Title: Silvan Fervor 
Author: Gabriel (Gesva2000@yahoo.com) 
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas
Rating: NC-17, I suppose.  This is just romantic
slush, with a little blowjob on the side.
Summary:  Legolas and Aragorn rekindle an old romance
in Imladris shortly prior to the Council of Elrond.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any characters that appear in
this fiction, so there.    
Authors Notes:  My first slash, this is probably a bit
on the choppy side, at least in the transitions. 
History has altered slightly, as you will see, to
account for Aragorn and Legolas’ first meeting.  Oh
yeah, and please review this.  Flame me, critique my
work, praise is good too.  If you’re going to critique
me please try to make it along the lines of technique,
like character and plot development.    * Fic.
Inspired by the fan-art Estel (Aragorn is so cute
there!)*   

	The stars fires were still burning within the azure
firmament, the rosy fingers of dawn just beginning to
stretch across the horizon, as Legolas rode silently
into Rivendell.  He sighed inwardly as he looked down
upon it, his eyes shining as they caught the early
morning light.  For as much as he loved the leafy
boughs of Mirkwood, he knew of nothing, save the
forest of Lothlorien, that could compare with this,
the sacred valley of the Elven folk.  Every facet of
the place caught the magnificence of nature in its
thrall, from the bubbling brooks, to the many lodges
wrought of stone and living wood.  But he wondered
greatly why he had been summoned to this place, Elrond
had relinquished no clue, and to this question his
father would give no answer, save that it was a matter
of great importance.  The sounds of hooves against
stone echoed softly off the granite walls of the
valley as Legolas’ mount approached the gates of
Imladris.  His breath caught back in his throat as
Legolas raised his gaze to the man leaning against the
gates, as if to meet him.  A man still young looking,
but with an intelligence that betrayed his years, a
crop of jet-black hair fell nearly to his shoulders,
slightly curled.  Olive green eyes were silhouetted by
a golden, unblemished complexion, giving him the look
of a youth from the exotic east.  The remnants of a
rakish beard still lingered on his otherwise
clean-shaven face, further shedding an illusion of a
youth just entering his manhood.  His full, sensual
mouth was drawn into a taught O, his eyes flashing
playfully as he studied the visitor.  Legolas averted
his gaze; his ashen cheeks flush as he felt the
familiar tugging in his crotch.  Casually, the
gatekeeper unfolded his arms, walked over to him, and
placed a hand on the beast’s muzzle.  
“Welcome, Legolas, son of Thranduil, we have been
expecting your presence for some time.  The council
awaits.”  Legolas stifled back a chuckle with the back
of his hand as he stared into the man’s eyes with
interest.  Bending down lightly, he brought his face
to the mans, kissing him gently on the cheek, his lips
trembling.  “There is no need to play games, Aragorn,
son of Arathorn,” Legolas chided curtly, “I recognize
you easily enough.  In these twenty years you have
aged but a day.  The fabled blood of Numenor does
without question flow in your veins.”  Aragorn smiled
slyly, accepting the complement with a nod, and
returned in kind.  “And you as well, have remained
unchanged, of course, you are as beautiful as I
remember.”  This time it was Aragorn who gave a kiss,
grasping Legolas from behind the head, pressing his
lips to his, parting them as he slid his tongue into
the startled elves mouth.  Legolas pulled back
sharply, whipping his long blonde hair in a flourish. 
“Not here, Aragorn, let us at least wait until we are
inside.”  He scolded, his voice scowling, but his lips
curled into a grin.  Aragorn nodded subserviently,
grasping the mane of the horse as he led them into the
elvish settlement.
As they walked, the sun still having not risen over
the mountains, Legolas studied his guide with
interest.  The youthful gait with which he walked,
most like the elves than any man he had ever met, the
rich crop of beautiful hair, the athletic build.  The
loose robe he wore played off of every contour of his
body, giving him both an air of royalty, which he was,
and the sure poise of a hunter.  Even from the back he
was beautiful, looking to be in his early twenties
rather than late forties.  His heart raced suddenly as
he stared at him, resisting every erotic urge in his
being.  Legolas’ eyes clouded as he remembered the day
in which they had first met, some twenty years ago,
when Aragorn had truly been in his youth, though
looked very much the same.  He had gone past
Lothlorien, having begged his father that he at last
see the fabled forest of the Silvan race, and was
heading next down the river to Rauros and the Tindrock
Isle.  It was some days later, when he was nearing the
falls, that Legolas first set eyes on the beautiful
youth who would later become the heir of Gondor’s
throne.  He had been on a hunting trip, he had said,
searching for some fabled beast, and had tracked it
thus far.  They soon forgot about their previous
engagements, however, being far too engaged in
themselves.  
Legolas grinned, blushed a little as he recalled every
detail.  Lying on the eastern bank of the Great River,
lips locked together for hours.  Love, true love, was
a concept that had been previously alien to both of
them.  The elf still found it humorous that he had
fallen so in love with a mortal, a man.  Love was
truly blind, or else serendipity had a sense of humor.
 Legolas’ brilliant eyes narrowed as he looked down
again at Aragorn, his shoulders slouching in
weariness, he seemed suddenly older, not the spry
youth who had greeted him at the gates.  Legolas
brought a fair, slender finger to his face, rubbing
his clean-shaven chin for a moment.  He smiled
thoughtfully; he knew how to put the spring back into
his step.
His dazzling white stallion neighed impatiently as
they reached the stables.  The trek had been a long
one, and the way had been difficult.  Even the noble
beasts of the elves had only a certain measure of
endurance, and it was ready for sleep.  Nodding
empathetically, the elf led the horse towards the
inner stalls of the stables, a milk white hand resting
softly on its hindquarters.  “Rest for now, Arod, we
may of yet have more difficult days ahead of us.”  The
elf whispered soothingly into the ear of his mount,
very much believing his own words.  The horse gave
acknowledging nicker before easing itself to the stall
floor and rolling playfully in the hay.    
