A little sad to see it go so quickly. ;~; but, alas, all good things must die~
The forest hummed at night, sung in old whispers that only Silvan elves of yore could understand.
Darkness veiled upon the woodland canopy like a blanket of ink, lit only by the moon and by starlight.
Birds nested into the high tops, safe and in sleep, awaiting the light of day to illuminate the danger of the hidden arbors. The hoots of elder owls lingered in the distance, as did the croaking of toads.
Aragorn had refused bed and chamber, and had instead insisted upon the old familiar comfort of grass.
Many hours had passed, but the Elf Prince did not tire of tracing the sharp contours of Aragorn's features with his half-lidded eyes again and again like he would the lethal barbs of his arrows.
Legolas did not sleep (as he had only a few times in all his lifetime), but rather waited and sat in one of the tall oaken trees with his long leg swinging slowly above Aragorn's slumbering figure, watching.
There, not too high above, Legolas mused several of his most shameful desires.
One was of him descending down onto the forest floor where Aragorn lay so that he could fall gently onto his knees and lean close as lovers do to place a felt kiss onto the coarse lips of the king. He would slip then into the warmth of his brace, to feel the powerful twine of Aragorn's figure against that of his own; and on daybreak, they would wake and fawn one another and make love until starlight reigned onto the forest once more.
But all would not come to pass, and Legolas would feel his fingers begin to twitch in their want, feel his heart begin slow in the enormity of his need, blaming himself for having been wrought into the ilk of a Sindarin elf, and not of Arwen herself.
And when in this thought-the most shameful and disgusting of all-he would bite at the skin of his lip until he felt it would tear open and bleed, resentful of what he could never be able to give to this King of Men–
To Aragorn, to his friend.
So it was in that manner that Legolas would watch only in helplessness:
With his brow knit into sadness, and with his hair flitting softly in the cold wind, yearning and dying as most things do when in the snares of so much pain.
Aragorn woke to the sight of Legolas balancing effortlessly on the thin branch of an oak several feet above him.
He'd been looking far into the distance from what Aragorn could see, with his hair lurching in the air like pale wheat.
Truly, Legolas seemed different.
The look in his eye wasn't quite like two years before, and he'd grown pale and thin. Strife would spare no one, it seemed, as Aragorn had heard of Frodo's and Gandalf's departure far into the seas.
But even they would find something from which to smile for, and he hadn't seen Legolas smile as of yet.
Aragorn stood, watching his friend closely,
"Legolas," he called. "Come down. I've warmed the ground for us both."
Legolas looked down from above and curled his lip into a faraway grimace before leaping onto a twig that Aragorn was certain would break from underneath Legolas' weight no matter his lightness.
But it didn't.
He watched as Legolas descended the tall treacherous tree as if it were nothing. And if it were not for Aragorn's vast knowledge of an elf's casual grace, he would deem Legolas dancing.
"But the ground feels as it was centuries ago," said Legolas, taking the time to look about the floor. "And no different."
Aragorn laughed. He placed his hand on Legolas' shoulder and squeezed as he had several times in the past at campfire when Gimli was still at their side.
"To count on my humorous elf friend to lighten the sorrow of my days was no mistake," he said with a grin. "Tell me, friend, what is it that I would possibly do without you?"
Legolas had nearly smiled, but that smile had quickly receded back into its lightless depths.
Indeed, what would Aragorn do without him?
Live and last, and rule his kingdom, perhaps.
Love Arwen 'til the end of times as was intended by his fate at Elrond's blessing, and teach his child the long-lasting words of Men of Old and bring upon his sword into his son's tiny hands and show him how a true King of Elessar was meant to rule the privilege of a throne.
Aragorn would do many things without him.
Many good things, and none bad-there would be no difference.
"Prosper, perhaps," Legolas said after a while. "Smile upon the greatness of Arnor and Gondor, no different."
At this, Aragorn's expression darkened. Confusion pressed itself into the crease of his brow, but his hand did not drop itself from Legolas' shoulder. He took a step closer, mere inches separating them.
Legolas could hardly look into the gray eyes of his friend. His own, dull as they might have been, were more telling and obvious than ever before, and Legolas did not think he could bear it if Aragorn came to know what it was that he had hid from him for so many lonely moons–-
Could not bear the thought of Aragorn knowing that he'd gladly die in the stead of troubling him with the unbecoming farce of his fonding.
