Harrien of Mirkwood

Author: ExcentrykeMuse
Fandom: Harry Potter & LOTR
Pairing(s): (1) Harry/Voldemort—or not (2) Harry/Legolas

Summary: It had been exactly fifteen years since Harrison Potter had survived the Killing Curse—however, he wasn’t quite Harrison Potter anymore.  He’d transformed into something not-quite-human.
Sequel Summary: Legolas returns home to find a new elfling, Harrien, and falls in love with him.  Now he must wait until he reaches his five hundredth year and for the Fellowship to complete its task.

Warnings: species transformation, cross-species almost romance, slightly devious Harrison Potter/Harrien

I. Harrien, the High Elf

It happened the night of October 31st, exactly fifteen years after Harrison Potter had survived Lord Voldemort.  He had not gone to the feast, as usual, and was reading a Philip K. Dick novel on his bed.  Then he felt a tingling in his nails.  When he looked down, they were no longer chewed to the quick, but healthy and elegant and shining in the moonlight that was coming through the window.  His fingers were longer, shining as well, and his hands slim.  The tingling ran down his arms and up through his shoulders and he breathed out when it ran up his neck and into his face.  Deciding this was a good time to lie down and let this strange—dare he think it—magic occur, he set down his book and was glad he was in a comfortable black ensemble instead of his annoying Hogwarts uniform.

When it was finished, he let himself fall into himself, his limbs feeling light but settling, his hair—his hair.  He picked up several strands and saw that it was much longer and shining white in the moonlight and was paler than Malfoy’s where only candlelight’s rays reached it.  Sitting up and glad that he was alone, Harrison placed his bare feet on the red rugs of the dorm and walked to the shower room where he could better look at himself.

His face was long and his ears—well, he had seen a few episodes of the original Star Trek, and they reminded him of Spock.  His hair was interesting.  It was nowhere near the length of Lucius’s Malfoy.  However, it hung straight down to his shoulders, the previous Potter messiness of it completely gone.  Parted to the side, a swath of it fell over into his eye and he kept on trying to brush it behind his pointed ear, only to have it fall into his face again.  Thin eyebrows then met his gaze—and there was no scar above his still startling green eyes, though they had changed to reflect the light more, shards of blue and light refracting out of them.

He wasn’t Harrison Potter any more.  He doubted he was human.

Whoever-he-was realized that he couldn’t be here anymore.  It was preposterous but this wasn’t his place.  Running back to the dorms, he slipped on his black trainers, found a black cloak, and took only his wand.  Everything else would identify him as having once been—

His heart ached at the thought of the firebolt Sirius had given him—Harrison Potter—of the photo album—of the clothing that he had purchased for himself like this outfit that was black leggings and a black tunic that reached just above his knees.  People whispered about how the half-blood Harrison Potter thought himself above himself by wearing pureblood black, but he didn’t care.  It’s what his father wore in all of his photos of him—which he would never look at again.

He slipped down the moving staircases, past the great hall, his white hair the only hint that he was not a stain of black moving through the castle.  He moved silently across the campus in the twilight, the moon shining through the sky, and into the forest.  Whoever-he-was touched the trees and he breathed in the smell of the leaves, grass, and dirt.

Skipping through the trees, he felt a certain peace, and then he stumbled into a meadow of white flowers.  Another figure in black was leaning over and picking a few with his stained hands, a basket next to him, and he got up and stared at him.  His hood had fallen down, showing his strange face.

“Professor,” whoever-he-was greeted.  “Why are you not at the feast?”

He looked at him in surprise.  “You know the ways of our castle?”

“How could I not?” he partially betrayed himself.  “You can feel the joy—I don’t think you feel it.”

“No,” Snape answered.  “I care not for this date.”

Whoever-he-was wondered why.  The only significance it had, other than his parents’ death, was Voldemort’s original—disappearance.

He took a step forward bravely.  “Is it because of what happened?  That he left?”

“You suppose me to be a sympathizer.”  He watched him carefully, his lank black hair around his face.

“Is there another reason to dislike tonight?”  Well, for Snape.  Whoever-he-was moved around the trees and then came into the flowers, bending down, smelling the blossoms, his pale hair falling into the blooms, shining in the moonlight.  Always having loved flowers perhaps due to his excessive gardening, whoever-he-was adored the scent that wafted around him.

“You have sympathies,” Snape suggested.  “High elves have favored the Dark Lord in the past.  I had not expected to find one so close to a human enclave.”

He turned to him sharply.  High elf?  Is that what he was now?  How had he become one?  Would he change back?  “What do you know of high elves?”

“Little,” Snape answered.  “Wizards know little other than you do not even care whether or not we recognize you as a race or not.  Not even the Dark Lord’s Death Eaters know what he promised you for you to fight for him in the last war.”

His eyes slit.  “You are a Death Eater then,” he checked.  He knew it!  He’d been right since his first year and Dumbledore had been wrong.

Snape inclined his head.  He then paused.  “This forest is perilous though full of magic.”

He stood tall.  Whoever-he-was suspected that he had grown.  He had been 5’7 but his tunic seemed to only go to his upper thigh and, strangely, his chest had lengthened.  “What are you suggesting?”

“There is a forest, magical, around the manor where the Dark Lord currently resides.  I could take you to him.  You would be permitted to leave whenever you desire.  You may live in the forest, if you are inclined, or given a place of respect in the manor as an honored guest.  You would be free from Centaurs who may hunt you or the spiders who live deep among these trees.”

Yes.  Aragog.  He remembered him and his children far too well.

“How do I know he will not torture or kill me?  I have no information.  I cannot speak for other high elves.”

“I will personally assure your first three nights.  After that, the Dark Lord would either assure your safety or not.”  He bowed toward whoever-he-was.

He knew he shouldn’t be, but whoever-he-was couldn’t help but be curious.  He had seen Voldemort just that past summer and been vindicated when the wizarding world was assured that he existed.  He had been snakelike but his magic had been sensual, seductive.  He wondered if he was always like that.  “Very well.” 

Moving with him toward the center of the meadow, he tentatively let Snape place a hand around his waist and experienced Apparition.  Again.  How he hated it although he felt significantly less ill than usual.  Whoever-he-was looked around and saw that there were albino peacocks around him, but they shone less in the moonlight than his own skin and hair.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Malfoy Manor.  The Malfoys are a very prominent family.”

