Title: Heart Strings
Author: Khylaren
Contact: Khylaren@yahoo.com
Fandom: LOTR
Rating NC17
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters; they are the property of JRR Tolkien and his estate. I am not making money off this story; it was written for the pure pleasure of it.
Warnings: Graphic homoerotic (slash) content, high mush factor. Diabetics should take insulin before reading.
Beta: Larien Elengasse
Cast: Legolas/Lindir
Spoilers: Fellowship of the Ring

Summary: Legolas meets Lindir during his visit to Imladris and finds himself inexplicably drawn to the minstrel. 

Notes: I used a bit from The Fellowship of the Ring –mostly the songs that Lindir sings, although I did borrow the one tiny bit from the book where Tolkien introduces Lindir (albeit briefly). This was written for the Lord of the Rings FPS Secret Santa, for Vivian. Happy Holidays! 

Elvish translations:
Hîr nín = my lord
Hûn nín = my heart
Hannad = thanks
Meldir = friend
Merilin/ merilin nín = nightingale/ my nightingale
Melethen = my love
Melethron = lover
Ada/Adar = daddy/father

< > < > < >

The elf sat in the corner of the room, his long blonde hair obscuring his face as he bent over the strings of his lute. The soft musical sounds of the instrument could barely be heard above the noise of the gathering, but the elf did not seem to be bothered by this. Rather, he seemed to be utterly lost to the melody his clever hands plucked from the strings.  His eyes were closed and his lithe body swayed slightly to some internal rhythm as he played.

Legolas Thranduillion, Prince of Mirkwood, accepted a glass of wine from a passing servant, and returned his attention to the minstrel sitting alone in the corner of the main hall. He could not see much of his face beyond the slender curve of his jaw, and he wished the elf would look up from his playing.

“He plays beautifully, does he not?” Lord Elrond asked quietly, making his way to stand beside Legolas. 

Legolas glanced at his companion. “Who is he?”  He took a sip of his wine, looking back at the minstrel. He noticed the fine color of his hair, how it moved like a silken curtain across his cheek as he bent over his lute. His fingers were long and slender, and moved with delicate precision over the strings of the instrument. 

“His name is Lindir.  His parents came to Imladris when he was very young, just after the twins were born. Until Lindir took up his father’s craft, I did not think anyone could play or sing with Glirion’s skill.” Elrond smiled faintly, his eyes resting on the minstrel’s fair head. “I was wrong.”

“Where is Glirion now?” Legolas asked curiously.

Elrond’s head bowed for a moment, and he passed a hand over his brow. “Lindir’s parents chose not to settle in Imladris. Their trade gave them reason to travel, and they left for your father’s kingdom a month after they arrived here.”  He looked up, meeting Legolas’ gaze. “They never arrived in Thranduil’s realm. I do not know the exact details of what occurred, but Glorfindel found young Lindir wandering on our borders, half-dead with thirst and hunger, and feverish from a broken arm.  Of his parent’s fate, he could not say. He was delirious from the fever, and by the time he had healed, the memory of it had been forgotten, locked away in his mind.”  

“How terrible that must have been for him,” Legolas answered softly. He could not imagine losing his Adar at any age; it would have devastated him.

“Yes,” Elrond agreed. “It was. He did not speak for the longest time; even long after his wounds had healed. It was Erestor who finally reached him, and brought him out of his shell.”

Legolas glanced across the room at the dark haired Noldo. “Erestor?” he repeated in surprise.  From what little he knew of the serious and sober Chief Counselor, he would never have guessed that he would take time to trouble himself with a small elfling. 

Elrond chuckled softly. “Yes, we were all very surprised when Lord Erestor took Lindir under his wing. Every day he would bring the young elf to his office, usually giving him something to read or to write on to keep him busy while Erestor worked.” The elf Lord shook his head and looked at Legolas. “When I asked him what he had done, when all the rest of us had failed to reach Lindir, he simply shrugged and said, ‘I talked to him’.  Do you know what Lindir’s first words were, when he finally spoke?”

The Prince shook his head. “What did he say?”

“He said, ‘You talk a lot, Erestor.’”  Elrond laughed, shaking his head again. “I wish I could have seen his face.”  His laughter faded and he sighed. “After that, Lindir began speaking again, though he has never been a gregarious sort of elf. He learned his parent’s trade, playing and singing, and has amazed us all with his gift.”

Legolas nodded, his eyes resting once more on Lindir’s golden head. As if feeling the weight of the Prince’s gaze, the minstrel looked up from his playing.  Wide gray eyes locked with his for a moment, and Legolas saw open curiosity in their clear depths. Then Lindir opened his mouth and began to sing.

“A Elbereth Gilthoniel,
silivren penna míriel
o menel aglar elenath!
Na-chaered palan-díriel
O galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
Nef aear, sí nef aearon!”

(O Elbereth Starkindler,
white-glittering, sparkling like jewels,
the glory of the starry host slants down!
Having gazed far away
from the tree-woven lands of Middle-earth,
to thee, Everwhite, I will sing,
on this side of the Sea, here on this side of the Ocean!)

The minstrel’s voice was achingly pure as he sang the song to Elbereth, captivating the attention of the elves in attendance. 

His voice went well with his features, Legolas thought appreciatively, for he was equally sweet and fair to look upon. 

Large gray eyes dominated his slender face, and were framed with lashes so dark they looked as if they had been daubed with soot. His mouth was as lush and red as a ripe berry, and Legolas wondered if it would taste just as sweet. He was slender, like a willow-reed, narrow shouldered and slim-hipped, but there was a graceful strength to him that was readily apparent, even while sitting. 

Lindir sang the verse again, and Legolas was aware that the minstrel’s eyes had never left his. 

< > < > < >

Lindir’s fingers plucked an intricate trilling run, and he lifted his head, surveying the crowd around him. His eyes widened in slightly as he met the piercing blue gaze of an elf he did not know. He was standing beside Lord Elrond, only a few feet away, and Lindir could almost feel the weight of his gaze.  The blue-eyed stranger did not look away, but continued to watch him as he began to sing Elbereth’s Hymn.

Oh, by the Valar, he was beautiful.

Long golden hair flowed like a silken river down his back, held back from his face by elaborate braids. His skin was pale, but with touches of gold as if the sun had kissed it and left its mark upon him. He had lips the color of pale roses, soft and full like the petals they resembled. Like most of his kindred, the elf was tall and lithe bodied; yet there was a hint of well-toned muscles beneath his robes that hinted that the elf was a warrior, or at least no stranger to weapon skills.

His features were fair enough to inspire a bard, Lindir thought wistfully.  

He finished the song, nodding his thanks at the appreciative responses from the audience, and put his lute aside. He blew on his fingertips to cool them, resisting the urge to stick the sore tips in his mouth. 

“Lindir, there is someone I would like you to meet.”

The minstrel looked up and rose from his seat as Lord Elrond and his fair companion approached. 

“Prince Legolas Thranduillion of Mirkwood, I present my friend and best minstrel, Lindir,” Elrond said.

Lindir touched his hand to his heart and bowed low. “It is a pleasure to meet you, your highness,” he said softly.

“It was a pleasure to hear you sing, Lindir,” Legolas replied with a smile. “Musicians are rare at my father’s court, so it is always a treat to hear one of your caliber.”

“Hannad, hîr nín,” he replied, rising from his bow. “Your words are kind.”  His next words faded, stolen from him as he met Legolas’ gaze.  He was startled by the look of intense interest in them.

Elrond glanced from Lindir to Legolas, his eyebrows lifting slightly as he felt some unspoken tension rise between them. “I have matters to attend to,” he said, smiling faintly. “Prince Legolas, if you do not mind, I will leave you in Lindir’s fair company.”  He did not wait for them to acknowledge him, but turned on his heel, his robes flowing behind him as he left.

“I do not mind at all,” Legolas said, titling his head slightly as he looked at Lindir. “Do you?”

Lindir shook his head. “No,” he replied, feeling as if the room temperature had risen several degrees in the last few moments. “I do not.”

“Will you walk with me?” Legolas asked, his lips curving into a smile. “I have yet to visit the gardens, and I am told they are lovely at night.”

A soft chuckle escaped him. “It would be my pleasure to show them to you, hîr nín.”

< > < > < >

Legolas walked beside Lindir as they strolled through Lord Elrond’s garden. The minstrel was telling him of the origins of some of the flowers that grew there, but Legolas was only half-listening to his softly spoken words. He was distracted by his companion’s mere presence, and he found it difficult to concentrate on his words, when all he could think of was how utterly kissable Lindir’s mouth looked.

“Hîr nín?”

Lindir had stopped walking, and was looking at Legolas bemusedly. 

“Oh, yes,” Legolas attempted to cover his lapse in attention. “That is interesting.”

The minstrel gaped at him a moment and then chuckled softly. “You were not listening at all, hîr nín. I asked if you had such gardens in Mirkwood.  If you had left it at ‘oh, yes,’ you might have fooled me.”  He sighed, his smile fading. “I am sorry if I am boring you.”

“Not at all,” Legolas protested. “I find your company very pleasant indeed. Forgive me for my lapse in attention, Lindir. It is just that I found myself distracted.”

Lindir arched an eyebrow at the Prince’s confession. “What has distracted you, if I may be so bold to ask?”

Legolas took a step closer, lifting his head slightly as he met Lindir’s gaze. “You, meldir musician. You have distracted me.”

The minstrel froze, his eyes widening slightly. “H-how so, hîr nín?” he stammered, licking his lips reflexively.

The Prince took another step, closing the distance between them until he could feel the warmth of Lindir’s body through the fabric of his robes. “Your very presence is a distraction, merilin,” he murmured, his eyes slowly tracing over Lindir’s features, as if memorizing each detail of his fair face. “I find myself wanting to know you, and to see if your lips taste as sweet as they look.”

A fine tremor went through the minstrel’s body, and Legolas felt it as his hands slid slowly up Lindir’s slender arms. Lindir’s scent assailed him as he bent close, and he inhaled it deeply, savoring the sweet and spicy odor that was as unique as its owner. Lindir did not move away, but his tremors became more pronounced as Legolas gently brushed his lips over the lush softness of his mouth. 

Legolas felt the minstrel’s trembling and drew back. “Forgive me,” he said, dropping his arms to his sides. “I was mistaken in my hope that you might share my interest.”  He looked away, rubbing his arms, trying to rid himself of the memory of the feel of Lindir’s body against his. A hand covered one of his, and he looked up in surprise.

“I-I am sorry, hîr nín,” he said hesitantly, as if unsure of what to say. “It is simply that I - I do not…that is…I have not…for a long time,” he trailed off, raising his eyes to meet Legolas’ gaze.

