Title: Ohtareamin, A'maeleamin (My Warriors, My Beloveds)

Author: ArwendeImladris

Rating: M

Genre: Romance

Warnings: Sexual innuendo, language.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings. They belong to J.K. Rowling and J.R.R. Tolkien, respectively.

Summary: Harry, son of James, is an attractive youth with fair skin, delicate features, jewel eyes, and pointed ears. With mysterious gifts and a secretive past, he attracts the attention of Thorongil – the man we will come to know as Aragorn. Too bad King Thranduil of Mirkwood is trying to coerce him into marriage with his son – Prince Legolas Thranduilion. Slash. HP/LoTR Crossover.

Set in the Third Age, in the year 2969 – exactly fifty years before the destruction of the One Ring in the fires of Mount Doom on March 25, 3019. Legolas is 2881, Aragorn is 37, and Harry is 19.



Middle Earth: Third Age

Rohan: 9th of March, 2969


"Thorongil, my friend, I have someone I would like you to meet," King Thengel of Rohan boisterously proclaimed.

"Yes, my lord," the tall, dark-haired male agreed.

"This is Harry, son of James. Gandalf introduced him on a recent visit to court," the king stated as he waved a young man over.

Gandalf had recently informed Aragorn that he discovered a new Istari a few years ago and was training him in both magic and combat. Aragorn was not sure what he was expecting, but it certainly was not the creature before him.

The youth was slim and petite, perhaps coming to Aragorn's collarbone. He had windswept midnight hair and eyes as green as the finest emeralds. His features were delicate. His ears, pointed.

"Good evening to you, sir," a soft voice greeted. "I have heard only good things about Thorongil, Eagle of the Star."

"I should hope so," King Thengel proclaimed. "He is one of my best warriors. I shall leave you to discuss your training."

"Training?" Aragorn questioned.

Harry blushed quite fetchingly.

"Galdalf the Grey wishes for me to gain true battle experience," he admitted hesitantly. "I am to ask your permission to accompany you and your men on your next journey."

"We are to bring missive to the elves in Mirkwood. There will be little danger compared to some previous quests. I suppose it would be a good chance for training," Aragorn conceded.

"Mirkwood?" Harry queried with a wince.

"Yes, is there a problem?" Aragorn responded.

"No, I shall just have to keep a low profile upon our arrival. King Thranduil wishes for my hand for his son," the youth admitted shyly.

"Your hand? But how will they continue the line? Elves have a very low birth rate as it is," the man said, astonished.

"In my home, I am what we call a Bearer. We are known for our fertility," Harry admitted. "But I have no desire to wed so soon. It is only my nineteenth summer, while Prince Legolas Thanduilion is only barely a century short of his three-thousandth year. And I have heard things."

"Things?" Aragorn enquired with a smile, knowing the beds his old friend shared were a favorite source of gossip among the elves of lesser birth.

"I do not wish to continue this line of discussion," Harry declared with another blush. "I will accompany you on your journey, and simply avoid the King of Mirkwood and his introductions at court."

"Yes, I suppose that will be for the best. We are departing on the morrow. We ride north to cross the Great River, and it shall not be more than three days travel to the banks. Another two days shall see us to the southern edge of Mirkwood Forest, and ten more to reach the Silvan Woodland Realm of Northern Mirkwood if we do not run into trouble," Aragorn explained. "Pack your bags light and I shall see you at the gates at dawn."

That night, Aragorn fell asleep to dream of fair skin and silky black hair and bright green eyes.

That was nothing unusual.

The problem was that it wasn't Arwen's skin and hair and eyes of which he was dreaming.

It was Harry's.


Rohan: 10th of March, 2969


"Good morning," Aragorn greeted the sleepy Istari.

Harry just opened one eye and grunted at him.

"Not a morning person?" Aragorn snickered.

"Gandalf," Harry responded.

Aragorn laughed.

"Is that supposed to make sense?" he asked his bleary-eyed companion.

Harry sighed and made an attempt to be a functional being.

"Gandalf kept me up ridiculously late last night practicing spells. I swear he did it on purpose because he knew how cranky it would make me," Harry admitted.

"I do not see a staff?" Aragorn questioned.

"Because I do not use one. My magic is too large for such a channel, according to Gandalf. As one ages, raw magical power is sacrificed for precise control. I won't need a staff for at least another one thousand years," Harry explained. "Now let me go back to sleep."

