lotr: speak friend
title: speak friend
pairing: aragorn/legolas
rated:nc-17
warnings: obviously an au, not cannon compliant, with some fiddling with mr. tolkien's world
note: why have i written something in the lotr fandom after avoiding the possbility strenuously for a hundred years? why this instead of thorin oakenshield's rather beautiful manly pain? adorerdollylux is to blame!
The small company of rangers called a halt from their march through the winter storm. The narrow valley stood short distance from the northern most edge of Mirkwood whose snow-laden boughs cut across the dark sky. There was no invitation in their wide branches, only the quiet of night.
When set about their duties the rangers were given one order; do not touch the living wood. The forest shared deep roots, strong and ever moving to the deep caverns where Thranduil and his kin haunted the earth, a proud line of kings now haunted by the shadows of war. At least, these were the words young Aragorn read when first learning of the Greenwood's decay. When he first joined this company a year ago, his questions boarded on numerous and he was often chided for letting mind travel beyond the senses of the present, the touch and sight and taste of the earth. The last free kings of Numenor had little to do with the first-born for centuries, he was told, and even less to do with tales from ages past.
He shrugged down his pack and helped make ready their camp for the next day or so while the weather sorted through its foul patterns. As the company’s newest initiate, Aragorn was given a variety of small tasks. Help find the dry kindling at the forest edge to help sustain their fires. Dig the midden trench at a fortified and most private corner. He was quick with his duties but all the while, he gazed at the wood and thought on the secrets held therein.
In short time a small camp sprang up beneath the shallow rock wall on the valley's leeward side; a testament to the discipline of the ranger's martial laws. They lit two small fires using the dry kindle mats and few small twigs combed from the very outskirts of the forest and though they crackled merrily in the night, the fires were low and produced little warmth. Still, was enough to cook by and snow melted in the iron pots and seasoned with spice, the broth complimented the rough tack-bread favored for the long expeditions.
Aragorn dipped bread to broth and longed for the foods of the elves. The fine wines made from musky grapes harvested during summer festivals, a honeyed bread that could fill the heart as well as the gullet when home seemed far away, wild greens that tasted of rich beef when brazed with mushrooms.... He took a rough bite conceding the flights of culinary fancy were being led by his gullet.
Best think of the now and not a destiny that will never return. Aragorn mouthed the words to himself as he often did away from the others and with a hollow heart. Tiredness melted through his bones and he felt heavy and unfulfilled by the salty meal. He would do better to kick his heels in tantrum rather than complain but a complaint and a weariness worked to fill that hollow space no matter how many stories he told himself or histories he recounted. Adventure and excitement, even strength had all but faded with the coming snows and he could not find a way back to his purpose.
A shout called his attention and Aragorn rose to his feet, hand to hilt, muscles tensed in ready. Then came the sound a marsh thrush, twice short and once long; short alliance, stand ready. Aragorn pushed through the pack of men who crowded the camp's entrance.
"Stand aside, stand aside," came the gruff voice of Old Dorimor, the martial captain. His grizzled brow and white hairs aged him less than the attitude he carried, cracked and bent like a walking cane. "Stand aside you."
Aragorn scuttled to the left, head dropping in apology.
"Come into the light, Dowermoth, Pale, and introduce our guests properly."
In from the glittering night walked five of the first watch and three strangers who stood tall and unburdened by the billowing swell of snow. Aragorn's eyes widened as he watched these strangers walk atop the snow as if they were nothing but leaves on the pond. It was then Aragorn knew he stood in the company of legend, of tales he memorized, of the dreams he cherished. Tonight he would meet elves.
Though stripped of their boys, the woodland elves' most deadly weapon, the elves stood without fear. They kept their swords as a sign of trust but the clean lines of their blades against heavy cloaks made it apparent that the elves were dangerous guests. Even one such as Aragorn who had never laid eyes on one of the fair folk could see they were Sylvan, of Mirkwood. They were adorned with dark, mossy greens and slate grays to better hide in woodland shadow. Yet even the fabric of their garments shown with the soft light of the Eldar as it was written in Aragorn's books. He squeezed his hands into tight fists, wishing for the first time in a long while that he still possessed the youthful years that would allow answers to his curiosity. Then the elves threw back their hoods as one revealing features unearthly in beauty. Even the driest boned ranger among them, Longfallow, breathed a quiet sigh at their noble countenance.
The first elf stood slightly taller than them all, Aragorn included, and wore his hair dark and long. Two braids trailed down to his chest and he smiled blue eyes welcoming as a summer sea. The second elf was the shortest of the three. Aragorn would name her female if only for the extended curve that ran from shoulder to hip and knowledge in tawny eyes that he had only ever seen in women. Her dark hair began as few tiny braids that wound together and formed one thick braid to curve along her breast. Many a ranger found themselves straightening-perhaps preening-as she looked out among them. But it was the last that brought the slightest of breath to Aragorn's lips, a sigh of youthful bewilderment at the strange warmth taken from one glance at the elf. One that became silent and vigilant. This elf carried upon his brow a fierce joy, one that gentled the wildest desire in Aragorn's secret heart. Tall, fair, with hair the color of a star’s fall held only by few long braids. The dip of his pink mouth parted in a quiet smile and Aragorn found himself in eyes the color of new morning.
He almost took a step forward, almost, but the sound of the first elf's voice, low and arresting, drew him short.
"You make camp at the edge of King Thranduil's lands on this cold and dreary winter night. We come to offer you respite, food and wine to celebrate midwinter." He gave a bow of his elegant head and smiled. "I am Elophor. Let us name the other friend and wait out the chill together."
"I am Rigel," said the second elf and her voice sounded fierce as challenging as spring rains. "It is not often that we find the Dunedain this far east and seek only this in exchange; allow some of you to return to our camp just within the tree's embrace so that we may share midwinter with us. We would learn from one another for three nights; you of the elves that protect these great lands and we of news from the world for rangers are known for their skill at arms as they are for their knowledge. Let us name the other friend as we learn from one another."
Dorimor stroked his chin and waited for Rigel to curtsy with a broad smile. Some of the younger rangers hid a smile when she grasped the knees of her leggings and held them out as would a highborn lady of Dale. She elbowed both of her kinsman until they both bowed to her in return.
"You offer what we need most, a restful peace after a hard march. But I must say, we have heard that your fair king does not--" Dorimor paused. More honest sword than diplomatic, he floundered for something above his usual blunt manner.
"Is not known to invite the second-born into his domain," said Aragorn. He received a slight nod from his martial leader and continued, "Though we understand his hesitance. There are still those who seek to carve from Mirkwood's heart what is often freely given. What my martial commander would know is this; how can you guarantee... that is, how can you ensure we would not earn King Thranduil's wrath for celebrating amongst the halls of his forest home?"
The rangers shuffled slightly during Aragorn's speech yet when it ended, he felt the weight of their approval as if it were hands clasp at his shoulders, pride in their voice as they told him well done.
"It's as Strider says. Can we be sure that your king will not disapprove of us? You know of our history. We know what has been lost."
It was then that the last elf took a step forward. The gladness in his eyes dwindled casting a noble slant to his sharp features. "It pains all of our hearts to hear regret and rightful concern spoken to an invitation offered in peace only. Yet your words are true. I can only offer you my word that those who travel with us will only go a short ways into the forest and stay within the halls of our border post and not the king's hall. If you would, some of our men would stay here and practice with you the small crafts we work to celebrate the winter; the knitting and fletching that comes between the wine and song."
Aragorn tried not to let the elf's voice move him but he may well have stopped the rising sun. In those few words he felt the same warmth as before. They settled into his mind and belly setting fire to his imagination. To hear that voice in song would be no small thing. To hear that voice speak more, without the harrowing weight the rift between Mirkwood and the rest of the world brought to it, to speak Aragorn's name.... His heart quickened at the thought.
"I am Legolas and my word is my honor, my honor my word. Your men would be returned in three days time. Let us call each other friend and speak friend to one another. Let this first step in friendship heal what time will not."
Dorimor stepped forward arm extended. "Friend," he said. "We are well met. I am Hewn of the Gray Company. Welcome to our camp."
:::
Aragorn entered the forest blindfolded and bound at the wrist. When first advised of their restraint, Aragorn saw their methods as a challenge. Let the elves try to confuse and dull his senses. Had he not earned the name Strider for his inexhaustible pursuit along a broken trail? Had his teachers not lamented, in jest, the fact that "Hound" still lived for Aragorn would be a worthy successor of the name. He would become the Grey Company's greatest tracker? Yet he had not counted on the fair Legolas to be the one to bind him, to watch him with eyes which bespoke dawn's rising and ask in his sweet voice if the woven cuffs were too tight, if he would prefer a lead or walk on his own while running cool hands along his wrists and fingers. Had he thought them cool? They were fire dancing along his nerveless body.
"I would walk alone," he had said unsure at the roughness of his voice. "Your bindings will not test me."
