Journey To Rohan
By Peaceangel .2004


With gratitude to:
 Tularia – most patient Beta on earth
 Akasha Elfwitch –for the wonderful artwork

Pairing: FPS:  Aragorn/Legolas
		Rating: NC-17 for explicit sex and violence (sparingly)
		Warning: Non-consensual sex, angst
Summary:  How does Strider help a proud Elf recover from a life-threatening trauma?
		Feedback:  Greatly desired! (on site or email author at:  earthdanser@comcast.net)
		Disclaimer:  These characters do not belong to me and this is non-profit story telling.
Story takes place prior to LOTR, when darkness begins its descent…


Chapter One – Elven Superiority
Strider whistled expertly, imitating the chirp of a small white and brown 
sparrow that he and Legolas used as their signal to call each other.  There 
was no response and his brows furrowed in concern.  He glanced up at the 
reddening sky. Soon it would get dark and the Elf had gone ahead to scout 
for a cave where they might rest for the night.  Strider thought he found a 
suitable location but there was no sign that the Elf had ever been here.

He sent out the shrill call again.  Nothing.  The man quickened his pace but 
also began to look carefully at the ground and surrounding trees, bringing all 
his tracking skills into full swing.  He had descended a small hill about a 
quarter of a mile ago and had noticed signs of a camp that looked to have 
been used maybe one day ago.  Whoever they were, they did not take great 
care to hide evidence of their having been there.

It was a three days journey to Rohan by foot. It would not be unlikely that 
they would run into men so close to the land of the horse lords.  But these 
lands were not well patrolled by Theodin’s guards, as the darkness was 
starting to spread to the places of men, leaving the area wide open for 
mercenaries to move undetected. 

Strider stopped and examined the ground.  Fresh footprints.  Not orcs, 
anyway. The criss-cross pattern looked more like man made sheepskin 
boots. If the Elf had passed through here there was no sign of it, although 
that did not mean Legolas had not been here.  He examined the surrounding 
area, glancing occasionally into the trees. It looked like a party of about four 
or five men had traversed through the foliage, leaving clear evidence of their 
passage.  He followed the trail; feeling more and more disquieted but didn’t 
know why. The markings suggested a sudden burst of increased speed and 
less organization.  They had started to run, the Ranger surmised, either from 
something or toward something.  Strider paused and sent out his birdcall 
again, more urgently.  If the Elf were any where within a few miles of him, he 
would surely hear it and respond.  Again, there was nothing.

The men’s tracks took him through the underbrush of some dense trees and 
before he could wonder why they would have taken such an unlikely route, 
he spied the glint of something yellow peeking out from under some heavy 
vines.  He quickly ran to the object, his stomach feeling like an unwholesome 
weight had settled within it.  It was an elven arrow.  Its shaft was broken.  
Clutching it tightly in his fist, Strider closed his eyes for a moment, before 
plunging through the underbrush and into a wider clearing.  At first he saw 
nothing.  He moved stealthy, noiselessly and listened to the sounds of the 
forest around him.  If anyone was around, they were not moving or even 
breathing.  He continued to scout, his senses now hyper alert to any signs 
that might lead him to his companion.

More tracks took him around a bend of clumped bushes and then his eyes 
fell on the pale skin of a bare arm.  He leaped forward with a yell of alarm.

The Archer was lying on his stomach, nude and unmoving.  

“Legolas!” screamed the man in anguish.  He gently turned the body of his 
friend over, cradling the head and shoulders in his arms, frantically he 
checked to make sure that the Elf was indeed still breathing.  Strider gasped 
at the dark yellow and black bruises on the archer’s face. There was a 
bleeding gash on the back of the Elf’s head that looked to have been from 
the hilt of a sword. The lips were swollen and bleeding. His hands were still 
bound at the wrists.  Dark bruises covered the alabaster skin down the arms 
and chest.  

Strider cursed viciously under his breath, mentally promising to personally 
slice the throats of the orc scum that dared to harm this noble being.  He 
untied the hands and tenderly pulled the rope from the bleeding wrists, 
noticing the rough fibers of the rope that remained imbedded in the raw flesh.  
They would have to be washed out.  Strider checked for injuries to the neck 
and spine that might preclude moving the Elf too much.  Finding none he 
checked for evidence of broken bones.  Thankfully he did not find anything 
but did have a concern about a very dark black bruise that covered the 
entire left side and extended to the back.  He felt the ribs for any breaks.  It 
was possible the Elf had cracked ribs and he feared internal injuries to the 
kidney and liver.  Elven healing ability should eventually take care of all that 
as long as Strider kept the Elf from going into shock.  Turning the Archer 
onto his side gently, Strider ran his hand down the toned back, noting 
several bruises on the shoulders and sides.   Gulping down his mounting 
anxiety, he moved to examine the dark bruising around the Elf’s buttocks.  
Fingers shaking, he parted the cheeks gently and found what he was 
dreading.  Dried blood on the inside of the thighs.  A curse spat past his lips.  
  

Strider closed his eyes, with head lowered and swore an oath to all he held 
dear. He would hunt the bastards down and kill them without mercy.  He 
would torture them until they begged for death.  He’d pull their filthy polluted 
hearts from their chests and feed it to them before they died….


Enough. Taking a deep shaky breath, he forced himself to get moving. Few 
Elves survived a rape. Legolas’s life was hanging by a thread and it was up 
to him to keep this beautiful being on this side of the veil.

Near the tiny cave, he had found some two miles back, there was a wide 
slow moving stream.  He’d head for that location. It was almost dark.  The 
trail of the maggot scum lead in the opposite direction. Toward Rohan.  He 
had been intending to go to Rohan anyway.  Now he had a more personal 
reason to go to the land of the horse lords.  But later for such dark thoughts.

Strider lifted the motionless body of the Elf into his arms, draping his cloak 
about the still figure, and started back the way he had come.  Going in a 
different way than through the rough thick foliage, he found more evidence of 
the men and their sport.  Strider gently lowered the Elf to the soft ground 
and went over to retrieve the archer’s quiver that had been emptied and 
bow, still in one piece, lying discarded on the ground amidst the scattered 
arrows.  He also found something else of keen interest.  Near the archer’s 
ripped tunic lay a small sharp object.  A dart.  He picked it up carefully and 
smelled the tip.  A faint odor lingered.  Carefully wrapping the item in a thick 
leaf he put it in a safe place.  That explained a lot. The Elf was subdued by a 
poisonous dart.  The evidence around him however told the story of the 
Archer’s resistance.  Blood, which did not come from the Elf covered one of 
his long knives and there was blood on the ground. There was a scrap of 
ripped black fabric near the knife. He took that as well.

Strider realized he wasn’t breathing and forced himself to take long 
steadying breaths. Don’t think, he told himself, just keep moving. He 
unclenched his fists and gathered up the Elf’s belongings, eyes sweeping the 
scene of the crime, taking in every detail. He paused to examine the 
footprints one last time, committing the criss-cross pattern of the prints to 
memory.  He adjusted the bow and the restocked quiver around his own 
back, having packed the ripped and soiled clothing into his bundle, and bent 
to pick up the unconscious Elf.  Legolas groaned at the movement.

Strider held him carefully. “It is all right, Mellon.  You are safe now.  I am 
here.”

But the Elf was still unconscious.  Strider picked up the light body and began 
his trek over the darkening terrain, cradling his precious cargo against his 
chest.  He went directly to the stream and after removing his pack, and his 
own clothing, walked directly into the cold water with the body of the Elf. 
The heat that came off the archer’s skin burned against his bare chest 
alarmingly.  He tried not to think.  He tried not to consider that his sweet 
companion might not live through the night.  

He lowered them both into the rushing water of the stream. The coolness 
was refreshing and served to calm his own mounting panic. He wanted to 
wash the wounds out and clean the blood off the archer. The coolness of the 
water would help with the fever as well.  Gently lowering the slim body into 
the water, Strider kneeled and began to rub the body with a soft cloth from 
his pack and a generous amount of fragrant elven soap. He had teased the 
Elf mercilessly about the soap when they left Rivendell. The memory brought 
a sting of tears to his eyes. 

“You will be well again, my friend.  I promise you,” he told the unconscious 
Elf, stroking the archer’s cheek with the soft cloth.  “I will take care of you, 
Mellon Nin.”

He gently cleansed the bleeding wrists, carefully wiping the sticky fibers out 
of the raw flesh, and washed the stains of blood and dirt from the Elf’s face.  
He scrubbed the hair as best he could, knowing the archer would want to do 
that over later, and carefully washed the chest, torso, legs and privates.  He 
wanted the Elf’s body to be free from all residue of the assault.  Legolas 
moaned several times and came awake blearily for a few moments before 
drifting off again.  The Elf’s pupils were pinpricks and Strider recognized the 
lingering effects of the drug.  He spoke reassuringly to the Elf as he 
ministered to his needs. There was no recognition in the Elf’s face.

When the bath was done he lifted the Archer from the water and wrapped 
him into two cloaks.  Holding the Archer up against his shoulder, with one 
arm under him like a small child, he moved the Elf and their belongings to the 
cave and settled the Elf on some soft moss while he set about making camp.  
He decided to risk a fire.  The Elf needed warmth.  And he’d need the fire 
to prepare some healing tea and some salve for the gashes in the Elf’s flesh.  

When Legolas opened his eyes he did not know where he was.  Bleary 
shapes met his vision. For some reason his eyes would not focus.  He felt 
oddly numb, as if he was floating a few feet above himself, and he wasn’t 
bothered much about the strangeness of the situation.  He could hear some 
movement and a flickering light told him there must be a campfire near by.  
He could hear the quiet motions of someone stirring a pot and the smell of 
some of those foul herbal teas drifted to his nostrils.  He made a face at the 
smell, but smiled slightly.  Strider was at it again.  Playing healer.  He hoped 
that foul smelling stuff wasn’t going to be presented to him.

Sure enough, the smell grew stronger as the man placed the warm cup on 
the ground near the Elf.  A blurry shape filled his vision, blocking out the 
mottled light of the fire.  He tried to focus but all he could get was the wavy 
outline of Aragorn’ s unruly dark hair, and the black outline of his shoulders.  
His face was in shadows but the Elf could make out the soft blue of his eyes. 

“Mellon.  Are you awake?  How do you feel, my friend?” 

Why did the Man sound so upset? He could hear it in the Ranger’s voice. It 
was thick, like tears were lodged in the man’s throat.  A solicitous hand 
touched his face, stroked his cheek and fingers ran through his hair, which he 
realized was wet.  The touch brought him back into his body a little bit more.  
He realized he did not feel very good.

“Aragorn?”  He tried to ask what had happened but his throat was raw, and 
his jaw hurt.  He must have been injured but he did not remember a battle.  
He tried to speak again but the man was lifting him carefully to sit.  That hurt 
as well.  In fact, his hazy mind could not find a spot on his body that did not 
ache.

“Shhhh, Legolas.  Don’t try to speak yet.  You were hurt Mellon Nin.”  

Really? That much he had figured out on his own.  Oh, but his body did ache 
considerably, and in some strange places.  What in Middle Earth had 
happened to him?  A small tendril of alarm was beginning to penetrate the 
fog of his mind.  He was trying to reach for some memory that might explain.  
Before he could try to ask any questions, a warm cup was pressed to his lips 
and the foul stench assailed his nostrils. Oh, by the Valar, it stunk.  He tried 
to protest but the resolute healer poured the warm liquid down his throat. 
What a lovely caring soul was his Aragorn. Although, at the moment, 
Legolas would have liked dearly to tell the healer just what he could do with 
his ‘medicine’.

Legolas was forced to either swallow the pungent brew or drown in it.  The 
healer, knowing his patient tended to be less than cooperative about such 
required operations, found it necessary to resort to unorthodox tactics on 
occasion.

When the cup was drained, and Legolas could breathe again, he sputtered a 
curse on the heads of all humans and their stubborn notions of helpfulness.  
Aragorn laughed heartily, relief washing through his tense body leaving him 
feeling suddenly exhausted.

He collapsed next to the Elf and rested a hand on Legolas’s chest.  The Elf 
was still wrapped in the two cloaks and Aragorn pulled the covering up to 
the archer’s chin.  “How do you feel, Mellon?”  

“Like a Balrog had me for dinner, then spat me out again,” said the Archer in 
a grumpy raspy voice. The warmth of the stinky brew was filling him 
pleasantly, however, and his aches were already diminishing. Well, maybe 
the Human did know a thing or two after all. He smirked to himself. His eyes 
were sliding shut again.  Aragorn’s hand drifted up to the pale cheek and 
touched it tenderly.  The Archer opened his eyes again but the lids were 
drooping, clearly he was fighting sleep. 

“What happened, Aragorn?” he asked quietly.  

The Man swallowed. “I…I am not sure, Meleth.  Do you not remember 
anything…?”  The Archer’s eyes were closing and he did not catch the 
hopeful tone in the Man’s question.  

“No…I don’t remember …was it a battle?”

Aragorn shifted to pull the Archer into his arms, laying the blond head 
against his chest.  The Archer’s brows drew together in a question at the 
strange gesture.  He could not remember the Ranger doing such a thing 
before.  But he was really too tired for more speech, and the Man’s arms 
and chest were far more comfortable than the cold hard ground.

“We will talk about it tomorrow,” stated the Man. “Sleep now.”

Legolas nodded sleepily against the warm chest and wrapped his own arm 
around the Man’s middle to anchor himself more comfortably in the warm 
nest of Aragorn’s embrace.  Humans and their funny ways.  He decided he 
would not discourage the Healer too much, as long as he kept his potions 
away from the Elf.

Legolas found he had slept long into the next day. When he awoke at last 
the sun was already clear across the sky.  He frowned.  Why had Aragorn 
not awaken him?  He forgot about his decision not to discourage the Healer, 
when Aragorn approached him.

“Why did you not wake me?  We have lost much time.”  He sounded very 
grumpy and his head hurt. What was wrong with him? His body felt 
strangely numb and heavy.

Aragorn sat down next to him, with a cool cloth and began to wipe his face 
with it.  Legolas gasped at the sudden cold on his face. The Healer probed 
at a bump on the back of the Elf’s head and frowned. 

“You have had a fever, my friend. And you are suffering the effects of a 
concussion. We are not going anywhere today. Nor tomorrow either.”

Legolas felt his temper rise unaccountably at this statement and the uncalled 
for ministrations. “That’s ridiculous!” he snapped.  “I am an Elf. I don’t need 
to rest and be coddled like …like…”  He stopped suddenly and shut his 
mouth.  The Man simply stared at him.  This was so unlike him.  Aragorn 
was only trying to help.

The Archer looked down at the ground, clearly embarrassed by his out 
burst.

A gentle hand lifted the curtain of gold hair that had fallen to obscure his 
face. His chin was coaxed up by a finger so that his face would lift to look at 
the Man.  “What is it, Mellon?”  

