Title: Methedras Author: Cherubic Draconis Author's Email: cherubic_draconis@hotmail.com Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas (some canon, so reference to a/ar) Rating: A really weak 'R.' Just to be safe. Summary: Elessar stands before the free middle-earth and realises he is trapped. Disclaimer: JRR Tolkein's, possibly verging on Peter Jackson's. Definitely not mine. Author's Note: Suspended somewhere odd between film-verse and Book-verse. I would really appreciate feedback, as this was primarily one of a series of experiments in style, and I'd like to know if you think I pulled it off alright? thanks a lot. xxx ............................... I Middle-Earth cheered as the beautifully crafted, so-long-unused, Mithril Crown was placed soundly upon Aragorn's head. The dusty symbol of his Lands. His People. His destiny. His hope, gone to nothing, ground into the dust. His peace, gone unoticed - for who would choose Mud over Mithril? Who would choose Hunt over Healing? Who would choose what this strange new King would have have chosen, if this strange new King was free to choose? The War of the Ring was over. Aragorn's mind and heart rested a moment, reliving, repeating this fact: The War was over. (It's done. It's donedonedone. dead.) And He was still standing. Standing still. Standing before a vast loyal sea of all those that he had fought for. Loving them. Maybe. Standing before the Lord of Rohan, still veiled in his Uncle's death, basking in his new golden chance. The Shield Maiden of the Eorlingas, hands clasped tightly, securely, in those of Elessar's own too-long-berated steward. And Aragorn decided that if he did nothing else, he would prove Faramir of Gondor's quality. A love found with Eowen, family with Eomer, duty and worth with the King, Aragorn would make the Gondorian feel all this. He would make the man happy, for how better to honour the memory of Faramir's maddened father, maddened brother, than by making Faramir worthy of all they couldn't quite be? The war was /over/. The chapter felt ended. The driving force of his existence these last endless horrific months, gone, dust, ground, /forgotten/... (The desperate mating on hard, itchy forest floors. The whispered pronouncements of eternal, impossible emotion. The tear-filled silence of a love who knew he would not have the forever that he desired, that it was a king he desired, no mere ranger... And the oblivious hope that had surely earned Aragorn his Elvish name.) ......... II A gesture from Gandalf - the self-appointed host - pulled Aragorn sharply back to the present. He stalked along the platform, sharing smiles with his people - /his people/, sweet Eru! - until he met with the Nobility. Faramir, Eowyn, Eomer king - sweet familial bliss, and beautiful peace visible in every breath of their being. grief of an Uncle lost to hate, a father lost in madness, forgotten for a while, to bask in Aragorn's blessing, and joy. At least, He thought jealously, Someone's happy for all this! The Dwarves, then. Dear Gimli - his grunting, strangely hulking presence, that had not failed to win over the most stubborn of all elves. Gimli Son Of Gloin, with the tiny host of Dwarves he had likely all but threatened into attending this coronation. Gimli, Elf-friend, who denied the title, but secretly reveled in it. Who had stayed up so many a night just so he could berate his companions for making "so awful a racket as to wake the very trees." (And Gimli, who blushed as red as the ranger when his grumbling was met with Elven humour. An impish smile too youthful, playful for so dignified a race: "Well, it's encouraging to know the Earth moved for us.") His face was red now. tears of joy: "Knew ye could do it, lad... make a fine King, milord..." on his face, a cover surely for the neatest braids his beard had ever held. Placed there, likely, by an Elf-Prince who never quite acted as his station demanded. Brief words exchanged: brothers-in-arms, yes, vows of loyalty, duty, trust and friendship always. fellowship, even, Aragorn thinks with only a little irony. Phrases, pet names, coined by that same elven friend: "Keep in touch, Stupid Dwarf?" "You bet, Filthy Human." Aragorn moved on to the Elves. No Longer his kin. Past the hosts of Imladris, the Galadhrim, a scattering of Silvan; kin of Legolas, mayhap? - Until he stands, face to face, with family. Erestor and Glorfindel, Elladan and Elrohir, his minders and tormentors in his childhood years. Aragorn greeted them, and moved on. Galadriel and Celeborn. Kin to Thingol himself. Lady of the Golden wood, and Lord of her heart. They looked... satisfied, content. Slightly bored. Legolas would have said smug. In fact, he may have, for Aragorn saw his lips move and never heard a word over the blood pounding in his ears. That mouth. He wanted so desperately to bruise those lips with his own. Make them look swollen and wanton in the summer sunlight. "So you made it to your coronation, mellon?" "I managed. You look..." "Hush." And he did. (and it hurts you just to look at him, so sharply you'll