Making It Right

Part 10

Posted: April 2003
Author: Kharessa Bloodrose

*****

The battle was won. Aragorn had not fully realized the weight of hopelessness and despair that had been pressing upon him until it was lifted. He had stood under the banner of Gondor not with the anticipation of victory, but with the hope of dying well. It had been in his heart to show the strength of men, to let it be known that among them were those who cherished the light enough to prefer death over the loss of it.

The arrival of the Eagles of the North had stirred a mad jubilation in his heart, and in that moment it seemed to him that all else after that had been foreordained. The quaking of the earth and the ruin of the Dark Lord's fortifications had excited exultant awe in him rather than fear, and it had seemed perfectly appropriate to him that he had fallen to his knees. This was the power that had filled him when he had first faced Eomer, the same power that he had known when he had called upon the shadows that haunted the Paths of The Dead, the same power that had channeled through him when he'd laid his hands upon Eowyn and Faramir. Somewhere in the darkness a small hobbit had accomplished an impossible quest, and it now seemed to Aragorn that he and the armed men who had followed him were only spectators in this grand victory.

He had walked in his own cloud of barely constrained exultation for yet a while after that. It was an addictive feeling of humility, a sense of smallness that was freeing instead of shameful. Over and over again he had tried to explain it to his immortal lover, clasping his hands as he spoke. It is as if something has been moving me, all these past months, using me… but it has not made me lesser for it; it made me greater than what I am, if only for a little while. And then that power was lifted, and I saw…" but he was never quite able to explain what it was that he had seen.

The prospect of returning to Gondor as King of Men no longer seemed quite as daunting. He had been filled with doubts, misgivings, guilt, denial, and shame since Lord Elrond had told him of his heritage. Before that he had been Estel only – Hope – a name that until then he'd had no cause to wonder about. What hope had Elrond seen in him, what hopes had he held for a boy who might yet become a king? Aragorn son of Arathorn had not known. He had seen folly and ruin in his lineage, had felt a new fear of the blood that ran in his veins.

So Estel became Aragorn, and Aragorn became Strider, ranger of the north. Strider had been his justification, his redemption, his penance. In that guise he could tell himself that he was not abandoning his duty, and in the waves of loss and contrition he felt that he could mortify the blood of his ancestry. The price of Isildur's folly could be paid in his person, the possibility of history repeating itself could be forever foresworn. All he had to do was remain Strider, and turn his back on his destiny.

Then the quest of the Ring began his slow propulsion towards that which he had forsaken. Now it seemed to him that all of his life had been a journey leading him to the field of Cormallen, to that moment when the power of the Light was laid bare and he had seen that Kings of Men were not made by men. Justification, redemption, penance – all of that rendered meaningless by the actions of a hobbit and the shaking of the earth. On his knees beside the banner of Gondor, Aragorn had become free to rule.

He found himself marveling at the incredible difference between this power and the power of the Ring. Under the influence of the Ring his mind had not been his own, and the insidious whispers in his mind had demanded action, demanded that for the sake of his authority and pride he must overwhelm, must overtake. This power was altogether different. It paid no heed to what his position was or might become. It did not whisper or attempt to persuade. Instead it was a blazing imperative force that had accepted what it had found in their hearts, using their fragile, broken and shifting fellowship to accomplish its goals. In the end the only demand it had made was that they witness, feel and respect its might.

And so now, as the almost holy fervor within him subsided, he was also free to think of other things beyond coronations, city planning, politics, and future intrigue. Arwen Undomiel, his beloved fiancée. Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, his beloved companion. Both of them called him Estel, and Aragorn wondered what they hoped for.

When he had last seen Arwen there had been a deep and abiding confidence in her dark and lovely eyes. She had not been afraid of the blood of Isildur, and he guessed now that she had known then what a battle and an earthquake had only just revealed to him. Arwen had not doubted him, though she had feared for his safety. Through the miracle of their bond she had known even his temptations and failures, and still she had never wavered.

He could not read Legolas' veiled eyes. It frightened him that he had begun to feel a bond with this warrior elf as well, this elf whom he could not interpret or understand. Legolas was the consummate warrior on the field, and he had become the consummate whore in Aragorn's tent. In him Aragorn saw loyalty, ferocity, strength, pliancy, submission. He heard his soft responses when Aragorn told him he loved him. He saw the way the elf yielded to him, giving to him whatsoever Aragorn wanted without hesitation.

Do you think I am fragile? Legolas had said, and since that night so many things had changed. On the long march to Cormallen Legolas had lain beside him at each night fall, and neither of them had made any effort to hide their actions. Nor had they done so since the last battle. At the moment no questions were being raised. He was King Elessar, the Elfstone of the House of Elendil, and if he wanted to tumble elven archers that was perfectly acceptable. This would change, though, and quickly, when they had settled in Gondor. Then questions would be asked, rumors and malicious gossip whispered. He had exposed both Legolas and Arwen to the vindictive minds of a human court, and though he had not meant to the results would be the same.

He supposed that it had been their surety of loss that had made them so careless. Men who are marching to their deaths do not worry about the opinions of others; they believe that soon enough it will cease to matter. He and Legolas had not been the only men or elves who had behaved oddly during that shadowed march. Eomer had developed the habit of mumbling to himself as he rode. Faramir could not keep his hands off of his beard. Elladan and Elrohir, who had always been close, had seemed to be attached to each other at the hip. Aragorn would not have been surprised if their relationship had passed a tabooed border, and at that time he wouldn't have cared. He could not imagine what that march to death must have been like for the immortal elves, and he did not feel that he had sufficient perspective to judge them.

As for his elf… he had shown Legolas nightly that he did not think him fragile. In the aftermath of their rough coupling he would listen to the pounding of the archer's heart, rain kisses on his body, lap sweat from his fair brow. At those moments the feelings of love and gratitude were almost overwhelming, frightening in their intensity. It seemed to Aragorn that he might burst with it. That Legolas would not only permit but also fully participate in this was a miracle beyond anything Aragorn could have hoped for. That he would whisper back, I love you, too, Estel, was a grace beyond graces. Only in the morning when he could clearly see the bruises and love bites that marred the glowing white body would Aragorn feel the waves of sickness and remorse.

Legolas would not hear his apologies. If I didn't love you, I wouldn't give to you, Estel. He would say, a soft smile curving upwards under unreadable eyes. He would feel waves of tenderness in the wake of this, the desire to hold the archer, cradle him in his arms. It did not seem to be his tenderness that the elf desired, though. He would submit to it, as he did to all else, but the fire in Legolas' eyes goaded Aragorn, pushed him, seized him. The emotions he felt through the delicate bond forming between them was a spiral of bright primary colors, intense, waxing and waning like the moon, like the beating of the elf's heart. And so he did what the elf wanted – he took.

*****

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