He accepted the explanation as it was given and followed him into the manor and up the sweeping staircase against the far wall.  Whenever they passed anyone, the person would stop and stare openly at him.  Whoever-he-was wouldn’t pay attention to them, thinking that perhaps that is how he was supposed to act.  The other option was open wonder.  However, he wouldn’t give the Malfoys the satisfaction, even if they weren’t there to personally witness it.

Whoever-he-was didn’t even realize that he had entered a room and was looking at a man who did not look like a snake.  He looked between the man and Snape.  The man stood and bowed to him and he nodded back to this stranger.

“This is the Dark Lord.”

“I have seen your papers.  You do not look like him,” he told both Snape and the man.

“There are potions,” the man told him, “that have restored me to my human appearance.”  Yes, he did look human.  He had the same blue eyes and dark brown hair with an auburn sheen that he had when he was sixteen-years-old and sucking the life out of Ginny.  However, while he was good looking then, he was simply the most attractive man whoever-he-was had ever encountered.  He moved with the sillowy movements of a snake, his skin pale, his fingers those of a pianist.

“Do you have a name, High Elf?” the Dark Lord asked.

He paused.  “No.  I lost it.”

Voldemort nodded.  “I am sorry for your loss.  Are you in search for a new one?”

Whoever-he-was thought about it.  “I had one recently.  I had not thought.  Can one gain a name?”

“I gave myself the name Voldemort when I lost my human name,” he replied, his eyes shining with something akin to—well, he did not know what hungry emotion it was.  “Surely you may give yourself an elven name.”

“I do not know any that are not already being used,” he lied.

Snape now bowed to Voldemort.  “I have guaranteed our guest three nights of safety and a place of honor in the manor or in our forests, whatever his choice.”

“Of course.  We must also try and help him find a name.  Can you tell us anything about yourself?”

“I am young.  I am lost.”  There wasn’t much else to tell.  “I am missing.  I will not return.”

“He also loves flowers,” Snape included, bowing toward whoever-he-was again.

“We would not wish to name you for being lost,” Voldemort told him carefully, “but we can name you for flowers.  I will look through my small book of elvish words and see what options I can give you.”

As it seemed to be the correct response, he bowed to Voldemort.  “I would like a bed, I think.  I only have what I am wearing and a wand that was given to me.  The wizard—cared for me.”  It was the only story he could think of.  Whoever-he-was wasn’t even sure he could wield a wand.

“Severus,” Voldemort ordered and Snape left.  There was a pause where he offered him a seat and they both sat, assessing each other.

“The high elves supported you before?” he asked.  “Why?”

“How long have you been lost?” he asked in confusion.

“Since before,” he told Voldemort.  “I did not know since before—Severus—“ the name was strange to him, “said.  Will you not tell me?”

“I promised ore of the dragon,” he told him and whoever-he-was couldn’t do anything but lower his eyes, attempting to translate that into human English and finding that he could not.

“It is a jewel,” Voldemort told him.  “There is a repository in Cornwall.  Humans cannot mine it; it’s too dangerous, but high elves can.  You simply need access.”

“And it is precious to us?”

“It is.  Your royalty wear it in their crowns.”

High elves had royalty then.  How interesting.  Whoever-he-was wondered if he would ever meet another high elf.  He didn’t even realize Voldemort was speaking until he was calling to him, calling him “sir.”

“Pardon?”

“Have you eaten?”

“I do not wish to be scrutinized,” he admitted.  He wasn’t used to how he looked.  People staring at him was too much.  Far too much. 

“Would you care to dine with me?  I understand high elves eat fruit.”

“And chocolate,” he added quickly.  “I eat chocolate.”  He was a teenage boy after all and always had a hankering after chocolate frogs.  He couldn’t live without chocolate frogs.

He gave him a soft smile.  “And chocolate,” Voldemort smiled, offering the way toward the door.  Before they left a beautiful witch that whoever-he-was recognized as Narcissa Malfoy was told to arrange the finest rooms for him and to prepare pajamas and a robe suitable for the temperature for their esteemed guest from the elven realms, they went and had dinner in a private nook. 

Whoever-he-was was offered several different types of fruit and hot cocoa, which made him smile. 

Dinner was silent, but Voldemort was solicitous, offering him grapes and cutting him a peach.  When they were finished, he walked him down a hall.  “Would you like the public library with more books but more of my followers, or the smaller?  They will both be virtually silent.”

Whoever-he-was hesitated.  “I read Philip K. Dick novels.  He’s what you wizards call a Muggle.”  It was strange this way, speaking like an outsider, but he knew he could not let them guess who he was before.

“You have certainly been wandering,” Voldemort commented, leaning slightly toward him as if drawn.  He opened one of the doors and allowed him to precede him and he was confronted by about eight wizards and witches on couches, all turning to look at him.  Voldemort was soon behind him, his hand hovering near his, but never touching, and he was steered to a particular shelf.  “There is nothing quite like you describe,” he apologized.  “However, Genvieve Marchaud writes about a hybrid of technology and magic in the near future.  This was back in the eighties.  You may enjoy it.”  He paused and then took a particular book from the shelf. 

He looked at the cover which showed a girl with a calculator and a wand behind her ear.  A small number one was in the lower right hand corner.  Opening it up, whoever-he-was read the first few pages and then nodded.  “Thank you, Voldemort.  May I retire?”

A house elf, hilariously, showed him to his rooms that were a dark blue and silver, the bed a dark wood with a pale silver-blue canopy.  Kicking off his shoes, he curled up and began reading his book.  It was only when he couldn’t keep his eyes open that he put on a pair of ice blue pajamas and a black robe, brushing his hair.  He tried to tie it back but it was a bit too short and he gave it up for lost.

When he woke it was to the sound of birds singing.  As soon as he sat up and stretched, the sound faded away and whoever-he-was realized it must be magic.  He carefully got up, brushed his teeth, tried to do something with his hair and ended up braiding small portions of it and securing it with small bands he found in a glass jar he found in the bathroom.

The same house elf was there to guide him to breakfast.  He was placed on Voldemort’s right and he carefully put his wand horizontally above his plate.  When he’d learned he was descended from the Peverell brothers and that Dumbledore had the eldar wand at the end of his fifth year, he might have stolen it and hidden it under a charm that made it look nondescript.  Then he saw Dumbledore was wearing the resurrection stone.  He still hadn’t gotten that one off of him.

He doubted he’d have the chance now.

