Chapter Text
It was on another glorious day that Legolas Thranduilion found himself wandering through the maze of paths that connected the many various parts of Imladris. There was a mildness to the air; neither too warm, nor too cold and the great broad-leaved trees lent a dappled shade to his eyes despite the lack of clouds to obscure the sun still high overhead.
His golden hair lay limply over his shoulders, still damp from the bath he had taken after the morning’s swordplay and not yet ready to be braided. He had acquitted himself well but was very much aware of a lingering soreness in his back, shoulders and arms. One did not challenge the mighty Glorfindel and expect to get away with it unscathed!
Abruptly he altered course and followed a path to his right that appeared less well travelled, if the weeds poking through the walkway were anything to go by. Today he wanted to send some time alone.
He had no real destination in mind, unless you could count the sorting of one’s feelings into a clear and decisive course of action as a destination and, really, that was the kind of complicated thinking that had led him out here in the first place. Although, to be honest, he wasn’t exactly sure where ‘here’ was, save that it was nowhere near where anyone might think to look for him. He frowned at the inward spiral his thinking was taking and forced his mind back to the issue at hand.
It was not lightly that Thranduil, his father, had sent him to Lord Elrond’s beautiful lands. Every able-bodied warrior was needed in his native Greenwood, for the darkness that threatened its borders was growing ever stronger. Attacks by both orcs and spiders were now so commonplace that travelling between the two realms had required twice the escort than his previous visit only a hundred years prior.
He was glad to have come, however. A few months under Elrond’s roof would be a welcome respite before having to head home. Here he could let go; there was no need for him to stay at battle-ready alertness, constantly waiting for the next attack and heading out day after day to fight.
And yet, even though he finally had a chance to enjoy other pursuits, he was instead spending his time in the training grounds, practising archery and sparring with the guards that accompanied him. It was as though none of the Greenwood elves remembered how to relax.
He did enjoy the company of Elrond’s twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir. They were excellent sparring partners, admirable in both technique and experience, though their methods were… different. They flung themselves into a melee with gleeful chaos; a stark contrast to the grim fluidity of his own style. He could not fault them for their enthusiasm; the twins were young, and did not yet feel the weight of their people’s survival on their shoulders.
In the midst of this contemplation, an odd noise interrupted his thoughts and he paused, glancing about. It sounded like scratching, like stone against stone. It stopped and started at frequent intervals. Long scratches, short scratches, a pause, and then a flurry of scraping accompanied by muttering. It sounded out of place here, where the very edges of Imladris met wild woodland.
Intrigued, Legolas followed the strange sound to its source. The path opened up into a small, round garden of sorts. Around its circumference stood several pale columns, maybe two heads taller than himself, connected by ivy- and honeysuckle-strewn lintels.
All this he had noticed in an instant but it was not the setting that had caught his attention.
A lone elf sat sideways upon a curved stone bench, his back resting against one of the pillars. Long, dark hair obscured his features just as his loose grey robes concealed his form, pooling over the edges of the bench. It made him seem very small; he must be very young. His knees were drawn up to form a rest for the several pieces of paper he was furiously scribbling on.
It was a peaceful scene. Innocent. Legolas was truly surprised he had been able to get so close to this stranger without having been noticed, even though he had moved to stand out in the open and was now staring directly at him.
What sort of elf has this sort of life, where he feels so safe that he need not be constantly watchful? What must that be like? He needed to know.
“What is it you are writing that has you so engrossed, I wonder?”
Though softly spoken, his words pierced the quiet of the garden as if he had shouted them. Long, silken hair whipped round with a cry of surprise and the quill fluttered to the ground. Dark, startled eyes fastened onto his own, wide and flustered. This was no youngster, Legolas realised, somewhat embarrassed at having thought so in the first place. His eyes were honest yet held a depth of knowledge only experience could bring. No, he was not a youth, but neither was he ancient. The elf before him was incredibly, well, petite. There was no other word for it.
He watched, entranced, as the dark hair settled into place, a few errant strands clinging to perfect cheekbones, which were currently flushed with colour. One delicate hand fluttered nervously as it suddenly found itself devoid of the writing implement it had previously held.
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Legolas continued, though in reality he wasn’t sorry in the slightest. He’d rather liked the reaction he’d gotten from this mysterious stranger, but he was nothing if not well-mannered.
