PAIRING: Aragorn / Legolas
WARNING: This is implied slash. Of the m/m variety. If that doesn't set off *your* fireworks then you're in the wrong Shyre. Hit the back button now. I warn you of character death talk (Boromir's). I warn of angst and darkness. No fluff. Much anger.
RATING: PG
DISTRIBUTION: I'd love to know if any archives want it.
DISCLAIMER: They quite obviously are not mine. I make no money.
SPOILERS: For the film "The Fellowship of the Ring"
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is based on the film, as I've never been able to get my hands on the books in the order that they should be read. Hopefully, one day soon, my turn will come. Also, my first ever fiction in this fandom. I don't know the ins and outs or the rules in this fandom, or how slash is received - if it is received at all. So please, cut me some slack.
FEEDBACK: Is ambrosia
DEDICATION: For, um…. never mind.
ALL THOUGHTS IN "…" AND EMPHASIS IN *…*
____________________________________________
Weakness of Men, Power of Kings
It was after Boromir died that the anger struck. The resentment. Before, his perceived fallibility, the weakness that came with his ancestral blood, had evoked nothing but an oppressive guilt in him, along with a fierce determination.
But now, with the taste of Boromir's confession bitter in his mouth and heart, he burned. The hurt scorched his soul. And he was honest enough with himself to admit that it was less out of attachment to the man that he hurt, but more out of horror and shame.
The dying man's confession to him, while most brave, also displayed his greatest weaknesses. The greed in him, the weakened will. The eventual betrayal of fellowship, trust, honour and self.
And Aragorn, in his deeply perceptive way, wouldn't have minded half as much if he didn't recognize these flaws in himself. Indeed, in every man. Man. Men. Flawed race, race beyond hope. The fallen.
His inner humiliation, disillusionment and mortification swirled desperately inside him, seeking an outlet other than noble tears and righteous conviction.
And he saw the dwarf and, for a brief moment, bent there over his dead, a savage instinct to fight reared its head. One traceable back to a more primal age where sect was sect and anyone without of your tribe was Enemy.
But the urge faded as quickly as it had come when he remembered the greed of the dwarfish race, the pride and materialism that they shared with men. He and Gimli, Men and Dwarves, they were in the same boat, fighting the same inner battles. They shared shortcomings. And something in him straining and chomping at the bit, relaxed.
Then, raising wraith like behind the dwarf, stepping lightly on the blood saturated, body scattered earth, utterly composed, came Legolas.
The Elf
The Serene
The Untouchable
The Perfect
He who never once had faulted. He who stood pure above Aragorn.
Aragorn the man.
The ranger.
The powerless king.
Strider.
He of multitudinous imperfections.
There was a time, before, when Aragorn's acknowledgement of this faultlessness would have come as reverence. Now in the bloody aftermath, it descended upon him as rage.
* * *
Aragorn locked gazes with Legolas and his rage flashed between them. Aragorn knew the elf could sense the powerful emotion, though the blond traveler displayed no surprise at it.
"One knows such things when one is so above men." concluded Aragorn bitterly.
And, seething, he averted his eyes.
* * *
It was later that night. Their camping sight was a dismal affair owing to the fact that it was not safe enough to light a fire. Despite the cold and damp of the forest Gimli was soon snoring. Sleeping was hardly the correct term for the reclining Legolas. In his mind Aragorn called it "resting."
Looking at the ethereal creature, Aragorn felt his rage and resentment rise in him. He looked away yet again and rose from his seated position leaning against a tree. He had to leave this place. Leave *his* presence.
"Taking a walk," thought Aragorn, "is not running away."
He just had to cool off, wade through his raging sea of thoughts. He walked blindly through the forest. Long years of training made him automatically stealthy while he focused on other matters. Matters more demanding than the earth and trees and heavy night around him. He had to find a way to curb his anger.
"Curbing it will do you no good. You must vent it."
Legolas.
