Chapter Text
Two hundred years was a long time for the world to notice an absence.
At first, no one remarked upon it. Elrohir had always wandered. He and his brother were known upon many roads and in many halls, their comings and goings as fluid as the rivers they loved. That he did not return to Imladris after the matter of Maerûl and the long healing that followed was understood, even expected. Time was required. The wounds had been deep, of flesh and of trust alike.
Then decades passed.
The sons of Elrond were still seen, but unevenly. Elladan returned often enough, alone or with Arwen, bringing news, laughter, and the easy continuity of presence that soothed questions before they fully formed. Elrohir did not. When asked, Elladan answered lightly. When pressed, he answered less so, his tone sharpening into something unmistakably final, as though the matter were not open for discussion and never had been. Arwen smiled and said nothing at all, which in Imladris was often more decisive than argument.
And Legolas, Prince of Greenwood, did not come.
It was not spoken aloud, not in any hall where Elrond might hear. His will in this matter was known. He had named Legolas a high lord of Imladris, beloved of the realm for his valor, his suffering, and most of all for being Elrohir’s chosen husband. To question Legolas openly was to risk questioning Elrond himself, and few were willing to tread that ground.
But old thoughts do not require voices.
Some wondered if the Woodland Prince had taken more than a husband from Imladris. Others murmured that the sons of the Peredhel had always been too willing to stand apart, too inclined to choose their own course rather than submit to expectation, and that Elrohir’s absence was merely the inevitable outcome of such defiance. It was said quietly, with careful smiles and impeccable courtesy, as though lineage and love could be weighed and found wanting without ever being named.
The prejudice had not died. It had simply learned discretion.
Elrohir knew this. He had always known it.
That knowledge had shaped the last two centuries of his life as surely as love had.
He had made a home instead in the spaces between realms.
Greenwood first, growing darker and more watchful with the years, yet still fiercely alive beneath the Elvenking’s steady hand. The forest had changed its name and its temper, but not its loyalty. Beneath its shadowed boughs, Legolas was never a stranger. The trees bent toward him as they always had, and the folk of the Wood followed his voice without question. Elrohir learned there what it meant to belong to a place that did not ask you to justify your presence.
Then Lórien.
There, Legolas was beloved.
Not merely welcomed, but cherished with a warmth that surprised even Elrohir at first. Celeborn’s courtesy held the weight of deep approval, given without ceremony. Galadriel’s regard was something else entirely. She spoiled Legolas in small, deliberate ways: a hand resting at his shoulder as they walked the terraces, a place set beside her in quiet counsel, gifts chosen with an intimacy that spoke of understanding rather than indulgence. At times she looked upon him with an expression that caught Elrohir off guard, sorrow braided tightly with pride, as though she beheld not only who Legolas was, but who he would yet be called upon to become. She never spoke of it. Elrohir never asked. Some silences, he sensed, were not meant to be broken.
Between those havens, there were the long roads of Arda.
Elrohir took Legolas everywhere. Not as escort, nor as shield, but as companion and equal. He showed him the hidden passes of the Misty Mountains, the old watch-roads of Arnor, the wide, wind-scoured plains where Men were still learning how to belong to the land beneath their feet. They rode through kingdoms rising and kingdoms fading, through ruins half-swallowed by time and halls newly raised in hope. Where danger followed, they met it together. Orcs learned to fear the sound of their approach. Dark things that lingered too long upon the roads were driven back into shadow.
They had been happy. Quietly, enduringly so.
Marriage had not dulled Elrohir’s edge, as some might have expected. It had reshaped it. He learned patience not from counsel or command, but from watching Legolas kneel to examine a broken leaf as though it were a thing of consequence, or halt mid-journey because a bird’s song had shifted in grief. He learned humility from realizing how much of the world he had passed through without ever truly seeing it. And, to his own continued astonishment, he learned that love did not settle or grow familiar. It deepened. Each day, he discovered he was capable of loving his husband more than he had the day before, and that the knowledge did not frighten him at all.
Legolas, for his part, had grown into himself.
He was not hardened, but steadied. No longer merely Greenwood’s child, yet not fully claimed by the ancient West. The vibrancy remained, the mischief, the unassuming kindness that drew others to him without effort. But there was confidence now, particularly among Men, whose realms and customs no longer unsettled him. Elrohir had taught him war as thoroughly as he knew it, and the roads had provided ample practice. Legolas moved with the assurance of one who had faced darkness and learned he could survive it. To Elrohir’s mingled pride and dismay, he had even begun to speak in riddles on occasion, words turning in upon themselves with an unsettling echo of the Noldorin lords of old. Elrohir teased him mercilessly for it, and Legolas only laughed, unrepentant.
