Prompt: 027 ("All that is gold does not glitter.")

Title: Second
Author: Etharei (west.for.winter AT gmail DOT com)
Find my stories: My LJ "A Single Shard upon the Shore" (http://etharei.livejournal.com); my personal archive "Truth is Missing" (http://www.geocities.com/etharei_tim)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: None of the recognizable characters, names or places featured here belong to me. This is based on a work of fiction by Professor JRR Tolkien, and regardless of what present-day legalities say, in my mind they belong first and foremost to him.
Archive: OEAM, LoM, AFF; anyone interested is welcome to ask
Feedback: Will be greatly appreciated.
Summary: A realisation that would normally bring joy only heralds more pain for Elrohir.
Author's Note: Third in the 'Secret Sorrows' series

"Lord Elrohir, could you please pass the bowl of stew?"

That familiar, melodious voice sent a bolt of lightning through Elrohir's heart- which was actually not a very pleasant sensation at all, if one really thought about it- and he tried to take a deep, calming breath. Unfortunately he chose to do this just as he engaged the swallowing mechanisms in his throat, and so ended up with a mouthful of wine merrily burning away his lungs.

Which, in retrospect, was only a slight improvement from being a temporary lightning rod.

Eventually Erestor had to pound him on the back, reaching over him to pass the bowl to a waiting Legolas. Elrohir's face burned with shame, stoked by the feeling of many eyes turning towards him, and since crawling under the tablecloth would be considered inappropriate behaviour for the son of the Master of Rivendell, he instead excused himself very quickly from the dining hall, even before his coughing had fully subsided.

He managed to walk out at a more or less stately stride, but once he was safely within the private wing of the Last Homely House, he spent a good half-minute beating his head against the side of a statue of Gil-Galad.

"If I did not know that he had perished before you were born, my Lord, I would think that you bear him a very grievous grudge," said that same smooth voice, causing him to freeze. Surely such dulcet tones could cause the very stars to twinkle? With a feeling of trepidation akin to that of a small burrowing animal waiting for its impending doom in the form of a two-fanged predator, he turned his head towards the speaker.

Sure enough, the fair-haired son of Thranduil was leaning against the wall opposite the statue, wearing a very amused smile. His eyes glinted strangely in the light of the torches lining the walls, and Elrohir remembered that the Prince had been downing goblet after goblet of wine tonight. A memory stirred just beyond recollection, but the younger twin felt a faint brush of unnamed dread.

"Prince Legolas?" he stammered. The Elf smiled, and gestured with a nod of his head at the statue that Elrohir had been using for self-chastisement. To his horror, he realised that he had been head-butting the bronze groin of the Last High King of the Noldor. He hurriedly backed away from the statue, and instinctively looked around to see if an angry father and ex-Herald was forthcoming.

Fortunately the corridor was still deserted. Except for him. And Legolas.

He rather felt that he could handle his father better than the son of Thranduil. At least he had had a lifetime to learn his way about the Master of Imladris.

Heart speeding up, he was turning his head to check that the Elf had not been the product of any self-inflicted concussions when a strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and slammed him roughly against the wall. The impact made him gasp softly, and a most delicious, wine-flavoured mouth seized upon his parted lips. His toes curled in his stiff new boots as Legolas' famed tongue slithered into his more than willing mouth. He noticed that there was even a trace of custard in the taste of the archer, which felt faintly erotic. Hands clawed desperately at his formal robes, though Legolas hampered his own efforts by pressing and grinding his lithe body against the Peredhel's more solidly built one. If it were not for his body adamantly demanding to be tended to, Elrohir felt that he would have expired from shock at that point.

Somehow they ended up on a bed, and it was perhaps by sheer good fortune that it happened to be Elrohir's. Or maybe Legolas had had enough coherency to read the plaque bearing his name hanging on the door, since the room's owner certainly had other things on his mind.

Much later, Elrohir lay on his back, eyes idly following a wooden support beam as it crossed the breadth of his ceiling. He knew it would be hours before he would even register the miracle that had just taken place. Legolas, who was, in his opinion, possibly the most beautiful creature alive- with the exception of Arwen, of course, he added with a brother's loyalty- had demonstrated that he did not mind finding pleasure with another male. This was rare enough amongst Elves, but perhaps the greater wonder was that he had chosen to do so with Elrohir, when he had his pick of both eligible ellith and like-minded ellyn on this side of the Sundering Sea. Because of this, the Peredhel did not fool himself into thinking that the Prince bore him any feelings beyond passing friendliness and lust.

