Title: Strange turns. 
Author: Maybe (miztruzt@yahoo.com) 
Rating: R – I think! 
Pairing: Legolas and Aragorn. 
Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine, just the 
weird bits Tolkien didn’t put in! If I get any facts 
wrong I apologize to whoever is going to take it 
personally. No money made, just playing. 
Summary: Beginning of the relationship, brought about 
by a peculiar twist of fate. 
Notes: Set approximately in the first two and a half 
weeks of the journey ‘cause I wanted to use the whole 
company. Assume that Legolas and Aragorn know each 
other a little based on the time spent in Rivendell 
and Aragorn’s alliance with Arwen. (Feedback would be 
appreciated.) 
 
“No, Gandalf!” Aragorn shouted, his voice cracking 
like a whip in the shocked air. “I will not leave him!” 
Gandalf met the panic stricken eyes of the Ranger and 
saw beneath the fear, the resolution. He nodded 
curtly. 
“Very well, but we cannot linger. We must move on…” 
“Aye, aye and quickly too,” Gimli broke in, casting a 
troubled glance over his shoulder as though expecting 
the hells to open behind him. His gaze fell to his 
dropped axe and grew still more concerned. He half 
reached out to pick up the bloodied weapon but did not 
do so. “Cursed be the weapon that takes blood from a 
friend,” he said uneasily, reluctant to touch it. “But 
I have no other.” 
“’Twas an accident,” Legolas hissed from between 
clenched teeth. His face was blanched; sweat staining 
his brow, his skin damp with it, and cool, far cooler 
than healthy for even an Elf.  
“So, perhaps the curse will not fall upon your head.” 
Aragorn had intended the words as a comfort to the 
Dwarf, but somewhere on the way to his mouth the tone 
changed itself and came out riddled with barbs. Gimli 
hung his head, shuffling away a few paces. 
 
Aragorn opened his mouth to apologize but a whimper 
from Legolas diverted his attention. The Elf 
shuddered, his eyelids fluttering like a butterfly 
beating weakly against the sides of a room, unable to 
escape from a grey, stony prison.  
“Do not lose consciousness, I beg of you.” Gandalf 
dropped to his knees on the muddied, leaf-strewn floor 
of the forest.  
“Trying not to…” the Elf began, but cut off half way 
through with a pained gasp, forming instead the words; 
“It hurts!” 
 
“Hush, hush,” Aragorn pleaded, slipping an arm around 
Legolas’ shoulders, using a free hand to stroke the 
long golden hair back from the agonized brown eyes. 
Gandalf looked at him sharply, wondering for the first 
time what had been happening under his nose between 
the Elf and the Ranger. A moment later he was left 
wondering no longer, there was no further need, for 
Aragorn’s lips were pressed against Legolas’ mouth. 
The Elf’s eyes widened a little, surprised perhaps, 
but certainly not upset about it. 
 
Sam, his own eyes extended almost on stalks, opened 
his mouth in a soundless exclamation. Legolas winced 
again and Sam seconded the gesture out of sympathy. 
“Don’t you go dying on us, Master Legolas, don’t you 
die,” he stammered. 
“Dwarven silver,” Legolas managed to explain. “It 
burns deep…on a Elf, like me…” He gasped for breath 
and fell silent again, gritting his teeth. Pippin now 
too approached, cautiously, for Gandalf had already 
bellowed at everyone for overcrowding the wounded Elf. 
“But…but it’s such a little wound,” he protested. “And 
aren’t you immortal?” 
“Immortal yes, but hardly invulnerable,” Gandalf said 
impatiently. “Hush a while, let me think.” 
“It’s hardly a little wound,” Merry told Pippin in an 
undertone, also rising from the clump of rocks to 
which they had retreated.  
“It would have cut one of us in half,” Frodo added, 
his eyes fixed on Legolas again, fingering the ring 
through his breast pocket like a talisman, albeit one 
that had brought such evil upon them, not one that 
would prevent it. 
 
