casualis

Fic: BSSIII - In Mirkwood - Elrohir/Legolas - PG - Part ten

2009-03-23T22:11:19Z

Behind the Shadow of the Soul III: Mirkwood

***

Chapter 10: Temptation

***

Beta: DA the beta Goddess. Thank you so much for your friendship and advice and sorry for my bad grammar.

Pairing: Elrohir/Legolas

Rating: PG

Warning: Slash

Summary: A troop from Imladris is sent to Mirkwood to help Thranduil’s people in their fight against the Shadow. Among them are Elladan and Elrohir. What will happen when the younger twin meet Legolas again?

Disclaimer: In my dreams, they are mine and mine alone. But dreams are dreams, no more.

If you need to re-read the previous chapter, it can be found here:
casualis.livejournal.com/40225.html

If you need to re-read the full story, it can be found at the memory section of LJ or on my website: landsbeyond.freehostia.com

**

I think I'm drowning
Asphyxiated
I wanna break this spell
You've created

You're something beautiful
A contradiction
I wanna play the game
I want the friction

Muse, Time is running out

Legolas inhaled and felt how the muscles of his arm and shoulders failed to work in accord as he struggled to maintain aloofness as the pain grew stronger. Perspiration appeared on his skin and dripped between his bare shoulder blades as he slowly increased the pressure on his bow. It was only when he could take it no more and his arm started to tremble that he finally released his arrow, following its course with the focus of a hawk.

With grim satisfaction, he watched it strike the wooden target and vibrate before stilling. Then he started over, ignoring the pain while knowing what the healers would say if they found him practicing his archery so soon after his recovery. That was why he had chosen this secluded spot in the forest, not far from his father’s grounds for he was no fool to expose himself to danger but far enough away so that he would be left in peace.

Every day since the healers had deemed him strong enough to start using his arm again, he had come to this glade in the forest and practiced for long hours until he could do it no more. He was aware that he was treading a dangerous path where he risked delaying his recovery and the return to his patrol but he was willing to risk it for he was needed back on his patrol in the frontlines where the fate of his realm was fought every day.

The golden-haired Prince carefully stretched his arm, massaging with knowing fingers the bruise that had yet to fade and grimaced as he kneaded a sensitive spot. Deciding that stopping would probably be the most sensible course to take, he approached the target and gazed pensively at his accomplishments of the day. There was no denying the improvement but it was still too feeble to satisfy his impatience.

Yet, it felt good to find himself in the woods after spending so many days imprisoned inside his father’s Halls. A few days ago, the last snow had melted under the warm caress of Anor, chasing away the last tendrils of a winter that had been unusually harsh but also mercifully short. Soon, buds would appear on the branches of the dormant trees and nature would awaken and rejoice. And the Prince’s Sylvan heart could not help but be thrilled.

One by one, he returned his arrows to his quiver after inspecting their sharpened tip and passing a knowledgeable finger the length of their fletching with the delicacy one would handle a precious, breakable heirloom, setting apart those that would need special attention at a later time.

He glanced at the sky and noted that morning was far gone and that too soon he would be expected to hold court at his father’s side, his personal dislike of the task unimportant. The King had been magnanimous enough to grant his request of being discharged of some of the court duty he had been assuming since his forced return to court so that he could resume his training. His father had smiled, not in the least fooled by his son’s reassurance that he would not injure himself, but in the end, permission had been granted and that was all that had mattered. Petition hearings and council sessions were tedious at the best of times for one used to the perpetual thrill of the Southern patrol.

However, he knew that soon he would have to take up a more official role in court as his brothers had done before him. The slow, decaying invasion of the Shadow had delayed this moment since skilled warriors were needed at the borders and not in the soft velvet of court chambers. But with their forces now combined with those of Imladris and the shift of power currently to their advantage, he was cognizant that soon he would be led to spend more time at his father’s side rather than in the wildness of the woods. He accepted it as his duty but did not hide his aversion of it.

Walking to the tree where he had left his belongings, he sat on one of the roots with his back to the bark and felt how the tree welcomed him back while immersing himself in the song of nature. He let his mind wander to the events that had shaken up his life in the past weeks.

Life caged in the palace would have been tedious without his daily visits to the younger Peredhel. At the thought, Legolas smiled in spite of himself. Elrohir’s dislike at being abed was at least equal to his own and he had angered more than one healer with his unruly behaviour. Things had evolved slowly between them but now, he would name the Elf-Lord his friend without any of his initial hesitation. He was eager for the time when Elrohir and he would be able to fight side by side, so that he could also call him his sworn brother-in-arm.

They had first kept their discussion to a very general and impersonal level, like life in their respective realms, history, and poetry. Slowly, Legolas’ doubts and reluctance had eroded, won over by Elrohir’s innate kindness, his genuine smile, and quiet manners. He had been surprised to find that he craved the Elf-Knight’s company and their calm, placid conversations that reminded him of the whispers of the trees. He had found something that had been missing without his awareness: a friend.

It was as though Elrohir knew his need for time and quiet reassurance. There was a kinship between them that could not, would not be denied. Legolas had surprised himself when he had discovered that he actually wanted to open himself to the Peredhel Lord. He had never done that with anyone but with his mother and, to some extent, with his father, instead keeping his own counsel and fiercely guarding his thoughts and his heart.

But Elrohir was different. Everything seemed so natural. As if he knew that the dark-haired Elf would not judge him, but understand and accept him for what he was. He had acknowledged the wisdom of his father’s words. Having someone to confide in, someone to bare his heart without pretention, eased his life and lightened his solitude. For the first time in long, dark centuries, he dared hoping for something good to come.

He had a friend... someone who would understand and make him forget for a few brief, precious moments the clouds of Shadow that smothered the light of their lives.

But he still felt guilty for breaking the oath he had made on the day of his mother’s passing. After spending centuries building a shelter for his heart, a mere month had sufficed to turn him into a perjurer.

But there was something else...something that frightened him in the same time as it made him burn with elation.

He desired Elrohir.

It was nothing like the mild emotion he had previously entertained for others. This was a surge he could not tame to his heart’s reasoning. He could feel it in the tingle of his skin whenever their hands touched, in the rush of blood in his veins whenever he was close to him, in the heavy dreams that had taken hold of his nights. Legolas was no innocent to the feelings he awoke in others and he was too observant not to notice that his friend wanted him with a lust to rival his own.

But he found comfort in the fact that the younger twin had yet to act on that desire. Because he was not sure how he would react if the Elf-Knight approached him as a lover or if he would have the will to push him aside once their passion was fulfilled.

Elrohir was an Elf he could fall for. He was everything the Prince needed and more. And that simple admission made him cower in fear like the weakest of cravens. Love could destroy as much as it could strengthen, could deal him a blow that he would not be able to withstand. Once upon a time, he had sworn never to fall prey to the thralls of romance, never to give anyone that kind of power over him. While he was determined to keep his word, he realized that he would not let go of the Peredhel Lord so easily.

But temptation would soon cease to harass his resolve since the twin sons of Elrond had announced their departure for the land of their mother, bound to escort their noble sister in her journey back to Imladris. As much as this grieved him, he could not help but find himself relieved.

Legolas Thranduilion was nothing but a straightforward, loyal Elf that took pride in facing all kinds of truth, no matter how painful the knowledge or deep the betrayal. But this time, he closed his eyes and avoided looking too deep into the ache of his heart as he pondered the twin siblings’ departure.

Elrohir wandered through the woods, making sure that he did not stray too far from the protected grounds. One never knew the dangers that could creep close to the Wood-Elves’ stronghold and he only wished to enjoy a few moments of well-earned solitude. Elladan’s constant worried stare had started to wear him down and he had taken the opportunity of his twin being invited to partake in a sword joust to slip away unnoticed.

He walked at a leisurely pace, delighting in the simple joy of the caress of the sun on his skin and the unceasing chatter of the birds and squirrels. The air was crisp and fresh and he laughed aloud, pleased with the perfection of the moment as he extended his arms as though to welcome the wind. He breathed in the scent of the forest of pine and earth balanced and the subtle odor reminded him helplessly of his fair Prince of the Woods. Silky golden hair, impeccable alabaster skin, and decadent blue eyes took hold of his senses and he sighed in longing.

Elrohir wondered briefly at his friend’s whereabouts. Forgetting for the moment that he had come to look for solitude, he wished for the Prince’s shining presence. During the long days of his convalescence, he had come to crave Legolas’ daily visits, delighting in the opportunity of coming into contact with him and learning about him.

It had been fascinating to witness the subtle change in his friend’s composure toward him, like the slow blossoming of a winter rose. He had seen him opening up, talking and, finally, smiling in earnest. From what had been left unsaid, the Elf-Knight had guessed how lonely the Sinda Prince had been...by his own choice. He was also aware that he had just been granted a glimpse in Legolas’ life and that he had yet to understand the shadows that sometimes veiled his gaze and the unexpected silences that arose between them. The Prince was a secret upon secret...a mystery unveiled only to reveal another hidden door.

Alas, he had no more time left to unravel the mysteries that so fascinated him. In two days’ time, the twins would leave Mirkwood behind them, riding out for the Golden Woods so that they could escort Arwen safely to their father’s loving arms. While it grieved him to leave his newly found friend behind, he would entrust no one else with his sister’s well-being.

Elrohir sighed as he contemplated his chances of seeing Legolas again. Eventually, they would meet again but he could not help but wonder if this would happen in this century or in this Age. Time would tell, he thought to himself, resigned to his fate.

But then, all thoughts fled his mind as he entered a small secluded glade where the object of his pondering was already springing to his feet to welcome him. He felt his breath catch in his throat as it always did when he met the Prince unprepared.

Elrohir examined the archer as he approached. A glance was enough for him to note the archer was clad only in dark breaches that hugged his powerful legs and lean hips suggestively and fire pooled in his groin with a vengeance. His mind lost track of propriety as he gazed at the Prince’s naked, broad shoulders and taut stomach. With a start, he realized that he was staring and tore his gaze from the Prince’s body to meet his eyes, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

He was thankful that his friend was graceful enough to ignore his predicament and offered him his arm in the traditional warrior greeting with a smile. “Elrohir!”

How much he wanted to pull the Prince’s lean body close to his and bury his hands in the arrogant cascade of golden locks. But he would not. He understood well that Legolas’ lovers were doomed never to be more than a passing fancy, quickly discarded and forgotten and he did not want to become another of those casualties.

He smiled back, not trusting his voice to be steady for the moment, and he grasped the offered hand, trying hard to look unaffected by the archer’s half-nudity.

“What are you doing all alone in the Woods, Son of Elrond?” The Prince’s question was genuinely interested and shook Elrohir from his unavowed contemplation. Sweet Varda! What was he doing?

“I could ask the same question of you, Son of Thranduil,” he retorted as he smirked back. He glanced at the clearing and noted the loveliness of the place and the innate calm that seemed to rule there. He gave voice to his thoughts. “I am enjoying a walk in the spring morning amidst the trees. Tis a lovely glade here, Legolas!”

“Aye,” the Prince agreed as he nodded and pointed to his bow that he had left in the cradle of the tree roots. “This is one of my favorite place for when I want to practice far from prying eyes.”

The Peredhel Lord approached the weapon and ran his hand over the length of the wood. True to his fey nature, he felt the hidden power of the protective spells of the runes carved in the fine grain and was intrigued. “Would you mind if I asked to borrow your mighty bow, Legolas? While my skill lies with the sword, I am proficient enough with a bow. But I have never wielded the lethal bows of the Sylvans and I find myself curious to learn more about them.”

Legolas hesitated for a mere instant before inclining his head in consent. A Sylvan bow was a personal weapon made by and for the warrior that yielded it. Enchantments were sung so that the bow was attuned to its owner’s own music. This was an ancient magic that was older than the Sun and the Moon, going back to a time when stars had been the only rulers of the sky. But Elrohir could not have known that for even though his ancestry was as much Sindarin as Noldorin, there was no doubt he favoured the heritage of the Golodhrim.

He leaned against the tree, his face impassable, and watched in silence as Elrohir fired three arrows in quick, smooth succession. There was no doubt the raven-haired warrior was more than proficient with a bow. However, he was clearly used to a heavier, sturdier wood that required more display of power.

Legolas approached his friend and stilled his next shot by touching his arm. “ Daro! We cannot yield a sylvan bow as you would a Noldorin weapon, mellon,” he explained softly, amazed at the powers the Sylvan and the Mirkwood Sindar took for granted and the Noldor ignored. “You need to be gentler, more balanced. Here, let me show you.”

As he spoke, he corrected the twin’s stance and Elrohir found himself suddenly very cognizant of the proximity of their two bodies. Heat rushed through his veins as golden tresses brushed against his skin and a warm breath tickled his neck. He was aware of the Prince’s continued explanations but the sound was drowned by the beating of his heart.

“Much better.” The Prince’s voice was no more than a whisper, lulling him and trapping him in an uncontrolled spiral of desire. Breathing deeply, the Elf-Knight tried to steady his quivering hand.

“Now, aim and kill.” Elrohir could not have resisted the persuasive order even if he had had a mind to do so. He watched but did not see how the arrow cut through the air and hit the target more gracefully and deadlier than before.

Gathering his spirits, Elrohir turned toward the Prince and managed a weak smile. “Well, I guess that is indeed much better but I will need to practice some more.”

But Legolas did not reply, staring at him with intense azure eyes that were unreadable. For several heartbeats, he did not move, did not seem to breathe as if he had turned into a living statue. Elrohir felt his breath quickening under the strength of that simple gaze and wondered why the Prince had the power to undo him just by looking at him. With a blink, the golden archer came back to life and immediately looked away. Swallowing, he said, “Indeed.”

The younger twin was too sharp to miss the note of nervousness in his friend’s voice and for the first time since he had befriended Legolas, he understood that his desire had found an echo that had been masterfully dissimulated.

Layers of ice upon layers of fire... Mystery upon mystery.

But even with that newly found knowledge, Elrohir would not breach the distance between them to kiss the archer. For he liked him and craved as much the touch of his hand as his company. He enjoyed watching the sun playing in the golden tresses, listening to his melodic laughter, and being dazzled by his bright smile but he preferred their quiet conversations and sober confidences. All of a sudden, he realized that he was slowly and helplessly falling in love. A trap had been set and he had fallen prey to it. If he had wished to veer, it was too late. He was doomed to love this perfect, mysterious being who did not return his feelings.

Legolas berated himself for his attitude, searching for casual words he could not find. As he glanced toward his raven-haired companion, he was assaulted by a feeling of mixed regrets and relief. Somehow, his respect for Elrohir had grown tenfold for he did not believe the younger twin was dupe as to what had come to pass. But he had been noble enough not to act upon it in spite of his own wishes and to protect their friendship from base desires.

He managed a smile that did not reach his eyes as the Elf-Knight handed him his bow with the reverence of an accomplished warrior that knew the value of such a weapon and thanked him for his teaching. He bowed in return. “It was my pleasure to teach you, Elrohir.”

They exchanged a couple of pleasantries but both could feel that their hearts were not really into it. How could they manage casual conversation when all they wanted was to turn on their heels and run away from each other? Or partake in each other’s bountiful charms?

Legolas was the first to bring an end to the masquerade. “Elrohir, I apologize but I am expected in court and it would be unseemly for me to be late.” It was better this way, he reasoned to himself as he left the clearing. He had all the lovers he needed but he only had one friend. Yet, in his mouth lingered the bitter taste of regret for not yielding to the burning fire of his loins.

FIC: BSS III - Mirkwood - Chapter 9

2007-09-18T20:42:26Z

Behind the Shadow of the Soul III: Mirkwood

***

Chapter 9: The paths we take

***

Beta: DA the bestest of betas. Thank you so much, honey.

Pairing: Elrohir/Legolas

Rating: PG

Warning: Slash

Disclaimer: In my dreams, they are mine and mine alone. But dreams are dreams, no more.

***

“There's only now, there's only here. Give in to love or live in fear. No other path, no other way. No day but today.”

Jonathan Larsen

***

Thranduil’s palace, Third Age, year 2610, two days after the attack

Elrohir opened his eyes and felt the urgent need to close them again. So much light! Where did it come from? Blinking and frowning, he tried to adjust to the luminosity to no avail. He decided to seek shelter in the darkness and closed his eyes. Night was much more conciliatory.

It was then that he became cognizant of the irksome hammering of blood against his temples and the roaring headache that would drive him to the brink of madness if it did not cease soon. For some obscure cause, his whole body ached but it was of meagre importance in comparison to the burgeoning pain in his skull.

Wincing, he wished he could sink deeper into the comfortable, yielding mattress and tried to remember how much wine he had ingested to induce a headache of such magnitude. It must have been an epic feast but he found himself unable to recollect naught. Pain seemed to stab through his brain and a helpless groan escaped his lips.

As someone seized his hand, he realized that he did not possess the strength to feel startled. It was unquestionably a bad morning but it suddenly worsened as that someone spoke. “Elrohir?”

The sound of the Elf’s voice seemed to reverberate in his ears and sent his world swirling. He wished he had the courage to ask his visitor to hold his tongue and leave him be. But since he did not open his mouth to chase the Elf away, the other implored to him over again to his dismay. “Elrohir?”

Was it his name that was being called? He could not remember...did not want to, rather. It had to be a misunderstanding and when the intruder realized it, he would leave him to his rest. There was nothing he wished for more than to sleep until the end of Arda and alone, thank you very much.

“Elrohir?”

Truth dawned on him at the same time as annoyance. He recognized Elladan's voice. Couldn’t his twin see that he did not feel like responding and instead sought quietude and rest? He let out a low-toned snarl and hoped that his brother would get his meaning and let him be.

“Elrohir?”

His brother was hopeless. Why was he repeating his name time and again? Yes, he was there. Yes, that was him. And *no*, he had no desire to rouse. Better...he simply refused to. He opened his mouth to give voice to his refusal but found out that his tongue was stuck to his palate.

“Do you hear me?”

Oh, yes, he heard him...way too much for his own liking. His brother had always been the loquacious one.

“Muindoren, open your eyes. Please…”

Elrohir sighed inwardly. He had always asserted that Elladan was the most obstinate of them and his hunch was just proven truthful. Knowing his twin as he did, he was well aware that he had no other choice but to cooperate at some point if he wanted to attain some measure of peace.

It was this knowledge that pushed him to open his eyes and he cringed under the flow of bleary images that assaulted his brain. It took him several long, painful seconds to realize that he was staring at his twin.

He tried to smile in hard-won victory but only managed a sour grimace as a new wave of pain flooded his head. A cold wet cup pressed against his lips as a hand supported his head forward and he groaned once more.

“Drink, brother.” Elladan's thumb caressed his temple gently as though wishing to relieve the pain.

Elrohir opened his mouth to drink and relished in the ecstatic coolness of the water. It dripped the length of his chin and throat but before he had time to raise a hand, Elladan had wiped the liquid away with a soft tissue. He briefly wondered at his brother's worried looks but had no time to ponder those thoughts further as weariness claimed him once again and he drifted into a dreamless slumber.

Thranduil’s palace, Third Age, year 2610, three days later

When Elrohir regained consciousness again, he found out that, while his headache still made him miserable, it had abated to the point of being endurable. He felt better and, as he glanced anxiously at his surroundings, he was relieved to ascertain that they had ceased their savage jig.

Definitely better, he nodded to himself.

He stared at the fresco on the ceilings, the frown that creased his features lending him a grim air. It was a glorious representation of the coming of the Sindar to the Greenwood after they had been driven away by the plundering of Great Doriath. The colors were soft and appeasing, chosen with the care of peaceful concordance. It was a most remarkable painting, which Elrohir was sure he had never beheld before.

He considered this fact for a moment and realized that he could not decipher where he was and how he came to be there. Bewildered at his cluelessness and experiencing a slow rise of apprehension, he scanned his surroundings hastily. The room was small and bare, its walls an immaculate white. Candles burned low on the small table nigh to his bed and their eerie light turned the deep darkness into a comfortable duskiness. Carelessly sprawled on the couch on the opposite side of the room was his twin, sound asleep, his eyes glazed in reverie.

Elrohir slowly sat up on his bed, mindful of his throbbing head as he leaned on his elbow to support the weight of his body. But the sudden motion still sent scorching needles through his brain and he gripped the sheets to keep himself from crying out in pain as his headache bloomed in full. Head bowed, he breathed in deeply to steady the trembling of his weakened limbs before he dared to do so much as look at his beloved brother.

Concern for his twin’s welfare assaulted him as he noticed how exhausted Elladan appeared. Fatigue must have claimed him of a sudden for a book lay on his lap and his right hand rested on the pages. Tale-telling dark circles marred his pale complexion and his sleep-tousled locks looked in dire need of tending.

Elrohir hesitated briefly on rousing Elladan from his much needed rest but his need for his twin proved stronger than his concerns. He leaned over slightly and called his brother. “Elladan.”

He brought his hand to his throat in surprise as his voice came out as a raspy whisper. His eyes narrowed in surprise and he massaged his neck. Stubbornly, he repeated, "Elladan!"

This time, his voice resounded clearly through the room, stronger than intended. The elder twin startled out of his sleep before straightening abruptly, confusion visible in his gray eyes. When Elladan realized that his twin was awake, he stood, oblivious of the heavy volume that tumbled at his feet, and hurried to his brother’s side.

“Muindoren, are you well? You should not sit up so soon.” Elrohir looked at his brother as though he had gone mad. He felt wonderful...save perhaps for his throbbing head. But the relief he saw in Elladan's eyes made him pause. His twin had always been overprotective but he was no nagging mother hen.

Puzzled, he decided that directness was for the best. "I am well. What happened?"

Elladan's features crumpled with remembered anguish. He seized Elrohir's right hand and brought it to his face, pressing his palm against his cheek in despaired contact. "You spent the whole week in a deep, unnatural sleep. You awoke briefly but you never seemed to be aware of your surroundings. Not once did you recognize me." A muted sob made his lips tremble. "The healers told me that you showed signs of coming back to your senses today. Blessed be Loríen who released you from the path of dreams."

The younger twin fell into deep silence, his thoughts spinning in his mind. He tried to push himself to remember what had led to his sleeping so long, ignoring his brother's attempts at settling a pillow behind his neck. But as much as he tried, there was only darkness where the memories should have been.

"I do not remember, Elladan." His brother's hand stilled on the cushion as Elrohir's whispered admission dawned on him.

Elladan read the growing panic in his brother's disoriented gaze and could not prevent his own fear from showing. "What do you mean, you do not remember?"

“I mean what happened!” Elrohir snapped, angry at himself for this sudden outburst but riled with his own inability to recollect the events of the past days. “I did not lose consciousness at the hazard of a corridor!”

The elder twin frowned in dismay, concern drawing deep lines in his usually smooth face. "You do not remember at all?" He cocked his head, mildly hoping for his brother to jest.

“If I tell you so.” Elrohir sighed and passed his hand though his unbraided mane, tucking an unruly strand behind his ear before massaging his scalp.

It was Elladan's turn to sigh. There was no deceit in Elrohir's voice and guilt flared in his heart. He should have sent a messenger to the Vale but he had not dared frighten their father for naught since the healers had assured him that his brother would be well.

Loath to feed the light of worry in his twin's eyes, Elladan opted for a carefree smile and made himself comfortable on the bed. "Blessed Elbereth! This is not the kind of things I will easily forget even though I wish it so. In truth, it will make nightmares out of my dreams for many nights. You do not remember our doomed visit to the Spider's lair?"

Elladan's last words made him pause. The Spider's lair... Elrohir closed his eyes and sought the fleeting memory that had flashed in front of his eyes. He felt so close to remembering that it was frustrating. Then, it came again...a brief image, a strident scream. His eyes snapped open and he bit his cheek as a whirl of memories assaulted him. Arachnids...battle...the Prince!

He faced his brother's scrutiny with deep relief. "What happened? I remember taking Legolas in my arms but then...nothing," he admitted with a sigh.

Elladan sent a wordless prayer of gratitude to the Powers of Arda as he cupped his brother's face in a tender caress. Elrohir remembered what he had witnessed; it was now up to him to fill in the gaps. He smiled as his twin covered his hand with his own. "Before dying, the Queen Spider decided to avenge herself, muindoren. The kiss of her dart sent you in deep, dreamless slumber.” He paused and grasped his brother’s chin to make sure he marked his words. “Never again turn your back on an enemy, Elrohir."

He was too close to ignore Elrohir's shudder of eagerness. “Dying? You mean… I defeated her?”

By Manwë...There was definitely a tinge of childish satisfaction in his brother's voice. But glad as he was to find his brother whole and well in the end, Elladan did not find it in himself to reprimand him more. “Aye." His smile turned mischievous and he whispered as if in confidence, "I cannot help but wonder who is the most unpredictable of us, Elrohir. People say I am but they have for sure never witnessed what you are capable of."

Recognizing an impending verbal joust, Elrohir leaned against the comfort of his pillows and crossed his arms on his chest in a sarcastic display, refusing to give in under the pretext of his being sick. "Of course I am the most unpredictable, Elladan," he admitted with false honesty. He bit back a fit of pained laughter as he saw his brother's unconvinced expression and he added, "Everyone knows that when there is trouble, you will be the first to charge at it."

Elrohir burst into boisterous laughter that sent his world spinning. Elladan raised his eyes to the ceiling in a mock imploration to the Valar and shook a falsely threatening finger in his twin's direction. "I am not the one abed, muindoren."

The two brothers stared at each other in silence, their gray eyes challenging. But Elrohir was the first to avert his gaze, acknowledging that he would lose this battle of volitions that day. Deeming it wiser to divert the course of the conversation, he voiced the first thought that crossed his mind and regretted it immediately when his twin's features became smug. "How is the Prince?"

“Your little crush?” Elladan felt immensely proud of himself when his brother blushed. "He is as pretty as the last time you saw him but the battle did not leave him unscathed. His right arm is broken." He smiled then with that suave air of his which tended to infuriate Elrohir. "Do you know he came every day to inquire about your well-being?"

Elrohir did his best not to look overly interested. Trying to sound humble and detached, he refused to hope and instead vouched for the most likely reason. "Well, I took his place as recipient of the Queen’s wrath. He is only demonstrating a gracious temperament."

But Elladan would have none of it. Bantering, he swept away his twin's arguments with a light gesture of his hand. "Such reserve does not suit you, Elrohir. You are a true hero in Mirkwood now and..."

He never had the chance to finish as a pillow landed on his face, prompting him to stop. "I swear to you that I shall get you for this, brother," Elrohir threatened before leaning in fatigue against his pillows.

But instead of seeming devastated at the announcement of brotherly revenge, Elladan made a face that showed clearly what he thought of it before throwing the pillow back at him. Twining his hands together, he stretched like a lazy feline and snuggled against his brother.”As soon as they realized that their Queen had fallen, the remainder of the Spiders fled the nest, leaving some of us to clean their foulness while others took you, your Prince, and the rest of the wounded back to the Palace.”

“He is not my Prince.”

The younger twin’s voice betrayed his annoyance as much as the glare he directed at his brother. But Elladan chose to dismiss it blatantly. His face half buried in the quilted coverlet, he murmured in a yawn, “It is a detail, vanimaer...just a detail.”

Before Elrohir had time to threaten his twin with the torments of Mordor, someone knocked twice and he had to satisfy himself with glowering at his brother’s back as Elladan rose to his feet to welcome the visitor.

As his brother opened the door and welcomed the visitor with the ease of an old acquaintance, Elrohir spared a glance at the room entryway and grimaced at the sight of the golden-haired archer they had been so thoughtlessly discussing. Smiling feebly, the Elf Knight nodded in greeting at the Prince’s casual entrance. A gracious smile was directed at him and Legolas exclaimed with deep satisfaction, "At last, he has awoken! Your ordeal distressed us greatly, Lord Elrohir…your brother none the least.”

Entranced by this new kind regard, Elrohir could only fall anew under the spell of the fair Elf’s warm words. The enchantment was dashed abruptly as the deep blue gaze he craved so much turned toward Elladan. “How does he fare?”

The question was enough for him to dispel the remnants of his awestruck stillness for, as any Elf of great temperament, the younger son of Elrond had little love for those rare moments when people acted as though he was made of the same invisible garments as a forest spirit. “I am quite well, Prince Legolas. I thank you for the concern you show me.” He took care not to betray his mild annoyance. His reward was another luminous smile before Legolas turned to Elladan once more.

“I would ask a boon of you, Lord Elladan, if I may be so bold.”

Elladan reacted to this with the worldliness that was expected of him but his brother could tell how intrigued he was by the Sinda’s request. “Of course, Prince Legolas. If it is in my power to do so, I would be honoured to be of help.”

The golden Elf’s face suffused slightly, testament of the predicament he was experiencing, but his flush only enhanced his comeliness in Elrohir’s eyes. “I would like to converse for some moment with your brother...alone.”

At these words, the Elf Knight’s chest constricted with ebullient panic. For weeks and months, he had indulged in the fantasy of a private meeting with Legolas far from the crowds that usually surrounded such an event. But as he watched his brother nod his assent and leave, he realized that it was a speech he was unprepared for and wished he could bury himself beneath the silk coverlet and feign unconsciousness like a craven.

What would he say to this son of the Woods? He could not speak his admiration and his infatuation anymore than he could indulge in small talk. He had so many things he wished to say but words seemed to fail him. His famed honeyed tongue had fled him and never had he felt as close to a swooning, love-struck Elfling approaching his first love.

