(Special scene for Paradis and Unnamed Element, - you'll know, but I am sure others will like it too:) Thank you for all the nice reviews. Anyone logged in I reply to. And earthdragon, who isn't logged in, thank you.

As always, my thanks to the wonderful Anarithilien for her patience and time, and her creative genius!

Chapter 11: The Coronation

And so, in the next days, Aragorn departed Cormallen with all his retinue, boarded the great ships that sailed down the Anduin, and arrived in Osgiliath.

It was the first day of May. The King had been received by Faramir, the Steward and welcomed. Now they rode together, side by side, and with the Ringbearers and Gandalf, they entered the city followed by Eomer, King of Rohan and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. In the company that followed, victorious, weary, relieved, were the great captains and lords of Gondor's host and amongst them, somewhere behind, were a dwarf and an elf.

The crowds cheered and waved and flowers were thrown in their path as the procession wound through the wide main streets and people crammed into the squares and hung over the balconies to wave and cheer.

High on the seventh level and in Steward's Gardens that overlooked the city's lower levels, Elrohir stood on the ramparts amongst the nobles and lords of Gondor too old to ride into battle, or who had waited in the city to defend it if all else failed. Up here was a vantage point from which the King's procession could be viewed and so the court was crammed with people; an excited murmur rising from them and they pushed forwards to get their first glimpse of the new King. The scent of roses filled the air though it was still early and Elrohir thought that his mother would have liked this garden. For once, the memory of her did not fill him with guilt and pain but he did not wonder why.

Elrohir craned his neck, easily the tallest man there, but he could not see the pale wintergrass hair of the one he loved most, still too far away. Elrohir knew Legolas was there though. He could sense him like the scent of the sea on the wind.

Below were the crowds of people cheering, waving, throwing petals before the King, waving banners. Trumpets blared a fanfare as he processed through the streets, slowly winding his way up through the levels, as each of the seven gates was opened to Aragorn and the keys presented until he finally reached the Seventh Level upon which stood the palace of the Kings of old, that had become the Hall of the Stewards. Here Aragorn was to be crowned before all the city.

The crowd amongst which Elrohir stood was restless, excited for they had to await the King's ascent to the citadel. Like a flock of raucous seagulls waiting to be fed, Elrohir thought in disgust and immediately knew it was unfair. It was that wound lingering, he thought, still restricting him and so slow to heal. A month had passed and he was still not hale. It was taking too long and he longed to be rid of it. But Elladan had said that the sticky tendrils of the Black Web still clung to his fëa and slowed his healing. Elladan had laughed unsympathetically at his impatience and reminded him that only months ago, (was it only months?) in order to distract the Nazgûl from the Ring's departure south, Elrohir had ridden out to meet the Nazgûl on Amon Sûl with Glorfindel, leaving Elladan behind recovering from the morgul blade. And this was not unlike.

For a moment, he glimpsed Elladan far below at the one of the gates of the city, standing beside Imrahil and Faramir. And the gate opened and Aragorn surged into view, the crowds already cheering before he even appeared.

Elrohir felt himself reeling suddenly, overcome. The moment suddenly so immense for these people of Gondor who had waited and waited… but for him too, and his brother, his father. At last, their long guardianship was at an end; no more Heirs of Isildur in Imladris. No more foster brothers…. It seemed for a moment that they all stood beside him like ghosts, watching the child of their children slowly enter the gates of Minas Tirith and pause to look about himself wonderingly. Arathorn. Arador. Argonui. All the way back to Aranarth, who had been a tall, gangling youth with arms and legs too long and then grown into one of the most accomplished warriors Elrohir had ever ridden with. He had loved Arathorn for his quiet kindness, and then Aragorn most of all.

It seemed to take forever for the King's procession to wind its way through the streets of Minas Tirith. The nobles and great of Minas Tirith had drifted away a little, bored perhaps by the waiting and Elrohir took a vacated seat on a stone bench where he could still see and hear the King's procession. He stretched out his injured leg and propped up his cane by his side. For a moment, he closed his eyes and let his own crimson power gentle and warm the inflamed and stretched sinews and muscles, smooth along the nerves and untangle the jangling knots of pain. The sun was warm on his skin, and it heated his hair. The noise of the crowds dimmed into insignificance and he leaned his head back, tipped his face up to the sun.

He became aware of a presence at his side and opened his eyes. A Man stood slightly behind and to the side of him, looking out over the Pelennor Fields; he was one of the merchants to whom Elrohir had been introduced when he arrived to prepare the city for the king. Imrahil had counselled both Elrohir and Elladan to make alliances for Aragorn's sake and reluctantly Elrohir had complied in the few days he had been in the city; ensuring he was courteous to both merchants and lords, charming to the ladies and maids alike.