Legolas had also gained a brother and a sister.
Elladan’s affection was blunt, irreverent, and unwavering, expressed in shared laughter, sparring matches, and the easy cruelty of teasing that never cut too deep. Arwen’s love carried warmth and steel in equal measure, fierce in its protection and generous in its joy. With them, Legolas learned the comfort of being argued with, laughed at, and loved all at once. For an only child, these bonds were treasures beyond price, and he guarded them with the same quiet devotion he gave to all things he held dear.
There was only one place Legolas did not ask to go.
He never spoke it aloud. He never needed to. Legolas was too respectful to name old wounds, too generous to give voice to past unkindness. He did not speak of the stone halls where he had once been measured and found wanting, nor of the glances that lingered too long, the lowered voices of Noldorin soldiers who traveled with Elladan or Arwen and forgot, for a moment, that Legolas could hear them. He answered courtesy with courtesy, silence with grace, and never once spoke ill of Imladris or of those who had failed him.
Elrohir noticed everything anyway.
He corrected sharp tongues when he heard them, his rebukes swift and unyielding. He made it clear, without ambiguity, that Legolas stood beyond question. But he also knew his husband well enough to understand that Legolas saw far more than he ever revealed, and that kindness did not mean ignorance. It meant restraint. Elrohir did not ask him to return to a place that required such restraint of him.
And Legolas never asked.
Until the letter came.
Elrond’s hand was unmistakable, even after centuries. The script was steady, the words few, measured, and heavy with all that remained unsaid. It was a request, not a command. A reminder, not a rebuke. Home, it said. Come home. Elrohir found, to his quiet surprise, that the word still carried weight. The years had not been easy between him and his father, but they had softened what once had been rigid. Distance had allowed understanding to grow where closeness had failed. He had begun to miss him.
They were in Rohan then, still young by any reckoning, watching Men raise something fragile and defiant beneath a wide, open sky. Barely more than a century had passed since the kingdom’s founding, and already it strained toward permanence with a boldness Elrohir found both admirable and familiar. He folded the letter and said nothing for a long while.
Legolas did not press him.
Some decisions, Elrohir knew, could not be hurried.
Now the road curved, and the world began to change.
The air lightened first, thinning in a way Legolas felt in his lungs before his mind named it. Sound shifted with it. Hoofbeats softened. The wind carried water on its breath. The trees drew back, not in fear but in courtesy, as though making room for an old memory returning along a path it had not walked in centuries.
Legolas straightened in his saddle, gaze lifting toward the rise ahead.
“Imladris,” he said softly.
Elrohir did not answer at once. His eyes had fixed on the valley where the land dipped inward, where the sound of running water threaded faintly through the air like a remembered voice. Two hundred years earlier, he had sworn never to bring Legolas back here unless the world itself had learned how to hold him more gently.
The world, it seemed, had learned very little.
“We are close,” Elrohir said at last.
Legolas inclined his head in acknowledgment. There was no fear in him, but Elrohir knew better than to mistake calm for ease. He could see it in the stillness of Legolas’s posture, in the way his hands rested a fraction too carefully on the reins. Hesitation lived there, quiet and unspoken, tempered by trust and long practice at carrying such things without complaint.
“We will not stay,” Elrohir added, his voice steady, already setting the boundary as he always did. “Not unless you wish it.”
Legolas turned toward him then, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small, familiar smile. He reached across the space between their horses, fingers brushing Elrohir’s wrist, a brief, grounding touch that needed no balance to sustain it.
“I trust you,” he said.
The valley opened before them, mist curling over stone and water, unchanged and yet not, waiting with the patience of a place that remembered everything.
Together, they rode on.
They had not gone far when Elrohir felt the shift.
It was not the sound of riders so much as the sudden absence of birdsong ahead, the way the forest’s awareness seemed to turn inward upon itself. He lifted a hand, and both horses slowed at once, hooves softening as shapes resolved between the trees. Cloaks blended seamlessly with bark and shadow, movements measured and assured.
An Imladris patrol, exactly where one would expect it to be.
They emerged without haste. Bows remained unraised, blades at rest, yet nothing about them suggested ease. Vigilance clung to them as naturally as breath.
At their head rode Arvenion.
He drew rein sharply the moment he truly saw them.
For a heartbeat, his expression was one of pure assessment, honed and professional. Then recognition struck, swift and unmistakable. He dismounted at once, inclining his head with formal precision, one hand crossing his chest.
“My lord Elrohir,” he said, voice steady, carrying no surprise but unmistakable deference.
Elrohir swung down from his horse in reply, boots meeting the ground with practiced ease. Legolas dismounted a breath later, movements smooth and unremarkable, as though this were any other road and not the threshold of a place that remembered far too much.