Legolas groaned again, beginning to shiver violently. 
Aragorn pulled him closer to his chest, ignoring the 
blood seeping into his shirt. Legolas closed his eyes, 
trying to shut out the pain. Distantly he was aware of 
Sam repeating ‘Don’t you die,’ like a mantra and warm 
tears, like heavy summer showers falling onto his 
hair.  
 
He leapt from a bent position, having ducked to avoid 
the charge of the ringwraith as it tried to access 
Frodo behind him, landing, for all his Elvin agility, 
awkwardly on the vast rocks at the edge of the moor. 
Below, Gimli’s axe flashed this way and that, sending 
spurts of a thick, slimy substance up into the air to 
splatter on the rock side, or the unfortunate Sam’s 
hair, as he was crouched beneath the overhang. Beside 
him, whose presence had not added to the ease of the 
jump, Aragorn wielded his sword.  
 
He fitted an arrow, shooting at one of the riders that 
swooped upon the unwary Merry, retreating with haste 
from the stamping, blood-encrusted hooves of another 
black stallion. A rider lunged at him, his mount 
rearing as Frodo ducked behind the rock he and Aragorn 
were defending from atop it, the flashing hooves 
driving him back a pace to balance precariously upon a 
fallen tree, half propped against the rock, half still 
embedded in the earth. By some miracle the persistent 
rider managed to avoid both Aragorn and Gimli’s blades 
and threw itself after him.  
 
But the tree was did not appreciate being trampled on. 
While Legolas’ slight weight went almost unnoticed, 
the black horse colliding with the trunk shattered the 
rotted wood. Half jumping to avoid falling, Legolas 
had no time to register Gimli step back, virtually 
beneath the falling trunk, until the axe bit into his 
shoulder. Pain like icy fire exploded through his 
body, his whole world contracting inwards onto the 
brilliant point of pain. He thought in a flash of 
agonized horror ‘Dwarven silver!’ before the darkness 
stole him. 
 
Legolas opened his eyes; not wanting to relive the 
accident a second longer and thinking dimly of trying 
to soothe Aragorn, but a cry fell from his lips 
instead. It was one thing to merge the worlds of Elves 
and Men by intention, to rest and watch in the same 
heartbeat, but another entirely to be beyond the 
controlling of it, to know not what was current 
reality and what some other where. He covered his eyes 
with his hand, shaking. Hands gripped his shoulders 
and he moaned at the pain it induced. 
“Hush, hush,” the voice was familiar, but he could not 
place it.  
“What-? Who-?” he began anxiously. He tried to inhale 
calmly but it hurt too much and shallows breaths drew 
insufficient air to his lungs. 
“Steady, steady, Legolas,” Aragorn murmured in Elvish. 
“Legolas!” he added louder as the Elf’s eyes rolled 
back into his head, his hand sliding limply into his 
lap. “Legolas!” Aragorn pulled him into a sitting 
position again, bracing his own body to support the 
Elf, kissing the silvery blond hair repeatedly. 
 
Gandalf stood talking rapidly to Sam, Merry and 
Pippen. The later were nodding repeatedly, inane 
intensity on both their faces. Sam was frowning; he 
cast a scared look in Legolas’ direction and then back 
at Gandalf with even more attention. Finally he too 
nodded and hurried off with the other hobbits, Frodo 
excluded, in tow. Frodo made some move to follow but 
was immediately restrained by Gandalf and Boromir. It 
was hardly wise to allow the ring bearer beyond the 
reach of at least three sets of weapons, preferably 
more. 
 