The open vulnerability in those wide gray eyes made his heart ache. “Lindir,” Legolas said softly, covering the minstrel’s hand with his own and drawing the elf closer. “It is all right. We have only just met. I should not have…”

“No,” Lindir protested swiftly, shaking his head. “It is not that at all.” He took a deep breath, glancing down for a moment, before looking back at Legolas. “I do want you, hîr nín.”

A soft groan escaped Legolas at Lindir’s words, and before he could reply, the minstrel was covering his mouth with his own, kissing him with a passion that surprised him with its intensity. Wrapping his arms around Lindir’s lithe body, he returned the kiss with equal hunger. He felt the minstrel’s mouth yield to his, opening, inviting him to explore its warmth. His tongue delved eagerly inside, tasting and discovering the velvet softness of Lindir’s mouth as he teased the elf’s shy tongue into play. 

His hands moved from Lindir’s to cradle his face, thumbs brushing softly against his cheeks as he drew back from their kiss.  He drew a shaky breath and smiled at Lindir’s hungry expression.

“This is not the place for such things,” Legolas whispered softly, his fingertips trailing over the minstrel’s lips. “Though I can think of nothing lovelier than the thought of you beneath me on a fragrant bed of flowers, while the birds sing sweetly overhead.”

Lindir blinked at him, and then chuckled. “You have the tongue of a bard, hîr nín,” he replied. “Such words that issue from your lips.”

Legolas leaned forward and ran his tongue over Lindir’s lower lip, hearing the elf catch his breath in response. “That is not all my tongue is good for, merilin nín,” he whispered huskily. “Will you let me show you?”

< > < > < >

Lindir allowed himself to be led to Legolas’ chambers, and his knees were shaking so badly by the time they reached his room that it was all he could do to keep from collapsing immediately on the bed. He watched the Prince lock his door and light several of the lamps that were scattered throughout the room, and decided that perhaps he had better sit down after all, before his legs gave way completely.

Resting his weight on the edge of the bed, his eyes followed Legolas as he lit the lamps, and he tried to suppress the nervous flutter in his stomach when the Prince finally finished and turned around.

Legolas studied him a moment, before crossing the room in three quick strides. He sat down next to Lindir, and reached for his hand, cradling it between his. 

“You are nervous, Lindir,” the Prince said quietly. One hand rose and softly stroked the hair away from his face. “Tell me I do not frighten you.” 

Lindir leaned into his touch, closing his eyes. “I am overwhelmed,” he replied, opening his eyes once more to meet Legolas’ gaze. “It has been a while since I felt this strongly for another.”

Legolas nodded, cupping his face gently with his hand. “Then I will go slow.” He smiled, brushing his thumb softly over Lindir’s lips. “It will be no hardship to do so, for I wish to savor every bit of you, and treasure it.”  He dropped his hand away and rose from the bed, moving to the small cabinet beside the window. He opened a drawer and searched through it, until he finally found what he sought.

Lindir swallowed, his nervousness returning when he saw what the Prince carried with him back to the bed. It was a bottle of oil, typically used in treating sore muscles. Legolas placed it within easy reach on the bedside table, before returning to Lindir’s side.  His apprehension must have been apparent on his face, for the elf frowned as he sat down.

“You have done this before, Lindir.”  It was more a question than a statement, and Lindir nodded faintly.

“Once.”

Legolas’ eyebrows rose swiftly in surprise. “Once? But you are most fair, my friend. How is it then that you have only the one experience? Is it that you prefer the company of maids?”

Lindir shrugged, looking away. “I enjoy both, hîr nín. It is simply that I have not found another male that I wanted to share myself with in that way.”

“Ah,” Legolas replied softly. “I understand.” He reached for Lindir and pulled him tenderly into his arms. “And I am honored that you wish to share yourself with me.”

Legolas’ mouth covered his, lips warmly persuasive and Lindir yielded to their soft pressure, opening his mouth and welcoming the velvet brush of Legolas’ tongue against his own. His leaned into the embrace, reveling in the feel of the Prince’s strong arms around him and the firm press of his chest against his own. Lindir sighed when Legolas finally relinquished his hold on his mouth to discover the sensitive skin of his neck. He tilted his head slightly to allow better access, and could not help but moan quietly as soft lips began to explore the hollow just where his neck met his shoulder.

“You taste sweet,” Legolas murmured against his skin, his tongue flicking out to tease the curve of Lindir’s ear, eliciting another soft moan from the minstrel. “I long to know if you taste as sweet elsewhere.”  He captured the delicate point of Lindir’s ear with his teeth, nipping it gently, sending shivers of delight down the minstrel’s spine. Clever hands wormed their way beneath Lindir’s tunic, sliding slowly upward, mapping the skin beneath the cloth while his mouth continued to wreak havoc on Lindir’s senses. Legolas’ fingertips hovered just below his nipples, and Lindir felt them harden in anticipation of the Prince’s touch. He gasped softly, arching his back when Legolas finally moved his hands, his thumbs lightly brushing against the hardened peaks, sending a jolt of pure pleasure straight to his groin. 

“Ai, you are unfair, hîr nín,” Lindir managed, bringing his hands to Legolas’ waist, seeking the edge of his tunic. “I would touch you as you have touched me.”

Warm wetness laved his neck for a moment, before Legolas drew back, his eyes darkened with passion. “I would like that, very much,” he whispered. “But we are wearing far too much clothing.”

Lindir nodded, a smile playing about his mouth. His hands moved upward to rest on the clasps that held Legolas’ tunic. “May I, hîr nín?” he asked softly.

“Please, melethron,” Legolas replied, chuckling softly. “Though I request the same honor.”

Their clothes made barely a sound as they hit the floor, tossed aside without another thought as each turned their gaze to the other.

“By the Valar, Legolas,” Lindir whispered, his eyes widening in appreciation as his gaze traveled over the Prince’s fair form. “You are so beautiful.”

Legolas smiled, his own gaze sliding over Lindir’s nude form with open approval. “As are you, merilin nín. As fair as the moon on a clear night, so pale is your skin. Yet you shine, your hair, your lovely gray eyes. I could drink my fill of you and still yearn for more.”

Lindir shook his head, a faint flush coloring the fairness of his face. “You speak poetry, hîr nín. I would never have guessed it of a Prince.”

“Hmm,” replied Legolas, drawing a fingertip down Lindir’s smooth chest. “Perhaps it is because I am inspired.” He drew Lindir down beside him so that they lay facing each other. They leaned forward at the same moment, and their lips met as their hands began a slow and thorough exploration.  

Each took delight in discovering what made the other moan and shiver with pleasure, but Lindir eventually found himself helpless to the Prince’s touch, lost to the need of his body. He was as willing to relinquish his control as Legolas was to take it, it seemed. He found himself clutching the sheets beneath him, his body arching in ecstasy as warmth and softness enclosed his length. He cried out, his grip on the sheets tightening as Legolas drew him in deeper, the heat and suction driving him to the very edge of his pleasure. His release left him shuddering, gasping for breath.

Legolas rose from his place between Lindir’s knees, pressing soft kisses against his stomach and chest before he reached his mouth.  “I was right,” he murmured between kisses. “You are sweet all over.”

Lindir managed a weak smile, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his release. He had forgotten just how wonderful it could feel; the feel of another body against his, the pure bliss of fulfillment. He could feel the hardness of Legolas’ arousal pressing against his stomach, and his body responded to its presence. He licked his lips, his smile growing bolder as he looked up at the Prince. 

“I would like to return the favor,” Lindir whispered softly, his hands releasing their grip on the sheets to rest on the Prince’s shoulders. He lifted his head, pressing his lips against Legolas’, nibbling at his lower lip gently. “I would like that very much.”

He slid his leg between Legolas’ thighs, and before the Prince could think of what Lindir intended, the elf had flipped him over onto his back.  Legolas blinked in surprise, a soft moan escaping him as Lindir pressed his lips against his throat. He licked a path across his neck, making his way upward to explore Legolas’ ear. He took the delicate tip between his lips, sucking on it teasingly. 

Legolas groaned, his hands sweeping across Lindir’s shoulders and down his smooth back to cup the elf’s buttocks, pulling him closer. He could feel Lindir’s arousal hardening against his own and he lifted his hips, grinding them sinuously together until the minstrel gave a soft groan of his own.  

Lindir ceased his torment of Legolas’ ear for other pursuits. He fastened his lips on one tawny colored nipple, and it hardened swiftly beneath his tongue. His fingers explored the silken smoothness of Legolas’ stomach, and he felt it quiver beneath his touch as they slid lower. His fingertips brushed lightly over Legolas’ length, and the Prince gave a soft gasp when he finally took it in his hand. 

“You have only done this once before?” Legolas managed between gasps, his hips arching with a will of their own to meet the slow and steady strokes of Lindir’s hand upon his length.

The minstrel chuckled softly, his eyes bright with delight that he could elicit such responses from the beauty beneath him. “Aye,” he replied softly, before bending his head to nuzzle the soft hair that grew at the base of Legolas’ arousal. He moved his hand down slightly, and ran the tip of his tongue over the weeping slit. A soft, keening moan escaped the Prince, and Lindir grinned. 

“You seem to…ah….know what you are doing,” Legolas gasped, his eyes closing when Lindir took his length into his mouth, working it with both his lips and hand. 

Lindir ran his tongue over the crown of Legolas shaft, tasting the evidence of his Prince’s arousal. “I am operating purely on instinct, melethron,” he said softly, raising his eyes briefly to Legolas’ face. “I know what I like.”

Legolas could not form a coherent reply. All thought had fled when Lindir took him deep into his mouth once more. He gripped the sheets, his body tightening as he reached his peak. With a sharp cry, he found his release, spilling his seed into Lindir’s welcoming mouth. The minstrel swallowed every drop before letting Legolas’ length slide slowly from his lips. 

Reaching down, he pulled Lindir into his embrace and kissed him tenderly, tasting his own essence on the minstrel’s lips. Lindir’s lithe body trembled in his arms as their kiss turned from tender to passionate, their mouths locked together with almost bruising force. Legolas’ tongue delved deeply into Lindir’s mouth, sliding into its velvety heat, greedily taking what Lindir freely offered. He slid his thigh between their bodies and flipped Lindir to his back, eliciting a gasp of surprise from the minstrel.

He claimed Lindir’s mouth possessively as he slowly ground their hips together, until Lindir broke away with a plaintive moan. 

“Please, melethron,” Lindir said softly, shuddering as his length slid teasingly against Legolas’. “It is too much.”

