Chapter 1: Elrond's Worry
Summary:
Arriving in Lórien for what she believes is a simple pre-wedding celebration, Arwen is shocked when the formal feast quickly transforms into an uninhibited display of elven sensuality, causing her to retreat in embarrassment while unable to ignore the stirring of curiosity within her.
Notes:
Chapter 2 available on Discord. Link at the end.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Elrond's Worry
The golden light of afternoon streamed through the mallorn trees of Lothlórien, casting dappled shadows upon the forest floor. The War of the Ring had ended, yet a certain melancholy lingered among the ancient boughs, for with Sauron's defeat came also the waning of the Elven Rings, and with them, the inevitable diminishing of all that the Eldar had built through long Ages of the world.
Caras Galadhon stood resplendent even in its autumn years, the great mallorn trees reaching skyward with their silver-barked trunks and golden leaves that never fully fell, even as their power faded. Elves moved about their business with the fluid grace that marked their kind, preparing for the journey that would soon come: the procession to Minas Tirith for the wedding of Lady Arwen to King Aragorn Elessar.
The air was sweet with the fragrance of elanor and niphredil, blooming now in abundance as if in defiance of the fading magic that had nurtured them for millennia. Birds sang melodies more complex than any mortal composer might devise, their voices carrying through the forest like silver threads woven through gold.
In a clearing not far from the heart of the city, a group of Silvan elves made ready for the arrival of their kin from Imladris and the Woodland Realm. Their bodies moved with unconscious grace as they erected pavilions of silver and white, their forms lithe and perfect beneath garments of gossamer silk. An elven maiden paused in her work to gaze admiringly at a tall, broad-shouldered warrior who drove stakes into the soft earth, her eyes lingering on the play of muscles beneath his tunic. He caught her gaze and smiled, a promise of later pleasures passing silently between them.
Such was the way of the Eldar, though little of this aspect of their nature had ever been recorded in the histories known to Men. The physical union between elves was as natural as breathing, a celebration of their immortal bodies and heightened senses. In the aftermath of war, with relief still fresh and the future uncertain, such couplings had grown more frequent, more urgent, as if in defiance of the diminishing that was to come.
A silver horn sounded from the northern border of the wood, announcing the arrival of the delegation from Imladris. Lord Elrond had come at last to Lothlórien, to spend these final days with his daughter before relinquishing her to the world of Men. His countenance, as reported by the border guards, was grave beyond even his usual solemnity.
In her chamber built high among the branches of the greatest mallorn, the Lady Galadriel gazed into her silver mirror. The water rippled with images too swift and fractured to interpret with certainty: Arwen clothed in mortal gray, Elrond's ship sailing into the uttermost West, and between these certainties, shadows of possibilities not yet determined. She saw Arwen's face transformed in ecstasy, her back arching beneath the weight of another form. She saw tears, both of joy and sorrow. And she saw a crown set aside, a choice remade.
Galadriel passed her hand over the mirror, dispersing the images. "So there remains a chance," she whispered to herself, her voice musical even in its softness. "A small chance, perhaps, but chance enough."
She straightened, her golden hair cascading down her back in waves that seemed to capture the very light of the sun. Though thousands of years had passed since her birth in Valinor, her beauty remained unmarred by time, her body as perfect as that of a maiden in the first flush of womanhood. The gown she wore, seemingly simple white, revealed hints of her form as she moved: the swell of her breast, the curve of her hip, the length of her leg. Such was the nature of elven garments, designed to honor rather than conceal the beauty of the form beneath.
"My Lady," came a voice from the entrance to her chamber. "Lord Elrond approaches."
Galadriel turned, composing her features into a mask of serene welcome. "Prepare refreshment for us," she instructed. "And ensure that we are not disturbed. There is much we must discuss before the Evenstar arrives."
The attendant bowed and departed, leaving Galadriel alone with her thoughts and the fading images from her mirror. She touched the ring upon her finger, feeling its power pulse in response. Nenya's strength was diminishing, as were all the Elven Rings since the destruction of the One, but perhaps enough power remained for one final working. One last attempt to preserve what beauty might yet be saved in Middle-earth.
"Forgive me, Celebrían," she murmured, thinking of her daughter, Elrond's wife, who had sailed West long ago after her torment at the hands of orcs. "I do this as much for you as for our people. Your daughter must not be lost to the gift of Men."
The rustle of fabric and the subtle shift in the air announced Elrond's arrival before he appeared in the doorway. His face, noble and ancient, bore the weight of coming loss. The circlet upon his brow gleamed silver against his dark hair, the blue stone of Vilya visible upon his hand.
"Kinsman," Galadriel greeted him, extending her hands in welcome. "Too long has it been since you walked beneath the mallorn trees."
"Lady Galadriel," Elrond replied, taking her offered hands and bowing his head in respect. "The golden wood remains as beautiful as ever, though I perceive the change that has come upon it, as it has come upon all our works."
"Change comes to all things in Arda Marred," she acknowledged. "Even to those things we believed would endure until the breaking of the world. Come, sit with me. We have much to discuss before sunset brings the evening meal."
And so began the council between the bearers of two of the Three Rings, a meeting that would set in motion events none had foreseen, save perhaps in the shifting waters of Galadriel's mirror.
The chamber beneath the mallorn roots was cool and quiet, insulated from the sounds of preparation that filled Caras Galadhon. Light filtered through latticed windows of living wood, casting patterns upon the floor that shifted with the gentle movement of branches far above. Galadriel seated herself upon a chair carved from a single piece of pale wood, its back rising in the semblance of intertwined branches. Elrond took the companion seat across from her, his posture rigid with unspoken tension.
Between them stood a small table of polished wood, upon which an attendant had placed a silver pitcher of water, a crystal decanter of golden wine, and goblets of mithril worked with patterns of leaves and stars. The attendant bowed and departed, closing the door of woven branches behind him.
"Speak freely, kinsman," Galadriel said, pouring clear water into two of the goblets. "Though many ears hear the rustling of leaves in the Golden Wood, in this chamber, only I shall hear your words."
Elrond accepted the offered water, though he did not immediately drink. "My heart is troubled, Lady, as I believe you have already perceived. The victory we have won seems hollow when measured against what is to be lost."
"You speak of Arwen," Galadriel observed, her voice gentle. "And of her choice."
"I have long known of her decision," Elrond replied, his voice tight with controlled emotion. "Since she and Aragorn plighted their troth upon Cerin Amroth, I have seen this day approaching. Yet now that it is nearly upon us, I find myself unable to accept it with grace."
Galadriel's eyes, deep and luminous as the night sky, regarded him with compassion. "The Choice of Lúthien comes rarely to our kindred, and always it brings sorrow mingled with joy. You fear not only for yourself but for her."
"I fear she does not understand what she surrenders," Elrond said, setting aside his untouched water. "She speaks of love as if it were the only consideration, as if the brief flame of mortal passion could compensate for the loss of all else."
"And what have you told her of what she surrenders?" Galadriel asked, her voice carefully neutral.
Elrond's hand moved in a gesture of frustration. "Everything. I have spoken of Valinor, of the beauty that awaits beyond the Sundering Seas. I have reminded her of the doom of Men, how their brief years pass like the drawing of a single breath to our kind, leaving naught but ash and memory."
"And she remains unmoved by these arguments."
"She speaks of the deeper meaning found in mortality," Elrond said, a note of bewilderment entering his voice. "As if the certainty of death somehow makes life more precious. I cannot comprehend such reasoning."
Galadriel rose from her seat with fluid grace, moving to the crystal decanter. The golden wine within caught the light as she lifted it, sparkling like liquid sunshine. "Perhaps we approach this from the wrong direction, kinsman. It is not death that draws her to Aragorn, but life as she perceives it through mortal eyes."
Elrond watched as Galadriel poured the golden wine into two fresh goblets. The liquid seemed to capture the very essence of sunlight filtering through mallorn leaves, a distillation of summer afternoons in the Golden Wood.
"What do you mean?" he asked at length, accepting the proffered cup.
"Consider what Arwen has known of life," Galadriel said, returning to her seat with a rustle of white fabric. "She has lived three thousand years in the twilight of our people. She has known beauty unchanging, pleasure without urgency, love without desperation. There is a certain... sameness to immortal existence that she has perhaps grown weary of."
Elrond's brow furrowed. "You suggest she chooses mortality out of boredom?"
"Not boredom," Galadriel corrected gently. "But perhaps out of hunger for a different manner of experiencing the world. The passions of Men burn brighter for their brevity. Their pleasures are keener for the knowledge that they will end."
"She has spoken similarly," Elrond admitted. "But surely the fleeting nature of mortal love cannot compare to the deep communion possible between our kind? The joining not merely of bodies but of fëar that may last centuries?"
Galadriel's eyes grew distant, as if seeing beyond the walls of the chamber. "When did Arwen last know such communion, Elrond? Who among our dwindling numbers has stirred her blood or awakened her desire? The young men of our kind grow ever fewer, and those who remain are often consumed with grief for what is passing."
A flush rose to Elrond's face, for even among the Eldar, such matters were seldom discussed so directly. "It is not my custom to inquire into my daughter's intimate affairs."
"Perhaps that is part of the difficulty," Galadriel replied. "For how can she truly know what she surrenders if she has never fully experienced it? The physical union between Eldar is not merely an act of pleasure or procreation, as it often is for Men. It is communion, it is music, it is the echo of the Great Music itself."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping lower. "When did you last speak with her of these things? Not of Valinor's gardens or the Halls of Mandos, but of the pleasures unique to our kind? Of the centuries of physical joy that await those who are not bound by mortal frailty?"
Elrond shifted uncomfortably. "It would hardly be appropriate for a father to—"
"Not you personally," Galadriel interrupted, a hint of impatience coloring her tone. "But has anyone? Her mother departed over five hundred years ago. What female kin has guided her in these matters?"
Silence fell between them, broken only by the distant song of birds among the mallorn branches. Elrond stared into his wine cup, his expression troubled.
"She has had companions," he said at last. "There was a time, before she met Estel, when she walked often with Glorfindel's youngest son."
"Walking is not experiencing," Galadriel said. "And I suspect those encounters were as formal and restrained as all else in Imladris has become." She sighed softly. "We have grown too cautious, too measured in our passion as our numbers dwindle. The Silvan elves have maintained more of the old ways, the celebration of physical joy without the weight of consequence that burdens mortals."
Elrond's eyes narrowed slightly. "What are you suggesting, Lady?"
Galadriel set aside her wine untouched. "I am suggesting that perhaps Arwen chooses Aragorn not fully understanding what she surrenders. Not the abstract concept of immortality, but the lived experience of it - the depth of physical communion possible between our kind, the heights of pleasure unknown to mortals, whose bodies fail them after mere decades."
"And if this is so? What remedy remains? The wedding approaches, and her mind seems fixed."
Galadriel rose and moved to the window, gazing out at the golden afternoon light. For a long moment she was silent, her thoughts turning inward, considering possibilities and consequences with the measured wisdom of millennia.
"There is perhaps one path," she said at last. "Not to change her mind by argument, for that has failed, but to ensure her choice is truly informed by experience." She turned back to face Elrond, her expression carefully neutral. "Before she binds herself to mortality, should she not know fully what she leaves behind?"
Elrond's expression shifted from confusion to dawning comprehension. "You cannot mean-"
"I mean only that she should experience the fullness of what it is to be Eldar," Galadriel replied smoothly. "The communion of body and spirit that transcends mortal understanding. If after knowing this, she still chooses the path of Lúthien, then at least her choice will be made with complete knowledge."
"And how would you propose to accomplish this?" Elrond asked, his voice carefully controlled. "Arwen has shown no interest in any of our kind since meeting Aragorn."
Galadriel's lips curved in a smile that held ancient secrets. "That is because she has encountered none who could awaken what lies dormant within her. But there are still those among us who remember the old ways, the celebrations of physical beauty that were common in the Elder Days."
She moved back to her seat, her gown flowing around her like water. "The delegation from the Woodland Realm arrives tomorrow. Among them comes Legolas Thranduilion, who fought alongside Aragorn in the Fellowship. He has won great renown not merely as a warrior but as one versed in the arts of physical pleasure, as many of the Silvan elves are."
"Thranduil's son?" Elrond's eyebrows rose in surprise. "He is a prince of his realm, and his father is hardly likely to approve such a scheme."
"Thranduil need not know," Galadriel replied. "And Legolas has ever followed his own counsel in matters of the heart. More importantly, he holds Aragorn in high esteem. He would understand that this is not a matter of stealing away the King's bride, but of ensuring that Arwen's choice is made with full knowledge."
She reached across the small table, laying her hand over Elrond's. Her touch was cool and light, yet conveyed strength beyond mortal understanding. "Before the wedding party departs for Minas Tirith, we will hold a celebration here in Lothlórien - one last gathering of the Eldar in the manner of old, before so many depart for the Havens. During such festivities, it would not be unusual for bonds to form, for ancient customs to be observed."
Elrond withdrew his hand, conflict evident in his eyes. "You ask much, Lady. To manipulate my daughter's affections, to potentially cause pain to a man I have come to love as a son..."
