Making It Right

Part 9

Posted: April 2003
Author: Kharessa Bloodrose

*****

Minas Tirith was a city of stone, cold and proud, imposing in her unyielding beauty. Even the ruins of the gates did not detract from her air of strength and inflexibility. The evidence of desperate battle lay upon her, but Minas Tirith, the haughty warrior maiden, stood in silent, stoic defiance.

Legolas had felt an odd sense of dislocation as he walked the streets of the White City. Boromir had spoken of it with fierce pride and desperate love. On the occasions that Aragorn had mentioned Minas Tirith his brow had knit with worry, resignation, and cautious anticipation. Legolas had not thought of it at all until now.

He imagined Arwen here, taking her place as the fairy tale queen, locked in this box of beautifully cold, white stone. The humans would love her, Legolas knew, and they would love Aragorn for having her. They would love her to death if Aragorn was not careful, would love their woodland queen into a protective clutch of walls and doors, attendants and guards. Aragorn should know better, but Legolas was uncertain if King Elessar would remember the things that Aragorn knew.

What place would he hold in this stronghold of men? If Arwen would be the magical lady in the tower, then would he become the mysterious, fey archer, flitting in and out of palace doors to the intrigued delight of the general populous? He knew that he could not live in this place. Not encased in stone, unable to feel the gentle hum of the living earth beneath his feet. Could not idle in the luxury of men as the king's unacknowledged lover. Legolas imagined himself sitting at the king's dining table across from Arwen, imagined the sordid whisperings and rumors. A prince and a princess for the king, both lovelier than the fairest mortal maiden…

Lovely. Beautiful. Pretty. All words that he had heard himself called, words that Aragorn had whispered while they lay together, entwined in passionate embrace. They were words that he had never minded, but now they left him feeling strangely disconcerted. By day he saw affection in Aragorn's eyes, but he also saw the respect of one warrior for another, one leader for another. By night Aragorn touched him as if he were made of spun glass, whispered soft endearments, twined his fingers in silken hair as if he were being allowed to touch something sacred. Legolas knew it was not Arwen that Aragorn saw when their lips and bodies met; the occasional expression of perplexed anxiousness told him that. Still, it seemed to him as if the person who lay with and beneath the future king was not himself. That person was lovely, beautiful, fragile. When love was over, the heat of passion spent, it almost rose to his lips to ask, Whom are you making love to, Estel? He was afraid of the answer that might come, though, afraid that there might be no answer.

He thought of these things as he lay back in Aragorn's blankets that were no longer piled in the corner, but instead covered a hammock that was easily wide enough for two. Where the hammock had come from and how Aragorn had acquired it he neither knew nor had asked. It had appeared sometime during the day while he had been walking the streets of Minas Tirith, mutely testifying that Aragorn son of Arathorn did not sleep alone. It was the first thing that Legolas had seen when he'd stepped past the tent flap, that perversely wide hammock covered neatly by rough, forest green blankets. It was a simple, declarative statement, and he had felt compelled, required, to fill his half of it, to complete the hammock's purpose.

Council had been held earlier in the day, in the presence of the silently accusing hammock. He had not been there, but Aragorn had told him of its conclusion. Two days would be spent in mustering forces to mount an assault on the forces of Sauron. On the third morning they would ride.

Legolas would have preferred to ride on the morrow. The waiting left him with an odd feeling of superfluousness. In the aftermath of one battle and in preparation for yet another there was plenty to be done, but he felt himself detached from that. Legolas found himself thinking in terms of nights rather than days, and all else became nothing more than waiting. Waiting for night to fall, waiting to step silently and familiarly into Aragorn's tent, into his embrace. Why was he here? To fight, to fulfill an oath of loyalty? To wait impatiently, filling his time with deceptive constructiveness until he could find himself with Aragorn again? He felt like unto a courtesan, armed and armored, a contradiction and an enigma even to himself.

The man's eyes were on him, and he shifted under that soft gaze. He was nude, the way Aragorn liked him. Twist of shame, coil of desire. Aragorn had never told him that he liked him thus, but Legolas had seen it in the appreciative looks and the softening of features, had felt it in the casual caressing of his smooth limbs. He lay exposed, and the man's eyes drank him, swallowed him, consumed him. He forced himself to do this because love was not about taking; it was about giving. He could do this, he could show Aragorn in these silent moments that he could give. He could curb his racing, panicked, angry, defiant thoughts and lie still.

