Disclaimer: Not mines. Make no money I. No sue, please.
Standard Disclaimer: Not mines, no sue, if were mines they’d be doing this in the movie, or at least touching more and showing more skin. Must apologize for attempt at humor in the disclaimer 2 chapters back, just read it a while ago and thought, “Damn. What was I thinking, that doesn’t even make SENSE??”
Welcome. This bit has lime.
He awoke to a gentle yet insistent tapping on his shoulder.
“I beg your pardon sir, but I’m looking for someone. Perhaps you’ve seen him?”
The man sitting curled in the street blinked, and squinted his eyes, before a surprised grin surfaced on his face.
“Oy, per’aps I have, my bonny boy, per’aps I have.”
The grin on the man’s face widened, and he shot a fist towards the inquisitor’s face.
A few flurried moments and sharp sounds later, the shorter man lay on his side clutching his stomach, legs curled up to protect as much as his chest as they could and trying to hide his face. The figure above coughed.
“The one I seek is of near my height, with, um, blue eyes one might say. He be not resident here and I thought mayhap…” the voice trailed off.
The man on the floor eased on finger from his abdomen, pointed up, and then jerked left.
“Oh.” Legolas stared down the prescribed direction, seeing much further than normal human ability. “Thank you.”
The auburn liquid swished in it’s flask; Aragorn gave it a couple more turns in hopes of relieving the foul tasted that permeated the concoction. The Iilliad people had done much for Gondor in the past, and hopefully would do again, but they made terrible wine. Or ale, whatever they called the concoction.
Fog rose a foot above the ground, a depressing burned gray, dotted by the continuous rain. The cold became sharper and more alive in the impending spring, the rain more frequent, and cut into the bones all that much quicker.
Nothing matched the feeling of rain falling. The chill of the water, each droplet tapping on a different edge of his face, always a predictable surprise, before sliding down his shirt uncomfortably and cooling his freezing skin. No matter how cold or hard, the dead and ghosts alone could be unaffected by the chill and desolation of the rain. He was alone, where he wanted to be.
The ale-wine?- swirled in his stomach, heating his blood and defrosting his skin, giving the rain a pleasant coolness instead of the chilliness of sobriety. His muscles and joints loosened, and his pinched nerves began to relax under the influence. The lines of the buildings and roofs began to blur, but that could also be the mist too.
King Aragorn. Of Gondor. It was too late to take the words back now, after all his careful planning, all that running away…and here he was. Of course. He had lost, had failed entirely, and Destiny had won.
He seemed to be innately good at failing lately; first he lost the Ringbearer, then he lost his heart to Legolas, and now he lost to Destiny. Wow. He was making one exceptional record for the scribes and clerks to record in their scrolls. Yes, those clerks, so immaculate and thorough, who never missed any little detail. Clerks indeed.
He had declared his title before the Rohan, before the House of Theoden, and had walked into the White City.
It was a shamble, a tomb, this place, compared to the majesty of Lorien and Imladris. The people were few and afraid, the buildings collapsing under their own weight, the stone itself developing mold. He had run so long…so far, and here he was.
Now and again he observed dark specters hurrying through the rain and mist, hunched and silent. The proud people of Gondor, the last remains of the Dunedain. His people. His.
As disparaging as they appeared, Aragorn couldn’t help feel a touch of pride and protectiveness. His people lived on the edge of Mordor, were the first defense against the dark, and the few wraiths that darted quietly through the fog knew the danger that the darkness held, had buried the dead that had been murdered by monsters, yet did not run. They would not run. They were too proud to run. He was proud. He would learn this, if nothing else.
At times…scars meant more than mere ugliness. More than mere carelessness, or worthlessness. More than mere greed.
Sometimes they meant strength.
He had not meant to come inside; he hadn’t wanted to and still wished he had not, yet he had been curious. It made no difference whether he slept at his kingdom’s doorstep or not…he was here. He needed to be here. And that could not be changed.
Aragorn swirled his drink around yet again, and took another draught.
Another ghost came into view while the liquid burned down his throat, passing from his vision only to return again and dart away. The ghost finally stopped and turned to Aragorn, and through the drink and cold and rain and quiet security, Aragorn’s eyes met his long before knowing who he was.
