Title: Snowed In Author: Alix Email: cakelet@bust.com Pairings: Legolas/Haldir, Legolas/Aragorn implied Rating: NC-17 Summary: Every winter, waylaid travelers descend on Mirkwood. This year’s prove a bit more interesting than usual. Disclaimer: Not mine. Not at all. A/N: For the LOTR FPS Secret Santa! Snowed In Snow, thought Legolas, made Mirkwood decidedly murkier. The blueish winter light cast odd shadows this time of day, especially here at the edge of the forest. It was barely four hours after midday and already the shadows were lengthening and a winter’s night gathering in. Were spiders about this time of year? Legolas pulled his woolen cloak a little tighter around him and shuddered at the thought. He didn’t intend to find out. The prince slung a brace of rabbits over his shoulder and turned back down a dimly lit path toward Thranduil’s halls. Legolas did not like winter. Far too much time spent indoors, pacing the halls and entertaining the few wayward guests blown in with every storm. Elbereth knows why anyone would travel this time of year, he thought. Last winter saw a troop of dwarves who’d taken up residence for nigh on three months. It had been almost too painful to bear, and Legolas thought he’d weep for joy at the first thaw. The guest quarters were blessedly empty, but it was only the beginning of the season. There was still, he thought dryly, plenty of time. The timing was so dead-on that Legolas had to laugh. The previous thought had barely left his mind when he saw the first of a series of dark and slushy footprints marring the pristine snow, moving from a side path onto his trail in the direction of the halls. Men, he thought. Honestly. What would it be this time? Lost hunters? Traders from Laketown hawking something or other? A little late in the year for that; the lake would be nearly frozen over by now and the tradesmen home since autumn. Well, he’d find out soon enough. Sighing, Legolas shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and picked up his pace, footsteps barely stirring the blanket of white. It was nearly full dark by the time Legolas reached his father’s sitting- room for their customary cup of afternoon tea. They met each day under the guise of politics, Thranduil intent on showing his son the workings of the kingdom and instructing him as to issues of diplomacy. Occasionally, the king brought visiting messengers to these meetings, but usually they rapidly degenerated into casual conversation, if one understood that term to mean ceaseless parental nagging. Thranduil’s apparent concern for myriad aspects of Legolas’ life had been endearing for the first 500 or so years, but it was beginning to get a little old. For an elf who led a life of rigid routine, right down to the type of pastry he took at breakfast (honey) and his preferred sleeping robes (the pale green silk with embroidered gold bees) this was saying a great deal. In short, Legolas was bloody sick of it. Today, however, looked to be mercifully different. A tall, dark figure sat at a chair by the fire, his back to Legolas. This was doubtless the visitor whose footprints he’d followed back from the forest. Hopefully he’d be marginally interesting. At very least, he would postpone a reprise of an earlier, rather unfortunate conversation involving a daughter of a friend’s brother whom Thranduil seemed convinced would make a fine Princess of Mirkwood. “Aragorn of the Dunedain; my son, Legolas.” Shaken from his reverie by the introduction, fixed his gaze upon the figure before him. The man was tall, dark, and…extremely dirty. It was all the elf could do not to visibly cringe when the visitor leaned forward and clasped his upper arm in the traditional warrior’s greeting. “Mae govannen, Legolas.” “I have strayed too far afield for so late in the year,” Aragorn said, his voice low and gravelly. “I have asked King Thranduil’s permission to pass the winter in his halls.” At least he’s better looking than a dwarf, thought Legolas. Much better looking, in fact. For a human. “I hope you’ll not find elven hospitality too different from that of men,” Legolas said, half-joking. “I am better accustomed to elven hospitality,” said the man. “I was fostered at Imladris; Lord Elrond raised me as one of his own.” “Then you know Elladan and Elrohir? I’ve not seen them since I was an elfling.” “They are as brothers to me…and the Lady Arwen, their sister…” He trailed off, and a more sensitive elf than Legolas would have noticed the slightly wistful tone his voice took then. “And Glorfindel? The Balrog Slayer? Do you know him? I…” Legolas checked himself, aware that he sounded a bit