never dare to look away again) Fresh and glowing. Graceful and Elven, and as royal as Aragorn had never seen him. Before the king stood not his Warrior-Prince, (as many sharp objects as he could carry while sporting the most low-maintanence hair-style known to Elvendom...) but the spotless prize that was Legolas Thranduillion, son of the King of Northern Mirkwood. And Aragorn hated him for it. "I just wish..." Aragorn's bitter plea was heard by none - Unless that glint in Galadriel's eye was more piteous than smug. Legolas' eyes were solid steel as surely as his heart shattered under the king's longing. "Hir nin Elessar, I knew this day would come for you." The formal voice of this humourless Prince inside his Lover's skin dropped drastically to a husky murmer, though his sharp smile stayed fixed in place. "We both did. So do not wish, but live your life as though you love it. You are mine no longer, Estel. You belong only to your people. I know what it is to be a nation's servant, and you need more than..." Whatever he had wanted to say never came. The plea in the (blueist) eyes (Aragorn had ever seen) was there, but undecipherable. So why? Why not? What was he trying to /say??/ "...I can't..." He had finished (broken off) with a sharp (high) breath (hiccough) and Aragorn took this unguarded moment to pull (drag. never never letting go) the golden elf into a (tootoo) brief hug. Memorising him. The feel- (tense, wired silk and velvet skin, tickly hair escaping his fretted, fussed braid, spilling, like waves); the smell- (leaves, earth, dirt, winter, spring, summer, but always, always autumn beauty. peace, home.) He smelt like home. They broke away too soon- the prince whimpered, almost. Legolas already guarded (shut off). Tight and brutal, (broken, grieving?) he seemed. Arrogant (hurt?) and disdainful (bitter?). Aragorn wondered if this was how he looked when debating with his undiplomatic father. Legolas stepped back to the edge of the crowd, and smiled tightly. (You try not to notice the shine, the wetness in his eyes. it's pride. He's happy.) Forgiving. (You don't damn well understand.) And then you see. (Oh) Elrond's Coronation Gift. (No) The most beautiful of all the Elves. (Her) Arwen Evenstar. (Her) And it clicks. (Oh) (No) ................. III (Aragorn is screaming. He is shaking Legolas so hard his beautifulhorribleterrible crown falls from his head. Aragorn is shaking Legolas so hard that they have to cling to each other to stop them both tumbling to the dusty floor. ) ("New robes, Aragorn." the Elf laughs. It's the first time the king has heard it unforced since Fangorn. "The first time in months you look almost publically presentable, and the first thing you do is throw me to the floor? I'm flattered") (And now he's kissing him. All teeth and tongue and human passion, and Legolas is matching it with youth and age and forever and a brutal honesty that never ceases to steal the Ranger's breath.) (And they cling andtheyclingtoeachother to each other oneanother andtheynever let go nevergo they cling.) Aragorn does none of these things. He would never be forgiven if he did. ............... IV He realises he is still staring mutely at the Evenstar, who is so fucking oblivious that she actually thinks he's muttering a prayer of thanks, not the hopelessly genuine "nononononononononononono" that actually tumbles unheard from his lips. And he chances a glance and Legolas. Yes, there are tears sitting resolutely in his eyes. (Elven Princes do not burst into tears in public arenas, Aragorn) They will not fall. Aragorn knows that absolutely everyone is waiting for him to greet the Elven nobility. Elrond has a smug look in his eyes that makes Aragorn, for the first time in his eighty years, want to smack the Elf-Lord's rightfully-arrogant face in. Aragorn has already decided. He decided when he agreed to fight for the World of Men. When he admitted his true name to the Council back in Rivendell. Perhaps he had already decided back when he was Thorongil. He has to accept that everyone else has decided for him. Elrond, who offers his daughter; Arwen Undomiel, who wants to be a Queen like her Grandmother is and Ancestor was. Wants to be a legend. Legolas; who he never thought he would ever fall for, actually wants him to be happy. Wants peace. (In Aragorn's soul, he is still screaming, and does so for many years. He will dream of his prince, who has always stayed close enough to be physically near him, but always slightly too far out of reach to risk becoming a King's whore. He will grunt and release his satisfactionn inside soft curves, hot wet heat and dark beauty, thinking only of lean angles, tight hot friction, and deadly gold.) Aragorn looks away from his heart, and towards his duty, and kisses her lips, bruises her lips, ravashes her soul. This brand new King pours all the feeling, all the /everything/, he has for the archer-prince into the kiss. He purges himself, he tries to rid himself of all of it, as he finally understands what Legolas could not bring himself to say. ............. V Namarie.