Loophole

By Minnow In the Clouds

Parts 1/1

Disclaimer: I do not own, never have own and most likely never will own anything related to Lord of the Rings aside from the fan merchandise I've wasted countless dollars on. I am not writing this to insult anybody, nor to acquire profit of any description. This is only for fun! Don't sue, please. (=P)

Warning: This is a R-Rated Slash story, meaning that if you are under the maturity level needed to read this without reviewing me and having a spasm of epic proportions explaining in detail your disgust because you are either too young or homophobic you should hit the back button you're your browser REALLY QUICKLY! Also, this story doesn't have a happy ending, for those of you searching for one (I've got a sadistic Lemony Snicket thing happening here, I reckon)

Summary: A pre-Arwen Aragorn discovers the Jewel of Mirkwood, but also finds that destiny may play a larger part in his heart than what he actually wants to feel.

Feedback: I absolutely love reviews. Creative criticism is incredibly appreciated. If you want to email me, you can find me at tomorrow_is_eternal@hotmail.com . I don't have MSN, AIM or any instant messenger programs due to an incredibly ghetto computer, sorry! Flames are appreciated if they at least add some sort of critique I can use to improve my writing method. Otherwise, keep it to yourself, please. (=D)

Aragorn had loved Legolas, so he thought, since the very first time they had met. Legolas had been confident, the regal Prince of Mirkwood, and had showed the then-young Aragorn such grace and kindness despite Aragorn's childlike ignorance that it seemed impossible not to love him. When, flushed and tired in his arms, Aragorn asked Legolas at night when the Elf had first known he loved him, the blonde would only manage through his fatigue a wide smile, and insist that he'd always known.

Neither had ever known a greater couple than themselves. Though Aragorn's people cared greatly for the borders of gender in love, Elves paid very little heed-to them, love was love, regardless of trivialities of gender. There had, of course, been complications from the beginning mostly based around their parents; Legolas daren't tell his father that he was involved with a mortal, and there was no way that Aragorn, heir of Gondor, could tell Elrond that he was involved with a male. It was written in his destiny that he needed an heir, and therefore a wife.

Their relationship had therefore been kept secret for all of the five years it had forcefully endured. There was never a moment where they weren't completely in love with each other; even when they argued, it never lasted long. Neither of them seemed to be able to coherently survive without the other's touch, at the end of the day. Even though they couldn't share the beauty of their love publically, they felt the made up for it with the passionate yet tender affection they shared almost nightly.

Out of the two, Legolas was the more insecure about their future. Though he loved Aragorn more than he had ever loved-he had, after all, given the man his innocence- he had on more than one occasions tearfully tried to tell Aragorn he wasn't worth the imminent pain they would face, when Aragorn would have to produce an heir. It was as though the Elf had been blessed with some form of foresight that he hadn't shared with his other half, so convinced did he sound in his arguments with the Man.

But the two had never faced any serious threats to their relationship, such as discovery. Not until Elrond announced, in the middle of a distinctly chilly November, that his daughter Arwen was returning home to meet Aragorn.

That evening, Legolas had been uncharacteristically distant, completely silent. When Aragorn pestered Legolas for nearly an hour, at last the Elf's strong resolve broke. Crumpling automatically into the always-open arms of his Human, he explained in a quivering voice that in his dreams, Aragorn and Arwen were hand in hand, married, rulers of Minas Tirith and indeed all of Gondor; she would produce his heirs, and he would love her until the end of their days.

"No," Aragorn said then, passion and love for the Elf in his arms making his words unintentionally harsher than he meant. "No," he repeated, more softly. "No maiden nor man will ever make me leave you, Legolas, know this. I am bound to you by heart-I love you." He bowed his head forward, planting a line of kisses down the perfect parting of the Elf's hair.

Aragorn and Legolas entered Arwen's 'Welcome Home' Ball at the same time, but not together-they had a set of ground rules to ensure secrecy around their relationship, and any physical contact in a public area breaching the continuity of friendship was strictly forbidden. Aragorn was seated between Elladan and Elrohir, numbly waiting for the arrival of the Evenstar. Without realising he did, he often glanced towards Legolas at one of the lower tables. How lovely his elf was…He deserved so much better than the mere worship of a common Man-he deserved a Goddess, somebody who could show their love to him for all the world, announce it from the mountain tops, instead of hide it behind closed doors as though it was something to be ashamed of.

Aragorn's heart suddenly leapt. He felt a new presence in the room, but not from an assessment based on his tracking skills; the music and light chatter was too heavy to have perceived footfalls, the words too thick to discern a new voice amidst the musical chorus of Elvish conversation. No, he felt this new presence from somewhere deep within himself, as though his own spirit or shadow or soul had just entered the room a half hour after he did.

With horror, he realised that Arwen had arrived-and, bound to her somehow, he had felt in his heart her arrival. He had only felt somebody else's presence a very few times in his life, and it had always been with Legolas. Once, the Elf had been injured during a battle, and an overwhelming chute of pain had blossomed from Aragorn's gut up his spine, causing him to black out. He had only ever felt Legolas' spirit within his own body when the Elf was in extreme danger; but it seemed he felt Arwen simply when she was within a league of he.