Aragorn’s strong hand held his face and concern shone in the man’s eyes.  
The steel gaze was almost hypnotic and the Elf’s eyes fluttered toward the 
ground again, a rosy hue creeping to his cheeks.

“Legolas?”  the Man asked again, a concerned but firm request for the Elf to 
say something.

“I am sorry, Aragorn.  I know you know what is best.  I …don’t know what 
is the matter with me.”

The Man sat next to him and rested his arms on his raised knees.  His 
shoulder touched the Elf’s.

“You were hurt and you have had a slight fever.  That is reason enough to be 
a little off balance.  Don’t let it trouble you.”  He gave the Elf a little 
reassuring nudge with his shoulder.  Legolas smiled shyly in return.
Then his stomach rumbled in a most unelf like manner.  Aragorn laughed.  
And Legolas’s blush deepened.

“Well, I’d say that is a good sign.  An appetite is always a sign of returning 
health.”  The Man moved to the hearth and began to ladle out some broth.  
He added some raw vegetables and a piece of lembas to the wooden 
makeshift tray and brought it over to the Elf.

Legolas felt shy to be treated so by the Man and mumbled a ‘thank you,’ as 
he accepted the flat piece of wood with its contents. He ate slowly, taking 
small bites.  He had been hungry yet eating seemed like a chore.

The sun was journeying across the sky towards the horizon and a fluff of red 
clouds drifted lazily across the blue expanse.  Legolas raised his eyes to the 
beauty of the sky, the way light penetrated through the trees …

The crash of the tray, with its clattering contents, made Aragorn’s head snap 
up. He turned to look at the archer who was standing up looking at the 
setting sun with a frozen look upon his face.

The Archer was standing unmoving, as if cast in marble.  Aragorn stood as 
well. After a quiet moment he slowly approached the Elf.  “Legolas?”  he 
asked in a low voice. “Legolas, what is it? Is something out there?”  The 
man turned to scan the surrounding forest with his eyes and ears. He could 
perceive no threat. But what was the Elf staring at? The azure eyes had a far 
away expression.

When the Archer failed to respond a third time the Ranger cautiously placed 
a hand on the Elf’s shoulder.  It was the last thing he remembered before 
sailing through the air and crashing into a tree.  He had only blacked out for 
a moment.  When he came to, he shook his head to clear the stars that 
danced before his eyes and searched for the Elf.  Legolas had collapsed to 
the ground.  Aragorn jumped up and ran to the Archer’s side but did not put 
his hands on him.  The Elf was huddled on his knees, and holding his head. 
He was rocking gently back and forth.  Aragorn could here him chattering in 
Sindarin.  

Distressed by this sudden hysteria, Aragorn leaned forward and said in as 
calm a voice as he could muster, “Legolas, my friend, I am here with you.  
Will you let me help you?  Its alright, now.”

Legolas moaned.   “Aragorn?  What is wrong with me?  Something is 
wrong…but I don’t know what it is…”

The Man chanced to touch the distressed Elf and gently placed an arm 
around his shaking shoulders.  “I am here for you, Mellon Nin.  What ever is 
wrong, I promise you, we will take care of it together.”

The Elf stopped his rocking and looked up at the Man.  His eyes were large 
and shining.  Aragorn felt himself staring at the blue orbs, so impossibly 
bright.  He felt his heart thump madly in his chest. 

“Do you promise?” asked the Elf in a small voice.

“Of course,” smiled the Man. It softened his normally somber features and 
the Elf smiled in return, embarrassment coloring his cheeks again.  Before 
Aragorn saw it coming the Archer moved into his arms and hid his face 
against the Ranger’s rough tunic.  Aragorn looked down at the golden 
bundle in his arms, surprised by this uncharacteristic expression of 
vulnerability.   Aragorn’s hand came up to stroke the golden head that 
leaned into his chest. The Elf’s body was still trembling. He wrapped his 
arms around the shining being, torn between concern for the Elf and a sharp 
awareness of his own physical reactions to the sudden intimacy.  He mentally 
chided himself.  This was no time to become distracted.  Then again, the 
Prince’s beauty was always a distraction.  He glanced down at the white 
face pressed against him and let his fingers drift to caress the smooth cheek.  
Legolas closed his eyes and relaxed into the trusted embrace of the Ranger.   
Leave it to Strider to make things right.

Aragorn cursed silently again at the monstrous beings who could inflict such 
injury against one of the First Born.  It was things like this that made him 
detest his own heritage.  Looking into the now tranquil face, he feared what 
might happen if the Elf recovered his memories of the assault.  He had 
thought it a blessing from the Valar that the Elf could not remember what had 
happened to him.  Elves often gave up their spirit willingly to the Halls of 
Mandos after a rape.  Aragorn knew this well and until the Elf had regained 
consciousness he had felt frozen in a state of terror. Once Legolas had 
awakened, Aragorn put off the thought of what to do when Legolas would 
start to ask questions.  Now it seemed the Elf’s mind was trying to grapple 
with an awareness that was not fully coming to consciousness.  Not yet.  
Maybe it never would.  He could only hope.

Aragorn sighed.  He needed Elrond for something of this magnitude.  He just 
didn’t know what to do.  His instincts told him to not disclose anything 
unless the Elf himself seemed on the verge of remembering.

Legolas finally stirred in his arms and pulled back, looking calmer if not 
completely settled.  “Thank you, Strider.”  He said by way of regaining some 
of his dignity.  Aragorn knew the proud Prince was not accustomed to 
feeling dependant on anyone.  The Ranger nodded and moved to clean up 
the tray, giving the Elf some space.  The sun had finally set and the 
temperature was dropping quickly.  

Legolas eyed the trees wistfully, feeling a desire to go into their branches, but 
some mysterious fluttering in his stomach made him choose to abandon the 
idea in favor of staying on the ground.  He settled himself back on his bedroll 
near the fire and was unaccountably relieved when the man came and laid 
down right next to him.  He turned and tried to find a comfortable position 
but seemed unable to relax his tense body.  Aragorn must have sensed his 
discomfort, and ever the healer, reached over without a word and pulled the 
Prince into his arms again.

Legolas stiffened, feeling awkward and embarrassed to be seen as needing 
this kind of human attention.
“Aragorn, its not necessary that you do this…” But his body was already 
finding the perfect hollow against the Ranger’s warm body.  

“Be quiet, Legolas, and go to sleep,” the Man mumbled.  The Ranger’s 
breathing was already growing heavy and soon was lost to sleep. 

“Aragorn?” The Elf got no response.  He shrugged and snuggled deeper into 
the inviting warmth and followed the Man into a healing sleep.  Aragorn 
opened his eyes a crack and looked at the dozing Elf.  He felt fear clench his 
insides.  What would become of the Elf?  He would do anything he had to to 
bring Legolas back from this nightmare.  But a dreadful feeling lurked about 
his heart that things would get worse before getting better.
Chapter Two -


When Legolas woke the next morning he was still tightly wrapped in 
Aragorn’s arms.  He had moved in his sleep to cast a possessive arm and a 
leg over the Ranger’s body, firmly securing the Man, who had become his 
pillow for the night, in just the right place.  He opened his eyes, finding 
himself uncomfortably close to the Man’s face.  The Ranger was looking at 
him with obvious amusement.  The Man’s hand was absently stroking a lock 
of his hair.

The Elf’s cheeks colored a bright red and he hastily untangled himself from 
the Man with a mumbled apology.  Aragorn laughed gently and tousled the 
Elf’s hair as he moved to get up.  Legolas threw him a mock glare.  “I am 
not a dog to pat on the head so, Human.”

Aragorn laughed again and said something like, “I’ll remember that, next 
time I find you licking my ear, Elf!” before he disappeared into the woods to 
relieve himself.  The Elf’s blush deepened and he swore that come evening 
they’d be sleeping on opposite sides of the fire.

The Elf had begun the preparations for a simple breakfast by the time the 
Man returned.  His dark hair was wet and his body was still dripping from 
his early morning dip in the cold stream.  Legolas looked at him curiously.  
The Human didn’t generally like bathing in very cold water.  It was a bit of a 
joke that Legolas had to bribe him to bathe at all.

“That smells good,” commented the Man. “I am hungry.”

The Elf moved gingerly, his body still sore, and ladled out some of the 
porridge made from lembas, herbed water, and berries, a combination the 
man enjoyed.  For himself he took only a small piece of Lembas and a 
handful of berries. The Man observed his slow, careful movements, judging 
most of the discomfort came from the injury to the ribs and left side.  The Elf 
seemed to not be sitting comfortably either.  After the simple meal, the 
Ranger approached the Elf.

“Why don’t you lie down, Mellon, and try to sleep.”

Legolas glared at him in annoyance.  Why was the Man hovering over him 
like this?  Seeing the look on the Elf’s face the Ranger moved to the water 
on the hearth and busied himself with some new concoction.  

The Elf paid him little attention as his mind drifted to other things.  He and 
the Ranger had been traveling together for many months now, although their 
friendship spanned several years. They had fought side by side many times. 
He recalled the first such time, having impressed the Ranger with his elven 
fighting skills. In truth they were almost equally matched, although the Man 
preferred the sword.  They had discovered early on that they made a good 
fighting team.  Yet he could never understand the Man’s tendency toward 
being a mother hen towards him.  He supposed it was the healer in him.  
Elrond could be the same way, according to the twins.  But Elrond was also 
their father. His thoughts turned back to Strider.  It puzzled him that the Man 
should so easily forget about elven superiority.  In another day or so his 
injuries should be completely healed yet the man behaved as though the Elf 
had contracted a terminal illness.

The thought made him take a closer look at the Man.  Aragorn had dark 
circles under his eyes and his face was especially drawn of late.  Legolas 
cursed himself for having failed to notice the signs of exhaustion in the 
human.  He hadn’t even asked if Aragorn himself was hurt at all.  Legolas 
climbed slowly to his feet and walked silently over to the man who was 
stirring something over the fire.

Aragorn looked up in surprise to find the archer kneeling on the ground next 
to him.  “Legolas, what is it? Are you in much pain?  Can I give you 
something?”

The morning sun reflected brightly in the Elf’s honey wheat hair and his blues 
eyes looked wide in the thin pale face.  Since the night Aragorn bathed the 
Elf, his hair had not been properly braided, and it now cascaded well past 
his shoulders creating a perfect golden frame for the lovely face.  Like all 
men, Aragorn tended to be mesmerized by elven beauty but few were 
fortunate enough to behold the Prince of Mirkwood.  Like the Evenstar, the 
Prince was said to be one of the fairest of the Eldar to presently walk 
Middle Earth.  Aragorn counted himself as very fortunate indeed to be one 
of the very few who knew that the Prince’s compassionate and humorous 
nature made him as beautiful on the inside as he was on the outside.  Legolas 
allowed only a very few to get close to him.  It was the result of being 
relentlessly pursued his whole life, Aragorn realized.

The object of his adoration now placed a delicate pale hand on the Man’s 
shoulder.  “Aragorn, please forgive me, my friend.  I did not even ask you if 
you were hurt.  You seem not yourself.”

Aragorn swallowed past the lump in his throat. He mutely shook his head, 
and realizing that the Elf was looking at him curiously he cleared his throat 
and said, reassuringly, “Nay, my friend.  I am well, just tired.”  Legolas 
seemed not to be fully convinced. The Man placed a hand on the Elf’s, 
which still rested on Aragorn’s shoulder.  Caressing the soft skin with his 
thumb, the Ranger looked deeply into the sapphire pools thinking how easily 
one could lose themselves in such beauty.  “Thank you, Mellon, for thinking 
of me.  But it is I who should be asking you these questions.”  

Legolas smiled at the warmth, which came into the Man’s pale blue eyes.  
He found the Man’s moods infectious at times.  It pleased him to see the 
Man smile.  Seeking to reassure his friend, he put a little more energy into his 
voice than he really felt.  “I am well, Aragorn.  In a day or so all my scrapes 
will be healed.  There is little need for your concern.”  

The Man took in the forced reply and magnified a smile in return so not to 
cheat the Elf from his desire to make the Man happy.  He ladled some of his 
concoction into a bowel and offered it to the Elf wordlessly. Legolas’s 
forced bravado turned into a grimace as he accepted the bowel.  He sniffed 
at the broth suspiciously, wrinkling his pert nose.

Aragorn watched all this and could not help but chuckle at his friend’s antics.  
The elven Prince could be surprisingly childish on occasion.  The Elf quirked 
an elegant eyebrow at the Ranger.  “What is it?” he asked.


“Something to help the healing process,” the Man replied, which the Elf 
noticed was no reply at all.  He wanted to refuse the brew, but the man gave 
him his best pleading look.  Damn.  He knew Legolas could not say no to a 
pout of such magnitude.  With a dramatic sigh and a roll of his gorgeous eyes 
heaven ward, the Elf pinched his nose and swallowed the contents down to 
the dregs.

With a sour turn of his sweet mouth to let the Man know what he thought of 
the taste, the Elf handed back the empty bowel.  “See what I do for you,” he 
teased the Man.

The Ranger accepted the bowel and smirked, “You honor me, my fair 
Prince.” He followed this with a mock of a courtly bow.

The Elf gave him an eloquent “Hmmmph,” and tossed his head proudly, hair 
glinting in the sun, as he stood to return to his bedroll. The ground suddenly 
heaved beneath his feet and the world did a summersault.  He would have 
sunk to the ground had the man not caught him.  He wrapped both arms 
reflexively around the man’s waist as Aragorn steadied him.  When the 
world slowed its spin he glared up at the man.

“WHAT” he emphasized in annoyance, “did you give me, human?”

Aragorn had the wisdom not to smirk at the angry, and increasingly, sleepy 
Prince.  “I told you. Something to help the healing process.”

The Elf moaned slightly as the world began it’s gentle swaying motion again.  
It was not entirely 
unpleasant but he could feel his legs were becoming wobbly.  “But what is in 
it…?”  he tried again.

The Man sighed.  Aragorn named some of the herbs he had used in the tea.  

 “You tricked me!”  Violet eyes flashed in indignation.

Aragorn gently scooped the protesting Prince up into his arms and carried 
him to his bedroll, while the Man’s ears were assaulted by a gentle spattering 
of elvish oaths.  He settled the Archer carefully on the sleeping pallet and 
tenderly arranged a cloak over his body to keep out the chill. The Elf was 
not yet asleep but the eyes where drooping fast.  The Elf watched as the 
man smoothed the covers over him and stroked his hair away from his face.  
Without warning Legolas felt the sting of tears in his eyes.  He could not truly 
recall a time, before meeting the Human, when someone treated him with 
such tenderness and caring.  His mother had died when he was a young 
Elfling. As a Prince, he had always been afforded much attention befitting a 
member of the royal household, yet there was nothing personal in it, as most 
were intimidated by him and kept their distance.  His father loved him, of 
course, but Thranduil was not given to sentimentality.  For some reason this 
Human’s tender nonsense affected him deeply, especially now.