"I ask only that Arwen be given the opportunity to make an informed choice," Galadriel countered. "If after experiencing what it truly means to be Eldar, she still chooses mortality for love of Aragorn, then you must find peace in her decision. But if her heart turns back to her own kind..." She let the sentence hang unfinished between them.
The Lord of Imladris rose and paced the chamber, his steps silent upon the floor. The burden of fatherhood weighed heavily upon him, the desire to protect his child warring with the knowledge that she was three millennia old, a woman grown who had earned the right to make her own choices.
"And if this plan fails?" he asked at length. "If it serves only to cause pain and doubt, without changing her course?"
Galadriel's gaze was steady, unflinching. "Then at least we will have tried all that is within our power. I would rather risk temporary discord than allow Arwen to make a choice she may regret for all the brief years of her mortal life."
As the conversation continued, neither noticed the slight stirring of the woven door, nor the silent departure of a figure who had paused there briefly, catching fragments of their exchange. The handmaiden hurried away through the golden afternoon, her thoughts troubled by what she had overheard.
In her chamber, Galadriel gazed deeply into Elrond's eyes, reading the conflict there. She had not revealed all that she had seen in her mirror - the possibility, however faint, that Arwen might yet be swayed. For the first time since the War's end, hope kindled in her heart that not all she cherished would pass away with the dominion of the Elves.
Elrond circled the chamber twice more before stopping beside the latticed window. Golden light caught in his dark hair, illuminating the silver threads that had not been there before the War of the Ring. Though his face remained youthful as all the Eldar, the weight of his concerns had begun to mark him in subtle ways.
"You have something specific in mind," he said at last, not a question but a statement. "What is it you require of me?"
Galadriel rose with fluid grace and approached him, her white gown seeming to gather the afternoon light and reflect it back with gentle luminosity. "Your ring," she said simply. "Vilya still holds power, though diminished. Combined with Nenya, perhaps enough remains for one final working."
Elrond's hand moved reflexively to the blue stone he wore. "The Three were made to preserve and protect, not to manipulate the hearts of others. What you suggest borders on the very domination we fought against."
"Not domination," Galadriel corrected gently. "Illumination. We would not force Arwen's choice, merely ensure she understands fully what she surrenders." Her voice softened. "Think of it as a gift, Elrond. A final opportunity for your daughter to know the fullness of her heritage before she sets it aside forever."
"And Legolas is to be the instrument of this... illumination?" Elrond's tone made clear his discomfort with the notion. "He is young by our reckoning, impetuous."
"He is precisely what is needed," Galadriel replied with certainty. "Consider the tale of Tauriel, the Silvan captain who once served in Thranduil's guard. She felt drawn to a dwarf, Thorin's nephew, and nearly forsook her people for him. Yet after his death, she found consolation in her own kind. Now she and Legolas share a bond of physical pleasure that has healed much of her grief."
Elrond's eyebrows rose slightly. "I had not heard this tale."
"The Woodland Realm keeps its own counsel in many matters," Galadriel said with a faint smile. "But I have seen much in my mirror, and more through the thoughts of those who visit here. Legolas has become renowned among the Silvan elves not merely for his prowess with bow and blade, but for his skill in the arts of physical love."
She moved away from him, her steps soundless on the floor. "The Sindar and Silvan elves have always maintained more of the old ways than the Noldor. They celebrate the body's pleasures without the weight of consequence that burdens mortals. And Legolas, though Sindar by lineage, has embraced the Silvan customs wholeheartedly."
"You speak of him as if he were some legendary lover from the songs," Elrond said, a note of skepticism in his voice.
Galadriel's laugh was musical, tinkling like silver bells. "Is that so strange? We live for thousands of years, Elrond. Should we not perfect all arts, including those of physical pleasure? Some among our kind devote centuries to the mastery of harp or song. Others to the forge or the loom. Why should the art of bringing joy to another's body be held in lesser esteem?"
She returned to the table and lifted the decanter of golden wine, refilling their goblets. "Legolas has the vigor of youth and the pride of his father, yet none of Thranduil's coldness. He is beautiful as all our kind are beautiful, but there is a fire in him that many of the Noldor have lost. And more importantly, he understands what is at stake. He would not wish to see the Evenstar diminished by mortality any more than we do."
Elrond accepted the refilled goblet, though he seemed lost in thought. "And if your plan succeeds? If Arwen's heart is turned back to her own kind? What then? Would you have her wed Legolas, bear children for Thranduil's line rather than Isildur's?"
"I would have her make her choice with full knowledge," Galadriel replied. "What comes after would be for her to decide. Perhaps she would sail West with you. Perhaps she would find happiness with Legolas or another of our kind. Or perhaps she would still choose Aragorn, but without the shadow of ignorance that now clouds her decision."
She sipped her wine, her eyes never leaving Elrond's face. "Will you trust me in this, kinsman? Will you lend your power to mine for the sake of your daughter's future?"
The chamber grew quiet as Elrond considered her words. Outside, the songs of birds mingled with the distant voices of elves preparing for the evening meal. The golden light of afternoon began to soften toward evening, casting longer shadows through the latticed windows.
At length, Elrond removed the ring from his finger and held it out to Galadriel. The blue stone caught the light, seeming to hold within it the very sky of a summer afternoon.
"For Arwen's sake," he said quietly. "That she might make her choice in full knowledge, not in ignorance. But I will not be party to the details of your scheme. Some burdens a father should not bear."
Galadriel took Vilya from his palm, the touch of the ring sending a resonance through her being as its power recognized the presence of Nenya upon her own hand. For a moment, the air in the chamber seemed to shimmer with unseen energies, the lights and shadows deepening until it seemed they stood in a place out of time, untouched by the fading of the Eldar.
"You have my word that I will use this trust wisely," she said, closing her fingers around the ring. "When our work is done, regardless of the outcome, Vilya shall be returned to you for your journey West."
Elrond nodded once, his expression somber. "I must prepare for the evening meal. The lords of Imladris will expect my presence."
"Of course," Galadriel said, stepping back. "We shall speak again when the delegation from the Woodland Realm arrives. Until then, let us keep our counsel between us alone."
With a final bow of his head, Elrond departed, leaving Galadriel alone in the gathering dusk of her chamber. She opened her hand and gazed at the two rings that now lay against her palm: Nenya, the Ring of Water, with its adamant stone that shone like a star, and Vilya, the Ring of Air, blue as a summer sky.
"For Arwen," she whispered, closing her fingers around them once more. "For all the Eldar who remain in Middle-earth. One last chance to preserve what beauty might yet be saved."
The following day dawned clear and bright over Lothlórien. The mallorn trees glowed golden in the morning light, their silver bark gleaming like mithril against the blue sky. Throughout Caras Galadhon, elves went about their preparations with renewed vigor, for word had come that the party from the Woodland Realm would arrive before midday.
In her chamber high among the branches, Galadriel stood before a silver basin, gazing into waters that reflected more than merely her own face. Images formed and dissolved: Arwen riding beneath the eaves of the Golden Wood, her expression pensive; Legolas leading a company of Wood-elves along the forest paths, his golden hair catching the sunlight; and glimpses of what might be, shadows of possibility that shifted with each ripple of the water.
She passed her hand over the mirror, dispelling the images, and turned to the small table where she had laid out the rings. Through the night she had worked with them, weaving spells of subtle influence, not to dominate but to heighten, to awaken, to reveal. The magic of the Eldar was not the brute force of Sauron's domination but the gentle enhancement of what already existed, the illumination of hidden truths.
A light knock at her door drew her attention. "Enter," she called, covering the rings with a fold of silk.
The door opened to admit a tall elf maiden with hair the color of autumn leaves. Tauriel, once captain of Thranduil's guard, now a trusted handmaiden to the Lady of the Golden Wood. She wore a simple gown of pale green, belted with silver, and moved with the fluid grace of one long trained in the arts of war.
"My Lady," she said, bowing her head in respect. "The scouts report that Prince Legolas's party has crossed the Nimrodel. They will arrive within the hour."
"Thank you, Tauriel," Galadriel replied, studying the younger elf's face. Tauriel had come to Lothlórien after the Battle of Five Armies, seeking healing for her grief over the dwarf Kili's death. In the Golden Wood she had found not only solace but a new purpose, serving as liaison between Lothlórien and the Woodland Realm. And in recent years, since Legolas's return from the War of the Ring, she had found something more: a rekindling of the bond they had shared in their youth, now deepened by shared experience and mutual need.
"You seem troubled," Galadriel observed, noting the slight furrow between Tauriel's brows. "Speak freely. What concerns you?"
Tauriel hesitated, her green eyes flickering to the covered rings on the table before returning to Galadriel's face. "I overheard... fragments of your conversation with Lord Elrond yesterday. Not intentionally," she added quickly. "I came to deliver a message and heard voices within. I should have withdrawn immediately, but..."
"But you heard enough to trouble your heart," Galadriel finished for her. She gestured to a chair. "Sit, child. Perhaps it is well that you know, for you may have a part to play in what is to come."
Tauriel sat, her posture straight, hands folded in her lap. "You spoke of using Legolas to turn Lady Arwen's heart from her mortal love. I fear... I fear this plan may bring pain to many, not least to Legolas himself."
Galadriel regarded her thoughtfully. "You care deeply for him."
A flush rose to Tauriel's cheeks. "We have a bond, yes. Not the bond of marriage, but one of mutual joy and comfort. I would not see him used as a pawn in another's game, even yours, my Lady."
"Not a pawn," Galadriel corrected gently. "A key. A way to unlock what Arwen has never permitted herself to experience." She moved to sit opposite Tauriel, her white gown pooling around her like water. "Tell me, in your years in the Woodland Realm, did you ever observe Lady Arwen during her visits there?"
Tauriel nodded slowly. "A few times, when she came to visit King Thranduil's court. She was... reserved. Beautiful beyond words, but distant. She took little part in our celebrations, especially those that followed the old ways."
"The celebrations of physical beauty," Galadriel said. "The unions that form and dissolve like patterns in a dance, bringing joy without the weight of eternal commitment."
"Yes," Tauriel agreed, her flush deepening. "The Wood-elves have maintained these customs more than the High Elves of Imladris or even here in Lothlórien. Arwen seemed... uncomfortable with our openness."
"Because she has never permitted herself to experience it," Galadriel said. "She was raised in Imladris, where such celebrations have become increasingly rare as our numbers dwindle. And now she prepares to bind herself to a mortal, having never known the depths of pleasure possible between our kind."
She leaned forward slightly. "I do not ask that Legolas forfeit his heart to her, nor that you surrender your bond with him. I ask only that he show her what she surrenders by choosing mortality: the depths of physical communion possible only between the Eldar, whose bodies do not fail and whose spirits touch directly during such unions."
Tauriel was silent for a long moment, her gaze lowered to her folded hands. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. "And if she falls in love with him? Legolas is... he is not easily forgotten once known."
A gentle smile touched Galadriel's lips. "If that happens, it will be her choice, freely made with full knowledge. But I think it more likely that she will simply come to understand what she surrenders. Whether that understanding changes her path remains to be seen."
She reached out and took Tauriel's hand in her own. "I would ask your help in this matter. Your presence would make it less... calculated. A celebration between friends, a sharing of pleasure as is custom among your people, rather than a deliberate seduction."
Tauriel raised her eyes to meet Galadriel's gaze. "You wish me to share Legolas with her? To guide her in the ways of our kind?"
"If you are willing," Galadriel replied. "Who better to show her the joy possible between our kind than one who has known both mortal love and elven pleasure? You understand what she faces, the choice that lies before her."
The chamber grew quiet as Tauriel considered the request. Outside, the songs of birds mingled with distant voices as the elves of Lothlórien prepared to welcome their woodland kin. At length, Tauriel nodded, a single decisive movement.
"I will speak with Legolas when he arrives," she said. "If he agrees, then I will help in this endeavor. Not to manipulate Lady Arwen, but to ensure her choice is made with full knowledge."
Galadriel squeezed her hand gently before releasing it. "Thank you, child. Your wisdom does credit to your years. Now go, prepare for the arrival of our guests. We will speak again when all are settled."
Tauriel rose and bowed, then departed with the same fluid grace with which she had entered. When the door closed behind her, Galadriel returned to the table and uncovered the rings. Vilya and Nenya lay side by side, their stones catching the morning light.
"For Arwen," she murmured, slipping Nenya onto her finger once more. "For all the Eldar who remain. One last chance to preserve what beauty might yet be saved."
The sun had reached its zenith when the horns sounded from the northern borders of Lothlórien, announcing the arrival of the delegation from the Woodland Realm. Elves gathered along the main paths of Caras Galadhon, eager to greet their kindred from the east. Though relations between the realms had sometimes been strained due to Thranduil's isolationist policies, the shared victory over Sauron had fostered new goodwill.
From her vantage point on a high talan, Galadriel watched as the procession entered the city. At its head rode Legolas Thranduilion, fair-haired and proud upon a white horse. Unlike his father, whose preference for elaborate robes and jewels was well known, Legolas wore the simple garb of a woodland warrior: tunic and leggings of green and brown, a cloak clasped with a leaf-shaped brooch, and his bow and quiver upon his back.