“Arvenion,” Elrohir said, clasping the commander’s forearm briefly. “You keep the borders well.”
“As we have been taught,” Arvenion replied, a faint, genuine smile touching his mouth. Then, after the slightest pause, “It has been some time since you last graced these lands.”
There was no reproach in it. Only truth, set plainly between them.
Legolas stood just behind and to Elrohir’s right, posture at ease, hands folded loosely before him. Arvenion’s gaze shifted, and when it settled on him, his courtesy did not falter. He inclined his head again, as formally as before.
“Prince Legolas.”
Legolas returned the bow, precise and serene. “Commander.”
For a moment, Arvenion studied him, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the quiet poetry of the Noldor.
“It seems,” he said, “that even after centuries, the green of Imladris remembers you. The valley breathes a little deeper for your presence.”
Legolas blinked, then smiled, warmth and humility softening his features. “You are kind to say so, my lord.”
Elrohir shot Arvenion a pointed look, sharp enough to be unmistakable.
Arvenion’s smile deepened, just slightly.
Behind him, the rest of the patrol waited.
Some of the Noldor looked at Legolas then. Not openly. Not with anything that could be named or challenged. Their expressions were carefully neutral, their regard measured. Yet the judgment lingered all the same, unspoken but shared, as though two centuries of absence had been silently weighed and laid at his feet.
Legolas saw it.
He always did.
He lowered his gaze a fraction, not in submission, nor in fear, but in deliberate restraint. Peace, once fractured, was not easily repaired, and he had no wish to mar Elrohir’s return with discord born of pride. He let the moment pass without giving it voice.
Elrohir did not miss it.
Something in him settled, firm and unmistakable, a quiet assertion of presence that required no words. The boundary had been drawn. Whether they perceived it or not was no longer his concern.
Arvenion, perceptive as ever, said nothing of what he had surely noticed.
“If you will come with us,” he said instead, gesturing toward the road ahead, “Lord Elrond will wish to know you have arrived.” Then, his gaze flicked back to Legolas, amusement threading his tone. “Lady Arwen, in particular, has been…most expressive in her anticipation for you, your grace. She has sighed often enough that the halls have begun to take note.”
Legolas laughed softly, the sound bright and unguarded. “I would not have thought her patience so easily tried.”
Elrohir arched a brow. “Strange,” he said dryly. “She never sighs like that for me.”
Arvenion’s smile turned openly amused as they remounted, the patrol falling into step around them, and the road into Imladris carried on beneath their horses’ hooves, quiet, watchful, and heavy with all that had yet to be said.
The path narrowed as it descended, winding inward toward the heart of the valley.
Legolas knew it before he saw it. The land remembered him.
The slope fell away at the same angle, the stones set too close together, the roots breaking through the soil in the same cruel places. The air even smelled the same: water, old leaves, and cold stone. His hands tightened on the reins before he was aware of the motion, breath catching just slightly, as though his body had reached back in time without asking his leave.
This was the road.
Here, once, his feet had not touched the earth at all.
The memory came not as images, but as sensation. The brutal pull at his wrists, rope biting deep into skin already numb with cold. The way his shoulders had burned as his arms were dragged forward, joints wrenched until the world narrowed to pain and motion. Stone and root tearing past beneath him, the ground striking his knees and ribs when the horse stumbled and did not slow. Breath ripped from his lungs, again and again, until even the act of breathing felt like defiance.
Dust in his mouth. Blood on his tongue.
And always the sound of hooves ahead of him, relentless, uncaring.
Elrohir’s horse.
Legolas did not stumble now. He did not falter. He rode as he always did, back straight, gaze forward, the picture of calm. He had learned long ago how to carry memory without letting it claim his face. He would not shame Elrohir with it. He would not disturb the fragile peace of this return.
But the past does not require permission.
Elrohir felt it all the same.
It was not one thing, not a single sign. It was the way Legolas’s shoulders stilled, as though bracing against a blow that never came. The careful control with which he loosened his grip on the reins, as if afraid of what his hands might remember. The silence that settled around him, deeper than before, weighted with something old.
Elrohir’s horse drifted closer, guided more by instinct than intent. He reached across the narrow space between them and took Legolas’s hand, warm and solid, anchoring him firmly in the present. His thumb pressed into Legolas’s palm, a steady, grounding pressure.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, voice rough with knowledge.
There was no attempt to soften it. No defense. Only the raw acknowledgement of what had been done, and what could never be undone.
Legolas turned his head then, meeting his eyes. The memory still lingered in him, but it did not rule him. His gaze was clear, steady, unburdened by accusation.
“That was forgiven long ago,” he whispered back, certainty threading every word.
