The Thirteenth Tale
Title: The Thirteenth Tale
Author: Lucky/Getty
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Request: pre-lotr. first meeting, falling in love. smut is a wonderful bonus. please, if set in Mirkwood (which I'd love!), have it be canon-correct according to Tolkien's descriptions of it in The Hobbit.
Author’s Notes: This story was written for the Aragorn/Legolas fic-a-thon. For such a simple request this story just kicked my ass, I started and then discarded no less than 12 other ideas. Hence the title of this one. Story 11 I expect I will continue with and eventually I’ll post it. I apologize in advance if the tenses seem off, but it was necessary for the flow of the story. Any mistakes are my own though I had two wonderful beta’s IgnobleBard and OldHistory helping me, they shaped this story just as surely as I did.
Disclaimer: Not mine, because if they were, Arwen would have been out there saving the day and not Aragorn.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Thirteenth Tale
On elven high days, unless it is a time of war, there is a gathering in the Great Hall of the Mirkwood Elves for storytelling and song. The thirteenth tale is always about love that has been lost, and this is what Legolas thinks of as he stares at the object in his hand.
It is a stone arrowhead that has been halved. Legolas closes his hand tight, trying to connect one last time with the essence of the man who made it. But the arrowhead remains cold, indifferent to the loss of its brother, and Legolas wishes he too could be like the stone this arrowhead was created from and feel nothing.
Stone is a poor choice for the tip of a weapon. But this arrowhead made out stone is important and Legolas understands why.
Here in the foothills of the mountains that Legolas calls home, stone, rock, ore (no matter the name it goes by) is everywhere, from giant boulders to pebbles that line the riverbanks. Though their song is different from that of the trees, the rocks help balance the river and land, creating harmony.
Legolas is with Estel the day he finds the stone. He comes upon his friend standing by a stream. He can tell that Estel is looking for something but he does not ask. Elven patience is legendary and his friend will speak when he is ready.
They stand together for a time as Estel eyes the rock-strewn bed of the stream. Finally a rare smile quirks his lips and he steps forward to scoop something out of the water. He turns to Legolas, showing him a rock the size of a goose egg in his open palm.
“I heard its call.”
Legolas takes a moment to reassess this human man before him. He knows well Estel’s Elf-like qualities, but how like a Dwarf he seems now in his appreciation of this simple river stone. His surface too might appear to be stone, but inside him there is life. Fire surges through Legolas and he steps forward, closing the distance between them even as his hand closes over Estel’s, wrapping the rock safe in his friend’s hand.
“I heard your call the first time we met.”
For a full measure of heartbeats Estel studies his friend. Legolas’ hand is warm on top of his; his touch is even, patient. Gently he disengages his hand, unable to hide its trembling as he pockets the stone, though his voice gives nothing away.
“The first time we met I was dragging a deranged creature and one of my hands was heavily bandaged from his bite. Even by the standards of the Rangers I was beyond my physical limits by the time I stood in front of your father with that wretched Gollum. I truly do not recall saying much of anything because before I could that wretch had bitten me on the leg.”
Legolas stepped even closer and again he reached out, lightly placing one hand on Estel’s shoulder. When he spoke there was a catch in his voice he could not hide.
“We have many senses other than our hearing.”
Estel knows what he wants, has known if for a long time now, but growing up in the house of Elrond he has learned not to speak of his needs. Yet something inside him shatters, like a stone thrown against glass, and he pulls Legolas into a rough embrace.
The first kiss should not be so complicated, or so Estel thinks to himself. Tilting their heads first one way, then another, bumping noses once, both of them softly laughing, then their lips meet. Spiders, Orcs, and every other creature under the canopy of the trees be damned, this moment belongs only to Legolas and himself.
All too soon Legolas ends the kiss. Taking Estel by the hand he pulls him up towards higher ground. “Come, there is a place nearby where I used to take refuge when I was but a child.”
