Making It Right

Part 13

Posted: April 2003
Author: Kharessa Bloodrose

*****

The suites located in the western wing of the palace of Minas Tirith were designated for official visitors of the court – royal and noble guests, ambassadors, emissaries, and advisers. It was also in this wing that Legolas had his chambers. He had vanished after the wedding, and when he had reappeared a week later as if he had never been gone, Aragorn had been at a loss as to what to do with him. The suite in the west wing had been Arwen's idea. Aragorn had felt as if the bottom had dropped from his stomach when she'd suggested it, a sweet smile gracing her delicate features. Legolas had accepted the arrangement with uncharacteristic docility, and Aragorn felt as if his entire world had abruptly and inexplicably slipped askew.

It was towards Legolas' chambers that he now made his way with purposeful strides. Another week had passed, a week in which Aragorn had hardly seen Legolas at all. The elf had been a blur of gold and green in the corner of his eye, a swirl of blonde hair turning a corner. During the day light hours he could be found on the archery range working with the soldiers, or in the armory or barracks. He had become a sort of quasi military adviser, and the elf was becoming a common sight to the soldiers of Minas Tirith. Far more common to them than to their king. Aragorn felt a dull pulse of anger as he thought of this, and he walked faster, hands knotted at his sides.

He had been busy with Arwen for most of that time, but he could sense that something was not right. He laughed inwardly, a short guffaw of self mockery. Something not right? Now what could possibly be wrong here?

The reality of Arwen went beyond the dreams he had indulged in during the long days of the quest. She was beautiful beyond description, but there was so much more to her than her beauty. She was no stranger to leadership, politics and diplomacy, and Aragorn had found her to be a valuable adviser. He could talk to her, confide in her, ask her opinions and thoughts on anything. Arwen was no ignorant beauty, no coddled, pampered princess. She was wise, discerning, compassionate, quick on her mental feet.

Most of all she was quiet. Arwen listened, and when she did speak she spoke volumes in few words. It was so damned easy to talk to her, so terribly, perilously easy. In the evenings she would sit in the rose wood rocking chair she had brought with her from Rivendell, and often Aragorn would kneel beside her, head resting in the diaphanous layers of her skirt just talking to her. He talked about the quest, about his worries and concerns, his plans and hopes and she would listen, gently running her slender fingers through his thick, dark hair. He told her almost everything.

There were some things he could not talk about, though, things that she did not deserve to have to hear. She didn't need to hear about how he felt as if he were being torn in two, caught between two hearts that would not loose their hold upon him. She didn't need to hear about blonde silk and azure angel eyes. She didn't need to hear about a face that was opaque by day, yet would melt into ecstasy by night, a voice that said his name as if it was a prayer, a body that was capable of fighting and defeating him yet would submit to him with graceful, frightening willingness.

He saw the knowledge in her eyes. There were no secrets between them; the bond of their love made that impossible. He saw that she knew, understood her oblique ascent when she had suggested the west wing for Legolas. It filled him with shame, but he found himself helpless to change it. Instead he was attentive to her, worshipped her as he had once worshipped Legolas. He touched her as if she were an angel, loved her, held her, tried to show with every fiber of his being that he would never forsake her.

And all the while he felt the tug of Legolas's thoughts and feelings, an indecipherable tangle of emotion. Most of the time it was a faint hum in the back of his mind, no more distracting than the gentle constancy of Arwen's love. When he was with Arwen he would desperately try to push that hum away, shove it out of his mind and being, cease this grossly unfair betrayal. Occasionally it would become a savage back flow of emotion that would leave him feeling weak and faint, and at those moments he thought that if strangling the life from the archer would end this he would gladly commit that act.

Arwen was sleeping more and more, and Aragorn knew why. Just as he felt the overflow of Legolas' pain, so did she feel his. It exhausted her, and as a mortal she no longer had recourse to elven reverie to renew her. The bond that had made them as one had survived her transformation, but the means to deal with it had not.

All because of the damned Prince of Mirkwood, the pretty archer who had worked his way into Aragorn's heart.

The door to Legolas' chambers was unlocked, and Aragorn felt a sickening sense of déjà vu as he pushed it open without knocking. The sitting room beyond was decorated in greens and blues – Arwen's orders, Aragorn knew. Like himself, the elf prince had made no effort to choose his own décor, though Aragorn knew Legolas's reasons were different. There was nothing of Legolas in this room except for his self, curled in the corner of a low sofa, a slender volume in his hands and a smoothly unsurprised expression on his face. He was a creature misplaced in this room of softly flowing colors, and Aragorn wondered if it had been intentional cruelty on Arwen's part to choose a blue that would match his eyes, greens and golds that would compliment his hair and skin.

Aragorn closed the distance between them wordlessly, removing the book from the elf's grip and tossing it carelessly aside. Legolas's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly as he glanced briefly at the book before returning the man's gaze. There was fire in Aragorn's eyes as he jerked the elf to his feet, pulling him roughly by his silk clad shoulders. He could feel Legolas's body moving with his actions, passively refusing to be forced. He rose gracefully into the man's insistent pull as if it were his choice to be standing chest to chest with him, and Aragorn felt his already simmering anger rising yet further. When his lips met Legolas's, his kiss was not one of loving tenderness, but of possession and domination.

