Numenora (Patty) (numenora) wrote in blackforest_fps,
Numenora (Patty)
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Legolas_Aragorn_Slash October Scary Fic Challenge Entry

Title: The Haunting
Author: Númenora
Rating: NC-17 (for graphic sex, sex terminology and violence)
Pairing/Characters: Aragorn (Thorongil)/Legolas (Lasse), Ecthelion II, Denethor and OC’s
Word-count: 7500
Warnings: AU, Slash, Angst, Not rape, but slight non-con with apparitions (minor possessions), Violence (one self-inflicted), unbeta-ed (mistakes are mine o’ mine).
Disclaimer: All known characters are Tolkien’s and the names of the OC’s are taken from his works.
Summary: Aragorn is in Minas Tirith; it is during his service to the Steward Ecthelion II and he is known as Thorongil. Legolas is visiting and discovers a legend of ghostly lovers haunting the Citadel; what will happen when Aragorn and Legolas (secretly in love with each other) goes ghost hunting?
Challenge: Written for LAS October Scary Fiction challenge. Also posted to 25fluffyfics' challenge: Jealousy.

Notes: The characters mentioned in the Prologue are Original characters with made-up histories and bear Tolkien names; I am placing the Steward Finrod and his children (and the rest) within that area of Middle-earth history where the Stewards are not called by name—falling sometime before Ecthelion I. Also, I am taking a liberty by referring to the Stewards Finrod and Ecthelion II as ‘Your Grace’ and ‘His Grace’; I wanted to distinguish their position and title a bit with more than ‘My Lord.’

Thoughts and stressed words will be denoted by **

Ghostly voices and utterances are denoted by ‘ ‘ and **

Glossary of some names and terms are at the end of the story.


Prologue

The handsome Steward-prince smiled in pleasure and delight; his pale-green eyes a perfect testament to the passion and love that flooded his soul as he fully seated himself inside of the tight heat of his beautiful beloved. The younger male threaded his fingers through the auburn curls of his true love as the man hit his sweet spot over and over, pounding roughly; each powerful thrust sending both pain and pleasure to the core of the scholar’s being.

“You know just how to love me, Glingal” the dark-haired scholar said breathlessly, his lovely amber-tinted orbs closed as the thick column of flesh stabbed him deeper and deeper.

“That is because loving you comes naturally to me like breathing. You are my very life and the source of my only happiness,” the future Steward of Gondor whispered thickly as his ardor mounted, burying his face in the blue-black tresses pooled between one slender shoulder and the elegant curve of his lover’s damp, fragrant throat.

“Nimphelos!” Glingal shouted as he neared his completion. He wrapped his sword-roughened palm around his lover’s pale flesh, determined that they reach the peak together. Their bodies glistened in the candlelight as they both increased their pace, their thrusts becoming frenzied.

“I come, Glingal beloved,” the brunet said as his seed spewed forth between their gyrating torsos, his taut channel spasming around his lover’s manhood, causing it to give up its gift.

Nimphelos opened his eyes wide; first in delight as Glingal’s hot fluids seared his inner walls, but then in surprise and fear as beautiful violet eyes filled with tears, rage and madness locked with his own.

Glingal uttered, “What is it?” before turning his head to the side; his face registered its shock as well just before fire pierced his back, blazing a trail of pain through his body.

“Nooo!” Nimphelos’ sweet, frightened tones reverberated throughout the candlelit room as Glingal’s own sword was plunged into his back with great force; so forceful that the blade passed through him and into Nimphelos’ abdomen. The astonishment and pain on both lovers’ faces warred with their disbelief that so small a creature as Glingal’s wife could weald so large a weapon with such strength as to murder them both with one blow.

Elena stood very still as the embracing lovers kissed one last time. “I love you,” issued forth as blood trickled from lips growing cold. The men’s labored breaths sounded impossibly loud to Elena’s ears and she placed her small, murdering hands to her ears to block out the sound; but those hands were covered in blood and she cringed at the clammy stickiness against her face and cheeks. It was then that the horror of what she’d done assailed her consciousness. She’d slain her child’s father—the 3-day-old boy would grow up without the man who sired him.

She screamed and screamed and screamed; her lovely face a mask of terror and guilt. Blood was everywhere: On the lovers; soaking the bed; soaking her gown and staining her tiny, bare feet. She began to back away from the scene of death—of beauty and youth stamped out. She knew she had no right; the man she married (the man forced to marry her) belonged to another, his heart given freely to the dark beauty on the ensanguined bed sheets. Their souls already intimately joined *then* as surely as their lifeless bodies were joined still from their recent passion (flesh inside of flesh) and by cruel steel.

There was a pounding on the door, then armed guards burst into the room closely followed by Gondor’s Steward. What his eyes beheld chilled his very soul; his only son lay dead in the arms of his lover while his daughter-in-law stood wailing. The ruler grabbed her flailing arms—trying to calm her while the father wanted to exact revenge for his loss.

