Making It Right 1

Making It Right

Part 1

Posted: April 2003
Title: Making It Right
Author's Name: Kharessa Bloodrose
Type: FCS
Characters: Aragorn/Legolas
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimers: I do not own these settings or characters, and am making no profit from the writing and sharing of this story.
Spoilers: RoTK (Always assuming I have my facts in order.)
Warnings: Violence, graphic imagery, incomplete non-con, explicit sex between man and elf
Author's Notes: I have read through the first two LoTR books and scanned the last, and I have reached the conclusion that my favorite boys had neither the time nor the inclination to be getting up to nastiness in the wilderness. To facilitate the writing of this tale, I have taken certain liberties in order to make the aforementioned nastiness possible. I was rather lazy about my research of RoTK, so please excuse any glaring errors I might have made.
For those of you who are unabashedly reading for the sex, the NC-17 stuff is in the last chapter. There are really nasty, dirty thoughts in chapter one, and the second chapter has the non con stuff. .
This is my first attempt at fan fiction writing; any feedback would be helpful.

Summary: The call of the ring arouses dark desires in Aragorn's soul. How will he bridge the gap he has created once released from the ring's power?

*****

"Let me make it up to you." He spoke softly but not pleadingly, reaching out to almost touch the blonde silk braids at the elf's temple. His hand hovered there, sword callused fingers moving nearly imperceptibly in anticipation. Legolas tilted his head slightly, allowing the contact.

Finger tips ghosted over braids, gliding back into a full, soft caress. Legolas closed his eyes briefly, the growing warmth within him at the gentle touch at war with his anger. Opening them, he found himself faced with storm gray eyes – patient, dignified, asking rather than taking. No cloud of lust and fury here, no barely restrained violence. Instead those familiar eyes held something much softer yet more fierce, something more complicated than the fires of animal carnality.

"I am so sorry, Legolas." Finger tips lightly tracing the line of his jaw, then skating upwards over the high contours of his cheekbones. "Please."

The elf's hands clenched into fists as he stepped forward into the man's embrace, suddenly and fiercely hating the quest they had made, the ring, Aragorn, himself. Hating and needing as he tilted his head back, felt the man's lips tenderly brushing his own in a chaste kiss. Hating as hands gently stroked his back, as he listened to softly spoken words of comfort, as he was rocked like a child. Wanting to strike out, to bring this man low in a display of elven strength and speed, and wanting to hide forever in his arms. Aragorn kissed his forehead, stroked his hair reverently, and Legolas trembled as he rested his head on the man's shoulder.

"Let me make things right."

*****

Things had begun to go wrong in the darkness of Moria. At first Aragorn had attributed it to the claustrophobia, the sense of being entombed, the incessant fear and dread. Walking the paths of shadow, his eyes had turned to Legolas the way a man lost in the desert would look at a pool of clear water. Glowing softly from within, illuminated from without by the ghost light of Gandalf's staff, the elf was angelic, eminently touchable. His was the only beauty in the darkness, the only grace upon which Aragorn's eyes might turn. And his eyes turned upon him often.

Pale, slender fingers idly brushing narrow braids. Soft lips, now unsmiling, but Aragorn remembered how they would curve in amusement, in laughter, in pleasure. Azure eyes, sharp and focused now to pierce the darkness, but Aragorn let his mind drift back to Rivendell, to eyes calm and serene. Here in the darkness, softly accented elven speech did not ring out. Only clipped words did he speak, and only when necessary. Aragorn remembered that manner of speech, in Rivendell, at the council. Legolas had spoken for him in those same tones, the lilt of elvish accent gracing the decisiveness of his words without detracting from them.

"You owe him your allegiance." Those words had been spoken to Boromir, but in Moria Aragorn began to wonder if Legolas, too, might not owe him allegiance. He had never thought such things before, but it was beginning to seem natural, expected that the elven prince would bow before the man who could be King of Men. He had never desired to be a king, but now he saw the advantages. An elven prince and an elven princess, united by Gondor with himself as king. Yes, he saw the possibilities, saw them epitomized in the lithe form of an elven archer.

