legolas and shadow legolas

Six o’clock in the morning

“Eowyn,” said Legolas, gently, “we have seen the dawn and I must go back to the city. Alatáriël—”

“Lassui...” said Eowyn.

“I hate that nickname—”

“No!” She pointed to the lake. “Lassui!” She sprang to her feet and—crying “Lassui! LASSUI!”—ran to the water’s edge, falling on her knees.

And Legolas gasped as his own exact double slowly crawled from the water, and gathered her into his arms.


On the Caras Arnen road

By dawn, the messenger from Eryn Carantaur was standing beside a small, grassy clearing, about twenty miles beyond the northern tip of the Divor Rocks.

“Ride with all speed to Caras Arnen,” Lord Legolas had told him. “This,”—he had handed Aranwë a sealed dispatch bag— “is for the eyes of Prince Faramir alone.”

I will reach The City on the Hills by nightfall, Aranwë thought. There is time for a brief rest. Avo visto, Gwaloth,” he said to his horse, leading her off the road. “We can take no more than a few moments, so enjoy them.”

He found himself a place to sit, opened up his travelling pack, pulled out his water skin, and took a sip. The leather dispatch bag felt heavy at his hip; the elf patted it absently. Everyone knows, he thought, that Lord Legolas has a weakness for ellith. But Princess Eowyn is a woman. And married! What excuse can he possibly be sending to her husband?

If ever an elf were tempted to break a seal—

Sweet Eru! Aranwë threw himself to the ground and lay in the deep grass, keeping perfectly still, hiding from whatever it was he had just glimpsed running along the forest road.

He could hear no breathing, no footfalls, no rustle of fabric nor clink of metal, but he knew that they were there—small, dark, and moving quickly through the shadows.

An entire army of them.


“Oh, melmenya,” whispered Legolas, “I will never, ever, let you out of my sight again. Never. I swear it.” He hugged her tightly. “Have you been waiting here all this time?”

“No, I—”

“She came to Eryn Carantaur and caused chaos.”

The voice sent a shiver down Legolas’ spine. He raised his eyes, already knowing what he would see, but was still taken aback by the sight of his exact double, bending over a wet and spluttering Hentmirë and rubbing her back soothingly.

“My betrothed is now convinced that I have a human mistress,” said the double.

His betrothed is Alatáriël,” whispered Eowyn. “Everything is different here, Lassui—everything—Haldir is dead.”

Legolas looked to his double for confirmation.

“Yes—I am sorry, mellon nín,” said the other elf. “But we can talk later,”—he summoned the horses—“we must get you and your companions back to the city.” He smiled down at Hentmirë. “Do you think you are recovered enough to ride now, híril nín?”


Cautiously, Aranwë raised his head, and peered across the clearing.

The dark army had passed without detecting him—he could sense no one lying in wait—but he felt for his bow and prepared himself to use it, before he risked rising to his knees.

Nothing happened.

Keeping low, he crossed the grass and crouched on the road, examining its surface with sharp eyes and sensitive fingers. Dear Valar, he thought, had I not seen them I would have sworn that no one had passed this way for days!

What should he do now? Return home to warn Prince Legolas?

No, he thought. The army was moving north, towards Caras Arnen, and running swiftly.

He raised his fingers to his mouth and whistled like a bird and, moments later, Gwaloth emerged from the trees and trotted to his side. Aranwë patted her neck. “Clever girl, hiding in the forest,” he whispered. “I shall do the same—keep to the west, take the old sheep-herder’s track up to Emyn Arnen, and warn Prince Faramir before the dark army attacks.”



“I trust that this will not take long,” said Legolas, following his double across the lobby. “Eowyn may wake at any moment, and I do not want her to find herself alone.”

“You love her very much.”

“Of course I do.”

His double smiled. “That is exactly the answer she gave. No, it will not take long. I just want to discuss some—practicalities.” He opened the study door and motioned Legolas inside. “Does it look familiar?”

“It is identical,” said Legolas, “except for Eowyn’s desk, which should be there.” He grinned. “And a pair of her little boots, which have usually been kicked off about here, and one of her dressing robes, which is generally draped over this chair. I am always complaining but she takes no notice... What practicalities did you have in mind?”

“Please sit down,” said his double. “What concerns me is that, as far as I can see, no one—except, perhaps, your Princess Eowyn—can tell us apart. So we must find a way to make the difference clear.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I think that you should wear black—I will have some clothing sent to you.”

“Very well.”

“Secondly,” said the double, “however familiar this place may seem, I do ask you to remember that it is my world and my colony.”

“Of course. I understand that.”