It suddenly occurred to him that silence had arisen between his regal visitor and him, awkward and heavy with tension. He glanced at the Prince, who had approached the couch. In the half-darkness, he could make out the flaxen Elf's well defined features: the noble edge of his jaw, the wilful chin, and the silk-like cascade of his glorious hair. Once more, his beauty stole Elrohir’s breath away. Little did he know that his indecision was mirrored in the Prince’s hesitation.

They stood a few feet apart from each other, but never had Legolas felt so removed from anybody. He was aware that the proper thing would be to thank the son of Elrond for the courage of his acts. The blond Sinda lowered his eyes and lost himself in the sight of his bound arm. Without this Elf’s bravery, the injuries he had sustained would have been more grievous.

The words were simple enough but he could not bring himself to utter them.

When he had woken from his shock induced slumber and had learned of the younger brethren’s deeds, he had first been surprised then angered…truly and deeply angered at an Elf who did not know him and thought his life more important than his own by endangering himself to save the Prince. He was angry at the thoughtless act that alienated his claim to righteous indifference.

Of all the Elves present, why had it been Elrohir that had had to save him from death’s clutches? He almost wished it had not come to pass.

Almost...

It was so simple and yet, so complicated. He was torn between what he wished and what he should wish for...between the past and the future, the easiness of habit and the uncertainty of a new path. He had planned too many possibilities, thought too much of this meeting, and it had left him exhausted. He was standing at a crossroad, hesitant and afraid and wishing that this scion of Eärendil was still deeply asleep. As he dismissed the idea as being unworthy of him, he nonetheless knew it to be true.

Gathering his courage, he spoke. “I would like to thank you for your help, Lord Elrohir. People told me that, without your courage, I would be abiding in the Halls of Mandos…”

As he spoke, he realized his voice sounded alien, so unlike his own. He sounded contemptuous and ungrateful, so he stopped abruptly. He glanced to see how far he had offended his raven saviour, knowing from tale-telling tongues how feisty and prone to umbrage the two sons of Elrond were. Elrohir’s face was blank but his shadowed gray eyes showed how hurt he was.

Despairing over this unseemliness of his, Legolas sighed and covered his mouth with his hand. “Elbereth, what is wrong with me,” he spat before turning toward the bedded twin. He took a step in Elrohir’s direction as he elucidated with his fist on his chest to emphasize his honesty. “I am sorry if my words did not convey my feelings of gratitude for you. I guess indebtedness has never been a feeling I have known how to deal with. Will you forgive me?”

Elrohir looked at the Prince, bewildered by the unexpected change in the Sinda. Legolas’ tone had discouraged him more than they had offended and this sudden reversal of character left him stunned. They stared at each other for several seconds as the Prince awaited his decision of forgiveness or enmity and once more, the Elf Knight sensed the duality of Legolas’ nature.

It was as though a piece of sky had entered his soul and fed his desperate hopes. While his words warned him away, his eyes were like a silent petition for understanding and acceptance. Elrohir instinctively knew that Legolas hid several other things behind the mask of indifference that he never let go.

But he had seen beyond the facade, seen the fire behind the veil and had burnt himself with its flame. He came to realize that the more he worked to learn, the less he knew the Prince and had discovered that what he thought true was wrong. His golden Sinda was a mystery that he would unravel one day.

He only needed time and of this he had plenty.

Feeling steadier in this new certainty, Elrohir reached out tentatively for the Prince. “There is naught to forgive, my Prince, and there is no debt to be reckoned.” A soft sigh was the only sign of the archer’s relief and the younger twin smiled as he heard it. “Sit and tell me,” Elrohir gestured Legolas into the armchair. ”How is your arm?”

“It is broken at the level of the shoulder, but it is not irreparable. Yet, it will be about two or three weeks before I would be able to wield my bow and resume leading my patrol.”

Feeling the palpable change in the younger Elf’s voice - softer and less distant - Elrohir followed his attempt at conversation on the neutral ground that was military matters. “Who will lead the patrols, then?”

Much more comfortable with that discussion than with any other, the blond Elf relaxed slightly in his seat before answering. His voice was quiet, making sure it betrayed none of the disappointment and annoyance he was feeling. “My brother Sailacel… Or, I suppose so. My King Father has not yet made his decision known to me.”

Time passed by quickly as they spoke to each other for the first time since they met, each feeling more relaxed in the other’s presence with every minute that went by. Elrohir would remember this moment for a long time after it came to an end, a memory to be cherished and stored for future dream and contemplation. Too soon for his taste were they interrupted as a knock on the door sounded, which in all likelihood was an announcement of Elladan’s return.

Legolas smiled and stood up. “I surmise that it is time to take my leave. I fear I have bothered you for too long. I just hope that you will harbour no grudge against me for tiring you so, Elrohir.”

“You did no such thing, Legolas,” the Elf Knight reassured him truthfully. “I was most happy to speak with you.”

Elrohir watched his companion depart impassively, which belied his furiously beating heart. As the Prince reached for the doorknob, he called out, “Legolas?”

“Aye?”

“I would have your friendship if you would have mine. I...” His sudden resolution waning, he stammered, “I-I really enjoyed your company today.”

He watched anxiously as the archer seemed to hesitate with his hand still on the doorknob. Legolas glanced at him, an indecipherable look in his eyes and it seemed to Elrohir that the world had suddenly become dark and hopeless. But what he feared never came to pass.

“And I enjoyed your company, Elrohir. I would like us to be friends.” With those words and a last worried smile, the younger Prince of Mirkwood left the room, leaving a bemused Elf Knight to his gentle twin’s care.

TBC…

Everything is in order

2007-07-27T03:32:37Z

The lady acknowledged it was not my car that did the damage. The scratch on the bumper was caused by a plate and mine was too high to do that (I own a Pontiac and their plates appear to be pushed in the trunk).

I am so relieved that I opened a nice bottle of Pinot Blanc from Artesa to celebrate. That wine is simply marvellous. Many thanks to Larien who made me discover this winery.

Cheers !
Cas

BSS III - Chapter 8 - The Spider's Lair - Elrohir/Legolas - PG

2007-07-03T22:52:58Z

Behind the Shadow of the Soul III : Mirkwood

Beta: DA the bestest of betas. Thank you so much, honey.

Pairing: Elrohir/Legolas

Rating: PG

Warning Slash

Summary A troop from Imladris is sent to Mirkwood to help Thranduil’s people in their fight against the Shadow. Among them are Elladan and Elrohir. What will happen when the younger twin meet Legolas again?

Disclaimer In my dreams, they are mine and mine alone. But dreams are dreams, no more.

Old fat spider spinning in a tree!
Old fat spider can't see me!
Attercop! Attercop!
Won't you stop,
Stop your spinning and look at me!

Tolkien, The Hobbit

Chapter 8: The Spider’s Lair

The air smelled of blood and exertion Elrohir decided as he tried to spit away the copper taste on his tongue. Around him, the Elven swords of his companions sang their whispered, deadly symphony as they swept down the shrieking Spiders and his steps followed its notes as effortlessly as if he was waltzing in his Lord Father's Halls.

The Elf Knight's face was grim as he lifted his heavy blade and brought it down on the hairy back of a Spider. The fight burst into cacophony and more of the dark creatures seemed to pour into the clearing, the clicking sounds of their claws unendurable and seemingly endless. The arachnids' curses left his head spinning as though he had indulged in too much of the sweet, golden wine he craved so much. It was chaos and Elrohir felt like laughing hysterically. If it was not, it was a good foretaste of it then.

He winced as dark, viscous blood streaked his face and blinded him. But he did not attempt to wipe away the loathed substance. Listening to his instincts, he took a step back and speared the crawling shape that tried to bypass him on the left.

He screamed then, fury and frustration incensing him. Cursing and spitting, he emptied his lungs and his mind as he ended the miserable life of another creature with great chopping blows.

Spiders were resilient animals. Protected by several layers of thick skin, their bodies withstood most of the Elves' blows. Every time his steel hit one of the Spiders, the hide would cleave and crackle ignominiously but without so much as drawing blood. He had to strike again and again until the arachnid collapsed onto the ground in a convulsion of limbs.

But the carapace grew thin around their necks or abdomens and the archers did a thorough job of aiming their arrows to those parts. However, when the creatures grew too close, the warriors had little choice but to confront them with swords and spears.

Elrohir swung his blade in an arc as his eyes noticed how it cut effortlessly through the abdomen but his mind was lost to his surroundings. He was no longer cognizant of what he did, his gestures mechanical and unusually graceless.

Raise your blade. Let it fall. Step aside or back away. Never stay in the same place lest the spiders surround you. He whispered the nursery-rhyme-like chorus that he had learned as a novice, letting himself be absentmindedly guided by the words of wisdom of his long gone tutors.

Elrohir slowly grew tired of this lethal but repetitive dance, feeling more and more acutely the pull of his exhausted limbs. He wondered briefly what Mordor looked like before recalling Vanyacar's words. He scowled while stepping away from a Spider that had come too close and beheaded it with a forceful swing of his sword. How he disliked it when others' ignored counsel proved veracious!

He paused, his chest heaving, but his respite proved short-lived for the onslaught of arachnids only grew more forceful. The Spiders were everywhere. No matter how many he slew, it seemed that they were only more numerous by the minute.

The Elf warrior brushed against his twin’s back, drawing courage from the familiar and comforting presence. They had fought thus for several centuries, relying on each other to cover for their weaknesses and mistakes. When they engaged in battle, Elladan’s arm became an extension of his hand; the steel of his brother’s sword another blade Elrohir wielded. When they fought, they became one; their joined strength formidable and their skills redoubtable.

That was why he knew without looking that his brother’s stance was less straight, the strength of his blows sapped by fatigue.

A scream caught his attention and he watched helplessly as a Mirkwood warrior fell a few feet away from him, overwhelmed by the superior force of the dark mass that surrounded him. He averted his eyes as their wicked claws tore at his living flesh with glee. It was not long before his voice faded into the surrounding pandemonium.

"I suggest...that we move...on the left...muindoren." Elladan's voice was strained by the fight. Elrohir complied without bothering to reply but wondered nonetheless where his brother gathered the strength to string words into sentences in such circumstances. He would have satisfied himself with an unpolished but less breath consuming "Left!"

Elrohir's foot encountered a root and he stumbled away from his twin, their protective association suddenly broken. He hastened backward to close the gap between Elladan and himself but his blood turned to ice as something that was not supposed to be there slid against his shin. As he glanced down, his heart stopped in his chest at the sight of the arachnid that was biting forcefully in the leather of his high boots. Panic began to build, darkening his vision, dulling his reason, and he had to restrain himself from lashing out at the arachnid. He shook his leg wildly, the screams of the fallen warrior all too vivid in his mind.

The Spider crashed to the ground with a shrill scream and, before it could regain its footing, the Elf Knight drove his blade in its abdomen with relieved rage.

But it was not over, for still too many Spiders stood between himself and his beloved brother. He tried to force his way into the malignant herd but was compelled to relent in front of the dark wave that surrounded him. He uttered another profanity as he swung at one more dark body and decided that salvation would only be found in retreat. In such close quarters combat he had no hope of prevailing.

Gathering his wits and his courage, he kicked the closest Spider and sent it rolling in the dark crowd. Using their distraction, he broke away from the malevolent circle and ran in the direction of the trees where the archers were perched, drawing strength from the disturbing knowledge of the presence of the cursed creatures on his heels. He almost crashed into a tree and faced the battlefield with his back against its bark, breathless but glad that he had made it.

But none of the Spiders had followed him as though they had turned their treacherous attention from one prey to another.

'Muindoren, where are you?' Elrohir raked his surroundings with anxious eyes for his brother, guilt gnawing at his heart for letting himself be separated from his twin. If aught had befallen Elladan...

But his concerns proved groundless as his twin appeared hale and whole in spite of his being at grips with a stubborn Spider. When his opponent was dispatched, their gazes crossed and Elrohir felt his brother’s relief echoing his own.

In unspoken agreement, they were able to resume fighting back to back, cautious not to be divided again. Around them, some archers dropped to the ground, forsaking their empty quiver for the sword.

As time went by, hope budded anew in the Elf Knight's heart as he noticed that the number of their foes was dwindling significantly. But his expectations were short-lived as the Spiders suddenly backed away in an abrupt and sloppy mess, leaving the Fair Folk to wonder at their unforeseen retreat.

The malevolent creatures lined up at the entrance of the lair, their crimson eyes gleaming with gall, their silence odd and threatening. None of the warriors endeavoured to follow them as they knew the folly of approaching the threads of the nets.

If one would have walked in on the scene, they would have thought the strange gathering a farce. The Firstborn and the Spiders seemed to defy each other, poised for the kill but all waiting for the other to dare the first move.

The silence was broken by a sound that froze every Elf to his very core. The web was playing an extravagant melody, not unlike an ill-chorded violin in the hands of a child. Reality dawned on them as fierce as thunder.

Elladan and Elrohir stood side by side, their dark tresses soaked in blood, their eyes fixed on the oscillating web. The net had vibrated slightly when the Spiders had first come out of the nest but not as much as it was now. Whatever it was, it was nearing and it was large.

"What is that?" Elrohir's voice was barely more than a whisper but he could not hide his growing apprehension from his brother.

For a brief moment, Elladan seemed to ponder the answer he would offer, so when he finally spoke, his words were deadly serious. “We are in a Spiders’ nest, Elrohir. What do you think will come out?”

The younger twin breathed in deeply, his mind refusing even to imagine what kind of monstrosity could make a web sing beneath its weight. All too soon, imagination was not needed as the greatest Spider he had ever encountered emerged from the den.

The Queen of the colony landed on the ground with a furious snarl, her crooked claws drawing holes in the dry land. She was at least thrice as large as her pawns, her eight limbs as long as young trees, her pale abdomen swollen and slack. Her head that was surmounted by two distorted horns shone with deep soulless eyes. At the sight of her, the Elf Knight’s mouth suddenly went dry.

She turned her burning gaze on the Firstborn as though to assess the situation and expressed her annoyance by opening her mouth and letting her greenish saliva melt in a puddle with the dust. The stink of her breath was almost unbearable, the ghost of her malice suffocating.

The younger twin wondered briefly if the fabled Ungoliant had been as frightful as this Spider, her eyes shining with such hatred as she had suckled on the light of Aman. He remembered then what he had been told. With the Queen defeated, her breed would flee the nest.

'Wonderful,' he thought while steadying his hands and bracing himself for the attack of the monster. One more Spider to kill and then they would go back to the Fortress, which was without doubt the best part of the day.

But the Spider Queen had not yet determined to attack the intruders. She glared at the Elves, digging her long pointed claws in the ground as though she could have them disappear by the sole power of her dark will.

However, the warriors had no intentions of waiting meekly for her to ravage their ranks. Never would they fawn in her shadow. Hers would be the first blood to flow. The Mirkwood rallying cry sounded from the trees as an arrow was released.

“For Greenwood! Death to that Spider!”

A volley of arrows followed the call but few were those that pierced the thick hide of the creature. The Spider hissed horrendously as the projectiles impacted with her body. Elrohir realized in surprise that none of them had managed to draw blood.

But he had little time to ponder this as the affronted Queen chose to charge at them in retaliation, followed by some of her vociferous spawns. This was the final stand, Elrohir thought with fervour as he decapitated one of the smaller arachnids.

A hideous shriek caught his attention and he rounded just in time to glimpse a daring Elf that had leapt from the shelter of the trees to the back of the Dark Beast and was attempting to ride her as others would a reticent mount. Roaring fear gripped the younger twin’s chest as he became aware of whom the foolhardy warrior was exactly.

Legolas.

The Elf Knight sensed rather than saw the new attack of a Spider on his left and he pivoted slightly to dispose expeditiously of the animal. A fervent prayer arose in his heart, 'A Elbereth Gilthoniel...'

As if in a dream, he watched from the corner of his eyes as the Queen’s struggles increased to rid herself of the nuisance. Though exemplary, the Prince’s balance failed him on the smooth back of the Beast. Elrohir could see how the long knives Legolas held in his hands hindered his progression but he knew the Prince would not relinquish them for those were his only weapons.

Elrohir was fighting intermittently, unable to disregard the combat that raged between the Prince and the Queen Spider. He struck at any of the arachnids that imperilled his life or his brother’s but his eyes would always stray toward the reckless warrior that intended to take down such a foe by himself.

The younger twin watched Legolas straddling the neck of the Dark Beast with his long, powerful legs and held his breath as the Prince raised his knives to strike at a glowing red eye. But at the last possible moment, the Queen Spider destabilized her fierce rider. Elrohir’s stomach churned in anguish and he cried in denial, "No!"

But the Prince did not fall as he relinquished his blades to grasp at the Arachnid’s horns. Weaponless, there was nothing Legolas could do but endure the waves of the Spider’s fury. Acting on instinct more than reason, Elrohir ignored his twin’s outcry and snatched a spear that lay on the ground forsaken by his previous owner before springing towards the Queen Spider to fling the spear at the Prince. But as he readied himself only a few yards away from the dangerous claws, Legolas suddenly let go and landed on his side with a loud thud.

Several thoughts crossed the Elf Knight’s mind as he stood still, unable to react as the malicious Arachnid turned her attention on her forlorn rider that had passed out. He was the only one that could do something for Thranduil's younger son.

The Dark Beast approached the unconscious warrior, glowering at him while her stinking saliva splattered the Prince. She raised one of her legs, intent on piercing his chest and terminating his life. Coming back to himself, Elrohir took advantage of the lowered head to charge.

The sharpened steel of the weapon bit through the eye of the Spider and, as he felt skin and flesh give way, he pressed the spear with all the strength he had left and felt the bone cracking under the pressure. As the Arachnid reared back shaking her head with pain and frenzy, he let go of the weapon and ran to Legolas to bear him as far as possible from the battlefield. Ignoring the screams of the Dark Beast, he stooped to gather the Prince in his arms.

But he did not get up again. Suddenly, darkness overtook him and he knew no more.

TBC...

BSS III - Chapter 7 - The Captain- Elrohir/Legolas - PG

2007-06-06T22:47:54Z

Behind the shadows of the Soul III: Mirkwood

Author: Casualis ( Casualis2000@yahoo.fr )

Beta: DA, the bestest of betas !!

Pairing: Elrohir/Legolas

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: In my dreams, they are mine and mine alone. But dreams are dreams, no more.

Chapter 7: The Captain

Legolas edged his way through the darkness of the woods, his steps swift and silent. He halted next to a tree he had spotted earlier and scanned his surroundings, his keen hearing picking up the distant sounds of the forest. Pain flared in his heart as he took in the devastated landscape: the sturdy yet distorted trees, the emaciated bushes, the scarce grass that covered the arid ground. But he pushed all of that away in his mind. It was not the time for mourning, but for revenge.

Deciding that danger had yet to arise, the Prince turned toward his companions who were crouched in the shadows and waved them onward. Moving figures passed by him as silent and graceful as the spirits that were said to dwell in the forest of Mirkwood and he made sure that none stayed behind.

He looked around once more with his head high and proud as he turned his face to the breeze, making his hair fly. Once he was sure nothing had followed them, he ran to catch up with his patrol. One did not survive long in Mirkwood without growing suspicious of every move of the trees and Legolas was no exception. A patrol had spotted wargs in that area the day before and a fight with Sauron's dark wolves would unsettle their careful plans.

Finding wargs so close was nothing unexpected, only untimely. The freshness of Fall had given way to the chill of Winter only a few weeks ago and this year the cold season promised to be long and harsh. Temperatures had drastically decreased in the space of a few days and snow littered the ground, making it impossible for them to cover their tracks.

The woods had taken on their winter shades, depriving most of the animals of their food, which encouraged them to sleep or travel to milder climates. Prey had become scarce for the wargs and hunger made them even bolder than usual. If one of the dark beasts picked up their trail, it would follow them mercilessly and compromise their silent approach.

Contrary to wargs, spiders did not know the winter hardships of hunger. Pernicious and merciless, they paralyzed their quarry and kept them alive in the prison of their nests to be eaten alive when hunger arose. Too many of Legolas' people had known such an unfortunate fate. When it came to feasting, Mirkwood's arachnids were not picky.

Legolas kept on leading the warriors forward and stopped only to make sure that they were not followed. As they approached the dreaded nest, the air grew heavy and bitter. The stench of death seemed to weave its web through the limbs of the trees, heavy and suffocating, and lingered on the ground like the fog on a swamp, choking the spirit of the land and corrupting its beauty.

Nature had long fled this place. The trees were threatening in their silence and quiet anger arose in the Wood Elves' hearts at this new outrage from the Shadow.

Suddenly, Legolas came to a halt and gazed in mild wonder and repulsion at the great web that shut the road. Long silken threads twined around the trees and knotted in intricate designs. He had seen and destroyed spider webs before but never one so big and intricate. This was not a trap, but a fence woven to protect the heart of the nest.

For several seconds, none of them moved as if they were lost in contemplation of what awaited them. Deep malevolence emanated from the den so strong that the Elves felt it coiling around their inner light and battling against their very feä. Yet none would have denied the fascination they felt. In spite of its evil, it was beautiful. It captured what little light that seeped through the foliage and reflected it through the darkness, causing it to glow brightly. Yes, it was beautiful like a deformation of the Valar's blessed work or a monstrous exaggeration of what should be magnificent in its extravagance and monstrous nature.

Snapping out his reverie, Legolas ordered the warriors to deploy with a simple gesture. One by one, the Elves disappeared, melting into the numerous shadows.

Archers were posted in the trees that were untouched by the nest. Most of them were Wood Elves and their skill with the bow was unsurpassed by the Imladrin warriors. On the ground at a safe distance from the nest and protecting the archers was the rest of the troop positioned in a perfect half-circle. Their hands clutched their swords or spears firmly since knives were too short to keep the arachnids at bay.

Breathing deeply to contain his nervousness, Legolas closed his eyes for a brief moment. He suddenly threw his head back and let out a call. It resounded against the trees before fading slowly into silence. One of the archers drew his bow and stilled himself, his eyes narrowed in deep concentration. The arrow he released flew above the ground troops’ heads with a whistle and embedded itself in a distorted tree, where it vibrated from the strength of the shot.

From where they stood, the Elves could see the net quivering in rhythm with the arrow. Holding their breath, they waited for the spiders to come, their stillness born from apprehension as well as centuries of training.

Legolas sang to himself as time passed at an excruciatingly slow rate and his world narrowed to that place and the moment. The ritual prayer to the ancient spirits of Greenwood rolled on his tongue in sweet familiar tones, strengthening his resolve and raising his spirits. They would be victorious and clean this part of the woods from the Shadow that fed on the forest spirits, the Prince swore to himself.

He allowed himself a moment of inattention and glanced over his shoulder. He could feel the tension rising in his warriors and understood them. No one knew how many foes the nest sheltered. It might be a hundred...it might be more. All the Elves there knew that many of them would never go home again but all of them faced the path of death with honor and resolve. As Legolas met their unwavering eyes, he felt proud to lead such warriors to battle.

His gaze fell on two identical faces and he forced himself not to linger more than he should. Scarce were the times that his path had crossed the sons of Elrond for he had avoided them on purpose, fearing meeting Elrohir again. 'Too much is at stake,' he reminded himself. 'You need to think clearly.'

And thinking clearly was something he could not do when this scion of the House of Eärendil was so close to him. No one had ever looked at him as Elrohir did. It was if Elrohir was touching his soul and opening a new window of possibilities. No one had ever frightened him so. In a simple glance, Elrohir had overthrown centuries of habits and made him want things he had never before.

The younger son of Thranduil had always been a solitary soul. Few had been his companions in his youth and fewer had been his friends for he had always preferred the company of trees, often seeking shelter in their dense foliage and immersing himself in their songs. His mother had been the only person whose presence he had always sought.

Her death had changed his way of seeing the world, casting a shadow of gloom on his youth. For long months, his father had mourned, unable to cope with her passing and the Shadow had grown unhindered in Greenwood, strengthening its hold on the land.

It was then that Legolas had decided that his first duty would ever be to the Wood Realm. He had fought his grief by enclosing himself in a life of habits and solitude, swearing that he would never feel such anguish again even if it meant never growing close to anyone.

That had been centuries ago and for centuries he had guarded his soul from others.

Until now...

He could still remember the first time they had met...how frightened he had been. But once he had returned home, he had wondered how it would have been to let the younger twin approach him and to have someone who knew him as he was really, would not need him to be strong every minute of life, and who he could rely upon.

After journeying to Imladris, he had realized how much loneliness weighed on him and that looking at the raven-haired Elf had made his burden seem even heavier. Legolas knew the Peredhel desired him. Even if he had always denied others the right to touch his heart, he was no innocent to the pleasures of the flesh.

His lovers were countless, male and female alike, who shared his bed for a night of warmth and passion but never more. His dalliances were always fierce and short-lived, an unspoken agreement between his lovers and him. He had all but forgotten about compassion and love a long time ago. He knew the whispers that haunted the court but he dismissed them. Sometimes shining eyes or lascivious smiles would catch his fancy and he would allow himself to forget the tense situation of the Kingdom for some hours. However, dawn was always there to remind him of his duty.

But Elrohir's eyes were different. What he saw in them was as distant from lust as winter was from summer. It appealed to him with a persistence that he could not fathom and it made him wonder about how it would be to let the younger twin approach him.

Legolas shook his head, displeased with himself. It was not the best moment to entertain such thoughts. A low whistle sounded as though to demonstrate how true that was and halted his heart in his chest.

The nest was vibrating.

An imperceptible wave was slowly spreading over the length of the threads, its strength increasing with each second. ‘Something is nearing,’ Legolas thought, grim with the thought of the upcoming fight. He firmed his grasp on his bow as his pulse pounded at his temples.

When three dark shapes appeared, the archers braced their bows as one, arrows pointed in the spiders' direction. But the arachnids' advance was excruciatingly slow as their long claws gripped the web with caution, their red eyes glowing in the dark.

Legolas glanced at the warriors behind him, willing them to remember that this shot was his alone to make. The arrow he released hit one of the great shapes and sent it rolling on the ground with a screech. But the spider was soon silenced as a second arrow from the Prince found its way to its neck.

"Do not move! Let them flee!" The Prince raised his voice in command, reminding the troop that they had to wait for the spiders to come to them.

And flee the two remaining spiders did, leaving in their wake a flow of imprecation and curses. Soon, the whole colony would know that they were there. But the Elves did not move.

Fic: BSS III - chapter 6 - PG13

2007-05-16T19:33:28Z

Behind the Shadows of the Soul III : In Mirkwood

Chapter 6: Bath Time

Author: Casualis ( Casualis2000yahoo.fr )

Beta: DA the Magnificent, Queen of Grammar and Goddess of commas !

Pairings: Elrohir/Legolas

Rating: PG-13

Warning: None

Disclaimer: In my dreams, they are mine and mine alone. But dreams are dreams, no more.

A/N: My deepest apologies for the time it took for me to update this story. I suffered a severe writer’s block and Real got in the way also. I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless. I promise the next update will be coming fast.

The palace became calm as the hour grew late. ‘The Caverns,’ Elrohir corrected himself inwardly as he made his way through the sequence of rooms. The previous hall looked much like the following one and at first he had been surprised by the amazing architecture of the underground castle.

Well…castle was not the most appropriate word. It was so much more than a royal residence since it hosted a great part of the Mirkwood population.

The King of Mirkwood and his sons lived in an isolated wing of the palace while the councillors lived in another one. Scholars, scribes, and healers were lodged somewhere in the western area and the rest of the household occupied the deepest levels. Only some warriors along with a few craftsmen had chosen to live outside the wooden hill but their houses were generally not far away from the secure area.

In his opinion, the castle of Mirkwood was not unlike a giant ants' nest. Long corridors seemed to sink into the depths of the earth and there were unceasing crossings where the innocent wanderer could not help but become lost. 'An ants’ nest with its established hierarchy,' the younger twin nodded to himself as he neared the lower levels and crossed the path of a young maiden, who bowed deeply at his passing. The twins had wondered every now and then on if the Wood Elves had an extraordinary sense of orientation that was completely alien to their poor Noldorin senses or that, after a few millennia of being lost, they might also grow accustomed to the maze of corridors and linked rooms.

Privately, he knew it hopeless. He was not sure he would ever remember the way to the stream that flowed through the lower levels. But it would not be by lack of practice. Elladan and he had taken to bathing in the river when the others were sleeping. It was a way for them to have the intimacy that they were so fond of to share their thoughts of the day.

A smile came to Elrohir’s lips as he realized that if he managed to reach the common baths, he was not sure he would find Elladan there. He shook his head with merriment and pushed away the strands that came into his eyes. If he became lost again, he would have to ask his way from one of the guards that were posted at various intersections.

Two months had passed since they had arrived in the realm of Mirkwood and it felt like it was just the other day to him. Between the days spent with the patrols and those spent in council meetings with the King and his advisors, he had not seen the time flow away.

Patrolling Mirkwood was much more different than patrolling Imladris. The patrols were bigger – twenty to twenty-five warriors – and led them much farther away from the borders than he had expected. At first, they had focused their efforts toward the immediate surroundings of the royal domain. He had fought Orcs and Wargs so close to the grounds that he still shuddered at the thought.

The Imladris’ Elves had learned soon that one did not fight in a forest as one did in the plains. There in Mirkwood, trees were as much a constraint as a shelter and he had learned why the archers were so prized in Mirkwood. The forest was a challenge he had yet to master.

