For both, the following days passed uneventfully. Aragorn was busied with a myriad of official affairs, and when he was not busy, his interactions with the Elf were much more impersonal than on their first day together. Gimli suspected that Aragorn had been scared by his body's reactions - and perhaps by a sharp Dwarven glare - and was trying to remedy his problem by avoiding it. Legolas, meanwhile, watched the King closely, perceptive now, and mayhap overly so, to any advances. For though he valued Gimli's words, he had to see for himself if the Dwarf's suspicions were well-founded.

There was also a yet mild curiousness about human lust. He had never experienced it before, only a likeness of it for the sea. So he was intrigued, in what he convinced himself was a purely investigative way.

He did notice, too, that Gimli and Arwen had forged a closer friendship. He wondered how it had come about. When he would press the Dwarf for details, he received evasive answers. He had an ominous feeling that the two were plotting.

Then, after four days, when he had seen no sign of the lust that Gimli had so adamantly warned against, and after being constantly cold-shouldered by Aragorn, he decided that Gimli must have been mistaken. Besides, the King's sudden short dealings with him hurt him more than they should. He could only assume that his wariness had insulted the man, or that he had in some other way slighted him. That or, taxed by the court, and by his continued discord with Arwen, he was simply too stressed for friendliness.

In any case, regardless of his promise to Gimli not to be alone with Aragorn, he felt that this was another source of dissatisfaction for the King. For every once in a while, amidst his cool regards, Aragorn would hint that he wished to speak with him privately, and Legolas would politely give an excuse, goaded by Gimli's watchful, and ever-present, supervision.

So it was that he decided to surprise Aragorn, by inviting him on a hunt. Just the two. Remembering the tension that the King carried in his shoulders, he planned to lead him past a bubbling hot spring that would sooth the weary muscles his fingers had not had time to mend. Gimli had found it once, whilst exploring the stonescapes. He had said that the formations promised thermal activity. And lo! they had stumbled upon it. It would be perfect.

Aragorn accepted the invitation, however hesitantly. His constant avoidance of the person he yearned for most was effecting him more and more. By the minute, it sometimes seemed. His counselors all commented on his irritability. Even he had snapped at Faramir, who had sought only to defend him.

He had thus realized that evasion would not work - he had never truly thought it could - and that the only solution could be to confront it. On a hunt, in the seclusion of a deep forest, he felt that he could muster the courage needed to profess his shameful longing, and accept whatever harsh words Legolas might have for him. For he knew that Legolas did not love him in such a way. He knew also that Legolas would not appreciate the degradation to his image. Still, Aragorn hoped that confession would quell the fire in his body. Then, the trek back he could use to try to win back a friendship.

Everything fell into place. Gimli had asked Arwen to let him and Eldarion become better acquainted, and so the three were to spend the day in the sunny courtyards, 'identifying stones, no doubt,' as Legolas informed Aragorn. Faramir was the only one to know of their plans, and he swore to keep them secret from the counselors and advisors, to whom he would proclaim that the King was sick in bed. They would not like that the King was leaving the citadel, unguarded, but Faramir had more faith in the protection of Legolas's keen senses and deadly accuracy than he did in a legion of men. Therefore, there was no one to hinder their absconding.

They departed the great gates a few hours after daybreak - after Legolas had made sure Gimli saw him wandering the gardens that the Dwarf would not become suspicious.

The ride was slow and peaceful. There was scarcely a cloud in the sky, which was painted that day a brilliant sea blue. The sunshine was so bright that even under the coverage of thick boughs, it shone through, casting dappled shadows across their backs, and shafts of light across their faces. Yet there was an agreeable breeze, cooled from the mountains, that prevented the sun from causing them discomfort.

Presently, the paths became too narrow for their horses to pursue, winding between tightly-woven patches of trees. They picketed the steeds, with plenty of line to wander and graze, then proceeded on foot. The small, dirt path snaked around boulders, and up and down tiny crags, whither twisting roots stuck out of the earth and gripped tightly the stones at their feet. Soon it disappeared altogether. Aragorn followed, unquestioning. However, even as Legolas pretended to be hot on the trail of a stag, he was unconcerned when the cleft tracks parted from their chosen path. As it seemed, the tracks that they followed had not been made by an animal, but by Dwarven boots, sometime ago.

