Note: For those of you anxious that Legolas has had no messages from home, there is one on its way but won't arrive until the next chapter. He did receive news of home at the very end of Sons II. Celeborn had met with Thranduil under the eaves of Mirkwood so he knew at least his father was safe.

Also I have posted another chapter of Black Arrow - if you have been reading that, you'll be getting some strong hints about the way things are panning out in Mirkwood - or they will be. Next couple of weeks are intense but I have the next chapter of Black Arrow almost done.

If you want to read about the chess game and how it led to a kiss, I have posted the short fic, Imrahil on Ao3 and ffnet as I realised I hadn't. It's been on Faerie for ages.

Also, apologies for the delay- just work.

Thank you as always to the very wonderful Anarithilen.

Also to the very many encouraging reviewers. Thank you.

Chapter 6: Alliances

Aragorn spread his hands over the map, which some valet or page or another had carefully unrolled and fixed on his desk with ornate and beautiful paperweights. He glanced at them, noting the craftsmanship and skimming his finger over the plotted marks that showed where was still fighting with the remnants of the Easterlings and Southrons: even now Aragorn's army was engaged in skirmishes in the northern parts of Mordor. Indeed he had dispatched Legolas and Gimli to pursue a steady stream of Orc troops that were fleeing north, and Eomer led the skirmishes to the east into Mordor. All the Orcs were killed, but Men they took prisoner and these had been sent back with the wounded and were housed in smaller tents dotted around the camp.

Aragorn cast about for the scribbled notes he had made after each meeting with the captive leaders. He had greeted each of the chieftains with courtesy and having found a number of interpreters, been able to converse and parley with many of them. The sheaf of notes was piled on the corner of the desk and he shuffled through them, skimming the notes rapidly. He thought something had been said that niggled away in the back of his mind but he could not remember and could not find them now. There was a neater pile of scrolls, carefully arranged and tied with a red ribbon and sealed with his own mark that were neatly stacked on another table. These were the treaties he had made with the Easterling and Southron chieftains.

But not with all of them. One of the chiefs of the Easterlings, a Man called Kustîg, had refused to speak to Aragorn and had spat at his feet when he was brought before the new King. The interpreter had eventually been persuaded to translate that Kustîg believed that Aragorn should be killed for his crimes against the Dark God-King, Sauron, the Bringer of Gifts, Lord of Life. 'Kustîg the Red says that the King will curse the day he set his hand against the Dark God,' the translator had said, head bowed and trembling before Aragorn as if he expected to be struck down for speaking such words. Kustîg had gone on to say a lot more before he had been dragged out by Aragorn's outraged guards. But he was not the only one who spoke such threats. Aragorn sighed and bowed his head. He did not know what to do with these intransigent Men.

'You must keep trying,' Gandalf had said kindly, patiently. 'Do not give up. Peace is hard to build and war an easy stroke of a sword. You must hope for understanding. Hope for peace.'

And there were those amongst his newly formed Council who advised him that if Kustîg would not sue for peace, he could easily be displaced by another of the Men who would be more inclined to bow his head to Aragorn's liege. They did not say how Aragorn should 'displace' Kustîg, and Aragorn did not want to think about that right now. It was one thing to kill a Man in battle. Another thing entirely to assassinate a political enemy in cold blood. And as his prisoner.

No. He could not do it. He would not. There must be another way, he decided.

Outside the air was warm and Spring was here; it felt like the earth was turning slowly to awaken and birds were singing in the trees near the river. Longingly, Aragorn looked through the open curtains that were doors to his tent, deep brocade and ornate. They were tied back with heavily embroidered silk rope. There was movement near the door and he saw the guards had changed. From his desk, he nodded courteously to the guard who had just come to stand at his door.

'Good morning, Arvon,' he said.

The Man nodded back. 'Good morning, your majesty.'

Aragorn could not quite get used to that. He was uncomfortable too with the politicking and constant need for diplomacy, although he knew too that he was good at that. But he wished Gimli were here, and Legolas, to keep his feet on the ground. Even better, he wished he were with them, riding together, fighting the Orcs that had been sighted fleeing across the Dead Marshes.

With his finger, he traced the route that Gimli reported the Orcs were taking and which he had plotted on the map. On their way North, Aragorn thought. Perhaps making their way to the Misty Mountains? There had been a rather larger number than he had expected after Sauron's defeat at the Morannon, but if they escaped now, they would have to pass through or near Mirkwood.