Because what he felt did not matter. What he felt was minute and deviant when left so closely in the wake of Arwen's passing, and Legolas could not bare the shame that came with it. He'd rather fade, rather wither, and rot into himself than speak of an elven lunacy that would destroy anything that he and Aragorn might have still had from a past dimming friendship.
He would say nothing.
"Legolas" Aragorn began. "Do not speak that way. Without you, I would be dead. You know this." He reached then for Legolas' chin, forcing him to look back at him. "Show me your land and tell me of it. I did not come all of this way for dreariness, nor for the unhappiness of my friend. Surely there are wonders here, and I've heard of the greatness of your father's halls."
Legolas couldn't look away. The sound of Aragorn's voice was a lone chime in the darkness. He forced a sort of grimace, and nodded.
"You wish to meet him, then?"
"I don't see why I couldn't," smirked Aragorn. "Better than lingering here, unannounced, in the deep depths of a forest like runaway lovers."
Legolas froze, warmed at the cheeks, and stared hard at Aragorn, but the King was too busy chuckling in his mirth to notice.
"Then I will gladly take you to him," Legolas told the air.
The sight of a Man freely sauntering along the pathways of the courtyard was not very common in Mirkwood.
Let alone, the sight of a Man amongst Kings.
Elves stopped in their doings and stared through hushed whispers as Aragorn walked side-by-side by the Prince.
Tauriel was one of them, when they had reached the steps of the palace.
Had it not been King Elessar of the Reunited Kingdom, the closest and most beloved friend of the fair Prince, she would have lowered her lashes in disdain before readily drawing her bow upon his head; for she knew of the perversity and dishonesty of mortals.
But she'd heard stories, and this King of Gondor was not quite much like his forefather.
"You wish to see our King," she said.
Aragorn stepped forth, a kindness on his face. "I do."
"On what matters?"
Legolas stepped forward at that, a scoff in his brow, but Aragorn raised his arm and gently stopped him.
"I simply wish to meet him," he said. "It would be an honor."
Tauriel looked to Legolas before stepping aside, lending way into doors that not many would ever come to pass.
The smell of flora and living timber coiled itself into every crook of the palace.
Through large halls and carven corridors that still breathed of rooted life, Aragorn was led by Legolas to the throne room of the Elvenking.
It was a sight that Aragorn thought only happened in old books of lore, for the Elvenking's throne was something out of a wild dream: enormous antlers upon antlers piled into a befitting seat, twined in wooden stairs that led up to a levitated dais.
Legolas brought his hand to his chest and inclined slightly. Aragorn deemed in that chaste moment that he should do the same, as a sign of respect for someone so ancient. Thranduil stopped him, however.
"I know of you," he spoke with his voice of long-forgotten centuries. "Son of Arathorn, and Elrond's friend."
Aragorn looked to the Elvenking and saw something very fair.
Tall and eldritch, like the elder stars the Silvan worshiped. Lovely as light, feigned only by the antediluvian strength in his piercing, blue eyes. Indeed the Elvenking resembled Legolas in more ways than one, and beauty was most assuredly one of them.
He wore a biennial-threaded crown of berries and red leaves, a lovely wreath upon a flaxen cascade of waist-long hair that came running from his shoulders like the spill that came from the pouring of champagne. Truly, the Elvenking lived up to the telltale myths of his striking grace, and of his impregnable presence.
Aragorn wondered, for just one moment, how Gimli would have behaved in the presence of all this.
"And I of you, Thranduil."
There was a pause before Thranduil stood and descended his steps, approaching. Legolas looked on in silence, not meeting his father's gaze that he knew very well had been boring into him.
He hoped to the Valar that his father would say nothing of which he knew, because if he did–
"I also know of your effect upon my son."
Aragorn's eyes widened a bit, taken back. The Elvenking stood but three paces away, unnaturally tall, but not too much taller than him.
"Legolas and I have traveled side-by-side through many ventures," Aragorn responded without effort. "The effect is surely mutual, as I know not how I would be breathing to this day if it were not for him, and Master Gimli."