So now inclined his head in greeting and made room on the stone bench.

'My lord,' the Man said and swept his elegant and rich robes to one side so he could ease in alongside Elrohir. He leaned back slightly and tipped his face up towards the sun as Elrohir had done moments before.

Elrohir could not remember the Man's name and frowned. He had been introduced once, spoken only that time but the Man had been the object of much speculation, not all of it kind.

'I believe you too are recently come to the city,' he said.

'Indeed,' replied the Man. 'I had the greatest fortune. Only weeks ago, I found a seam of gold on my poor farmstead and brought a nugget here. It was fought over by two of the richest merchants in the city and so I found myself with money for the first time on my life. I have sold my land and come to the city. It has made my wife happy.' He smiled, seemingly a little awed by his own sudden fortune that had plunged him into the circles of influence and power in the city. 'It is chance that the King has brought peace and with it will come prosperity. Many will want gold. They hope to make gifts to the King and so buy his favour.' There was a different air to the Man now, something worldly and knowing as if he were not at all that humble peasant. It gave weight to the rumours that he was not as he seemed.

Indeed, the change made Elrohir uneasy, like there was something hidden and waiting.

'It must be a great day for you and your brother,' the merchant continued politely. 'I am told that you brought up our King from a child, taught him all he knows of war and statecraft. You must be proud.'

'We are,' Elrohir said, hearing how tightly his voice was wound and forcing himself to relax. 'He had achieved everything he intended to. And I know he will be a good King to his people.' Elrohir shifted uncomfortably for suddenly his leg began to throb. He winced as he stretched it out in front of him, feeling the crunch of the joint as it straightened. As he did so, he put his hand on the edge of the bench and by accident, brushed against the Man's own fingers.

A jolt shot through Elrohir like he had been bitten.

Ravéyön

He snatched his hand back and glanced down in shock. The Man wore an old ring but there was nothing untoward, and he was looking straight ahead as if unaware of Elrohir's reaction.

At that moment, a page came running over, breathless. 'Master Bearas,' he panted. 'Forgive me but you are wanted in the House.'

Elrohir glanced at the boy, red-faced and hot. It must be important indeed to pull the Man away from this. Bearas rose to his feet and gave a smooth bow to Elrohir.

'Forgive me, my lord. It is my wife.' Bearas looked excited, younger. 'She is expecting our second child and I must go. I am hoping for a little boy.' His face grew fond and doting. 'I have a little girl, Gerda and she is so excited to have a little brother or sister. Our unexpected good fortune means that this time, we hope not to lose this one. We have had two still births before.' He looked suddenly uncertain, and Elrohir saw again the Man again as he had been when he first sat. 'Perhaps you will pray to the Valar for us?'

Elrohir smiled at him but did not reach out to clasp his hand as custom bade. He did not want to touch his hand again. 'Go! And good fortune.' He did not say he would pray for he could not, but he wished the Man and his little family well.

He frowned and leaned forward. Had he heard a whisper: Ravéyön? Was it just that he was here? And the sense of the Nazgûl lingered yet? Or perhaps it was that the Black Web did indeed linger as Elladan had said?

He shook himself. Perhaps. It was his overwrought imagination, the wound, sleeplessness. Missing Legolas like his heart had been cut out.

Turning back to the crowd, he saw that Aragorn's procession was making very slow progress for the crowds pressed close and he had to keep stopping to address his people, children were passed up to him for blessing.

And then suddenly, Elrohir spotted a tall, blond elf amongst the Men below.

Legolas.

Simply clad and unprepossessing, in his moss green tunic and suede boots, with Gimli standing beside him like a boulder. They were there after all, behind Aragorn. Elrohir's heart gave a great leap and he had to restrain himself from leaping down the steps from the citadel to throw open the gates to the seventh level himself. His heart thumped in his chest and he felt a surge of love. Devotion. He would fall to his knees before Legolas and adore him.

Then Legolas looked up as if he felt Elrohir's attention. He was still too far away for Elrohir to see his face but suddenly, Elrohir was overwhelmed with the scent of the Woods, leaf mould and mist, spring, meadowgrass and hay, the forest stream tumbling over slate and granite, pooling in stillness beneath the moss and ferns. Elrohir could not wait any longer and pushed himself to his feet, still leaning on his cane but less heavily than in Cormallen, and found himself pressed close by the crowd of nobles and lords who awaited the return of the King of Gondor. Stifling his bad temper, he pushed his way between the crowd, smiling tightly and apologising as he eased his way back from the edge of the ramparts towards the palace.