A warrior that overheard their conversation snickered.

"Brash words for such a little one," the rough man teased, ruffling Harry's hair. "He sure isn't afraid of you, Thorongil."

"I'm not little," Harry glared. "And why would I be afraid?"

"Most men are just a little intimidated when they first journey with our group," Aragorn explained modestly.

"It must be because you are such a large brute," Harry joked, needing to tilt his head all the way back to look Aragorn in the eye.

"Now, are we going to leave or can I go back to sleep?" Harry said before Aragorn could respond to his previous comment.

Aragorn just nodded, agreeing that it was time to leave. All the men were there, it was time to depart.

"Time to move out, men," he called to the surrounding warriors. They quickly mounted their horses and departed.

"Why are there so many of us just to deliver a simple missive?" Harry asked after they had rode for a few hours.

Aragorn glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"So many? There are nine, including us," Aragorn responded.

"Gandalf and King Thengel ordered such a large group for my protection, did they not?" Harry sighed.

Aragorn opened his mouth to deny it.

"Do not lie to me, Eagle of the Star. It is a simple missive. If I was not to accompany you, I am sure you would have ridden to Mirkwood alone," Harry rebuked him sharply.

"How did you know I was going to lie to you?" Aragorn questioned.

"I did not. Thank you for confirming it," Harry replied with a laugh.

"Cheeky brat," a soldier riding a dark brown horse muttered. The surrounding men laughed.

"Clever brat," Harry corrected.


West Bank of The Great River: 13th of March, 2969


"Stop here, men," Aragorn called out. "Set up camp and we'll cross the river on the morrow."

"Finally," Harry huffed, dismounting his large white stallion. He tied her up with the other horses, walking a little funny on the way.

"Pretty boy walks like he just had a good fucking," one of the men called out. There were a few snickers.

"I am just not used to riding so much," Harry explained, blushing.

"That's what he said!" another responded.

"That is what he said," Aragorn said, confused.

Harry just shook his head at Aragorn's confusion.

"Never you mind. It is a common saying when someone makes a comment that can be misconstrued," Harry explained.

"Now, I am going to bed. It has been a long three days and I am exhausted," Harry proclaimed. He set his bedding by the fire, curled up, and was asleep in seconds.

"It is the third night and I still do not know how he does that," Aragorn commented with a fond smile.

The men stayed up for a few more hours, talking and laughing quietly around the fire. None commented if Aragorn's eyes strayed to Harry's bedding a little too often.


Southern Edge of Mirkwood Forest: 15th of March, 2969


"Let us quickly break for lunch before continuing," Aragorn ordered.

"Thorongil?" Harry questioned hesistantly.

"Yes, little one?" Aragorn prompted.

Harry flushed.

"I am not little!" he sighed, almost resigned to the name Aragorn had been using since they crossed The Great River. "Why are we going around the forest? Would it not be shorter to journey in a straight line?"

"We shall edge east around Mirkwood Forest until we pass the Narrows. The Dark Lord Sauron may no longer occupy Dol Guldur on the southwestern edge of the forest, but it is an area full of orcs and other dangerous beasts. It is still not safe to travel too close to the castle," Aragorn explained with a frown, thinking of the evil lord.

"That does make sense," Harry agreed. "Although it would cut a few days off the journey."

"Yes, it would reduce the trip by nearly three days. But safety comes before speed on missions such as this, little one," Aragorn advised.

"I am not little!"


East Bight: March 19, 2969

Nearly Midnight

"You did not have to keep watch, little one," Aragorn told Harry as he relieved him for the night.

"Yes, I did. I am training, am I not? I wish to be treated the same as the rest of the men," Harry said maturely, then ruined it by growling, "And I'm not little!" as he turned back towards his bedding.

Aragorn laughed lightly and called out, "Sleep well. We are entering the forest on the morrow."


Eastern Base of the Mountains of Mirkwood: March 24, 2969


"Pack up and head out, men. I wish to be at the Southern Bank of Forest River by nightfall. We will cross that river on the morrow and enter the Silvan Woodland Realm. Push yourselves hard today, and you shall have the hospitality of the elves by next nightfall," Aragorn proclaimed.

"You are talented in raising morale," Harry commented. "The King of Rohan and Steward of Gondor are lucky to have you leading these warriors."

Aragorn took his praise graciously.

"I have been serving in their armies for nearly twelve summers now. I am just proud to help the fight against the Dark Lord Sauron and defend Middle Earth," he replied.