The man did not mind. The scenery was lovely. He had not had the opportunity to travel these parts in many years. He had left that up to the wandersome pair. Clearly, they had done well in discovering the most beautiful places of the realm. The birds chirped in the branches, and flitted along with them, tracking their progress. Both hunters held their bows, strung, but it was evident that Legolas had no intention to shoot. Already he had let two wholesome deer continue on their way, offering the excuse that they were too far a mark for him to hit. Of course, it was well-known that there was nary a mark he could not hit, and these deer had been near enough that Aragorn could count the points of their mossy antlers. So Aragorn was skeptical as to why the Elf bothered to carry his bow with nocked arrow. He supposed it would bring Faramir some comfort to know that the King's sole bodyguard was ever at the ready.

In the mean time, as relaxing as the dense forest was, Aragorn was still struck, now and again, by a pang of guilt. Should Legolas, who walked in front of him, stoop to ascertain his bearings, inevitably, his eyes would drift over the slender body, try as he might to pull them away. Alas, he still could not bring himself to confess. Yet, nature offered him some solace, in that there were many other sights to tempt his senses.

At last, Legolas stopped, standing straight, as a sentry, at the top of a scraggly knoll. He turned, with a smile that said that he had something that he wanted to show. With a sigh, Aragorn scaled the stones. Legolas pulled him up the last steps, as they became steep enough that only Elven dexterity could achieve them. There, cradled by large boulders on either side, down whose sides hung vines and thick roots, bubbled a spring. Steam rose from it, creating a warm haze. There were patches of olive moss, and the forest floor transformed itself into smooth grey stone, as if it had been paved by nature's hand. It was tucked away, and there was no trail to it save the one the two travelers had unobtrusively blazed.

A rush of heat hit his skin as he stood fully, then it was tickled by the cool breeze that fanned the clearing.

"A hot spring?"

"Yes. Gimli said that there should be one. We sought it out some time ago."

"Hence the Dwarflike tracks of our quarry."

"So you noticed," Legolas laughed. "For once his heavy steps were advantageous. The earth remembered them. Otherwise I might not have re-found this place."

"And this is the true reason you brought me out here?"

"I thought that its waters might relieve you of some of your anxieties," Legolas replied, gripping a root and beginning to climb down to the cool ledge circling the spring. Aragorn followed, reluctantly. "After all, a spring stays warm longer than a bath. Gimli and I rolled a few stones into it, to sit upon."

Legolas pulled off his thin boots, placing them neatly against the face of the stone so that they would not fall in. The Elf raised a fine brow, curious as to why Aragorn was not doing likewise. Already the man could feel the steam seeping into his clothes and making them heavy. "Are you not going to get undressed, my Lord?"

Aragorn's eyes widened.

"What do you mean?"

"Unless you would rather bathe in your clothes?"

"Nay. . . I do not know if I wish to bathe, with or without them," Aragorn said with a gulp. Already he could see a pale triangle of flesh on Legolas' chest where he had loosened the fastenings.

Legolas looked at him in question.

"So you will not join me?"

Oh, that look. That look that could compel him to the ends of the earths. And it compelled him now, to do as its wearer asked, even if it was more fearsome than the swirling smoke of Mount Doom, to thus test his self-control.

Heaving a sigh, he began to unlace his boots. He placed them next to the smaller ones. Legolas had already removed his armguards and jerkin, and undone his hair. He sat briefly, barefoot, in his leggings and light undershirt. The steam made it cling to his form, and the white fabric, as it was a summer garment, was becoming see-through.

Aragorn tore his gaze away. Legolas had brought him here not to be ogled, but to help him. So long as he did not watch the Elf undress, soon enough he would be concealed beneath the frothing water. He focused on untying his tunic, then his breeches. When he had nothing left to remove, he slid into the hot water. It sent a pleasurable shiver up his spine.

Legolas collected all their garments and folded them near their boots, then joined the King. Aragorn caught a glimpse of toned thighs, and sharp hipbones, and a flat stomach, before they disappeared beneath the bubbles. He bit his lip. He could feel his restraint crumbling. Already his mind painted lascivious scenes.

They sat across from one another, the steam thick around them. Legolas' hair hung over his shoulders, the ends darkened by water. His cheeks were pink with the heat of the spring. Unconsciously, he held his chin high and dignified, as if he sat upon a thrown. Certainly, it was a fitting kingdom over which for him to rule. The unrestrained, unbridled nature matched the wilderness that was so common in the sharp eyes. There was a ruggedness about him, too, that other Elves did not possess, as he was from Mirkwood.