He had fought Orcs and Wargs before and had thought himself a seasoned warrior. But a new respect had arisen in him for the Mirkwood’s warriors when he had faced the full strength of the Shadow for the first time. The Orcs were different from those that he had come to expect. Bold and cunning, they did not fear much and attacked viciously. They were organised and demonstrated a strategy that he had always thought alien to them. To fight them, the Elves would retreat to the trees and attack with arrows, pushing them towards carefully laid traps. Close combat took place as a very last resort.

It might be safer but somehow, such tactics deprived him of what he craved and needed: the excitement of the fight and the satisfaction of the kill. His thirst for revenge could not be appeased by keeping his sworn enemy at distance. He needed to see the spark of life fading from the soulless eyes...to feel his sword enter the flesh. People could think him mad but he did not care. Revenge was gnawing at his guts and screamed for fulfilment.

It was revenge that had pushed his brother and him to organise great hunts against the forces of the Shadow. Theirs was a dangerous game that could end up in more tears than it had begun. But the burning pleasures of danger attracted them, pushing them to seek it where it did not exist. No matter how much he tried to reason with himself, it was as though he could not help himself.

But the fight of the Wood Elves was much different. They were not fighting for revenge but for their lives…for their right to live where and as they had chosen. There in Mirkwood, the Shadow was not something one could push aside when coming back home. There was no shelter. There was only hope.

Pondering that thought, Elrohir decided that his own problems were insignificant when compared to what those Elves had faced for centuries: an exhaustive battle against an invisible and boundless enemy. He was simply glad that they had achieved significantly diminishing the number of Sauron’s minions in the area defined by the Forest River.

He paused at another crossing and turned left as he recognized the tapestry that hung on the wall representing the Awakening at Cuivenen.

The next day would mark an important step in the fight against the Shadow. They would cross the river to destroy some of the spiders’ nests that had been woven through the trees. Elrohir felt a shiver of anticipation run through him. They had not encountered any spiders since their arrival and he was more than eager to face them finally. The attack had been carefully planned and the composition of the troops had been cautiously studied. The one which would lead the attack was the youngest Prince and Elrohir had been delighted at the choice.

It would be the first time that he saw the object of his fantasies somewhere else than at the formal gatherings. Wondering why he never saw Legolas in the palace but not daring to ask lest his questioning appeared suspicious, he had finally learned that the youngest son of Thranduil dwelt in the quarters of the warriors. A small smile graced Elrohir’s lips. He longed to see the skill promised in the Prince’s stance and agility.

More than ever, the younger twin felt the weight of his attraction towards the fair Prince. The grace and innate seduction of the wild Elf enthralled him each time their paths met. He knew that he was not the only one who found him beautiful and desirable. But Legolas seemed to glide on the gazes bestowed upon him like a cat turning his nose up at an unworthy prey. No preferences were given and Elrohir knew the Prince had no official lover.

He had tried to catch the other Elf’s gaze but it seemed to him that the Prince was intent on avoiding him, which he had done during the feast in Imladris. However, he could have sworn that he had felt Legolas watching him when he wasn't looking. He hadn't reacted in time to catch a glimpse of the blue eyes. But every time it had happened, Elrohir had felt as though the world had been reduced to a deep ocean that lured him.

He suddenly perceived the faint roar of the water and allowed all thought to flee his mind. When he heard his twin’s voice, he approached the alcove where they were used to bathing. Taking off his boots and his clothes, Elrohir spared a glance at his surroundings. Left in its natural state, it was nonetheless breathtaking with its high vaults born from the labours of water. The ground was polished and smooth and he relished in how it felt against his bare feet. He could not help but wonder at the work of nature. It had taken millennia for the river to make its way through solid rock.

He spotted his brother chest deep in the water and leaning against the bank with both arms resting on the rock. He frowned though as he noticed the silver-haired Elf who was talking animatedly with his twin.

Elladan felt his brother’s presence and welcomed him with a grin. “Finally, muindor…I thought you would never make it.” Not bothering to answer, Elrohir submerged himself in the water and felt his muscles relax. Elladan continued. “Brother, this is Vanyacar, one of Thranduil’s advisors. He ails from Lorien.”

As Elrohir nodded his greetings, the silver-haired Elf corrected Elladan with a smile. “I have not been in Lorien for quite a while, son of Elrond. But it is true that I have not yet become a full Wood Elf.”

The Councillor looked at one twin then the other. He had already seen them from afar and had often heard how lauded their perfect likeness was. But, there in their glowing nudity, they were plainly fascinating. 'Wild and beautiful,' he thought to himself and yet completely inaccessible in a way that he could not decipher.

“How do you come to live in Mirkwood, Vanyacar?”

Vanyacar met the curious scrutiny of the two pairs of grey eyes with the air of someone used to the question. “A long time ago, I was a Galadhrim and I never thought I would leave the Golden Woods. I came here to follow my heart’s desire. I met my lover on the fields of Dagorlad and chose to live where he dwelt.”

“But did you not say you were Thranduil’s advisor?”

A shadow of pain passed quickly in the Lorien Elf’s eyes and he lowered his face to stare at the water. When he spoke again, his voice was laced with pain and regrets. “I am not able to fight anymore, so I made myself useful in the best way I could.” He raised his right hand from the water and held it in front of him. It would have been a beautiful hand, long and slim with strong fingers if were not for the two fingers missing and the ugly scar that crossed the palm. “This happened during the battle that cost my lover’s life. I am now unable to wield either a sword or bow. I would have been a poor addition to the patrols in this state.”

The twins swallowed uneasily. The same thought crossed their mind. If something like that befell them, what would they do? The life of a warrior was the only life they knew. Would they be strong enough to go on and build a new life?

Elrohir looked at Vanyacar. “I grieve for you,” he murmured and meant it.

But there was no trace of self-pity in the Councillor’s eyes as he said, “You should not. I am alive and still able to fight the darkness in my own way. It may be little as the Shadow grows stronger with each passing day but I will not cease.”

“Aye,” Elladan stepped in smoothly. “We have been witness to the ravages it wrought onto this realm.” He did not expect the reaction brought by what he thought words of comfort.

“You have seen nothing, sons of Elrond. You have yet to cross the River. That stream is a natural protection against many dangers. Orcs, Wargs...” He paused with a shudder. ”And above all...spiders”

Warning was in Vanyacar’s voice but Elladan, clearly angered by what he perceived as a chastisement, retorted, “We have seen Spiders before…” But he could not go on as the silver-haired Councillor interrupted, his placid eyes blazing.

“Tomorrow, you will attack one of their nests!” He lowered his voice till it covered the din of the water. “I know… But beware a lone scout is naught when compared to the true strength of spiders. Tomorrow, you will be on their ground, not yours. If I were you, I would watch my back closely.”

Vanyacar tried to warn them truthfully. Of course, he had heard of the sons of Elrond, mighty hunters and fine trackers even among their peers. When he had finally faced them, he could see for himself that the gossip was true. They had strength, grace, and beauty…but there was also a thirst for blood and revenge that consumed their very fäer. But as skilled as they were, they could not know what they were going into for they had never been there.

Feeling the tension build between the two other Elves, Elrohir chose to break the silence, his voice soothing. “You speak of great danger, Councillor Vanyacar, and we would be foolish to discard your words lightly. However, your warriors seem rather confident.”

The silver-haired Elf turned his attention from one twin to the other, trying to decipher how he could explain what centuries among the Silvan folk had taught him.“Sons of Elrond, never judge a book by its cover. All Wood Elves wear a deceiving face.” He stopped thoughtfully. “They will never show you weakness or uncertainty. You cannot imagine how it must have injured their pride to ask for the help of your people. I will give you advice.” Vanyacar smiled brightly. “Do not underestimate a Wood Elf’s pride…that is the only thing that keeps them alive and on this side of the Sea.”

At his words, the twins both laughed, for during their time in the Woodland Realm, they had become acquainted with that side of their cousins. “I would rather say that what keeps them alive are their skills with weapons,” Elrohir put in smoothly with the ease of a courtier. More seriously, he followed, “They are really fine warriors.”

Vanyacar shook his head slightly. His voice was laden with mourning as he replied, “Very fine warriors indeed. But too few have the strength left to fight.” He fell silent for a moment while staring at a whirlpool as he tried to master the emotion in his voice. “Witnessing the fading of the realm has gnawed on the confidence of most and weakened their will to fight. Only the youths, who never knew the realm before the Necromancer, still have the faith to fight. Others remain here out of habit and love for the Woods.” Vanyacar’s smile grew bitter. “Elves will never change. We are immortal and we live in fear of whatever change tomorrow will bring us. It is so much easier to dwell in the past. Few are those who have still hope to see the Woods restored to their old glory.”

Elladan, who had remained silent for a noticeably long time, spoke up with a slight frown, “I do not have the feeling that either Thranduil or his sons will let the Shadow spread through the forest without doing anything to prevent it.”

“It is different for the royal family,” the silver-haired Elf answered while wondering if this was something he should discuss with some strangers. “King Thranduil is the heart of the Realm. His strength is that of the forest. The day Sauron will spread completely over our land will be the day of his death. He will never leave Greenwood, even if he is the last to stand in a world corrupted by the Shadow. And his sons…the two elder are fine warriors and politicians but they still mourn the memories of better times…”

Vanyacar fell silent as though lost in his own pondering. Elrohir bit his bottom lip and held back the question he really wished to ask. He could feel his brother’s amused gaze upon him as his twin always knew what was in his thoughts. Soon, he realized that he would not be able to ask and, hoping his interest was not too obvious blurted aloud, “What of his youngest? Legolas?”

The Lorien Elf smiled and took a closer look at the twin who had uttered the question. He had already seen the same expression in those who had shown some interest in the prince. This one was skilled at hiding it but Vanyacar had not spent centuries at court without learning to see behind masks. He could not blame him. The Prince was fair among the fair ones and countless were those who had tried to seduce him without any success.

In a tone of the amused confidence, Vanyacar chose to indulge the younger twin. It was harmless anyway. “It is not for naught that the youngest son of Thranduil has seen himself entrusted with the command of the Southern patrol which takes care of the darkest corners of the Realm. He is a fine and impetuous warrior who wants to free this place of its evil no matter the price.”

Elrohir focused on the silver-haired Elf and forgot about his surroundings. When Vanyacar ceased speaking, the younger twin pondered dreamily on what had been said, unaware of the knowing smirk bestowed upon him by the other Elf. He was disturbed in his thoughts by a bemused Elladan, whose voice sounded clear and strong in the cave...too strong and clear for his liking. "That looks quite extreme, do you not think?"

Vanyacar met Elladan's eyes without surprise. He understood the twin's perplexity with the strange ways of the Wood Elves. He himself had wondered for a while before piercing the mysteries of that people, which was so different from others. “The situation itself is extreme,” he explained. “I suppose it was not easy for the younger ones to grow here in a realm corrupted by the Shadow…and everything has been worse since the death of Queen Menelwe.”

Silence fell upon them. The twins had been told of the Queen's tragic end and speaking of her brought back the memory of their own mother who had sailed West. Yes, they were able to understand how rage could take hold of people and never let go again.

Unaware of the flow of memories awakened by his words, the Lorien Elf added, "Many were those who left the realm after her death as the Shadow kept on growing stronger and stronger. Many sailed to Valinor and some linger under the protection of the Lady Galadriel. Few remain here and even fewer are ready to fight for the realm. If it is not the Shadow that is taking us over, it will be grief.”

When he finally noted the sorrowful expression on the two brothers' faces, Vanyacar cursed himself for his thoughtlessness. After a few minutes passed without any of them speaking, he decided that he should leave them alone to quell their grief. Rising from the water, he climbed onto the bank, water streaming the length of his body and dripping onto the ground. As he bent to pick up his towel and wrap it around his waist, he allowed anger and hatred for the Shadow to flare in his heart for a brief moment...anger and hatred for the dark beasts who had taken his lover, his friends, and his Queen. But he restrained those feelings because, even if it relieved him to set them free, they did little to help him live.

Managing to look dignified as though he were not half nude, he bowed to the brothers, “I will take my leave. May the Valar protect you tomorrow. It will not be an easy fight.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and left. As the sound of the Councillor’s steps faded slowly, the twins remained quiet and oblivious of their surroundings. Then, after several minutes of silence and stillness, Elrohir rose, his desire for a bath forgotten. He had no need to look over his shoulder to know that he was being followed by his twin. Silently, they headed for their rooms in the underground palace. Words were useless as their heavy hearts spoke for them. The next day, Sauron’s minions would die by their hands for the torment of their mother.

Soon.

TBC... (and not in two years, I swear)

Website !

2007-05-16T19:29:14Z

*wipes brow* I finally completed my new website. Well, for the moment, I uploaded only my fics because I have to find how display the art. But I am way too impatient to wait until then.

Here it is: Lands Beyond

I am still wondering about getting my own domain name. I am not sure it is very useful. I will see what the bank account has to say about it :p

See you !

Casualis

I can't believe it

2007-05-09T16:51:12Z

I really can't believe it. After two years, I finally managed to complete the last chapter of BSS.

*Worships the muses*

This chapter was really a pain in the a** but now I am free !! Let us hope the next chapter will not take another two years to come out.

Cheers,
Cas

Fic : Brother mine III, Until death do us part

2006-11-09T19:11:27Z

Brother mine III : Until death do us part

Author : Casualis

Pairing : Elrohir/Elladan

Rating : R

Beta : Thanks to Larien and DA.

Warning : Incest !

We shall have beds full of faint perfumes

Divans as deep as tombs,

and strange flowers on shelves,

Opened for us under more beautiful skies.

Using their last warmth in emulation

Our two hearts will be two vast torches,

Which will reflect their double lights

In our two spirits, those twin mirrors.

One evening, made of mystical rose and blue,

We will exchange one last flash of light,

Like along sob, laden with farewells;

Like a long sob, heavy with goodbye,

And later an Angel, half opening the doors,

Will come, faithful and joyous, to reanimate

The tarnished mirrors and the dead flames.

Charles Baudelaire, Death of the Lovers.

The news overwhelmed him.

At first, he had not really understood. Of course, he had heard the words but it had taken several seconds for the reality of that new knowledge to take hold in his mind. Then it had sunk in with growing horror. Unable to stand the worried gaze that was fixed on him, he turned on his heel and left, fighting his anger and incomprehension. Like a sprite of the wind, he ran to the only shelter he could think of: the stables. There, amongst the smell and sounds of the horses, he could make sense of the whirl of feelings and sensations that were agitating him.

His feet carried him swiftly to his stallion’s box. He had slowed his pace down earlier when he had noticed the impressive number of people gathered in the court separating the stable from the manor. Then, he had remembered: today was the day. In a few hours, the Vale would be emptied of its last occupants and the place where he had grown and had been happy would be pushed back to that of memories. The only belongings he wished to take with him had been gathered months ago and the blades, papers, and scrolls were lying carefully in a chest.

As he entered his steed’s box without hesitation, the brave animal did not divert his attention from feeding. The dark-haired Elf suddenly felt guilty for disturbing his companion, but in the end, the need for comfort was the strongest. He leaned against the flank of the horse and caressed the soft coat while breathing in its particular scent. Almost on their own, his fingers traced a name on the golden hairs and tears veiled his grey eyes. As though feeling his sadness or his nervousness, his stallion ceased eating and walked back so that his head was at the same level as his master’s.

Elladan had never thought that such a thing was possible. Never in his darkest nightmares had he thought of this. Reaching for his proud mount, he twined his fingers with the white tresses that flowed along the length of the curved neck. Closing his eyes, he murmured the name of his desolation which he had uttered so many times in distress and longing, “Elrohir…”

A sob made his chest rise and, although he tried to contain it, he found that he could not. Pain spread in his chest as he recalled the memory of his discussion with his father. It was a pain he had thought long buried and forgotten but it arose anew, stronger than ever. A long time ago, he had cried for a love that was forbidden and cursed. But time had soothed his tears. People said that there was nothing one does not forget with time and that time erased pain and tears and gave back what was taken.

He had believed that.

He had hoped that time would teach him not to care anymore or to think of his beloved’s skin against his own, his unique scent, or his rosy lips. He had prayed for time to heal the scars of his heart. But all of his hopes were crushed and his prayers remained unanswered as he wept bitterly like a child. Time, which was supposed to make him forget, had only worsened his pain.

Pain…

That was all he had now. The ache in his heart and his mind took everything from him in those short moments of eternity. He felt as though he had become the pain, or rather the pain had become his essence, his being...his everything. The time that was supposed to mend their injuries had pushed them further apart as each second was a step toward the terrible day of separation.

He could not believe that it had been his father who had announced the terrible news to him and that Elrohir had not been courageous enough to say it himself. Elladan could not help feeling betrayed. How could his twin make this decision without speaking with him? Elrond’s elder son knew he had been naïve. He had lost hope that he would understand his brother a long time ago and had come to terms with the fact that his beloved would remain a mystery to him. But never had he imagined that time would separate them forever.

Thoughts were swirling in his mind. His brother’s decision was far beyond his understanding. Why choose the Gift of Men over the Blessing of the Elven Flame when one was bound to a Firstborn? When he had learned of his twin’s binding, he had felt that eternity had come between them. But death? That was something even more impossible to overcome. It meant separation beyond the barriers of time...the world. He had lost his sister to it and now his twin...his soul.

Elladan had long contemplated the idea of becoming mortal, afraid as he was by the thought of being apart from Elrohir for the rest of time due to the binding. But he had thought better of it. He could live with loving his brother from afar and could build a new life on the shreds of his youth. At least, that was what he had thought. He had turned his back on mortality even though his oath had yet to be taken. In his heart, he had wanted to remain with his twin.

Elladan closed his hand into a fist. Gift of Men…That was what they called it, but he called it a curse of time, bitterness, and oblivion.

He closed his eyes, refusing to see what was surrounding him or to look at the world as it was after it had stolen what he held dear and cherished. A simple whisper escaped his lips. “Why?” But even as the word faded from the ears of the world, it kept resounding in his mind, taunting and maddening. His lips tightened into a thin line and he let himself go to the sweet wave of temptation. He screamed his incomprehension and his pain.

“Why?!”

The golden stallion reared slightly at the unexpected outburst and Elladan let go of the animal while turning toward the wall and leaning against its wooden surface to relish in its coolness against his fevered skin. His fingers traced the lines of the wood as though trying to find a place to rest but found none. In the end, he rested his brow against his hand as his voice repeated unceasingly, “Why?”

“I have no answer.”

The stern, but nonetheless gentle voice seemed to break violently through his trance and the elder son of Elrond turned wildly around to face his father; unsuccessfully willing his mask of pain to go away. Both stood silent for several seconds, grey eyes anchored into grey eyes. The Lord of the Vale broke the stillness of the scene and took a step closer to his son with supreme dignity. When he spoke, his words were soft and tender. “I wish I could ease your pain, ionen…”

“What do you know of my pain?” Elladan snarled. He knew he was being unfair to his father, but the words of comfort were more than he could bear. What did his father know of the ache of his heart, the pain, and the tears that had been his life for so long? How could his father pretend to share his pain when it had been he that had been the instigator of the masquerade that had cost him his joy and carelessness?

“More than you think.”

The tone of his father’s voice made him pause and he raised his eyes, wishing to see if the hurt he could hear in the voice was real or if he had imagined it. Elladan smiled a mirthless smile, but he took the time to watch his father...really watch him for the first time in a very long time. Elrond looked as young as his son. His frame was still slender and lithe and his countenance was still proud. But Elladan saw beyond the mirage of his father's countenance. Deep in the shadows of those grey eyes the pain was there. The pain of losing another loved one to mortality. Elros, Arwen, and now...Elrohir. Each of those names was like a denial of his own choice.

He knew he had his own decisions to make. It had been easy before with his steps following his brother’s. But now, what was he to do? Did he want to spend eternity without him? Was he ready for this? There was also his father asking him wordlessly to follow the path of Elves. And also his mother, whose face he had longed to behold again.

Elladan shook his head, uncaring of the wayward strands that escaped the net of his intricate braids. This was a decision he could not make...at least, not now. Not like that. He wanted to understand and get the answers he needed before he made his decision. There was only one place where he could go. His mind made up, he walked past his father and their shoulders almost touched. His hands reached mechanically for the saddle, the bridle, and the blanket. It did not take him long to have his horse ready for the journey. He himself needed naught to travel since he had just returned from a hunt when his father had requested his presence his sword was already hung at his side and his bow slung across his shoulders.

He could feel his father’s gaze on him but he could not bring himself to look at his elder as he announced softly, “I have to go.”

Elrond knew his son well enough to not ask where he intended to go. That was exactly what he had feared since Elessar’s coronation when his youngest son had informed him of his choice of remaining mortal. Tendrils of pain wrapped around his heart as he thought of that moment when he had lost his beloved son forever. He had guiltily kept this from the elder twin, afraid of what could come to pass. Elrohir had made him swear that he would not tell Elladan before the time came for the last Elves to leave Arda. But, on the verge of departure, he had known that he'd had to inform Elladan. He had kept this secret for too long and now he saw the moment when he would lose the last of his children to the fate of Men.

“Do not!” The words had stumbled out of lips too quickly and too loudly and Elrond bit his bottom lip when Elladan turned on his heel. What could he say save for ‘Please, do not leave me. Not you…’ His children’s choices were theirs to make and he had to accept them, regardless of the tears and heartache.

His emotions must have shown on his face for his eldest son approached him and gently placed a long-fingered hand on his shoulder. It struck Elrond that it might be the last time he ever saw his son and tears clouded his eyes even though he tried to fight them back.

“Adar, you know I have to speak with him. I am sure I can have him change his mind.” Elladan understood his father’s reticence, but he needed to see Elrohir...to speak to him. He loved his brother, no matter what he had tried to believe or how harsh the pain of the betrayal.

Covering his son’s hand with his own, Elrond moved closer and gazed into Elladan’s eyes as their breath melded together. He shook his head slowly when he realized that his elder son had not heard all he had said. For several seconds, he fought with himself to find the strength to speak. “Elladan…” He felt his son stiffen and squeezed the hand he held a little bit more strongly. "There is no turning back, ionen. Elrohir’s choice is made and…” He hesitated slightly before continuing, “His oath to the Valar is taken.”

He watched how Elladan stumbled back as though struck by an invisible blade. His pupils dilated to the point that his eyes seemed made of the darkest night. His son’s pain tore at his heart and he closed his eyes briefly. “Do not lose yourself in hopeless quests, my son. This I beg of thee.” Encouraged by his son’s silence, Elrond added “I know this flame in your eyes. You have gone down this road once. Do not go there again.”

Elladan remained silent for several seconds, unable to move or speak as he contemplated the sudden helplessness of the situation. There was no turning back his father had said. Never had life seemed so filled with gloom. He took a deep breath and finally replied, “It does not matter. Adar, please understand that I cannot leave my brother without a farewell.”

Averting his attention from his sire, he jumped effortlessly onto his stallion’s back. Sighing, he met his father’s eyes and held them as Elrond stated urgently, “The Elves are leaving Arda. This is one of your last chances to sail to Valinor and you know it! Soon, your grandfather will leave these shores and the roads of the ocean will be closed.”

“I know.”

With a last smile, Elladan urged his stallion forward. He did not see his father rush behind him, his formal composure forgotten nor did he see the older Peredhel lean against the frame of the stable door. He did not hear his last words: “I have already lost two of my children, Elladan. I do not want to lose another one.”

Elladan raised his eyes and halted his horse, watching his surroundings cautiously. He could not believe he had finally reached his destination. The forest once called Mirkwood was before him and it had changed much since his last visit to the realm of the Wood Elves, but it was not a visible change. The trees were still there, old and unmovable with their bark marked with the sacrifices required from them for their age and their foliage dense in spite of the season. The change he felt was something much more subtle that could be felt in the air and in the very essence of nature. The Shadow was gone and the whole forest had lost its threatening aura. Birds sang as they flew above the tops of the trees while squirrels ran through the branches, jumping from limb to limb and chattering unceasingly. A new life had arisen where only silence had once abided.

Elrond’s eldest son had ridden hard for ten days, rushing to cover the leagues that separated him from his brother. He had pushed his horse mercilessly, which the beast was not used to. But Elladan only had ears for the call of his heart and the song of the blood beating in his veins. He had ridden through several days and nights over the mountains, resting only when he felt that his horse could go no further. He had taken little or no rest when the stars had lit his path, unable to sleep with his mind immersed in a frenzy of thoughts.

And now it was there: the forest where he would find his twin. But he still did not know what he had come to seek.

His keen eyes came to rest on the hill in which Thranduil’s caves were hidden. His eyes fell on the sight of the bridge that seemed to sink into the ground leading to the shelter of Wood Elves and he suddenly wished he had held to his oath to never come there again. What would he say to his brother when he saw him after years spent apart? What words would change things that could not change and turn the past into the present?

He willed the thoughts away for they wouldn't bring him any answers to his questions or relief for the turmoil of his soul. Instead, he urged his horse forward and, as they progressed slowly through the trees, Elladan realized that the realm was empty of all life. The Elves had no reason to remain there any longer and most of the Sindar had left definitively, taking their possessions to Mithlond where they would build great ships to set sail across the sea and join their kin in Aman. Those who had refused the call of the Blessed Realm as their forefathers before them had done would fade away and had chosen to move to the heart of the forest where they would live in harmony with nature.

The elder twin stopped once more as he reached the entry of the underground castle, sorrow filling is heart as he gazed with apprehension upon the great gates that were open. The Halls of Thranduil must have been deserted. But where had Elrohir gone? Not with the Avari for sure. He could not have remained alone in those empty corridors and cold rooms. Had he left for Gondor to share their sister’s life? Or was he somewhere else, unattainable and far from his reach, hiding from those who loved him?

Weary as he was, Elladan still dismounted as gracefully as he could and leaned heavily against his mount, feeling acutely tired of life. He suddenly wished he could lie down and sleep until the end of time. Few sleeping draughts were more efficient than deep disappointment. After Elrohir’s binding, he had slept for days in their shelter among the sheets that still bore the scent of their joining. He had remained in them for several days and nights, crying on the ashes of his love when he was awake and thinking on what was no more when he had had no strength left to cry.

But he could not lie there on the autumnal mattress of leaves scattered on the ground. He had to take care of his horse, which was exhausted by the frantic journey. He had to bring his companion to a warm stable where he could rest and eat.

Gathering the reins in one hand, Elladan looked around him once more and kicked absently at the yellowed leaves on the ground. Autumn had come early to Lasgalen, as though the whole forest wept over the departure of its children, the Sylvan Folk. Sadness washed over him as he approached one of the great trees that bordered his path and caressed the sturdy bark with a trembling hand, feeling the warmth beneath his palm. They were not much different for they had both lost what they held dear. Soon, the great hosts of the forest would fall silent, since none of those who spoke their language would remain. A deep sleep would soon overcome them and there would be none left to awaken them to the world. They had nothing left to care for and neither did he.

With a last farewell, he entered the palace followed by his mount. It was not as though they were disturbing anyone. The place was devoid of any life. The hooves of his horse resounded on the cobblestones they were treading, the sharp echo reverberating oddly against the high vaults and breaking the silence hovering upon them. An endless night ruled over this place now since the fingers of Anor could not reach through the thick walls.

The torches that used to light the way hung forsaken upon the walls and he seized one of them to light with two of what he used to call ‘fire rocks’ when he was an Elfling. The light suddenly invaded the halls and chased back the moving shadows surrounding him. A nervous laugh escaped his lips. It felt unreal as the fire cast distorted some drawings on the walls as well as the ground. It seemed a dream, but it was no more than a gloomy reality.

His feet knew the way to the stables and lost no time in covering the distance. He could not help but feel uneasy for he had never loved the place. He loved running in the plain air too much to enjoy being buried there and his natural reticence had increased tenfold since his brother had come to live in the Woodland realm. An unexpected sound caught his ear and he froze in his tracks, unable to acknowledge its nature at first. In the stables, a horse had felt the approach of one of its kind and had neighed a welcome to the presence that would break its solitude. He increased his pace with the knowledge that Elves would have not left a horse alone in this forsaken place. It could only mean that Thranduil’s Halls were not as deserted as he had initially thought.

Light assaulted his eyes as he finally reached the place he sought and he had to blink hard to chase away the sudden dizziness. Encouraging his stallion to enter one of the boxes with gentle words, he quickly divested the weary animal of saddle and bridle before bringing him some hay. Thanking the brave animal for his courage while patting his neck, he left his companion to his well-earned rest and approached the other inhabitant of the stables. It was a gentle mare whose coat was as dark as the ebony night. She looked at him with bright intelligent eyes and blew through her nostrils in welcome. In a corner of her box, he could see fresh hay and a bucket of pure water. Bestowing a caress upon her nose, Elladan asked absently though he knew he would get no answer, “Where is your Master, vanimaer?”

He let his gaze wander around him, but barely noticed his surroundings. He was wondering at this Elf’s identity. Mayhap the latter could help him find his missing twin. He slowly walked out of the stables. In his heart, hope had been rekindled.

Thranduil’s halls were a maze and Elladan could not believe that he had forgotten such vital information. Each turn gave birth to new corridors that hid more pernicious corners and many empty rooms that all looked the same. He paused and sighed while leaning against one of the cold walls of rock. There was no one hiding in the caves at the moment or that wished to meet him. He had made so much noise that he was sure it was impossible for someone there to ignore his presence. He was desperate and above all, lost. He wasn't sure that he'd be able to find his way back to the stables.

