~ A Conspiracy Unmasked ~
Aragorn knelt on the river's bank, following suit as Legolas beside him crouched to remove his elven shoes. Arwen stood with the river's swift current flowing past her ankles, wetting the hem of her gown, still damp from dancing in the rain.
Leaving his sturdy boots beside his friend's, Aragorn stepped into the creek, feeling the torrent of water quickly cool his warmed feet. He followed Arwen as she glided barefoot over the slick rocks, her movements as fluid as the stream. They had been walking for nearly an hour and only the Rivendell Elf, it seemed, had been fully prepared for the path along which they traveled, a path through the river.
Perhaps it was she who had chosen it then, Aragorn thought, but it had been Legolas who had guided them to this point, and his feet now bare, it was Legolas who once again took the lead. There was something unsettling about following that familiar form when it did not bear a quiver of arrows. Aragorn knew that the archer was leading him somewhere safe, secluded. And that made him nervous.
But more so, it made him anxious. Whatever the purpose of the week had been, whatever Legolas and Arwen had been planning, they lead him toward it now. Anticipation spiked through his limbs as they descended into a thicket of trees, the distant waterfall sounding ever closer.
The Ranger's eyes fell to the forest floor, immediately finding a bent blade of grass and several feet ahead, a snapped twig, understanding that, if he is comfortable in his surroundings, even an Elf can leave a trail. This path had been traversed earlier this day, wherever they were heading had been…chosen, specifically. But for what?
The earth beneath his feet trembled as they neared the thundering waterfall and came to the first ridge of rocks separating them from the cliffs surrounding the Last Homely House. As he wordlessly followed his companions over the ridge, Aragorn couldn't recall ever having come to this place. It was far removed from the heart of Rivendell itself and judging by the absence of tracks beyond the solitary one he had previously noticed, it was largely unvisited.
The waterfall pounded against the river below, sending up a translucent cloud of mist, coating the terrain in a cool sheen of fresh water. They had come to the last ridge of rocks that now overlooked only the waterfall itself. But Legolas turned left, climbing higher on the mountain. They entered a dense fold of trees that dared to grow even to the very edge of the precipice, their thick roots jutting out from the rock to hang firmly over the fall.
Once they had emerged from this small thicket, Legolas abruptly came to a stop. Aragorn looked around and realized they had reached their destination.
The trees grew close to one another in an almost perfect semi-circle as if they'd known this place would be a fitting atmosphere for Elvish stories and songs and had each clamored for the best seat. As it was, they had created a secluded out-cropping, lined with trees on one side, carpeted with thick, soft moss and edged on the other side by the rapid drop-off of the cliff carved out eons ago by the waterfall's fervent descent.
A lone mountain bird called aloud, his song hollow and haunting. Aragorn stepped into the clearing, the moss feeling pliant beneath his feet, and the vision took his breath away. The round orb of the sun burnt in the sky, a deep sienna, casting a golden glow across everything before his eyes.
But even as Aragorn admired the vista, the sun sank lower upon the horizon, surrendering to the night. Already, the phantom of the moon stood at the ready, anxious to claim the sky. Seeing both celestial bodies, he felt an indefinable sadness.
According to the legend, the sun and moon had come from the Trees of Valinor. They were all that remained of what was once the pride and love of all creatures, the jeweled heart of a paradise. Suddenly, though he didn't know why, those oft-admired spheres looked like skeletons to him; ruins, worthless vestiges of long-dead beauty. He looked away, disgusted.
Accompanied by an abrupt crackling, his shadow suddenly stretched out before him. He turned to see a flaming torch fastened low on the trunk of one of the trees and two others unlit and waiting, crooked from the rainstorm. If Aragorn had had any lingering doubts as to whom had scouted this location, that would have settled it. Those were the torches of a wood-elf.
Arwen tapped her damp toes against the moss, watching as it sank slightly under her weight. Her hand rested idly on the trunk of a tree, but then Aragorn noticed her fingers strummed against the rough bark. She looked…nervous.
"Aragorn," she called softly, bidding him to near her. As he did so, he noticed her eyes flit only momentarily to Legolas, casting that now familiar, communicative glance. An excited anticipation rippled through Aragorn's stomach.
