The Light of the Stars

In the Light of the Stars
A Lord of the Rings vignette
By Persephone

The weeping had stopped.

Somewhere along the treacherous paths leading away from Moira and towards Lothlorien, the tears slowed then stopped, replaced by a grim silence that had deepened with each step. With Aragorn leading and Boromir picking up the end, the Company, now diminished, had trudged onward, almost blindly, as they left their heart back in those dark, accursed mines. The first step had been hard; taking the next had been even harder, even for him. For all his centuries, Legolas found himself reeling from the pain as if he were no older and wiser than Merry and Pippin. His heart wept for their loss, for Gandalf, long after his tears had dried, battered away by the fierce northern winds. Not even the rise of vegetation, the sight of the great forest of Lothlorien in the distance gave him any respite.

They had set up camp several miles out, still close enough to see the looming peaks of the Misty Mountains even now, hours after sunset, but far enough out that anything following them would have been spotted long before. They were not safe, had not been safe since this affair had begun, but such as it was they had some respite for the evening. Perhaps the last they would have before they reached Lothlorien and Lady Galadriel.

Tomorrow would be hard, most likely with Aragorn pushing them all beyond endurance to reach the edge of the Golden Woods before nightfall. Yet he would gladly walk every mile, suffer any discomfort therein, if it meant not having to endure the long night ahead. He doubted that any of them would sleep soundly tonight, if at all. As for himself, he was already planning on volunteering to stand guard through the night, even after this first shift had ended. Better that than the wandering dreams that were the gift and bane of all his kind. He had no desire to retread the halls of Moira this night in mind and spirit, bidden by some unconscious desire to find their lost one. Gandalf was gone and as unthinkable as that seemed, there was no choice but to accept it as Aragorn had and continue forth. Failing to do so would mean that the Fellowship had failed and Gandalf had given his life in vain. And that was the only thing more unpalatable than Mithrandir's fall.

"Legolas."

He pivoted, surprised to find Aragorn at his shoulder and displeased that he had not detected the Ranger sooner. His mind was wandering and that did not bode well if he intended to stand watch tonight. Carelessness would have a band of Orcs on them in no time, whether they were creatures of Sauron or Saruman. Biting off a quick curse, he turned his attention to his friend, noting with concern the lines on Aragorn's face. His friend was not a young man and the toll of this afternoon's events had settled heavily on his shoulders. Although he knew his friend to be blameless, there was guilt nonetheless in Aragorn's eyes. Grief, too. There was no small share of anguish in the Ranger's features though he was striving hard to keep it hidden. He was being strong for them, for all of them, as he thought Gandalf might have wanted it so.

"Anything out there?" Aragorn asked, staring out into the darkness as if he thought to discern something with his human eyes that the Elf might have missed.

"Not as yet," He made his reply cautious. "How are the others holding up?"

"About as well as can be expected. Pippin blames himself for Gandalf... I've tried to talk to him as have Merry and Gimli but I'm not sure he believes any of us. Boromir and Sam are checking our supplies, neither saying a word."

"And Frodo?"

Aragorn's smile was deprecating, almost disheartened. "I fear Frodo's wounds are far beyond my skill to heal."

Legolas knew enough to realize that he was not just speaking of the wound Frodo had sustained from the Morgul blade. Of them all, Frodo had been the closest to Gandalf, not in his councils but in his heart. The wizard had seemed to regard the young Hobbit with almost fatherly affection something Legolas had never seen him grant another living creature, not even Bilbo Baggins. Gandalf's death, in addition to the burden Frodo was already carrying, was a blow indeed and he cursed himself for not realizing it sooner. The image of Frodo's face on the slopes of Moira returned, blue eyes overflowing with tears, filled with a pain deeper than the cold flame that burned in his shoulder. He felt a curious pain at the memory, thinking back to another time, another place, where he had seen sorrow writ on the Hobbit’s earnest features. But this was not Rivendell and all of Elrond’s skill could not cure this wound.

"You should rest," Aragorn interrupted his reverie, drawing him back. "I can take over the rest of your watch."

"That isn't necessary," Legolas objected, not understanding why the Ranger would even offer such a thing. Aragorn knew that Elves did not require sleep in the way humans needed it. He could sit here all night with no ill effects and let his body walk in the morn while his mind refreshed itself. "I--"

"Legolas," Aragorn's voice was quiet. "Go sit with the others, eat and take what rest you can. I can handle the watch for a while. Please."

He thought to protest when he suddenly understood what Aragorn was *not * saying. He wanted to take the Watch because he wanted, needed, to prove to them that he could still care for them even without Gandalf. Legolas nodded, wishing that he could make his friend understand that the only person Aragorn had to prove himself to was Aragorn. It had always been thus with the Ranger and not even the influence of Lady Arwen had rid his friend of all his self-doubt. Aragorn could not afford to doubt himself or his ability to lead them now. To do so might prove fatal and if letting him stay awake in the cold all night would prevent that, Legolas was willing to endure whatever visions haunted him.

He stepped away from the Ranger, then hesitated, letting his gaze drift over the mean campsite they'd set up. Merry, Pippin, and Gimli were by the fire, the two Hobbits huddled together perhaps for warmth, perhaps for companionship. Pippin's head drooped and he noted that Merry's lips were moving in a steady stream, most likely offering reassurances of some sort to the smaller Hobbit. Across from them, Gimli sat stout and squat, running a whetstone across the blade of his axe. He caught the Elf's eye and nodded before turning back to contemplation of his weapon. Boromir, like Aragorn, was standing off, his eyes fixed in the distance, fingering the horn at his side. There was something about the man that bothered Legolas, something nervous and almost fearful. He liked Boromir but he discerned that there was a shadow on him, a shadow that prevented the Elven prince from extending his full trust.

