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He has been quiet since he arrived.
Unexpectedly, alone, and in haste.
It is not my place to ask, not my place to say – what ails you, my sweet prince, what has happened to send you running like this?
How can I comfort you?
What would you have from me?
Never my place to say such things – and less than ever now.
I watch, and I wait, and I listen.
No, he had not sent word, it is not that we are ill-prepared.
No, he did not stop and has no news of Gondor, and certainly not of the Men of Ithilien.
No, he does not plan to leave again soon.
No, there are no belongings to be dealt with – he is not a mortal, he is Thranduilion, if he chooses to abandon his goods, who are we to question him?
Yes, his horse is indeed tired and in need of care.
No, there are none like to arrive, no Finrusc, not even the lord Gimli.
And I must speak, distract attention from the tremble in his voice.
There is music, singing, as there is always music and singing here in elven-Ithilien.
He does not sing, not above a whisper.
He does not join the dancers – and this in itself is nothing new – but he barely watches, stares only into the fire.
I do not know what has happened.
But I fear for my sweet prince.
When combs come out, I notice he is far from me.
He is careful to stay away.
I do not ask why – it is not my place to ask.
But something in me aches that he will not come to me for comfort.
Days pass, and – and my prince begins to look himself again.
He stands taller, holds himself more proudly.
But still he avoids my comb.
A messenger comes from the Men of Ithilien, and, by chance, I am elsewhere.
Legolas, lord of Ithilien, deals with the matter, and only mentions it later that evening.
I smile to see him so in control.
My friend Meieriel waits until he is laughing, playing with the elflings – it is good to see elflings here, it gives me hope that this is not all work in vain – she leans close to me, and says,
“There was no need for that messenger. He was here only to see the prince – just to see him, to know he is here.”
We exchange looks, and I know she suspects as I do.
But it is not our place to ask.
That night, for the first time, he sits near me, he wishes my hands in his hair.
For an instant, when he leans into me, I wonder – but it is not my place to ask.
Long ago, I told myself – if he truly wants me – wants this combing to be between us, he and I, let him ask.
He is no elfling, but doubtful as he has always been, I will not move, will not speak to charm him – let him choose, full aware of what he does.
If this is to be – at last, at last, after so long – then let him speak.
He does not.
We comb only within the group.
I must be patient longer yet.
The season turns, and a letter comes.
A letter for the prince – a letter he does not share.
I see it is written in dwarven runes, and I look away.
I do not pick it up when he throws it to the ground.
He retrieves it soon enough.
I see him write an answer, but it is short, and unsealed.
Even so, I do not read it.
I will not read that he does not show me.
And it is not my place to ask.
Winter draws on, and now – now the dwarf comes.
We offer him courtesy, as is right.
But no more than courtesy.
He wishes to speak with my sweet prince, and I – I must be controlled, and calm, and bland, when I say that the prince is not in this part of the woods.
“He will be informed of your arrival,” I say, “and indeed of the duration of your stay, if you can tell me. As for whether he will grant you audience; that is not in my power to predict. He is Thranduilion, and we but his elves. We are not privy to his thoughts.”
And I bow, meaningless, and smooth.
I do not smile my satisfaction at the discomfiture of the dwarf.
But it is several days until my prince sees fit to have speech with him.
I am proud of him, my sweet prince.
For the first time, I think, he is every inch his father’s son.
After so many years of using the name, Thranduilion he truly is.
He sweeps in to the clearing, he moves with grace and beauty, he is perfection, controlled and cold in his speech, in his gestures.
I see the tremor in his finger, the twitch, very slight, of one ear-tip, and I know what this effort is costing him.
The dwarf leaves, not one word said that any could not overhear, not one touch exchanged.
My prince finds it necessary to be elsewhere when the lord Gimli departs, but I – I see him mount his pony, and sigh.
I see the tear in his eye.
I bid him good speed, and he looks at me, as though he has never seen me before, as though he will never see me again, and says,
“Take care of him, elf. And – pity a foolish dwarf who let the greatest treasure he was ever offered slip out of his reach through his own stupidity and greed.”
I incline my head,
“I have ever cared for my prince,” I say, “as do we all.”
I ignore the second part of his speech, for what answer is there to that?
He looks at me again,
“One day,” he says, “one sunny day, you will fall in love, master elf, and then – then you will begin to know what pain can be.”
He rides away, and I smile to myself.
You are several hundred years late with that news, master dwarf, I think.