Looking up, he saw Lucius Malfoy whom he had thought was in Azkaban, and he visibly reacted.

“Sir?” Voldemort asked.

“He looks like a boy in the forest,” whoever-he-was lied.  “His hair is not as long.”  Fortunately, he had been able to think quickly.

“That is my son, Draco Malfoy,” Lucius told him, bowing his head.  “I had heard we had a representative from the high elves.”

Lucius looked horrible.  There were bags under his eyes, which in turn looked dead.  His skin was sallow and his hair was lank.  He was under a great deal of stress. 

“I wander,” he corrected.  “I can speak for no one.”  He noticed that Voldemort had cut up an apple for him and drenched it in honey.  Looking up at him, he smiled at his thoughtfulness.  Was this all because he was a high elf?  A traitorous part of him hoped that it wasn’t.

Changing the subject, Voldemort said, “I have a list of names for you.  However, Severus told me that he found you in the moonlight smelling flowers.  The name Harrien means ‘moon flower.’  Do you care for it despite how close it is to Harrison Potter’s name?”

Whoever-he-was paused and thought.  “Yes.  I do not like thinking of myself as ‘whoever-I-am’.  It saddens me.”  It had been less than a day, but still.  He also liked how close it was to Harrison, though he would never tell anyone that.

“Lord Harrien, then,” Voldemort addressed his.  “I give assurances that as long as you stay with us, you will receive safety and sustenance and respect.”

“Thank you, Voldemort.  I had not been expecting that.”

“Why ever not?” Lucius asked.

He looked at him thoughtfully.  “Don’t people usually want something and even when you give, they want and want and take and take?  I am a lost elf.  I can do nothing other than read books from your library and try to convince someone to go into the Muggle world to buy books by my favorite author.”  He gave him a smile, which seemed to strike Lucius Malfoy mute.

“I’m sure,” the man next to his stated, “you can convince someone, as long as they are not wanted by the Ministry.  I would gladly do it for you, if I were not one of that number, Lord Harrien.”

Harrien gave him a smile.  He then ate a slice of his apple and closed his eyes in happiness.  It seemed his palate liked sweetness.  He noticed chocolate tasted even better than usual.  He thought it had been the chocolate, but perhaps not.

He was walking through the garden in his bare feet three days later in a dark blue tunic that had appeared in his closet, when he heard, “St. Mungo’s.”  His pointed ears pricked up and he heard Voldemort and two other voices.

“These plans seem complete.”

“The screening process for Muggleborns seems almost perfected so they cannot infect the patients or healers with their mere presence,” Voldemort added.  “Yes, I’m satisfied.”

Harrien looked up, turning toward them.  They were half a garden away and he picked through the flowers until he reached them.  One of the other men noticed him and then all three were watching his approach.  “I have an idea,” Harrien suggested.

“An idea for St. Mungo’s, Lord Harrien?” Rabastan Lestrange asked.

“You should have a Muggleborn children’s ward for accidental magic.  You don’t want that on the streets.  By the time they’re eighteen, they should have figured out how to suppress their magic, or perhaps you’re planning to bind it if that’s possible, but these children will need treatment and should be taken away from Muggles so as not to expose your secret.” (good; he had almost said ‘our’)  At their looks, he added, “It seems to make the most sense.”

“How long have you been in the wizarding world, Lord Harrien?” the third man asked.

“Quite awhile,” he answered.  “I’ve been wandering for years.  Think of me as a Muggleborn.  That’s about my knowledge level.”  Harrien turned back to his book and didn’t realize that Voldemort was following him until he approached him three minutes later on the far side of the garden.

“I quite like your idea,” he complimented.  “It is being added to our plans.  Theodred is redrafting the architectural layout.”

“Good,” Harrien told him, not looking up from his book.  “You know I could help you.”  The idea surprised his.  “Perhaps I can be your heart.”  They certainly seemed to lack compassion where St. Mungo’s was concerned.

Voldemort sucked in a breath and he looked up.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” he told him quickly.  “It’s just you said something a seer once told me.  Yes, I accept, though you do not know what you are offering.”

His eyebrows furrowed.  “What am I offering?”

“You are not a wizard.”

“The wand works.”

“That’s because you have magic in you.  You are a forest being, however.  If you wanted, flowers could grow where you step, vines could spring from your touch.”  He reached out and touched his upper arm.  It was the first time anyone had touched him since he had stopped being Harrison Potter.

“No one ever taught me,” he told him sadly.  “I’m a young elf with no one there to teach me.  My parents are gone—there was no one else.”  He sighed.  “However, I am here and one day I will be somewhere else, I daresay.”  Harrien wasn’t even looking at Voldemort.  Instead he was looking at his hand, at how pale it was, at the fingernails that were too hard to chew and wouldn’t break.  he caressed his book.  Looking up finally, Harrien smiled at him.  “How do you like being known to all of England?”

“I am not certain.  It was not my intention.”

“I daresay not.”

They were looking into each other’s eyes, sparkling green into blue, a pull Harrien could not explain.  He wanted to move closer to him, to reach out, to—

“I have often marveled, since I met you, how your entire being could be so light, so bright, and yet your eyes have such peculiar depths.”

“I had not contemplated,” he admitted, coming out of his daze.  “Is it really startling?”

“Yes.  It makes you more majestic than you already are.  The representatives of your people I had met were not as—effervescent—and their eyes were blue or brown.  You are quite a wonder.”

He looked at him a moment and then away again.  “How peculiar.  I had assumed I looked quite ordinary.”

Voldemort seemed to be wondering at his next question.  “How many years are you?”

“My age?” he laughed.  “I’m sixteen.”

“You’re an elfling?  From what I had observed, I had thought you were at least five hundred, the age of maturity.  No wonder you are confused and lost.”

“I am not a child!” he insisted a little loudly, moving away from him.  “I am almost an adult.  I have less than a year left.”

“You’re sixteen,” he insisted.  “You have not even reached your first century.  You haven’t reached your second decade.  Lord Harrien—“

They were close enough in the garden to be heard by a half dozen Death Eaters, but Harrien didn’t care.

“Lord Harrien, what?  I’m old enough for a boyfriend.”  Harrien had never preferred girls, although it had been a closely guarded secret at Hogwarts.  He didn’t know why he admitted this here, now, but he was no longer human.  Perhaps it was the norm or common among high elves.  “Just because I haven’t felt like one yet—“

Voldemort was staring at his in confusion.  “You’re an elfling!”