Near a small circle of rocks, Master Samwise was standing, forlorn and holding what appeared to be a plate, his gaze fixed on those worn rocks as if seeking to remove them by the sheer force of his gaze alone. The riddle was not difficult to discern. Frodo was there and not eating or accepting company from the looks of things, preferring to grieve in solitude. He thought back to Rivendell, to that night on the terrace when Frodo had excused himself from the festivities, mourning what the Ring had done to his beloved Bilbo. He had seemed so strong then, so unlike the practical, stolid image his people had of Hobbits. He had not been a creature concerned with the comforts of hearth and stomach but a youth bearing a terrible weight. His bravery had kept the Council from dissolving but at what price? His actions had intrigued Legolas, causing the Elf to seek him out that very night when perhaps Frodo might have preferred solitude. He had found Frodo soft-spoken, but resolute in his conviction to take upon himself the task of destroying the Ring. He had made no attempt to disguise his fear, his concerns over what such a venture might cost their Fellowship and something about his honesty had touched Legolas. More than that, his courage had caused him to look at his companion with new eyes. He could have walked away as Sam had wanted, gone back to the Shire or stayed in Rivendell, leaving the matter before the squabbles of the Council until destruction came upon them all. Instead as Bilbo before him, Frodo had stepped among kings and princes and wizards, taking center stage and shaming them all with his mettle. His admiration for Frodo Baggins grew day by day, as the little figure cut across the land just behind Gandalf, urging his friends forward when even Gimli found his feet stumbling.

Gandalf had spoken truly when he proclaimed that there was more to Frodo than met the eye.

Gandalf. Mithrandir. He felt so heavy again, the air seeming to thicken, making it difficult to breathe. Was this how Frodo felt? Or was it worse for the bearer of the Ring? First, Bilbo and now this… Iluvatar, was Frodo never to have a moment’s peace? He frowned, considering Aragorn's remarks then set out, skirting around the fire. He caught a glimpse of three haunted faces, almost gray in flickering light, half hidden by shadows that stretched long over them all. Boromir half-turned, tracking his progress with a strange, almost hungry expression flitting over his features as his eyes settled on just beyond where Sam was standing. Legolas frowned, increasing his pace without realizing it until Boromir's eyes met his and something akin to revulsion passed over the mortal's face before turning away.

Sam was still as he approached, giving no indication at all that he knew the Elf had come to stand just behind him but he didn't flinch when Legolas laid his hand on his shoulder. His voice was quiet, almost sad. "I told Gandalf I'd take care of him but I don't see how I can when he won't let me."

"Sam--"

"It's hurt him, Master Legolas. Oh, it's hurt all of us and make no mistake but with Mister Frodo, it's different. He thinks he's killed Gandalf, I know he does. Thinks it's his fault because of the Ring..." The Hobbit's voice grew stronger. "It's that accursed ring, if you ask me. It's wearing him out, trying to trick him into putting it on. He's fighting it but with Gandalf gone..."

The words stirred a new fear in his breast, one he could not quite identify. "Sam, do you think he is --"

"I don't know," Sam's voice was awash with misery. "I can see him fighting with it, but he keeps touching it all the same. And his eyes... They're so dark and hopeless. It's killing him, bit by bit and with Gandalf gone, I'm afraid we may lose him."

"That's not going to happen," Legolas replied, stronger than he'd intended. The words sounded harsh, as if they were trying to tear out of his throat. He squeezed the Hobbit's shoulder. "We won't let it happen."

Sam's head bobbed as he scrubbed a hand across his face then straightened. "Right. Right you are, Sir. I'd best go and try to get him to eat again."

He caught him, plucking the plate up with deft fingers. "No, Sam. I'll do it. Go back to the fire and try to rest."

Samwise opened his mouth in protest before he was cut off. "You're dead on your feet, Sam," Legolas pointed out, though not unkindly. "I'll take the food to Frodo and make sure he eats."

Hesitating, Sam narrowed his eyes, not prepared to give up his appointed task without a fight. "You won't leave him alone? Not until he gets something in him? And you'll make sure he sleeps afterwards?"

"I promise," Legolas held a hand over his chest, the first smile he'd felt all day, playing at his lips.

Sam studied him a few seconds more before nodding sharply with one last look towards the rock circle. It was hard, maybe one of the hardest things the Hobbit had ever done to walk away, to lay down his charge for even a second. Legolas was proud of him, once again reminded at how little his people knew about Hobbits. They had long been dismissed as inconsequential, as small and unimportant and yet it was in their hands that the fate of the Quest lay. ‘In the hands of one in particular,’ Legolas thought, letting his attention slide back to present matters.

Stone rose up in sharp spikes, almost seeming to curl into a fist above his head as he strode deeper in, trying to control his unease. He was not fond of rock as Gimli was and this place reminded him too much of Moira for comfort. True, the circle was open and he had the comfort of the sky above but there was something confining and entrapping about this place. Perfect for a small Hobbit, so used to their holes but too enclosed for one used to roaming the woodland.

Surprisingly, the center of the circle was open and he stepped into it, grateful for the way the stones seemed to fall away, retreating until he could just barely detect their presence. They were very old, he could feel that much, older than he and not altogether unfriendly. The grass beneath his feet was brown from lack of sunlight, curling in on itself as if it were choking but the ground was soft, rich with brown earth studded with the occasional bit of granite, catching sight of his quarry sitting atop one of those upturned rocks.