“Yes,” the Man said softly, in response to the Elf’s former accusation, still 
touching the covering, smoothing and re-smoothing it.  “I tricked you.  But 
not really.  You do need to sleep in order to heal.  The herbs will relax you 
and help your body to use its energy for healing.”  The Man looked down at 
his hands for a moment and said softly,  “ I hope you aren’t too angry with 
me.”

Legolas fought off the pleasant lethargy that beckoned him to sleep, just long 
enough to take hold of the Man’s hand.  He held it warmly in both of his 
own and smiled at his friend.  “I am not angry, meleth,” he said and then, 
more shyly, not looking at the man, he asked “Will you stay with me?”  

Aragorn nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and laid himself down next to 
the Elf.  To his surprise the Archer lifted himself slightly and drew the Man’s 
arm around his shoulders. He then settled back down and nested his head 
comfortably on the Ranger’s chest.  Aragorn found that he was only too 
happy to comply and pulled the lithe body close against him, drawing the 
covers over them both.  He draped his other arm around the Elf’s slim waist 
and rested his cheek against the golden head.

Aragorn sank into the comfortable feeling of holding the slim warm body in 
his arms.  The Archer seemed to weigh next to nothing and the Ranger found 
it very enjoyable to feel that body pressed against his.  He had chastised 
himself soundly all of the previous night for the scandalous thoughts that he 
had been having for the Prince.  By morning the thoughts had chased 
themselves around his head so many times that he had finally given in to at 
least accepting them.  After all, the Prince of Mirkwood was one of the 
fairest creatures in Middle Earth.  Who wouldn’t be driven to lustful thoughts 
with such a creature pressed against them all night long.    Unfortunately, his 
new found self acceptance did not preclude him having to rush off, first thing 
in the morning, for a dip in a very cold stream to rid himself of the evidence 
of his desire.

Aragorn absently stroked the silky mane letting his fingers bury themselves in 
the tangled hair.  He did not  notice when sleep finally came.  He was 
awakend by a sharp jab to his knee delivered by the hard point of a boot.  

Aragorn was instantly on his feet, hand going to his sword.  The horse lord 
held up his hand to allay the Ranger’s fears.  Several feet away were two 
others on horse back.  

“Who are you?  By your looks I would guess a Ranger, speak!”  demanded 
the fair haired man.

“I am called Strider. I am traveling with a message from the Istari for your 
King Theoden.” 

The horse lord cast an appraising eye at the blond hair sprawled in all 
directions from under the covers and a flawless marble face, with eyes 
closed, that shone in the mid day sun.  He cocked an eye brow at the 
Ranger.  

“You do not seem to be in too much of a hurry,” said the Horselord 
sarcastically.  “We do not allow slavery in Rohan. You should have left your 
concubine at home.”

Aragorn bristled at the brass insult and at the man’s admiring stare at the 
sleeping form.  

He moved to block the man’s view of the sleeping Elf and challenged the 
man with a glare of his own.  “My companion is an Elf.  A warrior of the 
Green Wood.  He is seriously injured.’ 

Aragorn’s glare swept to include those two on the horses.  “He was 
ambushed by a group of men.  Do you know of any one who has been 
about these lands who would do such a thing to one of the First Born?”

The Horselord bristled at the accusatory tone.  “We are guards in service to 
the King and swore an oath to protect the innocent,” he replied sternly.  

“I apologize,” said Aragorn, “if my tone gave offense, Horse Lord. Theoden 
King’s laws are well known as is the reputation of the Rohirrim.  I am deeply 
grieved for my friend and I will seek out those who hurt him.”  His tone left 
no room for doubt that the guilty party would have no mercy.

Aragorn gestured to the Elf, “My friend cannot be moved yet.  But my 
message from the Istari is not an urgent one.  Please inform your King to 
look for our arrival within a fortnight.”

The leader of the Rohirrim bowed his head and handed him the reins of his 
own horse.  “This is Hasuf,” he said.  “You may return him to me when you 
arrive at our citadel.  He will bring you safely.”

Aragorn looked at the blond man in amazement.  He inclined his head in a 
formal bow.  “You honor me, my Lord.  And whom should I ask for when I 
return him?” 

The man took off his helmet to reveal a rather handsome face with intense 
eyes.  “My name is Éomer.  I am nephew to the King.  There is no need to 
thank me, Ranger.  It grieves me that your fair companion suffered at the 
hands of the lawless who now cross our borders.  If I find them, I will hold 
them for you to exact payment or if you like, I will kill them myself.”

Aragorn bowed his thanks again.  “No,” he said with a tilt of his chin. “ I 
want them.”

The horse lord inclined his head in parting and swung up to ride with one of 
his companions.  They disappeared through the sparse trees towards the 
plains of Rohan.  Aragorn walked the horse to a near by tree and tethered 
him there.  When he returned to the Elf he was greeted by two appraising 
blue eyes.

The Man swallowed nervously.  How much did the Elf hear? Or had he just 
awoke?

He sat down without a word next to the reclining Elf. Legolas looked at him 
but his expression was unreadable.  

“We have a horse,” stated the Elf.  His melodic tone betrayed nothing.  The 
man nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “We were paid a visit by some Rohirrim.  They will inform 
Theoden to expect us in a fortnight”  

The Elf nodded, his bright eyes were unreadable.  

“Are you hungry?” asked the man, his pale blue eyes asking a different 
question altogether.

The Elf seemed not to hear.  His azure bright eyes searched the sky.


So he had been attacked.  By a group of men? The Elf felt bewildered.  
Why could he not remember any of it, then?  An uncomfortable malaise 
seemed to be settling over his heart.  The Man was silently watching him and 
this increased his discomfort. He suddenly wanted to be alone, unobserved.  
Turning away from Aragorn he closed his eyes, seeking privacy behind the 
façade of sleep.  He let his mind drift, but the question continued to haunt 
him.  Why could he not remember?  What had happened?  How could he 
have been so careless?  His body felt thick, and heavy, like a dead thing.  
The more he searched his brain for an image, a face, the source of an ache, 
the heavier and thicker he became.   He did not like the numbness that was 
slowly overtaking him. Or perhaps he did, he wasn’t sure.  But somewhere, 
underneath the odd lack of feeling, a dark dread was settling into his soul.

Aragorn, lost in his own thoughts, started when the Elf’s sharp blue eyes 
snapped open suddenly.  Legolas sat up gingerly and began to get to his 
feet.  The Man was instantly at his elbow.  

“What are you doing?” he asked.

The Elf bit back the annoyance he felt from entering his tone.   “I need to go 
bathe.”  He started to walk in the direction of the bubbling stream, his elven 
hearing guiding his steps.

“I’ll come with you, you shouldn’t be alone.”

The Elf stopped and turned to face the Man.  He stared at his friend 
suspiciously, trying to read what was hidden behind the Ranger’s worry.  
Why shouldn’t he go alone?  Aragorn seemed nervous.  “Why?” demanded 
the Elf.

Aragorn swallowed before answering.  “You aren’t that steady on your feet.  
I want to make sure you will be alright.”

The Elf glared at him.  Heat flared within him, chasing the numbness away, 
replacing it with anger.  He wasn’t that bad.  Did the man think him 
incapable, now?

“Aragorn, I am going to bathe, and I am going alone.”

Before the man could protest, he softened his tone, and added, “I’ll be 
alright.”




Aragorn watched him go with worried eyes.

Finally alone, the Elf breathed a deep sigh of relief.  He found the clean little 
stream and sat down by its banks, feeling leaden all of a sudden.  The stream 
bubbled around him cheerfully, sunlight sparkling off its rapidly moving 
surface.  A pair of sparrows dipped playfully around each other, splashing 
into the surface then careening into the bright blue sky.   The wood Elf sat 
impassively watching the frolicking birds.  A small furry woodland creature 
waddled up to the Elf and ambled peacefully around his feet.  Legolas felt a 
small smile drag itself out of the depths of his despair for the little being.

“You honor me with your visit, little brother,” he said to the muskrat. It 
chatted at him amiably before ambling its way down the bank of the stream.

The heavy cloak of uncaring draped itself over the Elf again.  He sat for 
some time staring at nothing.  His mind seemed to be in a fog.  Some tiny 
part of him at last suggested it might be a good idea to get into the water.  
Slowly he stood and removed the clothing from his body, realizing distantly it 
was his spare set of leggings and tunic he was wearing.  Aragorn must have 
changed him into the clothes after bathing him the other night or perhaps the 
following morning while he slept.  

Yes, he could remember the Ranger holding him in the stream.  But the 
memory came only in flashes.  He stepped numbly into the cool water and 
stood for awhile, watching it pool around his thighs.  The cold water pulled 
him a little more out of his numbness and he could feel the rocky bottom with 
his feet. A sharp stone jabbed the bottom of his foot. He absentmindedly 
scraped his foot harder against the protrusion. The slight pain brought with it 
a small measure of alertness. Perhaps if he went deeper the coldness would 
help to lift the fog that relentlessly wanted to settle over his mind and body.  
He dropped to his knees in the rushing water and let it pool up to his waist.  

He began to shiver.  That was odd. The cold didn’t usually have that effect 
on him.  But at least his body was feeling again. The Elf dunked his head into 
the cold water and flung his hair back in an arc, sending a spray of water into 
the air.  He felt very cold now and his shivering increased. As if coming out 
of a dream, he looked down at his body. By the Valar, no wonder he hurt 
so. His was covered in bruises.  His eyes traveled to the black marks on his 
arms, and he fingered the red angry lines around his wrists.  His stomach 
lurched as he dipped his finger into the gouged skin.  Slightly light headed, 
now, he craned his neck to examine the very large and painful bruise on his 
left side. This injury he was well aware of.  He could feel it extend to his 
back.  It was quite tender to touch as his fingers probed it gently. But how 
had it happened?  He strained to remember something, but his mind was a 
blank. 

Next, his hands traveled to the bruises on his legs, tracing the vaguely 
familiar pattern of black and blue marks that covered them.   He sat up, 
kneeling in the water to follow the black mottling of bruises around his legs 
and to the inside of his thighs. Despite the coldness of the water, he felt 
oddly removed from himself, as his hands traced the sensations to his 
privates and around to his buttocks.  He must be very bruised there for the 
flesh was painful to the touch.  His fingers moved further, dipping into the 
crease of his cheeks, exploring the sensations associated to these odd 
injuries.  One finger followed the painful trail, experimentally, to the pucker 
of abused flesh.

His hand froze and in a fog of indifference, he pulled it away.  The leaden 
feeling had returned and he could do little else but sit back on his feet, letting 
the water rise to his waist and rumble around him noisily. It thundered in his 
ears, the stream no longer seeming so friendly, and he remotely wondered 
what would happen if he laid down in the water and let it take him away.  He 
did not know how long he had sat like that. It may have been a long time for 
the sun was already beginning its descent. The man’s anxious voice 
penetrated his fog as if from a great distance.  His body, he realized, felt stiff 
and frozen.

Aragorn waded into the stream and carefully moved to stand in front of the 
Elf.   “Legolas?”

The Ranger had become increasingly worried when the Elf did not return 
from the bath and he finally gave in to the impulse to follow him to the 
stream.  Legolas was sitting in the rumbling stream up to his waist staring off 
into the trees.  The setting sun highlighted his golden hair and white skin, 
creating a delicate, ethereal quality about the slim, pale beauty.  But there 
was something very disturbing about his stillness.  He seemed lost, in his own 
world.  The Man had cried out his name several times and finally, in a state 
of extreme alarm, Aragorn waded out into the stream fully clothed.  He knelt 
down in the water in front of the beautiful Elf.

“Legolas?  What are you doing, Mellon?” the man asked tenderly.  He was 
becoming worried about the Elf’s trance like states.  

Legolas started as if Aragorn had appeared before him out of thin air.  
“Aragorn,” his voice was small, distant.  “I forgot…” 

Aragorn asked carefully, “What did you forget?”

“To come back…”  The Elf looked lost, his blue eyes impossibly large.  
They had a vacant expression that the Man did not like one bit.

Aragorn took the Elf gently by the shoulders and urged him to stand up with 
him in the water.  

“Come, Legolas, I think its time we went back to camp.” When the Archer 
did not move Aragorn carefully picked the unmoving being up into has arms, 
his profound worry for the Elf overshadowing the erotic feelings typically 
produced by the sight and feel of the Elf’s naked body.  Scooping up the 
Archer’s discarded clothing, Aragorn hurried back to the camp site.  He 
placed the quiet Elf on his bedroll and quickly covered the chilled body with 
the two cloaks.

Sitting on the ground next to the Archer, Aragorn vigorously rubbed the 
shoulders and arms with a cloth to dry him.  Legolas seemed to finally stir 
out of his strange hypnotic state and looked at the anxious Human.  
“Aragorn, why can I not remember what happened to me?”  the voice was 
soft, and the Archer, feeling self conscious, looked at the ground when he 
spoke.

“I don’t know,” said the Man, “perhaps you will remember in time.  Or…or 
maybe remembering is not necessary for your healing…” Legolas did not 
miss the Man’s averted gaze.  The Man was hiding something.  But why?  
He had always been able to trust Aragorn.  He had never before felt as 
though the Man was keeping secrets.  No.  He would not start becoming 
suspicious of Aragorn.   If the Man was keeping something from him then 
the cause must be that there was something wrong with the Elf himself.  

Perhaps the man felt he could no longer trust him.  ‘After all, how often does 
an Elf let himself get ambushed by men?’ he thought bitterly.  And to be 
honest, Legolas wasn’t exactly bouncing back from what ever happened to 
him. His body was not healing as rapidly as it should be. And then there was 
the matter of his little lapses. The Man had not said anything about the Elf’s 
strange fugue like states but Legolas could tell Aragorn was worried.  It was 
no wonder the Man hovered over him so.  Strider probably felt he had to 
watch the Elf’s every move, now.  

“Legolas?”  The Man was looking at him with that frown, the one that 
caused a severe crease to form between the Man’s brows, when he was 
extremely upset.  Had he drifted off again?  

The Elf forced his face to reflect some emotion.  ”I am alright, Aragorn.  I 
think I must still be a little tired.  I am sure by tomorrow I’ll be able to 
travel.”  The Elf tried to offer a reassuring smile but his voice sounded 
hollow, even to his own ears.

The Man took in the slightly vacant eyes and the wooden smile so atypical of 
the joyful Prince.  Clearly, things were not improving for his friend.  The 
physical injuries were healing slowly, but the Man was becoming increasingly 
concerned for the Elf’s emotional well being.