“No. I mean, it’s alright. You surprised me.” The stranger flushed and looked away, his eyes darting towards the quill resting on the ground. He leaned forward to retrieve it. “Not many come this way anymore. I’m used to having this garden to myself.”
Legolas didn’t answer. He was riveted. As the writer had moved forward out of the shade, his hair had caught a shaft of sunlight and it glowed! It was not black as he had originally thought but a deep, dark shade of reddish-brown. It made him feel warm from the inside out.
Ai, Elbereth! How is everything in Imladris so beautiful?
“Melpomaen.”
A flicker of confusion crossed Legolas's face.
“My name,” the stranger said, uncertainly gesturing to himself. “Melpomaen.” He seemed to be waiting for something. At that moment Legolas realised he had been standing there staring appreciatively at the poor thing for some time. He jolted into motion rather ungracefully and crossed the courtyard to take a seat at the other end of the bench, forcing a practised mask of casual indifference into place.
“Mae govannen, Melpomaen, though you have answered a different question to the one I asked.”
Apparently, this was not the response Melpomaen was expecting, as Legolas was rewarded with a bemused look.
“I’m writing a poem.” Melpomaen met the wood-elf’s gaze, challenging him to make something of it. There was a moment’s pause as the two considered one another, broken when Legolas gestured towards the parchment.
“Will you read it to me?”
Melpomaen hesitated, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. Legolas began to wonder if he had asked too much, but then his reluctant companion seemed to gather himself. Melpomaen took a deep breath and started to recite:
“The withered trees of yore are watching
Leaves are turning in the wind
Hear the weeping willow grieving
How her children must have sinned …”
Legolas felt his eyes widening. While it was true he preferred more physical pursuits such as riding and archery he was, nonetheless, a prince of his land and required to be well-read in the more scholarly arts of music, history and literature. He had studied the various forms of poetry; the use of rhythm and rhyme, assonance and alliteration, metaphor and simile, but this… the verse that had just been delivered had to be, without a doubt, the worst he had ever heard in his entire life. He wasn’t entirely sure how to react. Melpomaen glanced up at him nervously as he continued:
“Brok’n by the leafy bough-age
Sunlight falls on last attempt
Shining on the deep’ning lovers
Clasped hands show what once was meant”
Legolas felt his lips quirk of their own accord and gripped the edge of the bench tightly, forcing himself to concentrate on the bite of gritty stone into his palm. He desperately struggled to maintain his composure as the would-be poet eagerly pressed on, those dark eyes shining with a strange anticipation.
“Darkly now the moon regards them
Sitting on that verdant shore
Joined by a silvered …”
Legolas snorted. He couldn’t help it. His hand flew to his mouth as he valiantly sought to retain self-control, but a snicker escaped through his fingers. His eyes screwed up and then he was lost, laughter bursting from his lips.
“Oh, Melpomaen… Forgive me,” he managed to choke out. “It’s just… I don’t…”
Melpomaen was staring at Legolas incredulously.
“Tell me,” he breathed, and the tone was so strange, so full of need and hope, that Legolas found his bout of mirth receding. Guilt set in and he opened his eyes to look at his companion awkwardly. He faltered, unsure of what to say, for there was no feigning praises now; the little scholar would surely see through them. Legolas heaved a regretful sigh.
“To be honest with you, I think that was the most dreadful poem I have ever heard.”
Melpomaen gasped and drew back, and Legolas dipped his head sadly. What a shame, to have driven away this beauty so soon. He was completely unprepared, therefore, for the quiet laughter that floated to his ears. It was at once happy and sad, and ended in a contented little sigh.
Legolas snapped his gaze back up in disbelief to find Melpomaen smiling gently at him.
“Thank you.”
“umm…” came his rather inarticulate rejoinder.
“I have waited a long time for someone to say that to me,” Melpomaen explained apologetically to his bewildered companion.
“You have?” Legolas was dumbfounded. “May I ask why?”
Melpomaen shuffled his papers into a neat bundle and set them to one side, placing a small stone on top to keep them from the wind. The quill, however, he kept in his grasp, twirling the soft tapered end in his fingers as he thought about his answer.
“I started writing poetry a few years ago. I knew I wasn’t very good, but I had spent hours studying every word written in our library and I was enchanted by the notion that I could one day contribute something to those shelves myself. At first, I tried very hard to write something… beautiful, profound… something that made the reader laugh out loud or weep with sympathy or gasp in horror. I wanted to make people feel.”