Thranduil's expression flicked momentarily at the name, as if somewhat familiar from a day long since past.
"The dwarf, you mean?" he asked, almost curious.
"Ai, our friend, and of the Fellowship."
Thranduil smiled, stepping away. "I know of their kin. Brazen creatures. So ready to die for many a cause. Mulish, and full of avarice; always leading them to–-" He turned, facing away, and paused for a reason Aragorn knew not. All was quiet. "Legolas would know of this, from long ago. I, too, knew of a dwarf..."
Aragorn did not know what to say.
"I offer you a feast, and I offer you wine," said Thranduil, his voice no longer as sharp and as coercive as before, but almost distant. "Here, in celebration of this healing Earth, and of times nearly forgotten." He turned, facing Aragorn once more; and if Aragorn had not grown amongst the delicate complexities of elves, he would know naught of the pensiveness in the eyes of Thranduil. "If only for one favor."
Thranduil raised his hand very briefly in the direction of Legolas, seeming to dismiss him. Aragorn looked behind him, watching as the Prince left promptly without word and without question, a slow hesitance in his stride.
"A favor that would surely be done," Aragorn said when his friend had gone, turning towards Thranduil.
The Elvenking smiled, though it was an empty smile, and said:
"You would not find another quite like him, for there are few living things so deathless willing to give up life for another so short. I knew of this once, and failed in its valor. Do not do the same."
Thranduil's words stayed with Aragorn for the remainder of the night, and throughout the feast.
He watched Legolas more closely now, and knew almost what the Elvenking had meant.
And though Arwen's red lips and twining brown hair would feel forever fresh on the apex of his fingertips, Aragorn knew of her smile upon him.
She'd told him in a whisper, before she'd passed, that she wished him only to smile like first they met, and to remain in that smile, and to hold on to it.
So as Aragorn caught many a gaze from Legolas whilst they celebrated in the fabled festivities of the woodland realm, he knew almost instantly like a large boulder thrown about his head what Thranduil had surely meant.
He said nothing of it for the rest of that night, however.
Nor the next.
On the third and final day of Aragorn's stay, it had rained.
The forest felt different, like a sudden, tremendous growing of things that would grow in no other place.
Legolas had tempted Aragorn on a hunt that evening (as to what they would hunt, both hadn't a clue).
Aragorn had changed into a proper set of clothes more worthy of soiling before leaving to leap and to sprint side-by-side with his friend through the thick insidious bowers of the sodden wood.
There would be no other crowned King, Legolas told himself, who would race through cedars and laugh so deplorably loud like a young and impish child.
Indeed, there could be no other like Aragorn.
So as they joked and ran through the storm, Legolas began to feel a difference within him. Not so much like death this time, but more like something healing. Here, so close to Aragorn, he felt as though he could climb and probe every single branch and tree of the forest and tell Tauriel and his father all about it.
But more importantly, he felt a warmth in him, one he'd only felt once before when Aragorn had looked at him the way he had on the day of his coronation.
After plenty of hours, Legolas noticed that Aragorn was beginning to be left in the distance. He stopped on the thick rope of a vine and called out to him.
"Perhaps we should rest," he called. "If you wish not to lose so dishonorably in our race."
Aragorn appeared moments later, out of breath and completely drenched, grinning like a madman.
"Or, perhaps," he breathed, collapsing against the trunk of a huge pine, "You should come down here and fairly tread upon the cruelty of the ground instead of prancing around in the trees."
Legolas smiled, descending. The rain lied mostly draped on the thick canopy of where they were, lending them respite of the storm. Moonlight shone through the fissures of the leaves above them, tracing the sharp contours of Aragorn's face. Stars could be seen through the cracks.
"My father must be celebrating amongst our kin as we speak," Legolas said, sitting some feet away against the opposite tree. "Our people drink endlessly to the miracle of a starlit rain."
There was a quietness as Aragorn caught his breath, unable to take his eyes away from Legolas. The way he spoke of things.. Things he knew so well from throughout his passing years, reminded Aragorn of his time in Rivendell, amongst his friends, amongst Arwen.
"I think of her even if I am not dreaming," he said, nearly in a whisper.
Legolas looked down from the sky and towards Aragorn, his smile suddenly waning.