At last he felt he could breathe. In the Tower Hall, the marble floors were cold and the sunlight, though it streamed through the great windows, did little to warm the empty halls. It was prepared for the King's welcome with flowers and garlands but empty; his footsteps rang on the floor. He would make his way at least to the steps of the palace, he thought. At least he could greet Aragorn as if it were the King he was impatient to see.

Quickly he made his way through the empty palace. Everyone was outside - not a soul within. The statues of the Stewards lined the hall, giving way later to Kings. He paused before one, Ondoher, he read; there was nothing of Aragorn in the face of this one. He had been carved from stone and not well, hastily, as if to catch his likeness before he was forgotten. Calimehtar was next to him. But his likeness was better done, his face still and calm, his eyes raised and looking West. The stone seemed fluid, fluted into the folds of his robes. A slight smile played about his lips and now the resemblance struck Elrohir. That smile was Aragorn's.

He glanced back down the rows of statues; they seemed like the march of time itself. And Elrohir was struck by the sense of time passing.

And then he heard the fanfares of trumpets announce the Return of the King and he hurried out into the crowded square with its lime trees just beginning to leaf, the pale stone warm in the sun. A slow roar was growing, gathering from the streets and heralding Aragorn's procession from the circles of the city to its final, highest level for the people of Gondor had not remained behind in their levels as he passed but followed Aragorn as he climbed through the city and now there were thousands in his wake. On the crowded steps of the palace, Elrohir looked across to see the Lady Eowyn of Rohan, her white dress gleaming and her hair pale gold. She had more colour in her cheeks now and Elrohir hoped it was not because Aragorn approached. And then the roar became a loud cheering and shouting, fanfares trumpeted again and the bells rang out.

A magnificent black horse, so like the one that Elrohir had ridden to the Morannon, surged into the square; silver glinted in the sun from its ornate bridle and saddle and upon it was a lordly figure, tall and cloaked in red with dark hair and grey eyes. Aragorn.

Elrohir felt his throat catch and his eyes filled with tears; here was all they had striven for all those long years. Here was the Heir of Isildur restored. Aragorn Elessar. Estel.

Behind him was Imrahil, followed by Gandalf, Eomer, Elladan and then the hobbits and Gimli.

Elrohir searched for Legolas but could see nothing and sudden fear grabbed his heart. Surely nothing could have happened during the procession? Gimli did not look alarmed.

A breath ghosted over the back of his neck and he felt the sunlight had changed and instead of a city of stone, he thought he walked in the green-gold light of the woods in spring, beechen green and dappled.

A hand drifted across his waist and slipped away and he turned, yearning, for a glimpse of long blond hair like wintergrass, a blazing smile that ignited him, so he felt aflame with desire. Legolas slid between the straining people craning their necks to see their new King. He slipped between the shadows of the lime trees and then through the open gateway to the palace and its gardens. Through the stone arch, Elrohir followed, his feet like lead with the heaviness of his wound but his heart flying like the banners that flew now from the Tower of Ecthelion; the plain white standard of the Stewards and the black banner with the white tree and seven stars of Aragorn.

Elrohir stood in the empty Court of the Fountain where the White Tree of Gondor wasted. No one else was here for all were either in the square to greet Aragorn or standing in the Steward's gardens that overlooked the circles of the city and watching the King's procession.

No one else was there but Legolas.

0o0o

Legolas waited breathlessly for Elrohir, impatiently. But he took so long! How was it that he did not run, take long strides, leap the low wall, spring over the flower beds and crush Legolas to him? He watched impatiently, and Elrohir emerged from the shaded gateway, limping and leaning on his cane. Immediately Legolas felt ashamed and anxious and a spear of longing pierced him with intensity, of pity and compassion for Elrohir's pain and immense tenderness.

He could not wait for Elrohir to reach him though and took three strides across the courtyard, leapt the low hedge of lavender and scooted through the roses. He fell against Elrohir, lips crushing lips, hands all over Elrohir as if they could drink him in, like he wanted to with his mouth. Lust sizzled through him and he felt himself burgeon, fill, stiffen and he wanted to tear the clothes from Elrohir, to lay him down and fuck him senseless.