“My Lord? My Lord—what have I done? What have I done?” She reached her hand to the Steward’s bearded cheek, smearing the drying, viscous fluid there. “Forgive me?” Her voice was pitiful as she begged, but she knew no forgiveness would come from the ones truly wronged.

His Grace, the Steward and the men with him did not expect what happened next; the distraught young woman turned and ran as fast as should could through the balcony doors and jumped to her death from high atop the citadel. Three young lives were extinguished that night and a father lost his son and an innocent child became an orphan. And the White City mourned.

TA 2968, Minas Tirith...

Thorongil smiled at his Elven companion. He did not know why it was that having Legolas so near always made him happy, but it always did; if he looked closer, he would have realized that he felt utter completeness whenever the elf was with him.

“So what do you think of the White City, Lassë?” He used Legolas’ childhood name in times like these—the elf wanting to remain anonymous as much as Estel or Aragorn did.

“There aren’t enough trees for my tastes, but it is beautiful in its own way; and it does feel welcoming to me—well, for the most part.”

The last was in response to his less-than-warm greeting from the Steward-prince Denethor who had little love for the Eldar; or it could have just been because Legolas was Thorongil’s close friend (or both). Denethor made it no secret that he did not care for the warrior or his closeness to the current Steward Ecthelion—Lord Denethor’s father. Their rivalry was well known; although in truth, Thorongil felt no rivalry with the young man. He had made every effort to befriend him, but his efforts were always thwarted. Denethor was ever suspicious of the other’s motives; had he made the effort to accept Thorongil’s overtures, he would have discovered the offers of friendship were genuine. Legolas could have told him this as he treasured his long-standing acquaintance (nay camaraderie) with this honorable man. But his efforts would not be welcomed either.

“I will have to see what I can do about planting some trees before your next visit, Mellon-nin; or perhaps, you could oversee the planting yourself while you are here. We could take a trip to Ithilien and gather the saplings from the forest to transplant. The Royal Garden hasn’t been significantly replanted in years; it has practically gone to weed.”

Legolas could hear the sorrow in Aragorn’s voice. He’d grown up in the Elven realm of Rivendell for most of his life since the age of two; before that, he was born practically in the wilds with his kin—the last of the Dúnedain Rangers. But, Legolas knew that since learning of his heritage, the man felt the pull of his destiny and his heart belonged to Gondor just as much as it did to his childhood home.

The Heir to the Throne wanted to restore this kingdom to its former glory and if that meant serving one who should be serving him, he would. The wood-elf hated seeing his dearest friend troubled; so he would do whatever he could to help Aragorn make Minas Tirith the jewel that it was when the Kings of Old ruled. And they would start with the Royal Garden.

“I would be delighted to assist you in the planting, Meldir—it has been some time since I’ve had the chance to make things grow.” Legolas’ heart tripped at the sight of the smile that graced Aragorn’s handsome face at his declaration.

How he loved his friend so and how he dearly wanted to confess that love; but the man’s heart belonged to another and there was no possible future for them even if Aragorn returned his feelings for the adan was an only child and the soul heir to this kingdom—and Legolas was a male. Marriages between males are not unheard of in Middle-earth (Gondor as well); but for a male who must carry on his line, however, bonding to another male is not encouraged. For Aragorn, once he ascended the throne, he would need an heir and as much as Legolas loved him and would do anything for him, he could not give him a child.

“What is it, Lassë?” Aragorn asked as he noted the change in the wood-elf’s demeanor.

Not wanting to tell him the full truth of his sorrow, Legolas said, “Nothing, my friend—I was just thinking about how beautiful the garden will be once we finish; but then I remember that my own home is overrun by Orcs, Spiders and all manner of vile creatures and the darkness there has turned the forests into a place more malevolent than a garden gone to weed. Would that a few plantings could...” His voice trailed off.

Aragorn placed his hands upon the other’s slender shoulders in comfort; he wanted to hold Legolas close and would have, but the door to Ecthelion’s private dining room opened to reveal the smiling visage of the Steward himself.

“I thought that I heard your voice, Thorongil! And, Hir-nin Lassë—please come in, come in!” He waved them into the room, patting Aragorn on the back.

Denethor stood up as the others entered. He did not smile at his father’s guests, but nodded briskly, a look of barely strained civility upon his face.

“My Lord—I hope you are well this evening.” Legolas said in greeting to his host and turning to the Steward-prince, “And you as well, My Lord.”

Instead of answering, Denethor turned to his father. “If you will excuse me, Father—I have some unfinished paperwork to complete. My Lords...”

He moved towards the door, but stopped at his father’s call, “It is supper-time, Son; your ledgers can wait.”

“I am not hungry, Your Grace. Please enjoy your meal with your guests.”

The Steward’s good mood soured a bit; he did not appreciate that his son’s dislike of his most trusted Captain and advisor, going went out of his way to be rude to the man and now the elf. Well—no matter he would deal with Denethor later; he would not let this evening be ruined.