Elrohir closed his fingers around his hand and did not let go as they rode on, down the path that had once broken him, and into a valley that could remember the past all it wished.
They were no longer bound by it.
The courtyard opened before them in pale stone and shadow, its arches catching the afternoon light, its fountains murmuring softly as they always had. Elves had gathered along the edges of the space, not crowding, not pressing close, but present all the same, drawn by word and intuition alike. Cloaks stirred gently in the breeze. Conversations hushed as Elrohir and Legolas crossed the threshold.
At the center stood Elrond.
Time had not altered him in any way that could be named. He remained as he always had been, composed, luminous, and terrible in his gentleness. Yet something in his posture betrayed him now, a stillness held too carefully, as though he were bracing himself against the weight of what this moment carried.
Elladan stood at his side, arms folded loosely, expression tightly controlled. Arwen was there as well, her hands clasped before her, eyes bright with restrained feeling. A little apart stood Glorfindel and Erestor, close enough that their sleeves brushed, their attention keen and knowing, saying nothing.
Elrohir and Legolas dismounted first.
Boots met stone, the sound crisp and unmistakable, echoing faintly across the courtyard. Elrohir stepped forward without hurry, his bearing calm, his face carefully composed. He had crossed battlefields with less preparation than it had taken to cross this distance.
Elrond moved to meet him.
He stopped a pace away.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Elrond’s gaze searched his son’s face, taking in the familiar lines and the changes wrought by years not spent beneath his roof. Elrohir met that gaze steadily, chin lifted, eyes clear, offering neither apology nor defiance, only presence.
“Elrohir,” Elrond said at last.
The name carried more than a greeting. It carried distance, memory, and something perilously close to regret.
Elrond’s hand rose, then hesitated, hovering for the briefest heartbeat before settling upon Elrohir’s shoulder. The touch was careful, restrained, as though asking permission even now.
“I have missed you,” Elrond said quietly.
Elrohir inclined his head, accepting the touch without leaning into it, without stepping away. “I know,” he replied. “And I have thought of you often, Father.”
The words were measured, respectful, and sincere. They did not close the distance between them, but neither did they widen it.
Elrond’s hand withdrew, and his attention shifted.
He turned then to Legolas.
The years had shaped the Woodland Prince in subtle yet undeniable ways. He carried himself with greater assurance now, his presence deepened, steadied, as though the long roads had taught the world how to hold him. Elrond regarded him with the keen perception of one who had seen ages turn and recognized when the passing of time had left something not diminished, but refined.
“Legolas Thranduilion,” Elrond said, warmth entering his voice. “It is said that the years alter all things. Yet you seem to have grown more wholly yourself. Even the valley takes note of it.”
Legolas bowed his head, the gesture precise and unassuming. “You honor me, my lord.”
Elrond reached out then, his fingers brushing Legolas’s cheek with gentle familiarity, the touch brief but deeply intentional. There was sorrow in his eyes, and pride as well, bound so closely together they were nearly indistinguishable. His hand slid from Legolas’s cheek to rest upon his shoulder, steady and public.
“You are welcome here,” Elrond said, clearly and without reservation. “You have always been so.”
The words settled into the courtyard, heard by more than those to whom they were spoken.
And some things, once spoken aloud, could not be taken back.
Arwen did not wait for ceremony.
She stepped past Elrohir without so much as a glance and gathered Legolas into her arms, holding him with a fierceness that startled a laugh from him before she kissed his cheek. Her hands rose to cradle his face, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones as she drew back just enough to look at him properly, as though committing him to memory all over again.
“There you are,” she said softly. “I was beginning to think the world meant to keep you from me.”
Elrohir shifted beside them. Deliberately.
“Dear sister,” he said, dryly, “you appear to have walked past your own brother.”
Arwen did not turn.
“I see you, my brother,” she replied, absentmindedly, her gaze still fixed on Legolas. “And I am very glad you are here.”
Her fingers lingered at Legolas’s temples, her expression intent, searching, as though confirming that he stood before her whole and unchanged in the ways that mattered. Relief softened into affection, then into something quietly fierce.
Elrohir folded his arms. “One might mistake that for enthusiasm,” he remarked.
At that, Elrond released a long, patient sigh, the sound of one deeply accustomed to his children. Elladan laughed outright, bright and unrestrained, the tension in the courtyard loosening at once.
Arwen finally spared Elrohir a glance, one brow lifting in amusement. “Do not sulk,” she said. “You know I am happy to see you.” Then, without apology, her attention returned to Legolas. “But I have missed him dearly.”
Legolas smiled, warmth coloring his cheeks. “And I you, Arwen,” he said, earnest and unguarded.