And then Legolas had raised his eyebrow. "Oh," he had said. "Then allow me to search for a task that will." He had then raised a folded cloth of soft velvet up between them forestalling Aragorn's questions. He wrapped the cloth around Aragorn's face twice and requested word of any discomfort. But all Aragorn could feel was the heat of his arms braced around his head. He could smell the loamy earth of him, secret flowers that grew only in Mirkwood's wane light, and the beautiful clean scent of first snow.
In forced darkness five Dunedain walked with heads held high. Aragorn knew the rest kept silent count of their steps, fought for direction in the cut of wind through the trees, anything as did he. But as they walked deeper into Mirkwood their training failed. The sallow light from behind the clouds failed to pierce the tree's thick branches. The elves made no noise for they walked atop the snow and the twisting warren of Mirkwood's secret paths drew circles in the map Aragorn made in his mind. The woods were strange, weird, but not unpleasant. More a snarled dream than the nightmare men who lived in its southern shadow spoke. Then, when the sound of trickling water would give him at least direction, Legolas began to touch him.
He knew it was Legolas for who else could make him burn? He caught the back of Aragorn's cloak once to shepherd him around a tree. Next, he clasped his hands round Aragorn's wrists to help guide him cross what could only be a felled oak for what other tree was as massive and as high from the ground yet could bear the weight of them across another fall of water. He wondered if the others received such teasing guidance, a shadow of light to navigate the darkness.
They stopped to drink once at the edge of another rush of water. The loud roar spoke of a river, but Aragorn could not think of one this close to the northern edge of Mirkwood. Then they rose and marched further. Without the sun’s rays on his face, Aragorn lost track of the time. It could not have been but three hours march since they entered the forest yet the circles and silence wound time like nothing else. When Aragorn began to doubt, when he worried for the slightest instance that the three first-born whom he revered at sight bore them to meet the elf-king's disdain rather than a camp that they were promised, Rigel's voice rang out in clear song, new and open of warriors returning home--bawdy enough to make Aragorn blush--he realized his fears were empty.
"Welcome, friends, to the White Hall, our north most border post." Legolas paused to free Aragorn's sight. "You will find us a small band here with five of our kin left at the Grey Company’s martial camp. But we will make merry for midwinter."
"You will also find us very amenable," said Rigel.
"And we hope your time with us pleasurable," said Elopher.
Aragorn's sight returned slowly. Yellowing spots glowed bright before expanding outward with the true wealth of his surroundings bleeding down from the corners. What he saw first was Legolas' bright eyes and those lips pulled back into a smile. They stood close to one another than before, close enough for Aragorn's blush to rise up as Legolas' laughter husked along his skin. "Very pleasurable indeed," he said, and Aragorn ached.
They rested at the base of a strong tree for a short time. It must have been old, very old, for the small group of rangers, five tall, strong men, could not hope to embrace the trunk together even if they held only finger tips. They followed the roots down to a stone staircase that wound into the rock. Every few steps, a shallow plateau jutted out and Aragorn could see the gathered canopy of Mirkwood strewn wide below a pale sky. They were walking into a cliff face with a black opening that felt smooth beneath his palm. He could only image that the dwarves had hewed the rock this smooth. They finally reached the stairs end and Aragorn found that White Hall was named true.
A short wall of milky-white stone marked the encampment behind which a small fort gleamed. Their company passed through the gate without being questioned. Aragorn knew better to think them unmanned but the silence called even that to question. A small courtyard made of well-placed stone and some smaller trees and branches gave the place the feel of a noble’s summer haven rather than a stronghold. And still, Aragorn found it difficult to reconcile, elves living below ground let alone the few trees that grew full height. He had read that the denizens of Lothlorien built their homes among the trees in dormers balanced upon thick branches that spiraled every upward like the mercilessly beautiful elves who followed the White Lady. The only nod to this heritage was the winter greenery of the courtyard and the silken tapestries Aragorn sighted just beyond a great window's shutters.
Slowly, elves unfolded from the martial haven until a scant twelve stood before them.
A lean elf with proud cheeks and full mouth stepped forward. "Elopher? Legolas? What is this?"
"My brothers in arms," said Elopher. "Meet Pale, Journeyman, Strider, Feral, and Keeper, all from the Grey Company, free men of the north, and our guests for midwinter." He resumed untying his guests.
"We have agreed that friendships born on our midwinter nights will do far more to smooth the rift between our people and the north," said Legolas. "Wouldn't you agree, Strider?"
"Aye," he said rubbing at his wrists. "As soon as we receive some of this wine you've spoken of."
"Here, here!" called Rigel. "Break open the rations. Pop the cork from the bottles. It's midwinter and I have much to share this evening."
The men turned to follow her fleeting steps into the hall. Legolas stopped Aragorn with a hand on his chest. "If you will, Strider. I know there is little more that a man could want above warm food and drink, but I would seek to tempt you."
Aragorn followed after this strange elf betwixt by the promise in Legolas' words and the curiosity burning low in his belly.
Rather than take him through the now open doors of the hall, Legolas slipped through entrance on the far right of the building. The inner walls of the hall shone white as well the color broken by glittering murals of what Aragorn could only believe to be Greenwood's past. One section of the wall was entirely covered by the twin trees carved in relief. Their branches and leaves spread along the corners of the wall and even across the ceiling. Further along the hallway, a beautiful elven maid clothed in shadows filled more than half the wall. Her feet danced lightly along silver grass and in the distant stones--and Aragorn found the mural was made from the careful placement of one thousand precious gems--stood the shape of a man watching with yearning eyes.
He came to realize, after standing motionless in front of another carving of elves wrapped together in fierce combat that Legolas let him gaze and touch without question. The elf's patience was welcome as it was startling.
"Forgive me," he said. "It is just that I have never seen such work let alone here in a border post. And this border post is as fine as a small palace. It is beautiful. All of it."
Legolas smiled. "I gladly share this moment of respite with you. And will gladly share with you the history behind every image that catches your fancy. Our midwinter traditions last three days and three nights. But I think it best to begin with less... scholarly pursuits."
"Of course." Aragorn agreed. They had a long trek through the woods following the Grey Company’s longer march throughout the previous day and night. It would be best if he took the promise of the elves’ midwinter promise and sought food and wine and rest before badgering their host with questions about the past.
He wondered at the choices used by the elves when describing their midwinter celebrations. The western towns celebrated midwinter by hanging boughs of fir trees along doorways and cider made from apples or pears was mulled with spices to remind you of the coming green of spring. There were no such decorations here though the walls held more than enough beauty to stand their own against festival frills. Legolas and his kin mentioned sharing and learning from one another. So perhaps elves shared songs and small gifts along with their food and drink.
Perhaps.
He followed Legolas from the hall to another flight of stairs that led down and stepped into darkness so all-consuming, Aragorn stumbled as he reached the floor.
Legolas was quick to steady him with those damnable hands against his chest and elbow. "Forgive me," he said. "We are so long without visitors that something as simple as walking through our halls becomes an embarrassing interlude rather than a moment of wonder. Please, think of this as having happened smoothly, your steps and my forgetfulness for not granting light for man's eyes are erased."
He felt a maiden's blush at his cheeks when Legolas' strong hands cupped both gently before pushing him upright. Then Legolas stepped away and from the corners of the room sprang a yellow glow. It was surprising enough to catch his attention. At first, Aragorn thought them to be candles but the glow did not flicker nor could he smell the acrid tang of smoke. He stepped closer and the light flared from the very wall itself.
"What are these?" He touched the rounded edge with one finger. It had stone's firmness but light dazzled the room from inside. He strode to the next and felt the same firmness and smooth, glass like texture.
"Long ago, my father's father and his father traded with the dwarves. I could not tell you their true name but we call them glowstones for they are stones that glow. But Strider, I did not bring you here to show you these. Look around you."
Aragorn turned at the laughter in Legolas' voice. He raised one hand ready to defend himself when he found Legolas stripped to his downy breeches. His leathers were replaced by a gauzy tunic so fine the lines of muscle and bone alike on his long, archer's body clearly shown. He knelt at the edge of a circular set of stones filled with clear water.
"What is this?"
Legolas simply said, "A bath," and waved his arm above the steaming water.
"You wish for me to bathe?" Aragon sniffed quietly in reproach but also to gauge his own scent.
"I wish for you to share this pleasure.” Legolas brought his hands up to curl at his braids then shook himself and flipped them over his shoulder. The tiny furrow at his brow smoothed and the tiny pique became patient beauty so quickly, Aragorn wondered if he’d seen it at all. “I know you, Strider of the Grey Company. You march on your feet through the dead of winter offering protection to the small towns of men that were once a proud nation of kings. You fight long through the year so they can know peace. So this midwinter I offer you what a warrior desires; peace for himself."
"And you think my peace will be found in your waters?"
Legolas' body shook with silent laughter. "No. But I think you deserve a hot bath, hot food, fine drinks, songs, three days without worries. Three days to tend to nothing but the needs of the body. Now come here and sit while I make sure Rigel hasn't stolen the very best wine for her own sake." And with that, Legolas rolled to his feet, long hair swinging over his one shoulder.
He left Aragorn alone in the room with nothing but his confusion and small sense that something had been lost.