“As you wish, Denethor—Goodnight.” Turning to the others, his smile returned and they sat down to supper.

~*~*~

Ecthelion was thoroughly charmed by Legolas. He always had a fascination for elves and even managed to meet few in his lifetime, but he’d never met a wood-elf; especially one as fair (nay beautiful) and delightful as the blond to his right.

Legolas was normally reserved when in the company of other nobles as a Prince is wont to be; but in this guise (a simple warrior), he allowed himself some freedom, showing the Steward a bit of his carefree nature. Although it took much to make an elf drunk, he was feeling a tad more cheerful than usual and laughed out more than once.

And Ecthelion wasn’t the only one charmed; Aragorn could not take his eyes off his stunning friend. Listening to his sweet, husky voice and staring into impossibly blue eyes that nothing in nature or made by the hands of Men could hope to duplicate made Aragorn’s breath catch over and over.

“Please tell me, Your Grace; I was in the Great Library earlier looking for some information that Gan...” Coughing to cover, Legolas continued. “...that a friend asked me to research and I overheard a conversation by some scribes talking about ghosts in the Citadel. One is said to be the son of an early Steward and the other a comely scholar from Dol Amroth.”

“Ah, yes. You speak of Glingal and Nimphelos. And there is said to be a third ghost—Glingal’s lovely wife, Elena. You see, Glingal was the second son of the Steward Finrod; as his brother Belthil was set to be the next ruler of Gondor, the younger was not bound by tradition to provide an heir. But Belthil was slain repelling Orcs trying to overrun Osgiliath and Glingal became his father’s heir.

“When this all happened, Glingal was already in love with the beautiful Nimphelos, a young scholar newly arrived from Dol Amroth. Nimphelos was one-quarter elf, you see and he was every bit as fair as the Eldar and everyone it seems was in love with him; hair of the deepest midnight, eyes the color of fine mead, tall and slender and lovelier than any being anyone could recall seeing—either male or female. But he loved only Glingal and they had already pledged their troth by time his brother died.

“It wasn’t long after they buried Belthil that the Steward declared that Glingal was to wed the youngest daughter of his chief counsel; Elena had been promised to Belthil, but with his death, she would now be Glingal’s wife. Needless to say, he baulked at this suggestion; Glingal even told his father that he would step down as heir in favor of one of his cousins. But the Steward would not be disobeyed and forced Glingal’s hand by threatening to banish Nimphelos from Gondor.

“So, Glingal married Elena, but he continued his love affair with his true love. Everyone knew of it, but no one spoke of it aloud and for several years all seemed well; but then Elena got with child and it is said that she began to believe that Glingal would love her at last, but she was doomed to be disappointed. According to the Steward Finrod’s journal, Elena was found crying two days after their child was born; a nurse told him that Glingal had informed her that their intimacy was at an end now that he had fulfilled his duty to Gondor.

“Perhaps he could have waited to say these things to her as she was not herself as women who have newly given birth often are not; but no one can say for sure. You see, the next night, Elena murdered her husband and his lover in each other’s arms. Then she threw herself from the balcony outside of the bedroom where the lovers met for their trysts. Finrod found her there standing over them; Glingal’s sword was impaling their naked bodies.

“The Steward nearly went as mad as his son’s wife, but he had a Kingdom to rule and a grandson to raise. It is said that he aged ten years that day and his guilt over his son took away most of his joy in life. He turned that den of death into a shrine for his son and Nimphelos both whom he felt he’d wronged; he commissioned portraits of the lovers to be hung in that room, hoping that the effort would give his son peace. But for many years afterwards and unto this very day, that room is said to be haunted by the lovers and some say by Elena as well.” Ecthelion took a sip of wine as he came to the end of his tale.

Legolas’ eyes were raptly focused on the Steward as he spoke and asked immediately after the man finished, “Have you ever seen them, Your Grace?”

“I have not, but my grandfather claimed to have—felt—their presence in the room. He said that he took my grandmother up there one day after returning to Minas Tirith from their honeymoon. Once inside, he said that they became overwhelmed by feelings of love and passion. It is believed that only couples who are truly in love with one another can sense Glingal and Nimphelos. Grandfather claims that my father was born nine months later.” The Steward laughed gaily at this.

“Can I see the room?!” Legolas moved to the edge of his seat as leaned towards his host.

Smiling slyly, he answered, “I sure Thorongil here would love to show you the room, Hir-nin.”

“Will you, please? I would love to see the portraits!”

It was Aragorn’s turn to stare in rapt attention; he could recall seeing Legolas in many moods, but he’d never seen him like this—he was like a child anxious to open to his Yule gifts and never more beautiful to the man’s eyes.

“Well, will you, Mellon-nin?!” The wood-elf was practically bouncing in his seat at the prospect.