“Why do you keep saying that?  I’m a teenager!”

“That’s exactly my point.  Lord Harrien, age between high elves and wizards is completely different.”

“No, it’s not,” he responded in confusion.  “I’m a year away from being an adult.”

“You’re five hundred years away,” Voldemort told him desperately.

“You lie.  I’m older then than sixteen.  If I needed to be five hundred and was only sixteen, then wouldn’t I be an infant?”

Voldemort looked defeated.  “I honestly wouldn’t know.”

Harrien stared at him.  “Well,” he insisted, “I would be.”

Their eyes locked, a battle moving between them, and Voldemort was the first to look away.  Harrien looked down at his book, but couldn’t find interest in it.  He moved out of the garden and black flowers sprang wherever he stepped, but Harrien hardly noticed.  Breaking out into a run, he opened a back door and ran up a marble staircase.  He didn’t realize he was crying until he ended up in a small room, which was a study.

“Lord Harrien.”

He looked over.  “Oh.  Mr. Malfoy.”

He gave his a sad smile.  “Is everything not to your preference?  I had hoped we had made you comfortable.”

Pushing tears from his eyes, he nodded.  “You and Mrs. Malfoy have been wonderful, I just had a fight with Voldemort.”  He sobbed again.

Putting down his quill, Lucius Malfoy moved toward him.  “I was just writing to my youngest daughter,” he explained.  “I have three children.  Draco is sixteen, Lacerta fourteen, and my youngest is eleven.  She just entered Hogwarts.”

Harrien looked up, shocked.  He had only ever heard of Draco.  He had no idea he had sisters let alone Lacerta and—“What’s her name?”

“Iolanthe.  It means ‘violet flower’.”  He gave him a small smile of a truly proud father.  “We almost lost her when she was born.  She is truly precious to us.—However, what I meant is that I am a father.  Perhaps I can understand?”

“Why should I trust you?” he asked.  “You’re—human.”

“I am,” he agreed carefully.  “However, you are my guest and if you need advice, then as your host it is my duty to make sure you get everything you need.  I may be a Death Eater, but I will advise you if I can.  You are reaching maturity so you are equivalent to Draco’s age.  Let me help you, Lord Harrien.”

“Voldemort says I’m a child when I told him I was sixteen.  He said I needed to be five hundred.  However, if being sixteen of five hundred makes me an ‘elfling’ wouldn’t I be an infant?  I am almost an adult.  I know I am.  Why won’t he believe me?”

Lucius Malfoy looked at him in interest.  “Why does it matter?  He will still treat you with respect.  Your age will not change that.”

“I—“  He paused.  “It matters.”

His blue eyes gazed into his deep green ones.  “You have to learn why it matters then I can better help you.  This argument is a surface argument.  It represents something else.  You have to figure out what that is first.”  He moved from where he was sitting and poured him a glass of a pale purple liquid.  “We call this ‘elven wine.’  It’s nothing of the sort but only young ladies and gentlemen of fourteen and above may drink it.  When I say fourteen, I mean young wizards who are within a few years of maturity.  For an elf that would be maybe four hundred and twenty five.  I am giving this to you to show my faith in you and your age, Lord Harrien.”  He handed it to him before retrieving a glass of amber liquid from his desk.  “I will inform the house elves to always give you a glass at dinner.”

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Although they sat beside each other at meals, Voldemort and Harrien barely spoke to each other for days.  Harrien noticed him staring at the elven wine, but he didn’t comment on it.  He would sit near Harrien in the evenings when he read his book.  Still he said nothing.

When the news broke that Harrison Potter had been abducted, a few of them were sitting in the garden.  It was growing cold but there were charms to keep the air warm and the flowers blooming although the trees were turning.  “He clearly is not a runaway,” Rabastan read, “as he left all of his belongings behind including his wand.”

Yes, Harrison’s wand.  It had been decommissioned and left in his trunk when he had stolen Dumbledore’s wand.  Harrien’s one regret was that he had left his Peverell cloak behind.

“I wonder who took him,” Bellatrix laughed.  “I don’t think it was any of us.”

“Dumbledore then,” Narcissa suggested.  “He made it look like it was us to gain sympathy and is keeping Potter as his secret weapon, whatever that means.”

This made Harrien actually laugh, a low breathy sound.  Everyone turned to him and he merely looked at them blankly in response.  “Perhaps he walked away,” he offered.  “He’s famous.  Certainly he’s earned a great deal of gold.  He could be anywhere.  Would the goblins say if he accessed it?”

“No,” Voldemort noted.  “No, they wouldn’t.”

“Cousin Sirius is also his godfather.  He could give his access to Black Heath where we grew up,” Narcissa sneered.  “He unfortunately owns it.”

“All those memories,” Rodolphus murmured.

Harrien wasn’t looking at them anymore and was wandering away out of the garden.  His bare feet rustling through fallen leaves, he moved toward the tree line and when he could no longer see the manor, he ripped the side of his thick white leggings and climbed a tree. The oak whispered to him of its love of the elves and how they had all withdrawn from wizards’ Britain and it didn’t know where they had gone, and he whispered back, “Neither do I.”

He remained there for hours until the sun began to set.  Jumping lightly from a high branch he walked back toward the manor and stopped when he noticed Voldemort waiting for him.  Voldemort was also not wearing shoes, his feet pale in the dirt, reminding Harrien of when he rose from the cauldron in the Little Hangleton cemetery.  He was wearing a similar robe.  “You are not a child,” he stated.

“What makes you say so?” Harrien asked, moving past him, but Voldemort grabbed his arm.

“We both know it’s true.”

They stared at each other and Voldemort leaned down barely an inch so that their eyes were perfectly aligned.  “This is wrong.  You’re not human,” he whispered.

Hurt, Harrien hissed as if he were the wind.  “Let me go,” he demanded.

“My heart won’t let me and you said you would be my heart.  It must be you that holds me so.”

“What are you saying?”

His lips met Harrien’s gently and he breathed in, and Harrien realized this is what he had been waiting for.  However, it did not feel like he thought it would.  Harrien gently pulled away from him and turned back toward the forest.  He nearly collided with someone’s chest.  He had not even heard a whisper of someone’s approach.

“Do not touch him,” this person commanded, his voice fierce but musical.  “You are human, mortal, and he is a few decades from maturity.”  The tone was aching of a tree’s knowledge and Harrien looked up to see skin almost as pale as his own, a long face, sharp ears, blue eyes, and nearly white hair that fell down the creature’s back.  “I am Silevren.”