"If I may ask, Thorongil, just how many summers have you?" Harry questioned mildly.

"You may ask. This summer will be my thirty-seventh," Aragorn responded.

Harry barely managed to hold in his sputter.

"So old?" he teased.

"Well, it is not so old for an Adûn," the larger man defended.

"You are friendly with the elves, then?" Harry questioned.

"I am friendly with you, am I not?"

"Yes, but many barely consider me an elf. My mother was half-elf, and she chose to forsake her immortality for life in the Cold Lands with my mortal father. Neither survived long past my birth, and my care fell to my mother's mortal half-sister. I was raised in Minhiriath as a Man," Harry explained.

"Minhiriath?" Aragorn questioned, aghast. "There is nothing there but forest. It is no place to raise a child."

"Oh, my aunt and uncle did not much care about that. My cousin grew tall and strong, and I grew about as well as an orchid under an ash tree. If it were not for Gandalf, I shudder to think of what would have come of me," Harry stated seriously.

"And they called you a Bearer in this strange, secretive land of yours?" Aragorn teased with a smile.

"Yes, a few generations ago the Valar gifted the Chosen with the ability to bear children because we had so few females in our land. The gift ran in certain families in Minhiriath," Harry affirmed.

"And how are you so sure that you are one of these Chosen?" Aragorn questioned.

"Actually, I am the Chosen One," Harry explained. "The Last. There are no other Bearers still living. And there shall be no more born with the gift; the Valar are unhappy with my people and do not wish to have more of us than necessary," the young man said sadly. "And I know I am Chosen because my mother's father had an affair with an elf behind my aunt's mother's back. If he had not, my mother would not have been born. And I Bear the mark."

"So your mother's father was actually her mother?" Aragorn questioned, confused. "And what mark?"

"The mark that has only been viewed by myself, my deceased parents, and my healer. Because I would almost certainly find myself with child, it is forbidden for me to give my body until I have given my hand, and that is the only way one would see it," Harry whispered demurely.

"You are being coy," Aragorn stated the obvious. "The Valar would not mark you in such a place."

"Oh, but they have. There has been much trouble in the past because the mark is so light and in such a private place. My grandfather did not even know he was capable of bearing a child until he was pregnant with my mother," Harry informed his companion.

"I could not even imagine," Aragorn stated.

"And you do not have to do so. As I told you, I am the Last. It is part of the reason King Thranduil wishes I would give Prince Legolas my hand. The prince refuses to lay with a woman, and the king very much wants an heir. It also helps that I would bring magic into the bloodline," Harry said bitterly.

"How long has the king courted your favor for his son?" Aragorn questioned.

"Two summers ago, Gandalf was passing through Minhiriath when traveling from the Shire to Lórien, and he sensed my magic along the way. I have been with him since. King Thranduil was visiting his brethren in Lórien when we first arrived and overheard the explanation of my gift to Gandalf. I have found little peace since," Harry claimed with a snort.

"And your elven grandfather, who is he? Elves are very protective and possessive of their young, and you have enough elven blood to choose immortality. Why were you not raised by him as an elfling?" Aragorn questioned.

"Oh, ask some more easy questions, why do you not?" Harry teased, then sighed. "I do not know my mother's father. He bedded a simple Man without knowing the possibility of procreating with a Bearer. I do not believe he ever knew of my mother, and her mortal father died in childbirth. Taking my elven grandfather's name to the grave. For all I know, Prince Legolas is my grandfather and I am heir to Mirkwood," Harry joked.

"You look nothing alike," Aragorn reassured. "Prince Legolas has hair so blonde it is nearly white and eyes so blue they are nearly purple. You are more likely to be related of the elves of Rivendell. You share the same dark hair, fair skin, and jewel eyes."

"Well, then I shall have to avoid laying with any elves of Rivendell," Harry stated with finality. "Oh, and do not think I missed that you compared my eyes to jewels. You are getting poetic in your old age, Dúnedan."

Aragorn flushed at the tease.

"It is not my fault your eyes are the green of emeralds," he replied gruffly. "Who could avoid comparing them to jewels?"

Harry simply laughed at his friend's back as Aragorn rode ahead.


Coming Soon: Aragorn and Harry arrive at the Silvan Woodland Realm of Northern Mirkwood: 25th of March, 2969. Harry finally meets Prince Legolas Thranduilion. Will sparks fly?