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Legolas sat on the hillside, and sighed. She should have been a pleasing being to sleep with, but something did not feel right. His body just did not respond as he thought it should have. She had left, telling him that he was probably tired, having been all over Mirkwood on errands for his father during the past two weeks.

He sighed again. Wasn’t something supposed to happen when you kissed an elf maiden? They had been kissing for more than twenty minutes, but nothing had happened. And it wasn’t because he was tired. Far from it.

He lifted his eyes to the sky and sighed again. “What am I doing wrong?” he wondered softly.

“What is wrong, my son?”

Legolas leaped to his feet and turned. His father stood on the threshold of the palace, hands cupped together at the wrists, and gazed at him intently. He knew what his son was up to, of course, and Legolas was suddenly very aware of that fact. He lowered his eyes, suddenly very ashamed for some reason.

“I . . .I kissed her . . .that is . . .I tried to . . .” his voice whittled away into nothing.

“You tried to seduce an elven maid?”

Legolas coughed, his breath caught in his throat. “Seduce her? Me?” He could not look his father in the eye. How could he possibly tell him that he could not even get that far?

Thranduil drew a regal hand from his sleeve and lifted his son’s chin to look into his eyes. “Legolas?”

Legolas swallowed, the look in his father’s eyes was of anger and disappointment. “Please, don’t be angry with me, father. I kissed her, but . . .”

“But, what?” he questioned. “Enjoyed it too much that you couldn’t stop? Impetuous son! That is the frailty of youth. You must learn to control yourself.”

Legolas frowned as his father turned away from him. “Control what?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“This,” he indicated all around him. “Secretly meeting young maidens in the garden, making love to them. You know what the outcome will be if you do not control these urges, Legolas. The honour of you father is at stake.”

“What urges?” Legolas asked, before he realised the words had been formed.

The King turned to gaze at him in astonishment, but the look in Legolas’s eyes was not one of embarrassment trying to hide errant ways, but of fear of something else. Thranduil’s anger evaporated at the look in his son’s face. “You mean . . you weren’t . . .”

“Making love?” Legolas filled in. “No, I wasn’t. I mean . . .I wanted to. I am guilty of wanting to,” he admitted. “I kissed her, but . . .”

“But what?” Thranduil prompted as Legolas could not bring himself to say it.

Legolas lifted his eyes to his father, and he swallowed dryly. “I don’t know. Nothing happened.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. I suppose, I expected it to. You are always warning me of illicit meetings and trysts in the moonlight so I came out here to find out what all the excitement was about,” he told him honestly.

Thranduil would have sighed with disapproval, but something told him that this ‘nothing’ was troubling his son greatly. “You didn’t feel the heat of love’s first kiss?”

“No.”

“No yearning to take her virtue.”

“No.”

“No, incentive to make her with-child?”

Legolas’ eyes widened in alarm. “No!” Thranduil regarded him long and hard before slowly turning away to gaze out from the cover of the portico. “What is it, father?” There was no reply. “Have I displeased you that much that you will not speak to me?”

Thranduil sighed. “I retract my anger. I believe that you have done nothing wrong, my son, it’s just that you are not attracted to the maidens.”

“I guessed that, although they are pleasing to the eye and the ear,” he said. “There must be something wrong with me. What must I do to heal it?”

Thranduil lifted his hands from the rail and looked at him. “Heal it?” His father slowly shook his head. “Legolas, my son. You do not heal matters of love, just as you do not heal other emotions. They either are or are not within you. Love heals the soul, and right now your soul does not yearn for a maiden of Mirkwood.”

“I don’t believe I do,” Legolas agreed.

“Well, had all things been equal, I would have presented you to my cousin Elrond, but his daughter is already betrothed.”

Legolas grimaced slightly before smothering it. Arwen was said to be the most eligible elf maiden in Middle Earth, but she was both kin and betrothed. It didn’t feel right to marry your own kin. So, who would he marry? “I cannot see myself with a maiden . . .an elf maiden, at all,” he corrected quickly, the words tumbling out, as if almost expecting to be shouted down for his impudence. He would marry whomever his father saw as becoming of a prince, it was not a question of choice when all was said and done.