“It is alright, my friend,” the Man tried to sound reassuring. “ We are in no 
great hurry.  Now that we have a horse it won’t take that long to get to 
Rohan.  I think we can take another day or two to let you recuperate.”  
Aragorn had placed a firm hand on the Elf’s shoulder.   The Man’s rough 
hand was warm against the Elf’s bare skin and Legolas’s mind registered his 
nakedness.  Blushing suddenly, he pulled the cloak tighter around him, eyes 
dropping to the grass.  Yet there was something very reassuring about the 
man’s touch. A calmness radiated through him.  His mind seemed clearer 
and his body became less tense.  Legolas tried to hide his disappointment 
when the Man finally removed the hand.  

“Here,” Aragorn said, handing the Elf his clothes.   

The Elf accepted the bundle and watched the Man move to take care of the 
horse, giving Legolas some privacy to dress himself. The sapphire eyes 
watched as the man approached Hasuf. The Ranger stroked the horse’s 
mane, speaking to the animal in elvish as he brushed the lustrous coat with a 
rough collection of stiff dried grasses tied together to form a brush.   As 
Legolas watched Aragorn’s gentle handling of the animal he felt a blush 
creep into his cheeks.  For some reason, watching the Ranger’s tender care 
of the beast summoned an unexpected assortment of feelings in him.  A 
pleasant warmth spread through his body, as if he remembered a memory, 
or perhaps his wayward mind just imagined a memory, of the Man touching 
him with such tenderness.  The Man’s hands were rougher than elven hands, 
but there was a reassuring strength in them.  They made him feel safe and 
secure.  He closed his eyes and recalled how those hands felt on his skin, 
stroking him, holding him, igniting a fire within him….

Legolas’s eyes popped open at the startling images that were rapidly 
followed by a feeling of shame.   What was happening to him? Since when 
did the thought of the Man create feelings of *that* nature in him.  Legolas 
looked quickly in Aragorn’s direction, embarrassed to be caught thinking 
unfair thoughts about his friend. As far as he knew humans preferred the 
opposite gender for mates. Aragorn would most likely be disgusted and 
possibly even feel betrayed by the Elf for harboring such thoughts. Legolas 
sank to the ground, shaken, and put his head in his hands.  That blow to his 
head must have been more severe than he had been willing, at first, to admit.   
It was the only explanation.  He also reflected that he was becoming too 
dependent on the man.  The idea of an Elf craving physical closeness with a 
human to feel safe was preposterous.  Legolas looked up at the Man again.  
Aragorn was talking softly to the horse who whinnied in approval, 
apparently enjoying the strong strokes of the brush against the length of his 
flank.  Legolas smiled, despite his distress.

Aragorn was a most worthy Man, to be sure.  He was noble, strong, 
focused, loyal, and an excellent leader.  And of course, the man was a 
compassionate healer.  But even Aragorn would grow tired of playing 
nursemaid to an Elf eventually.   The idea that the Ranger might tire of him 
jolted the Elf.  It was high time Legolas pulled himself together, he decided.  
He was a warrior of Mirkwood and he should start to act like one.  What 
ever happened out in the woods, he resolved to place firmly behind him.

With that promise to himself in mind, the archer moved to his belongings to 
find his weapons.  If felt like centuries had passed since he had held his bow 
in his hands. The feel of the smooth wood brought an immediate comfort to 
his distraught mind.  He sat on the ground with his quiver of arrows and 
began to sort through them.  The familiar activity soothed him as his fingers 
deftly went to work mending the broken shafts and feathers.

The sight of the archer tending his arrows would have brought a measure of 
comfort to the man as well, had the discerning eyes not observed the fine 
tremor in the Elf’s fingers.  Aragorn sat down on his heels next to the busy 
Elf, with a gentle smile. His eyes studied the tense face partially hidden 
behind the silver curtain of hair. 

“You seem to be feeling better, Mellon.”  It was not a question exactly but 
the man’s eyes flicked over him with unerring powers of observation.  Those 
steel blue eyes seemed to penetrate into his very soul.

The Elf felt his cheeks color, partly from the odd feeling that he was getting 
lately whenever the man looked at him or sat close to him.  But another part 
of him felt angry at the intense perusal.  What was Aragorn looking at?  
Could the man see into the Elf’s thoughts and the humiliating direction they 
had taken?  Was the man looking for evidence that something was wrong 
with him?  The arrow shaft he had been working on snapped, suddenly, in 
his tight grip, startling both the Ranger and the Elf.  As if looking on from 
some great distance, the Elf helplessly watched himself jump to his feet in a 
rage.  He was swept up in a tide over which he had no control, a boiling 
anger erupting from deep within him.  He moved so quickly the Ranger was 
knocked backward onto the ground.  Before the man could react, the Elf 
had stormed off into the woods, and disappeared into the trees.  

Bewildered, it took some moments for the man to recover from his shock.  
Strider jumped to his feet and ran in the direction the Elf had taken, eyes 
frantically scanning the branches above him.  The Elf was nowhere in sight.  
Amazed that the injured Elf could vanish so quickly, Aragorn cursed himself 
for his lack of attention to the direction of the archer’s moods.  But, then 
again, the Elf was becoming increasingly unpredictable. The man was running 
through the woods, now, pausing only to call out the Elf’s name.  He knew 
the Elf could hear him, as long as he was not lost in another trance.  

“Legolas!”  

Aragorn called the archer’s name with increasing alarm.  His normally serene 
and kindhearted Elf would never let the man worry so.  Part of him wanted 
to trust that the archer would return to the camp as soon as he had cooled 
off, but the man feared what dangers could befall the Elf while he was in this 
irrational state.  “Legolas!” the man called again, with a touch of panic in his 
voice, “Legolas, please come back!”  

Several yards away and about 15 feet up in a tree, the archer sat with his 
head cradled in his arms.  The fear in the man’s voice penetrated the turmoil 
of emotions within him.  What was he doing?  Why had he run off like that, 
leaving the man to worry about him? Aragorn did not deserve such 
treatment. Angry with himself, he was also becoming slightly alarmed about 
his own state of mind.  Never in his long life had the archer not been in 
command of his own actions. He tried to calm the rapid beating of his heart.  
Something was definitely wrong with him. The man’s voice came again 
through the trees and the Elf latched onto it as an anchoring point to reality, 
calming his rising panic.

“Here,” he cried out softly, feeling immensely relieved when the Ranger 
found him almost at once.  

The Ranger leaned on his arm against the tree, breathing heavily from his 
frantic run through the forest.  Looking up at the Elf, the Ranger’s discerning 
gray eyes picked up immediately on the other’s relief at being found as well 
as the Elf’s inner turmoil.  Aragorn breathlessly gestured for the Elf to come 
down. To his relief the Elf responded to the silent command and slowly 
climbed down to the ground to stand before the man.  The archer was red 
faced and would not lift his face from his study of his feet to meet the man’s 
eyes.

Still slightly winded, the man gently pulled the Elf into an embrace.  Legolas 
should not have been surprised, but he was. He had expected to be 
questioned but instead the man merely held him tightly against the reassuring 
warmth of his body.  Feeling both guilty for his inexplicable anger, and 
grateful for the man’s silent understanding, he leaned against the hard chest, 
bringing his arms up around the man’s waist, and pressed his head to the 
man’s shoulder. 

They stood like that for a long time, each relishing the relief that washed 
through them.  Finally the man pulled back.  “Come, my unpredictable 
Prince, lets go back to camp.”  The man kept an arm draped over the Elf’s 
shoulders, unwilling to relinquish his hold on the moody archer, and led the 
way back to their campsite.  The Elf did not say anything as they walked, 
but Aragorn suspected the Prince was greatly perplexed by his own 
behavior, and more likely than not, embarrassed.  Although disturbed by the 
Elf’s inexplicable behavior he sensed questioning Legolas would only add to 
his friend’s distress.

The man guided the Elf to his bedroll, and went to the hearth to prepare a 
soothing tea.   The blue eyes of the Elf followed him. Legolas watched the 
familiar movements: the man’s careful unpacking of his various dried herbs, 
the consideration process for selecting the right blend for his purposes, the 
way he hunched over the pot, stirring the brew with measured attention to 
when additional ingredients were added.  Legolas found the familiar actions 
of the ritual soothing.   A burst of fondness for his human lightened his heart 
and he leaned back on his arms with a sigh.

When the brew was complete and the man approached him, steaming cup 
extended, the Elf took it without protest.  Aragorn sat down next to him and 
draped his arm around the Elf’s shoulders without speaking a word.  
Legolas found himself leaning gratefully into the man’s frame, feeling more 
and more like himself. Well, no that was not true.  The ‘Prince of 
Mirkwood’ he knew would never have accepted such intimate attention 
from the man so openly.  No, he was not himself, but he felt better.  Resting 
in the circle of Aragorn’s arm, he sipped the tea, which was starting to taste 
good to him.  He was changed.  He didn’t know why but right now, he 
wasn’t going to fight it.  The man was not complaining and Legolas, it 
appeared, had no choice but to allow the human to take care of him. 

When the cup was drained, Legolas, set it down and snuggled deeper into 
the man’s arms.  He let his head fall to the man’s shoulder and let his eye’s 
drift shut.  The wind was picking up and his hair was lifting to fly gently about 
his face. Aragorn pulled a cloak around them both tightly against the evening 
chill and gathered the Elf’s hair, tucking it in under the blanket.  Aragorn 
stretched them both down near the fire with the cave wall behind them.  It 
was not deep enough to be a true cave but hopefully would offer some 
shelter if it rained.

Exhaustion took them both into a sound sleep.  When it began to rain, 
Aragorn pulled the Elf closer to him and covered them as best he could with 
the blankets from his pack.  Legolas did not wake but the Elf moaned in his 
sleep and his hands clutched at the man’s tunic when thunder clapped loudly 
over their heads.  Aragorn stroked the Elf’s face, which was a mere inch 
from his own.  The storm was becoming violent and the sleeping Elf twisted 
to bury his face in the man’s neck.  Aragorn could feel the Prince’s hot 
breath against his skin as lips brushed his throat.  Aragorn gasped at the 
sizzle of desire that coursed through his veins.  His erection suddenly pushed 
against the fabric of his trousers uncomfortably.  Life was so unfair, the man 
thought dismally, as he tried to push himself away from the tantalizing body 
that pressed against him.  The last thing the traumatized Elf needed was 
another lustful human pawing at him. 

The sleeping Prince, it seemed had other ideas. Even as Aragorn tried to 
twist his lower half away from the Elf, Legolas unconsciously snuggled 
closer, bringing the length of the slim golden body flush, up against the man, 
throwing a leg sinuously over one of Aragorn’s.  The Ranger groaned at the 
feel of the muscular tight body in his arms, the lips and face brushing the skin 
of his neck.  He turned his head toward the Elf, prepared to lightly wake the 
beautiful archer in order to move him away, but instead his lips brushed up 
against the Elf’s soft mouth. The lips were like flower petals, sweet and 
yielding. The moist breath filled his mouth and the man’s tongue slipped 
rebelliously passed his lips to taste the heady nectar of the Elf’s kiss. 
Aragorn froze in unbelievable torment at the impossible situation. His tongue 
breached the yielding barrier and in his sleep the Elf moaned, opening to 
draw the Man in.  In that moment, the Elf’s blue eyes fluttered open.  
Looking into the man’s gray eyes, the Elf recoiled, horrified by what he 
perceived he had done to the human.  

The Man sat up, equally horrified to see tears suddenly well up in the 
archer’s eyes.  “Legolas…” he began, feeling overwhelmingly guilty.  The Elf 
scrambled up against the rock wall behind him, a hand pressed to his mouth, 
his blue eyes large as saucers in the pale drawn face. Before Aragorn could 
utter another word the Elf stammered incomprehensibly, “I’m …I’m sorry, 
Aragorn…” and was gone into the night. 

Aragorn darted after him but the Man was blinded by the torrential down 
pour.  Rain and wind pelted against him, slowing him as surely as if he ran 
head long into a herd of oliphants. “Legolas!”  he screamed but the howling 
wind drowned out his voice even to his own ears.

The Man ran blindly, sliding in the mud, tree branches scraping his flesh as 
the wind whipped around him. 


“Legolas!”  the Man’s scream followed him on the gusting wind but the Elf 
ran through the woods in a mindless panic.  His dash through their camp was 
not deterred as his reached unerringly into his pack to wrap his fingers 
around the bright hilt of his long knife.  There was no thought behind the 
deed except the sudden surge to finish the job the men had started.  He 
should never have lived through the assault. He knew that now as clearly as 
he knew deep in his bones that they meant to kill him.  It was Strider who 
had delayed his journey to the Halls of Mandos. Now the man’s silences 
and averted looks made sense to him.  Aragorn could not protect him any 
longer from the memories that flooded him.  He had been raped. It was like 
poison in his flesh.  It lived in his blood and oozed out of his pores. The Elf 
had become as vile as his assailants.  What had he done?  Even now the feel 
of the Ranger’s mouth against his lips sent waves of desire through his 
tainted flesh.  The memory of the Ranger’s arms and mouth overlapped and 
became confused with the sordid images of the men who attacked him. The 
bruising grip of unfriendly hands holding him down, the rough mouths that 
sucked on him and called him names, the things he was forced to do… The 
Elf clutched at his head, as he ran through the sheets of rain that came down 
on him.  Aragorn! 

His heart lurched at the betrayal he had committed against his human 
companion.  The voices of the men who raped him rang in his ears.  Elf 
Whore. They were right. Stuck up little piece of ass. Who did he think he 
was? Elvish superiority?  A Prince? He was nothing but a pretty face and a 
tight ass for riding. They showed him that. They rode him like an animal. 
They had broken him, in body, but also in mind and in spirit.  Elf Whore. 
The clapping thunder above reverberated through his body as blow after 
blow of the men’s fists resurfaced in a torrent within his raging mind. He 
fought them, at first.  He fought viciously but a great lassitude overtook him.  
The potent poison rendered him submissive but the Elf had lost awareness of 
such details.  The words of the men, foul and more damaging even than their 
deeds, rang in his ears. Nothing but a pretty face and a pretty ass. It’s what 
the world thought of him. He’d suspected it before but they showed him.  
He had pleasured them, the five taking turns with him like rutting beasts. He 
was nothing but a thing, an animal, a whore for their insatiable lust. They 
showed him when they took him, two and three at a time. Tears ran down 
his cheeks, mingling with the rain that plastered his golden hair to his face.  
The heavens opened up and his grief poured out of him as violently as the 
storm that raged around him.  He should have died. He fell to his knees, 
knife blindly slashing and stabbing at the muddy thatched ground.  Aragorn!   
He needed the Man.  But he was lost in the dark cataclysm of his own 
nightmare.  There could be no rescue this time.  He wanted no rescue.