The hour had grown late. Soon Aragorn would put out the lantern and join him on the hammock, perhaps to worship his body once more before sleep. It had been a long and taxing day for Aragorn. The grim reality of marching on the Black Gates with an armed force of only seven thousands weighed heavy on his shoulders, but he would not speak of it now. Day Aragorn had already told Legolas all of this; Night Aragorn would no more speak of men and arms and military odds with the elf than he would with his mistress. An odd impulse prompted Legolas to speak.

"Do you think I am fragile?"

Aragorn blinked, uncertain as to where this had come from. He had turned to lower the lantern's wick, but now he glanced back at the fey creature stretched atop his blankets. Legolas' expression was oddly narrow, inquiring yet provocative.

"When we ride into battle do you want to protect me? Do you think I'm pretty with my knives in my hands and blood in my hair?" A lazy yet humorless smile stretched the elf's lips. "Do I look to you as if I might break, something you could toss over your shoulder and ride away with as any other spoils of war?"

The man moved towards the hammock with measured strides, staring down at the elegantly naked creature gazing up at him.

"You touch me like I'm porcelain, Estel." He purred, and abruptly Aragorn's strong hand was cupping his chin, holding his face captive.

"How would you have me touch you, then, fair one?" His voice was a low growl, filled with sudden, insistent heat. Legolas froze in his grip, closing his eyes. This was not what he had meant, not what he had wanted. He wasn't sure what he had meant, or how they had gotten here from there.

Aragorn's hand slid down, lightly pressing against Legolas' throat and then moving to his chest. He was not expecting it when Legolas abruptly darted upward, knocked his hand away and clamped a hand to the back of his neck. Their lips met in a searing, combative kiss that threatened to topple the elf from the swaying hammock. Then Aragorn was on the hammock too, and Legolas was pushed back and down until it seemed that the man must merge with him, that they would become some new, single creation.

Their love making was not a union of gentle touches and soft caresses. It was a tempestuous storm, a battle. Moans of pleasure mixed with cries of pain as restrained limbs broke free, fought for dominance, won, and were defeated in turn. When it was over, Legolas lay beneath Aragorn, listening to the man's labored breathing, the pounding of his heart. As he regained control of his own breathing it occurred to him that he was dirty, covered in the man's sweat. He could feel the wetness of Aragorn's seed trickling between his legs, and he shuddered. The words that Aragorn had spoken to him in Lothlorien had come true. He had given and he had fought. For the life of him he could not discern which action mattered.

Tenderness now, Aragorn's hands lightly brushing over Legolas' sweat slicked chest. The man rolled off of him, pulled him into his arms. Fingers twisted lovingly in pale tangles of hair.

"Are you alright, Legolas?" Concern warmed his voice, and Legolas nestled his head against Aragorn's shoulder.

"Yes, Estel, I am well."

He was not well. He was sore, aching, and confused. He felt good, the way he felt good after a rough sparring match. He felt dismayed at the pleasure he had taken, and he had no idea where any of this was going.

"I love you, Legolas." Whispered softly into his hair, and the elf closed his eyes.

"I love you, too, Aragorn."

Legolas had appeared at the tent flap, as Aragorn had desperately hoped that he would. The elf stepped inside as if he had every right to be there, as if this was the way things had always been. The archer's eyes met his briefly, took in the rough table and assorted camp chairs, moved past those to the hammock in the back corner. Blue eyes had danced back to Aragorn's, and then he had settled in at the table, removing his boots with a graceful economy of movement. Only Legolas, Aragorn thought, could look elegant and sensual while pulling off boots.

They had conversed companionably at the table of small things, inconsequentials. The discussion that had taken place around this table earlier had been of much more serious matters, of war and armaments and desperation. It was a relief not to have to think about those things, if only for a little while. It was a relief to lean back in his chair and rest his feet on this table that had supported maps and lists and hastily scrawled plans. Most of all, it was a relief that Legolas seemed to understand this. The elf talked to him about what he thought of the city, about his homeland, about anything and everything but the war and the Ring.