To his left were a pile of letters and messages on his desk. Amongst them were letters from Celeborn. A second messenger had arrived from the Lord of Lothlorien with more detailed news of the war elsewhere. In his letter to Aragorn he told how he had met with Thranduil's forces under the eaves of Mirkwood and together they had ploughed their strength anew against Dol Guldur and driven back Sauron's forces there so they fled into the forest. Thranduil had departed then in pursuit and Celeborn had returned to Lothlorien.

There were three other unopened letters; two from Celeborn for Elrohir and Elladan, and one from Thranduil for Legolas. There were also formal greetings of course, a hastily written note from the field of battle from Thranduil but he had not said much other than to congratulate Aragorn on his victory and hope that he would accept Legolas as representative at his coronation for Thranduil was still engaged in skirmishes, he said, but not full-scale battle by any means, in the north of the forest.

There are still skirmishes in Mirkwood, Aragorn thought carefully. And there were Orcs fleeing the Morannon to go North. He wondered if they were deliberately joining the battle in Mirkwood…But surely not? Surely there was no great design or mind behind the orcs now? Sauron was vanquished, gone and the Orcs were rootless and simply fleeing to wherever they might find refuge. There were skirmishes everywhere, he knew. For he had marked all reports on the map in front of him and they were scattered all over Middle Earth from the edges of Mordor to Imladris.

He tapped his finger on the dark green shading that denoted Mirkwood on the map and shook his head. No. This must be coincidence, he thought. The Orcs could be going to Gundabad, or to the Misty Mountains. Or even further.

He glanced back over his shoulder at the piles of letters and messages. The messages for Gimli and Legolas lay to one side but he did not think they would return until the evening or even the following day.

A blackbird sang loudly in the tree outside his tent and the grass crushed beneath the carpets and rugs smelled sweet and fresh. He pushed back his heavy carved chair suddenly and stood up. Arvon glanced in but said nothing and Aragorn grabbed his pipe and went out into the morning sun to find the Hobbits.

0o0o

The Hobbits always sat outside Frodo's tent to smoke a Between-Breakfast pipe, as Pippin called it. It was the last of the Longbottom Leaf that Sam was generously sharing with the rest of them. But whilst the other hobbits sprawled on the grass, Frodo sat in a deeply upholstered armchair that had been brought out for him. Even though it was not Man-size, he still looked swamped in, lost and diminished. But Merry refused to think of that and instead concentrated on the joy of having Frodo back at all. And Sam seemed somehow taller, nobler than Merry had ever realized; his gentle care of Frodo had become something else and Merry almost looked away for the sudden pang in his heart of what had happened to them.

'Gimli will be sorry to have missed this,' Pippin observed, unaware of Merry's thoughts. He was wiggling his feet admiringly. Pippin was always a trifle vain about his feet, having been told from a young age that his feet were particularly fine. His toes he thought rather elegant and he had brushed the hair so it shone. Merry smirked at him knowingly and was about to make a comment when Pippin suddenly leapt to his feet and gave an exaggerated and sweeping bow. Frodo laughed.

'Good morning, your majesty!' Frodo cried and it was a joy to hear the pleasure in his voice.

It was Aragorn and all of them were delighted to see him for he had been stuck away with the Great and the Good, as Gimli called them. Merry scooted up and made room for Aragorn and the King settled on the grass between them happily, drawing out his pipe. He accepted Sam's Longbottom Leaf with a pleased smile and filled his pipe.

Merry watched him as he lit it and leaned back with a contented smile, blowing a long stream of smoke between his lips but Merry noted the lines under his eyes and the tiredness in his face.

'Look! Strider's back!' Pippin said and Aragorn smiled.

'He has never been away,' Merry said kindly because he thought Aragorn looked like he needed this.

'Have Legolas and Gimli returned yet?' Pippin asked.

Merry glanced at him quickly for Pippin was always anxious when any of the Fellowship were away and he had been especially protective of Legolas since that dreadful time on the Mindolluin, when the Nazgûl had pursued the elf and he had returned broken and empty. Although Pippin had had to tell Merry about the ordeal, for Merry himself had been a victim of the Black Breath and been almost unaware of what was happening. Merry watched Pippin carefully, for he worried about Pippin and Pippin and Gimli worried about Legolas, and Legolas watched Aragorn and Sam, and they all worried about Frodo.