* * *
Aragorn couldn't tell if it was due to awe or anger, but looking at him made it hard to breathe. There may have been a moon out but the forest canopy was thick, the darkness dense, spots of moonshine fragmented in tiny pools on the forest floor.
What little light there was seemed to stream together and form a halo around Legolas. The milky silver of it seemed to shimmer in the air, almost as though at his mastery. "But it makes sense," thought Aragorn, "light to light. Darkness to darkness."
The elf stood there, in the tiny clearing, leaning on nothing, letting his perfect posture speak for itself. For the ease he felt here, for the natural way he moved in all places. As though he belonged - and they belong to him. It's not that Legolas was arrogant. That is a flaw quite beyond the elf. But he was commanding. He was all things natural. He was the product of all the virtues of Earth.
His silver - blond hair gleamed along with the pale hue of his skin. Even at this distance, Aragorn could discern the flash of mercurial blue eyes. Yes, he belonged, but in the same breath he was far too good for this place. Altogether too beautiful. Aragorn decided to halt his thoughts at that hazardous word.
"If I vent," he replied, "it will not be pretty." Besides being a warning, it was a question. It was asking if Legolas could bear this. It was giving him the opportunity to back away. To disappear into the forest shadows as silently as he had come.
"I know." Said the elf quietly and reached back to unfasten his hair with long, nimble fingers. It slid silkily over his shoulders, his acceptance whispering in the action.
Aragorn's throat closed.
* * *
Aragorn was caught in a vortex of emotions. Despite his constant awareness of his flawed human state, he felt for the first time the undeniable power of his blood. He felt the urge of a ruler: to conquer, to dominate. It came with the realization of the power he held over Legolas. Legolas who was submitting his beautiful self to this.
Somewhere, a tiny voice echoed in Aragorn's mind that perhaps Legolas was more of a ruler just for his admirable sacrifice. That it took more courage to do as he was now than Aragorn was ever capable of.
Aragorn mentally shut the voice in a little box and threw away the imagined key. He pictured himself wielding his wrath as one would a weapon. In his mind's eye he saw the perfect one on his knees before him. It was time to play the game of kings.
WARNING: This is implied slash. Of the m/m variety. If that doesn't set off *your* fireworks then you're in the wrong Shyre. Hit the back button now. I warn you of character death talk (Boromir's). I warn of angst and darkness. No fluff. Much anger.
RATING: PG
DISTRIBUTION: I'd love to know if any archives want it.
DISCLAIMER: They quite obviously are not mine. I make no money.
SPOILERS: For the film "The Fellowship of the Ring"
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is based on the film, as I've never been able to get my hands on the books in the order that they should be read. Hopefully, one day soon, my turn will come. Also, my first ever fiction in this fandom. I don't know the ins and outs or the rules in this fandom, or how slash is received - if it is received at all. So please, cut me some slack.
FEEDBACK: Is ambrosia
DEDICATION: For, um…. never mind.
ALL THOUGHTS IN "…" AND EMPHASIS IN *…*
____________________________________________
Weakness of Men, Power of Kings
It was after Boromir died that the anger struck. The resentment. Before, his perceived fallibility, the weakness that came with his ancestral blood, had evoked nothing but an oppressive guilt in him, along with a fierce determination.
But now, with the taste of Boromir's confession bitter in his mouth and heart, he burned. The hurt scorched his soul. And he was honest enough with himself to admit that it was less out of attachment to the man that he hurt, but more out of horror and shame.
The dying man's confession to him, while most brave, also displayed his greatest weaknesses. The greed in him, the weakened will. The eventual betrayal of fellowship, trust, honour and self.
And Aragorn, in his deeply perceptive way, wouldn't have minded half as much if he didn't recognize these flaws in himself. Indeed, in every man. Man. Men. Flawed race, race beyond hope. The fallen.
His inner humiliation, disillusionment and mortification swirled desperately inside him, seeking an outlet other than noble tears and righteous conviction.
And he saw the dwarf and, for a brief moment, bent there over his dead, a savage instinct to fight reared its head. One traceable back to a more primal age where sect was sect and anyone without of your tribe was Enemy.
