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The quill in the elf’s slim hand was precisely trimmed to a straight, blunt tip. It had clearly been prepared, with some care, to enhance the mannered style so typical of Rivendell’s scribes. Closer inspection of its fellows in the pewter stand revealed that all were cut to the same pattern.
Legolas smiled wistfully, thinking of the carved box, housed in a room far away, wherein lay the scrolls and folded scraps of parchment that numbered amongst his most treasured possessions. They were letters written by a man whose hand would forever proclaim his extraordinary past. Just as the king’s children carried elven blood made visible in their fine-featured beauty, so every royal decree bore in its signature the distinctive mark of Elrond’s house.
Such elegant formality might please the woodland prince’s eye, but it was not for him to emulate. His preference was for a smoothly rounded nib and a free flow of ink, allowing a script that poured across the page as it kept pace with his thoughts. After examining each quill in turn he selected the most likely, and reached into his belt pouch for a suitable knife.
He hummed as he worked, shaping the point with a few firm strokes. Then, brushing the shavings to one side, he reached for the tray of ink pots. One after the other he held them up to the lantern, enjoying the play of light off the finely cut crystal as he determined the colour of the liquid within. Finally he settled on a deep blue-green redolent of the sea’s depths on a summer morning, and thus appropriate for his task.
He had barely completed the formal address when a knock came at the door. Legolas set the quill to one side and blew across the drying ink before speaking.
“Come; it is open.”
He was unsurprised to see the tall, raven-haired figure who entered brandishing a dark bottle and two silver goblets.
“May I? Doriniél unearthed a fine vintage in the cellars, and I thought you might care to sample it with me.” Elladan crossed the room with the warrior’s silent grace that his opulent robes could never conceal.
Legolas could not help but respond to his host’s affectionate smile. He rose to his feet in greeting.
“You did not mention this find at dinner,” he said dryly.
“Ah, well, there appear to be only two bottles left; they would not have gone very far. One I shall save for my brother’s return, but your arrival surely warrants the other in celebration.”
The peredhel’s eyes, sparkling in the lamplight, turned to the evidence of Legolas’s recent activity. Elladan frowned and gestured towards the desk with the clinking goblets. “Oh, forgive me, I disturbed you. Would you rather I left you to your task?”
“No, my friend. There is time enough, and I have travelled many miles seeking your company. Please, sit, and let us take a glass together.”
“Or two.”
They moved to the deep, comfortable chairs by the wide window with its view across the rustling moonlit valley. The night was warm and the long, sheer curtains barely moved in the soft air.
Elladan wasted no time in opening the ancient bottle and offering his guest a draught of its headily fragrant contents. As soon as he brought the glass to his mouth, Legolas realised that the wine deserved some concentration. He turned inward for a moment to enjoy the rich flavour of oak and plum, the rapidly growing warmth in his belly as he swallowed. Then, coming back to his surroundings, he offered sincere and suitable praise.
“I am honoured that you deem me worthy of such a treasure as this.”
“Mmm.” Elladan placed his own goblet on the low table and licked a stray drop from his upper lip. “I would not care to detract from the merits of miruvor, but a good red is something else entirely. It seems that there are some matters in which we can learn a great deal from the men of the South.”
“Indeed there are.” Legolas allowed a slight movement of his eyebrow.
“Were you writing to Gimli?” The question, though sudden, was innocent enough.
“No, although tomorrow I may do so. He will wish to learn that I have arrived safely. For all the journeys we have completed together without incident, he is still convinced that trouble will find me the moment I set off without him.”
Elladan nodded. “Send him my regards. I would have him know that he is in my thoughts and that I wish his father well. It cannot be an easy time.”
“Anything but easy. Gloin has recovered a little since the winter, but it is clear that the end cannot be long in coming. In truth it troubled me to leave Gimli there.” Legolas stared down into his cup before taking another sip.
“He insisted that you ride on, I suppose?”
“He did. And in all fairness, he was not being entirely selfless. He has quite enough to consider without worrying over my comfort and dealing with the endless stream of questions about his strange choice of companion.”
Elladan laughed softly. “No doubt you had enough of those in your own realm. How did King Thranduil take to your friend?”