“Yes—yes,” Aragorn stuttered. “I will show you on the morrow.”

“No, *now!* Oh please, now!” Legolas grabbed Aragorn’s hand and pulled him up out of his seat, then turned to the Steward, “You will come, too, Your Grace?”

“Nay, Lassë—I will stay here and you young ones go.” Legolas was in too excited a mood to correct the Steward; after all, he was several hundred years older than the man, though extremely young for an elf (but that was neither here nor there).

They said their goodnights and Ecthelion watched the friends leave. He chuckled to himself as he poured another glass of wine. “Well, Glingal and Nimphelos—if you are in that room, it seems you will have cause to love again this night. I just hope Thorongil and Lassë are ready to experience you.”

Aragorn had heard about this tale sometime after beginning his service in Minas Tirith. The room was even pointed out to him at some point; but he never gave it much thought except to believe it was an old tale to be told around campfires in the wild to pass the time. He could not believe that Legolas would be taken in by this and said so.

Legolas responded. “How can you live in a time of wizards and magic and not believe, Pen-vuil?” Lowering his voice so that only his companion could hear, he continued, “Your own father keeps Imladris hidden and protected through magic; is it so implausible that ghosts could linger here centuries after dying—bound to this world for whatever reason?”

“I suppose when you put it like that...” Aragorn brushed a loose tendril of pale gold from the wood-elf’s cheek and found himself spellbound by his friend’s beauty as they stood beneath a window, the moonlight bathing the elf in its loving glow; Legolas’ own natural light combined with Ithil’s causing Aragorn to breathe faster.

“Can we go in now?”

Aragorn could only nod, but he failed to move right away. Then he laughed at the smirk Legolas wore.

“You are not afraid of ghosts, are you Estel?” Legolas rarely used Aragorn’s boyhood name unless he was in a teasing mood.

“Nay, Lassë—I am not. Come, let us go visit your spirits.” Taking a lit torch from the wall, they approached the closed door.

Once inside the room, all laughter and teasing stopped. It was as the Steward had indicated—the room was a shrine. There were two very large portraits over the unlit fireplace and there were candles of every size flanking them and placed throughout the bedchamber; one painting was of a handsome young man with auburn hair and eyes of pale green and the other was of a beautiful brunet with eyes of amber and his features were Elven fair. Aragorn could see why Glingal and most of the citizens of Minas Tirith had been enamored of him; except for Legolas, Aragorn had never seen a lovelier person which included Arwen. Tearing his eyes away, he set about lighting the candles around the room.

“This room looks like someone lives here; there is no dust or cobwebs anywhere. Do you suppose that His Grace keeps it like this to entertain visitors?” Legolas was walking about as he spoke, coming to stand before the huge bed.

“I would not put it past him. Many only see his stern side and the part that inspires confidence as Gondor’s ruler. But he is also a good friend with an almost child-like love of life—a truly admirable trait in the face of such Evil at his front door. He is not above pulling a prank or two to amuse you, Lassë.”

Coming to stand next to Legolas, he asked, “I wonder if this is the original bed where they died.”

Legolas shuddered, grabbing his forearms as if chilled. “Yes—yes, it is. The mattress and bedding were destroyed, but the bed is the very same.”

“Legolas? Are you, well Dear One? How can you know this?”

“My Lord—what have I done? What have I done?” The elf whispered as tears began to flow.

Aragorn became concerned; he never believed for a moment that his friend was playing a game with him. He could sense the sorrow emanating from Legolas. Taking the slighter male into his arms, they sat on the large bed.

“Legolas, please talk to me.” He whispered as his hands began to try and comfort his companion; one holding both of the elf’s hands while the other stroked his hair.

“She did not know what she was doing—not really; she only felt her own pain. No one knew, but she never loved Belthil—it was Glingal who held her heart since they were children. She had hope in her heart that their child would make him love her—but Glingal could not. He already belonged to another. Just as...just as...” A sob broke free.

“Just as what, Meldomelin? How can you know this?” He cupped the breathtaking face before him—staring deeply into the elf’s somber eyes.

“I feel her—she is so sad and so alone!” Legolas cried. “We are the same, Aragorn; she and I are the same.”

“I don’t understand.” He so desperately wanted to understand.

“I love, too, Aragorn; and he doesn’t love me back because his heart belongs to another. Sometimes it is nearly unbearable.”

Aragorn enfolded Legolas to him. He could not believe that this could be true—that Legolas could be in love and that someone could not love him in return. What manner of fool is this elf? Aragorn was angry for his friend and devastated at the same time, but for a different reason. And...And he was jealous, too; that someone could hold his dear Legolas’ heart.

“He is a fool, Lassë and does not deserve your devotion—*forget* him!” Aragorn’s hand buried itself in the silk of the wood-elf’s hair, molding its palm to the back of Legolas’ skull.

“No, Aragorn—he is kind and noble and the best person I know. He is not to blame—for I’ve hidden my feelings well. I would die for him.”