The age of this forest, and of the stones, this also reminded him of Legolas. Because, although he was young among the Elves - much younger than Arwen - he was ancient among men. Older than many of the trees that hovered now above them. Indeed, recalled Aragorn, he had called them children once, in the dark forest of Fangorn. Just as the trees could be silent and indifferent in their wisdom, so too could Legolas.

At the same time, Aragorn felt guilty, because he knew that it was not these aspects of the other that his body wanted; his body wanted the youthful frame, the long legs, the strong back, and the beautiful face. The pout of his lips haunted his dreams, the slender hips his waking hours. There was no escape. Now, his desire had built up like a mass, consuming him, to the point that he thought he might explode.

And he knew, and feared, the danger of letting these feelings stay bottled up. Because one day his resolve would waver, and he might do something horrible. He had the sort of luck that the cork would strike someone in the eye.

He had thought about all of this. Verily, he had thought of nothing else.

Aragorn let his head fall back to rest on the stone. He stared up at the canopy, at whose center there was a shimmer of sky. At least, the water was relaxing. His muscles were loosening. Legolas had been right about that. Even the stones on which he sat were hot. He could feel his worries rising into the sky with the steam.

His mind free of anxieties, free of tension, free of cares, he remembered something, with a clarity henceforth obscured. It rushed over him in a flourish, like the heat, and then like the cool breeze, made him shudder. Then, as startlingly as it had come, it was gone, and he could find no explanation for the flutter of his heart. All he knew was that the answer to all of his desires, and to all of his misgivings, was right in front of him. All he had to do was tell him. That was what he had come with to do. He could not neglect his purpose.

"Legolas, would you come sit by me?" He asked, knowing that if he could not tell him now, in the secrecy and solitude of the forest, he would never be able to. He hoped his friend had not heard the quiver in his voice. Even the quiet trees seemed to watch him.

The Elf waded over, taking a seat next to him; Aragorn watched a water droplet slide down the line of the smooth, pale torso, dipping into the concavity of his navel, then continuing lower. The water rolled down across him in beads, clinging and sparkling like jewels in his hair. His cheeks remained rosy from the heat. He felt their legs brush. He sought out one of Legolas' hands, and held it in his own. The King's hands were trembling. He did not know how to say what he wanted, but he could not back out now, eyes locked with the other. By the Valar, they were alone together!

"I. . . " he looked away.

He drew closer. But the closer he drew, the fewer words he could string together. Legolas looked at him inquisitively. With a worried swallow, and a silent prayer, Aragorn knew that if he could not tell him, he would have to show him.

Thus he let his body take control - rather, it took control of him - and it came naturally to kiss him.

Legolas jumped. Like a startled fish, he almost slipped away, standing with a splash. But Aragorn held him tight, and stood with him, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other holding his head. He felt the other's breath hitch against his mouth, but the touch felt so soul-shatteringly good that he could not bring himself to break it. Rather, he deepened it. Legolas stumbled back, catching himself against the stone ledge.

His mouth opened, and Aragorn dove in. He pressed his entire body against the one beneath him, pinning it in place. His kiss was passionate, and long. And for as forceful as he was in giving it, it was meant to be tender.

Legolas gasped when his mouth was released. Shocked and brain spinning, either from lack of air, the heat, or from the magnitude of the kiss. Perhaps from them all. He felt his lips. They were bruised, and swollen. He looked back at Aragorn, and was terrified by the emotion he saw there.

Aragorn could feel the Elf's heart racing, their chests close together. A smile spread across the man's face, wide, and ecstatic. For the first time in more time than he could remember, he felt like himself. He felt alive. He felt free. It was as if a great burden had been lifted off of his shoulders. To his loins surged an uncontrollable flame. He wanted to feel more alive.

Legolas's eyes were wide; he did not know what he should do. Those ancient eyes, for the first time, were not clear but full of fear, and anger, and hurt, and yet, beneath it all, a cloudiness, a longing. A lust! It was a glimmer, only. Tiny, and hidden. Still, it was there, and it was so powerful, so intense, so new, even as it was latent, that it was the King's undoing.

Aragorn placed a hand on the side of the fair face, tucking a stray hair behind his ear, and kissing him again. Legolas could feel the weathered hands searching his body, feeling him. They came to rest on the small of his back, fingers interlacing, and pulling him closer. And Legolas did not pull away.