Legolas pressed his lips against the hollow of Lindir’s throat, smiling at his lover’s pleading. He licked away the light sweat that had formed on Lindir’s fair skin, his own body thrumming with need. He moved lower, licking a wet path across his lover’s chest and down his stomach, pausing briefly to relish the taste of Lindir’s arousal. The elf groaned when Legolas pushed his thighs further apart, lifting them slightly as he explored the soft pouch of skin beneath Lindir’s length. His tongue laved at the tender skin, delighting in the difference of texture and taste, and the way it made Lindir writhe beneath him. Using his hands, he spread Lindir’s thighs even further, and dipped his head lower. His tongue darted out to tease the small opening between the smooth cheeks, wrenching a pleading cry from Lindir’s mouth. 

Lindir’s neck arched as he threw his head back, gasping in pleasure as Legolas’ tongue pushed against his opening, circling the ring of muscles with the tip. His thighs quivered with the strain as he opened himself to his lover’s exploration, and he whimpered softly as he felt Legolas’ tongue penetrate him.  Soft, pleading words escaped his lips, though he did not know what it was he pleaded for: more of the same, or something else.  

One hand left its grip on his thigh, and he heard the faint noise of the bottle of oil being opened. He whimpered softly when Legolas’ tongue left him, but did not have time to mourn its loss before he felt the press of an oiled finger against his opening. He could not keep from stiffening as the finger slid into his body, and he bit his lip in an effort to keep from whimpering again.

Legolas felt Lindir’s body tighten against him and moved upward to kiss him softly. 

“I will not hurt you, Lindir,” Legolas whispered against his lips. “I swear.”

Lindir nodded, willing his body to relax and accept the intrusion. He knew from his past experience that if done correctly, what they were about to do could be intensely pleasurable. His previous lover had been so very careful in preparing him, and from the soft words and gentle touches, he knew that Legolas would do the same.

“Will you trust me?” Legolas asked softly, holding Lindir’s gaze with his own.

“Yes,” Lindir whispered, trembling with anticipation. “Just go slow.”

A gentle smile graced Legolas mouth before he kissed Lindir again. “I will,” he whispered. Slowly, and with great care, he slid his finger deeper into the heat of Lindir’s body. He mimicked the motions of his finger with his tongue, thrusting it slowly into his lover’s mouth, curling it against Lindir’s until the elf was moaning softly with need. He withdrew his finger and poured a bit more oil onto both his hands. 

Lindir groaned, his eyes closing in bliss as one oiled hand curled around his throbbing length, stroking it in slow and even movements. He felt the press of Legolas’ fingers against his opening once more and welcomed them, hissing slightly in discomfort as two fingers stretched him. The strokes on his arousal quickened slightly as Legolas pressed deeper, and he cried out as he felt his fingers brush against something that sent a bolt of pure pleasure through his body. 

“Ai! Do that again,” he breathed, his eyes fluttering open for a moment. Legolas smiled, more than happy to comply, and Lindir’s eyes closed tightly as his body shook with the sensation of it. He threw his head back, groaning as another finger was added, stretching him, filling him, until he was gasping with want.  “Aníron, Legolas,” Lindir pleaded breathlessly. “Please.”

Legolas released his hold on Lindir’s length to coat his own arousal with oil, his lover’s soft and pleading groans making him throb with need. He withdrew his fingers from Lindir’s body and pressed the tip of his length against his opening. Slowly and with great care he entered him, groaning as Lindir’s tightness enveloped him.  For a moment he could not move; the sensation was so exquisite it nearly undid him.  He felt Lindir tremble beneath him and touched his face gently. He was startled with the minstrel opened his eyes; the vulnerability and hunger he saw in their clear depths touched something deep inside him.

“All right?” Legolas asked softly, leaning down to press a kiss against his open mouth.

Lindir nodded shakily. “Hurts,” he managed. 

Legolas frowned. “Do you wish to stop?” he asked, ignoring his body’s cry of protest. 

Biting his lip, Lindir shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Do not stop.”  He took a deep breath, shuddering with need. “Please, do not stop.”

He took Lindir at his word. His fingers curled around his lover’s length, stroking it firmly until it regained its former hardness. He withdrew slightly and thrust forward, timing his movements with the stroke of his hand on Lindir’s arousal, until the minstrel groaned sweetly.  Concentrating on Lindir’s pleasure, Legolas was able to hold his own release at bay for a while. He felt Lindir’s body relax around him, taking him deeper, and he increased the strength of his thrusts.

Lindir was lost, his body tightening inexorably as each thrust and stroke drove him closer and closer to his peak. Hungry lips claimed his and he opened his mouth, his groans muffled against the press of Legolas’ lips. He lifted his hips, trying to match his lover’s rhythm, and felt Legolas’ length strike that hidden spot within him again. His body exploded in pleasure and he cried out his release, the warmth of his seed spilling over onto his stomach. 

Legolas felt Lindir tighten almost painfully around him and thrust one final time, burying his length in his lover’s heat, his body shuddering as his release finally claimed him.  He rested his head against Lindir’s chest, trying to catch his breath. He felt gentle hands stroke his back slowly and lifted his head, smiling at the utterly satisfied expression on Lindir’s face.

Afterwards, they lay together in a tangle of sticky and satisfied limbs, their bodies still trembling with the aftershocks of their pleasure. Lindir’s head rested against Legolas’ chest, and his slender body curled against him sweetly.

Legolas pressed his nose against the minstrel’s soft hair a moment, inhaling his scent. “You smell wonderful, melethron,” he murmured, sliding his hands slowly down the smooth skin of Lindir’s back. “Like carnations, all spicy and sweet.”

“Hmm,” Lindir replied, his eyes closed in bliss. “You smell of rainstorms and violets, and taste of honey and cream.”

Legolas chuckled softly. “You make me sound like a rich dessert.”

“That is not a bad analogy,” Lindir replied drowsily, snuggling closer to Legolas’ warmth. “You are a feast for the senses, to be sure.”

“Now who has the tongue of a bard?” Legolas smiled, though he knew the other elf could not see it.

“I am not a bard,” Lindir said, a yawn escaping him. “I am a minstrel.”

“Oh? I did not know there was a difference,” Legolas said teasingly.  

Lindir nodded but did not open his eyes. “A bard composes. A minstrel merely performs.”

“Are you tired, melethron?” 

“Aye,” Lindir replied faintly. “I feel as though I could sleep for a hundred years.”

“Then sleep, my lovely one. But not for a hundred years, I beg you,” Legolas said, settling himself more comfortably against his pillow. He felt the lithe body relax against him as Lindir finally succumbed to reverie, and smiled, a feeling of contentment filling him. 

< > < > < >

Lindir’s brow furrowed as he struggled with the complex fingering of the elaborate run he was trying to master. His fingertips ached from pressing so hard against the strings, and as he finished the run, he pinched the lute a little too hard on the bottom notes. With a snap, the bass string broke, slicing a deep gash across his palm.

With a frustrated oath, he cradled his wounded hand, resisting the childish urge to toss his lute to the floor. It was not the instrument’s fault that his mood was so tense that it affected his playing. With a sigh, he examined his lute for damage, and was relieved to see that the peg that held the string had not broken when the string had snapped. It was only after carefully setting his instrument aside that he inspected his hand to see the extent of his injury.

The cut was clean, as if done by a very sharp knife, but not terribly deep. It ran the length of his palm and was beginning to bleed a little. Clenching his fist to slow the bleeding, he cast about for something to wrap it with, and came up empty.

“Are you all right, meldir?”

Lindir glanced up, his pulse quickening as he saw Legolas step through the door of the conservatory and make his way towards him. 

“I am fine,” he said. “I broke a string and it cut my hand. It stings a bit,” he offered quietly. He was surprised when Legolas dropped to his knees beside him and reached for his hand. 

“Let me see,” he said, uncurling the tightly clenched fingers. He examined the cut carefully. “Does it hurt badly?” he asked, looking up at him.

“No, but it will at least a day or so before it is healed enough for me to play again.”  He tried to pull his hand away from Legolas’ gentle grip.  “Please, I do not want to get my blood all over your tunic.”  

The Prince shook his head, and tore a strip of fabric from the bottom of his tunic. He used the length to wrap the injured hand.  “You should see the healer,” he said, focusing his attention on winding the cloth tightly around Lindir’s fingers. 

“I do not need a healer,” Lindir replied, his hand tingling more from the effects of Legolas’ casual touch than from the cut. “It is not that deep.” Legolas glanced up at him, and Lindir saw his blue eyes widen briefly. He held his breath, his hand forgotten for the moment as he lost himself in their depths. He shook his head, trying to break their spell. “It will be all right,” he stammered. 

Legolas held the injured hand up and turned it over, placing a soft kiss in the center of the bandaged palm. 

Lindir gave a gasp before he could stop himself, and jerked his hand away, his pulse beating erratically.

“Did I hurt you?” Legolas asked, his fair brows meeting in concern. 

“No,” Lindir stammered. “I…just…no,” he finished lamely, certain that his face was brilliantly red.

A slow smile spread across the Prince’s face. “You are lovely when you blush, Lindir,” he murmured. 

The minstrel busied himself with putting the lute away, studiously avoiding Legolas’ gaze. He did not know what to say to the Prince’s compliment that would not sound utterly foolish.

Still smiling, Legolas watched Lindir put his lute away. “I am sorry that you hurt your hand. I would have enjoyed hearing you play again.”  

Lindir smiled faintly. “I was looking forward to spending more time with you,” he said, glancing up. He was relieved to see Legolas was smiling.

“Well, perhaps we can do something else, since we both seem to be wanting to spend time with one another,” Legolas answered easily. “Perhaps a picnic? It is nearly lunch hour, and I am certain I could convince the cooks to part with some food for us.”

“A picnic?” 

Legolas nodded, watching the minstrel gather his instrument in its carrying case. “Do you ride, Lindir?”

A soft chuckle escaped the elf. “Of course. I cannot walk everywhere, my Lord.”

“Then I know just the place we could share our lunch. It is quite lovely, and very peaceful. I think you will enjoy it,” Legolas replied, rising to his feet and offering his hand to Lindir.

Lindir smiled, taking the Prince’s hand with his uninjured one. He rose from his chair gracefully. “I probably know where it is, my Lord. I have lived here for many years.”  He smiled wistfully as he walked beside Legolas, enjoying the warm press of the Prince’s fingers against his. 

When they reached the main hall, Lindir paused. “I need to put my instrument in my room.”

Legolas nodded, releasing his hold on Lindir’s hand. “I will procure some food for us. And some wine, I think.” He laughed at the minstrel’s expression. “You do not like wine?”

“I like wine,” Lindir replied. “I just do not drink it often. It goes to my head rather quickly,” he explained, shaking his head. "I will meet you at the stables, my Lord.” 