Aragorn’s heart felt as if it would break at this declaration. It was then that he realized his own feelings for Legolas; there is only one person in this world he could not live without and that person was in his arms sobbing for someone else.

“Except when I was but a small child growing up amongst elves, I’ve never, ever wished to be someone other than who I am, Legolas Once I became a man, I decided that I liked myself. But at this very moment, I would give all that I own to be this elf you love.” Aragorn’s voice trembled and Legolas could hear the tears that he knew must be welling in the Dúnadan’s blue-green eyes.

Pulling away just enough to see the man’s face, Legolas reached up and brushed away a tear before it could disappear into Aragorn’s beard. The other pale hand rested against his strong chest, the heart beating fast and furious beneath.

“No elf possesses my heart, Pen-vuil.”

“Halbarad?” Aragorn suggested incredulously, secretly planning all manners of demise for his other dear friend.

The look Aragorn wore made Legolas laugh, so furious it was; but he also laughed because he felt his pain was at an end.

“Not funny, Lassë!”

“Forgive me, A’mael—I can call you that?” The elf was still a bit uncertain.

“Beloved? You call *me* beloved, Legolas?”

The Prince nodded and then cried out as he was pulled into a passionate kiss. Aragorn took full advantage of the parted lips and drank deeply of the delicious cup of sweetness it made. He then groaned in delight as Legolas began to kiss back, their tongues meeting for the first time. The elf’s small hands tightly gripped the man’s tunic, threatening to rip the fine fabric from his body. Aragorn loved the smell and taste of the being in his arms, so long he’d wanted to know Legolas like this—he just had not realized it until now.

Cool hands moved up the Dúnadan’s back along the spine making him shiver and he pulled Legolas closer to him, crushing and trapping the gripping fingers between their firm chests. *How?* Aragorn was confused, but the things Legolas was doing with his tongue pushed the incongruity from his mind.

Legolas moaned as his soon-to-be lover pulled him onto his lap, hands cupping his perk bottom while cool hands combed through his hair, freeing it from the long braid at the back and sides. *What?* Legolas made to pull away to ask, but ceased when he felt Aragorn’s arousal rubbing against his. Pulling his hands from between their heaving chests, the elf ran his fingers through the man’s wavy tresses, gripping them while deepening their devouring kiss. He desperately wanted to breathe, but was loathed to surrender the man’s tasty mouth.

The decision was made for him when Aragorn broke the kiss, his lungs near-bursting; Legolas was disappointed, but only for the second it took for man latch onto his pale throat, his tongue and teeth moving over every exposed bit of flesh. His hands left Legolas’ backside to travel up his back, to the shoulders and then to the neck before one hand pushed aside the soft hair to expose more skin for his feasting. The other hand began to unlace the wood-elf’s tunic, his warm, sword-roughened hand molding itself to the smooth, hot flesh beneath.

Legolas shivered and shuddered as the hands at his throat and chest and his lower back and thighs caressed him. His eyes flew open and he tried to pull back again, but Aragorn would not let him go; he himself was too far gone in his passion to realize that he and Legolas were not alone on that bed. He felt the hands in his hair and he also felt the cool hands running across his stomach, slowly making their way up his chest, but he did not care.

“Ara...Aragorn—what is happening? Do you not feel them?”

Legolas was near to swooning; his leggings were being undone at the same time as Aragorn’s busy fingers were removing his tunic. The moment the garment went up over his head, falling to floor, the adan’s teeth sunk into the elf’s swollen nipple. The Prince screamed in pleasure and exquisite pain as his lover’s rough tongue and mouth began to suckle him, Aragorn’s thumb and forefinger attacking the other rosy nub.

Before long, Legolas found himself pinned beneath Aragorn’s considerable weight, the man’s mouth still hard at work on first one nipple and then the other. Legolas opened his eyes long enough to witness Aragorn’s leggings being pulled down and for a brief moment, he stared into warm amber eyes, a lovely smile gracing a stunning face before it vanished. His own eyes closed when he felt his lover’s naked shaft rubbing wetly against his own suddenly naked arousal.

Aragorn groaned ferociously and released Legolas’ chest just long enough to throw off his tunic, wanting nothing to stand as a barrier to his beloved. His sight was not as keen as his elven friend, but his was more so than normal men and he caught sight of red curls and broad shoulders as they briefly hovered above Legolas, the apparition gently kissing the Prince on his smooth cheek before moving away and gliding past Aragorn.

Aragorn shivered as ‘*Make him yours at last,*’ whispered in his ear (or was it his mind); but he soon forgot the other when he gazed upon the vision lying on the bed. Legolas was too perfect for words; his cerulean eyes were half-lidded and his lips slightly parted as his chest heaved up and down. His elegant organs were nestled in the juncture between his smoothly muscled hips, the slender column of flesh hard and leaking. Aragorn never wanted anyone the way he wanted Legolas.