Beyond words now, or coherent thought, Legolas pulled at Elrohir, dragged him through the open door to the emptied Tower of Ecthelion and there, just inside the shaded door, he tore at his lover's dark velvet surcoat with clumsy impatience, desperate for the feel of Elrohir's skin, like he was deprived of air and water. At last his lips were on Elrohir's shoulder, the smooth skin over muscle, the smell of him, clean like snow on the mountains, and that underlying musk that was always there.

He leaned in and sniffed at Elrohir's skin, hard, inhaling him deeply. He heard Elrohir laugh and felt him shake his head.

'What are you doing?' Elrohir asked indulgently, a smile in his voice and Legolas closed his eyes and buried his nose, his mouth and face in Elrohir's shoulder, smelling, touching feeling him, enveloping himself in all of Elrohir.

'I am remembering you,' he said. 'Claiming you again.'

'Come inside more,' Elrohir murmured, pulling him into an ante-chamber that was barely hidden if someone should come but Legolas did not care. He wanted! Oh, how he wanted Elrohir. Like nothing he had ever felt before. If he could climb into his lover's skin, he would.

He shed his own clothes barely noticing and pressed himself against his beloved Elrohir. Long black hair slid through his fingers, over his hands like night-silk; it smelled of the air, of the frost, of snow on the mountains like Elrohir had been riding on the high Hithaeglir although he could not have been. Or the wind had been blowing through his hair that had come down off the mountains, which it might. He kissed Elrohir more gently now, not crushing, not clashing his teeth against him. But the sensation of kissing him, of feeling his skin was like home, such a strange sensation and he was still not used to it. Every fibre of him thrummed with the closeness and he pressed himself as close as he could, so their skin stuck in places and rubbed unbearably.

'Take me, let me take you, I care not. But for Manwë's sake, fuck me now. Hard and quick. I cannot wait.'

Elrohir fucked him, standing up with Legolas pressed into the marble wall and his cock trapped between the wall and his belly as Elrohir shoved his cock bursting into Legolas and Elrohir twisted his hair around his fist and pulled his head back to lick and suck at his throat. Slowly at first and then frantically, he pumped into Legolas until both climaxed in huge rush of hot sticky semen and Elrohir pressed his face into Legolas' neck and inhaled him as Legolas had earlier.

There was a blare of trumpets and a loud voice outside, announcing the King and Legolas looked back over his shoulder at Elrohir, gasping and laughing, and they pulled apart slowly, pleased with each other. It had taken no more than minutes and Legolas laughed softly.

'Did you miss me?' he murmured. Then he turned and pushed Elrohir's hair out of his lovely face, noting the tension round the mouth, the slight squeeze around his eyes. 'How is your leg?'

At that, as if he had forgotten until now, Elrohir collapsed against the wall, leaning his back against it. 'Hurts like an orc is grinding the bone,' he said. He sighed. 'But it will be better now that you are here.' The smile he gave Legolas then took Legolas' breath away for here was Elrohir Ravéyön, Son of Thunder, who had offered his life over and over for Legolas.

Overwhelmed, Legolas cupped Elrohir's cheek and kissed him gently, deeply, then leaned his forehead against his beloved. 'I will do anything you ask,' he said. 'Anything. I wish you to be well. What will it take?'

'Nothing. You are here now. That is all I need.'

With a long look, Legolas looked about and saw a dainty lace cloth over a table. He grimaced and then used it to wipe himself clean, handed it to Elrohir. Then he reached down and scooped up Elrohir's velvet surcoat and laughing, brushed it off and held it out for Elrohir to shrug into. He retrieved his own breeches and pulled them on, then drew over his head his own much repaired moss suede tunic. Wordlessly they brushed each other down and pulled up breeches, smoothed surcoats, tidied hair and then smiling, Elrohir slipped out into the crowd.

Legolas paused for a moment, listening. Then he took long strides out into the courtyard following Elrohir a little way after.

At last he emerged into the sunlight beneath the lime trees and amongst the crowd. Several of the people turned and looked at Legolas as he stood at the back and watched Aragorn ascend the steps to the Hall of the Stewards, which would now be the Palace of the King. When they saw who he was, the people stepped back for Legolas and nodded and smiled at him.

Soon he found himself on the edge of the procession once again and a dwarf turned his head and glared at Legolas. 'Where've you been? You almost missed this.' Gimli looked shrewdly at Legolas and then shook his head. He shoved the ends of his beard into his mouth and then realising, snatched them out again. 'Well whatever it is you've been up to, don't wander off again. I can't always cover for you.'

Smiling, Legolas patted the dwarf on the head and followed him within to where Gandalf would crown Aragorn, King Elessar of Gondor.

0o0o