Legolas leads him higher, until soon they are leaping like mountain goats from one stony point to another, but his steps are sure and Estel follows, unafraid that he will fall. They are both panting by the time they reach the hidden grotto. Moss and ferns carpet the floor and the walls glitter like stars with flecks of zinc and iron pyrite. It is beautiful and Estel spends a moment just gazing enraptured at the beauty around him. Water trickles through a crack in the wall at the back, forming a small pool where one might slake a thirst or clean up.
Legolas turns and the smile dies from his lips as a flame flickers behind Estel’s eyes. His ever-present weapons clatter to the ground, forgotten.
The stone that surrounds them feels alive and its encompassing solidity makes a wondrous place for privacy and discovery. They are standing face to face, the desire palpable between them. Estel is taller and he gives a self-depreciating laugh as he tells Legolas that in some places he is known as ‘long shanks’.
“I am not sure who will ... how we ... will ... fit,” Estel manages to say.
Legolas’ mouth curves into a bow. He insinuates his knee between Estel’s legs and brushes the man’s lips with his own.
“We will fit where it matters most.”
Something inside Estel shatters as he twines his hands in golden strands, he sees blue skies and endless possibilities in the eyes of this elf. Legolas’ touch reminds him of the fiery rock of Mount Doom. It flows over everything in its path, and Estel is equally helpless to resist as Legolas’ heat flows over him.
Legolas’ inhibitions are shed like his clothes. They lie upon the living bed beneath them in their natural state, sharing the life force pulsing beneath their flesh. The hands that caress the man’s body are replaced by lips that map his every peak, and Estel absorbs the sensations and returns them with responsive sounds and touches.
Eruption of another kind is growing within Estel and fire begins to burn behind his eyes. He is just as eager to give as he is to receive but he wants this moment to last, there will never be another one like it. He knows the mountain changes shape every time the molten rock crests over the top of Mount Doom. Stone becomes soft and the magic that is life flows between the lovers. But the inevitable cannot be stopped and eventually hot liquid erupts, trapped not between rock and dirt but warm living bodies.
That night Estel begins to shape the rock he chose from the river. It is patient, exacting work, the outside of the stone an inner reflection of the man who crafts it. Strong and confident, but always hiding a part of himself that he will not allow Legolas to touch.
But it is a minor thing and Legolas does not comment. If Estel wishes for him to know, he will tell him.
Legolas and Estel continue to seek comfort from each other as darkness spreads across the land. They do not give name to this thing between them, but like river rocks that have lain together long enough, Estel’s hand now fits comfortably against Legolas’ hip, and Legolas’ head rests easily in the hollow of Estel’s neck and shoulder.
On the night that Estel finishes shaping his rock, he finally shows it to Legolas. It’s an arrowhead, sharp and deadly.
That last night they meet again in the secret grotto and Estel presents Legolas with the carved arrowhead, and a long withheld declaration.
“For nearly five years I have been running from something from which I can no longer hide.”
There is a finality in his voice and Legolas’ entrails run cold. He wishes he was as unfeeling as the arrowhead that is now nestled in Estel’s palm.
“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn and the true heir to the kingdom of Gondor.”
Stone never speaks. Legolas remains silent.
With one sure blow Estel splits the arrowhead in half. Moving forward he places one half of it in Legolas’ hand, “This half is yours. It represents us, the two halves of a whole, strength of our feelings and the sharpness of our parting.”
His hand closes over Legolas’ wrapping the arrowhead. “We never fit together perfectly, but like you said to me so long ago, ‘We will fit where it matters most’.”
A tear slides down Estel’s cheek as he turns and fades into the forest.
On elven high days, unless it is a time of war, there is a gathering in the Great Hall of his father’s keep for storytelling and song. The thirteenth tale is always about a love that has been lost. But the fourteenth tale is always about redemption and love regained. Legolas knows how the other tales end. Now it is time to find out how his own story will end, even should it take him to the very fires of Mordor. He stands and departs, not looking back.