Yet even in such unadorned attire, his beauty was remarkable. Tall and broad-shouldered for an elf, with the powerful build of an archer, Legolas combined the regal bearing of his Sindarin lineage with the earthy vigor of the Silvan elves among whom he had been raised. His golden hair fell straight past his shoulders, bound back from his face with simple braids, and his blue eyes were bright with the light of stars, as was common among the Eldar.
Behind him rode two dozen elves from the Woodland Realm, similarly attired in hunting greens and browns. Among them were both Sindar and Silvan, the ancient division between the two groups less pronounced now than in years past. They sang as they rode, their voices blending in harmonies that seemed to make the very leaves of the mallorn trees tremble in response.
Galadriel descended from her talan to greet them formally in the central clearing of the city. She wore a gown of shimmering white that seemed to capture and reflect the dappled sunlight filtering through the golden canopy above. Upon her brow was set a simple circlet of silver, and Nenya gleamed upon her finger. Vilya she had secreted away, not yet ready to reveal to all that she held two of the Three.
Beside her stood Elrond, grave and formal in robes of deep blue embroidered with silver stars. His own circlet of mithril caught the light, and if any noticed that Vilya no longer adorned his hand, none remarked upon it. His expression was composed, revealing nothing of the troubled conversation of the previous day.
Legolas dismounted with fluid grace and approached the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood. He pressed his hand to his heart and bowed his head in the traditional elven greeting.
"Lady Galadriel, Lord Elrond," he said, his voice musical and clear. "I bring greetings from the Woodland Realm and from my father, King Thranduil. We come to join the celebration of Lady Arwen's marriage and to accompany her to Minas Tirith for the ceremony."
"Welcome to Lothlórien, Prince Legolas," Galadriel replied, inclining her head. "The Golden Wood rejoices at your arrival. You and your company are most welcome here."
Her gaze held his for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, and she felt his mind open to her silent communication. We must speak privately, young prince. There is much at stake beyond what appears on the surface.
A flicker of surprise crossed Legolas's features, quickly masked by the same composed expression he had worn upon arrival. He nodded slightly, a barely perceptible movement, before turning to greet Elrond.
"Lord Elrond," he said, bowing once more. "It is an honor to see you again. I trust Lady Arwen is well?"
"She is," Elrond replied, his voice carefully neutral. "She rides even now from the borders, where she went this morning to gather elanor blossoms. She will join us for the evening meal."
As the formalities continued and the Woodland elves were shown to their quarters among the mallorn trees, Galadriel caught sight of Tauriel moving through the crowd. The auburn-haired elf maid's gaze was fixed on Legolas, a mix of joy and apprehension in her green eyes. When Legolas saw her, his face brightened, and he excused himself from the gathering to meet her.
Galadriel watched as they embraced briefly, a familiar gesture between old friends, before disappearing together along one of the winding paths that led deeper into the city. A faint smile touched her lips. Tauriel would explain what was needed, prepare the ground for the more detailed conversation to come.
All was proceeding as she had foreseen. Now they needed only await the arrival of Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar of her people, whose choice would determine so much of what was to come.
From the south came the sound of another horn, the clear note signaling the return of a member of the household rather than the arrival of new guests. Arwen had returned from her morning ride. The final player in their drama was about to take the stage.
Galadriel touched the ring upon her finger, feeling its power pulse in response to her thoughts. The celebration would begin tonight with a formal feast, but the true work would not commence until later, when wine had loosened inhibitions and the ancient songs began to weave their spell upon all who heard them.
For Arwen, she thought once more. For all the Eldar who remain. One last chance to preserve what beauty might yet be saved.
Notes:
Discord: https://discord.gg/sCAWUXab6P
Chapter 2: Unveiled Traditions
Summary:
Arriving in Lórien for what she believes is a simple pre-wedding celebration, Arwen is shocked when the formal feast quickly transforms into an uninhibited display of elven sensuality, causing her to retreat in embarrassment while unable to ignore the stirring of curiosity within her.
Notes:
Chapter 3 available on Discord. Link at the end.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 2: Unveiled Traditions
Night had fallen over Lothlórien, transforming the Golden Wood into a realm of shadows and starlight. Throughout Caras Galadhon, countless silver lanterns illuminated the vast mallorn trees from within, their light filtering through leaves that never fully lost their golden hue even in darkness. The forest city had become a constellation of its own making, rivaling the stars that glittered in the clear sky above.
Elves moved with fluid grace along the winding pathways, their voices raised in songs that blended with the natural music of the forest. The melodies carried on the gentle breeze, intertwining with the rustling of mallorn leaves and the distant murmur of the Silverlode. Fragrance filled the air, a complex harmony of elanor and niphredil blossoms, fresh bread from the kitchens, and the clean, crisp scent of the forest itself.
In her chamber high among the branches, Galadriel stood before a tall mirror of polished silver, surveying her reflection with critical eyes. She had chosen a gown of shimmering white that seemed to capture and hold the very essence of starlight. It flowed around her like water, accentuating the perfection of her form while maintaining the dignity befitting the Lady of the Golden Wood. Upon her brow rested a simple circlet of mithril, and Nenya gleamed upon her finger, its adamant stone catching and refracting the light.
"Is all in readiness?" she asked without turning.
Tauriel stepped forward from where she had been waiting quietly by the door. The auburn-haired elf wore a gown of deep green that complemented her coloring, making her eyes appear more vibrant and her hair more like autumn flames. The garment was simpler than Galadriel's but no less becoming, cut to display the lithe strength of her form.
"Yes, my Lady," she replied. "The feast is prepared, the wine has been selected, and the musicians await your signal to begin. Lord Celeborn asks if you will join him to greet the guests."
Galadriel turned from the mirror, her expression serene. "And Legolas? Has he been informed of what we discussed?"
Tauriel's cheeks colored slightly. "He has, my Lady. He understands what is asked of him and is willing to play his part. He bears great respect for Lady Arwen and wishes only to ensure her choice is made with full knowledge."
"And what of your feelings in this matter?" Galadriel asked, her gaze piercing. "I would not have you participate unwillingly."
"I have made my peace with it," Tauriel said, her voice steady despite the flush that remained on her cheeks. "Legolas and I share a bond of pleasure and friendship, not the eternal commitment of marriage. What we do tonight and in the days to come is in service to Lady Arwen and to all our kind."
Galadriel nodded, satisfied. "Then let us proceed. Lady Arwen returns from her ride. She should be arriving at the gates even now."
Together they descended the spiral staircase that wound around the great mallorn trunk, emerging onto a broad platform that served as a reception area for the royal talan. Celeborn awaited them there, tall and silver-haired, his face ageless and beautiful as was common among the eldest of the Eldar. He wore robes of silver-grey that complemented Galadriel's white, and upon his finger was a ring of gold set with a single white gem.
"The Evenstar approaches," he said, offering his arm to Galadriel. "I have instructed the grooms to bring her directly here rather than to her chamber. She will want to refresh herself before the feast."
Galadriel accepted his arm, her hand resting lightly upon his sleeve. "And Elrond?"
"He awaits us in the hall. His heart is troubled, though he conceals it well." Celeborn's eyes, wise with the experience of millennia, studied his wife's face. "Are you certain of this course, my love? Much may be lost if it fails."
"Much will certainly be lost if we do nothing," Galadriel replied softly. "I have looked into my mirror and seen possibilities. This path offers hope, however slender."
Further conversation was forestalled by the sound of light footsteps upon the stairway. A moment later, Arwen Undómiel appeared, her cheeks flushed from riding and her dark hair slightly windblown despite the neat braids that held it back from her face. She wore a simple riding dress of pale grey, unadorned save for a silver belt at her waist, and carried a small basket filled with elanor blossoms.
Even in such informal attire, her beauty was breathtaking. The Evenstar of her people, she combined the loveliness of Lúthien with the wisdom and dignity of her father's line. Her eyes, grey as twilight, held the light of stars, and her movements possessed the fluid grace common to all the Eldar, yet somehow elevated to an art form.
"Grandmother," she said, setting aside her basket and embracing Galadriel warmly. "Grandfather. Forgive my appearance. The day was so fair that I rode farther than intended."
"You are always welcome, however you appear," Galadriel replied, returning the embrace. She held Arwen at arm's length, studying her face with eyes that saw more than mere physical features. "The Golden Wood rejoices at your presence, as do we."
Arwen smiled, though Galadriel noted that the expression did not quite reach her eyes. There was a shadow there, a hint of the conflict that raged within her heart. "It is good to be here again. Lothlórien has always been a place of peace for me."
"And so it shall remain," Celeborn said, stepping forward to embrace her in turn. "For as long as you wish it."
The unspoken implication hung in the air between them: that Arwen's time in the Golden Wood, like her time among the Eldar, was drawing to its close. A flicker of pain crossed her features before she composed herself once more.
"Father tells me the delegation from the Woodland Realm has arrived," she said, changing the subject with gentle determination. "Including Legolas, who rode with Aragorn in the Fellowship."
"Indeed," Galadriel replied, allowing the shift in conversation. "Prince Legolas arrived at midday with two dozen of his father's people. They will accompany us to Minas Tirith for your wedding."
She gestured to Tauriel, who had remained a respectful distance away during the family greetings. "You remember Tauriel, formerly captain of Thranduil's guard, now in my service here in Lothlórien."
Arwen turned to the auburn-haired elf, inclining her head in greeting. "Of course. Well met, Tauriel. It has been many years since our paths crossed in the Woodland Realm."
"Well met, my Lady," Tauriel replied, bowing slightly. "I am honored to serve as your attendant during your stay. If you wish to refresh yourself before the feast, I have prepared a bath in your chamber."
"That would be most welcome," Arwen said with genuine gratitude. "The dust of the road clings to me, and I would not attend tonight's gathering in such a state."
"Then we shall see you at the feast," Galadriel said, a gentle dismissal. "Tauriel will show you to your chamber and assist you with whatever you require."
As Tauriel led Arwen away toward the guest quarters in the royal wing, Celeborn turned to his wife with a questioning gaze. "You have placed her next to Legolas and Tauriel," he observed. "A calculated decision, I presume."
"All is proceeding as it must," Galadriel replied, her voice so low that only he could hear it. "The first seeds will be planted tonight, though they may take time to germinate."
Celeborn sighed, a sound as soft as the rustling of mallorn leaves. "I hope your wisdom proves true in this matter, my love. I would not see our granddaughter's heart wounded further, nor Elrond's grief deepened."
"Nor would I," Galadriel said, her eyes following the path Arwen had taken. "But better a brief pain now than an eternity of regret. Come, we must prepare ourselves for the feast. Much depends on the events of this night."
The great hall of Caras Galadhon had been transformed for the welcoming feast. Built upon a massive platform supported by the interlocking branches of several mallorn trees, its floor was inlaid with patterns of silver and gold that seemed to flow like water in the shifting light. The roof was open to the sky, where the first stars of evening now began to appear, their light mingling with that of hundreds of silver lanterns suspended from the surrounding branches.
Long tables of polished wood had been arranged in a great circle, with a high table at the northern end for the lords and ladies of the realm. The tables were laden with the bounty of forest and field: fruits that seemed to glow with inner light, bread that held the essence of summer, wine in crystal decanters that captured the very spirit of the mallorn trees. Flowers were strewn across the tables and woven into garlands that hung from the branches overhead, filling the air with their sweet fragrance.
Elves gathered in their finest attire, the Galadhrim in silver and white, the delegation from Imladris in blues and purples, and the Woodland Elves in greens and browns. Despite the formal occasion, there was a notable difference in bearing between the groups. The High Elves of Imladris moved with stately grace, their conversations measured and their gestures restrained. The Silvan Elves from both Lothlórien and the Woodland Realm displayed a more natural vitality, their laughter quicker to rise, their movements less constrained by ceremony.
Legolas stood with a group of his kinsmen, easily distinguished by his height and the golden hair that fell past his shoulders in straight locks, bound back from his face with warrior's braids. For the feast, he had exchanged his travel clothes for a tunic of silver-green that complemented his coloring and accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. Unlike many of the Noldor lords, who wore robes that concealed the form, Legolas's attire revealed the powerful build of an archer, the strength in his arms and chest evident beneath the fine fabric.
He was speaking animatedly with his companions when Tauriel approached, now dressed in a gown of deeper green embroidered with silver leaves. She leaned close to whisper in his ear, and his expression shifted, becoming more focused as he glanced toward the entrance to the hall. Following his gaze, the assembled elves turned to witness the arrival of the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood, accompanied by Lord Elrond and his daughter, the Evenstar of her people.
Arwen had transformed since her arrival that afternoon. Gone was the dusty riding dress, replaced by a gown of midnight blue embroidered with silver stars. Her dark hair fell in waves down her back, adorned only with a simple circlet of silver that matched the one worn by her father. The bath had refreshed her, bringing a glow to her skin that enhanced her natural beauty, yet there remained a certain tenseness around her mouth, a shadow that occasionally passed across her features when she believed herself unobserved.
