Making It Right 4

Making It Right

Part 4

Posted: April 2003
Title: Making It Right
Author's Name: Kharessa Bloodrose

*****

Legolas ran with the speed and stamina his heritage granted him, following the obvious trail left by the Uruk-Hai. He had used to feel exhilaration in movement, a pure joy in the freedom of speed and the blessing of his being. There had been synergy between himself and the ground he flew over fleet footed, between himself and the air he breathed. It had been a delight to run, to breathe, to be.

This was different. He was not running for joy, but for the lives of his comrades. Every step he took closed the distance between himself and the captured hobbits, every pause was a gamble on their lives. The human and the dwarf required rest that he did not need, collapsed into sleep when he wanted to run. In his mind he saw the Uruk-Hai dragging the little ones away while Aragorn and Gimli slept, and the frustration of it was almost more than he could bear.

The feeling of eyes upon him was also new, unwanted, a source of tension and discomfort. He had never been self conscious of his movements before, but now that had changed. He ran, and he searched the ground for signs of the hobbits, but he was also aware of Aragorn's gaze. On his hair, drinking in his profile, the movement of his arms and legs. When he spoke Aragorn did not meet his eyes, but watched his mouth until Legolas felt that speech itself was obscene, the dance of tongue and lips and teeth a provocation.

Until Moria he had thought nothing of the looks he had received from the men. He knew that to the humans he was something alien, ethereal, perhaps even arousing. The hobbits had been guileless in their awe and curiosity, Boromir had been aloof, the dwarf distant and grumbling. It had surprised him that Aragorn, who had been raised among elves, had found him so captivating, but he had not worried about it. Time and familiarity would bring an end to it; they would cease to see him as an armed angel and begin to recognize him as a companion.

Moria had changed his thinking on that. Aragorn had become silent, brooding, and the looks he cast Legolas's way had grown dark and considering. Legolas grew adept at gliding inconspicuously away when the man encroached upon his space, adept at sliding away from hands resting in misplaced protectiveness upon his back or shoulder. Smoldering glares followed him at those moments, and he had found his own anger rising.

In the darkness it became more and more obvious to Legolas that the Heir of Isildur had inherited all of the weaknesses of his forefather. Elrond's wisdom in allowing this man upon the quest was doubtful, and the very idea of a hobbit bearing the Ring was outrageous. Elrond should have entrusted the Ring to him. After all, the elves were the oldest and wisest, immortal, above the passions that ruled others.

He was traveling with a stone skulled dwarf, a quartet of children, a man with the disposition of a shrew, another who couldn't keep his hands to himself, and a wizard who should realize how absurd this had become. This was the Fellowship of The Ring? He should have accepted the dwarf's challenge at the council. Then there might have been a possibility of success.

Stumbling into the light of day in the wake of Gandalf's death, he had felt a moment of dislocation. The fierce enmity he had felt towards his comrades lifted as grief for the fallen wizard washed over him in nearly paralyzing waves. Mithrandir was gone, gone forever. The reality of that brought other truths into focus. The hobbits clung to each other in their innocent sorrow, and Legolas felt no contempt. Boromir asked for time for them, a few moments at least to deal with their loss. Compassion. Legolas glanced back towards Moria and shuddered. In the darkness of the mines his heart had been vulnerable, and the Ring had begun to seduce him.

He looked up into Aragorn's face when he felt the man's hand resting on his shoulder. It was not the possessive clasp he had learned to avoid in the mines, but a gentle, comforting touch. Legolas knew that tears stained his cheeks when he looked up at the man, but it did not matter. He saw the same look of horror, loss, and shame on the ranger's face that he knew he must be wearing on his own. The Ring had been busy in the darkness, whispering to the hearts of man and elf alike.

Then Lothlorien. He had not seen it coming. The whispering of the Ring was like the tide, rising and falling, and Legolas had not been paying attention to the behavior of his comrades. He had been fighting the slow seduction, fighting and winning for the most part. Shoving the dark thoughts aside he focused on his duties, making every action a matter for intense concentration. He poured himself into his role as archer and scout, living from the core of his senses and allowing thought to submerge. He had not seen the ranger fighting his own battle and losing, and so he had not been on his guard when Aragorn appeared in the doorway of his sitting room in Lothlorien.

It was something that he did not want to think about, but think about it he did. He could not forget the feeling of rough hands clamped over his wrists, the harsh scrape of beard over his smooth cheek when Aragorn had forced their mouths together. It had happened so quickly, and he had not fought at first, not believing that Aragorn would truly do such a thing. He had not believed as he was forced to his knees, as his arms were jerked upward until humiliating tears had stung his eyes. He had not believed until he heard the filth that Aragorn had spewed into his ear, hissed at him as he jerked at the laces of his leggings. Then he had struck out in fury and panic, no longer caring that this was Aragorn, heir to the throne of Gondor, leader, and friend.

They had stumbled on since then, speaking to each other only when necessary. Aragorn would not look him in the eye when he spoke, but instead of watching his mouth he watched a point somewhere over his shoulder. Legolas found himself standing aloof, arms crossed over his chest forbiddingly. He knew it had been the lure of the Ring prompting Aragorn's actions, but he could not shake the cold anger that filled him at the sight of the man, could not shake the feeling of nakedness that always came to him in the man's presence.

When the man's eyes began to search him out again, the urge to draw his blades and slice those piercing orbs from his head became nearly overwhelming. There was no animal lust or anger in Aragorn's stolen glances, but the memory of hands clenched in his hair and hands groping his body was too fresh. Boromir was dead, Frodo and Sam gone on to Mordor, Merry and Pippin in the hands of the Uruk-Hai. Legolas ran, ran like the wind, like a panther, like a deer, like a rabbit pursued. He ran feeling as if he had been stripped naked, feeling vulnerable, feeling hatefully exposed. Yet when he dared to turn his seething gaze to Aragorn, the man was not looking at him. Aragorn was intent on the trail, on the hobbits, on rescuing them from torment and death.

All of this had culminated in the words: "I need to make this up to you." Legolas had sat, silent and still, trembling inside at those words. He had wanted to rage at the human, to call him every filthy word he had ever heard. He had wanted to leap up from the stone he had been resting upon and beat him senseless to the ground.

The words Aragorn had spoken next had been barely above a whisper, but Legolas had heard them. "If I were to touch you – if you were mine to touch – I would do so with all reverence and tenderness. Not like a beast, a brute, an animal." And Legolas had had nothing to say to that. Nothing at all. The man had turned over, falling asleep and leaving Legolas to his whirling thoughts.

It had been pride in his race that had allowed the Ring to seduce him to contempt and self righteousness. Boromir's love of Gondor had been turned to ambition and hatred. What feelings within Aragorn had been turned to lust and violence by the Ring? Legolas found himself disconcerted, uncomfortable, curious.

He thought of the ranger's behavior towards him since the capture of the little ones. There was an air of humility about the man that had not previously been there, but there was dignity in him as well. There had been no further apologies since that day in Lothlorien. Nothing but the ranger's continued courteously humble behavior. Legolas saw admiration in the man's eyes, and something else that was softer and more complex. It set him on edge, made him fidget with the handles of his knives. It made him want to strike out at the man for not giving him a reason to strike out. It made him want to let it all go.

*****

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