Warnings: Slash (Aragorn x Legolas) and NOT a happy story.
Truth be told I just wanna write something about the dark side of a certain character that usually don't appear in the stories.
Disclaimer: Not mine. (Duh!)
Love
It first started after Arwen fell pregnant.
Sure, they had done things before that. Being young in a world of beauty, it was only natural for Aragorn to surrender to his curiosity here and there. Not to mention one can only stand the lonely, cold nights of the wild for so long.
Still it was only after his heir was conceived, growing strong in his love's womb that Aragorn really considered reminiscing some adventures of his youth. After all, every king has needs. A warm bed was one of them.
Legolas was already there, standing tall like a young tree even if his eyes betrayed his true age. He was waiting for his king, his friend, at ready just like he did in times of war. But there was no bow on his back, no knives. For once in his life, Aragorn saw the elf weaponless in every sense of the word.
And Aragorn liked it.
There was no need for words. In fact, the man couldn't remember opening his mouth a single time. Even when he reached completion, there was no name to scream, no vow to shout.
They parted before dawn, cleaning themselves and redressing in silence. No lingering look was given, no last caress or swift kiss. They merely left the chamber and went to opposite directions.
And Aragorn smiled, content for the first time in weeks.
The second time Aragorn went for Legolas was also for need, though one of the heart, not of the flesh.
Arwen was dead. Her life taken in childbirth. The king was left to rule alone with not one but two newborns to take care.
It was an exhausting and far too impossible task for one man alone. Newborns are always hard to deal with but Aragorn had little experience in the matters. The fact he had to look for two children instead of one a curse more than a blessing in the early days.
It was then that Aragorn searched for the elf, the only one that could drown his sorrows and worries. The one that would consume all his thoughts and not demand anything in return.
And it could be just his grief – or the desperate need to get rid of it – but that night Aragorn basked in a sinful passion he had never known existed. His whole soul burned with desire, the wish to take, to possess until there was nothing left.
That night the king came like never before.
But as the new dawn broke through the dark horizon so did the king break free from the hold of the archer. And again they parted without a word.
It took five years until Aragorn gave in a third time.
There had been pressure for another queen and one fine day like many others Aragorn found himself wondering if it wasn't indeed time to let Arwen fade into memory like so many things had. Not to mention it was impossible to raise two boys without a maternal figure. That much was clear.
The chosen lady was a beautiful woman, no older than Arwen was when they married, if her face was to match her years that is. The king had thought long and hard about that particular lady, wondering how the nobles would take such difference in age, but in the end his heart won again.
Besides, he didn't feel old in the sightless. Why should he act like it?
The weeding was brief. It held not even half of the noble, almost divine air the first one so easily portrayed but it was still lovely and rich by its own terms. Both the nobles and the people were happy, a coincidence far too rare for Aragorn's taste, and the king was willing to enjoy.
He also secretly enjoyed the elf standing on the forgotten background, waiting for his summon.
The wedding night was a sweet affair, a soft lullaby that easily pulled the new queen to a land of dreams. But not the king. Silent like a cat, Aragorn sneaked away from the royal bed. He still had the joy in his heart and it was screaming for release. Not one at the hands of a young, naïve lady raised in velvet and gold but one of wild and pleasure and fire. The type of joy a proper king should not feel.
That night he took Legolas under the stars, in a far enough place they could scream with all their might and still remain hidden and unknown.
It was an unnecessary burden, though. Neither of them spoke a word.
It was nearly three decades later when Aragorn sought the elf, and he wasn't even sure why. He was happy with his queen and the kingdom flourished like never before. He had five beautiful children, all gifted with intelligence and beauty. Aragorn had no doubt all of his children would be easily accepted by the people and, most importantly, rule well.
And perhaps that's what made him restless. The fact neither of his children were truly children anymore. The twins were thirty five; his third son, thirty two and his forth, twenty seven. Even his sweet little girl, the gift he never expected to receive, had just turned twenty.
No, none of them were children. They hadn't been for a long time.
Alas, it was wrong. For Aragorn did not feel old.
As he took Legolas, pounding into him with all his might, that was the desperate prayer Aragorn silently held through the night.
I'm not old. I'm not old. I'm not old.
It was only after the birth of his second grandchild that Aragorn pondered if something was indeed wrong. Whatever fear he had of aging faded long ago, replaced by the knowledge that yes, he was definitely old.