“I will meet you there.” He watched Lindir leave, and chuckled softly to himself, before making his way towards the kitchens. 

< > < > < >

“I thought this might be the place you were thinking of,” Lindir said, guiding his horse beside the Prince’s. “I have spent many hours here myself. You are right. It is quite peaceful, and one of the more beautiful places in Imladris.”

“I like the tree,” Legolas replied. “It is what drew me here.”  They stopped beneath the shade of a large, red-leafed maple, turning their horses loose to graze in the grassy field nearby. 

Lindir accepted one of the bundles that Legolas carried and opened it, pulling out the large blanket and spreading it beneath the tree. “The color is rare, for it is darker red than the other maples that grow near the hall. I believe it has something to do with the soil.”

“Are you a botanist as well as a minstrel, Lindir?” Legolas teased as he unpacked the food, setting the basket of fruits and cheeses beside the bottle of wine. 

Shrugging, Lindir accepted the apple that the Prince offered him. “I have an interest in things that grow, but not enough to make a study of them. Music takes up most of my time.”

Legolas poured a cup of wine and handed it to Lindir. “Tell me,” he said, settling back on the blanket next to him and taking a sip of his wine. “Does music take all of your time?”

Lindir nodded, rubbing the apple against his leggings and polishing it. “It does, usually. When I am not performing, I am practicing, or, on rare occasions, working on my compositions.”

“That leaves very little free time for other pursuits, meldir,” Legolas said, using his knife to slice a bite from his apple. He glanced up at Lindir with a small frown. “It sounds rather lonely, if you ask me.”

He took a sip of his wine and smiled at the Prince. “I have no lack of companionship when the need strikes me, my Lord,” he said quietly. 

“No,” Legolas murmured, his gaze holding Lindir’s steadily. “I do not imagine that you do.”

Lindir blushed faintly. “It is not like that,” he protested. “It is not easy for me…”

“You seem to be doing just fine, Lindir,” Legolas replied, chuckling softly. “I have already gathered you are not an elf who easily gives his attentions to others.”

Lindir seemed taken aback. “Am I that unfriendly?”  

“No, meldir,” Legolas said, shaking his head. “Merely you seem…reserved.”

Lindir looked down at his lap, taking a healthy sip of his wine. “Perhaps it is because I am overwhelmed by your attentions, hîr nín. I am, after all, simply a minstrel.” He looked up and met Legolas’ gaze evenly. “I just cannot understand why you wish to spend time with me.”

Legolas studied him a moment before laughing softly. “Why? You are fair, and I enjoy your company. Does there need to be more than that?”

“I suppose not,” Lindir agreed slowly. He could already feel the effects of the wine, a warm tingling sensation spreading through his limbs. Or perhaps it was merely Legolas’ presence that made him feel that way. 

It had been two days since their lovemaking. Waking up in Legolas’ arms was the most wonderful experience he could ever have wished for. The Prince had been tender with him, sharing long, slow, lingering kisses until they were both moaning with need. Legolas had covered his body with his own, sliding their arousals together with delicious friction that quickly culminated in mutual release. It was the most sensual thing Lindir had ever experienced. 

Afterward, he had dressed, reluctant to leave, but knowing that both he and Legolas were expected to make an appearance that morning at breakfast. The Prince had kissed him sweetly before he left, and softly thanked him for sharing the night with him.

Until this morning, they had not had another chance to be alone together, and it had bothered Lindir more that it should have, he supposed. He had no expectations that their relationship was anything more than physical. They enjoyed each other’s company outside of the bed as well, but he had no hope that there could be any more to it than that. 

“You are thinking unhappy thoughts, merilin nín,” Legolas said, leaning over to refill his wine cup. 

Lindir glanced up in surprise. “How did you guess?”

“You were frowning. It is far too nice a day for such an expression.” Legolas placed the half-full bottle of wine aside and resumed his former position next to Lindir. “Tell me what is bothering you.”

“It is nothing,” Lindir replied, taking a sip of his wine. “Foolish thoughts, nothing more.”

Legolas reached forward and plucked the cup of wine from Lindir’s hand, setting it carefully aside. He placed his own next to it, before turning to face him once more. He took Lindir’s uninjured hand and held it between his own, studying their fingers as they intertwined together. 

“Do you wish to hear a confession?” Legolas asked softly, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of Lindir’s fingers.

Lindir nodded, watching the slow movement of the Prince’s thumb as it slid over his hand.

Legolas looked up, smiling faintly. “I have thought of little else but you since you left my room two days ago. You have been on my mind both day and night, awake and dreaming.” He took a deep breath, his fingers tightening around Lindir’s. “I found myself distracted at the most inopportune times, thinking of the way you taste and smell, and the way you smile when you are happy.”  

“Hîr nín,” Lindir whispered, shaking his head slowly. “Legolas, I…I…” Fingers covered his lips, silencing his words.

“I know we barely know each other,” Legolas said softly, his gaze holding Lindir’s. “Yet I feel as I have always known you. Something about you drew me to your side.”  He dropped his hand away from Lindir’s lips and smiled. “From the moment I heard you sing, merilin nín, I have been under your spell. And now I find I do not wish to break free of it.”

Lindir’s eyes widened, and his heart felt as if it were trying to pound its way through his chest. “What are you saying?” he whispered, his lips still tingling from the press of Legolas’ fingers. 

“This,” Legolas murmured, leaning forward to brush his lips gently against Lindir’s. “And this.” His hands reached up to cradle his face as he claimed Lindir’s mouth possessively, kissing him with such thoroughness that the minstrel felt lightheaded when he finally pulled away. 

“Tell me you do not feel at least something for me, melethen.”

His mind still reeling from Legolas’ kiss, Lindir nodded, and struggled to find his voice. “I do, melethen,” he said the endearment somewhat shyly, though his pulse quickened at having expressed it finally. “Though I had no hope for it. You are a Prince. I am a minstrel of humble birth. Though my heart is joyful at your words, I must ask you, how can it ever be?”

Legolas nodded. “You speak truly, but there is hope yet for us.” He smiled gently. “There is always hope.”

< > < > < >

They lay naked beneath the shade of the red tree; the warm breeze drying the sweat from their bodies as they held each other, their hearts still pounding from the aftermath of their passion. 

Legolas drew idle patterns with his fingertips across Lindir’s chest, and he heard the minstrel laugh softly.

“That tickles, melethen,” Lindir protested, batting his hand away. 

Legolas rose to lean on one elbow, looking down at his lover with a playful grin. “Does it? Hmm…” He reached out once more and ran his fingertips teasingly over Lindir’s ribs, causing the elf to squirm delightfully. “There too?”

“Ai, yes!” Lindir captured his marauding hand with his own and held it tightly. “Do not make me retaliate, hîr nín,” he warned, ruining the threat by kissing the offending digits. 

“I might take you up on your threat, Lindir,” Legolas said, smiling lazily down at him. “But not today. I do not have the energy to fend off your assault.”

Lindir sighed, folding his hands beneath his head and stared up at the tree above them. “Nor I the energy to mount such an assault. You have worn me out utterly.”

Legolas chuckled. “Good.” He lay on his back, settling his head comfortably across Lindir’s chest.

“This has to be, by far, the best picnic I have ever had,” Lindir said, running his fingers through Legolas’ hair, playing with the strands. “Though I must admit, I have not been on very many.”

“No?” Legolas turned his head so he could see Lindir’s face. “Then I am doubly glad we came here today. I can think of no better way to spend an afternoon,” he said with a faint smirk.  

Lindir blushed, and Legolas grinned to see it. His smile faded slowly as he reached out with one hand, lightly tracing the smooth curve of the minstrel's jaw.

"Will you share something with me, melethen?" he asked, raising his eyes to meet Lindir's.

"What is it you wish to know?" Lindir replied, capturing Legolas' hand and kissing his fingers gently.

"Who was the other?"

Lindir blinked, flushing once more. "Why do you wish to know this?"

Legolas shrugged, settling back on Lindir's chest, his eyes resting on the red leaves above them. "I admit that I am curious to learn who it was - and why you are no longer with him. You do not have to tell me, if you do not wish to."

A soft sigh escaped the minstrel, his hands moving to rest on Legolas' shoulders. "Honestly, I had not thought of it for quite some time." He smiled briefly, glancing down at the Prince. "It was only the once, for he left the following morning to return to his home. So you see, there was no opportunity for anything further."

"Unfortunate for him, but fortunate for me," Legolas chuckled, turning his face towards Lindir. 

Lindir smiled. "True enough," he said, laughing lightly. 

"So it was only the once?" Legolas pressed, shaking his head. "I still find it hard to believe that you have not left a string of broken hearts behind you."

Lindir's eyebrows rose slightly. "I could easily say the same of you, melethen. Why is it you have not already bonded with another?"

Legolas shifted his body, making himself more comfortable on Lindir's chest. "Until I met you, I had not found anyone that I would even consider bonding with." He glanced up, smiling at the minstrel. "Is that so difficult to believe?"

"I only have difficulty believing that it is me that you love," Lindir replied honestly. "Never could I have imagined I would be so lucky."

Sitting up, Legolas tucked his knees against his chest as he looked at Lindir. "I think it is I who is the lucky one," he replied, reaching out to trace the slender curve of the minstrel's jaw. "And twice lucky that it is I, and not my brother Gilthorel, who was sent to Imladris."  He tilted his head slightly, resting his chin on his knees. "Do you believe in fate, Lindir?"

Lindir shrugged. "I do not know that I have ever thought much about it," he answered.

"Have you ever thought that, before we are born, we each are paired with the fëa of an elf that is our perfect match in every way? And that part of our fëa is given to this elf, and we carry part of theirs? And after we are born, when we chance to meet upon this elf, our fëa recognizes that piece that is held by the other?"

"You speak of destined love," Lindir replied slowly. "Fated love."  He looked in surprise at Legolas. "Do you believe this?"

Legolas nodded. "I do."  His fingers touched Lindir's lips softly.

Lindir smiled, capturing the hand and kissing it softly. “I do not know if I believe in such things, but perhaps it explains why it is that I am so drawn to you. Why I feel the way I do.”  He took a deep breath, holding Legolas’ hand over his heart. “I have never felt this way before.”

“Nor I,” Legolas admitted softly, bringing Lindir’s other hand to rest over his own heart. “There is something strong between us. A connection I felt the first moment I saw you. I cannot deny what my heart tells me.”  He drew a deep breath, holding Lindir with his gaze. “Come to Mirkwood with me. Visit my home. I want nothing more than to spend eternity learning everything about you. I want my father to meet you. I want to see his face when you sing for him.”

“Will your father approve of…us?” Lindir asked hesitantly.