Legolas felt his breath catch as he looked, truly looked at Frodo for the first time since Rivendell, noticing the way the starlight caught in his dark hair, dusting it silvery. His face was upturned, staring skyward, dried tear tracks made visible against fair skin. Frodo's features were odd for a Hobbit, lacking the rough, good-humored quality of his countrymen possessing instead softer, more ethereal features. He was taller than Sam, a slender and nimble creature with an innate grace that was reflected with his every move. He recalled Gandalf once mentioning that the Baggins family were rumored to have a touch of Elven blood although he himself had never before heard of such a liaison.

It was on Frodo that the weight of the Quest truly fell and despite the best efforts of the Fellowship, there was no escaping that. The Ring was a burden that few could carry for long without being betrayed or succumbing to its evil influence. Only two in living memory had survived it, one of whom was the dear Hobbit before him but Legolas feared the damage being done to the Ring bearer. Frodo was strong and brave but there had been others in the past, equally strong and brave who had fallen prey to the Ring's machinations. He would not for this world see Frodo follow Isildur's fate, maddened by a lust for power and left dead when the Ring chose to betray him. Or worse still, like Gollum. Legolas shuddered at the memory of that wizened tormented creature, unable to endure the light of the Sun or Moon, filled with spite and a mortal hunger that could only be quenched by the very thing that had destroyed him in the first place. The creature dogged their steps, was perhaps out there at this very moment, awaiting the opportunity to separate Frodo from them and ... His hand clenched tight around the plate in it. Pity or no, he would slay the creature before he allowed such a thing to occur.

First, however he needed to find a way to keep Frodo strong, both in mind and body. Coaxing him to eat was a start but that would only satisfy his physical needs. There was such a thing as needs of the heart, of the soul and those needs were not ones easily satisfied. He hardly dared hope that he could be of help there, no matter how he might yearn for such an opportunity. There were many things he could show the Halfling, some more pleasurable than others… He caught himself, shaking his head in rueful consternation. He wondered what Gandalf, or Elrond, or Iluvatar forbid, his father, would think of such fancies. While Gandalf might have understood, he did not entertain such hope for his father. Liaisons between males were one thing but between Hobbits and Elves? It would more than likely rank just above his deciding to mate with a Dwarf in his father’s eyes. Humans were acceptable within certain perimeters but Legolas knew that his father’s famed tolerance would not extend so far with his son involved. He was an Elven prince, heir to the kingdom of Mirkwood and son of Thranduil, his choices had been set by precedence and familial wishes for nearly three thousand years.

His father had long attributed his indifference towards taking one of the high born Elven ladies at Court as some show of willfulness and he could not deny that there might be some truth to that. Much of his life, he had spent within the confines of court or the borders of Mirkwood, carrying out his duties when appointed. When his father did not have an errand for him, then Elrond or Mithrandir did. There was very little time he could call his own and he had no wish to sacrifice the few precious moments he did have over to an arranged marriage. He had always said he would marry when he found someone worthy enough to interest him in such a commitment.

And what irony that the one person who did spark his interest was not only male but a Hobbit!

It did no good to dwell on any of this. As much as Frodo interested him, whatever thoughts he might entertain towards the young Halfling came second to helping the other accomplish his Quest. He had no right to burden Frodo with feelings that might not be reciprocated in the first place. ‘One task at time,’ he decided. First the food, then he could work on the other. He could do nothing if Frodo passed out from hunger or weakness.

"Frodo?"

The Hobbit started, surprise writ across that impossibly cherubic face. "Legolas? How--how long have you been there?"

"A moment only," he assured the other, making his steps slow so as not to startle him. "You have not eaten."

"You've talked to Sam," Frodo sounded rueful. His thin fingers played with the chain around his neck, almost clutching the Ring in a protective gesture.

"He is worried about you," Legolas replied. Sam's warnings from earlier seemed to echo louder in his ears as he noted those nervous gestures. His actions were at war with his manner, suspicion wearing a gentle countenance. They could thank the Ring for that, the Elf acknowledged. "We all are. You should try to eat, if only to satisfy Sam."

Frodo's gaze shifted, almost but not quite back towards the sky. "I'm just not very hungry. I'm fine, really, Legolas."

Kneeling down in front of his friend, he set the plate aside then clasped his shoulders. "You don't have to be, Frodo. Gandalf meant a great deal to all of us, you especially. It's all right to mourn him."

Frodo's grip on the chain around his neck tightened, his face whitening under the moonlight. Sea blue eyes grew deeper, almost liquid with the change and Legolas swallowed, feeling the very real threat of being engulfed.

"I-I..." Frodo paused as if unable to find the words he wanted. Tears welled but did not spill over, granting his eyes a preternatural sheen. "I don't know what to do, Legolas. I want to cry but I can't. I haven't been able to since we left Moira. I feel so-so numb. I can't feel anything, not anger or grief, just bits and pieces of feelings. What sort of creature am I that I cannot even summon up the sorrow to mourn for one who was like a father to me?"

"Shh," He surged upward, drawing the smaller man to him. That dark curling head fit perfectly within the hollow of his shoulder, the other’s rapid breaths causing the hair of his neck to rise in a pleasant rush. ‘Don’t,’ he barked at himself. ‘Don’t think about how good this feels or how you wish… Concentrate on him. Help him through this darkness before you lose him to it.’ "You're in shock, Frodo. It's natural. It will pass, I promise you." 'Far sooner than you'd like,' the Elf thought.

"What if it doesn't?" Frodo's voice was muffled as he lifted his head, his small hands clutching the front of the Elven prince's tunic. There was no mistaking the note of real panic lacing the edge of his voice. "What if I can't feel anything solid, not ever again?"

There was no thinking about what happened next. Indeed, it happened so fast, Legolas himself was almost caught unaware. He found himself cupping Frodo's face, his round cheeks downy against his palms, and capturing those soft, grimacing lips wanting, no… needing to erase that panicked note. He could not bring Gandalf back but he could do this, he could offer comfort, no matter what it cost him.