But the urge faded as quickly as it had come when he remembered the greed of the dwarfish race, the pride and materialism that they shared with men. He and Gimli, Men and Dwarves, they were in the same boat, fighting the same inner battles. They shared shortcomings. And something in him straining and chomping at the bit, relaxed.
Then, raising wraith like behind the dwarf, stepping lightly on the blood saturated, body scattered earth, utterly composed, came Legolas.
The Elf
The Serene
The Untouchable
The Perfect
He who never once had faulted. He who stood pure above Aragorn.
Aragorn the man.
The ranger.
The powerless king.
Strider.
He of multitudinous imperfections.
There was a time, before, when Aragorn's acknowledgement of this faultlessness would have come as reverence. Now in the bloody aftermath, it descended upon him as rage.
* * *
Aragorn locked gazes with Legolas and his rage flashed between them. Aragorn knew the elf could sense the powerful emotion, though the blond traveler displayed no surprise at it.
"One knows such things when one is so above men." concluded Aragorn bitterly.
And, seething, he averted his eyes.
* * *
It was later that night. Their camping sight was a dismal affair owing to the fact that it was not safe enough to light a fire. Despite the cold and damp of the forest Gimli was soon snoring. Sleeping was hardly the correct term for the reclining Legolas. In his mind Aragorn called it "resting."
Looking at the ethereal creature, Aragorn felt his rage and resentment rise in him. He looked away yet again and rose from his seated position leaning against a tree. He had to leave this place. Leave *his* presence.
"Taking a walk," thought Aragorn, "is not running away."
He just had to cool off, wade through his raging sea of thoughts. He walked blindly through the forest. Long years of training made him automatically stealthy while he focused on other matters. Matters more demanding than the earth and trees and heavy night around him. He had to find a way to curb his anger.
"Curbing it will do you no good. You must vent it."
Legolas.
* * *
Aragorn couldn't tell if it was due to awe or anger, but looking at him made it hard to breathe. There may have been a moon out but the forest canopy was thick, the darkness dense, spots of moonshine fragmented in tiny pools on the forest floor.
What little light there was seemed to stream together and form a halo around Legolas. The milky silver of it seemed to shimmer in the air, almost as though at his mastery. "But it makes sense," thought Aragorn, "light to light. Darkness to darkness."
The elf stood there, in the tiny clearing, leaning on nothing, letting his perfect posture speak for itself. For the ease he felt here, for the natural way he moved in all places. As though he belonged - and they belong to him. It's not that Legolas was arrogant. That is a flaw quite beyond the elf. But he was commanding. He was all things natural. He was the product of all the virtues of Earth.
His silver - blond hair gleamed along with the pale hue of his skin. Even at this distance, Aragorn could discern the flash of mercurial blue eyes. Yes, he belonged, but in the same breath he was far too good for this place. Altogether too beautiful. Aragorn decided to halt his thoughts at that hazardous word.
"If I vent," he replied, "it will not be pretty." Besides being a warning, it was a question. It was asking if Legolas could bear this. It was giving him the opportunity to back away. To disappear into the forest shadows as silently as he had come.
"I know." Said the elf quietly and reached back to unfasten his hair with long, nimble fingers. It slid silkily over his shoulders, his acceptance whispering in the action.
Aragorn's throat closed.
* * *
Aragorn was caught in a vortex of emotions. Despite his constant awareness of his flawed human state, he felt for the first time the undeniable power of his blood. He felt the urge of a ruler: to conquer, to dominate. It came with the realization of the power he held over Legolas. Legolas who was submitting his beautiful self to this.
Somewhere, a tiny voice echoed in Aragorn's mind that perhaps Legolas was more of a ruler just for his admirable sacrifice. That it took more courage to do as he was now than Aragorn was ever capable of.
Aragorn mentally shut the voice in a little box and threw away the imagined key. He pictured himself wielding his wrath as one would a weapon. In his mind's eye he saw the perfect one on his knees before him. It was time to play the game of kings.