“Legolas?” Aragorn whispered, continuing to speak in 
Elvin tongue. “Do you hear me?” The Elf started to nod 
and then stopped quickly. 
“I hear you, I just dare not open my eyes, the world 
turns strangely.” 
“Then do not,” Aragorn’s hand caressed his brow. “But 
don’t faint again either.”  
Legolas made the mistake of trying to nod again and 
regretted it a second time.  
“I won’t,” he whispered instead, also switching to his 
native tongue. “Aragorn? I…I love you.” 
“Don’t,” the Ranger shushed him fiercely. “I’ll kill 
you myself if you talk like you are going to die.” He 
almost shook Legolas. “Damn you, could you not have 
told me that before?” 
“Sorry,” Legolas murmured dazedly.  
“Careful!” Gandalf barked as Aragorn gripped Legolas’ 
shoulders hard. “You’ll hurt him the worse by doing 
that!” He was busy shredding something into a bowl 
held by Frodo, while Boromir fetched water from the 
river. At another time, seeing Gimli dangling by his 
boots, cursing profoundly as he fished desperately for 
the trickle of water at the bottom of the deep ditch; 
held up by Boromir; would have been an amusing 
spectacle, particularly as his beard was getting wet.  
“I love you too,” Aragorn cradled Legolas closer. 
 
It was ironic, the Elf thought, in all honesty, that 
now was the moment that they had finally acknowledged 
that their friendship had become something more. Both 
had been afraid to admit it, break the surface of the 
tranquil waters, and cause the inevitable frictious 
ripples. Now was likely to be too late. 
 
The thought also occurred to him that Aragorn actually 
already had a lover, Arwen, no less. As Elves tended 
to choose partners for life or at least be intensely 
loyal to those whom they partnered, forever being 
rather too long for most relationships to endure, he 
was very aware that he had just caused irreparable 
damage to an ancient tradition. His last conscious 
thought was that, finally he had chosen a partner 
himself, but it was rather unfortunate that Aragorn 
was human and also another man… 
 
* * *  
* *  
* * 
 
Admittedly he was rather surprised to wake at all, but 
the world stood steady around him and the dull ache in 
his shoulder reminded him that he was actually still 
alive and not in the spirit world. Although Merry and 
Pippin trying to roast apples over the small fire lit 
between the heavy trees, and burning their fingers at 
regular intervals was as big an indication as any. 
“Legolas?” Aragorn shifted beside him, he had been 
staring off into the night, watchful and wary as 
always, but still held the Elf’s hand in a warm clasp. 
From the fact that he could no longer feel his fingers 
it was probable that Aragorn had been sitting there 
for some time. 
 
“So,” Gandalf remarked, appearing from behind the tree 
trunk. “You are awake at last.” 
“How long have I been sleeping?” Legolas swiped at his 
eyes, which were unused to being closed for so long a 
time. “Are we much delayed?” 
“Nearly twenty four hours,” Gandalf replied, kindly 
not mentioning the twenty-four before that. “I must 
confess I would have left you by now, with a guard, to 
catch us up, had not your friends been so insistent. 
And, if nothing else, this is a welcome rest for all 
of us, for we have covered a good distance in a short 
time, though not enough I fear. And now, are you 
feeling any better?” 
“A great deal,” Legolas replied, trying to sit up and 
discovering that he could, albeit with assistance.  
Gandalf laid a hand on the Elf’s cool brow 
thoughtfully and then withdrew it, apparently content. 
“Rest a little longer,” he advised. “Come dawn we must 
move on again, but it would be unwise to travel 
through the night.”  
 
