Prompt: 032 ("The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.")

Title: The Eve of an End
Author: Etharei
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Elrohir / Legolas
Word Count: 3, 741
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Two warriors confront personal troubles and find comfort from each other in the night before the host departs Minas Tirith for Mordor.
Author's Notes: I wrote this in the assumption that Rangers of the North, the sons of Elrond, Legolas and Gimli camped out on the Pelennor with Aragorn after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. If this is incorrect, then I apologize and bid you to view this as slightly AU in terms of setting.

17 March, T.A. 3019

All day it had soared, deceptively innocuous, circling the outer edge of his consciousness with such mildness that that he slowly relaxed his guard, thinking the worst first wave to be done and over with. He was also distracted by the air of anticipation and dread that hung over the City. Many folk, unarmed citizen and war veteran alike, expected the world, as they know it, to end in a matter of days, and it was yet to be decided whether there would be a new one after that, at least for the Race of Men. The resolution of their leaders to march towards what could only be a last stand to the death caused a great deal of stir amongst the different ranks of Men. Legolas had spent the last day in Aragorn's camp outside the Gate, for at least his friend's northern kin had absolute trust in their Chieftain, and if he told them that they had to march to the Black Gates, then they would.

He was concluding a conversation with one of these Dunedain when it struck, swift as a bird of prey diving towards its next meal. Fortunately the Man wasn't overly alarmed by the sight of the Elf's eyes glazing over, as if he had fallen into repose on the spot, and had walked away thinking only that the Mirkwood archer's exhaustion was getting the better of him, for the hour was quite late and even Elf's Dwarven companion was snoring noisily some distance away.

Half-blind and struggling with suddenly leaden limbs, Legolas somehow managed to stagger into the shadow between two tents- he was beyond caring whose- where he immediately sat down on the cold ground with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head wrapped in his arms. Had his ears been working properly, he would have noticed that another was cautiously stepping towards him, but the only sound he could hear was the Sea. Not the roaring rush registered by mortal ears, but the song that hearkened back to the Great Music, preserved by Ulmo in liquid composition. He knew that it could be gentle, a soft song of beguilement, but his continued resistance to it only seemed to increase its power. He knew that he would never be free of it, now, but his stubborn Silvan nature would hardly relinquish its ties to this land without a thorough battle.

Surely even the gulls are asleep at this hour? cried his agonised mind as he tried to push away his insubstantial foe. Hands strengthened by years of bow-work clawed at his elegantly pointed ears, but though he could feel the digging of his nails into tender flesh, he could hear nothing beyond the never-ceasing melody, not even his own heartbeats. He wanted to scream, tear his eardrums out- anything for silence!

Tormented though he was, he still stiffened in alarm when a pair of strong arms wound around him from behind. If the other said something, he could not hear it, but his sense of smell quickly delved through the outer rankness of blood and smoke and other stenches of war to pick out the unique scent of his intruder, which he instantly identified. Relaxing into the warm body behind him, he clenched his eyelids shut as he buried his face into the other's dirty shirt and let out a helpless wail into the muffling cloth. The other gently rocked him, rubbing a strong, comforting hand up and down his back.

Eventually the song receded, and he sagged, more exhausted than he had felt after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. His head lolled back on a muscled shoulder, tear-stained eyes opening reluctantly to convey a silent thanks to his rescuer. He slipped into sleep as he felt himself being borne up towards the starry sky.

When Legolas returned to the world, he found himself lying on pallet, covered by a warm thick blanket. The stains and worn edges evidenced its many years of use, but what the Elf found most comforting was the scent that permeated its very threads- the same olfactory signature that he had recognised before his collapse. He smiled, and realised that he could hear again. He rued how he had taken his keen hearing for granted before; like a deprived child, he actively sought out and relished in the most mundane of noises from his surroundings. The relative silence indicated that a few hours had lapsed, and the camp was mostly asleep. There was still plenty to hear, however: the crackle of the fire in the lamp burning on the other end of the tent, the comforting cacophony of mortal snoring from several neighbouring tents, the brushing of gentle wind over the wrecked fields outside.

The quiet, even breathing of the other person in the tent.

Legolas shifted so he could gaze at the figure silently reading at the foot of the pallet. At the movement, Elrohir looked up, and smiled as he returned the small worn book into his pack.

"You are still troubled by them." It was more of a statement than a question, but the archer nodded nonetheless. With characteristic grace, the younger son of Elrond crawled over to sit next to him "That, I fear, is one ailment that will only grow with time." Elrohir peered closely at him, frowning. "Yet it is not only the Sea-longing that weighs down your heart, gwador. There is something dark clouding your bright spirit."