“There are peoples in Middle Earth besieds elves, you know?” Thranduil noted quietly with some amusement. He had noted his son’s blunder, and his quick cover up. He was suddenly aware of what was troubling his son, but he would not dissuade his son’s heart from its course. He would have to work this out himself. “Legolas,” he soothed, coming to stand before him again. “You must follow your own heart, go where your soul takes you and not be governed by the dictates of others. I have an heir, and grandsons, to follow in my footsteps. We will be leaving these shores soon, but you must find the one your soul yearns for, whoever he may be.”

With that, the King walked back into the house, leaving Legolas alone to ponder his words. Suddenly, he looked up, eyes wide. “He!?”

Legolas did not sleep that night, but hid his turmoil well through breakfast the following morning. His father said nothing of their exchange. The whole house was in attendance, which was not unusual during normal times, but these were not normal times.

“There are troubled times ahead,” the King announced, as if it was the first time anyone had noticed. “What you will not know is that the Ring of Power has been found. The shadow of Mordor is growing once again.”

Legolas and his brothers lurched in their seats. This was not good. It had not been long enough since the Necromancer had been ousted from their borders. Fear hung over them like a fowl-smelling cloud.

“I have been summoned to send one of my house to Rivendell immediately. I will send my eldest son.”

“Father, send me,” Legolas spoke. “I will go.”

Thranduil looked at him, seeing a light in his eyes. “No, Legolas. You have issues . . .”

“Father,” Legolas broke in, getting to his feet. “This is not a time to wave my issues around like a banner. The time has come to save Middle Earth.” He calmed himself before going on. “If you lose your eldest son and heir, what will happen to the House?”

“You know very well that the throne will fall to you.” Thranduil noted gently. “The vanity of a good warrior is still vanity,”

“This has nothing to do with vanity,” Legolas put in strongly. “You told me that I should follow the heart, then let me do this. My heart lies out there, not here. I have never yearned for the throne, and you know it.” Legolas expected to be chastised for his tone with his father, but nothing was said. “I must follow my heart,” he finished softly gazing out the high arched window out across the forest of trees.

“Am I not worthy of your love, also, my son?” Thranduil inquired.

Legolas looked out upon the sunrise still making its way above the trees. The sun itself was still out of sight. He turned to those seated at the table. “I love you, Father, but I must do this.” He crossed to where his father sat and looked into his eyes, almost begging. “You say you are being summoned, but my heart tells me that it is I who is being summoned. There is something out there that calls to me. I can feel it.”

Thranduil knew this to be true He could feel his son’s mindset, knew his heart. “Then go you shall, but take two servants with you.”

Legolas was at once elated and dashed at the same time. Servants, he vented silently. Why must I always have to have servants? “Yes, Father,” he replied tightly. “I will prepare at once.”

An hour later, he was ready. There was not much to prepare, in truth. In secret, he packed food, water and spare clothing in a pack beneath his cloak and spent the hour sharpening his blades, waiting for the servants to finish fiddling with bedding, wagon, rich foods and the such.

They rolled into the square and he looked up. He rolled his eyes, whistled and mounted the back of his horse.

“Looks like I’m riding,” he noted.

“But, my Lord . . .” the first complained only to have to stow it as the King arrived at the door.

“My blessings go with you, my son,” he said.

Hand to heart, Legolas bowed his head. “We will meet again, Father.”

“I hope so, my son. I hope so.”

Without warning, Legolas spurred his horse towards the road at full gallop. The flustered servants cried out, but it was too late. Unhitching the horses and getting themselves together, they rode off as quickly as possible. Thranduil noted the scene with amusement, and silently vowed to tell his son of his narrow escape from his entourage when they met again in the undying lands. His smile faded with the last vestiges of the horses in the distance. “If he lives through these next few months,” he said quietly.

It seemed a fool’s hope.

Four days hard ride brought him to the Misty Mountains, over the pass and into Rivendell. He hopped lightly off the horse and looked around at the city hidden in the trees. He had been here many times before and the place seemed uncharacteristically quiet. There was no singing, no laughter, but there were throngs of people. Men, elves and a company of dwarves were entering the gates.