starstruck, and his voice was taking on that awful high pitch that happened when he got excited. He swallowed once and continued, “I mean..I’ve heard a great deal of his exploits, and I hope to meet him myself one day.” Aragorn smiled indulgently at the curious young elf. “Lord Glorfindel was a peerless tutor. Every time I save my hide out in the wild, I have him to thank. Speaking of which, I’ve heard you’ve some skill with a bow, Legolas. I’d love to see what you’re capable of.” Legolas felt heat rise to his cheeks, and shook his head ever so slightly in an attempt to dispel it. He couldn’t imagine why he was blushing so. “I’m all right with a bow,” he muttered, looking at the floor. “All right? Even in Imladris I heard of the youngest prince of Mirkwood and his perfect aim. You’ve won the archery competition at the summer festival every year since I was but a boy.” “Not unless you’re over sixty-two,” murmured the prince. “Before I was born, then. ‘Tis unnecessary to be so modest, Prince Legolas.” “Oh, my son is quite modest. ‘Tis one of his finest traits... comes from having two older brothers to keep his head small, I’ll wager,” spoke up Thranduil from his seat by the fire. Aragorn looked straight at the prince, his gaze inciting a mysterious fluttering sensation in Legolas’ stomach. “Yes,” said the ranger softly, “The prince has a very small.. head… indeed.” Aragorn finished his sentence and fairly smirked at Legolas. The elf’s mouth fell open, and he was frantically searching for some sort of witty rejoinder to parry with when the door to the sitting room opened and a messenger stepped in. He looked around nervously before speaking, eyes flitting from Legolas to Aragorn to Thranduil and back. “My lord, there appears to be another… visitor… driven in by the weather. He requests shelter until it is clear enough for him to return home. He’s in a bit of a foul mood, it would seem.” An illustrative crash and torrent of elvish curses was audible outside the chamber, and the messenger winced. “Very good, Brethil..and who might this visitor be?” “Haldir of Lorien, my king,” said a second voice, as its owner stepped smoothly through the door. Legolas groaned inwardly, but he could have sworn his father did so quite outwardly indeed. “Haldir of Lorien,” Thranduil drawled. “What an unexpected pleasure. To what do we owe this visit?” “To cold, darkness, and great bloody spiders, my lord. I was riding as one possessed towards the Golden Wood, hoping to leave the Mirkwood behind ere night fell, when my mount was spooked by one of the beasts. He dumped me in the snow and continued on his merry way. I owe my life to my (he shot a glance at Legolas here) peerless marksmanship; a lesser shot would have surely been sucked dry by spiders already. As it is, I will not see Lothlorien again before the spring, I fear, judging by the ridiculous amount of snow falling.” “Snow?” asked Legolas. “When I came in ‘twas dark and cold, but the skies were clear.” “When was that exactly, my prince? ‘Tis blowing fiercely out there now, and I don’t believe you can see more than a foot in front of you,” said Haldir curtly. Brethil nodded in agreement. “’Tis true, my lord. I’ve not seen snow like this since the storm that brought the dwarves upon us.” Thranduil shook his head, slowly. “There’s nothing for it, then. You’ll both have to stay. Celeborn will have my head if his marchwarden arrives home frozen solid, and we’re aware of Aragorn’s connections to Lord Elrond. I’ll not bring the wrath of the Golden Wood and the Last Homely House upon us in one winter. Brethil, show our guests to their quarters. Yes, the Oak Room and the Hawthorn Room will be the most suitable…and inform the kitchens that we’ll be two extra for dinner tonight. We’ll sit in the grand hall. May as well make an occasion of it. It will give me an excuse to drink up the last of that Imladris vintage, in honor of Lord Aragorn. Don’t look so forlorn, Legolas. A man and an elf are better than six dwarves; you can’t argue with that. Go and clean up, all of you, and I will see you for the evening meal in two hours.” With a wave of his hand, they were all dismissed. Thranduil returned to his seat by the fire, Brethil ushered the newly received guests towards their rooms, and Legolas trudged down the hallway toward his own quarters, feeling very forlorn indeed. Haldir of Lorien. Legolas would have preferred to spend an entire year with a dozen, nay, a hundred dwarves. Haldir was a relatively frequent visitor to Thranduil’s court. Sometimes Legolas thought Lord Celeborn quite enjoyed tormenting them, or perhaps he simply needed a break