"Perhaps it wavers at the thought of never finding peace in this land again." The son of Thranduil let out a breath. "The world suddenly seems so dark and cold."

The dim light from the lone lamp cast shadows that hid Elrohir's eyes from view, but Legolas could sense their argent intensity trained on him. "Do you despair at last, then?"

The son of Thranduil fastened his eyes on the canvas above him. "I have never felt this 'despair' before. If it is a wavering of the heart after feeling that- despite all that has been lost and suffered and shod- it could still be for naught; then I aye, I do despair."

"So why are you here?" asked the other, his voice transforming into the steel of one used to command and in no mind to brook self-pity. "Why have you not asked for leave to return to your woods? Come what may, this world is already lost to the Firstborn. None will dispute your choice, if you decide to go, even your Fellowship. Why do you linger here, in a war not of your own, if you can join your kin for the last stand?"

At another time, the harsh words would have riled Legolas' pride and roused his temper, which might have been the intent of the Half-Elf. But the archer only made a tired smile, like a sign of surrender at the end of a long journey. "I have lost my hope for this war, son of Elrond," he answered, now finding it in himself to meet the other's gaze. "But I have my faith, and it has never wavered."

Elrohir's brow furrowed. "Your strength of faith commends you, Legolas, but surely you do not believe us capable of overcoming the Dark Lord's army, with a force that is less than a fifth of the numbers needed by Gil-Galad and Elendil to storm the Black Gate?"

Legolas found himself chuckling, though with mirth or bitterness it was difficult to tell. "Nay, my friend, you misunderstood me. My faith lies not in our numbers or arms," here his expression softened, "but in two humble periannath making their way across the harshest land on Middle-Earth to the very heart of our Enemy's domain."

For a long moment, there was only silence the small tent. Though slightly perturbed by the other's gaze, Legolas calmly allowed Elrohir to probe him, briefly lying open his mind before a trusted friend. He disliked being appraised thus, as if for judgement, but an instinct told him that the Peredhel was fighting to keep strong his own spirit, and would feel comforted by this act of trust.

Finally the younger twin turned away, murmuring, "Perhaps now I understand why my adar chose you for the Quest." At Legolas' questioning look, he said further, "My brother and I asked- and expected- to be chosen for the Fellowship; if not both, then at least one. We have travelled nearly as widely as Estel, and intended to aid him towards achieving his destiny. So it was a surprise when he named not one of his own sons, nor one of the great elf-lords that still reside in Imladris, but yourself- Thranduil's youngest son, who has scarcely ventured beyond the eaves of his home forest, and had little experience of mortals."

Legolas' expression grew more perplexed. "It is certainly flattering to be thought of so highly, my Lord," he commented dryly, now feeling the first pricks of insult.

"But it is flattery, to a mind that feels it has been found wanting," Elrohir returned, with a slight smile. "Do you not understand? My adar chose you because you were all those things, and we were not." He hesitated, then added, "If I may be so bold, my Lord, might I ask why you have such faith in our little friends?"

The archer was taken aback by the unexpected question. He resumed his visual examination of the canvas roof for a long time, not really seeing it, and when he turned his gaze back towards Elrohir, it seemed to the Half-Elf that Legolas had aged before his eyes. Or, rather, he was seeing the true soul, marked and burdened by unexpected cares, beneath the Elf's deceptively youthful exterior.

"It is… difficult, to explain to one who did not journey with us," the son of Thranduil whispered. "We travelled knowing that there were many dangers about us, and yet carried the chief peril right in our midst, protecting It and Its bearer. The whispers of the Enemy were beside our very ears, and its droning continued on through Moon and Sun, preying on our faults and weaknesses, enticing us with desires we did not know we possessed." His eyes veiled as he reviewed something only he knew of. "It took all that we held good and true, and tainted and twisted them, 'till one could not see the same things without remembering the evil that could come of it. It made many promises..."