After unbuckling his leather armor and stripping down to his small cloths, Aragorn set his weaponry and clothing atop the small ledge nearby. The water tingled up to his thigh when he stepped. The circle had two tiers; the first step was wide and allowed Aragorn to stand comfortable. The second step was around and equally sturdy and allowed him to fully submerse his body in the warm water up to his shoulders. He leaned against the stone wall and pondered over Legolas' parting words.
It was his first full campaign with old Dorimor and many of the younglings he'd been trained with had moved to other companies among the rangers. There were scant two-hundred rangers of the north and every year brought fewer back from their rounds and even fewer to be found at the wide hips of their mothers. The proud do for themselves, the humble do for many, but what should a would-be king do for a people that could not rise? The small thought, the one he wrestled with from time to time, felt like a stone against his chest made heavier by the lack of answers.
Though young by even his people's standards, Aragorn already felt the heavy press of destiny upon his shoulders. His childhood came to a rough end and what he loved most, the tales of legend, the warm smell of pages light by candle light in the quiet of his mother's home, were gone to him. The brief scholar's life was quickly replaced by the martial way of the rangers of the north. His own blood stained his finger tips rather than ink, the sharp pains in his shoulders came from hours spent swinging a sword rather than cramped from hours spent pouring over one historian's recount of a battle that conflicted with this strategician's ideas. When the Grey Company finished their latest work, Aragorn had felt weary; he could admit it here when alone.
He sighed, spreading his fingers to swipe along the water. The smallest bit of homesickness hit as hard as the winter storm from two nights ago. Perhaps he does need these few days to find peace or at the very least, make peace with himself. There were many more miles before him and many battles to make it seem as if a winter bleak would last forever. And yet, even on the coldest of nights, friends will appear to make the time before and after seem so far away. Three days were very little but still, they would be his own time.
And with that, Aragorn resolved to enjoy himself to the fullest so that he could report back to their captain that the tales were true; elves healed both mind and spirit and their friendship one that should be rekindled.
With his eyes closed, Aragorn allowed himself to fall into a void of thought. He was sensation only, touch and sound, the lapping of water across his body, chill tightening his flesh when he pushed to sit upright. His nipples tightened and his skin pimpled with the change in temperature. Scent; the water smelled more than clean, healing with the sweet of white flower and moss--the very scent he caught from Legolas at the ranger camp and along the path to White Hall. Oh but the elven archer was most fair, unlike any that Aragorn had seen before and would again. And just like he resolved to enjoy himself, Aragorn also resolved to be honest with himself. Hiding the bloom of wonder he felt in the company of elves, in the presence of Legolas would only continue to embarrass him for the rest of his short stay. No, better to open his mind to this so he could master himself.
Legolas was fair. Fair was Legolas. Legolas the fair, he repeated the appellation and added to it each time. Legolas the fair of face, the patient, the knowing, the easy-smiling. Legolas with the warm voice that spoke to Aragorn of time that none of his equals could remember, when elves and men walked together in friendship and called each other brother. A few years ago, Aragorn would have thought those tales purely history, adventurous and stirring, but nothing he would see. Now having met Legolas, Aragorn felt that same stirring that spanned from his chest down to his groin. The thought of clasping hands with the fair elf, Legolas of the warm hands, after battle excited him. He wondered suddenly what Legolas would look like on the field, would his kind eyes glow with fierce warlust? Would he maintain the same calm exterior? Would he smell like the bathing waters of White Hall, warm and welcoming, a place of secrets? Aragorn brought a hand to his lips and licked a few drops wondering if perhaps Legolas would taste like....
"I have stronger stuff than bathwater to quench your thirst, ranger. If only you would ask."
Aragorn slipped beneath the calm waters in his rush to stand and...and…defend himself. Then he decidedd it would be best to wait out his youth beneath healing waters. He would rather seek his fortune among the hot stones than see the laughter on Legolas' face. Under frothing waters, he slapped and kicked at the hands reaching to pull him free. Aragorn would have waited until desperate for breath but a sharp yank pulled Aragorn's head back from the roots of his dark hair and he kicked off to the surface coughing and spluttering the while.
"Oh! Oh!" Legolas cried and pulled Aragorn up against the wall. "I feared that you had. That you had struck your head. Are you uninjured?" His hands gentled at the fingertips that ran along the crown of Aragorn's head.
"No," Aragorn said between quiet coughs. He pushed his hair away from his face and wiped the water from his eyes. "No. You only startled me." He found himself quite unable to breathe when he looked up and saw Legolas so close for a fourth time in hours, his cheeks flushed from the water's heat and their quick struggle. His chest heaved against Aragorn's, the soft gauze a gentle scrape along his torso. Yet it was Legolas' eyes, long lashes rimmed with water to reflect his blue-eyed shine that completely took his breath away. "You embarrassed me."
"That was not my intention. It is just." Legolas relaxed his grip so that his hand could slide to Aragorn's jaw then his neck, over the smooth muscle of his arms to tangle their fingers together. He took a deep breath and met Aragorn’s eyes looking all the while that he might charge forward bow at the ready, such was the challenge in his eyes, a challenge that faded to a startling quiet as his words continued. "It is only that I had not thought there was anything to make you more captivating, Strider of the Grey Company. Yet I walked in here ready to try once more to catch your eye only to find myself engrossed in you."
"I don't. I don't understand." Truly, Aragorn did not understand the elf's words nor the panicked stutter in his chest at the rueful sadness found in Legolas' voice. "What do you--" He was interrupted by a low, loud moan echoing through the rock. "What was that?" Aragorn pulled Legolas close to him and reached back for his sword.
"Ignore them," whispered Legolas into the crook of his shoulder.
"Ignore who? That was Journeyman and he sounds pained." Aragorn looked down to find Legolas' eyes sparkling at him. There was no amusement this time only wonder and delight.
"Do you not know? Truly?"
"Know what?" And then a giggle floated through the air chased by another moan. It was then Aragorn knew. "Rigel?" he asked with an embarrassed moan.
"Yes. Truth told, I would expect more than one pleasure coaxed by her tonight. She is... very giving."
And very beautiful. And Journeyman was very handsome when smiling but far too guarded to make that desperate a sound after just meeting a partner. A third voice rang out, Pale, followed by a firm no from Rigel accented by a heavy slap. And another moan.
"Legolas?" Aragorn ceased reaching for his sword when he felt elven fingertips walking down his spine. A blush followed his touch. "What are your midwinter traditions? And please," he said, forestalling the suddenly unhelpful speeches that had led the rangers to the elven border post. "Speak to me plainly. As a friend."
"Winter is a time of sharing here in Mirkwood. The days lengthen and oft times even the storied patience of our kind dwindle in the coldest and cruelest of months. So we took to breaking bread together in peace. We will go to one another and offer something of ourselves for three days. It could be our hands for crafts, our songs for the spirit, or our bodies." His voice trailed away.
Aragorn licked his lips. "Your bodies?"
"Aye, our bodies to share comfort."
"You wish to share this comfort with me." Aragorn had never felt more elated and more young.
"Yes," Legolas whispered. "From the moment you caught my eyes. Again when you spoke from your worries over accepting such a gift from a wise and noble heart. And again when you were too proud to accept my shoulder to lead you. And again when I saw your eyes lift at the elven stories that riddle the white halls of our encampment. And again when you queried the glowstones. And again, powerfully so, when I returned with wine and found you naked in the baths with your lips wet with the waters of my choosing."
Aragorn willed himself not to move while Legolas climbed onto his lap but his body would not, perhaps could not listen to him. He pushed at the heavy hair coiling around them until it exposed one strong shoulder and the smooth grace of Legolas' neck. He let his fingers trail up the path, over Legolas' smooth jaw to the peak of one spear-tipped ear for Legolas was a warrior through and through, grace and beauty disguising the fearsome nature coiled atop his thighs.
"How do I say this?" Aragorn whispered. "That I accept your offer. That I wish to share your comfort this midwinter and more. Legolas, I would share your joy as well."
Legolas gave him a full, happy smile before pulling them both together in a fierce kiss. Aragorn shivered at the skillful open and close of Legolas' mouth across his. No innocent was Aragorn, yet neither was he as skilled as others within the Grey Company. And never with anyone as fair as Legolas. This elf of Mirkwood sought to undo him in the crystal waters. His hands spread across Aragorn's smooth cheeks, thumbs rubbing in slow circles until Aragorn could only shudder and nod and open his mouth in defeat. What he received in return was not expected, the sweetness of Legolas's mouth hot and burning against his tongue. He licked his way deeper and felt a shudder and soft moan against his body and lips. And then Legolas's warm body softened in his arms, an act of the sweetest moment when Aragorn is asked to take all that he will.
When they pressed each other against the rounded corners of the bath, Legolas would gasp, "more." And when they stumbled blindly through the halls trading kisses and sweet touches between the sharp whistles and laughter on the way to Legolas' chambers, he would only shudder and whisper, "more" into the shell of Aragorn's ear while Aragorn swept burning kisses down Legolas’ graceful neck. And when Aragorn confessed his ignorance to Legolas in the sanctuary of Legolas' smooth chest, he kissed Aragorn's brow and nose and lips and said, "Was it not the duty of the first-born to teach them the ways of the earth?" He could only kiss the haughtiness of his upper lip and the playful curve of the full bottom until they shivered and gasped against each other.