It felt so strange to be standing in Thranduil’s deserted castle and faced with the terrible fact that things had changed irreparably. He had known it before, but once there he had come to realize what it truly meant. Times had changed. It was not the same in the Vale, where numerous Elves still dwelled. It was hard for him to come to terms with the fact that the place where he had grown up would soon be as empty as these halls. The rooms he had entered all presented the same devastating picture...like nothing had changed. The beds seemed to be waiting for the embrace of the inhabitants. On the walls, bright tapestries still hung, books and parchments rested on shelves while ink and quills waited for a correspondence that would never be written again on the desks. Dust had covered the ground and the halls that had once been famous for their beauty and richness had been divested of their charm. It was a place apart from the tide of time, but everything would soon fade or crumble beneath the merciless cycle of age.

In that moment of realization he buried his face into his hands. But then something in the darkness caught his attention: the light sound of footsteps. It could have been no more than an impression, an illusion born of his mind, but years spent with the Rangers in the wild and as a border guard had taught him to trust his senses. Instinct took precedence over reason and, taking his sword in hand, he ran lightly in the direction of the noise. His instinct proved to be true when he suddenly caught sight of a flickering light ahead of him. But the sighting suddenly faded into darkness as the mysterious Elf discovered his presence and extinguished the torch he was bearing. However, Elladan refused to be vanquished and kept on running. It was only a matter of seconds before Elrond’s eldest son came to realize that his quest was hopeless and that he had lost the trail of the inhabitant of the halls.

He stood still for several minutes, eyes closed and heart heavy in his chest as his breath came out in ragged gasps. The torch escaped his feeble grasp and fell to the ground, where it dimmed and plunging him into darkness. But he did not pick it up. He suddenly felt like crying but he could not afford such a luxury. Tears would lead him nowhere but to self-destruction. He had to go forward. It was one of the harshest lessons life had taught him: no matter how bad the pain was, he had to go on to reach the light again. But he could not bring himself to walk again amongst the shadows. His thoughts were focused on his brother. He would have liked to see his twin at least one last time to confess his fears and despair so that he could finally forgive himself.

Lost as he was in his daze, he saw neither the lithe silhouette that glided out behind him or the threatening glint of a dagger. He suddenly felt an arm circle his chest and the cold kiss of the blade against the tender skin of his neck and opened his eyes in surprise. But, before he had the time to counteract the attack, his assailant had stepped back as though frightened by something unexpected. Freed of the constricting embrace, he did not turn on his heel to face the one that had dared to threaten him in such a way.

He knew his attacker. He had known at the very moment they had come into contact. The scent was one he would have known anywhere made of pine and sweet honey that reminded him of his youth and the time of happiness: Elrohir’s.

Elrohir was the last Elf he would have thought to see there. But what paralysed him was not the unexpected meeting, but was the fact that he had not felt his twin's presence. He still did not feel it. The link between them had been severed. There was nothing in his soul but a hollow chill.

“What are you doing here?”

Startled by the sound of his brother’s voice, Elladan searched for the strength to turn towards his twin. The grey eyes were fixed upon him and he was surprised by what he found there. There was an odd gleam to his twin’s eyes that had never been there before. He had seen deep love and cold blankness in those eyes as well as joy and pain, but never had the bottomless orbs shone with fear. The sparkle disappeared, covered by the coldness that had long ago replaced the tenderness. Again, there was that nagging voice in the elder twin’s mind, 'What did you expect?'

Taking a few steps forward, he answered truthfully, “I wanted to know why.” The words seemed to strike his twin more surely than his fist would have and it was then that Elladan realized that his brother had not expected him to know of his choice. Their father must have been sworn to secrecy over the matter. Something like pain seemed to pass in his brother’s eyes and Elladan had to resist the need to take his twin in his arms so that the pain passed. But the strange shadow disappeared as fast as it had come in the grey eyes he knew so well.

He looked at his brother intently and found him unchanged since the last time they had met at their sister’s binding. But there was something that had never been there before: awkwardness. A sad smile ghosted Elladan’s lips. Many things had come to pass between them but not awkwardness.

However, he had to recall that the Elf he was facing was his brother no more. His brother would never have made such a choice without speaking with him first. It was so difficult to hold onto his anger and betrayal when this new Elrohir looked so much like his brother of old. Hating his twin from afar was easy but when he was so close, Elladan could feel his old resentment melt away. Elrohir’s voice broke the silence. “Let us go to my rooms. The cold is chilling here.”

It was then that Elladan noticed the silent shivers of cold running the length of his brother’s slender frame. So...it had begun. He himself did not feel the chill, but Elrohir’s sensitivity to the weather was certainly the most apparent consequence of his choice. He followed his twin wordlessly through the corridors of the place, amazed at his brother’s confidence within the twisty caverns. He felt helpless with the reawakening of his desire as he beheld the slow graceful balance of his twin’s hips.

They entered a room that Elladan did not recognize for they were not the rooms his brother had occupied when he had last come there. As though reading his unspoken question even if it was not possible anymore, Elrohir remarked, “It felt so wrong to remain in the apartments that I had shared with her now that our binding is no more.”

Elladan only nodded and took a chair as far away as possible from his brother, who sat on the edge of the vast bed. The silence that came between them weighed heavily on his shoulders. Once more the too familiar question piped up, “What did you expect?”

Suddenly, Elrohir got up and the bed creaked as he did so. He turned his back on his brother as though he could not bear to look at him. “You should not have come.” The words were spoken softly as though intended for himself and not for his brother.

Blinking, Elladan straightened himself while frowning deeply as a deep sense of injustice washed over him. The words that left his lips betrayed his bitterness and pain as he all but snarled, “Why? Do you think I do not deserve an explanation?”

The answer that came was not what he had expected and his anger crashed upon his brother’s sorrow like waves that broke upon cliffs. “Your presence makes things more difficult.”

The trembling in the soft voice matched the crystalline tears that were running the length of his brother’s cheeks and Elladan once more felt the overwhelming need to spare his twin the anguish and pain. Once upon a time, he had sworn to protect Elrohir and now he was the one to cause his crying. This was so wrong. Approaching silently, he faced his brother. When the latter averted his eyes to the ground to conceal his tears, Elladan’s hand came to cup his beloved’s cheek and he forced their gazes to meet. Elrohir finally whispered, “I am afraid, Elladan. So afraid…”

A simple search of his brother’s eyes showed Elladan better than all the words of the world since he had already seen that odd gleam in his twin's orbs along with a shadow of despair and longing mixed in. Feeling his own tears streak his cheeks, he embraced his twin. There was no lust in the embrace only the heartfelt wish to chase the shadows away. There was no more questioning in Elladan’s mind. No more words were needed for him to understand what had come to pass in his twin’s mind. He knew as he had known many things in his ageless life. And with his brother in his arms, he came to accept the course of life just as he had accepted that they’d had to be separated. Elladan buried his face in his brother’s dark tresses and inhaled deeply, feeling at peace with himself for the very first time in many years. He could feel Elrohir’s tears dampening the fabric of his tunic but he cared naught. He understood now. His brother had not forsaken him. That was all that mattered.

Without ever breaking the embrace, he directed his twin towards the bed while whispering tender words of comfort. They sat on the comfortable mattress and Elladan tightened his hold upon the lithe body, wishing he would never have to let him go and felt like dying if he had to do so. He rocked his twin gently like he would have done with a newborn child. How much time came to pass as they remained thus he did not know. But time had no importance.

He felt his brother relax slowly and took comfort in the knowledge that he could still bring peace to Elrohir. Indulging the temptation, he kissed the pale forehead. When Elrohir raised his head to look at him, Elladan was surprised by what he could see in the darkened orbs. He had expected many things but not calm acceptance. Elrohir had once been filled with a fire that had seemed to consume everything and Elladan could not help but wonder when the flame had been extinguished. Had he been so blind that he had not seen it?

Oh he wished that they had been stronger and refused their parents’ choices a millennium ago. He did not know where that path would have led them, but he was sure that, had they chosen otherwise, they would have been happier.

“I love you still,” Elladan admitted softly, not really knowing what would come of this and expecting the wrath of the Valar to fall upon him for loving an Elf bound to another. His long fingers caressed the edge of a chiselled cheekbone softly. With a deep breath, he continued. “I had thought for so long that I hated you. I had tried to hate you, but I have never really succeeded. I love you too much to do so”

A sad smile graced Elrohir’s features as he contemplated his twin’s admission. He knew he was weak. Elladan should not be there. Elladan should be sailing now and it was his fault that his brother had not done so yet. He had to find the strength within to break the embrace and will his brother away. He did not want his twin to fall as he himself had and had no wish to take Elladan into the dark abyss of time and death. He disentangled himself from his twin’s arms. “You should leave, Elladan… Our paths parted a long time ago and should remain so. Do not bring the past between us.”

But he never had the opportunity to continue. Lips that he had long dreamed of kissed him. He had often fantasised about that kiss while he had fulfilled his duty by loving the sweet Elleth he had been bound to. But this was no dream. This was reality. Hands that were strong and soft at the same time buried themselves in his hair. Feeling his will vanish, he opened his lips and welcomed his brother’s tongue in his mouth, kissing back as he knew he should not. There was a burning fire in that kiss that had been denied to them for so long and it set him ablaze and made him long for more.

He did not protest as he was lowered onto the bed and when his twin’s body covered his own. That was where he belonged and had finally come back to. He was home.

Elrohir watched his brother sleep. It had been so long since he had had the opportunity of doing so. He had missed the feeling of his twin’s skin against his own, the sight of the dark mane spread upon the pillow, and the sound of Elladan’s soft breathing. He had missed all of it and even more. But the joyful feeling was mixed with the darkest thoughts. What if Elladan chose to follow him?

He did not wish for his brother to tread his path. He wanted Elladan to live and enjoy a free life without constraint…to love in the daylight and laugh again. Their love had been forbidden by honour and they had never had the chance of loving each other in plain sight, instead always seeking the shadows to make love or kiss.

“I do not like those shadows in your eyes, melethron.”

His twin’s voice brought him back to the present and, as he gazed into his brother’s familiar orbs, he felt his heart constrict in his chest with love and fear. Straightening himself, he rose from the bed, feeling his twin’s gaze fix on his nudity as he reached for a robe resting on the ground. He came back to the bed wordlessly and knelt on Elladan’s side of the bed, taking one of his brother's hands into his own. His fingers idly caressed the strong palm. Without meeting his twin’s gaze, he implored, “Tell me you will not remain here, my love.”

He felt Elladan’s hand covering his own and raised his eyes as his brother replied, “I will not leave you, Elrohir. Never again.” Elladan threaded his fingers through Elrohir’s raven hair, marvelling once more at the silkiness. As his forehead brushed against his brother’s, he whispered, “I have found you now and I will not let you go.”

“I do not want you to die,” admitted the younger twin, desperation making his voice weak. “I do not want you to share this fate. I want you to walk through Aman and see Naneth once more. I want you to tell her how much I loved her and how much I missed her…”

“Then why did you choose so, muindor? Why did you not sail the vast ocean?” Elladan closed his eyes as he took a deep breath, inhaling the air his brother exhaled.

“Do you have to ask this question? I thought you understood…”

Elladan fell silent as he opened his eyes and drowned himself in the depthless ocean of his twin’s gaze. Of course he knew. He could see it in the eyes looking at him with sorrow. The burning need that matched his own would not suffer to be constrained for much longer. One day, they would have indulged the temptation and honour would not have suffered their insult. They would have been shamed along with their family. Elrohir had done what he had thought necessary to put distance between them and prevent them from worse.

“When we were among the Dúnedain the night before we marched toward Mordor, I almost came to you. After the battle upon Pelennor Fields, I stood afar from your tent and I could not decipher the road that I should take. Then Legolas entered your tent and I understood that I could not go on like that. I could not keep up with a life that did not belong to me… I had lived the life they had imposed upon me long enough and, had I sailed, there would have been no way for me to escape it.”

“Then understand that I wish to live the same life as you. Let me make this choice for us, meleth. I love thee and I want to spend the rest of my life with you in the light of Anor. An eternity without you would be dull and hollow and I have not the strength to face it. If I can have you for the lifespan of Men, so be it…”

Elladan kissed him. He knew that Elrohir would protest and that they would fight, but he could be as stubborn as Elrohir and in his heart his decision was made. He had lived too many years for others. He would choose mortality over the eternity of the Firstborn but this would not be the burden as he had first thought. It would be the beginning of a life dedicated to love.

Above them in the ebony sky Ithil shone more brightly as the lovers were reunited.

casualis @ 2006-11-09T20:05:00

2006-11-09T19:05:09Z

Brother mine II : The oldest lie

Author : Casualis

Pairing : Elladan/Legolas, Elrohir/Elladan (implied)

Rating : R

Beta : Thanks to Larien and DA.

Warning : Incest implied!

You used to say, “Whence comes to you this strange sadness,

Mounting like the sea over the black bare rock?”

When our heart has once made its vintage,

To live is a curse. It’s a secret known to all,

A very simple grief and not mysterious,

And, like your joy, clear to everyone,

So stop your search, O beauty so curious,

And, even if your voice is sweet, be silent!

Be silent, you who are ignorant, whose soul is always charmed,

Whose lips have a child’s laugh! Much more than life,

Death often holds by subtle bonds.

Let, yes, let my heart grow passionate on a lie,

Let it sink into your lovely eyes as into a lovely dream,

And sleep for a long time under the shadows of your lashes!

SEMPER EADEM, Charles Baudelaire, in the Flowers of Evil.

He had lain awake for a long time, short minutes turned into long hours of patient waiting. He was unable to sleep or even to shut his mind on his thoughts so he could walk the distant realm of Elven dreams. In the small hours of the grey morning, he listened quietly to the dull sounds within the room: the soft music of night life and the light crackling of the fire covered by the fluid breath of the body that lay next to him in languid satiation. But not even the peaceful atmosphere and the weariness of his mind were enough to lull him into sleep.

The soft sigh that escaped the fair being’s drawn lips betrayed his frustration. He had the lingering impression that he had been staring at the painted ceiling for what seemed to be half of forever. It was a beautiful piece of art, a vivid representation of the shores of Aman, the lands of the Valar where Elves dwelled for the rest of eternity and perhaps beyond. It was as if the painting itself exhaled a sense of peace and serenity. Nonetheless, the delicate charm of the painting had gradually lost any kind of interest as the flow of time slowed down while the night drew on.

His attention was directed itself to the fire that burned strongly in the hearth, warming the room during the long cold winter night. The sensual dance of the flames created hypnotic shadows on the ground and the walls, bestowing the room a new quality…a new dimension. Paths of ashen light seemed to give chase to lingering shadows in an endless waltz that lacked neither grace nor beauty. It looked as if they glided the length of the walls, creeping behind the heavy, rich velvet made curtains that hid the great windows and turning the peaceful shelter of Elven dreams into a vivacious twirl of sensations. Objects in the room seemed to move of their own volition, fleeing when a sudden flicker of light snuck toward them and freezing abruptly as soon as the ever-changing fire directed its attention elsewhere. In the barely disturbed silence of the night, the shapeless games of light and shadows were fascinating as each variation of the flames brought a new picture to the eye.

Yet, to one who had spent many sleepless nights watching their playful antics, this display held little interest and the golden-haired Elf did not hesitate to turn away. Instead, he leaned onto his left elbow and let the sheet slide down the length of his torso as he rose slightly, instinctively shivering at the feeling of silk caressing his skin.

He let his gaze wander to his sleeping companion, sapphire-like orbs taking in the offered sight. What first met the eye wasn’t the sleeper’s face, buried as it was amidst the soft feather pillow, but a luxurious raven mane that was released from the constrictive braids and flowed freely on the sheets, contrasting with the pale fabric.

As if wishing to have a better view, the flaxen-haired Elf turned a little bit more on his side, casting away a part of the sheets and revealing a long powerful leg that seemed to be made of alabaster. Slender fingers supported his chin as he gazed thoughtfully at the sleeping Elf’s glorious still form. He let his eyes trail the length of the displayed back, lingering slightly on a round and appetizing buttock before turning his attention to the marble scar which marred the silky skin from above the right shoulder to the waist.

Full lips tightened in a thin line as the awakened Elf fought the urge to trace the path of that mark with his fingers and remembered instead what had caused such a life-threatening injury. He could still remember the pained moans that the proud warrior, who seldom lost his countenance, had not been able to repress as he’d held the other fiercely to his chest through the journey to King Thranduil’s stronghold. Sometimes in the depth of night when nightmares invaded his mind, he would hear those cries again and again like a never ending lament dedicated to a lost wandering soul. At this thought, a shiver ran the length of his spine and shadows darkened his eyes. For once, he did not even try to conceal his reaction. Why bother? He was alone.

All of a sudden, the faded flames somehow reawakened in the hearth and started to burn more fiercely, voraciously lighting the whole room as if to deliver the final blow to its silent enemy made of moving shadows. But the Firstborn barely noticed, lost as he was in his mesmerizing contemplation. As if being trapped in a sad reminiscence, he slowly stretched a graceful hand and followed the dance of light on the naked skin of his lover’s back almost in spite of himself but he dared not touch him.

Yet at the moment, it seemed that skin would brush against skin. The pile of logs collapsed with the noise of twenty devils, consumed by the greed of the fire and the room was plunged into a dim light. The sudden racket which echoed against the walls and the vaults of the ceiling sounded like an unexpected explosion in the previously quiet room. Startled, the flaxen-haired Elf quickly brought his hand back, guilt in his eyes as if he was afraid that he might have been caught doing something he was not supposed to do.

Time seemed to drag on endlessly for a while as widened blue eyes kept devouring the ebony-haired Elf's figure as if he was waiting for his lover to emerge from dreams. Biting anxiously on his bottom lip, the golden Elf watched as his lover turned onto his side without waking. He took in the sight of the relaxed features that were now facing him and suddenly felt as though his heart would burst with love.

It seemed that he would never be able to see enough of the dark-haired Elf’s proud face. He knew those delicate features by heart. If he closed his eyes, he would be able to picture the lofty brow, the angular cheekbones, and the aristocratic arch of the nose or be able to feel between his fingers the silk of the wild dark locks that framed the perfect face and gave a burning intensity to the stormy grey eyes. The golden Elf sighed once more, but this time it was a sigh of pure longing. Some things never changed and such beauty always made his heart beat more strongly in his chest.

The smile that appeared on the sleeper’s full lips found an echo in his watcher, who could not help his reaction even though he knew that his lover could not see him. It was a loving smile that seemed to brighten his whole face, chasing the shadows that still lingered in the bottomless depths of his eyes. It was so rare an event to see the dark-haired Elf smile that it filled him with contentment and sweet happiness and his eyes shone briefly with the fleeting hope that he could be the one to bring his lover peace. He knew he was entertaining an illusion but he did not care. With dawn, just like in the passionate hours of the night, he could not bring himself to care.

Bending slightly toward the other Elf’s sleeping form, he deeply inhaled the unique scent that was of pine and freshly cut grass melded together. It was a scent that belonged to no other and that set his blood into fire and turn the strong prince and skilled warrior into a will-deprived doll.

Oh, how he loved him…

He had never thought one could love so much and yet remain whole and apparently the same. There was such pure perfection in that moment that he felt like closing his eyes and weeping. Beneath closed eyelids, he could deny the truth. In the silver light of dawn, he could pretend that things were not what they were and that this moment would never end and turn into a piece of eternity.

“Elrohir…”

The soft word muttered in the other’s sleep shattered the harmony around them the moment it passed his beloved’s lips. They might have been no more than a whisper, an exhalation of the soul, or a joyful reminiscence of the past. Just the kind of words that sometimes passed the thick barrier of unconsciousness… But there was so much love and longing in that simple name that the golden-haired Elf felt his heart freeze in his chest and stood still for several seconds, refusing to acknowledge a reality he had no wish to face.

The bright smile fell from his face, leaving tense hollow features in its place. If someone had looked into the depths of his eyes, they would have seen that shadows had returned to the darkened orbs.

He felt an unbidden sob catch in his throat and turned away from the sleeping Elf, refusing to see the smile that still lingered on his lover’s lips. His long golden hair was like a curtain to hide his grief and his shame that sprung from his constant denial and for his debasement… It was not the first time that this had happened and that name had escaped his lover’s lips when his own name should have been spoken. He could not recall the countless times that names had been confused when cried in the maddening heights of ecstasy or in the warm languish of passion. It was not his name that was uttered with love and longing. He had grown used to it but it did not make it easier. It did not change the pain that threatened to tear his heart to pieces.

He knew, but every time was surprised by his ability to push this painful knowledge aside and forget it only to have his heart crushed anew each time it occurred.

With a trembling hand, he disentangled himself from the sheets, silently fighting the constrictive embrace of the fabric around his limbs. He wished to put as much distance as he could between them for he was not sure he could bear the simple sight of his lover at that moment. His naked form stood out clearly in the darkened room, enveloped as he was by the glimmering reflection of the flames. As he walked across the room slowly and hesitantly to the armchair where his night robe had been negligently forsaken, the light seemed to wrap around his slender body, enhancing his natural beauty that belonged to the immortal children of Ilúvatar and born from the unexpected alliance of night and day.

The golden-haired Elf sighed as he wrapped himself in the robe of dark velvet and sat in the comfortable armchair, his eyes never straying from the fire in order to avoid the sight of the vast bed where his lover kept sleeping unawares. He tried not to think and swallowed the sobs that rose in his chest. A single tear escaped the prison of his eyelashes and slowly rolled down his pale cheek, leaving a salty trail on the soft skin.

How long had it been that he had willingly given everything without hoping for anything but pain and tears in return out of sheer unselfish love? Nothing but pain and tears…with a resolute hand, he wiped away the moisture on his face, blinking hard to will himself calm. It did him no good to be bitter. He was unfair. There had been nice loving moments, even moments of loving affection and wild passion.

But it was not enough.

For love did not belong there and for the one who loved deeply and wholeheartedly, it would never be enough.

Once upon a time…a very long time ago indeed…he had never hoped to even catch the eye of the beautiful grey-eyed warrior. They had met on a dusty dawn in the forest of Mirkwood. He had been young then, but never had he been able to forget the glorious sight of that dark haired rider with his mane flying in the wind…a sight that had irremediably changed his young life. It might have sounded futile, but he had loved the ebony Elf since that first meeting and had never spoken to anyone of the feelings of his dazed heart. He had taken lovers but in the secret of the night for his body only craved the touch of the handsome Elf. They had met again, even became friends to the delight of their respective fathers, who saw in the friendship of their heirs a good omen for the alliance of their realms. But never had he dared to make a step in his friend’s direction.

So when many, many years later they became lovers, it had been as though a dream had come true. It was more than the achievement of a secret fantasy. It was what he had longed and hoped for silently all his life.

But now, what he had wished for was not enough. He had wanted the dark-haired beauty’s skin against his own and he had it. He had wanted to know the bliss and rapture of his arms and he knew it. But it was not enough. His lover had never spoken of love to him but he had hoped that his lover would grow to love him and one day he would be loved as he loved: completely and without restraints. But never were his hopes for completion granted.

For his love’s heart still dwelled in the abyss of someone else’s arms. One he could not love but someone he could not forget. And as much as it pained him to say the words, this someone who ruled over the raven haired Elf’s heart was not the blond Sinda watching over his sleep.

A shudder ran the length of his spine as the dreadful realization of his own weakness dawned on him once more. He should have left many years before when he had still been able to leave and put everything behind him…when he had been able to think of a life without the other Elf.

But now it was too late. He could not leave…would not leave. He loved him desperately and hopelessly. He could only dream for a day when his lover would be able to put the past behind him and learn to love again.

Dreams and hopes…that was what he would live for.

The flaxen-haired Elf glanced in the direction of the still form beneath the sheets. Seeing his lover sound asleep, he slowly stood and approached the bed again, his steps silent as only those of the Firstborn could be. His sapphire-like eyes took in the sight of the sleeper, trying to decide on how likely it would be that the other would wake. But his hesitation was short-lived as he decided that his absence mattered little and stepped back slowly; his eyes never leaving the beloved face.

His hesitant steps were muffled by the thick rugs on the cold ground as he stopped by the hearth, lit a candle, and then walked across the room to a door hidden beneath a light veil of silk. Delicately brushing it aside and seizing the doorknob, he froze for a mere second and glanced once more towards the sleeper. Pushing away any worry he had, he straightened and entered the small antechamber silently, the door making very little noise as it turned on its well-oiled hinges.

With a deep inhale, he took in the sight of his lover’s office. There were very few pieces of furniture and the room would have been bare if were not for the big desk in a corner and the few shelves on the opposite wall. The only personal marks in the room were the well-cared for weapons that were hanging on the wall or lying on the ground enveloped in fine fabrics as well as the portrait facing the windows.

Within the room no fire was burning in the fireplace and the air was chilled. The soft silver of Ithil filtering through the great window and the frail glow of the candle were the only light in the room. But the golden-haired Elf, whose blood was of both Sindarin and Silvan ascendance, remained as indifferent to the cold as he was to the heat.

He paused for a few moments, his lithe white-clad frame looking as ethereal as the ghosts that human children were so afraid of. He approached the desk gradually, careful not to make any noise while caressing the old dark wood with the hand that did not hold the candlestick before sitting on the simple chair close to the piece of furniture. He remained still for some moments, breathing in the scent of the room that helplessly brought him back to the Elf sleeping in the next room.

Putting down the candle, his hand then strayed down the length of the old wood, touching as one would the skin of a lover before stilling on the copper knob of a small drawer which he opened with very little hesitation. As his eyes fell on the preciously conserved content of the desk, time stood still and he did not dare breathe.

In the drawer nested in a bed of silk was a pile of papers had been gathered over the centuries and had yellowed with age. Some of the sheets had already crumbled to dust in spite of the care they were given. The Elf’s fingers brushed against the old parchment, relishing in the feeling of the rough surface against his soft skin while his eyes closed and his lips parted to let out a whisper that was stolen by the darkness and the flickering light of the candle. It was a ritual that took place more and more often with the passing of time and his growing feeling of helplessness. Slowly, the covering of silk was pushed aside and the papers were brought onto the desk in front of the Firstborn.

~The day has come, my love. I have no right to call you thus anymore. You gave yourself to that sweet faced Lady of Mirkwood. To her, you pledged the heart that once belonged to me and took the oath of eternal faithfulness. And I watched…I watched as eternity came between us in the most solemn form. I watched and did not speak a word as they took you away from me. I congratulated you with a smile on my face but my heart was sobbing silent tears of pain. I did not speak a word and so chose honour over you. You did the same as you bound yourself to this child of Lasgalen. If you knew how much I despise honour now that you are gone and I am alone in our rooms…~

They were letters written by a loving and desperate hand and had never left the writer’s side. They had never been sent and were not meant for his eyes he knew, but with time the guilt had faded. He had discovered them per chance one day when he had sought some paper upon which to write to his brother. If the sheets had not escaped his hands and fallen on the ground he would never have looked upon them. But things happened and even the smallest event could change the course of fate. The papers had scattered on the ground and his whole world had changed. He had gathered them quickly, unwilling to lose more time than he had already. Why had he looked down? Why had his gaze fallen on that particular paper…that dark old drawing?

~ My love, my life, my eternity, another day without you, your smile, and your eyes. Hours are endless when you are not by my side. Often did I seek you only to realize that you were not there… that you would never be there again. 'Tis so strange not to feel you anymore. My mind is so empty and 'tis as though a part of me is missing. I feel like a broken doll deprived of will and yet, for our sake, I have to act as though nothing had changed lest Adar see behind my pretense.~

There were days when he wished he never had seen them. Things would be easier if he had not. Some said that ignorance was mother to serenity and they were right.

~ The bed that we once shared far from prying eyes is so cold without you that I cannot lie in it. As sleep eludes me, I wander through our father’s manor, avoiding other awakened souls as much as I can. But even in those endless corridors, something calls to me. 'Tis you. Your image is bound to every dark corner of this house and I know I will find no rest within those walls. So, I come back to the bed where we once shared guilty pleasures and I wait for Ithil’s beauty to fade with the day, thinking of you when I had once watched over your sleep.~

But he had looked down and his heart had frozen at the same time his lips had parted to let out a pained cry of surprise. No sound had ever left his throat however for his mouth had suddenly gone dry at the sight of the picture.

~ Anor has risen and I miss seeing the flicker of its light on your skin. I miss watching you awakening to the wonders of dawn and your smile when you snuggled in my arms. I miss the taste of your mouth and the perfection of your body. I miss you… ~

In long patient strokes of charcoal, a couple had been drawn in the throws of passion, their bodies joined in the most intimate way. The picture was beautiful and powerful. The artist had rendered the flexing of muscles under the strain, the slender yet strong limbs, the delicate pointed tips of leaf-shaped ears, and the proud arc of the erection disappearing through the firm globes of flesh very well. An incredible eroticism had seemed to emanate from the parchment. But it was not the nature of the act immortalized on paper that had caused his shock, but rather who was involved in the depicted lovemaking. He had had no trouble acknowledging the mirrored features of the twin sons of Lord Elrond: his own lover and his sister’s husband.