For a moment, Legolas' bright eyes grew dark and heavy, and the sight of it sent a strange shiver down Elrohir's spine. Then the Elf gasped, and clenched them shut, though he continued speaking. "It was torturous; but I could not allow myself to weaken. I could not bear the thought of betraying the little ones. I strengthened my will to protect them." He took a deep breath. "I was born under the cloak of Dol Guldur, so I have been battling the devices of the shadow all my life. Warrior I may be called, but to- to It, I was little more than a middling Elf, and I am sure that it would have overcome me if I had touched it, even in accident. Yet Frodo, from the green and gentle Shire, bore It through snow and darkness and fire, never once wavering, at least in front of us. Perhaps his will came from the same source as mine." As if the mere memory of the Ringbearer strengthened him, Legolas' light blue eyes re-opened, now shining with pride and love. "That is why I have faith in Frodo- because he would hold fast for our sake, in the hope that we will remain true to him. And so we of the Fellowship, at least, understand Aragorn's decision to march for Mordor."

Silence grew again for a while, but the air between them was easier now. Being the sons of rulers, they had been acquainted for many centuries, and had become companions since the twins joined their foster brother on the outskirts of Rohan. The son of Thranduil regretted that they had not been friends earlier, for in Elrohir he found both a fellow warrior and a wise counsellor.

He thought of the coming days, and the darkness after. A shiver passed through him. Seeing it, and discerning the path of his thoughts, Elrohir laid a comforting hand on a slender shoulder peeking out of the blanket. Legolas leaned into it, rubbing his smooth cheek over the other's forearm. Despite the cover of the blanket and the shelter of the tent, the Elf still felt cold, as if the Sea-winds had invaded his body as well as his mind. He also felt a warrior's weariness after many days of fighting, and felt all too keenly the loneliness of being the only Elf in a land of mortals, excluding the sons of Elrond, who in any case seemed to be honorary members of the northern Dunedain. Contemplating all of this, he subconsciously moved towards the Peredhel, his body instinctively seeking to get closer to the only source of warmth it could feel.

Legolas emitted a soft yelp when the blanket was momentarily lifted, allowing in a touch of the chill night air. Elrohir quickly slipped in and spooned against him, wrapping the cloth around them both tightly, but even the brief exposure was enough to leave the Elf shivering. Having never felt such cold before, the Mirkwood archer began to appreciate his companions' discomfort in their failed attempt to travel over the Misty Mountains by way of Caradhras. He knew that it must be more than the body's coldness for him to be so affected. Turning and clinging to Elrohir's brawnier body as if it were a life-line, he wished he could somehow drink down the cocoon of heat and comforting musk that enveloped him. The delicious warmth suffused through his weary form, but there was a portion of him, nestled deep within, that it could not reach.

"Elrohir," he whispered breathlessly against the other's neck. "You… you have been a good friend… Thank you, for your kindness… I need-" He cut off suddenly, remembering with a flash whom he was speaking to.

But the Half-Elf cupped his face and peered into his eyes. He seemed to search for something, and finding it, whispered only, "We both need," before crushing wind-roughened lips against his. Taken entirely by surprise, a wanton moan escaped his engaged mouth. He opened himself to Elrohir's pillaging tongue, allowing himself to be lost in the sensation of being overcome, which was a blessed release after having maintained a strong front for far too long. That first contact alone returned a little strength to his ailing spirit, which in turn fired his limbs, so that he was soon pulling the larger bulk of the Half-Elf on top of him and searching out the heated depths of the other's mouth with a desperation that would have frightened him at another time, another place.

When they parted, both were breathing raggedly and staring with glazed eyes at one another. The archer looked in wonder at the Peredhel happily straddling him, the blanket having slipped down to his legs and the evidence of the other's aroused state clear from the distinctly-shaped tightness on his breeches. The fact that he could still feel the cold air but was no longer so crippled by it confirmed his suspicion of what his flagging spirit had needed: an intimate sharing of both body and soul, that most effective reminder that he was not alone. The trials of the past months on top of the exposure to the Ring had likely eroded the brightness of his spirit further. Elrohir's compassionate smile meant that he, a healer trained in easing ailments of both the body and spirit, had reached a similar conclusion. The Half-Elf pressed an affectionate kiss on his brow, like a brother might do, and then brought back the heat by moving down to suckle eagerly on his neck.

"Elrohir?" he managed to whisper, though the tongue teasing the sensitive skin of his neck, as well as the roughened hands slipping under his tunic to knead the muscles of his torso, was most distracting. "I thought that the Noldor did not engage in such activities."

He felt the other smile against his collarbone. "They do not, at least openly." A hot tongue swept up the line of his throat like a child tasting his dessert. "But do not forget that the people of the Golden Wood are Silvan, and my twin and I have passed several seasons there training with their wardens."

It was extremely tempting to simply surrender to the Peredhel's attentions, but the archer grabbed at his companion's shoulder. "Elrohir, are you sure you wish to do this?"