from his acerbic marchwarden. Either way, Mirkwood was afflicted with Haldir several times a year. The Galadhrim took liberties with Thranduil that Legolas couldn’t imagine his father tolerating from anyone else, and he was never quite sure why the Mirkwood king accepted it. Haldir always stopped just short of offensive in his exchanges with the king, but Legolas did not know such mercy. Haldir’s teasing of him was relentless, reinforced by the unfortunate fact that just after his majority the prince developed a slight attraction to him. Somehow Haldir found out, and apparently thought this the funniest thing in Arda. Having become better acquainted with the nuances of Haldir’s personality, Legolas could now see why enjoying his company might conceivably be rather funny. As a youngling, however, he knew little of Haldir’s grating sense of humor and preferred to focus on the Lorien elf’s good looks. Haldir was a very attractive elf, one couldn’t deny that. He was tall and lean, with fine features and the silvery hair of the Galadhrim. His eyes were a pale grey- blue, their cool shade contrasting with a warmth that seemed to bubble from within. Haldir’s teasing was merciless, but not always entirely mean- spirited. No, he reserved that for his dealings with King Thranduil’s youngest son. In fact, if Haldir wasn’t so damn attractive, chances were he’d have seen the business end of one of Legolas’ arrows long before. The marchwarden at his worst made Kinslaying seem a viable option. It was going to be a long winter. As expected, the Marchwarden of Lothlorien was in fine form at dinner, no doubt aided by copious amounts of the aforementioned wine. His main objective seemed to be bringing the brooding Man out of his shell, but Aragorn ate silently, answering Thranduil’s questions politely when asked and barely allowing Haldir the satisfaction of so much as a smirk. “..And then I said to Orophin, ‘What do you expect? They were alone in that talan for a sevenday with nothing but each other and a flask of dwarvish brandy!’ O, my brother..he can be so innocent sometimes. So what about you, Prince Legolas? Taken any warrior’s comfort lately? Or don’t you want to talk about it in front of your Ada?” Legolas nearly choked on his wine. He could have sworn he saw the corners of the Ranger’s mouth turn up at that one. “I..um…..uh..” “Come now,” said Thranduil diplomatically, choosing to ignore both Haldir’s comment and its effect on his sputtering son. “I’m sure our guests are tired from the day’s excitement, particularly you, Haldir. I’d be happy to have Brethil bring a carafe of wine to your chambers, should you wish to continue your one-elf show there. I, for one, am retiring for the evening.” He drained his glass and rose gracefully from the table. “Goodnight, all.” The servants busied themselves dimming the many candles illuminating the dining-room, a clear sign that it was indeed time to retire to their rooms. It was not late, but the velvet dark of the early winter evening suggested otherwise. Aragorn rose from his seat and strode to the window, gazing out into the night as though he was looking for something specific in the shadows. Legolas watched him, swallowing nervously. He stole a glance at Haldir, who had turned his attention to the hapless Brethil, trying to convince him that King Thranduil would very much like him to have several additional bottles of Mirkwood’s finest vintage as a nightcap. Taking advantage of Haldir’s preoccupation, Legolas joined the Ranger at the window, welcoming the opportunity to engage him in conversation at last. “Are you looking for something?” Aragorn smiled sadly, looking down at his worn, muddy boots. “Nothing in particular, Prince Legolas. I look towards my boyhood home. If I am to be honest, I had hoped to pass the winter at Imladris, but it is not to be. I was making for the Bruinen valley in late October when I met a pair of rangers moving back north and in need of aid, so I had no choice but to accompany them.” “And now December is running out, and you are here in Mirkwood,” Legolas replied softly. “We make merry here in winter months, Aragorn. Mirkwood is not Imladris, but we can provide some measure of comfort and entertainment.” “No slight was meant, Prince. Perhaps I am not where I intended to be this winter, but many’s the December I’ve been snowed into some abandoned orc’s den, living off whatever comes in from the cold and praying to the Lady its former tenants do not return. I am eternally grateful for the comforts of Mirkwood’s halls. I only wish I could send word to Lord Elrond, that he might be spared worry.” “You