"And you have my bow…"

"And MY axe!"

...

They would not be leaving until sunrise. Legolas penned a short note to his father.

There was so much he wanted to say—so much he wished he had said before he left Mirkwood. But there was no time now to find the right words. Instead, he rehearsed the bare facts—that the One Ring had been brought to Rivendell; that it must be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom; that the Halfling, Frodo Baggins, a cousin of Bilbo Baggins, had volunteered to take it; that Frodo would, if he were to stand any chance of succeeding, require an escort; that the remainder of the company consisted of Men, Halflings and—Valar help them—a Dwarf; and that his own skill with the bow, and with the knives, would therefore be essential to the success of the quest.

Forgive me, Ada, for accepting this task without consulting you. But the Dark Lord poisons Mirkwood. This may be the way to defeat him.

Legolas

He sat for several long moments, deciding whether to add a final sentence. Then he took up his pen again and wrote:

I love you, Ada.

...

Valandil will deliver this for me, he thought.

He entered the Hall of Fire, looking for his lieutenant.

The Mirkwood elf was standing close to the great fire, watching a young elleth dance in its amber light. The tune was haunting and her movements were slow, intricate, and perfectly graceful. Legolas paused, admiring the lines of her slender body, the drape of her silken gown over the slight swell of her hips...

She turned, their eyes met and lingered; she smiled.

And Legolas, suddenly feeling closely confined and in need of meditation, entrusted his note to Valandil, left the Hall of Fire, and went outside to walk beneath the trees.

...

"Good evening, your Highness." The dancer had sought him out.

Legolas was a young elf, in the prime of his child-fathering years—strong of body, fair of face, and royal of blood—and he had never wanted for a willing mate. And it occurred to him now that his feelings of frustration might just be cured by something other than meditation.

He gave her his most winning smile. "Are you following me?"

"No, my lord! How could you think it?" she replied, but her eyes told him she lied.

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing..." said the dancer, boldly. "Nothing that you have not bestowed on many an elleth before me..."

"And what would that be? A kiss?"

"My lord!" She pretended to be shocked. "A smile."

Legolas laughed.

"But a laugh," she said, "is even better."

"Are you sure there is nothing more I can offer?"

"You are the son of a king," she said, softly, and her sudden loss of confidence was a clear admission of her hopes.

"And you are a very beautiful elleth..." He lifted her chin. "But what is this doing here," he said, playfully, "on your bosom?"

"What is it?" she asked, smiling. "A fallen leaf?"

"No..." Slowly, he slid the straps of her gown down her arms, lowered the offending fabric, and exposed her pretty breasts to his eager touch.

...

This was a game they had both played—with other partners—many times before. He clasped her to his chest, his arms locked around her waist. Her hands, forcing themselves between them, found his lacings and pulled.

"Wait," he gasped.

He drew her out of sight, behind a mighty beech, and stood with his back to its trunk. "Now."

She opened his leggings.

But—whether because of the wine, or his earlier mood of melancholy, he did not know—he was no longer ready for her. And he was uncomfortably aware that his penis was not impressive at rest. He reached down and stroked it. "Here," he said catching her hand and replacing his fingers with hers. "Make me hard."

She was certainly not impressed.

But she was a servant and she did as he asked, with her hand, and then with her mouth. She was no innocent!

Legolas closed his eyes and sank back against the tree, automatically resting his hands on his hips and tilting them upwards. Her touch was light at first—pleasurable. Then, as his body began to respond, and she became more committed to her task, her fingers seem to reach inside him, drawing the blood from his belly and his legs, and from up under his arms, filling him, making him rise, making him grow...

"Oh, your Highness!"

He smiled. They were always surprised. "Come here."

She took his hand and he raised her to her feet.

There was a stone table, covered with fallen leaves, not three yards from where they stood. Devouring her mouth, her neck, her shoulders, he pushed her roughly over it; she pulled up her own gown; and he thrust inside her.

He had never had a mate who moved like she was moving—sometimes meeting his thrusts, sometimes avoiding them, and, all the while, kissing and biting and laughing—and, though they drew it out as best they could, it did not take long.

"Valar," he moaned, "I am going to fill you." He bit down on her neck, trying to hold himself back, but to no avail. "You are safe, little one," he whispered. "My seed will not grow in your womb..."

...

As they walked back to the terrace, he drew one of his white knives, cut a clasp from his tunic, and gave it to her as a keepsake.

For some reason he was sure that he would never lie with her again.