“Once he had established the.. ah, nature of our friendship, he treated Gimli with the utmost courtesy. My father is not the ogre he is made out to be, and he has even softened somewhat since the war’s end.”
“’Tis good to hear.” Elladan shifted back in the chair and brought his long slender feet up to rest on the tabletop. “Perhaps we shall see him here before long?”
“Perhaps. I have already made the suggestion.” Legolas held out his glass for a refill and his host silently obliged. For a while they sat quietly, enjoying the sounds of evening.
After a time, Elladan spoke. “So, if the letter is not for your beloved dwarf,” he began, a note of mischief identifiable in his voice, “Will you be seeking a messenger for the coast?”
Legolas pondered before replying. He had not expected Imladris to be ignorant of his affairs, but this direct questioning came as some surprise. There was no need to shy from the subject; after all, he had come to Rivendell hoping to seek counsel on matters of the heart. None the less, he searched for the phrase. “I imagine it will take a fair while to reach its destination,” he said at last.
The grey eyes stared at him, unblinking. “I trust,” Elladan said rather slowly and distinctly, “that Imrahil knows how fortunate he is.”
Legolas held his friend’s gaze while he considered his response. Laughing a little, he shook his head. “If you wish for the truth, cousin, it is I who am the lucky one,” he said.
Elladan regarded him searchingly for a moment, then reached for his wine. He ran a finger round the silver rim before speaking, drawing Legolas’s attention down to follow his languid, deliberate movement. “I do not doubt your good fortune,” he offered silkily. “Dol Amroth’s prince is verily a lord amongst men: valiant, fiery, and of course most… striking. The elven blood runs rich in those veins.”
The words were too seductive. Legolas shut his eyes and let himself focus on the picture in his mind. His leonine lover stood before him, clad only in a white linen shirt which hung open to reveal the glories beneath. Sleek, sun-burnished skin covered powerful muscle and sinew. Legolas let his gaze drop slowly from the expression of searing lust on Imrahil’s sculpted face, over the firm planes of tapering chest and taut belly to the man’s strong golden thighs and proud erection. He drew breath sharply, feeling his own flesh harden decisively at the magnificent sight.
Something shifted in the elf’s head, and with a start he realised he was not alone in his pleasure. He forced his lids to remain shut as he willed the image to disperse, then concentrated on slowing his heartbeat for a dozen counts before looking across at his host.
“Elladan, please.” He heard the gentle accusation in his own voice. “There are some matters too private...”
The master of Rivendell grinned with little apparent remorse. “You are right, and I am sorry. Yet in my defence, I must tell you that I should have to struggle to shut the knowledge out. The very air is alive with excitement when you think of him. My spirit sings for your happiness.”
“Then you know that I am lucky,” Legolas said mildly, appeased by his friend’s generosity.
“But so is he, that you should have chosen him! Surely there were others better placed to offer you comfort when you needed it most.”
This time Legolas could not disguise his shock. “You speak of the days after the war? You knew, even then?”
“It seems it is my gift to know what others fail to suspect,” Elladan replied soberly, “or perhaps I should say my curse. You were hidden behind your veil of sorrow, but Imrahil could not conceal the truth of his heart from me. I spoke of it to none but Elrohir. We longed to ask you how it had come about, but of course we could not.”
“And you were surprised?” asked the elf, faintly amused in spite of his reservations.
“Not that you should look for such… solace, but by its source. We had thought – not Gimli, although he would have denied you nothing; but perhaps Éomer. He wanted you badly enough.”
“Aye, and he certainly made the fact known to me,” said Legolas with a snort of wry laughter.
“But you were not tempted?”
Again blue eyes met grey in a lengthy stare as Legolas marvelled at Elladan’s untamed curiosity. It was more than a little unnerving, but somewhere in himself he knew that this honesty was exactly what he craved, and was indeed what he had come to Rivendell for.
“He was so young,” he said with a sigh. “And only beginning to learn the weight of his duties. I could hardly place upon his shoulders the burden of my grief.”
Elladan gave a slow smile. “But such fine, broad shoulders he has,” he teased.
“Do not joke of it,” Legolas reprimanded. “It is not pleasant to reject the advances of an honoured friend. I feared for some time that I had left him hurt.”
