Straying from the Path
Disclaimer: I do not own anything other than the way the words are arranged.
The armies were gathering, riders and troops from across many countrysides come to bear the burden of Gondor's despair. Warriors crouched around fires to cook makeshift meals, sipping tots of liquor from grimed flasks and discussing the war to come. The bivouac was still but not serene. It vibrated with a sort of restless anticipation that Aragorn found difficult to endure in his current state. Although unwise, he repaired to the surrounding woodland in search of some peace.
It was a cool night but not gelid. As his footsteps carried him farther up the slanted hillside he felt himself sweating. An itinerant breeze glanced off his weathered skin, clearing his mind and sharpening his focus. He inhaled deeply. This was exactly what he had needed. As his boots dug ruts into the rocky slope he wondered after his companions. What did Gimli do to relieve himself during these times of stress? Perhaps he found respite in his humour; indeed, the dwarf's gruff jocularity seemed to know no end.
Aragorn's mind wandered involuntarily to the other member of their odd triad. The flaxen, ever self-assured prince of Mirkwood; the archer with whom Aragorn had developed a mysterious amity over several years of acquainting. Aragorn knew not why, but as he inhaled the rich, dank odour of the forest he craved to speak with the elf. Was it the strength that burned behind Legolas's soft-spoken utterances? The gleam in his deceivingly placid eyes? Perhaps he wielded the wisdom Aragorn seemed to have misplaced tonight.
Something rustled up ahead. The ranger froze. Reaching for his blade, he muffled his breath and listened avidly. The sound continued but it did not seem to be coming any closer. What was it? Upon reconsideration, it wasn't so much a rustling but something else... something distinctly... human? Not quite. Somebody was sighing, drawing in deep, chesty breaths. Alarmed, Aragorn proceeded silently, ever ready, sword drawn and muscles tensed.
The forest gave way to a small glade. Aragorn lingered in the darkness, scanning the opening with practiced eyes. A small pond welled upon the humble plateau, banked around by various rocks and boulders which were abraded and shaped into crooked shapes by the weltering alpine freshets. Squinting, Aragorn made out a figure leaning against one of these rocks. The figure was leaning back, one arm flung above its head against the pewter stone, the other grasping at its front. Was it injured?
Aragorn moved forward slowly. It would be ridiculous to risk his life for an untried soldier who had strayed from the path, perhaps having been gored by a mountain beast or wounded in a haughty touch with a tough from a rival host. Nevertheless, Aragorn loathed to see anybody suffer unnecessarily. He was close enough now to see who the person was, and he was hard pressed to quell his gasp.
Legolas's boots dug into the loamy turf, pushing himself ardently against the supporting stone as if to ground himself against an invisible earthquake. His bow and quiver were piled at the base of the rock, his back arched and his stance uncharacteristically unguarded. His outflung arm alternated between open-palmed and fist, twisting tirelessly in the wan moonlight, and his other hand...
Aragorn swallowed hard. He had worked with many men on the road, sometimes young, sometimes old, all of whom needed to dampen their bodily hungers at one time or another. If one was discovered performing these particular chores, the awkwardness was often shrugged off or laughed away, and in time, Aragorn had grown accustomed to the needs of men. But in regards to the needs of elves...
...he felt suddenly as painfully callow as the soldier he had condescended in his mind mere moments past. Legolas worked himself in deep, slow strokes, his breathe astoundingly calm for the passion exhibited by his arousal. Aragorn was transfixed. He watched the way the muscles in the elf's arm flexed and tensed as his hand moved up and down. Legolas's tunic was rucked up under his armpits and his leggings yanked down, exposing a generous portion of his lissom stomach, which was taught and rigid with latent pleasure.
As the elf's deep sighs tightened into sharper gasps, Aragorn found himself breathing in quite the same way. His palm had grown so sweaty that his sword almost slipped from his grasp. His other hand gripped a fallen tree in his path, warping its desiccated bark like warm putty. Go back. Return to the camp. The logical chorus slipped away into the pale air like smoke in the wind. He could not look away.
The elf was touching himself at an impressive speed now. His motions echoed softly throughout the clearing, perhaps indiscernible but for the ears of rangers and wood-folk. He leaned back, farther back than Aragorn thought possible, and his eyes began to roll back in his head...
"Wait!"
Somehow, conducted by some unknown and absurd motivation, Aragorn found that he had stepped into the glade and presented himself. Realizing what he had done, he put on the best show of dispassionate discipline that he could manage, sheathing his sword with a neat clack . His eyes, seemingly on their own accord, trailed over the person before him and he tilted his head in what he hoped was a pleasant greeting. When the elf made no move to cover himself, he looked away.
"Greetings, Aragorn," Legolas spoke welcomingly, a witty smile dancing upon his panting mouth. "What brings you so far up the mountain at this ungodly hour?" Despite his humorous expression, the elf's voice was breathy and jumpy with tense restraint. Aragorn noticed that his hand had slowed but not completely stilled.