Frodo inhaled sharply, mouth parting and he pursued further, tongue slipping inward just enough to feel teeth then dart away again. The Hobbit went still, his hands near slack where they had been tensed moments earlier, offering no resistance to his advances but neither did he return them.

"Could you feel that?" Legolas whispered, and then realized what he'd done. A sharp, almost embarrassed pain rippled through him and he pulled back, turning his face away.

"I have offended you," he said regretfully. "I apologize. I thought-- I beg your forgiveness."

"No," Frodo placed a small hand under his chin, his eyes large and wondering. "Why--why would you do that, Legolas?"

He licked his lips, nearly groaning at the taste still there. "Because I wanted to. You're beautiful and because I...I wanted you. Wanted to ease your pain if only for a little while."

Frodo's eyes widened and Legolas cursed himself for being a fool, a great blundering fool. His friend was already in pain and all he had done was throw more confusion his way. "Frodo, I--"

"Why would you want me?" His voice was small, threaded with insecurity and doubt. "I am no one special. I'm not strong like Aragorn or Boromir, I'm only a silly Hobbit far from home."

He blushed prettily, falling silent, his hands plucking at the soft tunic beneath them but he hadn’t rejected the archer’s advances, in word or deed. Legolas exhaled in one drawn out breath, reaching out and grasping his friend behind the neck, feeling curls twist around his fingers like silk webs, pulling him closer until their foreheads were resting together. "I think you are the strongest of all of us, little one. You have endured great terrors and suffering yet you have not given into the Ring. I know of no one else who could accomplish such a thing."

Frodo's eyes were drawn back to the gold band, such a simple guise and it seemed to wink at him. Legolas closed his eyes, trying to ignore the sudden gust of whispering filling his ears, promising him power if he so desired. The power to destroy and rule over all dominions, the power to destroy Sauron and restore the might of his people. He could be a great and terrible king, it whispered, greater in power than Elrond or Gil-galad, greater in wisdom than Gandalf. His enemies would fall before him and his people would adore him as a god. All he had to do was take the Ring from this insignificant creature and place it on his own hand. ‘But not insignificant,’ he thought, ‘Not to me.’

"You hear it, don't you?" Frodo's voice was low, resigned. "It's always whispering, always speaking to me of things I could do, great things."

Legolas clenched his jaw, fighting to suppress his temper. "I hear it and I deny it. I will not succumb to its evil."

"For how long?"

"What do you mean?" He was taken aback by the question, shaken by it when he realized the implications held within those words.

"It is nothing."

"I have no desire to possess the Ring, Frodo," Legolas assured him. "There is nothing it can offer me that I would want."

Frodo was silent, hope warring with some dark haunted emotion he could not understand. Then he sighed, slumping forward so that the Elf was forced to catch him before he slid to the ground. "I'm tired, Legolas. I'm so tired of being afraid--of the Ring, of myself. Tired of the things it tries to make me think and do. The darkness is so great and there are so few of us ... How can we even hope to succeed?"

"You cannot lose hope, Frodo. Nothing is decided or set in stone. It may yet prove to be in the hands of just one that our fates are decided for ill or naught."

The smile the Ring-bearer graced him with was quicksilver and almost nostalgic. "You sound like Gandalf."

"He was a good teacher. We will not abandon you, Frodo," He paused, squeezing the small hand in his, "*I * will not abandon you so long as you have need of me."

"And if I have need of you now?" The words were vulnerable, shy longing in his touch as he fingered a strand of loose blond hair resting near his face. "What then?"

There they were. The words he had wanted so long to hear, spoken as he had always imagined they might be and he was… hesitating?

"Frodo, are you sure?" He would not risk their friendship on an uncertainty. The idea that Frodo might be humoring him, to fulfill some sense of obligation the Hobbit might feel towards him sickened him. Better to burn for a thousand more years than that. "I don’t want you to feel as if you must humor me-"

"No," Curls awry, Frodo shook his head. "It isn’t like that. Not at all. This is not something I would entertain if I didn’t…"

‘If he didn’t care,’ Legolas finished for him. The prospect was dizzying, almost too much to be believed. This was a dream, it had to be and soon his mind would wake with his body on the road to Lothlorien, tormented by the figment of a few minutes’ rest. But if this proved not to be a dream…

"Then," Legolas pressed his mouth against his unmarred forehead, enjoying the sharp sound of a breath drawn in quickly as his tongue darted out just enough to tease Frodo's skin. "I shall have to oblige you, won't I?"

Frodo laughed, a sweet, unexpected sound that warmed him to hear. Tracing a path over his brow and temple, Legolas felt an upsurge of tenderness like nothing he'd ever experienced before. "That's much better. I've not seen you smile in some time, I'd almost forgotten..."

"Forgotten?" Frodo squirmed in his embrace, coloring a bit. "What? You're staring at me."

"So I am. Does it bother you?" He drew his fingers down, over curving cheeks and the Halfling's straight nose, then down again to brush his thumb against Frodo's lower lip. The soft flesh there gave way sending a pleasant jolt through him as the rasp of warm tongue caressed his callused fingertip. Rosebud lips quirked then drew his thumb in, milking a gasp as small teeth gently nibbled in time with wet, almost suckling strokes. The sound of ragged breathing surprised him, even more so when he realized it was his own.