"I think of her kindness, of her gentleness for the smaller things in this world." He paused, swallowing. Legolas could hear the pulse in his chest slow, growing cold. "But she would not want my misery."
Legolas nodded, looking towards the dark menacing distance of the wood.
"Legolas," Aragorn said after a long and painful silence. He stood, approaching to crouch before his friend. "I also think of you." Legolas looked then to Aragorn, eyes wide, and with his lips gone slack as he watched him bring his ringed fingers upon his cheek. There was a tenderness in Aragorn's touch, as if treading upon the edge of a dream. "Forgive me."
Aragorn's fingers ghosted then to the thin pink lips of his friend, to his chin, and then to a misplaced tendril of his golden hair, placing it gently behind a pointed elven ear. Legolas froze where he sat, unable to speak or breathe, the thunder of his pulse threatening to break the bones underneath his chest.
And within a second's breadth, the foreign feel of lips lied soft upon him.
Legolas had read of how a kiss came to be many years ago:
A young and curious elfling scouring through his father's library when told plenty a time not to.
He learned it to be something priceless in the life of an elf, a consummation of sorts.
And there had been a day in which he wondered how Tauriel's lips would have tasted against his own, but that curiosity had faded nearly as soon as it came.
He'd asked his father once, how a kiss would be like.
Thranduil had looked down from neath his lashes and said, very sharply:
"Like poison. Now tend to the guard and cease your foolery."
But it was nothing like poison.
It was gentle, and pleasantly wet in some places. And if not for Aragorn's stubble, it would have been nearly as it had been when Legolas had brought two of his fingers upon his lips to mimic that of which he had once read in his father's book so long ago.
He felt Aragorn's hands come to rest on both sides of his face, pulling him further against him. It was warm there, like a partial cocoon of nothing but of the man Legolas had so terribly craved.
But Legolas knew little of what to do when in the throes of this passion. He'd never allowed himself to read any further about the subject. So he sat there, still as stone, and with his eyes wide open.
Aragorn pulled away shortly after, bringing his hands away.
"I.." he said very faintly. "I am sorry–-"
"If not now," Legolas interjected, catching Aragorn's wrist in an iron clasp, "Then I swear I would never dream to forgive you."
Aragorn's lips parted, looking deeply into the blue eyes of his friend before he closed the distance between them almost desperately. He kissed at the Prince's lips in a felt hunger, in a long-hidden need from somewhere dark and unspoken. Legolas could do nothing but follow Aragorn's lead, allowing himself to fall gently onto his back on the green pasture of the forest.
Aragorn loomed upon him now, balanced on hands and knees, as if being very careful not to crush him.
Legolas pulled away after a moment, breathless and flushed to the very tips of his ears.
"Please," he whispered, bringing his fingers to trace against Aragorn's lips. "Do not treat me as if I were to break. I am no mortal kind."
Driven then, and drunk in the elf's taste, Aragorn nodded and reached to press his lips against Legolas again. This time, he pried for an entrance, one of which Legolas granted with haste. The kiss was long and deep, undone only for the sake of small intakes of breath. Their hands wandered to each others bodies, painting the sinew of clothed muscle and bare skin with the tips of their fingers in a trance of silent worship.
But Aragorn was of Men, and Men had little control over what would eventually transcend in such situations.
Neath the nips of kisses along Legolas' white neck, Aragorn had moved his knee to rest between the Prince's thighs, moving further up as the seconds passed. Legolas seemed to have not fully noticed this, and instead continued to tremble under Aragorn's growing venture throughout his skin. Soft sighs escaped him, something of which eventually led for something hard to appear against his thigh.
Legolas' eyes opened.
"Aragorn," he managed to say. "What.."
But Legolas knew slightly on his own what it could have been, and he gasped when he realized it. He watched as Aragorn looked up at him, separating himself from the nape of Legolas' neck.
"I am so sorr-–"
"Shh," he lulled, bringing a single finger to the other's lips.
And though Legolas was still considered quite young in the eyes of an elf, he knew very well what it was that Aragorn both wanted and needed of him. He slid carefully from Aragorn's grasp, and stood instead in the peak of starlight, his fingers at the laces of his own clothes.