Legolas took it upon himself to teach Aragorn by learning his body. At least, that's what he said before draping himself across Aragorn's body and marking the tanned skin with soft kisses and knicking bites of his teeth. He was skillful and slow, lapping at Aragorn's tight nipples then pinch then sucking until his left foot clenched. Pushed back into the pillows and soft cotton of Legolas' round bed, Aragorn could only think that he'd never had a lesson quite so intense.
"Legolas," he groaned. "I fear I will break."
"Then I will shelter you, ranger, and fit each piece back together until you are whole." He said this while parting Aragorn's thigh and trailing his long fingers up the downy sac of his bullocks to the wet tip of his cock. Legolas followed with the cool palm of his hand that gradually warmed with each tugging stroke.
Aragorn breathed heavily, chest expanding, stomach clenching, eyes struggling to stay locked with Legolas' own but it was difficult. Having never experienced such pleasure, such unabashed interest in his body, he could do little more than try to fight the rising tide within him. Then Legolas began moaning high and soft against his lips. “You will,” Aragorn said tenderness bordering on frantic need. “You will break me.”
"Yes," he breathed. "Yes. This is what I want. What I crave." His fingers smoothed beneath his hips to encourage the thwarted motion of his hips. "When I have you inside of me. When you are so very deep, oh please, do not restrain yourself. I wish." Aragorn feels a tickle behind his sac, a wet invasion by a lone solider. "When you are with another male, you must. Oh, Strider, you must take care to wet and open so the passing is easier. But. When we." He bites his perfect lips and Aragorn realizes he is about to witness his very own confession. "When we take pleasure. When you take of me. I oh." His hand moves faster and faster along Aragorn's cock and their lips part in hungry symmetry. "I wish this midwinter for you to mount me. For you to. To fuck me."
"Legolas," he moans. "Legolas," and all other words of warning are cut by the low shout of his release wet and heavy between them. He's dizzy from the pleasure, from the hesitant rock of Legolas' clothed body against his thigh. Aragorn slides his feet across the bedding for purchase for his arms are to weary to support him and his movement but he has come undone and must clean himself. He blushes and tilts his head lazily. "A cloth," he rumbles, voice deepened by their play.
"Wait. Please." Legolas holds him with two fingers at his chest. He wiggles out of the wet gauze but when Aragorn reaches forward, thinking that it was for him, Legolas tosses it into the corner. "Don't move."
Aragorn sinks back breathing slow and labored, unsure of what Legolas would want but willing to trust him all the same. Silly of him to think in the short moment of peace that Legolas could do nothing more to surprise him after the countless others sprung upon him this day. Then Legolas bends at the waist and spreads his pink tongue along the wet trails slivering Aragorn's chest and belly. A moan of pleasure accompanied each lick. Aragorn pounded his fist into the bed when he felt the hot tip probe at his wet cockhead, lips pulling shamelessly at the soft skin bunched down, lather and smooth his seed, then lips slide over him for a hot suck. He cannot look. To look would invite embarrassment for himself but also for Legolas the fair elven warrior who opened his throat and took him deep like the bit of girl in Ordens never could. He had thought himself a man that day but under Legolas' warm and giving touch, he finds himself boy again.
"Oh," he moans. "It is too much." Already his long cock is stiffening and the heaviness of his bullocks has returned seemingly twofold. His skin runs red with heat, arrows piercing his skin when Legolas touches him, his chest, his stomach, his arms, that invasion of his body again, slow counterpoint to the suck of Legolas' mouth and the slide of his fist. He slide his fingers into the damp strands of Legolas' silver hair and tugged, groaning when he would not move, when Legolas only sucked harder at the thick root of him. He pulled again sharply like he had been handled in the baths. Only then did Legolas lift his head licking his slick, swollen mouth with a plaintive sound. "I will come undone, Legolas. I," said Aragorn with the shameful need to explain his actions to the disappointed look in those lust-darkened eyes. "I will shame myself."
But Legolas only moaned. The sound shook down to the very core of him. And then those words whispered in a broken, hazy voice. "I would take all that you have. I would taste everything. Nothing you do brings shame, Strider, only my greatest pleasure."
Such words only moved Aragorn to action. He pulled at Legolas' hair until he whimpered and cursed in a fair tongue, and then crawled to his knees. Flushed cheek and wild eyed, Legolas spoke of unnamed desires waiting to be freed. Aragorn licked at his lips then flushed when Legolas' tongue swirled at his own lips in unconscious mimicry. "I wish to give to you in return the pleasure, the pleasure you have taught my body, friend. But I wonder if it is shared." He looks away then back to Legolas' eyes. He will ask this thing for he needs to know. "Open your pants and show me that this desire you speak of is shared."
Poised as he was on the tips of his knees held upright by the fine threads of his hair, Legolas trembled with every small motion. He ran his hands along the reddening bites along his collar, the tightness of his nipples down to the concave sink of his belly. His usually sure fingers struggled at the three buttons that held his breeches closed. Aragorn did not move to help. He only watched eyes sweeping up from those long fingers to Legolas' tormented mouth to his hands again. Finally, Legolas freed the last button. He pushed the breeches down past his hips, down to his knees and whimpered lazily as his stiff cock pushed free from its tight confines to bask in the heat of Aragorn's hungry gaze.
Never had he laid eyes on something so utterly masculine and yet so terrifyingly beautiful. Never had he longed to touch something so badly, to taste and defile so utterly but the curve of Legolas' pale flanks, the pinkening flush of his wet cock staining the silken bits of quilt beneath him kindles a flame in Aragorn that will never be quenched. He reaches out as Legolas did with two fingers though his hesitated before pushing gently along the tip.
"Strider," Legolas' gasped when Aragorn licked the salt from his hand. "You must." But whatever he would have said exhaled in a huffing whine when Aragorn's strong fist pumped him. His wet fingers slide between Legolas' cheeks searching for the slit heat of him and he marveled at the way his body opened for his tow thick fingers, bloomed for him, a wave of pink and reds from his cheeks down to just above his navel. "Yes," he hissed.
"You wish to be mounted?" Just saying the words caused his cock to twitch against his thigh. Legolas only nodded eyes hazier still, mouth open and panting. "Place your hands on the bed to brace you."
With his hands spread on the cushions and his knees bound by the tight leather of his wet breeches, Legolas looked well and truly tumbled. He trembled between breaths. His hips canted urging Aragorn on while he slicked his fingers a third time just to be sure he would not hurt the elf. But truly, he loved the feel of his insides, the tense muscle softening for his touch, the way Legolas could not hide his pleasure even if he wanted to. Finally, Aragorn worked the clean smelling oil along his cock and presses against the loosened ring of Legolas' hole.
There were no words to describe the feel of Legolas around him, the power he found in pushing through until he could move down deep, until he was seated fully inside of Legolas' hot, hot, heat. He kissed along broad shoulders, ran his hands over Legolas' quivering flanks and his belly and teased his cock with warm palms. He pressed himself over Legolas' back so he could kiss his jaw, nip and tug at the point of his ear and whisper hotly there. "I did not know I wanted you so," he said dragging his cock out and then back in slow, even motions. "When I first saw you. I only knew you were the most wondrous thing I had seen in my short travels across Middle-Earth. I only knew that your eyes saw into the heart of me and your voice could name me true. I only knew that I must keep you within our camp for the few moments time would allow."
"And. And." Legolas stuttered through the pounding beat of Aragorn's body against him. "And now?"
"Now I know that you called to me. And here is my answer." He squeezed Legolas’ hips and watched the long weight of his cock fuck into Legolas until nothing remained by the clap of their bodies and the growing cries falling from Legolas' mouth sweet as song. "I will give you anything. I would give anything. Everything, everything you do brings to me the greatest of all pleasures."
And Legolas gasped, "more," even as he shook apart, body rocking back and then freezing in wicked agony. Aragorn's mouth filled with the scent of Legolas' come hot and heavy on the sheets and across his fingers. He fucked his hips quicker, harder, beating a perfect rhythm for Legolas to twist and shudder into then keen as his release hit him a second time. Aragorn stroked his cock through the next careful and slow now that he's calmed from the frenzy Legolas brought in him. He could not remember the exact moment when he himself came, only that he pushed through it desperate to see Legolas undone. The proof of it was in the wet slide of his cock pulling away from his body.
He fell to his side slowly toppled like a tree from great heights. Legolas followed him to nuzzle against his shoulders. He licked each of Aragorn’s fingers in tired relish then the fingers he trailed through some unseen place to gather more cream to lap with his tongue.
Aragorn sighed with pleasure. "I would not think you insaitable, elf."
"And I would not think you an innocent, ranger," said Legolas with a tired smile. "Let us see if we can do more to share these secrets with one another, my friend."
"Oh yes, indeed. Friend." Aragorn kissed him then and thought that these midwinter nights would give much peace to his burgeoning heart with Legolas beside him as friend and more.