But he did not feel like it. And that thought alone was enough to keep him awake during the night. He did not care before – in fact, Aragorn was more than happy when he noticed how easily the years pilled on his shoulders – but now something felt off. Like an annoying itch he could not reach. The fact he no longer had a kingdom to rule only made things worse.
And there was Legolas. The elf Aragorn could no longer resist, still as beautiful as the first time they met. After Arwen's death Legolas became the jewel of the White City, a title the king took more pride on than the elf himself. Almost every night Aragorn would leave his bed and meet the archer in secret, the four walls of their chamber the only place he could let himself go.
Alas, such relief was also a curse. For every night Aragorn would notice how ease it was for him to perform, to give pleasure and reach completion, to remain awake and burning the whole night. It did not make any sense. Someone of his age should not be able to do so much, neither walk away like nothing ever happened. The king knew old people. Their fears and diseases, scars and, deep down, the knowledge they would not remain in this earth for long.
Yet the king could not see any of it in himself. He tried. Valar knows he tried. But every time he looked into the mirror he saw a strong man with a sword on his belt and fire on his eyes.
So he blamed his blood. The blood of the Eldar that granted him a long life. And kept his hold on Legolas.
Because Legolas never change.
And Aragorn was starting to wonder if he would be left alone in the end.
The cry echoed for a heartbeat, maybe two before cheers took over the once silent halls. And yet, Aragorn could not find in his heart to care.
It was his twentieth grand-grandchildren after all.
Looking around, the once king tried to pretend like so many times before, but the sights of old faces killed whatever efforts he was about to make. After so many winters, Aragorn could no longer see the prideful family he fathered. Three of his sons were already dead, with the last one struggling not to join them. His only daughter had left, going to live with a noble in another city, taking with her the ghost of Gondor's second queen. That left his grandchildren, the four already had graves, be it by disease or some stupid accident or another. Seven of the living ones still lived in the palace that is. But even those days were counted, the once king could tell.
He would be alone.
So Aragorn gave up pretending. Getting up, he did not spare even a glance to his family or in laws. He didn't even look at the healer and the bundle in her arms.
But Aragorn could see, rather, he could feel the ancient presence moving, following him with silent steps.
Every dream must fade.
No matter how pleasurable or endless it seems, in the end, all dreams will shatter, leaving the dreamer to stumble back to reality with empty hands.
To Aragorn it happened one night, the first of the winter, when he found himself on all fours, Legolas pounding deeply inside him.
Silence was deafening.
It was then Aragorn realized he never possessed the elf, not even in the beginning when he was truly young.
He never possessed anything.
Aragorn's fingers caressed the old stone, getting rid of the small layer of snow. It was a futile effort, he knew it well, but it gave him something to do other than feel the weight of the place he was now in.
And yet, when the stone was clean enough to read the name engraved in it so long ago, the man could not help but feel whatever part of him that was still whole crack.
"Arwen..." – cold lips whispered, numb fingers caressing the stone once more. It was there, wasn't it? When it all started? Or was he wrong like so many times in the past?
Did Arwen know what would become of her king?
Daring to look to the side, gray eyes fell on another tombstone. Arwen's sons. His sons. Buried side by side with their mother.
And behind them…
Aragorn knew he should not look but he could not help himself. After so many years, it was his duty. He owned his family that simple, yet heartbreaking act.
Raising his head, Aragorn faced his legacy. The sea of tombstones stared back, cold and silent like everything seemed to be nowadays. Each one covered in a thin layer of snow, each hiding a name that should have not been forgotten.
Try as he might, Aragorn could not remember when it all started.
And yet, now he knew the culprit. He felt childish – stupid even – but now Aragorn knew.
And now he wanted answers.
"Why?" – the word was bitter but soft, the sound nearly lost in the wind. And, for a moment, Aragorn thought he would be left in silence.
But that word was also the first he spoke to the elf in decades. It deserved an answer.
"Because Hope is cruel."
"I'm not. It was you who corrupted me." – Aragorn frowned, body tense and ready to strike.
But he knew better.
"Did I? For it was always you who came to me, not the other way around. "
It was true. Aragorn had no answer for that.
"I was born to be cold. The leaf atop the highest tree. Never falling, never changing." – arms sneaked around the man's torso, possessive arms, too strong to be forced apart. Cold lips found the man's ear – "And yet, the first time I saw you I knew. Hope would be my ruin."
"You dare speak of ruin? You lost nothing!" – Aragorn cursed his weakness, the memories that made him melt into that touch. If only he was strong enough to break free…
"I lost everything." – despite the accusation cold lips twisted on a smile – "For you, my cruel Hope, I gave up my kin, my family, my blood. Even the sea can no longer call me away from you."