Aragorn, transfixed, allowed himself to fall against the trunk of the oak behind him, watching in lidded fascination as Legolas began to undress himself.
Few things would match Legolas' bare figure.
His legs were long like the willows he favored, his arms were strong, and his skin lied pale as milk.
His hair came spilling from his shoulders like river-flood, eyes as bright as seas, and with a virile grace that Aragorn knew full well he would find in no other creature.
He stood, approaching, before sealing Legolas' lips against his own. He brought his hands to tangle in the tresses of his long hair, leading them both towards the trunk of a tree.
There, Aragorn undressed himself through kisses, mindful of Legolas' eyes upon him.
"You must concede," Aragorn grinned, "That I am not nearly as lovely as you are, as you've always been."
Legolas looked him up and down, lips parted and with a single pale hand treading down towards the broad planar of Aragorn's chest.
"And if I don't," he said, taking Aragorn's length into his hand. "What then?"
But Aragorn could not answer so coherently when Legolas had suddenly dropped down to his knees. He held his breath and looked beneath, watching Legolas gaze upon him with a sort of keening curiosity.
"You've no need," Aragorn breathed, "to do any of this–-"
Legolas' tongue slipped then to trace the tip of his cock, causing Aragorn to shiver at the spine despite his efforts. His head fell back, feeling as Legolas began to very slowly engulf him.
And all the while, Legolas kept Aragorn in place by the thighs. He painted his tongue all along the shaft and the underside, allowing his eyes to remain open so that he could take the occasional glimpse at Aragorn's expressions. And though Legolas himself had felt the feeling of an erection a few times before in his life, it was still something rather new the moment he felt himself begin to harden from in between his thighs.
Legolas reached then to take himself in hand before once again sinking Aragorn further into his throat, tending to the heat that seared from within his own ballocks in a slow and lazy pattern. His brow knit upward, the pleasure of what so many elves deprived themselves of pouring like a scorching storm all throughout his body. He hummed onto Aragorn's girth, noticing the sharp intake of breaths that Aragorn would struggle to keep to himself.
The sounds roused a dormant fire in Legolas. Without warning, he impaled himself to the hilt, eyes darting up to look upon the other.
Aragorn pressed himself into the tree hard enough for its bark to sink painfully into the nakedness of his skin, pleading through the guise of several broken incoherencies. This did nothing to stop Legolas, however. He sucked with mirth, swallowing with purpose.
But an elf could only be so coy.
Aragorn grabbed a firm hold of Legolas' hair, pulled on it, and buried the entirety of himself long and deep into the cavern of the Prince's throat, keeping him there.
Legolas' eyes snapped open, but before he could look towards Aragorn-or attempt to pull away for only the sole sake of a breath-Aragorn had earnestly gored himself in and out of his throat, four different times. A shameful noise transcended into the forest. Legolas hadn't moved. His hands lied frozen into place against Aragorn's powerful thighs, eyes wet at the rims.
Aragorn tensed in the threat of completion, for the elf's chin now lied perfectly melded against him. Aragorn looked below, and foresaw the sinful way in which Legolas' cheeks lied sore and filled with cock.
A single tear ran down Legolas' cheek, though his pale smooth hand still worked itself languidly on the pulse of his own weeping prick.
Aragorn loosened his grip on Legolas' hair, overcome. He stood on the edge; on the mercy of a whim. But Legolas did not pull away.
In fact, he brought his hand to the base of Aragorn's length and began to suck harder than before. He closed his eyes, bobbing his head against the other's pelvis in such fluid grace.
Aragorn felt his eyes begin to recede, the gale of his climax burning away the last of his resolve.
Oh, but it could not end in this way.
It took the courage of a true king to have pulled Legolas from his knees by the root of the hair, separating the hot heat of his throat away. Legolas stood breathless, lips wet and parted, a licentious gleam in his eye.
"Turn, there," Aragorn said, signaling to the forest ground. "Show me."
Legolas did as he was told without hesitation.
He brought himself upon hands and knees.
And though Legolas was not entirely familiar in the ways of Gondor, he gathered himself a general idea of what it was that Aragorn would wish of him next.
Aragorn stood behind him, mindlessly mesmerized. He fell to his knees, tracing his palm several times against the lithe curve of Legolas' spine.