“Oh, I do not think you needed to worry about Éomer.” Elladan moved forward in his seat. As he leant to the table to grasp the wine bottle his hair slid down over his shoulder, partially obscuring his odd, secretive smile. “He did not languish alone for terribly long.”
“No, and Lothíriel is a worthy partner for him, gentle and wise, beautiful in every way. You will have seen how happy they are together.”
“So I have.”
Evidently Elladan was not about to explain his private amusement, so Legolas picked up his replenished goblet and redirected the conversation. “Apart from Éomer and Gimli, were there others on your list of whom I should be aware?” he asked boldly.
Elladan’s merriment vanished in an instant. “I will not jest with you,” he said, almost sadly. “At the time I could not understand why you chose not to come to me.”
“To you -” In a vivid burst of memory Legolas recalled the crisp starlit sky above Cormallen, the bright new pain of parting, his indecision as he stood bereft before an empty tent. How differently things might have fallen out, had the sons of Elrond not walked abroad that night. “If I had known what I was looking for, I could not have sought it from you,” he said suddenly.
“Why not?”
“You know full well why not! I was bound to Estel – am still bound to this day. A man may be prepared to accept the fact, but I could hardly expect another elf to overlook it!”
“And in the case of most elves, you would no doubt be right to feel that way.”
“You are telling me that you are different? You may have human blood, but you are as much an elf as any I know,” Legolas exclaimed. “We live by the same customs, and your intuition is second to none.”
Elladan laughed, but there was little humour in the sound. “That, my friend, is hardly the issue. What makes me different is not the fraction of my blood that comes from my mortal forefathers, but the fact that half of my soul resides outside my own body.”
Understanding came in an instant. “You refer to Elrohir,” Legolas murmured.
“Of course.” Elladan stood and went to the window. Leaning on the sill, he appeared to speak to the distant stars. “Our bond is unusually close, even for twins. Father often said that he had never seen its like.”
There was silence as Legolas tried to formulate an appropriate question. His friend, it seemed, sensed his discomfort.
“It is not a carnal love,” Elladan continued. “Oh, worry not; I am well aware of those rumours. There are times when I believe that matters would be simpler if they were true. But as it stands, ours is a bond of the spirit alone. For all that, I am certain we could be no closer. There is a perfect intensity about it – well, I think you know...”
“I know,” said Legolas quietly, staring down into his empty goblet. After a moment he shook himself slightly and forced his thoughts outwards. “I assume that this bond prevents you from joining with another?” he asked gently.
Elladan turned from the night sky to face him, and Legolas shivered momentarily. Of a sudden his friend’s years were visible in his face. “In truth, it is more a question of being unwilling to run the risk…” the peredhel said.
“…of losing what you have,” Legolas finished for him.
Elladan nodded. “We vowed many years ago that we would not take that chance,” he confirmed.
“But that is a harsh decision! How could you know what would happen if you were to fall in love?”
“How else could I assure my brother that he will always come first? And how could I ask another to take second place to him? It was not a difficult promise to make.”
“And yet,” Legolas countered, “I sense that you are not entirely happy with your situation.”
Elladan shook his head as he sank back down into the chair. He reached once more for the bottle, and took a moment to pour the last meagre measure into the two goblets. “There is too much of the man in me to forgo the pleasures of the flesh completely,” he said ruefully.
“Ah.” Legolas savoured the last drop of wine before continuing. “And Elrohir?”
“Elrohir also.” Elladan’s lips curved in a sardonic smile. “My brother has something of a fondness for mortal women: wild-haired, passionate, and in general utterly unsuitable. It is no surprise that he lingers now in the West.”
“Oh.” Legolas grinned, as much at his own inarticulate surprise as at these unexpected revelations. “And you?” he ventured, after a moderate pause.
Elladan offered him a strangely sly look. “I must admit that my predilection - like yours, it would seem – is for strong, well-favoured men of noble birth.”
All at once the pieces clicked into place. “Men like Éomer,” Legolas breathed.
Elladan’s features took on a faintly wicked cast.
“You and Éomer…” the blond elf mused.