Legolas did not seem to recognize this. Now Aragorn saw that his manner was haughty, that the elf brushed him aside as if he were a gnat. His pale beauty had become cold, closed, distant. Not touchable. He had become wary, his eyes suspicious, searching. Legolas shrugged off his attempts at proprietary affection with disdainful casualness. When azure eyes met his own, they were blank and expressionless, giving away nothing. The urge to slap that stoic calm off of the pale, pretty face was nearly uncontrollable, and Aragorn found himself plagued by images of himself twisting that lovely head back by a fistful of silken hair, claiming those soft lips, marking the elf as his own.

In the darkness day and night had no meaning. Aragorn lay down to sleep in what he thought of as night, knowing that sleep would not come to him. He had begun to be afraid in the dwarven tomb, fear beyond that of the orcs and creatures of Shadow. The thoughts and images that came to him no longer seemed to be his own, and he could not turn away from them. However he bent his will towards other matters, always his mind returned to the elf. The danger that surrounded them made no impact. Part of his mind screamed at him that he had to focus, had to concentrate on his duties as ranger, as protector of the ring bearer. He could not.

In his dreams, both waking and sleeping, he saw the elf writhing under him, twisting and crying out as he staked his claim upon him. Braids torn loose, dirt and forest detritus soiling his tangled hair. Smears of mud on his face and nude body. The haughty, proud prince was gone in these visions – in these dreams Aragorn took him, ravished him, left him with no veil of dignity to stand behind.

Rising from restless sleep, Aragorn traveled with the company like an automaton. He no longer saw the path in front of him; his eyes were fixed on visions he wanted to turn away from but couldn't. Legolas, naked and vulnerable, laying over his lap and whimpering at the rough intrusion of harsh fingers. Legolas on his hands and knees, keening as Aragorn took him with brutal thrusts. Legolas, bound and blind folded, shuddering as Aragorn pressed his knees back to his chest. Legolas kneeling before him, hands bound behind him, taking the man's cock all the way to the back of his throat, gazing up at Aragorn with worshipful, fearful eyes.

Sanity briefly reasserted itself with their escape from Moria. Gandalf had fallen into Shadow, and it had made almost no impact upon the man. He had run, fought, killed with all skill, but he had felt as if he were standing to one side watching the action. Frodo had survived the encounter with the cave troll, and all Aragorn could feel was a sort of distant, almost forced relief. There was no time or place for brutal visions of lust, and Aragorn felt detached from reality, untethered. Flight of arrows, dance of swords, movement of feet. No reason, no thought. Then Gandalf fell, following the balrog in a plummeting downward flight. Shock. Escape.

The expression on Legolas' face, seen clearly in the light of day, was what caught Aragorn's heart. For a brief moment he sawwhat he had only seen previously in dreams. Vulnerability. The fair elvish brow was furrowed in sorrow, blue eyes glimmering with unshed tears. He saw the delicate lips bowed downwards in grief, and his heart clenched at the sight. Every thought and dream he'd had in the darkness of Moria seemed a desecration, an act of foulness too deep for redemption.

He reached out, gripping Legolas' shoulder, seeking to give comfort. Shame coiled in his guts as the elf looked up at him, openly, trustingly. Shame and desire. For a hellish moment Aragorn fought the impulse to press his lips to the elf's. Clenching his eyes shut, he squeezed Legolas' shoulder and released him, turning away.

The flight to Lothlorien was a jumble of images and twisted thoughts. Legolas ran with light, fluid grace, a dream of innocent beauty. The sun made love to his spun gold hair, the wind danced with it. Long, lean muscles flexed under his leggings and Aragorn was utterly captivated. The elf ran like a deer, like a unicorn, a creature of light and beauty begging, no needing, to be dragged down into the dirt. To be brought down, taken, owned….

No! The voice of refusal rang out in the man's head, wrenching him away from the darkness. Confusion and anger warred within the ranger, heat rising in him as he watched the elf delicately flick a tendril of hair back over his pointed ear. Teasing him, taunting him. He forced his gaze away from the fair creature, his friend and comrade. The proud prince who would not bow to the rightful king of Gondor… Aragorn bit down hard on his lower lip, desperately hoping to find peace in Lothlorien.

*****

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