~ Please, forgive me but I miss you. The day we parted, I swore to you I would not. I swore that I would not despair. But this oath is one I cannot keep. I am weak when you are not there to lend me your strength. I am like an old mortal deprived of his walking stick. My steps are staggering and hesitant and I fear falling with each step I undertake. I do not recognize myself when I gaze at my reflection in the looking glass. Am I that Elf looking back at me with eyes filled with infinite sadness?~

Unhurriedly while never looking away from the picture he had sat, unable to stand any longer. He did not know for how long he had remained thus: immobile and silent with his eyes frozen and his heart beating wildly in his chest. But it had been only several seconds later when he had finally found the strength to move again and had skimmed through the pile of papers. There were drawings and letters. The former he had watched with unfashionable fascination mixed with horror and anger and the latter he had put aside.

~Autumn has come and you are not here, even though you had said in your last message that you would come with your wife to pay us a visit. Autumn has come and you are not by my side…The leaves fall and so do my tears. I cannot go on like this. I am sorry but 'tis beyond my strength.~

There were many of the same type of pictures, most of them so explicit that he had felt the tip of his pointed ears grow hot. But there were also pictures of daily life: a laugh or a smile…a ride through the forest or a discussion beneath the stars. The question that had arisen in his mind had been simple: Who? Who had drawn these pictures and why had Elladan kept them?

~ In your last letter my love, you asked me why I did not join the mighty Glorfindel in his visit to the corrupted Greenwood. I answered that I had obligations in Imladris that prevented me from coming. Will you know that I lied? My hand had trembled as I had traced the words on the parchment, which has reached you by this hour. I never lied to you before. This was the first time. But how could you understand me, you who have become a Prince of Mirkwood and have built a new life on the ruins of our love? I still live within those ruins. Every room, every sound calls back your memory. Centuries might have passed, but 'tis as though you would come back to me tomorrow. Your shadow is everywhere. Seeing you is torture for you do not belong to me anymore. You behave like my brother, but your eyes are closed to me and so is your soul. You belong to her. I stopped hating her a long time ago, but I fear that if I saw who you have become, I will learn to hate you.~

He had known the answer to the last question. With those pictures in hand, many scattered pieces of the puzzle that was the twin sons of Elrond had found their places. He had recalled the cursed day when Elladan had been wounded and brought to their infirmary…how Elrohir had remained faithfully by his side, refusing all nourishment. That day he had understood that the brethren’s relationship was different from any he had with his own siblings. But never had he thought that their love went so far and so deep…the love of two lovers…never till that day in the small office.

~I took a lover, my love. Will you despise me? He is beautiful, you know. He is a child of the day while you were born of the night. I took a lover and I feel as though I am betraying you. I tried to forget you, my love. Will you forgive me? You are more present than ever. You are in our bed and between us. I will hurt him, you know…I should leave him now that there is still time. But I will not, my love…I am too lonely and he does not ask anything from me~

As for the artist of those pictures…His eyes had fallen on the portrait of Elrohir that hung on the wall and he had known the truth. Elladan had drawn them…trying to keep a memory of a time long gone.

The prince had placed the papers back where he had found them, anger swelling in his chest and replacing the sadness and heartache. He had wanted to confront his lover as soon as he had returned to tell him his pain and his rage. But he had not. Faced with the grey orbs he loved so much, he had not been able to say the words he had wished to say. He had closed his eyes instead and welcomed the dark-haired Elf into his arms.

Much later, he had come back to the small office and read the letters, understanding slowly the feeling of sadness that never really departed from Elladan. He had read throughout the following nights the secrets of a love sacrificed on the altar of honour. He had understood that his own pain found an echo in his lover. In those letters, he had found the strength to go on day after day and night after night and pretending that they loved each other. When his despair grew dark, he would go there and read those words he knew by heart, caressing those arabesques that none but he and his beloved had ever touched.

In the silence of the night with Eärendil’s light as the only witness, he plunged himself into the memories of a love so ancient and pure that he felt like crying. He had no need to read the words to know them, but he liked the feeling of the paper beneath his fingers. The pain of his lover dimmed the pain in his own heart. Knowing that they were both bound in a love which had no hope or tomorrow helped him survive the pain of his heart. Reading those letters had brought him closer to his lover than he had ever been. In that small office, he learned about the real Elladan. In the flickering candlelight, he learned to love him more and more.

His reading was interrupted by the characteristic creaking of the mattress on the wood of the bed and without a blink, he erased all traces of his activity by quickly putting the letters and the drawings in their prison of silk before closing the drawer and approaching the great windows, immersing himself in Elbereth’s light. He heard the slow turning of the door on its hinges and turned toward his nude lover with a sweet smile before leaning into the arms that enfolded him in a warm embrace. He sighed with contentment as a questing mouth came to kiss his offered throat. A soft voice murmured in his ear, “'Tis cold here, meleth. Why do you not go back to bed?”

Legolas let himself be led to the warm cosy room with his fingers twined with Elladan’s and at peace with himself for at least a few short hours. Little did he know of the sad grey gaze that watched him night after night as he gave into his tormented need or that his secret had never been one. The elder son of Elrond was well aware that his and Elrohir’s secret belonged now to another. He wished he could be angry with his golden lover but he could not for he understood what pushed the flaxen-haired prince to violate his most private sanctuary. It was the same feeling that pushed him to write those letters: an overwhelming need to understand and accept what was reality…to acknowledge that their dreams would remain dreams and that love would never be theirs to have and to hold.

Reclining on the bed, Elladan watched as his lover walked to the hearth and divested himself of his night robe. He knew he was hurting the fair Elf but he had come to need him…to build a new life and fill in the void left by his twin. Try as he could, he would never be able to give Legolas what the latter sought for the golden prince did not love him as he was, but had fallen for an image built out of his fantasies.

A feral smile brightened his features and he shifted to accommodate his growing erection as he stared at the glorious sight of his lover’s nudity while Legolas walked sensually in his direction. Elladan reached out to his lover and, as the mattress crackled beneath their combined weight, their lips met ardently. Tongues fought fiercely and hands roamed over nimble bodies. Through the whispers of the night, one could hear an ‘I love you’. Both knew the shadows lurking beneath the beauty of the instant. ‘I love you’ echoed the other as their bodies joined and instinct took precedence over reason.

‘I love you’…the oldest lie in the world.

But for the moment neither cared.

The end.

Fic : Brother mine I, Farewell

2006-11-09T18:56:36Z

Brother Mine I: Farewell

Author : Casualis

Pairing : Elrohir/Elladan

Rating : NC-17

Beta : Joey

Warning : Incest !

Notes : This was my very first fic in LotR fandom....and also the reason for my first flame. To avenge myself, I decided it would be nice to give that fic a sister. Finally, it turned into a triptych. I hope you'll enjoy

Lie still, my Dolour; let thy tossing cease.
Didst call for Night: 'tis falling now: for see!
Bearing to some her care, to some her peace,
The evening robes the town with mystery.

While all the herd in vulgar revelries,
'neath Pleasure's lash, that falls implacably,
Now runs to cull remorse from vanities,
My Dolour, give thy hand and come with me

To ways apart. lo, all our years gone by,
In robes outworn, bend from the balconied sky:
from waters deep arise our Joys deceased:

The sun is dying now beneath an arch:
And, like a long shroud trailing from the east,
— Hark, dear! — Night softly starts her shadowy march.

Charles Beaudelaire, Meditation

The bedroom was quiet as was the whole house in this hour of the night. No sound could be heard, excepted for the bewitching chant of cicadas. The small animals nested in the high trees that surrounded the manor. Every night they sang their joy in the enveloping torpor of the summer night. The night sky was clear and, upon the black fabric of the sky, sparkling stars made a golden case for Ithil's silvery beauty.

This year, summer was unusually hot; the heat overwhelming as it slowed life and striked with its burning fingers those who had been brave enough to challenge the natural inferno. The earth was burnt and the trees were thirsty; their dry and yellowed leaves providing little cover to the weary animals. The level of the water of the Anduin was lower than any was able to remember; the white and polished smooth stones apparent from the bank.

The night was well advanced. The sun had disappeared some hours ago and, with the coming of Ithil, the landscape had changed. If during the day, drought was silencing the vale, at night, life was reawakened; Elves and animals benefiting from the light breeze gracing the air.

But, this night, the Elves were sleeping, leaving the place to the songs of nature and the memories of the past. The whole vale was sound asleep, save for the lonely figure in the bedroom. No candle lit the room but Ithil's light seeped into the room through the large open windows, barely restrained by the silk sheer curtains. It gave the room the aspect of a sweet cocoon as the awake Elf seemed to rock within the embrace of his invisible arms.

The silvery light enhanced the contrast between the Elf's alabaster skin and the long dark hair that framed his well drawn face. Angular cheekbones enhanced the noble and delicate line of his nose. His pale skin seemed to be opalescent, glowing in the semi darkness, and his usually gray eyes looked like two shadowed oceans.

Nothing moved. The sheer curtain rose slightly, according to the will of the flickering breeze. Oblivious to the world, the Firstborn was sitting on the edge of the large bed; his body tense and still; his gaze fixed on a distant point in the night sky, on the shining promise of Eärendil.

People used to say that while Eärendil was shining upon Arda, there was still hope to cling to. But the lonely ebony-haired Elf was far from agreeing with those popular beliefs. Because, in that clear night where no cloud could be seen, where Eärendhil was brighter than ever, hope had deserted his heart, leaving it to the mournful melancholy of his tortured mind.

Some days were full of joy for some people and full of sadness for others. And tonight, while the whole vale was sleeping, waiting with cheerful impatience for the morrow's joyous ceremony, he was sitting in silence in his room; his sorrowful heart on the verge of breaking. The previous day had been one of the longest in his long life, as he pretended to share the common eagerness and claimed to be someone he was not. That day had been torture and held nothing that resembled hope and expectation.

Everything was ready. Tables were set, flowers were gathered, finest robes had been designed for the event, and the brightest gems were ready to sparkle in the candlelight. The great hall had been prepared and decorated. The best minstrels of the Vale had been bidden to play during the feast that would follow the ceremony. Old and savory wine had been decanted from oaken barrels where they had slept for years, if not centuries, into delicately cut crystal carafes. Cooks had worked for more than a week to prepare a great
banquet, where exotic plates would blend with traditional dishes. The whole week had been spent in joyous excitation and impatience for the feast that was to come. Everyone was happy.

Everyone was happy but he. He dreaded nothing more than that expected ceremony. Because tomorrow his lover would take his vows and it was not to him that he would give his promise of eternal love.

It was not to him… A world of sorrow and pain would be heard if those words were to be uttered. It was not to him… And his heart cried invisible tears of suffering.

He knew that he was not the only one who suffered, that his lover was also feeling that emotion of helplessness and finality. But strangely, it did not comfort him.

Since the beginning, they had known that day would come and, with it, the end of their love. They had been well aware that the bond they shared was not meant to last. It had not even been meant to exist. They had known it. Yet, it still hurt. He had not believed it would hurt so much. They had known of the nearing of that fateful day and had contemplated with disdain and carelessness at first, then with more and more despair and denial.

They had known since the first step they had made upon their path that what they shared would only lead them to the pain of separation. But they had never left that path. They had never wanted to. For centuries they had walked upon it, hand in hand, protecting their secret and each other from the others' gazes. But what had lasted for centuries would come to an end on the morrow.

All they had shared through the long years would be extinguished by the mighty and unmerciful tide of duty and honor. The fire of their passion and their secret submerged and drowned under the passing of time and the forgetfulness of memory.

Tomorrow would be the day of the death of his heart.

But for the moment, he would wait for the end of the night and watch the rising of the sun. He would watch cautiously as the shy rays of light would chase the darkness away. He would observe how Ithil's beauty would pale and die when the golden magnificence of Anar would finally emerge. He would look upon the end of the night, which would mean the last breath of their love.

Slowly, someone turned the doorknob and the heavy wooden door opened noiselessly on its hinges. A silent shadow sneaked into the dimness of the room and closed the door behind itself. The Elf on the bed did not move, neither did he give any sign he was aware of the other's presence. For some seconds, time seemed to drag on. Finally, the nocturnal visitor approached the bed without a word. As he walked, shadows and light enveloped his lithe frame, drawing a ballet of shades upon his skin and clothes, enhancing his ghostly appearance.

The ebony-haired Elf sitting on the vast bed did not react when the piece of furniture gently protested the extra weight. He did not avert his gaze from the sky when a strong arm encircled his waist and a firm chest was pressed upon his back. A silky cascade of dark curls mingled with his own when the phantom-like figure rested his chin upon his strong shoulder. But he closed his eyes and leaned into the comforting embrace, sighing as a hot breath lightly caressed the top of his delicate pointed ear. It was barely more than the silken touch of a butterfly's wing but it sent shivers the length of his spine. He had hoped for that moment without daring to admit it. He had feared that he would have to spend that last night alone in the company of stars. But he had come.

He had come.

And joy and sorrow mixed in his heart in an outburst of emotions as he was reminded vividly of what was to happen tomorrow.

Slowly, he turned his head and crossed the other's gaze. For some seconds, they remained still; gray eyes locked into gray eyes; a similar expression upon their equally fair features. An ocean of thought was exchanged in that short moment without a word uttered.

Words had never been needed between them. It had always been like that. Words had always been redundant and useless.

They stared at each other; their eyes reflecting the same awe, love and distress. At the same time, they closed their eyes and let the soothing obscurity rebuff the worries of the next day. They hugged tight, clinging to each other in a desperate embrace, not wanting to let the night die and the day begin.

Because, on the morrow, Elrohir Peredhel, youngest son of the Lord of Imladris, would marry the youngest daughter of King Thranduil of Mirkwood. As it had been agreed upon millennia ago between their fathers, even before the children of them were born. Tomorrow, they would bind themselves to each other as a symbol of the eternal alliance between their two realms. And, tomorrow, Elladan would lose everything he held dear: his brother, his friend, his lover, and himself.

It was so difficult to accept that marriage, to accept the separation from each other. They had shared so much through the passing of time. So much and yet, so little. Love and acceptance. Stain and purity. Knowledge and innocence.

Of course, it was wrong. Of course, it was impossible. Of course, they should have known better than to involve each other in such a story. They should have stopped that madness before it was too late, nipping it in the bud. They had endangered themselves, and not only their honor but also that of their family and of their realm. Incest was synonymous with exile and hopelessness.

But how could they have stopped it when they had not known when it had begun? Who could say when the brotherly gazes had become the butterfly glances of lovers? Who could say when everything had changed irremediably?

As long as they could remember, no one else had ever been in their thoughts. They were twins, after all, and they had always been closer than other brothers. They had shared everything: their mother's womb, their first words which were directed to each other, their first laughter, their first tears, their first fears. They were twins, two halves of a same soul. Two beings incomplete when separated.

But one day, everything had changed. One day, they had looked at each other with a glint that had not existed before. And they had averted their gazes, afraid of themselves and of their awakening feelings. They had not spoken of it because words were useless between them. Each of them had known perfectly the other's feelings. But they had kept behaving as if nothing had changed. As if they were still the same…

But they were not. After that stare, each could remember nights spent alone in their own bedrooms, turning and turning again in their vast beds. Too vast and too empty, when their minds were filled with unbidden fantasies. Both could remember the feeling of shame that came along waking in sheets soiled by the evidence of their inner turmoil. Neither of them had really understood what had been happening to them. They were twins, brothers and friends. They had not understood the frightening strength of their feelings, ashamed of taking so much pleasure in the mere presence of the other. Ashamed of the others' reactions if they were to know. Afraid of themselves.

Because they were not meant for each other.

They had known of the alliance which would bind together the two Elven realms through the expected marriage of the youngest children since they had been of age to understand. It had been common knowledge that they had both accepted without any rebellion. It was their father's wish and, since he had given his word, it was a matter of honor. And honor was not to be taken lightly.

For years, they had claimed nothing had changed and had learnt to hide their feelings. They, who were so close of each other, had come to dread the moment they were left alone with their unbidden desire, the slightest touch that would awaken new worlds of sensations.

They were brothers and, even if they were twins, it was unknown. They had not wanted to cross the thin line still separating them: it would have meant the collapse of their world. Everything had been so simple and so easy before. Everything had become so blurred and uncertain after. It had seemed they were walking on a rope stretched between the two edges of a chasm and they were balancing on the brink of madness.

Madness… Love and hate had been melting in their blood. Hate for those unexpected feelings. Strange feelings. Hate. Love. Their world was crumbling, spinning in a waltz of contradictory sensations. They had felt it and that simple fact had frightened them to their very core.

They had tried to stop it. They had retreated into themselves; both of them trying to avoid the other. Failing miserably as they needed each other to live. They had never been separated and they had been unable to sever the ties that bound them.

People had noticed their strange behavior but had interpreted them it to the difficulties of their age. To that strange period of life when Elflings opened their minds to the world, hesitant and groping; halfway to adulthood but still attached to their childhood.

If they had known…

If they had known their internal struggles. If they had known their despairs when they would awake after dreams full of their embraces; the name of the other dying upon their lips, sweat running the length of their spines; their flesh aching because of their vivid fantasies. If they had known how much they had despised themselves.

If they had known…

But people had only seen what they had wanted to see. And they had not noticed their silent cries and invisible tears.

Was it so wrong to love his brother and yet, naught had looked purer and more beautiful.

But one night, they had not fought against their feelings. One night, the need of comfort had been stronger. It had been one night as this one, when the beauty of the stars interspersed in the darkened sky had shone with a purity that had not reflected the sadness of their hearts. Their mother had taken a ship for Valinor, leaving them no hope of return. It had been a night when Ithil's silver light had fallen upon their two distressed hearts, feeling the weight of abandonment. That night, under his benevolent gaze, they had sought in themselves the courage to go on and keep on living. They had clung to each other to find strength and love. And they had stopped denying their hearts' wishes. It would have been too difficult to refuse when they needed it so much.

Under the sparkling of stars, they had discovered the pleasure of loving each other, the calming of their minds, the drowning in an ocean of peace. Nothing had ever been more right as though their souls had finally found the rest they had been seeking.

But dawn had come too soon, leaving them with the guilt of their feelings. Neither of them had really regretted what had happened that night. It had been too overwhelming, too good to find some peace again. But the worse had been to look at each other in the bright light of the sun. Under the cover of the night, it had been easy to conceal their love. In the daylight, everything had been different as they could not claim to feel anything else than brotherly affection.

They had not spoken of that night. Neither had they spoken of a possible future. They had known too well that they had no future together as lovers. They had known that one day, Elrohir would have to bind himself to Thranduil's daughter. Theirs remained an unspoken agreement: they had never discussed it. They never confessed their feelings to each other. It would have been useless. Theirs had remained a shadowy love, never displayed in daylight but always in the blessing of Ithil. They were children of the night and their love was not different. For years, they had kept their nocturnal habits, finding only joy and peace in the mere presence of the other. For the time of the night, they would love each other. They would let the constant reminder of their difference slip away. They would make love desperately or cheerfully according to their moods but it would always end in an explosion of sensation and passion when their souls united and became one as if it should have never been otherwise.

But tonight, that would end forever. What was not supposed to be would soon cease to exist. They would let fate separate them. What could they have done against it? They would sacrifice their love for the sake of their realm. Imladris needed that alliance to consolidate the relationships with Mirkwood. Tonight would be the last time their union was blessed by Ithil's light. Tonight would be the last time they would belong to each other. Tomorrow, all would
change and Elrohir would bind himself to one he would have to learn to love and cherish. For them, there was no hope anymore. Elven bindings were meant to last forever.

Suddenly, the sad song of cicadas ended, breaking the cadence rocking the twins' still embrace. Silence exploded in the night, awakening them to reality, pulling them out of their dream state and memories.

Slowly, Elrohir pushed his brother's long ebony hair aside, revealing the pale column of his throat. He kissed languidly the opalescent flesh, caressing with his lips the smooth skin of his brother's neck. The chant of cicadas resumed as if the little animals had understood the meaning of that moment and wished to accompany their last embraces with their magical voices. His eyes closed, breathing deeply his twin's scent: pine and sweet honey. Elrohir trailed his lips the length of his brother jaw, reaching finally the well-drawn lips. Elladan sighed imperceptibly, leaning more in the arms encircling him. He met his brother's lips, desiring nothing more than their soft touch upon his fevered skin.

Their kiss was tender, barely more than two pairs of lips touching in a chaste contact, tasting each other, memorizing the edge of the others. It was like the kiss of two children, like the first kiss of two lovers. Hesitant and pure. Loving and shy. They remained like that a few moments, each of them satisfied to feel the breath of the other.

Elladan made the first move, turning himself toward his brother, and he gazed into the bottomless eyes of his twin. He knew that the darkened orbs were only reflecting his own desire.

Lazily, almost shyly, he stretched a hesitant pale hand and placed two long fingers upon the soft skin of Elrohir's cheek. Fascinated, he watched as his twin closed his eyes, breaking eye contact and leaning in the soft caress. Leisurely, he began to follow the defined lines of his brother's face, tracing with fingers, barely more than brushing against the velvety skin. His fingers traced their path the length of the jaw, then went up to caress a sensitive pointed ear, lingering on its top before moving down. He pushed aside a strand of silky dark hair.

The light contact was sending shivers through Elrohir's body. Having closed his eyes heightened his sensations and the fickle caress of his brother's hand seemed to be one of the most erotic touches he had ever known. His breath quickened and became somewhat ragged as he felt the tip of a finger teasing the tip of his ear before exploring an arched eyebrow. The situation was incredibly sensual; he could feel Elladan's proximity, feel the fascination in his gestures and the arousal between them. He tried to slow his breath, wanting the magic of the moment never to end. The fingers pressed a little bit more against the crest of his nose and he smiled inwardly as he experienced a most inappropriate tickling that he chased away with a furrowing of brow. But when the curious fingers reached his lips and stroke them languorously, he indulged the temptation and kissed their tips.

He heard Elladan's sharp intake of breath that betrayed his brother's surprise. But was it surprise? Or was it simply the awakening of passion? Slowly, careful not to break the alchemy of the moment, he opened his eyes as he parted his lips to take the wandering fingers into his mouth. When he gazed into the bottomless ocean of his brother's eyes, he felt himself sucked into a world of completion and love where nothing existed save themselves. Time was suspended and Elrohir was only aware of that intense gaze upon him which was saying so much to him without even speaking. He wrapped his tongue around one of the fingers and licked it delicately, never leaving his brother's gaze. Under the fire flaring in those huge orbs, he felt himself grow hard; his aching flesh restrained in his leggings.

Elladan watched in awe as his brother began to kiss his fingers, feeling a rush of blood in his loins as the nimble tongue began to play with them. He could not move anymore, could not take his gaze away from the fascinating picture made by his twin. He had often wondered if they were still alike in the building up of passion and love, if his own eyes were hazy and unfocused, if his own hair were framing his flushed face in the same way. He could not fathom how he could be as beautiful and as desirable as the one he shared his nights with. His breath became heavy and burning fire ran through his veins when his brother ceased his ministrations and looked cautiously at him; an unmistakable expression upon his fair features.

Elrohir was looking at him, still and concentrated; need and want clearly written in his eyes. For some seconds, they did not move. They were the perfect image of symmetry, their identical face just inches from each other. They were harmony. They were perfection.

Elrohir moved first, bending his limber body as his breath was caressing his twin's earlobe, awakening delicious chills in Elladan. Words were rare during their nights; they had always preferred the silence and its promises to unneeded babbling. Silence gave to the night another dimension: more sensual, less frightening. Sentences were rare and that simple knowledge gave all their strength to Elrohir's murmured words.

"Have me tonight… Give me something to remember forever…"

Elladan sighed in spite of himself, overwhelmed by a new wave of pain when he heard the sadness and resignation hidden in the depths of his twin's voice. But he cast the awkward feeling aside. There would be other nights to cry and mourn. But there would be no other like this one. Elrohir sensed his brother's distress as he began to nibble the pale column of his neck, leaving butterfly kisses upon the shivering flesh. At the same time, he pressed their chests together, pushing with his weight until they were both lying upon the bed; Elrohir on top of Elladan; their limbs entangled in a passionate embrace.

They kissed again but it was neither gentle nor shy. It was the burning joining of two hungry mouths. Their lips crushed. Their tongues battled together, dancing a lascivious dance, swirling and spinning. They broke apart when the lack of air became too much; the intensity of the kiss leaving them panting and hungry for more. Nothing could be heard save for their harsh breathing.

With the agility given by years and years of habit, they unclothed each other, drinking in the sight revealed by the absence of garments: Marble skin reflecting the silvery light of the night, broad shoulders, slender waists, long and powerful legs that were no less graceful… Their bodies betrayed the pressing need they felt; their cocks standing proud and erected between them.

Elladan refused to act on the desire taking hold of his eager body. He wanted that moment to last forever, to memorize every move, every sound, every moan his beloved twin would make. He wanted to have him writhing in need under him, to have him beg for his release and remember this night forever. The elder twin kissed his sibling deeply but did not linger upon those delicate pink fruits waiting to be tasted. He lay his brother upon his back, ignoring the groan of protest coming from his lips. He undertook then to explore the perfect body, leaving a wet trail of kisses the length of the smooth torso, licking teasingly at a dark nipple while pinching slightly the other, ignoring deliberately the way his brother's body arched in need, ignoring the long-fingered hand twined in his ebony mane. He went down, never ceasing his ministrations, pausing to give more attention to Elrohir's navel before going lower but careful to never brush the weeping erection. T

Then, with a mischievous smile as he heard his brother's ragged breathing, he took his straining member in mouth, licking and suckling, wrapping his tongue around the hot column of flesh, bringing Elrohir to the brink of climax before retreating, denying him release. He did not want it to end too quickly. He lightly stroked the narrow hips, restraining them to prevent his wanton brother from bucking into the hot cavern of his mouth.

He raised his eyes to look at his brother, at his eyes darkened by pleasure, at his glistening skin, at his parted lips, at the porcelain teeth biting his bottom lip. He would have liked to preserve that image of his brother writhing in need under his touch, to keep in his mouth the salty and spicy scent of his essence. But, as a louder moan left Elrohir's lips, he was sent back to reality. His own erection ached and he knew he could not last very much longer as each sounds coming from Elrohir sent jolts of pleasure to his swollen groin.

Elrohir had closed his eyes, letting himself be carried away by the mighty stream of sensation crashing upon his body. But it was the feeling of total completion and belonging that was the most overwhelming. He knew what was to come when a spiced scent of lavender spilled into the room and, unconsciously, he arched himself once more, spreading his legs wider as to give better access to his secret place. A confident digit was placed at his narrowed entrance and he relaxed as his brother's knowing fingers prepared him.

Soon, the fingers left him and were replaced by something larger and hotter, which filled him completely, tearing from him groans of contentment. When Elladan began to thrust into him, he wrapped his arms and legs around his brother's neck and waist, shifting against him, locking their gazes together. Their bodies were dancing together, fitting as none would ever fit, knowing instinctively how to give the other more pleasure. Their pace increased, sending wave after wave of pleasure through them. Neither of them wished to close his eyes, refusing to forsake their last chance, wanting to keep that image forever. This was the end, the last time they would make love with each other, the last time they would be able to touch each other in that way. And that hopeless knowledge conferred on their joining a kind of desperate frenzy, a kind of ecstatic agony.

Orgasm surprised them, sending them over the edge, into a world of beauty and love, where colors were deeper and light was brighter. A feeling of total understanding seized them as their souls were united for the last time. An ancient knowledge spread in their heart, the knowledge that no one would ever love them as they loved each other, that their love was right and unique. They remained still for a long moment, their bodies still joined in a tender embrace, cheek against cheek, long wet strands of dark haired melted together, hands twinned in a soft caress. Neither of them spoke, letting the silence soothe their fears.

They knew that they had lost each other. That they would never have another chance to be together as lovers. They would accept becoming the loving brothers they had never ceased to be in the eyes of the world. They should learn to be Elladan and Elrohir, not only the twin brothers of Imladris. Tomorrow would be the beginning of a new era, bearing new pains and new joys. But in their heart dwelt the comforting knowledge that no one would ever replace them.

And in the black velvety fabric of the sky, Ithil shone brightly.

The end

Pic : The King's Bath - Thranduil - PG-13

2006-09-08T20:19:20Z

I read a lot of Thranduil's fics of late and began having ideas about the great Elven King.

Not work-safe...

Click on the pic for the full sized picture...For whatever reason, LJ would not let me put the big pic.

Love,
Cas

California

2006-08-22T09:32:15Z

Hi, people.

I am most excited today. Well... I am still at work and it's not exactly what I am doing that is exciting. However... I received my plane tickets today. I am going to spend two weeks with BF. I leave on the 16th of September. It seems to me it will never come too fast.

I know what I want to do the most there. I will taste the wine. I have heard so many different things about it that I think it is for the best to make my own mind about it. Otherwise, I don't know...I have to check what there is to visit.

I am so happy !!

Big hugs to all,
Love,
Cas

Asks for help

2006-08-16T09:30:24Z

Hello all,

this is for american people. I have just completed my resume and I am looking for someone to check it for langage mistakes. Could someone help me, please?

Love,
Cas

Internet is back

2006-08-12T18:52:46Z

...and I also.

I had to move at the end of June very quickly because I got an internship in Rennes...I could not find one close to my home in Paris. And it took all this long time for me to get a phone line ! I grew desperate at home with bf gone and no little Elves to lust after.

I saw there were some new Silm stories by some of my favorite authors. I am off now to read them...