He moved like a wolf, with deliberate nonchalance, radiating power and muscle beneath the sleek frame. His eyes were brilliant, and gripped Aragorn’s own with fierce…What? Purpose? Anger? Frustration? The face became clearer.
Aragorn’s jaw slackened, the flask in his hand feeling very heavy.
The Elf’s hair was pasted to his skin or hanging down on the sides of his face, his clothes likewise, giving him unusual delicacy and muscle, as his biceps and calf muscles became sharply defined.
“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice empting out thin and translucent.
A voice that could make the mountains melt. A voice that could freeze the rain motionless. A voice that was sharp, smooth, pale and shimmering, clear yet slightly thick and runny and a little bitter.
Like a moonlit knife. Or knife made of moon light itself.
Aragorn swallowed hard.
The bottle dropped from his hand, bounced on the fog, and broke loudly on the flagstones.
“Oh,” Legolas said, his eyes and head tilted towards where the bottle had crashed. “I see.” He frowned. “And to think Gimli was worried,” Legolas said quietly to himself, his voice deadpan.
“Well,” one eyebrow lifted regally, his head tilted and showing a great deal of a glowing pallid column of neck, “Will thee be wanting anything more to drink?” he queried, dripping sarcasm.
Aragorn jaw dropped open, his mouth worked silently and he coughed hurriedly. Legolas caught the motions, and twitched an eyebrow. Aragorn nodded.
“Well,” he sighed musically, wind through leaves, eyes lowered but bare in deference, “I… suppose it may be well. I don’t approve,” he looked up and frowned. Aragorn’s face seemed glassy, and his eyes vacant. Legolas sighed, and whispered “but I shall I remain with thee. Come along.”
Aragorn closed his eyes briefly, his fingers flexing.
“May--I have one now?”
“A drink. Now.”
“Where?” Legolas asked. They were in dank outskirts of the City; even the shoddiest of taverns and brothels were rare.
“Here.” He said firmly.
The rain pounded on harder, there was a soft plopping sound punctuated by short cracking. A roof had fallen in. “Um.” Legolas’ eyes flickered over to the area briefly, ears pricked. There were no voices or footsteps. “How?”
Legolas turned back to Aragorn and blinked quickly, a droplet dislodged from his eyelashes, skimmed onto zenith of his cheekbones, zooming down the angular edges, sway tantalizingly from his jaw, snapping from suddenly and spattering onto his tunic where it zipped down the water soaked surface. It rode the dampness down, over the defined lines of muscle and collarbone and edges and abs, pooling on the rim of his belt. Aragorn’s eyes bugged, and stayed glued on the spot, and the Elf shifted uneasily. The pool overflowed like a swan from a lake, spilling down onto his thigh before turning inward on his leg and disappearing behind his knee.
“Aragorn?” he questioned, his voice a tip higher, shoulders tugged back and his weight supported on his left foot, so he could pivot and run should need arise all that much faster. He was faster than Aragorn, but this was quite different.
Aragorn was terrifying when he was fighting and his tension and anger focused on to one single objective, beautiful when he was unaware and sorrowful, quiet and meticulous when normal, but this was just…different!
His skin was freakishly clammy and translucent, and a high color painted pastel strokes under his eyes, his hair darker than dream. His eyes burned. And he was watching Legolas far too closely…far too intensely.
Legolas had seen two creatures in the human’s skin; an angel and a demon. The creature before him was neither. Or…possibly both.
Aragorn. Aaaaa-ra-gorn. A simple raspy whisper in a low, dark, soprano. The ideal impossible given flesh. Just his name breathed,-
-into the air, the apprehension in the other’s reserved, immaculate grey eyes, the power and heat running through his veins…
A droplet---of rain? sweat? fear?-ran down from the other’s hairline, down the long and slender bridge of nose, pausing at the rim of the upper lip and sliding slowly to the corner of the mouth. It billowed, swirled, and fell further till it grasped the edge of the chin for dear life, swinging haphazardly over the void of skin, refusing to plunge to it’s demise, making a mockery of gravity and inertia. Aragorn deliberately followed the drop to the ground, before raising his eyes up to meet the eyes of the elf.
“Now.” Aragorn’s voice was soft, somber. He was a melancholy drunk at best, and he wasn’t even drunk now. Barely even tipsy.
“What, here?” A slight soprano note entered the elf’s voice.