The dwarves glared at him and his two servants. He too, sneered at the sight of them, but the anger of old indiscretions did not really concern him much. They were old news and he was tired of hearing it. What his father had done sixty years before to the dwarf king rankled him no small amount, even though his father always maintained that his actions were justified.

The four older dwarves were all white-haired, old and less than agile. He could not see what use they would be in a battle against the might of Mordor. The younger one, sporting orange hair, glared at him the hardest of all. He narrowed his eyes, wondering what he could have done to anger this stranger. He knew who he was, by the family crest on his cloak he was the nephew of King Thorin. They had never met, but knowing that elf and dwarf, involved or not, would hate each other anywhere and at any time.

Their eyes met, sizing the other up, gauging battle readiness and strength. There was also a secret thrill, a challenge of something other than war. Legolas’s heart quickened, he shivered involuntarily. He frowned gently, wondering why he should feel this way. He took a step back, more disconcerted by his sudden speeding heart than at the dwarf’s dislike of him.

The dwarf growled as he turned away. Legolas froze, his insides lurched at the sound. He should not be feeling this way. It did not conform to the reactions of his fellows.

“I must speak with my uncle,” he told the servants. “See that the horses are fed and groomed.”

“At once, my Lord,” they replied.

He had hoped that the dwarves’ presence here was an error that would be paid in full, better that they leave quickly and without incident, but his uncle had other ideas. Legolas sank in his boots when Elrond told him gently,

“The dwarves are here for the same reason you are, Legolas. I summoned them. Gloin has long been a friend of my House, and his son has accompanied him in his old age to be here. This is a matter of great urgency. The time for distrust and hatred is long gone. We are all at threat.”

“Yes, uncle. I am sorry for my impertinence,” Legolas replied.

Elrond smiled. “I believe there is someone who waits for you in the halls below.”

Legolas stepped over to the window and suddenly lit up. Below him a huge smile looked up at him. Excitedly he turned towards the wide stone steps and, remembering his manners, turned back, “Um . . .” He pointed over his shoulder.

“Go,” Elrond shooed him with a smile.

Legolas fair flew down the steps into the arms of his cousin, Arwen. Giggling like little children they greeted each other, hugging and sharing news. Not far away two pairs of eyes followed their progress, but for differing reasons. The first stayed out of sight, the second stepped into their path and halted their fun like a knife through butter.

“Aragon,” she said softly, noting with sudden amusement the jealousy in her betrothed’s eyes. “This is my cousin, Legolas of the Woodland Realm.”

Aragorn tipped his head. “Cousin?” he said in standard speak. “Fair greetings,” he said in elvish, mentally chastising himself for not trusting her. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

“I have heard of you,” Legolas smiled, swallowing the sudden urge to laugh. He had seen the jealousy in the man’s eyes as well. “It is a fine day to meet the heir to the throne.”

For half a second Aragorn thought he was talking about himself, but then realised he was talking about him. He shook his head. “I am not going to take my place in Gondor. There is too much hatred for my line. I am content here in the north.”

Legolas’s smile slipped, but tried desperately to stay in place. “One day, perhaps,” he said.

Aragorn said nothing, but simply accepted with a quiet resignation, knowing that there might not be any getting away from it this time. His father and his father before him had avoided it, but something in the air told him that he would not be so lucky.

Legolas approached his seat in the counsel chamber, his servants beside him, but now he was even closer to the mean-tempered dwarf. There was no way to avoid the glare of the orange-haired one. All day they had sidled passed each other warily, watching the other’s hands. The older dwarves were becoming concerned with every meeting with this elf who seemed to be following them about, although there was no proof of it. But for Legolas every meeting had brought that same tense thrill, and he could not understand it or why he felt that way.

“Stand aside, elf,” the dwarf growled.

“I will if you will,” he replied, brows furrowed. His voice was one of anger, the only way he could think of responding, showing his fear was not an option. He was more afraid of his own tumultuous emotions than what the dwarf could possibly do surrounded as he was by an entire city of elves.

The dwarf growled in exasperation. The sound made Legolas’s body break out in Goosebumps. He was shocked by his reaction. He turned away and took his seat, cursing his lack of control.