Elladan stepped forward then and seized Elrohir in a fierce embrace, pulling him close with the ease of long habit, one hand clapping solidly between his shoulders.
“It is good to have my other half where I can see him,” Elladan said, voice thick with affection. “Even if you have not truly been gone.”
Elrohir returned the embrace at once, gripping Elladan’s shoulder with equal strength. “After two and a half millennia,” he said, “I would hope you would notice if I were.”
Elladan grinned. “I always do.”
Laughter lingered among them, soft and genuine, drawing the family closer together again, and for a moment, the weight of years and distance loosened its hold.
Elladan released Elrohir at last and turned fully toward Legolas.
For a heartbeat, he only studied him, head tilting slightly, eyes bright with a familiar, appraising fondness that immediately set Elrohir on edge. Then Elladan smiled, wide and unguarded, and stepped closer.
“You have grown even more beautiful since I last saw you,” he said, tone sincere enough to be disarming and teasing enough to be deliberate.
Before Legolas could answer, Elladan leaned in and kissed his cheek, quick and affectionate, the sort of gesture earned over centuries of shared trust.
“Welcome back, Laiqualassë,” he added warmly.
Elrohir clicked his tongue. “You enjoy provoking me far too much, Elladan.”
Elladan straightened, thoroughly pleased with himself. “I enjoy many things,” he replied lightly. “Honesty among them. And that name unsettles you in the most satisfying way.”
Legolas laughed, soft and genuine, a faint flush warming his cheeks. “It is good to see you,” he said, voice steady, eyes bright. “Both of you.”
Elrohir moved closer without thinking, his presence firm at Legolas’s side. “Are you and Arwen conspiring to steal my husband?” he asked mildly. “Or is this merely an elaborate exercise in testing my restraint?”
Elladan’s grin turned wicked. “I attempted once,” he said cheerfully. “Long ago.”
He glanced at Legolas, expression fond and unapologetic. “Alas, it seems he chose wisely.”
Arwen laughed and slipped an arm around Legolas’s shoulders, resting her cheek briefly against his hair. “I have not conceded defeat,” she said airily. “Hope is a stubborn thing.”
Elrohir sighed, long and theatrical. “I am surrounded by vultures.”
Legolas smiled at them all, unruffled and radiant, leaning easily into the warmth of their affection, perfectly content to be claimed, teased, and loved in equal measure.
Glorfindel and Erestor stepped forward together.
They did not hurry, nor did they linger at the edges. Their presence carried its own assurance, polished by centuries of counsel and battle alike. Glorfindel’s expression was openly pleased, his smile bright and unguarded. Erestor’s was sharper, more measured, his eyes missing very little.
“Elrohir,” Glorfindel said warmly, clasping his forearm in greeting. “You have been missed more than you know.”
“And missed less than you fear,” Erestor added dryly, inclining his head in turn.
Elrohir allowed himself a small smile. “It is good to see you both.”
Glorfindel’s attention turned then to Legolas, his expression openly appreciative. He inclined his head, the courtesy exact and sincere.
“Thranduilion,” he said. “Every century that passes, you grow more luminous. One might think the years themselves are conspiring in your favor.”
Legolas bowed at once, humility instinctive, hands folding neatly before him. “You are gracious, my lord. I am glad to see you well.”
Erestor’s brow lifted, and he cast Glorfindel a pointed look that could have cut glass.
Glorfindel cleared his throat, entirely unrepentant. “Of course,” he added smoothly, “nothing like my dear husband’s radiance. That is an entirely different matter.”
Before Glorfindel could say more, Erestor stepped in, his gaze settling on Legolas with deliberate intent. He studied him for a measured moment, then inclined his head, respect clear in the gesture.
“You carry yourself differently,” Erestor said quietly. “Not altered. Tempered. The road has served you well.”
Legolas met his eyes without hesitation, warmth and seriousness held in balance. “It has taught me much,” he replied. “I am grateful for it.”
Erestor’s mouth curved, just slightly. “As it should.”
Elladan laughed outright. “Careful, Glorfindel,” he said. “You are treading dangerously close to Elrohir’s patience, and that is not a place I recommend.”
Elrohir, who had already fixed Glorfindel with a level stare, inclined his head slightly. “Your caution is well advised.”
Glorfindel only grinned, wholly untroubled. Legolas’s smile lingered, warm and amused, as the last of the greetings settled, and the courtyard breathed again around them.
Elrond spoke then, and the courtyard listened.
“There will be a feast tonight,” he said, his voice carrying easily across the stone and water. “To celebrate the return of my son and his husband, and to welcome them home.”
A restrained murmur followed, approval tempered by formality. At once, servants moved forward from the periphery, efficient and unobtrusive, reaching for reins and packs with practiced hands.