'They are on their way back,' Aragorn said as he stretched out his ridiculously long legs and crossed his feet. He drew on his pipe and let a steady stream of thin smoke spiral upwards soothingly.

'Good,' Pippin said. 'I don't like it when any of us are away. We should have some time together before…Well. Before we go home I suppose.' But though they all missed the Shire, Merry knew that none of them were in a rush now. Except for Sam perhaps, who was convinced that Rosie Cotton was in the arms of some young farmer from Bywater.

'When will you return to the city?' Frodo asked Aragorn quietly. The deep and comfortable armchair made him look smaller even though the colour was slowly returning to his cheeks and he was getting a slight roundness that hobbits should all have. But he was still too thin and his appetite woefully poor. 'I wouldn't mind a hot bath and a proper roof over my head.' Frodo laughed softly. 'It is no time at all since I thought just a taste of water would be enough to satisfy me forever but it seems I have quickly begun to take things for granted that only weeks ago I thought I would never see again.'

In the quiet moment that followed, Pippin reached out and patted Frodo's hand and Merry puffed rather energetically on his pipe. But Frodo met Sam's eyes and a smile of such tenderness passed between them that Merry felt overwhelmed and humbled and Aragorn looked away.

'We were wondering how long we are going to stay here, Strider,' said Sam after a moment.

'Yes. Hot baths and proper beds all around, I'd say,' Merry added more brightly, wanting this sadness to evaporate and get some cheer back in their hearts. He missed Eowyn in truth and was keen to see how she was getting on with Faramir.

'Soon,' Aragorn replied. 'Imrahil has been writing to Faramir so the preparations are made. We will take the ships and sail down the Anduin to Osgiliath. Then ride back to Minas Tirith where I hope Faramir will come and meet me.'

'Is there any doubt?' Merry asked quickly, feeling a little surge of irritation at the suggestion that Faramir might refuse. He could not imagine the quiet, serious young Man he had left in the houses of Healing being anything but good and honourable…like Boromir had been at the end, he thought but did not speak.

'I hope not,' Aragorn replied. 'But he is the Steward and Denethor's son.'

Merry frowned and began to speak but Pippin interjected helpfully, 'And Boromir's brother.'

'He is very different from Boromir,' Merry said quickly. 'And anyway, Boromir was affected by the Ring for such a long time. But he became himself again in the end.' He remembered that terrible day when they had been assailed and Boromir lost his life defending him and Pippin, and they were carried off by the horrible Orcs and goblins.

'Yes, he did,' Pippin said rather loudly and then looked away because Frodo glanced at him quickly.

Merry pursed his lips anxiously, seeing the way the conversation had become difficult and uncomfortable but they had just wanted to enjoy Aragorn's company. There was so much more to be said even now, he thought. So much to work out and untangle between all of them.

'Faramir will be happy to have you as King, I am sure,' he said reassuringly. 'After all, you healed him from the Black Breath.'

'That is true,' Aragorn agreed. 'But Denethor would never have accepted anyone else… and from the start, Boromir merely expressed what many of Gondor will be thinking: I have been raised by elves, lived amongst the Men of the North and though some may have heard of Thorongil, Denethor's jealousy made sure my name did not linger for long in the minds of Gondor.' He tapped down his pipe and relit it for it had gone out. 'If Boromir had lived,' he continued, 'It would have been far easier. These great lords have only ever known a Steward, and would have followed Boromir's lead. I do not know what hold Faramir has. I do not know what they think of a King that has lived all these long years amongst the elves, and his father and grandfather before that. To them, I am a foreigner. An interloper.'

'But you have just led them to victory! You have defeated Sauron.' Merry could not help himself from bursting out like Pippin would have done.

'Frodo and Sam defeated Sauron,' Aragorn declared proudly, looking at the two hobbits. 'And I would take nothing from them. In truth had they failed, I would have led the army to certain destruction.' He spread his hands wide and his grey eyes were serious. 'The city would have been left open to Sauron's forces…' He held Merry's gaze and then said more quietly, 'There are some who say it every day around the camp if you choose to listen.'

Aragorn said it practically, and Merry knew it was true. Quietly behind their hands or closed doors, only a few but the quiet and discrete hobbits heard much that they were not intended to. And Merry knew that if Aragorn did not govern well and strongly, those few dissenters would become more. And he was still unknown to these Men who had followed Denethor and Boromir for all the years against Sauron.

