Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just saying. Because if I did, I would not do this to Aragorn.
Author's Note: This is just a silly little piece I typed up. It takes place after the RotK, sometime during the point where Aragorn is trying to establish his reign in Arnor as its King. This is my first try at anything even vaguely fan fiction, so yeah. Enjoy?
The night was cold, so Aragorn pulled his long dark cloak closer to his very tall, lean frame. As he walked quickly through the town of Bree, other men stared at this lone Ranger — one of those folks, they all thought snidely. His boots were covered in inches of putrid mud, as was the hem of his cloak, and beneath his hood he wore a strangely calm, almost indifferent mien. Though they would only admit their derision, they could not take their eyes off the mysterious Ranger. They all snapped their attention away as he vanished into the door of the Prancing Pony.
Legolas was nervous, sitting at a table in the corner playing with the hem of his own cloak. His heart was beating just a little faster than normal, but it wasn't because he was the only elf in the bar. It was because of whom he waited for.
Almost like a sixth sense, Legolas felt Aragorn enter the bar. Jerking his head up, he saw him flick a gold coin onto the counter and motion with his hand to old Butterbur. He felt his heart speed up as Aragorn pulled back his hood and approached the scrubbed wooden table.
"How goes it, friend?" Aragorn said, smiling widely and clapping Legolas on the shoulder. The momentary pressure of the man's hand on his back made Legolas sit straighter, causing a momentary flicker of doubt in his friend's eyes. But dismissing it, Aragorn sat down heavily, throwing his boots up on a nearby stool.
"So, Legolas, what is so important and secret that we both needed to meet in the most disreputable bar in town?" he asked, lighting his pipe.
Legolas swallowed hard, gazing at the man's hand as it flicked the small cedar match to the floor. The ring of Barahir glinted softly in the golden glow of candlelight.
Clearing his throat, Legolas started.
"I'd like to talk about us."
Instantly, Aragorn sucked in air from his pipe in alarm, inhaling pipeweed cinders.
"What are you talking about, elf? There is no us. I'm married," he choked out, pounding his chest hard. Legolas reached over, grabbed his back, and gave him a smart smack in the chest. The man stopped choking, and as he tried to push Legolas away, the elf pushed a stray strand of hair out of the man's face.
"I'm serious, Aragorn. That night in Lothlorien, it meant so much to me."
One of the barkeeps came and laid a pint of ale on the table in front of Aragorn, as an awkward silence hung about the two friends. Aragorn fiddled with the mug's pewter handle for a while as Legolas gazed at him, trying to see past the usual mask of stoic indifference.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Aragorn spoke.
"Legolas, that night in Lothlorien, and this conversation — it never happened." He stood up to leave.
Legolas, heart breaking, grabbed his hand as he turned to go.
"Aragorn, I - I love you."
Coldly, the man shook off his hold. Again, Legolas grabbed his hand. Aragorn spun around angrily, hand resting lightly on Anduril, when he suddenly met the elf's blue eyes. They were shining, desperate.
Seeing as how he had caught his love's attention, Legolas decided to reveal the last thing he had set out to tell him.
"Aragorn, I'm pregnant. And it's yours."