Legolas turned toward them immediately. As his saddlebags were lifted free, he inclined his head in thanks, the gesture modest and sincere.
“You have my gratitude,” he said quietly. “Thank you for your care.”
One servant paused, meeting his gaze. Surprise flickered there, followed by something like warmth. “You are most kind, my lord,” they replied, bowing before moving on.
The others did not respond.
Three continued their work without acknowledgment, eyes fixed on straps and buckles, their silence pointed in its neutrality. A fourth gathered the remaining packs and turned to Elrohir instead.
“These will be taken to your chambers, my lord,” the servant said, already shifting the weight of them in their arms.
Elrohir did not raise his voice.
“Our chambers,” he corrected, calm and precise. “The chambers also belong to my husband.”
The servant halted. A brief pause, then a nod. “Of course,” they said.
They departed then, packs borne away, footsteps receding across the stone.
Legolas said nothing. He merely glanced at Elrohir, something gentle and understanding in his eyes, as though acknowledging not the slight, but the answer to it. Elrohir met the look for a heartbeat, his expression composed, resolute, and unmistakably public.
The courtyard settled again.
Some boundaries, once named, required no further defense.
After a few more exchanges of pleasantries, the gathered company began to drift apart, conversations softening into smaller knots. Elrohir took the moment with quiet certainty. He reached for Legolas’s hand and threaded their fingers together, the gesture unhurried and unmistakably his.
“We will wash and change before the feast,” he said, inclining his head toward the others. “The road has left its mark.”
Elrond nodded, already turning to speak with Erestor. Elladan grinned and waved them off without ceremony. Arwen’s smile followed them as they turned away, knowing and fond.
They had not gone far when Legolas glanced sideways at Elrohir, mischief brightening his eyes.
“Is there some particular reason,” he asked lightly, “that you are so determined to spirit me away?”
Elrohir did not look at him at once. His thumb traced a slow, absent circle over Legolas’s knuckles, the touch grounding and deliberate.
“To wash,” he said, tone perfectly composed.
Legolas hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Naturally.”
Elrohir finally turned his head, meeting his gaze with an expression that had learned patience over centuries and intent just as deep. “Though,” he added quietly, “if you were entertaining other ideas, I would not be inclined to protest.”
Legolas laughed under his breath, leaning closer as they walked. “You grow bold in your own halls.”
Elrohir’s mouth curved faintly. “I am home,” he said. “I see no reason not to enjoy it.”
They walked a little farther in companionable silence, the sound of water and distant voices fading behind them. Legolas’s steps slowed almost imperceptibly. His fingers tightened once around Elrohir’s, then eased.
“Elrohir,” he said quietly.
Elrohir turned at once, attention sharpening, thumb still warm against Legolas’s hand. “What is it?”
Legolas did not look away, but his expression had softened, the teasing replaced by something more careful. “I never meant to keep you from here,” he said. “From your home. From your father.” He hesitated, choosing his words with the same care he gave to everything that mattered. “If my presence made that distance easier for you, then I am glad. But it was never my intention to be the cause of it.”
Elrohir stopped.
He turned fully then, bringing their joined hands between them. His gaze was steady, unyielding in its certainty.
“You did not keep me from anything,” he said. “That choice was mine. Entirely.”
Legolas’s brows drew together faintly. “Even so—”
Elrohir lifted their joined hands slightly, a quiet interruption. “I would not bring you somewhere that cost you comfort,” he said. “Not after everything. Not ever.” His voice softened, but it did not waver. “I saw what you carried, even when you would not name it. I chose the road instead. I chose you.”
Legolas searched his face, as if measuring the truth of it, then exhaled slowly. Some tension he had not realized he held eased from his shoulders.
“I know,” he said at last. “I only wished to say it.”
Elrohir’s expression gentled. He stepped closer, resting his forehead briefly against Legolas’s temple, a familiar, grounding touch.
“You are allowed to say it,” he replied. “And I am allowed to tell you that I would choose the same path again.”
Legolas smiled then, small and genuine, and leaned into him for a heartbeat before they resumed their walk, hands still entwined, the way forward quieter now, and steadier for having been spoken aloud.
Their chambers were quiet when they reached them, the door closing with a soft finality that shut the world outside.
The bathing chamber beyond was already warm, steam curling lazily in the air, water murmuring as it filled the broad stone basin. Elrohir did not give Legolas time to speak. He guided him forward with a hand at his waist, firm and certain, fingers pressing through fabric as though reassuring himself that Legolas was truly here, truly returned to this place that had once hurt him.
Clothing fell away without ceremony, but with deliberate care; tunics lifted over heads, leggings eased down thighs, every brush of fingers lingering, tracing skin as if rediscovering it after too long apart. They knew each other’s bodies as perfectly as their own, yet every touch still carried the thrill of discovery, the quiet wonder of wanting someone so completely that desire never truly slept, only waited.