Pulling him to the ground with her, Arwen knelt with Aragorn. He rested his back against an obliging tree and stretched his legs out in front of him as Legolas righted the torches on the other trees, humming low in his throat in his gentle, masculine tones. It took only moments for Aragorn to recognize the tune as that which often accompanied the ballad of Beren and Lúthien. Both remaining torches burst alive, shining like red stars in the twilight.
Arwen extended her limber form along the darkness of the moss beside her husband, stretching out a hand to rest on his knee. When looking upon her as he did now, Aragorn felt again as if he had strayed into a dream or an Elf-minstrel's vision like those he had witnessed tonight. She was too lovely for this earth, even for a place as magical as Rivendell.
Unable to resist, he lay a hand on her head, daring to stroke her fine hair. It felt as if he had immersed his fingers in a mountain stream, the smooth, cool strands of hair slipping over his skin like water. Arwen sighed sweetly, a tender smile teasing at her lips.
"Arwen the Fair, Lady of Imladris and of Lórien, Evenstar of her people," her father had said years ago. "She is of lineage greater than yours, and she has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers. She is too far above you." The same stab he had felt at the time shot thorough Aragorn's much older heart.
"And so, I think, it may well seem to her," Elrond had added. Mere speculation on her father's part and yet, it had planted a seed. A seed, which Aragorn could not stop from germinating and eventually bearing poison fruit. That Arwen could be his only if he were King of Gondor, Elrond had made clear, but Aragorn, secret from them, secret even from himself, had somehow aspired beyond that. To win the love of Arwen, he felt, was something different than being worthy of it.
His hand paused almost imperceptibly, but he knew she'd felt it. Though it resembled those other nights, he knew by the unfamiliar ache in his chest that it wasn't. Under the moon of those evenings, he had seen her as a glowing star to which he must climb to gain its warmth. Many staircases separated them, but it was only a matter of taking step after step, slowly, but with determination.
Now, he stood at the top landing, no more steps remained before him and yet, he still hadn't won the warmth. Instead, the star had come to him, because it had known he could never climb that high.
Was this the King of Gondor her father had deigned to say was enough? Was this the man Arwen called "husband" and Legolas called "friend?" A king who could not salvage his own kingdom? A man who could lead in war, but knew not how to reign over peace?
Aragorn closed his eyes, feeling himself drift into a melancholy oblivion with the softness of the dark tresses curled about his fingers and the dulcet voice caressing his mind so subtly he might have thought he were alone and only imaging it. His reverie deepened, weighed down by the images of barren fields and rivers flowing black, but somewhere far distant in his consciousness, he was aware that Legolas had stopped humming and he heard the Elf's light footsteps nearing him.
"Aragorn," Legolas said, his voice now close. "I consider you a cherished friend, a brother not of my kin. And to Arwen you are-"
"The lord of my heart," she supplied breathily beside him.
Puzzled by the sudden frankness of their speech, Aragorn opened his eyes. His gaze first fell on the Elven archer standing over him with a bare foot on each side of his out-stretched legs. Arwen gently removed her hand from his knee. "We would have you understand," Legolas continued in earnest, "we do not use such endearments idly."
His penetrating stare never leaving Aragorn's eyes, Legolas lowered to one knee, swiftly closing the distance between them, enclosing the man's hips between a dropped knee and foot. Fingers slid to the back of Aragorn's neck, beneath his hair. Then, before he understood these uncharacteristic actions, Legolas' pressed his lips against his.
Aragorn knew that if the Elf wished to proceed, he would have difficulty stopping him, but Legolas allowed himself to be distanced with only a slight touch. His eyebrows knitted in confusion, and not a small amount of anger, Aragorn stared down his friend, his eyes demanding explanation. Legolas simply bore his gaze, his clear cobalt eyes unflinching; not moving forward - but not moving back, either.
"Why do you do this, Legolas?" he asked sternly, his displeasure showing plainly on his face though he contained what part of it coursed through his body.
"Arwen has noticed an alteration in you, Aragorn," he replied with a slight incline of his head.
With a gruff sigh of irritation, the man pushed Legolas fully away and stood from the ground. "And this is your solution?" he inquired of his wife. "A base seduction?"
"There is nothing base about it." Arwen sat up, her hair spilling over her white shoulders like liquid midnight. "Please," her hushed velvet tones pleaded, "let him." Her vivid eyes gazed up at his, imploring, wishing…begging.
He shook his head adamantly, silently refusing her request. "I do not know what you hoped to accomplish with this," he said harshly, turning to leave the precipice, "but this deception is beneath both of you."