Long it is that I have loved Thranduilion, lived to serve Thranduilion, and been but half-seen by Thranduilion.
But today, I am proud of him.
Winter ends, and spring is come.
All the world seems full of light, and the scent of growing things, of the song of bird and flower, the joy and laughter of elves.
It is the season when the minds of many turn to choosing a combmate – for the season only, or sometimes for more.
It is the season when those who are married consider an elfling.
I am still unwed, and it seems with every year less likely to come to pass.
However, long have I said I am content to comb and move on – and this year, there are several who have – made it known to me – that they desire my comb.
One evening, the wine flows, and my prince is sat beside me.
He leans on his arm, he looks up at me, his eyes wide and blue.
“Caradhil,” he asks, “what think you of – of elves who vow to – who marry mortals?”
For a moment, I feel a chill, thinking of that dwarf. But no matter, whatever he needs, he must have.
So I swore to myself long ago.
“I think,” I say, “that if it be love – true love – then it is as the Valar will, and we must simply trust they know what they are about.”
He nods, slowly, and I see he has drunk well – but not too well to know what he says. He looks down at the table, and bites his lip, before continuing,
“What of elves who – who thought they loved – but were mistaken?” his fingers play with the wine-cup in front of him, circling its rim, “what of them, Caradhil? What – what do you think might be the outcome? If they – were to come back to one they had wronged?”
I turn in my chair to look at him, beautiful as he ever has been, face aflame, yet turned down so I cannot see his eyes, only the flush of him, the hair falling, gold and perfect.
I want to reach out and touch, I want to trace my finger over that ear-tip that I can see, tantalisingly pinking.
Instead, I wait.
“What – what do you think an elf might say to an elf who – who had thought themselves to love a mortal – but found – the ways of mortals are perfidious, and – and on reflection – found it was not love, but – foolishness?”
I wait.
“What might an elf say – to that foolish elf – when he came back, and – and tried to find words to say – to say that he had been wrong, that what he thought was love was only – the fascination of the peculiar, the rising of heat? That – that he was sorry – and – and would beg for forgiveness from one who – who he had long needed, relied on – and now at last – at last saw clear? One to whom he would now offer his comb?”
He cannot look at me, his hand is clenched, and beneath the table I see the muscle in his thigh jump.
Oh my sweet prince.
At last.
I want to hold his hand, smooth his hair, take him in my arms and say he need never fear, never be alone again.
But this is hardly the place.
Instead, I wait a moment longer, but there is no more, and I see I must answer,
“I think,” I say slowly, “I think it would depend. Much would depend on what was being offered, and asked,” I hesitate, and then, “it would depend on the elf asking, and the elf answering,” and as I see his hand tremble, I add, “it would depend if the elf answering loved the elf who had been mistaken as much – as much as I love you, my sweet, sweet prince,” because, as I swore, whatever he needs from me, he shall have.
And at last, he looks up, his eyes meet mine, and he reaches out, he takes my hand, and – and we leave the table.
Before everyone, we leave the table, and walk away.
I hear Finrusc, it is always Finrusc, speak as we do,
“Well,” he says, “that was quick. It only took – what, two thousand years?”
Sitting in a flet, I look at him, and he at me, and – and I am breathless – as though this were the first time I was to share my comb with another.
He draws out his comb, and I mine, and – and I do not know whether he wishes for formal vows, or timely vows, or what, so I await his lead.
Whatever he needs, he shall have.
“Caradhil-nin,” he says, and blushes at the possessiveness in his voice, even as I smile to hear it at last, “Caradhil-nin, I – I would have this be – forever. And – and – forgive me, but – I would ask – I need – more than combing.”
Whatever he needs, but – I do not understand.
I wrinkle my nose in confusion,
“My sweet prince, my – my Legolas – I would give you forever, but – what more than combing is there?”
He – he hides his face in his hands, and – and now, now at this moment – is this to fail now? Are we simply to sit here in silence, perhaps comb ourselves furtively while we think the other unaware, then walk away tomorrow as though nothing happened? Continue on forever as – not combmates but tied forever?
No.
I will not let that be our fate.
I reach out for him, I gather him to me, I use my comb and my hands, and my voice, to calm him, to tell him how I love him, how he is all to me.
I do not speak words of vowing, not yet.
I ask him again, what is this more of which he speaks, can he not tell me, for I – I would give anything.
It is as well that he sits as he does, his back against my chest, his face hidden beneath the curtain of his falling hair, even as his hands run over my thighs, as he presses himself back against me.