“When he sees how much you mean to me, he will.  Despite rumors to the contrary, my father is very loving,” Legolas replied with a smile. 

A slow answering smile crept across Lindir’s face. “I have not left Imladris since I was a child,” he said softly. “My parents…” he faltered a moment, then plunged doggedly onward. “My parents were traveling to Mirkwood when…when they died.”

“I know, melethen,” Legolas said, holding Lindir’s hand tightly. “Lord Elrond told me.”

Lindir nodded, and looked away for a moment. “Imladris is my home. My friends are here. Some of them are almost like family to me.” He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, before turning back to Legolas. “But I will gladly come with you.”

Legolas pulled Lindir into his arms, kissing him unrestrainedly. “Thank you, melethen,” he whispered between them. “I was afraid you would refuse.”  His kisses grew slower, more passionate, and Lindir found himself returning them with equal hunger.

< > < > < >

Lindir placed his lute in its carrying sack and lifted it to his shoulder. He glanced around his bedroom, wondering if he had room to pack anything else. 

“You can always send for your affects later, Lindir,” Erestor said quietly from his place by the door. The dark haired elf stood aside, watching Lindir as he fretted over what to bring and what to leave behind. “Do not be in such a hurry to make your leave permanent.”

Lindir turned to look at Erestor questioningly. 

“I simply think that you should wait and see how well you like Mirkwood, and how you adjust to life there,” Erestor said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I will miss you, Erestor,” Lindir said, smiling. “But I will not be returning unless it is for a visit.”

The Noldo sighed, dropping his hands to his sides. “I will miss you too, Lindir. And I am happy that you have finally found someone who is worthy of your love.”  

Lindir blinked in surprise at Erestor’s comment. He shook his head slowly. “No, I think I am blessed to have found someone who loves me. Whether I am worthy of it or not.”

Erestor gave him one of his rare smiles. “You give yourself far too little credit, my friend,” he said softly. His smile faded and his expression resumed its more serious mien. “Now, if you are finished packing? Prince Legolas, I am certain, is most anxious to see you.”

“You will come to Mirkwood to visit?” Lindir asked, walking beside Erestor as they headed for the courtyard. 

“Only if you promise to return to Imladris from time to time and remind us of the beauty of your voice. I, for one, will greatly miss hearing you sing at night,” Erestor replied.

Lindir nodded as they reached the courtyard. “I will,” he promised softly.

< > < > < >

“How long will it take us to reach Mirkwood?” Lindir asked. He rode next to Legolas as they passed beneath the green canopy of trees that began just outside of Imladris.

“Several days,” Legolas replied, giving Lindir a smile. “Are you as eager to see my home as I am to show it to you?”

Lindir chuckled. “I am eager, yes, but as eager as you? I do not know.”  His fingers played with the course strands of his horse’s mane. “Tell me about your home, Legolas.”

“It is different from Imladris,” Legolas began, automatically checking the positions of their escorts as they rode. “My father’s hall is in a great cavern that spans many levels. A river cuts a path through the bottom levels, and you can always hear the sound of the water rushing against the stone wherever you are. It is not open, like the Last Homely House, but it is safe and comfortable and warm.” Legolas looked at Lindir and was relieved to see that the minstrel did not look bothered by the thought of living in a cave. “Though we have few windows, we have no lack of light, for the cavern is most brightly lit by many fine lamps.”

“It sounds interesting. I look forward to seeing it,” Lindir replied. “I have heard that your father keeps great treasure and values fine and rich things.”

Legolas nodded. “It is true that he has an eye for things of beauty, and surrounds himself with items of rare and great value.” He smiled impishly at Lindir. “That is how I know he will love you, for you are rare and beautiful indeed.”

Lindir blushed faintly and smiled. “I pale in comparison to your own beauty, melethen. For you are fairer than any bright jewel or coin ever found or forged.”

“I thank you, but it is not so, merilin nín,” Legolas replied softly. “For your beauty comes from within as well as from without. Lord Elrond was right.”

“Oh? How so?” Lindir nudged his horse closer; he was honestly curious as to what his Lord had told his love.

Legolas smiled, reaching out and taking his hand and giving it a brief squeeze before releasing it. “That you are a gift, and one I shall always treasure.”

< > < > < >

The trees of Mirkwood were green and tall, though Legolas informed him that they were small in comparison to the great Mellyrn that grew in Lothlórien.

“I should very much like to see them one day,” Lindir said, gazing in open appreciation at the greenery that surrounded them. “Never have I seen trees such as these. And you say the Mellyrn are bigger?” He shook his head in wonder. “I knew the elves of Lórien built their homes in them, but that is something I will have to see to believe.”

“It would give me great joy to take you there one day,” Legolas replied, his head lifting slightly as something caught his attention.  Lindir turned to follow his gaze and gasped in surprise as a large party of elves seemed to appear out of nowhere, stepping into the path in front of them.  A smile curved Legolas’ lips as he rode forward to greet them.

“Mae Govannen, muindor,” he greeted the tallest elf among them. “I am glad to see you.”

“Legolas, it is about time you returned,” the elf replied with an easy grin. “Adar was considering sending me to come and fetch you, and I must tell you, I did not relish the thought of going.”  His eyes turned from Legolas to look with open curiosity on Lindir. “Who is this you have brought back with you?”

Legolas smiled. “Gilthorel, this is Lindir of Imladris. Lindir, this is my brother, Gilthorel.”

Lindir bowed his head, touching his hand to his heart. “Mae Govannen, hîr nín,” he said softly. “I am honored to meet you.” He looked up and smiled, noting the strong familial resemblance between the brothers immediately, though Gilthorel was broader though the shoulders than Legolas. They shared the same bright blue gaze and golden hair, though Gilthorel’s was a deeper shade of gold. 

“Hannad,” Gilthorel replied, looking Lindir over with sharp eyes. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I am curious to know what brings an elf from Imladris so far from his home.”

Lindir glanced questioningly at Legolas, uncertain of how much his love was willing to reveal about their relationship at the moment.

“That will have to wait until I speak to father, muindor,” Legolas replied, his eyes twinkling with humor. “Suffice it to say that Lindir is here at my request, as my guest.”

Gilthorel raised both eyebrows and gave his brother a look that bordered on suspicion. “You are up to something, muindor tithen,” he said finally, shaking his head. “I only hope you will not aggravate Adar. He has enough to occupy his thoughts at the moment.”

“Has something happened?” Legolas asked, his smile fading.

“Come. I will escort you and your guest to our hall, and tell you everything that has happened since your departure,” Gilthorel answered. 

Legolas’ brother had no trouble keeping pace with their horses as they continued their journey, his guards fanning out ahead of them and their escorts as they passed through the trees. As they journeyed, he talked to Legolas, though his eyes kept straying with open curiosity to Lindir.

“The ungol are trying to take over the northern border again,” Gilthorel said. “They have been driven back, for now, but Adar fears that something has them stirred up.”  He shrugged gracefully, adjusting the straps that held his quiver. “Ever since that creature came – the one the ranger brought to Adar, dark things have been stirring in the wood. Not just ungol, muindor. Yrch as well, no doubt on their way to Dol Guldur.”  He shook his head. “We kill as many as we can, but more are always coming.”

“Then it is good I have returned,” Legolas replied, his brow furrowed with worry. 

Gilthorel nodded. “We could certainly use your bow, muindor. But that is not all.”  He glanced briefly at Lindir before continuing. “The Istari, Mithrandir, was here but a few nights ago. He and Adar met and were closeted in his study all night. Mithrandir left with the ranger, and since then, Adar has been…disconcerted…for lack of a better word.”

“Ranger?” Legolas said curiously. “Who was it?”

“Strider,” Gilthorel answered with a brief grin. 

“I wish I had been here when Aragorn was here,” Lindir said quietly. “For I have not seen him in many years.” He glanced at Legolas and gave the prince a faint smile. “He was raised in Imladris along with Elladan and Elrohir until he joined the Rangers of the North.”

Legolas nodded, smiling briefly in return. “I know him well myself, Lindir. He has often been a visitor to my Adar’s realm.”  His smile faded and he sighed, threading his fingers through his horse’s mane. “I wish that things were not as unsettled as they are. It pains me that you come to my home now, when dark things are afoot.”

Gilthorel snorted, looking at Lindir. “Do not let my brother’s words fool you, Lindir. Things are always unsettled in Mirkwood.”

< > < > < >

Gilthorel had gone ahead to inform the hall of their arrival, leaving Legolas and Lindir alone once more. Legolas glanced at the minstrel, trying to discern his thoughts. 

“What are you thinking, melethen?” Legolas asked finally.

Lindir took a troubled breath and met Legolas’ gaze. “I am wondering why you did not tell your brother the real reason I am here.”

“I wished to tell my Adar first. If I had told Gilthorel, the news would be all over Mirkwood before we ever reached my father’s hall. He would be furious to find out about us that way,” Legolas replied quietly, nudging his horse closer to Lindir’s. 

“What about our escorts?” Lindir asked, gesturing to the riders that rode a polite distance from them. “Unless they are blind, I am certain they are well aware of our relationship.”

Legolas chuckled softly, reaching out to squeeze Lindir’s hand gently with his own. “Melethen, my escorts are loyal first and foremost to me. They will breathe no word of our relationship until I give them leave to do so.”

Lindir focused his gaze between his horse’s ears, watching the path before them gradually widen. In the distance, he could see an enormous wooden gate, clearly lit by several torches. On either side of the gate stood elves of similar coloring and garb as Gilthorel and his guardians.

“The gates of my home,” Legolas said, following Lindir’s look. “We are almost there.” He could not keep from smiling. He was happy to be home, and looking forward to introducing Lindir to his father.  “Come,” he said, his smile broadening. “I wish to hurry. A warm bath and glass of wine awaits for us before we meet with my father.”

“A bath?” Lindir said, his smile lighting up his fair face. “Oh, to be clean again.”

“And I will enjoy watching you get clean, melethron,” Legolas murmured, leaning over to kiss his cheek softly. “Reason enough to hurry, I think.”

Laughing, Lindir squeezed his legs against his horse, breaking into an easy canter, his long hair floating behind him in the breeze. The Prince’s laughter joined his as they both rode to the gates of the great hall of Mirkwood.

< > < > < >

Legolas smiled, handing Lindir a glass of wine before stepping into the tub and sinking into the warm water.

“Ah,” he sighed blissfully, closing his eyes. “I was ready for this.” A splash of water hit his nose and he opened his eyes. 

Lindir grinned at him, taking a sip of his wine. “Do not fall asleep in there. I would not wish to explain to your father how it is you drowned in your own bathtub.”

Legolas gave him a mock glower. “Such impertinence from a minstrel,” he said, reaching for the soap. “Come here and wash my back.”

