Basketful upon basketful of thanks and gratitude to two lovely people. To alliwantisanelfforchristmas, whom I worship as she is the queen of beta’ing and summaries, and the truest of friends. To LifeIsStripped, whom I adore for her gushing and encouragement when I need a spark lit under my butt. Smooches to you both!

Warnings/Spoilers: Mostly a fluff fic. Let me apologize for that now. Post-RotK – no major plot relevations.

Disclaimer: I keep Legolas chained to my bed. He is mine. Not Tolkien’s. Mine. ::end PP’s skewed reality::

She sat, long legs folded beneath her, as slender fingers played with the head of one bright daisy. She waited, pleasuring in the caress of birdsong and babbling brook upon her ears, and the kiss upon her face of warm sunlight seeping in through the forest canopy.

The trees shivered. Rumors of his return ran rampant among them. They whispered excitedly to one another in checked delight.

And so she sat, and she waited.

He rode beside the ones who had come to greet him at forest edge. He didn’t say much, didn’t share with them tales from his long and perilous journey. There would be plenty of time for that later. His companions were more than willing to chat away at him instead, telling him of all that had passed within the Woodland Realm while he was gone — of the battle under the trees; of the destruction of Dol Guldur; of how the trees seemed to be renewed and to delight now that the great forest would be known no longer as Mirkwood but instead Eryn Lasgalen, Wood of Greenleaves. He frowned and nodded and smiled at all the appropriate times, but made no other response. None were surprised or concerned about his silence, for that was his nature — soft-spoken and watchful, always observing and considering, waiting....

He was glad to see them. Nay, more than glad. He had felt like one of the Periannath upon seeing them, one who had fasted for months and now had a full feast spread out before him. Though overwhelmed by the offerings, never would he turn them away; he only needed a moment to consider where to start first.

Now that he had properly greeted them all, felt their arms around him in welcoming embraces and their words of relief and joy and love washing over him, his mind dwelt on one who had not come.

‘Meleth,’ he reached out with his mind.

The leaves around and above rustled in the slight breeze, sounding much like a quenching rain. ‘She waits for you,’ they seemed to whisper. ‘She waits for you ‘neath Iphant Doron.’

Iphant Doron — where first they had met, where last they had parted. Of course she waited for him there, for it was a place special to them, held sacred with much memory.

Iphant Doron — the great oak was not too far from here. A quick bound through the treetops and he would come upon her. He would envelop her in his embrace, place a kiss against her sweet lips, press his body against hers, lavish her with his love, and take her as his. She would let him do all this, and more, if he so desired. Yet all he desired at this moment was to simply look upon her, to see her glow with joy and love.

He spoke of his wish to stray from the path and journey on to the palace through the trees. He spoke of his want for solitude. He gave his promise that he would be sure to arrive in plenty of time to attend the festivities being held the next evening in celebration of his return.

His sire nodded his permission, wisdom twinkling lovingly in bright grey eyes, and said not a word. The Woodland King sent his eldest son a knowing smile as his youngest dismounted his white Rohan steed and bade him follow the other horses, assuring him that at journey’s end he would find plenty of delicious oats to satiate him and mares who would find him quite charming.

He leapt up onto a sturdy bough and turned, his lithe form melding at once into the trees. He flew from branch to branch, soft boots catching upon each limb momentarily before lightly springing onward to catch the next. His desire to see her, to touch her, to lay with her spurred him on, and before long his panting for breath warned him that he would soon become fatigued, and so he willed himself to slow down. It was the last thing he wanted to have happen, to come upon her already exhausted and spent.

Dusk was descending as the lush dome of Iphant Doron seemed to separate itself from the rest of the forest canopy, a sign he was drawing near to his destination. The sight of it made him want to speed his steps, to hasten to her, but he resisted, feeling his anticipation swell.

He dropped soundlessly down to the forest floor and continued his journey there with slow and silent steps. The dense foliage seemed to part for him, leading him on towards her. He petitioned the trees not to give away his approach, to which they consented willingly. The quivering conversations that spoke of a young prince’s return continued seamlessly.

The trees here had escaped the fell attack unscathed, to his extreme relief. They were some of the oldest in Eryn Lasgalen. Indeed, they had been old when he was yet young, but still they were not as old as Iphant Doron. He held them all dear to his heart. They carried the memory of two young elves stumbling upon one another beneath the great boughs of their grandfather. They remembered well how one had fumed with anger and the other had tittered to watch her. They had observed the two elves in their talk and in their play throughout the centuries, and they had been witness to their first joining and their last, and many more in between. They considered the two elves their own—watching over them, delighting with them in times of merriment, soothing them when lovers quarreled. They would indulge this one, knowing they would soon be witness to a joyous reunion beneath their boughs.

He stopped and stood there, where thickset forest gave way to shining glade, in the center of which stood Iphant Doron. Leaves lit in the orange glow of a setting sun, Iphant Doron’s countless twisted arms stretched out both tall and wide like a protective shell, encompassing nearly all the glade in soft shadow. He made neither movement nor sound, transfixed was he, but it was not the serenity set by Iphant Doron that held him so.

Nay, she sat there beneath the great beloved tree waiting for him, nestled between two thick roots jutting out from the ground. The tremendous girth of Iphant Doron’s trunk shielded all but one of her hands from his view. The long, lissome fingers gently stroked the petals of a daisy in reposed motion. She took no notice to him watching her as her back was to him. He padded over to her and, saying nary a word, crouched silently behind her, breathing in her tranquil scent.

The gentle susurrations of the trees had lulled her into near sleep.

‘Meleth....’

She started awake. Only a whisper on the breeze, part of a waking dream, she told herself.

‘Meleth....’

Again it came, the soft voice lingering on the word, and more aware this time, she knew it not to be part of some dream but to be blissfully real.