"I might ask the same of you, my friend," Aragorn prevaricated, flipping his hair to the side and surveying the night sky. "Your fondness of starlight has led you to neglect caution. These woods are chancy."
"You choose to speak of starlight at a time like this," Legolas laughed softly. He finally let himself go and raised his hand, beckoning to the ranger. "Come."
"What did you say?" Aragorn asked quietly, meeting the elf's eyes once more.
"Come."
"For what reason?"
"For whatever reason you asked me to wait," Legolas intoned, lancing Aragorn with his blue eyes. Slowly, playfully, he lowered his hand once more, taking hold of himself and Aragorn's self-control. In one sharp motion he darted his hand up and down, gasping in a half-moan as he did, his mouth dropping open into an ecstatic grin. And again. And again. The gravel gritted loudly against his boots and the coarse scrim of his cloak caught on the stone as he pushed his back into it, rocking his hips against the rough boulder. The entire time he retained Aragorn's overwrought gaze without falter.
Before he knew what he was doing the ranger was striding forward, seizing the elf's hand and bringing it up over his head to join the other. "I said you shall wait," he ordered.
He had not planned ahead, and in order to make the reach, he found himself pressed against the elf, navel-to-navel.
"And since when might an elf obey a man?" Legolas breathed. He struggled impishly for a moment until he noticed where their bodies met, and then his struggle became noticeably more rhythmic. He had begun to grind against Aragorn's thighs, tossing his head back and wallowing in the ranger's frantic discomfort, moaning shamelessly into the benighted forest.
"Shush!" Aragorn barked, sacrificing a hand to cover Legolas's mouth, bracing the elf's recalcitrant hips with the other. The elf took advantage of his hands' newfound freedom and yanked up the ranger's shirt. Aragorn moved to stop him and found that the elf's ridiculous strength had returned in full force.
"You come up here-" Legolas said, now pulling down Aragorn's britches, "-interrupting me in my habits-" the ranger was now just as exposed as the elf, "-and you have the temerity to tell me what to do?"
Somehow the elf's leggings were gone. He flipped his leg up, wrapping it around Aragorn's back and pulling him into a breathy, sweaty vice. "No, my friend. Tonight you will do as I wish." The elf spat on his hand and reached down to grip Aragorn's already painfully aroused cock. "Although, it would seem as though this doesn't devastate you too thoroughly, does it Aragorn?" He spoke the ranger's name in a dangerous, silky whisper as he touched him. Aragorn blushed and gritted his teeth wordlessly, and with that, the elf guided him to his opening.
Aragorn found himself pushing deep into his comrade. He choked on his own gasp, clutching a handful of the elf's golden hair as he did. After a couple moments he began to move against the rock as Legolas had done, except he was facing the boulder instead of leaning his back against it, and there just happened to be a writhing elf warrior in between himself and its stony heft.
Legolas began to mutter phrases in elvish that Aragorn understood but could not make sense of. The elf's slender arms stretched back and his body pulsed with the ranger's steady rhythm. Aragorn braced himself against Legolas's hips, rocking deeper and harder. Legolas's moans rang in his ears, threatening to bring the venture to a sooner close than Aragorn might have planned, although, he could see that Legolas was just about as close to bursting as he. The elf's eyes had rolled back into his head once more and he moved his hips against Aragorn's so as to stroke himself against Aragorn's stomach.
"A-ara-" Legolas gasped. His eyebrows rose in gratification and he bucked hard, pushing against the ranger with breathtaking force. Aragorn was enveloped in a chaos of spasmodic depth and felt himself explode. The orgasm peaked and he leaned forward, pulling the elf into a kiss as his essence ran forth in gushing, pumping spurts. Legolas kissed back, open mouthed and shameless, raking his hands through Aragorn's dark hair.
At once it was over. Aragorn pulled back just enough to study Legolas's face. The elf's peaceful eyes gave way to a moment of uncertainty, reflecting the glow of the heavens like pellucid orbs. His hands still embedded in Aragorn's hair, he dropped his gaze diffidently and Aragorn furrowed his brow in mild concern. "What is it, Mellon?"
When the elf failed to respond, Aragorn gently lifted his face with a forefinger; Legolas allowed for this, retaking the ranger's look with tremulous bravery. When he spoke, the elf's voice burned with the same desperation that it had the distant day in Rivendale when Boromir had spoken out of turn. "I am sorry, Estel. I do not know what happened to me. My courtesies. I cannot explain it; it often occurs when... when I feel a certain way. I-"
Aragorn let fly an involuntary, affable laugh and Legolas's eyes widened in shock. It soon became clear that the ranger was enjoying a moment of friendly hilarity, and the elf tilted his head in bemusement.
"I suppose I already knew you in an assortment of ways. Now it is another," Aragorn chuckled nonchalantly.
"Well I... I hope I have not disappointed you, my friend," Legolas muttered respectfully.
"Shush." Aragorn held a finger to the elf's lips. "I am honoured to see you like this. And if I know you at all, this will not the last of it."
FIN