For a reply, the Half-Elf shifted his hip and eloquently pressed the hardened flesh confined within his breeches against Legolas' hip. "I think this is something we both need." His tunic was suddenly lifted up and over his head, and wet, open-mouthed kisses marked a trail from the centre his chest down to his navel. The son of Thranduil found himself no longer able to control his own breathing; his helpless panting was distinctly audible in the small, enclosed space. "Do you wish to stop?" asked his healer-turned-seducer just before slithering a tongue into his navel and swirling it around teasingly.

"Nay… If I had known earlier that you were not averse to such relations…" Elrohir raised his lightly flushed head and lifted surprised eyebrows at the Elf, who flushed a most fetching shade of pink. Suddenly Legolas felt a callused hand slip deftly into his leggings and enclose him in a most welcomed grip. The archer's head fell back as he released a loud groan, his hip thrusting upwards into the tight heat.

But though the light blue eyes had darkened with lust, they held a note of seriousness as they gazed at Elrohir. "The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow." A slender hand came to rest on one side of the Peredhel's head. "We are facing the end of an Age, gwador. My feet stumble, at the thought of being alone at the end of the long road." Fingers suddenly gained an agility and speed seldom seen outside of a battle, and soon both were bare above the waist. "Take me, Elrohir!" panted the son of Mirkwood, half in command and half in desperation, his hands wandering over the other's exposed flesh as if wishing to memorise every contour of muscle. "Make me forget this darkness in my soul. Possess me hard, hard enough for me to feel you still when we stand before the darkness that will be our doom." As if the words ignited a sudden flame in him, the son of Elrond all but seized Legolas and pressed him down onto the hard pallet, plundering his mouth with such renewed vigour that the fair-haired Elf felt quite insensate when he was finally released.

"Let the Sun take her days wherever she will," gasped Elrohir in reply, serpent-swift fingers unlacing Legolas' breeches. "But this knight wishes to penetrate a particular pair of finely-shaped hills of the Mirkwood mould." Legolas' gape at the lewd words turned into a soundless cry as his breeches were pulled off of him and a heated wetness slid over his swollen length. An arm over his narrow hips prevented him from moving his lower body overmuch whilst a hand snuck between his buttocks and began teasing at his tight opening. Distracted by the agile tongue rubbings against the throbbing vein of his most responsive muscle, his body did not put up too much in the way of resistance when he was entered, again and again, and that which speared him double, tripled in girth.

It was when Elrohir added the middle and longest finger that he struck the special area that sent pure pleasure rippling through a male body. Legolas' climax came upon him as suddenly as the Sea-longing had earlier, and he would likely have screamed the camp down if the Half-Elf had not abandoned his spurting shaft to once again seal their mouths together.

The bedraggled archer, gasping for air, was hardly given time to recover from his sudden culmination when his legs were lifted and twined around Elrohir's waist, and he was promptly entered by a thrumming spear of muscle. Legolas dimly noted that the Half-Elf was significantly larger than any of his previous bed-mates, but the rhythmic thrusting left little room in his mind for thoughts. Once he was continuously hitting that which wrung the loudest cries out of the son of Thranduil, the Peredhel bent over and rejoined their lips, his kisses kept tender in contrast to the most intimate of bodily joinings taking place below.

This time the build-up was gradual, and as he neared his second peak Legolas half-moaned, half-sobbed the other's name under his breath. His legs tightened around Elrohir, hands clawing up the muscled arms, as the now erratic thrusts drove him higher, higher, then seemed to inch towards the top until he was over the pinnacle and riding over the roaring salty sea on white winds of utter bliss.

They lay quietly together, after, for once not heeding their usual habits of cleanliness as they ignored the drying stickiness over both their bellies, as well as a small amount leaking out of Legolas' body and onto the pallet. Neither slept, nor felt the need for it, and instead savoured the new contentedness of both their spirits.

"Have you remembered hope once more, Legolas?" Elrohir asked quietly, just as the sky through the canvas cloth began to lighten.

"It is difficult to know, just yet," he replied, pressing a soft kiss on a faint scar that some forgotten weapon had traced on the other's shoulder. "But cold despair has gone with the night, and for that I am in your debt."

The son of Elrond smiled. "What is this talk of debt between fellow warriors? And I am a healer by heart, as my father before me. It is payment enough to hear that I have eased your spirit a little."

"You have, and I am strengthened all the more now at the thought of having such as you and your brother beside me at the end."

"To the end of the world it shall be, then, Legolas."

Finis