“Gimli will be much relieved,” Aragorn remarked as 
Gandalf moved away; to attend to Pippin, who had lost 
his apple in the fire and was trying to retrieve it 
with a branch that kept catching aflame also, 
scattering sparks amongst the trees.  
“You will set the whole wood alight, Pippin,” they 
heard Gandalf call ahead.  
They watched in silence for a few moments, as the 
others in the Fellowship began to make tracks for bed. 
“Gimli is not alone in that sentiment,” Legolas 
admitted, after the fire had been doused and the 
blankets spread out beside the steaming embers, Pippin 
sat up for a time, sucking singed fingers and sulking 
about the loss of his apple, which had, by the time he 
did find it, turned to a blackened husk of charcoal. 
“Indeed he is not,” Aragorn touched Legolas’ cheek. 
“Now tell me honestly, and in confidence, are you well 
enough to travel by break of day?” 
Legolas graced the question with due consideration. 
“Yes, I think so,” he replied finally. “The wound 
aches, but is naught more than an irritation.” 
Aragorn traced the line of the Elf’s jaw and Legolas 
moved into the contact, rubbing his face against the 
curled fingers like a cat. 
“That is good news indeed. I was concerned that you, 
in your desire not to detain us, would have answered 
untruthfully.” 
“I would not lie, but you are right to ask, you know 
my impatience too well.” 
 
Aragorn smiled. He glanced down at the leaves and 
cleared his throat, darting Legolas a sideways look.  
“There is but one matter in which I would that you 
were a little more impatient.” 
Legolas watched him intently, suspecting he knew what 
the Ranger was referring to but as he wasn’t even sure 
which reality he had been in when he had said those 
few words in Elvish, he wasn’t swift to respond. 
“Truly, caution can check my haste on occasions,” he 
replied carefully.  
“Caution is all very well, you fool,” Aragorn twisted 
around, placing a hand either side of Legolas’ body, 
pinning him to the dirt. “But throw it to the wind on 
in this affair. Did you mean it, what you spoke of 
when you first fell to Gimli’s blade?” 
“If you believe nothing else I ever speak, believe 
that those words were true,” Legolas answered, feeling 
a frission of nervous excitement trip down the length 
of his body, but pleasant, unlike the muscle clenching 
(although that did happen), heart stopping terror that 
had already on many instances seized him since the 
quest began. 
Aragorn lowered his body over Legolas’, so that his 
next words stirred against the Elf’s lips. 
“Good.” 
 
Legolas surrendered to the deep kiss bestowed upon his 
willing mouth. He slid his arms around Aragorn, 
gasping a little, out of both pleasure and pain as the 
injured shoulder throbbed when Aragorn’s body 
straddled his.  
“I… I should probably warn you…” he managed to get out 
between kisses. 
“Wha-?” Aragorn murmured against his neck, his hands 
slid inside Legolas’ tunic and the Elf started. 
“Are you alright?” Aragorn pulled back enough to study 
Legolas’ face, slightly puzzled. 
“Your hands are cold,” Legolas smiled; catching the 
offending hand and kissing it. 
“Wait though,” he said reluctantly as Aragorn stroked 
his stomach again with chilly fingers. “I should….” 
“Yes?” Aragorn asked gently. 
Legolas watched his face, uncertain. 
“While we are not strangers to such matters as these, 
Elves live such a long time that, well...” he shrugged 
a little, blushing. Legolas had never found himself 
embarrassed by his customs before now, but in that 
moment he felt like a child beside the younger man. 
“Everything has its own time and with eternity before 
us, few rush into such things,” he grimaced “Though 
granted it is not true of all.” 
“I know of that,” Aragorn replied, gently kissing his 
brow. He smiled almost pensively. “In many ways you 
Elves lead sheltered lives. I know that most only 
become couples for long durations or at very least, 
with a vast placing of faith in each other’s loyalty. 
I didn’t know what to expect from you, some in 
Rivendell suggested perhaps that you would fall into 
that latter category you mentioned and yet you 
surprise me, your hesitation does you credit. I would 
cast not one stone if you had not of course, but if 
you are concerned, I want to assure you that is not 
why I want to do this.” 
Legolas sighed aloud with relief, but still he 
hesitated, wondering how much he could readily tell at 
this stage, how much he could bear to bring up… And 
how much longer he could talk because it was 
interfering with kissing. His previous track records 
would indicate not very. He watched Aragorn with 
questioning eyes, wondering how much the human was 
prepared to deal with. Finally he settled on a snippet 
of the whole truth.  
“Aragorn, I am not, as many of my kind in Rivendell 
may have found it amusing to lead you to believe, some 
sort of Elvin whore.” He paused again and then altered 
the truth to make the situation less complicated. “I 
am not entirely sure about how to proceed with you.” 
“There is time enough ‘til morning to change that,” 
Aragorn replied. “If you yourself are certain?” 
Legolas nodded, reaching for Aragorn again, pulling 
him down into another kiss. 
 