Legolas’ version of startlement darted across his face like a phantom seen through the corner of an eye.
“May I?” Aragorn was asking. Not lightly. Asking Legolas. Very seriously. And…there was really only the rain to drink.
Legolas blinked, and thought. Aragorn had a destiny, and now he had a kingdom. He had the token of the Lady Evenstar. He had a life, and a duty, and neither would be lightly thrown away. He did look beautiful in the rain. Stubborn, proud, yet forlorn, and lost. His garb and hair were even darker here and now, making his skin gleam. His eyes shimmered.
--I’ll die, you know…and I won’t be thinking ‘What if I did…’…What if, what if…and you’ll hear that all your life. All your life. Yup. Youuu, bugger. And I’ll be dead. Poor bastard.—
“…yes,” he tilted his head down a fraction, eyes flicking to the ground, to Aragorn, then to the ground again.
-- I’m in love with you--
“Yes,” he repeated slowly, “you may.”
Rough fingers brushed against his skin, tracing the rim of his top lip where the second drop had fallen, crawling down along his jaw and pressing against the contours of his neck. Legolas concentrated on a spot below Aragorn’s left shoulder.
Incidentally, the silver chain of a necklace was visible through an opening in Aragorn’s tunic.
Fingers brushed along Legolas’ forehead, pulled the slicked hair away from his cheek and gently tried to tuck it behind his ear. Fingers combed through the strands, glanced lightly off his back, and cupped his shoulder momentarily.
Aragorn held his hand in front of his chest, and rubbed the thumb over the index and stroked the length of the index.
Legolas watched quietly.
Slowly, perhaps shyly, he brought the hand up to his mouth, and his tongue slid over the index carefully, curiously. His tongue stood out a colored pink against all the sharp contrast of black and white of his garb and body. His eyes slid shut, and he drew in the knuckles of the ring and middle finger, visibly sucking on them. His eyes opened carefully again, and his tongue laved the back of his hand free of excess moisture. He stopped, and again held his hand in front of his chest.
Aragorn looked in him the eyes, deeply, searching his mind and offered Legolas his fingers that he had just been sucking on.
There was cut across his thumb, and an old burn mark over the base of his pinky and ring finger. Legolas blinked sleepily and took in two of the fingers in his mouth, turning his head so he could bite lightly on the sides of Aragorn’s knuckles, sucked hard twice and pressed his tongue against the pads of his fingers. He released the fingers, turned the hand up and gradually lapped up the rain water from Aragorn’s palm.
He never looked at Aragorn’s face. He leaned back slowly.
Legolas closed his eyes and grimaced, mouth pressed into a thin line. All the pain and doubt and fear that he had stored in it’s carefully crafted ceramic jar since they left Lothlorien, since Boromir died, since the suspicion of the One Ring…his nightmares of forests burned and spoiled, children calling for parents long dead, the slow decline that was sweeping the elves…all came out.
When he opened his eyes again, they were not the calm and content gray Aragorn had ached and hungered for from a distance…but something far, far older.
And Aragorn felt very small.
“Why do you do this, Ellesar?”
Aragorn felt a pebble of disquiet, and read the other’s mood carefully before answering. He wasn’t angry, just sad, and hurting very much. He felt a wave of pity and fierce protectiveness wash over him. A creature this beautiful shouldn’t have to feel pain.
Legolas closed his eyes again in pain. He sounded resigned, defeated.
“And what will it take for you to stop?”
Legolas’ eyes opened, and ember of anger and defiance afire. “I am tired. I can’t pretend anymore,” he shook his head, “nor will I continue to do this. So, what will it take to stop it? What will it take to stop you?”
He tilted his chin downward, indirectly yet deliberately putting his face closer to Aragorn’s. His voice was soft, and slightly dangerous. Challenging.
“What will you take to sate thyself?”
Aragorn met his gaze squarely.
“Whatever you’re willing to give.”
Legolas straightened up, his face naturally devoid of expression. But his emotions could still be sensed internally, and Aragorn had always trusted his instincts.
Elrond. Watching him eat. Watching him talk. Always seeing more than Aragorn dared show, always knowing more than Aragorn feared. Watching him hunt. Watching him run. Elrond loved him. This Aragorn knew. He could feel it in the hand on his shoulder, the brief smile, the surprise gifts.