  Pumping his legs a bit, Legolas commenced to stretch
out the soreness in his joints, bringing a hand to his
crotch to scratch it absently.  Aragorn turned to him,
his face sullen for a moment, and then creased with a
smile as he studied the elves motions.  The hair on
the nape of his neck stood on end as Legolas realized
he was being watched, his face flush from
embarrassment as he brought his hands to his sides. 
Aragorn advanced him, pressing up against his slight
form, laying an arm over his shoulders.  The elf
fidgeted under his touch as their lips locked together
passionately, cocking his head to one side as the kiss
deepened.  They broke apart slowly, Aragorn taking him
by the hand as he led him through the expanse of
Rivendell, undoubtedly to the quarters in which they
would rest and await the council.  They came to it
shortly, a cozy looking nook wrought of alabaster, a
plume of friendly gray smoke etching towards the sky
as it stole through the tiny flue of the building.  
The interior was simple, homely without question, but
not lacking the characteristic Elven fineries.  A
silver washbasin stood in a corner, resting upon a
fine stone pillar inlaid with precious gems, countless
looking glasses stood along the outskirts of the room.
 In the center was a rounded bed, large enough to
accommodate several people, dressed with clean linen
and puffy white down.  The two of them grinned slyly;
they had no intentions of resting.          
Legolas grinned furtively, pressing his body close to
Aragorn’s, groaning softly as he drove his pelvis into
the man’s crotch.  Aragorn shuddered, feeling the
familiar throbbing of his erection, tousling the lank
hair of his lover playfully.  The elf took the hint,
grasping Aragorn by the back of his head, pressing
their lips together passionately as his free arm slid
into the man’s pants.  Aragorn drew in air in rasped
breaths as his heartbeat quickened, his sex stiffening
further, a soft moan escaping his parted lips, as the
fires of his loins grew steadily hotter.  Wrenching
away from the prince’s grip, Aragorn gave himself
wholly to his passion, ripping Legolas’ silken shirt
from his shoulders to reveal the milky white torso. 
The man ground his crotch into the other’s abdomen,
simultaneously caressing the washboard ridges of the
elf’s stomach.  The pleasure of the embrace ran
through both of them in torrents, feathering across
their intertwined bodies like water.  Legolas made no
effort to slow his descent as his lover leaned against
him heavily, pulling the both of them onto the soft
bedding.  Legolas chuckled drunkenly as the path of
Aragorn’s lips weaved down the nape of his neck, to
his chest, and beyond.  The fair son of man smiled
down upon his lover as he went further and further
down the contours of his body; it was time to finish
their games.  Wordlessly, the two striped away the
last of their garments.  
The large rounded bed had become a great mass of
writhing naked flesh, heat, and passion.  A warm
October breeze entered the enclosed room by virtue of
an open window, the late afternoon sun fell down upon
the pallid sheets heavily, heating the two further. 
Legolas was writhing, the small of his back arched
completely into the hardwood headboard of the bed;
fatigue and pleasure intermingled, their union
producing something that transcended all other words
save pure ecstasy.  Aragorn’s head lay between the
elf’s parted thighs, bent low towards his manhood
(err… elfhood?).  Legolas let out a small cry as the
man wrapped his mouth around the hot shaft, kissing,
sucking, and sliding the piece deep into his throat. 
Aragorn grinned as best he could with the thick penis
between his lips, groaning with pleasure as Legolas
began to instinctively thrust.  Slender, ashen hands
grasped the slick ornate bedposts as the tremors ran
through Legolas’ body, his pelvis thrusting in rhythm
to his companion’s actions.  His muscles were taught,
aching from the constant clenching and unclenching,
his stomach burned in anticipation as his lover
cradled the throbbing erection in his mouth.  A final
gasp accompanied the release of his own seed, the
splash of liquid flame that erupted from his loins as
he came.  
Legolas’ normally fair complexion was now flushed
crimson from exertion.  Aragorn withdrew panting, a
bead of white pearl hanging dangerously from his lower
lip.  His tongue slid along the course of his lips,
smacking with a flourish as he swallowed the final
testament of their love.  He fell back with a
contented sigh, head propped against Legolas’ heaving
chest.  Aragorn took a moment to stare back into his
lover’s eyes, a weak smile splitting his trembling
face.  He at last closed his eyes, though remained
awake, as the wind lifted up the many draperies of the
room, lifted the sweat from their brows, both sighing
again as the fervor of the moment eased into complete
and total serenity.  Legolas chuckled as well, his
eyes still bright as he began to tease Aragorn’s
chestnut hair with a pale finger.  
The lengthy silence was at last broken as Legolas
fidgeted, positioning himself upright for a moment as
his fair face screwed with curiosity.  “Aragorn, love,
why are we here?”  He asked weakly as he slid back
down into Aragorn’s embrace.  The man quaked uneasily
as the serene look upon his face twisted into a
troubled grimace.  “That, my darling prince, I wished
to keep from you.  But I will not deny you what you
wish…” Aragorn trailed as sleep faded from him,
readying himself to tell the long tale.
Legolas listened attentively to Aragorn’s words, his
eyes holding a hurt and troubled look while he nodded.
 The mood shifted once again as he brought a trembling
hand to the man’s face.  “Dunadan, Elfstone, my son of
Gondor…” He trailed as he traced Aragorn’s chiseled
jaw line, “My love, I will follow you through this
quest, to any peril we may face.  I only wish to face
the dark with you.”  
Both felt the hot tears running down their faces,
tasted the sea’s salt on each other’s lips.  It was
many hours afterward before either moved from the
spot.