***********************************************
...Legolas went still, the playfully menacing whisper and sudden stab of pain-become-pleasure carrying him back in time. His overwhelmed senses reeled, and he was cradled in sweet-smelling grasses on a hot summer day. The silken hair that shrouded his face was not midnight dark, but gold-sparked silver, and he was young and afraid...
-- Princes Three: Any Shelter, Chapter 8
***********************************************
~Mirkwood 1550 III~
Legolas watched the approach of the Lórien party with poorly disguised anxiety. His father had spoken frankly of the upcoming rites. So frankly that, truth be told, his cheeks colored at the memory of it. But there had been no hint as to which elf had been chosen to introduce the second prince of the woodland realm to passion’s mysteries. ‘Please, please...not Celeborn,’ Legolas begged silently, his heart leaping into his throat as the Lórien elves drew closer.
Legolas' elder brother, Anteruon, had spent his majority revels with one of the king’s senior advisors, a fact which caused such gossip and infighting in the council chamber that Thranduil had sworn he would not make the mistake twice. Thus Legolas’ current distress...one of the guests he greeted today would rid him of his bodily innocence tomorrow.
Thranduil watched his son’s face with well-concealed amusement. Though the youngling no doubt thought his features schooled into a mask of welcome, his eyes gave him away. The blue-green gaze had sparkled with excitement as the contingent from Imladris arrived, only to dampen when it became apparent that the Peredhil twins were not among the party, then widen in alarm as Lord Elrond himself stepped forward.
Thranduil had thought to remain noncommittal, but the look of near terror that flickered across Legolas’ face caused him to shake his head slightly in reassurance. Not Elrond. The sigh of relief had been audible, and the Peredhel’s twinkling eyes were proof that he, too, was forcing back a smile.
As Celeborn and the others dismounted, Thranduil experienced a moment of unease. His choice of bed-teacher for his second-born son had been made on the strength of a memory, and was unusual by all accounts. The elf in question was neither ancient nor well acquainted with Legolas...
“It was a good choice, love,” Miluien murmured, squeezing her husband’s arm comfortingly. “I still remember the adoration in his eyes, those many years ago.”
“Aye,” Thranduil whispered, “but adoration and passion are often poor bedfellows, especially for the young. I hope I have not erred.”
Legolas stood tensely, fighting a growing sense of horror, as Celeborn greeted his parents and elder brother. Celeborn was a legend, one of the lords of Lórien, and as powerful in his own way as his Lady. The thought of shedding his leggings under that cool silver gaze made Legolas feel queasy, and a nervous laugh bubbled in his chest. Swallowing the threatening hysteria with difficulty, he bowed his head in welcome. “Mae govannen, my lord,” Legolas said politely, raising his eyes reluctantly to Celeborn’s face as he forced out the expected greeting. “You honor me with your presence.”
“The honor is mine, Thranduilion,” Celeborn replied gravely, though the raging emotion visible beneath Legolas' thin veneer of correctness both amused and moved him. The young elf was near panic, the cause of his anxiety easily discerned. Stepping aside slightly, Celeborn drew his companion forward. “Prince Legolas,” he began, “I believe you once met...”
Celeborn’s words faded away into meaningless noise as Legolas caught sight of the other elf. The hair was longer, the mithril-like gleam of mingled silver and gold even more brilliant. There were no kohl stripes to accent the high cheekbones and, instead of black leather, the visitor wore the grey traveling garb of his people. But the eyes...the eyes were unchanged. Swirls of green, brown and gold drew Legolas in, just as they had centuries before, and he was once again drowning in the warm gaze...
“Haldir.” The whispered name left his lips without thought. Legolas came back to himself with a start as he was caught in a ritual embrace. ‘A warrior’s embrace,’ he realized dazedly, struggling to return the greeting in kind as his mind whirled frantically, a small flicker of hope flaring in his chest.
“Mae govannen,” Haldir said as he stepped back to look at the prince, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You have grown well, young one. ‘Tis an honor to be here for your coming of age.”
His heart pounding as the ambiguous compliment played over and over in his head, Legolas met Haldir’s gaze, flushing under the gleam in the unusual hazel eyes. A gleam at once friendly and blatantly appraising.
Legolas knew without a doubt that he had his answer. Haldir.
****************************
“He is a mass of nerves,” Thranduil lamented, the formal evening robes he had yet to remove swishing and swirling as he paced the study restlessly. “And I do not know how to ease his mind.”
“You might begin by easing your own, my lord,” Haldir replied quietly, his eyes focused on the deep red wine that filled the goblet in his hand. “Would you care to share your worries? You are making me nervous.”
The king stopped abruptly, seating himself across from Haldir. “Forgive me, my friend,” he said. “I do not question your role. He is just....”
“...your son,” Haldir finished, meeting the worried emerald gaze with a hint of a smile. “And you feel as though you should be locking him away from my lecherous advances.”
Thranduil chuckled, but did not deny the assertion. “He is young.”
“Perhaps,” Haldir answered carefully, “but not so young as many at their first bedding. Not in Lórien, and certainly not in Mirkwood. I sometimes think it is the better way, with experience coming as it may, rather than planned and steeped in ritual and anxiety.”
“Aye,” Thranduil admitted with a sigh, “you are correct, of course. Only the nobles maintain the tradition of celibacy until lawful majority, in any realm. Our rites here are often naught but opportunity for the left piercing, truth be known.”
Haldir nodded his understanding of the ancient Silvan tradition of nipple piercing – right for first kill in battle, left for first bedding – that Thranduil had taken as his own. “I have some experience with the rings,” Haldir offered, hoping to soothe the king’s anxiety.
“And with innocents, I presume?” Thranduil asked frankly, searching the marchwarden’s face.
“Aye, and with innocents,” Haldir agreed, unable to hide a smile. “I can claim no previous royal majorities, my lord, but I am quite well-schooled in the art of bedding untried partners.” Becoming serious, Haldir laid a hand on the king’s arm. “All will be well, my friend. Legolas was a delightful elfling, and he has grown into a fine young warrior. There is naught to fear.”
“You reassure me," Thranduil replied, grasping his companion’s arm in return. “I chose well.”
Haldir dipped his head in acknowledgement, then met the king’s eyes thoughtfully. “If it pleases you, I will spend some portion of the day with him tomorrow, renewing our acquaintance. A picnic in the old tower clearing, perhaps?”
“That is an excellent idea,” Thranduil said, nodding distractedly. “Just the thing. I will have the cooks prepare a basket.”
As the marchwarden drained his glass and rose to leave, Thranduil stopped him with a word. “Haldir?”
“Aye?”
“I would have you aware of another of our quaint Mirkwood traditions.”
Haldir found himself pinned by an intense emerald gaze. “My lord?”
“Legolas comes of age with anor’s rise tomorrow.”
“Indeed? With anor’s rise?”
Thranduil nodded, the ghost of a smile touching his face. “Aye. Should the fact become pertinent.”
*~*~*~*~*
Peredhel, Peredhil – half-elf, half elven (sing./pl.)
Mae govannen – Well met
Thranduilion – son of Thranduil
anor – the sun