'In their minds,' Aragorn continued reasonably, 'I did not come to their aid until the very end when hope had come unlooked for and timely, from Rohan. There will be those who judged my arrival as too timely- they ask why I did not fight with them before, why did I leave it until the very end to join my people.' He shrugged for he understood. 'They have not heard of Strider, or Thorongil. They do not know that I have been at their side albeit under a different name. I need Faramir to accept me so that they will too…If they see Faramir as a worthy successor to Denethor, to Boromir.' He glanced around at the serious, concerned faces of the hobbits. 'It is what they say, and I cannot blame them.'

'Then I choose not to listen,' declared Sam stoutly. 'We would never have even got to Rivendell if we hadn't met you, Strider. The Ring would be Sauron's by now if it weren't for you and I for one will stand up and tell them that!'

And while Merry agreed with him, he agreed with Aragorn too that he and Faramir needed an alliance, that Aragorn had indeed called Faramir back from the Black Breath. But Merry had also seen how Faramir looked upon Eowyn. But Eowyn looked upon Aragorn with the same breathless hope. And Aragorn was to be wed to Arwen.

It didn't look very easy at all to Merry.

0o0o

Indeed at supper, Aragorn sat and listened, for the same conversation was being rehearsed again with the lords of Gondor. He was tired of worrying about it, thinking about it and just wanted it to be over. He toyed with a piece of meat, wiping it around his plate with his fork.

'… the people must know, my lord, that you are among them and taking your rightful place.' Lord Angbor had journeyed with him from the battle in Lebennin where Aragorn had appeared out of nowhere with the forgotten army of the Dead, and Angbor had bowed his head and pledged fealty to Aragorn. Loyal, honest, completely trustworthy. Aragorn had been pleased to include him in his new Council. Others, he was less pleased with but knew he had no choice if he was to rule. Lord Herion sat opposite, thin mouth and wary, mistrustful eyes. It was he who had spoken against going to Minas Morgul. He was one Aragorn had yet to convince. And there were others. He glanced down the long table where his lords were sitting, waited upon, eating from silver platters, wiping their mouths, drinking wine. He caught Elrohir's gaze upon him, concerned, understanding and raised an eyebrow very slightly, knowing his brother would notice. Elrohir's mouth curled, amused, and he lifted his glass. He noticed that Elladan sat lower down the table, next to Imrahil. It was surprising that Imrahil had been seated so far from the King and Aragorn wondered who had been able to manipulate the seating to ensure some were closer to him than others and so had his ear.

Suddenly Aragorn wanted nothing more than a camp fire and his brothers' company. Or the Fellowship. Halbarad. Ah, Halbarad – if only he could have seen Aragorn now. But he only nodded at Angbor's point and continued to wipe the meat around his plate.

'But what of Faramir? He must be made to acknowledge the King first, humble himself…' Forlong's son, Aragorn could not remember his name, who had yet to be declared as his fallen father's successor, was young and fervent. And ardently supportive of the King. Too headstrong, rash, he needed to be refined and moulded and then he would be a great ally, thought Aragorn, wondering if he was married yet and if not, could he be found a suitable wife…Then stopped himself. This was exactly what was going through the minds of every great House here; find the King a suitable wife, forge an alliance with the new King, have influence. The sooner Arwen arrived and put a stop to that the better.

'Faramir will not humble himself!' a voice further down the table raised in protest. He could not remember the name of this lord; dark hair, grey eyes. Typical Gondor stock.

'Indeed not! Why should he? He is the son of the Steward and raised to govern. True, Denethor was completely mad by the end, but it was not always so.'

Aragorn stirred himself and looked about his council. He really did not know many of them and trusted fewer. It was old lord Herion who spoke last.

'Remember it was Faramir who held Ithilien for all those years. He fought the Enemy far from the shelter of the city.' Herion rapped his stick against the table leg grumpily. He had been one of Denethor's right hand men. He was powerful, owned much of the land that had been despoiled by Sauron's army but was fertile agricultural land that would be needed to feed the city. Aragorn knew he had to make an ally of Herion. He was of an old family with strong allegiances to other old families…All of whom would be hoping for an allegiance to the new King. A wedding to an elf would not make this any easier.

'Lord Faramir will certainly not humble himself before me,' Aragorn spoke with quiet authority. 'And I will not require it. He has acquitted himself with very great honour and I intend to have him at my side to help me rule. He knows this city, this land. He loves it as I do. It is in his blood, as it is in mine. We share kindred.' Aragorn looked challengingly around the table. Gandalf was seated quietly at the far end but his blue eyes were approving. 'I will request that Faramir visit me before we go into the city and he will ride at my right hand. Indeed it is at his invitation that I will enter, and only then.'