:: 7808
pairing: aragorn/legolas
rated:nc-17
warnings: obviously an au, not cannon compliant, with some fiddling with mr. tolkien's world
note: why have i written something in the lotr fandom after avoiding the possbility strenuously for a hundred years? why this instead of thorin oakenshield's rather beautiful manly pain? adorerdollylux is to blame!
The small company of rangers called a halt from their march through the winter storm. The narrow valley stood short distance from the northern most edge of Mirkwood whose snow-laden boughs cut across the dark sky. There was no invitation in their wide branches, only the quiet of night.
When set about their duties the rangers were given one order; do not touch the living wood. The forest shared deep roots, strong and ever moving to the deep caverns where Thranduil and his kin haunted the earth, a proud line of kings now haunted by the shadows of war. At least, these were the words young Aragorn read when first learning of the Greenwood's decay. When he first joined this company a year ago, his questions boarded on numerous and he was often chided for letting mind travel beyond the senses of the present, the touch and sight and taste of the earth. The last free kings of Numenor had little to do with the first-born for centuries, he was told, and even less to do with tales from ages past.
He shrugged down his pack and helped make ready their camp for the next day or so while the weather sorted through its foul patterns. As the company’s newest initiate, Aragorn was given a variety of small tasks. Help find the dry kindling at the forest edge to help sustain their fires. Dig the midden trench at a fortified and most private corner. He was quick with his duties but all the while, he gazed at the wood and thought on the secrets held therein.
In short time a small camp sprang up beneath the shallow rock wall on the valley's leeward side; a testament to the discipline of the ranger's martial laws. They lit two small fires using the dry kindle mats and few small twigs combed from the very outskirts of the forest and though they crackled merrily in the night, the fires were low and produced little warmth. Still, was enough to cook by and snow melted in the iron pots and seasoned with spice, the broth complimented the rough tack-bread favored for the long expeditions.
Aragorn dipped bread to broth and longed for the foods of the elves. The fine wines made from musky grapes harvested during summer festivals, a honeyed bread that could fill the heart as well as the gullet when home seemed far away, wild greens that tasted of rich beef when brazed with mushrooms.... He took a rough bite conceding the flights of culinary fancy were being led by his gullet.
Best think of the now and not a destiny that will never return. Aragorn mouthed the words to himself as he often did away from the others and with a hollow heart. Tiredness melted through his bones and he felt heavy and unfulfilled by the salty meal. He would do better to kick his heels in tantrum rather than complain but a complaint and a weariness worked to fill that hollow space no matter how many stories he told himself or histories he recounted. Adventure and excitement, even strength had all but faded with the coming snows and he could not find a way back to his purpose.
A shout called his attention and Aragorn rose to his feet, hand to hilt, muscles tensed in ready. Then came the sound a marsh thrush, twice short and once long; short alliance, stand ready. Aragorn pushed through the pack of men who crowded the camp's entrance.
"Stand aside, stand aside," came the gruff voice of Old Dorimor, the martial captain. His grizzled brow and white hairs aged him less than the attitude he carried, cracked and bent like a walking cane. "Stand aside you."
Aragorn scuttled to the left, head dropping in apology.
"Come into the light, Dowermoth, Pale, and introduce our guests properly."
In from the glittering night walked five of the first watch and three strangers who stood tall and unburdened by the billowing swell of snow. Aragorn's eyes widened as he watched these strangers walk atop the snow as if they were nothing but leaves on the pond. It was then Aragorn knew he stood in the company of legend, of tales he memorized, of the dreams he cherished. Tonight he would meet elves.
Though stripped of their boys, the woodland elves' most deadly weapon, the elves stood without fear. They kept their swords as a sign of trust but the clean lines of their blades against heavy cloaks made it apparent that the elves were dangerous guests. Even one such as Aragorn who had never laid eyes on one of the fair folk could see they were Sylvan, of Mirkwood. They were adorned with dark, mossy greens and slate grays to better hide in woodland shadow. Yet even the fabric of their garments shown with the soft light of the Eldar as it was written in Aragorn's books. He squeezed his hands into tight fists, wishing for the first time in a long while that he still possessed the youthful years that would allow answers to his curiosity. Then the elves threw back their hoods as one revealing features unearthly in beauty. Even the driest boned ranger among them, Longfallow, breathed a quiet sigh at their noble countenance.
The first elf stood slightly taller than them all, Aragorn included, and wore his hair dark and long. Two braids trailed down to his chest and he smiled blue eyes welcoming as a summer sea. The second elf was the shortest of the three. Aragorn would name her female if only for the extended curve that ran from shoulder to hip and knowledge in tawny eyes that he had only ever seen in women. Her dark hair began as few tiny braids that wound together and formed one thick braid to curve along her breast. Many a ranger found themselves straightening-perhaps preening-as she looked out among them. But it was the last that brought the slightest of breath to Aragorn's lips, a sigh of youthful bewilderment at the strange warmth taken from one glance at the elf. One that became silent and vigilant. This elf carried upon his brow a fierce joy, one that gentled the wildest desire in Aragorn's secret heart. Tall, fair, with hair the color of a star’s fall held only by few long braids. The dip of his pink mouth parted in a quiet smile and Aragorn found himself in eyes the color of new morning.
He almost took a step forward, almost, but the sound of the first elf's voice, low and arresting, drew him short.
"You make camp at the edge of King Thranduil's lands on this cold and dreary winter night. We come to offer you respite, food and wine to celebrate midwinter." He gave a bow of his elegant head and smiled. "I am Elophor. Let us name the other friend and wait out the chill together."
"I am Rigel," said the second elf and her voice sounded fierce as challenging as spring rains. "It is not often that we find the Dunedain this far east and seek only this in exchange; allow some of you to return to our camp just within the tree's embrace so that we may share midwinter with us. We would learn from one another for three nights; you of the elves that protect these great lands and we of news from the world for rangers are known for their skill at arms as they are for their knowledge. Let us name the other friend as we learn from one another."
Dorimor stroked his chin and waited for Rigel to curtsy with a broad smile. Some of the younger rangers hid a smile when she grasped the knees of her leggings and held them out as would a highborn lady of Dale. She elbowed both of her kinsman until they both bowed to her in return.
"You offer what we need most, a restful peace after a hard march. But I must say, we have heard that your fair king does not--" Dorimor paused. More honest sword than diplomatic, he floundered for something above his usual blunt manner.
"Is not known to invite the second-born into his domain," said Aragorn. He received a slight nod from his martial leader and continued, "Though we understand his hesitance. There are still those who seek to carve from Mirkwood's heart what is often freely given. What my martial commander would know is this; how can you guarantee... that is, how can you ensure we would not earn King Thranduil's wrath for celebrating amongst the halls of his forest home?"
The rangers shuffled slightly during Aragorn's speech yet when it ended, he felt the weight of their approval as if it were hands clasp at his shoulders, pride in their voice as they told him well done.
"It's as Strider says. Can we be sure that your king will not disapprove of us? You know of our history. We know what has been lost."
It was then that the last elf took a step forward. The gladness in his eyes dwindled casting a noble slant to his sharp features. "It pains all of our hearts to hear regret and rightful concern spoken to an invitation offered in peace only. Yet your words are true. I can only offer you my word that those who travel with us will only go a short ways into the forest and stay within the halls of our border post and not the king's hall. If you would, some of our men would stay here and practice with you the small crafts we work to celebrate the winter; the knitting and fletching that comes between the wine and song."
Aragorn tried not to let the elf's voice move him but he may well have stopped the rising sun. In those few words he felt the same warmth as before. They settled into his mind and belly setting fire to his imagination. To hear that voice in song would be no small thing. To hear that voice speak more, without the harrowing weight the rift between Mirkwood and the rest of the world brought to it, to speak Aragorn's name.... His heart quickened at the thought.
"I am Legolas and my word is my honor, my honor my word. Your men would be returned in three days time. Let us call each other friend and speak friend to one another. Let this first step in friendship heal what time will not."
Dorimor stepped forward arm extended. "Friend," he said. "We are well met. I am Hewn of the Gray Company. Welcome to our camp."
:::
Aragorn entered the forest blindfolded and bound at the wrist. When first advised of their restraint, Aragorn saw their methods as a challenge. Let the elves try to confuse and dull his senses. Had he not earned the name Strider for his inexhaustible pursuit along a broken trail? Had his teachers not lamented, in jest, the fact that "Hound" still lived for Aragorn would be a worthy successor of the name. He would become the Grey Company's greatest tracker? Yet he had not counted on the fair Legolas to be the one to bind him, to watch him with eyes which bespoke dawn's rising and ask in his sweet voice if the woven cuffs were too tight, if he would prefer a lead or walk on his own while running cool hands along his wrists and fingers. Had he thought them cool? They were fire dancing along his nerveless body.
"I would walk alone," he had said unsure at the roughness of his voice. "Your bindings will not test me."