“I – I do not truly know,” he begins, and my heart sinks that he wants something he cannot name, that I do not understand, but then, “I saw – I mean – I believe – when mortals love – they – Caradhil, you know how animals mate, how elves – how elflings are begun?”
Of course I do, I am no Noldor to be unaware of the ways of such things.
“Mortals – when two males – they can – I saw – and it made me want – and – that is why I thought I loved – only it was not love – even as he did not – with any of them – just wanting – but if we love – then surely – surely we could – if you do not think it wrong?”
I stare over his head, wondering what all that meant, and I wait, and he begins to talk, to tell me of what happened, what he saw and felt, and – and I find – a heat, a need, a desire that I never dreamt existed is begun in me.
I hold him tight, pull him back close against me, and – and it seems – I do not want only to stroke his ear, I – I want to kiss, and lick, and – and he shivers and makes a soft little noise of need and homecoming.
“I love you, Caradhil,” he whispers, “I – I always did, had I but known. I – will you – should we say our vows now?”
“You are my sweet prince,” I say, “and you know I have loved you long. Whatever you would have is yours.”
Still in my arms, his head flung back against me now, his eyes shut, he begins to speak, and I – I look up, almost unable to believe that this is real.
Then I find – elf that I am – I see two elflings.
For an instant I am confused, then – then I see they stand in the air, they are not real, only seemings, seemings of something that may come to pass, or may not.
I look again.
Silvan.
Hair red as flame – red as – as mine.
Hand in hand.
A girl, and a younger boy.
They look at me, and I – I know their eyes, I know their faces, I – I can smell the scent of their hair when they come to me for combing, I can hear their song, hear their voices, feel the touch of their hands in mine. I know their weight, how they would sit astride my hip, how their hands would touch my ears, their heads rest on my shoulder, how my hands, my voice would soothe them from the worst terror. My fea knows theirs – and I feel sick with longing, with need.
Legolas speaks his vows to me, and they – they look at me, their eyes pleading, and I – I understand.
How can I do this?
How can I not?
I am silent.
Legolas – my Legolas – my sweet prince – my lord – my everything – the only elfling I ever thought I would have – the one I have so loved, so longed to comfort – the one I have waited for these many centuries – shifts in my arms, and looks up at me,
“Caradhil?” he asks, and I hear the note of fear, the fear of rejection, rejection he has felt so many times, “Caradhil – have I – are you shocked? Do you – no longer want me?”
How can I do this?
How can I not?
I look at the elflings – at my elflings – and I cannot understand how they could ever come to be, whom I could love – but it matters not.
I look at them, and I ache, but – they are not real, I cannot know whether this is something that could ever truly come to pass.
This – this in my arms – he is real, and I love him.
I close my eyes, and when I look again, they have turned away.
I begin to speak, to say my vows, and watch as they seem to walk away from me, far, far away.
I hold my prince tight in my arms, and finish my words.
They vanish among the trees, and I pray silently that Yavanna will send them to another, to one who can rejoice in them.
Legolas turns, and – and combs are not needed now.
Now it is mouths, and hands, and heat, and desire. Now it is urgent and there is no time to think, no time at all, nothing but tearing away clothes, and touching and – and these strange open-mouthed kisses, this need to know every part of him, to explore and – and discover things I – I never dreamt. Tasting, learning, loving, adoring, pleasing, crying out, and holding safe, safe at last.
Elves that we are, anything that is possible, we can do; our bodies falling into harmony as perfectly as our songs.
It lasts longer than I would ever have thought, had I ever considered such a happening.
He – my sweet prince – he is worthy of the name Thranduilion, as kingly and perfect in this as in all else, yet – as the night passes, he clings to me, and shudders, and I – I hold him as this feeling crashes over us. This feeling which is, I imagine, like to the waves of the Sea, the Sea I have never, will never, set eyes on, commands us, again and again, until I am broken and made anew for him, even as he for me.
And when he at last falls into reverie, I lie awake a long time, wondering if I made the right choice, wondering if I truly can hold down the pain that threatens to overwhelm me, if I can keep silent forever, never tell him what I have given up.
If I really can live only for him, for the rest of my days – forever.
Then I look at him, at his sweet face, his eyes, his hair. I let myself remember those elflings once more, and then I bid them farewell.
I will not hurt him with reproach.
I will hold him close, love him as he deserves, as he desires, as he needs.
This is my place, here, by his side, protecting him, loving him.
Whatever he wants from me, he shall have.
I am Caradhil.
This, I can do.
.