Glorfindel had been kinder about it, more playful even. He chose to ignore it, pretend it wasn’t there, and when he couldn’t do that anymore then he teased about it gently and tried to cover it up again.
The twins accepted it, and would still play with him when they were children. As time went on, it grew a wall between them, and they no longer played.
Arwen had also been accepting, yet curious as well. She had cared for him in spite of it, and perhaps more so, had actually embraced him and it with him…and he had loved her for it. Of them all, he favored her the highest.
The elves were the First Race, with the stars in their eyes and the wind in their hair, children of the night and the stars. They were naturally talented, instinctively wise and quick, and favored by the gods.
They were immortal for as long as they were alive.
They were always beautiful, even in toddling, even in dying.
And Aragorn, for all his merits, was merely human.
And they never let him forget it.
And now Legolas.
Aragorn struck, sending Legolas reeling a back a step before the figure crouched and feinted one fist to the right, while attacking his gut from the left.
Hostilities came easily to both of them now. Call it the tension, the frustration, the fear. Call it the stress. Call it the need to touch, touch anything anyway possible.
Aragorn jabbed Legolas’ ribs, grinned when the elf flinched, then had his feet kicked out from under him. His arms were pulled back painfully behind his back, he was shoved against the other’s chest to keep standing then a mouth was on his.
It took him a while to realize that.
The lips were pressed roughly against his, were cold and lean. Their teeth clashed. Aragorn struck out with a knee, aiming for groin and hitting a thigh instead.
Legolas still flinched, Aragorn yanked an arm free, grabbed the flaxened hair and yanked down and tilted up.
And kissed him, lips and gentle and warm as he knew, as if he were kissing a virgin. Legolas went rigid.
Aragorn began pressing gently, running his lips in short, soft strokes, while Legolas slowly melted in his arms.
A bit of suction now, nibbling at the corner of his mouth, teasing the rim of his upper lip with his tongue, feel him shiver when you do that. Sweep the tongue across the bottom lip, parting the lips with the just the tip of the tongue, and above all try to encourage him kiss back.
Elves are Romanticists, not Sensualists. That’s why they have more love songs and poets than off spring.
Tentatively, Legolas began to respond, combing his hand in the other’s hair, finding it surprisingly soft and liquid through his fingers.
And now Aragorn’s tongue was in his mouth, his heart forgot to beat, never mind that, his legs were bent at an odd angle to keep his head lower, right now Legolas felt he could get on his knees…and with Aragorn’s fingers expertly sliding and gliding and stroking his neck and making him want very, very much elsewhere, Aragorn’s other hand already slipped inside his tunic and scalding hot against his rain soaked skin…Legolas wanted to be on his knees.
Aragorn broke for air, leaving Legolas panting with closed eyes. He felt a tongue clean his throat, which made him moan, a kiss on his cheek, then a hot, teasing, and tracing tongue on the rim of his ear. He yelped, almost stood, then dug his fingers bruisingly into the other’s skin and sank to his knees.
A hand teased and pulled at his nipples, leaving him whimpering and pleading while another hand investigated his belt and leggings. Aragorn’s mouth continued it’s magic on his ear that made his hips jerk and nails claw at his back while Legolas swallowed moans and whimpers and the sporadic scream.
There would be bruise marks on Aragorn.
Aragorn would stop his ministrations from taking Legolas on the nerve-wracking string of ecstasy to kiss him, which Legolas was slowly learning.
Author Notes: Sooo~ooo…what did everybody think? Okay? Good? Alright? Um, depending on you, the readers, I’m debating on whether to do a lemon in the next chappie or not. I’ve never actually done a lemon and posted it before, so I’m not sure how it would do. Um, also, this ficcie is going to be done in the next 1 or 2 chapters, I’ve got a good idea how, but this is really as far as I’ve ever actually planned. Just so everybody knows, yes, this will have a conclusion, so cliffie-hangers no worries, kay? Um, also sorry on how long it took getting this chapter out, I actually wrote two different versions for it, and then just combined them because the first was WAY too sappy and the second one didn’t have enough lime, so 1+1=6, and there you have it.
Oh, yeah, and thanks to Lux for her advice on writing and working. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference, and it’s nice that somebody will actually help you through it.
Return to Archive | next | previous