‘Legolas!’ her heart sung as she lifted herself hurriedly off the ground.

He drew back and smiled at her, blue eyes gleaming with amusement, just like the time they had first beheld her. The trees stilled, as if holding their breath. Inside her heart was aflutter, but she was paralyzed by him, by the look he graced her with, by the sheer joy at having him return from the Quest, safe and whole.

As slow as molasses seeping out of a maple tree in winter, he crossed the short distance between them. Two steps was all it took, though to her it could have been the thousands of leagues that had kept them separated from each other for more than a year.

A year. Was that all? Surely to an elf, who had seen hundreds of years go by, it should not have seemed so long. Yet she had counted the months, the days, the hours, the minutes. She had counted the leaves that had fallen in the autumn of the year when he failed to return from bearing his sire’s message to Lord Elrond in Imladris. She had counted the snowflakes that fell that cold winter day when the delegation returned from Imladris bearing two missives—one for the king and one for her. She had counted each blossom upon the apple tree outside her window in spring, when days were darkest and nights were filled with despair. She had fallen asleep in summer, counting the stars in the sky as she waited for his return.

Again she counted the leaves, again the snowflakes, and again the blossoms and now it was once again summer. No longer would she count the stars alone.

She leaned into him, and he into her.

There beneath Iphant Doron they stood—eyes closed, forehead pressed against forehead, hands clutching the nape of neck and the curve of waist.

He shared with her all that he had experienced upon the Quest. Some he wished not to—the cold, crushing dark of Moria; the horrendous battle at Helm’s Deep; the despair outside the Black Gate, before the Eagles had come. He tried to lock them away from her, tried to bar the haunting images of both ancient and new evils, but she bade him to open up to her, offered to help him carry the burdens of such experiences, and so he gave them over to her. He felt her terror and her panicked concern, and he clung to her tighter, trying to still her fears, to remind her that all was well, to assure he was really here, safe in her arms.

She calmed and then opened herself up for more, so he shared with her the pleasant images he had seen upon the Quest—those of fair Lothlorien; of the golden plains of Rohan and his friend Arod; of the tall spires of the White City; of the ancient talking trees of Fangorn Forest; of the strange beauty of the Glittering Caves. A ripple of intrigued laughter passed through her then, so he shared with her all he had learnt upon the Quest—that Periannath were both pure and brave of heart, and would probably eat Thranduil out of his Hall in a week’s time; that it was right to place one’s hope in Man; that Dwarves made for interesting companions. She inquired further about the last and he told her all about his friend Gimli. She smiled at that and told him she would like to someday meet this son of Gloin, to which he replied that he would be pleased to introduce them, so long as neither charmed their way into each other’s heart. Again laughter undulated within her, and within him as well.

They shared the mirth for a long moment, sharing patient kisses and tender caresses as well, and then she sought more from him, for still she could feel him holding something back from her, something that he kept submerged deeply within him. She sought and she searched, quaking against him when she discovered what it was he tried to keep from her. She heard it first, its baleful call atop a crash of waves. Then she saw the despised creature, winging its way on a stormy grey horizon.

She recoiled from him, drawing away in trepidation. He reached for her, cupping her face in his hands, speaking fervent words to try and soothe her, to assuage her fears. He reminded her of his mortal friends, spoke of his desire to remain in Ennor until their passing, and assured her that his heart and her support would give him strength to resist the Sea’s Call until that time. Still she looked upon him with anxiety twisting her fairest of features.

He pulled her tight to him, and she cried into his shoulder. He stroked through her hair and down her back as she unleashed her true fear in muffled words—that he would one day depart these shores, leaving her behind. He hushed her, promising that it would eventually stir within her and together they would then sail the Sea. She nodded against him and soon her tears stopped, but still she trembled. Doubtful would the Call ever stir within her, for she was of the Silvan folk and rarely did it awaken within her kind.

Again he pressed his forehead against hers, asking her to share with him all she had experienced while he was gone.

A deep breath.

Images passed in an endless stream—an intricate tapestry being weaved by delicate fingers, snow falling on trees, a solitary star in a midnight sky, cruel fire and oppressive smoke all around, her brother’s cold and lifeless face....

He crushed her to his body once more, expressing his sorrow and offering his sympathy in the chaste kisses he placed upon her tear-stained cheeks.

Her body sighed against his.

An image of blue eyes alight in the lucidity of the morning sun streaming in through translucent curtains.

Her smile, one of warmth and radiance, bespeaking of pure contentment.

Lips pressed against lips then, and who initiated it neither could have said. It mattered not. The kiss was slow and sweet, and the sensations savored by both—the parting of lips, the slide of tongue against tongue, moaning against mouth.

Hands roamed over bodies, unhurried as they relearned every graceful curve and smoothly sculpted plane. Eventually clothing came to be shed, discarded to lie forgotten somewhere beneath Iphant Doron.

The slow descent of laying a lover down, pillowing a head with a hand, guiding to a cushion of velvety grass.

Another kiss, long and lingering. Another mouth, opening in invitation. Another tangle of tongues, only to break apart, leaving lovers breathless.

For a long while, fingers traced over the slight camber of muscles, across limb and trunk, rediscovering and remembering, seeking to titillate with the lightest of touches, and in doing so stirring an intensity of pleasure.

Then the sinking of flesh into flesh as rigidity merged with suppleness.

A gasp and a moan, and cries of love flowing freely forth from lips.

Two bodies pulsating as one in passion, driven by the heat of the flame of their love.

Two beings shooting to the stars and beyond, soaring on shared wings.

Two lovers lying enwrapped in each other’s arms, floating there beneath Iphant Doron.

Di-Iphant Doron – Beneath Aged Oak

Periannath – Halfings, Hobbits

Meleth – love