Aragorn had felt an upsurge of gratitude as he met the eyes of his lovely, deadly, inconvenient elf. The yellow glow of the lantern had turned Legolas' hair to corn silk at twilight, his skin had become softly golden. Aragorn had gone to him, kissed him, and the elf had yielded, become utterly pliant in his arms as if in denial of the hard muscles Aragorn could feel under his hands, of the knives sheathed at his sides. He had stood compliantly while the man divested him of his knife belt and quiver, had allowed himself to be carried to the shadowed hammock. Legolas was much heavier than his appearance would incline one to believe, but Aragorn had refused to allow the strain to show as he settled him onto the blankets.

He had made love to him gently and reverently, as if worshipping at an altar of alabaster and ivory. Legolas' cries were melodious as bird song, and his body moved like waves on the ocean. Aragorn rode those waves, feeling as if in them he might be washed away. It seemed to him that he had come upon some epiphany of flesh, that his rough hands were working a mystical transubstantiation. He had made a dove of the marble warrior, and if that was possible then so could all else be.

Afterwards he had risen to pour them some of the wine Prince Imrahil had given him. Legolas had smiled at the inappropriate clay mugs that were all Aragorn had, accepting the wine with a graceful inclination of his head. Their after-love conversation was not sweet pillow talk; Aragorn sat beside the reclining elf and let his hands say those words for him while he spoke of other things. He loved to see Legolas this way, flushed with the afterglow of lovemaking, completely open to his gaze. He watched the elf sip from the clumsy gray mug, and told him of long ago times and places while his hands skated smoothly over lean muscled limbs.

He had been dumbfounded when the question came to him as he stood by the table, looking at his elf one last time before extinguishing the lantern's flame.

"Do you think I'm fragile?" The words were a low purr that went straight to his groin, but Aragorn couldn't read the expression on the elf's face. He could only stand there, staring, trying to process the words that were coming from Legolas' perfect mouth in a slow, darkly sensual landslide.

"When we ride into battle do you want to protect me? Do you think I look pretty with my knives in my hands and blood in my hair? Do I look to you as if I might break, something you could toss over your shoulder and ride away with as any other spoils of war?"
He found himself standing over Legolas, and at that moment the archer was not pretty and pliant, softly surrendering. Aragorn gripped his chin and tilted his head back, and Legolas stared up at him through long dark lashes. His shoulders arched back into the hammock, and his body moved, not quite writhing, on the blankets.

"You touch me like I'm made of porcelain…"

"How would you have me touch you, then, fair one?" He whispered, and then Legolas was in his arms, kissing him. It was unlike any other kiss they had shared. The elf's tongue fought for dominance in his mouth, and Aragorn fought back, pushing the archer back and down as he moved to straddle the fair body.

He knew that he was not touching the elf with proper care and reverence. He knew that the grip with which he held wrists and hips was hard and bruising. Legolas did not seem to mind; on the contrary, the archer was moving against him with equal roughness. Slender elven fingers knotted in Aragorn's hair, shoved and clutched at his shoulders, clenched on his hips. Aragorn bit at the elf's shoulder, and Legolas moaned, twining his long legs around the man's waist.

Afterwards he lay on top of the elf, shuddering with the force of his spent passion. Legolas was limp under him, the only movement the pronounced rise and fall of his chest. Aragorn murmured softly into the archer's neck, tasting sweat. He felt sleepily satisfied, grateful, guilty. This hadn't been angel love, but something more akin to a sensual struggle. It had reminded him of the thoughts he had had in Moria, and that was nothing he wanted to contemplate in connection with his archer angel.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, Estel, I am well." Legolas answered quietly, and Aragorn rolled off of him, pulling him close in his arms. His mind drifted back to the words Legolas had spoken earlier in the evening: When we ride into battle do you want to protect me? He hadn't thought about it before, but now he did. Now, as he lay on the cusp of warm pleasure and concerned guilt, he knew that he did feel protective of this deadly creature. It was a thought that made him uncomfortable, made him wonder about his careful attempts to separate warrior from lover, day from night.

"I love you, Legolas." He whispered into the tangles of corn silk hair, and waited, heart in his throat.

"I love you, too, Estel." The elf answered, and the man sighed softly in relief, closing his eyes.

*****

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