Frodo realized it as well and seemed pleased by the reaction. With an impish glint he raked his teeth over the soft pad of the Elf's thumb, scraping against nail then lower over joint, almost past the knuckle before flatting the soft inner folds of his lips over every inch of skin available. Taking the archer's larger hand in both of his, the Hobbit appeared to study it then turned it palm upward, placing a kiss in the center. The first of several to be exact as Frodo ran lips and tongue over hand and wrist, Legolas' other fingers suffering the fate of the thumb. Skin afire, he reached upward and stayed Frodo, tipping his head and silencing the question forming in his eyes with a fierce, almost desperate kiss, his tongue rough as it pressed inward. He was in real danger of losing control of the situation, of himself. Forcing himself to slow down, to stop, he pulled back, still clutching that dear face between his hands, Frodo's mouth a small moue of displeasure as he opened his eyes.

"If I move too fast," he panted, his thumb rolling over the other's cheek. "If I frighten or hurt you ... "

Frodo closed his diminutive hand over his larger, long-boned one, turning his face into it. "You won't," his eyes were intense, bluer than the night. "I won't break, Legolas. I promise you."

The Elven prince was not altogether sure of the truth of those words. In this light, Frodo seemed fragile, almost frail. It stirred an odd mixture of emotions in him, not the least of which was a surging sense of protectiveness coupled with the sudden awareness of his own strength, of how if he was not careful, he might well hurt his friend? Lover? It was not such a giant leap to worry about such a thing; after all, the same hands that were now cradling the youth had been used on more than one occasion to kill. Indeed, the Ring was hissing at him again, urging him to put them to the proper use, to reach down and snap Frodo's unprotected neck. He shut out the whispers, focusing on Frodo, his trusting features leaving him open, vulnerable. A small, muffled noise escaped as he took Frodo's mouth again, tongues meeting and lapping at each other. He pulled Frodo into his lap, small legs wrapping around his waist as his hands came to rest on the Ring-bearer's shoulders, wandering upward to run his hands through thick fawn curls, keeping their lips together. He need not have worried for Frodo was in no hurry to separate either, curling his tongue underneath the Elf's, seeking to get closer, the pressure of their kisses deepening until Legolas felt his lips bruising. He changed the angle just a bit, attacking the corner of his lover's mouth, relishing each taste as he sprinkled kisses over any stretch of skin within reach. Frodo's ear proved especially vulnerable, an audible sigh filling the space between them. He swirled his tongue over the outer shell then inward before pulling back just enough to take the lobe between his teeth, rolling the flesh around. Frodo mewled, fingers digging into the back of his neck as he wriggled, his body thrusting against the archer's, wringing a gasp from both of them.

"Legolas," Frodo breathed, turning his face and burying it in the crook of the elf's shoulder, kissing then biting down on the skin there. He groaned, unable to stop as those lips burned fires over throat and jaw then downward. A light touch tugged at his tunic, replaced by the lap of a tongue against flesh even while hands struggled with his lacings. A small line knotted the Hobbit's forehead as he tugged, the knots holding steady against his onslaught. The sight caused Legolas to chuckle, laying his hands atop Frodo's, stilling them before working in tandem to separate the difficult bindings.

Fabric gave way, the night air seeping through the open cloth to touch him with gentle bites made all the more arousing by the hot mouth that followed their trail. Busy hands found his shoulder buckle, the quiver hitting the ground behind him in a soft, loamy thud. His hands were unsteady as he set to work on his lover's clothing, first his outer cloak and practical jacket, then the clever buttons of his sturdy brown vest snapping free to reveal still more buttons set in a sea of white and the flash of mithril silver. Those, too, gave ground and he pulled the shirt free, pushing it down so that one pale peach of a shoulder was revealed, then the other before his lips found their way there, tasting of his skin as if he were one of those summer fruits. Frodo shivered as his hands ghosted over the white scar of his wound, still not completely healed after all this time. His shiver turned to a full fledged groan as Legolas kissed the wound, the cold tear warming under the attention lavished on it. The scent of sweat and earth and fire lingered, reminders of where they'd been and underneath it all was Frodo's own scent, clean and sweet like a fresh-worked field. The taste of salt tinged his lips as he chased a path along shoulder and neck, wringing a shudder from his lover when his tongue flicked over the hollow of his throat. He moved his head, intending to go lower when Frodo caught his face, a soft kiss giving him pause.

"Legolas," he said again, more agitation color his voice. "I want to see you. Please, I--"

"Shh," the archer silenced him with another easy kiss, hands already moving to remove the outer tunic Frodo had been working on. The belt around his waist came loose and he reached down, pulling the brown garment, under tunic and all off in one quick gesture. With one quick toss, it took its place next to the quiver behind him and he turned back to find Frodo's eyes raking over every inch of his exposed chest. "Do I please you, Frodo?"

A tentative hand cupped his neck, then moved down to rest just above his heart, the Hobbit's fingers drawing circles there before Frodo lifted his eyes. "Very much." The words were sensual only in that they were quiet, filled with a hunger that asked but did not demand. A shy blush colored his cheeks. "I've never...been with anyone. Before."

The words hung, almost lame with embarrassment as if ashamed. Those cerulean orbs fluttered in evident concern that the Elven prince would think less of him for that fact. Truth be told, Legolas had suspected as much which was what had prompted his words earlier. It mattered not to him, save in the anxiety it was causing his lover. "And now? Do you wish to continue, Frodo? Say but a word and we can stop this."

His body protested but he found he meant every word. He would not push, would not pressure. He wanted Frodo but he wanted him willing and unafraid. 'Or as unafraid as any virgin could be their first time,' he amended.

Frodo's hand flew to catch his arm, as if to stay him. "No!" The word tore out of him, the glint in his eyes almost a plea for understanding. "I don't want to stop. I'm not afraid, Legolas. I just... I want to get it right and I'm not sure if I know how."

The archer smiled, running his hand down Frodo's shoulder and arm then back up again. "It is not a riddle to be solved, Frodo. It's not something that you can get wrong. At least, not in the way that you're thinking. Think of it more as a puzzle."

