Making It Right

Part 14

Posted: April 2003
Author: Kharessa Bloodrose

*****

The arrows flew straight and true, striking their target with the deadly accuracy that elves were known for, that he in particular was known for. Legolas did not have to think about his stance, about the movement of hands and arms and chest. The bow was a part of him, the quiver on his back not registering as added weight but only as another part of his being. His hand knew the arrow he reached for, knew the texture of smooth wood and feathered fletching. The bow string had imprinted memory upon his fingers, left them callused from long acquaintance. Legolas did not think as he stood on the practice range; he shot like a river flowing. Draw and release, draw and release, seeking to lose himself in the waters of an interior ocean.

Two more weeks had passed, weeks in which Legolas had moved back and forth between inchoate fury and complete apathy. Neither state was natural for an elf, and that knowledge fed the anger, fed the imbalance within him. He could feel himself being eaten alive by it, but the only surcease came in the form of protective numbness. In that condition he had even joined Aragorn and Arwen at their breakfast table, feeling nothing more than pale, undirected amusement as he silently ate his unwanted meals.

Draw and release, draw and release. His situation had come full circle. Cruel Aragorn had become gentle, who had become rough, who had become cruel. In Lothlorien he had blamed the One Ring. Now whom did he blame?

Legolas had never given his heart, had never been in love before. In those days he had thought of what it must be like to be bonded in love, and he had imagined it as a silken cord connecting two souls. When he thought of it now he saw steel manacles, chains that refused to break no matter how hard he or Aragorn pulled upon them. It is not my fault that I fell in love with you! He wanted to scream at the man, but Aragorn's cold eyes would only narrow, his no longer warm voice would ask him whose fault it was, then.

He could feel Aragorn's anger and frustration as well, and worse than that, he could feel his love. They had given their hearts, wittingly or no, and the essence of what Legolas was would not allow that to be broken. The human wanted to honor the decision Arwen had made, and he was intent upon suffering all that was necessary to do that. And Legolas was suffering along with him.

Draw and release.

He kept his eyes closed when Aragorn came to him now. He did not resist, or struggle, or show reticence, and that angered him as well. He didn't refuse the man not because he desired to give, or because he wanted what Aragorn was giving. He did it because he did not want to know if the man would try to use force if he refused. It was not rape he feared; Legolas knew he could defend himself easily. It was the possibility that Aragorn might try, the possibility of knowing that he truly did not care how Legolas felt. As long as he submitted willingly, he would not have to know.

He hated his cowardice.

A figure moved in the periphery of his vision, and Legolas turned with feline grace, almost continuing the unconscious, deadly instinct of his practice. He did not close his eyes, though he wished to. Too often this had happened, this loss of focus that allowed him to drift into his thoughts, drift away from reality. He was not quite holding the figure emerging from the row of shading maples at arrow point, but it was a near thing. Legolas lowered his bow, inwardly cursing his lack of concentration, his failure to even recognize the man approaching until he was almost upon him.

"Aragorn." He spoke coolly, his face a mask of indifference. It occurred to him that he had at some point ceased to call him Estel. His expression hardened, and he pushed the errant thought away. "The archery range is a rather open and public place for you to approach me at."

"Are you done here?" The man did not rise to the provoking observation the elf had made, and Legolas nodded curtly.

"It seems I am now. I must collect my arrows."

"Leave them. I'll send someone to take care of it." For a moment Aragorn stood staring at the elf, and Legolas returned his gaze levelly. He did not want to see the blend of emotions on Aragorn's face, the desire, love, and caring mixed with anger, frustration, shame, and hatred. He would not look away, though, would not turn his gaze as if it were he who had reason to be ashamed. Aragorn's eyes bored into his as if he could plumb the depths of his soul through them, and Legolas felt that they might stand thusly for all of eternity. His stomach coiled sickly, and tears that he absolutely refused to shed stung the backs of his eyes.