Lindir arched an eyebrow at him, and set his glass of wine on a nearby table. “You only wish to pull me in with you, melethron. I can read it in your eyes.”

Chuckling, Legolas soaped his arms and chest quickly, glancing up at Lindir playfully. “Aye, it is a temptation, I will admit. But you look so lovely, dressed as you are, I would hate to spoil all your hard work.”

The minstrel flushed, smiling at his praise. “If you promise to behave yourself, I will wash your back,” Lindir said, pushing the long sleeves of his best tunic up his arms and out of the way. He took the soap from Legolas hand and kissed him quickly, before turning to the task at hand. His hands lingered for longer than necessary as he washed his lover’s back, but he could not keep from stroking the firm muscles, slippery from the soap.

“Lindir,” Legolas murmured, turning his head to look at the minstrel. “I will pull you in with me and ravish you thoroughly if you do not stop.”

Smiling, Lindir dipped his hands in the bathwater to rinse the soapy residue from them. “Then you would be late meeting with your father,” he said. “You can ravish me later, I suppose.”  He held the towel up in front of him as Legolas stepped out of the tub, and he wrapped it around his lover’s body before moving away.  He picked up his wine glass and took a sip as he watched Legolas dress, his eyes roaming appreciatively over his lover’s form.

“How did I get so fortunate?” he murmured, shaking his head. “You are so beautiful, melethen.”

Legolas turned, leaning over to kiss him sweetly. “I could say the very same, Lindir. Each day that passes with you, I find you more fair.”  He finished dressing and reached for his comb, only to have it plucked from his fingers.

“Let me,” Lindir said almost shyly. “I would very much like to.”  Using the comb, he plaited Legolas’ hair with his nimble fingers. He fastened the long braid with the silver, leaf shaped clip the Prince handed him, his fingertips smoothing over the silken strands until they lay perfect.

Legolas rose from his seat and gathered Lindir into his arms, holding him close for a moment. “You will be all right waiting here for me?” he asked softly. “I should not be long.”

Lindir nodded. “I may take a nap on your enormous bed,” he replied, smiling. “Never have I seen such a bed in all my long years.”

Chuckling, Legolas released him. “There are benefits to being a Prince,” he agreed, pushing his lover gently towards the bed. “Go, take your nap and regain your energy, melethen. You will need it for this night.”  He watched as Lindir carefully arranged himself in the exact middle of his huge bed and smiled at the sight. “Melon le, Lindir.”

Blinking sleepily up at him, Lindir gave him an answering smile. “Melon le, bevae, ernilen. Hurry back.”

< > < > < >

Legolas tapped on the door to his father’s study and waited.

“Enter.”

Taking a deep breath, Legolas opened the door and stepped inside, closing it noiselessly behind him. 

“You look well, Iôn. I take it your visit to Imladris was enjoyable?” Thranduil Oropherion, King of Mirkwood, looked up from his paperwork to watch his youngest son approach.

“Yes, Ada,” Legolas replied, taking a seat in the oversized chair across from his Adar’s desk and settling himself comfortably. “I enjoyed myself very much. Lord Elrond’s home is lovely, and I found him a most gracious host.”

Thranduil folded his hands beneath his chin and fixed his gaze on Legolas. “Gilthorel tells me you have returned with a guest.”

Legolas nodded. “Yes, Ada. His name is Lindir. He was a minstrel in Lord Elrond’s house.”

The sovereign of Mirkwood lifted an eyebrow slightly. “Tell me about him, Iôn.”

“He is the son of Glirion and Lindis, both notable bards. His parents were slain when he was still an elfling, and Lord Elrond raised him in Imladris. Lindir is a most talented minstrel, Ada,” Legolas said earnestly. “You should hear him sing. He has the most beautiful voice I have ever heard.”

Thranduil nodded, his lips curling into a smile. “You seem most impressed with him, Iôn.”

Legolas took a deep breath, meeting his father’s gaze evenly. “I am in love with him, Ada.”

“Are you?” Thranduil asked softly. “You were gone scarcely over a month, Iôn. That is a short time indeed in which to fall in love.”

“When you meet him, Ada, you will understand,” Legolas replied quietly. “I have never known another who has filled my heart so.”

Thranduil sat back, dropping his hands to his thighs as he regarded his son. “Very well, Iôn. I will meet Lindir. If it pleases you, and he is willing, have him sing for us this evening.”

“You are not angry, Ada?” Legolas asked softly. “I know he is not of noble birth, but his character is noble.”

“I am not angry, Iôn. If he is as worthy as you say, I will see it for myself,” Thranduil answered, his expression softening somewhat. “I can see that he makes you happy.”

Legolas rose from his chair, crossing the distance between them and embracing his father. “Hannad, Ada,” he whispered, kissing his cheek softly. “I missed you.”

Thranduil clasped Legolas to him for a moment before releasing him. “I missed you as well, Iôn. Glad I am to see you home safe.”

“Gilthorel told me of the recent trouble,” Legolas began, but his father raised his hand, stilling his words.

“We will talk of these things tomorrow. Tonight we shall feast and celebrate your return,” Thranduil told him, smiling. “Now, return to your lover and ask if he will sing and play for us this night. I find myself eager to hear the voice of one who has so captivated you.”

Legolas smiled. “Yes, Ada.”

< > < > < >

Lindir took his seat beside the great hearth, nervously adjusting his grip on his lute. He had not thought he would feel so apprehensive about playing for the King when Legolas had asked him. Now, as he began to check the tuning of the lute, he could practically feel the monarch’s gaze on him, watching his every move. 

He had repaired the broken string earlier, but it was woefully out of tune. It took him several moments to adjust it, and he took the time to try and calm his nerves. He finished setting the bass string, and plucked a trilling run experimentally, nodding when the instrument responded in sweet tones. 

“My family and gentle guests,” Thranduil said, his rich voice carrying easily over the soft murmur of conversation, which quickly stilled as he began to speak. “I have the honor of introducing a special guest to you this evening. Lindir of Imladris has consented to play and sing for our entertainment.”

Lindir looked up, resisting the urge to wipe his sweating palms against his leggings at this formal introduction. He inclined his head respectfully at the King, his eyes flickering over the small crowd of elves that sat or stood in various places until he found the one he sought. Legolas gave him a smile, his expression full of love and pride, and Lindir felt some of his nervousness slip away. 

He bent his head over his lute and plucked the strings delicately, before lifting his voice to song.

The leaves were long, the grass was green,
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,
And in the glade a light was seen
Of stars in shadow shimmering.
Tinúviel was dancing there
To music of a pipe unseen
And light of stars was in her hair
And in her raiment glimmering.

He became oblivious to his surroundings as he played, his clear voice lilting and sweet, and the sound of it filled the hall. He did not notice that he held the attention of his audience so completely it was if the music wove a spell about the listeners. Conversation and drinks were forgotten as each elf listened to the beauty pour forth from the minstrel, and many wept to hear it.

Long was the way that fate them bore,
O’er stony mountains cold and grey,
Through halls of iron and darkling door,
And woods of nightshade morrowless.
The Sundering Seas between them lay,
And yet at last they met once more,
And long ago they passed away
In the forest singing sorrowless.

< > < > < >

The hall had cleared, the guests had left, and all that remained behind was Thranduil, Legolas and Lindir. 

“Come and join us, Lindir,” Thranduil invited him, though there was a thread of command woven through his words. “I wish to speak to you.”

Placing his lute carefully beside his stool, Lindir rose from his seat beside the hearth, making his way to where the King and Legolas sat.  He perched on the edge of his chair and folded his hands across his lap, trying to control his anxiety.

“You play and sing most beautifully, Lindir,” Thranduil said, turning to smile at his son. “In that, Iôn, you did not lie. Rarely have I heard such a true gift.”  He turned his gaze to Lindir once more, his smile fading. “My son has made it known that he has great affection for you, Lindir,” he said abruptly. “I would know what your feelings are as well.”

Lindir lifted his chin and took a deep breath. “I love him, hîr nín,” he replied simply.

Thranduil nodded, leaning back in his chair, his hands resting loosely on his thighs. “He has told me the same of his feelings for you. Having heard you sing and play, and seen your fairness, I can well understand how it is he has lost his heart to you. Yet the suddenness of it disturbs me.”  He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. “It has been little more than a month since he left his home, and he returns to me telling me he has found his heart at last. To a minstrel of common birth, no less. What say you to that, Lindir?” he demanded.

“I too am overawed by having garnered his love and affection,” Lindir replied truthfully. “I have felt unworthy of it, at times, yet I do not doubt the sincerity of his words.” He dared a glance at Legolas and gave his love a tremulous smile. “It is sudden, yes, but no less honest in its substance. Even if you send me hence, back to Imladris, I will always love your son with every breath and fiber of my being.”

“You speak boldly,” Thranduil murmured, sitting back. “I admire your courage and fortitude. Very well, my bold minstrel, I say to you this: if you truly love my son as you have claimed, return to your home in Imladris. If, after a season has passed, he still bears this love for you, I will send him to bring you here. You shall be his consort, formally bonded, and I will welcome you.”

“Ada,” Legolas protested. “Do not send him away, I beg you.”

Thranduil turned his knowing gaze to his son. “Are you afraid that your love for him will fade with separation?” he asked mildly.

Legolas shook his head vehemently. “No, Ada. No matter how many leagues separate us, nor how long we are apart, my love for him will not fade.”

The King nodded. “Then it is a good and worthy test, Iôn,” he said quietly. “For who knows what the future may hold for you both.” He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing over Legolas’ cheek. “I do not do this to cause either of you pain. I do it to save you pain.”  He dropped his hand away and turned to Lindir. “Will you accept my terms?”

Lindir heard Legolas swift intake of breath as he nodded. “When must I depart?”

Thranduil smiled gently, seeing the sorrow in the minstrel’s expressive face. “You may have the remainder of the week together before I send you back to Imladris,” he replied. “If you are willing, I have a message for Lord Elrond I would have you carry.”

“Yes, hîr nín,” Lindir replied, his head bowing. “I will carry your message.”  Gentle fingers lifted his chin, and Lindir blinked in surprise as he met Thranduil’s compassionate gaze. 

“I have a feeling that I will be seeing you again, when the season is ended, Lindir,” Thranduil said with a faint smile. “I shall be glad to welcome your return.”

< > < > < >

The season had not yet passed when Thranduil summoned Legolas to his study.

“I am sending you to Imladris,” the King said without preamble, gesturing for his son to take a seat. “Lord Elrond must know of the creature Gollum’s escape, and I want you present for the council Lord Elrond has called. I cannot leave Mirkwood to attend, so I will send you in my stead.”

