, and he tried to roll but he was spread open to Aragorn's touch, the man's unpredictable dominant streak reigning now. This much was familiar; Estel had taken over in their couplings more often than not, and Aragorn was yet more demanding.

"Aragorn," he voiced, low and pleading now, and he knew what he wanted and knew it was equally likely he would be denied for now. The man was leaning into his thighs and his mouth drew something glittering and bright from the depths of him, the essence of light erupting.

Sitting back, satisfaction in his eyes, on his tongue, Aragorn shared a bittersweet kiss between them. Now Legolas was allowed to reach up against him, twining arms over his shoulders and smoothing his fingers over the taut muscles in his back. They shared breath and more for long moments between them, and though Aragorn was clothed the elf could feel his urgency as he knelt between his thighs.

"I want you," Legolas murmured, giving him permission before he can even ask. "Join with me."

"My intention from the beginning," Aragorn assured him, and it was not arrogance in his tone or in the eyes that rake over him, but something approaching divine right.

Legolas undid the belt that hung round Aragorn's hips, the tiniest furrow settling between his brows as he concentrated on clearing all obstacles that remained in his way. The ties parted beneath his nimble fingers and he dipped into musky darkness, withdrawing the length of Aragorn's blood-thick arousal.

"Ahhh..." Aragorn's breath hissed between his teeth, and he bent his head suddenly for a desperate kiss.

Does Arwen lie with you thus? the question lay in his mind, but that was the one thing he would never, ever ask of his friend, his lover. It was an unfair parallel, and moreover, Aragorn was not so petty as to seek his companionship merely for that omission on the part of the daughter of Elrond.

The words vanished within him, cast into the light by the glorious feeling that yet remained spread throughout his limbs. Aragorn's mouth moved against him, opening his pliant lips, hands skimming over his near-nude body. Legolas took advantage of his momentary purchase on the sward to strip his leggings off completely, sending them off to join the rest of their clothing.

"I missed you as well," Legolas admitted aloud, closing his eyes as Aragorn's mouth moved over his brow, pressed against his temple, then skimmed down one ear to the sensitive skin at the hinge of his jaw. More than you know, Man. His heart's awareness seemed delayed; it ached yet though Aragorn was in his arms once more.

He leaned back, and the grass was cool against his body, warm in places where they had flattened it with their movements. Aragorn sat on his heels and on his face was undisguised need, longing, the feelings that had been pent up but merited concealment no longer. With efficient, quick motions he rid himself of his own clothing, casting the last of it aside, lowering his lean body to join Legolas. His fingers caressed over Legolas' face, moved over his shoulders, thumbs skittering down over his ribs and lingering over the flat of his stomach.

Legolas, in his turn, reached for desire.

Flesh against flesh, that was the most satisfying. With a gasp Aragorn arched against him, bringing their bodies close. With both hands Legolas weighed the blood-heavy flesh, mapping out his plan of attack. The ranger had gotten the unfair advantage, pleasuring him so soon and insistently, but he was determined to garner a suitable revenge.

They lay side by side for the moment, stroking, touching, in the manner of those who were somewhat awkward, tentative in the new moments of mutual desire. This was the first time Legolas had lain beside Aragorn in decades, and he keenly felt the intervening years until Aragorn pulled him roughly close, dissolving the distance with insistent hands and the hard press of his mouth. Legolas still had a grip on Aragorn's shaft and put this to good use, rubbing firmly to incitement though it seemed Aragorn had little need for that. With finger and thumb he pulled the skin back from the head, tweaking with utmost gentleness, smearing back the first drops of liquid that appeared with his touch.

Aragorn ate at his mouth as a man starving, and Legolas was the spread set before him. He responded with a purling noise deep in his throat, fingers coaxing at Aragorn's erection with increasing firmness. He wanted to do more than simply touch it; he wanted to fit his mouth over the crown of it, take the organ deep into his throat as Aragorn had done to such tormenting effect for him. When they broke for breath Legolas whispered this intention.

Breathing hard, Aragorn nuzzled at his cheek, his jaw, thirsting for more; the closest of caresses was not yet enough. "No," he replied, callused fingers plucking at Legolas' nipples and drawing keen sensations through him. It sang straight to his groin, already stirring once more. "If I spend myself at your talented hands, I may not have another in me to pleasure us both."

"Ahh," Legolas hummed agreement, "true." He wanted to take Aragorn within his body, and if his pleasure was expended too soon, that would be impossible. The stamina of men was vigorous, but sadly took longer to recoup. He released Aragorn's heavy shaft and leaned back onto the grass in a waiting pose.

"Well?"

Aragorn's eyes flared and he reached for Legolas, seizing him by the hips, pulling him roughly closer. The elf cooperated in every way as the man lifted his thighs, reaching for his nethers.

"Wait--" Legolas said breathlessly, eyes flicking to their crumpled and discarded clothing. "Do you..."

He did. Making a long arm, the ranger extracted a previously concealed vial >from his clothing, a thin glass bottle that glittered when the light struck it. Legolas was unsure whether to be relieved or insulted.

Noting his narrow look, Aragorn hastened to say "It's to keep leathers supple, in working order."

"Is it safe?" Legolas pressed, now somewhat concerned.

"Of course," Aragorn replied, turning his head and brushing his mouth over the closest knee. "If there were any question I would pause in the joining to find something more suitable."

"Then join with me," Legolas said greedily, reaching up with his hips now that his hands were out of range. His knees, when kissed just so, made him feel weak and out of control and of course, Aragorn knew it.