are truly as a son to him?” “Aye.” The ranger’s gaze returned to the cold night beyond the window, leaving Legolas to his thoughts. Presently, he yawned, evidence of the day’s traveling. “With your leave, Prince Legolas, I think I will retire. I’ll rise early and meet with the captain of your guard; we have much to tell each other regarding fell activity on the borders of late.” “You have my leave, ranger, if you consent to dropping my title. Please, I am but Legolas.” This, the elf noted with a strange delight, elicited a genuine grin. Aragorn’s eyes were a warm grey, if that was even possible. Warmth from stone…. “Very well. Goodnight, Legolas.” He turned from the prince and left the room. Legolas watched him go, wondering exactly why he was rendered so giddy by his conversation with the man, so eager to prove to him that Mirkwood was a fine place to pass a winter. He sighed. Something about Aragorn was very sigh-provoking. “Desire is becoming on your face, Legolas.” An all-too-familiar sarcastic drawl infiltrated Legolas’ thoughts. He turned to his right to see Haldir standing with a hand on his hip, slightly disheveled and grasping the neck of a bottle of red wine. “Don’t feign surprise, my prince. I saw the way you looked at him. Don’t think I didn’t..” He staggered closer to Legolas, nearly tripping over a wrinkle in the green velvet rug covering the stone floor. “You’re drunk, Haldir.” “You excel at stating the obvious, Legolas. Dear Brethil was too thoroughly kissed to notice the extra bottle I pried from his lithe little fingers.” He smiled, self-satisfied per usual. “He’s only young, Haldir..do try to make this visit a little less emotionally damaging to my father’s staff than the last.” “You’re a fine one to talk of youth, prince. Barely past your majority…” “You know as well as I that I am nearly 300 years old, Marchwarden. That leaves my majority a good 250 years distant.” “Not only a prince of Mirkwood, but a mathematician, ladies and gentlemen,” said Haldir to no one in particular. Well, my scholarly Greenleaf,” he said, patting his bottle of wine, “my companion and I have planned a liaison in my chambers. Care to join us?” Legolas sighed. Haldir too was sigh-provoking, albeit for totally different reasons than Aragorn. Regardless, he was not yet ready to retire. With luck he could steer the Lorien elf from his deprecatory path and coax some decent conversation out of him, or at very least the latest intrigue among the Golden Wood’s slightly incestuous border patrols. Haldir excelled at spinning tales of spiteful lovers and clandestine meetings in hidden talans, although Legolas suspected that he, Haldir, was the protagonist far less often than he let on. Shaking his head, he took the inebriated elf’s arm and steered him into the dimly-lit corridor leading to their rooms. The night wore on, hour melting into hour as the Prince of Mirkwood and the Marchwarden of Lothlorien shared goblet after goblet of Mirkwood’s finest. Although he hadn’t intended on it, Legolas soon felt his head swimming and his limbs melting into wine-drenched warmth. He scooted down in his chair, legs sprawled on a velvet-upholstered footstool. No one could claim Thranduil treated his guests poorly; Haldir’s room was richly decorated indeed. The warm room and the smoothness of the wine were having their effect on Legolas. As his companion talked, Legolas found himself drawn to the mirth in those eyes. That, and the lean, strong arms whose gesticulations emphasized Haldir’s points. How would those arms feel around his….Legolas shook his head, attempting to dispel the thoughts. Was he 50 again? What was happening? But the room was dim and red and romantic, and the prince’s mood seemed to be following suit despite his best efforts to the contary. When the words came, they flowed nearly unbidden from his mouth, much as the wine had flowed in. “Haldir of Lorien, why do you torment me so?” Haldir looked up abruptly, startled in the middle of a long diatribe on the state of his brother Rumil’s love life. For once, he seemed rendered speechless. “Why… what?” “Ever since I was old enough to understand your bawdy humor, I’ve been subject to ceaseless teasing on your part. I was once an elfling with an attraction to a good-looking messenger from Lord Celeborn. That was 250 years ago. It is growing tiresome, Haldir, nigh insufferable.” “Haldir, listen to me. Haldir, what are you doing? Haldir!” The elf suddenly seemed quite sober, but Legolas frantically reasoned that he must be very drunk indeed as he crossed the distance between them in a stride and placed a kiss on his lips. “What are you