End
Author: Lucky/Getty
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Request: pre-lotr. first meeting, falling in love. smut is a wonderful bonus. please, if set in Mirkwood (which I'd love!), have it be canon-correct according to Tolkien's descriptions of it in The Hobbit.
Author’s Notes: This story was written for the Aragorn/Legolas fic-a-thon. For such a simple request this story just kicked my ass, I started and then discarded no less than 12 other ideas. Hence the title of this one. Story 11 I expect I will continue with and eventually I’ll post it. I apologize in advance if the tenses seem off, but it was necessary for the flow of the story. Any mistakes are my own though I had two wonderful beta’s IgnobleBard and OldHistory helping me, they shaped this story just as surely as I did.
Disclaimer: Not mine, because if they were, Arwen would have been out there saving the day and not Aragorn.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Thirteenth Tale
On elven high days, unless it is a time of war, there is a gathering in the Great Hall of the Mirkwood Elves for storytelling and song. The thirteenth tale is always about love that has been lost, and this is what Legolas thinks of as he stares at the object in his hand.
It is a stone arrowhead that has been halved. Legolas closes his hand tight, trying to connect one last time with the essence of the man who made it. But the arrowhead remains cold, indifferent to the loss of its brother, and Legolas wishes he too could be like the stone this arrowhead was created from and feel nothing.
Stone is a poor choice for the tip of a weapon. But this arrowhead made out stone is important and Legolas understands why.
Here in the foothills of the mountains that Legolas calls home, stone, rock, ore (no matter the name it goes by) is everywhere, from giant boulders to pebbles that line the riverbanks. Though their song is different from that of the trees, the rocks help balance the river and land, creating harmony.
Legolas is with Estel the day he finds the stone. He comes upon his friend standing by a stream. He can tell that Estel is looking for something but he does not ask. Elven patience is legendary and his friend will speak when he is ready.
They stand together for a time as Estel eyes the rock-strewn bed of the stream. Finally a rare smile quirks his lips and he steps forward to scoop something out of the water. He turns to Legolas, showing him a rock the size of a goose egg in his open palm.
“I heard its call.”
Legolas takes a moment to reassess this human man before him. He knows well Estel’s Elf-like qualities, but how like a Dwarf he seems now in his appreciation of this simple river stone. His surface too might appear to be stone, but inside him there is life. Fire surges through Legolas and he steps forward, closing the distance between them even as his hand closes over Estel’s, wrapping the rock safe in his friend’s hand.
“I heard your call the first time we met.”
For a full measure of heartbeats Estel studies his friend. Legolas’ hand is warm on top of his; his touch is even, patient. Gently he disengages his hand, unable to hide its trembling as he pockets the stone, though his voice gives nothing away.
“The first time we met I was dragging a deranged creature and one of my hands was heavily bandaged from his bite. Even by the standards of the Rangers I was beyond my physical limits by the time I stood in front of your father with that wretched Gollum. I truly do not recall saying much of anything because before I could that wretch had bitten me on the leg.”
Legolas stepped even closer and again he reached out, lightly placing one hand on Estel’s shoulder. When he spoke there was a catch in his voice he could not hide.
“We have many senses other than our hearing.”
Estel knows what he wants, has known if for a long time now, but growing up in the house of Elrond he has learned not to speak of his needs. Yet something inside him shatters, like a stone thrown against glass, and he pulls Legolas into a rough embrace.
The first kiss should not be so complicated, or so Estel thinks to himself. Tilting their heads first one way, then another, bumping noses once, both of them softly laughing, then their lips meet. Spiders, Orcs, and every other creature under the canopy of the trees be damned, this moment belongs only to Legolas and himself.
All too soon Legolas ends the kiss. Taking Estel by the hand he pulls him up towards higher ground. “Come, there is a place nearby where I used to take refuge when I was but a child.”