The conclusion of the meeting rankled him no small amount. The orange-haired one was coming along with them. He sighed to himself. If the dwarf’s presence didn’t excite him so much he would have withdrawn his support and gone home. But, he had made an oath, and he would stick to it, dwarf or no dwarf. Well, not entirely true. He stayed because of the dwarf, to keep the Ring from his hands, and because he was drawn to him.

His horror worsened each time their eyes met across their camp fires. Legolas was always the first to look away. Finally, one day as he was scouting ahead, he heard the unmistakable tread of feet.

“Let’s get one thing straight, elf!” the gruff voice blurted out.

“Let’s get all things straight, saves time,” Legolas responded. He turned to the surprised dwarf who had not expected to be responded to so firmly. “I don’t trust you, you don’t trust me. You have every right and reason not to trust me. My father locked the dwarf king, your uncle, in our dungeons. But let us be very clear about this. That was my father’s doing, not mine. I do not condone those actions, and what is more they happened sixty years ago to another dwarf, not you. Neither of us were involved, so let us move on.”

“But . . .”

“Secondly, I do not like you. Every time I come near you, your axe comes too close to my throat for my liking. You make me uncomfortable. I am not your enemy, the allies of Saruman and of Mordor are our enemies. Point your axe at them, not at me.”

“I . . .”

“And thirdly, I have a name. It is Legolas, not elf. Do you understand? Or must I spank it into your thick hide?” By this point, he was leaning over the astonished, diminutive fellow and shouting at him. He straightened up, and turned to the rest of the fellowship who stood a few feet away in shocked silence. With a slight cough, he added, “That is all I needed to say.”

With that he continued on along the path southward, leaving behind a surprised group of travellers.

“A touchy elf, isn’t he?” Gimli said. He sniffed a little and walked on.

Aragorn sent a measured gaze in Gandalf’s direction and the Hobbits glanced at each other. Nothing was said, but much was thought on the matter. It was only a matter of time before blood would be spilled.

If Legolas had thought that would be an end of it, he was wrong. The grumbling got worse, and so did the thrill. And the more he felt it the more he noticed the grumbling.

“Of course, it would have helped us a lot more if the elven door had worked,” the dwarf muttered. “If it had been a dwarf door, it would have worked. We would have had a key, and not some confounded elf riddle. Passwords,” he growled. “And in elvish too. Why couldn’t it have been in our own tongue? It would have been remembered better! Perhaps the elves wanted to lock us inside this soon to be damned hell-hole, never to see the light of day again. Perhaps they planned . . .”

“Would you like something to eat, Mr Gimli?” Merry suddenly asked.

“Pah!” the dwarf responded and snatched the plate.

“You’re very welcome, Mr Gimli,” Merry said, with a smile.

“Elven meat!” Gimli blurted out and Merry ran off to sit on the far side of Boromir, where it was safe. “It’s not even salted pork!” Gimli cried out and growled in his throat. He ate it anyway in sullen silence, glaring at Legolas with nothing less than disdain.

Legolas gazed back at him, as calm as a summer breeze, biding his time. He knew how much he could take, Gimli had no idea, and by the time he did, it would already be too late. He watched the dwarf take out his water pouch and tip it up. It was empty. Gimli grumbled wordlessly and stuffed the stopper back into the opening.

Legolas continued to chew on the strip of meat and watch him in anticipation. He was tingling with it, enjoying every second, but on the outside, no one could tell a thing. Gandalf offered his water pouch to the dwarf, and he grumbled a bit before muttering a thank you and taking a drink.

Finally, Gimli looked at the elf and grimaced. “Do you never quit staring at me? I don’t like it! Maybe I should knock them eyes out o’ your head!”

The hobbits gasped in unison, making for one very loud intake of breath echoing around the cavern.

“You’re making me very angry, elf!” he warned.

Legolas licked his fingers and stood up, but said nothing. Stepping passed the annoyed hairball, he let the grumbled expletives ride, for now.

“No one looks at a dwarf like that, you pointy-eared hask’ûrlâdh! Mark my words, you are in for some trouble,” he told him, his voice lowering to a snarl.