doing?” Legolas asked again, softly. “I am giving you your answer, Legolas,” Haldir replied. He withdrew slightly, searching Legolas’ face. “You are lovely, mellon, and I..I am unschooled in proper ways of courtship. Perhaps I bolstered my heart by reminding you so often of yours.” “’Twas not my *heart* you reminded me of, Haldir,” responded Legolas with a laugh. “No, perhaps not…” Haldir grinned. “What think you?” “I think..it is cold in Mirkwood in wintertime, and I’d be glad of the extra warmth.” Legolas took Haldir’s face in both hands and returned his kiss in fine style, gently parting Haldir’s lips with his tongue. As they kissed, he ran his thumb over the other elf’s delicate jawline and along his chin, ghosting his hand down Haldir’s neck to rest in the little notch at the base of his throat. Haldir moaned softly and stretched his neck to allow Legolas better access. Legolas took advantage of the exposure and followed his fingers with his mouth, kissing a hot line down to the neckline of Haldir’s tunic. “Speaking of warmth…it is warm indeed in your chambers, Haldir. I do not think you need nearly so much clothing.” Wordlessly, Haldir responded by lifting his arms, facilitating Legolas’ removal of his soft blue tunic. The Mirkwood elf feasted his eyes on the sight before him. Haldir stood like a silver flame, firelight flickering across ivory skin and through moonlight hair. “You are beautiful, Haldir o Lorien.” Haldir looked at the floor, and Legolas thought he detected a faint blush spread across his cheeks. Odd that he would be so quiet now. Legolas returned to the task at hand, moving back to Haldir’s throat with the resolution to force the elf to break his demure silence. “I will make you moan again, quiet one.” He kissed his way down Haldir’s bare chest, lavishing attention on each dip and rise in his musculature, circling his navel with a deft tongue. He hooked a fingertip at the waistband of Haldir’s leggings, now grown considerably tighter in a certain prominent area. Smiling satisfactorily at the effect his attentions were having, Legolas unlaced the leggings and began slowly inching them down, pausing to attend to the newly-exposed area with his tongue before baring more skin. He nipped and licked at Haldir’s thighs, purposefully ignoring his eventual goal as his willing victim quivered under his tongue. Anticipating a weakness of knees, Legolas paused to give Haldir a gentle shove towards the bed. They fell, laughing quietly and sharing a heated glance before Legolas returned to the task at hand. Tired of toying with the Lorien elf, Legolas yanked Haldir’s grey leggings down to his ankles, exposing a long and finely- formed penis springing from a soft nest of silvery curls. He fairly growled at the sight. Delicious. Delicious to at long last have the Marchwarden at his mercy. He knelt at the foot of the bed, running his fingers over hips and thighs to the hardness between them. Haldir twitched on the bed, hips jerking ever-so-slightly upward to meet Legolas’ hand. “Impatient, are we?” Haldir nodded quickly, pleadingly. “Well, then.” Legolas bowed his head and took Haldir in his mouth, swirling his tongue around his sensitive head for an agonizing few minutes before swallowing him entirely. Haldir gasped at the sudden warmth and wetness, thrusting upward again. Legolas punished him sweetly, scraping his teeth gently over Haldir’s weeping head, eliciting another gasp. “That, my dear Haldir, is for 200 years of most cruel joking at my expense. What say you?” He stopped motion entirely, lifting his head and licking his lips as he looked up at Haldir. “Please..Legolas..” “Please what?” “Please, I’m sorry. I apologize from the bottom of my heart, lirimaer. Now is that enough simpering for you?” Familiar sarcasm coloured the Marchwarden’s tone. “No…not quite, I don’t think.” Instead of returning to Haldir’s cock, Legolas turned his attentions to one of his own fingers. Keeping his eyes locked on Haldir, he swirled his tongue up and down the delicate digit in painfully good imitation. Painful for Haldir, at least..he was seemingly ready to beg, and the words were sweet when they came. “Please, Legolas. I need your mouth on me..now, I beg you, mellon-nin, melethron-nin.” Legolas smiled indulgently. “O, Haldir. Your silver tongue always gets you out of trouble.” Placated, he bent to finish the job. He took Haldir in completely, straight into his throat, engulfing him. It was too much, and he felt Haldir’s entire body tremble as he came, murmuring Legolas’ name. The Prince of Mirkwood couldn’t help but smile. It was going to be a very interesting winter.