As the party made their way to the high table, conversation in the hall dimmed to murmurs of appreciation. Even among the beautiful Eldar, Arwen Undómiel stood apart, her loveliness a reminder of Lúthien Tinúviel, whom she was said to resemble. Yet those with keener eyes might note that her beauty had taken on a mortal cast, a certain intensity that came from the knowledge of limited time rather than the serene perfection of the immortal Eldar.
Galadriel guided her to a seat at the high table, positioning her between herself and Elrond, directly across from where Legolas and Tauriel would be seated. As the guests of honor took their places, Celeborn rose to address the gathering.
"Kindred from near and far," he began, his voice clear and musical, carrying to the farthest corners of the hall without seeming raised. "We gather this evening to celebrate the bonds that unite our peoples, even as we prepare for changes that will reshape the world we have known. The shadow has passed from Middle-earth, thanks to the courage of many, some of whom stand among us tonight."
His gaze moved to Legolas, acknowledging his role in the Fellowship, before returning to encompass the entire gathering. "We also celebrate the coming union between the houses of Elrond and Elendil, a marriage that heralds a new Age for both Eldar and Edain. Let us feast together in joy and fellowship, setting aside sorrows past and future to embrace this moment of peace."
He raised a goblet of crystal filled with golden wine. "To friendship between our peoples. To love that transcends boundaries. To the future, whatever it may hold."
The assembled elves rose as one, raising their own goblets in response. "To friendship. To love. To the future."
As they drank and resumed their seats, musicians positioned around the hall began to play, their melodies weaving together in complex harmonies that seemed to make the very air vibrate with emotion. Servants moved among the tables, filling plates and refreshing wine cups with silent efficiency.
At the high table, Arwen found herself seated precisely as Galadriel had arranged: between her father and grandmother, with a clear view of Legolas and Tauriel directly across from her. Though she had known Legolas since his youth, their paths had seldom crossed in recent centuries. She regarded him now with new awareness, seeing not merely Thranduil's son or Aragorn's companion, but an elven prince in his own right.
The golden hair that caught the lantern light, the powerful shoulders beneath his formal tunic, the easy grace with which he moved, the musical quality of his laughter as he responded to something Tauriel had whispered in his ear. These details registered in Arwen's consciousness with unexpected clarity, causing her to look away quickly when Legolas glanced up and caught her studying him.
"The Prince has distinguished himself greatly in recent years," Galadriel observed, noting Arwen's sudden interest. "His feats during the War of the Ring have won him renown even among the Galadhrim, who are not easily impressed by outsiders."
"Aragorn spoke often of his courage and skill," Arwen replied, busying herself with the food on her plate. "They formed a deep friendship during their travels."
"Indeed," Galadriel said, sipping her wine. "Though I wonder if Aragorn fully appreciates the differences between our kinds. The Woodland Elves particularly have maintained customs and... physical capabilities that might surprise him."
Arwen glanced at her grandmother, a slight furrow appearing between her brows. "What do you mean?"
"Merely that the Silvan Elves have remained closer to nature than the Noldor," Galadriel replied smoothly. "Their celebrations reflect this, as you will no doubt observe during your stay with us. They embrace physical pleasures with an openness that we of Noldor descent sometimes find startling."
Before Arwen could respond, Legolas addressed her from across the table, his voice carrying easily over the music and surrounding conversations. "Lady Arwen, it gives me great joy to see you again after so long. Aragorn asked me to convey his deepest love and to tell you that he counts each day until your arrival in Minas Tirith."
Arwen's expression softened at the mention of her betrothed. "Thank you, Prince Legolas. I trust you left him well?"
"In excellent health and spirits," Legolas confirmed with a warm smile. "Though the burdens of kingship weigh upon him, he bears them with the grace and wisdom that earned him the loyalty of the Fellowship. Gondor flourishes under his rule."
"And Gimli?" Arwen asked, genuinely curious about the dwarf who had formed such an unlikely friendship with the elven prince. "Does he still dwell in Minas Tirith?"
Legolas laughed, the sound rich and musical. "He divides his time between the White City and the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, which he is developing into a dwarf colony with Aragorn's blessing. He sends his regards and promises to stand beside me at your wedding, though he grumbles that he must wear formal attire for the occasion."
The conversation flowed easily after that, touching on mutual acquaintances and events of the past year. Arwen found herself relaxing slightly as the meal progressed, the familiar rhythms of elven feasting providing a sense of normalcy amid the undercurrents of change that swirled around her.
Yet as the evening deepened and more wine was consumed, a subtle shift began to occur in the atmosphere of the hall. The music grew more primal, the ancient melodies awakening something in the blood of the listeners that transcended the formal constraints of the gathering. The Woodland Elves were the first to respond, their movements becoming more fluid, more sensual as they conversed. Touches lingered longer than necessary, bodies pressed closer during conversation, laughter took on a deeper, more intimate quality.
Arwen noticed the change with growing discomfort. Across the table, Tauriel had shifted closer to Legolas, her hand resting on his arm as she spoke in his ear. His response made her laugh, a sound rich with promise, and when he turned his head to reply, their faces were mere inches apart. The air between them seemed charged with physical awareness, a current of desire visible even to observers.
Similar scenes were playing out around the hall. A Silvan elf maiden sat upon the lap of her companion, her arms wound around his neck as they shared wine from a single cup. Two elf lords from Imladris, initially reserved, now stood with their foreheads touching, hands entwined between them in a gesture of unmistakable intimacy. Even among the Galadhrim, inhibitions were falling away as the music and wine worked their magic.
Arwen shifted in her seat, aware of a growing warmth in her cheeks that had little to do with the wine she had consumed. She glanced at her father, but Elrond appeared deep in conversation with Celeborn, seemingly oblivious to the changing nature of the celebration around them. Galadriel, however, watched her granddaughter with knowing eyes.
"Are you well, child?" she asked, her voice pitched to carry no further than Arwen's ears. "You seem discomforted."
"I am merely tired from my day's ride," Arwen replied, setting aside her barely touched wine. "And unaccustomed to such... exuberant celebrations."
Galadriel's lips curved in a gentle smile. "The Wood-elves have always embraced physical joy more openly than our kindred in Imladris. It is their way of affirming life, particularly in times of transition. If it troubles you, perhaps you would prefer to retire for the evening? Your chamber has been prepared in the royal wing, close to my own, where you might rest undisturbed."
Arwen hesitated, her gaze drawn once more to Legolas and Tauriel. The auburn-haired elf had moved even closer, her body now pressed against his side, one hand resting on his thigh beneath the table. Legolas's arm had encircled her waist, his fingers tracing patterns on her hip through the fabric of her gown. The intimacy of their posture sent an unexpected jolt of heat through Arwen's body, followed immediately by a wave of guilt and confusion.
"Yes," she said, perhaps too quickly. "I think that would be best. Would you excuse me to Father? I would not interrupt his conversation."
"Of course," Galadriel replied, rising with her. "I shall accompany you to your chamber to ensure you have all you require for a restful night."
As they moved away from the high table, Arwen felt Legolas's eyes upon her. Glancing back, she found him watching her departure with an intensity that sent another wave of heat through her body. Tauriel whispered something in his ear, and he smiled, a slow curve of lips that held a promise Arwen could not quite decipher. Then Tauriel's mouth found his in a kiss that began as gentle but quickly deepened into something more passionate, and Arwen turned away, her heart beating with uncomfortable rapidity in her chest.
Galadriel guided her through the hall toward the exit, and as they walked, Arwen became increasingly aware of the celebration's true nature. What had begun as a formal feast was transforming into something far more primal, a celebration of physical pleasure that harkened back to the Elder Days before the shadow of Morgoth had fallen upon the world.
The air thickened with the scent of desire, with the sounds of pleasure barely restrained. Elves moved together in ways that blurred the boundaries between dance and foreplay, their bodies expressing a hunger that transcended mere appetite for food or drink. In a shadowed alcove, a pair of Silvan elves were locked in an embrace so intimate that Arwen quickly averted her eyes, her cheeks burning with embarrassment and something else she could not name.
"Do not be troubled by what you see," Galadriel said softly as they left the hall and began to ascend the winding staircase that led to the royal wing. "This is the way of our kind when we gather in times of significance. The physical expression of joy is as natural to us as breathing, a celebration of the bodies the Valar gifted us with at our awakening."
Arwen did not respond immediately, her thoughts in turmoil. She had lived three thousand years among the Eldar, yet she had never witnessed such open sensuality, such unrestrained pleasure. In Imladris, relations between elves were conducted with greater privacy, greater restraint. Even her own experiences of physical intimacy had been limited to a few chaste encounters in her youth, nothing that prepared her for the raw desire she had glimpsed in the hall below.
"Is it always thus in Lothlórien?" she asked at length, as they reached the platform that marked the entrance to the royal wing.
"Not always," Galadriel replied, her voice gentle. "But often enough, especially in times of celebration or when change approaches. The Silvan influence runs strong here, and they have always embraced physical pleasure as a way of affirming life." She paused, studying Arwen's face. "Does it disturb you so greatly?"
"It is merely... unexpected," Arwen said carefully. "In Imladris, such matters are conducted with greater privacy."
"Perhaps too much privacy," Galadriel suggested. "Too much restraint. We are not mortals, bound by their brief spans and physical frailties. Our bodies were designed for joy, for pleasure that can last through long nights and longer years. It is one of the gifts of our kind, though perhaps one you have not fully experienced."
Before Arwen could formulate a response to this startling statement, they arrived at a beautifully crafted door set into the living wood of a mallorn trunk. Galadriel opened it, revealing a chamber beyond that took Arwen's breath away despite her troubled thoughts.
The room was circular, following the natural curve of the tree trunk, with a high ceiling from which hung delicate lanterns that cast a soft, silvery light. The walls were polished wood, carved with intricate patterns of leaves and stars that seemed to move in the shifting illumination. A bed stood against one wall, its frame fashioned from pale wood and draped with silk hangings of deepest blue. A bathing area occupied one corner, partially screened by woven panels, while a balcony on the opposite side offered a view of the starlit forest beyond.
"This is lovely," Arwen said sincerely, momentarily distracted from her discomfort by the beauty of the space.
"I am pleased it meets with your approval," Galadriel replied. "My own chambers lie there." She gestured to the right, where another door was visible a short distance away. "And Celeborn's beyond. To your left, Legolas and Tauriel have been given the adjoining chamber, as honored guests from the Woodland Realm."
Arwen's gaze followed her grandmother's gesture, noting the proximity of the chambers with a flutter of unease. The walls between elven dwellings were typically thin, designed for beauty rather than privacy, the Eldar having little concern for being overheard in their daily activities.
"I have had fresh water and fruit placed beside your bed," Galadriel continued, seemingly oblivious to Arwen's discomfort. "And clean garments in the chest beneath the window. Is there anything else you require for your comfort?"
"No, thank you," Arwen replied, moving further into the chamber. "This is more than sufficient. I am grateful for your thoughtfulness."
Galadriel approached, placing a gentle hand on Arwen's cheek. "Rest well, child. And remember that you are among your own kind here. There is no need for mortal reserve or constraint. The Golden Wood welcomes you as the Evenstar, beloved of the Eldar, whatever path you ultimately choose."
With those cryptic words, she departed, closing the door softly behind her. Arwen stood motionless in the center of the chamber, her thoughts as tangled as brambles in a neglected garden. The scene in the feast hall replayed in her mind: the uninhibited displays of affection, the heat in Legolas's gaze as he watched her leave, the passion in his kiss with Tauriel.
A strange restlessness possessed her, a tension in her body that she could not quite identify. Moving to the balcony, she pushed aside the gauzy curtains and stepped out into the night air, hoping the cool breeze would clear her mind. Stars glittered overhead, their light seeming to pulse in rhythm with the distant music that still rose from the feast hall below.
From this vantage point, she could see much of Caras Galadhon spread out below her, a city of light and shadow among the great mallorn trees. The celebration had spilled out from the hall, elves now gathering in smaller groups throughout the forest city. Even from this distance, the nature of those gatherings was unmistakable. Couples entwined beneath mallorn trees, groups of three or four moving together in what might be dance but held more intimate purpose, the sounds of pleasure rising occasionally above the music.
Arwen turned away, her cheeks warm despite the cool night air. She moved back into the chamber, intending to prepare for bed and find what rest she could. As she began to unfasten the clasps of her gown, a sound from the adjoining chamber caught her attention: voices, low and musical, speaking in the Silvan dialect of Legolas's people.
The words were indistinct, but the tone was unmistakable: intimate, charged with anticipation. A woman's laugh, rich and throaty. Tauriel's voice. Then Legolas responding, his words followed by a soft gasp that held more pleasure than surprise.
Arwen froze, her hands still at the clasp of her gown. The thin wall between the chambers might as well have been gossamer for all the privacy it provided. Every sound from the adjoining room carried clearly: the rustle of fabric being removed, the soft thud of boots dropped to the floor, murmured words of appreciation and desire.
She should move away, she knew. Go to the balcony, or at least to the far side of her own chamber where the sounds would be less distinct. Yet she remained where she stood, her body seeming to ignore the commands of her mind, her ears straining to catch every nuance of what transpired beyond the wall.
The first moan, low and musical, sent a shock of heat through her body. Tauriel's voice, but transformed by pleasure into something primal and compelling. Then Legolas, his words distinct now: "Let me taste you, meleth. Let me worship you with my tongue until you sing for me."