Legolas shuddered inwardly. The tone again, he loved it. The comments about his ears on the other hand, he did not like that one bit.

“Elf magic,” the dwarf scoffed. “If it was that good, why don’t his eyes light up in the dark? We would have three points of light instead of just one. Maybe if we swung him round by the ears a few times it would help,” he suggested, warranting four very frightened hobbit faces turning in his direction. “Nah, hobbit ears are too small,” Gimli added, dismissively. “Now, elf ears, on the other hand. Do you know why they’re shaped like that?”

There was a worried silence, except perhaps for a quiet whisper from Aragorn who was counting backwards to himself for some reason that escaped the others. Boromir frowned as he looked at him and then watched the elf in front of them, and an idea clicked. Legolas seemed relaxed, but Aragorn obviously knew better.

“It’s all that extra speed they use when running through the woods,” Gimli said. “Their ears get snagged on the brambles, and when the wind changes direction they stay like it.”

Gandalf half turned to utter a rebuke, and ran into the back of a now stationary Legolas.

“That does it,” muttered Legolas, and that was all the warning the dwarf got. Suddenly he was lifted by the scruff of his neck and the last that they saw of him was his huge eyes disappearing into the gloom.

“Gandalf!” Gimli cried.

Gandalf did nothing, except to lean on his staff and wait.

The sounds of an angry dwarf came to their ears, but no one approached least he be caught by a side swipe of his feet or fists. Angry dwarvish curses rose up and suddenly a loud smack of skin on skin echoed around the cave, followed by a swift, loud, “OOOOoh!”

“Put me down, you pointy-eared >smack< oooooaaaah! Just wait till I >smack< aaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Get my h- >sack< -aaaaaaaaaands on you. >smack< Haaaaa! Confounded, elf! >smack< Ooooooohh! Put me d- >smack< -aahhown!”

The slaps and cries continued, but the mutterings stopped. Finally, even those sounds fell silent. There was a muffled thump, which they guessed was Gimli falling to the floor. “Oof!” he grunted.

Legolas stepped into the light of the wizard’s staff and huffed a sigh, still as calm as ever, but wearing an ethereal, satisfied smirk.

“Are you feeling any better?” Aragorn asked quietly.

“Oh, yes,” Legolas replied. “Much better.”

Gimli stepped into the light, holding his trousers up in one hand, fumbling with the buttons. The others said not a word. Aragorn shook his head, Boromir passed a contemplative hand across his beard to hide a cough of laughter. The hobbits grinned to each other. The Fellowship continued on its way, Gimli following as fast as dignity and doing his trousers up would allow, each gingerly placed step in front of the other to rejoin the others. He winced, stepped, winced and stepped again. A grunt of pain or two drifted up now and then, but otherwise there was not a sound.

While the elf was forging ahead in the light of the staff and the others followed closely behind, Gimli smiled to himself. He gasped softly as cloth rubbed against raw flesh. He felt as if his smarting ass cheeks would probably illuminate the darkness better than Gandalf’s staff, but he did not say a word. Somehow he kept up with the others, eyeing the elf up ahead in a new light. His cheeks fair glowed with excitement, and not just on his face.

They settled down to sleep in the quiet recesses and crags along the tunnel wall. Gandalf, who had turned out his light, insisted that they would be safe, and Legolas did not ask more. The hobbits, the most afraid of the Nine, kept calling out to each other for some time before they were satisfied that they were not alone.

Legolas could still see in the dark. He watched the dwarf, who was also watching him. Dwarfs also had excellent vision in the dark. The elf closed his eyes and feigned sleep, his eyes opened just a notch, determined to stay awake just in case Gimli tried anything stupid. After a while he jolted awake, having realised that he had dozed off after all. He lifted his head wondering what had startled him from slumber. His body shuddered, instantly alerting him to the cause. Gimli was growling in his sleep.

He looked across the space to where Gimli lay, his eyes were shut. His breath was deep and even, and at each exhale he growled long and low. Legolas shuddered and closed his eyes. Nothing stirred in the deep night of Moria so that the sound was heightened, and so was his reaction.