Legolas’ heart leapt with happiness at his father’s words. Each day that had passed without Lindir had been agony, but he could not quite understand why his father was sending him instead of Gilthorel.

Thranduil eyed him shrewdly. “You wonder why it is you I send and not your brother?” he asked knowingly. At Legolas’ nod, he smiled. “The season is nearly done, and you have not wavered in your love for Lindir. Someone must go to Imladris, and you have more reason to go than Gilthorel.”

“Hannad, Ada,” Legolas replied and he could not keep from smiling with joy. “When should I leave?”

“Immediately, and with all haste,” Thranduil replied. “The council is meeting in a week.”

Legolas’ smile faded as he caught the undercurrent of worry in his father’s voice. “What is it about?”

Thranduil shook his head. “I will not speak of it, suffice to say it affects us all. Go and hear what the council has to say. A decision may come before you, and all I ask is that you follow your heart.”  He rose from his seat, his robes falling gracefully behind him as he crossed the room. “I have a gift for you to take with you on your journey.”

Legolas rose as well, troubled by his father’s ambiguous words. “A gift?” he asked.

“Two, actually,” Thranduil managed a faint chuckle. He opened the large wooden cabinet beside his desk, and presented the items he withdrew to his son.  “This is for you,” he said softly.

Taking the beautifully crafted bow from his father, Legolas ran his fingers over the wood, admiring the golden inlaid pattern that decorated it. He set it carefully aside and reached for the quiver his father handed him. It too was decorated in similar fashion, but it was the white handles on either side of the quiver that caught his attention. It was a pair of long knives, a weapon he favored over the sword when it came to fighting in close quarters. Both were perfectly balanced, their blades sharp and deadly, and their handles made of sturdy, white oak. They fit his hands precisely, and though they were new, he was immediately comfortable with their feel.

“Hannad, Ada,” Legolas breathed, sliding the knives back into their sheaths. “I am speechless.”

Thranduil smiled, pleased with his gift’s reception. “I am happy you like them,” he said, before handing his son his other gift. “This is for Lindir. I am anxious to know if you think he will like it.”

Legolas unwrapped the small package, his eyes widening in surprise. He glanced up at his father. “He will like it,” he said finally, glancing down at it again. “It is perfect, Ada.”

“I had it made shortly after he returned to Imladris,” Thranduil admitted, his eyes admiring the small object that lay nestled in the palm of Legolas’ hand. 

“You did?” Legolas said, wrapping the gift carefully once more. 

Thranduil nodded, embracing his son. “I did.” He kissed his cheek softly, holding Legolas close. “Go with all speed and safety my beloved Iôn. I will see you when you return.” He released his hold, stepping back from Legolas and smiling. “Such a celebration will be held as never was seen before.”

Legolas laughed, embracing his father quickly. “I wish Naneth were here,” he whispered, placing a kiss on his father’s smooth cheek. “She would love Lindir as I do.”

Thranduil watched his son gather his gifts, smiling faintly as the door closed behind him.

“As do I, Iôn,” he said wistfully, turning to his desk once more. “As do I.”

< > < > < >

And over Middle-earth he passed
And heard at last the weeping sore
Of women and of elven-maids
In Elder Days, in years of yore.
But on him mighty doom was laid,
Till Moon should fade, an orbéd star
To pass, and tarry never more
On Hither Shores where mortals are;
For ever still a herald on
An errand that should never rest
To bear his shining lamp afar,
The Flammifer of Westernesse.

The chanting ceased and the old hobbit opened his eyes to the sound of applause.

“Now we had better have it again,” Lindir said, laughing at the hobbit’s startled expression.

Bilbo Baggins stood up and bowed. “I am flattered, Lindir,” he said, chuckling. “But it would be too tiring to repeat it all.”

“Not too tiring for you,” Lindir replied, his eyes bright with merriment. “You know you are never tired of reciting your own verses. But really, we cannot answer your question at one hearing.”

“What?” Bilbo cried, shaking his graying head in disbelief. “You cannot tell which parts were mine?”

“It is not easy for us to tell the difference between two mortals,” Lindir replied, seeing the other elves around him nod in agreement.

Bilbo snorted. “Nonsense, Lindir. If you cannot distinguish between a Man and a Hobbit, your judgment is poorer than I imagined. They are as different as peas and apples.”

The elf laughed. “Maybe,” he agreed. “To sheep other sheep no doubt appear different. Or to shepherds. But mortals have never been our study.”

The hobbit shook his head, flapping his hands at the laughing elves in mock disgust. “Oh, go on with you. Come, Frodo,” he said, gathering his dignity about him. “I think it is time we sought less merry company.”

Lindir’s chuckles subsided as he watched the two hobbits leave. Truthfully he had enjoyed hearing Bilbo’s recital, and would have greatly enjoyed hearing it again. Perhaps he could convince the hobbit to tell it again later, without such a large audience.

“Play for us, Lindir,” Elladan said, leaning back against his twin’s knees. 

“Yes, please, Lindir,” Elrohir added, smiling at the minstrel. “You have not played for us in far too long.”

Lindir’s smile faded. It was certainly true. He had neither played nor sang since his return. He had not had the heart for it. “I do not have my lute,” he said, grateful for the excuse.

“Then sing for us,” another requested. “Grant us the gift of hearing your sweet voice.”

Lindir looked up in surprise as Erestor took a seat next to Elrohir. “Sing?” he repeated faintly.

The Noldo nodded, giving the minstrel a faint smile. “It would do you good to lift your voice in song, meldir. This silence of yours is not good.”

He bowed his head, looking away from the frank gaze of his friend and took a deep breath. “Very well, what would you hear from me?” he asked, looking up once more.

“The Hymn of Elbereth,” a new voice said softly, and Lindir turned, hardly daring to believe his ears.

“Legolas,” he breathed joyfully, rising to his feet. “I did not think to see you this soon!”

The Prince embraced him, burying his face in Lindir’s hair and inhaling his sweet scent. “Nor I, melethen,” he whispered softly in his ear. “Every day that passed without you was like an age.”  Reluctantly they parted, and Lindir became aware of the surprised looks of the elves surrounding them.  He flushed, unable to keep from smiling.

“The Prince has made an excellent suggestion,” Erestor said mildly. “Will you sing for us, meldir?”

Lindir nodded, his heart feeling as if it would burst from happiness. “I will.”

< > < > < >

Candlelight bathed the room, casting flickering shadows across Lindir’s skin as Legolas slowly pulled the minstrel’s tunic from his shoulders and cast it to the floor. His fingertips brushed lightly over Lindir’s chest as he leaned forward, pressing his lips against the hollow of his throat.

Lindir groaned softly, his body responding to the feathery light touches that danced over his bare skin. 

“I missed you so much,” Legolas whispered against his skin. “So very much, melethen.”  He drew the minstrel towards the bed and pushed him gently down upon it. He was aware of Lindir’s hungry gaze as he quickly divested himself of his robes, under tunic, and leggings. A quiet gasp escaped his lover when Legolas finally joined him, sliding his body with tantalizing slowness over Lindir’s until he covered his lithe form completely with his own.

“Melon le,” Lindir whispered, drawing him even closer and wrapping his arms around Legolas’ shoulders. “Show me how much you missed me.”

Legolas groaned, burying his face in the softness of Lindir’s neck. “There are not enough hours in the night to show you how much I missed you, merilin nín.”  He raised his head and kissed him softly. “But I will try.”

Afterwards they lay, breathless and spent, their limbs still intertwined in the act of love. Legolas sighed happily, and smiled when he heard Lindir echo it.

“How long will you stay?” Lindir asked, his fingers combing lightly through the silken strands of Legolas’ hair.

“Until the council is concluded,” the Prince answered, pressing a kiss against Lindir’s neck. “Then we can return to Mirkwood.”

Lindir smiled shyly. “You still wish for me to return with you?”

Legolas looked down at him, smiling. “Of course. I would not leave Imladris without you.” His eyes widened slightly as he remembered his father’s gift. “I have something for you, melethen,” he said, chuckling at Lindir’s faint sound of protest as he pulled away from his embrace. He rose from the bed and padded silently across the room. 

“What is it?” Lindir asked, leaning on his elbow to watch his lover as he searched through his pack, admiring the sinuous grace of his form. 

He pulled a small wrapped package from his pack with a grin, and made his way back to the bed. He handed it to Lindir, watching his lover open it with anticipation. “It is from my father,” he said softly.

Lindir carefully unwrapped the package, his breath catching as the gift was revealed. It was a ring, crafted from mithril, and utterly beautiful. He held it up to the candlelight so he could see it better and gasped. He felt the prick of tears sting his eyes and blinked rapidly to clear them. 

The ring was cleverly wrought; it appeared to be a plain band at first, until he examined it closer. There, etched with fine precision in the metal, was a lute, crossed with a bow.  As he turned the ring with his trembling fingers, he could see the royal crest of Mirkwood had been etched into the metal as well. 

“Look,” Legolas said softly, turning the ring so Lindir see the inside of the band. 

Flowing script covered the inside, and in a voice trembling with emotion, Lindir read the words inscribed there.  “An uir, thenid meleth broniadui.” (True love endures for all eternity).

Legolas took the ring from the minstrel’s trembling hand and slid it over Lindir’s fourth finger.  “He had it made for you after you left,” he said softly, raising his gaze to meet Lindir’s. “It was his way of showing his approval, I think.”

“It is perfect,” Lindir whispered, his throat tight with emotion. “I will never take it off.”

“Good,” Legolas replied, pressing his lips against Lindir’s. “I mean for it to be a symbol of our bonding. They were already crafting its mate when I left Mirkwood.”

Lindir leaned against him, wrapping his arms around Legolas’ body and holding him tightly. “Melon le, Legolas.”

“Melon le, Lindir, hûn nín,” Legolas whispered, holding him just as tightly. “Uireb.”

< > < > < >

Legolas sat quietly beside Saelbeth, the murmurings of the elves, dwarves, and men who were attending Lord Elrond’s council filled the morning air. 

“One of you must do this,” Lord Elrond said quietly. “One of you must take the ring to the fires of Mount Doom and destroy it.”

Boromir, who had already caused quite a stir earlier, shook his head in disbelief.

“One does not simply walk into Mordor,” he said, shaking his head again. “Its black gates are guarded by more than just Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep. And the great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland. Riddled with fire and ash and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly!”

Anger filled Legolas at the man’s demeanor. He leapt to his feet, his body stiff as he glared down at the man. “Have you heard nothing that Lord Elrond has said?” he demanded. “The ring must be destroyed.”