Arwen's hand flew to her mouth, stifling her own gasp of surprise. The words themselves were shocking enough, but the images they conjured in her mind were more so. Unbidden, she pictured Legolas kneeling before Tauriel, his golden head between her thighs, his mouth...
She shook her head sharply, trying to dispel the vision. This was not something she should be hearing, not something she should be imagining. Yet her body responded traitorously, a warmth pooling low in her belly, a tightening of her nipples against the fabric of her gown.
Tauriel's cries grew louder, more urgent, a crescendo of pleasure that seemed impossible to sustain. Then a moment of silence, followed by words spoken in a voice ragged with need: "Now, Legolas. I need you inside me. Please..."
The rhythmic sounds that followed left nothing to the imagination. The creak of a bed frame, the slap of flesh against flesh, moans and gasps and words of encouragement spoken in both Sindarin and the Silvan dialect. The pace increased, the sounds growing more frantic, more abandoned.
Arwen stood transfixed, her own breathing shallow and quick, her body responding to the sounds of pleasure as if they were physical touches. A heat suffused her, a tension building within that demanded release. She pressed her thighs together, seeking relief from an ache she had rarely experienced with such intensity.
Tauriel's voice rose in a cry of completion, a sound of such pure ecstasy that it seemed to vibrate the very air. Yet the rhythmic sounds continued, Legolas's voice now dominant, speaking words of praise and encouragement. Then Tauriel again, her pleasure rebuilding toward another peak. The realization dawned on Arwen that this was not the conclusion of their coupling but merely the first crest of many to come.
The elven capacity for physical pleasure was legendary, their stamina far exceeding that of mortals. A mating between elves could last hours, sometimes an entire night, with multiple peaks of pleasure for both partners. This was something Arwen knew intellectually but had never fully considered in personal terms. Now, listening to the evidence of that capacity, she found herself confronting questions she had not allowed herself to ask: what would it mean to surrender this aspect of her heritage? To bind herself to a mortal man whose physical abilities, however exceptional for his kind, would inevitably be limited by his mortality?
The sounds from the adjoining chamber continued unabated, a symphony of pleasure that showed no signs of diminishing. Unable to bear it any longer, Arwen retreated to her bed, drawing the silk hangings closed around her in a futile attempt to muffle the sounds. Yet even there, curled beneath the coverlet with a pillow pressed over her ear, she could not escape the evidence of elven sexual prowess and stamina.
As the night deepened around her, Arwen lay awake, her body tense with unwanted arousal, her mind filled with unbidden images, and the first seeds of doubt taking root as she confronted the reality of what she might be surrendering in choosing mortality.
Notes:
Discord: https://discord.gg/sCAWUXab6P
Chapter 3: Moonlit Revelations
Summary:
Tormented by the sounds of passionate lovemaking from the chamber next door, Arwen wanders through the night-transformed forest city, witnessing intimate scenes that force comparisons between elven and mortal physicality, ultimately surrendering to her own desires in the privacy of her chamber while guilt and doubt begin to cloud her certainty.
Notes:
Chapter 4 available on Discord. Link at the end.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 3: Moonlit Revelations
The sounds from the adjoining chamber showed no sign of abating. If anything, they had grown more passionate, more abandoned as the night deepened around Caras Galadhon. Arwen lay rigid beneath silken sheets, her body betraying her with responses she could neither control nor fully understand. The pillow she had pressed over her ears provided little barrier against the symphony of pleasure that penetrated the thin wall separating her chamber from that of Legolas and Tauriel.
“Ai, meleth nín," came Tauriel's voice, breathless and transformed by ecstasy. “There... just there..."
Legolas responded in the Silvan dialect, his words incomprehensible to Arwen but their meaning unmistakable from his tone: deep, commanding, yet tender in its intensity. A sharp cry followed, Tauriel's pleasure cresting yet again in what must have been her fourth or fifth peak of the night. How many had there been? Arwen had lost count after the third hour.
She turned onto her side, drawing her knees up to her chest as if to protect herself from the sounds. Her nightgown clung to her skin, dampened by the fine sheen of perspiration that covered her body despite the cool night air flowing through the partially open balcony doors. Her heart beat a rapid rhythm against her ribs, and an ache had settled low in her belly, an insistent throbbing that demanded attention she refused to give.
“This is unseemly," she whispered to herself, though her voice was lost beneath the creaking of the bed frame next door and Legolas's groan of satisfaction. “I should not be hearing this. I should not be... affected by it."
Yet affected she was, in ways both physical and emotional. Her nipples pressed against the thin fabric of her nightgown, sensitive and taut. Between her thighs, a warmth had gathered, a moisture that spoke of arousal she could not deny. More troubling still were the images that formed in her mind with each sound: Legolas's powerful archer's body moving above Tauriel, his golden hair falling forward as he claimed her mouth, his hands spanning her waist with a strength both gentle and commanding.
Arwen pressed her face deeper into the pillow, trying to block out both the sounds and the visions they evoked. She thought of Aragorn, trying to conjure his face, his touch, the feel of his body against hers during their few stolen moments of intimacy. Yet even these memories betrayed her, for they served only to highlight the differences between what she had experienced with her mortal beloved and what she now heard from the chamber next door.
Their encounters had been brief, constrained by both propriety and Aragorn's mortal stamina. Sweet, certainly. Loving, without question. But nothing like the sustained passion, the seemingly endless capacity for pleasure that she now witnessed between two of her own kind. Was this what she would surrender in choosing mortality? This depth of physical communion, this expression of desire unconstrained by the limitations of a mortal frame?
The thought sent a pang through her heart, followed immediately by guilt. Her love for Aragorn was not founded on physical pleasure but on the meeting of souls, the recognition of something kindred despite their different natures. Yet could she truly make such a choice without understanding fully what she surrendered?
A particularly loud cry from Tauriel broke through her thoughts, followed by words spoken in a voice raw with passion: “More, meleth. Harder. I need to feel you deeper."
Legolas's response was a sound more animal than elven, a growl of possession that seemed to vibrate through the very wood of the mallorn tree. The rhythmic sounds that followed, flesh meeting flesh in a tempo that would exhaust any mortal man within minutes, sent another wave of heat through Arwen's body.
She sat up abruptly, throwing aside the sheets that had become as much a torment as a comfort. This was unbearable. She could not remain here, listening to the physical expression of a pleasure she had never fully known, might never know if she proceeded with her choice to become mortal.
Rising from the bed, she moved to the chest where Galadriel had said fresh garments awaited her. The simple act of walking sent sensations through her sensitized body that made her bite her lip to suppress a gasp. She was wound tight as a bowstring, her body primed for a release that propriety and loyalty to Aragorn forbade her to seek.
From the chest she withdrew a robe of silver-grey, simple in design but crafted from fabric so fine it seemed to flow like water through her hands. Slipping it over her nightgown, she secured it with a sash at her waist and then reached for a cloak of similar hue. Perhaps a walk through the night air would clear her mind, cool her body, and grant her the peace that seemed so elusive within these walls.
As she moved toward the door, a sound from the adjoining chamber made her pause: a new voice, musical and familiar, speaking words of guidance and appreciation. Arwen's breath caught in her throat. Galadriel. Her grandmother had joined Legolas and Tauriel in their chamber, just as she had hinted might occur during their conversation earlier that evening.
“Like this," came Galadriel's voice, clear despite the wall between them. “Let her feel your strength while I show you where to touch her."
Tauriel's responding moan held notes of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Arwen's hand froze on the door latch, her mind struggling to comprehend what she was hearing. The Lady of the Golden Wood, her own grandmother, participating in such intimate acts with two younger elves? Yet there was no mistaking the voice, nor the authority it carried even in this most private of settings.
“That's it," Galadriel continued, her tone both approving and instructive. “Now watch as I demonstrate what brings the greatest pleasure to our kind."
Arwen wrenched the door open and stepped into the corridor beyond, unable to bear another moment of revelation. The cool night air struck her flushed face like a blessing, though it did little to calm the storm raging within her. She moved swiftly along the winding pathway that led from the royal wing to the main thoroughfares of Caras Galadhon, seeking distance from sounds that seemed to follow her even now.
The forest city spread out beneath her as she descended, a constellation of silver lights among the golden boughs of the mallorn trees. Music still rose from various quarters, though the formal feast had concluded hours ago. These were different melodies now: primal, rhythmic, designed to accompany not formal dancing but the more intimate movements of bodies in the throes of passion.
Arwen had hoped to find solitude in the gardens or beside one of the clear streams that flowed through the city. Yet as she made her way through Caras Galadhon, she discovered that the celebration had transformed the entire forest into a realm of sensual pleasure. The feast had been merely the beginning, the formal prelude to this more authentic expression of elven nature.
In a glade not far from the main path, a group of Silvan elves danced in a circle, their movements fluid and increasingly intimate. They had dispensed with most of their garments, their bodies gleaming like pale marble in the silver light of the lanterns hanging from the branches above. As Arwen watched, unable to look away despite her embarrassment, the dance evolved into something more primal. The circle broke into pairs and trios, elves coming together in embraces that left no doubt as to their intentions.
She turned away, seeking another path, only to encounter a similar scene beneath the sweeping branches of a mallorn tree nearby. A male elf with the dark hair of the Noldor had pressed a silver-haired maiden against the trunk, his body moving against hers in a rhythm as old as the race of the Eldar. The maiden's face was transformed by pleasure, her head thrown back against the silver bark, her lips parted in a silent cry of ecstasy.
Everywhere Arwen turned, she encountered similar tableaus: elves engaged in acts of intimate communion, their inhibitions shed along with their formal attire. The celebration had become a bacchanal, a return to the primal nature of the Firstborn before the shadow of Morgoth had fallen upon the world.
Her steps quickened, her gaze fixed on the path before her as she sought to navigate through the city without further encounters. Yet despite her determination to preserve her modesty, certain details registered in her awareness with uncomfortable clarity: the fluid grace of elven bodies in the act of love, the uninhibited expressions of pleasure, and most disturbingly, the physical attributes of the male elves she glimpsed in these intimate moments.
They were beautiful in ways that transcended mortal understanding of male beauty: powerful yet lithe, strong without the coarseness that often accompanied strength in the race of Men. Their bodies seemed to glow with an inner light, a reflection of the fëa that animated their hroa, making them vessels of spirit as much as flesh.
And there were other differences, more intimate still, that Arwen could not help but notice despite her efforts to avert her gaze. The male elves were generously endowed in ways that Aragorn, impressive as he was by the standards of Men, could not match. This was not merely a matter of size but of proportion, of an aesthetic perfection that extended to even the most private parts of their anatomy.
The thought sent another wave of heat through her body, followed immediately by shame. Such considerations were base, unworthy of the depth of love she felt for Aragorn. Yet they could not be entirely dismissed, for they represented another aspect of what she would surrender in choosing mortality: the perfect communion of bodies designed by Ilúvatar to experience pleasure at its most transcendent.
She found herself on a secluded path that wound alongside one of the smaller streams flowing through the forest city. The sound of water over stones provided a welcome counterpoint to the distant music and more intimate noises that still reached her ears. Here, perhaps, she might find some measure of peace, some respite from the thoughts and sensations that plagued her.
The path opened onto a small clearing where the stream widened into a pool, its surface reflecting the stars overhead. Stone benches had been placed at intervals around the water, offering places for contemplation amid the natural beauty. Arwen moved toward one such bench, her steps slowing as the tension in her body began to ease in response to the tranquil setting.
Her relief was short-lived. As she approached the bench, she realized it was already occupied. Two figures sat entwined, their forms silhouetted against the starlit water. No, not sitting. The female straddled the male, her head thrown back as she moved upon him in a rhythm that spoke of approaching climax. Her silver hair cascaded down her back, catching the starlight and reflecting it like a mirror. The male's hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements as he thrust upward to meet her.
Arwen froze, caught between embarrassment and an unwilling fascination. The couple seemed lost in their pleasure, unaware of her presence at the edge of the clearing. The female's movements grew more urgent, her breathing more ragged, until at last she shuddered in release, a cry of pleasure escaping her lips that seemed to make the very air vibrate with its intensity.
Only then did Arwen recognize her: Maerwen, one of Galadriel's handmaidens, whom she had known since childhood. The realization broke the spell that had held her motionless. She retreated hastily, her foot snapping a twig that had fallen on the path. The sound, though slight, carried in the night air.
Maerwen turned, her eyes finding Arwen in the shadows. Rather than displaying embarrassment or dismay at being discovered in such an intimate moment, she smiled and extended a hand in invitation.
“Lady Arwen," she called, her voice still breathless from her release. "Will you join us? Calion is more than capable of pleasing two, and the night is yet young."
Arwen's face flamed with heat that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with mortification. “I... forgive me for intruding," she managed, already backing away. “I was merely seeking solitude."
“Solitude?" Maerwen laughed, the sound as musical as a silver bell. “On this of all nights? The celebration honors your coming marriage, yet you would spend it alone? Come, there is room for you here, or if you prefer, Calion has friends nearby who would be honored to share pleasure with the Evenstar."