There was a murmur of approval.

'And how will Faramir be known once you are King?' Herion challenged. His pale blue eyes were rheumy but there was no doubt in them now. He clutched the silver top of his cane. The veins of his hands were thick and blue, his skin translucent with age. But his hands still wielded a sword well and power even more accurately, heavily. Aragorn met the Man's eyes but he did not smile; he must appear stronger than any other, fill them with confidence that here was their leader. Here was their King.

Aragorn paused. He had not considered Faramir's title; it was an important point, he realized now it had been said. But his face betrayed nothing. 'I think that is something for my steward and I to discuss, Lord Herion. Do you not think? But the title of Steward has long been an honourable one and I see no reason that it should not continue.'

The satisfaction on Herion's face was reward enough and Aragorn glanced around to see that Elrohir had the slightest of smiles on his face but it was full of pride. He raised his glass and nodded at Aragorn.

'Let us raise a toast to Faramir, guardian of Ithilien and Steward to the King!'

The words were echoed and Elrohir smiled appreciatively, catching Aragorn's eye: Steward to the King- the emphasis firmly on the King's authority.

0o0o

Elladan had positioned himself discretely. He leaned nonchalantly against a tent post, one knee bent, resting his foot against the pole, arms folded over his chest.

'You look like a heraldic device; elf sable upon an argent field,' a voice murmured by his ear.

He smiled.

'Hear anything useful?' Imrahil shifted to stand in front of him now, so he had to slightly look up for the Man was almost as tall as he when Elladan stood upright. Imrahil held two glasses of wine, and held one out to Elladan. Their fingers touched briefly and Elladan felt a frisson of erotic desire fizzle through his fingers, his hands. He almost looked around to see if anyone else had noticed, but there were similar little knots of men gathered about, talking, their eyes cut this way and that to observe, to note, to judge. Who was talking to whom? Who was making a deal, and alliance? Who was closest to the new King?

'Aragorn's refusal to humiliate Faramir has been well received,' said Imrahil in his smooth urbane voice, his attention all on Elladan. It brought the small hairs on his neck up, shivered pleasurably

'Faramir is clearly well thought of, if weaker than his brother, the ill-fated Boromir.' Elladan pulled a sour face for he had heard of the Man's fall from grace, his attempt to wrest the Ring from Frodo and whilst the Fellowship were forgiving and defended him, Elladan could not.

'Be wary of how you speak of my late nephew.'

Elladan glanced up to see a flash of anger in Imrahil's sharp blue eyes. He looked away sheepishly and inclined his head, acknowledging the slight. 'Forgive me. I suppose I only saw him when the Ring was pulling him. I did not know him at his best.'

Imrahil's lips parted in a breath. He looked at Elladan more softly. 'That is true and it grieves me more than I can speak that at the end of his life he was so corrupted. But you know, he was a great leader.' He sighed and bent his head. The lamplight gleamed on his dark hair. 'Had Aragorn arrived with Boromir, there would be none who questioned his right to rule. If Boromir had bent his knee to Aragorn, all would follow … Faramir is loved. But he is not Boromir.' He swirled his wine in the glass and looked into its depths. 'Faramir is gentler, better for peace, for conciliation. He would be a good choice for Steward in this new Age.'

Elladan felt unsophisticated, gauche for his unthinking remark. He stepped closer so his arm pressed against Imrahil's, and he leaned towards the Man. Impulsively, he said, 'May I come to you tonight?'

Imrahil inclined his head with a slight smile and to any onlooker, it was merely two great lords close to the King conferring, agreeing. Indeed there were many others who were; Herion stood nearby talking to one of his sons and Angbor laughed loudly at something Aragorn had said.

It was the first time Elladan had asked Imrahil for any more than a game of chess. And the only time they had shared anything more than a handshake was at Legolas' contrivance. Elladan felt a tremor of lust and anxiety at the eager anticipation in Imrahil's eyes and looked away quickly. He licked his lips suddenly gone dry at the thought of the Man, his strong, wiry body, older, not an Elf. The crinkles at the side of his eyes, the lines near his mouth that showed where he laughed.