“I love you, Legolas—with all that I am. May I make love to you? Can I make you mine?” He could feel the elf’s desire, but he would not take him without Legolas’ leave to do so.

“I was always yours, Seron-vell; please, make love to me—I want to feel you inside.” Legolas opened his arms wide and the man fell into them, careful not to crush his precious love.

At the same time the elf welcomed Aragorn into his arms, he also opened his thighs, cradling him there as well. Aragorn wanted to bury his hardness inside his elf immediately, but the way was not prepared to receive him yet. The adan knew that elves sometimes engaged in affairs of the flesh without bonding to their companions; but Legolas confessed to him long ago that this was not the case for Thranduil’s children. Both males and females were expected to remain untouched until they find their soul-mates. This was to prevent illegitimacy where elflings were concerned (which was never desired for Royalty), but also to prevent heartache that could kill. Legolas was an innocent and Aragorn would take care to keep him safe and to make his first time special.

Two sets of eyes watched as the two beautiful males kissed, limbs wrapping about. No—three sets watched, but the third stood silently alone while the other specters held each other close before they too kissed, hovering high above the living pair on the bed.

Aragorn reluctantly released Legolas’ perfect, sweet lips and kissed a pass down the elf’s hairless chest, reacquainting himself with the pert nubs still swollen from their earlier assault before continuing downward.

“*Ai!*” Legolas whimpered as Aragorn’s tongue pierced his tiny navel, stabbing and suckling the sensitive organ as the man’s hands cupped the elf’s naked bottom, his fingers caressing along the cleft while brushing the rosebud aperture hiding there. It wasn’t long before Aragorn abandoned the tightly furled navel; although he loved the taste it yielded and the sounds he evoked from Legolas, his true goal was within reach.

Legolas cried out again as Aragorn’s bearded chin rubbed against the sensitive head of his arousal, but that cry paled compared to shout he uttered when it was engulfed by the Dúnadan’s warm mouth, his tongue mapping the sweet organ’s length and breath. Aragorn was no stranger to sex with other males, warriors often giving each other comfort when far from home; so he knew what to do with the shaft in his mouth, swallowing it easily. He used his tongue to bring as much pleasure as he could to his love, wanting him to know the depth of his passion and desire for the elf as well as show Legolas what it was to be made love to. He didn’t want him to think that this was a one-time occurrence or that this was not love of the truest kind. He also wanted the untried male to be extremely immersed in his own passion as to minimize the pain that will come when their bodies join for the very first time.

Legolas was breathing hard as he thrust in and out of Aragorn’s mouth, his tongue doing wicked things to him. The wood-elf felt his desire mounting and knew that he would come soon; he wanted to warn Aragorn, but he suddenly realized that he couldn’t remember how speak coherently. The blond spread his thighs further apart as his shapely arse was lifted higher off the bed; his cleft felt a slight draft as the wetness there was exposed to the room’s chill.

Aragorn’s rough finger circled around and around the wrinkled aperture, but did not breach it. The man suddenly felt a smooth object being pushed into his other hand, slipping into his cupped palm as it held Legolas’ silky butt cheek. The part of his brain that still worked recognized the shape—it was a vial; his thumb rubbed over the object, easily removing the stopper to allow the warming oil to coat his fingers. He covered three digits thoroughly before resuming his stroking of Legolas’ virgin opening, moving his head more vigorously along the slender shaft in his mouth. He could sense that his beloved was close, so he slipped his forefinger into the elf’s hot, tight channel up to the first knuckle.

Legolas ceased his thrusting at the invasion, his opening contracting almost painfully around the man’s finger. Aragorn continued to suckle his wood-elf, sending streams of pleasure along his spine; Legolas recommenced his thrusting, dulcet moans of pleasure filling the room adding fire to Aragorn’s already rising, white-hot passion and warming the other ethereal lovers engaged in their own coupling above. Before long, Legolas started push against the finger begging entrance to his inner core, stretching him wider until Aragorn passed the guardian ring of muscle. Legolas hissed in slight pain, but did not stop his efforts to have more of Aragorn.

Feeling that he was ready, the man worked diligently to open the other up and slipped a second finger inside; before long a third made its way in the hot, tight tunnel. The elf screamed aloud when a blinding stab of pleasure pierced him; he wanted to ask what that was, but his breath caught as more and more pleasure engulfed him, the man’s finger relentlessly rubbing against the tight bundle of nerves inside the grasping channel. Legolas was coming hard and Aragorn drank deeply every honey-sweet drop spewing forth.

Legolas trembling form arched as the last of his seed left him and his fingers entangled into the man’s dark locks, pulling him from the spent and sensitive organ and devouring that torturous mouth with his own. Aragorn’s hands finished their work below, the elf well-stretched for what would come next; but he waited as the other got their fill of kissing him. Aragorn’s experienced fingertips moved along Legolas’ smooth sides and along his lovely spine. They continued to kiss like it was the means to prolonging life—like eating and breathing.