And then Legolas had raised his eyebrow. "Oh," he had said. "Then allow me to search for a task that will." He had then raised a folded cloth of soft velvet up between them forestalling Aragorn's questions. He wrapped the cloth around Aragorn's face twice and requested word of any discomfort. But all Aragorn could feel was the heat of his arms braced around his head. He could smell the loamy earth of him, secret flowers that grew only in Mirkwood's wane light, and the beautiful clean scent of first snow.
In forced darkness five Dunedain walked with heads held high. Aragorn knew the rest kept silent count of their steps, fought for direction in the cut of wind through the trees, anything as did he. But as they walked deeper into Mirkwood their training failed. The sallow light from behind the clouds failed to pierce the tree's thick branches. The elves made no noise for they walked atop the snow and the twisting warren of Mirkwood's secret paths drew circles in the map Aragorn made in his mind. The woods were strange, weird, but not unpleasant. More a snarled dream than the nightmare men who lived in its southern shadow spoke. Then, when the sound of trickling water would give him at least direction, Legolas began to touch him.
He knew it was Legolas for who else could make him burn? He caught the back of Aragorn's cloak once to shepherd him around a tree. Next, he clasped his hands round Aragorn's wrists to help guide him cross what could only be a felled oak for what other tree was as massive and as high from the ground yet could bear the weight of them across another fall of water. He wondered if the others received such teasing guidance, a shadow of light to navigate the darkness.
They stopped to drink once at the edge of another rush of water. The loud roar spoke of a river, but Aragorn could not think of one this close to the northern edge of Mirkwood. Then they rose and marched further. Without the sun’s rays on his face, Aragorn lost track of the time. It could not have been but three hours march since they entered the forest yet the circles and silence wound time like nothing else. When Aragorn began to doubt, when he worried for the slightest instance that the three first-born whom he revered at sight bore them to meet the elf-king's disdain rather than a camp that they were promised, Rigel's voice rang out in clear song, new and open of warriors returning home--bawdy enough to make Aragorn blush--he realized his fears were empty.
"Welcome, friends, to the White Hall, our north most border post." Legolas paused to free Aragorn's sight. "You will find us a small band here with five of our kin left at the Grey Company’s martial camp. But we will make merry for midwinter."
"You will also find us very amenable," said Rigel.
"And we hope your time with us pleasurable," said Elopher.
Aragorn's sight returned slowly. Yellowing spots glowed bright before expanding outward with the true wealth of his surroundings bleeding down from the corners. What he saw first was Legolas' bright eyes and those lips pulled back into a smile. They stood close to one another than before, close enough for Aragorn's blush to rise up as Legolas' laughter husked along his skin. "Very pleasurable indeed," he said, and Aragorn ached.
They rested at the base of a strong tree for a short time. It must have been old, very old, for the small group of rangers, five tall, strong men, could not hope to embrace the trunk together even if they held only finger tips. They followed the roots down to a stone staircase that wound into the rock. Every few steps, a shallow plateau jutted out and Aragorn could see the gathered canopy of Mirkwood strewn wide below a pale sky. They were walking into a cliff face with a black opening that felt smooth beneath his palm. He could only image that the dwarves had hewed the rock this smooth. They finally reached the stairs end and Aragorn found that White Hall was named true.
A short wall of milky-white stone marked the encampment behind which a small fort gleamed. Their company passed through the gate without being questioned. Aragorn knew better to think them unmanned but the silence called even that to question. A small courtyard made of well-placed stone and some smaller trees and branches gave the place the feel of a noble’s summer haven rather than a stronghold. And still, Aragorn found it difficult to reconcile, elves living below ground let alone the few trees that grew full height. He had read that the denizens of Lothlorien built their homes among the trees in dormers balanced upon thick branches that spiraled every upward like the mercilessly beautiful elves who followed the White Lady. The only nod to this heritage was the winter greenery of the courtyard and the silken tapestries Aragorn sighted just beyond a great window's shutters.
Slowly, elves unfolded from the martial haven until a scant twelve stood before them.
A lean elf with proud cheeks and full mouth stepped forward. "Elopher? Legolas? What is this?"
"My brothers in arms," said Elopher. "Meet Pale, Journeyman, Strider, Feral, and Keeper, all from the Grey Company, free men of the north, and our guests for midwinter." He resumed untying his guests.
"We have agreed that friendships born on our midwinter nights will do far more to smooth the rift between our people and the north," said Legolas. "Wouldn't you agree, Strider?"
"Aye," he said rubbing at his wrists. "As soon as we receive some of this wine you've spoken of."
"Here, here!" called Rigel. "Break open the rations. Pop the cork from the bottles. It's midwinter and I have much to share this evening."
The men turned to follow her fleeting steps into the hall. Legolas stopped Aragorn with a hand on his chest. "If you will, Strider. I know there is little more that a man could want above warm food and drink, but I would seek to tempt you."
Aragorn followed after this strange elf betwixt by the promise in Legolas' words and the curiosity burning low in his belly.
Rather than take him through the now open doors of the hall, Legolas slipped through entrance on the far right of the building. The inner walls of the hall shone white as well the color broken by glittering murals of what Aragorn could only believe to be Greenwood's past. One section of the wall was entirely covered by the twin trees carved in relief. Their branches and leaves spread along the corners of the wall and even across the ceiling. Further along the hallway, a beautiful elven maid clothed in shadows filled more than half the wall. Her feet danced lightly along silver grass and in the distant stones--and Aragorn found the mural was made from the careful placement of one thousand precious gems--stood the shape of a man watching with yearning eyes.
He came to realize, after standing motionless in front of another carving of elves wrapped together in fierce combat that Legolas let him gaze and touch without question. The elf's patience was welcome as it was startling.
"Forgive me," he said. "It is just that I have never seen such work let alone here in a border post. And this border post is as fine as a small palace. It is beautiful. All of it."
Legolas smiled. "I gladly share this moment of respite with you. And will gladly share with you the history behind every image that catches your fancy. Our midwinter traditions last three days and three nights. But I think it best to begin with less... scholarly pursuits."
"Of course." Aragorn agreed. They had a long trek through the woods following the Grey Company’s longer march throughout the previous day and night. It would be best if he took the promise of the elves’ midwinter promise and sought food and wine and rest before badgering their host with questions about the past.
He wondered at the choices used by the elves when describing their midwinter celebrations. The western towns celebrated midwinter by hanging boughs of fir trees along doorways and cider made from apples or pears was mulled with spices to remind you of the coming green of spring. There were no such decorations here though the walls held more than enough beauty to stand their own against festival frills. Legolas and his kin mentioned sharing and learning from one another. So perhaps elves shared songs and small gifts along with their food and drink.
Perhaps.
He followed Legolas from the hall to another flight of stairs that led down and stepped into darkness so all-consuming, Aragorn stumbled as he reached the floor.
Legolas was quick to steady him with those damnable hands against his chest and elbow. "Forgive me," he said. "We are so long without visitors that something as simple as walking through our halls becomes an embarrassing interlude rather than a moment of wonder. Please, think of this as having happened smoothly, your steps and my forgetfulness for not granting light for man's eyes are erased."
He felt a maiden's blush at his cheeks when Legolas' strong hands cupped both gently before pushing him upright. Then Legolas stepped away and from the corners of the room sprang a yellow glow. It was surprising enough to catch his attention. At first, Aragorn thought them to be candles but the glow did not flicker nor could he smell the acrid tang of smoke. He stepped closer and the light flared from the very wall itself.
"What are these?" He touched the rounded edge with one finger. It had stone's firmness but light dazzled the room from inside. He strode to the next and felt the same firmness and smooth, glass like texture.
"Long ago, my father's father and his father traded with the dwarves. I could not tell you their true name but we call them glowstones for they are stones that glow. But Strider, I did not bring you here to show you these. Look around you."
Aragorn turned at the laughter in Legolas' voice. He raised one hand ready to defend himself when he found Legolas stripped to his downy breeches. His leathers were replaced by a gauzy tunic so fine the lines of muscle and bone alike on his long, archer's body clearly shown. He knelt at the edge of a circular set of stones filled with clear water.
"What is this?"
Legolas simply said, "A bath," and waved his arm above the steaming water.
"You wish for me to bathe?" Aragon sniffed quietly in reproach but also to gauge his own scent.
"I wish for you to share this pleasure.” Legolas brought his hands up to curl at his braids then shook himself and flipped them over his shoulder. The tiny furrow at his brow smoothed and the tiny pique became patient beauty so quickly, Aragorn wondered if he’d seen it at all. “I know you, Strider of the Grey Company. You march on your feet through the dead of winter offering protection to the small towns of men that were once a proud nation of kings. You fight long through the year so they can know peace. So this midwinter I offer you what a warrior desires; peace for himself."
"And you think my peace will be found in your waters?"
Legolas' body shook with silent laughter. "No. But I think you deserve a hot bath, hot food, fine drinks, songs, three days without worries. Three days to tend to nothing but the needs of the body. Now come here and sit while I make sure Rigel hasn't stolen the very best wine for her own sake." And with that, Legolas rolled to his feet, long hair swinging over his one shoulder.
He left Aragorn alone in the room with nothing but his confusion and small sense that something had been lost.