Love,
Cas

Wanna sleep

2006-07-05T21:28:59Z

Hi all...

Long time no see. The biggest news is that : Exams are over ! and it went pretty well or so do I think. However, life has not become quiet since it was over. I had farewells to say to friends, whom I used to see everyday and whom I won't see in a very long time. Then, I had to pack everything and move back in my parents'home today. I had a lot in my tiny room ! My car was fuller than I thought possible. :-p I drove about 500 miles and I am just so tired ! Cleaning and tidying will have to wait for tomorrow in spite of what my mother thinks.

But tonight, I think I will get no sleep at all ! People are in the streets, screaming, yelling, throwing firelights. People in their cars are using their horns so that noone may ignore what happened tonight. I don't give a fuck about soccer...the only thing I find fun in it is looking at the player's ass... I am going to read a long piece of a very slashy fic before going nuts because of the madness of people.

See you later,
Cas

News

2006-06-03T08:47:53Z

Hello all,

I spent the whole last mont buried in books. It happens that I have much to catch up with and with exams nearing (beginning in two weeks), I have yet much work to do. With that, I haven't had time for writing. :-( But I won't say it's bad because what I am studying currently are exactly what I want to do later: Network security. And as I want to work in Security Audit, it's not very unpleasant.

I would need a piece of advice from American people here.

A week ago, my bf decided he would do a one-year-internship in Tustin California from August on. So, I am thinking to join him there when the time for my internship would come. I could use pieces of advice now because I don't know how-where to begin for search for one.

After the shock of his decision, I became pretty much excited because it would mean for me the possibility of meeting some of you. *grins*

Anyway, back to studying.

Love,
Cas

Test

2006-05-05T13:37:47Z

Hi !

Just a test to see if I am the only one who is stuck with a Friend Page that doesn't update. The last post I saw was DA's on the 3rd.

Love,
Cas "bottle in the sea"

Fic : Fëanorions - Amrod - PG13

2006-05-03T13:51:27Z

Fëanorions: part one

Amrod – the blood and the sand

Author : Casualis

Pairing : None

Rating : PG-13

Summary: The story of the seven sons of Fëanor.

Disclaimer: In my dreams, they are mine and mine alone. But dreams are dreams, no more.

Thanks : To DA, the greatest beta I have ever known.

It had been a beautiful day. From that long ago fateful moment which had changed the world, that was what the youngest son of Fëanor would remember the most precisely. Each detail was engraved in his mind. How could he forget? The scene unfolded again and again behind his closed eyelids. No matter how strongly he tightened his fists, he was not able to stop the flow of images that flooded his mind. The words rolled anew off his tongue. He knew the sounds and smells by heart. He could see the people - *his people* - standing in a circle in Tirion and hear their murmurs anew.

He felt dizzy. Nausea threatened to overwhelm him as it had when the ships had battled against the tempest.

Amrod recalled everything that had occurred then, even the most absurd details. The light of Aman had been extinguished, smothered by the Shadow of the demon that had slain his father’s father. They had all seen Finwë’s body on the floor of his house, his immortal soul destroyed by the darkness that had taken the name Melkor. Grief and anger had battled in their hearts, bringing shining tears to their eyes. They had not realized that their lives had been coming apart then.

Yes, it had been a beautiful day nonetheless, filled with shades the red-haired youth had never seen before. The lights of Telperion and Laurelin still lingered like fading ghosts among the Quendi, while in the sky the stars that they had not beheld in Ages had reappeared. Sorrow had darkened his sight but he could not have overlooked the strange sadness that had transformed everything. It had been a feeling that he had never experienced before…like a torn veil that revealed a well hidden secret. Amidst death, life had been unveiled. The colours had never been truer nor the air fresher.

Amrod straightened himself as much as he could in the small space where he had sought shelter and watched the fishing nets upon which he had laid himself unseeingly, uncaring of the lack of comfort. With a sigh, he closed his eyes again.

The death of his grandfather…the unfolding of malice upon Aman…his father’s anger…his mother’s tears…all of those events had contributed to the change in the way he saw the world. They had shown him that the life he had believed in until then had been no more than a dream…a dream with its bright colours and endless celebration, its joys and insignificant tears. But like every dream, it had not outlasted the night. What they had witnessed on that hill, what they had shared together at that moment had been life…life with true deep feelings that could burn and scorch: the sound, not the echo…the fire, not the smoke.

In spite of everything, the youth had felt that he was on the verge of great deeds. It had been energizing. His blood had battled against his temples like a drummer turned mad.

It had been reality.

He could remember the gleam in his father’s eyes. It had been no more than a dangerous flicker of something. But it had awakened a sudden feeling of anticipation in him while its intensity had brought fear into his heart….a fear so old he was not sure on what it had meant. Then suddenly, anguish had seized him.

Amrod had always listened to the ways of his mind and that time had not been different. He had taken the warning for what it was. But he had not been alone and, in the end, he had had to take the choice. Had his brother not been there, the future would not have been the same. He would have walked away from the gathering, from his father, from the madness that was the Oath.

But Amras had been there…and he had followed the path of his heart, ignoring the roads of reason. For Amras, he had refused to heed his ill-fated sense of foreboding. His twin had felt his anxiety and had seized his hand in love and support. Amrod had then realized that, as usual, his brother had made the choice for both.

Amras…his brother…his twin…his only light and joy in life. When Amrod looked at him, he could forget the Silmarils and the world around. Love had a name and it was his brother’s. He would rather die than be sundered from him.

The day had been beautiful but its magnificence paled when compared to him. Mirrored images people said but Amrod never thought of themselves as such. Amras was the elder, the most beautiful, the quickest in wit and speech and the best at the hunt. Amras possessed an assurance than Amrod would never have and never did he begrudge his twin his superiority. He accepted it as a gift and his brother as a guide. It was so easy to love his twin. He did not know what he would have done without him. He could not envision life without him.

Coming from nowhere, a voice whispered in his ear, “You would not be here”.

At those words, anger swept over Amrod like the pouring rain of a storm. But he refused to be overwhelmed. He brought his hands to his brow, hiding his face in his hands, copper strands hiding him from the world. Fury would bring him nowhere. If he had not followed, what life would have been his? Disowned and ashamed for having denied his father and brothers? Perhaps one of their blades would have brought him down. What choice did a son of Fëanor have? With a father such as his, what else could he have done?

“Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth!”

No…He was the only one to blame. He had uttered the words of his doom. It had been he who had stood on that hill and had spoken, not someone else…not his father…not his brother. He was no warrior. He knew how to handle a sword and was quite skilled with his bow but he had never taken any kind of pleasure in their wielding. He was not like his father, who was consumed by his own flame and would have destroyed the mountains standing between him and his goal.

It had been Amras’ hand on his own that had lent him the strength to defy the gods and leave all those he cherished behind because he did not want to leave the one he loved the most. It had been his brother’s hand on his and the perspective of maddening reality and belonging to something that was so much bigger than he.

Events had unfolded too quickly for him to follow. He had entered a world that made no sense to him. He had only one certainty and he clung to it as though he was drowning…perhaps he was. His name was Amrod, son of Fëanor and Nerdanel, twin brother to Amras. He was a Kinslayer. On his hands was the blood of his kin, the Teleri.

At this vivid image, a whimper escaped the Elf’s lips, making him sound like a pup taken from its mother but he refused to let it be acknowledged. This was his punishment for his faults. He deserved this and much more. Dreams had plagued his waking nights and visions had slowed his days. Blood…The blood of the innocents on the hands of their murderer. The blood was on the sand where everything had happened. The blood made it so that things would never be the same again.

Amrod had not known that one day many would sing about what had happened when his people had reached the Haven of the Swans, where dwelt the Teleri, who were cherished by Ulmo. Bards would wrap pretty words around thoughtful notes as many would listen to them and shiver, tears in their eyes. It would be a tale like what Nerdanel would sing to her twin sons when sleep had eluded their minds…filled of epic battles and tragedy. But this time, the demon had a face: it was his people…his brothers…him.

Until that day, Amrod had not known what death really meant. He had known what it was to hunt even though he had had little love for such hobbies. Each time before releasing an arrow or letting his spear fly, he had prayed for the creature whose life would nourish his own. The day had been beautiful but it had been the day when his innocence had been lost to him forever. There was no turning back. He would never forget. He did not want to forget the blood that still soiled the shore. Nothing would ever go clean again: not his hands or the sand.

The sound of angry footsteps broke into Amrod’s introspection and he raised his eyes to the wooden ceiling of his shelter where people were walking upon the deck of the ship. Tears came unbidden to his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He wanted to be left alone with his guilt and his memories.

He had climbed aboard a graceful ship amidst the cries of his people and the Teleri. The wind had felt good upon his face, like a sensual promise of better heavens. Strands of copper had escaped their prison of braids as the wind had grown more forceful and his sight had been hindered. He had not seen who had struck first. Had it been the sailors with their long, elegant bows? Had it been his people with their lethal swords? In the space of a single minute, the world had come to change irreparably.

Of those fateful minutes – or were they hours? – there remained only the feeling of helplessness and drowning…of losing grip on what he had mastered until then. He had been deprived of his ability to move and had only been able to watch as his brothers fought over the ships, whose sails had been white and bright in the fading light.

People seemed to enjoy glorifying death in songs and poems but there was no glory in either dying or in killing. Death was cold and emotionless. It was so much and so little at the same time: the end of a life by a shifting of the wrist, the widening of a pupil, a breath that did not come.

Amrod knew what he spoke of for he had killed once. He was not aware of how it had come to pass. One moment, he had been standing near the pond, the next his blade had been embedded in an Elf’s side. In an eye’s blink, the youth’s life had changed irrevocably. He had committed the unthinkable: he had killed one of his own kindred. It would never matter to others that he had killed one that had been threatening his brother, the most important person in his life…it did not matter to him actually. What was important was that he could not call himself an Elf anymore.

For the life he had taken, he would pay endlessly. It was his only certainty in the chasm that had opened beneath his feet. How had he done such a thing to one so young? He had been no more than a child that had called for his mother when Amrod had gathered the Elf in his arms, shocked by his own action. The sailor’s death had not been a merciful one and Amrod had watched over him until the end, begging for a forgiveness that had never been uttered. In the blue eyes that were fixed far away, the red-haired twin had seen incomprehension and surprise. Elves were not supposed to die and he had been one of those who had made real the limits of eternity.

The sand had turned to the colour of blood and the sight would never cease to haunt him. He would bear the burden of those unseeing eyes until Arda ended along with him. The blood and the sand…the sand and the blood…

And to say that the day had been beautiful...how ironic destiny could be. Beauty and death melting in the darkness of their lives.

He had not wanted this. He had had no wish for those deaths and those screams, this violence and this mayhem. He had wanted to go back to his mother so that she could take away the pain in his heart and make him forget.

Voices were raised on the deck. People were arguing. It seemed to Amrod that he recognized his father and his elder brother’s voices. He shrank in his corner as though trying to disappear in the shadows that surrounded him. From where he was, he could not make out what they said but pieces of their conversation pierced the fog of his mind. “Why?” …”Destroy”…”Madness”…”Ships”…Suddenly, they stopped and Amrod was left again in his world of silence.

The following days had passed without his being aware of them. The red-haired youth knew that he had eaten, spoken, and performed his duties as he should have. But, inside it felt as though he was the one who had died at the Haven. He was living a nightmare. “Why?” screamed his heart. “Why did you do that?” Only his twin had noticed that something was amiss. But he could not speak of it, not even to his twin. Amrod felt his brother’s distress at being held away but he was unable to bring himself to explain the void of his soul. No word would ever describe the absurdity of what they had lived.

Somewhere, Amrod felt betrayed, deprived of the feelings of greatness and bravery that his father had promised them. Reality had nothing to offer him. It had introduced him to the harshest lesson that one could learn: life was taken for granted but it was a fragile vase in the hands of a child. No…He refused reality. Anything was better than this. He had become an infant again. He longed for his mother’s breast, for her hand on his brow that would chase the shadows away. He cared no more for honour and great deeds.

A crackling sound reached his ears but Amrod refused to acknowledge it.

The night they had reached Losgar, when his father had announced that they would be leaving the ships behind, the youth had hidden inside one of them in the dark of night. He wanted to go back to Aman, to the fickle and worriless youth he had been not so long ago. He lay there, knowing that he was rocking himself in illusion.

When the horn that announced the gathering would ring, he would rise with the others and go forth. Son of Fëanor he was after all…doomed by the Valar to exile, fated to follow an Oath whose consequences he had not imagined… For he and his brothers, there was no turning back, even though his heart was breaking a little more every day. His father would not stop there. He would go on and on and leave in his trail more deaths than he wanted to witness.

But the horn never sounded for Amrod.

Lost in his world of maddening musings, he had not heard the reason for his father and brother’s argument, had not registered that the crackling came from the very core of the ship. His own father’s hand had set aflame the great ships that had been the cause for the fall of his people.

Only the unbearable heat brought him back to reality. It took him a few seconds to acknowledge the situation and instinct made him recoil from the flames that surrounded him. At that moment, he could have escaped the threatening fire but something made him pause…The image of a child of the sea lying on the bloodied sand.

And finally Amrod knew. There would be no escape for him in this life. He did not want to go on but he could not go back. So, he made his choice: the flames over the sword. He closed his eyes a last time on that world and, without hesitations or a cry, he offered himself to the greed of the fire; the name of a child of the sea on his lips and his brother’s name in his heart.

On the sand, so much blood…

The end.

International writer grins

2006-04-27T19:03:54Z

Hi, folks !

I received an email today from a Russian girl/lady who wanted to translate Brother Mine and It's all over in Russian. It made my day ! *laughs maniacally*

Anyway, back to more pragmatic question. Boyfriend is coming tomorrow to meet with parents. I have to complete my Amrod's story.

*waves*

Love,
Cas

Of point of views

2006-04-25T21:41:01Z

Hi all !

I am currently struggling with the next part of the Feanorians. I have written the whole story from the first person point of view. But it happened that I wasn't satisfied with it. It looked too much the same as the prologue and I found that it lacked its power or something I cannot define. Anyway, I am on my way for rewriting everything from the third person point of view. I know, deep within, that I won't be satisfied either. That's a dilemna and I hate dilemna !

*hugs*
Cas

Fic Saving

2006-04-24T14:49:39Z

I changed computer before leaving and saved all ficcies on CD and DVDs. Of course, when I wanted to check them up, I could not open the files. Blessed be the technology. I spent the day looking for them on the internet. I saved them in my LJ account, section memories. I hope I have not lost any of them but I cannot recall everything that I have written. I have the memory of a mouse. *sighs*

Love,
Cas

In Mirkwood - Elrohir/Legolas - PG - part three

2006-04-24T14:37:10Z

Behind the shadows of the soul
Part III: Mirkwood

Author: Casualis

Pairings: Elrohir/Legolas

Rating: PG-13

Warning: None

Disclaimer: In my dreams, they are mine and mine alone. But dreams are dreams, no more.

Thanks : To DA the magnificent

Northern Forest of Mirkwood, close to the Mount Erober, about fifty kilometres north from the Lake Esgaroth, Third age, year 2610

Legolas led the group, his senses alert as he tried to distinguish any hostile presences among the trees and the surrounding nature. His whole body was tense and his attention was focused on any likely threat. His eyes seemed fixed on a precise and distant point but in fact, he missed little of the forest because as a Wood-Elf, his bond with the woods spared him the need to look around him. He only had to focus himself on that bond to know immediately if something was amiss. He had sensed since the very beginning the critical glances the Imladrin Elves had cast on them, feeling their puzzlement. But he had little time to take care of their questions. They were running out of time. Too soon, Anor would give way to Ithil, plunging the forest in a much deeper darkness that was more favourable to the evil beasts creeping through the Woods. The sooner they would reach the Forest River, the better it would be.

It had been easily agreed between Lord Elrond and his father that the troops should avoid the Forest Path which crossed the realm and the thick nests of the spiders, as it had become incredibly dangerous and was closely watched by Sauron’s minions. It would have meant losing any advantage surprise might have given them. It had also been decided that the riders would bypass the heart of the forest and enter the Woods at the very last moment. Even if the path might appear longer, it was indeed much shorter as the vast plains surrounding the forest of Mirkwood were more adapted to the pace of horses than the dark glutted paths through the woods.

But two days ago, the northern patrol had reported an encounter with spiders inside the area defined by the Forest River. Such encounters were rare there. Spiders were known to fear the water and were unable to swim. But those monsters always found a way to cross the river thanks to a fallen tree or to shallow crossings. On the other side of those paths, traps had been installed but sometimes, spiders succeeded in sneaking into the Elves’ domain and tried to gather as much information as possible to bring the Elves to the dark power living in Dol-Guldur. Their presence was a testimony to the will of the Shadow that wished to eliminate the Elves and completely control the forest. But the Elves were less than willing to forsake the place that was their home to the dark forces troubling the southern Woods.

Traps had been reset and hunts had been organized to clear the path they had taken. But the great arachnids were not easily found when they decided to hide themselves. Five had been killed and their bodies burnt in a bonfire to avoid their putrefaction, which would corrupt a little more of the area. But no one was sure if any of them remained, having escaped the Elves’ wrath and continuing to secretly observe every move that their foes made with the intent to report the presence of the Imladrin warriors to their fellows.

Such a thing could not happen. The King had been most clear on that point. It would upset all their plans of attack.And so thus their pathway was the obscurity of the forest and silence of secrecy in the hopes to keep that surprise on their side.

A soft rustling of the leaves caught Legolas’ attention and he dared to glance quickly in the direction of a tree. He saw nothing, but the trees were particularly high and leafy in the current part of the forest they were in and it was possible that the sharpened sight of the Firstborn would not catch the sign of an unwelcome presence. Briefly closing his eyelids and slowing his breath, he shut himself from his immediate surroundings and focused his mind on the link he shared with the forest. A harsh wave of burning heat overwhelmed him, making him feeling somewhat dizzy. But he remained quiet, waiting for the dizziness to pass. He did not halt his walk, afraid that if he did so, the creature would understand its presence had been discovered. But it passed quickly as every tree suddenly became focused. Their voices were twirling vividly in his mindBut in that world of warmth there was floating a dark essence that emanated a different aura, and the trees declared it as a threat.

He did not need further persuasion and he quickkly opened his eyes, cutting his deep connection with the trees and ignoring the sudden sharp pain that was elicited by the brutal return to reality. His actions did not take more than a second and had not drawn the Noldors’ attention, save perhaps for the perceptive Elf walking at his side. He knew his soldiers had also noticed the unexpected sound and that they were only waiting for a sign from him to act. He had no need to glance behind his shoulder to know that they had discreetly prepared themselves to fire a sharpened arrow; their steady hands clutching the fine wood and their keen eyes scanning the foliage of the trees towering them.

Without hesitation, he acted on instinct and came to a sudden halt, seizing an arrow from his quiver before drawing it back on his bow in a large fluid gesture. Pausing and aiming, he let the sharpened projectile fly, following its race through the trees with his gaze even as he readied himself to fire another one. But he was not the only one to have fired. The two guards who were the closest to him had also aimed an arrow precisely in the same direction.

No one seemed to react as the Imladris Elves also came to a halt, too stunned by the others’ acts to speak. But Legolas knew their arrows had found their target when a horrible piercing shriek tore the silence as the creature in the tree lost any thought to hide its presence. But, even if it had been touched by the Wood-Elves’ shots, the creature was still alive and most willing to flee. Frenetic movements agitated the leaves of the tree. But, before the spider, or whatever dark creature it was, took to another tree, a second arrow was fired by the Prince. All movement ceased and the trees became silent again as a dark mass fell to the ground with a thud, convulsing in a grotesque twitching of the long limbs before stilling, its hairy body pierced by four arrows.

Silence made room to chaos as the Imladris horses startled out of surprise and neighed in alarm. It took some long moments and many reassuring words from their riders to calm them down. During that time, one of the Wood-Elves approached the evil animal to confirm its death, his bow drawn and readily aimed at the creature’s heart, knowing well that its bite was not lethal but not eager to be wounded by the long retractable claws hiddenalong the length of the hairy legs.

It was indeed a spider and all of the Imladris warriors observed the evil animal with a morbid fascination, as none of them had ever seen one before. The corpse of the dead arachnid was about two meter long and twice as large with those eight unending legs that rested now on the forest ground, limp and distorted by the fall. Three arrows were protuding from its fascinatingly smooth abdomen; one was set in its head. Dark blood was flowing out its wounds. The spider seemed to look at the Elves with glazed blind eyes, its mouth slightly opened, revealing two sharp hooks that shone dangerously.

For a long moment, no one moved or spoke as they watched the Elf that gathered the arrows and cleaned them on the grass before handing them towards their owners. Then, on a command of the Prince, they resumed their walk, taking a cautious circle around the dead corpse, willing to avoid another wave of alarm among their horses.

Thranduil’s palace, Third age, year 2610

The day ended in an apogee of bloody tones. The blue sky had taken on a deep red shade which seemed to coil up around the top of the trees. At some points of the sky, the colour seemed to pale slightly into a bright orange or a faded pink. The landscape was a beauty to behold. The trees stood out clearly the golden and red shade of their autumnal foliage slightly darker than the blazing colour of the sky. In the distance, Anor was disappearing; her burning sphere absorbed by the horizon.

A little crowd had gathered at the entry of the underground palace. A few minutes ago, a sentry had come announcing the imminent arrival of the troop from Imladris and the Mirkwood warriors accompanying them. They had passed the northern fortifications and would reach the hill in one hour. As was required by tradition and etiquette, the King of the wooded realm left the Great Halls where he usually sat enthroned, closely followed by a few number of guards and, at a respectful distance, a great procession of courtiers and councillors. The King stopped on the stone bridge, the only entrance to the caverns, and stood straight and regal, seemingly oblivious of the disturbance surrounding him. The guards were watching over him, keeping a small distance between their ruler and themselves. A few minutes later, his two oldest sons joined him, breaching the crowd that was waiting behind the King, and standing at each of his sides.

The King’s gaze looked through the landscape before him. His keen sight took notice of the trees around the hill, of the wild vegetation, and of the small number of habitations emerging from the forest at certain places, before halting his perusal toward the north where a part of the protective stone walls were still visible far away. Memories flowed through his mind as he stood, quiet and regal, waiting for the warriors to arrive.

When, almost three millennia ago, he had moved his Kingdom from the Grey Mountains to the northern hills, he had made built this enclave, which had then been the regal domain protected by thick walls and Elven magic, where his people might seek shelter in case of attack. He had relied on the natural protection offered by the Forest River and by the Enchanted River. In that era, habitations had been built all around the walls and, even, much further. Attacks of the Shadow had then been weaker and Elves had still inhabited the forest. But six centuries ago, with the growing strength of the Necromancer in Dol-Guldur, wargs, spiders, Orcs and trolls had begun their attacks on the Mirkwood realm. His people had retreated inside the walls, building new habitations within the walls, while the houses in the trees had fallen, destroyed by the blows of the Shadow. And now, only the warriors risked their lives outside of the enclave.

The mighty Elven magic had helped the part of the forest protected by the walls to remain like they had been when the fortifications had been built. The trees were still healthy and emanated a strong aura of warmth and goodness. Their trunks were straight and tall, their roots well buried in the ground. Their voices were as clear as before, even if they often reflected their infinite sadness about the sad fate of their kin left to the mercy of the Shadow who corrupted them every day a little bit more. The King knew how important those trees which remained untouched by the evilness were. They were certainly the only reason that prevented the departure of the remaining Elves in the realm. His people felt themselves bound to protect them. And protected they would be. What could Wood-Elves do if the last part of nature came to fall to the temptation of the Shadow as the largest part of the forest had done? Their people could not live without the sacred link they shared with nature. The Shadow was well aware of that fact and it used it as a weapon against them, corrupting the trees thanks to the presence of spiders who wove their webs through their branches and slowly poisoned slowly the souls of the forest. The Elves living in Mirkwood were so attached to the trees and so perceptive of their suffering that many had left their realm for the Undying Lands or for the forest of Lorien. They could not bear the slow fading of their beloved forest, the fading voice of the trees that had trailed off into a mere whisper before dying off.

Things might have been different if he had had a Ring to protect his realm and his people. Perhaps he would have been able to fight the growing Shadow and to repel it far from the place the Elves had chosen to live. But he quickly chased away those thoughts as he had many times when they stirred in his mind. They had brought him naught but resentment. He cleared his mind in an effort to chase away such negative thoughts, singing softly to himself, and took patience in silence.

Seeing the gathering at the entry of the hill, many other Elves of Mirkwood had left their small houses and approached the entry of the caverns, admiring the presence of their King. Thranduil was clad in a fine silken white robe, which enhanced the gold of his hair. The cloth fell with heavy folds, almost completely covering the gold pair of leggings he was wearing. His hair was braided in the intricate way of the House of Oropher, signalling his rank and status by the gracious arabesques. His brow was girded with the traditional circlet made of green leaves weaved together in a customary fashion. His long-fingered hand was clutching the regal oak-made sceptre the paleness of his alabaster skin contrasting with the dark shade of the wood. On one of his finger was shining a magnificent emerald mounted on a circle of mithril. His ageless face was closed, showing naught of the thoughts in his mind. From him emanated an aura of wisdom and power. Everything about him told his rank among those Elves, not just the traditional attributes of royalty.

Next to him his sons were standing, still and silent, their beautiful faces as grave as their father’s. They were both clad in the same deep green fashion. Their robes were a little bit shorter than their father’s, revealing the velvety dark fabric of their leggings. Both were of the same height, even if they were slightly shorter than the King. The strange trinity was a sight to behold: the two younger Elves framing the elder one, their dark dress a pleasant contrast with the pale colour of the King’s robe.

Time passed slowly as they waited for the warriors to appear at the top of the hill in front of them. The silence was barely disturbed by some occasional comment uttered by some of the present wood-Elves. The unusual gathering had caught the attention of the trees on and around the hill and they were whispering together to find out what was happening.

Then, still distant but seeming to near with every passing second, the pounding of hooves resounded, making the earth tremble and the trees whisper more strongly. Many eyes turned toward the direction the noise was heard. Soon, horses came in sight, their coats shining in the fading light. At the head, the guards of the realm led the group, the reins for their horses in their hands, freeing the steeds of any constraint Behind them, the warriors from the vale of Imladris, riding harnessed mounts. Mirkwood Elves usually did not use their horses to cross the forest as a rider was always easily spotted. They would rather use the paths through the trees. Only urgent matters which required a fast return to the palace justified one taking his horse. Horses were used inside the walls, not outside. But, knowing well the Noldorin warriors would arrive on horseback, the guards who were to accompany them had posted their horses near the walls.

The crowd watched with increasing curiosity as the riders gradually slowed their mounts before encouraging them to halt a few feet from the bridge. With a brief signal of one of the riders, some servants approached the warriors who had dismounted and were now standing near their horses, not really knowing what to do. After some quick instructions, they led the tired animals to the paddocks, which had been especially built for them. Wood-Elves’ mounts did not need any paddocks,as they preferred the wild of the forest and enjoyed their freedom.

The Imladrin Elves surveyed their surroundings, noticing how different it was from the rest of the forest. It was a strange feeling, almost as powerful as the feeling of rejection and warning they had felt when they had first entered the forest. But it was different…soft and comforting like a whisper in the mind or a lullaby from their childhood And the more they walked within the walls, the more they felt it. A kind of counteraction to the evil of the rest of the forest. Here the trees were friendly and welcoming and the sky was visible through their foliage. An image set itself in their minds... a heaven. But not like Imladris, where the impression was natural. It was a subtle feeling and only the oldest and the most perceptive of them were able to understand that the place was ripe with magic, of a mingling essence fighting against the evil emanations that tried to conquer the place. But all of them were able to feel that the source of that impression was the wooden hill they faced and the Elf standing in its middle that they easily identified as the King of that realm.

However, none of them had the time to ponder those thoughts further as the Prince that had accompanied them until their destination turned to Turelio and spoke softly, yet loud enough for all of the warriors to hear, “It is the custom of our folk that you present your greetings to our King.”

Seeing in the other’s eyes some uncertainty, as if he feared to have offended the captain of the Imladris’ troop, the red-haired Elf shook his head lightly and answered reassuringly, “Your custom is also our way, my Prince.”

He purposely used the younger Elf’s title as it was the first time he addressed him thus, intente on making him understand he would do nothing to compromise the etiquette. Then he added, “I would tell the King the words my Lord has charged me to convey .”

A silent understanding passed through the two Elves as they shared a knowing gaze. Both of them were feeling the satisfaction to have found someone they would be able to properly work with and would understand. Then, the Prince broke eye contact and turned on his heel, slowly walking toward the bridge to give Turelio time to order his warriors to follow him.

A few steps brought them all to the beginning of the bridge and they halted there when their captain slightly raiseda hand. They felt the eyes of the crowd on them, noting their faces and the weariness of their features along with the filth of their clothes. But they remained still: their attention fixed in front of them.Their heads were held high and proud, while their lithe but strong bodies were straight and tall. They felt the curiosity of some Elves and the interest of others. The air was filled with something like expectation. But they did not look back at the crowd. They watched as the Prince crossed the bridge until he faced the King and bowed deeply before straightening himself. His melodic voice rose above the respectful silence surrounding the proud monarch. “My King… As you have asked, I have led the proud warriors from Imladris through the traps of the forest. They are now waiting to pay their respects to you.”