“Harrien,” he answered in shock.  “Why are you here?”

“The forests speak.”  His eyes hungrily looked at him, as if he were something precious that had been thought lost for so long.

“The forest speaks,” Harrien answered, remembering the tree.  “I am not a child.”

“Not for much longer.—Lord Voldemort.  We thank you for keeping the son of our people safe.  However, you may never again touch him.”

Looking over his shoulder, Harrien saw Voldemort press his lips together in anger but he bowed respectfully.

“Are these your preferred clothes?” Silevren asked, looking down at Harrien.

He shook his head.  “No.  I’ve been wearing thick tunics here, but they are too warm.  I have one to my liking inside.”

“Then I shall attend you before I take you back to the forests of our people.”  He placed a hand on the small of his back and they walked inside.  Everyone paused and watched as the two moved through the manor until the two elves were in Harrien’s room, Harrien picking out the outfit he had arrived in.  He placed the eldar wand on the bedside stand, but Silevren took it and he put it on his pillow.  “We will teach you our magic.”

Pausing, Harrien realized he was somehow now an elf and perhaps should accept what Silevren said.  “I was not always a high elf,” he told him.  “I became one.”

“You were always a high elf,” he told Harrien.  “You were placed in hiding.  I cannot tell you what happened as I do not know who you were when you were born.  You aged as a human might, Harrien.  How many human years are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Four hundred and seventy.  You have much to learn.  Never tell anyone that Lord Voldemort kissed you.  Your first kiss is to go to your betrothed.  However, you were not to know.  I only wish I could have been a few minutes sooner… I apologize, Harrien.”

“I—“  He moved to the wash room and changed.

Silevren held out his hand to him but Harrien hesitated.  “You are my people?  Elves are good to one another?  Humans can be cruel and hurt each other.  You see what this war has done.  Before I learned of magic, I was a child servant and slept in a cupboard.”

“You will be treasured, elfling.  Hush now.”  His hand was extended again.

With a breath, Harrien’s hand was placed within his.

II. A Love in Mirkwood

Flowers did not grow in Mirkwood.  Leaves did.  Legolas Greenleaf had been named for them.  However, there was a trail of black flowers leading through the forest and, although he had been planning to join the patrol although he was to go home to his father, King Thranduil Oropherion, these flowers caught his interest.  He had never seen anything like them in Mirkwood.  His light feet tread a path directly next to them and they came to stop at the base of an old sycamore.  He looked up and saw only leaves.  Legolas was not to be deterred, however.

Securing his bow, Legolas began to climb the tree and was arrested when, halfway up, he saw a Sylvan elf with hair so pale it could almost be white.  It was in several braids that fell down to the elf’s shoulders, betraying high cheekbones and the most astonishing green eyes.

“Greetings,” a lyrical voice called.

“Greetings,” he answered as he moved up to see an elf lad dressed in a tunic, his face fair and pale and unlike any Legolas had ever seen.  “Me g’ovannen.”  (Well met)

He gave him a soft smile.  “No, I have not thought of marriage as of yet,” He told him as if he expected this question from a male elf no less.

“I followed your flowers,” Legolas told him instead.

“Oh,” the elf answered, looking down.  “I apologize.  You would have been the fourth today.  I assumed.”

Legolas looked at him.  He was indeed beautiful.  He would even say that his beauty matched Arwen Undumiel although it was different and far from effeminate.  “I have been gone these twelve years,” he explained to him.  “Are you new to Mirkwood?”

“Yes,” the strange elf stated.  “I have been here but three years.  I was brought from the wizards’ forests to these.  I was born there.  I am still learning Sindarin and Quenya, though that is not used here much.  Let me try.”  A look of concentration passed over him face.  “El sila erin lu e-govaned win.” (A light shines upon our meeting)

Legolas gave him a soft smile.

“I have difficulty with that one.  Forgive me.  I am Harrien Moonflower.”

“Legolas Greenleaf,” he offered, glad that he didn’t blush.  He knew that day would change his life.


It had been a fortnight and he had watched him.  He sat with the other elf lads who cared not for warring pursuits, so unlike them with his shorter hair and the strange braids he wore in it.  Legolas could see the long glances the male elves gave him, betraying that a preference for male company had been made known, and from his inquiries knew that many asked for him hand, but all were turned away.

However, Harrien walked alone during the day.  He did not gossip with the others, never took part in their pursuits and pleasures.  Harrien would stay in the library for hours, lost in himself, or would lose himself in nature, his feet bare, flowers springing up from wherever he stepped.

“Do the colors mean anything?” Legolas asked as he trailed him one day.

He looked at him, his brows furrowed, and then he followed Legolas’s gaze to the flowers at his feet.

“The first time they appeared they were black, but I was unhappy,” he admitted.  “I don’t know what that means.”

“They’re blue like the sky today,” Legolas observed.

“Perhaps I love nature,” Harrien suggested, swinging behind a tree, hiding himself briefly, before he came around it and smiled.  A vine sprang from his fingers, green leaves unfolding from it.  “A gift.”

Legolas bowed his head formally. 

Harrien laughed and ran into the trees.  Sensing the game, Legolas took off after him.


There was no way his father and his cousin, Silevren, had not seen the dark blue flowers that led to this tree.  Legolas and Harrien sat on two different branches, their backs against the trunk, their hands reaching out to each other, fingers brushing.  It was a pastime of lovers to come, and Legolas was almost frightened to realize that he was falling in love with this elfling who was coming of age in just a few short years.  However, he refused to fight it, not when Harrien was so near, so dear to him.  He had never thought about a preference before now.  No one had ever caught his eye. 

No one before Harrien.

“Your son’s beauty,” Thranduil was now saying, “has certainly increased since he came to Mirkwood.”

Legolas looked down in confusion, unaware they were so closely related, and then glanced back at a questioning Harrien, who did not understand his reaction.

“I believe it will only continue to grow throughout the millennia.  It must be his parents in him.  The Valar have blessed me with such a child so late in life, even if they gave him to me so close to his majority.”

Nearly sighing in relief, Legolas relaxed into the tree and took up Harrien’s hand once again, his ears however perked toward the conversation.

“Our children will make a fine match, whenever they announce.  Legolas is perhaps waiting for Harrien’s five hundred and first year, as is proper, though I would not blame him if he were to do so sooner with such a prize.  Indeed, Harrien’s parents must have been noble given his demeanor.  He will make a fine Prince Consort.”