The Elf stopped, knife blade buried into the earth, clutching onto its hilt, he 
violently emptied his stomach until only dry heaves remained, the horrific 
memories pouring through him without mercy.  He should have died.  Now 
he had tainted the one good thing left in his life, his friendship with the 
Ranger.  Aragorn would probably forgive him. It was in the nature of the 
human to be giving, faultlessly so.  But Legolas could not forgive himself.  He 
could not come back from such a horror, not without the man. And he could 
not expose Aragorn to more of the madness.  It was time to put an end to it.  
Lightening flashed overhead and thunder exploded with a force that made 
the forest floor shake.  The ground had turned to thick mud and clung to him 
as if the earth itself clutched with angry fingers, trying to drag him down, 
trying to drown him. Yanking the dagger loose from the ground, he lurched 
blindly to his feet and began to run again.

The Elf slipped and tumbled down a sloping muddy trail to land at the banks 
of the overflowing stream.  The storm raged relentlessly, whipping his hair 
and his clothes about his slender frame, and the stream had become a raging 
river.  He crawled, muddied and bleeding, along its edge, digging his torn 
fingers into the rough stones.  The long elven blade shone brightly in the 
flashes of lightening, still clenched in his hand.  The river’s black waters 
called to him, promising an ominous peace. He sobbed, as he lay on his 
stomach by the raging bank, but the sounds of his grief disappeared in the 
howl of the wind. The trees around him almost bent in half as the wind 
whipped furiously at their branches. The pelting rain threatened to drown the 
earth in its fury.  It was as if the Valar themselves wept at the sight of the 
dishonored Elf. He looked into the darkness of the river without really 
seeing.  He’d throw himself in.  But not before making sure survival was 
impossible.  The long silver blade of his knife gleamed as he lifted it to his 
eyes.  It was the blade he had used to stab one of his rapists.  That was 
when they kicked him brutally in his ribs and back, their heavy boots 
dragging across his pale naked flesh.  

He looked at the cold metal of the blade like a long lost companion and 
tested its sharpness out on the flesh of his forearm. The stinging pain felt 
good. His bright red blood sank into the earth and anger boiled within him. 
This time the elven knife would do its work flawlessly.  He sent a prayer that 
Mandos would open its doors to him and if not, at least, that the Ranger 
would be free of his burden of caring for the sick Elf and be able to move 
on, finding happiness in his life.  Aragorn deserved that.  The thought of the 
man made him hesitate. Aragorn would grieve, but this was for the best.  
The man didn’t need to be subjected any further to the Elf’s sickness.  
Legolas would die eventually, any way.  Better to release the man now, than 
cause him more harm. The archer did wish there could be some way to 
leave the man a message. He did not like the thought that the man would 
probably blame himself. But seeing as there was no way to do such a thing, 
Legolas decided the most compassionate thing to do was to simply free the 
man. He turned his attention to the blade that shone brightly in the reflected 
light from the lightening.  He would bleed himself dry and the river would 
wash the vileness away.  And Aragorn would be set free.

The Elf raised the flashing blade to his throat; his eyes closed against the 
pelting rain, and took a deep breath.  The blade pierced his skin and then 
went careening through the air, lightening glinting off the spinning shaft, 
before it disappeared into the black water. The Elf had landed into the 
shallow end of the rushing stream, Aragorn fell heavily on top of him. 

Without much thought about what he was doing, the Elf began to struggle 
against the man.  Their struggles took them deeper into the raging torrent of 
the river and Aragorn screamed into the Elf’s face, “Stop! Or we will both 
drown!”

The words penetrated the Elf’s mind enough for him to slow his struggles, so 
not to drag the man down with him, but he still tried to pull away from the 
man’s grip. “Let me go, Aragorn!” the Elf screamed above the howl of the 
wind, “I should be dead! You know its true!”

The man growled his frustration and recognizing they were drifting 
dangerously into deeper waters, he heaved his fist into the temple of the 
struggling Elf. The surprising move caught the archer off guard and the blow 
effectively knocked the Elf into oblivion.  Aragorn clutched the limp body 
against him and slowly dragged their way back toward the muddy bank. The 
raging black waters beat at him, pulling at the unconscious body in his grasp. 
Both Human and Elf slipped under the murky surface as the world exploded 
above them. Lightening and thunder crashed around him as Aragorn’s head 
broke through the surface, coughing and sputtering, the Elf still in tow. He 
turned the Elf’s face to the air. Strider screamed his defiance at the universe 
that seemed bent on tormenting them.  Nothing was taking his Elf away from 
him. Nothing! The water threatened to dislodge the floating body of the 
unconscious Archer from his frozen arms several times, but the Man’s grip 
was unbreakable. Finally able to touch bottom, he scrambled to find 
purchase to stand, his feet sinking up to the ankles in thick slushiness.  Their 
waterlogged clothes slowed his movements but he eventually hefted the Elf 
out of the river.  He climbed out heavily and leaned against the unmoving 
body of the Archer to catch his breath. 

Legolas coughed and water poured out of his mouth as the Man turned him 
onto his side. Aragon pounded the Elf in between the shoulder blades until 
Legolas was breathing again. The Elf moaned, his face pressed to the 
ground, but remained incoherent. Aragorn took hold of the slim body by the 
arms and pulled him up. He clutched the Elf to his chest, and tears slid down 
the man’s face as the rain continued to drench the earth.

 “Oh, Legolas,” he whispered into a pointed ear, “what were you trying to 
do?”  Aragorn smoothed the wet hair away from the Elf’s face. The closed 
eyes fluttered, long lashes brushing the pale cheeks, but they did not open.  
The man brushed his lips against the fair brow, reverently. 

Aragorn slowly climbed to his feet, pulling the Elf up into his arms.  He slung 
the unconscious Prince over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and began 
the treacherous climb up the sloping muddy ground.  Aragorn’s heart was 
beating wildly and he sent a prayer of thanks to the Gods for leading his 
blind steps through the blackness of the storm to the river.  The image of his 
beloved Elf, blade raised to his own throat, was one that Aragorn suspected 
would haunt him for the rest of his human days. A cold fist was clenched 
about the man’s heart.  That so precious and so exquisite a being, as the 
Prince of Mirkwood, should choose to leave this life by their own hand, it 
was a desecration of all that the Valar held dear.  As a man, and as a healer, 
Aragorn rebelled at it violently.  He was not going to permit this fine creature 
to kill himself, not by his own hand and not be simply allowing himself to 
fade away.  Aragorn refused to let it happen.   

By the time the first rays of the sun started to lighten the morning sky, the 
rain had stopped and the wet muddy ground was beginning to dry.  Large 
puddles dominated the camp area and a fire was impossible. The storm had 
been violent but the earth was washed clean.  The Ranger and the Elf were 
both drenched through and through.  When Aragorn had finally made it back 
to their little camp he had collapsed on the wet ground.  The Man leaned up 
against the cold rock and pulled the Elf onto his lap, the archer’s golden 
head falling against his shoulder.  The man sighed in relief, hugging the golden 
mud caked body to him in gratitude.  He contemplated the miracle of finding 
the Elf just in the nick of time.  The man could not  permit himself to think 
what it would have been like to find the Elf’s dead body. Yet that very image 
filled his mind leaving him cold and shaking. The cold fist around his heart 
squeezed tighter.  A boiling anger was threatening to overflow inside him.  
He was angry at himself, at his own weakness, that he gave in to temptation 
and kissed the archer. His thoughtless self-indulgence had almost killed 
Legolas.  Aragorn would never have forgiven himself if he had been too late 
to save the Elf. But it was more than that, even.  Somewhere along the way, 
friendship had turned to lust. This he knew.  But he never truly 
comprehended, until now, that lust had become something deeper still.  It 
was love that drove him. Looking down at the sleeping Prince, the Man’s 
heart lurched in his chest.  By the Valar.  He touched the Prince’s soft lips 
with his fingers, in amazement, and a tear escaped his eye.  He loved this Elf.  
Aragorn clutched the body of the archer in his trembling hands, thinking how 
close it had been. If he had arrived one moment later, he’d have been 
holding the Elf’s dead body in his arms.  Rage boiled within him.

 His anger was not only at himself.  Oh, to be sure the vile monsters who 
were the true cause of all this suffering would die, by Aragorn’s hand, even if 
it took the remainder of his life to hunt them down.  He would do it.  But, no, 
that was not all of his anger.  He looked down at the pale perfect beauty of 
the Elf.  He stroked the smooth, baby soft skin of the Prince’s cheek with his 
fingers.  He wanted to bend down and kiss the perfect mouth.  He wanted 
to devour those sweet lips.  He was enraged, the man knew with sickening 
clarity, at Legolas.  The Elf would have to be made to understand that 
suicide was not going to be the answer to his suffering.  Aragorn was not 
going to permit it. If he had to sit on the archer, bind him hand and foot, or 
tether the Elf to the Man for the rest of his life, he would do it to ensure that 
never again would the Elf even consider such a deed.  Actually that last idea 
had some appeal, thought the Man. Aragorn looked into the pale thin face, 
and stroked the soft skin, mind racing.  Before he knew what he was doing 
he bent and placed a gentle, chaste kiss on the Elf’s forehead. Mine, he 
thought, furiously.  He pulled the precious body tighter; lips softly pressed 
against the fair brow, and squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that 
managed to fall at last down his cheeks.  When he lifted his head he found 
himself looking into the surprised eyes of the Elf.


Legolas stared up at the Ranger, his mind trying to grasp what had 
happened.  He was in the river, drowning…but strong familiar hands, the 
ones that now held him tightly, had pulled him out.  Aragorn.  But he had a 
knife….The man had stopped him from killing himself.  His senses were 
filled with the essence of the Man, suddenly.

He could hear the man’s heart beat.  He could smell the scent of leather and 
pipe weed in the soaked clothes.  He could feel the Man’s breath on his 
face.  The pain in the steel gray eyes, only inches from his own, refused to let 
him look away.  Tears on the man’s face held him transfixed.  The man’s 
hands were on his skin, just as he had imagined before.  They were rough 
hands, but strong, and now they tenderly stroked his cheek.  

Legolas found it hard to breath against the tender assault to his senses.  
Meanwhile, the Man was staring at him, drinking in the vision of the Elf, alive 
and aware.

“I thought I was dead…” said the Archer, dully. 

“You tried to make it so.  You almost succeeded,” the Man’s voice was 
harsh, laced with pain.

The Elf frowned and looked away.  “You should not have stopped me.”

Aragorn’s hand firmly took hold of his face and forced the Archer to face 
him.  What Legolas saw in the Ranger’s face made his eyes grow large.  It 
was fury but also something indefinable.  “Never.” Said the Man in a tone 
that would brook no argument. “Never say that again.”  

The Elf was speechless for a long moment, but rebellion surfaced from 
somewhere, and his own anger flared.  “What right do you have to keep me 
here?”  he demanded in a strained voice.  “You know what happened, don’t 
you?  You’ve known all along…” His voice was a bitter whisper.  The man 
blanched at the words but he held the Archer’s gaze steadfastly.

“Yes.  I know.  Not all, but I know.”

“Then you know I cannot go on!”  The Elf began to struggle in the Man’s 
grip, trying to release himself.  Despair was rising within him again, and the 
Man’s closeness, his touch, was too uncomfortable. Legolas’s traitorous, 
tainted flesh yearned for the Man’s breath on his skin, for his touch to arouse 
him.  The feeling of being restrained, however, set off another emotion. It 
frightened him.  He had to get away.  He was right to try to end it, before.  
He was really, and truly, insane.  The confusion in his mind proved it.  “You 
should not have interfered!”  He shouted at the Man, desperately trying to 
free himself now.

“You are not thinking, Legolas!  This is no answer!”  the Man clamped his 
hands around the slender wrists


and trapped the Elf in the circle of his arms.  He tried to sound reasonable 
but his own ire was growing.


  “I know I am not thinking!” screamed the Elf in anguish, “I can’t think!  I 
can’t feel!  I …I just can’t Aragorn…”  the Archer stopped fighting, 
abruptly, and clutched onto the Man, tears streaming down his cheeks.  
Aragorn cradled the sobbing being in his arms, and began to rock back and 
forth, tears coming to his own eyes and rolling down his face as well.  

“I can’t Aragorn” the Elf sobbed again.  “You just don’t understand…I’m 
nothing!  I’m nothing but what they said…”  The Elf’s voice was lost in the 
sobs that poured out of him, his face buried against the man’s chest.

Aragorn’s brows drew together at that last half uttered sentence.  He pulled 
the Elf back a little and forced the Archer to look at him.  “What,” he 
demanded, “what did they say?”  

The Elf tried to avoid the man’s eyes, but the fight in him was spent.  “They 
said…they said…that I was…”  The Elf’s voice faded, humiliation making 
his cheeks burn, and he tried to look away again.

“What, Legolas?” the Man insisted.  

“They said…that I was …only a ..a pretty face, and a…a pretty…that  I 
was good for only…”  The anguished Elf could not go on but the Man had 
gotten the gist of what the Elf was saying.  He grabbed the Elf by the 
shoulders and looked into the bright sapphire eyes.  “And you believe 
them?”  he demanded.

“They called me things…a whore…they said I caused it…them to …to..”  
the Elf’s eyes clearly shone with confusion.  Aragorn closed his eyes, 
privately promising again to hunt them down and mutilate them with his bare 
hands.

“Legolas, how can you place any stock in the words of vile orc spawn like 
that?  Don’t you see what they were doing by saying vile things like that?”  
the Ranger said reasonably.

“But look at what I did to you!” cried the Archer. 

Aragorn stared at him, not comprehending what the Elf was talking about.  

“I …I...betrayed you, Aragorn!”  The Elf’s voice was anguished.  “In the 
cave, before..” he added in clarification, deep shame coloring his cheeks.  

The Man swallowed.  “You mean…when we…”

The Elf nodded, tears swelling in the blue eyes yet again.  “I’m sorry 
Aragorn, I didn’t mean for it to happen…”  Sobbing loudly again, the Elf did 
his best to hide his face from the Man, but Aragorn’s hand on his chin 
continued to hold him in place.

“Legolas…you didn’t…”  

 But the Elf shook his head, “Don’t deny it, Aragorn…I know what I did. 
and you’ve only tried to help me…You’ve always been a friend, and I 
…I…” Tears poured forth from the Elf’s blue orbs as the Archer continued 
to blame himself for his perceived infraction.

The Man stared at him for one speechless moment, and then taking a deep 
breath, leaned forward and kissed the sobbing Elf full on the mouth.  He 
could hear the Elf’s gasp, sobs interrupted, as the Man’s mouth came down 
on his in a chaste but very tender kiss.  The Man’s lips did not leave his for a 
long, heart stopping moment.  The Man wanted there to be no question 
about who initiated this intimacy and 


who wanted it. He hoped the Elf would not hate him for it, but right now it 
was imperative that the Elf 
understood he did nothing wrong to the Ranger.