The King, whose eyes had not left his son’s face, slowly noddedhis approval. Once the Prince had stepped aside, taking his place at his eldest brother’s side, the golden-haired ruler brought his attention toward the gathering of warriors, closely studying each face before him as if assessing the warrior by that simple way. The Elves from Imladris felt the weight of that gaze upon them as the King’s great presence imposed itself upon them and, unconsciously, many tensed, straightening themselves more. Some of them recognized the gaze of a general watching the army he was to lead into the battle and immediately acknowledged the power emanating from that regal Elf. He was nobility and courage merged with strength and respect. But, most of all, he was the heart and the soul of that realm and to those who lived within those walls. A single gaze taught them everything of his status among his people and of his interaction with them. Once he was satisfied with what his gaze found, his stare trained onto the Elf who broke slightly away from the group, whosered hair was almost the same shade as the sky of the dying day. The King's eyes narrowed slightly when he looked at the other Elf. Then, recollection appeared in them, briefly shadowing the clearness of his orbs, and before his features softened as the Elf spoke, a clear and formal voice “My King… I bring to you the greetings of Lord Elrond of Imladris. My name is Turelio, son of Calimo. I have been entrusted by Lord Elrond with the leadership of the promised troops of reinforcement.”

He paused momentarily to give the crowd time to acknowledge his words, but he had not expected the King to speak in the short lapse of time. “An excellent choice in my opinion, Turelio, son of Calimo. You have proven your valour and your skills at the time of the Battle of Dalorgad.”

Even though the proud Imladrin warrior did not show his surprise, the King’s words struck him and left him temporarily speechless. He had not thought the proud son of Oropher would have remembered they had fought side by side so long ago. Many things had happened that fateful day, among them, the death of so many fellows and so many Elven leaders, making other events seem trivial and unworthy to be remembered. But before he had the opportunity to gather his wits and answer the King’s praise, Thranduil’s voice resonated again within the respectful silence.“Warriors of Imladris… The entire people of Mirkwood are indebted to your courage and your altruism. Our realm lives a dark hour in our battle with the Shadow. We are very grateful for your help.”

The King took two steps toward the gathering of warriors, his starched robes rustling with his pace. Turning slowly toward the hill and stretching out the hand that did not hold the sceptre in that direction, he added, “But now is not the time to speak about such things. You must be tired and eager to take some rest. Rooms had been prepared in the palace for you, Turelio Calimoion, as well as for the two sons of Lord Elrond and quarters for the rest of the troop have been readied as well. All of you are invited to attend the feast that will be given in your honour tonight.”

Then, not waiting for an answer, the King turned his back to the gathering. Seeming to glide along the ground, he passed through the crowd of courtiers and councillors who respectfully stepped aside to let him pass and then disappeared inside the hill under the cautious watch of the guards who followed him.

Turelio watched the King’s figure disappear before turning to give his warriors some instructions. Even if they were tired from their journey, it would be really ill-mannered to refuse such an invitation from the monarch.

In Mirkwood - Elrohir/Legolas - PG - part two

2006-04-24T14:34:46Z

Behind the shadows of the soul
Part III: Mirkwood

Author: Casualis

Pairings: Elrohir/Legolas

Rating: PG-13

Warning: None

Disclaimer: In my dreams, they are mine and mine alone. But dreams are dreams, no more.

Thanks : To DA the magnificent

Thranduil’s Palace, Third age, year 2610

Legolas swiftly dismounted, stroking the broad neck of his mount to thank him and taking comfort in the simple sensation of the velvety coat upon his palm. Then, with a little slap on the buttocks, he indicated to his mighty stallion that he could rejoin the other horses that were grazing on a close hill. The Prince watched as the white frame of his beloved companion melted into the equine crowd and then quickly headed for the stone bridge that seemed to sink into the earth but actually led to the underground palace.

He had two alternatives: either go to his old room in the palace to take a proper bath and clothe himself in formal robes before standing before his father or go and see his father first, in spite of his dishevelled appearance.

After a short moment of hesitation, he decided it would be wiser to go and see his father. In his message, the Kinghad asked him either to come back with the whole patrol, or to entrust the command to one of his lieutenants. It was not in his father’s habit to interfere with his sons’ duties. Such request would only have been motivated by a matter of importance, which made him decide that his appearance would be of little import.

Once his decision was made, the young Prince walked toward the wing where his father’s rooms were to be found. He passed by the sentries guarding the main door, recognizing one of them as one of his fellows from the novices’ training fields. They exchanged warm greetings but Legolas had no time to linger there and he hurried to reach the Great Halls. Sadness spread in his heart as he thought back to happier times…times when life had been easier and friendship the most important thing for him. But such priorities had changed when they had left their novice training and had been confronted with real foes that were less friendly than their training masters. A lot of things had changed for him when he had seen the first of his friends falling under the blow of the Shadow, a friend he had known since his early childhood.

People noted that he was a skilled warrior and a good leader, trusted by his men and trusting them back. But they did not understand the distance he had put between them and him. They often compared him to his brothers who had created a true climate of camaraderie in their patrols. He knew that even if people understood his determination to protect his realm, they did not understand what they perceived as coldness and haughtiness. He did not blame them for their lack of understanding but he knew that the distance he put between himself and his fellow warriors was the price of their survival. It was what enabled him to keep a clear mind no matter what happened. Grief was a lethal and disturbing emotion with his kin.

Lost in his thoughts, Legolas crossed the Great Hall quickly and climbed the high marble stairs leading to the eastern wing, oblivious to the conversation that stopped on his passing and of the many Elves that bowed when he walked next to them. He had little love for the decorum that was in place with royalty but he had learnt to understand its necessity.

He turned left immediately after the stairs and kept on his quick march toward the King’s quarters, careful not to skid on the large marble slabs paving the ground. He did not spare a glance toward the shining chandeliers hanging from the high decorated celilings nor toward the magnificent tapestries and paintings adorning the walls. He had little love for that underground place and was indifferent to the riches, preferring instead the wild side of the forest, though he was well aware of its permanent dangers but feels its call too strongly to ignore it. He was above all else a Wood-Elf, aware of his special bond with nature and animals and despising the thickness of the walls of the palace which did not let the light of the day pass in.

Hurrying, he failed to notice the figure coming out from the dark curve of a corridor, walking in his direction with no less determined steps, and he bumped rather violently into the individual. Backing a few steps, he mechanically opened his mouth to apologize for his inattention when he recognized his older brother. A single glance toward the closed features and darkened eyes showed him that Vercatauro was in a very bad mood.

The two siblings wordlessly stared at each other; tension arising between them as both tried to get the upper hand in that silent battle of wills. Without averting his gaze, Vercatauro stroked his robe as though to smooth out the soft fabric with a graceful motion of his hand. Still maintaining eye contact, he announced, his voice cold and impersonal as if speaking to an incompetent servant, “Adar is waiting for you…”

Such coldness made Legolas frown slightly. He had done naught to anger his brother. He had not seen him once during the two weeks spent in the woods. They were not the most loving siblings, for they even argued every time they had to spend more than five minutes in the same room, but he had never heard such a tone in his brother’s voice. Refusing to let himself be intimidated, he held Vercatauro’s gaze with a skill learned from years of practice before he replied, mockery clearly underlying in his voice, “What a coincidence! I was just on my way to see him.”

A rude snort was the only answer to his sarcasm and silence fell once more on their face-off. Legolas felt his brother’s gaze roaming over his whole body and inwardly sighed as he knew what was to come.

“What a dress… I hope you are not going to meet Adar looking like a filthy human…”

Disdain resounded clearly in Vercatauro’s voice but was echoed by the contempt in the younger Elf’s when he replied more harshly than intended, “It is a sure thing that you are not going to dirty yourself if you remain all day long in this wonderful place, strutting about, and changing your ceremonial robes twice a day.” Not waiting for an answer, he spat, unsuccessfully trying to hide the anger he was feeling. “Now, if you will excuse me, Adar is waiting for me.”

Without waiting for his brother’s answer, Legolas resumed his initial walk, trying to repress the wrath that rose in his chest. He knew he had let his anxiety get the better of him but he had not been able to hold back. He would never understand Vercatauro. Such arrogance in a brother of his! How could it be possible? So self-centered and over-confident… So selfish! Fortunately, Sailacel was not like him. Not that their relationship was in any better shape. But, at least they were not at each other’s throat every time they met and they had a common goal in the protection of the Kingdom as both were leading patrols.

He breathed deeply, trying to quiet himself, well aware that he was being unfair and that something he ignored could have pushed his sibling to behave so. Still more agitated than he thought befitting for an encounter with his regal father, the youngest Prince of Mirkwood straightened himself as he reached his destination, trying to improve his disastrous appearance without much success. He smiled at the guard standing at the door, knowing how boring such appointments were but also aware of their necessity. The King’s life was priceless. Whatever happened, the Kingdom should not remain without a leader.

He paused for some moments in the antechamber of his father’s rooms, facing the heavy wooden doors that closed the King’s chambers, unwillingto admit to himself the apprehension he felt towards whatever his father was going to tell him. Only urgent matters might have justified his forsaking a patrol and, even under grievous circumstances, it had never happened before. Taking another deep breath and drawing some strength from the thought that he had faced much more dangerous foes than his own father, he knocked twice, leaving a short time between the knocks, and making sure to be heard without startling the King.

Some seconds after the last vibration in the wood faded, a steady and strong voice invited him to enter. A shudder ran the length of the Prince’s spine as he thought about the armies that voice had subjugated and led to battle. He would be happy if he were half the warrior his sire was. Opening and closing the door noiselessly, he took a few steps forward, noticing the well-known golden-haired figure sitting at the desk. Halting in the middle of the room, he bowed deeply while apologizing, “Adar, I am sorry for my delay. I have come as soon as I was able to do so… I hope you will forgive my unworthy appearance.”

When he raised his gaze again, he found himself facing his father’s benevolent features as the King had arisen from his seat to welcome his son. He was soon enfolded in an embrace, which he leaned into. Identical blue eyes crossed each other and Legolas felt relieved when he saw his father was not angered by his tardiness. The blue eyes were not clouded by worry. Curiosity threatened to overwhelm him then. Why had his father asked him to come so quickly if there was no true urgency? But the Prince had no further time to ponder this thought as his sire beckoned him to sit with him at his desk. Indeed, Thranduil was well aware of his son’s repugnance toward their enclosed place and wished him to be relaxed as they had many matters to discuss.

Legolas was the only one of his children living outside the underground protection of the palace, in the warriors’ quarters. It had been thus since five centuries, since he had been grown enough to make his own decisions. He himself had not been overjoyed by his youngest’s request and had been reluctant to accept it, wishing to keep all his children near to him. But his beloved queen, who had always felt their child’s uneasiness inside their place, had pushed him to agree with that arrangement at the condition that Legolas kept on taking his meals with his family. He had also kept his room in the castle and left some of his belongings there..

Seeing the expected discomfort in his youngest’s composure, the King of Mirkwood smiled sadly and chastised his son tenderly, “There is no need for such decorum in this place, ionen. You may speak freely” He paused as if considering a sudden thought then corrected himself softly with no less love in his voice, “With respect but freely.”

Legolas tried to conceal his bemusement. He had not seen his father in such a good mood for a very long time. The King was not happy, but relaxed and even rested which was more than he was able to recall since his mother’s death. Not knowing what to say, he nodded.

He quickly glanced toward the thick walls to hide the strange nervousness he was experiencing. Something in the scene was amiss. There was a kind of expectation in his father’s gaze that he did not really understand and it only served to increase his awkwardness. And feeling the King’s eyes upon him did not help him to calm down. His sire’s voice brought him back to the present and he locked his worried sapphire-like eyes into the caring blue gaze fixed on him, “You are dirty and look utterly exhausted. What happened?”

Legolas sighed when he recalled briefly the events of the day. He knew his father would not be pleased. “We found the shelter of the Orcs that had been seen near the border between the southern and the eastern area…” With a cynical chuckle, he added, “No need to say that they were not eager to give up without a fight.”

The King frowned slightly when he heard the unusual weary tone of his son’s voice. It must have been indeed a difficult fight to make his youngest react this way. Bending his head forward in concern, he asked, “How many were they?”

The younger Elf did not miss the sudden shift in his father’s voice and he knew that the father had made way to the King and warrior. Passing a soothing hand on his restrained shoulder, he replied, “I would say between fifty and seventy.” He sighed then continued, trying to explain the events of the day. “It would have been easy to kill them with arrows as we circled the entry of their cave and they were not able to get out but Spiders attacked at the backside…” Waiting some seconds to allow his father a time of pondering to assimilate the information, he added then, “It is most unusual to see Spiders protecting Orcs…”

Thranduil did not answer immediately but his son noticed the lingering wrinkle marking his smooth brow, a unique indication of how disturbing his father deemed that information. His eyes narrowed, the King asked, not sure he really wanted to hear the answer and not willing to ask the real question that burnt his lips, “How many wounded?”

Legolas, knowing well what was hidden behind his father’s words, answered first the unspoken question in the same tone, serious and nonetheless slightly detached, “Fortunately, no one was killed. Some are wounded, but none were fatal.”

An imperceptible sigh of relief left the King’s slightly parted lips and he closed his eyes briefly, sending mute thanks to Elbereth for her mercy. Mirkwood’s strength was slowly decreasing, gnawed a little bit more every day by the unceasing blows of Sauron’s minions and every new attack seemed a little bit stronger than the previous. As a King, he knew that the cloud of discouragement was hovering upon the warriors. He declared, as much for himself as for his son, “I will go and see them as soon as they are brought to the Healing wing.”

Aware of the fact his father was not waiting for any answer, the Prince satisfied himself with nodding his approval. Suddenly, it truly mattered little why his father had asked him to come. The news of that unexpected alliance between Orcs and Spiders was worrying enough to make the King forget other matters. Spiders were not known to move - least of all, attack - during the day. Legolas leaned against the back of his seat, enjoying the rest he was allowed to take after two weeks of patrol. But after a while, his father’s voice pulled him of the half-dreaming state he had slipped into. “I have asked you to come quickly,” the King smiled softly as the foggy mist disappeared from his youngest son’s eyes but he became serious again and continued, “because I have received a letter from a winged messenger of Lord Elrond of Imladris informing me that a troop of sixty warriors left the Vale a week ago and should reach our eastern border by the end of the week. What do you think about it?”

The younger Elf’s features did not betray any signs of surprise or expectation. But it did not really surprise the King as he was used to his son’s distant behaviour concerning the matters of their realm. “That is wonderful news, Adar…” answered the youngest Prince in a tone that belied his words. He continued, “It will enable our warriors to be relieved and to take some rest.” Noticing his father’s slight frown and remembering the tense relationship between the two rulers, he asked cautiously, not wanting to anger the King, “Are you not satisfied with Lord Elrond’s help?”

“Most pleased, ionen,” reassured the King as he briefly closed his eyes to concur with the calm that was in his voice.

A new silence wavered between them as Legolas seemed to ponder his father’s words, not really convinced. Nothing prepared him for what his father blurted suddenly, “I want you to lead the troops that will work with the Imladris’ warriors.” Words spoken in a calm and decided voice clearly resounded in the room and Legolas raised his head to meet his father’s gaze, understanding that his father had made up his mind for a long time about this subject and that he would not change his decision. His approval was not required. It was the King’s bidding. The young Prince tried nonetheless to protest, “Are you sure you want me to do so? Perhaps Vercatauro or Sailacel would be more appropriate for such a task?”

A stern frown adorned Thranduil’s fair features when he looked at his son with a piercing gaze, reminding the Prince that the King did not like to see his decisions contested. His voice was cold and firm when he asked, “Do you judge yourself unworthy of my trust, Greenleaf?”

The young Elf nervously bit his bottom lip, realizing that he had achieved exactly what he had sought to avoid : he had angered his father. “Nay,” Legolas answered hastily, trying to make his father understand that he was not contesting his father’s judgement but that he doubted his own capabilities. He repeated more calmly, “Nay, Adar… It’s just that…” For some seconds, he sought the words that eluded him. “Vercatauro is the Crown Prince and it might be his place…And Sailacel is more experienced than I am…”

Then, he held his tongue and lowered his gaze, feeling uncomfortably like an Elfling trying to find excuses for his mischief. Hearing his son’s confused and precipitated explanations and recalling that he was still young, Thranduil’s features softened considerably as his eyes lost their harshness. The King decided to soothe his son’s doubts and chose to explain. “For many decades, Vercatauro has studied the way of court and has begun to assume his duties as my heir. Even if he has been informed of what happened on the fields, he has not been at the head of a patrol for a long time. As to Sailacel, he is used to the western area… And if I am not mistaken, the last reports indicated an increasing activity of Shadow in the southern area… That is your district, is it not?”

“Aye, Adar,” acknowledged the Prince respectfully, raising his jewel-like eyes to look at his father.

Another smile appeared on the King’s lips as he gazed thoughtfullyat his son. He knew that he impressed the most his youngest. Maybe because he had not been there for him as he had been for the others. When his last son had been born, the Shadow had begun to take its toll on the forest, requiring him to give more and more of his time to the ruling of his realm. And with his absence, Legolas had been raised by his beloved wife. From her, he held his unconditional love for the forest and the open air, his intuition, his wildness that made him look much more like a Nandor Elf than like a Sinda of pure lineage. Yet, if he could see her mark in his youngest, he also knew that his son and he had much more in common than it appeared at first sight.

“Sometimes, you remind me of myself, Legolas,” he stated softly. Laughing when he saw his youngest son’s bemused gaze, he added, “Well, perhaps when I was a lot younger… So eager to do well… Caring for what you think just… You have a beautiful soul, ionen.”

His father’s compliment made Legolas and he felt the heat slowly spreading on his cheeks and his ears. Lowering his head to conceal it, he mumbled, “Not very useful for a Prince, Vercatauro would say”

The bitterness in his son’s voice did not escape the King’s keen ears and he immediately understood that something had transpired between the two siblings. He laughed softly, recalling the two brothers’ past fights, and he leaned back in his seat, “Ah… I suppose you have seen your brother after he left me…” He smiled when Legolas only nodded, anger still visible on his pale features. He lightly advised, “Do not bother yourself with his bad mood. He was just certain I would give him the leadership of the troops. And he was not really happy to learn I have decided to entrust you with this task.”

Twining his fingers together on his firm stomach, Thranduil relaxed. He liked such get-togethers with his sons. His duty as King made such things too rare. In those occasions, he could teach them a little bit of himself. He could advise them and listen to them. He could be a simple father. He took a thoughtful attitude before saying, “Vercatauro has yet to learn that a King does not do everything he wants.” A short silence followed, soon broken by the older Elf’s voice. “Never forget my words, ionen. I believe I have told you many things but it will help you in whatever path you choose. A King should bring strength and confidence to his people and never let them see his doubts or his emotions. Because his doubts or his emotions become theirs.” He felt his son’s gaze upon him and understood that Legolas was carefully pondering each of his words. “And it could lead to a catastrophe. Your brother has yet to learn how to keep his emotions for himself. I know you know what I speak of…”

Seeing the light shadow clouding his son’s eyes, he knew that Legolas was indeed well aware of what he spoke of. Resisting the urge to press a tender hand to his youngest’s face to comfort him, he followed continued, “I know you have learned to keep some distance with others to avoid grieving too much if misfortune strikes. You have done it for yourself and you have done it for their own good even if they are not aware of it.”

Thranduil sighed. He knew that his youngest had learned early on some of the most painful lessons dispensed by life and he felt guilty for not having been able to give a true childhood to his son. Legolas was the more introverted of his three sons but also the most attached to the forest, the most willing to sacrifice himself for the others’ well-being. His Greenleaf was the most extreme, the most capable of love, and the one who refused to let his heart feel. His wife’s death had left scars in his son’s heart that had not healed and that would never completely fade. And it worried him greatly.

He knew from experience that such behaviour only led to suffering. No one could always go against his own nature. He remembered a time when his son’s laughter resounded through the palace, echoing against the thick walls and the high cellars. Fresh and innocent. But the freshness and innocence had disappeared with the passing of time, replaced by that calm and unnatural impassibility. His father’s heart wanted to have his son avoiding the mistakes he had himself experienced but he knew that nothing he could say would change his son. Nonetheless, he tried. “But it does not mean you should not open yourself to others . No one is doomed to a life of loneliness. Love is one of the most beautiful things. As is friendship…It only means that you should choose carefully who you entrust with your doubts and weaknesses.”

Thranduil gazed at his son, feeling his heart warm with love but wondered if it was tears that made the bottomless eyes shine thus or if it was merely the weariness inflicted by two long weeks spent patrolling in hostile areas. He was unable to decide and slowly stood, approaching his son who was still sitting. Bending gracefully, not the least constrained by his heavy robes, he bent toward his son and placed a soft kiss on his son’s smooth brow before saying in a very fatherly way, “You should go and rest, ionen… If you wish, you do not have to attend the dinner tonight.” Smiling, he added, “But it shall not become a habit, do you understand me?”

Son and father shared a long and contented stare as Legolas smiled in return, somewhat disappointed that the intimate time had reached its end but nonetheless happy for it. The end of the day promised more hopes than it had appeared at first sight.

Northern Forest of Mirkwood, close to the Mount Erober, about fifty kilometres north from the Lake Esgaroth, Third age, year 2610

They had known immediately when they had reached the forest of Mirkwood. Who could have ignored it? They had crossed vast and empty plains where no sign of life had been detected and where the pounding of the hooves on the damp ground had only echoed the silence and they had then been facing high trees. Mirkwood’s essence was not a calm and peaceful atmosphere, rather a threatening presence that had descended upon them when they had been a few leagues away from the Woods.

The twins, used to the soft and comforting attraction of the surroundings of Lorien when they travelled on that side of the Mountains, had felt it first among the Elves. As much the travellers reaching the realm of the Lady of Light were attracted by the invisible light emanating from the forest of mallorns, so the air surrounding Mirkwood was thicker, warning whoever approached the woods not to go farther. It was a very strong awareness that the horses had felt keenly, becoming agitated and nervous, then reluctant to be led toward that direction. It had then hit the Firstborn, slowly and insidiously. They had tried to ignore it but had remained alert and ready to face whatever threat might have appeared. But nothing had come save for the silence that had seemed to become heavier. Bit by bit, that fated sense of foreboding had become stronger and stronger with each step taken by the horses, reaching its peak when it had come in sight.

The forest.

Like a dark and threatening mass rising from nowhere it appeared. The leaves of the trees had yellowed because of the passing of seasons, making a sombre contrast between the forest and the dark shade of the ground, yet enhancing the baleful impression.

All had paused at that point of their journey and they had contemplated the sight offered to their eyes. Most of them had never seen Mirkwood and had known the forest only by stories told during the evening gatherings. They had listened to the tales told about that place and, even if they had understood that life was not easy for the Wood-Elves, they had assumed such stories were exaggerated and that the inhabitants of that place were poor fighters to let themselves be repelled by some goblins and spiders.

But now, as they faced the forest, they were forced to revise their judgement as lumps formed in their throats. The whole forest radiated an impression of evil and hatred. Suddenly, many felt less sure of themselves. Helping Mirkwood would not be an easy task as it would mean fighting against the very forest. The oldest and wisest Elves had always told such things to those who were willing to listen. But, even if they had known it, they only realized now what it meant really.

Taking deep breathes, they pushed aside their own apprehensions to soothe the fears of their mounts and encouraged them to advance. They pushed back the feeling of bad omen into a corner of their minds and entered the woods, trying to ignore the full evil of that place.

But soon they forsook the mere idea to follow their journey on the back of their horses as the many trees bordering the narrow paths reduced their sight and slowed their mounts. On a simple signal by their captain, they dismounted; their light feet making little noise on the ground. They led their horses through the forest; one hand holding the reins, the other clutching forcefully their weapons, not willing to be surprised by the Shadow. They followed the path; their eyes quickly scanning the area, while their ears picked up distant sounds.

The forest was really a strange place made of moving shadows and repressed screams. What struck the eye was the complete absence of young plants. There were only old and distorted trunks whose barks wore the stigmata of many centuries. It looked as though the youth had been stifled by the oppression of the oldness, as though the many roots emerging from the ground had prevented the birth of new lives. Everything seemed fixed and frozen. A particular atmosphere was hovering upon it, enveloping the trees in its invisible arms, caressing their faces with its long fingers, slowing every life. No animal could be seen in that wood…no squirrels running from tree to tree; no birds nestling in the branches nor singing or flying through the forest. No life. Just something looking like death and desolation.

None of what they had seen or met before might have prepared the Elves from Imladris for such an encounter. The forest seemed to have a life of its own and its overwhelming presence was absolutely not comforting. They felt as though they were constantly watched by the knowing eyes of an invisible observer. The air was damp and its heaviness had not lessened since they had entered that Valar forsaken place. It made each intake of breath difficult, almost painful. The ground was crackling; the horses stumbled on the emerging roots. It became difficult for them to hide their presence. Would they have screamed their presence, they would not have made more noise. It was as if the forest wanted to slow their progression and prevent them from going farther.

Everything was dark and threatening and they knew it had nothing to do with the lasting thickness of the foliage of the trees, which smothered the daylight. The darkness came from the forest itself. The persistent impression of claustrophobia was enhanced by dull sounds coming from the trees themselves: cracklings of the scruffy bark, rustling of the dried leaves, branches moving when no wind was blowing to relieve the disturbing sensation of confinement. And each time they raised their gaze to find the source of those resonant noises, it was as if the trees were closing up on them with frightening scowls; their sturdy branches as multiple parodies of hands ready to seize them; their dark frames enhancing the reddish shade of their foliage.

Everything they saw reminded them that they were intruders in that place and that the forest rejected them. Everything they heard reminded them that they did not belong to those Woods and that at the first moment, it would avenge itself of that intrusion. It was a strange impression but the riders were warriors who had seen many horrors and manifestations of the evil within things, and so they kept on journeying, refusing to be impressed by the maleficent aura of the place.

They were slowly advancing as the low branches unmercifully whipped their faces, leaving red marks on their pale skin. Many had taken their bow or their sword in the hand holding the reins, using the free one to protect their eyes from the limbs threatening to blind them, feeling the weakness of their position but not knowing what else to do.

As they reached a sort of crossing, another sound reached their keen ears, distinct and very near. It was not the same kind of noise as before as it did not seem to belong to the forest. But it came nonetheless from the trees. None of them would have been able to tell what it was exactly. But all of them knew there was something there and that something was about to happen.

Maybe it was another crackling of branches…

Maybe it was another rustling of the leaves…

Maybe.

But it was different and their instincts told them so. It was stronger and nearer and, in the space of a mere second, bows were ready to fire and arrows were secured in the thin strings, ready to sing in a lethal melody. In a mere second, everything had frozen and no one moved as their eyes scanned the whole area in a derisory attempt to find the hidden foe. Time stopped as many held their breath. Hands clutched more stronglyto their weapons.

And then it happened again. Another crackling resounding more strongly than ever.

But this time, it was all around them, in the foliage of the trees, hidden behind the dried leaves. They felt then…many…about ten or twenty scattered in their immediate surroundings. But who or what? They would not have been able to tell whether the presence was friendly or not for they were overwhelmed by the full evil of the woods. So, the Elven warriors tensed, their eyes narrowed with concentration and their jaw clenched with expectation; ready to fire but not daring to do it without being assured of the dangerous nature of the trackers.

Silence arose, filled with tension and watchfulness. But it was broken as a voice ordered, Elven by its musicality, “Lower your weapons.”

Many sighs of relief were smothered. They were guards patrolling through the woods. However they did not react immediately, because, even if the presence they had felt had revealed itself to be kin, the hidden Elf’s voice held an unmistakable undertone of threat that was not missed by the warriors of Imladris and they decided to wait for Turelio to encourage them to drop their weapons. But, he did not do so. Silence answered the order. Bemused, the warriors quickly glanced toward the red-haired Elf. Their captain was standing at the head of the group, his face unreadable and his eyes clearly expressing his suspicions. For some unending seconds, he kept his bow aimed toward one of the trees, the string stretched by a hand that did not waver. Suddenly, the Imladrin fighters were not aware anymore neither of the evil nature of the forest nor of the dull sounds it released. They only heard the silence of the hidden Elves. They were unable to tell where they were exactly.

Tension increased to an unbearable height. Then, slowly, almost regretfully, yet never ceasing to fix a determined point into a close tree, Turelio relaxed his grasp on the string and lowered the weapon to the height of his hips; ready to aim quickly again if necessary. Taking that gesture for the awaited signal, one by one, the other warriors imitated him.

Then, multiple lithe frames stepped out the darkness of the foliage, their green clothes identifying them as warriors of Mirkwood. Yet as they aimed sharpened arrows at the hearts of the Imladrin warriors, their eyes strangely cold and unfeeling, a slender and nimble Elf jumped from the tree close to Turelio to the ground. He landed gracefully and effortlessly in a halo of light a few feet away from the group as his golden hair flew around his fair face. He was clad in the same fashion as the others stationed in the trees, but no weapons were in his hands as his long knives were hung on his leather belt and his bow was slung across his shoulders. As the blond Elf levelled his hands to show clearly he was no threat, the grasps the other Wood-Elves had on their weapons tightened, their precise aims redirected toward those who might be a threat to the one that appeared to be their captain.