“I wish only for Harrien to be happy, Cousin,” Silevren told Thranduil cautiously.

“I wish the same for my son.  I have not once told him to find a mate in his three thousand years.  I have not told him now, nor will I tell him anything of the kind.”  Although, Legolas thought, he was strongly hinting at that very moment.

The conversation turned, making Harrien release a silent sigh from his lips.  “I am thankful that Harrien’s beauty and birth never left Mirkwood, that we were able to contain the secret.  He is the first elfling to be born in two millennia and his strange masculine beauty is rare.  There might be pressure for him to marry an elleth.

“Yes.  I am surprised we have had such success over the past twenty-five years,” Thranduil agreed.  “We shall hope it will continue.”

The two cousins moved away and Legolas looked over to Harrien.  “Your father is the king?” Harrien asked.

He looked at him, startled.  “I thought you knew.”

“No,” Harrien disagreed.  “I did not.  I knew Ada was cousin to the king and that he had two sons, but that is all.  You do not sit at the royal table with King Thranduil and Prince Glamion.”

“I eat with my men,” he agreed.  “Ada got used to it several millennia ago.”

He nodded, leaning back and closing his eyes.  His fingers moved in his and he sighed in contentment.


“You must tell no one about him,” Legolas Greenleaf made Estel promise.  “Not Elrond, not Arwen—no one.”

“I do not understand.”

“He is a treasure of Mirkwood.”  He followed a pathway of deep purple flowers, careful not to step in them and enjoying his friend’s reaction to the blossoms.

“Flowers do not grow—“

“They do wherever Harrien steps,” Legolas told him, coming to the base of a tree.  “Now we must climb.”  He stuck his bow on his back and grabbed a branch, lightly climbing the tree until he saw the familiar glow of pale blonde hair and shining skin.  Green eyes met his and Harrien smiled.  “I brought a friend—sworn to secrecy.  He is a ranger and was raised by Lord Elrond of Rivendell.”

“Lord Elrond?” Harrien exclaimed in surprise, his pale blue tunic brushing against a shoulder.  “How peculiar.”

“No more peculiar than cousin Silevren raising you.”

“We are both woodelves, not elf and man.” 

Estel brought himself up and looked at Harrien, clearly stunned.  The two took each other in before Estel stated, “El sila erin lu e-govaned win.” (A light shines upon our meeting)

“El sila erin lu e-govaned win,” he replied dutifully. (A light shines upon our meeting)

The two said little to each other, Harrien asking if Estel had a human name, which was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Harrien revealing that he had had one once.  When Estel inquired, Harrien had only stated that he had “lost it.”

“No one can take a name,” Estel told him cautiously.

“Can they not?  It’s like any other possession.”

Legolas knew there was a story there, but wouldn’t press it.  It was clear that Harrien felt strongly about it and thought that Estel was being disrespectful.  He had withdrawn into himself, his knees drawn up, his arms around them, his back against the trunk of the tree.  He even began speaking in the language of the trees at one point, clearly dismissing them.

“He is cold,” Estel told him when they were far enough away.

“He is warm and loving.  You hurt him deeply.”

“Over a name?”

“He was stolen by men!” Legolas stated harshly, “and not by the men of Middle Earth, which would have been kinder.  He was stolen into wizard’s earth.  They very probably can steal a name there.  Perhaps he can no longer recall it even if it was his for decades.”

“I did not know—“ he stated apologetically.

“Yes, well now he won’t come down for days and I’m going to have to invent an excuse to my cousin, who looks after him.  I think I’ll say I did it.  I can’t imagine what else would have him stop from running from tree to tree, leaving flowers in his wake, or holing himself up in the library and reading about the Great War with Sauron.  He has a strange interest with that.  Go.  I must check on him.”

Estel hesitated, whispering, “I will keep Mirkwood’s secret,” before departing in the underbrush.

Legolas looked back toward the tree and knew he would see no flowers for several days.


The shadow had grown and the call from Rivendell had come.  Legolas had never seen Harrien in the archery fields, but he had come, flowers traveling behind him, black and sick with worry.

“Harrien,” he greeted, coming toward him after he released the last arrow in his quiver.

“You are going,” he stated.  It wasn’t a question.  Just a certainty.

“I am going.”

“Take me with you,” he breathed, leaning forward so that their foreheads were almost touching in a way that only lovers touched. 

Not pulling away, he breathed in his sweet scent.  “You know I cannot.”

“Why can you not?” he begged.  “I am a year from my majority!  I am near a free elf!”

“Who must travel alone with another relative or with your husband.”

“Or with my betrothed,” he answered back.  “Or would you have me ask Silevren to accompany me?  You are not close enough a relation.  I have waited decades for you to ask for my hand, but I took what the king said as truth and have never—hinted—as an elfling might.  I only ask now because I would not have you leave my side.  The entire court believes we are to be wed.”

He did not care what the entire court thought, but he would not voice that as he was in agreement with them.  “It is a war council.”

“There will be ladies of Rivendell,” he reasoned.  “Other elves who will not meet for war.  What if Ada does come even if I am your betrothed to escort me home again if you must leave?  I would not have you leave for certain without my seeing your face again.”

“Tis well.  I will speak to Cousin Silevren before dinner and then speak to Ada.  It shall be announced and we leave the day after the morrow.”

“Thank you,” Harrien breathed, touching their foreheads briefly.  Harrien then breezed away, white flowers in his wake, as if he hadn’t been there except for those small blossoms.

After he was gone for several minutes, Legolas still standing there smiling, there was the sound of clapping behind him and he turned to see the other scouts smiling at him teasingly and giving him applause.

“The Lord Harrien has been wooed!” one called appreciatively.  “Go to Lord Silevren before all Mirkwood hears of it first.”

With a bashful smile, Legolas leapt over the fence and found his cousin in the library.  Beckoning him toward a small study room, Legolas bowed to him respectfully.  “I have come to ask for Lord Harrien’s hand in marriage,” he stated stiltedly.  “I will love him, respect him, and treasure him through all the days until we sail to Valinor together at each other’s side.  Please grant my humble request.”

There was a pause.  “He wanted to go to Rivendell, didn’t he?”

Legolas carefully stood.  “Lord Harrien was slightly adamant.  He asks that you come in case my services are needed—elsewhere.”