"Suck," he said after a moment, bringing two of his fingers to the elf's lips.
And so Legolas did, with ardor and without an ilk of shame. And when Aragorn deemed him finished, he pulled his hand away and placed his fingers taut against Legolas' hole, pushing in slowly.
"Should I stop?" Aragorn asked, freezing in his tracks.
"No.." Legolas replied, hardly loud enough. "Please.."
Assured, Aragorn resumed his ministrations and pushed inside with patient ease until both his fingers had sunken deep. Legolas wormed in his position, trembling at the spine and nipping hard at his lip. Aragorn watched closely, smitten, before pulling his fingers back to the tips.
"Yes," Legolas whispered, leaning back into Aragorn's hand. "Don't stop. Please.."
Lips parted, and with the roots of his lust pulsing like a storm at his throat, Aragorn repeated the gesture, ten different times: long and sweet. Legolas melted into the ground, crushing his jaw into the muddied grass beneath him. His eyes waned into his skull, several scores of unabashed moans helpless not to escape him.
May the Valar forgive such lechery, for the feeling was better than even the feel of summer leaves.
Unable to control himself any further, Aragorn took himself in hand and positioned himself directly behind Legolas' shivering figure. He took him harshly by the hips, tangling a thick strand of flaxen hair into the clasp of his fist, pulling back.
Legolas gasped in the sting of it. His back curved beautifully in the moonlight, steeling the breath right from Aragorn's lungs.
"You truly are so lovely," he whispered, placing himself at last against the other's hole. "I will.. gently. I wouldn't hurt you-–"
"No," Legolas clipped. "Fuck me. Fuck into me and show me. I've dreamt you, I've wished you. And now.. I cannot stop.."
And by the White Tree of Gondor was that enough to have driven Aragorn mad.
He slipped inside, parting Legolas open with the heavy girth of his cock. Legolas arched his back in the shock of it, a loud and graceless mewl escaping him. Aragorn tightened the reign on his hair, tugging back, and took the winning opportunity to sink himself to the hilt.
Legolas whimpered, wept, and rocked back desperately into the pressure that ripped him open from behind: utterly shameful if in the eyes of an elf, but utterly perfect in the eyes of Aragorn.
Driven, and mad with desire, Aragorn draped himself over Legolas so that he could reach for him from beneath. And whilst he fucked up deep into the prince throughout the hour, Aragorn's powerful hand had milked Legolas of his climax in just two completed strokes. Legolas came with a cry of sheer sin, lengthy and broken from the thumbing of his cock's soiled slit.
"You're none as I imagined," Aragorn breathed, letting go of the golden hair in his hand. Legolas collapsed to the ground, jaw slack and eyes wet as Aragorn dragged him in by the hips, thrusting faster than before. "Insatiable."
Legolas moaned into the thrum of the rain despite his efforts, the blue of his eyes rolling slowly back into their lids.
Aragorn held a steady pace, sweeping with his hips so that the sweet sound of the prince's deflowering resonated all throughout the forest for anyone nearby to maybe hear. He watched as Legolas' backside shook in unison to their fucking, forcing Aragorn to perhaps bring his hands to knead against it when the temptation grew too great.
Legolas, of course, gasped in embarrassment.
So it was somewhere throughout the process of fucking the fair prince into utter submission and debauchery that Aragorn's cock began to sear and pulsate, the coil of his completion finally unraveling from within his pelvis. He watched, one last time, as his cock slid from out of the elf's hole, bedewed and wetted, allowing himself to sink far deeper so that he could spend in thirst from far within Legolas' quivering figure.
Aragorn poured his essence thoroughly, every last ribbon of seed, until at last he felt himself collapse beside Legolas on the coolness of the woodland's grass. They stayed in that way for a long while, side-by-side, breathless and staring into each other's eyes as if they'd never once met before.
"What am I to you?" Legolas asked at last, voice small and hair spilt forth like sunlight.
Aragorn reached then, to the face of his most cherished friend, and said:
"A dream I do not hope to deserve."
"Will you return?"
"I will, if you would have me."
Legolas smiled, his eyes so much brighter.
"I would have you as I always have, and I would wait."
They do not look away from one another.
They don't have to.