Sam rolled over sleepily, woken by the sound of 
voices, yet the darkness of the wood and the silvery 
orb hanging overhead, just visible between the 
branches of a two vast trees proclaimed it to be still 
night. Frodo was lying on his stomach beside him, one 
arm curled beneath his head, the other hand laid atop 
the ring in his breast pocket. The loud snores from 
two feet away told him that Gimli also slept. Merry 
and Pippin were curled around each other in a tangle 
of blankets to keep warm. Twisting around he saw 
Gandalf propped up against a tree; he was motionless, 
as though sleeping, but Sam could not be sure. That 
left strangers or… 
 
“Ow!” Legolas sucked in a breath. 
“Shh! Are you alright?” Aragorn was stroking the Elf’s 
back soothingly. “It’s not always easy, first time.” 
“I noticed that,” the Elf gasped biting his lower lip 
and bowing his head adding silently, which I had 
forgotten. Curse it all, I think perhaps next time, I 
will not be so submissive.  
Aragorn shifted slightly, one hand reaching for 
something and Legolas gasped again, his breathing 
quickening. 
First time for what? Sam wondered. Why were they 
sitting like that…? 
He was about to call out to them and then, by the 
silvery spotlight of the moon, Sam saw Aragorn kiss 
Legolas’ lips; and felt his cheeks run hot with shame. 
 
“Do you trust me?” the Ranger asked softly. 
“I…” Legolas caught his breath in a third gasp, this 
one less pained and the sentence never finished. 
 
Sam put his head back down, clamping his hands firmly 
over his ears…Then he put his blankets over his 
head…And then his bag atop that. 
 
Gimli snorted explosively, snuffling as he changed 
position. Legolas giggled at the sound. Aragorn 
muttered something and the Elf giggled again…Sam was 
out of things to stop his ears with. 
 
Dawn couldn’t have come too soon in Sam’s eyes. 
Legolas rose, as was his usual custom, with the sun. 
Previously the Elf’s lack of sleeping at all hadn’t 
troubled Sam as Legolas tended to be considerate of 
the others, wandering silently, neither asleep nor 
truly awake. But that had been previously. Sam packed 
his bedding in silence, wondering if it would be of 
any use during the remainder of the trip. He crossed 
his fingers. 
 
Gandalf was talking to Legolas.  
“It is good to see you on your feet again,” was his 
parting comment as he left the Elf staring out across 
the wide expanse of moorland that was to be trekked 
that day. 
“I’m surprised you can stand,” Aragorn remarked, 
joining Legolas with a smile to gaze out at the mossy 
green of the short grass, pepper speckled with craggy 
boulder and stumpy bushes before them. “You really are 
insatiable.” 
“And suffering for it!” Legolas laughed, springing 
lightly away to the river as if to counter his words. 
 
“You look tired,” Frodo observed, coming to sit beside 
Sam stifling a yawn himself.  
“I am,” Sam glowered at Legolas, who was lying back on 
the riverbank, rinsing his hair in the stream. The 
silvery blond strands floating like a mermaid’s mane 
on the surface of the water. He tried not to think 
about exactly how long he had spent trying not to 
listen to giggles (mostly Legolas), gasps; a cry when 
Legolas had jarred his shoulder, followed hastily by 
‘No, no its fine,’ accompanied by another giggle and, 
worse yet, the moans that had nothing to do with pain 
at all. He hardly knew where to look when Aragorn 
strode over and flung himself down onto the grass 
beside them. Legolas followed more slowly, and sat 
more cautiously. 
 