No! Seas, no, no! This cannot be-I love no other than Legolas! I am bound to he, and he alone! No maiden shall deter me from him. Why do I feel Arwen in my heart? Why, when I love Legolas? Aragorn sat stiffly in his chair, bewildered, as the crowd parted gracefully. At the end of the new-formed path, clad in a simple yet infeasibly marvelous navy gown, was the one Aragorn knew immediately as Arwen the Evenstar at last materialised before her eyes.

She was ghostly in her pallor, yet impossibly beautiful at the same time. Her hair was neatly plaited down her back, tied with a length of ribbon matching the hue of her dress. Her lips were painted a seductive colour reminiscent of summer roses-she was the fairest maiden of any species that Aragorn had ever seen or imagined. His breath almost caught as she smiled affectionately over at him, raising her hand just slightly, as if timid.

Aragorn wrenched his gaze away, and looked over at Legolas where he sat at his table. Unlike the rest of the hall, who had all turned their gaze upon this magnificent creature, his eyes were unwaveringly fixed on the patterns of his tablecloth, moisture cresting his eyes.

"LEGOLAS!" Aragorn called. He rushed over, his knees quivering from the effort of having run about the courtyards for so long. Part way through the dancing-Aragorn had spent most of his time talking lightheartedly with Arwen, finding her warm and nervous as he was-he had looked around to check up on his Elf, only to see the Blonde vanishing through one of the side doors. For three quarters of an hour he had breathlessly stalked the retreating Elf.

Not asking permission, nor needing to, Aragorn threw his arms around Legolas' waist and forced him to stop walking. Legolas froze, ridged for a moment, before relaxing back comfortably into the arms he knew so well. Aragorn gracefully lowered himself to the ground, pulling Legolas into his lap. The elf nestled against his contours, fitting with Aragorn as flawlessly as if the two were one being, broken in half only to be rejoined a mere half decade ago.

Aragorn splayed a hand on the side of Legolas' head, tenderly directing the Elf's head against the warmth of his tunic. Legolas draped his arms around the man's neck, breathing in the familiar earthen scent of his only, before speaking. "You are smitten," Legolas breathed, his voice barely more audible then the gentle, whispering autumn wind as it toyed with the nearby trees.

"Yes," Aragorn admitted. "With you," he added softly, toying gently with a silken strand of the Elf's hair. Impatiently, Legolas shied away from the touch, leveling his head with the man's.

"No, with her. I have seen you speak-I saw you gaped at her when first she came in to that Ball. Aragorn, you can feel her as you've never felt another, in your soul. I cannot deny you what will be actual true love. You are bound to her in spirit, and you do not even know her yet. Imagine what your hearts will accomplish together!"

Aragorn shook his head, placing a chaste kiss on Legolas' forehead, then the softly peaked tip of his ear. "No," he breathed in to it; the contrast of Aragorn's wonderfully hot breath and the bitter chill of the night air caused Legolas to cry out softly, nestling unconsciously closer to his Aragorn.

For a long time the two sat like that, Aragorn affectionately toying with one of Legolas' ears, and the Elf sitting with his eyes closed in the lap of the only man he had ever loved, complete serenity washed over his features. Eventually, Legolas stirred, murmuring that most of the guests had left, and hand in hand the two returned to Legolas' chambers.

Aragorn threw the door shut, immediately throwing his Elf backwards against it. He lunged forward, tackling his lips brutally against all the available flesh. It seemed as though, moonlit and passionate, Legolas glowed only more, adding to his already impossibly elevated appeal. Aragorn nibbled hungrily at the impossibly delicious flesh of Legolas' throat, lapping at the trembling flesh with feverish passion.

Legolas threw back his head, ignoring the numb pain that overcame him as he smacked himself against the door. "Ai! Aragorn! Oh," his voice rang out, wavering from hoarse passion. He fisted a handful of Aragorn's tousled tresses, holding his lover's head in place. As soon as Aragorn began to touch and kiss him, Legolas' senses of self-control all but melted; he didn't care if the entirety of Rivendell huddled just beyond his door, listening to him scaling the steeps of passion. All he cared for was the heat spreading almost painfully over his form.

Aragorn grabbed Legolas' wrists firmly in one hand, directing them to stand vertically from the Elf's shoulderblades. He drew back from the whimpering Elf's neck, earning himself a small cry at the loss of attention, and carefully observed the submissive creature he had, pinned against the door. Was there a more beautiful sight than Legolas in the throes of passion, completely willing to have done to him whatever Aragorn wished? Had there ever been a more erotic image painted into the minds of men than this Elf, hair tousled and eyes aflame with want, panting and whispering and whimpering for more, more…

"Aragorn," Legolas pleaded softly, his voice sweeter than that of a wren; he furrowed his brow slightly, as though concerned by the sudden change of pitch in Aragorn's attack. The young man looked over Legolas face again, greedily memorizing each detail. Aragorn pressed Legolas wrists harder against the door, impairing him, and used his other hand to quest over the Elf's annoyingly clothed chest.