When Aragorn finally and carefully pulled back, the Prince stared at him, 
blue eyes huge against the alabaster skin. The petal soft lips parted to form 
the only word that came into the Elf’s stunned mind, “Oh….” 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------------------

Aragorn smiled tightly, holding a delicate hand in both of his own, he averted 
his gaze from the startled blue eyes and drew tiny circles on the soft skin of 
the Archer’s hand with his finger.  His brows drew together in a pained 
expression when he spoke again.  “I kissed you, Mellon Nin,” he said 
quietly, “not the other way around.”

Legolas’s mind reeled at this new development.  He had never considered 
this possibility. In truth, he was having trouble believing it.  He shook his 
head slightly,  “Aragorn…” he stopped, feeling bewildered.  Suddenly self 
conscious of his prone position, lying in the Man’s lap, Legolas slowly 
moved out of the Ranger’s arms to sit up.

The Man released him, apprehensively, and studied the Elf’s face with alert 
eyes.

But the Elf, who for the moment was too stunned to consider running away, 
merely shifted to sit facing the Man. Aragorn could sense a new trepidation 
in the Archer’s body as the Elf put a little distance between them.   The 
Ranger winced internally.  The Elf’s eyes searched his face, apparently 
looking for some clue as to what this might mean.   Perplexed, Legolas 
shook his head again, in denial of what had just happened, suspecting, 
perhaps, that this was some healer’s trick to make him feel better. 

Suddenly afraid of the Elf’s continued silence, a different kind of panic began 
to grow in the pit of the Ranger’s stomach.  Aragorn’s words tumbled out of 
him, in a jumble,  “I am sorry, Mellon. Please don’t hate me. I didn’t mean 
for it to happen, and I promise you it won’t happen again…” 

The Archer looked up suddenly at this, his blue eyes wide with both distress 
and confusion. Aragorn paused in mid sentence, noting the Prince’s mixed 
reaction with interest.

 “Aragorn,” the Elf interrupted, “I …” the Elf’s gaze flitted back to the 
ground, unwilling to meet the Man’s penetrating stare, “well…what I mean 
is…I’m not upset…” The blue gaze flitted over the man’s rapt expression 
and away again, before continuing, “ What I mean is…well, …I just don’t 
understand, why…”

The Elf looked up at the Man, who was studying him, and repeated, “Why 
did you?”

The Man looked at the soaked, muddy Elf and took a deep breath.  The 
blue sapphire eyes were bright in the white thin face. They were highlighted 
by dark smudges of exhaustion.   The golden hair was still plastered to the 
Archer’s face, framing the sculpted cheekbones. Wet leaves were tangled in 
the untidy mane from their near drowning in the river.  The Prince was a 
mess, worse than he had ever seen him, and Aragorn found a small smile 
creep unbidden to his lips.  He reached out fondly to pluck a long soggy leaf 
out of the blonde hair, and he shrugged his shoulders as he discarded it.  “I 
love you,” he said simply, amazed by how easily the words rolled out.

There.  He had said it.  The Prince’s mouth dropped open.  Apparently, 
whatever Legolas had expected the Man to say, this evidently was not it.  
Aragorn felt somewhat relieved, however, by the admission.  Now that he 
had mentally come to grips with his feelings for the Elf, it felt good to get it 
out into the open.  He did not expect the traumatized Elf to respond in kind.  
In time, perhaps, the Elf would be able to say the words back to him. 
Should the Prince of Mirkwood be even so inclined.  Aragorn had not given 
it all much thought. What were the chances that a highly desirable Elf Prince 
would choose to mate with a mere mortal?   But, no matter.  His love for the 
Elf was enough.  No, the Man was not expecting anything.  Right now, 
Aragorn had but one simple goal: to get the Elf past the point of wanting to 
die.

Seeing the Elf’s stunned expression grow into a look of discomfort, the Man 
said hastily, “You don’t have to say anything, Mellon.  I don’t expect 
anything, other than what we have always had…I hope you can still accept 
my friendship…” he added, a little fearfully.

Legolas started at this and said, quickly, “Of course, Aragorn, we will 
always…”   The Archer stopped, as if remembering his pact with himself to 
end his own life.  

Aragorn reached forward, wrapping his hands around both of the Elf’s 
wrists.  “Legolas, listen to me.”  The Man’s steel eyes bore into those of the 
Elf.  “You are not going to kill yourself.  I am not going to let you.”

The steel in the Man’s grip and in his gaze left no room for further argument.  
Legolas was too exhausted. The Elf sighed and looked at the ground.  
“Legolas.” The Man was apparently not finished yet, giving the Elf a little 
shake by the held wrists.  Legolas raised his face tiredly to look at the Man.  
Aragorn had a look the Archer had seen many times.  It said there would be 
no compromise.  “Promise me,” said Aragorn.

The dawning frown on the Prince’s face did not bode well.  Aragorn drew 
closer, eyes blazing, and wrapping one powerful hand around both thin 
wrists, he gripped the Elf’s chin firmly, forcing the Prince to look at him.  
“Legolas, we both almost drowned out there.” The Man’s voice was 
measured and firm, “Now.  Promise me, Prince, that there will be no further 
attempts to take your life!”

Despite the Elf’s obvious exhaustion, a flash of anger momentarily alighted 
the Archer’s drawn features.  “Aragorn…” the Elf sounded tired, but the 
Man could see the beginnings of another battle. Aragorn was determined to 
put a stop to it before it began.  

“If you do not give me your promise, then I’ll do what ever is necessary to 
keep you safe.” The Man said with a tightening of his grip on the slim wrists.  
The Elf’s eyes widened in indignation and mild fear.  “I would rather not 
keep you tied up or sedated…” said the Ranger, darkly.

The Elf’s eyes grew wider still. “You would not dare…”  He could not 
believe the Man was serious.

“I would not want to resort to such measures, but if you don’t give me your 
promise then I may have no choice.”  Aragorn’s somber expression told him 
the Man was deadly serious.

The Elf frowned again, but when he looked up at the Man the fight had 
finally gone out of him.  “Very well.  You have my promise.  I will not try to 
kill myself.”  The words were dragged out of him it seemed, from some deep 
painful place.  When the Man released his hands the Elf pulled himself away, 
and moved to the wall of the cave and huddled in on himself, refusing to look 
at the Human.

The Ranger sighed.  Something told him it was going to be another long day.  



The horse had long since disappeared and the Man could only hope the 
poor beast had gone back to its familiar home in Rohan.  If not, he’d have to 
find a way to make amends to Lord Éomer, when he next met the horse 
lord. Aragorn moved slowly, tiredly as he bent to pick up their scattered 
belongings.  He was sore from the treacherous swim and from struggling 
with the Elf.  The sun was peeking from behind the clouds and the smaller 
puddles were already drying up.  The wood, however, was all still too wet 
for a fire.  Aragorn laid out some faggots that might be dry enough for a fire 
later that night.  He hung their soaked blankets in the branches of a tree, 
hoping that by nightfall they would be useable.

As the Man moved about the camp, restoring order, he occasionally glanced 
at the Elf.  Legolas had remained resolutely quiet, still huddled in on himself 
against the back of the cave.  The Elf’s eyes would not meet the Man’s but 
occasionally Aragorn could feel their burning intensity upon him.  Well, at 
least the Elf had given his promise.  Aragorn was not bluffing about tying the 
Elf up.  The Man sighed, looking at the Archer, who looked away 
stubbornly.  If the Man had any distant hopes of winning the Elf’s affections 
some day in the future, they had receded far into the back of his mind.  It 
seemed he’d be fortunate to simply have the Prince not hate him.



When nothing else remained to be done with their camp, Aragorn stood 
tiredly, and looked down at himself.  He was soaked, hot, tired and layered 
in dried mud.  Glancing at the equally disheveled Elf, he walked over to the 
stubbornly quiet Prince.  

“Legolas?”  The Elf continued to study the ground.  Aragorn frowned.  
“Why don’t we go get cleaned up?”

The Elf continued to stare at nothing, refusing to look at the Ranger.  He was 
dirty?  So what.  Aragorn was going to force him to live, and thus die a slow 
death, instead of the merciful quick one. But the Elf had managed to fail even 
at that. If he hadn’t been so slow with the knife last night, this would all be 
over, for both of them.  So be it.  A dull gray cloud settled over his thoughts.  
He would just wait for death to claim him.  Perhaps this way was better. The 
Man, at least, would be spared feeling the guilt he would otherwise have 
suffered.  Despite his anger at the Human for forcing him to make that 
promise, he really did not want Aragorn to suffer because of the Elf’s 
mistakes.

“Legolas?”  the Man had knelt down in front of him.  Legolas dragged his 
eyes up to meet the Man’s.  Aragorn looked exhausted and worry for the 
Elf lurked in the Man’s eyes.  Legolas felt the last remnants of his anger 
toward the Ranger begin to fade. The poor Human did not deserve this.

Aragorn extended a hand to him.  Legolas slowly took hold of it and 
allowed himself to be pulled up from the ground. Aragorn paused to collect 
a small bundle of spare clothes from his pack, soap and two soft cloths. He 
sheathed his sword as well, unwilling to go that far unarmed. He held out his 
hand again, and Legolas took it with only the slightest of hesitation.  He 
mentally shrugged.  Its not like he had any dignity left.  And if it helped the 
Human to feel better, by treating the Elf like a child, he would indulge the 
Ranger. When the inevitable would come, at least the Man would feel he 
had done everything humanly possible to help the Elf.

 He followed the Man wordlessly through the sun-dappled trees. His fingers 
absently tracing the calluses of the Man’s sword hand. His eyes traveled 
from the Man’s face to the trees.  Amazing how these same woods were so 
ominous, so unfriendly just a few hours ago.  The clouds had become sparse 
and the sun shone her bright face again, warming the ground.  They stepped 
over dropped branches and broken saplings that had not the strength to 
withstand last night’s gales. Legolas’s eyes followed the trail he had taken in 
the night, the places where he had fallen in the mud and darkness, and had 
cried out his soul’s torment.

Aragorn’s hand tightened on his, transmitting warmth up his shaking arm.  It 
flowed through his body and he took a deep shaky breath. Legolas 
swallowed the lump in his throat.  He clutched onto the Man’s hand as they 
reached the stream.  Tame, once again, the water bubbled in greeting.  
Legolas stopped suddenly, last night’s travails filling his mind.   Aragorn 
stopped with him.  

“Its alright, Mellon.” Aragorn said quietly.  He put an arm around the 
Archer’s shoulders and nudged him forward.  They came to the bank, close 
to the spot where Legolas had sat the night before, blade extended to his 
throat, only seconds away from death.  Legolas looked at the area 
impassively, wrapped again in his gray cloud of indifference. His life seemed 
to have turned into one giant mistake. First, he allowed himself to be 
captured by a group of monstrous humans; he allowed himself to be defiled;  
then, he failed in the simple task of putting an end to his disgrace in a way 
befitting a warrior. He shoulders slumped in defeat.  There was nothing left 
for him to lose, it seemed. The sunny shore of the stream, curiously, held no 
evidence of last night’s torment.  Nothing to indicate how close he had come 
to death.  He became aware of the Man’s stillness beside him, and turned 
questioning eyes to the Ranger.

Aragorn seemed to be lost in a nightmare of his own.  The Man was staring 
at the ground where he had found the Elf the other night.  The Man’s grip on 
Legolas’s hand had become crushing.  It pulled Legolas out of his fog and he 
winced in pain.  The Man immediately released his hold on the thin hand with 
an apology. But Legolas moved into the Man’s arms, and lifted his hands to 
touch Aragorn’s face.  Aragorn looked at him, surprised by the Elf’s sudden 
attention.  

“Aragorn.”  The Elf didn’t say anything more. His cool hands traveled to 
lock behind the Man’s neck.  Aragorn could see the regret and the sadness 
in the blue depths.  His arms lifted to encircle the beautiful being and Legolas 
dropped his head tiredly to the Man’s shoulder.  Aragorn held him tightly, 
almost afraid to breathe for fear of disrupting the fragile moment. His Elf was 
alive and in his arms.  He stroked the matted blonde hair down the Elf ‘s 
back, sending a silent prayer of thanks to the Gods for getting them through 
another night.  Eventually, Legolas stirred and looking up at the Man, said, “I 
think you are right.  I need a bath.” Then with a small smile, he added, “And 
so do you.”

Aragorn managed to look insulted as he laughed gently.  Relief washed 
through his bones.  He knew things were far from perfect, but the light 
moment was a gift from the Valar, and he would take it.  They both peeled 
off their stiff muddy clothes and waded into the cool water, each averting 
their eyes, suddenly shy around each other.  The Man handed the soap and 
a soft cloth to the Elf, while he went about washing their dirty clothes. 
Legolas’s slow laborious movements drew the Healer’s attention.  Legolas 
had sustained some new injuries during his wild run through the woods.  The 
black bruises stood out starkly against the marble flesh.  Aragorn followed 
the stiff, pained movements as Legolas tried to wash his back.  In a carefully 
neutral voice, the Man asked,  “Would you like some help?”

The Elf did not meet his gaze but after a moment, nodded.  Aragorn stepped 
behind the slim body, attempting with all his might to avoid looking too 
closely at the naked feline beauty before him.  It was one thing to tend to the 
injured Elf, while unconscious, and quite another thing to have the sultry 
golden body stand alluringly in front of him.  The cool water rumbled around 
their thighs as the Man stepped close to the Elf, placing a hand on his 
shoulder.  Aragorn couldn’t help but look down admiringly at the youthful 
perfection of the Archer’s whipcord body.  The Prince was muscular in a 
boyish way, yet with a feminine silkiness so typical of the beauty of the elves.  
The Ranger’s eyes traveled down the sinuous spine to the gentle curve at the 
small of the Elf’s back, to the swell of the rounded buttocks, and the 
muscular thighs. Taking a steadying breath he began to gently scrub the pale 
body, tightening his grip on the Elf’s shoulder, to hold him still and to prevent 
the Elf from turning around and seeing the Man’s semi erect state.  

Legolas closed his eyes against the onslaught of sensations caused by the 
feel of the Man’s tender ministrations.  The cloth rubbed lightly across his 
shoulders and down his back. It skimmed carefully over his abused flesh.  
The Man’s naked body behind him radiated an impossible heat.  The cloth 
went lower, cool elven soap slick against his dirty skin, wiping the grime 
from his flesh.  Legolas moaned and felt his knees grow week.  The Man’s 
steadying hand on his shoulder seemed to radiate a burning heat.  Legolas 
could hear the Man’s breathing, behind him, grow rapid. He wondered that 
the temperature of the water didn’t rise with so much heat coming from the 
Human. He wanted to lean back into the hardness of the chest, and feel the 
course human hair skim his back. He desperately fought the impulse.

Legolas’s mind began to spin strangely.  What was happening? Aragorn had 
said he loved him.  He had not allowed himself to think on it all this time, 
since the words had been spoken.  But now, with the Man naked behind 
him, the Man’s strong hands on his body, he felt again the familiar desire 
coiling in his own belly.  Did he desire Aragorn? His swelling organ seemed 
to suggest something.  But was it real or the tainted result of what had 
happened to him?  It was too much, the Elf thought, dizzily.  He couldn’t 
grapple with all these confusing emotions and try to think straight with the 
Man’s hot hands on him.