“Well, he is such a splendidly handsome man, and I would not be my father’s son if I were to watch a fellow warrior suffer, and not offer him such succour as it was within my power to provide.”
Legolas could not suppress a delighted chuckle. “Ai, Elladan Silver-tongue! Lord Glorfindel himself could barely compete with you! I trust that you… cured the king of Rohan of his ills?”
“I believe you could say that.”
Legolas blinked, and blinked again. At once, he saw it all. Black and gold, moonlight and fire, long pale limbs entwined with those of sturdy bronze. He heard the thrilling counterpoint of musical tenor and throaty bass, and shuddered at the sudden heat of it.
“Enough,” he gasped, for all he longed to see and hear more.
The picture faded to nothing and he stared at his host with wide eyes.
“Just a little fair exchange between friends,” said Elladan smoothly.
“And glad I am that you count me as such,” Legolas replied with conviction. “Your powers would worry me greatly, were I not certain that you wish me well.”
“Oh, I wish you well, dear Prince,” said Elladan softly, “Now and always.”
It seemed a long while that they gazed at each other, speaking without words. Legolas felt a drowsy peace slowly settle over him, quieting for a time the ever-present concerns of his heart.
“Do you wonder still why I did not come to you?” he asked at last.
His friend leaned forward and lightly brushed long fingers over the back of Legolas’s hand. “No, beloved cousin, I do not. I understand now that what Imrahil gives to you, I could not; and it is exactly what you need at this stage in your journey. I see many years of joy ahead for the pair of you. Our time, if it is ever to be, is for another age, another place altogether.”
Legolas closed his eyes. Do not say it, he thought. When it is over… He felt the grief well in his breast and Elladan’s fingers close around his own in response.
“You will never be alone,” he heard the peredhel whisper. “Those who watch over us know of your sacrifice. They will not abandon you to sorrow, and nor will those who love you in this life.”
Legolas allowed himself to meditate in silence, secure in the comfort of Elladan’s words and touch. The day would come when he must turn his thoughts to the inevitable end. He knew, however, that he was not yet strong enough to prepare himself for their deaths: the one man to whom his spirit was irretrievably linked; the other who had lately brought such peace to his troubled soul. For now he let the anguished despair ebb away as he listened to the steady murmur of the sea in his mind, and felt his friend’s strength and assurance buoying him up.
As he calmed, it came to Legolas that he had been right to come here to Rivendell, to the one person who could fully understand the baffling complexity of his affections. Later he would talk to Elladan of his feelings for Aragorn and Imrahil, and perhaps his remaining fears would be laid to rest. He would share with the farsighted peredhel his odd, recurrent dream, and might finally learn the truth of it. Even as he thought of it, he heard again the words of the old woman, her strange, slow voice echoing in his head. You did what you did for the greater good, Honey. You’re not expected to suffer for it twice over. Just follow your heart, it won’t lead you astray.
A delicious warmth crept through Legolas as a sure belief in the mysterious woman’s advice grew within him. He felt his features relax into a smile as his eyes opened and met those of Elladan, pools of deep grey wisdom in a face of solemn, moonlit beauty.
“Are you ready to return to your writing?” Elladan asked quietly.
“No, I think not. I have a mind to walk through the trees in the valley, to sing to the Valar under the dawn sky. Would you care to join me?”
“With the greatest of pleasure.” Elladan rose from his chair and leaned down to place a single kiss, cool but tender, on the woodland elf’s forehead.
Legolas likewise stood. “Could you wait for me at the foot of the stairs? I will be but a moment.”
“Of course. Take as much time as you need.” The peredhel raised a hand to touch Legolas’s cheek very briefly, then spun around and slid from the room with barely a rustle of silk.
Legolas moved to the desk and ran his palm across the parchment laid out there, feeling a powerful surge of affection for the remarkable man to whom the letter was addressed.
“When I return,” he said under his breath, “I shall find the words to tell you what a gift you have brought to me. I would be a fool if I did not take every available opportunity to tell you the truth of my heart. I love you, my golden prince.”
“I love you.” The elf repeated the phrase like a charm as his finger lightly traced the shape of Imrahil’s name. He lingered a moment more, then turned from the desk and set off to join his patiently waiting friend.