Aragorn’s fully hard manhood throbbed between them where it lay against Legolas’ abdomen; the elf broke the kiss to stare at his lover. The man’s eyes were smoldering and Legolas was almost afraid of the desire he saw there—almost; for he knew that Aragorn would die rather harm him in any way. While it was true that he was inexperienced in acts of the flesh, he knew from his brothers how things were when one male took another—both having found their bonded mates centuries ago. It would hurt when Aragorn breached him, but he did not care; the man loved him and they were moments away from joining. The Prince didn’t know how long Aragorn and he would be together (the man’s destiny was clear), but he would treasure their time until it ends. Legolas brushed aside the sorrow that that thought conjured for him—knowing his death would result from Aragorn taking a wife. That time was far off in the future and this was his and Estel’s time and he would savor every precious second.

“It is time, A’mael—make love to me.”

Aragorn nodded in response before kissing the other’s lovely lips once more. His hand still gripped the oil-filled vial and he sat back to pour more of it into his palm; he then coated his considerable length with it. Legolas’ eyes grew large and he reached out and took man’s swollen flesh into his hand. The elf smiled in fascination, his nimble fingers tracing the irregular veins running beneath the satiny skin before swiping his thumb across the large glans peaking in then out from behind the foreskin as his and Aragorn’s hand made the organ slick with the lubricating oil and the Dúnadan’s warm essence.

Aragorn could have watched the lovely play of emotions on Legolas’ face all night except his body was in need of coming and his beloved was the only one he wanted for that; Aragorn’s large left hand took the other’s smaller ones into his while the right one lifted a well-formed leg and draped it over his shoulder before making its way to the divide housing the wood-elf’s well stretched and slick entrance.

Legolas could hear his own rapid breathing as he felt the Dúnadan’s hardness at his opening, his breath catching as pain seared him. He saw the man freeze in response, before pulling away slightly; knowing that he would stop if Legolas but ask him to do so.

“It is alright. Please don’t stop—don’t leave me,” the beauty implored.

“I do not wish to harm you—this can wait.” Aragorn insisted.

“No! We know not how much time we have before I lose you forever.” Legolas was distressed at the thought of not having the man he adored make love to him.

“I know that I do not have the lifespan of an elf, but I will not expire tomorrow, A’mael” Aragorn laughed, his words an attempt to lighten Legolas’ serious mood.

“I do not mean that, Meleth—someday your destiny will pull us apart; I want to have you in every way possible until that time.” Crystal tears were staining the elf’s unblemished cheeks, his thick lashes wet and dark against his pale skin.

“What is this, Lassë? You think that I would abandon you after tonight? That I could give you up now that I know you love me? Nay, Beloved—that shall never happen. Please, fear not.” He devoured pink, kiss-swollen lips.

As their mouths came together in heated passion, their bodies followed forcing Aragorn’s engorged organ into the wood-elf’s tight channel. It hurt, but Legolas did not care and he wrapped his remaining slim leg around his lover, tightening his grip until the man was fully entrenched inside him where he belonged.

Two unearthly lovers smiled when they heard Aragorn’s promise and their eternal love mingled with their breathing, flesh and blood counterparts, fueling their already intense desires. Aragorn had planned to be gentle and take their coupling slowly, but he and the elf found themselves moving in a frenzy; their gyrations moving in sync with those of Glingal and Nimphelos who always loved as if it would be their last. Aragorn’s thrusts were almost violent and Legolas’ were equally so; they couldn’t seem to control their ardor for each other and felt as if they were floating on air. Their eyes were shut, but each could see themselves on the bed as well as feel the damp bedclothes sticking to their heated skin.

Then it stopped and they could only feel each other, arms enclosing, lips kissing and bodies moving in the age-old dance of love. Aragorn knew he was nearing completion and he wanted Legolas with him; he did not know it, but his actions mirrored those of Glingal on the last night of his life: He wrapped his sword-roughened palm around his lover’s pale flesh causing Legolas to suck in his breath and utter words close to those of Nimphelos, “I come, Aragorn beloved,” his pearly seed spewing forth between them as his taut canal spasmed around his lover’s flesh near-painfully, forcing out the mortal’s hot fluid, searing them both.

Aragorn and Legolas held each tightly as their quaking forms began to calm; but then Legolas started as he beheld the beautiful, but sad figure standing next to the bed. She was transparent, but he felt he knew her; she was so sad and his heart went out in sympathy. Aragorn uttered, “What is it?” before turning his head to the side, following the elf’s stare; he caught his breath at seeing the young woman. Elena looked from the elf to the man, her tiny hands outstretched.

‘*Forgive me? Please, forgive me?*’ She begged pitifully. She then backed up in fear as the ones she murdered appeared before her. ‘*Please, forgive me?*’ She appealed this time to them.