As if sensing the Elf’s sudden distress, Aragorn stepped away from him.  
“There,” the Man said, trying to sound casual without looking directly at the 
Elf, “you still need to do your hair.”  He handed Legolas the soap, after 
pouring a liberal amount into his own hand for himself.  Legolas mumbled 
something in gratitude and knelt into the water.  He went to work on his hair, 
but found himself sneaking peeks at the Man, when Aragorn had his eyes 
closed against the soapy water that ran through his hair. The Man’s body 
was muscular in a bolder way than what was typical of elves.  His skin was 
tanned and hair sparsely covered most of his body.  The Ranger’s arms and 
legs were powerful, attesting to his hard travels.  Scars, old and new, 
covered his chest and arms. Strong arms, thought Legolas, and a wonderful 
hard chest.  What would it be like to run his fingers through the dark hair on 
the Ranger’s chest? 

Legolas felt his body stir uncomfortably as he stared at the Man’s body. 
Aragorn was not like the Men who had attacked him.  There were 
similarities but Aragorn had a scent about him, a musk underneath the leather 
and pipe weed, that Legolas associated only with the Ranger. He was glad 
of that. He would not want to be close to the Ranger and be made to think 
of those beasts who had abused him. He moved in the water to get closer to 
the Ranger, while Aragorn still busied himself with his hair.  Taking 
advantage of the opportunity, he looked at the Man, openly, wanting to get 
closer to him, to feel the Man’s hands on him again, to smell his musk.  How 
odd, he thought, his depression momentarily forgotten. He had never really 
noticed before how very beautiful the Man was:  the way his dark curls fell 
so unruly to skim his shoulders; the expressive mouth, which could form a 
stern line of disapproval or bestow the sweetest of kisses; the crinkling lines 
of humor at the corners of the steel gray eyes;  the eyes, Legolas realized, 
that could penetrate into ones very soul. Just then those very eyes, which the 
Elf had been contemplating as he drifted closer to the Man, popped open.

Having washed away the soapiness, Aragorn found himself staring at the 
Archer who was standing directly in front of him with a peculiar expression 
on his sun bright face.  The Man covered his sudden discomfort with a laugh, 
“What’s the matter, Mellon?  Do you not recognize me without the dirt and 
mud?”

The Elf laughed gently as well, equally startled to find himself caught in his 
rapt perusal of the Man’s body, a rosy blush creeping to his cheeks. “Here,” 
the Elf said impulsively, suddenly feeling bold, “let me help with that.”  
Legolas took the wash cloth from the Man’s motionless hand and moved to 
stand behind the Human. Aragorn’s eyes widened in shock, as the Elf 
moved silently behind him and began to gently rub the Man’s back with the 
soapy cloth.  Aragorn swallowed, trying to maintain his rapidly evaporating 
composure, as the Elf’s cool hand skimmed across the skin of his shoulder 
and back, while the cloth traveled up to the back of his neck and around his 
ears.  The porcelain fingers traced the outline of a scar across his back.  

He could feel the Elf’s cool breath on his shoulder as the Archer leaned 
closer, his smooth chest not quite touching the Man’s back. Aragorn’s heart 
rate doubled when he felt the smoothness of the Elf’s cheek press against his 
shoulder, the Elf’s nose and mouth just barely brushing the skin there. The 
Elf inhaled deeply and sighed.

The Man swallowed, intense desire lancing through his body.  But also he 
felt a fluttering of concern.  This was strange behavior for the Archer.  
“Legolas…” he said, swallowing again, his mouth suddenly dry.  He wanted 
the Elf, badly, but he could not blunder into a sexual situation when Legolas 
was still so obviously confused.  It was only a few hours ago that the Elf had 
come close to slicing his own throat, right there,  almost on the very spot 
where they now stood.

“You are beautiful, Aragorn…” whispered the Elf from behind him, his voice 
sounding far away.  “You are the best friend I have ever had…and I have 
been such trouble to you…”  Legolas closed his eyes, despair resurfacing as 
he thought of the pain he had caused this Man.

Hearing the sadness creep back into the Archer’s voice, Aragorn turned and 
took the lithe form into his arms, in a comforting embrace.  The erotic nature 
of the Elf’s behavior and the feel of the nude body against his was almost 
overpowering, but, damn it, he was going to control himself.  “You are no 
trouble to me, Mellon Nin.  You know that.”  He placed a gentle kiss on the 
smooth skin of the Elf’s brow.  “Come. Lets go back.  I could use some 
food,” he added lightly.  He led the Elf out of the water, thinking they had to 
get some clothes on before things got out of hand.   By the Valar, he was 
only Human after all.

The tender kiss seemed to bring the Elf back from where ever his thoughts 
had taken him and Legolas smiled, shyly.  Maybe he would try, for the 
Man’s sake, to not be in too much of a hurry for death. 

They were down to a pair of pants, and a long white shirt, both of which 
belonged to Aragorn, as far as clothing went.  Aragorn handed the Elf the 
long shirt and he put on the trousers, as they would be too big to stay on the 
Elf’s waist.  The Elf smiled at their condition when they had finished dressing.  
His long bare legs were creamy under the white linen shirt that hung to just a 
few inches above his knees.  The Elf’s long golden hair, clean and combed, 
draped practically down to the Archer’s waist and Aragorn had to try not to 
stare at the stunning vision, for it summoned too many erotic fantasies.  For 
his part, Legolas was equally challenged with the temptation of the Ranger’s 
exposed chest.  For some inexplicable reason, Legolas found it increasingly 
difficult to not reach out and touch the Man’s rippling muscles.

Both, Man and Elf, embarrassed and self conscious, walked with eyes down 
cast back through the woods.  They were so preoccupied by the unusual 
tension rising between them, that they almost missed the sounds of the two 
mercenaries who were shuffling through the trees until they were almost upon 
them.  






“My, my …look what we have ‘ere, mate.  It’s the pretty one!….I told ya’ 
we shoulda’ brought ‘im with us.” A filthy Swine of a man said to his balding 
companion, smacking his chops in excitement.  

“That bloke, Rosa, said Elven sluts die after ye’ bang em’….but here he 
is… looking sweeter than ever, too….”  The brutish Swine-man staggered 
forward, with the reek of alcohol coming off him. His tongue protruded 
through a gap in his yellowed teeth as he leered at the Elf. “I been dreamin’ 
bout you, pretty…”  

Aragorn cursed himself for his inattentiveness when the two fiends 
materialized, suddenly, from behind a clump of trees. The Ranger drew his 
sword in a swift, fluid motion with one hand, while grabbing onto the 
immobilized Elf with his other.  

The two fiends already had their weapons drawn and pointed at the Man, 
ignoring the unarmed Elf.  Legolas stood frozen, and Aragorn pulled the 
Archer behind him protectively.  Aragorn could feel a violent tremor run 
through the Elf’s body, as the Archer pressed against him.  The two thugs 
began to circle slowly in opposite directions around the huddled pair.  
Aragorn followed them with his eyes, sizing them up, and decided to keep 
his attention focused primarily on the over confident bald one.

“Looks to me,” said Baldy to his toothless companion, “our pretty has a 
boyfriend…you gots competition, mate!”  He chortled self-indulgently at his 
joke, moving around the two warriors.  How he loved toying with his prey 
before he stuck ‘em.

“Ay, well,…we’ll make short work of ‘im and take our pretty back to Rosa.  
Eh?” said the Swine.

“Forget ‘im,” spat the other man, “we’s on our own, lets take the Elf back 
with us. No point in sharin’ if ye get me…”

The two laughed at their shared joke.


Both men were startled when the Ranger addressed them.  

“So,” the Man said casually, “you two know my Elf.  Then you’ve saved me 
the trouble of hunting you down.  That makes my life easier.  Tell me where 
the others are and I might kill you quickly.”

The Bald one smirked, with a game look in his eye.  Was this dark, hot-shot 
challenging them? 

“You’re outa ya league, Mister.  Thinking, maybe, you gonna’ show off in 
front of that pretty little piece there?  Only thing you’ll be showjn is your 
insides spread out all over the ground  ‘ere, after I gut you,” said the Bald 
man, contemptuously.

“You think so?”  said the Ranger in a dead calm voice, eyes glinting in 
anticipation.

The Bald man smirked at the cocky son of a bitch.  He’d met plenty of 
brave men on his travels who thought they’d best him.  They all ended up 
orc chowder. Yep.  Men had a way of underestimating Baldy.  Like this 
guy.  Baldy was gonna enjoy killing this Man.  


Swine-man, on the other hand, didn’t look so confident, all of a sudden.  
The steel gray gaze of the Ranger was unnerving. The Man was too calm, 
and Swiney didn’t like that.  He flicked his tongue through the gap in his 
teeth and fingered something in his coat, nervously, as he held his weapon 
aloft.   The Man’s glare made him cast a nervous look at Baldy.  But Baldy 
was starting to have fun, circling the Man and the Elf, and making cooing 
noises at the Archer while he pointed his sword at Aragorn.  Apparently, he 
didn’t think the Elf would be an issue in this show down.  And it occurred to 
Aragorn, as well, that dispatching these two might be easier if he could 
dislodge the frozen Elf from his side long enough to be able to move.

“Legolas,” the Ranger spoke in elvish, “when I make my move, I want you 
to make for the trees, understand, Mellon?”

He thought he wasn’t going to get a response but the Elf whispered, “I 
understand.”

“Now!” yelled the Ranger as he lunged for the nearest man. Aragorn threw 
Legolas away from him towards the woods.  He raised his sword at the 
same time to meet the attack of the Bald man. Their swords collided and as 
they grappled the other man pulled his hand from his coat, holding a 
hollowed reed, with a sharp needle pointed out the end.  He brought the 
device to his mouth and aimed for the Ranger, whose back was being 
purposely maneuvered towards him by his Bald companion.  

“Aragorn, look out!” cried the Elf, flinging himself at the fat toothless thug. 
The Elf jostled the man’s aim enough to thwart the small missile’s direction.  
The dart buzzed past the Ranger’s ear and embedded itself in a tree limb just 
above the Ranger’s shoulder. Baldy cursed, seeing the dart missed its target.  
Aragorn turned in time to see the Elf knock the big Swine of a man over.  
Unfortunately his concern for the Archer left Aragorn momentarily 
unobservant of his opponent.  The Bald man pulled a small dagger from his 
belt, as Aragorn’s sword locked with his, and thrust at the Ranger’s belly 
with a grunt of satisfaction.  The wound was not deep but it gave the Bald 
man an advantage.  He brought his sword hilt crashing down on top of 
Aragorn’s head, bringing the Ranger down to his knees.  With a savage kick 
to the Ranger’s head, the Bald man toppled Aragorn to the ground.  The 
thug stood over the unconscious Ranger and with a triumphant smirk raised 
his sword over the prone figure.  He jerked forward suddenly, yellow 
gummed eyes popping almost out of their sockets in surprise.  A gurgling 
sound came from his mouth along with a gush of red.  He looked down at 
his round belly to see the point of a bloodied sword protruding coldly from 
his guts.  In a swish of movement the sword point pulled out of him from 
behind, leaving pieces of dislodged entrails in its wake.  He turned on 
unfeeling legs to face his killer.  

“You!” he stammered, in disbelief.  The last sight the rapist beheld was the 
savage glint of indigo brilliance in the eyes of the beautiful Elf, the last and 
most fortunate of a long list of hapless victims.  

 Legolas dropped the sword and ran to the Ranger’s side.  

“Aragorn!”  he screamed, voice echoing in the suddenly quiet clearing. 

 He fell to his knees next to the Man and searched frantically for a pulse.  
“Aragorn!” he pleaded.  “Please be alright!  Please be alright…” Tears 
blurred his vision, panicking at the sight of the blood that gushed from the 
man’s stomach wound.  The Human did not respond and it seemed to the 
Elf that his pulse was abnormally slow.  “Aragorn!  Please, please don’t die!  
I can’t go on…Aragorn, I can’t …not with out you!”  He was near hysteria 
and forced himself to breathe, reminding himself that he was a warrior, with 
some experience in wound care.  He could help the Man as long as he 
remained calm.

Taking another long breath, he forced himself to look at the man critically.  
The Ranger had suffered a blow to the head, and had a gash on his forehead 
that was weeping.  But the stomach wound was bleeding profusely.  He had 
to stop the bleeding.  Legolas ripped the sleeve off the shirt he was wearing 
to form a ball of cloth and pressed it against the open wound.  The Man’s 
flesh was becoming clammy.  “Aragorn, please, please wake up…” he 
begged, stroking the Man’s face.  He could not imagine the Man not waking 
up. 

Had he really thought earlier that he had nothing left to lose?  He looked 
down at the Ranger’s pale face and he felt his heart breaking.  No.  He 
thought frantically.  Not Aragorn.   Please!  Please!  He begged silently.  
Please don’t take this Man. The pain of having been raped paled somehow 
in comparison to this   devastating new fear.  He could not lose Aragorn.  
Nothing could be worse than that!  How could he have ever dreamed 
otherwise?

Legolas pressed on the wound frantically, praying it would stop the bleeding.  
He was speaking to the Man in elvish, offering words of encouragement, 
imploring, beseeching, words of need, even uttering words of love…anything 
to bring the Man back to him.  He did not notice the dark shadow that fell 
across him from behind.

A heavy weight came down in his shoulder unexpectedly.  Before the Elf’s 
grieving mind could accurately identify what it could be he was flat on the 
ground.  The huge weight of the loathsome fat man pinned him, threatening 
to crush him from the sheer bulk of the fiend.  The bloated face of the 
toothless thug filled his vision.  “Thought you’d dispatched me, eh?  Little 
whelp…I’ll show you it ain’t so easy to get rid o’ me.”

“No!” screamed Legolas, trying to push the foul smelling Swine-man off of 
him.  But the man was too heavy and Legolas felt the air being crushed out 
of his body, his vision becoming blurred from lack of oxygen.  Then the foul 
mouth came down on his, the loathsome tongue slathering his face, and some 
last remnant of strength welled up mysteriously from Valar knew where. He 
managed to heave the hulking man from him and brought his knee up sharply 
to the man’s groin.

The fiend howled and Legolas scampered out from under him, making a dive 
for a discarded sword a short distance away.  Before he could reach it, 
however, a thick hand grabbed at the flowing mane of hair and yanked the 
Elf backwards, hard onto the ground again.  A large fist impacted into 
Legolas stomach, immobilizing him.  Legolas doubled over at the pain, tears 
squeezing out of his tightly shut eyes.  The world did a somersault and 
Legolas found himself thrown over the big man’s shoulder.  He kicked and 
thrashed savagely, managing to strike the man in the kidney. With a roar the 
big man dropped the Elf but a thick hand tangled in the blond hair again. His 
head was slammed into the ground and when he came to from the 
momentary blackness, he realized he was being dragged by the hair across 
the ground.   Rocks scraped and cut the backs of his bare thighs, and he 
was flung against a tree.  His head hit the trunk, with a thud, and he almost 
blacked out again.