The blond Elf’s eyes quickly scanned the crowd as though seeking an unnoticed threat. He seemed to halt his emotionless gaze on a point lost among the warriors but he quickly averted his eyes, as if made awkward by what he had seen. If one might have had the opportunity to take a closer look at the Wood-Elf, he would have seen an unexpected emotion flickering behind the cold pretence.

When he spoke, the Imladris Elves recognized the same voice which had ordered them earlier to lower their weapons. “Who is in charge here?”

Elrohir, who was in the middle of the gathering, averted his attention from the silent warriors perched in the high trees when he heard that voice again. It seemed strangely familiar to him, and as hope rose in his heart, he tried to see who the speaker was. But he only earned a dark sidelong glance from his twin, who was more interested in the lack of a friendly attitude from the guards than in the conversation.

In the front of the gathering, Turelio had taken a few steps toward the Wood-Elf, completely lowering his bow and giving the weapon to one of the nearby warriors. Tilting his head slightly, he answered the cold gaze with his own before stating simply, “I am Turelio, son of Calimo, captain of these warriors …”

For some seconds, no one moved as the two Elves assessed each other; neither of them willing to avert his gaze first. Behind them, the warriors were facing each other in silence, their gazes decided and betraying their strong wills. The Wood-Elves refused to be impressed by the superior numbers of the Imladris Elves while the visitors seemed to ignore the Mirkwood warriors’ dominant positions.

Keeping his blue eyes fixed with the green ice of Turelio's gaze, the leader of the Mirkwood Elves asked, "Who are you and what is your purpose for being in these woods?" His voice was still cold enough to freeze mountains, his tone indicating that he would accept nothing but the truth.'

Without hesitation, the red-haired Elf calmly replied, "We were sent by Lord Elrond as reinforcements, as it was agreed upon between my Lord and the King of this realm." Seeing that his interrogator was giving no sign of recollection, he added, "A message was sent a week and a half ago, announcing our arrival." His voice was equal and fluid, his stance easy as one of his hands rested on his narrow hip, while the other hung at his side.

For a few moments, the golden-haired Elf did not utter a word nor give any impression he knew of what they were speaking of and the reserved Turelio felt, in one of the rare times of his life, the bite of impatience. A two-week-long-journey was not an easy travel and he knew that his warriors were beginning to feel the weariness in their bodies. Whether this Elf was playing with his him or whether the King of Mirkwood had changed his mind about the alliance, but both cases would not please him. However, he mastered his feelings and waited.

Something that looked like a smile ghosted across the blond Elf’s lips as he noticed the impatience brought on by his silence to the other’s face. Then, without breaking eye contact, he raised his right hand high enough for the other Mirkwood warriors to notice. Immediately, the perched Elves lowered their bows and jumped to the ground. An earnest smile graced the golden-haired being’s features and he introduced himself, though his voice still sounded impersonal, “I am Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of this realm. My father has entrusted me with the task of coordinating our efforts.” He took in the Elf in front of him, and then added as though concerned, “But I think we will speak of this later. We will lead you to my father’s castle first. I think I am not mistaken when I say you need some rest?”

They had been walking for what had seemed like hours, trustingly following the Wood-Elves, who were leading them through the woods. Weariness had clearly taken its toll on the Imladrin warriors. Two weeks of travel were not easily made. Add to that, they had crossed the paths of many goblins in the steep heights of the mountains, which had not made the journey easier. But the guards did not seem willing to take a short halt and kept on walking at a steady pace. Slowly, with every step that moved them away from the south of the forest, the strong warning that they had first felt noticeably softened until it was no more than a flickering impression. It was a very subtle change, one whose impact was the strongest on the surrounding nature. The trees had lost their distorted and threatening appearance, looking friendlier and more familiar. Sometimes, in the distance, sounding very, very far from them, the soft trill of a bird sounded. It was as if the forest was normal again… As if…

They walked in silence, as the inhabitants of the woods did not seemed prone to begin a conversation. They were leading the ImladrinElves through the forest toward the citadel of Mirkwood, encircling them as if they did not want to lose any of them. But they did not even spare a glance toward their guests. Their whole attention was fixed on their surroundings, on the trees bordering their path and maybe on those which were further. They seemed completely unaware of the attention they were subject to. Maybe they were but they did not show it.

Indeed, the Imladrin Elves had watched them closely since the very moment they had jumped downfrom the trees, landing on the ground as gracefully as their captain had. They wondered at the apparent coldness, not really understanding it. They were no foe, they were coming to help them, and yet, their hosts gave the lingering impression that they represented a threat to their guides. They tried to seek answers in the obstinate silence of the guards. They noticed their instinctive efforts as they walked, never stumbling on hidden roots, never swaying, never hesitating on the path to take. They sometimes looked as if a noise or a movement had caught their attention but whenever the Imladrin Elves tried to determine what had caused the sudden flickering of emotions on their faces, they heard and saw nothing more than the pounding of the hooves from their own horses or the rustling of the leaves.

More than once, they wondered if the strange Elves were the same as they were or if by living in the shadow infested woods, they had become different. If they were able to see things they could not. Within them shone a kind of animalistic and feral grace that no one could ignore. But in fact, Wood-Elves were separated from the other Elven realms. They had other customs, other ways to behave, which marked them undeniably as different from others. They were said to bond deeper with trees and with animals. But many other rumours had been told about that folk. Around them floated an aura of strong mystery. But who could understand such a race which looked at others with an air of haughtier and a seemingly imperturbable solitude that delighted itself with silence and mistery?

All wished to know the answers to their curious observations save for one Elf, who has had little attention for anything else but the flaxen-haired Elf walking next to Turelio. His grey eyes were fixed on the slender frame with its quick balancing of hips under the broad shoulders, all of which was framed by the golden cascade of his silken hair.

No matter how hard Elrohir tried, he found it impossible to avert his gaze from the graceful figure in front of him. He tried to concentrate on the woods, on the unlikely foes that might be mad enough to dare attack them in the daylight. The atmosphere felt safer and the forest seemed not to be a danger anymore. Add to this that Orcs were cowardly creatures who would not dare attack such a large number of Elves. Hehad quickly figured the number of Elves accompanying them to be fourteen. Add this to his sixty warriors, which included himself, it made for seventy five heavily armed Elven warriors, which was enough to impose caution on anyone who dared approach. Yet, it was true to say that daylight did not really pierce the dense foliage of the trees and that he was not very well informed of the habits of the dark minions in that realm. He had noticed the subtle way the other Elves had placed themselves on the sides of the group to always keep an eye on their surroundings, as if they feared something from the forest/

But what? Spiders?In the present situation it was unlikely.. Those evil animals were known to attack lone prey, tracking it and paralyzing it with the venom of their bite before bringing it to their nest either to feast or to keep it in reserve for the offspring of the Queen.

His eyes fell back onto the lissom body of the leader of the Mirkwood guards. He admired the assured steps that did not make a noise, so much like a beautiful, yet feral cat that carried the fair body that held so much sensual promise. He felt within him the reawakening of a lust that he had thought buried deep within him and was helpless to stop it.

Of course, he had told Elladan the truth when he had admitted that he still thought of the Prince of Mirkwood. He had not forgotten the agile figure, which had marked him so strongly. But he thought on what he had seen hidden in those magnificent bottomless eyes when they had shared that brief, but intense gaze. He had not forgotten the waltz of emotions that had seized him. He still remembered the pain and loneliness he had read then. With the absence of the prince, the desire he had experienced for the beautiful Elf and the uncontrollable jealousy he had felt toward Glorfindel had died off. But the will to know the intricate soul within had unexpectedly remained, mingling with the wish to understand the meaning of those emotions and to break the wall of loneliness and pain that had seemed to shadow the Prince’s eyes.

He wanted to know if what he had seen was real or if it was the mere product of his imagination. But he was not sure of himself or of his intentions anymore, as a mighty wave of lust for the beautiful Elf had overwhelmed him once more, making the blood rush in his veins and a stream of fire run through his body.

Was it his frailty…his strength…his eyes, and the hopes and despair visible in those pupils? He sighed softly. His wish was hopeless. The Prince did not even seem to acknowledge him.

Mirkwood - Elrohir/Legolas - PG

2006-04-24T14:32:18Z

Behind the shadows of the soul
Part III: Mirkwood

Author: Casualis

Pairings: Elrohir/Legolas

Rating: PG-13

Warning: None

Disclaimer: In my dreams, they are mine and mine alone. But dreams are dreams, no more.

Thanks : To DA the magnificent

Imladris, Third age, year 2610

« Elrohir! »

The joyous sound of Elladan’s voice clearly resounded in the soft morning. The dell was bathed with the hot beams of the new dawn and the sun was slowly emerging on the horizon, its burning luminosity chasing the darkness of the night away while its invisible rays creeping the length of the arid ground and the dry grass and awakening the sleeping nature. Resting in the slump of the vale, the magnificent manor of Imladris was a dream vision in the bright light of the day, its immaculate white walls reflecting the gift of Anor and its tall turrets standing proud, seeming to challenge the rare clouds that passed through the clear sky.

But that morning, the inhabitants of the vale were not inclined to admire the pure beauty of their realm or the soft enchantment of the serene hour. Their attention was fixed elsewhere, upon another event that took place in the vast court in front of the manor, next to the stables. It was a large square court bordered with small bushes and tall trees which provided some cover for the hot summer days. Against one of the tall walls, a fountain had been built which bore a striking statue of the Lady of the Stars in its center. The statue was a famous masterwork; the sculptor having conveyed in the marble the peace of the gaze, the grace of the pose and the wisdom of the features. All around the stone edifice, roses and rhododendrons had been planted as a mute homage to the long-departed Lady of that realm who had enjoyed the delicate perfume of those flowers and spent numerous hours taking care of her flowering gardens.

At this early hour of the day, the yard should have been empty; the gravel only disturbed by the occasional light steps of servants hurrying to attend their duties. Today, however, the serene peace of the place was absent, replaced by a resounding hubbub as many saddled and bridled horses had been brought out of the stables their riders taking patience next to them. They formed a large mob as there might have been fifty or sixty Elves and as many horses all of them waiting for an imminent departure.

“Elrohir!”

Elladan’s voice resounded again, covering the agitated conversations between the numerous Elves present in the court. The elder twin had just left the manor, jumping over the few steps separating the door from the ground, and was hastily walking to reach the group. He was wearing a pair of dark breeches and a sand-coloured tunic. Sharpened eyes would have noticed the light dimpling made by the coat of mail he was wearing under his clothes. A pair of dark leather high boots that covered his calves till his knees completed the outfit. His long and wild dark hair was mastered by some well-placed braids that maintained his mane in his back and avoided the presence of bothering strands in his face.

The elder son of Elrond paused for some seconds one hand on his narrow hip the other absently massaging the back of his neck while he scanned the whole area to locate his missing twin, oblivious of the image of strength and beauty he was displaying. A sparkling light was flaring in his bottomless grey eyes, fed with the excitation born of the prospect of battles and of new horizons. Many were those who did not understand their impatience and their thirst for the dark blood of Sauron’s minions but all acknowledged the twin sons of Elrond as the skilled warriors they were.

Elladan remained still for some seconds, looking for the well-known face of his beloved brother. A wide grin spread upon his ageless features, lightening his face, when he found the one he had sought.

Elrohir.

The younger twin was in the middle of the group, standing next their mighty dark horses, holding one pair of reins in each hand while mastering every demonstration of joy from their impetuous mounts. Elladan could not help noticing how the long fingers of Anor were playing with his twin’s dark mane, creating soft highlights in the long locks that were braided in the same manner as his own. He nodded approvingly at the evident skill that Elrohir displayed to keep both impatient stallions under control. Taking his time to detail his twin’s soft features, he felt a wave of deep love overwhelming his heart, warming him, and he could not suppress the proud smile gracing his own features.

Remembering then what he was supposed to do, he resumed his walk in a much less impatient manner until he faced his brother, laughing softly as he heard the subtle curse muttered by Elrohir when his own stallion tried to rear up. Both hands empty, he teased mercilessly; his voice nonetheless letting appear the utter affection he had for his twin. “Need some help, muindoren?” (brother)

Elrohir satisfied himself with glaring at his mirror image, who was looking at him with an unnerving smirk of self-contentment, and he decided not answering to the teasing clearly written upon his brother’s face. Instead, he stated with an authoritative tone that brooked no refusal and showed clearly his exasperation, “Your weapons are hung at your saddle. As are mine. Prepare yourself then you take the reins so that I can do the same.”

Elrohir was bored. He hated when Elladan behaved thus. There was little fun in disappearing no one knew where, leaving him with all the preparation of the departure. His beloved twin had unfortunately developed the habit of behaving like this, no matter how many times Elrohir reproached him on his actions. The younger son of Elrond cautiously eyed cautiously his brother. He tried to guess where his brother might have been but found no hint as he watched Elladan’s ceremonious motions of hanging the sheath of his sword at his waist before placing his sharpened weapon within it, having taken care of it the day before. Elladan was always so careful and so tender with his weapons that it made Elrohir smile softly. He watched with no less emotion how his elder twin placed his finely designed quiver upon his back before checking his bowstring with a sure finger and making it sing. Elladan then shouldered the weapon and, wordlessly, with a wide grin that Elrohir interpreted as one of apology, he took the reins of their horses, gently patting their necks to quiet them.

But the twins were not the only ones to go through their preparations in front of the stables. Many other warriors were gathered in the court and were taking care of their horses talking and addressing each other. The well-kept coats of the beasts created a coloured and vivified artwork as white, red, dark and grey melted in a harmonious patchwork. The cacophony was upsetting the usual quietness of the place as the peaceful snorts and neighing of the horses were greeting the bewitching songs of the birds of the vale the pounding of their impatient hooves echoing the soft tumult made by the confusion of the gathering. Sometimes, musical Elven voices would dominate the light mayhem their melodic notes twining in a perfect spiral before being replaced by another voice.

The dry leaves of the high trees towering the court were occasionally rustling. But little was the wind the cause of it. Hidden behind the dense foliage were some curious Elflings that were watching the noisy scene hungrily, eyes wide with utter fascinationA little crowd stood apart from the larger group of departing warriors, some Elves and very young Elflings that were waiting to assist in their departure, their brilliant clothes adding to the nausea of frivolity that broke the morning. Some she-Elves’ eyes were bloodshot and filled with unshed tears as they watched the parting of a lover, of a brother or of a son, praying to the Valar to allow their loved ones to come back safe and sound. Few Elflings were progeny of one of the courageous fighters leaving for Mirkwood as warriors usually chose to interest themselves in the matters of the heart once they had left their dangerous commitments in the protection of their realm. The smaller group remained apart anguish and sadness emanating from it. They did not mingle with the departing ones farewells having been said in the intimacy of home. But even if no words were exchanged, stares were given and they spoke of many things.

But the Elflings perched in the trees did not see that. They only had eyes for the warriors leaving the peaceful haven of Imladris in order to help Mirkwood’s forces in their unceasing fight against the Shadow. Their eyes were shining and in their pointed ears they heard again the stories about the forest of Mirkwood, a forest that had been once called Greenwood the Great. Stories that were told in their homes about dangers threatening the folk of Mirkwood when the elders thought the Elflings either busy somewhere else or sound asleep, tucked in their comfortable beds.But, as only Elflings knew how to do, they had listened intently listened to all of the stories and they had trembled with fear, imagining the Orcs and goblins thirsty for Elven blood. The most terrifying one was the story about Mirkwood’s spiders. Spiders. But not ordinary ones: giant spiders loyal to Sauron’s dark power; offspring of Shelob that had once haunted the surroundings of Mordor.

For the weeks preceding the departure, they had only spoken about it, spreading the exciting news they had gathered, talking and joking, secretly scared of the dangers but apparently disdainful of them. How much they wished to leave Imladris and learn to know the world around them! Aye! To fight the Shadow and to come back beautiful and glorious, their sharpened weapons shining in the rays of light. How much they would have liked to accompany those mighty fighters and make their names famous enough to be sung in long chants. And in their shining eyes were clearly written those foolish dreams and their cheerful excitation.

They were sitting in the foliage of the trees, never losing sight of the warriors’ movements, trying to memorize any pose, word or gesture. They were closely observing the beautiful knives and deadly swords that hung from the slender waists, taking note of the purity of the blades and the form of their hilts; at the same time admiring the delicate shape of a curved bow or the magnificent Elven-crafted designs upon the saddles of the mighty horses. They watched in awe the well-built forms of the warriors’ bodies, their strong shoulders, their muscled thighs, their powerful arms and the intricate design of their braids. They imagined themselves looking like them when they would be older and that particular thought made their hearts sing as they smiled in delight. As the Elflings they were still, they refused to acknowledge the warriors’ tense features, the weariness in their determined gazes, the short glance they gave toward a sweet Elleth they left behind. They chose to see the glory of the battles and to ignore the cruelness of the separation bestowed upon loving families. Later, they would learn the tears that would flow when news of the death of one of those invincible fighters would reach the vale.

Later, they would discover that even the strongest and the most skilled of the warriors could fall and succumb to the power of Shadows. They would find out that war was not a game but a tragedy. They would learn that and forget their dreams of glory. Later, they would engage themselves for the well being of those they loved and cherished and they would truly understand the meaning of the word ‘war’.

But for the moment, their entire attention was set upon the group and they watched as a lithe Elf stood in front of the gathering, ignoring the perpetual rumble of the crowd. His name was Turelio, son of Calimo. He was an ancient Elf that had fought among the Golodhrim during what was called the Last Alliance between Elves and Men against Sauron’s dark power. He was a tall red-haired Elf whose slender shape concealed a surprising strength. He might have been four thousand years old or more but it was difficult to say as the faces of Elves were smooth and ageless. He would have been incredibly fair ifit were not for the long scar running the length of his left cheek, deep and bright; amemory of a patrol that no one, not even the Lord of Imladris, had ever been able to heal. Many stories were told but no one knew exactly what had happened as he always refused to explain the circumstances of his wound. And no one had asked him for more; some because they had chosen to respect his silence, others because they had not dared to face his gaze.

His gaze… His eyes were terrible. People said he could freeze a goblin in his tracks simply by looking at it. They were of the deepest green, calling back memories of lush forest and they held a great power upon whoever he looked at. They were bearer of his wishes reflecting his will betraying his strength. Turelio was a great warrior, nimble with his twin blades, lethal with his sword and more than accurate with his bow. For many centuries, he had taken care of the training of the youth, making sure that all of them had left his care knowing how to master any weapon. He had not been loved as he was too devious and not friendly enough. Saying that Turelio was cold would not be false but would still not be the truth. He was beyond coldness; some said he was unable to feel anything. But he was respected by whoever had come to meet him. He was honest and blunt, one of the most skilled warriors in the realm of Imladris. He had never satisfied himself with the perfect mastering his weapons. He had also become an excellent tracker, able to follow any trail as welle as an unequalled tactician and strategist. For all those reasons, few had been surprised and fewer still had protested when Elrond had chosen him to lead the parties crossing Ardain an effort to clear the paths between the different Elven realms. He had not been more loved by his warriors than by his novices. But he did not care as long as they trusted him. And trust him they did, easily acknowledging him as their leader and captain, and wellaware of his skills and competence.

Turelio had been asked to lead a troop of warriors to Mirkwood - much to Elladan and Elrohir’s dismay as they had thought their father would entrust them with the leadership of the Elves. But it had not been so as Elrond needed someone who had diplomatic skills enough to handle possible issues with the Woodland Folk. Even if his sons were among the finest warriors, they were still brash and impetuous and most of all, they lacked of the experience in dealing with the true power of Sauron. Slaying Orcs was not dealing with the intricate shadows that threatened the former Greenwood. Darkness was very strong in Mirkwood and it would have been no good to confide this task to his sons. But Elrond trusted Turelio enough to achieve such a mission. And many Elves had approved his choice even if they would never acknowledge it aloud.

Slowly, as the warriors became aware of the single Elf in front of them, voices trailed off, plunging the yard into a heavy silence that was only troubled with light snorts from the horses. But even the impetuous animals had calmed down as if feeling the weight of Turelio’s gaze upon them. All of them waited for him to speak but several seconds passed before he deigned to do so. Once he was sure of everyone’s attention, he spoke his voice clear and confident in the slight breeze of the morning. “I want everyone ready to leave in two minutes.”

A new buzz rose as the warriors jumped on their mounts’ back. But soon, what remained of their presence in the court was the pounding of the hooves in the air and the trails left by the horses in the gravel.

Southern doors of the royal domain of Mirkwood, Third age, year 2610

Silence was wavering over the dark forest of Mirkwood. But it did not awaken the attention of the sentries that guarded the southern doors. Birds had ceased to sing a long time ago in that part of the forest and even the trees had shut themselves from the Elves. Silence was far from unusual. Time passed without any noticeable events but neither of the guards lowered their vigilance as they knew from experience that the Shadow might strike at any moment. What made them suddenly prick their ears was the unexpected nearing of pounding hooves. Eyes narrowed in expectation and arrows were brought to the strings of long curved bows the privileged weapons of the sentries.They sighed in relief when a blond Elven rider emerged from the dark mass of the forest and the tension that had suddenly arisen among the guards fell.

The flaxen-haired Elf slowed his mighty stallion when he reached the high doors enclosing the estate that had been once the castle of Mirkwood and had become instead the shelter of the Wood-Elves. They were tall heavy doors made by the Dwarves in the secret depths of the mines of Ered Mithrin into the north of the Kingdom. They were as tall as six Elves and many feet thick. Some told they had been brought to the forest millennia ago at the beginning of the Third Age, thanks to the magic of some powerful Istari. Skilfully crafted, they were nonetheless imposing and designed to resist most attacks. No one could open them from outside and, least of all, force them. A complex mechanism created by Seretur, who had been Thranduil’s prime councillor for years, enabled the sentries posted on the two high stone pillars framing the flaps to open them. But as it took a great deal of time whenever the doors had to be closed in case of attack, they were usually opened at fixed hours of the day.

The golden-haired Elf stopped his mount at a reasonable distance from the closed flaps. He opened his mouth to announce his presence and to require the opening of the doors but before he had the opportunity to speak, one of the guards ordered loudly, “Open the doors for the Prince!”

The stern order resounded against the thick walls but, before even its echo died off, a low growl made itself heard, soon followed by the grating announcing the slow start of the mechanism. The white horse did not make a move as it was already familiar with the noisy process, while its rider remained as still as a marble statue his eyes fixed on the inscriptions on each door. As was custom, two words were engraved deeply into the stout material with high andgracious arabesques. They had been chosen by his father himself: Protection and Shelter. A painful reminder of the situation in the rider’s mind.

Slowly, one of the two doors half-opened itself leaving enough space for a lone rider. Then it stopped. But neither the Elf nor the horse moved, waiting for the guard to allow them to pass. A few seconds later, the voice of the guard resounded again, less harsh and holding an unmistakable undertone of respect. “You may pass, my Prince.”

Raising his hand as a greeting and a gesture of acknowledgement, the blond rider urged his mount to advance and pass through the path between the doors. They came into what were the quarters of the sentries : little houses were nested through the trees to allow the guards to take some rest during their assignments and to enable them to reach the walls quickly if necessary.

The white stallion suddenly came to a halt as his rider voiced such a demand and straightened himself on his back. The white coat shone brightly in the dying light of the day as the stallion stilled himself his noble head held high His eyes were suspicious and arrogant, and his well-built frame and his long legs betrayed his strength and power. The proud animal stared at the Elf that approached his master, his bottomless eyes assessing the lithe body, his mind alert and ready to react to whatever danger might threaten his Elf’s life. But as his rider showed no sign of agitation, the intelligent animal calmed down while he remained vigilant.

The Elf who was walking urgently toward them had long shining silver hair which was agitated by the light breeze coming from the West. He was wearing a pair of dark leggings and high boots, while his slender frame was covered by a large purple tunic. He was wearing no weapons, save for the little dagger hooked at his belt. He was not born a Wood-Elfas was shown in his features, which were somewhat less angular and softer than the Elves of Mirkwood and his complexion was not common in that Kingdom. Even paler than the fair Elves, his hair was a fascinating cascade of silver and his skin seemed made of marble. His eyes were violet and their glowing irises betrayed his intelligence and perception. The Elf was no warrior as showedin his thin limbs and his little lack of a muscular build. He was one of the most trusted advisors of the King however. Born in the nearby Lorien, he had followed his Mirkwood lover into the dark forest that was then called Greenwood.

As he reached the Prince, he bowed in a gracious curve, his silver hair hiding his face as a fluctuating curtain with enchanting reflections. Keeping a hand on his chest, he voiced his greetings within a soft baritone voice, “Prince Legolas… Mae govannen.”

The blond rider’s face was impenetrable as he looked down at his greeter’s pale face with piercing eyes. He did not give any pretence of dismounting to speak with the Elf, who had obviously been waiting for his coming, and only acknowledged the greeting with a heavy nod of his golden head. “Councillor Vanyacar…”

The pleasant musicality of his voice did not succeed to hide the rider’s deep agitation as it held an unmistakable undertone of weariness. For a brief moment, it seemed that his deep blue eyes shone with something looking close to anger. The blond Prince and the silver-haired Councillor stared at each other for several seconds in a silence that was only troubled by the distant song of an Elf in one of the little sheds scattered in their surroundings.

The Councillor cautiously eyed the tall lithe rider. The youngest son of Thranduil was clad in the traditional green garments of the Mirkwood guards, the only mark of his rank being the light mithril circlet he wore on his brow. Hanging from the belt at his waist were his sharpened knives and, slung across his shoulder, were his bow and quiver. Dirt was soiling the usually impeccable uniform and the golden-haired being looked somewhat dishevelled as wayward strands escaped the net of braids adorning his mane.

Curiosity spread in Vanyacar’s heart but seeing the younger Elf’s weary gaze dissuaded him from asking what had happened. It could have been another attack from the Shadow as it often happened in those dark times. The King would tell him later once he had spoken with hisson, since it was Vanycar’s task to reorganize the composition of the patrols when warriors were injured.

Sauron’s minions be cursed… But he dared not voice his thoughts and without ever averting his gaze, he waited patiently for the Prince to ask him what message he brought from the King.

On his side, Legolas was bored by the Councillor’s persistent silence and wondered what the Lorien Elf was waiting for. It has been a long day and it displeased him greatly to have to come back to the heart of the Kingdom while he had other courses to traverse. Surely, his father’s Councillor had some idea about the message which had been sent.

“I have received a message from my father requesting me to leave my patrol as soon as possible and to come to him” stated the Prince, silently asking Vanyacar to explainto him the origin of the unexpected request.

But his silent request was ignored when the Councillor vaguely answered, “Yes, your Highness”. “I was waiting for you here at the bidding of the King, who wishes to see you in his private rooms and not in the throne hall, as soon as you arrived.”

The youngest Prince of Mirkwood passed a slender hand in his golden hair to tuck a rebel strand behind his pointed ear and scowled as his shoulder reminded him of the unfriendly blow it had taken. No open wound but a limitation would linger in his shoulder for at least two more days. A pained smile graced his tired features but he was not able to conceal the sudden flicker of worry that shadowed his eyes. Nevertheless, he found the courage to joke lightly, calling back a memory common to both Elves, “I suppose it would be better if I go now. It is less than fitting to make the King wait.”

The Councillor, not put off by his inferior stance or his having to raise his gaze to look into the Prince’s eyes, did not show any sign of recollection but lightly coughed to catch the rider’s attentioninstead. He continued with a polite little smile on his full lips, managing to sound contrite, “I’m afraid you are already late, your Highness. The King sent the message when Anor was at her peak.”

All trace of warmth disappeared from the younger Elf’s features as he glared at the standing advisor. As if he was unaware of that slight detail… But he decided to give an explanation for his delay. He knew that his older brothers would have had no trouble in making a remark on his deplorable behaviour and to explain to him, for the thousandth time at least, that he was a Prince by blood and right and that he had to give an account of his acts to no one, save the King. But, contrary to his siblings, he thought that giving an explanation often spared much incomprehension. A clear explanation from someone who knew had less disastrous consequences than the haphazard actions of someone that thought they knew.

“There was an attack”

His voice slipped slightly as he forced himself to give the minimum of details, not willing to lose more time there than necessary and hoping the Councillor would feel he had no desire to follow the intriguing conversation. The silver-haired Elf must have understood as his gaze became thoughtful and he only said, “I supposed so when I saw you, my Prince.”

Then, Thranduil’s Councillor stepped aside to let the horse pass. As Legolas readied himself to go, they shared a sad smile, knowing well that words of sympathy were useless and would not relieve the pain of the wounded.

“Noro celeg, Naralod” (Hurry, Naralod)

The beautiful stallion walked away, taking a light canter after a few steps, passing the tall Elf that remained frozen in his tracks for some moments, his clear eyes following the stallion’s race until he disappeared through the trees. Then the silver-haired advisor walked slowly toward the place he had left his own horse grazing.

casualis

Fic: BSSIII - In Mirkwood - Elrohir/Legolas - PG - Part ten

FIC: BSS III - Mirkwood - Chapter 9

Everything is in order

BSS III - Chapter 8 - The Spider's Lair - Elrohir/Legolas - PG

BSS III - Chapter 7 - The Captain- Elrohir/Legolas - PG

Fic: BSS III - chapter 6 - PG13

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Fic : Brother mine III, Until death do us part

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Fic : Brother mine I, Farewell

Pic : The King's Bath - Thranduil - PG-13

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In Mirkwood - Elrohir/Legolas - PG - part three

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