Never before had they all been seen at one time—only those who experienced unrequited love had seen her. Legolas was the catalyst as he knew that kind of love or so he thought; then he learned that the one he secretly loved, loved him, too—A true and lasting love that conjured Glingal and Nimphelos. Elena trembled, her tears flowing. Her husband and his only love were moved by compassion and mercy and they did what they could not do that night so long ago.

Speaking as one, they uttered, ‘*We forgive you, Elena.*’ Then Glingal moved towards her, taking a delicate hand into his larger one. ‘*It was not your fault any more than it was ours; duty made victims of us. I should not have let it happen, but it did. Be at peace, dear wife as we both shall.*’ He kissed her forehead making her smile, her face serene. Then Glingal and Nimphelos turned to Aragorn and Legolas who still held each other, both spellbound by what they were witnessing.

‘*Do not let duty keep you each from the other; it will only lead to sorrow.*’ The late Steward-prince said as he held his lover to him.

“Fear not for I meant what I said to Legolas; I will never give him up.” His words brought smiles to the beautiful specters and they vanished. Aragorn and Legolas had no real proof, but they knew that the ghosts would not be returning for future lovers and lovelorn who visit this room. They were all three at finally peace.

Legolas cupped Aragorn’s handsome face and asked him, suddenly serious again, “But what of Gondor and your Throne; you will be expected to restore the Kingship and you will need an heir.”

“I will save Gondor or die trying, A’maelamin. If I take the Throne, it will be with you by my side. But if I am forced to choose, I will always choose you. Gondor has survived quite admirably with good men such as Ecthelion II; if need be, the Stewards will continue on protecting this great Kingdom which would be a much easier task once the Evil is vanquished.”

Legolas saw the conviction in Aragorn’s eyes, but he felt he must be sure the man had thought this thing through properly. “This is your birthright; can you walk away from it so easily? And what of Arwen—you’ve often said how much you love her. I would not be the cause of her pain.”

“Gondor *is* my birthright and I will be her King someday; but I will not rule without you at my side. As for Arwen—I do love her, but not as deeply as I once did. My fondness grew out a boy’s first love—it was a beautiful dream. But like early morning mist, it burned away under the bright sun that is my love for you.

“It would be expected for me to take her as my Queen who could give me an heir; but I would not turn her into Elena—unhappy and unloved. And I would not hide you away, loving you in secret as if I were ashamed of you. I adore you, Legolas and the only one who could keep me from you is you and you alone.”

“I would never do that—not ever.” The elf’s smile was radiant. “Love me again?” He did not need to ask twice and they spent entire night in each other’s arms.

The next morning, the Steward took one look at Thorongil and Lassë and he instantly knew that they were in love—his suspicions about them proving true; and for the next 12 years, the elf was a frequent visitor in the White City until Thorongil abruptly left the Steward’s service after defeating the Corsairs at the rebel province of Umbar—walking away from the field of victory after taking the city and killing its leader. Surprising his men and nearly breaking Ecthelion’s heart, he went East to Lothlórien where he met Arwen again. Although her love for him had not changed, he confessed his heart to her about Legolas.

She was hurt and she was angry with him for years afterwards, but her ire cooled eventually and they became as brother and sister; she shared in his joy as Sauron fell and he ascended the Throne of Gondor. His and Legolas’ combined families celebrated along side Minas Tirith and the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor as they bonded, saying their vows of love and devotion before the world. There were grumbles from some who complained of heirs, but they were largely ignored as Middle-earth prospered and its people rejoiced in the days of the King and his Royal Consort.

The World smiled; the Valar smiled and two lovers-of-old smiled from their little corner of Heaven—happy at last.

Finis


The Haunting Glossary:

Nimphelos – The great pearl given by Thingol to the lord of the Dwarves of Belegost.

Glingal – 'Hanging Flame', the image of Laurelin made by Turgon in Gondolin.

Laurelin – 'Song of Gold', the younger of the Two Trees of Valinor.

Elena – Meaning 'of the stars'.

Thorongil – Name used by Aragorn when he served Ecthelion II in Gondor; it was given to him because he was swift and keen-sighted and also wore the star of the Rangers of the North on his cloak.

Lassë – Leaf (Quenya)

Mellon-nin – My Friend

Meldir – Dear Friend (Male)

Adan – Man (Singular of Edain/Men)

Finrod – Noldorin name taken after the eldest son of Finarfin, called 'the Faithful' and 'the Friend of Men.'

Belthil – 'Divine radiance.'

Pen-vuil – Dear One

Imladris – The Elven name for Rivendell, ruled by Lord Elrond, Aragorn’s foster father.

Ithil – The moon (also means ‘Silver sheen’).

Meldomelin – Dear friend

A’mael – Beloved

Meleth – Lover

Seron-vell – Dear lover

Elvish definitions, names and terms mostly taken from the *Silmarillion* and from the reference book *Tolkien’s World From A to Z, The Complete Guide to Middle-earth* by Robert Foster.

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