“No," Arwen said, more sharply than she had intended. “Thank you, but no. I... I must return to my chamber. Please, continue your... celebration."
She turned and fled before Maerwen could respond, her heart pounding in her chest, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. The path she took led upward, away from the central areas of the city where the celebration continued unabated. She sought higher ground, hoping to find a vantage point from which she could see the stars without encountering any more intimate tableaus.
A winding staircase led her to a platform built around the trunk of one of the largest mallorn trees, high above the forest floor. Here, finally, she found the solitude she sought. The platform was deserted, the inhabitants of the talan it served presumably participating in the celebrations below. She moved to the railing, her hands gripping the smooth wood as she gazed out over Caras Galadhon.
From this height, the city was a wonder of light and shadow, silver lanterns gleaming among golden leaves like stars fallen to earth. The sounds of celebration reached her even here, but muted by distance into a pleasant murmur rather than the explicit symphony of pleasure she had fled. The night air cooled her flushed skin, and for the first time since retiring to her chamber hours ago, Arwen felt she could breathe freely.
Yet the respite brought clarity rather than peace. Alone with her thoughts, she could no longer avoid confronting the questions that had been forming in her mind since the feast began. What did it mean to choose mortality? Not in the abstract sense of surrendering immortal life, but in the specific, physical realities of binding herself to a mortal man?
Aragorn was extraordinary among his kind: stronger, more enduring, blessed with a lifespan far exceeding that of ordinary Men thanks to his Númenórean heritage. Yet he remained mortal, subject to the limitations of a body designed to last decades rather than millennia. In choosing him, she would surrender not only immortality but the physical communion possible only between the Eldar, whose bodies were designed to experience pleasure at its most transcendent.
Was she prepared to make such a sacrifice? Had she truly understood what it entailed? Or had she been so focused on the emotional aspects of her choice, the love she felt for Aragorn and the meaning she found in the intensity of mortal experience, that she had neglected to consider its physical implications?
These questions troubled her deeply, not least because they seemed to reduce her love for Aragorn to something base and carnal. Her choice had never been about physical pleasure but about the meeting of souls, the recognition of something kindred despite their different natures. Yet could such a choice be truly informed if she had never experienced the depths of physical communion possible between her own kind?
The wind shifted, carrying to her ears a particularly clear sound of pleasure from somewhere below. A female voice, crying out in ecstasy, followed by male laughter rich with satisfaction and promise of more to come. The sound sent another wave of unwanted heat through Arwen's body, a reminder of the tension that still coiled within her, unresolved and increasingly difficult to ignore.
She remained on the platform for what seemed like hours, watching the stars wheel overhead and listening to the distant sounds of the celebration that showed no signs of abating. The Eldar had little need for sleep under normal circumstances, and on nights of significance such as this, they might forgo rest entirely in favor of continued revelry. Would the entire forest city remain awake until dawn, engaged in acts of pleasure she had only glimpsed?
The thought was both disturbing and strangely compelling. Part of her, a part she scarcely recognized, wished to return to the celebration, to experience for herself what she had only observed. To know, just once before she surrendered it forever, the depth of physical communion possible between the Eldar.
But such thoughts were dangerous, a betrayal of the love she held for Aragorn and the choice she had already made. With a sigh that held both resignation and determination, Arwen turned from the railing and began the descent back toward the royal wing. Perhaps now, hours after she had fled her chamber, Legolas and Tauriel had exhausted even elven stamina and fallen into reverie. Perhaps she might finally find the rest that eluded her.
The royal wing was quiet when Arwen returned, the pathway lit only by the silver lanterns that hung from the branches overhead. She moved with the silent grace inherent to her kind, her footsteps making no sound on the polished wood of the walkway. As she approached her chamber, however, she slowed, her keen hearing detecting sounds from the adjoining room that dashed her hopes for peace.
They had not ceased their activities in her absence. If anything, the passion had intensified, the sounds more abandoned, more primal than before. Tauriel's voice rose in a cry that seemed to contain both pleasure and surrender, followed by Legolas speaking words in the Silvan dialect that, though incomprehensible to Arwen, clearly expressed dominance and possession.
And beneath these familiar voices, a third: Galadriel, her grandmother, directing and encouraging their pleasure with words that made Arwen's cheeks flame anew. "Yes, like that. Feel how she responds when you take her thus. The pleasure builds differently for our kind than for mortals, sustaining rather than cresting too quickly."
Arwen stood frozen before her door, unable to enter the chamber where those sounds would be even clearer, yet unwilling to return to the celebration below. She was trapped between two expressions of a physical joy she had never fully experienced, a pleasure that would be forever beyond her reach once she chose mortality.
The door to the adjoining chamber opened suddenly, spilling golden light into the corridor. Arwen pressed herself back against the trunk of the mallorn tree, instinctively seeking the shadows to conceal her presence. From her vantage point, she could see clearly the figure that emerged from the room: Celeborn, her grandfather, Lord of the Golden Wood.
He wore only a light robe, loosely belted at the waist and hanging open to reveal much of his chest and the long, powerful legs of an elven warrior. His silver hair, usually immaculately groomed, fell in disarray around his shoulders, and his face bore an expression of such profound satisfaction that Arwen felt herself blush merely to witness it.
So her grandmother was not alone in participating in the celebration's more intimate aspects. The realization should perhaps not have surprised her, given what she had observed throughout the city, yet it did. The Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood had always represented for her the height of elven dignity and wisdom. To see Celeborn like this, disheveled and clearly sated from acts she could all too easily imagine, challenged her understanding of her grandparents and, by extension, of elven nature itself.
Celeborn paused at the doorway, looking back into the chamber with a smile that held both tenderness and a hint of male pride. “I leave them in your capable hands, beloved," he said, his voice carrying clearly in the night air. “Though I may return before dawn if my strength recovers."
Galadriel's laugh in response held notes Arwen had never heard from her grandmother: rich, sensual, almost earthy in its appreciation. “Go and rest, my silver tree. They have youth on their side, and I have power enough to match it. We shall see if the Prince of the Woodland Realm can satisfy both a Silvan captain and the Lady of the Golden Wood in one night."
Legolas's response was immediate and confident. “I welcome the challenge, Lady Galadriel. Come and let me demonstrate what the Silvan elves have preserved of the old ways."
Tauriel's voice joined in, breathless but eager. “He speaks truly, my Lady. His stamina is legendary even among our people."
Arwen pressed herself deeper into the shadows as Celeborn closed the door and moved past her hiding place, seemingly unaware of her presence. Only when he had disappeared down the pathway toward his own chamber did she emerge, her heart racing with emotions she could neither name nor fully understand.
The scene she had witnessed, the words she had overheard, confirmed what she had begun to suspect throughout this long night: that there existed among her own kind a celebration of physical pleasure she had never permitted herself to experience. A communion of bodies that transcended mere coupling to become an expression of the fëa itself, the eternal spirit that animated elven flesh.
And this was what she would surrender in choosing mortality. Not merely extended life but the capacity for joy inherent in a body designed to endure through Ages of the world, to experience pleasure without the constraints of mortal frailty or the shadow of approaching death.
The realization sent a pang through her heart, a doubt she had not permitted herself since plighting her troth to Aragorn upon Cerin Amroth. Was she making her choice in ignorance? Could she truly understand what she surrendered having never fully experienced it?
These thoughts accompanied her as she finally entered her chamber, closing the door softly behind her. The sounds from the adjoining room penetrated the thin wall with renewed clarity: Galadriel's voice, commanding yet gentle, guiding the younger elves in what was clearly an elaborate dance of pleasure. Tauriel's responses, increasingly abandoned as whatever new technique was being employed took effect. And Legolas, his words alternating between Sindarin endearments and Silvan phrases that needed no translation given the tone in which they were delivered.
Arwen sank onto the edge of her bed, her limbs heavy with exhaustion yet her mind and body too stimulated for rest. The thin wall between her chamber and the one where Legolas, Tauriel, and now Galadriel continued their intimate celebration seemed to amplify rather than muffle the sounds of their pleasure. Each gasp, each moan, each word of encouragement or appreciation reached her ears with painful clarity.
She had wandered the city for hours, seeking escape from these very sounds, only to return and find them unabated. If anything, they had intensified, gained new dimension with her grandmother's participation. Galadriel's voice, always musical and commanding, had taken on qualities Arwen had never before heard: husky with desire, occasionally breaking on notes of pleasure that made it clear she was not merely instructing but fully participating.
"Feel how she trembles when touched here," came Galadriel's voice, followed by a sharp cry from Tauriel that confirmed whatever technique was being demonstrated had achieved its desired effect. "The Silvan elves have preserved knowledge of pleasures the Noldor have forgotten in their pursuit of craft and lore."
Legolas responded with words in his native dialect, the meaning unclear but the tone unmistakable: pride, desire, and a determination to prove his worth in this most intimate of arenas. Tauriel's answering laugh, breathless and tinged with anticipation, suggested whatever he had proposed met with her enthusiastic approval.
Arwen covered her ears with her hands, but the gesture provided no relief. The sounds seemed to bypass her hearing entirely, vibrating through the very wood of the mallorn tree to register directly in her blood, her bones, the core of her being where desire had kindled and now burned with uncomfortable intensity.
Her body thrummed with a tension she had never fully experienced before, a need that went beyond mere physical arousal. It was as if witnessing the uninhibited celebration throughout the forest city, and now hearing the continued pleasure in the adjoining chamber, had awakened something dormant within her. Some essential aspect of her elven nature that had slumbered, perhaps deliberately suppressed, during her years of loving Aragorn from afar.
She rose from the bed and moved to the balcony, hoping the night air might cool her heated skin and bring clarity to her troubled thoughts. The forest city spread out below her, a constellation of silver lanterns amid golden leaves. Music still rose from various quarters, accompanied by sounds of celebration that would continue until dawn. This was no ordinary feast but a night of significance, a time when the usual restraints of elven society were loosened in recognition of something primal and essential to their nature.
And she was apart from it. By choice, by circumstance, by the love she bore for a mortal man who could never fully share in this aspect of her heritage. The realization settled over her like a weight, not diminishing her love for Aragorn but complicating it, adding layers of understanding she had not previously considered.
From the adjoining chamber came Tauriel's voice, sharp with a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain: "Ai! There... just there... do not stop, I beg you!"
Galadriel's response was a soft laugh, followed by words that made Arwen's face flame anew: "See how she responds? The body of an elleth is capable of pleasures beyond mortal understanding. Multiple peaks of ecstasy, each building upon the last, with no limit save the stamina of her partners. This is the gift of the Eldar, to experience joy in body as in spirit without the constraints of mortality."
Arwen's hands gripped the balcony railing, her knuckles white with tension. Her grandmother's words struck too close to the doubts that had been growing in her mind throughout this endless night. Was this indeed what she would surrender? Not merely extended life but this capacity for joy, this communion of body and spirit that transcended mortal understanding?
A new sound drew her attention: Legolas, his voice transformed by pleasure yet still carrying the unmistakable authority of a prince: "My Lady, allow me to demonstrate what I learned in the eastern glades of my father's realm, where the Avari still practice the oldest arts of pleasure."
What followed was a sequence of sounds that painted all too vivid a picture in Arwen's mind: the shifting of bodies on the bed, Galadriel's surprised intake of breath, Tauriel's knowing laugh, and then a silence broken only by the wet sounds of intimate contact of a nature Arwen could easily imagine yet had never experienced. When Galadriel finally spoke again, her voice held wonder and approval in equal measure.
"The Woodland Realm has preserved knowledge indeed," she said, her words slightly breathless. "Continue, young prince. Show me what else your people remember of the ancient ways."
The sounds that followed made it clear that whatever technique Legolas was employing met with Galadriel's enthusiastic approval. Her voice, always so controlled and measured in council or conversation, now rose and fell in expressions of pleasure that seemed to make the very air vibrate with their intensity.
Arwen retreated from the balcony, unable to bear another moment of listening. Yet where could she go? The entire forest city was engaged in similar celebrations. There was no escape from the sounds, the sights, the knowledge of what she was missing, what she would surrender in choosing mortality.
She paced the confines of her chamber, her body alight with sensations she could neither fully understand nor ignore. The silk of her nightgown seemed to caress her skin with deliberate intent, each brush of fabric against her sensitive breasts sending shivers of awareness through her body. Between her thighs, a warmth had gathered, a moisture that spoke of arousal she could no longer deny.
From the adjoining chamber came Tauriel's voice, rising in what must have been her sixth or seventh peak of the night: "By the stars! I cannot... it is too much... yet do not stop!"
Legolas responded with words of encouragement and possession, his voice strained with the effort of his own restraint. Galadriel's contribution was more practical, instructional even in the midst of pleasure: "Breathe through it, child. Let the sensation build until you think you cannot bear it, then surrender completely. The greatest pleasure comes at the moment of total abandonment."
Tauriel's cry as she followed this advice seemed to penetrate the very walls, a sound of such pure ecstasy that Arwen felt an answering clench of desire in her own body. It was too much. The combination of what she had witnessed throughout the city and what she now heard from the adjoining chamber had pushed her beyond the limits of her endurance.