Aragorn stepped closer, closer, too close. The steel pride of an elven prince kept Legolas' face blank, but no power on earth could quell the feelings Aragorn's proximity excited in him. Desperate urge to please Aragorn, to make him truly love him again. Anything you want, the traitor within him cried pathetically, I'll do whatever you want just as I have been doing. I let you touch me, I let you do what you want with me. Please, please, there has to be something left for me, too…please give something back so this hell can stop! Loathing as he stared at Aragorn's handsome face, loathing as his eyes involuntarily fluttered down to Aragorn's hands. A learned response, that, to keep watchful vigilance on the man's hands, to keep track of them, where they were, what they might do. It was a response that broke their silent stand off, and for a split second Legolas' fury and frustration showed clearly on his lovely face.

"Walk with me." Aragorn said, nodding back towards the path leading to the guard house, and incidentally to a copse of trees beyond.

He listened to the man's breathing as they walked, listened to the crunch of leaves under Aragorn's boots. If he turned his head he would be able to see the palace clearly from here. Would Aragorn lead him into the trees, or had he perhaps made sure that the small guard house was empty? Legolas found that he was not terribly interested in the answers to these questions.

"This can't go on, Legolas." The words came out harsh, cold, defeated. Legolas glanced at the human and arched an elegant eyebrow.

"What can't go on?" Their feet had carried them around and past the house. The trees then, Legolas thought distantly, his expression still inquisitive. Aragorn glared, and his lips tightened.

"Us. What we're doing. What you're doing to me."

"What I am doing to you?" He allowed himself a small, sarcastic laugh. "I think you are confused in these matters, Aragorn." His lips twisted in a smirk as he jerked at his shirt cuffs to briefly reveal bruised wrists. The man's face darkened, and again Legolas found himself glancing quickly at his hands. Color flared in his pale cheeks as he caught himself, and he willfully looked away.

"You push me." His voice was a growl. "You're in my mind constantly."

"It is the bond." Legolas' tone was brittle, and visions of chains and manacles danced in his mind.

"I. Am bonded. With Arwen." He grated out. He came to a halt, turning to face the elf. "She has sacrificed her life for me! You have to stop this."

"Has it not occurred to you that if I could stop it I would have already?" His hands knotted into fists. "Or do you think I enjoy being the catamite of a king, that I desire you're oh so tender caresses?"
He thought the man would strike him, and in that moment he hoped for it. It would take only that collision of flesh upon flesh to unleash his pent fury. A grim smile curved his lips, a waiting, expectant smile. It promised pain in return for pain, a ready vengeance that he had never before desired but that the man had taught him.

Instead of lashing out, Aragorn grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him forward. Legolas found himself pressed against the man's body, and his own thoughts and feelings suddenly became a swirl of frenzied brightness. Aragorn's lips were pressed to his, and he opened for the man, submitted, softened. Desperate hatred and desperate pleading poured through that kiss, coursed through him in waves that he imagined the man could taste. When Aragorn broke the kiss, Legolas could only lean against him, trembling with pain and fury.

"It must be broken." Aragorn growled into his ear, and Legolas could not restrain a soft whimper at the touch of the man's breath. "I have to have you, Legolas, and I know that you have to have me. But we have to break it, and we will break it." Hands tightened on the elf's arms, the grip becoming bruising. "I am a man of honor, damn it all!" Tongue lapping at Legolas' ear, licking, evoking soft mewls of unwanted pleasures. "I won't be her murderer, Legolas. I love you," he hissed into the sensitive ear, "but I will die of my grief before I will let her continue to suffer. Whatever it takes, I will break this."

He shoved the elf backwards, clipping his legs out from under him with an ease that he could not have accomplished two months previously. Legolas lay in the dirt, gasping for breath. Aragorn stood over him, gazing down through eyes grown cold and flat, and he felt as if something was dying within him as his eyes plaintively answered that gaze.

Words pushed painfully past the layers of pride and resistance. "Please, Aragorn. Do not do this to me."

"I'm sorry, Legolas." Aragorn whispered. The elf stared aghast as the man turned away from, leaving him to lie in the dirt and leaves. Dignity fled. Legolas rolled onto his side and curled himself into a ball, sobbing his grief and pain into the white shield of his hands.

*****

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