Aragorn spilled the slick oily fluid onto one hand, onto the sensitive strip of flesh just aft of the elf's tightly-drawn sex. With fingers he split him open, slow and careful though there was no need and it drove Legolas mad, set him to burning, causing him to squirm in a most undignified fashion and push up into Aragorn's busy hands. The ranger did it on purpose, he was sure, out of the memory of what drove Legolas to distraction. The longer the delay, the hotter he burned.

"Aragorn, now," Legolas commanded harshly in Elvish, shifting his hips, flattening grass beneath him, oblivious to his splayed vulnerability while he was fixed on his lover's intent face and tormenting fingers.

The man looked up at him, eyes silvered over with desire. From the tight line of his lips he concentrated not only on Legolas but on suppressing his own leaping bodily response.

"Don't be gentle," Legolas told him. "Don't think!" He cast Aragorn's own chastisement in his teeth.

With a shudder Aragorn's control broke and he seized Legolas, sparing hardly a moment for alignment, elf-legs handled into place over the man's shoulders to allow him the access to penetrate. He brought their bodies together, pausing a moment for surety, then began the initial thrust, a star of pain that opened Legolas to him.

Legolas cried out, clutching, fingers biting into Aragorn's bare shoulders. The man murmured a throaty response, the lilt of Elvish spilling from his tongue, half-soothing, half-inchoate. He hovered over Legolas for long moments, fingers stroking the tangled gold of Legolas' hair until the tense lines eased from his face and he was ready to take pleasure in the joining. When they began to move, they moved together rapt in pleasure, in trembling sensation.

Aragorn was gentle at first despite his haste, then the fever of desperation outstripped tenderness. He rocked Legolas back against the grass, pace furious, hands lifting the elf up into the sway of his sex. Legolas for his part slid his arms around Aragorn's neck and took every thrust, every touch with enjoyment, thrilling to the joining of their bodies once more. He was no flower fragile as Aragorn crushed him against the grass.

"Aragorn..." he murmured, and the bearded face above blended into a more youthful, smooth visage. "Estel." He gasped, lifting himself in a frenzy, and Aragorn clutched him to his chest in the throes. Legolas, still raw and sensitive from his recent release, was the first to surrender to the crucible of liquid fire pooled between them; he pressed his mouth up into the contours of Aragorn's face, his throat, and came to passion with a cry that rang between them.

The man swallowed his cry with insistent lips, pressing into him, pressing, it felt, through him in the very height of desire, surpassing the limits of what skin and body could contain until the surging light was shared by both man and elf. "Legolas, mellethron nin," Aragorn said huskily, once their pleasure had been expended. My lover. His weight was pressing, yet not unpleasant, as they disentangled enough for Aragorn to lie atop him yet free his legs from contortion. He hooked Legolas securely close with an arm round his neck.

The words hovered on the very tip of his tongue. Lover...Aragorn...I love you...Estel... The past slipped away and he lay in the embrace of the man, content as the present would allow.

There was no need for speech in the long moments that followed and so they lay in silence, eyes lifted to the tangle of greenery that screened their secret grotto. Legolas picked out the varied pale-shining gems of the city of L¤rien above, peace suffusing his heart and lending unearthly calm to his features.

Now he was able to say it. Now the heat of the moment had passed, and emotion and reason remained. More, his passion and logic moved him to the same end now, in purpose united.

"I love you, Aragorn," Legolas said with quiet certainty, as they lay, tensions uncoiling, in the hollow. With his heart unbound, his tongue was now free to speak as he liked.

There was a moment of such stillness he feared there had been some misapprehension. The very breathing of the man in his arms had slowed to a halt. Then:

"I have waited for decades to hear those words from your lips," Aragorn breathed, turning to him, taking the point of Legolas' jaw in one hand. "Where 'love' and 'Aragorn' conjoined from a source so dear."

Legolas was mute, stricken, realizing afresh the depths to which he had compounded a grievous error. His hurt, though winding to the core of his being, had been no less an error for the intent of it. And though he held himself apart, his hurt had not been his alone.

"What brought you to this new realization?" Aragorn asked, tone soft and reflective.

The wood-elf merely smiled. "The light of the Galadhrim opened my eyes," he replied, and would say no more.

***

The pale-glimmering city at the heart of Caras Galadhon glowed with a soft luminosity even as dawn touched the golden foliage of the woods of L¤rien. Below the massive mallorn, the Fellowship made their preparations for leavetaking. Legolas lingered on the flet above, recognizing with regret the certainty that their time in Lothl rien would be the last chance for intimacies, for quite some time to come.

Every so often, Aragorn would look up as if feeling the eyes upon him. Legolas smiled in acknowledgment of the man's talents yet remained where he was. He was not prepared to descend and join the others; he enjoyed this last moment of quiet, of contemplation, in the elven wood.

"We met for the first time when I felt the age of my people and you were still young. Now I seem the younger and you wear the cares of your people upon your brow, where we would place a shining stone, the Elessar," Legolas said slowly, consideringly, to the man below with whom he reaffirmed his ties.

"Through frost, fire, and frond have I followed you and evermore shall I do so, Estel, son of Man, Elessar, our hope, and entrust to you our future until the end of your days."

Then, shouldering pack, quiver, and bow, Legolas Greenleaf took the stairs that would cross the distance to bring him back to Aragorn's side once more.

+end+