With hands that trembled slightly, she secured the latch on her chamber door, ensuring she would not be disturbed. Then, moving to the bed, she lay down upon the silken sheets, her heart racing with a combination of anticipation and shame for what she was about to do.
In all her years, during the long betrothal to Aragorn and the rare, precious moments of intimacy they had shared, she had never touched herself thus. Had never felt the need, for her love for him had been so pure, so transcendent, that physical pleasure seemed secondary to the joy of simply being in his presence.
Yet now, her body demanded release with an urgency she could no longer ignore. The sounds from the adjoining chamber continued unabated, a symphony of pleasure that both guided and intensified her own exploration. She slipped a hand beneath her nightgown, fingers tracing the curve of her breast, circling the sensitive peak that had tightened in response to the sounds she had been hearing all night.
The sensation was both familiar and new, more intense than she had expected. Her other hand moved lower, skimming over the flat plane of her stomach to the juncture of her thighs. Here, she found herself wet, ready, her body having prepared itself for a pleasure her mind had been reluctant to acknowledge.
With tentative movements that grew more confident as sensation built, she began to touch herself, finding the rhythms and pressures that brought the greatest pleasure. Her eyes closed, and unbidden, images formed in her mind: Legolas as she had seen him at the feast, golden and beautiful; the elven males she had glimpsed throughout the city, their bodies lithe and powerful in the act of love; even Celeborn as he had appeared in the corridor, disheveled and sated from pleasures she could all too easily imagine.
She tried to redirect her thoughts to Aragorn, to conjure his face, his touch, the feel of his body against hers during their few stolen moments of intimacy. Yet even these memories seemed to transform, merging with the elven figures until she could no longer distinguish between them. Her fingers moved more quickly, pressure building at her core as she approached a peak unlike any she had experienced in Aragorn's arms.
When release came, it was with an intensity that startled a cry from her lips, her body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure radiated outward from her center. For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, she understood what Galadriel had meant about the gift of the Eldar: this capacity for joy that transcended mere physical sensation to become something almost spiritual in its intensity.
Then the moment passed, and she lay trembling amid the tangled sheets, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the enormity of what she had done, and more significantly, what she had imagined while doing it, crashed over her. Tears sprang to her eyes, hot with shame and confusion. She had betrayed Aragorn, not in body but in thought, in the most intimate moment of self-pleasure she had ever experienced.
The sounds from the adjoining chamber continued, a constant reminder of what had driven her to this point. Galadriel's voice, instructing and encouraging; Tauriel, responding with cries of pleasure that suggested she had not yet exhausted her capacity for joy; Legolas, his stamina apparently equal to the challenge of satisfying both ellith through the long hours of the night.
Arwen turned onto her side, drawing her knees up to her chest as if to protect herself from these sounds, from the knowledge they imparted, from the doubt they had sown in her heart. She loved Aragorn. Of this, she remained certain. But did she fully understand what she surrendered in choosing him? Could any choice made in ignorance be truly informed?
These questions circled in her mind as exhaustion finally began to claim her, dragging her toward a sleep she had thought would elude her entirely this night. The last sounds she registered before slipping into troubled dreams were from the adjoining chamber: Galadriel's voice, raised in an expression of pleasure that seemed to make the very air vibrate with its intensity, followed by Legolas responding in kind, their release apparently simultaneous in a way Arwen had never experienced with Aragorn.
Notes:
Discord: https://discord.gg/sCAWUXab6P
Chapter 4: Waters of Eternity
Summary:
Seeking cleansing after her night of confused desire, Arwen stumbles upon Galadriel, Tauriel, and Legolas engaged in intimate activities at the bathing pools, leading to a revealing conversation where her grandmother extends an invitation that promises pleasure beyond mortal comprehension and knowledge that might change her choice forever.
Notes:
Chapter 5 available on Discord. Link at the end.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 4: Waters of Eternity
Arwen awoke to the pale light of dawn filtering through the mallorn leaves above her chamber, her body sticky with the evidence of her night's activities. The sheets beneath her bore damp patches where her fingers had coaxed release after release while listening to the sounds from the adjoining chamber. Now, in the clear light of morning, a flush of shame colored her cheeks as she remembered her wanton behavior.
She had pleasured herself while listening to her grandmother engaged in acts of passion with Legolas and Tauriel. The thought should have disgusted her, yet instead it had aroused her beyond reason. Even now, recalling the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, the cries of ecstasy, and Legolas's deep groans as he reached completion, sent a treacherous warmth between her thighs.
"This is unworthy of me," she whispered to the empty chamber, rising from her rumpled bed. Her nightgown clung to her skin where sweat and other fluids had dried, a physical reminder of her surrender to base desires. She needed to cleanse herself, to wash away not just the evidence of her activities but the lingering arousal that even now made her nipples tighten against the thin fabric.
Galadriel had mentioned bathing pools where guests might refresh themselves. Perhaps there she could find not just physical cleansing but some measure of spiritual renewal as well. A chance to remember her commitment to Aragorn and put aside these troubling new desires that had awoken within her.
She selected a simple gown of pale blue, loose-fitting and easy to remove for bathing. Beneath it, she wore nothing, forgoing the usual undergarments in anticipation of her bath. Her hair she left unbound, falling in dark waves down her back, a stark contrast to the silver-gold tresses that dominated among the Galadhrim.
As she departed her chamber, she noted with relief that the sounds from the adjoining room had finally ceased. Perhaps its occupants had found sleep at last, or simply taken their activities elsewhere. Either way, she was grateful for the respite, for the chance to order her thoughts without the distraction of their passion.
The path to the bathing pools took her through sections of Caras Galadhon still bearing evidence of the previous night's revelry. Unlike her night-time wanderings, when shadows had concealed much and revealed only glimpses of forbidden activities, the morning light hid nothing, displaying the aftermath of celebration in all its carnal glory.
Beneath a mallorn tree, two elves lay entwined, their naked bodies gleaming with dried sweat in the dappled sunlight. The male's hand still cupped the female's breast possessively even in sleep, while her leg remained thrown over his hip, her sex visible and swollen from a night of use. Nearby lay discarded garments, torn in places as if removed in desperate haste.
Arwen averted her eyes, yet found them drawn back to the sight. There was a beauty to them, she had to admit, a natural grace to their abandonment that made even their post-coital slumber seem like a work of art rather than something shameful.
Further along the path, she passed a stream where several elves bathed, their bodies on full display without concern for modesty. One female stood thigh-deep in the water, head thrown back in pleasure as a male knelt before her, his face buried between her legs while his hand worked vigorously at his own substantial member. The elleth's cries of pleasure echoed through the morning air, seeming to Arwen as natural as birdsong in this strange place.
"Would you care to join us, Lady Arwen?" called the elleth, noticing her watching. "There is room enough, and Haldir has a most talented tongue."
Arwen felt heat rush to her face. "I... thank you, but no. I seek the bathing pools."
The elleth laughed, a sound like silver bells. "As you wish. Though I assure you, this is equally refreshing." Her words ended in a gasp as Haldir redoubled his efforts between her thighs.
Arwen hurried on, her face flaming but her body traitorously responding to the display. Between her thighs, she felt wetness gathering, her sex swelling with blood just as it had during the night. She quickened her pace, desperate now for the cool waters of the bathing pools to quench the heat rising within her.
The path wound through groves of mallorn trees, past clearings where more evidence of celebration remained. Empty wine bottles, discarded garments, and in one clearing, a circle of elves sleeping naked in a tangled heap, their bodies bearing marks of passion, small bruises and love bites decorating otherwise perfect skin. The air itself seemed perfumed with the scent of sex, a musky sweetness that filled her lungs with each breath.
When at last the path opened onto the bathing glade, Arwen felt a surge of relief. Here, surely, she would find solitude and the chance to cleanse herself of these troubling desires. The glade was beautiful, a natural hollow where the stream widened and deepened, forming a series of pools among the roots of ancient mallorn trees. Stone had been worked with elven skill to enhance the natural basins, creating pools of varying depths and temperatures.
Steam rose from several pools, suggesting they were fed by hot springs beneath the forest floor. The largest pool, situated at the center of the glade, seemed most inviting, its surface rippling gently with the movement of water from an underground source. Around its edge grew sweet-smelling herbs, their fragrance released by the warm mist that rose from the water.
So focused was Arwen on the promise of cleansing waters that she failed to notice the sounds emanating from the largest pool until she was nearly upon it. A rhythmic splashing, punctuated by soft moans and gasps of pleasure. She stopped abruptly as the tableau before her came into focus, her eyes widening in shock.
In the largest pool, three figures were engaged in intimate activities that left nothing to the imagination. Galadriel sat perched on the pool's edge, her legs spread wide, her golden hair falling in disarray around her shoulders. Between her thighs knelt Tauriel, her copper tresses floating on the water's surface as she applied her mouth to Galadriel's sex with evident enthusiasm. Behind Tauriel stood Legolas, his powerful body gleaming with water as he thrust rhythmically into the Silvan captain, his hands grasping her breasts as he drove into her from behind.
Arwen's gasp of shock drew their attention, three pairs of eyes turning to her with varying degrees of surprise. Galadriel, however, showed no embarrassment at being discovered thus. She merely smiled, her hand still tangled in Tauriel's hair to guide her movements.
"Granddaughter," she greeted, her voice steady despite the activities she was engaged in. "You come seeking refreshment, I see. Join us if you wish, or wait a moment and the pool shall be yours." A small moan escaped her as Tauriel apparently found a particularly sensitive spot. "Legolas, perhaps you might give us some privacy? Female conversation would be appropriate, I think."
Legolas withdrew from Tauriel with a wet sound that made Arwen's insides clench involuntarily. He stood to his full height in the pool, water streaming down his muscular form, making no attempt to cover himself. Indeed, he seemed to stand taller, allowing Arwen a full view of his physical glory.
And glorious it was, Arwen had to admit, her eyes drawn irresistibly to his manhood despite her best intentions. Unlike the glimpses she had caught during her night wanderings, or the shadowy form she had seen through walls, here in the clear morning light she could see Legolas in all his magnificence.
His cock hung heavy between his legs, still partially erect from his activities with Tauriel. Even in this semi-aroused state, it was massive, nearly a foot long and thick as her wrist, with prominent veins running its length. His testicles hung below, large and full, speaking to the virility of elven males. The head of his member was partially exposed, a deep pink color that contrasted with the paler shaft.
Aragorn was well-endowed by human standards, Arwen knew, yet compared to what Legolas displayed so casually, her betrothed seemed almost boyish in proportion. The thought brought both shame and a spike of arousal so intense she had to press her thighs together to control it.
Legolas noticed her staring and made no attempt to hide his satisfaction at her reaction. As he climbed from the pool, water sluicing off his perfect form, he seemed to flex subtly, emphasizing the play of muscles across his chest and abdomen. His manhood swayed with each movement, drawing Arwen's gaze like a lodestone.
"Lady Arwen," he acknowledged with a slight bow that did nothing to conceal his nakedness. "Forgive our occupation of the pool. Had we known you intended to bathe, we might have invited you earlier."
He moved past her to retrieve a light robe from a nearby bench, making no hurry to cover himself. As he passed close enough that she could smell the musk of his skin, he added in a lower voice, "Though the invitation remains open, should you reconsider your decision from this morning."
Her face burned at the reference to their encounter at the pools, the choice she had made to decline his company. Before she could formulate a response, he had moved away, though not before throwing a wink over his shoulder, his meaning unmistakable.
Tauriel had withdrawn from between Galadriel's thighs, though her face glistened with evidence of her activities. She remained in the pool, watching Arwen with curious eyes, making no move to cover her nakedness. Her breasts floated on the water's surface, smaller than Galadriel's but perfectly formed, with dusky nipples puckered from arousal.
"Will you join us, cousin?" she asked, using the term loosely as was common among elves. "The water is most refreshing, and we have much to discuss, it seems."
Galadriel had closed her legs and now sat more decorously on the pool's edge, though she too remained unclothed, her magnificent body on full display. Her breasts were fuller than Arwen had expected, with pale pink nipples still hard from Tauriel's attentions. Between her thighs, her sex was clearly visible, the golden curls there darkened by Tauriel's ministrations and her own arousal.
"Indeed," Galadriel agreed, her voice serene despite the intimacy of the situation. "Come, Arwen. The water will refresh you, and perhaps conversation with your own kind will help clarify the questions I see troubling your spirit."
Arwen hesitated, acutely aware of her own state of dress compared to their nakedness. Yet to refuse now seemed somehow more awkward than to accept. With trembling fingers, she began to unfasten her gown, hyperconscious of their gazes upon her.
"Perhaps I should return later," she suggested weakly, her fingers fumbling with the fastenings of her gown.
"Nonsense," Galadriel replied, rising to her feet in all her naked glory. "There is no need for shyness among kin, Arwen. We are all of the same blood, more or less, and certainly of the same kind."
She approached with the grace characteristic of the Eldar, seemingly untroubled by her nudity. Up close, her beauty was even more overwhelming, her skin flawless despite the countless years she had lived, her body maintaining the perfect proportions of an elleth in her prime. She reached out to assist Arwen with the fastenings of her gown, her touch gentle but firm.