Legolas leads him higher, until soon they are leaping like mountain goats from one stony point to another, but his steps are sure and Estel follows, unafraid that he will fall. They are both panting by the time they reach the hidden grotto. Moss and ferns carpet the floor and the walls glitter like stars with flecks of zinc and iron pyrite. It is beautiful and Estel spends a moment just gazing enraptured at the beauty around him. Water trickles through a crack in the wall at the back, forming a small pool where one might slake a thirst or clean up.
Legolas turns and the smile dies from his lips as a flame flickers behind Estel’s eyes. His ever-present weapons clatter to the ground, forgotten.
The stone that surrounds them feels alive and its encompassing solidity makes a wondrous place for privacy and discovery. They are standing face to face, the desire palpable between them. Estel is taller and he gives a self-depreciating laugh as he tells Legolas that in some places he is known as ‘long shanks’.
“I am not sure who will ... how we ... will ... fit,” Estel manages to say.
Legolas’ mouth curves into a bow. He insinuates his knee between Estel’s legs and brushes the man’s lips with his own.
“We will fit where it matters most.”
Something inside Estel shatters as he twines his hands in golden strands, he sees blue skies and endless possibilities in the eyes of this elf. Legolas’ touch reminds him of the fiery rock of Mount Doom. It flows over everything in its path, and Estel is equally helpless to resist as Legolas’ heat flows over him.
Legolas’ inhibitions are shed like his clothes. They lie upon the living bed beneath them in their natural state, sharing the life force pulsing beneath their flesh. The hands that caress the man’s body are replaced by lips that map his every peak, and Estel absorbs the sensations and returns them with responsive sounds and touches.
Eruption of another kind is growing within Estel and fire begins to burn behind his eyes. He is just as eager to give as he is to receive but he wants this moment to last, there will never be another one like it. He knows the mountain changes shape every time the molten rock crests over the top of Mount Doom. Stone becomes soft and the magic that is life flows between the lovers. But the inevitable cannot be stopped and eventually hot liquid erupts, trapped not between rock and dirt but warm living bodies.
That night Estel begins to shape the rock he chose from the river. It is patient, exacting work, the outside of the stone an inner reflection of the man who crafts it. Strong and confident, but always hiding a part of himself that he will not allow Legolas to touch.
But it is a minor thing and Legolas does not comment. If Estel wishes for him to know, he will tell him.
Legolas and Estel continue to seek comfort from each other as darkness spreads across the land. They do not give name to this thing between them, but like river rocks that have lain together long enough, Estel’s hand now fits comfortably against Legolas’ hip, and Legolas’ head rests easily in the hollow of Estel’s neck and shoulder.
On the night that Estel finishes shaping his rock, he finally shows it to Legolas. It’s an arrowhead, sharp and deadly.
That last night they meet again in the secret grotto and Estel presents Legolas with the carved arrowhead, and a long withheld declaration.
“For nearly five years I have been running from something from which I can no longer hide.”
There is a finality in his voice and Legolas’ entrails run cold. He wishes he was as unfeeling as the arrowhead that is now nestled in Estel’s palm.
“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn and the true heir to the kingdom of Gondor.”
Stone never speaks. Legolas remains silent.
With one sure blow Estel splits the arrowhead in half. Moving forward he places one half of it in Legolas’ hand, “This half is yours. It represents us, the two halves of a whole, strength of our feelings and the sharpness of our parting.”
His hand closes over Legolas’ wrapping the arrowhead. “We never fit together perfectly, but like you said to me so long ago, ‘We will fit where it matters most’.”
A tear slides down Estel’s cheek as he turns and fades into the forest.
On elven high days, unless it is a time of war, there is a gathering in the Great Hall of his father’s keep for storytelling and song. The thirteenth tale is always about a love that has been lost. But the fourteenth tale is always about redemption and love regained. Legolas knows how the other tales end. Now it is time to find out how his own story will end, even should it take him to the very fires of Mordor. He stands and departs, not looking back.
End