'I have maps of that area in my tent,' Imrahil said a little more loudly so Herion and his son turned their heads slightly. 'Let me show you, my lord. I think you will find what you are looking for amongst them.' He drained his glass quickly, too quickly and threw a bright, mischievous glance at Elladan and then walked out. Elladan stood for a moment, astonished, alarmed and then followed him.

Imrahil had arrived before Elladan so that when Elladan stepped through the doorway of the pavilion, Imrahil had his back to Elladan and pouring wine. He had already thrown off his formal robes, cast them carelessly upon a wooden trunk, and stood in a thin shirt, breeches that were tight over his thighs, his buttocks, and long boots that were very fine. His black hair was cut shoulder-length and he had pulled it back now and tied it with a leather string as if for business. When Elladan stood in the doorway, Imrahil turned towards him, two goblets in his hands and his piercing blue eyes were bright.

'I did not mistake your intention?' he asked. But his eyes were calm, anticipating. And Elladan was nervous. He had never really desired another man until Legolas had kissed him aboard the Sea Song, never even thought about it…

No. That was not true.

He had had a crush on Erestor for years. Until Erestor had kindly, carefully rebuffed him, so gently that he never even realized, until he stopped dreaming of the older man's strange amber eyes, his subtle gaze, his straight-backed stride…Erestor had always been his guardian. Always watched for him. When he was pushed away by his mother in that careless, kindly way, it was Erestor who was there…

He decided that there was something about Imrahil that reminded him of Erestor. Perhaps that was why he found the Man so attractive? He must be his 'type' he thought, and took the proffered wine, threw it down his throat quickly so it curled in his belly like warmth, like Erestor's kindly arm thrown about his shoulder. But Elladan didn't want kindness; a thrilling excitement fluttered in his belly, in his loins.

Imrahil took the empty goblet from him and their fingers brushed against each other. He smiled and then took Elladan's hand in his, drew him into the pavilion and with his other hand, loosed the rope that held the tent flap open so it fell back and shut out the sun, shut out all sound. With one hand he quickly looped the rope over a hook in the frame so anyone trying to enter would have to struggle with the heaviness of the curtain, and a second curtain fell around them so they were enveloped in heavy silk and embroidered tapestries, the world shut out, sounds muffled.

'Come here,' said Imrahil and he led Elladan to the bed, covered in cushions and down-filled quilts. The Man smiled and sank down amongst the cushions. He toed his boots off and kicked them away, pulling his shirt loose from the waistband of his breeches. Reclining back amongst the silk cushions and pillows he held out his hand and Elladan took it, sank down with the Prince of Dol Amroth.

When Imrahil kissed him, he tasted the wine on his lips, smelt it on his breath, licked it from his mouth. It was different from kissing a woman, he thought. He liked a woman's lips moist but found he liked the dryness of Imrahil.

When he pulled the leather tie from Imrahil's hair, Imrahil's hand were thrust into his own hair and his head pulled back. Imrahil looked deeply into his eyes, the blue of his own irises the colour, Elladan thought, of the sea on a clear day, a day when the sun shines upon it and it is smooth like blue silk. Imrahil smiled as if he read his thoughts and kissed him hard, pushing his tongue into Elladan's mouth and plucking at the ties of his tunic, his shirt, tugging his own from his body and pressing hard against him.

Imrahil's hard hands were already upon Elladan's own flesh, kneading and stroking alternately, and his licking and sucking and biting and kissing merged into one rolling sensation after another and Elladan did not know where he ended and Imrahil started for their flesh, their skin, hair, lips, thighs pressed and rubbed against each other in a delicious ecstasy. He felt his cock bulging so hard he thought he might burst before it was time and quickly pinched the end to suppress the climactic ecstasy that threatened to tip him over.

'Lie down,' Imrahil murmured into his hair.

Elladan hesitated and then lay himself down on the bed, stretched out naked and looked up at Imrahil.

Imrahil tossed back the last of his wine while he looked admiringly, appreciatively at Elladan. 'You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen.'

Elladan didn't quite know what to say; he was not used to thinking of himself like that. Healer, warrior, lore-master. But not beautiful. He lifted his hand and stroked back Imrahil's hair wondering what he should say in return but he did not need to for Imrahil bore down upon him then and pressed his mouth against Elladan's, pushed his tongue in so he thought he would faint and let his hands catch at Elladan's balls, his cock, squeeze and twist and pump until he arched and lifted himself from the bed in anguished desire.