Legolas recognised that faraway look of wistful melancholy and felt a sympathetic pang of nostalgia. He’d had dreams too, in his youth.
“It didn’t take very long for me to realise I was never going to achieve that particular ambition; I haven’t the talent. I asked my friends to read my work, to see if they could help me improve, but whenever I showed them what I had written they would say ‘that is very nice, Melpomaen’ or ‘another good attempt, Melpomaen’.”
He laughed, though there was no cheer in it.
“My friends think so little of me. They dare not tell me the truth for fear of hurting my feelings. They think I am fragile. ‘Little Mel’ they call me, when they think I cannot hear them, as if I am an elfling. Even the twins, and I am older than they are! All I want is to be treated like an equal, and that’s why I started to write this… drivel! I wanted to know just how awful my poetry had to become to get someone to tell me the truth - and I have just found out!
“This,” he declared with an impish grin, waving the quill in the general direction of the stack of papers, “is my masterpiece! I shall write no more!”
Legolas wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Let me understand this correctly: you have been deliberately writing nonsense, for years, in the hope that eventually someone would disparage it and insult you.”
Melpomaen nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly.”
“You are mad,” Legolas deadpanned. “I’ve met goblins with more common sense than you! Did it not occur to you to simply confront your friends about it?”
This set the diminutive ellon into a fit of giggling so infectious that Legolas could not help but smile.
“Yes, yes, of course I did that. They were ever so polite about it – and completely evasive. I think it quite funny that it would take one of our wild, woodland cousins to treat me with any modicum of respect,” Melpomaen teased.
“Wild, are we?” Legolas countered affably, while vividly remembering how he had spent the day prior. “I’d rather that than prim and proper like you Noldor! Locking yourselves inside stuffy council chambers on beautiful, sunny days and loitering round corners like giant black effigies of so-called diplomacy.”
“Ah. I see you’ve met Master Erestor. Are you one of the advisors that came with the party from Mirkwood, then?” Melpomaen inquired.
“Something like that.” Legolas made a face, but inwardly he was amused that the other elf did not know his identity. Anonymity was not something he was used to! Perhaps it was the uniform. There were not many reasons a soldier would be required to attend a council session but Legolas despised the formal robes of state that Galion was always trying to get him to wear. No doubt Galion would report everything back to Thranduil the moment they returned! “My father decided I should practise my diplomacy and negotiation skills, since he’s put so much effort into educating me on the matter.”
Melpomaen’s grin was entirely too knowing and sympathetic. “And you’d rather be doing anything but, I take it?”
Legolas caught himself smiling ruefully again. “Adar would be most unhappy to discover that I am so transparent.” He sighed heavily and leaned against the pillar at his back, honeysuckle sweet and rich in the air. Why was it that, even this far away from his father’s presence, he still felt the need to please him? “Do not get me wrong: I greatly desire to become all that is expected of me, but it can feel like a burden, at times. Always I am the one they look to for answers and for leadership. Always I am the one that has to make the hard decisions. Just once I wish…”
“You wish…?” Melpomaen prompted after Legolas trailed off into pensive stillness.
The question brought Legolas out of his wandering thoughts and he blushed lightly, realising what he'd revealed. “It is nothing, really…” he started to withdraw, but Melpomaen leant forward and placed a hand atop one of his. Legolas almost jumped at the contact. People were usually not so forward or familiar with him! He looked up from the warm hand gently squeezing his, and saw only sincerity, and encouragement, in Melpomaen’s soft smile. Legolas knew he shouldn’t say more, but something in that earnest expression made him continue.
“I just wish that, for once, I could enjoy not being in command; that I could take comfort in the fact that someone else is taking responsibility and all I have to do is follow orders.” He paused to brush his hair out of his eyes. How unexpected, that he felt able to open up to this stranger whom he had only just met. Perhaps it was because Melpomaen didn’t know who he was, or perhaps because this pretty little elf had just confessed something equally personal to him. Either way, it felt oddly liberating to be able to articulate these feelings that had plagued him for so long. “That probably makes no sense to you, does it?”
Melpomaen didn’t answer straightaway. He levelled a measuring gaze at the blond elf, until Legolas started to feel a little nervous by the appraisal. Dark brown eyes met brilliant blue and all was quiet.