After unbuckling his leather armor and stripping down to his small cloths, Aragorn set his weaponry and clothing atop the small ledge nearby. The water tingled up to his thigh when he stepped. The circle had two tiers; the first step was wide and allowed Aragorn to stand comfortable. The second step was around and equally sturdy and allowed him to fully submerse his body in the warm water up to his shoulders. He leaned against the stone wall and pondered over Legolas' parting words.
It was his first full campaign with old Dorimor and many of the younglings he'd been trained with had moved to other companies among the rangers. There were scant two-hundred rangers of the north and every year brought fewer back from their rounds and even fewer to be found at the wide hips of their mothers. The proud do for themselves, the humble do for many, but what should a would-be king do for a people that could not rise? The small thought, the one he wrestled with from time to time, felt like a stone against his chest made heavier by the lack of answers.
Though young by even his people's standards, Aragorn already felt the heavy press of destiny upon his shoulders. His childhood came to a rough end and what he loved most, the tales of legend, the warm smell of pages light by candle light in the quiet of his mother's home, were gone to him. The brief scholar's life was quickly replaced by the martial way of the rangers of the north. His own blood stained his finger tips rather than ink, the sharp pains in his shoulders came from hours spent swinging a sword rather than cramped from hours spent pouring over one historian's recount of a battle that conflicted with this strategician's ideas. When the Grey Company finished their latest work, Aragorn had felt weary; he could admit it here when alone.
He sighed, spreading his fingers to swipe along the water. The smallest bit of homesickness hit as hard as the winter storm from two nights ago. Perhaps he does need these few days to find peace or at the very least, make peace with himself. There were many more miles before him and many battles to make it seem as if a winter bleak would last forever. And yet, even on the coldest of nights, friends will appear to make the time before and after seem so far away. Three days were very little but still, they would be his own time.
And with that, Aragorn resolved to enjoy himself to the fullest so that he could report back to their captain that the tales were true; elves healed both mind and spirit and their friendship one that should be rekindled.
With his eyes closed, Aragorn allowed himself to fall into a void of thought. He was sensation only, touch and sound, the lapping of water across his body, chill tightening his flesh when he pushed to sit upright. His nipples tightened and his skin pimpled with the change in temperature. Scent; the water smelled more than clean, healing with the sweet of white flower and moss--the very scent he caught from Legolas at the ranger camp and along the path to White Hall. Oh but the elven archer was most fair, unlike any that Aragorn had seen before and would again. And just like he resolved to enjoy himself, Aragorn also resolved to be honest with himself. Hiding the bloom of wonder he felt in the company of elves, in the presence of Legolas would only continue to embarrass him for the rest of his short stay. No, better to open his mind to this so he could master himself.
Legolas was fair. Fair was Legolas. Legolas the fair, he repeated the appellation and added to it each time. Legolas the fair of face, the patient, the knowing, the easy-smiling. Legolas with the warm voice that spoke to Aragorn of time that none of his equals could remember, when elves and men walked together in friendship and called each other brother. A few years ago, Aragorn would have thought those tales purely history, adventurous and stirring, but nothing he would see. Now having met Legolas, Aragorn felt that same stirring that spanned from his chest down to his groin. The thought of clasping hands with the fair elf, Legolas of the warm hands, after battle excited him. He wondered suddenly what Legolas would look like on the field, would his kind eyes glow with fierce warlust? Would he maintain the same calm exterior? Would he smell like the bathing waters of White Hall, warm and welcoming, a place of secrets? Aragorn brought a hand to his lips and licked a few drops wondering if perhaps Legolas would taste like....
"I have stronger stuff than bathwater to quench your thirst, ranger. If only you would ask."
Aragorn slipped beneath the calm waters in his rush to stand and...and…defend himself. Then he decidedd it would be best to wait out his youth beneath healing waters. He would rather seek his fortune among the hot stones than see the laughter on Legolas' face. Under frothing waters, he slapped and kicked at the hands reaching to pull him free. Aragorn would have waited until desperate for breath but a sharp yank pulled Aragorn's head back from the roots of his dark hair and he kicked off to the surface coughing and spluttering the while.
"Oh! Oh!" Legolas cried and pulled Aragorn up against the wall. "I feared that you had. That you had struck your head. Are you uninjured?" His hands gentled at the fingertips that ran along the crown of Aragorn's head.
"No," Aragorn said between quiet coughs. He pushed his hair away from his face and wiped the water from his eyes. "No. You only startled me." He found himself quite unable to breathe when he looked up and saw Legolas so close for a fourth time in hours, his cheeks flushed from the water's heat and their quick struggle. His chest heaved against Aragorn's, the soft gauze a gentle scrape along his torso. Yet it was Legolas' eyes, long lashes rimmed with water to reflect his blue-eyed shine that completely took his breath away. "You embarrassed me."
"That was not my intention. It is just." Legolas relaxed his grip so that his hand could slide to Aragorn's jaw then his neck, over the smooth muscle of his arms to tangle their fingers together. He took a deep breath and met Aragorn’s eyes looking all the while that he might charge forward bow at the ready, such was the challenge in his eyes, a challenge that faded to a startling quiet as his words continued. "It is only that I had not thought there was anything to make you more captivating, Strider of the Grey Company. Yet I walked in here ready to try once more to catch your eye only to find myself engrossed in you."
"I don't. I don't understand." Truly, Aragorn did not understand the elf's words nor the panicked stutter in his chest at the rueful sadness found in Legolas' voice. "What do you--" He was interrupted by a low, loud moan echoing through the rock. "What was that?" Aragorn pulled Legolas close to him and reached back for his sword.
"Ignore them," whispered Legolas into the crook of his shoulder.
"Ignore who? That was Journeyman and he sounds pained." Aragorn looked down to find Legolas' eyes sparkling at him. There was no amusement this time only wonder and delight.
"Do you not know? Truly?"
"Know what?" And then a giggle floated through the air chased by another moan. It was then Aragorn knew. "Rigel?" he asked with an embarrassed moan.
"Yes. Truth told, I would expect more than one pleasure coaxed by her tonight. She is... very giving."
And very beautiful. And Journeyman was very handsome when smiling but far too guarded to make that desperate a sound after just meeting a partner. A third voice rang out, Pale, followed by a firm no from Rigel accented by a heavy slap. And another moan.
"Legolas?" Aragorn ceased reaching for his sword when he felt elven fingertips walking down his spine. A blush followed his touch. "What are your midwinter traditions? And please," he said, forestalling the suddenly unhelpful speeches that had led the rangers to the elven border post. "Speak to me plainly. As a friend."
"Winter is a time of sharing here in Mirkwood. The days lengthen and oft times even the storied patience of our kind dwindle in the coldest and cruelest of months. So we took to breaking bread together in peace. We will go to one another and offer something of ourselves for three days. It could be our hands for crafts, our songs for the spirit, or our bodies." His voice trailed away.
Aragorn licked his lips. "Your bodies?"
"Aye, our bodies to share comfort."
"You wish to share this comfort with me." Aragorn had never felt more elated and more young.
"Yes," Legolas whispered. "From the moment you caught my eyes. Again when you spoke from your worries over accepting such a gift from a wise and noble heart. And again when you were too proud to accept my shoulder to lead you. And again when I saw your eyes lift at the elven stories that riddle the white halls of our encampment. And again when you queried the glowstones. And again, powerfully so, when I returned with wine and found you naked in the baths with your lips wet with the waters of my choosing."
Aragorn willed himself not to move while Legolas climbed onto his lap but his body would not, perhaps could not listen to him. He pushed at the heavy hair coiling around them until it exposed one strong shoulder and the smooth grace of Legolas' neck. He let his fingers trail up the path, over Legolas' smooth jaw to the peak of one spear-tipped ear for Legolas was a warrior through and through, grace and beauty disguising the fearsome nature coiled atop his thighs.
"How do I say this?" Aragorn whispered. "That I accept your offer. That I wish to share your comfort this midwinter and more. Legolas, I would share your joy as well."
Legolas gave him a full, happy smile before pulling them both together in a fierce kiss. Aragorn shivered at the skillful open and close of Legolas' mouth across his. No innocent was Aragorn, yet neither was he as skilled as others within the Grey Company. And never with anyone as fair as Legolas. This elf of Mirkwood sought to undo him in the crystal waters. His hands spread across Aragorn's smooth cheeks, thumbs rubbing in slow circles until Aragorn could only shudder and nod and open his mouth in defeat. What he received in return was not expected, the sweetness of Legolas's mouth hot and burning against his tongue. He licked his way deeper and felt a shudder and soft moan against his body and lips. And then Legolas's warm body softened in his arms, an act of the sweetest moment when Aragorn is asked to take all that he will.
When they pressed each other against the rounded corners of the bath, Legolas would gasp, "more." And when they stumbled blindly through the halls trading kisses and sweet touches between the sharp whistles and laughter on the way to Legolas' chambers, he would only shudder and whisper, "more" into the shell of Aragorn's ear while Aragorn swept burning kisses down Legolas’ graceful neck. And when Aragorn confessed his ignorance to Legolas in the sanctuary of Legolas' smooth chest, he kissed Aragorn's brow and nose and lips and said, "Was it not the duty of the first-born to teach them the ways of the earth?" He could only kiss the haughtiness of his upper lip and the playful curve of the full bottom until they shivered and gasped against each other.