"A puzzle?"

His hand found its way to the small of his lover's back, pulling him forward. "We fit together, Frodo," his voice was teasing, almost sly. "Do you understand? How we fit together -- that's what matters."

"As a man and a woman fit?"

Not so innocent perhaps. Then again, Legolas remembered, for all his otherworldly charm, Frodo was a Hobbit, and Hobbits were among the most sensible, practical creatures in Middle Earth. It would not be Sam, he decided. Sam was too like to get tongue-tied and rattled to carry any tales but Merry and Pippin... Well, between Merry and Pippin there was no telling what he'd heard.

Frodo was fidgeting, his hands almost shaking against the Elf's flesh as he waited for an answer. Despite his brave words, he was nervous, anxiety radiating out of every pore. Tender protectiveness rose in him and Legolas wrapped his lover in a tight embrace, feeling the curve of his spine and jut of his ribs. His voice was reflective as he traced those sheathed ridges of bone. "Not like a man and a woman. The mechanics are similar, if that's what you're asking but there are differences and not just physically."

Silence followed as Frodo considered this. "You will show me how?"

It was barely a question but he found himself nodding in agreement. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure."

He leaned forward, as if to kiss Frodo again but caught his bottom lip instead, nibbling before submerging them both into another lengthy, wet-soft press of mouth against mouth. His hands found their way to Frodo's hips, kneading cloth-covered flesh as he broke away, pausing only to maneuver himself onto a less rocky patch of grass before laying back, taking the smaller man with him. It was enough to wring a gasp from them both as erections grazed then were pressed against each other. Frodo whimpered, his hips pushing forward with an urgency Legolas felt deep in his bones. Holding the Halfling's slim hips, he thrust upward, returning and relishing the feel of hard flesh throbbing through rough weave. A simple rhythm was established, Frodo raising himself then leaning over to rake his nails down the Elf's chest, eliciting a harsh groan.

"And here...I thought you didn't know what to do," Legolas managed, hands wandering to the small of Frodo's back, then over the taper of buttock, cupping and squeezing tensing flesh.

"I'm not stupid," Frodo sounded breathless. "Just a little inexperienced."

Words were lost, useless, as Frodo lowered his head, the braze of a tongue against his chest making him start. Alternating between kisses and long, sweeping strokes of his tongue, Frodo marked him, taking inch by inch of his upper chest, hands slipping over his nipples with more than a hint of tease. Down, then back up, then down again with quick flicks of his thumb before he slowed, circling the nubs with more deliberateness, a gentle tweak to the left causing a sigh to rattle out of his chest as his back bowed into his touch. Something akin to fascination seemed to cross the Ring-bearer's face and he repeated his actions, adding more pressure. Another sharp hiss of breath escaped him and a flush of an altogether different sort crawled along Frodo's skin.

Reddened lips pursed then descended swift and ruthless wringing fire along his nerves as teeth nipped and rasped against his tender flesh. Fingers digging into his lover's buttocks, he was helpless to do much more as Frodo took his time, playing with his flesh as if it were a new toy given especially to him. Which, Legolas admitted through the haze of sensation, was not too far off the truth. His skin felt light, as if the slightest touch would shatter him beyond hope of repair and Frodo more than touched. Hands massaged, then slipped lower heralding the advance of his lips, bruised but still triumphant as they stole down him.

With effort, Legolas slid his hands around the swell of thigh and hip, to fumble for the ties of the Hobbit’s breeches. His lover stilled, lifting up just a bit to aid him then arching back as Legolas sought to pull the loosened clothing now hanging off his small hips away. Smooth skin met the upward glide of his hands and Frodo rose to his knees, allow the trousers to puddle before a few awkward jerks kicked them free. Legolas pulled the other out of his straddle, almost sitting him astride his long legs as he sat up again, eyes stalking exposed flesh with a hunger he'd not felt in nearly a thousand years.

Bleached white by the moon and starlight, Frodo seemed almost Elvish yet something completely alien in the same turn. His skin glowed with a blush muted into soft silver, the fine hairs of his body almost colorless. Sweat beaded his flesh, a fine fairy sheen of dew and lust covering him as he brushed his hands over shoulder and collarbone, down and down his chest and abdomen in near worship before his hand came to rest between the dark juncture of his lover's thighs with the proof of desire returned strong and upright in a nest of slick curls. Frodo groaned, the hoarse need in his voice causing Legolas to tighten his grip, tracing shapeless tracks around the soft hard flesh in his hand, the pulse of blood vessels and heartbeat against the soft mound of his thumb and index finger. He let his hand slide up then down again, too slow to achieve satisfaction, instead seeking to tease his lover to distraction. Something warm and sticky dewed the head and Legolas dipped his fingers through the small trickle, bringing it to his mouth for taste. Salt and something bittersweet burst on his tongue and he desired more, lowering his head as he gripped and spread his lover before him. Frodo's voice strangled at the first touch of his lips on that weeping shaft, his body quivering in response as hands came to rest on the Elf's shoulders, his face buried against his back.

He felt rather than heard Frodo's shudders as his tongue curled around the base of his arousal, teasing tickles of touch that had the other gripping his back, the sting of small nails there. One hand stroking the Hobbit's inner thigh, he used the other to cup the heavy warmth of his testicles, rolling them in a gentle massaging motion that nearly gagged him as Frodo bucked upwards again. He was close, so close to letting go that Legolas felt himself twitch in sympathy. With no small amount effort, he reached around and removed Frodo's death grip on him, laving attention on his engorged flesh on the way up. Whimpering, Frodo strove to hold him down, giving another thrust of his hips in silent entreaty.

Shaking his head, Legolas stroked his cheek, "Not yet, little one. It will be worth the wait. I promise you."