“And I suppose you are the one to do it?” a gruff voice asked from behind him, and Legolas turned his glare to see who dared address him in such a manner. The dwarf Gimli met his glare with one of his own, his dark eyes gleaming mistrustfully up at him.

Boromir rose from his seat.  “And if we fail, what then? What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?”

Gimli rose as well, leaning heavily on his axe, his small body practically vibrating with anger and distrust. “I will be dead before I see the ring in the hands of an elf!” he declared, sweeping his gaze disdainfully over the elves present. “Never trust an elf!”

The council erupted into chaos at his words. Elves leapt to their feet around him, shouting, and Legolas held his arms out, holding his fellows back from physically attacking the dwarf. The men had risen as well, and nothing could be heard or understood as each tried to shout their argument over their fellows. Even Mithrandir had joined in, trying to persuade those present to listen to the voice of reason, all to no avail.

“I will take it!”

Legolas was one of the first to hear the words that the hobbit cried above the noise. He turned, and was surprised to see that Frodo was standing beside the pedestal, his child-like face full of fear and resignation. Something in him, though, was stronger than he looked, and Legolas had to admire his determination. 

“I will take it,” Frodo cried again, and this time, his words were heard by all.  Silence fell among the council as each turned to gaze at the hobbit with new and hopeful eyes. “I will take the ring to Mordor.”  He swallowed, his blue eyes turning hesitantly towards Mithrandir. “Though I do not know the way.”

Legolas saw the expression of approval and relief cross the Istari’s face, before he smiled kindly. “I will help you carry this burden, Frodo,” Mithrandir said, dropping his hand briefly to the hobbit’s small shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “For as long as it is yours to carry.”

Aragorn rose from his seat. “If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will.” He dropped to his knee before the hobbit, looking up at him. “You have my sword.”

His father’s words came back to him as he watched Aragorn pledge his life to the small, defenseless hobbit, and he found himself rising from his seat as well. He could not in good conscience let Frodo make the journey with only Aragorn and Mithrandir to protect him. “You have my bow,” Legolas said, walking across the flagstones to join them.   The hobbit’s smile of gratitude warmed him.

“And my axe,” Gimli, said, as if daring anyone to tell him he could not go. Legolas sighed in resignation. It would be a challenge not to throttle the dwarf in his sleep.

“Hey!” a voice from the rose bushes called, and a rustling was heard, as another hobbit emerged, leaping up to stand firmly by Frodo’s side. “Mr. Frodo’s not going anywhere without me.”

Legolas’ mouth twitched briefly and he saw that Lord Elrond looked openly amused. “No indeed,” he said, his eyebrows rising slightly. “It is hardly possible to separate you, even when he is called to a secret council and you are not.”

The hobbit had the grace to look abashed at Elrond’s words, but crossed his arms stubbornly.

“Wait! We’re coming too!”

Legolas turned with the others to see two more hobbits pop out from behind large flowerpots, their small faces smudged with dirt. They dashed across the steps to join Frodo, folding their arms as well. 

“You would have to send us home, tied up in sacks to stop us from coming!” the taller of the two new hobbits declared.

The other hobbit piped up, not to be out done by his friend. “Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission…quest….thing.”

The three other hobbits smirked, and his companion leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Well, that leaves you out, Pip.”

Elrond shook his head, raising his eyes to the heavens for a moment as if to ask for guidance from the Valar. He sighed, looking at the group standing together, and a small smile curved his lips.

“Nine companions,” he said softly. He glanced at Mithrandir and Legolas saw the Istari nod. “So be it! You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring.”

< > < > < >

Lindir watched Legolas pack, his fingers idly twisting the ring he wore on his left hand. His heart ached with the thought of being separated from Legolas, but he knew why his lover was going.

“I wish I could come with you,” Lindir said softly, his eyes following Legolas as he moved across their room. 

Legolas dropped his pack to the floor and joined Lindir on the bed, enfolding the minstrel in his arms. “I do not like the thought of leaving you, now that we are together once more. But you know I must do this.”

“I know,” Lindir replied softly.

“And I dare not take you with me. I would be torn between worry about the Ringbearer’s safety and yours,” Legolas said, his embrace tightening for a moment.

“I know,” Lindir said again. “Do not trouble yourself so, melethen. You will return when the quest ends, and we can continue where we left off. We have eternity ahead of us. What are a few months of separation compared to that?”

Legolas was silent a moment, before he chuckled softly. “My father knew.”

“Knew what, melethen?” 

He drew back so he could see Lindir’s face, his fingers softly brushing against his cheek. “He knew this would happen. Somehow, he knew. It was why he sent you back to Imladris. Why he separated us to begin with. So we could cope with the separation again.”

“It is different, though,” Lindir said, leaning into his touch. “I knew you were safe in Mirkwood while I was here. Now, you are leaving for a dangerous road, and I will worry for you every day you are gone.”

“Nothing but death will keep me from returning to you, Lindir,” Legolas said softly. “The moment Sauron is defeated, I will return for you.”

Lindir leaned forward and kissed him softly. “Then you had best stay alive and fulfill your promise to me.”

“I will, melethen,” he said, returning Lindir’s kiss with all his heart. “I will.”

< > < > < >

When the quest for the one ring had ended, Legolas did not return immediately to Imladris. His oaths to Gimli, son of Gloin, kept him from Lindir’s side for nearly seven years. When at last the friends were satisfied that all obligations had been fulfilled, they set out for Imladris together.

When they arrived at the Last Homely House, they found it greatly changed, for most of its inhabitants had long since left for the haven of Valinor. Even the Lord of Imladris had gone to join his wife, leaving his children behind him. 

Elladan and Elrohir greeted Legolas and Gimli warmly when they arrived, and Legolas searched eagerly among the other elves that had met them at the gate for the face of his beloved.

“He is not here, Legolas,” Elrohir said quietly.

“He left a year ago,” Elladan added softly, placing a sympathetic hand on the Prince’s shoulder.

“Where is he? Did he leave with the others to Valinor?” Legolas demanded, trying to rein in his disappointment that Lindir was not there to greet him.

Elrohir shook his head. “No, Legolas. He did not.”

“He did not say where he was going,” Elladan said quietly. “He packed his lute and what few belongings he could carry on his horse, and rode away without a word.”

Feeling as if he had been struck a mortal blow, Legolas collapsed to his knees. “He did not wait for me,” he whispered, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. “I should not have tarried so long.”

Gimli, seeing his friend so affected, lightly touched his shoulder. “Come, lad. We will go and search for him. It is my fault you were gone for so long. I will help you look for him.”

Legolas shook his head, drying his eyes. “I must return to my home first,” he said, his voice tight with bitterness. “Perhaps my father will have news of his passage.”

The two friends left the following morning, with the well wishes of the remaining elves of Imladris. Their journey to Eryn Lasgalen was long, for though Sauron had been defeated, his agents still roamed Middle Earth. 

They were weary of fighting by the time they reached the great hall, and though his heart was heavy with sadness, Legolas could not help but be cheered by the familiar sight. 

“Come, my good friend,” he told Gimli. “I am anxious for my Adar to meet you.”

Gimli eyed him doubtfully. “I know well that your father holds no love for dwarves, my friend. Do not expect him to greet me with open arms.”

A soft laugh escaped him as he led Gimli through the halls of his home. “I do not expect miracles,” Legolas said. “Only that he respect our friendship.”

Soft music echoed through the hall as they approached the formal reception room, and Legolas breath caught in his throat at the sound of it. His pace quickened, and he left Gimli behind in his rush to reach the door.  Impatiently he waited for Gimli to catch up, before pushing the door open.

< > < > < >

Thranduil reclined regally in his chair, his chin resting on his hand as he listened to the musician by the hearth play. He heard the door open and raised his head, a gasp of surprise escaping him as his son entered the room, followed closely by a dwarf.

“Legolas! Iôn! You have returned at last!” he exclaimed joyfully, rising to his feet to meet him.

“Ada,” Legolas murmured, swept up in his father’s embrace. “I am home.”  He peered over his father’s shoulder, his eyes seeking the musician sitting at the hearth, and he trembled with joy.

“Yes, Iôn,” Thranduil murmured, drawing back so he could look at his son. “Lindir is here. He has been waiting for you to return. For quite some time, I might add,” he said, arching his eyebrow with disapproval. “Why did you not return sooner?”

Legolas tore his gaze away from Lindir, troubled that the minstrel did not look up from his playing to greet him. “I had an oath to fulfill first, Ada.”

“It is my fault entirely, your majesty,” Gimli gruffly interrupted. “I did not know that Legolas had a love waiting for him. If I had,” he paused, fixing the Prince with a glower. “I would have sent him home much sooner, oath or no.”

Thranduil’s mouth twitched briefly as he regarded the dwarf. “Who is this, Iôn?”

Legolas took a deep breath. “May I present Gimli, son of Gloin. He was one of the Fellowship, Ada, and has been a good friend to me these past years.”

His father surprised him by smiling. “Then I am honored to make your acquaintance, Gimli, son of Gloin. Come, I am certain the cooks will have something that will satisfy your dwarfish appetite. You can regale me with tales of your adventures while you eat.”

Gimli’s bushy eyebrows rose and he grinned at Legolas. “I like your father already, elf.”

Legolas watched his father escort Gimli from the room, and shook his head. He would never have believed it if he had not seen it with his own eyes. Taking a deep breath, he turned, making his way to stand before Lindir.  

“Are you angry with me, Lindir?” Legolas asked softly, wishing the minstrel would look at him. 

“Yes,” Lindir answered softly, his fingers stilling against the strings of his lute.

Legolas bit his lip, dropping to his knees in front of Lindir. He placed his hands on the minstrel’s knees gently. “Will you forgive me?”

There was a long moment of silence as Lindir put his lute aside and finally looked up. “Yes,” he answered, and smiled.

Legolas pulled him into his arms, crushing him against him and pressing kisses against his lips, cheeks and nose. “When Elladan and Elrohir told me you had left, I thought I would die,” he whispered between kisses. “The thought of never seeing you again…Gods, melethen, I missed you so. I swear I will never leave your side again.”

“Yes,” Lindir said, laughing, raining kisses over Legolas brow and cheeks. 

“I will make love to you until we cannot move!” Legolas said, his hands sliding up to cradle Lindir’s face.

“Yes!”

“And tomorrow we shall begin our plans to be formally bonded,” he said, burying his face in Lindir’s hair, relishing his spicy scent.

“Yes!” Lindir growled, nipping him lightly on the throat. “Now, shall we go to our bed so you can make good on your promises?”

Legolas laughed, his body suffused with happiness. He drew back and regarded his love, his fingers tracing lightly over his fair face. He leaned forward and pressed his lips softly against Lindir’s.

“Yes.”

~Finis