Naked, they stepped into the water together. Heat enveloped them, sinking deep into muscle and bone, easing the long tension of the road and the subtler weight of return. Elrohir drew Legolas close at once, chest to back, arms wrapping around his waist, mouth finding the sensitive curve where neck met shoulder. He kissed there slowly, open-mouthed, tasting salt and skin, teeth grazing lightly before soothing with his tongue.
Legolas’s breath caught, head falling back against Elrohir’s shoulder, exposing the long line of his throat in silent invitation. Elrohir took it, lips tracing upward to the delicate point of his ear, nipping gently before murmuring his name like a prayer. His hands roamed with reverent hunger, one splayed across Legolas’s stomach, fingers tracing the faint ridges of muscle, the other sliding lower, cupping the heat of him with possessive tenderness.
Legolas arched into the touch, a low, helpless moan vibrating in his throat. He turned in Elrohir’s arms, water sloshing softly, and their mouths met in a deep, unhurried kiss. Tongues stroked slow and deliberate, tasting, claiming, the kiss growing hungrier as hands mapped familiar paths with renewed urgency. Elrohir’s arousal pressed hard against Legolas’s thigh; Legolas answered by rolling his hips, drawing a rough groan from Elrohir that echoed off the stone.
They moved together with the ease of lovers who had learned each other over centuries, yet the fire between them burned as fiercely as the first time. Elrohir backed Legolas against the smooth basin wall, water lapping at their waists, one hand bracing beside Legolas’s head, the other stroking him with slow, firm pulls that made Legolas’s breath fracture into soft cries.
Legolas’s fingers dug into Elrohir’s shoulders, then slid down his back, nails scraping lightly, urging him closer. He wrapped one leg around Elrohir’s hip, opening himself, the invitation unmistakable. Elrohir’s breath stuttered; he reached for the small vial of oil kept always within reach, pouring it over his fingers before pressing one, then two inside Legolas with careful, loving strokes.
Legolas moaned into his mouth, hips rocking forward, taking him deeper. The preparation was thorough, reverent, Elrohir’s fingers curling just so until Legolas was trembling, breath coming in ragged pleas against Elrohir’s lips.
When Elrohir finally guided himself in, the slide was slow, perfect, Legolas’s body yielding with familiar ease. They both groaned at the joining, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling as Elrohir began to move, deep, steady thrusts that built with unhurried intensity, water sloshing around them, steam curling like a veil.
Centuries had not dulled this. If anything, time had made it richer, every thrust a reminder of how perfectly they fit, how deeply they knew each other’s pleasure, how love had turned desire into something sacred and insatiable. Elrohir’s hips snapped forward, harder now, drawing sharp cries from Legolas that echoed softly off the stone. Legolas met him thrust for thrust, legs wrapped tight around his waist, fingers tangled in dark hair, pulling him into kiss after kiss.
Pleasure crested in waves, building until Legolas shattered first, spilling hot between them with a low, broken cry muffled against Elrohir’s mouth. The clenching heat undid Elrohir; he followed moments later, burying himself deep and spilling with a shuddering groan, arms tightening around Legolas as though he could hold him through the very end of the world.
They stayed like that, joined, trembling, breath slowing together in the warm water. Elrohir pressed soft kisses to Legolas’s temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, murmuring quiet words of love that needed no answer.
Later, Legolas emerged from the chambers dressed once more, hair still damp and loose down his back and shoulders, the faint scent of soap and Elrohir clinging to him. His body carried the pleasant ache of their lovemaking, a warmth that settled deep in his limbs and made his steps unhurried.
He smiled to himself as he walked the corridors toward the kitchens, fingers brushing absently at his sleeve, aware of every place Elrohir had left his mark. The world felt quieter somehow, steadier, as though something essential had been reaffirmed.
Light snacks, he thought. Something simple.
He doubted Elrohir would let him stray for long.
The kitchens lay just ahead, warm with lamplight and the steady hum of preparation. The air carried the scent of bread and herbs, comfortingly familiar. Legolas slowed slightly as voices reached him first, low and cultivated, the easy cadence of those accustomed to being heard.
A small knot of Noldorin nobles stood near a side table set with light fare, dark hair catching the glow of the lamps, wine bright in their cups. Their conversation faltered the moment Legolas came into view.
Silence followed.
They did not step aside, nor did they block his path. They simply looked at him, their gazes lingering a moment too long, assessing rather than greeting. The pause itself was deliberate, a courtesy withheld rather than denied.