Merry busied himself serving cooked strips of meat 
that Pippin was dissecting; having been told sternly 
by Gandalf that if he didn’t stop playing about with 
the fire he turn him into a toad. It wasn’t strictly 
possible, but it made for a wonderful threat.  
 
Aragorn busied himself combing the tangles out of 
Legolas’ wet hair with his fingers. 
 
Gimli and Boromir came to sit too, taking chunks of 
bread, looking, Sam noticed with irritation, quite 
rested. Boromir cast Legolas and Aragorn a look that 
could have grilled the meat to cinders before the fire 
ever touched it. Aragorn remained oblivious but it was 
evident that Legolas had seen, for the Elf’s eyes 
narrowed fractionally, clearly he was puzzled. Boromir 
got up and walked away again. Gimli followed his scowl 
and his eyes lighted on Legolas. He did a double take, 
opened his mouth to speak and promptly choked on a 
hunk of bread. Spitting pieces in all directions, one 
landing in the fire - much to Merry’s revulsion - he 
managed to speak. 
“Elf! You are recovered. That is a fine thing indeed,” 
then, almost as if he had shown too much enthusiasm, 
he all but retracted the comment. “Humph, never 
thought I’d see the day when the survival of an Elf 
was a good thing.” 
“Your concern is touching, Gimli.” Legolas thanked him 
anyway. 
“Well, ahem, can’t be killing fellow members of the, 
ah, Fellowship,” the dwarf muttered into his beard. 
“Where is your axe?” Legolas’ gaze dropped to Gimli’s 
belt. “And, come to that, my bow and quivers?” He 
tried to twist around for a look and then concealed a 
wince as other parts of his body protested that they 
had done quite enough already. 
“Gandalf has your weapons,” Gimli assured him. “And my 
axe is with my things.” 
“You should carry it,” Legolas told him. “I would feel 
better myself if I knew that you were not 
defenseless.” 
“There now, I believe I said as much myself,” Gandalf 
chided Gimli, lifting his head from examining 
something in his pack. 
 
“Are we pushing on today?” Boromir called over from 
where he had been throwing stones into the river. “A 
couple of days is a long time to be detained.” 
“A couple?” Legolas echoed, horrified. “This I was not 
told.” 
Gandalf sighed, shooting an annoyed look in Boromir’s 
direction. 
“Concern yourself not, my good Legolas. Pippin himself 
has also been ill. For all their endearing ways,” 
Gandalf glanced fondly at Frodo and Sam, “Hobbits are 
not known for common sense regarding food.” 
“Well, it looked edible!” Pippin defended himself. 
“My foolish Took, many things look edible, but if you 
were to put them in your mouth, I feel sure that at 
least half of them would not be. If you were to bite 
off your own…finger, for example,” Gandalf added, 
waving a hand at the returning Merry who was closing 
the fastening of his trousers having relieved himself 
in the wood. “It would not taste pleasant. Why? 
Because such things as ‘fingers’ are not necessarily 
intended for ones mouth, whether or not it is possible 
to put them there.”  
 
Did he or did he not specifically glance at Legolas 
and Aragorn? Certainly the Elf’s sightline dropped to 
the floor, though his expression did not change, and 
Aragorn stared at Gandalf, his lips parting slightly. 
Sam glanced at the others quickly to see if they had 
noticed any of this. Merry was examining his fingers 
and then, with some consternation, the front of his 
trousers, Frodo burst out laughing but possibly only 
at Merry…then again, of course, if anyone would have 
noticed it would have been Frodo – could he himself be 
wrong? Sam wondered. Pippin had retreated into high 
dudgeon, as far as an over enthusiastic and talkative 
hobbit can. Gimli simply returned Sam’s curious look 
blankly. Sam sighed. He had hoped that the wretched 
ring excursion couldn’t get worse but now he was 
confused atop everything else.  
 
 
 
 
 
=====