With that, he flipped them, pressing Frodo into the rumpled bed of clothing and earth, the fragrant crush of grass, sweat and sex a heavy fog around them. He pulled back only for the time it took to stand, divesting himself of his breeches. Starved twin sapphires glinted up at him, Frodo breathing more than saying the word, "Beautiful."

"I'm glad you approve," he purred, dropping to his knees, placing one hand on either side of his lover's body. He sobered, as a new thought occurred to him, "Frodo... I was not prepared for... That is... It may hurt without the proper preparations."

A tender look stole upon his lover's face, curving cupid's bow lips, a small dimple appearing. "I'll be all right, Legolas. I'm stronger than I appear."

"I doubt that not. It's just that I would spare you pain if I could."

"I've endured pain, Legolas, and I'm sure I'll face it again. I don't mind, not if the pain means something." His hand squeezed the area just above the Elf's elbow, eyes intent. "Make it mean something, Legolas. Make all this mean something."

"Does this mean something?" The words sounded cold, heartless but he knew it not to be true. Not when his heart was pounding so loud in his ears, afraid of the Hobbit's response, afraid of rejection. If it weren't so sad, it might almost be laughable. He was the heir of Thranduil and an Elven prince yet this Hobbit held more power and sway over him than he did over any of his father's vassals. A word could unmake him, could damn him, and he held his breath, almost praying though he could not bring himself to acknowledge it openly. Elves did not show emotions as men or Hobbits did, and this was doubly true of a prince. He wondered how he must appear to Frodo, to the others, wondered if the icy composure he had been taught his entire life would now prove his undoing.

That fragile, haunted expression from earlier returned, and for a brief moment, Frodo appeared careworn, stretched thin. "If it does not, then why are we bothering? Legolas...if this means nothing then why would you..." Although his eyes remained fixed his hand seemed to creep of its own accord to the chain around his neck, cradling it as if it were choking him with its weight. It pained him to see those questions and that nameless fear unspoken but still there in cerulean depths.

"No," he closed his hand around his lover's. The admission came hard and he disliked the raw, exposed feeling of it. "Frodo, Elves do not engage in casual relationships, not ones of intimacy. I know not of Hobbits or their rituals --"

"We--we are not ones for casual encounters either," Frodo stuttered, the worry dropping away to be replaced by shy openness as he answered the other's unasked question.

He was really quite surprised that he wasn't grinning back with an equally silly, besotted expression. "That is good. May--may I?"

"I wish you would," Came the soft reply.

Kneeling, he parted his lover's legs, stroking the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh with one hand while he brought the fingers of the other to his mouth, taking one at a time between his lips. Elbows supporting him, Frodo watched, his mouth opened whether to sigh in sympathy or utter an another question, he knew not. Feeling playful, Legolas winked then removed his hand, bringing it to rest between the Hobbit's trembling limbs. His hand searched, then located a tight ring of muscle, near invisible save for the sight of his fingers. Frodo whined as he used his thumb, applying a tight pressure to the muscle, massaging, willing his little lover to relax. And bit by bit, his body loosened, just enough for Legolas to lean forward and whisper, "I'm sorry."

Capturing the Ring-bearer's lips, he brought his index finger up and pressed inward. Hands clawed at his shoulders, the body beneath his seeking to jerk away but Legolas held fast, not letting him escape the pull of his mouth. Frodo squirmed in discomfort but stilled after a few seconds. With a silent apology, he delved into that tight heat, adding another finger to his search. Frodo hissed and he slowed further, giving him time to adjust. "Just try to relax."

Frodo nodded, his sweat-slickened brow glistening as he gritted his teeth. "Keep going." There was a command couched in his hoarse voice and Legolas found himself complying.

Two fingers were joined by a third and he began a gentle scissoring motion, stretching him as best he could. The process was slow as he took care not to cause his lover anymore pain than was necessary. Fingers searching, he was at last rewarded as Frodo stiffened, eyes flying open and thrusting back against his touch. He made another shallow thrust with his submerged fingers, feeling muscle tighten around them as Frodo moved again, discomfort banished. Legolas felt his heart pick up at the sight the Halfling made, his legs bent at the knee, spread and accepting his intimate touch, hints of pleasure tinting his every move. Removing his fingers, he spat quickly into his palm, grimacing as he coated his aching arousal with saliva and wishing he'd had enough forethought to be prepared... As if anyone could have been prepared for this turn of events, he acknowledged.

Lifting Frodo’s short legs, he rose to his knees, the head of his erection little by little filling him, muscles loosening then clamping around his hard flesh. It was almost too much to take, the sensation sending fire thrumming through his veins to make it molten. So hard not to move when all he wanted was to let loose a howl to shake the night as he claimed the willing body now clinging to him but he forced himself to remain motionless, to give Frodo time to adjust. Tears that had threatened to spill earlier were now streaking his lover's cheeks, tiny rivulets dripping out of the corners of his closed eyes as Frodo worried his lip between his teeth. He stayed still, neither moving nor speaking a word, the moment frozen as if the world had been consumed in ice. The world was not ice, the scorching heat of his blood and skin, the warmth surrounding his sex, told him otherwise. It was alive and consuming and as immediate as the air in his lungs, narrowing down to a pinpoint of awareness that centered on the Ring-bearer and nothing else.

Then Frodo moved, his face slackening with mute pleasure as he began to move his hips in circular thrusts as his legs locked around the Elf's waist and like the shore, Legolas allowed himself to be pulled into the wave of his embrace. "Is this better?" he asked, anxiety coloring his words.

"Ye-es. Legolas?"

"Hmm?"

"Could you move? Please? I'd like to --"

"Know what it feels like?" He was amused to see Frodo nod, with more vigor than he'd displayed moments earlier.