Legolas inclined his head, courtesy offered without hesitation. “Good day,” he said, voice warm, as though the silence had not existed at all.
A heartbeat passed.
One of the nobles lifted his cup slightly, the motion polished, his expression composed into something that might have been a smile if not for the sharpness beneath it.
“We owe you our thanks, Woodland Prince,” he said. “It is reassuring to see our Lord Elrohir returned to Imladris at last.”
The phrasing was careful. The emphasis quieter still.
Legolas felt it at once, the implication sliding neatly into place. He met the noble’s gaze without challenge, his expression open, his posture relaxed.
“I am glad he is where he wishes to be,” Legolas replied evenly.
The noble’s eyes flickered, the smallest tightening at the corner betraying surprise. He took a sip of wine before answering.
“One hopes,” he said smoothly, “that such absences will not become habitual.”
Legolas inclined his head again, the movement precise and gracious. “My husband has always chosen his own path,” he said. “That has never changed.”
For a moment longer, the silence held, taut and unreadable. Then the nobles turned back to one another, conversation resuming in quieter tones, as though Legolas were already an afterthought.
Legolas continued on, his steps unhurried.
The warmth lingering in his body, the pleasant ache of earlier intimacy, anchored him firmly in himself. Whatever judgment had been offered so carefully, it found no place to settle. He had endured sharper things than courtesy sharpened into blame.
Legolas turned a corner and nearly walked straight into someone emerging from a side passage.
A tray tipped precariously.
Instinct took over. Legolas’s hands came up at once, steadying the edge before porcelain or crystal could shift. For a breath, they stood too close, the scent of wine and warm bread mingling in the air, the tray trembling but safe.
“Please, forgive me,” Legolas said immediately, fingers still braced until he was certain it would not slip. “I was not paying proper attention.”
Lindir let out a quiet laugh, more relief than amusement, and adjusted his grip. “There is nothing at all to forgive, my lord,” he said kindly. “You saved us both from an afternoon of embarrassment.”
Legolas stepped back, allowing space, though his expression remained contrite. “Still, the fault was mine.”
Lindir looked at him then, really looked, and his smile softened into something warmer, more personal. “It is very good to see you, Prince Legolas,” he said. “I wondered if I ever would again.”
Legolas inclined his head, touched by the simplicity of it. “I am glad to be here.”
Lindir shifted the tray carefully against his arm. “I still remember the songs,” he said after a moment, eyes bright with recollection. “The Silvan ones, from your wedding. Only pieces now. The cadence more than the words. They stayed with me longer than I expected.” He hesitated, then added, almost shyly, “If you were willing, perhaps you might teach them to me again. I would like to remember them properly.”
Legolas’s smile grew, genuine and unguarded. “It would be an honor,” he said. “They are meant to be shared.”
Lindir bowed slightly, careful not to disturb his burden. “Then I shall look forward to it.” He stepped aside to continue on his way, warmth lingering in his eyes. “Welcome back, my lord.”
Legolas watched him go for a moment, something gentle settling in his chest, before turning once more toward the kitchens, his steps lighter, his smile still present as he went.
The warmth there wrapped around him, lamplight soft against pale stone, voices low and purposeful as preparations continued for the evening’s feast. Bread was broken, fruit laid out, wine poured, and set aside. Life, uninterrupted. He gathered a small plate with care, thanked those who passed him what he needed, and received nods and quiet smiles in return. Here, there was no weighing glance, no pause that asked him to justify his presence.
When he left again, the corridors felt longer.
The farther he walked from the kitchens, the more the house seemed to remember itself. The sound of water echoed differently here. The arches curved just so. The light shifted as it always had in the late afternoon, pale and reflective, catching on carved stone and polished floors. Legolas slowed without realizing it, awareness settling over him like a second skin.
He was back in Imladris.
Not as a captive. Not as a guest brought in need of healing. But as himself, returned after centuries the valley had not forgotten. He felt its attention the way one feels weather change, subtle and unavoidable. Some places welcomed without question. Others observed, waiting to see what would be proven true.
Legolas carried the quiet ache of his body with him, warm and grounding, a reminder of Elrohir’s hands, of certainty and choice and shelter freely given. It steadied him as the corridors curved and branched, as memories stirred and then settled again.
He did not know what this return would bring.
He did not know which silences would deepen, or which would finally break. Whether old wounds would remain buried, or if some would demand to be seen again now that time had passed and courtesy made room for honesty.
But he knew this much.
He had walked into this place by choice.
Legolas lifted his chin slightly as he neared their chambers, his steps unhurried, his expression composed. Whatever awaited him in Imladris, he would meet it as he was now, not as he had been then.
The door opened, light spilling briefly into the hall before it closed behind him.
And the valley watched, patient as ever.