"Aragorn," said Legolas. Aragorn paused. The sound of worry and surprise filling the call cooled some of the scorn and ire lighting in his blood. "We cannot keep you here, that you know. And what we have done is not deception, I think you know that as well."
Aragorn turned, casting his glowering stare back to Legolas and his wife. Arwen still lay upon the ground, her untarnished gown pooled about her legs while beside her, Legolas stood tall, his shoulders squared, his face unreadable.
"You cannot be so transformed as to feel you do not know us," he stated, his chin held high. At the tone of offense in the archer's voice, Aragorn immediately regretted the quickness of his temper. Proud Elves are not fast to forgive.
"I am not so transformed, Legolas," he said, allowing a hint of apology to enter his voice. "And for that reason I cannot believe you wish to do this."
"You do me a great honor by thinking me like one of your kindred for some of the most valiant and capable warriors I have known have been of your race," Legolas said smoothly. Arwen lifted herself from the ground to stand beside him. "But I am not a Man, Aragorn. I am an Elf."
Aragorn couldn't help but laugh at the obvious statement. "Yes, Legolas," he humored, "I have not forgotten."
"Then why do you believe me incapable of acting like one?"
He held Legolas' clear blue gaze, those eyes he knew well in a face that had not aged a day since the moment they'd met. "Was this your design, then, in coming to Rivendell?" he questioned. "Is Gimli to join us later as well?"
A genuine smile broke across Legolas' stern face and he laughed aloud, a bright cheery sound. "Gimli may be the wisest of Dwarves," he cried, "but this notion is still quite beyond him."
Aragorn sighed throatily, trying to stifle his own laughter so easily induced by the mirth on his friend's face. "Well, it is quite beyond me as well," he muttered.
"No, it is not," Arwen declared, her fair voice managing to be both soft and insistent. "And you give Legolas a great insult if you think he would make such an offer to one who could not accept it."
Aragorn ran his hands through his tangled hair, partly in frustration and partly to distract himself from the pleading look in his wife's eyes. She did this out of love, that he knew. And Legolas…out of loyalty, perhaps, but he could not understand this. His mind felt thick, full of cobwebs.
"Do not bind us in your rules when we do not belong there," Arwen entreated. "We are not the designations you would give us. We are only Arwen and Legolas."
She lifted herself from the ground and Aragorn's heart leapt at the silken manner in which she approached him, her slender legs outlined in her gown with every step. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled herself close, her lips brushing against his neck. He slipped an arm around her waist, feeling her heat and the curves of her body against him.
"Please," she whispered, her breath stirring against the skin of his neck, "let us."
He lowered his eyelids, loosing himself in the sensations of his wife. "How will this help me?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"That you cannot know until it has," she answered elusively. He felt her smooth forehead rest against his cheek. "Please," she whispered once more. Opening his eyes, he regarded his friend still standing before him with all the patience of an immortal. Arwen slid her hand around his, pulling him with her back toward the glade. Legolas gently gripped his shoulders just as Arwen released his fingers.
Watching the familiar visage of his friend and glancing uncertainly toward Arwen, Aragorn forced his knees to bend as Legolas pulled him to sit upon the ground. His shoulder blades were softly eased against the sturdy trunk of a tree, an elven traveling pack made to double as a pillow against his lower back; he was simultaneously comfortable and insanely uncomfortable as Legolas unbent his legs to stretch them out straight upon the moss, as if carefully positioning a damaged limb for bandaging.
Arwen slid down beside them, extending her form upon the mist-wet ground, cradling her head upon her arms. With a sudden swell of nerves, Aragorn realized she had no intention of participating at the moment – whatever he was being asked to do, he was being asked to do it with Legolas alone. His gaze flashed to his friend who crouched before him, slowly drawing nearer.
"Legolas," Aragorn uttered, "I do not wish to cross this line with you."
The Elf shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. "You must understand that there are no lines to cross." As Legolas settled across his lap, capturing his hips between his thighs, Aragorn swallowed hard, tension – and an unfamiliar anticipation – thrumming through his every nerve. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn," the archer said assertively in his effortlessly flowing voice, "you are worthy of all that you will experience tonight."
***
To be continued...and now the real fun begins. ;)
Continue to check here for updates- we'll make sure you know when they happen - and please, oh, please review!