Though he had received a thorough training in the battle-arts appropriate for a son of the Lord of Imladris, Elrohir had, since his youth, chosen the quieter life of a scholar and healer, only riding out on occasion when his brother had need of him. On the other end of the scale, the White Council had officially banned Thranduil from ever mentioning Legolas' prowess with the bow again during their meetings. He felt certain that the Elf would not even know his name if he had been less than a son of Elrond Half-Elven.

There was something about the Golden Prince- as he was called by his many admirers, though out of his hearing- that sent Elrohir's blood pounding and tensed up his entire body, especially a very intimate part of him. It was not as if Legolas purposefully incited such base reactions, but Elrohir found the contrast between his fair, ethereal complexion and the self-confident, almost dangerous persona he exuded intoxicating.

Suddenly he became aware of deep blue eyes regarding him solemnly. There was an unsettling note in the look that drew a question out of Elrohir's lips before he had the time to properly think about it. "Why?"

Legolas looked away; his stomach clenched in apprehension. "What do you wish to hear, my Lord?"

Elrohir flinched at the use of his formal title, and he felt Legolas putting some distance between their still-heated bodies. He felt cold, all of the sudden, alone and vulnerable, and in his mind he was once again in a room on the second floor of a nameless inn. It had been so long since he had buried that memory beneath the tedious business of the quieter life that he had chosen as a result of it. Strangely, its reappearance now gave him strength, along with a bitter taste in his mouth, and he felt almost a return to his earlier days, before the failure of a brother had seeded doubt into his soul. His earlier insecurity and nervousness was a part of the character that he had grown into over the years, built from the pieces of that morning when more than his innocence had been taken away. He could never admit it, not even to his twin- <i>especially</i> not to his twin- but Elrohir had chosen the scholar's life because one of the earliest and deepest wounds that had been inflicted upon him was not an injury to the flesh. It had taken him a long time to grasp just how much that fateful event had changed him.

And yet, after all this time, he seemed once again to be poised to take another blow, from a weapon more terrible than could ever be wrought from iron or fire.

Love.

How could one go without for so long, and suddenly discover that he had such need of it? And has anyone else felt as utter a despair at the realisation, as I do right now?

"I wish to hear words that cannot be meant," he replied. "I wish to hear that I will wake beside you at dawn. But those are just dreams. So I wish to hear why."

Legolas was quiet for the longest moment. Elrohir could hear his own heartbeat, and the other's soft breathing, and it was as if the Prince had placed him before a dark road, and alone held the power to bring him back.

"You are in his image," came the distant words. "And you needed me so very much; I could almost taste your desire when you came near."

An hour before he would have been greatly embarrassed to learn that his yearning for the Prince had not gone unnoticed. But whole worlds can change in the space of a second; Elrohir now reeled from the pain of the words: <i>You look like him.</i>

There was no need to ask who he was; there could only be one other. It was even worse than an act of lust; it was a choice made out of desperation. Elladan had eyes only for ellith.

Except, of course, for that one time.

Twice betrayed, with scant comfort that this time it was done unknowingly; surely the soul was like the body, and could only take so much pain before growing numb? Yet it seemed to go on and on.

Past the roaring in his ears, he heard the Prince softly say, "All that is gold does not glitter, Elrohir." Perhaps a little of his emotions had shown on his face; he wished there was a way of assuring Legolas that the betrayal had not been by him. But that would have invited questions.

He is sorry, at least. It was more than I ever heard from him.

It felt as if he had divided himself into two, like in one of Erestor's diagrams when the counsellor once tried to explain to the twins how they had grown within their mother's womb. One half reached out and pulled Legolas closer to himself, whispering, "It may be so, but it does not make the gold any less fair. Come, let us both pretend, whilst the night hides the truth."

And the other half felt the first, dark frost of despair, and loosed a soundless scream that travelled through his veins in a quiet tendril of pain. The inner agony grew with the outer pleasure, so that in their final union the Peredhel was not sure if his climactic cry was for relief or death. In his heart, they seemed the same.

Then it was over, and for long years Elrohir silently watched the love of his life court another. Alas, that the Peredhil often find themselves able to love only one person through the whole of their lives, and it may be some remnant of their forefather Beren's spirit that the love they seek is often the furthest star, set far above their grasp.

TBC