“And I expect your companions—Gimli, son of Gloin, for instance—to remember it too.”

“You need say nothing to Gimli,” said Legolas, bristling slightly.

“Good. Then there is just one final thing,” said his double. “Alatáriël is mine.”

Legolas laughed.

“You think I am jesting?”

“No. I—”

“She is a very desirable elleth—”

“I am sure she is,” lied Legolas, “but I think that you are forgetting that I am betrothed to Eowyn.” He rose to his feet. “And so I ask you to remember that Eowyn is mine!”


Still muttering under his breath, Legolas crossed the main thoroughfare and entered the guest house opposite his double’s private chambers—which, in his own world, was Hentmirë’s house—closed the door, and locked it behind him.

‘Alatáriël is mine.’ The fool!

He took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. The familiar sound of Gimli’s snoring, coming from the bedchamber to his left, immediately soothed him.

Hentmirë, he knew, was in the next chamber, and Berryn in the study, and Eowyn—Eowyn was safe and sound in the main bedchamber!

He smiled. She had refused to ride back from The Aelvorn with Hentmirë—“I want to hold your hand,” she had said—but, before they had walked even five miles, exhaustion had overcome her, and he had taken her up in his arms and carried her the rest of the way. By the time they had reached the city she had been sleeping so soundly, he had laid her on the bed, loosened her clothing, and washed her face, all without waking her.

He opened the door to her bedchamber and slipped inside without a sound, but she was already awake, staring up at him with enormous grey eyes.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello, melmenya.”

“Are you coming to bed?”

“Yes.” He unfastened his jerkin and shrugged it off, pulled off his boots, and climbed onto the bed, sinking into her outstretched arms.

“Your tunic is wet,” she said. “Sit up.” He obeyed with a smile, watching as she unhooked each silvery clasp, then slid the damp fabric over his shoulders.

“I must wear black from now on,” he said.


“So that ‘his’ people will not confuse us.”

“You will look very distinguished in black.” She wrestled the tunic down his arms. “He is rather,”—she pulled it off—“I think he is rather spoilt—used to having his own way—but underneath he is not so bad.”

“Any elf who could bind himself to Alatáriël is a fool,” said Legolas.

“I am not sure that he is bound to her.”

“What do you mean?”

Eowyn shook her head. “Not now, Lassui. Lie back.” She pulled at the lacings of his leggings. “We can talk later.”

Legolas sank into the mattress. “Kiss me.”

Eowyn tenderly kissed his lips.

“That was nice,” he whispered, “but I did not mean there.” He pushed his leggings down his thighs.

Smiling, Eowyn kissed his lips again. Then, taking her time, she worked her way down his chin, his throat, his bare chest, and—At last!—his abdomen, caressing his tense muscles with her lips and her tongue, forcing his body to arch in response. “You taste salty,” she murmured, rubbing the tip of her nose along his erection, “perhaps we should wash The Aelvorn off you—”

“No!” Too aroused to think clearly, Legolas could not tell whether she was serious or merely teasing, but he grasped her shoulders and pushed her over onto her back, deftly planting a knee either side of her hips.

Then he lowered himself upon her and let his stiff penis fall between her thighs...


“Oh, melmenya,” he groaned, thrusting with quick, deep strokes, his brows knitted in concentration.

Eowyn gazed up at her elf, her every sense sated with his size, his strength, his beauty...

She felt the tiny sting of release begin deep between her legs, raised her hips and felt his thrusts connect, felt the sweet pain burst, and flow up into her head, and out into her fingers and toes.

And, amidst her own cries of satisfaction, she heard Legolas sob, and felt his warm seed fill her.



As the sun slipped down behind the mountains of Gondor, Aranwë sat at the northern edge of Eryn Brethil, looking out towards the foothills of Emyn Arnen. To the east—Thank the Valar!—he could see, as yet, no sign of the dark army. To the north, however, his sharp elven eyes detected many small encampments concealed amongst the rocky slopes and, nestled within the deep gorge directly ahead, a large, fortified command post.

Men, he thought. And they have been here for weeks.

Aranwë lowered his hood, so that his pale hair and faintly glowing skin might be visible in the twilight, raised his hands above his head and, gently digging his heels into Gwaloth’s flanks and encouraging her with soft, elven words, he emerged from the trees at a slow walk.

He had not travelled more than a hundred yards before a handful of shadowy warriors emerged—as he had expected—from the brush. One of them caught Gwaloth’s head and held her fast. “Where are you headed, Master Elf?” he asked.

“I am a messenger from Eryn Carantaur,” replied Aranwë, displaying the arms embossed on his leather satchel, “carrying an urgent dispatch for Prince Faramir. And I bring news of a dark army heading north along the Caras Arnen road.”