Valar! Legolas shifted uneasily. What is going on in that head of his?
“No. No, I think it makes perfect sense.” Melpomaen cocked his head slightly to one side, deep in thought. “But do you think you could accept it – going back to being a subordinate now that you’ve tasted authority?”
Legolas cast his gaze skyward. That was a most awkward question to answer! He thought that he would enjoy it, never mind accept it, but how would he know until it happened?
“It is only duty that demands it of me; I would be happier were it otherwise.”
Legolas wasn’t sure what happened next. There was a flurry of sudden movement, a flash of grey and brown rushing towards him, and he startled violently. Belatedly, he tried to bring his arms up to fend off the swift attack, sore muscles protesting, only to stop at the feel of something sharp at his neck.
“Don’t move,” Melpomaen commanded in a low voice.
Legolas froze, alarmed, confused and utterly shocked. Melpomaen filled his vision, pushing him firmly against the pillar at his back. He was intensely aware of a knee pressed dangerously into his groin and the point of Melpomaen’s quill resting against the tender skin of his throat, the feather softly tickling his chin.
“What…?” he exhaled, and then stopped as the attempt at speaking caused the quill to dig deeper, marking him with a thin red line. His assailant wound his free hand into his hair and pulled his head back, exposing his throat. Legolas felt his breath catch at the strange fire that seemed to light Melpomaen’s eyes, and at the smirk directed at him.
“I have a debt to repay,” Melpomaen said, and fell upon him, crashing against his lips in a heated, demanding kiss. Legolas immediately stiffened and tried to draw back, but there was nowhere to go. Trapped between razor-sharp tip and cold, hard stone he had no choice but to capitulate to Melpomaen demands.
No, that was a lie, Legolas realised; he had a choice. This little elf was no fighter; he could easily push him away… why wasn’t he pushing him away?
A muffled yelp escaped him as Melpomaen’s hand clutched the back of his neck, pulling him in deeper, and Legolas drew a shuddering breath. His thoughts reeled, flitting from touch to taste, from defiance to desire and everything between. He shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t…
But his lips parted easily and he welcomed the tongue that darted past his defences, and the taste of apples, sharp and fresh. He welcomed the firm hand holding him in place. He welcomed Melpomaen’s scent, of parchment and ink and apples. The world disappeared around him; there was only apples and honeysuckle and all things sweet…
…all things sweet?
The eyes that Legolas had not even realised he’d closed snapped back open.
What was he doing, returning this kiss?
He tensed again and Melpomaen lurched abruptly backwards, breathing heavily, to retake his seat on the bench. Legolas all but flew to his feet, stumbling a good few paces distance. The two stared at each other: Legolas’ flustered and incredulous stare fixed on a rather self-satisfied Melpomaen.
“What…” he managed to get out. How dare this… this Noldo assault his person like that! As soon as he recovered, he was certain he’d be very angry!
Melpomaen giggled, and it was a giggle, for all that it was low and breathy and entirely masculine. “I hope you don’t mind. From the way you looked at me when you first saw me, it’s clear you were interested, and this seemed like a good way to repay you.”
“What?” Legolas found all his usual eloquence deserting him today. “Repay me for what?”
“For insulting me, of course. You fulfilled my dreams so I wanted to try and do the same for you - to put you in a position where you had no control, no authority, even if only for a moment. I hope it was enough.”
Legolas gawked. Melpomaen must be mad: utterly and completely mad. At what point exactly had he said ‘ravage me by quill-point, please’? He touched his lips, finding them slightly swollen from Melpomaen’s less than tender ministrations.
I wish that just once I could enjoy not being in command, that I could take comfort in the fact that someone else is taking responsibility and all I have to do is follow orders…
His earlier confession echoed in his mind. That was what Melpomaen tried to accomplish? That was his attempt to take the burdens of duty from him - by assuming command over him?
The memory of Melpomaen’s passion sent a shiver up his spine. He’d been completely taken in by this strange elf. He’d seemed so innocent, so obviously harmless – who would have thought that such a wicked libertine simmered below that innocuous surface? Legolas shifted uncomfortably as he unexpectedly found himself growing aroused. His dilated pupils found Melpomaen waiting for his answer.
“No,” Legolas said with certainty, though his was tone filled with wonder, “it was not enough.”