When his vision began to clear he was dangling like a child’s rag doll, his feet 
barely touching the ground, up against the tree with the man’s crushing 
weight thrown against him.  Hands roamed over his body and the foul mouth 
assaulted his, muffling his cries.  He thrashed against the assault and the 
mouth came off him with a sneer.

He was backhanded across the face, roughly, by a large meaty hand. “Be 
nice, now,” growled the rapist.

The fiend brought a thick arm up against the Archer’s throat and pressed 
roughly against the Elf’s windpipe.  He rubbed his thick body up against the 
Elf.  The large flabby hand slowly making its way down the Archer’s 
struggling body to stroke the creamy white thigh.  Legolas screamed as the 
fat fingers began to work their way up the smooth skin under the shirt.  

“Now, now little Elf, none of that.  You’re boyfriend’s dead.  No one’s 
going to help you.”  

“No!”  Legolas moaned, as the hand traveled slowly further up the leg, 
pushing the white shirt slowly up to expose the curve of the Elf’s buttocks, 
sausage fingers stroking the sweet mound. “NO!” screamed the Elf, again, 
struggling in a panic to free himself.

The lecherous fiend laughed in the Elf’s face and sneered, “I missed you my 
lovely. I’ve had many…but you were the best… the most fiery... I think you 
missed me too…”

“Release me!” screamed the Elf, in shrill horror.

“Now, no need to be coy, lovely one…I know the others were a bit rough 
before, but now its just me, and I know how to treat a pretty trick like you 
right…”  the man’s fat hand was traveling to the Elf’s front, under the white 
garment, and the Archer screamed again, shutting his eyes in an effort to 
block out the sensations, as the brute’s fingers closed around him callously.  
The fondling hand stopped it’s movements abruptly.

“I think I have a thing or two to say before you go any further…”  

The Elf’s tightly shut eyes popped open at the sound of the familiar voice.  
Aragorn was standing behind the fat man with his sword point on the man’s 
throat.  Blood was oozing from the gash on the man’s forehead and he 
seemed to be swaying a bit on his feet but the sword was held firmly at the 
man’s jugular. 

“Get away from the Elf.”  Aragorn commanded, pricking the flab of the 
man’s two chins with the point of the sword for emphasis.

The fat man backed off the Archer with his hands up in the air.  “Look, 
don’t kill me…I can tell you about the others…right?  You wanted to know 
about Rosa, right?  He’s the one who did the Elf bad…”  The man went 
flying to the ground as the Ranger smashed the hilt of the sword into his 
fleshy back.

The Ranger advanced on the craven, sword extended.  “You will tell me 
everything I want to know or I will hack you to bits…” with that last 
statement Aragorn swung the sword, severing the fingers of the hand that 
had dared to touch his Elf.  The Swine’s wail echoed through the forest, 
sending a flock of black birds into a frenzy through the trees.  Swiney 
clutched at the bleeding stump, eyes bulging as the Ranger advanced on him. 

Strider circled the groveling man, calmly.  A shimmer of madness in the steel 
eyes pinned the moaning fiend, in terror, to the spot where he had fallen.  
Blood bathed the fiend’s front where he clutched at his mutilated hand. 
Swiney moaned loudly as he followed the Ranger’s movements with his 
frantic eyes.

“Where are your friends?” asked the Ranger, circling the fallen rapist, like a 
bird of prey.

 “All right, just don’t do any more…” he sobbed.

“No more?” asked the Ranger, his gray eyes glinting strangely in the 
afternoon light.  “Did you stop when he asked for mercy?”  The Ranger 
demanded, pointing to the Elf, who was standing frozen to the spot against 
the tree, eyes fixed on Strider.  

“Tell me about this Rosa.  What is he doing and where can I find him?”  the 
Ranger demanded coldly, his swinging sword  sliced the air in constant 
motion.

“All right…all right,” sobbed the man on the ground, raising his good hand 
up in a pleading gesture, then yanking it back as the sword swing again, just 
missing him.  “He deals in slaves, all right?” The Swine man cried, “ He picks 
‘em up from around, ya know?  He gets by the Rohirrim because he has 
someone on the inside…right under Theodin’s nose! Sells ‘em in Rohan.   I 
don’t know no more, all right?”  The man was crawling backwards, now, 
looking around like a trapped animal.

“Who?” demanded Aragorn.  “Who is his contact in the Palace?”

“I don’t know, honest!  Rosa don’t tell us much. Some advisor to the King.  
That’s all I know, honest.  We just get the slaves and move ‘em.  
Please..don’t kill me.  I’m sorry about the Elf, honest….”

At the mention of the Elf, Aragorn growled and hacked at the fallen man, 
again, this time slicing off part of the man’s ear.  The fiend screamed and 
began to blubber loudly.

“Tell me where is Rosa now, how do I find him?”  Strider stepped forward 
as the whimpering man crawled backward, clutching his head.

“He’s still in Rohan!” the man sobbed. “ But we’s were goin to meet ‘im at 
the tavern outside the edge of the city, …please, no more!”

“When?”  Asked Aragorn, following the man who had pulled himself up 
against a tree.

“In seven days…please, I am really sorry about the Elf…” the man turned 
toward Legolas who stiffened.  “I’m really sorry…I didn’t mean no harm, ya 
know…just couldn’t help it ….”  He looked at the Man who was slowly 
advancing on him.  “You know…you’re a man…look at him,” he rambled, 
hysterically, pointing at the Archer, “he’s just ripe for the taking, you’re a 
man,…you gotta understand…”

“Yes,” said Aragorn in a lethal tone.  “I am a Man.  Would that I was not.  
Better to be spawned of a demon than to share heritage with a vile creature 
such as you.” Aragorn advanced, on the sobbing man like silent death.

“No…” sobbed the Swine-man.  

“You are not fit to breathe the same air as that Elf which you desecrated.”  
The Man hefted the sword with an avenging cry, and severed the foul 
mouthed head of the rapist from his bloated body.


He stood rock steady, a coldness permeating his senses, in the aftermath of 
the killing.  It was unlike any he had ever committed before. He had killed 
orcs in his day, even a troll once, but never a man, never like this. Never in 
cold blood.  And never had he enjoyed it until now.  He swayed suddenly 
and dropped the sword from his nerveless hand.

He turned away from the decapitated body and looked dazedly at the Elf, 
who was still frozen against the trunk of the tree.  He swallowed, guiltily.  
Had he become a monster?  What would sweet Legolas see, now, when he 
looked at the Man?  Afraid to meet the shining blue orbs, Aragorn looked 
dismally at the scene of carnage around them.   

“Aragorn.”  The Elf was unexpectedly in his arms.  Feeling suddenly very 
weak, his arms came up around the golden being and he hugged the Archer 
to him gratefully, burying his face in the silvery mane.  

“Shhhhh..It is alright now, Mellon nin,” he whispered, feeling the golden 
body shake violently against him.  “These two are dead and will never harm 
you again.  Soon I’ll hunt down the others and send them packing to what 
ever nightmare realm accepts their miserable souls.  I promise you, my heart. 
They will never hurt you again. ”

The Elf continued to hold him, a fine tremor running through his body.  Cool 
delicate hands came up to stroke Aragorn’s bare shoulders. They ran 
tremulously through the Man’s hair and touched his face, examining him 
closely.  “I thought I had lost you…” the Elf whispered shakily.

“Nay,” said the Ranger, with a reassuring smile.  His hand buried itself in the 
silky strands of the Elf’s hair.  “You will not lose me.  I plan to be here for a 
long time.”

“Aragorn, I was so…”  the Elf shook his head, tears rolling down his 
cheeks,  “When I thought I’d lost you..I felt so alone…Promise me, you will 
never leave me!”

Aragorn brought both hands up to cup the Elf’s face.  He felt tears sting his 
own eyes as he looked into the fearful cornflower blue orbs.  “I promise.  I 
will stay by your side, my Prince, for as long as you want me.”  He stroked 
the tracks made by the Elf’s tears with his thumbs tenderly, a small smile 
upon his lips.

 Legolas lifted his shining face to the Man.  Aragorn’s eyes widened.  And 
the Elf gingerly brought the silk petals of his lips to brush against Aragorn’s 
mouth, allowing the Ranger for the first time to taste a hint of their sweet 
nectar, before pulling away to hide his face shyly in the warmth of the Man’s 
neck.  It was less than a kiss, and at the same time much more.  Aragorn’s 
heart bloomed in the radiant warmth of sudden hope.  He held the beautiful 
Prince to him possessively, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

After a few moments, Aragorn began to sway slightly, the adrenaline from 
the fight slowly leaving him, and the shock of the Prince’s show of affection 
rendering him weak.  The Elf pulled back in alarm.  

“Aragorn, you’re wounded.  Come, sit down.”  Legolas guided the man 
away from the scene of carnage to sit on a near by log.  He bent to inspect 
the wound on the Man’s torso that was still bleeding.  

“I’m alright, Mellon nin,” said the Ranger.  “It looks worse than it is.  Lets 
get the rest of our cloths and go back to our camp.  I have my pack there 
with every thing we need.”

Together, supporting each other, they limped back to their camp site.  To 
their surprise, they were greeted by the welcoming sight of Hasuf.  Aragorn 
smiled and walked over to the Rohirrim’s horse.  He greeted the animal with 
a firm stroking and the horse whinnied in response.  “Your Master has taught 
you well about duty!” said the Ranger to the horse.  Aragorn left the horse 
untethered, suspecting it was not going to leave without it’s Master’s guests.

Legolas was boiling water over a fire, and handed the man his pack of herbs 
when Aragorn sat heavily next to him.  Under Aragorn’s instruction, the Elf 
fitted the Man with a healing poultice to his side and bound the wound with 
strips of cloth.  He tended to the Man’s other wounds gingerly, with careful 
touches, while the Man observed him.  The Elf was quiet and the Ranger 
found himself thinking back to the scene that greeted him when he began to 
recover consciousness.

The Elf was on the ground underneath his assailant. Aragorn could hear the 
man’s howl of pain and knew that the Archer had managed to inflict some 
injury.  He had caught a glimpse of gold as the Archer crawled out from 
under the big man but knew the Elf had not gotten far before being yanked 
back by the brute.  Aragorn pushed back the blackness that had been 
threatening to over take him.  The Archer’s screams were like a bucket of 
ice water, pulling his hazy mind out of its lethargy. 

The filthy Swine-man’s words to the captive Elf had poured into Aragorn 
like molten lava, incensing him. It took all his strength to climb to his feet, 
dragging his sword up with him. The vision of the foul brute pawing and 
groping the fair Prince had burned itself into the Man’s mind, driving him 
beyond the bounds of madness. 

Aragorn shook himself from the memory.  Sitting in front of the fire, he 
looked at the fair Elf who stirred the brewing tea in silence.  How could 
anyone desire to inflict harm on a creature of such loveliness? 

The Elf’s face was sporting a new collection of bruises from the man 
handling he had endured.  Aragorn reached into his pack and fashioned a 
cool wrap of water and healing herbs.  When the Elf poured the tea and 
brought a cup over to the Man, Aragorn set the offered cup down next to 
him, and gestured for the Elf to sit before him.  He leaned close to the silent 
Elf, whose bright eyes followed his every move, and probed the new 
bruises.  The Elf gasped, but did not protest when Aragorn began to clean 
his wounds.  Aragorn gently swabbed the lovely face free of dirt and dried 
blood.  Legolas hissed in pain as the cool cloth rubbed at his swollen lip and 
bruised jaw.

“I’m sorry, Mellon,” whispered the Man.

The Elf smiled reassuringly. He was surprisingly compliant, as the Healer 
inspected his head wound from where the Elf was thrown into the tree.  “Let 
me look at those scrapes, too,” said the Man, indicating the abrasions on the 
back of the Elf’s thighs.  Legolas hesitated momentarily then, stood turning 
his back to the Man, allowing Aragorn to wash the cuts on his legs.  He tried 
not to shake when the Healer lifted the white shirt partially to clean the 
gouged skin on the curve of the buttocks.  But Aragorn’s touch was clinical 
as he applied a soothing cream to the abused skin.

The man rose when he was finished, and went to the blankets that he had 
draped into the tree branches that morning.  Legolas watched, perplexed, 
until the Man walked over to him and draped a sun-warmed blanket over his 
shoulders.  He was led to the sleeping area next to the cave wall and guided 
silently to lie down.  

“Aragorn, you are the one with a knife wound…” the Elf protested, sitting 
up.  Aragorn’s hands gently guided him back to the ground, and taking the 
other blanket for himself, settled down next to the Elf.  Legolas relaxed when 
the Man returned to his side and made room for the Man to cuddle against 
him.  Legolas doubted he’d ever be able to find restful sleep alone again.  
The Elf lifted his head, compliantly, when the Man brought his arm around 
the shoulders of the Archer.  Legolas settled his head on his favorite spot on 
the Man’s chest, and draped an arm around the Man’s middle, careful of the 
stomach wound.  

Legolas closed his eyes happily when the Man’s hand curled around him, 
burying itself into his long hair.
“Tomorrow, Mellon, we make for Rohan,” said the Man, softly.  Legolas 
nodded, sleepily.  He didn’t want to think about Rohan.  He’d be happy to 
leave this place, because of what still lay out in the woods.  But he was not 
afraid.  He was in Aragorn’s arms and that is all he needed.  He closed his 
eyes, pleasantly…and began to dream.


That was when the nightmare began…. 




He was drowning in the river, the storm crashed around him and he kept 
going under as the tide pulled at him.  He clutched onto the hard body next 
to him, feeling familiar arms go around him, and he shook water from his 
eyes…trying to see, but the rain pelted him, blinding him…..turning to the 
man who held him…his mouth was taken in a kiss, one of profound 
passion…but something was wrong.  He opened his eyes and Swiney stared 
back at him …his toothless grin flashing in the lightening of the storm.  
Legolas backed away from him frantically, trying to scream but no noise 
would escape his frozen lips.

“What’s the matter, Pretty?” said the Swine man, extending his bleeding 
stumped hand towards the Elf.

Legolas screamed…..


The Elf thrashed against the hard body next to him and strong arms subdued 
his movements.  “Legolas!”  He shuddered violently in the embrace and 
screamed again.  It was the scream that finally woke him.  Never had he 
heard such a sound come from his own mouth.

The Ranger was holding him by the shoulders and looked as frightened as 
Legolas felt.  He had been dreaming and apparently had woken the Man up 
with his trashing about.

“Legolas, its alright, Mellon.  It’s just a