The first thrust he made was slow, shallow enough to allow him to watch Frodo, gauging his reaction. The response was immediate as his lover rising to meet his thrust, holding him tightly about his restive hips, not in a restraining motion but to pull him home. Home. Yes, this was like coming home. He felt safe and warm and most of all, complete; it was if he had spent his life half-finished up to this point without knowing it, without being able to lament that barren fact. The realization hit him with a bittersweet edge and not for the first time, he sympathized with Arwen Evenstar's plight. To love a mortal was to know the highest joy and greatest sorrow an Elf could feel. His body was hard, baked of earth and clay as Frodo's was but unlike the hobbit, his would never tire, never age. He could choose to give up life or have it taken from him by some unnatural fate but he would never suffer firsthand the pangs of a finite existence. Frodo would grow older and older and even if Hobbits proved to be longer lived than humans, it would not be enough time. There would never be enough time, especially now with the Quest and Mordor looming over them. Time was neither their own or on their side. All he could hope for was a few stolen moments of starlight, the robe of night hiding and shielding them for a few brief hours.

His thrusts were coming harder now, withdrawing then plunging forward, needing to go deeper in, to find that one moment and place where they could join forever. Frodo's lips were ravenous against his, tongues battling in an almost violent duet of passionate sensation that swallowed all the half-voiced growls that left his throat. His hand snaked between them, wrapping around Frodo's erection as it lay between their near sealed bodies, stroking in time with each withdrawal and thrust, Frodo's head falling back with a sharp guttural explosion of sound. He attacked the slender column of throat revealed, his tongue tracing over Adam's apple and jaw, never once relenting in his campaign.

Pressed skin to skin with his hand between them, Legolas felt his lover's surrender with every particle of flesh and blood and bone in him. He thrust again and again, rougher than before, so hard he feared injuring Frodo and feared even more that he would not be able to stop himself if it came to that. His hand sliding up and down the Hobbit's arousal, he urged him on, begging without words for him to let go, to not abandon him to this wave alone and Frodo heard, his body stiffening with a shudder as something wet splashed against the archer's abdomen. He stilled, feeling his lover's release echo through his body like a thunderstorm, as old as time, stripping him of control and self. For one instant, an edge of time that cut him with its tender fierceness, all titles, all masks, and reasons 'why not' vanished in the tempest, a summer storm that shook him to the very core.

"Legolas, I--"

He swallowed Frodo's words, devoured them before they could be spoken. He knew what the other would say and how much he longed for those words to be spoken but it was too soon. Words spoken in a moment of shared passion under the moon might be regretted later and he could bear not hearing those words a little longer if it meant they were sincere when they were finally spoken. He let his body speak for him, another couple of thrusts sending him tumbling after his little lover into an abyss that knew no end or name, where even starlight seemed to fade. He wandered here, almost insensible but not alone, not even here. Their time had seemed so short but in this suspended moment, it stretched out before him, as real as the tang of sweat on his lips as he kissed the Hobbit. The separation would come, their flesh would rend and they would follow the paths assigned to them by Iluvatar but in this moment there was a taste of forever, something more permanent than even his immortality.

As one, they rolled so that he now lay on his back with Frodo leaning over him, their bodies rocking together, his lover's hand resting against his chest as they sought to prolong this joining of body and spirit. "Legolas," Frodo panted, "You won't leave me? Not tonight? Tomorrow we..."

He grunted, then caught Frodo, stilling him and pulling him close. "Let tomorrow attend to itself, Frodo. I'll not leave you this night or the next."

"But you will leave," Frodo's voice was subdued, regret incarnate. "And all this will burn away with the morning's light. Like a dream... Am I dreaming?"

"I think you will be sore enough in the morning to know this not to be a dream," the Elf replied, his tone wry before becoming serious again. "As long as I have breath to draw, Frodo, I will stand with you. You have the protection of my body as well as the use of my bow." 'To say little of the holding of my heart,' he thought.

"I wish no one had to lay down their life for me. I wish this were all unnecessary... I--"

Legolas stroked his cheek, causing him to fall silent. "It is not for you to decide. And for my part, I do not mind. What is to be won from this is far greater than I could have imagined."

"Yes, the Ring--"

"I was not speaking of the Ring, Frodo" Legolas said gently, savoring the comprehension lighting the Hobbit's face. "Don't think too much on it tonight, just rest and know that I'll be here. And when you wake, I will still be here. For as long as you have need of me."

For as long as you want me, he let the words hang, mayhap better left unspoken. The young Hobbit already had enough confusion burdening him without adding to it. There would be time later for softer issues and he was determined that there *would* be a later even if he had to crawl to Mordor and spit in Sauron's face to do it.

They had come so far in the space of a night but the road stretched before them, awash with terror and the unknown. Lothlorien loomed ahead, beckoning them on with the promise of sanctuary and respite even as Orcs and the forces of Saruman nipped at their heels. He found himself suddenly longing for the scent of oak and spruce, the sound of leaves whispering their secrets to those who would listen. Long had it been since he'd left Mirkwood and there were few places along the way to rival the Great Wood. Perhaps when this was over, he would take Frodo there, walk with him through dell and stream verdant and lush with spring. He could show his lover the dark places where few, save the Wood Elves walked and the deep glades hidden from view by the twistings of ancient trees. His people would offer the Hobbit a royal welcome, far better than they'd shown Bilbo in the past. He started to mention it when the near dead weight and faint snores told him that during his musings, Frodo had nodded off. Pressing a kiss to his head, Legolas lay back, hands strolling across the Ring-bearer's skin. ‘Tomorrow,’ he thought, ‘I'll tell him tomorrow. ‘

***End.