So Aragorn bore down more amorously upon him. Legolas could feel the scratchy beard on his neck. He could hear the man groan. And he could hear himself gasp. His back was arching.

Then, suddenly, as if the heavens had fallen onto his shoulders, he was ashamed. He was more confused now than in all the long years of his life. He needed to get away. If he did not, he would be letting Aragorn think that this was what he wanted. And he did not know. His heart raced, and he was certain that his fears were written on his face.

"Aragorn, stop. . . " he was caught in another kiss. He began to push at the other, but Aragorn pressed his weight back against him. He had backed himself into a corner, the stone harsh and unyielding at his back. He startled when a hand moved from his back, lower, and when another slid across the inside of his thigh. No one had ever touched him in these places. It sent a shudder through him, one that he felt reciprocated in Aragorn.

"Aragorn, stop!" He said more forcefully. The cool breeze swept over him, and cleared his swirling head from the peculiar emotion that had overcome him. This was too much. This was unfaithful! What would Arwen think? This was wrong! Ire began to swell in his chest, the erstwhile flutter of his heart replaced by a righteous pounding. His eyes grew dark with outrage, and no longer with lust. The man had not asked his consent to do these things. These touches, this intimate closeness.

He moved against the ledge, trying to use the stone's firmness to help him shove the man away. Aragorn's lips trailed down his chest, over his stomach, down to bite his hip. His fingers gripped the stone.

"Ahaa, my Lord, stop."

Holding tight to the ledge, he used his legs to push the King away. But Aragorn was no longer himself, and the tenderness of his intentions was gone, overpowered by a more forceful urge. When Legolas slipped away, his wrist was painfully snatched, and he was shoved against the rocks, the man at his back.

"Aragorn, you will let me go," said Legolas, with a warning in his voice.

Aragorn ghosted his lips across the back of the marble neck. A tremor of fear passed over the Elf when he struggled and could no longer escape.

Still, sinewy muscles disguised his strength. Powered by the fiercity of his will, and with a blazing fury, he elbowed his attacker, swiftly and soundly in the jaw. Aragorn slipped backwards and underwater with a splash and a shout.

Leaping onto the ledge, Legolas snatched up his clothes, throwing on his leggings without drying off, and not bothering to pull on his boots. He sprang up the face of the boulder ere he hastily tugged on his damp undershirt.

Aragorn surfaced, spitting water. He rubbed his eyes, the heat having stunned him.

"Legolas?" He looked up to the ledge and met a stormy gaze. Two tempestuous seas, thunderous and magnificent. He imagined he could see dark, rolling rain clouds in the steely orbs, and crackling lightning, swirling furiously as if raging inside glass spheres. The chin was held high, brow furrowed severely, in a flash of emotions. The vehemence of his glare made Aragorn remember that this, too, was a son of Kings. Then, as if he had materialized, the creature was gone, disappearing into the leaves without a sound.

"Valar, what have I done?" He breathed, in absolute terror, sensing, despite his spinning head, that something wicked had transpired. There had been soft lips and then. . . and then, what? He could not remember. His mind was a blur of steam and hot water, kisses, caresses, and. . .

The cool breeze swept over him; Aragorn's eyes widened in horror. A flood of comprehension overwhelmed him, and he fell to his knees on the ledge, uncaring if the hard stones bit at them and left them skinned. He clutched his forehead.

Legolas had been struggling against him, had asked him to stop - anon, Aragorn clearly remembered, the warning tone - and yet he had not stopped. He had very nearly, in fact, committed an act so dark, that it froze his heart to think on it. An act so vile and evil that the trees shook with tremulous outrage, that the birds - Valar, the birds, he realized - had stopped chirping.

All done blindly, licentiously. He had not meant to do it! He would not dream of hurting his friend. He had not known his actions as he did them, only the scorching steam and burning need. And now the scathing shame, the sickening guilt, and the face of his victim as he had fled into the forest. Forever, perhaps!

Oh, this was not how he had meant it to be! He slammed his fist into the ground, his knuckles throbbing. The pain was nothing. The pain that gripped his heart, like cutting talons, was all-encompassing, and left no room for competition.

Miserably, he clothed himself. With the trees turning their backs to him, the stones frowning his footfalls, and the dirt hating his imprint, he walked towards the horses. Yet the sad song birds, they watched with pity in their small, black eyes, for a man betrayed by the cackling demons of lust.