He knew words broke from his lips but did not know what they were for he was overcome and felt the churning in his balls. He cried out once but immediately Imrahil flipped him over and Elladan's face was in the pillows, smelling of Imrahil, his faint perfume of spice and musk. Imrahil's hands were slick with oil and he firmly kneaded Elladan's flesh, slid his hands over his shoulders, his back, his thighs and then slid between the crease of his flesh, pressed at him.

'You are tense, my beautiful warrior.' Imrahil stilled his hand and leaned over Elladan's back, breathed over his neck so a shiver went down his spine. His hands were gentler now, he pushed Elladan's legs apart with his knee and stroked his balls from behind. A lovely thrill of desire shot through Elladan. 'I will be gentle, I promise…but next time I will devour you.'

There was a slow push of oiled fingers first that Elladan baulked at and then gagged the cry that pushed from his mouth as a hot, blunt hardness pushing against his clenched muscles. He felt Imrahil pause and consider.

'Do you wish me to stop?' Imrahil leaned over him, gently brushed his hair back from his face so he could see how Elladan had pressed his face into the pillow like some virgin.

Elladan slowed his breathing and slowly let himself relax. He shook his head and Imrahil covered his fists, bunched and clenched into the silk sheets. He took Elladan's fingers and slowly uncurled them, kissed them and stroked his hair, his shoulders, pushed between them and stroked a fingernail over his own cock. Sudden desire flooded him then and he twisted about to press his mouth against Imrahil's, wound his arms about the Man's neck and pulled him close. Imrahil gasped and pushed Elladan back down and then the blunt, hot hardness pressed further and his tender skin tore and stretched and burned. He cried out at the slow pain that suddenly changed into liquid pooling of desire. Oh but now his cry was astonished and wondrous and he pushed back, wanting the touch, the friction over that place. There it was again, and again, and he found himself shoving back as hard as Imrahil, grasping, clutching, panting so that all thoughts and words were driven from him. He pushed up onto his hands and knees to push himself back, impale himself on the column of hard muscle inside him. There was Imrahil's hand clutching him around his waist and with an impatient cry, Elladan grabbed it and clamped it around his own full, hard cock, so hot, so needy, and pumped it with Imrahil's hand, once, twice and he exploded in liquid, sticky climax.

He felt Imrahil jerk against him and then still, but his head was ringing and he blinked sweat from his eyes. A hand stroked down his flanks and he felt Imrahil slowly, very carefully withdraw. But even so, it hurt and he wished it did not.

Imrahil collapsed on the bed, laughing softly.

'Well my warrior, that I have waited for ever since I first met you.'

Elladan rolled onto his back and turned his head to look at Imrahil. He had leaned over and swiped up a cloth from beside the bed and was wiping his hands, then his own thighs. He handed a clean one to Elladan and smiled, his teeth flashed in the twilight that was inside the tent.

When Elladan did not reply, Imrahil's face became concerned, serious. 'Do not regret this, Elladan. I know what this is.'

But Elladan was not thinking that. He was thinking instead that his heart was full and he loved this Man.

He reached out and cupped Imrahil's cheek and leaned over for a slow, deep kiss. 'I have no regret,' he said.

0o0o

Aragorn had noticed Imrahil and Elladan's departure and glanced at Elrohir.

If Elrohir had not looked so concerned, he would not have felt anything other than pleased that his most important ally and his brother were getting on well. Lord Herion was still speaking and he could not just make an excuse and wander casually over to Elrohir to ask wherefore he was so concerned.

'So the need is more pressing than we thought,' Gandalf was saying and Aragorn tore his attention back to the discussion. 'It is time, I think, to return to Minas Tirith. Send messengers to Faramir, Aragorn, telling him what you intend and asking him to make ready and then come and meet you.'

Aragorn nodded. 'Very well. We will start to decamp in the morning. And besides,' he added softly, 'the hobbits wish for a hot bath and roof over their head. I will see it done.'

There was a murmur of agreement infused with wonder, for the Men of Gondor were not only getting used to their new King, but the idea that Halflings had made the journey into Mordor and it was they who had, in truth, defeated the Dark Lord.

'The ships are already moored in the Anduin, your majesty,' Angbor said. 'We will start to embark in the morning.'

There was a murmur of agreement and Aragorn thought that at least they agreed on something. When he glanced over at Elrohir though, his brother was staring into nothing and his lips were parted, his grey eyes full of fear.

0o0o