Legolas took it upon himself to teach Aragorn by learning his body. At least, that's what he said before draping himself across Aragorn's body and marking the tanned skin with soft kisses and knicking bites of his teeth. He was skillful and slow, lapping at Aragorn's tight nipples then pinch then sucking until his left foot clenched. Pushed back into the pillows and soft cotton of Legolas' round bed, Aragorn could only think that he'd never had a lesson quite so intense.
"Legolas," he groaned. "I fear I will break."
"Then I will shelter you, ranger, and fit each piece back together until you are whole." He said this while parting Aragorn's thigh and trailing his long fingers up the downy sac of his bullocks to the wet tip of his cock. Legolas followed with the cool palm of his hand that gradually warmed with each tugging stroke.
Aragorn breathed heavily, chest expanding, stomach clenching, eyes struggling to stay locked with Legolas' own but it was difficult. Having never experienced such pleasure, such unabashed interest in his body, he could do little more than try to fight the rising tide within him. Then Legolas began moaning high and soft against his lips. “You will,” Aragorn said tenderness bordering on frantic need. “You will break me.”
"Yes," he breathed. "Yes. This is what I want. What I crave." His fingers smoothed beneath his hips to encourage the thwarted motion of his hips. "When I have you inside of me. When you are so very deep, oh please, do not restrain yourself. I wish." Aragorn feels a tickle behind his sac, a wet invasion by a lone solider. "When you are with another male, you must. Oh, Strider, you must take care to wet and open so the passing is easier. But. When we." He bites his perfect lips and Aragorn realizes he is about to witness his very own confession. "When we take pleasure. When you take of me. I oh." His hand moves faster and faster along Aragorn's cock and their lips part in hungry symmetry. "I wish this midwinter for you to mount me. For you to. To fuck me."
"Legolas," he moans. "Legolas," and all other words of warning are cut by the low shout of his release wet and heavy between them. He's dizzy from the pleasure, from the hesitant rock of Legolas' clothed body against his thigh. Aragorn slides his feet across the bedding for purchase for his arms are to weary to support him and his movement but he has come undone and must clean himself. He blushes and tilts his head lazily. "A cloth," he rumbles, voice deepened by their play.
"Wait. Please." Legolas holds him with two fingers at his chest. He wiggles out of the wet gauze but when Aragorn reaches forward, thinking that it was for him, Legolas tosses it into the corner. "Don't move."
Aragorn sinks back breathing slow and labored, unsure of what Legolas would want but willing to trust him all the same. Silly of him to think in the short moment of peace that Legolas could do nothing more to surprise him after the countless others sprung upon him this day. Then Legolas bends at the waist and spreads his pink tongue along the wet trails slivering Aragorn's chest and belly. A moan of pleasure accompanied each lick. Aragorn pounded his fist into the bed when he felt the hot tip probe at his wet cockhead, lips pulling shamelessly at the soft skin bunched down, lather and smooth his seed, then lips slide over him for a hot suck. He cannot look. To look would invite embarrassment for himself but also for Legolas the fair elven warrior who opened his throat and took him deep like the bit of girl in Ordens never could. He had thought himself a man that day but under Legolas' warm and giving touch, he finds himself boy again.
"Oh," he moans. "It is too much." Already his long cock is stiffening and the heaviness of his bullocks has returned seemingly twofold. His skin runs red with heat, arrows piercing his skin when Legolas touches him, his chest, his stomach, his arms, that invasion of his body again, slow counterpoint to the suck of Legolas' mouth and the slide of his fist. He slide his fingers into the damp strands of Legolas' silver hair and tugged, groaning when he would not move, when Legolas only sucked harder at the thick root of him. He pulled again sharply like he had been handled in the baths. Only then did Legolas lift his head licking his slick, swollen mouth with a plaintive sound. "I will come undone, Legolas. I," said Aragorn with the shameful need to explain his actions to the disappointed look in those lust-darkened eyes. "I will shame myself."
But Legolas only moaned. The sound shook down to the very core of him. And then those words whispered in a broken, hazy voice. "I would take all that you have. I would taste everything. Nothing you do brings shame, Strider, only my greatest pleasure."
Such words only moved Aragorn to action. He pulled at Legolas' hair until he whimpered and cursed in a fair tongue, and then crawled to his knees. Flushed cheek and wild eyed, Legolas spoke of unnamed desires waiting to be freed. Aragorn licked at his lips then flushed when Legolas' tongue swirled at his own lips in unconscious mimicry. "I wish to give to you in return the pleasure, the pleasure you have taught my body, friend. But I wonder if it is shared." He looks away then back to Legolas' eyes. He will ask this thing for he needs to know. "Open your pants and show me that this desire you speak of is shared."
Poised as he was on the tips of his knees held upright by the fine threads of his hair, Legolas trembled with every small motion. He ran his hands along the reddening bites along his collar, the tightness of his nipples down to the concave sink of his belly. His usually sure fingers struggled at the three buttons that held his breeches closed. Aragorn did not move to help. He only watched eyes sweeping up from those long fingers to Legolas' tormented mouth to his hands again. Finally, Legolas freed the last button. He pushed the breeches down past his hips, down to his knees and whimpered lazily as his stiff cock pushed free from its tight confines to bask in the heat of Aragorn's hungry gaze.
Never had he laid eyes on something so utterly masculine and yet so terrifyingly beautiful. Never had he longed to touch something so badly, to taste and defile so utterly but the curve of Legolas' pale flanks, the pinkening flush of his wet cock staining the silken bits of quilt beneath him kindles a flame in Aragorn that will never be quenched. He reaches out as Legolas did with two fingers though his hesitated before pushing gently along the tip.
"Strider," Legolas' gasped when Aragorn licked the salt from his hand. "You must." But whatever he would have said exhaled in a huffing whine when Aragorn's strong fist pumped him. His wet fingers slide between Legolas' cheeks searching for the slit heat of him and he marveled at the way his body opened for his tow thick fingers, bloomed for him, a wave of pink and reds from his cheeks down to just above his navel. "Yes," he hissed.
"You wish to be mounted?" Just saying the words caused his cock to twitch against his thigh. Legolas only nodded eyes hazier still, mouth open and panting. "Place your hands on the bed to brace you."
With his hands spread on the cushions and his knees bound by the tight leather of his wet breeches, Legolas looked well and truly tumbled. He trembled between breaths. His hips canted urging Aragorn on while he slicked his fingers a third time just to be sure he would not hurt the elf. But truly, he loved the feel of his insides, the tense muscle softening for his touch, the way Legolas could not hide his pleasure even if he wanted to. Finally, Aragorn worked the clean smelling oil along his cock and presses against the loosened ring of Legolas' hole.
There were no words to describe the feel of Legolas around him, the power he found in pushing through until he could move down deep, until he was seated fully inside of Legolas' hot, hot, heat. He kissed along broad shoulders, ran his hands over Legolas' quivering flanks and his belly and teased his cock with warm palms. He pressed himself over Legolas' back so he could kiss his jaw, nip and tug at the point of his ear and whisper hotly there. "I did not know I wanted you so," he said dragging his cock out and then back in slow, even motions. "When I first saw you. I only knew you were the most wondrous thing I had seen in my short travels across Middle-Earth. I only knew that your eyes saw into the heart of me and your voice could name me true. I only knew that I must keep you within our camp for the few moments time would allow."
"And. And." Legolas stuttered through the pounding beat of Aragorn's body against him. "And now?"
"Now I know that you called to me. And here is my answer." He squeezed Legolas’ hips and watched the long weight of his cock fuck into Legolas until nothing remained by the clap of their bodies and the growing cries falling from Legolas' mouth sweet as song. "I will give you anything. I would give anything. Everything, everything you do brings to me the greatest of all pleasures."
And Legolas gasped, "more," even as he shook apart, body rocking back and then freezing in wicked agony. Aragorn's mouth filled with the scent of Legolas' come hot and heavy on the sheets and across his fingers. He fucked his hips quicker, harder, beating a perfect rhythm for Legolas to twist and shudder into then keen as his release hit him a second time. Aragorn stroked his cock through the next careful and slow now that he's calmed from the frenzy Legolas brought in him. He could not remember the exact moment when he himself came, only that he pushed through it desperate to see Legolas undone. The proof of it was in the wet slide of his cock pulling away from his body.
He fell to his side slowly toppled like a tree from great heights. Legolas followed him to nuzzle against his shoulders. He licked each of Aragorn’s fingers in tired relish then the fingers he trailed through some unseen place to gather more cream to lap with his tongue.
Aragorn sighed with pleasure. "I would not think you insaitable, elf."
"And I would not think you an innocent, ranger," said Legolas with a tired smile. "Let us see if we can do more to share these secrets with one another, my friend."
"Oh yes, indeed. Friend." Aragorn kissed him then and thought that these midwinter nights would give much peace to his burgeoning heart with Legolas beside him as friend and more.
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