The Elf panted for breath, his chest rising and falling unsteadily below Aragorn's hand. With careful precision, the Man slid his fingers below the ties of Legolas' tunic, grazing the bare skin behind with his cold, callused fingers. Legolas sharply exhaled, dropping his eyes as he vainly attempted to keep himself in control. All of his mind was set on not breaking free of Aragorn's grasp, throwing him to the ground and desperately taking him without asking consent.

Reluctantly, the man withdrew his hand and lay it instead across Legolas cheek, possessively stroking again and again down the flawless flesh he so well knew. "You're so…" his voice caught, as it always did, when something deep in the back of his mind resurfaced, reminding him of the almost painful love he had for this Archer-the desperate, vehement, passionate love that was so much more than. "Beautiful, wonderful…Mine," Aragorn said firmly.

His movements gentled, cupping the Elf's chin in a tender gesture. He bowed his head forward, his cracked lips slowly passing over the entirety of Legolas' beautiful, perspiration-soaked face. He didn't kiss the flesh, only touched ever-flushed inch, memorizing how it felt and tasted. He pressed his lips softly against the Elf's, who moaned his name faintly. Aragorn drank the sound in.

He kissed his Elf slowly, a passionate dance of their mouths moving against each other in perfect harmony, before passion once again was renewed; Aragorn found himself devouring the Elf's bottom lip, sucking at it harshly, nibbling at it, while Legolas arched off the wooden door, grinding his entire body against Aragorn's. The Man threw himself against the Elf, overwhelmed, sobbing in passion as he seized Legolas' mouth with his own.

Legolas jerked his head away, and Aragorn looked up in shock and concern. "What, my love? What ails you?" Aragorn asked urgently. Every night, he thanked every God he knew for the love they had given him. He didn't' know what he had done right in life to be graced with a gift such as this willing, beautiful creature thrown into his grasp. But every night he also worried, worried that Legolas would open his eyes and see the man he said he loved; he would see the greasy, mortal Aragorn, and wouldn't love him.

"What of Arwen?" the elf painted, breathing painful. He strained Against Aragorn's weight, trying to maximize their contact. "You are bound to her," Legolas reminded Aragorn hoarsely. Again, Aragorn bent his head forward, painfully tender as he dragged the tip of his tongue up Legolas throat. In a way that was bordering on worship, he swirled intricate patterns with the tip of his tongue onto the elf's pale flesh.

"I will find a loophole," he breathed into Legolas' skin. He lifted his head again, looking firmly into Legolas' eyes. His entire life lay there, within the endless depth of his Elf's gaze, not with some petty female he didn't even know and yet was somehow bound to love. Legolas nodded, practically imperceptible, then craned his head forward. Again, Aragorn took Legolas' lips, but this time with intentions of hope, love, forever.

Together, they moved with familiar grace that would never grow old, naked against the door, on the bed at last, and in a tangle of limbs so tight that their bodies were indecipherable the man and elf slept mere hours before sunrise.

When Aragorn awoke the following morning, his room smelt faintly of musk and love from the night before. Without opening his eyes, he smiled in delight. Sunlight caressed his face with its warm fingertips, reminding him with all the grace in the world that life was, indeed, wonderful. The man rolled on to his back, draping an arm across the bed, to playfully rouse his sleeping Elf.

His hand, instead, found only a fading depression in the bed, bitterly and inorganically cold as if it had never indeed been slept in. Suddenly wide awake, the man sat bolt upright. Tears clouded his vision, all sensible thoughts brutally torn from his head as the horror and brutal shock of his situation finally rushed into his mind. Legolas was gone.

All that left of the only one Aragorn had truly loved was a depression in the bed that would disappear within the hour, and the stain of moisture in the Elf's pillow where he had wept for a greater part of Aragorn's rest. Aragorn stared bitterly towards the window, his keen eyesight immediately picking a chariot rapidly approaching from Elrond's home. Bearing the Evenstar, Aragorn spat mentally. My bride-to-be.

Aragorn stood, wordlessly pulling on his leggings, retying his tunic sloppily. He glanced down at his body and noticed numbly that his hands shook as though he was frozen to the bone. He furrowed his brow in confusion, noticing a blur of white protruding from the creased bedsheets now littering the ground. Deftly, Aragorn crouched, and daintily extracted the scrap of paper from the cloth prison.

Aragorn, read the loopy script on the parchment that the man immediately recognized as Legolas'; There is no loophole.

Author's Notes: Like it? Hate it? Questions? Comments? I'll try and individually answer all your reviews (and possibly requests, I'm afraid after this story I've become extremely writer-blocked, meaning I have absolutely no new ideas.) within a few weeks. I'm not monumentally busy with my burdensome schoolwork, but I'm not far off. However, I know how much I love getting responses to my reviews, so I try my best to give them out.

Thank you very much for reading this fic, despite how absolutely brutal I believe it is.

~ Minnow