Silevren sighed.  “It has been many centuries since I have seen Elrond’s halls.  You take him because you truly wish him as your consort?”

“I was planning to wait until I returned, whether it was in a month or three decades.  I believe Harrien is frightened he may never see me again.”

Silevren nodded.  “There is much death in the wizards’ world.  He was left an orphan far too young.  He saw his adoptive father murdered, I believe, and he only told me that four years ago.”  Silevren gave Legolas a wistful smile.  “You have my consent.  I will speak to the king and an announcement will be made.”

There was much rejoicing and wine and Harrien stayed for the dancing.  He actually wore shoes, which was unlike him, though Legolas supposed he would see him wearing them for the entirety of their journey.  In the end they stood beneath a bower of vines and they shared their first kiss, the bower erupting full of red flowers as lips met lips and heart melded with heart in the elven way.  When he leaned back to look into Harrien’s beautiful green eyes, Legolas smiled at him. 

“Now I know what it means,” Harrien murmured. 

“What, Harrien-mine?”

“I will be your heart.  The phrase is not meant for wizards at all.”

He looked at him strangely, but kissed his forehead and held him close, knowing he would never want to let go again.


Silevren was sitting by a tree when Legolas approached, looking for Harrien.  He had disappeared a half hour before and Legolas worried for him.

“Not a step forward, elf,” his cousin told him.

“Harrien is missing.  I cannot find him in the trees and he wears sandals so I cannot follow his footprints.”

“That is well.  They start in the glade,” Silevren told him.  “He bathes this night in the river.  You do not step farther, young elf.  You are simply betrothed.”

Legolas bowed his head in understanding.  “I did not mean to offend.”

“You did not offend.  You knew not.”  He made a gesture for Legolas to leave. 

Looking longingly toward the hidden glade and wondering how long their engagement would have to be, Legolas moved back to the horses.  Less than an hour had passed when he was joined by Harrien, who took all of his thoughts. 

“The river is cool,” Harrien told him.  “We have a week left to our journey.”

“I would not leave either of us so unguarded.  Either your ada must watch me or he must guard you.”

“Ada bathes,” He informed.  “Let it cool you.  We will hear if anything is near.  You are a warrior.  You have bathed alone before, I am certain, and I am not helpless.  Legolas.”

“I don’t like being without you,” he confessed, not looking at him although he took Harrien’s hand, “now that we have been so close.  I will be your heart, Harrien.”

“Then all is well.  I shall rest when Ada emerges.  The choice is yours.”

However there was no choice.  Legolas would wait for Rivendell and sleep a little ways away from his love in respect.  How had he come to adore him over less than three decades?  He had declined to run the borders with other elves just to be near Harrien.  His name suited him perfectly: Harrien Moonflower.  The flowers that led just from the edge of the clearing shone in the moon’s light.


Elrond bowed to them when they arrived.  “Prince Legolas Greenleaf, your arrival was expected.  Will you not introduce me?”

“My father’s cousin, Lord Silevren Krananuil, and his ward and my betrothed, Lord Harrien Silevreniel.”

“A light shineth on our meeting, Lord Silevren, Lord Harrien.  Lord Harrien, perhaps when you are rested, you would care to meet my daughter, Lady Arwen Undomiel.”

“I thank you for the honor.  Our ride was hard and I would like to settle in with Ada and Legolas first if that is agreeable.”

“You are most welcome to the Last Homely House.  Your every comfort will be seen to, Lord Harrien.  I would see you happy, warm, and with your equals.”

Elrond bowed again and Harrien bowed to him.  They were shown to luxurious rooms and Legolas saw Harrien with an uncharacteristic kaftan head toward the baths.  “Will you bathe now, Greenleaf?” he asked playfully.  “There are no orcs or spiders here.”

“If I know you will be safe,” he responded, “and if it would please my lord if I smell of wood flowers.”

“I smell of wood flowers,” Harrien told Legolas, taking off his shoes and walking along the stone path, flowers springing up between the cracks.  “Will you not follow, Greenleaf?  Perhaps I will grow a vine around a tree for you so that we might be together even when we have left this place.”

He hurried after him as soon as he fetched his clothes and he kissed his head as they wandered down to the baths, separating to their separate pools of water.  Legolas tried to relax, but he could not.  Leaving far before he knew Harrien would, Legolas dressed and waited for him until he finally emerged in a kaftan of blue silver, tied at the sides to show off a figure that Legolas rarely glimpsed in his tunics.

“Do I look well?” Harrien asked, his wet braids tied so they ran back and forth across his scalp so it barely reached his shoulders.

“You look well,” he promised.  Taking his hand, he kissed it before tangling their fingers.  “You are well after our journey?”

“I am well,” Harrien agreed.  “I wish to see more of this place.”

“Then we shall see more,” Legolas promised, leading him down some steps and away from the cluster of buildings, which surely meant they would now be moving toward nature.  When they came to a secluded area, Legolas was surprised to see Estel with an elven maiden, passionately speaking love to him.

Turning Harrien’s face from the lovers, the sound of Harrien’s breath catching caused the elleth to look up and blush.  She moved away from Estel, a necklace of mithril passing between them, and she looked at Legolas and Harrien.  “Galdol!” (Greetings)  “Welcome to my home.”

“Me le ‘ovannen,” (Well met) Legolas replied.  “You startled my betrothed.”

“You are betrothed, my friend?” Estel asked as Harrien looked up at the pair.

Legolas looked at him piercingly.  “I am.  Lord Harrien has given me the honor of his hand, and his father has agreed.  You will no doubt see him among these woods.  Will you not introduce us?”  He, of course, recognized the Lady Arwen by reputation, but the two had never actually encountered one another.

“Prince Legolas, Harrien,” Estel introduced carefully, “the Lady Arwen Undumiel, daughter of Lord Elrond.”

Legolas bowed though Harrien did not as he looked at the other elf.  Looking at his betrothed, Legolas corrected, “Lord Harrien Moonflower, son of Silevren Krananuil, cousin to King Thranduil.”

“He is your uncle,” Estel stated carefully though incorrectly.  They were not so closely related.

“As the mortals would say,” Lord Harrien stated coldly, “I am adopted.  Lord Silevren took me and raised me.”  He clearly still did not care for Estel.  “I heard Lord Elrond did the same for you, which is why you have an Elven name.  You should be familiar with the concept.  Mine, however, is more binding as I am an elf.”