The men exchanged glances. “How far away?”

“No more than three hours.”

“They attack at night, Alfgar,” said one of the men.

“Follow us, Master Elf,” said the man called Alfgar. “Quickly.”

Aranwë dismounted and let the warriors lead him across the open scrubland, to the foot of the hills and the entrance to the fortified gorge he had noticed earlier. There, he was searched by a pair of sentries before being allowed to climb up the steep, twisting trail to the command post, a jumble of tents and hastily-built wooden sheds tucked against the back wall of an enclosed plateau.

Alfgar led him to the door of the largest tent. “Wait here,” he said, raising the flap and ducking inside; he re-emerged almost immediately. “Go in, Master Elf.”

The tent belonged to a lady, and had been designed for recreation, not for war—its walls were lined with pretty painted cloths, its floor covered with patterned rugs, and a silk curtain partially concealed a feminine bedchamber—but the living space was dominated by a campaign table, covered with maps and charts.

Aranwë stared at its two occupants. The man was unfamiliar, but the woman...

He had last seen the woman in his lord’s chambers, moments before he left Eryn Carantaur!

Sensing his scrutiny, the woman pushed herself up from the table and regarded him curiously. “Captain Alfgar tells me you have important news of the dark people, Master Elf.”

“Yes, your Highness,” said Aranwë, still staring.


“I have seen an army, your Highness, moving swiftly northwards along the Caras Arnen road.”

“How many?”

Aranwë made a rapid calculation. “Perhaps two thousand.”

“Gods!” muttered the man.

Princess Eowyn beckoned the elf to the table. “Show me where.”

Aranwë traced his route from Eryn Carantaur. “They passed me here,” he said, pointing to the northern edge of the Divor Rocks, “I was concealed in the undergrowth to the west of the road—I do not believe they saw me.”

“If they had, they would have killed you,” said the man. “They take no prisoners—they do not know the meaning of honour.” The woman patted his arm. “They must be planning to join up with their comrades at Caras Arnen, my Lady. They will take the pass between here and the mountains of Mordor—”

“No,” said the woman, shaking her head, “if their plan was merely to reinforce the garrison, they would have come out of the northern hills, as they did before. No—to emerge somewhere in the south and then risk travelling in daylight—which is painful to them, Master Elf—they must be intending something else.” She bent closer to the map, scrutinising it carefully. “A simultaneous attack from north and south... Fetch the two Captains, Berengar. We must be ready.”

The man hurried from the tent.

“There is something strange about the rock here, Master Elf,” continued the woman, tracing the southern edge of Emyn Arnen with her finger.

“Your Highness?”

“They cannot penetrate it. I believe we are safe here.” She looked up. “You say you bring a message from Prince Legolas?” She held out her hand.

“I was instructed to give it directly to Prince Faramir,” said Aranwë, with an apologetic bow. “Only to Prince Faramir.”

“My husband was killed when the dark people drove us from the City, Master Elf—over three weeks ago. I am in command now.”

Aranwë handed her the dispatch.

She broke the seal, unrolled the parchment and quickly scanned its contents. “What does this mean?” she demanded.

“I... I am not a party to its contents,” stammered Aranwë.

“Do not lie to me! A messenger always knows the meaning of the message,” said the woman, impatiently. “Your Prince is claiming that he found me—naked—in his bedchamber and is demanding that my husband send a troop of armed guards to remove me. What does he hope to achieve with this nonsense?”

Aranwë searched in vain for a tactful answer.


“You were there, your Highness—I saw you myself.”

You saw me? Do not be ridiculous, Master Elf! How long has your journey taken?”

“Eighteen hours, your Highness.”

“And do you think that I could have matched that?”

“No, your Highness.”

“Then this naked woman is clearly an impostor!” She sighed. “But we will deal with that later. Your Prince has unwittingly thrown us a lifeline—do you think you can return to Eryn Carantaur? Past the dark people?”

“Yes—I believe so, your Highness.”

“Good.” She crossed to a small writing desk, just inside her bedchamber. “I have sent messenger after messenger to King Elessar, Master Elf, asking for assistance, but none, so far, has survived to cross the Anduin.

“You will take a message to Prince Legolas. Perhaps he can help us defeat these demons...”




Contents page


Previous chapter: The cleft
The dark people appear; Haldir arrives too late; Legolas takes a risk.

Chapter 7

Next chapter: The Underdark
Wilawen is taken deep into the Underdark; the elves follow.

Chapter 9

The death of a certain well-loved canon character is mentioned in this chapter, but bear in mind that we are in the Shadowland.