"You seem troubled this morning, granddaughter," she observed as she worked the closures. "Perhaps it is related to what you heard through the walls of your chamber last night? Or what you witnessed during your wanderings through the city?"
Arwen's breath caught at the direct reference to her nighttime activities. Of course Galadriel would know; little escaped her notice in her own realm. "I... was unprepared for the nature of the celebration," she admitted, allowing Galadriel to slide the gown from her shoulders.
The garment fell to pool around her feet, leaving her naked before her grandmother and Tauriel, who watched with undisguised interest from the pool. Arwen resisted the urge to cover herself, though she felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Her breasts, while shapely, seemed smaller compared to Galadriel's fuller curves. Between her thighs, she knew her sex was already swollen and wet, evidence of her arousal visible to their keen elven eyes.
"Come," Galadriel said, taking her hand and leading her to the pool's edge. "The water will soothe your body, and perhaps our conversation will ease your mind."
Arwen allowed herself to be guided into the water, which was indeed perfectly heated, warm enough to relax tired muscles yet cool enough to refresh. She sank gratefully into its depths, allowing it to cover her to the shoulders, providing at least some illusion of modesty.
Tauriel moved closer, her movements causing ripples that lapped against Arwen's skin in a not unpleasant manner. "You seem shocked by what you discovered here," she observed, her green eyes curious. "Yet the celebration is in your honor, Arwen. It seems strange that you would not participate in the joy your own choice has inspired."
"My choice to surrender immortality was not made to inspire celebration," Arwen replied, finding her voice at last. "It was a private decision, based on my love for Aragorn."
"And yet it affects us all," Galadriel countered, settling beside her in the water, close enough that their shoulders touched. "Your choice represents both loss and affirmation for our kind. We celebrate not the loss of you to mortality, but the power of love that makes such a choice possible." She studied Arwen's face with those ancient, knowing eyes. "But that is not what troubles you most, is it? It is the nature of our celebration that disturbs your peace."
Arwen looked away, unable to meet that penetrating gaze. "It seems... excessive," she admitted. "In Imladris, we celebrate with song and poetry, with wine and conversation. Not with... this." She gestured vaguely, encompassing not just the bathing pool but the entire city and its uninhibited revelry.
Galadriel laughed, the sound like water over stones, musical and natural. "Your father has always favored a more restrained approach to pleasure," she said. "Perhaps due to his partial human heritage, or perhaps simply from the weight of responsibility he has carried through the Ages." Her hand brushed Arwen's shoulder beneath the water, a touch that might have been accidental but felt deliberate. "But you did not find our celebration merely excessive, did you? You found it revealing. Arousing, even."
The directness of the statement made Arwen flinch. She opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it again, recognizing the futility of lying to Galadriel, who could see into the hearts of others with unnerving accuracy.
"I love Aragorn," she said instead, as if this answered the implied question.
"Of course you do," Tauriel interjected, moving closer still, her thigh brushing against Arwen's beneath the water. "No one questions your love for him. But love and desire are not always the same thing, are they? One can love deeply yet still feel desire for others."
"Not among humans," Arwen countered, though even as she spoke, she knew this was not entirely true. Humans might profess exclusive devotion, but they were not always faithful to such vows, as the histories of their kind amply demonstrated.
"You are not human yet, Arwen," Galadriel reminded her, her voice gentle yet firm. "You still bear the blood of the Eldar, still possess the capacity for pleasure as our kind experiences it. To deny this aspect of yourself out of some misguided sense of loyalty to a mortal conception of fidelity seems... premature."
"You suggest I should be unfaithful to Aragorn?" Arwen asked, unable to keep the shock from her voice.
"I suggest," Galadriel replied, "that you cannot be unfaithful to a union not yet formalized. And that perhaps understanding all aspects of what you surrender in choosing mortality might lead to a more informed choice."
"My choice is made," Arwen insisted, though she was uncomfortably aware of Tauriel's proximity, of the way the water allowed their skin to slide against each other with each small movement. "I pledged myself to Aragorn upon Cerin Amroth. I will not go back on that pledge."
"And yet you pleasured yourself while listening to our activities last night," Galadriel observed, her tone matter-of-fact rather than accusatory. "Your body responds to the presence of your own kind, to the possibility of pleasures you have never experienced. Would it not be better to explore these feelings now, before your choice becomes irrevocable, rather than harbor doubts throughout your mortal life with Aragorn?"
Arwen's face burned with embarrassment at the reference to her nighttime activities. "That was... a momentary weakness," she stammered. "It means nothing compared to my love for Aragorn."
"Perhaps," Tauriel agreed, her hand suddenly resting on Arwen's thigh beneath the water, the touch sending sparks through Arwen's nervous system. "But consider this: when you choose mortality, you surrender not just extended life but the capacity for pleasure as experienced by the Eldar. The ability to join not just in body but in spirit, to find ecstasy that builds upon itself through hours rather than the brief moments of release mortals know."
Her hand moved higher, fingers tracing patterns on the sensitive skin of Arwen's inner thigh. "When was the last time you experienced release with Aragorn? And how many times did he bring you to peak before his own completion?"
Arwen's breath caught at the boldness of the question, yet found herself answering nonetheless. "We have... been intimate on several occasions. He is considerate of my pleasure."
"But does he bring you to peak multiple times?" Tauriel pressed, her fingers still moving in those maddening circles, coming ever closer to the center of Arwen's need yet never quite reaching it. "Can he maintain his ardor for hours, bringing you to heights of pleasure over and over until you beg for respite?"
The questions painted images in Arwen's mind that made her body respond traitorously, her nipples hardening beneath the water, her sex growing even wetter despite the pool's cleansing flow. Her encounters with Aragorn had indeed been satisfying, yet they had also been relatively brief, his mortal stamina no match for the legendary endurance of elven males.
"I once thought I loved a dwarf," Tauriel continued, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. "Kíli, son of Dís, who perished at the Battle of Five Armies. I mourned him truly, believing my heart broken beyond repair."
Her fingers finally brushed against Arwen's outer lips beneath the water, the touch so light it might have been accidental if not for the deliberate look in Tauriel's eyes. "Then one night, in my grief, I sought comfort in the arms of my prince. Legolas took me to his father's throne room, bent me over the very seat of Thranduil's power, and showed me what it means to be loved by one of our own kind."
She leaned closer, her breath warm against Arwen's ear as she whispered, "He took me six times before finding his own release. Six times, Arwen. I lost count of my own peaks after the tenth or twelfth. My legs would not support me afterward; he had to carry me to my chambers, where he pleasured me twice more before the night was done."
Her fingers parted Arwen's folds beneath the water, finding the sensitive bud hidden within and circling it with expert precision. "That night cured me of any interest in shorter races. How could I return to a dwarf, or even consider a human, after experiencing the pleasure only an elven male can provide?"
Arwen's breath came in short gasps now, her body responding to Tauriel's skilled touch despite her mind's protests. She should stop this, push away the hand that was bringing her dangerously close to peak, yet she found herself unable to form the words, her body betraying her with its eager response.
"You see how easily your body responds to elven touch," Galadriel observed, her own hand now moving to cup Arwen's breast beneath the water, thumb brushing across the hardened nipple. "Imagine how it would respond to Legolas's full attention. His skill is legendary even among our kind, his endurance extraordinary. And his endowment, as you saw, is exceptional even by elven standards."
With her free hand, she turned Arwen's face toward her, their eyes meeting in a gaze that seemed to pierce to the very core of Arwen's being. "Join us tonight, granddaughter. Experience the pleasure possible between the Eldar before you surrender it forever. Not as betrayal of your love for Aragorn, but as completion of your understanding. So that when you choose mortality, as I believe you still will, it is with full awareness of what that choice entails."
Tauriel's fingers moved more deliberately now, finding a rhythm that had Arwen arching into her touch despite herself. "Think of it, Arwen," she murmured, her voice husky with her own renewed arousal. "Fifteen inches of elven cock stretching you to your limits. Hands that know exactly how to touch you, a mouth that can bring you to peak with just a few skilled strokes. Hours of pleasure without pause or diminishment."
"Legolas has been saving himself for you specifically," Galadriel added, her thumb and forefinger now rolling Arwen's nipple in a way that sent jolts of pleasure directly to her core. "At my request, he has refrained from finding release since this morning, ensuring he will have ample seed stored for your pleasure. By tonight, his balls will be heavy with it, his need urgent yet controlled. He will claim you with a thoroughness no mortal could match, yet with a gentleness befitting your relative inexperience."
Arwen felt herself balanced on the edge of peak, Tauriel's skillful fingers bringing her to the precipice with embarrassing speed. Yet just as she teetered on the brink, Tauriel withdrew her hand, leaving Arwen gasping with frustrated need.
"Consider our offer," Tauriel said, moving away slightly, though her eyes still burned with desire. "Join us in the royal chambers after the evening meal. Experience what it means to be loved as only the Eldar can love."
"The choice is yours," Galadriel confirmed, also withdrawing her touch, leaving Arwen bereft and needy in the warm waters. "We force nothing, demand nothing. This is a gift freely offered, with no obligation or expectation. Simply an opportunity to understand fully what you surrender in choosing mortality."
They rose from the pool in unison, water streaming from their perfect bodies as they moved to retrieve their robes. Neither made any attempt to cover themselves, allowing Arwen a full view of their physical perfection. Galadriel's curves were more generous, her breasts fuller, her hips wider in a way that spoke of ancient fertility. Tauriel was leaner, her body honed by centuries of warrior training, yet still unmistakably feminine in its proportions.
"We shall leave you to your bath and your thoughts," Galadriel said, donning her robe with unhurried grace. "But know that you are welcome in our chambers tonight, should you wish to experience the fullness of elven pleasure before it is forever beyond your reach."
"Think on it," Tauriel added, her robe hanging open to reveal tantalizing glimpses of her body beneath. "What you heard through the walls was but a fraction of what Legolas can offer. Imagine experiencing it directly, being the focus of his considerable skill and endurance."
With these parting words, they left the bathing glade, their movements fluid and graceful despite the intensity of the encounter. Arwen remained in the pool, her body thrumming with unfulfilled desire, her mind awhirl with their words and the images they had conjured.
Alone at last, she gave in to the need that had been building since she first caught sight of Legolas's naked form. Her hand moved between her thighs, finding her sex swollen and sensitive from Tauriel's interrupted attentions. It took only a few strokes to bring herself to peak, her body convulsing with release as she imagined what fifteen inches of elven cock might feel like stretching her to her limits.
Yet even as the waves of pleasure subsided, she felt strangely unsatisfied. Her fingers, skilled though they were from practice, could not compare to what had been offered. The release, intense though it was, felt hollow compared to the promises made by Galadriel and Tauriel.
Rising from the pool at last, water streaming from her body, Arwen reached for the cloth provided for drying. As she patted her skin, she realized that her encounter with Galadriel and Tauriel had not resolved her questions but rather intensified them. She still did not fully understand what it meant to surrender the gifts of the Eldar, particularly those of physical pleasure. Yet now the opportunity to gain that understanding had been explicitly offered, with no strings attached save those she might choose to acknowledge.
What would Aragorn think, if he knew of this opportunity, this choice? Would he see it as betrayal, or would he understand her need to know fully what she surrendered in choosing him? The Aragorn she knew valued truth above comfort, knowledge above ignorance. Would he not want her choice to be made with complete understanding rather than partial knowledge?
Yet this was not merely about intellectual understanding but physical experience. To accept Galadriel's invitation, to allow whatever might follow, crossed a boundary she had never imagined breaching. She had been faithful to Aragorn in body and spirit since the moment of their betrothal. Could she justify this as merely seeking knowledge? Or would it be a betrayal, regardless of its motivation?
These questions followed her as she dressed in her simple gown, as she combed her still-damp hair with fingers that trembled slightly at the memory of Tauriel's touch. They accompanied her back through the forest city, past the continuing celebrations of elves who felt no shame in their physical pleasure, who embraced joy in all its forms as their birthright.
By the time she reached her chambers to prepare for the evening meal, Arwen had not resolved her internal debate. The invitation hung in her mind, tantalizing and troubling in equal measure. To accept meant crossing a line she had never thought to cross. To decline meant potentially making the most significant decision of her existence without full understanding of its implications.
As she dressed for dinner, selecting a gown of deeper blue that emphasized the paleness of her skin and the darkness of her hair, Arwen knew that the choice before her would shape not just this night but her understanding of the path she had chosen. Whether she joined Galadriel and the others in the royal chambers or remained alone in her own, she would emerge changed by the decision in ways she could not yet fully comprehend.
The weight of that choice followed her as she left her chambers, moving toward the evening feast where Legolas would surely be present, his knowing eyes watching for her decision, his magnificent body a reminder of what awaited should she accept the invitation that still echoed in her mind: "Join us tonight, granddaughter. Experience the pleasure possible between the Eldar before you surrender it forever."
Notes:
Discord: https://discord.gg/sCAWUXab6P
Ignotusfox on Chapter 1 Thu 14 Aug 2025 07:01AM UTC
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Alterego123 on Chapter 1 Thu 14 Aug 2025 08:27AM UTC
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