Lady Arwen tensed.

“Henion.”  (I understand)  “I apologize that I offended you when we first met.”

He did not answer.  Instead, Harrien looked at Arwen.  “Your ada spoke of you kindly.  He suggested that while the warriors and archers were at their discussions, you would perhaps show me Rivendell.”

Arwen glanced at Estel.  “I would be happy.  You traveled alone with the prince?”

“No.  Ada came.  I take it he will be with the council, is it?”

“Yes, it meets tomorrow.”

“It meets tomorrow,” he acknowledged with a tinge of sadness in his voice.  “Come and find me.”

He left then, his hand trailing down Legolas’s wrist, telling him to stay, and he looked at his back entreatingly.  “That’s the first time in all these decades I have seen him in something other than an archer’s tunic,” he told his friend.

“Lord Harrien does not care even for a nobleman’s robes?”

“No.  He says he used to fly in the wizards’ land and he never wore kaftans then.”  He sighed.  “I wish I could let him fly again, but I have not the means.”

Arwen looked between the two friends and bowed.  “Perhaps the Lord Harrien will get lost,” she said as she excused himself.  Legolas doubted it, but he didn’t say anything.

“We are called to a council,” Legolas stated, “but I do not need the Lady Galadriel’s foresight to know that we are going on a journey and that I must leave Harrien behind.  Lady Arwen gave you her favor.”

“Yes,” Estel answered, placing it around his neck.  “I pray that you will gain such a gift from your beloved.”

“My betrothed cares not for material items,” Legolas excused.  “I will have him in my heart.”

The council was loud and Legolas knew that he had to go and represent the race of elves.  He was a seasoned warrior and though his heart ached for Harrien, he knew he would understand that it was his duty.

“I fought a Dark Lord once,” Harrien told him.  “I do not believe he had a ring or anything of the sort, but I still fought him.”  Harrien was standing close to him, almost touching him, his hands running down Legolas’s arm.  “My father gave me the leather for this bracelet,” Harrien stated, wrapping a long thong around Legolas’s wrist, “and the cross is a symbol of a religion I followed before I came to Mirkwood.  I pray that our God will keep you safe until you may return to me.”  A strange cross made of steel was hanging from the leather, the lower spear longer than the others.

“What does it mean?”

“It is a torture device used to execute enemies of the state,” Harrien told him.  “Jesus Christ was killed on a cross like this and then rose from the dead three days later before ascending into heaven.  He was of God and he was God, begotten and not made.”  He smiled.  “It is a religion that is difficult to understand, but it is mine.  I try to pray to the Valar, but I find it difficult as I was raised with this one.  I hope the Valar are not offended that I give this to you.”

“The Valar are not offended,” Legolas told him as he pulled him into his arms.  “They know that you give it to me in love.  That is what matters, Harrien.”


In the depths of the Dwarfish Mines he prayed to Harrien’s god, holding the cross close, hoping that he would survive and see him again.  A Balrog tried to claim his life, but chose Gandalf instead.  When he arrived in Lothlorien, Galadriel spoke in his mind: “Harrison Potter left one world and was reborn as Harrien Moonflower.  The small part of Harrison that survived gave you that cross.  If you cannot love both, then do not love at all.”

The thought was preposterous to him.  He adored Harrien with all his heart and he treasured the cross that he gave him.  He held his wrist close as he slept, a smile on his face.


He stood in the White City, looking out over Gondor and marveling at its beauty.  The newly made King Elessar was arguing with his advisors over a bride, his coronation only two weeks away.  Velvets would arrive from Mirkwood for him to wear along with his own coronet.  Harrien was waiting for him at home and he would ride to his side and make him his prince consort as soon has his duties were discharged here.  It had been three long years since he had last seen his beloved face, his pointed ears, his braided pale blonde hair that only came to his shoulders, his hypnotic green eyes.

Legolas hated waiting for the chance to leave.  Living in what would be the Elvish quarter, he uttered a harsh “Tolo” (Come) when there was a knock on his door. 

Someone quietly stepped in and placed what he assumed were his robes on the bed and he moved his hand in such a way for them to leave.

“Will you not even look at me, veleth nin?” (my love)

The soft voice instantly rang through the room and he turned to see Harrien, his hair braided to the side and dressed in a brown tunic and leggings.  Legolas was immediately standing from his chair, knocking it over, and embracing him.

“Le melin.  I have missed you,” he whispered longingly, tears coming to his eyes.  (I love you) “I never wish to be parted from you again.”

“Then never be parted from me,” Harrien reasoned, his hand holding the back of his head to hold him closer.  “I brought robes of purple and blue for myself with King Thranduil’s blessing.  I have my own coronet.  We can be married tonight under the stars.  Ada has come for the soul purpose of giving my hand to you.”

Legolas pulled away and looked at his smiling face.  “Darling, can this be true?”

“I lie not,” Harrien promised, gently reaching up and kissing him lightly.  “It is you and only you.”

“Say there has been no one else,” he declared sweetly, resting their foreheads together.

“There has never been anyone in Middle Earth,” he promised.  “For a short time—I thought—but I was wrong.  I learned how quickly I was wrong.  I think it was his magic that I was attracted to and I was so lost that I needed something, anything to make me feel as if my feet held to the ground.”

Legolas brushed the side of Harrien’s face.  “Ni melig?  Truly?” (Do you love me?)

“Sevig i veleth nin,” he swore.  (You have my heart)


They were dressed in their royal robes and coronets, Legolas’s friends from the Fellowship present along with his new ones from Rohan and Gondor.  Elves surrounded Harrien and Silevren placed his hand in Legolas’s, speaking the words to bind them together, and then they shared a sweet kiss of felicity, joining their souls together.

There was much rejoicing and at the banquet table, Harrien traced the thong that he had placed on his wrist all the years before.  Carefully, before the feast was done, Legolas led him from the table, wishing to kiss away his blushes.  Soon they would truly be one and nothing would ever separate them again.


They sat on their horses, ready to join the Elven convoy back toward Lorien, Rivendell, and Mirkwood.  Only Arwen was to stay as the new Queen of Gondor, a smile on her face as she stood beside King Elessar, the once Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the child Estel.  “Ci velethril e-guil nin,” Harrien whispered.  (You are the love of my life)

Legolas took his hand and kissed it.  Legolas Greenleaf was glad the Fellowship was broken.  He wished to go home with his new Prince Consort to Mirkwood Forest.

The End.

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