"I never asked you this! Or demanded you to stay!" – Aragorn hissed. It was all the reaction he could muster.
"You never told me to leave either."
Aragorn sighed, unconsciously melting even more against the elf's warm body. He wanted it all to be a dream, to wake up in bed, back in the beginning, surrounded by his family and the friend he loved the most.
But his family was dead. And his friend…
His friend…
"Why?" – the question escaped a second time, once again almost drowning in the increasing wind.
"Because… I was never first to you."
Aragorn tensed, dread creeping into his long broken heart. And, for a moment, he regretted his question, as well as his folly. Alas, it was too late now. Cold lips were no longer smiling.
"You kept me in the dark, the secret no one could ever know. I was never freed, nor was I treasured."
"I-I had Arwen. You knew that."
"You mean the queen you betrayed the moment she could no longer lay with you?" – a short laugh, void of any mirth – "Silly Hope. Do not hide from your heart what your eyes tell so easily."
"I'm not! I truly loved her!" – Aragorn shivered, his thin robe doing poorly against the wind. All around them, small snowflakes started to fall again.
"I know." – the answer was soft, and if the man didn't know any better he would swear he heard grief in that voice – "Alas you enjoyed seeing me fade, living only for your summons."
"I…I did." – Aragorn sighed, defeated at last. He could no longer deny or make excuses – "I never thought…"
"You never thought I would stay." – one hand moved, laying on the bearded face, melting the few snowflakes that laid there – "I told you, Hope is cruel. I knew I should not, but I could not help waiting for my turn."
A moment of silence fell, in which both man and elf considered their next moves. Their game was coming to an end, they could both feel it, but there were still things to settle.
"I'm sorry." – Aragorn let out, the words true to the core – "I was selfish."
"You are not the only one selfish, nor the only one sorry." – Legolas sighed, his embrace becoming tender, less possessive – "Maybe, if things had been different, we could have learned how to love each other properly."
"I would have liked that."
"I know."
Aragorn took a deep breath, ignoring the cold air that filled his lungs. After so long, it felt like he could finally breathe again.
There was only one thing left.
The once king moved his hand, finding the handle of the knife with ease. Taking advantage of his still perfectly young body, he spun around and stroked.
Only to have his hand caught by two gentle ones.
Legolas was smiling, his face calm. It was like he had already seen the attack and was not bothered in the least. In fact, his eyes were full of emotion, tears rolling down his face and slowly freezing.
"Would you like to come with me?" – the elf asked with innocent joy. He did not move the blade, even if he could easily do so, and the tip remained pointed to his heart.
Against all odds, Aragorn found himself hoping one last time.
"Can I?"
Legolas nodded, his smile growing even more tender, bringing light to the sorrowful graveyard. He held the man's hand with care, once again ignoring the weapon between them, and slowly led them away from the sea of tombstones. They didn't go far, though, merely crossing the yard until they found a big, old tree.
Aragorn smiled. Even in all that chaos he could not help but notice the single, green leaf standing proud on the highest branch.
"Do you like it?" – a soft voice brought the man back and he noticed the soil had been moved, roots forcing open the frozen ground, creating a deep hole.
But it wasn't a simple hole. It was a grave.
A grave for two.
"How..?"
But Legolas only smiled.
They lowered themselves in, side by side. The soil was hard from the cold and a good layer of snow had already piled up but nothing of it mattered. They lay on their sides, facing each other.
For a moment, they could only breathe.
But then Aragorn raised his knife again, and this time Legolas did not hold him.
"Forgive me." – Aragorn spoke, his voice cracking under so many emotions. Deep down he wished he could say he loved the elf, but it would not be right so he settled for forgiveness – "I could not love you the way you deserved."
Legolas smiled softly, new tears marking his pale skin.
"Forgive me for keeping you here."
It was fast, the end. Only a small pull and the blade slid nicely inside the elegant body, stroking the heart like one would do to a lover. Blue eyes widened only a little, but Legolas did not cry or gasp. Quite the opposite, he only took a deep breath. The last one.
Estel…
Then the life of the Eldar faded and Legolas was no more.
Aragorn moved, holding the limp body with care, marveling at the warmth and sweet smell for whatever long he still could. Already he could feel the magic fading, letting the years pile up like the snow falling on him.
It wouldn't be long now.
Kissing the delicate lips one last time, Aragorn closed his eyes.
The last thing the old king felt were the roots' sweet embrace.