"What do you mean by this, Estel?" He gasped as their lips parted. Aragorn could hear the effort Legolas made to maintain his control, to keep his words cool, calm, detached. The man's lips twisted into a dark smile as he slid his hands down the elf's arms, capturing his wrists and wrenching them together behind his back. He could feel the tightness in Legolas' body, could feel the involuntary tensing of muscles made hard and strong by centuries of archery and melee combat. The elf remained within his grasp as Aragorn licked a heated trail along the side of his neck. It was not his strength holding Legolas there, but his will, and Aragorn felt a vicious elation as he bit the fair skin over the elf's collar bone. A hissed intake of breath came in response, but Legolas did not move.

"I can't get you out of my mind, Legolas." He growled into the elf's hair, mouth pressed hotly against his ear. "Always there. When I'm with Arwen, when I lie in bed at night, when all I want is peace. There you are." He began sucking on the lobe of Legolas' ear, swirling the sensitive flesh with his tongue. The archer made no sound, but Aragorn could feel the trembling of his body as he savagely licked and sucked at this sensitive spot.

"And you hide from me." The elf whimpered softly as Aragorn's tongue flicked to his ear point, dancing over the vulnerable flesh. "You're hardly ever here, and when I see you it's from across a room or on the far end of a hall, turning a corner or closing a door. Teasing."

"You know where I spend my nights, Estel." The words wavered, shaking with unwanted arousal.

"Yes." Aragorn whisper hissed in his sensitized ear. "Nights that are supposed to be spent with Arwen, my wife, the woman I love… nights during which I can't stop myself from thinking of you!"

Shifting his grip to hold Legolas's wrists one handed, Aragorn tugged at the elf's shirt laces, revealing an expanse of creamy, hard muscled flesh. His fingers danced across the smooth skin, plucking teasingly at one nipple and then moving to the other. The elf arched in his grip, and Aragorn grinned. Legolas's head was thrown back, his face flushed, eyes clenched shut. A moment later the azure eyes fluttered open and a sharp cry was ripped from his throat as Aragorn pinched an erect nipple viciously. For a moment he forgot himself, pulling backwards in the man's grip, and then Aragorn's mouth was covering the wounded flesh. Legolas moaned, hips beginning to move unconsciously as the man licked and suckled.

A moment later he was twisting in Aragorn's grip as the man pinched his other nipple between thumb and forefinger. The twin sensations of pleasure and pain were maddening; the growing discomfort of his captive wrists was lost in the feelings the man's fingers and mouth were eliciting. Legolas was moaning, broken pleas tumbling from his lips as the man continued to lap and lick at him, pinch and carefully twist. Hand and mouth traded places, and a hard thigh pushed in between his legs. Tears stood in Legolas's eyes as he strained against it, hips rocking wantonly. When the man began pushing down his leggings, Legolas stepped out of them with no resistance.

Aragorn pulled him down to his knees, pushing him forward over the low end table. He shivered at the soft tickle of his shirt being pulled up over his hips, at the cold smoothness of finished wood against his over heated chest and face. The man had released his wrists, and he knotted his hands on the edge of the table in a white knuckled grip. Shudders wracked his body as Aragorn clamped a hand over the nape of his neck, fingers digging painfully into flesh. Then the man's other hand was between his thighs stroking his cock, and Legolas could only moan as his cheek was pressed against the table top.

He had no idea what Aragorn had brought with him for lubrication, but a moment after the man's hand left his cock Legolas felt slick fingers probing at the entrance to his body. The elf inhaled sharply as he was roughly penetrated, Aragorn's callused digits working inside of him with heedless urgency. Abruptly the fingers were removed, and a moment later Aragorn had sheathed himself inside of Legolas's body in one swift movement.

A strangled cry was torn from Legolas's lips as Aragorn thrust into him, moving with a barely restrained violence that was rougher than any of their previous joinings. The elf flinched away from him, his movement thwarted by the table and by the man's hand still pinning his neck. He struggled to control his breathing as Aragorn continued to ride out his passion. Then Aragorn changed his angle slightly, and once again took the archer's cock in hand.

Legolas whimpered steadily as the assault continued. His cock was fully erect, and the man's firm strokes were rapidly bringing him to completion. The flaring pleasure as Aragorn thrust against his inner sweet spot was a strange counterpoint to the burning pain of the hard, fast movement within him. His body trembled, sweat stood out on his fair skin, and he didn't know if he wanted to beg Aragorn to stop or to keep going. Then he was coming in a blinding, aching, ecstatic flash, and Aragorn was coming too, filling Legolas with his seed even as the elf's muscles clenched around the man's member with the power of his own orgasm.

Legolas lay gasping on the table, barely flinching when Aragorn pulled out of him. He felt weak, exhausted, hardly able to breathe. Awareness slowly returned to him, and he felt the tightness of his finger joints, the aching of his wrists, the throbbing in his neck, and the raw soreness of careless intimacy. He slumped backwards off the table, somewhat relieving his burning knees. He could hear Aragorn standing behind him, could hear the rustle of clothing as the man refastened his breeches. Legolas closed his eyes, not moving when Aragorn reached to gently stroke sweat matted hair back from his face.

"Legolas…" his name trailed into nothing, spoken in the low, smoky tones of recent passion. Lost, fading like the fog of the elf's breath on the table's surface. "I can't quit thinking of you."

A moment later the door clicked shut. The man was gone. Legolas remained as he was, head lowered and eyes closed.

*****

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