Another growl reverberated through his body, and he sucked in a breath, trying to control the sensations that tingled across his skin. Another growl and he gasped softly, panting in the dark. Gritting his teeth, he balled his fist, trying to force some semblance of control. Another soft rumble rolled through his torso. Legolas gasped, swallowed and clenched his eyes shut. Never had he felt like this before.

In an effort to find something to grasp, he ran a hand down his thigh to his boot. The touch was like a lightening bolt, his eyes flew open, and he gasped a shuddering breath. The sensation was almost too much.

With his hand gripping his lower leg in an effort to stay in control he could feel Gimli’s breath dusting across the back of his hand. He draw it sharply back into the niche as if he had been stung. His shallow breaths thickened further, the growls continuing to affect him greatly.

Legolas shuddered, tipping his head back against the cold rock, but it was no good. All he could do was hear and react, until he finally realised that he was more than goose bumped. He was aroused. A sharp breath of shocked astonishment mingled with one of wonder at what his body was doing, and pleasure at how such a simple thing as another person’s breath could make him feel so alive.

A growled breath interrupted his erratic thoughts, drawing another shuddered breath from his throat. He whimpered, a small mewling sound followed as he abruptly realised that his pants were too tight. He needed something, but was uncertain if asking for it would not get him killed. And just to make matters worse, he realised with clarity, this was how he had expected to feel when with the maiden in the garden. Only there were no maidens here, when he could have . . .no, he shook the thought from his head. Gimli . . .

He doubted the dwarf would agree, even if he was the cause of his arousal. He moaned softly, panting, running a feather-like hand down his thigh, but he needed more. His hand moved back up his inner thigh and found his engorged member through his pants and squeezed. Shafts of need burned through his clothing. He writhed a little against his hand. Another growl and his hips jerked.

Another growl and he flicked the buttons open to reach inside. A few slow strokes and a few fast strokes, his impassioned breaths dusting the air. Behind his eyelids, the sun seemed to be getting brighter. “Gimli,” he whispered softly, unaware that eyes had opened and were now watching him.

Legolas did not notice the subtle change from growl to purr, much less the shifting of a small form in the dark. He was too far gone to realise that Gimli had been astute enough to know how his growls effected him. He growled again, enjoying the shudder that shot through the writhing form before him.

“Oh, Gimli,” he called faintly, his breath humming in muted notes like a melody.

Legolas listened, yearning for the next growl that poured delight into his veins. It mattered not that the growls seemed to much closer and louder than they had been, and that hot breath seemed to be wafting across his cheek and invading his ear. Sucking his lips in behind his teeth he moaned softly, hips jerking and strokes increasing. “Gimli,” he panted, feeling his senses slide. Another growl rolled across his senses, tingling his skin.

He moaned and gasped suddenly, sucking great lungs full of air as his body exploded. Breathless he lay still, eyes still closed, breathing hard. When he realised with a start that the world around him was silent, he opened his eyes. Two eyes were looking back at him. “Oh no . . .” he whimpered, breathless and flecked with sweat.

“A tad bit distracted, are we?” a smug face spoke softly as it peered down at him.

Legolas swallowed, unable to speak for a moment. “I was . . .it’s just that . . .” A strangely gentle hand squeezed his shoulder and he realised that it was not smug at all, but tender and understanding.

“No problem, laddie. Your true feelings are a bit of a surprise, I have to say.”

Legolas gazed up at him, eyes wide.

“I was only looking to even the score after you thrashed me,” Gimli chuckled softly. He patted Legolas’ shoulder gently and smiled. “I have a power over you that I had not anticipated. I’ll not take advantage of something so fragile and pure.”

“I do not understand,” Legolas whispered.

“An elf’s affections, they say, are as rare as snow flakes in summer, and I’ll not do anything to lessen its power over me or to nurture it; not while we’re so busy with the Ring, at any rate. And I would not tell a soul of it either. Your secret’s safe with me.”

As Gimli turned away, Legolas reached up to cup his cheek with his free hand. His fingers played with the fur of his beard. He smiled a little. “It is me who will need to repay you,” he whispered.

Gimli regarded him for a long moment before leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “I’ll hold you to that . . .elf,” he added, this time with deepening affection.

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