"I have not the heart to tell you," said Legolas. "For me the grief is too near."

…

He had known of death—of course he had. Had not his mother died bringing him into the world? Had not his friends died guarding Gollum? But knowing was not seeing. Feeling loss—even the loss of his own mother—was not losing.

As he wandered beneath the trees of Lorien, behind him, his distant kin were singing their Lament for Mithrandir…

Mithrandir!

For the first time, he had seen it: seen the moment when hope had left Mithrandir's eyes; seen the moment when resignation had taken its place; seen the moment when the survival of his friends—"Fly, you fools"—had become all that was left to him.

At that moment the world had broken; and now it could never be put right…

What he would give never to have left Mirkwood.

I miss you, Ada, he thought. I miss Singollo and Voronwë. And I miss the comfort of her arms…

…

How he had reached the bathing pool he had no idea. But the water, glowing pale blue-green in the light of Ithil, was calm and soothing. To bathe is not disrespectful, he thought. The water will cleanse my spirit. He sat down on one of the wooden benches, slipped off his tunic, pulled off his boots, and unlaced his leggings.

"Can I help you, your Highness?"

The voice belonged to a bathing attendant. She was young—no more than fifty years, he judged—and fair. Very fair. And she was looking at him with unconcealed admiration. He could have re-laced his leggings; could have taken up his tunic and boots, and left, thanking her for her offer of assistance.

Later he would wish that he had.

But at that moment, in the moonlight, beside the blue-green pool, with Gandalf's Lament whispering on the breeze, he fixed his eyes upon her face and pulled his leggings open.

He saw her eyes widen. "Your Highness!" Her reaction was gratifying.

She fell down before him, a hand on each knee. "Show me what you like…" He took her hand and placed it on his penis, gently curling her fingers around its bulk, then guided her hand up and down.

Smiling, she bent forward and took him in her mouth.

Legolas closed his eyes. He needed this—it felt as though a century had passed since that night in Rivendell. He stretched out his legs, muscles taut, arched his back, gripped the bench…

Oh Valar. "Do not stop, little one," he whispered. "Please. Do not stop."

"There is far better to be had than that."

Legolas' eyes flew open.

A second elleth, equally young, equally fair, was gazing down at him.

Gazing at them.

The first elleth raised her head and—much to Legolas' physical discomfort—offered him to her friend with a welcoming smile. The second elleth, licking her lips, sank to her knees and took him in her mouth.

"Ceryn Manwë," gasped Legolas.

The first elleth was watching her friend with obvious pleasure—her hand between her own thighs—and Legolas had the distinct impression that his role was now secondary. Any hard elf would give them what they want, he thought. And something about that—about being reduced to nothing but a convenient erection—made his pulse quicken and his loins burn brighter, and he thrust his hips forward, unconsciously preparing for release.

"No, your Highness." The first elleth closed her hand around him and squeezed. "Wait. Save your strength, for you must pleasure us both."

"Caro!" The elf fell forwards, gasping for breath.

With a wicked smile, the first elleth turned on her back and, lying between his legs, came up beneath him, sucking his testicles into her mouth. Her companion continued to coax his penis.

Within moments Legolas was again on the brink, sobbing like an elfling, his body trembling. "I am coming!" The second elleth's hand immediately stopped him.

"We must come first," she said, rising gracefully. And, placing a knee at either side of his thighs, she sank down upon him and began to ride him.

Legolas grabbed her waist, and tried to thrust, but the first elleth, still lapping at his testicles, stopped him with a strong hand on each thigh.

"Oh," moaned the second elleth. "Oh, yes… You are a mallorn, your Highness!" She closed her eyes and leaned back from him, fondling her own breasts as she rose and fell. "Ohhhh…" Her movements had become urgent—she was riding him hard.

She was smiling…

"OH," she cried, "OH YES... YES, YES, YES... YES!" Her hands flew up to her hair, her back arched, and Legolas felt her body contract, as though she was trying to push him out of her…

"There!" She gave Legolas a quick peck on the forehead. "Your turn," she said. But she was speaking to her friend.

Legolas waited whilst the ellith changed positions. "Are you alright, your Highness?"

He nodded, speechless—there was nothing left of him, now, but his erection, and that was infinite. "You are so beautiful," said the elleth, stroking his hair. "The fairest elf we have ever had." She leant forward and added, in his ear, "And the biggest…"

She began to move.

"Let me come," whispered Legolas, hoarsely, "please. Let me come…" The elleth between his legs laughed, sending vibrations through his testicles, up into his belly, and out to his limbs. He felt her hand move under his buttocks, felt her fingers trespass...

His body arched to avoid it but there was no escape.

They were riding him to his death.

He would not survive it.

He could not survive it.

"LAGO," he screamed. "SI! SI!"

And the sky exploded within him.

…

"Prince Legolas?"

He opened his eyes. The first elleth was gazing down at him, her eyes filled with concern.

"What happened?"

"You fell into a swoon, your Highness." She smiled. "We were worried. It has never happened before."

"Did you…?"

"Did I…? Oh—yes. Yes, thank you. I did."

…

He carried the guilt of that night with him, hidden in his heart, until the blessed day when, deep in the Forest of Fangorn, he again beheld Mithrandir, reborn as Gandalf the White.